The Hawthorne Effect and Filmmaker Bias in Documentary Cinema

Humans have long sought to understand other cultures and individuals. Such curiosity is often recorded in art. For instance, compilations of folk tales by the brothers Grimm imply a thirst to understand other cultures, and the painting of the Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci indicates a yearning to “capture” a single human. Examples such as these are easy to find, as they litter the history of human development. It is no wonder that filmmakers, too, have felt this yearning. From many of Lumiere’s first shorts, a good portion of cinema has sought to accurately display and represent human beings (Nichols, 83). The question of to what extent this is possible, is one that cannot easily be answered. This paper argues that the only thing a documentary film can honestly represent about another culture or individual is the way they interact with a camera, and how they react to the process of being filmed. This argument will be tested with the inspection of two very different documentary films that both seek to accurately portray an “other”.

When considering folk tales or paintings, questions of the artist’s precision and bias are foremost in the mind. It is likely that the behaviour of the subject would be influenced by the knowledge that they are being observed, but the end product is ultimately almost wholly within the artist’s control. Empirical examination might suggest film to be the most accurate medium to represent humans, due to its visual (and contemporarily, aural) fidelity. One must question, however, the impact of such observation on human subjects. This new ability to create a more honest representation of the physical world brings with it a greater awareness of the impact of observation on human behaviour. One must not forget, too, that the filmmaker is just as capable of imprecision or bias as a storyteller or painter (through carefully set-up shots, selective editing, and so on). In a sense, film is even more corruptible than other forms of art: the camera’s very presence alters that which is seen, and those in charge of the project are able to manipulate the outcome.

It is a long-held notion of physicists that the very act of observation changes that which is being observed. In the city of Cicero, Illinois, the observer effect was demonstrated to apply to humans in social situations – no longer confining the theory to subatomic particles. In Cicero, the Western Electric Company had their Hawthorne Plant, in which three social scientists conducted experiments on workers, examining what conditions best improved productivity (Draper, sec. 2). The experimenters soon discovered that no matter what conditions were changed, or even how they were changed, productivity increased. The five year study (1927-1932) concluded that the workers’ awareness of the experiment contributed most to changes in productivity. The knowledge that they were in being studied had a greater effect on their activity than changes in lighting, supervision, or any other independent variables that were manipulated in the experiment (Draper, sec 4). The claim of physicists was shown to also be true for humans in a social environment.

What happens, then, when the act of observation takes place with a camera lens along with a human eye? The people who have the camera turned on them are what Bill Nichols calls “social actors” (5): they are not given a role to play, and are expected to continue life as they would otherwise. However, the Hawthorne effect has implications that every conscientious filmmaker must take into account. If the simple act of observing someone changes their behaviour – the act of recording someone may have an even greater impact, because it comes with the promise of many more observers to come. As Nichols writes, “self-consciousness and modifications in behaviour can become a form of misrepresentation … but they also document the ways in which the act of filmmaking alters the reality it sets out to represent” (6). There are two main ways in which documentary filmmakers deal with this problem of authenticity: ignore the act of observation in the film’s narrative, or integrate an awareness of it, explicitly documenting how “the act of filmmaking alters the reality”.

Robert Flaherty’s 1922 film, Nanook of the North, very clearly ignores the act of observation. The film uses the common, “I speak about them to you” form in the three-way relationship between filmmaker (“I”), subject (“them”), and audience (“you”). As the “speaker”, the authority of the filmmaker is above all (14-5). The Inuit (“them”) do not have their own voice. Nanook of the North did not acknowledge the disenfranchisement of the Inuit. The film is entirely what Brecht called “dramatic theatre” – urging the viewer to blithely believe what is shown onscreen (Kruger, 357). As film scholar Edward Rothman writes, “Nanook claims that its protagonist is a real person, not a fictional character … as opposed to playing a character, Nanook’s star appears as himself” (25). There is no acceptance or recognition of the Hawthorne effect. The social actors appear to only be vaguely aware of the camera’s presence. No indication is given that the social actors changed their actions for the camera.

In Nanook of the North, the audience is faced with a narrative to be completely trusted. However, “it is literally a fiction … [Nanook] is as fictional as any Griffith character” (Rothman in Grant, 25). Flaherty himself admitted to several set-up and altered scenes (Flaherty, paras 6-9). These reports indicate that Nanook of the North has a low level of reliability. Flaherty’s choice to represent the Inuit people without also representing their reactions (and interactions) to the filmmaking process, is a dangerous one. As Nichols writes, “we as an audience receive a sense that the subjects in the film are placed there for our examination and edification” (15). The gullibility of the audience is easily manipulated, and by ignoring the act of observation (and its consequences), Flaherty convinced many audiences of something that is not true. Nanook of the North had a very unreliable representation of the Inuit people, due to Flaherty’s bias (in editing and setting up scenes) and his refusal to explicitly recognize the camera’s role.

Jonathan Caouette’s Tarnation (2004) is clearly a self-reflexive film. It uses the “I speak about us to you” form in the three-way relationship between filmmaker (“I”), subject (“us”), and audience (“you”) (Nichols, 17-8). This organization is naturally conducive to an honest representation of people, because it means the filmmaker and the subject are, to a certain extent, one. The “us” in Tarnation refers to Caouette and his family . The director integrates footage of himself (the main subject) preparing for shots, and even being unaware that the camera is on him. When he speaks to the audience, he often does so while looking directly into the camera’s lens, thereby breaking the fourth wall and ensuring the viewers remember what Caouette sees. He does not allow the audience to believe that they are watching a narrative, or are somehow involved with the story. Cameras are ubiquitous in the film, constantly reminding the audience that the actions onscreen took place in front of a lens. Another way Caouette keeps his viewers from believing they are taking part in something “real” is by using very obvious iMovie effects. These serve to remind the audience of the editing process, of the choices and alterations that had to be made by Caouette in order to finish the film. Tarnation does not allow the audience to forget the impact of observation and artist bias on the narrative.

Tarnation respects that “a filmmaker speaks and an audience attends” (Nichols, 15). Caouette wanted people to remember the possible Hawthorne effect and bias in the film. He did not want to use his power as filmmaker to trick people into thinking that what they viewed took place without a camera observing it. In Tarnation, Nichols’s ideal of having a documentary “document the ways in which the act of filmmaking alters the reality it sets out to represent” (6) is plainly fulfilled. Caouette values the importance of the camera’s presence, and shows the audience the truth of his film: people are put in front of a camera, and recognize what is happening. This allows the audience to approach the characters in a more honest manner, as viewers are allowed greater insight to how the people onscreen change in the presence of a camera.

It would be rash to claim that Tarnation is able to “document the ways in which the act of filmmaking alters the reality it sets out to represent” (Nichols, 6), while Nanook of the North is not. Both films try to define an “other”, but in distinctive ways. The main difference between Tarnation and Nanook of the North lies in how easy it is to find the altering of reality. While Caouette urges the viewer to recognize the inherent influence of the filmmaker on the subject, Flaherty ignores such ideas. Caouette wants to show things as accurately as they happened, including recognitions of the act of filming. He wanted the filmmaking process to enter the story. Flaherty only wanted to show what was convenient for the story he had created. The audience is not allowed to see how the Inuit react to the camera (and what form the Hawthorne effect takes, for them), which limits the viewer’s ability to truly understand them. However, with further research and inspection, one is able to discover how Nanook of the North alters the reality of the Inuit. For example, Flaherty’s essay shows that the Inuits loved the gramophone, but his film shows an Inuit man acting surprised at the marvel of a gramophone (Flaherty, para 14). Where Tarnation immediately shows the audience where much bias and falsehood must lie, Nanook of the North ignores the possibility of situations being false.

Ultimately, both films strive to portray an “other”, as so many pieces of art have done before. Both films are not able to give completely honest representations of their subjects. They must deal with the inevitability of the Hawthorne effect and filmmaker bias. However, a way to transcend such filters from reality, is to actively “document the ways in which the act of filmmaking alters the reality it sets out to represent” (Nichols, 6). The moment of recognition, when one changes from an unobserved person to a social actor, is the most honest moment a filmmaker can capture in a documentary. That moment allows the audience to see the true person, because how a person acts while a social actor is just as important to their humanity as how they act while unobserved. Filmmakers like Caouette try to constantly remind the audience of the subject’s state (a social actor or unobserved), allowing them better insight into who the “other” really is. Flaherty’s style of filmmaking is less easy to tackle, because his biased filmmaking techniques do not allow a casual viewer to understand the relationship between the Inuits and the camera. It is only through further research, is one able to find specifics of the Hawthorne effect in the Inuit community. Caouette’s openness about the circumstances of his footage allows him a closer connection to his subject. The more honest a film is about the relationship between its subject (“other”) and the camera, the easier it is for the audience to find some truth within its representation of otherness.




Works Cited:

Ashcroft, Bill. Key Concepts in Post-Colonial Studies. Routledge, 1998.

Bill Nichols, Introduction to Documentary. Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 2001

Draper, Stephen, comp. The Hawthorne, Pygmalion, Placebo and Other Effects of
Expectation. 27 Dec. 2006. University of Glasgow. 12 Feb. 2008.

Flaherty, Robert. How I Filmed Nanook of the North. Cinemaweb. 1922. 12 Feb. 2008.

Grant, Barry K., and Jeannette Sloniowski, eds. Documenting the Documentary: Close Readings of Documentary Film and Video. Detroit: Wayne State UP, 1998.

Kruger, Loren. "Keywords and Contexts: Translating Theatre Theory." Theatre Journal 59 (2007). 12 Feb. 2008.

Nichols, Bill. Introduction to Documentary. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 2001.

Giving Up Driepoot. Or: How to Achieve Grace through Dog Euthanasia

Professor David Lurie sleeps with a dog, named Katy. David had just left Cape Town, where he lost his job for sleeping with a student and being unrepentant for it. The next time he sleeps with another, it is with Katy. "He stretches out beside her on the bare concrete … His limbs relax" (Disgrace, 78). David is never represented as a sentimentalist, or one to spiritualize animals – but he displays an affinity for canines throughout Disgrace, a novel by J.M. Coetzee. Yet, while David visits his daughter in rural Salem, he helps a local woman euthanize and dispose of unwanted dogs. An unlikely, and certainly unsavory, task. If David is truly touched by dogs, why choose to work in arranging their deaths? This question is highlighted when, in the kennel, David meets one of the most important dogs in his life: Driepoot . The two feel a profound connection, though it is never identified as love. When the time comes for Driepoot to be euthanized, David is given a choice: let him live for one more week (at least), or put him to death immediately. David chooses immediate death; it is a puzzling decision, considering the lack of connection he finds in other aspects of life. Why does David not give special treatment to Driepoot? I argue that David has no choice but to euthanize Driepoot, in order to find grace in a post-apartheid South Africa.


Love in Death

David’s conviction that love is shown in giving administering a caring death is an unusual one. Killing rarely translates into love. How can one be sure that David feels a kind death to be an act of love? As a professor of the romantic poets, “love” is a word that no doubt frequents his thoughts, and certainly not one he uses lightly. Derek Attridge suggests “love is used for the very different relation David has to the dogs about to be put to death” (117). This claim is supported by David’s assertion that, when euthanizing an animal, he gives it “what he no longer has difficulty in calling by its proper name: love” (Disgrace, 219). As Louis Tremaine points out,
“this is the only love that David is described as feeling or expressing … The love that streams from David to the dogs comes only at these moments of concentrated attention, in the very act itself of attention to beings whose selves are disappearing before his eyes” (608).

It is an interesting attitude; one that David is seemingly convinced of, and academics are largely in agreement on (Tremaine, 608; Attridge, 117; Attwell, 867). Oddly enough, having had an affair with a student, having been through terrible times with his daughter, David can only express love for others when helping them die as comfortably as possible. Initially uncomfortable with such a definition (i.e., “love”), David went through intensive self-reflection to come to such a conclusion (143-6). By the time he agrees to “give [Driepoot] up” (220), it seems quite uncontestable that David feels a kind death to be an expression of love.


A Failure of Love

It is not enough to simply find passages within Disgrace and articles from the academic community that prove David expresses love when assisting in animals’ deaths. The reasons for such emotion require examination. The most obvious reading of the loving executions he administers is in contrast with the three black men who came to David’s daughter’s house, raping the daughter and beating David. The attackers brutally shoot the dogs of the household (Disgrace, 95-6). David holds the men in disgust, and clearly finds their actions contemptible (114-5; 132-3). Attridge claims that David never “make[s] a connection between his forcing himself on Melanie [a student] … and the sexual attack on his daughter” (116). But a closer reading shows that David cannot escape that the rape of Lucy (his daughter) could be compared to his near-rape of a student, as he asks Lucy if she is “trying to remind [him] of what women undergo at the hands of men” (Disgrace, 111). The attackers and David share two experiences: rape (or near-rape), and the killing of dogs. By contrasting their heartless killings with love-filled euthanizations, David psychologically distances himself from the attackers.

While such an explanation has an appealing symmetry to it, there is a problem in its logic. If David were to truly distance himself from the attackers, why not save Driepoot? David could continue to have a positive relationship with the dog. This is not to discredit the previous explanation entirely: in post-Apartheid South Africa, it is important to recognize different expectations for races. When black men brutally kill dogs, their actions can be rationalized because they are “in a country where dogs are bred to snarl at the mere smell of a black man” (Disgrace, 110). But white men are not allowed such luxury. Nowhere is this clearer than in Coetzee’s statement that “at the heart of the unfreedom of the hereditary masters of South Africa is a failure of love. To be blunt: their love is not enough” (Doubling the Point, 97). To live in a post-Apartheid South Africa, David has to learn to not fail at love. Further, “in refusing to single out the special dog, David is accepting … the claims of an infinite number of other creatures with whom he has no special connection” (Barnard, 222). This makes sense with Coetzee’s quotation. David’s expression of love, through a kind death, cannot be selective if he is to escape the “unfreedom” of the traditional white caricature. His love needs to be universal in the South African context.


Rebirth

Linda Seidel asserts that "David sacrifices the dog who resembles him," making "the final event in the story a kind of spiritual suicide on the part of a man who feels unmanned" (par. 15). While it is not hard to claim David is “unmanned”, as “his protection of [his daughter] is without value and his advice to her is ignored” (Attridge, 110), the idea that Driepoot’s death is “a kind of spiritual suicide” is contentious. Jane Poyner, along similar lines, thinks David is sacrificing “the emotional investment he has made [in Driepoot, thereby paying] penance for his ‘crime’” (74). Both interpret David to be punishing himself by allowing Driepoot’s death, using the words “sacrifices” and “penance” to illustrate this self-punishment. They see David as someone who must give up something, either because he has been “unmanned”, or because he has committed a “crime”.

Seidel and Poyner make convincing arguments; it is impossible to deny that David’s decision to euthanize Driepoot goes against his selfish wants. However, while Driepoot’s death is a tremendous sacrifice on David’s part, it does not necessarily translate into self-punishment. Attridge advises that “it would be a misreading of [David’s] behavior to suggest that he is taking on an existence of suffering and service as expiation for his sin” (116). Rita Barnard writes that Driepoot’s death indicates an “ethos that relies on something other than a settling of accounts and the paying of a price” (222). David never shows an impulse to repent. He does, however, express delight in ideas of starting over. David begins thinking that “there may be things to learn,” and wondering if it is “too late to educate the eye” (Disgrace, 218). Nevertheless, while Lucy is left “with nothing” (205), David maintains that she “may be able to bend to the tempest; [but] he cannot, not with honour” (209). David’s honour keeps him from “the new”, and from connecting with Lucy. In allowing Driepoot’s euthanization, David makes a decision to completely start over, putting aside honour (here displayed in his selfish desire to save Driepoot). David reaches his ultimate rebirth point when he agrees to euthanize Driepoot, proving part of Seidel’s and Poyner’s arguments correct.


Conclusion

An in-depth look at David’s final decision shows it to be the door to grace in a post-apartheid South Africa. David Attwell declares that, “if grace is available at all, it will lie in simple acts of love that will enable the world's creatures to die graciously” (Attwell, 867). Grace , while not the technical opposite of disgrace , is what David hopes for. He does not even consider the possibility of public honour, but “favour” and “goodwill” (“Grace”, 3) are things he dares to hope for. Grace is also defined as when someone “has the ~ to do something, [he] realizes that it is right and proper, and do it” (“Grace”, 5). This, too, is part of what David hopes to accomplish. He knows that it is only through doing the “right and proper” thing, that he can find a niche for himself in a changing national landscape.

As proven above, kind euthanasia is an expression of love, and indiscriminate love is the only way David can truly be in grace with the country. To get to the point where David is able to sincerely and indiscriminately express this love, he has to start at the beginning again. In letting Driepoot die, David does the “right and proper thing,” the only thing that could allow him grace in this new landscape. If he were to retain any selfishness or honour, he would not be able to let his love manifest itself in the same way for every creature he encounters. Although this ending seems completely devastating, Coetzee allows the reader some grace. He makes Disgrace’s final line ambiguous: David says, “Yes, I am giving him up” (220). What is “up” for Driepoot? Upwards generally indicates positivity. Maybe from David’s final act, his first act of grace, things can only get better.


Works Cited

Attridge, Derek. "Age of Bronze, State of Grace: Music and Dogs in Coetzee's "Disgrace"" NOVEL: a Forum on Fiction 34 (2000): 98-121. JSTOR. UBC Library. 30 Mar. 2008 .

Attwell, David. "Review: Coetzee and Post-Apartheid South Africa." Journal of Southern African Studies 27 (2001): 865-867. JSTOR. UBC Library. 30 Mar. 2008 .

Barnard, Rita. "J. M. Coetzee's "Disgrace" and the South African Pastoral." Contemporary Literature, 44 (2003): 199-224. JSTOR. UBC Library. 30 Mar. 2008 .

Coetzee, J M. Disgrace. New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1999.

Coetzee, J.M. Doubling the Point: Essays and Interviews. Ed. David Attwell. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1992.

"Grace." Def. 3, 5. Oxford Advanced Learner's Dictionary of Current English. 3rd ed. 1974.

Tremaine, Louis. "The Embodied Soul: Animal Being in the Work of J. M. Coetzee." Contemporary Literature 44 (2003): 587-612. JSTOR. UBC Library. 30 Mar. 2008 .