A Heart in Winter & Plato's Symposium PDF

"A Heart in Winter" and Plato's "Symposium" - en “A Heart in Winter” (“Un coeur en hiver”) Directed by Claude Sautet Written by Claude Sautet and Yves UlmannA Released 1992 With Daniel Auteuil, Emmanuelle Béart, André Dussolier, and others At First Sight, “A Heart in Winter” is the story of a...

"A Heart in Winter" and Plato's "Symposium" - en “A Heart in Winter” (“Un coeur en hiver”) Directed by Claude Sautet Written by Claude Sautet and Yves UlmannA Released 1992 With Daniel Auteuil, Emmanuelle Béart, André Dussolier, and others At First Sight, “A Heart in Winter” is the story of a love triangle, a variation of the basic and often filmed competition of two men for the affection of a woman. At second sight, however, the film is a treatment of the philosophical question “What is love?” Unlike typical Hollywood movies, “A Heart in Winter” is not based on such popular premises as love is the answer to everything, sexual consummation is the ultimate closure, or monogamous commitments are tantamount to happy endings. Sautet’s film subverts any such clichés by wondering about the nature of what people call “love,” by showing, for example, how much more weighty a passing glance can be than wild cohabitation, or by exploring the possibility that a quiet, solitary life can be as rich and deep as one that is crowded by emotional demands and relentless instinctual pressures. Mike Lorefice observes in his review of the film: “’Un coeur en hiver’ is the total opposite of the Hollywood romance. It shows love as a problem rather than a solution” And Roger Ebert suggests in his discussion of the same work: “As a general rule, the characters in French films seem more grownup than those in American films. They do not consider love and sex as a teenager might, as the prizes in life”. It is, indeed, one of the characteristics of cultures shaped by Hollywood that people keep thinking in terms of adolescents long after they have grown into adults, and it is one of the functions of films like “A Heart in Winter” to encourage an understanding of love and related matters that transcends the hackneyed simplicity to which consumers of commercial entertainment products are regularly treated. Platonic Love Any interpretation of the film will run into the following question: Is Stephane’s state of mind and way of life the expression of some shortcoming or even pathology, or does his conduct represent a plausible ideal–a way of life for which even philosophical reasons can be offered? Does Sautet tell the story of a sad failure, or does he give us the outline of a kind of life that is attractive in an unusual way? Under the influence of Hollywood movies and pop psychology, most viewers will be inclined to look at Stephane as a person who suffers from “psychological problems.” Instead of pursuing the woman to whom he is attracted, and instead of responding to her reciprocating interest in the way any “normal” man would, Stephane does not act on his initial impulses and even withdraws when Camille shows a keen interest in him. It seems obvious that he is “inhibited” in some way that the “healthy or natural” expression of his feelings is blocked by some inner obstacles. The reasons why he does not follow up on his initial advance are not moral, after all; Stephane does not adhere to any code that would prevent him from approaching another man’s woman. The reason for his abstention seems to be an inability to feel. “There is something dead in me,” as he puts it himself, and it seems to be this “deadness” that causes him, a good-looking heterosexual male in his best years, to be a bachelor, to be thoroughly wedded to his work, and to be entirely content with furthering and enjoying excellence in the realm of music and the arts. What else but some sort of lack of vitality could it possibly be? Psychologists sometimes divide people into those who are primarily oriented toward other human beings, and those who relate primarily to objects. The former are submerged in the lively world of persons and social relations, while the latter reside in the silent world of things and ideas. Stephane is decidedly the type who feels at home among objects. The first time we see him in his own quarters he is intensely involved in the restoration of a mechanical doll, while his friends are invariably shown in the lively and often noisy company of other people. Maxime, Camille, Regine, or Lachaume come alive when they are soliciting, quarreling, or interacting with swarms of playing children. Stephane seems most intensely alive when he expertly assembles a violin, concentrates on a musician’s performance, or quietly sits thinking. Stephane’s life among objects is anything but dead. At first sight, one might think that his demeanor is a bit on the catatonic side, and his face may remind one of the impassive mask of Buster Keaton. But Stephane’s expressions are never without inner life, and his dark eyes reveal an intensity of feeling that is as vibrant in its way as the more extrovert conduct of the people around him. With respect to body language and facial expressions, Stephane is simply a minimalist. His soul is not void of passions and interests, but a place where such feelings have been transformed into something that lies beyond the concerns and commotion of more ordinary lives. What is different with him could be described in terms of Freudian psychology: Stephane’s sexual impulses and energy are alive and well, but they have become for the most part “sublimated” into the love of complex aesthetic expressions and the pursuit of artistic excellence. It is as a consequence of this sublimation that he is more impressed by and interested in the literary descriptions of love, for example, than in the everyday occurrences of the real thing. The transformation of human experiences in the medium of literature and other art forms is far more fascinating in his eyes than the ordinary and often banal dealings that one can observe in everyday life. The philosophical conception of this sort of sublimation was formulated most famously in Socrates’ (or Plato’s) theory of love. Love and its sublimation is the central topic of Plato’s book Symposium. During the dinner party described in this work, all participants give a speech in honor of eros, or love, and in these speeches, they put forth their respective conception and definition of its nature. When it is Socrates’ turn to speak, the philosopher insists that he does not know enough about the subject to give a coherent lecture. Instead, he offers to report a discussion that he once had with a priestess from another city, Diotima of Mantinea. All he knows about love, he says, is what Diotima has taught him about it. As his companions agree to his proposal, Socrates proceeds to lay out Diotima’s theory of eros, a conception of the sublimation of sexual energy that has come to be known as “Platonic love.” All human beings, men as well as women, are “pregnant” and desire to “give birth” to some sort of offspring, according to the priestess. They have this desire because offspring is their only way to defeat their otherwise inevitable mortality: “So don’t be surprised if everything naturally values its own offspring, because it is for the sake of immortality that everything shows this zeal, which is love” (3). (The translation of this and the following passages is by Alexander Nehamas and Paul Woodruff.) Offspring, however, can be either of a physical or an intellectual nature; some people leave behind sons or daughters, while others are remembered for their artistic or philosophical creations. Diotima leaves no doubt that she considers the creations of the mind a more valuable offspring than the procreation of bodies: “Everyone would rather have such children than human ones, and would look up to Homer, Hesiod, and the other good poets with envy and admiration for the offspring they have left behind–offspring, which, because they are immortal themselves, provide their parents with immortal glory and remembrance” (4). What is important in Diotima’s theory is her contention that even the most sublime creations of the mind are made possible by the energy of eros. The poetry of Homer or the laws of Solon are as much a product of love’s passion as a child. The only difference is that the erotic passion that begets children is comparatively primitive or primeval, while the inspired passion of poets and thinkers is sexual energy that has undergone a series of refining transformations. These transformations are reflected in the progression of steps that a person goes through in his or her intellectual education and cultural sophistication. One such progression described by the priestess is that from the love of individual beautiful bodies to the love of beauty as such. Young people typically become passionately excited by the physical beauty of another individual, and a natural consequence of this passion is sexual involvement and the bringing forth of a child. Infatuations with other beautiful bodies may follow, and a lover may come to appreciate beauty in many other things as well. A most important step is taken, however, when the inspired contemplation of individual beautiful things leads to the question of what all beautiful things have in common—of what the general essence or idea of beauty may be. By thus moving from the appreciation of individual beautiful things to a general conception of beauty, the lover of beauty is reaching a new plateau of aesthetic experience. The contemplation of beautiful things in conjunction with a general conception of beauty and other comprehensive ideas results in a new and sophisticated inner life. A lover’s sexual energy, which originally was fixated on individual objects, broadens into the love of comprehensive ideas. The lover of ideas lives in a much-enlarged universe. He has, according to Diotima, become a “lover of wisdom,” a philosopher. He sees things in wider perspectives. He is not limited anymore to the narrow concerns and outlooks that characterize primal instinctual love but is able to develop an attitude of relaxed detachment toward all worldly matters. Considering his former infatuation with individual beautiful objects, the philosophical lover “must think that this wild gaping after just one body is a small thing and despise it” (5). After Socrates has delivered his Diotima report to the dinner guests, there is a disturbance at the gate, and Alcibiades appears with some drinking companions to crash the party. Alcibiades was a successful young general and popular politician in Athens and one of the most famous of Socrates’ students. He was well known for his physical beauty, and notorious as a seducer of women and men. Many assumed that in his younger years, he had been a lover of Socrates as well. Plato introduces Alcibiades at this point of the Symposium to convey something about the practical and ethical implications of philosophical love. Since Alcibiades is not prepared to give yet another speech about the nature of love like the other guests before him, he simply tells the story of how he fared when years ago he tried to seduce his admired teacher. He describes in some detail all the tricks ardent lovers use to achieve the goal of their desires, and how none of these tricks had helped him to have his way with Socrates. At the time he managed to spend a night with Socrates in the same bed and under the same cover. But although Socrates could not be presumed to be blind to Alcibiades’ physical beauty, nothing sexual happened. “I swear to you by all the gods and goddesses together,” Alcibiades exclaims, “my night with Socrates went no further than if I had spent it with my own father or older brother!” (6) Alcibiades says that he felt “humiliated” by this rejection, and he describes Socrates’ staunch behavior as “utterly unnatural,” “hopelessly arrogant,” and “unbelievably insolent.” Still, his overall evaluation of his teacher is one of high praise. Socrates represents an absorption in and dedication to the world of ideas that renders him rather indifferent to the temptations and preoccupations of everyday life and ordinary love. Living beyond the drives and cares that shape the lives of most people, the philosopher manifests a degree of unconcern and serenity that results in an unusual degree of sovereign conduct. Alcibiades makes that point by reporting Socrates’ behavior in war with its inevitable deprivations. Now, first, he took the hardships of the campaign much better than I ever did–much better, in fact, than anyone in the whole army. When we were cut off from our supplies, as often happens in the field, no one else stood up to hunger as well as he did. And yet he was the one man who could really enjoy a feast; …(7). When the Athenian army was routed at Delium in 424 BCE, Socrates did not react with panic, as most of the others did, but retreated calmly and without haste. His calm kept pursuing enemy soldiers at bay. “For, as a rule, you try to put as much distance as you can between yourself and such men in battle; you go after the others, those who run away helter-skelter” (8). Whether it was hunger, extreme cold, or mortal danger, Socrates, according to Alcibiades’ testimony, always conducted himself with calm and equanimity–as a man in, but not of the world. Again, all this is ultimately the result of sublimated love, according to the philosophy of the Symposium. It is the concentrated and intensive appreciation of ideal things and the world of ideas that removes a person from the usual entanglements of sexual desires, small-minded pursuits, or the grip of instinctual fears. Sublimated love is a passion that engenders emotional detachment and it manifests itself in an ethics of distance–distance to the world and the everyday preoccupations of ordinary humans. It is this inner distance to the world that is at the heart of Socrates’ unflappable composure and unworldly conduct. Stephane’s Way of Being in the World Stephane, although he does not explicitly subscribe to any philosophy, has much of this Socratic composure. His intimate and concentrated involvement in the world of music and his interest in literature are part of his distance to the ordinary affairs of the world. Listening to the nuances of complex sounds and demanding compositions means more to him than having affairs, traveling places, or raising a family. The consuming entanglements that intimate relationships and caring involvement in the world inevitably bring would be a distraction or disturbance in the kind of life he wishes to live. Many, like Camille, would consider such an unworldly life as a form of escapism–as a perhaps cowardly retreat from all the things that give substance and meaning to a human life. They would take it for granted that there is something wrong with people who avoid love the way Stephane does, and the only question for them would be the cause of such “unnatural” behavior—selfishness, timidity, fear of commitment, emotional deadness, or some such untoward disposition. Stephane’s own mentioning of “something dead” in him may prompt them to think of his demeanor as something inflicted on him, as a pathological condition that was caused by traumatic events. But Stephane’s refusal to become intimate with Camille in the usual way is a choice, a choice that makes sense–even if psychologists should be able to connect it to some story of early trauma. The film provides enough material for the viewer to see that a life entangled in worldly human affairs can be much less attractive than the calm and detached life that Stephane lives. Sexually intimate love, after all, does not only have the enchanting and beatific aspects that typical Hollywood romances emphasize, and that at first are in the foreground of the story of Stephane and Camille, but also unpleasant sides that grow out of the instinctual and often brutish constitution of human beings as part of the animal kingdom. Throughout “A Heart in Winter” Sautet placed a number of scenes that deliberately depict intimate relationships at their less-than-palatable moments. When Stephane and Camille have their first get-together at the bistro, for example, they overhear a heated quarrel of a couple seated at a table behind them. The woman screams a number of insults at her lover and then knocks glasses and dishes off their table. “I fear for their future,” Stephane remarks with sarcastic understatement, and Camille observes: “I think the man is crying.” The latter seems to be the case, for the woman’s attitude suddenly changes. She caresses the man’s face with motherly tenderness, while a none-too-subtle expression of triumph illuminates her features. Obviously, a dark underside of passionate romantic love is shown in this scene, a side that is closely connected to hidden aggressions, power struggles, and strident demands. Romantic love is not often what it appears to be. It is needy appropriation as much as tender giving; it manifests itself in desperate clawing as much as in joyful affirmation. It is a roiling tangle of pleasures and dark drives that gives the lie to the beatific images usually associated with romantic stereotypes of love. The quarrel between Lachaume and Madame Amet that Stephane observes when he comes to the house of his former teacher sheds additional light on the matter. Here the close connection between genuine affection and aggressive intrusion is even more disturbing, at least to Stephane. Madame Amet nags and pressures Lachaume to take better care of himself–to eat right, to exercise, to stop smoking, and so forth. But Lachaume resents being mothered. He furiously demands: “Stop bulldozing me with your big tits,” and he insists that he does not want to “live glued together.” Madame Amet responds in kind: she offers to leave him altogether. Lachaume then scolds her for taking things to extremes… And so the quarrel runs its predictable course. There is no doubt that the two care dearly for each other, and that they are deeply committed to their household. But it seems inevitable that periodically hostile feelings arise and ugly exchanges develop. The fact is that love is not just loving: it always brings its dark shadow along. Stephane is rather turned off by such humanness; he has no use for relationship hassles, emotional quibbles, irritability, or the usual domestic spats. To live his contemplative life he needs to keep his mind and time free of such matters; he needs to keep his distance from the entanglements that seem to consume too much of people’s lives. A short scene involving Camille and Régine highlights yet another disturbing aspect of love: jealousy. While dressing to go out with Maxime and Camille, Régine is very irritable. Fussing about, she complains about lack of time as well as a lack of gratitude on Camille’s part for all her efforts on behalf of Camille’s career. Régine’s specific complaints are not really called for; it turns out that behind her irritation is the growing involvement of Camille with Maxime, and the inevitable lessening of the violinist’s close relationship with her mentor and agent. Love, as Régine demonstrates, is possessive, demanding, and egotistic. Perceived threats to assumed rights lead to bitter and ugly recriminations. It is love that makes the lover spit venom at the beloved. Sautet makes sure that we are well aware of how closely related love interests are to petty behavior and negative feelings. It helps the viewer see that Stephane has sound reasons for staying aloof–for not wanting to get involved in the way most people do. To forestall the conclusion that unpleasant scenes occur only among some people– among individuals, perhaps, who may be immature in some ways or lacking in genteel “social skills”–the film shows that even the most refined and sophisticated persons in this story display the traits that tend to keep Stephane away from the world of ordinary intimacy. When Camille first complains about Stephane’s reticence and withdrawal, her voice is soft, and her demeanor expresses nothing but sadness. After his outright refusal of her advances, however, her “real temperament,” as Lachaume called it, comes to the surface in violent ways. The very passion that first appeared as charm, joy, and discrete tenderness now finds expression in raucous screaming, wild accusations, and rather crude language. Maxime, too, loses his civil disposition when his primal passions are roused. When he first learns of Camille’s feelings for Stephane he just mentions physical force: “I can’t very well beat him up.” In the pitched restaurant scene, however, the discrete man of the world is a slugger, even though it is not at all clear that Stephane is guilty of any punishable mischief. Even among very cultured people, in other words, non-sublimated love is bound to reveal its uncivilized aspects. Like Tennyson’s unredeemed nature, primal love is “red in tooth and claw.” It is a force that Stephane prefers to leave out of his life–in favor of his detached equanimity. Wisdom literature from many cultures has produced plenty of advice to this effect. The basic truth of Buddhism, for example, counsels that life is essentially suffering and that faith in something like romantic love is a sort of illusion. In the Western tradition, Socrates’ ethics found a prominent and influential continuation in Stoicism, the philosophy that deems tranquil equanimity to be of far greater value than such emotional extremes as infatuation or hateful disgust. (Even classical Hedonism advises against passionate feelings and recommends a relatively detached life of quiet contemplation.) Stephane is a Stoic of sorts. He is skeptical and uncooperative when people seek out the sort of involvement that is bound to produce suffering, emotional clutter, and distracting confusions. Avoiding such emotional turmoil is wisdom for him, and affective minimalism beauty. Stephane’s concentration on art and a few things well done brings about aesthetic perfection as well as inner peace. It would, of course, be wrong to see “A Heart in Winter” simply as a proselytizing defense or illustration of Platonic love, or Stephane as an exemplary hero whose purpose it is to recommend philosophical principles. Stephane’s character, for one thing, is by no means unproblematic. He tells Camille that his siblings used to think of him as somewhat devious and that he is the first to admit it. The film also makes explicit reference to the work of Mikhail Lermontov–presumably to his signature novel A Hero of Our Time. Early in the film, Hélène hands Stephane a book by the Russian writer, suggesting that he would like it. Hélène, as her various remarks show, knows something of Stephane’s deviousness, a trait that he shares with the protagonist of Lermontov’s novel. This “hero of our time” has a good deal of trouble with love, and his conduct may not be entirely honorable. He makes, for example, a princess fall madly in love with him by carefully avoiding her after his initial advances. “The young princess definitely hates me,” he somewhat smugly observes, knowing full well that this hate grows out of the frustrated desires that he inspired in her. Lermontov’s protagonist is not a sadist, however, but something like a rebel or critic of his culture. He is disgusted with the dubious notion of romantic love that is generally accepted in the society described in A Hero of Our Time. He is, unlike the people around him, keenly aware that amorous relationships are a “war,” and that “thirst for power” inspires much of what happens in them. He is annoyed by the young women who keep reading and dreaming about romances and romantic love (in the way today’s consumers relish formula-driven romances in soap operas or Hollywood films) and refuse to see the falseness in their notion of love. “I despise women so that I don’t have to love them,” he once tells an army colleague. “For otherwise life would be too ridiculous a melodrama.” While Stephane may not share the missionary militancy of Lermontov’s modern hero, he is well aware of the subconscious power plays that pervade romantic relationships, and he has definitely been willing to engage in them himself–as a sort of “game.” To explain his lack of romantic feelings he tells Camille that he made his initial advances in the same spirit in which he plays racket ball. He clearly has no use for the kind of sentiments that most people cherish and desire in such situations. Stephane’s declaration that Maxime is just his partner, and not a friend, shows how hard he has been trying to purge all feelings from his personal relationships. Like Lermontov’s hero, he disdains the sentimental culture around him, and he prefers to fashion his life and social relationships as sober and object-oriented as possible. (Stephane’s sober objectivity was the reason why he was chosen to assist Lachaume with his suicide. That assistance required a kind of love that was free of sentimentality.) To say that Stephane’s character is problematic implies seeing that his abstention from feelings and involvement was not just motivated by a Platonic love of ideas, but also by the “deadness” that he mentions in his conversations with Camille. In the end, Stephane does not rule out that there may be a psychological origin of his Stoic disposition, and that his conduct may be seen by some as regrettable. But that does not invalidate his emotional minimalism as a plausible ideal. Socrates’ teachings still make sense, and the drawbacks that Stephane sees in a culture of primal or primitive feelings are still something to be seriously considered. The avoidance of emotional extremes cannot claim the status of an absolutely valid doctrine, of course. Camille's temporary vulgarity, after all, is the flip side of her superb performance as an artist, and Stephane’s self-confessed lack of artistic talent may have more than a coincidental relation with his emotional abstinence. (“I do not trust winter, because it is the season of comfort,” Arthur Rimbaud wrote in A Season in Hell. Exposure to extreme experiences and passions was a necessary condition for truly great art in his eyes.) Still, Stephane’s life and conduct as such are not a failure, and his Platonic chastity has much to recommend it as a philosophy of life. While most people may prefer summer or other lively seasons, winter definitely has its own beauty. (From Jorn K. Bramann: Educating Rita and Other Philosophical Movies)