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Table of Contents 2018 vol.3 no.1

TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1

Table of Contents  2018 vol.3 no.1

Film and Media: Through and Beyond the Senses

edited by Małgorzata Radkiewicz, Marta Stańczyk (Jagiellonian University)

 

Fotografują się w atelier. Reżimy ciała w radzieckiej fotografii studyjnej [Polish]

Oksana Gawriszyna

Oko artysty. Fenomenologia zmysłów w filmie Młyn i krzyż Lecha Majewskiego [Polish]

Iwona Grodź

The body of the viewer and immersive audio-visual art. The somatic character of new Japanese experimental film

Agnieszka Kiejziewicz

Historical insight into The Danube Exodus cinematic installation by Péter Forgács

Kamil Lipiński

Boundaries are (but) a blur: Computer-generated imagery and the formation of seamless filmic space

Maciej Stasiowski

Prosthetic Memory and the New Civil Rights Cinema of the 21st Century

Patrycja Włodek

Tactile epistemology: sensoria and the postcolonial

Marta Stańczyk

 

Varia

Prayer Wheels for the Other: Haunted by the Images: the film works of Tian Zhuangzhuang book review

Maciej Stasiowski

Film and Media: Through and Beyond the Senses – Editorial

Małgorzata Radkiewicz, Marta Stańczyk

TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1, pp. 1.

 

Małgorzata Radkiewicz

Jagiellonian University

 

Marta Stańczyk

Jagiellonian University

 

 

 

Film and Media: Through and Beyond the Senses

 

The annual NECS conference that took place in June 2017 addressed the topic: Sensibility and the Senses. Media, Bodies, Practices. The program included diverse perspectives and subjects of research, showing different attitudes and exploring various fields of studies. Many of them still need to be explored and examined in detail, which poses a huge challenge for researchers dealing with film and various media.

Both theory and practice of film and media deal with such issues as perception, interaction, and involvement through human body and senses. Contemporary theory has turned toward embodiment as a major “figure of thought” and as the main mode of cognition. However, approaching visual culture and its various devices (analogue, electronic, digital ones) only through senses may not be sufficient in the era of post-humanity and dynamic technological development. Moreover, hybridization and specialization of media bring up questions and challenges that make us go beyond human senses and their limitations.

Preparing the following issue of “TransMissions”, we combined paper that examine various theoretical approaches to sensual perception and sensory experience of film, photography and media. All authors tried to explore either new possibilities of creation and usage of film and media or of analysis and interpretations, in terms of phenomenology, affects, prosthetic memory etc. Each paper, in different ways, shows that the new phenomena of media communication must be followed by both analytical and critical theoretical reflections that will address complex issues of relations between media and (non)human sensual organs.

 

 

Fotografują się w atelier. Reżimy ciała w radzieckiej fotografii studyjnej [Polish]

Oksana Gawriszyna

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        TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1, pp.2-12.

Oksana Gawriszyna

Rosyjski Państwowy Uniwersytet Humanistyczny w Moskwie

 

 

Fotografują się w atelier. Reżimy ciała w radzieckiej fotografii studyjnej[1]

Streszczenie

Na przykładzie fotografii studyjnej artykuł przedstawia transformację praktyk kulturowych w Rosji w pierwszej połowie XX wieku. Jakkolwiek scenografia i ustawienie postaci na zdjęciach studyjnych są zainspirowane doświadczeniami „kultywowanych” ciał przedstawicieli klas uprzywilejowanych, to na początku XX wieku ten rodzaj fotografii staje się powszechnie dostępny. W rezultacie zdjęcia z tego okresu odzwierciedlają obrazy ciał „hybrydowych”, w których doświadczenie cielesne modeli łączy się z normami fotografii studyjnej. W przypadku sowieckiej fotografii studyjnej ten typ obrazów wpisuje sie w dynamikę procesów modernizacyjnych. Jednocześnie analiza zdjęć z lat pięćdziesiątych wskazuje na ugruntowanie się porządku „hybrydowego”, który jednak ujawnia rozdźwięk między symbolicznym porządkiem kultury sowieckiej a codziennym doświadczeniem cielesnym.

The article looks at the cultural transformation in Russia in the first half of the 20th century as manifested in studio photographs. Although the setting and posture in studio photography were taken from ‘cultivated’ bodies of privileged social groups, by the early 20th century it was readily available for everyone. As the result we see a variety of hybrid bodies, combining familiar bodily practices of models with prescriptive norms of the studio. These images can be read within the conceptual framework of modernization. Soviet studio photographs continue along this line. However, increasingly by the 1950s one registers hybridity of a different sort, which signals a rupture between a symbolic order of Soviet culture and everyday experience.

 

Słowa kluczowe: sowiecka fotografia studyjna, ciało, norma kulturowa, hybrydyzacja

 

Kiedy zostaje na ciebie nakierowany obiektyw, plecy same się prostują.

Z przypadkiem podsłuchanej rozmowy

Sztuki wizualne, w tym również fotografia, przedstawiają epokę sowiecką w sposób niepozostawiający wątpliwości. Rozpoznajemy ją w pewnych wzorach, zaczerpniętych z codzienności detalach, sposobach fotografowania. Materiał, na który chciałabym zwrócić uwagę, znajduje się na peryferiach sowieckiej kultury wizualnej. Jednak właśnie owa peryferyjna pozycja pozwala postawić pytania o reżimy ciała w kulturze radzieckiej, które na podstawie innych, popularniejszych źródeł nie dają się tak jednoznacznie sformułować.

Na tle już istniejących znaczeń i praktyk kulturowych pojawiają się te, które rozpoznajemy jako sowieckie, sądząc, iż za tym określeniem kryje się pewna treść ideologiczna lub odwołanie do doświadczenia kolektywnego, wychodzącego poza ramy ideologii. Fotografia to jedna z tych sfer, w których prowadzone są aktywne poszukiwania nowych języków wizualnych,[2] przy jednoczesnym istnieniu starszych konwencji. Styl fotografii studyjnej okazuje się konstrukcją wyjątkowo stabilną. Na zdjęciach z lat trzydziestych wciąż pojawiają się rekwizyty i tła z czasów przedrewolucyjnych (w latach dwudziestych takie ujęcia były jeszcze bardziej rozpowszechnione). Wpływ fotografii studyjnej widoczny jest również w metodach pracy profesjonalistów wykonujących zdjęcia indywidualne i grupowe w scenerii zakładów pracy i instytucji edukacyjnych. Czy jest to cecha specyficzna dla fotografii radzieckiej? Co kryje się za tymi praktykami?

Fotografię studyjną wyróżnia ścisła konwencja, na którą składają się: określony zestaw póz, sztuczne oświetlenie, namalowane tło, rekwizyty. Nie nalezy jednak mówić o tym typie fotografii jako bardziej inscenizowanym lub archaicznym w porównaniu z innymi jej rodzajami, lecz przeciwnie – podkreślać, iż umowność, szczególnie widoczna w fotografii studyjnej, jest właściwa dla natury całego medium. „Realność”, „prawdziwość” fotografii to cechy charakteryzujące nie obraz, a mechanizmy percepcji. Czynniki, które sprawiają, że odbieramy zdjęcie w określony sposób i nadajemy mu znaczenie, są liczne, płynne i należą do różnych porządków, na przykład technicznego, estetycznego czy władzy. Badaczowi fotografii zależy natomiast na pokazaniu specyficznego charakteru umowności wizerunku na konkretnych przypadkach.

Cechy obrazu, wspólne dla wszystkich rodzajów omawianej sztuki, związane są z pojmowaniem jej jako praktyki wizualnej społeczeństwa nowoczesnego – nowego antropologicznego porządku miejskiej „współczesności”.[3] W swojej pracy na temat dziewiętnastowiecznych sposobów postrzegania Jonathan Crary dowodzi, że wynalezienie fotografii było jednym z elementów zasadniczej zmiany praktyk wizualnych, jaka miała miejsce w latach 1820–1830. Mimo iż w teoriach optycznych tego czasu widzenie indywidualne staje się przedmiotem bacznej uwagi, opisywane ono jest jednak w kategoriach, które obejmują pomiar i porównanie, dlatego też podmioty spojrzenia stają się wzajemnie zastępowalne, a widzenie podlega uniwersalizacji.[4] Masowe powielanie obrazów fotograficznych sprawiło, że większość populacji świata zachodniego stało się nosicielami tego nowego, zuniwersalizowanego spojrzenia. To właśnie do rejestrowanych na kliszy obrazów odnoszą się pojęcia „świadectwa” oraz „dokumentu”. Nieprzypadkowo nowe medium szybko staje się narzędziem różnorodnej państwowej kontroli nad ciałami – policyjnej, psychiatrycznej czy medycznej – gdyż związek fotografii z różnorodnymi strategiami władzy jest o wiele ściślejszy, niż jesteśmy przyzwyczajeni myśleć. Jak zauważa John Tagg: „rzeczywistym jest nie tylko przedmiot fizyczny, ale także system dyskursywny, w którym obraz gra określoną rolę”.[5]

Fotografia studyjna całkowicie wpisuje się w ów reżim wizualny współczesności. Stwarza ona możliwość posiadania i reprodukcji własnej podobizny przez osoby dotychczas tej możliwości pozbawione. Jednak już sposób prezentacji postaci w fotografii studyjnej jest dość tradycyjny. Wzorcem staje się ciało „arystokratyczne”.

W XIX wieku tak same ciała, jak wyobrażenia o nich ulegają zasadniczej transformacji, który to proces wpisuje się w powstanie reżimu „współczesności”. Stulecie to cechuje ustanowienie podstawowym modelem ciała „uniwersalnego”. Nowej kategorii nie należy rozumieć jako przydatność do różnorodnych zadań – chociaż to okaże się jednym ze skutków – lecz jako wartość możliwą do przypisania wszystkim ludziom. Przyjmuje się bowiem, że każde ciało może zostać scharakteryzowane za pomocą tych samych, uniwersalnych kategorii, co na przykład ma miejsce w rozwijającej się wówczas intensywnie medycynie. Należy zaznaczyć, że pojęcie uniwersalności nie zakłada identyczności ciał, jednak różnice nabierają znaczenia dopiero wewnątrz określonego systemu wartości nakładanego na ogół. W powyższym schemacie ciału uniwersalnemu przeciwstawione zostaje to wyróżniające się, dla którego odrębność stanowi zasadniczy warunek istnienia. W efekcie na samym ciele właśnie zostają zapisane różnice, przede wszystkim socjalne. Stanowe, „arystokratyczne” ciało należy do wyróżniających się. Właśnie ten typ poddał analizie Norbert Elias w pracach poświęconych rycerstwu i arystokracji dworskiej w Europie.[6] Badacz opisał stopniowy proces postępującej „kultywacji” ciał przedstawicieli klas uprzywilejowanych, zaczynając od ograniczenia w publicznych sytuacjach różnorakich form wydalania substancji biologicznych jak siąkanie czy spluwanie, a kończąc na wprowadzeniu skomplikowanych norm zachowania.

Ciało arystokratyczne staje się synonimem wyrafinowania, poddawane zostaje długotrwałym i uporządkowanym praktykom dyscyplinującym – nauka norm właściwego zachowania w różorodnych sytuacjach jak na przykład taniec, fechtunek czy jazda konna – kształtującym w efekcie całościowy kod. Co szczególnie ważne w kontekście naszych rozważań, jest to jedyny rozwinięty kod cielesny rozpoznawany przez inne grupy społeczne i służący dla nich za punkt odniesienia. Z tego punktu widzenia nie można mówić o różnych kodach cielesnych.. Kulturę cielesną ma tylko jedna grupa, inne są jej pozbawione – podobnie jak za towarzystwo uważa się dobre towarzystwo, a za człowieka uznaje się osobę przyzwoicie ubraną i dobrze wychowaną. Dlatego też nie przez przypadek wzorcem dla fotografii studyjnej stało się ciało arystokratyczne. Idea ciała uniwersalnego nie tylko zastępuje ideę ciała wyróżniającego się, lecz również to wyróżniające się zostaje włączone do grona wzorców uniwersalnych.

Idea ciała uniwersalnego realizuje się także na innych niż fotografia obszarach. Nauki przyrodnicze i społeczne były podstawowym źródłem nowej wiedzy o ludzkim organizmie, popularyzowanej przez higienistów. Organizowali oni wykłady, a także publikowali w prasie artykuły propagujące nowe zasady pielęgnacji i hartowania oraz ćwiczenia gimnastyczne.[7] Równolegle popularnością cieszyły się „podręczniki dobrych manier”, lansujące wśród szerokiego kręgu odbiorców praktyki cielesne kultury szlacheckiej.[8] W rezultacie wzorce tak na poziomie dyskursów, jak i konkretnych praktyk ulegały krzyżowaniu i hybrydyzacji. Na przykład stosowany wobec ciał „arystokratycznych” wymóg utrzymywania właściwej postawy nie był związany z ideą zdrowia i wpływu pozycji kręgosłupa na funkcjonowanie organów wewnętrznych. Określenia „postawa prawidłowa” albo „postawa naturalna” nie miały praktycznie sensu w kulturze arystokratycznej. Istotne jest jednak, że oba dyskursy – dotyczący dobrych manier i zdrowia – zorientowane były na normę, a postawa ciała w jednym i drugim najczęściej określana była przez wskazanie wad. Podobnie wysoki poziom regulacji charakteryzuje dyskurs moralny, równie rozpowszechniony w XIX wieku, który zaczyna utożsamiać ze stanem moralności postawę. Jej wady u człowieka zaczynają być interpretowane jako świadectwo zepsucia moralnego. Schemat ten okaże się aktualny również w sowieckich normatywnych wyobrażeniach o ciele. Opieranie się o ściany, rozwalanie się na krześle czy trzymanie rąk w kieszeniach uważano za zachowanie niepożądane jeszcze w latach osiemdziesiątych.[9]

Podobne efekty praktyk hybrydowych można zaobserwować również w fotografii studyjnej. W tym wypadku nie można mówić jednak o mieszaniu się wzorców, lecz o skomplikowanym procesie włączania do normy, swoistej „przymiarki” odrębnej kultury cielesnej.

Poza. Fotografia studyjna wzoruje się na portrecie malarskim, stąd podobnie jak on odnosi swoje kody do norm ciała arystokratycznego. Najbardziej charakterystyczną oznaką tego mechanizmu jest postawa, którą winny utrzymywać postaci. Decyduje tu jednak już nie norma arystokratycznego kodu cielesnego, lecz reżim sprowadzający wszystkie ciała do jednego wzorca. Fakt, że staje się nim ciało arystokratyczne – jak już wskazywałam – nie jest przypadkowy, ale też nie wydaje się kluczowy. Ciało arystokratyczne staje się bowiem jednym z możliwych sposobów uniwersalnego kształtowania. Znaczenie paradygmatu ciała wyrafinowanego nie zatraca się całkowicie, stale towarzyszy mu natomiast kontrola, potrzeba doprowadzenia ciała do normy – jeżeli fotografia przedstawia kilka osób, ich rozmieszczenie jest bardzo charakterystyczne: para czy też grupa tworzy zazwyczaj dwupoziomową kompozycję. Postaci rzadko się dotykają, a jeżeli ma to miejsce, najczęściej oznacza pokrewieństwo. Na portretach indywidualnych równie często spotyka się pozycję siedzącą, jak stojącą, ale w większości przypadków obecny jest element służący za podparcie dla ciała. Ludzie występują w swoim najlepszych, odświętnych ubraniach. Czasem, aby osiągnąć pożądany efekt, używane są studyjne rekwizyty. Dla wielu osób fotografowanie się w studiach w drugiej połowie XIX i na początku XX wieku jest doświadczeniem „cudzego” ciała.[10]

Spojrzenie. Oglądając ówczesne zdjęcia studyjne współcześni widzowie często zwracają uwagę na wyraz twarzy: pełen napięcia, niekiedy prawie szalony, zwłaszcza dzieci mają nierzadko półotwarte usta. Błędem byłoby jednak na tej podstawie wnioskować o stanie psychicznym osoby na zdjęciu. Owego szcczególnego wyrazu nie należy tłumaczyć też niezwykłością sytuacji czy też długim czasem naświetlania. W fotografii studyjnej ciało traktowane jest integralnie,[11] twarzy nie podkreśla się nadmiernie i – w odróżnieniu od pozy – nie pracuje się z nią. Istotne jest kanoniczne ustawienie spojrzenia do kamery, które nie przewiduje jednak spotkania wzroku portretowanego i widza. Warto przy okazji dodać, że z twarzą i spojrzeniem od początku pracuje fotografia artystyczna – stosując jednorodne tło, modelowanie twarzy światłocieniem, skierowany poza kadr wzrok – a następnie kino. Obecność tych „dziwnych” wyrazów twarzy w fotografii studyjnej wskazuje na mieszanie się praktyk cielesnych. Człowiek o „arystokratycznym” ciele powinien bowiem umieć kontrolować nie tylko postawę, ale i wyraz twarzy i być przyzwyczajony do stanowienia obiektu spojrzenia.[12]

Tło. Horyzont, meble i rekwizyty – kapelusze, cylindry, laski, czasami także płaszcze, książki czy bukieciki kwiatów – odgrywają ważną rolę w fotografii studyjnej. Co więcej, ciało o doskonałych manierach nabiera pełni znaczenia tylko w odpowiedniej scenografii. Jest ona umowna, odsyła nie tyle do rzeczywistości, co do symbolicznego języka portretu. Z czasem tworzące ją przedmioty stają się coraz bardziej eklektyczne. Malowana tapeta, pełniąca funkcję tła, wiąże się z praktyką wypoczynku na łonie przyrody oraz podróżowania, które przez długi czas pozostawało przywilejem nielicznych. Dlatego też za tło najczęściej służą motywy egzotyczne: tropikalny las, stylizowane na antyczne ruiny, szczyty górskie itd. (zdarza się także wykorzystywanie motywów lokalnych). Zdumiewa stałość skojarzeń łączących fotografię z przyrodą – tradycja fotografowania się z kwiatami (bukiety w wazonach czy kwiaty w doniczkach) na tle tropikalnych lub kwitnących krzewów i drzew przetrwała niemal do naszych czasów.

Należy jednak podkreślić, że właściwy fotografii studyjnej reżim cielesny nie tylko utrwala się na światłoczułej błonie fotograficznej, ale także odciska się w ciałach. O ile początkowo pozy ustawia fotograf, o tyle stopniowo ludzie zaczynają odtwarzać postawę i kontekst z sytuacji fotografowania poza studiem.[13]

Do bardziej szczegółowej analizy wybrałam kilka przykładów sowieckiej fotografii studyjnej. W pewnym sensie można uznać je za reprezentacyjne, a precyzyjniej mówiąc należą one do jednego gatunku, jednak każdy przedstawia określony punkt na osi hybrydowych praktyk cielesnych. Równie ważne jest to, co łączy te ujęcia (należy zauważyć, że samo wykonanie zdjęcia w studiu nie jest niezbędnym warunkiem do zaklasyfikowania go jako fotografii studyjnej), jak i to, co czyni je wyjątkowymi (znaczącym może okazać się każdy szczegół).

Wybór fotografii studyjnej jako obiektu analizy w kontekście kultury ciała wydaje się trafny w szczególności dlatego, że pozwala sproblematyzować granicę między „sowieckim” i „przedsowieckim” okresami. Charakterystyczna jest swoista dziedziczność w procesach transformacji praktyk cielesnych (widoczna również w stylistyce ujęć) okresów przedrewolucyjnego i przedwojennego. Poczynając od pierwszych lat XX wieku,[14] coraz częściej spotyka się fotografie, na których ciała poddane są ewidentnie nienaturalnemu dla fotografowanych reżimowi, co zdradza ubiór, ale nawet częściej poza. Wynika to stąd, że krótki czas przygotowania do zdjęcia znacząco utrudnia precyzyjne ustawienie postaci. Na postawę składa się nie tylko ogólny zarys sylwetki, pozycja kręgosłupa (pleców), ale i też ułożenie poszczególnych części ciała jak głowa czy ręce. W pozie nabiera znaczenia każdy szczegół i zauważalne są nawet drobne odchylenia od norm.

Nieprecyzyjne „trafienie w postawę” dobrze widoczne jest na dwóch pierwszych zdjęciach. Pierwsze z nich[15] pochodzi jeszcze z okresu przedrewolucyjnego, z około 1910 roku. Przedstawia młodą kobietę ubraną w odświętną sukienkę, której elegancję podkreśla rzadko spotykany przedmiot – kobiecy zegarek w charakterze broszki. Mimo słabego stanu zachowania fotografii dobrze widoczny jest entourage studia, w którym tło ma imitować eleganckie wnętrze. Interesująca jest tu korelacja między stolikiem z bukietem kwiatów namalowanym na tapecie i tym, o który opiera się kobieta  na pierwszym planie. Rośliny pełnią tu funkcję nie tylko ozdoby, ale i atrybutu niewinności. Samo ustawienie postaci jednak zdradza doświadczenie cielesne nieprzystające do wykreowanego w studiu otoczenia. Kobieta na zdjęciu ewidentnie nie jest przyzwyczajona do pozowania. Ma lekko opuszczoną głowę, co wystarcza by zmienić wyraz całej pozy, a także stworzyć wrażenie chmurnego spojrzenia. Celem tej obserwacji nie jest podkreślenie wyższości osób posiadających konkretną kulturę cielesną, tylko ujawnienie norm obowiązujących w fotografii studyjnej oraz skomplikowanych stosunków pomiędzy nimi i człowiekiem w studiu.

Na drugim, pochodzącym z 1935 roku zdjęciu[16] nie widać studia jako takiego – za tło służy kotara, studyjne meble zastępuje zwykłe krzesło. Z pewnością jednak także w tym przypadku przygotowywano się pieczołowicie do wydarzenia, jakim był akt fotografowania. Wizerunek odtwarza kompozycję charakterystyczną dla podwójnego portretu studyjnego. Kobieta prezentuje się odświętnie, jednak uroczysty charakter jej ubioru potraktowany jest w sposób uproszczony, główną ozdobą czyniąc biały kołnierzyk bluzki. Strój mężczyzny ma z kolei na celu podkreślenie jego statusu społecznego; zwraca na niego uwagę zwłaszcza teczka, którą postać trzyma w ręce. W kontekście fotografii studyjnej przedmiot ten zmienia się niemal w atrybut.

Na zdjęciach z pierwszej połowy XX wieku trudno znaleźć rażące odstępstwa od póz normatywnych, dają się jednak zauważyć liczne drobne rozbieżności, na przykład w kierunku spojrzenia, ułożeniu rąk czy korpusu. Na ową dynamikę normy i odchylenia od niej wpłynęły skomplikowane procesy społeczne, które ukształtowały ciała „nowych mieszczan”. Przemiany urbanizacyjne zachodziły w Rosji (i nie tylko tam, oczywiście) już przed rewolucją, a kontynuowane były także po niej. Do analizy polityki ciała w kulturze sowieckiej lat dwudziestych i trzydziestych szczególnie użyteczne jest zastosowanie koncepcji „procesu cywilizacji” Norberta Eliasa.[17] Zdaniem niektórych badaczy najbardziej charakterystyczny sowiecki typ antropologiczny stanowią niedawni chłopi, w krótkim czasie przechodzący cielesną i społeczną transformację, która u przedstawicieli klas uprzywilejowanych przebiegała przez stulecia. Niemniej należy podkreślić, że w Rosji problematyka nabywania nowej kultury cielesnej – przyswajania zasad higieny i kontroli nad ciałem – była obecna także przed rewolucją, oraz że jeszcze w drugiej połowie XIX wieku procesy te przebiegały z opóźnieniem w porównaniu do krajów zachodnich. Nie oznacza to deprecjonowania specyfiki kultury sowieckiej, pozwala jednak zadać pytanie, jak w wariancie sowieckim wyglądał „proces cywilizacji”, jaka była w nim rola państwa oraz elit, jakie obierano wzorce i gdzie miały one źródła oraz o sposób przekazywania tych norm.

Ciekawym komentarzem do sowieckiej fotografii studyjnej jest typologicznie bliski drugiemu analizowanemu przeze mnie zdjęciu obraz Fiodora Bogorockiego Fotografują się w atelier (1932)[18]. Artysta dobrze oddaje tu eklektyczność fotografii studyjnej – egzotyczne tło, spojrzenia w różnych kierunkach, nieco spiętą pozę kobiety. Na płótnie najciekawsza jest jednak figura marynarza-rewolucjonisty, postaci często występującej w pracach Bogorockiego z tamtego okresu (Marynarze w zasadce, 1927–1928; Braciszek, 1932). Pojawienie się takiego bohatera na fotografii rodzinnej jest, jeżeli nie całkiem niewiarygodne, to przynajmniej dziwne. Malarz przypuszczalnie świadomie zamienia wzorce symboliczne – norma cielesna zastępowana jest przez normę ideologiczną. W tym kontekście niezwykle ważne jest, że artysta łączy styl fotografii studyjnej z ideą normatywności, oraz że stosowane przez niego zastępowanie norm wydaje się skuteczne. Pozwala to przypuszczać, iż w kulturze radzieckiej każdy pozytywny wzorzec – niezależnie od źródła, z jakiego jest zapożyczony – nabiera pozytywnego znaczenia ideologicznego.

Nieco inny przykład „przyswajania” wizerunku studyjnego, włączania go do radzieckiego porządku społecznego przedstawia trzecie ujęcie pochodzące z 1929 roku.[19] Biorąc pod uwagę pozy, ubrania, buty i fryzury kobiet, a także ogólną kompozycję grupy, zdjęcie bliskie jest wzorcowi. Dobrze zachowana jest także scenografia. Nic nie charakteryzuje ani samego zdjęcia, ani ukazanych na nim osób jako przynależnych do kultury sowieckiej, jednak z poświadczonego stemplem podpisu na odwrocie dowiadujemy się, że fotografia przedstawia grupę pracownic moskiewskiej fabryki Izolator. Charakterystyczna jest także forma inskrypcji – pełna data wykonania, sposób zapisu danych osobowych (nazwisko i inicjały).[20]

W sowieckiej kulturze cielesnej istotne jest nie pochodzenie wzorca, lecz stopień jego normatywności. Świadomość tego mechanizmu pozwala inaczej spojrzeć na tezę o powrocie wartości „burżuazyjnych” oraz znaczeniu idei „kulturalności” w połowie lat trzydziestych.[21] Bardziej niż z powrotem, mamy tu do czynienia z kontynuacją, gdyż analogiczne normy higieny, dobrych manier, poziomu wykształcenia czy codziennych zachowań funkcjonowały już w latach dwudziestych, chociaż możliwość ich realizacji znajdowała się poza zasięgiem większości społeczeństwa. Proces ten nie polegał również na uprzywilejowaniu wartości burżuazyjnych jako wyróżniającego się, dynamicznego wzorca. Przeciwnie, ówczesna idea kulturalności zakłada znaczną redukcję tego, jak rozumiano bycie kulturalnym. Co więcej jest to redukcja podwójna – w XX wieku wyobrażenia o ogładzie zostają sprowadzone głównie do powierzchowności; stylu ubioru czy sposobu wysławiania się. Z drugiej strony idei kulturalności lat trzydziestych i okresu późniejszego brakuje zdefiniowanego w sposób kompletny kanonu wyrafinowania. Zarówno w stosunku do wyglądu, jak i wykształcenia oraz manier wystąpienie jednego elementu wystarcza, by zostać zinterpretowane jako realizacja całego wzorca. Przykładowo elegancję reprezentuje pojedynczy detal – u kobiet zazwyczaj są to broszka albo naszyjnik, koronkowy kołnierzyk czy fryzura.[22]

Wielu badaczy zwraca uwagę na nową tendencję, jaką w połowie lat trzydziestych staje się dążenie do normalności; nie w sensie normatywności lecz w znaczeniu zwyczajnego, powtarzalnego stylu życia. Nie można jednak zapominać, że nawet w rozumieniu ideału owa normalność odnosi się do niepełnego wzorca i jest skorelowana z kategoriami prawidłowości, oceny oraz opinii zewnętrznej.

Zakończę te rozważania analizą ostatniej fotografii – wykonanej, jak wskazuje podpis u dołu, w Odessie w 1956 roku.[23] Ponieważ właściciel nie przekazał dodatkowych informacji, musimy polegać na samym wizerunku. Ujęcie to zdaje się w pełni oddawać specyfikę sowieckiej fotografii studyjnej, którą cechuje występowanie nieprzystających do siebie elementów. Jednak w odróżnieniu od poprzednio omawianych zdjęć, w tym wypadku owe cielesne i wizualne hybrydowe znaki nie oznaczają już transformacji, zmiany. Należałoby raczej odnotować, że został tu ustalony pewien porządek, w którym dziwna niedokończoność wizualnych i cielesnych gestów nabiera znamion normalności. Przypuszczalnie, na co wskazuje podpis w rogu, nie jest to pojedyncza fotografia – w widocznym na niej zaimprowizowanym studiu mogły zostać wykonane portrety innych osób. W takim wypadku sama sytuacja fotografowania czyni człowieka członkiem określonej grupy, co stanowi wyróżniającą cechę sowieckiej fotografii studyjnej, zwłaszcza powojennej. Funkcjonalnie ten rodzaj rejestracji na kliszach wykazuje podobieństwo do spisu nazwisk na odwrocie trzeciego z omawianych zdjęć. W powojennej sowieckiej fotografii studyjnej[24] istnieje specyficzny gatunek będący szerszą reprezentacją owego mechanizmu. Składają się nań tablice pamiątkowe wykonywane dorocznie lub na okoliczność wręczania dyplomów w placówkach oświatowych wszystkich szczebli. Portrety indywidualne wraz z podpisami (zawsze w określonym porządku – nazwisko i inicjały) tworzą zbiorową kompozycję. Albumy sowieckich obywateli wypełnione są zestawieniami, na które składa się zdjęcie indywidualne oraz grupy lub klasy.

Analizowany wizerunek został wykonany na klatce schodowej, która pełni funkcję wspomnianego zaimprowizowanego studia. Najprawdopodobniej po lewej stronie znajduje się będące źródłem światła okno. Kwiat w doniczce, ustawiony na wysokim kwietniku przybranym nieodzowną serwetką, zastępuje malowane tło z tropikalną gęstwiną. Uroczystego charakteru fotografii nadają reprezentacyjne schody i odświętność stroju kobiety, która nosi broszkę, buty na obcasie i trzyma w ręku małą torebkę. Jednak znów reprezentacja eleganckiej cielesności ulega tu ograniczeniu. Sukienka jest nieco pomięta, włosy nie zostały starannie ułożone, rajstopy nie pasują do wyjściowej sukienki. Należy jednak podkreślić, że ani specyficzna sceneria ani wygląd kobiety nie są niedostateczne w kontekście kultury sowieckiej. Podobnie jak wystąpienie jednego elementu jest tu traktowane jako równoważne z pewną wzorcową całością, tak tego typu zdjęcie może funkcjonować jako pełnowartościowa fotografia studyjna.

Wreszcie spojrzenie – kobieta patrzy w obiektyw, przez co widz spotyka się z nią wzrokiem. Niewątpliwie widoczny jest tu wpływ innych stylów portretowych, takich jak fotografia amatorska, które zwracają uwagę na indywidualny wyraz twarzy. W rezultacie zdjęcie dokonuje podwójnego adresowania. Efektem studyjnej sytuacji fotografowania jest neutralne, „publiczne” spojrzenie, podczas gdy ukierunkowanie wzroku kobiety wskazuje na prywatny, osobisty charakter obrazu. To zresztą kolejna cecha charakterystyczna sowieckiej fotografii studyjnej, która częstokroć odzwierciedla doświadczenie indywidualne.

Podsumowując, należy podkreślić, że wyróżnikami fotografii studyjnej w ogóle, jako specyficznej formy reprezentacji wizualnej, nie są sceneria studia ani osoba wykonującego zdjęcie profesjonalisty, lecz założenie – tak przez fotografa, jak i modela – wysokiego stopnia normatywności w wyobrażeniach o ciele i orientacji na wzorzec. Z kolei cechą specyficzną dla fotografii studyjnej obszaru sowieckiego jest istnienie wyraźnie zaznaczonego wzorca, przy jego jednoczesnej ograniczonej realizacji. Charakterystyczny dla tego kręgu kulturowego jest również złożony sposób budowania tożsamości postaci na zdjęciu, w ramach którego określenia „kolektywne” i „osobiste” („publiczne” i „prywatne”) nie przeciwstawiają się sobie, lecz wzajemnie się określają.

Tłumaczenie: Anastasia Nabokina

 

 

[1] Artykuł z książki Империя света: фотография как визуальная практика эпохи „современности”, (Москва: Новое Литературное Обозрение) (2011). Tłumaczenie z języka rosyjskiego Anastasia Nabokina.

[2] Zob. artykuły Р. Сарторти, Е. Доренко, Г. Орловой, Е. Деготь, Б. Гройса w: Советская власть и медиа, red. Х. Гюнтер, С. Хэнсген, (С.-Петербург: Академический проект) (2005), s. 145–227.

[3] Dobrym wprowadzeniem do zagadnienia jest książka Quetina Bajaca: Q. Bajac, LImage révélée. Linvention de la photographie, (Paris: Gallimard – Découvertes) (2001).

[4] J. Crary, Techniques of the Observer. On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century, (Cambridge: MIT Press) (1990).

[5] J. Tagg, The Burden of Representation: Essay on Photographies and Histories, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press) (1993), s. 4.

[6] N. Elias, O procesie cywilizacji. Analizy socjo- i psychogenetyczne, tłum. T. Zabłudowski, K. Markiewicz, (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo W.A.B.) (2011).

[7] Zob. na przykład: В.П. Жуковский, Гигиена семьи и обиходной жизни доктора, (С.-Петербург) (1893).

[8] Zob. na przykład: zbiór porad i wskazówek na różne okazje w życiu rodzinnym i publicznym: jak zachowywać się w towarzystwie na chrzcie, imieninach, ślubach, jubileuszach, proszonych obiadach, balach, rautach, spacerach, w teatrze, na maskaradach itd. (А. Якобсон, Правила светской жизни и этикета. Хороший тон, Типо-Литография, (С.-Петербург) (1889). Reprint: (Москва: РИПОЛ), (1991)).

[9] Jak pokazuje O. Bułgakowa, ważnym pośrednikiem w przyswajaniu i utrwaleniu tych wyobrażeń było kino. Zob. О. Булгакова, Фабрика жестов, (Москва: Новое Литературное Обозрение) (2005).

[10] Oczywiście istnieje również wiele zdjęć osób, których kultura ciała w studiu i poza nim nie różniły się. Jednak to właśnie przypadki niedopasowania jaskrawo uwidaczniają reżim cielesny fotografii studyjnej. Zdjęcie studyjne kogoś o arystokratycznej kulturze cielesnej jest w jakimś stopniu tautologią. Nieprzypadkowo w tym środowisku rozpowszechnia się fotografia amatorska, gdyż jego reprezentantom szczególnie łatwo przychodzi odejście od zwyczajowych póz.

[11] Za zwrócenie uwagi na ten fakt wyrażam wdzięczność Konstantynowi Bogdanowowi.

[12] Por. О.Б. Вайнштейн, Денди: мода, литература, стиль жизни, (Москва: Новое Литературное Обозрение) (2006), s. 145–148.

[13] Szczególnie interesujące są pozy przyjmowane na przedrewolucyjnych fotografiach grupowych, kiedy nie było możliwości kontrolowania ustawienia każdego człowieka – niektórzy zachowują cielesny kanon w całości, inni zmieniają ją całkowicie lub częściowo.

[14] Temat ten wymaga dodatkowej analizy, gdyż rosyjska fotografia studyjna w ogóle jest słabo zbadanym obszarem.

[15] Zdjęcie z archiwum rodzinny Batałowych (Samara). Dzięki uprzejmości autorki artykułu.

[16] Zdjęcie z archiwum rodziny Woroncowych. Dzięki uprzejmości autorki artykułu.

[17] N.S. Timasheff, The Great Retreat. The Growth and Decline of Communism in Russia, (New York: E.P. Duton & Company) (1946); V.S. Dunham, In Stalin’s Time. Middleclass Values in Soviet Fiction, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) (1976); C. Kelly, Refining Russia. Advice Literature, Polite Culture, and Gender from Catherine to Yeltsin, (New York: Oxford University Press) (2001); О. Булгакова, Фабрика жестов…, dz. cyt.

[18] Tę pracę, jak i inne obrazy Bogorockiego, można zobaczyć na stronie wirtualnego muzeum Masłowka – Miasto Malarzy (Масловка – Городок Художников): http://www.maslovka.org/modules.php?name=Content&pa=showpage&pid=73 (dostęp 20 lutego 2018)).

[19] Zdjęcie z kolekcji autorki artykułu, kupione na pchlim targu niedaleko stacji Mark w Moskwie w 2007 r. Dzięki uprzejmości autorki artykułu.

[20] Podobne zdjęcia zostały przedstawione na wystawie „Fotografia i dokument. 1880–1950” w ramach Fotobiennale 2006.

[21] S. Fitzpatrick, “Becoming cultured. Socialist realism and the representation of privilege and taste”, [w:] tejże, The Cultural Front. Power and Culture in Revolutionary Russia, (New York: Cornell University Press) (1992); В.В. Волков, “Концепция культурности, 1935-1938 годы: Советская цивилизация и повседневность сталинского времени”, Социологический журнал 1–2 (1996), s. 203–221; Н.Н. Козлова, “Социально-историческая антропология”, (Москва: Ключ-С) (1999), s. 151–169.

[22] Por. „jeżeli Rosjanka zapragnie wyglądać szykownie, to nie pójdzie ani do krawca, ani do sklepu po ubranie, tylko skieruje się prosto do fryzjera” (О.Б. Вайнштейн, “Улыбка чеширского кота: взгляд на российскую модницу”, [w:] Женщина и визуальные знаки, red. А. Альчук, (Москва: Идея-Пресс) (2000), s. 38).

[23] Zdjęcie z archiwum rodziny fotografa Olega Jakowlewa. Publikowane dzięki uprzejmości autorki artykułu.

[24] Rodzaj kolażu fotograficznego nie jest nowy, pojawia się on już w XIX wieku.

Oko artysty. Fenomenologia zmysłów w filmie Młyn i krzyż Lecha Majewskiego [Polish]

Iwona Grodź

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1, pp. 13-26.

 

Iwona Grodź

Uniwersytet im. Adama Mickiewicza w Poznaniu

 

 

 

Oko artysty. Fenomenologia zmysłów w filmie Młyn i krzyż Lecha Majewskiego

 

Abstrakt

Tematem artykułu jest tajemnica widzenia „zaszyfrowana” w filmie Lecha Majewskiego Młyn i krzyż (2010) oraz obrazie Pietera Bruegla z 1564 roku: Droga krzyżowa, który był dlań inspiracją – analizowana w różnych kontekstach, odsłonach, planach, poziomach, relacjach. Tajemnica widzenia dzieła sztuki rozumiana jest bardzo szeroko, ale przede wszystkim jako „wartość dodana” do tego, co pierwotnie podlegało oglądowi, analizie, zestawieniu. To, co jest wypowiedzią metatekstową wobec, zarówno wypowiedzi malarza, jak i reżysera. Jest także autorską interpretacją wskazanego materiału wizualnego.

The subject of the article is the mystery of vision “encrypted” Pieter Bruegel’s 1564 painting: The Way of the Cross and in inspired by it Lech Majewski’s film Mill and Cross (2010) where he analyses Bruegel’s painting . in different contexts. The practice of seeing a work of art is understood very broadly, but above all as “added value” to the primal act to viewing, analysis, compilation. It is a metatextual statement to both the painter’s and the director’s works. It is also an original interpretation of the indicated visual material.

 

Słowa kluczowe: zmysły i kino, Lech Majewski, Młyn i krzyż, Pieter Bruegel

Keywords: senses and cinema, Lech Majewski, Mill and cross, Pieter Bruegel

 

 

 

To zadziwiające, że obraz jest trwalszy od ciała, ślad trwalszy od życia, tak jakby całe skomplikowane królestwo tkanek, komórek, cząsteczek i atomów wzrastało jedynie, aby się rozpaść, a ślad, zaledwie kilka reakcji elektromagnetycznych na cienkim pasku taśmy – trwa[1].

Czyż sztuka nie jest najbliższa tajemnicy poznania wszechrzeczy? Lech Majewski powiedział niegdyś, że wierzy filozofom, który twierdzą, iż to właśnie dzięki artystycznym przekazom „dosięgamy gwiazd”, zbliżamy się do metafizyki[2]. Do tego, co dla „oka pasywnego” – a więc takiego, które może być „widziane” przez innych – ukryte, a dla „aktywnego” – widzącego – jawne. Nie jest novum stwierdzenie, że oko zostało okiełznane, ujarzmione właśnie przez artystów, dzięki sztuce, która oku patrzącemu przydała świadomości, przemieniła w oko widzące i rozumiejące, w końcu – w oko miłujące[3]. Spowodowało to też bardzo ważne rozdzielenie ról w „dramacie widzenia” oraz zjawisko tzw. wymienności perspektyw, które zachodzi między:

  1. artystą‒autorem, którego oko jest zawsze okiem aktywnym, ale ukrytym w artystycznym przekazie lub za nim;
  2. bohaterem/bohaterami świata przedstawionego dzieła sztuki, którego/których oko – w zależności od zajmowanej pozycji czy etapu wewnętrznej przemiany – może być aktywne i ujawnione albo pasywne, również ukazane;
  3. widzem/widzami, którego/których postrzeganie może być pasywne, bo świadomie projektowane/modelowane (przyjęcie roli bohatera, choć będącego poza światem przedstawionym dzieła) albo aktywne i ujawnione (wejście w rolę „powtórzonego” artysty).

Wymienność perspektyw w dziele sztuki jest przedmiotem zainteresowania m.in. teoretyków zajmujących się zjawiskiem autobiografizmu, biografizmu i autotematyzmu[4]. W niej „zaszyfrowana” jest też metafizyka, gdyż to właśnie w ruchomych granicach między: „ja” empirycznym, porte-parole i „ja” sylleptycznym[5] – ukryte jest „oko metafizyczne” artysty‒autora. Magdalena Podsiadło przypomniała te trzy typy wypowiedzi autobiograficznej i wyjaśniła je, odwołując się do literaturoznawczych badań Ireny Skwarek i Jerzego Smulskiego[6]:

  1. porte-parole – „wycofanie się autora z diegezy i umieszczenie w niej swojego reprezentanta”, tworzy się wówczas relacja nazwana: „związkiem podobieństwa”, objawia się ona przede wszystkim w świecie fikcji, a preferowaną formą jest: „wyznanie”[7];
  2. „ja” empiryczne – „będzie dążyć do zachowania tożsamości między bohaterem, narratorem oraz bohaterem”, powstaje wówczas „związek tożsamości”, typowy dla dokumentu, filmowej awangardy, dla których preferowaną formą jest „świadectwo” (głównie za sprawą wprowadzenia do filmu samego reżysera)[8];
  3. „ja” sylleptyczne – „będzie starało się wprowadzić osobę autora do opowiadania, a równocześnie zaprzeczyć jego tożsamości z twórcą”, tworzy się wówczas „związek autentyczności towarzyszącej niepodobieństwu”, typowy dla filmowej fikcji łączonej z rzeczywistością, standardowo przybiera on formę „wyzwania”[9].

Tematem artykułu jest więc przede wszystkim tajemnica widzenia – „zaszyfrowana” w filmie Lecha Majewskiego Młyn i krzyż (2010) oraz obrazie Pietera Bruegla z 1564 roku: Droga krzyżowa, który był inspiracją dla reżysera – analizowana w różnych kontekstach, odsłonach, planach, poziomach, relacjach. Tajemnica widzenia dzieła sztuki rozumiana jest bardzo szeroko, ale przede wszystkim jako „wartość dodana” do tego, co pierwotnie podlegało oglądowi i analizie. Artykuł jest zatem wypowiedzią metatekstową wobec zarówno wypowiedzi malarza, jak i reżysera. Jest także autorską interpretacją wskazanego materiału wizualnego.

***

W kontekście omawianego filmu ważny jest niewątpliwie temat, a więc podjęcie zagadnienia percepcji sztuki i zmysłowego aspektu jej odbioru, który mniej lub bardziej łączy się z zagadnieniem autotematyzmu. Magdalena Podsiadło zauważyła, że „Artystyczna biografia – prawdziwa bądź fikcyjna – otwiera się na losy twórcy poddającego ją interpretacji. Nawet jeśli narracja nie odsłania autora dokonującego aktu wypowiadania, postać artysty staje się sygnałem kierującym uwagę odbiorcy w stronę twórcy filmowego obrazu”[10]. Często bywa tak, że „(…) dzieła i życiorysy konkretnych artystów zostały zagarnięte przez osobiste doświadczenie twórcy kinowego (jak w biografiach filmowych Szpilmana czy Caravaggia)”[11] – pisała Podsiadło. Wówczas „Losy reżysera i bohatera łączą się w subiektywnej interpretacji autora, tworząc złożoną, dopełniającą się wzajemnie wypowiedź na temat sztuki”[12]. To przypadek Młyna i krzyża[13]. Wspólnota twórców ujawnia się wówczas, gdy przyświecają im te same idee, np. artystycznej wolności, wiary w moc sztuki i wpływania za jej pośrednictwem na widzów[14]. Takie ustalenie przypomina o podwójnym kodowaniu na każdym poziomie dzieła artystycznego. Artysta‒reżyser (podmiot utworu) staje przed „wyzwaniem”, jakie stawia mu inny artysta. Mamy więc do czynienia z relacją: „oko aktywne artysty‒malarza” kontra „oka aktywne artysty‒reżysera”, dla którego to pierwsze było inspiracją, a więc zamieniło go także w odbiorcę. Tutaj ujawnia się kolejna podwójna płaszczyzna: oko aktywne, ale ukryte przechodzi metamorfozę i staje się okiem pasywnego, bo już ukrytego (modelowanego) odbiorcy. Artysta staje się również bohaterem – w Młynie i krzyżu pojawia się oko pasywnego, widzianego porte-parole: malarza (postać ze szkicownikiem w filmie) i reżysera (można założyć, że w jakiejś mierze jest nim młynarz). Takie spojrzenie umożliwia więc wskazanie dodatkowo oprócz – oka metafizycznego artysty – także oko metafizyczne bohatera filmu i oko metafizyczne projektowanego widza. Każdorazowo poszczególne role muszą być zestawione z innymi, żeby w sferze ich przenikania się można było zobaczyć tajemniczą nić związku-porozumienia, a więc:

  1. „oko” bohatera: bohater–artysta; bohater–inny bohater; bohater–widz.
  2. „oko” odbiorcy: widz–artysta; widz–inny widz; widz–bohater.

Uzasadnia to konieczność zadania pytania, czy sztuka komunikuje się z siłą wyższą. Odpowiedzi na nie udzielić może zaproponowanie spojrzenie na film Majewskiego przez pryzmat sensualny, uznanie, że to poznanie zmysłowe może uwrażliwić odbiorcę na pogłębione doznanie estetyczne, dzięki któremu możliwe są nie tylko przyjemność, ale i wyzwolenie, owa metafizyka. Potwierdza to także reżyser, który w 2002 roku przy okazji realizacji innego filmu: Ogród rozkoszy ziemskich (2004; dzieło zainspirowane obrazem innego znanego malarza – Hieronima Boscha) wydał książkę pod znamiennym tytułem Metafizyka. Warto ten fakt odnotować, bo choć dotyczy innego artystycznego wyzwania, innego czasu i „materiału analitycznego”, uświadamia, że odbiorców twórczości Majewskiego cechuje do pewnego stopnia wiara. Przeżycie estetyczne urasta w jego filmach do rangi zbawczego, metafizycznego fetyszu. W ten sposób również film utrwala życie, przeciwdziała zapominaniu, ale też jest narzędziem obnażającym okrutny mechanizm przemijania i śmierci[15].

Młyn i krzyż Lecha Majewskiego był projektem, który zabrał reżyserowi sporo czasu. Magdalena Lebecka przypomniała, że ta „filmowa próba wniknięcia w uniwersum obrazu Pietera Bruegla Starszego Droga na Kalwarię (olejny obraz na desce, obecnie znajdujący się w wiedeńskim muzeum Kunsthistorisches Museum), tylko na etapie postprodukcji zabrała reżyserowi aż dwa lata”[16]. Lebecka zauważyła, że „Można by przypuszczać, że eschatologiczna wizja Boscha wytyczyła drogę Majewskiego do Bruegla. Jednak tej hipotezy reżyser nie potwierdza. Przyznaje natomiast, że Petera Dziwnego zawsze zaliczał do artystów dla siebie najważniejszych”[17].Z propozycją współpracy, po obejrzeniu Angelusa (2001), pojawił się Michael Gibson – „uznany autorytet w dziedzinie flamandzkiego malarstwa”[18], który pragnął zrealizować film edukacyjny, dokumentalny na podstawie wydanej w wersji polsko-angielskiej książki Bruegel. Młyn i krzyż[19]. Ostatecznie jednak powstał filozoficzny esej, a więc gatunek, który dawał większe pole do pracy wyobraźni.

 ***

Ironista, w przeciwieństwie do metafizyka, który wierzy w istnienie prawdziwej natury, zarówno świata, jak i człowieka, utrzymuje, że człowiek jest jedynie „pozbawioną ośrodka siecią przekonań i pragnień”[20].

 

Od wieków przyjmuje się za prawdę twierdzenie, że sztuka to jedyna sfera, a artysta to jedyna ludzka istota, która może „działać przeciw nicości ziemskiego świata”[21]. Immanentnie przyznaje się jej pierwiastek metafizyki, a więc czegoś, co jest ponad fizyką, naukową możliwością wyjaśnienia zjawisk dzięki wierze w rozum, doświadczenie czy choćby zmysły[22]. Takie podejście umożliwia również wspomniany obraz Droga krzyżowa, od lat skłaniający do stawiania kolejnych pytań, przykładowo, dlaczego cierpienie Jezusa jest na obrazie Bruegla niewidoczne? Dlaczego zostało celowo ukryte? Jak uzasadnić użycie aż siedmiu perspektyw w obrazie?[23] Wskazać można przecież punkt widzenia: malarza, jego mecenasa, młynarza, sprzedawcy chleba, płaczącej grupy kobiet, Weroniki, Estery, tłumu ludzi. Polifoniczność spojrzeń jest niespotykana i może odsyłać do zmian sposobu widzenia, które w nauce zainicjowały odkrycia choćby Mikołaja Kopernika (De revolutionibus orbium coelestium, największe zdarzenie naukowe epoki, ogłoszono w 1543 roku)[24].

Warto kilka uwag poświęcić samemu obrazowi malarskiemu. Powstał on w czasie gdy filozofia nowożytna dokonała rozdzielenia nauki i metafizyki. Był to czas kontrreformacji i panowania katolickiej Hiszpanii we Flandrii. Gibson przypomniał jednak, że za dwa lata sytuacja miała się odmienić: „w sierpniu 1566 roku zwolennicy reformacji przystąpili do kontrataku i Flandrią wstrząsnęła fala brutalnych, masowych napaści na kościoły katolickie. W oczach protestanckich kaznodziejów malowidła i rzeźby kościelne były równoznaczne z bałwochwalstwem: w trakcie zaledwie trzech tygodni lud Flandrii, doprowadzony do ostateczności, zdewastował w całym kraju ponad czterysta świątyń, niszcząc rzeźby i paląc niezliczoną liczbę malowideł”[25]. Tak więc historycy sztuki dość jednoznacznie sugerują, że Bruegel wprowadził do swoich dzieł elementy narodowościowe, o wyraźnie historycznym znaczeniu[26]. Ponadto zrezygnował z jednej perspektywy na rzecz wielu punktów widzenia, a więc wielu płaszczyzn w obrazie. Pisała o tym szerzej Maria Rzepińska: „Zdarzenie główne jest zawsze umieszczane tak, że bardzo trudno w pierwszej chwili je odszukać. Czytelność akcji w jego obrazach jest w ogóle utrudniona z góry przez wprowadzenie owych »równouprawnionych« w skali grup i epizodów, rozrzuconych po całej płaszczyźnie obrazu, nie poddanych ani hierarchii umownej, ani perspektywicznej. Aby odczytać wizualnie takie obrazy, jak Przysłowia flamandzkie, Zabawy dziecięce czy Walka karnawału z postem – trzeba wodzić okiem po kolei po różnych strefach obrazu i oglądać każdy epizod. Jest to inny sposób percypowania niż ten, jakiego wymagają obrazy typu włoskiego czy też obrazy flamandzkie przed Boschem – stworzone wyraźnie dla oglądu całościowego”[27]. Dlatego tak trudno jest nam dostrzec Jezusa na obrazie Droga krzyżowa, choć znajduje się na przecięciu przekątnych obrazu. To paradoks niewidzenia cierpienia, jego „przeoczenia”, zbagatelizowania, choć dotyczy najważniejszej postaci. Czy chodzi o „beznamiętność” czy „bezradność” bohaterów z obrazu[28]? To kwestia godna uwagi. Hiszpanie okazali się bardzo okrutni i obojętni wobec protestantów – Flandrów, tak jak postaci z obrazu malarskiego wobec męki Jezusa.

Zaproponowana we wstępie metafora oka sugeruje istnienie szeregu wątpliwości, typu: która z postaci obrazu i filmu „widzi” albo jest częścią „historii/narracji drogi” (1), „młyna” (2), „krzyża” (3)? Przypomnę, że zwykle droga symbolizuje trud i zmianę. Młyn – oznacza życiodajny „przemiał” (przemianę) i ziemskie, rutynowe życie. Krzyż odsyła do idei ofiary i cierpienia. Następne pytanie to: którzy z bohaterów w końcu są mediatorami między wskazanymi opowieściami? Przynajmniej na kilka niejasności można odpowiedzieć już na tym etapie[29].Jakie zatem wydarzenia widzą poszczególni bohaterowie utrwaleni w obrazie i filmie? Malarz przede wszystkim cierpienie Jezusa? W filmie jego ogląd jest szerszy, bo – jak sam mówi – postępuje jak pająk, ogarnia wzrokiem szerszy horyzont, dysponuje większą wiedzą, dystansem. Dostrzega więc także cierpienie innych, przykładowo Matki Boskiej i zgromadzonych wokół niej kobiet. Może w tajemniczy sposób (gest ręki) porozumiewać się z młynarzem. Podobnie większym horyzontem postrzeżeniowo-poznawczym względem obrazu dysponuje mecenas malarza, młynarz, sprzedawca chleba i Weronika, choć nie do końca zwykli ludzie (tłum), którzy w filmie zajmują się po prostu swoimi sprawami, a uwiecznieni w obrazie wpatrują wytrzeszczonymi oczami w przestrzeń przynależną potencjalnym, przyszłym widzom. Niewątpliwą tajemnicą owiana jest także perspektywa Jezusa. Nie jest ona dana odbiorcom – jego twarz jest niewidoczna, a ofiara początkowo niezrozumiała. Zgodnie z monologiem wewnętrznym Matki Boskiej, który słyszymy w filmie, Jezus rozumiał, co to znaczy „nie widzieć” zmysłami rzeczywistości i żyć w ciemności: „Nie rozumiem. Kiedy dorastał, jego życie było pisane ognistymi literami na niebie. Obwieszczał, kto ma umrzeć, a kto żyć. (…) Dorósł i wszystkich zadziwił. Bez draśnięcia. Doszedł do bram nieba. Ogień przeznaczenia oświetlał mu drogę. Jezus przyniósł płomień losu. Rozjaśnił, wszystko zależało od niego…”. Po scenie ukrzyżowania natomiast słyszymy z offu: „Nie urodził się bez powodu. Wniósł jasność w ten świat, zagrożenie dla głupoty, rutyny, zwyczaju, ludzi żądnych pieniędzy, władzy, pustych słów. Rutyna i przyzwyczajenie odniosły zwycięstwo. Nie rozumiem tego”. Niezwykłość syna Boga polegała właśnie na tym, że miał on moc zgładzania ciemności, którą w jego czasie stanowiły obrazy (niebezpieczne, bo jednoznaczne, wyuczone schematy poznania albo „wizualne pułapki” stworzone przez cudze postrzeganie), a nie ich brak. Chrystus „rozjaśniał” świat. W ten sposób przeciwdziałał stereotypowemu postrzeganiu, rutynie, skostnieniu.

Kulista, a więc tradycyjnie doskonała budowa oka pozwalała zrozumieć mechanizm odwróconego widzenia. Tajemnicę obrazu ukrytego jakby pod powiekami, widocznego dopiero po jakimś czasie. Widzieć to rozumieć, ale nie spontanicznie, a często poprzez wyuczenie, „zaprogramowanie”. Dlatego w oczach patrzącego „gnieździ się” ciemność. Obraz uobecnia się nieświadomie w swoim rewersie na siatkówce. Dopiero w wyzwolonej głowie rodzi się rozumienie–widzenie. Tak jak metafizyka rodzi się niejako po zanegowaniu fizyki, a więc tego, co poznawalne. Na tak określonej granicy można rozpocząć poszukiwania oka artysty, bohatera i widza zarówno w obrazie Petera Bruegla, jak i filmie Lecha Majewskiego. To nie tylko granica wyobrażona w postaci prostej linii, ale także ukryta za życiodajnym młynem (przywodzącym na myśli wieżę Babel pomieszanych języków, nie tylko werbalnych, ale i wizualnych) i uwikłana w „niedoskonałość” naturalnej pajęczej sieci.

***

 Prawda jest tym, co wyklucza się wzajemnie,
a fizycy dopowiadają, że dobra teoria musi zawierać swoje przeciwieństwo
[30].

O ile Bosch jest wizjonerem i prorokiem,
to Bruegel – filozofem najwybitniejszym wśród malarzy.
A także uważnym obserwatorem
[31].

Poszukiwanie „oka” autora‒artysty w filmach o sztuce, o artyście, a więc w relacji artysta–inny artysta wiąże się z sytuacją podwójnego kodowania. Korespondencja między malarzem renesansowym– Pieterem Brueglem Starszym– a współczesnym reżyserem filmowym jest niewątpliwie fascynująca, ale i obarczona wieloma trudnościami. Przede wszystkim trzeba pamiętać, że malarz dysponuje okiem aktywnym/widzącym, ale chodzi o świadomość podstawową, umożliwiającą mu, po pierwsze, kopiowanie widzianej rzeczywistości ze wszystkimi jej fizycznymi i metafizycznymi właściwościami (stąd element zdziwienia), po drugie – tworzenie parabolicznych jej interpretacji. Takie możliwości są typowe dla autorskiej strategii świadka. Oko drugiego, tj. reżysera filmowego, przez swą wtórność jest bardziej świadome; Lech Majewski nie tylko widzi, rozumie, ale także kreuje, stwarza nowe sytuacje nadawczo-odbiorcze, np. zmienia czas, miejsce akcji, medium i narzędzia, służące kreacji obrazu. Na tym etapie ważna jest również pamięć o znaczeniu dla wizji reżyserskiej inspiracji pomysłodawcy całego przedsięwzięcia, współtwórcy scenariusza Młyna i krzyża Michaela F. Gibsona, który przyjmuje rolę narratora, choć w skończonym materiale nie słyszymy jego głosu. Innym artystą, z którym współpracował Majewski, był autor zdjęć – Adam Sikora. Zarówno Gibson, jak i Sikora realizowali autorską strategię artysty‒kreatora[32]. Tak powstał wideo-fresk, który można oglądać w nowej przestrzeni – w muzeum.

W relacji artysta–bohater ponownie ważne jest podwójne ujęcie, a więc pamięć zarówno o autoportrecie Bruegla ukrytym w obrazie Droga Krzyżowa, jak i autobiografizmie „zaszyfrowanym” w filmie Młyn i krzyż. Sprawę komplikuje trudność utożsamienia reżysera z konkretną postacią w obrazie czy filmie. Dlatego warto wskazać kilka osób i bliżej przyjrzeć się ich punktom widzenia. Przykładowo młynarz – ma szeroką perspektywę, mieszka na górze, ale działa wyraźnie „na rozkaz” malarza. Obrazuje strategię świadka, co najwyżej pomocnika lub psychoterapeuty artysty. Ten z kolei każdorazowo postrzega coś innego. Dysponuje „okiem ruchomym”, „żywym”, bo „wieloperspektywicznym”. Przykładowo jako malarz widzi cierpienie Jezusa – ziemskie, pozornie bezsensowne. Jako sprzedawca chleba dostrzega znaczenie pracy młynarza i wartość wypiekanego chleba. To też rodzaj cierpienia – ziemskiego, potrzebnego, bo sprowadzającego się do konieczności produkowania mąki, tego, co jest skojarzone z codziennością, dobrobytem i bezpieczeństwem. Spoglądając na świat przez pryzmat młynarza, artysta‒reżyser widzi, ale tylko to, co jest związane z życiem doczesnym, nie dostrzegając cierpienia Jezusa. Z uwagi na to jednak, że młynarz jest „artystą” w swoim fachu, ma władzę niczym ziemski bóg. Można się zastanowić, czy tak naprawdę nie jest ślepy, jedynie „udając” widzenie, lecz jest też kreatorem (ziemskiej) rzeczywistości.

Przejścia w filmie na wyższe piętra wtajemniczenia umożliwia kilka postaci, przykładowo malarz to porte parole reżysera, który przestaje być tożsamy już tylko z młynarzem czy sprzedawcą chleba. To przejście umożliwia „perspektywa pająka”, a więc większa świadomość obrazu nieruchomego i ruchomego (film) oraz jego znaczenia, symboliki, możliwości interpretowania, możliwego we wszystkich wymiarach: długości, z którą wiąże się czytanie od lewej do prawej życia jak Księgi (tę perspektywę jako pierwszy zasugerował analizując Drogę krzyżową Gibson); wysokości, która sugeruje wielość możliwych odczytań symboliki na osi wertykalnej obrazu, np. przydanie tajemnicy i znaczenia skale, na której stoi młyn, a która jest – w sensie fizycznym – najbliżej nieba; głębi, z którą wiązać można wielość planów na obrazie, a w filmie zabieg zwany kompozytowaniem; ostatecznie też czasowości obrazu, z którą wiąże się zabieg symultanicznego przedstawienia na jednym malowidle wydarzeń rozgrywających się w różnym czasie i przestrzeni, a w przypadku filmu – dowód na możliwość „wskrzeszenia”, dzięki nowym mediom, starego obrazu w nowej czasoprzestrzeni.

Na koniec pozostaje zasadnicze pytanie, kim jest tak naprawdę Jezus w obrazie malarskim, a następnie filmowym. Według Biblii Mesjasz to Syn Boga. W obrazie, przynależnym do sfery profanum, jest zwykłym człowiekiem. W filmie, który obecnie zatracił już niemal swoją materialność, stał się czystą kreacją wyobraźni, medium wirtualnym, jest przede wszystkim synem rozpaczającej kobiety, dzieckiem. To dzięki emocjom, takim jak miłość oraz wrażliwości i pamięci innych, staje się postacią ze sfery sacrum. W ten sposób mamy do czynienia ze swoistym paradoksem. Postaci, które w rzeczywistości nie zostały dostrzeżone, z czasem nabrały znaczenia. Film przypomina i utrwala ten fakt. Staje się w tym sensie medium metafizycznym.

Oko artysty‒reżysera ujawnia się w ostatniej scenie, w której kamera znajduje się w muzeum w Wiedniu. Kamera filmuje wnętrze sali, wiszące na ścianie malowidło Droga krzyżowa. Następnie powolnym ruchem zaczyna oddalać się od tego miejsca. Obraz jest wyraźny, ale im dystans jest większy, tym on staje się mniejszy. W końcu niknie z naszego pola widzenia. To oddalenie się ujawnia znaczenie upływu czasu, przemijania, zapominania, znikania obrazów (stopniowo nawet tych utrwalonych, uznanych arcydzieł), a wraz z nimi ludzi, tematów, spraw, konfliktów, jak w wirtualnej przestrzeni nowych mediów, ale też przestrzeni kreacji nowych światów.

Oko zmysłowe malarza‒bohatera‒Bruegla ujawnia się w jego autoportrecie „ukrytym” w obrazie. To oko przerażone i przerażające, bo widzące czas i jego upływ w niejako jednocześnie. W filmie takie oko jest porównane do oka pająka, oka przyrody: żywej, dzikiej, doskonałej w swojej niedoskonałości, bo zdolnej do precyzyjnego kopiowania rzeczywistości, a nie jej kreowania. To w tym oku – jak w sieci – jest „gniazdo” – początek, bezpieczeństwo, życie, ale i śmierć, jeżeli uświadomimy sobie, że to też pułapka, a więc krzyż dla „złapanego”.

Oko zmysłowe widza/widzów to otwarcie na zmianę, to wybór własnej drogi, a więc wyrwanie się z „ziemskiego młyna” zdarzeń, spraw, sensów na rzecz możliwości, jakie dają inne spojrzenia. Tajemnicą jest więc konieczność podjęcia wyzwania, trudu zmierzenia się z niewiadomą, wolnością w widzeniu i rozumieniu. W takim oku fizyką jest wielość obrazów, swoisty młyn obrazów, z których trzeba się wyzwolić, przejść przez etap wymienności perspektywy, a więc: młyna, drogi i krzyża widzianych przez malarza i reżysera. Następnie znaleźć się w oku obrazu, na krzyżu. Ponownie wejść w ciemność.

Obraz malarski jako – niedoskonała, ale istotna poznawczo – kopia wyobrażenia rzeczywistości, wskazuje dość jednoznacznie, że nie ma świata bez mitu, a więc też potencjalnie ukrytej w nim deziluzji. Dlatego każdy widz, prędzej czy później, zadaje sobie odwieczne pytanie: czy widzi to, co wie na temat świata, czy to, co pojmują jego zmysły? Każdorazowo mamy więc przed sobą wybór: czy percypowany obraz „otwiera” tylko nasze oczy (zmysłowe poznanie), czy także nasz umysł (wiedza)? Gdzie jest prawda widzenia, obrazu, przeznaczenia[33]? Czym jest w końcu tzw. omyłkowa prawda (falsetruth)[34]? Czy koło życia, przysłowiowe koło fortuny, jest w stanie ją obnażyć[35]? Metafizyka Młyna i krzyża ujawnia się także w momencie stawiania takich pytań przez jego twórców.

Bibliografia

Achtelik Aleksandra, „Drugie oblicze Lecha Majewskiego, czyli powieść Metafizyka”, Postscriptum 1-2 (2003).

Bakuła Bogusław, Człowiek jak dzieło sztuki. Z problemów metarefleksji artystycznej, (Poznań: Wydawnictwo WiS) (1994).

Balbus Stanisław, „Interdyscyplinarność – intersemiotyczność – komparatystyka”, w: Intersemiotyczność. Literatura wobec innych sztuk (i odwrotnie), red. Stanisław Balbus i in., (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN) (2009).

Balbus Stanisław, Intersemiotyczność a proces historycznoliteracki, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Naukowe UJ) (1990).

Białostocki Jan, Bruegel – pejzażysta, (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN) (1956).

Biedrzycki Krzysztof, Wariacje metafizyczne: szkice i recenzje o poezji, prozie i filmie, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Universitas) (2007).

Bobowski Sławomir, Między świętością a potępieniem. Martin Scorsese i religia, (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego) (2007).

Cembrzyńska Patrycja, „Pajęcza sieć obrazów Lecha Majewskiego”,Tygodnik Powszechny, 6:96-100 (2011).

Czapliński Przemysław, „Wyliczanka”, czyli gry Greenawaya [“Drowning” – which is Greenaway’s game], w: Poloniści o filmie [Polish philologists about the film], red. Marek Hendrykowski, (Poznań: Wydawnictwo UAM) (1997).

Czekalski Stanisław, Intertekstualność i malarstwo. Problemy badań nad związkami międzyobrazowymi, (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Naukowe UAM) (2006).

Gibson Michael F., Majewski Lech, Bruegel. Młyn i krzyż, (Olszanica: Wydawnictwo Bosz) (2010).

Gwóźdź Andrzej (red.), Filmowe światy. Z dziejów X muzy na Górnym Śląsku, (Katowice: Wydawnictwo Śląsk) (1998).

Hendrykowski Marek, „O podmiotowym charakterze wypowiedzi filmowej”, w: Studia z poetyki historycznej filmu, red. Alicja Helman, Tadeusz Lubelski, (Katowice: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Śląskiego) (1983)

Kuśmierczyk Seweryn, Zagubieni w drodze. Film fabularny jako obraz doświadczenia wewnętrznego, (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Skorpion) (1999).

Lebecka Magdalena, Lech Majewski, (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Więź) (2010).

Lebecka Magdalena, „Sprawozdanie z produkcji filmu Lecha Majewskiego Młyn i krzyż”, Kino, 1:88 (2009).

Lech Majewski, http://www.lechmajewski.art.pl/recenzje.php?id=41/, data dostępu 6 września 2018.

Majewski Lech, „Alchemik”, rozm. Magdalena Lebecka, Film&TV Kamera 2:4-15 (2007).

Majewski Lech, „Algorytm natury”, rozm. Piotr Zawojski, Opcje 3:36-41 (2011).

Majewski Lech, „Bruegel ma zawsze widownię”, rozm. Tadeusz Sobolewski, Gazeta Wyborcza (Duży Format) 10:14-17 (17.03.2011) (2011).

Majewski Lech, „Collage sztuki i technologii”, rozm. Magdalena Lebecka, FilmPro 1:71-77 (2010).

Majewski Lech, „Okradanie śmierci”, rozm. Grażyna Arata, Kino 3:25-26 (2004).

Majewski Lech, „Sztuka, która umożliwia zadomowienie”, rozm. Anna Bielak, Maria Lisok, Ekrany 1-2: 78-82 (2010).

Majewski Lech, „Szukam rajów”, rozm. Jerzy Wójcik, Rzeczpospolita 59:A9 (2004).

Majewski Lech, „Wierzę filozofom, że sztuka komunikuje się z siłą wyższą”, rozm. Anna Fuksiewicz, Kino 2:15-17 (2011).

Majewski Lech, Metafizyka, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie) (2002).

Marczak Mariola, Poetyka filmów religijnych, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo: Arcana) (2000).

Młyn i Krzyż, http://www.themillandthecross.com/, data dostępu 6 września 2018.

Nowakowski Jacek, W stronę raju. O literackiej i filmowej twórczości Lecha Majewskiego, (Poznań: Wydawnictwo UAM) (2012).

Podsiadło Magdalena, Autobiografizm filmowy jako ślad podmiotowej egzystencji, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Universitas) (2013).

Rorty Richard, Przygodność, ironia i solidarność, przeł. Wacław Jan Popowski, (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo W.A.B.) (1996)

Skwarek Irena, Dlaczego autobiografizm? Powieści autobiograficzne dwudziestolecia międzywojennego, (Katowice: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Śląskiego) (1986).

Smulski Jerzy, „Autobiografizm jak postawa i jako strategia artystyczna. Na materiale prozy współczesnej”, Pamiętnik Literacki 4 (1988).

Zajdel Jakub, Lech Majewski – pejzaż po burzy, w: Autorzy kina polskiego, tom 3, red. Grażyna Stachówna, Bogusława Zmudziński, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Rabid) (2008).

Zawojski Piotr, Poezja kamerą (za)pisana. Od Wojaczka do KrwiPoety (i Szklanych ust), strona internetowa: www.zawojski.com/2008/11/24,data dostępu 6 września 2018.

 

Przypisy

[1] Lech Majewski, Metafizyka (fragmenty), http://www.lechmajewski.art.pl/ksiazki.php?id=11, data dostępu 6 września 2018.

[2] Zob. Lech Majewski, „Wierzę filozofom, że sztuka komunikuje się z siłą wyższą”, rozm. A. Fuksiewicz, Kino 2: 15-17 (2011).

[3] Por. Georges Bataille, Historia oka, oprac. Tadeusz Komendant, (Gdańsk: Wydawnictwo Słowo/Obraz Terytoria) (2010).

[4] Por. Maria Czermińska, „Postawa autobiograficzna”, w: Studia o narracji, red. Jan Błoński, Stanisław Jaworski, Janusz Sławiński, (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich) (1982); Marek Hendrykowski, „O podmiotowym charakterze wypowiedzi filmowej”, w: Studia z poetyki historycznej filmu, red. Alicja Helman, Tadeusz Lubelski, (Katowice: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Śląskiego) (1983); Magdalena Podsiadło, Autobiografizm filmowy jako ślad podmiotowej egzystencji, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Universitas) (2013).

[5] Magdalena Podsiadło, „Trzy typy wypowiedzi autobiograficznych”, w: tejże, dz. cyt., s. 107: „Sygnały autobiograficzne stanowią grupę powracających chwytów, tematów, motywów i sposobów prezentacji, które zapraszają odbiorcę do autobiograficznej lektury. (…) Projekt «ja» zawarty w filmie determinuje kompozycję świata przedstawionego, stopień fabularyzacji prezentowanej historii, posługiwanie się fikcją albo dokumentem, subiektywizacją, kreacją czy strategiami obiektywizującymi, a także wyznacza odbiorcy odmienne zadania autobiograficzne do rozwiązywania”.

[6] Przywołują oni najważniejsze przejawy postawy autobiograficznej. Zob. Irena Skwarek, Dlaczego autobiografizm? Powieści autobiograficzne dwudziestolecia międzywojennego, (Katowice: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Śląskiego) (1986), s. 30; Jerzy Smulski, „Autobiografizm jak postawa i jako strategia artystyczna. Na materiale prozy współczesnej”, Pamiętnik Literacki 4 (1988).

[7] Magdalena Podsiadło, „Trzy typy wypowiedzi autobiograficznych”, dz. cyt., ss. 108 i 119-126.

Czasami te typy występują w postaci czystej, ale zasadniczo o wiele częściej dochodzi do ich łączenia, swobodnego przechodzenia, przenikania.

[8] Magdalena Podsiadło, ss. 108 i 112-118.

[9] Por. Magdalena Podsiadło, ss. 108 i 126-133. Magdalena Podsiadło zauważa, że w twórczości Lecha Majewskiego dominuje: „ja” sylleptyczne oraz forma „wyzwania” rzucona odbiorcy (por. Pokój saren. Opera autobiograficzna, M. Podsiadło, s. 110).

[10] Magdalena Podsiadło, s. 94.

[11] Magdalena Podsiadło, s. 94.

[12] Magdalena Podsiadło, s. 95. Magdalena Podsiadło w tym kontekście wymienia następujące filmy: Andriej Rublow (1966, Andriej Tarkowski); Pogarda (1963, Jean-Luc Godard); Wszystko na sprzedaż (1968, Andrzej Wajda), Po drodze (1979, Márta Mészáros) itp.

[13] Zob. oficjalna strona filmu Młyn i krzyż: http://www.themillandthecross.com/, data dostępu 6 września 2018. Pozostaje pytanie, dlaczego akurat ten film został wskazany jako ważny dla ogólniejszego zagadnienia doświadczenia zmysłowego. Zarówno obraz, jak i za jego pośrednictwem film „dotyka” i opowiada o „sytuacji na granicy”: tego, co poznawalne i tajemnicze, pewne i wątpliwe, obiektywne i subiektywne, artystyczne i rzemieślnicze/codzienne, a więc fizykalne i metafizyczne jednocześnie.

[14] Zob. oficjalna strona Lecha Majewskiego, http://www.lechmajewski.art.pl/wiadomosci.php, data dostępu 6 września 2018. Stan badań na temat twórczości Lecha Majewskiego sprowadza się przede wszystkim do dwóch książek: naukowej monografii Jacka Nowakowskiego W stronę raju. O literackiej i filmowej twórczości Lecha Majewskiego (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Naukowe UAM, 2012) i popularyzatorskiej publikacji Magdaleny Lebeckiej Lech Majewski (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Więź, 2010); a także licznych artykułów wyszczególnionych w bibliografii do artykułu. Wybrany film doczekał się zasadniczo nielicznych analiz.

[15] Lech Majewski w swojej Metafizyce zanotował: „Chronologia? Czemu nie. Ostatecznie jakieś siły uporządkowały nasze egzystencje dziwnymi «przed» i «po», mamiąc nas logiką przyczynowo-skutkową, a my, zagubieni i osamotnieni, wierzymy, że wczoraj poprzedziło dzisiaj, a jutro zastąpi wczoraj, jakby nie rozumiejąc, że jutro i wczoraj są złudzeniami potwierdzonymi jedynie rozpadem materii, jedynym zegarem wszechrzeczy, ową energią ciała, lecz nie ducha” (zob. Lech Majewski, Metafizyka, dz. cyt.).

[16] Magdalena Lebecka, „Młyn i krzyż – Bóg wstrzymał oddech”, w: tejże, Lech Majewski, dz. cyt., s. 157.

[17] Magdalena Lebecka, ss. 157-158. Dalej czytamy, że „Jeszcze przed wyjazdem z Polski, ponad trzydzieści lat temu, przygotowywał inscenizację Króla Edypa Sofoklesa dla «Teatru Studio» Józefa Szajny. Tę antyczną tragedię zinterpretował, posługując się właśnie kluczem brueglowskim. Spektakl, jak wiele innych pomysłów artysty, nie został zrealizowany. Silna fascynacja autorem «Pór roku» jednak przetrwała. To był potencjał czekający na impuls z zewnątrz” (zob. Magdalena Lebecka, s. 158).

[18] Magdalena Lebecka, s. 158.

[19] Zob. Michael F. Gibson, Lech Majewski, Bruegel. Młyn i krzyż, (Olszanica: Wydawnictwo Bosz) (2010).

[20] Richard Rorty, Przygodność, ironia i solidarność, przeł. Wacław Jan Popowski, (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo W.A.B.) (1996), s. 126.

[21] Por. Przemysław Czapliński, “Wyliczanka”, czyli gry Greenawaya [“Drowning” – which is Greenaway’s game], w: Poloniści o filmie [Polish philologists about the film], red. Marek Hendrykowski, (Poznań: Wydawnictwo UAM) (1997).

[22] Najprościej rzecz ujmując: „Projekt metafizyki jest absolutny. Chodzi o wyjaśnienie bytu (dlaczego jest?) i poznanie jego istotnych właściwości (czym jest?), np. istoty czy przyczyn, relacji koniecznych, co może stanowić podstawę dla wypracowania kryteriów wiedzy pewnej. Według niektórych koncepcji metafizyki, jej przedmiot leży poza obrębem doświadczenia. Dlatego metafizykę krytykuje się z pozycji sceptycznych, empirystycznych, pozytywistycznych i scjentystycznych” – Kazimierz Leśniak, „Wstęp”, w: Arystoteles, Metafizyka, (Warszawa: PWN) (1983), ss. xii-xiii.

[23] Lech Majewski wielokrotnie wspominał eksperyment, który wykonała przed przystąpieniem do realizacji filmu, a który polegał na komputerowym wyeliminowaniu z obrazu wszystkich bohaterów i przyjrzeniu się pustemu krajobrazowi. Okazało się, że nie można dostrzec go w przedstawiony sposób używając statycznego „oka” (na przykład kamery). Podobne zdolności ma tylko „oko” żywe, ruchome, a więc ludzkie (Zob. materiał dołączony do filmu na DVD).

[24] Z jednej strony odkrycie ruchu Ziemi przydało jej znaczenia i zasugerował możliwość istnienia wielu tajemnic, które są jeszcze niewyjaśnione, zbliżyło też do człowieka i jego ziemskich spraw, choćby w tym sensie, że wiedza na jej temat „pozwoliła się okiełznać”. Z drugiej strony sprawy ziemskie przestały być już tak oczywiste, stałe i niezmienne, jak się początkowo wydawały. Ruch nadał Ziemi „walor filmowy”, a ten przyczynił się do myślenia o niej także w kontekście metafizyki. Obraz rzeczywistości, jaki dzięki takiej wiedzy powstaje, jest kompromisem: iluzją zmysłów „przefiltrowaną” przez pojmowanie rozumowe.

[25] Michael F. Gibson, Lech Majewski, Bruegel. Młyn i krzyż, dz. cyt., s. 20.

[26] Pisała na ten temat Maria Rzepińska, Siedem wieków malarstwa europejskiego, (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo: Ossolineum) (1986), s. 198.

[27] Maria Rzepińska, ss. 200-201.

[28] Zob. Jacek Nowakowski, „Kalwaria raz jeszcze – Młyn i krzyż”, w: tegoż, W stronę raju. O literackiej i filmowej twórczości Lecha Majewskiego, (Poznań: Wydawnictwo UAM) (2012), s. 220.

[29] Próba analizy tajemnicy wielości perspektyw w obrazie Droga krzyżowa znajduje się także w filmie dokumentalnym, który powstał przy okazji realizacji filmu Młyn i krzyż–Lech Majewski. Świat według Bruegela (2009, Dagmara Drzazga; zob. informacje na temat filmu: http://www.filmpolski.pl/fp/index.php?film=4223549, data dostępu: 6 września 2018): „to, między innymi, chce nam powiedzieć wielki malarz i filozof: najważniejsze wydarzenia dzieją się w chaosie codzienności, niezauważane przez współczesnych”.

[30] Magdalena Lebecka, „Młyn i krzyż – Bóg wstrzymał oddech”, dz. cyt., s. 160.

[31] Lech Majewski, „Collage sztuki i technologii”, rozm. Magdalena Lebecka, FilmPro 1: 71-77 (2010).

[32] Patrycja Cembrzyńska w kontekście wystawy prac Majewskiego w Muzeum Narodowym w Krakowie (01.04-05.06.2011) pisała: „Czy Majewski chce powiedzieć, że artystyczna kreacja nosi boskie znamię? Raczej mimochodem przypomina jedną z najstarszych mitologii sztuki, świadom, że mit artysty-kreatora, podobnego bogom, jego własna epoka poddała dekonstrukcji. Zresztą filmowy Bruegel wybiera na swojego «nauczyciela» nie Boga, który gwarantuje wsteczny sens tego, co stworzone, a pająka. Nie ma bowiem początku dzieła, nie powstaje ono ex nihil, tylko w sieci obrazów, którą artysta-pająk może cierpliwie, z mozołem tkać; to wątkiem, to osnową łączyć się z dziełami przeszłości” (zob. Patrycja Cembrzyńska, „Pajęcza sieć obrazów Lecha Majewskiego”, Tygodnik Powszechny 6: 99 [2011]).

[33] Zob. Michael F. Gibson, Lech Majewski, dz. cyt., s. 111.

[34] Zob. Michael F. Gibson, Lech Majewski, s. 112.

[35] Zob. Michael F. Gibson, Lech Majewski, s. 113.

The body of the viewer and immersive audio-visual art. The somatic character of new Japanese experimental film

Agnieszka Kiejziewicz

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1, pp. 27-42.

 

Agnieszka Kiejziewicz
Jagiellonian University

 

 

 

The body of the viewer and immersive audio-visual art. The somatic character of new Japanese experimental film

 

Abstract

The author of this article aims at presenting the somatic character of the audiovisual experiments created by the Japanese directors after the year 2000. Focusing on their postulates, stating that the experimental film should “touch the viewer” and can “be felt,” the author analyses the chosen installations, audiovisual performances and screenings to show how the corporeality of the spectator becomes a part of the film. Moreover, the artists discussed in this article employ different methods of creating the somatic character of their works. The author mentions such artists as Takashi Makino, Rei Hayama, Kazuhiro Goshima and Ai Hasegawa, especially emphasizing the techniques they use to contemplate the possibilities of interacting with the body of the viewer. They combine live music and projection of audio-visual materials on several surfaces, edit the filmed sequences during the screening, depending on the reactions of the public, and prepare the viewer to understand the installations by providing them with elaborate technical descriptions or dilemma charts. In the presented article, the author reconsiders the meaning of the appearance of the viewer for the new Japanese experimental filmmakers, wondering why the directors are playing with the boundaries of audience’s understanding and are balancing between offering a comforting audiovisual spectacle and disturbing the viewer’s perception.

 

Keywords: Japanese audiovisual experiment, new avant-garde, Takashi Makino, Rei Hayama, Kazuhiro Goshima, Ai Hasegawa

Introduction

The directors of new Japanese experimental film, a phenomenon that has developed rapidly since 2000[1], are primarily focused on the viewer’s perception and their place in the process of “being touched” by the work of art[2]. They wish to influence the observer, initiate changes in their perception (for example, opening them up to new forms of visual art), and underline the significance of “feeling the film.”[3] Here, the main concern of the artists is, using terminology introduced by Luke Hockley in his Somatic Cinema[4], “the body of the viewer.” This means that screenings of their films (or displays of audio-visual installations in galleries), are designed to be perceived by all of the senses, to immerse the viewer into the audio-visual spectacle. They are often accompanied by ‘dilemma charts’, instructions, to-do lists and models that can be touched, or surroundings to be discovered. The corporeality of the observer becomes a part of the performance – one of the elements of the scenography, a lens filtering the picture, or even another screening surface.

The artists discussed in this analysis employ different means of fulfilling these schemes. For example, Takashi Makino combines live music and projection of audio-visual materials on several surfaces with simple 3D technique, called Pulfrich effect. Moreover, Hayama and Makino edit the filmed performances during the screening, depending on the reactions of the public and their personal feelings. Kazuhiro Goshima[5], another artist covered in this article, prepares the viewer to understand his installation by providing them with complex technical descriptions to be learned before the performance/screening. Ai Hasegawa[6], a biologist and computer graphics animator, even invites the viewer to contemplate the possibilities of their body. By offering false biological theories supported by convincing audio-visual material, anatomic models and dilemma charts, Hasegawa invites the viewer to undertake a game of imagining possible future scenarios for humankind. According to the artists, their works – using Hockley’s words to summarize the aims of the new generation of experimental audio-visual directors – are designed to enable the viewer to “experience the immersive qualities that are part of cinematic experience.”[7]

Moreover, the somatic character of the majority of the new Japanese audio-visual experiments can be made even more visible by comparing the directors’ achievements and goals with Hockley’s theory. He points out that experimental film often manifests “the shift from considering ‘viewer, screen’ and instead asserts the primacy of the ‘viewer-screen’ paradigmatic relationship as the key way through which to better understand the cinematic experience.”[8] In the optics of representatives of the new Japanese experimental movement, accepting the leading role of this new relationship allows for focussing on – again using Hockley’s term – “mindfulness.” If understood as “a practice of bringing one’s attention to bear on the present moment,”[9] it situates the process of the viewer gaining awareness (of their body or another aspect chosen by the artist) in the center of the artistic pursuits of the Japanese experimental directors. Writing about the somatic aspects of cinema, Hockley proposes perceiving film as “a type of transitional object”[10] and cinema as a “transitional phenomenon” . This corresponds with the point of view of moving pictures manifested by the directors[11]. For example, Takashi Makino perceives the moment of screening as a “creative collaboration with filmmaker and audience, in which each act of watching gives birth to a new cosmos”[12], and as “an act of true creativity.”[13] In his view, a film screening can initiate the process of transition of the viewer from one mental state to another – designed by, or at last expected, the director.

In considering the boundary-breaking works of this young generation of Japanese directors and their creative approaches to inter-media concepts, as well as their fascination with new technologies, their work can also be classified as “expanded cinema.”[14] Introducing Le Grice’s definition[15], it can be seen that these new Japanese experiments expand the boundaries of film and performance, going further than the experimental artists of Japan’s 1960s, ’70s and ’80s. After the year 2000, the ‘expanded’ character of the new wave of Japanese experimentation is intangibly connected to the emergence of new technologies, such as computer processing of images or the use of 3D. However, although primarily aimed at offering an experience distinct from live-action popular films[16], this expansion is often created with consideration of the position of the viewer.

This article will examine how these award-winning Japanese artists of the new avant-garde movement invite the viewer to immerse themselves in their installations and screenings, to transgress the boundaries of the body, religion and political views, and contemplate “film as a film.”[17] The audio-visual installations described in this article were chosen from different thematic areas, and represent artists with diverse views on the problem of the somatic character of their works. However, they all share the same approach to developing the concept of the new avant-garde movement, agreeing that the need to immerse the viewer should shape their artistic pursuits.

Toward The Tactile Visions

After several solo projects and collaborations with people from outside the world of art[18], members of the Collective [+] group[19] Rei Hayama and Takashi Makino decided to work together. This resulted in an audio-visual performance they call Toward The Tactile Visions[20]. The project, which had two screenings (the first in Chiang Mai, Thailand, on May 12th 2018, and the second in Bangkok on May 15th 2018[21]), workshops and meetings with audiences, was put together with Arnont Nongyao[22] and curated by Pathompong Manakitsomboon. Toward The Tactile Visions was designed to bring together the areas of interests of the artists to create an inter-medial experience for the viewer.

Here, it is worth mentioning the objectives and backgrounds of the artists before we present, later on, the connections between their different styles. Rei Hayama[23] studied at the Department of Moving Images and Performing Arts at Tama Art University,[24] but her films have also been screened abroad, including in the Netherlands, Slovakia, Germany, Belgium, and the USA[25]. Hayama’s films are deeply inspired by her childhood memories of living in a forest with her parents, where she was able to experience close contact with nature and observe the life cycles of particular species. She was inspired by birds the most, so in her films one can find many references to these “mysterious creatures,”[26] as she calls them. Hayama connects the creative process to her moods, describing it in this way: “I’m making films like making a forest. This is what I feel through my creative thought process; the feeling tells me how the fiction and reality is like a house and nature, and how we traverse between these two worlds again and again.”[27] The core concept of Hayama’s pictures is the act of transformation (often into a bird)[28], but she also references other symbolic figures: men, children, memory and nature. The filmmaker uses them to explain the relations between technological development and the longing for the past, when people existed closer to nature[29]. What’s more, the artist claims to take the perspective of “a bird’s-eye view,”[30] which she explains in her manifesto: “[…] I think about the thing that has been lost or neglected from an anthropocentric view of the world. I attempt to fall off from the arbitrary illusion of human’s »height«, transport nature into the space of human’s thought by the temporal art that makes time for thinking about what we are, and what is the relationship between human and others. My works are based on an allegorical plot, and it told by poetic writings and symbolical images such as recorded body action. There are some key factors often appear in work such as bird’s eye viewpoint, forest, pretend (play), the non-human leading character.”[31] In this case, it can be seen that Hayama seeks to avoid the anthropocentric point of view and gives voice to the animals instead, in an attempt to deliberate their gaze upon the human world[32].

In contrast to Rei Hayama, Takashi Makino[33] rejects decipherable visual forms and symbols, focusing on the abstract. He debuted in 2004 with a short film, EVE, which pointed the way ahead for the artist’s further development. As the filmmaker has indicated, he is searching for the best and most intimate way to show the tremendous character of the cosmos and make the liminal experience of ‘touching the void’ as palpable as possible. Makino’s pursuits stem from an accident he suffered when he was young, and a series of visions he then experienced. Subsequently, he found that film works for him as a tool for explaining his feelings, and similarly to Hayama, bring back memories and make them accessible to viewers[34]. To create, as he calls it, the “perfect film,”[35] Makino tests the viewer’s ability to understand his experimental visions of whirling shapes and colours. While explaining his choice of the artistic means, the director observes: “None of the creatures that exist in the world are born of their own volition; when they first achieve awareness, they find themselves adrift in chaos. It is only by creating cosmos that they are able to overcome the fundamental meaningless and fear of existence”[36].

The third member of the Toward The Tactile Visions project, Arnont Nongyao, experiments with the connections between sound and moving pictures, and considers film as an illustration of sound. Nongyao is a debutant, who had his first solo exhibition, entitled Another Sound, at the beginning of 2018[37]. As he describes his own objectives, his main aim is “exploring an approach to communications and the concept of life passing-on through sonic and visual mediations.”[38] Nongyao contributed to Toward The Tactile Visions mostly by adding sound to the filmed footage, using his previous experience of working on Another Sound. On the project, he considered sound samples to be a unique language that helped him communicate with his fellow artists, getting around the Thai/Japanese language barrier that forced them to communicate through experimental compositions[39]. It’s worth indicating that Nongyao’s performances are very similar to Makino’s: he shows films, mostly of whirling shapes and colours, on surfaces other than normal screens, accompanied by live music. The artist also works with scripts that can be modified on the fly during the screenings, based on live observation of the audience’s reactions.

The pictures and sounds included in the final version of Toward The Tactile Visions clearly bear a resemblance to previous works by Hayama, Makino and Nongyao individually. As the artists indicate on the event’s Facebook page[40], they aim to show the relationship between the medium and the emergence of “the consciousness and awareness of cinema as the real cinematic event.”[41] They also emphasise that contact with experimental/expanded cinema “contaminates”[42] the viewer – creating the ability to connect his body to the sound and image he experiences. Toward The Tactile Visions was designed with the purpose of teaching audiences about the diversity of possible cinematic forms that differ from narrative cinema. In their description, the artists also use the term “to touch” experimental cinema, and this idea underlines the somatic character of their work.

The first screening took place at Chiang Mai University Art Center, with the venue being a giant white cube that allowed the artists to project the films on every wall in the room. Later, the group discussed how the location significantly influenced the way they modified the event, and how the screening itself went totally differently than the second one in Bangkok. Apart from the displays of cameras and musical instruments placed around the venue, other items related to the film were set out. Among these were branches without leaves, specially prepared by Hayama to underline the theme of nature in the film. Moreover, the artists used their bodies as parts of the scenography, freely moving around the white cube and casting shadows on the screens. Some of the images in the film are Makino’s ‘noisy supernovas’ – colourful collages, changing from deep rose to blue, or light dots moving down the screen. Between the whirling abstractions, various distorted, enlarged shapes of recognisable items emerge, such as parts of plants, tools, animals and even people recorded during their daily routines. It is significant here that the artists are visible to the viewers throughout the screening, sometimes even stepping in front of the screen, continuously engaged in the process of creating the performance. It is worth noting that because of the shape of the venue, the second screening at the Alliance Française center in Bangkok was restrained to one big screen, with some additional effects projected onto the walls closest to the screen. Explaining the differences between two venues and their influence on the project, Hayama observed:

“At Alliance Française center, we did perform at the normal cinema. It was a very interesting contrast to our previous performance at Chiang Mai University. At Alliance Française center, we felt sort of limitation of the space for our performance because the space is well designed for screening cinema. In the end, we decided to add two small stand screens on both sides of the main screen. I put one guitar in front of the main screen, and the long strip of clear 16mm film was going through the string. The film strip was run through the middle of the audience to where the projector set and kept making a sound of the guitar. (At Chiang Mai University, I set the black film strip went through the tree branch instead of the audience. And the tree gradually made a scratch on the film during the performance.) Their audience could hear the image and see the sound. It also made the audience noticed the film and the situation of cinematic space.”[43]

The postulate of allowing the viewer to ‘touch’ the film was also fulfilled in another significant way. A projector was pointed at the audience, displaying images on the backs of the viewers’ heads and faces, making another screen out of their skin. As such, observers were also able to follow the images on their bodies and the bodies of the other audience members. The immersive character of the screening was reinforced by this attempt to make the viewer the center of the picture, liberating the picture from the confines of screens. The colours and movements of the projected images let the audience feel as though they were floating in a sea of pictures.

In Toward The Tactile Visions, these three artists came together to merge the styles and objectives known from their previous works. The visual collages of Makino, the focus on the environment and living creatures of Hayama, and the search for experimental sounds by Nongyao, were all brought together to fulfil the postulates of haptic cinema.

This May not be a Movie

Kazuhiro Goshima[44] began his film experiments slightly before the increase in popularity of this kind of artistic activity that occurred in 2000[45]. This visual creator debuted as a freelance media content designer in the mid-1990s, but soon gave up the commercial market and devoted himself to new forms of expression as an experimental filmmaker[46]. In his work, Goshima is mostly focused on the role of light and shadow, which in his hands shape not only recognizable images but also have the power to make their surroundings come alive. For example, in his 2013 Shadowland, the shadows are the “breath of the city” that gives the metropolis its unique identity[47]. From early on, Goshima has also been interested in playing with viewer’s perceptions. Using sudden close-ups and sudden disappearances of objects[48], experimenting with movement and the viewer’s position[49], or connecting sounds with blurry pictures, he makes audiences guess the final shape of the presented scene[50]. However, even though Goshima has been busy deliberating on the position of the viewer from the beginning, his first work engaging the viewer’s body could be said to have a somatic character, and appeared in his portfolio in 2014. This is an audio-visual installation entitled This May not be a Movie.

Analysing Goshima’s film, it is worth starting with Le Grice’s article Problematising the Spectator’s Placement in Film[51], which launched a polemic against Christian Metz’s paper The Imaginary Signifier[52]. Le Grice comments on the theoretical approach Metz manifests toward the role and condition of the viewer of experimental film. Following Metz’s findings, Le Grice focuses on the mechanisms of identifying viewers, while encountering (using Metz’s terminology) “inhuman sequences” in avant-garde films that “eliminate the portrayed character or even eliminate all photo-recording.”[53] He makes the observation (which could be useful when analysing Goshima’s films), that viewers might “identify with the camera.”[54] He says that this means identification with the mechanism, as well as the “authority behind the narrative order.”[55] Nevertheless, Le Grice tries to explain the place (and situation of the body) of the viewer trying to understand experimental films in which there are no narrative patterns visible. He concludes that “[…] it is necessary to assume that the spectator must produce an auditory and specular construction for the film which is not directly that of the film presented – the spectator must be expelled from the film text in order to produce the conceptual construct as an act of the symbolic.”[56]

The situation of the viewer explained above seems to describe the shape of the projection and the viewer’s identification process, as designed by Goshima in This May not be a Movie. Here, Goshima raises the question of what a film is, and at which point the viewer starts perceiving the sequence of moving pictures as a consistent film production[57]. As he pointed out in an interview for The Japan Times[58], he used the Japanese term dōga, translated into English as ‘movie’, ‘film’, ‘motion picture’, or even ‘cinema’. However, in the Japanese language dōga is comparable to the term eiga (which also translates as ‘film’). It is thus perceived as meaning ‘motion picture’ – expressing different content and emphasising that the work, as Goshima sees it, is “composited from still frames.”[59] Explaining the reasoning behind his work, the author says: “When you think about the fuzziness of meaning of the wider application of eiga in its broad conceptual sense, you realize that it is the product of multiple mechanisms. I created one mechanism that pushes it to its limit in one direction, and by doing so I hoped to expand the breadth of its conceptualization. That’s why although the title is »This May Not Be a Movie«, its real message is »It’s possible to alter the meaning of ‘movie’ any number of times«.”[60]

This May not be a Movie is in fact an audio-visual installation, built out of screens, fibre-optic cables, a lattice, am image sensor and a movie camera, situated in the center of a small room. For their first glimpse, it gives viewers no hints about its purpose or the meaning of the images displayed. The blurry, colourful images on the screen are pictures of several hundred lines of light that appear after changes in the brightness of each pixel on a piece of 4×5 inch film[61]. This is accompanied by an explanatory movie[62], from which the viewer can learn that behind the displayed images are the simple sequences of a Japanese man waving two white flags, running or riding a bicycle, as well as three people walking. This technical addendum explains the technological process and allows viewers to better understand the concept. However, it is impossible to fully experience the installation, as well as depict its meaning, without engaging with these additional materials. Here, Goshima seeks to show the viewer how the optical illusion of seeing a film works, stating that the amount of information the observer receives “exceeds the reality.” The director states that such experimental art can power the imagination and leave room for new interpretations of the objects so viewed. In this case, he re-examines the relationship between the viewer’s perception and the medium, focusing on the lack of identification of the observer with the presented pictures. Instead, he offers a pure description of the technological process, which reveals the boundaries of the viewer’s perceptions and its constraints. It can be stated that the center of Goshima’s installation is not the process itself, but the observer, whose body receives a new position – an imperfect lens that distorts the original picture.

The Mother of species

The last project described in this article was designed by Ai Hasegawa, a biologist and visual creator, who speculates on possible future scenarios and combines audio-visual art with her scientific background. So far, Hasegawa has presented such installations as the widely-discussed (Im)possible Baby[63], and The Extreme Environmental Love Hotel[64], in which she tackles socially important topics such as biotechnological modifications to human genomes, and environmental issues. Similar themes also appear in her 2013 installation I Wanna Deliver a Dolphin[65].

The artist approaches issues of overcrowding, overdevelopment, and environmental crisis through presentation of an alternative, even grotesque form of human reproduction – delivery of  endangered species[66]. Giving birth to animals (such as a dolphin, tuna or shark) could, according to Hasegawa’s speculation, satisfy humankind’s need to reproduce, as well as its need for nutrition[67]. The idea for her I Wanna Deliver a Dolphin audio-visual installation emerged when the artist turned thirty and she started thinking about having her own children. In an interview for an online magazine, Shift, she said that “I had turned 30, and was at an age when I would have to seriously think about having children. At the same time, there was a lot of news coverage surrounding environmental issues. Such news reports made me think about overpopulation and the food problem, and I thought, »are more humans necessary? Would children be happy being forced into this deteriorating world?«” In this case, it can be pointed out that I Wanna Deliver a Dolphin was a result of the author’s consciousness of her bodily changes, and a need for sharing that awareness with a broader audience.

As an example of an ideal species for becoming a human baby, the artist chose the Maui’s dolphin, which has the right size to be grown in a human placenta. Combining a highly suggestive fragment of film showing the birth of a dolphin and its first moments, with footage of a human mother and a model of a placenta displayed next to the screen, Hasegawa tricks the viewer into considering the possibility of the depicted situation. The scientific descriptions that accompany the screening seem to suggest the possibility of the process, further legitimized by technical details[68]. What’s more, the author presents a ‘dilemma chart’ and invites the viewer to consider whether they would like to deliver an endangered species. It’s worth pointing out that the project asks the question from a non-western, non-male perspective, which fact was especially praised by the jury of the 2014 Core 77 Design Awards[69]. The dilemma chart that accompanies the film is designed for female viewers to follow,[70] and in doing so imagine themselves in the situation presented on the screen. Here, the observer, tricked by the mock technical details designed to convince viewers of the truth presented on-screen, is invited to reconsider the abilities of their body. Moreover, the artist questions the motivation and morality of the viewer in imagining the possibility of giving birth to an endangered species, only to eat it for its unique, luxury meat. It is significant that while approaching the installation in the exhibition space, the viewer is not informed that the dolphin is a robot (and that the whole birthing process is simulated by an actress). The simulation is also enhanced with various graphic details, such as blood filling the birthing pool.

Following the primary aim of expanded cinema, Hasegawa pushes the boundaries of the relationship between audiences and audio-visual material, as well as encouraging immersion in the projection and a response to questions of a moral and even religious character. Here, the body of the viewer is a transmitter of meanings, which seems to be perfectly illustrated by a quotation from Vivian Sobchack’s Carnal Thoughts: “the film experience is meaningful not to the side of our bodies, but because of our bodies. Which is to say that movies provoke in us the »carnal thoughts« that ground and inform more conscious analysis.”[71]

Conclusion

The appearance of the body of the viewer – exposed to a cacophony of sounds, colours and the insecurity resulting from seeing controversial or thought-provoking content – becomes the reason for creating such encounters in moving pictures as those presented by the Japanese experimental directors discussed in this article. They are checking the boundaries of audiences’ understanding, continuously balancing between shocking and comforting them. What’s more, the artists are often genuinely interested in receiving feedback from their audiences, and they collect opinions on the emotional states the viewers reached during the screenings – becoming something like researchers on human perception. The somatic character of these new Japanese audio-visual experiments could be a subject of further interest, as these three directors at least are not stopping pursuing new methods of fulfilling their postulates. As such, it can be assumed that in the next few years the list of experiments, following their achievements presented in this article, will be expanded.

 

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Makino Takashi (ed.) Plus Documents 2009-2013, (Tokyo: Engine Books) (2014).

Marks Laura U., The Skin of the Film. Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses, (Durham: Duke University Press) (2000).

Metz Christian, “The Imaginary Signifier”, Screen 16:2 (1975), pp. 14-76.

Rees Al, History of Experimental Film and Video, (London: Palgrave Macmillan) (2011).

Rei Hayama, http://reihayama.net/, date accessed 14 June 2018.

Ross Julian, “Interview: Takashi Makino”, Filmcomment (2014), http://www.filmcomment.com/blog/interview-takashi-makino/, date accessed 15 June 2018.

 

Sas Miryam, Experimental Arts in Postwar Japan: Moments of Encounter, Engagement, and Imagined Return, (Cambridge: Harvard University Press) (2011).

Shaneen Marianne, “Takashi Makino’s 2012”, BOMB – Artist in Conversation Magazine 130 (2015), http://bombmagazine.org/article/2000042/takashi-makino-s-em-2012-em, date of access 13 June 2018.

Shift. Japan-based international online magazine features creative culture, http://www.shift.jp.org/en/archives/2016/02/ai-hasegawa.html, date accessed 11 June 2018.

Sobchack Vivian, Carnal Thoughts: Embodiment and Moving Image Culture, (Berkeley: University of California Press) (2004).

The Japan Times, http://www.japantimes.co.jp/culture/2015/02/05/arts/kazuhiro-goshima-sheer-amount-information-4k-exceeds-reality/#.VvmZ4kcoN8h, date accessed 28.03.2016.

Toward the Tactile Visions, https://web.facebook.com/events/2087048401511185/, date accessed 10 June 2018 [event’s webpage].

Toward the Tactile Visions, https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcglLozI4B7M0IZS81hDj1g, date accessed 15 June 2018 [performance video recording, excerpt].

Wro Art Center, http://wrocenter.pl/pl/ai-hasegawa-jp-i-wanna-deliver-a-dolphin/, date accessed 18 June 2018.

Vacheron Joel, “Kazuhiro Goshima: After the Metabolic Cities”, 12th Biennial of Moving Images in Geneva, (JRP | Ringier, Centre St-Gervais, Genève) (2007).

Youngblood Gene, Expanded Cinema, (New York: P. Dutton & Co., Inc.) (1970).

 

 

Notes

[1] The new Japanese experimental film movement first emerged in 2000 as a continuation of the artistic attempts of previous generations of Japanese independent filmmakers. Artists such as Rei Hayama, Takashi Makino, Shinkan Tamaki, Kazuhiro Goshima and others not mentioned in this article, all wanted to revive the artistic means that seemed to have long disappeared since the video revolution of the 1980s, and the development of multiplex cinema in Japan in the 1990s. For more on the subject, see for example: Agnieszka Kiejziewicz, “The technologies of experimental Japanese filmmakers in the digital era”, Transmissions: the Journal of Film and Media Studies 1:1 (2016), pp. 99-114.

[2] See: Takashi Makino (ed.) Plus Documents 2009-2013, (Tokyo: Engine Books) (2014), pp. 4-7, 14. In a manifesto published by Collective [+], together with a short lexicon of their works, the artists underline the importance of influencing the viewer and inviting them to contemplate experimental and expanded works. Explaining the purposes of their artistic pursuits, the artists often use the phrase “to touch the viewer” – relating the act of communication between the creator and the observer to senses other than sight.

[3] See: Marianne Shaneen, “Takashi Makino’s 2012”, BOMB – Artist in Conversation Magazine 130 (2015), http://bombmagazine.org/article/2000042/takashi-makino-s-em-2012-em, date of access 13 June 2018. Summarizing Makino’s aims and achievements, Marianne Shaneen observes that Makino describes the screenings as “creative collaboration with filmmaker and audience”. Also, she points out that his art is “[…] an embodied, perceptual engagement with the continually transforming materiality […]” which generates “sensations of sublime transcendence—an inspiring model for experiencing everyday realities, as well as cinematic ones”.

[4] Luke Hockley, Somatic Cinema: The relationship between body and screen – a Jungian perspective, (New York: Routledge) (2014), p. 1.

[5] The artist’s website, see: Kazuhiro Goshima, http://www.goshiman.com/hp/04profile_e.html, date accessed 28.03.2016.

[6] The artist’s website, see: Ai Hasegawa, http://aihasegawa.info/, date accessed 15 June 2018.

[7] Luke Hockley, p. 6.

[8] Luke Hockley, p. 7.

[9] Luke Hockley, p. 7.

[10] Luke Hockley, p. 7.

[11] In the optics of the Japanese experimental artists discussed herein, the transitional character of cinema is related to the postulate that a film screening should change the viewer – develop their perception, initiate metaphysical reflection upon reality and teach them to read the meaning behind the experimental forms. As Takashi Makino points out: “While the audience experiences the film’s visual and sonic display, nonetheless, they are free to dwell into their own imagination. What fascinates me most about film expression is the potential for what is presented on the screen to collide with each individual viewer’s emotional landscape, and the new ‘image’ created inside the viewer’s mind resulting from this collision.” More, see: Makino Takashi, http://makinokino.exblog.jp/, date accessed 15 June 2018.

[12] Marianne Shaneen.

[13] Marianne Shaneen.

[14] Malcolm Le Grice, Experimental Cinema in the Digital Age, (London: Palgrave) (2001), p. 273.

[15] Malcolm Le Grice, pp. 273-274. Le Grice offers the following definition of expanded cinema: “The concept of Expanded Cinema was part of this [during the 1960s – author] general move by artists to break old artistic boundaries, explore cross-media fusions, and experiment with new technologies but, most importantly, to challenge the constraints of existing art discourses.”

[16] Makino states that Hollywood films predetermine certain images should be perceived – for example, those rendered in 3D. According to him, experimental cinema can offer an individual approach to the viewer that doesn’t determine the patterns of their reception; therefore it stands against mainstream cinema. For more, see: Ross Julian, “Interview: Takashi Makino”, Filmcomment (2014), http://www.filmcomment.com/blog/interview-takashi-makino/, date accessed 15 June 2018.

[17]See: Malcolm Le Grice, p. 275.

[18] For example, Takashi Makino has worked with musicians and composers, such as Jim O’Rourke. Moreover, Hayama was often accompanied by her sister, who helped with filming natural landscapes (for example, in the film Their Bird [2010-2012, 8 mm film and video, 13 min]).

[19] Currently, [+] is working more as a screening organizer group, not a group of artists pursuing the similar aesthetic objectives. For the project Toward The Tactile Visions, Hayama and Makino collaborated as individual artists, not the members of [+], what seems to be significant from the point of view of the mentioned directors. That decision of creating an independent project had not only the financial implications, but also allowed inviting Arnont Nongyao to the joint project.

[20] The only public information about the project was published on the Facebook event’s site. See: Toward the Tactile Visions, https://web.facebook.com/events/2087048401511185/, date accessed 10 June 2018 [event’s webpage].

[21] Excerpts from video recordings of the performances can be checked out on the Internet, see: Toward the Tactile Visions, https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcglLozI4B7M0IZS81hDj1g, date accessed 15 June 2018 [performance video recording, excerpt].

[22] See: IFFR, https://iffr.com/en/persons/arnont-nongyao, date accessed 17 June 2018. Arnont Nongyao (1979) is an experimental filmmaker from Thailand. He is mostly focused on searching for experimental sounds and vibrations – which he then incorporates into his films. So far, he has directed such films as: Mr. Weirdo and Anomalous Space (2003, short), A Perfect Disaster (2004, co-director), All the Chapter of the Song You Ate Me (2006, short), Anonymous (2013, documentary), Drink Sky On Rabbit’s Field (2014, short), Sound Inventing & Inside Inventor (2015, short), and Ghost Rabbit & The Casket Sales (2015, short).

[23] Biographical information and the Rei Hayama’s objectives were also presented in the author’s article, “Literary inspirations in Japanese audiovisual experiment. Rei Hayama’s film art”, Problems of Literary Genres 61:1 (2018) [in print].

[24] Light Cone, https://lightcone.org/en/filmmaker-2639-rei-hayama, date accessed 14 June 2018.

[25] Rei Hayama, http://reihayama.net/, date accessed 14 June 2018.

[26] Monica Delgado, José S. Hinojosa, “Interview: Rei Hayama”, desistfilm, http://desistfilm.com/interview-rei-hayama/ (2014).

[27] Monica Delgado, José S. Hinojosa. The quotation is presented in its original form.

[28] Hayama Rei, Private conversations with Rei Hayama (2017-2018), [interviews in the author’s own archive].

[29] Hayama Rei.

[30] Monica Delgado, José S. Hinojosa.

[31] Rei Hayama.

[32] However, it should be pointed out that the artists also take inspiration from western literature (for example, the poetry of Paul Valéry), films such as Béla Tarr’s Werckmeister Harmonies (Werckmeister harmóniák, 2000), and Pier Paolo Pasolini’s works, as well as the performative art of Ana Mendieta.

[33] Fore more about Takashi Makino, see: Kiejziewicz Agnieszka, “Enter the metaphysical cosmos: the visualizations of the universe in Japanese experimental cinema”, Maska. Anthropology Sociology Culture 29 (2016), pp. 147-156.

[34] Marianne Shaneen.

[35] Marianne Shaneen.

[36] Light Cone, Makino Takashi. Still in Cosmos, http://lightcone.org/en/film-7445-still-in-cosmos, date accessed 17 June 2018.

[37] Arnont Nongyao, http://www.arnontnongyao.com/arnontnongyao.com/Another_Sound.html, date accessed 15 June 2018.

[38] Arnont Nongyao.

[39] Arnont Nongyao.

[40] Toward the Tactile Visions, https://web.facebook.com/events/2087048401511185/, date accessed 10 June 2018 [event’s webpage].

[41] Toward the Tactile Visions.

[42] Toward the Tactile Visions.

[43] Agnieszka Kiejziewicz, Conversations with Rei Hayama (2018), [the interview with Rei Hayama, the material in the author’s archive].

[44] I wrote about the role of the technologies used by Goshima in his films between the 1990s and 2016 in an article: Agnieszka Kiejziewicz, “The technologies of experimental Japanese filmmakers in the digital era”, Transmissions: the Journal of Film and Media Studies 1:1 (2016), pp. 102-104.

[45] Kazuhiro Goshima, http://www.goshiman.com/hp/04profile_e.html, date accessed 28.03.2016.

[46] Agnieszka Kiejziewicz, “The technologies…”, pp. 102-104.

[47] Agnieszka Kiejziewicz, “The technologies…”, pp. 102-104.

[48] For example, in such films as Uncertain camera (2009), or In the forest of shadows (2008).

[49] For example, in Relative position (2012).

[50] For example, in Looking and listening (2014).

[51] Malcolm Le Grice, pp. 172-183.

[52] Metz Christian, “The Imaginary Signifier”, Screen 16:2 (1975), pp. 14-76.

[53] Malcolm Le Grice, p. 177.

[54] Malcolm Le Grice, p. 179.

[55] Malcolm Le Grice, pp.179-181.

[56] Malcolm Le Grice, p. 183.

[57] Kazuhiro Goshima, http://www.goshiman.com/hp/04profile_e.html, date accessed 28.03.2016.

[58] The Japan Times, http://www.japantimes.co.jp/culture/2015/02/05/arts/kazuhiro-goshima-sheer-amount-information-4k-exceeds-reality/#.VvmZ4kcoN8h, date accessed 28.03.2016.

[59] The Japan Times.

[60] The Japan Times.

[61] Kazuhiro Goshima.

[62] The explanatory movie was also posted on YouTube, see:  これは映画ではないらしい THIS MAY NOT BE A MOVIE, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4i-3Pc6nCE&feature=youtu.be, date accessed 17 June 2018 [Kazuhiro Goshima’s technical details explanation film].

[63] Ai Hasegawa, http://aihasegawa.info/, date accessed 15 June 2018.

[64] See: Shift. Japan-based international online magazine features creative culture, http://www.shift.jp.org/en/archives/2016/02/ai-hasegawa.html, date accessed 11 June 2018. The (Im)possible baby project is another example of Hasegawa’s speculative design. It was created to “stimulate discussions about the social, cultural and ethical implications of emerging biotechnologies that could enable same-sex couple to have their own, genetically related children.” The artist analyzed the DNA data of a lesbian couple, and comparing their genotypes, visualized the look of their potential children (two girls). Hasegawa used these simulation models to create a set of fictional photos, showing the unique moments that could have happened (for example, family meals and celebrations). The results were presented around the world as photo exhibitions, as well as in a 30-minute documentary, made with the help of the Japanese national television, NHK.

[65] I Wanna Deliver a Dolphin was also exhibited in Poland, thanks to the artist’s cooperation with the Wro Art Center in Wrocław. See: Wro Art Center, http://wrocenter.pl/pl/ai-hasegawa-jp-i-wanna-deliver-a-dolphin/, date accessed 18 June 2018.

[66] Ai Hasegawa.

[67] Ai Hasegawa.

[68] See: Ai Hasegawa. The technical details, presented together with the film and model, are as follows: “To make it possible for a human mother to deliver a dolphin from her womb, there is a need to synthesize »The Dolp-human Placenta«. The usual human placenta interacts to pass from mother to baby oxygen, carbon dioxide, nutrients, hormones, antibodies (Immunoglobulin Gamma, IgG) and so on. The Dolp-human placenta blocks the delivery of IgG to the baby. The placenta originates from the baby’s side, which in this case is a dolphin, and not from the human side. This avoids the ethical and legal difficulties associated with reproductive research involving human eggs. The decidua is formed by implantation of the egg. Usually, foreign cells in the body (for example from other individuals) are attacked by the immune system, but inside the decidua they are tolerated. However, even though the decidua accepts cells from other individuals, non-human cells would still be attacked. In the dolp-human placenta’s case, it has been modified to distinguish mammal from non-mammal cells, making it even more tolerant” [excerpt].

[69] Ai Hasegawa. The Core 77 Design Awards are awarded annually to the best practitioners of such areas of design as open design, interaction, design concepts, consumer products, visual communication, and so on.

[70] Reading the provided dilemma chart, viewers can find questions such as: Can you take responsibility for another person’s life? How about an animal child? Do you think your child is going to have a happy life in this world?

[71] Vivian Sobchack, Carnal Thoughts: Embodiment and Moving Image Culture, (Berkeley: University of California Press) (2004), p. 60.

Historical insight into The Danube Exodus cinematic installation by Péter Forgács

Kamil Lipiński

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1, pp. 43-58.

 

Kamil Lipiński
Adam Mickiewicz University

 

 

 

Historical insight into The Danube Exodus cinematic installation by Péter Forgács

 

 

Abstract

The article examines the wide-screen installation The Danube Exodus: Rippling Currents of the River (2002-2006) by Péter Forgács. Forgács designed it in collaboration with the Getty Team and the Labyrinth Project in heterotopic terms that revert events in time and space using various mutual juxtapositions, generated by viewers on a tactile interface. The expansion of cinema into museum spaces from the 1990s is understood as an open, work-in-progress mode of exhibition that entangles spatial arrangement. The film at the heart of the installation begins by placing two heterotopic journeys of exile in comparative context: Slovakian Jews being ferried along the Danube to Jerusalem, and the resettlement of Bessarabia Germans to Polish territory, also via the Danube. This comparative study of migratory aesthetics reflects the contemporary drive to fill the white spaces on the map of Europe. This article retraces the contexts of the immersion of this haunting journey from the past in new intersections that move from a description of the specificity of found footage to wide-screen panorama.

 

Keywords: found footage, heterotopia, spacing, wide-screen panorama, comparative study, exhibition

 

Introduction

In an article entitled Beyond the White Cube, Peter Weibel outlined the need for a “colonial remix” seen from the point of view of global culture, to demonstrate alternative ways of remapping visual culture

 

[1]. In discussing spatial analysis, we shall present various ways of reading The Danube Exodus: Rippling Currents of the River as an example of relocating the cinematic experience to an expanded environment, enriched with a haptic experience via user interface. To begin with, my interest is in conceptually nailing down the concept of heterotopia introduced by Michel Foucault, and to propose it as a new perspective of interpretation, building upon the writings of Victor Burgin and Gertrud Koch. Foucault’s concept could contribute to demonstrating how film fragments are interspersed within complex installations, derived from various times, as a mirror reflection of society. Having discussed the philosophical framework of heterotopia, I would then like to focus on the historical events outlined by The Danube Exodus: Rippling Currents of the River, to reveal how the juxtaposition of vision inscribed in the visual horizon of the fragmentation of images can be understood in terms of cinematographic heterotopy. Analysing the philosophical premises, let us investigate how the heterotopic journey introduces the history of the Eastern European region and situates its concerns within the broader, more current European high-cultural revival of amateur chronicles.

The second part of this essay offers an insight into the parallel timelines employed in The Danube Exodus to examine the similarities and differences between them. Insight into the archival found footage used in the film enables us to observe several overlapping narratives, derived from various periods, to build up a powerful wide-screen vision of Eastern Europe across the centuries. The installation provides heterotopic insights into the emerging interactive display used in The Danube Exodus project. Using various angles, this wide-screen panorama shows the ways in which we contest the primacy of monocular vision in the era of “polycentric vision”, restored by media archivists in numerous forms[2]. This installation presents the imaginative potential of various historical pieces of evidence that open up the circulatory, fragmentary horizon of contemporary aesthetics.

The concluding section presents a brief analysis of the ways in which we could interpret the immersive mode of The Danube Exodus’s historical storytelling, as inscribed in the manifold visual documentation. This visual journey, in situ, provides an insight into the visual testimonies of the past and lets us rethink the differences between ‘exile’ and ‘resettlement’ as two different strategies of movement, or displacement, in the era of genocide. The installation unfolds different modes of using “interactive memory strategy”, composed of moving images and stable documents, to mirror the wider circulation of “diversified representation“ in galleries at the beginning of the 21st century[3].

A heterotopic grid

Before we discuss The Danube Exodus, a glimpse at cinematic transformations will provide some useful aesthetic premises for the inscription of cinema in the art gallery, because – as Raymond Bellour famously observed – “cinema can also be reinvented, an another cinema, by other means.”[4] The principal drive of the media landscape emphasizes excessive concern on placing the viewer in new spaces that enrich the wider discourse with the conceptual collage of historical narratives. Since the 1990s, Victor Misiano has stressed the emergence of the role of the “curator-mediator”, which is marked by curatorial cooperation. This contributes to the drawing of a new face for museums, which “…opens up into its network of trustees, their affiliations with multinational corporations, and finally the global system of late capitalism proper, such that what used to be the limited and Kantian of a restricted conceptual art expands into the very ambition of its reach and is transformed into a cognitive mapping itself (with all its specific representational contradictions)”[5]. This modus operandi shifts the insistent promotion of the artist as designer, contemplation over function and the openness of the aesthetic resolution. In this respect, one could map out capitalism and adopt DJs and computer programmers as forms leading towards direct physical experience, relying upon the recombination of works with other pre-existing products that themselves rely upon re-appropriation, quotation, and parasitism. Therefore, one could argue, as Jean-Christophe Royaux did, that “…we can find cinema after cinema in most of the works of the post-minimalist generation”[6]. In developing his arguments, Royaux uses his concept of the “cinema of exhibition” to outline the ways in which one can “designate the particular forms of syntax of the exhibition”[7]. In tracing the transformations of moving images in gallery art and museums, Victor Burgin sought also to reaffirm that “the concept of heterotopia to real external places, he nevertheless arrives at his discussion of heterotopias via a reference to utopias – places with no other substance than that of representation: material signifiers, psychic reality and fantasia”[8]. Bringing forth this point of view, bear in mind that Michel Foucault laid out the premises of heterotopia in Des espaces autres in his lecture at the Cercle d’études architecturales, wherein he situated this perspective at the intersection of what’s real and what’s imaginary. In Foucault’s view, there are six relations between discursive, heterogenic spaces of heterotopia, with two of them being particularly worth applying as a method and form of interpretative explanation. In particular, Gertrud Koch lists the third and fourth principle of building a “heterotopic grid” that spans both painting, sculpture, architecture and photography[9]. Foucault’s concept defines the extension of the idea of the dispersion of knowledge and implies “juxtaposition in one single, real place, several places that are themselves incompatible”[10]. Among notable examples of these concepts, Foucault lists theatres, cinemas and gardens. In turn, according to the fourth principle of heterotopy, there is the possibility of making temporal juxtapositions, of “layers of time” – epochs called ‘heterochrony’ by Foucault. Inspired by Friedrich Nietzsche’s concept of nihilism, Foucault pointed out the necessity of death in every culture (the end of life, decay and disappearance). These interspersed cultural lines present the ways in which “…our experience of the world is less that of the long life developing through time than that of the network that connects points and intersects with its own skin”[11]. In this sense, this heterotopic grid can be conceived as a spatiotemporal framework to demonstrate the evolutionary course of historical events, and the need for thinking in terms of a ‘set of relations’ that ‘delineate sites’ and co-create our presence as a ‘configuration’. Oscillating primarily between utopian and dystopian qualities, heterotopia aims at “indefinitely accumulating time” in museums and galleries[12]. These spaces build “…the counter-sites, a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all the real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested and inverted. Places of this kind are outside of all places, even though it may be possible to indicate their location in reality”[13]. In this respect, social reality reflects an inverted society. Although it never becomes a real space, it does, however, have its roots in real spaces. This dimension of signifiers embodies ‘distorting mirrors’, and discovers the space of the ‘other’ as a space illusion that encapsulates “the dreams and desires of society”[14]. Inspired by Friedrich Nietzsche’s idea of perspectivism and parallel interpretations of history, Foucault argued that heterotopia entails “…in this way a sort of perpetual and indefinite accumulation in an immobile place, this whole idea belongs to our modernity. The museum and the library are heterotopias that are proper to western culture of the nineteenth century”[15]. Heterotopia considered as an atlas of singularities is an archive that, as a mobile ship, has all of these traits. Georges Didi-Huberman suggested that it can be adopted in various contexts on the epistemological, aesthetic and political levels.

Inspired by Foucauldian thinking, Victor Burgin argued that this concept could be extended in many ways to a nascent “cinematographic heterotopia” as a utopian society – “out of time”. In Burgin’s discussion, this concept is extended by reference to Félix Guattari’s post-media aesthetics to describe “media-based imagery”, which relies upon the ‘ecology of mind’ (écologie de l’esprit) and infiltration of subjectivity by the media. This immersion in manifold representations explains the ‘recycling’ desire for exploration and the re-use of existing aesthetic forms. Specifically, these works can be used as a figure of parataxis derived from rhetoric to describe situations “…in which the relations are not given, but deduced”[16].

Expanded space

Further insight can be gained by examining the tactile interface used in the installation that allows viewers to navigate the found footage journeys of the refugees escaping the heterotopic ship. In The Danube Exodus, two timelines can be found, as well as additional historical context that acts as an information carrier under the influence of contact with the body’s surface. When viewing the installation, audiences can choose between three main narrative threads: the boat captain, the Jewish exodus, and the German exodus. In this circular environment, touch determines the selection of images on the screens. Through this tactile mapping of the stories, we can select particular variants of the stories that demonstrate the experience of spatiality, and the flows of moments and memories presented in the context of new configurations. Visitors can select one of eighteen three or five-minute sequences from different ethnic areas, enriched with interviews. The four-and-a-half hour film-strip, composed of five ninety-minutes films, that is used in The Danube Exodus is understood as a metaphor of relativism seen in five split-screens, which emphasizes the incongruence of two reconstructions. This impression of an ‘enlarged’ installation relies upon entering into the dialogue between the recipient and the represented subject, which represents the three main threads (the captain, the Jewish exodus, and the German exodus). The use of an immersive interactive menu system draws attention to the travel experience, directed and dictated by touch displays. These histories, displayed on a five-screen panoramic display, reflect the specific configuration of the mobile camera and present the way that cinema inherits the concept of the mobile eye (l’oeil mobile) from modern painting. “Polyvision” exceeds the frontality of one of several different screen, while continuing to bring dramas and scripted places into play”[17]. Putting in motion specific segments allows the viewers to immerse themselves between two realms of overlapping historical narratives in a heterotopic fashion: the journey between Slovakia and Haifa, and in parallel, the journey of the deported Germans to Poland.

These two journeys provide an interesting account of two possible ways of thinking about migration and re-settlement in historical narratives with multiple points of view. The two main historical narratives receive additional context sourced from the special collection of the Luigi Ferdinando Marsili Research Library – an early eighteenth century six-volume encyclopaedia about the Danube. In explaining the origins of the encyclopaedia, Zaia Alexander and Marsha Kinder stated that it was executed “On the commission of Holy Roman (Hapsburg) Emperor Leopold I, an Italian military engineer prepared a map of the country recaptured from the Turks – Hungary. In addition, there were three huge leather-bound albums in each volume concerning different aspects of the region, especially the richness of the flora and fauna of the Danube river and the breadth of Marsili’s interests”[18]. This web-like narrative encompasses not only a hyphological narrative, but also two forms of scores interpreted in terms of the span of the river itself, and some if it is included as complementary audio-visual material for the two main journeys.

An archival journey

Briefly introducing the aesthetic context in which The Danube Exodus project emerged, let’s note that Forgács primarily initiated his research by collecting and reconstructing private, archival and visual diaries derived from various sources. Forgács mainly collected this footage by publishing an announcement in certain journals, and on the basis of the responses, assembled “…pre-existing images, regrouped and overworked by artists engaging the viewer in reflection […] on the history and film of occidental clichés”[19]. Some of these conceptual solutions for restoring sound and images date back to the late 1970s, drawing inspiration from the film Private History by Gabor Bódy and Peter Timar.

Forgács began his work in the neo-avant-garde environment, where he experimented with multifarious audio-visual forms with sound effects, commentaries and montage. Later, he was invited to edit the fourth themed issue of the Infermental international video journal. From the late 1970s onwards, Forgács also worked with Group 180 as a recitativo, in which he created commentaries on juxtaposing sound and image. Inspired by Sándor Kardos’s Horus archive, in 1983 Forgács then began – with the help of the Budapest Photo & Film Archives Foundation – collecting found footage from the 20th century. After gathering materials and interviewing the families of the survivors, Forgács juxtaposed a variety of visual documents, such as family photos and official diaries.  In 1998 he built a story shedding new light on the paths of resettlement caused by the Holocaust. The Danube Exodus presents two separate spaces in its story, located in two crucial sequences in the various configurations of its 40 hours of material controllable through the tactile interface. The film gives interesting insight into the 60-minutes of 8 mm film made by the boat’s captain, Nandor Andrásovits. The film was lent to Forgács by the captain’s widow, who documented his travels around Europe. Forgács and the Labyrinth Project used the film as “found footage for a newly-edited narrative that incorporates resonances and ironies within these historic encounters”, collected together at the Cultural Research Institute in Budapest. This narrative was navigated by the touch-screen interface to revive them during art exhibitions. This work includes forty-nine minutes of outtakes from the Jewish voyage that Forgács received from historian-archivist Janos Varga, who originally inherited the material from Andrásovits’ close friend Zelan Pathanazy[20]. In brief, Forgács presented a vision of a Jewish-German exodus based on two separate stories, both, however, being connected.

The escape project for fear of anti-Semitism was implemented by the president of the orthodox community in Bratislava Aron Grünhut on two borrowed ships to Palestine. The first of the two journeys shown in the film presents the vicissitudes  of 608 Slovak Orthodox Jews escaping from Bratislava in 1939, on an extraordinary, epic journey along the Danube to the Black Sea towards Palestine. This amateur documentary provides insight into the on-board life of refugees on their two-month journey, and it could be interpreted as the embodiment of a heterotopia set on a spaceship. The focus is primarily on Noemi Julia , a steamship previously used by holidaymakers cruising the Danube. The journey of the Slovak and Hungarian Jews from Bratislava through Central Europe along the Danube River, via Romania and Bulgaria to Palestine, included several hundred people from a large community which had been assigned to extermination by the Nazis. This migration presents the spatial displacements aboard the Queen Elizabeth as it travelled along the river Danube from Slovakia to the Black Sea, with the ultimate goal of Haifa in Palestine. The total length of its journey was 1446 km Given the British restrictions on Jewish emigration and entry to Palestine, each of the refugees was restricted to taking a fifty-kilometer bag for the Danube cruise of 1446 kilometers.  In the beginning, their route led on the Danube waters crossed the territory of Bulgaria. Despite the British protests, a group of refugees managed to enter the vessel Noemi Julia in the port of Sulima on the Black Sea and sail to Haifa after eighty-three days. Most of the presented scenes abound with a positive resolution. We observe scenes showing the wedding on the ship and, to a large extent, the rather joyful atmosphere of everyday customs and prayers. However, some scenes are accompanied by moments of fear when drinking water is lacking. Each passenger was assigned two glasses of water daily, and all passengers suffered from sea sickness during a storm. The documentary of Nándor Andrásovits presents in an intimate light the journey by ship across the Black Sea and then towards Palestine. In the final part, we can observe how the Jewish group, when finally arriving in Haifa on the ship Noemi Julia, is arrested by the British government in order to clarify the matter. Fortunately, after a month they are released and can enjoy freedom in Palestine. Thus they became a part of 500,000 Jewish settlers living under the British Mandate. Based on the reconstruction of archival materials, Forgács asks in this documentary work about the fate of a select group of history of the Chosen People returning to their spiritual capital. . In Forgács’s vision, this collision of narratives demonstrates a microhistory of fleeing Jews reminiscent of the history of repatriation of the Chosen People to the Promised Land. It is worth noting that, in general, during World War II, seventy-seven thousand people escaped from the Third Reich through the Danube. . This exilic movement reflects the Jewish return to the promised land as a fortunate escape from the phantom of genocide that was spreading across Europe.

The German resettlement   

The second of the two journeys of inquiry presented by Forgács was filmed by captain Andrásovitz the following year, in 1940. The narrative illustrates the voyage of natives of the Bessarabia Germans who tried to escape their resettlement by the Red Army to Third Reich. Accepting the proposition to be resettled in occupied Poland in accordance with the agreement between Hitler and Stalin, the refugees decided to abandon their homeland themselves. Andrásovitz’s ship was then chartered to resettle the Bessarabia Germans displaced from Romania at the turn of October and November 1940 resulting in the Soviet Annexation of Bessarabia. As a part of the wider narrative of the Holocaust, this footage is a record of the seven-week repatriation  of 93,000 German farmers (Volksdeutsche), escaping along the Danube by boat. The Soviets paid the Third Reich in wheat and coal, and promised to pay compensation to the displaced upon arrival. Initially, the Germans were transported by carts to the river jetties, where the Erzsébet Királyne ship, led by Commander Nandor Andrásovits, and one of the twenty seven transport vessels waited for them. Erzsébet Királyne took 600 passengers during each trip. . The cruise began at Reni and led to Semlin, where the Germans were examined. Then they were transported to Galati and then to Russe. From there, they were transported by train to Prague and to camps in the Third Reich. The action ended on November 16, 1940. Some of the Bessarabian Germans were later settled in the lands of Poles expropriated by the Nazis. In the final part of the history, Forgács introduces a micro-narrative about one anonymous relocated family in 1942 to Kościan, near Poznań. At some point, Polish owners appear there, asking for the return of the precious violin, probably the Stradivarius brand, left there because of a rush when leaving the house. However, they leave without the violin. The Bessarabian Germans in 1945 left the territory of Greater Poland and went to the West towards Frankfurt.

The difference between these two journeys lies in the emotional approach that Forgács takes, given that the deportation of the Jews and Germans are separate, albeit related stories. In the first story, the Jews enjoyed the journey, dancing, and singing, as they had saved their lives from the threat of extermination. In contrast, the Germans Exodus is shown in a nostalgic light, with the farmers mourning the loss of their homes and estates in exchange for unsure promises of abandoned territory. In contrast to the Jewish happiness, the Bessarabia Germans regretted leaving their homes and estates. These remote stories can be seen in terms of “intensities”, according to which “stupefaction, terror, anger, hatred, pleasure and all the intense emotions are always displacements within a place”, and present “the term emotion into motion that leads to its own exhaustion, an immobilizing motion, an immobilized mobilization”[21]. According to Forgács, this story builds an intimate insight into their lives and differences in their motives not only at the historical level, but also in the assigned fate of exile to which they were condemned and had to conform.

The dual nature of the installation

Let us return to the question of how The Danube Exodus can attempt to answer questions about the nature of cinematographic heterotopia, showing the dual nature of the installation between the real and imaginary spaces, which create a space for “openness inaugurating dialogue”[22]. Let us also note that heterotopia can be used as a starting point for thinking about this complex installation, which spans film, interactivity and use of a website designed by the Getty’s Design Team and the Labyrinth Group. The installation can be perceived in terms of “constellation” as the “horizontal textual organization of objects which brings into play a different definition of cinema, one that is minimal but sufficient, as a set of ways of passing from one (any) element to another”[23]. It should be emphasized that along with the emergence of the forms of “expanded cinema”, this extended narrative (traceable from the 1960s) characterises both “emancipation or extension within the field of exhibition, and they also reflect a collective need to imagine other kinds of relationship with the spectator (a tunnel, a ‘touch screen’)”[24]. Moreover, interactivity has enriched mental activity with, in this case, the ability to touch and play with the film, making it possible to shape the images projected in the installation. In a similar manner, this form of “haptic perception is usually defined by psychologists as the combination of tactical, kinaesthetic and proprioceptive functions, the way we experience touch both on the surface of an inside our bodies”[25]. Some insight into the theoretical articulation of touch aesthetics is given in Walter Benjamin’s writings, in which he stresses the relationship between optics and tactility assigned to the realm of copies (Abbild), which thereby demand contemplation, absorbed attention and a fixed gaze that sees into the distance and demands to be looked at. The installation’s value is brought about through the dominance of the copy, which brings the masses closer to the reality in exchange for losing the aura, the cult value associated with the original, optical image (Bild). This double recounting and documenting of reality engages in an interplay between the context of art and the language of science, as well as demonstrating how “techniques and practices come and go from the laboratory to the atelier and vice-versa”[26]. In other words, the interface designed by the Getty Team and the Labyrinth Group presents a transmedia journey that covers five screens (each of which is two meters high and three meters wide), creating a fifteen-meter-wide panorama. Perceptually immersed in this panoramic view, “the audience is immediately surrounded on all sides by a three-dimensional interior, the faux terrain, which is imperceptibly connected to the two-dimensional visual action and often makes the visual frontier untraceable”[27]. Interestingly, panorama considered as a form of “popular entertainment lost their importance after 1900, however, their principles have survived the cinematic camera’s pan and static shot movements”[28]. The Danube Exodus’s expanded view demonstrates that “an entire world is in the flux as if one is inside a train, where the fragments of the outside view are “seen through the window”[29]. More specifically, the Getty Team and the Labyrinth Project have designed a wide-screen panorama that covers both a “circular” environment and “panoramic” cinema.

This polycentric vision of narrative visual culture permits entry into dialogue and stimulates the movement of circular panoramas, hovering on the edge of the many visual shreds of evidence. Note that the multi-layered, non-linear storyline designed by Labyrinth for the interface could be compared to a hyper-textual rhizome, vaguely inspired by Jorge Luis Borges’ The Garden of Forking Paths. In particular, the Jewish Exodus of refugees can be used as an illustration of the return home of the ‘chosen ones’, while the journey of the Bessarabia Germans presents a vision of homesickness and a feeling of permanent loss. This spatial decoupage of two different historical stories shows the mutual similarities and differences between them. In this installation’s circulation, the images in-between the screens could be compared to Bruno Latour’s concept of “circulative reference”, as a method of “drawing things together”. Building on the principle of sustainability and formal changeability, the kinaesthetic nature of the work makes an impact on the status of stable artefacts in the dynamic and liquid architecture of work-events. Through selection of maps and variants of the presented history, viewers can manoeuvre between the paths of history, primarily between movement and Taoist no-movement . This interplay between photography and cinematic movement enables us to juxtapose images in different spaces and times, interpreted as a potential process under construction, an ‘any space’, fundamental to Deleuzian time-images. One can see in this interactive installation how “the digital and visual interface is at the same time divided between aesthetics and operability”[30]. More specifically, Laura Mulvey suggested that the audio-visual universe could now be “halted or slowed down or fragmented”[31]. Therefore, Raymond Bellour probably argued that these kinds of installations “may seem to be the effect of so-called ‘crisis’ within cinema and the difficulties of contemporary art of which installations are probably the most vivid manifestation”[32]. From this angle, the juxtaposition of images can be perceived as “one of the effects of the games of visible figures. The efficiency of the cinema out of is that “the works make speak, and make speeches about them”[33]. In other words, this sensual formation arises from the fact of the interlacing fragments of micro-narrative inscribed in the context of dialogical inter-spaces of the refugees’ flight, which allows for a meandering within the audio-visual journey. The soundtrack to The Danube Exodus can be described as heterotopic, as it combines different musical traditions that owe much of their power to the hypnotic, mesmerizing score by Tibor Szemzö, which draw on the composition of the rhythm of the narrative and solemn music, “in harmonic tones”, with bells, the rhythm of marching soldiers, “occasional voices and the sound of water”[34]. These musical noises are combined with natural ambient river and waterfront sounds by McKee of Earwan Productions, the mechanical rhythms of the ship’s engines, regional music, the songs and prayers of the refugees, and the voices of the Captain and his crew. The virtual space of the interface entangled in the visual dimension of the film’s projection contributes to the production of an environment in which we can encounter displaced pieces of film (the internet, the media and so on), but also the psychical space of a spectating subject that Baudelaire first identified as “a kaleidoscope equipped with a consciousness”[35]. Significantly, kaleidoscopic circulation of images “hinges on fragmentary, circular and repetitive short sequences in response to which the viewing subject as a subject of signifier may come into being on Mobius band of impressions and imaginations”[36]. This perspective particularly represents the specific orientation towards a post-medium condition resulting in the emergence of “expanded space beyond the confines of the movie theatre” within the gallery and museum. To explain this drive to recycling games with representations, Victor Burgin argued that being immersed in a spatial environment, “visitors of art galleries have encountered a wide range of works that make more or less direct reference to the cinema – from works by artists that manipulate existing footage from mainstream films in order to isolate and explore cinematographic conventions”[37]. The Danube Exodus interactive project creates a situation in which “moving image work relies on loop and reprise, on para-tactical elements rather than on continuous temporal progress”[38]. This specific narrative proceeds in a different order, in accordance with the touch-screen images immersed in the “spaces and moments of the story” to present a wandering “new spatiotemporal structure of difference constructed by new telecommunication techniques”[39]. Visitors can easily decide which parts of the story will be seen and in what order, as we become not only visitor and witness, but also creator. This dialogue, even if highly illusive and insufficient, seems to provide an insight in to the archival footage used, that could be used as a function of experimental, laboratory study in order to revive fragments of moving pictures reconstructed in the more accessible way for a contemporary perceptual needs of the viewer. In Robert Simanowski’s view, “the mapping is a perfect symbolic form of our time, not primarily for its realization to the database paradigm of the endless and unstructured collection of data records, but for its modus to turn the data to us to explore”[40].  Thus, in The Danube Exodus one can enter into a dialogue with works based on navigation, dictated by an interactive menu created by the viewer via the touchscreen interface. More specifically, the sequencing and composition of the narrative permit forward movement without the possibility of returning to the previous sequence. This passing between the spaces of history enables viewers to enter into narrative passages and navigate between them in a one-way direction. And according to Heraclitus, this “irreversibility of history” shows that no one can enter the same river twice…

Conclusion   

Let me note very briefly that the importance of The Danube Exodus lies rather in the questions and difficulties that emerge from spatial, non-linear, deconstructed stories in the light kinaesthetic juxtapositions aboard the ship. Observing the vicissitudes of the refugees seen in the film footage lets us reiterate Hannah Arendt’s long-lasting diagnosis “that the symbol of the twentieth century of the people deprived of their rights and refugees deprived of the homeland, confirms it with amazing accuracy”[41]. If we accept this remark, we can open up a renewed dialogue with representations of migratory aesthetics derived from the past, and point out the role of the relocation processes in order to rethink art cinema. This perspective seeks application of Foucault’s claims, conceived in terms of the heterotopic grid, as a way of perceiving a manifold visual interpretation of the archives as a fruitful tool for historical research. The Danube Exodus project provides an interesting account of the perspectives of interpretation of “Holocaust-effects” as ways of seeing an experience by means of “repetition and obscuration”[42]. An audience immersed in this installation can embark on a metaphorical journey within the imaginary geography of historical Eastern Europe, as seen through the prism of “immersive strategies of panoramic installation”[43]. Through this “fusion of horizons”, one can see a curatorial drive to recombining and reading interdiscursive areas because, as Gregor Stemmerich puts it, “the basic idea of a work of art should be an integrated part of a situation, place or location – not in order to harmonize the relationship between the artwork and its surroundings and evoke complex issues, possibly interconnecting various discourses related to it that would normally be barred from consciousness”[44]. The importance of found footage archives lies in the how the combination of signifiers of Western and Eastern cultures produces a vision of found footage heterotopia. This provides insight into the way we think about the juxtaposition of story immersed within a wide-screen narrative, rediscovered post-mortem. In particular, this mapping of specific elements of spatial graphics allows us to immerse ourselves in an unexplored atmosphere of forgotten history, viewed through the prism of “integrated humanities”. The use of amateur chronicles is a particular method by which we can understand found-footage heterotopia, comprehending it as a place in which the history of Eastern and Western technology, amateur filmmaking and the professional model of curatorship intermingle, not being ideologically invisible. However, found footage re-entangled in an art installation partially loosens the narrative, to rediscover overlapping ontologies and the way in a “material form in which they are presented as archives in the form of installation”[45]. The question is, however, whether this project preserves the principle of aesthetic historicity, which relies upon the premise of correspondence and metamorphosis defined by Jacques Rancière as having three features. Primarily, the sentence, the episode, the image is isolated to express its nature and the tonality of the collection. Furthermore, it provides the possibility of correspondence, through which all manner of signs of nature come into resonance or dissonance. This “combination of characters coincides vaguely with the object or develops in the form of significant living”[46]. If we accept these premises, the migration of peoples looking for recognition by inscription in their situation are placed in a context “making it possible to transform the artificial into something living, and the repetitive into something unique”[47]. The installation’s multi-screen projection, connected with the interface of this heterotopic installation, reflects The Danube Exodus’s formal complexity and mobilizes the imagination. More specifically, circulation of images increases the role of amateur, private archives in reviving the collective memory. The Danube Exodus panoramic installation can be read plurally, comparatively challenging us to play, however vertiginously, within the screens. Art cinema considered as “ghost visions” could provide a direction toward thinking about alternative ways of returning to the historical event by filling the ‘white space’ in the history of refugees’ journeys across the map of Europe.

References

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Bellour Raymond, “D’un autre cinema”, in La Querelle des dispositifs: cinéma, installations, expositions, (Paris: P.O.L.) (2002).

Blümlinger Christa, “Culture de remploi- questions du cinema”, Trafic 50 (2004).

Burgin Victor, “Possessive, Pensive and Possessed”, in The Cinematic, (London & Cambridge, Whitechapel) (2006).

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Burgin Victor, “The Time of Panorama”, in Situational Aesthetics. Selected Writings by Victor Burgin, ed. Alexander Streitberger, (Leuven, Leuven University Press) (2009).

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Habermas Jürgen, Staatsbürgerschaft und nationale Identität: Überlegungen zur europäischen Zukunft, (St. Gallen: Erker) (1991).

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Notes

[1] Peter Weibel, “Beyond the White Cube”, in: Contemporary Art and the Museum. A Global Perspective, ed. Peter Weibel, Andrea Budensieg, (Ostfidern: Hatje Cantz Verlag) (2007), p. 143.

[2] Ella Shohat, Robert Stam, “Narrativizing Visual Culture, Towards a Polycentric Aesthetics”, in: Visual Culture Reader, ed. Nicholas Mirzoeff, (London & New York: Routledge) (1998), p. 46.

[3] Kristian Feigelson, “The Labyrinth. The Strategy of Sensitive Experimentation. A Filmmaker of Anonymous”. in: Kinokultura, http://www.kinokultura.com/specials/7/feigelson.shtml (date accessed 20.05.2018).

[4] Raymond Bellour, “D’un autre cinema”, in: La Querelle des dispositifs: cinéma, installations, expositions, (Paris: P.O.L.) (2012), p. 168.

[5] Fredric Jameson, Postmodernism, or the cultural logic of late capitalism, (Durnham: Duke University Press) (1991), p. 157.

[6] Jean-Christophe Royaux, “Towards a Post-Cinematic Space-Time”, in: Brillo Box Illuminated, ed. Sarra Arrhenius, Magdalena Malm, Christophe Ricupero, (Stockholm: IASPIS) (2003), p. 110.

[7] Jean-Christophe Royaux, p. 110.

[8] Victor Burgin, Possessive, Pensive and Possessed, in The Cinematic, (London & Cambridge, Whitechapel) (2006), p. 199.

[9] Gertrud Koch, Die Verkehr der Illusion. Der Film und die Kunst, der Gegenwart, (Berlin: Suhrkamp) (2016), p. 224.

[10] Michel Foucault, Of other spaces, trans. Jan Miskoviec, “Diacritics” 16:11 (1986), p. 24.

[11] Michel Foucault, p. 22.

[12] Michel Foucault, p. 13.

[13] Michel Foucault, p. 14.

[14] Paolo Magagnoli, Documents of Utopia. The Politics of experimental documentary, (New York: Wallflower Press) (2015), p. 28.

[15] Michel Foucault, p. 13.

[16] Victor Burgin, “Interactive Cinema and Uncinematic”, in Screen Dynamics. Mapping the borders of the cinema, ed. Gertrud Koch, Volker Pantenburg, Simon Rothohler, (Vienna: Österreichisches Filmmuseum) (2012), p. 102.

[17] Raymond Bellour, “D’un autre cinema”, in: La Querelle des dispositifs: cinéma, installations, expositions, (Paris: P.O.L.) (2012). p. 166.

[18] Zara Alexander, Marsha Kinder, The Danube Exodus: The Rippling currents of the River, (Budapest: Ludwig Museum) (2006), p. 13.

[19] Sébastien Dénis, “Esthétique de l’archive”, in: Arts plastique et Cinéma, CinémAction, 122 (2007), p. 266.

[20] Zara Alexander, Marsha Kinder, p. 13.

[21] JeanFrançois Lyotard, “L’acinéma”, in: Cinéma: théorie, lectures, Textes réunis et présentés par Dominique Noguez, Revue d’Esthétique (Klincksieck: Paris) (1973), p. 365.

[22] Robert Simanowski, Digital art and meaning. Reading Kinetic Poetry, Text Machines, Mapping Art, and Interactive Installations, (Minneapolis & London: University of Minnesota Press) (2011), p. 128.

[23] Jean-Christophe Royaux, p. 110.

[24] Stephanie Moisdon Trembley, “Time as Activity”, in: Brillo Box Illuminated, ed. Sarra Arrhenius, Magdalena Malm, Christophe Ricupero, (Stockholm: IASPIS) (2003), p. 84.

[25] Laura U Marks, The Skin of the Film. Intercultural cinema, embodiment and the senses, (Durnham/London: Duke University Press) (2000), p. 162.

[26] Bruno Latour, “L’art. de faire science”, Movements 62 (2012), p. 92.

[27] Oliver Grau, “Into the Belly of an Image. Historical aspects of Virtual Reality”, Leonardo 32:5 (1999), p. 167.

[28] Victor Burgin, “The Time of Panorama”, in: Situational Aesthetics. Selected Writings by Victor Burgin, ed. Alexander Streitberger, (Leuven, Leuven University Press) (2009), p. 295.

[29] Victor Burgin, p. 295.

[30] Jean-Pierre Fourmentraux, “Introduction”, in: Images interactives. Art Contemporain. Recherche et création numérique, (Paris: La Lettre Volée) (2016), p. 6.

[31] Laura Mulvey, “The Pensive Spectator”, in: The Death in 24th Second. Stillness and the Moving Image, (London: Reaktion Books) (2006), p. 181

[32] Raymond Bellour, D’un autre cinema, op. cit.. p. 41.

[33] JeanFrançois Lyotard, “Petites ruminations sur le commentaire d’art”, Opus International, 70/71 (1979), p. 17.

[34] Leah Ollmann, The Danube Exodus: The Rippling Currents of the River, (Budapest: Ludwig Museum) (2002), p. 20.

[35] Victor Burgin, “Possessive, Pensive and Possessed”, in: The Cinematic (London & Cambridge, Whitechapel) (2006), p. 220.

[36] Gertrud Koch, “Introduction”, in: Screen Dynamics. Mapping the borders of the cinema, ed. Gertrud Koch, Volker Pantenburg, (Vienna: Österreichisches Filmmuseum) (2012), p. 104.

[37] Gertrud Koch, p. 102.

[38] Gertrud Koch, p. 107.

[39] Jacques Derrida, Christine Malabou, Counter-Path. Travelling with Jacques Derrida, trans. David Wills, (Stanford: Stanford University Press) (2004), p. 18.

[40] Robert Simanowski, p. 181.

[41]Jürgen Habermas, Staatsbürgerschaft und nationale Identität: Überlegungen zur europäischen Zukunft, (St. Gallen: Erker) (1991), p. 25.

[42] Ernst Van Alphen, Caught by History: Holocaust Effects in Contemporary Art, Literature, and Theory, (Stanford: Stanford University Press) (1997), p. 106.

[43] Ernst Van Alphen, p. 203.

[44] Gregor Stemmerich,White Cubes, Black Box and Grey Areas: venues and values”, in: Art and the Moving Image, ed. Tanya Leighton, (London: Tate Publishing) (2005), p. 64.

[45] Christa Blümlinger, Culture de remploi- questions du cinéma, Trafic, 50 (2004), p. 350.

[46] Jacques Rancière, “L’historicité de cinema”, in: De l’histoire au cinéma, ed. Antoine de Baecque, Christian Delage, (Bruxelles & Éditions Complexe) (1998), p. 49.

[47] Boris Groys, “Art in the Age of Biopolitics. From Artwork to Art documentation”, in: Art Power, (Cambridge & London: MIT Press) (2008), p. 64.

 

Boundaries are (but) a blur: Computer-generated imagery and the formation of seamless filmic space

Maciej Stasiowski

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1, pp. 59-77.

Maciej Stasiowski
Jagiellonian University

 

 

 

Boundaries are (but) a blur: Computer-generated imagery and the formation of seamless filmic space

Ever since cinema’s inception, the physical creation of fictional settings has been the province of architects, set designers, cinematographers, and – nowadays – of artists in art departments, ardent in bringing to life often impossible spaces. As far as optical illusions go, in order to exist they need not a restless eye, but a static one. But what if the space being rendered is itself fluid, dynamic by default? Braiding computer-generated imagery into live-action film footage has become progressively more robust in revealing its non-material base through texture, light reflexivity, and the way these additions interact with the pro-filmic space. Nevertheless, they too are just as reliant on a suspension of disbelief in their striving for a photographic verisimilitude. Preceded by scale models, montage juxtapositions and painterly optical illusions, digital scenography has become the next logical step in enhancing filmed footage; boosting an impression of reality, going so far as to sacrifice (or ‘dematerialize’) the physical in favour of the hyperreal.

With the help of software enabling motion tracking (to merge 3D visuals into filmed scenes), picture correction, and digital composition in the post-production stages, as well as completely digital animated previsualizations, filmmakers are now able to come up with radically new spatial environments. In this way, the innovative concept of cinematic screen space that blurs or even nullifies material borders is introduced. Seamless transitions link contradictory settings into homogenous environments, whereas uninterrupted long takes can now arise through digital ‘stitching’ aimed at achieving near-to-experiential involvement. Through this, contemporary spectacles postulate a new kind of viewer – one who absorbs visual and acoustic effects viscerally, and allows himself to become engulfed by and pulled into the filmic space.

Along with films that not only employ computer-generated imagery (CGI), but are realized with techniques characteristic of animated film (at nearly every stage of their production), a general approach in treating the representational emerges. The digital space of representation outruns traditional matte paintings with its moving, dynamic descendants, if not entire 3D scenes/environments reconstructed digitally, wrapped in photographic textures. This article sets out to investigate the poly-sensory quality of represented spaces. In their surrogate of an out-of-body experience through cinematographic strategies, editing becomes quite reluctant to tie down visual spectacle to a specific point-of-view or point-of-audition narrative. Films embroidered with CGI put forward a new mode of ‘navigating’ filmic space. They reposition their audiences in a represented space, making them willingly succumb to a multisensorial ‘flow’ of diegetic events. Eventually, even Daniel Dayan’s notion of suture, explaining the process through which the viewer is positioned in filmic locations, becomes replaced by a sensation of fluid environments, intangible settings, and floating worlds inextricable from our perceptual cues, as reproduced by digital cinematography.

Bringing Maurits Cornelis Escher back to life through the power of CGI and a lack of humble decency, if that was ever an option, might have brought about the digital revolution in cinematography we are witnessing right now. But nothing of note happened in this regard, and while Escher’s grave in Baarn is rarely frequented by production designers or digital matte artists, let alone Hollywood executives, the branch of visual special effects in contemporary productions develops precisely along the lines of his architecturally-accurate optical illusions in their progressive conquest of photographic mimesis. Drawings resembling photographs, 3D models indistinguishable from material objects, abstract graphics thoroughly intercepting indexical veracity, and – apparently – promoted animation as a main mode of filmic expression, and all in the guise of photographic textures wrapped around objects, places, and actors alike. This is the cinema of the future, and the future is now.

What this article postulates is an emerging concept of representational space in films which not only employ computer-generated imagery (CGI), but are realized with techniques characteristic of animated film. These, in turn, steer nearly every stage of their production. As digital visual special effects (DVFX), with time, have come to emancipate themselves as a category, the industry standard nowadays sees feature films often driven by the use of computer graphics integrated with the live-action footage, or substituting for portions of it. Quite often what we see on screen are not just lifelike, moving matte paintings created in Maya or 3D Studio Max, but entire 3D scenes and environments reconstructed digitally, though covered with photographic textures. “Over the past twenty years, the Visual Effects (VFX) and Art Departments have worked more and more closely, bridging the gap between real life and digital environments. Sets are now often built to incorporate green and blue screens so that they can be seamlessly extended in post-production.”

 

[1] With the dematerialization of generic film sets comes the introduction of a virtual camera whose weightless, continuous gliding over modelled landscapes presents the viewer with a novel way of taking in visual information – immersing them into the action and scene of events. Instead of resorting to the shot-reverse shot mechanism of narrative subjectivity – regarded by Daniel Dayan as the base principle of cinema, according to which the viewer projects him/herself into filmic space[2] – we are instead drawn into represented space in a cinematic version of an out-of-body experience, in which editing is quite reluctant to constantly tie the visual spectacle down to a specific diegetic perceiver. Rather, repositioning the audience in represented space forces them to succumb to a multisensorial investment in the ‘flow’ of events on screen. As all transitions are rendered seamless and digital stitches concealed, films embroidered with CGI put forward a new mode of navigating the filmic space; Dayan’s notion of suture, standing in as a means of situating ourselves in imaginary yet veritable locations, is replaced by a sensation of fluid environments, intangible settings, and floating worlds inextricable from our perceptual cues, as reproduced by digital cinematography.

Illusionism applied

Take any one of Escher’s lithographs and you’ll immediately see that creating optical illusions involves a spatial imagination and a knowledge of visual cues based on human perceptual habits, even more so of their shortcomings. Ascending and Descending (1960), for example, lures us into believing that the circular staircase is a buildable three-dimensional object, even though it remains an impossible figure, in the realms of the Möbius strip. On the slightest disruption of that accurately constructed three-point perspective – reprised under the guise of a magician’s sleight-of-hand in the Penrose stairs scene[3] from Inception (2010, Christopher Nolan) – the last step, that seemed to be conjoined with the first, suddenly drifts apart with a single swift movement of the camera crane, thus revealing a gaping fissure, previously non-existent due to the advantageous position of the assumed vantage point. Observations can be made as follows: one – the space is non-existent, because an infinite staircase is an impossible object, and two – the picture’s representational space is possible as long as we maintain the vantage point posited by Escher or Wally Pfister, Nolan’s cinematographer. The way we look at space becomes space itself – three.

This tension, which arises between the scene and the observer, or speaking more scientifically, that turns space into a (mathematical) function of the gaze, has been one of cinema’s prime features from the very beginning. Set designers, with cinematographers, are often ardent students of classical art. This pertains to ‘proper’ construction of perspectives for matte shots, just as much as it later translates into the relationship established between the represented space and the viewer. In classic cinema, as Daniel Dayan noted, “[c]amera lenses organize their visual field according to the laws of perspective, which thereby operate to render it as the perception of a subject.”[4] In order to deepen that impression of subjectivity, a variety of visual cues are being employed. Among them are “…forced perspectives [which] created the illusion of great depth. In resorting to this technique, modern art directors joined company with writers on perspective from the Renaissance and Baroque eras, whose schemes were routinely taught in American art schools.”[5] Building an optical illusion first of all requires another illusion to back it up – namely, an optically-biased environment, disguised as a space extracted directly from real life that would give no reason to the onlooker to question what they see. Since cinema’s inception, architects, set designers, cinematographers, and now art department virtuosos have become skilled in creating fictional scenes that would be impossible to encounter in real life, because in order to exist, they involve not a restless, but a static eye.

Beyond expressionist ‘Caligari’s cabinets’, filmic scenery, encompassing physical locations, set decorations and painted backdrops, has undergone a long journey to the point of redefining the entire approach to film design, brought about with the CGI revolution. Not yet at the stage when the first computer artwork was being introduced into practice (namely, John Whitney’s opening sequence to Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958)), what was considered ‘computer art’ was still, for example, largely the analogue re-filming of console displays in Tron (1982, Steven Lisberger). This eventually led to over-stated claims of the arrival of the digital age, with a mere 6 minutes’ worth of CGI in Jurassic Park (1993, Steven Spielberg). In fact, it was Toy Story (1995, John Lasseter) that arrived on the scene as the true binary Prometheus, disrupting the balance of computer-generated special effects shots versus regular footage, expanding the category of digital FX into full-length 3D animated features. In this way:

[a]gainst the backdrop of the wider proliferation of digital technologies, media and communication networks, digital or digitised practices have found their way into almost every aspect of filmmaking, including sequence pre-visualisation, blue and green screen shooting, face and body motion capture, compositing of image elements and digital rotoscoping, non-linear editing and sound mixing.[6]

Computer-generated imagery braided into live footage is reliant on a suspension of disbelief, according to which any film is assumed to be lifelike as long as it presents us with objects whose photographic verisimilitude – its indexical value – seem undeniable. As parametricism in architecture evolves into yet more advanced and elaborate forms, and with CGI as a standard in movie production, what was formerly regarded as merely a new tool to aid the design process has not only reconfigured both practices, but also introduced an innovative concept to the cinematic screen space, which blurs or nullifies material borders. With the help of software enabling motion tracking – facilitating the merging of filmed scenes and 3D visuals – picture correction, and overall digital compositing at the post-production stage, as well as completely digital animated previsualizations (being ‘storyboards 2.0’), filmmakers have been able to come up with radically new spatial environments (albeit mainly in the science-fiction and superhero genres). And while the surface might be misleading, resembling classical cinema, the ‘engine’ of present-day productions is purely digital, driving all production phases in contemporary filmmaking.

What prevails, then, is a desire for seamless visuals that reinforce the illusion that we are indeed looking at cities full of Marvel’s superheroes, and that flying beyond the galaxy’s farthest edges appears as if they’ve really been put in front of an actual camera. But both presumptions are wrong. Digital scenography – preceded by scale models, montage juxtapositions and painterly optical illusions – has come to supersede or enhance the practice of filmmaking and the usual modus operandi, subsequently dematerialising the physical borders of pro-filmic reality, blending interior and exterior barriers, and transforming the spaces depicted and the camera’s gaze into a seamless whole. Contemporary cinema has emancipated itself from the rules of classic montage. We are already being flooded with over-invested blockbusters that tend to rely very little on the viewer’s critical awareness. Instead, immersive narrative strategies (Gravity (2013, Alfonso Cuarón), Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) (2014, Alejandro G. Iñárritu)) are preferred. These eliminate the cognitive stage of mental ‘stitching’ – along the lines of Dayan’s suture theory – of the filmic narrative, requiring from the viewer complete involvement and naïve insertion into the events depicted, rather than any intellectual distance:

Narrative cinema presents itself as a ‘subjective’ cinema. […] These films propose images which are subtly designated and intuitively perceived as corresponding to the point of view of one character or another. The point of view varies. There are also moments when the image does not represent anyone’s point of view; but in the classical narrative cinema, these are relatively exceptional. Soon enough, the image is reasserted as somebody’s point of view.[7]

Of course, filmmakers have always excelled in hiding the ‘stitches’, just like the brush strokes that might have made one suspect the painterly nature of an end credits’ sunset, or the true storage capacity of the Hangar 51 warehouse in Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981, Steven Spielberg). With digital image processing, these directorial dreams have come true, although not without affecting our relationship with on-screen spaces – formerly a montage of fragments,[8] now a seamless environment in which the architecture of the material, illusory and computer generated all converge.

Pro-filmic space in pre-digital cinema

The emerging filmic space’s uninterrupted nature often (unsurprisingly) finds its central inhabitant in a character who exists on the borders between fantasy/delusion/mental illness and concrete reality. The procession of visual information – in such features as the aforementioned Birdman, Gravity, or The Revenant (2015, Alejandro G. Iñárritu) – postulates a manic, restless and slightly neurotic subject, whose incessant daydream we are drawn into, all the more to experience it first-hand. We are used to gazing at cinematic space as an imagined, otherworldly reality on a screen in whose wilderness the characters are meant to wander, struggle, or simply interact. Inside a bluescreen environment this task becomes much harder to accomplish, as far more unknowns about the represented space are introduced into the equation.

It is no longer a case of catching hold of and restoring a slice of pro-filmic reality, but rather of encoding the ‘data’ seized by the device. With the digital, to record reality is already, and simultaneously, to reconstruct it. We know of course that any representation, however slavishly recorded it may be, is always-already a (re)construction.[9]

It is a spatiotemporal collage conceived by editing, within-the-frame montage, compiled from a variety of sources, chiefly pro-filmic space, stage sets, scale models and matte paintings. Their juxtaposition creates the setting for the plot. Graphic artists, set designers and cinematographers have always been preoccupied with hiding from the viewer’s gaze any inconsistencies in the composited image, a practice originated with artisan-come-artists such as Robert…

…Mallet Stevens [who] had discovered the empirical approach of the professional designers. He began to study camera angles, which varied according to the focus of the lens employed. Intrigued by these studies, [Jean] Perrier took them up as well and developed a rational concept of film set design as a function of the position of the camera and the lenses. The graphic method that he worked out enabled him to determine which plan and dimensions of a set would produce the image desired and drawn by the designer.[10]

Such views can only propagate themselves. As Michael Tawa writes, “[t]he cinematic image is […] a manner of penetrating space. It constitutes the way in which a look perforates and advances into space.”[11] Therefore, represented space arrives on the ‘silver screen’ as an entity that has already been manipulated, enhanced and infused with digital hyperrealism, whose: “…architecture changes the sizes and proportions of real architecture. Even though buildings constructed in the studio were usually made smaller than life-size, their physical diminution was not noticeable when they were filmed with actors.”[12]

Fiction film beguiles us into accepting spaceship interiors and alien temples as instances of ‘probable’ architectural typologies. Documentaries make us alert, as they strive for verity, even though throughout history truth-seeking has been achieved through quite diverse means. Animated and experimental films are unique in this manner, as they present us with spaces that, even when originating in real life, have been intercepted in order to test the borders of our cognition; the limits of our perceptual capabilities, as in structuralist film. But apart from generic convention, CGI facilitates the coming (or designing, rather) into graphic existence of any environments of pure abstraction, the digital kin of Douglas Trumbull’s stargate-corridor in 2001 (1968, Stanley Kubrick) – a perfect example of a purely ‘retinal’ space that is brought to life on an inherently Dayanian basis of shot interchange (the fluorescent stream reflected upon Bowman’s face and helmet upon which we see the corridor as a projection).

Ambiguous space: a shortcut from animation to live action cinema

With the introduction of computers to filmmaking, the spectrum of tools allowing for processing of imagery grew considerably, facilitating chirurgical incisions, letting cuts proliferate in a more in-depth manner, while the stitched-together patient would emerge with no visible scars. Animated films, especially experimental shorts (such as the first computer films by John Whitney Sr., beginning with Catalog (1961), which introduced the idea of morphing and sequences of transformative algorithms applied to on-screen objects), have evolved into the backbone of any big-budget action film circa 2018. Thereby, special effects entered mainstream live-action cinema and thoroughly reshaped the production pipeline, emerging soon after as their own separate category. Conversely, space in animation has always been an artificial construct, along with the characters themselves (bodies, contour lines etc), the convention of background images and their own laws of physics, which come into being only when acted out.

Along with digital special effects, new stages of film production quickly caught on, such as previsualisations of more complicated sequences (fight scenes, explosions, stunts etc), and animatics – an animated version of the storyboard. As a consequence, although still regarded as a waste product, a test ‘movie’ comes into being alongside the main feature. That was the case for Gravity, which was created not unlike a typical Pixar production. The final cut of the film was decided upon in the pre-production stage. While shooting (mainly in a bluescreen environment), a ‘virtual camera’ was programmed to perform smoother movements than a physical one could. Post-production is nowadays the lengthiest gestation period in a film’s production process, and involves colour correction, lighting adjustments and the addition of special effects to accompany traditional animatronics and digital compositing. In this way, a typical film begins its life as an animated storybook, with concept art and digital previsualizations, etc, and ends up as an animated film ‘in disguise’, harnessing live action with the dexterity of a professional puppeteer. By flowing into mainstream (mainly ‘action’) cinema, it doesn’t just introduce the issue, but reinforces the problem of imagery’s ambiguous status.

Michele Pierson rehearsed this possibility in 2002, speculating that digital special effects would effectively begin to ‘disappear’ as a visual category, as CGI became a more persistent and wide-ranging presence onscreen, and as the impulse towards photorealism in digital imaging eradicated the ‘bracketing of’ and stylistic foregrounding of special effects that Pierson had identified in earlier phases of the digital effects tradition.[13]

Two examples of animated films are analysed below, examining their visual strategies (which made their way, further on, into CGI-imbued live action cinema) – extracted from two anime classics, covering distinct sequences that are explicitly pure visual transitions conjoining separate settings. One created on the brink of the digital era, the other in its midst: Mamoru Oshii’s Ghost in the Shell (1995), and Satoshi Kon’s Paprika (2006). The latter is a film with computer-generated dream-reality transitions. The former features a main character in a sea-diving sequence, in which the director/animator plays around with the illusion of water reflections. As depicted, they are indistinguishable from the character and the environmental design. Meanwhile, Paprika constantly transitions its narrative between reality and dream, unnoticeably  in the course of the plot, whereas the horror of waking up is ‘smoothed out’ with the use of digital special effects: blurring, twisting, morphing of the hand-drawn imagery, and all as abruptly as the morning bugle.

Ghost in the Shell: Re-surfacing

Halfway into the story, we find Ghost in the Shell’s central character, Major Kusanagi, taking some time off in a slow-paced ocean diving sequence. As she floats towards the water’s surface, we see her perfectly reflected in the upper right corner of the screen. Cut to a frame divided diagonally by the water line – the character in the lower left half of the screen rises floats gently upwards towards her double in the upper right. Despite our knowing the scene is set underwater, there seem to be no other indications, such as a watery blue hue, wavy shapes in the drawing, or a lack of focus. Which one of the two characters is Kusanagi, and which her reflection? Of course, both are images, as there was no real actor there to begin with. Mamoru Oshii frequently plays with pictorial conventions, creating equivocal 2D settings, depicting them at a fixed angle to reinforce an optical illusion that would have been shattered if presented stereoscopically. The water’s undisturbed surface, as painted, appears indistinguishable from a mirror, or polished chrome. Thus Oshii strains the limits of representation, demonstrating how images can imply, instead of merely depicting. Apparently, in their slavish attitude to the animated forefather, the creators of the live-action remake of Ghost in the Shell (2017, Rupert Sanders), tried to achieve a similar effect using not merely a CGI’d reflection, but a genuine double for the actress[14] descending from above – an image perfectly sharp and easily mistakable for the actress ascending from below.

Paprika: jumping fences

In Paprika, the ambiguity at play concerns the gradual intrusion of the dream world into concrete reality. Director Satoshi Kon’s team uses digital effects, such as  morphing, to mark the transition from a dreaming life to a waking one. At some point in the story, Chiba, the main female character, is scrutinizing the apartment of her colleague (a former programmer). Descending to the basement, she suddenly realizes she’s wandered into a huge amusement park. She notices a doll bearing a significant resemblance to her colleague and approaches it, jumping over a fence which suddenly dissolves like a reflection in water. The barrier vanishes and Chiba finds herself in mid-air, having just jumped over the railing on the apartment’s balcony several floors above the ground. Digital embroidery makes the drawing undulate, morphing the safe space of the apartment into a vertiginous drop. Further in, Kon nullifies differences between the images shown, as the protagonist’s alter ego, Paprika, is able to use the spaces of television screens, billboards and picture frames as gateways to the ‘realities’ they depict.

By fusing characters and backgrounds, or simply treating them as items of equally artificial and abstract origin, animated film doesn’t withhold from following gradual and abrupt metamorphoses within the course (and space) of a long take. “One-shot animated films are formulated from the potential changes of the scenery, running without cutting interruptions. To overcome this narrative restriction, the singularity of the shot is mitigated by the fluency of transitions and transformations at a blank stage, and the division of the frame to support simultaneous storytelling.”[15] In both Ghost in the Shell and Paprika, the environment’s status is ambivalent, far from acting out its solid and static nature. In animation, a particular artist’s style often serves as a masking tool, preying on our habit of separating moving characters from static backgrounds, as if they were actors in actual spaces. Instead, Kon and Oshii prompt the viewer to discredit this ‘reality principle’, regarding it as nothing more than a construct, regardless of how convincing it looks and how engaging the plot. “What is notable is the extent to which the photorealist principle is adhered to even in the depiction of the most fantastical subject matter, and even within sequences which function as explicit ‘showcases’ for – and thus explicit acknowledgments of – computer-generated imagery (CGI).”[16]

In film, meaning is generally derived from the collision of two images, making montage the main rule of composition for ‘moving pictures’. In the Hollywood system this serves the principle of editing for continuity, in which “…actors’ movements are matched across cuts, and as the scene develops the shots get closer to the performers, carrying us to the heart of the drama […]”[17]. Furthermore, “…nearly all scenes in nearly all contemporary mass-market movies (and in most ‘independent’ films) are staged, shot, and cut according to principles which crystallized in the 1910s and 1920s.”[18] Post-classical style strives, as Bordwell remarks, for a sensation of intensified continuity, a “…traditional continuity amped up, raised to a higher pitch of emphasis.”[19] Cutting heightens awareness, as it requires the viewer to mentally reconstruct relationships between perceived images, especially as images tend to weaken in resemblance.[20] Thus, fragments of architectural spaces and shots of a scale model can consequently be turned into a virtual building in the audience’s imagination. Daniel Dayan summarised these rules in his ‘suture theory’ of the mental stitching together of visual information (frames, shots) into a scene, sequence, virtual environment, event… depending on the discursive approach we choose.

The evasion this account identifies is deep and pervasive: the reverse shot of the gazer […] sutures over that profound wound in our being […][;] suture, in other words, provides film spectators with the illusion of an origin for what they see. Film’s construction of seeing needs to be naturalized. More importantly, the construction of seeing needs to be naturalized.[21]

Another level – or ‘sequel’ to Dayan’s concept – comes with CGI. Seamless transitions linking contradicting environments and creating long takes with the aid of digital imagery aim at something different – involvement. “Digital imaging’s original incarnation was as a ‘special effect’, the ‘digital effects’ it first showcased in specific shots and later specific sequences of particular films […] At another level this was a way for early digital effects movies to trial visual effects artists’ capacity to integrate the digital with the pro-filmic in a convincing way, and to test out the spectator’s tolerance of the digital elements and the composited image within safe limits….”[22] We are easily fooled by impossible, illogical spatial constructions when they emerge as walked-through corridors traversed uninterruptedly, staircases and rooms that lose us in their maze, either of Escher’s or Industrial Light & Magic’s provenance. Having this principle of continuity when discussing the CGI-cast space of representation in mind, we can inspect the (in)famous incessant ‘take’ of (rather than in) Birdman as representative of this trend in transiting long takes from modernist cinema into action films, from Nostalgia (1983, Andrei Tarkovsky) to Gravity.

Birdman or (The Expected Case to Study)

It’s not an exaggeration to say that Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) is nothing but Hitchcock’s Rope (1948) cut together digitally. Prior to its triumphal procession at the 87th Academy Awards ceremony, the film’s antecedents included Alexander Sokurov’s Russian Ark (2002), Gaspar Noé’s Enter the Void (2009), and Robert Altman’s multiple prism narratives, such as Shortcuts (1993). All of these films attempted a sense of simultaneity, continuity and recreation of a life’s stream of events, and tried to bypass the shattered, montage-driven form of the world traditionally put on screen. Apart from the obvious importance of staging – the actors’ blocking, camera placement, rehearsals and the other preparatory activities that bring cinema closer to theatre – computer postproduction played a crucial part in Birdman, precisely because it made the illusion possible. Typically,

[a] shot is a single uninterrupted camera take with no perceptually detectable temporal or spatial discontinuities. Cinematic sequences are composed of a range of shots that present different vantage points on an action, event, or state of affairs for the purpose of narrating a fiction, depicting an environment, communicating a point of view […]. Shots and sequences can therefore be defined as recognitional prompts that present diagnostic information that enables viewers to perceptually recognize their content in much the same way they recognize everyday objects, actions, and events in ordinary contexts.[23]

Birdman’s famously long take – as is more frequently the case with cinematic displays of digitally-enhanced prowess – was in fact a composite of various shorter takes edited together into a single seamless transition. This further enhances the nervous, syncopated rhythm of the film as the viewer follows its central character, Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton), nervously pacing the narrow corridors of a Broadway theatre and dealing with the various people and obstacles along the way. Three of the post-production tricks that made this seamless-looking feat possible are examined below, which include use of  computer software to create an uninterrupted narrative flow.

  1. Matchmoving…

…is a common means of conjoining digital imagery with filmed footage. In the film, during Riggan’s nervous pacing, the theatre’s dimly lit interiors were a perfect opportunity for making digital seams, placed so as to preserve the lighting and colour consistency of the images. Unlike the fades to black practiced by Hitchcock, the seams here are invisible, conjoined by the graphic artists at Rodeo FX. They employed a variety of techniques, including use of three time-lapse sequences and the aforementioned matchmoving – the matching of camera angles, motion, lighting etc. between two separate shots, in order to insert CGI material into the scene. Even a CG camera was used to seamlessly make a move that would tie all the unrelated elements together. All of this effort resulted in about 100 digital ‘stitches’ altogether, including transitions to fully digital backgrounds.

Current computer technology has made it easier to incorporate motion into composited shots, even when using handheld cameras. […] In post-production, a computer can use the references to compute the camera’s position and thus render an image that matches the perspective and movement of the foreground perfectly. Modern advances in software and computational power have eliminated the need for accurate placement of the markers – the software figures out their position in space. A perceived disadvantage of this is that it requires a large camera movement, possibly encouraging modern film techniques where the camera is always in motion….[24]

In Birdman, the idea was to give the impression of uninterruptedness by combining scenes that normally wouldn’t be subjected to much post-processing (it’s usually action sequences that involve bluescreen environments, supporting wires and stuntmen), such as dialogue sequences that might require colour correction, but do not involve heavy use of visual effects. In the Birdman sequence examined here, the character engages in frequent actor-to-actor interplays, only to be suddenly pulled up out of them by a crane, into an SFX display. And so, the illusion of continuity resultant from cutting together scenes shot inside a greenscreen environment, with scenes shot on location or on soundstages (such as the opening shot of Riggan levitating in his dressing room and the endless corridor walk he goes on just a few minutes later), create a consistent plane of magical-realism in the film’s diegetic space. And this magical-realist take has often been seen in the emphasis on continuity and immersion in modernist cinema’s spatiotemporal durée, in which subsequent actions are as much corporeally justified as they are metaphorically. It moulds together historically disparate periods (as seen in the works of Carlos Saura, Theo Angelopoulos, Miklós Jancsó), immersing audiences in the real-time duration of the scene (Béla Tarr, Michelangelo Antonioni, Andrei Tarkovsky), with the intention of attaining the stasis of a fleeting moment. However, CGI long-takes usually want none of that, let alone those in Birdman. Here, smooth transitions are set up between spaces and moments so as to point towards the distorted mindset of the protagonist.

  1. Photogrammetry…

…is the technique of extracting information from two images from different POVs, setting compatible points and creating a 2.5D representation of the image. It enables the determination of the position of a camera from two (or more) separately-taken shots, or photographs, and on the basis of data gathered on location, reconstruction of a 3D model of the scene. This pre-dates traditional matte painting, and gives an impression of three-dimensionality. It’s also indispensable in shots with mirrors. In Birdman, crew reflections were digitally erased. Parts of the set had to be either obscured with a bluescreen or taken out in post-production using rotoscoping, for example, in the dressing room scenes in which the large mirrors would normally reflect the film crew. Instead, the filmed reflections were replaced with CG reflections of the actors only, as well as of objects lying on a table visible in the shot.

  1. Digital compositing…

…is what allows for the illusion to play out loud. In Birdman, it ‘erupts’ sporadically, most prominently in a brief episode emphasizing an outburst of anger from Riggan, as – when walking down the street – he suddenly transforms into his audacious alter-ego, the titular ‘Birdman’ superhero character. Simultaneously, audiences are shell-shocked by the fantastical (though still convincing) images of an aerial attack on the city. Parked cars exploding, debris falling from destroyed buildings, wreckage and fire from every corner of the until-recently peaceful urban scenery. On the other hand, digital intrusions are applied to small details too. The stuntman dressed in Birdman’s costume wasn’t blessed with Michael Keaton’s chin – he received that in post-production.

This coherence in the design of each frame (as well as their flow), can also be observed on the ‘molecular’ level, as the software used privileges the manipulation of curved lines directly on screen; it favours continuous surfaces and smooth forms, let alone the fluidity of camerawork, complex shots and transitions. It can also effortlessly recreate nearly infinite zoom, and has no problem with a scarcity of interrupting cuts. This appears as “…a return to what we might describe […] as cinema’s graphic anima: Image manipulation, retouching, color timing, editing and post-production operations, all now digital, have encouraged a heightened “picturization” of films, for example, by broadening the color palette and the ways it can be manipulated.”[25] What had once been achieved with great difficulty, is now made to appear smooth. Like Birdman’s dynamics, with the film’s amplitude rhythmically changing each scene’s ‘time signature’ (an intensified continuity), speeding up then slowing down, but never grinding to a halt. These concealed incongruities mask the fact that the conjunction of heterogeneous spaces result in new viewing habits and different tasks for the viewer. And not passive reception of the information projected, but active negotiation of instances in a stream of attractions. Immersion here means surrender to the apparatus of cinematic projection.

The emergent option of eliminating all montage edits whatsoever is much less constrained than it used to be, for example in Alfred Hitchcock’s 1948 Rope. Moreover, the promise of seamlessness acquired by any formerly disjointed sequence of images grants the filmmaker the ability to not only sustain the illusion of a long take, but erase any barriers that would have normally been posed by material objects – be it props, set decorations or even other actors, as in the case of Gravity.

The aesthetics of the film try to replicate the protagonist’s fearful and fascinated exploration of a horizonless world through 3-D cinematography and very long takes, which together induce in the spectator an equally ambivalent sense of disorientation and weightlessness. The reduced narration and the poetic exploration of zero-gravity turns the film into a laboratory of the senses, which brings the spectator close to the bodily experience of floating, drifting, and being suspended in space.[26]

Even actors’ bodies no longer pose any obstacles to the camera’s penetrative look, as they can be substituted by CG counterparts; the formerly impenetrable borders between interior and outside space (and in metaphoric terms, between dream and waking life, inner psyche and outer reality), can now be traversed without resistance. This relegates material objects on set to the status of artistic creations (in Birdman, the creators often replaced props such as the cosmetics on a dressing table, or a framed poster, with digital doubles), generated on an ‘animator’s desk’ ex nihilo.

Images of the real world can now blend with fiction’s images of possible worlds because they are constructed and perceived in the same way. And this point surely touches on the ethics of our faith in images, particularly with respect to the documentary contract and journalistic coverage of the world’s factual events.[27]

In animated films, the attributes of material objects and physical laws have to be implied, acted out; they need to give off an illusion of corporality through texture, or usually weight, through light play and the way characters interact with the object. Dematerializing them in live-action cinema, as with actors in a bluescreen environment (or the more frequent practice of bright green Christo-like wrapping of their body parts, indicating areas of later intervention for CG artists ), pares them down to the status borne by any other object. Threads are composited into a film’s fabric (virtual camera movements, CG puppets replacing actors), and regarded as a coherent whole. “With motion capture something like the opposite occurs: here, a photo-realist image achieves the flexibility of an animated image.”[28] Altogether, this has given rise to the category of animage, which stresses the actual ‘fabric’ of the filmic spectacle, constituted not out of a montage of shots representative of real-life environments, figures, and events, but – as is frequently the case – an animated narrative encrusted with photographic ‘skins’ only in the post-production stage. “This, then, is animage: an animated image that is already no longer an image (it is no longer an impression of the world precisely), something conveyed by the privative prefix ‘a’. But animage is also – and now more than ever – an image that moves to the beat of animation.”[29]

There is an ontological shift in the represented space we perceive, which – out of a continuous flux – forms the underlying principle of most digital interventions. “In digital cinema […] there is no such thing as a still image, no punctual moment. There is only a consistent process of becoming (and unbecoming), based on the binary sequencing of zeros and ones, which creates a constant relay of appearing and vanishing, of presence and absence.”[30] This becomes evident when we compare a simple travelling scene from Birdman with a similar idea executed nearly 40 years earlier, in Antonioni’s The Passenger (1975). In both, the beholding eye – the camera – appears as a disembodied entity, traversing walls and material obstacles; in the Antonioni film it passes through the bars on a window separating the hotel room in which David Locke dies, from the courtyard outside. In Iñárritu, the obstacle covers the entrance to Riggan’s dressing room, as the crane climbs up to his balcony following a lengthy time-lapse sequence. Collaging, or making a photomontage out of disparate spaces, gives rise to the illusion of the camera’s all-penetrating gaze – the disembodied floating of the spectator’s eye is given much more than a mere ‘backstage pass’ into Riggan’s floor show, turning it into an absolute beholder. Such swift hovering about a virtual set implies a bit more than a delusion of grandeur. In fact, it reintroduces filmic space as a 3D model, in which territory we are to manoeuvre, vastly removed from the notions of classical construction, the ‘tutor code’ of cinema that dresses up and stitches together the projected show from fragments, presented to the camera’s restrained immobility.

Conclusive remarks

The Eisensteinian concept of the dominant, indicating aspects of the film frame or scene, is brought to the fore as it denotes both aural and visual layers of the spectacle. In the age of CGI, the same factors can easily be emphasised through colour correction, or elaborate camera movements (amongst other methods), meant to channel and direct the audience’s attention towards the particular element of the representation considered by its creators as the most pregnant with significance. Eisenstein writes: “[o]rthodox montage is montage on the dominant, i.e. the combination of shots according to their dominating indications. Montage according to tempo. Montage according to the chief tendency within the frame. Montage according to the length (continuance) of the shots, and so on. This is montage according to the foreground.”[31] A logical extension of this comes with a composting strategy to guide the audience’s attention. In other words, providing them with visual cues. The Soviet film director regarded lighting effects, framing, camera movements, composition of the cadre, sound, texture and other aspects manipulated by the filmmaker as a means of evoking a certain engagement on the viewer’s part, focusing their attention on specific elements of the screen’s tapestry; elements that embody the general meaning of the scene. With contemporary productions, this strategy is repurposed by means of colour correction, digitally-added lens flare, vibrant luminescence, or manipulated brightness levels.

What is the consequence of this kind of multi-aspect use of digital processing, compositing of a homogenous environment in which the look, mediated by the camera, is invisibly paired with CG additions? As in a Eisenstein’s own Alexander Nevsky (1938), the space of representation becomes coupled with vision – an aspect that, when experienced in 3D, redesigns whole shots in a way that aims at the viewer’s cone of vision.

[I]n light of the revival of 3-D images, the screen is no longer only a visual container framing the image, but has expanded into the auditorium space, further blurring the boundaries between inside and outside, in-here and out-there. It now opens up a virtual space that extends in depth, alternately thrusting itself menacingly out towards the spectators and pulling them into an enveloping embrace.[32]

Objects are thrown at us, and we intuitively dodge them just before realising we didn’t have to. That ubiquitous strategy of creating an immersive spectacle will probably soon fall into decline, both as antecedents and nemeses of Birdman quickly grow in numbers. Awareness of these strategies involving a pliant ‘interface’ raises questions about what is real and what is simulated. The next logical step for any self-conscious film made in the digital age would be to engage a thematic exploration of interruptions, blemishes, and borderline cases, in which digital intrusions into (supposedly) material reality cause an involution of the latter.

[I]t is our contention that in the era of digital cinema, the body and the senses are if anything even more central for a theoretical understanding of the film experience, whether it is the feeling of bodily presence created through digital sound, the sensory overload and profusion of detail achieved by high-definition digital images when projected in an IMAX theatre, or the ‘freedom’ to have ‘movies to go’ on portable devices and to control their sequence and flow with our hands.[33]

In this regard, Ari Folman’s The Congress (2013) and Leos Carax’s Holy Motors (2012) both raise the subject of digital alteration of what we see on screen more directly, revealing the technique, demonstrating glitches, and philosophising about the future condition of filmmaking. Such films engage – even on their margins – a discussion of digital paraphernalia, pointing to the ‘engines at work’ underneath the representations we see on screen. An example of this might be temporal masking, which results from compression, making use of “[t]he human visual system [as it] takes a while to adapt to abrupt scene changes. During this period it is less sensitive to details, and images may be represented in a coarser way.”[34] Emphasizing, at the same time, the ‘lossy’ aspects in coding visual imagery, precisely by a display of digital artefacts, that “[a]t low qualities […] become very visible and take the shape of abrupt changes in luminance and color between neighboring blocks, due to the JPEG processing that is performed independently for each block. This is why compression artifacts are often called blocks, or blocking artifacts.”[35] But the digital paradigm shift is rarely taken into consideration when talking about contemporary film. Not just because of Hollywood’s timidity in discussing face transplants for their major productions, but also due to a reluctance, maybe even inability, to pay attention to the invisible world of code behind the glossy, lossless surface. Soon, cinema may well be without any material reality outside the machine, as long as it remains armed with vast libraries of data from the physical world; a hermetic hermitage of digitized props, ready to be used and reused in any future spectacle.

Finally, as an afterthought, let us revise Dayan’s view that stitching (suture) was an automatic activity on the part of the viewer, who was critically aware of – even if accustomed to – the constructed reality they perceive, although symbolically desirous of writing themselves into the filmic space as witnessed in cinemas (in CinemaScope, preferably!). “To see the film is not to perceive the frame, the camera angle and distance, etc. The space between planes or objects on the screen is perceived as real, hence the viewer may perceive himself (in relation to this space) as fluidity, expansion, elasticity.”[36] Just like any other entrant in the Academy Award for Best Visual Effects category, Birdman and Gravity, the Ghost in the Shell live-action remake (2017, Rupert Sanders), and Ready Player One (2018, Steven Spielberg) all inevitably do just that; throwing their audiences (or should we say, their audience, as it’s unlikely that we’re speaking of a revolving cast of characters), into the midst of a DVFX hailstorm. Sooner than expected, we could find ourselves confronted with a seamless cloth of digitally composited and enhanced reality. Then, it will be our turn to rip the stitches apart.

References

Ackland-Snow Terry, Laybourn Wendy, The Art of Illusion: Production Design for Film and Television, (Marlborough: Crowood Press) (2017).

Barsacq Leon, Caligari’s Cabinet and Other Grand Illusions, (New York: New York Graphic Society) (1977).

Bertalmío Marcelo, Image Processing for Cinema, (Boca Raton, London and New York: CRC Press) (2014).

Bordwell David, ”Intensified Continuity: Visual Style in Contemporary American Film”, Film Quarterly 55:3 (Spring 2002), pp. 16-28.

Bryant Antony and Pollock Griselda (ed.), Digital and Other Virtualities: Renegotiating the Image, (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2010).

Butte George, “Suture and the Narration of Subjectivity in Film”, Poetics Today 29:2 (Summer 2008), pp. 277-308.

Dayan Daniel, “The Tutor-Code of Classical Cinema”, Film Quarterly 28:1 (Autumn 1974), pp. 22-31.

Dobbert Tom, Matchmoving: The Invisible Art of Camera Tracking (San Francisco and London: Sybex) (2005).

Eisenstein Sergei, “The Filmic Fourth Dimension” (1929), in Film Form: Essays in Film Theory, Jay Leyda (ed. and transl.) (New York and London: Harcourt) (1949).

Elsaesser Thomas, Hagener Malte, Film Theory: An Introduction through the Senses, (New York and London: Routledge) (2015).

Gaudreault André, Marion Philippe, The End of Cinema? A Medium in Crisis in the Digital Age, John Belton (ed.), Timothy Barnard (transl.) (New York: Columbia University Press) (2015).

Hernández María Lorenzo, “The Double Sense of Animated Images: A View on the Paradoxes of Animation as a Visual Language”, Animation Studies 2 (2007), https://journal.animationstudies.org/maria-lorenzo-hernandez-the-double-sense-of-animated-images/, date accessed 9 July 2018.

Pethő Ágnes (ed.), The Cinema of Sensations (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing) (2015), pp. 36-44.

Prince Stephen, Digital Visual Effects in Cinema: The Seduction of Reality (New Brunswick, New Jersey and London: Rutgers University Press) (2012).

Purse Lisa, Digital Imaging in Popular Cinema, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press) (2013).

Ramírez Juan Antonio, Architecture for the Screen: A Critical Study of Set Design in Hollywood’s Golden Age, (Jefferson and London: McFarland & Company) (2012).

Shimamura Arthur P. (ed), Psychocinematics: Exploring Cognition at the Movies, (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press) (2013).

Tawa Michael, Agencies of the Frame: Tectonic Strategies in Cinema and Architecture, (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing) (2011).

Whitlock Cathy, Designs on Film: A Century of Hollywood At Direction (Sydney, London, New York: HarperCollins) (2010).

Notes

[1] Terry Ackland-Snow, Wendy Laybourn, The Art of Illusion: Production Design for Film and Television, (Marlborough: Crowood Press) (2017), p. 42.

[2] Daniel Dayan, ”The

Tutor-Code of Classical Cinema”, Film Quarterly 28:1 (Autumn 1974), p. 30.

[3] Not ‘sequence’, as it is crucial to analyse this part of the film as taking place within the same interior, as well as noticing its constructed perspective which brings the illusion into being.

[4] Daniel Dayan, p. 28.

[5] Juan Antonio Ramírez, Architecture for the Screen: A Critical Study of Set Design in Hollywood’s Golden Age, (Jefferson and London: McFarland & Company) (2012), p. 63.

[6] Lisa Purse, Digital Imaging in Popular Cinema, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press) (2013), p. 2.

[7] Daniel Dayan, pp. 28-29.

[8] This has been historically motivated by the intention to optimize “… viewing positions by decomposing events into different shots, each of them showing the event part preferably from an appropriate position and viewpoint, [which] does not come for free but instead implies a reduced spatial coherence across shots that goes along with increased cost of cognitive processing.” [Stephen Schwan, “The Art of Simplifying Events”, in Psychocinematics. Exploring Cognition at the Movies, ed. Arthur P. Shimamura (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press) (2013), p. 222.].

[9] André Gaudreault and Philippe Marion, The End of Cinema? A Medium in Crisis in the Digital Age, ed. John Belton, transl. Timothy Barnard (New York: Columbia University Press) (2015), p. 65.

[10] Leon Barsacq, Caligari’s Cabinet and Other Grand Illusions (New York: New York Graphic Society) (1977), pp. 44-45.

[11] Michael Tawa, Agencies of the Frame: Tectonic Strategies in Cinema and Architecture, (Newcastle Upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing) (2011), p. 30.

[12] Juan Antonio Ramírez, p. 83.

[13] Idem, p. 24.

[14] See: Lisa Purse, p. 27. A similar discussion is conducted there on a sequence from Live Free or Die Hard (2007, Len Wiseman), in which John McClane looks past his perfectly clear reflection in a glass pane, enhanced this way to direct the viewers’ attention to the symbolic act of confronting oneself.

[15] María Lorenzo Hernández, “The Double Sense of Animated Images: A View on the Paradoxes of Animation as a Visual Language”, Animation Studies 2 (2007), https://journal.animationstudies.org/maria-lorenzo-hernandez-the-double-sense-of-animated-images/, date accessed 9 July 2018, p. 40.

[16] Idem, p. 6.

[17] David Bordwell, ”Intensified Continuity: Visual Style in Contemporary American Film”, Film Quarterly 55:3 (Spring 2002), p. 16.

[18] David Bordwell, p. 24.

[19] Idem, p. 16.

[20] The case of abstract and experimental cinema, but also the premise on which Eisenstein’s intellectual montage was founded.

[21] George Butte, ”Suture and the Narration of Subjectivity in Film“, Poetics Today 29:2 (Summer 2008), p. 283.

[22] Lisa Purse, p. 18.

[23] Noël Carroll and William P. Seeley, ”Cognitivism, Psychology, and Neuroscience: Movies as Attentional Engines”, in Psychocinematics: Exploring Cognition at the Movies, ed. Arthur P. Shimamura (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press) (2013), p. 62.

[24] André Gaudreault and Philippe Marion, p. 161.

[25] Idem, p. 162.

[26] Thomas Elsaesser and Malte Hagener, Film Theory: An Introduction through the Senses, (New York and London: Routledge) (2015), p. 124.

[27] André Gaudreault and Philippe Marion, p. 69.

[28] Idem, p. 165.

[29] Idem, p. 175.

[30] Antony Bryant and Griselda Pollock, “Editors’ Introduction”, in Digital and Other Virtualities: Renegotiating the Image, ed. Antony Bryant and Griselda Pollock, (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2010), p. 8.

[31] Sergei Eisenstein, “The Filmic Fourth Dimension” (1929), in Film Form: Essays in Film Theory, ed. and transl. Jay Leyda (New York and London: Harcourt) (1949), p. 64.

[32] Idem, p. 43.

[33] Idem, p. 195.

[34] Marcelo Bertalmío, Image Processing for Cinema, (Boca Raton, London and New York: CRC Press) (2014), p. 103.

[35] Idem, p. 108.

[36] Daniel Dayan, p. 29.

Prosthetic Memory and the New Civil Rights Cinema of the 21st Century

Patrycja Włodek

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1, pp. 78-88.

 

 

Patrycja Włodek

Pedagogical University of Cracow

 

 

Prosthetic Memory and the New Civil Rights Cinema of the 21st Century

 

Abstract

Memory studies are one of the most dynamically developing areas of the humanities. Although most scholars are focused on various forms of collective memories, some differ from this general trend. Alison Landsberg’s theory of prosthetic memory is one such different approach. This new form of ‘public memory’ makes it possible for individuals to be affected by events that they did not themselves experience. It works through various forms of media, such as films or experiential museums. Although Landsberg’s theory is at times not exactly precise and leaves room for doubt, ‘prosthetic memory’ can be applied to the interpretation of various contemporary movie trends, such as the new civil rights cinema of the 21st century, and can also help to redefine some of most basic cinematic devices.

 

Keywords: prosthesis, prosthetic memory, memory, retro, nostalgia, cinema, new civil rights cinema

 

 

Memory and its relation to media has recently become not only one of the most discussed topics in the realm of pop culture, but also one of the most influential. Thanks to postmodernism, ‘nostalgia film’, retro styles and other rose-tinted modes of depicting history, cinema in the second half of the twentieth century has turned not toward the future, but the past. However, unlike traditional costume dramas (which of course are still being made), new ways of depicting the past concentrate on issues such as retrospective shaping of historical narratives and the very function of memory. These subjects, which have also become the main topics of the dynamically-developing field of memory studies, divide scholars. Some see these throwbacks to the past either as a danger, or in the best-case scenario, as a sign of the end of creativity. Simon Reynolds complains about the lack of the “next big thing”

 

[1] in music caused by retromania, and Fredric Jameson and Jean Baudrillard[2] believe that looking at the past is a victory of image over reality. Zygmunt Bauman, in his last book Retrotopia, describes the fear of both the present and the future as a reason for searching for utopias in the past, which is perceived as safer and more harmonious than anything that lays ahead of us[3]. Authors such as the ones mentioned above most often see the past as an object of manipulation, as well as a tool for further manipulation. For them, looking back to the past remains a sign of real things forever lost, and can’t be of any value.

It can be assumed that such pessimistic views were based on the part of pop culture that idealizes the past and depicts it as a pastoral realm of conservative values, in order to “attempt a trans-historical reconstruction of the lost home”[4], and maintain the status quo of “the simpler times” – both politically and artistically. It is no accident that Jameson based his definition of ‘nostalgia film’ on movies such as American Graffiti (1973, George Lucas) and Star Wars (1977, George Lucas), historical and pop cultural throwbacks to the 1950s of the chaste, idealized Eisenhower era. Reynolds, too, said as much in regards to the music of that time. In fact, the Fifties and ‘the Good Sixties’ (before John F. Kennedy was assassinated) were convenient tools of the Reaganite political rhetoric of the 1980s. They were also noticeable in movies “evoking the past through the deployment of a limited iconography that erases contradictions in the past in favour of a coherency of style”[5], and used to support slogans such as ‘America’s back’ or ‘Let’s make America great again’. As such, it’s understandable that filmmakers, looking at the cosy images of bucolic suburbs introduced in American Graffiti and its innumerable imitations, and at other images of the fake past hiding any hints of social and political conflicts and not posing any challenge to the status quo, saw them as yet another tool for manipulating audiences into ideological submission.

Even though the conservative image of the past can still be found in American movies today, perception of the retro style as something amounting to nostalgic idealization became rare, not only among scholars, but also in films themselves. The subversive and progressive potential of revising and redefining the past is discussed by such authors as Marc Ferro, who proposed reflecting on counter-discourses[6] that present a counter-history, and Kaja Silverman, who “finds political potential in retro fashion”, stating that it “avoids the pitfalls of a naïve referentiality, by putting quotation marks around the garments it revitalizes”[7]. According to Silverman, as well as Elizabeth Guffey[8] and others, history can be depicted in pop culture not only nostalgically, but also nonchalantly, ironically and/or critically, and can therefore become a tool not for sustaining, but challenging the status quo. It could, at the very least, diversify peoples’ notions of events that occurred in the recent past.

How can moviemakers achieve such goals? Of course, strategies differ depending on the genre, but certain strategies seem to have gained popularity with filmmakers as well as audiences. Among them, we can find the critical depiction of history, reversing traditional historic narratives (e.g. in American revisionist westerns), or the autothematic use of classical formulas and the filling-in of the gaps left in those narratives. For example, by introducing black American or homosexual characters to genres reserved in the mid-century for white and heterosexual characters only (as Todd Haynes does in his melodrama Far from Heaven, his 2002 take on the Eisenhower era). These strategies mostly reference shared images of the past – its mythologisation and demythologization in collective forms of memory that can be influenced by politics, media, current historical narratives, etc. Since it is almost impossible to examine exactly how movies influence our memory as individuals, media and film scholars rarely focus on individual memory, instead shifting their attention to strategies for shaping and governing collective memory built on symbols and icons, reproduced by and through other movies.

However, concepts that are predominantly focused on the perception of the past by individuals (due to media coverage), also seem to prove just how difficult it is to explore such relations more than intuitively. This is why Alison Landsberg’s theory of prosthetic memory is both unusual and difficult. It is challenging, because it focuses exclusively on the individual spectator and their reaction to cinema, something that is not popular among media and memory scholars. It is difficult because to some extent it proves that those avoiding the topic of individual media relation seem to be right.

Prosthetic memory is “…a new form of public cultural memory […] that emerges at the interface between a person and a historical narrative about the past, at an experiential site such as a movie theatre or museum”[9], and makes it possible for individuals to be affected, by way of empathy, by events that they did not themselves experience. The notion of media affecting people on their innermost private level is, of course, not new. However, it has most often been regarded negatively. For example, representatives of the Frankfurt school and  ideological criticism perceive media as tools for manipulating audiences seen as passive and mindless. On the other hand, some positive takes can be found within the reflection on queer cinema. According to Harry M. Benshoff and Sean Griffin, film might be considered queer not only if its characters are homosexual, but also when, in the very “psychological processes of looking at and identifying with characters”[10], someone finds empathy for an experience that’s very much outside their own (not necessarily only in terms of sexuality). Therefore, Hollywood cinema, in which viewers are traditionally encouraged to identify with the central characters through plot, narration and visual devices, can be used to “experience the world through other people’s eyes”[11] – not only those of the white, heterosexual men that still dominate screens, but also of women, members of ethnic and racial minorities (BAME characters[12]), and gay men and women.

Of course, it is almost impossible to accurately examine or prove that kind of influence, but even random accounts of such reactions can legitimise the aforementioned definition of queer cinema. Alison Landsberg never mentions Benshoff and Griffin’s concept, but proposes something quite similar: “[one of] the greatest powers (and pleasures) of narrative cinema [is] to produce empathy and social responsibility as well as political alliances that transcend race, class, and gender”[13], as “…prosthetic memories do not erase differences or construct common origins”[14]. However, Landsberg adds something to this equation that complicates things even more – memory. The most important question she asks is, “…to what extent do modern technologies of mass culture, such as film, with their ability to transport individuals through time and space, function as technologies of memory?”[15]

Prosthetic memory is enabled by media and allows viewers to experience something they have not themselves lived through, and that doesn’t even have to be ‘part of’ the group they identify with (for example, their gender, race, ethnicity or race). On the one hand, these kinds of memories don’t belong to any particular group. This makes prosthetic memory different from any kind of collective or cultural memory. On the other hand, these memories have the power to influence individuals, and shape or even change their point of view or life experience. They are mediated – acquired through media by watching movies or going to experiential museums, etc. At the same time, it is the bodily experience that provides the “conduit for prosthetic memory”[16]. In fact, while explaining the idea of prosthetic memories, Landsberg uses examples from science fiction cinema, including Blade Runner (1982, Ridley Scott), Total Recall (1990, Paul Verhoeven) and Strange Days (1990, Kathryn Bigelow). In these films, memory and identity can be literally transmitted through digital devices, implanted inside the body of a person who never lived them. Does that make them false, or their ‘owners’ less human? The filmmakers argue the opposite. In Blade Runner and its sequel, Blade Runner 2049 (2017, Denis Villeneuve), androids equipped with artificially-generated memories are more human than the humans themselves.

This idea is of course very tempting cinematically, and therefore pop culture constantly provides movies and TV shows based on it. Among the most recent examples are the long-running serial Black Mirror (Channel 4, 2011-2014; Netflix, 2014–), and Altered Carbon (Netflix, 2018), both of which toy with the idea of identity and self being transferred into or through a device no bigger than a pen drive. In relation to actual viewers – the real audience watching movies – it is of course much more complicated and intuitive, partly because of difficulties with how to understand the word ‘memory’ in this context. In fact, Landsberg doesn’t even define it. On one hand, she uses the term as commonly understood, which suggests that prosthetic memories, while acquired through media, are almost literally attached or implanted within the mind/body of the individual viewer. On the other hand, memory sometimes means the same thing to her as knowledge or personal experience, expanded by gathering new information about the past.

The theory is most convincing when its author describes not how media enables people to acquire memories of events they haven’t lived through, but how media helps create new memories – of experiencing certain emotions, or gaining knowledge. For example, taking part in reconstructions of historical battles (controversial as they are), will not make anyone remember the actual events, but will create mediated memories of taking part in a reconstruction. Likewise, visiting the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, which is thoroughly described by Landsberg, will not bring anyone even remotely close to what actual Holocaust survivors went through, but will create in them memories of seeing an exhibition and submitting themselves to the historical narrative it provided. Therefore, such visits will widen one’s knowledge, and through the guide narration and exhibits, allow them to see the world through someone else’s eyes. As an example, the author describes “a boardwalk-like walkway. The ground under your feet is uneven. You are walking on cobblestones – cobblestones, you learn, which came from the Warsaw ghetto”[17]. The transferential space of the Memorial Museum that surrounds visitors with real artefacts puts them in the victims’ shoes (to some extent, literally). A similar space can be found in The Warsaw Uprising Museum, where visitors can ‘experience’ some of the discomfort of the insurgents hiding in the sewers and so on. In that way, prosthetic memories could “derive from engaged and experientially oriented encounters with technologies of memory”[18].

Of course, cinema can also serve this purpose, and the idea of memory as prosthesis becomes less abstract and more easily grasped when applied to actual films and formulas. Not necessarily through the science-fiction genre, but those with the ambition to recreate the forgotten experiences of discriminated groups can give a boost to empathy and raise awareness – both public and individual – of counter-narratives and counter-memories. Landsberg herself uses the cinematic example of Rosewood (1997, John Singleton), the true story of a lynch mob that attacked African Americans in 1923 in Rosewood, Florida. Recent American cinema provides even more, non-singular examples, many of which can be found in the trend known as the ‘new civil rights cinema’ of the 2000s. The Help (2011, Tate Taylor), The Butler (2013, Lee Daniels), Selma (2014, Ava DuVernay), and others are all examples of films that deliberately aim to provide audiences with prosthetic memories in a less literal sense than described by Landsberg.

New civil rights cinema can be defined as a group of African-American-centric films that “emerge as a counterpoint to earlier Hollywood offerings that focused largely on whites”, and make “an effort to reframe the civil rights movement”[19] of the 1960s, vilified by conservative administrations as ‘the bad Sixties’. Moviemakers locate their African-American heroes in the midst of social upheavals, as in Selma, or in hostile and discriminatory communities, as in The Help. Instead of alleviating or undermining social ruptures, as nostalgia films would in order to create a vision of “…history without guilt […] that suffuses us with pride rather than with shame”[20], new civil rights cinema emphasises social injustices, racial prejudice and the urgent need for progressive movements. At the same time, it operates within the area of memory and the historical narratives shaping it.

It is fair to assume that the new civil rights cinema is targeted at a general audience, against racial divisions. Yet, in regard to both black and white viewers, it has slightly different aims and uses different strategies, as described by Landsberg. She firmly emphasises that prosthetic memory unites people by showing differences, and creates alliances “…by encouraging people to feel connected to, while recognizing the alterity of, the ‘other’”[21]. At the same time she admits that prosthetic memories can also lead to homogenous identity, as in the case of the immigrants from Eastern Europe that she examines. Newcomers, in order to become Americans, had to shake off their former identities and acquire a new, American one.

However, unification by way of prosthetic memory can also work the other way around – by reminding people of a group identity (and by extension, individual identity), and its historical role. For example, African-American actors in Hollywood traditionally played supporting or episodic roles, and were therefore excluded from the narrative. Moreover, even in movies centred on racism and civil rights violations, such as Mississippi Burning (1988, Alan Parker) and A Time to Kill (1996, Joel Schumacher), it was white characters who held the active, prominent positions within the narrative. The black characters were portrayed as too scared or weak to act, waiting to be saved. New civil rights cinema, especially Hidden Figures (2017, Theodore Melfi), Selma and The Butler, brings African Americans back to the centre of events, highlighting their agency and role in the civil rights movement (The Butler) and other prominent activities (such as the vital role played by black female scientists in the Mercury space programme, in Hidden Figures[22]). Here, it is white characters who appear as background figures. Therefore, memory is being radically shifted, and prosthetic memories ‘implanted’ in those who, for example, were too young to remember the Selma to Montgomery marches (Selma), enabling reinforcement of a group identity.

At the same time, such movies are supposed to attract white audiences as well. Just as in the case of Toni Morrison’s novels, “…while the black characters […] acquire memories that might be considered their cultural inheritance, she intends white readers to take on those memories, too”[23] by enabling empathy and ethical thinking. That means “thinking beyond the immediacy of one’s own wants and desires”[24]. How can that be achieved in a feature film? The afore-mentioned movies, The Help, The Butler and Hidden Figures, are interesting examples. On the one hand, they use careful, self-reflexive stylization and – sometimes – documentary footage connected thematically to the civil rights movement. On the other, in terms of narrative they are made in a rather conventional way. The Butler is especially characteristic of the biopic formula. However, this last feature in particular allows redefinition of ostensibly basic narrative devices in terms of prosthetic memory.

Filmmakers have in their repertoire a number of tricks that can help them to either manipulate viewers, or enable them to perceive events from their leading characters’ perspectives, and sympathize with them. Such devices lie at the very heart of classical cinema, aimed at immersion and emotional involvement. Yet, the new civil rights cinema requires from its audience something more than just the regular engagement typical of any other screening, as it “uses cinematic identification to create the conditions under which audience members can acquire prosthetic memories”[25]. That is why The Help and The Butler both employ first-person narration. This is especially emphasised in The Help, the story of black maids serving a wealthy, middle-class white woman in the suburbs of Jacksonville, Mississippi in 1963. In the first two minutes of the film it is established beyond any doubt that the black woman’s perspective will be the privileged one. In the very first scene we see a sheet of paper which will be filled with the main character, Aibileen’s (Viola Davis), words. A few seconds later Aibileen/Davis looks straight into the camera and starts talking about her experiences as a black maid. This breaking of the fourth wall is a clear violation of classic cinema’s rules, but here it’s not supposed to create distance between the character and the audience. On the contrary, she speaks directly to us, reaching outside the frame of the screen, so that we can put ourselves in her rather unfamiliar situation and ask ourselves the questions she has to answer. For example, how would we feel raising a stranger’s children, while our own are looked after by someone else?

Of course, it is no coincidence that The Help brings up such an emotional, personal issue, since it is one of the easiest ways known in cinema to manipulate someone into empathy. Still, it’s not quite enough, because a few seconds after Aibileen breaks the fourth wall, we begin to hear her in voice-over. It is she who will tell us the entire story – from her own perspective. Therefore, black audiences get a chance to identify with a representative of their own race and heritage (Aibileen’s grandmother was a house slave), while white viewers for the most part of the movie leave the privileged and familiar area of their own perspective. Interestingly, just as in Rosewood, which has been analysed by Landsberg, The Help makes even more effort, by putting a direct representative of white audiences inside the story (while strongly establishing a black woman’s point of view and emphasising the importance of her finally-heard voice). Within the story, it is a white girl from the suburban middle class, Skeeter (Emma Stone), who listens to Aibileen and the other maids describing their awful fate. She writes their stories down and has to reach beyond her own exclusively white experience, in order to guide audiences to do the same – to inhabit memories of discrimination and a new model of slavery that defined racial relations in the Eisenhower- and Kennedy-era South[26].

The Butler also privileges a black servant, Cecil (Forest Whitaker), working for decades in the White House, who like Aibileen narrates events in first-person. He witnesses successive presidents and their decisions on racial injustice, such as the desegregation of Little Rock High School in 1957. Crucially, while it’s powerful white men actually making the choices and signing the documents, Cecil’s perspective shows that in fact all of the changes began with black communities demanding their rights – such as the Freedom Riders, and those who marched on Washington with Martin Luther King. Again, while providing African-American audiences with their inheritance and collective memory, The Butler encourages white audiences to acquire prosthetic memories of that struggle, by using both a personal perspective and a sentimental plot centred around Cecil’s conflict with his son.

While Hidden Figures and Selma never introduce a first-person narrator, they also encourage the audience to see through the black characters’ eyes. Their directors use point-of-view shots, or limit the viewers’ range of knowledge by making them privy only to the knowledge the characters would have (three characters, in the case of Hidden Figures), and hence, their perspective. This encourages “mental identification”[27], the very condition that prosthetic memory needs to even occur. In Hidden Figures especially, we enter and leave the scene when characters do, and experience what they experience, even if there is no voice-over to explain exactly how they feel. Even the rather omniscient narration in Selma puts the black characters front and centre, especially Martin Luther King (David Oyelowo).

In this way, while not acquiring actual memories of the civil rights struggle of the 1960s, the audience can experience some of the characters’ emotions, understand their situation and gain some knowledge about the past, and the kind of real memories someone in their position might have had. As Landsberg says, putting oneself in someone else’s situation “might be instrumental in enabling a white person to experience empathy for African Americans”[28]. She uses another prominent example: the 1970s TV adaptation of Alex Haley’s novel Roots, which tells the story of Kunte Kinte (John Amos), a slave kidnapped from Africa in the 18th century. Roots was a ground-breaking show, as it was one of the first depictions of the realities of (the often mythologised) slavery in American pop culture. “What was new about Roots was its attempt to use the mass media to create images of slavery and, even more important, to portray a sympathetic black character with whom a white audience might identify. By granting Kunte Kinte point-of-view shots, the miniseries enabled white viewers to see through a black man’s eyes”[29].

However, the way in which Landsberg describes the influence of Roots on white audiences – and the idea of prosthetic memory – might be seen as problematic, especially from the contemporary point of view. She states that “Kunte Kinte became more than a role model. He became, in effect, a body that could be worn”[30]. In light of these words, it has to be remembered that the inhabiting of black identities is very often seen as an offensive act of cultural appropriation, especially when the “body could be worn” literally, for example as a Halloween costume. It is fair to assume, then, that due to Roots’ immense popularity dressing up as Kunte Kinte was not unusual. Given the intimate nature of memories and trauma, even within communities, prosthetic memory could be seen as a device for progress and empathy, as well as for the appropriation of elements of a minority culture by members of dominant groups.

This kind of situation is put at the centre of the conflict in Dear White People[31], in which events are catalysed by a university fraternity encouraging Halloween party guests to dress up as famous black people (media celebrities)[32]. This, of course, causes outrage among the black students and poses the wider question of the thin line between acquiring prosthetic memories through media, and the unwelcome appropriation of unique and often traumatic experiences (or memories) that belong to a different group. The question remains: who is to say that those memories (for example, of slavery and racial discrimination) “do not ‘naturally’ belong to anyone”[33]?

Of course it would be unfair to say that cultural appropriation is actually what Landsberg has in mind. She states more than once that the idea of prosthetic memories is a utopian one, aimed at the noble task of creating empathy and putting oneself in someone else’s shoes, in order to shape one’s subjectivity and political views. The actual intention of engaging audiences in current events and influencing the future by “enabling people to feel just such an engaged and experiential relationship to the past”[34] through prosthetic memories, can be found in many contemporary feature films and documentaries, on the big screen and television, all of which emphasise the immediate connection between past events and the realities of today. For example, I Am Not Your Negro (2016, Raoul Peck) affiliates the civil rights struggle of the 1960s with today’s Black Lives Matter movement, while also undermining ‘white’ prosthetic memories (for example, classical westerns depicting ‘how the West was won’), as reproducing racial stereotypes. In 13th (2016), Ava DuVernay shows how criminalization of black males and the image of the “Black Buck” (an aggressive black male), is derived from slavery and Jim Crow rights. Further, O. J. – Made in America (2016, Ezra Edelman) explains how the memory of racial injustices can deform the course of law.

These movies can force audiences to look beyond racial divisions (like those created by O. J. Simpson’s infamous case), and deal with painful memories in order to “prosthetically” acquire an unfamiliar point of view. That, hopefully, “…can make people feel themselves a part of larger histories, of narratives that go beyond the confines of the nuclear family and that transcend the heretofore insurmountable barriers of race and ethnicity”[35].

 

References

Baudrillard Jean, Simulations, (New York: Semiotext(e)) (1983).

Bauman Zygmunt, Retrotopia, (Cambridge: Polity Press) (2017).

Bordwell David, Narration in the Fiction Film, (Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press) (1985).

Benshoff M. Harry, Griffin Sean, Queer Images: A History of Gay and Lesbian Film in America, (Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield) (2006).

Boym Svetlana, The Future of Nostalgia, (New York: Basic Books) (2001).

Drake Philip, “’Mortgaged to Music’: New Retro Movies in 1990s Hollywood Cinema”, in: Paul Grainge (ed.), Memory and Popular Film, (Manchester: Manchester University Press) (2003).

Gruner Oliver, Screening the Sixties. Hollywood Cinema and the Politics of Memory, (London: Palgrave Macmillan) (2016).

Guffey Elizabeth, Retro. The Culture of Revival, (London: Reaktion Books) (2006).

Jameson Fredric, Postmodernism: or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, (Durham: Duke University Press) (1991).

Landsberg Alison, Prosthetic Memory. The Transformation of American Remembrance in the Age of Mass Culture, (New York: Columbia University Press) (2004).

McGee Patrick, Bad History and the Logics of Blockbuster Cinema, (New York: Pallgrave MacMillan) (2012).

Reynolds Simon, Retromania: Pop Culture’s Addiction to Its Own Past, (New York: Faber and Faber) (2011).

Silverman Kaja, “Fragments of a Fashionable Discourse”’, in: Tania Modleski (ed.), Studies in Entertainment (Bloomington: Indiana University Press) (1986).

 

Notes

[1]Simon Reynolds, Retromania: Pop Culture’s Addiction to Its Own Past, (New York: Faber and Faber) (2011), electronic edition.

[2]Jameson, Fredric, Postmodernism: or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, (Durham: Duke University Press) (1991); Jean Baudrillard, Simulations, (New York: Semiotext(e)) (1983).

[3]Zygmunt Bauman, Retrotopia, (Cambridge: Polity Press) (2017).

[4]Svetlana Boym, The Future of Nostalgia, (New York: Basic Books) (2001), electronic edition.

[5] Philip Drake, “’Mortgaged to Music’: New Retro Movies in 1990s Hollywood Cinema”, in: Paul Grainge (ed.), Memory and Popular Film, (Manchester: Manchester University Press) (2003), p. 191.

[6]Patrick McGee, Bad History and the Logics of Blockbuster Cinema, (New York: Pallgrave MacMillan) (2012), p. 16.

[7]Kaja Silverman, “Fragments of a Fashionable Discourse”’, in: Tania Modleski (ed.), Studies in Entertainment (Bloomington: Indiana University Press) (1986), p. 150.

[8]Elizabeth Guffey, Retro. The Culture of Revival, (London: Reaktion Books) (2006), p. 11.

[9]Alison Landsberg, Prosthetic Memory. The Transformation of American Remembrance in the Age of Mass Culture, (New York: Columbia University Press) (2004), p. 2

[10]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 11.

[11]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 11.

[12]BAME – Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic.

[13]Harry M. Benshoff, Sean Griffin, Queer Images: A History of Gay and Lesbian Film in America, (Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield) (2006), p. 11.

[14]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 9.

[15]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 21.

[16]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 28.

[17]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 132.

[18]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 143.

[19]Oliver Gruner, Screening the Sixties. Hollywood Cinema and the Politics of Memory, (London: Palgrave Macmillan) (2016), p. 226, 127.

[20]Svetlana Boym (2001).

[21]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 9.

[22] In Hidden Figures social progress and the fight against racial discrimination are equated with space conquests and progress in science.

[23]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 100.

[24]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 149.

[25]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 109.

[26] However, The Help lacks narrative consequence – in many scenes filmmakers focus on Skeeter’s (and some other white characters’) point of view. Also, eventually it is she who writes down black servants’ memories and experiences and publishes them as her book. Therefore narrative intentions from the opening scene are not fully carried trough.

[27]David Bordwell, Narration in the Fiction Film, (Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press) (1985), p. 67.

[28]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 109.

[29]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 102

[30]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 103.

[31] Both movie (2014, Justin Simien) and TV series (Netflix, 2017–).

[32] The same situation occurs in On My Block (Netflix, 2018), in which kids from a rich neighbourhood dress up as cholos (Mexican gangsters).

[33]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 19.

[34]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 143.

[35]Alison Landsberg (2004), p. 152.

Tactile epistemology: sensoria and the postcolonial

Marta Stańczyk

Download the Article

TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1, pp. 89-99.

 

Marta Stańczyk

Jagiellonian University

 

 

Tactile epistemology: sensoria and the postcolonial

 

Abstract

In this article the author focuses on the so called “tactile epistemology” in postolonial studies – different cognitive and representational modes that enable create subversive narrations negotiating new relations between centre and margins. Affective, multisensory, synaesthetic body is an archive of power relations, an experience of colonization and – most of all – a discoursive transgression, reversing ideology based on the Western eye. The main goal of this article is to present three most influential theoretical stances connecting sensoria with the Other. The concepts of Laura U. Marks, Milena Marinkova, and Sara Ahmed are illustrated with the examples form Claire Denis’ and Urszula Antoniak’s oeuvre.

 

Keywords: tactile epistemology, senses, embodiment, Laura U. Marks, Sara Ahmed, Milena Marinkova

 

 

 

The distance from this sentence to your eye is my sculpture.

(Ken Friedman, Fluxus score, 1971)

 

 

Will Higbee coined the term “cinema of transvergence” in order to enable film scholars to “better appreciate how postcolonial and diasporic cinemas engage, function and produce meaning within and across national and transnational positionings.”[1] Through this notion he tries to ephasize the possible inversion between centre and margin, the dynamics of differences, and the negotiation of meanings and power relations. Furthermore, the concept alters cinematic experience by changing the form of storytelling. Its focus on minorities renarrates traditional relations in movies and its deconstruction of the cinematic form constitutes the apology of différance. One of the most important methods of deploying it is, as Laura U. Marks calls it, a tactile epistemology.[2]

Affective and sensuous incentives improve subversive narrations in postcolonial prism. Body language helps in coping with dominant discourses and in expressing the experience of the other – the experience of physical and mental colonization. Marks introduced term “haptic visuality”, which highlights the meaning of defiance and a fact that receiving input is influenced by the experience of migration, exile, dispersion, eradication, etc. Such scholars as Marks, Milena Marinkova or Sara Ahmed, in their critique of the Western discourse of the other, confide in a multisensory experience and memory of senses. They link this discourse to ocularcentrism and – taking Foucauldian approach to depict mastering and objectification of others – reject gaze as a form of wielding power. We can find a cinematic depiction of this formula in Black Venus’ (2010, Abdellatif Kechiche) opening scene where the body of an enslaved heroine is being objectified by scientifical (and, therefore, disciplinary) discourse. Another cinematic example is Yes (2004, Sally Potter) – a love affair between Irish-American biologist and Lebanese chef (medic doctor before imigration) is conflicted by stereotypical views and cultural prejudices. Their bodies „remember” uneven relations between centre and margin.

For this reason scholars like Marks and Marinkowa focus on the body. The issue of embodiment is not only an individual matter, but also a map of cultural differences and power relations. Moreover, a multisenory perspective enables disrupting dominant discourses and creates a new language entangled in the postcolonial discourse. As Marinkova writes, “the tangible (in reality and in representation) becomes an uneasy witness to the impossibility of narrating incommensurable languages and experiences.”[3] Tactile epistemology provides an alternative; it supports subversion.

 

Laura U. Marks: the skin of the other

 

In The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses Laura U. Marks writes about a “turn to the nonvisual senses [which] has been in part a response to the perceived imperialism of vision, the alignment of visual information with knowledge and control.”[4] American researcher finds a negotiating potential in haptic visuality – an embodied experience can be a very useful term for describing movies and their reception in the context of dispersion: “Haptic visuality implies making oneself vulnerable to the image, reversing the relation of mastery that characterizes optical viewing.”[5] Marks reckons that this type of visuality is connected with discrediting viewing habits, enabling different level of involvement, suggesting the shift of meaning, and even giving the impression of seeing someting for the first time. This perceptive renewal is not only a matter of aesthetics, but also ethics. The body might be a foundation for the redefinition of representational system. Based-on-body encounter with the other rejects a negative tendency to annex margins which is typical for the Western ocularcentrism. It emphasizes the incompatibility of some languages and experiences rather than the illusion of the possible identification.

In Touch. Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media Marks writes about the hapticity as founded not on touch itself, but on body – viewers should stay on the image’s surface, contemplate it texture, shape, colour, etc. and feel affective resonance through them.[6] Intercultural cinema is shaped by cultural memory, fingerprints left not by the disgraced, ideological and orientalistic eye but an ambivalent sense of touch, which recalls aggresion and enables emancipation through different bodily discourses. Marks seems to agree with Jennifer Fisher who contradicts Elizabeth Grosz’s statement that touch has no memory: “touch implicates what is most clearly the performative present of æsthetic experience.”[7] It invokes memory so “[t]o describe the effects of such video [or, in general, cinematic – M.S.] works  requires paying attention to the viewer’s body, specifically what happens when the video image dissolves out toward the viewer and invites the viewer to invest all his or her senses in the act of seeing.”[8] Viewers open themselves for the experience of the other.

Haptic visuality and sensuous aesthetics create counter-memory in spite of the discourse of “empowered eye.” Marks writes about the Western type of visuality which objectifies others, and separates and masters external and internal words.[9] One cannot trust visual information and traditional techniques used in postcolonial statements as they are made of oppressive material. In a spirit of Edward Said: eyes are tools of imperialistic inclinations. Do not believe what you see – it is only an ideological discourse. It is possible to gain knowledge through physical contact,[10] but one should remember that visceral, haptic or tactile epistemology can be used arbitrally. And this is the case of Terrence Malick’s The New World (2005) where Powatan Native American tribe’s communication – or tactile epistemology – is depicted as simpler and harmonious but primitive, unsufficient and limited. John teaches Pocahontas how to speak – through knowledge he reaffirms his authority as male and “civlised” (an already ideologically and eurocentrically inflicted term).

This example shows possible limitations of haptic poetics but simultaneously it legitimizes this aesthetics by underlining the cultural and political dimension of the sensorium. Returning to Marks, “[u]ltimately phenomenology can account for how the body encodes power relations somatically. It can acknowledge that embodiment is a matter of individual lifemaps as well as cultural difference. These matters are important for understanding intercultural experience, where traumas and more ordinary histories become encoded in the body. When intercultural films and videos appeal to the different power relations involved in looking and in touching, they remind us that these power relations are built into cultural organizations of perception.”[11] Therefore tactile epistemology enables dialogue between an image and its viewer – through his or her body. Marks makes a list of possible aesthetic means – for example blurred, grained image and decaying film.[12] Phenomenological intentionality and activisation of the viewer though, is what interests her most in subversive potential of haptic visuality. Marks states that “[t]he ideal relationship between viewer and image in optical visuality tends to be one of mastery, in which the viewer isolates and comprehends the objects of vision. The ideal relationship between viewer and image in haptic visuality is one of mutuality, in which the viewer is more likely to lose herself in the image, to lose her sense of proportion.”[13] Tactility is constructed around dialogue – oscillation between identificaton and immersion, dialectical movement between surface and depth. Interaction supersedes cinematic illusion, while making place for alternative narrations or simply for the story of the other.

Claire Denis’ oeuvre helps embody theoretical approaches to sensoria and the postcolonial. The French director narrates postcolonial relations using mostly multisensory aesthetic. Films such as Chocolate (1988) show how an embodied vision develops engaged spectatorship. Denis is known for rejecting classical film conventions, using static and extended shots without many dialogues, being sensitive to the form of an image, and creating poetic, sensual atmosphere. These distinctive traits place her in the middle of haptic cinema’s concepts. The director focuses on her characters’ bodies and their relations with space. Her trade marks converge with her autobiography and political views too – raised in West Africa in few French colonies, Denis shows engagement in postcolonial issues which is perfectly depicted in her debut film.

Chocolate tells a story of a young woman, France, who comes back to Cameroon where she lived as a child. She reminisces her childhood and her family’s houseboy, named Protée. Names of these characters are significant as they unveil power relations in French colony. As a girl, France was fascinated with him who seemed to be very different from her family and other employers and simultaneously she was humiliating him transferring her elders’ condescension. Nonetheless, their proximity was starting to dissolve borders between center and margins embodied in these characters. This is a work in progress, searching – or building – an intimate relations which was not easy. There is also a counterexample – France’s mother feeling sexual tension towards Protée and, after being rejected (because of her master attitude mostly), forcing her husband to post the houseboy to outdoor duties.

In one of the sequences the father explaines France what the horizon line is: a line which does not exist in physical sense but is still recognized by everyone. It is not only a symbol of racial boundaries – the definition shows how the figure of the other operates as an embodied entity as long as the horizon line is something that is embed in space. The hapticity of Denis’ film can be shown in three short scenes. First one represents the mutual fascination and blures seemingly natural lines. Protée, France and her mother visit Nansen, a fanatical missionary – an artificial dialogue between the priest and the young woman is being intersected with strange rite de passage: Protée and France watching dead, bitten house animals when the houseboy puts a crow’s tarsus near girl’s hand and smears her arm with the bird’s blood. The director emphasises skin and touch in a close-up. Hapticity is hightened through cross-cutting with a theatrical scene (in long shot) in which, main representatives of colonial power are involved. An oscillation between optical and haptical visuality confers a texture to moving image. Viscerality of this sequence shows that real dialogue is not necessary lingual and colour of skin can be hidden. Although the second mentioned sequence presents an over-exposure of the skin of the other. In his free time Protée was trying to have a shower when he was peeped by France and her mother coming back from a stroll. This event causes a breakdown – Protée starts crying as he feels abused  and objectified by the (white) gaze. His subjectivity and embodiment are limited to the level of the skin and its colour causing internalization of being not-a-norm. There is no balance between embodiment and image in the imperial eye paradigm.

The last scene I chose to explain tactility of power relations in Chocolate is near the movie’s finale:Denis shows her deliberate use of tactile epistemology and haptic aesthetics in her films since she believes in skin as a medium of cultural memory and traumatic encounters. During the night France comes to visit Protée who is now assigned to backyard worshop. They are staring at each other silently while he grabbes a pipe and suggests her to do so too, ignoring the fact that it was hot and could burn their palms. After that he leaves and disappears in the dark. It is another example of cancelling borders between races, but also of leaving a trace; the memory makes Protée France’s eternal companion but associates it with pain. This connotation reappears in Denis’ cinema. She came back to West Africa with White Material (2009) in which the interference of bodily boundaries is shown as a ferocious, but essential attempt to break the power relations. Rape is inflicted on viewers affectively: “[w]hen vision is like touch, the object’s touch back may be like a caress, though it may also be violent, as Steven Shaviro argues – a violence not toward the image but toward the viewer.”[14] Viewers are touched and forced to ethically driven reception, in spite of a pleasurable identification.

 

Milena Marinkova: micropolitical filming

 

Marks’ theses are very influential and not only among film studies scholars. Amongst her followers, Milena Marinkova, who is known rather for her research on the ground of Canadian literature, uses the term „haptic visuality” to describe postcolonial entanglement and transnational issues in her book Michael Ondaatje: Haptic Aesthetics and Micropolitical Writing she used “haptic visuality” to desribe postcolonial entanglement and transnational issues. She argues – after Marks and Merleau-Ponty – that touch cannot be reduced to skin, but it is rather connected with embodiment. We should not locate it in one organ; it is dispersed, permeable and not isolated from the rest of sensorium. So “embodied haptic acts of proximity” transverse “the personal by social and political structures,”[15] and blur boundaries between art and reality, representation and body. Furthermore the body, being under the influence of dominant regimes, can provide a ground for redefinition of these regimes with their discourses. Marinkova notices that the embodiment of Western gaze dislocates the main direction of perception process – viewers get their attention directed to their viewing practices. For Canadian scholar, it is a matter of style: multisensory, fluid and open to non-normative connections. “Such an aesthetic forges an intimately embodied and ethically responsible relationship among audience, author, and text”[16] and it has an empowering micropolitical potential. Haptic aesthetics and embodiment are individual and collective issues, subjective and social simultaneously. Personal is political. Bodies are political. Haptic cinema can rejoice “in the exploration of the intimate space of the bodily and the microsocial space of the interpersonal.”[17]

Marinkova reconsiders an identification referring to Dominick LaCapra’s concept:

He has argued that art should invite „empathic unsettlement” by relying on the reader’s/viewer’s affective response to another but also recognizing the differences between them. This formulation is premised on the intersubjective power of affect to move and be moved, and thus transcend the boundaries of the self and encounter difference. The encounter, however, is not followed by a return to sameness through crude identification — recognizing oneself in the other and thus sympathize with them — but by the ethical recognition of the opacity and unassimilability of alterity.[18]

Canadian scholar puts an emphasis on rejecting identification as a psychological relationship with characters. Being founded on gaze, it is not neutral, and the impression of being natural is strictly ideological. Eye, contemplation, perception – those are tools of knowledge which can be a form of aggression and wielding power. Gaze colonizes others and produces subalterns; its mechanisms and intents are obscured by film grammar. Therefore, cinema requires a new language. Marinkova thinks that there is a solution from cultural usurpation of the other – the ocularcentrism and its mastering inclinations can be relinquished. “Instead of supplementing the already available knowledge, however, the tangible (in reality and in representation) becomes an uneasy witness to the impossibility of narrating incommensurable languages and experiences, and an unsettling trace of proximity that disrupts dominant discourses.”[19]

The power–knowledge dynamics can be exposed by a subversive alternation from gaze to skin, from center to margin and from imperial discourse to “Philomela’s tapestry” – new ways of expressing stories of misery and experienced cruelty. Nude Area (2014, Urszula Antoniak) can be a cinematic example of these thesis. The film starts with a quotation from Roland Barthes’ Fragments d’un discours amoureux, yet the main topic is not love but rather seduction understood as a war. The main tool in this battle is the eye – it tracks, peeps, scans, leers, ogles, scrutinizes; it imposes conditions and demands mutuality. Moreover, gaze can be accepted or rejected by the body. Seducing is violent – people try to enforce their will upon each other. In Antoniak’s film the impression of fighting for dominant position is emphasized by different cultural and ethnic background of two lovers: European, rich, liberal Naomi and Arabic, working class, conservative Fama. Naomi provokes other girl, seduces her and gets control over her using both her gaze and language. Fama is more humble, submissive – she surrenders and protects only one intimate part: her hair.

The first sequence, in which we can see  body parts washed over under the shower, is a key to the aesthetics of the film. The skin is shown in close-ups, revealed in its very tactility, and the entire scene is suggestive, erotic and sensual. Next ones are, on the contrary, very static. First we see Fama’s face in a portrait-like close-up. It appears three times anticipating three movie parts. Next we can see Naomi in a tram or rather her reflection – she is an observer, maybe even a predator. She initiates their meeting and subordinates Fama initially. In the restaurant, where Muslim girl works as a waitress, Naomi humiliates her only to prepare a spectacle of apology later. After, she dresses up like her lover, putting a wig on her head even. Naomi is avid, voracious and simply fascinated by Fama’s sensual beauty and ethnically-founded mysteriousness. During her first visit in her lover’s room Naomi touches and smells everything. The scene resembles an act of appropriation in which girl’s gaze was only a prelude to total enthrallment. Fama surrenders and open up for Naomi’s sensuous insatiability, letting her touch and smell also her hair, a tactile proof of being the other. At some point roles are changing – Fama distances herself from Naomi. She gives her a handful of hair she cut in the process of emancipation from a colonizer. The other learns how to gain empowerment – through the reversal of gaze and the exploitation of touch.

As Nude Area shows, touch and hapticity can be very ambivalent, and Marinkova evokes skeptical voices in her monography. Claude Gandelman “points at the (ab)use of hapticity in ideological discourse”[20] – marxist critics reproach haptic paradigm as an aesthetisation of political discourse. Ernst Gombrich alerts to embracing hapticity “for compromised historicist discourses”[21] and Constantina Papoulias and Felicity Callard completely reject an emancipating potential of the affect. David Howes notices that affects, tactility and multisensory apparatus advocate the “sensual” logic of the late capitalism.[22] But it is Sara Ahmed who actually presents more balanced but still very productive theses.

 

Sara Ahmed: (e)strange(d) encounters

 

One of scholars Marinkova mentions as example of having a skeptical attitude to haptic cinema is Sara Ahmed. The author of Strange Encounters: Embodied Others in Post-Coloniality focuses on a subaltern treated as a stranger by many techniques of differentiation. Her book introduces an interesting approach to the other – being a stranger is not an ontological issue, but epistemological one. It is a matter of recognizing others and oneself in an environmental network. Ahmed – not especially interested in art works – creates a critical standpoint for “sensual postcolonialism.”

Ahmed writes that “there are some-bodies who simply are strangers, and who pose danger in their very co-presence in a given street,”[23] but she also points out at an opposing worldview, where we can find the illusion of an ultimate appropriation. Both stances develop “the fetishism of figures”[24] in which case a stranger becomes an abstraction deprived of political meaning and the particularity of an embodiment. He or she is needed only to finalize the process of an individuation. “The journey towards the stranger becomes a form of self-discovery, in which the stranger functions yet again to establish and define the ‘I’.”[25] This is not only the case of  “eye-to-eye” meetings, but also, “skin-to-skin” encounters. This “meeting is not between two subjects who are equal and in harmony; the meeting is antagonistic.”[26] Ahmed refers in the same way to colonialists’ discourse: it is “not only the territorial domination of one culture by another, but also forms of discursive appropriation: other cultures become appropriated into the imaginary globality of the colonizing nation.”[27] And thus the status of proximity – and tactility – appears ambivalent being entangled in “regimes of difference,”[28] and we should remember that “the strange encounter is played out on the body, and is played out with the emotions.”[29] To sum up, affective and sensuous apparatus may not always be a perfect method(ology), but it is essential for giving back the other his or her voice and body.

Ahmed emphasizes that viewer or reader has a “close” bond with the body of text which “demands a more responsible reading, a reading which admits to its limits, its partiality and its fragility.”[30] The impression of “being touched” reinforces not only aesthetic reactions, but also ethical ones. There is a shift of meanings and boundaries, bodily and subjective borders. As Elisabeth Grosz mentions, “It is in no sense a natural body, for it is as culturally, racially, sexually, possibly even as class distinctive, as it would be clothed”[31] – and although Ahmed writes about it as an example of a theory avoiding analysis, she agrees with the necessity of approaching bodies in their culturally inflicted matter, not only representations. It is not the surface, but the very “effect of the surface”[32] which interests her most. Skin can be a visual mark of difference and “a moment of undecidability”[33] – a gate or leakage, where the subject risks its interiority and its integrity. This thesis echoes Laura U. Marks’ statement about hapticity as a form of dissolving oneself in a contact with image. The difference is placed between antagonism and eroticism which, according to Marks, drives haptical and optical visuality, whereas for Ahmed it is all about conflict. Adding affects to haptic theories, she treats skin as a canvas “where the intensity of emotions such as shame are registered (…) the skin registers how bodies are touched by others.”[34] Touch, a “fleshy metonymym,”[35] expresses a tension between particular bodies and social space.

Although the main phenomenological reference for multisensory and haptic theories is Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Ahmed’s book correlates with Bernhard Waldenfels’ Phenomenology of the Alien.[36] German philosopher reconsiders alien-experience as a phenomenon that permeates our everyday experiences with immediate implications for the social, political, and ethical life. He draws boundaries between human beings in process of perception, bending xenological phenomenology with material one. We tend to identify ourselves through a separation from milieu – other things, people, places, etc. Our own boundaries are tantamount to the boundaries of the alien, so our relations with the other are a relation of proximity, embodied and haptic. Sara Ahmed’s writes that “to withdraw from a relation of physical proximity to bodies recognised as strange is precisely to be touched by those bodies, in such a way that the subject is moved from its place. In this sense, the stranger is always in proximity: a body that is out of place because it has come too close.”[37] The mechanism is a foundation for such semi-sociological, semi-cinematic structures as exclusion through inclusion. The concept was coined by Giorgio Agamben but Thomas Elsaesser implemented it in film studies describing one scene in Hidden (2005, Michael Haneke).[38] During dinner in Laurents’ house there is a black woman who is physically present but poignantly erased from the rest of company by her total silence. Her presence is ephasized by her skin colour as long as the film’s main topic deals with racial and postcolonial issues, and that is why she is exposed and marginalized at the same time. Her alienation is embodied and sensed by the viewers.

For Ahmed and other above mentioned scholars, thinking of skin as always exposed and touchable is paradigmatic – as in the example of Protée, Fama or Saartje. Sensuous, tactile aesthetics emphasizes the oppression of the eye as an organ of domination. Their bodies are colonized but they can find their subjectivity in the embodiment. It can have a therapeutic meaning for the previous “other,” shifts his or her cultural position, neutralizes stereotypes and creates a subversive language of transgression. It implicates a non-normative way of viewing engagement with an image – an identification is replaced by an interaction. This tactile epistemology forms a “sculpture” – an almost physical encounter. Haptic or multisensory cinema creates proximity that imposes new ways of contact with the other without usurpating rights to his or her identity.

 

References

Ahmed Sara, Strange Encounters: Embodied Others in Post-Coloniality, (London and New York: Routledge) (2000).

Elsaesser Thomas, „Performative Self-Contradictions. Michael Haneke’s Mind Games”, in A companion to Michael Haneke, ed. Roy Grundmann, (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing) (2010).

Fisher Jennifer, Relational Sense: Towards A Haptic Æsthetics, http://www.david-howes.com/senses/Fisher.htm, date accessed 20 September 2016.

Grosz Elizabeth, Volatile Bodies: Toward a Corporeal Feminism, (Sydney: Allen & Unwin) (1994).

Higbee Will, „Beyond the (trans)national: toward a cinema of transvergence in postcolonial and diasporic francophone cinema(s)”, Studies in French Cinema 7:2 (2007).

Marinkova Milena, Michael Ondaatje: Haptic Aesthetics and Micropolitical Writing, (New York: Continuum International Publishing Group) (2011).

Marks Laura U., The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses, (Durham and London: Duke University Press) (2004).

Marks Laura U., Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media, (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press) (2002).

Waldenfels Bernhard, Podstawowe motyy fenomenologii obcego, (Warszawa: Oficyna Naukowa) (2009).

 

[1] Higbee Will, „Beyond the (trans)national: toward a cinema of transvergence in postcolonial and diasporic francophone cinema(s)”, Studies in French Cinema, 7:2, p. 80.

[2] See: Marks Laura U., The Skin of Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses, (Durham and London: Duke University Press) (2004).

[3] Marinkova Milena, Michael Ondaatje: Haptic Aesthetics and Micropolitical Writing, (New York: Continuum International Publishing Group) (2011), p. 17.

[4] Marks Laura U. (2004), p. 194.

[5] Marks Laura U. (2004), p. 185.

[6] Marks Laura U., Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media, (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press) (2002), p. 13.

[7] Fisher Jennifer, Relational Sense: Towards A Haptic Æsthetics, http://www.david-howes.com/senses/Fisher.htm, date accessed 20 September 2016.

[8] Marks Laura U. (2004), p. 189.

[9] Marks Laura U. (2004), p. 133.

[10] Marks Laura U. (2004), p. 138.

[11] Marks Laura U. (2004), pp. 152-153.

[12] See: Marks Laura U. (2004), pp. 171-176.

[13] Marks Laura U. (2004), p. 184.

[14] Marks Laura U. (2004), p. 184.

[15] Marinkova Milena, p. 4.

[16] Marinkova Milena, p. 4.

[17] Marinkova Milena, p. 4.

[18] Marinkova Milena, p. 16.

[19] Marinkova Milena, p. 17.

[20] Marinkova Milena, p. 21.

[21] Marinkova Milena, p. 21.

[22] Marinkova Milena, p. 21.

[23] Ahmed Sara, Strange Encounters: Embodied Others in Post-Coloniality, (London and New York: Routledge) (2000), p. 3.

[24] Ahmed Sara, p. 4.

[25] Ahmed Sara, p. 6.

[26] Ahmed Sara, p. 8.

[27] Ahmed Sara, p. 11.

[28] Ahmed Sara, p. 13.

[29] Ahmed Sara, p. 39.

[30] Ahmed Sara, p. 40.

[31] Grosz Elizabeth, Volatile Bodies: Toward a Corporeal Feminism, (Sydney: Allen & Unwin) (1994), p. 142.

[32] Ahmed Sara, pp. 42-43.

[33] Ahmed Sara, p. 45.

[34] Ahmed Sara, p. 45.

[35] Ahmed Sara, p. 49

[36] See: Waldenfels Bernhard, Podstawowe motyy fenomenologii obcego, (Warszawa: Oficyna Naukowa) (2009).

[37] Ahmed Sara, p. 49.

[38] Elsaesser Thomas, „Performative Self-Contradictions. Michael Haneke’s Mind Games”, in A companion to Michael Haneke, ed. Roy Grundmann, (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing) (2010), p. 72.

Prayer Wheels for the Other: Haunted by the Images: the film works of Tian Zhuangzhuang book review

Maciej Stasiowski

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1, pp. 89-93.

Maciej Stasiowski
Jagiellonian University

 

 

 

Prayer Wheels for the Other: Haunted by the Images: the film works of Tian Zhuangzhuang book review

 

There is a sequence in The Horse Thief (1986), in which an elderly Buddhist monk spins his prayer wheel, sitting in close proximity to a flock of Himalayan vultures feasting on a corpse. Seen separate at first, in the next shot both of these activities are filmed together. On the Tibetan plateau, balance is maintained – there is place for religious practice and for ravenous devouring. As another shot supersedes the scene, we take on Norbu’s perspective. Whether he beholds the spectacle from a distance is debatable. Is he really witnessing the non-event described above, or is he just blankly staring at the horizon, as he does so often? The director intends to keep his audience guessing, beguiling them into arranging images into a coherent narrative on their own and draw their own conclusions.

Tian Zhuangzhuang’s cinema inhabits a niche that has been quite difficult to share with him. For all the facts, contexts, even story developments he decides to leave out, it offers sublime beauty that had drawn the attention of audiences worldwide, despite undergoing incredible hardships in the process of reaching them. The Blue Kite (1993), smuggled to Cannes, earned him not only a Grand Prix at the Tokyo International Film Festival in 1993, but a ten-year ban on making films. Nonetheless, in toto, his filmography – oscillating between arthouse “chamber pieces” and purely commercial ventures – remains confusing for critics and audiences alike, ever since his first “proper” films, from the robustly idiosyncratic On the Hunting Ground (1984), to his latest brash with heroic fantasy genre in The Warrior and the Wolf (2009). Thus, the director’s output puts a difficult task in front of the prospected spectator, although in no way does it match the challenge set before an academic scholar who intends to locate the entry point to his ouvré. Assuredly, Alicja Helman’s Haunted by the Images: the film works of Tian Zhuangzhuang (2016) not only sheds light on the Fifth Generation’s most enigmatic representative, but – alongside her past excursions into Chinese cinematography, Shades of Red (2010) on Zhang Yimou and Paths of Lost Time (2012) on Chen Kaige – does so with a flare that instantly turns the book into a primer of aesthetics and filmmaking language. The language, which even the Han majority of Chinese viewers found incomprehensible.

Fifth Generation directors – the first class admitted to the Beijing Film Academy after the Cultural Revolution – moved away from portrayals in which the rise of People’s Republic of China brings about liberation and prosperity to various ethnic minorities living within its bounds, toward an appreciation of their diverse cultures. In equal measure it was a struggle for linguistic innovation and unprecedented visual style. “Like their predecessors, the fifth generation favored a non-dramatic structure and depoliticized narration, but they went farther with scant dialogue and music as well as abundant ambiguities in characterization and narration.”

 

[1] Such shifts were connected to the post-Maoist revisionism, while also emerging as a critical reaction to past decades’ overtly ideological and literary plots. However, as Helman notes, even against this background Zhuangzhuang’s cinematic project remains slightly removed from his contemporaries’ pursuits, intending to capture modernity’s spirit. Instead, his films are permeated with a sense of timelessness.

This may sound somewhat paradoxical, given the fact that both his early features On the Hunting Ground and The Horse Thief take place in almost archetypal settings, whose historicity came from censors’ interventions (the date 1923, which we see in The Horse Thief’s opening credits, was meant to explain Tibet’s rural look as not yet “peacefully liberated” from its primitive condition by People’s Liberation Army in 1950), rather than stemming from events represented on screen. Haunted by the Images places emphasis on is the fact that while the director’s approach to historical cinema and, by default, to minority genre (or “minority discourse”,[2] as Yingjin Zhang termed this tendency) remains quite lush, his films don’t subscribe to an exoticism of his colleagues and forefathers from the Fourth Generation. Tian’s cinema sidesteps even this category. Engulfed by his films, we are likely to be drawn into rituals, practices, customs, which are shown in great detail, yet being given no extended explanation or commentary to actual meanings behind them. Hence, the Mongolian language in On the Hunting Ground wasn’t even dubbed for the cinemas. It is the spectator who remains a foreigner and needs to “grasp this difficulty”. Unsurprisingly, alienation reverberated also in these films’ revenues – The Horse Thief sold in 7 copies in comparison to the standard of 100 copies. Nevertheless, a modest success, as for his previous effort was distributed in two.

While admitting to Zhuangzhuang’s strategic “indigestibility”, Helman’s third detour into landscapes left by the Fifth Generation creators serves as much more than a simple biographic insight into successive, though not always successful moviemaking efforts of the Beijing native. It is a comprehensive cross-examination of films and aspects of culture, history, religion, and philosophy that silently underlie these productions. Moreover, this meticulous study has been executed without disregarding entries that don’t necessarily reflect Zhuangzhuang’s artistic niche carved out for him by Western film critics.

Unlike his filmography, the resultant portrait is diversified, yet not shambolic. “Tian…”, Helman writes, “…was the most radical [in the Fifth Generation’s] attempt at transforming the appearance of Chinese cinema. Other than his colleagues, who prolifically engaged the experiences of theory and tradition of Western film thought, [Zhuangzhuang] tried to invent everything anew, guided by his researcher and discoverer’s zeal.”[3] This “Otherness” – located, at times, geographically (Mongolia [On the Hunting Ground], Tibet [The Horse Thief], Japan [The Go Master]), otherwise, on the basis of social strata (Street Players, Rock ‘n’ Roll Kids, Li Lianying: The Imperial Eunuch) – found in Tian’s treatment of his characters and the communities they belong to and are rejected by, become the focal point of Helman’s traverse.

What discerns his most personal projects (here, among films that comprise this category, are: On the Hunting Ground, The Horse Thief, The Blue Kite, Springtime in a Small Town, Delamu, The Go Master), is the way in which he “…position[s] himself in the role of the discoverer, a traveller looking at the strange land with his unprejudiced eye, without referring to the accepted system of beliefs, […] without constraining himself to the limits of a particular genre, or his audience’s expectations.”[4] Adding, further on, that the practice most “…characteristic of him is the accentuation of documentary factors, non-conclusive nature of the plots, narrative composition that resembles a suite of images.”[5] This probably came as the greatest obstacle in truly appreciating Zhuangzhuang’s works, as the audiences – just as much as critics themselves – complained about the lack of classical storytelling. This way, Tian’s intrinsically personal creations are like poetic ethnographic studies informed by (but not entirely congruent with) an outsider’s perspective, while history rushes in as “borrowed scenery”.

Aside from the insightful analyses and historical contextualization that define Haunted by the Images, the feature that gives off a nuanced flavour to Helman’s 200-page study is the amount of space devoted to expounding the aesthetics of the Far-Eastern cultural sphere. Such moments, far from rare, are especially enriching when the author links specific traits in Zhuangzhuang’s style to distinctly oriental aesthetic philosophies of xuǎn xiàng (suspended thought), or a unifying purpose of communicating a spiritual, highly subjective reading of reality (qì yùn), which is in stark contrast to Plato’s concept of mimesis that underlies Western thought. In this light, what might appear as narrative ellipsis is revealed as compositional strategy employed to subjugate screened images to a “continuous flow of emotions” of the film’s protagonist. This confirms Yuwen’s (Springtime in a Small Town) temporal back and forth account, that blends retrospections, futurospections, as well as events that unfold in the present. In the same manner it allows the viewer to share Norbu’s (The Horse Thief) outcast perspective of misfortunes leading up to his death. This way, the author also explains how experiential and painterly – rather than ones belonging to the realm of literature – Zhuangzhuang’s films are, providing a narrative that perfectly reflects not merely the protagonists’ point of view, as, e. g., could be inferred from the fragmentary character of Tietou’s childhood memories refracting historical events of the Great Leap Forward in The Blue Kite (1993). Moreover, what is suggested in Haunted by… is the presence of a subjective “institution” proposed by Albert Laffey, namely that of le grand imagier (master of images), responsible for the dynamics of spectatorial immersion into Zhuangzhuang’s outsider habitats. In this respect, Helman traces Tian’s ethnographic “igneous intrusions” in the documentary traditions of Alberto Cavalcanti and Jean Rouch.

Traditionally articulated when representations of minority groups are involved, the theme of exclusion – in Zhuangzhuang’s films – migrates into cinematographic and editing techniques and strategies, of which the author takes note in regards to the 1986 cult film. “The Horse Thief gives a viscerally strong sense of Otherness, so strong that the audience feels nearly excluded from the spectacle whose meaning constantly eludes them. In total, it doesn’t succumb to expectations that the viewers hold toward “exotic” cinematographies, mainly presenting the oddness already tamed, rather than serving it to them in crudo.”[6]

As previously stated, imitating Zhuangzhuang’s compositional strategy was obviously not the encompassing aim on author’s behalf. Logical chapter structure combined with a well-paced itinerary of the inquiry should appeal in equal measures to Chinese Cinema buffs and newcomers alike. Film critics and occidental enthusiasts may find themselves aligned in a queue to the nearest bookstore or generating web traffic on websites listed in the book’s references list. Tian Zhuangzhuang used to defend himself from harsh criticism saying that his kind of cinema evidently lies in wait for a 21st century audience. Haunted by the Images would convince him that the wait is over.

 

Alicja Helman, Nawiedzony przez obrazy: Twórczość filmowa Tiana Zhuangzhuanga, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego) (2016), 268 p.

The book reviewed here was funded by National Science Centre, decision number 012/05/B/HS2/04058

 

[1] Yingjin Zhang, Chinese National Cinema, (New York and London: Routledge) (2004), p. 236.

[2] Harry H. Kuoshu, “Cinema Exotica: Ethnic Minorities as the PRC’s “Internal Other””, in Celluloid China: Cinematic Encounters with Culture and Society, ed. Harry H. Kuoshu (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2002), p. 169.

[3] Alicja Helman, Nawiedzony przez obrazy: Twórczość filmowa Tiana Zhuangzhuanga, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego) (2016), p. 4.

[4] Alicja Helman, p. 199.

[5] Alicja Helman, p. 201.

[6] Alicja Helman, p. 54.

Table of Contents 2017 vol.2 no.2

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2017, vol.2, no. 2

 

Table of Contents  2017 vol.2 no.2

Game Studies at the crossroads

edited by Jan Argasiński (Jagiellonian University)

 

Feeling Good About Myself. Real-Time Hermeneutics and its Consequences 

Tomasz Z. Majkowski

The Language of Interaction 

Rafael Arrivabene

Feminist Worldbuilding: Intersectional Methodologies in Feminist SF Criticism and Feminist Game Studies 

Bianca Batti

Playing in fractal universes: Thinking with scalable patterns in interdisciplinary game studies 

Garfield Benjamin

Glitched perception: beyond the transparency and visibility of the video game object 

Justyna Janik

Warping Diegesis: The Evolving Role of the Sound-track in Virtual Reality Gaming 

Katherine Mancey

Intermediality and Digital Games: On Player-figures and Media Borders in Uncharted 4

Kristian Ahm

Pokémemory: Time-images, Transmedia, and Memory

Jayme D. Mallindine

Creation Myths, Community, and Collectanea: A Folk Group Case Study, or “Welcome to Dota, You Suck”

Ciara Smith

Political and Social Issues in French Digital Games, 1982–1993

Filip Jankowski

Varia

Different levels of game genre. A Review. 

Marcin Petrowicz

Playing in fractal universes: Thinking with scalable patterns in interdisciplinary game studies

Garfield Benjamin

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2017, vol.2, no. 2, pp. 47-64.

 

Garfield Benjamin

University of Birmingham

 

 

Playing in fractal universes: Thinking with scalable patterns in interdisciplinary game studies

 

Abstract

Games offer a scaled and scalable experience of technologically mediated human action and interaction. The study of games therefore holds the potential to offer a far wider analysis of our technical and social structures than might be first apparent. Yet this scaling of behaviours and frameworks is applicable not only beyond simply an increase in degree, but also across different types of meaning, society, reality, and our understanding of them. Thus, to assess the expansion of games beyond conventional dimensionality, we can identify in games and game studies a fractal metaphor to guide our analysis. Drawing on concepts of iteration, self-similarity, recursion, complexity, and scalability, this article examines key games that embody a fractal dimension to their in-game universe, the player’s experience, the game’s development, and games as a field of study. The fractal analysis of a game will thereby be revealed as also an analysis of the metagame and its situatedness in broader concerns of technoculture and its academic study. The model offered will be applied to specific games and the existing literature through which game studies is formed as an interdisciplinary fractal conceptual space of its own.

 

Key words: fractal, game studies, games, No Man’s Sky, Everything, EVE Online

 

 

Introduction

 

The playing of a particular game generates iterative and often functionally self-similar experiences for players based on the ludic and narrative constructs that constitute the game itself. Yet these experiences are increasingly interdisciplinary in their relation to human activity, creating ever more total works of media that engage with simulations and representations of our social and technological realities and fictions. This necessitates an inherent and increasing interdisciplinarity to the study of games that expand the player’s interaction from the quantum to the cosmological, from the individual to the collective, and from the fictional to the real. This article offers a new mode of viewing games as both a mode of interaction and a field of study: the fractal mediation of humanity by technology.

Firstly, we will construct a fractal metaphorical framework through close analysis of examples that directly address such mediation of humans at different levels of reality. The highly anticipated, controversial, and often much maligned game No Man’s Sky creates a procedurally generated reality that expands algorithmically to produce a fractal game on the ontological level. Everything takes the fractal experience to an extreme by offering the player the opportunity to interact with the universe by ‘being’ everything, scaled from cellular to stellar levels. Consideration will also be given to similar games that involve such fractal realities even in their construction, generating a relation with players during the design stage through user-created content and responsive beta testing. Worlds Adrift creates an environment filled with floating islands created by users during alpha testing, expanding fractal interaction between players and with the environment according to a functional mediated logic developed further through beta testing. We Happy Few takes this beta testing further with extensive player involvement that has initiated major changes in the game’s aesthetic and the relation between which ludic and narrative aspects players would prefer to see emphasized. Finally, the long-running EVE Online demonstrates fractal human organization with its emergent and expansive economies and politics from the individual to the guild up to the entire player base and game world. Across these examples, a fractal expression of representation, reality, and relationality can be elucidated in the ludic structures and open narratives. Beyond the restrictions of closed objectives that define clear methods of interaction, the ludic mediation and human engagement still results in self-similar or iterative experiences of fractal play.

We will then address the fractal study of games across disciplines – the similarly situatedness of gaming in broader social reality, and the recursive relationship between games and our own world. Focusing on the extensive literature of EVE Online and applying these findings to newer games, the discussion will explore the necessary links between different fields in game studies. In the analysis of games, particularly those with MMO, procedural, or social aspects, there is an inherent need to take into account mathematics, computer science, psychology, economics, philosophy, art, literature, media, and many other fields. Yet the mediation of the ludic experience unveils scalable and self-similar features between these fields, already embedded within the construction of game studies as a distinct discipline. Indeed, it is notable that game design itself straddles the arts and sciences, employing programmers, writers and artists (to name a few) to construct a full experience across traditional disciplines. Amidst the myriad future paths of game studies, therefore, the article will posit the need for fractal modes of thinking about play and narrative in the persistent mediation of humans by their ludic creations, as well as the broader mediation of our society and experience by technology.

 

Fractal Games

 

Fractals – a concept with a long history in science, mathematics, and culture, but given voice as a coherent theory by Benoit Mandelbrot in the 1970s – has perhaps most poetically been defined as a way of seeing infinity in the mind’s eye.[1] Indeed, fractals appear to have had almost limitless applications and have contributed to the understanding of chaos and of conceptual and actual spaces beyond the conventional three dimensions of Euclidean geometry. The term fractal has its roots in fragmentation, with the aim of breaking down the infinite complexity of nature into human-readable patterns. Yet for all their mathematical precision, it is important to remember that “there are no true fractals in nature”[2]. Fractals only ever offer an approximation of natural phenomena, an abstraction of patterns far beyond human understanding. The use of fractals should therefore always be combined with an acknowledgment of their position as an artificial framework of thought. Fractal analyses to some degree therefore always create the precise pattern they are analysing. Indeed, as an abstract human construct, the development of fractals was inherently bound to that of computers, another quantized reality that builds worlds through rigid codes not possible in the physical world. Not only did Mandelbrot work as a researcher for IBM at the time he developed fractal geometry, but it was the increasing access to and power of computers that enabled Mandelbrot and others to calculate fractals and construct the abstract shapes they produce. The artificial forms of fractals, while offering a way of abstracting and understanding nature, tend to exist “entirely inside a computer’s memory”[3]. They thus provide a constructive analogy and conceptual framework for understanding the abstract and computational dimensions of computer games. Not only that – and moving beyond the simple use of fractals as actual graphic constructions in the style of computer-generated landscapes or trees used in many films or games – but the application of fractals to diverse fields of natural and human activities lends itself to an exploration of the social aspects of games and the broader facets of game studies.

Yet fractals persist as an elusive concept, with definitions relying more on a series of typical characteristics.[4] For the present discussion, therefore, a few key concepts will suffice as a starting point to develop a fractal framework for thinking about games. Firstly, fractals are iterative, simple to define and often recursive. They produce the same patterns at arbitrary locations and use the same functioning – the same code – to create evolving and scaling structures. They are also often self-similar, spreading this symmetry and iteration across scales. These characteristics combine to form the “pattern inside of a pattern”[5] whereby the part matches both other parts and the whole. While this is not necessarily an essential part of all fractals,[6] it defines simpler linear fractals and appears in some form (for example, quasi- or statistically self-similar) in most practical definitions of the concept. Thus, self-similarity allows us to view patterns between arbitrary facets that may indeed have chaotic or emergent properties, or which obfuscate simple comprehension via high complexity. Another key concept is the notion of scale. Fractals allow us to view symmetry not only between parts of equal size, but also across scales. The recursive quality of fractals enables a shift in perspective between large and small levels of difference and irregularity, thus offering a mode of viewing functional rules in even the most chaotic data. In computer games, this shifting in perspective can occur at the technical or social level, between systems, renderings, and servers or between players, economies and conceptual spaces. This scaling goes beyond an increase in conventional dimensionality into partial and even abstract dimensions that cut across individual human perspectives and thereby reveal, at the level of the metagame, a hidden order in chaos and functional consistency between apparently disparate parts of a complex whole. Between these various parts and scales is revealed the complexity of fractals, which cannot be expressed through simple geometry. Indeed, the emergence of games as a distinct field of study highlights the additional experiential intricacies compared to traditional art, film, or other media. From complexity stems the notion of a fractal dimension, itself open to variable definition but always signalling a dimensionality greater than its topology. At a basic level, this can be expressed in the link between the concrete world presented on the screen and the vast array of code beneath it. Using procedural generation and non-linear structures, across player narratives and experiences it forms the ‘greater than the sum of its parts’ quality that generates the ‘replay value’ of games. Procedural generation, originally developed in ‘roguelike’ games of the late 1970s and early 1980s, is a process of compressing the game world. This was exemplified in the space exploration game Elite, which sought to create a huge world using only 22k of memory.[7] By reducing the internal reality of the game from a detailed description to a functional algorithm, a much greater space can be unfolded from comparatively minimal code. Finally, fractal dimensionality can be seen in the multiple fields that games straddle and the implied relation to our own world that games can address, stage, and critique, expanding our metaphor to situate games in their broader context. We will now elaborate this conception of games through examples that address gaming reality, gaming experience, and game design.

 

No Man’s Sky: a fractal gaming reality

 

Hello Games’ No Man’s Sky is a vast procedurally generated universe of unprecedented size, containing 264 (18,446,744,073,709,551,616) planets. While this 64-bit algorithmically-created galaxy falls far short of the unknown limits of our own physical universe, the scale in relation to human perception achieves the same relative infinitude. Even at the impossible rate of one planet per second, it would take over five billion years to explore every single planet in the game – longer than the lifespan of our own sun.[8] Fractals, as a way of converting limitless complexity into scales perceivable by humans, offer a convenient method of understanding the construction of this game reality. Much like the mathematical functions of fractals, No Man’s Sky creates its reality according to strict deterministic calculations that can nevertheless generate a far larger universe than any single human could ever hope to experience. Yet it is not only the construction of No Man’s Sky at the planetary scale that takes on a fractal quality, the analogy scales too. Rather than loading a new environment when a player hopes to explore a given planet, the game’s procedural generation scales down to render landscapes, mineral deposits, environmental factors such as weather, and a rich population of fauna and flora. Yet this functionally limitless expanse returns to haunt us in its endless iteration. The looping nature of the gameplay extends beyond an identical algorithmic mediation of one player and another. The algorithmic construction of similar planets initially offers wonderment and variety, but after visits to multiple planets the appearance of the same kinds of worlds exposes the underlying iteration and an evolving self-similarity through time. This limit of the aesthetics of the game reality applies also to the gameplay. The open exploration, the often repetitive (particularly in the initial release before the streamlining aspects of later updates) nature of gathering resources needed for survival and travel, and the scaling of achievements (in terms of both in-game economic attainment and the convention of ludic ‘achievement’ rewards) can end with the player seeing through the complexity and reaching a level of predictability to the game over longer timescales through fractal understanding. Thus, the kaleidoscopic non-novelty highlights the creative limitations of self-similarity and the ontological limitations of the No Man’s Sky reality, as after a certain number of iterated experiences everything looks the same (much like many fractal images), creating a scalar shift in perception whereby the detail becomes flattened. Here we can attempt to behold the entirety of the complexity at work, and the processes of mediation reveal themselves within the literal frame of the screen and the conceptual framing of the universe held within the computer and within the game.

However, the narratological aspects of No Man’s Sky further this relation to iteration and scalability in constructing a reflexive ontology that loops into itself. What sparse storyline there is to find across the vast emptiness of space reveals a universe that embraces its algorithmic functionality and challenges its relation to the player. The main ‘goal’ –  although this is entirely optional and only one path of achievement a player can explore – of No Man’s Sky is to follow the instructions of a being called Atlas to reach the centre of the galaxy. Along this path the play encounters two recurring NPCs, Nada and Polo, who describe themselves as errors within the simulation. They are counterposed to the Sentinels, a variety of robotic entities that enforce the rule-based system of the Universe’s will by attacking players who rapidly interfere with the landscape by mining for resources or killing fauna. The player is part of a universe-wide experiment to break free of these rules and discover the source of the Sentinel’s power,[9] and it is the ultimate quest of the player to become an anomalous entity by achieving self-awareness of the rules and systems of the universe. The ending of the game, the big reveal at the centre of the galaxy, takes on a tragic tone that embraces the full despair of mediation and control by technology. The universe is revealed to be a simulation, nothing more than an absolute deterministic causal structure – a game – and while the character (the ‘traveller’) becomes self-aware, the player is returned as a new traveller on a new starting planet at the edge of the galaxy to begin the cycle anew. As the player learns more and more information, gaining greater and greater detail as they move closer to the centre of the reality, they end up being thrust outwards to the broadest scale. The player’s perspective, and their causal relations with the game, go beyond even a fractal towards a strange loop, “a paradoxical level-crossing feedback loop”.[10] Even in a supposed critique of the medium itself, the recursive element exposes the iterative repetition of game playing and the rigid and ultimately deterministic causality of apparent complexity and chaos in both fractals and gaming structures. Perhaps this is why Mandelbrot himself focused on consequences over causes,[11] working backwards from human-readable problems to create gradually more detail from the chaos of recursive complexity. Cast into a universe and expected to find not only our own meaning but to discover for ourselves the limits of the simulation, the monstrous character of fractals unfold in No Man’s Sky as a ludic and narrative experience beyond rational scientific or philosophical explanation.

 

Everything: a fractal gaming experience

 

A game that embodies fractals in the experience of the player is Everything by David OReilly. Described as “a magical playpen of being, rather than doing”,[12] and – with an eleven-minute trailer that made it the first video game to qualify for an Oscar – Everything displays the fractal experience of being-in-the-world. Players interact with the universe through being anything and ‘everything’. Starting as a mammal, players can shift from item to item and ascend/descend scales to play as approximately three thousand different objects. These items fall into a variety of categories and include natural objects such as animals as well as man-made objects as well as more abstract entities. Examples include a shoe [attire], cigarette butt [trash], warped ruins [space junk], scale manipulator [tool], recursive house [home], convex stellated polyhedron [3d], and Planck length [1d]. This selection in particular highlights a focus on scale and a relation to fractal perspectives and experience. The objects themselves and the perspectives the player encounters create a fractal reality whereby we are offered the self-similar experience of simply ‘being’ across all scales of matter. Like No Man’s Sky, this universe is procedurally generated, but it is also connected and persistent, remembering the state of a previous scale when you next return. However, the map at each scale is not particularly large, enacting spatial loops where necessary that are visible upon zooming out but not ascending to the next scale. But a fractal universe does not need to be large (and even if it is, as with No Man’s Sky, there is fundamentally no difference between ‘more’ space and ‘more of the same’ space). The expansive environment here comes from the fractal dimension, moving beyond three dimensions to folded spaces of experience and new perspectives of scale.

Initially, however, the player can simply move around (and even that is somewhat stilted as the movement animation for mammals is a rather ignominious and awkward four-frame roll). As one early-encountered NPC (a mammoth) remarks, “you can’t control Everything//not yet anyway”.[13] Indeed, the game often plays with the double meaning of its own title and the objects it contains, applying the different levels of parts and the whole within its very construction. The ability to move around as objects (no matter how improbable their independent locomotion might be in our universe) is gradually augmented through talking to (or ‘thinking as’) other objects. Increased abilities include being able to join with other entities of the same kind or category, moving around as a collective being and even dancing together in order to create new objects. The player also obtains the ability to ‘ascend’ and ‘descend’, moving up and down in scale. Manipulation of the environment here stems directly from expanded notions of being in greater dimensions beyond human perception, a philosophical and even spiritual sentiment reinforced by the inclusion of recordings of a lecture by Zen philosopher Alan Watts concerning nature, patterns across scale, and being. This grows in Everything with the player’s expanding experience. For example, once you have ‘become’ a particular item, you can become it again at any time via the encyclopaedia, but it will then be scaled to the current perspective, offering a self-similar and scale invariant quality to even objects usually experienced at a single given scale. Further, if one is to keep ascending or descending far enough, the game universe loops round between galaxy clusters and atoms via a ‘feedback sphere’ at the one-dimensional Planck scale. This embodies Hofstadter’s ‘strange loop’ in terms of space-time, a sentiment echoed in Max Tegmark’s loop between cosmology and quantum mechanics via a multiverse of mathematical structures.[14] It also embodies recursion in terms of human consciousness as a feedback loop that intensifies over time.[15] In Everything these two feedback loops are one and the same, for our consciousness of the game expands fractally alongside our experience of being at different scales, or even simply perceiving/thinking as the game autoplays if left to its own devices.

The fractal strange loop of causality and the gaming medium that we saw in the ending of No Man’s Sky returns once more to haunt us at the ending of Everything. As another game with sandbox-like and experiential open play, the term ‘end’ must be used loosely, but open reaching a certain level (having achieved ‘being’ a certain number of objects) the player may descend into the ‘Golden Gate’. Here an abstract space of random objects awaits in a collision of different scales. Among these, surrounded by pieces of skeletons, is a computer which duplicates the player’s screen on its own monitor. After a lengthy but vague monologue lamenting the frustration of Everything in this place, the player is instructed to ‘empty your mind’ in order to escape this world. The player is finally allowed to ascend the Gate, triggering an ending cut scene of a glowing particle flying through different scales before returning the player once more to a starting position (with new abilities such as instantly bonding with objects or a documentary mode). There is no escape from a fractal game, as with all games. The fundamental mediation of a game system is to keep playing, returning always once more to a reality of rules which deterministically controls not only itself but our own actions. Whether we play as an abstract concept or a piece of shit, we experience the same mediated play in a simulated universe, beholden to the whims of the game developers.

 

Fractal game development and its problems

 

If fractals can be used to analyse the in-game ontologies and the experiences of the players, they can be applied also to the existence of the game throughout its development. No Man’s Sky received much positive attention prior to its release, so much so that the developers received death threats after announcing a delay to the release date. And when the final release of the game failed to meet certain advertised promises, the backlash was again significant. These issues span creative, cultural, and legal concerns in the feedback loop of perception and expectation. The spiral of hype that led to death threats, as part of the often vitriolic cultural sphere of gaming,[16] was echoed in the spiral of disappointment that led to a (cleared) advertising standards investigation. This latter issue, whereby key features such as multiplayer, ship design and others were missing from the initial release, sparked a fractality to the development of the game itself. While DLC add-ons to games is becoming increasingly common, and updates or patches are standard practice, the free updates to No Man’s Sky instigated major changes to the way the game plays. The development of the game after its release thus constructed a temporal fractal zoom, adding greater and greater detail to the game with each iteration. Each upgrade made visual improvements, refined the interface, and provided more content in various categories. The first (1.1 Foundation) update added the freighters and base building that were originally missing; the second (1.2 Path Finder) added exocraft, online base sharing, multiple ship ownership and ship specialization; and the third (1.3 Atlas Rises) added missions, increased story mode, portal travel and (crude) multiplayer. This last development was a major change, and one that was high on the list of missing features. While communication between players outside the game made it possible relatively easily, the original idea with No Man’s Sky was that it would essentially be single-player in a multi-player universe, for the odds of randomly encountering another player were astronomically low. Yet this feature was only added later, transforming the game fractally by adding greater levels of interaction and expanding the experience not only in level but also in kind, creating new dimensions of play. As an indie developer trying to create an AAA title, Hello Games had given themselves an unenviable task. Yet the later additions have not simply added what was originally promised. Rather, they have evolved in an emergent manner in light of the game being released in the world. The interaction between players and developers creates new perspectives and functions that otherwise may not have been thought up.

In the wake of the release disaster of No Man’s Sky, other games appear to be learning from their mistakes. While open beta and early release testing is now commonplace via platforms such as Steam, Worlds Adrift by Bossa Studios involved players before even the alpha release in order to create a user-generated world. Functionally quite similar to No Man’s Sky, Worlds Adrift is an open environment for exploration and resource gathering. However, it has several key differences. The game is highly multiplayer, indeed for many activities collaborative play is nearly essential, and it is highly creative, being based on players/groups designing and building their own ships with which to travel between floating islands in a limitless sky. Thus, while the expansive universe of areas is much reduced, there are greater dimensions of interaction. Not only that, but the islands themselves are procedurally generated content as well as user-created content, embedding players in the pre-alpha stage via a separate, free, Worlds Adrift Island Creator game. Thus, throughout and before the extensive closed and open beta phases, players were able to work with Bossa Studios to collaboratively create a game that itself opens up opportunities for free interaction between players, building on core functionality before adding visual detail in a fractal development of form and content. Beyond the initial release, Bossa set up mechanisms to continually include players in the game’s ongoing development. The Sky Crier, a weekly news summary of stories from players, highlights the importance of player experience in the history of the game, while further developments to the Island Creator have been aimed at turning players into game designers by producing new levels and new experiences for other players.

The desire to integrate this degree of player involvement is also echoed in Compulsion’s We Happy Few, which, in strong contrast to Hello Games’ closed development and the misinformation of No Man’s Sky, focuses on transparency and inclusion.[17] As another small studio thrust into creating a higher profile game than they had intended, Compulsion sought to make regular public announcements about the process. This helped guide their relationship with players through an extended, delayed, and not unproblematic development. But it was not only communication that aided them, for they made several key changes to the game in response to early player comments. As the developers describe, “What the public and the press were telling us they loved about our game wasn’t anything like the procedural, story-light, rogue-like survival game we were creating at all”.[18] As a result, they switched their focus to develop in greater detail the story, the world, and the mechanics in response to what players wanted. The move to Kickstarter also emphasized a literal investment by players, drawing them into the game world not only through the experiential suspension of disbelief for this psychedelic drug-fuelled horror game, but also as co-creators and co-owners, bringing all perspectives into the discussion across different scales and types of engagement. This extended to further types of gameplay based on five drug-specific modes, as well as a suspension of the gaming framework with the addition of a non-violent ‘Birdwatcher’ mode in which players could simply explore the environment and, much like Everything, enjoy ‘being’ in the game. After the shift in expectation towards an ‘AAA’ level game by partnering with Gearbox Software, however, the communication and inclusion broke down somewhat. The sudden doubling in price and further delays angered many fans, although the level of engagement already established did allow for some mitigation of these problems. Bonus content was promised to early backers, and the financial support from the larger studio enabled a fourfold scaling of Compulsion’s team. This reminds us that the business side of gaming cannot be forgotten, for while the reactive nature of the development that increased in size to handle the increased expectation does itself embody a certain fractal quality, the problem of shifting scales highlights the competing forces at work in game development. In We Happy Few, we can at least see the creative intent towards creating a fractal experience that extends between layers of in-game perspective, modes of gameplay, and involvement in the design process.

The fractal model at the level of the metagame is thus achieved by enabling players to engage at multiple scales, creating their own local perspective through the emergent differences between iterations. Far from being a rigid abstract reduction, the conceptual ‘geometry’ of such games could only be mapped in multidimensional relations between the designers, the manifold facets of the game, and its many players. The feedback loop of a fractal game extends spatially, temporally, and conceptually back into itself as an evolving experience for all involved.

 

Fractal Game Studies

 

We have explored how fractals might be used to view games, but what of game studies as a discipline? Fractals can be considered one of three major revolutions in twentieth century science[19] and, perhaps even more so than the other two (relativity and quantum mechanics), have far-reaching interdisciplinary applications not only within the sciences but across social science and the arts. Mandelbrot’s initial work on fractals, coalescing a collection of vaguely similar approaches in mathematics spread sporadically across several centuries, was driven by a combination of geography (the problem of measuring an infinite coastline at high enough resolution) and economics (the need to balance sudden dramatic fluctuations with periods of stability). But his own work and the work of others quickly spread the fractal concept across a wide range of disciplines, and today there is a rich yet often unconnected literature that applies fractals to diverse fields. Indeed, perhaps the fractal as a field of study is itself fractal in its iterative self-similarity and possible application at various scales and in various locations. However, it must be remembered that fractals only ever offer an approximate representation of reality, an abstraction and reduction of complexity into human frameworks of thinking. The broader application of fractals therefore takes on an inherently aesthetic quality within scientific thought, a mathematical description of a topic rather than a rigid methodological framework. Examples abound of this fractal interpretation of our universe and society: in physics, fractals have been used to understand the two other key developments of modern science (quantum physics[20] and relativity[21]) as well as cosmology[22]; in economics they have been applied not only by Mandelbrot but also to financial crises[23]; in organization theory they are useful for assessing interdependence and multi-dimensional folding in networks[24], as well as management[25] and organization design[26]; in biology, furthering Mandelbrot’s focus on analysing nature, they are relevant in, for example, the organization of cell nuclei[27]; in psychiatry to movement and depression[28]; and in applied computing it can assist in understanding IT needs for complex organizations.[29] Fractals can be useful to understand any natural, human and artificial systems at scale, and the field itself therefore takes on its own implicit metafractal quality in its interdisciplinary application.

In a more explicitly and intentionally interdisciplinary manner, games as a field of study also acts as a fractal description of human culture and its mediated constructions of reality. There is a microcosmic quality to many games, particularly those that display MMO, exploration, or social characteristics. Indeed, the field of serious and educational games demonstrates the usefulness of games as a scaled-down staging of wider society or reality, especially when speculating on complex behaviours in exceptional environments or circumstances. From individual experiences to inter-human relations and up to the overarching societal structures, games offer a sandbox arena for experimentation (for designers and players) and analysis (for scholars). However, we must remember that games are never an accurate or neutral microcosm for concrete experiments. Rather, they are a hyperreal, mediated representation. It is this quality that expresses the fractal nature of the field, amplifying characteristics of reality with their dimensional reduction to the scale, logic, and experience of a game. A game can thus act as a more extreme expression of diverse problems in diverse fields, iterating broader concerns in specific implementations and intensified at a smaller scale. Some aspects will always be lost (otherwise the game would simply be reality), but this in turn generates the non-integer dimensionality of games as a fractal simulation of reality. The chimerical nature of games as a discipline is applicable in inspiring an engaged and experiential response to many issues, from the grand questions of reality down to the specific problems of individuals in an unequal world. The complexity of these issues drawn into the sandbox experiment of the game universe and mediated framework reveals an increased dimensionality of the impact of games in their necessary analysis through the lens of other fields. These various perspectives combine to generate a much broader view that expands into the spaces between disciplines and between the game and reality. We will now turn our fractal metaphor to the context of games within their field of study, taking the exemplary case of EVE Online.

 

EVE Online: a fractal metaverse of game studies

 

EVE Online is a ‘sandbox’ reality, not quite a game and not quite a virtual world but displaying characteristics of both. This space exploration and conquest environment combines the vast open universe and free economy of virtual worlds with the player-versus-player space combat one might expect from a game. There are a number of key aspects of its design, however, that differentiate it from other such games or worlds and emphasize its fractal quality as an object of game studies. Firstly, EVE Online goes beyond the iterative environments of many MMORPGs (such as World of Warcraft) in that, rather than placing players on different servers to deal with population overload and different rulesets, EVE takes place in a single universe on a single server with scalable architecture and adaptive workload management. While there is also a free to play version with much reduced player violence, this is more like a demo than a separate game environment. The main EVE platform is therefore not only a marvel of scalable technological achievement but in making the entire universe open to players, what is usually a series of parts becomes a whole system and the simulated reality becomes itself a closer iteration of our own physical environment. The similarity with the material world is emphasized through EVE’s second distinctive feature, the lack of constraints. Other than active cheating, almost anything is permitted in EVE, including mass player on player violence, scamming and other such nefarious activities. Like a Wild West in space, EVE reflects humanity’s best and worst relations, bringing together conflict and collaboration as large-scale guilds are formed for mutual protection and economic or political attainment. As one player review comments, “imagine if every chat troll had guns, and were in the same room as you. That’s EVE in a nutshell”.[30] The characteristic behaviours of humans playing games is amplified in a social feedback loop that allows us to zoom in on radical social interactions at a much faster pace and greater scale than is often the case (in either a game or the real world), and the actual financial value of assets that might be lost or stolen only further emphasizes the social intensity of EVE.

The universe of EVE takes on a further fractal character through its persistence – a temporal scaling of experience that has, running since 2003, outlasted many other continuous game worlds. This historicity, to an even greater extent than what Worlds Adrift is attempting to achieve, forms a feedback loop of the game’s internal truth, reality, and identity, between the players, the technology and the designers. Aside from any fictional narrative, the history of EVE Online is now that of its players, its guilds, its own pivotal moments, all of which express the shift from narrative to ludic history that Neal Stephenson later detailed as the battle not between arbitrary good and evil of writers but between player-chosen colour palettes in his novel Reamde.[31] EVE now includes player activities in its own lore, embedding the human interactions within the game structure in a fractal narrative with a higher degree of ‘reality’. This history and player experience scales even beyond the singular game itself, with a tie-in first-person shooter game Dust 514 expanding the universe onto the planet’s surface. More than a game set in the same fictional universe, Dust offered a fractal experience in the same game universe, connected in real time with the events of EVE, to the extent that players on the surface in Dust could signal for orbital bombardment from their guild’s battleships in EVE, and the players in EVE could benefit from resources won in Dust. The universe of EVE Online is thus constantly expanding in a fractal level of detail in space and time, with new experiences contributing to the constant increase in the game’s multidimensional size and impact. This impact extends also into the real world, with Project Discovery turning minigames with in-world rewards to the cause of actual space discovery, using players’ enthusiasm for astronomy to sort through telescope data to find new exoplanets. The fractal metagame thus expands outwards from itself, iterating through our own reality in social and epistemic detail.

In academia, the scale of the game’s impact is such that there is even an EVE Online reader,[32] establishing the singular game/platform as a worthy field of study on its own. And, much like fractals themselves, EVE Online has acted as a lightning rod for various disciplines as a scaled study of many aspects of human behaviour, society, and technological mediation. This includes (again, offering only a representative sample) applications in: law, for an assessment of property[33] and normative behaviours;[34] history, as collective memory;[35] politics, for the study of online propaganda[36] and political economy;[37] social sciences more broadly for issues in identity,[38] gender[39] and ethnography;[40] business, for studying the links between supply chains and skills development;[41] technology and networking, for issues of workload and player behaviour,[42] scaling,[43] and EVE Online’s unique novel approach to server architecture to overcome these challenges;[44] and mathematics, in relation to science fiction and reality.[45] Of particular note is the importance of scaling in both the technology and the socio-political structures. Scalability is a challenge in system design whether it be of the order of CPUs or legal frameworks, echoing human society in general in the complexities across scales of material and social dilemmas. The fractal nature of games reiterates the fractal character that appears in all technology, its design and mediation of human life. The importance of technology studies as an interdisciplinary confrontation with our mediated society reflects the necessity of game studies as a fractal field of its own – a scale model of the relation between humanity and technology that can provide valuable insights into the fundamental processes of mediation that increasingly define our digitized world.

 

Conclusion

 

We have demonstrated the application of fractals as a metaphor for the construction and analysis of games as objects, as a medium and as a field of study. The scalability of gaming experiences offers not only an application of the fractal model but also a model with which to view the interdisciplinary relations inherent to technologically mediated human society. Through the analysis of feedback loops, self-similarity across iterative player experiences in different parts of the same game, and the scaling of experiences to the game world as a whole and the metagame of development and expansion, we have viewed No Man’s Sky, Everything, Worlds Adrift, and We Happy Few as models of fractal games, and EVE Online as a model of fractal game studies. A fractal mode of approaching games allows us to view multiple aspects of ludic and narrative experience alongside external facets of the game in its context. Thus, the fractal metaphor becomes a metafractal analysis whereby the model is itself fractal in nature, self-similar across the various scales and objects of its intellectual gaze, and iterative across disciplines. Games and game studies stand currently at a multidimensional crossroads, having transcended the ludo-narrative dissonance of the field itself, while integrating and spreading across multiple traditional disciplines. It will be essential to find new ways of understanding the intersecting topics and interactions across the ever-expanding dimensions of gaming as a medium.

 

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JackSepticEye, “BLOW YOUR MIND | Everything #1”, Youtube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GeJvh212pEQ date accessed 1 September 2017.

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Darren Jorgensen, “The Numerical Verisimilitude of Science Fiction and EVE-Online” Extrapolation 51:1 (2010), pp. 134-147.

Benoit Mandelbrot, A Fractal Geometry of Nature, (New York: W.H. Freeman and Co) (1983).

Oskar Milik, “Virtual Warlords: An Ethnomethodological View of Group Identity and Leadership in EVE Online” Games and Culture (2015), p. 1-22.

Ikujiro Nonaka, Mitsuru Kodama, Ayano Hirose, Florian Kohlbacher, “Dynamic fractal organizations for promoting knowledge-based transformation – A new paradigm for organizational theory” European Management Journal 32 (2014), pp. 137-146.

Laurent Nottale, Scale Relativity and Fractal Space-time: A New Approach to Unifying Relativity and Quantum Mechanics, (London: Imperial College Press) (2011).

Kathryn Pavlovich, “A Fractal Approach to Sustainable Networks” E:CO 11:3 (2009), pp. 49-60.

Rajiv Ramnath, David Landsbergen, “IT-enabled sense-and-respond strategies in complex public organizations” Communications of the ACM 48:5 (2005), p. 58-64.

S.M. Saad, A. M. Lassila, “Layout design in fractal organizations” International Journal of Production Research 42:17 (2004), pp. 3529-3550.

Jay Sorkin, Shera Buyer, “Using fractal geometry in a financial crisis” Futures 31:10 (2002), p. 48.

Neal Stephenson, Reamde (London: Atlantic Books) (2012).

Styxies, [Steam comment – 5 May 2017] , Steam http://store.steampowered.com/app/8500/EVE_Online/ accessed 24 May 2017.

Nicolas Suzor, Darryl Woodford, “Evaluating Consent and Legitimacy amongst Shifting Community Norms: an EVE Online Case Study” Journal of Virtual Worlds Research 6:3 (2013), 16p.

Max Tegmark, Our Mathematical Universe, (London: Penguin) (2015).

Wanderbot, “Let’s Play No Man’s Sky Update 1.3: Atlas Rises – PC Gameplay Part 1 – All Sorts Of New Stuff!” Youtube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bITSv0TXJ7k date accessed 1 September 2017.

Nicholas Webber, “EVE Online’s War Correspondents: player journalism as history”, in Fans and Videogames: Histories, Fandom, Archives, ed. Melanie Swalwell, Angela Ndalianis and Helen Stuckey (New York: Taylor and Francis) (2017), pp. 93-110.

 

 

[1] James Gleick, Chaos, (London: Vintage) (1998), p. 98.

[2] Kenneth Falconer, Fractal Geometry: Mathematical FOundations and Applications (3rd ed.), (Chichester: John Wiley & Sons) (2014), xxix.

[3] Benoit Mandelbrot, A Fractal Geometry of Nature, (New York: W.H. Freeman and Co) (1983), p. 10.

[4] Kenneth Falconer, Fractal Geometry: Mathematical FOundations and Applications (3rd ed.), (Chichester: John Wiley & Sons) (2014), xxviii.

[5] Gleick, p. 103.

[6] Mandelbrot, p. 166.

[7] David Braben in Emma Boyes, “Q&A: David Braben–from Elite to today,” Gamespot, https://www.gamespot.com/articles/qanda-david-braben-from-elite-to-today/1100-6162140/ date accessed 27 February 2018.

[8] Chris Higgins, “No Man’s Sky would take 5 billion years to explore,” Wired, http://www.wired.co.uk/article/no-mans-sky-planets date accessed 1 September 2017.

[9] See from 10:00 – Wanderbot, “Let’s Play No Man’s Sky Update 1.3: Atlas Rises – PC Gameplay Part 1 – All Sorts Of New Stuff!” Youtube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bITSv0TXJ7k date accessed 1 September 2017.

[10] Douglas Hofstadter, I Am a Strange Loop, (New York: Basic Books) (2007), p. 102.

[11] Mandelbrot, p. 423.

[12] Colin Campbell, “Everything review”, Polygon, https://www.polygon.com/2017/3/21/14991494/everything-review-ps4-PC date accessed 1 September 2017.

[13] See from 9:16 – JackSepticEye, “BLOW YOUR MIND | Everything #1”, Youtube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GeJvh212pEQ date accessed 1 September 2017.

[14] Max Tegmark, Our Mathematical Universe, (London: Penguin) (2015), p. 358.

[15] Hofstadter, pp. 19-23.

[16] Such as gamergate, an example of mass abuse by collections of gamers against (in this case female) games developers.

[17] Jessica Conditt, “How ‘We Happy Few’ plans to avoid the pitfalls of ‘No Man’s Sky’”, Engadget, https://www.engadget.com/2017/08/17/we-happy-few-fans-feedback-release-date-gearbox-compulsion-interview/ date accessed 1 September 2017.

[18] Quoted in Conditt.

[19] Gleick, p. 6.

[20] Arkadiusz Jadczyk, Quantum Fractals from Heisenberg’s Uncertainty to Barnsley’s Fractality, (Singapore: World Scientific) (2014).

[21] Laurent Nottale, Scale Relativity and Fractal Space-time: A New Approach to Unifying Relativity and Quantum Mechanics, (London: Imperial College Press) (2011).

[22] Jonathan Dickau, “Fractal cosmology” Chaos, Solitons and Fractals 41 (2009), pp. 2103-2105.

[23] Jay Sorkin, Shera Buyer, “Using fractal geometry in a financial crisis” Futures 31:10 (2002), p. 48.

[24] Kathryn Pavlovich, “A Fractal Approach to Sustainable Networks” E:CO 11:3 (2009), pp. 49-60.

[25] Ikujiro Nonaka, Mitsuru Kodama, Ayano Hirose, Florian Kohlbacher, “Dynamic fractal organizations for promoting knowledge-based transformation – A new paradigm for organizational theory” European Management Journal 32 (2014), pp. 137-146.

[26] S.M. Saad, A. M. Lassila, “Layout design in fractal organizations” International Journal of Production Research 42:17 (2004), pp. 3529-3550.

[27] Aurélien Bancaud, Christophe Lavelle, Sébastien Huet, and Jan Ellenberg, “A fractal model for nuclear organization: current evidence and biological implications” Nucleic Acids Research 40:18 (2012), pp. 8783-8792.

[28] Selma Aybek, Anisoara Ionescu, Alexandre Berney, Oury Chocron, Kamiar Aminian, Francois Joseph Godfried Vingerhoets, “Fractal temporal organisation of motricity is altered in major depression” Psychiatry Research 200 (2012), pp. 288-293.

[29] Rajiv Ramnath, David Landsbergen, “IT-enabled sense-and-respond strategies in complex public organizations” Communications of the ACM 48:5 (2005), p. 58-64.

[30] Styxies, [Steam comment – 5 May 2017], Steam http://store.steampowered.com/app/8500/EVE_Online/ accessed 24 May 2017.

[31] Neal Stephenson, Reamde (London: Atlantic Books) (2012).

[32] Marcus Carter, Kelly Bergstrom, Darryl Woodford (eds), Internet Spaceships Are Serious Business: An EVE Online Reader, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press) (2016).

[33] Bobby Glushko, “Tales of the (Virtual) City: Governing Property Disputes in Virtual Worlds” Berkeley technology law journal 22:1 (2007), pp. 507-532.

[34] Nicolas Suzor, Darryl Woodford, “Evaluating Consent and Legitimacy amongst Shifting Community Norms: an EVE Online Case Study” Journal of Virtual Worlds Research 6:3 (2013), 16p.

[35] Nicholas Webber, “EVE Online’s War Correspondents: player journalism as history”, in Fans and Videogames: Histories, Fandom, Archives, ed. Melanie Swalwell, Angela Ndalianis and Helen Stuckey (New York: Taylor and Francis) (2017), pp. 93-110.

[36] Marcus Carter, “Emitexts and Paratexts: Propaganda in EVE Online” Games and Culture 10:4 (2015), 311-342.

[37] Nicholas Taylor, Kelly Bergstrom, Jennifer Jenson and Suzanne de Castell, “Alienated Playbour: Relations of Production in EVE Online” Games and Culture 10:4 (2015), pp. 365-388.

[38] Marcus Carter, Martin Gibbs, Michael Arnold, “Avatars, Characters, Players and Users: Multiple Identities at/in Play” OZCHI’12 (2012), pp. 68-71.

[39] Kelly Bergstrom, “Virtual inequality: a woman’s place in cyberspace” FDG’12 (2012), pp. 267-269.

[40] Oskar Milik, “Virtual Warlords: An Ethnomethodological View of Group Identity and Leadership in EVE Online” Games and Culture (2015), p. 1-22.

[41] Michael Hugos. Essentials of Supply Chain Management, (Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons) (2011), p. 219.

[42] Wu-chang Feng, “A Long-term Study of a Popular MMORPG” ACM SIGCOMM NetGames ‘07 (2007), pp. 19-24.

[43] David Brandt, “Scaling EVE Online, under the hood of the network layer” NetGames ‘05 (2005).

Daniel Horn, Ewen Cheslack-Postava, Tahir Azim, Michael J. Freedman, Philip Levis, “Scaling Virtual Worlds with a Physical Metaphor” Pervasive Computing Jul-Sept (2009), pp. 50-54.

[44] Halldor Fannar Guðjónsson, “The server technology of EVE Online: How to cope with 300,000 players on one server” Proc. Austin GDC (2008).

[45] Darren Jorgensen, “The Numerical Verisimilitude of Science Fiction and EVE-Online” Extrapolation 51:1 (2010), pp. 134-147.

Table of Contents 2017 vol.2. no.1

Download the Article

TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2017, vol.2, no. 1

 

Table of Contents  2017 vol.2. no.1

 

War&Technology

 

War&Technology (Editorial)

Joanna Walewska

New American Patriotism in Games: WWII-Themed Military Shooters in the Shadow of Post-9/11 Politics

Filip Jankowski

Moving Image as Political Tool: The impact of neoliberalism on the role of the moving image in postmodern warfare 

Bethany Crawford

The Concept of War without Casualties: The Influence of the American Taboo of Death on the Perception of the Events of 9/11

Kaja Łuczyńska

Technology and the War on Terror: Film and the Ambivalence of Transhumanism

Tatiana Prorokova

Unseen war? Hackers, tactical media, and their depiction

 in Hollywood cinema

Marta Stańczyk

Emergent International Humanitarian Law in the Context of Cyber Warfare 

Ivory Mills

Knowledge is for Cutting: Waging War on the Human Terrain

Sandra L. Trappen

The nuclear technology debate returns. Narratives about nuclear power in post-Fukushima Japanese films

Agnieszka Kiejziewicz

War rape in the face of heroic narrative. The case of Polish cinema

Magdalena Podsiadło-Kwiecień

 

Varia

Eat like a Republican and you won’t get AIDS – a conversation with Barbara Hammer

Andrzej Pitrus

 

War&Technology (Editorial)

Joanna Walewska

Download the Article

TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2017, vol.2, no. 2, pp. 1-4.

Joanna Walewska

Nicolaus Copernicus University in Toruń

 

 

War&Technology (Editorial)

 

Jacques Derrida (2008), when asked if the attacks of 9/11 would become one of the major events of the last century, answered that it is symptomatic that we refer to this event by means of its date: 11 September, 9/11. He concluded that it was a “thing” which probably has the status of an event for which we do not have yet a proper name. Referring to Derrida’s words, W.J.T. Mitchell wrote (2011) that every history in fact consists of two histories, one focused on what actually happened, the other on the ways of interpreting and describing the events. The first type of historical narrative is focused on facts and figures, while the other is focused on images and words that enable understanding of past events. Narratives about the past are no longer a domain reserved only for historians, because more frequently they are created in real time by official and independent media (e.g. the attacks on the WTC, when the emergency services learned about the plane that had crashed into the WTC towers from a television broadcast), millions of social media users around the world (Cottle 2006; Monahan 2010; Grusin 2010, Huff M. et al 2013), and the narration of movie directors and video game developers.

A number of social scientists, journalists, scholars, and philosophers have observed that the outcome of the attacks was a radical shift in political discourse and social practices—explained by the necessity of applying new security measures and justified by the “state of exception” (Agamben 2008; Sidel 2007; Sottiaux 2008; Neal 2010). As a result, the notions of terms such as terrorism, bioterrorism, torture, and enemy combatants were redefined in the context of 9/11 (Peters 2004; Meisels 2008; Nathanson 2010; Miller 2013; Stampnitzky 2013). This semantic operation and the introduction of the policy of fear allowed the authorities to make the “state of exception” a permanent state, which caused long-lasting effects and changed the social processes of interpretation of historical events—not only those directly related to the 9/11 attacks, but also those of earlier events from the history of the U.S. military.

These semantic operations were brilliantly identified and described by Peter Singer, who observed that many addresses delivered by George W. Bush during the “War on Terror” are based on the vision of clear binary scheme which allows a clear differentiation between Good and Evil. Singer noted that Bush’s Evil was almost a substantial entity which acts independently of human actions (Singer 2004). According to Bush, those who attacked the WTC were “enemies of freedom” or “enemies of democracy”, and the prerogative of their actions was “to plot Evil”.

Taking into consideration the long-lasting and significant effects of these cultural changes in the social perception of international military conflicts and the threat of domestic terrorism, it is no wonder that most of the authors who responded to our call for papers devoted to the relations between war and technology have dedicated their papers to topics related to the 9/11 attacks.

Most of these texts are devoted to critical analysis of how those post-9/11 phenomena have been reflected in the sphere of pop culture. Thus, in his text about American gaming industry, Filip Jankowski shows how the majority of the shooting games released between 2001and 2008 created a heroic depiction of American soldiers’ WWII effort by using national stereotypes, erasing civilians from the theatre of war, and reinforcing the U.S. government’s position as the primary guardian of global order in the face of the threat of international terrorism. It seems that a highly polarized depiction of military battles during WWII was the equivalent of President Bush’s “Axes of Evil” speech and, in retrospect, it can be seen as a propaganda tool aimed to strengthen public support for US military interventions in Iraq and Afghanistan. The author also analyses the games that have emerged since 2008, when the gruesome acts of torture committed by American personnel in Abu Ghraib prison were revealed and Barack Obama was elected president. Since then, game producers have created a more realistic reflection of military conflicts, abandoning the binary description of ours as good and enemies as evil and presenting the player with moral dilemmas.

In the current issue of TransMissions, we also include a block of papers devoted to critical examination of the interrelations between the current military complex and the moving image industry. In her paper, based on the analysis of Clint Eastwood’s American Sniper (2013) and Kathryn Bigelow’s Zero Dark Thirty (2012), Bethany Crowford shows how the film industry has reinforced neoliberal political agendas and military incentives by creating filmic endorsement glorifying the U.S. government’s military campaigns. In her paper, Kaja Łuczyńska presents military technologies as a precise and effective tool for managing conflicts. She shows that along with the post-2008 politics of of “no boots on the ground”, such an image of military technologies led to the erasing of the image of casual victims (on both sides of the conflict) in the social perception of contemporary conflicts.

Based on the considerations of philosophers and critics of post-9/11 politics such as Noam Chomsky and Jean Baudrillard (among others), she shows the influence of the Western taboo of death on the perception of military interventions in the Middle East. The same line of inquiry is presented in the paper by Tatiana Prorokova, who, while analysing the moving image industry, shows how unconditional belief in the power of technology has changed American society and ensured its confidence in “superiority and dominance of its possessors”.

In the first months after the attacks, the fear of being considered an “enemy of freedom” stopped numerous U.S. intellectuals and scholars from asking questions about the actual causes of the events of 9/11. Also, the “war on terror” declared by George W. Bush led to the international military campaign against Al-Qaeda and other militant organizations in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Pakistan (from 2004), as well as to the introduction of a number of legal measures such as the U.S.A. PATRIOT Act, which was based on the unclear and arbitrary category of “domestic terrorism”, which enabled the limitation of civic rights for the sake of security. The researchers point out that this Act resulted in noticeable loss of privacy as well as the reduction of transparency in public life. Both these phenomena are the subject of the papers by Marta Stańczyk, who analyses Hollywood productions concerning WikiLeaks and Hackers, and by Ivory Mills, who assesses the impact of technologies used to wage war in cyberspace. On the other hand, the paper by Sandra Trappen assesses the consequences of the engagement of anthropologists in the so-called Human Terrain System, a phenomenon which is referred to as “a cultural turn in military”. It seems that all three texts correspond to each other, because while the milieus of anthropologists and psychologists have rejected this type of cooperation as an unethical and undesirable breach of independence in the area of knowledge they are pursuing, it has become evident that the Human Terrain System is a key concept that applies not only to anti-insurgency military actions, but also to the frontiers of cyberwar. The concept appears one more time in the documents leaked by Edward Snowden 2013, concerning on-line actions developed by the American National Security Agency (NSA) and the British intelligence bureau, the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) against supporters of WikiLeaks, The Pirate Bay portal, and hacktivist groups such as Anonymous.

The last two texts in the current issue of TransMissions are devoted to more general topics concerning the image of war and technology in contemporary culture, but they can still be read in the same context as the other texts in this volume. In her paper about the return of the nuclear technology debate, Agnieszka Kiejziewicz analyses post-Fukushima movies (both fiction and documentary), accurately pointing to the fact that in some way the Japanese Earthquake and Tsunami of 2011 plays a similar role to 9/11 in that it invigorated historical debates on the country’s nuclear past. Meanwhile, the paper by Magdalena Podsiadło also addresses the problem of heroic narrative, albeit based on the image of rape in Polish contemporary cinema.

 

References

 

Agamben Giorgio, Stan wyjątkowy, (Warszawa: Korporacja Ha! Art) (2009).

Cottle Simon, Mediatized Conflicts. Issues in Cultural and Media Studies, (New York: Open University Press) (2006).

Derrida Jacques, Filozofia w czasach terroru. Rozmowy z Jürgenem Habermasem oraz Jacques’em Derridą (Warszawa: WAiP) (2008).

Grusin Richard, Premediation. Affect and Mediality After 9/11 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan) (2010).

Huff Mickey S., Rea Paul W., Deconstructing Deceit: 9/11, the Media, and Myth Information, http://www.projectcensored.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/DeconstructingDeceitOnlineEd.pdf (date accessed 10.11.2013)

Meisels Tamar, The Trouble with Terror. Liberty, Security, and the Rispons to Terrorism (Cambridge: Cambridge Univeristy Press) (2008).

Miller Martin A., The Foundations of Modern Terrorism. State, Society and the Dynamics of Political Violence (New York: Cambridge University Press) (2013).

Mitchell W.J.T., Clonning Terror. The War on Images. 9/11 to the Present (Chicago: University of Chicago) (2011).

Monahan Brian, The Shock of the News. Media Coverage and the Making of 9/11 (New York: New York University Press) (2010).

Nathanson Stephen, Terrorism and the Ethics of War (Cambridge-New York: Cambridge University Press) (2010).

Peters Ralph, Beyond Terror: Strategy in a Changing World (Mechanicsburg: Stackpole Books) (2004).

Sidel Mark, More Secure, Less Free. Antiterrorism Policy and Civil Liberties after September 11 (Michigan: University of Michigan) (2007).

Singer Peter, The President of Good and Evil: The Ethics of George W. Bush (Dutton: Plume Books) (2004).

Sottiaux Stefan, Terrorism and the Limitation of Rights (Oxford-Portland: Hart Publishing) (2008).

Stampnitzky Lisa, Disciplining Terror. How Experts Invented „Terrorism” (New York: Cambridge University Press) (2013).

Technology and the War on Terror: Film and the Ambivalence of Transhumanism

Tatiana Prorokova

TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2017, vol.2, no. 1, pp. 50-61.

 

Tatiana Prorokova

Philipps University of Marburg

 

Technology and the War on Terror:

Film and the Ambivalence of Transhumanism

 

 

Abstract:

 

The War on Terror declared by the U.S. government after 9/11 resulted in the two most technologically equipped invasions the country has ever launched: the Afghanistan War and the Iraq War. American soldiers were provided with newly designed uniforms and weapons, with the best defensive armour and night-vision equipment, off-road vehicles, helicopters, and tanks. These enabled them to dominate the enemy technologically and guaranteed success in combat, minimizing the risk of injury and death among Americans. Film responded to these changes, playing with the issue of technology in war. In analysing Bigelow’s war drama, The Hurt Locker, which focuses on U.S. military actions in Iraq, and Favreau’s sci-fi Iron Man, which raises the problem of Afghan terrorists and thus implicitly deals with the Afghanistan War, this article looks over the role of technology in war and investigates the blurred boundaries between humanity and machinery in the era of technology. Additionally, the article examines Bay’s Transformers and its sequels to see whether war machines possess humanity.

 

Key words: The War on Terror, technology, machine, transhumanism

 

 

Introduction: Film and the War on Terror

 

The terrifying terrorist attacks on 9/11 and the consequences they entailed have made the opening of the twenty-first century frightening and disquieting for the whole world—specifically for the United States. The U.S. government’s War on Terror has resulted in multiple military operations, the longest of which are the interventions in Afghanistan and Iraq. The two wars in the Middle East can be considered a continuation of the long military history of the United States but, undoubtedly, they are especially noteworthy due to the novel techniques used in the conduct of warfare. The Afghanistan War and the Second Gulf War turned into the two most technologically advanced wars the United States has ever launched. Indeed, the variety and abundance of newly-designed uniforms, arms, equipment, gadgets, and vehicles strikes one’s imagination. The U.S. demonstrated its indisputable readiness to fight the enemy, thus avenging the deaths of thousands of innocent people on 9/11 and protecting the country’s foundational values of freedom and democracy. Whether these interventions were successful or worth it are complex questions, but one can say without demur that the United States counted on their soldiers’ obvious technological superiority over the enemy for the success of these military intrusions. As James S. Corum aptly puts it, “At the centre of modern U.S. military culture lies a belief in technological determinism: that technology is a central factor in warfare and that the country with the best technology is bound to win”; in terms of military planning, such an attitude is perhaps, as the scholar himself puts it, ‘wrong’.[1] Nevertheless, this idea vividly illustrates the so-called American cultural belief in the unconditional power of technology to guarantee unreserved superiority and dominance to its possessor.

American cinema is teeming with examples of this faith in technology—in its unlimited power and ability to defeat the enemy—no matter how strong, ruthless, and insidious that enemy may be. Whether one distinguishes between films about wars that actually took place and science-fiction films that depict endless fights between humanity and aliens, robots and monsters, or whether one considers the two genres together, taking war films in general as one broad media category, one can find multiple cinematic examples that appeared long before the War on Terror that deal with the issue of technology in war. There is obviously a long chain of sci-fi films: from James Cameron’s Aliens (1986) to James Cameron’s The Terminator (1984) to Roland Emmerich’s Independence Day (1996). Additionally, Hollywood dwelled on the importance of technology in films about real wars, which became especially prominent from the era of the Vietnam War onward, from Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979) and Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket (1987) to David O. Russell’s Three Kings (1999).

Technology has become an integral part of war: the battlefield is no longer considered the territory of humans as machines have started to play a significant role there, too. The two recent interventions in the Middle East, however, have clearly foregrounded the leading role of technology that, in turn, explains the impulse of the cinema of the War on Terror which unites films about the two wars with the sci-fi films that were released in the era of the War on Terror and to various degrees either explicitly or implicitly reflects it, showing the grotesque capabilities of technology in the twenty-first century. Kathryn Bigelow’s The Hurt Locker (2008), Peter Berg’s Lone Survivor (2013), Clint Eastwood’s American Sniper (2014), along with Jon Favreau’s Iron Man (2008), Iron Man 2 (2010), Shane Black’s Iron Man 3 (2013), Michael Bay’s Transformers (2007), Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (2009), Transformers: Dark of the Moon (2011), and Transformers: Age of Extinction (2014), Shawn Levy’s Real Steel (2011), Ridley Scott’s Prometheus (2012), Peter Berg’s Battleship (2012), and Guillermo del Toro’s Pacific Rim (2013) constitute a cluster of films that celebrate the new warfare and the era of new military technology.

The reason for this overt interest in technology and its role in war that action films and war dramas demonstrate is stipulated by the transformed nature of war. The ‘new’ war of the twenty-first century is peculiar due to the existence of the so-called faceless enemy which has been an impossible target for the U.S. and its allies since 9/11. It is thus unsurprising that when dealing with the problem of the global war, cinema vehemently attempts to present possible solutions for winning the war and eradicating terrorism. What 9/11 films have explicitly demonstrated is that the enemy is so elusive and strong that to win the war U.S. soldiers have to be technologically transformed. In other words, humans can never win the war on their own—in the twenty-first century we particularly strongly need advanced technology. Advancing this idea, action, sci-fi, and war films challenge the concept of the human body, suggesting that the ‘normal’ body is no longer needed, for it is not capable of successfully performing a military task. While terrorists are portrayed, in some way, as ‘freaks’, which ‘assures spectators that terrorism can be overcome’,[2] positive characters frequently, literally or metaphorically appear as superheroes who have to ‘com[e] to terms with their abilities, powers and bodies.’[3] Andrew Schopp makes an interesting observation, claiming that 9/11 induced the belief that “risk must always be managed, even if at some level we know that such management is impossible”.[4] One, therefore, might argue that the new, technologically advanced soldier skilfully turns the ‘impossible’ mission into a real one and, what is even more important, an accomplishable task.

The cinema of the War on Terror thus proposes an intriguing shift that war demands: the transformation of human participants into machines. Being overtly transhuman in their nature, these films not only approve of ‘cyborgization’, i.e. the ‘process of changing a human into a cyborg’,[5] but they see it as the only option that is available for the military today. The demand for a so-called transhuman, i.e. ‘a being which due to technological augmentations boosts its body and mind abilities far beyond the standards’,[6] foregrounds the power of technology and sees it as the only means to win the War on Terror. Some more explicitly than others, the cinematic examples that this article analyses demonstrate a crucial shift in the image of a soldier/fighter, thus overtly commenting on the problem of humanity and machinery that exists in times of war. But most importantly, they question the ability of humans to defeat the enemy, celebrating the power of machines.

 

The Rise of Technology

 

When one talks about the predominance of technological progress in the twenty-first century, one should of course realize that technology appeared much earlier than in the time of the War on Terror. Significantly, starting from primitive technologies from the far past and finishing with the high technologies of today, technology has always given privileges to its owner, facilitating social, political, economic, and educational development. Thomas J. Misa draws attention to ‘the several technologically marked historical epochs, such as the Bronze Age . . . [and] the Iron Age’.[7] Indeed, technology emerged when the first metal tools were created and widely applied. With the lapse of time, technology was improved and refined to such an extent that it now defines the status of its possessor and dictates the order in the world both in terms of military and economic domination. Richard Li-Hua claims:

 

Technology means state power to both developing and developed countries. Technology is regarded as a strategic instrument in achieving economic targets and in the creation of wealth and prosperity in developing countries, while technology is taken as an important vehicle to get large profits in developed countries. The effective use of technology is perhaps the most important issue faced by both developing and developed countries, and will undoubtedly become even more critical in years to come.[8]

 

Technology is therefore equated with power, and vice versa. Analysing Paul Virilio’s War and Cinema: The Logistics of Perception, Mark Lacy underscores a crucial observation made by the scholar:

 

Society is transformed by technologies that allow military leaders, police and policymakers to see the enemy before they arrive at the castle walls, before enemy ships arrive on the beaches, before the bombers arrive over our cities, before the terrorist arrives at the airport terminal.[9]

 

Daniel Sarewitz pinpoints the characteristic of technology as a manipulator and argues that “Power is the projection of human intent over other people, animals or things. Technology magnifies intent and makes it more reliable”.[10]

Yet, when considering the role of technology in war and its influence on modern warfare, it becomes clear that technology has stimulated progress on the battlefield, which allows one to define the war of the twenty-first century as a new, technologically advanced war that is more difficult to predict and at the same time easier yet harder to fight. Still, Sarewitz accentuates the ambivalence of the use of technology in war and the ultimate guarantee of superiority, accepting the idea of the ‘absolute supremacy in military technology’ of the U.S. as demonstrated in the Iraq War, but foregrounding the ambiguity of ‘the technology-power nexus’ and claiming that ‘the proximal objectives enabled by a technology—killing a soldier or destroying a building, for example—say little if anything about the power of that technology to facilitate broader outcomes, for example the compliance of one society to the will of another.’[11] Indeed, noticeable technological superiority on the battlefield may not and does not guarantee the same status in the political arena, yet it arguably plays in favour of the better-equipped side.

How does technology modernize war? Using the example of visual technology, Jose N. Vasquez contends that it ‘chang[es] the experience of war in dramatic ways’.[12] With the help of technology, soldiers are able to control the territory of the enemy and are more capable of protecting their own; they are able to fight at any time of the day and night, and they can reach the enemy from nearly every position—a feat which was hardly imaginable decades earlier. Vasquez speculates that “Conceptualized as ‘cyber warriors’, ‘cyborgs’, and ‘digital soldiers’, the futuristic war fighters once thought of as purely science fiction are gradually becoming reality”.[13] This fascinating observation prompts me to address the issues of humanity and machinery as well as their relations in the modern times of technology and war. Is the widespread dependence on technology in the army a sign of technological self-enslavement, and can this tendency be characterized by the assumption of Antoine Bousquet that the development and improvement of technology is “nothing less than an attempt to insulate the system from uncertainty by creating a perfectly controlled and perfectly stable . . . artificial world”?[14] Do soldiers turn into machines, thus becoming science-fiction superheroes in the real world? Can we speak about a phenomenon such as ‘human machines’ or does humanity remain important even in perhaps the most unattainable, unimaginable, equivocal, and savage state—in war?

 

Humans or Machines? The Hurt Locker and Iron Man

 

Who are the soldiers of the twenty-first century, humans or machines? And whose victory is ultimately expected? Film provides a detailed and fascinating overview of the issue. I would like to focus on Bigelow’s war drama The Hurt Locker, which deals with the actual war in Iraq and Favreau’s action film Iron Man, which touches upon the issue of the war in Afghanistan.

The opening scene of The Hurt Locker, which immerses the audience into the world of a technologically advanced war, is the most memorable. Spectators are forced to see the action through the eyes of a robot driving through a street in Baghdad. As the picture is distorted, we realize that it is not a soldier but a robot that provides the overview of the locality. The camera moves and reveals a unit of soldiers arriving and taking their positions and then returns to the robot, thus making it evident that the mechanical character is as important to the operation as the human soldiers. The picture is distorted several times more before the director reveals that the robot is operated by a soldier. With the help of the robot, the soldiers find out what kind of bomb is planted nearby, and therefore are able to plan their further actions. They fasten a small cart to the robot and send it back to the bomb but, dramatically, the cart breaks on its way, demonstrating the imperfection of technology, and a sapper has to continue carrying out the operation. The audience observes Staff Sergeant Matt Thompson (Guy Pearce) being dressed in a special suit designed to protect him from the blast wave. The camera lingers for an instant and, as soon as the helmet is on and carefully fixed, the soldier is ready to perform the mission. The scene is fascinating as it arguably raises the issue of the human and robotic characteristics of the modern soldier. The suit makes him look rather unnatural, as if he himself is another technological innovation of the U.S. army. As he raises his head to see a helicopter, the audience is forced to see through his eyes and although the picture is not as heavily distorted as it was in the scene filmed through the robot’s camera, there is still something that disturbs our vision, i.e. the helmet’s transparent plastic visor; although the visor allows us to see everything, it makes the picture blurry enough to realize that we are looking though a barrier and there is a black frame around our field of vision. The soldier, therefore, represents a human being locked inside a technological product; he becomes part of that technology—a robot that breathes. What makes the ‘robot’ ultimately a human is his dramatized death as the bomb is activated by one of the locals. Trying to escape the fatal ending, the soldier runs as fast as the suit allows him, but he is finally caught by the blast wave. As he falls down in slow motion, spectators notice the transparent part of the helmet covered with blood from the inside.

The soldier is substituted by a new sapper, which is a rather regular case in the army as newcomers take the places of those who die. However, such a ‘conveyer belt’ system allows for another interpretation, namely that just as a robot, machine, or gadget can break down and then be substituted, so can a human being, with the crucial difference that unlike a technological product, a human-being cannot be repaired. There are multiple scenes in the film where a new sapper deactivates a bomb, but I would like to underscore their importance to our understanding of the issue of humanity and machinery. The changing scenes—from the normal human interaction to the transformation of a soldier into a sapper who visually resembles a robot—are disturbing. Additionally, they reveal the ambiguity of the main character’s (Sergeant First Class William James, played by Jeremy Renner) nature. His fearlessness and calmness that often resemble indifference elevate him beyond an average human-being, thus hinting at his supernatural or hi-tech abilities that will allow him to stay alive, no matter what happens. At the same time, his care for a local boy as well as the presence of his wife and baby at the end of the film show James as a rather conventional human who has feelings. The film’s ending, however, contradicts this characterization as we observe smiling James in a sapper’s suit walking towards his next mission in Iraq, which he has volunteered for. He therefore gives up his ‘human’ life, choosing one enabled by technology. Thus, Bigelow’s words that The Hurt Locker reveals “dehumanising and humanising aspects of war” can, indeed, be interpreted in terms of the war and its constituent parts’ (one of which is undoubtedly technology) ability to not only control but also suppress the human side, turning soldiers into machines, both psychologically and physically.[15]

The story of Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.), the main character of Iron Man, is somewhat reminiscent of the story of the sappers from The Hurt Locker. Considering the issue of the Afghanistan War and American participation in it, Iron Man is an apt example of an action film that explicitly deals with the duality of a war participant. Tony Stark, a wealthy businessman, creates an iron suit that he puts on every time the world is in danger. At the beginning, the film makes the story as plain as possible: there is a human-being inside of a highly technological, practically indestructible iron suit that accurately resembles the shape of a human body. Every time Tony communicates with somebody, he uncovers his face so that the audience is always aware that it is a human that interacts, takes decisions, argues, smiles, in short, performs all the actions that are typical of people. However, there is a nuance that is not to be neglected, namely that the suit is bonded to Tony (or is Tony bonded to the suit?) with the help of an electromagnet that was installed in Tony’s body when he was captured in Afghanistan, and later improved into a powerful reactor by Tony himself. What at first looks like Tony’s hobby later turns into an addiction that connects him and the suit so tightly that both the audience and Tony himself have difficulty distinguishing when Tony is a human and when he is a powerful superhero. Tony, whose high-tech weapons have guaranteed power and dominance to their possessors and fear to the ones at which they are targeted, now himself turns into such a high-tech weapon. Indeed, in the course of all the three parts of the film, Tony fights terrorists, criminals, and other bad guys, posing danger to them only when he is reincarnated as Iron Man.

In Iron Man 2, Tony goes as far as declaring: “I am Iron Man. The suit and I are one”.[16] Tony’s general condition, however, worsens as the suit negatively influences his health and it becomes clear that if Tony does not stop being Iron Man, he will simply die. The generator that is mounted right in his chest and that figuratively stands for the heart of Iron Man, is slowly killing Tony and, thus, Tony’s powerful second self. Therefore, the question of whether to remain as Iron Man or to return to ordinary life should be rather easy to settle in such a situation; Tony, however, tries to figure out a way to continue being a superhero. Although Tony’s human qualities (such as devotion, his desire to protect his dearest ones, his ability to love, his patriotism, and his decision not to speculate and purely gain profit from his arms business, but to care for the well-being others) construct Tony as a human superhero; his robotic side also gets a lot of attention. We often find him in his laboratory where he creates all kinds of technologically advanced gadgets and robots. The laboratory is literally the place where Tony feels at home, surrounded by all the iron constructions and creatures that communicate with him. Tony, therefore, is presented as someone who gets more and more involved in the world of technology, inevitably alienating himself from the world of humans.

Tony’s addiction to the iron suit strengthens in Iron Man 3, where virtually at the beginning of the film he feels a physical and emotional bond to it, suffering from ‘anxiety attacks’[17] any time he does not wear it and feeling comfortable and protected each time he is inside it. One can speculate that the reason for his fear of vulnerability is virtually a consequence of the events of The Avengers (2012), in which he was very nearly killed. Tony becomes even more involved in the world of machines that are, indeed, living creatures for him. Thus, we observe him placing the uncharged suit on the sofa in a way that he thinks the iron suit would find comfortable; showing compassion in the scene where a boy breaks off the suit’s finger, assuming that the suit can actually feel the pain. Tony stops sleeping, which represents his inconceivable physical endurance; he acknowledges that his suits are ‘part of’[18] him and, indeed, this is how he is finally perceived by his girlfriend Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow), who, although struggling to accept the technological self of her boyfriend, upon finding the helmet, holds it close to herself thinking of Tony, as she assumes this is the only bit of him left after the brutal fight.

The Iron Man trilogy, therefore, is an important work that raises the questions of machinery and humanity in war. Unlike The Hurt Locker, however, it provides a radically different answer to the question: who wins? Tony Stark’s humanity apparently wins over the technological, mechanical self of Iron Man as, at the end of the third part, we observe Tony throwing his generator into the ocean, thus demonstrating his acceptance of humanity and rejection of the robotic side for good. The same happens to the U.S. army (that with Tony’s help became largely equipped with iron suits, turning into the most frightening army on the planet) when Tony takes the decision to liquidate all the robots that he created. Iron Man, therefore, makes a clear appeal to the audience: it is easy to fight against the enemy with the help of technology; however, it can also become our enemy as it deprives us of our humanity, turning us into machines that are not able to enjoy the privileges of human life.

 

Transformers: Humanity in Machines

 

Investigating the transformation of humans into machines, I inevitably address the opposite issue, namely whether machines in war can possess humanity. To examine the problem, I have chosen to analyse a recent series of films that are primarily concerned with machines, demonstrating the flourishing of the technological era and, as a result, of technological progress; the film series in question is Michael Bay’s Transformers and its sequels.

The four films released so far can and should be treated as one story of relations between robots and human-beings. The film’s most apparent message is that technology today is much cleverer, less biased, and somewhat more humane than humans themselves. The Autobots are arguably represented as the only truly good characters in the film (perhaps with the exception of a small group of people that includes Sam (Shia LaBeouf) and his friends). Their reason for being on Earth is to protect the human race from the evil Decepticons. They exist as a small group of robots that resembles a family in which everyone is ready to help, protect, and care for each other. More than that, their desire to save people (who in the course of the film do not seem to be very thankful for this, preferring to exploit the robots rather than treat them as equals or accept their technological superiority) stands for the robots’ ability to feel love, devotion, responsibility, and compassion. There are a number of scenes in the film when, by means of contrasting a robot and a human, the director shows a tremendous difference between the two, accentuating humanity in robots and a certain inhumanity in a humans. For example, in Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, we witness an Autobot pining because his friend Sam has to leave him to go to college, whereas later in the scene, Sam fails to say, ‘I love you’[19] to his girlfriend, which provokes a tense dialogue between the two. Thus, it is easier for a robot to express emotions rather than for a human.

All the robots in Transformers and its sequels represent a specific race—a race of ‘intelligent mechanical beings’[20], as they call themselves. Indeed, their intellect and thinking abilities are striking, but what is more fascinating is their uncanny resemblance to the human race. First, the robots look very similar to humans: they have a body, limbs, a head, and a face. The robots are not clumsy despite their huge size; when they fight, they can literally feel pain; when they get a punch in the face, they spit out liquid that looks very much like a mixture of blood and spit; as mentioned earlier, they can cry; they also can propagate, as we witness in a scene in which multiple cocoons are revealed; finally, robots grow old and suffer from typically human health problems. Their inner qualities are peculiar too: the robots are humanly superior, as unlike people they all possess moral qualities and very often are shown judging humans, making them behave and act better. “It’s inhumane is what it is!”[21] complains a robot that Sam locked outside in the rain. Indeed, according to Transformers, these are machines that possess humanity, whereas human beings do not.

This interpretation, however, may change dramatically if we consider Terence McSweeney’s suggestion that Transformers is a vivid projection of 9/11 in which the Decepticons stand for real terrorists.[22] In this case, the Autobots represent humans who fight against terrorists. But then it remains unclear who the real people in Transformers are. Therefore, I propose examining the film not as a pure metaphor of the world after 9/11, but in terms of its treatment of technological progress. In this case, the film sends a clear message that machines could develop into such highly intelligent creatures that they will become more perfect than humans in all aspects.

 

Conclusion: Humans. Or Machines?

 

In a time of high-tech wars, the question whether humanity and machinery have become equal or whether one prevails over the other remains a complex issue. Despina Kakoudaki interprets “the tendency to imagine the artificial body as a mechanical, rather than organic, entity” in terms of neutralization of ‘human vulnerability’.[23] Arguably, this is a pivotal aspect to consider when dealing with the issues of humanity and machinery. Vulnerability, or perhaps also victimization, therefore, are not to be treated as purely physical aspects (although they are, indeed, here); as The Hurt Locker, the Iron Man trilogy and the Transformers series illustrate, emotions are one of the most crucial characteristics that define humanity. Thus, those who can feel are considered humane whether or not they are humans or machines. Technological progress, indeed, changes humans. While technology develops into more and better products, humans transform as well. The complexity of the issue will hardly ever allow anybody to provide a single answer to the problem of humanity and machinery. The analysed cinematic examples, however, do not give up on the human race, but underline the difficulty of remaining true humans in the era of technology.

 

References

 

Bousquet Antoine, The Scientific Way of Warfare: Order and Chaos on the Battlefields of Modernity, (London: Hurst & Company) (2009).

Corum James S., Fighting the War on Terror: A Counterinsurgency Strategy, (St. Paul: MBI Publishing and Zenith Press) (2007).

Holden Lisa, and Fran Pheasant-Kelly, “Freak-Show Aesthetics and the Politics of Disfigurement: Reconfiguring the Cinematic Terrorist in the Post-9/11 Era”, in Reflecting 9/11: New Narratives in Literature, Television, Film and Theatre, ed. Heather E. Pope and Victoria M. Bryan (New Castle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing) (2016).

Iron Man (Jon Favreau, Paramount Pictures) (2008).

Iron Man 2 (Jon Favreau, Paramount Pictures) (2010).

Iron Man 3 (Shane Black, Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures) (2013).

Kakoudaki Despina, Anatomy of a Robot: Literature, Cinema, and the Cultural Work of Artificial People, (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press) (2014).

Lacy Mark, Security, Technology and Global Politics: Thinking with Virilio, (London: Routledge) (2014).

Li-Hua Richard, “Definitions of Technology”, in A Companion to the Philosophy of Technology, ed. Jan Kyrre Berg Olsen, Stig Andur Pedersen, and Vincent F. Hendricks (Malden: Blackwell Publishing) (2009).

McSweeney Terence, The ‘War on Terror’ and American Film: 9/11 Frames per Second, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press) (2014).

Michalczak Rafał, “Transhuman and Posthuman – On Relevance of ‘Cyborgisation’ on Legal and Ethical Issues”, 25th IVR World Congress Law Science and Technology, Paper Series 084: C (2012).

Misa Thomas J., “History of Technology”, in A Companion to the Philosophy of Technology. ed. Jan Kyrre Berg Olsen, Stig Andur Pedersen, and Vincent F. Hendricks (Malden: Blackwell Publishing) (2009).

Purse Lisa, Contemporary Action Cinema, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press) (2011).

Sarewitz Daniel, “Technology and Power”, in A Companion to the Philosophy of Technology, ed. Jan Kyrre Berg Olsen, Stig Andur Pedersen, and Vincent F. Hendricks (Malden: Blackwell Publishing) (2009).

Schopp Andrew, “Interrogating the Manipulation of Fear: V for Vendetta, Batman Begins, Good Night, and Good Luck, and America’s ‘War on Terror”, in The War on Terror and American Popular Culture: September 11 and Beyond, ed. Andrew Schopp and Matthew B. Hill (Madison: Rosemont Publishing) (2009).

Tasker Ivonne, The Hollywood Action and Adventure Film, (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell) (2015).

The Hurt Locker (Kathryn Bigelow, Summit Entertainment) (2008).

Transformers (Michael Bay, Paramount Pictures) (2007).

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (Michael Bay, Paramount Pictures) (2009).

Transformers: Dark of the Moon (Michael Bay, Paramount Pictures) (2011).

Transformers: Age of Extinction (Michael Bay,Paramount Pictures) (2014).

Vasquez Jose N., “Seeing Green: Visual Technology, Virtual Reality, and the Experience of War”, in An Anthropology of War: Views from the Frontline, ed. Alisse Waterston (New York: Berghahn Books) (2009).

 

 

[1] James S. Corum, Fighting the War on Terror: A Counterinsurgency Strategy, (St. Paul: MBI Publishing and Zenith Press) (2007). p. 117.

[2]Lisa Holden, and Fran Pheasant-Kelly, “Freak-Show Aesthetics and the Politics of Disfigurement: Reconfiguring the Cinematic Terrorist in the Post-9/11 Era”, in Reflecting 9/11: New Narratives in Literature, Television, Film and Theatre, ed. Heather E. Pope and Victoria M. Bryan (New Castle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2016), p. 200.

[3] Ivonne Tasker, The Hollywood Action and Adventure Film, (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell) (2015). p. 180. My italics.

[4] Andrew Schopp, “Interrogating the Manipulation of Fear: V for Vendetta, Batman Begins, Good Night, and Good Luck, and America’s ‘War on Terror”, in The War on Terror and American Popular Culture: September 11 and Beyond, ed. Andrew Schopp and Matthew B. Hill (Madison: Rosemont Publishing, 2009), p. 261.

 

[5] Rafał Michalczak, “Transhuman and Posthuman – On Relevance of ‘Cyborgisation’ on Legal and Ethical Issues”, 25th IVR World Congress Law Science and Technology, Paper Series 084: C (2012), p. 2.

[6] Rafał Michalczak., p. 4.

[7] Thomas J. Misa, “History of Technology”, in A Companion to the Philosophy of Technology, ed. Jan Kyrre Berg Olsen, Stig Andur Pedersen, and Vincent F. Hendricks (Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2009), p. 9.

[8] Richard Li-Hua, “Definitions of Technology”, in A Companion to the Philosophy of Technology, ed. Jan Kyrre Berg Olsen, Stig Andur Pedersen, and Vincent F. Hendricks (Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2009), p. 18.

[9] Mark Lacy, Security, Technology and Global Politics: Thinking with Virilio, (London: Routledge) (2014), p. 79.

[10] Daniel Sarewitz, “Technology and Power”, in A Companion to the Philosophy of Technology, ed. Jan Kyrre Berg Olsen, Stig Andur Pedersen, and Vincent F. Hendricks (Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2009), p. 308.

[11] Daniel Sarewitz, pp. 309-310.

[12] Jose N. Vasquez, “Seeing Green: Visual Technology, Virtual Reality, and the Experience of War”, in An Anthropology of War: Views from the Frontline, ed. Alisse Waterston (New York: Berghahn Books, 2009), p. 87.

[13] Jose N. Vasquez, pp. 88-89.

[14] Antoine Bousquet, The Scientific Way of Warfare: Order and Chaos on the Battlefields of Modernity, (London: Hurst & Company) (2009), p. 11.

[15] Quoted in Lisa Purse, Contemporary Action Cinema, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press) (2011), p. 162.

[16] Iron Man 2 (2010, Jon Favreau).

[17] Iron Man 3 (2013, Shane Black).

[18] Iron Man 3 (2013, Shane Black).

[19] Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (2009, Michael Bay).

[20] Transformers: Dark of the Moon (2011, Michael Bay).

[21] Transformers: Dark of the Moon (2011, Michael Bay).

[22] Terence McSweeney, The ‘War on Terror’ and American Film: 9/11 Frames per Second, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press) (2014), p. 139.

[23] Despina Kakoudaki, Anatomy of a Robot: Literature, Cinema, and the Cultural Work of Artificial People, (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press) (2014), p. 69.

War rape in the face of heroic narrative. The case of Polish cinema

Magdalena Podsiadło-Kwiecień

TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2017, vol.2, no. 1, pp. 132-149.

 

Magdalena Podsiadło-Kwiecień

Jagiellonian University

 

 

War rape in the face of heroic narrative.

The case of Polish cinema

 

Abstract

War rape seals the status of women as passive victims and excludes them from heroic narratives. Despite women’s suffering and their active resistance against the invaders, film representations reduce their subjectivity through a narrative of shame based on silence, exclusion, or the removal of women from the real course of events, all of which dominate in Polish cinema. Phenomena that are highlighted in the text—talking about rape on one’s own terms, using it as self-defence, bearing resulting offspring, active resistance or creating an approving community—may become a way to the empowerment of heroines and reformulation of the traditional symbolic field.

 

Key words: rape, abject, Polish cinema, oral history, women

 

 

 

Piotr Zwierzchowski, in his book on heroic death, writes that “the death of a hero is decidedly a male motive. This is no different in contemporary cinema; it is men who are awarded the right to be heroes and perish in a way full of pathos. The final moments of Thelma and Louise are among scarce exceptions confirming the rule”.[1] On the one hand, it seems highly unfair that the author—in his over 200-page-long deliberations dedicated to heroic deaths—acknowledged just one film with female protagonists. On the other, the disproportion between male and female representation signals difficulty in associating heroic narrative with female experience.

Even in wartime narratives in Polish cinema, which are seemingly predestined to discuss heroism, the presence of women is troublesome, although “the participation of women in resistance against invaders was much more significant here than in the West”.[2] Natalia Jarska points out that, in most cases, the female experience does not appear in dominating narratives on war. Even if women are mentioned, these stories are stereotyped and their true experiences often left untold.[3] Especially resistant to historical narrative are experiences related to gender, the effect of which is the tendency—both among witnesses and researchers—to bypass the gender category, supposedly to guarantee the universal image of wartime events. “The symbolic allocation and social evaluation of both features («personal» to women; «objective» to men) is not random”[4] and, as a result, leads to the bypassing of the specifically female experience.

However, it is impossible to attribute rape—the most gender-determined form of wartime violence[5]—solely to the personal sphere, even from the perspective of traditional historical narratives focused on events from the battlefield. On the one hand, rape touches the private realm, while on the other, it is a manner of conducting military operations. “Rape cannot be understood as «just» a deplorable side-effect of war provoked by soldiers’ sexual frustration. Rape is, literally, a weapon of war”.[6] Hence, according to researchers, it is not only sexual violence, but also sexualized violence, for which satisfying one’s desire is neither the key nor the sole goal.[7]

Treating rape as a tool of war does not mean, however, that this traumatic women’s experience finds its place among heroic narratives. Generally sexual violence reinforces the division into active aggressors symbolically annexing new territories through women, and passive victims colonized by the invaders. Moreover, as noticed by Yana Hashamova: “the predominant Western scholarship on war rapes explores the victimisation of women”.[8] Marzena Sokołowska-Paryż adds that the reflection of academics corresponds to attempts at remembering rape victims by artists. Examples of artwork analysed by her are representations that show “the woman’s suffering visually subjugated by male aggression. The victim [is] completely dominated by [a] towering soldier figure”.[9] This method of placing emphasis shows women as passive victims of violence and thus excludes them from heroic narratives usually dominated by active battle.

Perceiving rape as a weapon, however, allows us to focus on its double-edged character. Naturally, this does not signify analogous revenge that female protagonists could take on their oppressors, but it means rape as a tool for protecting your loved ones or yourself. In most cases, film representations do not present women as passive victims devoid of agency, but as active subjects who, in a critical moment, attempt to fight and defend themselves with the means available to civilians and women. Just a glance at the film representations of war rape in Polish cinema allows us to allege that most female protagonists—due to the lack of other means of conducting war—use rape as a way of doing battle. In the films How to be loved (1962, dir. Wojciech Jerzy Has), The Columbuses (1970, dir. Janusz Morgenstern), The Ring with a Crowned Eagle (1992, dir. Andrzej Wajda), Sekal has to die (1998, dir. Vladimír Michálek), Deserter’s Gold (1998, dir. Janusz Majewski), Joanna (2010, dir. Feliks Falk), Rose (2011, dir. Wojciech Smarzowski), Manhunt (2012, dir. Marcin Krzyształowicz), and Life Taken [Zerwany kłos] (2016, dir. Witold Ludwig), the female protagonists not only fight to save their own lives but act much more heroically—they attempt to save others by scarifying themselves. In this manner, they protect their daughter (Rose), a Jewish girl (Joanna), a loved one (How to be loved, The Ring with a Crowned Eagle, Deserter’s Gold, The Columbuses), a sister (Manhunt), their family (Sekal has to die), their father (Life Taken). The female protagonists decide that the rape to which they consent is a lesser tragedy than the death of a loved one.

Paradoxically, however, the raped women, by the very fact of using rape as a tool of battle or survival, do not fulfil the principle desired in the traditional historical narrative of the “ideal Other”, or a victim as a passive subject whose “role comes down to actually being a suffering victim. The system will take care of her and make sure she remains such a victim”.[10] The female protagonist who does not accept full victimisation—not only by the oppressor but also by the dominating national narrative—chooses her own salvation or that of her loved ones above chastity, and does not fulfil the role of the “good Other”. In traditional patriotic narratives, this type of sexualized agency disagrees with the status of the unblemished victim and requires further interventions to render it again a symbol of the suffering subject. The acceptance of rape as a form of salvation is problematic in the Polish context as it contradicts the postulate of chastity. Agnieszka Morstin-Popławska mentions this when writing about forced prostitution related to rape presented in A Year of the Quiet Sun (1984) by Krzysztof Zanussi. The researcher shows that, in common opinion, “women chose work in the puffs willingly, and were not victims”,[11] hence they were undeserving of compassion. Bożena Karwowska writes about this phenomenon in a similar way when describing female camp testimonies. The authors of recollections negatively mark all sexual behaviour and expect prisoners to behave in a way incompatible with the inhumane camp conditions in which, according to them, “women should remain modest and possess a sense of shame”.[12]

Using sexuality as a weapon brings to mind the figure of the biblical Judith, “the heroic liberator of the non-heroic oppressed”,[13] whose horrendous nature was the result of a scandal consisting in the merger of such contradictions as traditionally female attributes and the ability to commit murder. However, the raped protagonists do not murder their enemies like Judith but, similarly to her, use their sexuality as a weapon. Meanwhile, as Małgorzata Czermińska argues: “in the tradition stemming from Polish romantic thinking, the victim is morally and not cognitively privileged”.[14] Thus, does the female protagonist consenting to rape remain a morally privileged victim in this dominant model of thinking about history?

The impossibility of experiencing rape, surviving, and simultaneously remaining a dignified victim is presented ostentatiously in the 2016 film Life Taken, which is dedicated to the blessed Karolina Kózkówna and is clearly addressed to a Catholic audience. In 1914, a Red Army soldier murdered 16-year-old Karolina during a rape attempt. After her death, the girl was announced a martyr, she was venerated and later pronounced blessed. The fictional story compares the fate of Karolina with the story of her pregnant neighbour Teresa, who was excluded from the community precisely because of rape. She is simultaneously the victim of a Red Army soldier and of her co-residents who persecute her and consider her to be a slut, as proven by her pregnancy. The film, whiling aiming to show the magnanimity of Karolina leaning over the victim, accidentally reveals an irreconcilable dichotomy. The title protagonist was blessed because she kept her “virgin’s purity”, defending it desperately until death. Teresa is condemned because she survived the rape, which means that she was not sufficiently determined in her resistance. Hence, the film excludes the innocence of a rape victim, especially one who survived, thus sentencing her to ostracism.

This manner of thinking about sexual violence may be related to the difference between the contemporary understanding of shame and guilt. “Shame […] pertains to a trait or feature of the person, whereas guilt pertains to an act”,[15] hence only the latter is subject to punishment. “In other times and places, things were not so: religious minorities, heretics, and people with «deviant sexuality» were punished by public shaming without a conviction for any criminal act”.[16] Even though Teresa’s behaviour can hardly be considered a crime, she is punished by public shaming, from which the film distances itself only partially.

Even though not all images of film rape bear such a clear-cut nature, most of them in fact become a story about shame which does not correspond with the heroic narration. “The narrative of the dignified victim and the narrative of shame owing to the victim’s condition are contradictory, their co-existence is almost impossible since they cancel one another out”.[17] Shame characterized by Hanna Gosk refers to complicity, which in this case is reserved for the rape victim as such who experienced it and survived. The female protagonists who use rape as a survival strategy place life above the chastity of victims, thus rendering them accomplices. The elimination of shame as a feature and not an act may take place solely through death, which in turn means absence, thus excluding the possibility of redefining the traditional heroic narrative. Hence, paradoxically, instead of becoming a testimony to heroism, film depictions of rape are a sign of its impossibility both in film diegesis and in social awareness. On the one hand, they show the renouncement of ethical norms and, on the other, incompatibility with traditional historical narratives.

 

Oral history

 

Ewa Domańska, when analysing the status of a victim who escapes the role of the “ideal Other”, shows that the victim resists victimisation when she has a chance to speak for herself.[18] Owing to their actions as well as to their survivor status, the raped protagonists do not give in to total victimisation, which at least potentially allows them to tell their story.[19] Bożena Karwowska, when writing about the figures of the victim and the survivor, indicates that only the latter has a chance to speak. The author adds that “This is also related to the complex passivity of the victim manifesting itself, for example, in her inability to (rationalize and) verbalize the experience, and thus to the fact that the victim remains mute. Regaining a voice is a survivalist gesture and thus the victim never speaks; only the survivor can speak”.[20] By remaining alive, the protagonists have a chance to speak about their experience and build a type of diegetic oral history, which—as Paul Thompson puts it—“can be used to change the focus of history itself and open up new areas of inquiry. [Oral history] can give back to the people who made and experienced history, through their own words, a central place”.[21] Ordinary citizens are called on as witnesses, various positions are presented, and this is a way to tell stories outside of dominant historical discourse. “Witnesses can now also be called from the under-classes, the unprivileged, and the defeated. It provides a more realistic and fair reconstruction of the past, a challenge to the established account”.[22] This perspective makes it possible, inter alia, to hear women’s voices and stories concerning their specific experience.

Activity based on speaking about one’s experiences restores agency and dignity to the films’ protagonists, and sometimes helps transform traditional historical narratives. Felicja from How to be loved attempts to speak, but does not do so publicly. When answering a question about wartime asked by a random co-traveller to Paris, Felicja involuntarily turns to banality—an easy lie—as if used to the fact that her testimony is usually questioned, as has indeed been the case. First, her friend did not believe her, then the underground movement, then the post-war peer tribunal, and finally “those who considered her a whore”, as disclosed to her with full cruelty by Rawicz, whom she had saved. Meanwhile, the man encountered while travelling does not hesitate to speak directly about the defeats suffered. Teresa is also a film survivor—the raped protagonist of Life Taken. The piece begins and ends with her story, which the protagonist—the witness of Karolina’s holiness—tells (which is important) in a locked house. It would seem that this is a woman’s voice about a woman, presenting the common experiences of both protagonists. Nothing could be further from the truth. Her story is followed directly by a commentary—the words of a supra-narrator—explaining how a simple girl like Karolina Kózkówna became the Church’s blessed, revered by many followers. There is no more overwhelming contrast than this between the raped Teresa, who tells her story alone, enclosed within the four walls of her house, and Karolina, who “saved her virginity” and became blessed and praised by the official voice of the Church. Teresa not only does not speak of her own traumatic experience but—similarly to Felicja from How to be loved–—is subject to trial by the community, which questions her version of events relating to the rape.

A kind of a female film story is also the voice of the protagonist of The Gateway of Europe (1999), a film by Jerzy Wójcik that is based on the autobiographical recollections of Zofia Wańkiewiczówna.[23] The protagonist, Zosia, keeps a journal in which she records the events related to her service in a military hospital during WWI. The motive of rape was added to the film by the director, which helps to deprive the protagonists of the status of soldiers for the benefit of the image of victims.[24] What seems significant, however, is the choice of a protagonist who would experience rape. The division of between the silent victim (Ira) and the one who gives testimony by writing it down (Zosia) is maintained by the director. The raped one is depicted as a passive victim, and the activity that is writing does not correspond with her status. Zosia, who is appointed the heroine of this story, must remain pure.

The remaining protagonists remain silent. The mother from the series The House (1980–2000, dir. Jan Łomnicki), who lives with her adult son, the fruit of rape, does the same. Mietek Pocięgło knows about his origins but hides this information, along with his mother, from his uncle. Joanna (the title protagonist of the film by Feliks Falk) also remains silent, accused of intimate relations with a German, and condemned by the community to which she belonged. Her loved ones will never learn that the rape on the protagonist was the price for saving a Jewish child. The discretion, which was to protect the family from the consequences of hiding a Jewish girl, is replaced by shame, excluding the protagonist from both the family and the national community. It is important that it was not the rape itself, but the feeling of shame caused by the condemnation of the community with which Joanna identified that pushed the protagonist toward suicide.

The raped nuns from the Polish-French co-production titled The Innocents (Les Innocentes, 2016, dir. Anne Fontaine) also remain silent due to the trauma they experienced and the fear of social degradation. Maryśka, the only one to know about the rape of her sister, is forced into silence by the protagonists of God’s Lining (1997–1998). Anusia dies of diphtheria, but in her family’s memory she must remain untouched: good, profoundly religious, and pure. Immediately after the rape, Anusia forces her sister to remain silent precisely due to the expectations of the community, saying: “Say nothing to anyone or I will cut out your tongue”. Right after that she surprisingly abandons her role of victim by adding: “Don’t tremble like that. You won’t die from it”. Hence, what proves more important than the rape itself is the seemingly justified fear of its discovery by the family. When, following her sister’s death and against her will, Maryśka attempts to speak about the rape, she is told off by another sister, Józia: “You invented all of the dirty and disgusting story. Don’t breathe a word of this to our parents. She was pure and she died pure. Like a saint”.

The obligation to remain silent means that the experience of rape becomes neither a heroic narrative nor an alternative narrative in the face of traditional male depictions. Even when, in How to be loved or Life Taken, the protagonists speak for themselves, they do so in isolation, thus making it impossible to include these experiences in a shared narrative. Despite the support in Has’s film for the silent heroism of Felicja, this image also becomes a representation of secrecy and experience of shame, which in fact excludes a dignified victim. Even though the protagonists do not submit to passive victimisation—they battle and survive—they are finally punished for that three times: by the oppressor, by the film community, and by the inability to exist in the national heroic narrative. The silence seals their status as victims and thus repeats the gesture of the oppressor.

 

Children of war

 

A visible sign of the said silence is the lack of representation of the progeny originating from war rapes, survival prostitution, or even illegal relationships with the enemy. In its extensive comments on events related to the 20th century wars, Polish cinema very rarely tackled the subject of the consequences of forced sexual relations. This inability was visualized in the film The Innocents, in which the trace of rape in the form of pregnancy is erased by a prioress in subsequent acts of child murders, which represents in caricature the aforementioned principle that chastity is more important for society than human life. As argued by Yana Hashamova, maternity is not only the area in which the activity of raped women is revealed, but also a chance to overcome victim status by “taking control over their lives”,[25] hence the absence of this topic makes the objectification of victims easier.

Even though intimate relations between the invaders and the invaded were a part of everyday life during the war, according to Maren Roger: “predominantly German–French intimate war relations exist in Europe’s historical awareness”.[26] This topic has been particularly poorly elaborated by historians in reference to Poland, exacerbated by serious restrictions threatening both men and women in the case of breaching of the race-mixing ban. Polish women deciding on prostitution in order to survive risked more since, for such acts, “they could receive both serious punishment from the invaders and experience ostracism from compatriots”.[27] The effect is a lack of testimonies, historical research, and images dedicated to these types of relations and their consequences, i.e. war children.

Aside from the aforementioned series (The House), war children were presented in two films: the religious Life Taken and The Innocents, both of which are removed from the Polish context. In the first film, maternity is reduced to an almost surreal fantasy. Teresa, a raped single mother excluded from the community, watches a rosy, well-fed child playing in a plush illuminated room. The child born from rape was reduced to a pathetic poster promoting maternity without any regard for social context. The film avoids answering the question of social ostracism, the poverty of the protagonist, her loneliness (Teresa is an orphan), and the psychological consequences of the sexual violence she experienced. It confirms the isolation of the mother and child, showing the protagonist enclosed within the walls of the house. Even after Kozakówna’s intercession, Teresa (as she is impure) keeps at a certain distance from other mourners forming the funeral procession.

The Polish–French co-production The Innocents shows the progeny of rape whose identity, nevertheless, remains secret. The film is divided into the French perspective, i.e. represented by the main protagonist Mathilde Beaulieu, bravely fighting for the partial opening of the convent to the world to save the pregnant nuns and the children being born there. The protagonist risks her life and is close to rape, but is spared since this fact would not correspond with the heroic narrative reserved for her. The Polish perspective equals silent Polish nuns, who are ready to sacrifice their lives and the lives of their children in order to contain the shame within four walls. On the one hand, the film introduces themes absent in Polish cinema, such as war children; its title emphasizes the fundamental problem the victims struggle with, it supports life (not sexual purity) and, above all, it includes the children of nuns in the social tissue. The nuns are freed from the burden of shame with a trick: hiding the progeny of rape among war orphans taken in by the convent. In the final scene, the children, the nuns, and their families create an idyllic community, although once again it is at the price of silence. On the other hand, rape and its consequences in the form of maternity concern only Polish women, placing them on the side of silent victims. They are freed by an active French heroine from the Red Cross who, like the director, Anne Fontaine, breaks the silence. Thus, the film consolidates the stereotypical division of almost colonial character into the passive, submissive, silent, “raped” East, and the active, heroic West.

The lack of images of maternity resulting from rape stems from the tendency to eliminate the suffering of women from authentic history by taking away their specific future—the actual continuation of their lives—for the benefit of symbolic representations. This tendency corresponds with the phenomenon that Elżbieta Ostrowska wrote about when analysing the death of women on screen. The protagonists described by the author are removed, in film, “from the realm of historical experience into the realm of the mythic”.[28] The second reason for the reluctance to represent war children is the consolidation, through their presence, of abject relations. Julia Kristeva defines abject as something that “disturbs identity, system, and order that does not respect borders, positions, and rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite”.[29] In the war child, the line between what belongs to the national symbolic community and what threatens its identity becomes blurred. Moreover, “perverse interspace”[30] combines with the feminine, the woman’s body, fertilized by the enemy, which constitutes a threat to the symbolic order of the father.

The child remains a trace of abject contamination, and its status is emphasized by the conviction of inheriting the biological features of the enemy. Even though Mietek Pocięgło. the protagonist of The House series is an oppositionist dedicated to Poland, as a rape child from the era of the Warsaw Uprising he becomes an exceptionally talented Germanist as if he’d been genetically determined and inherited the linguistic competence of the unknown father in his DNA. The protagonist’s origins are in fact the reason for his inferiority complex; he considers himself a foundling even towards those whose fathers are communist dignitaries.

As Danish researchers note: “War rape aims to devalue the women and thus the wealth of the men. A precious object is turned into an abject”.[31] The authors point out that expelling the raped woman from the community becomes a necessity, for she threatens the order of the community she belonged to.[32] “He spoiled my woman” is what the protagonist of Rose says about his raped wife, on the one hand indicating the irreversible impurity attributed to the protagonist and, on the other, thinking of his raped wife as an object. The heroine becomes guilty twice: according to ethical principles (through the loss of sexual purity), and in relation to social norms (because she divided the community).

When defining “abject”, Kristeva refers to Lacan’s psychoanalysis and points out that it is precisely “on account of that Other, a space becomes demarcated, separating the abject from what will be a subject”.[33] As discussed above, the decision of the heroines to remain silent is an act of submitting to the requirements of Lacan’s Otherthe Law, the Name of the Father—and adopting an attitude that will remove the troublesome abject from the field of view. In the films discussed, the distracted observing gaze of the Big Other takes the form of constant control over the characters by “their own people”—by members of their community. Hiding in their homes, Joanna (Joanna) and Felicja (How to be loved) are continuously bothered not only by the Germans, but also by the gaze of their neighbours, family, representatives of underground organisations, and peer courts, which become an emanation of the power of the Other.

The recalled abject dimension was perversely emphasized in the film by Has, How to be loved. Felicja’s experience is juxtaposed with the heroic fate of the man encountered on her journey. During the war, as a pilot he flew high, as opposed to the “mundane” battle of Felicja who—as she claims—was not made to fly. Moreover, the contrast between sublimity and dirt is emphasized by the man’s profession: he is an epidemiologist, a specialist in the prevention of contagious diseases.

 

Erasing

 

Erasing offspring is solely a consequence or side effect of removing abject protagonists and cleansing the historical narrative. The disappearance has either a symbolic (in the form of silence or isolation) or physical dimension (death), which is also subject to the principle of absence since, according to Elżbieta Ostrowska, cinema avoids representations of women’s deaths on screen.[34] Joanna (Joanna) dissolves in the Tatra mist, where she will surely freeze to death. Biedronka (Warsaw ’44) and Niteczka (The Columbuses) die out of frame. Rose disappears: first she is moved to the private sphere where Tadeusz takes care of her, and later she dies.

The abject is expelled beyond the symbolic and social order that is responsible for identity and order and becomes subject to the law of the symbolic Other.[35] Its principles are reproduced through depictions and methods of describing historical events in which the given community recognizes itself. Rape, as an abject, while seeking its position in the symbolic order, becomes part of this order under two paradoxical conditions. The first of these corresponds to Lacan’s order of metonymy, i.e. striving to evade the forbidden object (abject) and multiply its depictions as if in its stead. The metonymy principle, which remains outside of symbolic depiction, corresponds to absence, concealment, and lack. Another mode of expression is transforming the unwanted object into a metaphor. In historical narratives, which are strongly subjected to a patriarchal dictate, this figure is responsible for the disempowerment of women and of the deprivation of their agency. They are thus limited to metaphors: instruments that humiliate the national community, means of the symbolic castration of its male representatives or, at best, symbols of the tortured homeland. For all these reasons, women are reduced in the symbolical order to the role of passive, disempowered victims.

The order of metonymy multiplies representations according to the principle of adding or speaking “instead of”, because “the Other (…) continues to resist the speaking subject, throws a spanner in its works”.[36] Metonymical multiplication characterizes Life Taken as it depicts the fates of two women of which only the suffering of one deserves holiness, while the other is isolated and stigmatized with shame. As Felicja from How to be loved says, the protagonists who have suffered trauma “hide behind the decorations” so their place can be taken by those who possess features more appropriate for the collective narrative. Rose saves her daughter from rape; she will marry Tadeusz at the altar and give herself into his care. Zosia from The Gateway of Europe remains pure, solely becoming a witness to Ira’s suffering. In Manhunt, the sexually abused Pestka, betrayer of the insurgents, saves her younger sister, a 16-year-old imprisoned by the Gestapo for distributing leaflets. According to Nancy Isenberg, “the creation of true womanhood is always contrasted to the countervailing notion of female vice: submission is contrasted to superiority, piety to heresy and irreligion, purity to pollution, and domesticity to disorderly public behaviour”.[37] Thus, the traumatized female body is replaced with one that guarantees the retention of national order and community.

The metonymical replacement also allows us to replace the image of the raped with the image of a suffering man or his heroic act. In Rose, the death of the protagonist and the rapes she experiences become the reason for Tadeusz’s suffering and stimulus to show his indomitable attitude. In Life Taken, despite the martyr’s death of Kózkówna and the rape of Teresa, it is the suffering of the blessed’s father that takes the central place in the film and is exposed in its final sequences. In The Columbuses, Niteczka sacrifices herself for the boy called Kolumb and, in order to keep him alive, pursues the rapist. After a montage cut, Kolumb, woken from delirium, crawls up the stairs to escape the basement in which Niteczka had hidden him. Instead of her suffering we have a scene reminiscent of the path to Golgotha, at the end of which the protagonist finds the girl’s dead body. The rape scene (or rather its suggestion) in Warsaw ’44 has a similar structure. Following the scene in which a repugnant pervert, a member of the Dirlewanger brigade, inspects Biedronka from head to toe, there is a cut to the part dedicated to Stefan’s escape across the destroyed city and his dramatic reaction to the girl’s death. The story ends with the vision of the boy (who likely survived) recalling the image of the already dead protagonist. We can also find similar metonymical theft in The Ring with a Crowned Eagle, in which the rape of Wiśka leads to the death of one of her defenders. Instead of the protagonist’s story, we are presented the story of the impact of her sacrifice and indomitability on her beloved, while she herself appears as Marcin’s vision and a prick of conscience. In Sekal has to die, despite the film’s criticism of the degeneration of the patriarchal system, it is the suffering of Sekal, who is in love with Agnieszka, that is exposed—not the suffering of the girl who is raped upon his orders behind closed doors.

 

Metaphor

 

The figure of the metaphor, consisting in intensification and juxtaposition of sense, includes the female protagonists in the symbolic order, i.e. the traditional historical narrative. They are reduced to a symbol; they disappear in the allegory taken from religious repertoire. According to Hans Mayer, “Theological allegoresis and allegorical meaning relegate history. (…) Allegorisation means the annihilation of the individual”.[38] Protagonists subjected to metaphysical transgression and religious purification are transformed into religious allegory (The Gateway of Europe, Joanna), or the desexualized figure of a mother (The Ring with a Crowned Eagle). In Joanna, the protagonist actively fights for survival, but her sublimity is ensured by the final scene (stylized as the Assumption)[39] in which the protagonist becomes a victim—silent, hounded, disappearing into the whiteness of the clouds. Ira from The Gateway of Europe is returned to her friends on a horse after the rape, clothed in a red robe. On the one hand, the red of the coat reminds us of a courtesan’s clothes, on the other, of the scarlet coat of Christ insulted by Jews.[40] In both films, the protagonists are reduced to victims and disarmed, but in the religious context their images hide a certain contradiction: apart from her sublimity, Joanna is also a suicide, and Ira’s naked breast becomes the source of her shame and degradation.

The same religious context is also offered to raped protagonists by purification through desexualisation and transformation in the allegory of maternity. This principle works, among others, in The Ring with a Crowned Eagle, Life Taken, or The Columbuses, as often noted by researchers analysing the presence of women in historical narratives.[41] The escape from sexuality, however, makes it impossible to deliberate upon sexual violence and pushes it into the sphere of silence.

At the same time, however, the films discussed here present a feminine version of heroism that, in spite of the aforementioned operations, does not merely realize the victim model. At the centre of the cited stories are women who are heroic, active, and who resist the enemy, marking their presence in the historical narrative. This aspect is often overlooked due to the aforementioned strategies that downgrade female protagonists as part of the community story. Analysing the masochism of female protagonists (and potential female viewers) that dominates in film melodramas, Linda Williams pointed out that it is possible to interpret films in this genre oppositely to the victim pattern inscribed in them. According to the researcher, the pathos contained in the films does not merely lead to identification with the victim and her masochism, but is also an encouragement to “a complex negotiation between emotion and thought”.[42] War narratives with women in lead roles also welcome critical reception rather than simply identifying oneself with the position of a victim. The resistance that the female protagonists of traditional historical stories put up in spite of everything may end up forming an introduction to their taking a place in the heroic narrative, provided that the symbolic field of these stories is reformulated.

 

Without shame

 

In one of the scenes from How to be loved, the German officer shows the café employees a wanted notice which threatens anybody hiding a fugitive with the death penalty. Special words addressed to Felicja are “I would like to emphasize that, according to what is written here, you are also a person”. This short exchange underscores the relationship between subjectivity and agency. As much as the protagonist maintains her subjectivity, the context in which she has to act brings her—as she says—respect in her eyes only.

The analysed films rarely present a semblance of community which would also enable privileges from the creators of collective memory. In The Gateway of Europe, it is the group of sympathetic nuns who wash their raped friend together. We can perceive this simply as a symbolic ritual, or as an emphatic community that is unhindered by shame. In The Innocents, the women create a support group with various opinions and life goals, which—as the film suggests—allows them to abandon their traumatic experience and find acceptance in the group. Also, Felicja appeals to the community, reaching a wide audience each week through her radio program. She works on social awareness, correcting on her own the radio drama scripts by referring to her personal experiences. Instead of condemning an illegitimate child (as in the script), she points to the common nature of such events. Another voice addressed to the public is the memoirs of Ola Watowa concerning her exile to Kazakhstan during WWII, which were adapted by Robert Gliński in All That Really Matters… (1992).

Surpassing the story of shame is the condition for heroic narrative and hence the need for the creation of an alternative collective memory based on an accepting community which would award heroines instead of seeking religious redemption for them. Thus, the victim status would not degrade female protagonists and would not mark them with shame. In the Polish symbolic field, a raped woman is subject to very strong victimisation; hence, it is impossible to avoid analytical thought focused on this particular aspect. At the same time, it is worth paying attention to the elements that give empowerment and agency back to the victims: using rape as self-defence or with the intention of saving a loved one, active participation in the battle, talking about the rape on their own terms, bearing offspring, creating an accepting and empathic community, or even the status of the abject, which undermines the dominant symbolic narrative. All these aspects fail to meet the criteria that traditional historical stories require of women, hence the problem with their expression in the aforementioned depictions. In spite of victimising and disempowering film strategies, the presence of the abovementioned motifs—even if only partial—may show the direction for future depictions. Leaving the sphere of privacy, referring to the authenticity of experience, or accepting agency free from punishment: all are a path toward appreciating the specifically female experience. The process of co-creating the story of the past, in which sexual violence would not degrade its victims, is a long one because it assumes the evolution of all actors involved in the undertaking, which is involved in building a collective memory.

 

References

 

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Zwierzchowski Piotr, Spektakl i ideologia. Szkice o filmowych wyobrażeniach śmierci heroicznej / Spectacle and ideology. Sketches on film conceptions of heroic death, (Kraków: Rabid) (2006).

Williams Linda, “Melodrama Revisited”, in: Refiguring American Film Genres: History and Theory, ed. N. Browne, (Berkeley: University of California Press) (1998).

 

[1] Piotr Zwierzchowski, Spektakl i ideologia. Szkice o filmowych wyobrażeniach śmierci heroicznej / Spectacle and ideology. Sketches on film conceptions of heroic death, (Kraków: Rabid) (2006), p. 184.

[2] Natalia Jarska, “Women and Men at War. A Gender Perspective on World War II and its Aftermath in Central and Eastern Europe, ed. Maren Röger, Ruth Leiserowitzn (review)”, Pamięć i Sprawiedliwość. Pismo naukowe poświęcone historii najnowszej 2  (2014), p. 505.

[3] Ibid., p. 510

[4] Bożena Karwowska,  “Zatarte sensy prozy łagrowej: Seweryny Szmaglewskiej «Dymy nad Birkenau» wtedy i dziś” / “The blurred senses of labour camp prose: Seweryna Szmaglewska «Smoke over Birkenau» then and now”, in: (Nie)obecność: pominięcia i przemilczenia w narracjach XX wieku / Absence: omissions and concealments in 20th-century narratives, ed. Hanna Gosk, (Warszawa: Dom Wydawniczy Elipsa) (2008), p. 253.

[5] We rarely encounter war images that present the rape of men (Kornblumenblau, 1988, dir. Leszek Wosiewicz). In Polish cinema, we can indicate homosexual or heterosexual survival prostitution (Kornblumenblau, 1988, dir. Leszek Wosiewicz) (Down Carrier, 1983, dir. Stefan Szlachtycz and Warsaw: Year5703, 1992, dir. Janusz Kijowski) that is related to this experience.

[6] Bülent Diken, Carsten Bagge Laustsen, “Becoming Abject: Rape as a Weapon of War”, Body & Society 1, vol 11 (2005), p. 112.

[7] Natalia Jarska, op. cit., p. 506.

[8] Yana Hashamova, “War Rape: (Re)defining Motherhood, Fatherhood and Nationhood”, in: Embracing Arms: Cultural Representation of Slavic and Balkan Women in War, ed. Helena Goscilo, (New York: Central European University Press) (2012), p. 235.

[9] Marzena Sokołowska-Paryż, “War Rape: Trauma and the Ethics of Representation”, in: Traumatic Memories of the Second World War and After, ed. Peter Leese, Jason Crouthamel, (New York: Springer International Publishing) (2016), p. 223.

[10] Ewa Domańska, “O poznawczym uprzywilejowaniu ofiary (uwagi metodologiczne)” / “On cognitive privileges of the victim (methodological remarks)”, in: (Nie)obecność: pominięcia i przemilczenia w narracjach XX wieku / Absence: omissions and concealments in 20th-century narratives, op. cit., p. 32.

[11] Agnieszka Morstin-Popławska, “Ziemie odzyskana – życia utracone. O Roku spokojnego słońca Krzysztofa Zanussiego” / “Reclaimed land – lost life. On A Year of the Quiet Sun by Krzysztof Zanussi”, in: Kino polskie wobec II wojny światowej / Polish cinema and WWII, ed. Piotr Zwierzchowski, Daria Mazur, Mariusz Guzek, (Bydgoszcz: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Kazimierza Wielkiego) (2011), p. 223.

[12] Bożena Karwowska, “Zatarte sensy prozy łagrowej…” / “The blurred senses of labour camp prose…”, op. cit., p. 263.

[13] Hans Mayer, Outsiders, trans. Anna Kryczyńska,  (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Literackie Muza) (2005), p. 75.

[14] Małgorzata Czermińska, “O dwuznaczności sytuacji ofiary” / “On the ambiguity of the victim’s situation”, in: Kultura po przejściach, osoby z przeszłością. Polski dyskurs postzależnościowy – konteksty i perspektywy badawcze / Culture that has undergone hardship, people with a past. Polish post-dependence discourse – research contexts and perspectives, ed. Ryszard Nycz, (Kraków: Universitas) (2011), p. 94.

[15] Martha C. Nussbaum, Hiding from Humanity. Disgust, Shame, and the Law, (Princeton: Princeton University Press) (2004), p. 229.

[16] Ibid., p. 176-177.

[17] Hanna Gosk, “(Nie)obecność opowieści o wstydzie w narracji losu polskiego” / “The absence of the story of shame in the narrative of Polish fate”, in: Kultura po przejściach, osoby z przeszłością… / Culture that has undergone hardship, people with a past…, op. cit., p. 90.

[18] Ewa Domańska, op. cit., p. 24.

[19] Agnieszka Morstin compares Rose by Wojciech Smarzowski with How to be loved by Wojciech J. Has; she emphasizes the role of the subjective narrative used in the latter film as a strategy for abandoning the victim status. See: Agnieszka Morstin, “Mocne filmy i głębokie kompleksy…” / “Strong Films and Deep Complexes. Rose by Wojtek Smarzowski compared with How to be loved by Wojciech J. Has”, Kwartalnik Filmowy 77-78 (2012), p. 206.

[20] Bożena Karwowska, “«Kult ofiary» w oczach polskich pisarek emigrantek a «kult ocaleńca» w refleksji krytycznej na temat dyskursów wyzwoleńczych” / “«The cult of the victim» seen by Polish migrant female writers and «the cult of the survivor» in critical reflection on liberation discourses” in: Kultura po przejściach, osoby z przeszłością… / Culture that has undergone hardship, people with a past…, op. cit. p. 327.

[21] Paul Thompson, The Voice of the Past. Oral History, (Oxford: Oxford University Press) (1988), p. 26.

[22] Ibid., p. 28.

[23] The recollections of Zofia Wańkowiczówna were used by her grandson, Melchior Wańkowicz, to create the short story titled Hospital in Cichinicze. Based on this story, Jerzy Wójcik made the film The Gateway of Europe.

[24] Elżbieta Ostrowska writes in detail about the adaptive changes and femininity under the rule of nationalist ideology (Elżbieta Ostrowska-Chmura, “Polka – dumny przedmiot pożądania” / “Pole – a proud object of desire”, in: Ciało i seksualność w kinie polskim / Sexuality and the Body in Polish Cinema, ed. Sebastian Jagielski, Agnieszka Morstin-Popławska, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego) (2009), p. 139-153).

[25] Yana Hashamova, op. cit., p. 235.

[26] Maren Roger, “(Nie)codzienność podczas niemieckiej okupacji w zachodniej i wschodniej Europie: prostytucja, stosunki intymne i «dzieci wojny» we Francji, Belgii i w Polsce” / „(Not)everyday life during German occupation in Western and Eastern Europe: prostitution, intimate relations and “war children” in France, Belgium and Poland”, trans. Katarzyna Chimiak, in: Okupowana Europa. Podobieństwa i różnice / Occupied Europe. Similarities and differences, ed. Waldemar Grabowski, (Warszawa: IPN) (2014), p. 77.

[27] Ibid., p. 87.

[28] Elżbieta Ostrowska, “Invisible Deaths: Polish Cinema’s Representation of Women in World War II”, in: Embracing Arms…, op cit., p. 56.

[29] Julia Kristeva, Powers of horror. An essay of abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez, (New York: Columbia University Press) (1982), p. 4.

[30] Ibid., p. 16.

[31] Bülent Diken, Carsten Bagge Laustsen, op. cit., p. 117.

[32] Ibid.

[33] Julia Kristeva, op. cit., p. 10.

[34] See Elżbieta Ostrowska, “Invisible Deaths…”, op. cit., p. 30.

[35] Jean Laplanche, J.-B. Pontalis, Słownik psychoanalizy / Dictionary of Psychoanalysis, trans. Ewa Modzelewska, Ewa Wojciechowska, (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Szkolne i Pedagogiczne) (1996), p. 317.

[36]  Paweł Dybel, Urwane Ścieżki. Przybyszewski-Freud-Lacan / Broken Paths. Przybyszewski-Freud-Lacan, (Kraków: Universitas) (2000), p. 268.

[37] Nancy Isenberg, “Second Thoughts on Gender and Women’s History”, American Studies 1, vol. 36 (1995), p. 99.

[38] Hans Mayer, op. cit., p. 74 and 77.

[39] The vertical direction can be found also in such films as: The Ring with a Crowned Eagle, The Columbuses, Life Taken.

[40] Elżbieta Ostrowska describes this scene as “a feminine allegory of Poland”. See: Elżbieta Ostrowska-Chmura, „Polka – dumny przedmiot…” / „Pole – a proud object…”, op. cit., p. 148.

[41] See Ewa Mazierska, Elżbieta Ostrowska, Women in Polish Cinema, (New York: Berghahn Books) (2006), p. 15-54.

[42] Linda Williams, “Melodrama Revisited”, in: Refiguring American Film Genres: History and Theory, ed. N. Browne, (Berkeley: University of California Press) (1998), p. 49.

Transnational Turn in Film Studies (Editorial)

Krzysztof Loska

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2016, vol.1, no. 2, pp. 1-7.

Krzysztof Loska

Jagiellonian University

 

Transnational Turn in Film Studies (Editorial)

 

Contemporary researchers emphasize the widespread use of “transnational” in humanistic discourse; some even speak of the “transnational turn”, or a kind of theoretical reorientation in the debate on the nature of global links. In contrast to the paradigm shift, the turn, as understood by Doris Bachmann-Medick, involves recognizing methodological pluralism, going beyond the limits, while at the same time transforming the earlier concepts and accepting the contingency of knowledge, which means embracing the fact that there are many possible ways of looking at the same object[1].

On the other hand, Mette Hjort has noted a growing tendency for excessive and uncritical use of the concept of transnational “as a largely self-evident qualifier requiring only minimal conceptual clarification”[2]. The idea of transnationalism plays an important role in the social sciences; I do not intend, however, to refer to sociological or economic theories, as in this area the idea of “transnational” functions primarily as a specific modification of the concept of globalization (as Steven Vertovec convincingly states in his book). I would rather focus on film studies that introduced such a category, namely Sheldon Hsiao-peng Lu’s research of Chinese cinema and that of Andrew Higson in relation to British cinema[3].

In the latter case, the aim was to undermine a dominant perspective in film studies and to understand the limitations of “tendency to focus only on those films that narrate the nation as just a finite, limited space, inhabited by a tightly coherent and unified community, closed off to other identities besides national identities”[4]. Higson’s concept had two basic weaknesses: firstly, the author focused on the relationship between Hollywood and British cinema; secondly, the idea of transnational was considered primarily in terms of production, distribution, and reception, completely overlooking the existence of diasporic and postcolonial themes, which became important components of transnational turn.

Higson’s proposal was the starting point for Elizabeth Ezra and Terry Rowden, who in the introduction to the anthology titled Transnational Cinema, wrote that „a key to transnationalism is the recognition of the decline of national sovereignty as a regular force in global coexistence, (…) dissolution of any stable connection between a film’s place of production and/or setting and the nationality of its makers and performers”[5]. However, Ezra and Rowden went much further, and placed the concept of transnationalism in other contexts associated with migration and the functioning of the modern diasporas. At the same time, they understood why it was so important to take into account the relationship between global and local dimensions, and the postnational version of the imagined community, in which one’s identity is suspended between the different spaces.

The issues of migration and development of contemporary diasporas play a leading role in the so-called accented cinema. The notion, introduced by Hamid Naficy, refers to transnational films made by migrants or political refugees, who describe the experience of living in a host country, trying to cope with loss, a state of being torn apart, and being homesick. Naficy’s concept is by no means limited to a set of particular themes or the ethnic origin of filmmakers, but seeks a common denominator linking the various works in terms of style or narrative. It indicates the privileged function of landscapes, the importance of multilingualism in the dialogue, voice-over narration, and the use of road movie conventions[6].

Diasporic films are most frequently made outside the mainstream cinema, as they are independent productions in which the artists put an emphasis on a personal aspect of the stories being told through the use of epistolary narration (which is common e.g. in the films by Atom Egoyan, Chantal Akerman, and Ann Hui). The main theme is usually the search for identity that transcends national and cultural boundaries, the construction of certain images of home, and showing the problematic nature of such representations in the context of nostalgia.

“Transnational cinema has the potential to both reveal the diasporic experience and challenge the privileged site of the national as the space in which cultural identity and imagined communities are formed”[7]. Diasporic cinema may be „defined as transnational in the sense that it brings into question how fixed ideas of a national film culture are constantly being transformed by the presence of protagonists (and indeed film-makers) who have a presence within the nation, even if they exist on its margins, but find their origins quite clearly beyond it”[8].

We discover that the concept of a nation as a coherent entity gradually gives way to hybridity and transculturality, which seem to be the categories that best describe the essence of modern life, based on the free movement of people, goods and services, porosity of contemporary borders, and the interpenetration of cultural influences. Hybridity should not be understood as the abolition of contradictions, erasing of the differences or unification, because “it is not a third term that resolves the tension between two cultures, or two scenes of the book, in a dialectical play of recognition”[9].

Modern theorists highlight the link between the concept of hybridity and such related terms as mestizaje or métissage, because all of them reject the idea of a coherent and unified culture expressed by organicistic metaphors. A hybrid subject exists at the frontiers, meeting points, or at the crossroads of different cultures. Sometimes hybridization is associated with the process of borrowing and exchange, thanks to which it undermines the process of thinking in terms of simple binary oppositions.

The formation of a hybrid identity is a symptom of cultural transformation, the result of the instability of existing categories; however, it does not always involve the colonial experience. On the contrary, it is more often linked with different forms of movement and migration that help build transnational culture. In this way, it is possible to make a significant shift in emphasis from the study of the subjugated ones who lived in former colonies toward the analysis of diasporic communities operating in European countries. Thanks to this shift, one may also notice the links between discontinuity, rupture, and rootlessness that characterize contemporary immigrants, as well as see similar processes of deterritorialization and the expropriation of cultural heritage in postcolonial countries.

The latest research clearly shows that the concept of transnationality cannot merely concern the issues of co-production, global distribution, and reception; on the other hand, it should include political and social factors that enable a better understanding of contemporary cinema and the surrounding world. Perhaps that is why Will Higbee, when searching for a less ambiguous term, suggested the concept of transvergence to describe the diasporic and postcolonial cinema, in order to leave behind “potentially problematic contemporary notions of globalization”[10]. In his understanding, transvergence cinema is connected with instability, lack of continuity and consistency, and involves undermining of such dichotomies as home/exile, centre/periphery, self/other.

Another solution helping to overcome the problems resulting from the excessive use of the concept of transnationality may be the one offered by Wolfgang Welsch, who uses the concept of transculturality: an idea inspired by the writings of Fernando Ortiz. The Cuban anthropologist in his book on the cultivation of tobacco and sugar used the word “transculturality” to describe the processes occurring in the colonial countries, in an effort to explain the impact of migration on the formation of a culture[11]. This concept allows one to go beyond the understanding of the national culture as a closed and separate entity, and uncover relationships between seemingly distant areas by revealing the benefits of the process in which many possible ways of life are merged together.

“It is, I think, the advantage of the transculturality concept over competing concepts that it explains uniformization and intermixing processes on one side and the emergence of new diversity on the other side at the same time and by means of the same formula”[12]. Therefore, transculturality means life in suspension, moving on the margins, coming to terms with casualness and instability. „Transness describes a moment of in-betweeness, a liminal status that may represent a point in process of transformation from one category to another”[13]. The concept of transculturality is not based on binary oppositions, but consists in combining the elements and crossings: „transcultural identities comprehend a cosmopolitan side, but also a side of local affiliation (…) It promotes not separation, but exchange and interaction”[14].

The prefix trans-, which is borrowed from Latin, indicates crossing the borders and going beyond; that is why the papers collected in this issue of our magazine suggest that a transnational approach involves accepting methodological pluralism and seeking the links between the phenomena that were previously regarded as separate. Adopting this perspective allows one to look at the seemingly distant concepts and to go beyond the national paradigm in reflection on media.

One should mention that although in the past Polish cinema was considered primarily in the national perspective, the last few years have brought the publication of several papers on its transnational character. This fact was emphasized by Ewa Mazierska and Michael Goddard, who claimed that it “has always been, in a sense, transnational, thanks to the strong presence of Polish directors on the international scene; [which unfortunately] is barely reflected in the studies of transnational or world cinema”[15]. This is, for example, the perspective taken by Sebastian Jagielski in his essay, in which he analyses the on-screen images of Elżbieta Czyżewska.

Most of the presented papers, however, concern world cinema, with a special emphasis on the relations between East and West: Jane Hanley analyses performances of Japanese actress Rinko Kikuchi in two transnational films: Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Babel (2006) and Guillermo del Toro’s Pacific Rim (2013). The author’s principal aim is to characterize the changing images of Asian people in Hollywood cinema and the possibility of cross-cultural communication.

Łukasz Plesnar, when choosing two movies produced by Clint Eastwood in 2006 (Flags of Our Fathers and Letters from Iwo Jima), focuses on the question of stereotypical images of the Japanese in American films and stresses the attempts of going beyond such a simplified image. “[Letters from Iwo Jima] is the only American combat movie made from a Japanese point of view and the only one in which the author tries to understand and show respect to old Japanese customs and the contemporary contradiction of Japanese ego”. Kaja Łuczyńska, in turn, examines a shift in the image of race and ethnicity after 9/11, when focusing on screen images of South Asian in New York (2009, Kabir Khan), My Name Is Khan (2010, Karan Johar), and The Reluctant Fundamentalist (2012, Mira Nair).

Bartłomiej Nowak and Bilge Golge, respectively, offer interesting views of the relations between East and West. The former studies how contemporary film adaptations relate to literary texts, and how certain adaptations expand the boundaries of the original readership and audience by including new locations and contexts. Nowak stresses a hybrid dimension of some films based on Jane Austen’s books as they are transferred in the context of Indian culture, while Bilge Golge analyses representations of yoga practices in Western media.

Aesthetics and film theory play an essential role in the texts presented in the final part of the magazine. Miłosz Stelmach starts from the theoretical findings of András Bálint Kovács, John Orr, and Rafał Syska, and characterizes the neomodern film as a transnational phenomenon. The paper by Bolesław Racięski offers a peculiar development of these proposals, showing how the creators of contemporary Mexican cinema use the minimalist approach to express ideas about the local social and cultural issues, whereby linking transnational narrative strategies of neomodern cinema with national history and mythology. In his analysis of BabaKiueria, Rafał Nahirny uses the postcolonial perspective to describe the process of taking control over their own image by the indigenous people of Australia.

Numerous authors study the phenomenon of transnational in the context of identity and include both aesthetic and political aspects. The researchers are convinced that it is necessary to go beyond a Eurocentric perspective and overcome the limitations stemming from the opposition between a national and transnational point of view. What is more, it is crucial to see the links between the local and the global aspects, and to embrace a transcultural exchange. Following the assumptions of Will Higbee and Song Hwee Lim, we should accept that „in the study of films, a critical transnationalism does not ghettoize transnational film-making in interstitial and marginal spaces, but rather interrogates how these film-making activities negotiate with the national on all levels: from cultural policy to financial sources, from the multiculturalism of difference to how it reconfigures a nation’s image of itself”[16].

References

 

Bachmann-Medick Doris, Cultural Turns. New Orientations in the Study of Culture, translate by Adam Blauhut, (Berlin and Boston: Walter de Gruyter) (2016).

Bhabha Homi K., The Location of Culture, (New York: Routledge) (1994).

Clark Christopher, „Transculturation, Transe Sexuality, and Turkish Germany: Kutluğ Ataman’s Lola und Bilidikid”, German Life and Letters 59:4 (2006)

Ezra Elizabeth, Rowden Terry, Transnational Cinema: The Film Reader, (New York: Routledge) (2006).

Higbee Will, „Beyond the (Trans)national: Toward a Cinema of Transvergence in Postcolonial and Diasporic Francophone Cinema(s)”, Studies in French Cinema 7:2 (2007).

Higbee Will and Lim Song Hwee, „Concepts of Transnational Cinema: Towards a Critical Transnationalism in Film Studies”, Transnational Cinemas 1:1 (2010).

Andrew Higson, „The limiting imagination of national cinema”, in: Cinema and Nation, ed. Mette Hjort and Scott Mackenzie (London and New York: Routledge) (2000).

Hjort Mette, „On the Plurality of Cinematic Transnationalism”, in World Cinemas, Transnational Perspectives, ed. Nataša Ďurovičová and Kathleen Newman (London and New York: Routledge) (2010).

Lu Sheldon Hsiao-peng, „Historical Introduction. Chinese Cinemas (1896-1996) and Transnational Film Studies”, in Transnational Chinese Cinemas: Identity, Nationhood, Gender, ed. Sheldon Hsiao-peng Lu (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press) (1997).

Mazierska Ewa, Goddard Michael, Polish Cinema in a Transnational Context, (Rochester: University of Rochester Press) (2014).

Naficy Hamid, An Accented Cinema: Exilic and Diasporic Filmmaking, (Princeton: Princeton University Press) (2001).

Vertovec Steven, Transnationalism (London and New York: Routledge) (2009).

Welsch Wolfgang, „Transculturality: The Puzzling Form of Cultures Today”, in Spaces of Cultures: City, Nation, World, ed.  Mike Featherstone and Scott Lash (London: SAGE (1999).

Notes

[1] Doris Bachmann-Medick, Cultural Turns. New Orientations in the Study of Culture, translate by Adam Blauhut, (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter) (2016), p.11-12.

[2] Mette Hjort, „On the Plurality of Cinematic Transnationalism”, in World Cinemas, Transnational Perspectives, ed. Nataša Ďurovičová and Kathleen Newman (London and New York: Routledge) (2010), p. 13.

[3] Sheldon Hsiao-peng Lu, „Historical Introduction. Chinese Cinemas (1896-1996) and Transnational Film Studies”, in: Transnational Chinese Cinemas: Identity, Nationhood, Gender, ed. Sheldon Hsiao-peng Lu (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press) (1997), p. 1-31. Andrew Higson, „The limiting imagination of national cinema”, in: Cinema and Nation, ed. Mette Hjort and Scott Mackenzie (London and New York: Routledge) (2000), p. 57-68.

[4] Andrew Higson, p. 60.

[5] Elizabeth Ezra, ‎Terry Rowden, Transnational Cinema: The Film Reader, (New York: Routledge) (2006), p. 1.

[6] Hamid Naficy, An Accented Cinema: Exilic and Diasporic Filmmaking, (Princeton: Princeton University Press) (2001), p. 24-26.

[7] Will Higbee, Song Hwee Lim, „Concepts of Transnational Cinema: Towards a Critical Transnationalism in Film Studies”, Transnational Cinemas 1:1 (2010), p. 11.

[8] Ibid., s. 11.

[9] Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, (New York: Routledge) (1994), p. 162.

[10] Will Higbee, „Beyond the (Trans)national: Toward a Cinema of Transvergence in Postcolonial and Diasporic Francophone Cinema(s)”, Studies in French Cinema 7:2 (2007), p. 80.

[11] Wolfgang Welsch, „Transculturality: The Puzzling Form of Cultures Today”, in Spaces of Cultures: City, Nation, World, ed. Mike Featherstone and Scott Lash, (London: SAGE) (1999), pp. 194-213.

[12] Ibid., p. 204.

[13] Christopher Clark, „Transculturation, Transe Sexuality, and Turkish Germany: Kutluğ Ataman’s Lola und Bilidikid”, German Life and Letters 59:4 (2006), p. 558.

[14] Welsch, p. 205.

[15] Ewa Mazierska, Michael Goddard, Introduction. Polish Cinema beyond Polish Borders, in Polish Cinema in a Transnational Context, (Rochester: University of Rochester Press) (2014), p. 9.

[16] Will Higbee, Song Hwee Lim, „Concepts of Transnational Cinema: Towards a Critical Transnationalism in Film Studies”, Transnational Cinemas 1:1 (2010), p. 18.

“Let everybody love me”. The transnational body of Elżbieta Czyżewska

Sebastian Jagielski

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2016, vol.1, no. 2, pp. 8-22.

Sebastian Jagielski

Jagiellonian University

 

“Let everybody love me”. The transnational body of Elżbieta Czyżewska[i]

 

Abstract

The ways to create a star personality in the Polish People’s Republic are closer to the strategy of creating stars in the Soviet cinema, where the star had to function as an power engine, as an incentive to action, than to the Hollywood system (star system). It is well illustrated by the career of Elżbieta Czyżewska: not only was she the most fascinating actress of her generation but she was also quickly transformed into a star. Czyżewska’s body used as a screen on which first the (socialist) desires and then (socialist) fears were projected, was placed – almost from the beginning of her career – in transnational contexts. She crossed borders not only on the screen: in 1965 Czyżewska married The New York Times correspondent, David Halberstam, and left for New York, or rather was forced to leave. The star’s previously ideal body suddenly appeared to be – not for “strangers” but for “us,” not outside the national community but inside it – a transgressive (since openly transnational) anti-body. This article explores (1) the phenomenon of a star in the Polish People’s Republic (“socialist star system”), (2) transgressions of Czyżewska in the West, (3) and, above all, their Polish reception.

Key words: Polish cinema, Elżbieta Czyżewska, communism, transnational, stardom, body, affect

In the state-owned film industry of communist Poland, expressing the dominating ideology was more important than fulfilment of audiences’ expectations. It was not pleasure that was important, but the educational goal; not entertainment but social involvement. Hence, it comes as no surprise that the authorities in the Polish People’s Republic were not interested in the creation of stars.[1] Even more so, since in the official discourse such a phenomenon was associated with the “degenerated” bourgeois West. Hence, there was no place for Hollywood-style stars, but there was for socialist ones (especially in the 60s, when the authorities decided to use the persuasive power of film genres for their own purposes). Their image was not supposed to be—as in the Hollywood “star system”—based on the relation to the market (star system as the sale of goods), but—as in the Soviet Union—on the relation to communist ideology. It was the stars (and film genres) that proved at the time to be the most effective carrier of ideology, especially as the public longed for somebody exceptional and unique. The socialist stars—even though just like Western ones, they shaped the behaviour of Poles, told them how to dress, behave and be—did not exist in the “blue firmament”, but “fraternised” with people, ate at milk bars, and met people in village clubs.[2]

Elżbieta Czyżewska fulfilled these contradictory expectations of the public and authorities with bravado. Not only was she the most fascinating actress of her generation (“she was visible. (…)”, Andrzej Kostenko used to say, “in our [actors’ – SJ] environment one could feel her peculiarity”[3]), but she was also quickly transformed into a star (“the only actress after the war who in such a short time achieved so much”[4], said Leon Łochowski). In the years 1960-1966, she never left the set, appearing in a few films per year and performing in theatre and TV. Everybody wanted to work with her: directors of the auteur (Wojciech J. Has, Tadeusz Konwicki, Jerzy Skolimowski) and popular (Stanisław Bareja, Tadeusz Chmielewski, Stanisław Lenartowicz) cinema. The audience loved her: in a poll by Express Wieczorny for the most popular TV actor, she won the Silver Mask twice, in 1963 and 1964, and the Golden Mask in 1965. It seems, however, that Czyżewska’s fairy-tale career did not come from nowhere. On one hand, talent, bravado, “go get it” energy, charisma and authenticity, and on the other, the embodiment of the “socialist” star type. The latter was defined—as in the Soviet Union—by social and national identity and opposition towards “bourgeois” Western identity.[5] Neither the decadent, eccentric, and sexy Kalina Jędrusik, nor the aristocratic and supercilious Beata Tyszkiewicz, and not even the delicate and mysterious Ewa Krzyżewska could have been promoted as “socialist stars”. Czyżewska, whose beauty and background were emphasised as proletariat and Slavic, was to become the ideal embodiment of the “socialist object of desire”. Czyżewska’s body—used as a screen on which first the (socialist) desires and then (socialist) fears were projected—was placed almost from the beginning of her career in transnational contexts.[6] On one hand, it was the body of a lively Soviet woman soldier (Gdzie jest generał?/Where is the General?, 1963, Tadeusz Chmielewski), on the other, a Jew in love (Niekochana/Unloved, 1965, Janusz Nasfeter), a body for a Soviet pilot (Przerwany lot/Interrupted Flight, 1964, Leonard Buczkowski), an Italian (Giuseppe w Warszawie/Giuseppe in Warsaw, 1964, Stanisław Lenartowicz), and an Australian (but of Polish decent (Żona dla Australijczyka/Wife for an Australian, 1963, Stanisław Bareja)). Czyżewska, however, crossed borders not only on the screen: in 1965, she married The New York Times correspondent, David Halberstam, and left for New York, or rather was forced to leave. The star’s previously ideal body suddenly appeared to be not for “strangers”, but for “us”, not outside the national community but inside it: a transgressive (since openly transnational) anti-body. It is true that the corporeality of transnational stars can sometimes be defined as foreign, since it causes fascination and/or fear, but these are the emotions we usually deal with—unlike in Czyżewska’s case—outside the countries of their origin.[7]

“A modern girl”

Encouraged by the success of the contest for the lead actress in the comedy Ewa chce spać/Ewa wants to sleep (1957, Tadeusz Chmielewski), in 1958 the magazine Film, together with Zespół Autorów Filmowych, announced the action Beautiful girls to the screens, aimed, as critics at the time claimed, at fulfilling the shortage of young and beautiful girls on Polish screens.[8] When the filmmakers and journalists were looking for the Polish Brigitte Bardot, a popular teenager magazine Filipinka conducted a survey among its readers: Are you a modern girl? According to Małgorzata Fidelis this image reflects the “attempts to define the national and socialist identities in the post-war Polish society” and to “build a positive image of modernity in the communist version”.[9] The genesis of the image of the “modern girl”[10] promoted by the media and officially supported by the party activists, similarly to the calls for a uniquely Polish film star, may be found in the political thaw that was accompanied to some extent by the social thaw.[11] Elżbieta Czyżewska was the result of this search. Aspiring “modern girls”, Filipinka readers—who in this figure saw a young woman who preferred foreign travel to marriage, listened to rock’n’roll and was up to date with the fashion trends[12]—could identify with the disobedient, dynamic, sarcastic and ironic girls played by Czyżewska. Young Poles took her roles—Hanka from Wife for an Australian, Marysia from Giuseppe in Warsaw, or Joanna from Małżeństwo z rozsądku/The Marriage of Convenience (1966, Stanisław Bareja)—as their dream self-portrait. In fact, however, the star image of Czyżewska, which the girls copied so willingly, was full of contradictions. It could not have been any other way since they were trying to merge communist propaganda with the influence of Western pop culture. This “magical synthesis” of opposite values, on the one hand, reinforced and consolidated the system, and on the other undermined and destabilised it.[13]

Czyżewska’s enthusiasm and charm were used to create the ideal “socialist object of desire”. This image was set to serve the ideology in two ways: firstly, they tried unsuccessfully to transform Czyżewska into a Soviet-style star; secondly, she embodied Polish-Soviet love when acting in Polish-Soviet romances. According to Oksana Bulgakova, female stars such as Lyubov Orlova in the Soviet Union “were burdened with the promotion of behaviours appropriate for men” (“crosswise identification”).[14] Female characters were considered both a visual attraction, the object of glances, and the active “ideal ego”. The splendour and charm typical of female characters in classical Hollywood cinema were in the Soviet cinema transformed into activity and social optimism, and sexual energy, as in classical sublimation, was translated to work. “Not being either a pin-up star, or Madonna, the star has to function as an energy engine, a stimulus to act”.[15] By analogy, Marysia from Giuseppe in Warsaw, a resistance activist for whom the Cause will stop at nothing, is unlike her brother Staszek, who does not care about the war at all. Both he and Giuseppe, a fugitive from the Italian army, are very good in the kitchen while the girl bravely fights the German enemy. Thus, both female and male spectators could identify with Czyżewska’s brave characters. As Iwona Kurz wrote, Czyżewska’s characters—Marysia from Giuseppe in Warsaw, Marusia from Where is the General? and Hanka from Wife for an Australian—fulfil the romantic model of “knight-lover who places his homeland above love”; however, this model in the new political situation was to serve the socialist education.[16]

Some films with Czyżewska that praised Polish-Soviet love by merging the national and sexual discourses had a propaganda function. In the melodrama Interrupted Flight, which is set in two periods, during WWII and 17 years later, her character, Urszula, falls in love with a Soviet pilot, Vovka, whom she gives a medallion—a valuable token of Polish national mythology. This prop becomes a symbolic confirmation of the friendly relations between the Poles and the Soviets. However, this friendship is clearly streaked by Polish inferiority: the educated and handsome Russian is an elegant pilot while “Sokół”, whom Urszula marries after the war, is a neglected postman-alcoholic who for years has hidden from his wife the letters from Vovka. The superiority of the Russians and the inferiority of the Poles are also visible in the comedy Where is the General?, in which the Pole is impulsive, carefree and likes to booze, while the Soviet female soldier, Marusia, is charming, hardworking and reliable. Even though the Pole calls her a “witch” and “gendarme worse than Hitler”, she will still love him. The film ends with their long kiss, which is observed with enthusiasm by the soldiers of both friendly armies.[17] It could seem that the Polish-Soviet alliance was written on the actress’s body.

Importantly, Marysia from Giuseppe in Warsaw, Marusia from Where is the General?, and Hanka from Wife for an Australian do not resemble the female “machines full of energy and optimism” from the Soviet films or Polish socialist realistic films. Paradoxically, they are closer to Doris Day’s “girls from the neighbourhood” who eagerly fulfil their duties. First, they fight the “parasites” in order to fall in love with them finally. For example in the film by Bareja, a rich Pole from Australia comes back home to buy a wife. However, Hanka, who he falls in love with, kidnaps, and holds prisoner in a villa (seen by Poles as a consumerist heaven), not only is not an easy trophy (intelligent, ironic, rational), but convinces the prodigal son to stay in Poland after the marriage. Initially, like Day’s characters, she is unsentimental and factual but later falls prey to the advances of the “erotically obsessed” “parasite”. She throws away the costume of the Mazowsze Group where she sings and transforms into a chic dame from a “bourgeois” film: low-cut fitted dress, white gloves, high heels, and a flower in her hair.

According to Miriam Hansen, the popularity of American cinema on foreign (Soviet) ground was not about “what these films showed, what they brought into optical consciousness, as it were, but the way they opened up hitherto unperceived modes of sensory perception and experience”[18]. The comedies with Czyżewska, these escapist and compensatory fantasies, proved to be so attractive for audiences not only because they offered an antidote to the sombreness of the period of “little stabilisation”, but also because they showed new energy, new corporeality and sensuality, provided guidelines how to be modern in the modernising (socialist) reality. Her girls recalled the emancipating “new woman” from the 30s, in the West symbolising “the deepest fears related to modernity”.[19] Marysia, Hanka, or Joanna from The Marriage of Convenience will initially find their emancipation as “modern women” in tight blouses and short skirts, in activity and freedom (mixing of sexual roles), in playing with their corporeality and sexuality. Marysia, in order to get the Italian’s gun, will not hesitate to use her sex appeal; hence, she is taken for a prostitute, first by Giuseppe and then by the Germans.

However, the authorities’ support for the image of “the queen of the 60s”[20]—to recall the words of Andrzej Łapicki—falls to pieces when Elżbieta Czyżewska marries an “American with a Pulitzer”. In April 1965, Halberstam published in The New York Times a text about common and state-supported anti-Semitism in Poland. A few months later the same newspaper published his article about Poland as an “exceptionally pro-Western” nation, about alienated Polish society and the communist party which “even 20 years after the war, when it was established in the country by the triumphant Red Army, is weak internally”.[21] The reactions were quick to come: texts condemning Halberstam first appeared in Kultura, Zycie Warszawy, Trybuna Ludu, and Stolica, and at the beginning of 1966 he was placed on the list of restricted persons. After her husband left, Czyżewska was questioned and continuously followed. In the end, the authorities decided that her stay in the country “was impossible”[22], even when she decided to divorce the journalist. In 1968, in order to act in Wszystko na sprzedaż/Everything for Sale (1968, Andrzej Wajda), Czyżewska came from the United States and became a victim of an anti-Semitic witch-hunt even before filming started.

In the press she was attacked as a “traitor” (“(…) why does our outstanding Polish actress betray our crucial, Polish interest?”[23]), as the wife of a “Jewish imperialist”, wife of the author of “horrible lampoons about our country” who “slandered (…) our nation”. Moreover, in April 1968 Włodzimierz Stępiński published an open letter to Andrzej Wajda in Walka Młodych demanding Czyżewska’s removal from his film.[24] “Disgusting” texts by Halberstam caused Halberstam himself to become “disgusting” and he later infected his wife, since what is “disgusting” is sticky and viscid.[25] Sara Ahmed argued, “to name something as disgusting (…) is a performative. (…) But to say something is disgusting is still to «make something»; it generates a set of effects, which then adhere as a disgusting object”.[26] Since the actress was called a “traitor” and was associated with what is “disgusting” (for the “Polish nation”), she had to recognise her social definition: “recognise her place in the position of subordination”.[27] It was precisely the refusal to accept this position of subordination from which Elka from Everything for Sale was born, a film in which Czyżewska—benefiting from the protection of the film’s fiction—“is” herself.

In Wajda’s film the actress acts like never before. She is hysterical, theatrical and at the same time authentic. As in the legendary scene of the dance at the banquet, in which she bites her lower lip and continues in lonely abandon. The director saw this dynamic dance at a Warsaw party—the dance being her “protest against the entire company—and decided to include it in his film.[28] This dance is a protest and “the intention of the protest is (…) «to disturb the spectacle» played, metaphorically speaking, on the main scene, to introduce to the field of vision the new performative language which disturbs and damages the previous one”.[29] Czyżewska’s performance, being an act of disobedience and insubordination, an act of freedom, can be seen as a narrative excess. It is delivered for the public gathered at a banquet (and in the screening room). The director emphasises the performance, on the one hand, by recording envious glances, faces and grimaces from the drawing room, and on the other, by using zooms—popular at the time—thanks to which the actress’s face can suddenly get closer (desire) and move away equally fast (rejection). The movement of the lens reflects something from the group’s reaction to Czyżewska’s unreserved expression: they revel in the fascinating and exciting images (“she looked great (…), at the time between the West [and] Poland there was a precipice, it came like from another world”[30]), and at the same time isolate, mock, exclude and stigmatise. Wajda’s film, obviously, does not mention “Halberstam’s case”, thanks to which the audience’s entire attention focuses on the film and theatre circles, since Czyżewska was ostracised long before she left Poland. As one Security Service informer reports, already in mid-1965 “in theatre all actors and employees surrounded her with a wall of condemnation. They do not speak about her otherwise than «this bitch»”.[31] Just as if Halberstam was merely a pretext for revenge for the fact that “she overshadowed (…) other actresses”.[32] Andrzej Wajda let her take symbolic revenge in his film. At dawn, a drunk and jolly elite goes on a carousel started by Elka. With satisfaction, she watches as the “artists” shout, curse, and then freeze like dummies. They become living corpses.

Due to the smear campaign in the press, even before the end of filming Everything for Sale, Czyżewska received a warrant to leave Poland immediately. What is more, at the airport she had to undergo a humiliating body search. She was treated as (transnational) waste expelled by the national body, excluded beyond its borders. She symbolised everything that in the period of the “March events” proved to be politically most suspected: she married an American of Jewish origin, thus becoming part of the anti-Zionist and anti-American obsessive propaganda of 1968. She also became suspicious as a symbol of a “modern girl”, which at the time had become politically involved, associated with the consumerist culture of the capitalist West (“the era of bust ended, (…) of bust according to Lollobrigida’s standards”, wrote a critic in Walka Młodych[33]). It is important that the attack on Czyżewska in Walka Młodych was preceded by the publication of the text Who we do not want to be, which mocked the Beautiful girls to the screens action and condemned the promoters of the “modern girl” notion. “Slowly, the criticism of misunderstood modernity”, wrote Małgorzata Fidelis, “transforms into an attack on intellectual and artistic elites which allegedly were responsible for the promotion of Western trends among the young”.[34] From here, it is only one step to the so-called anti-Zionist campaign since “similarly to the supporters of the modern girl, also the Polish Jews—the alleged Zionists plotting against the socialist Poland—were slandered (…) as agents of Western imperialism”.[35] In the image of the “modern girl”, nobody looked any more for what was socialist, but what was foreign and threatening for the socialist reality (consumerism and sex).

However, this no longer referred to Czyżewska. “Our” girl, who not long ago had embodied Polish-Soviet love, chose the West, “a Western imperialist”. We are dealing here with the “erotic betrayal of authority”. The authority seems to be a jealous lover who punishes the faithless for infidelity. It comes as no surprise when we realise what role the stars played in the Soviet Union where “the relation between the stars and authority were a part of the traditional patriarchal model”. Tatyana Okunevskaya and Zoya Fyodorova were sent to camps for flirting with foreigners. After the screening of Volga-Volga (1938), Stalin was to warn Grigori Aleksandrov, the director and husband of Orlova, “he will lose his head if anything happens to these legs”.[36] The legs of Orlova, of course. Jean Baudrillard in Seduction asks, “Is one only seeking to avenge the spell that the other exercises over you?”[37] Elżbieta Czyżewska had to pay for flirting with authority and the audience; the latter is always happy to watch the falls of those who charmed it.

The loss of aura

The American stage of Elżbieta Czyżewska’s career became sexualised and associated with destrudo. In the 60s, she offered the will to live, refreshing irony, and distance; however, since the 80s she has been associated solely with general decline, defeat, decomposition, and weakness. First, excess (of energy, talent, and success); later, a lack (of energy, talent, success). Her body—damaged by alcohol and drugs—is transformed both by the actress and by the audience of her shows into body-scandal, body-excess. Two memories illustrate this diagnosis well.

(1) In a documentary about Czyżewska, Aktorka/Actress (2015, Kinga Dębska, Maria Konwicka), Adam Holender describes an event that took place when she was still married to Halberstam: during a lavish party taking place at their house the actress “undressed completely in the kitchen and ran through the crowd of friends. Everybody was speechless. Everybody understood it since it was at the time in Vogue, but nobody knew that something like this could happen in a living room. David really enjoyed it”. From Holender’s perspective, we are not dealing with a non-conformist performance, but indecent albeit interesting excess. Excluded from acting, Czyżewska transforms her life in transgressive theatre; however, the living room—especially from a Polish perspective—is not an appropriate place to stage (and undress) oneself.

(2) The memories from the time when Czyżewska was already divorced are even more marked with sexuality on the one hand, and bourgeois indignation on the other:

She did things (…)—said Dorota Stalińska who met Czyżewska on set of Debiutantka/Debutante (1981, dir. Barbara Sass)—unworthy of a woman, actress, artist. Everybody froze with fear. And it was like this was what she wanted. She wanted to be the centre of attention at any price. Passionately stripping her wrinkled body in public (…). I was terribly embarrassed by this behaviour (…)[38].

Stalińska speaks about Czyżewska’s old “wrinkled” body even though the actress was only 43 at the time. The recollections of her compatriots about Czyżewska on emigration share one thing: embarrassment.[39] Shame is the reaction to her exhibitionism, her open corporeality. As in the scene from the banquet of Debutante: drunk architect Maria (played by Czyżewska) gives herself to a random man before the guests and Ewa, who is embarrassed for the woman, tries to separate them, causing Maria’s hysterical spasms and aggression. Monika Talarczyk-Gubała noticed that this scene resembles Elka’s rebellious dance from Everything for Sale (in Sass’s film, as in Wajda’s, the actress dances in the presence of the Master, played again by Andrzej Łapicki). That dynamic and rebellious performance, however, contained freedom and resistance, while here in the author’s opinion we are dealing only with “embarrassing masochism”. Wajda watched Elżbieta with admiration while Sass’s look is cold, ruthless, without a shadow of compassion.[40] It seems that this look is only full of sadistic satisfaction derived from exposing a female body, distorted in hysterical spasm, for public view (spectators during the banquet and in the screening room). However, Czyżewska’s performances in life and in the cinema cannot be easily frozen. Ignoring one’s embarrassment embarrasses the spectators (Holender, Stalińska, Ewa, the character in Debutante), imposing on the embarrassed woman the position of subordination (lascivious lunatic, alcoholic ending up in gutter, vulgar hysteric, etc.). Czyżewska’s performances might be an attempt to reverse the traumatising mechanisms of embarrassment. They may also be an attempt to turn the shame into power. As in the masturbation-related episode of the popular series Sex and the City (1999, Daniel Algrant), where Czyżewska played the role of a sexologist in her 60s lecturing by the sweat of her brow on the secrets of tantric sex, she masturbates her husband and the emancipated New Yorkers dutifully take notes.

Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick and Adam Frank, when analysing the works of Silvan Tomkins, noted that there is no shame and disgust without a positive, pleasant affection:

these affects produce bodily knowledges: disgust, as when spitting out bad-tasting food, recognizes the difference between inside and outside the body and what should and should not be let in; shame as precarious hyperreflexivity of the surface of the body can turn one inside out—or outside in.[41]

The affection of disgust and shame that were a reaction to Czyżewska’s transnational body emphasise the closeness of the body that was rejected, “vomited”. According to Sara Ahmed, vomiting “involves expelling something that has already been digested, and hence incorporated into the body of the one who feels disgust”.[42] This mechanism characterises well the encounters between her compatriots and Czyżewska in New York: from closeness to distance. What was close becomes problematic, unsafe, disgusting. Hence, one has to move away. As did Janusz Głowacki after the Broadway success of the play Hunting Cockroaches on which he worked with Czyżewska; Agnieszka Osiecka after publication of White Blouse inspired by her letters; Joanna Pacuła and—a moment later—Yurek Bogayevicz.

Nobody doubted that the title character of Anna (1987) by Bogayevicz “was” Elżbieta Czyżewska. Neither the film’s scriptwriter, Agnieszka Holland, the actress’s friends (“the main character is exactly like Elżbieta”[43]), the author of The Real “Anna”: The Truth Behind the Hit Film, nor Czyżewska herself admitted that the director “stole her life”.[44] The actress told Bogayevicz the story of her meeting with Joanna Pacuła, and he promised her that she would play the lead role in the film based on this story. Czyżewska was probably hoping to repeat and expand the strategy from Everything for Sale: again, she would be herself before the camera. The director, however, quickly backed out of his promise, casting Sally Kirkland as the main character who won the Golden Globe for this role and an Oscar nomination.[45] She plays the former greatest star of the communist Czechoslovakia, Anna, who played in almost all films produced there. However, in New York, where she went—or in fact, like Czyżewska, was forced to go in 1968—nobody remembers her former successes. This situation is quickly noticed by a young Czechoslovakian actress, Krystyna, who goes there without money or a place to stay, but with Anna’s photos from the times of her greatness. The latter, living in a tenement house in Manhattan and playing episodes on Broadway, takes the girl in and helps her find her way in this new reality. Krystyna quickly becomes successful, “borrowing” Anna’s dramatic life story (childhood in orphanage, political reasons for emigration, etc.) as well as her boyfriend.[46]

The film mostly seems important due to one short, surprising, and disturbing scene. After Krystyna’s “betrayal”, the disappointed and frustrated Anna appears in the cinema in mourning clothes: a black scarf on her head and dark glasses hiding her tearful eyes. In the cinema, the atmosphere is quite different: they are just showing a comedy with Anna in the lead (a black and white film that seems to be stylised on Where is the General?). The woman confronts her own reflection, as if she were looking in the mirror, and she cannot take her eyes off the screen. The location of the projector, audience and screen, the darkness in the screening room and the stream of moving images cause the spectator to fall “into a trance-like state”[47]. Anna is enchanted by what she sees. She identifies with her own (lost) reflection, and this is a source of narcissistic pleasure. “She dissolves” in the image because this image allows her to retrieve her own subjectivity which was taken from her, appropriated by another actress. The body of Anna-the-spectator that is reflected on screen (idealised) gives a settling sense of calm and safety; however, this affective moment does not last long. From the state of illusion—a narcissistic trance caused by the soothing images—the protagonist is woken by the sight of her huge face (close-up) eaten by fire. The narration freezes, and we, the spectators, watch the frightened face of the actress and her celluloid, disappearing copy. Especially disturbing is a brief—as from a horror film—close-up of the actress’s silent scream, as if she were already dead.[48] This is the moment of the dramatic crack: Anna, who is still looking for mirror reflections, her own doppelgangers (Krystyna being one, the one who managed to escape), thought she had found herself again in the cinema (narcissistic satisfaction). However, the reflection on the screen appears to be a phantom, an apparition that disappears at the same time, thereby revealing the emptiness.

“At the height of her success in Poland the actress stopped being «Elżbieta Czyżewska»”, wrote a critic in Film.[49] Bogayevicz aptly caught what was the essence of her American period: the loss of star aura and the refusal to accept it, already indicated in Everything for Sale. The greatest star of the Polish cinema of the 60s says directly to the camera, “Why nobody loves me? (…) Let everybody love me”. In Wajda’s film, however, we see the star’s splendour, but in Bogayevicz’s only despair. In the both nostalgic and sadistic cinema scene from Anna there is, on one hand, satisfaction, pleasure, and happiness stemming from peregrinations on time lost, and on the other, pain, alienation, lack, and loss. Unfortunately, no magical process of finding oneself, coming back to oneself, is going to take place here. The actress’s celluloid face consumed by fire symbolises the end of her star aura, and the close-up of her silent scream helps to “arrest time’s flow on the edge of its waterfall’s onrush to trauma”.[50] Richard Dyer, in analysing Judy Garland’s loss of glamour that constituted her image, noted that this loss means defeat, primarily in playing one’s sexual role, in the field of femininity.[51] For that reason, perhaps, Elżbieta Czyżewska “needed to feel a star [so much]. She had to know that she had been a star in Poland”[52], even though in her own country—as a journalist of The New York Times wrote after her death—she was not welcome.[53] The national body transformed into a transnational one, which does not accept the position of subordination imposed on it by its compatriots, becomes disgusting in order to become expelled beyond the borders of the national community. Thus, the transnational body becomes marked as anti-body even though—or maybe because—not long ago it was worshipped and loved.

Translated by Amalia Woźna

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Kurz Iwona, “Między chrztem a samospaleniem. «Teatra polskie» drugiej połowy lat sześćdziesiątych” / “Between baptism and self-immolation. «Polish theatres» of the second half of the sixties”, Didaskalia 126 (2015).

Kurz Iwona, Twarze w tłumie. Wizerunki bohaterów wyobraźni zbiorowej w kulturze polskiej lat 1955-1969 / Faces in the crowd. Images of the collective imagination protagonists in the Polish culture of 1955-1959, (Warszawa: Świat Literacki) (2005).

Mazierska Ewa, “Train to Hollywood: Polish Actresses in Foreign Films”, in: Polish Cinema in a Transnational Context, ed. Ewa Mazierska and Michael Goddard (Rochester-New York: University of Rochester Press) (2014).

McHugh Kathleen, „The World and the Soup: Historicizing Media Feminisms in Transnational Contexts”, Camera Obscura 24: 3 (2009).

Negra Diane, Off-White Hollywood. American Culture and Ethnic Female Stardom, (London-New York: Routledge) (2001).

Skwara Anita, “Film Stars Do Not Shine in the Sky Over Poland. The Absence of Popular Cinema in Poland”, in: Popular European Cinema, ed. Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau (London: Routledge) (1992).

Stępiński Włodzimierz, “Do reżysera Andrzeja Wajdy list otwarty” / “An open letter to the director Andrzej Wajda”, Kwartalnik Filmowy 6 (1994).

Szarłat Aleksandra, Celebryci z tamtych lat. Prywatne życie wielkich gwiazd PRL-u / Celebrities of the past. Private lives of great stars in PPR, (Kraków: Znak) (2014).

Talarczyk-Gubała Monika, Wszystko o Ewie. Filmy Barbary Sass a kino kobiet w drugiej połowie XX wieku / All about Eve. Barbara Sass’s films and women’s cinema in the 2nd half of the XX century, (Szczecin: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Uniwersytetu Szczecińskiego) (2013).

Wajda Andrzej, Autobiografia. Kino i reszta świata / Autobiography. Cinema and the rest of the world, (Kraków: Znak) (2013).

Weber Bruce, “Elzbieta Czyzewska, Polish Actress Unwelcome in Her Own Country, Diesat 72”, The New York Times 10.06.2010, http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/18/arts/18czyz.html?_r=0,dateaccessed: 21 March 2016.

Notes

[1] See Anita Skwara, “Film Stars Do Not Shine in the Sky Over Poland. The Absence of Popular Cinema in Poland”, in: Popular European Cinema, ed. Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau (London: Routledge, 1992), pp. 220-231; Iwona Kurz, Twarze w tłumie. Wizerunki bohaterów wyobraźni zbiorowej w kulturze polskiej lat 1955-1969 / Faces in the crowd. Images of the collective imagination protagonists in the Polish culture of 1955-1959, (Warszawa: Świat Literacki) (2005); Ewa Mazierska, “Train to Hollywood: Polish Actresses in Foreign Films”, in: Polish Cinema in a Transnational Context, ed. Ewa Mazierska and Michael Goddard (Rochester-New York: University of Rochester Press, 2014), pp. 153-173.

[2] Zbigniew Cybulski, “W stronę gwiazd” / “Towards the stars”, interview by Stanisław Janicki, Kino 1 (1966), p. 47.

[3] Iza Komendołowicz, Elka, (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie) (2012), p. 149.

[4] Ibidem, p. 87.

[5] Oksana Bulgakova, “Gwiazdy i władza” / “Stars and authority”, trans. Tadeusz Szczepański, Kwartalnik Filmowy 49-50 (2005), p. 49.

[6] Elizabeth Ezra, Terry Rowden, “General Introduction: What is Transnational Cinema?”, in: Transnational Cinema: The Film Reader, ed. Elizabeth Ezra and Terry Rowden (New York: Routledge, 2006); Kathleen McHugh, „The World and the Soup: Historicizing Media Feminisms in Transnational Contexts”, Camera Obscura 24: 3 (2009), pp. 111-151; Will Higbee, Song Hwee Lim, „Concepts of Transnational Cinema: Towards a Critical Transnationalism in Film Studies”, Transnational Cinemas 1:1 (2010), pp. 7-21.

[7] Diane Negra, Off-White Hollywood. American Culture and Ethnic Female Stardom, (London-New York: Routledge) (2001), pp. 55-83; Dale Hudson, “Just Play Yourself, «Maggie Cheung»: Irma Vep, Rethinking Transnational Stardom and Unthinking National Cinemas”, Screen 47:2 (2006), pp. 213-232.

[8] Iwona Kurz, Twarze w tłumie…, pp. 119-126.

[9] Małgorzata Fidelis, “Czy jesteś nowoczesną dziewczyną? Młode Polki a kultura konsumpcyjna w latach 60.” / “Are You a Modern Girl? Consumer Culture and Young Women in 1960s Poland”, trans. Anna Rogulska, Teksty Drugie 2 (2015), p. 306, 321.

[10] According to Iwona Kurz, the term “girl” was commonly used in everyday speech in the 50s. This word drove out the more popular terms as “miss” or “friend” (Iwona Kurz, Twarze w tłumie…, p. 125).

[11] Ibidem, p. 119.

[12] Małgorzata Fidelis, pp. 303-306.

[13] Richard Dyer wrote about the Hollywood “star system” that the star images recalling the social meanings and values reveal, solve, integrate or disguise the ideological contradictions present in a given society and culture (Richard Dyer, Stars, (New York: Palgrave Macmillan) (1998), pp. 20-32).

[14] Oksana Bulgakova, p. 47.

[15] Ibidem, p. 56.

[16] Iwona Kurz, Twarze w tłumie …, p. 139, 142.

[17] Allegedly Elżbieta Czyżewska was ashamed to have appeared in this film (Iza Komendołowicz, p. 143).

[18] Miriam Bratu Hansen, “The mass production of the senses: classical cinema as vernacular modernism”, in: Reinventing Film Studies, ed. Christine Gledhill and Linda Williams (London: Arnold, 2000), p. 344.

[19] Małgorzata Fidelis, p. 321.

[20] Iza Komendołowicz, p. 30.

[21] Filip Gańczak, Filmowcy w matni bezpieki / The filmmakers in the snare of the Security Service, (Warszawa: Prószyński i S-ka) (2011), p. 75.

[22] Ibidem, p. 88.

[23] Aleksandra Szarłat, Celebryci z tamtych lat. Prywatne życie wielkich gwiazd PRL-u / Celebrities of the past. Private lives of great stars in PPR, (Kraków: Znak) (2014), p. 272.

[24] Włodzimierz Stępiński, “Do reżysera Andrzeja Wajdy list otwarty” / “An open letter to the director Andrzej Wajda”, Kwartalnik Filmowy 6 (1994), p. 225 (Walka Młodych 14.04.1968, p. 1, 10).

[25] According to Sara Ahmed “it is not that an object we might encounter is inherently disgusting; rather, an object becomes disgusting through its contact with other objects that have already, as it were, been designated as disgusting before the encounter has taken place” (Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press) (2004), p. 87).

[26] Ibidem, p. 93.

[27] “We do things with language, produce effects with language, (…). Language is (…) both «what» we do (…), the act and its consequences” (Judith Butler, Excitable Speech. A Politics of the Performative, (New York-London: Routledge) (1997), p. 8).

[28] Andrzej Wajda, Autobiografia. Kino i reszta świata / Autobiography. Cinema and the rest of the world, (Kraków: Znak) (2013), p. 119.

[29] Iwona Kurz, “Między chrztem a samospaleniem. «Teatra polskie» drugiej połowy lat sześćdziesiątych” /  “Between baptism and self-immolation. «Polish theatres» of the second half of the sixties”, Didaskalia 126 (2015), p. 4.

[30] Iza Komendołowicz, pp. 222-223.

[31] Filip Gańczak, p. 63.

[32] Ibidem, s. 71.

[33] “Jakimi nie chcemy być” / “What we do not want to be”, Walka Młodych 28.01.1968, p. 8. Quoted after: Małgorzata Fidelis, p. 318.

[34] Małgorzata Fidelis, p. 318.

[35] Ibidem.

[36] Oksana Bulgakova, p. 56.

[37] Jean Baudrillard, Seduction, trans. Brian Singer, (Montréal: New World Perspectives) (1990), p. 124.

[38] Iza Komendołowicz, p. 235.

[39] Meryl Streep who – as a student – performed with her in Demons directed by Andrzej Wajda sees a completely different shade of Czyżewska’s excesses: “this creature [Czyżewska] seemed to me the most fascinating woman I have ever met. She had this European style that I have not known since I grew up in New Jersey. This was femininity aware of itself, truly seductive (…), a style unknown to women in the 70s.” (soundtrack from the film Actress).

[40] Monika Talarczyk-Gubała, Wszystko o Ewie. Filmy Barbary Sass a kino kobiet w drugiej połowie XX wieku / All about Eve. Barbara Sass’s films and women’s cinema in the 2nd half of the XX century, (Szczecin: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Uniwersytetu Szczecińskiego) (2013), pp. 193-198.

[41] Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Adam Frank, „Shame in the Cybernetic Fold: Reading Silvan Tomkins”, in: Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Touching Feeling. Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity, (Durham-London: Duke University Press) (2003), p. 116.

[42] Sara Ahmed, p. 94.

[43] Iza Komendołowicz, p. 198.

[44] Ellen Hopkins, “The Real Anna: The Truth Behind the Hit Film”, New York Magazine 4.01.1988, pp. 24-29.

[45] According to Agnieszka Holland, Czyżewska herself was the reason why “this film could not have been done with her.” She behaved like Anna, she was self-destructive, aggressive, plunging into an alcohol delirium, as if aware that “the film was stealing her life” (Iza Komendołowicz, p. 269).

[46] Joanna Pacuła already in 1983, i.e. only one year after coming to New York played the lead role – thanks to Roman Polański’s recommendation – in Gorky Park (1983, Michael Apted) for which she was nominated for the Golden Globe. Those who witnessed the meeting between these two actresses claim that “Elżbieta was jealous, mainly because Pacuła was young, very energetic and quickly successful” (Ibidem, p. 198).

[47] Thomas Elsaesser, Malte Hagener, Film Theory. An Introduction through the senses, (New York-London: Routledge) (2010), p. 68.

[48] Paul Coates wrote about the relation between the close-up and suffering: “[…] the close-up, whose most common form picks out the face, isolates as suffering does” (Paul Coates, Screening the Face, (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan) (2012), p. 46).

[49] Krzysztof Demidowicz, “Elżbieta Czyżewska: kochana niekochana” / “Elżbieta Czyżewska: loved unloved”, Film 6 (2001), p. 93.

[50] P. Coates, p. 52.

[51] Richard Dyer, Heavenly Bodies. Film Stars and Society, (London-New York: Routledge) (2004), p. 163.

[52] Statement of Kinga Dębska comes from the materials promoting the documentary she co-directed: “Actress”. The premiere of the film “Actress” (documentary about Elżbieta Czyżewska), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uLPPAMFyBNM,dateaccessed 21 March 2016.

[53] Bruce Weber, “Elzbieta Czyzewska, Polish Actress Unwelcome in Her Own Country, Diesat 72”, The New York Times 10.06.2010, http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/18/arts/18czyz.html?_r=0,dateaccessed: 21 March 2016.

[i] The paper was delivered during the international conference Polish cinema as a transnational cinema organised by the Department of the History of Polish Cinema at the Institute of Audiovisual Arts of Jagiellonian University (Kraków, 26-28 November 2015). The article in its extended version will be published in the volume edited by Magdalena Podsiadło and Sebastian Jagielski (Universitas 2017).

Sebastian Jagielski is an assistant professor of Film Studies at the Institute of Audiovisual Arts at Jagiellonian University. He is the author of Maskarady męskości. Pragnienie homospołeczne w polskim kinie fabularnym/Masquerades of Masculinity. Homosocial Desire in Polish Cinema (Kraków, 2013), and co-editor of the volume Ciało i seksualność w kinie polskim/Body and Sexuality in Polish Cinema (Kraków, 2009). His papers have been published e.g. in Studies in European Cinema, Studies in Eastern European Cinema, and Kwartalnik Filmowy. His research focuses on Polish cinema, queer cultures, queer theory, affect film theory, and star studies.

 

Transnational Bodies of Yogis: A Flow from Analogue Photography to Social Media

Bilge Gölge

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2016, vol.1, no. 2, pp. 90-99.

Bilge Gölge

Bilkent University

 

Transnational Bodies of Yogis: A Flow from Analogue Photography to Social Media

 

Abstract

In the initial stages of “modern, transnational yoga”, the image of the Indian yogi in a yoga pose became an effective medium for introducing the discipline to Western society. Due to this, the Indian subject began to be spoken about in terms of “showmanship”[1]. At the same time, yoga began interacting with the practices of Western gym culture. Subsequent to the impact of photography, the emergence of the Internet and digital photography have created a different approach to yoga by practitioners. At the end of the historical process of modern postural yoga’s development, we encounter modern Western individuals who today utilize yoga as a way to present themselves through visual materials again, but in a digital space and different cultural context. In this paper, I present the historical evolution of yoga practices in Western society to reveal the re-contextualization of yoga as a transnational concept. Moreover, I question how transnational yoga became a means for modern individuals to present their identity in the context of social media. Here, the body is used as a means for both constituting a social dialogue and communicating self-identity. Even if these two subjects have different approaches towards yoga, Indian showmen and the modern yogi still have commonalities regarding the “show” in a Goffmanian sense[2]. To investigate the transformation of yoga and highlight similarities and differences due to both technological changes and the dominance of visuality in culture, Instagram is an appropriate platform, as it claims to connect people via images. Drawing from a visual analysis of Instagram posts and a comparison of the bodily practices contained within them against publicly available images of the first yogis in the West, bodily representations are interpreted in the re-contextualized setting of modern society.

Key words: yoga, yogi, self-presentation, transnational body, photography, social media

Introduction

 As a physical discipline in the modern fitness culture of the West, yoga has been welcomed around the world and appreciated by the masses for its benefits to people’s lives since the early nineteenth century. Due to this growing popularity, the International Day of Yoga was adopted on the 21st June 2015 in a declaration by the UN General Assembly. The event was organized with the co-sponsorship of a record number of 175 nations. Narendra Modi, the Prime Minister of India, proposed this Indian-led initiative, which is now celebrated all over the world, and the United Nations responded by emphasizing yoga’s “global benefits” in terms of individuals’ health and well-being[3].

Along with the widespread embracement of yoga by various cultures, regardless of diversified traditions, customs, religions, or geographic regions, the interaction between this Indian discipline and the West makes it worth investigating as a transnational concept, as it is influenced by global flows of knowledge disseminated through modern visual technologies. While there are a variety of types of yoga, postural yoga—a popular physical activity based on bodily practices—is the focus of this paper. Instead of meditation-based branches of yoga, non-religious yoga practice has been chosen for examination since it is prevalent in contemporary society today. Although spiritual aspects of yoga are promoted in the public eye, common practice in the West suggests that yoga’s increased popularity is due to the physical activity involved and the fact that it offers an enjoyable way of spending free time. Iyengar[4], who is one of the most well-known yoga gurus in the world, offered the definition of yoga that states that it is not a religion, but is intended for personal growth and physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual balance. While the religious roots of this Indian discipline are not ignored, the concerns of this paper are limited to styles of yoga based on asana, yoga posture, and physical techniques for physical and mental health of individuals. The flexibility of postural yoga has made it suitable for a multitude of social settings, as proven by the celebration of Yoga Day in 175 countries.

Here, digital photography of yogi Instagram users was analysed to identify yoga as a means of presenting self-identity in the digital realm. Through this presentation, the body becomes the focus and the modern subject uses social media and Instagram to live out their yogic self online. To investigate the bodily representations, the data was obtained from Instagram posts of Western yogis and the mass-distributed images of the first yogis in the West. According to Gillian Rose[5], images cannot speak for themselves: they must be analysed in a specific context in order to be meaningful. Therefore, it was important to consider the visual material in relation to the historical and social settings in which they were produced. Appropriately, the data was interpreted in terms of its content and the composition of the photographic images. Furthermore, understanding how users experienced the visual technologies as they developed over time is important in social research[6]. Hence, the photography’s discursive construction was examined, focusing on medium-specific features of magazines with early image production technologies, and social network services in the era of digital photography. It is also worth noting that the term yogi refers to male yoga practitioners, whereas yogini is used for female practitioners. To avoid repetition, the term “yogi” is used here for yoga practitioners, regardless of gender. Furthermore, “asana”, which means yoga pose or posture, is used throughout this paper for yoga moves in a sequence synchronized with breathing exercises[7].

Yoga as a Transnational Practice

 Stemming from the Sanskrit word yuj, the literal meaning of yoga corresponds to the English “unite”, which is interpreted as uniting body and mind[8]. Since the late 19th century, yoga—with its diverse set of rules— has preoccupied Western society; from the techniques of hatha yoga, which has become a generic term for yoga based on physical posture, to vinyasa yoga, which is based on a sequence of yoga moves. While “every group in every age has created its own version and vision of yoga”[9], its benefits on health and emotional stability have been manifested in dominant discourse.

As opposed to the common understanding of yoga in terms of its ancient roots and spiritual references, the modern postural yoga that we encounter today in the United States and European countries has a history of around 150 years[10]. Based on the works of Mark Singleton, one can affirm that what is practiced outside of India today should be viewed in relation to international gym culture. Concurrent with the proliferation of yoga in the West, it has continued to interact with contemporary physical practices. At the end of this historical process, society encountered yoga as a transnational product. It is a result of the colonial process while India was under British rule, nationalist movements in which yoga was used as a means for Indian identity, and finally global influences that are very powerful in forming modern yoga through increased mobility and developed communication technologies[11]. However, rather than being linear, the formation and re-formation of postural yoga has been influenced by increasing mobility in the modern world. Jain explains this, stating:

… (Yoga) does not move from India to Europe and North America, but rather moves back and forth among a plurality of spaces, resulting in multifarious forms that are perpetually constructed and reconstructed anew to adapt to new discourses, demands, and trends in the modern yoga market[12].

In the contemporary era, yoga is instrumentalized for Westerners’ self-presentation in a different cultural context. This time, beyond the offline lives of the individuals, the digital realm provides a Goffmanian stage for the yogic self. Especially on profile-based Social Network Services (SNSs) such as Instagram, the yogi portrays a different self than the one lived out by the Indian yoga gurus of the 20th century. Yet, the yogi still presents relevant aspects of her/his identity through the utilization of visual material whose aim is to influence the viewer’s impression. The self-identity in question appears in connection with consumption preferences regarding the yogic lifestyle, which is conveyed via specific sign equipment. Erving Goffman explains sign equipment as the tools that people employ for presenting themselves to others. These tools include the social setting of the communication, manner, and appearances, and allow individuals to sustain their performances during social interaction.[13]. For instance, healthy dietary habits are often shown on Instagram galleries and being a “vegetarian yogi” or “vegan yogi” is indicated in the biography section on Instagram. Leisure time activities and yoga outfits are also used as sign equipment for the construction of self-identity in the digital realm. After all, it is important to point out that all the choices framed in posted shots have a connection with the yoga body of yogis.

Regardless of the period of transnational yoga, the body has become the focus of the visual narrativization of yogic-identity and asana, or yoga postures; it has been used as a means of transmitting the messages beyond the physical practice itself. In addition to periodic differences and the characteristics of yogis, the yoga body has been portrayed within the bounds of the technology of its era. In this paper, I will investigate two periods of modern postural yoga and provide a comparison between yoga as self-representation by a post-colonial subject and self-actualization of the late-modern individual.

Here, Goffman’s dramaturgical approach provides a frame for explaining what the yoga body corresponds to on Instagram. Subsequent to the impact of photography, the emergence of the Internet and digital photography created a new relationship with yoga that has still some commonalities with the portrayal in a Goffmanian understanding. Instagram is an appropriate platform for investigating and comparing this transformation due both to technological changes and the superiority of visual imagery in contemporary communication as it claims to connect people via images that create stories.

By considering bodily practices of yoga (asanas) and their relation to cultural health and strength training trends beyond India, I attempt to provide a deeper understanding of how the yogi body conveys certain aspects of the performer’s identity from the past to today. Although the context and the motives have changed over time, I suggest that the visual presentation and dominance of viewing are effective for both the communication process of the yogi as well as the formation of transnational yoga.

The Subject of Yoga in the Age of Photography

 In the historical process, the nineteenth century appears as a breaking point in terms of the transformation of yoga into a global case. Several studies on the history of modern yoga suggest that yoga was a spiritual, male-dominated local discipline before it started to be re-formed through European influences; it subsequently evolved into a physical practice that appeals to both men and women and has become a secular and transnational phenomenon[14].

Especially in the second half of the 19th century, yoga was liberated from its traditional Indian context; after its interaction with other physical cultures such as Scandinavian gymnastics, a new phenomenon, which I refer to as modern postural yoga in this paper, entered the modern world’s stage. Mass production and distribution of images from India to Europe and United States were highly influential in bringing yoga to the West. Trips by yoga gurus to other parts of the world and the transmission of visual material via magazines, photographs and even films, led to transnational yoga becoming an issue to be considered beyond the context of India. In other words, it changed discourses in the international realm, re-contextualizing what yoga signifies. However, I would first like to explain the migration of yoga to the Western world, followed by a demonstration of what postural yoga portrays on today’s digital platforms, especially in the case of Instagram.

Turning back to the initial phases of modern yoga, the Indian post-colonial subject started to discuss his/her (mainly his) identity through yoga with the goal of presenting a national identity based on physical capability[15]. At this point, the development of photography enabled them to present their imaged bodies to the world. These mass distributed images made the introduction of modern transnational yoga to Western society possible, while Indian showmanship focused on the exotic and acrobatic Indian body, drawing attention to a discipline which was supposed to be an ancient tradition[16].

From colonial influences on Indian society to the revival of a national subject, yoga grew into an asana-based physical practice that took place in Western fitness culture, while the spiritual aspect of yoga has disappeared. In the modern era, national ideals have influenced the physical attributes of yoga to show strength and the vigour of the Indian man. In the past, yogis were not welcomed by society, rather, they were viewed as beggars or unwanted people. Freed from this pressure through a change in attitude, a new wave of physical culture appeared. When images from the period are examined, the man in a challenging yoga pose reflects a claim of Indian competence. On one hand, yoga is a means of supporting Indian ideals, which are the strength of the national subject and supremacy of the country’s tradition. On the other hand, as in international gymnastics, showmanship is practiced at the same time.

The case of Krishnamacharya is a good illustration of how an Indian man freed from British rule presented a performance to Western audience with intriguing bodily dispositions. This yoga guru, who was also the trainer of Iyengar—one of the best-known yogis in the world—introduced a yoga based on asanas that was similar to gymnastic exercises and aerobic moves. Yet, it is still unique as the embodiment of the authentic East in Western societal perception. In addition to still images, a few videos display him surprising and entertaining audiences with extraordinary poses. These depictions of him with some poses, such as Adho Mukha Vrksasana (handstand), Shirshasana (headstand) or Vrschikasana (scorpion) made him popular. Today, the videos of Krishnamacharya on YouTube have been watched more than 150,000 times.

fig 1 Golge

Figure  1: Krishnamacharya in a yoga pose (photo source: Wikipedia)

As illustrated in Figure 1, Krishnamachary’s pose bears a resemblance to contemporary yoga asanas. Here, the pose reflects both the strength and flexibility of a yoga body. Thinking in the context of the early periods of the 19th century, one can understand how surprising and—in a certain sense—entertaining this was for Europeans and North Americans.

The Yoga Body on the Social Network Stage

 In the age of social media, the medium for displaying yoga poses has changed and transformed from photography to digital tools and visual signs. In Instagram’s case, its medium is its megadata, which is constituted by still or moving images, text, and hashtags. Today, the Western subject itself has become a figure of spectacle. However, the body has remained central in visual communication, even in a re-contextualized sense in which publicly distributed images of yogis of different societies represent various narratives in their own contexts.

fig 2 Golge

Figure  2: An Instagram post of a handstand pose (courtesy of account owner)

Although its spiritual aspects are underlined and almost caricaturized in the public eye, yoga’s increasing popularity and common practice in the Western world are related to free-time physical activities. Within the context of late-modernity, it can be said that yoga is a physical discipline that is associated with identities and lifestyles. Accordingly, individuals faced with daily complexity due to a plurality of choices consistently construct their identities in relation to consumer culture[17]. Drawing on the definition of lifestyle sport[18], yoga practitioners “identify themselves through recognizable styles, bodily dispositions, expressions and attitudes, which they design into a distinctive lifestyle and a particular social identity”. In other words, yoga’s connotations with certain ways of living reflect the characteristics of late-modern society and its efformation of a subject that is flexible, fleeting, and self-reflexive. Furthermore, the influence of the consumption-oriented disposition is seen in the subject formation in question.

As a way of self-actualization, yogis and yoginis share similar experiences that tie their bodily practices to non-physical attributes (but again by utilizing ‘tangible’ or ‘visible’ tools) in terms of a holistic physical culture. Asanas communicate a way for self-actualization and, as Giddens states, the modern yogi presents his/her social-self agency during his/her daily life [19]. Handstands (see figure 2), for instance, are an indication of the physical and mental strength of the individual, while a personal message is represented via an unusual bodily practice. Flexibility, openness, and being at peace with himself/herself are other examples of characteristics yogis emphasize about themselves on Instagram.

In the context of late-modern society and the culture of connectivity,[20] yoga practitioners from Western societies use Instagram galleries to feed their identity construction and share emphasized characteristics of themselves via digital images. In their posts, where they can be seen standing on their hands or heads, wearing yoga pants, or on a yoga mat, these people publicly exhibit more individualistic performances compared to their Indian predecessors.

Many of the posts are supported by the composition of visual elements, hashtags, and tags that provide a relevant personal message about the yogis. These are specific characteristics in the contemporary case. Since the current technological possibilities enable yogis to produce and share these images instantly, and the hegemony of visuality in society forms the presentation in question, the yogi Instagrammers have a direct focus on visibility. When patterns of Instagram use are analysed, it is clear that the motive is to reach as large an audience as possible. For this reason, even though both context and content have changed, the “show” continues to be performed.

By viewing popular yogis on Instagram, we can say with some certainty that handstands, headstands, or other acrobatic poses still draw the public’s attention, likely influenced by the display-like Indian showmen. However, compared to the early period of modern postural yoga, we now see Western subjects and find individualistic messages about their self-identities. At this juncture, the presentation of the yogi self suggests a spectacle in the Debordian sense. Defined as the manipulation of the visual world to enforce late-capitalism’s expectations of the individual, the spectacle can be observed in the late-modern periods of yoga, in particular on the digital stage. “Spectacular representations”[21] of the yogis intercommunicate with experiences commodified through consumption-related preferences. Accordingly, the yogic identity in question is communicated by mixing different elements of everyday life, and auto-narratives are re-created for maintaining the self-presentation according to the conditions of contemporary consumer culture. In this self-communication, yoga appears as a means for a reflexively constructed self-identity of the late-modern subject.

Conclusion

 In conclusion, it can be said that modern postural yoga is a transnational phenomenon that arose from the interaction of the Indian original with colonial, nationalist, and global forces. Since its introduction outside of India, followers of yoga have reached an extensive number worldwide. Currently, its state reflects a new setting and context for the performances of yogis. Within the present social media environment, including Instagram, yoga has become related to both prevalent use of the online platform as a spectacle and its potential for supporting yogi self-actualization.

Because the visual medium has changed, the importance of keeping the performances updated and connecting asanas to more authentic meanings such as being physically and mentally strong has risen. This is achieved by supporting photography with texts on SNSs; in this way, transnational yoga is constantly being formed.

Drawing from visual analysis on Instagram posts of selected account owners and comparison of their bodily practices with the analogue photography of the first yogis in the West, there is ample support for the claim that the yoga body is a means for sustaining a display for social interaction and communicating self-identity, both in the past as well as today. However, it seems that due to changes in display, the concept has been transformed into a transnational phenomenon of the cultures with which yoga has interacted. Consequently, we can claim that modern postural yoga is a product of both the health and fitness system of the West, as well as original Indian tradition, and distributed by means of analogue images or smart phones.

 

References:

Andrea R. Jain, „The Dual-Ideal of the Ascetic and Healthy Body: The Jain Terapanth and Modern Yoga in the Context of Late Capitalism”, Nova Religio 15:3 (2012), pp.29-50.

Anthony Giddens, Modernity and self-identity: Self and society in the late-modern age, (Cambridge, Polity Press) (1991). p.57.

Belinda Wheaton, „Introducing the consumption and representation of lifestyle sports”, Sports in Society, 13:7-8 (2010), pp. 1057-1081.

David Gordon White, Yoga in Practice, (Princeton: Princeton University Press) (2012), pp. 2-22.

Definition of Yoga, http://yoga.org.nz/what-is-yoga/yoga_definition.htm, date accessed 1 November 2016.

Erving Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, (University of Edinburgh, Social Sciences Research Center). (1959).

Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle, (Detroit, Black & Red Publications) (1970).

Jeff Ferrell, Keith J. Hayward, Jock Young, Cultural Criminology, (London: SAGE Publications Ltd.) (2008).

Gillian Rose, Visual Methodologies; An Introduction To The Interpretation Of Visual Materials, (London: Sage). (2001).

International Day of Yoga, http://www.un.org/en/events/yogaday/background.shtml, date accessed 5 August 2016.

Bellur Krishnamachar Sundararaja Iyengar, The Tree of Yoga: Yoga Vka, (Shambhala Publications) (1989).

Mark Singleton, Yoga Body: The Origins of Modern Posture Practice, (Oxford University Press) (2010).

Sarah Pink, Doing Ethnography: Images, Media and Representation in Research, (London: Sage) (2001).

Sarah Strauss, „The Master’s Narrative: Swami Sivananda and the Transnational Production of Yoga”, Journal of Folklore Research, 39:2/3 (2002), pp. 217-241.

 

Notes

[1] Mark Singleton, Yoga Body: The Origins of Modern Posture Practice, (Oxford University Press) (2010).

[2] Erving Goffman, The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, (University of Edinburgh, Social Sciences Research Center). (1959).

[3] International Day of Yoga, http://www.un.org/en/events/yogaday/background.shtml, date accessed 5 August 2016.

[4] Bellur Krishnamachar Sundararaja Iyengar, The Tree of Yoga: Yoga Vka, (Shambhala Publications) (1989).

[5] Gillian Rose, Visual Methodologies; An Introduction To The Interpretation Of Visual Materials, (London: Sage). (2001).

[6] Sarah Pink, Doing Ethnography: Images, Media and Representation in Research, (London: Sage) (2001).

[7] Andrea R. Jain, „The Dual-Ideal of the Ascetic and Healthy Body: The Jain Terapanth and Modern Yoga in the Context of Late Capitalism”, Nova Religio 15:3 (2012), pp.29-50.

[8] Definition of Yoga, http://yoga.org.nz/what-is-yoga/yoga_definition.htm, date accessed 1 November 2016.

[9] David Gordon White, Yoga in Practice, (Princeton: Princeton University Press) (2012), pp. 2-22.

[10] Mark Singleton.

[11] Andrea R. Jain.

[12] Andrea R. Jain, p. 30.

[13] Erving Goffman.

[14] See, for example,  Mark Singleton, Yoga Body: The Origins of Modern Posture Practice, (Oxford University Press) (2010). And also see, Sarah Strauss, „The Master’s Narrative: Swami Sivananda and the Transnational Production of Yoga”, Journal of Folklore Research, 39:2/3 (2002), pp. 217-241.

[15] Mark Singleton.

[16] Mark Singleton, pp. 40, 154, 164.

[17] Jeff Ferrell, Keith J. Hayward, Jock Young, Cultural Criminology, (London: SAGE Publications Ltd.) (2008).

[18] Belinda Wheaton, „Introducing the consumption and representation of lifestyle sports”, Sports in Society, 13:7-8 (2010), pp. 1057-1081.

[19] Anthony Giddens, Modernity and self-identity: Self and society in the late-modern age, (Cambridge, Polity Press) (1991). p.57.

[20] The phrase is borrowed from van Dijk who has a book with the same title.

[21] Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle, (Detroit, Black & Red Publications) (1970).

 

Bilge Gölge is an M.A. student in Media and Visual Studies Program at Bilkent University. She holds a BS from the Middle East Technical University and a minor degree in architectural culture. She is currently completing her master thesis, which investigates self-presentation of Turkey’s yoga community in social media, specifically on Instagram. Her research interests include social media, online self-presentation, and communication patterns through visual media.

Contact Information: bilgegolge@bilkent.edu.tr

(Dis)emancipatory technologies (Editorial)

Magdalena Zdrodowska

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2016, vol.1, no. 1, pp. 1-4

Magdalena Zdrodowska

Jagiellonian University

 

 (Dis)emancipatory technologies (Editorial)

 

In the 19th and especially the 20th century, powerful emancipatory processes were taking place that reached a climax in the middle of the 20th century. The massive civil rights movements of the late 1960s included women, aboriginal people, people of colour, ethnic and sexual minorities that were fighting for respect and representation within Western societies. These were powerful generational experiences and set the pattern for the emancipatory movements throughout the second half of the 20th century of groups seeking empowerment and social change, including deaf and disabled communities.

Most definitions emphasize the processual character of empowerment that regards either individuals[1] or communities[2]. As Marc A. Zimmerman points out, this term can be understood as both value orientation for policy makers and social change, and as a “theoretical model for understanding the process and consequences of efforts to exert control and influence over decisions that affect one’s life, organisational functioning, and the quality of community life”[3].  What is in common across many various empowerment definitions are the issues of reclaiming control and gaining access to resources (including information). In many cases, technology plays the important role of empowering artefact[4] that balances inequalities in access to resources and the communicational public sphere, helping both individuals and collectives to gain self-esteem, representation, and independence.

Communication technologies are perceived as powerful allies of communities fighting for empowerment and recognition. Skilfully used mass media such as press, radio, and television may greatly assist minorities’ efforts to influence public opinion and thereby pressure policy makers. This scenario is called “the boomerang effect”[5]: the media or NGOs are engaged to support and amplify the voices of groups whose causes are not audible in the public sphere due to oppression (such as lack of access). Thus, with the help of journalists or activists, the initial social, cultural and communicational inequalities are balanced.

However, the positive impact of communication technologies is not limited to mass media. There are examples of DIY technological practices that have had an important impact on oppressed groups. Teletypewriters for the deaf (initially invented, distributed and managed by the deaf themselves) that were introduced in the late 1960s in the United States and in the 1970s in Western Europe helped the deaf to overcome the constraints of voice-based telephony.  Behind the Iron Curtain in Eastern European countries, both DIY radio receivers and skilfully used commercial models made it possible for people to access alternative Western free sources of information.

For the oppressed and excluded, electronic communication technologies seem even more supportive, especially social media. The rise of electronic media shows the emancipatory potential of information and communication technologies such as hacktivism or cloud protesting. It has made self-representation and activism much easier for communities whose options are limited due to their minority status, disability, and social or political situation, as shown by Mary L. Gray in “Out in the Country. Youth, Media, and Queer Visibility in Rural America”[6] or Stefania Milan in “Social Movements and Their Technologies: Wiring Social Change”[7]. Technology enables limitations of the physical world such as the geographical spread of community members or architectural barriers to be overcome and makes it possible for minority groups (including the disabled) to enter the public sphere, network, and gain representation. On the other hand, technology may also act as a barrier that disabling users due to technical issues such as inaccessible software (as described and analysed by Katie Ellis and Michael Kent in “Disability and New Media”[8]. In 1999, Lawrence A. Scadden, a blind researcher, enthusiastically wrote, “The proliferation of optical character-recognition systems connected to speech synthesizers has brought me the ability to read almost any printed material independently. The growth of the Internet and the World Wide Web has resulted in my ability to communicate independently in text with people all over the world just as it has for you and for millions of other sighted and blind people. The ability to conduct research on-line has provided me a new-found independence”. However, he added, “This increased independence has been threatened from time to time with the emergence of new technology and new approaches for information presentation, but we continue to enable accessibility to evolve almost as fast as the technology”[9].

Similarly, the impact of social media on so-called cyber revolutions that empowered the oppressed, such as the Arab Spring and the #occupymovement, was not as powerful as was initially recognised. These movements quickly gave up extensive usage of social media, as it is an extremely easy target for surveillance and abuse. In fact, technology can be an oppressive element from which some groups seek emancipation: perfect examples include the governmental and medical technologies, such as statistics and eugenics, which have been used in constructing normalcy in industrial societies since the 18th century.

There are more complex and in fact paradoxical examples of relations between technology and empowerment, such as the western deaf education system. Founded on the idea of the rationalized social order of Enlightenment, deaf residential schools were a tool for organising society by removing non-normative group members from the social domain and placing them in special institutions. Schools for the deaf (and also for the blind) were initially not educational but charity institutions, where children were normalized: taught how to fit in with hearing society. These institutions had full control over pupils’ bodies and constructed their professional lives by training them for a limited choice of occupations—all for the sake of making society more efficient. Schools for the deaf served as an apparatus for eliminating from society those who did not fit in, and returning them adapted and rehabilitated. However, schools at the same time gathered the dispersed deaf in one, physical space, thus creating a propitious milieu where unified sign language and later Deaf Culture emerged. In fact, the technology that was supposed to integrate the deaf into mainstream society facilitated the creation of a distinctive Deaf community and identity: a community of ‘others’. The most vivid consequences of these educational governmentality practices may still be observed in the United States (which inherited the French educational system), as strong and dynamic communities arose around schools for the deaf. They provided opportunities to meet future partners and friends and make life-along bonds, in fact to create an alternative social sphere.

Inspired by the diversity and ambiguity of the role of technology in emancipatory processes and practices, we present this issue of “TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies”, which is devoted to both the emancipatory and disempowering effects of technology. There are seven articles covering five thematic areas:

  1. The role of technology in minority groups gaining representation under oppressive circumstances. In the article Tamil Documentary Naali: Low-End Technology and Subaltern History, Swarnavel Eswaran Pillai analyses the film Naali/The Stream (directed by Murugavel and Lakshmanan; 2012). Shot with a simple handycam, this documentary brought the life and struggle of the local Tamil community into public discourse. The author points out the democratising potential of low-end technologies; however, it is also shown how they can be used both for and against local communities. The second article, Minority representation in the Digital: Narratives from Christian Communities in Delhi by Rajan Benson, is grounded in field research and concentrates on social media usage by one particular minority group. Benson shows the double-edged sword of technology that enables the Christian community in Delhi to gain representation and build collectivity in a hostile social and political realm, while also making it also possible to trace and threaten individual activists.
  2. The discriminative and disempowering potential of new media In Shaming and socially responsible online engagement, Shadow W.J. Armfield, Dawn M. Armfield, and Laura O. Franklin investigate the problem of online linguistic and visual shaming based on their qualitative research of online communication.
  3. The technologically boosted reshaping of the (self)representation of people with disabilities. Here we recommend two articles. The first is Movement as language, signification as identity: Understanding and empowering the autistic community in online spaces, in which Hannah Ebben analyses the potential of online video platforms for autistic community representation by studying videos uploaded by individuals within the spectrum. The second is “Nostalgia for the future…” – prosthesis as a pop-cultural weapon?, in which Marta Stańczyk analyses the most popular prosthesis users in American popular culture and investigates the shift within the meaning of prosthesis: from a sign of vulnerability and passivity to an identity-building element of individual empowerment.
  4. The narrative refiguration of ableism and disability may be found in the article Ableism and Futuristic Technology: The Enhancement of ‘No Body’ in the Films »Lucy« and »Her« by nili R. Broyer. Applying transhumanism theory, the author tries to redefine the oppositions of ableism and disability within the narratives of the films.
  5. The impact of newly created technologies on artistic practices. In her text, The technologies of experimental Japanese filmmakers in the digital era, Agnieszka Kiejziewicz presents four progressive Japanese visual artists who have gained more artistic freedom and access to potential audiences with skilful usage of digital technologies.

Notes

[1] D. Mechanic 1991, “Adolescents at risk: New Directions, conference paper cited after Marc A. Zimmerman, Empowerment Theory. Psychological , Organisational and Community  Levels of Analysis”, in Handbook of Community Psychology, ed. J. Rappaport, E. Seidman, (New York: Springer  Science and Business Media) (2000).

[2] Cornel Empowerment Group 1989, “Empowerment and family support”, Network Bulletin, 1, 1-23, cited after Marc A. Zimmerman.

[3] Marc A. Zimmerman.

[4] Carin Roos PhD & Åsa Wengelin “The text telephone as an empowering technology an empowering technology in the daily lives of deaf people—A qualitative study”, Assistive Technology 28:2, (2016), p. 63.

[5] Leszek Porębski, „Internet jako narzędzie mobilizacji politycznej mniejszości”, in Agora czy Hyde Park. Internet jako przestrzeń społeczna grup mniejszościowych ed. Ł. Kapralska, B. Pactwa (Kraków: Nomos) (2010).

[6] Mary L. Gray, Out in the Country. Youth, Media, and Queer Visibility in Rural America, (New York University Press) (2009).

[7] Stefania Milan, Social Movements and Their Technologies: Wiring Social Change, (Palgrave Macmillan) (2013).

[8] Katie Ellis, Michael Kent, Disability and New Media, (Routledge) (2010).

[9] Lawrence A. Scadden, “Empowerment Through Technology”, Assistive Technology, 11:1 (1999) 59-65.

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Film and Media: Through and Beyond the Senses – Editorial

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TransMissions: The Journal of Film and Media Studies 2018, vol.3, no. 1, pp. 1.

 

Małgorzata Radkiewicz

Jagiellonian University

 

Marta Stańczyk

Jagiellonian University

 

 

 

Film and Media: Through and Beyond the Senses

 

The annual NECS conference that took place in June 2017 addressed the topic: Sensibility and the Senses. Media, Bodies, Practices. The program included diverse perspectives and subjects of research, showing different attitudes and exploring various fields of studies. Many of them still need to be explored and examined in detail, which poses a huge challenge for researchers dealing with film and various media.

Both theory and practice of film and media deal with such issues as perception, interaction, and involvement through human body and senses. Contemporary theory has turned toward embodiment as a major “figure of thought” and as the main mode of cognition. However, approaching visual culture and its various devices (analogue, electronic, digital ones) only through senses may not be sufficient in the era of post-humanity and dynamic technological development. Moreover, hybridization and specialization of media bring up questions and challenges that make us go beyond human senses and their limitations.

Preparing the following issue of “TransMissions”, we combined paper that examine various theoretical approaches to sensual perception and sensory experience of film, photography and media. All authors tried to explore either new possibilities of creation and usage of film and media or of analysis and interpretations, in terms of phenomenology, affects, prosthetic memory etc. Each paper, in different ways, shows that the new phenomena of media communication must be followed by both analytical and critical theoretical reflections that will address complex issues of relations between media and (non)human sensual organs.