Out, Damn Spot

Cinema skips the mundane. The ritualised daily activities are, after all, a chore that humans go through. There is little to none cinematic potential in these actions: nothing that can hold the viewers at the edge of their proverbial seats. It does not, in a sense, matter how Frodo and his cohorts evacuate bowels and bladders as they flee from unearthly half-dead entities. Unless it does matter! Why include something that can be left out without a second thought? Obviously, because, in that moment, the inclusion informs the texture of the scenes’ comprehension (maybe apprehension)! Thus, scenes of scatological evacuation (à la Jonathan Swift or François Rabelais) present the character’s state of absurdity or hilarity. Remember Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory throwing up on “clowns” after an alcoholic binge with Bernadette’s father (S07/E09).

In any case, within this list of ordinary actions that find only nodal presentations, handwashing is perhaps at the top. Lady Macbeth, though not from cinematic world, comes to mind. Having had a significant “hand” in the murder of King Duncan, she is unable to get the blood spot off her palm. “Out, damned spot”, she pleads. Yet, “the smell of the blood” remains, and “all the perfumes of Arabia” fail to sweeten the stench of murder. What is interesting is the act itself: an invocation of the action of washing hands, even in terms of a failure. Lady Macbeth is unable to wash her hands of, literally and metaphorically, the responsibility that she shares for the murder. Why hands, and not the entire body? In fact, Vishal Bhardwaj’s Maqbool capitalises on this omission. The gunshot that kills Jahangir Khan (film’s Duncan) sprays blood on Nimmi’s (Lady Macbeth) face.

Following Macbeth (one would assume), films have, on and off, spent some time on handwashing. At the beginning of Die Hard, when John McClane meets his (separated) wife at Nakatomi Tower, she takes him to her bathroom, where he leans on the intricately designed wash basin to clean his hands. In Pulp Fiction, the two hitmen, Jules and Vincent, not only wash hands, but have an argument about it. While Jules “properly” cleans his hands, Vincent wets his. Jules schools Vincent on how to correctly wash. In The Aviator, Howard Hughes who, in real life, was obsessed with cleanliness washes his hands (quite vigorously) twice. Finally, in Mission Impossible: Fallout, a bout of fisticuff between Ethan Hunt, August Walker, and John Lark begins with them standing against wash basins and scrubbing their hands.

All these examples stand testament to the relative frequency of the representation of handwashing. One reason that comes to mind, at least towards an explication of this frequency, is the ease with which drama can be induced into a mundane act. From the force with which the characters wash hands to actual diatribe on it, matter is injected into this rather simple task. In The Aviator, Hughes’ definitive OCD and germ phobia is revealed when he rubs hands with so much force that they begin to bleed. Not a lot is needed to build the tension; just a camera focusing on the vigour.

But, the actual shot aside, there is another reason behind the relative prevalence of handwashing in cinema. Notice how the act comes, more often than not, around something ominous. In Mission Impossible, an actual fight-leading to the death of the antagonist breaks out subsequently. In Pulp Fiction, as in Macbeth, the two hitmen literally wash off blood from their hands. Finally, in Die Hard, Nakatomi Tower is taken over by terrorists; which leads to a long and protracted battle that McClane wages against Hans Gruber and his minions. It is common to see a pair of palms in a basin, as blood and grime swirls down the gutter, along with tap water.

What is it about washing hands that it becomes, quite often, an anchor to something menacing within the contours of a narrative? The answer, perhaps, lies in the subconscious correlation between the act and cleaning of the character’s conscience. Filmmakers have, in a sense, forged a connection between washing away of the darkness of the moment, and cleaning hands. After all, the metaphorical dimension of handwashing works similarly: of divesting the body of responsibility. This stripping away becomes redemptive as guilt, along with accountability, is washed off as well. Ethan Hunt and McClane are successful and guilt-free; others like John Lark (and Lady Macbeth) fail and suffer. However, the act creates the possibility of a distance between actions and their moral reckoning.

Having said this, the original question of ‘why hands only’ remains unanswered, and resurfaces with more force. The answer lies in the fact that hands touch; in touching, they reaffirm the tactile reality of the world. The idea of the hand is not restricted to just palms, but incorporates other appendages. Other senses like sight, smell, and hearing, extend out of the body into the world, and entangle with the sensed object. But hands actively touch. They feel and, in doing so, make the world an actual presence. This reaffirmation creates an active link between the world and the human; a seamless continuation of existence that moves from human into the world and vice-versa.

While taste works similarly, it is subject to prudence. It isn’t possible to taste everything. The limitations to touch, on the other hand, at least within the tolerances of the body, evolve to accommodate the world. Thus, humans love and hate with hands, and cook, make music, dance (along with feet), feel happy and sad, caress, punch, drive, stop, act, explain, and speak with them. They write, carry, heat up, cool down, shake, twist, open, shut, shoot, save, defend, and attack with hands. The materiality of life, in essence, happens through hands.

Ritwick Bhattacharjee Assistant Professor, University of Delhi