Though Plato did not, of course, have access to modern cinema, he nonetheless had/has insights that are interesting and relevant to cinema and to cinematography. Plato's preoccupation with questions revolving around the Sophists could be construed as a cinematic approach to philosophy. The most overt "image" from Plato's writings pertinent to cinema, is the imagery displayed in the allegory of the cave. The `oi polloi, as they are chained in the cave and directed toward the shadows dancing on the wall, could be construed as a cinematic rendering of certain social, educational, ontological, epistemological, and political concerns.
In at least two of the tropes employed in the Republic, viz. the divided line and the allegory of the cave, Plato ostensibly does two things. First, he attempts to render an account of the problem of distinguishing the real from the copy (the sham, or simulacrum). In this sense, Plato's concerns with Greek culture, society, and politics, find their paradigmatic nemesis in the rhetoric of the Sophists. A principal concern of the early dialogues is how to distinguish between the real (and with respect to philosophy, this is a concern with the real philosopher) and the copy (in this case, the Sophist or copy of the real philosopher).1 The problem is, to put it simply, that one cannot readily tell the difference. Plato thus attempts to formulate a means by which to adjudicate the distinction between the philosopher and the Sophist, and the means for making that distinction. To all "appearance" they are the same. In this scenario, one way of construing the individuals who carry the statues in front of the fire in the cave, is that at least some of these individuals are representative of the Sophists, or at least of the Sophists' students, the Sophistic influence. Assuming that there may be at least one philosopher carrying these statues in front of the fire, so as to cast an image or shadow on the wall, the others who bear these statues simply mimic the philosopher, at best. One thus, in the end, discovers a multiplicity of images. Amongst this multiplicity of images, however, the 'oi polloi are incapable of distinguishing between them and hence are unable to determine which are the "good" and which the "bad." The problem, at least on one telling of Plato's story, is of course that they cannot distinguish between them precisely because their entire world is a world of copies, at best, and simulacra, at worst.
The significance of this imagery, with respect to cinema, is that the images cast onto the wall of the cave are projected as cinematic images. In part, the point of Plato's imagery is to contrast the "common" understanding of knowledge, truth, and reality with what seemed an obvious "un-reality," the cinematic projection of images. Plato's view of culture and society in part prefigures Jean Baudrillard's interpretation of contemporary society as dominated by images, with the exception that for Plato this view arose as a deep rooted concern. Plato's concern was that society, through the prolixity of images, would entirely divorce itself from the real and from truth, or at least that this divorce from the real would encourage the reign of anarchy.2 In short, Plato's nightmare was the reign of simulacra. This leads to the second point.
Plato's tropes are also used to articulate an account of how to demarcate the limits that establish the bounds of the real and the copy. In both the divided line and the allegory of the cave, Plato attempts to contrast the upper levels of each trope with the lower levels, i.e. the real with the image. Instead of providing the real itself (which from the time of Plato to the present can be construed as the dream of epistemology, if not of philosophy), however, Plato provides only an image of the real. One is, at best, confronted with an analogy or likeness of the forms or the real. Presumably, though, this analogy is a good image or copy of 'reality.' So, Plato is not concerned that all imagery is bad, but again that one must have some means by which to adjudicate between the bad and the good image. But if one is to judge one image better than another, then, according to a traditional logic, one must discover a non-imagistic standard or paradigm that will legitimize the distinction between images. Plato's resolution of this problem was, of course, to posit the Forms. The problem, however, is that the best Plato can give is an image of these forms or paradeigmata.3 So in the final analysis, a distinction must be made between images, by appeal to a paradigmatic image that functions as a substitute for the real. In the end, Plato is inextricably ensconced within the cinematic world of images.
But can an epistemology based on images provide an adequate means of analysis whereby judgments can be made within a context composed entirely of images? Within modern cinema, it could be argued that, in its entirety the cinema is illusion. The stage, the actors, the dialogue, the events, etc. are not what they seem to be. They represent nothing. Cinema is simply the space of fantasy, of complete illusion.4 Is, then, an evaluation of cinema to be made in terms of degrees of coincidence with images of experience, or in terms (however explicit or implicit) of a comparative analysis of a variety of films? Is there, as Plato seemed to suggest, a worthwhile and a worthless pedagogy of cinema? Perhaps the more pressing question is whether Plato himself had in mind something to which his images appealed, i.e. something of which "good" images were the representation. Or might it be argued that the paragons of knowledge, the Forms, were themselves nothing more than images?
To address such questions, and in particular, to develop what might be considered a Platonic theory of cinema, is to inquire into the structure and purpose of Plato's more overtly cinematic images, and into the very program of philosophy as expressed in his dialogues. Though other dialogues are no less pertinent, the current exploration into Plato's theory of cinema will be limited to a discussion of the Republic. Limiting the exploration to this text has several advantages, foremost among these is that, assuming the Republic is a text from the "middle" period of his writings, it is a dialogue in which the problems related to the conception of the forms is first articulated. This articulation can be viewed in terms of his account(s), in Book II, of the (then) popular conceptions and justifications of justice, namely as a form of instrumentalism, and, in particular, as an instrument of power. While Plato does provide a critique of these views, his alternative is given, not in the formulation of his allegedly "ideal" polis, but in the three images, i.e. the sun analogy, the divided line, and the allegory of the cave. This allegedly "ideal" polis is not Plato's alternative, but the alternative of Glaucon and Adiemantus.5 The three, now famous, images, provide Plato's ideal of where, at least, one is to look for justice, if not to find it. The divided line, as a truncated articulation of the allegory of the cave, provides the most schematic image for the formulation of the way in which Plato's cinematic theory operates. Like the allegory of the cave, the entire schema is constructed as an image, and is constructed entirely out of images. The important difference between the two lower portions and the two upper portions of the divided line, is not a move from images to reality, but a move from particular images to universal or general images, to icons. The significance of the latter images is that they provide an imagistic context within which to reformulate one's conception and understanding of the images of the two lower portions of the line. The epistemological difference between the two major divisions in the line concerns how one understands what constitutes the truth of the real. The epistemological difference is analogous to a close-up shot and a panoramic shot, in at least two ways. First, in the former case the focus is on a particular action, event, thing, or person, whereas in the latter one is provided with an image that formulates the context within which the close-up is constituted, and hence provides a different frame of reference. The panaromic shot in some instances provides the context for the meaning of the close-up. In a second sense, the close-up shot is contextualized by focusing on other factors that may impinge on the action of the close-up, either as consequential upon the close-up, or as causal. In the lower portion of the divided line, as composed first of images or fantasmata, and second of doxa, judgments (or doxa) are constructed on the basis of images. These images are closely akin to cinematic images since, as Plato suggests, the problem of this portion of the line is the Heraclitean problem of flux.6 In short, the images from which one constructs a vision of the real, i.e. from the bottom-most portion of the line, are not static images, but moving images understood as representative of experience, and consequently of the real. The formulation of doxai, then, is, like the close-up shot, too particularized. What is required in order to make sense of such experiences is a broader context. And this broader context, which leads to a heightened understanding, is articulated in terms of the images of dianoia and nohsi.
The upper portions of the line, and especially nohsi, provide an account of what Lyotard calls the future anterior, that is, as what will have been true. The notion of the future anterior is also a familiar ploy in both cinema and literature. In the film, Jacob's Ladder, for example, one is confronted with a flux of seemingly disconnected images, which only make sense to the viewer after having seen the end of the film. At the end, of course, the audience is made privy to the fact that the previous images were the content of a dying man's last dream. The end of the film thus provides a contextual framework by which to formulate what will have been true of the preceding images. Throughout the film, at least up until the end, the viewer attempts over and over again to formulate a sensible, coherent account of the images portrayed, assuming of course one views it from the upper portion of Plato's divided line. Viewed from the lower portion, however, one would simply take this as the way in which the real functions or behaves, without concern for its theoretical explication. However, once it is suggested that these events constitute a dying man's last dream, that contextual framework constitutes the place within which the preceding flux of images will have been understood. In like manner, Plato's images of the upper portions of the divided line, and the two upper portions of the allegory of the cave, provide a theoretical context within which to make sense of the images constituting the two lower portions of the line. The paradeigmata thus formulated provide the context by which one understands what will have been true of the lower images and judgments. It is worth noting that the images constructed in the Republic constitute the heart of Plato's understanding of the function and nature of myth, in particular of the noble lie, of which the Republic itself may be an instance.
Though the cinema of Plato is primitive, it has characteristic similarities with modern cinema. In particular, "early" cinema was characterized (until D.W. Griffith) by the immobility of the camera, such that it was the images cast in front of the camera's field of "vision" that constituted the cinema. Plato's cinema is significantly similar in that, though there was no recording of the images, except perhaps in the minds of the audience, the "camera" (which for Plato functions as both camera and projector) remained immobile and the projection was produced by the movement of images in front of the camera's field of "vision."
Now, the term "paradeigmata" literally means "to expose or to disclose something as an instance." In this sense, paradeigmata is related to the term "alhqeia," which, as Heidegger proffered, means "to unconceal," or "to disclose." Now, what Plato offers as paradeigmata, is, of course, a Form, or an eidoH. And the term "eidoH" means "image, appearance, form, kind, or seeing." Thus, there is a connection between paradigm, truth, and form. This connection is perhaps best articulated in terms of the disclosure of what is seen, i.e. of an image, as an instance or instantiation of something. As John Sallis points out with regard to the divided line, the instances Plato sights with respect to the lower and upper portions of the line are the same. However, there is a difference, but it is a difference of degrees. In this sense, something becomes manifest as itself precisely to the extent that it shows itself as one. What we have on the side of things are different levels of showing, four modes in which the same things can show themselves, just as, on the side of the soul, one and the same soul can apprehend things with different degrees of clarity. Presumably, this is why Socrates does not name the things corresponding to intellection-there are no such things in the sense of their being different things as compared to visible things. So, Socrates . . . identifies and gives examples only of visible things such as shadows, animals, and artifacts; the things corresponding to intellection are the "same" as these things, but in a different, a more truthful, mode of showing.7 Thus, with respect to the Forms, as paradigms, a thing may show or disclose itself as a substitute for itself, much in the same way that in cinema, things substitute for themselves so as to show themselves in a particular way.
But why suggest that Plato has or desires a theory of cinema rather than, say, a stage play, or theatre? We can take, for example, the allegory of the cave in which the casting of shadows on the lower wall, cannot be construed in terms of a stage play. It is more akin to the projection of a camera, both in terms of the flatness of the projection screen or wall, and in terms of what might loosely be called the "intentionality" of the projector. In Plato's cave, those who cast the shadows have the power to project a certain intentionality through the formation of the icons to be cast in front of the fire. That is, they have a degree of control over the image cast, and a degree of control over their own intentionality, that the director of a stage play does not have. In the case of the stage play in which the play may be cast several times, there is always the threat, to the intentionality of the director, of the intentionality of the actors. Whereas in the casting of images on the screen or wall of the cave, the projector has the power to control, much more effectively, the casting of the image. So also in film, albeit with an even greater power, the director has the ability to control the way in which the image will be perceived. With camera and film, a scene or image can be shot and reshot, so as to capture the image desired. In a sense, this ability imbues a certain power to the director. But, as indicated, the director has a power greater than even Plato's primitive version of film. With the camera, the director can insure that a particular way of seeing things, people, and events is guaranteed. That is, the director can insure that everyone in the audience will view a particular scene from the same angle, will see it in the same way, e.g. from above looking down, from the right or left, from one end of a passageway to the other, etc. And finally, insofar as Plato wanted the Form-images to be stable images, the stage play would have been inadequate to his purposes, whereas cinema more ably suits that purpose.
But what is the force, in Plato's philosophy, of having such control? In his portrayal of the philosopher-king, Plato wants to ensure that the philosopher-king will have the power to formulate the images that will come to constitute the noble lie, the good myth. Plato, of course, does not portray the telling of the noble lie or myth in terms of stage actors, presumably because he realizes the degree of control that is lost in such an enterprise. Rather, he presents images over which the philosopher-king will have control. And it is noteworthy that the philosopher-king portrays the noble lie or myth through the casting of images, images, no less, over which the final outcome can more or less be assured. What Plato wants for the noble lie is, in short, a certain stability. And the stability desired is a social stability, based on what he deems as necessary, viz. an ontological and epistemic stability. But in order to attain this stability, there must also be a certain stability to the telling or characterization of the myth itself. Were he to attempt to rely on a stage play, his hopes for stability would, no doubt, eventually be thwarted. That is, the philosopher-king must have some assurance that the image cast on the wall, will be not only the image s/he desires, but also that there will be a certain stability to that image. Hence, Plato's philosopher-king is one who has masterfully crafted an object to be cast in front of the fire that will have the stability of a social icon. And s/he must have the assurance that this icon will not become distorted, which is not to say, of course, that it will not be subject to revision, but that any revision will be at the sole discretion of the philosopher-king. Likewise, in the case of the projection of a film, the director/producer is one who will have control over the shaping of the myth, and once shot as wished, the film will have a power of stability not guaranteed by the stage play. That is, it will provide opportunity for retelling, reshowing, so as to have the power to become a social icon, that is not accessible in the stage play.
1 It is also worth noting the role that philosophy was seen to play vis a vis domination. See Michel Foucault, The Use of Pleasure.
2 I intend here the Greek sense of "anarchy" as the absence of an arch, or, as I will later construe it, as the absence of paradigmata, or paradigms.
3 At 472c, and elsewhere, Plato uses the term "paradeigmatos" to refer to what is being sought with respect to justice.
4 See Slavoj Zizek, Looking Awry: An Introduction to Jacques Lacan through Popular Culture.
5 In Book II, 372b, Socrates has finished the description of his ideal city. What follows, beginning at 372e, is the formulation of what Socrates calls a luxurious city. The city subsequently formulated is thus more akin to a description of Athens and its then current views and practices. And it is that city, i.e. the luxurious city, that requires the more controversial elements of the infamous Platonic ideal. In short, it is only given the demands of luxury imposed on the discourse by Glaucon and Adiemantus that such a regulated and austere social/political environment is formulated. In short, I take it that Plato is addressing not an ideal city, but what to do in a luxurious city that is already established, and corrupt, as he viewed Athens.
6 See, for example, the Theatetus, in which Plato provides what is perhaps his best case against the Heraclitean view presented as a flux without the regulation of logos. Plato is not necessarily criticizing Heraclitus, but any view which attempts to formulate a conception of the real, as simply the flux, apart from some regulating principle. In this case, the focus of his attack is not Heraclitus but the adoption of Heraclitus' philosophy without the logos, as adopted by the Sophists.
7 John Sallis, Being and Logos: the Way of Platonic Dialogue, (Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press International, 1986) p.417.
Jack Purcell
Philosophy Department
Middle Tennessee State University
Murfreesboro, TN 37132
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Comments appreciated and will get a response. jpurcell@frank.mtsu.edu