Film-Philosophy
Journal | Salon | Portal (ISSN 1466-4615)
Vol. 7 No. 23, August 2003
Nathan Andersen
Is Film the Alien Other to Philosophy?:
Philosophy *as* Film in Mulhall's _On Film_
_On Film_ London and New York:
Routledge,
2002 ISBN
0-415-24796-9 142 pp. Stephen Mulhall's _On
Film_ is, in many ways, a remarkable little book. It is,
ostensibly, a philosophical essay on the nature of film; and
yet it confines itself largely to the explication of the
four highly popular science-fiction films that comprise the
_Alien_ quartet, beginning with Ridley Scott's
science-fiction horror hybrid and culminating with
Jean-Pierre Jeunet's attempt to resurrect the series.
Although Mulhall occasionally calls upon the insights of
Stanley Cavell into the nature of cinema, and refers once or
twice to major philosophers such as Nietzsche, Heidegger,
and Wittgenstein, this work is not intended to be either a
treatise or a piece of scholarship on the philosophy of
film. It is, rather, an essay, in the best (or worst?) sense
of the term: an 'attempt' ('essai', from the Latin verb
'essayer': to try, to make an attempt) to read these films
as a developing body of philosophical works, each of which
refers to and criticizes, at the same time as it builds
itself upon, the claims and insights of its predecessors. As
such an attempt, the book's success can only be measured
with respect to how far it can sustain its hypothesis that
these films do more than merely illustrate themes that
happen to be discussed by philosophers. In other words, the
book will have to show that, in addition to being highly
entertaining, these films call for a philosophical reading,
that they raise and address the issues they are said to
refer to -- including topics of general concern such as the
significance of embodiment and sexual difference, in
addition to questions that relate directly to the philosophy
of cinema, such as the nature of cinematic representation,
the character of sequels, auteur theory, and the phenomenon
of stardom. More precisely, it will have to show that these
films entertain (to the extent that they do) precisely
because they are entertaining us about just these
philosophical issues, with which we -- as finite and
embodied human beings who go to the movies -- cannot help
but be obsessed. Of course, just as the
films to which it refers can work on a number of levels, so
does this book. Apart from (but in support of) its thesis on
the relation between film and philosophy, the book provides
original readings not only of the four films in the _Alien_
series, but also of several other films by the same
directors, such as Scott's _Bladerunner_, Cameron's
'Terminator' series, and David Fincher's _Seven_. These
readings have the refreshing quality of some of the best
reflective film criticism -- appearing long after the hype
of a film's opening, and unencumbered by deadlines, or by
the need to advise consumers on what to watch this weekend,
but without burdening the reader excessively by means of
reference or allegiance to particular theories of film --
such criticism often develops plausible and compelling
readings that challenge the received wisdom regarding a
film. I am thinking, for example, of Tim Kreider's recent
reappraisals of Stanley Kubrick's _Eyes Wide Shut_ and
Spielberg's _AI_ in _Film Quarterly_. Such readings have the
potential to change one's mind about what was happening in
the film -- not because they propose that there are hidden
elements in the film that cannot be understood apart from
some theoretical apparatus -- but because they lay out and
make plain what is already on the surface, showing that
close attention to the explicit dimensions of the film
reveals it to hang together much better than initial
audiences and critics supposed. Such readings also have the
capacity to reveal careful thought behind what may initially
appear as either sloppiness or, at best, mere
technique. Mulhall's readings of the
_Alien_ series as a whole -- and in particular, for me, his
readings of _Alien3_ [1] and _Alien Resurrection_ --
have that quality. After reading the book, and quite apart
from my need to do so for the purposes of this review, I was
both compelled and excited to go back and watch the films
again. I found that -- while I agree with Mulhall that his
readings are not the last word on these films (10) -- they
did allow me to make sense of and work through some of my
own prior concerns about the 'hanging together' of the
series as a whole. Someone might complain that Mulhall reads
too much into these films, that they are too light to
sustain his interpretations. The right response is the one
he gives, to remind us that this is an *attempt* to read the
films philosophically, and that the hermeneutic circle is
not necessarily vicious: 'whether or not a particular
reading of a film in fact reads things into it as opposed to
reading things out of it is not something that can be
settled apart from a specific assessment of that reading
against one's own assessment of the given film (and
vice-versa)' (8). A fan of either of the first two films
might complain that Mulhall's readings of elements of the
third and fourth film are excessively apologetic -- and yet
the interpretations he gives are not so much intended to
reassure the disappointed fan of the series that in spite of
appearances the latter episodes have remained faithful to
their expectations for a sequel. Rather, they aim to show
that the creators of these films are more interested in the
question of what it is to create a 'sequel', than they are
in the question of what fans 'expect' from a sequel. In
particular, they have taken seriously the challenge to
create sequels to films whose popularity stems from
something more than the fact that they generate specific
emotions such as anxiety and fear, or encourage the
satisfying consumption of popcorn. What Mulhall aims to show
in his readings is that each of the directors and creative
teams responsible for the ongoing films of this series
recognized a responsibility to be faithful to the thinking
going on within the series by creating narratives that
responded to those ideas: by challenging them, putting them
to the test, examining their limits. In other words,
Mulhall's readings of these films aim to show not only that
each of the _Alien_ films is philosophical insofar as it
takes up philosophical themes and addresses them in some
particular way, but that the development of the series is
itself philosophical in the sense that the history of
philosophy is itself philosophy: insofar as in its sequence
it embodies the kind of active interrogation and critique
that characterizes any given instance of
philosophizing. This brings us to the
question that will be the focus of my response to Mulhall's
text. I will consider what it means to claim (or in what
senses it can be said) that these films in particular, or
any films for that matter, exemplify the condition of 'film
as philosophy' (6). Though it might be worthwhile for
someone to review, assess, and challenge the accuracy and
power of his *interpretations* of the _Alien_ films, I will
will be more concerned with how Mulhall argues that films
'can be seen to engage in systematic and sophisticated
thinking about their themes and about themselves -- that
films can philosophize' (7). In the introduction to _On
Film_, Mulhall distinguishes between his approach and one
that would 'look to these films as handy or popular
illustrations of views and arguments properly developed by
philosophers' (2). What I aim to consider is whether a film
can not just *illustrate* philosophical themes, but be
*itself* philosophical. What is it that allows Mulhall, or
anyone, to see films 'as themselves reflecting on and
evaluating such views and arguments [about the relation
of human identity to embodiment]; as thinking seriously
and systematically about them in just the ways that
philosophers do' (2)? I presume, to begin with, that not
every film can or should be considered as philosophical in
this sense; though of course it might be that this is a
matter of degree, and it should be clear that Mulhall's aim
in choosing a series of studio-produced sci-fi blockbusters
to pursue such an approach is precisely to encourage the
view that a 'philosophical film' needn't be ponderous or
unapproachable. This seems important, because there is a
growing trend in academia to use films in introductory
philosophy courses precisely as illustrations of
philosophical themes. In the past few years, a number of
recent textbooks have appeared to serve this trend.
[2] In a chapter on skepticism, for example, such
textbooks might include discussions of _The Matrix_ along
with Descartes' 'First Meditation'. For these purposes,
accessible films are extremely useful insofar as they
provide a reference point for drawing an audience fed on
popular culture into a discussion of the more standard texts
on classical issues. What makes Mulhall's
approach significant, to my mind, is that it suggests an
alternative route to approaching philosophy through film,
both in and out of the classroom. Rather than look to films
(popular or otherwise) as illustrations of philosophical
themes, or as 'raw material' to philosophize about, he
suggests that we look to film (at least potentially) as
'philosophy in action -- film as philosophizing' (2). After
all, if film were only good in a philosophy class as raw
material or illustration, it would seem much better to turn
to 'reality itself' for our raw material. Why use _The
Matrix_ to illustrate skepticism when we already have
Descartes 'argument from illusion' and 'dream argument'
ready-to-hand? After all, everybody makes mistakes, and
everybody dreams. But these facts somehow fail to capture
the attention of young college students, and fail to
convince them (on the whole) that Descartes is worth
reading. The tie-in with _The Matrix_, however, almost never
fails to make Descartes 'cool'. In fact, discussing _The
Matrix_ in some of my philosophy classes tends to elevate
the level of discussion when it comes to Descartes. There
are a number of ways this fact might be explained, and it
might be considered evidence that modern media trivializes
even pivotal texts from the history of thought to the
'superficial' level of popcorn entertainment. Mulhall's approach in _On
Film_ suggests another interpretation. It is that part of
what makes films like _The Matrix_ (in this case it is
fairly obvious) and the _Alien_ series so entertaining is
precisely that they engage the viewer in much the same way
as a philosophy text might. They call upon the viewer to ask
questions about basic issues, to search for evidence, and to
reflect not only on the world presented within the film but
on its significance for making sense of the reality they
face in the everyday world. Of course, what is most
interesting about film as a medium for 'doing philosophy' is
the possibility that the way in which film 'philosophizes'
is distinct from the way it is done, say, in a philosophy
text or in a classroom. It would, after all, be easy --
though not effective in a classroom in the way that _The
Matrix_ can be -- to make films of philosophers talking
about philosophy, raising questions and providing answers,
and to include examples that illustrate and provide evidence
for their conclusions. Mulhall is clearly not interested in
*that* kind of 'film as philosophy' -- since that would fall
into the category of 'film as illustration of philosophical
themes', themes whose proper loci are outside of film -- but
his specific remarks on the kind of 'film as philosophy'
that does interest him are mostly negative, in the sense
that he does not provide any more positive characterization
of what it means for a film to be 'doing philosophy' other
than to say that such films raise and address their own
questions. For Mulhall, to consider a film as philosophical
is not to see if it conforms to a pre-existing philosophical
theory, but to approach it in such a way as to consider the
extent to which the film itself poses questions and develops
answers of a philosopical nature (3). Before addressing the
ways in which Mulhall does this in relation to the _Alien_
series, it will be worthwhile to step back from his text and
consider what this might mean in general. In what sense can
film, on its own, independently of queries we might happen
to make of it, be said to pose and address its *own*
questions? To focus this issue, I
want to consider what it might mean to say there is a
specifically 'filmic' way to pose and address philosophical
questions. [3] It might, of course, turn out later
that what we say about film and philosophy has a bearing
either directly or indirectly upon literature, painting,
music, performance, and other art forms. At the very least,
a distinctively 'filmic' posing of philosophical questions
will involve more than just talking heads or voiceovers or
words on the screen as a means of asking and considering
such questions directly (as a surrogate for the
philosophical text or lecture). One useful way of
approaching this issue is by rehearsing in summary form a
debate that has traditionally surrounded the question of
what it is that makes film a distinctive art form. What I
will consider, by way of this brief summary, is whether the
various theses regarding the essence of film provide clues
or resources for addressing the issue of a specifically
'filmic' approach to the raising and addressing of
philosophical questions. The major sides of this
debate -- at least as far as is useful to recall them for
the present purposes -- are formalism and realism (sometimes
identified with the contrast between the film theories of
Eisenstein and Bazin, or even with the differences in style
and approach to filmmaking exemplified by Melies and
Lumiere). Loosely speaking, the debate hinges on whether the
distinctive feature of film, by virtue of which it has its
special properties, is: 1, the formal capacity within film
to juxtapose elements, to create opposition and tension, or
to set up a space for comparisons by means of editing; or 2,
the fact that film is 'of' the real, that it 'records' the
real, and presents for the viewer a kind of reality as it
unfolds. This formulation is far too simplistic for
technical or historical purposes, but may be enough at least
to suggest some of the avenues that might be pursued in
thinking film as philosophy. Of course, even realism is a
'style', that makes use of editing; and even 'radical' or
'discontinuous' editing can be used to capture the 'sacred
moment' of reality. On the other hand, even highly
formalistic films tend to rely upon the ability of the
camera to produce what Cavell called 'a succession of
automatic world projections'. [4] Even the abstract
film tends to abstract *from* -- and thus refer to -- the
'real'. In spite of the dialectical links between these
categories, they indicate in a useful way the *tendencies*
in relation to which a particular film can be best
considered, whether as a whole or in part. A film or
sequence can be considered to point the viewer beyond its
particular images in the direction of analysis and
synthesis, or the film can be considered to call attention
to the concrete reality presented in or by means of those
images. According to the formalist
approach to the essence of film, it is the power of editing
that allows the filmmaker to pose questions of the viewer,
insofar as the juxtaposition of elements within film calls
for a viewer to think through the possible meaning of their
linkage. When Eisenstein intercuts images of strikers facing
an army with images of cows being slaughtered, the meaning
of the linkage is quite clear. And yet, what this
arrangement does is force the viewer to participate, at a
very basic level, in the making of meaning through film. If
we consider (along with Heidegger) the essence of a question
as being an uneasiness or uncertainty or open space that
calls for a resolution or the insertion of meaning, then the
filmmakers' establishment of a contrast of presented images
can almost be said to pose a question: what is it that links
these shots? The viewer who aims to follow along is
encouraged to supply the answer. In this case, however,
there is nothing specifically philosophical about either the
question or the answer. To say what, specifically, it lacks
to be a properly philosophical question would require an
inquiry into the character of philosophy in general. But at
least it should be clear that the manner in which the
question is 'formulated' does not give much room for a
number of the traits often associated with philosophy, such
as self-reflection, an openness to criticism, the analysis
of concepts, or the mustering of argument. More sophisticated
examples, wherein questioning is opened up within a film by
means of the juxtaposition of contrasting images, can be
found in Bergman's _Persona_ or Bill Viola's non-narrative
video piece _I do not know what it is I am like_. In the
case of _Persona_, the very structure of the film calls the
viewer to consider how its framing, as a film within a film,
is related to the narrative of the inner film. To make sense
of the film as a whole is to find oneself grappling with
questions such as: what is the relation between film and
reality?; what is the relation between self and other?; what
is it to be truthful to oneself and to others? And the film
itself, by means of the dialogue and narrative, poses
answers to these questions, some of which the film
challenges, rejecting as inadequate. The same is true of
Bill Viola's piece, which not only has its central question
built into the title, but enlists the viewer in an
open-ended consideration of answers. To follow the
trajectory of the video (which defies useful summary) is,
for example, to find oneself asking what the images of
wandering buffaloes have to do with the images of the
project of making the film, and to consider whether the
likenesses shared by these experiences is clarified by
images from the activities of Balinese firewalkers or of a
decomposing salmon. Another way in which film
can be thought to pose questions is suggested by the other
approach to the essence of film, that considers film as
presenting a 'reality' before the viewer -- whether that
reality is conceived of as present (as if) by way of memory
(with Cavell), or as an imagined reality, or as a depicted
or even documented reality. The most basic question that a
film asks, when considered in this way, is whether the film
does in fact present a 'reality' in the manner it claims.
The film poses itself as a 'reality', and yet this
self-positing is always open to question. When unsuccessful,
we say that the film doesn't work, or that it fails to
convince. As I take it, this is so not only with respect to
documentaries but fictional narratives as well. A fictional
narrative 'works' when 'we' (as audience) find ourselves
engaged in it, accepting the characterizations as plausible,
caring about the issues that the characters are faced with,
and believing that the characters would or could respond in
the ways that they do. But that we can (and do) walk out of
a film satisfied or unsatisfied, depending on the degree to
which we considered that film to 'work' in this sense, shows
that the 'working' of a film is something that is an issue
for us throughout the experience. The extent to which it
presents what might be described as the 'compelling portrait
of a possible reality' is a *question* posed by the very
projection of the film before an audience.
[5] Any *answer* to this
question will presuppose a metaphysics (in the broadest
sense of the term that would encompass a physics, a
psychology, a social theory, etc.). Loosely speaking, it
could be said that what differentiates between a
philosophical and non-philosophical posing of the question
is the extent to which and the manner in which that
metaphysics is presupposed. One of the ways in which films
can raise philosophical questions is by setting up a
scenario that undercuts or challenges the metaphysical
presuppositions of the viewer. The metaphysics presupposed
by, say, the average Hollywood film is not simply a
'commonsense' metaphysics, but is a commonsense modified by
expectations drawn from previous movies. This modified
commonsense is rarely challenged, but merely confirmed and
extended by what I am considering the 'non-philosophical'
film. Even in the case of science-fiction, the modifications
to commonsense presupposed in the presentation of the film
are expectations built into the genre. These expectations
are not challenged when, for example, the characters of the
story find themselves on a strange planet being attacked by
alien creatures. However, there needs to be
a distinction made between failure to meet expectations, on
the one hand, and a challenge to those expectations, on the
other. Usually, for example, a film in which characters fail
to act in ways that make sense or in which their motives are
one-dimensional, is one that fails to meet expectations. It
doesn't work. Sometimes, however, there may be clues in such
films that our expectations are unfounded, or that there are
reasons why we should expect characters to appear simplistic
or non-rational. Mulhall makes a case with regards to
_Alien: Resurrection_ that one of the reasons for the
strangeness in the feel of the various characters -- and the
dissatisfaction on the part of fans -- is that the story is
told, effectively, from the perspective of the Ripley-clone,
who looks like a woman, but whose understanding of the human
world remains childlike. But the fact that the film
challenges expectations about how people should behave and
how their interactions should feel, does not itself
constitute a philosophical challenge. Understanding this
point merely clarifies the character of the narrative, the
nature of the story being told. It becomes a philosophical
challenge when the further question is posed as to why the
story is told in this way, when it was told very differently
in the preceding films. For, as Mulhall aims to show, these
films articulate and modify a 'logic' or 'metaphysics', with
regards to a number of important philosophical themes, that
is established in the first film. The questions then
becomes: what is being suggested by the specific narrative
style of the final film, with regard to the themes that
preoccupy the previous films? To answer that question as
Mulhall does requires that we go back and consider (in
brief) his analyses of the preceding films. The setting of
the first film -- as established from the beginning by a
tour through the apparently lifeless Nostromo, floating
through a vast and empty space, from which the crew emerge
as if from the womb of 'Mother', the ship's computer --
indicates the fragility and utter dependence on technology
of the characters in this film. To live is to be sustained
within a metallic carapace, isolated from an inhospitable
environment. What makes Ripley unique within this scenario
is that she, almost alone among her crew, possesses a
heightened awareness of just this fragility. She knows, more
than the others, the dangerous consequences of the
possibility of their vessel being penetrated by an alien
substance. When, against her will, the alien creature is
allowed on board, we see the broader significance of her
anxieties. We discover that the manner in which this alien
penetrates the body of its victims resembles a grotesque
parody of a nightmare version of male sexuality, but one
that can impregnate and destroys members of both sexes. To
understand the character of Ripley, and to make sense of her
extreme caution, Mulhall argues, we need to see that in her
psyche there is a parallel between the human awareness of
finitude in relation to technology, and the passivity of the
female with respect to the possibility of being
penetrated: 'she acts consistently
from the outset to preserve the physical integrity of the
ship she briefly commands because she has all along
understood her own femaleness in the terms that the alien
seeks to impose upon the human species, and hence has always
understood her body as a vessel whose integrity must at all
costs be preserved' (24). That her fears track
something real is indicated precisely by the fact that the
alien induces horror. Mulhall quotes from Cavell
approvingly: 'not the human horrifies
me, but the inhuman, the monstrous? Very well. But only what
is human can be inhuman. Can only the human be monstrous? If
something is monstrous, and we do not believe that there are
monsters, then only the human is a candidate for the
monstrous . . . Horror is the title I am giving to the
perception of the precariousness of human identity, to the
perception that it may be lost or invaded'
(17-8). Ripley's vision is a
vision of the nature of life -- confirmed not only by way of
the actual alien, but in the person of the science officer
Ash among other things -- 'as an inherently masculine
assault upon women, in which they function merely as the
means for the onward transmission of something (an
intrinsically penetrating and aggressive force, or drive, or
will) essentially alien to them' (31). What is at stake in this
film, with respect to the questions it poses
philosophically, is not the question of whether alien life
forms exist or whether androids could be made to seem as
intelligent as Ash -- that is all part of the 'taken for
granted' metaphysics implied by the genre of the film -- but
rather the whether we find ourselves troubled by the issues
that trouble Ripley and her fellow crewmates. What is
frightening in the film is the precariousness of their lives
in the isolation of space and in the face of the monster;
but what horrifies us, through the film, is the recognition
of our own affinity with this apparently alien situation. It
is the fear of penetration, and at the same time the
recognition of masculine sexuality in the alien's mode of
penetration; it is the impassive and yet unrelenting drive
of the alien that frightens, and at the same time the
recognition that this unrelenting drive that treats
individual organisms as essentially passive vessels for its
own continuation is a natural drive, not dissimilar to our
own nature. I have only scratched the
surface of Mulhall's careful attention to detail in this
first film, and will do less justice to the others. In part,
this is because I do not want to detract from the experience
of reading it, which I strongly recommend. What he attempts
to show in relation to the subsequent films are the ways in
which each filmmaker responds to the logic of the _Alien_
universe as established in the first film by Ridley Scott
and his collaborators. In addition to raising questions of
their own, according to the structure of the story they
present for an audience, these new films also raise
philosophical questions just by the fact of their
juxtaposition with the original, and also by their standing
in relation to other works by the same director. In other
words, the philosophical 'work' of this series involves both
the narrative presentation of a universe with its own
internal logic, and the significant reworking of that logic
throughout the series. On Mulhall's account, the second
film, directed by James Cameron, shows an understanding for
the logic of the first film precisely in the way that it
ends, portraying Ripley as having achieved a kind of family,
and having become a mother through adoption, but without
yielding to the natural way in which this would take place.
The film thus aims to challenge on its own terms the
conception of sexual difference that animates the first. The
question that this challenge poses for us is whether the
fears we have seen animate Ripley to that point have been
adequately addressed in the course of the film, preparing
the way for her acceptance of the vulnerability attendant
with the intimacy that Cameron suggests as the cure for her
dis-ease. David Fincher's contribution, by contrast, aims to
nip this possibility in the bud from the beginning --
providing a kind of refutation of Cameron's conclusion in
the opening credits by killing off Ripley's new family, and
then by setting up the ensuing narrative in a prison whose
inhabitants incarnate within themselves precisely the
unrelenting type of masculinity from which Ripley had been
attempting to isolate herself. The resolution to Ripley's
fears and obsessions will not come so easily: 'since the
alien itself originates from within her, since it is an
incarnate projection of her deepest fears, she can succeed
in eliminating it only by eliminating herself' (106). It is
in that context that Jeunet's final contribution to the
series makes sense: from a child's view, in which everything
from the adult world is exaggerated and monstrous, this
monstrous vision of human sexuality and human nature itself
appears as an exaggeration, as absurd rather than
horrible. None of this talk of film
as philosophy will make sense from the perspective of those
who insist upon the notion of philosophy as the construction
of arguments with respect to canonical 'philosophical'
questions. As I take it, there is a different sense of
philosophy in which film -- and for that matter much of the
most interesting philosophy of the twentieth century -- is
or can be philosophical. In a general characterization of
philosophy we might replace the idea that it consists in the
production of philosophical 'arguments' with the notion that
it provides a pathway for thinking, an open space in which
thinking takes place, enabling new modes of organizing and
making sense of experience and knowledge. In order for there
to be a pathway for thought, there has to be a motivation
for the movement of thought. Questions, in the broad sense
described above, provide this motivation. In the case of a
narrative film, what motivates its viewers is the interest
in the characters and their situation. This motivation
becomes a motivation to philosophy insofar as the effort to
make sense of their situation calls on us to reflect on the
affinities of their situation with our own, and as our
efforts to make sense of the motivations of the characters
calls on us to reflect upon preoccupations we may share with
them. Although this type of motivation to philosophy may not
be unique to film, it is particularly powerful in the case
of film, insofar as film tends to involve us almost tangibly
with the lives on screen. The motivation to philosophy is
especially powerful in the films that Stephen Mulhall has so
thoughtfully brought to life on the pages of _On
Film_. St. Petersburg, Florida,
USA Footnotes 1. Though it can't be done
in the text format of this review, the '3' should be
superscripted. Mulhall in fact makes a good deal of sense
out of the filmmakers' decision to title the film in just
this way, as _Alien3_ with a superscripted '3', rather than,
say, as 'Alien III'. In an extended meditation on the
significance of this film as signaled in the title, Mulhall
writes: 'if this film resembles
its predecessor in any respect, it is in its rejection of
the expected way of noting its own status within the series
of _Alien_ films. James Cameron's title avoided the number
'2' altogether (whilst discovering it obsessively within the
film itself); David Fincher's incorporates the necessary
numeral, but only after subjecting it to a radical
displacement . . . as if Fincher feels that anything he
might to with his film will be superscriptural, a writing
over the writings of others' (91-2). He points out, in
addition, that the film is dealing with the third generation
of the alien species, that there are three aliens in the
film, and that the space within which the film transpires is
almost always enclosed space, as if the superscriptural '3'
were to indicate cubing, and hence containment. He points
out that this reading is sustained by the fact that
Fincher's preoccupation in this film is to create closure,
to end the series. 2. Examples of this
approach include Mary M. Litch's _Philosophy Through Film_
(which is to my mind the best and most useful that I have
found), Christopher Falzon's _Philosophy Goes to the
Movies_, and Burton F. Porter's _Philosophy Through Fiction
and Film_. 3. For present purposes, I
don't see a need to use 'film' in a technical sense that
differentiates it from, say, video or other media for the
projection of moving images. Such a distinction does not
appear in Mulhall either. 4. Cavell, _The World
Viewed_, p. 72. 5. Even Deleuze's approach
(in the _Cinema_ books) to the thinking going on in films --
film as the creation of concepts -- might be considered
(tentatively) to fit along these lines. What a film does,
philosophically, for Deleuze, is present some way of
organizing experience and memory. The question posed by the
very existence of the film is, can experience and memory be
organized in this way? And: what is the effect on
thought? Bibliography Stanley Cavell, _The World
Viewed_ (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press,
1979). Christopher Falzon,
_Philosophy Goes to the Movies_ (New York: Routledge,
2002). Tim Kreider, 'Review:
_Eyes Wide Shut_', _Film Quarterly_, vol. 53, no. 3, Spring
2000. --- 'Review: _AI_', _Film
Quarterly_, vol. 56, no. 2, Winter 2002-3. Mary M. Litch, _Philosophy
Through Film_ (New York: Routledge, 2002). Burton F. Porter,
_Philosophy Through Fiction and Film_ (Upper Saddle River,
New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2004). Copyright ©
Film-Philosophy 2003 Nathan Andersen, 'Is Film
the Alien Other to Philosophy?: Philosophy *as* Film in
Mulhall's _On Film_', _Film-Philosophy_, vol. 7 no. 23,
August 2003
<http://www.film-philosophy.com/vol7-2003/n23anderson>. Read a response to this
review-article: Stephen Mulhall, 'Ways of
Thinking: A Response to Andersen and Baggini',
_Film-Philosophy_, vol. 7 no. 25, August 2003
<http://www.film-philosophy.com/vol7-2003/n25mulhall>. Join the _Film-Philosophy_
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