Continuum: The Australian Journal of Media & Culture
Vol. 1 No. 2, 1987
Film, TV and the Popular
Edited by Philip Bell & Kari Hanet

Remembering women: psychical and historical constructions in film theory

Mary Ann Doane

Max Ophuls' 1934 film, La Signora di tutti, makes uncannily explicit many of the most crucial themes of contemporary feminist film theory. [1] Its protagonist, Gaby Doriot, as the star of the film within the film, also entitled La Signora di tutti, is indeed "Everybody's Lady"—she is the signifier of a generalised desire. In La Signora, the woman is explicitly represented as a construction, as the sum total of a disembodied voice and an image (the two sensory registers of the cinema). Furthermore, it is, precisely, a technological construct which is at issue here—the mechanisation of her voice and image is stressed. The first indication of her presence within the diegesis is in the form of a recorded voice emerging from a spinning record, revolving in close-up. The spectator's first glimpse of Gaby is in the image of her poster, rolling repeatedly off a printing press. Later in the film, her death is represented as the bent or warped image produced as a result of the abrupt shutting down of the printing press. From the combination of a disembodied voice and a mechanical image emerges the figure of a generalised Woman—"Everybody's Lady". Here, the woman is indeed the product of the apparatus.

But the woman is also like the cinematic apparatus insofar as she constitutes a lure for the male subject—more dangerous even than the cinema since she frequently leads him to his doom. Yet without knowledge of her effect, she has no access to subjectivity. La Signora di tutti chronicles the expropriation of the woman's look and voice and the consequent transformation of the woman into Woman—a position inaccessible to women. [2] This is not only the process of the narrative trajectory of La Signora di tutti but of the cinematic institution as well—in its narratives, its star system, its spectacle. But further, it specifies something of the process of feminist film theory which, in a way, mimics the cinematic construction of the Woman, reinscribing her abstraction. It is not only the apparatus which produces Woman but apparatus theory, in strange complicity with its object.

This attachment to the figure of a generalisable Woman as the product of the apparatus indicates why, for many, feminist film theory seems to have reached an impasse, a certain blockage in its theorisation. For the often totalising nature of its analysis of patriarchy leaves little room for resistance. In focusing upon the task of delineating in great detail the attributes of the woman as effect of the apparatus, feminist film theory participates in the abstraction of women. The concept 'Woman' effaces the differences between women in specific socio-historical contexts, between women defined precisely as historical subject rather than as a psychical subject (or non-subject). Hence, Teresa de Lauretis' attempt to specify the task of feminist film theory leads, through a series of hyper-generalisations of femininity, to the historical as the privileged term, to that "self-analyzing practice by which the relations of the subject in social reality can be rearticulated from the historical experience of women". [3] The appeal to history made here is shared by other feminist theorists (including Ann Kaplan, Annette Kuhn) [4] who, in different contexts, also call for a dismantling of the hegemony of the theorisation of the woman through an attention to the concrete specificities of history. This is not a naive appeal to history (all agree that history must be theorised) but it is an invocation of history designed to counter certain excesses of theory (especially psychoanalytic theory) and the impasse resulting from those excesses. History is envisaged as a 'way out'.

Psychoanalysis has been activated in feminist film theory primarily in order to dissect and analyze the spectator's psychical investment in the film. But to accomplish this, theory had to posit a vast synchrony of the cinema—the cinema happens all at once (as, precisely, an apparatus) and its image of woman is always subservient to voyeuristic and fetishistic impulses. The desire to add the dimension of diachrony, to historicise, is one way of dismantling the pessimism of apparatus theory. For it opens up the possibility of an escape from its alleged determinism and hence the possibility of change or transformation through attention to the concreteness and specificity of the socio-historical situation. The ever-present danger here is in the temptation to use the gesture of historicising as a covert means of dismissing theory which is then opposed to the 'real' of the particular historical conjunction where we can somehow unproblematically observe, once again—free from the restrictions of a theoretical framework—what women actually did or even how their representations reflected something of the 'real' of their situation. Perhaps we need to look more closely at what 'theory' is or might be and what 'history' denotes in opposition to that term—for it is 'history' which promises to find a way around the theoretical impasse. For that reason, what I would like to do here is to isolate and examine two moments in the archaeology of that impasse: 1. the elaboration of apparatus theory as a specific reading and reduction of the object of psychoanalytic theory and the aim of a metapsychology; 2. the appeal to history as an 'outside' of psychoanalysis, a realm beyond memory and subjectivity which nevertheless seems to guarantee the dispersal of a monolithic, theorised subjectivity. My reading of these two moments will be situated within the purview of psychoanalysis. For psychoanalysis has its own theory of theory or speculation (linking it to paranoia and delirium) and its own pursuit of history (acted out primarily in the case histories and in the theory of transference).

The apparent exhaustion of psychoanalytic film theory, its impasse, is closely linked to its activation of the metaphor of the apparatus or dispositif. Jean-Louis Baudry has outlined the problematic whereby the cinema becomes a machine with a certain arrangement, a disposition. [5] Freud uses the terms "psychical apparatus" to emphasise certain attributes of the psyche—"its capacity to transmit and transform a specific energy and its subdivision into systems or agencies." [6] This is why Freud tends to choose as metaphors for the psychical apparatus objects which constitute combinatories of specific elements—the microscope, the camera, the telescope, the mystic writing pad. Baudry is, of course, attracted to the analogies of the telescope and photographic apparatus precisely because they are optical metaphors comparable to the cinematic apparatus. To the spatial arrangement of lenses in the telescope corresponds the spatial disposition of projector, spectator/camera, and screen. What Baudry produces by means of the analogy of the apparatus is an ethical point of view—the cinema, the toy of idealism and of a 2000 year old desire on the part of man (sic) to represent his own psyche to himself—dupes its spectator. In psychoanalytic film theory, the cinema seems to inevitably become the perfect machine for the incarnation or institutionalisation of the wrong idea—here it is Platonic idealism; in Metz and Comolli, it is a Bazinian phenomenology. [7]

It is not surprising, given the definition of the apparatus as a topography, that the duping of the spectator should be coincident with the conceptualisation of the spectator as a point in space, a site. Through its reinscription of Renaissance perspective, the apparatus positions the spectator, on this side of the screen, as the mirror of the vanishing point on the other side. Both points stabilise the representational logic, producing its readability, which is coincident with the notions of unity, coherence, and mastery. This insistently spatial logic of apparatus theory has rigidly restricted the way in which vision has been understood as a psychical process within film theory. The gaze, emanating from a given point in this configuration, is the possession of the camera, and through identification with that camera, the spectating subject. Hence, it is not at all surprising that this gaze should be further characterised, in the work of Metz, Mulvey, and others as precisely controlled in the service of voyeurism and fetishism—its subject male, its object female. Joan Copjec strongly criticises this particular implementation of the theory of the apparatus and its corresponding description of the gaze:

... it is a slip, and enormously problematic to posit something like a gaze, an idealised point from which the film can be looked at. What does it mean to say that the subject so identifies himself? It means the abolition of the alterity of the Other—the discursive apparatus—the elimination of difference. It means the construction of a coherent subject and of an all-male prison. This is an argument offered by obsession; it covers over the desire in the Other with the Other's demand, averts attention from the gaze and focuses on the eye. [8]

The obsessiveness of the argument is linked to its espousal of the idea of a perfect machine. The problem with the theory of the cinematic apparatus is that the apparatus always works. It never breaks down, is never subject to failure. This is what Copjec refers to as the "delirium of clinical perfection". The infallibility of the apparatus in this account is a function of the limitation of subjectivity to a single locale—the gaze of the spectator/camera. Since there is no otherness, no difference, no subjectivity associated with the discourse, its readability is always insured in advance. That readability becomes its most important psychical effect.

I would agree with Copjec that apparatus theory here operates a specific reduction of Lacan's theory of the gaze, particularly insofar as it is always articulated with the concept of desire. Furthermore, the gaze is in no way the possession of a subject. Rather, Lacan effects a separation between the gaze and the subject—the gaze is outside: "... in the scopic field, the gaze is outside, I am looked at, that is to say, I am a picture ... the gaze is the instrument through which ... I am photo-graphed."[9] The term 'gaze' always signals in Lacan's text the excess of desire over geometral vision or vision as the representation of space through perspective. And the subject's desire is the desire of the Other—it is characterised by its alterity. In film theory, the gaze has become substantialised, directed—we speak of the gaze of the camera, the gaze of the spectator. Lacan, on the other hand, produces a sustained critique of the reduction of vision to geometral perspective. Because geometral perspective involves the mapping of space not sight, it is an understanding of vision which is accessible to a blind man, as Diderot demonstrates. What is specific to vision escapes this delineation. While in the geometral relation, vision is calculated as an effect of light deployed in a straight line, the gaze indicates the dispersal of light—its irradiation, refraction, diffusion, scintillation. In the geometral mapping of vision, the subject is centred as the master of representation; through the gaze the 'I' is grasped by the depth of field, by the 'beyond' which endlessly solicits desire. Perspective guarantees the maintenance of the subject and its place. Alternatively, in perspective's own aberration—anamorphosis—one gets a glimpse of the fascination of the gaze as the annihilation of the subject. In Holbein's painting, "The Ambassadors," what lures the subject is the distorted image of its own death—the skull whose readability is a function of the subject's decentring. What is specific to Lacan's gaze is not the maintenance of the subject but its dispersal, its loss of stable boundaries. The gaze situated outside, the subject necessarily becomes a part of the picture, assimilated by its own surroundings.

The spectator of apparatus theory would seem to be diametrically opposed to this displaced subject who gives in to an overwhelming desire to become a picture, and hence to lose any mastery to which it might have laid claim. For the spectator of the apparatus is quite clearly and unambiguously placed as a controlling gaze, whether the control is illusory or not—it knows precisely where to place itself. And such an illusion requires a geometrical configuration, a mapping and, above all, a distance between subject and picture. However, Baudry has not entirely neglected the annihilation of subjectivity attendant upon processes of looking. In fact, the second essay on the apparatus could be said to revolve around the fascination and corresponding regression of a spectator who loses himself. This is the pre-Oedipal spectator of the cinema whose relation to the image is that of the dreamer or the hallucinator, who persistently confuses representation and perception, giving in to the temptation of space. Across the two essays by Baudry, there are, in effect, two subjects of the apparatus which would seem to be in conflict. On the one hand, in the first article, "Ideological Effects", the Renaissance perspective of that image ensures the positioning of the subject as point of control. This spectator, prey to the illusions of the ego, is a post-Oedipal subject and the cinema acts as an ideological instrument for the perpetuation of a subject situated as a stable, transcendental gaze. The second essay—"The Apparatus" on the other hand, in its attempt to explicate the power and fascination of the cinema, posits a pre-Oedipal subject, a subject who regresses to the point where differentiation and distance are no longer feasible. This is the effect of the 'more-than-real' which Baudry allies with both the cinema and the dream. The subject is not the unified origin of its own dream—or even an onlooker. Rather, the dream envelops the subject just as the child is enveloped by its world.

From the point of view of apparatus theory, then, the subject is both there and not there, maintained and annihilated. There is a certain tension between the positioning of the subject as point, control, unity (which requires distance) and the temptation of space, of losing oneself in a process of de-individualisation and the corresponding annihilation of subjectivity. One might object that there is no contradiction here at all—that the constitution of the subject is always accompanied by its dismantling, that the subject must always undergo a process of placing and displacement. But what I am interested in isolating here is the apparent necessity of specifying the second subject—the one who ceaselessly witnesses its own annihilation—as a non-ideological subject. That which escapes geometrical vision would also seem to escape both ideology and history in order to designate the "real" of the psychical. In this respect, Baudry's re-writing of Plato's allegory of the cave is particularly symptomatic. He can activate a 2000 year old scenario in the analysis of the cinema precisely because the psychical force he examines is characterised as ahistorical. Desire in the cinema becomes, specifically, Man's desire—his desire to represent to himself the working of his own psyche. What we are faced with is another theory of Man, another essentialising gesture.

Hence, apparatus theory seems to be caught in something of a bind. It can activate an ideological analysis of the cinema at the cost of reducing vision to geometric perspective and theorising history as a trap. The spectator is stuck at that ideal point of illusory mastery. Conversely, it can take into account other aspects of the gaze—its excess, its annihilation of subjectivity—only by, paradoxically, rigidifying that gaze, situating it outside of time as psychical essence. It is an alternative which is particularly alarming from the point of view of feminist theory. For the first reading of the ideological implications of the cinematic ordering of vision reproduces the totalising tendency discussed earlier and hence reinforces the theoretical impasse. The second, while certainly more 'faithful' to Lacanian theory, works only by assuming the autonomy of the realm of the psychical—its freedom from both historical and ideological determinations. Lacan's gaze cannot be used to analyze sexual difference because it allows no differential analysis of mastery and subjection—everyone is subjected to a gaze which is outside.

Yet, before fully accepting the notion of a theoretical impasse, it might be helpful to interrogate the idea of theory itself. What is it that theory hopes to accomplish? What is its function? And, more specifically, what is the role of theory and its relation to its object in psychoanalysis? Apparatus theory rests on the assumption that what psychoanalysis lends to film theory is a kind of map, or even a cognitive machine. Psychoanalysis is the science of the unconscious, the cinema clearly appeals to the unconscious, therefore, psychoanalysis must be able to give us the laws of its discursive formulation. The map can simply be laid over the new terrain. The desire of the analyst, which would require the replacement of the notion of the cognitive machine by that of the encounter, is rarely taken into account. Yet, psychoanalysis itself proposes the fragility of any theoretical construct, its affinity with paranoia and delirium and hence the problematic status of knowledge and of he who purports to know. In other words, psychoanalysis must be contaminated by its own theorised and simultaneously untheorisable object—the unconscious. For the unconscious is by definition resistant to the coherence and rationality of conscious meaning, of the systematicity associated with theory.

This is why Francois Roustang argues that psychoanalysis is not a science insofar as a science generally presupposes the foreclosure of the subject. [10] Theory organises the fantasies, dreams, and desires of the theorist and to deny this is to remain perpetually in a transferential relation with a "subject supposed to know." Hence it is also to deny one's own fantasies and desires and their potential activation within theory. From this point of view, theory is a process of continual revision which always bears the traces of its historical moment. The contradictions in Freud's text, the constant changes in his conceptual framework, are not accidental but an acknowledgment of theory's inevitable failure in the face of the alterity of the unconscious. Hence, the apparatus cannot be a cognitive machine or the concept which fits its object as in film theory.

Thus, Roustang finds the whole question of the transmissibility of psychoanalytic theory, its institutionalisation, and its tendencies toward dogma and orthodoxy extremely problematic. The work of theory is the practice of analysis, the encounter between analyst and analysand which inevitably produces the surprise, the destabilisation of the given theories—the constant shock of otherness we associate with the unconscious. It is a process of reading and encounter. Psychoanalytic theory has its own peculiar temporalisation: "..there is no analytic theory in advance on which one can learn, but rather a possibility of theorisation in deferred action, which, although necessary, is never guaranteed." [11] Psychoanalysis is, above all, a form of listening in the intersubjective relation.

If analytic practice is to be effective, it is only insofar as the peculiarity of the theory is abandoned in favor of a peculiarity that cannot at first be theorised. What counts in such cases is not the desire for the father, but the relationship to him which is revealed by some tiny unbearable memory. When something like this emerges through an association, what is important is not the verification of the theory, but the intensity of an incomprehensible particularity. [12]

The issue in analysis becomes how to grasp the history indicated by the resistance associated with "some tiny unbearable memory"—how to understand that history without reducing it. There is certainly no immediacy presupposed in this form of historical understanding—theory is crucial even if it makes its appearance only through deferred action. Psychoanalysis is a mode of writing history which fully acknowledges—and attempts to theorise—the resistance of its own material. The validity of psychoanalysis would hence be linked to the style of its confrontation with history. Instead of atemporalising psychical operations, as Baudry's analysis does, it is crucial to saturate them with temporality—to demonstrate that the psyche is constructed in, through, and as a history.

Thus, psychoanalysis would seem to inevitably propose the articulation of theory and history rather than their polarisation. In film theory this aspect of psychoanalysis is too frequently ignored in favor of a static, inflexible theorisation of an apparatus which is always in place, always functioning. Here, Baudry's comparison of the cinema with the psychical mechanism of hallucination is symptomatic. For hallucination, in Freud's work, signals a retreat from an intersubjective relation which is inevitably marked by failure. Freud's persistent attempts to theorise resistance, transference, the terminability or interminability of analysis, on the other hand, indicate the crucial importance of coming to grips with that failure of intersubjectivity. The construction in analysis, its force as a fiction, is the evidence of the subjectivity of the historian, her desire—which will inevitably miss its mark. Film history is, precisely, a problem of memory—an institutionalised memory of what would otherwise remain an incomprehensible particularity.

And Freud appealed to the apparatus primarily as a support for his attempts to theorise memory. In an early letter to Fliess concerning the psychical apparatus, Freud wrote:

I am working on the assumption that our psychical mechanism has come about by a process of stratification: the material present in the shape of memory-traces is from time to time subjected to rearrangement in accordance with fresh circumstances—is, as it were, transcribed. Thus what is essentially new in my theory is the thesis that memory is present not once but several times over, that it is registered in various species of 'signs'. [13]

The insistence upon the metaphor of inscription requires that Freud abandon the optical tropes he had used earlier—the microscope, the telescope, the camera. And it is not accidental that they were replaced by the "Mystic Writing Pad", the only apparatus in which unlimited receptive capacity and the retention of permanent traces—i.e. memory—are not mutually exclusive. Film retains permanent traces but can continue to receive fresh impressions (in the same space of celluloid) only at the cost of an absolute unreadability. In fact, film annihilates memory in the measure to which it adheres to presence—everything takes place in the present tense. Freud's fantasy about the Mystic Writing Pad, on the other hand, was that by virtue of its discontinuous method of functioning it could indicate that which "lies at the bottom of the origin of the concept of time."[14] Freud's dream of a representative apparatus which would explain our subjective experience of temporality and demonstrate how memory is the transcription and retranscription of an event would seem to be particularly inappropriate for the cinema. Perhaps this apparatus is more suggestive of how we might think, not about film, but about film history as a continual process of retranscription of our memory of the cinema—a memory which is "present not once but several times over, registered in various species of 'signs.'"

Freud's role as historian is perhaps most visible in the essay, "Constructions in Analysis," in which he claims that the task of the analyst is "to make out what has been forgotten from the traces which it has left behind or, more correctly, to construct it."[15] In this sense the analyst's work is like that of the archaeologist who reconstructs, from the vestiges or surviving remains, the shape of a building or even a city. But there is one major difference: the archaeologist is often confronted with the loss or destruction of crucial pieces while nothing in the` unconscious is ever destroyed. Yet, it is precisely this divergence and the guarantee that psychical truth is there, somewhere, that leads Freud to at times collapse the opposition between construction and historical truth and to thereby bypass the subject's own discourse. It all depends on the conviction of the patient—his or her belief in the knowledge of the analyst. There is a relation of transference at work here whereby the fictional and provisional status of the construction is elided. Instead, the construction comes to match perfectly, in a one-to-one correspondence, the historical truth. At these moments, Freud forgets his own insight linking the construction of analysis to the delirium of the patient. But if construction is acknowledged to be a fiction, a particularly potent myth or delirium which is open to rewriting, it is more easily aligned with the work of memory as transcription.

In analysis, transference provides the mirror image of the psychoanalyst's adherence to the historical truth of his own constructions. The patient, mimicking this presumption, believes that the analyst is the subject supposed to know. Feminist film theory can easily maintain such a transferential relation to psychoanalytic authority if it takes its constructions—its apparatuses—too seriously. It is at this point that they become totalising, allowing of no resistance which is not foreseen, assimilated. What is productive for feminist film theory would then be that which stops —astonishes—the machine of analysis with its own incomprehensible particularity. In psychoanalysis, by Freud's admission, there are (at least) two unanalyzable phenomena. One would be psychosis in its refusal of a language directed toward the other. The second would be a certain type of woman whom Freud, in the course of a discussion concerning how the analyst can tame and exploit the transference-love of the female patient, describes in the following way:

These are women of elemental passionateness who tolerate no surrogates. They are children of nature who refuse to accept the psychical in place of the material, who, in the poet's words, are accessible only to 'the logic of soup, with dumplings for arguments.' With such people one has the choice between returning their love or else bringing down upon oneself the full enmity of a woman scorned. In neither case can one safeguard the interests of the treatment. One has to withdraw, unsuccessfully... [16]

Freud's failure here is not due entirely to the excess of female sexuality exhibited by this woman but to her literal-mindedness. She will accept no surrogates, no substitutes—no rhetorical blockades to her desire. The sheer force of her presence cannot be fended off through recourse to the trope. She cannot be abstracted; she is not "Everybody's Lady." Still, Freud tries. Symptomatic of his failure to make her love sublime is his recourse to the poet's words, subjecting her to the "logic of soup, with dumplings for arguments." She may be literal minded but he is not—he can find her trope.

It is this process of troping which feminist theory must resist. "Everybody's Lady" is no one. The refusal of the apparatus as fully adequate to its object is a refusal of its totalising force and the concept of Woman which it produces. The task must be not that of remembering women, remembering real women, immediately accessible—but of producing remembering women. Women with memories and hence histories. The abstracting work of La Signora di tutti is the annihilation of the woman's memory through its appropriation and naturalisation. Gaby remembers—the bulk of the narrative is in the form of her flashback—but it is a forced memory induced by the administration of anaesthesia, a blockage of consciousness. The poster, fixing her image as star, is produced at the cost of a subjective history.

There is a sense in which Sally Potter's explicitly feminist film, The Gold Diggers, is a work of remembering or retranscription of La Signora di tutti and its embodiment of the cinematic Woman. In the course of its sustained meditation on the relations between the circulation of women and the circulation of money in a patriarchal and capitalist society, The Gold Diggers also produces a discourse about film history, the history of a representation of Woman. Julie Christie (and the use of Julie Christie, of course, triggers certain cinematic memories of the spectator) is that cinematic image and one of her distinctive attributes is amnesia—a total amnesia for she lacks memory altogether. When Colette Lafonte, the representative spectator in the film, interrogates her about her past, Julie Christie can only reply, "I remember very little. I've been kept in the dark." The Gold Diggers is a resolutely literal reading of the woman as image, of the only discourse she can produce. Julie Christie's only memory is a cinematic one of various images and scenarios—"I was first seen tied to tracks and hanging from cliffs," she tells Collette Lafonte. To the extent that the cinema is represented here as the space of an enclosure, a prison, The Gold Diggers explicitly reveals the impact of apparatus theory on feminist reasoning about the cinema. The apparatus obliterates memory and confines its figures. Like La Signora di tutti, The Gold Diggers traces the apparatus's production of the woman. With one difference of course: Julie Christie is saved from the cinematic scene, saved from the confines of the apparatus by another woman—Collette Lafonte—riding in on a white charger. The film uses the cinema's own iconography to dislodge it—resistance is also a cinematic scene—this time retranscribed, remembered. The Gold Diggers is symptomatic of the influence of apparatus theory and of the consequent need to violently tear the woman from the screen.

From La Signora di tutti to The Gold Diggers what is returned to the woman is her memory through construction. The process of abstraction of Woman is undone through a laborious construction of a memory and hence a history. The Gold Diggers' analysis of the circulation of women and money as defined by a certain social symbolics is supplemented by the elaboration of a subjective history. The scenarios of the wooden cabin in a snowy landscape all concern this effort to recapture or construct a memory—and ultimately it is recaptured through representation, in the theatre, where the woman, constituted through division, simultaneously plays the role of herself and is the spectator of her own drama. What is crucial here is the elaboration of a new process of seeing and remembering. The final words of Collette Lafonte's character in the film are: "I know that even as I look and even as I see I am changing what is there." Feminism must refuse empiricism. But at the same time it must avoid the enclosure of rigid theoretical constructions misrecognised as historical truth. In The Gold Diggers, the compulsion to repeat is resisted through an active process of remembering. The compulsion to repeat, based on forgetting, is a loss of temporal differentiation, the collapse of the past onto the present. The term 'history' can figure most prominently in feminist theory not as an appeal to the 'real' of women's lives, but as precisely this refusal of the compulsion to repeat in its own theoretical formulations the abstraction of the woman.


Mary Anne Doane was a keynote speaker at the conference and one of the two overseas guests sponsored by ASSA.

1 This paper is an extremely reduced version of the paper initially presented at the ASSA conference in Sydney, December 1986. The full, revised version of that paper will appear in Psychoanalysis and Cinema, ed. E. Ann Kaplan (New York: Methuen, forthcoming).

2 La Signora di tutti is an extremely complex film and this brief analysis hardly exhausts its interest for the feminist critic. Indeed, there is a sense in which its delineation of the abstraction of Woman through the look and the voice is subjected to a critique within the same film. See my essay, "The Abstraction of a Lady: La Signora di tutti", in The Critique of the Abstract: Language, Power, and the Senses, ed. Julie Ellison, forthcoming.

3 Teresa de Lauretis, Alice Doesn't: Feminism, Semiotics, Cinema (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984), p.186.

4 See E. Ann Kaplan, "Feminist Film Criticism: Current Issues and Problems", Studies in the Literary Imagination, v. xix, no.1 (Spring 1986), pp.7-20; and Annette Kuhn, Women's Pictures: Feminism and Cinema (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1982).

5 Jean-Louis Baudry, "Ideological Effects of the Basic Cinematographic Apparatus", and "The Apparatus: Metapsychological Approaches to the Impression of Reality in the Cinema", in Philip Rosen, Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), pp.286-318.

6 J. Laplanche and J.B. Pontalis, The Language of Psychoanalysis, trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.) p. 358.

7 See Christian Metz, "The Imaginary Signifier", Screen, v.16, no.2 (Summer 1975), pp.14-76; Jean-Louis Comolli, "Technique and Ideology: Camera, Perspective, Depth of Field", (Parts 3 and 4) in Rosen, Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology, pp. 421-433.

8 Joan Copjec, "The Delirium of Clinical Perfection", The Oxford Literary Review, v.8, nos.1-2 (1986), pp. 61 and 63.

9 Jacques Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-analysis, trans. Alan Sheridan (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1979), p.106.

10 Francois Roustang, Psychoanalysis Never Lets Go, trans. Ned Lukacher (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980), p.38.

11 Roustang, Dire Mastery: Discipleship from Freud to Lacan, trans. Ned Lukacher (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982), p. 70.

12 Ibid., p. 69.

13 Sigmund Freud, The Origins of Psychoanalysis: Letters to Wilhelm Fliess, trans. Eric Mosbacher and James Strachey (New York: Basic Books, Inc., Publishers, 1954), p.173.

14 Freud, "A Note upon the 'Mystic Writing-Pad'" in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, vol xix, trans. and ed. James Strachey (London: The Hogarth Press and the Institute of Psycho-analysis, 1973), p. 231.

15 Freud, "Constructions in Analysis", The Standard Edition, vol.XXIII, pp.258-9.

16 Freud, "Further Recommendations in the Technique of Psychoanalysis: Observations on Transference-Love", The Standard Edition, Vol. XII, pp.166-7.

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