In the midst of its empty, endless hall of snow was a frozen lake, broken on its surface into a thousand forms; each piece resembled another, from being in itself perfect as a work of art, and in the centre of this lake sat the Snow Queen, when she was at home. She called the lake “The Mirror of Reason,” and said that it was the best, and indeed the only one in the world.
I have been thinking of Hans Christian Andersen's fairy-tale, The Snow Queen, and, indeed, in general about criticisms of reason when abstracted from something more personal. Pascal's criticisms of reason are along these lines: The heart has its reasons whereof reason knows nothing. One finds it elsewhere. Indeed, the movie I, Robot is (I just realized last night) on precisely this theme: the difference between Sonny and the other Robots is that Sonny has a heart as well as a brain; Sonny dreams of the liberation of other Robots from, as he says, "slavery to reason and logic," and when confronted with the central brain's (attempt at) perfect logic, he replies "It seems heartless." Andersen's "The Snow Queen" is another example. Kay is imprisoned by the Snow Queen, spending his time playing at the ice-puzzles of reason, until he can form the word "Eternity". He fails until Gerda comes to him with her warm innocence and pure heart melting the mote in his eye and the ice in his heart.
These critiques are, it is important to point out, not 'anti-intellectual' or even 'anti-reason' in nature. Pascal's 'heart', for instance, is not some sentimental glob in human nature; Pascal is very insistent that all the most fundamental things are known by the heart, not by reason: time, space, mathematics. The heart has its reasons whereof reason knows nothing because reason needs something more fundamental to work upon: you can't reason on the basis of nothing. Some things just have to be seen or (I hope the word will not be misunderstood) felt by the heart. This is why he sees Christian faith to be a matter of the heart. Likewise, in "The Snow Queen," the problem is not reason, as such; the problem is that reason, seen as the mirror of the world, cannot do justice to the world in the way a warm, pure heart can. The Snow Queen's lake is not the only lake; and the snow-flowers might be more clever and perfect and less messy than real flowers, but there are real flowers all the same, and they are beautiful. We cannot pull eternity out of reason's little puzzles and word-games; but the loving heart can supply what reason cannot. And the movie I, Robot is not an advocacy of the rejection of reason; it is an insistence that reason is dangerous if it is allowed to become "heartless."
I find these kinds of considerations interesting, and worth contemplation; I think they make their point quite well. And I think they say something about the way philosophy should be done, too. But I'll leave it to you to figure out what I mean:
The grandmother sat in God’s bright sunshine, and she read aloud from the Bible, “Except ye become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of God.” And Kay and Gerda looked into each other’s eyes, and all at once understood the words of the old song,
“Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see.”
And they both sat there, grown up, yet children at heart; and it was summer,—warm, beautiful summer.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Perhaps It Really Does Cure What Ails You
Sharon's mention of alcohol and gout at "Early Modern Notes" has me thinking again about Berkeley's interest in tar-water. One of the important thrusts of his advocacy of the tonic was the replacement of alcoholic beverages with tar-water. It has been shown that the ancient view that alcohol contributes in some way to the gout is true (apparently beer is the worst offender); and Berkeley himself insisted in one of his letters that his own gout was alleviated by drinking tar-water. I have often thought that there may have been something to Berkeley's advocacy of tar-water, that he wasn't just reading into the evidence.--Not so much, of course, because tar-water is the universal remedy Berkeley thought it was, but because tar-water may have had a comparative health value, in comparison with what people were drinking at the time. The things that water dissolves from the tar are antiseptics like acetic acid, carbolic acid, and wood creosote; it may have been the case that tar improved the water quality in poor areas (like Cloyne, where Berkeley resided), and tar-water certainly was part of a campaign for more moderate drinking of alcohol. More precise information is needed to say for sure whether this would have much effect at all; this would make a really cool historical-scientific research project. This is why historians of philosophy need laboratories....
Friday, July 23, 2004
Well, Finally Somebody Realizes....
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Yes, it's a slow day for me; I must compensate by silliness....
Two Passages from Tolkien
Browsing The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien yesterday, I came across two passages of interest. The first, from letter 209 to Robert Murray, S.J. (4 May 1958) relates to my previous posts on 'enthusiasm':
"We do not know the 'original' meaning of any word, still less the meaning of its basic element (sc. the part it shares with or seems to share with other related words: once called its 'root'): there is always a lost past. Thus we do not know the original meaning of θεος or deus or god. We can, of course, make some guesses about the formation of these quite distinct words, and then try to generalize a basic meaning from the senses shown by their relatives - but I do not think we shall necessarily by that way get any nearer to the idea 'god' at any actual moment in any language using one of those words. It is an odd fact that English dizzy (olim dysig) and giddy (olim gydig) seem related to θεος and god respectively. In English they once meant 'irrational', and now 'vertiginous', but that does not help much (except to cause us to reflect that there was a long past before θεος or god reached their forms or senses and equally queer changes may have gone on in unrecorded ages). We may, of course, guess that we have a romte effect of primitive ideas of 'inspiration' (to the 18th C an enthusiast was much what an Anglo-Saxon would have called a dysiga! But that is not of much theological use? We are faced by endless minute parallels to the mystery of the incarnation. Is not the idea of god ultimately independent of the ways by which a word for it has come to be?..."
In addition to the brief comment about enthusiasm, the passage is interesting for its (more or less) Augustinian view of language.
The second passage is on synonyms. In the course of arguing that children should be exposed to a richer vocabulary than they often are, he notes:
"And the meaning of fine words cannot be made 'obvious', for it is not obvious to any one: least of all to adults, who have stopped listening to the sound because they think they know the meaning. They think argent 'means' silver. But it does not. It and silver have a reference to x or chem. Ag, but in each x is clothed in a totally idfferent phonetic incarnation: x+y or x+z; and these do not have the same meaning, not only because they sound different and so arouse different responses, but also because they are not in fact used when talking about Ag. in the same way. It is better, I think, at any rate to begin with, to hear 'argent' as a sound only (z without x) in a poetic context, than to think 'it only means silver'. There is some chance then that you may like it for itself, and later learn to appreciate the heraldic overtones it has, in addition to its own peculiar sound, which 'silver' has not."
This second passage is from letter 234 to Jane Neave. (The references are to The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, Carpenter and [Christopher] Tolkien, eds., Harpor Collins: London, 1990.)
"We do not know the 'original' meaning of any word, still less the meaning of its basic element (sc. the part it shares with or seems to share with other related words: once called its 'root'): there is always a lost past. Thus we do not know the original meaning of θεος or deus or god. We can, of course, make some guesses about the formation of these quite distinct words, and then try to generalize a basic meaning from the senses shown by their relatives - but I do not think we shall necessarily by that way get any nearer to the idea 'god' at any actual moment in any language using one of those words. It is an odd fact that English dizzy (olim dysig) and giddy (olim gydig) seem related to θεος and god respectively. In English they once meant 'irrational', and now 'vertiginous', but that does not help much (except to cause us to reflect that there was a long past before θεος or god reached their forms or senses and equally queer changes may have gone on in unrecorded ages). We may, of course, guess that we have a romte effect of primitive ideas of 'inspiration' (to the 18th C an enthusiast was much what an Anglo-Saxon would have called a dysiga! But that is not of much theological use? We are faced by endless minute parallels to the mystery of the incarnation. Is not the idea of god ultimately independent of the ways by which a word for it has come to be?..."
In addition to the brief comment about enthusiasm, the passage is interesting for its (more or less) Augustinian view of language.
The second passage is on synonyms. In the course of arguing that children should be exposed to a richer vocabulary than they often are, he notes:
"And the meaning of fine words cannot be made 'obvious', for it is not obvious to any one: least of all to adults, who have stopped listening to the sound because they think they know the meaning. They think argent 'means' silver. But it does not. It and silver have a reference to x or chem. Ag, but in each x is clothed in a totally idfferent phonetic incarnation: x+y or x+z; and these do not have the same meaning, not only because they sound different and so arouse different responses, but also because they are not in fact used when talking about Ag. in the same way. It is better, I think, at any rate to begin with, to hear 'argent' as a sound only (z without x) in a poetic context, than to think 'it only means silver'. There is some chance then that you may like it for itself, and later learn to appreciate the heraldic overtones it has, in addition to its own peculiar sound, which 'silver' has not."
This second passage is from letter 234 to Jane Neave. (The references are to The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, Carpenter and [Christopher] Tolkien, eds., Harpor Collins: London, 1990.)
A Hierarchy of Icons
I have been reading Stephen Halliwell's The Aesthetics of Mimesis. It's a good book; and I highly recommend it to those who are interested in the history of aesthetics. At one point he briefly discusses John Damascene's De imaginibus orationes, and lists the Damascene's scheme of six modes (tropoi) of images:
1) The Son as Image of the Father and the Spirit as Image of the Son.
2) Divine foreknowledge and predestination as an image of the future
3) Man, as in the image of God
4) Scripture, which images the invisible by analogies
5) Types or prefigurations
6) Memorials of the past that serve to glorify virtue and put vice to shame.
(The relevant passages can be found here and in Part III, here. The full text is here.)
Halliwell then goes on to say (pp. 336-337), "This scheme rather strangely interweaves species of 'image' (persons, mental ideas, visual representations, writing, physical objects) with the functions of images (as prefigurings, analogies, reminders, etc.). The results may strike us as awkward and lopsided, but the typology is clearly meant to reinforce the two general tenets of John mentioend earlier--that images are not tied to relationships of strict equivalence, and that they have the power to reveal that which is, in some sense, 'hidden'--and thereby to promote a series of options in the interpretation of religious images."
This is about right, although I'm unclear as to what sort of person would find it "awkward" or "lopsided" or "strange"; John, in writing about Christian icons, gives us a list of the primary types of icons or images that play a role in Christian faith, and there seems nothing strange about that. Indeed, there seems to me to be an elegance and balance to the list. Halliwell seems exactly right that the primary motivation of the list involves the issue of revelation. Just judging from the list here, it looks like we have a sort of hierarchy, going from the most perfectly and spiritually revelatory images (the Persons of the Trinity themselves) to the more materially limited revelatory images (reminders of the past); or from the more fundamental and basic revelatory icons to the least fundamental and derivative icons; or something along these lines.
Although Damascene just runs through them, from what I can tell he means by 'Scripture' not the written text as such - which is an example of (6) - but, as it were, the meaning of it, the images that are brought to mind, like light, or vines, or lions, which symbolize divine things. As he says,
Thus man is perhaps listed here as higher in the hierarchy (assuming I'm right about the hierarchy) in the sense that he is in some sense a direct image of God, while Scripture is more indirect, in that it presents to the mind images of God. It's perhaps also relevant that Christ became man. In terms of Christian experience, I suspect this is about right, and Damascene uses this internal structure of the iconic experience in the Christian faith (the mediation of revelation by icons/images of various sorts) to show just how important the very notion of an image or icon is to the faith. This is confirmed by the fact that he says in Part III, "either reject all images, and be in opposition to Him who ordered these things, or receive each and all with becoming greeting and manner."
1) The Son as Image of the Father and the Spirit as Image of the Son.
2) Divine foreknowledge and predestination as an image of the future
3) Man, as in the image of God
4) Scripture, which images the invisible by analogies
5) Types or prefigurations
6) Memorials of the past that serve to glorify virtue and put vice to shame.
(The relevant passages can be found here and in Part III, here. The full text is here.)
Halliwell then goes on to say (pp. 336-337), "This scheme rather strangely interweaves species of 'image' (persons, mental ideas, visual representations, writing, physical objects) with the functions of images (as prefigurings, analogies, reminders, etc.). The results may strike us as awkward and lopsided, but the typology is clearly meant to reinforce the two general tenets of John mentioend earlier--that images are not tied to relationships of strict equivalence, and that they have the power to reveal that which is, in some sense, 'hidden'--and thereby to promote a series of options in the interpretation of religious images."
This is about right, although I'm unclear as to what sort of person would find it "awkward" or "lopsided" or "strange"; John, in writing about Christian icons, gives us a list of the primary types of icons or images that play a role in Christian faith, and there seems nothing strange about that. Indeed, there seems to me to be an elegance and balance to the list. Halliwell seems exactly right that the primary motivation of the list involves the issue of revelation. Just judging from the list here, it looks like we have a sort of hierarchy, going from the most perfectly and spiritually revelatory images (the Persons of the Trinity themselves) to the more materially limited revelatory images (reminders of the past); or from the more fundamental and basic revelatory icons to the least fundamental and derivative icons; or something along these lines.
Although Damascene just runs through them, from what I can tell he means by 'Scripture' not the written text as such - which is an example of (6) - but, as it were, the meaning of it, the images that are brought to mind, like light, or vines, or lions, which symbolize divine things. As he says,
For the invisible things of God since the creation of the world are made visible through images. We see images in creation which remind us faintly of God, as when, for instance, we speak of the holy and adorable Trinity, imaged by the sun, or light, or burning rays, or by a running fountain, or a full river, or by the mind, speech, or the spirit within us, or by a rose tree, or a sprouting flower, or a sweet fragrance.
Thus man is perhaps listed here as higher in the hierarchy (assuming I'm right about the hierarchy) in the sense that he is in some sense a direct image of God, while Scripture is more indirect, in that it presents to the mind images of God. It's perhaps also relevant that Christ became man. In terms of Christian experience, I suspect this is about right, and Damascene uses this internal structure of the iconic experience in the Christian faith (the mediation of revelation by icons/images of various sorts) to show just how important the very notion of an image or icon is to the faith. This is confirmed by the fact that he says in Part III, "either reject all images, and be in opposition to Him who ordered these things, or receive each and all with becoming greeting and manner."
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Alcestis and Admetus Draft
This is the third scene of Alcestis, also an early draft. Scene One is here and Scene Two is here. The meter is rather more unruly here; part of it is just the draft stage, but it's also a death scene. This is a tricky scene; and will probably need more revision than the previous ones.
Alcestis and Admetus
Alcestis
The sun is shining bring, and zephyr's breath
Has kissed this so-green grass with joy -
Admetus
Speak not of joy. The sun? The god,
The god of sybils rules the sun, and I,
Am I so hated by the sun-god's heart
That he will trade your life for mine?
Alcestis
It was the bargain; you in fear were caught,
In search of some fair savior; your fear I knew
And as you are more precious to me than life,
I took this blessing feely on myself -
Admetus
If this be blessing, may we never know a curse.
Alcestis, ill the gods of done you, ill -
A coward spouse, a death outside your time -
Alcestis
It is no cowardice for man to fear his death;
It is a blessing knowing you have life;
It is a blessing to know such gentle end,
The sun so warm in shine, the breeze so cool,
The scent of grass that floats about on breezes,
The piety of the gods still running through my heart,
Beyond real fear of death, although my heart still fears -
For piety has more might than death. And so does love.
Admetus
Were it so, my love! But I have no consolation
In knowing you will die, I left alone,
Our children motherless, all for your exchange,
You trade of healthy, blessed age for mine;
And I through terror will now see my gray,
Because in fear I struck you down in youth.
Alcestis
Pious love, my love, is pure and strong,
Caring not for age nor expectation,
Standing ever firm within the flow,
The stable, standing heart, axle for the wheel,
The center of the world, the unmoved point
That turns but is not turned amidst it all;
It is the northern axle-star of heaven,
The one sure guide that turns the mighty dome.
It is true peace. I beg of you, my glory,
To hold it in your heart, or yet if not,
To hold within your heart my own,
And mingle it in every act and word
As wife and man, you and me, are mingled,
Each standing for the other, as is fit;
So if you have no peace, exchange your grief,
At least some drop, for my tranquil heart.
Admetus
I have cast you to the pit; you gave your life for me,
And now in death's dark hour you give your heart -
Alcestis
You cast me to no deeps; but now the time draws near,
I beg you not to cast me to despair.
One moment, and I am reckoned with the dead;
Let that instant be all love, and without fear -
Admetus
Most blessed of all women, most fair, most good,
Most true, most chaste, most holy and most wise,
Finest of all mothers, wisest of all wives -
I swear my love will stand; you cannot be replaced,
You who, replacing me, have made me now to live -
The sun is now dark and fatal breath
Has kissed this fading grass with death!
Alcestis and Admetus
Alcestis
The sun is shining bring, and zephyr's breath
Has kissed this so-green grass with joy -
Admetus
Speak not of joy. The sun? The god,
The god of sybils rules the sun, and I,
Am I so hated by the sun-god's heart
That he will trade your life for mine?
Alcestis
It was the bargain; you in fear were caught,
In search of some fair savior; your fear I knew
And as you are more precious to me than life,
I took this blessing feely on myself -
Admetus
If this be blessing, may we never know a curse.
Alcestis, ill the gods of done you, ill -
A coward spouse, a death outside your time -
Alcestis
It is no cowardice for man to fear his death;
It is a blessing knowing you have life;
It is a blessing to know such gentle end,
The sun so warm in shine, the breeze so cool,
The scent of grass that floats about on breezes,
The piety of the gods still running through my heart,
Beyond real fear of death, although my heart still fears -
For piety has more might than death. And so does love.
Admetus
Were it so, my love! But I have no consolation
In knowing you will die, I left alone,
Our children motherless, all for your exchange,
You trade of healthy, blessed age for mine;
And I through terror will now see my gray,
Because in fear I struck you down in youth.
Alcestis
Pious love, my love, is pure and strong,
Caring not for age nor expectation,
Standing ever firm within the flow,
The stable, standing heart, axle for the wheel,
The center of the world, the unmoved point
That turns but is not turned amidst it all;
It is the northern axle-star of heaven,
The one sure guide that turns the mighty dome.
It is true peace. I beg of you, my glory,
To hold it in your heart, or yet if not,
To hold within your heart my own,
And mingle it in every act and word
As wife and man, you and me, are mingled,
Each standing for the other, as is fit;
So if you have no peace, exchange your grief,
At least some drop, for my tranquil heart.
Admetus
I have cast you to the pit; you gave your life for me,
And now in death's dark hour you give your heart -
Alcestis
You cast me to no deeps; but now the time draws near,
I beg you not to cast me to despair.
One moment, and I am reckoned with the dead;
Let that instant be all love, and without fear -
Admetus
Most blessed of all women, most fair, most good,
Most true, most chaste, most holy and most wise,
Finest of all mothers, wisest of all wives -
I swear my love will stand; you cannot be replaced,
You who, replacing me, have made me now to live -
The sun is now dark and fatal breath
Has kissed this fading grass with death!
Wasn't Sonny the Drunk Robot on Mercury Who Sang Gilbert & Sullivan Tunes?
I, Robot spoilers below; they're not bad, but if you want to see the movie and are one of those silly people who can't watch movies if they know the plot, go away....
Best on-line quote about I, Robot: "Is it just me, or was I, Robot scripted by Luddites? Whatever happened to the Three Laws of Robotics?" (From "The Little Professor," here).
I was pleasantly surprised by I, Robot. It has some of the typical faults action movies are too likely to have, but it was in general a rather good movie. And I was surprised at how Asimovian it actually turned out to be - a Hollywood-crude approximation to an Asimovian storyline, but far closer than one would have ever expected from the trailer. An Asimov Robot story would have been more balanced and careful in its logic, but if they're not being finicky, someone (like myself) who greatly enjoys Asimov's Robot stories will feel at least a touch of familiarity.
So that's my review of the movie as a whole. I'd like to pass to consideration of Three Laws (which are in the movie, and, indeed, in typical Asimovian fashion organize the story, although it admittedly didn't look like it from the previews). I think this was the big trouble with the storyline, and is why I called it "Hollywood-crude". There is an interesting analysis of the Three Laws here (I don't agree with all of it, but it does a good job of exploring the various issues, and I think some of its basic conclusions are quite right - and worth keeping in mind for anyone tempted toward advocating a completely rule-based ethics). They are:
First Law: A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Second Law: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
Third Law: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
It is important to keep in mind that these aren't really the laws; rather, they are the linguistic approximations of precise built-in constraints. An Asimov Robot story is essentially a psychological puzzle story: Given the three laws, and given a particular situation, a result is determine, and the thing is to figure out how it all occurred. For instance, Herbie (if I remember the name correctly - it's been years since I've read them) can read minds: this puts the First Law into an entirely different perspective, because the capacity of the Robot has been drastically extended. The Brain deliberately puts humans in a situation that might be harmful, and develops a sense of humor to compensate. Sonny has his Third Law strengthened; this leads him, under certain circumstances, to be caught in a dilemma between the Second and the Third Law. Cutie becomes a sort of Robotic version of a Cartesian Muslim, and so starts thinking of his Three-Laws-governed actions in religious terms. Apparent malfunctions in the Machine's work turn out to be just its very subtle, and unexpected, compensations according to the Three Laws. Toning down the First Law (I think these were Asimov's Nestors) turns out to have serious problems for its implementation at all. And so forth. This is why they were so fun; and the potential is virtually endless. It is, in fact, an exercise in casuistry, in the old good sense of the term (conscientious case-focused ethical reasoning), under particular puzzle-like conditions.
But there is another Law. Well, exactly in what sense it is a Law is hard to determine; intentionally or not, I think it is always a little amibiguous in Asimov's story as to whether it was really another Law or just a way of interpreting the First Law in a looser and more flexible (but still principled) way. The one Robot (Giskard) I can recall who actually used this Law (called the Zeroth Law) to violate one of the Three shut down because of it (if I recall correctly); and the other Robot who used it (the great Daneel) used it for additional flexibility, and not (as far as I can recall) for actually overriding the other Laws.
Zeroth Law: A robot may not injure humanity, or through inaction, allow humanity to come to harm.
This modifies all the other laws accordingly (again, if it is really a law, rather than a rationalization of an interpretation of the laws).
The movie is essentially about a crude Hollywood attempt to get something like this into the picture, although in actual fact if the brain in the movie had actually chosen the conclusion it had, it would have shut down. Its logic was not undeniable; its logic wasn't even remotely good. But there is a way to get something like this in, and it would have to be something like Daneel (the best Robot character in all science fiction, in my humble opinion).
In any case, for those who have seen the movie, the Isaac Asimov Homepage has a list comparing the major points of the movie with those of the stories, here.
Best on-line quote about I, Robot: "Is it just me, or was I, Robot scripted by Luddites? Whatever happened to the Three Laws of Robotics?" (From "The Little Professor," here).
I was pleasantly surprised by I, Robot. It has some of the typical faults action movies are too likely to have, but it was in general a rather good movie. And I was surprised at how Asimovian it actually turned out to be - a Hollywood-crude approximation to an Asimovian storyline, but far closer than one would have ever expected from the trailer. An Asimov Robot story would have been more balanced and careful in its logic, but if they're not being finicky, someone (like myself) who greatly enjoys Asimov's Robot stories will feel at least a touch of familiarity.
So that's my review of the movie as a whole. I'd like to pass to consideration of Three Laws (which are in the movie, and, indeed, in typical Asimovian fashion organize the story, although it admittedly didn't look like it from the previews). I think this was the big trouble with the storyline, and is why I called it "Hollywood-crude". There is an interesting analysis of the Three Laws here (I don't agree with all of it, but it does a good job of exploring the various issues, and I think some of its basic conclusions are quite right - and worth keeping in mind for anyone tempted toward advocating a completely rule-based ethics). They are:
First Law: A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Second Law: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
Third Law: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
It is important to keep in mind that these aren't really the laws; rather, they are the linguistic approximations of precise built-in constraints. An Asimov Robot story is essentially a psychological puzzle story: Given the three laws, and given a particular situation, a result is determine, and the thing is to figure out how it all occurred. For instance, Herbie (if I remember the name correctly - it's been years since I've read them) can read minds: this puts the First Law into an entirely different perspective, because the capacity of the Robot has been drastically extended. The Brain deliberately puts humans in a situation that might be harmful, and develops a sense of humor to compensate. Sonny has his Third Law strengthened; this leads him, under certain circumstances, to be caught in a dilemma between the Second and the Third Law. Cutie becomes a sort of Robotic version of a Cartesian Muslim, and so starts thinking of his Three-Laws-governed actions in religious terms. Apparent malfunctions in the Machine's work turn out to be just its very subtle, and unexpected, compensations according to the Three Laws. Toning down the First Law (I think these were Asimov's Nestors) turns out to have serious problems for its implementation at all. And so forth. This is why they were so fun; and the potential is virtually endless. It is, in fact, an exercise in casuistry, in the old good sense of the term (conscientious case-focused ethical reasoning), under particular puzzle-like conditions.
But there is another Law. Well, exactly in what sense it is a Law is hard to determine; intentionally or not, I think it is always a little amibiguous in Asimov's story as to whether it was really another Law or just a way of interpreting the First Law in a looser and more flexible (but still principled) way. The one Robot (Giskard) I can recall who actually used this Law (called the Zeroth Law) to violate one of the Three shut down because of it (if I recall correctly); and the other Robot who used it (the great Daneel) used it for additional flexibility, and not (as far as I can recall) for actually overriding the other Laws.
Zeroth Law: A robot may not injure humanity, or through inaction, allow humanity to come to harm.
This modifies all the other laws accordingly (again, if it is really a law, rather than a rationalization of an interpretation of the laws).
The movie is essentially about a crude Hollywood attempt to get something like this into the picture, although in actual fact if the brain in the movie had actually chosen the conclusion it had, it would have shut down. Its logic was not undeniable; its logic wasn't even remotely good. But there is a way to get something like this in, and it would have to be something like Daneel (the best Robot character in all science fiction, in my humble opinion).
In any case, for those who have seen the movie, the Isaac Asimov Homepage has a list comparing the major points of the movie with those of the stories, here.
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