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By:

Shoumojit Banerjee

27 August 2024 at 9:57:52 am

From Sleeper Agents to Scrolling Minds, the New Manchurian Candidates

Laurence Harvey and Frank Sinatra in John Frankenheimer’s sinister ‘The Manchurian Candidate’ (1962) Meta’s recent apology to the Indian government for briefly restricting a video posted by Prime Minister Narendra Modi during the turbulent education protests spearheaded by the Cockroach Janata Party (CJP) was yet another reminder that some of the most consequential battles of our time are fought in the invisible territory between grievance and manipulation. The larger issue was that a...

From Sleeper Agents to Scrolling Minds, the New Manchurian Candidates

Laurence Harvey and Frank Sinatra in John Frankenheimer’s sinister ‘The Manchurian Candidate’ (1962) Meta’s recent apology to the Indian government for briefly restricting a video posted by Prime Minister Narendra Modi during the turbulent education protests spearheaded by the Cockroach Janata Party (CJP) was yet another reminder that some of the most consequential battles of our time are fought in the invisible territory between grievance and manipulation. The larger issue was that a private technology company thousands of kilometres away today possesses the power to determine what millions see - and, through the mysterious alchemy of algorithms, what they are repeatedly encouraged to notice. While the voter still casts the ballot, it is increasingly doubtful who controls the information environment in which he makes up his mind. Unlike the political propagandist, the power wielded by a technology platform is subtler and arguably more puissant. It need not persuade anyone of anything. It can simply determine which facts, fears and grievances people must encounter repeatedly. As recent events have shown, India today confronts an increasingly complex information battlespace. Cross-border propaganda, organised disinformation, online Islamist radicalisation and digitally amplified political polarisation have all become familiar features of public life. The recent CJP protests unfolded amid a fog of misinformation, blurring the line between authentic grievance and manufactured outrage. This is hardly new. Foreign influence operations, some well documented and others still contested, have long sought (and continue to seek) to shape perceptions of India at home and abroad. The cauldron has also produced a peculiar class of Indian political commentator - the self-styled elite which includes journalists and laymen alike, at home and abroad. Professionally successful and largely insulated from India’s hardscrabble realities, they remain perpetually agitated by its politics, pronouncing on the failures of Indian democracy with impressive certainty while giving their critical faculties an extended holiday. Unlike the Cold War, today’s ‘useful idiots’ do not need a handler in the Kremlin or a briefing room in Langley. A personalised algorithm can do much of the work by feeding conviction, grievance and the agreeable vanity of believing oneself enlightened. This manipulation has a distinctly Cold War ancestry. The word ‘brainwashing’ entered the American vocabulary in the early 1950s, popularised by the journalist Edward Hunter in his accounts of Chinese Communist methods of ideological ‘thought reform’. Hunter adapted the expression from the Chinese xǐnǎo (literally to ‘wash the brain’) and gave the West a word for an old fear wherein the enemy might not merely imprison the body but colonise the mind. Mind Games The Korean War (1950-53) supplied the nightmare with its most potent imagery. American prisoners of war returned from Chinese captivity having made confessions, signed petitions or uttered statements sympathetic to Communism. Whether these episodes represented the near-mystical mind control by the Communists was another matter, but the possibility that personality itself could be dismantled and reconstructed seemed suddenly less like science fiction. The irony was that America was investigating similar possibilities. “We do disagreeable things so that ordinary people here and elsewhere can sleep safely in their beds at night,” says Control in John le Carré’s The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. This potent line wonderfully captures the Cold War’s moral ambiguity that Western intelligence agencies were no less ruthless than their Communist counterparts. The CIA’s secret MKUltra programme, begun in 1953, explored hypnosis, psychoactive drugs and other techniques of behavioural modification. Out of this Macbethian witches’ brew of Cold War tensions, writer Richard Condon created one of the great political nightmares of modern fiction with his The Manchurian Candidate (1959) – a nightmare that became visual shorthand for Cold War brainwashing with the wonderfully sinister 1962 film adaptation of Condon’s novel. Condon’s book was much stranger, darker and more satirical than its reputation as a mere ‘Cold War thriller’ suggests. It was not merely a story about Communists converting American soldiers into assassins. It was a grotesque comedy of American political life, held in thrall by McCarthyism, of electoral manipulation, family ambition and the possibility that democracy itself could become a theatre in which everyone was playing a part. John Frankenheimer’s 1962 film, blessed with George Axelrod’s cracking screenplay and bolstered immensely by Frank Sinatra’s participation, transformed that anxiety into one of cinema’s most unsettling political visions. The famous plot has Staff Sergeant Raymond Shaw, unforgettably essayed by a glazed and glacial Laurence Harvey, returning from the Korean War as a decorated hero, unaware that his mind has been conditioned and that he has been transformed into a sleeper assassin, awaiting a psychological trigger to set him in motion. His former platoon commander, Major Bennett Marco, played by Sinatra, slowly begins to suspect that something is terribly wrong when several members of the unit recall the same recurring dream: a seemingly innocuous military lecture that gradually reveals itself as something far more sinister. The men have, in fact, been subjected to a demonstration of psychological conditioning by their Communist captors. Shaw has been programmed to respond to a specific trigger and, when activated, to carry out an assassination. The trigger is the Queen of Diamonds in a deck of cards When Shaw is shown the card, he enters a trance-like state and becomes susceptible to commands that would ordinarily be unthinkable. In playing the ultimate ‘mother from hell,’ Angela Lansbury delivers one of the most chilling performances in American cinema as Eleanor Iselin, Shaw’s mother, whose insatiable political ambition turns even maternal love into an instrument of manipulation. Mythical Quality The timing of the film’s release has lent it an almost mythical quality. It opened in October 1962, as the Cuban Missile Crisis brought the world closer to nuclear war than it had ever been. American audiences were watching a story about invisible enemies, programmed killers and political assassination while wondering whether global catastrophe itself might arrive within days. Barely thirteen months later, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. The popular belief that The Manchurian Candidate was immediately suppressed after Kennedy’s murder is more complicated than the legend suggests. But the coincidence was irresistible. A film about a manipulated assassin, released at the height of Cold War anxiety and followed so soon by the murder of a president, acquired a permanent aura of unease. The mythology deepened further because Lee Harvey Oswald was reportedly fascinated by Suddenly (1954), another Sinatra film about an attempted presidential assassination, although claims that it influenced his actions remain disputed. The phrase ‘Manchurian candidate’ has since entered the political lexicon, describing someone who appears to act independently but is secretly serving another power. The film itself has become shorthand for the darkest Cold War fear that the most dangerous weapon in an ideological war may not be a missile or a bomb, but a human being whose mind has been captured and turned against his own country. Prior to the Candidate’s explosive arrival on scene, a little-seen film had directly tackled the issue of brainwashing Korean War. Directed by actor Karl Malden, the tense and intelligent Time Limit (1957), starring Richard Widmark and Richard Basehart, offered a more sober and psychologically realistic examination of coercion by graphically showing captivity, exhaustion, fear, guilt and impossible choices in the brainwashing process adopted by the Chinese Communists. By the 1970s, however, American cinema began looking inward. The enemy was no longer simply a foreign ideological power. Vietnam had shattered confidence in government while Watergate damaged trust in institutions. By then, assassinations had become a defining feature of the national consciousness and manipulation seemed to be carried out on a corporate, industrial scale. A failed labour of love for Newman and friends, ‘WUSA’ (1970) nonetheless has an eerie resonance for our troubled times This was reflected in the strangely titled ‘WUSA’ (1970) about a cynical disc jockey played by Paul Newman who finds himself bang in the middle of a conspiracy hatched by a right-wing radio station in the deep South. The unjustly-derided film is a chilling and eerily relevant drama in the era of Trump and MAGA. Newman plays the amoral drifter who ends up deferring to the caprices of WUSA. Edgy Anthony Perkins, a social activist commissioned with a Kafkaesque ‘survey’ who discovers WUSA’s sinister intent, plays the ineffectual moral center of the film. Also in the high-powered cast is Laurence Harvey as the snake oil salesman ‘priest.’ The film, based on acclaimed writer Robert Stone’s thoughtful novel ‘A Hall of Mirrors,’ often plays like a cross between two of the finest American political allegories - The Manchurian Candidate (1962) and Network (1976), with a riveting crowd climax. The Parallax View (1974) Alan J. Pakula’s The Parallax View (1974), where Warren Beatty plays a journalist investigating political assassinations and discovering a mysterious corporation recruiting killers, pushed the idea of corporate brainwashing even further. Gone was the old Communist laboratory. In its place, a professional organisation had turned manipulation into a business. The film’s famous ‘recruitment’ sequence remains one of the most extraordinary depictions of psychological conditioning in cinema. Beatty’s character watches a rapid montage of images which depicts a rapid cascade of flags, children, mothers, religion, sex, violence, patriotism and death. There is no argument being presented. Instead, emotions are triggered solely through association with those images. Watching that sequence today is an eerie experience because Pakula, who would go on to direct All the President’s Men, appears to have anticipated the visual language of the algorithm decades before Silicon Valley transformed attention into a commercial resource. Don Siegel’s Telefon (1977), a middling but occasionally delicious Cold War thriller, returned to the sleeper-agent fantasy. Charles Bronson plays a Soviet intelligence officer hunting a rogue agent, played with characteristic relish by Donald Pleasence, who is activating dormant Soviet agents planted across America years earlier. The trigger is a coded telephone call containing a line from Robert Frost: ‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep.’ The agents, ordinary Americans who have long forgotten their programming, suddenly awaken to their buried instructions and go about their assigned tasks of chaos and destruction. The great propaganda systems of the twentieth century were broadly hierarchical. Nazi Germany had Goebbels and the radio; Stalin had Ilya Ehrenburg (no comparison with Goebbels of course) and the Soviet press; Mao had the Communist Party apparatus and its mass campaigns. The digital world has made that chain of command harder to see. While there may still be a hand on the tiller, the message now travels through a vast, decentralised swarm of platforms, influencers and ordinary users. The system learns from its audience, identifies what provokes anger, fear or affirmation and then feeds it back in ever greater quantities. Perhaps that is why The Manchurian Candidate remains so haunting nearly 65 years after its release. Raymond Shaw required a hypnotic trigger in the form of pack of cards. The contemporary information environment requires none of these. Today, the trigger may simply be the next mobile phone notification.

Science and the Fear of Bold Ideas

While modern science celebrates originality, the systems that fund and evaluate research often reward caution over bold ideas.

AI generated image
AI generated image

Science proudly claims to reward originality. Research proposals must explain what is new. Journals ask authors to highlight novelty. Prestigious prizes celebrate discoveries that open entirely new directions.


In principle, scientific progress depends on bold ideas. Yet many researchers recognise a quiet contradiction. Novelty is welcomed, but usually only within comfortable limits. Ideas that extend existing work are readily accepted. Ideas that challenge established thinking often encounter hesitation. The system asks scientists to be original, but it frequently rewards them for being careful.


This tension is not entirely new. Even in earlier centuries, scientific institutions balanced curiosity with caution. The Royal Society in seventeenth-century England famously adopted the motto nullius in verba (meaning “take nobody’s word for it”) to encourage independent thinking. Yet, the same institutions also relied on consensus and reputation to determine which claims deserved attention. The desire for bold discovery has always existed alongside the instinct to protect established knowledge from what might appear speculative or premature.


From Bold to Safe

The contradiction becomes visible during research proposal reviews. A scientist may present an idea that crosses disciplinary boundaries, questions a widely accepted assumption, or proposes a new way of approaching a familiar problem.


Instead of excitement, the discussion often becomes cautious. Reviewers begin to ask predictable questions. Is the idea too speculative? Is there enough preliminary data? Can the outcome be predicted? Will the project produce publications within the grant period? Does it fit the priorities of the funding call?


None of these questions are unreasonable. Funding agencies must ensure that public resources are used responsibly. Reviewers must distinguish promising science from unrealistic claims.


But when these concerns dominate the discussion, something subtle happens. The proposal gradually shifts toward safety. The applicant is advised to narrow the scope, reduce uncertainty, and align the work more closely with existing literature. The original idea is reshaped until it becomes easier to evaluate.


The proposal is rarely rejected because it is new. It is modified because it is too new. When this pattern repeats across funding systems, it slowly shapes the culture of research. Scientists begin to recognise which kinds of projects are most likely to succeed.


The safest approach is often to extend existing work. A method may be improved slightly. A parameter may be adjusted. A known concept may be tested in a different system. Such work is valuable and often necessary. Science does depend on steady and cumulative progress.


But a system that mainly rewards incremental advances rarely produces dramatic shifts in understanding.


This is why the language used in science policy often sounds more ambitious than everyday research practice. We frequently hear phrases such as leap-frogging innovation, pole-vaulting science, and blue-sky research. These expressions suggest bold intellectual leaps capable of transforming entire fields.


In practice, however, such leaps are difficult to pursue within the prevailing structure of research funding and evaluation.


Several forces quietly push science in this direction. Modern research systems rely heavily on measurable performance. Scientists are evaluated through publications, citations, patents, and grants. Institutions are judged by rankings and visible productivity.


Under these conditions, researchers naturally choose projects that can produce results within predictable timeframes. A radically original idea may take years to mature and may even fail. An incremental project, in contrast, is far more likely to generate publishable results within the duration of a grant.


Established Frameworks

The incentives therefore encourage caution. This tendency intensified during the late twentieth century as universities across the world adopted managerial systems of evaluation.


Evaluation also becomes more difficult when ideas fall outside established frameworks. Reviewers are usually experts in existing fields. They understand accepted theories, standard methods, and familiar lines of research. This allows them to judge proposals efficiently.


Radically new ideas often require reviewers to imagine possibilities that lie beyond current knowledge. That process demands time, patience, and intellectual openness. In busy review systems, safer proposals often appear easier to support.


The history of science repeatedly reminds us that important discoveries often appear uncomfortable in their early stages.


Alfred Wegener’s proposal that continents move across the Earth was dismissed for decades before plate tectonics transformed geology. Barbara McClintock’s discovery of mobile genetic elements puzzled many scientists because it challenged prevailing assumptions about genes. Dan Shechtman’s work on quasicrystals contradicted accepted crystallographic principles and faced strong resistance when first reported.


The pattern stretches even further back. When Galileo argued that the Earth moved around the Sun, his claims conflicted not only with religious doctrine but also with prevailing scientific understanding. In the nineteenth century, Ignaz Semmelweis struggled to persuade physicians that simple handwashing could prevent deadly infections in hospitals. These episodes reveal a recurring feature of scientific change that ideas which later appear to be obvious often look improbable when first proposed.


These examples do not mean scepticism is unnecessary. Science depends on critical scrutiny and rigorous testing. Not every unconventional idea deserves support.


But they do remind us that radically new ideas often appear improbable before they become obvious.


Quiet Lessons

Young researchers learn these realities very quickly. By observing which proposals receive funding and which kinds of research attract recognition, they begin to understand the unwritten rules of the system.


Without anyone explicitly telling them, they learn that extending established work is often safer than exploring radically new directions.


Over time this quiet lesson shapes scientific ambition itself. Many capable researchers choose safer paths, not because they lack imagination, but because the structure of the system encourages them to manage risk carefully.


In India, this issue has special relevance at a time when new institutions are shaping the country’s research ecosystem. The creation of the Anusandhan National Research Foundation offers an opportunity not only to expand research funding but also to rethink how originality itself is supported.


If the goal is to encourage transformative science, funding structures must accommodate ideas that do not fit conventional templates.


One possible approach would be a dedicated programme under ANRF called the Bharat Navdisha Initiative (BNI). Such a programme could invite proposals that aim to explore entirely new scientific directions rather than incremental extensions of existing work.


Projects submitted under such a programme would not always fit easily within conventional evaluation frameworks. Their outcomes may be uncertain and their timelines unpredictable.


For this reason, the review process must also be different. Evaluation should be slow, careful, and grounded in deep scientific discussion. Reviewers should have sufficient time to examine the intellectual foundations of the idea, question its assumptions, and assess whether the scientific risk is justified.


The central question should not be whether the proposal appears unusual. The real question should be whether the scientific reasoning behind it is sound and whether the idea could open a genuinely new direction.


Balanced Approach

Administrative convenience should not determine the fate of bold ideas. Thoughtful scientific debate should.


Science requires both stability and imagination. Incremental research strengthens existing knowledge and builds reliable foundations. At the same time, progress also requires a smaller but carefully protected space for bold exploration that may alter the direction of entire fields.


At present, that space remains limited. If institutions truly wish to encourage transformative discoveries, they must do more than ask for novelty in proposal forms. They must create funding structures and evaluation processes that allow unusual ideas to be examined seriously before they are pushed toward safer ground.


Creating initiatives such as the Bharat Navdisha Initiative would send an important signal. It would show that bold thinking is not only admired in speeches, but also supported where it matters most.


(The author is an ANRF Prime Minister Professor at COEP Technological University, Pune; former Director of the Agharkar Research Institute, Pune; and former Visiting Professor at IIT Bombay. Views personal).

 


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