Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollack?: The Perils of Expertise

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on May 21, 2007.

When I was in college, I interned at a small think tank in Washington, DC. One day, the director of my section, one of his staff members, and I were driving through town when the staffer noted how she enjoyed listening to the Diane Rehm Show, a radio talk show based at American University's WAMU. The director indicated that he had no desire to listen to talk radio since he didn't want to hear what the masses thought about foreign policy, as they had no training in the subject (and, presumably, had nothing substantive to contribute). Overall, the director of my section was a nice and considerate man, who certainly had accomplished much in his long career; he also had a very good point about talk radio: much of it simply involves shouting matches between ignorant people. However, if he were to take his sentiments to an extreme, disregarding all amateur opinion simply because it was "unlearned," then he could end up throwing out the proverbial baby with the bathwater.

Such is the lesson of Harry Moses' Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollack? (2006), a documentary about an amateur's struggle to gain a shred of acknowledgment from the Art Establishment. Moses tells the tale of Teri Horton, a retired long-haul trucker in her 70s, who one day made a whimsical purchase in a thrift store. She wanted to a buy a gag gift for a friend, and she encountered a massive painting that she thought looked absolutely hideous (perfect for serving as an ad hoc dart board). The retailer wanted to sell it for $8.00; Horton made a counteroffer, and for $5.00, she walked out of the store with the gift.

Later, a local art teacher told Horton that her painting looked like it could be an original work by Jackson Pollack — to which she responded with the profanity-laced question. Horton has had a hard life since the day she was born, and obtaining higher education has never been an immediate priority (or possibility). Thus, she never had an opportunity to learn about Pollack and how his abstract, drip paintings helped to revolutionize art in the 20th century. However, now retired, she decided to pursue this line of inquiry. Did she have a "genuine" Pollack? If so, how much would it be worth? Through what channels could she sell the work?

What she found was a bunch of closed doors and rude disinterest. Many in the Art Establishment simply did not believe that she could have stumbled upon a genuine Pollack in a thrift store. One collector in the movie indicated that once Pollack's work started fetching astronomical prices, then the artist's paintings would have had to bubble up to the surface, as people would want to cash in. To have a Pollack sitting in a thrift store years after his death was preposterous.

For the movie, Moses brought in Art Establishment types to look at the piece, and the skeptics simply would say that it didn't "feel" like a Pollack. One relied solely on his experience: because he had spent years working in the field, that alone was enough for him to determine whether the piece was genuine. Horton's judgment, on the other hand, could not be trusted because she was, simply put, a nobody.

Yet, Horton had a tool that the art critics did not: science. She hired Peter Paul Biro, a forensic scientist who specializes in authenticating works of art. After laborious analysis, he ended up stumbling upon a finger print on the back of the canvas. He later traveled to Pollack's studio, which is still preserved like a museum artifact, and obtained another print from one of his old paint cans. Voila! A match! He enlisted the aide of one of his colleagues, who confirmed that indeed, the two prints were identical. Case closed, right? Horton had a $50 million Pollack on her hands!

Not exactly. The Art Establishment continued to doubt Horton's claim, making up all sorts of excuses as to why the fingerprint match really didn't prove anything. At this point, we see clearly Moses' point in making this film: to demonstrate the pitfalls in relying too heavily on a priori designations of expertise. Anybody with any degree of "common sense" would know that to doubt the authenticity of Horton's painting is simply stubborn stupidity; after all, as the movie makes clear, the level of evidence that Biro's analysis produced would be enough to send a murder suspect to death row — and yet, it could not authenticate a simple painting?

Expertise, of course, isn't intrinsically wrong. In one sense, it is simply another way of designating "specialization of labor." We can't all be doctors, lawyers, auto mechanics, etc. For the simple purpose of saving time, we have to defer to others, trust their opinions, and let them "take care of it." In many respects, expertise is our way of creating shortcuts and defaults ("Is your computer acting funny? Talk to Joe!") and making our lives more efficient.

Yet, defaults can be problematic. By definition, they require no thought or deliberation, and our reliance on default expertise can prove erroneous. Perhaps the expert has become rusty in his/her field (after all, if it's not our field, then how would we know whether the expert is "keeping up"?). Perhaps he/she has ulterior motives that are so strong, they overpower sober analysis. Finally, the expert is human, after all, and thus, prone to simple, everyday error.

As we were watching the movie, my wife indicated that it seemed that the Art Establishment simply didn't want Teri Horton to be right. They seemed set in their belief that (a) there were no "undiscovered" Pollack works remaining and/or (b) no foul-mouthed trucker could be in possession of such a culturally significant artifact. Despite the forensic evidence (along with other strands of information the movie pieces together), the critics seemed content to wallow in their "expertise" and to deny Horton what appears to be her rightful claim. In other words, their ulterior motives seemed to overpower completely even the most basic analytical skills.

In the movie, we learn that Horton had received offers (in the seven-figures), but she refused them. She knows that the painting is worth at least $50 million, and at this stage, it's really not about the money; it's about intellectual honesty and simple respect. I admire her for sticking to her guns. If nothing else, Horton has taught us that we shouldn't be afraid to ask for a second opinion.

The Island: Incompetent Bioethics

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on May 5, 2007.

Dystopian movies can be tricky. The whole point of portraying subsequent eras in a negative light is, of course, to serve as a warning about what could happen to us if we don't change our ways or to make a comment about our present reality through the relatively safe lens of the "future." As with any "message" movie, however, the risk lies in creating a work that is ploddingly didactic or overly simplistic. Unfortunately, Michael Bay's The Island (2005) fails to mitigate this risk, as it takes a potentially interesting and complex question and presents it in a simple-minded fashion.

Ewan McGregor plays Lincoln Six Echo, one of many humans who live in a sterilized environment, completely shut off from the surrounding natural world, which has been irrevocably contaminated by killer pathogens. His living situation is highly regimented, as an essentially totalitarian state has arisen to ensure that the remaining humans survive so they can continue the species. "The Island" refers to the only remaining pathogen-free natural environment on the planet; McGregor and his fellow survivors are entered regularly into a lottery to see who will be able to re-initiate human civilization in that tropical paradise.

In the middle of the movie, Lincoln Six Echo learns that he and his fellow survivors are actually part of a scheme as complicated as the island-colonization plan, but far less pleasant. They are unknowing "subjects" in a massive organ-harvesting regime, serving biological masters ("clients") who live beyond the sterilized walls.

The problems with The Island are many and are best discussed systematically:

1. It is Cinematically Mediocre (at Best)

Despite its bioethical pretensions, The Island is basically a vehicle by which Bay could put together some cool chase scenes and special effects. In fact, he and the screenwriters (Caspian Tredwell-Owen, Alex Kurtzman, and Roberto Orci) could have shortened the movie by 30 to 45 minutes without any detrimental effect to the storyline — though the violence, I suppose, would have "suffered." The script was largely dull and contrived, and McGregor's performance came across as a bit amateur (though, admittedly, I've never been a fan of his acting).

2. Its Main Moral Point Is Too Simple

For a sign that The Island is not to be taken seriously from a philosophical standpoint, we just have to look at its main moral point: killing people for the sake of harvesting their organs is bad. That's it. That's as complicated as it gets. That point is so obvious (in the sense that the vast majority of people in the world would agree with it) that it is hardly a point at all. Why even mention it? Furthermore, making an obvious point as part of a moral discourse simply evinces a lack of originality and courage. Obvious points are a way for people to pretend that they have something important and meaningful to say, when in fact, their points contribute nothing substantive.

3. It Implicitly (and Simplistically) Blames Technology

Because large-scale organ harvesting is almost intrinsically a high-tech endeavor, The Island ends up implicitly blaming technology for the moral travesty it portrays. Sure, the movie includes characters with "bad motives," but technology is portrayed as the enabling medium — because organ harvesting is so bad, then technology loses its position as a morally neutral vehicle for human activity and becomes inextricably tied with the immoral behavior of its masters. (The same rhetoric pervades our debate over guns: gun-control activists claim that automatic weapons "have no other purpose" than to kill and, as such, are immoral technologies.)

The problem with implicitly blaming technology is that (a) it diverts some blame from humans when, in fact, humans should be completely responsible for what they do, and (b) it insinuates that the prohibition or reversal of technology is an efficacious means toward a moral end. However, we would do well to remember that Cain didn't need a lot of high-tech gadgetry in order to kill Abel and that people with immoral aims and sufficient drive can obtain almost any "prohibited" technologies.

4. It Sloppily Handles the Question of Longevity

Besides the evil organ harvesters, The Island also condemns the harvesters' clients, wealthy people with either life-threatening diseases or who just want to have "spare parts" available for any future repair. The movie continually returns to the question of people who are willing to "do anything" in order to "live longer" (and maybe even live forever). Its handling of this is sloppy because it fails to recognize that the issues of (a) longevity and (b) actions that promote longevity are completely separate.

From a theological standpoint, the mere desire for longevity becomes problematic if it evinces a lack of faith in God. If one doesn't believe in God (or in an afterlife of some sort), then he/she may be very concerned, even obsessed, with extending his/her time on earth. However, longevity in and of itself is not morally problematic; if it were, then any attempts we made at healthy living—diet, exercise, doctor's visits, even childhood immunizations—would be bad. By implicitly equating the desire for longevity with organ harvesting, The Island incorrectly condemns longevity per se.

(In addition, a friend of mine noted that Lincoln Six Echo's "client," Tom Lincoln, appears to serve as a representative of all of the clients; thus, his desires and motivations are to be seen as those of his peers. In the middle of the movie, we learn that the clients are incorrectly told that the organs produced do not develop in actual humans beings but rather, in some biological sack (or stew) sans consciousness. When Tom Lincoln learns the truth, he doesn't care and wants the company to continue harvesting anyway. Thus, The Island implies that all of the clients, even if presented with the truth of the matter, would follow Tom's immoral path — an unfair, broad-brush condemnation that serves to obfuscate, rather than illuminate, the moral questions involved.)

5. It Unfairly Condemns Cloning

Finally, along with all of the other implications it makes, The Island implies that human cloning, per se, is bad. The only purpose or outcome of said practice that the movie portrays is organ harvesting; we are given no indication that human cloning could produce a beneficial (or, at least, neutral) outcome.

Yet, we seriously should ask ourselves why cloning, in and of itself, is so readily condemned. After all, a clone is simply a genetic copy of a biological entity; as others have noted, so long as a cloned human is treated as the moral equivalent of a non-clone, then there should be no problem. (After all, an identical twin is simply a clone produced the old-fashioned way.) Sure, there are perfectly legitimate moral questions regarding the risks of human cloning, but cloning in and of itself seems to pose no moral problem. (In this sense, The Island seems to fall into trap of the "ick" or "yuck" factor, in which a biological process or practice is condemned simply because it appears strange to a particular group of people at a particular point in history.)

As such, The Island simply presents important and complicated bioethical issues in a simplistic and ultimately incompetent fashion. If you want to see chase scenes and special effects, then by all means, watch this movie. If you want thoughtful moral reflection, then you need to look elsewhere.

Half Nelson: On Micro-Level Change

This review was published originally in cinekklesia on April 21, 2007.

Last weekend, my wife and I conversed with a friend of ours who currently is teaching a college-level course. She was expressing disappointment at the fact that her students didn't seem to get it, that despite the new theories and research she had presented to them throughout the semester, they seemed stuck in singular, conventional modes of thinking. She also seemed disappointed at their apparent lack of passion for new ideas and their skepticism that anything could change. After all, if the status quo was largely immovable, then why get excited about new ideas — ideas that (for all practical purposes) are already DOA?

Two explanations for her students' fatalistic perspectives come to mind. First, despite all of the enthusiastic rhetoric (propaganda) about the value of a liberal-arts education, most students are in it for the piece of paper that lands them higher-paying jobs. Ideas are only valuable insofar as they can be regurgitated on essays and exams for the purpose of getting a decent grade, graduating, and moving on.

Secondly, perhaps my friend's students are simply onto something. Perhaps large, macro change is not realistic, that hoping for anything different is simply an exercise in banging one's head against a wall. Granted, her students' fatalism may stem from their own life goals: they don't want to become activists, and if enough of their peers feel the same way, then change won't happen — the proverbial self-fulfilling prophecy. Then again, maybe they simply looked at their parents—the narcissistic Baby Boomers who once espoused hope and idealism, only to became conventional bankers, doctors, and lawyers—and realized that calls for social change are simply naive and/or deceptive.

In its own way, Ryan Fleck's Half Nelson (2006) examines the question of whether change is ever possible and if so, at what level. Ryan Gosling plays Dan Dunne, a white history teacher in an inner-city school with a primarily African-American student body. He eschews the standard curricula in order to teach his students from a broader perspective: rather than teach what happened, he wants to raise their consciousness about the how, specifically the role of struggle in bringing about social change. (Who said Marxism was dead?) One gets the sense that Dan initially intended to teach at an inner-city school, that he wanted to "do good," "make a difference," and "change kids' lives."

Yet, Dan's mission is thwarted by a major stumbling block: a prodigious drug habit. He barely can show up to school, and even though he can put together an interesting (albeit unconventional) lesson for his students, it is obvious that he is always on the razor's edge between function and dysfunction. At some point, we must ask ourselves whether Dan is playing the role of hypocrite: how can he encourage his students to think in terms of macro-level change when he seems unable or unwilling to make a micro-level change in his own life?

The question of life-altering change also haunts one of Dan's students, Drey (Shareeka Epps). Her father is practically non-existent, her mother is overworked, and her brother is in prison for drug dealing. Thus, in terms of adult role models, she has to make a choice between Dan (whose drug habit is known to her) and Frank (Anthony Mackie), her brother's friend who escaped imprisonment and now contributes to her family's income. Throughout the film, we see Dan attempting to play the role of protector: while he may not be the best role model for Drey, he at least doesn't want her taking Frank's lead down the road of criminality.

Thus, Half Nelson presents us with two questions regarding its main characters: (1) will Dan clean up his act and get his life in order, and (2) which path will Drey ultimately choose? I won't provide more in terms of plot specifics, but I will say that Fleck presents us with a tiny glimmer of optimism at the end. Half Nelson is elegant in that it lacks the tedious (and potentially racist) didacticism that one would expect from a film about a white teacher in an inner-city school, and it also lacks an overdrawn ending — Fleck gives us just enough information (and no more) to draw a potentially positive conclusion.

Ultimately, Half Nelson demonstrates that micro-level change is all that we should hope to accomplish in life. The sweeping historical changes about which Dan tried to teach his students are rare events, and I hypothesize that most of those were the result of factors external to—and beyond the control of—the actors involved. Even the notion that by changing ourselves, we can change the world is overly optimistic; after all, by changing ourselves, we may affect only the few people in our immediate sphere of influence.

While this may seem like a depressing perspective, it is actually quite hopeful. While most change may occur at an individual and local level, it still occurs. Encouraging students (or anybody) to "think big" and to fight for broad, sweeping reforms merely sets them up for disappointment, frustration, and burnout. Demonstrating effective, long-lasting change at the micro level and teaching students to maintain reasonable (or even low) expectations is more realistic and ultimately more edifying.