10.

1515/nor-2017-0157

Nordicom Review 30 (2009) 2, pp. 159-178

Self-Reflection
Beyond Conventional Fiction Film Engagement

Margrethe Bruun Vaage

Abstract
Idiosyncratic responses are more strictly personal responses to fiction film that vary across
individual spectators. In philosophy of film, idiosyncratic responses are often deemed inap-
propriate, unwarranted and unintended by the film. One type of idiosyncratic response is
when empathy with a character triggers the spectator to reflect on his own real-life issues.
Self-reflection can be triggered by egoistic drift, where the spectator starts imagining him-
self in the character’s shoes, by re-experiencing memories, or by unfamiliar experiences
that draw the spectator’s attention. Film may facilitate self-reflection by slowing down
narrative development and making the narrative indeterminate. Such scenes do make idi-
osyncratic responses, such as self-reflection, appropriate and intended. Fiction film is a safe
context for the spectator to reflect on personal issues, as it also affords him with distancing
techniques if the reflection becomes too painful or unwanted. The fictional context further
encourages self-reflection in response to empathy, as the spectator is relieved from real-life
moral obligations to help the other.
Keywords: spectator engagement, fiction film, idiosyncratic responses, empathy

Introduction
When I tell people that I write about emotional engagement in fiction film, they often
have one special story of film engagement that they would like to share with me. A
friend told me about her engagement with Big Fish (Tim Burton 2003). In this film,
Ed Bloom has always been a big liar in his son’s eyes, never present in real life for his
family, but always telling fantasy stories about a grand mythical reality in which he
himself is always the hero. At Ed Bloom’s deathbed, his son tries to come to terms with
his resentment of his father. My friend told me that she felt deeply for the father. On
reflection, my friend told me, she realized that her deep engagement with Ed, feeling his
pain of having a son that does not respect him, came from her own dissatisfaction with
where she was in life at that point. Being in a career transition, she realized that she in
fact found it difficult to respect herself, given her unsuccessful career. She resented the
fact that she could not show her own day dreaming success stories to her friends and
relatives, and be judged by those instead of by her lack of real-life success. Seeing Big
Fish initiated reflection on what was important to her and how she wanted to live her
life. Even though she did not actually think that Big Fish would be equally engaging for
all spectators, aspects of it were nevertheless very relevant to her.

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 My friend’s emotional reactions are of a strictly personal nature, not specifically
intended by the film, and presumably not shared with other spectators. Her response to
the film was an idiosyncratic response. What does film theory have to say about such
idiosyncratic responses? Not much, as we shall see. In the writings of philosopher Noël
Carroll, for example,
[imagining how we would act or feel] seems to me to be an inappropriate response
to fiction, since the author generally does not intend that we imagine how we, as
readers, feel. That may be to leave off paying attention to the story and instead to
wander off into some fantasy (Carroll 1998a: 355, original emphasis).

In this way, current film theory deems idiosyncratic responses, such as my friend’s
experience with Big Fish, inappropriate, supposedly because the film narrative does
not intend them, because they vary between different spectators, and because little can
seemingly be said about them in general. It has proven to be difficult, however, to settle
the question as to exactly what responses or imaginings are appropriate in relation to
fiction: Kendall Walton discusses this as what games of make-believe are authorized
by a fiction (Walton 1990), and Susan Feagin as what kind of responses are warranted
by a fiction (Feagin 1996). Feagin states the problem in relation to her object of study,
literature:
[A]m I reacting negatively because I’m in a bad mood? With pleasure because I
like cats and there is a cat in the story? With fear because I break out in a sweat
at the mere thought of spiders? Are these appropriate responses nevertheless?
Do they have anything to do with appreciating the work as literature? (Feagin
1996: 146)

In most people’s intuition, imagining what you will make for dinner will probably
not count as a warranted response, indeed not as engagement in the fiction film at all.
Imagining about oneself, however, may sometimes not just be a distraction, but count
as a response prompted by the film. In the present paper, I will argue that certain film
techniques do make idiosyncratic responses appropriate and warranted. I shall argue that
we can say something in general about idiosyncratic responses to fiction film. Building
on existing theories and empirical findings on emotional engagement in fiction film and
literature in general, I will concentrate on one type of idiosyncratic response previously
not investigated in film theory: I will explore how empathy, defined as sharing aspects
of a character’s experience, may lead the spectator to reflect about himself.

Theoretical Background
Regarding emotional responses to fiction film, the most productive field is the loosely
defined theoretical movement cognitive film theory. Cognitive film theory was formed
by a group of philosophers, psychologists and film scholars as a reaction against struc-
turalist psychoanalytic and linguistic film theory. Cognitive film theory is characterized
by an orientation towards cognitive science and analytical philosophy for a theory that
is “science oriented, committed to the power of argument, and focused on particular
problems rather than on building a grand historical synthesis”, in the words of one of
its major contributors, philosopher Gregory Currie (2004: 156).

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 The emotional reactions that cognitive film theorists discuss are common to all spec-
tators. This is quite clear in the writings of psychologist and film theorist Ed S. Tan, for
example, when he states that
we assume that the watching of a feature film is accompanied by homogeneous
experiences, (i.e., that the experiences of various viewers are comparable), the
reason being that the effects intended by the maker are operative in all viewers
(Tan 1996: 154).

Tan’s project, typical for the field, is to explain the “systematics of the emotions evoked
by films” (ibid: 195). One basic assumption common to some of the most influential
theorists in cognitive film theory seems to be that emotional reactions that are not de-
termined by the film are not a relevant object of study: Individually different emotional
reactions seem to lie beyond the scope of cognitive film theory. The research interest of
cognitive film theory is in fictional or narrative emotions, as well as aesthetic emotions
prompted by the film. Examples of aesthetic emotions are admiration and wonder at the
excellence of the acting, film technique and other things to do with the film as artefact,
an object made by someone (Tan 1996: 64-65). Fictional and aesthetic emotions are
seen as conventional responses prompted by the film and more or less common to all
spectators.
It is probable that there are conventional narrative and aesthetic emotions common
to most spectators, and I will later explain why this is so. I will nevertheless also argue
that cognitive film theory can, and should, say something about individually different
emotional responses. The present paper will sketch topics for such a study. In order to
do this, I shall use empirical research on emotional reactions that extend beyond conven-
tional engagement. These empirical studies are mostly from the field of reader response
research on literature. As a theoretical movement with varying directions of research,
reader response theory shares with reception analysis in media studies a focus on how
reading literature or watching media programmes is interactive, and how meaning is
developed in interaction between reader and text. The reader is thus regarded as an ac-
tive participant who uses the literary text performatively, and reception is thus expected
to differ across individual spectators.
While cognitive film theory also sees the spectator as actively making sense of films,
the emphasis is often on cognitive and emotional mechanisms that all spectators pre-
sumably share – or on the universal features of our cognitive and emotional make-up.
Reader response research tends to put more focus on personal differences in reading, or
on the cultural or ethnographic perspectives now dominating media reception analysis.1
Thus, a typical reception analysis of film involves studying the social context of film
viewing (e.g., Kuhn 2002) and the importance of cultural context for interpretation (e.g.,
Staiger 1992, 2000). It is beyond the scope of the present paper to give an overview of
this field of research.2 Though I shall use some research from media studies, the reader
response studies of literature that I concentrate on have a more strictly individual focus
on emotional engagement that serves my purpose well.
The present discussion stays within the scope of cognitive film theory’s theoretical
exploration of intersubjective conditions for film engagement. The viewers of fiction
film I discuss here are a theoretical construct – referred to as the spectator – and not the
empirically studied audiences of reception analysis. I shall argue that there is something

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to be said in general about the structure of individually different emotional engagement
in fiction film – our emotional make-up may make empathy turn to self-reflection. The
specific emotional manifestations of this will vary between individuals, but the structure
of the engagement will have something in common. It is this structure I will now explore
theoretically. My investigation will not dwell on textual analysis of films, as my aim is
to explore the intersubjective conditions of film engagement. Neither will my investi-
gation lay claim to empirical findings – my efforts are to clarify the relation between
empathy and self-reflection conceptually. Having said that, it is my hope and belief that
this conceptual investigation will facilitate empirical research on actual audiences, which
again could lead to modification of my theoretical suggestions.

Emotions in Fiction Film Engagement

A premise in the present exploration is that emotions are self-implicating. This is im-
portant in current cognitive science on emotions, and it is called the functional theory
of emotions. An important proponent of this theory is psychologist Nico H. Frijda
(1986, 1988). His theory has been influential in discussions of emotional reactions to
film (Grodal 1997; Tan 1996) and to literature (Robinson 2005). Emotions are seen as
functional for the individual because they serve as an automatic appraisal of a situa-
tion – an evaluation of the importance of a situation for the individual’s wants, wishes,
interests and goals. The emotions are automatic physiological responses to a situation
that draw attention to how the situation is relevant to the individual’s well-being. This
can be more or less dependent on conscious evaluation. While Frijda stresses the sub-
conscious appraisal of emotions, another influential psychologist, Richard S. Lazarus
(1991), points to the way conscious evaluation also influences emotional experience. In
any case, knowledge about a situation is not emotional before it touches upon personal
well-being. Emotions show that I, subconsciously or consciously, have made an appraisal
of a situation’s relevance to me. I will thus not react emotionally to something that is
of no relevance to me – or in other words, if I do react emotionally to something, it is
because it is perceived as somehow relevant.3
At first glance, this does not seem to be true for emotional responses to fiction, as
we do not inhabit the storyworld, and it is, after all, only fictional. What relevance do
the characters’ experiences have for us? In philosophy of fiction, this has been debated
as the paradox of fiction – initiated by Colin Radford’s conclusion that it is inconsistent
of us to respond emotionally to events we know are not true (Radford 1975). Neverthe-
less, the emotions in relation to fiction do point to relevance to the spectator, and are
no exception to the way emotions work in general. Conventionally, the relevance to the
spectator is through sympathy and empathy with the characters in the fiction (cf. Tan
1996). Sympathy entails having the character’s interests in mind, and seeing the charac-
ter as having morally desirable traits (Murray Smith 1995: 188). I have sympathy with
a character if I feel sorry when he is losing a fight, for example, because I want him to
win. I see his interests as morally preferable. In sympathetic engagement, we can say
that the relevance of my emotional reaction as a spectator is for me who has sympathy
with the character’s goals and desires. Furthermore, in a wider sense, all members of a
moral community should be concerned to see the right sort of response to a particular
kind of action or attitude. Moral evaluation in this way is a part of engagement in works

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of fiction – the spectator may feel outrage when a fiction, in his view, does not express
the right sort of moral attitude. Thus, fiction may be relevant to the spectator as part of
a moral community. The spectator’s moral feelings are activated, and he will want the
right moral attitude to prevail.4
Empathy entails feeling aspects of what the character is experiencing; knowing that
it is the character’s experience I am feeling. I have empathy with a character if I feel
his pain in the fight, and ascribe this feeling to him, to stay with the same example. It is
empathy if I feel aspects of his frustration or his anger over losing the fight. Empathy can
thus involve aspects of shared feeling with a character, while sympathy as feeling for a
character entails a different emotional experience than the character’s.5 We can state this
relevance as being to “me as the character” in empathic engagement. When feeling his
painful experiences, empathy will make me perceive his pain as relevant to me as well.
This is especially true if I also have sympathy for him; I can feel the pain of a moral main
character I have sympathy with easier than with a terrible villain (see, e.g., Zillmann
1994). Thus, through empathic and sympathetic engagement in the fictional characters,
the spectator will emote to their experiences because he has an interest in the characters’
goals, desires and well-being. When engaging in the fictional world of the film, the spec-
tator constructs a “we” in such a way that the character’s well-being also becomes the
spectator’s concern. As with emotions in general, however, the self-implicating nature
of empathy need not be conscious – it may in fact normally be outside my reflective
awareness, influencing my concerns, interest and engagement nonetheless.
Emotional reactions are usually, at least in part, common to all spectators and can
be said to be intended by the film when the spectator engages empathically and sym-
pathetically in fiction film. These conventional, narrative emotions are cognitive film
theory’s main concern. Stories of social realism or naturalism (and the great majority
of mainstream fiction film will fall into such a wide category) seek to tell stories of
general human interest, and emotional themes that are relevant and recognizable to
many. Humans react emotionally in a similar way to many situations: The clearer the
impact and consequences of a situation are, the more similar humans will react. Severe
loss and threat of death, for example, produce more uniform emotional reactions than
do situations that are open to interpretation (Lazarus 1991: 19-20). Some of the emo-
tional responses to films are so-called basic emotions (cf. Ekman 1982, 2003), that is,
emotional reactions that are innate and universal. Some fear and startle responses to
frightening films, as when the monster suddenly attacks in Alien (Ridley Scott 1979),
for example, are most probably hardwired and common to all spectators. Lazarus (1991:
121ff) points out how there are some core relational themes even in more complex emo-
tions: A specific relation between an individual and his environment characterizes each
emotion. An individual will experience fear, for example, when faced with an “immedi-
ate, concrete, and overwhelming physical danger”, while feeling anxiety when “facing
uncertain, existential threat” (ibid: 122). Thus, as the emotional system is the same in
all humans, and our individual experiences affect only parts of this system, some basic
emotional responses to fiction film will probably be shared by most spectators within
a given cultural context.
Nonetheless, through a network of associations and prior emotional experiences,
the emotion system also becomes personalized.6 While watching film, our personal,
idiosyncratic emotional reactions will, in all probability, be activated just as easily as

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shared emotional responses – it may just be more difficult to say something about them
theoretically. Whether or not idiosyncratic responses are considered warranted responses
to the fiction film, it is at least important to acknowledge the fact that such responses
do occur. As all spectators have their specific, personalized emotional associations and
reactions, idiosyncratic responses to fiction probably run alongside the shared ones. This
may usually remain in the back of my mind, however. It may not draw my conscious
attention – but merely be one part of the emotional resonance any given scene in a film
creates in the spectator, perhaps merely giving the scene a stronger sense of relevance
to the spectator.
Nevertheless, from time to time more strictly personal matters may complicate
conventional fictional engagement. Spectators may have such strong and striking idi-
osyncratic responses to films that it draws their attention, such as my friend’s experience
with Big Fish. What is the difference between the emotional reactions brought about by
sympathy and empathy in conventional narrative or fictional engagement, on the one
hand, and those of a more personal nature, on the other? About this existing film theory
has had little to say.
The answer may lie in the nature of conventional fictional engagement. Fictional
engagement will be experienced, metaphorically speaking, as partially a transportation
of the spectator to the narrative or fictional world (Gerrig 1993). Fictional engagement
gives a feeling of being lost or absorbed; the spectator is fully concentrated on the events
of the fiction, he may lose track of time and fail to notice events occurring around him
(Green et al. 2004). Fictional engagement is thus enjoyable because the spectator is
relieved of the stress and worries of everyday life, and given an opportunity to get away
from self-focus. We can say that experiencing empathy and sympathy with characters in
fiction conventionally is an enjoyable form of escapism for the spectator. Empathy and
sympathy pull the spectator into fictional engagement by making the characters’ concerns
the spectator’s concerns. This is not experienced as being as stressful as it would have
been had the spectator been concerned about his own well-being directly.
Nevertheless, when the fiction film gets close to the spectator’s real life, and awakens
memories, associations or reflections of surprising and perhaps painful magnitude, this
enjoyable state of fictional engagement may be disturbed momentarily or permanently.
When surprising or disturbing emotional reactions trigger strong personal relevance,
the enjoyable feeling of transportation that characterizes fiction film engagement may
be disturbed. Awakening the relevance of particular real life situations will probably be
experienced differently than the typical absorption of fictional engagement – there is
now direct relevance to the spectator’s own well-being, and not just indirectly through
engagement in the characters’ fates. In reflecting on his engagement both during and
after the film viewing, the spectator will probably have a sense of whether his reactions
are intended by, and consistent with, the fiction film, or of mere personal relevance.
Arguably, at least reflective spectators will probably be able to separate emotional
reactions that are conventional and those that are more individually relevant when the
typical relaxing and effortless fiction film engagement is disturbed, as in the latter case.
It is the kind of responses that trigger strong personal associations and relevance that
is my concern here. I shall now make some suggestions as to how such strong personal
engagement may occur.

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Beyond Mere Fictional Engagement
Through Freshly Perceived Experiences
While engaging empathically, the spectator’s own autobiographical memories may be
actualized. Something in the character’s experience may remind the spectator of some-
thing he once experienced. Using one’s own memories to corroborate the character’s
experience is important in the empathic process (cf. Hoffman 2000: 47ff, see also Currie
1997: 74-75). Engaging in a story that is somewhat similar to my own, I may process
my memories about my own story implicitly through my empathic engagement in the
fictional character.7
If something in the empathic experience is perceived as especially important to the
spectator personally, this may result in an emotional reaction in response to the empathic
experience. For example, the spectator may consciously re-experience memories that
were forgotten. A bodily or emotional experience the character has may be similar in
some respects to the spectator’s bodily or emotional memory of a past experience. Per-
haps it is the narrative feeling that is similar – an emotional process that is common to the
film sequence and the memory.8 The similarity may re-awaken the old bodily and emo-
tional feeling with unexpected force. This memory, re-experienced in the new context
of the fictional narrative, is likely to trigger the spectator’s attention and reflection.
The spectator may also experience something so bodily and emotionally new in em-
pathic engagement that this in itself will draw attention. When engaging empathically,
the spectator may learn what it is like to be in situations he has never experienced in
real life, and probably never will – what it feels like to experience the beginning of a
new ice age and that large parts of mankind have died, for example, or what it feels like
to be able to fly, have superpowers and save the world, or to be a soldier in the trenches
of the losing side of a war.9 The emotional experience may in these cases be surprising
and unfamiliar, and this may compel him to reflect.
In such ways, empathic engagement may strike the spectator as defamiliarizing or
thought-provoking. In the case of re-evoked memories, the sensation of having the old
bodily feeling in a new context may be thought-provoking: What was it I felt back then?
Why did the film remind me of it – how did my experience resemble the character’s?
With new and unfamiliar experiences, the sensation of having felt bodily and emotionally
something radically different from one’s own everyday experiences may foster reflec-
tion: What did that really feel like? What consequences does this experience have for
my evaluation of similar cases? Thus, in both cases, empathic engagement is productive
in a way that may trigger reflection.

From Empathy to In-his-shoes Imagining

In conventional empathic engagement, I am using myself to understand how the fic-
tional character feels. Furthermore, empathic engagement in a fictional character may
also make the spectator start wondering how he would actually feel if he were in the
character’s shoes. This is a different kind of imaginative engagement: in in-his-shoes
imagining the focus is on how one would feel in the other’s shoes.10 In psychology, this
is called egoistic drift (Hoffmann 2000: 54ff).11 Empathic engagement easily turns to
in-his-shoes imagining about how I would feel if I were in the other’s shoes. This may
give stronger emotional engagement than “pure” empathic engagement because I am

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imagining something about me directly – it activates an evaluation of the possible con-
sequences for my own well-being. This is supported by experimental research showing
that self-focused role-taking (in-his-shoes imagining) produces more distress than does
other-focused role-taking (empathy) (Batson et al. 1997).
In reality, all empathic engagement probably does have elements of both types of
imagining – or in other words, imaginative engagement with others probably entails
intertwining bits of in-his-shoes imagining to fill out the empathic act. I may not be
able to understand how you are feeling without also imagining how I would have felt
in your shoes.
In real life, this could create problems – the tendency for empathy to change to im-
agining what I would feel in your situation may make me focus more on the possible
implications for me than on the actual implications for you. In-his-shoes imagining may
draw my focus away from you and towards myself. Hoffman points out that egoistic
drift thus reveals the fragility of empathy (Hoffman 2000: 56). The affective reaction
may make me lose my focus on the other, such as in empathy, and drift onto an egoistic
concern about how stressful the empathic experience was for me. In general, personal
distress due to empathic experience would perhaps be deemed childish in real life, as
prior to empathic maturity children more easily lose focus on the suffering other and
attract attention to their own empathically aroused distress.12
In relation to fiction, however, egoistic drift may be less problematic for reasons I
shall return to later. One of Hoffman’s examples of egoistic drift in adults is indeed a
report about an experience with fiction film. An undergraduate reports from seeing the
film Steel Magnolias:
I was able to keep my composure until that last scene. As M’Lynn became hys-
terical (…) I began to remember witnessing the same actions… performed by my
grandmother. I became hysterical. My focus was no longer on Shelby and M’Lynn
[characters in the film] but rather on my grandmother. I remember how I felt after
my aunt died leaving behind her two children. I felt the pain and depression all
over again. My friends who were watching the movie with me assumed I was
crying because of the movie but in actuality the tears were because of my own
life (Hoffman 2000: 57).

Egoistic drift may cause the spectator to shift and adjust between fictional engagement
and self-reflection – between himself and the character in his imaginative engagement.
This will make him reflect both on what he and the character have in common and on
how they differ. In this manner, a dialectic movement is triggered, and this may be
experienced as transformative.13 Our tendency towards egoistic drift may thus be of
value in relation to fiction, just as it may be a problem for our empathic tendencies in
real life. The reflection on fictional engagement might give rise to self-modifying feel-
ings. Perhaps this process can be called catharsis. As Martha Nussbaum has pointed
out (Nussbaum 1986: 388ff), catharsis of the emotional life of the spectator is not, as
often misunderstood, a purification of emotions. Catharsis is rather a clarification of
the spectator’s emotional experience (see also Oatley 1994: 71). Thus, we can say that
fiction can help the spectator clarify his emotional experiences by causing him to reflect
on what caused the emotional reactions, why these reactions may have been particularly
strong, what in his own life may trigger such a feeling of relevance, etc.

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From Transportation to Transformation
I have suggested that an odd, unexpected or especially strong emotional experience with
the fictional world may cause the spectator to relate to the film unconventionally. He will
have more personal associations and engage in more effortful reflection on what in the
film brought about the reaction. The spectator’s conventional understanding has been
challenged by his own emotional reactions. Regarding reading of literature, literary theo-
rist David S. Miall and psychologist Don Kuiken, as well as psychologist Keith Oatley,
have researched such a transition in the reader’s engagement. A new affective context
has arisen in such episodes of unexpected emotional experience. The defamiliarizing
emotional episode makes it more likely that the spectator’s engagement will become
non-conventional and more personal. Strictly narrative or fictional emotions, used to
understand the narrative, will now more likely motivate or trigger non-conventional
associations and reflections. The transition from fictional engagement to self-reflection
is characterized by a change from being transported into the fictional world to an expe-
rience of the fictional world also contributing to a potential transformation of the real
self (e.g., Oatley 1994, 2002).
Empirical reader response research has shown that such episodes are characterized
by slower reading. Miall and Kuiken found that the reader will read slower and with
more insecurity as the unfamiliar in the emotional episode challenges his existing hori-
zon of understanding of the text, its meaning and its relevance to him (Miall & Kuiken
2002: 224ff). More associations and more reflection demand more time than simple
fictional engagement, as Oatley points out (Oatley 1994: 59). The spectator will engage
more in trying to revise and reconstruct his own emotional experience than in straight-
forward fictional understanding of the text. Readers of literature slow down because
self-reflective engagement demands more time. This may indicate that the engagement
is becoming multi-levelled – perhaps the readers reflect upon personal matters in addi-
tion to exploring fictional (as well as aesthetic) issues. This is described as an episode
structure in readers’ engagement (Miall & Kuiken 2001).14 This is a more demanding
form of engagement, where the fiction is explored in episodic succession to real world
memories and emotional consequences for the spectator.

Suggestions as to How Fiction Film Elicits Self-Reflection

Lacking equivalent empirical research on fiction film, it is not easy to predict how
episodes of self-reflection will affect the spectator’s engagement. Miall and Kuiken’s
research on literature shows that readers slow down in order to have time for more as-
sociation and reflection. Film, however, moves on in time regardless of the spectator’s
activity. One might perhaps suggest that the medium of video allows more self-reflection
as the spectator can stop the film to reflect, and resume when ready to engage fictionally.
Breaking viewings into sessions may enable reflection in between viewings. This may be
especially relevant in relation to epic films or TV-series, but also with ordinary feature
films. It is nevertheless not my experience that spectators usually behave this way with
fiction film, and I will restrict my discussion here to fiction film only.
If the spectator does not stop the film, and it moves on in time, episodes of self-
reflection may make the spectator fall out of fictional engagement, at least momentarily,
as he will probably, unless overwhelmed, only briefly reflect on the personal relevance

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of the narrative, and then return to fictional engagement. While falling out of literary
engagement means that you stop reading, or read more slowly, falling out of fictional en-
gagement in film means that the spectator misses out on ongoing narrative developments.
It also means that if the narrative development continues, the spectator must probably
resume self-reflecting after the film viewing. Thus, let me first tentatively assume that
the spectator of film might be expected to fall out of strict narrative engagement dur-
ing such episodes, and that important parts of self-reflection must occur after the film
viewing is over. Murray Smith introduces the term retrospective empathy, contrasting it
with occurent empathy (Murray Smith 2006), to account for, amongst other things, the
increasing tendency to consume fiction in a dispersed fashion. Independently of this,
however, retrospective empathy may also occur after seeing fiction film in one continu-
ous block, as the spectator reflects on the experience afterwards. Retrospective empathy
could thus trigger self-reflection after the film viewing is over.
Nevertheless, one reason why spectators may not miss out on narrative development
when experiencing idiosyncratic responses is that fiction films often give the spectator
enough time at important points in the narrative to reflect and associate. Thus, while
readers of literature make time themselves at important points in the narrative, filmic
narratives often make time for the spectator. One can say that, in this way, some types
of film and some types of film scenes do anticipate idiosyncratic responses, that is, re-
sponses that vary between spectators and are of a more personal nature. Self-reflection
is prompted, authorized and warranted by the fiction film at important points in the
narrative.
Film theorist Torben Kragh Grodal (2000) discusses how films may elicit subjective
associations. He writes:
The simplest way of evoking a subjective feeling is by showing images, which
only elicit a very limited amount of propositions and which have no links to
some concerns of some protagonists. The viewer will quickly make all the cued
propositions, and if the sequence goes on beyond the time when all possibilities
for making propositions are depleted, the mind will shift into a subjective mode
(Grodal 2000: 90).

Thus, if a film sequence lasts longer than the spectator needs to draw the available or
probable inferences required to anticipate action and emotional outcome for the char-
acters, for example, the spectator will start making subjective associations to give the
scene additional meaning. Hence, if film sequences do not offer something that can
focus the spectator’s attention in objective, narrative terms, the spectator will shift to an
unfocused, associative mode. Subjective feelings are activated by unfocused associative
procedures in order to make sense of the sequence by finding subjective meaning in it.
Grodal thus argues that film scenes that block or impede conventional narrative under-
standing primarily elicit subjectivity in film. This is still not yet the same phenomenon
as I have discussed as self-reflection – but starting to make personal associations may
certainly trigger self-reflection, as I have described it.
Film theorist Barbara Klinger makes a related point to Grodal’s in her discussion
of The Piano (Jane Campion 1993) (Klinger 2006). She argues that art film typically
contains what she calls arresting images, that is, images that occur

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 when a film stops to contemplate an exquisitely composed, significantly evoca-
tive and/or uncanny image. The forward motion of the narrative slows down or
temporarily halts, allowing this spectacle to capture fully our attention. (…) The
exact meaning of the arresting image is unclear; it is at once visually stirring and
interpretively opaque. (…) Just as it forestalls easy interpretation, its emotional
effects are both intricate and obscure (Klinger 2006: 24).

Arresting images do not merely entail slowing down of narrative development, but are
images deliberately indeterminate and incomplete in narrative meaning. Klinger argues
that arresting images activate the spectator’s intertextual associations, and also, more
relevant to my concerns, the spectator’s personal experience. In line with Grodal and
Klinger’s argument, my first suggestion is that some form of narrative openness in fiction
film scenes may facilitate idiosyncratic responses such as self-reflection.
Arresting images as inscrutable immobilizations of narrative flow are most typical of
art films. Nonetheless, mainstream fiction film may also contain scenes that tend towards
the subjective-lyrical mode that Grodal discusses, and Klinger’s arresting images. One
typical example of arresting images in mainstream films is perhaps what film theorist
Carl Plantinga calls scenes of empathy (Plantinga 1999). These are scenes, typically
towards the end of films, that dwell on a close-up of an emotional face. The spectator’s
attention is focused on the character’s experience. The scene is longer than necessary
merely to communicate the character’s emotional state to the spectator. The scene of
empathy is intended to elicit an empathic response, argues Plantinga.
One can take this argument a step further and claim that scenes of empathy tend
towards making arresting images in mainstream film. The emotional face is dwelled
upon so as to maximize the spectator’s emotional engagement, giving him time to make
further associations and reflections. Scenes of empathy give the spectator time for ego-
istic drift and self-reflection without falling out of narrative development, allowing for
a dialectic between empathy and in-his-shoes imagining. Although scenes of empathy in
mainstream film may not be characterized by interpretative ambiguity, the sheer length
of the scenes will often induce the spectator to turn to more subjective associations. My
second hypothesis is, thus, that giving the spectator enough time facilitates idiosyncratic
responses. Scenes that linger longer than narratively necessary, although not interpreta-
tively ambiguous, may facilitate idiosyncratic responses in the spectator.
A critic might at this point suggest that provocative scenes, such as many scenes in
horror films or unpleasant scenes, might be equally good candidates for facilitating self-
reflection as scenes that linger longer than narratively necessary. There are probably
many good candidates besides the ones mentioned. At this point, I have deliberately tried
to avoid the (difficult) question of what filmic content may facilitate self-reflection, and
merely make a point about filmic narration: Scenes that last longer than necessary to make
sense narratively, and/or that are interpretatively ambiguous, facilitate self-reflection, as
the spectator will be encouraged to find personal meaning in the scene depicted.
It is nevertheless tempting to add a third hypothesis concerning the content of the nar-
rative. As Currie points out, for example, a well-made narrative can encourage reflection
in ways other than real life can – talented filmmakers construct narratives to be instructive
for reflection (Currie 1998: 171). One could thus argue that films with a certain complexity
in narrative and characters are more likely to trigger self-reflection, as stereotype narratives

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are less likely to induce the surprising, odd or unexpected feelings perhaps typical for trig-
gering self-reflection. Existing empirical research, however, gives no clear backing for such
a hypothesis. In her interviews of audiences, media theorist Birgitta Höijer (1998) found
that the genre of ‘social-realistic’ fiction films in particular evokes personal memories and
reflection. Thus, the closer films come to viewers’ own lives, the more viewers use them
for personal reflection. Perhaps familiarity, and not necessarily complexity, is the most
effective elicitor of self-reflection. Then again, media theorist Ien Ang (1985) found in
her research that even the glamorous and, for most spectators, far-fetched stories of soap
operas have emotional realism for some groups of spectators. In this way, one could argue
that stereotyped characters are most likely to trigger self-reflection in many spectators,
as their experiences to some degree touch upon universal issues such as the mother-child
relation, loss of loved ones, etc. The empirical research is ambiguous at this point, and I
will make no further hypotheses concerning the contents of films and self-reflection.

Fictional Context as Coping Mechanism

To further characterize self-reflection in relation to fiction film, I shall now look at the
differences its special context – fiction – makes for the spectator’s engagement.
Several cognitive scientists have pointed out that people display varying ways of
handling their own emotional responses. Most notably, Lazarus (1991) has for decades
carried out influential research on how people have coping mechanisms that help deal
with emotional reactions. A coping mechanism is a way to think about or otherwise
handle the first automatic physiological appraisal or reaction. If I feel ashamed, I can
blame someone else; if I feel scared of social situations, I can decide to avoid them in
the future; if I am deeply disappointed with my friend’s behaviour, I may stop thinking
about her as a friend. Thus, by redefining how I think about something, I can handle
my own emotional reaction.
This is an important addition to the functional theory of emotion: what Lazarus is
pointing out is how the way we think about our own physiological affective reaction
makes a difference for the emotional experience. Thus, in this way, emotions can be seen
as processes through which automatic affective reactions trigger cognitive monitoring,
which in turn changes the affective appraisal.15
Lazarus and colleagues have conducted research on such coping mechanisms in
relation to film viewing (e.g., Lazarus & Alfert 1964). Lazarus showed subjects a film
of a painful pubertal ceremony that involved making incisions in young boys’ penises.
By manipulating the film, Lazarus demonstrated how the subjects were able to modify
their own emotional reaction while seeing this. That is, it was the researchers who gave
these subjects various coping mechanisms, but it nevertheless shows that subjects are
able to manage their emotional reactions when given appropriate techniques to do so.
One such technique was a soundtrack with a voiceover telling the subjects that the
ritual was actually enjoyable for the young boys. This moderated the response, as did a
voiceover that intellectualized about the events in anthropological terms. This showed
that the subjects were able to reappraise the situation when offered a coping mechanism
by the film’s voiceover.
Philosopher Jenefer Robinson (2005: 195ff) points out that the formal qualities of
artwork, or in our context fiction film, may play the role of coping mechanisms in the

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emotional interplay with the film. An important difference between having an emotional
experience in real life and with film is that, while the subject must construct his own
coping mechanisms in real life, film has formal devices that can act as ready-made
coping mechanisms for the subject. The film spectator’s responses are guided and man-
aged through the film’s form and structure. A typical coping mechanism that Robinson
points to is the difference between story and plot, for example (Robinson 2005: 214):
in order to deal with painful experiences, the film may wait until the proper moment
to reveal past traumatic experiences. In Capote (Bennett Miller 2005), for example,
flashbacks of a murder are shown late in the film, when the spectator ought to be able
to focus intellectually on the protagonist Capote’s question of why they did it. The
late flashbacks of the murders occur in a narrative context where the spectator will be
more able to avoid being merely overwhelmed by their brutality, but to be better able
to reflect upon them. Thus, in fiction film, narrative techniques are used to allow the
spectator to see traumatic events in flashback at appropriate times for coping with the
narrative.
Another typical coping mechanism films often offer is that of comic relief (Robinson
2005: 226, see also Grodal 1997: 197ff). A typical example is perhaps La Vita È Bella
(Roberto Benigni 1997), where the main character’s humour is used to facilitate watch-
ing the cruelties of a Nazi death camp. Thus, Robinson points out that not only do people
have their own coping mechanisms – fiction film in addition offers spectators coping
mechanisms to deal with its content. The coping mechanisms Robinson discusses are
in this way given by the films.
Yet Robinson somehow neglects the important coping mechanism that lies in the
awareness of the fictional context alone.16 Madelon Sprengnether writes her memoirs
based on fiction films to which she had intense emotional reactions at important turning
points in her own life. She thus investigates how fiction film can actualize memories
and help the spectator work through loss, such as her own loss of her father at age nine.
She writes that
[w]hen bad things happened to me in real life, I didn’t react. I seemed cool or
indifferent. Yet in the dark and relative safety of the movie theatre, I would weep
over fictional tragedies, over someone else’s suffering. (Sprengnether 2002: 6)

Crying at the movies, I have come to understand, was a way for me to begin to feel
the pain of my father’s death. The loss I could not acknowledge in my own life I
could recognize and react to onscreen. It was as though the sadness I had buried
when I was nine years old lay deep within my psyche, waiting for its shadow im-
age to appear in the dreamlike space of the movie theatre (ibid: 11).

An essential and highly important difference between emotional responses in real life
and in relation to fiction film is the “safety net” of the fictional context. Merely knowing
that the emotional engagement is with something fictional may facilitate the specta-
tor’s courage to explore emotionally problematic issues. If the emotional engagement
becomes too painful, the spectator may distance himself. Or, as Tan puts it, the stronger
the emotional reactions, the more probable it is that the spectator will become aware
that his own engagement is exactly in a fiction (Tan 1996: 65): In fictional contexts, the
self-implicating effect of emotions can lead to awareness of the artificiality of the film,
giving the spectator aesthetic distance from what caused the emotion.

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 Through empathy with fictional characters, the spectator may touch upon themes of
personal relevance subconsciously or consciously. If the empathic experience attracts
the subject’s reflective consciousness, it may trigger self-reflection. The subject has the
safety net of the fictional context if these reflections become too painful. The spectator
can then distance himself from the similarity with the fictional characters, withdraw
from personal reflection and focus on other aspects of the ongoing film – fictional or
aesthetic issues. The egoistic drift of the empathic experience caused the spectator to
reflect on himself, but the empathic experience also affords the spectator an easy way
out of existentially threatening reflection. If the spectator’s reflection becomes too
painful, the spectator can always distance himself from it by focusing on the state of
the character and not on himself. Thus the spectator can use a character’s experience to
reflect on similarities with his own life in a controlled fictional context that also gives
him available distancing techniques if the reflection becomes too painful.

The Difference Between Empathy

with Fictional Characters and Empathy in Real Life
Arguably, fiction film allows the spectator to use his empathic experience for self-reflec-
tion more easily than real life empathy. First, it has been pointed out that the spectator
may feel empathy with characters in fiction film more easily than with real-life people.
The reason for this is that it is less risky to involve oneself emotionally in another fic-
tional human being than in real-life humans. Empathizing with real-life humans may
entail a moral obligation to help them, if we understand that this is needed. Failing
to help may lead to feelings of guilt.17 In real life, we might feel the need to protect
ourselves from this obligation to help by not allowing ourselves to empathize. Fiction,
however, releases the spectator from the need to protect himself from this obligation to
help, as fictional characters cannot be helped (see Keen 2007: 88,106-7; Tan 1996: 55,
76; see also Oatley 2002: 63-4).
Related to this, it may also be easier to empathize with characters in fiction film than
with real-life peers because the film is a limited experience, where the spectator can
foresee the length and intensity of his empathic involvement. The spectator does not
risk an overwhelming empathic commitment in another person.18
Furthermore, it may be easier to empathize with characters in fiction than in other
real-life humans, because fiction does not invoke any practical self-interests. The specta-
tor is thus free to focus totally on the characters’ interests (see Coplan 2006).
In addition to these suggestions as to why it is perceived as less risky to empathize
with fictional characters, I argue that it is also easier to reflect on one’s own empathic
experience in relation to fiction. Why? In real life, there is a moral imperative to focus
on the other’s experience in empathy. Focusing or attracting attention to one’s own
empathic distress would be regarded as infantile and self-absorbed – if you are in pain
and I empathize with you, it is not acceptable for me to draw your, or any bystander’s,
attention to how painful it is for me to feel your pain. With fiction, this is not so. I can
very well focus on my own empathic distress and reflect on my own empathic experi-
ence. Furthermore, if I have a moral obligation to focus on the other and possibly help
the other in experiences of real-life empathy, I may not have the capacity to reflect on
these experiences. This looks very different with regard to fiction. In relation to fiction,

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the lack of any moral obligation to the fictional character facilitates such reflection on
the on-going empathic experience.
A psychologist I once met had her own story to share with me to illustrate this.
Working with refugees, her therapy sessions entailed listening to stories about many
traumatic experiences. She told me that after she had started this job, she had begun
crying in excess in the cinema. All stories about loss or trauma, and not just stories
about refugees, would break her down completely. Jokingly she added that her husband
refused to accompany her to the cinema, as all the fun seemed to have gone out of it.
It was certainly not difficult to see that she needed a place for her own reactions to the
refugees’ stories, as her role as psychologist demanded that she kept herself composed
and let her patients be her emotional focus. Thus, for some spectators or in some periods
of life, fiction film as a kind of “cleansing kit” or “try-out laboratory” for empathy may
be at the very core of spectator engagement. In general, to the degree that reflection
about one’s own emotional reactions is central to emotional maturity, fiction film may
play an important part in our emotional life.
The Kantian principle that one should never use other humans only as means to reach
a target does not perhaps apply to fictional human beings, who can very well be, and
usually are, used instrumentally for pleasure, entertainment and self-reflection. This
difference between fictional and real-life contexts is also evident in the fact that the
spectator of a tragic fiction film can both wish for the story to go well for the character,
and at the same time also wish for the story to go badly because he wants to see a really
tragic story. The first type of wish is what Currie calls character desires, and the second
narrative desires (Currie 1999). In relation to tragedy, these two kinds of desire are
usually opposed. The important point to keep in mind here is that it is only in fictional
contexts that it is not only legitimate, but quite common, to have opposing character
and narrative desires. In real life it would be immoral to have sympathy for someone
yet want it to go badly for him because one is in the mood for, or in need of, a tragic
story.19 Thus, the quite common opposition between narrative and character desires in
relation to fiction would be immoral in real life.

Empirical Research on Who Uses Fiction Film this Way

Is my anecdote about my friend’s experience with Big Fish merely a unique example,
making my theoretical suggestions in this paper superfluous for film theory? No. There
is empirical research on literature to back my assumptions about the occurrence of
self-reflection. This makes it likely that spectators reflect on themselves in response
to fiction film as well. In the case of literature, between a quarter and a third of the
readers in Miall and Kuiken’s research show the typical personal, associative pattern
of reading experience discussed here as self-reflection. Thus, it may be a particular
reading strategy used only by some readers: Miall and Kuiken point to evidence that
those readers who score high on scales of “empathic ability”, “imagery vividness” and
“insight” use literature this way (Miall & Kuiken 1995). In other words, readers that
have a high ability to make characters “real”, that have a high ability to make fantasy
worlds vividly present, not only visually but also in feeling, sound and smell, and
finally that use dreams or fantasy to reflect upon themselves, report using literature
in this way.

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 There is much evidence that women report on experiencing empathy with characters
more than men (de Wied et al. 1994) and use this for self-reflection more often than
men: literary scholar Els Andringa (2004: 226ff) points to research showing not only that
women tend to identify with characters more often than men do, but furthermore that
they tend to experience a tighter connection between fiction and life in their reflections
about these experiences (see also Harper & Porter 1996). Work by Charlton and col-
leagues (2004: 256) also supports this notion. Both these studies find that men may also
use fiction to reflect on their own world, but more abstractly in the form of identifying
with situations, and reflecting on the theme of the literature. On the other hand, these
studies of gender differences ought to be read with caution, as William Ickes and colleges
found that differences in empathic abilities between men and women only manifested
when the subjects were aware that empathy was being tested (Ickes et al. 2000, Ickes
2003): They conclude that women may not have superior empathic abilities, but are sim-
ply more highly motivated to show empathic ability due to gender expectations. Women
are supposed to be more empathic than men are. Therefore, what the research certainly
makes a good case for is that women more often report these kinds of experiences with
fiction than do men. One problem with reader response research manifests itself here:
readers’ own reports may not always be a reliable source of information.
Another possibility is that readers in particular life circumstances of loss might use
this particular reading strategy. Kuiken, Miall and Sikora (2004) have empirical research
supporting this: They found that the strategy of self-reflection when reading is used to
digest a loss that occurred two to more years before (ibid: 195). Sprengnether’s (2002)
experience quoted above may be a good example.
In conclusion, it seems likely that some spectators have a disposition towards using
fiction film for self-reflection, but that a specific need for working with a particular loss
may cause larger groups of spectators to use fiction film in this way. It seems likely that
larger groups of spectators may use film this way not only in relation to a loss they are
consciously depressed about, but also in relation to a film that strikes them as emotion-
ally relevant in a way they were perhaps not prepared for, or are aware of, as with our
anecdotal example of a friend’s experience of Big Fish. Perhaps the occasional fiction
film experience of striking relevance to one’s own emotional life may trigger this special
form of engagement for large groups of spectators, but that it is typical only of a limited
group. As studies are either few or equivocal (as in the question of women being more
empathic than men), the question of who uses fiction film this way must still be left open
and is in need of further empirical study.

Conclusion
When people choose to tell me stories about engagement in fiction film, it is often per-
ceived personal relevance they talk about. I have had little to offer them in the form of
explanation from film theory. Idiosyncratic response is often deemed inappropriate and
unintended by the film. In the present paper, I have explored one type of idiosyncratic
response, namely how empathy with characters can lead to self-reflection. This can
explain, in part, my friend’s experience with Big Fish. Perhaps the father’s insistent
celebration of the qualities of the imagination caused her to empathize with him because
she is also a daydreamer. Ed’s son does not respect him, however, and this probably

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made my friend’s feelings of inadequacy also terribly salient for her. Empathy with Ed
fused with imagining being in Ed’s shoes and led to self-reflection. I have argued that
the fictional context is ideal for eliciting self-reflection, as the spectator has no moral
obligation to focus on the character he is empathizing with. Furthermore, he has ready
distancing techniques if the reflection is overwhelming. Fiction is thus far from mere
lies, as the character Ed Bloom stubbornly claims; it may have an important emotional
function for the spectator. Idiosyncratic responses may be central to this emotional
function. I hope these theoretical suggestions will facilitate further empirical research
on this important aspect of film engagement.20

Notes
1. For an expression of discontentment with Noël Carroll’s philosophy of film in a similar vein, see
Robinson (2005: 182ff). Robinson also points to reader-response theory as an important correction to
philosophy of film at this point.
2. Robert Allen (1992) and Höijer (1998) supply overviews of the history of the field of reception analysis
in media studies.
3. For a good overview of recent discussions about emotions in cognitive science, see Robinson (2005:
28ff).
4. See discussions on ethicism (e.g. Gaut 1998) and moralism (e.g. Carroll 1998b) in relation to works of
art. Ethicism claims that ethical assessment of a work of art is a legitimate part of aesthetic evaluation,
while moralism merely entails the weaker claim that we as spectators do assess works of arts morally,
and that this is an important part of understanding and engaging in the artwork. The relevance to my
discussion here is that both Gaut and Carroll point out that evaluating a character’s moral traits is im-
portant for engagement in fiction.
5. For a discussion of how empathy is important for fiction film engagement, see Vaage (2007a, 2009).
6. See, e.g., Robinson (2005) and Greg Smith (2003) for accounts in cognitive psychology and cognitive
film theory, respectively, emphasizing how the emotions are in part hardwired, but also influenced by
cultural contexts and personal experiences.
7. This may not be consciously experienced, however. See Oatley & Gholamain (1997).
8. See again Lazarus (1991: 121ff) on the core relational themes of emotions.
9. On the ”what it is like” experience, see Nagel (1974).
10. For a general philosophical discussion, see Goldie (2000: 178ff). See also Murray Smith (1995: 80).
For a discussion on what degree of self-reference engagement in fictional characters entails, see Vaage
(2005).
11. See also Goldman on projection (Goldman 2006: 164ff).
12. On the development of empathic distress, see Hoffman (2000: 63ff).
13. The parallel to how metaphors work has been pointed out, see Cohen (1999), Kuiken, Miall & Sikora
(2004: 183ff) and Miall & Kuiken (2002: 230ff). The point is how metaphors of personal identification
make what is unknown familiar by class inclusion or extension: By making me see the character’s experi-
ence as relevant to something in my own life, I may come to a new understanding of my own situation
as the character’s experience works as a metaphor for my situation – revealing some similarities that
perhaps challenge my previous understanding.
14. For a discussion of the episodic structure of engagement in fiction film, see Vaage (2007b & c).
15. See also Robinson (2005: 57ff).
16. Although she does discuss how the fictional context alters emotional responses elsewhere in her book
(Robinson 2005: 143ff).
17. For detailed discussions of empathy and guilt, see Hoffmann (2000).
18. Hanich (forthcoming) points this out not in relation to empathy, but in relation to crying in the cinema.
The emotional experience is ”pre-packaged”, as Hanich puts it.
19. A counterexample at this point would perhaps be gossip, where one could potentially, at the level of
narrative, want it to go badly for someone one cares for in real life as well. Nevertheless, gossip of this
kind is perhaps also considered immoral. Thanks to an anonymous reviewer for pointing this out.
20. An earlier version of this paper was presented at a Ph.D. seminar at the University of Oslo 2006 and at the
Norvegian Media Scholars conference in Lillehammer 2008. I am grateful to all the participants. Thanks
also to Steffen Borge, Liv Hausken, David S. Miall and Murray Smith for comments on different drafts.

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MARGRETHE BRUUN VAAGE, Ph.D., Lecturer, Department of Media and Art Stud-
ies, Norwegian University of Science and Technology, Trondheim, Norway, margrethe.
vaage@ntnu.no

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