1st 3 pgs of Chapter 3 – Why?

The word dummy has more than one negative connotation, ranging from sheer stupidity to a fake stand-in. How is it that as a viewer we allow ourselves to be equated with a dummy in any way? For that matter, why would we accept surrogacy, distantiation, and cowardice in place of real interaction or intimacy?

For one, the viewer is not openly called a “dummy” in any way, quite the contrary; we are treated like a friend. We take the place of the dummy, because of the strategies Cardiff and Miller employ to engage us, which include the pleasure of recognition, sensory immersion, and the contract. It is pleasurable to be recognized and treated as a familiar friend, pleasurable enough to pull us from critical distance. The technique of sensory immersion (and deprivation) is intensely distracting, and the third technique contractually binds us in a covert way.
There is the pleasure of recognizing and also the pleasure of being recognized. Cardiff makes no qualms that she is simulating tropes of friendship; in interview with Gary Appels, Cardiff says J’s voice is presented to be “… like the friend you hope will be your friend, someone you can be confessional to … you can talk about those innermost things and you feel there’s no sense of judgment.” Despite the fact that there is nobody to “be confessional to,” the feeling that of the possibility is there.
For example, we achieve a surprising level of intimacy with the character J in The Paradise Institute. Recognition of our role as friend is triggered with aural cues. A few minutes into the film there is the recorded sound of somebody entering the theater from our right – this is disorienting, since we, with all the other viewers entered from the left. This aural character sits down beside us and leans close:

J (whispering beside you): Here’s your drink
Did you want some of my popcorn? Sound of eating popcorn.

We recognize instantly that we are J’s friend in the theater. The recorded binaural voice persistently hovers by your right ear. No matter how you turn your head, unless you take the headset off, the sonic illusion remains. Her voice has matter-of-factly walked right through our comfort zone and plopped itself down next to us as if she has known us forever. The aural proximity J’s voice establishes somehow avoids being threatening.
For one, there is the ante of the sultry whispery quality of the voice: “The dominant force of the work is manifest in the pull exerted on the listener by the artist’s voice. It is a seemingly ageless, pleasantly deep, female voice that ranges from matter-of-fact to sexy to solicitous.” Cardiff uses her feminine, attractive voice to her advantage. While maintaining a non-threatening tone, J’s voice is feminine and erotic; it depends on the deepest of stereotypes. She is both the vixen and the helpless female. When J sits so close to us and matter-of-factly offers us “our” drink and popcorn, we are immediately befriended. This simple move is at once nurturing and beguiling. J gets away with being so close to us because she is not threatening.
The chummy atmosphere set by the character J sitting next to you, is put in further relief by the tension in the suspenseful “narrative” of the story on film and in the soundtrack. The same voice takes on a Jekyll and Hyde quality when it whispers from behind you: “It’s all arranged. He’ll meet us here between shows,” as if you were an accomplice to some mysterious crime about to happen. Then there is the banal reassurance when you hear J slurping her soda next to you, still on your right side. After a moment, she whispers, “I read about this film. It’s based on a true story about the experiments the military did the 50’s. Pause. Or maybe that was a different film.” While being almost obsessively self-reflexive, J’s character continues the monologue, giving you more and more clues about your presumed relationship. Later J lets on that we live together when she anxiously whispers, Did you check the stove before we left?” After a few more escalating comments and finally, “I’m too worried. I have to go home and check the stove. I’ll see you after the movie.” By addressing an assumed shared history, J draws us into accepting our new identity. By the time we hear the binaural sounds of J leaving, we feel slightly abandoned but there is no way to ask her to stay.

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