I hate torture: It’s immoral, evil, and illegal and our country has no right to do it.
I don’t think even the ticking-bomb scenario justifies torture: I used to, but it’s been pointed out to me that it invariably leads to “Well, there’s a bomb that’s going to be ticking somewhere soon, so let’s torture this guy in case he knows something.”
Nevertheless, I love 24.
For those who’ve never seen the show, it’s a suspense drama shot in real time, with Kiefer Sutherland as Jack Bauer, the federal agent who has 24 hours a season to stop some sort of terrorist/foreign attack on America (technically, 24 hours less commercials and credits—I think it works out to about 16 hours of actual story). As the show has gone on, torture has been an increasingly important tool in his toolbox, and unlike the real world, there is always a real ticking bomb.
Of course, unlike the real world, torture works perfectly on 24: There’s been exactly one occasion when someone didn’t give up information almost immediately, and nobody ever makes stuff up just to stop the pain. Then again, since nobody innocent has ever been tortured (Jack’s just that good) nobody really needs to, they can just ‘fess up.
This season, with Jack hauled in front of a Congressional committee to answer questions about his activities, the producers are beating the pro-torture drum very loudly: Five hours in and an FBI agent working with him has already realized torture is the only way to get anything done before the bad guys strike.
Nevertheless, I still enjoy the show. It’s tense, exciting and while the preachiness about torture is annoying (and I have a feeling it will become more so) I’m still watching, even though the pro-torture message is completely opposite my personal beliefs.
This confirms my longstanding opinion that “suspension of disbelief” applies not only to facts (e.g., accepting for the purpose of a story that voodoo works, vampires are real or black holes are sentient) but to ethics. I can accept torture on 24 the same way I can root for a thief to succeed if they’re suitably goodlooking and handsome; take the side of a monarchy in a space opera story or an old swashbuckler (as one critic pointed out, movie swashbucklers invariably assume the solution to an evil king is to put in a good king, not to give up on monarchy); or watch the Shadow gun down mobsters without due process in old pulp stories. For the purpose of a story, I can accept a moral principle that I don’t believe in, just as I can accept a physical or spiritual reality I don’t believe in.
That doesn’t always work. I have much less sympathy with present-day super-heroes playing judge, jury and executioner than with an old pulp hero doing so, and I’ve never been able to stomach stories that show rape as a sexy act of love (a number of 1980s romance novels have the hero rape the heroine—a number of publishers even required it). And I think it would take a really amazing talent to make me accept an oppressive government (and I mean genuinely oppressive, not the concept of some free-marketeers that requiring dairies keep their milk free of poison is an act of tyranny) as a good thing, or to buy into the kind of loathsomely judgmental God in a Chick tract (not that God doesn’t make judgments, but I don’t think he’s the hanging judge so many fundamentalists fantasize about).
I don’t really have an underlying principle as to when suspension of moral disbelief works and when it doesn’t, but I know it’s there, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who experiences it.
Or else I’m just too pathetic to give up a show I like.