Authenticity in Voltaire’s Candide and Henrick Ibsen’s The Wild Duck

The way in which one responds to and interprets the world and their situation therein, can be approached either authentically or inauthentically, with an aim for truth or avoiding truth of the reality of an individual’s situation and the world in general. Within Henrik Ibsen’s The Wild Duck and François Marie Arouet de Voltaire’s Candide, both authors provide characters that are inauthentic, people who want to escape the world which does not match up to their idea and desire of how the reality of the world should be. The characters Dr. Relling in Ibsen’s play and Martin in Voltaire’s novel share a similar conclusion that truth is too difficult to accept and a person’s happiness can be attained only by escaping truth. By presenting these characters perspectives, Ibsen and Voltaire reveal the negative consequences of their conclusions, in order to show that truth can be understood and appropriated, that life can be lived accordingly, and as a consequence, to a better extent.

In The Wild Duck, Ibsen presents a life problem which various characters engage in, giving their personal philosophy concerning the way in which the character who has the problem, Hialmar Ekdal, should deal with it. This rhetorical strategy allows Ibsen the ability to explore and critique the various characters perspectives. The problem that Hialmar faces throughout the book is one that is brought about when Gregers Werle, as a consequence of his self-assigned mission, reveals to Hialmar that his wife Gina was involved in an affair previous to their marriage. What this mission is and what philosophy he holds, another character Dr. Relling reveals: “He went round to all the cotters’ cabins presenting something he called ‘the claim of the ideal,’” to present truth at all costs, believing that after realizing the truth, a person can appropriate their lives in a way that leads to a more authentic, truth driven life (The Wild Duck, 66). When Hialmar discovers his wife’s affair with Gregers’s father, who he believes might be the father of Hedvig, Hialmar’s daughter, he decides that he is going to disown Hedvig as a daughter and leave Gina to Greger’s surprise.

In light of this situation, Ibsen then forces the question as to how one is to respond to the various problems that arise in life which are difficult to acknowledge, which mirrors the human situation in general, namely how one is to deal authentically with the world in conjunction with the desire for, and knowledge of, truth, while not responding in such an exaggerated manner like Hialmar, and how to go about seeking truth unlike Gregers. The character within the play who articulates this problem most clearly is Dr. Relling. It is he who shows the problems inherent in Gregers’s “truth at all costs” philosophy, by showing that his motives are not in the “fearless spirit of sacrifice” as he thought, rather to redeem himself through Hialmar, not Hialmar himself: “you are always in a delirium of hero-worship…” (101). Thus it seems Ibsen presents Relling as a character that has some understanding of reality, as it is truly.

Although he finds problems in Gregers’s philosophy, he too has a problematic view on perceiving truth, which is suggested by his title doctor. His idea of handling truth is one who like a doctor, diagnoses and attempts to rid Hialmar’s problem in such a way that is often mistaken as a cure: to give a medicine which numbs the pain. This then leads him to conclude, “Rob the average man of his life-illusion, and you rob him of his happiness at the same stroke” (103). Relling is in some sense speaking on behalf of the underlying perspective, which he, Hialmar, and Gregers all hold, namely one which indulges in delusion in order for an escape. What separates Dr. Relling from the others is that he is the only one who recognizes the perspective that the three share, that it is better not to know the truth at all but relieve one’s self of dealing with it. By way of Relling’s realization, Ibsen then is able to articulate the quasi romantic escapism he and many people hold, which often appears in different forms, which forces one to acknowledge the problem of escapism, in order to make way for Ibsen’s character Mrs. Sorby. Ibsen presents her as the only one who appropriates her situation authentically, dealing with the personal problems she faces without escaping, with a mind to perceive things honestly, and understanding herself accordingly. As Relling’s philosophy leaves no room for truth, he provides no wisdom towards dealing with life, and as Relling’s antidotes do not help Hailmar’s situation, Ibsen reveals that this is an absurd option.

While Ibsen focuses on individual situations, Voltaire addresses a metaphysical problem, which is more universal, namely the problem of evil. Like Ibsen, Voltaire deals with authenticity and the various ways people often wrongly respond to the reality of evil in the world. At the beginning of the novel, the problem which Voltaire poses surfaces when he leads Candide through various situations which bring out the random evil in the world, from pillages, raping, abuse, and natural evil, in order to test Candide’s metaphysical belief that “all is for the best in this world” (“Candide,” 389).Throughout his journey, Candide meets another philosopher whose opinion is radically different from the other philosopher Pangloss, who is Candide’s teacher. The narrator reveals that like Candide, Martin has experienced a great deal of evil: “he had been robbed by his wife, beaten by his son, and deserted by his daughter” (412). While Candide keeps hoping, Martin did the opposite, assuming a stoical and cynical character, placing no hope in the world. Thus when dealing with the evils of men, he concludes, “What do you expect? That is how these folks are,” and as for the whole problem, “I don’t suppose it’s worth the trouble of discussing” (425). This leads Candide to the conclusion, “You’re a hard man.” Martin reveals why, “I’ve lived.” With this sort of understanding and knowledge which resembles Dr. Relling’s, Martin is able to see through the decadent optimism of Candide’s belief, “as I survey this globe or globule, I think that God has abandoned it to some evil spirit…” (412). Martin shows that regardless of the evidence against Candide’s perspective that all works for the best, he continues to believe it.

As a consequence of Martin’s perspective, he is able to share some legitimate insights, but like Relling, his outlook too has its problem. Voltaire wants to show that while a stoic or cynic might be warranted in some sense for believing that there is no hope for this world and that one should become reserved and careless towards these problems, this view is just as much an escape, or worse, a fatalism. The problem with Martin’s view is that if one believes that things will never change, this alleviates the responsibility of trying to make things better. Martin then finds the philosophy of Eldorado appealing: “[W]hen you are pretty comfortable somewhere, you had better stay there” (408). But like the Turkish farmer at the end, Voltaire concludes that “we must cultivate our garden,” or work in one’s area to enlighten one’s self and others in order to mitigate the evil within the world: “the work keeps us from the three great evils, boredom, vice, and poverty” (437). The problem with Martin and Eldorado is that they neglect the rest of the suffering world by believing this—escaping the problem rather than dealing with it.

Both Ibsen and Voltaire in their writings deal extensively with truth and the problems with the predominant tendency towards any escapist philosophy. As Ibsen and Voltaire demonstrate, dealing with both personal problems and the world’s problems as a whole are never solved through escape. As they see it, it is better to understand truth and the difficulty of living with such, enabling one to live life to a better extent.

Works Cited

Ibsen, Henrik. The Wild Duck; The League of Youth; Rosmersholm. New York: Boni and Liveright, 1918. Print.

Voltaire, François-Marie Arouet. “Candide.” The Norton Anthology of Western Literature. Ed.     Sarah Lawall. New York: W.W. Norton &, 2006. 375-438. Print.

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An Apology/Review for “The Next Three Days” dir. Paul Haggis

“The Next Three Days,” directed by Paul Haggis and starring Russell Crowe, is unfortunately underrated. I remember walking out of the theatre with friend, both of us enamored with the film, and talking about its interesting portrayal of the human experience. Ever since I came home and saw the unfortunate reviews that night, I have wanted to defend it against its critics. It really is worth a viewing, and the overwhelmingly negative-to-mediocre reviews about it need some kind of counterbalance.

Crowe’s character, John Brennan, a normal English professor is trying to break his wife out of prison where she has been sentenced to life. John has no proof of her innocence. Every appeal has resulted in her conviction of murder, and the flashbacks to the evidence of the case seem to strongly implicate her. He simply trusts his wife’s character. There is no scene that gives determinative evidence to the audience, either, and they begin to wonder if John’s sacrifices for his wife are justified. He tries making fake keys, meeting with an escaped convict, watching YouTube videos, and it becomes nearly a frightening obsession. John becomes less socialable and more crazy. A scene depicts his wall like the famous one in “A Beautiful Mind.” The last half or third of the movie is a bit more like a conventional thriller, but retains the uncertainty until the very end.

The movie is consciously Quixotean, with John’s trust in his wife taking the place of Quixote’s insanity, and his attempts to break her out of prison often reminiscent of the charge toward the windmills. This is what drives the movie, and if it is appealing at all, makes it so.

Many critiques of this movie really miss this point of the film entirely. David Roark’s review from Christianity Today exemplifies this problem thoroughly:

“But the most absurd aspect is the premise [of the movie] itself. Regardless of how much he loves his wife, there’s no way a normal, intelligent person like John could ever reach the decision he does as a solution to his problem. Plus, there’s no reasoning behind his ability to go from scholar to action hero overnight.”

The famous Roger Ebert has the following to say:
“The film might have been more convincing if [Crowe had] remained the schleppy English teacher throughout. Once glimmers of “Gladiator” begin to reveal themselves, a certain credibility is lost. The movie is a competent thriller, but maybe could have been more.”

All I can say to Roark is exactly. Like it or not, you can’t very well critique the movie for this, that’s the point of it. The movie presents the viewer with the expression of the unadulterated relationality of a human being. It’s meant to be extreme, and it is meant to speak to the strongest desires of hope in the human heart.

As usual, Ebert’s criticism is written well, but many of his statements are as vague as an astrological reading. He only critiques the movie on this one point–that it is incredible. The rest of his critique either relies on this point or expresses his apathy about the film. It’s, of course, fine not to like the movie, but since Ebert is paid to write about it, I wish he were a bit clearer on why the movie is mediocre.

This movie’s theme is primarily existential and emphasizes relationality rather than rationality. His decision to break his wife out of prison is thus comprehensible, if not rational. The movie is not unaware of his irrationality; by the end, even his wife is telling him to give up. Also, his transition from professor to action hero is much more believable than these critics make out, interpreted correctly. First, he’s not actually an action hero, and doesn’t even resemble one until the final part of the movie. Second, he flubs up constantly, making believable mistakes until the end of the movie when his plan is systematized and in place. Third, the improbability of the plan is implicitly recognized my Brennan himself. However, he wills to attempt the near-impossible rather than accept his wife’s fate and her despair.

This main theme, the quest of John Brennan, reminds me of a quote from Gabriel Marcel:

“Hope consists in asserting that there is at the heart of being, beyond all data, beyond all inventories and calculations, a mysterious principle in connivance with me, which cannot but will that which I will, if what I will deserves to be willed by the whole of my being…To hope against all hope that a person whom I love will recover from a disease which is said to be incurable is to say: It is impossible that I should be alone in willing this cure…It is quite useless to tell me of discouraging cases or examples: Beyond all experience, all probability, all statistics, I assert that a given order shall be re-established, that reality is on my side…I do not wish: I assert; such is the prophetic tone of true hope.”

The movie isn’t perfect; I think the ending scene with the detectives (don’t want to spoil it for you) could have and should have been excluded. However, it’s the only movie that I’ve seen that does such a good job presenting human love, its relation to our desire for radical idealism, and our hope for that sympathetic principle at heart of reality.