Helvetica and Manufactured Landscapes: The Triumph of Emotions?

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on December 24, 2007.

At some point in my life, I learned to distrust emotions (or, more colloquially, feelings). Emotions, after all, were fleeting, fickle, and prone to manipulation. They were also morally problematic: I could feel that a course of action was correct when, in fact, it was morally detrimental. Only when tempered and molded by an a priori list of dispassionate principles could emotions serve any beneficial end. Otherwise, they were to be relegated to the sidelines of one's life and faith.

Such a perspective can serve a useful purpose, especially when we are in danger of allowing our emotions to get the better of us, dictating every aspect of our lives. However, an excessive distrust of emotions—along with an excessive reliance on a priori rationality—seems to serve as a denial of who we are: whether we like it or not, we are emotional creatures, created by a God who exhibits those very same emotions.

Two recent documentaries implicitly play with the idea of human feelings—specifically, our responses to the aesthetic—and demonstrate that emotions are not simply one attribute among many in the human condition, but perhaps the overriding attribute.

The first documentary is Gary Hustwit's Helvetica (2007). Yes, that's right: someone has made an entire documentary about a font. However, what makes Helvetica special is its pervasiveness: from corporate logos to magazine advertisements to street signs, the Swiss-designed typeface is simply the font of choice for designers everywhere. No, designers don't always use Helvetica, but its simple and modern construction makes it an easy choice. Easy choices become defaults. Defaults become the way we "intrinsically" look at the world — which, for all practical purposes, becomes the way the world is.

Hustwit's is an outstanding documentary because it not only illuminates the pervasiveness of Helvetica—thus allowing us to spot it in our own surroundings—but it also positions the font within a wider sociological context. Helvetica arose in post-War Europe, at a time when designers were looking to break from the horrors of fascism and genocide. They wanted a fresh aesthetic to match their desire for a new world. Helvetica fit nicely within their milieu: the font looked clean, crisp, sophisticated, and forward-looking. In the United States, Helvetica was seen as a breath of fresh air within marketing circles. Graphic design in the 1950's was a horribly cluttered melange of ugly typeface and tacky images. When Helvetica came along, it allowed marketers to revamp their ads and to present their clients in a cleaner, sharper light.

As the use of Helvetica spread, however, it became an object of scorn for some designers who saw it as stifling originality and creativity. Since it was seemingly everywhere, Helvetica became seen as the "establishment" font. Designers rebelled by creating alternatives, and in the 90's, some were inspired by the "grunge" aesthetic, producing edgy (and perhaps unreadable) typefaces.

In the end, however, Helvetica has proven triumphant. Designers have returned to the ol' reliable, realizing that it is not only a well designed font, but perhaps the best font ever devised (seriously). As such, it appears that our built environment will continue to be dominated by Helvetica, and we won't even notice since its elegant simplicity just seems to blend effortlessly into our everyday objects. As a clean and simple part of our visual landscape, Helvetica seems to provide us with a subconscious level of utility and pleasure — in short, Helvetica persists because it feels right.

Jennifer Baichwal's Manufactured Landscapes (2006) also examines our emotional responses to the aesthetic world, but it takes the opposite perspective by exploring what feels horribly wrong. Baichwal's documentary traces the work of photographer Edward Burtynsky, who has made a career of capturing images that evoke awe, shock, and even horror among viewers. He focuses on how humans have altered their surroundings through mining and manufacturing and argues that we have every reason to define those surroundings as landscapes — albeit "artificial," non-traditional, and (to most) ugly.

In recent years, Burtynsky has done a lot of work in China, since that country's industrial boom has resulted in unprecedented levels of environmental change. The scale of mining and manufacturing in China is simply mind-boggling: what impressed me most were Burtynsky's work on Chinese coal mining [see picture] and the construction of the infamous Three Gorges Dam [see picture], both of which exhibit China's insatiable demand for energy. Burtynsky sees his role as that of environmental documentarian, recording the seemingly inevitable result of combining globalization with China's intense economic growth.

To his credit, Burtynsky doesn't overly politicize his work. He notes that he prefers to let viewers internalize the images on their own terms, to reach conclusions at their own pace. The movie itself follows this philosophy, as we hear relatively little dialogue and spend most of our time looking at both Burtynsky's work style and his finished products. (The lack of dialogue turned out to be helpful in my case since—through a usability problem with my DVD—I missed a chunk of the English subtitles.)

Yet, Burtynsky's avoidance of overt political commentary doesn't obscure his underlying message. It is obvious that he finds highly troubling the way in which we have altered our landscapes, and China is simply a newer, faster (much faster) variation on our old industrial practices. Burtynsky also knows his audience; he knows that most Westerners who see his photographs will be disturbed at the sheer destruction and waste created by a world that is increasingly dependent on both old-school energy (e.g., coal, hydroelectric power) and new electronic products (e.g., computers) full of toxic materials. Burtynsky doesn't have to say much because his pictures by themselves produce the desired emotional response.

So is our tendency to be easily swayed by emotional responses a bad thing? Marketers (like those who rely so heavily on Helvetica) want us to feel good about their clients, regardless of what those clients may or may not do. Activists and artists, on the other hand, often want to make us a feel bad in order to wake us from our doldrums so that we campaign for change. At some level, marketers and activists are engaging in the same practice, convincing (manipulating?) us to follow a particular line of thinking. Thus, there are many times in which it is helpful to have an a priori list of principles so as to test the feelings and images that bombard us each day.

On the other hand, we also must be wary of an excessive skepticism in the face of emotions. After all, just because X produces an emotional response in us doesn't mean that it and/or the response are wrong. The response could simply complement what we already know about X. Strong feelings should provoke us to investigate: Why do we feel as we do? Are our feelings justified? Are we receiving a holistic picture, or do our feelings result from a partial (maybe skewed) perspective? Thus, I recommend both Helvetica and Manufactured Landscapes not only because they are fascinating, but because they provide us with an opportunity to investigate more deeply our emotional lives.

Pierrepoint: The Last Hangman

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on December 17, 2007.

At the risk of sounding like a relic of the 1800s, I sometimes wonder whether the rest of the industrial/post-industrial world looks upon the United States as a land of savagery. After all, we seem to have a predilection towards explicit violence in almost every facet of our social life. We engage in military adventures around the world, maintain a relatively high murder rate, and consume violent media in the form of movies, television, and video games. Plus, despite official pronouncements to the contrary, we also seem to engage in torture—um, enhanced interrogation techniques—a practice that does not seem to cohere with "advanced" culture (we even revel in the practice of torture in our prime-time entertainment).

There is also, of course, the death penalty. The United States holds the distinction of being a rare (perhaps the only) wealthy, industrialized country to kill a certain class of prisoners deemed "worthy" of the punishment. For sure, there is great debate about the practice—often surrounding the question of whether various methods are "cruel and unusual" and thus, unconstitutional—but there is not a sufficient enough opposition to bring about a speedy end to capital punishment. If most Americans found the death penalty to be simply wrong, then it wouldn't be too hard to pass legislation banning it. However, a large enough percentage supports the practice, despite the controversies surrounding it, and thus it persists, contributing to America's violent reputation.

As such, it is instructive, perhaps, to watch a movie about the last days of capital punishment in another country. No, I'm not talking about a documentary or a heavy-handed polemic; the movie I have in mind is Adrian Shergold's Pierrepoint (2005)—a.k.a., The Last Hangman—a biopic about one of the most "successful" executioners in the United Kingdom. Timothy Spall plays Albert Pierrepoint, who most people know as a local deliveryman, but who also moonlights for the correctional system. Following in his father's footsteps, Pierrepoint regularly receives notices in the mail about impending executions throughout the country. When duty calls, he travels to the appropriate prison, carries out the task at hand, and receives his monetary compensation — a supplement to the income from his day job.

At first, Pierrepoint is portrayed in a troubling light. He's a little too good at his job, and he makes it his goal to be the fastest hangman in the country: the "ideal" execution takes literally just seconds. (After all, the condemned have had substantial time to think about their impending death, so why prolong the final, agonizing moments?) When asked about how he manages his job, the specifics of which are—even to those who support capital punishment—troubling and distasteful, Pierrepoint is very upfront about it: he simply maintains a divided self. The person who binds the prisoners' hands, puts the rope around their necks, covers their heads with a hood, and pulls the lever to release the trap door — that person is not Albert Pierrepoint, you see. He is simply a nameless agent of the state, carrying out a dirty but necessary job. When that agent leaves the prison, he returns to his prior identity as the local deliveryman that everyone knows and loves.

Is Pierrepoint professional? Absolutely. Cold? Perhaps. Heartless? Actually, no. The movie takes great pains to show Pierrepoint as a highly moral and even compassionate man. He takes the idea of payment seriously: once the condemned have paid their price, then their sins are forgiven. As far as society is concerned, the guilty return to a prior, innocent status, and the living have no moral right to speak ill of them. He treats the bodies of the condemned with great care and respect, and he demands that each one be buried in a proper coffin.

One of the moral debates surrounding capital punishment concerns the question of whether it really enacts justice or is simply an instrument of vengeful bloodlust. Presumably, justice has a dispassionate, even somber, quality that is distinct from the clamor of the angry mob. It is clear that from Pierrepoint's perspective, his actions serve the higher cause of justice — which explains his calm, professional demeanor. When the British government commissions him to carry out the post-World War II executions of Nazi war criminals, he makes it a point not to dwell on the atrocities committed by the prisoners; even in a situation of war, when all of Britain is (understandably) incensed at the death and destruction wrought by the Nazi regime, Pierrepoint conducts his job with poise, dignity, and respect.

Does Pierrepoint have anything to say about current American debates regarding the death penalty? At one level, proponents could look at Britain's "last hangman" and argue that it is possible to carry out executions in a way that promotes justice, eschews vengeance, and treats with respect the humanity of the condemned. However, that position would have to ignore the psychological toll that is undergone by the executioner. After years of practicing his "craft," Pierrepoint starts to come apart. Because he does care about human dignity, his moonlighting gig eventually has to affect him. Not many people can maintain the "split" personalities that are required in order to engage in distasteful activities in private while "keeping up appearances" in the public square. To his credit, Pierrepoint could not maintain his double life indefinitely. Again, to use the outdated terminology, he could not reconcile the "civilization" and "savagery" warring inside him.

Of course, the Bible does not condemn executions—and in some cases, capital punishment is actually prescribed—so it is hard to make a theological case for opposing the practice outright (thus, I am not opposed to the death penalty intrinsically). However, there is plenty of reason to oppose its current administration in the United States. Many death-row inmates have faced biased juries, overworked or incompetent counsel, and corrupt prosecutors — and yes, innocent people have been convicted. If we are going to have a death penalty, then we at least can demand that it be carried out in a fair, competent manner.

Thus, in our current climate, it seems that a moratorium is a reasonable request, an opportunity to find out why and how innocent folks end up behind bars and to mitigate the incompetence and corruption in our correctional system. Death-penalty proponents argue that a moratorium is simply a back-door method to end executions outright, and perhaps that is true. However, by their very position, moratorium opponents send two messages to the world: either (a) they are ignorant of the reality of wrongful convictions or (b) they don't care. The latter, of course, simply evinces an excessive utilitarianism that, at its most extreme, is expressed by the old adage: "Kill them all. Let God sort them out."

If Albert Pierrepoint found it difficult to continue executing prisoners—even with the professional poise that he brought to the practice—and if he found that he could not, in good conscience, maintain his alternate life as a facilitator of death, then perhaps it would be wise for Americans to rethink capital punishment. While it may not be intrinsically wrong from a Biblical standpoint and while it is possible to administer it justly, we must admit that the current state of affairs is far from just. If we continue the status quo and ignore the substantial problems that plague the death penalty, then we simply confirm what many suspect of the United States: that it is a land of self-righteous hypocrisy, an outpost of savagery in the industrialized world.