Dollhouse

"The Mind Doesn’t Matter, It’s the Body We Want"

Identity and the Body in Dollhouse

“If there’s no great glorious end to all this, if nothing we do matters, then all that matters is what we do. ’Cause that’s all there is: what we do now, today.”

—Angel (Angel, “Epiphany,” 2-16)

The preceding sentence will likely be familiar to any Whedonverse acolyte. Angel’s words do, after all, sum up the over-arching existentialist viewpoint of Joss Whedon–helmed television shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and Firefly. A fan will no doubt be used to Whedon’s belief that good people make themselves, and that they do so through their actions— by always aiming to do good, even when it is horrible work, and expecting little to no reward in return. In these shows, one’s identity comes from one’s actions. Dollhouse, the most recent entry to the Whedonverse, however, appears to depart from this idea. In the world of Dollhouse, characters are subject to external influences telling them how to think and behave. Our heroes in the Dollhouse have thoughts and beliefs planted into their brains, so how can they “make themselves” through their actions? How can they think and act for themselves if there is no real “self” there? Dollhouse answers these questions through an exploration of how the body affects human identity. By addressing the body in ways that have been largely untouched in Whedon’s previous shows, Dollhouse alters and expands the conception of identity found in the Whedonverse.

On the show, Echo, Sierra, Victor, and November all work for the mysterious Dollhouse. Most of the time they live in the spa-like house in an innocent, memory-free, will-less state; that is, of course, until they are “imprinted” with a different personality in order to complete an “engagement.” On Dollhouse, this action of imprinting Dolls with various ideas, beliefs, and patterns of behavior reflects the notion that we, the viewers, are influenced greatly by our own everyday interactions with the world. Over the course of a day, for example, we watch television news, we listen to our friends’ opinions, we take orders from our boss, and we stop at red lights when driving. Much of what we think in a day comes not from ourselves, but from events, individuals, and ideas in the world that encourage, train, or demand that we act certain ways.

As Topher, the Dollhouse’s computer genius, lectured Dollhandler Boyd Langton in the show’s original pilot (“Echo”): “You eat eggs in the morning but never at night. You feel excitement and companionship when rich men you’ve never met put a ball through a net. You look down for at least half a second if a woman leans forward. [. . .] Everybody’s programmed, Boyd.” Topher’s remarks may never have aired on television, but the notion that everyone within the world of Dollhouse was a Doll— and thus imprinted by the world around them—was prevalent in the show. We saw this to some degree in the fact that, over the course of the show, more and more “regular” people were revealed to have been dolls all along: the Russian informant to FBI agent Paul Ballard was actually Victor; Ballard’s neighbor Mellie was revealed to have been November; Dr. Saunders was Whiskey all along; and Senator Daniel Perrin turned out to be Wesley Wyndham Price—I mean, Daniel Perrin. Dollhouse’s implication that we are all Dolls was made fully clear by the end of season one, of course, when the imprinting technology spiraled out of control and stripped (almost) every human of their mind and memories.

The idea that anything we think or do could be traced back to the influence of a social norm is a fairly terrifying thought. If there is no real or continuous self, why worry about anything? As we will see, this kind of cynicism is not what Dollhouse is promoting. But within the world of the show, whoever originally designed the Dollhouses certainly thought of human beings this way: the workings of the Dollhouse depended on the belief that an individual’s brain was manipulable, and, further, that the electrical and chemical activity of the brain alone stored the memories, habits, and feelings that constitute a person’s identity. As we know, though, things didn’t go the way they were supposed to at the Dollhouse: Echo began to remember things; Victor and Sierra became attracted to one another and fell in love; Alpha turned terrifyingly violent. It would seem that the masterminds behind the Dollhouse missed something in their conception of human identity, something that turned out to be very important.

The Body

“I’m experiencing, like, thirty-five [personalities] right now. But I somehow understand that none of them are me. [. . .] There is no me. There is just a container.” —Echo (Dollhouse, “Omega,” 1-12)

Echo told Alpha this after he imprinted her with thirty-nine personalities simultaneously. Because the imprints gave Echo information from various human lives, she was aware of herself and could comprehend the world around her, but, as she said, there was no “her.” There was only a body—Caroline’s body, to be specific. This body berated the imprint of Caroline (placed in the body of Alpha’s kidnap victim) for abandoning her, for leaving this body alone. This odd moment in Dollhouse, brought to us by the magic of science fiction, captured a much larger idea: that the unique, specific human body is an integral aspect of identity, not to be forgotten or left behind.

In the everyday world, still currently free of any mind-wiping/ imprinting technology (hopefully), our bodies are our own. I only have my body, and it is exposed to the world. I exist for other people because they can see and interact with my unique body, and other people exist for me in the same way. And in Dollhouse, though individuals’ memories and feelings were not tied irrevocably to their bodies, their “identities,” to some extent, were. In this latest Whedonverse show, an individual’s identity was grounded in his or her body; a person’s identity existed in the interaction between, on one hand, the body, and on the other hand, the memories, beliefs, and feelings which arose from their time in the world. This particular formation of identity was best expressed in the figure of Echo/Caroline.

Before coming to the Dollhouse, Caroline was a rebellious activist whose biggest goal was bringing down the Rossum Corporation, a giant medical research organization that also happened to run the Dollhouses. When Caroline was forced to work at the Dollhouse, she was wiped clean, and became Echo. Echo, according to the Dollhouse, was a “blank slate,” encountering the world through Caroline’s body. As the first season of Dollhouse progressed, it became clear that Echo was somewhat immune to the mind-wipes: she began to amass memories of the engagements and her time in the Dollhouse. Echo eventually became fully self-aware, and by the middle of the second season she had developed an identity which resisted the wipes and absorbed the imprints. Once Echo had fully grown into her identity, however, she was surprisingly like Caroline. Both Caroline and Echo had a desire to help and protect other people; both were capable and driven; both lived to take down the Rossum Corporation; both had the skills to cultivate endlessly perfect hair.

Caroline’s body, wiped of Caroline’s set of memories and thoughts, interacted with the world around her; this produced an individual, Echo, who was very similar to Caroline. This was because Echo’s identity came, in part, from the body she was in and from the way this single body existed in the world. We know that Echo began as a blank mind, an empty container, in her Doll state, and so the individual that Echo became could only have grown out of the encounters of her body with the world, of the specific set of memories and thoughts that arose from her interaction with people, places, and events. Caroline and Echo were, from the viewpoint of the world, the same body; because identity exists for the external world in and through a person’s body, the world and the people in it largely reacted to Echo as they would have to Caroline, influencing and interacting with both women in similar ways. The fact that Echo was affected by the world did not mean, though, that the world determined who Echo would become.

Echo grew into a person who might have been like Caroline, but they were not the same. They were two separate individuals, whose identities consisted of their own histories of their time in the world, their own relationships with people, and their own memories of events. Because Echo and Caroline’s identities were rooted in the same body, their identities would likely always be similar without being the same. They could never be the same because they could never have had the same experiences in and with the world (for example, it is neither physically nor logically possible that Caroline, like Echo, could have known nearly as many unbelievably attractive men!). Their different experiences gave them different understandings of the world, so they would never have reacted to the world in exactly the same way.

Obviously, the idea of Caroline and Echo as similar but different individuals became more complicated when Echo was imprinted with Caroline’s personality in season two. As was often mentioned on in the show, Echo was “special.” Her ability to remember imprints, and, later, to contain multiple imprints at once, set her apart from the other Dolls. For Echo, the notion that identity arises from the body’s interaction with the world was even more complex: once Echo had been imprinted with many personalities, her identity encompassed all of them, without being any one of them specifically. In effect, Echo’s identity came from the interactions of all these various personalities with one another, with each other, and with the world, as experienced through Caroline’s body. No wonder Echo got headaches!

This view that identity is related to the body was not limited in Dollhouse to Echo and her special body, though. Rather, Echo’s specialness only underlined the uniqueness of bodies and the identities they produced. Victor and Sierra could not remember their imprints as Echo could, but the longer their wiped bodies spent engaging with the world, the more certain they became that they were in love with one another. Although neither Victor nor Sierra lived long enough in their respective bodies to develop identities that were as extensive and selfaware as Echo’s, their identities in the show were represented through their love for the other. Victor and Sierra’s love for each other also underlined the importance of the singular body in terms of identity—both of them, but Victor most obviously, fell in love with the other almost entirely as a result of witnessing the other’s body in the world.

To be clear, this does not mean that the understanding of the body found here only concerns someone’s “attractiveness.” It is important to clarify some aspects of this function of the body in identity-creation. This view, that the body plays a decisive role in identity because we exist in a unique body in the world, enables us to think about our lives like this: I can be many people throughout a day (a sister, a girlfriend, a boss, a student, etc.), and I know that I am a different individual now from who I was ten years ago or who I will be in the future. But because I exist for the world in my singular body, I will still always be, to a certain extent, “me.” Bodies change, either on their own or because we make them change, but I will still always be this body existing for the world as only I can. This does not mean, however, that having a certain body dictates that one will become a certain type of person (for example, that individuals with female bodies will all experience the world in the same way), or that an individual’s identity is pre-determined. This notion of the body holds that a defining aspect of humanity is that we all exist through our specific, unrepeatable bodies— not that one body is better than another, or that having a more “attractive” body means you will have a better or more desirable identity.

In the world of Dollhouse, there is another aspect of the body’s role in identity that requires more attention. On the show, the characters sometimes referred to individuals’ “souls”; this idea of a soul is similar to the conception of the body as I have been discussing it. This similarity lies in the fact that both the soul and the term “the body” refer to an indescribable aspect of our existences that makes us who we are. In Dollhouse, since the programmers wiped away the mind and left only the body, this “soul” must at least have been housed in the body, if it was not the body itself. The idea of the soul, however, also has other possible associations: some conceptions of identity hold that humans have a “true self” or a “real identity,” which we must uncover and which will guide us through our lives. (An example of this belief lies in the moment when we think to ourselves, Is this really what I want?, as though “I” were someone we don’t know very well.) This is not the understanding of identity that Dollhouse expressed. The best way to apprehend this aspect of the connection between body and identity in Dollhouse is to look at the character of Alpha.

After Alpha infiltrated the Dollhouse and kidnapped Echo, ex–FBI Agent Paul Ballard attempted to save Echo by “profiling” Alpha. As he grilled Topher for information about Alpha’s past, he said, “I still don’t believe you can wipe away a person’s soul. [. . .] Who they are at their core. I don’t think that goes away.” Ballard believed that Alpha’s body was manifesting the soul of Carl William Craft, the violent criminal who became Alpha, and if Ballard could discover information about Craft’s “soul” he believed he could learn about Alpha. And it would appear that Ballard was right: Craft also liked to slice up people’s faces, and Ballard was able to use information about Craft’s past to discover Echo’s whereabouts. Because Paul was correct here, it would seem that Dollhouse was implying that the body/soul aspect of identity determines who we are to a large extent—that if a human being has a specific body, he or she will always turn out to be a certain kind person. But this is not the whole story.

During the season two finale, “Epitaph Two: Return” (2-13), Echo and crew returned to the Dollhouse. There, ten years after we had last seen him, they discovered Alpha—but, now, rather than running away screaming, they embraced him. Although we did not see exactly which events caused it and how, Alpha had “evolved,” as Echo put it. Alpha was now a fully non-violent individual who worked to protect other human beings; he had become utterly compassionate, something we saw when Alpha learned of Paul’s death and, in a heartbreaking moment, left Echo Paul’s imprint. Alpha was not doomed to be the same as Carl William Craft, to be controlled by Craft’s “soul.” Though perhaps Alpha originally retained some of Craft’s memories or desires (Alpha was, after all, an early recipient of the neverquite- perfected wipes), which would explain his initial reversion to violence, the “container” that Alpha began as did not lead the same life as Carl Craft.

As Alpha’s body lived in the world and was influenced by different people, events, and ideas, Alpha developed his own identity; his identity was formed in the clash between his body, which housed memories (in this case, possibly the memories and desires of Carl Craft), and those external influences of the world. Alpha’s time in the world enabled him to become a very different human being than Craft. We see a hint early on that Alpha perhaps did not want to become the same person as Craft when Alpha, after being imprinted with many personalities and gaining a conscious understanding of the world, immediately destroyed the wedge containing Craft’s personality. Unfortunately, if this action did result from a burgeoning desire in Alpha to avoid becoming a violent serial killer, clearly Alpha still struggled with Craft’s left-over murderous impulses. It was only through Alpha’s time in the world, and his developing desire to respond to that world in a certain way, that a new identity was built.

The History of the Body

When it comes to those of us who are not Dolls, who cannot wipe away our pasts, the question of identity cannot be only about the interaction between our bodies and the external world, but also the memories of our lives. The Dollhouse episode “Briar Rose” (1-11) addressed this aspect of identity. Echo, on an altruistic engagement, visited a group home and met Susan, a young girl with a history of trauma and abuse. Echo had been imprinted with a future version of Susan’s personality—a version that might have existed one day in Susan if she got the help she needed and learned to cope with her past. During the engagement, Echo spoke with Susan about Susan’s life. She showed Susan that there were good people and good possibilities in the world, and that Susan had a chance to grow up to be like Echo. Ideally, this interaction, we were told, would enable Susan to begin to think and act differently. This didn’t mean that Susan could forget her past and create a new identity from scratch, but it did mean she could think differently about that past. Echo’s words influenced Susan to re-think her memories and feelings; this interaction had already and would continue to affect Susan’s understanding of the world, which would, in turn, affect Susan’s actions.

In Dollhouse, the body might be a place where we keep the memories of our past, but like our unique bodies, our memories do not determine what we will become. As rival programmer Bennett Halverson explained in a Dollhouse instructional video, “Every action affects our neural topography. We literally become what we do, not what we’ve done, or what we will do. We’re best defined by our actions in the moment” (“Epitaph Two”). In other words, identity exists in this moment. Using the information, feelings, and beliefs I have now, as well as the lessons I have learned from my past, and knowing that I exist in a body and that this body makes a difference in the world, I can choose to act now. External forces, or “imprints,” affect us all and, to some extent, influence our identities in both positive and negative ways, just as our history may influence us in either positive or negative ways. Dollhouse encouraged us to not let either force overwhelm us (or become something to blame) but to remember that there will always be a “me” that the world sees in this body, and that the opportunity for heroism lies in taking responsibility for my “self” and my actions, and trying to act for positive effects.

If human beings’ identity and ability to choose to act were controlled entirely by the competing influences of the world and their own memories, than Echo would never have defied the Dollhouse by thinking for herself; she would still be wandering around that fancy basement in her pajamas. Echo’s story demonstrates that we could take away all of the world’s influences on someone (their memories, their history), or we could add more than it seems like a person could handle (“imprints”: opinions, facts, rules, Facebook status updates), but there will still always be a human being there, a body, who is separate from these things, more than the sum of those parts. The body alone may not be the entirety of who we are, but it is a crucial aspect. These ideas about identity became crystal clear in Dollhouse when, suddenly, the characters in that world could no longer take their bodies for granted.

An Epitaph for the Body

“We all like the sound of our own voices. That’s why we’re here. To keep our own voices.” —Mag (Dollhouse, “Epitaph One,” 1-13)

While the Dollhouse episodes set in 2009 largely used technology as a vehicle to metaphorically explore questions of human identity, the post-apocalyptic 2020-set episodes were less interested in metaphor and more concerned with gut-wrenching horror. In the ravaged wasteland of “Epitaph One” and “Epitaph Two,” the majority of human beings had had their personalities remotely wiped; some had become “dumbshows”—figures similar to Dolls, who wandered around will-less—and the rest had been imprinted as animalistic killers, with orders to destroy anyone who was not a “burner” like themselves. Dollhouse’s vision of the world ten years from now—in which there were only a few remaining “Actuals” left, and dislodged personalities wandered around in bodies not their own—was utterly unsettling. But the question these Dollhouse episodes posed was: Why is this future so much more terrifying than any of popular culture’s other post-apocalyptic worlds?

Mag, Zone, and the other Actuals we followed in the “Epitaph” episodes killed all the “dumbshows” they came across. They didn’t kill these helpless humans out of fear or viciousness, but out of pity; by preventing these bodies from being imprinted by another personality, the Actuals killed these bodies out of respect for the bodies’ original identities. The Actuals also tattooed their names on their bodies—not because it would help them keep their bodies, but because it would trouble any other personality’s attempt to claim it as their own. In this world, one’s own body had become the most valuable thing of all. Though personalities might survive being stripped from their original bodies (as “Iris Miller” did, waking up in an unfamiliar body), the Actuals feared having their consciousness separated from their body as though it were death.

The events of “Epitaph One” and “Epitaph Two” and the behavior of the Actuals prompt the question: If “I,” this consciousness, woke up one day without my body, would I be the same person? Would my “self” exist anymore? As identity had been established in Dollhouse so far, the answer would have to be no; the person that I was in that body is gone, and so to be conscious without that body would be a form of living death.4 The burners of Dollhouse’s future might have been frightening, but what was truly scary about “Epitaph One” and “Epitaph Two” was the way these episodes asked us to contemplate what life would mean without our bodies. Imagining Dollhouse’s devastated future, it was not the thought of waking up in a new body that was so unsettling (although the thought is far from a comforting one); rather, it was the thought that my body could be taken from “me,” that my body could be out in the world without “me.” The genuine discomfort such a thought causes reminds us that the body is a fundamental part of our identity.

The conception of identity established in Dollhouse depended on the fact that we exist for the world in our body, and through that body we can act in the world; further, we know those actions are meaningful, because there are other selves-in-bodies we affect with our actions. Bodies cannot last forever, making what we do now matter. If these conditions go away, so does meaningful identity. The heads of the Rossum Corporation who transferred from body to body may have believed they had achieved life everlasting, but it was clear that this wasn’t the case; they were already dead and gone, “living” in a neverending state of conscious meaninglessness. If we forget that our bodies constitute our identities—the physical entity which makes it possible for us to decide and act for ourselves—then we really are just a set of “imprints,” insubstantial and entirely dependent on the whims of others.

It kind of makes you want to go outside and do something important with the rest of your day, doesn’t it? If only, at least, to distract yourself from the lack of future Dollhouse episodes.