MODERN STORIES FROM THE ANCIENT CAVE
Peter Weir’s ordinary man in a not-so-ordinary town and Ray Bradbury’s world of burning books urge us to consider the truth behind institutions.
“To them, I said, the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images.”
When ancient philosopher, Plato, wrote those words in The Allegory of the Cave, he was criticised for his thought. And in a startling display of insight well beyond his time, Plato was (somewhat ironically) condemned for these words.
The allegory spoke of prisoners in the eponymous setting, unaware of the external world, entertained only by their shadows. It’s only when one prisoner escapes, they realise the wonder of the outside. Plato was searching for truth behind his institutions: perceptions weren’t always reality.
As we fast-forward from ancient times, it’s clear this tale of caution has resonated through literary texts ever since. Take Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 (1953) for example. Echoing the oppressive events of McCarthyism, this sci-fi noir invites readers to see this post-apocalyptic wasteland through Guy Montag — the book-burning fireman turned book-reading dissident.
Yet, Bradbury wasn’t alone in telling the uneasy relationship between individuals and institutions. Nowadays, the film The Truman Show (1998), is standard vernacular for any educated, cluey, sceptic. Beyond ‘woke’ virtue-signalling and scathing indictments of modern media, the text is critical of smoke and mirrors twisting our realities. Directed by Peter Weir, the dystopian movie highlights the ramifications of those made powerless by broadcasting conglomerates. It’s a prescient depiction of individuals and institutions, which ushered in the unfettered age of reality TV.
Both texts are critical of fabricated worlds constructed by self-serving institutions, just as Plato proposed during the early age. Spanning time and medium, the discussions generated by Fahrenheit 451 and The Truman Show continue to show us the importance of individuals questioning to uncover truth and reality while keeping our institutions honest.
On the surface, the chaos Bradbury constructs is frighteningly alike to a prophetic dystopian society. Yet, the setting he paints is surprisingly lonely — at least, for a post-truth, futuristic suburbia enraptured in technology, I was certainly expecting otherwise. And in homes where TVs are coated on “parlour walls” and the “electronic ocean of sound” is more common than conversation, the individuals of Bradbury’s world perceive only what they are shown.
It’s a powerful reminder of the influence social media has over the truth, especially when things aren’t always what you make them out to be. Bradbury takes the terms ‘fake news’ and ‘yellow journalism’ and turns them on their head. Afterall, if you’re living in a society where conformity has replaced all individualism, the institution is the reality.
Initially, Montag is the archetypal disciple of his institution — the ‘firemen’, apparent guardians of peace in this despotic mid-America. But in a nod to the Fascistic regimes of Bradbury’s time, firefighters don’t put out the fires; they start them.
Oh — and their kindling? Books.
At the beginning of our ‘hero’s journey’, Montag’s perceptions are blinded by the “grin of all men singed and driven back by flame.” He takes a sadistic pleasure in his work and is fiercely loyal to the firefighters — questioning his reality seems unfathomable:
“It was a pleasure to burn.”
It’s one such afternoon when Montag returns from yet another day of book-burning, where he comes across a girl — Clarisse McClellan — the impetus for his discovery. Immediately, readers are aware: this isn’t just an innocuous encounter.
Clarisse is special… otherworldly.
Bradbury encourages this perspective through metaphors and poetic description. Take her eyes — “two shining drops of bright water” — or the “gently flattering light of the candle” used to her face. She’s a stark contrast to the blazing inferno synonymous with Montag’s profession.
But most importantly, she challenges his perceptions of the institution, offering a glimpse of life beyond the cave. In the short exchange the two have, she curiously peppers Montag with a string of queries, the most important being “are you happy?”
It’s almost too simple.
For a question that serves as the catalyst for his pursuit of truth, Montag needs little propulsion to begin challenging his supposed ‘happiness’. Finally confronted to challenge this innate sense of worry, external to the institution, Clarisse becomes the ultimate provocateur for Montag’s dissent.
Likewise, Bradbury uses books to symbolise Montag’s understanding of reality. Throughout the novel, they come to represent the vehicle by which Montag’s perceptions of the institution change. Bradbury alludes to this concept from Plato’s cave, literature symbolising Montag’s gateway for truth:
“Maybe the books can get us half out of the cave.”
The parallels between The Truman Show are startlingly prevalent. Yet while Bradbury centralises around totalitarian world-of-tomorrows, Weir’s “Montag” experiences the dangers of uncovering the reality and truth in a seemingly ‘utopian’ society. It’s also perhaps an even more sinister interpretation of Plato’s Cave than Fahrenheit 451 (and for a novel spiralling around pyromania, authoritarian control and autonomous censorship, that’ll catch you by surprise).
This TV show in a movie (yes, you heard me right), stars the titular Truman Burbank (Jim Carrey), who unknowingly spends his life as the protagonist of a 24/7 ‘docusoap’ in Seahaven — a microcosm of the stereotypical American ’50s life. And literally adopted into television, he literally doesn’t know any better.
That’s what’s scariest.
Just like Montag, Truman was born into the darkness of the cave. However, for Truman, his perceptions of Seahaven don’t merely stem from satisfaction; he’s totally oblivious. And where every relationship you have is secretly a performance and just about anything you can think of holds a hidden camera, it’s chilling to say the least.
In the opening scenes (some personal favourites), Carrey’s portrayal of Truman couldn’t be more animated. He truly is the ever-loving, unsuspecting family-man. Viewers love him for this. But to what extent is Truman, a true-man?
Throughout the movie, we’re encouraged to witness his paranoia of what’s real and what’s fake intensify in his day-to-day. It’s only a matter of time before the suspicion of stage lights falling from the sky, family members resurrected & rehashed and intercepted transmissions take their toll.
Truman starts to search for cracks in the cave walls.
It’s a classic case of the individual losing trust in the institution. Again — just like Montag, Truman’s perceptions quickly change.
He begins to doubt the loved ones around him. In a dire scene, Truman expresses this to his best friend, Marlon (Noah Emmerich), at the end Seahaven’s dock one evening. The mise-en-scène is dominated by earthy undertones of the night and the cinematography is subject to a series of close-ups (a welcome contrast to the bubbly, vibrant colours we’re used to seeing). Marlon’s reply to Truman’s paranoia is compelling. It’s emotional, heart-warming — ostensibly genuine.
What happens next is shattering.
A slash cut to the studio — the show’s all-godly creator, Christof (Edward Harris), feeding Marlon lines. It’s a critical moment in the movie, and not just because of the tragedy unfolding. Lies construct Truman’s life, and the show’s audience revel in the deceit.
“And the last thing I would ever do to you…
…is lie to you.”
The light that breaks the dark comes from this conversation with Marlon. However, unlike Clarisse in Fahrenheit 451, he’s nothing but fake.
Viewers can’t help but relate to Truman. It’s what makes the wicked score so difficult to listen to. We take comfort in reality, and when its foundations are shattered by those we trust, their deception is devastating.
Of course, Truman does eventually come to unveil the truth of the outside world against the perceptions of the cave.
In the closing scene, we see him quite literally — and figuratively — break the fourth wall, crashing through the set. It’s a definitive showdown of the individual versus the institution. In what feels like a holy ascendance, Truman, climbs the set stairs and exits his proverbial ‘Garden of Eden’.
There isn’t coincidence in what Weir’s directed here — Truman really is starting a new life. We celebrate him for this. He doesn’t conform to the perceptions around him. Instead, Truman is persistent in discovering the truth and reality of his life.
It’s no different for Montag either, or at least how he puts it, “half out of the cave.” In the climax of Fahrenheit 451, he’s confronted by Beatty, the captain of the firemen.
And he knows Montag’s been book-hoarding.
It’s a similar dilemma to Truman: does Montag fall prey to the perceptions of the fireman or break free of his shackles to live his own reality?
He chooses the latter, and Beatty is incinerated.
For Montag and Truman, they were prisoners of their own shadows, trapped in their caves. But it’s in choosing to dispel these misconceptions in which they’re honoured. Fighting for individuality, they learn the value of searching for truth and authenticity in a time of curated realities and warped perceptions.
And a lesson learned is a lesson worth sharing.
Truman’s viewers chose to mindlessly change the channel — to stay prisoners of their caves. What’s our choice?
