Spoiler Alert: These essays are ideally to be read after viewing the respective films.
Showing posts with label suicide. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suicide. Show all posts

Thursday, November 6, 2025

Silent Night

The medium of film has an amazing ability to trigger emotions, even very strong ones, through dialogue, narrative, cinematography and sound. The suspension of disbelief, if achieved, renders the impact all the more complete. Dread, for example, can be conjured up even with another yet different emotion, such as joy, even in the same song. The medium is also capable of stimulating thought not only as viewers attempt to figure out unnecessarily convoluted plots, but also thinking more abstractly in philosophical or theological terms. Such abstractions, besides being implicitly or explicitly treated in the narrative, extend beyond the confines of a narrative and its story-world. “Life and death” is such a theme, as is whether the human soul is immortal. Less tantalizing, though arguably just as important for typically being overlooked, philosophy of mind (and philosophy of psychology), for which a strange, incomprehensible plotline is by no means requisite or even constructive, stands as a rich reservoir for filmmakers. Even though the question of life and death is central to the film, Silent Night (2021), which interestingly was made during the global coronavirus pandemic—there is even a “Covid Supervisor” listed in the credits!—a seldom-recognized vulnerability innate to the human mind may deserve top billing in that film. The group-think evinced by the group of friends at the house on Christmas Eve and perhaps a wider mass-hysteria only touches the surface of the problem in terms of the human mind. I contend that the star-attraction in the Christmas film rightly goes to the human mind’s vulnerability to presumption to the assumption of infallibility (and susceptibility to group-think cognitively and as in terms of power).  In the context of a group’s suicide pact, critical thinking in the sense of critiquing whatever assumptions are being held is so very important, yet it is only evinced by Art, a young boy, who is under unrelenting pressure especially from his parents to take a fatal pill before a “cloud” of toxic, climate-changed gases hits.

As for the film’s plot, Nell and Simon, who have three boys, including Art, invite friends that they have known since school over for Christmas in Nell's mother's upscale house. Everyone is trying to celebrate Christmas, so they resist turning the subject to their impending self-inflicted, albeit presumably necessary, deaths. Death is assumed as certain and very painful for anyone who does not take the “exit” suicide pills that the government has made available to British citizens, but not to the homeless and illegal immigrants—a moral problem really only bothers Art. The assumption that suicide, or an “exit,” as in “Brexit,” is necessary presupposes that death from the toxic ground-level “cloud” is certain. Art’s mother, Nell, makes this assumption; so too does her husband, Simon. They are determined to force Art to take the pill rather than to allow their eldest son to hold out with James’ fiancée, Sophie, who is pregnant and does not want to kill her baby. James even tells Art that the scientists all agree with the government that failure to take the pill would result in intolerable suffering from inhaling the inevitable and long-lasting poisonous gases. As it turns out, Art is correct, and they are all wrong, because he wakes up the next morning, alive, after the “cloud” has passed by and snowfall has cleared the air. His parents had not given him a pill when they took theirs because they assumed that he was already dead merely because he had blood on his face. That Simon and Nell make this assumption without even checking for breathing or a pulse and yet somehow know that survival inside the house post-cloud will not be possible just because the scientists and governments say so belies the validity of the parents’ claim to be so confident in their reasoning and conclusion. That suicide is involved means that the stakes are high, and yet unchecked assumptions are allowed to preempt even holding off on the pill until such time as active poisoning is taking place.

Only Art insists on that strategy of wait-and-see, and his parents promptly veto it. Nell assumes that her son would be suffering alone—another unfounded assumption. Only Art questions the critical assumptions being made by the adults. He even subjects the adults’ suicide “pact” as well as a government policy of issuing suicide pills (only) to citizens to moral critique. He even points to his parents’ stupidity in giving him Christmas toys that night, which of course he will not be alive for long to use! “Your mom is a bit daft,” Simon admits to his son in a touching scene on the stairs. At least Nell recognizes that Art is intelligent, for at the Christmas dinner, she tells him, “You clever, clever boy!” He has just scolded all of the adults at the table, “You all should be ashamed of yourselves!”, for not having done enough politically—such as in voting Green rather than Conservative, as Bella and Sandra lament later—to reduce carbon emissions so the atmosphere would not throw air-borne toxins back and kill at least half of the human population (so far). Even during the dinner, a toxic brown “cloud” of poisonous gases and fierce winds traveling at ground-level is sweeping through the land and will hit the house sometime after midnight, hence on Christmas. Besides having taken climate toxicity too lightly for decades, the adults at the table are apparently unaware of the Christmas line, and a child shall lead them. Nell admits to everyone that Art is clever and yet she dismisses his very reasonable arguments in favor of “wait and see” rather than preemptively taking suicide pills under the assumption that doing so before the “cloud” arrives is necessary to obviate what is sure to be intolerable suffering. Instead of considering Art’s arguments, Simon and Nell, as well as James, their physician friend, are oriented to refuting Art’s objections to suicide as preventative rather than as a last resort in a worse case scenerio.

To the adults in the house, the government, scientists, and even the adults themselves could not be wrong, and yet no one except Art realizes that the toxins might pass with the passing “cloud” rather than stick around for, as Nell supposes without any evidence, a hundred years. She may be thinking of a thermo-nuclear winter, though for that a hundred years may be too optimistic. Such a mistake is indeed possible for Nell; after someone says at dinner that the Queen could be in a bunker with beans and dog food, Nell states how bad it would be to have to eat dog food for a hundred years even though it is obvious to everyone else at the table that Queen Elizabeth II had several small dogs throughout her life and would include them, and their food, in a bunker. Therefore, we can be skeptical of Nell’s explanation to Art that suicide is necessary beforehand because the airborne poisonous gases can go through water pipes and glass windows and thus reach throughout the house. In fact, the belief that the Queen is probably in a bunker implies that suicide as preventative rather than as a last resort is de facto refuted in action at a high station to which even the government is due loyalty. With so much on the line—literally life and death—it is significant that no one at the table suggested that they go to the basement when the “cloud” arrives and come out the next morning to see if the danger has passed or else whether there really is no alternative to suicide other than dying a painful death.

Moreover, the lack of questioning and debate regarding the assumptions being made is itself a red flag concerning the human mind. At one point, Sandra (whose beauty, I might say, steals the show) tells Bella in a hallway that the news reports of the gruesome deaths from around the world cannot be wrong. True enough, but it is possible that all such deaths took place in the “cloud” rather than after its passing, especially if rain or snow ensued. Even James’ medical assumption that no one can survive the gas is undone by Art ingesting some of it in a mini-twister outside that night and yet waking up the next morning. He has breathed in some of the toxin and yet survives it!  Not even what the physician is assuming medically is correct!

Not even Sophie, who initially does not want to commit suicide, questions the reigning assumption that the toxic gas will kill everyone in its path. Art’s willingness to stand by Sophie rather than take the pill is quickly shot down by his mother, Nell, and both of his parents go into hyperdrive in conveying to their eldest son that he will take the pill because, “We are your parents.” Who in growing up has not heard that line! With his life on the line, Art emotionally distances himself from his “protective” parents whom he says love him but are “trying to kill me.” It is not that Simon and Nell are bad people; in fact, they are trying to keep all of their boys from suffering extremely painful deaths. However, the eventuating of snow falling overnight, which likely cleanses the air of the poison, demonstrates that especially Simon, Nell, James, and Bella “leapt to conclusions” in supposing the inevitability of the worst-case scenario quite erroneously. At the very least, everyone should have been open to holding off from taking the pills until clear indications of poisoning could be seen either upon the “cloud’s” arrival or the next morning. Had Bella not stabbed Alex after she threw up the pill that Bella had stuffed in her sleeping mouth, Alex would wake up the next morning and presumably find Art lying in his parent’s bed alongside his dead family. Sophie would wake up and presumably go on to give birth had James not insisted that she take a pill with him. Generally speaking, were the group-think “pact” pushed less severely, more people could wake up in the house the next morning—Christmas morning—and be stunned and grateful for the falling, cleansing snow. Minds are closed to the possibility that the “cloud” could be like a passing thunderstorm in that people could safely wait out the passing storm deep inside the house, and it dawns on nobody that falling snow overnight could cleanse the morning air of the poison, so taking the pill would most prudently be at least held off.  When suicide is an option, it is dangerous to have a mind that does not counter its own values, beliefs, and “findings,” and thus assumptions and conclusions; such minds are particularly susceptible to group-think, in which a group of people hold a narrow view and fight off any challenges or objections to it; dissent, in other words, is subject to vitriol and exclusion.  

Art, a young boy, is the only person in the house who questions the “group-think” party-line and its assumptions. Only he survives, at least to the next morning, which the adults had insisted over and over again would not be possible. He wakes in a house whose beds are laid upon by the bodies of his brothers, parents, and their parents’ friends. As the credits roll, the closing instrumental version of the song, “Silent Night,” masterfully juxtaposes the holiness of Christmas Eve with the dread of impending mass suicide.

The film may lead audiences to question not only mankind's ignorance and culpability in having let climate change get so out of control, but also, from Art's questioning of the assumption of certain death, the human tendency not to question the assumptions that we make and to take precautions in case an assumption is wrong. We are too liable to assume that we are infallible creatures, even though the fact is, we are human, all too human. Having caused climate change to the extent that a toxic cloud circles the globe and then to needlessly commit suicide makes our species look very bad. We have done it to ourselves is the lesson from the film. In at least implicitly assuming that we know more than we actually do, and thus avoiding criticism of our assumptions and conclusions as unnecessary and even a waste of time, the vulnerability of the human mind is laid bare. It would be a profound human service of film if it would lay bare the vulnerability to a presumptuousness of de facto infallibility, which in turn preempts the activation of critical thinking in the sense of questioning one’s own beliefs, assumptions, values (and thus ideologies), and conclusions. The human mind is not as logical innately as we may perceive it to be; at least a semester of logic should be required of any college student. In the film, Nell’s reasoning is atrocious, and yet she comes down hard on Art’s very reasonable argument.

Nell thinks the Queen would be eating dog food in a bunker for 100 years. That the dog food would obviously be for the queen’s dogs is a more reasonable assumption than that the queen would eat dog food for a century, and yet in stating how bad that would be, Nell has no recognition of how faulty her reasoning is. This means that it is nothing short of dangerous for her to turn to Art and insist that he will take a pill rather than wait and see in case the gases are airborne only as the “cloud” is passing. Forget the queen and her pets; the emperor (and what parent is not an emperor?) is proverbially not wearing any clothes! That a power that is presumably clothed is actually bare is precisely the attitude toward one’s own mind—one’s own assumptions, theories, and conclusions—that I suggest the film implicitly advocates. This is done by showing just how damaging group-think, perhaps even a global hysteria, and especially a failure or refusal to critique one’s own thinking and assumptions can be.

Besides the distortive impact of its unconscious, the human mind does not ratiocinate nearly as well as we suppose. As the impact of our species on the planet increases, whether by igniting nuclear war or burning fossil fuels, questioning our own thinking and that of others becomes more crucial. The adults in the film may be in the midst of a suicide-pact doomsday hysteria that has gripped the world, or they could merely be too intolerant to dissent in a sort of group-think mentality within the house. Either way, they are not thinking clearly enough to warrant the assumption of infallibility, especially considering the myriad of factors that are involved in climate, including whether a heavy snowfall will clear the air.


Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Realive

In 2016, Robert McIntyre, a graduate of MIT, became the first person to freeze and then revive a mammalian brain—that of a white rabbit. “When thawed, the rabbit’s brain was found to have all of its synapse, cell membranes, and intracellular structures intact.”[1] The film, Realive, made that same year, is a fictional story about a man with terminal cancer who commits suicide to be frozen and revived when his illness could be cured. In the context of McIntyre’s scientific work, the film’s sci-fi demeanor belies the very real possibility that cryogenics could realistically alter fundamental assumptions about life and death even just later in the same century. What the film says about the life and death is timeless, however, in terms of philosophical value.




Diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer, Marc Jarvis opts for cryogenics. His body is to be frozen and revived when technology has advanced to the point of being able to reanimate him and cure the cancer. “I’d be able to live longer,” he blandly tells his friends, who are skeptical. For this to happen, he responds, “I guess I’d have to trust humanity.” He is referring to the advent of the necessary medical technology, rather than to the question of whether global climate change might extinguish the species in the meantime. This “sin of omission” by the screenwriter is particularly strange, given physicist Steven Hawkins’ prediction at the time that the species would have at most a century left on a habitable Earth.

In the story, living longer isn’t Marc’s actual goal, so he may well be indifferent to the plight of the species as he informs his friends of his decision to go with cryogenics. He does not commit suicide with the hope of being revived when he could be cured so he could live out the rest of his life.  As he tells Elizabeth, his nurse after he is revived 60 years later, in 2084, “Suicide was my way of fighting the arbitrariness of cancer.” Suicide, he tells her, was “the only way of avoiding the agony and the uncertainty of when death would finally arrive.” In retrospect, he says that being able to end his life at his choosing gave him the power to die peacefully. He had not really thought he could be reanimated; suicide, he tells Elizabeth, “gave me back control over my life.” He had accepted death; things were fine as they were. He accepted his experience of life as that which it had been, even though he was still young (roughly 30). The fear was gone, he tells Elizabeth more than 100 arduous days after having being revived. His fear of death is still gone, he informs her as he then asks her to help him commit suicide again. He has already died once. He is once again prepared to end his life. His final wish: “To be nothing again, to disappear, to finally rest in peace.” Why? To return to an after-life existence in heaven? Or out of a preference for not existing over the pain of living?

Just after being revived, he is enthusiastic. “I was going to die,” he tells the medical team in front of his bed. “I was going to disappear, forever, and I’m alive again. I’m alive!” But he quickly realizes that his “new life” comes with some rather serious drawbacks, medically speaking. At least for some weeks, his body seems permanently “on the verge of collapse.” He records the following for future posterity: “Life, what do we expect from it? Certainly not this fragility, this half-speed existence. We definitely don’t expect a medical history full of afflictions and minor defects, a propensity for phlegmbosis, numbness in the extremities, involuntary movements, loss of equilibrium, scaling of the skin, irritation of connective tissue, respiratory insufficiency, cardiac insufficiency, incontinence, impotence. You don’t expect so many limitations so soon.” His physician tells him that he could expect a life like people with chronic diseases or the elderly, and he would have to maintain at least periodic connection to a machine that keeps him alive. In erroneously assuming that these conditions would be permanent, both Marc and his physician dismiss the likelihood that medical science would continue to advance. 

To be sure, Marc’s medical team knew Marc would lose all of his memories, after which no medical science could bring them back. You expect at least to keep your memories, Marc narrates for posterity. “What if your memories were erased as well? What will become of me once my memories have faded?” Fortunately, a device exists in 2084 that can allow people to recover memories without actually remembering anything, but he dismisses it outright too. He could still draw on those stored memories mentally—hence indistinguishable from him really having the memories—and perhaps advancements in medical science could literally grow more “gray matter” such that Marc would someday begin to accumulate new memories. In short, the static nature in the assumptions made not only by Marc, but, more astonishingly, by his medical term in 2084 is astonishing, given their experiences with medical advancements.

At any rate, Naomi, Marc’s girlfriend before he died, had herself frozen in hopes of being together with her true love again someday. Elizabeth wants to assure Marc, “Someday you two will be able to be together again like you were before; it’s only a matter of time.” Here in Elizabeth we find the openness of a dynamic assumption; medical science should be regarded as a moving target!  Yet he isn’t buying it. He knows Naomi’s bodily condition is not good; the process of freezing had not gone well. “I don’t even want to imagine Naomi if she’s trapped in someone else’s body, someone else’s life,” he tells Elizabeth. “That’s your fear talking,” Elizabeth correctly tells him. In short, Marc has lost hope—faith in medical science and even in life itself. Accordingly, he wants to commit suicide again, and he wants Elizabeth to bracket her own hope and assist him.

The nineteenth-century European philosopher, Ludwig Feuerbach, aptly describes Marc’s rationale for killing himself “for good” (i.e., without any hope of being reanimated again). “A man who kills himself does not take his life, it has already been taken from him. That is why he kills himself; he destroys only a semblance of himself; what he casts away is a mere shell whose kernel, whether by his fault or not, has long since been eaten away. But a healthy, normal life . . . is and should be man’s highest good, his supreme being.”[2] Marc expects a healthy, normal life; it is his god. Yet paradoxically death is not his enemy, for suicide is to him simply a preference for not existing over life without his god.

Life and death are of course the true characters in the fictional drama. Expectedly, religion is in the mix, though surprisingly only explicitly in a few instances in the film. The position taken in the film, through Marc as a witness—albeit fictional—is that life “is nothing more than a state of matter . . . there’s nothing transcendent or divine about it.” As such, life is merely biological. In fact, Marc opines that it is life that’s “scary, not death.” Life is “always on the verge of extinction.” A human life can quickly, and unexpectedly end without the person having any control over it. As for the soul, Marc figures it is maybe “the part that is lost when you freeze the meat and thaw it out again.” In short, the film adopts a materialist perspective. There is no after-life, other than revitalized, or unfrozen, life itself. In other words, being reanimated—not resurrected!—is the only after-life, or, more accurately, life after life. In between them: nothing. Not existing. How hard this is to apply to ourselves!

“Welcome back to life, Marc,” the physician says as Marc regains consciousness upon being revived. “Do you remember anything about the other side?” Is there an afterlife?, the physician wants to know. The first report of a possible “eye-witness” of heaven in human history is underwhelming: “Fear, dying, waking up,” Marc answers without a hint of excitement. Later, he makes it explicit: “Before I died, I thought there was nothing after death. Now I’m sure.” He is the only person alive immune from what Feuerbach describes as the fantasies of profligate human imagination. Marc records his (or the screenwriter’s) own thoughts as follows: “Why do we yearn so desperately for life after death? What is it that we want? Perhaps reward for our grief, or punishment for our sins. No, what we really expect to find is what we already know; what we once had and lost. If there was something, we would turn it into more of the same—the same chaos and the same beauty, the same reward for the same effort, the same tale by the same idiot. If there was something, it would probably be purgatory.” In other words, we construct, or hope for, an after-life looking all too familiar—human, all too human. The “most sensitive, most painful of man’s feelings of finiteness is the feeling or awareness that he will one day end, that he will die,” Feuerbach suggests.[3] All a person knows and experiences is premised on the ongoing—perceptually-seeming “ever” present—basis of existing, the end of which must surely be felt to be torrentially horrendous. A human’s “defense against death is the belief in immortality.”[4] People who think they know for a fact there is an afterlife might want to pause at word in italics. None of us know, which is why the screenwriter of the film has Marc’s physician ask.

The physician—a man of science!—is disappointed in Marc’s answer as it is well within the realm of biology. He wants for there to be a religious dimension so much that he over-reaches cognitively. In presenting Marc to the public (i.e., investors), for example, he refers to Marc as “the first person resurrected.” However, resurrection is a distinctively religious term that refers to a spiritual-physical body; Jesus’ resurrected body, for instance, goes through the door of the Upper Room and yet he is hungry so he asks for a fish! Clearly, more is going on here than reanimation or revitalization. Cryogenics does not even constitute the sort of miracle as Jesus performed in bringing Lazarus back to life, and yet Marc's physician refers to his successive cryogenic attempts, including Marc, as Lazarus!

In short, Marc’s (albeit fictional) body is not supernatural, and yet the physician uses terms suggestive of a religious miracle. In fact, he refers to Marc as the first resurrected man more than once in the film. It is as if man of science were driven instinctually to make what is human, divine. According to Feuerbach, “Man makes a god or divine being of what his life depends on only because to him his life is a divine being, a divine possession or thing.”[5] God is beneficent (because good), and thus of use to humans—hence petitions are made as a matter of course in many liturgies, but the underlying presupposition or basis of this belief in the divine attribute is that human life is itself of great worth (i.e., divine).

Therefore, Marc while still young and yet seemingly deprived of God’s beneficence has a knee-jerk reaction for his life to go on, albeit after some time of not existing. Alternatively, he could pin his hopes on heaven, yet he dismisses it even before he knows it to be a fantasy of the human imagination tinged with fear. Yet even in ostensibly wanting to live more, or again, it is to be on his terms.

According to Feuerbach, we are the gods—or, more accurately—our human ideals are our true gods—the potential of the species, which Feuerbach erroneously claimed is infinite. The danger in idolizing our ideals lies in settling for nothing less. Hence Marc acts rashly, I submit, in committing suicide again. His god is human, all too human. If Feuerbach was right, even the ostensibly religious deity is really just human life in its infinite potential. Yet the terrain of our experience is finite—our perception, feeling, and cognition only go so far. Even cryogenics in itself could merely extend a human life, rather than making human beings immortal.

 




[2] Ludwig Feuerbach, Lectures on the Essence of Religion (New York: Harper & Row, 1967), 52.


[3] Ludwig Feuerbach, Lectures on the Essence of Religion (New York: Harper & Row, 1967), 33.


[4] Ibid., 34, italics added.


[5] Ibid., 52.