12
A Boy Who Swims Faster than a Shark: Jean Baudrillard Visits The Office
Like a Xerox machine monotonously spitting out copies, the everyday office produces goods and services of remarkable uniformity and shapes employees to be as predictable as Finch’s sexual escapades. So we laugh at David Brent (not with him) because he is the antithesis of what the real office demands. Brent produces chaos. By laughing at Brent we are covertly and inadvertently supporting the system that produces Neil Godwin, a “real” manager and entertainer. In laughing at Brent, we are tacitly endorsing another system—one that we ought to be wary of. The Godwin system produces homogeneity in behavior, actions, and beliefs—as if we were all being spat out of the “social-cultural photocopier.” To get a sense of this let’s employ the service of French philosopher Jean Baudrillard (1929–2007)1 and his concepts of “the hyperreal” and “fatal strategy.” The Brentmeister and his protégé Gareth Keenan will bring the French theory back to British reality.
Jean Baudrillard and Simulacra
Who says famine has to be depressing? (2:5)
French cultural theorist and philosopher Jean Baudrillard achieved cult status in the 1980s for his writings on simulacra. For Baudrillard, this term translates as an “unreal appearance” drawing from Plato’s idea that common reality is in fact a shadow of a higher, more perfect reality. The simulacrum, for Baudrillard, is the illusion of “social reality.” We understand that in a television situation comedy like The Office the cast are not real people (nor real office workers). They are a constructed appearance for the purpose of entertainment. This simulacrum becomes philosophically interesting, however, when we, as viewers, lose our ability to tell the difference between the appearance and the reality. Some people aspire to live the lives they see on T V, considering these to be the best (or only) ways available. To be as successful with women as Finchy or as suave as Neil Godwin—this is the stuff simulated dreams are made of! Television in this instance has won the duel between reality and appearance, creating a whole new substitute reality.2
Simulacra are highly effective in the construction of social reality. The rapid development of technology has promoted things “more real than the real world itself”—it has promoted appearance, consuming reality itself. We are becoming more interested in imitating the cast of television shows (such as The Sopranos, or Desperate Housewives, or The Simpsons) than being ourselves. While we have always looked to fashion to help shape our outer selves, we have never been as dependent on technological media for this as we are now.
Social reality is being replaced by hyperreality—what appears to be reality but which is merely a simulacrum of it. Consider Hollywood’s penchant for digitally altering and constructing images in blockbuster films. A battle in Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan, for example, becomes more real to the viewer than the battle itself in two ways. First, the cinema patron “lives the experience” of the battle by the sheer visceral power of the presentation. Second, the viewer comes to the (impossible) conclusion that they now know what it’s like to be in a battle. This, in Baudrillard’s terms, is taking cinematic experience as a replacement for real experience. Of course, the cinematic experience is designed principally to sell tickets. So the corresponding advertising will tell you that you are “so close that you will actually feel like you are there.” You can experience the world of dinosaurs, “Death Stars,” or the sinking of the Titanic—all of which are designed to relieve you of the price of the ticket while getting you to think you’ve had a real experience. This is hyperreality. You’ll recognize it because you’ve been there.
Problems emerge, according to Baudrillard, when simulated experience deadens our ability to tell the difference between the simulacrum and its origin. With hyperreality, appearance is all you experience. This is the “reality” in which David Brent is irretrievably lost. Brent never knows if his philosophical wisdom constructs or destroys a social reality. His “motivational techniques” performance is a supreme example (2:4). As Brent dances to Tina Turner’s “Simply the Best” he is lost in his own clichéd world of banal jargon and deplorable witticisms. And this is the paradoxical genius embedded in the series. While we cringe at his performance, we have to judge him against another completely illusory ideal boss.
Baudrillard’s work is controversial and obscure, making many deliberately preposterous and inflammatory claims.3 He writes this way to get readers to respond to the system they live in, examine the “codes” that produce their social reality in order to duel with them through challenge. Baudrillard’s project was to examine the broadening gulf between reality and appearance, forcing us to try and grasp the “disappearance of the world” into hyperreality. The Office offers a similar intellectual challenge. It forces us to evaluate the hapless Brent and the pathetic Gareth. But it also forces us to evaluate the systems that we offer up in their place.4
Brentian Hyperreality: The Simulated Boss/Philosopher
It’s like bloody Dead Poets Society out there. (2:4)
Let’s examine the man who “talks the talk,” the Brentmeister General. In our very first meeting with David Brent we see him fabricate a CV (that’s a resume, for you Yanks), commit a faux pas (“How is Elaine? Has she left you yet?”), and lie as he boasts of a potential employee that “he gives the forklift tests.” Brent is the master of the politically incorrect gaffe, suggesting “I will not have her tunnel bandied around this office willy-nilly” or “Some women like it the wrong way” (1:1). He is also a gross (mis)reader of the workplace situation, claiming “You don’t need luck when you’ve got 71.4 percent of the population behind you” (1:6). His command of Wernham-Hogg is tenuous and employees’ looks (to the camera) of exasperation are plenty, with even the scurrilous Chris Finch declaring that Brent is “a waste of space.” The Brentian management system sketches a neat encapsulation of what Baudrillard saw as the hyperreal. Hyperreality exists in three stages, which Baudrillard sees as the three orders of the simulacra.
First, in an ideal world a boss should have a set of admirable and obligatory virtues. We could include with these empathy and, borrowing from Aristotle (384–322 BCE), wisdom, prudence, understanding, and judgment.5 In classical terms these would seem to indicate an effective and productive manager of the workplace. In Baudrillard’s terms they would equate to the “first order of simulacra” where the actions of the boss (his signs or codes) correspond to or reflect an underlying “profound” reality6 (Neil Godwin, perhaps).
In the second order of simulacra, Baudrillard says, the signs start to mask this profound reality. At this level Baudrillard says the hyper-real or simulation begins to occur where the virtues are tampered with. What was originally considered virtue is now masked by the misapplication of it, in this case at the expense of the defenseless worker. This is captured in the fiasco that is Gareth Keenan. When he is assigned to offer health and safety training to Donna, he uses his role as a strategy to seduce Donna:
Gareth: Basically there’s a correct way and an incorrect way to lift stuff. All right. This is the incorrect way [bends over 90 degrees and lifts box, knees straight the entire time]. Ok? Incorrect. The correct way, two things to remember. First of all, keep your back nice and straight. Straight back. And then . . .
Donna: Bend your knees
Gareth: Shhhh … Back straight and bend your knees. All right? Very important. That’s the correct way. Do you wanna try that with me?
Donna: I’m fine.
Gareth: Well, I’m supposed to witness you do it so I can tick the box … so just do it with me a couple of times. All right? So … [they begin to lift boxes] nice straight back, bend your knees, up … [Donna and Gareth pick up their respective boxes] that’s it, same on the way down as on the way up …
After a cutaway to Tim and Dawn, we’re treated to the rest of the health and safety training:
Gareth: … down again. Good. One more time [they bend down again]. Nice straight back! Nice straight back! That’s it. That’s it. Good. One more time [and they bend down again]. Great. So have you got that?
Donna: [looking annoyed] I’ll practice it at home.
Gareth: Excellent. Good. Well done. If there’s any questions you want to ask, or, you know, if you want to talk about anything at all just … I know you’ve um … slept with Jeff.
Donna: [annoyed, walking away] All right, are we done then?
Gareth: You made a mistake …
Donna: No I haven’t made a mistake …
Gareth: I’m just checking whether you’re going to be sleeping with him again or spreading it around a bit.
Donna: Right. Bye. [Walks out]
Gareth: Good. Yeah. Excellent pupil. Fast learner. She won’t be spilling any fluids or lifting things incorrectly. “A” I’m going to give her … [shows clipboard to camera]. “A.”
What was once a legitimate (and even virtuous) workplace event (giving workers all the information they need to stay healthy and safe) degenerates into a painful case of sexual harassment. The signs of health and safety merely mask Gareth’s sexual desires. Lifting boxes indeed.
In the third order of simulacra the sign masks the absence of any profound reality. Baudrillard says that now the sign has its own reality. Now the workplace is run by hyperreal strategies that have little connection to tradition or virtue. They are driven by the mesmeric, vertiginous chase for profit combined with the untrammeled flexing of personal ego. When the hyperreal experience tries to “produce” its own reality, we’re in big trouble.
And in this world we find Brent. His management technique is purely hyperreal. When we examine his actions and his pithy expressions we can see that they do not refer to any original virtues but in actuality mask the fact that he is saying nothing—a crucial part of his strategy to hide the fact that he is not a boss. There is no greater example of his hyperreal ineptitude than in the “training” episode (1:4). Brent destroys the initial role-playing exercise:
Rowan (director of the training session): Now it’s time for the dreaded role play. We’ll kick off with your leader, David Brent. David, if you’d like to come up here … Big round of applause for David.
[Staff claps unenthusiastically]
David: No, no, no. Cheating really. I’ve done this before.
Rowan: Good. That should make it a lot easier for us.
David: Yeah, yeah.
Rowan: Ok. Nice and simple to start with.
David: Hard as you like …
Rowan: Well, let’s kick off with something easy. I want us to play out a scenario that highlights customer care. All of you have to deal with people …
David: All the time …
Rowan: It’s always possible to improve people skills. In this scenario … we’ll start with something nice and easy … I’m going to play a … and this will be the wrong way to do it … I’m going to play a very bad hotel manager who just doesn’t care.
David: [interrupting] If it’s a Basil Fawlty type character, maybe I should do it for the comedy.
Rowan: Let me just play it now to kick things off, Ok?
David: I’ll probably bring some of that to this role anyway …
Rowan: Right. You’ve got a complaint. Come and complain and I’ll show you the wrong way to handle it. This will be the wrong way
… Ok. So off we go.
David: [looks confused] Sorry. What’s the complaint?
Rowan: Just make it up.
David: Anything [turns to address staff]. There’s no right or wrong thing in this scenario. We’ll tell you the right thing afterward. Rowan: You complain.
David: Get on with it, yeah? Ok, I’d like to make a complaint, please.
Rowan: I don’t care
David: [a little flummoxed] Well, I am staying in the hotel …
Rowan: I don’t care. It’s not my shift.
David: Well, you’re an ambassador for the hotel.
Rowan: I don’t care. I don’t care.
David: Well I think you will when I tell you what the complaint is …
Rowan: [more loudly] I don’t care!
David: [shouting] I think there’s been a rape up there! [Everyone is silent, bewildered.]
David: [addressing the staff] I’ve got his attention. Get their attention. (1:4)
David clearly doesn’t understand role-playing. But what does he understand? Contemplate this list of Brentian ineptitudes: the Internet, women, Dutch girls’ boobs, dwarves, the disabled, music, fundraising, and comedy. Brent masks his ignorance and insecurity through a particular brand of managerial doublespeak that is hyperreal par excellence. Hyperreal management has arrived. Simply put, this management style has the capacity to “interfere” with what should be considered effective management traditions. The genius of Gervais is to let Brent get too close to reality in his portrayal of management technique. We all witness Brentisms every day. The jargon of management-speak distorts any attempt for clarity.
What is interesting here is not the lack of credibility in David Brent but our attitude towards him. We laugh at his ineptitude, his faux pas, and his grand rhetorical hashes: “Trust received, responsibility given and taken” (1:5) sounds sensible until it is investigated. Likewise, consider these two gems: “mutual likewise reciprocated” (1:2) and “I call it team individuality” (2:3). By seeing these pearls as swine we are elevating that “ideal” form of boss that is meant to be in place of David Brent. Hence, we are in effect consolidating the system itself and are using the hyperreal Brent to posit another Boss, an ideal effective virtuous model.
But this means we’re conceding that the boss is a necessary facet of the system. Strangely, then, by laughing at Brent we are reinforcing the status quo of the consumerist system that produces offices and bosses (and therefore the high potential for exploitation and corruption in all its forms). When recognizing Brent as an ineffective manager, what are we positing about our own view of the world? Unfortunately, we seem to be endorsing the view that it is good to be managed, even though good management by necessity implies (albeit soft) exploitation to squeeze work out of us.
The Fatal Strategy of Gareth Keenan
Two Lesbians, probably sisters—I’m just watching. (1:4)
Gareth Keenan, the Brentian mini-me, is a consummate example of Baudrillard’s “fatal strategy.” A fatal strategy is a system that cannot sustain itself—that is doomed to destruction. For Baudrillard, social systems always contain the seeds of their own destruction. The rise of terrorism is the fatal strategy of desire for freedom; obesity is the fatal strategy of the desire for consumption.
Idolizing Brent, Gareth models his language and lifestyle on him: “Just the eight pints for me last night then.” He sees himself as a womanizer with deadly pick-up lines like “Are you going to be sleeping with him again or spreading it around” (1:5) and as both sensitive and strong, suggesting “I’ll do you from behind if it’s just a quick in and out” (2:3 ). In his desire to become Brent, Gareth produces violent reactions. He has occasional victories (the menage-a-trois with the bikies at Chasers (1:3), the dreadlocked blonde at the end-of-year financial party (1:6), the “sex toys”). But these victories are overshadowed by the failures. Gareth, utilizing the systems and codes of Brent, takes them to a higher, more hyperrealized level and they cave in on him. His sexism intensifies when he opines “Women who work in factories are slappers” (2:3). His homophobia heightens, leading him to facetiously conclude “And that’s one of the main arguments against letting gay men into the army,” all the while insisting that he is not homophobic. “Come around and look at my CD collection. I’ve got Queen, George Michael, Pet Shop Boys. They’re all bummers” (1:2). Gareth’s inability to sustain and develop interpersonal relationships sees him finally dissolve into a bumbling mess in Brent’s office, begging to be “assistant national manger” at the end of series one (1:6).
Gareth uses his insensitivity to claim that he is sensitive; he uses his homophobia as evidence that he is not homophobic. In his attempt to ingratiate himself into a conversation (the Brentian desire for universal acceptance) Gareth pushes the boundaries of the conversation to the extreme through either being offensive, as in explaining the negativity of sexually transmitted diseases in the army (“Paxton sir he’s got knob rot off some tart” (1:5)), or banal, as in challenging the competency of technology:
Gareth: [on the phone] I just got a complaint from a very important client, claiming that the figures I gave him were wrong, and …
[Pauses to hear person on the other end of the line]
Gareth: Yeah, well basically I’ve checked all other possibilities and it’s come down to the calculator [pauses again]. Well, I don’t know. Circuitry? Sorry, who is this I’m talking to?
The absurd is another thing that interrupts the flow of normal conversation, and pushes the boundaries of intelligibility. Consider Gareth’s conversation with Tim about Tim’s plans to go back to university:
Gareth: What do you want to be a psychiatrist for? They’re all mad themselves, aren’t they?
Tim: I want to be a psychologist.
Gareth: Same difference. All right then Einstein, what am I thinking about now?
Tim: You’re thinking, “How could I kill a tiger armed only with a biro?”
Gareth: No.
Tim: No? You’re thinking, “If I crash land in the jungle, will I be able to eat my own shoes?”
Gareth: No, and you can’t.
Tim: What are you thinking, Gareth?
Gareth: I was just wondering, will there ever be a boy born who can swim faster than a shark? (1:5)
For Jean Baudrillard, “fatal” announcements such as Gareth’s create their own world—effectively “doubling the world,” albeit momentarily. If Gareth were a powerful and seductive orator his doubled world would remain and we would find ourselves contemplating the rapidly swimming boy, the position of snipers on roofs, or the use of frog venom to take out an enemy. Gareth’s fatality is that he cannot effectively double the world with his speech because the content is encoded with its own destruction. His extreme, antagonistic social patter, such as “Condoms come in all different flavors, don’t they?” (1:5), reverses itself on its audience and Gareth is marginalized and ignored.
Jean Baudrillard Did Not Visit The Office
But he might have. Indeed, he might have lived there, under a desk, or behind a vending machine. And while we laugh at David Brent and Gareth Keenan, Baudrillard would surely laugh at us. We think that their banter is absurd, that their actions are contradictory and buf-foonish. But we are no better, you and I. For the system that we think is real—the system of Neil Godwin, redundancies, and diminishing expectations—is no less absurd than “team individuality” and boys who swim faster than sharks.
NOTES
1Jean Baudrillard passed away during the writing of this chapter. His obituaries were stunning testimony to his enigmatic thought and theory.
2We can now see this at a more sinister level with petty criminals “learning” to behave through watching The Sopranos (And some of the members of The Sopranos learned to behave from watching The Godfather).
3Perhaps most controversially, he claimed in 1991 (in French, though) that “the Gulf War did not take place.” For the same claim in English, see The Gulf War Did Not Take Place (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995). On the surface this is preposterous. When read carefully, Baudrillard was actually asserting that because it was so mediated and controlled by television, for many people it was as if it was a hyperreal experience, not a real one, which is the typical collision between his inflammatory statements and their being misread.
4Therefore, if Brent is not “Simply the Best” what do we think is? From where do we draw the examples to juxtapose against Brent’s pathetic motivational performance?
5Aristotle, in the Nichomachean Ethics, prescribes a set of personal characteristics which could be achieved through the combination of rational thinking and excellence of practice. They have been deeply influential in the construction of ethical systems and the measurement of personal behavior since.
6Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994). See chapter 1, “The Precession of Simulacra,” in particular.