A Three-Pronged, Interdisciplinary Media Studies Approach & Jack Stauber’s Opal

Jack Stauber's Opal is a short film characterized by an Aristotelian Complex Plot and a central theme of abject neglect. Accordingly, it is replete with meaning, irrespective of the analytical approach employed. This multiplicity of potential explication avenues can lead to “analysis paralysis." 1  The following is an analytical approach for the thusly inhibited media studies analyst. My approach to Opal integrates three analytical frameworks: Aristotelian plot complexity identification from philosophy and film studies, autoethnography from fandom studies and anthropology, and Kristeva”s theorization of abjection from psychoanalytic literary theory. These frameworks establish what follows as an interdisciplinary media analysis.

Aristotle distinguishes the Complex Plot from the Simple Plot through two key elements: “Reversal of the Situation” and “Recognition.” 2  Once identified, these elements resonate throughout the text and demand the analyst’s attention. Each elemental expression carries implications for the rest of the piece, as well as both latent and manifest significance. Disentangling, in this manner, the knot made through the plot’s twists and turns will inform further analysis.

Autoethnography—essentially self-analysis—reconnects the analyst with his (in the case of the author of this article) personal, yet too-often opaque, past. 3  A deeper relationship with a media text begins with a deeper understanding of oneself. Autoethnography reinforces any connection the analyst has with a given media text through a qualitative exploration of personal history, revealing pertinent parallels. Where the analyst resonates with art, the analyst will also find personal historical precedent. Examining one’s personal history—framed by the text, and its key moments of “Reversal” and “Recognition”—clarifies the basis of one’s connection to the work, fostering existential awareness that is essential for problem-solving. 4

As Julia Kristeva posits in Approaching Abjection, abjection is a psychoanalytic concept commonly applied to literary texts. 5  Applying this and other psychoanalytic theories to complex cinema like Opal reveals the roles of the unconscious, the repressed, and related themes. Moreover, mixing psychoanalysis with autoethnography deepens one’s understanding of personal history by linking individual experience with unconscious processes. This is illustrated through the insights acquired from the analysis of Opal that follows. I prioritize Abjection over Freudian uncanniness or Jungian synchronicity because abjection is central to Opal’s thematic structure. Analysts may substitute other frameworks—Freudian, Lacanian, or Jungian—if they better suit the text’s thematic concerns.

When it comes to the interdisciplinarity of this three-pronged approach to analyzing Opal, interdisciplinarity mitigates analytical myopia. Which is better: the interdisciplinarian (jack of all trades) or the disciplinarian (master of one)? The former excels in versatility and general competence, while the latter thrives in discipline-specific contexts. Both surpass the master of none. Disciplinarians might operate at a higher level of cerebration within their fields of specialization, but their one-track mindset confines them to thinking inside the box. This rigidity inhibits problem-solving in novel environments. The interdisciplinarian—the polymath—thinks beyond such confines; they “are forever treating themselves to the intellectual equivalent of exploring exotic lands.” 6  They fathom the exceptional abyss, discovering what proves, improves, and disproves absolutes—both arbitrary and essential. This creative adaptability fosters improvisation and composure in the face of the unknown. Comfortable in chaos disciplinarians might regard as pathological, interdisciplinarians are essential for progress (just as disciplinarians are essential for ostensible order). Understanding order, chaos, the role of each, and the necessity of that understanding is part and parcel of becoming an unstoppable force capable of circumnavigating immovable objects.

This is why my approach to analyzing Opal is interdisciplinary. Understanding Opal—like other great works of art—requires out-of-the-box thinking. Some situations call for creative approaches, and others call for conventional ones. Acknowledging the utility of one does not discredit the other but instead highlights that there is no one-size-fits-all approach and expands our “toolbox of theories.” 7  With the utility of interdisciplinarity and the three prongs identified and briefly explained, the next section provides a synopsis of Jack Stauber”s Opal. Subsequent sections will further define and apply each of the three prongs in the analysis.

Opal  Synopsis
 

Jack Stauber”s Opal is a short film that, including credits, runs just under thirteen minutes. In that time, Stauber portrays a dysfunctional and abusive family dynamic. The protagonist, Claire, is a young, malnourished, and impressionable child susceptible to her environment. Throughout the film, Claire engages with this environment and her family members. Her family consists of three deeply flawed figures: her grandfather, a large, elderly blind man who chain-smokes; her father, a self-absorbed, vain, and self-aggrandizing narcissist; and her mother, a ghastly, self-righteous alcoholic also addicted to pills.

The film opens with an introduction to Claire’s three relatives, set against two distinct soundscapes. The first shot presents ashtrays filled with cigarettes, accompanied by an eerie blend of piano and vocalization. The vocals persist throughout the introduction. The scene then cuts to a collection of objects—old television sets, remotes, and cigarettes—floating and spinning against a now upbeat piano. The music reverts to soft piano accompaniment, introducing a vanity cluttered with measuring tapes, perfumes, mirrors, and other cosmetic items. Next, an assortment of spinning mirrors appears, echoing the cigarettes and television from earlier, all set to the same upbeat piano. With soft piano returning, the film presents a spread of pills, doilies, and wine bottles. The pills remain, swirling across the screen like the cigarettes and mirrors before them, reinforcing the film’s visual motifs, all set to the upbeat piano. What follows next is a montage, still soundtracked by the upbeat piano. Wine spills onto a novel titled Serial Killer Lover, a tissue lands on a fashion magazine, and a cigarette is extinguished on a TV program guide. These moments are laden with what David Bordwell terms “twitches,”objects that symbolize a character’s internal conflict. 8

As the scene concludes, the camera pulls back from a dark window and zooms in on a small white house. We are then introduced to Opal, Claire’s alter-ego or persona. As the film progresses, it becomes evident that Opal is Claire. We also meet Opal’s family: her grandfather, father, and mother. Seated at the dining room table, her family appears happy and healthy—except for Opal, who is thin and pale. The three relatives perform “We See You, Opal,” a song that also closes the film. The lyrics consist solely of: “We see you, Opal/Your troubles are miles away/We see you, Opal/And in our eyes you’ll stay.” After the song ends, Opal’s mother says, “There she is,” her father says, “That’s my girl,” and her grandfather says, “Hi Opal!” These lines affirm the sentiment expressed lyrically: Opal is seen by her family.

Opal hesitantly touches the burger on her plate, prompting her mother’s encouragement: “You can do it!” Until now, Opal has remained wide-eyed and expressionless, but, in response, she beams. She picks up the burger and begins dancing on the table. Accompanied by playful, almost goofy instrumentation, the scene is clearly intended to be lighthearted. This is juxtaposed with Opal glancing out the window, catching sight of a dark house across the street. As the house’s attic window reflects in her pupils, the music abruptly cuts off. As the camera zooms in on the dark, foreboding structure, ominous plinking piano keys play. A tension grows as drums begin, increasing in fervor until Opal’s father launches into a rambling, nervous musical number warning her “don’t mind the house across the street.” Then it’s time for bed. Opal, however, slips out of bed and walks down the hallway, drawing back the curtains to gaze at the house across the street. As she watches, an outpouring of blurred, lace-like material spreads from the house’s attic window, ushering in the song “Crying.” This recurring number blends abject, echoing vocals with thundering drums. Opening the kitchen window, Opal slips out and sneaks across the street under the cover of darkness.

A sudden flash of light and a terrible ringing erupt while Opal is on the doorstep of the house across the street. Opal dashes inside to hide. Inside, an old man sits before a television set—Claire’s grandfather. Unlike the cute, cuddly Claymation figures seen earlier, this rendition is large, fat, and humanoid. Opal, Claire’s persona, cautiously backs away, but her face crumples as a wrapper crinkles beneath her foot. At the sound, the grandfather turns toward it and asks, “Claire? Is that you?” His small, round, black spectacles signify his blindness. Claire’s grandfather asks for his cigarettes, but as Opal turns to leave, he accuses her of hiding them and rebukes her: “It’s evil to help people who don’t need help, Claire.” He then coughs up blood and launches into a monologue, claiming Claire is more interested in him than in herself.

Opal moves closer, searching for the cigarettes, while her grandfather continues speaking, his breath growing labored as his lungs deplete. This builds into the musical number, “Easy to Breathe,” in which the grandfather questions how breathing sounds so easy on TV, laments that “Idea salesmen” and “girls” want his soul, and once again demands his cigarettes. As the song plays, the visuals shift to the animated style seen earlier in the character motif sequences. When the song ends, Opal stands holding the pack of cigarettes. The grandfather sniffs, remarks that Opal smells strange, then declares she isn’t Claire, and orders her to leave. Lunging at her, the grandfather’s chair falls over, pinning him underneath. He screams as Opal shoots upstairs.

Spotting an open door at the end of the hall, Opal hears “Crying” play as eerie visual outpouring reappears. As she passes the bathroom door, her father calls to her, jumping into a soliloquy about his appearance in certain outfits and the struggles of his life. Two voices emerge from her father: one personable and toothy, the other deep and sinister. Encircled by mirrors mounted on adjustable arms sprouting from a band around his forehead, the father shifts between chatty banter and snarling demands. Without ever looking at Opal, he breaks into the musical number, “Mirror Man.” In the song, he muses on his obsession with his physical form, describing his “reflection chamber”—a space he claims he can sit in and “[Craft] the world its next new savior.” After revealing the extent of his preoccupation, the grandfather is shown looming at the top of the stairs, approaching Opal. Opal flees, startling her father, who, in his shock, topples one of the mirrors. Gazing into his fragmented reflection, he whimpers, “you know how this makes me feel.”

Opal enters a messy room, echoing the earlier shot of pills, doilies, and wine bottles. As she moves toward a staircase across the room, a hand grabs her leg, pulling her down. A ghastly figure—Opal’s mother—rises and slurs, “Who’s that?” From the mother’s blurred perspective Opal’s image fragments and swirls. The mother starts on a garbled diatribe, insisting she is endlessly forgiving despite others’ inconsideration. Turning to Opal, she mutters, “You and I don’t live, Claire. We survive.”

Collapsing backwards, the mother begins her song, “Virtuous Cycle,” declaring, “Mama needs a little girl to land on.” The number turns nightmarish as the camera plunges into the mother’s eye, revealing flashes of 911 calls and physical encounters. As the song ends, the mother lunges and Opal bolts. Glass shatters as a wine bottle falls, but Opal is already sprinting up the attic stairs. Inside, she wedges a chair under the handle, barricading the door. Before her stands the window she saw from across the street. As she approaches, a mattress can be seen on the floor, draped in pink sheets. Opal peers outside, wilts, and whimpers. Beyond the window stands a billboard that reads “Opal’s Burgers.” Depicted thereon are Opal’s family—plump, healthy, just like they appeared at the film’s start. Opal is just as full and round as the rest of them.

A relentless knocking shakes the attic door. We hear the family demanding she let them in. A series of harrowing revelations follow. The grandfather reappears in his chair—his unseeing eyes now replaced by Opal’s hollow, malnourished face. In the bathroom again, the father’s mirror swivels, revealing not his reflection, but Opal’s face—just like the grandfather’s eyes. The mother swallows her pills. As they descend, they morph—becoming Opal’s face. Opal screams, curling into a ball as the music strikes in a frightening refrain. Her eyes flutter open—she’s back in the dining room, surrounded by the picture-perfect family from the billboard. Her mother closes the curtain, blocking the house across the street from view, and then the relatives once more sing, “We See You, Opal.”

As the song fades, the camera pulls back, exiting through the back of Opal’s head, revealing that she remains huddled in the attic. The view retracts further—her family still pounds
at the attic door, there is only the dark house Opal saw through the window. Across the street, where there should have been a small white house, there is only the billboard.

Aristotelian Plot Complexity

With the synopsis complete, I turn to the first of the three analytical prongs: Aristotelian Complex Plot. Regarding plot, in Poetics, Section X, Aristotle writes: “Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life, of which the plots are an imitation, obviously show a similar distinction.” 9  Opal falls under the latter classification, for reasons I will cover after defining Complex Plot.

Aristotle writes: “An action which is one and continuous in the sense above defined, I call Simple, when the change of fortune takes place without Reversal of the Situation and without Recognition.” 10  A Simple Plot represents the standard action of real life: antecedent/adversity > behavior/belief > consequence, to borrow from the ABC model employed by Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT). 11  In other words, cause and effect unfold in Simple Plots as they do in standard, day-to-day activities. In the Complex Plot, things are more complex—for lack of a better word.

Aristotle defines Complex plots by defining Complex activity: “A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by Reversal, or by Recognition, or by both.” 12  These actions still “arise from the internal structure of the plot” as the “necessary or probable result of the preceding action,” like the cause and effect unfolding of Simple action, but with the added complexity of “Reversal,” “Recognition,” or both. 13  Thus, the Complex Plot is distinguished from the Simple Plot by these two elements.

Aristotle defines “Reversal of the Situation” as “a change by which the action veers round to its opposite, subject always to our rule of probability or necessity” and “Recognition” as, “a change from ignorance to knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons destined by the poet for good or bad fortune.” 14  Aristotle”s use of “poet” here may be substituted with “author” or “director,” depending on the medium being analyzed. He writes further, “two parts, then, of the Plot—Reversal of the Situation and Recognition—turn upon surprises.” 15  Redundant in one sense and informative in another, this would make the Aristotelian Complex Plot equally served by the moniker “Surprising Plot.”

Aristotle gives us examples of both elements. “Reversal of the Situation” appears in Oedipus when “the messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free him from his alarms about his mother, but by revealing who he is, he produces the opposite effect.” 16  Aristotle writes that “[t]he best form of recognition is coincident with a Reversal of the Situation, as in the Oedipus,” but “other forms” include “inanimate things of the most trivial kind [which] may in a sense be objects of recognition.” 17  This we see in Opal in terms of the house across the street, the billboard, and, to a lesser extent, the cigarettes, mirrors, and pills from the film’s opening scenes (fulfilling the minimal preconditions for categorizing the plot of Opal as “complex”). Aristotle writes that “recognition which is most intimately connected with the plot and action is . . . the recognition of persons. This recognition, combined, with Reversal, will produce either pity or fear; nd action producing these effects are those which, by our definition, Tragedy represents.” 18

When Claire encounters the billboard depicting her healthier self alongside her healthy family, she recognizes them as the same family she saw at the dining table earlier. At this moment, we witness a “Reversal of the Situation.” There is no house across the street; the people inside are her real relatives. The healthy family dynamic she envisioned is purely illusory, a figment of her imagination. This moment also coincides with the reversal of Claire’s behavior. The attic window of the house across the street piqued her curiosity—“need, thirst or desire for knowledge”—which motivated her exploratory behavior. 19  But upon realizing the truth, her exploratory behavior ceases. Instead of facing what will later be revealed later as “the abject,” she huddles on the floor, desperately trying, and successfully managing, to block out external stimuli, retreating once again into the illusory happy place she had imagined. Moreover, where she once desired to be seen in the introduction, she now wishes to shut out those same family members—at least, their real-life versions.

She wishes to shut out these versions of her relatives because she realizes that they see her as merely a means to an end. She brings cigarettes for her grandfather, attention for her father, and comfort for her mother. This is the sole reason they acknowledge her; to satisfy their own wants. This moment exemplifies the Aristotelian “Scene of Suffering . . . a destructive or painful action, such as death . . . bodily agony, wounds and the like.” 20  As the full weight of the Reversal and Recognition breaks against Claire”s psychic “palace of crystal,” she retreats inward, presumably for the last time. 21  What good is being seen if you are seen solely as a means to selfish ends?

Autoethnography

Recognizing that you are seen by another as merely a means to an end can shatter the Dostoevskian “palace of crystal” that is the psyche as if it were made of glass. A cursory glance at my past anecdotally evinces this claim. True comprehension, or even approximate true comprehension, of Claire’s suffering requires personal experience with such adversity (discovering that you are seen merely as a means to an end). This personal experience need not match the severity of Claire’s—extrapolation will allow the analyst an approximate comprehension—but it must be of the same kind. After all, you don’t know what you don’t know. Fortunately, when it comes to autoethnography, I doubt anyone will come up empty-handed on this account. This is one of the benefits of including autoethnography in the approach being developed: recollection of personal experience produces empathy enhancement.

Most plainly put, autoethnography is “ethnography of the self.” 22  It is a multifaceted approach that can be conducted in various ways. According to Robin Cooper and Bruce V. Lilyea,

Autoethnography is a unique qualitative methodology that draws upon several qualitative traditions, including narrative research, autobiography, ethnography, and arts-based research. Describing autoethnographers as one type of narrative researcher, Butler-Kisber (2010) states, ‘Individually or collaboratively they use narrative dialogue, self-study/autobiographical and memory work to construct stories of their own experiences’ (p. 65). Autoethnographies that draw upon this narrative tradition emphasize story and pivotal experiences in one’s life. 23

If autoethnography is essentially a diachronic investigation of one’s past, it can bring back relevant memories, thereby enhancing understanding of the plight of a protagonist like Claire. When this consideration of personal historical precedent is primed by a text’s elements of Aristotelian Plot complexity, the revelation of relevant memorial parallels is facilitated. As described, these parallels can serve as keys to greater understanding. Additionally, remembering our past helps us understand our present and our potential, that is, our future. Thus, autoethnography benefits not only the analysis of a media text but also the analyst’s understanding of themself.

In Oscar Wilde”s The Decay of Lying, Vivian says to Cyril: “Life imitates art far more than Art imitates life.” 24  In Jack Kent”s There”s No Such Thing as a Dragon, a dragon represents a familial problem. It grows to fantastic proportions and even runs away with the family’s house on its back. Billy Bixbee, the protagonist, says of the dragon, “I think it just wanted to be noticed.” 25  If life can imitate art and some problems simply want to be noticed, then considering adversity depicted in art in relation to personal problems fosters awareness. This is the same adversity Wilde writes about and the same awareness sought by the problems animalized in Kent’s book. Attending to something—say, a problem—requires attention first, followed by action. Combining autoethnography with artistic analysis awakens the analyst to this concept, increasing the probability that personal problems will be noticed and, eventually, attended to (solved). Seeing personal problems reflected in art enhances awareness, and sometimes that awareness is all that is necessary for amelioration. This is why autoethnography, combined with identification of a media text’s Aristotelian Recognition and Reversal, is potentially so useful. Understanding both the salient aspects of the piece in question and the audience of one—that is, you, that is, me—facilitates the manifestation of the Aristotelian ideal of eudaimonia—translated as happiness, human flourishing, or wellbeing. 26

I elaborate on this benefit because autoethnography is subject to extensive criticism. As Elaine Campbell notes in her article entitled “Apparently Being a Self-Obsessed C**t Is Now Academically Lauded”: Experiencing Twitter Trolling of Autoethnographers. “[a]utoethnography [has been] rebuked for three reasons: narcissism, lack of scientific prowess, and dullness.” 27  In light of such criticism, and within the context of this analysis of Stauber’s Opal, where Claire is treated as a mere means to an end, the irony of my using autoethnography does not escape me. That being said, while I am analyzing Claire’s tragic, albeit fictional, experiences in the film, I am not doing so merely to use her or her journey as a means to an end. She is not the child in Le Guin”s The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas, sacrificed for the flourishing of the city. 28  She is not the means to this analyst’s self-pity. She is an archetypal representation of escapism in the face of abject adversity—the twin flames of neglect and exploitation. Remembering my own applicable “subjective experiences” will hold me “accountable to the communit[y]” Claire represents. 29  The accountability of autoethnography here makes the enterprise simultaneously self-affirming and scientifically rigorous.

Thus, in the pursuit of understanding myself to better comprehend the media text and thus expedite the realization of heaven on earth, here is a flash nonfiction depiction of my childhood, primed by consideration of Aristotelian Reversal and Recognition in Jack Stauber’s Opal: When I first fully accepted just how different my family was from others, I nearly lost my mind. I’d always suspected as much. Mind you, things weren’t all bad—my siblings and I were taken to the library once a month, saw a lot of the East Coast because we moved so often, and avoided the adversity intrinsic to the public school system. We took our smiling holiday pictures and went to church every other Sunday. We had each other for company and even got to go on a playdate every other month.

Of course, aside from our occasional visits from relatives, that was the extent of the good memories. Many nights, my brothers and I went to sleep hungry, bruised, bloody, and preoccupied with the promise of future violence. Our sisters managed to avoid the physicality we endured, but they too suffered from the deprivation inherent in our large, dysfunctional family. The dysfunction seemed to grow in proportion to the number of children present. As the oldest of three, then four, five, six, and now seven, I was—and still am—the example. At least, that was the rationale I was given as an explanation for my punishment over even the slightest misstep. I suspect it was actually because I was born a bastard, and thus served as a reminder to my stepfather of his wife’s past.

There was always a baby to take all of our mother’s attention—when she wasn’t engaged in infidelity. Coincident with her impropriety came an enhanced risk of patriarchal volatility—so my siblings and I learned to walk as if on eggshells. Sometimes, you have to rock the boat to right it—not in my family. Protest was a capital offense, so we learned to keep our mouths shut.

When I’ve recounted some of the darker moments to others, I see a mixture of pity and shock on their faces. Hindsight is 20/20, so, looking back, I commiserate accordingly. But when I was actually in those moments, I had no lived experience or real knowledge that an alternative existed. I had my books, so I knew it was possible for things to be better, but there is a qualitative difference between understanding and lived experience.

It was quite some time before my mother and stepfather divorced. Until the end, they were locked in a battle for power, authority, and “victim-status.” They accused each other of being the worse parent, the more disloyal, the less Christian. All the while, they took their febrile frustrations out on us—attacking, intoxicating, and otherwise ruining us as best they could. The physical abuse was less of an issue with our mother, especially as my brothers and I grew older. Naturally, we gravitated toward the less physically threatening parent. Soon, after police involvement, there was no more patriarchal presence.

Then, just when everything seemed to be improving, another child was conceived. While carrying our family’s latest addition, our mother invited those of us who had moved out over for dinner. At some point during the meal, she casually informed us how “happy” she was that we would be able to “take care of her” when she was old. Apparently, she expects to rotate monthly.

When my siblings and I meet now and reflect on what could have been—had our potential not been purged, moment by moment, by self-serving and morally indifferent adults— we confront the abject. To also consider, while haunted by squandered potential, that we were and are seen solely as means to our mother’s literal end—this is the utmost of abjection.

Abjection

Abjection is a concept from psychoanalytic literary theory developed by Julia Kristeva in Approaching Abjection. As with the preceding two sections, the initial portion of this section will define the analytical approach, followed by its application—identifying abjection in Opal. On abjection, Kristeva writes that it is:

[O]ne of those violent, dark revolts of being, directed against a threat that seems to emanate from an exorbitant outside or inside, ejected beyond the scope of the possible, the tolerable, the thinkable. It lies there, quite close, but it cannot be assimilated. It beseeches, worries, and fascinates desire, which, nevertheless, does not let itself be seduced. Apprehensive, desire turns aside; sickened, it rejects. 30

Something proximate but incomprehensible threatens, calls, and is rejected. What is abject to us—to me, to you—defines us, differentiating us from what we cast away. Kristeva elaborates: “what is abject . . . the jettisoned object, is radically excluded and draws me toward the place where meaning collapses.” 31  The abject is thrown away, separated from, and “opposed to” the subject. 32  Kristeva illustrates abjection through examples such as food loathing and a corpse. Consider a food that repulses you—the one that makes you retch at the mere thought of it. Kristeva calls this “[f]ood loathing . . . the most elementary…form of abjection.” She recalls how the “skin on the surface of milk” triggers an abject reaction for her. When, as a child, her parents offered her “that milk cream,” she established herself by rejecting it—by refusing, vomiting, expelling, abjecting. In doing so, she both defined and distinguished herself from the cream and from those who could stomach it. 33

While food loathing is a nearly universal experience, encountering a corpse is far less common. Kristeva describes the corpse as “the utmost of abjection”: “There, I am at the border of my condition as a living being. My body extricates itself, as being alive, from that border.” 34  A corpse reminds us of our mortality—our finity—our being alive, which necessarily implies our eventual being dead. A corpse reveals that “[i]t is no longer I who expel,” as in the case of waste or vomiting because of food loathing, but instead “’I’ is expelled.” 35  I had one such experience in my undergraduate psychology course when, like a slice of cake, a preserved portion of human brain tissue was passed around. I was the last student offered the opportunity to touch it. I declined.

In death, what makes us us—our psyche—is removed; our content extricated from our form. Seeing that husk, that corpse, that brain, reminds us of this inevitability. It reminds us that it is only a matter of time before we, too, are expelled from ourselves. Death is too immense a fact to fully assimilate, even in its immediate presence—so we abject.

Claire experiences abjection along these lines throughout Opal. Take the beginning, for instance, where Opal (Claire in her imaginary world) is with her family in the small white house. The beseeching comes through the leitmotif “Crying” and its accompanying visual effects. The worrying manifests in her father’s sweating and anxious rambling: “Don’t mind the house across the street.” This also signals Claire’s rejection of abjection, as her father is a figment of her imagination, produced by her unconscious. The fascination causes her to approach the house.

Kristeva writes that the unconscious involves “a repression of contents (affects and presentations) that, thereby, do not have access to consciousness but effect within the subject modifications, either of speech…or of the body…or both (hallucinations…).” 36  When it comes to Claire’s imagined relatives as extensions of her unconscious, Claire is hallucinating in the beginning, inhabiting the illusory world her imagination provides as an escape. Yet, even within this self-imposed refuge, the abject truth—the house across the street and its associations—beseeches her. Her unconscious tries to keep her from attending, but still she approaches abjection, fascination overriding apprehension.

On the house’s doorstep, Claire confronts the utmost of abjection when the billboard lights up. In her fright, Claire rushes into the house, abjecting the depiction’s implications. This marks the beginning of her concatenate deconstruction—the unraveling of her constructed reality. Here, we witness the rejection—abjection—of Aristotelian Recognition. Claire proceeds through reality, approaching the utmost of abjection through each familial encounter. Finally, when she sees the billboard a second time, abject Recognition is accompanied by abject Reversal.

Claire abjects reality, returning to her hallucination. Despite its proximity—despite the irrefutable evidence that the billboard’s depiction is false—she cannot fully comprehend the extent of her abuse. Instead, she abjects this truth. It is thrown away, separated from, and “opposed to” Claire, the subject. From the beginning, Opal (Claire”s illusory ideal) has expelled her house, her family, and even herself—her Claire-ness—from her very consciousness, from her self-narrative. And yet, the truth still grips her—it piques her curiosity. Once inside the house, “meaning collapses,” as, for Claire, “nothing is familiar, not even the shadow of a memory.” 37  She does not recognize the people inside the house, nor do they recognize her—for she is still “Opal.” They only know “Claire.” The house is at once Claire’s actual residence—family and all—and the abject itself, a “sign for a non-object.” 38  The house signifies the non-object of abject neglect. Once confronted with it—her true reality—“the abject shatter[ed] the wall of repression” she had so carefully constructed, forcing her back into the psychological refuge of her imaginary self, Opal. 39  Her psychic “palace of crystal” collapses in on itself.

Claire's entire journey is an act of abjection—both of self and other. She rejects her Claire-ness and the painful reality of being reduced to a mere means to an end in her relatives” eyes. Claire, presumably the same child who once acted as “Opal” for the burger ad, constructs an escape within her imagination. She becomes “Opal,” an alter-ego whose sole desire is to be seen—hence the recurring lyric: “We see you, Opal.” Yet, when confronted with reality—when she realizes that her happiness is illusory and that her desire to be seen has, paradoxically, been fulfilled—she abjects herself “within the same motion through which [she] claim[s] to establish [herself].” 40  By rejecting reality and retreating into her happy place, Claire becomes Opal once more. She becomes abject, as her home is revealed to be itself abject—a motif replete with the psychological markers of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD). 41

When Claire sees the billboard she experiences what Kristeva describes as a “massive and sudden emergence of uncanniness, which, familiar as it might have been in an opaque and forgotten life, now harries [her] as radically separate, loathsome.” 42  If Claire acknowledges the billboard, she “annihilates” Opal, her alter-ego, her coping mechanism, and the fragile illusion that is her happy place. The house across the street and the billboard are Opal’s equivalents to the corpse—“the utmost of abjection.” The house is both an “imaginary uncanniness and [a] real threat,” inasmuch as it is ostensibly unknown and revealed to contain dangerous, neglectful relatives. Moreover, the billboard threatens Opal’s “Opal-ness,” Claire’s illusion. The house/billboard “beckons” Opal and “ends up engulfing” her. She is confronted with reality and rejects it without parting, protecting herself not “from an object,” but from what contaminates her sense of self and others. 43

This abjection is caused continually by reality itself—the house across the street, her home, the billboard, her family, and her own image on the billboard—because reality “disturbs” her imagined “identity”: her “Opal-ness.” She is not and cannot be Opal, at least, not in reality, because she is Claire. And thus, Claire retreats into her imagination, becoming her alter-ego, repressing all other desires. This includes the base instinct to eat, as we see she doesn’t eat the burger in the beginning of the film. She represses all other desires for that one want to be seen. And it’s no wonder. Presumably, her illusory happy place is a variation on the memory of shooting for the billboard ad. Then, she was seen not as someone who brought cigarettes, attention, and comfort, but as herself, as Opal. Perhaps behind this lurks the most abject truth of all: even then, in the one moment Claire felt seen for herself, she was still only seen as a means to an end—a commodified image.

Claire is confronted first with the realization that her imaginary escape is based on the billboard ad, and then with the realization that she is seen only as a means to an end. Moreover, she approaches the discovery that even when they were posing for the ad, she was seen only as a means to an end. Claire realized she was and is treated as a commodity, “a thing that by its properties satisfies” the “wants” of her relatives. 44  Moment by moment, Claire is both neglected and fetishized—imposed with a “use value,” a “thing that interests” her relatives yet is not part of her. 45  She is slowly drained of life itself, exploited for their selfish aims.

In reality, Opal is the “Other” and Claire is the “I.” In Claire’s escapist imagination, she inverts this: Opal is the “I” and Claire is the “Other.” Reality, the presence of the billboard’s depiction, confronts Claire’s understanding. Claire is no longer Opal—that “Other who precedes and possesses [her], and through such possession causes [her] to be”—she is no longer that person. 46  Claire is in the present. Opal, the character Claire played for the ad, is in the past, presently depicted, previously existent.

There is nothing but abjection for Claire, even in her illusion. Claire imagines enduring the “brutish suffering” synonymous with being “seen” by her family—which, again, is being seen not as herself, but merely as a means to an end—to be the “desire of the other,” the “other” being Opal, Claire”s past self and present alter-ego. 47  She is “beseeche[d], worrie[d], and fascinate[d]” by reality, specifically abjection, and more specifically the abject advert outside the attic window. 48  This leads Claire to an “abjection of self” twice over, as she is a subject “beseeche[d] and pulverize[d]” by the abject. Claire has attempted to “identify with something on the outside” in two ways. 49  First, with the billboard depiction, and second with each family member”s view of her. When she is confronted with the “brutish suffering” of the latter, she abjects. When she is confronted with the falsity of the depiction, she abjects.

Conclusion

The efficacy of my three-pronged, interdisciplinary media studies approach has been illustrated through this analysis. Incorporating ingredients from the discipline of philosophy, film studies, fandom studies, anthropology, psychoanalytic literary theory, psychology, and more, the final analytical product is a useful paradigm primed for broader application. Addressing craft, audience, and content, the interdisciplinary approach proposed in this article gives analysts access to the contours of Jack Stauber’s Opal and other such complex, psychoanalytically rich, and relatable pieces.

Ignorance is bliss. Through abjection—despite the Aristotelian Recognition and Reversal—Claire chooses to pursue her illusion instead of reality, or die trying. Opal will remain in the eyes of Claire’s imaginary family, and Claire will remain in the eyes of her real family—each predestined to repeatedly discover that they are seen only as a means to an end. The film closes with Claire’s imaginary family around the dining room table. They’re singing to her: “We see you, Opal/And in our eyes you’ll stay.”

The film raises the question can you see someone—as a means to an end or otherwise—if they’re dead?

Footnotes

• 1

  Crystal Raypole, “How to Beat “Analysis Paralysis” and Make All the Decisions,”

  Healthline, April 27, 2020, https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/analysis-paralysis.

• 2

  Aristotle, Poetics, trans. S. H. Butcher (Project Gutenberg, 2008), secs. X–XI, www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1974/pg1974-images.html.

• 3

  Robin Cooper and Bruce V. Lilyea, “I’m Interested in Autoethnography, but How Do I Do It?” The Qualitative Report 27, no. 1 (January 14, 2022): 197, https://nsuworks.nova.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=5288&context=tqr.

• 4

  Cooper and Lilyea, “I’m interested in Autoethnography,” https://nsuworks.nova.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=5288&context=tqr.

• 5

  Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez (Columbia University Press, 1982).

• 6

  Moti Nissani, “Ten Cheers for Interdisciplinarity: The Case for Interdisciplinary Knowledge and Research,” The Social Science Journal 34, no. 2 (December 1997): 16, https://doi.org/10.1016/S0362-3319(97)90051-3. 

• 7

  Liv Hausken, “Coda: Textual Theory and Blind Spots in Media Studies,” in Narrative Across Media: The Languages of Storytelling, ed. Marie-Laure Ryan (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2004), 392.

• 8

  David Bordwell, The Way Hollywood Tells It: Story and Style in Modern Movies

  (University of California Press, 2006), 44.

• 9

  Aristotle, Poetics, sec. X.

• 10

   Aristotle, Poetics, sec. X.

• 11

  See Amelia Dalphonse, “ABC Data: The Key to Understanding Behavior,” Master ABA, https://masteraba.com/abc-data/. See also Jaime Fletcher, “ABC Model: The Meaning of the ABCs and How to Use It,” Healthline, https://www.healthline.com/health/abc-model.

• 12

  Aristotle, Poetics, sec. X.

• 13

  Aristotle, Poetics, sec. X.

• 14

  Aristotle, Poetics, sec. X.

• 15

  Aristotle, Poetics, sec. X.

• 16

  Aristotle, Poetics, sec. X.

• 17

  Aristotle, Poetics, sec. X.

• 18

  Aristotle, Poetics, sec. X.

• 19

  Susan Edelman, “Curiosity and Exploration,” www.csun.edu/~vcpsy00h/students/explore.htm.

• 20

  Aristotle, Poetics, sec. XI.

• 21

   Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes from Underground, trans. Frederick Whishaw (PlanetPublish, 2011), 39, 54–56,

  www.planetpublish.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/Notes_from_the_Underground_NT.pdf.

• 22

  Whitney Phillips and Ross Garner, “The State of Fandom Studies 2018: Whitney Phillips & Ross Garner (Pt. 1),” Henry Jenkins, April 5, 2018,

  https://henryjenkins.org/blog/2018/4/5/the-state-of-fandom-studies-2018-whitney-phillips-ross-garner-p t-1.

• 23

  Cooper and Lilyea, “I’m Interested in Autoethnography,” https://nsuworks.nova.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=5288&context=tqr.

• 24

  Oscar Wilde, The Decay of Lying (Virgil.org, 1998), 10, www.virgil.org/dswo/courses/novel/wilde-lying.pdf.

• 25

  Jack Kent, There’s No Such Thing as a Dragon (Western Publishing Company, 1975), www.centrumpodpory.cz/soubory/ke-stazeni/Amalthea/Dragon.pdf.

• 26

  Catherine Moore, “What is Eudaimonia? Aristotle and Eudaimonic Wellbeing,”

  PositivePsychology.com, April 8, 2019, www.positivepsychology.com/eudaimonia/.

• 27

  Elaine Campbell, “‘Apparently Being a Self-Obsessed C**t Is Now Academically Lauded’: Experiencing Twitter Trolling of Autoethnographers,” International Review of Qualitative Research 18, no. 3 (September 2017): 10.

   

• 28

  Ursula K. Le Guin, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,” SHS Davis APES, 3–4, www.shsdavisapes.pbworks.com/f/Omelas.pdf.

• 29

  Henry Jenkins, “ACA/Fandom and Beyond: Week Two,” Confessions of an Aca-Fan, June 28, 2011, https://henryjenkins.org/blog/2011/06/acafandom_and_beyond_week_two.html.

• 30

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 1.

• 31

   Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 1-2.

• 32

  Kristeva. Powers of Horror, 1.

• 33

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 2.

• 34

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 2-3.

• 35

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 3, italics in original.

• 36

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 4.

• 37

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 4.

• 38

   Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 7.

• 39

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 7.

• 40

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 2.

• 41

  Monica Taylor-Desir, M.D., M.P.H., DFAPA, “What Is PTSD?” American Psychiatric Association, www.psychiatry.org/patients-families/ptsd/what-is-ptsd#section_5.

• 42

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 2.

• 43

  Kristva, Powers of Horror, 3.

• 44

  Karl Marx, Capital: Volume I (Marxists Internet Archive, 1867), www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/download/pdf/Capital-Volume-I.pdf, 27.

• 45

  Marx, Capital, 52, www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/download/pdf/Capital-Volume-I.pdf, 27.

• 46

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 5.

• 47

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 7.

• 48

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 2.

• 49

  Kristeva, Powers of Horror, 1.