Man, Scientist, Enigma
by Andrew Collins
Whenever the silver screen needs a brilliant, troubled, eccentric protagonist, Benedict Cumberbatch will be there to play the part — consider the hit BBC TV series Sherlock, last year’s The Fifth Estate, and now The Imitation Game.
In this case he portrays Alan Turing, the World War II-era British mathematician tasked with cracking the Nazi Enigma machine. As a professor, Turing evaluates his life accomplishments by comparing them to Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton’s at similar ages, and feels much more at home in a crossword puzzle than the local pub. Cumberbatch’s interpretation of Turing is thus a more human (read: not quite as absurdly brilliant) Sherlock Holmes: unable to navigate everyday social situations, generally rude to those working with him but valued because he alone has the skill set that will save Britain, and all the while attractive to women, even when his own sexuality is ambiguous.
Speaking of which, the sexuality facet of Turing’s story is bound to define it, for both good and ill. The filmmakers’ choices in this area have drawn criticism, and even vitriol, from both ends of the sociopolitical spectrum.
Alan Turing was a closeted homosexual who, some years after the war, was convicted of gross indecency because of homosexual acts. The story could not have been told with the full depth of complexity and tragedy of Turing’s experience without acknowledging this aspect. And yet, it differs from films like Brokeback Mountain and Blue is the Warmest Color, in which same-sex relationships are the whole point of the film. By contrast, Turing’s story of building the first computer is remarkable and fraught with drama in its own right.
This makes The Imitation Game, in my opinion, one of the first objectively good stories that just so happens to feature a homosexual protagonist.
The Imitation Game takes pains to immerse us in the World War II context by splicing in historic combat footage throughout the narrative so that viewers feel the ‘total war’ experience of Allied society. Pressure from a skeptical military and reports of mounting death tolls drives Turing relentlessly – nearly to despair — and when he and his team finally crack the code, we weep along with them, knowing that their success just spared mankind what would have been some of its most crushing years. Even at this great climax, though, the elation soon dissolves into a lump in our throats as the characters realize that the power to counter German attacks must be used with discretion, in small doses, under the guidance of cold, hard probabilities. In the meantime, many friends and family will die, and will see the strikes coming, but have no choice but to stand by and do nothing.
Even though Turing accomplished one of the great feats of the 20th Century, The Imitation Game, at its heart, is a personal tragedy. The film reveals his character deliberately by shifting between three decisive incidents at the beginning, middle, and end of his life, making him increasingly sympathetic by exposing layer after layer of loneliness. His life begins with the death of his closest friend, peaks at foiling Nazi Germany, and ends with the trauma of chemical castration through hormone therapy — and that’s what makes the story so powerful. His contribution to the Allied cause of freedom and democracy dwarfs that of anyone else. His name should be mentioned in the same breath as historic figures ranging from General Patton to Steve Jobs. Yet at every turn we see him misunderstood and despised and opposed.
The added weight of isolation that Turing experienced because of his sexuality deepens the tragedy and hence adds greater emotional weight to The Imitation Game’s story. But there are moments when the film comes dangerously close to sermonizing. His assistant Joan Clarke (Keira Knightley) grapples with working as a woman in elite military and intellectual circles among a society (and family) that has much more domestic expectations for her. Turing himself cares only about her mathematical ingenuity, but can only persuade her to work on cracking Enigma in the first place by giving onlookers the impression that she’ll be working mostly alongside women. Her experience facing underwhelming gender expectations fuses with Turing’s closeted inclinations to draw them together as platonic confidants, and they temporarily overcome their challenges by masquerading as a couple. However, this leaves the film’s remaining characters – and those in that era of British society in general – looking like simplistic chauvinists and homophobes. Regardless of your view on these issues, this whiff of agenda ends up a net distraction to the greater story.
The film’s title refers to a fascinating exercise of Turing’s in which he gives the listener a series of clues from which they must determine whether the subject is machine or human. Turing plays this game with a detective when taken in for questioning after his arrest for indecency. Confronted with Turing’s true past, along with his dispassionate brilliance even while under arrest, the detective throws up his hands in the end. “I can’t judge you,” he tells Turing, acknowledging his unworthiness before the man who took the first decisive steps toward creating artificial intelligence. Yet the court did ultimately judge him, and he was sentenced (as an alternative to prison) to a year of hormone therapy intended to eliminate his libido.
A year later, in the film, Turing committed suicide, alone at home with his computing machine, which he named Christopher.
It should be noted that among historians some questions have arisen around Turing’s death, with both relatives and modern analysts suggesting that it might have been an accident connected with a chemical experiment and citing accounts by his friends of his happiness and optimism in the days leading up to his death.
In any case, the tale remains tragic and fraught with complexity that continues to raise controversy and high emotion on all sides today.
These days we may think of artificial intelligence as generally lesser than our own. It lacks autonomy, after all. But Turing’s story reminds us that these electric brains have at least one virtue – they show no partiality.
