## 1. The Paradox of Suspense




Cognitive psychologists Ortony, Clore, and Collins put forth a useful
theory of suspense that we might call the standard account. They 
argue that suspense is composed of fear, hope, and the "cognitive 
state of uncertainty" (131). They define fear as a feeling of 
displeasure about the prospect of an undesirable event; and hope as a
feeling of pleasure about the prospect of a desirable event. On the 
standard account, people feel suspense when they fear a bad outcome, 
hope for a good outcome, and are uncertain about which outcome will 
come to pass. In real life, we might feel suspense when walking 
through an unfamiliar, reputedly dangerous neighborhood at night. We 
fear that we might be mugged, hope that we will be safe, and are 
uncertain which will occur. 




Ortony, Clore, and Collins argue that as "prospect emotions," fear 
and hope depend on the desirability and likelihood of a prospective 
outcome--the yet to be determined outcome of an event. For 
example, fear is amplified as the degree of danger, the 
undesirability and/or likelihood of an outcome, increases. If I am 
fearful of being attacked, I am more fearful if the prospective 
attack is more undesirable: Given equal likelihood, I would be more 
fearful of being stabbed in the gut with a knife or a beaten about 
the torso with a pillowcase full of oranges than merely punched 
repeatedly. Similarly, the more likely I believe an undesirable 
outcome to be, the more fearful I may be of that outcome. The 
converse is true concerning hope: The more desirable and likely an 
outcome seems the more hopeful we may feel. 




The intensity of our feelings of suspense seems to rely on two 
features of an event's outcome: (1) its uncertainty and (2) the 
significance of what is at stake. Although the standard view does not
claim a direct relationship between uncertainty, what is at stake, 
and suspense, it does suggest that the greatest suspense is felt in 
cases where the outcome is very uncertain and the stakes are very 
high. The standard view also tells us that you can have suspense with
low stakes if there is great uncertainty, or with low uncertainty if 
there are high stakes. However, on the standard view, if there is no 
uncertainty, there can be no suspense. Similarly, if nothing is at 
stake, there can be no desirable or undesirable outcome, hence no 
fear or hope, and consequently no suspense. 




The preceding analysis of suspense generates a 
troublesome paradox. If uncertainty is required in order for one to 
feel suspense, how is it that some narrative artworks can still 
seem suspenseful on repeated encounters? For example, if we have 
already seen a movie, and we remember it well, then we are certain 
how it will end. Although we may not feel suspense as intensely as we
did upon first viewing, it is undeniable that we can feel some 
suspense upon repeated viewings. But if suspense requires 
uncertainty, it should be impossible to feel suspense during 
subsequent viewings. This problem is known as the *paradox of 
suspense*. It can be stated more formally as follows: 


1. Suspense requires uncertainty.
2. Knowledge of a story's outcome precludes uncertainty.
3. People feel suspense in response to some stories when they have knowledge of the outcome.




Although none of these claims seems objectionable in isolation, 
together, they are inconsistent. The four solutions to the paradox 
that I discuss in the next section each question one or another of 
the claims that make up the paradox. The entertained uncertainty and 
desire-frustration theories reject the first claim. The 
moment-by-moment forgetting theory rejects the second premise. And 
the emotional misidentification theory takes issue with the third. 


## 2. Entertained Uncertainty




Noel Carroll qualifies the first claim of the paradox; he argues
that suspense merely requires *entertained* uncertainty, not 
*actual* uncertainty (Carroll 2001). In "The Paradox of 
Suspense," Carroll offers a persuasive account of how we might 
dissolve this paradox. He argues that even if we know that a film 
will end a certain way, we can still imagine while watching it, that 
it will not end that way. He argues that merely imagining that an 
event's outcome is uncertain is enough to create suspense, thereby 
qualifying the first premise of the paradox--only entertained 
uncertainty is necessary for suspense. 




Narrative, according to Carroll, is something akin to guided 
imagination, a process he describes as entertaining thoughts or 
holding propositions non-assertively (Carroll 1990). People can work 
themselves into a variety of emotional states by merely imagining 
situations that they know are untrue, such as being passed over for a
promotion, cheated on by one's spouse, or having one's child 
kidnapped. The *thought theory* of emotional response is the 
theory that fiction taps this power of the imagination for its energy
to produce emotional reactions. This seems to solve the paradox of 
suspense, since we can know that the hero will not die, but still 
fear the outcome simply by imagining that he might. On this view, 
suspense does not require genuine uncertainty, only entertained 
uncertainty. Although we cannot be genuinely uncertain about the 
outcome of a familiar narrative, we can willfully entertain 
uncertainty. And we can entertain uncertainty on any number of 
encounters with the same story. 




Although Carroll's thought theory seems to explain how it is possible
to feel suspense in response to a familiar narrative, it does not 
give an explanation for the typical scenario of diminishing suspense.
If all it takes is entertained uncertainty (in addition to the 
unnamed other contributing factors), why do some fictions loose their
power for many viewers? A perfectly willing viewer may eagerly sit 
down to re-watch a suspenseful film without feeling nearly the same 
amount of suspense as on the first viewing. This scenario--that 
of diminishing returns (to the same narrative)--is not merely 
possible, it is common. This shows that entertained uncertainty is 
insufficient for recidivist suspense--suspense felt 
in response to a familiar narrative. Perhaps the defender of the 
entertained uncertainty theory could reply by simply supplementing 
the theory with an account of why it becomes more difficult or just 
less likely for audiences to entertain narrative outcomes as 
uncertain the more familiar they are with a story. 




Regardless, the theory faces bigger problems, one of which is that 
there is reason to believe that entertained uncertainty is not 
necessary for suspense. There are numerous cases where knowledge of 
the outcome can make a narrative more, not less suspenseful. For 
instance, the first time one watches Hitchcock's *Psycho* 
(1960), one may feel mild fear for Marion Crane as she chats with 
Norman Bates in the hotel office. Filled with stuffed, menacing 
birds, the office creates an aura of danger, but viewers have no 
reason to suspect that in the next couple of minutes Norman will bury
a carving knife in Marion's chest as she showers. However, on a 
second viewing, one feels a great deal more suspense during the 
office scene. Norman's disturbance seems obvious on repeated 
viewings. How could Marion fail to see it? One wants to scream "Get 
out of there!" The reason why the office scene in *Psycho* is 
more suspenseful on subsequent viewings cannot be that audiences are 
entertaining the idea that the outcome is as uncertain as it was on 
their first viewing, since the first viewing is not as suspenseful as
the second. 




This objection rests on the claim that normal people do indeed feel 
suspense on the second viewing of *Psycho*, but one might simply
deny this claim. Perhaps audiences merely feel tension or 
anticipation, but not suspense. As we shall see, this is precisely 
what defenders of the *emotional misidentification* view say in 
response to all reports of recidivist suspense. If the defender of the 
entertained uncertainty view were to make a similar response to cases
like that of *Psycho*--cases where one seemingly feels more
suspense when the outcome is certain--she risks undermining the 
support for her central claim that recidivist suspense is common. 
The defender of entertained uncertainty would owe us a clear 
explanation for why we should trust the phenomenology in some cases 
and not in others. 




However, if we trust the phenomenology, if we trust audience members'
accounts of what they feel when they watch *Psycho*, then we 
have additional reason to reject the claim of the paradox--the 
claim that suspense requires uncertainty. But we lack an explanation 
for how this is possible. The next theory that we will consider 
attempts to provide an answer. 


## 3. The Desire-Frustration Theory of Suspense




Aaron Smuts defends the desire-frustration theory of suspense, which 
holds that the frustration of a desire to affect the outcome of an 
immanent event is both necessary and sufficient to create suspense. 
Whereas Carroll revises the first claim, Smuts simply denies that 
uncertainty is necessary for suspense (Smuts 2008). Smuts appeals to 
examples such as *Psycho*--which are more suspenseful on 
repeated to encounters--and historical re-enactments such as 
*Touching the Void* (2004)--where the audience knows the 
outcome before the first viewing--to support the claim that 
uncertainty is unnecessary for suspense. 




Smuts argues that in all suspenseful narratives and in all 
suspenseful situations in real life we find factors that partially 
frustrate one's ability to satisfy a desire, factors that suspend 
one's efficacy. He argues that even when the stakes are high, if one 
is actively working towards the realization of a desired outcome, 
there can be no suspense. Smuts' explanation of why fictions are 
extremely effective at creating suspense and how suspense in response
to fictions is possible when we know the outcome is this: In contrast
with our engagement with real situations, where we can actively work 
towards the satisfaction of a desire, in engaging with fictions we 
are completely powerless. 




Smuts notes that our inability to affect fictions is something we are
often aware of, and something the masters of suspense frequently make
prominent. For instance, one of the most suspenseful episodes in 
Hitchcock's *Rear Window* (1954) is that in which Lisa (Grace 
Kelly) is looking for evidence of murder in the apartment across the 
way. Through binoculars, Jeff (James Stewart) sees Thorwald enter his
apartment as Lisa is hunting around in the bedroom. Jeff's position 
mirrors that of the audience: We are unable to warn Lisa of the 
danger, utterly incapable of using our knowledge to affect the 
outcome. Similarly, Smuts and Frome argue that the most suspenseful 
videogames are those where the player is temporarily taken out of 
control, having to wait to see how a jump turns out or whether his or
her character will be discovered by sniffing guard dogs. Smuts' 
explanation is that the partial frustration of our ability to satisfy
our desires is necessary to the creation of suspense. 




There are at least two important questions unanswered by the 
desire-frustration theory. First, why do suspenseful events need to 
be imminent? This element of the theory is under-developed, raising 
doubts about its claims to sufficiency. The defender of the 
desire-frustration theory might be able to reply that this is merely 
a function of the way we desire--near events provoke much 
stronger responses than those that are distant. But, as it stands, 
the account is incomplete. 




Second, one can feel suspense in response to situations where one 
might not readily consent to having a desire. If so, the frustration 
of a desire would not be necessary for suspense. For instance, in 
*Michael Clayton* (2008) the two thugs hired to kill the 
protagonist try to install a tracking device in his car radio. Before
they can finish, Michael starts walking back to his car. The scene is
incredibly suspenseful, but what desire is frustrated? I cannot 
recall desiring to warn Michael. Is it the desire to see the thugs 
get away unnoticed? That would be odd. It is not clear why audiences 
would desire to see the installation complete, since our sympathies 
certainly lie with Michael and not his pursuers. But neither does it 
seem that we want to do something to stop the installation of the 
tracking device. 



An additional worry that has been raised for the desire frustration
theory is that the desire to change a fictional world is a desire that
necessarily can't be satisfied. As such it is a deviant desire that
may be seen as implausibly weird (Uidhir 2011a, 2011b). On the other
hand, such desires may be thought of as "wishes". For
instance, if I regret some past action, it is plausible to say that I
wish I could change the past. It is a common sort of desire, even
though it can't be satisfied.


## 4. Moment By Moment Forgetting




Richard Gerrig argues for what we can call the moment-by-moment 
forgetting theory. Unlike the previous two explanations, Gerrig 
thinks that suspense requires uncertainty. His solution to the 
paradox is to deny the second premise--that knowing the outcome 
of a narrative precludes uncertainty. Despite appearances, Gerrig 
claims that one can both know how a story turns out and be uncertain 
about the result while the story unfolds. 




By appealing to some putative features of our cognitive architecture, 
Gerrig claims that people are unable to effectively make use of their
knowledge of the outcome of a story in such a way that would preclude
suspense. Gerrig offers an evolutionary psychological explanation of 
how this could be possible. He argues that evolution has not equipped
humans with the ability to look up known outcomes to repeated events.
Since there are no exactly repeated events in nature, there was 
simply no selective pressure to develop such an ability. As such, 
repeaters can feel suspense, because while they are caught in the 
grips of a story they are unaware of the outcome. In this way, Gerrig
argues, fictional scenarios can be effectively uncertain for viewers 
even if they know the outcome. 




This may seem plausible in relation to cases in which suspenseful 
situations occur rapidly, but take a movie such as *Speed* (Jan 
de Bont, 1994) where a series of dangerous situations put the 
characters in jeopardy, and each situation unfolds over the course of
several minutes. It's hard to imagine that recall could take 
so long. The ability to make decisions rapidly in stressful 
situations, such as how to escape a coming attacker or how to avoid 
being hit by a car, involves knowing how pursuers and drivers behave 
by recalling similar scenarios. This mechanism seems close to what is
involved into forecasting the outcome of a fictional event. If we can
forecast, then surely we can remember in the span of several minutes 
whether or not our forecast is correct based on our knowledge of the 
story. Given the prevalence of similar cognitive capacities and the 
gradual unfolding of suspense scenarios, Gerrig's portrait of the 
lazy mind of repeaters is *prima facie* unconvincing. 




A related problem with Gerrig's account is that if viewers really do 
suffer from such mental handicaps as a matter of our evolutionary 
makeup, then he lacks an explanation of why suspense diminishes for 
many viewers. It would be strange to say that some of us have evolved
a special cognitive ability to recall the outcomes of identically 
repeating events when there are no evolutionary pressures for such a 
trait. What seems to be the problem is that Gerrig has miscast the 
kind of skill that is involved. As stated previously, our ability to 
forecast the outcomes of familiar types of events can plausibly 
account for our ability to remember the outcomes of familiar 
fictional scenarios. 




A further problem with Gerrig's theory is that it cannot account for 
a common phenomenon of repeated viewing, namely that with knowledge 
of the outcome of a story we are able to notice things that we might 
otherwise find unexceptional. Take Hitchcock's *Shadow of a 
Doubt* (1943) as an example. Early in the film, aspects of Uncle 
Charlie's behavior that might otherwise go unnoticed seem like 
obvious evidence of his murderous past on repeated viewings. This 
common experience requires the same kind of recall abilities that 
Gerrig thinks are necessarily retarded. If there were, as Gerrig 
suggests, "a systematic failure of memory processes to produce 
relevant knowledge as the narrative unfolds" then our ability when 
informed by knowledge of the narrative outcome to notice new clues 
upon a reviewing is utterly mysterious (Gerrig 1997, 172). Since the 
moment-by-moment forgetting theory implies that one cannot both feel 
suspense on a reviewing of *Shadow of a Doubt* and notice new 
clues during the same scenes, it appears to conflict with the 
evidence. 


## 5. Emotional Misidentification




Robert Yanal offers a resolution to the paradox by denying the third 
premise, that repeaters feel genuine suspense on repeated encounters 
with familiar narratives. Yanal's emotional misidentification view 
holds that there are no true repeaters, only misidenitifiers. He 
argues that since suspense requires uncertainty, the best account for
the any claim that the same movie was just as suspenseful on the 4th,
5th, or 6th viewing is that the recidivist is confused, mislabeling 
his emotional response. The recidivist is not feeling suspense, 
only anticipation. Uncertainty is necessary for suspense, but not for
mere anticipation. 




However, feeling suspense upon repeated viewings after a great span 
of time is an altogether different phenomenon. We often forget how a 
story unfolds and are genuinely uncertain about what happens. So, in 
a sense, the fiction is new for forgetters. On Yanal's account, one 
can be a confused recidivist, a forgetter, or a virgin viewer; but, 
one cannot be a true repeater. True repeaters are not possible, since
they lack the cognitive uncertainty necessary for suspense. 




Yanal's solution rests on the distinction between anticipation and 
suspense. But lacking a clear phenomenal distinction between the kind
of anticipation that viewers putatively confuse with suspense and 
genuine suspense, we have cause to be suspicious. Since this kind of 
anticipation and suspense appear to feel the same, the principal 
difference, on Yanal's account, must be that the reaction cannot be 
suspense proper without the cognitive state of uncertainty. If so, 
Yanal has simply defined the problem under the rug. Why, we must ask,
do viewers feel "anticipation" in response to narrative situations 
where they know the characters will survive unharmed? 




Without much exposition, Yanal seizes upon the notion that suspense 
requires uncertainty. From there he constructs an *a priori* 
argument to the effect that it is impossible that suspense occur when
the outcomes are known. On this definition alone, he concludes that 
either repeaters have forgotten the outcome, and they are not true 
repeaters, or they have misidentified the emotion they are 
experiencing. 




On the same line of reasoning, audience members must be 
misidentifying a range of emotional responses, including fear. The 
generation of suspense in repeaters is no less mysterious than the 
generation of fear. We feel fear in response to familiar fictional 
events that we know will turn out well. But how could this be 
possible? How can we fear an event that we know will result in a 
desired outcome? The same question arises concerning both 
first-person fear (fear for one's self) and fear for others. 




Yanal argues that "experiencing fear is neither itself suspenseful 
nor is it contingent upon ignorance. (I may know with certainty that 
my friend will be executed tomorrow, and yet feel fear for him, 
anxiety over his welfare, etc)" (Yanal 1999, 139). Without any hope 
that your friend will be executed, you would most likely feel dread, 
not fear. But this is beside the point, since the situation with most
fictions is that you feel fear where you know with certainty, say if 
you have seen the movie before, that nothing bad will happen to the 
hero. Again, consider *Speed*: If you have seen the film or know
the genre conventions, then you know that nothing bad will happen to 
the main characters, though it is possible to feel fear upon repeated
viewings. At least, it appears to be possible if we have any faith at
all in the phenomenological reports of audiences. 




If the relevant form of fear is best described as a prospect emotion,
then the cognitive state of uncertainty would plausibly be necessary 
for fear. Are we to conclude that audience members must be confusing 
what they take to be fear with some other emotion? If so, what could 
it possibly be? Although we may not be infallible introspectors, we 
cannot help but assume that people can reliably identify when they 
feel fear. An *a priori* assumption that fear requires 
uncertainty is not sufficient to warrant the attribution of pervasive
emotional misidentification. The same goes for suspense. 




One reason why it may sound more plausible to hypothesize radically 
fallible introspective abilities regarding suspense but not fear, is 
that suspense seems to be a composite emotional state, lacking the 
corresponding kind of clear specifications. Rather than a pure 
emotional kind, suspense is better described as an emotional amalgam,
comprised of fear and hope, where uncertainty, if it is required, is 
implied in the components: As such, suspense is a best thought of as 
a composite emotion. 


## 6. Suspense and Surprise




Some explanation is in order for why Yanal and others think it 
unquestionable that uncertainty is required for suspense. Often 
suspenseful fictions include many surprises, and one can feel 
suspense if they think a surprise is up ahead. Picking up on this, 
many discussions of suspense, such as Kendall Walton's, lump together
their treatments of suspense and surprise (Walton, 1990: 259-271). 
The tendency to think of suspense as intimately related to surprise, 
for which uncertainty appears to be required, may be one reason why 
many people think suspense requires the same. But this assumption is 
mistaken in two ways. 




First, surprise does not require uncertainty, although it might first
appear otherwise. If I think that something will happen and it does, 
then I will not feel surprise. For example, if I think that my 
friends have gathered at my apartment for my birthday, I will not 
feel surprise when I come home and find them in my living room. Based
on failed surprise parties, one may conclude that surprise requires 
uncertainty. But this is too hasty. Surprise does not require that we
be in a cognitive state of uncertainty. And it is fairly easy to see 
why. I may be certain that my beer sits on the table in front of me, 
but if it disappears when I reach for it, I will be surprised. Hence,
I can feel surprise without uncertainty. To be mistaken is not the 
same as to be uncertain. Surprise results from the sudden subversion 
of an expectation, not the resolution of cognitive uncertainty. 




Second, although suspense and surprise are often found in the same 
fictions, and the prospect of a surprise can be the source of some 
suspense, the connection stops there: Surprise is not involved in all
or even most cases of suspense. Hence, whether suspense requires 
uncertainty is a matter independent of that concerning the conditions
necessary for surprise. 


## 7. Summary




Four solutions to the paradox of suspense have been surveyed above:
the thought theory of entertained uncertainty, the desire-frustration
theory, the moment-by-moment forgetting view, and the emotional
misidentification view. The first two theories attempt to solve the
paradox by explaining how it is that we feel suspense under conditions
of certainty. The moment-by-moment forgetting theory effectively
denies that we do have knowledge of the outcome of a story, even if we
have read it before. And the emotional misidentification view denies
that we do feel suspense on repeated encounters with a narrative,
despite appearances. 




The problems with the four theories are various, but it pays to note 
that a theory of suspense should be able to do more than simply 
provide a solution to the paradox of suspense; it should also be able
to explain two additional facts. First, as noted above, suspense 
often diminishes after we have watched a movie, and continues to 
diminish on subsequent viewings. Second, although narrative fiction 
is extremely effective at creating intense suspense, we rarely feel 
suspense in our daily lives.