Some of the dimensions of epic experience that we're concerned with this semester can be hard to grasp, both because they come to us from very old modes of culture (the Homeric tradition) and because they persist in forms so immediate and familiar as to resist description (e.g. aspects of cinematic structure that effect us as viewers but which nonetheless resist codification). In cases like this it becomes useful to establish an analogy: a conceptual parallel between the element which concerns us and some otherwise differing element--a move we'll make using the notion of the "uncanny" (a notion first thought out in detail by the psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud).
Interestingly enough, Freud’s thoughts on the uncanny stemmed from questions about the basic nature of aesthetic experience—native terrain for citizen-artists like us.
Specifically, Freud wondered what it took for something to become “uncanny” rather than merely “fearful” or “startling” (a good question). Freud recognized the uncanny as a common component of literature and other arts—but he noted in turn that critics and philosophers who think about such things have always pretty much focused on “the beautiful, attractive and sublime” (1).
So in order to generate insight into the uncanny as a negative dimension of aesthetics (in contrast to the positive aesthetic dominion of the sublime), Freud did two things: First, he looked closely at the historical usages not only of the word “unheimlich” (the German word we translate in English as “uncanny”) but also its root word, “heimlich.” Second, he examined lists of phenomena that would be widely regarded to be “uncanny” in his day (early twentieth-century Europe).
Freud found that both courses led to the same result: “the ‘uncanny’ is that class of the terrifying which leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar” (1).
The notion of the uncanny will help us this semester in many ways. For one, it will help us understand the connotations of our modern concept of home--an element central to every film we'll see this semester (and central to the great epic poems such as Homer's Odyssey).
"Home" is in fact one of the primary meanings of the German word "heimlich"--and this raises some fundamental questions: In the narratives we're working with, how can one's sense of home be seen to link irrevocably to it's own "terrifying" opposite (the unsettled landscape of the American West, the evil witch's lair, the slave-ship galley...)? How might home be seen as a place persisting from its beginning as a return destination (i.e. as a point of origin one can only ever "go back" to)? And how does such a paradox relate to film, in particular--not merely as an instance of content or theme, but as a component of the medium's foundational structure?
A final point of clarification: No one (least of all Freud) is saying that "home" is inherently terrifying, unconsciously or otherwise. The point, on the contrary, is that the uncanny denotes a specific mode of terrifying experience, a mode related in various ways to the state of being domestic or homelike. By understanding this particular dimension of the terrifying, we can better understand our late-modern selves in every facet (including the sublimely beautiful). And we can better understand the function of cinema, in all it's cultural, political, and aesthetic dimensions.
Interestingly enough, Freud’s thoughts on the uncanny stemmed from questions about the basic nature of aesthetic experience—native terrain for citizen-artists like us.
Specifically, Freud wondered what it took for something to become “uncanny” rather than merely “fearful” or “startling” (a good question). Freud recognized the uncanny as a common component of literature and other arts—but he noted in turn that critics and philosophers who think about such things have always pretty much focused on “the beautiful, attractive and sublime” (1).
So in order to generate insight into the uncanny as a negative dimension of aesthetics (in contrast to the positive aesthetic dominion of the sublime), Freud did two things: First, he looked closely at the historical usages not only of the word “unheimlich” (the German word we translate in English as “uncanny”) but also its root word, “heimlich.” Second, he examined lists of phenomena that would be widely regarded to be “uncanny” in his day (early twentieth-century Europe).
Freud found that both courses led to the same result: “the ‘uncanny’ is that class of the terrifying which leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar” (1).
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| Domestic space in The Searchers... |
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| ...and in The Wizard of Oz |
"Home" is in fact one of the primary meanings of the German word "heimlich"--and this raises some fundamental questions: In the narratives we're working with, how can one's sense of home be seen to link irrevocably to it's own "terrifying" opposite (the unsettled landscape of the American West, the evil witch's lair, the slave-ship galley...)? How might home be seen as a place persisting from its beginning as a return destination (i.e. as a point of origin one can only ever "go back" to)? And how does such a paradox relate to film, in particular--not merely as an instance of content or theme, but as a component of the medium's foundational structure?
A final point of clarification: No one (least of all Freud) is saying that "home" is inherently terrifying, unconsciously or otherwise. The point, on the contrary, is that the uncanny denotes a specific mode of terrifying experience, a mode related in various ways to the state of being domestic or homelike. By understanding this particular dimension of the terrifying, we can better understand our late-modern selves in every facet (including the sublimely beautiful). And we can better understand the function of cinema, in all it's cultural, political, and aesthetic dimensions.
CS
