There’s a line in The Fallen Idol that, while not necessarily central to the ethical dilemma in the film, I find to be incredibly relevant to the ethical dilemma of filmmaking in general. “Perhaps she was what she was because I am what I am,” Baines says. “We ought to be very careful, Phile. ‘Cause we make one another.” These words terrify, thrill, and enlighten me. I accept them because I believe that we are ever-changing products of our environments, that we are amalgams of both chance and choice, that because we can’t turn off the world outside ourselves, we are influenced by it all. As such, one word, one encounter, one day, one moment, anything can at any point shape us. Thrilling to think we can shape people for the better. Terrifying to think we can shape people for the worse. Either way, I think as human beings, we must be responsible for our every action because of the possible implications they can have in the creation of other people.
My gut instinct as a staunch idealist tells me that if I as a human being am bound by a certain ethical code, then according to the syllogism “Human beings are bound by an ethical code. Filmmakers are human beings,” it follows that as a filmmaker I am inextricably bound by the same ethical code. That I cannot exculpate myself from the responsibilities I have toward society simply because I can hide behind the lens of a camera. Ideally, I want this to be so. Cognitively, realistically, I don’t see how it can be.
There are ethical dilemmas inherent in filmmaking as a form. Lying, by most ethical systems, is wrong. Does distorting the truth in the pursuit of making a great film—one which would suffer from some of the more realistic details—constitute lying and therefore become unethical? What about less well-defined issues; does portraying evil characters or actions, by virtue of the fact that they are featured, somehow give them validation? Should we show the world as a realistic imperfect mess, featuring violence, hatred, and crime, or should we instead of mirroring it, try to perfect it in celluloid form in hopes of influencing audiences to more positive ends? By making the audience sympathize with evil characters, are we saying that everyone has something worthwhile in them, or are we saying it’s okay to be bad because someone will still care about you? The questions are endless; their answers, elusive.
I am not conceited enough to believe that a film I write will ever “change the world,” as it were; however, I do know that when someone hears or sees something, regardless of how seemingly insignificant, it breaches their consciousness and can ostensibly remain forever. Someone could theoretically see a film I wrote, and, some years later, a small line in it could suddenly mean something to them. This, I assume, is generally accepted to be a real possibility. But what if we take it a step further: what if years later something from a film I’ve written—even a toss-off piece of dialogue—suddenly clicks in a viewer’s brain and becomes the impetus for that person to do something unethical—to cheat on a spouse, to embezzle money, to commit a violent crime? I am paralyzed by fear of unintended consequences. I like to be able to see leagues into the future, to determine courses of action based on almost certain outcomes. In the field of filmmaking though, that task is impossible. One can’t predict, as J. Peter Euben states, “the emotional baggage moviegoers bring to the theater.” Viewers make their own life decisions and are responsible for their actions. But to exonerate ourselves by saying we can’t control what other people will do lets us off too easy, I think; if we are in a position to be heard by the masses, we are responsible for what we say, regardless of how far removed we are from our art’s consequences.
If I allow myself to get caught in this web of feeling bound to never accidentally influence someone to do something bad, then the only assuredly ethical safe ground I can find as a filmmaker is to not be one. This is not a viable option; filmmakers exist, surely answers to their ethical questions must exist as well.
The only conclusion I can begin to draw, then, is that a weighty portion of the answer to the ethical dilemmas inherent in filmmaking lies in intent. We must continuously ask ourselves questions, beginning with the broad and easy (Do I intend this film to incite violent crime? If “yes,” reevaluate. If “no,” move on to question #2.) to the specific, deeply buried possible ethical liabilities (Do I want the motivation of this character to be interpreted by audiences to be both unethical and laudable at the same time? If “yes,” consider further implications. If “no,” move on to question #183.).
I think that only in examining and taking ownership of our creative choices can we begin to take responsibility for the ethical implications of the work we create, and in turn create work that can be judged as ethically sound. Ignorance of our own psyches cannot be an excuse; we must understand the choices we are making if we hope to at all comprehend their consequences to viewers. They say it takes a village to raise a child—but what does it take to raise a village? I think it takes the rest of the world. As people who hypothetically have the power to affect the rest of the world with their works, filmmakers ought to be careful—‘cause for better or worse, we might "make one another," and wouldn’t it be dreadful if we helped create people we couldn’t stand?
