Film Review: the misinterpretations of “Being There”

“You don't play games with words to protect yourself.” That's how Benjamin Rand reacts to the mundane utterances of my favorite fictional character, Chance, the gardener. He's the main character played by Peter Sellers in the movie Being There and though not smart, Chance is consistent in the few things he claims out loud: he is a gardener and he likes to watch TV. Beyond these claims he really has no others, and makes that point not once, but twice in the movie:

Dr. Allenby: “Are you planning on making any sort of claim against the Rands?”
Chance: “There is no need for a... 'claim.' I don't even know what they look like.”

I watch this movie a few times a year, usually in the fall when the skies go gray and the trees stand stoic, branches upraised and bare. Fall's quiet acceptance of loss matches well with the Satie piano arrangements supporting the movie's dialogue; the playful arpeggios in a minor key flutter down behind the film like dead leaves in the afternoon.

Chance is a middle-aged man suffering mental retardation who is forced to move out of his home. He's hit by a car owned by a wealthy couple, Benjamin Turnbull Rand and his wife, Eve. Because Chance's injuries are minor, Eve brings him home where Benjamin's doctors and nurses can care for him. Benjamin and Eve welcome Chance into their lives, never recognizing his mental deficiencies.

In college, I studied linguistics and what draws me to this movie is its illustration of the breakdown of language. For most of the script, Chance is called “Chauncey” because when asked, he mangles his own name while coughing. Chance is consistently misinterpreted by a succession of intelligent people. The fact that he misunderstands others can be attributed to his mental deficit. The reasons others misunderstand him are more complex.

Doorman: “Would you like a car, sir?”
Chance: “Yes, I would like a car.”
[The limousine arrives and its door is opened for Chance.]
Doctor: “Are you going somewhere?”
Chance: “No.”

Chance can only take language literally. He doesn't play games with words because he can't. Being literal is almost an innocent, childlike form of honesty, and that's one reason people tend to feel safe around him. His innocent nature and failure to correct anyone, even when they call him by the wrong name, allows other people to take liberties in interpreting him.

• When Eve kisses Chance and he fails to react, she misinterprets his lack of interest for “strength” and a moral refusal to take advantage of her sexually.

• When Chance says he can't read, TV journalists assume he means television news coverage is superior to print newspapers.

• When asked in an interview if he agrees with the president's view on the economy, Chance asks, “Which view?” and the audience laughs, assuming an implication that the president is waffling.

 
 
Wouldn't we all happily misinterpret messages when doing so would benefit or amuse us? The only reason we don't go through life misinterpreting messages is because the people sending them would likely challenge our misinterpretations. Chance never does.

Setting this farce in Washington is the obvious choice. But of all the beltway power brokers and sycophants posturing from scene to scene, the character of Benjamin Rand is a sympathetic one. He means well. He loves his wife. He cares about other people as long as they are people with whom he can relate. “I have no use for people on welfare...” Ben is quoted as saying, “but if I am to be honest with myself, I must admit that they have no use for me, either.”

Ben is chairman of the board of the fictional Financial Institute and a personal friend and advisor to the president of the United States. He's positioned as one of the most powerful men in the country, if not the world, but he's also extremely limited by his own perspective (as are we all). And when he first meets Chance, Ben is allowed to project his own perspective on everything Chance says.

When Chance tells Ben and Eve that he likes to garden, Ben tries to relate in the only way he can: he twists gardening into a metaphor for entrepreneurship. “Well, isn't that what any businessman is, a gardener? He works on flinty soil to make it productive with the labor of his own hands. He waters it with the sweat of his own brow. He makes a thing of value for his family and for the community. Yes indeed, Chauncey, a productive businessman is a laborer in the vineyard.” Chance, not understanding any of this, smiles and nods.

“You know, Chauncey,” he prattles on, not seeing Chance inserting a cigar into his nose, “there are thousands of businessmen, large and small, in your situation. I've given the matter a good deal of consideration for some time... I've been thinking about starting a financial assistance fund. Tell me, Chauncey, would you have any ideas on that subject?”

“No, Ben.”

After a short pause (in which we wonder if this precarious conversation is about to collapse) Ben develops a new level of respect for Chance. “Reluctant to speak, eh?”

Only two people in this story actually understand that Chance is cognitively disabled. The first is Louise, the housekeeper who raised him. Her mistake comes in misinterpreting why Chance has been embraced by Washington's elite; she attributes his sudden success to racism. Whether or not there are racist people in Washington, the reason for Chance's rise has nothing to do with that and everything to do with the breakdown of language.

The second person who understands is Ben's doctor, Robert Allenby. He's able to watch conversations between Rand and Chance with a detached perspective. And when Dr. Allenby finally confronts him with the truth, Chance seems relieved that someone has finally called him by the right name, that someone finally sees him.

Because everyone else sees through him. They approach Chance with a primarily selfish need to find something in his words that will serve their own purposes and resonate with their own preferences.

When the president asks for Chance's opinion on stimulating economic growth, Chance answers, predictably, with talk of gardening. The president is initially confused, but Ben immediately reframes Chance's words, beginning with: “I think what our insightful young friend is saying... ” When the president later quotes (or rather, misquotes) Chance, he describes him as a most intuitive man, while ironically lacking the intuitive ability to understand what Chance is actually saying.

Describing his own personal philosophy to Chance, Ben gives this addendum: “And I've remained honest to myself. That's the main thing.” It's the only thing, really, and it explains why Ben will selfishly misinterpret his friend.

At the film's end, the president euglogizes Ben by reading through some of his quotes. “When I was a boy,” Ben had once said, “I was told that the Lord fashioned us in his own image. That's when I decided to manufacture mirrors.” These words reverberate over a loud speaker while Chance, who has wandered away from the funeral, frees a bent sapling. We now recognize Chance as a mirror, reflecting back whatever other people wish to see in him.

As Ben's pall bearers discuss nominating Chance for the presidency, the movie makes the understated point that most political leaders function in exactly this way: allowing their constituents to see in them whatever they want to see. We might think twice before gazing, enraptured, into such mirrors.