A Jungian Approach to Three New German Cinema Films Utilizing The

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2012 A Jungian Approach to Three New German Cinema Films Utilizing the Archetype of the Other (Shadow) and the Affect of Fear Through Visual Presentation of the Other Michaela I. Densmore

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THE FLORIDA STATE UNIVERSITY

COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES

A JUNGIAN APPROACH TO THREE NEW GERMAN CINEMA FILMS UTILIZ-

ING THE ARCHETYPE OF THE OTHER (SHADOW) AND THE AFFECT OF

FEAR THROUGH VISUAL PRESENTATION OF THE OTHER

MICHAELA I. DENSMORE

A Dissertation submitted to the Program LQ Interdisciplinary Humanities in partial fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Awarded: Spring Semester 2012

Michaela I. Densmore defended this Dissertation on 12 March 2012.

The members of the supervisory committee were:

Birgit E. Maier-Katkin

Professor Directing Dissertation

Ernest C. Rehder

University Representative

Raymond R. Fleming

Committee Member

The Graduate School has verified and approved the above-named committee members, and certifies that the Dissertation has been approved in accordance with university requirements.

DEDICATION

To Oma,

Bnoise,

And Toni

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

An undertaking such as this dissertation cannot be done without the guid- ance and support from many people. While there are too many individuals who have walked along the path to bring this journey to completion, some persons must be acknowledged by name.

First and foremost my thanks goes to my major professor, Dr. Birgit Maier- Katkin and committee members Dr. Ray Fleming and Dr. Ernest Rehder. With- out their support, this dissertation would not have been possible.

Secondly, many thanks go to all my professors during my graduate work and everyone in the Program in the Humanities, especially Dr. Golden and Bar- bara for their great support through many rough spots. Very special thanks for patience and caring beyond the call of duty are also owed to Ginger, Toni and Sarah and the patient staff at Strozier Library. Additionally, my sincere thank you also goes to the College of Education Dean’s Office for all the support during the writing process.

Furthermore, I want to express my thanks to my Mom for her unwavering support and unending belief in the completion of the dissertation throughout it all. Too numerous to name each individually, I also want to collectively thank my friends for letting me talk it out when I had written myself into a corner, especially (in alphabetical order) Ashley, Barbara, Dawn, Faythe, Gina, Kay, Peggy, Sandy and Terrie. Lastly, a special thank you for all the support and time must go to Annell, Gini, Lisa and Meredith.

Many other people have made this dissertation and the degree achieved possible. I apologize to all who have not been specifically named and want you to know, your wisdom, thoughtfulness and time has been greatly appreciated.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT ...... VII INTRODUCTION—A BRIEF OVERVIEW ...... 1 CHAPTER 1: FIN DE SIÈCLE, FILM AND FREUD: AN ODE TO FREUD(E) ...... 8 FIN DE SIÈCLE, FREUD AND FILM – A TRIPLE BIRTH ...... 9 NIGHTMARES OF FREUD(E)...... 13 EARLY FILM CRITICISM AND GRECIAN FREUD(E) ...... 16 ANCIENT GREECE MEETS MODERN FRANCE...... 18 FREUD MEETS FEMINISM ...... 21 CHAPTER 2: A JUNGIAN‐BASED FRAMEWORK—AN OVERVIEW ...... 30 FROM FREUD TO JUNG—AN OVERVIEW OF SELECTED JUNGIAN CONCEPTS ...... 31 THE UNCONSCIOUS – A SPLITTING PERSONALITY? ...... 35 ARCHETYPES – A JOURNEY INTO THE UNCONSCIOUS ...... 39 THE OTHER ARCHETYPE—AN ANIMATED SHADOW ...... 45 FILM HEROES—A PRESCRIBED JOURNEY’S TRAJECTORY ...... 56 CHAPTER 3: THREE‐LEAFED CLOVER: SPECTATORSHIP FEAR / CATHARSIS AND NEW GERMAN CINEMA ...... 74 SPECTATORSHIP—THE HIDDEN DRIVES TO WATCH FILMS ...... 75 FEAR-A POWERFUL DRIVING EMOTION ...... 82 PROPOSING A NEW APPROACH ...... 107 CHAPTER 4: ALI – ANGST ESSEN SEELE AUF (RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER, 1974) .... 119 A LOOK AT NEW GERMAN CINEMA ...... 119 ALI—THE TRUE OTHER? ...... 143 EMMI AND BARBARA—THE NOT-SO-OBVIOUS OTHERS? ...... 157 CHAPTER 5 – DIE VERLORENE EHRE DER KATHERINA BLUM (VOLKER SCHLÖNDORFF, MARGARETE VON TROTTA, 1975) ...... 191 KATHARINA AND LUDWIG AS A POST-JUNGIAN-BASED ARCHETYPAL MOTIF: THE TERRORIST ...... 193 ARCHETYPES IN THE “TRADITIONAL” JUNGIAN-BASED SENSE ...... 209 MOTHER-DAUGHTER VS. MADONNA-WHORE COMPLEX ...... 214 CHAPTER 6 – NOSFERATU: PHANTOM DER NACHT (NOSFERATU: PHANTOM OF THE NIGHT, A.K.A NOSFERATU THE VAMPYRE, WERNER HERZOG, 1979) ...... 231 VAMPIRISM, OTHERNESS AND EXPLORATION OF SEXUALITY ...... 234 JONATHAN: EXPLORING DUALISTIC OPPOSITES IN SEXUALITY ...... 247 RELIGION AND MUSIC ...... 256 CONCLUSION ...... 271

v SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 284 DISCOGRAPHY ...... 339 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...... 344

ABSTRACT

Utilizing the Jungian-based framework of Archetypes, Carl Jung’s concept of the Shadow, especially the Underdeveloped Shadow (or Other) as defined by Janice H. Rushing and Thomas S. Frentz, and the affective interaction of the Other with spectators’ fears, this dissertation contributes a new model as a concurrent and complementary approach to existing Freudian-based psychoanalytical readings of films. The proposed model is applied to three selected films from the New German Cinema—Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Ali, Fear Eats the Soul (1974); Margarethe von Trotta and Volker Schlöndorff’s The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum (1975); and Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu (1979)—to enhance and further the critical understanding of these films and their effect on spectator fear through the visual portrayal of the Jungian-based Other.

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INTRODUCTION—A BRIEF OVERVIEW

This dissertation proposes an application of a Jungian-based framework in film analysis of three films which were made during the New German Cinema, an era spanning from 1962 to 1982 in West German film production. Utilizing the Jungian-based archetypal concepts of the Overdeveloped (Ego) and Underde- veloped Shadow (Other) the dissertation examines the interaction of fear and spectatorship in response to the portrayal of the Jungian-based Other in Fear Eats the Soul (Fassbinder, 1974), The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum (von Trotta, Schlöndorff, 1975) and Nosferatu (Herzog, 1979). This dissertation demonstrates, through the examination of these three films within a Jungian-based framework, an expansion of the analytical horizon, comparative to the expansion of the cinematic horizon experienced during the two decades in which auteur directors of the New German Cinema produced their works. By examining films through a Jungian-based, rather than a Freudian-based framework, film analysis can be approached from a more holistic vision which provides a segue way into more detailed research combining character studies through the process of Indi- viduation with spectatorship analysis and the studies of emotional responses to visual representations.

The dissertation is broken down in six chapters. The first chapter discusses Freud and paints in large brushstrokes some historical aspects of his theories as applicable to film analysis. By no means can the contributions of Freudian scholars be overlooked in the field of film analysis. While a discussion of Freudian theorists is necessary to situate parts of the proposed model, it must remain very limited in scope as this dissertation focuses on a Jungian-based

1 framework. The second chapter presents an overview of Jung’s theories as relevant to the proposed model. The third chapter serves as a transition chapter from Jung’s theoretical framework to the more application-based theories of spectatorship, fear and catharsis and presents the newly proposed model. In addition, this chapter also introduces the historical background of the New Ger- man Cinema. Chapters 4 through 6 demonstrate the practical application of the proposed theoretical model. The three films on which this dissertation focuses on are paradigms of the New German Cinema and remain relevant in discussion of socio-cultural issues, such as racism and ageism as well as sexuality. They are in order of discussion, Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s 1974 Angst Essen Seele Auf (Ali: Fear Eats the Soul), Margarethe von Trotta and Volker Schlöndorff’s 1975 Die Verlorene Ehre der Katharina Blum (The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum) and Werner Herzog’s 1979 remake of the Weimar classic, Nosferatu.

The first chapter provides an overview of a variety of Freudian scholars and their contributions to film analysis ranging from Siegfried Kracauer to Laura Mulvey, which were theorists whose work was known to the directors of the three films. Early adopters of Freudian theories include the writings of film critics such as Siegfried Kracauer and Jacques Lacan. The former discussed mostly Weimar productions in light of their plot-based content, although some psychoanalytical examinations did occur, especially within such silent films as Robert Wiene’s 1918 Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari or Fritz Lang’s 1926/27 Metropolis. However, much of Kracauer’s work remained restricted to plot and mise-en-scene criticism, rather than an in-depth psychoanalytical analysis. Jacques Lacan approached film with Freud in mind and married film analysis with his theory of early child development. To him, the Mirror Stage, a part of the young child’s development, was the source for returning an audience member back to the Platonic cave for more cinematic experiences.

Lacan’s fellow countryman, Jean-Louis Baudry recognized the connection of the film production and the projection mechanism with his formulation of the Apparatus Theory. For Baudry, especially during the projection phase of the film, the audience member foregoes identification with the apparatus by suspension of

2 reality, but the apparatus never leaves the cinematic cave. This phenomenon can clearly be seen in older cases when a film tore or a reel had ended and the projectionist had not caught the faux pas quickly enough. In more modern times, this may happen when a DVD or other electronic projection devices fail.

Baudry’s contemporary, Christian Metz, took the Apparatus Theory and merged it with his Semiotics background, from which he formulated among others, a Spectatorship Theory. While Metz’s approach to spectatorship was relatively one-sided, as he envisioned only the male spectator, it was an early beginning into the realm of strong connections between the films and the audience experiencing the cinematic productions.

Near contemporary to Frenchman Metz and Baudry, the British feminist Laura Mulvey took up the banner for women and developed a new direction that, like Metz’s framework, merged the ideas of Freud with spectatorship. However, Mulvey approached the spectatorship angle with an eye toward the role of women both on-screen and in the audience. In her seminal work about visual pleasures, she coined a new term which has become part of the Freudian film analysis canon: To-be-looked-at-ness. Mulvey mostly derived this term from Hitchcock’s use of women in his films. Following in Mulvey’s footsteps, many other fields of Freudian film analysis frameworks arose as new sections of film studies branched out into areas examining sexuality, race, gender and other issues.

Chapter 2 provides an overview of the Jungian theoretical framework utilized in this dissertation. What remained mostly untouched in film analysis has been Swiss psychologist’s Carl Gustav Jung’s work. Jung postulated that a psychologist must look at the psyche holistically, rather than break issues down to a small number of phenomena, such as Castration Anxiety or the Mirror Stage. His approach also posited that the human psyche attempts to regain a healthy balance when being thrown off course on its journey to Individuation.

When reading Jungian concepts in film, spectators may often read the hero as their on-screen Alter-Ego. Joseph Campbell in his landmark work The

3 Power of Myth, coins the term Hero’s Journey, which in many cases well describes the overarching plot of any Hollywood film. New German Cinema complicates this dynamic as the main character is not necessarily a ‘hero.’ A brief discussion of the contrast between Hollywood vs. (German) auteur cinema is included in this section.

While much of the 20th century film studies utilized a Freudian framework, the tides changed with the approach of Robert Eberwein in the mid-1980s. Eberwein, basing his works in parts on Bertram Lewin’s work, suggested that the film experience is a dream played out on a silver screen. However, Eberwein does not yet step fully into the Jungian camp as he explores and compiles a list of different theorists and their works rather than embracing a single theory.

The first to take up the banner for Jung in earnest are Janice H. Rushing and Thomas S. Frentz, an authorial scholar duo who utilizes Jung’s concept of the Shadow to examine especially the cyborg films made popular in the mid- to late 1980s. In their application of the Shadow concept, their seminal work examines the different Shadows encountered in the Terminator films, among other cyborg films.

Rushing and Frentz’s work was followed by other Jungians, such as Chris- topher Hauke, Ian Alister and Luke Hockley who apply Jung in a more general manner to film analysis in the first part of the 21st century. One of the newest approaches comes from Greg Singh, who takes a Post-Jungian methodology at the end of the first decade of the 21st century.

Chapter 3 synthesizes the discussions of spectatorship, fear and its release (or the lack thereof) by means of catharsis in terms of Jungian-based concepts.

While the scholarship in the field of spectatorship studies by authors such as Metz and Mulvey looks at both the type of audience members (mainly in light

4 of gender), some of the studies also expand to include reasons behind the spectators’ return to the cinematic cave.

One such reason for return is the ability to safely experience strong emotions, such as fear. In the Platonic cave, the substitute on-screen hero experiences dangers, risks his life and may, in the end, even find himself maimed—all the while the spectator is able to put himself into the hero’s shoes, but without the risk of failure or bodily injury. This encounter of strong emotions without the ac- companying danger to the spectator’s own body, serves as one of the reasons for an audience member to return to view another film.

After synthesizing the theoretical concepts, the chapter proceeds from a theoretical discussion to a practical application. The proposed model functions as a pivot point tying together the Jungian-based framework of Archetypes, such as the Shadow or Other, with the discussion of spectatorship, and in extension, the study of fear and catharsis. While each spectator observes these Archetypes through a personally colored lens, based on his or her own experiences, the underlying Archetypes resonate in both the Collective and Personal Unconscious. Positing that spectators are exposed to cinematic representations of Jungian- based Archetypes while watching films on screen, the model proposed in this dissertation postulates that through the visual portrayal (coding) of the archetypal Other film can lead to elicitation of spectatorial fear. This raises the main question: How is the visual coding of the Other in films utilized to create the affect of fear in the spectator? Each film examined in the following chapters presents several different Others.

The following three chapters demonstrate the practical application of the theoretical model proposed in the preceding chapter.

Chapter 4 begins with a brief overview of the historical background history of New German Cinema in the context of socio-historical context of Germany at the time the films were made before it discusses the Shadow or Other in Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Angst Essen Seele Auf. In this adaptation of another film,

5 the director recounts the tale of an older German woman and a younger Berber who lives in Munich as a guest worker. His situation, along with a socio-historical discussion, demonstrate a(n only partially successful) marriage of race, gender, sexuality and age in the span of about 90 minutes. Unlike in typical Hollywood film endings, the problems presented within the nano-cosmos of one family are not resolved when the final film credits begin to roll—similarly to the greater situation in Germany as a whole.

Chapter 5 introduces a (post-)Jungian Archetype motif in form of another 1970s problem in Germany: domestic terrorism, mainly by way of the Baader- Meinhof Gruppe. Author Heinrich Böll in his relatively short novella, Die Ver- lorene Ehre der Katharina Blum, discusses the trajectory of a woman who inad- vertently is caught in the net of media hysteria over terrorist activities. The writer, and in extension the film’s co-directors, Margarethe von Trotta and Volker Schlöndorff, follow the female lead character through several days, detailing her sliding out of society and into an outsider role, eventually ending in an act of violence. Similarly to Fassbinder’s work, and a hallmark of New German Cinema, the film does not end with “happily ever after,” but leaves many questions unanswered. Through the female lead’s role, the film also examines sexuality and a more traditional Archetype of the Other.

The last film, discussed in Chapter 6, references a Weimar cult classic: F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu, which was based on Bram Stoker’s tale of Dracula. In examining the character of the original vampire (Nosferatu), the male lead character (Jonathan, later the new vampire) and the female lead (Lucy, who finally brings the original vampire to his end), the film observes several Jungian-based Archetypes such as the Shadow or Other. With this filmic ménage-à-trois, the Archetype of the Other, especially as defined by gender and sexuality, questions societal definitions. In the end, music and religion in this film also play a large role and, to keep with the Jungian-based framework and its prerogative that an

6 out of equilibrium psyche will attempt to re-balance itself, these themes shall also be examined as means of attaining another level of psychological stability even in the face of archetypal classification as an Other.

Lastly, in Chapter 7, after the proposed theoretical model and its practical application as demonstrated through discussion of the three selected New Ger- man Cinema films has been evaluated and future areas of studies have been suggested, the Jungian-based framework as a complementary means of examining film will emerge an equally valid measure of film analysis and with it, the examination of the human condition in the wakefulness of on-screen dreaming.

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CHAPTER 1: FIN DE SIÈCLE, FILM AND FREUD: AN ODE TO FREUD(E)

“Angst Essen Seele Auf” (Ali in Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s 1974 movie Ali: Fear Eats the Soul)

Sigmund Freud’s contributions to the field of film criticism and analysis are undeniably vast and have influenced various disciplines. Many of Freud’s thoughts and concepts have been rendered by academics into theoretical frameworks which then were applied to both literary and filmic criticism. This chapter will provide a very succinct overview of Freudian analytical theories from the Fin de Siècle through the modern days, focusing on the most influential theorists who wrote prior to the release of films discussed in this dissertation. As this chapter provides mostly a historical framework into which the following chapters will be situated, the list of theorists’ names must be very brief and highly selective. Referencing the works by Jacques Lacan, Siegfried Kracauer, Louis Al- thusser, Plato, Christian Metz, and Laura Mulvey, this chapter emphasizes Freudian writings as they pertain to psychoanalysis applied in such diverse areas as theater, plays, and dreams. This and the following chapters discuss concepts such as the Freudian Unconscious, the Oedipus Complex and Castration Anxie- ty, Ego and Super-Ego along with a brief foray into Spectatorship Theory. Using examples from the three films, the Jungian framework will be discussed in further detail in the following chapters. The Freudian framework addressed in this chapter shall be furthered by secondary sources, such as but not limited to, writings by Freudian film and literary analysts Peter Brooks, Tom Gunning, Judith Mayne,

8 James Naremore, and Stuart Hall by demonstrating how their writings fit in the larger Freudian framework as applied to film. Where appropriate, film examples will provide further illustrations of the presented concepts.

Fin de Siècle, Freud and Film – A triple birth

Cinema and psychoanalysis both mark their birth between the late middle and the end of the 19th century, also known as the Fin de Siècle period. This period, characterized by existential angst1 and world-weariness,2 frequently was accompanied by opulence as well as by the emergence of new technology.3 The newly rising mass medium, the silver screen film, became a means to escape an anxiety-filled time. Film, both in its early days and in the 21st century takes the audience into a perceived world, not unlike dreams.

As cinema grew from merely recording depictions of daily life for the purpose of preservation and archiving,4 to story lines resembling dreams made visual, the Viennese neurologist, Sigmund Freud5 developed his ideas on psychoanalysis through the examination of his patients’ dreams.6 The physician often turned to what had been familiar to spectators for over two millennia: theater. Freud was an avid theater visitor at a time before film became mass entertainment and frequently visited performances of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. In her article “Remember Me” Lisa Starks notes that “[s]ingular in its influence, Hamlet embodied both the thought and culture of the new twentieth century. Sigmund Freud turned to the tragedy when developing his theories of memory, repression and the unconscious.”7 Later the circle closed with Freud’s ideas and theories being applied to the—sometimes nightmarish—dreams displayed on the silver screen.

With his work in psychoanalysis, Freud attempted to explain people’s behavior and their dreams. In Freud’s mind, psychoanalysis endeavored to explain dream imagery through means of underlying psychological structures, such as the Unconscious, present in each and every human being.8 While the notion of the Unconscious had been recognized since antiquity by philosophers such as Plato or Aristotle,9 Freud’s work applied this notion of the Unconscious in a scien-

9 tific manner to medical cases he saw in his daily work. Freud himself did not initially apply his theories to literature, although the analysis of the Unconscious was already popular10 in literary criticism during Freud’s life. Literary criticism from antiquity to Freud’s times usually consisted of in-depth commentaries of one author on another author’s work. Examples include Horace’s Ars Poetica in ancient times, Thomas Aquinas’ The Nature and Doman of Sacred Doctrine, and Mary Wollencraft’s A Vindication of the Right of Woman. When Freud’s theories became known to literary circles, according to Lis Møller, Freud’s newly developed theories of psychoanalysis brought “a systematic, if not scientific, investigation” 11 to the analysis of written works while examining the compositions from different angles, including gender, age, race and sexuality. This is not to say that there is not any of criticism of reading texts using Freudian concepts, such as the Oedipus Complex, Castration Anxiety or author’s intent, to illuminate character and textual motivations (which also includes film criticism since films often are visualized written texts). Peter Brooks, for example, warns his readers that in literary criticism the “object of analysis”12 and the resulting perceptions often are conflated since repeatedly literary analysis looks at the psychological state of mind of the author rather than the construct of the text at hand. This problem also applies to film criticism, however, once aware of the conflation, the critic can account for such action through use of acute analysis of the (written or visual) text, its underlying structures and all persons engaged with the text in question.

Throughout the twentieth century, the criticism of Freud’s theories has not prevented critics to apply Freud to literature. Visual texts (films) and Freudian theories intertwined with analytical criticism during the 20th century, sometimes weaving a bond tightly and other times loosely, although it took several decades after Freud’s death before film analysts applied Freud in their writings. Paul Rob- inson opens his book with the words “Everybody knows that Freud has fallen from grace”13 and states many reasons for why Freud has fallen, including his cocaine addiction and a possible sex addiction. Peter Rudnytsky prefacing his book only a few years earlier disputes such a statement. Rudnytsky claims the

10 contrary in that “[i]nterest in Freud has continued unabated in the nearly half- century since his death.”14 These two contradictory proclamations express the continuing love-hate relationship that literary and film critics in the 20th century experienced when it comes to applying Freudian theories. One reason for some level of discreditation of Freudian theories15 arises from the fact that critics applying Freudian theories related them initially more to the author and his or her mindset at the time of composition than the actual work as Frank Kermode, agreeing with Brooks, rightfully points out.16

Before Freud was widely known, i.e. in the early 20th century, films progressed from simple images, such as the arrival of a train, when silent films utilized some developing strands of psychoanalysis, such as Freud’s dream analysis, to more complex storylines to make the films more appealing to a general audience. Tom Gunning indicates that Freudian theories were mostly visible in the mise-en-scene, such as locations or characters’ appearances17 rather than character presentation or development in silent films. This circles back to the fact that much of early film was built on the novelty of moving photographs rather than plots,18 despite early fantastic storylines such as George Méliès’ A Trip to the Moon.19 Later, as silent films developed more into story-telling, issues such as the Ego fighting the Id in the form of the good hero and the evil antagonist, became more important to furthering the plotlines in film.

With the advent of the “talkies” in 1927,20 more subtlety could be built into the films. Now, the dream images could speak—yet the words uttered did not always correspond to the body language exhibited by the characters. This dis- crepancy between the spoken language and the visual portrayal of the mise-en- scene allowed for the setting up of more disquieting scenes, because rather faint- ly noticeable, psychological themes could be incorporated within gripping storylines. Perhaps the all-time master of this was the British film director Alfred Hitchcock21 whose psychological thriller Psycho22 remains, despite some criticism, one of the most unforgettable psychological examinations on the silver screen. Alan Woolfolk in “Depth Psychology at the Surface,” an article dissecting Spellbound, an earlier film adaptation of a 1927 novel, claims that Hitchcock uses

11 a “popularized Freudian psychology”23 consisting of “Freudian theory and practice at the time of their respective public releases” 24 rather than the original Freudian theories. At the same time, the article’s author cautions that the director applies to his 1945 film Spellbound25 (which can later be said about Psycho as well), a limited knowledge of Freudian theories which at that point “was still mostly limited even in England and Europe to an esoteric network of intellectuals and educated professionals.”26 Despite his critical words, Woolfolk makes it clear that, when looking at theories being applied to any type of production, be it literature, theater or film, one must take into consideration the existing mindset of such theory at the time of application. In other words, any type of textual analysis requires a situating of the text within the context of both the cultural setting and the societal circumstances under which the text had been produced.

Another director who visually integrated many psychological problems, such as the introvert, the pathological criminal or schizophrenic, into storylines is the American director-actor Orson Welles. Although many of his films are literary adaptations,27 thus restricting some of the artistic freedom of the director, Welles at least partially used visual means to explain the underlying psychological phenomena of the story lines. Unlike silent films, he used the camera position to extremes. Many of Welles’ films are known for extreme low or high angle shots and starkly contrasting mise-en-scenes. His extraordinary classic Citizen Kane28 examines the life of a newspaper tycoon through the lens of his work and the effect his life and work had on those around him. In the end, Laura Mulvey sums up the nightmarish acts perpetrated by Kane upon his fellow citizens well when she comments that “critics […] turned to psychoanalysis. […], in an attempt to make sense of the character within the psychoanalytical framework the film clearly offers.”29 In the end, like in so many films, dreams or nightmares, Kane’s psychological depths cannot be fully investigated—if for no other reason than constraints set by a film’s length. While unable to deeply probe the fictional personality traits, film (or any other text) can provide a glimpse into the psychological state of characters and in the long run provide the spectator with a starting point for own psychological reflections.

Nightmares of Freud(e)

Dreams, especially nightmarish versions, usually involve an antagonistic character who often becomes the protagonist’s nemesis, or at least, the character who needs to be punished for transgressions. As early as 1926, Emanuel Cohen remarked that “film is understood psychologically in much the same way that the psychoanalyst understands the dream.”30

An early film example of this comes from an outlandish play on reality which transpires in an insane asylum. In the classic German silent film The Cab- inet of Dr. Caligari,31 the transgressor is the somnambulist Cesare while Dr. Ca- ligari himself is a rather unresolved character in the film. Unlike the original stage play, the film version almost mocks the authoritarian induced nightmare by skew- ing reality through the setting in an insane asylum. Contemporary film critic and analyst Siegfried Kracauer posits in his book From Caligari to Hitler that much of the subversion of the original plot by director Robert Wiene and producer Erich Pommer may have stemmed from the fact that Germans in the post-World War I period attempted to forget the nightmares of the war and thus at least temporarily “withdrew from the harsh outer world into the intangible realm of the soul.”32 Such endeavors of escapism included attendance of cinematic performances which allowed the average working-class spectators to briefly suspend the harsh reality of their fight for survival. Kracauer’s contemporary, Franklin Fearing agreed that film, especially The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, functioned as an escape mechanism for audience members. Fearing disagrees with Kracauer on the position of the relationship between the director’s intent and the overall psychological effect on a mass audience, which according to Fearing could at the time not fully be answered.33 However, Fearing further agreed with Kracauer that Freudi- an dream analysis examines how the Subconscious communicates with the Conscious through dreams. Kracauer himself, as evidenced in his From Caligari to Hitler writings, was well acquainted with Freudian thinking and found it an excellent framework to not only examine the human psyche, but also to reveal the

13 emotional effect of film on the human psyche as elicited by the characters on screen.34

Historically preceding Kracauer was the American author James T. Farrell, who in his 1936 compilation A Note on Literary Criticism35 already took a Marxist viewpoint on psychoanalysis—a direction later taken up and greatly expanded by the French Marxist psychoanalyst Louis Althusser.36 Under Marxist influence, Freud’s initial psychoanalysis of the Ego and Super-Ego within a person becomes an analysis of the Ego as the societal culture in relation to the Super-Ego as the authoritarian restrictive entities in society, such as Althusser’s state apparatus. For Althusser, there are means in which the individual is repressed within society: an ideological means, which he termed the Ideological State Apparatus, and a repressive means by an authority, which he called the Repressive State Apparatus. Examples of ideological repression in Althusserian thinking include education as it shapes the individual’s thinking and skills to remain repressed, while the repressive state apparatus includes large features such as police or the body of law. These two apparati work synergistically as an entity to keep (or attempt to keep) an individual from rising above his or her station in life.

In Freudian-based psychoanalysis, there also exist dualities, dichotomies in relationships, analogous to the Repressive State Apparatus (i.e. the Freudian Super-Ego) and the Ideological State Apparatus (i.e. the Freudian Ego) in society and culture in the widest sense.37 Or, in the case of the previously mentioned Citizen Kane, the protagonist is said to be “typed as a regressive, anal-sadistic personality”38 which on one hand must exert power over others at any cost (sadistic) and also has obsessive inclinations (for example, his collection habits). Another excellent film example from the late 1960s demonstrating Althusser’s repressive state and ideological state apparati is Stanley Kubrick’s Clockwork Or- ange 39 which followed his successful releases of Dr. Strangelove or How I learned to Stop Worrying40 and Love the Bomb and 2001: A Space Odyssey.41 All three films present an authority which controls the lives of the populace by

14 impressing a set of expected behaviors on the people. Be it the command center in Dr. Strangelove, which orders the dropping of the bomb, or the omniscient computer Hal in 2001: A Space Odyssey, the domination of authoritative structures through ideology is clearly visible throughout the films. Authority is strongly evidenced in one of the films discussed in this dissertation, The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum. Here the Repressive State Apparatus attempts to remove a (non-existent) threat and, in the process, creates more threatening situations for society. The state also employs the Ideological State Apparatus in form of a popular rainbow press publication. More recent film examples include Gattaca42 and The Island43 which both very powerfully demonstrate the effect of psychological repression through ideology. In the end, as in most Hollywood lore, the hero prevails, the antagonistic powers are eliminated and a happy ending closes the film (unlike in Kubrick’s three films). While Katharina Blum does not have such a happy ending, at the end of Gattaca, the subtitle reads, “there is no gene for the human spirit.” In other words, regardless of the amount and means of repression by authoritarian apparati, human nature prevails and attempts to break free—at least within a large portion of film lore, which according to Althusser falls under the Ideological State Apparatus.

Many times, enduring classical films, such as The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Psycho or Citizen Kane and other classic films from both sides of the Atlantic, provide enough character examination to allow for the viewer to fill in his or her own assertions about the individuals presented within the dream-like context of a filmic storyline. Much has been written about analyzing these films, but for the most part, such examinations have approached the films from some angle of Freudian theory. At the same time, Citizen Kane, like Rear Window, Psycho, or 2001: A Space Odyssey, puts forth the foundation for later films through implication of the audience’s participation in fetishistic voyeurism. These films also significantly influenced European and American filmmakers, such as the French and German auteur directors of the 1960s and 1970s, as well as film analysts.

15 Early Film Criticism and Grecian Freud(e)

Film criticism is a relatively new academic discipline and became popularized during the late 1950s and early 1960s when the French published the seminal film journal Cahiers du Cinema. James Naremore illustrates how Welles’ film served as a “crucially important picture” that significantly affected the early works published in Cahiers du Cinema: “ […] the entire world of French cinema was abuzz with excitement over Kane […]”44 despite Jean-Paul Sartre predicting the film’s failure.45 It is precisely this particular film which influences Andre Bazin, a French film theorist, whose work later affected French Cahiers du Cinema and British Screen journal contributors such as Christian Metz and Laura Mulvey.46 Both Metz and Mulvey provide foundations for later discussions of film in the context of the spectator’s relation to the film content as well as a branching of Freud- ian psychoanalysis into the fields of semiotics and feminism which are still strong areas for film analysis in the early 21st century. Although some of the articles written for early editions of Cahiers du Cinema had been strongly influenced by films such as Citizen Kane,47 around the mid-1960s, a shift occurred in the focus of articles published by Cahiers as more European auteur films were discussed in the context of illuminating the human condition through applied critical theory, still grounded at least partly in Sigmund Freud’s early 20th century theories.48 Over the next three decades, the development of film theory relied almost exclusively on some aspects of a Freudian psychological framework.

The consistent application of using psychology or psychoanalysis in a broad sense as a theoretical framework to examine film is a relatively young academic discipline, dating back to the early 1950s despite the proximity in “birth” and the mentioning of dreams and dream analysis in early writings such as Kracauer.49 Looking specifically at film, the Freudian Ego and Super-Ego also become apparent in such dualistic entities as hero and villain; or as simple as female and male.

In relation to film criticism, several of Freud’s concepts are important no matter what direction the criticism takes, be it Marxism, Structuralism, Feminism

16 or post-modernist theories. Freud worked on the assumption that men, although he eventually extended his work to include women,50 operate under the principle of fear of castration and consequent repressions of anything that can elicit such fear.51 The theory most carried forward into early film criticism was what Freud termed the Oedipus Complex.52 According to Freud’s theory, the young boy, who feels still very much attached to the mother, learns that the mother lacks power as she does not possess the symbol of power—the coveted phallus. The father, on the other hand, is in possession of that very symbol of power, which then constructs the father as the young boy’s rival. The father in this case presents the antagonist, or the Freudian Super-Ego. The young boy, whose Ego wishes to kill the father53 and possess the mother for himself, however never forgets the moment he first lays eyes on the mother’s lack of a phallus and the conclusion that she has been castrated by the father. Partly fearing castration for himself and partly due to societal constraints the young boy is generally able to defer his desire for the mother until later in his life when he himself will take a wife, transfer the desire for the woman to her and with that becomes the (new) bearer of power. The concept of the dichotomy of power-bearer and the desire to attain such a role drive many film plots in the form of the protagonist having to undergo trials and tribulations, and in the end, eliminate or diminish the power of the antagonist who formerly held much authority over the protagonist.

Critics, such as Michael Palmer, suggest that too much emphasis is given to the Oedipus Complex by its proponents and argue that “the original action taken by the parricidal sons is elevated to the position of something absolute, the primordial source of culture itself.”54 This argument can be traced back to Erich Fromm, who in 1981 already proclaimed that “Freud gives universal meaning to a feature that is characteristic only of patriarchal society.”55 Thus, one must question, if two millennia after its inception the myth of Oedipus, which consequently was pressed into service in the early 20th century, still truly has any application to the cultural concepts of a 21st century globalized society where the role of women is no longer defined as the same straight-forward phallus versus lack of phallus manner as it was in ancient Greece or even at the Fin de Siècle.

Ancient Greece meets Modern France

Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalysis, arising from a societal structure in which men held power while women were subservient to their husbands, fathers or brothers,56 builds largely upon the experience of lack of power as symbolized by the phallus, and mostly addresses sexual concepts, especially in relationship to males as both characters and audience members. Like a Damoclean sword, the fear of castration or lack of the phallus threatens all males, especially the young, Freud theorized. Often, this theory has later been applied to the male-female relationships in literature and film, and produced seminal works, such as Alfred Hitchcock’s Marnie or Psycho and their underlying literary texts. These works discuss concepts such as the spectator being predominantly male comparing the spectatorship through the application of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave57 to the cinematic experience in film houses.

Cinema perhaps resembles most closely the cave Plato described in an age when electricity was unknown.58 Within the allegory, the cave dwellers59 see images on the cave wall which are mere shadows of the real objects located behind them. The sun’s path and activities outside the cave during the day causes the motion of the shadows across the cave wall. This translates to film as the “cave dwellers” (spectators) observe images on the screen cast by the projector located behind their backs. Similarly to the cave dwellers, the spectator accepts the experience of images on the silver screen as real while really experiencing a waking dream.

Spoken at a time when neither electricity nor film existed, Plato’s allegory still connects aspects of Freud’s psychoanalysis and the world of dreams. Be- liefs in the visible and doubt of the invisible, i.e. the Ego vs. the unseen Super- Ego, connect the Platonic cave presenting a sleeper’s dream world with the dream-like film displayed in the “cave” of a Cineplex. Unlike the cave dwellers however, the film audience is able to walk away from the images on the screen,

18 i.e. the dreams of hope or the nightmares that flicker across the silver screen. The experience of emotions in the safety of the spectator’s seat allows for the elicitation of a variety of emotions, an underlying reason for watching films.

The attraction to watching films may be best explained through another psychoanalyst who carried Freud’s ideas further: the French psychiatrist and lec- turer Jacques Marie Émile Lacan. Building on the idea of the child’s development, Lacan in the 1950s eventually formulated his theory of the Mirror Stage,60 which in his opinion forms the basis for the spectator’s enjoyment of screen images. Combining Plato’s cave imagery with the infantile experience of seeing (himself) in the mirror, Lacan deduced that the child in an early stage of its life would see the image in the mirror as superior to himself, even though the image in the mirror was the child’s reflection. This leads to jealousy which forms later the foundation for the identification of the spectator with the protagonist, the one who is perceived as the superior mirror image on the Platonian cave wall. This allows for the protagonist to stand in for the spectator who by proxy defeats the antagonist.

Lacan’s theory does not explain how the jealousy felt by the child will resolve for an adult watching a film nor is it without criticism. Some criticism of La- can’s theory originates from Stuart Hall, who refers to Lacanian theory and La- can’s culminating answer in the “resolution of the Oedipal crisis”61 as oversimpli- fied. Hall in his Freudian based post-colonial culture criticism does not advocate a Jungian-based approach; however, his accusation of a sweeping generalization derives from his perceived lack of actual identification with deeper socio- cultural aspects, such as race or gender, especially when dealing with non- mainstream identifications within a Freudian-based setting of film analysis. This allegation has also been made regarding Freud’s inclusion of an exclusively all- (white)male audience.62 Hall carries the simplification further when he argues that Lacan’s theory requires an awareness event taking place to carry the child’s development from the Mirror Stage to a fully functioning adult. Nevertheless,

19 what remains from the child’s Mirror Stage into adulthood, is the desire to identify with the image in the mirror. The desire to be the “better” image in the mirror is another driving force that brings audiences back to watch films.

The spectator’s need to connect on both conscious and unconscious levels with the protagonist on screen was proposed early on by the French semiolo- gist and film critic Christian Metz in his book The Imaginary Signifier63. In the late 1960s, and early 1970s the emerging field of film studies produced scholars, such as Christian Metz, who examined the effect of the images on the screen on the (mostly presumed) male spectator. Christian Metz sums up his relation with Freud and Lacan in the development of the ‘semiology of cinema’—or as he defines it, “a relatively autonomous science of the cinema”64—as a way to incorporate both Freudian psychoanalysis from a historical distance as well as a second basis in developing a semiotic language of film criticism.

Although Metz, who additionally wrote for Screen, the British equivalent of the French Cahiers du Cinema, has been considered among the main film analytical critics of the 1970s,65 it appears that his writings found a less broad audience than his fellow Frenchman, Lacan. In part, this may be the inaccessibility due to linguistic barriers as François Dosse and Deborah Glassman note,66 but maybe even more so attributable to the difficulties of unraveling his theories, as pointed out by Raymond Bellour.67 Metz’s theory combines the semiology pro- moted by the French anthropologist and structuralist Claude Lévi-Strauss and Swiss-born semiotic linguist Ferdinand Saussure as well as Althusserian theorist Jean-Louis Baudry’s work on the cinema as an apparatus68 and adds the concepts of sign, signifier and signified to cinema.

The difficulty with cinema arises when attempting to separate langue (system of language) and parole (language)—Metz’ term for the signified in the au- dio-visual context of films. Jean-Louis Comolli identifies the problem as “cinema which is not content with ‘the facts,’” but requires an “absorption of ‘cinematic language’ […] into the metalanguage of criticism.”69 In other words, the “lan-

20 guage” of cinema comprises not strictly the use of words, but images, including but not limited to body language, mise-en-scene and editing, a concept Metz later acknowledged in his writings.70 In addition, film also provides another layer of “language” in form of the musical score which may be diegetic (fitting to the images on the screen, i.e. a barking dog) or non-diegetic (going against the imagery, e.g. a romantic scene in which one of the characters whispers into the other characters ears is overlaid with romantic music, fading out the spoken language).71 However, much of his work has influenced the studies of spectatorship. His strongest influence may reverberate in the works of contemporary film analyst and fellow Cahiers du Cinema contributor, Laura Mulvey, whose early feminist readings of Hitchcock films have left an indelible mark on the discipline of Freudian film analysis.

Freud meets Feminism

Contrasting Christian Metz, who in his 1975 work Psychoanalysis and Cinema: The Imaginary Signifier posits that the only ideal spectator in the movies who truly counted was a male spectator, British author Laura Mulvey counters with a Freudian concept while at the same time accounting strongly for a female spectator.72 Mulvey’s work adds the dimension of feminist studies to the field of film analysis and thus begins the path that Jungian scholars will further in the late 1980s and beyond—the view of the entire human and his or her psyche, not simply a white male spectator and his reaction to the film. Male scholars, such as Metz, provided Freudian-influenced evidence that males in the audience identified with male characters on the screen and their symbol of power, the phallus, as they watched the films while at the same time they (unconsciously) shunned any identification with the female due to castration anxiety. Early film critics ar- gued that the typical forms of punishment of a woman’s transgression(s) at the end of a film,73 allowed the male audiences to avoid such anxieties. Mulvey’s seminal essay addressed both the spectatorship and male behavior, but concentrated more on the effect of the acting female(s) on the male audience.

21 Using mostly Hitchcock films, Mulvey presents a lasting change in thinking among the film critic community. In her essay “Visual Pleasures in Narrative Cinema” she transforms both Freudian psychoanalysis applied to film criticism and French semiotics based spectatorship by proposing that in a relationship attempt between the spectator and his counterpart on screen, “woman” is objectified in the movies—all for the sake of the male spectator’s pleasure. While acknowledging the works by Jean-Louis Baudry (who incorporates Althusser into his writings) and Christian Metz, Mulvey carries the question of spectatorship and identification of the spectator with the on-screen characters further. She coins two terms to explain her theory: “to-be-looked-at-ness” and the notion of “sco- pophilic voyeurism.” These concepts combine to render the female (main) character(s) in a film as the object of male voyeuristic fetishism.

Since the female becomes an object for the male on the screen, Mulvey’s argues that a female in the audience must find some identification in order to “satisfy a primordial wish for pleasurable looking.”74 By turning the woman into a fetish by the viewer, usually a male who engages in fetishistic scopophilia—the pleasure of looking at a fetishized object—the female spectator will often find herself re-castrated in the Freudian sense. Feminist film scholars Linda Williams and Claire Johnston agree with this view. Williams carries Johnston’s argument that a woman’s image on screen elicits castration anxiety for the male viewer further and adds that any female images produced are “designed to reassure himself of his threatened unity.”75 Thus, the female spectator is forced to either side with the “bearer of the look,”76 i.e. the phallus-carrying male, and therefore sado- masochistically must punish the female in guise of the male protagonist, or the female viewer allows herself to be the victim of the fetishized to-be-looked-at- ness, and thus proves no longer a threat to the male who can then proceed to punish the woman for her transgression into male territory.77 Where is a woman spectator to go? Spectatorship studies, which will be addressed in greater detail in Chapter 3, have slowly begun to change in the late 1990s, but much academic work remains to be done.

22 This precarious situation of the female spectator, according to Mulvey’s 1970s work, leads to the female spectator’s need to either accept herself in the role of the male protagonist, ultimately punishing the female protagonist for transgression into the male domain, or the female spectator is forced to align herself with the female protagonist and thus subjecting herself to the male punishment for the female protagonist’s actions. Author-scholar Mary Ann Doane points out that with reading female character(s) in film derives from the fact that “to strip the body of its readings […] is already the property of patriarchy.”78 In other words, women within the construct of patriarchal society have forfeited the privilege of being a subject and are always already an object. Mulvey’s main keyword is scopophilia, or the pleasure derived from looking, about which she notes: “Freud associated scopophilia with taking other people as objects, subjecting them to a controlling and curious gaze.”79 Some of the best examples, which Mulvey bases much of her writings on, arise from Hitchcock’s vast array of films. One in particular is Marnie,80 in which the female protagonist engages in male activity (theft), and is ultimately discovered, interrogated, absolved by means of childhood trauma and returned to the fold by means of objectifying, fetishizing, and ultimately by accepting her role as a female, rather than a male in a female body.

Pointing the way to new horizons, but building on the theories proposed by authors, such as Althusser, Lacan and Metz, Mulvey’s work paved the way for other film critics taking a more feminist approach to film criticism. Following Mul- vey’s publication of “Visual Pleasures,” the Freudian theoretical framework as applied to film criticism opened up into many different directions to include among others post-modernist readings, post-colonial studies, queer theory, feminism in various forms and various other areas. Since this dissertation will focus on a Jungian-based framework, this brief discourse on some Freudian scholarship was intended to provide a very succinct overview of theories known by the early 1970s as this coincides with the release dates of the films discussed.

23 Chapter 1 provided a brief historical overview of the directions the Freudi- an canon of writings has taken, from Freud himself to seminal authors such as Lacan, Metz and Mulvey to some different paths Freudian theories have taken since the 1980s. It is now time to look to the less discussed direction in psychology, which forms the theoretical framework of this dissertation. In the following chapter, Carl Gustav Jung’s work, especially his discussion of Archetypes, will be discussed as it contrasts with Freudian theories. As Freudian-based scholarship permeates all areas of film studies while Jungian-based frameworks are just beginning to emerge, the previously presented Freudian framework will be interjected where both Jungian-based and Freudian-based theoretical frames within the context of this dissertation intersect.

* * *

1 The German term Angst refers to an amorphous type of fear, a type of dread which does not require any specific reason or object. At the Fin de Siècle a general notion of decline prevailed, which led to a sense of pending doom. Coupled with the looming change of the century, this term represents an overall sense of insecurity about the future of society, both culturally and economically. 2 th th The sense of pending doom as the 19 century was coming to an end and the 20 century began— coupled with the sense that the epoch had run its course and was now heading for simple decadent de‐ cay—led to an atmosphere of cynicism and a feel that the world as it was known was coming to an end. 3 Teich, Mikulàš and Roy Porter. Fin de Siècle and Its Legacy. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 1990. Print. Schorske, Carl E. Fin‐de‐Siècle Vienna: Politics and Culture. New York, NY: Vintage Books, 1981. Print. Marchand, Suzanne L and David F. Lindenfield. Germany at the Fin de Siècle: Culture, Politics and Ideas. Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana U P, 2004. Print. Pages 2 – 7. Harvey, David. The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change. Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 2004. Print. Pages 10 – 12. 4 The Lumiere Brothers are the first and probably best known directors of these “slices of life” although Edvard Muybridge and Thomas Alva Edison preceded their works by a few years. Best known examples include Muybridge’s Horse in Motion, a series showing equine locomotion, and the Lumiere Brothers’ Ar‐ rival of a Train, which documents the arrival of a steam engine train in a French train station in the 1890s and George Méliès’ Trip to the Moon in 1902. Méliès short film tells the story of several men making a trip to the moon and back. Many books on early silent film and the use of film in its first 15 years have been published; the following authors therefore comprise only a small list of the available material: Knopf, Robert. Theater and Film: A Comparative Analogy. New Haven, CT: Yale U P. 2005. Print. Brockmann, Stephen. A Critical History of German Film. Rochester, NY: Camden, 2010. Print. Sultanik, Aaron. Cam‐

24 era‐Cut‐Composition: A Learning Model. New York, NY: Cornwall, 1995. Print. Ezra, Elizabeth. Georges Méliès. Manchester, UK: Manchester U P, 2000. Print. 5 Sigmund Freud (1856 – 1939) was an Austrian neurologist who around the turn of the century founded the new medical discipline now known as psychology. Freud, as Ernest Jones points out, was a frequent visitor at the theater which in Vienna “often came before food.” Jones, Ernest. Life and Work of Sigmund Freud. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1993. Print. Page 118. In his letters Freud himself also refers frequent‐ ly to theater as his inspiration for his newly developing theories. Freud, Sigmund, and Ernst L. Freud. Let‐ ters of Sigmund Freud. New York, NY: Dover, 1992. Print. Especially Page 263 ‐ 266. Schultz, Duane P. and Sydney E. Schultz. A History of Modern Psychology. Belmont, CA: Thomson‐Wadsworth, 2008. Print. 6 th For Freud’s career change see Aguayo, Joseph. “Charcot and Freud: Some Implications of Late 19 Cen‐ tury French Psychiatry and Politics for the Origins of Psychoanalysis.” Psychoanalysis and Contemporary Thought 9 (1986): 223‐260. Print. 7 Starks, Lisa S. “‘Remember Me’: Psychoanalysis, Cinema and the Crisis of Modernity.” Shakespeare Quarterly 53.2 Screen Shakespeare (2002): 181‐200. Print. Finney, Gail. Women in Modern Drama: Freud, Feminism, and European Theater at the Turn of the Century. Ithaca, NY: Cornell U P, 1991. Print. 8 Richard Webster, following George Devereux’s lead, believes that Freud was incorrect in identifying the Oedipus complex. Devereux considers an earlier complex, what he termed Laius‐Jocasta Complex as the source of what Freud named Oedipus Complex. Webster, Richard. Why Freud was Wrong: Sin, Science, and Psychoanalysis. New York, NY: Basic, 1995. Print. Especially Chapters 9 and 11. Devereux, George. Dreams in Greek Tragedy: An Ethno‐Psycho‐Analytical Study. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1976. Print. Chapter 6, esp. Page 209. 9 Møller, Lis. The Freudian Reading: Analytical and Fictional Constructions. Philadelphia, PA: U of Penn‐ sylvania P, 1991. Print. Page 6. Lunny, Allyson M. “Heimlich Maneuvers: Freud's Analytic Seduction of the Wolf Man.” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies 5.1 (1999): 41‐62. Print. 10 One example includes Siegfried Kracauer, a German film critic and theorist and contemporary of Freud. 11 Møller, Page 6. 12 Brooks, Peter. “The Idea of a Psychoanalytic Literary Criticism.” Critical Inquiry 13.2 The Trials of Psy‐ choanalysis (1987): 334‐348. Print. Page 334. 13 Robinson, Paul A. Freud and His Critics. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1993. Print. Page 1. 14 Rudnytsky, Peter L. Freud and Oedipus. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 1992. Print. Page ix. 15 Buchanan, Bradley W. Oedipus Against Freud: Myth and the End(s) of Humanism in Twentieth‐Century British Literature. Toronto, Canada: U of Toronto P, 2010. Print. Page 16. 16 Green, André. The Tragic Effect: The Oedipus Complex in Tragedy. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 1979. Print. Preface by Frank Kermode, Page x. Also, Steiner, Riccardo. “In Vienna Veritas.” Internation‐ al Journal of Psycho‐Analysis 75 (1994):511‐573 17 Gunning, Tom. D.W. Griffith and the Origins of American Narrative Film: The Early Years at Biograph. Urbana, IL: U of Illinois P, 1994. Print. Page 26. Stephens, Mitchell. The Rise of the Image, the Fall of the Word. Oxford, UK: Oxford U P, 1998. Print. Chapter 2. 18 Gunning, Tom. “The (In)Credulous Spectator.” Art and Text 34 (Spr. 1989): 31‐45. Print. 19 A Trip to the Moon (La Voyage dans la Lune). Méliès, Georges, et al. Landmarks of Early Film, vol. 1. Image Entertainment, 1997. DVD. 20 The Jazz Singer. Dir. Crosland, Alan, Al Jolson, May McAvoy, Warner Oland. Warner Home Video, 2007. DVD 21 Some of Hitchcock’s most famous films based on psychological disturbances include Rear Window (1954), Vertigo (1958) and Marnie (1964). 22 Psycho (The Alfred Hitchcock Collection: Collector’s Edition). Dir. Hitchcock, Alfred, Janet Leigh, Antho‐ ny Perkins, et al. Universal Studios, 2009. DVD 23 Woolfolk, Alan. “Depth Psychology at the Surface.” In Hitchcock at the Source: The Auteur as Adaptor. Palmer, R. Barton and David Boyd, eds. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 2011. Print. Page 130. 24 Woolfolk, Page 130. Woolfolk refers to the book on which Hitchcock’s Spellbound is based when he says “their […] releases.” Although only vaguely alluded, Woolfolk indicates that there was a great dis‐

25 crepancy especially in non‐German speaking countries between what Freud wrote and what was under‐ stood by non‐German speaking Freud followers and practitioners. 25 Spellbound (The Criterion Collection). Dir. Alfred Hitchcock, Ingrid Bergman, Gregory Peck, Rhonda Fleming. Criterion, 2002. DVD. 26 Woolfolk, Page 130. 27 Orson Welles The Trial is based on Franz Kafka’s work, but it is brought to the silver screen as a dream‐ like nightmare. The Trial. Dir. Welles, Orson, Anthony Perkins, Jeanne Moreau, Romy Schneider. Alpha Video, 2003. DVD. 28 Citizen Kane. Dir. Welles, Orson, Joseph Cotten, Agnes Moorehead. Turner Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD. 29 Mulvey, Laura. Citizen Kane. London, UK: British Film Institute, 1992. Print. Page 22. See also McNair, Brian. Journalists in Film: Heroes and Villains. Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh U P, 2009. Print. Pages 190 – 198. 30 Watkins, Gordon S., ed. The Motion Picture in Its Economical and Social Aspects. Philadelphia, PA: The American Academy of Political and Social Sciences, 1926. Microfiche. 31 The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Dir. Wiene, Robert, David Shepard, Hans Janowitz, et al. Image Entertain‐ ment, 1997. DVD. 32 Kracauer, Siegfried. From Caligari to Hitler: A Psychological Study of German Film. Princeton, NJ: Princeton U P, 1974. Print. Page 67. 33 Fearing, Franklin. “Influence of the Movies on Attitudes and Behavior.” Annals of American Academy of Political and Social Science 254 The Motion Picture Industry (1947): 70 – 79. Pages 77 ‐ 78. 34 Brockmann, A Critical History, Page 38. 35 Farrell, James T. A Note on Literary Criticism. New York, NY: The Vanguard P, 1936. Print. 36 Althusser, Louis. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses: Notes towards an Investigation.” Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays. B. Brewster, transl. New York, NY: Monthly Review P, 1971. Print. Pages 127 – 186. Barcan, Alan. Sociological Theory and Educational Reality: Education and Society in Aus‐ tralia since 1949. Kensington, NSW, Australia: New South Wales U P, 1993. Print. Pages 152 – 158 37 Ferretter, Luke. Louis Althusser. New York, NY: Routledge, 2006. Print. Pages 75 – 94. 38 Naremore, James. Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane: A Casebook. Oxford, UK: Oxford U P, 2004. Page 157. Print. Carroll, Noel. Interpreting the Moving Image. Print. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 1998. Print. Pages 154 – 156. Gottesman, Ronald. Perspectives on Citizen Kane. New York, NY: Hall, 1996. Print. Page 256. 39 Clockwork Orange. Dir. Kubrick, Stanley, Malcolm McDowell, Patrick Magee, Michael Bates. Warner Brothers Pictures, 2001. DVD. 40 Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. Dir. Kubrick, Stanley, Peter Sellers, George Scott, Slim Pickens. Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD. 41 2001: A Space Odyssey. Dir. Kubrick, Stanley, Arthur C. Clarke, Keir Dullea, et al. Warner Home Video, 2001. DVD. 42 Gattaca. Dir. Niccol, Andrew, Uma Thurman, Ethan Hawks, Jude Law. Sony Pictures Home Entertain‐ ment, 2001. DVD. 43 The Island. Dir. Bay, Michael, Ewan McGregor, Scarlett Johansson, Djimon Hounsou. Dreamworks Vid‐ eo, 2005. DVD. 44 Naremore, James. Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane: A Casebook. Oxford, NY: Oxford U P, 2004. Print. Page 4. 45 Naremore, Page 4. 46 Cooper, Mark G. Love Rules: Silent Hollywood and the Rise of the Managerial Class. Minneapolis, MN: U of Minnesota P, 2003. Print. Introduction. Edgar, Andrew and Peter R. Sedgwick. Key Concepts in Cul‐ tural Theory. New York, NY: Routledge, 1999. Print. Pages 39 – 40. 47 Naremore, Page 4. Carringer, Robert L. The Making of Citizen Kane. Berkeley, CA: U of California Press, 1996. Print. Pages 117 – 118. Hillier, John, ed. The 1950s, Neo‐Realism, Hollywood, New Wave. Cam‐ bridge, MA: Harvard U P, 1985. Print. Pages 254 – 255.

48 Bickerton, Emile. A Short History of Cahiers du Cinéma. New York, NY: Verso, 2009. Print. 49 Kracauer, From Caligari to Hitler, especially Chapter 5: Caligari. 50 Scott, Jill. Electra After Freud: Myth and Culture. Ithaca, NY: Cornell U P, 2005. Print. Pages 8 – 9. 51 Freud, Sigmund. New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis. New York, NY: Norton, 1965. Print. Es‐ pecially Chapter XXXIII: “Femininity.” Also, Freud, Sigmund. Introductory Lectures on Psycho‐Analysis. New York, NY: Norton, 1977. Print. Especially Chapter XIII: “The Archaic Features and Infantilism of Dreams.” 52 This goes back to the Greek mythological story of Oedipus, a Greek king’s son who was cast as an infant in the countryside so that he would not return and fulfill the prophecy of killing his father and marrying his mother. As the story goes, unbeknownst to him, the young Oedipus kills the father in a roadside dis‐ pute over the right of way at the place where three roads meet and after solving the riddle of the Sphinx, marries the queen of Thebes, the town to which he was travelling. Jocasta, the now widowed queen is none other than his own mother. Yet, this is not revealed to him for a long while – in this time, he fathers two children in an incestuous relationship. Upon learning of the shameful union, Jocasta commits suicide and Oedipus blinds himself before being exiled from his home town. The Greek name Oedipus has often been translated as “bound foot” or “swollen foot” and has been said to refer to injuries sustained by the infant during the process of exposure. In English, the medical term “edema” still recalls the mythological character in every day modern life. Freud, Sigmund. New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis. James Strachey, ed. New York, NY: Norton, 1965. Print. Chapter XXXI: “The Dissection of Psychical Personality.” It should be noted that the Oedipal foot imagery also plays prominently in Aligheri Dante’s Inferno where the left foot represent the imperfection of human Will, which must be balanced by the perfection of the Intellect, symbolized by the right foot. Dante’s work influences Benedict de Spinoza’s Ethics, in which Spi‐ noza notes that passion (“appetite”) must be balanced and tempered by a higher passion (“intelligence”). A future exploration of these themes in the reading of filmic text would be of great interest; however, within the frame of this dissertation, pursuit of this discussion is not possible. 53 Simon, Bennett. Tragic Drama and the Family: Psychoanalytic Studies from Aeschylus to Beckett. New Haven, CT: Yale U P, 1993. Print. Page 7. 54 Palmer, Michael F. Freud and Jung on Religion. New York, NY: Routledge, 1997. Print. Page 64. Cot‐ tingham, John. The Spiritual Dimension: Religion, Philosophy and Human Value. Cambridge, UK: Cam‐ bridge U P, 2005. Print. Pages 64 – 67. 55 Fromm, Erich. Greatness and Limitations of Freud’s Thought. New York, NY: New American Library, 1981. Print. Page 30. 56 Although more than 2,000 years after the prime of the Hellenic Greek period, the thinking by the patri‐ archal ruled society still largely held onto the concept that a woman was at best to be seen, but not heard. See Thucydides’ recount of a funerary oration given by Pericles to widows of fallen Athenian sol‐ diers. A literary example of a woman breaking such taboos around the time Freud lived is the book Effi Briest by Theodor Fontane. Incidentally, that book was later adapted into a film by Rainer Werner Fass‐ binder. Effi Briest. Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Hanna Schygulla, Wolfgang Schenk, Ulli Lommel, Lilo Pempeit. Fox Lorber, 2003. DVD. 57 Plato. A Selection of Passages from Plato for English Readers. Benjamin Jowett, transl. Oxford: Claren‐ don P, 1895. Print. Pages 65 – 74. Also, Strauven, Wanda. The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded. Amster‐ dam, NL: Amsterdam U P, 2006. Print. Pages 59 – 62. Plato’s Allegory of the Cave states that some peo‐ ple are chained inside a cave with their backs facing the exit of the cave. Unable to turn or move about, they are forced to stare at a blank wall in front of them. This wall marks the back of the cave. As people outside the cave go about their business, the daylight projects the shadows of the people outside the cave entrance onto the blank wall, which for the chained inhabitants presents reality. However, as Plato fur‐ ther notes, an enlightened philosopher is one who has managed to break free from the chains and has stepped outside the cave entrance into a great form of reality. Returning back to the cave, attempts to unshackle those inside the cave are futile unless a cave dweller is willing to open his or her mind to an ex‐ panded form of reality. The rest will continue to see the projected shadows as the “true reality.” These people will remain unenlightened prisoners of their own restrictive minds.

58 Shaviro, Steven. The Cinematic Body. Minneapolis, MN: Minnesota U P, 2000. Print. Pages 14 – 15. 59 Plato, Page 73. The ancient Greek term “cave dweller” has also been translated as “prisoner” since Pla‐ to remarked on these cave dwellers as being “prisoners.” 60 Lacan, Jacques. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan: The Psychoses, 1955 – 1956. New York, NY: Norton, 1988. Print. Page 39. An excellent and concise summary of Lacanian concepts, including his definition of the Mirror Stage can be found in Homer, Sean. The Mirror Stage and its applications in cinematic analysis are discussed in great detail in the chapter “The Imaginary” (pages 17‐33). Homer, Sean. Jacques Lacan. New York, NY: Routledge, 2005. Print. Of importance to this dissertation is Lacan’s concept of the child observing his or her reflection in the mirror without fully understanding (yet) the concept of a reflection. From the child’s viewpoint, the reflection is perceived as being better coordinated than the child’s own movements. In other words, in child observes that the mirror image demonstrates perfection in compari‐ son to the child’s perceived own movements. It is this perfection for which the child believes it can strive for, and possibly achieve a proximity, but which at the time the child perceives as impossible to attain. 61 Hall, Stuart. “Who Needs Identity?” Identity: A Reader. de Gay, Paul, ed. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2000. Page 21. 62 Simon, Bennett. “Is the Oedipus Complex Still the Cornerstone of Psychoanalysis? Three Obstacles to Answering the Question.” Journal of American Psychoanalytic Association 39.3 (June 1991): 641‐668. 63 Metz, Christian. The Imaginary Signifier. Bloomington, IN: Indiana U P, 1992. Print. Stam, Robert, et al. New Vocabularies in Film Semiotics: Structuralism, Post‐Structuralism, and Beyond. New York, NY: Routledge, 1992. Print. Pages 47 – 49. 64 Metz, The Imaginary Signifier, Page 20. 65 During, Lisabeth. “Innocence and Ontology.” In European Film Theory. Trifonova, Temunuga, ed. New York, NY: Routledge, 2009. Print. Page 258. 66 Metz’s writings were not immediately translated into English, partly due to difficulties in translating semiotics into English while other authors, such as Laura Mulvey or Peter Wollen wrote in English and were easily distributed. Parts I and III of Imaginary Signifier were translated in the mid‐1970s, while Parts II and IV did not find their way into English versions until 1982. Dosse, François and Deborah Glassman. History of Structuralism. Minneapolis, MN: U of Minnesota P, 1998. Print. Page 86. 67 Bellour, Raymond. “Segmenting / Analyzing.” Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology: A Film Theory Reader. Rosen, Philip, ed. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 1986. Print. Page 67. 68 Baudry, Jean‐Louis. “Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematographic Apparatus.” Film Quarterly 28.2 (1974): 39‐47. Print. 69 Comolli, Jean‐Louis. “Technique and Ideology.” Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology: A Film Theory Reader. Rosen, Philip, ed. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 1986. Print. Page 431. 70 Metz, Christian. Film Language: A Semiotics of the Cinema. Chicago, IL: U of Chicago P, 1991. Print. Page 40. 71 Examples of both can be found in many Hitchcock films. One excellent example is Vertigo (Collector’s Edition). Dir. Hitchcock, Alfred, Kim Novak, James Stewart, et al. Universal Studios, 2009. DVD. 72 Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasures in Narrative Cinema.” Screen 16 (1975): 61‐81. Originally published as article in 1975, it was republished in an extended book version almost 15 years later: Mulvey, Laura. Vis‐ ual and Other Pleasures. Bloomington, IN: Indiana U P, 1989. Print. 73 This punishment may involve returning the woman back to the hearth or kitchen by the man whom she tried to outdo (such as Marnie is brought into a relationship with the man who catches her theft in Hitch‐ cock’s Marnie), chastising her publicly or even causing her ultimate demise (such as Judy in Hitchcock’s Vertigo). The harshness of the punishment often seems concurrent with, although sometimes in excess of, the extent of her transgression(s). Prime examples of entire genres of films following this pattern are Film Noir when the femme fatale is either arrested (such as in The Maltese Falcon) or killed (such as in Double Indemnity or early Neo‐Noir films such as Chinatown). Most Hollywood Westerns, especially any John Ford (director) / John Wayne (actor) films also have the woman leaving behind the home / hearth and the white male retrieves her, bringing her back home—often retrieving her from the Indians. 74 Mayne, Judith. Cinema and Spectatorship. New York, NY: Routlege, 1993. Print. Page 48.

75 Williams, Linda. “Something else besides a Mother:” ‘”Stella Dallas”’ and the Maternal Melodrama. Cinema Journal 24.1 (Aut. 1984): 2 – 27. Page 5. 76 Mulvey, Page 19. 77 Mulvey, Page 21. 78 Doane, Mary Ann. “Woman’s Stake: Filming the Female Body.” October 17 The New Talkies (Summer 1981): 22 – 36. Page 25. 79 Mulvey, Page 16. Parenthetical text as in original. 80 Marnie. Dir. Hitchcock, Alfred, Tippi Hendren, Sean Connery, Henry Beckman. Universal Studios, 2004. DVD.

* * *

CHAPTER 2: A JUNGIAN-BASED FRAMEWORK—AN OVERVIEW

A life spent making mistakes is not only More honorable but more useful than A life spent doing nothing. (George Bernard Shaw)

Whereas the previous chapter provided a quick overview of film theorists and critics following in the footsteps of a Freudian framework laying the major groundwork especially for film criticism, this chapter provides an overview of the key concepts of a Jungian-based theoretical framework and its application to film theories. These concepts include mainly the Jungian Unconscious (both Collec- tive and Personal) and Archetypes. After discussing these notions the remainder of the chapter will focus on Campbell’s concept of the hero’s journey and how these large academic fields connect to film analysis and the overall Jungian- based framework.

Carl Gustav Jung (1875 – 1961), temporarily a disciple of Sigmund Freud (1856 – 1939), developed his ideas partly independently, and partly through his close working relationship with Freud,81 which explains why Jung’s theories appear closely related or even overlapping with Freudian thinking. Although Freud- ian-based theories have proven to be of immense use to the field of film criticism by providing great insight to both the mechanics of film constructs as well as an analysis of the film audience, they still offer only one large framework with which to examine the human condition.82 Jung extends Freudian thought to encompass the whole psyche instead of focusing mostly on the phallus and its signifi-

30 cance. In doing so, Jung introduces several important concepts: Archetypes, the Animus and Anima, the Shadow and the notion of Individuation, a process which embraces and stitches together the various parts of the Personal and Collective Unconscious to form a whole persona which is well-adapted within an individual’s socio-cultural settings. As the concepts are discussed, trajectories to film and film criticism will be provided.

From Freud to Jung—An Overview of Selected Jungian Concepts

With psychology and film arising nearly simultaneously, it should come as no surprise that the two fields would eventually combine into an academic discipline. Preceding Carl Gustav Jung and his work by a few years, Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalysis was mostly used for treatment of psychiatric patients in the first part of the 20th century. In the second-half of the century, academics and critics applied the original Freudian concepts to literature and film criticism. As discussed in the previous chapter, Freud’s influence can be traced in the writings of such intellectual authorities as Jacques Lacan, Louis Althusser, Christian Metz and Laura Mulvey to name only a few canonical Freudian theorist authors.

The second strand of psychology, arising with Swiss born Carl Gustav Jung, did not receive the same academic interest as Freud during much of the 20th century. However, in recent decades, scholars, such as Robert Eberwein and Luke Hockley, have rediscovered Jung’s theories. Although Jungian thought provided the framework for some literary criticism in the times after Freud’s death in 1939, Jungian scholars were greatly outnumbered by Freudian theorists. This numeric disparity has slowly been changing over the past two decades as more authors, especially in the context of cinematic discussion, have come forward to examine films in the Jungian context as a means to round out the canonical readings of literary and cinematic texts. Where Freudian theories remain focused on a small portion of the human psychological development, such as the Oedipus Complex or Castration Anxiety, a Jungian-based framework provides a more holistic approach to both child and adult psychological developments as affected by

31 film and literary texts. In this chapter, the writings of film analysts including Janice H. Rushing and Thomas S. Frentz, Luke Hockley, Christopher Hauke, Ian Alister, and Greg Singh will inform the Jungian-based reading of film.

Carl Gustav Jung was born in 1875 in Switzerland and spent the early part of his professional life in Basel and later in Zürich.83 Around 1903 Jung began to develop his own ideas about psychology, much of which were initially derived from Freud’s work. The first of Jung’s writings were published the following year.84 Two years later, he met with Sigmund Freud who was almost 20 years his senior. Jung became a disciple of Freud and was largely seen as his suc- cessor in the new field of psychoanalysis. However, the work relationship with Freud was “traumatic”85 at best, and only seven years later, the two men part- ed.86 While Freud went on to become world famous in various fields, Jung’s theories remained much in the shadows of his mentor.

To value Jung’s analytic works, and to validate his writings in the theoretical framework of film criticism, it is necessary to understand what Jungian-based film analysis is not. At the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th century, Sigmund Freud gave the world of psychology and psychoanalysis among others the ideas of repression, i.e. behaviors that arise from repressed emotions or memories and are a result of the Id and Super-Ego overpowering the Ego’s actions, as well as association theories in which a patient may free associate or discuss remembered dream images. Carl Gustav Jung carried many of Freud’s ideas along similar lines but the two men’s theories deviate based on time elapsed since the end of their previous working relationship.87 Jung posited the concepts of the Conscious, Unconscious, Archetypes and Individuation along with more detailed investigations of earlier collaborative work on the theories of dream analysis first proposed by Freud. Some Jungian concepts thus appear similar to Freud, such as the Unconscious and Conscious as well as Jung’s dream analysis. Whereas Freud mostly (re-)focuses his work on the presence or lack of the phallus,88 Jung’s theories acknowledge the Castration Complex, but

32 building upon it, Jung’s work reaches beyond a signifier by embracing the whole human psyche and its expression through a person’s interactions with his or her socio-cultural environment.

The parallelism of Freudian and Jungian theories partly arise from the fact, as Eveline Bennet notes, that after the end of his working relationship with Freud, Jung “did no scientific work for a time, but sought to discover the meaning of the contents of the unconscious.”89 Thus, Jung investigated the psychological phenomena formulated by Freud in greater depth, rather than covering new ground by attempting to formulate new concepts.

The Jungian definition of Archetypes, as Michael Adams points out, is very difficult to pin down, because Jung himself defined the term differently in different parts of his writings.90 For the purpose of this dissertation, the term Archetype shall be defined in the most common version Jung himself used, i.e. universally, a priori existing vague prototype of particular “stock characters” such as the hero, the shaman, the trickster or the mother figure. Additionally, a new arrival to the Jungian canon will be introduced: the motif of the terrorist in the Lost Honor of Katharina Blum. Archetypes serve as an overarching umbrella under which the various prototypes gather. One important Archetype is the Shadow, or Other, which is an expression of the not-I, not-Ego. According to Janice H. Rushing and Thomas S. Frentz, the Shadow or Other is all that “an entire society disavows and hates.”91 In other words, the Shadow is anything that is not conforming to the white male standard of Jung’s times. In the context of this dissertation, the Jungian-based term Shadow and the Rushing and Frentz term Other (which also is called the Underdeveloped Shadow by Rushing and Frentz, in line with Jung’s term Shadow) are being used interchangeably. All refer to the same group: anyone outside the Ego, i.e. white male, encompassing all not-I, not-Ego, which by Rushing and Frentz’s definition includes all females of any race and non-white males.

Jung, as criticized by Ira Progoff, defines the Ego in a circular way by ex- plaining the Ego by way of Consciousness when the Ego itself serves as an inte-

33 gral and essential part of the Consciousness.92 Yet, as Marcus West points out, “Jung takes ultimately a very narrow view of the ego [because he] interprets the ego as the limited subjectivity [equating it] with the individual seen as being caught like a rabbit in the headlights.”93 Judy Anne White in her reading of Beo- wulf acknowledges the difficulty that many scholars find with Jung and his way of delineating the terms he uses. She sees, at times, “Jung himself, seemingly negating his own theories”94 as he tries to universalize his theories of the Anima and Animus, which may partly account for the lesser use of a Jungian-based framework in Academia.

Through the Shadow, the Archetypes drive the concept of Anima / Ani- mus, which are either the “unconscious female aspect of a man’s personality” (Anima) or the male aspect in a woman (Animus).95 When the opposite aspects have “come to terms [… and] attain [a] level of maturity”96 then a psychological maturation of the individual has occurred. This state is termed Individuation by Jung. Sherry Salman notes that Individuation encompasses “the unfolding of wholeness as the archetype of the Self, a symbolic image of the entirety of the psyche, not just the ego.”97 Therefore, to become a “whole” (and well-rounded) individual functioning well within society, Jung envisioned a synergistic interplay of the Archetypes and the Animus / Anima that then delineate the Self and through this action, Individuation ultimately is attained. In contrast to Freud, Jung saw Oedipal (incestuous) desires as a part of the Individuation process, however “not as primarily sexual but as spiritual, a longing for inner unity [instead of Freud’s] emphasizing pathology.”98 This thematic of a “whole human” or a holistic approach to a person permeates much of Jung’s work99 which may be stemming partly from his personality, as Claire Dunne points out: Jung “lived in two worlds—earth-rooted and spiritually centered.”100

Along with the establishment of the scientific nature of psychology, Jung’s ideas also carried into the newest century as his theories are being re-examined in the light of literary, especially film, criticism. Some of the most discussed themes in the new direction of film analysis are Jung’s concepts of the Conscious and Unconscious (in parts an extension of the Ego and Id proposed in Freudian

34 theories) and—within Jungian theory—the establishing of several large aspects of Archetypes and the idea of Individuation through the combined efforts of the Conscious and Unconscious along with the Archetypes. One aspect of the Ar- chetypes proposed by Jung is the notion of the Shadow, in more recent studies also referred to as the Other, which returns Jungian thought back to film by ways of Joseph Campbell’s model of the myths and their influence on a story’s (archetypal) hero.

The Unconscious – A Splitting Personality?

For Jung, much of the human psyche is comprised of the Unconscious, or the locus within the psyche that “forms images, emotions, and drives and whose existence and operation are independent of the ego.”101 The Unconscious communicates with the Conscious via dreams which are not completely relegated to night time activities.102 Jung himself considered dreams as “harbingers of the unconscious,”103 As implied by the terminology, the Unconscious acts without the Conscious being made aware of its actions, but Jung also split the former further into two areas: the Collective and the Personal Unconscious. As David and Eric Clarke point out, being a man of his time, “Jung defined and understood many of these terms in relation to their opposites.”104 By this, they denote Jung’s penchant to define many of his concepts in terms of what they were not instead of expressing what exactly he meant. This may go back to Jung’s attempt to “ward off the demons of arrogance and superior knowledge.”105 Attempts of modesty no longer hold back more recent Jungian scholars such as first- generation Jungian analyst Joseph Henderson, who defines the Collective Un- conscious as “that part of the psyche which retains and transmits the common psychological inheritance of mankind.”106 Henderson’s contribution to the Collec- tive Unconscious includes his formulation of the Cultural Unconscious, which “lies between the collective unconscious and the manifest pattern of the culture.” 107 Differently stated, Henderson argues that the Cultural Unconscious bridges the realm of the Collective and the Personal Unconscious.

35 While the Collective Unconscious encompasses much of the culture in which an individual has been brought up, the Personal Unconscious begins at birth rather emptily, although not quite as the tabula rasa108 as Jungian contemporaries believed,109 and fills accordingly based on individual experiences. For Carl Gustav Jung, “the content of the collective unconscious is made up in es- sence of archetypes.”110 In the way the Cultural Unconscious builds a connection between the Collective and Personal Unconscious, so do Archetypes form a bridge between the Unconscious and any phenotypical expression(s) of the Ar- chetypes in the Personal Unconscious:

Whereas the contents of the personal unconscious are acquired during the individual’s lifetime, the contents of the collective unconscious are invariably archetypes that were present from the beginning. […] The archetypes most clearly characterized from the empirical point of view are those which have the most frequent and the most disturbing influence on the ego. These are the shadow, the anima, and the animus.111

Contrasting the opinion of his contemporaries112 that a newborn child’s mind is an empty vessel into which experiences are poured, Jung vehemently refuted the long held idea of such an assumption: “The disastrous idea, that everything comes to the human psyche from outside and that it is born a tabula rasa is responsible for the erroneous belief that under normal circumstances the individual is in perfect order.”113 Conversely, the Collective Unconscious, as a collection of somewhat indistinct Archetypes, is present at birth in the human psyche. 114 By presupposing that a newborn has no innately inherited a priori knowledge, Jung feels that a grave disservice is done to the new human being from a psychological standpoint.115 Frances Gray carries Jung’s argument further, deducing that the a priori existence of a Collective Unconscious allows the young child to recognize itself as an individual in the Mirror Stage, albeit not in the Lacanian perfectionistic manner.116 Rather, the child learns “through the fab-

36 ric of its social networks and relations” 117 that the child exists. The self- recognition of the child within the mirror (be it an actual mirror or the silver screen), leads ultimately to identification with the characters of a film.

In Aion,118 Jung differentiates between the Collective Unconscious, which is made up of Archetypes that are present a priori, and the Personal Uncon- scious, which is a collection of personal experiences, while acknowledging that especially the former term seems to be the most misunderstood by his contemporaries of all terms used in his writings and lectures.119 This points to a difficulty to grasp the “empirical concept” and may be due to the fact that Jung bases his definition of the Collective Unconscious on the employment of a negating approach to delimit the term: “The Collective Unconscious is a part of the psyche which can be negatively distinguished from a Personal Unconscious by the fact that it does not, like the latter, owe its existence to personal experience and consequently is not a personal acquisition.”120 From Jung’s perspective the Collec- tive Unconscious exists a priori to a human being adding first impressions which ultimately shape the Personal Unconscious, although the definition through negative description allows for other interpretations of what the nature of the Collec- tive Unconscious is besides an a priori vague collection of Archetypes.

The supposition that Archetypes as structural parts of the psyche are mostly static and unchangeable is far from being accurate. Archetypes, both on the Collective and the Personal Unconscious level, are in flux: some Archetypes change within the culture, others vary from one individual to another or within temporal spaces, such as from one generation to another.121 The most influence-able of those are the personal expressions of Archetypes, i.e. the notions each individual connects with particular Archetypes. This helps to explain why some individuals are more xenophobic than others and afraid of people who look different from themselves, while other people embrace such divergence.122 “The Archetypes form the substrate on which these specific aptitudes proceed”123 clin- ical psychologist and author Renos Papadopoulos notes, yet there is simultaneously a “constant renewal of the contents of the archetypical structures of the context of the social, cultural and historical moments in the life of the individu-

37 al.”124 In other words, Archetypes can be thought of as the psychological equivalent of soil. The individual flowers of a plant growing in that soil would be the expression of an individual’s Archetype. Aptitudes, Papadopoulos furthermore denotes, are the instincts that govern much of human behavior: for example, the notion of a fight or flight response, or the decision to compromise among many other behaviors.125 As flowers differ from one another in either very minute or very big ways, so can individual expressions of Archetypes differ either in small or large manners. This explains the varying range of behavioral responses to stimulations triggered by encounters with archetypal structures. For example, running from a perceived danger, the impulse to fight or scream, or freezing in place are all expressions to being confronted with something that elicits fear in an individual based on personal experiences that have shaped an individual’s archetypal manifestations. Archetypes are the building block of the Unconscious, which bifurcates into the Collective and Personal Unconscious, but with expressions in both the Collective and Personal Unconscious.

Opposite the Collective Unconscious stands the Personal Unconscious126 which is an individual’s collection of memories relating to various incidents in a person’s life. Jung states that experiences making up the Personal Unconscious “have at one time been conscious but which have disappeared from consciousness through having been forgotten or repressed, the contents of the collective unconscious having never been individually acquired, but owe their existence exclusively to heredity.”127 The Personal Unconscious is capable of, and frequently does, influence the Personal Conscious (or the Ego in Freudian terms).128 David Gauntlett echoes Jung’s findings by pointing out that “…consciousness suc- cumbs all too easily to unconscious influences, and these are often truer and wiser than our conscious thinking.”129

Film intersects with Jungian-based theory in that an individual spectator brings to the film his or her own, very unique life experiences (residing in the Personal Unconscious), which in turn influence how the viewer responds to a visual (re-)presentation of Archetypes, such as the hero or the mother, stored in the Collective Unconscious.130 One explanation relates to an individual’s experi-

38 ences: someone may have wonderful memories of his or her grandfather, thus, the “Old Man” Archetype would have a positive connotation. Another person may have had bad experiences, possibly having even experienced abusive actions at the hand of an older male. For that latter spectator, the “Old Man” Arche- type will shape itself in a negative light in the Personal Unconscious. This explains why the same filmic scenes are capable of eliciting very different emotions in individual audience members. Sometimes, Archetypes are not personally experienced, but may be part of the socio-cultural upbringing, such as the repeated telling of stories to children.131 As shown through application of the proposed model in chapters 4 through 6, this upbringing also influences the presentation of Archetypes in film through the director’s selections of actors, mise-en-scene and plotlines.

Since the Archetypes underlie much of cultural mythology, such as the heroes of folk tales, a visual representation of those Archetypes allows for the viewer to make connections with the Collective Unconscious and, in turn, further understand his or her own culture better—or (re-)shape his or her views of socio- cultural (arche-)types. Film, by tapping into the Collective Unconscious, further allows for the release of emotions, especially the “safe experience” of dangerous emotions, such as fear. Although elicitation thresholds for fear vary widely from individual to individual, the emotion of fear is influenced by the Collective Uncon- scious.132 Therefore, representations of Archetypes in film are capable of eliciting affects, Jung’s preferred albeit interchangeable term for emotions,133 and reactions.134

Archetypes – A Journey into the Unconscious

The inherited collection of images, which Jung termed the Archetypes, explains why similar archetypal metaphors, such as the wise old woman, the hero, the sage old man, and the trickster and the Shadow—or as Jungian scholars Rushing and Frentz called it, the Underdeveloped Shadow or Other—can be found in cultures around the world.135 Archetypes, in the Jungian sense, De-

39 maris Wehr notes, are part of “[t]he collective unconscious, [which], consists of qualities ‘that are not individually acquired but are inherited, e.g., instincts as im- pulses to carry out actions from necessity, without conscious motivation.’”136 The universality of the inherited Collective Unconscious and its Archetypes is a reason why films made in one country can build on these Archetypes to further their plotlines and a reasonable assumption can be made that the film (although perhaps dubbed or subtitled) will be understood in different cultures and countries around the globe.137 Among those applying the idea archetypal universality to mostly American films is William Indick. He examines Archetypes in films made on the other side of the Pacific, i.e. in the United States, and comes to the same conclusion as Gregory Barrett.138 Although a voice of caution when comparing film and Archetypes, Mary Lynn Kittelson asserts that while film utilizes and builds on universal Archetypes, by virtue of its very nature, film must be a much less permanent cultural fixture.139 In that sense, film becomes very much like a dream which is here, but then vanishes quickly. Similarly to dreams in which stock characters repeatedly (re-)appear, the underlying characteristics of film plots rely on collectively recognizable features that form the various, albeit somewhat culturally influenced, Archetypes.

The colloquially used American expression “gut feeling” 140 (which describes an amorphous, intangible feeling that seems to originate from the center of the body, i.e. the gut), arises from the conscious “listening” to the combined wisdom emanating from the collaboration between the Collective Unconscious and the Personal Unconscious.141 Film taps into this collaborative effort to generate emotional responses by representation of the Archetypes. Seeing the Ar- chetypes on the screen in turn triggers an unconscious (culturally programmed) response to the visual representation encountered by the spectator during a film viewing. To ensure that the Collective Unconscious does not forget anything of importance to an individual, Jung posits that Archetypes form the building blocks of the psyche onto which the Personal Unconscious constructs its own personal archetypal expressions.142 As Annalee Ward points out, Archetypes, “a kind of symbolic shorthand for universal experiences,” 143 are not static but change as

40 human culture changes.144 This fact holds even more true for Archetypes within the Personal Unconscious as the latter continually (re-)builds the former on new experiences. These Archetypes include, but are not limited to the Shadow or Other and the Animus / Anima.

One of those Archetypes, the Shadow, becomes perhaps the most relevant to film analysis as it helps explain why some audience members respond more (or less) drastically to any presented Archetype(s). The Shadow, in short, is all that an individual or a culture either refuses to acknowledge and hates,145 while the Anima is Jung’s term for the female tendencies in males and the Ani- mus represents the male counterpart in females.146 The Shadow originates from the “segment of the collective unconscious whose archetypes are common to all mankind. A certain number of these, however, are permanently or temporarily included within the scope of the personality and, through this contact, acquire an individual stamp as the shadow, anima and animus....” 147 In Aion, Jung further indicates that the three (Shadow, Anima and Animus) are the Archetypes “which have the most frequent and the most disturbing influence on the ego”—with the Shadow being the “most accessible of these, and the easiest to experience…”148 When the Ego encounters a situation that appears inappropriate with its own set of norms (or morals), the unsuitable portions of the encounter are banished into the realm of the Shadow. In contrast, the Shadow reversely influences the Ego as it provides the pathway to channel creative energies for release from the Un- conscious to the Conscious.149 Yet, the “figure of the shadow already belongs to the realm of bodiless phantoms”150 the same way figures on the silver screen belong to the realm of shadows on a cave-like wall.

For Jungian scholars the Shadow itself represents the first invisible layer of Archetypes after the visible Archetype of the Persona, which represents the “social mask or face we put on to face the world.”151 Jungian scholar Andrew Samuels sorts the personified Archetypes into four distinct personalities, which according to Jung are Persona, Shadow, Animus and Anima, and the Self: “First there are the ‘shallow’ archetypes such as persona and shadow, then ‘archetypes of the soul’ (animus and anima), then ‘archetypes of the spirit’ (wise old

41 man and woman), and, finally, the self.”152 Shadow, Animus and Anima comprise the largest portion of the Archetypes. This is not to say that the terms Ani- mus and Anima are strictly defined in a negative sense. James Driscoll, in eval- uating Jung’s terminology, comes to the conclusion that both Animus and Anima can be constructive. However, when the counter-sexual notions are repressed, then the two tendencies become destructive.153 In the framework of film analysis, the Animus and Anima present an added layer of differentiation of the Un- derdeveloped Shadow or Other, as a strong white female can be higher in status than a non-white male—even though both are considered part of the Shadows group. Both the visual portrayals of the Other and the duality of the Animus- Anima concept provide reason in film to elicit varying degrees of fear reactions.

Archetypes, vague a priori existing images of cultural entities, are structures within the psyche of which a human is unaware, as these structures reside either in the Collective or the Personal Unconscious. While this seems rather ambiguous at first glance, Jolande Jacobi, a Swiss-German psychologist who worked closely with Carl Jung in Switzerland, cautions that “[i]t is impossible to give an exact definition of the archetype, and the best we can hope to do is to suggest its general implications by ‘talking around’ it.”154 Vernon Gras, in his comparison of Jung and Claude Lévi-Strauss, points to myths being an oral expression of the Archetypes.155 In the case of film, these myths have been turned into a visual display, to be (re-)watched rather than an oral or written tradition to be (re-)told in words. Mythological trends can be seen in film when the heroic character battles the female tendencies in his opponent(s), i.e. the hero must overcome the Anima of the Other—who may be a homosexual or a non-white male, or in rarer cases even a female of any race—and restore the status quo of a strong white male image.

At first glance, Christopher Hauke and Ian Alister, two contemporary Jung- ian psychologists, seem to create even more confusion rather than provide clarification of the concept of Archetypes with a summary in their recent book Jung &

42 Film: Post-Jungian Takes on the Movies: “The archetype is a psychosomatic concept, linking body and psyche, instinct and image.”156 As such, it drives the actions of the Ego through unconscious signals and the release of creative energies. Describing the Archetype directly would sever the connection between mind and the psyche. Upon further examination, it becomes evident though, that a circuitous description of the concept of Archetypes through examples of archetypal manifestations provides an easier elucidation than a convoluted, non- straight-forward descriptive explanation.

When considering the Archetypes as an unconscious “heritage” as Jung envisioned them—i.e. a collection of a priori existing vague primordial images located in the human Collective Unconscious, which allow individuals and whole cultures to live together and survive through the Archetypes’ organizing nature— it becomes apparent that the Archetypes connect the unconscious generalized images of Archetypes with the more tangible expression within cultures and individuals. 157 In extension, Archetypes can be solidified in a particular culture through its myths, folk and fairy tales as well as films as these auditory and visual representations of Archetypes provide a more specific information of how a culture views its collective Archetypes. As the socio-cultural environment changes, so do the general representations of Archetypes as seen in films made, for example, in the 1930s and films made in the late 1990s.158

Hauke and Alister, based on their reading of Jung, show that the individual achieves Individuation by solidifying individual manifestations of Archetypes, such as the Underdeveloped Shadow, into their Personal Consciousness. Indi- viduation, according to Gerhard Wehr and Hans Erhard Lauer “means becoming and ‘individual,’ and insofar as ‘individuality’ embraces our innermost, last, and incomparable uniqueness, it also implies becoming one’s own self.”159 In the process of this self-becoming, the psychological aspects of the “individual beings are formed and differentiated.” 160 As Susan Rowland further points out, the “[k]knowledge of the self […] is the purpose of individuation. The self is paradox-

43 ically defined as the totality of all a person’s psychic processes, and is simultaneously the archetype of wholeness and meaning.”161

Individuation therefore becomes the pinnacle of achievement a human being strives to attain throughout his or her entire life. Archetypes help define the individual along the way to the Individuation by providing (unconsciously) instinctual reactions for an individual. However, it must be noted that “Jung did not regard psychology and imagery as correlates or reflections of biological drives as if the latter were primary, and so his assertion that images evoke the aim of the instincts implied that they are linked in a non-hierarchical way.”162 Put differently, Archetypes and their expressions in individuals are neither subordinate nor su- praordinate to instinctual behaviors.163 Rather, Archetypes and instincts may intersect when it benefits the survival of the individual within his or her environment.164 Archetypes, such as the Shadow, trigger fear responses that aid in survival, be it within a cultural, social or physical setting.165

About the Shadow (representing the not-I, not-Ego) Marie-Louise von Franz observes that when looking

within us … we discover all kinds of aberrant, suppressed, and forgotten psychic tendencies and thoughts, which for the most part are incompatible with our conscious view of ourselves. In our dreams, these tendencies often take the form of our ‘best enemies.’ For they are in fact a kind of enemy within us—though sometimes not so much an enemy as someone we utterly loathe.166

Although von Franz is not directly referencing cinematic experiences here, the internal dream world within a person is very much analogous to the external manufactured dream world on the silver screen. And in the world of film, the Shadow becomes “what each man fears and despises and cannot accept in himself.”167 This includes any racialized Other, such as an Asian or African person of either gender, or any female as the I rejects both the female and her body as well as

44 any female tendencies in other males (i.e. overtly displayed homosexual stereotypes such as limp wrists while talking or higher pitched voices).

Jungian film scholars Janice H. Rushing and Thomas S. Frentz are among the first to foray into filmic shadows and, although they temporally follow von Franz’s writings very closely, the authors apply Jungian-based thought specifically to film and coin several new terms. For the majority of film characters examined in this dissertation, the Jungian Shadow will be synonymous with the Un- derdeveloped Shadow or Other 168 as defined by Rushing and Frentz, although in Nosferatu the Overdeveloped Shadow will be discussed in conjunction with the Other. This Overdeveloped Shadow, which Rushing and Frentz define as “the perfect mirror image of [the ego which] represses and projects its tools out from itself as an alter-ego [since] the ego cannot see the dark side of its own crea- tions.” 169 More often though, it is its counterpart, the Underdeveloped Shadow, that causes emotions of fear. A cathartic relief occurs when the Overdeveloped Shadow finally eliminates or overcomes the Underdeveloped Shadow—usually at the end of the film.

In the cinematic context, the on-screen Shadow frequently turns either into the object of male desire (i.e. the female Other), or the object to be eliminated by the main character, which refers especially to any non-white male (Other) posing a significant threat.170 Traditionally films portrayed the hero strictly as a white male. Only in recent years have female directors attempted to portray the hero as a (non-white) female, although not always a protagonist, as in the case of Trinh- Minh-ha’s work.171

The Other Archetype—An Animated Shadow

Applications of Carl Gustav Jung’s theories to film are just beginning to emerge at the end of the 20th century as another way of examining film and the human condition as depicted within visual media. Unlike Freud’s theories, Jung’s writings and insights are based on a holistic image of humans, both male and female, and the interactive sexual traits both genders share with one another.172

45 In the early 20th century, according to a recently published book by Jungi- an psychologist scholar and author duo, Christopher Hauke and Ian Alister, renowned psychologist Carl Gustav Jung was quite impressed with the newly emerging medium of film. In their words, Jung viewed film as “both a means and a space to witness the psyche–almost literally in projection.”173 In the physical space of the darkened silver screen theater, “[c]inema films deliver a contemporary experience set apart from ‘daily life’—collectively experienced with others in a dark place dedicated to this purpose.”174 Luis Buñuel, surrealistic Spanish filmmaker and near contemporary of Jung, echoed this sentiment. Buñuel, who strongly believed in dreams as a means of self-expression, connected cinema and dream analysis175 when he remarks about the relatively new medium: “A film is like an involuntary imitation of a dream […] on the screen, as within the human being, the nocturnal voyage into the unconscious begins.”176 To both Jung and Buñuel, film presents a medium in which the untamed forces of the psyche as well as the artistic creativity are capable of flowing outward. This flow is both away from the director’s vision toward the audience, and at the same time, returns full circle inward by way of spectators’ expectations based on their Collective and Individual Archetypes of film characters. Additionally, the flow occurs from the psyche or mind of the artistic creator, circling back to the film spectator, and the thinker. This closure of the circle from one mind (director) to another (viewer) and back (director) is one way of generating emotions within the audience. Director Peter Weir, in an interview with Michael Bliss, confirms this as he points out that “[a]s for Freud and Jung, nobody working in a creative field can help but admire their pioneering work […] that plays such a major part in the creative life.”177

This circular influence derives from the writers’ and director’s visions of the narrative in the final product: the film. Within the context of a cinematic experience, many different characters are presented to allow a believable, and emotionally connectable, diegetic storyline to unfold within the allotted timeframe of a film.178 Whether in ancient theater stories, Shakespearean Renaissance plays or 21st century computer generated fantasy adventure films, at least two conflicting

46 factions drive the stories: the character(s) with whom the audience is supposed to identify and the Underdeveloped Shadow representing the character(s) who foil(s) the plans of the individual(s) with whom the audience identifies. In some cases, the environment can be one of the characters, for instance in many moun- taineering films such as The White Hell of Piz Palü179 or The Blue Light180 by Leni Riefenstahl.

Notably, one of the earliest forays into combining Jung’s concept of the Shadow with film analysis occurred around fifteen years before the end of the outgoing 20th century, a time when Freudian and Lacanian thinking still strongly dominated the halls of Academia. Robert T. Eberwein’s 1984 book titled Film and the Dream Screen: A Sleep and A Forgetting181 was one of the very first to bring a Jungian-based framework together with film. While Eberwein refers back to Bertram Lewin’s 1950s idea of film screens as dream screens,182 Eberwein’s discussion of Jungian ideas in the context of film is only one among several different theories linking dreams and film. Today, more or less forgotten, Eber- wein’s book nevertheless still provides a good overall survey of differing ideas and theories relating films, dreams, and Jungian psychology, a hitherto mostly unknown approach. Most of his writings formulate around ideas that, although adults have matured, they have never outgrown their infantile notion of dream reality183 which creates oneness—almost in the Lacanian sense of “oneness with the mother.”184 Ultimately, Eberwein argues, the Lacanian oneness with the mother, or the primordial sense that nothing else matters but the world gyrating around the infant’s every need and desire, arises also during a cinematic experience due to a sense of convergence of dream and reality. In Jung’s reading, dreams are a message from the Unconscious. These dreams are attempting to clarify at least a portion of the a priori, pre-set Archetypes within a specific socio- cultural archetypal framework. In the Freudian framework, this would equate a message of the Id (or less frequently, from the Super-Ego) to the Ego. Leslie Halpern draws attention to Freud’s scorn of many “visions,” especially dreams (although Freud was known for his interpretation of dreams presented by his patients), while Jung embraced and discussed dreams at length. Jung sees

47 dreams as an “expression to ineluctable truth, philosophical pronouncements, il- lusions, wild fantasies, memories, […] and heaven knows, what besides.”185 In the 1980s, Eberwein is one of the first to cross the boundaries from the extended Freudian framework to a Jungian-based framework as he intertwines several theoretical frameworks with Jungian concepts.

Even though his work is never directly mentioned, Eberwein’s application of Jungian thought to film takes place nearly a decade before the next foray into the theoretical fray. It culminates with a seminal book by Janice H. Rushing and Thomas S. Frentz, Projecting the Shadow: The Cyborg Hero in American Film.186 Similarly to Eberwein, the authors apply Jungian thoughts in a relatively broad manner as they discuss selected American cyborg films. Preceding the publication of their book, the authorial duo previously formulated their ideas in short essays and presentations at conferences, but their Jungian-based film analysis zenith did not occur until the publication of Projecting the Shadow in the mid- 1990s.

For Rushing and Frentz, two distinct types of shadows exist: the Inferior or Underdeveloped Shadow and the Overdeveloped Shadow. In the case of Inferi- or Shadow, according to their definition, “the ego disowns all that is experienced as Other, that is, not-I, or not-ego. […] the body, the feminine, people of color, and anything else that is clearly the rational negation of ego-consciousness.”187 Jung’s defines Ego-Consciousness as that “[w]hat lay furthest away from the waking consciousness and seemed unconscious assumes, as it were, a threatening shape, and the affective value increases the higher up the scale you go: ego-consciousness, shadow, anima, self.”188 Jung goes on to point out that the Ego-Consciousness “is differentiated, i.e., separated, from the unconscious and moreover exists in an absolute space and absolute time.” 189 The Ego- Consciousness, at least in Jung’s mind, takes supremacy over anything else and if it cannot, it attempts to repress: “Our European ego-consciousness is therefore inclined to swallow up the unconscious, and if this should not prove feasible we try to suppress it.”190 This suppression can grow to become “dark and demonic because it is submerged and not acknowledged. Examples abound in the mythic

48 history of American culture, which has always feared what the ego is not—the witch, the Indian, the African slave, the threatening animal (the body).”191 This is offset on the other end by the “overdeveloped shadow—the perfect mirror image of itself. The ego is inflated and acts like God”192 while at the same time frolicking in the repression of the not-I, the not-Ego of the Inferior Shadow.

For the Overdeveloped Shadow to be truly successful in repressing the not-I, the not-Ego of the Inferior Shadow, it must perfect the Ego “by controlling the Other: it cannot provide completeness which entails a Self-center. This project—perfect control of the Other—is a pretty tall order, for Other is a formidable foe, particularly when it is many-faceted and imbued with the power of repressed Spirit.”193 In films, this tension between the perfect Ego mirror image, i.e. the Overdeveloped Shadow, and the Other, or Underdeveloped (Inferior) Shadow, drives many plotlines and thus elicits many emotions.194 The protagonist (or hero) presents the Overdeveloped Shadow while the forces working against him or her are relegated to the realm of the Inferior Shadows. These Inferior Shadows are either evil and demonic or they represent the Other (“a formidable foe”195) as defined by Rushing and Frentz. Furthermore, any Inferior Shadows are menacing to the Overdeveloped Shadow and thus cause the Overdeveloped Shadow, and by extension the spectator identifying with the Overdeveloped Shadow in form of the hero, to experience emotions of fear toward the Inferior Shadows. Yet, in the confines of the cinema, these fears can be distantly and safely (i.e. almost vicariously) experienced and explored without causing bodily harm or other consequences to the spectator. Luke Hockley notes: “At risk of stating the obvious, going to the cinema can be an emotional and moving experience. It is clear from our own reactions, and from the rest of the audience, that films can awaken deep feelings and emotions.” 196

Bruce E. Gronbeck, in an essay on the contributions of Rushing and Frentz, points to the fact that “the utility of psychological rhetorical criticism […] could help us construct an epistemology and lifestyle that are alternatives to both modernism and postmodernism […] which they term transmodernism […].”197 As Gronbeck further notes, the novelty of Rushing and Frentz’ book also arises from

49 the marriage of the “evolution of the cultural hero [and] the person of the hunter”198 with archetypical concepts as they are colliding with technology. 199 Gronbeck concludes that Projecting the Shadow thus provides an examination of filmic characters who undergo transformations “parallel to the life journey that individuals in both their personal and their collective understandings must make on their way to cultural individuation.”200

Earlier published essays by Rushing and Frentz applied a Jungian-based theoretical framework to very specific aspects presented in films, mainly in the field of communication theory. One example can be found in a 1980 article examining the function of language utilized within masculin(-e)(-ized) rituals in pre- and post-Vietnam veterans as presented in the American movie The Deer Hunter.201 Although the application of Jung to film occurs in the article, the main focus at this early point in their critical inquiries involves speech and behavior, not so much imagery and psychological interactions of characters in the more generalized manner in which the authorial duo later applies Jungian concepts to cyborg films, namely the Terminator films. In their book, Projecting the Shadow, Rushing and Frentz apply the concept of the Other, the Underdeveloped Shad- ow, to the film and demonstrate how the I or Ego can cross over into the realm of the Not-I or Not-Ego and as such, technology can destroy the I or Ego as is the case with Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character in the Terminator films. Initially the cyborg hero (Overdeveloped Shadow), he is hunted and destroyed by more advanced technology cyborg, thus making the initial Terminator cyborg the Un- derdeveloped Shadow (Other). Ultimately, the new cyborg then must be destroyed by the human hero (new Overdeveloped Shadow) by turning the second cyborg into the new Other (Underdeveloped Shadow). In the end, the Other (cyborg) is destroyed and the Ego (human white male hero) wins at the completion of the hero’s journey. The spectator is able to identify with the final hero: the human triumphing over the technologically advanced cyborg.

In his book, Women and Sacrifice: Male Narcissism and the Psychology of Religion, William Beers laments the underuse of Jung. “Except as part of the history of psychoanalysis, the theories of Carl Jung are rarely used in psychoanalyt-

50 ic literature.”202 This underuse extends to cinematic studies in the late 20th century. Occasionally, a reference to Jung will state his place in the genealogy of psychology and Beers continues to reiterate his lament: “Jung’s contribution within the context of the psychoanalytic movement was much more substantial than psychoanalytic historians had wanted to believe.”203 Beers sentiment is echoed by Ayako Saito who also points out specifically the lack of affect204 studies in film analysis. Saito traces this manko205 back “to the strong emphasis on the Lacani- an psychoanalytic model, which revolves around questions of language and the gaze”206 rather than affect.

Another direction of Rushing and Frentz’s work is an application of Jungi- an-based Archetypes to rhetorical criticism of the film classic, Jaws in 1993.207 In this work, leading up to a more unified framework, Marxist ideology and an archetypal framework provide the main focal point for examining rhetoric within the film, rather than focusing on a psychology of Archetypes as presented in (the cyborg) film. Perhaps the biggest contribution Rushing and Frentz make in Project- ing the Shadow is to bring together several of Jung’s terms and then apply them very specifically to film. Most relevant to this dissertation is Rushing and Frentz’s concept of the Other, or Underdeveloped Shadow, encompassing all that the Ego eschews, although notions of Anima and Animus also play a subordinate role in the film discussion in the following chapters.

Especially in cinema, fear can be elicited in many ways. In Chapter 3, the Other and fear as a result of visual portrayal of the Other is examined by utilizing Rushing and Frentz’s definition of what they otherwise have termed the Inferior or Underdeveloped Shadow:

Like a proud king who does not want to be reminded that all is not well in his kingdom, the ego banishes into the unseen territory what is not perfect, what does not measure up to its demands. Jung’s name for that which we hate, fear, and disown, and therefore repress into the personal/cultural unconscious, is the shadow. […]

51 The shadow can be personal, cultural (indicating what an entire society hates and disowns), or even archetypal (manifesting itself as ‘the face of absolute evil’). (148)

The Shadow then becomes imbued with everything society does not see as the norm, mainly non-male (in a patrilineal setting) and non-white (in a Western setting). Therefore, anyone non-white, non-male will by this definition become an Underdeveloped Shadow. Rushing and Frentz continue to further explain that they

[…] discern at least two primary forms of the shadow, or two main ways that the ego divides the psyche against itself. The first we call the inferior shadow; the ego disowns all that is experienced as Oth- er, that is, not-I, or not-ego. As postmodernism has taught us well in Western cultures these rejected others include the body, the feminine, people of color, and anything else that is clearly the rational negation of ego-consciousness. […] Because it is repressed and not owned, this alter-ego displays the same devilish power of the inferior shadow.208

The Underdeveloped Shadow, sometimes also called the Inferior Shadow, by Rushing and Frentz ties back to Jung, who deemed the (female) Anima inferi- or, which he sometimes associates with the Shadow. “Like the anima, [the shadow] appears either in projection on suitable persons, or personified as such in dreams. The shadow coincides with the ‘Personal’ Unconscious. Again like the anima, this figure has often been portrayed by poets and writers.”209 In Rush- ing and Frentz, the filmic shadow becomes the Other, the cultural and archetypal version of the Underdeveloped Shadow. This shall be the definition used within this dissertation, and the terms Other, Inferior or Underdeveloped Shadow are used interchangeably in the film analysis. The (female) Anima in a man is the counterpart of the (male) Animus in a woman. Jung furthermore equates the An- ima with the soul: “Anima means soul and should designate something very

52 wonderful and immortal.”210 Yet, he cautions that the anima is “not the soul in the dogmatic sense […] but a natural archetype that satisfactorily sums up all the statements of the unconscious…”211 Both Anima and Animus are archetypal expressions of the opposite in the Collective Unconscious. In other words, the An- ima is man’s female side whereas the Animus is woman’s male side.

The projection-making factor212 is the anima, or rather, the unconscious as represented by the anima. Whenever she appears, in dreams, visions, and fantasies, she takes on personified form, thus demonstrating that the factor she embodies possesses all the outstanding characteristics of a feminine being. She is not an invention of the conscious, but a spontaneous product of the unconscious.213

In film analysis, especially in line with the framework proposed by Janice Rushing and Thomas Frentz,214 the Shadow is an important concept as it relates to the Other, the one who is not like the (mostly presumed) white males among the spectators, or the I. The Other in this context refers to any female, be she white or non-white, and to any non-white male, or the not-I. In other words, the I will be considered the white male, while the non-I, or Other, is any character which does not fit in to the white male mold. In the context of spectatorship studies this separation into Ego and Other is carried forward by such scholars as Christian Metz, who saw the audience member as white male. The spectator (presumed to be white male by Metz) identifies with the white male hero (Ego, Overdeveloped Shadow) on screen while disavowing the Other to be triumphant at the end.

One part of this compartmentalized treatment of the spectator as white males and the Other goes back at least as far as Jung’s days when male speak- ers addressed almost exclusively European white male audiences as women had for the most part not been allowed to attend institutions of higher education and thus were not considered as part of the intellectual audience. Another part traces

53 back to the first generation of film analysts, such as Kracauer or Metz, who based much of their discussion of audiences on the writings of Jung’s contemporary, Sigmund Freud, and on Marxian Structuralist thinker, Louis Althusser.215 Richard Kradin takes the division of white male and (all) Other further even when posits that “[w]hereas dreamers of color may have white shadows, they may also disavow darkness, due to adoption of white cultural values.”216 While this avowal complicates Rushing and Frentz’s Jungian-based concept of the white male Ego and the Shadow when considering the Other, it does not negate Rushing and Frentz. Rather, Kradin’s statement is an excellent example of the previously mentioned permeation of personal experiences seeping into the Personal Un- conscious which allows the culturally imbued attribute of the white Shadow to be changed to the majority’s “norm” view. In this case, the non-white person would continue to regard the I as the white male and the non-I as himself or herself, i.e. a dark Shadow. It is in part this cultural influence which allows non-white persons, be they male or female, to (more easily) identify with a white male protagonist.

In Rushing and Frentz, the Underdeveloped or Inferior Shadow corre- sponds to all who are non-(white) males, including but not limited to the Anima: “As postmodernism has taught us well, in Western cultures these rejected others include the body, the feminine, people of color…”217 While Jung never truly states that his writings are based on white males, he only marginally mentions women—mostly as case examples—and does not usually refer to other races, or even differing ethnic groups, in his writings.

The exclusion of non-white males in Jung’s writings is not unique to Jung. Rather, many of his contemporary based their theories on the same assump- tions, including Sigmund Freud. This led to the diversification of Freudian theories, although some film critics in the 1990s and 2000s have returned to Freudian and Mulveyean roots. Such writers include Teresa de Laurentis who explores Freudian Queer Theory, bell hooks who examines race and post-colonial race relationships, and Ann Kaplan whose writings veer from a Euro-centric view to a globalized investigation of the gaze. Conversely, very little has been written in

54 the context of a Jungian-based framework when studying the on-screen objectification of any female or a non-white male. To allow for a well-rounded discussion of films within the presented framework, much of the definition of the Other shall be considered as it had been seen by contemporaries when the films were initially shot, i.e. underlying 1970s thinking as discussed by authors such as Mulvey and Metz and others in publications such as Screen, Cahiers du Cinema and Camera Obscura, as this imagery at least partly inspired and informed the filmmakers’ visions (this does by no means imply that theoretical works written post-1980 are inapplicable to these films). Such thinking in the 1970s’ German film scene was not geared so much toward sexual orientation, rather, it was a discussion of ethnic backgrounds. In other words, if one person in a film was from Greece, Turkey or even North Africa, the person was considered a part of the Other group, even if said person was male and light-skinned simply because of their difference to Central European ethnicity such as France or Germany. The approach toward homosexuality, while not openly accepted on screen yet, was less restrictive than the attitudes toward guest workers or terrorists. In fact, a general latent sense of despair had gripped Germany during the 1970s as guest workers had achieved a greater foothold and internal terrorism (especially the Baader-Meinhof based terrorism) had struck fear in German hearts.

Susan Mackey-Kallis asserts that in Rushing and Frentz’ view, “postmodernism […] tended to ‘produce reactions of hopelessness …’.”218 While this view holds most certainly true for the cyborg films discussed by Rushing and Frentz, such as Terminator or Jaws, it also holds true for the films discussed in this dissertation. The lack of real hopefulness becomes evident in many German films produced between 1962 and 1982, a period also known as the New German Cinema period.

In contrast to the hopelessness in some New German Cinema films, the work of Joseph Campbell focuses on a film’s trajectory based on hopefulness. His conclusion about the Hero’s Journey at the center of the monomyth has become a partial focal point for Rushing and Frentz in their book which, similar to Laura Mulvey’s essay, began in earnest the trend of utilizing a Jungian instead of

55 Freudian framework for academic film inquiry. The completion of the hero’s journey at the end of the filmic adventure is presented predominantly by Hollywood- made films. In contrast, the hopelessness Mackey-Kallis cites in relation to New German films arises from the partial completeness of the hero’s journey. Alt- hough the New German Cinema “hero” sets out on the journey, he or she fails to complete it, leaving the ending dangling over the abyss of the final frame.

Film Heroes—A Prescribed Journey’s Trajectory

Films use Archetypes as stock characters to both emotionally connect with the audience and to drive along the plotline. The actual descriptive expression of the different Archetypes as based on Jung’s definition219 may vary widely from one individual to another, one culture to another culture and even between centuries. Yet, a unifying general outline of the nature of these Archetypes exists for any single one of these Archetypes across the world.220

As Jung states, “[n]ot for a moment dare we succumb to the illusion that an archetype can be finally explained or disposed of. Even the best attempts at explanation are only more of less successful translations into another metaphorical language.”221 This translationary process returns the discussion of Arche- types, especially the Shadow, full circle back to cinema and the cinematic experience. Jung’s quote about the presence of Archetypes in myths around the world could have just as well been uttered in the context of film, which, in the process of creating filmic works, takes ideas (and sometimes printed words, as is the case with filmic adaptations of literary predecessors) and transforms non- tangible thoughts into visual images which are ultimately projected onto a screen from where the visual display generates new thoughts in the spectator’s mind. Film around the world has become quite successful on a global scale as the non- European foreign film nominees at the American Academy Awards demonstrate.222 Because archetypes are capable of transcending spatial and temporal loci, films can be successfully shown in countries other than their original language and the characters presented can be understood even across cultural and

56 linguistic barriers. The emotions evoked by these films are expressions of very generalized Archetypes of the human Unconscious.

Author and myth scholar Joseph Campbell discusses the universality of Archetypes in the context of myth in his famous six part interview with Bill Moyers titled The Power of Myth.223 For Campbell, myths present a way to teach individuals of a particular culture the “ways of the culture” even in times before writing was invented.224 Among these recounted stories are many repeating myths. 225 No matter where Campbell turned, he found the same patterns, the same or extremely similar stories, and the only thing different were the names of the heroes and other characters invoked in the stories.

According to Jung, “[t]he concept of the archetype, […] indicates the existence of definite forms in the psyche which seem to be present always and everywhere. Mythological research calls them ‘motifs’.”226 Film utilizes the universality of these archetypal motifs to tell stories. In that sense, film becomes a visual extension of the ancient mythological stories passed orally from generation to generation. Joseph Campbell has referred to Archetypes occurring in many different cultures around the globe as mythical figures which include such familiar concepts as the mother figure, the trickster, the hero, the shaman, and the cow- ard.227

One of the Archetypes relevant to film that is found in both in the Collec- tive and Personal Unconscious is that of the hero. In one form or another, most films center on the archetypal concept of the hero. Few examples of a non-hero film include Pi228 and to some degree 2001: A Space Odyssey. In contrast, perhaps the cinematic work to incorporate most Archetypes is the original 1980s Star Wars Trilogy.229 These three films, now called Episodes IV – VI, encompass the Archetypes of the hero (Luke Skywalker), the Other (Darth Vader), the mother figure (Princess Leia), the shaman (Obi Wan Kenobi and Yoda) and the trickster (Han Solo), although there are other Archetypes and more manifestations of the Archetypes than those listed.230

57 Most relevant to cinema and the analysis of archetypal representation, particularly in regard to the representation of the Other or Underdeveloped Shadow, is the Archetype of the hero (Overdeveloped Shadow) and his journey, as well as, albeit subordinately, the mother figure Archetype. Especially the hero becomes important in the context of mythological stories, whether orally told or visually on a screen. In his book, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell sums up the hero’s journey as follows: “A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonders (x): fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won (y): the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man (z).”231 It is the hero, as Ferrell, Indick and Fielding232 point out, who in the process of his journey undergoes trials and tribulations during which he relieves the audience’s anxiety or fear of the character of the Other in form of the Underde- veloped Shadow. Frequently, by ultimately winning, the hero redirects those affects into a triumph for himself (i.e. the one character with whom the spectator mostly identifies), or rarely herself, while in the end, all that is eschewed by society (in form of the Other) is defeated.233 As the detailed examination of three selected New German Cinema films, Fear Eats the Soul, The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum and Nosferatu,234 discussed in the following chapters will show, the Archetype of the hero, the Overdeveloped Shadow, in auteur films is not always clear-cut, especially with regard to what the audience culturally expects from its definition of “hero.” In general, however, the filmic hero as the Overde- veloped Shadow poses the antagonist to the Other or the Underdeveloped Shadow, and vice versa in film. Thus, the hero with whom the audience identifies as well as the hero’s journey and that of the diegetic Other, who represents all that is rejected by society as a whole, are closely linked throughout a film’s action and in the final moments, the Overdeveloped Shadow triumphs over the Un- derdeveloped Shadow, thus pushing the qualities that make the Other into the latter, into the depths of the Unconscious again. The spectator, identifying with the hero, therefore does not need to closely examine these attributes that make the Other the Underdeveloped Shadow.

As Campbell has further pointed out both in interviews and his writings, ever since humans have acquired language to communicate with each other, legends and stories have been concocted and passed around the hearth fires.235 From caves to modern kitchen tables, in some form or another, archetypal stories, legends and tales are still recounted.236 Jung adds that the “’myth-forming’ structural elements”237 of these stories “are never (or at least very seldom) myths with a definite form, but rather mythological components, which, because of their typical nature we can call ‘motifs,’ ‘primordial image,’ types—or as I have named them—archetypes.”238 It is important to understand that Jung does not speak of the structure of the myth’s plotline here, i.e. the actual course of events within a particular myth, but that he denotes the structural elements which form the basis of mythological stories, i.e. the patterns or motifs. Differently put, with myths and stories the archetypal forms of the mythological characters are retold, as the wise woman, the hero, the trickster, but without ever giving the Archetypes any definite shapes239. In other words, the archetypal characters are named in myths, but they are not described in such detail as would be found in a painting or a photograph. In stories, the Archetype of the trickster may be described by his clothing, or his actions, but the person is not described in detail, i.e. a male in his late 20s with brown hair and a cut on his face. At the same time, the hero may be described in those physical attributes, i.e. emphasizing his battles, but his moral character may not be discussed. More often, it is the physical descriptions which lack in stories, unless the character poses specific traits, such as an oversized nose or small head. This is one reason why these Archetypes can exist around the world in very different cultures: archetypal manifestations can assume diffuse shapes in diverse cultures and across continents. As one consequence of this fact, films can access the Archetypes stored in one cultures’ Collective Unconscious and yet, bring meaning to various audiences in different countries and on different continents.

59 Jung sees the incorporation of Archetypes from the Collective Uncon- scious into the Personal Unconscious as a normal part of the Individuation process of any person within a cultural setting.240 This is part of the process of shaping individually held Archetypes. Not only does each individual carry many vague mental images of Archetypes which help the person to become a better adjusted individual within his or her culture(s) by adjusting personal images of Archetypes to reflect cultural Archetypes, but each individual person also forms his or her own personal archetypal visions in his or her Personal Unconscious based on Archetype structures in the Collective Unconscious. Jung notes about Individuation: “How are you fulfilling your life’s task (“mission”), your raison d’être, the meaning and purpose of your existence? This is the question of individuation, the most fateful of all questions, which was put to Oedipus in the form of the childish riddle of the Sphinx and was radically misunderstood by him.“241 The hero’s journey involves such Individuation to provide specific Archetypes of the hero. Like Oedipus in the Greek myth, the (heroic) archetypal film characters undergo a quest, a process of Individuation that takes them from one level of psychological development to another level. Usually, this process involves an encounter with the Other—and frequently, this Underdeveloped Shadow, which embodies all that society eschews, will be ultimately defeated by the main (‘hero’) character of the film—a deviation from the Greek tragic ending of the Oedipal story.242

It must be kept in mind that while Individuation is Jung’s term for becoming an individual within one’s own right, it is not meant to become an individual who is individualistic in an egocentric manner.243 Rather, as Judy Anne White posits in her reading of the epic poem Beowulf, Individuation is “a process experienced by the individual partly as means of learning to interact with other people within the social order.”244 Jung, more precisely, saw the process of Individuation as one that allowed an individual to define his or her own personality boundaries by offsetting them from the collective group to which the individual belongs. Luke Hockley points out that the process of Individuation (according to Jung) is “regu- lated by deep unconscious structures in the psyche,”245 but that Jung’s writings

60 contain some ambiguity about this process.246 Jung did not claim that an individual who had successfully completed the Individuation process was to become egotistical or self-centered. On the contrary, Jung goes to great lengths to emphasize that the individual is only healthy within, albeit as a separate entity from, the group.247 Hockley further posits that “[i]t therefore comes as no surprise that individuation is not achieved by isolating oneself from the world. Instead, the challenge is to live fully in the world, authentically as the people we truly are.”248 Richard Gray observes that the hero’s journey of Individuation also involves the “channeling of the libido.” 249 In the Oedipal myth, this sexual maturation becomes a central point as the young Oedipus defiles the marriage bed by beget- ting several children in the incestuous relationship with his own (M)Other.

In modern film, the Other symbolizes the problems that may ensue when the Individuation process is incomplete or, what may transpire as the process of Individuation occurs. In most cases, sexuality is not explicitly expressed on the silver screen from the 1930s until the early 1980s, although many Fassbinder films break this taboo. Examples include, but are not limited to Whity250 and Querelle251 as well as the film discussed in this dissertation, Ali-Fear Eats the Soul-Angst Essen Seele Auf.252 Many scholars in the 1970s and beyond, however at least partly return to a Freudian-based Oedipal theme rather than carrying on Jung’s Individuation process into a transformed hero or Other as summed up by Emily Auger’s discussion of the hero in science fiction films253 from Star Wars to the Matrix.254

The Archetype of the mother figure plays a supporting role in many films. By Rushing and Frentz’s definition, the mother represents automatically the Un- derdeveloped Shadow solely based on her gender as society disavows non- maleness.255 Frequently, she is relegated into the position of a secondary Other character role, in which she serves within the diegesis of the plotline, but unlike an antagonistic Other male rival of either the same or different ethnic, racial, or sexual background, without posing any threat to the Overdeveloped Shadow (hero).256 Instead, as Jacki Watts et al. point out, the “hero must break the tie to an archetypal mother.”257 Therefore, she poses less of a threat as an obstacle to

61 the hero’s Individuation. Conversely, the mother Archetype thus will often assist in experiencing an incomplete Individuation process as she provides a stepping stone for the hero’s “upward” journey but often does not complete the journey herself. New German Cinema, while not a unified movement in the German film industry, also provides a large number of films which are not following the traditional Hollywood Dream Machine style and thus, the hero may not turn out to be what the spectator expected to see when he or she engaged initially with a particular film. A German film example of an incomplete Individuation process of a non-heroic Underdeveloped Shadow is a woman who, at least temporarily, is portrayed as “not being part” of the group: at one point in Fassbinder’s film, Ali- Angst Essen Seele Auf, Emmi must undergo an Individuation process during which she becomes an outcast due to her affiliation with Ali, the ultimate manifestation of the Other (non-white male who covets the white female) in early 1970s German society. Yet, later Emmi becomes re-integrated into the original group, but this time as a distorted (M)Other Archetype after the appearance of another Other: Yolanda, the new group member from Yugoslavia.

After undergoing predetermined trials and tribulations, which include overcoming by defeating the antagonistic Underdeveloped Shadow, the Campbellian film hero has then completed the Jungian process of Individuation through his (or more rarely, her) gaining new insight into manifestations of Archetypes— although some can be re-affirmations of existing stereotypes—and the hero is thus able to live a more fulfilled life within the chosen community. This trajectory of the hero’s Individuation process is seen in most Hollywood based films while New German Cinema does not always complete the process as the discussion of the selected films will show. In the process of Individuation, which in films becomes part of the plotline, the cinematic hero258 brings the audience members at least partly along with him as shown by spectator scholars such as Michele Aa- ron or Jan Campbell,259 and the spectators leave the shared Platonic cave experience feeling more fulfilled—sometimes even being able to transfer some of this experience into real life action in their own lives. 260 Other times, though, the action on screen can lead to anxieties because the hero either has not been able to

62 complete the Individuation process, thus, has not become an individual with a more fulfilled life (or life prospect), or, the hero is not successful as a hero—this aspect is seen in many German auteur cinema films.261

Cinema “speaks” to different audiences coming from varied cultural, racial and age-spanning backgrounds, because the films tap into the concept of the hero and touch the collective Archetype.262 Perhaps Joseph Campbell has found the true reason that unites movie audiences to congregate over and over in the cinematic cave: “The hero, therefore, is the man or woman who has been able to battle past his personal and local historical limitations to generally valid, normal human forms. Such a one’s visions, ideas, and inspirations come pristine from the primary spring of human life and thought.”263 A film, as Jung, Eberwein and others have shown, is not much more than a dream played out on stage. Camp- bell’s statement, although geared toward the hero of mythological tales, also holds true for film heroes, the majority of which will be male. With the hero battling the Jungian-based Other, the hero’s action provides the audience with a notion of why and what to fear as a society, which is embodied in the character of Undeveloped Shadow or Other.

* * *

81 For in‐depth biographical books about Carl Gustav Jung see among many others Bennet, Edward A. C. G. Jung. Wilmette, IL: Chiron, 2006. Print. Jung worked with Freud for several years in which both men combined ideas. 82 Although studies of race, gender, sexuality, post‐colonialism, and spectatorship are different sub‐areas of film studies, they are pieces within the larger Freudian‐based framework, thus, the overarching Freudi‐ an‐based framework is considered here as one frame rather than considering the individual strands of film scholarship as separate entities.

83 For in‐depth biographical books about Carl Gustav Jung see among many others Bennet, Edward A. C. G. Jung. Wilmette, IL: Chiron, 2006. Print. Wehr, Gerhard. Jung & Steiner: the Birth of a New Psychology. Great Barrington, MA: Arthroposophic P, 2002. Print. 84 Jacobi, Jolande Székács. The Psychology of C. G. Jung: An Introduction with Illustrations. New Haven, CT: Yale U P, 1973. Print. Page 153‐154. 85 Rowland, Susan. Jung: a Feminist Revision. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 2002. Print. Page 21. 86 Many authors have brought up this split and speculations on the true reasons behind it. Most simply state that the two men no longer saw eye to eye regarding each other’s work. Given the multitudes of Jung biographies on the market, the reader may find many newer works. Selective works closer in time to Jung’s life and death in 1961 include among numerous others books biographies by Wehr and Storr as well as a journal article by Harding. Wehr Gerhard. Portrait of Jung: An Illustrated Biography. New York, NY: Herder and Herder, 1971. Print. Storr, Anthony. C. G. Jung. New York, NY: Viking P, 1973. Print. Harding, M. Esther. “Jung’s Influence on Contemporary Thought.” Journal of Religion and Health 1.3 (April 1962): 247‐259. 87 Shamdasani, Sonu. Jung and the Making of Modern Psychology: A Dream of A Science. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 2003. Print. Pages 10 ‐ 13. 88 As the focus of this dissertation must be kept narrow, and the core is based on Jung, many aspects of criticism, including but not restricted to feminism arising with scholars such Irigaray and Kristeva which hold many valid points, must be left unaddressed. Further research could be done by finding means to connect a Jungian‐based framework with works by feminist scholars and those in other disciplines. 89 Bennet, Eveline. Meetings with Jung: Conversations Recorded during the Years 1946 – 1961. Zürich, Switzerland: Daimon, 1985. Print. Page 69. 90 Adams, Michael Vannoy. “The Archetypal School.” In Cambridge Companion to Jung. Young‐ Eisendrath, Polly, ed. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 2008. Print. Page 107. 91 Rushing, Janice H and Thomas S. Frentz. Projecting the Shadow: The Cyborg Hero in American Film. Chicago, IL: U of Chicago P, 1995. Print. Page 39. 92 Progoff, Ira. Jung’s Psychology and its Social Meaning: A Comprehensive Statement of C. G. Jung’s Psy‐ chological Theories and an Interpretation of Their Significance for the Social Sciences. New York, NY: Dia‐ logue, 1985. Print. Page 165. 93 West, Marcus. Feeling, Being, and the Sense of Self: A New Perspective on Identity, Affect and Narcissis‐ tic Disorders. London, UK: Karnac, 2007. Print. Page 177. Brackets added for clarity. 94 White, Judy A. Hero‐Ego in Search of Self: A Jungian Reading of Beowulf. New York, NY: Peter Lang, 2004. Print. Page 2. 95 Frattaroli, Elio. “Me and My Anima.” In The Cambridge Companion to Jung. Young‐Eisendrath, Polly, ed. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 2008. Page 173. 96 Frattaroli, Page 173. Brackets added for clarity. 97 Salman, Sherry. “The Creative Psyche: Jung’s Major Contributions.” In The Cambridge Companion to Jung. Young‐Eisendrath, Polly, ed. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 2008. Print. Emphasis in original. Page 59. 98 Frattaroli, Elio. In Cambridge Companion, Page 186. Brackets added for clarity. 99 Sanford, John. The Invisible Partners: How the Male and Female in Each of Us Affects Our Relationships. New York, NY: Paulist P, 1980. Print. Pages 4 – 7. See also Moreno, Antonio. Jung, Gods and Modern Man. Notre Dame, IN: U of Indiana P, 1970. Print. Berrios, German E. The History of Mental Symptoms: Descriptive Psychopathology since the Nineteenth Century. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 1996. Print. Pages 79 ‐ 80. 100 Dunne, Claire. Carl Jung: Wounded Healer of the Soul, An Illustrated Biography. London, UK: Continu‐ um, 2000. Print. Page 3. 101 Alschuler, Lawrence R. The Psychopolitics of Liberation: Political Consciousness from a Jungian Perspec‐ tive. New York, NY: Palgrave‐Macmillan, 2006. Print. Page 59. 102 Harris, Victoria F. The Incorporative Consciousness of Robert Bly. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois U P, 1992. Print. Page 96.

103 Ponomareff, Constantine V. and Ken Bryson. The Curve of the Sacred: An Exploration of Human Spirit‐ uality. Amsterdam, NL: Rodopi, 2006. Print. Page 61. 104 Clarke, David and Eric Clarke. Music and Consciousness: Philosophical, Psychological and Cultural Per‐ spectives. Oxford, UK: Oxford U P, 2011. Print. Page 345. 105 Young‐Eisendrath, Polly and Terence Dawson, eds. The Cambridge Companion to Jung. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 2008. Print. Page 96. 106 Henderson, Joseph L. “The Eternal Symbols.” In Man and His Symbols. Jung, C. G. and Marie‐Louise von Franz, eds. New York, NY: Random, 2009. Print. Page 98. 107 Stein, Murray. Jungian Psychoanalysis: Working in the Spirit of C. G. Jung. Chicago, IL: Open Court, 2010. Print. Page 25. 108 Jung, Collected Works, 9.1. Print. Page 267. 109 Sugg, Richard P. Jungian Literary Criticism. Evanston, IL: Northwestern U P, 1992. Print. Pages 181 – 184. Haule, John R. Jung in the 21st Century: Evolution and Archetype. London, UK: Routledge, 2010. Print. Pages 4 – 6. 110 Jung, 9.1, Page 42. Emphasis in original. 111 Jung, Carl Gustav. Aion, Page 8. Emphasis in original. 112 In Jung’s days, the idea of a child’s mind being a blank slate (tabula rasa) at the moment of birth can be traced back to Aristotle who said in De Anima, Book III, Chapter IV that the human soul is a tabula rasa. (Aristotle, and John Gillies. Aristotle’s Ethics and Politics: Ethics Comprising the Practical Philosophy. Gil‐ lies, John, transl. London, UK: A. Strahan, 1797. Print. Page 50). This became the basis for German phi‐ losopher Gottfried Leibniz’s attribution of the idea of the mind as a tabula rasa to John Locke. (Leibniz, Gottfried W. Theodicy. Page 409. The Project Gutenberg eBook of Theodicy, by G. W. Leibniz. Online. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/17147/17147‐h/17147‐h.html.) Leibniz’s claim has been refuted by some Locke scholars, including Philip Vogt. See especially Pages 2, 47, 90 and 131 in Vogt, Philip. John Locke and the Rhetoric of Modernity. Lanham, MD: Lexington, 2008. Print.). 113 Jung, 9.1, Page 267. Much has been said about the idea of the tabula rasa and the concept has been applied by writers in many different eras, such as Romanticism, and areas, such as Platonists. An in‐depth discussion of the concept is impossible in the frame of this work. 114 Jung, Carl Gustav and Aniela Jaffé. Erinnerung, Träume, Gedanken. Düsseldorf, Germany: Walter, 2005. Print. Page 351. 115 F. X. Charet speaks even of the parents as a great source of childhood disorders. Charet. F. X. Spiritual‐ ism and the Foundations of C.G. Jung’s Psychology. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 1993. Print. Page 64. 116 Gray, Frances. Jung, Irigaray, Individuation: Philosophy, Analytical Psychology, and the Question of the Feminine. New York, NY: Routledge, 2008. Print. Page 89. 117 Gray, Page 89. 118 Jung, Collected Works, 9.2, Page 8. Huskinson, Lucy. Nietzsche and Jung: The Whole Self In the Union of Opposites. Hove, UK: Brunner‐Routledge, 2004. Print. Pages 42 – 47. 119 Jung, 9.1, Page 42. “Probably none of my empirical concepts has met with so much misunderstanding as the idea of the collective unconscious.” Also, Matravers, Matt. Managing Modernity: Politics and the Culture of Control. New York, NY: Routledge, 2005. Print. Page 141. 120 Jung, 9.1, Page 42. Salla, Michael E. The Hero’s Journey towards a Second American Century. West‐ port, CT: Praeger, 2002. Print. Pages 22 – 35. 121 Griffin, David R. Archetypal Process: Self and Divine in Whitehead, Jung and Hillman. Evanston, IL: Northwestern U P, 1989. Print. Pages 115 ‐ 118. 122 Shelburne, Walter A. Mythos and Logos in the Thought of Carl Jung: The Theory of the Collective Un‐ conscious in Scientific Perspective. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 1988. Print. Pages 38 – 40. 123 Papadopoulos, Renos K. The Handbook of Jungian Psychology: Theory, Practice and Applications, Vol. 2. New York, NY: Routledge, 2006. Page 74. 124 Papadopoulos, Renos K. and Graham S. Saayman. Jung in Modern Perspective. Hounslow, Middlesex, UK: Wildwood, 1984. Print. Page 2.

125 Knox, Jean. Archetype, Attachment, Analysis: Jungian Psychology and the Emergent Mind. Hove, East Sussex, UK: Brunner‐Routledge, 2003. Print. Page 20. It must be acknowledged that this is an oversimpli‐ fied statement as many factors influence an individual’s fight or flight (or compromise) decisions, but it must be noted that especially very fast behavior responses often are based on instinctual rather than logi‐ cal decision making processes. 126 Shelburne, Walter A. Pages 27 – 31. 127 Stubbs, John C. Federico Fellini as Auteur: Seven Aspects of His Films. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois U P, 2006. Print. Page 42. Jung, 9.1, Page 42. Corsini, Raymond J and Danny Wedding. Current Psycho‐ therapies. Belmont, CA: Brooks‐Cole, 2011. Print. Page 114. 128 Smith, Robert C. The Wounded Jung: Effects of Jung’s Relationships on his Life and Work. Evanston, IL: Northwestern U P, 1997. Print. Page 127. 129 Jung, 9.1, Page 282. Gauntlett, David. Creative Explorations: New Approaches to Identities and Audi‐ ences. New York, NY: Routledge, 2007. Print. Pages 76 – 79. 130 Main, Shiho. Childhood Re‐Imagined: Images and Narratives of Development in Analytical Psychology. New York, NY: Routledge, 2008. Print. Page 18. 131 Byington, Carlos A. B. “To Love and To Know: The Erotic Transference as Seen by Symbolic Psychology.” In Personal and Archetypal Dynamics in the Analytical Relationship: Proceedings of the Eleventh Interna‐ tional Congress for Analytical Psychology, Paris, 1989. Mattoon, Mary Ann, ed. Einsiedeln, Switzerland: Daimon, 1991. Print. Pages 130 – 140. See also Barrett, Gregory. Archetypes in Japanese Film: The Soci‐ opolitical and Religious Significance of the Principal Heroes and Heroines. Selinsgrove, PA: Susquehanna U P, 1989. Print. Page 20. Inclusion of the spectator (or observer) is a relatively new field of theoretical dis‐ course, thus, very little has been written about it. In the context of film, spectatorship is even younger th (late 20 century vs. Romanticism for earlier discussions about observer and art(ifact)). It is expected that a fully new canon will open up in the next decades which includes the film spectator as a central focus point in critical analyses. 132 For a detailed discussion, see Chapter 4 in Nyklíček, Ivan, A. J. J. M. Vingerhoets, and Marcel Zeelen‐ berg. Emotion Regulation and Well‐Being. New York, NY: Springer, 2011. Print. Pages 49‐ 66. 133 Hillman, James. Emotions. London, UK: Routledge & Paul, 1960. Print. Page 60. 134 Winkelman, Michael. Culture and Health: Applying Medical Anthropology. San Francisco, CA: Jossey‐ Bass, 2009. Print. Pages 289 ‐ 290. 135 Haase, Donald. The Greenwood Encyclopedia of Folktales and Fairy Tales. Westport, CT: Greenwood P, 2008. Print. Pages 64‐66. ‐ 136 Wehr, Demaris S. Jung and Feminism: Liberating Archetypes. Guernsey, Channel Islands, UK: Beacon P, 1987. Print. Page 51. Bracketed material added for ease of reading. 137 Gregory Barrett discusses Japanese film in the light of Jungian Archetypes and calls the Japanese char‐ acters, despite strong cultural differences to Hollywood, still recognizable in their universal Archetypes. Barrett, Gregory, Archetypes, Page 19. 138 Indick, William. Movies and the Mind: Theories of the Great Psychoanalysts Applied to Film. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2004. Print. Page 18. See further also Fielding, Julien R. Discovering World Religions at Twenty‐Four Frames per Second. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow P, 2008. Print. Chapter 1. 139 Kittelson, Mary Lynn. The Soul of Popular Culture: Looking at Contemporary Heroes, Myths and Mon‐ sters. Chicago, IL: Open Court, 1998. Print. Pages 106 ‐ 108. An interesting point for further discussion is the exploration of Jungian Archetypes in different cultures, such as Asian, African and South American so‐ cieties, and explore the expressions and expectations of universal Archetypes not just horizontally, but also vertically in society. In other words, how do different socio‐economic classes perceive these univer‐ sal Archetypes? 140 John, Oliver P, Richard W. Robins, and Lawrence A. Pervin. Handbook of Personality: Theory and Re‐ search. New York, NY: Guildford P, 2008. Print. Page 589. 141 Baumlin, James S, Tita F. Baumlin, and George H. Jensen. Post‐Jungian Criticism: Theory and Practice. Albany, NY: State of New York U P, 2004. Print. Page 6. Also, Neukrug, Edward S. Counseling Theory and Practice. Belmont, CA: Brooks‐Cole, Cengage Learning, 2011. Print. Pages 75 ‐ 77.

142 Jung, 9.1, Page 282. 143 For a very brief overview of archetypal definition in film see Ward, Annalee. Mouse Morality: The Rhetoric of Disney Animated Film. Austin, TX: U of Texas P, 2003. Print. Pages 17 – 18. 144 Wehr, Gerhard and Hans Erhard Lauer. Jung and Steiner. Pages 101 – 102. See also, Ward, Annalee, Pages 17 – 18. 145 Weiner, Marcella Bakur and Mark B. Simmons. The Problem is the Solution: A Jungian Approach to a Meaningful Life. Lanham, MD: Jason Aronson, 2009. Print. Page 112. 146 Ivancevic, Vladimir G, and Tijana T. Ivancevic. Computational Mind: A Complex Dynamics Perspective. Berlin, Germany: Springer, 2007. Print. Page 108. Also, Samuels, Andrew. Jung and the Post‐Jungians. London, UK: Routledge & K. Paul, 1985. Print. Page 26. Coan, James and John J. B. Allen. Handbook of Emotion Elicitation and Assessment. Oxford, UK: Oxford U P, 2007. Print. Pages 362 – 366. 147 Jung, 9.1, Page 357. 148 Jung, 9.2, Page 8. 149 Stein, Murray. Jung’s Map of the Soul: An Introduction. Chicago, IL: Open Court, 1999. Print. Pages 108 – 110. 150 Jung, 9.2, Page 30. 151 Samuels, Andrew. Jung and the Post‐Jungians. Page 31. 152 Samuels, Page 32. 153 Driscoll, James P. The Unfolding God of Jung and Milton. Lexington, KY: U P of Kentucky, 1993. Print. Page 178. 154 Jacobi, Jolande Székács. Complex, Archetypes, Symbol in the Psychology of C. G. Jung. London, UK: Routledge, 1999. Print. Page 31. 155 Gras, Vernon W. “Myths and the Reconciliation of Opposites: Jung and Lévi‐Strauss.” Journal of the History of Ideas 42.3 (1981): 471 – 488. 156 Hauke, Christopher and Ian Alister. Jung & Film: Post Jungian takes on the Moving Image. Hove, East Sussex, UK: Brunner‐Routledge, 2001. Print. Page 244. 157 Stevens, Anthony. Archetype Revisited: An Updated Natural History of the Self. London, UK: Brunner‐ Routledge, 2002. Print. Pages 56 – 88. 158 This is not to say that there are not other factors at work here, such as changes in aesthetic discourses and advances within the technological sector. Both must remain undiscussed within the frame of this writing. 159 Wehr and Lauer, Jung and Steiner, Page 102. Quotation marks in original. 160 Wehr and Lauer, Page 103. 161 Rowland, Page 33. 162 Hauke and Alister, Page 244. It shall be noted that “Individuation” is Jung’s term of becoming an indi‐ vidual within one’s own rights but without becoming individualistic. Rather, Jung saw the process of Indi‐ viduation as one that allowed an individual to define his or her own personality boundaries by offsetting them from the collective group to which the individual belongs. By no means did Jung intend to claim that an individual who had successfully completed the Individuation process was egotistical or self‐ centered. On the contrary, Jung goes to great lengths to emphasize that the individual is only healthy within, albeit separate from, the group. See also Dundes, Alan. Sacred Narrative, Readings in the Theory of Myth. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1984. Print. Pages 244 – 245. 163 Harrison, Charles. Art in Theory: 1900 – 2000: An Anthology of Changing Ideas. Malden, MA: Blackwell P, 2009. Print. Pages 379 – 381. 164 Marcus, Paul and Alan Rosenberg. Psychoanalytic Versions of the Human Condition: Philosophies of Life and Their Impact on Practice. New York, NY: New York U P, 1998. Print. Pages 44 – 45. 165 Cartwright, John H. Evolutionary Explanations of Human Behaviour. Hove, East Sussex, UK: Routledge, 2001. Pages 76 – 77. 166 Franz, Marie‐Louise von. Archetypal Dimensions of the Psyche. Boston, MA: Shambhala, 1994. Print. Page 245. Ellipsis in original. 167 Samuels, Page 31.

168 A more detailed discussion of the Inferior or Underdeveloped Shadow can be found in the section “The Other Archetype—An Animated Shadow” below. 169 Rushing and Frentz, Page 40. Bracketed material added for clarity. 170 Albeit slightly dated, Patricia Erens provides an excellent overview of early milestones of gender‐ specific Freudian‐based spectatorship research. Erens, Patricia. Issues in Feminist Film Criticism. Bloom‐ ington, IN: Indiana U P, 1990. Print. Page xxii. 171 Examples include works by American filmmaker Julie Dash, German director Margarethe von Trotta and Vietnamese‐born Trinh Minh‐ha. See also Hart, Lynda: Fatal Women: Lesbian Sexuality and the Mark of Aggression. Princeton, NJ: Princeton U P, 1994. Print. Especially Chapter 4: “Chloe Liked Olivia: Death, Desire, and Detection in the Female Buddy Film.” See also Ramanathan, Geetha. Feminist Auteurs: Read‐ ing Women’s Films. London, UK: Wallflower, 2006. Print. Especially Pages 1 – 10. Turner, Graeme. The Film Cultures Reader. New York, NY: Routledge, 2002. Print. Pages 250 – 252. Jones, Anny Brooksbank. Women in Contemporary Spain. Manchester, UK: Manchester U P, 1998. Print. Pages 155 – 157. 172 Cambray, Joseph and Linda Carter. Analytical Psychology: Contemporary Perspectives on Jungian Anal‐ ysis. New York, NY: Brunner‐Routledge, 2004. Print. Pages 117 – 121. Also, Berrios, G. E. The History of Mental Symptoms: Descriptive Psychopathology Since The Nineteenth Century. Cambridge, UK: Cam‐ bridge U P, 1996. Print. Pages 78 – 80. 173 Hauke and Alister, Jung & Film, Page 2. 174 Hauke & Alister, Page 2. See also Jones, Raya A. Body, Mind and Healing After Jung: A Space of Ques‐ tions. New York, NY: Routledge, 2011. Print. Pages 233 – 235. Ulanov, Ann Belford. Spirit in Jung. Ein‐ siedeln, Switzerland: Daimon, 2005. Print. Pages 169 – 170. 175 Although Freud is usually associated with dream analysis and the image of the patient on the couch, Jung’s work also includes a large portion on dreams and the analysis of symbols in such dreams. It is part‐ ly the divergence over dream analysis which caused the ultimate break between Freud and Jung. It must be noted though that Buñuel’s work really referred mostly back to Freudian analyses, although his com‐ mentary also truly echoes Jung’s sentiments. See also Packer, Sharon. Dreams in Myth, Medicine and Movies. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2002. Print. Page 37. 176 Edwards, Gwynne. A Companion to Luis Buñel. Woodbridge, Suffolk, UK: Tamesis, 2005. Print. Page 60. Also, see Kyrou, A. in Hauke and Alister, Page 32. And, Kinder, Marsha. Refiguring Spain: Cinema, Media, Representation. Durham, NC: Duke U P, 1997. Print. Pages 35 – 64. 177 Bliss, Michael. Dreams Within a Dream: The Films of Peter Weir. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois U P, 2000. Print. Page 184. 178 In some rare instances, films may be featuring only very few characters, such as is the case in 2001: A Space Odyssey or Dark Star. 2001: A Space Odyssey. Dir. Kubrick, Stanley, Keir Dullea, et. al. Warner Home Video, 2001. DVD. Dark Star. Dir. Carpenter, John, Dan O’Bannon, Brian Narelle, et. al. VCI Enter‐ tainment, 1999. VHS. 179 The White Hell of Piz Palü. Dir. Fanck, Arnold, G. W. Pabst, Leni Riefenstahl, et al. Kino on Video, 2005. DVD. 180 The Blue Light. Dir. Riefenstahl, Leni, Matthias Wiemann, Max Holzboer. Pathfinder Home Entertain‐ ment, 2006. DVD. 181 Eberwein, Robert T. Film and Dream Screen: A Sleep and A Forgetting. Princeton, NJ: Princeton U P, 1984. Print. 182 Botz‐Borenstein, Thorsten. Films and Dreams: Tarkovsky, Bergman, Sukurov, Kubrick and Wong Kar‐ Wai. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2008. Print. Pages 39 – 40. Gamwell, Lynn. Dreams Nineteen Hun‐ dred to Two Thousand: Science, Art and the Unconscious Mind. Ithaca, NY: Cornell U P, 2000. Print. Pag‐ es 37 – 38. It must be cautioned that Lewin did not use a strictly Jungian framework, but had strong influ‐ ence on Eberwein. Eberwein is one of the first to apply Jung to film. 183 Manchel, Frank. Film Study: An Analytical Bibliography. Rutherford, UK: Fairleigh Dickinson U P, 1990. Print. Page 584. 184 King, Philip, Kelly Bulkeley, and Bernard Welt. Dreaming in the Classroom: Practices, Methods and Re‐ sources in Dream Education. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 2011. Print. Page 121.

185 Halpern, Leslie. Dreams on Film: The Cinematic Struggle Between Art and Science. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2003. Print. Page 97. See also Bliss, Michael, Dreams within a Dream, Pages 18 – 32. 186 Rushing, Janice H. and Thomas S. Frentz. Projecting the Shadow: The Cyborg Hero in American Film. Chicago, IL: U of Chicago P, 1995. Print. 187 Rushing and Frentz, Page 40. 188 Jung, 9.2, Page 28. Spelling exactly as in original. 189 Jung, 9.2, Page 24. 190 Jung, 9.1, Page 288. 191 Rushing and Frentz, Page 40. 192 Rushing and Frentz, Page 40. 193 Rushing and Frentz, Page 40. Quote exactly as in original. 194 Döveling, Katrin, Christian van Scheve and Elly Konjin. The Routledge Handbook of Emotions. London, UK: Routledge, 2011. Print. Page 60. 195 Rushing and Frentz, Page 40. 196 Hockley, Frames, Page 35. 197 Gronbeck, Bruce E. “Rushing, Frentz, and the Matter of Psychological Rhetorical Criticism.” Southern Communication Journal 71.2 (July 2006): 159‐163. Page 161. 198 Gronbeck, Page 161. 199 Magistrale, Tony. Abject Terrors: Surveying the Modern and Post‐Modern Horror Film. New York, NY: P. Lang, 2005. Print. Page 13. 200 Gronbeck, Page 161. 201 Rushing, Janice H. and Thomas S. Frentz. “The Deer Hunter: Rhetoric of the Warrior.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 66.4 (1980): 392 – 406. Also Silet, Charles L. The Films of Steven Spielberg: Critical Essays. Lan‐ ham, MD: Scarecrow, 2002. Print. Page 27. 202 Beers, William. Women and Sacrifice: Male Narcissism and the Psychology of Religion. Detroit, MI: Wayne State U P, 1992. Page 81 203 Beers, Page 81. 204 Affect is Jung’s preferred term for “emotions.” See Hillman, James, Emotions. 205 A particular type of lack, this term carries a negative connotation. 206 Saito, Ayako. Hitchcock’s’ Trilogy: A logic of Mise‐en‐Scene. In Endless Night: Cinema and Psychoanaly‐ sis, Parallel Histories. Bergstrom Janet, ed. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1999. Print. Page 201. 207 Frentz, Thomas S. and Janice H. Rushing. “Integrating Ideology and Archetype in Rhetorical Criticism, Part II: A Case Study of Jaws.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 79.1 (1993): 61‐81. 208 Rushing and Frentz, Pages 39 – 40. Emphasis and number in parenthesis in original. 209 Jung, 9.1, Page 284. Quotation marks in original. Bracketed material added for clarification. 210 Jung, 9.1, Page 26. 211 Jung, 9.1, Page 27. Jung’s in this context refers to soul in the Christian sense. 212 For Jung this is the mother for the son and the father for the daughter. According to Jung’s writing, there are so many variations to the projection‐making that “[a] concise description of them can therefore, be no more than schematic.” Jung, Aion, Page 14. 213 Jung, Aion, Pages 13 – 14. 214 Especially Rushing and Frentz, Projecting the Shadow. 215 Examples of works include Metz, Christian. Psychoanalysis and Cinema: The Imaginary Signifier. Lon‐ don, UK: Macmillan, 1985. Print. Baudry, Jean‐Louis. “Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematographic Apparatus,” in Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology. Rosen, Philip, ed. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 1986. Print. 216 Kradin, Richard L. The Herald Dream: An Approach to the initial dream in Psychotherapy. London, UK: Karnac, 2006. Print. Page 59. Emphasis in original. 217 Rushing and Frentz, Page 40. 218 Mackey‐Kallis, Susan. The Hero and the Perennial Journey Home in American Film. Philadelphia, PA: U of Pennsylvania P, 2001. Print. Page 5.

219 Wilde, Douglass J. Jung’s Personality Theory Quantified. London, UK: Springer, 2011. Print. Pages 81 – 84. Also, Iaccino, James F. Jungian Reflections within the Cinema: A Psychological Analysis of Sci‐Fi and Fantasy Archetypes. Westport, CT: Praeger. Print. Pages i – xviii. Jung defines archetypes as “[t]hese products are never (or at least very seldom) myths with a definite form, but rather mythological compo‐ nents which, because of their typical nature, we call ‘motifs,’ ‘primordial image,’ types or—as I have named them—archetypes.” Jung, v. 9.1, Page 153. See also, Lewin, Nicholas A. Jung on War, Politics and Nazi Germany: Exploring the Theory of Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. London, UK: Karnac, 2009. Print. Pages 176 – 177. Pratt, Annis. Archetypal Patterns in Women’s Fiction. Bloomington, IN: Indiana U P, 1981. Print. Pages 3 – 4 . 220 Much of this is detailed very well in the six‐part DVD Jospeh Campbell and The Power of Myth. Dir. Spielberg, Steven, et al. Mystic Fire, 2001. DVD. Also compare the eponymous book published by Camp‐ bell, Joseph and Bill Moyers. The Power of Myth. New York, NY: Doubleday, 1988. Print. For more myth research see also Segal, Robert. “Bringing Myth back to the World: The Future of Myth in Jungian Psy‐ chology.” In Dreaming the Myth Onwards: New Directions in Jungian Therapy and Thought. Huskinson, Lucy, ed. New York, NY: Routledge, 2008. Print. 221 Jung, 9.1, Page 160. 222 The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Record Foreign Entries for 2010 Student Academy Awards. Press Release. The Academy. 19 April 2010. Online. http://www.oscars.org/press/pressreleases /2010/20100419.html Also, looking at past Foreign Film Nominees, the number of non‐European nomi‐ nees (only five finalists are listed) for the Best Foreign Film has traditionally always included European and Mediterranean countries but in the past decade such regions as South Africa, China and Peru also have found their way into the top Five finalists. The number of films submitted to the Foreign Film Category was 67 films in 2008 (for the 2009 Awards). 67 Countries Vying for 2008 Foreign Language Film Oscar. 17 October 2008. Press Release. The Academy. Online. http://www.oscars.org/press/pressreleases/2008 /08.10.17.html. Also see Academy Awards Database ‐ AMPAS. Online. http://awardsdatabase.oscars.org /ampas_awards/DisplayMain.jsp? curTime=1284167383054 (using http://awardsdatabase.oscars.org /ampas_awards/BasicSearchInput.jsp and selecting “Foreign Film” as Award Category). Some more num‐ bers are found in the Academy Award’s Foreign Film Facts page which includes the highest award reaping countries and those with the highest nomination count. Updated March 2010. Online. http://awardsdatabase.oscars.org/ampas_awards /help/statistics/forlangfacts.html. David Wallechinsky posted to Huffington Post on 04 March 2010 that “this was an unusually strong year” in which 65 foreign language films competed. Wallechinsky, David. Academy Awards: Foreign language Films 2010. Huffing‐ ton Post. Online. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/david‐wallechinsky/academy‐awards‐foreign‐ la_b_485280.html . 223 The Power of Myth, DVD. 224 In Africa, for example, griots or tribal storytellers, carry the entire history of their tribe (and even some of the surrounding tribes) in their memory as these tribes keep no written texts. Griots tell and retell sto‐ ries to keep cultural traditions alive through oral traditions similarly to Western cultures keeping written accounts of their histories. Winborn, Mark. Deep Blues: Human Soundscapes for the Archetypal Journey. Carmel, CA: King‐Fisher, 2011. Print. Pages 10 – 11. For an excellent summary of the role of the griots and griottes (female griots), see Hale, Thomas. Griots and Griottes: Masters of Words and Music. Bloom‐ ington, IN: Indiana U P, 2007. Print. Also, Johnson, John. Oral Epics from Africa: Vibrant Voices from A Vast Continent. Bloomington, IN: Indiana U P, 1997. Print. Belcher, Stephen. Epic Traditions of Africa. Bloomington, IN: Indiana U P, 1999. Print. 225 In the North American Indian traditions, which Campbell was most fascinated with, the shaman was the keeper of the myths and tribal mysteries. Smith, C. Michael. Jung and Shamanism in Dialogue: Re‐ trieving the Soul / Retrieving the Sacred. New York, NY: Paulist, 2007. Print. Pages 30 – 32. Boekhoven, Jeroen W. Genealogies of Shamanism. Eelde, NL: Barkhuis, 2011. Print. Page 150. Mattoon, Mary Ann, ed. Destruction and Creation: Personal and Cultural Transformations. Einsiedeln, CH: Daimon Verlag, 1999. Print. Pages 408 – 410. 226 Jung, 9.1, Page 42

227 Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Novato, CA: New World Library, 2008. Print. Also Campbell. The Masks of God: Primitive Mythologies. New York, NY: Viking P, 1972. Print. 228 Pi. Dir. Aronosfky, Darren, Sean Gullette, Mark Margolis, et al. Artisan Entertainment, 2001. DVD. 229 th Star Wars. Episode IV: A New Hope. Dir. Lucas, George, Gary Kurtz, Harrison Ford, et al. 20 Century Fox Entertainment, 2004. DVD. 230 Jobling, J’Annine. Fantastic Spiritualities: Monsters, Heroes and the Contemporary Religious Imagina‐ tion. London, UK: T & T Clark, 2010. Print. Page 26. 231 Campbell, The Hero, Pages 23. Parenthetical material in original. 232 Ferrell, William K. Literature and Film as Modern Mythology. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2000. Print. Pages 26 – 28. Indick, William. Psychology for Screenwriters: Building Conflict into Your Script. Studio City, CA: Michael Wiese, 2004. Print. Pages xv –xvi. Fielding, Julien. Discovering World Religions at 24 Frames per Second. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2008. Print. Pages 10 – 12, 429 – 436 and 498. 233 Emmett Early, discussing Vietnam veterans and their depiction in Vietnam War films, acknowledges indebtedness to Campbell by pointing out that the “image of the … hero is clearly and strongly and pre‐ sent in the system of … films.” Early, Emmett. The War Veteran in Film. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2003. Print. Pages 234 – 235. Ellipses in original. 234 Ali—Fear Eats the Soul (Angst Essen Seele Auf). Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Brigitte Mira, El Hedi Ben Salem, et al. Criterion Collection, 20003. DVD. The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum (Die Verlorene Ehre der Katharina Blum). Dir. Schlöndorff, Volker, Margarethe von Trotta, Mario Adorf, Angela Winkler, et al. Criterion Collection, 2003, DVD. Nosferatu, the Vampyre (Nosferatu, Phantom der Nacht). Dir. Herzog, Werner, Klaus Kinski, Isabel Adjani, et al. Anchor Bay Entertainment, 2002, DVD. 235 The Power of Myth, DVD. 236 To mind come stories in Western culture about heroes from Trojan War stories, the Eddas, or the Nibe‐ lung saga, while other legends include tricksters such as Loki in Walhalla or wise old man stories such as the multitude of blind seer stories which rose up around the figure of Tiresias. Corresponding tales can be found in African, Asian, North American Indian and Australian Aborigines’ tales and myths. For more on these, a reading of Joseph Campbell’s work listed in the bibliography section is suggested. 237 Jung, 9.1, Page 152. 238 Jung, 9.1, Page 153. Parentheses and emphasis in original. 239 Schweinitz, Jörg. Film and Stereotype: A Challenge for Cinema and Theory. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 2011. Print. Pages 52 – 55. 240 Jung states that individuation is a natural transformation (9.1, Page 130) that is “necessary to integrate the unconscious into the conscious” (v. 9.1, Page 40) and ultimately leads to “the attainment of the self.” (9.1, Page 106). A more updated discussion of the Individuation process can be found in Jacoby, Mario. Individuation and Narcissism: The Psychology of Self in Jung and Kohut. New York, NY: Routledge, 1995. Print. Gray, Frances. Jung, Irigaray, Individuation: Philosophy, Analytical Psychology and the Question of the Feminine. New York, NY: Routledge, 2008. Print. 241 Jung, Carl G. Collected Works, v. 10, Page 378. Emphasis, parenthesis and quotation marks in original. Also, see O’Neill, Timothy. The Individuated Hobbit: Jung, Tolkien and the Archetypes of Middleearth. Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1979. Print. Page 175 – 179. 242 In the underlying ancient Greek myth, the hero undergoes the journey of finding a wife, but ultimately ends up marrying his own mother. Upon discovery of the truth, the (M)Other finds the only acceptable way out for her: she commits suicide. Oedipus, the hero who has journeyed thus far, is incapable of tak‐ ing such a womanly approach and instead takes upon himself the punishment which the ancient Greek gods had all along foreseen for him. Thus, he fulfills the prophecy, but the journey does not include the defeat of the Other or an emerging as a more acculturate individual. Rather, Oedipus emerges as a lower ranked individual in societal terms, but a higher moral individual as he has shed hubris and pride in ac‐ cepting the gods’ will and punishment. 243 Jacoby, Mario, Page 144. 244 White, Judy Anne. Hero‐Ego in Search of Self: A Jungian Reading of Beowulf. New York, NY: P. Lang, 2004. Print. Page 3.

245 Hockley, Page 9. On page 12, Hockley adds “Typically, Jung expresses his view on individuation slightly differently at different points in his writing. Sometimes he uses a straightforwardly psychological lan‐ guage, which at other times he is more metaphorical.” 246 Hockley, Pages 9 – 29. 247 Hauke and Alister, Page 245. Also, Woods, Louis A. and Gary L. Harmon. “Jung and Star Trek: The Co‐ incidentia Oppositorum and Images of the Shadow.” Journal of Popular Culture 28.2 (Fall 1994): 169‐184. Weston, Amy. “The masculine Principle in Lesbian Families: A Jungian Understanding.” Journal of Lesbian Studies, 12.2&3 (July 2008): 179‐189. Fordham, Michael. “Note on Psychological Types.” Journal of Ana‐ lytical Psychology 17.2 (1972): 111‐115. 248 Hockley, Frames, Page 13. 249 Gray, Richard. Archetypal Explorations: An Integrative Approach to Human Behavior. New York, NY: Routledge, 1996. Print. Page 70. 250 Whity. Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Ulli Lommel, Günter Kaufmann, et al. Fantoma, 2000. DVD. 251 Querelle, A Film about Jean Genet’s Querelle de Brest. Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Franco Nero, Jeanne Moreau, Brad Davis. Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD. 252 Angst Essen Seele Auf. Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Brigitte Mira, El Hedi Ben Salem, et al. Criterion Collection, 2003. DVD. 253 Auger, Emily. Tech‐Noir Film: A Theory of the Development of Popular Genres. Bristol, UK: Intellect, 2011. Print. Page 15. 254 The Matrix. Dir. Wachowski, Andy, Larry Wachowski, Joel Silver, et al. Warner Home Video, 2001. DVD. 255 Rushing and Frentz, 39 – 40. 256 Hollywood style Western movies are a prime example of hero and Other where both hero and Other are often of the same race (i.e. white settlers). Although the Indians may be a collective Other, the hero’s journey usually involves primarily the hunt for the (predominantly white) outlaw to ultimately restore proper law and order. Many John Ford / John Wayne collaborations are exemplary of this type of heroism in film. 257 Watts, Jacki, and Norman Duncan, Kate Cockcroft. Developmental Psychology. Cape Town, South Afri‐ ca: UCT P, 2009. Print. Page 246. 258 In the majority of both mythological tales and films the hero is a male. However, there are some in‐ stances in which the heroic figure is represented by a female figure. 259 Aaron, Michele. Spectatorship: the Power of Looking On. London, UK: Wallflower, 2007. Print. Camp‐ bell, Jan. Film and Cinema Spectatorship: Melodrama and Mimesis. Malden, MA: Polity Press, 2005. Print. White, Michele. The Body and the Screen: Theories of Internet Spectatorship. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006. Print. 260 Depending on the type of film, a spectator may heed a “call to action” presented in a film, or may “hear” a calling to action where there may not even have been one intended by the director. Spectator‐ ship studies, mostly based on Freudian theories, are found in the writings of Baudry and Metz. Further expounding on those theories can be located in Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” See also Allen, Richard. Projecting Illusion Film Spectatorship And the Impression of Reality. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 1997. Print. 261 This is not to say that other European auteur films always complete the journey. Au contraire! Espe‐ cially French auteur films, such as Luc Goddard’s works often will end in open areas (such as meadows or woods, or a beach) to indicate the openness which can take the film anywhere from the moment the words “The End” flicker across the screen. 262 From the long list of scholars who have written about this concept, the following small list can only en‐ compasses few of the works: Barrett, Gregory. Archetypes in Japanese Film: the Sociopolitical and Reli‐ gious Significance of the Principal Hero and Heroines. Selinsgrove, PA: Susquehanna U P, 1989. Print. Iac‐ cino, James F. Jungian Reflections within the Cinema: A Psychological Analysis of Sci‐Fi and Fantasy Arche‐ types. Westport, CT: Praeger, 1998. Print. Mackey‐Kallis, Susan. The Hero and the Perennial Journey Home in American Film. Philadelphia, PA: Philadelphia U of Pennsylvania P, 2001. Print. Davies, Robert A

72 and James M. Farrell. “The Dream World of Film: A Jungian Perspective on Cinematic Communication.” Western Journal of Communication 46.4 (Aut. 1982): 326‐343. Frentz, Janice H. and Thomas S. Rushing. “Integrating Ideology and Archetypes in Rhetorical Criticism, Part III: A Case Study of Jaws.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 79.1 (1993, 1 Feb): 61‐81. 263 Campbell, The Hero, Page 14. Wording exactly as in original.

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CHAPTER 3: THREE-LEAFED CLOVER: SPECTATOR- SHIP FEAR / CATHARSIS AND NEW GERMAN CINEMA

Only the Shadow knows the evil that lurks in men’s hearts.264

Film speaks to the audience by means of evoking affect. The spectator experiences events and, through actions presented on the silver screen, a multitude of emotions. One of these affects is fear. Mentioning of fear in the context of the Humanities, especially in connection with the performance arts, has a long standing tradition. The depiction of fear when mortals come face to face with the Olympian gods in ancient Greek stage plays265 to possibly the most famous of fear paintings, the 19th century Edvard Munch’s Scream series, and the perhaps most memorable filmic depiction of Janet Leigh’s terror-torn face in Alfred Hitch- cock’s Psycho, all serve as examples of visual expressions of extreme moments of fear through the ages.266

The following chapter is broken down in three main parts: spectatorship, catharsis, emotion (affect) in the Jungian-based framework and the introduction of the proposed model. This chapter first examines spectatorship as it applies to film by discussing key writings by Jean-Louis Baudry, Christian Metz and Laura Mulvey and continuing on to authors influenced by these seminal thinkers. Using the concept of emotion, the middle portion of the chapter discusses fear which is one shaping affect causing spectators to return (or in few cases failing to return) to repeatedly watch cinematic performances. This leads to a smaller portion toward the end of that section which is devoted to the theory of emotional release,

74 i.e. catharsis through the interaction of spectator with the emotions produced through the performance observed. An analysis of publications in the field of emotion studies relative to film reveals that there is rather a small amount of scholarship available as Greg Smith has pointed out.267 Although progress has been made in recent years in the works of scholars, such as Siegfried Kracauer, Seymour Feshbach, Anthony Doob, Christian Metz and Laura Mulvey, most authors adhere to a Freudian-based framework. Only in the past decade have analysts, such as Greg Singh, Christopher Hauke, and Ian Alister, begun to address spectators’ emotions within the Jungian-based framework. The proposed framework toward the end of the chapter fills the need to connect both Freudian and Jungian scholarship with the emotional drives that cause the most important person, the spectator, to return time and time again. Through the use of visual portrayals of the Other, spectators can experience fear and other emotions from the safety of the Platonic cave with an optional engagement in further personal explorations of emotions and (re-)solutions presented within the film(s) watched. A Jungian-based framework allows consideration of the spectator as a mature adult, rather than an overgrown traumatized child (Freud). While much research into spectatorship and the use of a more Jungian-based direction must still be done, this dissertation provides a starting point into the discourse of an individuated spectator who may not be a white male and the underlying reasons for de- ferment of reality during the course of watching the film.

Spectatorship—The Hidden Drives to Watch Films

Discussions of cinematic spectatorship, which Stacey Weber-Feve in referencing director Trinh T. Min-Ha calls an audience member’s “interaction with the cinematic text […] to assemble his/her ‘own film,’”268 in some form or another, trace back as far in time as the first decade of silent film. The earliest analysis occurs in the first decade of the 20th century when, what Miriam Hansen collectively calls “the classical mode of narration”269 in the new medium, film, arises. As cinema developed, authors, such as Emilie Altenloh in her 1914270 analysis of

75 the social backgrounds of spectators and Siegfried Kracauer in his Weimar essays on (mostly) silent films,271 added some thoughts to the field, but it was not until film analysis became a strong scholarly discipline in the 1960s that Academ- ia considered spectatorship as an area for discussion. Seminal authors, such as the French writers Jean-Louis Baudry 272 and Christian Metz focus mostly on male spectators based on Freudian theories, the latter of which in turn, had also influenced Jacques Lacan’s Mirror Stage theory which was discussed in Chapter 1. Laura Mulvey, defying the male orientated discussion especially in Metz’s seminal work, includes a dialogue of the female spectator’s role in film viewing in her mid-1970s writings. By necessity, many authors discussed in this section follow a more Freudian oriented framework as not much has yet been written with a Jungian-based framework in mind.

For many centuries, audiences have congregated in theaters, and more recently assembled to view cinematic performances to experience “the lives of others”273 from a distance. Billy Joel echoes the ancient Greek philosopher Aris- totle’s theory274 on using performance arts as a means of escape from daily drudgery in his 1973 American pop culture hit Piano Man:

“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday The regular crowd shuffles in […] ...they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness But it’s better than drinking alone. It’s a pretty good crowd for a Saturday And the manager gives me a smile ‘Cause he knows that it’s me they’ve been coming to see To forget about life for a while…”275

76 Although his song refers to a pianist’s performance in a bar rather than cinema, both the theater stage, cinema’s silver screen and bar environments offer at- tendees a chance to “forget about life for a while.”276

While early studies of the audience and spectatorship behavior can be found in the early 20th century, most film studies occur in the post-1950s era. Much work in the early days of such studies focused on the characters and plotlines, while less attention was paid to spectators and their behaviors. One of the earliest critics to discuss this newer direction is Jean-Louis Baudry through his essay titled “Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematographic Apparatus.”277 For Baudry, as Constance Penley elaborates,278 the cinema was essentially not much more than an extension of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave—with a modified focal point as a result of the camera’s optics.279 In Plato’s Allegory, the journey of the sun across the horizon causes the movement of the images inside the cave. Baudry in his Apparatus Theory explains that in cinema, the source of light (the projector) remains static while the motion of the images comes from variations in the image-capturing camera’s position. Baudry draws further attention to the fact that the cinematic apparatus pretends to generate motion, while actually being simply a series of still images speeding across the screen.280 Thus, the spectator not only is drawn into believing the plotline of the film, but is also tricked into accepting the still images as actual moving actions. The spectators then “find themselves chained, captured or captivated.”281 Identification with the characters, mainly the hero, can occur at the moment when nothing else in the darkened cinematic cave matters, because it has been shut out by both physical (i.e. location and ambience) or emotional (i.e. the spectator’s emotional invest- ment in the filmic action) means.

Baudry’s writings, which start and end with Freud, clearly influenced his contemporary fellow Frenchman Christian Metz, as Allan Casebier points out: Baudry “had much influence on the direction in which film theory had developed.”282 Metz, whose theories have been taken up by British film analyst Laura Mulvey, not only owes much to Baudry, but in turn was furthermore influenced by Lacan’s Mirror Stage theory.

Christian Metz, in contrast to Baudry, focused mostly on the use of Semi- otics in his version of film theory and spectatorship.283 Lisa Dresner reiterates Metz’s position which states that the (male) spectator identifies with the (male) characters on the screen.284 This identification cannot occur in direct visual contact with the male action character on the screen according to the Apparatus Theory posited by Metz and Baudry. Rather, as filmmaker and theorist Malcolm Le Grise points out, the identification occurs by means of “character identification as secondary to a primary identification [of the spectator] based on self- identification in the mirror phase.”285 In other words, the (male) spectator must first find and define himself in the Lacanian Mirror Phase before any identification with the silver screen character(s) can occur. At the same time, as Patricia San- toro explains, the spectator “realizes the film is fiction but is willing to disavow this truth for the sake of maintaining the illusion.”286 Thus, the audience member allows film to become reality (at least for the duration of the film) and identification with the male lead character is possible. However, as Freud’s theories are the basis of the Lacanian Mirror Phase theory, the (male) spectator, as Lisa Cart- wright287 notes, will only be able to identify with the character(s) if he can go back before the realization of the gender split, that is, the moment when the child encounters gender difference and begins to identify with one gender or the other. In other words, the male spectator must reach into that part of the Mirror Stage in which the child had not yet come to realize the threat of castration.

Lacan’s theories carry further through Metz’s work as he develops the Ap- paratus Theory further. As during the initial Mirror Stage, the projections of the film, and with them the characters on screen, appear to be real, because in the cinematic cave, the film apparatus is located behind the spectator’s position. Thus, the audience member only has to accept that the images on the screen are moving and projecting a better self—identical to the manners in which Lacan’s Mirror Stage projected a (more) perfect self in the mirror288—in order to second- arily identify with the screen characters. Richard Maltby affirms Michele Aaron’s view who refers to the moment of connection between the filmic apparatus and

78 spectatorship as a moment in which the “spectator is able to step in and ‘own’ the vision.”289 This occurs when the audience member slips beyond the projection apparatus and accepts the illusion as real by entering mentally and emotionally into the actions as a character on screen without awareness of mitigating projection.

British film analyst Laura Mulvey, applying feminism to film theory, objects to Metz’s stereotyping of the spectator as strictly male. Instead, she demonstrates in her seminal essay “Visual Pleasures in Narrative Cinema” that women have two different types of roles in spectatorship—although neither may be truly satisfying for the woman. The first type of identification is the acceptance of the female spectator in the role of the (male) hero. In this capacity, he punishes the woman, assigning the female spectator a sadomasochistic role. On the other hand, the female spectator can also identify with the victimized female Other and thus, she, too, is punished in the end by the (male) “hero” for any genderized transgressions she may have incurred in the course of the filmic plotline. Patrice Petro correctly points to Mary Ann Doane who notes that in film, the woman “is the image.”290 The female is thus the objectified Underdeveloped Shadow and embodies all that the Overdeveloped Shadow eschews.

Rhona Berenstein, in comparing Mulvey and Doane, argues against Mul- vey’s one-of-two-only options for the woman spectator when she criticizes that “[n]owhere does [Mulvey] allow for the fact that spectatorial transvestitism may offer women the pleasure of identifying against their socially prescribed roles.”291 Linda Williams posits that such pleasure may not necessarily stem from a woman’s identification within a male role setting, i.e. the Mulveyean dyad of punisher or victim may not hold any longer. At the same time, Williams also affirms Doane’s view that “female viewing may be a masquerade.”292 This in turn may allow the female spectator to define her femininity not opposite the male, but concurrent with and parallel to his masculinity by means of Freud’s pre-Oedipal stage, which foregoes adult female libido for other women for the sake of identifi-

79 cation with the mother.293 Sean Nixon disagrees with Berenstein’s position. In- stead, he notes that the “gendering of the look […] orientates the visual pleasures coded in the representation to wider formations of gender and, often, sexual identity.”294 For him, the gendered look thus allows the spectator not only identification with the screen character, but also the re-evaluation the spectator’s own self-identification in the Lacanian Mirror Stage. In that sense, Nixon starts to break in a small way with Freud as Nixon’s position does not entirely rely on the lack, or the fear of lack, of the phallus in the definition of the gendered look. Ra- ther, Nixon allows for the duality of gendered spectatorship, which he suggests is “centrally an historical question”295 rather than a concrete concept. This flexibility points the direction to a path for using the Jungian-based framework to view especially gender and gendered spectatorship in relation to film.

In contrast to Freudian film critics, the canon of the Jungian strand of analytical psychology approaches the human subject from a different direction; this approach to a holistic psyche ultimately reflects strongly in Jung’s theoretical writings. Jung himself proposed that when any form of imbalance exists in the human psyche, this unbalanced psychological situation is brought back (or at least there is an attempt to bring it back) into balance through some means so that the psyche and the Self can become as healthy as possible again and thrive to live a full life. For Jung, this change is brought about by the Personal Unconscious re- leasing images that prompt the Self to return to a state of wholeness.296 Emo- tions, experienced in the safety of a cave-like darkness of the cinematic theater allow the psyche to release unhealthy emotions and images, which then can return the body and conscious to a healthy state. This may occur through laughter—sometimes even at inappropriate times as many moviegoers can attest. Or it can happen through tears. Both emotional responses can be triggered among other reasons by experience of some forms of fear, fright or anxiety in reaction to events unfolding on the screen.

80 Emotions in film studies, especially in the context of spectatorship within a Jungian-based framework, have seen very limited discussion. One reason may be, as Barbara Creed sums Jung up in her contribution to the Oxford Guide to Film Studies, that critics have “perceived [Carl Jung’s branch of psychoanalysis as having] a tendency to explain subjectivity in unchanging, universal terms.”297 This viewpoint among many Freudian critics had led to the near complete dis- missal of Jungian thought from the field of academic film studies throughout the 20th century. Notwithstanding such negative statements, the end of the 20th and beginning of the 21st century sees Christopher Hauke and Ian Alister as well as Luke Hockley examining Jungian analytical psychology and transferring it to scrutinize film in the context of a Jungian-based framework. These newly emerging scholars no longer feel that Jung’s theories are static in their universality of Jungian qualities and move more toward a post-Jungian model in which both development of the individual and the influence of the Collective and Personal Ar- chetypes play a larger role than in Jung’s original writings. In the field of film studies, the new Jungian scholars approach cinematic analysis with a fresh look at race, gender, sexuality and colonialism. These scholars come to conclusions that differ from Freudian scholars, in that Freudian-based scholars trace back many aspects of film characters to Castration Anxiety and Oedipal Complex. Jungian-oriented film scholars utilize a holistic framework which examines the human psyche’s development from a newborn all the way to an individuated adult rather than focusing on a few small key elements, such as Castration Anxi- ety or Repression, within the development of an infant to a child. A recently emerging Jungian scholar, Greg Singh, reaches even beyond the still fledgling Jungian-based film scholarship canon by approaching films from a post-Jungian stance in an effort to not only position but ultimately “re-fit” existing film theories within the Jungian framework. 298 A Jungian-based approach to film analysis and especially spectatorship becomes thus necessary as it provides a widening horizon to further explore the Human Condition in an ever more globalizing world.

As discussed in the previous chapter, early film discourse within the Jung- ian-based framework begins with Robert Eberwein and solidifies with Janice

81 Rushing and Thomas Frentz. Nevertheless, even more recent Jungian film scholars writing in the 21st century have little to add to the spectatorship canon and often will rely on Freudian influenced authors. Such is the case with Singh who returns to Jackie Stacey’s premise, especially in the context of Mulveyean female spectator discussion: Stacey posits that there are two types of spectators, the “textual” and the “empirical” spectator. According to her analysis, the viewing of film occurs differently, but consciously, in male and female spectators.299 However, because much of her work revolves around actual interviews of female spectators and their personal memories of watching films, Kimberly Davis agrees300 with Stacey that more needs to be done in this area as Baudry’s Apparatus Theory alone is not sufficient to explain the complexity of, especially post-modern, spectatorship. For Davis, personal recollections alone are not sufficient to account for a difference in viewing and viewing experiences. For Brian McIlroy, Stacey’s approach also provides a start, but at the same time he cautions that an “overemphasis on empirical studies reliant on memory can skew the conclusions.”301 Similarly to memory, personal “emotional baggage” or “personal life experiences”302 can also provide a difference in the spectators’ film experiences. Whereas one person delights in scary moments, another may feel the urge to flee the Platonic cinema cave, driven by one of the most powerful human emotions: fear.

Fear-A Powerful Driving Emotion

Visual portrayals of Archetypes on screen can elicit strong emotional reactions in the audience as anyone attending a film performance in a cinematic setting has empirically experienced. Films serve as one way in which especially Western cultures shape the audiences’ cultural definition of what Other, the cultural Underdeveloped Shadow as defined by Jungian film scholars Rushing and Frentz, is and how to fear “it”. As such, cinema taps into the depth of emotions, such as fear, which through critical examination can assist in illuminating a portion of the human condition. Rushing and Frentz observe that the Underdevel-

82 oped Shadow generally is “unconsciously projected onto someone else, a scapegoat, perhaps an entire class of people, for whom we feel an intense attraction-repulsion. As long as the shadow is projected rather than owned, we remain perfectly ‘innocent,’ for we do not have to face the fact that the shadow is us.”303 Thus, anything a society rejects or refuses to acknowledge, such as the female, the body or different races, becomes the Underdeveloped Shadow, or in short-hand, the Other.

Thus, an individual may not even be (re-)acting consciously, yet the Un- derdeveloped Shadow “can have harmful and destructive effects on oneself and others…”304 because it embodies all that a society disavows. Consequently, the culturally held Archetype of the Underdeveloped Shadow (Other), can lead to the formation of rigid stereotypes,305 which then in turn can become highly problematic for a heterogenetic society. Peggy McIntosh points this out in her seminal essay “White Privilege.”306 In this essay, McIntosh recounts multiple ways in which her white skin color gives her—even as a woman—a social advantage over both male and female non-white members of the American society. Carole Lund expounds on the dangers of turning cultural Archetypes into derogatory stereotypes in her discussion about race and privilege and comes to the conclusion that those who “have white privilege have tremendous power,”307 while Judith André furthermore asserts that stereotypes are “pejorative” and “may help per- petuate injustices.”308 Through marginalization of the Other in films, not only can emotions be elicited, but stereotypes can be formed (or re-confirmed) through cinematic imagery, which in turn can reinforce already existing emotions, especially fear, about the Other. In fact, John and Rita Sommers-Flanagan sum it up well by noting that “we project our shadow onto other people and then over-react to that projection.”309 Often, overreactions are elicited by fears as Eugene Pascal remarked.310

Kay Gilley draws attention to reactions along similar lines when she speaks of a fear-induced daze. She defines this experience when an individual allows his or her fears to take over and gives up control of his or her life, thereby rendering life without acceptance of authenticity or responsibility. “When we al-

83 low ourselves to function in fear-induced trances, we can sleepwalk through much of life’s turmoil, having subconsciously convinced ourselves that life is easy, each question always has one right answer, and the ‘correct‘ course of action is always clear.”311 Jerry Gilley, unrelated to Kay Gilley, posits that the phrase “lions, tigers and bears” in the classic Hollywood film The Wizard of Oz is nothing more than a circuitous means of describing fears.312 By giving fear the ability to run on an autopilot-like program, the film’s audience does not have to face any of the more difficult situations or questions arising in the movie. Fear, which can arise from not wishing to be held accountable for the ultimate outcome of on-screen hero actions, is given free reins for the duration of the film. In the end, accountability for any actions is transferred back to the hero on the screen and, since it is resolved in a culturally appropriate manner,313 the audience members do not need to take the responsibility for the hero’s actions although frequently internalizing emotions regarding the portrayed Other occurs. Here the cinematic concept and portrayal of the Other intersect once again with evocation of fear.

Presentation of the Other on screen can induce fear as it reflects on all the spectator has experienced prior to viewing a particular film and all he or she has been told through stories and “fairy” tales in childhood. Deep-seated anxieties and fears in the broadest sense can surround depictions of the not-I, the not-like- me character on the screen. In Western cinematic traditions this is emphasized by the fact that the “evil” character, the one who poses a threat to the protagonist hero, is often not of the same race (and sometimes not even of the same gender). More often than not, the “evil, antagonistic character” is non-white, and frequently also appears in the guise of a femme fatale (of no specific race). The introduction of fear, one of the deep-rooted emotions, may occur for a fleeting few moments on the silver screen—allowing a storyline to slingshot from one plot line onto another trajectory. Or fear-inducing images may be present for an extended time as is frequently the case in horror movies where the audience is gripped by

84 fear practically from the moment the opening credits roll to the time the final scene has ended—and in the case of horror movies, often beyond.314

Fear, however, is not an emotion experienced fully only by adults. In fact, Jung himself observes that “[f]ear of life and fear of death lie close together, scarcely differentiated in the child’s mind. Children live in a world of all-powerful giants, the grownups, and have difficulty in orienting themselves in the struggle between good and evil.” 315 Even after the child has become an adult, when watching the world on the silver screen, the film reverts the mature audience member back to the child’s “world of all-powerful giants”—if for no other reason than through the enormity of the figures dancing across an oversized screen. The movie plots replay the fight between the good hero and the evil forces inside each spectator that “combat one another in the depths of the soul, and this perpetual conflict is a part of the paradox of life.”316 Thus, films play on the fundamental quest of the hero, while at the same time evoking fears on many different levels in the spectator. However, unlike real life consequences, these fears are alleviate-able since the spectator can leave the cinematic cave where he or she “forgot about life for a while.” For the duration of the film, the spectator can experience fear—often based on character Archetypes.

Reactions to being confronted with Archetypes can manifest individually in various forms: some of which are various stages of fear.317 Fear is one of the human instincts, which Jung defines as “physiological urges […] perceived by the senses.”318 Instincts are related to Archetypes as Jung points out in that “[l]ike the instincts, the collective thought patterns of the human mind are innate and inherited. They function, when the occasion arises, in more or less the same way. Emotional manifestations, to which such thought patterns belong, are recogniza- bly the same all over the earth.”319 Fear, as one of the emotional expressions of human thought patterns, resides deep in the Personal Unconscious (particularly when manifested in the form of specific phobias) as well as the Collective Un- conscious (such as the more generalized fears).

85 According to Merriam-Webster’s dictionary, fear is primarily defined as “an unpleasant often strong emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger.” 320 Other explanations are “anxious concern,” “profound reverence and awe” and “reason for alarm.” Fear as a noun also “[implies in] the most general term […] anxiety and usually loss of courage.”321 In modern psychology, fear has been defined very early on and it appears the definition has not changed over the past century, although individual authors customarily use the term “fear” without clear definition. A very early characterization comes from James Mark Baldwin who already in 1901 describes fear as follows:

Fear […] (I) an emotion, arising in a situation demanding practical adjustment; but of such a nature as to disable or disconcert either by its strangeness or by the threat of approaching evil. In intense fear no form of adjustment may be possible except evasion or escape; and in extreme cases even these are impossible. […]322

Baldwin alludes here to the extreme case of fear paralysis experienced by some spectators when watching particularly disturbing films, such as those in the horror genre. He continues by stating that some cases of fear may arise from physical discomfort:

(I) Fear belongs to the primary emotions, i.e. to those which are found at every level of mental development above the mere sense reflex. It may have its source either in the dis- concerting strangeness or obtrusiveness of an occurrence, or in the previous painful experiences connected with the object which occasions it. Some writers (e.g. Spencer and H.M. Stanley) have laid one-sided emphasis on the second mode of origin. Spencer seems to identify fear (at least in its primitive form) with the revival of past painful experiences with connected motor activities.323

Baldwin’s definition of fear as a physical manifestation of the Unconscious reacting to external stimuli is echoed by Ralph C. Hamill in his article “The Role of the Risque Story” in The Journal of Abnormal Psychology. He comments about a patient’s dream that “[a] normal or reasonable fear is one for which the cause is clearly recognized and because of its reasonableness it is well han- dled.”324 In films, which can be compared to collectively experienced dreams, fear is first elicited through on-screen events, and in the end, is assuaged through the hero’s triumph. The cinematic spectator is generally able to dissociate the fear-inducing filmic events from actual life events and understands how to handle such emotions within the cinema versus in real life. Only when the mechanism breaks down, and phobias overtake a person’s mind, does the process of fear and alleviation break down—similar to nightmares which can, through recurrence, lead to bodily trauma, such as insomnia.

Preceding Hamill’s article is Josiah Morse’s book The Psychology and Neurology of Fear, published in 1907. In his book, Morse posits that fear, which causes “vaso-constriction varying in different individuals,”325 is not be considered as a physiological sign of “an exciting emotion,” but rather needs to be seen as a “depressing emotion causing, or being caused by a slowing down of the heart and respiration …”326 Anyone, however, who has been in an extremely frightening situation is aware that the human heart increases rather than decreases as the body prepares for a flight or fight situation, thus Morse’s argument must be considered false.327 Although he is incorrect on the body’s reaction to fear, Morse is correct to note Irons’ error of not connecting invisible emotional reactions of the Unconscious to the physical output of observable physiological out- puts. Furthermore, once the intangible element of fear is taken away, Morse summarizes

Professor Irons […] holds that emotion is an ultimate, unana- lyzable and irreducible aspect of the consciousness and not a product of physiological changes. Indeed, he seems to re-

87 verse the query of James and asks, if you eliminate the emotion of fear what would be left if the mere feeling of quick- ened heart-beats, shallow breathing, trembling lips, weak- ened limb, goose-flesh, and visceral stirrings were present? In other words, how can that which is not emotion give birth to emotion?328

Morse, at a time before endocrine studies proved much of medical theory, correctly asks how bodily reactions can lead to the generation of emotions. He failed to realize that the direction of events works in reverse: first there is an emotional response which generates a nuance of fear, then, the body responds: either with a slight shuddering, an ominous feeling in the pit of one’s stomach, or the above stronger physically observable reaction of trembling, shaking and vo- calizing. In the cinematic cave, the spectator can repeat this experience of emotions, elicited through ever seemingly changing stories (although the underlying archetypal plotlines rarely vary a great deal), but in the end, walks usually away without any bodily harm or other consequences. Exceptions would be in the case of severe trauma inflicted by viewing events on screen that are close to a spectator’s own life, in most cases a violent incident (death, mutilation, rape, etc.), or a situation in which the audience member was emotionally traumatized, such as being fired from a job or experience of a failure which led to harm for others.

In 1955 Seymour Feshbach undertook the first studies to prove a link between visual display of violence and enacting violent behavior as a form of catharsis.329 Though several other studies followed in the next decade330, no study was truly able to prove Feshbach’s hypothesis. In fact, he realized “that the evidence for catharsis was very slim, and he felt obliged to specify certain conditions necessary for it to operate. One of the most important of these conditions was that the subject must already be roused or angered.”331 Stephen Brody continues discussion of Feshbach’s work by noting that “angry subjects” were less angered and violent in responses to word association tests after a watching a

88 violent film than a test group of “non-angered subjects” who were subjected to watching a neutral film. In the end, Feshbach found that those who were angered could discharge some emotions through watching violence and vicariously dispel the violent energy while the test group which watched the same violent film were found to have been stimulated and thus had become more angered than before the movie watching experience.332 A follow-up experiment by Leonard Berkowitz initially duplicated Feshbach, but without achieving any duplication of results. Ultimately Berkowitz concluded that multiple factors had to be present to cause cathartic effects from watching films. This led eventually to the so-called shock experiments by Anthony N. Doob in 1970 and A. N. Doob and Lorraine E. Wood in 1972.333 While good results were obtained, it was always with a set of pre-conceived stipulations. Brody concludes, based on results from these experiments, “[t]hat some sort of cathartic effect can be achieved is thus fairly well substantiated.”334 Nevertheless, he immediately cautions in the next sentence that “…experimental demonstrations of the reduction of anger have imposed conditions for its achievement which the experience of watching films—except in very unlikely circumstances—can never fulfil.”335

In the case of films, Brody sums up the problem as follows:

Screen victims obviously have no real relationship with the viewer, and they cannot anger him, even though what he sees them doing may excite him. Nor, it must be admitted, is it as easy to understand by what sort of mental process a cathartic effect would be induced by watching screen violence as it is to see that even an indirect attack on some real and disliked person can soothe ruffled feelings. In other words, a lot of the confusion has arisen over the different researcher’s definitions of what ‘catharsis’ involves.336

This sentiment is echoed by W. James Potter who defines catharsis “as an emotional effect, because it is usually experienced by people as a purging of

89 negative emotions, such as fear or anger.”337 Potter further notes that “[catharsis] is one effect that is regarded as very controversial by media effects researchers… As of now, the research community is skeptical of such an effect, but this effect continues to have a great deal of intuitive appeal.”338 While this seems to deny most of the Aristotelian catharsis effect, Ron Tamborini suggests that the best of all cathartic experiences is and remains the viewing of tragedy, “the conditions produced by watching tragedy seem capable of promoting catharsis in those experiencing sorrow and other emotions susceptible to cognitive coping processes.”339 This avowal somewhat contradicts his statement that by “[a]pplication of cognitive-motivational-relational theory (Lazarus, 1991) … catharsis seems obtainable from film exposure given the right antecedent conditions.”340

More modern works echo some of the early writings, except the notion of a decreased heart and pulmonary rate proposed by Morse. As Kay Gilley in her book, The Alchemy of Fear, points out, “[f]ear is the most primitive of emotions. It is housed in what is called the limbic system, specifically the amygdala. This part of the brain relates to our most basic survival mechanisms.”341 Fear, as a neuro-physiological function, resides in what often has been called the reptilian brain. As such, it acts like a Western gunslinger: it shoots first, then asks questions later. “Because fear is so primitive and about survival, it is not logical, thoughtful, or in any way intellectual.”342 Corsini’s Encyclopedia of Psychology goes even further and calls fear possibly “the most important emotion for the survival of the human species”343 which is “marked by activation of the fight or flight response.”344 However, when fear occurs in less survival-oriented settings of daily cultural interactions, a “fear function is seen in day-to-day social interactions in which individuals avoid saying or doing embarrassing things in order to prevent social rejection or maintain companionship.”345 The latter can result to fear- inducing moments, which can cause spectators to not return to the cinema because of concerns over inappropriate reactions. For example, such reactions can include laughter in an inappropriate moment, or even wetting one’s under-

90 garments due to a bodily response to an emotional reaction being elicited. Once such experiences occur, a spectator may be reluctant to return to watch another (possibly similar) screen performance.

Although fear reactions can be partially traced back to the Jungian-based Archetypes in the Collective Unconscious, one must be cautioned not to see the expression of fear as a Collective Archetype since fear, according to Corsini, “cannot be conceptualized as a single entity and must instead be studied as a multidimensional construct and as a collection of related phenomena that differ depending on the experience and on the individual.”346 Consequently, in the process of Individuation, each person develops his or her own expression of fear based on the underlying Collective Archetype of the emotion of fear even when there are some trends among groups. For example, women seem to respond more fearful specifically to frightening images,347 while men reacted more strongly overall to anything frightening, but with a higher overall threshold for what con- stitutes fear.348 Sometimes on-screen imagery can even reach audiences’ fears across cultures and continents—one such example would be Steven Spielberg’s movie Jaws,349 a film which caused people around the world to be fearful of sharks in the aftermath of watching the film.

The archetypal affect350 of fear coupled with the individuated expression of fear, explains why spectators in a movie theater react at varying emotional degrees to the events on screen and yet, films can arouse similar affects in a heterogeneous crowd. As noted in Corsini’s Encyclopedia of Psychology, “the subjective nature of fear can be different in different individuals.” 351 Some authors, such as Jeffrey Alan Gray, go as far as to posit that fear is “a state, not of the mind, but of the neuro-endocrine system.”352 Hence, it may just be that the thrill of cinema-going and the experience of fear-producing moments create a neuro- endocrine rush (perhaps even coupled with a potential adrenaline rush) in the spectators’ minds lures the audience members back to the screen on a regular basis. 353

91 Throughout several decades of film criticism, sparse analysis has been conducted within the framework of Jungian psychoanalysis and even less work has been devoted to the examination of emotions in film. Although some books and essays have been written on the horror genre,354 the exploration of the connection between emotion and psychoanalysis has been scant, even though, as Luke Hockley states, “films can awaken deep feelings and emotions.”355 Fur- thermore, in the light of such deep affect, Luke Hockley decries

[…] it is curious that academic film theory has paid virtually no attention to the issue of emotional relationship that viewers have with films. In fact, it is not unreasonable to suggest that the topic of emotions is positively avoided and when they do make an appearance, film theorists tend to present them as if they were in some way undesirable.356

Janice Rushing and Thomas Frentz357 are the most notable in their relatively early foray into the Jungian-based framework with the 1995 book Projecting the Shadow. Nevertheless even these two authors only briefly touch on emotions in the Jungian context. Yet, (pure) emotions drive many movie plots and often bring movie audiences back to see sequels or other films in the same genre. One of the most fundamental of such emotions is fear.

Jung throughout his writings uses the word “fear” with a tacit expectation that the reader understands the meaning of the word at least in the most basic sense, that is, Merriam-Webster’s definition of fear as “an unpleasant often strong emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger,” which will be the underlying definition for the remainder of this dissertation. In this respect, he follows what Sigmund Freud in one of his lectures openly declared: “Anxiety (or dread) itself needs no description; everyone has personally experienced this sensation, or to speak more correctly this affective condition, at some time or other.”358 Anxiety, incorrectly but frequently synonymously used with dread or fear, in Freud’s opinion therefore does not warrant any definition—precisely be-

92 cause each individual experiences and expresses fear in a slightly different manner—thus, it may be best to rely on the most basic explanation and presuppose that everyone understands it within his or her own frame of mind.

Fear is an emotion that begins early in childhood. Lacan would say it starts at least when the child realizes it is not one with the mother. For Jung, fear is a part of human growth and less imbued with the Freudian negative connotations. In the process of going from child to adult self-hood, which Jung calls Indi- viduation, “no one is spared this dangerous passage, for that which is feared also belongs to the wholeness of the self.”359 According to Jung the affect (emotion) of fear is one of the most integral pieces of the human psyche and the process of “growing up.” The question that begs asking in the context of film and analytical psychology is “how do studies of fear apply to the experience of watching films?” After all, understanding fear, and the awakening of such emotion(s), can in turn aid in illuminating the Human Condition.

One part of this Individuation process, which Jung called “the attainment of self [by] necessary [integration of] the unconscious into the conscious” 360 through a “synthetic process which I have termed the individuation process,”361 is the development of a notion of fear, especially fear of the Other.362 This fear can arise from “the great psychic danger which is always connected with individuation, or the development of the self…”363 as the ultimate “goal of the individuation process is the synthesis of the self.“364 In other words, in order to complete the journey to Individuation the individual must face his or her own dark side(s). As represented in oneself or the Other, the consequential coming to terms with the dark side of the self can precipitate the emotion of fear. Jung suggests that “consciousness, […] rests as we know on the […] conservative foundation of the instincts and their specific forms, the archetypes.”365 Archetypes from the Collec- tive Unconscious, once recognized by the Conscious, can be shaped into indi- vidualized Archetypes which then reside in the Personal Unconscious. Even though this process does not necessarily require a conscious effort, it often strongly, albeit unintentionally, influences memory. As Jung expounds, memory “often suffers from the disturbing interference of unconscious contents.”366 With-

93 in the context of cinematic space, films allow access to archetypal expressions within an individual’s Unconsciousness. The emotional response, one of which can be fear, to the Archetypes varies based on the Individuation which the spectator had undergone prior to the film experience.367

In her contribution to Media Effects: Advances in Theory and Research, Joanne Cantor sums up the emotions of watching film as follows:

Anyone who has ever been to a horror film or thriller appre- ciates the fact that exposure to … presentations depicting danger, injury, bizarre images, and terror-stricken protagonists can induce intense fright responses in an audience. Many of us seem to remember at least one specific program or movie that terrified us … this happened to us even after we were old enough to know that what we were witnessing was not actually happening and that the depicted danger could not leave the screen and attack us directly. These reactions can also occur when we know that what is being portrayed never actually happened; at times we may have such reactions even when we understand that there is no chance that the depicted events could ever occur. 368

Sometimes it may be just that very thrill that originates from knowing what is observed on screen is not real and yet, the feeling as if it were indeed very real brings the audience back to the cinematic cave time after time. William Evans warns of newer research which appears to demonstrate a concerning trend: audience members, especially those watching TV series, are seeing (and believing) the imaginary tales of on-screen characters to be real people and their (real) actions.369 Thus, the Collective Unconscious Archetypes have been replicated in viewers’ Personal Unconscious archetypal inventory. A parallel effect also occurs: because the Collective Unconscious Archetypes are culturally imbued, filmic Archetypes by way of the directors’ views enable a cultural sea-change in the

94 Personal Unconscious. As such, movies can teach the audience members what to fear. The film industry makes use of this by depicting ever more gory and frightening images that allow for a proxy thrill to be experienced by the audience members. After all, the “depiction of events that either cause or threaten to cause great harm is the stock-in-trade”370 of most of the film industry. Such a stock presentation would not survive decades of filmmaking were it not such part and parcel of the entire film industry. Martin Barker and Kate Brooks point out that already in the 1930s, “cinema itself was […] calling forth emotions of fascination, longing, excitement, stirrings of chivalry, and sheer thrill.”371 Cantor adds “…that factors within a frightening presentation that tend to produce arousal may combine with the depiction of fear-evoking stimuli to increase the viewer’s arousal and thus the intensity of fear…”372 In other words, the film industry may “over- do” the application of fear factors in a film by combining various frightening stimuli.373

Considering the historical development of cinema, films, as a new branch of long standing theater tradition consequently serve at least partly the same function as theater. Film mitigates the experience of emotions and affords the audience the ability to safely walk away from such a mimetic experience without having to dread repercussions at the curtain call. “The cinema, like the detective story, enables us to experience without danger to ourselves all the excitements, passions, and fantasies which have to be repressed in a humanistic age.”374 Films hence provide a safe haven to experience emotions without the need to face them inside of oneself. Identifying with the “good guy,” or the archetypal hero, the projection of that persona on the screen allows the audience to define the Other in a safe space for two or so hours. Then the spectators walk away without ever needing to confront their own emotions as they are always projected outward onto others, which serve as the source of the emotions.

The darkened auditorium, the large screen and the immer- sive surround sound all help to make the cinema a particularly intense and rich emotional environment; [...] Our sense

95 of who we are and what we are doing is temporarily dis- solved by, and into, the flow of cinematic images and sounds as viewers are momentarily stitched into the story—sutured by, and into, the on-screen diegesis that is the momentarily believable world of the fiction film.375

One of the most fear-inducing situations is the encounter with the Other or the Underdeveloped Shadow—that which is not like the Ego, which until at least the mid-1970s had always been taken to mean “white male.”376 Especially in Germany, which had only a very small non-white population after World War II, the old children’s rhyme about “who is afraid of the black man?” still rang true at that time. To reinforce such stereotypical depictions of Others both the European and the American film industry portrayed darker skinned people as perpetrators of crimes and enumerated that such Others needed to be feared because of the deeds committable by the Other. These groups may not be necessarily of Afri- can descent, but could as well be Sinti or Roma or even have dark features such as many Welsh. Because fear of the Other is so well confined within the cinematic context and reactions to such fears do not bear (visible) consequences into the real life outside the film theater, changing Archetypes into stereotypical images can be explored safely by directors and spectators. However, this can lead to a dangerous formation of stereotypes, instead of a shaping of Archetypes. Stud- ying fear of the Other in context of critical filmic analysis serves thus as a small step into understanding the attraction of the Platonic Cave on the modern spectator as well as understanding how it shapes cultural Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious as to avoid formation of stereotypes in one’s Personal Uncon- scious.

Through cultural influences on the Collective Unconscious the expression of Archetypes within different cultures can be seen expressed in the films produced within any given society. Especially the cultural expression of the Other Archetype differs regionally as well as temporally. In different eras, the Other may have a different meaning. For example, during the time the Huns overran

96 Europe, the cultural Archetype of the Other was more likely an expression of a more Asian looking person while in 19th century America, the plantation slave or the Native American had become the symbolic expression of the Other. A culturally imbued example of ethno-social influences on spectatorship comes from Germany.377 German cinephiles watching films in the 1970s recall images and emotions of fear awakened by school readings of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s poem Der Erlkönig (Erl King) 378 or E. T. A. Hoffmann’s novella, Der Sand- mann,379 or by having been read to at night from the many uncanny German folk stories collectively known The Grimm’s Fairy Tales380 as well as numerous other phantasmagoric stories penned by German authors in the 18th and 19th century— all of which have left a deep mark on the German collective cultural psyche. Frequently, these stories include Shadows, or “Other” characters who are not like the rest of the characters in the stories or the poems. An example is the “bad wolf” in Little Red Riding Hood or the evil “witch” in Hänsel und Gretel. It may be a physical trait such as the ugly appearance of the old woman being called a witch, or it could be an animal speaking and acting like a human, thus, outwardly expressing the animalistic, if not beasty nature within man. In the case of Goe- the’s poem The Erl King, it is a mythological Shadow, an uncanny Other character, who drives the young child to his early death:

“Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?“ "Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht? Den Erlenkönig mit Kron‘ und Schweif?“ "Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.“381

Although the extreme fear of the child seems explainable by the adult, the child cannot help be feel frightened by the nocturnal journey through unknown territory, similarly to a spectator being led through events happening especially to the main character(s).

Another means in stories, be they orally recounted, written down, or visually told in film, to evoke fear is through the emphasis on a single body part: par-

97 ticularly (staring or glazed over) eyes, which often belong to unsavory characters, such as Coppelius in Hoffmann’s novella, The Sandman. Moreover, spying or penetrating eyes onto one’s privacy evoke fear and are a strong theme found in German fairytales and many other uncanny stories. These stories provide a continuation in cinematic experiences as the means to see the film(s). In E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Sandman eyes—in particular, perceived artificial eyes—ultimately drive Nathanael to commit suicide after a phase in which he seemed to have overcome his fear of eyes. Nathanael’s infatuation, and later pathological obsession, with eyes and the mysterious Sandmann who was said to steal the eyes of children who refused to go to bed when being told to do so, is documented throughout Hoffmann’s novella by way of letters and later some supposed eye- witness accounts. As it turns out, through many childhood twists Nathanael associates a visitor to the paternal home with the Sandmann (who is someone who goes by the names of Coppelius or Coppelia), especially after (eye-)witnessing a failed alchemical experiment in which Nathanael’s father dies. When, after many years, Nathanael encounters the strange visitor again, Nathanael’s repressed fears and phobias re-emerge with a vengeance and finally insanity takes over his mind, leading him to commit suicide382 by plunging from a tall observation tow- er—all because he laid eyes on Coppelius, who himself had bragged about having made the eyes for a life-like automaton puppet, Olimpia, with whom Nathan- ael had briefly fallen in love. In context of cinema and film, the camera turns into the omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent “eye” on the action, through which the voyeuristic spectator is able to witness events unfolding while himself (herself) remaining unharmed by the camera’s interceding action.383

Many of Grimm Brothers’ collected fairytales also take place in uncanny places such as foggy woods or deep dark forests, where light does not penetrate through the thick tree crowns. Yet, the tales begin harmlessly enough on the outskirts or even far away from the woods. Perhaps the best example of such is the universally known story of Little Red Riding Hood (Rotkäppchen) who starts out being given the task to take food to her ailing grandmother some distance away. On the way, she meets the wolf who talks her into divulging information

98 and then entices her to waste time by collecting flowers in a meadow. Running late, Little Red Riding Hood rushes through the dark forest instead of staying, as initially planned, on the safer open road and when she emerges, she arrives at grandmother’s house where the nightmare of the wolf having eaten the grandmother begins. Nightmares and dreams are a personal cinematic apparatus inside a single person’s mind. Thus nightmares, as described by the Grimm Brothers’ stories, find a natural, albeit often stronger, expression in the visual storytelling of on-screen performances when viewing a film.384

Although at first glance the wolf may not appear so strange to an adult as the story had probably been recounted many times during childhood days, other phenomena in stories, especially in those dealing with supernatural phenomena, including ghosts and their slightly more evil poltergeist counterparts, can evoke various degrees of fear. In regard to these unexplainable “phenomena so typical of poltergeists” Jung remarks that he believes that he “found a suitable designation for this character-component when I called it the shadow.”385 He reminds his audience, that “[a]nother, no less important and clearly defined figure is the ‘shadow.’ Like the anima, it appears either in projection on suitable persons, or personified as such in dreams. The shadow coincides with the ‘personal’ unconscious.”386 Jung continues to specifically cite E.T.A. Hoffmann’s The Devil’s Elix- ir,387 and within it, the duality of the Faust-Mephistopheles complex388 as an example of the Shadow which, “personifies everything that the subject refuses to acknowledge about himself and yet is always thrusting itself upon him directly or indirectly—for instance, inferior traits of character and other incompatible tendencies.”389 As this is from a white male’s viewpoint, that which the subject eschew is anything female or racially different.

Frequently German authors in both written and filmic texts390 play ‘with the audience’s head’—meaning, the authors present something which at first glance appears to be almost harmless or can be otherwise explained, but then the works nearly imperceptibly drag the reader or viewer deeper into the quick sands of dread and fright—only to thrust upon him or her with the sinking feeling of inability to escape the invisible, unknown terror from the depth. The delirious child in

99 Goethe’s poem mistakes natural phenomena for mythic characters bent on revenge, the externally sane appearing Nathanael finds insanity triggered by eyes and Little Red Riding Hood finds herself in the clutches of a (child) predator.

From its inception, cinema has fulfilled a human need for “safe” experiences of deep emotions, providing the human psyche with a bridge to its Uncon- scious side. Hockley remarks that Carl Gustav Jung found cinema’s “ability to unlock the unconscious” very impressive.391 From early days of film, when pictures were simply photography set into motion, to the most recent of modern CGI epics, evocation and oscillation of moments of fear and relief constitute a large part of the movies.392 Siegfried Kracauer in 1926 pointed out that audiences flock to the movie palaces in Berlin because of their “addiction to distraction.”393 This sentiment was soon after echoed by Jung: “The movies are far more effi- cient than the theatre; they are less restricted, they are able to produce amazing symbols to show the collective unconscious, since their methods of presentation are so unlimited.”394 Part of the greater efficiency of cinema comes from its reli- ance on the battle between the Overdeveloped (heroic) Shadow and the dark In- ferior Shadow(s). The resolution, or as is the case in some auteur films the lack thereof, evokes emotions in the audience and returns spectators back to the film theater.

Similar to the literary examples cited, it is in the aftermath of watching a film that much of German auteur cinema gains further meaning.395 This holds true especially during the reflective phase, at which point the films really begin to attain their meaning(s). One of the emotions clutching the spectator’s mind and causing more reflection is a face-to-face encounter with varieties of fear. Alt- hough, films attain their meaning(s) through many visual effects, it often is fear of the Other that holds the greatest sway in the long run. Such fear can be, and usually is evoked before (in anticipation of frightening scenes, usually through movie trailers), during (while actively watching) and after (through reflection of terrifying on-screen events) watch a film.

100 Robert Harvey points out in the article, “Sartre / Cinema: Spectator / Art That Is Not One” that much of the film’s meaning-making occurs in the reflective phase. Speaking about French philosophers and cineastes Jean Paul Sartre and Simone Beauvoir, Harvey states that “[w]hat fueled Beauvoir and Sartre’s drive to see movies was not a yearning to be vacuously entertained, to be anesthetized from some tedious worker’s existence.”396 Instead, Harvey continues that “[e]ven while viewing the film, Sartre and Beauvoir are not altogether in the cinema because […] their professionally conditioned minds are already oriented toward some café where, in an hour or so, they will dissect the work of art with the relish of film critics constructing their metanarratives.”397 This statement not only applies to French philosophers. In other words, films, if viewed with even a slightly critical eye, will “work the minds” of the viewer long after having departed the Pla- tonian cave where images dart across the silver screen.

During both the encounter with the film as well as during the reflective phases of the cinematic experience the Personal Unconscious is most influence- able by the Archetypes on the screen. Frequently the insertion of an uncanny circumstance or a film character is added to German films, providing moments of disquiet when the unexpected disrupts the normalcy of life. This may be the Romani fiddle boy in Nosferatu or the automaton doll Olimpia in the Sandman. Or it may be the character of the Other dining at a restaurant associated with a very dark chapter in German history, as in the case of Ali in Fear Eats the Soul.398 Whereas for Sigmund Freud the uncanny “is the name for everything that ought to have remained … hidden and secret and has become visible,”399 so for Jung the uncanny occurs when “the other emerges within the same. Thus Jung notes its appearance as the male approaches the anima, ‘the woman in man’;7 it is also present in the revelation of the man within the woman, and an- drogyny in general […].”400 The shadow itself Jung says “is a living part of the personality and therefore wants to live with it in some form.”401

Cinema “speaks” to different audiences coming from a varied cultural, racial and age-spanning background, because the films tap into the concept of the hero and touch the collective Archetype.402 Perhaps Campbell has found the

101 true reason that unites movie audiences to congregate over and over in the cinematic cave: “The hero, therefore, is the man or woman who has been able to battle past his personal and local historical limitations to generally valid, normal human forms. Such a one’s visions, ideas, and inspirations come pristine from the primary spring of human life and thought.”403 A film, as Jung, Eberwein and other scholars have shown, is not much more than a dream played out on stage. Campbell’s statement, although geared toward the hero of mythological tales, also holds true for film heroes, the majority of which will be male. With the hero battling the Other, the hero’s action provides the audience with a notion of why and what to fear in the Other.

After undergoing predetermined trials and tribulations, the film hero has completed the Jungian process of Individuation by gaining new insight into manifestations of Archetypes (although some can be re-affirmations of existing stereotypes as Peggy McIntosh and Judith André have shown), and is thus able to live a more fulfilled life within his or her community. In the process of Individuation, which is part of the plotline played out on screen during a film, the cinematic hero brings the audience members at least partly along with him,404 and the spectators leave the shared Platonic cave experience feeling more fulfilled—sometimes even being able to transfer some of this experience into real life action in their own lives.405 Other times, though, the action on screen can lead to anxieties because the hero either has not been able to complete the individuation process, thus, has not become an individual with a more fulfilled life (or life prospect), or, the hero is not successful as a hero—this aspect is seen in many German auteur cinema films.406

When applying the expression of fear to being confronted with Archetypes in the cinema, Christopher Hauke and Ian Alister bring together psychotherapy and compare it to film-going experiences:

[…] the experiences sought and encountered in [psycho-] therapy can be both intense and painful and for this reason

102 they are often defended against and avoided in daily life. Popular cultural forms such as cinema can provide the holding necessary for intense experience in a similar fashion to [psycho-] therapy, making such experiences more accessible and more bearable. When an intensity of experience is mixed with the less intense, psychological and emotional re- plenishment and growth may be made more bearable and possible.407

The release of affects (as Jung often called emotions) when watching films, similar to the aims in psychotherapy, refers back to Aristotle’s catharsis theory. Films can both conjure up fears (such as in horror movies) and redirect fears (such as fears of the Underdeveloped Shadow) through their visual portrayal on screen. And as Hauke and Alister allude, films can be used to release, face and in the end possibly relinquish fears (although cathartic moments may not be experienced by all spectators alike).

As emotions build up, it is important for a film to ultimately release especially the stronger emotions, such as fear, because without some form of expulsion or redemption at some point, fear alone will not bring the audience back into the cinematic cave. What must occur is first a buildup of fear, then a release, culminating in a cathartic moment. As early as ancient Greece, Aristotle formulated thoughts about the cathartic effect of seeing the suffering of others on stage.408 James Chaplin in the Dictionary of Psychology defines catharsis in the Aristotelian sense as “the purging of the spirit of morbid and base ideas of emotions by witnessing the playing-out of such emotions or ideas on the stage.”409 This definition, put forth by Aristotle in his work Poetics, has become in large part a basis of much of the Humanities and has influenced film studies.

Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude; in language embel-

103 lished with each kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions. By 'language embel- lished,' I mean language into which rhythm, 'harmony' and song enter. By 'the several kinds in separate parts,' I mean that some parts are rendered through the medium of verse alone, others again with the aid of song.410

Richard Janko, however, in the foreword to his translation of the Poetics I cautions on taking the verbiage as the true meaning of Aristotle’s catharsis theory: “Scholars have tried to reconstruct Aristotle’s view of catharsis in two ways, either by comparing to what he said in Politics VIII with his account of the emotional effects of tragedy in the Poetics, or by searching for later writers who knew his theory directly or indirectly; both approaches are valid.”411 In the case of Janko’s translation, the author attempts to come to his own conclusions by undertaking a reconciliation of both Aristotle’s Poetics I and Poetics II as well as a surviving fragment from Aristotle’s On Poets (known as Fragment 4).

Ultimately perhaps, as a definition in McGraw-Hill’s Encyclopedia of World Drama proposes, the best explanation is that

[t]he value of tragedy, as Aristotle suggests, is that through the artistic and dramatic presentation of the story (mythos) concerning human suffering, the audience may transcend and learn from the universal situations depicted on stage. Catharsis then is the psychological process that helps explain the emotional and intellectual transcendence gained from tragedy.412

Despite problems of achieving a clear understanding of the full extent of Aristo- tle’s theory, over the past century many different authors have chosen the gen-

104 eral Aristotelian catharsis theory and applied it to communication, media and most recently to film in both very general and very specific terms.413

Catharsis in the cinema can occur in many forms, depending on the individual spectator. In Crying, the Natural and Cultural History of Tears, Tom Lutz points out that in a stage play by Edward Albee one character states: “There. Feel better? A good cry lets it all out.”414 Crying here becomes an outward sign of the inward cathartic purging by the character who cries on stage. “[…] as old as Hippocrates and as current as William Frey: crying is cathartic, and therefore, by definition good for you.”415 Lutz continues to sum up the history of the idea of catharsis416 as it relates to psychology, beginning with the note that “[…] psychology itself is far from [being a] unified science.”417 Another aspect of the process of catharsis is that of laughter. About this process, Kenneth J. Reckford states that “[t]he release of strong inhibited feelings in laughter thus form what we should call a preliminary catharsis, not a final one. It is a catalyst. It fuels a further, more significant process of comic combustion.”418

Susan J. Douglas, citing Lorena Bobbitt’s real life castration of her husband, John Wayne Bobbitt, and—following the event—the multitude of jokes on the David Letterman Show adds that “[t]hese jokes were, of course, about catharsis, about transforming the agony of castration into the pleasure of laughter and release.”419 Thus, Freudian Castration Anxiety, or the fear of loss of the phallus and with it, the outward symbol of the male penis, in modern days was alleviated by the burst of ridicule. Nevertheless, the catharsis here was at the expense of her husband, John Wayne Bobbitt as those jokes “had to emphasize that Bobbitt was ridiculous and impotent because he embodied emasculation, and that men had to aggressively attack that specter of losing power.”420 In this case, the Freudian Castration Anxiety intersected unexpectedly with media coverage and temporary psychological treatment in an institution for Lorena Bob- bitt.421 Although laughter in this case is an expression of catharsis, i.e. the release of fear and other emotions, the Bobbitt case and consequential Letterman Show jokes certainly questions the classical definition of catharsis in the Aristote- lian sense.

105 On a more academic level, scholars in recent years have begun to question Aristotle’s catharsis and some have indeed come to the conclusion that movies can be anti-cathartic. Gabrielle Murray notes that James B. Twitchell, whom theater critic Will H. Rocket calls “a ‘Freudian critic’ [posits that] all horror films are concerned with promulgating the remnants of the Incest Taboo.”422 Murray cautions that

[…] what the socializing rituals we find expressed in prepos- terous violence do is ‘excite, incite, becalm, delay, and de- fuse aggression. … The role of violent theater, cinema, pan- tomime, television, musical events, and a host of such cir- cuses is not finally escape, but a return, a return to our natural selves, a safe return to levels of contained aggression.’ […] However, the controversies surrounding screen violence frequently appear to be underpinned by troubling notions about the effective nature of catharsis.423

Murray summarizes that “[t]he problem with using Aristotle’s concept of catharsis is that it has ‘little theoretical foundation.’”424 It seems that Murray forgets that no theoretical foundations existed in Aristotle's days, but were in the process of being laid by ancient Greek and Roman philosophers.

Considering all arguments for and against the existence of cathartic effect, which appears to be largely based on empirical evidence, it may be best summed up by Tamborini: “Some debate on these issues is likely to remain. Still, agreement exists on several immediate outcomes.”425 Thus, Aristotle’s definition of catharsis as purging of fear and other emotions has not been fully de- throned and therefore, for the remainder of the dissertation, the cathartic effect of any fear educed in the spectator during a film viewing shall be considered to hold true as posited by Aristotle. Jung notes that the psyche wishes to remain in a healthy balance, therefore, deviations from the normal state of it by experience of heightened emotions can be considered as a state that requires a re-

106 balancing.426 Experiencing (or experiencing by proxy via silver screen), facing and then purging of fear in form of a cathartic moment after a cinematic encounter can consequently return the personal psyche into a healthy balance.

Proposing a New Approach

While film has been analyzed by many influential writers in the light of Freudian framework, much less has been written in the context of Carl Gustav Jung’s Archetypes and his posited notion of the Shadow(s), especially the Other as posited by Jungian scholars Rushing and Frentz. Examining New German Cinema in a Jungian-based context has largely remained undiscussed. Overall, Jungian-based analytical psychology being applied to film analysis has mostly been left by the wayside until the beginning of the 21st century. Film analysis can benefit greatly from a Jungian-based approach as Jung’s theories embrace a whole-psyche approach based on encompassing Archetypes instead of focusing on fragmentations of psychological portions within film characters. Applying a Jungian-based frameworks, the remaining chapters examine three selected New German Cinema films427 in light of how fear of the Other. The following chapters examine how the coding of fear relays to the audience which character to fear as the Underdeveloped Shadow. These chapters explore who poses a threat to the Overdeveloped Shadow (hero), and through the hero, the spectators themselves.

In their book, Projecting the Shadow: The Cyborg Hero in American Film, Janice H. Rushing and Thomas S. Frentz428 present an early and excellent discussion relating to Jung’s “Archetypes” and Jungian-based “Shadows” and their application in film analysis. Both terms are part of Jungian analytical psychology and, while Jung wrote very little about movies, Jung’s concepts of Archetypes and Shadows can be applied in critically explorations of cinematic visions. Luke Hockley answers his own question of why one should be concerned with such an approach as follows: “One answer is that Jung was fundamentally concerned with the relationship between individual and his or her environment.”429 Such relationships include Archetypes and fear of the Underdeveloped Shadow. Rush-

107 ing and Frentz observe “Jung’s name for that which we hate, fear, and disown, and therefore repress into the personal/cultural unconscious, is the shadow.”430 Using the Jungian-based framework of the Inferior (Underdeveloped) and Over- developed Shadows which the spectator expects (unconsciously) to see on the silver screen, the dissertation examines the concept of the Underdeveloped Shadow (which is synonymously used with the term Other) in three selected New German Cinema productions, exploring along the way the interaction of fear and spectatorship in response to the portrayal of the Other on-screen. By providing a new starting point for further explorations of Jungian-based concepts in film criticism, this dissertation will provide a framework to view film through the Jungian lens.

As the Freudian framework focuses mostly on the presence or absence of the phallus, this method of analysis only leads to partial illuminations of the filmic content. The Jungian-based framework, through its embrace of the whole psyche, provides a more inclusive analysis of the complete character. With the advent of social upheavals, such as the student uprising in the late 1960s, an escalation of aversion towards guest workers in Germany and the rise of homegrown terrorism in the 1970s, German audiences were looking for a scapegoat. New German Cinema generally does not provide the traditional “bad guy” scapegoat such as the dark-clad, darker skinned hombre in a typical Hollywood or Spaghetti Western, but codes its Other(s) in somewhat different manners: many looked just like the person next door. Rather, New German Cinema found new ways to visually code the Archetype of the Other. With this, the audience had to learn new cues to recognize the Underdeveloped Shadow so that the spectator could identify with the Overdeveloped Shadow or the hero.

By using Rushing and Frentz’s Jungian-based definition of the Other or the Underdeveloped Shadow, and examining the visual portrayal of the Shadow, I propose that spectators are exposed to culturally specific Archetypes of the Other (who is set up as foil to the hero), which in turn, leads to elicitation of fear

108 by ways of particular visual coding. The Archetypes of hero, Other, and mother, while perceived individually by each spectator and viewed based on his or her own past personal and socio-historical experiences, in turn are influencing the assessment of the Shadow as a source of (temporary) emotional distress. By utilizing particular archetypal expressions, such as the menacing foreigner as foil to the hero, auteur films can especially be culturally coded to elicit and shape affect. Depending on the visual coding, the utilization of the Shadow may elicit fear. The proposed model looks both at the visual portrayal (coding) of the Other as well as the socio-cultural history in which the Other has been coded and applies spectatorship to the film to examine the elicitation of fear through stock characterizations of the Other.

The three films, Fear Eats the Soul, The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum and Nosferatu, examined in this dissertation were selected based on multiple cri- teria. Firstly, they are all part of the New German Cinema era, which portrays a break with the German past, especially in terms of filmmaking: the timeframe in which the films were made also present a change in German socio-cultural history with the big events of the guest worker question being posed and the advent of domestic terrorism. Secondly, all three films address social themes that are still relevant to audiences nearly four decades after their initial releases. Thirdly, these three films also represent adaptations, which either reference back to previous films or books and thus anchor the films further in 20th century German socio- cultural setting.

By utilizing a Jungian-based approach many of the themes represented in New German Cinema can be unpacked with an embracing, holistic methodology. Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Angst Essen Seele Auf depicts issues of ageism, race, xenophobia and sexuality in a multi-faceted approach. In the mid-1970s, these themes were just beginning to emerge in German society. During the time Fassbinder’s film was released, home-grown terror groups were making more headlines. Similarly to the aftermath of 9/11 (2001) in the US, a mass hysteria fueled by media reports ensued. The Volker Schlöndorff / Margarethe von Trotta co-production Die Verlorene Ehre der Katharina Blum addresses the situation of

109 a societal psyche having lost its balance and what can happen when the media stirs the volatile mix further by fueling hysteria. Lastly, Werner Herzog’s Nosfera- tu addresses the questions of Alter-Ego in relation to sexuality and how the representation of the Undead Other can lead to fear, but also through re-examining of the definition of the Other, aid spectators on their own path to Individuation.

The Jungian-based framework applied to New German Cinema, as demonstrated on these three sample films, illuminates the transformation of the cultural Archetypes of the hero, representing the Ego and the Other as the hero progresses (or attempts to progress) on the way to Individuation. Since all three films selected address the concepts of the hero and Other in atypical fashions, that is, they do not clearly point to the Other as Underdeveloped Shadow, the audience lacks a clear character to identify as the Other is and thus, whom to ultimately fear. Additionally, all three films also fail to code any specific character as an Overdeveloped Shadow. The spectator therefore is conflicted as to who may present the on-screen Alter-Ego. In some cases, the coding of the Ego, in form of the hero, can also change, such as in the case of Nosferatu. The Jungi- an-based framework encourages critics to engage in a more comprehensive discussion of cinematic daring and social change through a holistic approach to film analysis, especially character analysis.

Chapter 3 has focused on connecting a Jungian-based critical framework applicable to spectator analysis through the pivot point of presenting a new proposed model of reading film within the Jungian-based framework. Beginning with a historical overview of spectatorship and the effect of films on the audience, it discussed key authors, such as Jean-Louis Baudry, Christian Metz and Laura Mulvey. By elaborating on fear and Aristotelian catharsis through critics such as Seymour Feshbach and Anthony Doob, this chapter illustrated how the release of negative emotion brings viewers back to the Platonic cave for further film view- ings. With the Jungian-based psychological framework explicated in relation to New German Cinema, the remainder of this dissertation provides a practical ap-

110 plication of and useful contribution to the canon of film criticism with the eye to the “forgotten” analytical psychology of Jung that will allow for a more balanced view of theoretical frameworks in film analysis. The next chapter provides a brief historical overview of New German Cinema to further understanding of the films discussed in light of the new theoretical model proposed in this chapter before analyzing the first of the three selected films, Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Fear Eats the Soul.

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264 Coates, Paul. The Gorgon’s Gaze: German Cinema, Expressionism and the Image of Horror. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 1991. Print. Page 122. 265 Some of the plays include Oedipus, the Orestia Trilogy, The Iliad and the Odyssey to mention only a few. 266 Psycho. Dir. Hitchcock, Alfred, Anthony Perkins, Janet Leigh, et al. Universal Studios, 2010. DVD. 267 Smith, Greg M. Film Structure and the Emotion System. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 2003. Print. Page 3. 268 Weber‐Feve, Stacey. Re‐Hybridizing Transnational Domesticity and Femininity: Women’s Contempo‐ rary Filmmaking and Lifewriting in France, Algeria and Tunisia. Lanham, MD: Lexington, 2010. Print. Page 10. 269 Hansen, Miriam. Babel and Babylon: Spectatorship in American Silent Film. Cambridge, MA: Harvard U P, 1991. Print. Pages 23 – 24. 270 Altenloh, Emilie. "Zur Soziologie des Kino: Die Kino‐Unternehmen und die Soziale Schichten ihrer Besucher.“ Heidelberg, Germany: Ruprecht‐Karl Universität. 1914. Dissertation. 271 Kracauer, Siegfried and Thomas Y. Levin. The Mass Ornament: The Weimar Essays. Cambridge, MA: Harvard U P, 1995. Print. 272 Braudy, Leo and Marshall Cohen. Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings. New York, NY: Ox‐ ford U P, 2009. Print. 273 The Lives of Others (Das Leben der Anderen). Dir. Donnersmarck, Florian Henckel von, Martina Gedeck, Ulrich Mühe, Sebastian Koch. Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 2007. DVD. 274 Halliwell, Stephen and Aristotle. Aristotle’s Poetics. Chicago, IL: U of Chicago P, 1999. Print. 275 Joel, Billy. Piano Man. New York, NY: Columbia. 1973. Sound Recording, CD. 276 Media researchers Elihu Katz and David Foulkes present an excellent discussion about the escapist theory in mass media. See Katz, Elihu and David Foulkes. “On the Use of Mass Media as ‘Escape’: Clarifi‐ cation of a Concept.” Public Opinion Quarterly 26.3 (Aut. 1962): 377‐388. For a newer discussion, see also the article by Pooley, Jeff. “Fifteen Pages that Shook the Field: Personal Influence, Edward Shils, and the Remembered History of Mass Communication Research.” Annals of the AAPSS 608.1 (Nov. 2006): 130‐

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156. Jäckel, Michael. Medienwirkungen: Ein Studienbuch zur Einführung. Wiesbaden, Germany: Verl. für Sozialwissenschaften, 2005. Print. Vitouch, Peter. Fernsehen und Angstbewältingung. Zur Typographie rd des Zuschauerverhaltens, 3 ed. Wiesbaden, Germany: Verl. für Sozialwissenschaften, 2007. Print. Peter Costantoura in his book points out that when Australian audiences were asked two questions about using literature or film as a means of escapism, 88% of the polled said they used film while only 70% felt theater provided the same escape. Costantoura, Peter. Australians and the Arts. Annandale, NSW, Australia: Federation P, 2001. Pages 219 ‐ 221. 277 Baudry, Jean‐Louis, “Ideological Effects ….” 278 Penley, Constance. “The Avant‐Garde and Its Imagery.” Movies and Methods: An Anthology, Vol. 2. Nichols, Bill, ed. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1985. Print. Page 578. 279 Allen, Robert C. Channels of Discourse, Reassembled: Television and Contemporary Criticism. Chapel Hill, NC: U of North Carolina P, 1992. Print. Page 158. 280 Baudry, Page 43. 281 Baudry, Page 44. 282 Casebier, Allan. Film and Phenomenology: Toward a Realist Theory of Cinematic Representation. Cam‐ bridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 1991. Print. Page 73. 283 Metz, Film Language and The Imaginary Signifier. 284 Dresner, Lisa M. The Female Investigator in Literature, Film and Popular Culture. Jefferson, NC: McFar‐ land, 2007. Print. Page 56. Also, Metz. Film Language. Page 11. 285 Le Grise, Malcolm. “Avant‐Garde Theory: Problematizing the Spectator Placement in Film.” In The Un‐ dercut Reader: Critical Writings on Artists’ Film and Video. Danino, Nino and Michael Mazière, eds. Lon‐ don, UK: Wallflower, 2003. Print. Page 26. Brackets added for clarity. 286 Santoro, Patricia J. Novel into Film: The Case of ‘La Familia de Pascual Duarte’ and ‘Los Santos Inocen‐ tes.’ Newark, DE: U of Delaware P, 1996. Print. Page 43. 287 Cartwright, Lisa. Moral Spectatorship: Technologies of Voice and Affect in Postwar Representations of the Child. Durham, NC: Duke U P, 2008. Print. Page 29. 288 Santoro, Page 44. Aaron, Michele. Spectatorship: The Power of Looking On. London, UK: Wallflower, 2007. Print. Page 13. 289 Aaron, Michele. Spectatorship. Page 18. Maltin. Richard. Hollywood Cinema. Oxford, UK: Blackwelll Publ., 2007. Print. Page 538. 290 Petro, Patrice. Joyless Streets: Women and Melodramatic Representations in Weimar, Germany. Princeton, NJ: Princeton U P, 1989. Print. Page 47. 291 Berenstein, Rhona J. “The Act of Viewing and Classic Horror Cinema.” In Viewing Positions: Ways of Seeing Film. Williams, Linda. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers U P, 1995. Print. Page 251. Bracketed text added for clarity. 292 Berenstein, Page 251. 293 Berenstein, Page 252. An excellent discussion of the female role in spectatorship, juxtaposing Metz and Mulvey, can be found in Evans Caroline and Lorraine Gamman’s article “The Gaze Revisited, or Re‐ viewing Queer Viewing.” In A Queer Romance: Lesbians, Gay Men, and Popular Culture. Burston Paul, and Colin Richardson, eds. London, UK: Routledge, 1995. Print. Pages 12 – 61. 294 Nixon, Sean. Hard Looks: Masculinities, Spectatorship and Contemporary Consumption. New York, NY: St. Martin’s P, 1996. Print. Page 177. 295 Nixon, Hard Looks, Page 177. 296 Hockley, Frames, Page 9. 297 Creed, Barbara. “Film and Psychoanalysis.” In Oxford Guide to Film Studies. Hill, John and Pamela Church Gibson, eds. Oxford U P, 1998. Print. Page 78. Brackets added for clarification. 298 Singh, Greg. Film After Jung: Post‐Jungian Approaches to Film Theory. New York, NY: Routledge, 2009. Print. 299 Stacey, Jackie. Star Gazing: Hollywood Cinema and Female Spectatorship. London, UK: Routledge, 1994. Print. Page 11.

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300 Davis, Kimberly C. Postmodern Texts and Emotional Audiences. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue U P, 2007. Print. Page 44. 301 McIlroy, Brian. “The Tuxedoed Fallacy: Intratextual Audiences in two Films by François Girard.” In North of Everything: English‐Canadian Cinema Since 1980. Beard William and Jerry White, eds. Edmon‐ ton, Canada: U of Alberta P, 2002. Print. Page 185. 302 “emotional baggage” refers to any accumulation of personal experiences which inform conscious and sub‐conscious decisions made by an individual based on the emotions attached by the Personal Uncon‐ scious to each experience. 303 Rushing and Frentz, Page 39. 304 Rushing and Frentz, Page 39. 305 Hendricks, Christina and Kelly Oliver. Language and Liberation: Feminism, Philosophy, and Language. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 1999. Print. Page 52. 306 McIntosh, Peggy. “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack.” (note: this article has been pub‐ lished many times in various readers although the original publication came directly through Peggy McIn‐ tosh). Rothenberg, Paula S. Race, Class, Gender in the United States: An Integrated Study. New York, NY: Worth, 2004. Pages 188 – 192. Kimmel, Michael S. and Abby L. Ferber. Privilege: A Reader. Boulder, CO: Westview P, 2003. Print. Pages 147 – 160. See also Cornish, Jennifer et al. Handbook of Multicultural Counseling Competencies. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, 2010. Print. Pages 444 – 445. 307 Lund, Carole L. White Privilege and Racism: Perceptions and Actions. San Francisco, CA: Jossey‐Bass, 2010. Print. Page 16. 308 Andre, Judith. “Stereotypes: Conceptual and Normative Considerations.” In Racism and Sexism: An Integrated Study. Rothenberg, Paula S., ed. New York, NY: St. Martin’s P, 1988. Print. Page 261. 309 Sommers‐Flanagan, John and Rita Sommers‐Flanagan. Counseling and Psychotherapy: Theory, Strategy and Technique. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, 2004. Print. Page 118. 310 Pascal, Eugene. Jung to Live By. New York, NY: Warner, 1992. Print. Chapter 7 “…whatever we mis‐ understand we tend to fear; what we fear, we easily hate; and what we hate becomes an incredibly mag‐ netic hook for our wildest and most hideous shadow projections.” (unpaginated) 311 Gilley, Kay. The Alchemy of Fear. Boston, MA: Butterworth‐Heinemann, 1998. Print. Page 32. 312 Gilley, Jerry W. The Manager as Change Agent: A Practical Guide for Developing High‐Performance People and Organizations . Oxford, NY: Perseus Books. Print. Page 233. 313 Whitmer, Barbara. The Violence Myth. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 1997. Print. Page 238. “culturally appropriate” can be defined as “that which a particular society feels is the socially correct pun‐ ishment for transgressions committed.” This may be as little as a verbal chastising or as much as injury or even death. 314 This is not to say that there is not “safety” in the cinematic experience, but some viewers will invariably take the horror experienced vicariously through the film viewing and take the images back – often to have them recur as nightmares. In no way does this mean that the film experience is “un”safe – it simply means that some spectators have stronger reactions than others. And this is in line with Jungian thought of individuals reacting slightly different due to slight differences in personal (un)consciousness. 315 Jacobi, Jolande. Complex, Archetype, Symbol: In the Psychology of C. G. Jung. London, UK: Routledge, 1999. Print. Page 194. 316 Jacobi, Page 195. 317 Pearson, Carol S. Awakening the Heroes Within. New York, NY: Harper‐Collins, 1991. Print. 318 Jung, C. G. Man and His Symbols. London, UK: Random House, 1968. Print. Page 58. 319 Jung, Man and His Symbols, Page 64. 320 No author. Merriam‐Webster Collegiate Dictionary. Springfield, MA: Merriam‐Webster Inc. 2005. Print. Page 458. 321 Merriam‐Webster, Page 458.. 322 Baldwin, James Mark. Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology. Volume I. Gloucester, MA: P. Smith, 1960. Print. Page 375. 323 Baldwin, Dictionary, Page 376.

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324 Hamill, Ralph C. “The Role of the Risque Story.” Journal of Abnormal Psychology 16 (1921‐22): 269‐ 273. Print. Page 272. 325 Morse, Josiah. The Psychology and Neurology of Fear. Worcerster, MA: Clark U P, 1907. Page 6. 326 Morse, Psychology, Page 6 327 Foxman, Paul. Dancing With Fear: Overcoming Anxiety in a World of Stress and Uncertainty. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2004. Print. Page 20, Figure 2.1. 328 Morse, Page 8. Spelling exactly as original. 329 Feshbach, Seymour. “The drive‐reducing function of fantasy behavior.” Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology 50.1 (1955): 3‐11. Print. 330 Feshbach, Seymour. “The stimulating versus cathartic effects of a vicarious aggressive activity.” Jour‐ nal of Abnormal and Social Psychology 63.2 (Sept. 1961): 381‐384. Print. “The Function of Aggression and the Regulation of Aggressive Drive.” Psychological Review 71.4 (July 1964): 257‐272. Print. “The Cathar‐ sis Effect: Research and Another Review.” In Television and Social Behavior, Vol. II: Television and Social Learning. Baker, R. K. and G. A. Comstock, eds. US Govt. Printing Office, Washington, DC, 1969. See also Harris, Richard Jackson. A Cognitive Psychology of Mass Communication. Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum, 2004. Print. Page 274. 331 Brody, Stephen. Screen Violence and Film Censorship. Home Office Research Study no. 40. London, UK: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1977. Print. Page 61. 332 Brody, Screen Violence, Page 61. 333 Doob, Anthony N. “Catharsis and Aggression: The Effect of Hurting One’s Enemy.” Journal of Experi‐ mental Research in Psychology 4.4 (1970): 291‐296. Print. Doob, Anthony N. and Lorraine E Wood. “Ca‐ tharsis and Aggression: Effects of Annoyance and Retaliation on Aggressive Behavior.” Journal of Personal‐ ity and Social Psychology 22.2 (1972): 156‐162. Print. 334 Brody, Page 63. 335 Brody, Page 63, fulfil with a single ‘L’ in original. 336 Brody, Page 63. “researcher’s” in original. 337 Potter, James W. The 11 Myths of Media Violence. Thousand Oaks, CA: U of California at Santa Barba‐ ra, 2003. Print. Page 39. 338 Potter, 11 Myths, Page 39. 339 Tamborini, Ron. “Enjoyment and Social Functions of Horror.” In Communication and Emotion: Essays in Honor of Dolf Zillmann. Bryant, Jennings et al, eds. Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum Associates, 2003. Print. Page 426. 340 Tamborini, Essays in Honor of Dolf Zillmann, Page 426. 341 Gilley, Kay. The Alchemy of Fear. Woburn, MA: Butterworth‐Heinemann, 1998. Print. Page 18. Em‐ phasis in original. 342 Gilley, Alchemy, Page 18. 343 Weiner, Irving, ed. Corsini’s Encyclopedia of Psychology. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2010. Print. Page 651. 344 Weiner, Corsini, Page 651. 345 Weiner, Page 651. 346 Corsini, Page 651. 347 Bryant, Jennings and Peter Vorderer, eds. Psychology of Entertainment. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erl‐ baum, 2006. Page 244. 348 Hockenbury, Don H. and Sandra E. Hockenbury, eds. Psychology. New York, NY: Worth, 2010. Print. Page 425. Overall, findings show that men take longer to reach “fear mode,” however, when arriving at that level, men react stronger in their response to fear than women. Often more violently. 349 th Comer, Ronald J. Abnormal Psychology, 5 ed. New York, NY: Macmillan, 2008. Print. Page 138. 350 Affect here is used as defined by Jung, i.e. affect as synonym to emotion(s). 351 Weiner, Corsini, Page 652. 352 Gray, Jeffrey Alan. The Psychology of Fear and Stress. London, UK: Cambridge U P, 1987. Print. p. 2.

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353 This subject would be of great interest to the author as a future area of study, especially in conjunction with neuro‐biologists who can assist with an in‐depth neuro‐physiological evaluation of fear and other emotions induced by films. 354 Most notable Clover, Carol, Bergstrom, Janet, Berenstein, Rhoda and Carroll, Noell. See bibliography for some of their works. 355 Hockley, Frames, Page 35 356 Hockely, Frames, Page 35. 357 Rushing and Frentz, Projecting the Shadows. 358 Freud, Siegmund in Solomon, Robert, ed. What is an Emotion: Classical and Contemporary Readings, nd 2 ed. New York, NY: Oxford U P, 2003. Print. Page 104. 359 C. G. Jung. The Collected Works, 2. Read, Herbert et al., eds. New Jersey, NJ: Princeton U P, 1958. Print. Page 521. 360 Jung, 9.1, Page 106. 361 Jung, 9.1, Page 40. 362 At this point, it is acknowledged that there a much larger body of writings exists which deals specifical‐ ly with fear and the various encounters with oneself and Otherness. Examples include Existentialism, no‐ tably the works by Søren Kierkegaard. A more focused work on the aspect of Jung and existentialist theo‐ ries in the context of film spectatorship must remain for discussion in a future research project. 363 Jung, 9.1, Page 145. 364 Jung, 9.1, Page 164. 365 Jung, Collected Works, 10, Page 346. Jung further goes on to say that, because there is so much fluidity in the psyche, the individual is at risk to lose his or her grounding in the world. He continues to argue that this is the origin of rites which serve the “purpose of securing the co‐operation of the unconscious” (Jung, v. 10, Page 346). Literature, film and culture in general help keep individuals “grounded” in culturally ap‐ propriate manners. 366 Jung, 9.1, Page 282 367 Stewart, Louis H. “A Brief Report: Affect and Archetype.” Journal of Analytical Psychology 32 (1987): 35‐46. Papdopoulos, Renos K. Carl Gustav Jung: The Structure and Dynamic of the Psyche. New York, NY: Routledge, 1992. Print. Stevens, Anthony. Archetypes Revisited: An Updated Natural History of the Self. New York, NY: Routledge, 2002, Print. Hollis, James and David H. Rosen. The Archetypal Imagination. Carolyn and Ernest Fay Series in Analytical Psychology. College Station, TX: Texas A&M U P, 2003. Print. Knox, Jean. Archetypes, Attachment, Analysis: Jungian Psychology and the Emergent Mind. This concept has even found its way into the world of management studies: Harmon, Franchee. Making Purpose Work: The Challenge of Growing Ourselves and Our Companies. Chicago, IL: HPH, 2006. Print. On page 238 the author presents a table based on Carol Pearson’s work which lists archetypes, the fear response and the corresponding Jungian shadow as transferred into the world of company management. 368 Cantor, Joanne. “Fright Reactions to Mass Media.” In Media Effects. Bryant Jennings and Mary Beth Oliver eds. New York, NY: Routledge, 2009. Print. Page 287. 369 Evans, William. “Reality Programming.” In Moving Image Theory: Ecological Considerations. Ander‐ son, Joseph and Barbara F. Anderson, eds. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois U P, 2007. Print. Page 208. 370 Cantor, Page 291. 371 Barker, Martin and Kate Brooks. Awkward Audiences of Judge Dredd. Luton, Bedfordshire, UK: U of Luton P, 1998. Print. Page 191. 372 Cantor, Page 294. Note: although the term arousal has been used more frequently in connection with sexual terms, in this context, Cantor utilizes “arousal” as a shorthand term for a “highly energy‐charged emotional stimulation.” 373 Olson, Scott Robert. Hollywood Planet: Global Media and the Competitive Advantage of Narrative Transparency. Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum, 1999. Print. Page 57. 374 Jung, 10, Page 93. 375 Hockley, Frames, Page 35.

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376 With the introduction of (multi‐)cultural studies in film criticism, the notion of “ego = white male” has been strongly eroded. However, the bulk of canonical writers, even after Mulvey’s essay had been pub‐ lished, have centered their assumption of the “ego” on the white male. 377 While “Germany” post‐1989 has been unified, Germany in the 1970s was divided. Thus, in this disser‐ tation, which discusses three films from the 1970s, the term “Germany” shall be used in the more restric‐ tive sense of “West Germany” and its cultural settings. 378 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. "Der Erlkönig." 1782. One very early English translation can be found in Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. The Poems of Goethe. New York, NY: T. Y. Crowell, 1882. Print. Page 99. 379 Hoffmann, E. T. A. and Rudolf Drux. Der Sandmann. Stuttgart, Germany: Reclam, 2003. Print. 380 Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. Grimms Märchen. Nürnberg, Germany: Sebaldus, 1954. Print. 381 nd Goethe, Erlkönig. 2 stanza. Translation by M. Densmore: “My son, why do you hideth your face in deep dread?” “Look, Father, do you not see the Erlkönig, the Erlkönig with his cro’n and tail?” “My son, it’s a fog’s wisp.” 382 Susan Yi Sencindiver in a reading of Sigmund Freud’s essay “The Uncanny” points out that blindness stands for the fear of castration. By his fascination with Olimpia and later, due to having laid eyes on the “veiled woman,” Nathanael has been castrated or rendered a non‐viable male, therefore, the only way out was to take his own life. Sencindiver, Susan Yi. “Sexing or Specularising the Doppelgänger: A Re‐ course to Poe’s ‘Ligeia.’” In Fear Itself: Reasoning the Unreasonable. Hessel, Stephen and Michèle Hup‐ pert, eds. Amsterdam, NL: Rodopi, 2010. Print. Pages 68 – 69. 383 Andriano, Joseph. Our Ladies of Darkness: Feminine Daemonology in Male Gothic Fiction. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State U P, 1993. Print. Pages 49 – 59. Röder, Birgit. A Study of the Major Novellas of E. T. A. Hoffmann. Rochester, NY: Camden, 2003. Print. Pages 57 – 78. 384 Dundes, Alan. “Interpreting Little Red Riding Hood Psychoanalytically.” In The Brothers Grimm and Folktale. Urbana, IL: U of Illinois P, 1991. James M. McGlathery, ed. Print. Page 29. Delarue, Paul. “The Story of the Grandmother.” In Little Red Riding Hood: A Casebook. Alan Dundes, ed. Madison, WI: U of Wisconsin P, 1989. Print. Pages 13 ‐ 63. 385 Jung, 9.1, Page 183. 386 Jung, 9.1, Page 284. Quotation marks in original. 387 Kerr, John. “The Devil’s Elixir.” In Jung in Contexts: A Reader. Paul Bishop, ed. London, UK: Routledge, 1999. Print. Pages 143 – 145. 388 Conger, John. Jung & Reich: The Body as Shadow. Berkeley, CA: North Atlantic Books, 2005. Print. Page 163. 389 Jung, 9.1, Page 284. 390 Examples include the highly popular Edgar Wallace series of films produced in the 1960s and 1970s. Pitts, Michael R. Famous Movie Detectives III. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow P, 2004. Print. Chapter 11, Pages 34 – 65. Spencer, Kristopher. Film and Television Scores, 1950 – 1979: A critical Survey by Genre. Jeffer‐ son, NC: McFarland, 2008. Print. Page 46. Ginsberg, Terri and Andrea Mensch, eds. A Companion to German Cinema. Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 2011. Print. Page 303. 391 Hockley, Frames, Page 21. This remark by Jung was made between 1928 and 1930. 392 Examples can be given abound. The films that come to mind on both ends of the timeline are Edvard Muybridge’s Horse in Motion (1886) and James Cameron’s Avatar (2009). 393 Kracauer, Siegfried. Das Ornament der Masse: Essays. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag. 1977. Also reprinted in Kracauer, Siegfried and Thomas Y. Levin. “Cult of Distraction: On Berlin’s Picture Palac‐ es.” New German Critique 40 Special Issue on Weimar Film Theory (Win. 1987): 91‐96. Print. Page 93. 394 Jung in Hockley, Frames, Page 21. 395 Turner, Graeme. Film as Social Practice. London, UK: Routledge, 1988. Print. Pages 129 – 131. Glebas, Francis. Directing the Story: Professional Storytelling and Storyboarding Techniques For Live Ac‐ tion and Animation. Amsterdam, NL: Elsevier, 2009. Print. Pages 260 – 261. 396 Harvey, Robert. “Sartre / Cinema: Spectator / Art That Is Not One.” Cinema Journal Vl 30.3 (Spr. 1991): 43‐59. Print. Page 46.

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397 . Harvey, Robert, Page 46. 398 Prawer, Siegbert Salomon. Caligari’s Children: The Film As Tale of Terror. New York, NY: Da Capo, 1989. Print. Page 119 – 121. 399 Coates, Paul. The Gorgon’s Gaze: German Cinema, Expressionism, and the Image of Horror. New York, NY: Cambridge U P, 1991. Print. Page 5. Ellipsis in original. 400 Coates, Page 5. Quotation marks and superscripted number in original. 401 Jung, 9.1, Page 20. 402 From the long list of scholars who have written about this concept, the following small list can only en‐ compasses some of the works: Barrett, Gregory. Archetypes in Japanese Film: the Sociopolitical and Reli‐ gious Significance of the Principal Hero and Heroines. Selinsgrove, PA: Susquehanna U P, 1989. Print. Iac‐ cino, James F. Jungian Reflections within the Cinema: A Psychological Analysis of Sci‐Fi and Fantasy Arche‐ types. Westport, CT: Praeger, 1998. Print. Mackey‐Kallis, Susan. The Hero and the Perennial Journey Home in American Film. Davies, Robert A and James M. Farrell. “The Dream World of Film: A Jungian Per‐ spective on Cinematic Communication.” Western Journal of Communication 46.4 (Aut. 1982): 326‐343. Rushing, Janice H. and Thomas S. Frentz. “Integrating Ideology and Archetypes in Rhetorical Criticism, Part III: A Case Study of Jaws.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 79.1 (1993, 1 Feb): 61‐81. 403 Campbell, The Hero, Page 14. 404 In the majority of both mythological tales and films the hero is a male. However, there are some in‐ stances in which the heroic figure is represented by a female figure. 405 Depending on the type of film, a spectator may heed a “call to action” presented in a film, or may “hear” a calling to action where there may not even have been one intended by the director. Spectator‐ ship studies, mostly based on Freudian theories, are found in the writings of Baudry and Metz. Baudry, Jean‐Louis. “Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematographic Apparatus” Metz, Christian. The Imaginary Signifier. Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Allen, Richard. Projecting Illusion Film Spectatorship And the Impression of Reality. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 1997. Print. Campbell, Jan. Film and Cinema Spectatorship: Melodrama and Mimesis. White, Michele. The Body and The Screen: Theories of Internet Spectatorship. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006. Print. Aaron, Michele. Spectator‐ ship: the Power of Looking On. 406 This is not to say that other European auteur films always complete the journey. Au contraire! Espe‐ cially French auteur films, such as Jean‐Luc Godard’s works often will end in open areas (such as meadows or woods, or a beach) to indicate the openness which can take the film anywhere from the moment the words “The End” flicker across the screen. 407 Haucke and Alister, Page 2. Brackets added for clarification. 408 Aristotle, Poetics. VI. Many translations in printed and electronic format exist for Aristotle. For an ear‐ ly translation see S. H. Butcher’s 1895 translation at http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/poetics.mb.txt The Internet Classics Archive: Poetics by Aristotle. MIT Online text. Also, Project Gutenberg. http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/6763 Poetics. English by Aristotle. Project Gutenberg Online text. A relatively recent translation of the Poetics text can also be found in Halliwell, Stephen and Aristotle. Poet‐ ics. Reprinted. Ann Arbor, MI: Loeb Classical Library, Harvard College, 2005. Print. 409 Chaplin, J. P. Dictionary of Psychology. New York, NY: Dell Publ. Co., 1985. Print. 410 Aristotle. Poetics. VI. 411 Aristotle and Richard Janko, transl. Poetics I. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett , 1987. Print. Page xvi. Empha‐ sis in original. 412 Hochman, Stanley and McGraw‐Hill, Inc, eds. McGraw‐Hill Encyclopedia of World Drama: An Interna‐ nd tional Reference Work, 2 ed. New York, NY: McGraw‐Hill, 1984. Print. Page 223. Emphasis in original. 413 th Earliest mentioning in the 19 century comes from both a summary text that references older texts mostly in the medical sense though (Ploucquet, Wilhelm Gottfried. Literatura medica digestive sive reperorium medicniae practicae, Vol. III. Tübingen, Germany: Joannem Geogium Cottam, 1809. Out of Print. Page 430.) and a very early issue of the renown medical journal The Lancet. Wakley, Thomas, ed. London, UK: George Churchill, 1813. Out of Print. Page 610. More relevant is The Encyclopedia America‐ na which references “nonprint media” in the context of catharsis on page 141. The Encyclopedia Ameri‐

117 cana, Vol. 30. Americana Corp, 1829. Out of Print. Page 141. By 1859, John Craig already makes refer‐ ences to artificial version of catharsis: Craig, John. A New Universal Etymological Technological, and Pro‐ nouncing Dictionary of the English Language, Vol. 1. London, UK: Routledge, 1859. Out of Print. Page 282. “Catharsis: […] Purgation of the excrements or humours, either naturally or artificially.” More recent publications recommended are the following texts: Geen, R. G. Human Aggression. Belmont, CA: Thompson Brooks‐Cole, 1990. Print. Pages 83‐112. Potter, James W. On Media Violence. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1999. Print. Jacobs, Roland N. Race, Media, and the Crisis of Civil Society: From Watts to Rodney King. New York, NY: Cambridge U P, 2000. Print. Selzer, Jack and Sharon Crowley. Rhetorical Bodies. Madison, WI: U of Wisconsin P, 1999. Print. Holtzman, Linda. Media Messages: What Film, Tele‐ vision, and Popular Music Teach Us About Race. Armonk, NY: Sharpe, 2000. Print. Dainton, Marianne and Elaine D. Zelley. Applying Communication Theory for Professional Life: A Practical Introduction. Thou‐ sand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2010. Print. Wober, J. M. Media and Monarchy. Huntington, NY: Nova Sciences, 2000. Print. Richter, Sandra and Anja Hill‐Zenk, eds. A History of Poetics: German Scholarly Aesthetics and Poetics in International Context, 1770‐1960. New York, NY: Walter de Gruyter, 2010. Print. Douglas, Su‐ san J. Enlightened Sexism: the Seductive Message that Feminism’s Work is Done. New York, NY: Times, 2010. Print. 414 Lutz, Tom. Crying, the Natural and Cultural History of Tears. New York, NY: Norton, 1999. Print. Page 115. 415 Lutz, Pages 115‐116. 416 Lutz, Pages 115 – 120. 417 Lutz, Page 116. Brackets added for clarity. 418 Reckford, Kenneth J. Aristophanes‘ Old‐and‐New Comedy: Six Essays in Perspective. Chapel Hill, NC: U of North Carolina P, 1987. Print. Page 56. 419 Douglas, Susan J. The Rise of Enlightened Sexism: How Pop Culture Took Us from Girl Power to Girls Gone Wild. New York, NY: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2011. Print. Page 65. 420 Douglas, Girl Power, Page 65. 421 Verdict: http://www.courttv.com/archive/casefiles/verdicts/bobbitt.html. 422 Murray, Gabrielle. This Wounded Cinema, this Wounded Life: Violence and Utopia in the Films of Sam Peckinpah. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2004. Print. Page 60. Bracketed material added for clarity. 423 Murray, Page 60. Quotation marks and ellipsis in original. Deciding the question of whether arche‐ types and myths explain rituals or vice versa must be left to the larger group of both cultural and social anthropologists and psychoanalytic critics. However, it is the belief of this author that rituals are a form of cultural mitigation of unexplained archetypes and myths more so than the other way around based on Jung’s and also Campbell’s definition of archetypes and myths. 424 Murray, Page 61. 425 Tamborini, Page 432. 426 Hockley, Frames, Page 9. 427 Fear Eats the Soul, Dir. R. W. Fassbinder, The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum, Dir. Margarethe von Trotta and Volker Schlöndorff, and Nosferatu, Dir. Werner Herzog. 428 Rushing and Frentz, Projecting the Shadow, Page 39. 429 Hockley, Frames, Page 8. 430 Rushing and Frentz, Page 39

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CHAPTER 4: ALI – ANGST ESSEN SEELE AUF (RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER, 1974)

In the theater I directed as if it were a film, And then I made films as if they were theatre.431

After presenting the relevant authors and situating the newly proposed model for film analysis within the Jungian-based framework utilized in the model, the remaining chapters of this dissertation examine the three films selected. These films are Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s 1974 Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (Angst Essen Seele Auf), Margarethe von Trotta and Volker Schlöndorff’s 1975 co- production The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum (Die Verlorene Ehre der Katharina Blum) and Werner Herzog’s 1979 remake of the Weimar classic Nosferatu. In the following chapters, each film will be discussed in greater depth in Jungian- based concepts. This chapter begins with a brief, introductory overview of New German Cinema before analyzing the first of the three films, Fear Eats the Soul. In the analysis of Fassbinder’s film, the characters of Ali and Emmi are examined in light of their role as Underdeveloped Shadows both within the larger German society as well as within their own relationship. Fassbinder as director is known for his use of foregrounding and the lack of a defined hero, which will also be discussed in the context of the analysis.

A Look at New German Cinema

While Hollywood has gone in the direction of frequently anesthetizing the viewer’s mind by presenting fairytales that commonly resolve into a fairytale-style happy ending, the newly emerging auteur directors of the New Cinema in the

119 1960s and 1970s set out to change the classical Hollywood examples and instead produce works that would instigate the audience to reflect and contemplate the cinematic experience long after the films ended. In the decades past, Freud- ian film criticism has been applied to mostly Hollywood narratives as the dream factory works lend themselves to more generalized analyses, such as Mulvey’s work on the body of Hitchcock films. Freudian frameworks later were also applied to European films, with scholars such as Thomas Elsaesser, Anton Kaes, Sabine Hake and Eric Rentschler leading the way. Since New German Cinema directors have taken an approach to story lines that differs from Hollywood, adding a Jungian-based perspective to the analysis of three selected films aims to aid cineastes in understanding New German Cinema films in a more holistic manner due to being viewed from a slightly different angle.

In the early 1960s, the film industry in post-war Germany had become stale and the output of refreshingly new films was near collapse:432 up to that point in time, most German films were either literary remakes such as Karl May pseudo-Westerns or Edgar Wallace crime novels turned into films, or they were continuations of the Heide-and Heimatfilme, such as Grün ist die Heide or a remake of Geierwally, from the Third Reich period with a small infusion of Holly- wood glitter.433 The quality of German-made adaptation films had deteriorated so drastically that during the German Film Festival, the Berlinale, in 1961 not a single German-made production was awarded a special prize set aside specifically for German films.434 The initial shock of such hitherto unheard action by the awards committee then leads several young filmmakers, including Alexander Kluge, to call for a reform of the cinematic output at the time. This call triggers on 28 February 1962 the issuance of the Oberhausen Manifesto which ends with “Der alte Film ist tot. Wir glauben an den neuen.”435 This motto reverberates the directors’ enthusiasm to produce something new, never heard of, and experiment outside the proverbial box of filmmaking between the end of Third Reich and the early 1960s. It must be noted though that some of the internationally best known New German Cinema films, such as Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Ali: Fear Eats

120 the Soul or Effi Briest and Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu, are actually adaptations. Neither of these two filmmakers signed the Oberhausen Manifesto which was endorsed by a total of (mostly unknown) 26 filmmakers. The Oberhausen event marked a change in the direction German film was headed, which would prove a break with the cinematic output since Weimar. The label “New German Cinema,” as the period would become known,436 traditionally has been applied to films produced in the aftermath of Oberhausen and ending with the death of perhaps one of its most iconic filmmakers, Rainer Werner Fassbinder in 1982. While most of German film history is broken down into eras based on political breaks, such as the Wilhelmine (before 1918), Weimar (1918 – 1933) or Post-Unification cinema (1989 to present), the end of New German Cinema is marked by the death of Rainer Werner Fassbinder.

New German Cinema films, like other European auteur films 437 of the 1960s and 1970s, rebel against conventions set forth by the Hollywood Dream Machine and instead focus on the voice of the director (“auteur”). To understand the European hero in an auteur film, it is useful to look first at American films to understand what influenced filmmakers of the New German Cinema. At the same time this comparison to American film can also aid in understanding what the New German Cinema directors revolted against.

When looking at randomly selected Hollywood movies, it becomes clear that most American-made film plotlines all more or less closely follow Campbell’s heroic journey: the future hero, or much less commonly the future heroine, lives in a world in which one status quo exists. Then some outside event occurs, disturbing the original status quo, thus calling the (frequently reluctant) hero(ine) to some sort of action. He (or she) heeds the call to action, leaves the comfort of home and encounters a variety of obstacles to be overcome—often alone, although sometimes with one or more wayfaring partners—until ultimately, a return back to home occurs where a new, regularly also improved, status quo is established.438 As will be demonstrated in the upcoming chapters, New German Cin- ema film characters do not always follow the path of the hero as outlined by Campbell, but often stop short of the final redemptive change in the status quo.

121 Some of the best examples of complete, straight forward hero’s journeys are not found in 1960s, 1970s and 1980s European cinema, but can easily be discovered in many American Westerns and science fiction films, most markedly, the Sci-Fi trilogy Star Wars.439 Whereas Hollywood movies provide generally a closure to the action, in contrast European films, especially those which are produced by auteur directors, often leave the audience with an open ended storyline as Peter Wollen details in a comparison of American and European films.440 Un- like North America, Europe experienced, and by the 1960s was still reeling from, the violence of two major wars fought on its soil. Europeans of the time were not yet feeling a complete closure of the horrific events, especially those uncovered at and after the end of World War II.441 It should thus come as no surprise, when considering the European auteur cinema in the second half of 20th century, that the (European cinema) hero’s journey often ends incomplete. For example, the hero in the film may not return home (i.e. may die on the way), the establishment of a new status quo upon returning home may be lacking (i.e. despite all the trials and tribulations, the original status quo has not been changed), or the sought after prize may not be attained (this could be a woman, a physical item or a societal change). Examples of films with an incomplete hero’s journey or a “hero” who is in reality the Other include French auteur director Francois Truffaut’s 400 Blows442 which ends with the “hero” reaching the ocean, unable to run any further, and many of German filmmaker Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s works, especially Ali, Fear Eats the Soul,443 which lacks a clearly defined hero. In New Ger- man Cinema, Jungian-based Archetypes of the Other, the hero and the mother figure are visually and thematically less clearly defined than in most Hollywood films. Such lack of definition can lead to spectatorial fear as the audience is uncertain about which character is the spectators’ on-screen Alter-Ego. This may be one reason why so many, especially first generation film scholars, have looked to Sigmund Freud and his psychoanalytical theories to provide a theoretical framework into which to situate their analyses instead of turning to Jungian scholars and concepts of Archetypes in analytical psychology.444 The Freudian framework for film analysis is more clear cut and narrowly defined, while Jungian-

122 based concepts prove often more difficult to grasp since the Jungian-based framework embraces a holistic approach to the human and the human psyche.

The concept of auteur films ultimately also reached Hollywood, although close to the end of the New German Cinema era. One of the best known Ameri- can film examples in which the traditionally coded hero may after all prove to perhaps not be the true winner in the end is Ridley Scott’s 1982 Hollywood classic science fiction film, Blade Runner.445 In the final scenes—similar to European auteur cinema—it is ultimately left unclear who represents the true hero as Rut- ger Hauer’s android character shows great humanity even as he slowly expires on the rooftops under the watchful eye of his hunter (Harrison Ford). This particular film returns to the genre of Film Noir, which had become very popular in post-war Europe.446 Thomas Wartenberg points out that in Blade Runner, like European auteur films, Ridley Scott provides no clear cut, Hollywood-style happy ending447—showing that cultural influence and tastes can also migrate from East to West, not just from the Hollywood Dream Factory to European cinemas. The popularity of this dystopic science fiction film also demonstrates the successful transference of culturally coded Archetypes to other cultural settings, as long as the director takes caution to consider the intended audience.

It must be noted that not all heroes are the same, a point Jung made when he recognized the vagueness of the Archetypes in the Collective Unconscious, and one that is reiterated by George Hogenson.448 Just as there are observable differences in the visual presentation or appearance of an (all-white) American male hero protagonist in a typical gun-slinging Western movie or, for example, a heroic science fiction figure such as Luke Skywalker in Star Wars, so also exist dissimilarities in the mental visualizations of the heroic Archetype within individual people. In other words, different individuals, for instance spectators, readers, directors or actors, envision a hero in different ways. One person may envision a hero to be young black man in the Sahel zone saving a young child from being killed by a lion, another individual may picture a young version of the famed and feared Mongol Genghis Khan sparing the life of a young person as hero, while yet another individual may visualize a knight in shining armor rescuing the dam-

123 sel in distress during the Middle Ages as yet another manifestation of a hero.449 Some underlying attributes of what makes a hero, i.e. rescuing someone who is in distress while putting his (or occasionally her) own life on the line, remain analogous across both racial and cultural barriers450 while the visual expression of these ideas (race, age, looks, etc.) may vary from person to person, individual to individual and culture to culture.

The work of New German Cinema directors reshaped the cinematic dream space and offered a more varied and more complicated framework for spectators. Viewing these films through the Jungian-based psychoanalytic lens will enable the reader to see the power of these groundbreaking films.

The question arises, why examine New German Cinema through the Jungian-based lens, especially considering how much has been written by leading (Freudian) scholars, such as Sabine Hake, Judith Mayne, Miriam Hansen, Thomas Elsaesser, Eric Rentschler, Andreas Huyssen and many others? The answer is multifaceted. New German Cinema falls into a period of cultural, but also socio-political, upheaval in Germany as the post-World War II Wohlstandsgesellschaft slowly progressed toward an ostracizing of guest workers. This led to discussions about the status and future of those guest workers who had been invited by the German government to work in menial positions, but who now were becoming personae non-gratae in the eyes of average German citizens who partly feared a long term diminishing of their own economic worth. While the standard of living post-World War II had improved significantly, many of the films in the 1950s and 1960s were still following a pre-war thematic of an idyllic world. The trauma of World War II and the impact of the Hollywood dream machine on German film culture cannot be underestimated in this context. In this time of Wohlstand, the seed of the student rebellion grew and “Papas Kino”451 was no longer reflective of the sentiments experienced by the spectators in Ger- man cinemas. As the very brief historical overview in the next section will show, this led to a new beginning in filmmaking. In this new time of auteur films, con-

124 cepts such as the hero no longer followed clear-cut lines. Instead, the plotlines became entangled and frequently, films ended without the happy Hollywood ending. Yet, they embraced a more rounded depiction of the human psyche.

The following paragraphs simply provide a brief historical setting within New German Cinema for the films discussed. In the wake of the 1962 Oberhau- sen Manifesto, new thematic thinking by the young filmmakers which brings about new directions in German films. No longer do the New German Cinema directors portray idyll in mountain settings with a happy Hollywood ending, but post-Oberhausen directors address real life situations, such as terrorism, or plumb the human psychological depths. Although the best known directors of New German Cinema, such as Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Wim Wenders, Wer- ner Herzog and several others did not actually sign the document in Oberhausen, the spirit of the manifesto resonates and still reverberates in their works. One of the often cited and frequently shown movies from this era is Fassbinder’s Ali: Fear Eats the Soul. Unlike most other German films of the time, it not only touched on one, but several taboo subjects in film: guest workers, a non-German / non-white male protagonist working in Germany, as well as ageism and hetero-, bi-, and (although somewhat more hidden) homo-sexuality. Depictions of these filmic taboos had been banned from the silver screen between 1934 and 1968 when the American Hays Production Code dictated acceptable depictions of race, gender and sexuality. Ali: Fear Eats the Soul, which was filmed only a few years after the end of the Hays Code, serves on many levels as an excellent example of German filmmaking “outside the box” by presenting an unusual situation through the inter-racial, inter-generational marriage and allows for deeper insights into the human condition as it explores and pushes the boundaries of gender, race, sexuality and age. One emphasis in the analysis of this film will be on the visual portrayal of Ali,: his dark skin marks him already an Underdeveloped Shadow and his relationship of the two main female Underdeveloped Shadows. Another discussion centers on Emmi and her varying roles as the archetypal (M)Other. A brief excursion into the genre of melodrama is made as Fassbin-

125 der’s film presents the director’s take on adapting Douglas Sirk’s film All that Heaven Allows.

The second film, discussed in Chapter 5, is Die Verlorene Ehre der Katharina Blum (1975, Volker Schlöndorff and Margarethe von Trotta) which is a literary adaptation. This film depicts a variation on material presented in an eponymous novella by Nobel-Prize winning author’s Heinrich Böll which had been penned in 1974 in response to incidents surrounding terrorism events involving Ulrike Meinhof and Andreas Baader, the founding members of the terror organization known as the Baader-Meinhof Gruppe. In light of the 1993 US World Trade Center bombing, the far more shocking “9/11” (2001) attack in the United States as well as other ongoing terror attacks around the world, both novella and film still strongly reverberate with any audience exposed to them. The film discusses the motif of the terrorist, which by sheer name can elicit fear. By contrasting the Underdeveloped Shadow of Katharina with the Overdeveloped Shadow of police commissioner Beizemenne, the analysis focuses on opposing Archetypes and their interactions with each other and society. Margarethe von Trotta and, her then-husband, Volker Schlöndorff are filmmakers who bring many themes to both German and international cineastes and whose movies have strong themes of historical and socio-cultural meanings. Von Trotta, for example, brings the 1968 uprising in Prague (the so-called “Prague Spring”) to life on cinematic screens with her title The Promise,452 while Schlöndorff returns to a retelling of National Socialistic days in his highly controversial movie The Tin Drum.453

The last of the three films, analyzed in Chapter 6, makes its appearance on the cinematic stage in 1979. It is Werner Herzog’s homage to, and partial remake of, F. W. Murnau’s 1922 cult classic film Nosferatu. Similarly to Fassbin- der’s Fear Eats the Soul, which uses Douglas Sirk’s All That Heaven Allows as an adaptive text, Herzog’s Nosferatu adapts both another movie (F. W. Murnau’s 1922 Nosferatu) and a novel, Bram Stoker’s Dracula (similarly to The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum). Nosferatu (1979) therefore provides not only the retelling of another film, but also reaches back to the original well-known story of Bram

126 Stoker’s Dracula which Murnau was unable to bring to screen during his lifetime due to copyright violations and subsequent lawsuits by Bram Stoker’s widow.

Through adaptation technique, Nosferatu also keeps with the tradition of German filmmakers taking something known and reshaping it into something new. Especially in the US, but also around the world, interest in vampire novels and mythical stories has generated invigorated attention in recent years.454 In addition, unlike the first two movies discussed, Herzog’s film adds another common dimension to the aspect of archetypes: the vampire. As a vampire, he is at once neither a true male nor a female Other, but at the same time, he is also neither because vampires are considered "larger than life" compared to mere mortals in the same way ancient demi-gods were considered “larger than life.” The analysis of this film in Chapter 6 demonstrates that the vampire is at once the Underdeveloped Shadow while at the same time, as a perfect being, he also is partly an Overdeveloped Shadow in the definition of Rushing and Frentz. Fear of vampires and other monsters are one of the fundamental fears already exhibited by many young children, even though they may not articulate their fears in an el- oquent linguistic manner. Adult moviegoers can both relive and relieve their childhood fears from the safety of adulthood and the protection of their folding movie theater chairs through the final cathartic moment in which the monster (here the original vampire) is killed.

Internationally one of the best known New German Cinema directors, Rainer Werner Fassbinder also produced one of the more controversial works amidst the New German Cinema films. Ali: Angst Essen Seele Auf is a film which, by means of stepping across many demarcation lines, such as racial and sexual taboos, presses against the boundaries of some socio-cultural limits including but not limited to ageism. Fassbinder sets up the Jungian-based concept of the Other in a whole new light in contrast to Hollywood or earlier German film productions which relied on the white male hero rescuing the damsel in distress. In Fassbinder’s work, there is no clear Overdeveloped Shadow to take the place

127 of the hero. The only male is visually already coded as the culturally coded Oth- er as he is the only dark skinned person among white or light colored people. This chapter examines Fassbinder’s film breaking taboos surrounding age, race and sexuality as presented within the context of the film text as well as with regard to the society in which it is set and the era in which the film was produced. Until the late 1960s, themes such as violence, nudity, mixed racial or mixed age marriages and non-heterosexuality could not be shown on screen or films would not be distributed, especially in the United States as the Hays Production Code had still been in effect. Fassbinder, only six years after the end of the Hays Code, breaks all possible taboos in this remake of an American melodrama. Through both the Other and the (M)Other Archetypes, the discussion of the film demonstrates a dynamic within the group of the three main characters, Emmi, Ali and Barbara, and their inter-personal relations as well as their visual portrayal on screen. Visual cues within the film elicit fear in the spectator through referencing either historical events or societal stereotypes. Following the tradition of New German Cinema, many Freudian film critics have reviewed Fassbinder’s film, including Thomas Elsaesser, Sabine Hake, Judith Mayne and other scholars. This chapter presents a new look at the film by examining both Jung’s Archetype of the Other and its visual representation in light of demonstrating to the audience how and why to fear the Other in this tale of strangers meeting and falling in love.

Angst Essen Seele Auf455 (Ali: Fear Eats the Soul, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1974) centers on Emmi (Brigitte Mira), an aging cleaning lady in Munich, Germa- ny. One evening, on her way home from work, she is surprised by rain and seeks shelter in a local Kneipe456 where she meets some Arabic or Middle East- ern Gastarbeiter (guest workers). The instant attraction in the chance encounter between Emmi and Ali, a Moroccan Gastarbeiter (El Hedi ben Salem M’Barek Mohammed Mustapha) half her age soon leads to marriage of two lonely people. However, very quickly the cross-generational, mixed race couple quickly finds themselves subjected to unexpected hatred and prejudice by everyone. From gossiping and scheming tenement neighbors to the Tante Emma Laden (small family run grocery store in a housing neighborhood) on the corner as well as

128 many public places, both Emmi and Ali are excluded from, and shunned by, those in their social environment. An interjected vacation roughly in the middle of the film seems to relieve some of the troubles as, upon the odd couple’s return, everyone suddenly wel- comes Emmi and Ali back with overly friendly manners. Very soon, obvious pre- tenses surface as those who are ostensibly welcoming want something from either Emmi or Ali in return for their feigned friendliness. This includes another house tenant who would like to utilize the basement (cellar) space allocated to Emmi; Emmi’s grown son who is looking for a babysitter for his child so his wife can take on a job; and corner grocery store owner (played by renowned German actor, Walter Sedlmayer) who has come to realize that he needs Emmi’s business because the supermarket down the street threatens his very business existence. At the same time as the outward situation appears to resolve itself in a Hollywood fairy tale manner, inner tears grow visible in the relationship between Ali and Emmi: soon Ali goes out alone, begins to drink again, gambles his wage money away, and has sexual encounter(s?)457 with the owner of the Kneipe where he first met Emmi.458 The cuckolded wife anxiously awaits his return— home alone. Unable to permit her marriage to break apart through these events Emmi follows Ali to his work where she is subject to severe ridicule from Ali’s German male co-workers. In one last and desperate attempt she meets him back at the bar where they dance and ostensibly reconcile, thus closing the circle to the beginning of the movie. Unlike the beginning dance, during the middle of this dance Ali breaks down and is taken to the hospital with a perforated ulcer. The film ends with the doctor telling Emmi that Ali will be back in six months or so. The final scenes have Emmi sitting by Ali’s bedside in the hospital, crying quietly while staring out the opaque window into an uncertain future.459

When Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s film Ali: Fear Eats the Soul debuted in German cinemas, the film presented both a culmination of new directions in content and presentation proposed by the New German Cinema filmmakers in the Oberhausen Manifesto as well as a revolt against the established, historical trends of the time by addressing several socio-cultural banned themes. New German Cinema (1962 – 1982) raised German films to new heights and crossed many lines which in the prior three decades used to demarcate taboos such as

129 miscegenation or non-heterosexuality. Cinematic depictions of sexuality and nudity certainly had come a long ways from the 1910s and 1920s when prude, prim and proper Biedermeier460 sensibilities were challenged by both Varièté and cinema performances with lightly clad women performing provocative dance rou- tines.461 The “Roaring Twenties,” during the Weimar Republic (1918-1933), saw much of the former middle-class based Biedermeier prudery in Germany being blown out the window—at least in large cities such as Berlin.462 While the taste and cultural traditions of the Weimar period in general required women to still remain heavily covered and clothed by 21st century standards, films made in the first two decades of the 20th century did not always follow those customs.463 Ear- ly examples include the many variations of Quo Vadis renditions among other antiquity-theme based films made between 1910 and 1914. Because of the historical distance and the debauchery associated with ancient Roman culture (especially the Roman Empire), it was perfectly fine to show women scantily clad. However, films pretending to take place closer to the 20th century or beyond, such as Fritz Lang’s cult classic Metropolis464 and Joseph von Sternberg’s classic, The Blue Angel,465 presented women and their dress codes more as an exception than the cultural norm for the time.

Changes in visual presentations of females, especially the utilization of actual actresses, on cinematic screens instigated some fear, or at least fear, in the early cinematic audiences.466 Representation of scantily clad women, who were clearly outside their societal roles, such as a voluptuous, sensual and seducing Cleopatra, caused calls for a restrictions as the swelling film audience grew increasingly worried about the direction in which such portrayals were heading.467 As Vibeke Petersen sums it up: “Pleasures had to be taken as they came; they were intense and short-lived, like a cigarette, but not to be missed.” Coupled with the “need for self-identification [… and] general openness about sexuality,”468 women being portrayed as loose and pleasure consuming did not fit with previously held social norms. Such radical change led to fear in society, and portraying women as loose or immoral, such as Irmgard Keun’s fictional character

130 Gilgi,469 on screen or stage created more unease in the audience. Gilgi presented the characteristics of a woman who was using her sexuality as a means to own goods otherwise unattainable to someone of her social standing. Through her actions, she is thus straddling the border to prostitution in an age when women were not supposed to work, but by economic necessity were forced to take on paid jobs.

This social fear, especially through lobbying by churches, eventually was alleviated by the 1934 institution of the Hays Production Code470 in the United States which ultimately also influenced European film productions. Despite the Hays Code, named after its creator Will H. Hays, having originated in the United States, European film makers of the 1930s and beyond adopted similar restrictions on depiction of race and sexuality, partly because it fit their social norms, partly because films intended to be distributed in the United States still had to comply with the Hays Code standards and regulations even if produced in Europe.471 In the post-World War II era, many American and European directors slowly eroded away the conventions of the American Hays Production Code, and ultimately, the Production Code came to an official close in 1968 based on a US Supreme Court ruling.472 This court decision occurs just six years prior to Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s production of Angst Essen Seele Auf and paved the way for a distribution not only in the European, but also the American film market.

During its 34 year existence, the Hays Production Code attempted to ban practically any visuals that could elicit fear in a viewer: frequently censored— although many examples can be cited to the contrary—were images of nudity or nakedness, actual killing scenes, homosexuality, miscegenation and the ridicul- ing of religious entities (such as churches and particular religious figures). Fur- thermore, themes of vulgarity, adultery and even pregnancy were also often cut.473

The ban of so many elements vital to visual arts such as film led to many comical scenes, especially in the films comprising the Screwball genre of the 1930s and 1940s, which is based on a gender role reversal in that the woman is

131 the strong, driving force and the man’s masculinity is challenged. As the Screw- ball comedies progress through the plotlines, numerous double-entendres fly474—all intended to circumvent the “taboos” of the Hays Code—and, in the process, alleviate the nervous fears and anxieties especially in the male audience members which otherwise such plotlines would carry without the humorous treatment.475 Ultimately, in typical Hollywood fashion, at the end, the social order is restored, and the (generally white) male has his masculinity re-affirmed, the woman, the Other, is back in her place as subservient to man and “all is well in the world again.” Much of the American movie fare was played in German movie theaters the time after the war ended.476 However, some of the restoration of the “normal social and cultural order” as portrayed in Hollywood films, changed in European filmmaking when in the 1960s the French auteur and New German Cinema with its young and adventurous directors arrived on the silver screen. At this point, the Hays Production Code had not yet completely been laid to rest in the United States, but it was well on the way to its cinematic grave.477

Freed from the yoke of templated storylines imposed during the Nazi regime, post-World War II, post-publication of the 1962 Oberhausen Manifesto,478 and with the Hays Code in its last throes, many of the New German Cinema auteur filmmakers returned to experimenting with themes presented in their films the way the Roaring Twenties’ Weimar directors once did.479 The German auteur directors of the 1960s and 1970s German film industry pushed once again societal norms of presenting white heteronormative relationships by shifting some context and content of their films outside social standards through depictions of more radical themes, such as the previous tabooed depictions of miscegenation, inter- generational relationships, homosexuality, frontal nudity and in parts, profanity.480 Similar to the 1910s and 1920s, this shift in visual culture from idyllic Heimat- and Heidefilms to representations of full-body white (frontal) nudity of both genders and explicit sexuality481 on screen caused film audiences to experience fear as these depictions broke with hitherto socially acceptable norms. These emotions were felt by the audience in part based on the sometimes unpredictable econom-

132 ic conditions of post-World War II Germany, which narrative film plots of films in the 1950s, similarly to Hollywood film fantasies, had attempted to hide through displaying the “heile Welt” of alpine or heather idyll.482 Sabine Hake notes that “the Young German Cinema developed a unique filmic style through both the critical re-interpretation of classical Hollywood genres […] and the self conscious references to popular culture.”483 In other words, New German Cinema combines the Hollywood style of diegetic narration with a sometimes strong social critique. An example for this is Volker Schlöndorff’s film The Tin Drum, which criticizes German citizen behavior in the latter years of National Socialist rule. Add- ing to societal unease was the growing student movement or the late 1960s, in the wake of the US-Vietnam War, which also intensified the general fear.484

This general fear felt by the German population also channeled into creative energy in the art world. In the second decade after World War II, “[t]he spirit of experiment was pivotal to the creative explosion of the late 1960s. Figures of authority were being questioned”485 says David Barnett, a theater scholar and author, about this time of social and cultural upheaval in the Western Hemisphere. Among the auteur filmmakers, as Sabine Hake notes, “Fassbinder, Herzog and Wenders—emerged from the social and political movements of the 1960s […] with a filmic style that combined generic traditions, literary influences, and coun- tercultural sensibilities in new and innovative ways.”486 Even though these three directors soon became a known quantity in the calculations of the cinematic spectators, the themes addressed by each are polarizing portrayals of contemporary socio-politico-cultural occurrences, such as domestic terrorism, xenophobia and ageism. In light of themes engaged and the tackling of taboos, one of the most controversial post-Oberhausen and emerging New German Cinema filmmakers, until his untimely death in 1982, was Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Although previously a prolific theater director,487 perhaps his most enduring film, Ali: Fear Eats the Soul, may also well be considered one of his most controversial productions due to the multitude of taboos broken, foremost the depiction of inter-generational marriage and miscegenation.

133 Ali: Fear Eats the Soul addresses not only one, but at least four different issues that had been taboo for a long time in cinema while simultaneously con- fronting the film audience’s expectations of the antagonistic Underdeveloped Shadow, or Jungian-based Other, to be the defeated in the end by an Overde- veloped Shadow, i.e. a white male. Breaking with Hollywood tradition, Fassbin- der’s film lacks the presence of a white male, who serves traditionally as the Campbellian hero. Instead, the presence of his male protagonist is visually and aurally coded as Other, as the one to fear despite his nice demeanors and appearances. Presenting race, age, inter-generational relations and open male nudity, Fear Eats the Soul touches on cornerstones of forbidden themes in both the Hays Production Code and the Third Reich films with forbade open displays of miscegenation and sexuality on the silver screen. Especially during the years of National Socialistic rule, only films relating positive to the Third Reich ideology were allowed. One big theme in Ali, miscegenation or the “mixing of races” had been a complete taboo in Hitler’s cinema.488 Parallel to the American Hays Pro- duction Code, most National Socialistic films ended up being pressed into tem- plates and molds of either Heimatfilm489 (folklore / mountain films), Heidefilm490 (films playing in the heather-covered lowlands of Germany) or films portraying the glory of Germany’s youth.491 The latter films presented mainly young boys and men fighting at home and abroad for the perceived magnificence of the Third Reich or women gritting their teeth and producing those very men and boys for the Führer (i.e. Hitler) and then suffering the consequences of losing that child / husband while the boy / young man / slightly older man was furthering the goal of the NS party.492

Films, which were critical of the regime or contained statements critical of social issues, such as in later years the questioning of the political events which would precipitate World War II, were not permitted. It should come as little surprise then that, when in 1945 Americans brought happy-ending and thematically light Hollywood lore to German silver screens, German audiences who had been cut off from foreign films for the past decade were flocking to the new cinematic fare.493 Among those audience members were many of the young men who later

134 made up the directors of the New German Cinema. Additionally, having mostly been subjected to templated movies for about 12 years and having lost many of the great Weimar directors, producers, actors and writers to emigration, German filmmakers from the late 1940s through the 1950s and into the 1960s often found themselves at a loss for their own ideas as they had very few German-made films they could fall back on for inspiration.494 This is evidenced by the continuation of Heide- and Heimatfilms as well as the filmic adaptations of literary works such as Edgar Wallace crime novels or the fictional travel accounts by Karl May.

Unlike his contemporary counterparts, such as Alexander Kluge or Werner Herzog, director Rainer Werner Fassbinder was more interested in all and any American movies than he was in German (Weimar) films, although they did provide some inspiration.495 Wallace Steadman Watson, in a comprehensive biography of Fassbinder’s life and works, writes that “Fassbinder’s imaginative life as a child was particularly fed and shaped by movies, especially American films of the 1930s and 1940s, which flooded German cinemas after the war. […] By the age of seven he had become a regular: ‘I actually went to the movies every day, and later, two or three times a day, if possible.’”496 It was that concentrated experience of the movies, combined with Fassbinder’s already large creativity that lead him to becoming a filmmaker: “’For me there was no debate about the matter; it was only a question of time.’”497 Fassbinder’s life was cut short just days after his 37th birthday, leaving a legacy of about 40 cinematic works ranging from short apprentice pieces to literary adaptations.498

Among the adaptations, although both a re-reading and paying homage to a previous film, 499 Ali: Fear Eats the Soul stems from the middle of Fassbinder’s collective works. This film, which follows the chance encounter between two racially and generationally different people, their consequent trials against societal pressure and ultimate internal rifts, presents Fassbinder’s foray into the melodramatic genre. Lisa Starks notes about melodrama that “[l]ike realism, melodrama features the everyday; unlike realism, however it attempts to ‘say all, to

135 stage and utter the unspeakable,’ and ‘to heighten in dramatic gesture the moral crises and peripeties of life.’”500 Fassbinder, according to film historians Bruce Arthur Murray and Chris Wickham “[i]n a very public gesture […] ‘adopted’ Sirk as his father”501 and returns to the glory of Hollywood (i.e. the Alltag, or “everyday life,” that film audiences had come to expect from dream factory films). Yet, the director takes a very German perspective in his film adaptation of Douglas Sirk’s 1955 melodrama All That Heaven Allows. Due to the restriction of melodrama as not being a form of realism, this genre, as Lisa Starks points out, is only able to do so much: “For although melodrama is characterized by the desire to say all, it simultaneously dramatizes the inability to represent or to articulate directly what is unrepresentable or unspeakable.”502 Patrice Petro elaborates further on melodrama’s limitations when she states that “melodrama aims to put pressure on the representation of the real so as to allow the unrepresented or repressed to achieve material presence.”503 In the end, by crossing several taboo lines, Ali demonstrates some limitations that the genre of melodrama places upon its works, if for no other reason than the fact that the clear-cut demarcation lines of the Other do not apply. The true psychological struggles of the Other’s attempt integrate into society as part of his Individuation process cannot be addressed in the span of a 90 minute film. Nor can the film truly give voice to the racial outcast or the socio-economic status of charwomen. Fear Eats the Soul, as a melodrama, is able to express both the Archetypes of the Underdeveloped Shadows and stereotypes held by society who imbues the Other with attributes that society as a whole rejects.

Whereas Douglas Sirk’s original melodramatic film, All That Heaven Al- lows, presents a small Midwestern town of all white inhabitants, Fassbinder relo- cates his Sirkian adaptation storyline, by setting it in near proletarian conditions in Munich—by the late 1960s a highly thriving German city. Instead of class conflict as Sirk’s original melodrama presents, Ali begins into the movie with a big bang of disorienting film techniques and visuals adding from the opening scene to the bewilderment through the inclusion of racial issues. While Sirk’s version portrays his protagonist in the classical Hollywood manner as a white, strapping

136 young male who makes his way to meeting the female protagonist through numerous intercuts, Fassbinder already ruptures his audience’s comfort level beginning with the opening scene. There is no typical Hollywood-style main protagonist with whom the audience can immediately identify: i.e. there is no white male in sight. And Fassbinder gives the audience ample opportunity to look for one as his camera intentionally stays too long in the same position and the scene runs without any cuts until it becomes rather uncomfortable for the audience who is becoming highly aware of their own “act of staring.” This process is known as foreground in the filmmaking industry.

In an interview, Fassbinder explicitly stated this goal of audience awareness noting that he “wanted to make [the audience] awake. [My movies] should not function like most films through the subconscious, but through the conscious.”504 By employing the technique of foregrounding, Fassbinder visually demonstrates to the spectator the process, by which cultural Archetypes, residing in the Collective Unconscious, are being influenced and become part of the Per- sonal Unconscious. This process, as Robert Harvey has pointed out, not only takes places as the audience member watches the film which triggers Arche- types in the Collective Unconscious, but transference of visually coded cues from the Personal Conscious to the Personal Unconscious continues after the spectator has left the Platonic cave. 505 During the same interview, Fassbinder later continues: “I don’t want to create realism the way it’s usually done in films […]. It’s a collision between film and the subconscious that creates new realism. If my films are right, then a new realism comes about in the head, which changes the social reality.”506 Not only are the characters in the bar staring, but through Fassbinder’s use of foregrounding the camera’s existence, the audience members find themselves alerted to their own looking and gawking. Foregrounding here serves not only in the Brechtian sense, which is one of Fassbinder’s influences as a theater director, but also provides the audience with a first glimpse of the uncomfortable choices to be presented in the upcoming film.

137 Set in a pub, in the opening scene of Fear Eats the Soul, a barmaid (thinly veiled prostitute?) and Barbara (Barbara Valentin), the pub owner, are present— along with several dark-skinned, foreign men and two other women who never appear again in the film. With the lack of a clear protagonist, the next choice to fit Joseph Campbell’s description of a hero507 definition is the youngish white female bar owner. Yet Barbara very quickly proves to also be “only” a secondary character. Instead of an expected Hollywood opening, Fassbinder’s unusual introductory scene presents two very unlikely main protagonists, and from the very start, already unsettles the spectators. The film begins the journey to elicit fear as well as an anticipation of how the remaining characters will deal with the so clearly marked Other. Fear can build in the spectator at this moment depending on the personally influenced Archetype of the Other in an individual’s Personal Unconscious. The male protagonist, if one believes the Freudian-based Mul- veyean spectatorship camp, would be the one with whom the audience is to identify throughout the film. As it turns out, here he is a non-German—and not even a white male—who speaks in a “funny” way. Clearly, from the start his “exotic” look and broken German mark this very dark-skinned North African man as the obvious outsider to the German audience—he is visually already coded as the Other, and thus, should not qualify as the hero in the Campbellian sense—yet in Fassbinder’s unfolding storyline, he becomes the main protagonist. The spectator in the opening scene thus is confronted with his or her own staring which emphasizes further the fear this scene evokes as it builds on the culturally coded stories of the dark male as threat.

“The best thing I can think of would be to create a union between something as beautiful and powerful and wonderful as Hollywood films and a critique of the status quo.”508 Whether Fassbinder achieved this goal with Fear Eats the Soul will be left up to each individual audience member to determine, but the movie has unmistakably merged Hollywood (Sirkian) and contra-establishment themes (criticizing the societal status quo of Fassbinder’s day). The most visually foregrounded of these themes is the character of Ali himself. This character is

138 played by Fassbinder’s then-lover, El Hedi ben Mohammed Salem M’Barek Mo- hamed Mustafa, whom Fassbinder met in a Paris sauna.509 The dark-skinned Berber, who had been married with five children, was an ideal way for Fassbin- der to tie childhood impressions of collecting money from Gastarbeiter renting from his father to the second dark skinned male lover in Fassbinder’s life.510

According to author Ronald Hayman, “just how much Fassbinder had been giving Salem became painfully apparent when the flow of generosity dried up. When the film Fear Eats the Soul was made in September 1973, Salem did not know that the male leading part was to be the final gift.”511 Salem, distraught over the breakup with Fassbinder, ended up stabbing three people. After eluding the law enforcement for a while, absconding through several European states, Salem was caught and “eventually it was discovered that in Nîmes, where he had been in prison, he had hanged himself in his cell.”512 With his death, a “silencing of the Other […] has extended beyond his cinematic representation,”513 a circle of melodramatic circumstances seem to have come full circle to one of Fassbinder’s earlier films, The American Soldier,514 in which a story is told about a Turkish guest worker who marries an older woman only to murder her about six month into the relationship. Except, in American Soldier it was the guest worker who died in the end while the older woman lived. Incidentally, the initial working title was “Alle Türken heißen Ali” (All Turks are named Ali)515 which re-emphasizes the duality of the Otherness. On one hand Ali embodies the Turkish culture and with it, a different religion. On the other hand, the title allows the spectator to drift into stereotyping the evoked generalized Archetype of a violent foreigner, reminiscent of the god Dionysis in classical Greek myth, who, like many Turkish guest workers in Germany, also hailed from the southeastern end of Europe or near Asian region.

Freudian scholars will interject here and posit that the violence of the Turk- ish worker in The American Soldier was due to the ‘return of the repressed,’ which then would spout out of the psyche like champagne from a shaken bottle upon being uncorked, thus unleashing (sometimes unexpected) aggressive behavior. Lisa Starks points out, Freud believed that the “subject does not seem to

139 experience the traumatic event at the time, but the memory of it returns in literal, undisguised dreams, which force the dreamer to experience the event over and over again.”516 The recounted story of Emmi’s murder in The American Soldier becomes almost a dreamlike recurrence in Fassbinder’s Fear Eats the Soul,517 however, it lacks the violence of the former. In addition, Salem’s character Ali, Freudian scholars will declare, suffers from bad Oedipal desires—after all, he states in the end, he only wants Emmi, not any other women, especially and not even any 30-something woman. Extrapolating from Freudian reasoning, Ali must therefore still be infatuated with the mother image, never having completely dis- placed his infantile desire for the mother onto a woman of his own age. It seems Freud may not be the only direction in film criticism to analyze Ali’s case of falling in love with an older woman.

Turning from Freud to Jung, another dimension in the relationship between Emmi and Ali opens: being both of the Other, or the Undeveloped Shad- ow, hence, both find themselves in the same group of Shadow. Therefore, soli- darity gives more strength to fight off the I-personality—which incidentally is perhaps best portrayed in Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s own performance as Eugen. He, portraying the son-in-law of Emmi and therefore rather an outsider to the family himself, usurps the role of the Ego or I who exhibits traits desirable in a hero: he is the aggressive white male who attains what he set out for, similarly to a Campbellian hero.518 Eugen is the white male against which all other Shadows are measured. Although his verbal and physical aggression (such as the conversations with his wife Krista)519 is a basic adaptation of a Sirkian scene in All that Heaven Allows, it is a very visual manifestation of the power held by the I, the Ego or Overdeveloped Shadow over the Other or the Underdeveloped Shad- ow. Eugen commands his wife to serve him, threatens to harm her if she does not follow his orders and reacts in similar ways when Emmi attempts to stand up for her daughter Krista. By demonstrating his prowess as aggressor he sets up boundaries for the power struggle in this scene in which Emmi introduces Ali to her children. For the spectator, Eugen temporarily becomes the Alter-Ego, as he

140 controls the female Underdeveloped Shadows. While both Emmi and Ali are the Other, visually standing apart from the group of seated children, the married couple stands united against the violent behavior and thus, their non-aggressive inter-Other relationship survives at least temporarily under the blunt onslaught of Emmi’s son Bruno’s ultimately successful attempts to break the TV screen by kicking it with his foot. In Sirk’s, however, the television scene is a manifestation of Cary’s asexuality,520 while in Fassbinder, Ali and Emmi are being coded as the outsider, the Other, partly based on age and gender (Emmi) and partly based on race (Ali). By this point, Fassbinder presents the spectator with a difficult decision: accept Ali as the on-screen Alter-Ego, which requires identification with the character which, based on his race, embodies emotions of rejection, or identify with aggression put forth by the white males and reject empathic acceptance of the inter-racial, inter-generational marriage. Visual (and aural) violence against the Other by the Overdeveloped Shadow expresses societal rejection of the Oth- er by the general society, represented by the children as well as the house tenants, the green grocer and the restaurant’s waiter. The spectator is being cued that Ali, the Underdeveloped Shadow must be feared, although his actions mark him as passive non-aggressor.

This moment of violence arouses affect (emotion) in the spectator in some form or another. Either the spectator is angered by the treatment of the (M)Other as an incapable child, and by extension, fears receiving such treatment from his or her own children if he or she would engage in miscegenation or inter- generational love, or the audience member sides with the children and thus experiences fear of being subjected to social stigma based on the company the older woman keeps. As Elena del Rio points out, unlike the often cited Brechtian influence on Fassbinder, the latter director distinguishes his own work from Brecht through “let[ting] the audience feel and think.”521 Jung distinguishes between affect, which he sets synonymous with emotion, and feeling which he defines as, “[i]n summary, feeling is evaluative while emotion/affect is experien- tial.”522 In other words, emotion or affect serves psychologically as an outlet resulting from the visual input into the spectators mind via the images on the

141 screen. This can be equated to the term sensation used by 18th century philosophers, such as Hume and Kant. Feeling, on the other hand, requires thought and judgment to be applied to the affect or emotion. In philosophy, this is associated with the term perception. The spectators, experiencing the affect of such an outburst of violence in the scene then go on, review and mull this scene over in their minds, thus generating not only emotion (sensation), but also feeling (perception). If the particular audience member in a Western culture is not a white male, she or he may experience a strong emotion of unmitigated fear—the fear evoked in the Collective Unconscious by visual representation of the Other as noted by John Izod:

Spectators are likely, therefore, to allow themselves a form of play in which for the moment they adopt, without the risk of becoming locked into it, one of the virtual roles that, as a transitional phenomenon, the film has prepared for them… But after the film has ended, active imagination takes over and develops the recollected cinematic imagery by fusing it more completely with the personal fantasy material. In the process both are liable to change.523

In the case of Fear Eats the Soul, the audience member is faced at best with the dilemma of identifying with Ali, a fear inducing situation at worst: if the spectator is male, identification with the female character (Emmi) will lead to fear as she represents the Other. As Amy Coplan points out the male spectator by association “controls the unfolding of the narrative events”524 which are driven by the Overdeveloped Shadow in form of the traditional male hero. However, at the same moment as Emmi is identified as Other, the Ego, into whose role a white male spectator can slip and temporarily become the screen’s Alter-Ego, also lacks. 525 This leaves the option to equate either Emmi or Ali with the hero, however, the ability to do so may hinge upon a spectator’s own experiences. Luke Hockley sums this up well:

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Film theory certainly suggests that within each movie there is a central identification figure. However, the viewer may or may not identify with that figure, or may instead choose a more marginal character in the film. [...] But it is also the case that during the act of watching a film that personal psychological material can be activated. In line with Izod’s point above viewers bring their own concerns as they experience a film, not just afterwards. What happens is that when watching films a transformative space is created…526

By the time destruction of the television occurs, author Kraft Wetzel points out in an interview that “people are supposed to identify with Mira…”527 And in most cases, the film audience most likely has begun to identify either with Emmi or Ali, or even both, despite Fassbinder’s constant reminders through foregrounding that what flickers on the screen is a movie—not reality. Now the audience is faced with either the notion of siding with Ali, who is the cause for Bruno’s outburst by embodying all that society eschews and thus is relegated to the role of the Other, and therefore feeling upset over the on-screen Alter-Ego being pushed to the edge of societal norms and perhaps even ready for social action; or siding with Emmi as the passive older lady who can be side-swiped as needed based on age or social value, or with her children’s position which represents society’s open ageism and racism. In this scene alone, it can be concluded that at least to a degree Fassbinder did achieve his stated goal to fuse Hollywood’s melodrama with counter-cultural themes that question the status quo.

Ali—The True Other?

From the very onset of the film, Ali is visually and auditorily coded as an outsider, clearly an Other: the first impression of the man is one of a different (from the initially intended German audience’s) skin color with a huge beard. His full-face hair coverage is for German audience members reminiscent of some of

143 the Brother Grimm’s tales, although some stories and rituals have much older origins. When gazing upon the Other in form of Ali, the German cultural version of an archetypal character of the Underdeveloped Shadow, who serves as foil for the hero, which comes to mind first and foremost is the figure of Knecht Ruprecht. This figure, whose origin is shady,528 and who since his first mentioning of having made an appearance “as Christ’s servant in a 1600s Nuremberg Christmas procession,”529 throughout folk lore has often been associated with the Christian notion of evil spirits or, by extension, the Devil.530 As author Phyllis Siefker notes, “Grimm equates Robin with the devil and with the German gift- giver Knecht Ruprecht, noting that Robin and Ruprecht were common names for the devil in England and Germany, respectively.”531 Siefker does caution though that, in more recent times, “[i]n most German communities, Knecht Ruprecht appeared as slightly frightening but not totally hellish figure”532 while also pointing out that in early days, “Ruprecht […] plays the part of the bogeyman, a black, hairy, horned, cannibalistic, stick-carrying nightmare.”533 Ali, through his dark skin and full beard is a visual reminder of this fictitious character of German folklore. To many Germans growing up as contemporaries of Fassbinder, the Other figure of this near-Christmas appearing “punisher” brings back memories of being symbolically “beaten” or punished for the childish misdeeds committed during the preceding year. The bad deeds would have been written down by parents and given in advance to the person appearing as Knecht Ruprecht in Advent celebrations.534 Thus, Ali is coded as the bearer of the punishment, which the audience members then can extrapolate into a threat to Emmi.

In some cases Knecht Ruprecht, the culturally coded Underdeveloped Shadow, was made to be more like Saint Nicholas, the bearer of gifts: “A more enlightened age has filled the bags of this ogre’s descendants, ugly Knecht Ruprecht or genial Santa Claus, with reward for deserving children, while the bad boys are merely ignored.”535 Ruprecht in stories and depictions is described vaguely as swarthy with clothes identifying him as one of the lower social strata, which by definition marks Ruprecht as Other. In his role as a cultural enforcer, Ruprecht would bring treats to those children who behaved (for the most part)

144 during the preceding year) and “fascis bundles”536 for those who predominantly had misbehaved. Siefker also records this tradition from early days when Knecht Ruprecht “went about examining Teutonic children. If they could not say their prayers perfectly, he punished them with his whip or bundle of sticks; if they performed well, he gave them apples, nuts, and gingerbread.”537 In Fear Eats the Soul, Ali provides “goodies” to others in society: be it as the one who helps move heavy items for one of the female tenants or be it as the one who goes shopping for Emmi. In the green grocer’s store Ali gauges the grocer’s xenophobia against his willingness to sell the requested item. In a twist on the Knecht Ruprecht story, the green grocer refuses to serve Ali because as Walter Sedlmayer’s character states, “that one [Ali] cannot speak proper German.” For Emmi, Ali provides monetary assistance as evidenced by him handing her his Lohntüte538 after coming home late in the evening while Emmi does her weekly budgeting at the kitchen table. Yet, the initial coding as a threat to Emmi, and by extension to the German society, remains despite Ali’s positive actions.

In and of itself, the term Knecht, for an adult audience still well connected with agriculture in the 1970s, also connotes someone who is a socially lower class, symbolizing servitude. A Knecht in the German language refers to a person who is employed as a servant in an agricultural setting. Sometimes it can refer simply to anyone in a menial position. Often people working outside in the field all day are also darker-skinned due to unmitigated exposure to sunlight. Those field workers would stand out in a culture where many people were lighter skinned as, by Fassbinder’s times, they worked mostly inside buildings. Ali himself is very dark-skinned and thus stands in a very stark contrast to the remainder of the group, but is especially differentiated from the three women whose skin colors ranges from the barmaid’s young, buttermilk-translucent white skin to Emmi’s more weathered, aged and slightly darker skin. The pub owner’s skin tone is more grayish, perhaps a sign of her heavy smoking habits, but even her skin provides a strong contrast to Ali’s dark color. In addition, Ali’s other guest worker friends are also lighter-skinned.

145 Scholars of German Cinema, such as Thomas Elsaesser and Anton Kaes, mention the skin color, connoting the racial difference between Ali and Emmi and other characters in the film, although most have only done so in a very small side note. Barbara Mennel in her essay titled “Masochistic Fantasy and Racialized Fetish in Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Ali: Fear Eats the Soul” goes a little further by drawing a connection between Fassbinder and Frantz Fanon. Mennel’s quote of Fanon alludes to the fact that Ali’s frontal nudity in the shower scene turns from the character’s skin color to the sole focus on the male sexual organ539— thus, ultimately, neither the person nor the skin color appear to matter, only that Ali is capable of performing a sexual act: “One is no longer aware of the Negro, but only of a penis: the Negro is eclipsed. He is turned into a penis. He is a penis. […] Face to face with [the black] man who is ‘different from himself,’ [the white man] needs to defend himself. In other word, to personify The Other.” 540 Here again, Ali, is reduced to an object—he is the Other who can be exploited for his body—both his muscle power and his (presumed) sexual prowess. Ali is representing all that society sees as disavow-able: the obvious difference in race, but also the (nude) body, his low socio-economic status, as well as latent audience fear of homosexuality. Objectification removes human subjectivity from Ali in the shower scene. Through this, his body becomes a commodity, thus, the spectator may find difficulties identifying with this marginalized Other. This leaves the spectator no true hero with whom to identify. Even though Ali possesses the phallus, and Fassbinder clearly trains the camera onto this fact, Ali himself is emasculated by his skin color and allusions to his Knecht-standing in the German society. Ali, during the shower scenes, and later when Emmi introduces him to her co-workers, becomes the object of Mulveyean to-be-looked-at-ness, thus, falls at least on the same level as a woman when viewed by the male gaze. However, due to his skin color and foreignness, Ali actually ranks even below the white German females. Initially, the young prostitute (?) orders him to “dance with The Old One” and later, Emmi demonstrates the same superiority over Ali’s social standing when she practically commands him to do things for the women

146 in the tenement. Early in the film Ali himself even alludes to his emasculation when pointing out to Emmi that the Germans are masters, Arabs are dogs.

As if skin color were not enough, Ali also is more noticeable by being the only one who has (stereotypical) kinky-curly, and very dark hair. Therefore, Ali almost stands out like the proverbial “sore thumb,” or in Jungian-based terms, he dramatically represents the dark Other—the Archetype of a someone who is so different that he becomes associated with bad, evil and other negative connotations and as someone who through visual coding must be feared. Marie-Louise von Franz notes about the negative connotation in the context of Knecht Ruprecht that the character of Ruprecht is equated with “the bogeyman—a severe, harsh man who frightens children and who also embodies an aspect of the ancient dark father of the gods that survived into Christian times. […] ultimately an aspect of the deus absconditus and indeed his darkest and most menacing side.”541 Ali, simply by means of his racial origins and phenotype presentation, then becomes culturally equated with the frightening figure of Knecht Ruprecht— the Other Santa Claus. Or the figure of the traditional German saying “Wer hat Angst vor dem schwarzen Mann?” (Who is afraid of the black man?) as a stereotypical expression for collective fear of a non-conforming visual representation.

German audiences in Fassbinder’s time were well aware of the position of a Knecht as well as the traditions of Knecht Ruprecht, which represents a cultural expression of the Underdeveloped Shadow. Adding to the visual cues, the auditory portion of Ali’s speech from the start elicits an even more apprehensive, if not even a fearful, stance regarding Ali’s coding as both an un-integrated foreigner, in other words an outsider Other and an unskilled worker. Ali becomes a menial Other, symbolizing aspects of what the spectator rejects in himself or herself.

In the context of Fear Eats the Soul, Ali’s character is marked as someone who is of low standing in German society from the start. His social position within the group is immediately established when the barmaid (part-time prostitute?)

147 asks him if he wants to come over to her place that day. To her, the foreigner is good for the money he spends both on the young woman and leaves in the bar, but he is not good for a long term relationship as implied in his response: “Schwanz kaputt.” (“Cock broken.”). Ali seems to realize in that moment that he is good enough for a sexual encounter (presumably with payment), but not good enough or simply socially acceptable enough, to be in a permanent liaison with the young barmaid. Fassbinder’s combined work, according to scholar-author Thomas Elsaesser, paints the director as having “as little need to believe in marriage as he had every need to believe in love.”542 In other words, Fassbinder’s emphasis was not on the institution of marriage, but instead on the union by love. Yet, as the film plot unfolds, even love proves to not be viable or strong enough in the inter-racial, inter-generational affair to keep things from deteriorating.

Ali’s first words, 543 which immediately mark him as an auditory Other, demonstrates from the very beginning that he obviously cannot speak proper German—a fact reflected in the German title of Fassbinder’s film: “Angst Essen Seele Auf” which in proper German should say “Angst isst die Seele auf.”544 In- stead, Ali has to use the German infinitive, implying that all guest workers only know how to use the infinitive of a verb, but have not mastered the language (and in extrapolation thereof, the culture) sufficiently to understand the finer points of grammar—especially the conjugation of verbs within sentences along with the proper articles of nouns. Both conjugations of verbs, declinations of nouns and the use of the respective articles (die, der, das) with the nouns make up the majority of the proper usage of the German language—and in extension, reflect its culture. Along with the explicit vulgarity uttered in those first two words, indicating his low socio-economic and educational level, Ali’s position is set up as the Other and the low class servant who has not been fully assimilated into the German culture.

If all the above noted visual and auditory coding were not enough to ensure that the German audience notes his Other-ness, Ali, upon being prodded by

148 the jilted barmaid, gets up and asks Emmi to dance with him. The rejected younger woman, in an act of defiance, selects a popular older song, “Du Schwarzer Zigeuner” (“You black Gypsy”), from the jukebox for the odd couple’s dance. This particular song is loaded with multifaceted allegories of Other. The tango-style song was written by the Austrian Jew Fritz Löhner-Beda, who later perished in the concentration camp in Auschwitz.545 Clearly, the song notes the Other-ness of the person to whom this song is addressed: a gypsy, but not even an ordinary gypsy, a black gypsy. Although nowadays much rarer, the German term “Zigeuner” in the 1970s conjured up many negative stereotypes:546 children-snatching dark-skinned people who would stop over in a town during their travels, then leave the area only to return at night, go around and steal goods and livestock from people through whose towns their travel had previously taken them. Yet, the term also invokes notions of tinkers who come and fix pots and pans—or so they would have done in the days post-World War II. In the throw- away mentality of the 21st century, the gypsy (or more correctly, the Sinti and Roma) are no longer needed to fix things. The implication is that Ali represents the personification of this particular “black gypsy” addressed in the song. Being performed in a tango-style, the tune is also very much a type of song frequently associated with lovers—foreshadowing what the dancing Ali and Emmi soon are to become.

In addition, the gypsy, to whom the request for playing a song is addressed, is also considered a servant—reinforcing the Knecht imagery—as well as a traveler. Ali again represents both. He has travelled to Germany under the post World-War II government-instituted guest worker program which was designed to bring foreign workers to Germany to perform labor when there were not enough laborers to perform the tasks or to carry out work which German nation- als in their improving economy (and advancing social status) were no longer willing to do. The reasoning behind the government program was that the so-called “guest” workers would return home as soon as the workload changed or was eliminated. Inga Scharf in Nation and Identity in the New German Cinema: Homeless at Home, remarks about the situation that

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… the broken German of the second film [Angst Essen Seele Auf] … alludes to a less welcome ‘Other’ and certainly not a friend: I am speaking of the so-called Gastarbeiter (‘guest worker’). ‘His’ work, but not continued presence, was sought after in the time of the Wirtschaftswunder when the Americanised and booming West German industry had a shortage of skilled and unskilled workers.547

Contrary to political thinking, many guest workers not only stayed, but either brought their families or established new ones, sometimes even with members of the native German population. In this scene, Emmi is also visually coded in the style of a gypsy with her loud colored dress. Ultimately, she turns out to be perhaps an even far more problematic figure of the Other than any women in the conventional sense of Other. On one hand, the elderly Emmi presents the dark German past of the National Socialist regime with all the implications of atrocities committed.548 On the other hand, she presents, by virtue of her age, a (M)Other figure: in other words, even against the other women in the film, such as Barbara, she still is an Other (because she is non-male), but Emmi also is the only one who has children, thus representing the Archetype of the Mother. Yet, in a third aspect, Emmi also symbolizes the lover, despite the age difference, all aspects which will be addressed in a separate subchapter below. 549

Another auditory curiosity in the film can be found in the language used among the various guest workers. From their visual coding, it can be deduced that they are from either the North African region (like Ali), the Middle East, Tur- key or thereabouts. Thus, it seems to be an oddity that when the men are together, they all converse in the language of the oppressing culture:550 German. Although not all, but certainly a large portion of guest workers arriving in the second wave originated in traditionally Muslim countries, foremost Turkey.551 Even though Turkey is a secularly ruled country in the second half of the 20th century,

150 the predominant religion is Islam. The religious divergence between Christians and Muslims led to many problems with the German populations between 1950 and the present.552 Considering that Ali’s home country, Morocco, is also a predominantly Islamic country,553 and the other workers appear to also come from Muslim countries, one must question why Fassbinder had them not speak Arabic when being amongst each other.

Fassbinder does not appear to have articulated anything in regard to the question of language used during (published) interviews and the literature on his films remains silent on this issue. Since Fassbinder shot the film in 15 days and on a shoe-string budget,554 one explanation would be that it was easier to have the men speak even in a broken German because then the subtitling of that section could be eliminated, thus saving cost and time—both of which Fassbinder had in very limited supply.

Another explanation is that the guest workers are showing an attempt to assimilate into their new culture by trying to speak the language of their host country. Or, simply, because it is the language they speak the most. For example, in the scene at the auto shop, Ali is the only foreign worker. All his co- workers are German. It can be deduced that the daily conversations are held in German in this shop and therefore Ali would be accustomed to express himself in (albeit broken) German on a regular basis. Likewise his conversations with Em- mi are held exclusively in German. Considering the extensive discussion of Fassbinder films in the scholarly literature, it is a little surprising that his particular issue has not been addressed more in any writings.

BFI Film Classics author, Laura Cottingham, offers another explanation for this phenomenon: “Characters in Fassbinder films often speak in geographically inappropriate dialects, a device that ridicules the idea of a singular national or racialized culture.”555 She traces this notion back to Fassbinder’s theatrical work with Jean-Marie Straub, but it also can be located through Fassbinder’s work with Brecht’s theater style in his early days. David Barnett556 refers back to an interview given by Fassbinder in the 1970s in which the director states that the

151 Brechtian Alienation Effect idea is central to his [Fassbinder’s] work, but that his theater and film productions lack the distancing of a work’s context from the audience which he finds in Brecht. Fassbinder continues that he feels that Brechti- an pieces “have no sensuality.”557 In interviews, Fassbinder maintains that he likes working with women while despising being called a filmmaker with a women’s liberation agenda.558 Fassbinder’s look at German society through the aspect of Brechtian theater alienation techniques in Ali Fear Eats the Soul generates a tension between the weak male protagonist is positioned opposite a relatively strong and young white female and a relatively passive older female. This tension leads especially the male audience on the path to more fear as, on one hand the male spectator wants to take the young woman from Ali, and on the other hand, wants to protect the mother figure of Emmi to restore the gender and age roles. Jungian-based psychology states that the son must severe ties with the mother in order to continue his maturation through the Individuation process.559 Thus, if following the path to Individuation, Ali would be expected to leave Emmi and take the younger female, which leads also to a completion of the Campbellian hero’s journey. In the end, things do not happen in Hollywood clockwork fashion in which the lead white male character gets the age appropriate white female while at the same token protecting or rescuing the (M)Other figure. The coarse and unrefined language of the guest worker provides one early hint that the Hollywood plotline trajectory will not be followed in the film.

It is further noteworthy here that authors, such as Elsaesser, Mayne and Hake, at best marginally allude to the language spoken by the guest works beyond the obvious opening sentence and the continued “broken German.” Barba- ra Mennel—although she, too, does not mention that the conversations are being completely held in the language of the oppressing culture—560in her essay titled “Masochistic Fantasy and Racialized Fetish in Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Ali: Fear Eats the Soul” surveys the academic research conducted on issues of spectatorship by very renown scholars such as Thomas Elsaesser 561 and Judith Mayne562 as well as on topics of “camp” and homoeroticism by Al LaValley563 and Johannes von Moltke,564 but laments the lack of scholars having taken up the

152 (racialized) victimization of Ali—or for that matter, any other of Fassbinder’s characters in his films. Utilizing the language of the oppressor is one way in which the oppressed—i.e. the non-white victim(s) of German oppression— voluntarily engage(s) in further oppression. Mennel leaves the subject by stating the obvious in the essay as she follows up with the visual victimization of Ali, whose frontal nudity in this film adds gratuitous eye candy for any homosexually oriented males (and perhaps some heterosexual females) in the audience.

Fassbinder, through use of only Ali’s full frontal nudity, foregrounds more significantly the repression that is faced by the racialized Other by the Overde- veloped Shadow, represented by the camera, and by extension, the spectator. Full nudity (in extreme cases, stripping someone of their clothes) among clothed people presents a visual coding of someone of lower stature at best, an expression of societal shaming. Mennel posits that there are multiple readings of the film, not just the ones put forth by the established cadre of film scholars.565 In other words, Ali can be read as a heterosexual character out to womanize, but a bi-sexual character who stands in for Fassbinder’s own search for true and fulfilling love. Or it can be read as Ali being simply the victim of unspoken economic slavery, a guest worker who comes to Germany to seek improvement to his own economic status only to be relegated into invisibility based on his race. Nonetheless, Mennel does note that over the course of the film Ali’s Moroccan (ethnic) identity steps into the background, while his nudity (and one may ask, sexual prowess?) becomes equally more foregrounded. From a Freudian- Mulveyean textual reading, Ali then has slipped into the position normally reserved for a female—he is turning in the object of to-be-looked-at-ness while at the same time, he is the bearer of the (at time prominently displayed) phallic penis.566 In net totality, if Ali is not seen as a homoeroticized display object by Fassbinder, then it can only be deducted that he is the Freudian castrated male, since despite of his penis, he lacks the symbol of power—the phallus. Or, as the spectatorial scholarship would state, he has been turned into a homoerotic object of desire, but not a subject which would be imbued with power. Turning to Jung, it can further be reasoned that the Anima, or female characteristics in the male,

153 has taken over much of Ali’s maleness and he thus has become feminized in addition to his role of a racialized Other. For the male viewers in the audience, Ali’s character has turned from an Other, which especially in Freudian, but also in Jungian psychology can evoke fear especially in the male audience, into a castrated, powerless Other. Through the visual effeminizing emphasis of Ali’s Ani- ma, the Ego of the spectator is able to safely explore the disavowing of the feminine, the body and race. Coding Ali visually as Other through the visual and auditory cues aids ultimately in alleviating at least some fear in the (male) spectators when Ali at the end of the film is symbolically “killed” in the hospital scene even though the film lacks a definite hero.

By the end of the film, oppression and internalization of victimization catch up with Ali. His own, suppressed culture has in fact been so strongly repressed, and the oppression of the German culture has become so great, that it has taken a serious physical toll on Ali’s body as he becomes hospitalized with erupting ul- cers. Ali’s Self, through external as well as internal repression, has arrested Ali’s path of Individuation and in response to the psychological damage, the body outwardly displays the toll the psychological repression has taken. Earlier in the film Ali’s own culture is put down by Emmi when she replies to Ali’s request that “Germans do not eat couscous” and she really doesn’t like couscous anyways.567 Hockley puts forth that “the individual and his or her cultural location, are insepa- rable.”568 With couscous, the lone tie to his native Moroccan culture, basically severed, Ali completely represses and fragments his Self in an attempt to better fit into the German society and his new wife’s social strata, and therefore becomes even more introvert than the shy, and at times, even rather aloof character that he already has been. Nevertheless, because of his outward appearance, Ali cannot attain the status of an Ego within the German culture. In an effort to alleviate the tension between attempting to become an Overdeveloped Shadow and his actual position of powerlessness coupled with depression, he resorts to “self-medication”: Ali begins to drink569 and gamble much of his money away.

154 When looking at the Q’ran, it is rather interesting that originating from a Muslim country, Ali would take up drinking570 and gambling (the same goes for the other foreign workers who hang out with him). Substance abuse in analytical psychoanalysis is an outward sign of a fragmented inner soul, demonstrating that Ali’s soul has been thrown out of balance. Taking a Jungian-based perspective of the psyche attempting to return itself back to a state of health, Ali’s ultimate physical breakdown is an outward sign that his Personal Unconscious is unable to rejoin the fragmented Persona and heal itself due to extreme fragmentation by way of socio-cultural estrangement from his home country and the removal of most, if not all, native cultural ties. By this time, Ali’s Unconscious has become so fragmented by his visual coding as Other within the German society setting of the film that his psyche resembles a jumbled puzzle. The Individuation process, has been disrupted and when presented with the shattered fragments of his Self, with no perceptible way out, Ali begins to flee into the world of gaming and alcohol. In other words, in a last effort, he attempts to rebel against all socio-cultural norms and even sets aside the religious taboos. However, ultimately, he is unable to reconnect the fragments and suffers bodily harm (a symbolic “death” as visually represented by the hospital stay) as a result of the ailing psyche’s inability to return to a harmonic balance. The white hospital gown along with the opaque milk glass offer a glimpse of hope that a re-birth can occur for Ali after he wakes up and that he is on the way to step into a “white” male’s role as Ego, instead of representing the racialized Other. Nevertheless, the hope of an integrated society accepting the Other is fake as Fassbinder’s choice of melodrama genre overdetermines the unrealistic, the near impossible. Marcia Landy notes that melodrama is marked by “moments that intentionally or unintentionally call attention to the nature of problems which are, within the context of the narration, unresolvable.” 571 Despite Fassbinder’s open-ended presentation of Ali’s possible return to society as a changed Shadow—except, society is not accepting of such a return as indicated by the doctor’s word.

155 In the beginning of the film, when Ali and Emmi dance, the world seems rosy and they are able to be there for each other. The white female Other and the black male Other are able to stand as a united front against the onslaught of prejudice and racism together as they are both supportive of one another and thus are able to provide each other (at least temporarily) with the needs to become “whole” and integrated in their own small community. “This is in keeping with post-Jungian theory, which aims not to establish a lack (as in Freudian and particularly Lacanian theory) but rather to find a productive tension in bringing what might appear to be opposites together.”572 As long as Emmi is able to look past her own culture and accept Ali for whom he is—even under the onslaught of outside negativity—the couple is able to form and maintain a healthy relationship. When Emmi begins to return to “her own culture,” i.e. becoming “German within German society” again she must do so at the cost of Ali, by isolating herself from Ali and therefore fragmenting him from their relationship leading to a fracture in their small social environment. Emmi exchanges the social community with Ali for that of her previous community when she rejoins her German coworkers. Visually and thematically the coding for the audience that the dark-skinned male Other is to be feared and not the white female Other, occurs in the scene when Ali silently walks away to from the apartment after helping some tenants. Alt- hough the film lacks the white male protagonist, Fassbinder begins to make it very clear to the audience that Emmi, although temporarily an outsider, is truly not the Other to fear. Instead, the one to be concerned about, based on his unpredictable and ruthless behavior of alcohol and games, is the character the audience may have come to identify with as the bearer of the look and thus, the one to expect to turn victorious in the end. With Emmi’s reintegration into German society and Ali’s ostracizing, the Other is now visually identified as the character of Ali.

The turn of events from a unified front against social ostracism to an internal rift occurs after the couple returns from their supposed vacation and suddenly Emmi is thrust back into the womb of German culture by being asked to perform various tasks (from providing basement space to the neighbor to free child care

156 service to supporting the corner green grocer). Like children on a see-saw, as long as both Emmi and Ali were sitting in balance, at similar distances off the ground, they were able to be partners. Or as Jung would say, they were fully individuated within themselves and their (albeit tiny) cultural environment. “Individ- uation does not shut one out from the world, but gathers the world to oneself.”573 When the “balance of cultural and social factors” 574 is tipped and therefore changes the sense of Emmi’s Self, it has to be at the expense of one of the ends of the see-saw. In this case, when Emmi begins to look inward and turns back to the fold of her “own” culture, she has to tip the see-saw beam in disfavor of Ali, who now is finding himself even more isolated.

One question that may arise in this context in the spectator’s mind: was Emmi always the way as she presents herself in Part 2 (i.e. after the vacation) and only repressed her own being for the sake of the relationship in Part 1 (i.e. prior to the vacation) of the film or is Part 1 a true reflection of Emmi and Part 2 represents her caving in under the forces of oppression and racism? In an interview with Hans Günther Pflaum, Fassbinder acknowledged “that each viewer has to flesh [the relationships] out with his own reality.”575 As Hockley summarizes there is “the idea that somehow individuals get pulled away from their innate sense of who they are and end up living an in-authentic life. Many people pull themselves back onto their ‘true’ path by themselves, as part of a natural maturation process. Others chose to remain un-individuated if you will.”576 It is possible that Emmi, after realizing that life outside her cultural environment is too lonely, decides to return into the cultural fold and consequently, Ali must suffer in the process. In this melodrama, the restoration of Emmi’s Self within her cultural environment forces further fragmentation of Ali’s Self, leading to a slow destruction of his Persona, and with it, the Underdeveloped Shadow.

Emmi and Barbara—The Not-So-Obvious Others?

Barbara Mennel states that “[a]dmittedly, the representation of a foreigner as a positive figure of identification and of an interracial relationship that survives

157 the discriminatory attacks of West German society was unprecedented in Ger- man cinema.”577 While at first this observation seems to fit the movie, it is somewhat misleading as the survival of the interracial relationship is in question at the very end of the movie. Ali’s seemingly lifeless body has basically undergone a symbolic death, while Emmi sits by his bedside—the epitome of a mother worrying about her sick child, not a lover who is deeply concerned about a part- ner. The symbolic death can be read in the light of Jung’s remark of “the fairytale makes it clear that it is possible for a man to attain totality, to become whole, only with the co-operation of the spirit of darkness, indeed that the latter is actually a causa instrumentalis of redemption and individuation.” 578 In other words, Ali must symbolically die as a racialized Other in the real world in order to be reborn in the world of the melodrama579 as a redeemed and whole individual who can then be incorporated into an overdetermined melodramatic society as a valuable member: were it not for the threat that his Other-ness poses to German society.

The doctor’s statement predicting Ali’s return in the film’s final moments when Ali’s body is presented in the hospital not unlike a corpse displayed during a funeral wake, ultimately leave the film and Ali’s definite fate very open-ended in an anti-Hollywood fashion common to auteur cinema. Visually, Ali is coded as either already dead or, at best, dying with Emmi sitting at the bedside, staring out the milky opaque hospital window. Yet the physician’s words speak of him being alive. As the audience members leave the movie theater, an uneasy feeling of the threat emanating from the visual Other remains, left by Ali’s dark-skinned body contrasting against the white of the bed linens. Similarly to the ending of the Merian C. Cooper’s 1933 movie King Kong,580 when the mighty Kong rests in a heap of crumbled bones and black fur on the pavement after falling from the Empire State Building, it appears the Other has been defeated by the white male Ego, or Overdeveloped Shadow. The elimination of the Underdeveloped Shad- ow by the Ego alleviates fears of the spectator (through identification with the on- screen Alter-Ego) and the white audience can breathe a sigh of relief as the threat emanating from the Underdeveloped Shadow no longer exists. Thus, vis-

158 ually (and thematically) all that society eschews has been killed, therefore the spectator does not have to deal with culturally appropriate solutions: the situation has been resolved for the viewer by the on-screen Alter-Ego. After all, the doctor’s words, at once reassuring and disturbing, leave it wide open to interpret if Ali will indeed no longer pose a (perceived) threat to the German society. The doctor’s statement that Ali “will be back in six months” as is common practice for guest workers, nevertheless leaves a threat of Ali’s Otherness hanging in the air while the white male, representing both the Overdeveloped Shadow (as defined by Rushing and Frentz) and the Ideological State Apparatus as part of the established patriarchal body governing German society, takes up neither a stance for or against integration of guest workers within society.581 The doctor foregrounds the limitations of film, especially the genre of melodrama, by not taking sides: the problems presented within the diegesis of the film are, despite melodramatic whitewashing, incapable to be resolved. With this, the notion of fear of the Other through visual (and in Ali’s case, auditory) coding comes full circle to what Elsaesser states that in contrast to Sirk’s initial All that Heaven Allows example, Fassbinder’s choice of “a much older actress and making his male lead a Moroc- can, sharpened the conflict and with it, the unease initially provoked in the spectator when the couple breaks so many taboos.”582

Brigitte Mira, the actress playing Emmi, remarks in Juliane Lorenz’ collection of interviews that “[i]t’s uncanny, as if Rainer had seen into the future, how precarious the situation regarding foreigners would become.”583 Emmi herself is also part of the Other, the Underdeveloped Shadow. By Rushing and Frentz’s definition, Emmi is part of what society disavows. Nevertheless, as a white female, she ranks above Ali in the German culture and within all Underdeveloped Shadows, nevertheless, by definition she must rank below any white male, representing the Overdeveloped Shadow or Ego within society. Rushing and Frentz define the Overdeveloped Shadow as follows: “… in Western cultures these rejected others include the body, the feminine, people of color, and anything else that is clearly the rational negation of ego-consciousness. 584 In her first encounter, Emmi visually, although not socially, represents the gypsy culture, as she

159 does not appear to be related to the Sinti and Roma. In the early dance scene, her loud colored and large-patterned dress is reminiscent of Sinti and Roma older women. This image further goes along with the stereotypes about the Sinti and Roma groups evoked by song of “Du Schwarzer Zigeuner” selected by the jilted young barmaid for the odd couple’s first dance. Thus, Fassbinder from the first encounter sets up Emmi as an Underdeveloped Shadow. This allows for the two strangers to become a couple and initially join forces against the animosity exerted by German society. Later, Emmi’s clothes change for more subdued colors, thus blending visually more into German society as she returns back to her German cultural roots.

Emmi, as a lover and wife, also represents the Archetype of the Mother, a notion that is picked up in a joke later in the film when she seeks out Ali at his workplace in an auto mechanics job. One of Ali’s white co-workers jokingly asks if she is his “grandmother from Morocco.” The crude joke by the German car mechanic sums up both Emmi’s role as an Underdeveloped Shadow (Morocco = dark skinned = outside the boundaries of German society) as well as discrimina- tion by society against older people (grandmother = female). Emmi is no longer even seen as a perhaps still viable (M)Other, but strictly as an Other. By coding her as grandmother, she has lost all societal contribution due to loss of procreative abilities. Jung remarks on the Archetype of the Mother that there are “an almost infinite variety of aspects.”585 He mentions among the important members of the Mother Archetype the “personal mother and grandmother, stepmother and mother-in-law; then any woman with whom a relationship exists, for example, a nurse …”586 Emmi is all of these, with the exception of the stepmother or mother- in-law when forgetting that the real-life Ali (El Hedi ben Salem ) was already married and had children.587

At first, Emmi represents the personal mother: Ali’s loneliness becomes visible in the scene at Emmi’s kitchen table when both characters verbally con- fess their loneliness to each other and Emmi invites Ali to stay the night. Accord-

160 ing to Jung, “qualities associated with [the Mother Archetype] are maternal solici- tude and sympathy…”588 which are both expressed in the way Emmi cares about Ali in both the late evening (i.e. prior to retiring for the night) and the morning scenes. She inquires about his life and also talks about her previous life experience as a mother as well as a wife to a late Polish man.

Although Emmi’s “magic authority”589 and her “wisdom and spiritual exalta- tion that transcend reason”590 make her an expression of the Jungian Archetype of the Mother, she also points out a dark, very dangerous portion of her past, but passes over that chapter in her life as though it had just been a fluke. Emmi, by self-confession, had been a National Socialist member—“like everyone else” she adds in an excusatory explanation—during the time of the Third Reich. As film does not fill in the past of a character, except where necessary in the context of the plotline, the audience is filling in personal Archetypes triggered by the mentioning of the dark period in German history. Therefore, the kind, caring Mother Archetype can become tinged with negativity if the audience questions if she is indeed a fit example of a good mother (especially by her symbolically usurping the colors of Sinti and Roma women’s dresses). In the kitchen scene, Ali shows his soul, he is fearful about living in Germany, child-like. Emmi tries to comfort him: at first with words, baffled by his expression of “Angst Essen Seele Auf.”591 Yet, with her own past untold albeit alluded to, she also signifies “the abyss, the world of the dead, anything that devours, seduces, and poisons, that is terrifying and inescapable like fate.”592 Therefore, her dark side by extrapolation threatens Ali’s existence and at the same time, already foreshadows Ali’s ultimate demise (and a possible, albeit not guaranteed) rebirth beyond the hospital bed. This image presents a new birth possibility for Ali: if he can survive, he will be able to change things in his new life. In other words, he will be able to resume the path of Individuation, however, still within the confines of being the non-white Jungian- based Other.

161 Emmi’s other role is that of the (almost) grandmother. Like most women in their post-childbearing years, she outwardly is portrayed as “old.” In fact, the barmaid even refers derogatorily to Emmi in the opening scene as “die Alte” (or “that Old One”) when she bullies Ali into dancing with the first-time visitor. Em- mi’s age also shows after the overnight stay by Ali. The look in the mirror reveals her aging skin, the sagging muscles in her face and a very typical German, “old woman” style hairdo. And with it, she turns into the paradox of an Other figure. Emmi, the Old One, is no longer fertile. As post-menopausal female she has made the transition to the grandmother archetype, even though only one of her three (film) children has any children. With that, she presents the oxymoron of the lover to the younger man: unable to provide fertility of the mother, at least the tenderness of a “lover” substitutes temporarily for the lack of her own procreative maternal powers. Through the role of a lover, Emmi’s Animus is able to aid Ali’s Anima in his quest for Individuation, but she herself also undergoes changes toward Individuation. In the progression of the relationship, Emmi’s Animus, or male tendencies in a female, is temporarily growing stronger. One example occurs shortly after returning home from the vacation. Emmi sits at the kitchen table, working on bookkeeping, and almost orders Ali to go and help one of the women in the house move items to her section of the shared basement space. For a moment, Emmi turns into an Overdeveloped Shadow, however, this shat- ters quickly when Ali fails to return home that night and Emmi’s feminine tendencies erupt in a shower of bitter tears. As such, Emmi herself must undergo multiple role changes (from lover, to wife, to mother, to grandmother). In the end, Emmi becomes the nurse manifestation of the Mother Archetype. She sits at Ali’s bed, watching over his seemingly lifeless body while he undergoes either a rebirthing by working through the experience of the “spirit of darkness”593 which leads ultimately to “redemption”594 (possibly in the form of acceptance by the German neighbors and in extension the German audience) and “individuation”595 within society where Ali removes himself from the Mother-Son complex that seems to plague him and returning him to an individuated individual who can be-

162 come a fully functioning member in his social and cultural environment (presumably through having his psyche upright itself and return to balance). 596

As Mario Jacoby states about the Individuation process, not all “relationships that imply a difficult task are bound to further the process of individuation.”597 In the end, the mother figure allows a child to grow by providing emotional, socio-cultural and physical support. As Kenneth Lambert observes, a child who lacks the warm upbringing in the safety of a parental home, as in the case of Ali whose father was said to travel a lot as a Berber, the child must therefore “invest a great deal of libido into being his own mother, into holding together his own environment, and even, in extreme cases, into holding together his own body.”598 With his broken Individuation process, Ali attempts to recreate the path to become individuated, however, as his drifting into alcohol and gambling show, he is not successful. As Mary Ann Mattoon posits, the “bases for adult relationships seem to be laid in childhood….”599 In the end, the rift becomes too great and Ali is unable to make the transition to resume his journey to Individuation. As Mattoon further notes, “[i]f marriage becomes one’s path to individuation, however, one can expect to suffer before attaining the rewards.”600 Thus, the marriage may turn into a dead end on the way to Individuation.

Throughout the film, Ali and Emmi incur cases of Abnabelung601 from each other: during their initial meeting when Ali attempts to leave before the last public transportation becomes unavailable, through the love affair stemming from the first night stay-over by Ali all the way to the return of two people who happen to share an apartment and ending with a circling back to the beginning with the repeated dancing at the pub, although at a higher plane. The chance meeting (rain, music from the jukebox) attracts two lonely Others, a mother and a son figure as the odd couple dances to the first song. The “son” Ali blatantly gives up time with someone his age (i.e. some who theoretically could be his wife by virtue of age), to be meeting and later leaving the bar with Emmi, the “Old One.” Jung states that “[b]ecause of difference in sex, a son’s mother-complex does not ap-

163 pear in pure form. This is the reason why in every masculine mother-complex, side by side with the mother archetype, a significant role is played by the image of the man’s sexual counterpart, the anima.”602 Ali seeks out the mother as well as the lover in Emmi in early scenes in which he exhibits near child-like behavior such as downcast eyes with the head tilted downward followed by entering Em- mi’s bedroom, seeking comfort in the parental bed, although the initial scenes in the building foyer and alter in the kitchen do not make it apparent that the latter role is immediately something on his mind. However, it is something that the German audience would understand right away: the stereotype of the dark- skinned foreigner who only is interested in “going to bed with German women but marry their own kind.”603 The German audience is thus reminded of the fact that foreign males, especially if not white, are dangerous and do not stay true to the women in their lives.

After the initial (off-screen) presumed sexual encounter between Emmi and Ali, which according to Mennel is visually substituted by the shower scene,604 Ali and Emmi are simply “tender” with each other. Although Fassbinder’s portrayal of the first night (or perhaps better termed, its “hangover” aftermath) alludes to a sexual encounter between Ali and Emmi, the shower scene seems to be more added as a gratuitous scene connoting homoeroticism which also falls in line with the increase in erotic value presented by El Hedi ben Salem. His body, as the movie progresses matures visually into an adult, starting with a child-like demeanor and a fully dressed body, progressing to the shower scene at Emmi’s and finally, turns into a fully incorporated male member of society when Ali has a sexual encounter with Barbara, the pub owner. Through spending the night with a female who is still in her procreative years, Ali has come full circle to his physical masculinity. Ali now poses a threat to the white male audience as it appears that the white female may prefer the Underdeveloped Shadow over any Overde- veloped Shadow. The encounter with the extramarital lover poses one step in Ali’s Individuation process as in the end, he realizes that his fragmented Self needs not only the sexual encounter with Barbara but requires the nurturing roles

164 Emmi provides, from a lover to a mother to a wise grandmother, which he states in the final dance scene.

In the film sequence in Barbara’s apartment, Ali’s character is the only one shown in full nudity, a fact that Mennel prominently identifies: “Ali’s body becomes the spectacle that allows for a projection of fantasy as his discursively and visually constructed body is repeatedly shown in the nude.”605 While this may hold specifically to the character portrayal in Fassbinder’s film, Jung finds that “a man with a mother-complex may have a finely differentiated Eros instead of, or in addition to, homosexuality.”606 Ali’s implied mother-complex for Jung connotes then that Ali is both capable of greater friendship with men and “even rescue friendship between the sexes from the limbo of the impossible.”607 This psychological and inter-personal rescue is initially exhibited by Fassbinder in the opening scenes when Ali comes to Emmi’s “rescue” all the way to taking her home. At which point, Emmi’s mother complex begins to take over.

In the first scenes at Emmi’s apartment, Ali represents a child-like mind. He is fearful of life in German society and lonely due to social ostracizing. This loneliness manifests in the scene when he stands in Emmi’s bedroom, asking to sleep in her bed—like a young boy fearful of the shadows of a nightmare. From a son’s initial obsession with the mother, a child’s development stage featured not only in Jung, but very prominently in Freudian psychoanalysis, Ali slowly progresses to near the end of the film, when the storyline attempts repeats itself: except, this time, with a shift in time and thus, creating not a déjà vu experience, but a different outcome. In an interview with Hans Günther Pflaum the director, Fassbinder, even refers directly to the “childlike quality of the relationship between Ali and Emmi.”608 After Ali overcomes his child-like early stage, symbolized by the morning-after departure of both adults heading to their respective work places, the first half of the film follows the couple through the “normal” steps of a relationship from a chance meeting, to an initial courting, followed by a pro- posal then a marriage. Ali’s visualized psychological maturation process creates

165 almost a comforting feeling with the spectators, therefore at first emotionally lull- ing the audience into a stage of ease about the relationship. Then, the director sets the spectators back on an emotional rollercoaster by reverting back into unease of the Underdeveloped Shadow through the portrayal of the Other as a symbol of that which must be feared. Fassbinder achieves the former by way of the outside onslaught on their perceived “contra-norm” marriage, and the later by way of Emmi’s verbal and emotional attacks on Ali’s culture before ending with Ali’s vindictive behavior against Emmi (affair, drinking, gambling). The retaliatory actions are outward signs of Ali’s psyche attempting to find balance within the small social community of the marriage. Struggling to mature as an individual within the relationship, Ali resents the further fragmentation of himself into a commodity imposed by Emmi’s move toward an Overdeveloped Shadow within the relationship. With the second half of the film, Fassbinder demonstrates that similarly to a deep relationship between mother and son, as developed in the early stages of the film, the newlywed couple must face great hostility from society. In this case, it is society which views the inter-generational marriage with resentment.

Early in their relationship, Emmi also remarks about Ali’s body being very beautiful, but follows it shortly with a statement about herself no longer being attractive. Jung notes that in the mother-complex of the son “the simple relationships of identity or of resistance and differentiation are continually cut across by erotic attraction or repulsion…”609 Fassbinder visually follows Jung’s statement by first showing the lovers joyously celebrating their marriage. However the director quickly cuts to the overshadowing of the couple’s happiness by being trapped by hostility and isolation thus providing the audience a clear symbol of societal disapproval of both the couple’s miscegenation and the age difference. The long staring waiter at the “restaurant where Hitler ate” brings back haunting images of the destruction of human life during the Third Reich. Ali’s dark skin aids in reminding the audience that Sinti and Roma (the “gypsy” of the jukebox song) were among the groups persecuted by Hitler’s henchmen. Not only does Fassbinder foreground the racial aspect of Ali as the Other in these scenes, but

166 as Shattuc, Dyer and others have observed, the class difference between the waiter and the couple in the restaurant is being made acutely perceptible in the conversation between the waiter and Emmi as the attempts to order “only the most expensive things on the menu.”610 The specifically foregrounded staring by the rather unusually as well as unexpectedly hostile waiter further adds to making the audience members even more keenly aware of their own staring: a fact already pointed out by many Freudian scholars.611 Class difference, as evidenced through clothing, mise-en-scene and behavioral expressions in the restaurant scene, serves as another means to demonstrate to the audience that especially among higher social strata the miscegenation is not acceptable. While initially happy in the moment, the marriage is symbolically marked as a mother-son complex, or, socially still less acceptable: a class-spanning mother-son complex. Although the waiter is relegated to position of servitude during this scene, Ali cannot forego being regarded as a Knecht as evidenced by the disapproving gaze of the waiter.

Later in the film, Fassbinder’s technique of extremely foregrounding the staring at the Other turns threatening and leaps even more prominently to the forefront when the Ali is introduced to Emmi’s grown children during a meeting and Emmi’s son-in-law Eugen (played by Rainer Werner Fassbinder himself). Parallel to Sirk’s work, anger and disgust is displayed by all children, most prominently evidenced by the deflected upwelling of fury culminating in the destruction of the television set. Symbolically, Emmi is now cut off from her own society because of her marriage to Ali. The children represent in this case the cultural Ego which generally eschews the Underdeveloped Shadow, even more so, if two Un- derdeveloped Shadows join as this union poses a threat of overthrowing to the supremacy of the Overdeveloped Shadow (similarly to the uprising of workers in Metropolis effect the final demise of the overlords). In terms of spectatorship, the audience here receives clear visual coding that a mixed-age marriage is not accepted by society, and that a mixing of races will lead to violence committed against the perpetrators to eliminate the threat that such union poses to the fabric of society. Not only is Emmi experiencing vicious gazes and verbal remarks from

167 society (such as from the waiter and the other house tenants) as well as her own family (in form of the redirected violence against the television), but when word gets out that she has married “einen von denen”612 as a co-worker remarks, Emmi finds herself more and more isolated from her own cultural and social environment and turning herself into an Other even within her own social group of charwomen. Within the confines of the small foursome of cleaning women, the dynamics of the Other continues as, by simple association with Ali, Emmi becomes the symbol of the Other to the other three women, indicating the fluidity of Archetypes within society.

Already due to her “relative poverty and her single status, in conjunction with her age,”613 Emmi is situated “at the margins of the economically booming West German society.”614 Her isolation from her own culture is driven to extremes when she finds herself shunned by her coworkers. Fassbinder positions Emmi “behind bars,” a scene which Fassbinder later parallels with the newcomer, “Yolanda from Yugoslavia” after one of the three remaining women had been fired for stealing. In other words, being a foreigner puts Yolanda into a position of even greater ostracism despite her younger age (higher value to society as both worker and mother) and her light skin and hair color, thus making her even more into an Other within the cleaning ladies group than a German being married to a foreigner. Within the group of four, the dynamic of the Underdeveloped Shadow changes because now a true outsider has entered the group, thus, the previously coded Other is less Other than the new Other, leading to a redefinition of the Underdeveloped Shadow. While much has been written in scholarly literature by Elsaesser, Mayne, Hake, and many others about Fassbinder’s Angst Es- sen Seele Auf, one peculiarity about this very scene bears mentioning above and beyond what has already been said. From a Hollywood filming stand point, a low angle shot, i.e. looking from the bottom upward, generally connotes that the person has more power and is (visually) of higher standing. Both Emmi, and even more so in the later parallel scene, Yolanda, actually look down at the camera, thus, through their supra-position present themselves as a figure of power in film language. Nevertheless, that power is negated by the bars behind which both

168 are placed. One has to question, if this is done for their own safety, i.e. protecting them from societal harm, or to visually confine their cultural Other-ness and thus keep them in “protective custody” for the safety of society. Emmi’s higher position can be seen as a way of her being above (or ahead of) the rest of the German population in her acceptance of guest workers and other foreigners. Fassbinder says about his intended audience that “[t]hey have an excuse, or actually they’re forced, to dissociate themselves from the story, not at the expense of the film, but rather in favor of their own reality—to me that’s the crucial thing.”615 In other words, Fassbinder aims to reach a Brechtian Alienation Effect, but does not wish to break with a Hollywood-like continuation of the storyline to achieve such effect. And shortly after, Fassbinder continues “I think this film forces people—because the love between the two comes across as so clear and pure—to examine their own relationships with darker-skinned and also older people. To me that’s very important. You can’t make it simple enough.”616 Fass- binder thus questions the societal stereotypes of the Other solely based on the color of skin, that is the division between the white male (Ego or Overdeveloped Shadow) and any non-white male or female (Other or Underdeveloped Shadow). Although Ali is visually coded as the one to fear because of his status as Other, Fassbinder presents Ali as someone who, without the color of his skin, could be just like anyone else in German society. The director thus advocates, within the overdetermining manner in which melodrama pretends to propose solutions, for an integrated society, although the situation is unresolvable in society. Through her (at least initially unconditional) love of Ali, Emmi Persona becomes also fragmented by the imprisonment in a state of societal alienation, and with it—not only Ali—but also Emmi faces an arrest her own Individuation process.

The visual theme of Emmi’s (and later Yolanda’s) imprisonment not only points out the problematic relationships of native Germans with “darker-skinned” people as a placeholder for the ethnically Other, since in the case of Yolanda there is no one of any darker skin,617 but it also raises the question of discrimina- tion among same-age people as in the case of the three cleaning women isolating Emmi after finding out about her marriage to Ali. Yet, while it does not re-

169 solve the question of (superior) morality of those placed in isolation and suffering the fate of a scapegoat for transgressing societal norms (such as Emmi) or simply being a foreigner in Germany (such as Yolanda), it does bring up issues of suffering by those “imprisoned” and their (temporary) loss of value in the eyes of society around them. Fassbinder demonstrates this by Emmi feeling depressed and desperate as shown in the beer garden scene where she breaks down under the relentless disapproving stares of the waiters and customers. Ultimately, Emmi becomes economically valuable again to her two German coworkers when they are seeking higher wages for themselves, while Yolanda as the Other lacks such economic attraction and therefore is now made into the scapegoat. 618 Through her foreignness, Yolanda remains the Other, despite her visual coding to the contrary. Anthony Stevens points out that the shadow in its “archetypal core” 619 which is comprised by multiple traits, one of which is “the Enemy, the Predator, or the Evil Stranger.” 620 In the development of a child, this can lead to an outright expression of “full-blown fear and hostility”621 in early childhood, which is transferred in the Individuation process to adulthood where it often is mitigated through contact with other people, but an underpinning emotion of latent aggression may remain.

In Fassbinder’s film, this latent aggression expresses itself through a trend of visual violence that begins with the staring in the bar, continues at the restaurant (where the couple is isolated in a room and compartmentalized through the door frames), moves to the banister scene and eventually culminates in an emo- tive explosion by Bruno, one of Emmi’s children, when he kicks at and ultimately destroys the television set. According to Elsaesser, Fassbinder portrays “a society that is both conformist, immature, ‘spießerhaft’ while nonetheless super- charged with latent violence, whether directed inward or outward, and therefore at best precarious and at worst dangerously unstable.”622 Fassbinder himself remarks about the violence in the TV kicking scene, comparing it to Sirk’s scene as “you should try to tell your own story, using your film experience. That’s why the scene in Fear Eats the Soul where the television’s kicked in is different from the one in All That Heaven Allows where the children decide to give a television

170 set for Christmas in place of the guy.”623 Even though the thematic of the scene is a direct take from Sirk’s All that Heaven Allows, in Fassbinder the television demolition scene does not obliterate the “evil eye” of the world, rather it serves as a valve to release some of the audience’s built up destructive (angry?) energy stemming from either emotions directed against miscegenation or the staring gazes of people around the odd couple or even the lack of clear definition whom the Other in this film is, while at the same token, allowing for a possible (re- )building of feeling of empathy for the ostracized Other couple as Emmi passively accepts the television destruction without retaliation. The symbol of the eye is also significant as it symbolizes both an eye of the individual’s psyche onto the world, but it also symbolizes the world looking onto the individual psyche—or influencing the individual psyche through visual representation of archetypal imagery as seen on television. Ultimately, catharsis can occur through violence on- to the “evil eye” of the television because the (male) spectator can identify with the angry son and his temperamental reaction and in the detrimental action, the destructive energy is being deflected and neutralized. The notion of a unified front of Emmi and Ali against the rest of the world, however, is quickly shattered when social isolation causes Emmi to finally break down in the Biergarten scene. Under tears she utters her wish that everyone would just “stop staring” and “be nice” to her and her husband. Tears, as Lutz has noted, provide a means to catharsis.624 This catharsis symbolizes a necessary cleaning of the Persona in order to be reintegrated into the social environment: the second half of the film follows (albeit in melodramatic ways) the reintegration of Emmi, which is achieved at the detriment of Ali.

Whereas the first part of the film is marked by outward hostility toward the unified couple made up of different Others (i.e. Emmi the white female Other and Ali the dark-skinned male Other), the second part of the movie turns the tables on the marriage. Ultimately, if one looks at Fassbinder’s films through a pessi- mistic lens, it could be said that everything in the first part is about love, the failure of relationships and the lack of happiness, but this would miss Fassbinder’s

171 critique of society’s stereotyping of non-white Underdeveloped Shadows solely as a threat. Ruth McCormick asks “[i]s Fassbinder trying to say that modern life is absolute hell? That there are no happy marriages, families, friendships? Is it only Germany that has come to this sad state? As has been noted many times, Fassbinder’s ‘world’ is not a carbon-copy of the real one.”625 Indeed, the film is an adaptation of a melodrama and therefore, by definition of the genre, is not a true reflection of the real world. Nevertheless, Fassbinder’s adaptation also cri- tiques societal problems in a manner atypical of the melodramatic genre. When considering the film in its entirety and reflecting upon the final scene in the hospital, it does not leave the dark view, but presents a glimmer of hope that the future might hold an improvement for the Other, if only by means of personal Individua- tion. American film critic Roger Ebert in a review of Fear Eats the Soul even remarks that he “began to understand that [Fassbinder’s] films, apparently so cold, apparently manufactured so cynically out of parts taken off the shelf, were in fact a direct expression of his own personality: his pain, self-loathing, loneliness, compulsiveness, and restless energy.”626 Indeed, Fassbinder never was able to forge stable and healthy relationship connections, yet in the final moments of the hospital room, Fassbinder offers some hope, if only for others, not himself.

Throughout Fear Eats the Soul, no clear Ego or Overdeveloped Shadow character emerges in the form of a white male. Instead, all characters in the film present a form of Other each one trying to find his or her relationship within the group of Others and define himself or herself within the larger context of society. Fassbinder portrays a total emotional reversal in the second half of the film when he vanquishes all love and caring emotions between Emmi and Ali depicted in the first section. Now Emmi, who up to this point in the film was on the same level with Ali in her status as Other, emerges as above him, though she can never transcend her own Otherness. In the scenes starting with the return from the supposed vacation to the reunification bar scene, love has turned cold, has even become a commodity. Perhaps the best example occurs in the scenes at Barba- ra’s apartment. The pub owner is on her way to open the bar (in the same build-

172 ing as her apartment) when the lonely and forlorn Ali appears at her doorstep after an emotional verbal clash with Emmi. To Barbara, love, like cultural accou- trements, has become a token of economics. She needs Ali and his friends to come over to pay for drinks—after all, they were the only customers in the bar when Emmi first entered. It can be deduced that Barbara’s business was already not well flourishing at the time, thus, losing some of her last customers would mean certain ruin for her business. To attain her goal “she poses like the model for a pulp paperback and asks him—with a slight disdain in her voice—what he wants. Although, she does not anticipate his answer: couscous.”627 For Barbara, the comfort food becomes then the currency of Ali’s value: sex with the fetishized black male for the act of cooking couscous. Through this exchange, Barbara’s status as Other becomes elevated. Ali offers himself, almost sells himself, for a token of his cultural heritage, turning him even further into a Knecht.

Barbara, as Elsaesser correctly points out, does not love Ali, but knows how to take care of him.628 Like others, she uses Ali’s economic power to attain her goals (monetary gain, sexual encounters) while remaining above the black male in many ways. Even though, like Emmi, Barbara is the Other and in this case, a younger version (perhaps one more suitable for a longer term relationship or marriage), her demeanor is commanding, even reminiscent of an Over- developed Shadow or a Jungian-based Ego, however, she does not ultimately present herself a hero, hence she cannot be designated as Overdeveloped Shadow.

The encounter in Barbara’s apartment is also interesting in its use of mirrors, similarly to the shower scene depicting Ali after the first night with Emmi. In the first shower scene at Emmi’s apartment, Ali’s naked body standing in full frontal nudity is reflected by a mirror before being seen by Emmi (and the audience). Fassbinder’s use of mirrors points to the way the audience sees Ali— through the reflection of their own prejudices further deflected by a distorting mirror. However, unlike the earlier, nearly parallel scene, the bathroom scene in Barbara’s apartment only reflects a small part of Barbara’s body, lacking full frontal nudity. Parallel to the previous scene, the partial reflection of Barbara’s

173 body demonstrates her higher standing among the Shadows, although she, the female Other, is also being viewed through the deflection of a distorted mirror by the white male spectator. Jung speaks about reflection to “be understood not simply as an act of thought, but rather as an attitude. […] (“reflection” means literally “bending back”), […] It should, therefore, be understood as an act of becoming conscious.”629 Unlike in the Lacanian Mirror Stage, in the case of film, and in extension the reflection of Barbara in the mirror, Hockley observes that “[m]irroring what physically happens as light is shone onto the screen, this process is one that involves both projection and reflection.”630 While Barbara’s demeanor projects her as an Overdeveloped Shadow (business owner) in a (white) man’s world, the mirror reflection demonstrates that it is not true, but points out the mirage of the image she would like to project to the world: she is a woman, not a man.

The personal connections between characters, especially Emmi and Ali, but also Barbara and Ali, can also be seen in the color schemes used by Fass- binder. In the early bar scene, the table cloth in the bar is red—“shot like a bullet through the centre of the frame; or like a bloody road that leads from the viewer’s seat to the door”631 as Laura Cottingham notes in her BFI discussion of the film, the tiles on the upright portion of the bar are red. Both Elena Gorfinkel632 and John D. Rhodes also note the red tablecloth but neither feels the need to discuss its meaning further, although Rhodes adds that this scene was shot in “an actual location, apparently used exactly as it was found.”633 Barbara wears bright red and very tall boots while otherwise being rather skimpily dressed. And in the dance scene, the floodlight is changed to red. If one considers Katherine Wood- ward’s comment that the lights in the bar are “insubstantial” to the entire relationship, then the color red which “suggests their blissful union”634 created by the dance turns into an empty shell in which love is reduced to color. Nevertheless, red, the color of love, is signified all around and culminated in the flowers Emmi holds at the wedding ceremony. Although it may be interestingly to note that the flowers are deep red carnations not roses, therefore signaling that the love may

174 not be as deep as portrayed on screen (or more mundanely, that Fassbinder’s budget did not allow for roses given his shoestring budget).

Later, one of the gossiping women (Mrs. Kargas) also wears a red sweat- er and when Ali goes to help move furniture upon their return from the vacation, he, too, sports a red t-shirt. To speculate that in this case the color red signifies that Ali had an affair with the tenement resident is probably too far-fetched, however, in the bedroom scene in Barbara’s apartment, the color red re-appears. Considering that Fassbinder planned his scenes meticulously,635 it would hardly be a coincidence to see the color red here. In the end, though, all color returns to an absolute sterile, isolating white of the hospital room and Emmi’s gray suit. Emmi, now drained of all color (and love), has become a mere shadow of the Other, her gray suit also signaling her lack of procreation. Ali himself has returns to sterility, emasculated by the Overdeveloped Shadow represented by Barbara in the apartment scene. With all white around him, he can symbolize either death or ultimate purification and a possible rebirth as an Overdeveloped (white male) Shadow. Given the state of society depicted prior to the second dance, it seems clear that the latter must remain in realm of film fiction at the time.

Similarly to the color scheme signifying and visually unifying the inter- personal relationships of the characters, another line of commonalities runs through the movie: that of visual isolation. Elsaesser, Rentschler, Silberman and many other scholars on numerous occasions point out the scene in the stairwell at Emmi’s work place. This involves the two parallel scenes of Emmi being confined behind the banister during lunch in the first part of the film, then one with Yolanda during lunch being confined and isolated—like a scapegoat standing in for Emmi when Emmi’s small societal value has returned after the firing of a co- worker. In both cases, the ostracized Other within the small social group is being shown seated behind railings, indicating an isolated position, while at the same time being elevated by physically looking down at both the camera and the social group shunning the visually isolated person. However, the theme of railing and

175 grates as a theme of visual isolation of the Other continues throughout the film. In the case of the gossiping woman in Emmi’s apartment building, she stares at Emmi through a screen, as if part of an Oriental harem. This scene also has its parallels when Mrs. Kargas lectures Emmi in the staircase on the dirt in the house when “so einer”636 lives in the house. That last moment also ties into the theme of isolation by foreshadowing the scene at work when Emmi is “barred” behind the railing, thus, trapped and isolated, while Ali in the staircase scene appears free as much of his figure towers above the banister. Once again, the opposing Others are coded in ambiguous ways. After the wedding, Emmi and Ali leave the Standesamt637 where the couple once more is isolated by the railing of the stairs guiding the newlyweds back out of the building. The theme of visual isolation through use of banisters and railings continues further into the restaurant where Emmi and Ali are sitting behind the table, but this time in front of the railing. Although it appears as if Emmi and Ali had broken out of the social isolation, the banister reminds them in a Damoclean fashion of future isolations.

The restaurant scene offers a new camera angle in which Emmi and Ali are shown at eye level with the camera or even below. Thus, they are not only being-stared-at, but they are also now on the same level of “power” as the audience, consequently, reducing the prior “higher power” status of Emmi and Ali. Although a few more scenes return back to the low angle / high power shots, from the end of the vacation on forward, both Emmi and Ali are being reduced to lower socio-cultural power levels. For example, in scenes involving staircase railings and banisters, Ali, too, is now shown behind the railing, even though he still frequently presents a portion of his body above the railing and usually is still shown in a position of “higher” power than the viewer. Yet, his influence dimin- ishes as the film progresses and ultimately, Ali is seen on ground level with Emmi as the two face each other at Ali’s work.638 By the film’s end, the male Other has been reduced to a powerless corpse-like figure, foregrounding his dark-skin prominently through contrast with the white linen. The usual hospital bed railing is missing, but the viewer could easily add it in his or her mind. Ali’s journey of Individuation has been arrested by the fact that he is incapable of escaping his

176 skin color which marks him and isolates him as an Other. However, Ali has been rendered as visually no longer an Other-to-be-feared since he has been turned into a defeated shell.

The visual and social isolation that the couple endures, as film analyst Laura Cottingham points out, not only comes in areas of work and home, as noted above, but it extends even further into the socio-cultural fabric of society. Cot- tingham calls attention to the fact that Fassbinder shoots almost all scenes through doorframes or other delineating devices (such as the rails). “We are all locked into this false reality—this prison, this theater—we call life.”639 In other words, Emmi and Ali are restricted (and imprisoned) by socio-cultural norms: not just verbally by the neighbors, but also visually throughout the film. All outdoor scenes again set the couple up not only against small entities such as barring rails and stares, but even the city itself has ostracized the odd couple, thus, creating an even more Other feel. For example, when Emmi and Ali leave the Standesamt, the scene is shot in low angle from the other side of the street—no people (a true oddity considering Munich is generally a lively city), just rubble and street repair debris fill a good part of the frame, giving the marriage an even less approving “feel.” While Cottingham juxtaposes the building with the empty beer garden shot, it may be more appropriate to compare it to another scene in the film: the visual isolation of the couple when the taxi arrives at the Osteria, the restaurant where the wedding meal is being consumed. Several streets meet on this particular corner, yet, only the taxi chauffeur, Ali and Emmi are present in a city that usually bustles with people at any given hour of the day. Thus, it would seem more appropriate for Cottingham to compare the two city shots, rather than the almost quaint and happiness evoking beer garden. Here, even Munich, usually billed as a world city with flair and heart, cannot see beyond racism and xenophobia, instead, the streets have expelled all life, parting as if lepers neared, therefore creating even more fear in the audience as the film clearly delineates the Other and the (expected?) response. However, “[r]epression, or suppression for that matter, as Jung remarks, is as much an option for psychological well- being as beheading is for a headache.”640 The repression of the relationship that

177 arises from being shunned by society eventually leads to the fracturing of the individual beings. In order to remain, or even attain, a psychological balance, Jung posits that the psyche must have contact within the individual’s society. Being shunned by their societal environment, Emmi and Ali are first able to provide the needed societal interactions to each other. When Emmi demands that Ali represses his own culture as she finds some re-integration into her own culture, the united front against external threats fractures, thus leaving Emmi and Ali with a rift. This rift becomes even deeper when Emmi turns against Ali through higher emphasis on her Animus, thus fracturing not only her own Self, but repressing his Anima and Self. In the end, both stand in the way of each other’s Individuation process. Therefore, both remain the Jungian-based Other within their relationship, rather than growing together. The marriage is bound to fail as the two individuals had staked their journey to Individuation onto its success, therefore, the hero’s journey remains incomplete for either Ali or Emmi.

Ultimately, the ostracism that Fassbinder attempts to foreground also catches up with the characters and instead of bright colors of love and spring (such as the bright yellow beer garden and Emmi’s bright yellow clothes after the vacation), the socio-cultural pressure leads to the sterile white and gray of the hospital room with, providing at best, a milky opaque, thus very uncertain, out- look of the future. The spectator is left with a blank slate of emotions, as fear of the dark-skinned Other has, through a visual near death stasis, been alleviated and only an empathy for Emmi, the white German (grand-)(M)Other, remains.

Fassbinder’s Ali: Fear Eats the Soul presents an excellent example of New German Cinema in which Jungian Archetypes of the Underdeveloped Shadow, or Other and, especially that of the (M)Other are explored through various visual means. Although the film breaks many taboos, such as age, race and sexuality, in the end, the clear-cut hero of Campbell’s journey does not emerge, rather, like many European auteur cinema films, the ending remains open to

178 spectator’s speculation. Fear in the spectator, which builds up through stereotyping Archetypes, such as the dark-skinned Other, slowly is alleviated by returning the Other male into a business commodity, rather than a human being, then symbolically even killing him as he lies corpse-like in the hospital.

Another film, which through visual portrayal of the Underdeveloped Shad- ow can elicit even more fear in the spectator than Angst Essen Seele Auf— although temporally very close—addresses different contemporary problems within the German society, but depicts an even more physically and emotionally violent side of 1970s German history is discussed in the next chapter. Whereas Emmi and Ali attempt to resolve problems without violent behavior, in the filmic adaptation of Heinrich Böll’s The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum societal and insti- tutional violence in any form against the Other becomes almost the norm.641

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431 Rainer Werner Fassbinder in Barnett, David. Rainer Werner Fassbinder and the German Theater. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 2005. Print. Page 255. 432 Knight, Julia. New German Cinema: Images of a Generation. London, UK: Wallflower P, 2003. Print. Page 12. Some films repeating ingrained patterns from previous decades include Grün ist die Heide, Heimkehr, Schwarzwaldmädel, Geierwally (in various remakes), and many other films set in alpine or heath regions as well as Karl May pseudo‐Westerns. 433 Bergfelder, Tim. International Adventures: German Popular Cinema and European Co‐Productions in the 1960s. New York, NY: Berghahn, 2005. Print. Page 237 – 243. 434 Kolinsky, Eva and Wilfried van der Will. The Cambridge Companion to Modern German Culture. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 1998. Print. Pages 313 ‐ 318 435 Prinzler Hans H, and Eric Rentschler. Der alte Film war tot: 100 Texte zum westdeutschen Film 1962 – 1987. Frankfurt a. M., Germany: Verl. d. Autoren, 2001. Print. Page 29. The Oberhausen Manifest, simp‐ ly stated that the signers pledged to make films which were not following in their predecessors‘ footsteps, but were exploring new themes and present them in less restricted manners as the filmmakers would not rely exclusively on funding from the German government (which obtained funds by charging for television and radio services). Other manifestos followed, although the Oberhausen Manifesto is still the best known. For many people it may be perhaps the only known. Issued manifestos relating to the emerging Young German Cinema movement can be found in the book.

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436 The initial term “Junger Deutscher Film” (Young German Cinema) was later changed to “New German Cinema” (Neuer Deutscher Film) after its use by New York critics. Flinn, Caryl. The New German Cinema: Music, History, and the Matter of Style. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2004. Print. Page 6. 437 Examples include films by French directors François Truffaut and Jean‐Luc Godard as well as the Italian directors Frederico Fellini and Sergio Leone. 438 This improvement leans toward the side for which the hero undertakes the journey, e. g., the village in which he lives after ridding the people of an evil overlord or terrorizing bandits; a better life for the family of a coveted bride after restoring the family’s honor, etc. On rare occasions, it is only the hero who in the end profits from the journey and the new status quo. 439 Any film falling under the Western genre can substitute here, especially any John Ford / John Wayne productions. Even made‐for‐TV series, such as Gunsmoke are showing the clearly outlined trajectory. Star Wars: Episodes IV – VI. 440 See Wollen, Peter. “Godard and Counter‐Cinema”. Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology: A Film Theory Reader. Rosen, Philip, ed. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 1986. Print. Pages 120 ‐ 129. 441 Many books have been written about the history of World War II and the impact on the peoples in‐ volved. For short introductions to the history, see Stokesbury, James L. A Short History of World War II. New York, NY: Morrow, 1980. Print. Axelrod, Alan. The Real History of World War II: A New Look at the Past. New York, NY: Sterling, 2008. Print. 442 400 Blows. Dir. Truffaut, François, Marcel Moussy, Jean‐Pierre Léaud, Claude de Civray, et al. Criterion Collection, 2006. DVD. 443 Ali, Fear Eats the Soul. Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Brigitte Mira, El Hedi ben Salem, et al. Criterion Collection, 2003. DVD. 444 See, for example, the works of Laura Mulvey, Mary Ann Doane, Noell Carroll, Janet Bergstrom, Judith Mayne, Miriam Hansen, Thomas Elsaesser, Tom Gunning and Andreas Hyugen to name only a few Freudi‐ an film scholars who have examined New German Cinema films. 445 Blade Runner–The Director’s Cut. Dir. Scott, Ridley, Philip K. Dick, Harrison Ford, et al. Warner Home Video, 1999. DVD. Although Blade Runner, based on Philip K. Dick’s writings, is a Hollywood made film, thus falls almost outside the frame of New German Cinema, it is one of the best cinematic examples of the hero not being quite the true hero. Throughout the movie, Harrison Ford’s character is constructed as the ultimate hero, the man who is capable of overcoming androids by using human intelligence to outwit the otherwise superior robots. I have seen no other film that expresses this dichotomy of clearly coded hero to questionable hero as much as this Hollywood classic. See also Bukatman, Scott. Blade Runner. London, UK: British Film Institute, 1997. Print. 446 For more on the genre and history of Film Noir, see Silver, Alain, James Ursini and Paul Duncan, eds. Film Noir. Köln, Germany: Taschen, 2004. Print. Naremore, James. More than Night: Film Noir in Its Con‐ text. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2008. Print. 447 Wartenberg, Thomas E. Thinking On Screen: Film as Philosophy. London, UK: Routledge, 2007. Print. Page 3. 448 Hogenson, George B. “Archetypes: Emergence and the Psyche’s Deep Structures.” In Analytical Psy‐ chology: Contemporary Perspectives in Jungian Analysis. Cambray, Joseph and Linda Carter, eds. Hove, UK: Brunner‐Routledge, 2004. Print. Page 44. 449 Porterfield, Sally F., Keith Polette and Tita French Baumlin. Perpetual Adolescence: Jungian Analysis of American Media, Literature and Pop Culture. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 2009. Print. Especially Page 96. 450 Jung, C. G. Four Archetypes: Mother, Rebirth, Spirit, Trickster. London, UK: Routledge, 2003. Print.. Stein, Murray. The Principle of Individuation: Toward the Development of Human Consciousness. Wil‐ mette, IL: Chiron Publications, 2006. Print. Rank, Otto. The Myth of the Birth of the Hero: A Psychological Interpretation of Mythology. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins U P, 2004. Messer, Richard E. “A Jungian In‐ terpretation of the Relationship of Culture: Hero and Trickster Figure within Chippewa Mythology.” Stud‐ ies in Religion Sciences 11.3 (1982): 309‐320. Callen, Richard J. “Archetypal Symbolism in Two Novels of the Costa Rican, Carmen Naranjo.” In Ensayos de literature europea e hispanoamericans. Mechchaca‐

180 torre, Felix, ed. San Sebastian, U of del Pais Vasco P, 1990. Print. Pages 61‐65. Carrabino, Victor, ed. The Power of Myth in Literature and Film: Selected Papers from Second Annual Florida State University Confer‐ ence on Literature and Film. Tallahassee, FL: U P of Florida, 1980. Print. Frongia, Terri. “Archetypes, Ste‐ reotypes and the Female Hero: Transformations in Contemporary Perspectives.” Mythlore 18 (1991): 15‐ 18. Ketola, Tarja. “Taming the Shadow: Corporate Responsibility in a Jungian Context.” Corporate Social Responsibility and Environmental Management 15:4 (2008, July/Aug): 199‐209. 451 Moltke, Johannes. No Place Like Home: Locations of Heimat in German Cinema. Print. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2005. Page 32. "Papa’s Kino“ is a term that refers to the Heimat‐ and Heidefilms of the late 1940s and 1950s in Germany. According to Hans Dieter Roos, the term originated from a French headline: “Le cinéma du papa est mort.” (Papa’s cinema is dead, Papas Kino ist tot.”) See Roos, Hans Di‐ eter. “Papas Kino ist tot.“ Filmkritik 1 (1962): 7‐11. Print. 452 The Promise. Dir. Trotta, Margarethe von, Meret Becker, Anian Zoller, et al. New Line Home Video, 1995. DVD. 453 The Tin Drum (Die Blechtrommel)—Criterion Collection. Dir. Volker Schlöndorff, Mario Adorf, Angela Winkler. Criterion Collection, 2004. DVD. For more detailed information see Footnote 3, Page 8 in Arnds, Peter O. Representation, Subversion, and Eugenics in Günter Grass's The Tin Drum. Rochester, NY: Cam‐ den, 2004. Print. Kenneth Anderson, faculty member at Washington College of Law, American University, writes in a supplement to (London’s) The Times Literary Book Review that “[t]he fear of the religious is re‐ al. … a judge in Oklahoma has declared a film version of Gunter Grass’s The Tin Drum to be legally ob‐ scene child pornography, and police are going to homes suspected of harbouring the videotape in order to seize it.” (Spelling and lack of formatting in original PDF format.) Available Online at http://www.wcl.american.edu/faculty/anderson/remoteness.pdf?rd=1 . Last accessed 15 August 2010. For more on the judge’s order and consequent confiscation of the film see also http://www.epinions.com/review/mvie_mu‐1021534/mvie‐review‐4348‐70255A9‐391856F0‐prod5 as well as http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0078875/news?year=1997 . One of the most recent discussions can be found at http://www.okgazette.com/p/12776/a/523/Default.aspx . 454 Examples include Interview with the Vampire, Twilight, etc. 455 Angst Essen Seele Auf (Fear Eats The Soul). Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Brigitte Mira, El Hedi Ben Salem, et al. Criterion Collection, 2003. DVD. 456 A German pub or bar, usually located on the ground floor of an apartment building. 457 The film leaves it open whether the first encounter between Ali and Barbara at her apartment is one that leads to sex or not. The repeat scene, however, makes it clear that he had at least one extramarital affair with Barbara. 458 From the way the movie portrays the encounter, it can be extrapolated that Ali and Barbara had previ‐ ous sexual encounters prior to Ali meeting Emmi, but no direct mention occurs in the movie. 459 This summary, as well as all consecutive chapter film summaries, has been written by the dissertation’s author to provide a means to better understand references in the text. In no way does it present an in‐ depth film description nor is it intended to provide a substitute for watching the film. 460 Biedermeier was mostly a time period in German (cultural) history ranging from 1818 – 1848. Never‐ theless, the influence of the Biedermeier values, such as domestic virtues similar to those found in Victo‐ th rian England, continued to influence German society through the remainder of the 19 century and through much of the Wilhelmine Empire (1890‐1918). During Weimar, most Biedermeier values lost their sway over society. Friedrich, Otto. Before the Deluge: A Portrait of Berlin in the 1920s. New York, NY: Harper & Row, 1972. Print. Also Bock, Hans‐Michael, Tim Bergfelder and Kevin Brownlow. The Concise Cinegraph: Encyclopedia of German Cinema. Oxford, UK: Berghahn, 2009. Print. Pages 557 – 560. 461 Elsaesser, Thomas. “Kracauer and Eisner Revisited.” In Expressionist Films: New Perspectives. Scheunemann, Dietrich, ed. Rochester, NY: Camden, 2003. Print. Pages 33 – 72. 462 Haskell, Molly. From Rape to Reverence: The Treatment of Women in the Movies. Chicago, IL: U of Chicago P, 1987. Print. Also, Rak, Jiri, Radim Vondráček, and Claudia Terenzi. Biedermeier: Art and Cul‐ ture in Central Europe, 1815‐1848. Milano, Italy: Skira, 2001. Print. Sangl, Sigrid, Barbara Stoeltie, René Stoeltie. Biedermeier to Bauhaus. New York NY: H. N. Abrams, 2001. Print. Bunnell, Adam. Before Infal‐

181 libility: Liberal Catholicism in Biedermeier Vienna. Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson U P, 1990. Print. Ganeva, Mila. Women in Weimar Fashion: Discourses and Displays in German Culture, 1918‐1933. Roch‐ ester, NY: Camden, 2008. Print. Kaes, Anton, Martin Jay and Edward Dimendberg. The Weimar Source‐ book. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1994. Print. Ward, Janet. Weimar Surfaces: Urban Visual Culture in 1920s Germany. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2001. Print. Bruhn, Wolfgang and Max Tilke. A Pictorial History of Costume: From Ancient Times to Nineteenth Century. Mineola, NY: Dover, 2004. Print. Also, Goethe’s Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre pays great detail to Biedermeier clothing, especially in the theme of cross‐dressing. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. Wilhelm Meister’s Lehrjahre. Leipzig, Germany: Reclam, 1952. Print. 463 Quo Vadis. Dir. Guazzoni, Enrico, Amleto Novelli, Gustavo Serena. Silent (1913). Film. The Last Days of Pompeii. Dir. Caserini, Mario, Fernanda Negri Pouget, Eugenia Tettoni Fior. Silent (1913). Film. Cleo‐ patra. Dir. Gaskill. Charles, Helen Gardner, Miss Fielding, Charles Sindelar. Silent. Film. Homer’s Odyssey. Dir. Francesco Bertolini. Giuseppe di Liguoro, Ubaldo Maria Del Colle. 1911. Italy. Silent. Les Douze Travaux d’Hercule. Dir. Cohl, Émile, Maurice Venot, Alice Tissot. Silent (1910). Film. 464 Metropolis. Dir. Lang, Fritz, Thea von Harbou, Brigitte Helm, et al. Kino on Video, 2002. DVD. Also, Metropolis (restored). Dir. Lang, Fritz, Thea von Harbou, Brigitte Helm, et al. Kino International, 2010. Newly restored version. DVD. 465 Der Blaue Engel (The Blue Angel). Dir. Sternberg, Josef von, Marlene Dietrich et al. Kino on Video, 2001. DVD. 466 Ganeva, Mila. Women in Weimar Fashion. Page 35. 467 Donahue, Neil, ed. Invisible Cathedrals: The Expressionist Art History of William Worringer. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State U P, 1995. Print. Page 152, Footnote 10. 468 Sutton, Katie. The Masculine Woman in Weimar Cinema. New York, NY: Berghahn, 2011. Print. Page 140. 469 Keun, Irmgard. Das Kunstseidene Mädchen. Düsseldorf, Germany: Claasen, 1979. Print. “Flappers” is the term coined for Weimar women who crossed the prim and proper Biedermeier social norm lines by drinking, smoking and attending (wild) parties. 470 A detailed discussion of the Hays Production Code (also often referred to as “Hays Code” or “Produc‐ tion Code”) is beyond the scope of this dissertation. For more on the Hays Code the following readings are recommended: Black, Gregory D. Hollywood Censored: Morality Codes, Catholics, and the Movies. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge U P, 1994. Print. Balio, Tino. Grand Design: Hollywood as a Modern Business Enterprise, 1930‐1939. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2007. Print. Doherty, Thomas. Hollywood’s Cen‐ sor: Joseph I. Breen and the Production Code Administration. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 2007. Print. Negra, Diane. Off‐White Hollywood: American Culture and Ethnic Female Stardom. New York, NY: Routledge, 2001. Print. Asimow, Michael and Shannon Mader. Law and Popular Culture: A Course Book. New York, NY: Lang, 2004. Print. Leff, Leonard J and Jerold Simmons. The Dame in the Kimono: Holly‐ wood, Censorship, and the Production Code. Lexington, KY: U P of Kentucky, 2001. Print. Bernstein, Mat‐ thew. Controlling Hollywood: Censorship and Regulation in the Studio Era. London, UK: Athalone, 2000. Print. 471 Fowler, Catherine. The European Cinema Reader. London, UK: Routledge, 2002. Print. Page 117. 472 Dans, Peter E. Christians in the Movies: A Century of Saints and Sinners. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Lit‐ tlefield, 2011. Print. Page 7. 473 Many films, such as Screwball Comedy or many of the better Film Noir productions, were able to cir‐ cumvent the Hays Code, which is the reason for its relatively short‐lived existence. However, the Hays Production code was applied more strictly to foreign productions scheduled to be shown in American cin‐ emas. 474 Some well‐known examples of Screwball Comedy include It Happened One Night. Dir. Capra, Frank, Claudette Colbert, Clark Gable, et al. Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 2008. DVD. Bringing Up Baby. Dir. Hawks, Howard, Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, et al. Warner Home Video, 2005. DVD. His Girl Fri‐ day. Dir. Hawks, Howard, Cary Grant, Rosalind Russell, et al. Columbia TriStar Home Video, 2000. DVD. The Philadelphia Story. Dir. Cukor, George, Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, James Stewart. Warner Home

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Video, 2000. DVD. Arsenic and Old Lace. Dir. Capra, Frank, Cary Grant, Josephine Hull, et al. Warner Home Video, 2000. DVD. 475 Landay, Lori. Madcaps, Screwballs, and Con Women: The Female Trickster in American Culture. Phila‐ delphia, PA: U of Pennsylvania Press, 1998. Print. Page 98. Winokur, Mark. American Laughter: Immi‐ grants, Ethnicity and 1930s Hollywood Film Comedy. New York, NY: St. Martin’s P, 1995. Print. Page 14. 476 Wilms, Wilfried and William Rasch. German Postwar Films: Life and Love in the Ruins. New York, NY: Palgrave‐Macmillan, 2008. Print. Pages 128 – 129. Fehrenbach, Heide. “Cinema, Spectatorship, and the Problem of Postwar German Identity.” In The American Impact on Postwar Germany. Pommerin, Reiner, ed. Oxford, UK: Berghahn, 1997. Print. Pages 186 – 189. Koepnik, Lutz Peter. The Dark Mirror: German Cinema Between Hitler and Hollywood. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2002. Print. Pages 195 – 198. 477 The Hays Production code was officially laid to rest and abolished in the US and by the Hollywood mov‐ ie industry in 1968. Although some taboos carried into films produced after that point, a slow erosion trend can be seen in films made on both sides of the Atlantic. 478 Prinzler and Rentschler, Der Alte Film , Page 30. 479 Robert Wiene’s Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Fritz Lang’s Metropolis are prime example of experimental screen settings and plotlines, although other (often no longer existing) films also were made. For more on Weimar film, books listed in the bibliography section by authors such as Marc Silberman, Thomas Elsaesser, Anton Kaes, Erich Rentschler, Sabine Hake and Tom Gunning are recommended. 480 All of Fassbinder’s movies (except some literary adaptations) included themes of sexuality, nudity and frequently profanity. Another film which has is ripe with vulgarity and that immediately comes to mind here is Volker Schlöndorff’s The Tin Drum (Die Blechtrommel). 481 While most films were not as radical, some went all the way as in the case of the widely shown Eis am Stiel films, which are bordering xxx‐rated films. 482 Many Heide‐, Berg‐ and Heimatfilme were made and distributed during this time. Examples can be found in Wauchope, Mary. “The Other “German” Cinema.” In Framing the Fifties: Cinema in a Divided Germany. Davidson, John E. and Sabine Hake, eds. New York, NY: Berghahn, 2007. Print. Pages 214 – 217. Brockmann, Stephen. A Critical History of German Film. Pages 285 – 287. Scharf, Inga. Nation and Identity in the New German Cinema: Homeless at Home. New York, NY: Routledge, 2008. Print. Pages 47 – 63. 483 Hake, Sabine. German National Cinema. New York, NY: Routledge, 2002. Print. Page 150. 484 Hockenos, Paul. Joschka Fischer and the Making of the Berlin Republic. Oxford, UK: Oxford U P, 2008. Print. Pages 91 – 94. Klett‐Davies, Martina. Going It Alone? Lone Motherhood in Late Modernity. Alder‐ shot, UK: Ashgate, 2007. Print. Pages 33 – 35. 485 Barnett, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Page 262. 486 Hake, German National Cinema, Page 155. Young German Cinema is the term Hake uses to describe the new crop of German filmmakers who are all rather young in comparison to established directors in both Germany and Hollywood. 487 For a detailed discussion on Fassbinder’s theater career and influence see Barnett, David. Also, Ge‐ münden, Gert. Framed Visions: Popular Culture, Americanization, and the Contemporary German and Austrian Imagination. Ann Arbor, MI: U of Michigan P, 1999. Print. Pages 91 – 93. Wiles, Mary. “The Dual Paternity of Querelle.” In Postmodernism in Cinema. Degli‐Esposti, Christina, ed. Print. New York, NY: Berghahn, 1998. Print. Pages 239 – 240. 488 Allyn, David. Make Love, Not War: The Sexual Revolution, An Unfettered History. New York, NY: Routledge, 2001. Print. Page 86. An excellent and detailed discussion of race in Germany after 1945 can be found in Schroer, Timothy L. Recasting Race After WW II: Germans and African Americans in American‐ Occupied Germany. Boulder, CO: U of Colorado P, 2007. Print. 489 Examples include such films as many Leni Riefenstahl productions, e. g. The White Hell of Piz Palü, The Blue Light, and many others. 490 For examples see von Moltke, Johannes. No Place Like Home: Locations of Heimat in German Cinema. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2005. Print. Pages 97 – 102. Schissler, Hanna. The Miracle Years: A Cul‐ tural History of West Germany, 1949 – 1968. Princeton, NJ: Princeton U P, 2000. Print. Page 96.

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491 Jud Süss. Dir. Veit, Harlan, Ferdinand Marian, Werner Krauss, et al. International Historic Films, Inc., 2008. DVD. Also, Fox, Jo. Film Propaganda in Britain and Nazi Germany: World War II Cinema. Oxford, NY: Berg, 2007. Print. Pages 159 – 167. 492 Examples include Das Blaue Licht (The Blue Light), Die Weisse Hölle von Piz Palü (The White Hell of Pitz Palu), and Jud Süss. 493 As this dissertation focuses on film analysis, the larger underlying historical reasons cannot be ad‐ dressed. Elsaesser, Kaes and many other German cinema scholars have written extensively about this. The reader is advised to consult the list of authors in the Selected Bibliography section. 494 As film historian Thomas Elsaesser points out, Fassbinder ultimately did look both to the Weimar and the National Socialist Regime for some of his films. Fassbinder’s film Lola is said to be based on Heinrich Mann’s literary template for Joseph von Sternberg’s Blue Angel (Elsaesser, 288), while Lili Marlene is rem‐ iniscent of Nazi times (Elsaesser, 133). Elsaesser, Thomas. Fassbinder’s Germany: History, Identity, Sub‐ ject. Amsterdam, NL: Amsterdam U P, 1996. Print. 495 Elsaesser, Fassbinder’s Germany, Pages 106 – 108. 496 Watson, Wallace S. Understanding Rainer Werner Fassbinder: Film as Private and Public Art. Columbia, SC: U of South Carolina P, 1996. Print. Page 14. 497 Watson, Page 14. 498 Barnett, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Page 1. 499 All that Heaven Allows. Dir. Douglas Sirk, Peg Fenwick, Jane Wyman, et al. Criterion Collection, 2001. DVD. 500 Starks, Lisa S. “Remember Me.” Page 191. Quotation marks in original. 501 Murray, Bruce A. and Chris Wickham. Framing the Past: The Historiography of German Cinema and Television. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois U P, 1993, Print. Page 287. 502 Starks, Page 191. 503 Petro, Joyless Streets, Page 30. 504 Thomas, Paul. “Fassbinder: The Poetry of the Inarticulate.” Film Quarterly 30.2 (Winter 1976‐77): 2‐17. Print. Bracketed content added for clarification. 505 Harvey, “Sartre / Cinema.” 506 Thomas, “Fassbinder: The Poetry…,” Page 6. 507 Campbell, The Hero, Pages 19 – 31. 508 Gemünden, Gerd. “Re‐Fusing Brecht: The Cultural Politics of Fassbinder’s German Hollywood.” New German Critique 63 Special Issue on Rainer Werner Fassbinder (Autumn 1994): 54‐75. Print. 509 Hayman, Ronald. Fassbinder Film Maker. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster, 1984. Print. Page 25. Al‐ so, Watson, Understanding Fassbinder, Page 94. 510 Hayman, Ronald, Fassbinder: Film Maker, Pages 13, 25, and 66‐67. Fassbinder’s first lover was appar‐ ently a darker skinned Greek (Hayman, 14). See also Brockmann, A Critical History, Page 360. Diedrich, Maria and Jürgen Heinrichs. From Black to Schwarz. Cultural Crossovers between African America and Germany. Münster, Germany: LIT, 2009. Print. Pages 248 ‐ 250 511 Hayman, Pages 66 – 67 512 Hayman, Page 67 513 Barbara Mennel. In Finke, Michael C and Carl Niekerk, eds. One Hundred Years of Masochism: Literary Texts, Social and Cultural Contexts. Amsterdam, NL: Rodopi, 2000. Print. Page 204. 514 The American Soldier. Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner. Also Iden, Peter. Fassbinder. New York, NY: Tanam, 1981. Print. Page 153. 515 Cheesman, Tom. Novels of Turkish German Settlement: Cosmopolite Fictions. Rochester, NY: Camden, 2007. Print. Page 145. 516 Starks, Page 187. 517 Gemünden, Framed Visions, Page 101. 518 Unlike Campbell’s hero, Eugen does not undergo trials or tribulations and is the only one shown with his wife. Emmi’s other two sons are visiting by themselves. Although Eugen is the Overdeveloped Shad‐ ow, he does not ultimately become the hero as he does not undergo the hero’s journey.

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519 Shattuc, Jane. Television, Tabloids, and Tears: Fassbinder and Popular Culture. Minneapolis, MN: U of Minnesota P, 1994. Print. Page 120. 520 Metz, Walter. Engaging in Film Criticism: Film History and Contemporary American Cinema. New York, NY: Lang, 2004. Print. Page 86. 521 Río, Elena del. Deleuze and the Cinemas of Performance: Powers of Affection. Edinburgh, UK: Edin‐ burgh U P, 2008. Print. Page 70. Bracketed text added for clarity. Many biographers of Fassbinder have stated that his use of foregrounding through long camera takes serves as the equivalent of the Brechtian Alienation Effect. See Watson, Elsaesser, Gemünden, and Barrett. 522 Jung in Hockley, Frames, Page 36. 523 Izod, John. Myth, Mind, and the Screen: Understanding the Heroes of Our Times. New York, NY: Cam‐ bridge U P, 2001. Print. Page 17. 524 Coplan, Amy. “Empathy and Character Engagement.” In The Routledge Companion to Philosophy and Film. Livingston, Paisley, ed. New York, NY: Routledge, 2009. Print. Page 100. 525 Cartwright, Moral Spectatorship, Pages 54 – 57. Although Cartwright discusses identification in context of deafness in this section, she outlines the process of identification for any spectator, be that person a part of the hearing or deaf culture. Allen, Projecting Illusion, Page 22. Coplan, Amy. “Empathy and Char‐ acter Engagement.” Pages 97 – 110. 526 Hockley, Frames, Page 43. Ellipsis in first paragraph in original. Ellipses in brackets are dissertation au‐ thor’s addition. 527 Fassbinder, Rainer Werner. The Anarchy of Imagination. Michael Töteberg and Leo A Lansing, eds. Baltimore, MA: John Hopkins U P, 1992. Print. Page 158. “Mira” refers to Brigitte Mira’s character, Em‐ mi. 528 Miles, Clement A. Christmas Customs and Traditions, Their History and Significance. New York, NY: Dover, 1976. Print. Pages 230 – 232. 529 Siefker, Phyllis. Santa Claus, Last of the Wild Men: Origin and Evolution of Saint Nicholas, Spanning 50,000 Years. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2006. Print. Page 155. 530 Curzan, Anne and Kimberly Emmons. Studies in the History of the English Language II: Unfolding Con‐ versations. Berlin, Germany: Mouton de Gruyter, 2004. Print. Page 102. 531 Siefker, Page 82. 532 Siefker, Page 157. 533 Siefker, Page 155. 534 Traditionally, in Germany this type celebration would occur early on in the Advent’s celebrations, i.e. th the very beginning of December up to around the 6 (St. Nicholas Day) of December. 535 Siefker, Page 82 and Sumberg, Samuel L and Stadtbibliothek Nürnberg. The Nuremberg Schembart Carnival. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 1941. Print. Page 153. 536 Fascis or Fasces bundles or Rutenbündel were bundles of cut switches or plant‐based rods, which were bound together in the same fashion as ancient Roman fascis bundles which were also a symbol of power and punishment, although much more authentic and serious than the power inscribed in the figure of Knecht Ruprecht—except Knecht Ruprecht’s bundles lacked the ancient Roman fascis axes. These bun‐ dles of thin tree switches, similarly bound as brooms used at the time, were utilized by Knecht Ruprecht (i.e. men playing the role of Knecht Ruprecht) to whip the child on the behind for transgressionary acts during the preceding year. 537 Siefker, Page 157. 538 This is an envelope which includes both a slip showing hours worked and the wages in cash. Many hourly paid workers in Germany in the 1970s received this form of wage payment, as direct deposit into a bank account was not a common occurrence yet. 539 Mennel, Barbara. “Masochistic Fantasy and Racialized Fetish in Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Ali: Fear Eats the Soul.” In One Hundred Years of Masochism: Literary Texts, Social and Cultural Contexts. Finke, Michael C. and Carl Niekerk, eds. Amsterdam, NL: Rodopi, 2000. Print. Page 199.

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540 Originally printed in Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Mask. New York, NY: Grove P, 1967. Print. Em‐ phasis in original, brackets added for clarification. Page 170. Note: Barbara Mennel’s reprinted, partial quote lacks the emphasis. 541 Franz, Marie‐Louise von, Archetypal Dimensions, Page 116. 542 Elsaesser, Thomas. Fassbinder’s Germany: History, Identity, Subject. Amsterdam, NL: Amsterdam U P, 1996. Print. Page 123. 543 “Schwanz kaputt!” 544 Disk 2 of the Criterion Edition of Ali: Fear Eats the Soul, includes a short film by director Shahbaz Noshir based on a real event, which is titled “Angst Isst Seele Auf.” In this approximately 10 minute long film, which features a very frail 90+ year old Brigitte Mira, a dark‐skinned German theater actor (played by Pierre Sanoussi‐Bliss) is attacked by Skinheads and badly beaten on the way to a German theater. A po‐ lice report is taken in a police van, but the actor leaves before the report is finished since he is already late for the theatric performance of Angst Essen Seele Auf with Brigitte Mira. The mini‐film ends with the ac‐ tor leaving town on a train. Throughout the entire filming, only the dark skinned hand of the actor and a voice over is evidence for the existence of the actor—the entire ten minute sequence is shot as a point‐of‐ view clip from the actor’s side. 545 Since a detailed discussion about the life and ultimate death Löhner‐Beda in Auschwitz goes beyond the frame of this dissertation, the following books are recommended for further readings: Schwarberg, Günther. Dein ist mein ganzes Herz: Die Geschichte von Fritz Löhner‐Beda, der die schönsten Lieder der Welt schrieb, und warum Hitler ihn ermorden liess. Göttingen, Germany: Steidl, 2000. Print. Denscher, Barbara and Helmut Peschina. Kein Land des Lächelns: Fritz Löhner‐Beda, 1883 – 1942. Salzburg, Austria: Residenz, 2002. Print. Grosch, Nils. Aspekte des modernen Musiktheaters in der Weimarer Republik. Münster, Germany, Waxman, 2004. Print. (Specifically Chapter 2.) 546 Stauber, Roni. The Roma: A Minority in Europe: Historical and Social Perspectives. Budapest, Hungary: Central European U P, 2007. Print. Pages xiii – ix. Margalit, Gilad. Germany and Its Gypsies: A Post‐ Auschwitz Ordeal. Madison, WI: U of Wisconsin P, 2002. Print. Pages 10 – 12. 547 Scharf, Inga. Nation and Identity in the New German Cinema. Page 185. Emphasis, parentheses and spelling exactly as in original, material in brackets added for clarification. 548 To elaborate further on this historical aspect goes far beyond the scope of this dissertation.. 549 This point warrants further elaboration in much more detail. To allow for a complete examination of Ali, the female Other(s) will be discussed in a separate sub‐section below. 550 As can be seen with both foreigners in Germany (Turkish, Spanish, Italian) and immigrants in the Unit‐ ed States (Middle and South American), many cultures, when amidst their own cultural group, will speak their native tongue rather than resorting to the language of the new country. 551 Gökturk, Deniz, David Gramling, Anton Kaes. Germany in Transit: Nation and Migration, 1955 – 2005. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2007. Print. Page 11. 552 An excellent reference is Mickolus, Edward F. and Susan L. Simmons. Terrorism, 1992‐1995: A Chro‐ nology of Events and a Selectively Annotated Bibliography. Westport, CT: Greenwood P, 1997. Print. 553 According to the CIA’s World Fact Book’s website, 98.7% of the population is Muslim CIA – the World Fact Book. https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the‐world‐factbook/geos/mo.html Online. (ISSN 1553‐8133). Updated bi‐weekly. Last accessed 15 August 2010. Ken Bernstein also states that “Islam is the official state religion of Morocco.” Bernstein, Ken. Morocco. Lausanne, Switzerland: JPM, 2002. Print. Page 62. Already as early as 1884, The Statesman’s Year Book states that “The Sultan of Morocco and his subjects differ from the followers of Mahomet in Turkey, Persia, and other countries by adopting as their text‐book of faith the commentary upon the Koran by Sidi Beccari.” The Statesman’s Year Book: A Statistical, Mercantile, and Historical Account of the States and Sovereigns of the Civilised World for the Year 1884 (Vol. 21). Martin, Frederick, et al., eds. London, UK: MacMillan and Co., 1884. Print. Page 700. 554 Hayman, Fassbinder Film Maker, Page 154, notes a budget of about 260,000 Deutsche Mark (a figure corroborated by Wallace Watson, page 122) for the entire film, although the duration of 193 minutes must be questioned. It is possible that this is a typo or that the initial intended release was 193 minutes, but the ultimate version turned into 93 minutes. Fassbinder himself points to the film shooting for Angst

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Essen Seele Auf as 18 days, not 15 as Hayman states (Fassbinder, Anarchie, Page 13). Also, Iden, Peter. Fassbinder, relates on Page 236 that the filming took 15 days in Munich, Germany. 555 Cottingham, Laura. Fear Eats the Soul. (Angst Essen Seele Auf). London, UK: British Film Institute, 2005. Print. Pages 49 – 51. 556 Barnett, Pages 5 ‐ 7. Also, see Wallace Watson chapters 1 and 2. 557 Barnett, Page 6. 558 Watson, Pages 132 – 133. 559 Stevens, Archetypes, Page 130. 560 Although the argument can be made that these foreign guest workers can depart Germany and return to their country of origin at any time, as the current debate about (especially) Mexican immigrants the United States shows, it is not always that easy. Often, these workers had paid to be smuggled into Ger‐ many or be provided with fake documents allowing them to work as “legal” guest workers when in reality they did not possess truly legally issued papers. Frequently, especially people involved in the sex trade, will take the passport or other legal immigration document to prevent a trafficked person from leaving the country. A detailed discussion of the socio‐cultural implications of guest workers in Germany of the st 1970s and immigrants in the United States in the early 21 century must be left to further research and publication as this goes beyond the frame of this dissertation. 561 Elsaesser, Thomas. Fassbinder’s Germany. 562 Mayne, Judith. “Fassbinder and Spectatorship.” New German Critique 12 (Aut. 1977): 61 – 74. Print. 563 LaValley, Al. “The Gay Liberation of Rainer Werner Fassbinder: Male Subjectivity, Male Bodies, Male Lovers.” New German Critique 63 (Aut. 1994): 108 – 137. Print. 564 Moltke, Johannes von. “Camping in the Art Closet: The Politics of Camp and Nation in German Film.” New German Critique 63 (Aut. 1994): 76 – 106. Print. 565 Mennel, Page 197. 566 Mennel, Page 197. 567 This scene occurs right after Ali returns from helping with the furniture transfer only a short few minutes / hours after Emmi and Ali return from the vacation. Emmi tells him that he should be getting himself used to the German customs and foods. In other words, she expresses her expectation that now that they are married, had a good vacation together and things have outwardly changed, it is time for Ali to change, almost disavow his culture, too. It is remarkable, because this scene occurs so shortly into the time when the outside world seems to have accepted Emmi and Ali as a couple. Yet, it does show the in‐ ternal fracture lines that are beginning to show in the scenes following this particular exchange. 568 Hockley, Frames, Page 7. 569 Levin, Jerome D, Joseph Culkin and Richard S. Perrotto, eds. Introduction to Chemical Dependency Counseling. Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 2001. Print. Pages 311 – 323. Andrews, Linda W. Encyclope‐ dia of Depression, Vol. 1. Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood, 2010. Print. Pages 16 – 20. 570 As Amani Fairak points out in an entry in the Encyclopedia of Psychology and Religion (Page31), any substance that can lead to the loss of consciousness is forbidden under the laws of Sharia, which are the body of laws governing Muslims and the Q’ran. Fairak, Amani. “Analogy.” In Encyclopedia of Psychology and Religion, Vol. 1. Leeming, David Adams, Kathryn Madden and Stanton Marlan, eds. New York, NY: Springer Science + Business Media, 2010. Print. Other sources include Jones, Raya A. Jung, Psychology, Postmodernity. New York, NY: Routledge, 2007. Print. In chapter 6, John Jung examines the relationship and the theories developed regarding the psychology of alcohol and drug use in great detail. Jung, John. Psychology of Alcohol and Other Drugs: A Research Perspective. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2001. Print. Pages 157‐182. Also, see Ulanov, Ann Belford. Spirit in Jung. Especially Pages 149 ‐ 150. 571 Landy, Imitations of Life, Page 20. 572 Hockley, Frames, Page 14. Parenthetical text in original. 573 Jung in Hockley, Frames, Page 9. 574 Hockley, Frames, Page 9. 575 Fassbinder, Anarchy, Page 11. Phillips, James. Cinematic Thinking: Philosophical Approaches to the New Cinema. Stanford, CA: Stanford U P, 2008. Print. Page 141.

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576 Hockley, Frames, Page 12. 577 Mennel, Page 193. 578 Jung, 9.1, Pages 251 – 252. Emphasis in original. 579 Even though Fassbinder addresses many serious themes in this film, it must be kept in mind that the original film, All That Heaven Allows, was a prime example of the melodramatic genre. 580 King Kong. Dir. Cooper, Merian C., Ernest B. Schoedsack, Robert Armstrong, et al. Warner Home Vid‐ eo, 2006. DVD. 581 At the time Fassbinder films this story, a political debate occurred in Germany over the role of guest workers, both first generation guest workers (1950s and 1960s) who arrived from abroad and the next generation of guest workers born on German soil. 582 Elsaesser, Fassbinder’s Germany, Page 281. 583 Lorenz, Juliane. Chaos As Usual: Conversations about Fassbinder. New York, NY: Applause, 1997. Print. Page 183. 584 Rushing and Frentz, Page 40. 585 Jung, 9.1, Page 81. 586 Jung, 9.1, Page 81. 587 Hayman states that Salem already had five children when he met Fassbinder (Hayman, 25). 588 Jung, 9.1, Page 82. 589 Jung, 9.1, Page 82 590 Jung, 9.1, Page 82 591 This quote was intentionally left in the original language as it demonstrates Ali’s inability to articulate proper German. The English translation “Fear Eats the Soul” lacks the incorrect grammar expressed in this short phrase. 592 Jung, 9.1, Page 82. 593 Jung, 9.1, Page 251. 594 Jung, 9.1, Page 251. 595 Jung, 9.1, Page 251. 596 Jacoby, Mario, Individuation and Narcissism, Pages 141 ‐ 143. 597 Jacoby, Pages 142 – 143. 598 Lambert, Kenneth. Analysis, Repair and Individuation. London, UK: Karnac, 1994. Print. Page 200. 599 Mattoon, Mary Ann, Jungian Psychology, Page 210. 600 Mattoon, Jungian Psychology, Page 219. 601 This is the German expression referring to the stage of separation of the newborn child from the mother at the moment of breaking the umbilical cord. Literally, the term means, “de‐naveling.” This is the first step of the newborn infant to become an individual as the child makes its way through the steps of Individuation. 602 Jung, 9.1, Page 85. 603 Although there is nothing in the literature, this stereotypical sentence was very prevalently uttered by many Germans from the mid‐1970s through the late 1980s. After that time, an intermingling of the Ger‐ man population with both first and second generation immigrants led to a decrease in this viewpoint. It is echoed in the conversation among the cleaning women in the staircase during their lunch break. 604 Mennel, Page 197. 605 Mennel, Page 197. 606 Jung, 9.1, Page 86. As is well known, Fassbinder himself had homosexual tendencies, and the fact that ben Salem sold his body to males in Parisian saunas, as noted for example by Hayman, also indicates the continuation of such sexual trends within and outside the boundaries of the film. 607 Jung, 9.1, Page 86. 608 Fassbinder, Anarchy, Page 11. 609 Jung, 9.1, Page 86. 610 Shattuc, Television, Page 87. Jagodzinski, Jan. Youth Fantasies: The Perverse Landscape of the Media. New York, NY: Palgrave‐Macmillan, 2004. Print. Pages 41 – 43. Gorfinkel, Elena. “Impossible, Impolitic.”

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In A Companion to Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Peucker, Brigitte, ed. Chichester, UK: John Wiley, 2012. Print. Pages 506 – 508. Dyer, Richard. The Culture of Queers. New York, NY: Routledge, 2002. Print. Page 178. 611 Elsaesser, Mayne, Kaes, and many others scholars of New German Cinema have repeated discussed the camera techniques of Fassbinder, particularly the modus operandi of foregrounding, i.e. making the audience aware of the fact that what is being shown is a film, not reality. This method is by no means new—Berthold Brecht in his theater plays called this “alienation effect.” See bibliography for works by these scholars. 612 “One of them.” The spoken German emphasizes the “denen” / “them,” thus prominently indicating the Other‐ness of the guest workers and the fact that guest workers are not part of the social group fab‐ ric. In fact, one of the co‐workers refers to guest workers in a sweeping generalization as “pigs, they’re all dirty pigs…” 613 Scharf, Nation and Identity, Page 189. 614 Scharf, Page 189. 615 Fassbinder, Anarchy, Page 11. 616 Fassbinder, Anarchy, Page 11. 617 In fact, Yolanda with her blondish hair and young, milky white skin may actually be coded as lighter colored than any of the German charwomen in the film who mostly appear to have a weathered skin tone and darker colored hair. 618 Although Fassbinder intentionally left the story relatively simple (See Fassbinder, Anarchy, Page 11), it would be interesting to see what would happen if Emmi and Yolanda were to join forces and stand up against the bullying of the other two women. The young foreigner and the older German woman against two highly prejudiced, but very variably‐minded (i.e. changing their minds with the wind) women. 619 Stevens, Jung, Page 62. 620 Stevens, Page 62. 621 Stevens, Page 62. 622 Elsaesser, Fassbinder’s Germany, Page 25. 623 Fassbinder, Anarchy, Page 42. 624 Lutz, Page 119. 625 McCormick, Ruth. “Fassbinder’s Reality: An Imitation of Life.” In Imitations of Life: A Reader on Film & Television Melodrama. Landy, Marcia, ed. Detroit, MI: Wayne State U P, 1991. Print. Page 579. 626 Ebert, Roger. Roger Ebert’s Four‐Star Reviews 1967‐2007. Kansas City, MO: Andrews McMeel, 2007. Print. Page 16. Bracketed material added for clarity. 627 Ebert, Four‐Star Reviews, Page 16. Emphasis in original. 628 Elsaesser, Fassbinder’s Germany, Page 55. 629 Jung, 11, Page 158, footnote 9. Quotation marks, parenthesis and italics as in original. Bracketed ellip‐ ses added for clarity of content. 630 Hockley, Frames, Page 31. 631 Cottingham, Laura, Fear Eats, Page 46. 632 Gorfinkel, Elena, “Impossible, Impolitic,” Page 512. 633 Rhodes, John D. “Fassbinder’s Work.” In A Companion to Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Peucker, Brigitte, ed. Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 2012. Print. Page 186. 634 Woodward, Katherine S. “European Anti‐Melodrama.” In Imitations of Life: A Reader on Film and Tel‐ evision Melodrama. Landy, Marcia, ed. Detroit, MI: Wayne State U P, 1991. Print. Page 591. 635 See some of Fassbinder biographies, e.g. Juliane Lorenz. 636 “such a person!” Misses Kargas refers here to the commonly held stereotype that all guest workers are unclean slobs and therefore increase the dirt in the common areas within a building. 637 This is the building and in Germany where civil unions are being concluded. It is similar to the Ameri‐ can Justice of the Peace, but more formal since it is run by individual municipalities. 638 Although here it is clear that the power is also not on Ali’s side – a vehicle separates the couple and Ali is only visible behind the car because of his height.

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639 Cottingham, Fear Eats, Page 59. 640 Hockley, Frames, Page 8. 641 Future research interests, beyond those stated within this chapter’s endnotes, for this film include an application of the proposed Jungian‐based framework to non‐German films, such as those made in the United States depicting African‐Americans within the context of the segregated South during the Civil Rights movement. Additionally, it would be interesting to explore the concept of the Other in films made by colonial powers, such as France or Great Britain, especially if such films address the struggle of an op‐ pressed colonial state’s indigenous population against the colonial powers. To mind come here, for ex‐ ample, the struggle of Mahatma Gandhi in India against the British Empire and uprisings in Algeria against French powers. Lastly, additional research interests include the application of the Gastarbeiter‐Other to the more recent immigration issues surrounding Spanish‐speaking (il‐)legal immigrants in the United States.

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CHAPTER 5 – DIE VERLORENE EHRE DER KATHERINA BLUM (VOLKER SCHLÖNDORFF, MARGARETE VON TROTTA, 1975)

And if dreams are nightmares, then one of the worst nightmares may be home-grown terrorism. (MD)

The same year that Fassbinder’s Fear Eats the Soul arrived on Germany movie screens, jolting the audience by disregarding long held film taboos, a novella by Nobel-Prize winning author Heinrich Böll made the headline news. Only a year later, Die Verlorene Ehre der Katharina Blum,642 had been turned into a film by the husband-and-wife team of film directors, Margarethe von Trotta and Volker Schlöndorff. The eponymous film, Die Verlorene Ehre der Katharina Blum (The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum),643 follows closely the text of Böll’s novella.644

The following chapter discusses this film which adds a new archetypal motif to the Jungian canon—the terrorist—and through its connection with real life, can elicit strong fear in the spectator. Using the Jungian-based framework, the film is examined with a close reading of its effect on the spectator based on the representation of another leading female character being cast by authorities in the role of not only the Other, but that of a highly dangerous Other despite her outward plain appearance. Katharina becomes the one embodying all that society eschews in a time when emotions run high due to domestic terrorism.

The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum opens with a mysterious stranger whom the audience sees only in the crosshairs of a gun scope. After a ferry stop, he gets

191 off and drives away in a Porsche. At this point, it is unclear if the vehicle is deliv- ered for him, or if he steals it. Being Faschingszeit645 the stranger enters a party at a private home where clandestine surveillance of guests occurs. Soon the stranger, whom the audience gets to know as Ludwig Götten (Jürgen Prochnov) encounters a young woman, Katharina Blum (Angela Winkler), at a party. The two eventually share a night in her apartment in Cologne, Germany, which pre- cipitates a full-fledged police razzia during which Katharina Blum finds herself faced with the utmost brunt of police force and violence. After a humiliating arrest without information Katharina finds herself sub- sequently in the maelstrom of police interrogations: alternating between kind words and harsh accusations by police commissioner Beizemenne (Mario Adorf). At times fatherly, at times a stern interrogator, the attempts to get Katharina to validate his suspicions about Götten. Katharina, either knowing or believing herself and Ludwig innocent (the film does not make this very clear), refuses to play into Beizemenne’s hand and thus rather suffers from humiliating treatments, such as having to clean the toilet in the cell in which she is being housed temporarily. A second, but highly important dimension in the story is added by the figure of Dieter Tötges from DIE ZEITUNG (a very obvious and for the German audience hard to miss) slant on the BILD Zeitung, a tabloid press publication read by many Germans for their sensationalism and adult photographs. In true form of yellow journalism, Tötges takes half-truths and fabricates flashy headlines, which in the end rile up the average citizen against Katharina Blum, despite her possible innocence. Even her employer, who with his wife is on a ski trip in Austria, is being questioned about Katharina’s integrity and loyalty to the German state in a time when homegrown terrorism on German soil was almost a regular occurrence. The sensationalistic aspect of the reporting goes even so far as to almost uncover Katharina’s invisible patron, who ultimately outs himself. Naïvely she tries to meet with Götten, who at the time hides in Kathari- na’s patron’s vacation home in South Germany. Unaware of the police apparatus that had been mobilized to catch Götten, Katharina Blum steps right into the police trap and finds herself accused of being a Terroristonsypmpatisantin (terrorist sympathizer), which during the terror of the 1970s had become a very serious charge. Driven by Tötges’ sensationalistic methods, Katharina Blum’s mother dies shortly after a serious hospital procedure. When Tötges then offers Kathari- na a sensationalistic story and a moment of fame—for the simple act of having sex with him—she loses her mind and shoots him. In the end, exposed to media

192 pressure and hatred by friends and ZEITUNG readers, Katharina finds herself abandoned by all, but a few people. Katharina is ultimately arrested and, during a prisoner transfer happens to meet up with Ludwig again. The movie concludes with a eulogy at the journalist’s funeral in which the loss of some freedom of the press is lamented by the head of the ZEITUNG’s publishing house.

Katharina and Ludwig as a Post-Jungian-based Archetypal motif: the Ter- rorist

In Jung’s times, the word terrorist was an unknown term. Therefore, there is no mention of terrorism in his original writings. In the second half of the 20th century, terrorism has become a big issue around the world. Thus, much of the discussion of the motif of a terrorist as a subcategory of Archetypes comes inevi- tably from sources after Jung’s death, such as Jerrold Post and Martha Cren- shaw. In contrast to Archetypes, which are very much similar across cultures and generations, motifs are “familiar to audiences in traditional story-telling strat- egies”646 as Greg Singh notes. However, unlike Archetypes, which are “non- conscious or partly conscious mode of engaging audiences that is effective in character and therefore very difficult to discern, not contingent on discriminable objects,”647 motifs are more subjective and conscious. Whereas true Archetypes in Jungian’s original sense exist for many centuries, archetypal motifs are much more fleeting in cultural settings and may exist pronouncedly for few generations before fading from a culture’s Conscious. Jung states that the “archetype is essentially an unconscious content that is altered by becoming conscious”648 but distinguishes it from what he calls “archetypal ideas” only by stating the existence of a difference without further definition. Archetypes thus can be changed in a culture’s Collective Unconscious by conscious expression of Archetypes, one of which is the visual representation in films. Philosophy professor Walter Shel- burne sums up the problems with defining archetypal motifs (or archetypal ideas) and why Jung did not give further definitions of the motifs: “… archetypal motifs are not easily divided in unambiguous, discrete types. These sorts of considerations, then, are the reason why Jung adheres to a descriptive, phenomenological

193 method of investigation that yields evidence of an essentially nonquantitive nature.”649 Motifs, although difficult to describe, are a subgroup of Archetypes, the former surviving in a culture’s Conscious for a shorter time, sometimes only a few generations.

The motif of the terrorist only has become more prominent in the past four or five decades, beginning with the increase in terrorism in the late 1960s, early 1970s especially in Europe. Among scholars discussing terrorists are Jerrold Post, Martha Crenshaw, Sarah Colvin, Charles Russell and Bowman Miller. Until then, terrorism was not a common occurrence or a frequently used phrase. Of the three films discussed in this dissertation, perhaps the one most closely linked to reality and German life in general during the 1970s is The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum. While one could argue that Böll simply created Katharina as his Alter-Ego or Jungian Anima side in the novella as Katharina is independent and not like other female Böll characters,650 it is more likely that Katharina Blum’s character is based on the female terrorists of the Baader-Meinhof Gruppe, as Al- exandra Seibel points out. 651 Starting around the mid-1960s and continuing through much of the 1970s Germany, among many other nations of the world, faced a growing internal political threat originating mostly in the younger generation.652 As a result of the anti-Vietnam War sentiments in the United States, several protest groups formed in Germany.653 Increasingly, in the late 1960s and early 1970s student movement groups654 turned in extreme cases into terrorist cells.

Author Manus Midlarsky along with co-authors Martha Crenshaw and Fumihiko Yoshida in an article, published very close to the actual period of terrorism in West Germany, argue that from the viewpoint of the largest internal terrorism group, the Rote Armee Fraktion (Red Army Faction a.k.a. RAF), “West Ger- many was not an independent state but a colony of the United States. The West German government and business elite were imposed from the outside and thus illegitimate and corrupt.”655 This perception within the RAF led to an ever in-

194 creasing escalation of violence from the beginnings when the groups had to “woo supporters”656 to extreme violence in their final years.657 This leads to the entire group becoming further shunned by society, thus its members, regardless of gender, by sheer association with the term “terrorist,” are being turned into Jung- ian-based Others, i.e. all that society hates and disowns.658

The filmic version of Heinrich Böll’s novella The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum, directed by then-husband-and-wife team Volker Schlöndorff and Mar- garethe von Trotta in 1975, has been accused of being very simple in its treatment of the internal terrorism threat as well as the loss of personal privacy in the crosshairs of federal investigations as pointed out by Eric Williams and Lawrence Glatz.659 Nevertheless, the authors state that the film became “one of the biggest commercial successes of the New German Cinema movement.”660 Both novella and film explore how the figure of Katharina Blum stands in as a scapegoat for the elusive real-life terrorists and how media and social pressure ultimately forces her to react violently to the overall terrorism hysteria in Germany following the aftermath of the 1972 Olympic bombing in Munich. In the movie, more than in the novella, the ending also contemplates a possible outcome of the prevailing mid-1970s frenzy although it does not provide any real solutions. This fictitious outcome is demonstrated through Katharina’s reactions to the actions (and atrocities) committed by both the Ideological (Media) Apparatus, as represented by the ZEITUNG’s reporter, and the Repressive State Apparati, such as police and the district attorney’s office.

Throughout the novella and the film Katharina is, at first visually and later physically, ostracized as the Other: Katharina signifies all that society abjure, such as the female and the body, even her social independence. The Lost Hon- or of Katharina Blum opens with a character who eventually will cause the floods of terrorism hysteria to break over her. Yet, dissimilar to many “Made in Holly- wood” movies, Katharina (Angela Winkler) herself is not seen for an entire 6

195 minutes 42 seconds after the film begins.661 Thus, the mystery surrounding the figure of Katharina Blum and her past, all deepen the intrigue that the character ultimately plays in the film and thus, not only mystifying her but moreover, mar- ginalizing her in society as the Other—a role to which she already is relegated by default of her gender.

The uncertainty about Katharina’s character in light of her political inten- tions is similar to the perceptions felt by many people living in Germany at the time: the German population did not know what kind of attack to expect next nor who the perpetrators of the next attack would be.662 While some names, such as Andreas Baader or Ulrike Meinhof had become household names in Germany during the 1970s, other members of terrorist organizations were still “the boy or girl next door” who seemed too innocent and could not harm a fly, let alone, rob a bank or shoot people in cold blood. After all, that was the “stuff” of Saturday night US movies, not everyday life in Germany! Yet at the same time, the media stirred up hysteria.663 On Christmas Eve 1971, for example, the Bild-Zeitung, the tabloid with the highest readership in Western Europe, lists a bank robbery involving an injured policeman as “Baader-Meinhof Band Continues to Murder. Bank Robbery: Policeman killed.”664

In using an alleged bank robber, Ludwig Götten (Jürgen Prochnov), the director team not only opens the film on two fronts—a criminal connection of Göt- ten and a media-political front later presented by police commissioner Beize- menne (Mario Adorf) and the tabloid reporter Tötges (Dieter Laser)—but also makes a direct connection to the BILD-Zeitung’s sensationalistic headline, which in the end turned out to be at best partly incorrect as Robert Conrad points out.665 Author James Reid corroborates the sensationalistic tone of the tabloid headline and accuses BILD to recount events as if they had already occurred.666

The film actually differs from the book in that the film-version Götten is an alleged bank robber, not a terrorist as listed in Böll’s novel. By associating with a bank robber, although not a very savory character Katharina’s a-political stance becomes more plausible than in the novella, which then warrants even less the

196 extreme witch hunt by media and police. However, several allegations within the film are suggesting that radicalism for the average German citizen becomes more or less synonymous with terrorism, a notion that Jack Zipes draws attention to in his 1977 article “The Political Dimensions of The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum.”667 “Since 1971, over 800,000 people have been investigated and interrogated by a special police force which has expanded its authority and powers during this period” he notes.668 One of those, albeit a fictional character in the novella, is the compounded image of Katharina Blum as a presumed innocent citizen who is dragged into the maelstrom of terrorism investigation and as well as the media involvement and driven to the edge of being an extremely outcast Other by the ensuing fabricated tabloid publications.

Zipes explains that Germany is undergoing a time in which guerrilla tactics, kidnappings and open shootings by terror cells were a relatively frequent occurrence. Contributing to the sentiments of hysteria was the government- organized manhunt for two alleged terrorist in the early 1970s: Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhof. By 1974, the media had played this up so much that a public hysteria and fear of terrorism arose in the general population—a population which was heavily influenced by the tabloid media, most prominently the BILD- Zeitung which advertised with slogans such as “read BILD, form your opinion.” It is in the heat of this era that “[o]n 10 January 1972 Böll published a hurriedly written article in Der Spiegel, West Germany’s most important weekly news journal, denouncing the Springer Press.”669 In the article, Böll protests not the violence evoked by the RAF, but launches an all-out attack on BILD with an accusation against the tabloid that calls it “…naked fascism: incitement, lies, garbage.”670 Ulrike Meinhof herself corroborates this statement in her own book.671 Only two years later 1974 Heinrich Böll pens on paper the events chronicled in his novella The Lost Honor of the Katharina Blum to voice “his concern about the dema- goguery of the mass media”672. Böll partly based his novella on his own experiences of defending Ulrike Meinhof’s democratic rights as a political prisoner.673

197 Along with Andreas Baader, Ulrike Meinhof was one of the primary founding members of the Baader-Meinhof Gruppe, sometimes also referred to as RAF (Rote Armee Fraktion) which had sent the young Federal Republic of Germany (Bundesrepublik Deutschland, a.k.a. West Germany) into a state of shock and terror through their anti-governmental actions and even more, through their violent killings of high-ranking governmental and business officials.674 Arising from the emotional background of protests against the Vietnam War carried out by the United States against that Southeast Asian country,675 along with the US Civil Rights Movement and the Student Movements on both sides of the Atlantic, some disillusioned youth of Nazi-parents were attempting to find their own identity by forming radical student groups.676 One of these became more notorious than any other: the Rote Armee Fraktion or RAF. The media gave the RAF its better known name: Baader-Meinhof Gang or Gruppe, named after the two main leaders, Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhof. Böll, who was by no means a sympathizer of this terror cell, was not trying to defend Ulrike Meinhof’s political motifs nor her actions, but felt the need to raise awareness of the events surrounding her detention, and ultimate death, at the Stammheim federal penitentiary in Stuttgart-Stammheim, Germany.677

According to Stefan Aust, an author intimately familiar with the Baader- Meinhof Group, Böll saw the escalation of violence by the RAF against the West German state as a war of few against the entire state.678 In an interview with the weekly magazine Der Spiegel, RAF members acknowledge Böll’s stand against the BILD-Zeitung, but at the same time point out that they do not share his con- tempt for the masses.679 Yet, it is Böll who stands up for a more humane treatment of the prisoners at Stammheim. “[…] Heinrich Böll, perhaps the most important author in postwar Germany, was flabbergasted, and publicly accused the anti-RAF smear campaign of bearing all the hallmarks of fascism,” 680 thus, the author was being driven into the role of Other even though he was a white male and thus should have been considered a member of the Overdeveloped Shadow group. Yet, his affiliation by solely mentioning the RAF, Böll was pushed out of the elitist circle and into the same group as Ulrike Meinhof. “While condemning

198 their violence, the Nobel-Prize winning author attempted to put the RAF into perspective, famously describing their struggle as a ‘war of six against sixty mil- lion.’”681

Like his fictional character, Katharina Blum, Böll and his own family become subject to unusual levels of police harassment “for years to come.”682 And like Katharina, Böll also finds himself in real life in the center of the media attacks. At the same time, as scholars Rainer Nägele and Marc D. Silberman in their near contemporary article “Aspects of the Reception of Heinrich Böll” point out, Böll was vehemently attacked by the Springer Press, which publishes the BILD-Zeitung,683 and “rather cautiously defend[ed] by liberal reviewers.”684 In a time when mass hysteria about domestic terrorism was furthered by polemics in the yellow press,685 Böll found himself between the fronts: on one hand, the more reputable press organs such as Die Welt, a more fact-oriented German daily newspaper, which defended the Nobel-Prize winning author, and on the other hand, the very same paper, according to Nägele and Silberman also “distrusted the best-selling author.”686 This reflects German society’s view of terrorism fos- tered by reputable media, such as the German newspaper, Die Zeit, which “ignores the political aspects of terrorism and equates terrorists with ‘common crim- inals’”687 and leads to “terrorists [being] denied special status and their activities are placed firmly in the category of common—albeit serious—crime.” 688 In the end, “[w]hat had begun as an attempt to expose the latent fascism of the system hidden beneath the democratic surface had now become an all-out war between a small number of terrorists and the West German state…”689 The state in conjunction with the media machinery against Böll: thus, the repressive (police) and the ideological (media) state apparati work together to the detriment of the general population in order to catch a small contingent of criminal elements. At the same time, collateral damage was acceptable.

The state-media versus the populace theme is well presented in multiple scenes in which cooperation between police commissioner Beizemenne, his subordinates and Tötges, who represents the tabloid media, is either covertly implied or overtly displayed. Lester Friedman in an examination of the film and cin-

199 ematic techniques employed, points out that “[f]ilm, as commentators like Gerald Barrett have noted, can convey the same information as novels, but by their very nature must do so in different ways.”690 He continues by stating the rather obvious: “The best film adaptations of literary works seek the spirit rather than the letter of the original source…”691 This observation about adaptations holds very much true for all three films discussed in this dissertation, but perhaps is best suited to be applied to this Schlöndorff / von Trotta’s co-production. Like Böll’s novella, and as has been pointed out by authors, such as Friedman, the film examines not the passage of Katharina through various stages of a police investigation based on one event (the fateful meeting with Götten), but the underlying causes that lead to Katharina resorting to extreme violence at the end of the film. The path leading up to the final violent act by a “girl next door” becomes the underlying theme to elicit fear in the spectator. The fear is that it could happen to the audience member himself or herself as the character of Katharina had done nothing wrong initially but fallen for a person she met by chance.

Another fear factor for the audience, as already has been shown in the case of Barbara in Fassbinder’s Fear Eats the Soul, arises especially for the male spectator: a young woman, an Other, is slowly standing up again police Willkür and media lies. In the end, through use of a hand weapon the female holds the power and extinguishes the male character, who should ultimately triumph if this film were a true Hollywood story with a straight-white-male-hero- winning Campbellian story line. Instead, Katharina, turning to her Animus in self- defense, holds the phallus in form of a pistol and defeats the (albeit sleazy) male reporter by shooting and killing him. For the male spectator, fear arises that he, the Ego, the Overdeveloped Shadow, no longer holds the symbolic power signified by the phallus and thus finds himself relegated to the Underdeveloped Shadow by having lost the symbolic power held by the white male her representing the Overdeveloped Shadow. Instead, Katharina usurps for a moment the role of a hero, she revenges the wrong done onto her—similarly to a white male hero in a Hollywood plotline. Yet, in the end, like a Hitchcock female, Katharina must be punished for her transgression. The Ego in form of Tötges (and to an extent,

200 Beizemenne), then has turned into all that “society hates and disowns.”692 As William Burgwinkle states, “Katharina Blum and ‘the taxing woman’ must on some level repudiate what they have been led to see as their rightful gender roles.”693 Only when the strong Animus of the female Other has been restrained through her imprisonment by the Ego (in form of the representative of the Re- pressive State Apparatus, Police Commissioner Beizemenne), can the male spectator walk away without further fear. The images inside the penitentiary provide a cathartic moment in the final scenes of the film through Katharina’s visual detainment, a punishment for her Animus transgression.

Unlike Fear Eats the Soul and Nosferatu, The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum was not a big hit abroad, especially in the American film market. In the United States, perhaps due to lack of contextual cultural understanding, Mark Rectanus cites an early review in Publishers Weekly, an informative source for book dealers. The book review “presents a somewhat distorted perspective … that reduces the social critique to a sordid romance.”694 As Rectanus quotes, Katharina “kills the newspaperman responsible and plunges everyone into a se- riocomic drama… Another sharp Böll exposé of what life in Germany today (and elsewhere) is really like.”695 In other words, the fictional character of Katharina and her final reaction of shooting Tötges by being driven to the edge of mental sanity are not only seen as a fictional story, but represent in the minds of the American-based Publishers Weekly, a slice of real life in Germany, albeit a rather scripted type of life (i.e. for the most part that of a romance heroine). This view is reminiscent of film analysts Hans-Bernhard Moeller and George Lellis, who claim that the film “conforms to the requirements of commercial realist narrative.”696 This peddling of the Böllean books in the United States may be the reason that neither the printed nor the visual forms of the novella received much coverage in the United States outside the world of academia.697

While it is true that terrorism gripped Germany at the time Böll penned the novella, reading or viewing the story and comparing it to happenings in Germany,

201 it becomes rather quickly clear that the character of Katharina is not representative of the situation of any average German citizen. Instead of portraying a cold- blooded murderer, she is portrayed as a plain woman who avoids societal attention and most events. Rectanus laments that “none of the reviewers attempt to relate Katharina Blum to an analysis of political, social or economic institutions, or the role of the media in the Federal Republic.”698 Even renowned publications, such as The New Yorker or The New York Times Book Review apparently failed to take into consideration that what at first looks like a little social critique wrapped in a large dose of romance, in reality turns out to be a deep critique of the indiscriminating reader of the Springer tabloid press publication(s). A closer reading of the novella and a little understanding of the German culture quickly reveal that Böll uncovers multiple Archetypes, such as the strong, authoritative father or the (M)Other as well as the archetypal motif of the terrorist, Additionally, by juxtaposing Tötges interviews with his final text being turned into screaming headlines, Böll points to the propagation of stereotypes (beliefs which maintain the status quo at the expense of the repressed Other), such as a single young woman meeting a male in her apartment must be either a terrorist sympathizer or a whore.

Headlines, such as those ascribed to the ZEITUNG by Böll in the novella, created widespread fear of terrorism in the population during the 1970s.699 This comes on the heels of two-thirds of German students in 1968 admitting to sym- pathizing with the demonstrators (the precursor to the terrorist organizations of the 1970s).700 In addition, violence was ever increasing and even early movement leaders, such as Rudi Dutschke, were contemplating more violent methods. 701 Kundnani notes that there were thoughts, according to Dutschke’s wife, of contacting the “IRA or ETA”702—both terror organizations known to use heavy handed violence with many casualties. News coverage especially of rather bloody ETA bombings703 in turn sparked more fear in the population which film spectators brought with them to the cinema.

What was less covered in those days was the media involvement with the state during the crises of terroristic acts against high ranking German men. Alt-

202 hough this occurred more in the years after Böll penned his novella, it does hold throughout the early 1970 including especially the 1972 bombing of the Olympic village by Middle Easterners704 and the shooting of Rudi Dutschke by a German citizen.705 The increased fear of terrorism also was spurred by the press. Olaf Hoerschelmann in his article “Memoria Dextera Est” concludes that Böll’s “…Katharina Blum argues that the social climate and the Springer press played a crucial role in the escalation of violence and the development of terrorism in early 1970s Germany.”706 Unlike the white-washing and minimizing that occurred in much of the press707 Böll’s novella uncovers the underlying tensions rising from suppressed fear over the latent terrorist activities and the surprise attacks.

Katharina Blum’s character thus serves as a stand-in for the average German citizen. From all signs, she is an upstanding citizen who keeps to herself (as opposed to being for example politically active), appears to pay her bills on time and maintains a nice looking apartment in a very new tenement complex. Therefore, Katharina is like any bystander: innocently pulled into the tangled web of terrorism (or in the movie, possible bank robbery) and through it, en- snared in the claws of the sensationalistic Springer Press. Not only is her own life ruined by the vicious accusations and false stories concocted by Tötges, but even Katharina’s mother, a truly non-participating by-stander, becomes the victim of overzealous tabloid reporting—all the way to her (avoidable) death.

Böll lays out the web of entanglement in very clear manners as the novella unfolds. First he presents the obvious: Katharina’s meeting with Götten, the alleged outlaw, then her arrest. Over the course of the novella, Böll presents the reader with a roadmap into near insanity as Katharina attempts to stand up against the ever-mounting pressure from the state (via police interrogations) and the media (mainly The Zeitung, a thinly veiled “disguise” of the BILD-Zeitung). With this peeling away layer after layer of her privacy, from the public image portrayed to her family and friends to as much as her own love affair with a married rich patron, Alois Sträubleder, Böll traces the way of the psyche from the outer- most evident layer to the innermost portion of the psyche where, according to Jungian psychology, the core of the person rests. When the yellow press report-

203 er is about to uncover Alois, the rich benefactor, Katharina begins to break psychologically, which finds visual expression in the scene in which she soils the walls and destroys glass and porcelain items her hitherto sparsely furnished but immaculate apartment. This breakdown, symbolizing the breakdown of the Ger- man population under the pressure of terrorism and the media hysteria, provides the reader of the novella and later the audience member viewing the film in a de- liberately slow fashion with an understanding on why to fear authority in form of Beizemenne, who with his swarthy complexion nearly conforms to the definition of the Jungian-based Other,708 and the (mis-)informing press, especially the tabloid press in form of Tötges, the sleazy reporter.709 Thus, through the use of a female, a Jungian-based Other, Böll makes his victim even more plausible, but also more vulnerable. In the process, Böll, and by extension, von Trotta and Schlöndorff, lay bare one of the most fundamental fears gripping Germany at that time—directly on the silver screen.

A similar, real life case to Katharina’s ordeal occurred in the United States during the 1996 Olympic Games. At a time when security concerns were high, Atlanta touted its metropolis as the safest in the history of the Olympic Games. When a suspicious package was found, a security guard who alerted to it, first was hailed as a hero, then accused of being the bomb maker and planter, and later dragged through the press in all gory details. Like the fictional character of Katharina Blum, security guard Richard Jewell, also found his life in shambles. Scholar Marion K. Pinsdorf sums up the media frenzy as follows: “The Jewell syndrome has passed into the language as a rush to judgment. But in the most important sense it is a cautionary tale that you, too, a largely unknown, private citizen can get caught in the crosshairs of conflict—quickly, sometimes innocently, but always painfully. Think the worst, then devoutly hope it never happens.”710 Jewell’s case demonstrates how quickly the populace, through media arousal, is able to turn someone in a hero, and only shortly after, ostracize and socially mark a person as the Other. Jewell, through no fault of his own, like Katharina, was caught in the maelstrom of false accusations. Although Böll’s character Kathari- na was a fictional composition of many different people and events, he basically

204 anticipated a real-life situation like Jewell’s several decades and a continent away. Both the partly fictional story line of Katharina Blum and the real-life experiences of Richard Jewell demonstrate a Jungian progression of Individuation. In both cases, the archetypal motif of the terrorist becomes the focal point which then directs the further actions on the life-long journey to Individuation. Whereas in the case of Jewell, passivity on his part past the initial attempt of verbal self- defense appears to have worked (since the media coverage quickly faded), in the case of Katharina Blum, attempts to keep the story alive (such as Tötges’ remark about providing the public with more dirty stories) takes a different path. She chooses not only verbal, but physical violence as a way to remove the ever- present Overdeveloped Shadow from her life. In this, she differs from Böll, who found himself in a similar situation after speaking out against conditions at Stammheim, although Böll chooses the verbal-only route.711 In a Mulveyean reading, Katharina preempts the phallic power held by Beizemenne and Tötges, but is ultimately being punished by detention. Jewell, as a white male, respond- ing passively to the situation, quickly is disregarded by society. Nonetheless, these situations demonstrate how a single act in a person’s life can lead to an uncontrollable cascade of actions.

Prior to continuing the examination of Katharina’s role as Other, a few words need to be said about another figure, which at first glance should be actually not-Other, but Ego—the figure of Ludwig Götten. From the very start of the film, Götten (Jürgen Prochnov) is shown as someone who is being watched, who is in the strict Mulveyean sense, an object of to-be-looked-at-ness. However, contrary to Mulvey’s position, Götten is not female, thus, if he were the true object of the gaze, he should be visually effeminized. Contrarily, he is shown as the one to fear, since his face is caught in the crosshairs of a surveillance camera712 from the very beginning. Rather than being effeminized by the camera (and by extension, the audience’s) gaze, Götten is being hyper-masculinized and as such, becomes the object-to-be-feared by the spectator rather than the object-to- be-looked-at. Böll states that Götten had totally monopolized Katharina at the

205 Carnival party, but after the two left the public eye, the sheik went “to talk to himself in the bathroom.”713 Götten turns into the Overdeveloped Shadow as posited by Rushing and Frentz. In the film opening, the undercover agent’s camera catches Götten numerous times in the crosshairs,714 hinting at an invisible danger emanating from his person. From the earliest moment, fear of the white male, who should ultimately represent the saving hero in Campbell’s hero’s journey, is instilled in the audience as the aura of mystery around him deepens.

When the film’s main character is finally introduced, it is Götten who meets Katharina Blum, thus the chance Carnival meeting begins the avalanche that culminates in Katharina’s violent action against Tötges, The Zeitung reporter. In the meantime, the directors drop enough hints to indicate that Götten is under police surveillance and thus a dangerous man. It therefore is easy for the audience to make the connection that Götten spells trouble for the seemingly young, naïve and shy Katharina Blum. To ostracize the young woman even further, Her- tha Scheumel, Katharina’s cousin, admonishes Katharina on the phone to not be so altmodisch or prudish. Hertha goes even so far to call her a “nun.” Although a flashback scene later in the movie makes it appear as though the meeting was completely by chance, neither the movie nor the novella give explicitly clear definitions of this being a true chance meeting. Renate Hehr, in an analysis of the film, claims that the fact that Katharina, despite her low economic standing, is able to afford a new apartment, serves as sufficient proof for the police that “she is Götten’s accomplice, and that her apartment is a meeting place for conspira- tors.”715 According to film analyst Julia Knight, the meeting with Götten is an innocent event.716 In the end, the doubt raised never fully resolves in the film, however, Katharina remains the a-political “girl next door” throughout the film. As such, the film spectators are able to still see her as one of them, rather than being ostracized from the beginning.

German film scholar Thomas Elsaesser cautions though that “the New German Cinema is actually rather poor in sociological detail, very few films give a

206 convincing idea of West Germany’s political reality or the workings of its social institutions.” 717 In fact, Elsaesser continues, “one learns little about the political establishment. Schlöndorff’s The Lost Honour of Katharina Blum is not an illuminating film about the German press…”718 Nonetheless, when looking at the underlying theme of the film (and the preceding novella), it should become apparent that neither is about the notion of demonstrating anything about the political system at the time, but rather, both film and novella serve as an illuminating snap- shot of a society caught in the terrorism mass hysteria incited mostly by the tabloid media which worked at the time closely with the law enforcement and the entire political apparatus.719

While neither novella nor film truly spotlight much of Germany’s society, both the original and adapted material illuminates one aspect that binds most of the people who joined both the Red Army Faction (a.k.a. Baader-Meinhof Gang or Baader-Meinhof Group):

[a]n investigation in 1979, as part of a research project backed by the Federal Ministry for Domestic Af- fairs, published in four volumes, analyzed the life histories of leftists terrorist […They] came from mainly upper-middle-class backgrounds, their educational level was above average […]. Many terrorists came from broken homes; those who didn’t showed strained, unloving relationships with their fathers.720

Author Jerrold M. Post continues in his book The Mind of the Terrorist721 that findings by Herbert Jäger, Gerhard Schmidtchen and Lieselotte Süllwold722 were consistent with a similar study conducted by Franco Ferracuti723 on right- and left-wing terrorists in Italy. The majority of those who joined especially the left-wing terrorist cells were young men and women who were seeking camara- derie and acknowledgement of their own self-worth because they lack a connec- tive affect to society and thus feel ostracized and outcast from their society. In

207 other words, no matter their gender, they are turned into social Others as society infuses upon these men and woman all society eschews, justified by the men and women’s own detachment from their surrounding community. In their own quest for Individuation, mistook the archetypal motif of the terrorist as a means of growing their own Self. Seeking to bring the psyche back into a harmonic balance, these young men and women sought to express their own destructive emotions by acting against society and the state apparati, which many saw as the root of their inability to attain Individuation.

In Böll’s novella, Katharina undergoes a similar evolvement: she begins as a lonely young woman with a good reputation, and albeit coming from poor beginnings, she works hard to get a little ahead in life. Böll very specifically shows in his novella that such a situation alone does not force anyone into becoming a terrorist. Yet, the apparently innocent meeting with Götten turns her slowly from a very pacifistic and low-key personality into an angry person who ultimately sees no other way but violence as the exclusive solution (although ultimately aggression is directed toward a single person and despite media attempts to portray her as such, she does not complete the transformation into a terrorist). As American psychiatrist and terrorist expert Jeffrey Victoroff points out, terror groups are rarely led by insane people.724 Instead, they are a heterogeneous group around a person or small group of persons who share four traits which he numbers 4.a, 4.b, 4.c, and 4.d. The most relevant to the case of Katharina Blum is Victoroff’s trait #4.b: “a personal stake—such as strongly perceived oppression, humiliation, or persecution…”725 Katharina experiences such humiliation and persecution through the repeated, albeit unfounded interrogations by Beizemenne and the police commissioner’s cooperation with the yellow press reporter, Tötges. Espe- cially Victoroff’s trait #4.d (“a capacity to suppress both instinctive and learned moral constraints against harming innocents”726) must in the case of Katharina Blum however be rejected here as Katharina’s ultimate act of violence is strictly an act of retaliation and stands in direct response to the persecution experienced by the tabloid press. Katharina, despite allegations at the funeral scene, does

208 not seek to shoot the photographer (in other words, she realizes that he is not the driving force behind the witch hunt), nor does she in turn cause detriment to or kill innocent people. Her act of lashing out is solely geared toward Tötges, the source of all the smear campaigns against her. In a Jungian-based sense, it is her psyche, which revolts against the pressure from a single source point’s attempt (Tötges) to drive her into social isolation through defamation. Katharina attempts to restore the balance to her psyche by removing the source of the fictitious storylines of Tötges sensationalistic smear campaign.

As Brad Roberts notes, “[a] terrorist becomes mentally ready to use lethal weapons against civilians only over time, and only after he has managed to completely dehumanize the enemy.”727 Although Katharina is the supposed terrorist according to The Zeitung’s lies, this statement fits much more to Tötges’ personality than Katharina’s demeanor. The journalist, through smear tactics, distorted wordings and completely fabricated statements, wages a media version of urban warfare on Katharina (and to a lesser degree her family). The mother becomes one of the innocent casualties when Tötges forces his way into her hospital room. Researchers Maxwell Taylor728 and Martha Crenshaw agree with Brad Roberts’ assessment about the degrading of the enemy in order to use deadly force, although Crenshaw goes further, pointing out that terrorism groups can serve as an outlet for latent, subconscious aggression.729

Archetypes in the “Traditional” Jungian-based Sense

An argument can be made that from the very start of the story, Katharina is socially isolated and Böll clearly expresses the social distancing in Katharina’s confession at the police headquarter when she notes that she often will get into her vehicle and just drive around just to not sit home alone. Social alienation can be the start to joining a group, even a terrorist organization as has been pointed out by Daniel Defoe in “Making the Man—Terrorism Charted and Defined.”730 This is affirmed in an interview by Steven Gold with terrorist expert, Jerrold Post. The later affirms that alienation plays a role in formation and maintenance of ter-

209 ror organizations, but adds that the “root causes of terrorism [sometimes over- look the] issue of relative deprivation and being blocked within a society so that one cannot achieve mobility in any way.”731 Terrorist scholars Dennis Michael Patterson and Ari Afilalo add to this list “poor conditions […] engender feelings of alienation, resentment, and hopelessness. These feelings can lead to hostility […].”732 In the Individuation process, Katharina is unable to progress to a more individuated individual than she has become at the beginning of the film as she is socially isolated, despite her employment and her living environment. As Jungi- an scholar Mary Ann Mattoon points out, Individuation is attainable by all “to some degree [as it is] a drive as compelling as hunger and sex.”733 Since Indi- viduation at least in parts is very personal, Katharina’s progression throughout the film (and novella) can be seen as a retrospective of her own Individuation process. She becomes the hero in her own story, although within society she does not attain the higher level usually achieved by the hero at the end of Camp- bell’s journey since ultimately, she finds herself imprisoned, thus, defeated. Katharina, through her social isolation, is unable to accomplish a higher level in the Individuation process and thus presents a failed hero when she shoots the reporter and becomes incarcerated. As Anne White in her reading of Beowulf notes, part of the Individuation process requires “learning to interact with other people within the social order.”734 Katharina, the prude “nun” fails the interaction with her peers and society at large.

Early on in their meeting, Katharina expresses herself to Götten about feeling alone. However, the perhaps most important social alienation are images of the apartment complex in the film. In an early shot of the buildings, while the GSG735 approaches Katharina’s apartment ahead of the pending dawn razzia, the camera pans across an unfinished landscape foregrounding a pile of soil used in landscaping. No warm welcoming green of trees or dots of colorful flowers, only barren soil, grayish concrete and cold steel meet the eye, indicating visually the dystopic barrenness of an isolated psyche. Inside the building, as the armed men move into position, ostensibly unfinished corridors swallow the men without ever being spotted by any of its inhabitants. Lee Rainwater, sociologist

210 and Harvard Professor emeritus, points out that “[t]raditionally the working-class family orientation included a very heavy involvement with kin […].”736 In the images of Katharina’s apartment complex, the family ties have been severed, resulting in more social isolation which excludes her even further from society and thus, pushing her deeper into the role of the Other. Katharina’s experience becomes a nightmare, played out on screen for the spectator to experience in the safety of the cinematic cave. As Hockley has posited, an individual cannot become a fully individuated individual, unless the person lives fully within his or her society, i.e. is an integrated individual within society. 737 Hence, any un- integrated individual becomes the projection of that which society disavows and therefore is marked as Other.

Before the police raid, Katharina and Ludwig enter the apartment complex, visible only via a surveillance video. There is no human, solely the surveillance cameras, and by extension, Beizemenne and his team, take notice of the entry. Despite the multitude of buildings—as evidenced by the designation on the various elevators—not a single person meets the two lovers.738 Further in the story, after Katharina has been arraigned, a small number of people gather in the foyer, hardly more than one percent of the possible occupants in the entire building complex.739 The lack of human interactions in the buildings clearly leads to further social isolation and outwardly this is visually established by the empty hall- ways.740

Katharina’s isolation as the Other continues throughout the film (and novella) as she is held at Cologne’s police headquarters. In an early interrogation, a Spanish wall is moved into place to separate her from the room, so that in the end, only the district attorney and Beizemenne’s limited staff are around, but Katharina’s back is visually (and virtually) to the wall. Edwin Driver advises that interrogations areas should devoid of “attention-getting properties such as barred windows, ornaments and pictures, excessive or glaring illuminations, and tele- phones”741 along with lack of “psychological support or relieve from tension, such as paper and pencil, paper clips, or cigarettes.”742 Both in this frame and others, Katharina is visually isolated while at the same time, her privacy is invaded as

211 the camera often zooms so closely into her face that it fills the entire frame. Joshua Bellin argues in his book Framing Monsters: Fantasy Film and Social Al- ienation that “centering on the freak may work to challenge processes of social alienation by bringing those processes to the surface, holding them up for inspec- tion, indeed, reflecting on film’s culpability in promoting them.”743 Here, Katharina is being singled out as a social “freak” by not being conformist enough for the German public and therefore, is being pushed to the edges of society.

Another isolation occurs when Katharina is taken to the holding cell and later is seen sitting on the “bed”, her back to the blank wall, only a block of nine glass blocks providing any contact to the outside—i.e. allowing for day and night to be seen, but nothing more. The cell here can also be seen as an extension of her housing situation. According to a study conducted by McCarthy, Byrne, Har- rison and Keithley in the 1980s, “survey data shows higher levels of psychological distress among occupants of flats, compared to those who live in houses.”744 The authors do quantify this by noting that “[t]here is clearly significant interaction between housing type and housing area.”745 Both the holding cell at the police headquarters and the apartment (flat) in the high-rise building complex serve as a means of social isolation and indirectly demonstrate a higher risk of psychological stress for Katharina—which could be the basis of an instable mind and therefore, a potential terrorist. Additionally, both the holding cell and the apartment complex are “creating a physical environment that is designed to promote feelings of social isolation, sensory deprivation, and helplessness.”746 Visually they evoke fear in the spectator while at the same time isolating Katharina as a potential terrorist.

The isolation through housing is a situation which can be encountered by any average citizen in his or her lifetime. Additionally, Katharina’s unexpected arrest and consequent interrogation by the police also present possibilities faced by a regular law abiding citizen in Germany. For someone of the older generation, flashbacks may occur to the Third Reich and the unexpected arrests followed by often brutal interrogations.747 Even though Katharina remains calm during the interrogations, her mental breakdown slowly becomes evident. The out-

212 ward sign of such psychological break down occurs in the film when Katharina defaces her previously pristine apartment. The arbitrary nature of an individual, albeit law abiding and without blame, being arrested, mistreated by the police and then having one’s reputation ruined by being dragged through the yellow press can cause fear in and of itself. The presentation of the Other, i.e. Kathari- na, in the context of German history elicits fear in the spectator through both plotlines as well as the historicity of the material. An added strand to educing fear in the spectator originates in the arbitrary randomness of the events. While watching a film, the audience member subconsciously expects a particular direction the film will take, observing some trajectory of the underlying hero’s path from the original status quo to a final status quo. In this case, the plotline takes unexpected twists and turns, all which bring a potential reality uncomfortably close to the spectator. No longer is the audience able to solely explore the images from the safety of the cushioned theater seat, but by intersection with potentially realistic situations, the spectator must engage deeper with the film, thus, allowing the Unconscious to rise to the level of Conscious and with it, a possible reshaping of Archetypes can occur.

During the initial interview, Beizemenne questions Katharina regarding her nickname, gleaned by one of the investigators from a conversation taking place between Hertha Scheumel, a cousin, and Katharina in the early scenes. A nun is part of the Jungian Archetype of the Mother figure—albeit twisted. On one hand, according to mostly Catholic faith, the nun is considered a mother 748 and a wife,749 yet, at the same time, she is expected to be celibate and chaste. This sexual repression, according to Carl Gustav Jung leads to mental health issues. In letter exchanges with Freud, “Jung recorded reservations about Freud’s exclusive notions of sexual repression,”750 which later were redefined by Jung. “In regarding the [sexual] images as primary, Jung redefined Freud’s concept of the libido as neutral energy, not exclusive sexuality.”751

213 Indeed, Jung’s writings, like Freud’s, carry the banner of sexual repression. From Jung’s perspective, “sexual repression is a very important and indis- pensable civilizing factor [….].”752 Based on Jung’s statement, Katharina’s character can be seen as carrying the civilizing element in the film (and novella): a role that traditionally falls to the figure of the mother. Although she herself is not a mother, Katharina is pushed into such a role through her positions as a housekeeper and charwoman. Both positions require performance of tasks in a non- family setting that otherwise would have been carried out by a mother in a traditional family setting, i.e. washing dishes and clothes, cooking,753 keeping the house clean and in representable order, as well as performing catering functions during social events taking place in the host’s dwelling. One civilizing influence Katharina demonstrates until later in the film, is her calmness and her overall composure in the face of Beizemenne’s intimidation attempts during interrogations.

Mother-Daughter vs. Madonna-Whore Complex

At the same time as Katharina is portrayed as a mother figure,754 she is also portrayed in a daughter role. Even though her aunt is not truly her mother, the true mother is absent due to a severe illness that finds her in the hospital and Else Woltersheim takes over the role as a motherly figure. As Michael Palmer asserts, “repression of sexual and infantile impulse [signify] the energic movement of the libido of the psyche, in which reside the universal and primordial images of the collective unconscious.”755 Katharina taps into the Collective Uncon- scious in searching for the absent parents, especially the absent Father. Yet, when the innocent woman seeks some tenderness756 she becomes thrust in the abyss of a misogynistic patriarchy—one she had not yet faced until that time, thus was ill prepared to deal with such a forceful onslaught.

Although subscribing to a Freudian reading of film and Archetypes, Mul- vey’s term of “active/passive heterosexual division of labor”757 is a term that fits well in this case. While Freud and his followers focus on the lack of the male role

214 model, Jungian-based scholars also note the absence of the Father Archetype. David Tacey uses the term “absent-father” Archetype,758 which leads according to Anthony Stevens to a difficulty in transitioning from a mother identification to a father identification.759 For Jung, the Father Archetype “represents the dyna- mism of the archetype, for the archetype consists of both—form and energy.”760 The father from Jung’s perspective is both a driving force in the formation of the young child as well as a formative influence in the long run, however, as Anthony Stevens points out, the “father archetype is activated later in the ontological sequence than the mother archetype,…”761 Because of this, the Father Archetype has most influential power after the age of five.762 Yet, when Katharina reaches that age, her own father has passed away and has become unavailable to her or her brother. The mother, similar to Ulrike Meinhof’s real life mother, tries to hold the small family together.763

Katharina’s biological mother is portrayed as a mother who tries, but is unsuccessful in raising the children—a son who already serves jail time as a neighbor points out and a daughter who is about to go to jail—and then the mother dies after an unauthorized visit from yellow press reporter, Tötges. Jung says about the Archetype of a Mother that “[n]ot infrequently she assumes the attributes of wisdom as well as those of a witch”764 which, when pushed further into the realm of Unconscious, the Mother “archetype assume[s] mythological features.”765 For Katharina, the mother becomes a far distant person whom she supports, but apparently does not have much contact with. Else Woltersheim, although an aunt, assumes far more the role of a mother for Katharina than Katharina’s own mother. Nonetheless, Katharina demonstrates, on one hand, through her various roles of housekeeper, caretaker and that she has at least partly accepted a positive mother-complex, As Samuel Slipp points out the “positive mother [Archetype is] protective, sympathetic, wise, nurturant, and growth- enhancing,”766 which leads to a positive mother-complex.

Katharina, on the other hand, can also be seen as the woman who rebels against the mother, both her own mother and the possible mother role for herself. Jung states that a woman with a negative mother-complex “rebels in every fibre

215 of her being against everything that springs from natural soil.”767 In other words, the woman fights against any maternal instincts and the possibility of becoming a woman. As she undergoes a Individuation process, however, the maturing woman undergoes a transformation (toward Individuation) which can lead her to “lucidity, objectivity, and masculinity [… which is why a woman of] this type is frequently found in important positions in which her tardily discovered maternal quality, guided by a cool intelligence, exerts a most beneficial influence.”768

Jung explains that a matured (individuated) woman with a negative mother-complex does not frighten a man because she is not overly feminine, but her Animus connects with his masculine side. By appealing not to the male Anima, an individuated woman is less threatening to the male who does not face his female tendencies. Katharina demonstrates a small glimpse of such a mature woman especially in the interrogation scenes where she does not turn around and openly act out by becoming hyper-emotional. Perhaps the best example of a negative mother-complex having found maturation may be in her actions of calling Tötges and promising him an exclusive interview in her apartment. Katharina demonstrates that she understands what lures the overzealous tabloid reporter to meet her and she uses it to her advantage. Slipp terms this part of Katharina’s psyche a negative mother Archetype which is “devouring, seductive, poisoning, terrifying, and associated with death.”769

Mario Jacoby, director of the Jung Institute in Zurich, Switzerland, posits that “a negative mother complex, then, arises from a situation in which this original archetypal need has not been sufficiently fulfilled.”770 He feels that the mother herself was not allowed to fully experience a positive situation of “being moth- ered” 771 and therefore projects upon the child an almost rejective mothering. This leads to a coldness in the relationship between the mother and the child, especially if the child is a daughter. Based on two prior studies, one conducted by Jacobi in 1959, another by Kast in 1980, Jacoby concludes that it can further lead the child to having a “negative image of self and world.”772

216 Contrasting Jacoby’s view, Steven F. Walker carries Jung’s notion even further as he adds that “the negative mother-complex, is the mark of the hero…”773 The hero drives a story’s plotline and his quest underlies the role of the protagonist in a narrative or a film. In Katharina’s case, the story line has her as the lone (M)Other, who in the end is not quite as heroic as one may have expected. Instead, she breaks down under the weight of the negative mother- complex coupled with the psychological terror-stress exerted by The Zeitung.

While carrying the nickname “the Nun” among her friends, Katharina is in- sulted by The Zeitung as being sexually promiscuous—a role she clearly does not fit. By the middle of the storyline, Katharina is driven by others—both people who appear her friends as they know her by name as well as complete strangers—into a role that most women reject to be associated with: a prostitute. Initially presented as a Madonna-like nun, Katharina is turned into the object of male lust through both obscene phone calls and vulgar messages cut from newspaper headlines to resemble modern poetry. Kaplan et al. point out that Jung thought poetry was especially appropriate for expressing artistic speech.774 In fact, Jung mentions especially Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Mephistopheles (and with it the entire Faustian complex) numerous times throughout his Collect- ed Works. In poetry, more than any other cultural product, the woman has early on been typecast into a dual nature that oscillates between the chaste and good image of a woman and the dirty image of dark male fantasies—the woman is represented in the Madonna-Whore complex. The coinage of the term Madonna- Whore complex dates back to at least the time of Sigmund Freud, who used it as early as 1910.775

Andrew Brink sees it as ironic that the “popular term Madonna/Whore Complex776 typecasts women rather than describe the split male ego”777 which especially in the hands of male authors can lead to woman as “objects of love- hate.”778 Katharina finds herself in that situation—on one hand, she is loved by Götten, on the other hand, she is hated by Beizemenne. Most often, not only is

217 she shunned by society in some way as she poses a danger to the males through latent sexuality, but also by women who fear her for her “holy whore” nature. Lucia Chiavola Birnbaum states that “[t]his woman often neglects her body, has no time of her own and fears her imagination. Sometimes I meet her at the battered women’s shelter.”779 It is the self-destructive nature that leads to a further isolation and psychological stress that begins with being already type-cast as the Other, but often does not end until self-destruction occurs.

Opposite Katharina’s dual role as both mother and daughter is the role of the father which indirectly falls to Beizemenne. Lacking a father in her upbringing, Katharina does not accept Beizemenne’s authority and passive-aggressively defends herself during multiple interrogations. Richard Carvalho points to the father’s role as having “the capacity for agency and for manipulating the environment”780 which Andrew Samuels extrapolates to posit that the paternal “absence will impair a sense of the possibilities of such achievement in the child.”781 The developing child and resulting individual, such as traumatized children in Kathari- na’s situation, therefore do not develop their full potential as an adult individual within society. The lack of the father, as David John Tacey shows, poses a problem as “the ego needs the father to act as guarantor and benefactor of its journey, and this is true for the ego in either men or women.”782 The paternal absence, according to Emma Jung and Marie-Louise von Franz, is “one of the characteristic features the hero.”783 Katharina’ lack of the presence of her father would qualify her as a hero, except, ultimately she finds herself imprisoned, rather than returning home. Thus, Katharina’s journey to Individuation can at best be considered a truncated heroic journey as, by her detainment through the Re- pressive State Apparatus representative, the Overdeveloped Shadow, she fails to attain the ultimate completion: the return home where a new status quo can be established.

Although Katharina’s persona oscillates between the Madonna and the Whore, she always remains the (M)Other, the outsider, that which “society hates

218 and disowns,”784 in whatever group she may be present. When physically not present, she is spoken about usually only as “she,” except by the husband-wife employer team, Hubert and Trude Blorna, who will interject Katharina’s name during some conversations. Throughout the carnival days, Katharina also never dresses up in any type of costume, while a brief glimpse at the police headquarters reveals that even police will don costumes (even if only to assist in their undercover work).

In contrast to Katharina, Götten’s character throughout the storyline is being played up as a very dangerous man by the authorities—one who is so dangerous that the head of the Cologne police department is able to mobilize the GSG 9, a federal border patrol agency which was only formed in the early 1970s in response to the attack at the Munich Olympic Games of 1972.785 The element of fear is played up by Böll with the use of the GSG 9, and yet, in the end, Götten is nothing more than a scapegoat. As Ann Ulanov notes, “we only scapegoat those who redeem us” 786 which refers back to Götten’s name as a form of “god.” As such, the scapegoat takes all that society rejects and is sacrificed for the good of the greater society. Likewise, because Götten is an outsider, he becomes the target of the “shadow, which in turn is projected onto someone outside the community.”787 He has not robbed a bank, is not a terrorist—he is a military deserter who embezzled money for two regiments. Yet, the media frenzy and the need by the police to produce a scapegoat for the public to be placated leads to the destruction of several lives. Employing the most secret of German police units induces the element of fear in the spectator. Coupled with the fact that the white male Ego should be represented by either Beizemenne or Götten, neither character falls into the Campbellian definition of the hero. Beizemenne represents the Repressive State Apparatus who conducts himself in an un-heroic fashion when he provides The Zeitung with inside material to write further half-true and false headlines. Götten himself is being coded as one to fear as he is in the cross-hairs of the surveillance camera (or rifle scope) and usually wears dark clothes, similar to the “bad guy” in Hollywood westerns. The spectator fails to

219 find an on-screen Alter-Ego with whom to identify. Unlike Götten, who for the most part presents himself rather calm and passive, Beizemenne demonstrates the authoritative power of his Overdeveloped Shadow by frequent choleric out- bursts and his double-faced actions dealing with Katharina on one hand, and the employment of the yellow press reporter, Tötges, on the other hand. By the end of the film, as the story reveals the background of Götten’s alleged criminal behavior, Beizemenne triumphs as he imprisons both Götten and Katharina, but his behavior has pushed him into the role of an Other with the spectator who by then renounces the police commissioner’s shady actions. What remains is fear of the unjust acts being perpetrated upon a regular citizen simply because the Overde- veloped Shadow’s ability as a high ranking law enforcement officer.

Looking closer at Ludwig Götten’s name it can be discerned that it resembles closely some German words: göttlich (godly or divine in English) or in one of its declined forms, göttlichen. Removing the -lich- portion from the word leaves Ludwig’s last name. An association with God / godly / divine occurs rather easily for a German speaker. With that, images of the crucifixion of Christ come to mind—an innocent dying for others and resurrection. It also connects to Kathari- na through her attribute as “nun.”788 As such, Götten then takes the role of the symbolic husband in the life of the nun, albeit only for a short time. Through Katharina’s visit to a local monastery and its head, Father Urbanus, a part of Katharina’s past becomes known. Through the figure of the rich industrialist Al- ois Sträubleder, both the meeting place in the convent, the story of the vacation house key and the country home becomes known. Götten, in a play on the biblical night scene in the Garden of Gethsemane,789 is in the darkened country house where a light illuminates his face from below. An unfinished puzzle, along with a glass of wine, completes the image of the scene on the kitchen floor. Briefly, Ludwig’s hand weapon becomes the focal point and signifies that Götten may not as innocent as it may have initially appeared. Yet, as is later revealed, he—along with Katharina—has been made into a scapegoat, similar to Christ, to alleviate society’s hysteria of terrorism. At the end of the biblical prayer at Geth-

220 semane, Christ is arrested by the local authorities who act upon the orders from the Roman overlords. Likewise, Götten also is arrested shortly after this particular shot, betrayed by an expression of love not in form of a kiss, but a phone call from Katharina. When Katharina arrives at the country home, she finds the entire area covered by armored police vehicles and officers on foot—the modern equivalent of shielded, armed men. Götten is only slightly harmed in the raid, nearly paralleling the arrest after being betrayed by the biblical Judas kiss.790 Although both Katharina and Götten are made out to be the Other, the one to fear, there is no final redemption for the spectator in form of a hero. The Over- developed Shadow (Beizemenne) has proven himself unworthy through questionable action. His character has not travelled on the road to Individuation throughout the film, while both Katharina and Götten have progressed in their character development.

Another aspect to the need for a scapegoat is raised by Steven F. Walker. In an extension to non-Jungian theorist René Girard, Walker points out that the scapegoat “becomes the blameless victim of a collective aggressive frenzy rooted in thwarted mimetic desire. A Jungian-based extension of his theory could re- fine the analysis: the scapegoat becomes the projection screen for specific collective shadow contents…”791 In other words, Katharina and Götten are made in- to the scapegoat because Beizemenne lacks the object he desires: to catch a true terrorist. By extension of his desire for the Girardian object (terrorist), Beizemenne resorts to violence against the mediator (Katharina) and in the end, both scapegoats are driven out of society and into prison. Samuel Slipp adds that in Middle Eastern and European mythology “a male god died before each winter as a scapegoat for man’s sins…”792 The mention of “god” refers back to Götten’s name, which symbolizes a form of the German word for “god” but with a slightly wrong spelling, thus, indicating, he is not “god” but only “godlike” for the duration of the film. Ann Daniel further explains the scapegoat in terms of its value to society: “Hero, criminal or fool, the scapegoat must be set apart and distinguished, […] worthy of [the community which chooses it and] eventually identified with the sources of calamity and evil fortune to be driven out.”793 The stigma of

221 the scapegoat follows both Ludwig, who as white male, by Rushing and Frentz’ definition, should not be part of the Other, and Katharina, who as female is automatically labeled as Other or Underdeveloped Shadow. Daniel further notes about the figure of scapegoat functioning as “a projection of the shadow … [whose] purpose is to relieve the group of its guilt.”794 Society, through Beize- menne, as representative of the Repressive State Apparatus, and Tötges, as representative of the Ideological State Apparatus, projects all that is undesirable to society onto the figure of Katharina and Götten, therefore, relieving society of the need to address its own emotions, its own fears and ultimately absolve society from finding solutions to the tension between desirable and undesirable traits. After relentless attacks, especially on Katharina, the two scapegoats are finally banished by imprisonment, while society as a whole is able to continue to enjoy pleasure and desire, as symbolized by the ongoing carnival.

Through the casting of Katharina as the Other, a female who presents the embodiment of what societies disavows, and her murder of a white male, or Overdeveloped Shadow, the (male) spectator is taken through emotions of fear— by way of concern that especially the death of the (not so guilty) photographer could be a simple act of revenge that could be perpetrated on any male audience member as well—which are only partly alleviated through her ultimate arrest as she may be freed within a few years. The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum does not fully provide the cathartic moment a spectator might expect from a happy- ending Hollywood story in which ‘the hero rides into the sunset for a Happily Ever After’ life. Instead, because of the fluctuating nature of events in Germany in the 1970s, the film conveys more of the era unpredictable historical turns which, unlike a Hollywood-style encapsulated film plotline, leaves ambiguous emotions in the audience.

Further research interests regarding this film include, but are not limited to, a stronger Jungian-based framework in the context of spectatorship analysis. Since the term terrorist elicits more fear than ever in the aftermath of the 9/11

222 (2001) attacks on several American cities, a connection between emotional studies, especially violence on screen versus spectator sensation as well as perception, and a Jungian-based spectatorship analysis would be of interest beyond other research interests which have been detailed throughout the chapter endnotes just below.

Whereas the previous chapter looked at modern literature adaptation through the lens of examining the Other and the relatively new archetypal motif of the terrorist (although Katharina never truly was shown to be an actual terrorist), the next chapter will look at another book adaptation written nearly 80 years before this filmic version was produced. In his 1979 adaptation of Nosferatu: Eine Symphonie des Grauens, 795 F. W. Murnau’s classic film version of the 1897 Bram Stoker story Dracula, Werner Herzog returns closely to the book (similarly to Katharina Blum), but also pays frequent homage to F. W. Murnau’s masterpiece (similarly to Fassbinder’s Fear Eats the Soul). As such, this classic tale of a Romanian count turned horror figure, ties together both literary predecessors and filmic antecedents. Nosferatu discusses the figures of Jonathan, Nosferatu and Lucy in light of Jungian-based Archetypes, sexuality and Individuation.

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642 Böll, Heinrich. The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum: How Violence Develops and Where It Can Lead. New York, NY: McGraw‐Hill, 1975. Print. 643 Die Verlorene Ehre der Katharina Blum. Dir. Trotta, Margarethe von, Volker Schlöndorff , Mario Adorf, Angela Winkler, et al. Criterion Collection, 2003. DVD. 644 Gerhart Hoffmeister, Frederic Tubach and Kurt Reinhardt, erroneously ascribed this 1975 film to direc‐ tor Rainer Werner Fassbinder and claim it had been produced in 1977. Hoffmeister, Gerhart, Frederic C.

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Tubach, and Kurt F. Reinhardt, eds. Germany: 2000 Years. Vol. III: From The Nazi Era to German Unifica‐ tion. New York, NY: Continuum, 1992. Print. Page201. 645 Carnival in Germany usually runs from 11 November through Fat Tuesday the following year with the majority of parties being conducted in the last two weeks prior to Ash Wednesday. Cologne, the city in which this fictive tale takes place, is traditionally considered the “home of Carnival” in Germany. 646 Singh, Greg, Film After Jung, Page 125. 647 Singh, Page 125. 648 Jung, v. 9.1, Page 5. 649 Shelburne, Walter A. Mythos and Logos in the Thought of Carl Jung. Page 136. See also Garry, Jane and Hasan M. El‐Sharmy. Archetypes and Motifs in Folklore and Literature: A Handbook. Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2005. Print. Papadopoulos, Renos K. Carl Gustav Jung. 650 Seibel, Alexandra. “The Carnival of Repression: German Left‐Wing Politics and The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum.” In Literature and Film: A Guide to the Theory and Practice of Film Adaptation. Stam, Robert and Alessandra Raengo, eds. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005. Print. Page 154. 651 Seibel, Alexandra. “The Carnival of Repression,” Pages 148 – 152. 652 Koopmans, Ruud. “The Dynamics of Protest Waves: West Germany, 1965 – 1989.” American Sociologi‐ cal Review 58.5 (Oct. 1993): 637‐658. Print. Katzenstein, Peter J. Rethinking Japanese Security: Internal and External Dimensions. London, UK: Routledge, 2008. Print. Pages 167‐184. 653 Koopmans. Also Victoroff, Jeff. “The Mind of a Terrorist: A Review and Critique of Psychological Ap‐ proaches.” The Journal of Conflict Resolution 49.1 (Feb. 2005): 3‐42. Print. 654 Russell, Charles A. and Bowman H. Miller. “Profile of a Terrorist.” Studies in Conflict & Terrorism 1.1 (1977): 17‐34. Print. 655 Midlarsky, Manus I., Martha Crenshaw and Fumihiko Yoshida. “Rejoinder Why Violence Spreads.” In‐ ternational Studies Quarterly 24.2 (Jun 1980): 262‐298. Print. Page 282. 656 Siqueira, Kevin and Todd Sandler. “Terrorists versus the Government: Strategic Interactions, Support, and Sponsorship.” The Journal of Conflict Resolution 50.6 (Dec. 2006): 878‐898. Print. Page 889. 657 Koopmans, Page 644. An in‐depth discussion of this time and thematic is well beyond this dissertation but warrants further examination in a different format. 658 Rushing and Frentz, Page 39. Many more facets to the aspect of violence can be presented here. It is significant to mention that violence upon other people, especially Other, can be highly attractive to cul‐ tures as a whole. Some modern examples are the discussion in the United States during the presidential election campaign regarding the use of violence against Iran or Syria. On a smaller scale, violence (in form of bullying) against especially young homosexual males has escalated leading to several highly publicized deaths, such as that of college freshman Taylor Clemente in 2010. Critical investigations of the tendency to accept violence against Other(s) especially in the context of on‐screen violence is of further research interest. 659 Williams, Eric and Lawrence Glatz. “Cinema and the Feminine Threat: The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum and A Taxing Woman.” In Significant Others: Gender and Culture in Film and Literature, East and West, vol. 6. Burgwinkle, William E., Glenn Man and Valerie Wayne, eds. Honolulu, HI: U of Hawaii P, 1993. Print. Page 75. 660 Williams and Glatz, Page 75. This claim could not be substantiated by the author of this dissertation. 661 To some degree, this opens the space for the “more developed,” albeit still Underdeveloped Shadow, of Ludwig Götten to fill the void represented by her initial absence in the filmic presentation. 662 An example is the public response to the arson attack at two department store buildings by Andreas Baader and Gudrun Ensslin, a.k.a. Red Army Faction which left several people injured. Colvin, Sarah. Ul‐ rike Meinhof and the West German Terrorism: Language, Violence and Identity. Rochester, NY: Camden, 2009. Print. Pages 128 – 136. Parkes, Stuart K. Writers and Politics in Germany, 1945 – 2008. Rochester, NY: Camden, 2009. Print. Pages 96 – 100. Weber, Jürgen. Germany, 1945 – 1990: A Parallel History. Budapest, Hungary: Central European U P, 2003. Print. Pages 125 – 126. Martin, Gus. The Sage Encyclo‐ pedia of Terrorism. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2011. Print. Pages 83 – 85. Moghadam, Assaf. Roots of Terrorism. New York, NY: Chelsea, 2006. Print. Pages 14 ‐ 16.

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663 Aust, Stefan. Der Baader‐Meinhof Komplex. Hamburg, Germany: Hoffmann & Campe, 1985. Print. 664 Conard, Robert C. Understanding Heinrich Böll. Columbia, SC: U of South Carolina P, 1992. Page 116. Quote as in original text which is a translation of the German text. 665 Conard, Understanding Heinrich Böll, Page 116. Although the BILD headline states that the policeman was shot and killed, at the time of the publication of that issue, the law enforcement office was wounded, but recovering in the hospital. 666 Reid, James. Heinrich Böll: A German for His Time. Oxford, NY: Berg, 1988. Print. Page 164. 667 Zipes, Jack. “The Political Dimension of The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum.” New German Critique 12 (Aut. 1977): 75‐84. Print. Page 75. 668 Zipes, Page 76. 669 Conard, Page 116. 670 Conard, Page 117. 671 Meinhof, Ulrike and Karin Bauer. Everybody Talks About the Weather … We Don’t: The Writings of Ul‐ rike Meinhof. New York, NY: Seven Stories P, 2008. Print. Footnote 77. 672 Zipes, Page 76. 673 It must be noted that Böll never defended Meinhof or any other RAF member for their radical ideas, but strictly for the way the tabloid press was conducting the political witch‐hunt and the partly inhumane manner under which some of the alleged terrorists were house, especially at the federal penitentiary Stammheim (Stuttgart‐Stammheim, Germany) where ultimately several RAF members committed suicide. 674 Koopmans, Page 644. 675 Midlarsky, Page 283. 676 Midlarsky, Page 285. 677 Nägele, Rainer and Marc Silberman. “Aspects of the Reception of Heinrich Böll.” New German Critique 7 (Winter 1976): 45‐68. Print. Page 55. 678 Aust, Stefan. Baader‐Meinhof: The Inside Story of the RAF. New York, NY: Oxford U P, 2009. Print. Page 148. Also see Smith, J., André Moncourt and Bill Dunne. The Red Army Faction: A Documentary His‐ tory, Vol. 1. Projectiles for the People. Montreal, Quebec, Canada: Kersplebedeb, 2009. Print. Page 316 679 Smith, The Red Army Faction, Page 316. 680 Smith, Page 112. 681 Smith, Page 112. 682 Smith, Page 112. 683 Kundnani, Hans. Utopia or Auschwitz: Germany’s 1968 Generation and the Holocaust. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 2009. Print. Page 62. Note: The Springer Press, parent company of BILD, carries about 70 percent of all newspapers sold in Berlin in the late 1960s. 684 Nägele, Rainer and Marc D. Silberman. “Aspects of the Reception of Heinrich Böll.” Page 45. 685 Campbell, Joseph W. Yellow Journalism: Puncturing the Myths, Defining the Legacies. Westport, CT: Prager, 2001. Print. Pages 7 – 8. For Campbell, the defining elements of yellow press journalism include multi‐column front‐page formatting and various topics presented on the front page (ranging from politics to sport to lifestyle), bold and experimental layouts enhanced by use of color and a swaggering style of th journalism. Although this was said about the late 19 century yellow press, it still applies to the 1970s BILD‐Zeitung publications. 686 Nägele and Silberman, Page 45. 687 Hoerschelmann, Olaf. "Memoria Dextera Est: Film and Public Memory in Postwar Germany.” Cinema Journal 40.2 (2001):78 ‐97. Print. Page 88. 688 Schlesinger, Philip, Graham Murdock and Philip R. C. Elliot. Televising “Terrorism”: Political Violence in Popular Culture. London, UK: Comedia, 1983. Print. Page 4. 689 Kundnani, Utopia, Page 128. 690 Friedman, Lester D. “Cinematic Techniques in The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum.” Literature Film Quarterly 7.2 (1979): 244‐252. Print. Page 244. 691 Friedman, “Cinematic Techniques…,” Page 244. 692 Rushing and Frentz, Projecting the Shadow, Page 39.

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693 Burgwinkle, William E., Glenn Man, and Valerie Wayne, eds. Significant Others: Gender and Culture in Film and Literature, East and West: Selected Conference Papers. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii P, 1993. Print. Page 50. 694 Rectanus, Mark W. “The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum: The Reception of a German Best‐Seller in the USA.” German Quarterly 59.2 (Spr. 1986): 252‐269. Print. Page 258. 695 Rectanus, “Lost Honor…,” Page 258. 696 Moeller, Hans‐Bernhard and George Lellis. Volker Schlöndorff’s Cinema: Adaptation, Politics, and the “Movie Appropriate.” Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois U P, 2002. Print. Page 152. 697 Rectanus, Page 253. 698 Rectanus, Page 259. 699 Hoerschelmann, Pages 89 ‐ 90. Also, Moeller and Lellis, Volker Schlöndorff’s Cinema, Page 130 – 131. 700 Kundnani, Utopia, Page 61. 701 Schmid, Alex P. Western Responses to Terrorism. London, UK: Cass, 1993. Print. Page 47. 702 Kundnani, Utopia, Page 63. 703 Schmid, Alex, Western Responses, Page 46. 704 A documentary film, released in 1999 by Scottish filmmaker Kevin Macdonald, details the events lead‐ ing up to the 1972 murder of 11 Israeli athletes during the Olympic Games in Munich. One Day in Sep‐ tember. Dir. MacDonald, Kevin, Arthur Cohn, John Battsek, et al. Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD. See also, Shughart, William F. “An Analytical History of Terrorism: 1945‐2000.” Public Choice 128.2 (Jul. 2006): 7‐39. Print. Page 22, Footnote 13. 705 Hoerschelmann, Page 90. Also Aust, Baader‐Meinhof Group, Pages 53 and 271‐273. Also, Moeller and Lellis, Page 130 – 131. 706 Hoerschelmann, Page 91. 707 Hoerschelmann, Page 88. Also, Colvin, Sarah. Ulrike Meinhof, Page 125. 708 Although Beizmenne’s outwardly swarthy appearance would code him as Jungian Other or Underde‐ veloped Shadow, through his role as a high ranking police official, he holds the power of the Ego, i.e. the white male. 709 By visually coding the head of the Repressive State Apparatus as an ambivalent figure, the reporter emerges visually as the Campbellian hero and Ego. However, this changes when Katharina shoots the re‐ porter in her apartment. 710 Pinsdorf, Marion K. Communicating When your Company is Under Siege: Surviving Public Crisis. New York, NY: Fordham U P, 1999. Print. Page 37. 711 Elsaesser, European Cinema, Page 230. 712 It is unclear from the film if the camera has the crosshairs in the lens or if this symbolizes a weapon’s scope trained on him through which the film camera follows Götten’s moves. When the film camera switches to show an undercover police officer, only a small handheld camera device is shown. However, it is possible from the plotline to envision that there may have been a sharpshooter on the ferry observing both the undercover agent and Götten. 713 Böll, Katharina Blum, Page 70, Snippet 31. 714 As an aside, when the ferry is first shown, a yellow Opel station wagon and a white Peugeot sedan are parked on the ferry’s deck, which is otherwise empty. When the ferry docks, a white delivery van and an orange VW Golf are parked in the respective spots. 715 Hehr, Renate. Margarethe von Trotta: Filmmaking as Liberation. Stuttgart, Germany: Menges, 2000. Print. Page 15. 716 Knight, Julia. New German Cinema. Page 57. 717 Elsaesser, Thomas. New German Cinema: A History. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers U P, 1989. Print. Pages 61 – 64. 718 Elsaesser, New German Cinema, Page 62. British spelling in original. 719 This is well‐presented in the documentary One Day in September. Very little of the media complicity with the government and in extension, the police apparatus, was obviously presented by any media out‐ lets and even less has been written publicly.

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720 Post, Jerrold M. The Mind of the Terrorist: The Psychology of Terrorism from IRA to Al‐Qaeda. New York, NY: Palgrave‐Macmillan, 2009. Print. Page 129. See also Fetscher, Iring et. al. Analysen Zum Terrorismus. Darmstadt‐Opladen, Germany: Westdeutscher Verl., 1981. Print. 721 Post, Jerrold, Mind, Page 129. 722 Jäger, Herbert, Gerhard Schmidtchen and Lieselotte Süllwold, eds. Lebenslaufanalysen: Analysen Zum Terrorismus, vol. 2. Darmstadt‐Opladen, Germany: Westdeutscher Verl., 1981. Print. 723 Ferracuti, Franco. “A Psychiatric Comparative—Analysis of Left and Rightwing Terrorism in Italy.” In World Congress of Psychiatry, Psychiatry: The State of Art, 6. New York, NY: Plenum, 1985. Print. Also in Pichot, Pierre. Drug Dependency and Alcoholism, Forensic Psychiatry, Military Psychiatry. New York: NY: Plenum P, 1985. Print. 724 Victoroff, “The Mind of the Terrorist,” especially Page 12. 725 Victoroff, Page 35. 726 Victoroff, Page 35. 727 Roberts, Brad. Hype or Reality? The “New Terrorism” and Mass Casualty Attacks. Alexandria, VA: Chemical and Biological Arms Control Institute, 2000. Print. Page 5. 728 Taylor, Maxwell. The Terrorist. London, UK: Brassey’s Defence, 1988. Print. Especially Page 145. 729 Crenshaw, Martha. “The Psychology of Political Terrorism.” In Political Psychology: Contemporary Problems and Issues. Hermann, Margaret G., ed. San Francisco, CA: Jossey‐Bass, 1986. Print. Pages 379‐ 413. 730 Defoe, Daniel. “Making the Man—Terrorism Charted and Defined.” In Terrorism and the Politics of So‐ cial Change: A Durkheimian Analysis. Dingley, James, ed. Farnham, Surrey, UK: Ashgate, 2010. Print. Pages 85 – 111. 731 Gold, Steven N. and Jan Faust, eds.. Trauma Practice in the Wake of September 11, 2001. Binghamton, NY: Haworth Maltreatment & Trauma P, 2002. Print. Page 94. Bracketed text added for clarity 732 Patterson, Dennis Michael and Ari Afilalo. The New Global Trading Order: The Evolving State and the Future of Trade. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge, U P, 2008. Print. Page 192. 733 Mattoon, Mary Ann, Jungian Psychology, Page 180. 734 White, Judy Anne. Hero‐Ego in Search of Self: A Jungian Reading of Beowulf. New York, NY: P. Lang, 2004. Print. Page 3. 735 German Security Forces, a special force which is part of the Federal Border Security. 736 Rainwater, Lee. Social Policy and Public Policy: Inequality and Justice. New Brunswick, NJ: Aldine, 2009. Print. Page 139. 737 Hockley, Frames, Page 13. 738 th A sign in the foyer reads “Aufzüge Häuser U, N, I, C, 5‐17. O.G.” (Elevators for buildings U, N, I, C, 6 th through 18 floor – NOTE: Germany counts the ground floor, or Erdgeschoss, as Floor Zero, while in Eng‐ lish speaking countries the same level is designated as First Floor). 739 At this point, the camera shows a sign that reads “Aufzüge Häuser U, N, C, 27‐73. O.G” (Elevators to th th buildings U, N, C, 28 through 74 floor). 740 A 1967 study by D. M. Fanning finds a high correlation between the apartment floor and mental disor‐ ders—the higher up someone lives, the more likely a mental disorder is present. As the study demon‐ strates, the effect of this correlates with time spent in the dwelling. Katharina obviously has spent a large amount of time in the apartment. A newer study by scholar N.C. Moore refutes Fanning’s work, however, Moore’s work looks at a very distinct group: military personnel and their families. Canadian researcher Robert Gifford in 2006 comes to the conclusion that research in this area lacks some scientific basis and, while there are problems, finds that no conclusive statements can be made that hold true across the board. Nevertheless, Gifford acknowledges that there are significant corollaries pointing to a link be‐ tween high‐rise buildings and (psychologically driven) behavior issues. Fanning, D. M. “Families in Flats.” British Medical Journal 4.5576 (18 Nov 1967): 382‐386. Print. Moore, N. C. “Psychiatric Illness and Living in Flats.” The British Journal of Psychiatry 125.5 (1974): 500‐507. Print. Gifford, Robert. “The Conse‐ quences of Living in High‐Rise Buildings.” Architectural Science Review 50.1 (2007): 2‐17.

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741 Driver, Edwin. ”Confessions and the Social Psychology of Coercion.” Harvard Law Review 82.1 (Nov. 1968): 42‐61. Print. Page 45. 742 Driver, “Confessions…,” Page 45. 743 Bellin, Joshua David. Framing Monsters: Fantasy Film and Social Alienation. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois U P, 2005. Print. Page 166. 744 McCarthy, P., D. Byrne, S. Harrison and J. Keithley. “Housing Type, Housing Location and Mental Health.” Social Psychiatry 20.3 (1985): 125‐130. Print. Page 129. 745 McCarthy et. al., Page 129. 746 Kassin, Saul M. and Christina T. Fong. “’I’m Innocent!’: Effects of Training on Judgments of Truth and Deception in the Interrogation Room.” Law and Human Behavior 23:5 (1999): 499‐516. Print. Page 500. 747 While an in‐depth discussion of this topic is far outside the scope of this work, it must be acknowl‐ edged in the light of German history, which cannot be divorced from its cultural heritage and the events presented in the film. Many books and documentary films have been published on this subject. For brev‐ ity’s sake, only a few selected books are listed here: Johnson, Eric A and Karl‐Heinz Reuband. What we Knew: Terror, Mass Murder and Everyday Life in Nazi Germany—An Oral History. London, UK: John Mur‐ ray, 2004. Print. Especially Pages 346 ‐ 360. Housden, Martyn. Resistance and Conformity in the Third Reich. New York, NY: Routledge, 1997. Print. Especially 161 ‐ 176. Burleigh, Michael. The Third Reich: A New History. New York, NY: Hill & Wang, 2001. Print. Especially Pages 144 ‐ 219. Lemons, Everette. The Third Reich: A Revolution of Ideological Inhumanity, Vol.II. Death Mask of Humanity. Morrisville: LuLu, 2006. Print. Especially Pages 466 – 488. 748 For example, the leader of a group of nuns is often addressed as “Mother Superior.” In contrast, nuns working in community service positions are often referred to as “Sister,” which is yet another possible facet of the Mother Archetype. See Wilhelm, Anthony J. Christ Among Us: A Modern Presentation of Catholic Faith for Adults. San Francisco, CA: Harper‐Collins, 1996. Print. Page 427. 749 When undergoing the initiation ritual to become a nun in a monastery, the woman will symbolically take Christ as her “husband.” Many Catholic nuns wear a small wedding band for that reason as an out‐ ward sign of their symbolic marriage. 750 Rowland, Jung, Page 8. 751 Rowland, Page 8. See also Slipp, Samuel. The Freudian Mystique: Freud, Women and Feminism. New York, NY: New York U P, 1995. Print. Pages 158 ‐ 160. Bracketed text added for clarity. 752 McGuire, Wilhelm, Sigmund Freud and C. G. Jung. The Freud‐Jung Letters: The Correspondence be‐ tween Sigmund Freud and C. G. Jung. London, UK: Routledge, 1994. Print. Page 42. 753 In one scene, Katharina’s quality of coffee is praised. This is a comment that is usually reserved for Sunday afternoon (coffee and cake) gatherings in relative formal settings in a family’s dwelling. 754 Her role as a housekeeper also would put her into the same position as a mother, except, she does it for an older couple and for pay, while mothers (and housewives) are expected to do so without payment. 755 Palmer, Michael F. Freud and Jung on Religion. Page 111. Spelling exactly as in original. 756 A term which the narrative insists on using, rather than other terms describing a one‐night‐stand with a man. 757 Mulvey, Visual and Other Pleasures, Page 20. 758 Tacey, Jung and the New Age, Page 149. 759 Stevens, Page 131. 760 Jung, 9.1, Page 102. Emphasis in original. 761 Stevens, Anthony, Archetype Revisited, Page 130. 762 Stevens, Page 130. 763 Eager, Paige W. From Freedom Fighters to Terrorists: Women and Political Violence. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008. Print. Page 60. Both Paige Eager and Stefan Aust set Ulrike’s age at Werner Meinhof’s passing to five years, while Stephen Atkins dates Ulrike to already six years of age. Atkins, Stephen. Ency‐ clopedia of Modern Worldwide Extremists and Extremist Groups. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2004. Print. Page 197. 764 Jung, 9.1, Page 102.

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765 Jung, 9.1, Page 102. 766 Slipp, Page 154. 767 Jung, 9.1, Page 98. Spelling as in original. 768 Jung, 9.1, Page 98. Brackets added for clarity of text. 769 Slipp, Page 154. 770 Jacoby, Mario, Individuation , Page 179. 771 Jacoby, Page 179. 772 Jacoby, Page 179. 773 Walker, Steven F. Jung and the Jungians on Myth: An Introduction. New York, NY: Routledge, 2002. Print. Page 77. See also Douglas, Claire. The Old Woman’s Daughter: Transformative Wisdom for Men and Women. College Station, TX: Texas A & M U P, 2006. Print. Page 35. 774 Kaplan, Harold I., Alfred M Freedman, Benjamin J. Sadock, eds. Comprehensive Textbook of Psychiatry, Vol. III. Baltimore, MD: Williams and Wilkins, 1980. Print. Page 3126. 775 Bishop, Paul. Analytical Psychology and German Classical Aesthetics: Goethe, Schiller and Jung. Lon‐ don, UK: Routledge, 2008. Print. Page 12. The dyadic concept of mother vs. whore goes back much fur‐ ther. Examples include works by the Roman poet Catullus (most famed for his rather obscene language) as well as the early Italian writers, such as Petrarca. However, Madonna‐Whore Complex as an analytical th term has come into use in the early 20 century. 776 In addition to von Franz, Jaffé and Samuels, see also Robertson, Pamela. Guilty Pleasures: Feminist Camp from Mae West to Madonna. Durham, NC: Duke U P, 1996. Print. Also, Harper, Hill. The Conversa‐ tion: How Men and Women Can Build Loving, Trusting Relationships. New York, NY: Gotham, 2010. Print. 777 Brink, Andrew. Obsession and Culture: A Study of Sexual Obsession in Modern Fiction. Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson U P, 1996. Print. Page 20. Non‐capitalization and emphasis in original. 778 Brink, Page 20. 779 Birnbaum, Lucia Chiavola. She’s Everywhere! An Anthology of Writing in Womanist/Feminist Spirituat‐ lity. Berkeley, CA: iUniverse, 2005. Print. Page 37‐39. 780 Carvalho, Richard. “Paternal Deprivation in Relation to Narcissistic Damage.” Journal of Analytical Psy‐ chology 27.4 (1982): 341‐356. Print. Page 344. 781 Samuels, Post‐Jungians, Page 165. 782 Tacey, David John. Jung and the New Age. Philadelphia, PA: Brunner‐Routledge, 2001. Print. Page 112. 783 Jung, Emma and Marie‐Louise von Franz. The Grail Legend. Princeton, NJ: Princeton U P, 1998. Print. Page 46. 784 Rushing and Frentz, Page 39. 785 BPOL – Historie. Online. Last accessed 20 November 2010. http://www.bundespolizei.de/cln_179/nn_249932/DE/Home/09__Historie/Historie__node.html?__nnn=t rue and BPOL – GSG 9 der Bundespolizei. Online. Last accessed 20 November 2010. http://www.bundespolizei.de/cln_179/nn_251826/DE/Home/03__Organisation/1Bundespolizeipraesidiu m/GSG9/__gsg9__anmod.html. Also Combs, Cincy C., and Martin W. Slann. Encyclopedia of Terrorism. New York, NY: Facts on File, 2007. Print. Pages 111 – 113. Kushner, Encyclopedia of Terrorism, Pages 152 – 153. Katz, Samuel M. Global Counterstrike: International Counterterrorism. Minneapolis, MN: Lerner , 2005. Print. Pages 16 – 18. 786 Ulanov, Ann. Spirit in Jung. Page 56. 787 Driscoll, Unfolding God, Page 32. 788 Birnbaum, She’s Everywhere!, Page 34. 789 The Bible. Gospel of Mark, 14:32‐52. 790 Bible, Gospel of Mark, 14:43‐46. 791 Walker, Steven , Jung and the Jungians, Page 166. Mimetic Desire describes a triad of subject, media‐ tor and object, in which the subject desires the object modeled by the mediator. Eventually rivalry exists between the subject and mediator, leading to conflict. Through scapegoating, the rivalry violence can be curbed in society.

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792 Slipp, Page 38. 793 Daniel, Ann, Page 17. 794 Dainel, Page 17. 795 Nosferatu: Eine Symphonie des Grauens. Dir. F. W. Murnau, Luciano Berriaúta, Fritz Arno Wagner, et al. Eureka, 2007. DVD.

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CHAPTER 6 – NOSFERATU: PHANTOM DER NACHT (NOSFERATU: PHANTOM OF THE NIGHT, A.K.A NOSFERATU THE VAMPYRE,796 WERNER HERZOG, 1979)

Man hates what he does not understand. Man fears what he hates. Man kills what he fears. 797

Nosferatu (1979), the third and final film in the discussion of Jungian- based Others, the motif of the Alter-Ego, and the visual exposition of fear and fear response—like the two previously discussed films—is also an adaptation. The following chapter examines the visual portrayal of the vampire, his victim and the man who will live in the end while the vampire himself and his female victim perish. In the course of the examination, discussions of the inter-personal play of sexuality (partly through the motif of the doppelgänger) and gender illuminate the Jungian-based Archetype of the Underdeveloped Shadow or the Other representing everything society disavows and includes any female and all non-white males and—in this case, of course—any non-humans such as the fictional character of the vampire. The examination follows the character of Jonathan on his visual journey through his own psyche in the process toward Individuation, while facing the spectators with their own feelings toward hetero- and homosexuality. This adaptation combines both a filmic adaptation, as director Werner Herzog pays homage to F. W. Murnau’s eponymous 1922 film by remaining close to the silent film original’s plotline, but it also refers back to the written version of Bram

231 Stoker’s Dracula798 story. Gregory Waller notes that Herzog’s cinematic adaptation of the gory folktale799 is different enough to warrant individual discussions. 800 Waller further points out, quoting Hans Helmut Prinzler’s “authoritative filmogra- phy of Herzog“,801 that the film was “nach Motiven des Films Nosferatu, die Sym- phonie des Grauens von Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau und des Romans Dracula von Bram Stoker”802 rather than a remake of the Murnau film or a strict adaptation of Stoker’s book.

As with some other German classic movies, such as Fritz Lang’s Metropo- lis, Werner Herzog’s homage (and remake) of the Nosferatu story is often not clearly dated. Tim Bergfelder, renowned German film historian and scholar, points to the film having been made in 1978.803 Most sources, including the dis- tributor of the Herzog-Kinski Collection DVD set, Anchor Bay Entertainment, list the film as 1979. For the purpose of this chapter, the film shall be stated as having been produced in 1979. Rosemary Guiley also points to another controversy: the name “Nosferatu” which Bram Stoker claimed to be the “Romanian word for vampires […] is not Romanian, nor is it found elsewhere in Europe.”804 She cites three different terms that most likely were the source of the term, but had been (un-)intentionally changed: most likely due to mishearing or mis-memorization.805

Herzog’s 1979 film806 opens with images resembling the mummies found in the catacombs of Rome and Pompeii.807 Cutting to the story which is set in Wismar, Jonathan Harker is told by his employer that he must travel to Transylvania, “somewhere over the Carpathian mountains,” to conclude a real estate deal with a nobleman by the name of Count Dracula. Already marked as insane, Mr. Ren- field drops many hints to Jonathan, but lures his employee with the prospect of a “very large commission.” Alarmed by the possibility of a prolonged absence, Lucy, Jonathan’s wife attempts to convince him to not take the perilous journey to the Romanian hinter- land, but Jonathan leaves anyways. Trotting off to the farewell of Lucy and their friends, Jonathan next appears808 in the Carpathian Mountains.809 A throng of local Romas greets him as he arrives at an inn, but at the mention of Count Dracula, the group inside the inn displays great shock. The innkeeper explains to Jonathan that dark happenings occur, which the traveler

232 discounts as superstition. Without a horse to ride and no coachman to take him, Jonathan finds himself in a bind. Despite all the Romas’ forewarnings that the castle serves as gateway to the land of phantoms, Jonathan remains determined to undertake the journey and sets out on foot. Landscapes810 and varying weather turn increasingly menacing as Harker nears the feared Borgo Pass. While walking alongside a chasm creek in the dead of night, Jonathan is overtaken by a coachman who takes him to the desired goal—the castle—where Count Dracula himself greets Jonathan and invites the visitor inside. During the offered meal an accidental cut draws blood, attracting Dracula’s attention. The next morning, Jonathan finds himself alone in the sun-lit castle. A mirror check reveals a reflection, but no obvious bite mark. Cut-backs to Wismar show that a forlorn Lucy feels worried, while Jona- than keeps a diary, thinking of her. At night, ready to sign the contract, Count Dracula glimpses Lucy’s image in a medallion. At the dead of night Jonathan is bitten by Dracula. The next morning, Jonathan finds himself completely locked into the castle—except for a path to the Undead’s cellar where Jonathan finds the seemingly lifeless body in a coffin. In an attempt to escape, Jonathan jumps out of the window, injuring his foot. As he limps his way toward Wismar, Nosferatu sends thirteen black coffins, containing unholy earth and his body, downstream to eventually end up in Wis- mar via ship from a Black Sea port. Parallel to Dracula’s sea journey, an increasingly sick Jonathan attempts to return to Lucy via land travel. Along with the ship carrying Count Dracula in the coffins, many plague- carrying rats arrive in Wismar—immediately spreading through the city upon the ship’s arrival. A still sickly Jonathan finally returns, too. It is then that Lucy learns about the Undead’s curse and how to eliminate Nosferatu from the world. Overrun by the rats, the town is ravished by the plague. To end the danse macabre, Lucy sacrifices her own life after finding her lady friend bitten and killed— presumably by Jonathan. Lucy allows Dracula to visit her bedroom and prevents him from leaving before the break of dawn. Nosferatu writhes in agony as the rising sun begins to slowly kill him—ultimately he is killed for good by Dr. van Helsing who drives a stake through Dracula’s heart. By this time, Jonathan has grown long front teeth and fingernails along with displaying the ghostly pale skin of a vampire. The film closes with a long shot of Jonathan galloping over a vast sea of sand into a vanishing horizon.

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Vampirism, Otherness and Exploration of Sexuality

According to Hans-Michael Bock and Tim Bergfelder, director Werner Herzog, who paid homage to F. W. Murnau’s 1922 opus in many ways with his 1979 version, was a “personal friend of Weimar film historian Lotte H. Eisner.”811 Scholar and author Timothy Corrigan quotes Eisner as writing in “the newest German edition of The Haunted Screen” 812 that Herzog’s “Nosferatu is not a remake of Murnau’s masterpiece, it is […] a lonely vampire damned to an undeath search[ing] for love.”813 American film critic, Roger Ebert, echoes this sentiment of seeking love (and lust) in his review of the film. He points out that Nosferatu “is undone not by hubris or carelessness, but by the yearning to steal a few moments extra pleasure in the arms of a woman.”814 Author Martha Nochimson815 uses a singled out shot from Herzog’s film, featuring Isabelle Adjani with her back to the camera, her face reflected in the mirror and Nosferatu to her right, which seems to demonstrate the longing very well to set up what Siebert Prawer calls “nervous aura […] that nevertheless gave off a strong sexual allure.”816 Klaus Kinski’s expression is that of a world-weary man, while at the same time, he conveys the nervousness and apprehension a young husband would feel on his wedding night. Unlike the blood-thirsty demon Dracula is made out to be in folkloristic tales, Kinski’s Nosferatu appears conflicted and apologetic for his actions. While it is precisely the Otherness of the vampire that drives Nosferatu to seek the company of Ellen Hutter (Murnau’s 1922 version) or Lucy Harker (Herzog’s 1979 film), it is also the cause for his ultimate demise: “Lucy and Dracula share a psychosexual connection, and he is drawn to her like a moth to the flame, with equally traumatic results.”817

Torben Poulsen adds to this:

… Dracula-type vampire suggests that the monster is not only threatening in that it kills you or, even worse, transforms you into a vampire, but it is, on an interpretative level, sex-

234 ually threatening. Especially considering how sexuality was perceived prior to 1968. Dracula would transform drab, vir- ginal characters into females with an active, aggressive sexuality. Prior to cognitive cinema studies, psychoanalysis was widely used as a means of analysing film, and the metaphorical signs of the Dracula-type vampire are most clearly visible if viewed through psychoanalytical glasses. The monster would “penetrate” its victims, “raping” women metaphorically with its fangs and suffering ultimate death itself by being “impaled” with a “phallic” wooden stick.818

Discussions and analyses of Herzog’s film by film analysts such as Bergfelder, Corrigan and Elsaesser have repeatedly brought up one topic, which seems to fly in the face of Poulsen’s observation:819 the homosexual or homoerotic scenes between the real estate broker and the count. This homosexual attraction between Jonathan Harker (Herzog) or Thomas Hutter (Murnau) and Count Orlok (Murnau),820 Dracula (Bram Stoker) or Nosferatu (Herzog) contrast the heterosexual attraction between husband and wife (or to a lesser degree between Klaus Kinski’s and Isabel Adjani’s characters) and thus forcing a comparison between the “correct” and “incorrect” sexual orientation. In most cases, the attraction of Nosferatu is mentioned in connection to Nosferatu’s attraction to Lu- cy. Edgar Browning and Kay Picart point out in the summary of both Herzog’s and Murnau’s versions that the couple are newlyweds.821 However, the films do not specifically address the couple’s situation as being recently married—only the longing of Ellen822 (Murnau) or Lucy (Herzog) indicates that they may have not been wedded for a long time.

Waller likens the bedroom scene in which Lucy sacrifices her own life to save her town of Wismar to the marriage-consuming rituals taking place during a wedding night. He completely detracts from the homo-erotic / homo-sexual notion presented by the night scene in the castle in Transylvania: “… [Lucy] finally returns to sleep, having taken Nosferatu instead of Jonathan as her husband

235 ...”823 In this sense, Waller can be seen as arguing for as much as a ménage-a- trois scenario, although such is not explicitly stated in the film. The earlier encounter between Nosferatu and Jonathan, also in the bedroom, parallels Jona- than who acts frightened like a young woman as he pulls the sheets over his face so he does not witness the approaching Nosferatu.824 The parallel scenes imply the ménage-a-trois which in the film becomes visually a more obvious notion than the consummated marriage. In both cases, as Prawer notes, “Nosferatu belongs to both camps: he is the ultimate outsider, hunted down by the world he longs to become part of [… and] the rebel who brings with him […] a world in which death is the best he can hope for.”825 Nosferatu belong truly nowhere and has no chance to find true love. The vampire is the Other, lacking ties with society surrounding him and bringing only destructive sexuality which does not further Individuation, as in the case of Lucy, whose life is cut short. In Jonathan’s case, he provides the impetus for the exploration of sexuality different from societal norms through a journey into his psyche leading to self-discovery.

Author David Skal, citing a passage from Bram Stoker novel, points also to the same triad in which Jonathan Harker watches Dracula taking his wife’s life, although the passage selected sounds almost like a rape: “… a terrible resem- blance to a child forcing a kitten’s nose into a saucer of milk…”826 Whereas Bram Stoker foregrounds violence in Mrs. Harker’s sacrifice, both F. W. Murnau and Werner Herzog in their film adaptations use a more erotic imagery to allude to Jonathan’s own exploration of his (homo-)sexuality. In Herzog, Popol Vuh’s Wagnerian-like music with oboes and cymbals827 emphasizes the erotic moment even further. Yet the, at times, eerie music score underscores the build-up of fear: either for Lucy’s life as she screams in a blood-curdling Edvard Munch im- pression828 or for the spectator in the audience who feels concerned about being an innocent victim without him knowing it. At the same moment, the male spectator also can feel fear about Lucy’s sexuality, which because of her “frail beauty, hugs eyes […] Herzog therefore saw in her a predestined prey and conqueror of the male vampire.”829 She poses a threat to the male (and his sexuality) solely by her being Other.

236

Nosferatu’s role may also be considered as an Alter-Ego of Jonathan. The motif of the Alter-Ego or doppelgänger and its use to elicit fear arises in several studies—both that of the character and that of the technology. The doppel- gänger motif was a common theme in the Romantic Era. Lotte Eisner in Haunted Screen points to the fact that F. W. Murnau’s 1922 version of Nosferatu, who serves as Herzog’s template for the film, refers back to the Romantic Era. As a trained art historian, Murnau was well familiar with the paintings of Caspar David Friedrich, some of which Eisner demonstrates have found their way into Mur- nau’s scenes, and in turn, into Herzog’s adaptation-homage.830 Angela Dalle- Vacche considers the doppelgänger motif as an expression of Murnau’s (although not Herzog’s) own homosexual orientation and identity: “Although Hutter leaves Wisborg for Transylvania with the hope of becoming rich, his encounter with Nosferatu has more homoerotic than commercial import.”831 Sexuality, or the fear thereof, is a common Romantic period theme and thus, it should come as no surprise to find such theme in Bram Stoker’s Dracula or any of the Nosferatu film adaptation.

The elimination of the threat of sexuality for the audience, especially for the male spectator, occurs through the character of Lucy in Herzog’s film adaptation. Lucy presents the Underdeveloped Shadow or Other. In her role as a female (i.e. non-male), but also through her veiled sexuality as Jonathan’s wife, she represents through her body and her female sexuality that which the white male the Ego (Overdeveloped Shadow) fears and thus disavows.832 In the end, Lucy not only dies the symbolic death of a virgin during the consummation of the wedding (albeit with Nosferatu), she sacrifices her life similarly to Roman or other pagan virgins.833 Lucy’s character is visually coded as virgin through her symbolic (both Pagan and Christian) white garment.834 Initially shown in a white night gown when she awakes screaming from a nightmare, she also is presented as a sacrificial lamb, spread with her arms away from her body on the altar (of marriage) as signified by the bed.

237 The fear of Lucy’s sexuality contaminating the male spectator (and in extension, causing his symbolic death) is alleviated as Lucy is visually turned into a Madonna, although her initial allure puts her closer to the other half of the Ma- donna-Whore complex. She represents the Underdeveloped Shadow, which must be defeated by the Overdeveloped Shadow for the hero to complete his journey and return successfully. In the end, when Jonathan successfully completes his journey through this own psyche, furthering his Individuation, Lucy sacrifices her life partly because her own sexuality has no further impact on Jona- than. Cleo McNelly Kearns points out that “women in patrilineal societies may offer some of the kinds of sacrifice we might call ‘white,’ or bloodless, or meal based, but they must not preside over holocausts, immolations, or spilt blood or rituals that involve the full-scale destruction of the victim.” 835 Lucy becomes the sacrificial victim—the casualty of fearing the threat to the white male emanating from the Jungian-based Underdeveloped Shadow of the female to such extent that its (her feminine) sexuality must be destroyed.836 Symbolically, marriage and its consummation—in this case Lucy and Nosferatu—destroy the well-kept virginity of the female, thus no longer upholding the non-threatening Madonna part in the Madonna-Whore Complex. As Mark Hedley points out “[s]he, whether represented as a Madonna, a Whore, or a woman caught in the middle, is not in control of her romantic/sexual future. He will make it happen. She will wait for it to happen to her.”837 In Lucy’s case, giving up her virginity by taking Nosferatu as her wedded husband, also means giving up her life. “Till death do us part…” as the marriage vow in the Christian sacrament goes. To alleviate the transgressionary threat of her sexuality, she must be punished by the Overdeveloped Shadow, symbolized by her demise.

Considering for a moment that Jonathan’s and Lucy’s beds are apart in both the beginning and in the final bedroom scenes, the director here indicates that the marriage probably had never been consummated between Jonathan and Lucy. Lloyd Michaels credits both Murnau’s and Herzog’s “count as a complex,

238 even sympathetic character rather than the evil monster of Stoker’s novel” as the reason for the continued popularity of both films.838

Nosferatu, as Undead, represents a second Jungian-based Other.839 Alt- hough he is male, by him solely being is a vampire, thus representing everything society renounces, Nosferatu is killed, while Harker lives on. This can further be seen as a proof that the Underdeveloped Shadow must be destroyed. It is the fear of the Other’s sexuality, in the homosexual context the expression of the An- ima in the male Other, that causes the ultimate demise for the vampire. Once Nosferatu engages in contact with the female Other, he is contaminated by her blood840 and thus, must also be killed (by the hitherto uncontaminated white male Ego841). Unlike pagan gods,842 Nosferatu is not sustained by the sacrifice of the virgin—instead, Lucy causes the vampire’s demise by keeping him past sunrise. By allowing his Anima to impel his drives along with the desire to possess the Other (in form of Lucy), Nosferatu’s Overdeveloped Shadow has crossed a threshold. He now must either be destroyed, similarly to a female who transgresses for the length of a film into the realm of male prerogatives, or become an invincible Overdeveloped Shadow (which ultimately is Jonathan’s fate). Fear of the supremacy of any invincible Overdeveloped Shadow leads to the unavoida- ble destruction of Nosferatu.

The “unwholesome desires of the vampire for a beautiful woman”843 and the missing consummation of marriage imagery refers back to Bram Stoker’s era with its Romantic notions of the threat of sexuality, which Gilberto Perez links with “the threat of death.”844 James Holte calls Lucy “the innocent bride who gives her life to destroy the monster,”845 but only briefly takes into account that she, the woman who is already married, has only given the town a reprieve as her “real” husband, Jonathan, has taken up Nosferatu’s banner. By allowing the union with Nosferatu, Lucy has transgressed into an area of male privilege and her previously Madonna-like image has been stained into a Whore figure.

John Clute and John Grant who call Herzog’s version “certainly the most beautiful version of Dracula”846 find the bedroom scene rather inconspicuous in

239 terms of eroticism—it seems the writers missed much of the scene’s explicitness as sexual references are stated abound while the camera hovers at times in a near bird’s eye view over the scene. While Nosferatu may not be as scary in appearance,847 his evilness, outwardly evidenced by the outbreak of the plague and which Herzog equated with the plague of Nazism, makes his appearance and persona frightening. Especially for a German audience, imbued with socio- cultural references, this film can conjure up fear simply by the subtly hinted, not even openly stated cross-references to historical events.

In the film Nosferatu, which Hans Richard Brittnacher derogatorily labels as “zu einem folkloristich aufgeputzen Pompanz geworden, zu einem mon- strösen Blutegel,”848 comes full circle with his fate in that he finds himself ultimately being freed from the curse of centuries of living in the darkness of vam- piredom. Having returned from the life of (presumably) homosexual activities to that of heterosexual contact has set the vampire free, at the expense of both his and that of his last victim’s lives. Jonathan, who visually undergoes some Indi- viduation through exploration of his own sexuality in the course of the film, has yet to find his own place in society. At the threshold of a boy to a man, he has to release his hold on the mother, and turn his desires toward the new female, his wife. Through his actions, such as the neglect of his new wife, Jonathan demonstrates his failure in completing the process of what Anthony Stevens call the “transformation from mother-identity to identification-with-father.”849 The failure to make such a transition to an individuated individual leaves Jonathan in a no man’s land between adolescent boyhood and adult manhood. This is expressed through his transformation into a vampire, rather than a man. The vampire, Ju- dith Mayne notes, is in a “literal ‘no man’s land.’”850 He is neither man nor true monstrosity, neither body nor ghost, but a chimera wandering the sands of time and space continuum, an image that Harker’s final gallop across the shifting sands and fading into the background visually reinforces. Jonathan’s journey to Individuation in the wake of his own psychological exploration has just begun.

240 Throughout the film, Nosferatu is eroticized in his actions while Jonathan appears to be the passive entity. This is in line with Colette Murphy’s comment that while “[v]ampires […] have usually been associated with horror and fear” 851 but new vampires, such as Angel in Buffy the Vampire Slayer “have further re- moved the fear that humans […] once had of the vampire and have replaced that fear with desire.”852 In the end, the attraction remains between Lucy and Nosfer- atu, while Lucy practically rejects the form of her formerly human husband. In context of sexuality and sexual attraction within Dracula and Nosferatu texts (both written and filmic), homoeroticism and homosexual themes have been discussed by many authors853 yet few have questioned any connection between Nosferatu (as well as Murnau’s own sexual orientation854) and the ultimate sexuality of Jonathan Harker. Tony Magistrale, in a survey of modern and postmodern horror films, notes that “the lesbian vampire has a long lineage as a sub- genre of vampire fiction. Because vampire tales explore forbidden and repressed sexual themes, homoeroticism is a frequent subtext found in many vampire narratives.”855 This follows in the path taken by Alice Kuzniar who points closely to F. W. Murnau’s own sexual orientation, but then continues to ask if “the homoeroticism in these cross-dressing films [is] directed to gay audiences only?”856 Exploring this question with the assistance of authors and scholars such a Teresa de Laurentis and Janet Bergstrom, Kuzniar comes to the conclusion that the answer to this question depends on the audience and its perception of gender roles. Depending on the Personal Unconscious “baggage” of an individual spectator, the gender role(s) assigned to the characters in Herzog’s Nosferatu may or may not lead to fear of becoming a victim of a direct vampire attack or indirectly a victim of homosexual advances. The audience may or may not perceive Jonathan as a cross-dresser or as a homosexual in disguise. In the latter case, a male audience member experiences fear as his own sexuality may be questioned. In addition, he may fear that he may become the vampire’s next victim and thus be turned into a homosexual himself. To ultimately alleviate such fear, the vampire, by way of revealing “active female sexuality”857 before destroy-

241 ing it with Lucy’s death, finds his demise and the hitherto heroic Overdeveloped Shadow, in form of Jonathan, lives on.

At the end of the film, Prawer858 as well as Kent and Linville859 point out that Jonathan does come full circle in his quest to Individuation. The journey, on- to which his quest for both more money as well as an escape from the ‘circular canals’ takes Jonathan, can be interpreted as one of psychological delving into and, finally emerging as similarly to a hero as one who effects a new status quo (although only for himself). In order to escape his world, “stifled among the canals of his day-to-day life and dissatisfied with the sexual aspect of his relations with his frightened doe of a wife,”860 Jonathan comes up with excuses as to why he must go and face some ardent dangers. Andrew Samuels points to “an instinct to grow psychologically.” 861 The requested journey becomes Jonathan’s excuse for heeding the inner call to exploring his own psyche, and with it, his own sexuality. Claiming to ‘be able to buy Lucy a bigger house,’ the restlessness drives Jonathan to seek an adrenaline rush which is impossible to be had in his quaint town of Wismar.

His journey sends Jonathan through various stages of discovery, similarly to that of the hero’s journey: the trip through the familiar streets—and his view of the endlessly circling canals—are the last vestiges of familiarity. He crosses the threshold into the Unknown as well as into the uncharted territory of the psyche (in this case, he ultimately encounters the Other in form of his slowly emerging homosexuality) as he canters out the small town’s gate. Herzog does not provide any images from the “other” side of the gate or the entire journey until Jona- than arrives close to the center of his desired aim: the last vestige of barely veiled civilization in the form of a country inn on the edge of the phantasmagoric world. Thus, symbolically, Jonathan’s plunge into his own psyche’s innermost core is made into a secret(ive) journey.

In psychological terms, Jonathan explores the depth of his own psyche, his Animus and Anima and allows himself to fall into the role of the Other, if only

242 in disguise, since until close to the end of the film, the true nature of Jonathan’s vampire nature is not revealed—and then only in the fold of close family and friends, i.e. Lucy and Dr. van Helsing—as if the vampirism were a disease that can be hidden away by enclosing him inside a circle of consecrated host crumbs. Similarly, homosexuality in the time of the book could only be expressed in an extremely small circle of family and friends; society at large was unsympathetic to the plight of Other males. This fear of homosexuality and homoeroticism still resonates at the beginning of the 21st century as cases of young men show who are either being killed by others who fear their homosexuality or who commit suicide after bullying incidents.862 For Freudian scholars, such as Teresa de Lau- rentis, queer theories are breaking the hard fronts of societal norms regarding sexuality. However, Tanya Krzywinska points out, “Queer Theory offers a means through which it is possible to begin to talk about the complexity of sexuality,”863 but it is not the endpoint. Jungian-based scholarship can offer different aspects to further this dialogue by discussing not a single aspect, such as Castration Anx- iety, but focusing on the effect of the compartmentalization of sexuality (into either “correct” hetero- or “incorrect” homosexuality) on the human psyche and its process of Individuation.

Jonathan continues his journey after arriving at the final outpost of humanity. The Roma population arrests all their movements when Jonathan in exceed- ing arrogance calls out for the inn keeper and his female servant to rush, so that he could continue on his journey that very night. This encounter at the inn is Jonathan’s last chance to turn back and return to the fold of normalcy within society, yet, ignoring all reason, as he is feeling so close to a discovery, Jonathan disregards all warnings and reasoning. The long repressed feelings are taking over his mind and driving him to delve deeper and faster into the unearthing of his true self without regards for the consequences to his Individuation.864

Although Judith Mayne aptly describes the scenes between leaving the inn and the arrival back at Wismar as “a definitive crossing-over of bounda-

243 ries,”865 she somewhat seems to miss the point of Jonathan’s journey being more than a straightforward “going-there-and-then-returning” voyage. Jonathan in his exploration of his psyche, as part of his Individuation process, has to conquer literally many physical (and psychological) obstacles, the least among them the height and ruggedness of the Carpathian Mountains. Instead, Jonathan’s quest spirals both into the heights and depths of his psychological being, driven by his inner urge. Samuels states that “Individuation does imply an acceptance of what lies beyond the individual, of what is simply unknowable, but not unfelt.”866 Con- trary to Mayne’s conclusion, Jonathan does not seem to truly “lose his way”867 in his quest for Individuation through exploration of his own psyche, rather, he enters the world of the phantoms (a visual statement of his investigation of his own psyche). Upon his returns to his “old world,” he arrives there at a higher plane: a changed man, fulfilling the definition of a hero (except his environment has not truly changed). Having conquered the perilous heights and ill weather of the mountains, Jonathan is plunged into the depths of his psyche from the high mountain crags. However, just when darkness of his own psychological discovery (Herzog using a Jungian-based dream sequence—evidenced by the passage through the dark but wet cave-like valley) appears to make him lose his way, along comes a carriage, driving out of a bright light source and picking up the hero to take him to his next challenge. Considering this source is behind him, this light can be read as Jonathan having lost his way, strayed from the light that guides his path of good social and psychological health, but he is put back onto the path of true discovery, signified by the arrival of the carriage.

In that sense, the loss of the visual path through the darkness of the mountain chasms signifies Jonathan discovering his own homosexual tendencies, the darkness representing society eschewing, and realizing, he is one who—for Victorian and Romantic times—is on the wrong societal path. Yet, the dark secret of his sexuality of his Otherness beckons him, calls upon him to further explore the depth of his psyche. In the Campbellian heroic tradition, Jona- than must also undergo the transformation to arrive at the higher level, a changed man. This passageway from his previous (repressed) self to the free(r)

244 and truer him-Self, is part of the Jungian Individuation process. Jonathan con- fronts his own Shadow which is “repressed because it does not meet with the ideal of what one or society believes one should be.”868 Herzog’s imagery of the Carpathian Mountain crags visualize Jung’s concept very well. With the imagery Herzog also provides the visual emotional cues for the audience to experience fear—the fear of being plunged into questioning one’s own sexuality and relationship with the opposite sex, therefore forcing the audience to confront their own shadows, even if only temporarily while in the cinematic cave. The tension mounts as Jonathan approaches the castle—with the audience expecting the bite to occur—although the fear over Jonathan’s confrontation with the Shadow, and by extension the audience’s confrontation, does never truly alleviate as ultimately, Herzog leaves the film open-ended.

In the film, the carriage becomes the physical expression of the vehicle necessary to cross the last vestiges into the Unconscious, the significant means to explore and discover his (or any person’s) true Self.869 Having descended from the high walls, signified by the Carpathian mountains, surrounding his personal psyche, Jonathan embarks on the discovery of his own sexuality—the dis- satisfaction870 with his “boring life” and Victorian sexual prudery being partly the drive for him to leave Wismar in the first place. As Nina Auerbach points out, in Murnau’s version—which also has been reconstructed in Herzog’s film— Jonathan “re-creates himself in his journey toward the vampire.”871 Although Harker is drawn to the vampire before meeting Nosferatu, Auerbach further points out that the filmic versions of the Undead “cast their spell only over alien- ated, even tainted visitors.”872 In other words, even before Jonathan goes to find his own Self and confirms to himself his true sexual nature, at some level he already is aware of the direction his quest takes, because he is aware of being more infatuated with things that do not necessarily involve his new wife or home life.

Yet, while Jonathan shuns his true Self while being in his hometown, he practically ignores his young wife Lucy, foreshadowing his discovery of his own sexuality in the visual mountain journey. She, awoken by tocsins through her

245 mental connection to Nosferatu,873 Lucy prevents further attack(s) by the Undead on Jonathan. This clairvoyance symbolizes the doppelgänger role which con- flates the personae of Jonathan and Nosferatu and allows Jonathan the exploration of his sexuality as an outward source (homosexuality via bite), rather than a personal choice.874 He, and with him the spectator, have a means to scapegoat the sexual drive as one that has been inflicted upon Jonathan from the outside. At the same time, Lucy serves here as an anchor point for the heterosexual viewer. Tony Magistrale remarks that “overtly sexual homoerotic behavior between men [could] potentially alienate a straight audience.”875 She thus allows Jonathan, and with him the spectators, to explore the Shadow of homosexuality and homoeroticism from a safe distance—separating the viewers from the action by way of the silver screen. In other words, the homoerotic static crackle between Jonathan and Nosferatu can be safely investigated, because in the end, the perpetrator (Nosferatu) is being punished.

Whereas Murnau’s film spells the end of the Evil in the world with the demise of Nosferatu, for Herzog, who was born in 1942,876 the Evil continues, which is expressed in the fact that his 1979 released Jonathan-vampire does not share the Murnauean vampire’s fate. Fear of both the Undead as well as of Nosfera- tu’s Otherness continues in Herzog as Jonathan gallops away from the audience into the ‘heroic sunset.’ James Craig Holte summarizes the differences and lack of redemption in Herzog’s homage adaptation as follows:

… more significantly, Herzog dramatically changes the ending of the film. Murnau concluded his film with the destruction of the vampire and the sacrificial death of the innocent bride who gives her life to destroy the monster, thus rescuing the community from the foreign infection. The horror is ex- orcised from the community as good triumphs over evil. In Herzog’s adaptation, Lucy Harker sacrifices herself to destroy Dracula, but her husband, Jonathan, who has been bitten by the vampire and has become of Dracula’s followers,

246 escapes and rides away to continue to spread the vampiric infection throughout Europe and the world; vampirism lives on, undead in this Nosferatu. 877

Clute and Grant concur with Holte that for Herzog, even though the era of German National Socialism has ended with Germany’s defeat in 1945, the Evil (and with it the “plague of Nazism”878) still lingers and may even still be spreading across the sands of time.

Jonathan: Exploring Dualistic Opposites in Sexuality

Jonathan as the white male, or Overdeveloped Shadow, is expected to be the Campbellian hero who stands in as the on-screen Alter-Ego for the spectator. As the white male, he serves as the male spectator’s double, allowing the exploration of emotions. This role is problematized because as Rushing and Frentz state that “[t]o remain ‘perfect, the ego cannot see the dark side.”879 Neverthe- less, Jonathan has seen his dark side in form of his sexuality. In addition, he is not the hero of Campbell’s monomyth as his quest does not change the status quo. Instead, Jonathan is relegated to facilitate the meeting between his wife Lucy and the undead Nosferatu and to allow for the evil to spread from the economically lower developed East to the more highly commercialized West of con- tinental Europe. In the wake of World War I, the economy in much of Europe had been in shambles, thus, Murnau followed the Victorian model with his emphasis on images of business and commercialization.880 By being the carrier (spreader) of commercialism, Jonathan becomes a commodity himself, similarly to the manner in which Fassbinder’s Ali becomes commodified due to his utilitarian value to those in his social surroundings. 881 While Jonathan initially is coded as the Overdeveloped Shadow, he slowly turns into an Underdeveloped Shadow through his passivity and the turning point occurs in the scenes at Nosferatu’s castle (when Jonathan is bitten, not once, but twice by the Undead). By embracing his Anima, the female tendencies in a male, Jonathan begins to accept the new sexual reality. For society, his embrace of the Anima marks him effeminate,

247 leading to the stigmatizing of homosexuality. As Russo notes, “the effeminate man […is] becoming a scapegoat for the unstated homoerotic activity of the real but insecure men around him.” 882 The male spectator therefore begins to further eschew the Anima in the male character. As such, Jonathan is slowly turned into the Other, partly because of his drift into effeminacy, partly because he also becomes a commodity within the commercial transactions of life.

The Victorian Age fear of commercialization which in the end creates Jon- athan’s commodification, played a larger role in Murnau’s version than in Her- zog’s later film as evidenced by multiple shots of ships, shipping and commerce. Nevertheless, Herzog’s initially heroic Jonathan still believes in the omnipotent authority of trade883 over human beings as he treats his wife initially more as goods than as a person. Her trepidations regarding the travel to Transylvania are dismissed in the manner an adult dismisses a young child’s nightmares. Yet, Lucy in the end proves to be ‘more man’ than Jonathan, who at that time appears to only have money on his mind, although as previously noted, the drive to leave is at least partly rooted in his desire to achieve Individuation. Jonathan Crane observes about the situation that

Jonathan mistakenly assumes Dracula is just one more firm handshake in the creation of a brilliant career as the lure of wealth seduces the grasping mate away from home. To consummate the deal, Jonathan must visit the Count in his far-off castle lair and personally collect the vampire’s signa- ture on the offer to purchase and contract. He readily aban- dons his anxious wife to the care of friends, a poor substitute for a husband’s full attention, and sets off on an ill-fated trip that will lead to the fall of the House of Harker.884

In his quest for prestige among the business world, Jonathan overlooks one important thing that Jung stressed for psychological well-being: the community in which the individual lives. By undergoing multiple steps in the Jungian In-

248 dividuation process, the individual can find his or her place in the environment in which he or she functions. Individuation is furthered by “challenges individuals encounter as they strive to function fully and realize their unique talents.” 885 Some of these challenges include the overcoming or reconciliation of dualistic opposites within the psyche, similar to the Anima and Animus. Nosferatu, the film, and Nosferatu (Dracula), the individual, both embody the dualistic nature of good and evil. Jung posits that “[e]vil is the necessary opposite of good, without which there would be no good either. It is impossible even to think evil out of existence.”886 Jeffrey Miller carries Jung’s position further and finds that only by bringing together split opposites in the Conscious and the Unconscious, the individual becomes whole again. However, Miller also cautions, that Jung shows some ambiguity in the case of opposites to the extent that they “often find manifestation entirely in the consciousness.”887 Contrary, opposites cannot be completely located in the Unconscious, as they would never rise to the surface of the Conscious. For example, evil as such can exist in both the Conscious portion of the Psyche and the Unconscious, however, if evil only existed in the Uncon- scious and never surfaced in the Conscious, evil could, per se, not manifest in the world. By reconciling his Anima within his psyche, Jonathan has been able to attain progress on his way to Individuation, however, as society’s status quo around him has not changed, he is forced to flee from the community which eschews his true Self.

In the character of Jonathan Harker the dualistic nature of opposites emerges as the plot unfolds. Initially, Harker is focused on commerce, which in Victorian England was considered a valuable and useful asset.888 To society, he presents part of the societal ‘good.’ When Jonathan makes the decision to abandon his existing way of life, in other words, leaving ‘good’ behind, and explore the depth of the outside, he begins to encounter ‘evil.’ Elisabeth Bronfen posits that “illness comes from outside, where it is carried by a ‘dehumanized being.’” 889 Exploring the world of ‘evil’ thus leads to a state in which the ‘dehumanized being’ must be destroyed to regain a healthy balance both within an individ-

249 ual and the community in which the individual resides. Although in Herzog’s film evil in the form of Nosferatu is destroyed, it lives on because Jonathan has been infected by the Undead’s bite. Thus, he now presents not only the Overdevel- oped Shadow, but has also become an Underdeveloped Shadow who must search for the next victim to share either a bite (with a female) or a sexual encounter (with another male). He is coded now as the one to fear as he roams free while being “unmarked” as the Undead, the evil Other.

Jonathan’s first encounter with evil occurs in the form of the landscape, which Herzog uses especially effectively. While Murnau only had black and white film stock at his disposal, Herzog utilizes both the breadth of wide angle lenses and the palette of the color film stock to great advantage. In fact, Herzog “achieves somewhat similar results [to expressionistic artworks] by the prolonged gaze upon distant, natural landscapes, shots held so long that the natural becomes artificial and troubling. It is a technique that he in fact learned from one of the last of the expressionists, F. W. Murnau.”890 What Nina Auerbach already noted, Brad Prager affirms again: “Herzog’s compositions undeniably recall the work of that sublime German romantic artist Caspar David Friedrich, and in this sense the images cannot be said to be entirely ’new’ or ‘fresh.’”891 When Jona- than embarks on his endeavor, the sky still resonates in a pleasant bluish hue. As he gallops toward the final outpost of civilization at the edge of the “real” world, the sky darkens and becomes overcast. Using the dichotomy between what is being said—“I have no horses”—and what is shown on the screen— coachman who tends to his horses—Herzog introduces what can be seen as a transition into a world of the Unreal. After long climbs and upward movement, night sets in and Harker enters into the world of dreams, the world in which he allows himself to explore his Psyche. Warned by others not to pass between the worlds, Jonathan believes to have come too far to turn back. The opposite in the Unconscious beckons him.892

Using images of billowing clouds and buffeting winds reminiscent of Dan- te’s Inferno,893 Herzog employs adverse weather conditions to indicate the crossing into the world of the Unconscious as well as the world of the evil opposite.894

250 After crossing the threshold into the Unconscious (as evidenced by conquering the height of the mountains and descending into the dusky chasms), Jonathan reaches the pivot point of his descent into his Psyche. Herzog expresses this psychological bottom with the dark winding path inside a cave-like setting with the light behind Jonathan—he leaves the guiding light behind when he accepts the carriage ride. Upon commencing on the coach ride Jonathan delves deeply into the depth of the Psyche. As Mark Gundry notes, Jung did not consider personal well-being as the nonplus ultra, but “[o]n the contrary, Jung considers the ego’s well-being as only one possible telos among many. […] In Jung’s psychology, human beings contain a plurality of psychic levels of organization; and consciousness faces the task of wrestling with these powers…”895 Such plurality of levels competition manifests when Jonathan explores his own sexuality. On one side, he feels drawn to the darkness of homosexuality, on the other side, he realizes that the community is unable to accept his new-found secret. Much has been written about Murnau’s homosexuality, the filmic piece adapted by Her- zog.896 Eric Nuzum remarks about the “not-too-subtle references to homosexuality”897 and professes, that he just cannot see it. For Nuzum, “Nosferatu is the least sexy vampire film of all times.”898 While Nuzum may feel that the character of Murnau’s Nosferatu (Max Schreck) lacks both sex appeal and an erotic over- tone, the Herzog’s vampire can hardly be seen as lacking eroticism.

In a seminal work examining Jung’s stance on homosexuality, Christine Downing writes that for Jung male homosexuality is “a spiritual yearning misunderstood as a sexual orientation.”899 In this vein, Nuzum’s remark about the lack of homosexuality or homoeroticism in Nosferatu can be seen as a reading of Jonathan’s yearning for more spiritual meaning in his life. Claudette Kulkarni laments along with Downing that “Jung never was able to consider the possibility ‘that to love another like oneself may represent … a love directed toward the Self’ and … ‘a desire to be free of being defined by cultural gender definitions.’”900 In human life, one mechanism used to escape from the restraints of culture and its social classifications is a flight into the world of dreams (and sometimes films).

251 In the dream world of the castle, when Jonathan is weary from the travel, and symbolically the fight against societal norms as represented by the villagers at the inn, Harker finally allows himself to be careless and himSelf. This is evidenced by the ‘accidental’ cutting. Dreams, according to Jung, allow the Uncon- scious to surface into the Conscious. Robin Wood points out that “[i]n Murnau, the Erotic is associated with night, fog and mud…”901 which also is the world in which dreams occur. To further the erotic aspect, Herzog also allowed for a large amount of fog and water in the scene prior to the carriage arrival, signifying the primordial womb and the time before a child is born. Thus, in the dream world, there is innocence and safety.

Jung himself “consistently refused to place sexuality at the center of psychological development, insisting on psychological growth as a life-long process not one ending with childhood.”902 In his view, Jung differs from Freudian psychoanalysis in that he neither had much to say in general about homosexuality nor about overall sexuality. By not speaking much about the subject matter, Jung’s psychological analyses are open to interpretation. Rollan McCleary acknowledges that “Jung knew, and exceptionally among leading psychoanalysts admitted, the positive side of the homosexual disposition.” 903 However, McCleary further finds that “by associating homosexuality with ‘mother complex’, [Jung] supplied it a negative pathological identity—though by doing so he incidentally also supplied it a primary association with the feminine.”904 In other words, in McCleary’s view, Jung endows homosexuality with the effeminate attributes and stereotypes commonly found in patriarchal societies which are based on a heterosexual model of sexuality.

In contrast to the outside world which Jonathan leaves behind in Wismar and even at the Roma village, Harker finds safety in his dreams and can thus explore his own Psyche as well as his conflicted sexuality without outside pressure. Despite his apparent will power, Jonathan is “presented as weak and helpless. The wife, on the other hand, is endowed with great spiritual strength (in her role as savior—a common strategy of male dominance that at once ‘ennobles’ her, denies her sexuality, and places her in the service of man).”905 In other words,

252 while Lucy is physically weak, she is mentally strong. Jonathan presents the opposite, which refers back to the stereotypical image of a homosexual, who is often presented as effeminate.906 If one believes that Nosferatu is the doppel- gänger to Jonathan’s masculine side or his Jungian Anima, then the effeminate, helpless and weak imagery is taken even further—to the extent that Nosferatu wears very long nails, which one would not expect from a male.907

Richard Dyer and Julianne Pidduck also contemplate on the homosexual aspect of Nosferatu and liken Nosferatu and Jonathan to “a Tante and a Bu- be.”908 With this terminology, both characters are clearly effeminized by sheer wording, although Jonathan is even more diminished—he becomes as little as a boy (Bube). Yet, despite his diminishing titillation, Harker is also hyper- masculinized in one sense: as the lust object of Nosferatu, his sexual prowess is emphasized by the fact that his “genitals are on display in trousers that are loose everywhere but at the crotch.”909 Nosferatu is not even afforded the ambiguous image of the “Uncle” but is categorized as a distant female relative (Tante). His makeup also resembles that of a female—“his face whitened with powder, his eyes heavy with kohl, a grotesque exaggeration of the effeminized male look.”910 Micah Toub points out though that Jung’s discourse on homosexual tendencies “kept coming back to […] the insistence that it was a son’s overattachment to his mother after adolescence—not sexual, mind you, but emotional—that ultimately caused him to be homosexual and not develop into a ’normal’ man.”911 In heterosexual circles the over-emphasis on masculinity is seen as a source of ridicule, turning the masculinity into a ‘sissy-ness’ whereas the same overemphasis turns the man’s sexuality into hyper-masculinity in gay circles.912

Susan Rubin Suleiman sees Nosferatu’s character in the light of Robin Wood’s reading who links the double to repression of sexuality.913 “Nosferatu, the vampire, represents sexuality itself, and as such must be eliminated from the world of the narrative. His double is Jonathan, who shares none of Nosferatu’s characteristics, lacking in both power and sexuality.”914 At least for a while, Jona-

253 than is able to explore the latent homosexuality in the world of dreams, although Mark Thompson complains that “[p]sychology’s track record on homosexuality in general and on sexual variations in particular has been abysmal, combining two of Western culture’s most destructive attitudes—homophobia and fear of sexuality.”915 The question remains, if this exploration remains in the realm of the unreal, or if it was carried into the world of the real. Herzog’s ending leaves this question unanswered.

Another reading of Nosferatu and Jonathan’s connection comes from An- ton Kaes, who reads especially Murnau’s Nosferatu in light of soldiers returning from World War I. He points out that Murnau’s “film begins with a reference to ‘massenhaftes Sterben’—dying in great numbers—a reference not only to the plague as intimated in the film but more importantly to the mass death of World War I.”916 This has also been proposed by Kathleen Canning, who links Nosfera- tu with the folkloristic fear of ghosts. For her, Nosferatu stands for those “tens of thousands of fallen soldiers [who] were never properly buried and mourned”917 (such as the trench war soldiers of World War I). As Paul Barber points out, the unburied are those who “not only refuse to remain dead but return to bring death to their friends and neighbors.”918 With the “annihilation of Nosferatu at the end of the film […] closure to the anxiety and horror directly following the war”919 occurs for the viewer of the film while in the cinema as well as after the film has ended. Knowing the dead are dead and remain dead provides a release of prevailing anxieties and fears. In Herzog’s film, as Laurence Rickels points out, the audience is faced with the mummies from the initial scene as being re- animated.920 With Herzog’s film, these unburied bodies will be coming back to life and haunt the living, perhaps forever…

The toll that the war has taken on the soldiers, however gives the dyad of Jonathan and Nosferatu yet another dimension. Kaes further recognizes that

254 [t]he sexual subtext of Hutter’s wife giving herself to the vampire also refers to the experience of soldiers who returned home sexually dysfunctional. […]. … Ellen is overcome with desire for the vampire […]. She glances at the sleeping Hutter and shrugs her shoulders—a gesture that demonstrates both bafflement and frustration at his stupor and lassitude. She is visually torn between the two men: the impotent and shell-shocked Hutter and the vampire who gazes at her in full libidinous anticipation.921

Jonathan, upon his return to his hometown and wife, in Kaes’ reading then becomes fully emasculated by the physical and emotional toll that the trench war had taken on the soldiers, the Individuation process being arrested by the trauma of war. For Kaes, Murnau’s film carries “a pervasive anxiety about the status of masculinity and male sexual power in the wake of the war. The battle between nations was brought home and lived on as a war between the sexes.”922 Utilizing Kaes’ analysis, the ending of Herzog’s film can then be read as an example of an expulsion, rather than one of triumph for Jonathan. The outed male becomes the scapegoat and is driven out by social pressure because his embodiment of all that society eschews.

Analyzing the ending of Herzog’s film, one can also see the fight within Jonathan between his attempt at up-keeping a surfactant heterosexuality and his latent homosexuality. If one reads the final scenes in the home along those lines, it may become evident that Jonathan feels guilt and shame about his homosexuality. He is sick (visually portrayed as even slightly greenish) and very much excluded from society by the barrier of the consecrated host—symbolizing vestiges of heterosexual (church-prescribed) norms. By the end of the film, Jon- athan, by no choice of his own, has been fully excluded from society, the Other being driven out as scapegoat because he embodies all that society does not want to face, thus renounces. The last stake to seal his expulsion from the het-

255 erosexual society comes when Nosferatu visits Lucy. Upon hearing the consummation of the marriage having taken place, and Lucy not only dying symbolically as a virgin being deflowered on the wedding night,923 but also as having given her own life, Jonathan realizes that his place lies not in the bourgeois town of Wismar. Nowhere in the town where the canals meet upon themselves and narrow-mindedness rules could a homosexual man be safe to reveal his true sexuality. Thus, having no other choice, he sets off as an outcast, riding into the no man’s land beyond time leaving the audience with unalleviated fears. Through the expulsion, Jonathan completely lacks the psychological well-being that comes with Jung’s proposition of a community engagement and therefore, fails ultimately in his Individuation quest as society’s norms had not changed sufficiently to allow the presence of a homosexual in their midst. Jonathan’s situation demonstrates how through time the notion of a homosexual hero has changed in the cultural Archetypes, culminating in 21st century with films like Brokeback Mountain and Hedwig and the Angry Inch.924

Religion and Music

Especially in the horror genre, music can become a means to elicit fear in the spectator. Neil Lerner points out that “[…] of all cinematic genres, horror gives music a heightened responsibility for triggering feelings of horror, fear, and rage…”925 This becomes even more pronounced when the music score has sacral sounds while mise-en-scene and plotline are pronouncedly desecrating in nature. Both in Fear Eats the Soul and The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum music plays a very subordinate role to the portrayal of the Jungian-based Other. With the exception of the jukebox song in Fassbinder’s dance scene, music does not code the Other in these two films. In the case of Herzog’s Nosferatu, music becomes an auditory imagery that codes Jonathan ultimately as the Other. The opening scenes with the mummies are overlaid with music by the music group, Popol Vuh. Although not quite sacral, it reaches into the theme of religious music. Throughout the film, the theme of near-sacral music re-appears to reinforce

256 the religious symbolic. As Jonathan journeys from the secular town toward Dracula’s castle, religious imagery begins to increase and ultimately culminates with his galloping exit across the blowing sand as the music swells to a strong Gregorian-chant-like sound. Parallel to Jonathan’s increase in turning into the Other—the vampire which embodies all that society hates—the music in a non- diegetic fashion turns increasingly more religious. This disconnect between the visual and aural imagery creates fear in the spectator by pointing to the fact that Evil, even under the guise of religion, can thrive and propagate.

Nosferatu, and in the end even more Jonathan, are not just copies of the literary past, but as Lloyd Michaels points out, both Murnau’s and Herzog’s versions of Bram Stoker’s text present the vampire as elusive with and possessing “lack rather than excess.”926 This stands in stark contrast to the reminiscent of Medieval church music score of the film, which conjures up overindulgence and strong presence of Catholic monks in the High Middle Ages. Opulent meals, entertainment and lavish garments come to mind when thinking of some higher ranked religious figures.927

Herzog presents other Christian symbols as well and continues their use well beyond Nosferatu’s death. The female servant at the Romanian inn gives Jonathan a book (presumably a Bible) and sprinkles him with Holy Water before crossing herself—a scene taken by Herzog directly from Murnau’s imagery. Alt- hough Waller points to the “rural, premodern mode of living”928 of the Romanian peasants, he also refers to their (well-founded?) fear of the Undead as superstition. In other words, he dismisses their beliefs, which link Pagan with the Chris- tian traditions, as something that stems out of ignorance and the lack of knowledge rather than true belief. Here, Waller seems to miss the fact that ultimately Christianity has taken up many elements of Pagan beliefs and rituals in the early centuries. Two of the most commonly found examples of Pagan traditions that have made their way into Christian rituals are the decoration of the Christmas trees with lights and anything related to eggs around the Easter traditions.929 As aforementioned, later in the film, Lucy also spreads crumbs of a consecrated host around the corner in which the now seemingly demented Jona-

257 than sits. She attempts to contain the “non-natural” homosexuality tendencies she has glimpsed in her husband by enclosing him into a circle that prevents him to enter the consecrated, church-ruled space of their Wismar home.

During the finishing, climactic moments, the film arrives in the final scene which again recalls church music, although, this too, is a Popol Vuh creation. Jonathan wildly rides his horse across a plain completely made up of yellow tones, with a blue sky spanning above. The vast sandy plain stretches as far as the eye can see; however, it has a mystic quality to it as it is shrouded in a repeat imagery of wavering ground fog. The music swells to a medieval church chant of “Sanctus Dominus” thereby questioning also the realm of church and faith. Caryl Flinn, citing a French-language article by Peer Raben, argues that Raben’s point of “film music should […] support something that isn’t yet in the image, nor in the mind, either, […] makes immediate sense.”930 Combing the imagery on screen and the overlaid music, the viewer can supply his or her own interpretation of the connection between church and vampires as well as Jonathan’s ambiguous sexuality, which marks him by definition as the Other, thus, as someone who should be feared by the audience because of his Otherness. Tacey notes that “we need drama, art, music […] to support us in time of spiritual crisis and transition.”931 Jonathan’s entire journey is one of crisis of his own psyche, and one of transition from a stifling, restrictive society governed by religion and superstition, to an open world in which nothing holds back the one seeking Individuation.

The open-endedness of the film also allows the audience to retroflect on the entire movie and the implications that Jonathan’s bite has on the entire storyline. For example, was the change in sexual status, from heterosexuality to homosexuality latent or strictly forced upon him (by Nosferatu). For some viewers, this can bring up feelings of unease and even new fears about their own sexuality, while it may resolve such fears for others. As Lerner notes, “Horror movies as a genre are often read as a safe exploration of the audience’s worst fears.”932 However, while Lerner’s observation implies that by the film’s end the spectators’

258 fears are (always) alleviated, in the case of Nosferatu this may not hold true: presenting the ending with a strong-figured Jonathan—he rides a horse in a gallop, the symbol of male (sexual) prowess—leaves the ending with a note of success. Jonathan has managed to break free from the societal implications, if nothing else and if one sees in him Evil Incarnate, then the Evil (i.e. the Underdeveloped Shadow), which society as a whole fears and loathes, continues to thrive well. Alternatively, more homophobic viewers can see in it the release of homosexuality and its (fearful) connotations for religiously oriented, heterosexual audience members. Likewise, some may begin to fear that the Undead still are not dead and may visit, the way the bat symbolizes the visit of Nosferatu in Lucy’s world. As Jeff Greenberg recognizes, Jung’s opinion on Individuation included the view that “religion was perhaps the most effective means of achieving individuality.”933 Music, such as Popol Vuh’s, conjuring up religious overtones can demarcate the stages of the Other on his quest for Individuation. In this case, the final scene embraces religious overtones as one reading of the scene: that Jonathan has reached his goal of Individuation.

Alternatively, Jonathan’s departure can also be seen as fading into the oblivion from which he arose at the beginning of the film. As Werner Herzog points out, “[m]y characters have no shadows… they are characters without a past, or whose past does not matter. They come out of the darkness and people who come out of the darkness cast no shadow. The light is something that always hurts them, so the character is there, at the moment, and then is gone to obscurity.”934 This obscurity shows very clearly in the danse macabre as the town is left with nothing but to celebrate in the face of “so much unexplained death.”935 The characters, which have seen so many shadows, and who instead of bathing in the glory of the Christian tradition are standing in the shadows of the stain- glass windows, almost becoming part of the stories told in the glass panes, become reminiscent of “the stillness of canvas.”936 The disjointed feeling that Her- zog alludes in his comment derives mostly from the non-diegetic music as Losseff as well as K. J. Donnelly also noticed: “Music is not matched or written to

259 fit the action on screen and tends only rarely to be used under dialogue, whereas it comes into its own for spectacle sequences, often showcasing majestic landscapes.”937 Even though the comment is made about another Herzog film, Aguir- re, Donnelly’s remarks about Popol Vuh’s music having “a distinctly religious character through sounding like an uncannily defamiliarized church choir” 938 equally befit Nosferatu’s film score.

Siegbert Prawer in the British Film Institute’s Modern Classic discussion of Herzog’s film notes that “in a world in which the Christian symbols liberally employed to combat [metaphysical evil]—crucifixes, Eucharistic wafers, holy water, the sign of the cross made over forehead and chest—are ultimately shown to have been powerless.”939 Similarly, Herzog’s characters who rely on Christian values940 are overall powerless as long as they are connected with the upper echelons of prevailing society. The peasant servant, despite her superstition, may actually have more power through her beliefs. When Lucy uses the consecrated wafer crumbs to contain Jonathan, she begins her own ending by draining her powers and driving her into her sacrificial, ultimately suicidal, death.

Popol Vuh’s music connects the lack of power with the symbolic power of Wagnerian music which foreshadows Lucy’s role in the Wagnerian Liebestod.941 Unlike the Wagnerian swan, the death comes via bats, an animal often considered unclean and repulsive by Europeans. As Roger Ebert observes “Those things that live only at night do not need to talk, for their victims are asleep, wait- ing.”942 The unclean, uncouth Nosferatu reappears, as Ira Konigsberg points out: it is as if the “ugly” side of the Unconscious rears its head and attempts to make forays into the world of the Conscious.943 Like Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and like Nosferatu, the Jungian Unconscious has no shadow in Herzog’s sense, that is, it has no “past.” The Unconscious has power through representing Archetypes, but in this case, its power is limited to destruction. The destruction perhaps is best seen in the combination with famous German composer Richard Wagner. Prawer points to a piece of Wagner’s Rheingold setting the stage for the “descent

260 into the unconscious” 944 which culminates with Nosferatu’s re-appearance in Wismar and the subsequent destruction of much of the town. As Samuels points out, Jung believed in a higher power that “lies beyond the individual,”945 Individu- ation may be found in part through embracing religion. If one believes that thinking, then Popol Vuh’s final Sanctus Dei indicates that Jonathan has indeed reached the telos of his Individuation journey.

The music in some parts of Herzog’s work is taken from Wagner as Roger Hillman points out in his article “The Documentaries of Werner Herzog.”946 Con- trasting with Huckvale’s interpretation of Wagner’s anti-Semitic vampire reading, Hillman sides with a 19th century analysis that sees Wagner’s motif of wandering and repetition connected to destruction-resurrection cycles initially as a positive image of an artist. The wanderer of the Romantic period is thus the artist who is set apart from the rest of society in order to be productive.947 Only later Wagner seems to turn more anti-Semitic in his mannerisms and views and thus focusing more on the destructive end of the wanderer. This Romantic wanderer, who represents a societal Outsider or Other, is re-embodied in Nosferatu, who brings, through his simple presence, death and destruction wherever he travels. Initially, Jonathan shows great optimism, which as Brad Prager points out, finds reso- nance in Popol Vuh’s music which has an almost airy feel to it at that point.948 As the plague that travels with Nosferatu, evidenced by the destruction of the ship’s crew and the havoc wreaked upon Wismar, his devastating powers culminate in the much darker, foreboding sounds of the Wagnerian Liebestod scene with Lu- cy. However, while Lucy truly and voluntarily dies, Nosferatu’s demise is only a partial one as he lives on in Jonathan, therefore it does not complete the Wagne- rian precedence of the Liebestod motif, which neither Huckvale nor Hillman address in detail. Although the latter acknowledges in a comparison of Wagner’s Flying Dutchman’s opera with Herzog’s Nosferatu “that ’the constant motifs of the horror film are all preconfigured by both cinematic expressionism and German literary Romanticism,’ and in hindsight, that connection is apparent in Wagner’s opera”949 the outsider still must continue the cycle of destruction and resurrection. Ultimately, Nosferatu slips from one body to another, unlike Wagner’s Tris-

261 tan who according to legend dies from a mortal wound, although the resurrection of Tristan described by Isolde’s aria hints at a similar rise from death. Jonathan likewise undergoes the journey through the Individuation process, the coming to his own self, by his travels, and ultimately his symbolic death either in the corner of the house (green representing the color of death in ancient Egyptian papyri) or through is doppelgänger’s actual death (Nosferatu), before rebirth as a new individual when released from the circle of sacred host crumbs. It can be said that Jonathan has progressed from the unindividuated, non-incorporated individual in the town of Wismar, through examination of his psyche and with it, his different sexuality, to the individuated individual on a higher plane (the blowing sands at the end of the film). In this sense, Nosferatu, through continuation of his self in Jonathan thus has also reached a higher level and progressed through individuation.

In the end, it is the Romantic fear of the power of female’s sexuality and her Animus’s powers coupled with the fear of the unchained sexual prowess of an almost animalistic outsider, an Other, that leads to the destruction of Lucy and Nosferatu, the latter being resurrected in the unending cycle of now Jonathan’s vampiric life. It is therefore Jonathan, the new vampire who initially was coded as the Campbellian hero, now that he has undergone his heroic journey, must in a twist on Campbell be the one to be feared as the Other, which embodies all that society hates and, through hate and non-understanding, ultimately fears.

Herzog’s remake of Nosferatu (and by extension, Bram Stoker’s Dracula) proves to touch on many Jungian-based concepts, especially in the figure of Jonathan attempting to find his own sexuality so his Psyche can return to a state of balance, which it lacks in the beginning. Through visual journey portions of mountains, hostile foreign lands, and different cultures, Herzog leads the audience on an expedition of their own emotions and allows the audience to plumb the depth of their feelings toward homosexuality. In the end, like Ali and Kathari- na Blum, Nosferatu leaves the spectator with an unease that arises from an in-

262 complete alleviation of built up fear(s) throughout the film. Reading the film through a Jungian-based framework as an exploration of Jonathan’s psyche and his latent homosexual tendencies may leave spectators with a new lens through which to examine their own understanding of both the Overdeveloped and Un- derdeveloped Shadows in light of the audience members’ personal Archetypes.

* * *

796 The film has been distributed under various titles, the most common German one is Nosferatu: Phan‐ tom der Nacht or in English distributorship, Nosferatu, the Vampyre. Anchor Bay Entertainment, the dis‐ tributor of the Herzog‐Kinski Collection lists it at Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht (Phantom of the Night), which will be the title used if a distinction is needed between Herzog’s and F. W. Murnau’s 1922 Nosfera‐ tu: eine Symphonie des Grauens film starring Max Schreck and Grete Schroeder in the lead roles. Other‐ wise, Nosferatu shall be the shortened version of the title and shall refer only to Herzog’s 1979 version. See Young, R. G. The Encyclopedia of Fantastic Film: Ali Baba to Zombies. New York, NY: Applause, 2000. Print. Page 454. 797 Although I have seen a similar quote in German ascribed to Hermann Hesse, it cannot be confirmed, thus, this quote shall remain cited as being by “Anonymous.” 798 Stoker, Bram, Nina Auerbach, and David J. Skal. Dracula: Authoritative Text, Contexts, Reviews and Re‐ actions, Dramatic and Film Variations, Criticism. Nina Auerbach and David J. Skal, eds. New York, NY: Norton, 1997. Print. There are many other versions available of the Dracula tale. 799 For a synoptic discussion about the connection between Herzog’s 1979, Murnau’s 1922 and Tod Browning’s 1931 versions of Nosferatu as well as the folk tales which Bram Stoker partially based his book about Dracula see Kawin, Bruce. “Review of Nosferatu.” Film Quarterly 33.3 (Spr. 1980): 45‐47. Print. Page 45. 800 Waller, Gregory A. The Living and the Undead: Slaying Vampires, Exterminating Zombies. Urbana, IL: U of Illinois P, 2010. Print. Pages 177 – 232. 801 Waller, The Living, Page 177. 802 Waller, Page 177. Italics in original. “Based on the motifs of the film Nosferatu, the Symphony of Hor‐ ror by Friederich Wilhelm Murnau and the novel Dracula by Bram Stoker.” (translated by dissertation au‐ thor) 803 Bock, and Bergfelder, The Concise Cinegraph, Page 195. 804 Guiley, Rosemary. The Encyclopedia of Vampires, Werewolves and Other Monsters. New York, NY: Facts on File, 2005. Print. Page214. 805 Guiley, Page 214. Guiley (214) explains that the word “Nosferatu” does not exist in the Romanian lan‐ guage nor in any other European language. Her explanation is that an article influencing Bram Stoker,

263 written by Emily de Laszowski Gerard uses the term Nosferatu by unintentionally mishearing or misre‐ membering. The three words Guiley presents are the two Romanian terms necuratul (“the Evil one; de‐ mon; the devil; or diavol”) and nesuferit (“unbearable”) and the Greek nosophoros (“plague bearer.”). 806 Nosferatu: The Vampyre. Dir. Werner Herzog, Klaus Kinski, Isabell Adjani, et al. Anchor Bay Entertain‐ ment, 2002. DVD. 807 Although some appear to be possibly from the actual site of the volcanic eruption, the initial pictures th reveal modern shoes and 18 century bonnets. Siegbert S. Prawer points out that these mummies were from a site in Mexico where they had been exhibited in glass cases. Apparently Herzog took each mummy separately out of its exhibition case and placed them along a wall. Prawer, Siegbert S. Nosferatu: Phan‐ tom der Nacht. London, UK: British Film Institute, 2004. Print. Page 41. 808 In a review of the film the editors note that “[u]nlike most vampire films, Nosferatu the Vampyre re‐ jects the expected frantic tone in favor of a deliberate, relentless pace. Some find that the film moves too slowly […] Jonathan’s journey through the Borgo Pass is a perfect example of this. Another director might have edited this 10‐minute sequence to a fraction of its running length, but, by keeping it intact the strik‐ ing visual and haunting score heighten suspense and build anticipation.” Berardinelli, James and Roger Ebert, eds. Reel Views 2: The Ultimate Guide to the Best 1,000 Modern Movies on DVD and Video. Bos‐ ton, MA: Justin, Charles & Co., 2005. Print. Page 402. 809 As an aside note to this scene (12:14 – 14:06 in the film) , the horse he rides changes between a bay (brown with black mane) with a white front stocking to a bay with similar stockings but missing the white on the left front cannon bone (possibly a white wrap?). During the scene when Jonathan arrives, it ap‐ pears that both horses may have been slightly lame as evidenced by frequent equine head bobbing. 810 Werner Herzog notes that he “wanted to shoot in Transylvania proper, in Romania, but was not al‐ lowed to because of problems with the Ceauşescu regime.” For that reason, he ended up using Castle Pernstein and the High Tatra in the Moravian region as his backdrop for the landscape images. Herzog, Werner and Paul Cronin. Herzog on Herzog. London, UK: Faber, 2002. Print. Page 159. 811 Bock and Bergfelder, Page 195. Eisner, Lotte H. The Haunted Screen: Expressionism in the German Cinema and the Influence of Max Reinhardt. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1973. Print. 812 Corrigan, Timothy, ed. Films of Werner Herzog: Between Mirage and History. New York, NY: Methuen, 1986. Print. Page 27. Italics in original. According to Corrigan, this refers to the 1979 edition—it could not be located by the author of this dissertation, thus, Corrigan’s word must be taken at face value here. Neither the more commonly available 1973 edition published by the U of California P, reprinted in 1977, nor the most recent 2009 Reprint edition mention Herzog beyond his Sign of Life (1973) work. 813 Corrigan, Films of Herzog, Page 27. 814 Berardinelli and Ebert, Reels 2, Page 402. In a Freudian reading, both Ebert and Torben Poulsen’s (see block quote below this paragraph) comments could be read as the monstrous female who is out to cas‐ trate the unsuspecting male viewer. However, in a more Jungian‐based view, it is the male who is fearful of face the non‐male tendencies, in other words, his Anima, and come to terms with it by accepting and ultimately embracing it. Such an embrace becomes part of the Individuation process, which leads to ulti‐ mate maturation of the adult. 815 Nochimson, Martha P. World on Film. Chichester, West Sussex, UK: Wiley‐Blackwell, 2010. Print. Page 137. 816 Prawer, Page 25. 817 Berardinelli and Ebert, Page 402. 818 Poulsen, Torben. “The Post‐Modern Vampire: Examining Nosferatu in Various Guises.” http://www.sprog.aau.dk/res/pub/Arb‐haefter/Nr29/Kapitel‐4.pdf. Arb‐haefter, Nr. 29, Chapter 4. No date. PDF file on Web. 28 November 2010. Spelling as in original. 819 See Bergfelder, Corrigan, Elsaesser in bibliography listings. 820 For the 1922 version, F. W. Murnau was forced to change the name as he did not receive copyright clearance from Bram Stoker’s widow for the use of the name Dracula in his 1922 film. See Guiley, The En‐ cyclopedia, Page 214. Also, Holte, James Craig. Dracula in the Dark: the Dracula Film Adaptations. West‐

264 port, CT: Greenwood P, 1997. Print. Page 75. And Horton, Andrew and Stuart Y McDougal. Play It Again, Sam: Retakes on Remakes. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1998. Print. Page 273. 821 Browing, John Edgar and Caroline J. Picart, eds. Dracula in Visual Media: Film, Television, Comic Book and Electronic Game Appearances, 1920 ‐ 2010. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2010. Print. Pages 137 – 138. 822 Waller refers to Ellen Hutter as Nina throughout his writings. However, the intertitles of Murnau’s opus show her as Ellen. Some film versions may be available which mention Nina. The female friend who is later found dead in Herzog’s version is Mina, thus, Waller may have confused the name of the friend with the name of the main character in the Murnau version. Lloyd Michaels mentions the change in Mur‐ nau’s work from Stoker’s original names for Jonathan’s wife as “Ellen or Nina.” Michaels, Lloyd. “Nosfera‐ tu, Or the Phantom of the Cinema.” Play it Again Sam: Retakes on Remakes. Horton, Andrew and Stuart Y. McDougal, eds. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1998. Print. Page 241. 823 Waller, Page 220. 824 Crane, Jonathan L. Terror and Everyday Life: Singular Moments in the History of the Horror Film. Thou‐ sand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1994. Print. Page 56. 825 Prawer, Page 64. 826 Skal, David J. Hollywood Gothic: The Tangled Web of Dracula from Novel to Stage to Screen. New York, NY: Faber & Faber, 2004. Print. Page 58. 827 Donelly, K. J. “Angel of the Air: Popol Vuh’s Music and Werner Herzog’s Films.” In European Film Mu‐ sic. Mera, Miguel and David Burnand, eds. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2006. Print. Page 124. See also Koepnick, Lutz Peter. The Cosmopolitan Screen: German Cinema and the Global Imaginary, 1945 to the Present. Ann Arbor, MI: U of Michigan P, 2007. Print. Pages 127 – 128. 828 Prawer, Page 42. 829 Prawer, Page 25. 830 Eisner, Haunted Screen, Pages 89 – 113. 831 Della‐Vacche, Angela. Cinema and Painting: How Art is used in Film. Austin, TX: U of Texas P, 1996. Print. Page189. 832 Rushing and Frentz, Page 39. 833 One aside to this must be made: Jonathan, who is also bitten by Nosferatu, goes on and lives, while Lucy fades from life to death rather quickly. Unlike her husband, she does not become a vampire—the latter could be a possibility since Bram Stoker’s novel references female vampires. 834 In Christian faith, the white robe is also synonymous with the white robe worn by Christ indicating in‐ nocence and purity. See Williams, Isaac. The Altar: Or Meditations in Verse on the Great Christian Sacri‐ fice. London, UK: Joseph Masters, 1849. Print. Page 59. Also Wirgman, Augustus Theodore. The Blessed Virgin and all the Company of Heaven. Milwaukee, WI: The Young Churchman, 1913. Print. Page 188. Sklar, Deidre. Dancing with the Virgin: Body and Faith in the Fiesta of Tortugas, New Mexico. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 2001. Print. Page 157. Sklar details how the white garments are still used in Chris‐ tian tradition, even though it has been transported into the New World. Also see Phillips, John. Exploring Proverbs: An Expository Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI: Kregel, 1995. Print. Page 154 – 156. 835 Kearns, Cleo McNelly. The Virgin Mary, Monotheism and Sacrifice. New York, NY: Cambridge U P, 2008. Print. Page 53. 836 Theodora A. Jankowski speaks of virgin sacrifice and consequences of refusal as played out in English drama. Jankowski, Theodora A. Pure Resistance: Queer Virginity in Early Modern English Drama. Phila‐ delphia, PA: U of Pennsylvania P, 2000. Print. Especially Pages 1 – 31. 837 Hedley, Mark. “The Geometry of Gendered Conflict in Popular Film, 1986‐2000.” Sex Roles 47.5:201‐ 217. Print. Page 213. 838 Michaels, “Nosferatu, …,” Page 240. 839 As Rushing and Frentz define this term, the Jungian Other or Underdeveloped Shadow embodies every‐ thing that “society hates and disowns.” Projecting the Shadow, Page 39. 840 Compare the notion of menstrual blood in many different cultures (especially Pagan cultures) where the female monthly blood is frequently considered unclean. Thus, the epitome of the white male, having been truly contaminated by the female’s blood, must be sacrificed as he, too, has become unclean. See

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Kearns, Page 53. See also, De Troyer, Kristen, ed. Wholly Woman, Holy Blood: A Feminist Critique of Puri‐ ty and Impurity. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity P Intl., 2003. Print. Pages 97 – 105. Allan, Keith and Kate Bur‐ ridge. Forbidden Words: Taboo and the Censoring of Language. Cambridge, UK: U of Cambridge P, 2007. Print. Pages 161 – 167. 841 Dr. Van Helsing is the one who drives the stake through Nosferatu’s heart, thus, once and for all killing off Nosferatu’s influence (except for Jonathan, who manages to escape Nosferatu’s fate). 842 Stanzione Vincent James, Paul Harbaugh and Angelika Bauer. Rituals of Sacrifice: Walking the Face of the Earth on the Sacred Path of The Sun. Albuquerque, NM: U of New Mexico P, 2003. Print. Page 59. 843 Bunson, Matthew. The Vampire Encyclopedia. New York, NY: Crown, 1993. Print. Page 191. 844 Perez, Gilberto. The Material Ghost: Films and Their Medium. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins U P, 2000. Print. Page 146. 845 Holte, Dracula, Page 76. 846 Clute, John and John Grant, eds. The Encyclopedia of Fantasy. New York, NY: St. Martin’s Griffin, 1999. Print. Page 293. Emphasis in original. 847 Something that may have to do with the fact that “Count D” is everywhere, as lamented by Richard Fuller in the December 1979 issue of Cincinnati Magazine. “Something horrible has happened to Count D: he has become a media event. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him discussing his dentist on a talk show. The horror is that there is no horror.” Fuller, Richard. “Films: Nosferatu, the Vampyre (**).” Cincinnati Magazine. Cincinnati, OH: Greater Cincinnati Chamber of Commerce 13.3 (1979): 121. Print. 848 Brittnacher, Hans Richard. "Ars Moriendi: Herzogs Nosferatu – Phantom der Nacht (1979).“ In Der Vampirfilm: Klassiker des Genres in Einzelinterpretationen. Keppler, Stefan and Michael Will, eds. Würz‐ burg, Germany: Königshausen & Neumann, 2006. Print. Page 121. “...turned into a folkloristic portentous pomp, a monstrous blood‐sucking leech, …” (translation by dissertation author). 849 Stevens, Page 131. 850 Mayne, Judith. “Herzog, Murnau, and the Vampire.” In The Films of Werner Herzog. Corrigan, Timo‐ thy, ed. New York, NY: Methuen, 1986. Print. Page 126. 851 Murphy, Colette. “Someday my Vampire will Come?” In Theorizing Twilight: Critical Essays on What’s at Stake in a Post‐Vampire World. Parke, Maggie and Natalie Wilson, eds. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2011. Print. Page 57. 852 Murphy, “Someday…,” Page 57. 853 Aside from the discussion by the best known film scholars, such as Bergfelder, Corrigan, Elsaesser, Hake, Pflaum, Printzler and Rentschler, not so well known examples include the following brief selection: Prawer, Pages 57 – 66. Kiss, Robert J. “Queer Traditions in German Cinema.” In The German Cinema Book. Bergfelder, Tim, et al., eds. London, UK: British Film Institute, 2008. Print. Pages 48 – 56. Skal, Page 197. Casper, Kent and Susan Linville. “Romantic Inversions in Herzog’s Nosferatu.” The German Quarterly 64.1 (Win. 1991): 17‐24. Ruthner, Clemens. “Vampirische Schattenspiele.” Der Vampirfilm: Klassiker des Genres in Einzelinterpretationen. Keppler, Stefan and Michael Will, eds. Würzburg, Germany: Königshausen & Neumann, 2006. Print. Page 48 ‐ 49. 854 Russo, Vito. The Celluloid Closet: Homosexuality in the Movies. New York, NY: Harper & Row, 1987. Print. Page 52. 855 Magistrale, Abject Terrors, Page 43. 856 Kuzniar, Alice A. The Queer German Cinema. Stanford, CA: Stanford U P, 2000. Print. Page 43. 857 Williamson, Milly. The Lure of the Vampire: Gender, Fiction and Fandom from Bram Stoker to Buffy. London, UK: Wallflower, 2005. Print. Page 12. 858 Prawer, Page 53. 859 Casper and Linville, Page 21. 860 Prawer, Page 56. 861 Samuels, Page 88. 862 Examples include Matthew Shepherd who was beaten to death for his homosexuality and several young hig school and college students who after being bullied by their roommates committed suicide in 2010 and 2011.

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863 Krzywinska, Tanya. “La Belle Dame Sans Merci?“ In A Queer Romance: Lesbians, Gay Men and Popular Culture. Burston, Paul and Colin Richardson, eds. New York, NY: Routledge, 1995. Print. Page 110 864 Michaels, Lloyd. The Phantom of the Cinema: Character in Modern Film. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 1997. Print. Page 77. 865 Mayne, “Herzog, Murnau …,” Page 123. 866 Samuels, Page 88. 867 Mayne, “Herzog…,” Page 123. 868 Corsini, Page 482. 869 For Jung and Jungian psychologists, the carriage signifies the person guiding the analysant. 870 Michaels, Page 82. 871 Auerbach, Nina. Our Vampires, Ourselves. Chicago, IL: U of Chicago P, 1995. Print. Page 72. 872 Auerbach, Our Vampires, Page 72. 873 th Stuart, Roxana. Stage Blood: Vampires of the 19 Century Stage. Bowling Green, OH: Bowling Green State U Popular P, 1994. Print. Page 220. 874 Although this dissertation discusses sexuality, it is not able to address the current discourse on of nur‐ ture vs. nature surrounding the question of homosexuality: choice or predermination. At this point, the debate has not been determined in one way or another. 875 Magistrale, Page 44. Bracket added for clarification. 876 Müller, Jürgen and Herbert Klemens. Movies of the 80s. Köln, Germany: Taschen, 2002. Print. Lang‐ man, Larry. Destination Hollywood: The Influence of Europeans on American Filmmaking. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2000. Print. Page 102. 877 Holte, Dracula, Pages 75 – 76. 878 Clute and Grant, Encyclopedia of Fantasy, Page 293. 879 Rushing and Frentz, Page 40. 880 Brockmann, A Critical History, Pages 43 – 45. Also, Cardullo, Bert. Indelible Images: New Perspectives on Classic Films. Lanham, MD: U P of America, 1987. Print. Page 139 – 148. 881 For a more detailed discussion on Ali’s commodification, see Chapter 4 discussing Ali’s post‐vacation change in status from “einer von denen” to someone who can provide muscle strength to the female ten‐ ants in the house. 882 Russo, Celluloid Closet, Page 18. 883 Tatar, Maria. Lustmord: Sexual Murder in Weimar Germany. Princeton, NJ: Princeton U P, 1995. Print. Page 58. 884 Crane, Terror, Page 51. 885 Keyes, Corey L. M. “Gender and Subjective Well‐Being in the United States: From Subjective Well‐ Being to Complete Mental Health.” In Psychology of Stress. Oxington, Kimberly V., ed. New York, NY: Nova Biomedical, 2005. Print. Page 4. 886 Jung, 9.1, Page 323. 887 Miller, Jeffrey C and Carl Gustav Jung. The Transcendent Function: Jung’s Model of Psychological Growth through Dialogue with the Unconscious. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 2003. Print. Page 42. 888 Guy, Josephine M. The Victorian Age: An Anthology of Sources and Documents. London, UK: Routledge, 1998. Print. Especially Pages 442 – 446. Evans, R. J. The Victorian Age 1815 – 1914. London, UK: Edward Arnold, 1968. Print. Tucker, Herbert F. A Companion to Victorian Literature and Culture. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1999. Print. 889 Bronfen, Elisabeth. “The Vampire: Sexualizing or Pathologizing Death.” In Disease and Medicine in Modern German Cultures. Käser, Rudolf, and Vera Pohland, eds. Ithaca, NY: Center for Intl. Studies, Cor‐ nel U P, 1990. Print. Page 85. 890 Kolker, Robert Phillip. The Altering Eye: Contemporary International Cinema. Oxford, UK: Oxford U P, 1983. Print. Page 192. 891 Prager, Brad. “Landscape of the Mind: The Indifferent Earth in Werner Herzog’s Films.” Cinema and Landscape. Graeme Harper and Jonathan Rayner, eds. Chicago, IL: 2010. Print. Page 93.

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892 The return of the unburied through Murnau’s use of “a variety of specifically filmic tricks” is discussed by Anton Kaes. Kaes, Anton. “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.”. In Masterpieces of Modernist Cinema. Perry, Ted, ed. Bloomington, IN: Indiana U P, 2006. Print. Page 56. 893 Dante, Alighieri, Michael Palma and Guiseppe Mazzotta. Inferno: A New Verse Translation, Back‐ grounds and Contexts, Criticism. New York, NY: Norton, 2008. Print. (Note: there are many other ver‐ sions, this is just one of the more recent translations.) 894 As Anton Kaes notes, Murnau’s work has “the hallmarks of Weimar film culture, represent[ing] the most prominent examples of shell shock cinema.” Herzog reiterates some of the shell‐shocked imagery of Murnau’s film. Kaes, Anton. Shell Shock Cinema: Weimar Culture and the Wounds of War. Princeton, NJ: Princeton U P, 2009. Print. Page 6. 895 Gundry, Mark R. Beyond Psyche: Symbol and Transcendence in C. G. Jung. New York, NY: Lang, 2006. Print. Page 31. Brackets added for clarity. Also, Jung, Collected Works, 11. 896 Brockmann, Critical History, Page 73. Coates, Gorgon’s Gaze, Page 95. Isenberg, Noah William. Wei‐ mar Cinema: An Essential Guide to Classic Films of the Era. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 2008. Print. Page 89. Ashbury, Roy. Nosferatu: Director Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau: The Ultimate Film Guides. Harlow, UK: Longman, 2001. Print. Page 72. 897 Nuzum, Eric. The Dead Travel Fast: Stalking Vampires from Nosferatu to Count Chocula. New York, NY: Thomas Dunne‐St. Martin’s P, 2007. Print. Page 58. Spelling exactly as in original. 898 Nuzum, The Dead, Page 58. 899 Downing, Christine. Myth and Mysteries of Same‐Sex Love. New York, NY: Continuum, 1989. Print. Page 121. 900 Kulkarni, Claudette. Lesbians and Lesbianism: A Post‐Jungian Perspective. New York, NY: Routledge, 1997. Print. Page 94. 901 Wood, Robin. Sexual Politics and Narrative film: Hollywood and Beyond. New York, NY: Columbia U P, 1998. Print. Page243. 902 Haggerty, George E. Gay Histories and Cultures: An Encyclopedia. New York, NY: Garland, 2000. Print. Page 783. 903 McCleary, Rollan. A Special Illumination: Authority, Inspiration and Heresy in Gay Spirituality. Oakville, CT: Equinox, 2004. Print. Page 23. 904 McCleary, Illumination, Page 24. Bracketed text added for clarification. 905 Wood, Robin, Sexual Politics, Page 50. Italics and parentheses in original. 906 Russo, Celluloid Closet, Pages 5 – 59. Kuzniar, Queer German Cinema, Pages 21 – 56. 907 Long fingernails such as those shown by Max Schreck and later by Klaus Kinski were also the hallmark of Chinese emperors who could afford such long nails as a symbol of having to never perform manual la‐ bor. 908 Dyer, Richard and Julianne Pidduck. Now You See It: Studies in Lesbian and Gay Film. New York, NY: Routledge, 1990. Print. Pages 35 – 37. Although this is a reading of Murnau’s film, it does apply to Her‐ zog’s homage in the same manner. 909 Dyer and Pidduck, Now You See It, Page 37. 910 Dyer and Pidduck, Page 37. 911 Toub, Micah. Growing Up Jung: Coming of Age as the Son of Two Shrinks. New York, NY: Norton, 2010. Print. Page 89. 912 Tamburri, Anthony Julian. Italian‐American Short Films and Music Video: A Semiotic Reading. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue U P, 2002. Print. Page 45. . 913 Suleiman, Susan Robin. The Female Body in Western Culture: Contemporary Perspectives. Cambridge, MA: Harvard U P, 1986. Print. Page 251. 914 Suleiman, The Female Body, Page 251. 915 Thompson, Mark. Leatherfolk: Radical Sex, People, Politics and Practice. Los Angeles, CA: Alyson, 2001. Print. Page 66. 916 Kaes, “The Cabinet …,” Page 56.

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917 Canning, Kathleeen, Kerstin Barndt and Kristin McGuire. Weimar Publics / Weimar Subjects: Rethinking the Political Culture of Germany in the 1920s. New York, NY: Berghahn, 2010 Print. Page 39. 918 Barber, Paul. Vampires, Burial and Death. New Haven, CT: Yale U P, 1988. Print. Page 2. 919 Canning, et al. Weimar Publics, Page 39. 920 Rickels, Laurence A. The Vampire Lectures. Minneapolis, MN: U of Minnesota P, 1999. Print. Pages 95 – 97. Rickels also links Herzog’s film with the threat of Nazism (Page 98). 921 Kaes, Shell‐Shocked Cinema. Page 119. 922 Kaes, Page 118. 923 The bloodied stake can also be seen symbolizing the blood on a wedding cloth to prove the woman’s virginity. 924 Brokeback Mountain. Dir. Lee, Ang, Larry McMurtry, James Schamus, Heath Ledger. Universal Studios, 2006. DVD. Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Dir. Hubley, Emily, Christine Vachon, Katie Roumel, et al. New Line Productions, 2001. DVD. 925 Lerner, Neil W. Music in the Horror Film: Listening to Fear. New York, NY: Routledge, 2010. Print. Page viii. 926 Michaels, The Phantom, Pages 68‐69. 927 That is not to imply that there were no monks and nuns who lived in abject poverty by free choice. However, the fullness of the music brings to mind more of the lavish hedonism of the age. See Hallam, Henry. History of Europe During the Middle Ages. Colonial P, NY: 1900. Print. Hasty, Will. German Liter‐ ature of the High Middle Ages. Rochester, NY: Camden, 2006. Print. Pages 10‐11. 928 Waller, The Living, Page 180. 929 For more information see Miles, Clement A. Christmas in Ritual and Tradition, Christian and Pagan. London, UK: T. F. Unwin, 1912. Print. Page 157. Carpenter, Edward. Pagan & Christian Creeds: Their Origin and Meaning. New York, NY: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1920. Print. Page 21. Van Rheenen, Gailyn. Contextualization and Syncretism: Navigating Cultural Currents. Pasadena, CA: William Carey, 2006. Print. Pages 187‐ 189. Collins, Ace and Clint Hansen. Stories behind the Great Traditions and Songs of Easter. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2009. Print. 930 Flinn, New German Cinema, Page 71. 931 Tacey, Jung, Page 39. 932 Lerner, Neil, Music in Horror Film, Page 1. 933 Greenberg, Jeff. Handbook of Experimental Existential Psychology. New York, NY: Guilford, 2004. Print. Page 148. 934 Kolker, Page 191. 935 Losseff, Nicky and Jennifer R. Doctor. Silence, Music, Silent Music. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2007. Print. Page 78. 936 Losseff, Silence, 78. 937 Donelly, “Angel of the Air,” Page 128. 938 Donelly, Page 123. 939 Prawer, Nosferatu, Page 54. Bracketed text added for clarity. 940 Partridge, Christopher Hugh. The Re‐Enchantment of the West: Alternative Spiritualities, Sacralization, Popular Culture, and Occulture. New York, NY: T & T Clark Intl., 2006. Print. Page 127. 941 Prawer, Page 31. Also, Huckvale, David. Touchstones of Gothic Horror: A Film Genealogy of Eleven Mo‐ tifs and Images. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2010. Print. Pages 88 – 90. 942 Pippin, Tina. “Of Gods and Demons.” In Screening Scripture: Intertextual Connections Between Scrip‐ ture and Film. Aichele, George, and Richard G. Walsh, eds. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity P Intl., 2002. Print. Page 28. 943 Konigsberg, Ira. “How many Draculas?” In Play it Again Sam: Retakes on Remakes. Horton, Andrew and Stuart Y. McDougal, eds. Berkeley, CA: U of California P, 1998. Print. Page 266. 944 Prawer, Page 70. 945 Samuels, Page 88.

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946 Hillman, Roger. “The Documentaries of Werner Herzog.” In Wagner and Cinema. Gilman, Sander L. and Jeongwon Joe, eds. Bloomington, IN: Indiana U P, 2010. Print. Pages 260 – 264. 947 Hillman, Wagner, Page 302. 948 Pager, Brad. The Cinema of Werner Herzog: Aesthetic Ecstasy and Truth. London, UK: Wallflower, 2007. Print. Page 106. 949 Hillman, Wagner, Page 304.

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CONCLUSION

The gem cannot be polished without friction

Nor man perfected without trials

(Chinese proverb)

When combining a Jungian-based theoretical framework utilizing Arche- types with the study of emotions, especially fear, much can be gleaned about the human condition, but also, about the interaction of silver screen, plot, characters and audience members. Fear, as a driving force for humans, can be elicited through many means, be it plotlines, on-screen violence or through the portrayal of the Other. Both Sigmund Freud and Carl Gustav Jung have made significant contributions to the field of psychology as well as to the field of literary studies, which includes films (visual texts). While a Freudian concept of Repression mainly focuses on male Castration Anxiety and the Oedipal Complex, a Jungian- based psychoanalytic framework affords a larger view of the human development through a holistic approach to the human psyche. Jung provides a fresh direction for the examination of fear, Archetypes, the portrayal of the Other and the spectator.

This dissertation presented various incidents of the archetypes, such as Shadow and more specifically, the Underdeveloped Shadow or Other, in Fear Eats the Soul, The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum and Nosferatu, and examined how the visual portrayal of the Other induces fear in the audience member. A careful analysis of these three films shows how film production of the New Ger- man Cinema represents a break with both Hollywood and previous German films.

271 A spectator of film often identifies with the Campbellian hero internalizing the visual cues for the Other, who by film’s end becomes defeated by the hero. The hero’s journey represents a part of the Jungian Individuation process which leads to maturation of the film character, and through retroflexion during and after the film viewing, the individual spectator. By applying Jungian-based Archetypes— mainly the Underdeveloped Shadow or Other as defined by Janice H. Rushing and Thomas S. Frentz—to film it is possible to explore the Campbellian concept of the hero in conjunction with spectatorship and fear in more detail. This approach provides a way to examine the visual portrayal of the Other in New Ger- man Cinema films through which films elicit possible emotions of fear in the spectator. The application of the Jungian-based theme addresses the disavowed racial Other in Fassbinder’s Fear Eats the Soul, the female Other in both Fassbin- der and von Trotta / Schlöndorff’s Lost Honor of Katharina Blum, and themes of Other sexuality in Herzog’s Nosferatu. In Jungian-based film analysis, the Other is defined as that which triggers fear responses aiding in survival of the individual, be it within cultural, social or physical settings. Expanding on Jung’s concept of the Shadow, Marie-Luise von Franz includes everything that is not-I or not-Ego, anything that is different and hated by society or an individual. Rushing and Frentz apply the Jungian Shadow to film and define the Other as Underdeveloped Shadow. Thus, any non-white male and any female, be she white or non-white, will by definition fall in the category of Other and thus represent the Underdeveloped Shadow.

As the examination of Fassbinder’s Fear Eats the Soul has shown, there exists not a single Underdeveloped Shadow, but multiple expressions of the Oth- er, especially when a film lacks a clearly defined Overdeveloped Shadow who serves the role of a Campbellian hero. Ali, Emmi and Barbara, the three main characters in the film, are all Others or Underdeveloped Shadows. However, within their social interactions, the dynamics of the Other change depending on internal or external interactions. For instance, during the second half of the film, Emmi proves to almost turn into an Overdeveloped Shadow in the small social grouping including only herself and Ali. Reading film from the Jungian perspec-

272 tive allows for a differentiation between characters of similar societal standing. In the interactions between Ali and Barbara, the successful business woman, who through commodification of Ali makes him her Other, attempts to become the hero among the Underdeveloped Shadows. Watching Fear Eats the Soul, the spectator is presented not only with the option to identify in a Mulveyean dyadic manner of choosing between victimizer or victim, but following a more nuanced Jungian way, has the option to identify with a non-traditional ‘hero’ such as Bar- bara’s character in Fear Eats the Soul. Similarly to the different Others in Fass- binder’s film, The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum and Nosferatu, differentiate between various Underdeveloped Shadows in the form of Katharina, Götten, Lucy, Nosferatu and Jonathan. In contrast to Fear Eats the Soul, both The Lost Honor and Nosferatu also feature a white male as an Other. In the former it is the scapegoated Götten, who is branded as the terrorist to be feared in a time of mass terrorist hysteria, in the latter, that figure is Jonathan who through his non- traditional sexuality turns into the Other. The spectator is presented with an option to identify with one of the Others in all three films. Spectators’ emotions, such as fear, thus lead indirectly to a furthering of the spectator’s own Individua- tion process. One such way is the spectator’s personal reflexive examination of his or her own views and beliefs of non-normative sexuality, cross-generational relationships or race relations within the audience member’s own socio-cultural environment.

Fear can be educed in the viewer through the plotlines and with it, the character of the hero. Unlike American Hollywood films, many of the European auteur productions do not follow the entire arc of Joseph Campbell’s heroic journey in which the hero is called to action by an external stimulus, leaves behind the status quo he has known to embark on a journey of trials and tribulations (usually away from home) and ultimately defeats the external force that caused him to take action in the first place. When returning home after overcoming numerous obstacles, the hero has become a better person. In Jungian terms, he (rarely, she) has journeyed through various stages of the Individuation process.

273 As demonstrated in all three films, the Individuation process can be arrested in many places, such as the inability of all lead characters to blend into their community. Emmi, Ali, Katharina, Götten, Jonathan and Nosferatu find themselves as outsiders, ejected from the societal fold because of their status as Other. They ultimately fail to complete the Campbellian hero’s journey which ends with the hero having achieved an altered, most often a higher level of status quo within his or her environment, frequently even providing a better life for those within the societal environment who did not complete the journey with the hero. Jona- than in Nosferatu never completes his own journey within the limits set by society. He thus must proceed to explore his newly found sexuality in a different place as visually alluded to by Herzog’s use of the shifting sands in the final frames. An example of the hero’s premature “death” can be found in Fear Eats the Soul in which Ali (symbolically) dies as he fails to integrate into the new social order of his adoptive country. His Individuation process becomes questionable in light of the socio-cultural circumstances. In The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum, Katharina undergoes an attempted Individuation process, however, in the end, it is symbolically arrested with her incarceration. Her journey can almost be seen as retro- grading, as she loses her freedom. Neither Ali, nor Katharina or Jonathan can be seen as traditional heroes in Campbell’s sense as they ultimately prove to be Underdeveloped Shadows within the context of the film narrative. Examining the differing concepts of the filmic hero and his Alter-Ego, the Other, can be greatly illuminating about the Human Condition, including but not limited to race, gender and age, and by extension the spectator’s relationships within his or her own social environment.

Particularly in the context of Archetypes, influenced by cultural overtones, a Jungian-based framework provides an expanded reading of films both within character analysis and unspoken socio-historical undercurrents present at the time of a film’s production. As demonstrated in the discussions of the three selected films, Fear Eats the Soul, The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum and Nosfera- tu, the Archetype of the Jungian-based Underdeveloped Shadow or Other in the socio-cultural context of German history is coded somewhat differently than a

274 comparative Other in a Hollywood setting. In Fear Eats the Soul, Emmi is shown in a low angle shot sitting on the stairs, usually a technique reserved for characters holding high power, such as media mogul Kane in Citizen Kane. Neverthe- less, she is a powerless Underdeveloped Shadow, who is even shunned by her own socio-cultural group made up of the other charwomen. In The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum, the eponymous female lead character finds herself at the center of a police interrogation and media witch hunt reminiscent of the Third Reich. Her very public arrest serves as a warning to the rest of the tenants in the multi- building apartment complex and culminates with her ultimate incarceration: the final means of social isolation. Jonathan, an outcast of his narrow-minded society, finds himself separated by the line of consecrated host crumbles, visually the expression of socio-religious norms in existence at the time. Neither character is able to reintegrate into society within the films’ narrative. In auteur films, the heroes may skip some of the steps along the Campbellian hero’s journey— sometimes with dire consequences. As shown in this discussion, a hero may not return home due to a premature death, or they may return to the same status quo as in the beginning of the journey, or the hero may never complete the journey within the film’s allotted timeframe.

Visual representations of the Other can also elicit deep emotions, such as fear, especially for a male spectator. Alleviation of fear, as noted by early Freud- ian-based spectatorship studies (Metz, Mulvey), occurs when the female is returned to her subservient role in patriarchal society. The female spectator remains in a position of choosing between the role of either victimizer or victim as shown by Mulvey’s dyadic work. As newer research by scholars such as Jackie Stacey, Kimberly Davis and Sean Nixon demonstrates, especially the female spectator may view her role no longer in the Mulveyean dichotomy of either as- suming a sado-masochistic role by identification with the male protagonist (who then punishes the woman) or take on the victim’s role by identifying with the female. Instead a more nuanced model needs to be developed to include female spectators along with any Others, such as non-white males and homosexual or

275 transgendered audience members. The visual representation of different races within a heterogeneous society does allow for identification with the Other, such as the identification with Ali in Fassbinder’s Fear Eats the Soul despite his visual coding as a Knecht, a culturally-coded subservient member of society, through both his race and his head and facial hair appearance. A female spectator may identify with either the Emmi or Katharina (Lost Honor) in a manner in which she does not assume either the role of the victimizer/punisher (i.e. police commissioner Beizemenne) nor the role of the victim, but allow herself to examine her own beliefs about ageism (Emmi) or, as in Katharina’s case, innocence or guilt in the face of the encounter with a presumed terrorist. In Nosferatu, both male and female audience members may identify with the character of Nosferatu, the vampire, because of his extreme outsider status, and through it, an examination of both hetero- and homo-sexuality is made possible for the spectator. Reflecting on one’s own values and beliefs regarding issues of race, gender, and sexuality allow for a step forward in the Individuation process.

The three New German Films discussed all present an Other scapegoat onto which fear is projected and which the audience members are expected to eschew and possibly fear. In Fear Eats the Soul, the scapegoat is Ali, in Lost Honor it is Katharina, and in Nosferatu it is Nosferatu the vampire. Rushing and Frentz note that the scapegoat (a form of Other) is someone who is repulsive while at the same time attractive. In Fear Eats the Soul, the spectator must come face to face with his or her own values, beliefs and stereotypes in the filmic examination of fear of a visually different race in the case of the attractive youth- ful physique of Ali. While at once attractive through his physical built, which Fassbinder emphasizes on several occasions, Ali is also repulsive to a German audience through his dark skin and curly-kinky hair, marking him as someone from a different continent. Auditorily, Ali is also turned into the repulsive character through his vulgarity and poor command of the German language. In Katharina’s case, she is attractive through her young, innocent looking face, framed by shoulder-long hair and otherwise well-kept appearance. Yet, the moment of arrest and parading through the masses shows a rather animal-like vis-

276 age: her face in a hideous grimace. Katharina’s sexuality, or rather, her a- sexuality is feared as she is a rather independent woman, who does not require the constant attention by a male. Thus, she elicits male Castration Anxiety in the male spectator. In Nosferatu, the vampire’s exotic Otherness codes him as a scapegoat. Nosferatu appears somewhat attractive at first when he meets the travel-weary Jonathan at the castle’s gate. Soon after, the polished demeanor gives way to repulsion when the spectator is faced with the Undead in his coffin deep in the crypt and furthermore, when he arrives as Wismar with the uncount- ed rats. Yet, at the same time, the vampire does show a sexual prowess which can be attractive to some female audience members. Ultimately, through visual coding of a character as the Other, the spectator is subconsciously cued to the roles the different characters will play in the film and to the question, which character will ultimately serve as the scapegoat.

Eliciting fear of the Other can also occur in spectators based on cultural upbringing or experiences. In the aftermath of 9/11 criticism was raised in the media and around the world for the shunning and even profiling of individuals based on their looks or perceived behaviors. As The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum (which predates the attacks in the United States but was a reaction to terrorism in the late 1960s and most of the 1970s) demonstrates perception and reality can often be a long way apart, while actions against an innocent person can lead to serious consequences. When Archetypes, such as the Other, and archetypal motifs, such as that of the terrorist, are taken to extremes by indiscriminate application of the powers of the Ideological State Apparatus, these archetypes and archetypal motifs can lead to dangerous stereotyping: as seen in Katharina Blum’s case, stereotyping by a broad populace in turn can lead to retaliation from the stereotyped Other.950 Fear, as demonstrated in the bar scene and via obscene letters and phone calls to Katharina’s apartment in The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum, can be the driving force behind the retaliation against a stereotyped Other. Visual codings, such as the wild look on Katharina’s face during her arrest, along with the falsely exaggerated media coverage, lead society as a whole to scapegoating of both Katharina and Götten. Scapegoating provides a

277 means for society to collectively renounce the Other. By expulsion of the Other, society is able to symbolically cleanse itself from all that it disavows without the need to address the actual Other or the reasoning(s) behind the refutation. The Collective Unconscious of Katharina’s community rises up to meet the perceived threat on the community. Although initially it appears as though the Other was harmless, the amounting threat to Katharina motives her retributive actions against the Overdeveloped Shadow or Ego in form of police and media. In an uncertain world, the spectator can feel fear that something could happen to him or her. Similarly, in Nosferatu and Fear Eats the Soul, the collective society as represented by the patrons—the Roma in Herzog’s film and the Middle Eastern men in Fassbinder’s film—are presenting a unified front against at least one Oth- er, be it Jonathan or Emmi. In Nosferatu, when Jonathan first mentions the name of the Undead, the local Roma population frequenting the inn refuses to be near him or further assist him. Jonathan becomes the outsider as he sets out on the journey to explore his own psyche and sexuality. Emmi, in Fear Eats the Soul, is shunned several times by her co-workers. Although the other charwomen are of no better socio-economic standings, in fact, it appears all are single elderly women (presumed widowed), they do not allow Emmi back into their clique upon learning of her marriage to “so einem.” Emmi’s luck only changes when a new threat to the status quo arrives in form of the young Yugoslavian charwoman, Yolanda. As the threat to the socio-economic fabric of the charwomen’s group emanating from Yolanda is greater than Emmi’s marriage to a foreigner, Emmi is allowed to re-enter her previous place within her social environment.

Among the Jungian archetypal figures of the Underdeveloped Shadow which can elicit fear in the (especially male) spectator through her sexuality is the figure of the mother, as can be seen in both Fear Eats the Soul and The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum. Due to the fact that she is female, the mother always and already represents the Other. Her Archetype can be conflated into the term: (M)Other. In Fassbinder’s film, the (M)Other is represented by Emmi, the elder charwoman who throughout the film serves in many roles, such as lover, mother,

278 grandmother and finally, nurse caretaker. The roles assumed by the female take a journey through female sexuality: especially a male viewer will see her moving from the desirable woman (i.e. lover, although Emmi due to her age may not be as attractive to all male spectators) to a loving memory (mother) before leading to a repulsive image of the grandmother and the a-sexual caretaker. This arc is visually coded through the use of more (beginning) to less (end) color, culminating with the drab gray suit in her role as a nurse caretaker. The (M)Other figure through ambiguity therefore presents especially the male audience member with the threat of Castration Anxiety and thus, the need to identify with another character within the filmic diegesis. Katharina (in The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum), although not an actual mother, acts in part as one in her role as a housekeeper for the rich attorney’s couple. In her case, she is both sexually attractive and through her media exploited affiliation with the presumed terrorist, repulsive to the audience members. However, as a woman, she transgresses the boundaries of her gender role and thus poses a threat to the male, which in the end must be alleviated by her punishment (incarceration). Lucy Harker in Nosferatu, as a relatively newlywed, does not yet present the role of a mother, but her passive sexual attraction also hints at her procreative ability as such. By extension, these three female characters remain in the realm of the Underdeveloped Shadow and never truly are able to exist as heroes, despite any small attempts to foray into the realm defined as the Overdeveloped Shadow. Excellent examples include Barbara and Emmi in Fassbinder’s films. In the end, however, neither Emmi, Katharina nor Lucy are able to escape their role as a female within their societal constraints. Emmi finds herself longing for love and tenderness in an impossible situation, Katharina yearns for Götten and steals one last kiss before her incarceration, while Lucy pays the ultimate price in her sacrificial union with the Un- dead. None of the three attain an improved status quo in contrast to the beginning of the film. In the end, the Underdeveloped Shadow remains just that: a Shadow in the shadows.

Ultimately, the (M)Other role ties to the male spectator’s fear of female sexuality, either through her ability to procreate or through her sexual attraction,

279 especially when presented within the dichotomy of a Madonna-Whore Complex. Although Nosferatu’s Lucy as a newlywed wife is not a mother (yet), her coding evokes both the Madonna and the Whore imagery through her white garments and passively displayed sexuality. Her attraction leads to the ultimate demise of the original male vampire thereby affirming male fear of female sexuality. Visual coding of the (M)Other archetype includes the color scheme used by Fassbinder, ranging from red (menstrual blood) and bright flowery colors (fertility) to a drab gray indicate loss of the procreative ability of the Mother—though not the Oth- er—status for Emmi. Emmi, by Rushing and Frentz’s definition, remains an Oth- er through her gender, but she has lost her role as a procreative Mother. In contrast, Katharina’s character finds herself coded as the second half (whore) of the Madonna-Whore Complex. This is shown visually through obscene text messages (via special delivery letters slipped under her apartment door and stuffed into her mailbox) and aurally via extremely sexually explicit phone calls. In this context, fear is elicited in the spectator through the visual allusions of the aloof female’s sexuality as a threat to the male spectator: through Katharina’s refusal of male advances by Beizemenne and Tötges, the male spectator experiences rejection and through it, fear of his own sexuality (via questioning his own sexual prowess). Such fear of male inadequacy is ultimately alleviated through the visual coding of either the use of drab colors in the dress (Emmi), the wearing of a blue jump suit in the process of incarceration (Katharina) or the actual death (Lu- cy). The threat emanating from the female Madonna-Whore has been subdued (color), contained (jail) or eliminated (death) and the fear, especially for the male spectator, has been alleviated through the female’s relegation into her role as Other.

By extension of the Madonna-Whore Complex and female sexuality, non- normative sexual orientations, which mark Nosferatu and Jonathan as Others, have become an important social issue in recent years, This is despite Jonathan who initially at least represents the white male Ego, i.e. Overdeveloped Shadow or I. In the end, via his redefinition of his own (homo-)sexuality, Jonathan is turning into an Underdeveloped Shadow. The same holds for Nosferatu, whose bi-

280 sexual orientation and vampire existence force him into the role of the Other as well as a scapegoat. Sometimes, as in the case of Katharina Blum, sexuality is almost non-existent and borders on a-sexuality, which signifies another form of non-normative sexuality. Katharina’s (near) a-sexuality is represented by her nickname, “the Nun,” and her contact with several monks at a local monastery. Other times, sexuality can be almost reaching excess, as in the lusting of Nosferatu for Lucy and his homosexual encounter with Jonathan. Lucy and Nosferatu represent two Underdeveloped Shadows who with their mutually inflicted death make the ultimate sacrifice for different reasons—lust and melan- choly for Nosferatu, altruism for Lucy—which allows (unintentionally?) the apparent Overdeveloped Shadow—who now has turned into the Underdeveloped Shadow—to escape and live at the end of the film. By means of his newly explored homosexuality, Jonathan no longer truly signifies the Ego, and his Individ- uation process has been arrested before reintegration into society. Through the motif of the Alter-Ego, Nosferatu is able to explore the “other” side of human sexuality. In the case of Jonathan the journey, both physically and metaphysically, takes him from his home in Wismar to the depth of his own psyche before returning to his place of origin—on a higher individuated plane. As the apparent Over- developed Shadow who has undergone the necessary trial and tribulations of a traditional hero and has returned home, Jonathan can then become an more individuated hero in the Campbellian sense. However, such solution remains beyond the closing credits as Herzog alludes by means of the amorphous shifting sands and clouds.

When examining sexuality in film through the perspective of the Overde- veloped Shadow or Ego, and Underdeveloped Shadow or Other, issues of gendered spectatorship are revealed. In the selected three films, for example, the female spectator is not required to choose between the Mulveyean dyad of victimizer (white male) or victim (female), but can explore different roles. The same holds true for a male spectator who may wish to explore homo- or bi-sexuality, if only within the safe confines of the Platonic film cave. For instance, examinations of non-heteronormative sexuality, as found in Herzog’s Nosferatu (Jona-

281 than’s and Nosferatu’s sexuality) can lead to a better understanding of the dynamics of different sexualities within society. Both Fear Eats the Soul and The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum present a-typical versions of female sexuality in form of Emmi’s journey through the stages of lover-mother-grandmother-nurse caretaker while Katharina’s near a-sexuality offers a different option for female sexuality Through the use of filmic Archetypes, such as the (M)Other or the effeminate homosexual, these films open up a discussion of non-normative sexuality.

Fear can also arise when Archetypes are being turned into stereotypes, especially in the context of race, especially as demonstrated in the case of Ali. Some stereotypes can be traced back to childhood folktales and literary examples which present the Other as a threat to the population at large or a specific Shadow. Facing one’s fears and overcoming unfounded ones, such as those elicited (and then alleviated) in film scenes, provides a safe space for experiencing fear and becomes part of the Individuation process. Most films provide a cathartic moment at least at the end. As seen in all three films, such situation does not completely resolve the situation presented. Emmi’s look through the milky window symbolizes her uncertain future with Ali, who per doctor’s words will return with another open ulcer within six months. Katharina faces incarceration at the film’s end, upon release she will be even more a social outcast due to the media-fueled terrorism hysteria. And Jonathan’s sexuality does not get societally accepted by the time the closing credits roll. Nevertheless, the spectator is left with an array of options in these open-ended auteur films, thereby providing some catharsis or at least provocative thoughts on how to resolve such issues of fear on a personal basis. In reaching beyond a simple male-female dichotomy, as the discussion of the three films has shown, a more complex reading of the Human Condition can be found. In all three films, a male or female spectator does not even require (and sometimes is unable to find) identification with the traditional white male hero in order to define his or her on-screen Alter-Ego. The spectator, both male and female, instead is asked to identify with one of the Oth-

282 ers, such as a female or non-white character. This provides a greater insight to the maturation of the identity for the spectator. The filmic images of fear, including but not limited to age, race, gender and sexuality, offer a deeper understanding of the Human Condition and provide the spectator with his or her own Indi- viduation process. The experience of watching such a film promises to effect a spectator’s cathartic thoughts about how to recognize the origin’s and motifs of fear and one might hope that it will also spark a wider understanding of the spectator’s place in his or her socio-cultural setting.

* * *

950 The report issued by the 9/11 commission indicates that the acts of September 11 were in retaliation for perceived injustice committed when the US interfered in Iraq’s affairs in the early 1990s.

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DISCOGRAPHY

Pi. Dir. Darren Aronofsky, Sean Gullette, Mark Margolis, et al. Artisan Entertainment, 2001. DVD.

The Island. Dir. Michael Bay, Ewan McGregor, Scarlett Johansson, Djimon Hounsou, et al. Dreamworks Video, 2005. DVD.

Homer’s Odyssey. Dir. Bertolini, Francesco, Guiseppe di Liguoro, Ubaldo Maria Del Colle. Silent (1911). Film.

Arsenic and Old Lace. Dir. Capra, Frank, Cary Grant, Josephine Hull, et al. Warner Home Vid- eo, 2000. DVD.

It Happened One Night. Dir. Capra, Frank, Claudette Colbert, Clark Gable, et al. Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 2008. DVD.

Dark Star. Dir. John Carpenter, John, Dan O'Bannon, Brian Narelle, et al. VCI Home Video, 1999. VHS.

The Last Days of Pompeii. Dir. Caserini, Mario, Fernanda Negri Pouget, Eugenia Tettoni Fior. Silent (1913). Film.

Les Douze Travaux d’Hercule. Dir. Cohl, Émile, Maurice Venot, Alice Tissot. Silent (1910). Film.

King Kong. Dir. Cooper, Merian C., Ernest B. Schoedsack, Robert Armstrong, et al. Warner Home Video, 2006. DVD.

The Jazz Singer. Dir. Crosland, Alan, Al Jolson, May McAvoy, Warner Oland. Warner Home Video, 2007. DVD.

339 The Philadelphia Story. Dir. Cukor, George, Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, James Stewart. Warner Home Video, 2000. DVD.

The Lives of Others (Das Leben der Anderen). Dir. Donnersmarck, Florian Henckel von, Martina Gedeck, Ulrich Mühe, Sebastian Koch, et al. Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 2007. DVD.

The White Hell of Pitz Palu. Dir. Fanck, Arnold, G. W. Pabst, Leni Riefenstahl, et al. Kino on Video, 2005. DVD..

Whity. Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Hanna Schygulla, Ron Randall, Ulli Lommel, et al. Fan- toma, 2000. DVD.

Querelle, A Film about Jean Genet’s Querelle De Brest. Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Brad Davis, Franco Nero, et al. Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD.

The American Soldier. Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Karl Scheydt, Elga Sorbas, et al. New Yorker Video, 2003.

Angst Essen Seele Auf (Ali: Fear Eats the Soul). Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Mira, Brigitte, El Hedi Ben Salem, et al. Criterion Collection, 2003. DVD.

Effi Briest. Dir. Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Hanna Schygulla, Wolfgang Schenk, Ulli Lommel, Lilo Pempeit. Fox Lorber, 2003. DVD.

Cleopatra. Dir. Gaskill, Charles, Helen Gardner, Miss Fielding, Charles Sindelar. Silent (1912). Film.

Quo Vadis. Dir. Guazzoni, Enrico, Amleto Novelli, Gustavo Serena. Silent (1913). Film.

Jud Süss. Dir. Veit, Harlan, Ferdinand Marian, Werner Krauss, et al. International Historic Films, Inc., 2008. DVD.

His Girl Friday. Dir. Hawks, Howard, Cary Grant, Rosalind Russell, et al. Columbia TriStar Home Video, 2000. DVD.

Bringing Up Baby. Dir. Hawks, Howard, Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, et al. Warner Home Video, 2005. DVD.

340 Nosferatu, the Vampyre. Dir. Herzog, Werner, Klaus Kinski, Isabelle Adjani, et al. Anchor Bay Entertainment, 2002. DVD.

Psycho. Dir. Hitchcock, Alfred, Anthony Perkins, Janet Leigh, et al. Universal Studios, 2009. DVD.

Spellbound. Dir. Hitchcock, Alfred, Ingrid Bergman, Gregory Peck, Rhonda Fleming. Criterion, 2002. DVD.

Marnie. Dir. Hitchcock, Alfred, Tippi Hendren, Sean Connery, Henry Beckman. Universal Studi- os, 2004. DVD.

Vertigo (Collector’s Edition). Dir. Hitchcock, Alfred, Kim Novak, James Stewart, et al. Universal Studios, 2009. DVD.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Dir. Hubley, Emily, Christine Vachon, Katie Roumel, et al. New Line Productions, 2001. DVD.

Joel, Billy. Piano Man. New York, NY: Columbia, 1973. Sound Recording, CD.

2001, A Space Odyssey. Dir. Kubrick, Stanley, Arthur C. Clarke, Keir Dullea, et al. Warner Home Video, 2001. DVD.

Clockwork Orange. Dir. Kubrick, Stanley, Malcolm McDowell, Patrick Magee, Michael Bates, et al. Warner Brothers Pictures, 2001. DVD.

Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. Dir. Kubrick, Stanley, Peter Sellers, George Scott, Slim Pickens, et al. Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD.

Metropolis. Dir. Lang, Fritz, Thea von Harbou, Brigitte Helm, et al. Kino on Video, 2002. DVD.

Metropolis (restored). Dir. Lang, Fritz, Thea von Harbou, Gottfried Huppertz, et al. Kino International, 2010 - Newly restored version. DVD.

Brokeback Mountain. Dir. Lee, Ang, Larry McMurty, James Schamus, Heath Ledger. Universal Studios, 2006. DVD.

Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth Dir. Lucas, George, Joseph Campbell, Bill D. Moyers, et al. Mystic Fire Video, 2001. DVD.

341 Star Wars. Episode IV: A New Hope. Dir. Lucas, George, Gary Kurtz, Harrison Ford, et al. 20th Century Fox Entertainment, 2004. DVD.

One Day in September. Dir. Macdonald, Kevin, Arthur Cohn, John Battsek, et al. Columbia TriS- tar Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD.

A Trip to the Moon (La Voyage dans la Lune). Dir. Méliès, Georges, et al. Landmarks of Early Film, Vol. 1. Image Entertainment, 1997. DVD.

Nosferatu, Eine Symphonie Des Grauen. Dir. Murnau, Friedrich Wilhelm, Luciano Berriatúa, Fritz Arno Wagner, et al. Eureka, 2007. DVD.

Gattaca. Dir. Niccol, Andrew, Uma Thurman, Ethan Hawks, Jude Law, et al. Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD.

Chinatown. Dir. Polanski, Roman, Jack Nicholson, Faye Dunaway, Bruce Glover. Paramount, 1999. DVD.

The Tin Drum (Die Blechtrommel). Dir. Schlöndorff, Volker, Mario Adorf, Angela Winkler, et. al. Criterion Collection, 2004. DVD.

Blade Runner—The Director's Cut. Dir. Scott, Ridley, Philip K. Dick, Harrison Ford, et al. Warner Home Video, 1999. DVD.

The Blue Angel (Der Blaue Engel). Dir. Sternberg, Josef von, Marlene Dietrich et. al. Kino on Video, 2001. DVD.

All that Heaven Allows. Dir. Sirk, Douglas, Peg Fenwick, Jane Wyman, et al. Criterion Collec- tion, 2001. DVD.

Das Versprechen (The Promise). Dir. Trotta, Margarethe von, Meret Becker, Anian Zollner, et al. New Line Home Video, 1995. DVD.

Die Verlorene Ehre Der Katharina Blum. Dir. Trotta, Margarethe von, Volker Schlöndorff, Mario Adorf, Angela Winkler, et al. Criterion Collection, 2003. DVD.

Les Quatre Cents Coups (400 Blows). Dir. Truffaut, François, Marcel Moussy, Jean-Pierre Léaud, Claude de Givray, et al. Criterion Collection, 2006. DVD.

342 The Matrix. Dir. Wachowski, Andy, Larry Wachowski, Joel Silver, et al. Warner Home Video, 2001. DVD.

Citizen Kane. Dir. Orson Welles, Joseph Cotton, Agnes Moorehead. Turner Home Entertain- ment, 2001. DVD.

The Trial. Dir. Welles, Orson, Anthony Perkins, Jeanne Moreau, Romy Schneider. Alpha Video, 2003. DVD.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Dir. Wiene, Robert, David Shepard, Hans Janowitz, et al. Image En- tertainment, 1997. DVD.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Michaela Densmore earned Undergraduate degrees in both Biology and Humanities from Florida State and pursued studies in the Humanities on the Graduate level. A lifelong interest for the sciences and various cultures, from Classical societies such as ancient Egypt, Rome and Greece to Mesoamerican civilizations and European Middle Ages, Michaela Densmore has found great interest in the analysis of modern films as many afford the opportunity to bring together knowledge of great civilizations and cultures and examine the medium from a scientifically oriented angle.

Currently Michaela Densmore is working in data analysis as Research and In- formation Coordinator for the College of Education’s Deans Office at FSU.

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