In order to help others during the lockdown, I took a video correspondence course in psychoanalysis. The course is called Freud and it’s in eight parts on Netflix.
When it is finished, I believe I will be fully qualified to give therapy. (For the moment, in my unauthorized psychoanalytic practice, I keep saying: “And how did you feel?”)
Freud is my favorite type of correspondence course / television program, one in which someone with idiosyncratic work also fights crime. The best of them was BBC Bonecrushers, in which every week a group of archaeologists, instead of working on the development of the highway, found an excuse to fight the archaeological criminals.
Sigmund Freud? Sigmund Phoar-eud, more like. This is a young and beautiful version of the Viennese spirit guardian
In this case, our hero is Sigmund Freud, the father of psychoanalysis who, with a distressed war veteran and a sensual Hungarian psychic, ends up trying to fight a serial killer, who, presumably, will prove to have had a childhood. complicated.
Frankly, I am surprised that the historians of psychoanalysis are not more part of this life of Freud. I’m also surprised that more is not done about how dreamy he was, given that dreams were kind of his thing.
Sigmund Freud? Sigmund Phoar-eud, more like. It is a young and elegant version of the keeper of the Viennese spirit (Robert Finster) with angular features and eyes that come (those of the actor). If this version of Freud is sexually obsessed with his mother, well, all I can say is that she is a very lucky woman.
Freud dives into the troubled waters of the mind
On the gak
Unfortunately, Phoar-eud exists in a world which neither appreciates its psychoanalytic gifts nor its size. He is surrounded by medical people with huge beards and favorites like hedges who continually make fun of him. Freud has only a small beard and a few high-value ideas about the subconscious, so he is sad.
He’s also on the gak. He gobbles drops of cocaine with his historical friend, the writer Arthur Schnitzler, and they go to the opera, where we see Crown Prince Rudolph (before his work with Santa Claus). Then they go to the house of two aristocratic gothics in eyeliner who have arranged a session. During this event, the sensual psychic in paragraph two tries to speak to the dead on behalf of a grieving widow, her sullen son, her precocious daughter and their fluffy dog.
Instead, she has bizarre visions. Inside her untreated nod, she follows the precocious child and the fluffy dog in a corridor in which she sees a naked man covered with blood.
“You know, it’s a continental European program when they have someone with their boy,” says my wife with authority, and she has a degree in German from Trinity College (she also knew who Arthur Schnitzler was, but I thought I’d lead with the “boy” thing). The crimson nudeyman guy is out, like completely. It’s just sitting there as a secondary character. I’m sure if it reappears in later episodes, it may even have a few lines.
Sigmund Freud is too afraid to go down the wet tunnel. I’ll let you sit with that for a few moments
While all this is going on, the noble but traumatized detective with a spiky helmet, an impressive mustache and a happier and less disturbed sidekick, tries to get to the bottom of a macabre murder. Earlier, he deposited the corpse with Freud because Freud is also a good doctor.
Then it turns out that the little girl and her dog have disappeared. Could these cases be connected? Freud goes to another sexy evening at the Gothic house where everyone is naked and creates a painting (it’s really a funny crowd).
There, on the head of cocaine and melancholy, Freud tumbles into the psychic’s bedroom and hypnotizes him to see if she remembers his vision more. Wandering drunk in a patient’s room today would break many medical codes, but Freud is a sniper who plays by his own rules (these are called Freudianism).
She remembers her vision more. In her mind, she follows the little girl, the fluffy dog and the blood-soaked nudist in a tunnel by the canal and in a room where unspeakable things happen.
Terror in tunnels
The first episode ends with our eponymous hero standing by the canal which appeared in the vision of the psychic. Yes, Sigmund Freud wonders if he wants to go down a wet tunnel. Sigmund Freud is too afraid to go down the wet tunnel. I’ll let you sit with it for a few moments.
Ready? Agree in episode two, Freud makes his rounds in the hospital, where he is always mocked by his lush bearded superior for his conviction that the psychological disorders are real and rooted in the trauma of the child. He is also mocked by the sullen brother of the missing girl, who is also a kind of doctor.
Freud tries to prove that a lady with psychosomatic paralysis is not content to do stupid things by putting a needle in her leg, but her boss with big mustaches has nothing to do with it. “We have no time for your new brain science here, so-called” Sigmund Freud “!” he would say if it had been written by Julian Fellowes. Instead, he says something in German.
Freud is obscurely entertaining and not as ridiculous as I said
Meanwhile, the pointed PTSD policeman finds a suspect of amnesic murder whom he recalls plotting war crimes and challenges him to a duel. There is a lot going on in this sentence and if I were a psychoanalyst by training, I would say “let’s unpack this” but we don’t have time.
There’s a thriving dueling scene in Vienna, you see, where scar-fops are trying to stab themselves with their long swords. Call Dr. Freud! No need, he is already there, wandering phallically along the wet tunnel he avoided a few paragraphs back. Here also in the tunnel, for reasons of its own, is the policeman prone to dueling. I will not give anything else.
There are more psychic visions with the sensual psychic. There are hypnotic therapy sessions. There are mysterious and malicious Hungarian Goths. There’s more blood-soaked nudity.
Freud is obscurely entertaining and not as ridiculous as I said. It’s so much fun, in fact, that I don’t feel the need to check the facts and feel safe recommending it as a history lesson. I have certainly learned a lot about psychoanalysis from watching it and I will continue to make reservations for therapy via my Irish Times email address. What does it make you feel?
The world according to Jeff Goldblum: or should it be “Jeff Goldblum”? The famous actor is a charming monument to his own whims
On the new Disney Plus, a 21st century version of Freud and / or Mickey Mouse is available on The world according to Jeff Goldblum. Or should it be “Jeff Goldblum”? The famous actor is a charming monument to his own whims, and he slips between invisible quotes.
In the first episode of his documentary series, he explores the obsessive world of sneaker collectors (“sneakers” = “runners” for us). He visits a sneaker convention, unpack on YouTube, plays surprisingly good basketball, teaches a lesson in the development of vulcanized rubber, reflects on the nature of capitalist consumerism, has custom sneakers made for his celebrity feet, and demonstrates of a fascinating phrase (“(The convention is) Ellen Burstyn with an international congregation that worships Mr. Sneaker’s altar”).
In addition, everyone in the program has an expression on their face that says, “Why is Jeff Goldblum asking me questions about the runners?” I would ask Dr. Freud to speak about the case, but I suspect that Goldblum, like the Irish, is immune to psychoanalysis.