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So Happy Together: the Utilitarian Terror of Pluribus

Imagine a machine. It can be as big or small as you like; perhaps a nifty helmet headset, or an MRI machine that you can fit into entirely. Now imagine that the purpose of this machine is to make you happy— to endlessly stimulate your brain in such a way that you never feel anything but pleasure. No anxiety, no stress, no regrets, no secret catch. Would you go in?

In 1974, Robert Nozick, an American philosopher, came up with this very machine as a part of a thought experiment in his book Anarchy, State and Utopia. This experiment questions the philosophy of hedonism and the claim that the ultimate goal in human life is to achieve pleasure. Oftentimes, the words pleasure and happiness can be synonymous. That is, happiness is the consequence of pleasure, which need not be only sensual or immediate. Hedonism in itself sounds fairly sensible: of course we want things that will make us happy, and of course happiness is what we want to achieve in our lives, be it through amassing material possessions, pursuing a career we are passionate about, or experiencing the world around us. The three unalienable rights named in the Declaration of Independence were, after all, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. So, why not plug in?

Similar to Nozick's experience machine, the 2025 series Pluribus presents us with a similar conundrum. Somehow, all of humanity has become part of a united hivemind and ceased to exist as individuals. There are no individuals, no families, no political parties, no countries, no wars, no squabbles, no miscommunication or misunderstanding. Everyone is equal, the same, with the same thoughts, memories, and intentions, those being namely to assimilate the remaining thirteen individuals who found themselves immune to whatever alien frequency that transformed everyone else. The hivemind is unified, pacifist, and, most importanly, happy. It exists in a state of pure unity and bliss, and there seem to be no words it (or they) can use to describe it.

It almost sounds too good to be true. And, surely, if you've ever read Ursula K. Le Guin's Those Who Walk Away from Omelas, you are instanly suspicious of such a notions as perfection or utopia. You're waiting for the rug pull, for the catch, for the child in the basement.

And it is indeed too good to be true. But not in the sense that there is a child in the basement or that the hivemind is secretly evil. As of writing this in February 2026, season one has only just finalized and season two of the show is still relatively far away, so we cannot know what dramatic reveals lie in store. Still, what season one gives us is already plenty to consider, and fairly chilling at that. First and foremost, what is the happiness of the hivemind? Is what they feel even happiness, and is this happiness even a good thing?

Short, personal answer: no. Hell no.

Slightly longer answer: there is a reason why Nozick's experience machine remains such a compelling thought experiment, and why science fiction likes to play with notions of utopia. We live in a world of endless strife, with so much misery and unfairness. Wouldn't it be nice if we could create an existence in which everyone could be happy?

One Jeremy Bentham must have thought so. In the eighteenth and nineteenth century, he built upon the previous philosophy of Hedonism to establish the basic tenets of what would become known as Utilitarianism. It is a school of thought which posits that the measure of right and wrong is the extent to which an action produces the maximum amount of pleasure for the maximum amount of people (Dimmock & Fisher, 2017). What this means is that determining the right course of action to take depends on considering the outcome of the action; if it brings about the happiness of the majority, then the action is considered morally good. It is a relativistic approach— while some philosophers may consider a matter of good and evil absolute, Bentham's version of utilitarianism may be summed up with the good old saying of the ends justifying the means.

In the show's first episode, humanity's assimilation is systematic and forceful. Nobody is asked if they want to join the hivemind. It is by all means an invasion which negates every individual person's right to choose. Yet, how could anyone choose something they know nothing about? Ultimately, they are much better off when they become assimilated. So, the biological imperative of the hivemind to spread itself may also be seen as a moral, utilitarian one— bringing the maximum amount of happiness to the maximum amount of people.

Of course, from its inception, Utilitarianism continued to be discussed, analysed, and worked on. Obviously, there were numeruous issues and gray areas which Bentham could not account for, and from which many famous thought experiments have arisen. (By the by, Bentham is also known as the father of the Panopticon; a suggestion for a circular structure in which one never knows whether they are being watched, and so ends up monitoring themselves. He sounds like he was a real joy to be around, doesn't he?) One of his most notable successors was John Stuart Mill, who devised a different form of Utilitarianism based on rules, based around the following principle:

The only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not sufficient warrant. (from Dimmock & Fisher, 2017)

What this means is that an individual's personal inclination based on a single instance of decision making is far too finicky to ensure maximum happiness— rules and guidelines should be put in place.

While Mill may not have had a utopian/dystopian collective of all human minds while he was devising a way to improve the society of his time, which was marked by extreme poverty, little to no workers' rights and a land that was consumed by the second industrial revolution, this principle can be applied to how the hivemind operates, though it is important to point out that its imperatives seem to be biological first and foremost. The hivemind promotes happiness, exercising its influence over all of humanity in order to prevent harm to all life. They will not harm one another, for they are one and the same. They will not harm the immunes, nor will they convert them without their consent, as that constitutes harm. Yet, as we find out in a chilling reveal at the end of season one in which Zosia inadvertently admits to using Carol's frozen eggs as a way to grow stem cells, the hivemind will work to find a way to convert the remainder of humanity and to make them yield. They will not butcher animals, or grow plants. If necessary, they will milk a cow, and they will pick up windfall. They will also grind up remains of dead humans and consume them.

Where this becomes sinister is not that they choose to do so, but that they are unable to choose anything else. For the hivemind, there is no choosing to do things, and no way to deviate from what their nature mandates from them. As such, they do not exercise Utilitarianism, not really, as there seems to be no free will in what they do. In a way, they might be seen as Utilitarianism driven to the level of biology, personified and warped into an absolute— and then it ceases to be Utilitarianism at all. Because if there is a choice between picking an apple and a child dying of hunger, then the utilitarian choice would be to pick that apple. The hivemind cannot do that. An apple is the same as a human; there is no gradation or hierarchy. To paraphrase Manousos, isn't it evil to value a child the same as an apple? And how does this promote happiness?

And this is where the terror of the premise lies, in my opinion. The hivemind eliminates strife, yet it also eliminates choice, and while it seems to operate in a way that promotes well-being and happiness, it is locked in a state of paralisis. But, if its state is an endless feeling of happiness, wouldn't assimilating the entirety of the human race be the definite triumph of Utilitarianism, maximum happiness for all? It is a warped notion that ends up eating its own tail, in a way, because all relativity ceases to exist once everyone is one and the same. The hive is an absolute entity, one and all, moving about but unable to progress. Its effectiveness is disquieting, too logical, too reasonable. It ceases to be human.

To conclude, it remains to be seen in which direction Vince Gilligan and his team will take this story. Yet, the hivemind itself is a compelling concept which plays with our notions of utopia, humanity, peace and happiness. There are many ways to read it; from criticism of capitalism, generative AI, colonialism, or conversion therapy, or plain criticism of happiness itself. Bentham and Mill lived in an age when human lives became cheap fodder for the industrial machine. We live in an era in which that industrial machine continues to drain resources and chew up nations and people in the name of profit. Sure, we want to be happy. We want peace. But is that all there is, the high of the hive or of the experience machine? In the world of Pluribus, humanity was not given a choice. It is quite possible that we will not be given one either, once the consequences of our actions catch up with us. Perhaps the hivemind is right— perhaps it isn't. Perhaps, it doesn't matter who is right. I am curious to see what revelations lie in store in the future, but one thing is certain. There is a catch, and it is not a hidden one. It is evident in the hivemind's very existence.

It is bliss itself.

When it is all there is, it undoes itself.

Certain philosophers have managed to address this in their own discussions, and opted for a non-hedonistic approach to Utilitarianism. After all, one cannot be certain that happiness is the end goal— and the hivemind is the perfect vehicle for that suspicion. Think of Kusimayu's joining, and the chilling silence as the group abandons the small village. What was lost? What was gained?

Think of Nozick's machine. Enter once, and you may not leave it again. Your worries would cease to be. Whatever feelings of inadequacy, sadness, injustice, loneliness, all would be washed away by a gentle wave of pure happiness.

Would you plug in?

Lawrence of Arabia: Empire and its Stories

On many lists of the greatest films of all time, Lawrence of Arabia is situated around the top. It is a film whose reputation precedes it, even over sixty years since it came out. As is the case with most classics, it is both overrated and underseen— its very status isolates it, and the 228-minute runtime certainly doesn't make it seem any less daunting. Directed by David Lean, one of the most notable British directors of the twentieth century, the movie tells the story of T. E. Lawrence, a British officer who becomes involved with the Arab revolt against the Ottoman Empire during WW1. It is a visually striking and epic picture, bright and loud, and a deeply tragic character study of one man's complete personal disintegration. It is a strange masterpiece: on one hand, the size of it is astounding. Even today, there is but a handful of films which offer such grand views and pure unadulterated spectacle. On the other hand, the vastness of the desert underpins a deeply personal, individual journey. It is also, notably, a British film about a British hero which seems to be deeply cynical and critical of the very idea of Britishness itself. At the same time, there is a sense of the Orient in the movie which is entirely in line with a colonialist worldview. Made shortly after the Suez crisis of 1956, there is a tension at the core of it which makes it such a compelling viewing: no matter how bright the desert sun, the shadow of the British Empire looms large over it. Britain was ailing at the time, much like the Ottoman Empire was at the dawn of the First World War, and a British hero was recalled. Only, this hero was a ghost of Britain's sordid colonial past, a past which has and continues to shape the world as we know it.

The Suez Crisis, the Arab Revolt and National Ghosts

During the 1950s, the once mighty Britain was falling. Having reached its zenith during the nineteenth century's Victorian era, the empire had been on a decline after the disastrous consequences of the Second World War. The empire on which the sun never set was dealt a heavy blow in 1956 during the Suez crisis, which confirmed that it was not the colonial superpower it had once been.

What made this particular blow hurt all the more was the fact that Britain had once had a firm grip on Egypt and Soutwest Asia, which was made possible by its numerous interventions in the region. One of these was fomenting rising Arab nationalism against the ailing Ottoman Empire, which resulted in an uprising between 1916 and 1918, during which Britain backed the royal Hashemite line and promised them a free Arab national state in return for cooperation against the Ottomans. Put briefly, this did not happen, since the British are famous for keeping their promises and being generally charitable when it comes to handing out free states. A secret agreement between Britain and France, the Sykes-Picot agreement, signed in 1916 had divided the promised Arab lands before any other promises were made.

Enter one Thomas Edward Lawrence. The particulars of this man's life are too numeruous and bewildering even for a 228-minute character study, but the gist is that, in 1916, he was one of the few British nationals who had an extensive knowledge of Arabian geography, Arab customs and language due to his archeological studies in the region before the war. Initially working as intelligence in Cairo, he was deployed to Arabia to follow the campaign of the Hashemite prince Faisal, whom he would back as the leader of the Revolt and the future king of Arabia (and indeed, Faisal would briefly be the king of Syria, and eventually become the first of the three kings of Iraq). His involvement in the Revolt remains highly disputed to this day; in whatever capacity, he served as a liaison between the Arabs and the British commanders and contributed to the guerrilla warfare against the Turks by employing scattered groups of Arabs attacking critical supply lines of the Ottomans and thus depleting the enemy's strength. Due to the coverage of Lowell Thomas, an American journalist (renamed Jackson Bentley in the movie), he became a sensation and a bona fide celebrity in the West upon his return from the war. His own memoir, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, further cemented his status as a legend, although he eschewed fame and led an inconspicuous, tormented existence before dying in a motorcycle crash in 1935 at the age of only 46.

During his lifetime, Lawrence was met with several offers of his story being made into a motion picture, a notion he resolutely refused to entertain, at least while he was still living.

To this day, while Lawrence's contributions remain contested, the entire British enterprise in SWANA has left wounds which are still bleeding the region dry— of oil, of innocent lives lost in numerous wars and massacres which rage to this very minute. Even while he was still alive, Lawrence's life was a strange testament to imperial disillusion. It is no wonder then that he would resurface as an epic hero during the time in which Britain found itself losing grip on its former identity of a global superpower.

James Baldwin opens his astute examination of the movie thus:

"An identity is questioned only when it is menaced, as when the mighty begin to fall, or when the wretched begin to rise, or when the stranger enters the gates, never, thereafter, to be a stranger: the stranger’s presence making you the stranger, less to the stranger than to yourself. Identity would seem to be the garment with which one covers the nakedness of the self; in which case, it is best that the garment be loose, a little like the robes of the desert, through which robes one’s nakedness can always be felt, and, sometimes, discerned. This trust in one’s nakedness is all that gives one the power to change one’s robes."

Baldwin strikes at the core of the movie—Lawrence's struggle and eventual loss of identity— and connects it to the state of imperial Britain. Since the mid-1940s, Britain's identity was shifting. It had been subjugating strangers and making them in its own image for a couple of centuries up to that point. And then came the question of what was under its robes of civilization— what naked form lay beneath? And, more importantly, what kind of spirit breathed life into it?

While it is debatable whether each country has its spirit, it is undeniable that each country has its ghosts. They tend to reemerge from time to time, and the great national sport of every country is lying. In this lying, it makes its truth. Similar can be said of artists: they tell lies, which reveal the truth. (This is a crucial distinction— if they make the truth, then they are propagandists.) And sometimes, they don't do it on purpose.

David Lean and Robert Bolt's Approach

David Lean was not the first director to think of adapting Lawrence's story for the silver screen. Right as they were happening, Lawrence's exploits were recognized as prime storytelling fodder. From Lowell Thomas, the man who launched the legend of Lawrence of Arabia into stardom, there have been plays, biographies, and many attempts at a script.

Finally, it was Lean who stepped up, hot off the success of his 1957 Oscar-winning Bridge on the River Kwai, which confirmed his technical mastery, stunning visuals, and a penchant for tales of war without heroes or winners. In Kwai, everyone loses: their sanity, their humanity, their lives. Yet, there is another aspect to Lean's films which makes for a potent box-office draw: there is a certain sense of longing and tragic romance which his films capture like none other, such as Brief Encounter and Summertime, and, afterwards, Dr. Zhivago. He is as much a master of the wide, expansive exterior shot as he is of an intimate, emotive closeup. Lawrence manages to combine both of these, which lends it its unique atmosphere. Though the desert awes us with its size and majesty, it is at the same time deeply internal and indicative of the psychological state of the protagonist. It becomes personified and through it, the emotions and struggles running beneath the lines of the script are elevated to epic proportions.

In her article about Lawrence as a tragic hero, Isabel Barbudo (2014) recounts the history of the production:

"In 1959 Sam Spiegel contacted Michael Wilson, who had collaborated on the script of Lean’s previous film, assigning him to write a script for his new epic. Apparently owing to the excess of action sequences, his version was, however, disliked by Lean, who decided to invite Robert Bolt, the author of the famous play A Man for All Seasons, to take over the project and rewrite the screenplay."

Michael Wilson was the writer of The Bridge on the River Kwai; however, his draft was deemed too political, too focused on the course of the revolt. What Lean wanted was a more psychological character study; this, Bolt provided, building on the basis Wilson provided (or not— the dispute between who wrote and/or co-wrote the script was one of the most notorious ones in Hollywood history). Bolt's approach was the following:

"Although using Seven Pillars of Wisdom as his basic source, Bolt deliberately chose to alter history for dramatic purposes, with the agreement of the director who, while not disregarding historical accuracy, did not think that an epic film had to be a historical document. The question of accuracy and loyalty to the original source is thus unavoidable, and one on which historians, critics, and filmmakers do not always agree." (Barbudo, 2014)

One vital difference between film and history that Barbudo points out is the Sikes-Picot agreement: in the movie, Lawrence is unaware of it until the final third and the revelation comes as a shock, while, in history, Lawrence himself admitted to knowing all about it and acting, as it were, to thwart it. There are many other differences between the order of events between the Seven Pillars and the film, as well as composite characters such as Sherif Ali who was based on several of Lawrence's Arab allies. There is also the characterization of exisiting people itself. It is worth noting that the movie pissed off almost everyone who knew Lawrence or who had anything to do with the Revolt— for example, Faisal is changed to more closely resemble his father, King Hussein, when in fact he was close to Lawrence in age and had a hot, active temper. Especially incensed was the family of Auda Abu Tayi, one of the most prominent figures in the Revolt and in Lawrence's own account in The Seven Pillars. Lawrence's own brother, Arnold, was vehemently opposed to the way his elder brother was portrayed as a sadist on a delirious murder rampage in one of the movie's pivotal scenes, the massacre of retreating Turkish soldiers; others also claimed that Lawrence's testimony of the event was not an expression of sadism, but a sober admission of the horrible realities of war (Wyatt-Brown). Despite these changes, the movie still preserves an essential quality of Lawrence's character and image:

Oddly, Lean’s Lawrence came closer to the reality than Lawrence’s many biographers. As Christopher Isherwood put it, the hero “suffered in his own person, the neurotic ills of an entire generation.” (pg. 20-21)

Further, Wyatt-Brown points out David Lean's fascination with flawed men, and his reading of Lawrence as an idealist whose dream of triumph turns into a nightmare only he can see (pg. 20). As for Robert Bolt, Wyatt-Brown suggests that he followed the line of thinking of those less inclined to make a hero out of Lawrence, such as one of his most notorious detractors, Robert Aldington, and was much less enchanted with Lawrence's exploits and complexity due to his own left-wing, anti-nuclear politics and pacifism (pg. 25). Therefore, Lawrence as a character in his movie becomes a symbolic representation of a divided national identity and the struggling forces within the Empire; the same empire that made him is the main source of his ills and neuroses, and it gradually undoes him. The consequences are disastrous for him; what about those around him?

The Savage Schoolboy

How does a story of one man's rise and descent begin? At the end— the film opens with the scene of Lawrence getting on his bike and riding through the English countryside, then crashing as he attempts to avoid two cyclists. Then, we are at St. Paul's cathedral, at his funeral. Various characters give conflicting accounts of the late man's life. Some consider him a fearless warrior, some a poet, others say he was a shameless exhibitionist. From the very start, a sense of ambigousness and conflict is instilled within the viewer. Then, we are flung nineteen years into the past, to a dinky little basement in Cairo.

In the opening scenes, Lawrence is shown to be a bumbling, insubordinate and cheeky man for whom his cleverness is more often a source of trouble than a useful tool. Immediately, he does not fit in with the rest of the British stationed there, and has a powerful curiosity and morbid fascination with experiencing the desert. He wishes to prove himself, to show his resilience and distinguish himself from his own. The first part of the movie is pure adventure, showing this gradual rise of Lawrence from a nobody to a hero for a noble cause. Unlike the rest of the British, he is seemingly unmotivated by gains of land or glory, but truly wishes to help the Arabs, even if it means going against the directive of his superiors or the local wisdom of the beduins. He resists the idea that everything is written, and instead exercises his will over the desert, coming up with an outrageous idea to reach the fortified coast of Aqaba by crossing the Nefud desert. Over and over, he resists to yield to reality, which lends a triumphant tone to the first half of the movie. Yet, the seed of future misery comes in the ironic execution of Gasim, a man whom Lawrence saved from the Nefud and whom he now has to execute to avoid a tribal feud. This is one of the first indications that he cannot really bend the world to his will, and this fuels his tragic downfall in the second half of the movie. By the time the credits role, Lawrence's delusions of grandeur have been crushed; in a turning point for his character, he is captured by a group of Turkish soldiers and assaulted by their commander, which leads to complete erosion of his being and eventual giving in to bloodlust and rampage. He is lifted up, only to be struck down. As he stares out blankly at the road ahead through the dirty glass of a jeep at the end of the movie, we understand that there is nothing left neither of him and for him.

It is a bleak ending, especially for a Hollywood movie of epic proportions. It also, whether intentional or not, a powerful condemnation of the imperial regime. As Baldwin points out in his reading of the film, "the weary melancholy underlying Lawrence of Arabia stems from the stupefying apprehension that, whereas England may have been doomed to civilize the world, no power under heaven can civilize England." In his reading of the film, he focuses on the central issue of identity and how Lawrence's own confusion relates to the deeper implications of uncertainty in British identity. He points out that Lawrence is, no matter how much he might wish to differentiate himself, a superb product of his own country, used in order to execute its colonial ambitions. His own private torment is a moot point, as it cannot be used to justify what is being done on a large scale by more or less complicit or aware participants. This point is also brought up by Edward Said in his reading of real-life T. E. Lawrence's writings, as he emphasises the degree to which Lawrence equated his own self with the desert and the revolt and how the national struggle became a deeply personal experience through which he exercised his own power and emotions; in such a way, the Orient became not only a land to be conquered, civilized and governed, but also a canvas for the psyche of the Western man, a mirror in which he could reflect his own identity (pg. 242-243). In the film, this effect can be seen in Lawrence's adoption of the white robes; first, he starts with an ill-fitting British uniform, and when he is given the robes, they are shining, regal and suit him and his heroic messianic persona perfectly. He has become one with the movement, and as he continues to lose sight of himself, the robes turn more and more dirty and translucent, till they are ultimately stained with blood.

Similarly, Lawrence's statements about the desert also show this false identification. When talking to the American journalist Jackson Bentley, he remarks that the likes the desert because it is clean. When he himself becomes soiled through assault and murder, and finally makes his way to Damascus which turns out to be in utter disarray, he is told by Auda that "the desert has dried up more blood than you could think of." (pg 255/ II-112) The image of the desert as pristine, empty and devoid of history is as false an image as the idea of an Orient, and it serves a specific purpose in the Western mind. In Lawrence's case, it feeds an individual's delusion of power. In the case of Britain, the delusion of imperialism is collective, and it harms the minds of its subjects and tears apart the nations and peoples it subjugates.

A central character dynamic which helps us make sense of this shift in Lawrence's character is the relationship between Lawrence and Sherif Ali. The two function as mirror opposites, effectively switching places between their first and last scene together. Ali enters the scene as the stereotypical Beduin warrior, killing Lawrence's guide for the crime of drinking at his tribe's well. This incenses Lawrence, who deems the Arabs as cruel, savage and barbaric. Ali's amusement reads as ruthlessness at first, but as Lawrence wins his respect by showing his strength and endurance in crossing the Nefud, he becomes more open to the ways of the empire and the western idea of a nation, to the point that he starts to learn about politics; that he does so from a children's book may indicate the position between the imperial subject and the empire. As Lawrence sinks deeper into depravity, Ali's nobility and mercy grow, to the point that he expresses outright pity for the Turkish as they suffer attacks and bombings despite them being the enemy. This development comes about as he adopts an identity which is more aligned to a western ideal. As Baldwin remarks: "Nothing the world holds, from Australia to Africa, to America, India, to China, to Egypt, appears to have made the faintest imprint on the English soul: wherever the English are is—or will resist, out of perversity, or at its peril, becoming—England."

In his final scene, Ali discusses the future of the movement and the Arabs with Auda Abu Tayi, a figure who does not seem to change his ways under the influence of the alliance with the British. Though his quips are often comical, he is a character that stays true to his Beduin ways. If Ali represents the idea of a shifting Arab identity, then Auda is the archetype of the desert dweller. There is a prophetic quality to what he says to Ali: "Being Arab will be thornier than you suppose — Harith!" Ali does not reply, but looks back in hurt and spite as he is swallowed up by the shadows. This could be a symbolic erasal, or a plunge into a future that is entirely uncertain, as it was built on false pretenses. What Britain ultimately wanted from the Arabs was not an alliance; it wanted to rule. In impressing its doctrine onto its subjects, it likened them to their image, yet made it so that the colonial Other could never truly become part of Britain. In doing so, the identity and the role that Ali assumes are as unstable and thorny as those that Lawrence cannot escape. Though we do not know what happens afterwards to Ali, we can assume that his disilusion is just as bitter as Lawrence. Unlike Lawrence, though, he cannot sit down and go back home; the plight of his people would continue for decades to come.

The Empire and Tragedy

A movie about T. E. Lawrence that does not end up eating its own tail like some kind of ideological Ouroboros would not be a good movie about T. E. Lawrence. It leaves one with a sense of defeat, a sinking feeling of tragedy for an individual who tried his best and utterly failed. Yet, as Baldwin once again astutely argues, though the film takes the view that Lawrence was betrayed and used because he did not understand the limits of his power, the desert was not his downfall— his degradation came about much earlier, back in Britain:

"The film takes the view that he was a valiant, maverick, naïve and headstrong, brutally broken in battle, and betrayed, less by his country than by his inability to confront—as do his superiors—the hard facts of life: the hard facts of life, in this case, referring, principally, to the limits and exigencies of power." (…) "We are confronted with a fallen hero, and we trace the steps which lead him to his end. But the zeal which drove Lawrence into the desert does not begin at the point at which we meet him in the film, but farther back than that, in that complex of stratifications called England. Of this, Lawrence himself was most tormentedly aware."

In times of national upheaval and change in British consciousness, Lawrence emerged as a figure of a hero who is cleaved in half and deeply tormented by his two selves. His film portrayal encompasses this struggle and, much like the real-life counterpart did, equates the personal psychological traumas with national movements and war. What it accomplishes in doing so is revealing an image of an imperialist nation that wishes to lionize its efforts and show itself as the heroic civilizer, yet whose mask does not hold up under scrutiny. This leads to a profound crisis in the self and in the nation. Self-scrutiny here may be intentiontal or entirely accidental: after all, it is notable that the movie was written exclusively by western screenwriters and produced by western creators; roles of Arabs are played by actors of different nationalities and ethnicities (and the saving grace in this rather dating factor, the casting of the Egyptian actor Omar Sharif as Ali was but a happy coincidence rather than a conscious choice); and the main source for the film is the account of Lawrence himself. Arab views of Lawrence would come out only in years subsequent to the film, as would the Arab readings of his work (Suleiman Mousa's T. E. Lawrence: an Arab View and Edward Said's Orientalism, respectively).