Essays

Crippled Language: Postmodern Texts in The Usual Suspects

    The essence of film noir emerged out of early twentieth-century anxieties about world war, as well as the construction of personal identity and values in an increasingly globalized and ever-changing society.  It was borne from a modernist ethos which struggled to ascertain truth among slums filled with corruption and despair.  Classic examples of the genre often depict a protagonist alienated from both his friends and enemies, frequently incapable of distinguishing between the two.  He usually relates his story in a first-person narrative, desperately attempting to make sense of his own world.  Postmodern literature and film, however, discards the modernist assumption that any such sense can be constructed and often depicts characters who, in regard to their selves and their world, are left bewildered and helpless at the story’s conclusion.  Bryan Singer’s The Usual Suspects is a film operating on postmodern principles, in which truth, reality, and identity are obscured from the realm of existence altogether.
    While modernism relies on various schools of thought (called “depth-models” by Frederic Jameson [12]) such as Freudian psychology in attempting to formulate notions of truth or identity after the collapse of traditional values, postmodernism rejects these theories as possible indicators of truth in favor of “the emergence of a new kind of flatness or depthlessness, a new kind of superficiality in the most literal sense, perhaps the supreme formal feature of all postmodernisms.” (Jameson 9) Postmodernism relinquishes not only the notion that complexframeworks of thought such as philosophy or history can lead to absolute truths, it also denies the very existence of these truths, allowing merely for a playful rearrangement of these insubstantial surfaces which can amount to nothing more than a confounding, meaningless complexity.
    The Usual Suspects portrays this lack of absolute truth in the world by making Verbal Kint (Kevin Spacey) the viewer’s central source of information.  As J.P. Telotte says in his review, “the film begins with a mystery that totally relies on the film's conception of character, which is a set of reactions that contradicts the audience's anticipation of narrative conservatism and undermines one sort of pleasure or comfort that the audience has come to expect from films. Instead, the movie offers a very different interpretation of character...” (Telotte)
    Verbal is a character whom Jameson would refer to as “decentered,” for he has engaged in the act of “play” outlined by postmodern theory in order to create an identity for himself which suits his own ends, but provides no hint at reality or truth.  Once the film’s conclusion reveals that Verbal is actually the villain and most likely the executor of Keyser Soze’s will (whether or not he is actually Soze is irrelevant since he is clearly aligned with either the real Soze or the idea of Soze), it becomes apparent that Verbal, who is aware of how much the police know, has reconstructed the surface features of the events he is relating to create not a truthful account, but a story which will build himself up as a victim or a patsy while simultaneously satisfying Agent Kujan’s (Chazz Palminteri) assumption of Keaton as the villain.  Except for a few scattered “facts” collected by the police (the most enlightening being the indication that the deal on the pier did not involve dope, but the sale of Arturro Marquez, who could identify Keyser Soze), Verbal’s fictional presentation of the events leading up to his arrest is the viewer’s only basis for judging reality. Verbal spins his tales to incorporate the meager findings of the police, making hislies believable to Agent Kujan, and subsequently, the audience; but in the end, his story amounts to a veiled, confused construction of both his and his associates’ identities, as well as an impenetrable, depth-less account of reality.
    Jameson refers to the convoluted rearrangement of surface features as “intertextuality” (12), a postmodern premise which works on three levels in the film.  The first is the almost too-literal mess of notes on the bulletin board behind Sean Rabin’s desk, from which Verbal culls some of the details of his story and uses to construct a false identity for himself in order to mislead Agent Kujan.  In his essay, “Postmodernism, Noir, and The Usual Suspects,” Stanley Orr discusses the symbolic implications of this vital aspect of the film within the context of postmodernism:
    More than a plot device, this collage suggests the broader textual fund from which Verbal "knits" (this anagram perhaps accounts for the unusual spelling of Verbal's surname) a story for Kujan. In its voluminousness, the bulletin board insinuates a universe consisting not of referentials, but rather a bricolage of overlapping texts....A master bricoleur, Verbal appropriates random signifiers lying about Rabin's office (we see him scan the room carefully upon entrance) – Skokie Quartet, Kobayashi, Redfoot, Guatemala – and writes them into his own story. (Orr)
    The second symbolic use of intertextuality in the film is the actual presentation of Verbal’s tale as scenes to the viewer.  One of the elements of these scenes which can most definitely be written off as fiction is his claim that McManus secured the string of jobs for the “Suspects.”  In reality it was almost certainly Verbal himself, whose association with Keyser Soze would have easily provided him with both the motive and the means.  In addition, if we are to assume that all of the details of these scenes are being conveyed to Agent Kujan by Verbal, it is possible to see Verbal’s “play”-ful, postmodern depiction of specific details of the events, which are largely fabricated and subject to his whimsy. 
    In Verbal’s skewed account of the heists leading up to the job on the pier, the “Suspects” often wear sunglasses as well as elaborate (and almost humorous) disguises including Hawaiian shirts, panty hose, and a sling, all of which literally conceal their identity from their enemies and symbolically conceal the reality of the events from the viewer.  It is telling that they wear their most natural garb during the job on the pier, the event whose facts Verbal is most restricted from distorting due to police knowledge of it.  Benicio Del Toro, who plays Fenster, is perhaps the actor (besides Kevin Spacey) most conscious of the “play” inherent in the script, and invents a non-cultural, indiscernible accent to accompany his character, probably based on the knowledge that what he says is irrelevant since it is all made up by Verbal and has little to no basis in reality.
    The third use of intertextuality in the film is Verbal’s language, which not only enlivens the first example (the bulletin board), but also fashions a great deal of his false identity and manipulates facts through tone and temperament to make them more appealing to Agent Kujan.  He cries and perpetuates self-deprecating stereotypes (“I’m stupid, I’m a cripple” [McQuarrie]) when he is, in fact, a strong, calculated murderer.  As Nicholas Christopher points out, he goes so far as to waiver between gender identities:
    [Verbal is] masculine when he needs to be, and at other times effortlessly displaying the strongly feminine aspect of his nature.  It is not only Keaton and the other members of the gang whom he seduces in the manner of a femme fatale....but also Agent Kujan.  Sometimes in his asides to Kujan, verbal is talkative in a female way, chatty or beguilingly contemplative: “A man can’t change what he is,” he purrs, “he can convince everyone else, but never himself”; and sometimes his asides are vintage machismo, as when he describes the aftermath of the first heist: “Everybody got it right in the ass,” he snaps, “from the chief on down.  It was beautiful.” (Christopher 255)
    Verbal’s constructions of reality and the self are distinctively postmodern, but not all of the characters share this sensibility.  The modernist characters at work in the film are also the film’s protagonists, which include Kujan, the other police officers, and to a lesser extent (since his character is largely based on Verbal’s here say), Keaton (Gabriel Byrne).  Keaton, according to Kujan’s knowledge of him, seemed at one point to be as elusive as Keyser Soze, but at the beginning of the film he is attempting to forge a new identity for himself – on the right side of the law – until Kujan (as well as the orchestration of the line-up, perhaps by Verbal or Keyser Soze) intervenes.
    Keaton, more than any other character, exhibits the classic traits of a noir protagonist.  He is a desperate, tragic figure, surrounded by darkness in many of the shots he occupies.  He is well acquainted with the underworld of the city, having been a police officer as well as an inmate – all of the criminals know his name.  While outside forces are constantly trying to deconstruct his newly forged identity (including Kujan as well as the other “Suspects,” who tempt him back into criminal life), he makes the misguided choice while struggling against these forces to turn away the one person working to support him, Edie Finneran.
    Kujan is another possible protagonist in the film.  He and the other officers represent not only the modernist ethos but also the classic era of film noir, because they work diligently to unravel the complex intertextuality created by Verbal, Soze, and other criminals.  They know that an impenetrable evil is out there, but still they hope to solve the mystery and piece together a reality of events.  Kujan has investigated Keaton for years, and Baer mentions Dan Metzheiser, who has kept a file on Keyser Soze for “a couple of years.” (Mcquarrie)  These futile but persistent investigations into the lives of Keaton and Soze – men who are altogether unknowable because of their lack of definite identity – represent the underlying belief of the police in absolute truths, in a depth of knowledge which is not only deliberately concealed from them, but which (though it may seem paradoxical) probably does not exist at all.
    Despite their efforts, the police are always several steps behind the criminals in this film, and Verbal’s rendering of the events is too convincing for Agent Kujan, who eventually allows Verbal to slip away and post bail.  The very fact that the only two survivors of the ship’s explosion are Verbal – the lying villain – and an uninformed, non-English speaking Hungarian on the verge of death is testament to Keyser Soze’s overwhelming manipulation and control of the events.  Although Verbal has been identified as Keyser Soze by Arkosh Kovash, the only evidence of this accusation is that he was the one killing men on the pier, which means he was probably working for Soze, but does not indicate positively that he is Soze.  Thus, the police are still quite far from discovering Soze’s true identity.
    Soze, Verbal, and the Keaton of Kujan’s imaginings all represent a new kind of noir, based on postmodern principles, which the film-makers have cleverly portrayed simply by flipping the perspective of the classic noir story.  Instead of conveying the events from the truth-seeking (but perplexed) detective’s point of view, The Usual Suspects unravels from the conjecture of the same sort of lurking, evil presence which was prevalent in the early era of film noir – the sort of presence that deliberately distorts the facts surrounding its activities and conceals its identity from helpless but dedicated detectives, actively attempting to “rattle the wills of men.” (Mcquarrie)  With The Usual Suspects, Bryan Singer and screenwriter Christopher Mcquarrie have forged an important document of postmodern noir and provided keen insight into the criminal mastermind by asserting that its success relies on the truth-escaping nature of a postmodern ideology.

Christopher, Nicholas.  Somewhere in the Night: Film Noir and the American City.  The Free Press.  New York, NY: 1997 p. 250-262
Jameson, Fredric. Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Durham: Duke UP, 1992.  p.1-12
McQuarrie, Christopher.  The Usual Suspects (original script).  Culver City, CA: Blue Parrott, Inc., 1994
Orr, Stanley.  “Postmodernism, Noir, and ‘The Usual Suspects.’”  Literature/Film Quarterly v. 27, no. 1.  p. 65-73
Telotte, J. P.  “The Usual Suspects.”  Film Quarterly  v. 51, no. 4 (Summer 1998).  p. 12-20

Absurd Logic of Endgame

    After World War II, more and more artists began searching for aesthetic forms which could accurately reflect their increasingly stark realizations about the world.  Samuel Beckett employs a new, absurdist form of theater in his play Endgame which subverts the traditional aspects of drama, or the well-made play.  Beckett sets the play’s characters in motion (or non-motion) in an absurd world that challenges in every facet the possibility of a meaningful existence.  This confined world is impossibly disparate and surreal, fantastically bleak yet grimly realistic - it is the theatrical, external representation of the internal, postmodern hopelessness of humanity.
    Perhaps the most glaring example of absurdist method in the play is the use of the chess metaphor to a strikingly literal extent.  Instead of employing typical dramatic elements such as a rising action and character development, the fundamental ideas are constructed by the metaphor and the existence of the characters is played out under any subsequent constraints.  Chess serves as the basis of both plot and theme.  As critic Daryl McDaniel points out, “The chess metaphor is not simply an exercise but a way of coherently presenting the incoherent ideas of how humanity reconciles itself to itself.” 
    By constructing the play around the metaphor of chess, Beckett is able to excise conventional elements which do not necessarily suit the ravished content of the play.  Action would be too assertive and exciting for these characters.  Beckett’s rather abstract construction allows him to, as David Hayman has said, [strip] his action of everything that might be deemed inessential.  The author has opened his play up to the director, the actor, and the reader. Predictably, critics, like biblical exegetes, have found multitudes of meanings, erecting systems of reading based on philosophy, Shakespeare, history, psychoanalysis, etc. Beckett, having made this inevitable, abhorred the results, but then, such readings, if carried far enough, all tend to self-destruct, leaving the play as open and as evocative as before, as individual in its impact and echoes.  Thus, while the vibrant language of the play allows for exhaustive interpretations of every idiom, action and dialogue are no longer definitive in Beckett’s world, as the most viable interpretations of the events in the play are those dictated by the absurd (but logical) rationale of the chess metaphor.
    The title of the play refers to the final few moves of a chess game, when most of the pieces have been taken and one side is on the verge of checkmate.  At this point in the match, play which was formerly characterized by reason, calculation, and precision has deteriorated into an all-out attack on a retreating king.  In accordance with the rules of chess, the movements of the characters in Beckett’s play are restricted with specific regard to their chess piece counterpart.  Even the setting can be viewed as a section of the chess board.  In his essay, “Life in the Box,” Hugh Kenner states the following:
Nagg and Nell in their dustbins appear to be pawns; Clov, with his arbitrarily restricted movements ("I can't sit") and his equestrian background ("And your rounds? Always on foot?" "Sometimes on horse") resembles the Knight, and his perfectly cubical kitchen ("ten feet by ten feet by ten feet, nice dimensions, nice proportions") resembles a square on the chessboard translated into three dimensions. He moves back and forth, into it and out of it, coming to the succor of Hamm and then retreating. At the endgame's end the pawns are forever immobile and Clov is poised for a last departure from the board, the status quo forever menaced by an expected piece glimpsed through the window, and King Hamm abandoned in check.
    Ironically, the chess metaphor implies a great deal of logic and order in the proceedings (indeed the most nimble “player,” Clov, declares at one point his desire for creating organization and order), but instead Hamm and Clov’s bickering is often indecipherable nonsense, and all of the characters exude a mournful hatred and disgust for their respective situations as well as each other.  Hamm is constantly looking for his painkillers, while Clov complains about being a servant and threatens to leave.
    Absurdity also lies in the dependence of each of the characters upon one another, in spite of their strong feelings of dismay.  Just as in a game of chess, if one piece abandons one or more
of the other pieces to advance upon their own pursuits, the entire structure of that side’s game will collapse, leaving it vulnerable to a devastating attack.  Similarly, the characters in the play, because of their physical conditions, are all dependant on one another for their survival.  Nagg and Nell are legless and absurdly trapped in ashbins, while Hamm, being blind, wounded, and totally immobile, is a complete degenerate.
    Hamm depends on Clov for his sight - his observance of his surroundings as well as the outside world, while Clov depends on Hamm for access to food.  Clov is forced to live out the absurd existence of a servant with essentially feminine attributes.  He is treated like an animal by Hamm, who gradually starves him.  Clov is constantly associated with the kitchen and always threatening to leave his abusive provider of sustenance.
    Nagg and Nell are also dependant on Hamm for food, and Clov for maintenance of their dustbins, but Hamm and Clov seem to have little dependance on them, and, as they are the first characters to be neglected, they are the first to perish.  At the end of the play Clov is in the act of abandoning Hamm, ending all mutual dependance between the characters and setting into motion the event (checkmate) which has been inevitable from the start.
    These detestable yet inescapable conditions imply that the characters are fated for a miserable existence.  It is possible to view each performance of the play as a glimpse into that ongoing existence (ultimately meant as an exaggerated reflection of real life), rather than a specific interpretation of literature.  At the onset of the play, Clov “discovers” the other three lifeless characters covered in sheets in this perpetual, hellish stasis, as if they have always been on stage.  For them, existence is a burden, and this is so for Clov as well, because of his mutual dependance on them.  The critic Daryl McDaniel offers some insight into the reasons for the characters’ fateful constrictions:
    Beckett's characters search for an understanding of themselves as Beckett explores human limitations and mortality--all the while continuing to move towards the question of a person's significance in what may be a Godless world. Just as the king in chess can only move one space at a time, Hamm wonders why he is so limited. Through this game of chess Beckett examines the personal struggle and often the inability to understand one's own self. In looking to the future, the characters encounter a complexity of strategy and movement as real in life as it is in chess.  Transformation can be difficult to pinpoint. Beckett does not provide easily defined dramatic moments when change does happen, and discernment is slippery at best.
    Several critics have pointed out that one such major change occurs when Clov spots the young boy outside the window, inferring that the boy’s immanent entrance into the room is the event which will spell out checkmate for Hamm, as the boy’s infiltration of their brittle structure could potentially be viewed as a sort of attack upon their fated existence, or “routine” as Hamm calls it.
    Such changes of tone or action are subtle, however, the very existence of the play necessitates routine or stasis: once the routine is broken or the intricate network of mutual dependance altered, the endgame will crumble and checkmate will be achieved.  Events such as the potential intrusion of the boy and the death of Nagg and Nell (pawns) are subtle progressions toward Hamm’s doom, or checkmate. 
    Despite these minor alterations in the play’s fundamental nature, however, the critic Antony Easthope asserts that the entire conflict or dramatic tension of the play can be expressed in the question “will Clov leave Hamm?”  Despite all other events as well as the audience’s bias, the fate of everything central to the play rests in the answer to this question.  As Easthope points out, Clov’s hesitation at the end of the play leaves this question unresolved, and the audience is left to decide for itself whether Clov will leave Hamm for checkmate or remain and continue the agonizing struggle of existence a while longer.  At the very least, the play’s ending has left the action of the game at the point of “check,” furthering the idea of predetermination in the play by implying that the answer to Easthope’s question does not lie so much in Clov’s decision as in the extent of Hamm’s vulnerability as determined by his condition.  The outcome of an endgame will always be the same no matter how much time is spent or which plays are played.
    In addition to the chess metaphor and conditions of the characters, the setting is an important absurd aspect of the play.  The literal location of the play seems to be a sort of ruins or bomb shelter following a war.  The survival of the characters is dependant on their adherence to that location and to one another, as Hamm explicitly states that anything which stays outside will die.  Applied to the chess metaphor, this room may represent a corner of the board where the losing side has found momentary refuge, forced to ride out the final disparaging moves of the play while essentially delaying the inevitable.
    The abnormal height of the windows causes Clov’s absurdly specific movements of the ladder and implies that the room is set underground.  The placement of the two windows has also led several critics to believe that the room may represent the inside of a human skull, with the windows symbolizing the eye sockets.  This may indicate the idea that Hamm, being blind, is very much trapped within his own mind, much like he is confined to this room.  According to the critic Sydney Homan,
    Deprived of a sense of perspective by his blindness, [Hamm] can only think of man and, more specifically, of himself as the macrocosm. Appropriately, his speculation is that there is "no one else." For Hamm the external world is the illusion, in the most negative sense of that word: "Outside of here it's death."
    In addition, Hamm relies on Clov to be his guide to an outside world that is nearly non-existent for him.  As Homan states, “Clov is concerned with the external, with the one physical setting itself--he speculates that ‘There's nowhere else.’” Thus, Clov depends on Hamm for reason and direction, symbolized by the fact that they are trapped together in Hamm’s mind, but Clov is constantly focused on the outside world at the behest of Hamm, who needs Clov for purposes such as sight and movement in the physical world, of which he has almost no knowledge.  Clov ultimately abandons the abusive Hamm, who, having “played” poorly, is left alone and ruined in the confines of his own thoughts.

Easthope, Antony.  “Hamm, Clov, and Dramatic Method in Endgame.”  Twentieth Century Interpretations of “Endgame” edited by Bell Gale Chevigny.  Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall Inc. 1969.  Pp. 61-70
Hayman, David.   “Endgame: Overview.”  Reference Guide to English Literature, 2nd ed., edited by D.L. Kirkpatrick, St. James Press, 1991.
Homan, Sydney.  “Endgame:” The Playwright Completes Himself.  Chelsea House Publishers, 1988, pp. 123–46. Reprinted in Drama for Students, Vol. 18.
Kenner, Hugh.  “Life in the Box”  Samuel Beckett’s “Endgame,” edited by Harold Bloom.  Chelsea House Publishers, 1988, pp. 41–48.  Reprinted in Drama for Students Vol. 18
McDaniel, Daryl.  Critical Essay on “Endgame.”  Drama for Students, Vol. 18.  Gale, 2003