Film-Philosophy

Journal | Salon | Portal (ISSN 1466-4615)

Vol. 7 No. 23, August 2003

Nathan Andersen

Is Film the Alien Other to Philosophy?:

Philosophy *as* Film in Mulhall's _On Film_

Stephen Mulhall
_On Film_
London and New York: Routledge, 2002
ISBN 0-415-24796-9
142 pp.
Stephen Mulhall's _On Film_ is, in many ways, a remarkable little book. It is,
ostensibly, a philosophical essay on the nature of film; and yet it confines itself
largely to the explication of the four highly popular science-fiction films that
comprise the _Alien_ quartet, beginning with Ridley Scott's science-fiction horror
hybrid and culminating with Jean-Pierre Jeunet's attempt to resurrect the series.
Although Mulhall occasionally calls upon the insights of Stanley Cavell into the
nature of cinema, and refers once or twice to major philosophers such as Nietzsche,
Heidegger, and Wittgenstein, this work is not intended to be either a treatise or a
piece of scholarship on the philosophy of film. It is, rather, an essay, in the best (or
worst?) sense of the term: an 'attempt' ('essai', from the Latin verb 'essayer': to try, to
make an attempt) to read these films as a developing body of philosophical works,
each of which refers to and criticizes, at the same time as it builds itself upon, the
claims and insights of its predecessors. As such an attempt, the book's success can
only be measured with respect to how far it can sustain its hypothesis that these
films do more than merely illustrate themes that happen to be discussed by
philosophers. In other words, the book will have to show that, in addition to being
highly entertaining, these films call for a philosophical reading, that they raise and
address the issues they are said to refer to -- including topics of general concern such
as the significance of embodiment and sexual difference, in addition to questions
that relate directly to the philosophy of cinema, such as the nature of cinematic
representation, the character of sequels, auteur theory, and the phenomenon of
stardom. More precisely, it will have to show that these films entertain (to the extent
that they do) precisely because they are entertaining us about just these
philosophical issues, with which we -- as finite and embodied human beings who go
to the movies -- cannot help but be obsessed.

Of course, just as the films to which it refers can work on a number of levels, so does
this book. Apart from (but in support of) its thesis on the relation between film and
philosophy, the book provides original readings not only of the four films in the
_Alien_ series, but also of several other films by the same directors, such as Scott's
_Bladerunner_, Cameron's 'Terminator' series, and David Fincher's _Seven_. These
readings have the refreshing quality of some of the best reflective film criticism --
appearing long after the hype of a film's opening, and unencumbered by deadlines,
or by the need to advise consumers on what to watch this weekend, but without
burdening the reader excessively by means of reference or allegiance to particular
theories of film -- such criticism often develops plausible and compelling readings
that challenge the received wisdom regarding a film. I am thinking, for example, of
Tim Kreider's recent reappraisals of Stanley Kubrick's _Eyes Wide Shut_ and
Spielberg's _AI_ in _Film Quarterly_. Such readings have the potential to change
one's mind about what was happening in the film -- not because they propose that
there are hidden elements in the film that cannot be understood apart from some
theoretical apparatus -- but because they lay out and make plain what is already on
the surface, showing that close attention to the explicit dimensions of the film reveals
it to hang together much better than initial audiences and critics supposed. Such
readings also have the capacity to reveal careful thought behind what may initially
appear as either sloppiness or, at best, mere technique.

Mulhall's readings of the _Alien_ series as a whole -- and in particular, for me, his
readings of _Alien3_ [1] and _Alien Resurrection_ -- have that quality. After reading
the book, and quite apart from my need to do so for the purposes of this review, I
was both compelled and excited to go back and watch the films again. I found that --
while I agree with Mulhall that his readings are not the last word on these films (10)
-- they did allow me to make sense of and work through some of my own prior
concerns about the 'hanging together' of the series as a whole. Someone might
complain that Mulhall reads too much into these films, that they are too light to
sustain his interpretations. The right response is the one he gives, to remind us that
this is an *attempt* to read the films philosophically, and that the hermeneutic circle
is not necessarily vicious: 'whether or not a particular reading of a film in fact reads
things into it as opposed to reading things out of it is not something that can be
settled apart from a specific assessment of that reading against one's own assessment
of the given film (and vice-versa)' (8). A fan of either of the first two films might
complain that Mulhall's readings of elements of the third and fourth film are
excessively apologetic -- and yet the interpretations he gives are not so much
intended to reassure the disappointed fan of the series that in spite of appearances
the latter episodes have remained faithful to their expectations for a sequel. Rather,
they aim to show that the creators of these films are more interested in the question
of what it is to create a 'sequel', than they are in the question of what fans 'expect'
from a sequel. In particular, they have taken seriously the challenge to create sequels
to films whose popularity stems from something more than the fact that they
generate specific emotions such as anxiety and fear, or encourage the satisfying
consumption of popcorn. What Mulhall aims to show in his readings is that each of
the directors and creative teams responsible for the ongoing films of this series
recognized a responsibility to be faithful to the thinking going on within the series
by creating narratives that responded to those ideas: by challenging them, putting
them to the test, examining their limits. In other words, Mulhall's readings of these
films aim to show not only that each of the _Alien_ films is philosophical insofar as it
takes up philosophical themes and addresses them in some particular way, but that
the development of the series is itself philosophical in the sense that the history of
philosophy is itself philosophy: insofar as in its sequence it embodies the kind of
active interrogation and critique that characterizes any given instance of
philosophizing.

This brings us to the question that will be the focus of my response to Mulhall's text.
I will consider what it means to claim (or in what senses it can be said) that these
films in particular, or any films for that matter, exemplify the condition of 'film as
philosophy' (6). Though it might be worthwhile for someone to review, assess, and
challenge the accuracy and power of his *interpretations* of the _Alien_ films, I will
will be more concerned with how Mulhall argues that films 'can be seen to engage in
systematic and sophisticated thinking about their themes and about themselves --
that films can philosophize' (7).

In the introduction to _On Film_, Mulhall distinguishes between his approach and
one that would 'look to these films as handy or popular illustrations of views and
arguments properly developed by philosophers' (2). What I aim to consider is
whether a film can not just *illustrate* philosophical themes, but be *itself*
philosophical. What is it that allows Mulhall, or anyone, to see films 'as themselves
reflecting on and evaluating such views and arguments [about the relation of human
identity to embodiment]; as thinking seriously and systematically about them in just
the ways that philosophers do' (2)? I presume, to begin with, that not every film can
or should be considered as philosophical in this sense; though of course it might be
that this is a matter of degree, and it should be clear that Mulhall's aim in choosing a
series of studio-produced sci-fi blockbusters to pursue such an approach is precisely
to encourage the view that a 'philosophical film' needn't be ponderous or
unapproachable. This seems important, because there is a growing trend in
academia to use films in introductory philosophy courses precisely as illustrations of
philosophical themes. In the past few years, a number of recent textbooks have
appeared to serve this trend. [2] In a chapter on skepticism, for example, such
textbooks might include discussions of _The Matrix_ along with Descartes' 'First
Meditation'. For these purposes, accessible films are extremely useful insofar as they
provide a reference point for drawing an audience fed on popular culture into a
discussion of the more standard texts on classical issues.

What makes Mulhall's approach significant, to my mind, is that it suggests an

alternative route to approaching philosophy through film, both in and out of the
classroom. Rather than look to films (popular or otherwise) as illustrations of
philosophical themes, or as 'raw material' to philosophize about, he suggests that we
look to film (at least potentially) as 'philosophy in action -- film as philosophizing'
(2). After all, if film were only good in a philosophy class as raw material or
illustration, it would seem much better to turn to 'reality itself' for our raw material.
Why use _The Matrix_ to illustrate skepticism when we already have Descartes
'argument from illusion' and 'dream argument' ready-to-hand? After all, everybody
makes mistakes, and everybody dreams. But these facts somehow fail to capture the
attention of young college students, and fail to convince them (on the whole) that
Descartes is worth reading. The tie-in with _The Matrix_, however, almost never
fails to make Descartes 'cool'. In fact, discussing _The Matrix_ in some of my
philosophy classes tends to elevate the level of discussion when it comes to
Descartes. There are a number of ways this fact might be explained, and it might be
considered evidence that modern media trivializes even pivotal texts from the
history of thought to the 'superficial' level of popcorn entertainment.

Mulhall's approach in _On Film_ suggests another interpretation. It is that part of

what makes films like _The Matrix_ (in this case it is fairly obvious) and the _Alien_
series so entertaining is precisely that they engage the viewer in much the same way
as a philosophy text might. They call upon the viewer to ask questions about basic
issues, to search for evidence, and to reflect not only on the world presented within
the film but on its significance for making sense of the reality they face in the
everyday world. Of course, what is most interesting about film as a medium for
'doing philosophy' is the possibility that the way in which film 'philosophizes' is
distinct from the way it is done, say, in a philosophy text or in a classroom. It would,
after all, be easy -- though not effective in a classroom in the way that _The Matrix_
can be -- to make films of philosophers talking about philosophy, raising questions
and providing answers, and to include examples that illustrate and provide
evidence for their conclusions. Mulhall is clearly not interested in *that* kind of 'film
as philosophy' -- since that would fall into the category of 'film as illustration of
philosophical themes', themes whose proper loci are outside of film -- but his
specific remarks on the kind of 'film as philosophy' that does interest him are mostly
negative, in the sense that he does not provide any more positive characterization of
what it means for a film to be 'doing philosophy' other than to say that such films
raise and address their own questions. For Mulhall, to consider a film as
philosophical is not to see if it conforms to a pre-existing philosophical theory, but to
approach it in such a way as to consider the extent to which the film itself poses
questions and develops answers of a philosopical nature (3). Before addressing the
ways in which Mulhall does this in relation to the _Alien_ series, it will be
worthwhile to step back from his text and consider what this might mean in general.
In what sense can film, on its own, independently of queries we might happen to
make of it, be said to pose and address its *own* questions?

To focus this issue, I want to consider what it might mean to say there is a
specifically 'filmic' way to pose and address philosophical questions. [3] It might, of
course, turn out later that what we say about film and philosophy has a bearing
either directly or indirectly upon literature, painting, music, performance, and other
art forms. At the very least, a distinctively 'filmic' posing of philosophical questions
will involve more than just talking heads or voiceovers or words on the screen as a
means of asking and considering such questions directly (as a surrogate for the
philosophical text or lecture). One useful way of approaching this issue is by
rehearsing in summary form a debate that has traditionally surrounded the question
of what it is that makes film a distinctive art form. What I will consider, by way of
this brief summary, is whether the various theses regarding the essence of film
provide clues or resources for addressing the issue of a specifically 'filmic' approach
to the raising and addressing of philosophical questions.

The major sides of this debate -- at least as far as is useful to recall them for the
present purposes -- are formalism and realism (sometimes identified with the
contrast between the film theories of Eisenstein and Bazin, or even with the
differences in style and approach to filmmaking exemplified by Melies and
Lumiere). Loosely speaking, the debate hinges on whether the distinctive feature of
film, by virtue of which it has its special properties, is: 1, the formal capacity within
film to juxtapose elements, to create opposition and tension, or to set up a space for
comparisons by means of editing; or 2, the fact that film is 'of' the real, that it
'records' the real, and presents for the viewer a kind of reality as it unfolds. This
formulation is far too simplistic for technical or historical purposes, but may be
enough at least to suggest some of the avenues that might be pursued in thinking
film as philosophy. Of course, even realism is a 'style', that makes use of editing; and
even 'radical' or 'discontinuous' editing can be used to capture the 'sacred moment'
of reality. On the other hand, even highly formalistic films tend to rely upon the
ability of the camera to produce what Cavell called 'a succession of automatic world
projections'. [4] Even the abstract film tends to abstract *from* -- and thus refer to --
the 'real'. In spite of the dialectical links between these categories, they indicate in a
useful way the *tendencies* in relation to which a particular film can be best
considered, whether as a whole or in part. A film or sequence can be considered to
point the viewer beyond its particular images in the direction of analysis and
synthesis, or the film can be considered to call attention to the concrete reality
presented in or by means of those images.

According to the formalist approach to the essence of film, it is the power of editing
that allows the filmmaker to pose questions of the viewer, insofar as the
juxtaposition of elements within film calls for a viewer to think through the possible
meaning of their linkage. When Eisenstein intercuts images of strikers facing an
army with images of cows being slaughtered, the meaning of the linkage is quite
clear. And yet, what this arrangement does is force the viewer to participate, at a
very basic level, in the making of meaning through film. If we consider (along with
Heidegger) the essence of a question as being an uneasiness or uncertainty or open
space that calls for a resolution or the insertion of meaning, then the filmmakers'
establishment of a contrast of presented images can almost be said to pose a
question: what is it that links these shots? The viewer who aims to follow along is
encouraged to supply the answer. In this case, however, there is nothing specifically
philosophical about either the question or the answer. To say what, specifically, it
lacks to be a properly philosophical question would require an inquiry into the
character of philosophy in general. But at least it should be clear that the manner in
which the question is 'formulated' does not give much room for a number of the
traits often associated with philosophy, such as self-reflection, an openness to
criticism, the analysis of concepts, or the mustering of argument.

More sophisticated examples, wherein questioning is opened up within a film by

means of the juxtaposition of contrasting images, can be found in Bergman's
_Persona_ or Bill Viola's non-narrative video piece _I do not know what it is I am
like_. In the case of _Persona_, the very structure of the film calls the viewer to
consider how its framing, as a film within a film, is related to the narrative of the
inner film. To make sense of the film as a whole is to find oneself grappling with
questions such as: what is the relation between film and reality?; what is the relation
between self and other?; what is it to be truthful to oneself and to others? And the
film itself, by means of the dialogue and narrative, poses answers to these questions,
some of which the film challenges, rejecting as inadequate. The same is true of Bill
Viola's piece, which not only has its central question built into the title, but enlists
the viewer in an open-ended consideration of answers. To follow the trajectory of the
video (which defies useful summary) is, for example, to find oneself asking what the
images of wandering buffaloes have to do with the images of the project of making
the film, and to consider whether the likenesses shared by these experiences is
clarified by images from the activities of Balinese firewalkers or of a decomposing
salmon.

Another way in which film can be thought to pose questions is suggested by the
other approach to the essence of film, that considers film as presenting a 'reality'
before the viewer -- whether that reality is conceived of as present (as if) by way of
memory (with Cavell), or as an imagined reality, or as a depicted or even
documented reality. The most basic question that a film asks, when considered in
this way, is whether the film does in fact present a 'reality' in the manner it claims.
The film poses itself as a 'reality', and yet this self-positing is always open to
question. When unsuccessful, we say that the film doesn't work, or that it fails to
convince. As I take it, this is so not only with respect to documentaries but fictional
narratives as well. A fictional narrative 'works' when 'we' (as audience) find
ourselves engaged in it, accepting the characterizations as plausible, caring about the
issues that the characters are faced with, and believing that the characters would or
could respond in the ways that they do. But that we can (and do) walk out of a film
satisfied or unsatisfied, depending on the degree to which we considered that film to
'work' in this sense, shows that the 'working' of a film is something that is an issue
for us throughout the experience. The extent to which it presents what might be
described as the 'compelling portrait of a possible reality' is a *question* posed by
the very projection of the film before an audience. [5]

Any *answer* to this question will presuppose a metaphysics (in the broadest sense
of the term that would encompass a physics, a psychology, a social theory, etc.).
Loosely speaking, it could be said that what differentiates between a philosophical
and non-philosophical posing of the question is the extent to which and the manner
in which that metaphysics is presupposed. One of the ways in which films can raise
philosophical questions is by setting up a scenario that undercuts or challenges the
metaphysical presuppositions of the viewer. The metaphysics presupposed by, say,
the average Hollywood film is not simply a 'commonsense' metaphysics, but is a
commonsense modified by expectations drawn from previous movies. This modified
commonsense is rarely challenged, but merely confirmed and extended by what I
am considering the 'non-philosophical' film. Even in the case of science-fiction, the
modifications to commonsense presupposed in the presentation of the film are
expectations built into the genre. These expectations are not challenged when, for
example, the characters of the story find themselves on a strange planet being
attacked by alien creatures.

However, there needs to be a distinction made between failure to meet expectations,

on the one hand, and a challenge to those expectations, on the other. Usually, for
example, a film in which characters fail to act in ways that make sense or in which
their motives are one-dimensional, is one that fails to meet expectations. It doesn't
work. Sometimes, however, there may be clues in such films that our expectations
are unfounded, or that there are reasons why we should expect characters to appear
simplistic or non-rational. Mulhall makes a case with regards to _Alien:
Resurrection_ that one of the reasons for the strangeness in the feel of the various
characters -- and the dissatisfaction on the part of fans -- is that the story is told,
effectively, from the perspective of the Ripley-clone, who looks like a woman, but
whose understanding of the human world remains childlike. But the fact that the
film challenges expectations about how people should behave and how their
interactions should feel, does not itself constitute a philosophical challenge.
Understanding this point merely clarifies the character of the narrative, the nature of
the story being told. It becomes a philosophical challenge when the further question
is posed as to why the story is told in this way, when it was told very differently in
the preceding films. For, as Mulhall aims to show, these films articulate and modify
a 'logic' or 'metaphysics', with regards to a number of important philosophical
themes, that is established in the first film. The questions then becomes: what is
being suggested by the specific narrative style of the final film, with regard to the
themes that preoccupy the previous films?

To answer that question as Mulhall does requires that we go back and consider (in
brief) his analyses of the preceding films. The setting of the first film -- as established
from the beginning by a tour through the apparently lifeless Nostromo, floating
through a vast and empty space, from which the crew emerge as if from the womb
of 'Mother', the ship's computer -- indicates the fragility and utter dependence on
technology of the characters in this film. To live is to be sustained within a metallic
carapace, isolated from an inhospitable environment. What makes Ripley unique
within this scenario is that she, almost alone among her crew, possesses a
heightened awareness of just this fragility. She knows, more than the others, the
dangerous consequences of the possibility of their vessel being penetrated by an
alien substance. When, against her will, the alien creature is allowed on board, we
see the broader significance of her anxieties. We discover that the manner in which
this alien penetrates the body of its victims resembles a grotesque parody of a
nightmare version of male sexuality, but one that can impregnate and destroys
members of both sexes. To understand the character of Ripley, and to make sense of
her extreme caution, Mulhall argues, we need to see that in her psyche there is a
parallel between the human awareness of finitude in relation to technology, and the
passivity of the female with respect to the possibility of being penetrated:

'she acts consistently from the outset to preserve the physical integrity of the ship
she briefly commands because she has all along understood her own femaleness in
the terms that the alien seeks to impose upon the human species, and hence has
always understood her body as a vessel whose integrity must at all costs be
preserved' (24).

That her fears track something real is indicated precisely by the fact that the alien
induces horror. Mulhall quotes from Cavell approvingly:

'not the human horrifies me, but the inhuman, the monstrous? Very well. But only
what is human can be inhuman. Can only the human be monstrous? If something is
monstrous, and we do not believe that there are monsters, then only the human is a
candidate for the monstrous . . . Horror is the title I am giving to the perception of
the precariousness of human identity, to the perception that it may be lost or
invaded' (17-8).

Ripley's vision is a vision of the nature of life -- confirmed not only by way of the
actual alien, but in the person of the science officer Ash among other things -- 'as an
inherently masculine assault upon women, in which they function merely as the
means for the onward transmission of something (an intrinsically penetrating and
aggressive force, or drive, or will) essentially alien to them' (31).

What is at stake in this film, with respect to the questions it poses philosophically, is
not the question of whether alien life forms exist or whether androids could be made
to seem as intelligent as Ash -- that is all part of the 'taken for granted' metaphysics
implied by the genre of the film -- but rather the whether we find ourselves troubled
by the issues that trouble Ripley and her fellow crewmates. What is frightening in
the film is the precariousness of their lives in the isolation of space and in the face of
the monster; but what horrifies us, through the film, is the recognition of our own
affinity with this apparently alien situation. It is the fear of penetration, and at the
same time the recognition of masculine sexuality in the alien's mode of penetration;
it is the impassive and yet unrelenting drive of the alien that frightens, and at the
same time the recognition that this unrelenting drive that treats individual
organisms as essentially passive vessels for its own continuation is a natural drive,
not dissimilar to our own nature.

I have only scratched the surface of Mulhall's careful attention to detail in this first
film, and will do less justice to the others. In part, this is because I do not want to
detract from the experience of reading it, which I strongly recommend. What he
attempts to show in relation to the subsequent films are the ways in which each
filmmaker responds to the logic of the _Alien_ universe as established in the first
film by Ridley Scott and his collaborators. In addition to raising questions of their
own, according to the structure of the story they present for an audience, these new
films also raise philosophical questions just by the fact of their juxtaposition with the
original, and also by their standing in relation to other works by the same director.
In other words, the philosophical 'work' of this series involves both the narrative
presentation of a universe with its own internal logic, and the significant reworking
of that logic throughout the series. On Mulhall's account, the second film, directed
by James Cameron, shows an understanding for the logic of the first film precisely in
the way that it ends, portraying Ripley as having achieved a kind of family, and
having become a mother through adoption, but without yielding to the natural way
in which this would take place. The film thus aims to challenge on its own terms the
conception of sexual difference that animates the first. The question that this
challenge poses for us is whether the fears we have seen animate Ripley to that point
have been adequately addressed in the course of the film, preparing the way for her
acceptance of the vulnerability attendant with the intimacy that Cameron suggests
as the cure for her dis-ease. David Fincher's contribution, by contrast, aims to nip
this possibility in the bud from the beginning -- providing a kind of refutation of
Cameron's conclusion in the opening credits by killing off Ripley's new family, and
then by setting up the ensuing narrative in a prison whose inhabitants incarnate
within themselves precisely the unrelenting type of masculinity from which Ripley
had been attempting to isolate herself. The resolution to Ripley's fears and
obsessions will not come so easily: 'since the alien itself originates from within her,
since it is an incarnate projection of her deepest fears, she can succeed in eliminating
it only by eliminating herself' (106). It is in that context that Jeunet's final
contribution to the series makes sense: from a child's view, in which everything from
the adult world is exaggerated and monstrous, this monstrous vision of human
sexuality and human nature itself appears as an exaggeration, as absurd rather than
horrible.

None of this talk of film as philosophy will make sense from the perspective of those
who insist upon the notion of philosophy as the construction of arguments with
respect to canonical 'philosophical' questions. As I take it, there is a different sense of
philosophy in which film -- and for that matter much of the most interesting
philosophy of the twentieth century -- is or can be philosophical. In a general
characterization of philosophy we might replace the idea that it consists in the
production of philosophical 'arguments' with the notion that it provides a pathway
for thinking, an open space in which thinking takes place, enabling new modes of
organizing and making sense of experience and knowledge. In order for there to be a
pathway for thought, there has to be a motivation for the movement of thought.
Questions, in the broad sense described above, provide this motivation. In the case
of a narrative film, what motivates its viewers is the interest in the characters and
their situation. This motivation becomes a motivation to philosophy insofar as the
effort to make sense of their situation calls on us to reflect on the affinities of their
situation with our own, and as our efforts to make sense of the motivations of the
characters calls on us to reflect upon preoccupations we may share with them.
Although this type of motivation to philosophy may not be unique to film, it is
particularly powerful in the case of film, insofar as film tends to involve us almost
tangibly with the lives on screen. The motivation to philosophy is especially
powerful in the films that Stephen Mulhall has so thoughtfully brought to life on the
pages of _On Film_.

Eckerd College
St. Petersburg, Florida, USA

Footnotes

1. Though it can't be done in the text format of this review, the '3' should be
superscripted. Mulhall in fact makes a good deal of sense out of the filmmakers'
decision to title the film in just this way, as _Alien3_ with a superscripted '3', rather
than, say, as 'Alien III'. In an extended meditation on the significance of this film as
signaled in the title, Mulhall writes:

'if this film resembles its predecessor in any respect, it is in its rejection of the
expected way of noting its own status within the series of _Alien_ films. James
Cameron's title avoided the number '2' altogether (whilst discovering it obsessively
within the film itself); David Fincher's incorporates the necessary numeral, but only
after subjecting it to a radical displacement . . . as if Fincher feels that anything he
might to with his film will be superscriptural, a writing over the writings of others'
(91-2).
He points out, in addition, that the film is dealing with the third generation of the
alien species, that there are three aliens in the film, and that the space within which
the film transpires is almost always enclosed space, as if the superscriptural '3' were
to indicate cubing, and hence containment. He points out that this reading is
sustained by the fact that Fincher's preoccupation in this film is to create closure, to
end the series.

2. Examples of this approach include Mary M. Litch's _Philosophy Through Film_

(which is to my mind the best and most useful that I have found), Christopher
Falzon's _Philosophy Goes to the Movies_, and Burton F. Porter's _Philosophy
Through Fiction and Film_.

3. For present purposes, I don't see a need to use 'film' in a technical sense that
differentiates it from, say, video or other media for the projection of moving images.
Such a distinction does not appear in Mulhall either.

4. Cavell, _The World Viewed_, p. 72.

5. Even Deleuze's approach (in the _Cinema_ books) to the thinking going on in
films -- film as the creation of concepts -- might be considered (tentatively) to fit
along these lines. What a film does, philosophically, for Deleuze, is present some
way of organizing experience and memory. The question posed by the very
existence of the film is, can experience and memory be organized in this way? And:
what is the effect on thought?

Bibliography

Stanley Cavell, _The World Viewed_ (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard

University Press, 1979).

Christopher Falzon, _Philosophy Goes to the Movies_ (New York: Routledge, 2002).
Tim Kreider, 'Review: _Eyes Wide Shut_', _Film Quarterly_, vol. 53, no. 3, Spring
2000.
--- 'Review: _AI_', _Film Quarterly_, vol. 56, no. 2, Winter 2002-3.

Mary M. Litch, _Philosophy Through Film_ (New York: Routledge, 2002).

Burton F. Porter, _Philosophy Through Fiction and Film_ (Upper Saddle River, New
Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2004).

Copyright © Film-Philosophy 2003

Nathan Andersen, 'Is Film the Alien Other to Philosophy?: Philosophy *as* Film in
Mulhall's _On Film_', _Film-Philosophy_, vol. 7 no. 23, August 2003
<http://www.film-philosophy.com/vol7-2003/n23anderson>.

Read a response to this review-article:

Stephen Mulhall, 'Ways of Thinking: A Response to Andersen and Baggini', _Film-

Philosophy_, vol. 7 no. 25, August 2003 <http://www.film-philosophy.com/vol7-
2003/n25mulhall>.