Stanford Palmer clung to his title as Department Head of Chemical Engineering almost as tightly as he clung to the handle of his briefcase as he trudged towards the laboratory. It was past midnight, and after a draining workday, the professor readied himself for an equally tiresome night. 

Between a failing marriage and an accumulating debt, Stanford’s life was deteriorating like a baby tooth in a cola bottle at a middle school science fair. His career was the one aspect of his life he could control, so when the SunWay Transit Company offered to sponsor the university’s research project— replacing asphalt roadway surfaces with structurally-sound solar panels— Stanford seized the opportunity to chair the undertaking. 

Thus Stanford found himself at the university in a caffeine-induced delirium, in the early hours of a Saturday morning, working on a funding renewal proposal that was due the following Monday.

“Professor Palmer?” A voice disrupted Stanford’s directionless thoughts. Michael Walter, one of the custodians, had made his way tentatively through the lab’s half-open door. He held a thermos of coffee in one hand and a pushbroom in the other.

“Sorry to bother ya,” Michael apologized. “Didn’t expect to see anyone on a weekend night shift.”

“No worries. My door’s always open.”

“Seems as such. I reckon you’re clocking more hours here than at your own house.”

“I guess I prefer it that way.” The professor laughed through a stifled yawn. 

“Do ya now?” Michael started sweeping the floor. “Why’s that?”

Stanford looked into the lens of his microscope and turned the dials aimlessly, searching more for the right words than for a clear image. “I’ve just been having a rough go lately.”

“Sorry to hear that.” 

The room quieted into a consolatory silence before Stanford spoke up again. “It’s like this,” he said, reaching for a microscope slide from a wooden box on his desk. He fastened the slide to the microscope, adjusted a few dials, and turned the eyepiece towards the custodian. Michael peered into the tiny lens. Inside were hundreds of long, asymmetrical beehive-like contours.

“Onion skin cells.” The custodian classified the image with conviction. “I ain’t no professor but I’ve sat through my share of high school science classes.”

“To the naked eye, onions are these perfect vegetables that—”

“— make everything taste better?”

“Exactly,” the professor nodded. “But magnify them, and they’re composed of millions of lonely epidermal cells, isolated from each other by rigid cellulose walls that—.”

“I ain’t a chemistry professor, remember?”

“Sorry,” Stanford chuckled. “I guess what I’m saying is this: I have a professional career, a beautiful wife, a comfortable home. To the naked eye, my life looks perfect.” 

“But you’ve got walls, eh?”

“I’ve got walls.”

The lab fell into another heavy silence, penetrated only by the artificial buzz of fluorescent lights.

“So what’s got you workin’ on a Saturday morning?” Michael eventually asked.

“We’re designing renewable energy roadways out of solar panels.”

“That’s one way to make a name for yourself.”

“Yeah,” Stanford sighed. “But I think it’s one of my walls.”

“Oh?”

“It’s cut me off from my wife, my hobbies, everything. My entire life feels fenced in by this hopeless project.”

“Hopeless?”

“The panels’ silicon surfaces don’t provide enough traction for them to double as functioning roads.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Driving on solar panels would be like driving on black ice,” Stanford explained, adding, “without winter tires.”

“Not ideal.”

“Not at all.”

“Well, I can’t help much. Like I said, I’m not a—”

“Not a chemistry professor, I know.” Stanford laughed.

“But at least let me give you this.” Michael handed him his thermos. Before Stanford could object, Michael added, “don’t worry, I haven’t drunk anything yet. Besides, you need it more than I do.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it. I’ve got a long walk home so I best be heading out.” Michael started towards the door, but before he reached it, he turned back. “Professor?”

“Hmm?”

“If I remember correctly, cell walls are semipermeable.”

With that, Michael slipped out the door. His footsteps faded into the empty hall.

Stanford opened Michael’s thermos and imbibed its sweet-smelling steam. Its warmth awoke something inside him. For the first time in his life, Stanford could breathe freely; so freely that he left the laboratory and its lingering spirits of formaldehyde and ether for good.

“Michael?” he called, walking swiftly through the halls to catch up. “I’m heading home. Why don’t I give you a ride?”

Soft snow fell gingerly from the heavens, set aglow by the shafts of sunlight that pierced through the wispy clouds. The streets were bustling with the spirit of Christmas, and the sound of children’s laughter could be heard faintly over the radio’s lively rendition of “Joy to the World.”

It was a nightmare.

See, I was pulling into the parking lot at the mall for a last-minute shopping spree, and— let the records show— I’m not much of a Christmas shopper. Whenever I step foot in the shopping mall, which doesn’t happen often, my wife’s voice materializes in the throne room of my subconscious, assuming command over me, its one and only subject. “Get something practicallll…” Her voice echoes through my mind with such ease that my skull seems emptier than I’d like to hope. “No one actually uses scented candlesssss…” 

Every year I get so caught up in my own thoughts (and my wife’s thoughts) that I end up spending about five hours and five hundred dollars more than intended.

So like I said, I’m not one for Christmas shopping, and that’s under ordinary circumstances. But to shop for someone I barely know anymore, two days before Christmas, at a mall whose directory looks like an exact replica of the New York City subway map? I was more likely to vacation in the Bermuda Triangle. 

My car radio was rattling off the final few verses of “Joy to the World” as I searched for somewhere to park. It was a cover by a band I’d never heard of before, but based on the instrumentation (a keytar and a synthesizer on some kind of “Fargo” patch), they were probably called “Maverick and the Gnarly Gremlins” or something along those lines. Anyway, the song was ending in a fade-out typical of the decade of synthesizers on “Fargo” patches, and I still couldn’t find a parking spot. I knew better than to park along the street, because the second I pulled out of the lot, I’d have drowned in traffic so dense that it may as well have been a vacation to the Bermuda Triangle.

I continued my seemingly futile search, all the while frantically racking my brain for gift ideas for cousin Chuckie. He had called me up out of the blue a couple nights ago, asking if he could spend the holidays at my place. I was about to deny his request and maybe even throw in a “remember the time you popped the heads off all my G.I. Joe action figures in grade two and told me it was because their minds were blown at how much of an idiot I was?” for good measure, but before I could open my mouth, my wife’s voice infiltrated my thoughts once again. “Remember the true meaning of Christmasssss…” it whispered into my ear like a shoulder angel (or a shoulder devil, I can’t decide which). And so here I was, looking for a parking spot among a sea of last-minute shoppers whose desperation was just as fueled by the consequences of their procrastination as mine was. 

Over my car speakers, a preppy news reporter voice that sounded a little too influenced by the holiday season started announcing the next song. Her nasally voice was distorted with radio static, but I could make out that it was a group called “The Disco Divas” and they were playing yet another cover of “Joy to the World,” as if the eighties glam rockers-in-spandex version wasn’t enough. I tried to change stations, but I turned the wrong knob and the cover doubled in volume.

While I fiddled with the dials on my car, I saw a parking spot in my peripheral vision. An empty plot of concrete, unobstructed by wheels of any sort. It felt like Christmas morning.

I started to pull up to the heaven-sent parking space, the refrain of “Joy to the World” blasting just as loud in my mind as it was on my radio. In fact, my inner voice, my wife’s voice, and the lead singers of “The Disco Divas” were all singing together in perfect four-part harmony, like a choir of heavenly hosts. Our vocal performance was cut short mid-chorus though, because to my dismay, when I got closer I saw one of those plastic red-and-yellow Little Tikes “Cozy Coupe” push cars, parked in my spot. If I had a quarter for every time I thought I’d found a parking spot but then discovered it was just being used by a really short car, I’d have enough money to bribe cousin Chuckie into spending Christmas alone. But a toddler’s toy car? I’d never seen anything quite like it. 

If it hadn’t been for my wife’s constant reminders of “the spirit of Christmas” and “doing the right thing,” I’d have parked right on top of the plastic car and gone about my day. Instead, I continued bitterly down the rows of traffic.

The radio announcer’s grating voice started introducing a third cover of my new least-favourite carol— a death metal adaptation this time— when I saw my second chance. Another available spot. I didn’t have time to celebrate though, because coming from the other direction was a jet-black monster truck with flaming skulls emblazoned on the fenders. It was commanded by a shaggy-bearded man whose face was more tattoo than it was skin. 

He glowered at me through his windshield, and we sized each other up like wild animals. He bared his teeth and revved his engine. I clenched my steering wheel with both of my white-knuckled fists and broke out in a nervous sweat. 

Then suddenly, he barrelled towards me on a collision course with the speed and the volume of an artillery cannon. I stepped on my gas and lurched forward too, desperate for the sweet refuge of those benevolent yellow lines of paint, but next to the cannon of a monster truck, my minivan was a nerf gun. It was an unspoken game of “chicken,” soundtracked by an appropriately dramatic screamo vocalist, bellowing about the “wonders of His love.”

My opponent wasn’t backing down. While he drove, he pointed at me with his index finger and then drew it over his throat, all while glaring at me with eyes that were narrower than the parking space. Other than swerving, my only hope was fitting my entire minivan underneath his skid plate, and while it may have been possible, I doubted my wife would have appreciated the tactic. So I whispered a brief “farewell” to both my parking spot and my pride, and swerved only seconds before my shopping trip became a demolition derby.

At this point, I was desperate, hungry, and willing to try anything. Death metal “Joy to the World” eventually became Dixieland “Joy to the World,” which soon transitioned into an old-timey hillbilly country “Joy to the World.” I was planning to drive my minivan straight through the mall’s automatic sliding doors, if that’s what it took, when I passed a gloriously empty handicap parking spot. My wife’s voice inside my head was objecting loudly, but the temptation was louder. Like a swan gliding through silky waters, I gracefully pulled into the spot and got out of my car before my wife could convince me to change my mind.

As I was speed walking towards the entrance to the mall, ready to finish my trip and retreat back into the safety of my home, I passed a bleary-eyed woman pushing what must have been her son in a wheelchair. I subconsciously averted my eyes, but I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

“Mommy?” The child asked meekly.

“Yes, Billy?”

“Why do you always have to push my wheelchair across the entire parking lot?”

“Because, pumpkin, there are monsters in this world who are far too concerned with their own convenience than with little disadvantaged angels such as yourself.” 

I dug my hands deep into my pockets and started walking a little faster.

“But what about the law, mommy? Don’t the monsters care about the law?”

“No, Billy,” the woman answered gravely. Her eyes clouded as if burdened with a painful history. “No, they don’t.”

I sped past the two, staring at my feet and bustling through the mall doors without looking back. Inside, an a cappella “Joy to the World” rang past the kiosks and food courts, and I looked up to see a group of a hundred or so preteens in red and green choir uniforms, right by the entrance, singing with the blissful festivity of kids who don’t yet have to park their own cars.

I stepped past the choir, venturing deeper into the labyrinth of a mall, and bumping elbows with frantic shoppers of all ages. I felt stressed and claustrophobic, but more so than that, I felt resentment toward cousin Chuckie. I mean, he had tormented me throughout my entire childhood, outshined me when we were teenagers, and completely ignored me into my adulthood, only to call me out of nowhere, asking to ruin the most important day of the year. I mean, the dude doesn’t even show up to my wedding, and he thinks he can just—

Suddenly, my train of thought was interrupted by something that had caught the corner of my eye. The perfect gift. It was a Christmas miracle. It stood gloriously in its rotating display case, radiating wonder. It was perfectly symmetrical, yet new from every angle. It shone with unopened novelty, yet it felt like I’d known it all my life. It was fit for royalty, yet its warmth made it approachable to anyone. It was the perfect emblem of our relationship as cousins.

Something changed inside me upon seeing it, sitting in the display window in all its glory. Maybe my shoulder angel wife was finally getting to me, or maybe it was the spirit of Christmas. Whatever the reason, I felt all my bitterness dissipate. At that moment, I knew I was put on this planet for a purpose, and that purpose was to purchase this gift for cousin Chuckie. 

I entered the store and lifted it delicately off its display, too enraptured to check the price tag. Cradling it in my arms like a newborn, I walked towards the check out line, and the cashier rang it through.

“That’ll be five hundred dollars,” she said in her sing-songy customer service voice, flashing me a shiny smile.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, snapping out of my daze and staring blankly at the cashier. 

“Five hundred dollars, sir.” 

I gazed into the brilliance of the gift on the counter. I knew it was expensive, but at a certain point you have to ask yourself: what’s five hundred dollars next to the face of a cousin who knows he’s loved? Cousin Chuckie and I have been at each other’s throats since forever, and if five hundred dollars was what it would take to finally mend our relationship and step onto the path towards forgiveness, then it was worth it if you asked me. In fact, it was a cheap price to pay.

“Um, are you going to take it or not, sir? We’ve got a long line and I don’t—”

“Keep the change.” I dumped the contents of my wallet on the counter— five hundred dollars worth of bills, a crumpled grocery receipt, and some pocket lint. Then, reaching over the counter, I gently lifted the gift out of the cashier’s hands and marched toward the mall’s exit in a state of triumph.

I half-walked, half-skipped out of the sliding doors, and was met with a gust of crisp winter air. When I looked up to find my minivan though, my euphoria vanished instantly. I had made it outside just in time to see it being hitched onto an enormous tow truck, and towed away.

Billy and his mom were sitting next to each other, sipping on hot chocolates and laughing like stock photo models. 

“Merry Christmas!” Billy greeted me.

“Shove a sock in it,” I greeted back.

Just then, my cell phone rang. It was cousin Chuckie. I picked it up and held it to my ear.

“Hey cousin Chuckie. What’s up?”

“There’s been a change of plans,” he declared, his voice muffled through the receiver. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Look bro, I know your holiday’s gonna be totally lame without me,” he said. “But I met this girl at a sports bar last night, and things are moving pretty fast. She wants me to meet the parents. You know how it is.”

“You mean you’re not coming?”

“Nah, bro. I can’t.”

“But I already bought your present. You have to come.”

“That’s okay you can ship it to me. It better be something good—.”

I hung up the phone and shoved it into my pocket. My resentment and bitterness came rushing back, all at once, and I looked down at the gift in my hand, a vintage 1967 G.I. Joe action figure. 

I dug my fingers into its neck and popped the head clean off.

The Truman Show, directed by Peter Weir, is a 1998 science fiction comedy-drama starring Jim Carrey as Truman Burbank, an average twenty-nine-year-old insurance salesman who, unbeknownst to him, has been living his entire life on the set of a live television program called The Truman Show. Every detail of Truman's life, down to his career, friendships, and marriage, have been fabricated by the creator of the show, a man named Christof. The set of The Truman Show, an artificial community called Sea Haven, is equipped with over  5000 hidden cameras that monitor Truman's every move, and each citizen down to his 'best friend,' 'wife,' and even 'mother' are merely actors and actresses who have been hired to sustain the illusion that he leads and ordinary life. When props start to malfunction however, Truman begins to suspect the nature of his reality and eventually plans a successful escape.

On the surface, The Truman Show can be taken as an inspiring and relatively light-hearted story about overcoming society's constructs and seizing opportunities. I mean, especially considering Jim Carrey's reputation for goofy, tongue-in-cheek roles, these types of themes can be expected. The Truman Show also raises a number of deeply philosophical questions though, and when observed through the right lens, it speaks profoundly to the epistemological concepts of skepticism and knowledge.

Skepticism traces back thousands of years, but Descartes' Meditations on First Philosophy, published in 1641, was one of the first texts to clearly accentuate and delineate the idea that almost all things have reasonable cause for doubt. If you've been following my Perspectives series from the beginning, you might remember some of the concepts presented in Descartes' first two meditations. Almost two months ago I deconstructed and interpreted some of his conclusions, and if you missed that post (or if you want a refresher), you can follow this link to check it out. 

So as you may recall, Descartes identifies his own mind as the only indisputable absolute truth of existence, and goes on to suggest that an evil genius, equally omnipotent as he is deceitful, may have made it his sole objective to deceive humankind by manipulating their perceptions and experiences. Descartes writes: "I shall consider that the heavens, the earth, colours, figures, sound, and all other external things are nought but the illusions and dreams of which this genius has availed himself in order to lay traps for my credulity." In acknowledging the possibility of the existence of such a being, Descartes introduces a reason to question and disbelieve every aspect of his life.

In terms of The Truman Show, Christof, who is the inventor and designer of the television program, is akin to the evil genius presented by Descartes' meditations. Outwardly this may not seem to be the case, because the film presents Christof as a godly character, both through his name which is a derivative of Christ, as well as through the camera angles which emphasize the way he sits above his creation and talks down to Truman from the sky. On watching The Truman Show with a more cynical perspective however, it becomes clear that Christof is analogous to Descartes’ deceiver rather than to God, because his whole life’s work involves manipulating Truman’s world in order to mislead and delude him for entertainment’s sake. The way Christof’s character is disguised as divine and saintlike on the surface may even be a reflection of the deceptive nature of Descartes’ evil genius. 

Even though every aspect of Truman’s life is entirely contrived, he is nevertheless comfortable in it, at least during the beginning of the film before he begins to suspect any falsehood. This blissful unawareness is commensurate with Greek skeptic Pyrrho of Elis’ philosophy, called Pyrrhonism. Pyrrhonism is centered on acatalepsy, which in simplest terms is the inability to comprehend anything as it actually is, and while at first it may seem disencouraging, Pyrrho thought that the hypothesis that one could not understand anything in its entirety was ataraxia, which is a state of serenity characterized by a permanent freedom from distress. In other words, Pyrrho believed that his ignorance was bliss. The Truman Show’s take on ataraxia is summarized about two thirds into the film when Christof says: “we accept the reality of the world with which we’re presented. It’s as simple as that. If [Truman] was absolutely determined to discover the truth, there’s no way we could prevent him … Ultimately Truman prefers his cell.” Namely, Truman had every reason to be satisfied with his life because, fictitious as it was, he was safe, healthy and relatively well-off.

Despite his being set up for a fundamentally gratifying life however, Truman eventually becomes unhappy in his artificial world, and resolves to escape Sea Haven. His dissatisfaction stems from suspicion, confusion, and a lack of understanding which is evident because he is content at the beginning of the movie, and only when malfunctioning props, interfering actors, and glitches in the system give him cause for doubt does he become discontented with his existence. In this way, the nature of Truman’s search for truth is comparable to that of the prisoners in Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. 

The Allegory of the Cave is a philosophical dialogue that was first presented in Plato’s Republic. Socrates, the narrator of the allegory tells of a group of prisoners who have spent all their lives chained to the back of a cave, facing a blank wall. Occasionally, objects pass in front of a fire behind them, and those objects’ shadows are cast on the wall they are facing. In this manner, the prisoners are taught that reality consists of nothing more than shadows and echoes. When a prisoner is released from the cave though, he perceives the true form of reality rather than the fabricated reality to which he had grown accustomed. Until he is released however, he has no reason to doubt that the shadows he perceives are anything other than the truth. Similarly, when the Truman Show’s system malfunctions, Truman’s eyes are opened to the possibility of something more, and only then is he able to escape his cave, so to speak, and experience reality for what it truly is. 

And while Plato’s Allegory of the Cave perfectly illustrates Truman’s situation, it also applies to our own experiences, because one of the main concepts that Plato was trying to communicate with his allegory is that there are two worlds: the world of becoming (the material world) and the world of being (the immaterial world). Plato believed that it was wise to reject the unclear, misshapen forms of the world of becoming, and to embrace the pure forms of the world of being. If you replace the set of The Truman Show with Plato’s world of becoming, and replace the reality outside of Sea Haven with the world of being, then it becomes evident that in escaping the show, Truman was opening himself to a  conversion from being deceived by material things to embracing the truth. 

So although we may not be imprisoned in a complex television program in which all our experiences are contrived by an enterprising producer, there are ways in today’s society that we can be deceived. From politicians that lie in their campaigns to earn votes to companies that lie in their advertisements to earn money, if we want to open ourselves to truth, we must follow Truman in abandoning those things that make us vulnerable to manipulation. However deception may manifest itself, Truman Burbank represents a paradigm by which we must adhere if we want to detach ourselves from deception and metaphorically release ourselves from the cave wall we are chained to.

And that's why The Truman Show holds lasting relevance.