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Beyond the Image: The Surrealistic Works of Luis Buñuel (Mireille)

Surrealist filmmaker Luis Buñuel laments that the relationship between an audience and a text changes constantly, leading to individual interpretation of the artwork that often strays from the artist’s original intent. Buñuel argues that the audience should instead just accept the images in films without imposition of meaning or the passing of judgement. In other words, the real “duty” of the audience should be to simply “allow” what is being portrayed. Despite his assertions, Buñuel’s own surrealistic films are difficult to approach in this manner due to his stylistic choices, which are often shocking and unsettling. Woven throughout Buñuel’s work, which varies from abstract, almost nonsensical to more concrete, plot driven dramas, there are recurring themes such as the fragmentation and sexualization of body parts and the opinioned portrayal of certain sectors of society; precisely intended to jar the audience. Two films by Buñuel, L’Âge D’Or (1930) and The Exterminating Angel (1967), are emblematic of Buñuel’s style and as such his agenda of providing the audience with provocative fodder that defies interpretation and begs the audience to allow the purely visual experience.  

L’Âge D’Or is a surrealistic film in which Buñuel depicts the human primitive desperation to fulfill sexual desire even as social norms attempt to repress them. As such, the film is also a criticism, if not an outright attack on Bourgeois society. In this film, despite Buñuel’s argument for the “acceptance” of the image at hand, there are several sequences in which the use of shocking imagery taunts the audience to pass judgement and take sides. Buñuel chooses to highlight the sexual nature of humanity and puts sexual activity front and center from the introduction of the film. For example, a “couple” in the film is depicted as intertwined and wrestling in the mud while attending a religious ceremony. Buñuel shows them engaging in almost animalistic behaviors and completely oblivious that others are privy to their activity. In another instance, the same “couple” has been separated from the others attending the religious ceremony, and Buñuel cuts to a medium shot of the woman in a bathroom followed by a jump cut to what is seemingly volcanic rock, but strongly resembles feces. This filmic moment is quite possibly a nod to the Freudian influences of the time that argued that human beings are born with instinctual libido. However, this sequence also takes place in the fragment of the film that is introduced as “The Founding of Imperial Rome”, a not too subtle suggestion of what Buñuel thinks of society’s attempts to squelch the irrepressible desires of man and woman. Clearly, L’Âge D’Or does not provide the viewer with material that can be absorbed with impassivity. Rather, the film asserts the psychological and philosophical ideologies of the time while blatantly unveiling torrid human tendencies.

The Exterminating Angel also uses filmic juxtapositions to examine visual “obsessions” and repeated themes, but this time through a more linear narrative. In this film, Buñuel confounds the temporality of the film; blurring the lines between current reality and the dream state. Buñuel, constantly yet subtly, juxtaposes the images being viewed with the reaction of the characters as they observe the image of the reality at hand. He accomplishes this feat by alternating between high and low key lighting, switching between highly illuminated scenes and moments in which the characters are cloaked in shadow, rendering visible only certain features of their persona. The shots with high key lighting typically depict the periods in the film that are more “grounded” in reality. For example, Buñuel uses high key lighting when showing the group of protagonists imprisoned in a household for no rational reason going about their business and activities in a manner that an audience would accept as “normal”. However, Buñuel switches to low key lighting to underscore the dream-like almost psychotic state of some of the characters that are unable to leave the mansion. By using low key lighting, Buñuel is able to create more contrast and additional shadows to conceal portions of the frame, thus confounding and “un-grounding” the characters from their body and the setting, while also creating a feeling of dissociation for the audience. Buñuel’s use of cinematic lighting in this film is vastly different from L’Âge D’Or, which almost exclusively utilizes natural lighting; but both films are successful in their ability to separate and blend the current reality with a subconscious or dream state.

Finally, towards the culmination of The Exterminating Angel, the characters begin to laugh even when one of the couples has slit their wrists and died in a closet while engaging in a sexual act. This use of contrasting sound, namely a sound typically associated with joy, is combined with death and creates a lingering feeling of dissociation that displaces the viewer from a “normal” reality, not unlike the intimate scenes in L’Âge D’Or. This feeling of disquietude is no less strong even if one argues that rather than simply to create juxtaposition, Buñuel chose laughter in this scene to underscore that the characters are reaching a breaking point in their sanity as a result of the physical and psychological constraint within the household. In either case, Buñuel creates the very juxtaposition that he tries to avoid. In other words, he presents to the viewer too many possible venues to explore, which actually interfere with the ability to just let the images flood over the audience and work their magic.

Finding One's Voice in Cinematographic Practice: The Work and Style of Bradford Young (Mireille)

Although Bradford Young has been the cinematographer for many films, including Selma (2014), A Most Violent Year (2014), Pawn Sacrifice (2015), and Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018), his photographic style, albeit subtle at times, is recognizable in each of his works. Young gained much notoriety after being nominated for an Academy Award for Best Cinematography for his work on Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival (2016). In Arrival, but also notably in Pawn Sacrifice and arguably his other films, Young’s cinematographic practice is revealed through his choice of color palette and lighting, which include a variety of lighter greys and muted low contrast natural pastel colors that add a slightly somber, but pensive tone to his films. That being said, there are moments in the two films when Young introduces shades of fuchsia and lighter pinks especially during moments of heightened emotion or narrative climax. He uses this interchange of color contrast to take the viewer through a moment of impending change or realization. For example, at one point in Arrival one of the main characters suddenly realizes that her future may be about to change. At that moment of understanding, Young introduces the different color palette, but then quickly returns to the more subdued coloration that sets the undercurrent in the film. Even in Pariah (2011), in which Young uses a dramatically more vibrant color palette primarily saturated with neon reds and blues, he inserts subtle pinks in the walls and curtains of the bedroom of the two primary characters during their moments of intimacy and during their discussions that center on the nature of their respective sexualities.

Young uses not only color, but lighting to unveil emotion or give voice to the inner life of the characters on the screen. Young primarily incorporates natural light sources not only for lighting a scene, but also when highlighting and illuminating specific characters. The choice of natural light allows for shadowing in his films, as well as definition of silhouettes. The presence of obscured personas in a more darkened setting is especially evident in Selma and Ain’t Them Body Saints (2013). In these films, Young incorporates extreme close ups of the expressive visages of the characters after they have been previously masked in shadow. The natural lighting authentically captures the features of a person’s face, allowing the revelation of the raw emotion as it is played out on it.  

A major inspiration behind Young’s filmic composition is artist and photographer Roy DeCarava. DeCarava’s images also incorporate the use of shadow and silhouetting of personas, along with oppressive and strict geometry within the mise-en-scène of the frame. Young has additionally implemented these techniques and structured of geometry, most notably in the opening sequence of Arrival. The film begins in complete darkness and shadow, followed by the camera slowly tilting down to a large window divided by harsh vertical lines, tinted in muted blacks, greys, and blues. This shot then transitions to a tight close up shot of one of the main characters, filmed solely in natural light.

Young’s cinematographic language and choices are true to his family history, culture, and heritage. When discussing his work, he stresses that for him it is crucial to keep in mind the concept of visual grammar and visual language. Young gives equal if not greater import to visual language relative to the narrative arc of a film. By not paying close attention to the visual language, Young argues that one runs the risk of disregarding visual intricacies and details present within the filmic frame which contribute to a story. Furthermore, when conceptualizing a film, or any form of artwork, Young insists that maintaining one’s own personal language and developing a visual acumen and competency is not only pertinent but critical. In particular he emphasizes that optics, color science, and historical and personal content are key to the incorporation of visual language and grammar in cinematography and film work.

Bradford Young has stated and reminds us that “It is crucial to embed your DNA in your work. Don’t let imagination die, and represent yourself in cinematography.” Young stresses that regardless of the type of film, a cinematographer must be cognizant of their practice and style and these should be apparent in all of their films. Apart from establishing a style, it is more a question of freeing oneself from the notion of self and connecting your work to personal experiences.  As he puts it, “you [should] strive to become one with your body of work, and be able to divorce yourself from other [elements] that may distract you from your style.”

Over the week of February 18^th, Bradford Young visited the JHU Film and Media Studies Program and offered not only an artist talk hosted by the SNF Parkway Theater, but taught a three day workshop to a group of FMS students about his film practice and techniques in cinematography.

To Be or Not To Be: The Question of What to Depict in Documentary Film (Mireille)

Documentary filmmaker Trinh Minh-ha has repeatedly suggested that the documentary film should encompass the practice that “what [one] sees is life looking at [them].” This belief, which is shared by other documentary filmmakers, stresses that the documentary film should serve only as observer, capturing solely what the camera lens reveals without any manipulation. Furthermore, neither the film director nor the audience should “impose meaning on every sign [in a film].”

The intent of David and Albert Maysles’ documentary Grey Gardens (1975) is to capture the raw, unedited elements of what is taking place in front of the camera without offering any additional auteurian input. As such, it respects the parameters that Trinh Minh-ha sets forth. In contrast, although Lucien Castaing-Taylor’s Leviathan (2012) also falls within the genre of documentary film, Castaing-Taylor approaches the subject with preconception. Although he allows the camera to capture all that which is perceivable at the location, he does utilize cinematography and editing to distort what has been captured, ultimately creating what can almost be described as a dystopic reality.  

The Maysles brothers crafted Grey Gardens in the style of cinéma vérité; where they wanted the only witness to the action to be the camera. They allow the actions within the Bouvier Beale household to depict the everyday lifestyle and mentality of Edie and her mother Edith, which unfold as they simply record the unedited and unhindered experience. This determination to be faithful only to what is occurring in front of the camera is exemplified in one scene that captures Edie Bouvier Beale’s unedited dancing around the house. The depiction of the decrepit household and Edie’s bizarre behavior create a dystopic moment that arguably pushes the audience to stray away from the experience of “pure” documentary practice and cinéma vérité. Nonetheless, if this action is one that Edie would do even when there is no camera present, then it can only be a study in truth or “vérité”. The fixation to stay “true” to documentary is further noted when the directors capture a moment when both Edie and Edith are arguing. Though it is obvious that the two women do not want to be recorded, the Maysles brothers nevertheless continue filming. In this way, the film fulfills Trinh Minh-ha’s requisites for documentary film that every element is simply captured to create a film without a particular agenda, but one that is even unwilling to edit in response to the subject, and which would otherwise unintentionally make the content false.

In contrast to Grey Gardens stands anthropologist and filmmaker Lucien Castaing-Taylor’s Leviathan. Similar to Grey Gardens, Castaing-Taylor’s film unobtrusively and continually films what is occurring at his location, in this case a commercial fishing boat at sea. The long takes and lengthy sequences that linger on the details of the location are not unlike the cinematography in Grey Gardens; however, the similarity ends there. Castaing-Taylor chooses a filming approach that when paired with his chaotic and disorienting sound design at times confounds the audience. For the first several minutes of the film, it is not clear what is being pictured or what is occurring. Castaing-Taylor shows a collection of abstract images that do not immediately seem to portray anything that is pertinent to the subject of the film, but creates the sense of a removed and dystopic reality. It then becomes slowly apparent to the audience that the filmmaker is on some sort of marine vessel. In this way, this film is different from Grey Gardens as Leviathan offers a swayed perspective. It is apparent that the camera is being utilized to promote the idea that there is someone filming and observing, and that a particular audience is must be present. In fact, the audience seems to be behind the eyes of the observer, lending its unique perception and perspective. In this way, though the film seems to be capturing what is occurring at the location, the personification of the camera wreaks havoc on perception and adds an agenda to the film that arguably breaks the conventions of documentary filmmaking.

The comparison between Grey Gardens and Leviathan begs the question of whether or not it is ever possible for a filmmaker not to impose some sort of auteurian input when depicting a particular subject in a documentary film even when he or she includes every detail of the location and the subject. On one hand, decisions can be made that ignore the will of the subject of the film that ultimately lends a feeling of violation. On the other hand, the film maker can open up the content to allow for personal perspective to shape what is being shown.  What is clear is that in either case, it could be argued that each of these documentary films has, nevertheless, adhered to Trinh Minh-ha’s stipulations with respect to documentary film making. That is, each depicts images that are presented without the filmmaker himself imposing meaning or deducting context. Rather, the images are presented for the audience to perceive as rudimentary elements that they have to reconstruct for meaning without judgment. The means are different, but the ends can be said to be same. To be present in a location after a filmmaker has provided the details of the context as in Grey Gardens might be considered easier; however, it is still possible to recreate the context of a location even when all the details of the context seem not to be visually present as in Leviathan.

Magnolia and Short Cuts: Interwoven Connections Between Families and Strangers (Mireille)

Paul Thomas Anderson has on occasion made clear that Robert Altman has served as an inspiration for his films. Thus, it is not surprising that Anderson’s Magnolia (1999) and Altman’s Short Cuts (1993) both treat the theme of interwoven connections between families and strangers. Anderson progressively, albeit chaotically, brings together every last minute detail of the characters and their back stories which then slowly merge together, unbeknownst to the characters or the audience, to culminate in a point of origin: the relationship and domination of two prominent paternal figures. Short Cuts begins in a manner similar to Magnolia, where chaotic and sporadic camera cuts between the various scenarios that Altman addresses during the course of the film. As in Magnolia, it is not immediately clear how the characters are interrelated, but different from Magnolia, Altman makes subtle, but mundane, intrusions that make the interconnections clear.  

In Magnolia, Anderson utilizes quick successions of intensely packed movement shots as he introduces each of the subjects of the film, creating an almost “jumpy” feel. This intermittent “peeking” into the lives of the individual characters not only leaves the audience unsettled, but echoes the unstable lives of the characters. For example one of the main personas Jimmy is a game show host who cheats on his wife, but it is also suggested that he probably molested his daughter and is dying of cancer; as well as related to past and present child contestants from that game show that appear in the film who have been traumatized by the game show experience. In addition to this, the audience is introduced to Earl who is the producer of Jimmy’s now failing game show and is also consumed by the regret of having abandoned his wife and child as well as his son who uses motivational speaking techniques to peddle sex to a gullible audience. Anderson counterpoints these saccadic excursions with hard zooms; on Jimmy that highlights him as an “important” figure; on an image of Exodus 8:2 on a poster that is in the background of Jimmy’s game show that references and foreshadows an apocalyptic raining down of frogs, as well as on an almost illegible text underneath a painting in one of the character’s house that reads “But it did happen.” All of these elements serve to remind the audience that “every detail counts” to reach a certain point.

Altman’s approach in Short Cuts is more of a subtle knife. Altman highlights the experience of “suburban” mundane living. All of the action takes place in the same neighborhood whose residents are interrelated only by chance. He does not create subjects that are overtly conflicted, but rather only hints at their instability. For example one of the characters Gene, a policeman, makes up unbelievable stories to hide his affairs, whereas another character Lois works from home as a “sex phone operator” while she carries out her domestic duties, and a baker becomes violent because his custom cake has not been paid for. As in Magnolia, the audience is placed on shaky ground, but this time it is the result of anchoring the action in the mundane existence while “peeking” in on the aberrant behavior of some of the characters.

Both Altman and Anderson choose to end their films with a cataclysmic event. However, Anderson’s film creates resolution. The interrelationships between seemingly disparate characters are brought to light, conflicts are resolved sometimes by unrelated people, and the biblical plague that has been foreshadowed throughout the film ensues. Though Short Cuts culminates with an earthquake, which can be considered cataclysmic, it does not have the supernatural and apocalyptic feel of Magnolia’s ending. Furthermore, the ending neither serves to unify the characters nor provides the sense of completion or coming “full circle” that Magnolia does. Instead, Altman chooses to “explain” away any after effects of the earthquake in the context of a nightly news report playing on a television that has been present since the beginning of the film, thus underscoring that all coincidences and aberrations can be put under the umbrella of “everyday” living. In the end, Anderson takes an absurdist direction to unify all of his components and brings the film to a point of resolution through an apocalypse. Conversely, Altman departs from the seemingly mundane human experience, slowly moves in an absurdist direction, and finally leaves the audience in limbo without any real resolution with respect to the relationships between the characters.

Altman and Anderson both explore the possibility that in the end we are all interconnected. Anderson leaves us with the feeling that our interconnectedness may be real, or may be imagined. In fact, Anderson’s filming style and choice of repeated soundtrack (one example being the song One is the Loneliest Number covered by Aimee Mann) leaves the audience with a bizarre hallucinatory feel in which we are uncertain if the interconnectedness is created within each person (“One” is a pseudonym for heroin as drug use persists throughout the film) or is a manifestation of human collective. Altman, on the other hand, suggests that hidden within our very mundane existences lies a web of interconnections of which we may not even be aware; and that our unwillingness to be privy to it may eventually lead to cataclysmic effects on our psyche and our actions. 

Piercing the Image: The Dichotomy of Studium and Punctum in Film (Mireille)

If you have ever studied film theory, most likely you have come across the Latin terms studium and punctum. Roland Barthes, the theorist who coined these terms, describes the studium as that moment that reveals the cultural intention a photographer, or in this case a filmmaker, wishes to impart to an audience. The studium, in effect, is a generalizable impression in which each of us participates culturally. The studium is clear and is absorbed in a natural way, usually impassively. The punctum, on the other hand, is that part of the image that disturbs the studium. It is the element that “pricks”, “stings” or “cuts a hole” in the studium for the individual viewing the image.

Carlos Reygadas’ film Post Tenebras Lux (2012) embraces the dichotomy between the studium and the punctum by creating an intentional interplay between familiar, almost mundane moments, which are frayed by shocking incongruities. In contrast, Harmony Korine’s Gummo (1997) uses every frame to shove the viewer into altering his/her preconceptions. In effect, Korine creates an amalgam of puncta to create the studium that represents the culturally accepted “normal” for the tragic inhabitants of Xenia, Ohio.

Throughout Post Tenebras Lux, Reygadas allows the spectator to witness moments of mundane life in rural Mexico through lengthy shots and sequences that create the impression of a still image in the manner of the studium. These long takes whether of a person, place or thing allow the spectator to inspect the scene and receive it as a recognizable moment. For example, the film opens with a young child running through an open field inhabited by a few farm animals and a few dogs. The camera follows the child, pausing every now and then to “study” a moment of this very long take. Reygadas allows you to have a good long look at the child in an impassive manner, albeit with perhaps a sense of curiosity. In this way, Reygadas creates for us a studium of the pure innocence and freedom of a child unencumbered by any other constrictive elements.

In a similar manner, Reygadas shows us the interior of a house almost as a series of still lifes, which capture the serene sense of home and family. This time, however, the serenity is suddenly interrupted by the appearance of an animated and dystopic red devil. It is Reygadas’ intention to introduce this element of shock and perplexity as a counterpoint to the images of home and quietude. In this way, the devil is not the punctum, but rather is still part of the studium. The punctum arrives when Reygadas utilizes an exceptionally long take to “watch” a little boy as he stands in his bedroom, ostensibly looking at the devil standing in the doorway. This image “educates” the audience, in the manner of the studium, by showing us all of the elements of a typical boy’s bedroom. However, something about the scene is disturbing. You are drawn to the manner in which the boy is shown. He is standing in the middle of his room, yet there is nothing in his room that would have allowed him to ascend or descend from the top bed of a bunk bed, where he was obviously sleeping. The punctum in this image is positional. It cuts a whole of uncertainty in an otherwise mundane image, and leaves us unsettled.

In sharp contrast to Post Tenebras Lux, where studia and puncta are interwoven to put the viewer on shaky perceptual ground, in his film Gummo Korine provides us with no clear studium. We never have the sense of consensual perception of location or feeling of familiarity. Rather, Korine clutters each frame of the film with countless different elements that create a shock effect that shakes us to our core. The entirety of each frame is jarring, and we perceive the contents as a collection of puncta that leave us searching for a studium. For example, towards the end of the film Korine shows the main young character sitting in a tub filled with filthy water and eating dinner from a TV table placed across the tub. A child in the bathtub should be an easily recognizable studium, but nothing in this frame resonates with a culturally accepted norm. Should the punctum be the child’s peculiar appearance and striking profile that give him an otherworldly look? Or should it be the foul and unhygienic bathroom and bath water? Or perhaps it should be the fact that the boy is slurping down grotesque food while he is bathing in increasingly darkening bathtub water.

Korine has utilized the camera to capture the inhabitants of a town in Ohio, and he is telling us that the studium is one that we should not recognize because it belongs only to the accepted perceptual experience of this specific population. As a result, the studia in Gummo are culturally locked and alien, and difficult to assimilate. All of the scenes leave us with a sensation of a near normalcy that has been horrifically twisted. Though both Reygadas and Korine used non-actors in their films, Korine’s intention was to capture the very real condition of a non-fictional location. The images that Korine shows us represent what is actually occurring in a society that is not commonly portrayed in film. In fact, in an interview with IndieWire, Korine states that he is interested in studying societies that other directors do not want to particularly address.

Though originally conceived as theoretical constructs for still photography, the studium and punctum can also be used to great effect in film. One could even argue that the multi-dimensionality of film allows for a more versatile and interesting use of studium and punctum that can introduce an extra layer of interest and provocation.

The Camera in Film: Active Persona or Passive Observer? (Mireille)

What is it about the filmic apparatus that entices us? And what is the camera’s role in the depiction of a reality that often spawns from a single mind, but then is manipulated by many? In some films the camera simply is an observer of the action, but in others it seems to have its own personal agenda. For example, in Dziga Vertov’s Man with a Movie Camera (1929) the camera takes on the persona of both tool and protagonist. In contrast, in Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window (1954) the camera distances itself from the chaos that surrounds it and simply observes. Whether the camera should be a potent machine that conceives images that should always alter the reality it tries to capture, or if it is simply “just capturing” what is occurring on the other side, it is, nevertheless, the job of the film to transport us into the reality created by its auteur.

French film theorist Jean-Louis Baudry argues that with respect to film, the camera as an apparatus and instrument actually produces specific ideological effects. Baudry suggests that since film is simply a series of still images that have minute differences, the projection of these images during a movie creates a whole new experience, an epiphenomenon of sorts, which the still images alone are incapable of producing without the machine. This idea is consistent with Soviet filmmaker Dziga Vertov’s approach, which he called “cine-eye” (kino pravda). Vertov believed that the camera is able to capture information beyond what the human eye can. Rather than using the camera to attempt to mimic reality, Vertov’s “cine-eye” creates a new perception that the audience would not be privy to without the aid of the apparatus. In his Man with a Movie Camera, Vertov intentionally manipulates the film such that the camera and what it is capable of portraying, rather than the story, is the most important and relevant feature of the film.

The camera is surrealistically large, and Vertov creates a superimposition in which he, as the camera operator, is shown standing on top of the camera. In this way, Vertov exaggerates the supernatural ability of the camera to capture much more than what is simply observable. Although in his film Vertov depicts common city life and the banal activities that unfold within it, he pays particular attention to geometry and composition such that every element in the mise-en-scène of a particular shot contributes to the unworldly feel of the film. For example, in the portrayal of laborers working in a mine/factory, Vertov uses high contrast lighting to show the workers completely cloaked in black shadows and almost “swallowed” by the harsh and darkened horizontal and vertical lines that compose the frame. Then, Vertov cuts to a shot where the audience can see someone with an actual camera filming the scenario, and at this point, the faces of the workers and details of the scene become obvious. In this way, Vertov shows us that the camera can capture events that are occurring in a given reality, but also that the camera itself has individualism and power that render it capable of manipulating reality and creating a “new dimension” in the film.

In contrast, Hitchcock prefers that the camera simply observe. One could argue that this is virtually impossible due to the effect of auteurism, which consciously or subconsciously impacts the making of a film even if only minimally. However, in Rear Window, Hitchcock attempts simply to “unmask” the reality that is taking place in front of the camera. Normally, this type of camera use is mainly reserved for documentary films; however, in the case of Rear Window Hitchcock intends to convey that the camera is removed from the action and need not interfere with what is occurring between the characters.

Throughout Rear Window, Hitchcock utilizes static extreme long and wide shots, resting on the action for lengthy takes at a time. The characters present in the film also never truly leave their filmic space, and are “captured” only when the camera “comes” to their location and does not interfere or follow any other action that may be happening when off camera. Additionally, Hitchcock utilizes geometry to emphasize the separation of the characters in the film, allowing the audience to peer into the individual realities without any heavy handed direction or influence from other characters or even the director. Slow and smooth pans between the windows of the apartment complex in which the film takes place create a voyeuristic perspective not only for the main character Jeff, in fact the camera is primarily present in his apartment, but also for the spectator. Hitchcock’s use of geometry also limits what the spectator can see, and as a result, influences the viewing experience of the audience. This begs the question of whether the camera is simply capturing the drama that occurs in the secluded apartment complex as an impartial observer or if there is some inevitable auteurism behind the lens.

Though it may not be the job of the audience to understand completely how images in a film are created or what the camera’s intentions are in a particular film, the fascination behind the “magic” that a camera can capture often has the power to push an audience’s perceptions and awareness. This power comes from an amalgamation of technology, technique, and auteurism. Whether or not, and how much, a camera influences the reality it tries to capture is a matter of opinion. However, it is less a matter of opinion that every film has the potential to influence other films, other art forms, and even personal lives.

 

The Garrulous Silence of the Inanimate: Soundscape in Film (Mireille)

Although the birth of film began as silent, sound now dominates the cinematographic experience. Irrespective of the genre or length of the film, the presence or lack of sound and music in a film very often helps build not only the narrative tension, but also the scaffolding for the composition. One excellent example of a short film that uses sound, especially music, to accentuate the mise-en-scène and composition of individual shots is Albert Lamorisse’s The Red Balloon (1956). 

The Red Balloon has only a few words of dialogue, but it is not a silent film. From the very beginning, Lamorisse uses music to create an almost dream-like world into which the characters, as well as the audience, can immerse themselves. The soundtrack starts with the opening credits and continues throughout the film. The music is joyous and consists primarily of major keys and scales, reminiscent of music that is played at a fair. After all, the main character is a red balloon, and though usually silent, magical, and joyous, through the soundtrack, Lamorisse allows us to hear the balloon’s voice and thoughts. Lamorisse pairs the openness of the soundtrack with wide and medium shots that effectively depict the vastness of the world beyond Pascal, a young boy and the other protagonist in the film, and the relationship and struggles between him, the balloon and the environment. With this composition of music and filming even the little details of the everyday Parisian life seem heightened. For example, when Pascal is walking through the streets in the beginning of the film the soundtrack is overlaid with the sounds of city life. The immense grey buildings make the world captured by the frame seem daunting and oppressive, and even more so in contrast to the little boy’s small stature. Many of these wide shots also capture the semi-dilapidated and destroyed ruins of France, a historical reminder of the effects of the aftermath of World War II and the Cold War on the city of Paris. However these shots are brightened with the co-presence of Pascal’s brightly colored balloon and the joyous soundtrack.

Though the tune making up the soundtrack is utilized throughout the film, it is not always light and circus-like. At times Lamorisse alters keys and introduces variation of notes to echo or foreshadow the action and the mood. For example, in one scene, when Pascal unties his balloon from a lamp post, Lamorisse slightly changes the pitch and key of the soundtrack and incorporates minor scales into the original sound while adding 5th minor keys. These alterations create, arguably, the most dissonant sound one can obtain on an instrument, and in fact, in this case prime the audience for the upcoming scene in which the boy is bullied and the balloon is eventually punctured. As the balloon withers away the scene becomes silent as we, the audience, experience the balloon being popped as not only its death but also Pascal’s, and the music which has been their voices until now must necessarily end. The music returns once again and back to a major key only at the very end. It then crescendos so that it becomes the only sound one hears as Pascal floats away with many new balloons.

Although the soundtrack dominates the majority of the film, when the soundtrack is absent Lamorisse compliments the images with the sounds that surround the Pascal and his balloon. This change from strictly soundtrack to simply diegetic sound comes almost as a shock to the audience since the scene becomes attenuated compared to the scenes filled with the soundtrack. For example, when a group of school kids notice the balloon, their calls and screams increase in volume beyond what we may normally expect.  We interpret this shift from soundtrack to diegetic sound as what the balloon is hearing. In fact, the sound of the screams appears to lure the balloon to them. The balloon is intrigued by their sounds and begins to taunt them playfully. Towards the end of the film, the children’s screaming and yelling become even more accentuated just before the final confrontation between them, the balloon, and Pascal. The emphasis of the screaming makes their aggression palpable and the eventual violence inevitable since they have “overpowered” the voice of the balloon.

In The Red Balloon Lamorisse shows us that sound does not have to be presented as dialogue in order to capture the intentions and emotions of a character. Rather, the careful combination of auditory and visual cues can fill the cinematographic experience with subtle messages and themes. In this way, the audience’s emotions are not constrained by the meaning of words, but rather, are shaped by the experience of the sound.

Undressing the Spectral Nature of Human Sexuality in Tom Hooper's The Danish Girl (Mireille)

As society comes to grips with the reality of the spectral nature of sexuality, more and more main stream movies and TV series are being created to depict the lives of individuals who identify on the LGBTQ spectrum. Tom Hooper’s The Danish Girl (2015) is a film that examines the sexual metamorphosis from man to woman of the principal character, Einar Wegener. Though the film focuses primarily on Einar, Hooper constantly reminds the audience of the fluidity of sexuality that exists for other characters, especially Einar’s wife, Gerda.

Throughout the entirety of The Danish Girl, Hooper reiterates the gender duality theme through carefully crafted mise-en-scène and frame composition. For example, Hooper creates an interplay between the human body and the surrounding geometry. The rigidity of the buildings as well as the harsh vertical and horizontal lines making up the geometry of the rooms in the home where Einar and Gerda live create a sense of restriction and harshness that confine the bodies of the characters in the manner in which the masculine dominated society of the 1920s restrained any attempt at sexual fluidity. At the same time, these geometric restrictions are juxtaposed by repeated shots which emulate impressionistic paintings and are full of the soft pastels of femininity. The resulting effect is a visual duality that mimics the duality of Einar’s experience: a woman trapped in a man’s body.

Perhaps the most powerful scene in the film occurs when Einar stands in front of a mirror and completely undresses himself. Hooper expertly wields the camera moving down the body, never fully showing the male genitalia, but following the path of Einar’s hand. When the hand reaches the location of Einar’s genitals at the same time that the camera does, Einar pushes his genitals out of sight and in between his legs, creating the illusion of female genitalia. The camera lingers on Einar’s full body while reflected in the mirror, and the deception of the form of a woman is compelling. Hooper uses reflection or “mirroring” in another powerful scene when Einar visits a brothel where he watches a prostitute through a glass window as she strips. Einar then begins to emulate her movements in an attempt to learn the female manner of seduction. The woman pauses in bewilderment, but then resumes her seductive poses; however, there is an exaggeration in her movement as she acts and simultaneously watches Einar, almost as if the prostitute knows that Einar’s intent is one of wanting to learn. As a result, rather than becoming an erotic moment it becomes one in which there is a woman to woman connection. 

Hooper also explores the inter-woman connection in terms of the complexity of the relationship between Einar and Gerda. Hooper often shows the couple in intricately framed shots, in which they are divided, but still have a lingering attachment. Hooper frequently uses combinations of shot reverse shots such that Einar and Gerda, despite being in the same film space, are portrayed separately. Even towards the end of the film when Gerda and Einar, who has now become Lili, are arguably closest emotionally, they are separated by a thin veil dividing their bed, yet still have their hands intertwined and enveloped by the same fabric that defined the moment that Einar first became fascinated with women’s clothing. This repetition of Einar and Gerda as separate, but still linked together, leaves the audience to wonder if it is just “love” or recognition of womanhood in each other. As Gerda says when explaining why she married Einar; “It was like kissing myself.”  

Hooper allows Gerda to explore her own uncertain sexuality by allowing her to engage in role reversal. Gerda creates opportunities for Einar and her to switch gender roles. Early in the film, even before it becomes clear that Einar is transgender, Gerda, who like Einar is a painter by profession, asks him to put on some female clothing to serve as a female model for a painting she needs to finish. Then she coaxes Einar into dressing up like a woman to play a joke during a society outing. In another very overtly roll reversing scene, Gerda is completely nude and standing over Einar’s form that is still dressed. Einar’s body image has a strangely feminine allure, and he is also trying to conceal the fact that he is wearing a woman’s nightgown underneath his masculine garments. Gerda takes on the male role of undressing Einar, who has clearly begun to adopt a feminine persona. At the same time, Einar accentuates his femininity by being coy and trying to keep covered up. Gerda’s role reversal does not happen only in Einar’s presence. Hooper utilizes a low angle camera angle or an eye line match with almost all of the male characters that Gerda encounters emphasizing the power position that she has over them. Finally, Gerda becomes successful only when she starts creating portraits of Einar as Lili, suggesting that she is able to express passion only through an expression of the feminine form.

The Danish Girl reminds the audience that the enigma of sexual identity is not a modern concept, but one that is an inextricable part of human nature. Hooper delivers a film that is not only beautiful to watch, but beautifully depicts the inexorable nature of love and human identity.   

Through the Looking Glass: The Art Behind Andrei Tarkovsky's The Mirror (Mireille)

There is no absolute standard that qualifies a film as an “art film”. As such a film can be considered art when it is the result of the careful construction of frames rendering it artful, but it is also art when the film is simply the expression of what the filmmaker beholds with his inner eye as an artist. One film that is widely considered an art film is Andrei Tarkovsky’s The Mirror (1975). The film recounts a young man’s life not only as a function of what happens to him and who he meets, but also through his emotions. The art behind the film, as the name implies, is the manner in which the film has been made, which is by investigating the inner workings of a human mind as a literal reflection. In other words, the viewer only catches glimpses of the main character of the film, but comes to know him only as a reflection of his life. Despite the absence of the physical presence of the character, Tarkovsky’s style of crafting each frame ensures that the presence of the character is always felt and the viewer does not have the feeling of missing something.

Although the plot and even the central idea behind the film are not entirely clear, a mixture of narration and camera movement in each scene conveys the story to the viewer. Tarkovsky interviews the character about his memories and shoots these scenes in black and white, while filming what the character in the film is currently seeing and experiencing in color. This combination of duality of filming and listening to the voices of the main character as well as narration creates the story for the viewer. In the same way that the viewer catches only physical glimpses of the main character’s persona, the viewer learns about the main character’s mind in bits and pieces. As a result, the viewer gradually comes to the conclusion that the main character is dying and that The Mirror is both a metaphorical and literal reflection on life.

Tarkovsky’s incorporation of camera movement also serves to include the viewer in the frames of the film. This use of movement provides a certain personality and “sense of being” to the camera. In other words, the camera is not just a stationary object that observes the actions of the actors and movement in the scene, but rather the camera itself has a personality and plays a role in each frame. In addition to the movement of the camera, a significant amount of Tarkovsky’s shots are also exceptionally long takes. The use of long takes keeps the viewer’s attention engaged and gives the viewer the feeling that s/he is present in the scene, which adds to the feeling of inclusion. This feeling of presence also translates into a sense of omniscience, almost as if the scene were just another part of the viewer’s everyday life. In addition, the almost slow motion like feel in some of these long takes further allows the viewer to take a step back from the motion of the film and really focus on the elements and people in the scene.

Finally, Tarkovsky also uses repetition to great effect.  Several times throughout the film, Tarkovsky repeats certain scenes, which creates a haunting sense of déjà vu that influences the composition of the film as a whole. For example, Tarkovsky repeats a particular black and white scene in which the viewer sees trees and bushes blown about in a strong wind, and then as the camera pans over to a stone table several objects begin to fall over ostensibly also because of the wind. The repetition of the scene allows the viewer to slowly grasp that the scene is a metaphor for the slow death and chaotic existence of the main character.

The Mirror is not a linear film, the meaning or intention of which is grasped as a function of the unfolding of events. In fact, at first glance, The Mirror may even seem out of order and “random”.  However, therein lays the art. The Mirror is a view into the interior world of Tarkovsky’s subconscious. It is an exploration of life and death through filters and metaphor. The very fact that the viewer witnesses the world that Tarkovsky wants to reveal through Tarkovsky rather than through a physical main character that leads us through the story lays bare Tarkovsky’s most intimate musings and recollections. True art does precisely that. It provides a view into the artist’s beliefs, fears, and longings in a manner that many times is difficult to glean immediately, but rather requires travelling through the labyrinth of the artist’s mind and exiting maybe a bit confused, but with enough bits and pieces to leave us wondering for a long while.

 

Timing Is Everything: Creating The Real and Imagined Timescapes in Film (Mireille)

The passage of time for a character either to portray a “coming of age” or simply to recount the events of a life is a recurrent theme in many films. Unless the piece is a documentary that intentionally depicts the life of a single individual over time, such films most often use will cast actors of different ages to show the passage of time as a character matures. The exception to the rule is Richard Linklater’s Boyhood (2014), a feature length fictional film which uses the same actors over a twelve year span. Boyhood is unique in its manipulation of cinematic time. It is the only fictional film, which by virtue of using the same actors over an extended period of time, seamlessly meshes together the changes that the characters undergo as part of the script with the physical and emotional changes that the actors endure as a result of change in age and maturity.  

Though Boyhood follows the lives of all of the members of a dysfunctional family it focuses specifically on Mason Jr., the main character. As such, the film follows Mason Jr. from the time he is in elementary school until he starts college. The strength of Boyhood lies in its ability to capture the authenticity of the cultural trends of each of the moments in time in which the film is being shot without forfeiting continuity. The end result is that Boyhood proceeds linearly and seamlessly. Despite the dramatic changes in Mason Jr.’s appearance as well as that of those around him, there are no moments of hesitation, leaps of faith or incongruence. Rather than specifically indicating a change or switch in time, in this film long periods are condensed into fragments which can sometimes take the viewer by surprise. This approach to the depiction of time gives the film an almost mundane and banal feeling. The passing of time in Boyhood captures the normalcy and individual moments of the film's fictional family without a lot of emphasis and interjection from Linklater or even the characters.

Unlike in Boyhood in which the lives of the characters continue to play out regardless of the outcome and the film persists from year to year, Danny Boyle’s 127 Hours (2010) takes the five day experience of a single character and transforms it into an agonizing ninety minute film that provides no respite from anxiety for the audience. In 127 Hours, Boyle recounts the true story of Aron Ralston, a hiker who becomes stranded alone in a canyon after a boulder falls on top of him and traps his arm. Ralston’s suffering in the film is portrayed as a “neo-documentary” as he is able to record his ordeal due to the fact that he had a camera with him during his accident, creating a video diary as events unfolded in real time. In fact, the use of the camera in both films exacerbates the sense of time being manipulated. Although the long shots in Boyhood give the feeling that the camera is acting as an observer over stretches of time, in 127 Hours the camera truly observes Ralston’s attempt to free himself from his situation, and at times is also very intimate. The moments of re-enacted actual footage from Ralston’s personal camera are interspersed with flashbacks of his past memories, which have a hallucinatory feel and give the film a sense of time warping. 

Though Boyhood was shot in segments over a long period of time and is a fictional film, it is still able to provide a feeling of “real time” and authentic setting without so much as a hint of a lack of continuity. On the other hand 127 Hours, which is a true story that by virtue of relying on video documentation must be continuous, still manages to warp time and detach the audience from the “realistic” perception of time. This innovation and genius of manipulation of time in Boyhood, 127 Hours, and many other films rests firmly in the ability to have the audience feel its passage, real or imagined, without lulling us into boredom or disbelief.  

 

Great Things Come In Short Packages: Why A Film Does Not Have To Be Feature Length To Be Memorable (Mireille)

With the Academy Awards being presented this evening, social media and many news outlets are buzzing about the film nominations, and whether one film will sweep all of the awards. These debates are centered on those films that have gained the most notoriety, and one of the types of film that is all too often absent in these discussion and may not even be readily accessible for viewing, is the short film. I do not intend to overgeneralize and say that wide attention is never given to these films, but they rarely receive the spotlight that feature length Oscar nominated films bask in.

Shawn Christensen’s Academy Award winning short film Curfew (2012) is, in my opinion, an extraordinary piece that depicts the typically human struggles, namely one’s own mental health and the frequent dysfunction that exists in families. By packing each frame of the film with rich music, color, and geometry, Christensen successfully conveys the horror of an attempted suicide, the ravages of drug abuse and domestic abuse, the dysfunction of families and the power of the human spirit and enduring love/blood bond between family members. There are full length feature films that are less successful than this short at touching the audience to its very core with a range of emotions that are real and never trite or banal.

The opening sequence of Curfew immediately shocks the viewer and sets the dark psychological tone of the film. At the same time, the hyper pigmented colors and the composition of the frame nudges us to question the reality of the situation. The film begins with a bloodied hand reaching for an old fashioned rotary telephone, painted in the same color tones as the blood tainted hand. The use of high contrast lighting projected on the phone adds to a growing dystopic feel. Christensen, who also plays the principal character Richie, cuts to a high angle shot of himself submerged in a bloodied bathtub while he listens helplessly to the woman on the phone who is pleading with him to take care of her daughter. At this moment we have the confirmation that we are witnessing a suicide attempt. It is, however, depicted in almost a picturesque manner, thanks to Christensen’s specific color palette and positioning of his own body almost as if posing for a painting. To complete the sense of detachment and other worldliness, Christensen incorporates the famous Flower Duet from the opera Lakmé, a piece normally associated with joy.  

As the film progresses, the audience is introduced to the complex relationships between the characters in the film. Richie’s sister, Maggie, has a daughter named Sophia whom Richie does not know but is responsible for taking care of her. The initial dialogue between Richie and Sophia sets the tone for Sophia’s apathy and defiance towards Richie, which is emphasized by Christensen utilizing very strong geometry in many of the shots throughout his film. The characters are initially separated by harsh vertical or horizontal lines which emphasize the divide between Richie and Sophia. However, as the film progresses Sophia begins to cross these constructed cinematographic boundaries to join Richie. These subtle gestures show that Sophia, although a young girl caught in familial and custody troubles, begins to develop a greater understanding and compassion for the situation and is able to sense the longing within Richie. This understanding arrives as a result of incessant questions and answers as well as sequences in the film that lead us to believe one thing that turn out to be another. Christensen juxtaposes the violence and ugliness of the drug world with the innocence of a child and the inevitability of man who loves his sister and niece. He interjects the hallucination of a man on the edge of self-destruction with the whimsy of child’s play.

By the end of the film we have returned to Richie contemplating his suicide in the dystopic and removed setting of his bathroom. The phone, in the same cyclical and rhythmic pattern that drives the film, begins to ring once more as Richie submerges his body into the bloodied water of his bathtub. However this time Richie disconnects the phone in a symbolic move to disconnect himself from the family that has re-entered his life and yet rejected him once more. However, without any warning, Richie violently reconnects the phone, and the film comes full circle with a plea from his sister to watch Sophia except this time it is not a desperate demand, but a conciliatory offer for peace between them.

I would venture to guess that this beautifully crafted and well-acted film that has won multiple awards, including the Oscar, is not on everyone’s short list of favorite or must see films. Why is that? Certainly one reason has to do with its lack of big name producers and actors that wield sufficiently prominent name recognition that draws audience into the light that they effuse. Nevertheless, Curfew is no less worthy for not being a feature film. My challenge to you on the eve of this Oscar night is to give the “shorter guy” a chance. Watch the Academy Award nominees for the short film, whether live action, documentary, or animation, and if you find them worthy perhaps help spread the word by allowing them to ride the crest of the wave of social media that they hardly get swept up in.

Behind the Trigger: Gus Van Sant’s Depiction of Adolescent Violence in Elephant (Mireille)

Over and over we read, hear, and talk about yet another school shooting. In less than one month, two different high school students slaughtered their peers. A handful of films have been made to bring to light the horror of living through such an event often focusing on the psychological disturbance of the assassin. Gus Van Sant’s Elephant (2003) chronicles the events surrounding the massacre of students at a high school by two other students to capture the atrocity of the act and the trauma of the victims and shooters themselves. Though Van Sant provides a backstory for the motivation of the disturbed individuals responsible for the shootings, the film is not devoted to the psychological profile of the murderers. Rather, Van Sant uses cinematography, sound design, and editing to make horrifically real the experiences of the individuals victimized in such a tragedy.

Van Sant loosely based Elephant on the events that occurred during the 1999 Columbine High School shooting. Elephant recounts the story of how two high school students plan the massacre of members of their school due to the fact that they have been bullied by other students and disenfranchised by the school administration. The film chronicles the events in a linear fashion by glimpsing at the perspectives of several students as they struggle within the school system. Throughout the film, Van Sant uses repetition not only to emphasize the different manner in which each character in the film interacts with his/her surroundings, but also to create suspense and a sense of chaos. One particular scene that Van Sant repeats again and again shows individual characters walking down a hallway. At first glance these individual hall scenes appear unconnected and do not seem to have any particular point. However, towards the end of the film Van Sant makes clear his intent for the repetition. The audience realizes that all of the characters filmed in the hallway are interconnected and have something in common, namely, they are all victimized by the shooters the film. Van Sant also uses unsettling long takes of the shots that are part of this sequence to accentuate the awkward insecurities of high school and to create an ominous feeling.

Elephant also utilizes an intriguing sound design. The majority of the film is mostly minimalistic diegetic sound that is eerily quiet. This state of “low sound” creates an unsettling mood, but also sets the tone for the banal and muted lifestyle of high school students trying to finish up their day. A few times throughout the film, Van Sant does use music, but not necessarily in a context one would expect. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, which is a morose almost funereal lamentation, is heard during the introduction of one of the less prominent characters; however, the piece is muddied with traditional school setting sounds. The sonata lingers as Van Sant draws out an exceptionally long behind-the-shoulder take of this character until he begins interacting with other students. This same sonata makes a re-appearance, but this time one of the shooters is actually playing the piece on a piano.  The music is not competing with any other sound; however, the shooter makes frequent mistakes while playing. Van Sant’s choice of music creates conflict within the audience as the sonata does not remind us of high school, nor does it seem coherent that a student who is planning the assassination of his peers should be delicately playing the piano. Furthermore, the mistakes that the shooter makes while playing are not random errors from misplaced fingers. Instead, the errors themselves end up creating new chords that result in the piece being played in a completely different key, adding now auditory unease to the already visual tension that builds up in the film.

Van Sant ends Elephant in a particularly hair raising manner. The main shooter discovers two students hiding in a meat freezer in the cafeteria. One of the students is none other than the student was first associated with Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. At that moment it becomes clear that Van Sant’s musical choice served as a premonitory tool.  In this final sequence, the frame is almost entirely filled by the placid face of the shooter, who is taunting his victims with a game to determine who he will shoot and is surrounded by hanging meats and carcasses. The audience does not see the two students cornered in this nightmare scenario, but solely hears their voices. The framing of the elements in the freezer creates a very claustrophobic feel that is, however, at once intimate and almost unrealistic. Elephant is brought to a close with Van Sant cutting from this last scene of the shooter in the freezer to the same shot that was utilized in the opening of the film: a neutral sky and benign power lines, a metaphor perhaps for the fact that the horror of gun violence has become almost ordinary in today’s society. Van Sant also does not show us who the shooter chose to kill. He prefers to leave the audience with the horror faced by the victim rather than to glorify the final act of the assassin. 

Sleight of Hand or Hallucination? Magical Realism in Film (Mireille)

Magical realism. The genre in which the real, the natural, and the fantastical are intertwined. But what truly defines it? Take for example Guillermo Del Toro’s The Shape of Water (2017), the most recent example of a rather more mainstream magic realism film. In this film, Del Toro plays on the theme of “Beauty and the Beast”. However, in his version, the “beauty” is desirable, but also mute, and the “beast” is an immortal alien creature with supernatural powers, and not a transfigured handsome prince. Though they do fall in love, and “beauty” does save the beast, the beast ultimately also saves the beauty by resurrecting her from the dead. Thus, Del Toro’s magic is established by making possible true romantic love between two different species and also by defying death.

However, Del Toro’s approach is not one that can be applied to all films that address magical realism. Mexican director Alejandro González Iñárritu’s films that can be categorized under the same genre often take the opposite approach. Rather than relying on the creation of something fantastical, Iñárritu relies on blurring the premise for reality, and shakes up the audience’s ability to determine what is real and what is not. For example, in his film Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) (2014), the audience is never really sure if the main character Riggan Thomson, an actor who used to play the role of a super hero, actually possesses supernatural powers or is simply delusional. Iñárritu’s use of cinematography cleverly confounds the boundaries between what is actually happening and what may only be happening in the mind of Thomson. For instance, a scene is cut to create the impression that objects are breaking through telekinesis. In another scene, the audience is privy to a bird’s eye view of the cityscape as if Riggan were flying, but they never actually see Riggan in the sky. As a result, the film in its entirety has a surrealistic feel that nudges us into believing that the impossible may actually be possible. The ending of Birdman actually puts that question to the audience directly when Riggan’s daughter searches for her father by looking out of a window and into the sky and then starts smiling as if she has found him. The film cuts to black there, so we never really know, though the thought that Riggan is flying out there gnaws at us like a real possibility.

Another one of Iñárritu’s films that touches upon some of the same ideologies is Biutiful (2010). The film begins with a dreamscape sequence that features Uxbal, the main character. The sequence has almost no sound, and the ethereal quality of the filming creates a sharp demarcation between it and the rest of the film. The story is a view into the life of Uxbal, who is a working class man. In contrast to the peaceful opening scene, Uxbal’s life is noisy, difficult, dirty, and complicated. However, this film is also, and I would argue mostly, about death due to Uxbal being slowly killed by a terminal disease. The magic that Iñárritu injects into this film has to do with the mystical uncertainties of death and the process of dying. Throughout the film Iñárritu flashes images of death that are unexpected or implausible. In one scene, dead bodies are clinging to the ceilings of a building. In another those same dead bodies are now washed up on a shore, like beached whales. Uxbal also has a "gift" that allows him to hear what the dead have to say so the families can accept the death of their loved one. The audience views all these scenes without having the certainty that anyone other than Uxbal is also witnessing them. Iñárritu reiterates the feeling of uncertainty in more banal scenes as well such as when Uxbal’s brother and ex-wife Marambra are engaged in intimate activity and the camera is angled above them without showing Marambra’s face. The viewers are suddenly startled with the appearance of crimson liquid spilling from what seems like Marambra’s body. In the next cut, however, it becomes clear that it is spilled wine and not spilled blood. Iñárritu uses “sleight of hand” techniques such as this one to make the audience jittery about what is really taking place and what is being imagined in our mind, and perhaps also in Uxbal’s mind.

In sum, throughout all of Biutiful there is no clear cut boundary between what is real and what may be a manifestation of our imagination. In my opinion this blurring of reality creates an even more potent magic realism film than one in which fictitious, fantastical creatures are made up to create the magic. 

 

The Silent Horror of War in Film (Mireille)

It is probably fair to say that the theme of war is one of the most pervasive in film. Whether for propaganda, critique or shock value, cinema relishes in the recreation of the marching footsteps, the gun blasts, the frenetic flight of those in distress, and the reenactment of violence. I have probably had my fill of these, particularly the mainstream variety that tend to have a similar feel and construct. Specifically, the type of film that is loaded with sounds so intense that it becomes uncomfortable and has a vivid language that is as subtle as a bludgeoning instrument. These films also often follow a rigid plot line with a predictable outcome. It is almost as if humans want the full visceral horror of war, but then need to absolve themselves of the evil, by giving the film a conciliatory ending. The newest Hollywood war film, Dunkirk (2017) by Christopher Nolan in my opinion is no exception. This film once again reverts to the formulaic audiovisual assault, this time almost without respite, and perhaps that was the point. Any chance of uncovering the psychological struggle of characters or the subtle insinuations of humanity questioning its actions is muddied by the inability of your nervous system to recover from the stimulatory onslaught.

Don’t get me wrong, not every mainstream war drama fits this description. Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979) twists the cacophony of light, sound and carnage together with a captivating psychoanalysis of the characters that leaves viewers captivated and not just exhausted. Roman Polanski’s The Pianist (2002) focuses on the human spirit not with respect to war, but with respect to art as the battle rages around the central character. However, there are other ways in which to convey the horror of war that may also leave us with enough strength to take away a message that is long lasting and meaningful. Fortunately I have discovered two very different films that do just that: Hungarian film Son of Saul (2015) directed by László Nemes and Zaza Urushadze’s Estonian-Georgian film Tangerines (2013).

In the Son of Saul, Nemes uses the camera to study the psychological makeup of the characters as they live the war rather than depicting the obstreperous elements of the war itself. This approach conveys a type of horror that, in my opinion, is more impactful than the buckets of blood and the gratuitous violence typically shown in war movies. Nemes creates a persistent haunting feeling by shooting on traditional 35mm film in a square aspect ratio. This tight aspect ratio creates claustrophobia and inescapability. The audience feels suffocated by the palpable anguish experienced by the principle characters. Nemes masterfully uses on the point-of-view and handheld shots to thrust viewers into the midst of the concentration camp and allows them to participate in the sadistic labor the prisoners are forced to carry out. The camera movement is slow and the depth of field is quite shallow, allowing the audience to linger in a confused and anxious reality. Nemes has no qualms about showing naked corpses being dragged to incinerators by prisoners or the unceremonious scattering of the ashes from the crematorium into a river to hide the evidence of the crimes committed. Nemes leaves out no detail and punctuates it against a backdrop of a mixture of muted diegetic and non-diegetic sound. The horror has both explicit and implicit components, but requires no brassy elements to bring it to the forefront. The edginess comes from the growing awareness of what is happening rather than a physical response to an exaggerated stimulus. In my opinion Son of Saul is the first film to capture realistically the relentless brutality of World War II.

Tangerines is almost the diametric pole of Son of Saul. Urushadze sets the film during the war in Abkhazia in the 90s. The film is shot in a single location in the Georgian countryside where two friends stay behind as the war erupts in order to harvest their crop of tangerines. In this way Urushadze is able to separate the audience from the war both physically and psychologically. This is in stark contrast to Son of Saul where the single location kept the audience locked into the inescapable horrors that the war creates. In Tangerines there is a utopic feel because there is never any explicit evidence of the war raging around the principal characters. As in Son of Saul, there is no need for the din of war paraphernalia. Rather, Urushadz, like Nemes, chooses muted sounds and background noise in order to bring the audience into the scene. The war becomes part of the narrative when the friends take in two wounded soldiers from opposite sides. The war thus becomes a question of tolerance and resistance of primal urges. Urushadze draws attention to compassion and the moral best that humanity can achieve during war time, a diametrically opposite message from that in Son of Saul. What truly stands out in Tangerines in comparison to Nemes’ film is the occasional punctum of color that occurs when the audience sees the main character picking the actual tangerine fruits from his orchard. This intense coloration enhances the peaceful surroundings in which the whole film takes place and lends it an aura of hope without the need for cliché happy endings. It is in fact the simple fruit, the tangerine, which serves as the symbol of unification allowing the wounded soldiers from different factions to transcend their cultural differences. In this way Urushadze concentrates on educating the audience about the other face of war: the possibility of peace and compromise and resistance to violence.

In the end, the approach to war as film genre could be bifurcated into two factions. One that barrages us with stimuli in the hopes of shocking, but in the end desensitizes, and another that leaves us with a lasting memory of evil or peace. In my opinion, the former may be more exciting, but the latter is more enlightening.

When Films Put Words in Animals' Mouths (Mireille)

Let’s admit it. We have all watched films that feature pets, usually endowed with the power of speech, struggling to be reunited with their owners. They tug at our hearts as we drip in sobbing despair, and we love it. I have cried each time I have watched Duwayne Duhnam’s Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey (1993) or Lasse Hallström’s Hachi: A Dog’s Tale (2008), even though I know what’s coming and how it will end. I ask myself now why we are fascinated by the film portrayal of the hardship of animals? Furthermore, do we feel it is necessary to anthropomorphize an animal so that we can better relate to it? Or, do the film makers need an easy way of allowing the animal to tell us how it feels by giving it human language?

Two films that strike me as particularly interesting from the perspective of these questions are Rupert Wyatt’s Rise of the Planet of the Apes (2011) and Kornél Mundruczó’s White God (2014). These films tackle the theme of the relationship between animals and humans by taking completely different approaches that have to do with how language and behavior are used in conjunction with camera and filming techniques to convey the expression, perspective, and in the end, the very “psyche” of the animals portrayed in the films.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes starts with the story of Caesar, an ape raised by humans after its mother was killed. Caesar becomes a member of the human family as a pet. Though Caesar starts to exhibit very high levels of intelligence, he also becomes more aggressive towards humans and eventually has to be placed in an animal sanctuary. The film then takes a dramatic turn in both the plot and filming techniques. It becomes clear that Caesar not only has human intelligence, but also has human language. When Caesar bellows “No”, stunning zookeepers and apes alike, he essentially moves from non-human to human. Naturally, mayhem ensues and the primates invade the city, and by the end of the movie the audience knows that the apes will dominate not only the planet, but the humans themselves.

Director Rupert Wyatt captures the evolution from primate as pet to primate as human then to primate as dominator by shifting the camera from a more “personal” approach that incorporates medium and close up shots, to extreme wide shots and long aerial takes. The coloration of the film also shifts dramatically from warm toned frames to underexposed and darkly colored sequences. This shift in coloration helps the audience move from the warm, fuzzy “pet” feel at the beginning of the movie to the dark, violent feel, created by the apes, who in a god-like fashion, begin changing the nature of the world. As the movie progresses so does Caesar’s humanity. He now begins to exhibit the unique human qualities of revenge and spite. Ironically, although the intent of the apes’ rebellion is to obliterate the human race and its cruel traits, as they do so they themselves begin to take on these very traits. Wyatt brings home this concept by showing us the war between the two species through extreme long shots, creating an acute representation of the kind of war humans wage against each other. In this movie there are no sentimental buttons that are being pushed. Rather, this is a war movie in which humans battle their endearing “pets” only after the pets have been infused with the human qualities that make them able to engage in human war. As in Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey, the Rise of the Planet of the Apes uses language as a vehicle to jolt our consciousness and to humanize our pets. The goal of the former is to create a mirror for empathy, the goal of the latter is to strike fear in our hearts.

In contrast, the director of White God does not use human language to communicate the feelings of the pets. This Hungarian film recounts the horror and abuse suffered by a dog after it is forcibly removed from its owner’s care and abandoned on the streets of Budapest. This sequence of events is not unlike what happens to Caesar in Rise of the Planet of the Apes, and the end result, the revolt of animals against humans, is also similar. However, the similarity ends there. In White God, the audience never hears the dogs speak. In place of language, Director Kornél Mundruczó incorporates Franz Listz’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 as the sole method of “communication” between humans and animals. Mundruczó also films the animal revolt against humans in a drastically different manner. The camera is almost exclusively positioned at the eye line level of the dogs, playing an integral role in capturing the action and allowing the audience to interpret the emotional experience of the dogs at a personal level. Most of the shots are handheld and quickly cut, which only intensifies the difference in perspective between humans and animals. The entirety of White God is also filmed in a particular coloration and lighting that does not change when the dogs revolt against the humans. This choice creates homogeneity in the perspective of the dogs acting like dogs without having to take on human characteristics to achieve their goals. This film has no need to create a human-like scenario or obvious human character traits to bring the point home. The audience itself must decide to anthropomorphize the dogs or simply witness the action as pack mentality fighting in unison against a common enemy.

In the end, I cannot conclusively state if our desire to anthropomorphize our pets comes from a place of love or insecurity. When our pets are endowed with the traits that we consider make us human, we are at once touched and horrified. Yet, what I do know is that the anthropomorphization does not have to be blatant to be effective, we are perfectly capable of creating our own illusion of what our pets’ intentions really are.

The Third Eye View of Avant-Garde Cinema (Mireille)

For a while now, and especially this summer, I have noticed a marked paucity of more conceptually and cinematographically intricate films. Though a smattering of movies released within the last couple of years managed to break the “typical” mold of strict continuity and predictable plots frequently evident in the traditional blockbuster, all too often new releases and their audiences are satisfied with repetitive content that is frequently vapid. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that production is most often guided by market consumption, mass appeal and economics, but I still wish that some of the more artistic and experimental films would gain more attention and possibly spark a greater interest and openness in the general population. The reason for this is that avant-garde films provide heaps of fodder for contemplation. It’s true that experimental films may sometimes defy logic in their approach to storylines or seem a little over-the-top when it comes to the cinematography, but they almost always stay with you for hours or maybe days, leaving you to contemplate for a long while on the visual experience you have just had.

Two short films that are wonderful little introductions to the world of experimental and surrealistic film are Bruce Baillie’s film Here I Am (1962) and Ben Rivers’ Ah, Liberty (2008). Both weave together the interplay between innocence, environment and identity through the eyes of children. Although each film approaches this theme with very different narratives and subject matter, in both the eerie feel and otherworldly mood is sublimely conveyed through shot composition, framing and use of sound.

Baillie’s Here I Am opens with a series of unsteady hand held shots of the tree line and horizon in a non-descript neighborhood. The presence of a distorting fog as well as the contrast between the crispness and dullness of the elements in the frame create a heightened sense of tension and anxiety. Baillie also uses a high frequency ring in this opening sequence that only adds to a growing sensation of foreboding and insecurity. In fact, you start to feel that you are entering a world that represents a separate reality. Equally discomfiting is that Baillie has yet to introduce any human element – until suddenly the camera becomes extremely personal. It literally comes face to face with a little girl on a swing. The camera allows the audience to experience the movement of the child on the swing, lulling it into a sense of peacefulness. Without warning the movement becomes extremely disorienting, and the audience catches glimpses of the child grimacing. At this point the sound has also transitioned from the eerie high frequency pitch sound to completely diegetic sound that pulls the audience into the scene. And then, Baillie forcibly shifts the audience from the emotionally laden moment by cutting to a static shot of the little girl continuing to swing. This time, however, the camera is removed from her immediate personal space. The swing and the little girl are confined to the left hand third of the frame. This change in shot removes the immediacy of the little girl as well as the detail and the emotion present in her face and replaces it with a view of her as simply another element in the frame. Now, the audience must passively accept what is happening in the environment, at once taking in the whole, but also acknowledging the restriction and oppression of the child. Welcome - you have now entered the world of avant-garde film where intensity is not merely a visceral sensation, but one in which you are transported by the camera to look at the world in a different way. The camera now functions as a “third eye” that allows you to see into the psychological makeup of the different “personas” it thrusts in front of you.  

Although Ben Rivers’ Ah, Liberty also begins with a series of shots that display only natural elements and no human subjects, Rivers shoots his beginning sequence with a static camera. His focus is on the intensity and grandeur of the natural world. Rivers chooses simply to capture any motion within the frame, while leaving the camera itself as a still component of the shot. As the film progresses, Rivers begin to incorporate the human subject, and like in Baillie’s film, these are children. However, Rivers chooses to depict children in action, rather than focusing only on facial expressions. Nonetheless, Rivers does incorporate the use of visages. In his film the children put on elaborate masks, which allow them to metamorphose into components of incredibly ornate and complex frames. By the end of the film, the children’s identities have been effaced. They simply become objects among other objects within the shots. In other words, the children have been transformed from protagonists to small informalities present in the vast landscape that Rivers depicts throughout the film. In this way, Rivers has used the camera to erase the individuality of his subjects. Rivers wants the audience to witness the nearly silent swallowing of the insignificance of the individual against the larger world.

Through their films both Baillie and Rivers attempt to convey their intent of effacing the individual. However, whereas Baillie’s cinematographic techniques pull and push us through the convulsive psyche of an innocent child by using camera movement and artificial sound, Rivers silently allows us to bear witness to the enormity of the world where the child is but one small element. Baillie erases identity by physically moving the focus away from his subject; Rivers confounds his subjects within a landscape. In very different ways, both have successfully downplayed the importance of individual identity. Both have left you questioning what your place in the world might be. So, maybe next time you have to watch some experimental work, remember that what might at first glance seem like randomly assorted artistic shots, may actually be beckoning to look at things through a new third eye.