Watching Inside Out in Brazil

It takes a lot of years living in another country to understand exactly how much emotions are affected
by culture. And sometimes, watching a movie or reading a novel throws those differences into stark relief. Watching Inside Out in a Brazilian cinema was one of those moments.

Internationally, Brazilians are famous for their joy: the extravagant shows of carnaval, the contagious beat of the samba, Ronaldinho's playful smile as his dribbled past year another open-mouthed defender. Living here, however, one sees that Brazilians are as comfortable in sadness as they are in joy: people express their melancholy openly, in a way that many Americans would see as embarrassing, death is not a taboo subject, and when you listen carefully to the lyrics of those great sambas, most of them are about sadness.  For instance:

O samba é pai do prazer,

O samba é filha da dor

O grande poder transformador

(Samba is the father of pleasure,

Samba is the child of pain.

The great transformative power)

One of the things that Rita (my Brazilian wife) always comments when she goes to the United States is that happiness is obligatory, while sadness is seen as a failure or even a sin. When Americans feel sad, we have to hide it, and if people we love aren't happy, we see that as a failure, too. For Rita, this kind of obligatory happiness is extremely difficult... and after a couple of years living here, I have to say that I agree. Americans have turned emotion into morality, with happiness standing in for good, and sadness for sin.

(The Brazilian theory of the relationship between joy and sadness, by the way, is that sadness is a kind of rest. Just as one must sleep in order to be awake, one must be sad from time to time in order to be joyful. Music and dance play the role of mediators between the two.)

In this context, Inside Out says something truly revolutionary to Americans. When Riley (the little girl in the film) becomes depressed, it is not because she is really, really, really sad. That depression happens when sadness is banished from the "Command Center:" depression is not an excess of sadness, but the lack of it. And perhaps even more significantly, when you banish sadness, you also banish joy.

Loads of pop sociology and pop psychology could emerge from this insight, but I'll leave that to everyone else. For me, the movie serves a a kind of touch-point for a series of lessons I have been learning over the last fifteen years in Brazil: sadness is not a sin and emotions are not ethics. And when we are able to accept that sadness (and many other emotions Americans would tag as negative) are a positive and enriching part of human experience, we will be much better people.

And we'll probably be less depressed, too.

Ella Enchanted: Kant gets lost in a fairy tale

For those who know a little of the uncharted wasteland of teeny-bopper television, what I am about to write will come as a surprise: Ella Enchanted is genius.

I'm not referring to the esthetics of the movie, nor even its humor (which is pretty good), but, oddly enough, to its philosophical basis. Unexpectedly, this seemingly frivolous movie places itself in dialogue with Kant, Lacan, and Zizek. But before I go on to defend this radical thesis, let me tell the story:

Ella is born into a home where fairies are part and parcel of everyday life, and though the story is based (very loosely) on Cinderella, it steals a conceit from Sleeping Beauty. The fairies find themselves in a kind of contest to give the best present to the baby, and the final fairy gives the best thing she can come up with: the "gift of obedience." For the parents, this gift is often a blessing: they can tell the child to sleep or eat or behave, and Ella has no choice. She will obey.

Any parent will have mixed feelings about such a gift, because as much as we prize the autonomy of our children (and I even like Helena's rebellious streak), there are times when we just need them to do what they are told. How much despair leaked into my life because Helena would not sleep when I was totally exhausted, and how many fights have we suffered when she simply refuses to eat broccoli even as she recognizes that it is one of her favorite foods. (That
is not a misprint: when not being stubborn, she loves broccoli, squid, octopus, raw fish, and any number of foods you would not expect a five year old to  enjoy). In the end, though, to our modern, liberal ears, obedience sounds more like a curse than a gift.

The first half of the movie plays the "gift of obedience" for laughs, and with no little success. As Ella's stepsisters learn that she will always do exactly what they command, they condemn her to a series of misadventures and petty crimes; her first encounter with the prince is complicated by the simple orders of "stay here and wait" or "listen to me," the stuff of daily conversation that we only see as an order as we laugh at Ella's response.

Finally, Ella heads off on her mission to find the fairy and ask her to take back the gift/curse. Walking through the woods as she begins her quest, the cries of "help me!" force her to obey and save an elf from his torture. As he screams advice to her, she takes the words as commands; and since she must do what she is commanded, in fact she fights like a king-fu master.

In the tumbles and turns of the plot, Ella learns of the oppression of the ogres and giants, finds a weak ally in the prince and heir to the throne, and finally makes her way to the capital city of the kingdom. To this point, the plot seems rather like that of Shrek, a simple inversion or deconstruction of fairy tale tropes, but with Ella's encounter with the prince's uncle, the evil Regent Edgar, the tale becomes much heavier. Edgar discovers the gift of obedience and commands Ella to kill the prince in the hall of mirrors at midnight, though she has (of course) fallen in love with him.

In spite of all of her attempts to overcome the regent's evil command, Ella finds herself in the hall of mirrors with the prince, a dagger in her hands. She tries to resist, but the gift of obedience does not brook exceptions: the blade moves closer and closer to her lover's heart, and all of the commands she has heard in her life echo through her memory. Then, suddenly, she sees herself in a mirror, and recognizes the secret: instead of being commanded by others, she will command herself. Looking at herself in the mirror, she declares, "You will no longer be obedient!"

Suddenly, instead of just being entertained by a funny movie, we find ourself face to face with German idealism, with the quandary of free will, and with the basic challenge of rearing a child.

If we look carefully at ourselves, we see biological demands (hunger, warmth, etc) and environmental influences (we have learned to do certain things, picked up other habits...). Looking at almost any "free" decisions we make, we can explain it as an inevitable result of biology and psychology... so where is free will? We are all, looking at it scientifically, cursed with the "gift of obedience".

Emmanuel Kant may have been the first philosopher to formulate the virtue of human autonomy as split in two. With reason (he postulates reason, but we can also talk about tradition, love, even the mirrors of a fairy tale), we can formulate what is right and project ourselves upon it: this is what Kant calls duty. "Duty?" the reader asks. "Isn't that just another kind of obedience?" And in fact, it is... but a different kind of obedience. For Kant, reason and duty are a kind of mirror which allows us to step back, look at ourselves in a cruel, objective light, and command ourselves. The opening between what I naturally or culturally want and what I declare to be my duty opens up a gap, a way to decide between one and the other. It's that decision, that break, that shows us to be truly free.

We can talk about the same issue in terms of parenting. Many progressive parents try to help their children to be free by allowing them to do what they want. After all, in politics, a government that controls personal behavior is tyrannical; we want to avoid that kind of oppression at home, as well. The problem is, however, that children are not instant adults. Obedience may be the negation of our desire to "do what we want", but it also allows us to make a second, later step, that of commanding (and obeying) ourselves, instead of someone else. (there's a long essay here on Kant's relationship with Hegel and the negation of negation, but I'll spare you).

Ella Enchanted seems like yet another throw-away, a flash in the pan directed to pre-teen girls... but in fact, it may teach them one of the most important lessons they (and we) have to learn.