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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 2016 vol.1 no.2

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Table of Contents  2016 vol.1 no.2

Transnational Perspectives on Film and Media

 

Transnational Turn in Film Studies

Krzysztof Loska

“Let everybody love me”. The transnational body of Elżbieta Czyżewska

Sebastian Jagielski

Reading ABC. An experiment

Andrzej Pitrus

Rinko Kikuchi in Space: Transnational Mexican Directors’ Global Gaze

Jane Hanley

Clint Eastwoods’s Letters from Iwo Jima as a transnational film

Łukasz A. Plesnar

Depictions of Post-9/11 South Asian Racial Profiling in Indian Cinema

Kaja Łuczyńska

Postcolonial adaptations of classic British literature

Bartłomiej Nowak

Transnational Bodies of Yogis: A Flow from Analogue Photography to Social Media

Bilge Gölge

Slow Expansion. Neomodernism as a Postnational Tendency in Contemporary Cinema

Miłosz Stelmach

Mexican Minimalist Cinema: Articulating the (Trans)national

Bolesław Racięski

Welcome to BabaKiueria! Australian anniversaries and cultural forms of resistance

Rafał Nahirny

 

Varia

 

An artist as a figure between industry, technology, and imagination. Some remarks on Portret artysty jako inżyniera. Twórczość Edwarda Ihnatowicza by Joanna Walewska

Anna Nacher

Vampires, zombies, and phantoms – histories of horror stories. Review

Magdalena Zdrodowska

Images embedded in reality

Mateusz Zimnoch

 

Table of Contents 2016 vol.1 no.1

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Table of Contents  2016 vol.1 no.1

 

(Dis)emancipatory technologies

 

(Dis)emancipatory technologies (Editorial)

Magdalena Zdrodowska

Tamil Documentary Naali: Low-End Technology and Subaltern History

Swarnavel Eswaran Pillai

Minority representation in the Digital: Narratives from Christian Communities in Delhi

Rajan Benson

Shaming and socially responsible online engagement

Shadow W.J. Armfield, Dawn M. Armfield, Laura O. Franklin

Movement as language, signification as identity: Understanding and empowering the autistic community in online spaces

Hannah Ebben

“Nostalgia for the future…” – prosthesis as a pop-cultural weapon?

Marta Stańczyk

Ableism and Futuristic Technology: The Enhancement of ‘No Body’ in the Films »Lucy« and »Her« 

nili R. Broyer

The technologies of experimental Japanese filmmakers in the digital era

Agnieszka Kiejziewicz

 

Varia

 

My life in art. A conversation with Bill Viola  

Andrzej Pitrus

Transcultural Art of Bill Viola

Krzysztof Loska

Sixty years later

Alicja Helman

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Table of Contents 2018 vol.3 no.1

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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