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Short Cuts begins and ends with visual meditations on the city. The opening scene, as described above, shows the helicopters traversing the city at night, followed immediately by Earl Piggot’s (Tom Waits) limousine driving along the freeway. Altman closes the film with an extended, panoramic shot of the city from Ralph (Matthew Modine) and Marian (Julianne Moore) Wyman’s balcony, which, giving way to the end credits, fades to a map of the city. The camera moves across the map for the remaining duration of the film, over three minutes altogether. From these overt visual cues, it is clear that Altman seeks to comment on the ways that postmetropolitan life has been molded by the urban spaces that surround us. Whereas Their Dogs depicts Los Angeles’ transformation from an urban space capable of fostering community to a postmetropolitan site of erasure, Altman’s Los Angeles bears no connection to the past, and its residents, victims of a now fully-developed culture of privatization and capsularization, seem either unable or unwilling to foster empathetic human relationships with those around them.12
12 Robert Putnam’s illuminating study, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community, details the disappearance of social life in American cities. Americans living in major cities are statistically far less likely to hold group memberships and involve themselves in local affairs than those living in small towns and rural areas. With proportionately more Americans living in major cities than ever before, the decline of civic engagement is significant as a widespread cultural phenomenon. Putnam attributes this social trend to suburban sprawl and the changing complexion of American cities in the postwar period, specifically designating commuting time, social segregation in suburbia, and lack of community “boundedness” as the chief causes of social dislocation (214). Each of the narratives features characters experiencing personal turmoil as a result of their inability to penetrate the barriers that socially isolate residents of contemporary cities. The city’s urban layout has something to do with this. Never depicting Los Angeles as an urban space—in Lefebvre’s use of the term—with a focused urban center where social production occurs, Altman instead represents the city as a disconnected suburban field, showing isolated shots of the suburban domiciles where his characters live. With the exception of the Finnigans and the Trainers, who live next to each other, the viewer has no idea how these homes are spatially situated, and this lack of spatial orientation reflects the general sense of dislocation that both we and Altman’s characters experience throughout the film. Lacking an urban center or street-oriented neighborhoods that might offer a sense of connectivity, characters cannot successfully utilize the city as a symbolic or material site of social production. This process is evident in the characters’ complicated relationships. Bill (Robert Downey, Jr.) and Honey Piggot Bush (Lili Taylor), for instance, are asked to house-sit for their neighbors—who appear to be perfectly normal and quite friendly—during their one month absence from the city. Bill, lacking the social mechanisms to empathize with this couple, can only say to Honey, in a strange, unprovoked diatribe against the couple, “These people are creepy. They’re creepy.”13 Ralph and Marian, in another narrative, seem incapable of righting
their capsized marriage; instead of directly confronting Marian’s history of infidelity, they share an empty night of suburban social bonding with Stuart (Fred Ward) and Claire Kane (Anne Archer), two relative strangers they met a few days earlier at a concert. Incidentally, the Kane’s marriage, too, is in jeopardy; Claire cannot understand how Stuart could have concealed the discovery of a dead woman’s body floating in a river during his most recent hunting trip. Fueled by alcohol, the night turns into an impromptu costume party, in which all four characters dress up as clowns, ostensibly unable to confront directly the problems at the heart of their marriages. In another narrative, Sherri—married and trapped in a suburban, domestic fantasy with her three children and dog—cannot bring herself to confront her husband, Gene’s (Tim Robbins), infidelities. In these narratives, and in others as well, characters, disconnected from their urban surroundings, cannot locate the source of their anxiety. As one critic notes, “Short Cuts is a film about psychic numbing” (Guthman). At one point, Marian, explaining the teachings of her former art instructor, who forced his students to paint with “sticks and rocks,” remarks, “He never allowed brushes, or pencils, or real paint—the paint you could buy, anyway. [He did this] just to get you to feel, or something” (Short Cuts). The characters of Short Cuts, as a result of simultaneously perpetuated (through socially-segregating urban models) and repressed (through the politically-correct avowal of “colorblindness”) racism. Like the barrio in Their Dogs, which has been isolated from the otherwise heterogeneous space of the city, white, suburban Los Angeles is a space in which non-white neighbors, beneath the surface, are read as “creepy” and potentially violent. The absence of people of color in Altman’s film suggests that whiteness, like the culture of privacy that discourages the production of social space, is transparent and built into the fabric of an imagined suburban reality. postmetropolitan social disconnection, have, so to speak, forgotten how to feel, and this prevents them from successfully cultivating or understanding their social relationships. Although the film initially received overwhelmingly positive critical attention and is now recognized, alongside Nashville, as Altman’s masterpiece, one of the complaints about Short Cuts concerned Altman’s inability to channel his social commentary in productive directions. One critic writes, “There's a sense of something important going on, some sort of statement about the American experience. But it's indistinct. That indistinction leads us to believe we are watching something telling and profound” (Howe). Indeed, Altman has difficulty locating a specific cause for Los Angeles’ social dysfunction, and this is precisely because institutional trauma, especially as it manifests itself in urban space, is, like the medfly pesticide, invisible and indistinct. Unlike the characters in Viramontes’ novel, who, to a certain degree, are aware that the transformation of the neighborhood has put the community (and therefore their social existence) in peril, the characters of Short Cuts cannot locate the source of their unease, and instead retreat to alcohol and sex as coping mechanisms. Compared to Their Dogs, the transparency of institutional power in Altman’s film is worth framing as a symptom of postmodernity and, specifically, privatized urban development that eroded the social space of American cities in the latter part of the century. The social malaise, then, affecting Altman’s characters is rooted in institutional trauma; the postmetropolitan urban experience that Viramontes explores in its incipient phase has come to maturity and has been normalized by city dwellers, rendering it invisible and “indistinct.” Lacking lieux de memoire through which to confront the erasure of community, the trauma of the city has been repressed, buried deep under the surfaces of the postmetropolis. Nonetheless, Altman’s Los Angeles is an urban space that, in its utter unremarkability—suburban homes, nondescript diners, neighborhood jazz clubs—communicates what architect Peter Eisenman has termed “the presence of absence” (180). Following Derrida, Eisenman argues that postmodern architecture is rhetorical in that it exists materially and, at the same time, attempts to represent or reference something in its absence. Postmodern architecture, like the postmodern city, has this referential dimension; many Las Vegas casinos, for instance, simulate exotic environments—from the canals of Venice to the Egyptian pyramids—and, in so doing, are always haunted by what is not represented. Embedded in these casinos is the presence of absence: the physical reality of the building (its presence) and the absence contained therein (the residue of the postmodern crisis of representation). Establishing the connection between this crisis of representation and trauma, Ana Douglass and Thomas Vogler write, “The traumatic event bears a striking similarity to the always absent signified or referent of the poststructuralist discourse, an object that can by definition only be constructed retroactively, never observed directly” (5). Working from a psychoanalytic perspective, Eisenman’s theories reveal the traumatic dimensions of architecture and, by extension, urban space, both of which are always haunted by loss. Particularly applicable to cities like Los Angeles, which, as I have shown, are palimpsestuous sites of erasure haunted by the loss of a functional (rather than symbolic) city center, the “presence of absence” helps to explain how the experience of the Real in urban space has been repressed under the surfaces of the postmetropolis, whose superficial facades are more representational and referential than material. The traumatic presence of absence haunts Short Cuts, from the first scene to the last, and characters are offered brief glimpses of the repressed Real over the course of the film. The most significant example appears in Stuart Kane’s narrative. When Stuart and his two friends go on a fly-fishing trip, which takes them four hours outside of the city, they come upon a female corpse floating in the river, seemingly lodged in between rocks and submerged in the water. The characters are faced with a dilemma: hike back to civilization immediately and report the incident, which would effectively end their fishing trip, or tie the body to the rocks, spend their time fishing as planned, and report the body when they return. Choosing the latter option, Stuart spends the remainder of the film justifying his decision to his wife, Claire, who is devastated by her husband’s lack of empathy. Before returning to the city, the three friends spend their time fishing and drinking, pretending to be oblivious to the undesired presence of the nearby corpse. Already, we see these characters beginning, in Freud’s words, “a process of ‘shutting out’” (Beyond 34) events that they cannot assimilate into their insulated psyches. Altman repeatedly returns us to the dead body, however, capturing its horrifying materiality through a series of aerial shots that create a traumatic visual cue for viewers. Through this traumatic repetition, Altman refuses to the let the competing narratives overlay the visual image of the corpse; it serves as the jarring encounter with the Real that the viewers—like Stuart and Claire—cannot strike from their memory. The visual effect of the corpse on viewers likewise plays into its function as the traumatic referent for what was lost and, subsequently, repressed by postmetropolitan urban growth and development; the corpse is our link to the visceral experience of reality. Operating in a capsularized suburban hyperreality, Stuart and, indeed, all of the characters in the film have lost their sense of community and their ability to empathize with those around them. In accordance with Lieven de Cauter’s theories on this topic, individuals operate in a privatized urban environment that has prevented the generation of community, and they therefore have no means of assimilating the “other” into meaningful frames of reference. More than just serving as a jarring visual cue, the corpse functions as a traumatic rupture in an institutional urban fabric that denies opportunities for community and empathy. That the body is found four hours outside of the city is significant, as the postmetropolis, Altman seems to suggest, could not have given access to this encounter with the Real. Only beyond the scope of institutional power, in the unassimilated natural space that surrounds the city, can one confront what is no longer visible in the city.14
Stuart’s reaction to the body, and the effect that this reaction has on his marriage, is worth exploring. Instead of immediately reporting the event to the authorities—which would have legitimized his human connection to the dead woman, a complete stranger—he and his pals continue fishing, demonstrating an inability or an unwillingness to identify outside of their highly exclusive social spheres. Altman makes this glaringly clear in the scene depicting the discovery of the body, where Vern (Huey Lewis), urinating in the river, looks down to see the dead body directly below him. Although loaded with misogynistic undertones, as poet Tess Gallagher, Raymond Carver’s wife, has noted (Zuckoff 428), it would be difficult to imagine the three men acting any differently if it were a man’s body floating in the river. Rather, their reaction to the corpse speaks to a general apathy for the “other,” or anyone outside of their immediate social network. When Stuart finally, after returning home, showering, and having sex with his wife, fesses up to the incident, Claire cannot believe her husband’s lack of empathy; she is sent into a personal crisis that leads her, eventually, to attend the woman’s wake, days later, seeking affirmation of her own ability to connect with those around her. Explaining Claire’s reaction, Anne Archer states in an interview, “So this woman
novel. If cemeteries are the last remaining link to communal history in Their Dogs, then the emergence of the body in Altman’s film could be read as a return to history, which has been repressed by the postmetropolitan imagination. If, in Jameson’s words, “history is what hurts,” then the return of the body as historical referent is, indeed, a rehistoricization of the city. Ill-equipped for this traumatic rupture, the city and its inhabitants (Stuart and his pals) refuse to process the body, leaving it in the river—well outside the city’s boundaries—for the authorities to find. Expelled from the city, the body is a bi-product of a culture unable to process reality or history in meaningful ways. lying in the river could have been her, this woman who was treated as a piece of meat. It took all the love out of the relationship because it could never be undone” (Zuckoff 427). Illustrating Dori Laub and Shoshana Felman’s theory that “the encounter with the real leads to the experience of an existential crisis in all those involved” (xvi), Stuart’s experience with the dead body’s visceral reality is the very cause for the rupture in their marriage. Now aware of her husband’s social and emotional detachment, she begins to doubt what she believed to be the connective, human foundations of her marriage. The refusal to confront the Real—the body’s constant presence underwater indicates that the trauma remains unprocessed, submerged, and beneath the surface—permeates their marriage. In Eisenman’s terms, it becomes the “presence of absence” that will haunt their relationship. In this way, then, Altman traces the ways that the characters’ traumatic relationship to their city bears on and erodes their personal relationships. Rarely given access to the visceral encounter with the Real that Stuart and, through testimony, Claire achieve, most of Altman’s characters fail to locate the source of their social disconnection. To complement the lingering presence of the dead body and to provide another opportunity to engage the Real, Altman introduces a peripheral narrative—through Tess (Annie Ross) and Zoe Trainer (Lori Singer), the mother-daughter musician duo—which helps to expand his commentary on repressed institutional trauma. The only narrative not adapted from Carver’s oeuvre, this storyline—in addition to providing musical interludes and tonal contours for the film—allows Altman to explore the traumatic dimensions of posturban existence. From the start, we know that Zoe is deeply troubled and emotionally-distressed. Conversations with her mother reveal a traumatic childhood: her father, whom she cannot remember, “wasn’t around that much,” and apparently cheated on Tess with other musicians. After one of these conversations, Zoe, while making a bloody Mary for her mother, masochistically breaks the glass with her hand in the kitchen sink. Ostensibly an attempt at self- mutilation, this scene has deeper implications considering Zoe’s relationship to her cello, which she plays incessantly and utilizes throughout the film as her only means of communicating with those around her. During pivotal conversations with her mother, rather than speaking verbally, she plays her cello, leaving Tess to deliver long, emotional monologues. Her self-mutilation therefore represents an attempt to further socially isolate herself from those around her; had her injury been more serious, it would have severed her from her only means of communication and verbal testimony: her music. Zoe’s dilemma, then, concerns the recognition that she can neither access her traumatic past (perhaps due to the city’s lack of lieux de memoire, as discussed in the previous section), nor can she successfully connect and empathize with those around her. When she hears of the death of young Casey Finnigan (Zane Cassidy), her next-door neighbor, she immediately drives to the neighborhood jazz bar, where her mother is rehearsing with the band. Distraught and in need of emotional connection, she tells her mother about Casey, hoping for a moment of empathy that would reaffirm her ability to make human connections. Instead, upon hearing the news, Tess, emotionally-desensitized, gives her daughter well-rehearsed platitudes: “It’s a cryin’ shame, baby. She must feel like shit.” Devastated by this encounter, Zoe returns home and commits suicide by closing the garage door and inhaling the exhaust fumes from her running automobile. When Tess returns home to find her daughter dead, she plunges into despair; she is last seen singing to herself, alone in her suburban home, absolutely disconnected from the world around her. Zoe’s death is a traumatic rupture in an otherwise idyllic suburban existence. It is significant that she kills herself in the isolation of her suburban home, and, no less, by the exhaust of her automobile, itself the agent of postmetropolitan transformation that gave rise to suburbia. The discovery of Zoe’s body is particularly traumatic for her mother because it generates an affective experience, one that exists outside the frames of reference provided by the capsular, socially-fragmented postmetropolis in which she lives. Few characters in Short Cuts gain access to these visceral, intensely affective moments. Altman seems to suggest that life in the city has been diluted (not intending to invoke David Harvey’s seminal book) by the condition of postmodernity. Casey Finnigan’s parents, Howard (Bruce Davison) and Ann (Andie McDowell), however, having to confront the unexpected and sudden death of their son, arguably experience one of these affective ruptures. In bed the first night after Casey’s death, Ann sits up abruptly, realizing the identity of the man harassing them over the phone for the last several days. When Howard attempts to comfort her, she violently pushes him aside and retreats to her side of the bed, where she repeats the gesture to counter the second of his well-intentioned advances. Clearly, the trauma of losing her son has driven a wedge in their marriage. What is interesting, though, is Altman’s treatment of the following scene in this narrative, where Howard and Ann confront the baker, Mr. Bitkower (Lyle Lovett) in his shop. What promises to be a violent scene transforms, rather, into a moment of empathy, where Mr. Bitkower, the man responsible for the menacing late-night phone calls, comforts Ann, letting her rest her head against his chest and later offering her some of his baked goods, while her husband looks on. Juxtaposing this scene with the previous one, which revealed the deleterious effects of Casey’s death on the marriage, Altman demonstrates that the processing of trauma has two faces: it can reveal the emotional distance between individuals, as we see in the failing marriages, but it can also generate social connections with those outside of our insulated social groups and, perhaps, begin the work of rebuilding community, even if on the smallest of scales. This redemptive scene is significant for Altman’s commentary on trauma in the city, and exposing the diverging vectors of disconnection and social regeneration involved in the processing of trauma equips us to confront the film’s final scenes in productive ways. Easily written off as a cheap narrative device employed to bring closure to the film, the earthquake that rocks Los Angeles at the end of Short Cuts in fact simultaneously resolves and complicates Altman’s commentary on trauma and the postmetropolis. Altman brings us to this pivotal event via Jerry Kaiser (Chris Penn) and Bill, who, on a family picnic in what appears to be Griffith Park just outside of Hollywood, pursue two pretty girls through the canyons on the park’s perimeter. Just as Jerry, sexually-frustrated and visibly troubled throughout the film, bludgeons one of the girls with a rock, the earthquake hits. Altman shows us a close up of Jerry, now in a fugue state, with blood splattered on his face. Over the next two minutes, Altman revisits each of the narratives, depicting characters huddling together, clearly sharing the terror of what could be “the big one.” The earthquake here represents the ultimate traumatic rupture in the fabric of postmetropolitan existence. Introduced in the first frames of the film through the invisible chemical threat of the medfly pesticide, the repressed anxieties of Angelenos here emerge, violently, through the earthquake, which renders every character powerless in its visceral reality. Altman ingeniously utilizes Los Angeles’ precarious position on the San Andreas Fault to comment on the repressed Real underlying the artificially-inscribed physical and psychical terrain of the postmetropolis. Lacking the lieux de memoire that could potentially connect city dwellers to their past, the city space falls victim to these violent ruptures, which reveal postmetropolitan existence to be intrinsically tied to repressed trauma. Whereas most of the characters seem to reinforce their social ties as a result of the earthquake (Gene, the serial adulterer, is shown hugging his family and Earl and Doreen mend their relationship), to say that the encounter with the Real reinvigorates social life in the city would be to miss Altman’s more complex presentation of the event. Tess, for one, is shown alone in her home, singing to herself as she mourns the loss of her daughter. Furthermore, many of the characters, rather than reaching out to their community, merely reinforce the boundaries that mark off their immediate social spheres, arguably instituting an even more insular, capsular social environment. Gene, for instance, in an image loaded with metaphorical weight, extends his arms around his children and wife, enclosing and protecting them within an exclusive suburban, domestic, familial space. The earthquake’s symbolic function is even further complicated if read alongside Jerry’s narrative. As mentioned above, precisely as Jerry murders the girl, striking her in the head with a rock, the earthquake intervenes, suggesting that this primal, unprovoked act of violence is what initiated the rupture in Los Angeles’ urban fabric. Jerry, plagued throughout the novel by feelings of sexual inadequacy—his wife is a phone sex operator whose sexually-explicit performances cause him to lose faith in their relationship—presumably attacks the girl as a means of asserting sexual power through violence. The unexpected and somewhat cryptic quality of this scene, however, suggests that Jerry’s frustrations stand in for deeper anxieties that have to do with living in a simulated environment where, like his wife’s phone-sex performances, our access to reality is obscured and denied by suburban hyperreality. It is significant that the girl’s murder, according to news reports following the earthquake, is written off as “falling rocks,” which suggests that Jerry’s act of violence has immediately been concealed and repressed in the public imagination. When order is restored to the city, the traumatic event is overlaid by media representation, and the encounter with the Real is once again assimilated into frames of reference that absolve the city of its role in producing the urban anxieties that provoked the murder. Like Stuart’s decision to leave the dead body in the river, Jerry’s act of violence is excused and, perhaps, justified in order to relieve the public from confronting the horrors of the Real. Unlike Viramontes, who focuses predominantly on the effects of freeway construction, Altman identifies capsularization and privatization—two processes that enable this kind of political and social myopia—as the primary forces driving postmetropolitan existence, and his formal strategies suggest little opportunity for social improvement. Similar to the “narrative freeways” of Their Dogs, Altman introduces a complex network of narratives that intertwine and intersect, forming the textual space of the film. Like the postmetropolis, with its dispersed urban nodes and absent center, Short Cuts does not utilize a central narrative and instead offers equal valence to each of the intertwining narratives. From the first frames, Altman establishes the connections between narrative and space that will prove vital for the film’s simulation of the urban experience. As the helicopters move over the city, Altman introduces each of the ten narratives that he will follow over the course of the film. The helicopters, as they audibly intrude on the dialogue in each scene, take the viewer from one narrative to the next, connecting the disparate storylines both to one another and to the city of Los Angeles, whose size and complexity is captured, visually, through a series of aerial shots. From this point forward, Altman unspools each narrative, transitioning from one to the next through visual and thematic cues. For instance, in one scene, Honey is shown staring into an aquarium filled with exotic fish. Altman uses this image to transition to his next scene, which depicts Stuart and his friends fishing in the river, seemingly apathetic to the dead body floating in close proximity. Altman utilizes these transitional devices throughout the film to generate textual space that we, as viewers, negotiate and creatively engage. When these narratives physically intersect—the first notable instance occurring when Stormy Weathers (Peter Gallagher), Claire, Ann, and Mr. Bitkower, all strangers to one another, meet in the bakery—they yield minimal social production, as these characters are interested in fulfilling their private obligations rather than forming social bonds with one another. The space of Los Angeles is planned, it seems, to facilitate economic exchange rather than foster social production. As one critic notes, “characters remain unconnected and disconnected, sharing only a messy urban landscape” (Canby C1). In fact, with the exception of the empathetic moment shared by Ann and Mr. Bitkower later in the film—really the only genuine display of human connection that Altman depicts—the physical intersection of bodies in Short Cuts proves incapable of generating community or social cohesiveness. Even the Wymans’ late night barbecue, which devolves into a drunken costume party, although generative in that it brings two socially-segregated couples together, is undercut by the clown costumes worn by all four characters; whatever social production occurs is undermined by the performative dimensions of the charade. Furthermore, the film’s overlapping dialogue, particularly in scenes where narratives intersect, often disorients the viewer, again casting doubt on the ability for valuable production to occur through random social encounters. Famous for his use of overlapping dialogue,15 Altman’s device achieves new dimensions when set in the context of Los Angeles. Often regarded as the most culturally and socially heterogeneous of American cities, Los Angeles is famous for its diversity and its heteroglossia. Here, however, the heteroglossic, overlapping dialogue obscures, rather than facilitates social production; as viewers, we have difficulty keeping track of what could be vital information being passed on through the competing dialogue. This is evident in the bakery scene mentioned above and also elsewhere in the film. We cannot help sympathizing with Earl in a later scene, when, attempting to absorb Tess’ soulful singing at the jazz club, he is distracted by an offensive nearby conversation. Turning to the men, Earl brazenly asks, “You wanna keep it down so the lady can sing, here?” Unlike Altman’s other films, Short Cuts’ use of overlapping dialogue reveals the inability for people to connect socially and locate meaning in postmetropolitan space, which, he implies, is oversaturated with competing voices that never reach a state of harmony. 15 Readers will recall the memorable exchange at the 2006 Academy Awards between Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep, who, in presenting Altman the Oscar for Lifetime Achievement, talked over one another, parodying the director’s signature device. The script is available in Mitchell Zuckoff’s Robert Altman: The Oral Biography. When Altman’s characters intersect, then, little social production occurs. Nevertheless, the narrative apparatus he utilizes, which involves linking narratives together to generate textual space, provides navigable interpretive terrain for viewers to inhabit. Transplanting Carver’s stories in Los Angeles, Altman seems interested in simulating postmetropolitan space through narrative form. Carver’s stories, when read in their original contexts in their respective story collections, are in no way related to one another; characters do not make cross-narrative appearances, nor do they adhere to any central, unifying narrative structure. In the film, however, stories exist in relation to one another. If social space, as Lefebvre has argued, is produced through social relations—individuals inhabiting subject positions in relation to one another—then the act of setting the stories against one another is generative of textual space. This process is significant, as it tends to counter Altman’s otherwise bleak depiction of Los Angeles as a “placeless place” incapable of fostering the production of social space. Therefore, even though his characters may have difficulty accessing the affective moment, which, as I have shown, has been repressed in the urban imagination, the film’s narrative structure offers a potentially productive assessment of social space and the potential for social regeneration, even in a fragmented environment like Los Angeles. Furthermore, the film’s affective qualities draw viewers into the characters’ personal lives. Viewing the narrative fabric from above and identifying with each of the characters, we cannot help but recognize the presence of a social condition that affects every character equally and is communicated through the dense, overlapping space of the narration. Perhaps this is the connective social fabric that Altman seeks, but fails to locate, in his characters’ interactions. What we witness, then, in the film’s interconnected narrative space is what Edward Soja, in his essay, “Writing the City Spatially,” has termed “synekism,” which is “a creative living together in space” inspired by the social connections established in urban space. Soja, building on Lefebvre and others, argues that social interaction and social production are the most powerful forces driving contemporary cities, more powerful, even, than top-down institutional forces. Writing the city, then, in the manner that Altman does with his simulation of postmetropolitan space through narrative intersections, provides the only viable avenue for addressing the complexities of urban space through literature. He writes, “If human society, social relations, sociality itself can only be realized in urban life…then [writing the city spatially] must take precedence in writing the city, and, through the city, in making sense of globalization and other complexities of the contemporary world” (“Writing” 273). Bringing Carver’s disparate narratives together, Altman “writes the city,” generating an affective textual space that, perhaps, helps to redeem the otherwise bleak presentation of urban space revealed through his characters’ interactions. Furthermore, the space generated through Altman’s intersecting narratives—both through the active engagement of transitional cues and the ambiguous framing of critical scenes (such as Jerry’s act of violence during the earthquake)—provides the viewer with a degree of interpretive freedom for meaning-making in the film. Jameson’s concept of cognitive mapping, gleaned from Kevin Lynch’s earlier writings on how city dwellers psychologically connect to their cities, helps to clarify Altman’s complex use of textual space. As I have shown throughout this chapter, postmetropolitan space dislocates individuals from history, trauma, and the affective experience. In order to reposition ourselves in this disorienting milieu, Jameson suggests the practice of cognitive mapping.16 Explaining this process, he writes, “Disalienation in the traditional city, then, involves the practical reconquest of a sense of place and the construction or reconstruction of an articulated ensemble which can be retained in memory and which the individual subject can map and remap along the moments of mobile, alternative trajectories” (Postmodernism 51). Cognitive mapping “works as the intersection of the personal and the social, which enables people to function in the spaces through which they move” (MacCabe xiv). Unlike Viramontes’ narrative scheme, which sends viewers along predetermined pathways to an inevitable conclusion, Altman uses “mobile, alternative trajectories” to open the textual space of the film, allowing viewers to creatively engage and “remap” Short Cuts. The emotionally-imbued personal connections that we make through our engagement of the various narratives generate a connective terrain that contests the dislocated, rational space of the postmetropolis. Therefore, the viewer’s affective, non-rational response—inspired by emotionally-wrenching scenes such as the discovery of Zoe’s body and the
moment of connection between Ann and Mr. Bitkower—suggests that piecing together the film’s narrative can, to a certain degree, give us access to empathetic, human experiences that are otherwise denied to Altman’s characters. The implications of Altman’s narrative strategies are significant. As I have shown in the previous chapters, narrative and, specifically, textual spaces generated by narrative provide vital means for both communicating and contesting institutional power. Inhabiting textual spaces distinct from the state offers individuals opportunities to generate critical sites of resistance to state- endorsed narratives. In Altman’s film, what should be socially-productive urban spaces have been transformed by decades of urban planning that favor policies of privatization and capsularization, and characters are incapable of sustaining meaningful social relationships as a result of this transformation. By generating an affective, networked textual space, however, Altman places viewers in a position to critique the forces responsible for the social malaise depicted in the film. Like the aerial shots of the city that bookend the film, we, as viewers, critique the space of the city and the textual space of the film from a critically-removed position. Above, so to speak, the hyperreal space of the city, we achieve the critical distance that Altman’s characters are denied. Furthermore, the film’s affective qualities seem to suggest that the human capacity for empathy has not disappeared as a result of our relationship to urban space; although his characters have “forgotten how to feel,” we have not, and the film’s narrative structure reminds us of the vital connections between lived space and social production. In both Short Cuts and Their Dogs Came with Them, the postmetropolis functions as a new kind of urban space that often precludes the opportunity for productive social exchange. In each text, characters negotiate an urban space that, in its erasure of critical memory sites, largely denies the opportunity for engaging in valuable memory practices that build community and therefore encourage the production of space through social interaction. In this space, history, as Jameson, has shown, has been repressed (ix). Short Cuts, which takes place in the height of postmetropolitan expansion, suggests that the traumatic dimensions of the city have been almost totally repressed. Viramontes’ novel depicts the source of this transformation. Their Dogs correctly identifies the latent sources of anxiety and social alienation in today’s urban centers; freeway systems, which erase entire communities and enable social dislocation, are also responsible for giving birth to the undesired offspring of the postmetropolis: privatization and capsularization. Both writers, to different degrees, seem resigned to the impossibility of successfully fostering human relationships in this environment. This, I argue, has something to do with the difficulty of engaging in the dynamic spatial practices that once proved vital in the condensed cities of the modern period, where street level social interaction allowed individuals to position themselves politically in space and thereby reclaim those spaces. In the postmetropolis, such street level activity is precluded by the decline of “the street” and “the neighborhood” as priorities for urban planners; rather, urban planning on an institutional scale is all too often concerned with facilitating the flow of production, consumption, and labor, which entails the construction of freeways that can move large numbers of people across vast spaces.17 This puts characters in both texts in an untenable position, as the very spatial and psychological practices that once enabled political agency and social interaction have been stripped of their subversive potential. Furthermore, as Short Cuts shows, the retreat to a privatized, capsularized suburban existence carries with it the loss of empathy and social connection, which wreaks profound psychological damage on individuals opting into this seemingly attractive model for contemporary living. These complex and often transparent processes of urban planning and development occur on both institutional and individual levels. Most often, municipalities, believing that population growth and private enterprise will lead to a more prosperous economy, are responsible for embracing urban development that privatizes city space, encouraging unbridled expansion and development. To accommodate this development, cities must adopt transportation models that will move suburbanites from their homes to their places of work; freeway expansion is often the most attractive and cost-efficient option. Operating simultaneous to these institutional forces are the “technologies of the self” that Foucault describes in his commentary on biopower and governmentality. Individuals align themselves with these models for urban growth, demanding freeways and privatized, gated communities, believing, perhaps correctly, that this kind of
urban “progress” will make their lives easier and protect them from the perceived dangers of the inner city. When the short and long term effects (community erasure and social dislocation) of these policies begin to bear on individuals and communities, we enter the terrain of political trauma that I have described over the course of this study. The transparent institutional presence responsible for political trauma is here materialized through widespread policies of privatization and urban growth that individuals cannot confront or understand in complete or productive ways. This problematic relationship between urban space, capitalism, and the state, of course, underscores the necessity for change, both in the ways that we negotiate the postmetropolis and in the license we grant to institutional power for the future development of our cities. CHAPTER 5
We live immersed in narrative, recounting and reassessing the meaning of our past actions, anticipating the outcome of future projects, situating ourselves at the intersection of several stories not yet completed. Peter Brooks, Reading for the Plot Institutional trauma in the twenty-first century, as the preceding chapters have demonstrated, is deeply intertwined with projects of narrativization. Narratives are, by nature, political and are therefore instrumental to projects that discipline Americans in the name of national security and public order. The specter of terrorism, the desire to protect the “homeland,” the politicization of urban spaces after Hurricane Katrina, and the movement toward new urban models that render urban space inaccessible: these zones of investigation form the foundation of this study. Addressing these disparate sources of trauma, each chapter has probed the ways that contemporary American literature represents the traumatic relationship between the individual and the institution, a relationship that is often difficult to untangle because of its entrenchment in what de Certeau would call “the practice of everyday life.” Institutional power has inscribed itself on our most psychologically-intimate and politically-vital sites: our homes and our cities. If we are to reclaim these sites, I have argued throughout, we must better understand our relationship to institutional power, to the material spaces we inhabit, and to the modes of narrative production that inform our political reality. As I have shown in previous chapters, literature provides valuable opportunities for reclaiming these sites and for establishing critical distance from hegemonic institutional discourse. Integral to this process is the complex relationship between space and narrative, which de Certeau and others have explored in recent decades. If text and narrative are spatial environments, and if it is true that inhabiting and producing space is a politically-subversive tactical maneuver, then the political narratives disseminated by the state are, indeed, vulnerable sites of political strife; readers entering these textual spaces may position themselves against hegemonic discourse as a means of political empowerment.1 In addition to discussing how and to what effect literature represents space, the preceding chapters have given attention to the ways that texts simulate spaces, inviting readers to practice space as a means of removing them from discourses of power embedded in institutional narratives. For instance, in chapter one, I argue that satire functions as a heterotopic “other space” that allows readers to contest complex narratives of national trauma and politics that
circulated in the years following 9/11. Along similar lines, Helena María Viramontes’ “narrative freeways” simulate the experience of postmetropolitan space, allowing readers to immersively experience the difficulty of generating social space in the new metropolis. Inhabiting these textual spaces enables important discursive production for readers attempting to locate outlets from institutionally-disciplined space. The preceding chapters have only begun to lay out the possibilities for spatial production via textuality. This final chapter opens the door for further discussion on the political and psychological dimensions of textual space, arguing that reading literature through the lens of spatiality—and practicing textual space in the same way we would, say, a city’s streets—enables important interpretive and experiential confrontations with trauma and politics. Texts that adopt spatializing narrative strategies require readers to enter these spaces to confront political and traumatic discourses that are often inaccessible through more conventional narrative strategies, which, I argue, are avenues reserved for institutional narrative production. Having already explored the spatial dimensions of satire, narrative violence, performativity, and narrative plotting that simulates urban space, I am now interested in extending this interpretive model outward, suggesting that an awareness of a text’s spatial dimensions is often critical to appreciating its political potency and psychological weight. The following pages take a look at three narrative strategies—textual presentation, adaptation, and textual performativity—that remove readers from a conventional narrative apparatus in order to simulate and induce the experience of trauma. What unifies these three otherwise disparate narrative strategies is their ability to generate textual spaces that facilitate important political and psychological encounters. This process, I argue, provides opportunities to confront political trauma, which, as I have shown, uses narrative and space as its modes of transmission. While these short sections certainly aim to initiate important conversations on narrative and space that may continue beyond this study, they do not claim to provide a master key with which to unlock the secrets and mysteries of all literature. Rather, I hope to call attention to a growing number of contemporary writers who—like Roth, Walter, Viramontes, and each of the writers whose work I have discussed in this study—have embraced spatial approaches to literature as a means of circumventing the politics of conventional narrative structures.2 As I have argued throughout, in the age of biopolitics, where institutional narratives all too often co-opt the channels for articulating and confronting political trauma, these spatializing narrative strategies provide critical avenues for the cultivation of political voice. Although narrative has been an important field of critical inquiry over the past three decades, surprisingly little has been written on the experience of
reading as a spatial practice. While recent critics such as Rick Altman and Michael Bamberg have begun to theorize narrative as an ideological and political instrument,3 the vast majority of narrative theory leading up to the 1990s sought merely to deconstruct the formal machinery of narrative, interrogating how stories function and designating their constituent parts. This chapter is more interested in dealing with the political dimensions of narrative and the subversive, tactical opportunities that arise through our negotiation of textual space. Although Joseph E. Davis is correct when he writes, “Narrative is a powerful concept, illuminating the interplay of agency and social structure, and storytelling, like [social] movements themselves, specifies valued endpoints and stimulates creative participation” (27), he does not adequately address the full range of strategies by which narratives invite this kind of participation on the part of the reader. Likewise, Wendy Patterson’s designation of narrative as a strategic action—a term she gleans from de Certeau—brings us to familiar spatial territory, but does not fully engage the subversive possibilities of space that de Certeau outlines in his writings (1). Following a different thread, Jameson’s exploration of narrative in The Political Unconscious theorizes the political and psychological dimensions of narrative, but, again, does not acknowledge narrative production as a spatial practice in the spirit of de Certeau, or even Roland Barthes, with his “readerly” and “writerly” texts. This chapter, in addition to suggesting new ways of
traversing well-trodden theoretical ground, seeks to unpack the spatio-political dialectic at the heart of many works of contemporary fiction, demonstrating how spatializing narrative strategies provide valuable opportunities for simulating and confronting trauma. Yüklə 327,68 Kb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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