Tag Archives: Hugh Dalziel Duncan

A Sampling of Revelatory Books on What Human Communication Is, and the Ways we Use its Resources

These books are especially thought-provoking for anyone seeking new perspectives on what it means to communicate.

As with every discipline, communication studies includes a special class of books that will profoundly change how we think about the subject. Omitting technical and jargon-laden tomes about communication, I suggest the following as interesting eye-openers that are accessible to any serious reader. All of these books share the trait of forcing us to rethink assumptions that sometimes more comfortable than accurate.

Erving Goffman Source: Wikipedia.org
                Erving Goffman
         Source: Wikipedia.org

The list is wide-ranging, mixing history with media theory and some far-ranging discussions of what is possible in human communication. Though some of these studies were published years ago, they remain thought-provoking for anyone interested in peeling back the onion of communication to look at some of its inner layers. These books are listed in approximate order of their accessibility to a general reader.

Erving Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (Anchor Books, 1959).  Goffman was a professor at the University of Pennsylvania whose influence has been global. His methodology of deep observation of everyday events provides all kinds of insights about the intricacies of even simple interactions. The book remains a stalwart for anyone interested in the sociology and communication, and for good reason. His observations of the familiar–restaurants especially fascinate him–is the perfect antidote to the bland survey research that now dominates so much of the social sciences. And because he helps us see the familiar in new ways, he’s fun to read.

Neal Gabler, An Empire of Their Own: How the Jews Invented Hollywood (Anchor, 1998). Gabler’s study of the first film entrepreneurs is a wonderful piece of social history. He observes that the men who gave us film factories reliably turning out middle-class visions of the American dream were, in many cases, socially marginalized by a virulent anti-Semitism. The ironic result is that they were sometimes kept out of key institutions in the very town they created. The book also confirms how vital film and its modern forms remain central to understanding ourselves in the world.

Nicholas Carr, The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains (Norton, 2011)  Carr’s popular book makes the case that the pacing and fragmentation of internet content is undermining our abilities to be critical thinkers. If he is not always convincing in describing the effects of heavy doses of screen time now common to almost all of us, his claims raise questions that everyone in the wired portion of the planet should consider.

Sherry Turkle, Reclaiming Conversation: The Power of Talk in a Digital Age (Penguin, 2015).  Sherry Turkle argues in this useful and eminently readable study, that this default model for communication is direct conversation.  And using this benchmark, she offers interviews and observations that suggest we are drifting toward preferences for connecting that weaken our links to full and vital face to face exchanges. Her concern is how we maintain our social nature if our children in particular now fear the unpredictability of direct contact with others. As she notes in her conclusion, “We want more from technology and less from each other. What once would have seemed like ‘friendly service’” from a sales clerk has “now become an inconvenience that keeps us from our phones.”

Joshua Meyrowitz, No Sense of Place (Oxford, 1986). Although written a number of years ago and in advance of widespread use of the internet, Meyrowitz makes what I believe is the best case that newer forms of human communication have undermined the psychological security that came with living only in real space and time. The book is revelatory in its assessment of how visual media work as irresistible magnets for our attention, and how visual media often weaken connections that truly matter. Given his use of seminal thinkers like Goffman and Susanne Langer, Meyrowitz’s framework for assessing communication processes is unsurpassed.  By the end of the book he’s offered a haunting intellectual case for how electronic media have destabilized once secure sources of personal identity.

John Durham Peters, Speaking Into the Air (University of Chicago, 1999). Peters is a Professor of Communication Studies at the University of Iowa and a frequent critic of the common aspirations we have for communication.  The Introduction to this book is alone worth a look.  It takes apart most of the cherished myths we hold, among them: that communication is the best pathway for settling long-standing differences, and the idea that disagreement is just a matter of misunderstanding.  When he starts by noting that “Communication is a registry of modern longings,” a reader can already sense that he is going to deconstruct many a cherished belief about the power of talk. The references in the book are sometimes obscure.  But every chapter has interesting observations, most of which come by quoting writers and thinkers who were experiencing the powers of telegraphy and the telephone for the first time.  Peters also has interesting things to say about communicating with machines, animals and perhaps other sentient beings in the universe.

Hugh Dalziel Duncan, Communication and Social Order (Oxford, 1984)  Duncan was an interpreter and synthesizer of a number of important scholars of rhetoric and literature, most notably Kenneth Burke. In this academic book he offers nothing less than a complete course on how to approach almost any human action as moment of social engagement. His understanding of the wellsprings of comedy is especially rewarding, and further evidence for the old saw that creating humor is a serious business.

Comments:  woodward@tcnj.edu

Logo

Invitations From Hollywood to Witness Conversational Trainwrecks

Actress Sarah Steele, "Bernice"
      Actress Sarah Steele

The scholar Hugh Dalziel Duncan believed that communication has to be studied as a form of theater.  We are not only role-players in our lives, but in his simple aphorism that I never tire of quoting, he noted that theater is the process “by which we become objects to ourselves.”  

Plays, films, and all forms of written or performed narratives allow us to see our lives in the proxy behaviors of actors in a performance. A character on screen may not be living a close facsimile to our own lives, but their responses to others are still recognizable.  Empathy and imagination give us all the room we need to compare our communication choices with a panorama of figures ranging from Hamlet to Harry Potter. 

It follows that sometimes the most direct way to access communication challenges is therefore to get down to cases. Communication is almost always a matter of relatively fixed templates: sets of expectations about what someone facing the demands of one setting must do if they are to use their communication abilities to make things better. And that frequently means taking a look at a key scene in a film or play to discover how key figures handle the demands imposed by their own social settings. We’re easily drawn in. And we find that our natural hard-wired love of narrative means that we can place ourselves in almost any scene and compare our likely responses to those given by a character on stage or on the screen. 

Most films have such moments, as in the recent Before Midnight (2013) written in part by actors Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke.  They play a married couple who came together over the course of two earlier films, and are now drifting out of love and into middle age. The film is a feast for those interested in conversational analysis.  But two current favorites are from more popular and commercial films released a few years ago.  Each film offers a moment when a simple communication misstep builds into a volcano of hurt and anger.  Both play to a familiar litany of questions we ask whenever we failed to realize our intentions with another person. What went wrong?  How could someone with good intentions create the interpersonal equivalent of a complete train wreck?   

The Family Stone (2006) revisits the familiar terrain of an engaged son bringing his fiancé home to meet his family.  Everett Stone’s clan is a free-thinking group of comfortable New Englanders.  Dad is a professor.  Diane Keaton’s mom is a sharp conversationalist, and happily uses it to build a protective fence around a younger gay son who is deaf, and who is in a committed relationship to an African American man.  This modern couple is also hoping to adopt a child.  Enter Meredith Morton (Sarah Jessica Parker), the new fiance and a Manhattan executive who is invited to meet the family over dinner.  Meredith’s views are more conventional that her hosts.  And that spells trouble as the conversation turns to the younger son’s impending marriage.  She clearly likes the family, but she’s thrown off by Mom’s offhand comment that she wished all of her children were gay.  They might stay around longer, she muses. And Meredith takes the bait. Her questions are earnest but potentially wounding to the senior Stones, who wear their liberalism as badges of honor.  Will an interracial marriage be more difficult?  And would the Stones really wish for gay children?  Dermot Mulroney’s Everett is suddenly silent as these question settle over the meal like a bad stomach ache.  

As the scene plays, we see a classic communication breakdown.  One person lays down an ambiguous observation. It’s followed by a clumsy question that is easily misinterpreted as a marker of bigotry. Meredith is clearly at sea, and wants to be in the good graces of the family.  But none of the Stones are interested in helping climb out of the hole she has fallen into.

The Family Stone is a modest film, but this scene is a brilliant miniature of the potentially rough terrain of even simple statements and queries.  As it plays, we see why language and the tonalities of presentation complicate what appears to be the simple objective of finding a secure place in another’s life. 

A second favorite scene is built around one of the many winsome figures the Hollywood producer/writer James L. Brooks has created over the years.  In Spanglish (2004) Bernice stands out as a sensitive soul in a family of over-achievers.  Actress Sarah Steele’s empathetic character has an impulse to please which closely binds her to a spirited grandmother and to John, her affectionate father (Adam Sandler).  But she must also defend her fragile self-esteem against aspersions about her weight from an overwrought mother. Deborah has made Bernice her project. And while the razor thin compulsive has mastered the outward rituals of everyday conversation, she  tends to substtitute empty talk and hours of jogging for true intimacy.   

She is the provocateur in this conventional Brooks set up of an upwardly mobile Los Angeles family.  Connection and affirmation are put at risk by a character who is not so much malevolent as clumsy in understanding the fundamentals of social intercourse.   Even when Deborah returns from a shopping trip with new clothes for Bernice, we sense that her ostensibly thoughtful act will have a painful denouement.

The scene opens with John helping Bernice complete her history homework, making a game out of a quiz question asking for the name of the famous World War II President who was not a “ruse.”  What does the word mean? Bernice asks.  A “Phony,” he notes.  “So this president was not a ruse. . . He was the real thing.”  When Deborah returns with bags of new clothes, Bernice is at first delighted by her apparent thoughtfulness.  But when she tries on the gifts of a coat and sweater, they are clearly too tight.  A quick look at the tags of all the other new garments confirms that Deborah has deliberately bought everything one size too small.  This is her idea of an inducement for her daughter to lose some weight, and it unfolds as a slow motion humiliation in front of John and other members of the household.  The moment snuffs out the excitement that was just seconds old, leaving Bernice to find a way to resurface with some of her dignity intact.  She recovers, fighting back tears.  There is no big outburst, just a few rueful words said more in regret than anger.  “Thanks  Mom. . . I’m glad you didn’t get here a little earlier or else I wouldn’t be able to tell you that your gift is a ruse.  Please excuse me.”  And she exits.

There is agony in this small but emblematic moment where, as Brooks observes, Deborah feels “the futility of anyone understanding her point even as she makes it.” Those are his script directions to actress Tea Leoni who plays her.  She isn’t connecting with members of her family:  something she senses, but is powerless to remedy.  She is tone deaf to her daughter’s needs.  And somehow her ideals for success and a perfect waistline have also made her blind to the charms of her own family.