Skip to main content

I Want to Know More About You: On Knowing and Acknowledging in Chinatown

  • Chapter
  • First Online:
Stanley Cavell on Aesthetic Understanding

Part of the book series: Philosophers in Depth ((PID))

Abstract

What is the difference between knowing someone and acknowledging them? Is it possible to want to be acknowledged while remaining unknown? And if one’s desire to know another person is too consuming, can this foreclose the possibility of acknowledgment? Cavell argues that we sometimes avoid the ethical problem of acknowledgment by (mis)conceiving our relations with others in terms of knowledge and that this epistemic misconception can actually amount to a form of ethical harm. I show that Polanski’s Chinatown helps us understand the difference between knowing and acknowledging and that Cavell’s concepts help us better appreciate Chinatown.

This is a preview of subscription content, log in via an institution to check access.

Access this chapter

Chapter
USD 29.95
Price excludes VAT (USA)
  • Available as PDF
  • Read on any device
  • Instant download
  • Own it forever
eBook
USD 79.99
Price excludes VAT (USA)
  • Available as EPUB and PDF
  • Read on any device
  • Instant download
  • Own it forever
Softcover Book
USD 99.99
Price excludes VAT (USA)
  • Compact, lightweight edition
  • Dispatched in 3 to 5 business days
  • Free shipping worldwide - see info
Hardcover Book
USD 139.99
Price excludes VAT (USA)
  • Durable hardcover edition
  • Dispatched in 3 to 5 business days
  • Free shipping worldwide - see info

Tax calculation will be finalised at checkout

Purchases are for personal use only

Institutional subscriptions

Notes

  1. 1.

    What are the ethics of turning to a film by Roman Polanski as part of an exploration of the dynamics of acknowledgment? What are the ethics of turning to his films at all anymore, after everything we know? Speaking for myself, this difficulty is compounded in that not only do I think that Chinatown is one of the greatest films ever made, I also think Polanski has made a number of important films about women and their protest against the world: in addition to Chinatown, there is Repulsion (1965), Rosemary’s Baby (1968), Tess (1979), even The Tenant (1976). But of course, thinking about these films, it is impossible not to think of the women in Polanski’s life, most significantly Samantha Gailey, whom Polanski was charged with raping at Jack Nicholson’s house while she was 13 years old, and in more recent years: Charlotte Lewis, a woman identified as Robin M., Renate Langer, and Marianne Barnard. How on earth do we reconcile what this man has done or been accused of doing to women, with an appreciation of his films, let alone the idea that some of his films make interesting, important claims about women’s lives? Some might justifiably take Polanski’s actions as more than enough reason to give up on his movies, certainly ground enough to give up any expectation that his films could display sensitivity to women’s lives. I myself do not know how our thinking about his movies should be informed by our knowledge of the facts of Polanski’s life, what he did or what he suffered (his mother, Bula, was murdered while pregnant in Birkenau; his wife, Sharon Tate, was murdered while pregnant by the Manson family). For me this remains an ever open, always troubling question. I do not think it is strictly fallacious to understand a work in light of the artist’s life (the idea that it is is known as the “biographical fallacy”; see also “The Death of the Author”); I also do not feel prepared to reject works of art once I’ve learned that their creators were awful. These issues raise properly philosophical questions about the role that an artist’s character should play in thinking about his or her art (a question that takes unique form when it comes to a collaborative medium like film). For now I believe it is possible to engage critically with movies made by Polanski while avoiding the cult-of-(male)-genius and without ignoring what he did. For further discussion of this problem, see Dederer (2017) and the Daily Nous roundtable discussion “Philosophers on the Art of Morally Troubling Artists” (2017).

  2. 2.

    In “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” for example, Holmes tells Watson: “it is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions.” Holmes radically isolates himself in order to think, a posture and possibility which is unthinkable in noir.

  3. 3.

    Cora Diamond discusses the idea of the “difficulty of reality” as a challenge to traditional moral philosophy in her essay “The Difficulty of Reality and the Difficulty of Philosophy,” Partial Answers: Journal of Literature and the History of Ideas 1, no. 2 (2003).

  4. 4.

    Of course, Sherlock Holmes also sells his knowledge. But the private eye sells private knowledge for private gain—often husbands and wives wanting information on one another, individuals seeking some sort of treasure—and he often has a tarnished history in a more legitimate form of sleuthing or policing; this presents him as morally suspect in a way that Sherlock Holmes is not. Additionally, while Holmes is everywhere showered with praise, noir private eyes are met with derision, skepticism, fear, even laughter.

  5. 5.

    Consider in The Big Heat Gloria Grahame’s face is horribly burnt right as Glenn Ford and we discover that we had misjudged her, wrongly taken her as a double-crosser. She is presented as who she really is, then, only by way of grotesque disfigurement.

  6. 6.

    Cavell of course believed that skepticism can be loosed on knowledge as such, but he follows Austin in suggesting that some actual and “local” experience, encounter, or feeling motivates skepticism about knowledge “generally.” That is, whereas Austin believes that the skepticism about knowledge or the world as such is incoherent, Cavell wants to take seriously the thought that the philosopher may have “a special reason, anyway a good enough reason, for raising the question of reality [or knowledge]” (1982, 59).

  7. 7.

    A full discussion of film’s avoidance of the condition of modernity would take me too far afield, into topics of theatricality, automatism and mechanism, presentness, and so on. For my purposes, I think it is sufficient to make note of Cavell’s concern about film’s taking on the burden of modernism, while at the same time pointing out that he nonetheless sees that such a burden is being assumed.

  8. 8.

    Michael Haneke, for instance, is an example of a filmmaker who takes it that his task is to bring to the viewer’s awareness her secret and ongoing endorsement of what she sees. He is concerned to make the viewer feel the full extent of her power as a viewer, a power he thinks is suffered through the grueling violence in his films, and a power he thinks would be best exercised by walking out of his movies. Though I think he has matured beyond the interrogative and direct-address techniques of Funny Games, even in a film like Caché, he calls the camera’s presence in that world, and so our presence, to explicit attention, suggesting that by revealing or unconcealing the camera and its powers to reveal and record, so too are we revealed to ourselves, we are asked to face up to our power as viewers. This is precisely neither the predicament nor the task of cinema for Cavell.

  9. 9.

    Another fictional character that similarly embodies this superhuman, almost metaphysical degree of power and control is The Judge, in Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. Both men have perverse sexual appetites, both wield uncanny control over the events in which they participate, both desire, and take, the future; and both stories concern something like the founding or the maintenance of America, where being an American male licenses one to access all (the West, the people in it, the future).

  10. 10.

    Thanks to Daniel Morgan for calling my attention to this.

  11. 11.

    A worthy question for another paper on Chinatown would be whether we could regard it as representative, at least in part, of the melodrama of the unknown woman. See Cavell’s Contesting Tears: The Hollywood Melodrama of the Unknown Woman. University of Chicago Press, 1997.

  12. 12.

    Obviously, in imagining what she wants, I am taking some interpretive liberties here with the character of Evelyn. Yet from what we know about her, and what we know about people, I think this interpretation is fair. On the topic of the relationship between how we understand what we and others do, and how we understand characters in movies, Robert Pippin (2012) writes: “there are certainly great gaps between [these cases]…but while screen images are not persons, and film narration is sui generis, there cannot be two completely distinct modalities of such sense-making: one for ordinary life and another governed by an incommensurable movie or dramatic or diegetic or aesthetic logic” (2). Being able to regard and understand movie characters in accordance with the same logic or framework with which we understand ourselves and others is, as Pippin puts, “the minimum conditions for the intelligibility of filmed action” (3). If we can understand Evelyn’s lying in bed, speaking to Jake, as action, then I think it is fair to bring to bear both what we know about who she is and what she’s done or been through, and what our best thinkers have to say about human motivations and experience, in order to imagine both what she is doing and what she takes herself to be doing.

  13. 13.

    I am very grateful to José Medina for this suggestion.

  14. 14.

    Thanks to participants at the 2012 Wittgenstein Workshop at the University of Chicago, and the participants at the “Experience, Intimacy, and Authority” at the Carlos III University in Madrid in 2012. I also thank Katie Kelley, Gregg Horowitz, Dan Morgan, Robert Pippin, and Joel Snyder for their insight and conversation. 

References

  • Borde, Raymond, and Etienne Chaumeton. 2002. A Panorama of American Film Noir: 1941–1953. Translated by Paul Hammond. San Francisco, CA.

    Google Scholar 

  • Cavell, Stanley. 1979. The World Viewed: Enlarged Edition. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

    Google Scholar 

  • ———. 1999. The Claim of Reason: Wittgenstein, Skepticism, Morality and Tragedy. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

    Google Scholar 

  • ———. 1984. The Claim of Reason: Wittgenstein, Pursuits of Happiness: The Hollywood Comedy of Remarriage. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

    Google Scholar 

  • ———. 2002. Must We Mean What We Say. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

    Google Scholar 

  • Dederer, Claire. 2017. What Do We Do with the Art of Monstrous Men. The Paris Review, November 20.

    Google Scholar 

  • Durgnat, Raymond. 1998. Paint it Black: The Family Tree of Film Noir. In The Big Book of Noir, ed. Ed Gorman, Martin Greenberg, and Lee Server. New York: Carroll & Graf Pub.

    Google Scholar 

  • Klein, Melanie. 1987. The Selected Melanie Klein. London: Free Press.

    Google Scholar 

  • Moran, Richard. 2011/2. Cavell on Outsiders and Others. Revue internationale de philosophie, n° 256, 239–254.

    Google Scholar 

  • ———. 2016. Stanley Cavell on Recognition, Betrayal, and the Photographic Field of Expression. The Harvard Review of Philosophy XXIII: 29–40.

    Article  Google Scholar 

  • Pippin, Robert B. 2012. Fatalism in American Film Noir. Charlottesville, VA: University of Virginia Press.

    Google Scholar 

  • Schrader, Paul. 2003. Notes on Film Noir. In Film Genre Reader III, ed. Barry Keith Grant. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press.

    Google Scholar 

  • Thompson, David. 1994. A Biographical Dictionary of Film. 3rd ed. New York.

    Google Scholar 

  • Walker, Margaret Urban. 2006. Moral Repair: Reconstructing Moral Relations after Wrongdoing. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

    Google Scholar 

  • Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 2001. Philosophical Investigations. Translated by GEM Anscombe. Hoboken, NJ.

    Google Scholar 

Download references

Author information

Authors and Affiliations

Authors

Editor information

Editors and Affiliations

Appendix

Appendix

In 1937 Los Angeles, a private eye, Jake Gittes (Jack Nicholson), is hired by a Mrs. Mulwray to investigate the indiscretions she suspects of her husband Hollis Mulwray, chief engineer of the Los Angeles Water and Power Company. After following Mr. Mulwray, Gittes obtains photos of him with a girl, pictures published in the papers without his consent. As it turns out, the woman who hired Gittes was not Mrs. Mulwray; the real wife of Mulwray, Evelyn (Faye Dunaway), visits Gittes at his office to introduce herself (by confirming that they have never met and that she certainly never hired him) and inform him of her intent to take legal action against him.

The mystery begins here: who was the woman pretending to be Mrs. Mulwray and what was her motive? While Gittes may have been able to maintain a level of distance and professionalism in his work as a PI, this new investigation concerns him personally; his curiosity about why anyone would want to slander Mulwray is second to his desire to know who set him up and to clear his name. In a meeting with Evelyn where he announces his intent to bring this information to light, she tells him that she will drop the lawsuit if he will stop his investigation. When he resists, she asks, “is this a business or an obsession for you?” Eventually, she complies and tells Gittes that he might find her husband at a certain water reservoir. When Gittes arrives, the police are already on the scene, as Hollis Mulwray was found drowned.

The mystery deepens. On the one hand, a murder needs solving, but on the other, there is another even less straightforward problem concerning Mulwray. L.A. is suffering from a drought, a drought severe enough to bring farmers into the city to protest and accuse Water and Power of stealing crucial resources. Yet in following Mulwray, Gittes discovers that fresh water is being secretly emptied into the ocean in the middle of the night. In his efforts to uncover more information, Gittes is apprehended by another PI apparently under the employment of Water and Power (Gittes’ seedier double) and an unassuming heavy (played by Polanski himself) who cut his nose for being “nosey.”

As it turns out, Evelyn’s father, Noah Cross (played by occasional noir director John Huston), was once a co-owner of Water and Power (along with Hollis Mulwray) before it was turned over to the public. Over a lunch visit, Cross offers to double Gittes’ pay to find the girl with whom Mulwray was apparently having an affair, warning that Jake does not know what he’s dealing with (advice, Jake muses, that he was given while a cop in Chinatown). Jake discovers shortly after that the drought is in fact a fabrication of Cross’, with an end to buying the dried-up land from farmers at a low price in order to later replenish the area (with the water that was never in low supply) and sell it for a profit.

There is, following this development, a respite from the investigation, as Jake and Evelyn make love in her house. The scene is intimate not simply because they sleep together, but because Evelyn tries to find out more about Jake as a person, about his time working as a police officer in Chinatown where he did, as he puts it, “as little as possible.” “I want to know more about you,” she says, to which he replies that he is tired. He does, however, disclose that Chinatown was a place where one could never quite tell what was going on (“like you,” he says to Evelyn), and while he was there he suffered a great loss; in trying to keep a woman from getting hurt, he ended up making sure that she was.

The final, crucial developments happen quickly, and I’ll simply lay them out. Evelyn receives a call, her mood changes drastically, and she tells Jake she needs to leave; she also asks that he “trust” her, and warns him that her father is “crazy.” Jake follows Evelyn to a house where Mr. Mulwray’s girl is in bed and forced to take pills at Evelyn’s behest. Confronting her, Evelyn admits, reluctantly and tearfully, that the girl is her sister. In an exchange with a (newly appointed) lieutenant with whom Jake worked in Chinatown (Jake’s apparently more respectable double), he is told that Mulwray drowned with salt water in his lungs, despite being found in a river reservoir. Back at Evelyn’s house, Gittes discovers that a pond in their backyard is filled with saltwater, and in that pool he finds a pair of men’s glasses—or, indeed, he re-finds, as, in his first visit to this house, the Chinese gardener told him that salt water is “bad for the grass,” which, with his accent, sounds like “bad for the glass.”

From here, Jake concludes that Evelyn killed her husband and confronts her at the house where the girl is staying. The most troubling and unexpected and disorienting scene in the film, Evelyn reveals a secret, but not the one Jake believed he would extract from her: the girl is indeed Evelyn’s sister, but also her daughter. In response to this, Jake slaps her and screams that he “wants the truth.” She answers: “my father and I… [looks him in the eye, I would say cynically]…understand? Or is it too tough for you?” To Jake’s quiet response—“he raped you?”—she practically rolls her eyes. Later I will discuss this scene, and its centrality to what I will call the second film, Evelyn’s film, at length. But note now that Jake came to Evelyn with a definite idea about how she was betraying him, about the kind of knowledge she’s been keeping, about the kind of deceptive woman she is, and about the kind of clarity and satisfaction he will achieve when she tells the truth. Compare these expectations with her revelation. What satisfaction does this provide? What kind of world does this information clarify? What does it mean to know this, to know what Evelyn knows?

Evelyn is planning on running away with the girl, departing from her butler’s home in, of all places, Chinatown, the disorienting and unlucky place of Jake’s past, where attempts to help only guarantee harm. Of the glasses found in her backyard pond, Evelyn mentions that they did not belong to Hollis, “he didn’t wear bifocals.” Going quickly now, Jake contacts Noah Cross, making plans to meet him by offering information about the girl Cross had hired Jake to find. In their confrontation, Cross does not deny Jake’s accusations regarding his crimes against Evelyn, the city, and Hollis Mulwray. Mulvihill, hired by Cross, puts a gun to Gittes’ head, and, after warning that “it really isn’t worth it,” they force Gittes to lead them to Evelyn. In Chinatown, Evelyn does everything she can to protect the girl from Cross, who claims that the girl is “his too.” When Jake calls to Evelyn that he’s brought the police to help, Evelyn cries that Cross “owns the police,” and gets in her car to drive away. The police shoot her in the head, which lies noisily on the car horn. In the confusion, Cross easily makes away with the girl, covering her eyes to protect her seeing her dead mother; indeed the film calls so little attention to his escape that it is only upon realizing that the girls screams have faded away, that we realize that Cross has re-possessed her. Jake is fully expressionless as he stares at Evelyn. Finally, under the lieutenant’s orders (“just get him the hell out of here!”), Jake’s partners lead him away, and as Jake glances back, one says, in the film’s most famous line, “forget it Jake, it’s Chinatown.”Footnote 14

Rights and permissions

Reprints and permissions

Copyright information

© 2018 The Author(s)

About this chapter

Check for updates. Verify currency and authenticity via CrossMark

Cite this chapter

Russell, F. (2018). I Want to Know More About You: On Knowing and Acknowledging in Chinatown. In: Hagberg, G. (eds) Stanley Cavell on Aesthetic Understanding. Philosophers in Depth. Palgrave Macmillan, Cham. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-97466-8_1

Download citation

Publish with us

Policies and ethics