#5. Ahead of the Game

You have to be a somewhat closeted person to get to this day without knowing some of the great ‘twists’ in famous films. I watched Se7en vaguely aware of what happened at the end, and of the person who would be starring in that crucial moment.

Do not read any more if you do not want to know what happened, nor if you want to know who is involved at the end.

There are spoilers ahead…

I’m not doing this to persuade you to read on, but I think it was important for me that I ‘knew’ what happened, as I could appreciate everything else so brilliant about the film. Films with twists sometimes are asking to be spoiled, and Se7en is perhaps one of those. Once you ‘know’ what happens, the notion of a twist takes on an ulterior tone, and elevates this noir about good cops trying to do good in a corrupt world, to a higher level.

Let’s start with thinking about the information the film gives us. It is a film replete with references to culture, both and high and low, references to other images and other films. The film, like any great film, is aware of its own image in the context of others. The film focuses on these murders which are representations of the seven deadly sins; the killer clearly views these as art, but the way Fincher represents them is after they have happened – we only see what there is left to see and as a result, have to do the work of reconstructing it ourselves.

And so the work is like a piece of pop art, a postmodern visual piece that blends high and low references to turn things into potential art. That’s a twist in itself. What’s high is low and what’s low becomes high, or we don’t know what constitutes what. The world becomes unsettlingly unreal but overwhelmingly real seeming. Don’t you think the sauce cans used in the gluttony murder resemble Campbell’s soup cans, already subjected to the attention of art? The murders could be elevated to high art, and Somerset (Morgan Freeman) is comfortable to accept that as he searches the library for motions and vindications, empirical support for the murders. These are his clues. Mills (Brad Pitt) however can see no logic, it’s banal and the man is a lunatic. This is not art.

There is no answer, Fincher is making no judgement. This sense however of us, the viewer, making a judgement has never been poised so awfully. One of the ways that Se7en is exceptional is in the sense that it directly asks the viewer, how can you watch this and ultimately how can you take part in this. How can you not make a judgement? But you must make a judgement, these are murders. How can you just sit there and watch it all happen?

The twisting continues. Not just are your guts twisting, so is your perception of the world and your position as the viewer and participant in it. Fincher sets it in an unnamed city that feels incredibly real but isn’t. It feels like something from Blade Runner (1981), the way that the rain persistently falls, and how that world (when I say world, I mean the filmic world) was also full of referents to a past, but present world in the future. Fincher also came from sci-fi beginnings, with his first film the continuation of Ridley Scott’s famous franchise, regardless of how much he wanted to be associated with it. But it’s also Lumet’s Serpico (1973); Mill’s wife, Tracy (Gwyneth Paltrow) references it at the start, and the film’s constant rain is also reminiscent of its opening. This is oozing noir.

When a news report in the nineties set out to find out who Thomas Pynchon was, the reporter located his home town and decided to leave it there, and reasoned that Pynchon in a sense was ‘everywhere and nowhere’ and perhaps that’s how it should be. Like Pynchon, I get this sense with Fincher, two great postmodernists; his films are everything and nothing. The world of Se7en is a world made from film. We’ve already had Serpico and its similar attempts of somebody trying to do right in an inherently corrupt world (look how often the law gets in the way rather than serves, notably demonstrated in the scene with the killer’s lawyer; this is the sense of twisting again, the world turned upside down). I’ve mentioned Blade Runner but you go back further than this, as it could be the city that held so much wonder and fear in Lang’s (1927) Metropolis and Murnau’s (1927) Sunrise: The Story of Two People, or have we merely run down the plug hole after the shower scene in Psycho (1960: Alfred Hitchcock)?

Isn’t film everything and nothing? Look at the killer. He is called John Doe; in the UK, this might be somebody known as ‘Joe Bloggs’, the everyman. Meet John Doe (1941:Capra) however focuses on a news reporter reluctantly agreeing to cover one last job before being laid off, but suspects and begins to uncover corruption, way beyond the seven days will allow her to report on. This sounds familiar to the situation Somerset finds himself in – his last seven days are tied up in the investigation of this murderer. When we first see the killer though and the brilliantly choreographed chase scene between him and Mills, we see him in a bowler/trilby hat and a long overcoat. He resembles one of Magritte’s men (or Magritte himself) which Magritte said of: “The bowler poses no surprises. It is a head dress that is not original. The man with the bowler is just bourgeois man in his anonymity. And I wear it. I am not eager to singularise myself.” The nineties however, in which Se7en was filmed, and Fincher also directed The Game (1997) and Fight Club (1999) during this time, there were a spate of films that played on this idea of the man who’s presence is not really known but is certainly felt. Perhaps The Silence of the Lambs (1981) pioneered this, and Se7en does a similar thing making the criminal in control of the proceedings and us rarely seeing him. In Se7en this is not obviously known until the end, but it becomes increasingly clear that John Doe has planned every step, right until its tragic denouement. Spacey even has a similar appearance to Hopkins, shaven head, pale face and a down turned, glowering look. And Spacey had effectively played the same role in The Usual Suspects (1995: is this Keyzer himself?)

Spacey might as well be wearing a mask, and he arguably is, as he’s hidden throughout the film. It wasn’t a necessarily commercial reason that they chose to keep Spacey out of the credits I don’t think though, but instead because it emphasises that blankness of the character. With all due respect to Spacey his round face is ‘unremarkable’ in the age of photogenic celebrity, and again, perhaps why Fincher thought of removing his credit. That blankness, that white mask, serves us in being able to project onto it our fears, our personal fears that have come from our minds, but more importantly, positioning him as that bourgoise everyman, the fears about ourselves. Because the thing is, you, the viewer are accessory to the killings in Se7en. Here is the twist; without you the film proposes these killings would not have happened. How can you sit there and watch? There is a term in psychoanalysis – Projection Identification – which means effectively ‘putting’ something in another person so that the person can relate to these projections, and that person who has been projected onto can potentially unconsciously enact this. This is of course what the killer does; he hates gluttony, sloth, so he effectively gets people to embody these things that he hates (the killings are meticulously planned, they are self-fulfilling prophecies, and so they kill themselves in a way). But isn’that what also happens to us? What do we see at the end? Do we see in the box? Do we see the bloody visceral image of the final murder? Depending who you are, this may you surprise you or not, but we don’t. You inagined it, you created the image of it. The history of cinema is the history of the image, but just because it’s there in front of us, it doesn’t mean we don’t do some of the work ourselves. How much do you think you see behind the curtain in Psycho? If you saw it, why didn’t you do anything about it?

Image result for the pilgrim magritte

 

Remainder: Lessons at the Limits

Latin from the books of the Laws of England, which taken along with the context, means, that of all whales captured by anybody on the coast of that land, the King, as Honorary Grand Harpooner, must have the head, and the Queen be respectfully presented with the tail. A division which, in the whale, is much like having an apple; there is no intermediate remainder” – Herman Melville, Moby Dick

There was a time when it seemed that that essay by Zadie Smith – ‘Two Directions for the Novel’ – was more known and read than Remainder itself. But now, McCarthy is one of the most notable and talented British novelists writing today, and two Booker nominations go to show for it. A Booker nomination can be a mystifying accolade though, and what would this ‘avant-garde’ novelist, eschewing the reliable and persisting, lyrical realism Smith riles against , make of being nominated for such a mainstream, literary prize? Clearly his work is not antithetical nor rejecting the culture at large.

This is one of the many paradoxes central to McCarthy’s work; Remainder is a novel that plays with the redundancy of language so it becomes a novel that has plenty to say but doesn’t say anything and more directly, a novel that has had so much said about it, it is a wonder what to say next; what it is made up of, it rejects. Smith uses James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake to elucidate the issue when she says:“The received wisdom of literary history is that Finnegan’s Wake did not fundamentally disturb realism’s course as Duchamp’s urinal disturbed realism in the visual arts: the novel is made out of language, the smallest units of which still convey meaning, and so they will always carry a trace of the real”

Let’s look at how it carries this trace of the real.

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It’s not necessary to do a point by point summary of the plot of Remainder, and instead point toward Smith’s essay and the text itself. However, what is making this task even more subservient, is that the edition that I’m using comes with an introduction by McKenzie Wark, which will be divulged later. We know however, that our nameless narrator (or Enactor as Smith calls him) is bequeathed a large amount of settlement money after an accident. About the accident he says “I can say very little” and this is no journey of discovery or reconciliation. With his money, instead of any hedonistic or philanthropic impulse (as Smith notes, both feel as inauthentic as the other), he decides to reconstruct a moment, that arrives through Deja vu, or a memory that he cannot locate in any time but feels that is inherently his. The reenactments multiply, becoming reenactments of reenactments, before culminating in a bank heist in a real, working bank.

Now, A film adaptation of McCarthy’s Remainder, directed by Omer Fast, has just been released and is coincidentally the impetus for writing about the book here. Putting it into the context of a film adaptation, Remainder shows itself to be the remarkable work that it is. This question of language that was highlighted at the start becomes even more complicated in this new context. Would Jacques Ranciere confidently have written this if he had read Remainder when he wrote in The Intervals of Cinema: “Cinema has been asked to fill the dream of a century of literature…Literature has been able to carry that dream because its discourse on things and their intensities stayed written in the double game of words, which hide from the eye the palpable richness which shimmers in the mind. Cinema just shows what it shows.” Remainder is a novel that just shows what it shows and seems to ask if we’re all anxious about what is real, and if we’re even worried that subjectivity is inauthentic, why divulge and express it with more inauthentic language?

Fundamentally it is grappling with what is real in the image culture, a very classically postmodern issue. And as we witness the narrator become obsessed with dissecting and slowing each moment in his reenactments, watching him only try to grasp at this thing we call real, all that is revealed is more space and vacuity; as Smith says Remainder “makes you preternaturally aware of space” as you read it. Look at the narrator’s continual references to cricket. Smith uses this as one of the cruxes of comparison between Remainder and the ‘other direction for the novel’ Joseph O’Neill’s Netherland. But McCarthy is not trying to wedge in any postcolonial metaphor, but is instead trying to understand the sport’s relationship with space and the image. Think of the different types of images that cricket gives to its viewer; the different types of replays; not just slow motion, but super-slow-motion, along with inventions like Hawkeye and Hotspot. These images don’t change the fundamentals of the game but they transform the viewing experience of it, and now, through a referral system, can alter decisions. A replay in effect, can now change the outcome of a game, and has become part of the game, rather than just the viewing experience.

What is the real experience with the image anymore then? Let’s remind ourselves how this starts – through a moment of Deja vu – an image, or a ‘memory’, that we feel that we have already inhabited before it has happened. The narrator says that “I’d been in a space like this before, a place like this” before he recounts the moment of being in that bathroom and looking at a crack in the wall. And unlike Deja vu dissipating, it instead persists. But Deja vu is the remembrance of a thing that hasn’t happened ultimately, of the brain working before itself, or the feeling of a memory that is not located in a particular space; or is not triangulated within the schema of our linearity of past, present, or future? It is as if working on all three, suspended above them all, working on the memory – the arbiter of the past; experience – the recognition passing of the present into the future; and desire – the wish for something to occur. What makes it such a striking experience though is that it is deeply personal. And like a replay, like all the reenactments, it feels like it has happened before, within reality, like the moment a batsman watches his decision overturned and is now considered out and his innings over.

The narrator is trying to understand before experiencing. This is entirely possible: look how after the accident, the narrator receives physiotherapy and begins relearning the basic motor functions that occur automatically in a process called ‘rerouting’. Here is the essential predicament summed up when he says: “[rerouting is to]cut and lay the new circuits, what they do is make you visualise things. Simple things like lifting a carrot to your mouth…Understanding this, and picturing yourself lifting the carrot to your mouth, again and again and again, cuts circuits through your brain that will eventually allow you to perform the act itself. That’s the idea (my emphasis)”. He then goes on to detail all the minute possibilities that are encased within the act of putting a carrot to your mouth – twenty seven separate manoeuvres – and the thousands of imaginary carrots that he has successfully consumed. But when it comes to the actual physical carrot itself, he cannot get it to his mouth. It’s by repetition that he thinks he can understand it, reinforce it and in doing so, make it a real, manifested, repetitive action.

That’s the idea, that’s all it is, and the obsession of ideas permeates in all the reenactments. But the transitions from an idea to the actual, physical completion of something are in different parts of the brain, and might as well be in different worlds. His world, both inside and out, is one of metaphysics and language, and although we can accept that our inner, thinking world is a foundationless one, to accept that the outer, physical world is as well is an abysmal one. This is the crisis, and it is a novel entrenched in crisis. It is embedded both locally within the novel and globally in the postmodern world. Smith says both Remainder and Netherland are enduring similar crises but playing them out very differently. Everything in Remainder is an idea, reducible to language, and not pretty lyrical language (“even my fantasies were plastic, imperfect, unreal”), a language that, even though it is the last vestige, is still stricken with inauthenticity. The narrator however is wanting and desiring to understand, but at each occasion, he’s greeted by more space that is only filled with more lyrical units.

Most books set out to answer why, or resolve, or at least through the dialectical process of reading, allow the reader to resolve. A book’s creation starts with just that though – the desire to create – and the narrator of Remainder at his core is a creator. This is where Smith and Wark converge. Remainder is typically self-conscious for its time and is effectively a creator creating a creation, but through the guise of an affable, naïve sounding narrator (McCarthy seems to have the ability to develop these effectively neurotic narrators that are implausibly limited, but at the same time affable and likeable). Wark addresses this more directly though when he says: “Creation once had a particularly exalted range of meaning. It is what God does. Remaining has more lowly connotations. Those not chosen come Judgement Day remain behind…” before adding that they become “unwanted books sold at knockdown prices are Remainders.” He says therefore that the questions that Remainder asks are: who gets to create? And when something is created, what remains, or is left behind? Furthermore, even if it is in the real physical world, is it real?

It is easy to look at this through the lens of postmodernity and ideology. This is a person who has an excessive amount of money and is investing it in these meaningless endeavours in an attempt to create meaning. The result is more surplus, debris, excess, indeed – remainders. But since the turn of modernity, we believe that we have the will to power, not a divine, invested power through a God. This sense of creation and being a creator is continually criticised, but what’s more, a criticism of critique is underway. The dispensation and availability of different theories to apply to the Remainder and the novel in general is further adding to this sense that all is beneath us is more theory, or more language (McCarthy takes this even further in his latest novel Satin Island). Marxist, Feminist, Poststructuralist, Freudian, or even Theologically, there is no way one to understand, but there’s only one way to do it.

What does feel real however is the sense of anxiety (you may ground this in psychoanalytic interpretation) and as Smith talks of Netherland, even though there is a real anxiety there, it eventually reminds us of our ‘beautiful plenitude’, where Remainder resolves nothing and instead aspires to be more debris, or even, junk. Here is where the naivety of the narrator comes in: if it is a novel that is self-conscious, it doesn’t understand itself as a novel, and the creator doesn’t understand himself as a creator. Yet there is a palpable anxiety, because there is a desire withheld, which we may call creation and accept all of that words umbrage, from artistic to Freudian connotations. What adds to it, is that he is not fully conscious of this anxiety, yet the reader is and feels it right till the very end and beyond. There is, as said nearer the start, no realisation or completion and although the creator produces a text, he doesn’t realise it. He is back to the problem of understanding and doing; he is doing and writing a novel, not understanding the implications of doing so, resulting in a novel that is not, by modern realist standards, necessarily a good one.

This is of course purposefully done by the real creator, Tom McCarthy. But where people like McCarthy and David Foster Wallace began diverging from the likes of Don DeLillo and Thomas Pynchon, is that they stop-short of there being some kind of fictive Other on which to project, regardless of the aesthetic of that Other. Think of the ‘Airborne Toxic Event’ in DeLillo’s White Noise or the Thurn und Taxis and the Trystero mail systems (one fact, one fiction) in Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49: we know that they are ironic fictions, but there is something there and somewhere to project all this anxiety onto. Whether this is the grounding or not for the obsessive reenactments, but repetition is born out of a desire and an anxiety to understand, in the same way writing a novel is born out of a desire to understand the self and the world. The anxiety acknowledged becomes intensified, even if the narrator doesn’t recognise it as so. Early modernity at least allowed there to be a private self but Remainder doesn’t; what isn’t private is unconscious.

Where it may become more a matter of ideology might be illuminated by some of the work Wark has done on the Situationists International (SI), mainly in his books ‘The Beach Beneath The Street’ (2011: a Situationist slogan, ironically used as an epitaph in Pynchon’s Inherent Vice) and ‘The Spectacle of Disintegration’ (which i’m going from here). The SI were a Marxist organisation that tried to counter the fact that capitalism had become so advanced that it had venerated not just labor and production, but every aspect of life and culture. But where Marx may have grounded his critique of society in philosophy, Guy Debord, the figurehead of the SI, ground his in culture. In his manifesto, The Society of the Spectacle (1968) Debord wrote, “the spectacle in general, as the concrete inversion of life, is the autonomous movement of the non-living”. There is clear influence from the likes of Lefebvre and consequently on people like Baudrillard, but capitalism had become so dominant and pervasive that culture had become commodified. Or rather, life, or the experience of it has. Remainder is at least aware that it is mixed up within the garble of slogans and commodification.

And yet, with all these remainders and reminders the novel is centred on the fact that there is no remainder for him after the accident and the fleeting moment he initially has in the bathroom is without substance. Watch how the final scene shows how we need no precedent for there to be experience, or for that matter, a remainder. In the rehearsal for the bank heist there is a kink in the carpet that the actor repeatedly trips over, but when it comes to the actual heist, the kink is not there, which still causes the actor to fall and ruin the heist. The narrator in his perennial naivety says:“But it was a re-enactment. That’s the beauty of it. It became real while it was going on. Thanks to the ghost kink, mainly – the kink the other kink left when we took it away”. Remainder is like a Mobius strip, and even though there’s no definitive starting point, everything has an idea and a desire, and as a result, a remainder. This is why this ‘avant-garde’ novel is so central to late, postmodern culture, because like Warhol’s Soup Cans, it is so eminently made up of it. All the stuff of it.

But there is something real that comes from this; there are real traces and remainders out there to remind us of all our creations. Wark opens his account of the legacy of the Situationists International, The Spectacle of Disintegration with a description of the Great Pacific garbage patch in the North Pacific Subtropical Gyre, which is nothing more than a great mass of dispensed litter. Feeling related in some ethereal way, McCarthy warns in the acknowledgements to his latest novel Satin Island (2015) that all his books are regurgitated ideas and theories. There is some fun to be had in finding the traces in Satin Island.

This is perhaps a real, reluctant lesson to be taken from Remainder. After all, there is an experience of it. Experience is unique in that it is formed by our past, present and future, and sometimes they’re like kinks in a carpet, can only happen before we understand what it means. But understanding just means more language and relativity. Experience cannot simply be transformed into words: that is a reluctant, real, transcendent matter.

Remainder directed by Omer Fast, and starring Tom Sturridge is out now. A new edition of Remainder (originally published in 2005) by Tom McCarthy, with an introduction by McKenzie Wark, has just been published by Alma.

Satin Island (2015) by Tom McCarthy is published by Vintage.

McKenzie Wark’s The Spectacle of Disintegration (2013) is published by Verso.