Psychopathy and Vulnerability
Even though psychopaths are commonly characterized as individuals deficient in certain affectionate feelings shared by most people, Thomas’ account of how her relationship with Ann enlightens her on ideas such as love, trust, and the value of a long-term relationship indicates the potentiality that psychopaths could be vulnerable.
More precisely put, despite the higher tendency of affective divergence such as emotional shallowness and lack of empathy, as suggested by the PCL-R, psychopaths are not unequivocally insulated from being altered and affected by their relationships to others and the surroundings. Whereas general studies of psychopathy are inclined to lay stress on how psychopaths exploit their targets’ vulnerability in order to achieve personal ends, which often presupposes a reductively negative stance on vulnerability, I aim to draw on Gilson’s conception of vulnerability to examine how psychopaths could be vulnerable like most people.
In his study regarding the hidden suffering of psychopaths, Willem H. J.
Martens maintains that just like most people, many psychopaths love their parents, spouse, children and pets in their own way, but have difficulty establishing the same extent of love and trust toward the rest of the world (1). It is reasonable to deduce that
psychopaths are relatively predisposed to take advantage of others for their egocentric ends; however, deep down they have a wish to be loved and cared for, just like
anybody else. As a result, psychopaths also suffer emotionally as a consequence of separation, divorce, death of a beloved individual, or discontentment with their own deviant behavior, which they realize if identified would stigmatize them and impede the development of loving and genuine relationships with others (1).
On the one hand, the deficits in their emotional responsiveness are frequently utilized by many psychopaths as a shield against guilt and moral responsibility, which normally inhibit other people from taking the same action. Such employment of the emotional distance is recurrently exemplified in Thomas’ memoir. For instance, she once helps an old woman during volunteering commit fraud in order to apply for restitution funds from the German government for Holocaust survivors. Whereas the same situation may inflict a moral conundrum on most people, the collusion for Thomas is a task easily undertaken without hesitation or moral compunction. As a matter of fact, she is delighted to play accomplice in the identity theft scheme, and even recognizes the old woman as a kindred spirit, who knows what it means to survive at all costs (Thomas 9). In this case, the emotional distance enables Thomas to adopt an instrumental view on morality, if not a complete disregard for it.
Accordingly, psychopaths seem to be able to take advantage of their propensity for apathy to establish an invulnerable identity, by which they can be impermeable to certain emotions, such as fear, anxiety, dread, and guilt. It is worth noting that they are not entirely incapable of experiencing these emotions, but understand how to tap into their compartmentalized emotional mechanism, which they can operate like flicking an internal switch under various circumstances.
On the other hand, the emotional incapacity of psychopaths can also be a distressing factor that gives rise to feelings such as isolation and loneliness. Using the
examples of psychopathic serial killers Jeffrey Dahmer and Dennis Nilson, Martens explains that the two criminals do not enjoy the killing act itself, but solely kill for company (2). Through the creation of their own sadistic universe, the two men, both suffering from social isolation and loneliness, find their path to avenge the
experiences of rejection, abuse, humiliation, neglect and emotional pain (2). Even though Martens’ examination of psychopaths’ emotional suffering chiefly positions psychopaths within a criminal framework, which leaves room for queries and debates, it nevertheless accentuates psychopath’s desire to be loved and cared for. The fact that psychopaths may perceive ideas such as love, trust, and friendship in a deviant way echoes Thomas’ appeal for “nurture trumping nature.” Thomas’ experience of being affected by the empathic Ann indicates that psychopaths can in fact be open to alteration, particularly through warm and affectionate parenting or by an empathic role model. By opening themselves to be vulnerable, psychopaths could also be enlightened that ideas such as love, trust, and friendship are actual concepts based on the consideration of mutual needs. As claimed by Thomas, “As heartless as I am, I have wanted to feel love, to feel connection, to feel like I belong to the world like anyone else” (201). Reckoning herself as a successful psychopath, Thomas views psychopaths as malleable and impressionable, stating that although psychopaths may not be affected in the same ways as empaths, they are just as susceptible to their own range of outside influence (283). Whereas psychopaths are commonly characterized as cunning, calculating, and manipulative, these features concurrently denote their relatively greater sensitivity to experience, which could be beneficial within social contexts, provided that the psychopathic subjects become attuned to the needs of others, as well as how they should be respected.
Generally speaking, whereas Martens’ study of the two serial killers serves as an extreme exemplification of the failures in emotional attunement of psychopaths,
Thomas’ case in contrast represents a psychopath’s successful accommodation to society, by dint of an insightful understanding of the psychopathic self and empathic others. The two cases find their common ground in the psychopaths’ need for love, care, and affection, yet differ strikingly in the behavioral manifestation of the need, which largely hinges on to what degree the desire is fulfilled.
In order to give a more concrete shape to the notion that psychopaths are vulnerable human beings, in the chapter that follows, I will examine Michael
Haneke’s The Piano Teacher to elaborate on two main arguments. First, I argue that the film can be studied as a portrayal of psychopathy, with its protagonist Erika Kohut displaying a number of psychopathic features. In particular, I will emphasize how the film’s depiction of Erika differs from the general cinematic representation of
psychopathic characters, mainly because the latter is prone to exaggerate the
capability of the psychopath in the interest of dramatic tension. However, The Piano Teacher acts in a diametrically opposite way, and conveys how a psychopath can in
fact be vulnerable. I argue that the film can be regarded as a unique interpretation of psychopathy, which largely centers on the psychopath’s vulnerability in lieu of her deceptive and manipulative prowess. That is to say, a large portion of the film is dedicated to showing the human aspect of psychopathy, instead of pathologizing psychopathy as a deviant property.
My second argument focuses on the film’s depiction of the dynamics between vulnerability and invulnerability. In this respect, I will invoke Gilson’s conception of (in)vulnerability to demonstrate how the film delineates the stark contrast between Erika’s pursuit of invulnerability as a psychopath, and her vulnerability as a human being, which I maintain is the cardinal constitution of the story.
Last but not least, I attempt to provide a new interpretation of the film’s ending, which is often regarded as ambiguous and suggestive of the heroine’s self-destruction.
I will elucidate how the ending can be read as an indication of Erika’s healing, heralded by a number of symbols of openness, which is the defining feature of vulnerability. More specifically put, I attempt to demonstrate that the film’s ending implies Erika’s decision to open herself to alteration and affection. The acceptance of her inherent vulnerability will potentially lead the heroine to the process of healing, in which she will learn to form connections with others. By and large, the accentuation on Erika’s potential healing will be the concluding remark of my examination of vulnerability, which foregrounds how one is able to heal through the formation of interpersonal connections. In order to render these connections feasible and effective, one must learn to be susceptible to alteration and affection, that is, to be vulnerable.
Chapter Two Love of a Psychopath:
Exploring Psychopathy and Vulnerability in Michael Haneke’s The Piano Teacher
I. “I Love You, Mother”:
Psychoanalytic Studies on the
Mother-Daughter Relationship in The Piano Teacher Regardless of Haneke’s reluctance to situate the film within a purely psychoanalytic framework, it turns out that most of the film’s critics have no difficulty identifying the kernel of Jelinek’s original story, given that the film has been widely studied from psychoanalytic perspectives. Nevertheless, my examination of The Piano Teacher seeks to adopt an approach that somewhat departs from a psychoanalytic one. While psychoanalysis tends to retrospect the origin of a person’s disposition and dissect how someone’s infancy or childhood influences the way he or she behaves as an adult, my analysis of The Piano Teacher contemplates an
unspecified yet possible future of healing for the protagonist Erika. In order to clarify how The Piano Teacher involves the notion of healing, I will first illustrate the film’s depiction of Erika’s suffering in her grueling quest for love, which goes hand in hand with her psychopathic personality. In this respect, even though I do not aim for a psychoanalytic approach, the existing psychoanalytic analyses of The Piano Teacher can help shed light on several aspects of my argument, particularly in regard to the association between Erika’s psychopathic personality and the oppressive domination of her mother. Therefore, I begin this chapter with an examination of how The Piano Teacher has been explored within a psychoanalytic context, which can be helpful in
illuminating the dialectical tension between vulnerability and invulnerability in the story.
To begin with, Jean Wyatt contends that Erika lives in a world she terms,
“maternal jouissance,” where the mother operates as if there were no law or limit regulating her possession of the child’s body (453). While desire is created by a foundational lack that the subject ceaselessly searches for a person or object to fulfill within the parameters of social law, jouissance, which is distinguished by excess, implies an expression of drive energy that exceeds the limits of social order and restraint, and goes beyond a rational calculation of the subject’s interests, beyond pleasure, and beyond self-preservation (453). Throughout the film, Erika’s tyrannical mother perpetually invades every corner of her daughter’s space and controls her every move. The oppressive mother-daughter relationship is vividly manifested in the opening sequence of The Piano Teacher: Erika arrives home late and attempts to quietly enters her room without disturbing her mother, who nevertheless appears instantly and interrogates Erika about where she has been. The mother then grabs and rummages through Erika’s purse, in which she finds a new dress Erika bought.
Meanwhile, Erika rushes to her wardrobe and finds one of her autumn suits missing.
The mother claims to know nothing about the missing suit. During their interrogation, the mother tears up the new dress Erika just bought. In a fit of outrage, Erika curses at her mother and grabs her hair. However, the scene is concluded with the mother’s and daughter’s reconciliation, where the two embrace in tears. Later that night, as Erika shares the same bed with her mother, the mother earnestly alerts Erika to one of her talented pupils, whom she worries may overshadow Erika with her affinity for Schubert, saying to her, “Schubert is your department, don’t forget” (The Piano Teacher 00:07:07-09). Erika absent-mindedly reassures her, to which the mother
solemnly replies, “No one must surpass you, my girl” (The Piano Teacher 00:07:29-32).
The opening sequence presages the unbridled motherly control that grows like a poisonous vine as the story proceeds. By the term “maternal jouissance,” Wyatt attempts to elucidate the absence of laws and limits on the mother’s violent control over Erika, in terms of her will, mind, and action. In other words, the mother’s unconstrained invasion into Erika’s body and psyche signifies an excess – which is the hallmark of jouissance – beyond the limits imposed by social order. Consequently, maternal jouissance obstructs the potential for maternal desire, which, in the Lacanian model, is the crucial factor that forces a child to separate from its early fused
identification with the mother (Wyatt 458). The conversation on their bed, during which the mother reminds Erika that no one must surpass her, hints at the mother’s use of Erika as an extension of herself, as the object that completes her, so as to make her feel neither lack nor desire (460). Accordingly, Erika does not confront lack and desire either, for it is through identification with the mother’s lack that the child discovers her fundamental lack, just as it is through the child’s recognition of the mother’s desire – and therefore realizing that the mother lacks something – that desire is engendered (459). Failing to establish herself as a symbolic subject based on lack, Erika cannot emerge as a subject of desire, and remains attached to the mother within a space of jouissance, which curves in upon itself in a static and closed circuit,
without any lack to be fulfilled (455, 461).
In contrast to the static site of maternal jouissance in which Erika is imprisoned, the young, athletic, and charming male student Walter serves as the representation of desire, which is always in motion and in search of something else (461). Nevertheless, the momentum of desire embodied by Walter’s ardent courtship of Erika continually falters and fails, as a result of being blocked by the static fullness of maternal
jouissance, where there is no lack, no gap, and no place available for Walter to fit in (460-61). Given that Erika is unable to separate herself from the mother, and therefore remains mired in the real and cannot enter fully into the symbolic, her on-screen vomiting, urinating, and bleeding from self-cutting can be viewed as her efforts to escape maternal jouissance – that is, to expel a mother experienced as so inseparable as to be inside her own body (462). In one graphic scene, Erika sits on the fringe of the bathtub, and slices into her genitals with a razor blade, while letting out a muffled grunt that comes across as a mixture of pain and enjoyment, as a trail of blood
streams down the side of the bathtub. The cut, according to Wyatt, is not the cut of symbolic castration that marks the entry into the symbolic order by instituting a subjectivity, but a cut literalized by Erika and serves as a subconscious attempt to establish a minimal degree of distinction from the mother in the real, at the level of the body (464). However, the omnipresence of maternal jouissance in the film is destined to deter such separation from being effective. Not long after Erika begins to secretly wallow in her masochistic ritual, we hear the mother announce dinner outside the bathroom door, forcing Erika to put a halt to her performance of self-mutilation.
The mother’s interruption indicates the maternal overproximity which prevents Erika’s access to the symbolic, where she could associate herself to other human beings. As a consequence, instead of opening a path to becoming a subject of desire through the potentiality of a romantic relationship with Walter, Erika is confined within the solitary status of jouissance, which takes place not between two lovers, but between the self and the self, because at the level of jouissance, there is no existence of the Other (455, 463, 469). In view of Erika’s ordained failure in escaping from maternal jouissance, Wyatt argues that the truly disturbing dimension of the film lies in the viewers’ anticipation of a romance plot, which generally adheres to the
trajectory from desire to erotic fulfillment, and which, in The Piano Teacher, is continually attacked and disrupted by jouissance (470).
On the whole, Wyatt’s conception of maternal jouissance revolves around the inseparability of the mother-daughter bondage. Erika’s transgressive sexual behaviors can be interpreted as her fledgling efforts to escape from the inextricable mother-child fusion, which nevertheless are overthrown by her perpetual return to the territory of jouissance she inhabits with her mother. Wyatt’s understanding of Erika’s deviant behaviors as the attempts at separating herself from the mother is endorsed by a number of critics, whereas some of them additionally probe into the role of the father in the film, including Christopher Christian, who lays stress on Erika’s endeavors to embody the father, along with Stefanie Teitelbaum, who underscores that perversions are attempts to reach the father. Throughout the film, Erika’s father remains an absent figure, and is mentioned only twice during conversation. The first one occurs during Erika’s first meeting with Walter at the piano recital. During their conversation about German composer Robert Schumann’s mental illness, Erika says to Walter with composure, “Since my father died completely mad in the Steinhof asylum, I can talk easily about the twilight of the mind, can’t I?” (The Piano Teacher 00:18:34-42).
However, Erika’s remark is rendered perplexing by the second time the father is brought up several days after the recital, where Erika arrives home late and is
confronted by her mother again. The mother slaps Erika in the face, and utters to her in a reproachful tone, “Your father died this afternoon” (The Piano Teacher 00:54:29-30). Apart from the foregoing, no other information regarding the father is given in the remaining part of the film. There is no clarification as to the reason Erika concocts the death of her father during her first conversation with Walter. It can only be
conjectured that the father’s absence within the domestic context has been established to the extent that Erika automatically assumes his death. Alternatively, Erika’s remark
may not literally signify the father’s demise as a human organism, but serve as a subconscious connotation of the father’s “death” in terms of the father-mother-child triad, which is replaced by the mother’s autocratic monopoly of the child as the extension of herself.
The absence of the father, as Christopher Christian contends, results in Erika’s attempts to differentiate from the mother by becoming the father, assuming the father’s role vis-à-vis the mother, and constructing a symbolic phallic realm that develops into an exaggerated version of the father, and of what it means to be male (769-70). In a similar vein, Stefanie Teitelbaum invokes Lacan and maintains that Erika’s perversion can be regarded as an attempt to reach the father, who represents the differentiated sanity of the symbolic order (154). As a consequence, the death of Erika’s father indicates the loss of the symbolic order – a loss that abdicates Erika to a fate of fused, maternal madness, in which she learns to perceive love as the
equivalence of submission and humiliation (Teitelbaum 154, 156). Erika’s caricature of masculinity is signified by a number of details, including her trench coat and kidskin gloves (which often evoke the image of the prototypical male pervert, see fig.
1), her stern and almost sadistic treatment of her students, and her acting as a
“peeping Tom” at the drive-in movie parking lot, where she spies on a couple having
“peeping Tom” at the drive-in movie parking lot, where she spies on a couple having