One important aspect of Sullivan, especially as later
elaborated, is its bar on liability for derogatory but nonfactual speech. It’s not because such speech can’t do
harm. Everyone who survived an American
high school knows that it’s the nonfactual statements that do the most
damage. Instead, the fact/nonfact distinction
limits and channels defamation liability in a way that, first, we hope is
objective and thus more protective of speech than a subjective standard, and
second, we believe limits liability when factfinders would be inclined to
protect powerful and respected figures over marginal characters—both when the
marginal characters are plaintiffs and when they’re defendants. You can do as much harm as you like to a
person’s reputation as long as you do it with nonfacts—mockery, slurs, and the
like. Under modern defamation law, a
particular mechanism—emotional manipulation—is fair game, or at least off
limits for suppression by the government.
My paper contrasts two private causes of action and two
government disclosure mandates. First, trademark law allows exactly the kind of
control over nonfactual, emotional appeals that modern defamation law
precludes. Second, in compelled speech
cases, courts have struck down mandatory smoking warnings in visual form, but
have approved mandatory abortion disclosures and ultrasound requirements that
operate in the same emotional register.
I suggest that the contradictions of current doctrine could
be ameliorated by less distrust of emotion and more acceptance that, where
information is being conveyed, emotion will regularly follow. Our focus then should not be on whether
deployment of emotion is “manipulative” but whether it is part of a
discriminatory or factually misleading regulation. When the government regulates speech, the
regulation will generally have an emotional component, because human thought is
emotional. Objections to emotion-based
regulations should not be based on the obviousness of that component. Rather, the acceptability of the government’s
aim should be the guide, especially when nongovernmental speakers are free to
use emotional appeals to press their own cases.
The government may be required to be neutral as between classes of
private speakers, as Sullivan requires and as I will argue should be the case
with respect to trademark law. It is not
required to be neutered. When the
government can otherwise constitutionally mandate disclosure, the fact that
these disclosures have emotional resonance is not an independent constitutional
barrier.
Trademark and defamation:
Trademark law presently authorizes the kind of private
control over emotional meaning that defamation law’s limitation to facts
precludes: The government provides a remedy as between two private parties when
one interferes with the emotional valence of the other.
Courts routinely protect the aura of distinction and
uniqueness claimed by a trademark owner.
For example, the Second Circuit enjoined a copyist of Levi’s stitching,
ostensibly on confusion grounds, because otherwise Levi’s sales would be
“affected adversely by . . . buyers’ ultimate realization that the pattern is
no longer exclusive.” Trademark protection
in the absence of consumer confusion at the point of sale is justified, at
least in part, as a means of preserving the status of consumers of “true”
luxury products, even if no one ever makes a mistaken purchase. Trademark dilution is another doctrine that
allows trademark owners to control emotional meaning: dilution prevents
commercial actors from interfering with the singular meaning of a mark even if
no one is ever mistaken about any fact at all.
For example, the Second Circuit found that a lawn tractor ad actionably
diluted John Deere’s mark by featuring an animated Deere logo running away in
terror from a small, yappy dog.
American regulators rarely try to suppress nonfactual
commercial speech—adorable spokesbears and body-spray-using boys surrounded by
inexplicably attracted women are safe devices to build consumer interest and
loyalty. Within this regime, trademark
law creates systematic bias. If
nonfalsifiable speech about someone else’s trademark can be banned because it’s
only used to get attention, build image, or amuse consumers, the result is
special positional advantages given to now-dominant brands. This discrimination in favor of the already
powerful is what makes trademark law, in its role as emotional regulator,
constitutionally problematic.
This power can’t be justified by trademark-specific concepts
of economic harm or property, because those concepts can’t be made
trademark-specific except by pure fiat.
Inconsistency isn’t itself a vice, but there’s a particular problem when
the inconsistency favors the presently powerful and dominant, which is
explicitly what trademark law does: it protects strong brands more than new or
weak entrants, and dilution in particular only protects famous marks, which is
to say household names.
So I’ve identified a tension in the treatment of private
torts targeting emotional methods of persuasion. This tension also exists in other areas. Because the topic of government speech is so
broad and unwieldy, I will focus on compelled speech rather than on claims like
“this is your brain on drugs.” Can the
government mandate that a speaker disclose negative facts in a way that is
likely to trigger emotional reactions?
The answer presently is no and yes. No when the speaker provides cigarettes. Yes when the speaker provides abortions.
On tobacco, the DC Circuit upheld the invalidation of
congressionally required graphic warnings on cigarette packages. The main problem the R.J. Reynolds majority
had was that the warnings were too emotional.
The graphic warnings were not “purely” factual because “they are
primarily intended to evoke an emotional response, or, at most, shock the
viewer into retaining the information in the text warning.”
The FDA defended the use of images by citing research
showing that pictures are easier to remember than words, which meant that the
images’ health messages—smoking is bad for you—would be better received. The
majority interpreted this as the FDA’s desire to “shock[]” consumers, but it
didn’t reject the FDA’s factual claims that memory is aided by emotional cues
or that other alternatives had failed to make the risk message stick. The
warnings were designed “to shame and repulse smokers and denigrate smoking as
an antisocial act,” making the message “ideological and not informational.”
Under the majority’s reasoning, the government is apparently
not allowed to mandate a warning that works through an emotional
mechanism. One immediate problem with
that conclusion is that “purely” factual words also work that way. For example, research shows that price
signals trigger negative emotional reactions that mitigate consumers’ desires
for the advertised products. They cause
consumers to feel bad about buying, mitigating positive emotions triggered by
desire for the product. Yet price
disclosures have previously been upheld as acceptable regulations of commercial
speech, obviously related to rational consumer decisionmaking.
Nonetheless, the Reynolds majority held that the graphic
warnings were unacceptable because they didn’t provide “purely factual and
uncontroversial” information. By
contrast, the majority was confident that mandatory price-related disclosures
“were both indisputably accurate and not subject to misinterpretation by consumers.” The majority constructed a false dichotomy
between accurate statements and misinterpretation (which is connected to the
false dichotomy between reason and emotion).
There is no such thing as a disclosure that is not subject to
misinterpretation by consumers. People
are just too variable in their attention, prior beliefs, and other cognitive
resources; someone always ends up reading “this claim has not been evaluated by
the Food and Drug Administration” as “this claim has been evaluated by the Food
and Drug Administration.”
Professor Caroline Mala Corbin’s careful analysis uses the
social science evidence to contest this result.
Among other things, she points out that vivid images seem more personal,
so that the viewer will imagine herself at risk rather than assuming herself
immune. Relatedly, salient images are
more likely to be noticed and comprehended, unlike current textual
warnings.
However, Corbin considers one emotional pathway to be
dangerous: mere association of smoking with negative affect—“the reverse
process of what advertisers do when they link their product with something that
triggers a positive emotional response.”
As long as the negative image is truly connected to smoking, though, she
considers this reaction to be a legitimate transfer of affect, whereas
Clockwork Orange-style aversive conditioning—exposing consumers to images of
maggot-infested meat next to cigarettes, for example—would be
illegitimate. Corbin suggests that most
of the FDA’s images were unproblematic in this regard, except for one of a
woman “weeping uncontrollably,” which exploits cognitive shortcuts instead of
relying on the merits.
I think this reaction illustrates the difficulties of
distinguishing shortcuts from merits. Is
it really tenuous to think that nonsmokers who contract fatal lung disease will
be mourned? Or even that smokers who
discover that an intimate has fatal lung disease will feel guilt? It is these rational but not perfectly
correlated associations that government will most often want to make when it
imposes disclosure requirements. Unlike
private advertisers using sex and pleasure to sell, government mandates aren’t
likely to associate completely unrelated things.
But private advertisers’ willingness to sell products with
positive imagery has to be considered as well in any full analysis of the
constitutional issues. Commercial
sellers—including tobacco companies—routinely and even predominantly use images
and nonfactual matter to make their products attractive—that’s the story of
modern trademark law. If imagery can distort
rational judgment, Reynolds makes it impossible for the government to correct
tobacco advertisers’ own distortions with a countervailing emotional appeal at
the very point where that emotion is likely to have an influence: the time a
decision is made to smoke.
Now for the other side: While Reynolds invalidated visual
tobacco warnings, courts have mainly upheld a different set of emotional
interventions related to abortion. I
depart from many critics of mandatory abortion-related disclosures in accepting
the idea that emotional government appeals are legitimate. The real concerns—shared by critics of
emotional appeals as well—relate to factual misleadingness, burdens on the
practical ability to obtain an abortion, and misattribution of the government’s
message to doctors.
So, the Eighth Circuit upheld South Dakota’s requirement
that physicians provide their patients with a written statement informing women
contemplating an abortion that a “known medical risk[] of the [abortion]
procedure” is an “[i]ncreased risk of suicide ideation and suicide,” even
though the best available scientific studies suggest that abortion is
“psychologically benign.” The majority
concluded that this statement didn’t suggest a causal relationship between
abortion and an increased risk of suicide, and was therefore not false or
misleading because of the possibility of causation. By any normal standard, the required
disclosure is clearly misleading.
Correlation may not be causation, but reasonable listeners would undeniably
receive the message that having an abortion caused the increased risk, using
the ordinary rules of implicature. It
would have been just as “true” to mandate a disclosure that people who take
Advil have an increased risk of headaches.
Courts have also upheld various other statements about the
whole, separate, unique life that will be destroyed by abortion and
requirements forcing women to view fetal images and hear fetal heartbeats, by
way of mandatory ultrasounds.
While courts have treated these abortion requirements as
“truthful” and “nonmisleading,” there is no way that they’d satisfy the
standard applied in the tobacco cases.
The aim here is really persuasion, not just information. The state’s position is that a woman’s future
self is sufficiently likely to have a different perspective on the present
decision—much like a current smoker and that smoker’s future self—that
providing her the information now will enhance her overall decisionmaking. We
may disagree about the likelihood that these regrets will materialize, but the
two situations can’t be separated on their logic, only on their facts. And the state absent the constraints of
Lochner often has a great deal of freedom to find facts.
Given this government aim, focusing on the emotionality of the
government’s emotional appeal may divert us from the more basic question of
whether the appeal ought to be allowed.
In this vein, the reasoning behind one common analogy deployed against
abortion disclosures demonstrates how our underlying concepts about which
choices are rational affect our conclusions about acceptable emotional
appeals. Critics of graphic abortion
disclosures often make the point that graphic images of ordinary surgery aren’t
considered necessary for informed consent to surgery. Rationally, the argument goes, the fact that
surgery is bloody and gross shouldn’t deter someone who needs it from having
it.
But imagine a state with a substantial population of
Jehovah’s Witnesses and Christian Scientists.
Would they agree that the only rational, necessary choice is
surgery? Are we prepared to accept the
existence of reasons to reject surgery that acknowledge its potential efficacy
but value other considerations more? To
press further: consider that in many cases, surgery is not the only
option—there may be other possible treatments, or a patient nearing the end of
her life may choose not to attempt to extend it with surgery given the costs in
pain and recovery time. To the extent
that graphic images make more salient the physical costs of surgery, they could be justified in such
situations. Just as an image of a crying
woman concretizes and stands for the many costs of tobacco use, or the image of
a fetus stands for a human life, surgical images are directly related to
considerations that a patient rationally could take into account.
The surgical analogy does prove a somewhat different point:
abortion disclosure mandates discriminate, in a constitutionally significant
way, between a choice made uniquely by women and other medical choices, and
this discrimination is likely to reflect sexist assumptions about women’s
rational capacities. To the extent that
the state is deploying emotional appeals in a biased way—and especially to the
extent that its is forcing doctors to represent the state’s emotional opinions
as its own —arguments against forced disclosures are still available even if
general appeals to emotions are constitutional.
Indeed, it is now well-recognized that emotion is a crucial
component of decisionmaking. There is
no weighing of alternatives, or judgment between them, without emotions guiding
choices. Some decisions don’t look like
they’re emotionally influenced, often because the cultural definition of
“emotional” decisions excludes those that make certain interactions flow
smoothly. But that just means the
emotion is invisible, not that it’s absent.
Advertising provides the most obvious examples. People are regularly influenced by aspects of
presentation that have no rational relationship to decisions. In one especially striking study, a photo of
a smiling, attractive woman in the bottom right-hand corner of a loan offer
produced an increased response rate for men equivalent to dropping the monthly
interest rate by 200 basis points, or approximately 25% of the total rate, a
substantial percentage. The recipients
didn’t get any increased exposure to the woman by accepting the offer; even if
they valued her smile at 200 basis points, taking the offer was irrational. We’re regularly influenced in ways we’d be embarrassed
to admit, if we even acknowledged that we’d been influenced.
So what can be done with this reality? With respect to mediating private disputes,
it’s desirable for the government to refuse to allow liability when a
defendant’s nonfactual speech affects audiences’ evaluation of the
plaintiff. This is the rule of Sullivan
and should be the rule in trademark law as well. In that sense, it is possible for the
government to be hands-off with respect to certain kinds of privately generated
emotion, though emotion will necessarily remain one mechanism by which
factually false claims can do harm.
However, the government may also wish to require certain
disclosures from commercial speakers, and here disconnection from emotion is
impossible. Some have argued that the
proper inquiry in evaluating required disclosures is whether the government has
a purpose to change behavior along its preferred lines, or merely to
inform. But the government will always
have both purposes when it requires disclosure. Zauderer, the classic commercial speech
disclosure case, found a lawyer’s failure to disclose that consumers would have
to pay court costs even if they lost their cases to be deceptive because that
liability would matter to a significant number of consumers. If it would matter, it would change at least
some behavior: that’s what it means for information to be material.
If the government does have a legitimate interest in having
people become aware of certain information, then emotion has to enter into the
calculation of how to deliver that information.
Humans are, as Dan Ariely says, predictably irrational. We are and will remain poor decisionmakers
who rely on salience over statistics.
Salience is produced by concrete, human examples that trigger emotional
reactions. Because emotion and reason
are inextricable, emotional appeals should be fair game for the government as
well as for private parties, unless the emotion is tied to factual deception.
Explicitly emotional government messages often make us uncomfortable
because they seem unduly paternalist and judgmental—they put undue pressure on
the citizen. But, among other things,
the government isn’t the only entity addressing the citizen. If she’s vulnerable to emotional manipulation
by the government, then she’s probably vulnerable to other kinds of emotional
manipulation. Other entities are
already selecting what messages they want her to hear and pressing them on
her. Even accepting that deliberate
appeals to emotion create autonomy problems, her autonomy is profoundly at risk
already, and we might want the government to step in to help her restore that
autonomy.
Consider a hypothetical from David Strauss on the question
of illegitimate manipulation: He asks us
to “Suppose that the government could manipulate people’s minds directly, by
irradiating them in a way that changed their desires. No one would say that the
power to ban an activity automatically included the ‘lesser’ power to irradiate
people so that they no longer had the desire to engage in that activity.” But that’s not really what many of these
emotional appeals do. Could the
government ban private parties from irradiating people, on the ground that this
harmed the victims’ autonomy? Could it
irradiate people to reverse the effects of that private irradiation? To the extent that government argues that it
is operating in an already emotion-saturated field such as that created by
tobacco advertising, it becomes harder to identify illegitimate manipulation.
Ultimately, I would allow the government to express the
preferences it can constitutionally have, and to express them in emotional
terms, as long as it isn’t deceptive. At
least with respect to commercial speech, this should give it significant
freedom to require disclosures, even ones that concededly rely on emotional
appeals to communicate information.
Caroline Corbin
Agrees that emotion and reason are inextricably linked;
compelled disclosures aren’t automatically suspect and Reynolds was wrong. We also
agree about factual errors and misleadingness, which means gov’t shouldn’t be
able to force disclosures that abortions cause suicide/etc., since that’s
false. Gov’t may compel cigarette
sellers to reveal gruesome facts, and compel doctors to reveal state’s view of
abortion.
Limits of this approach: defines deception too
narrowly. Just as state can mislead with
facts, it can mislead with emotion.
Plus, if deception is problematic because it fails to respect autonomy,
then the goals of the compelled speech need to be considered as well. Also must
consider autonomy of person forced to give gov’ts message.
Misleading: emotionally false/misleading—intentionally
exploit cognitive shortcuts involving affect.
Make you like something not by virtue of its own merits but by
association with something you like.
Sell toaster by draping beautiful woman over a toaster. Response to tobacco disclosures is due to the
merits—you reoil from smoking because of what smoking does, not because smoking
has been associated with something else you don’t like. It is hard to draw the line, but also hard to
draw the line about what’s misleading.
Not comfortable having no line at all.
Gov’t might not be likely to associate smoking with maggot infested
meat, but is not sure that she trusts the gov’t that much. If the 1A allows gov’t to intentionally
exploit affect heuristics, it can create negative associations with tobacco or
with cigarettes. Weeping regretful women
could be used for both. Intentionally
exploiting affect heuristics is deceptive and manipulative. Lead audience to
draw factual conclusions as well as emotional conclusions it wouldn’t have
done. Decisional autonomy is at the heart of the 1A.
If autonomy is at stake, then goals of disclosure also
matter. Tushnet says autonomy is intact
if you can still make a choice. But interference with the decisionmaking
process also matters. Very hard to
distinguish between compelled disclosures meant to inform and those meant to
persuade, but there is a difference in “smoking is harmful” and “abortion is
murder.” Less an insult to captive
audience when the gov’t’s goal is one you’re likely to agree
with—noncontroversial, well established fact v. controversial moral
position. Tushnet says everything’s
controversial today, but Corbin disagrees.
(Heh.) Smoking causes
cancer—that’s a well-established fact.
Abortion is murder is not a fact, but an issue of deep division.
Autonomy and non-autonomy-enhancing are not clear lines, but
can still be done. Smoking is addictive
and interferes with autonomy. Most women don’t regret abortion; availability of
abortion enhances women’s autonomy. Abortion disclosure is based on gov’t
viewpoint on controverted moral issue, and urge a course of conduct that’s not
necessarily autonomy-enhancing.
Based on moral aims: raises free speech rights of compelled
speakers. Insult to dignity/autonomy is worse if you’re forced to affirm a
viewpoint you don’t share, not facts.
If free speech jurisprudence considers it anathema to force
articulation of viewpoints, why is it ok to force audiences to hear it.
RT: Breadth of definition of deception is a key issue:
Difference between you’re making the wrong decision and you’re making an
incorrectly informed decision is very difficult. This is why Lochner is important: what facts can the state find? This is why consumer protection rhetoric has
become so important in abortion disclosures. Abortion is murder: That’s not
what the gov’t is saying. Instead, it uses the language of information. And though abortion is special, there are a
bunch of disclosures that we mandate that wouldn’t satisfy these standards,
which is why I don’t like it.
West: we do have some defenses to these messages. Are there audiences without defenses?
Children, people in a bad health situation.
RT: we think we have defenses. “Persuasion knowledge” varies a lot. Real q for me is how to deal with private
parties also using emotion to influence you.
Q: in an age of mind sciences, is decisional autonomy
something that can survive?
RT: Yes; these are all probabilistic. Even if there is determinism, we can't get at it and must act as if there are degrees of freedom.
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