Fall$ 08 Alfred Hitchcock & The Undiscovered Science of Suspense Thesis&submitted&in&fulfilment&of&the&requirements&for&the&degree&of&Doctor&of&Philosophy& The&College&of&Education& Victoria&University,&Footscray,&Australia& March&2017& & Abstract$ Whether cheering the demise of a ruthless villain or crying in despair as a romantic couple is torn apart, ‘viewers seem to take inherent pleasure in strongly desiring various outcomes for the central characters of a narrative’ (Plantinga 2009, p. 31). Despite film practitioners striving to incite this desire and film theorists often fretting about its ability to bypass our moral compass, the origin of these passionate preferences has rarely been subjected to sustained investigation. In challenging folk accounts of our ‘predilections for narrative outcomes’ (Rapp & Gerrig, 2006), this thesis counters conventional wisdom of ‘rooting’ for narrative outcomes. Attitudes towards filmmakers, films, and audiences who fail to adhere to ideologically-imbued assumptions about the ‘right’ outcomes to root for are interrogated against the possibility that viewers might indulge in this passionate arousal whilst remaining acutely aware and openly critical of a film’s aesthetic and ideological construction. Where received wisdom suggests that rooting is the result of morality and partiality, a counter thesis is proposed that suggests failure to predict enigmatic responses during Hitchcockian suspense when viewers find themselves hoping for immoral outcomes and/or characters. In combination with textual analysis of these as yet unexplained ‘moral inversion of suspense’ scenes (Allen 2007, p. 62) and new research on the nature of moral judgment and emotion, I argue that although the influence of character remains significant, widespread assumption that it is the primary source of our moment-by-moment desires for narrative outcomes appear to be overstated and may represent an ‘attachment fallacy’. Moreover, this focus on moral judgment and empathic concern has hampered the recognition of egocentric concerns capable of exerting a major amoral and impartial influence on the narrative outcomes that audience members root for at the movies. Declaration$ I, Cody McCormack, declare that the PhD thesis entitled Alfred Hitchcock and the Undiscovered Science of Suspense is no more than 100,000 words in length including quotes and exclusive of tables, figures, appendices, bibliography, references and footnotes. This thesis contains no material that has been submitted previously, in whole or in part, for the award of any other academic degree or diploma. Except where otherwise indicated, this thesis is my own work. Signature Date Dedicated to the three things I have loved and hated most: film, theory, and my Huckleberry friend, The Rang. xxx Acknowledgements. Conducting this research in relative isolation down in Melbourne, Australia has been more bearable thanks to the generosity of many people north of the equator. My work has benefited from written correspondence with David Bordwell, Patrick McGilligan, Charles Barr, Ken Mogg, Christine Gledhill, Anne Morey, Michaela Mikalauski, Sidney Gottlieb, Tony Macklin, Geoff Songs, Jonathan Cohen, Aaron Smuts, Alex Wiegmann, Andreas Lindegaard Gregersen, Morton Ann Gernsbacher, Rebecca Saxe, William Kelly, S.T VanAirsdale, Dan Hutto, Shaun Gallagher, Noël Carroll, Norman Feather, Arthur A. Raney, Carl Plantinga, Margrethe Bruun Vaage, and George Loewenstein. I have also enjoyed sustained written dialogue with Jane Landman, Robert Blanchet, Gilberto Perez, Jonathan Frome, Dirk Eitzen, Lisa Feldman Barrett, and Peter DeScioli. The project has also been assisted by information provided by genealogical researcher, Catherine L. Gowdy, and Humanities Reference Specialist at the British Library, Rachel Brett. Thank you to my supervisors. To Mark Vicars for being crazy enough to believe in the dying tradition of research as discovery, both personal and academic, and having faith that I would eventually submit something of value despite my bricolage brain extending the process beyond the point of all reason. And to Lorraine Mortimer. Whilst so many have either no idea, are afraid and in awe of them, or see their expression as indulgent, you are the ultimate exception. The grab bag of these things you hold in your hands would not exist without your continuing support and assistance. A special thank you to the Graduate Research Centre staff, the unsung heroes of the PhD process, who helped lead me along this long and winding road –– Grace Schirripa, Lesley Birch, and Marg Malloch. Thanks to my wife, Glenda, for putting up with me during this arduous process of highs and lows. A million apologies for the intense emotional and financial stress I subjected you to. I could not have completed this journey without the sacrifices you made to help get me over the line. Apologies are also due to my family on both sides for my ongoing mental and physical absence. I suppose I should also thank my parents, without whom none of this pain and misery would have been possible. To my mother, who gave me cinema, and my father, who gave me criticism. Of course, all errors in this document are theirs and theirs alone… ‘A plague o’ both your houses’ - Mercutio (Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Sc. 1) Preface' ‘We are standing here today because a famous shojo manga artist recently refused us permission to reproduce his art in our reprinted book, Reading Japan Cool: Patterns of Manga Literacy and Discourse.’ So started my latest reminder that theorists and practitioners are born to feuding families. ‘He said our theory was wrong’, continued Tokyo-based academics John E. Ingulsrud and Kate Allen in a presentation at my first- ever academic conference, having returned to theory after a decade and a half in practice. ‘He informed us that caricatured faces in his work did not represent a character’s inner feelings as our book claimed’. This news was a sudden jolt to these senior academics and it sent them scurrying off to reexamine the issue anew. The result was a passionate, intelligent research paper that utilised sociolinguistic concepts to conclude that, contrary to their original claim, the artistic device did indeed have multiple functions.1 When the presentation ended and questions opened up, I could barely contain my curiosity. ‘What did the shojo artist have to say about your new theory?’, I asked, visions of wild saké celebrations between artist and academic duo stretching long into the night. Then came the reply: ‘We didn’t ask’. And before I'd even blinked, the next question was taken. My heart sank. In all my years away from academia, nothing had changed. Back in the early 90s when I was studying film, I was astonished by the deep divide between theory and practice. Even work that focused on the films as artifacts tended to be close readings capable of sending the original filmmaker to sleep. The only time film making seemed to be mentioned in this, the preeminent film theory course in Australia, was when lauding a director’s genius or when explaining why their work was either ideologically complicit with, or slyly critical of, ongoing social oppression. The theory that surrounded me seemed fanciful and self-inflated. I wanted theory that mattered to practice. Theory I could put into practice in my own filmmaking. For these reasons, Noël Carroll’s work was an important antidote for me. Not only did Carroll call out the cult of psycho-semiotic theory that was still widely preached, but he also engaged in straightforward attempts to explain how films worked rather than cloaking them in obscure terminology and counterintuitive claims. By far the 1 Ingulsrud & Allen 2012, John E. Ingulsrud and Kate Allen, Abstract, Conference Program, POPCAANZ, Melbourne, Australia. most important example to me was his moral theory of suspense, which worked both as theoretical explanation and practical principle. At last I caught a glimpse of what film theory that informed practice might look like. But it proved just that. A glimpse. Throughout the course, I continued to be surrounded by theory that looked down on practitioners and their audiences. That these excluded parties might actually have something worthy to say which could assist in a more accurate diagnosis beyond the common wisdom was apparently thought impossible. It felt like every attempt to speak about film creation and reception had to be prefaced with an apology or an excuse. You were either doing official experimental psychology in the laboratory or you were not, and anything in between was of no worth whatsoever. So, after somehow surviving in this environment until Honours, I abandoned my plans for a Masters of Arts and left film theory for practice, enrolling in the first full-time screenwriting course in the southern hemisphere to learn about narrative craft. And there, as I explained to no less than the head of the Australian Film Commission that I had recently moved across from theory out of frustration that it continually neglected practice, I was once again reminded that these pastimes are born to feuding families. In an eerily similar attitude to the theorists I had left behind, the AFC head honcho sighed and bemoaned the pointlessness of film theory. Rather than find comfort in his sympathy, I challenged him on the issue, not because I believed film theory hadn’t lived down to his lowly assessment or because I was offended by the suggestion that I might have wasted so many years on a pointless pastime. What disturbed me was the persistent, petty division between the two groups having personally glimpsed, in Carroll, the riches that we might find at the intersection of practice and theory. Needless to say, my argument fell on deaf ears. The course itself exhibited surprisingly little concern for theoretical reflection about the craft tricks that make stories work and the remedial maneuvers this might allow us to categorise and communicate to help resolve creative problems that commonly arise.