Showing posts with label ECT. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ECT. Show all posts

Saturday 13 April 2013

Soft targets for scorn : Who gives a stuff about homoeopathy* ?

More views of - or before - Cambridge Film Festival 2012
(Click here to go directly to the Festival web-site)


13 April

Honestly, I'd really far rather that people such as Simon Singh, who campaign about homoeopathy, would consider the rights and wrongs of electro-convulsive therapy* (ECT), or even psychosurgery : that's keeping it within the so-called sphere of medicine (borderline butchery ?), but one could migrate to hammering many an alternative therapy, whereas homoeopathy seems to have an abiding fascination, which is what this posting concerns itself with.

To keep with ECT : it's odd that human-rights campaigners, journalists and the like want to stress the inhumanity of measures used against, say, Iraqi detainees to break them (whether or not to get information from them), but those - equally detained - under the Mental Health Act 1983 (as amended) seem to be have some different sort of emotional or moral status as victim, compared with military prisoners or officials of deposed regimes. Maybe I'm just weird in finding that curious...

Actually, I don't think so, because it actually seems easier (possibly as a result of documentary : but, then, who makes the documentaries, and why about that ?) for people to contemplate the ethics of the waterboarding or mock execution of a captive in (or brought from) a foreign country than what might happen, say, to an Afghani in a UK psychiatric unit, deemed to be in an unshakeable depression and (irrespective of consent) to need ECT to save his life or for some other reason under the 1983 Act.



And where are we with our headline issue, homoeopathy ? Well, isn't much criticism - dressing-up of the criticism aside - just saying either You're gullible pricks to believe in this crap (various royals included, I believe***), or You are exploiting gullible pricks who believe in this crap - and it matters because it is done 'on the NHS' ?

So what irritates me is the arbitrarily focused smugness of those who say that this is all crap and we're not such mugs as to believe in it, or to want it to continue :

Nothing better to get angry about (such as the mental-health or other humanitarian issues already mentioned) ?

Or just making a fuss because it's an easy battle to win, when most people grasp that the practice is one of repeated dilution, and don't need much stoking to concur that it should not happen at public expense.

Frankly, with the waste that is everywhere in this world, from unnecessarily upgrading phones or laptops (or PCs) just because people can, or have to****, is stopping homoeopathic treatment going to save anything sigificant in terms of money or lives ? Is is really such a huge topic that Pratter needs to be full of condemnation of it, whether in ridicule or rhetoric ?



Unless homoeopathy is banned by law (and might go underground ?), it will continue privately, so the people who were involved in the NHS have an incentive - called losing their job - to work for a private institution, or set up on their own. Net result what ? What savings, and what change ?

Maybe worthwhile in itself, but why not highlight the horrible and cruel isolation and poverty in which many with mental-health conditions have to live ? The lack of befriending or other support schemes, the lack of concern that poor diet, lifestyle and even the long-term effects of medication have on, and reciprocally so, physical health, the battles to be awarded and survive on wlefare benefits, etc., etc., ?

Honestly, Splatter, I really can't think that it matters any great amount, when such degraded lives are all around us, that a few people are being prescribed overdiluted extracts - don't mock or barrack this practice of low significance when people are living and dying in obscurity. If you choose to, you prove that your own mental and personal satisfaction in what you do outweighs the demands of your humanity, your integrity, and your intellect.



End-notes

* How can something as damaging, as brutal and little understood as to its mechanism of effectiveness (when effective), be called 'a therapy' ?

** Most people who Tweet so much about it can't even spell it - they write homeopathy, when they'd probably pounce on someone not putting homoeothermy...

*** And some might know, far better than I, how there came to be a Bristol Homoeopathic Hospital.

**** Because applications and web-coding becomes ever more (gratuitously ?) complicated, and not (or no longer) supported by the only operating that will run on a computer because of its specification, whose functionality is otherwise perfectly good.


Saturday 17 September 2011

Not waving, but drowning

More views of - or at - Cambridge Film Festival 2011
(Click here to go directly to the Festival web-site)


17 September

As expected, Liam Cunningham (as Jack Cope) was excellent in Black Butterflies, but Carice van Houten, playing poet Ingrid Jonker, was a revelation. To those in the know, she perfectly carried out a role that betrayed the traits of impetuosity, feeling abandoned, blaming others, promiscuity, drinking too much in order to feel safe and able to cope, and becoming overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, which characterize some common personality disorders (they would probably have called them neuroses then).

Yet, as is by no means inconsistent, her character was delightful, and she filled the screen with feeling, from seducing Jack, and showing the characters’ hunger for each other in the very beautiful sex-scenes, to hurling objects at him with extreme force. There are claims that she was had other lovers, but Eugene and Jack, the ones who are definite, both find her draining, as well they would. A force for life is hard to live with, after all.

Rutger Hauer as Ingrid’s father (eerily resembling my former university tutor facially) has a harsh love (eventually, on account of her alleged sleeping around, he dismisses her as a slut), likely to have been one of the things that contributed to how she reacts to life and, through doing so in later life, the three psychiatric admissions that we see (or hear of), the last of them leading to electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). Although it is not always true that people are never the same after it, she is damaged.

She is also damaged by the child whom she wished she had kept, and by the one fathered by Eugene, and which led her to desperate steps in Paris and that last admission. Whereas the film does not pretend to portray Ingrid’s life or that of others who were close to her faithfully, hearing Carice (and, against his judgement, her character’s father) read her verse will encourage a journey to look out her writing, not least given that is was allowed such a prominent place in the new South Africa.

Maybe the real Ingrid wrote on the walls, maybe she didn’t, but it set up a world in which desperate words written in the condensation in Paris were hurtingly real, and also tragically echoed her having made love to Jack in her old room at her father’s house (the old servants’ quarters), their bodies touching and mingling with her script.

Not exactly a love-story, through she clearly does love Jack (but cannot be ‘faithful’), but one about what it is to feel, love and live, and to write faithfully what one believes in, whatever the cost.