Emotional Design (18 page)

Considerable effort was given to the sound produced by the whistling spout: a chord of “e” and “b,” or, as described by Alberto Alessi, “inspired by the sound of the steamers and barges that ply the Rhine.”

But even were we to replace the grating electronic tones with more pleasant musical sounds, the auditory dimension still has its drawbacks. On the one hand, there is no question that sound—both musical and otherwise—is a potent vehicle for expression, providing delight, emotional overtones, and even memory aids. On the other hand, sound propagates through space, reaching anyone within range equally, whether or not that person is interested in the activity: The
musical ring that is so satisfying to a telephone's owner is a disturbing interruption to others within earshot. Eyelids allow us to shut out light; alas, we have no earlids.

When in public spaces—the streets of a city, in a public transit system, or even in the home—sounds intrude. The telephone is, of course, one of the worst offenders. As people speak loudly to make sure they are heard by their correspondent, they also cause themselves to be heard by everyone within range. Telephones, of course, are not the only intrusions. Radios and television sets, and the beeps and bongs of our equipment. More and more equipment comes equipped with noisy fans. Thus, the fans of heating and air-conditioning equipment can drown out conversation, and the fans of office equipment and home appliances add to the tensions of the day. When we are out of doors, we are bombarded by the sounds of passing aircraft, the horns and engine sounds of motor traffic, the warning back-up horns of trucks, the loud music players of others, emergency sirens, and the ever-present, shrill sounds of the cellular telephone ring, often mimicking a full musical performance. In public spaces, we are far too frequently interrupted by public announcements, starting with the completely unnecessary but annoying “Attention, Attention,” followed by an announcement only of interest to a single person.

There is no excuse for this proliferation of sounds. Many cell phones have the option to set their rings to a private vibration, felt by the desired recipient but no others. Necessary sounds could be made melodious and pleasant, following the lead of the Sapper kettle in
figure 4.8
or the Segway. Cooling and ventilation fans could be designed to be quiet as well as efficient by reducing their speed and increasing their blade size. The principles of noise reduction are well known, even if seldom followed. Whereas musical sounds at appropriate times and places are emotional enhancers, noise is a vast source of emotional stress. Unwanted, unpleasant sounds produce anxiety, elicit negative emotional states, and thereby reduce the effectiveness of all of us. Noise pollution is as negative to people's emotional lives as other forms of pollution are to the environment.

Sound can be playful, informative, fun, and emotionally inspiring. It can delight and inform. But it must be designed as carefully as any other aspect of design. Today, little thought is given to this side of design, and so the result is that the sounds of everyday things annoy many while pleasing few.

All the theatrical arts engage the viewer both cognitively and emotionally. As such, they are perfect vehicles to explore the dimensions of pleasure. In my research for this book, I discovered Jon Boorstin's analysis of films, a marvelous example of how the three levels of processing have their impact. His 1990 book,
The Hollywood Eye: What Makes Movies Work
, was such a wonderful fit to the analyses of my book that I just had to tell you about it.

Boorstin points out that movies appeal on three different emotional levels: v
isceral
,
vicarious
, and
voyeur,
which bear perfect correspondence to my three levels of visceral, behavioral, and reflective. Let me start with the visceral side of movies. Boorstin's description of this component of a film is pretty much identical with my visceral level. Indeed, the match was so good, that I decided to use his term instead of “reactive,” the term I use in my scientific publications. The phrase “reactive design” didn't quite capture the correct intention, but once I read Boorstin, it was obvious that the phrase “visceral design” was perfect, at least for this purpose. (But I still use “reactive” in my scientific publications.)

The passions aroused in film, says Boorstin, “are not lofty, they're the gut reactions of the lizard brain—the thrill of motion, the joy of destruction, lust, blood lust, terror, disgust. Sensations, you might say, rather than emotions. More complex feelings require the empathic response, but these simple, powerful urges reach up and grab us by the throat without an intermediary.” He identifies the “slow-motion killing in
The Wild Bunch
, the monster in
The Fly
, or the bland titillation
of soft-core porn” as examples of the visceral side of movies. Add the chase scene in
The French Connection
(or any classic spy or detective story), gun battles, fights, adventure stories, and, of course, horror and monster movies, and you have classic visceral level adventures.

Note the critical role played by music and lighting: dark, creepy scenes and dark, foreboding music. Minor keys for sad or unhappy, jubilant bouncy melodies for positive affect. Bright colors and bright lighting versus dark, gloomy colors and lights all exert their visceral influence. Camera angle, too, exerts its influence. Too far away, and the viewer is no longer experiencing but, instead, observing vicariously. Too close, and the image is too large for direct immediate impact. Film from above, and the people in the scene are diminished; film from below, and the actors are powerful, imposing. These operations all work on the subconscious level. We are usually unaware of the techniques used by directors and photographers to manipulate our emotions. The visceral level becomes completely absorbed in the sights and sounds. Any awareness of the technique would occur on the reflective level and would distract from the visceral experience. In fact, the only way to critique a film is by becoming detached, removed from visceral reaction and able to ponder the technique, the lights, the camera movements and angles. It is difficult to enjoy the film while analyzing it.

 

 

BOORSTIN'S “VICARIOUS” level corresponds to my “behavioral” level. The word “vicarious” is appropriate because the viewers are not directly engaging in the filmed activities but are, instead, watching and observing. If the film is well crafted, they are enjoying the activities vicariously, experiencing them as if they were participating. As Boorstin says, “The vicarious eye puts our heart in the actor's body: we feel what the actor feels, but we judge it for ourselves. Unlike relationships in life, here we can give ourselves up to other people in full confidence that we will always be in command.”

If the visceral level grabs the viewer in the guts, driving automatic reactions, the vicarious level involves the viewer in the story and emotional line of the movie. Normally, the behavioral level of affect is invoked by a person's activities: it is the level of doing and acting. In the case of a film, the viewer is passive, sitting in a theater, experiencing the action vicariously. Nonetheless, the vicarious experience can play upon the same affective system.

Here is the power of storytelling, of the script, the actors, transporting viewers into the world of make-believe. This is “the willful suspension of disbelief ” that the English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge discussed as being essential for poetry. Here is where you get captured, caught up in the story, identifying with the situation and the characters. To be fully engrossed within a movie is to feel the world fade away, time seem to stop, and the body enter the transformed state that the social scientist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi has labeled “flow.”

Csikszentmihalyi's flow state is a special, detached state of consciousness, in which you are aware only of the moment, of the activity, and of the sheer enjoyment. It can occur in almost any activity: skilled tasks, sports, video games, board games, or any kind of mind-absorbing work. You can experience it in the theater, reading a book, or with intense problem solving.

The conditions required for flow to occur include lack of distractions and an activity paced precisely to match your skills, pushing you slightly above your capabilities. The level of difficulty has to be just at the edge of capability: too difficult and the task becomes frustrating; too easy and it becomes boring. The situation has to engage your entire conscious attention. This intense concentration causes outside distractions to fade away and the sense of time to disappear. It is intense, exhausting, productive, and exhilarating. It is no wonder that Csikszentmihalyi and his colleagues have spent considerable time exploring the phenomenon in its many manifestations.

The key to success of the vicarious level in film is the development and maintenance of the flow state. The pace has to be appropriate to
avoid frustration or boredom. There can be no interruptions or distractions that might divert attention if one is to become truly captured by flow. Whenever we speak of films or other entertainment as “escapist,” we are referring to the ability of the vicarious state and the behavioral level of affect to disengage people from the cares of life and transport them into some other world.

 

 

THE VOYEURISTIC level is that of the intellect, standing back to reflect and observe, to comment and think about an experience. Here is where the depth and complexity of characters, events, and the metaphors and analogies that a movie is meant to convey produce a deeper, richer meaning than is visible on the surface with the characters and story. “The voyeur's eye,” says Boorstin, “is the mind's eye, not the heart's.”

The word “voyeur” often is used to refer to observation of sensual or sexual subjects, which is not the meaning intended here. Boorstin explains that by the term “voyeur,” he means “not the sexual kink but Webster's second definition of the word: the voyeur is the ‘prying observer.' The voyeur's pleasure is the simple joy of seeing the new and the wonderful.”

The voyeur's eye demands explanation—this is the level of cognition, of understanding and interpreting. As Boorstin points out, the vicarious experience can be profoundly moving, but the voyeur's eye, ever watching, ever thinking, is logical and reflective: “The voyeur in us is logical to a fault, impatient, picky, literal, but if properly respected it gives the special pleasures of the new and the clever, of a fresh place or crisply thought-out story.” Of course, the voyeur can generate emotional suspense as well. It is the voyeur who knows that the wicked villain is hiding in wait for the hero, that the trap seems inescapable, and therefore that the hero is about to face death or, at the least, pain and torture. This level of excitement requires the thinking mind, and, of course, a clever director who plays upon those conjectures.

But, as Boorstin also points out, the voyeur can ruin a perfectly good movie by critiquing it:

Voyeuristic movies are reflective movies, for example
2001: A Space Odyssey
, which, except for one lengthy visceral section, is mindnumbing in its intellectualism and almost exclusively a reflective experience.
Citizen Kane
is a fine example of both an entrancing story and a voyeur's delight.

 

 

JUST AS our experiences do not come neatly divided into unique categories of visceral, behavioral, or reflective, so films cannot be stuck neatly into one of three packages: visceral, or vicarious, or voyeuristic. Most experiences, and most films, cut across the boundaries.

The best products and the best films neatly balance all three forms of emotional impact. Although
The Magnificent Seven
is, as Boorstin puts it, “seven guys saving a town from bandits,” if that were all there was to it, it would not have become such a classic. The film started life in 1954 in Japan as
The seven samurai (Shichinin no samurai)
, a film directed by Akira Kurosawa. In Japan, it was the story of seven samurai warriors hired to save a village from murderous thieves. It was redone as an American western in 1960 as
The Magnificent Seven
by John Sturges. Both films follow the same story line (both are excellent, although many movie buffs prefer the original). And both films successfully capture the viewer at all three modes, with engaging visceral spectacles, an engrossing story for the
vicarious, and enough depth and hidden metaphorical allusions to content the reflective voyeur.

Sound, color, and lighting also play critical roles. In the best of cases, they heighten the experience without conscious awareness. Background music, on the face of it, is strange, for it is present even in so-called realistic movies, even though no music plays in our everyday world of real life. Purists scoff at the use of music, but omit it and a movie suffers. Music seems to modulate our affective system to enhance the experience at all levels of involvement: visceral, vicarious, and voyeuristic.

Lighting can intensify experience. Although most films today are shot in color, the director and photographer can dramatically impact the film by the style of lighting and color. Bright primary colors are the one extreme, with subdued pastels or dimly lit scenes another. The extreme case of color is the decision not to use it: to film in black and white. Although rarely used anymore, black and white can convey powerful dramatic impact, quite different from that possible with color. Here, the cinematographer can make skillful use of contrasts—light and dark, subtle grays—to convey an image's emotional tone.