The Big Parallax

I recently watched Alan J. Pakula’s The Parallax View, starring Warren Beatty as the pertinacious reporter Joe Frady who begins to unravel a conspiracy surrounding the deaths of several people who, like himself, had witnessed the assassination of a popular RFK-esque politician three years prior. His inquiry takes him far down the rabbit’s hole, so to speak, where he finds the nebulous, but no doubt sinister, deeds of the Parallax Corporation, a corporation ostensibly designed to seek out and hire maladjusted individuals whose psychological profiles earn them the unique privilege of carrying out high-profile assassinations.

The film is undoubtedly steeped in the post-Watergate zeitgeist of conspiracy, scandal, and suspicion, comparable in many ways to Sydney Pollack’s Three Days of the Condor, although I prefer Parallax for a number of reasons. But it would be wrong to not give due weight to the tumultuous events of the 1960s as well, which indelibly leave their mark on the film in the form of retrospection, subtly cued by the time-jump employed by the director. Thus, rather than immersing the viewer in the chaos of assassination, the film creates a “temporal parallax” by re-reading, as it were, the milieu of the 1960s from the frame of the 1970s: the “parallax gap,” produced by the minimal difference between the event as it was experienced and as it appears in retrospect, creates the effect of a stain, that of an unsolved crime, left upon the lap of hapless Joe.

What drew me to the film originally was the fact that it happened to share the same name of Slavoj Zizek’s “magnum opus,” but which conspicuously and, most likely, intentionally bears no mention of Pakula’s film. In Zizek’s Parallax View, “parallax” is defined as

the apparent displacement of an object (the shift of its position against a background), caused by a change in observational position that provides a new line of sight. The philosophical twist to be added, of course, is that the observed difference is not simply “subjective,” due to the fact that the same object which exists “out there” is seen from two different stations, or points of view. It is rather that, as Hegel would have put it, subject and object are inherently “mediated,” so that an “epistemological” shift in the subject’s point of view always reflects an “ontological” shift in the object itself. Or, to put it in Lacanese, the subject’s gaze is always-already inscribed into the perceived object itself, in the guise of its “blind spot,” that which is “in the object more than object itself,” the point from which the object itself returns the gaze.¹

So where in the film do we get “parallax”? Perhaps by breaking the film down into its various constituent elements gives us a clear idea. There are three main actors: Joe Frady, the Parallax Corporation and the Senate. The object of inquiry, of course, is the assassination. At first glance, then, it would appear that the parallax is produced by the two antagonists of the film, Joe and the Parallax corporation, yet this doesn’t produce any change in the object, nor does it imply any sort of mediation between subject and object. Perhaps, then, parallax designates the very refraction of each of the various constituent elements in the film. First, there is the case of the Parallax corporation itself: when Joe visits Parallax, it does not appear ominous at all, neither from the outside nor from within, at least any more so than a typical corporation. It is only the fact that Joe approaches Parallax as Joe qua potential assassin that the truly sinister dimension of Parallax emerges. In this instance, the object itself is the Parallax Corporation, and its ontological status is affected by Joe’s change in subjective position. There is also the obvious parallax produced by Joe prior to his knowledge of the conspiracy and Joe after he becomes aware of its true nature: in the case of the former, the assassination appears to be just a disparate act of a crazy man, but afterwards it becomes clear that the assassination is part of a much wider conspiracy involving the Parallax corporation.

Yet these solutions don’t potentially tell us anything new about the film. A far more interesting effect is produced by comparing Joe as he apprehends his activity as an investigator to his concrete activity after his undertaking the Parallax indoctrination montage.

Joe thinks he is a journalist trying to uncover the mystery of the Parallax corporation, a kind of noumenal entity that seems to exist outside the boundaries of normal everyday society, reflected in the eerie darkness of their video-viewing room. Yet, in striking similarity to Glenn Ford’s character in Fritz Lang’s The Big Heat, Joe’s concrete actions in pursuing his investigation produce the desired consequences of the Parallax corporation itself. In a strangely Hegelian way, he carries out the very mission he intended to prevent and expose, and thus the parallax object is Joe himself, Joe as fractured by Joe qua his subjective stance and his objective status as an agent of the Parallax corporation thinking he is simply acting in a duplicitous manner. This may explain why, after his viewing of the indoctrination montage, we no longer receive much, if any, dialogue from Joe.

Yet one variable remains unaccounted for: the Senate. The Senate appears twice in the film, each time marking an assassination: once at the beginning and once at the end. The Senate is clearly the dimension of the big Other, the symbolic Law that quilts a given signifying chain in establishing knowledge as subordinate to the Master. The Senate qua big Other decide what the events “meant,” thereby lending them a certain fixity acquired through the propagation of Master-Signifiers. After the assassination, numerous stories are told about what happened, how and why: perhaps it was an inside job, or maybe it was perpetrated by a foreign country, or maybe it was simply a freak accident. All of these stories have the potential of acquiring the status of “knowledge,” but only insofar as they are subordinated to a Master-Signifier that secures the stability of their meaning: this is the job of the Senate qua big Other.

The bureaucratic stamp that provides knowledge with its ontological status, on the one hand, appears at first to be totalizing, but is in fact barred, incomplete, and marked by a certain lack that appears as a distortion. This appearance of distortion, however, is inherent to the parallax object itself: while the Master’s knowledge gives the illusion of fixity and stability to meaning, there is always the shadowy double, the “dark side of the Moon,” so to speak, that resists signification. This is the angle from which Joe proceeds in his inquiry, but gets caught up in the game and is eventually duped by the Parallax corporation as a result of not taking into account his own subjective position.

The uncanny effect produced by the disjunction between Joe’s unrelenting quest to uncover the truth against the Master’s Law and its shadowy, obscene counterpart in the frightening libidinal space of the Parallax corporation, echoes the aesthetics of classic film noir and its predecessor, German Expressionism. What gives The Parallax View its unique flavor, one that, not without coincidence, marks the historical-cinematic break between the era of classic and neo-film noir, is the undermining of Joe’s very subjective position. Moreover, Pakula’s use of negative shots (a hallmark of film noir), particularly of Joe in his apartment after he has faked his own death and is “officially” no longer among “the living”—shots which evoke those of Madeleine in Hitchcock’s Vertigo—, depict nothing other than the formal emptiness of the Cartesian cogito, the overwhelming excess and mad doubting that expels everything from the interiority of its being. Pakula’s depiction of this constant doubting, this “night of the world” inherent to the subject, marks the film’s truly radical dimension.

1. Slavoj Zizek, The Parallax View. Available online here via Lacan.com. ↩

—Bryan Klausmeyer

America: A Nation of Whiners

It is undoubtedly the case that America is a nation of whiners. It is and always has been, how else do you think it came into existence? I don’t think anyone will contend otherwise, which is probably why the media has focused almost solely and unrelentingly on the “America is a nation of whiners” sound-bite from Phil Gramm’s recent diatribe. Even the blogosphere is partly to blame for this. Of course, this focus is essentially a reaction-formation designed to obscure and repress the far more ideological claim on Gramm’s part that economic failure is “psychological,” i.e. subjective.

The subjectivist theory of economics has long been a staple of neoliberal ideology, which argues, for example, that the value of a commodity, rather than being the objective cost of the labor required to produce said commodity, is in fact reflective of its marginal utility. But on the specific issue of the business cycle and economic crises, marginalist theory fails to provide an adequate explanation: instead it has to rely on its late-capitalist ideological counterpart, New Age obscurantism, which promulgates that the problems we experience, and our reality in general, are purely of our own making. And clearly the liberal rejoinder that “it has real consequences!” is not enough. It is a prototypically pathetic response, as it accepts the neoliberal framing of the debate, simply adding that subjective reality can lead to actual, concrete harm to human-beings.

There is obviously a grain of truth to the liberal argument, but the more important issue at stake is whether economic crisis is “psychological” in nature, or part in parcel of an objective process. Marx articulated the latter view in his Theories of Surplus-Value. His formulation of crisis theory, which points to an inherent tendency of capitalism to undergo crises as a result of the over-production of fixed capital, is perhaps one of his most important contributions to the critique of capitalism.¹

As Marx writes, “In the crises of the world market, the contradictions and antagonisms of bourgeois production are strikingly revealed.” To take that a step farther, crisis also reveals these very same contradictions and antagonisms within our political discourse. Here the link between Marxism and psychoanalysis becomes quite explicit: it is the goal of the analyst to confront the analysand with the contradictions inherent to her/his discourse in order to fully expose to them their relation to the unconscious truth, a truth which contradicts every discourse, including its relation to itself. The whole debacle involving Gramm points to an unconscious repression of class struggle, which is the sine qua non of the political struggle.

That is why I will be voting for Stalin come November.

1. A condensed overview of Marx’s crisis theory is available at ISR. ↩

—Bryan Klausmeyer

Thank You, Comrade Stalin!

Of all of the twentieth century’s world-historical figures, Comrade Stalin is, in my opinion, the greatest of them all. Obviously this seems somewhat ironic, given the fact that he did some terrible deeds such as purging the Party in the late 1930s and of course the infamous Doctor’s Plot, but I think it is indeed quite serious. It was no small feat leading a backwards peasant country to victory against the Nazi war machine, not to mention his implementation of democracy in the Soviet Union in 1937.

Here you can see him consecrating the long-awaited sexual act. I just wish these kinds of things weren’t so constantly overlooked as they are in today’s so-called post-industrial risk society. Maybe if we awoke from our collective dogmatic slumber, there wouldn’t be so many terrible problems in the world.

—Bryan Klausmeyer 1 Comment