A FIELD GUIDE TO CINETHERAPY
On celluloid psychoanalysis and its practitioners
At this writing, Home Box Office's THE SOPRANOS is arguably the most popular (and hyped) series in cable TV history. As known to all save Burmese forest monks, it spotlights a mobster who has grudgingly sought treatment for a panic disorder precipitated by the flagrant disturbances in his licit and illicit families. The coterminous success of The Sopranos and Analyze This! (l999) has made the vicissitudes of wiseguy analysis the current Hollywood flavor of the month.
Dr. Jennifer Melfi, saving grace of waste management expert/capo Tony Soprano, has been cited in some quarters as a newly minted phenomenon. However, there's little under the sun in philosophy or mainstream filmmaking practise. The current crop of mobbed-up shrink movies comprises yet another chapter in that curious bedfellowship which has existed between psychoanalysis and cinema since their nearly simultaneous invention at the turn of the century.
Freud would probably have been as skeptical about celluloid shrinkage today as he was when Karl Abraham sought his blessing to consult with G.W. Pabst on a picture intended to increase public awareness of psychoanalysis. Underwhelmed by the project, Freud summarily turned down Abraham, stating:
"My chief objections is still that I do not believe satisfactory plastic representation of our abstractions is at all possible..." (l)
After Abraham's premature death,
Hanns Sachs, a notable cineaste, advised Pabst without Freud's imprimatur.
The result of their collaboration was Secrets of a Soul (l926). While clumsy
and otherwise problematic, the film did constitute the first serious attempt
to depict analytic theory and practise on the screen. Unfortunately, it
would prove the exception rather than the rule. Instead, mainstream cinema
forged its own idiosyncratic version of the genuine item. I call it "cinetherapy",
and will interrogate the dubious discipline in this essay.
My remarks are informed
by the seminal work of Irving Schneider,(2) as well as Krin and Glen Gabbard's
definitive Psychiatry and the Cinema -- recently revised and updated.(3)
The Gabbards observe that, from the early silent era to these Dolby days,
movies have wildly idealized or exuberantly derided psychotherapists, viewing
us as objects of contempt, dread, or -- far less often -- admiration.
Hollywood has always been fascinated by doctors of every stripe. But cinetherapists have proven uniquely useful to beleaguered screenwriters, because of a unique ability to expedite plotlines. The Gabbards indicate that the cinetherapist functions as an exemplary ficelle (from Henry James' apercu: the ficelle is the system of strings which are used to control a puppet). Cinetherapists variously engender exposition through flashback; spur stunning revelations and startling confessions; illuminate motivation buried in the unquiet past or a troubled mind.
Once the potential of their diverse narrative facilitations was recognized, cinetherapists began appearing in virtually every genre -- the family melodrama, the private eye caper, horror and science fiction vehicles; even musicals and westerns. Soft and hard core pornography situated the cinetherapist in far less savory milieus. Initially, he (porn therapists are preponderly male) stood outside the narrative as a learned commentator, forestalling the potential for prosecution by conferring a cachet of "redeeming social value" upon X-rated action. With the permissiveness of the Seventies, he became an enthusiastic participant in the proceedings (e.g. Deep Throat [l972]).
From an ideological perspective, filmmakers also perennially employ cinetherapists to dispose of complicated cultural issues through tidy "individualized" solutions, thereby wittingly or unwittingly affirming a middlebrow status quo. This tendency was particularly manifested in the wave of "social problem" pictures of the l940s-50. Left-inclined critics worry that facile cinetherapeutic "cures" -- e.g. of a single character's misguided character's racial or religious prejudice -- might foment the comforting illusion that the intolerance of an entire nation has somehow been set right, subverting the spur for social change outside the theater.
Schneider discovered that cinetherapists, regardless of background (4), regularly fall into one of three stereotypes; anatomized further by the Gabbards. Dr. Dippy (so named from his debut appearance in Dr. Dippy's Sanitarium (l906) is wackier than his clientele; a downright quack, bumbling ignoramus, or a sententious windbag addicted to self-righteous parroting of Freud. In Dr. Dippy movies the therapist's pompous foibles are hilariously exposed to ridicule and humiliation. Commonly, a troubled patient instructs Dr. Dippy in the plain horse sense he so egregiously lacks. Classic Dr. Dippys appear in The Front Page (l93l) and Harold and Maude (l972)
Dr. Dippy does little good, but minimal harm compared to Dr. Evil, psychiatry's version of the mad, bad scientist. A cunning, often cracked psychopath, Dr. Evil delights in betraying the trust of his vulnerable patients. Some Dr. Evils use drugs or hypnosis to enforce malevolent sway over their clientele (Whirlpool [l959]). Others pervert individual and group therapy towards gross authoritarian ends (e.g., The Brood [l979]); or exploit confidentiality through blackmail (Nightmare Alley [l947]). Still others don the mask of sanity for their work, then manifest murderous psychopathology off the job, like the serial killer/ transvestite psychiatrist of Dressed to Kill (l980)
Dr. Wonderful is the therapist as eternally bounteous Good Parent -- the training analyst you wish you had. Absolutely, selflessly dedicated, Dr. Wonderful is available anytime, anywhere, behind the couch, over the telephone. If you can't come to him, he will gladly visit you, fees rarely mentioned. His office is likely to be empty of other patients; he seems to exist only to treat the protagonist. Dr. Wonderfuls of past decades, each reflecting the perspective of their era, include the God-like manipulator of Now Voyager (l942); the down-to-earth, troubled, but no less adept Captain Newman, M.D. (l963); and the touchy-feely hug-meister of Ordinary People (l980).
The private life of these cinetherapeutic prototypes, when revealed at all, ranges from grotesque to barren to merely problematic. Dr. Dippy is an uptight fool at home and at work. Dr. Evil's narcissism and sociopathy render him disinterested in family life, or indeed much life at all beyond its manipulation or extermination. Dr. Wonderful is frequently too caught up in caring for others to take adequate care of himself and those close to him, with a predictably disastrous impact upon his domestic arrangements (e.g., The Cobweb [l955])
The Gabbards note that female cinetherapists remain rare, despite the advances of feminism. The majority are long suffering Dr. Wonderfuls, with fewer Evils and fewest Dippys. They are usually spinsters. When married, they are often unhappy, domestically incompetent, poor housewives, worse mothers. At work, they are more prone to boundary violations than their masculine counterparts. When the "real" woman within is awakened by romance with a male patient, censure isn't likely to follow.
For according to Hollywood's persistent -- if covert -- patriarchal thrust, the lady is only doing what "comes natural". Once in love, she generally quits her practise to to take up an infinitely more satisfying "wifely" vocation (e.g., Knock On Wood[l954]), waiting attendance upon her former client. By contrast, the smitten male cinetherapist is unlikely to quit his day job (e.g., Dudley Moore's psychoanalyst in Lovesick (l983) ceases catering to his spoiled Park Avenue clientele during his affair with a new-age beauty; he begins ministering to the deserving poor instead).
The practise of cinetherapy and the cinetherapist's peculiar trio of incarnations have fluctuated busily from one decade to the next. One theorizes that these swings proceed from that curious cybernetic by which moviemakers consciously or unconsciously tune into salient socio-cultural thrusts, to project them back to us at variable removes from reality.
The Gabbards observe that there are few cinetherapists in early silent era pictures; those few are usually Dr. Dippy-ish custodians of lunatics, often rather lunatic themselves. Dr. Dippy's reign extends extends well into the Thirties. With few exceptions, cinetherapists were still being portrayed then as incompetent eccentrics and quacks, frequently of dubious foreign persuasion, inevitably loopier than their clientele.
Dr. Evil and Dr. Wonderful materialize during the mid-l930s. The former is often a demented psychological investigator or foulminded mesmeric manipulator. The latter appears inter alia as a charming lover (e.g., Fred Astaire in Carefree [l938]; or an amateur criminologist (e.g., in Blind Alley [l939] Ralph Bellamy, held captive by gangster Chester Morris, literally analyzes him to death).
Proliferation of the three stereotypes intensifies throughout the l940s and l950s. Standard conventions of the cinetherapist firm up, including reliable hallmarks of "good" and "bad" healers. The "oracular" good cinetherapist is presented as truly omniscient, behind the couch or outside the office. The oracular bad therapist arrogantly conceives that he knows everything, but in point of fact knows nothing.
The good cinetherapist is also a reconciliation junky, specializing in adjusting frustrated patients to an implicitly benevolent society portrayed (e.g., the kindly Dr. Kik of The Snake Pit [l948]). As previously noted, he's likely to prescribe simplistic remedies for complex cultural ills (e.g., Home of the Brave [l949]). The reverse of this medal is the bad cinetherapist as agent of malevolent social repression -- e.g., the smalltown psychiatrist of Don Siegel's Invasion of the Body Snatchers (l956), who becomes one of the first pod-people, enthusiastically embracing the alien invaders' ultra-conformist life style.
During World War II, military physicians and patients were exposed to effective new therapies, including psychoanalytically oriented treatments of combat related conditions. These methodologies were often taught to military personnel by refugee psychoanalysts and their American students. Advances in psychotherapeutic technique articulated with a heightened awareness of emotional problems at home as well as at the front. The demystification of the mental health field, articulated with an increasingly positive attitude towards psychotherapy, continued to spread throughout postwar American society.
More Dr. Wonderfuls began surfacing in mainstream movies around the same time -- abetted, one suspects, by the escalation of analysts and analysands in Hollywood itself after the war.(5) In this setting, what the Gabbards call a "Golden Age" of pro-therapy films exploded upon the scene, to culminate abruptly in the early Sixties. These movies feature the largest cohort of preternaturally compassionate Dr. Wonderfuls ever screened (e.g., in The Mark (l96l), David and Lisa (l962).
The Golden Age's sudden demise coincides with a decline in government sponsored psychiatric research, at a time when many Americans had become painfully aware that their lives had changed substantially, and not always for the better, after the enormous surge of optimism attendant upon the triumphant conclusion of World War II. The country's manifold socio-economic ills seemed to yield no more easily to the Johnson Administration's social engineering than entrenched character difficulties or psychoses yielded to Dr. Wonderful's homely advice.
Negative images of psychotherapy flourished during, and subsequent to our Viet Nam debacle. The Gabbards speculate that cinematic disapprobation reflected the persistence of previous negativity about the profession offscreen, the counterculture's unsparing interrogation of authority at large, and the failure of traditional analytic psychotherapy to deliver on perceived or actual promises of liberation.
The ponderous do-goodism of Golden Age pro-therapy movies made therapists particularly convenient targets for youth-oriented satires in the Seventies. The Gabbards cite several "right" and "left" anti-therapist cycles. In "right" oriented action films with macho authoritarian heroes (often Dirty Harry-ish cops), therapists were mocked as emasculated wimps. Meanwhile, the left cycle movies which glorified outlaw protagonists (e.g., [One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest [l975], Frances [l982]) depicted psychiatrists as repressive lobotomizers.
A few pictures emerged at the close of the Seventies and the beginning of the Eighties which slimly redressed the prevailing negative read of therapy: e.g., I Never Promised You A Rose Garden (l977), An Unmarried Woman (l978), and The Seven Per Cent Solution (l980), in which Sigmund Freud leaves his office to become an action hero. He cures, then joins Sherlock Holmes to save Western civilization and rescue the usual damsel in distress.
The signal pro-therapy film of this period was Ordinary People (l980). Judd Hisch's Dr. Berger ministers to a grief-stricken adolescent embroiled in a deeply troubled family system.(6) The Oscar winning picture hearkened back to the Golden Age, vis-a-vis the unstinting magnanimity (and nocturnal availability) of its Dr. Wonderful hero, and his efforts to reconcile an alienated patient with a wholesome outside world. Mary Tyler Moore's castrating mother gets trashed in the process. The distaste manifested towards her is curiously reminiscent of the mom-bashing sentiment which once pervaded the mental health professions, e.g. in the outmoded "schizophrenogenic mother" hypothesis of the Fifties.
Ultimately, Ordinary People did not usher in a new Golden Age. As Hollywood continued to pursue its idiosyncratic romance with psychotherapy, Dr. Wonderful's brief resurrection was eclipsed by the renascent popularity of Drs. Dippy and Evil. l99l was a benchmark year: three mainstream hits -- What About Bob, The Silence of the Lambs, and The Prince of Tides -- each presented one of the stereotypes in pure culture:(7)
Dr. Leo Marvin of What About Bob is a puffed-up Dippy/booby dispensing witless psychobabble at the drop of a symptom. On the verge of the annual August migration, a colleague unloads Bob, the clinging hysterical borderline from hell, upon him. In the fashion of such folks Bob develops an instant, insanely positive transference; relentlessly pursues the analyst to his vacation retreat. The doctor's every effort to rid himself of Bob's intrusive adulation backfires with hilariously catastrophic results. Bob gets his act together while the doctor waxes progressively crazier, a not unamusing reversal of fortune.
The Silence of the Lambs portrays
the most horrific, fascinating Dr. Evil in film history: Hannibal ("the
cannibal") Lecter, an unsparing study of Coleridgean motiveless malignity.
Lecter's intellect is as immense as his relish for the organs of his victims,
which he devours with delectable wines to the accompaniment of Bach. He
is visited in his prison lair by FBI trainee Clarice Starling, who seeks
his help in tracking down "Buffalo Bob,", a serial flayer of women.
Starling carries her
own special burden of childhood pain. Lecter is drawn to her bright probity;
offers to co-operate if she reveals her traumatic past. His punishing "treatment"
liberates her from her personal demons, and enables her to catch the new
monster. Meanwhile, Lecter orchestrates a daring escape from the very bowels
of authority, using the mutilated bodies of his guards to divert his pursuers.
The Prince of Tides traces the history of an extravagantly dysfunctional southern family, as narrated by Tom Wingo, a failed high school teacher, to Dr. Susan Lowenstein, a Manhattan psychiatrist. Tom has left his floundering marriage; journeyed to New York to help his poet twin sister after her latest suicide attempt. Tom mends his own midlife crisis in the consulting room -- and eventually the bedroom -- of the elegant Lowenstein.
True to the feminine Dr. Wonderfuls studied by the Gabbards, Dr. Lowenstein is a sorry failure as wife and mother, who turns to a male patient for a romantic cure. In the end, Tom returns reluctantly to his southern comforts. Streisand/Lowenstein inherits the mantle of a long procession of bluesie ladies and assorted sob sisters from Back Street weepies. She's left tearfully, but courageously alone with her lousy marriage and her great clothes.
After l99l, filmmakers dished up cinetherapeutists in reasonably equal measure (e.g., Patrick Stewart's Dr. Evil in Conspiracy Theory [l997]; Robin Williams' Dr. Wonderful in Good WIll Hunting [l997], Alan Arkin's Dr. Dippy in Grosse Pointe Blank [l997]). Doubtless inspired by the Wingo/Lowenstein liason of The Prince of Tides, a series of pictures highlighted the flagrant sexual liasons betweeen psychotherapists, and patients or their relatives, initiated on either side of the couch. The spectacular eroticism of Final Analysis and Basic Instinct [l992]) was a far cry from the chaste patient/therapist romances of earlier decades. The glut of cinetherapists nakedly treading the primrose path to dalliance prompted me to add another subtype to the Schneiderian categories -- Dr. Horny (as in lubricious, not Karen).
Beyond hoping to clone the success of Prince of Tides, why Hollywood had suddenly become so smitten with cinetherapeutic sleaze was a vexed question. Sexual indiscretions of the rich and famous, including sundry professionals, has frequently proven highly bankable at the Bijou. It's possible that Dr. Horny's temporary ascendance in the early Nineties was partly related to several highly publicized psychotherapeutic contretemps of the day. These tabloid liasons dangereuse drew criticism from within and outside the profession, as well as the inevitable call for more effective policing of therapeutic boundary violations.
Yet many film critics, the general public, and a surprising number of therapists intriguingly took little offense at Prince of Tide's portrayal of Lowenstein's wildly inappropriate, unethical liason with the twin of her fragile schizophrenic client, not did her misconduct seem to cause the lady herself a jot of guilt about the affair's potentially catastrophic impact upon her work. She reincarnated the "understandeable" boundary violations of earlier female Dr. Wonderfuls in a la page garb, and -- a sop to women's lib? -- kept her job, if not her lover.
In As Good As It Gets (l997), Jack Nicholson's obstreperously resistant obsessive-compulsive writer is finally persuaded by his love for waitress Helen Hunt to take unnamed medication from a psychiatrist, played by the film's writer-director, Lawrence Kasdan). It's moot whether Nicholson's improvement stems from Hunt or prozac. The Gabbards observe that As Good As It Gets contains the first major instance a Hollywood film has acknowledged, however obscurely, the use of modern psychopharmacology in treating a serious psychiatric condition. The biological therapies which have revolutionized contemporary psychiatry have gone otherwise unremarked at this writing, except for Shine's (l996) implication the musical talent of its hero may have been almost fatally compromised by drugs and ECT). As in the past, the talking cure still reigns supreme in cinetherapy.
Of what then, does that cure consist? Cui bono? I join the Gabbards in complaining that the mite of therapeutic process on display at the average Sixplex is either wildly distorted or trivialized beyond redemption, except in a few special films (e.g. The Mark, Klute [l97l]). Perhaps industry nabobs simply cannot grasp that much can be accomplished by one human being sitting down for a quiet talk with another within four quiet office walls sans the patient's exiting out the window. Hollywood couldn't even keep the Founding Father himself confined to the consulting room: in John Huston's Freud (l962), Freud/Montgomery Clift entices Anna O./Susannah York down from her perch on a bridge near Vienna's red light district, where she is flagrantly abreacting the recollection of her father's yen for prostitutes.
All told, Hollywood continues to give little back in aid of education about the appropriate treatment of emotional difficulties, compared to the massive liberties it has taken with our profession. At the millenium, mainstream cinetherapeutics still largely priveleges the quick fix over the quotidian sweat and tedium of realtime office work. Cinetherapeutic intervention still is mainly aimed at post-traumatic and dissociative disorders (often stemming from childhood abuse), obviously because these problems possess maximum dramatic value.
Some attention has been recently been paid to bipolar disorder. Perhaps Lalaland has become more aware of a condition which, by anecdotal report, afflicts a disportionate number of film industry people. In any case, bipolarity offers especially juicy narrative possibilities, especially at the manic end of the spectrum [e.g., Mr. Jones [l993].
Whatever the diagnosis invoked, celluloid shrinks generally continue to provide mere catharsis without depth insight, an occasional shot of hypnosis, and a plethora of simpleminded advice one could get across the garden fence. Parent bashing still flourishes, leavened by the recommendation of forgiveness and reconciliation with one's callous progenitors, who presumably would have done better had they access to the cinetherapist's dubious skills.
The Gabbards are even more concerned today than they were in l987 about the potential for distortions in audience perception of the mental health professions, as a result of the multiple misprisions described throughout this essay:
"...declines in the public
image of psychiatry, in the career
interest of medical
students, and in the funding of psychiatric research and education
parallel the (mostly
negative) historical
trend...in the cinematic attitude
towards psychiatrists
with uncanny synchrony..."(8)
As if dealing with the outrages of managed care and the passion for prozac weren't galling enough!
The Gabbard's prescription to the dwindling number of us still laboring in the vineyards for dealing with the endemic misconstructions of cinetherapy is mordant, modest, but not unhelpful. They argue Hollywood is only the latest institution to purvey the pervasive contradictions, envy and devaluation, which has greeted the psychoanalytic enterprise since its inception. Whatever misrepresentation is currently on display at the Bijou, the overall public view of mental health professionals remains more positive than otherwise. So:
"If therapists can accept that their role as transference object trancends the consulting room and spreads onto the movie screen, they can view the distortions with detached curiosity, with empathy, and with understanding, just as one approaches transference reaction in patients..." (9)
Our beginnings inform our ends -- here, a return to The Sopranos. It would seem about as likely that a wiseguy, with his typical conflation of alixithymia, macho-creep defensiveness, and exuberant paranoia, would seek out psychotherapy as for an HMO to fund Freudian analysis. The agreeable frissons of the The Sopranos' first season were elaborated out of the paradoxical encounter between badfella and good psychiatrist.(l0) Unfortunately, the series' second season is already wearing thin. Dr. Melfi, who last year seemed refreshingly free of female Dr. Wonderful stereotypies, has lately developed the requisite yen for her alarming patient, while her interventions have waxed ever more rote and unincisive.
Tant pis, but hardly surprising. For if a century of Hollywood history can teach us anything, one may be sure this latest shrink cycle will run its inevitable course like any fad, or plague; spin off its usual clones, then wither away from declining box office until yet another eternal return. We bid a not-so-fond farewell to the cinetherapist, knowing that -- to quote Terminator 2 (l99l) -- it's "Hasta la vista, baby!!!".
REFERENCES
l. For an account of the Freud/Abraham exchange see Greenberg, H.R. Screen Memories: Hollywood Cinema on the Psychoanalytic Couch, New York: Columbia University Press, l993, p. l9; also, Chodorkoff, B. and S. Baxter.: "Secrets of a Soul: An Early Psychoanalytic Film Venture"; American Imago, Vol. 3l, #4, l974, pp. 3l9-34.
Freud's antipathy towards the Pabst project supposedly was informed by his dislike of cinema and its American progenitors. In l925, Samuel Goldwyn offered him $lOO,OOO to consult on a project about great historical amours, commencing with Anthony and Cleopatra. Freud responded with a resounding telegraphic Nein! (See Jones, E.: The Biography of Sigmund Freud. London: Hogarth Press, Vol. 3, l957, p. l2l.)
The Pabst and Goldwyn episodes offers some evidence about Freud's low estimate of cinema's aesthetic merits, as well as of its ability to depict psychoanalysis. The strongest proof usually cited regarding his negativity about cinema is that he attended only one movie in his lifetime. Jones records that prior to the l9O9 Clark University visit, there was a brief Manhattan stop-over. After visiting Coney Island and Chinatown, the Freudian entourage took in a Keystone Cops-type film "with plenty of wild chasing". The master was but "quietly amused" (See Jones, E. The Biography of Sigmund Freud. Vol. 2, New York: Basic Books, l955, p. 56.).
And that was that.
Except it wasn't. Several years ago, I interviewed an attorney, Mr. Fritz Lieber, who saw Freud -- or else his twin brother -- in l936 or l937 at the Kreuzkino, a small downtown Viennese theater which featured subtitled Hollywood fare -- Westerns, detective movies, so forth. For further reflections on this intriguing piece of Freudiana, see Greenberg, H.: "Freud at the Bijou", Academy Forum, Vol. 38, #3, l994, p. 8.
2. Schneider, I. "Images of
the mind: Psychiatry in the commercial film." American Journal of Psychiatry,
Vol. l44, #8, l987, pp. 996-l002; "The Psychiatrist in the Movies: The
First Fifty Years", in Psychoanalytic Study of Literature, J.Reppen and
M. Charney, eds.
Hillsdale, N.J.: Analytic
Press., l985, pp. 53-67.
3. Gabbard, G.O.; Gabbard, K. Psychiatry and the Cinema, Second Edition. Washington: American Psychiatric Press, Inc., l999.
4. In the first half of the Twentieth century, mainstream cinema typically did not distinguish between medical and non-medical mental health professionals, probably because unknowledgeable screenwriters perceived therapists as generic "doctors". Differences in training have become somewhat more defined in recent decades. Psychiatrists are now especially likely to be so identified as such.
5. For a fascinating overview of film industry clientele, as well as the idiosyncratic cadre of therapists who have ministered to the peculiar needs and modus vivendi of the Hollywood community, see Farber, S.; Green M. Hollywood on the Couch: A Candid Look at the Overheated Love Affair Between Psychiatrists and Moviemakers. New York: William Morrow, l993.
6. In another essay, I observed that the majority of Jewish doctors in Hollywood films are cinetherapists, and Dr. Wonderfuls to boot, arguably reflecting the common public perception of psychiatry as a "Jewish" profession (see Greenberg, H.R. "Take Two: Jewish Doctors in Film", Hadassah Magazine, Vol. 80, #l0, pp. 46-5l). The soulful warmth which Ordinary People constructs as a essential signifier of Berger's Jewishness comprises a key, if unacknowledged factor in his helping the adolescent protagonist and his father overcome their WASP-ish affective constriction. The mother is an evident anti-semite, hence even more unwilling to thaw her icy heart at Berger's Hebraic flame. Prince of Tides affords yet another example of the common Hollywood trope in which a Jewish cinetherapist liberates an uptight Gentile from crippling emotional repression.
7. Greenberg, H.R. "Psychotherapy at the Simplex: Le Plus Ca Shrink." Journal of Popular Film and Television, Vol. 20, #2, l992, pp. 9-l5.
8. Gabbard, G.; Gabbard, K., ibid, p. l83.
9. Gabbard, G.; Gabbard, K., ibid, p. l85.
l0. For a lengthier discusison
of The Sopranos, see "The Godfather (DSM)IV". Psychiatric Times, Vol. l6,
#5, l999, p. 52-4.