Good Enough To Eat

Directing Class Final.
Vassar College Film Department.
written/directed/edited by Caitlin Mae Burke.
photographed by Erica Tronstad

Uninteresting film developments

I'm sort of iffy on how I want this blog to "interact," as it were.
I don't really have the ennui-angsty-emo lifestory blog... But I have a photoblog and a pragueblog and I guess this is a filmblog?
So, updates on Noseprint Pictures, Caitlin Mae Burke, &etc.

Noseprint Pictures' Coronation Mass

IMG_8276
Originally uploaded by js wright

Noseprint Pictures Coming Out Party
Melissa Esner and I went to the book release party for her Harper Collins "colleague," Jeff Yamaguchi. Well, really for his new book- Working For the Man. It's all sorts of hilarious and we got to dress up and network and drink g&ts. We were the luckiest girls on the lower east side.


Riding Tall
The little doc that could will have its first screening (even though it's still very much a rough, wild thing) this Friday at the Southlands Foundation Gala. I get to wear a nice dress and be surrounded by horsie folk that I usually see covered in mud and other unmentionables.

Burning in the Sun
So the documentary I spent much of the summer subtitling is growing wings and taking its first steps out of the nest. There's apparently a rough cut out, and they're having a screening this Sunday, Dec. 2 at Magnetic Field in Brooklyn. The screening starts at 5:30 PM and there's great drink specials.

etc
Five minute narrative on sexy cannibalism

no alarms, no surprises

this is real life, and cinema, and everything is getting intermingled in the lowered lights.
this is where i'm going to tell the story of the little film that could, but it just hasn't yet. The little film that could and the women in my life now and the magnificent steeds and their infinite patience (with those who need it.)

I have been on the verge of tears all day, because I think I'm on the verge of something much bigger than myself, and that is absolutely terrifying.
This is a placeholder- story is coming when I have a moment to think it out. for now, no alarms, no surprises please

my camera broke today.
my heart broke today.
these two may or may not be interrelated... I just feel lonelylost

Film 211 final

Dirty Pictures, Deadly Pictures:
Reoccurring Themes of Sex and Death and Their Relationship to the Image
in Three Films by Peter Greenaway


















Caitlin Burke
Film 211-52, Meltzer
Final Paper
May 18, 2006
999214658
Benjamin Franklin is often quoted as saying “the only two certainties in life are death and taxes.” For a film maker, only the prior is really of interest to an audience, and so another certainty must be found. Director Peter Greenaway considers the action that brings about the opposite of life to be the completion of the pair. “We live in a deeply sensuous world, and I think if we respect cinema we should let cinema be a part of that… What is a film itself it is again a form of translation of human experiences, again very subjectively organized.” (Badt) Peter Greenaway sees the essentials of existence as revolving around sex and death. Yet as a former landscape painter and current film maker, the importance of the image (both the presentation of those themes and cinematic significance of his technique) is raised parallel to these other two, creating a triumvirate whose interactions with one another and combinations are ever present in Greenaway’s explanation of his created worlds. Comparison of three notable Greenaway films: The Belly of an Architect (1987,) The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover (1989,) and A Zoo: A Zed and Two Noughts (1985) reveals the presence of these themes and their presentation visually.
What is a film if not a collection of images? Who is a filmmaker as an auteur if his stamp cannot be applied to those images? Peter Greenaway’s films are immediately recognizable from a catalog of camera movements and compositions. The trademarks Greenaway uses in establishing the images of his film may be simplified to a long duration tracking or dolly shot, very few close ups, and a general long shot focal distance during moments when the cinematic convention would move the camera closer for greater intimacy. An example of the familiar tracking shot, usually accompanied by instrumental score, is repeated throughout The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover (1989) Immediately following the intertitles (pages of the restaurant’s menu) the camera begins its tracking shot either at the front of the kitchen, following the same path past the women plucking the feathers off fowl, the shirtless sauce maker, and Pup singing his solo aria. It then passes the divide into the restaurant with a notable color and saturation switch from the muted green of the kitchen to the vibrant crimson of the dining room. Passing by inconsequential diners with relative speed, the camera then dollies in to Albert Spica’s table, but never closer than a medium long shot. It is then that the first cut in the scene takes place, after an almost two minute long single shot. This sort of imagery is repeated in The Belly of an Architect, moving from a profile of the pantheon past a fountain at relatively the same pace as the identical shot in The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover, and, similarly, accompanied by a classical score. Without pause the camera moves past an outdoor café to rest upon a large banquet table with Stourley Kracklite, the protagonist, seated in the center of the composition. The scene then cuts to a closer shot of a large, architecturally designed cake that is brought to the table from the foreground (while the actors remain distanced from the lens and less in focus.) This appearance identifies the film as by Greenaway, as does the limited yet highly symbolic color palette and the removal of the camera from moments of emotional significance, to be discussed in context later.
Peter Greenaway is undoubtedly attuned to the images of his film. Frequently in published works, he mentions how film has become simply a visual adaptation of the novel; everything in the film falls subordinate to plot. It is Greenaway’s attempt, therefore, to convey to the audience the importance of the image, putting emphasis on the subtle and solely visual as vital storytelling mechanisms. (Badt) Were one to turn off the sound of a Peter Greenaway film, his colors alone could imbue the overarching context of the scene. Peter Greenaway’s limited palette of significant colors includes green, blue, and red. The use of green in the three films to be discussed is the most complicated in that its symbolism is somewhat inconsistent. Overall, green can be seen to represent death, either current or predicted. Examples of this can be seen in The Belly of an Architect when the green light of the Xerox machine flashes as Kracklite photocopies the stomachs of statuary out of his obsession over his own terminal ailment. It may be seen again filling the large windows at the museum out of which Kracklite flings himself to his death. A Zed and Two Noughts uses flashing green light as well, although more obviously connected to death, as it is the color that illuminates Oswald’s decomposing subjects for their periodic photographing. The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover brings a complication to the significance of the color green, as it is the muted tone cast throughout the kitchen. As most of Georgina and Michael’s sexual encounters occur in the kitchen, one would consider the green to symbolize fertility and life rather than death and decomposition. Yet one must consider the spaces where Georgina and Michael fornicate. Generally, it is in pantries or meat lockers, surrounded by carcasses ready to be recycled from their death state to providing life- nourishment- for the patrons of the restaurant. Additionally, when Spica force feeds Pup his coat buttons and cuts out his belly button, the boy is wearing his green kitchen smock, even though the thematic color of the outside of the restaurant is blue. The color blue in Greenaway films can be read as conveying harsh reality. Spica wears a blue sash and is cast in a blue light as he smears his debtor with excrement outside the restaurant. As Alba’s leg is being amputated in an early scene of A Zed and Two Noughts, (as well as when the doctor takes her other leg) the hospital room is bathed in blue light. Additionally, as Oliver paces alone in his house, with not even the television available as company, the entire setting takes on a blue tone to convey the reality of his grief and solitude. Red, like green, is up to a little more variance of interpretation, although it generally appears to represent the inverse of green: life and vitality. The dining room at Le Hollandaise where Spica and the other customers come to sustain themselves with food is painted a brilliant crimson; additionally, as Spica is a co-owner of the restaurant, it is his “livelihood.” When Alba discusses her pregnancy with Oswald and Oliver in A Zed and Two Noughts, her room is filled with red furniture and a red glow, similar to the lighting when either of the twins sleeps with Venus De Milo, reaffirming their living state in contrast to their deceased wives. Very few of the scenes involving Stourley Kracklite have him outfitted in red, as he is dying, but his wife Louisa (carrying a new life inside her belly rather than a tumor that will end her life) is frequently outfitted in the color, and in the majoring of her meetings with Caspasian, the man who will provide her the opportunity to start a new life without her husband, the draperies are red. Following these color patterns throughout Greenaway’s career allows one to incorporate the image into the plot with a greater depth.
Having spent a significant amount of time discussing cinematographic images employed by the director in saturating his film with meaning, now it is time to turn attention to the “image” or representation and its importance. In each of these films, a representation becomes almost an obsessive focus, and it is often the work of a celebrated classical artist that shapes the behavior and outward appearance of the film’s subjects. The character most obsessed with images is Stourley Kracklite in The Belly of an Architect. Not only is his entire artistic purpose centered on celebrating an architect (Etienne-Louis Boullee) who never finished a building, but he is also consumed with representations of the body part whose rebellion will lead to his eventual demise: his belly. (Lawrence, 27) Kracklite photocopies the stomachs of representations of architectural greats (the emperor Hadrian, Boullee) and draws his ailments in order to illustrate his pain for his doctors. Kracklite’s fascination with Boullee seems appropriate in that it mirrors his own creative impotence; in the scene in which Kracklite catches Caspasian in the act with his wife, one cannot tell if he is enraged because his conjugal property is being stolen, or because Caspasian is using his model of a Boullee lighthouse as an enlarged surrogate phallus. The fact that his two image obsessions somewhat mirror each other in form (as the repeated form in Boullee’s sketches is a dome quite reminiscent of Kracklite’s bloated belly) marries his creative life and impending death and solidifies the reality that it is likely Kracklite will go the way of Boullee and die without many major constructions to carry his image forward into the future.
Oliver and Oswald are similarly consumed by images in a need to placate grief, yet in their case presented in A Zed and Two Noughts, it is images of the dead that complete this desire, similar to the way they complete one another symmetrically as separated conjoined twins. The classical artist who lends his style of imagery to the construction of the film’s images is Johannes Vermeer, with whom the doctor who has amputated Alba Bewick’s leg is fascinated. Whenever Alba or the twins converse with the doctor (who, as the film points out, is named after a famous copier of Vermeer’s work) the lighting in the scene is amber and sourced from the lower left corner of a frame, similar to the way Vermeer depicted light in his paintings. This is most notable in the scene in which Oliver and Oswald approach the doctor to ask him to “complete them”- to return them to their “natural” state as conjoined twins. The two sit naked on either side of a couch with two large portraits behind their heads, and rise in unison when the doctor arrives, disrupting the symmetry of the composition. The lighting in this scene is notably Vermeer, which seems suitable for the director, as “With Vermeer, everything is ambiguous, and this is what makes him an ideal figure for Greenaway.” (Lawrence, 85) The symmetrical, centered composition is a trademark of Greenaway’s theatrically composed scenes, and reappears when the twins sit with Alba in her hospital bed, one on either side, and when they join her in bed at home after her second amputation. Each brother puts the leg closest to Alba outside the covers to show her the scars left by their separation; in a way, this gives her the two legs she is missing due to amputation and completes each member of the composition so that the whole is symmetrical.
The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover portrays the scum of the earth, dressed to the nines and playing gentlemen. Albert Spica and his band of crooks pattern themselves after the Frans Hals painting that hangs in the restaurant almost directly behind their table, inviting comparison between these despicable characters and the more upstanding gentlemen depicted in the art: the abject and the genteel appear in the same clothing. (D’Arcy) The painting (The Company of St. George, 1616) depicts a company of officers, rank made apparent by their red and white sashes, staring out at the audience. In its place in the film, it is almost as if these faces are bearing witness to Spica’s deplorable behavior and condemning him and his posse for sullying the uniforms of dignity these men wear so proudly. Notably, the painting always appears first in the tracking shot before the camera reaches Spica’s table, inviting comparison between the two exceptionally disparate groups dressed in the same costume. In the final scene of the film, when Albert is alone in the restaurant before he is to be served Michael, his table is set up so that when the crowd of those he has harmed files in behind the gurney bearing his cooked victim, the men in the Company of St. George continue the collective of condemnation, as the expressions of those living and those painted show equally critical consideration of Albert Spica, isolated at his table. As so much of the film is centered on the shock of “well dressed people behaving badly” (D’Arcy) it is fitting that the comparison between the proper gentlemen in the Hals painting and Spica and his lackeys addresses how by his garb Spica aspires to respect, yet his lewd, inappropriate behavior always sullies his image.
The colors green and red, symbolic of death and life, are often presented concurrently in the visual composition of Peter Greenaway’s films. Similarly, the incorporation of end of life elements with creation presents a continuous, regenerating depiction of existence, emphasizing the inevitability of death and thus, mankind’s fascination with it. It has been noted that Peter Greenaway’s fascination is deeply rooted in the concepts of eros and thanatos- the conception through passion and the ceasing to exist. “Many people say my films only deal with death. I think they are correct. But there are only two things which really count: sex and death. What else is important? One can disguise sex as romance or love but it’s always about sexual desire. Every one of us has been touched by death in some form already.” (Bachholz, 56) The connection drawn between sex and death in Peter Greenaway’s films is notable in that its communion between a fundament of the creation of life and the complete absence of it. The parallelism between what is growing inside Stourley Kracklite in The Belly of an Architect (a tumor, bringing his death) and what is growing in his wife Louisa (a baby, new life) is a harsh contrast. When Louisa reveals to Kracklite that Flavia, her lover’s sister, has photographed her nude with her pregnant stomach, Kracklite explodes, calling her indecent in showing this form, even though he is sitting on the floor amidst a veritable carpeting of belly photographs and replications either of his own stomach or others he has captured. The reality is that what is growing inside Stourley is the truly indecent, abject growth, but in his own fear of his demise he must objectify her growing life as an outrageous display. In a similar vein, the abject is called to the forefront in the final scene of The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover wherein Albert Spica is forced to “eat his words” although not in the same very literal way that he has forced Michael to do so (by ramming pages of a book down his throat until he suffocates.) In an earlier scene, before Georgina and Michael flee to their oasis of safety in the book depository, Albert tears apart the kitchen searching for them, screaming repeatedly how when he finds Michael he is going to kill him and eat him. With the first part of this satisfied before he enters the dining room for what will be his last supper, all that is left for Albert to fulfill his threat is the latter portion, which Georgina has conveniently arranged for him with the help of Richard, the cook. By ingesting his wife’s lover, Spica must not only swallow his own threat but also the actuality of his actions- this man is dead by his hand, and his corpse is being used to perpetuate Spica’s life (by providing nourishment in the form of food.) Even though all food is dead before it is served, the reality of eating this man Spica had encountered during life brings forth the striking realization of his lack of life, and how by ingesting him he is making the man who has stolen his wife a part of him. “The idea that, for life to flourish, we need death, is not original, but is still deserves attention.” (Gras, 30) Granted, after Albert chokes down a few bites of Michael’s flesh, Georgina ends his life with his own pistol. She calls attention to the abject nature of the situation by closing the film with the epithet “Cannibal.” Although all food is dead, processed matter, the idea of eating a person one has killed and thus sustaining oneself through the death and digestion of another is an ultimately objectionable principle.
Death comes immediately in A Zed and Two Noughts; the opening sequence depicts the car accident that claims both Oliver and Oswald Deuce’s wives. The first dialogue of the film is an interchange between Oliver and Oswald in which the later asks about how quickly the decaying process will begin, and specifics of what happens first in decomposition. Like in many other significant emotional moments in Greenaway films, this scene is made clinical by the long shot held for the duration of the conversation on the characters, keeping a long focal distance that makes intimacy with the twins impossible, even in this moment of their greatest vulnerability. The twins find different fascinations following the deaths of their wives. Oliver screens an eight part film series on evolution, and devotes his time to understanding the origins of life. Oswald, on the other hand, turns his attention to death, and begins to photograph the decomposition of a variety of plants and animals, initially unconnected, but eventually those that he can in some way associate with his wife: prawns, the last food she ever bought, a swan, much like the one that killed her, and other black and white animals such as a Dalmatian and an illicitly received zebra, the subject of much of the film’s fascination. In his attempt to fully understand the new physical condition of his wife that he will never be able to experience directly, Oswald becomes so obsessed with interval photography of decomposition that when the doctor presents him with the chance to observe a specimen identical to his wife’s condition (the prostitute Venus De Milo, approximately the same age and at the same point in her pregnancy as was Oswald’s wife) the moral implications of photographing this decomposition are forgotten in his eagerness for it to assist in his grieving process. Unfortunately, both Venus and Alba, who had willingly volunteered to serve as Oswald’s crowning specimen, are soon out of reach. Oliver and Oswald themselves must take their place in photographically documenting the human decomposition process, although what benefit it would do in aiding Oswald through his grief after he himself is deceased is unclear. The twins prepare themselves as the final specimens in L’escargot, Alba’s property, but after they have taken the lethal injection, the snails of the garden short circuit the camera equipment, rendering both deaths entirely in vain.
As the ultimate creative force, both in the sense of inspiration as well as remaking the tangible, sex is a device consistently preoccupying Greenaway characters and allowing them different venues for expression. Greenaway views of eros and thanatos (sex and death) as only essentials of existence; they are what are certain to occur as well as the major creative and destructive forces of life in the universe. Therefore, it is not unusual in Greenaway films when sex is paired with death. Whenever Louisa and Kracklite fornicate, the conversation either turns to Boullee, the deceased architect, or Kracklite’s own demise. In the first scene of the film, a fast moving landscape of the Italian countryside is intercut with scenes of Louisa and Kracklite having sex on the train. The next cut is back to the countryside, and then to an image of an Italian graveyard. After Kracklite has finished, and the two discuss their trip to Italy, the next cut takes the scene to an image of a mausoleum, the camera panning across several burial sites. When they are about to have intercourse in their Roman hotel, the conversation turns to an emasculation of Stourley for his relatively low production of architecture and his obsession with a man who has created almost as little as he has. (Lehman, 73) Louisa brings up the topic of what could possibly be displayed at Kracklite’s post-mortem retrospective, and it is at this point that Kracklite’s first stomach pains (later revealed to be terminal cancer) are made apparent. Stourley questions why Louisa must discuss death during sex, and her reply is “Everyone in Rome talks about death.” This incorporation of morbidity into the bedroom is not the first and certainly will not be last occasion in Greenaway’s films. However, his treatment through the lens of both Kracklite’s revealing of his illness in the bedroom and Louisa’s revelation of her pregnancy is notably sterile. In both cases, Louisa is portrayed in long shot, and Stourley is so far removed from the camera that he is not in focus. In the pregnancy scene, he is situated in the bath and framed by a doorway dividing him from Louisa, who is in the foreground. When she returns to leave him for Caspasian and his illness is finally discussed, he is seated on a chair in the center of the composition but reflected in a mirror. By removing the personal connection available through closer shots, Peter Greenaway brings a more critical analysis to these pertinent moments, refusing to allow the audience the intimacy with the characters that a close camera would provide and thus necessitating a more cerebral, situational relationship. For the creative being, death either signifies unrealized creativity in action or a cease of production. It is a realization of the mortality of those without surviving works or incomplete immortality of those who have born them- either way, art suffers after death. In this way, the conception of art and the conception of life, one through the creation of the image and one through intercourse, may be understood through the concept of The Belly of an Architect as a connection between sex and creativity, both equally threatened by death.
This connection between the nude and the deceased or abnormal body is best exemplified in A Zed and Two Noughts. “Our interest in the nude, he [Greenaway] suggests is more than sexual: it also has to do with our knowledge of our own mortality. Many of the bodies he shows us are dead, or at least… acting dead. Since these are not sexual bodies on display, they can and do depart from the usual cultural standards of beauty.”(Woods, 162) Alba Bewick, the focal sexual interest of both Oliver and Oswald Deuce, spends ninety percent of the film bedridden, her body positioned similar to a corpse. When she is out of bed, her usual and grotesque form disrupts the symmetry of the composition orchestrated both by Greenaway’s camera and Oswald and Oliver’s increasing similarities. While Alba is a sexual object, as she is so frequently represented as dead or incomplete she may escape the boundaries of traditional sexual attractiveness. As Alba is an amputee, two of her limbs have died, and the audience is drawn to this asymmetrical character as a sex object to understand her mortality and, consequently, their own in terms of sexuality. “Greenaway’s insistence on the body’s inescapable vulgarity at once liberates it (and him) from the structures of middle class respectability and lowers it by calling attention to the less exalted attributes of the human animal.” (Lawrence, 49) It is this reasoning that allows Oswald to consider two women he has had sexual relations with (one for whom it is questionable whether he has fathered her child) to be the study specimens in his exploration of decomposition, as the woman whose body was the previous venue for his sexual encounters is now deceased as well. Just as Oswald considers Venus and Alba to be perfect samples for his study, Greenaway’s camera takes on a very clinical edge when addressing Oswald and Oliver’s feelings on sex or death. The closest the camera gets to the twins during a sexual moment is when they complete Alba by discussing their original conjunction at birth, yet this is still a full body shot, despite the significance of the material being revealed. When the twins discover they are the fathers (or the father, as the medical implications of two men fathering twins seem unlikely) of Alba’s children, the discussion is filmed through a doorframe, creating great distance between the camera and the subjects at this very monumental occasion. As was addressed before, whenever the death of the wives is to be discussed, whoever is doing the talking is shown in long shot, as is Alba when mentioning the last food Oswald’s wife bought was prawns. Prior to this discussion, Alba has been show in her bed in alternating medium shot and medium close up, but when the material becomes of a sensitive nature the camera pulls back, discontinuing a close association with the characters. A quote from Greenaway can certainly explain this objective treatment by the camera of the tender moments in this film: “All of my films are about loss in some way- a Zed and Two Noughts is about a very serious loss, obviously- and although I do not feel extraordinarily emotional about it, somewhere in the back of my mind I want to explore the consideration society gives to cancer as a disease, what we do about it, what it means in our lives…so much information gets lost when somebody dies.” (Ranvaud, 45) The grotesque as sexual object and removal from intimate imagery found in A Zoo: A Zed and Two Noughts perpetuates the established tenets that make this film notably a creation of Peter Greenaway.
Abjectification, the making of the utterly disgusting out of the formerly attractive, is the name of the game in The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. Albert Spica is free to sodomize Georgina in the privacy of their home, but it is when he openly discusses his sexual matters at the dinner table, creating an abject sexuality through his frequent references to coprophilia, his material is made objectionable and forced upon Georgina as the receptacle. However, the film warns, breaking away from the abject is not necessarily a positive decision; when Georgina reclaims her sexuality and has the affair with Michael, violence and death are the results. Aside from the questionable nature of having sex inside a meat locker (connecting the potential creation of life by the lovers and its destruction by a butcher) sex and waste are freely compared and associated throughout much of the film. Spica openly discusses receiving infections from toilet seats in the same breath as he considers Georgina the one responsible for pleasuring him. He aptly draws a connection between food and sex, justifying his discussion as appropriate for a restaurant: the positioning of the genitalia so close to the rectum almost invites the commingling of “the dirty bits” with “the nasty bits” and providing rationalization for his coprophilia, in which he gets a sexual kick by blurring the boundaries between food and its eventual end, excrement. The abject has free reign throughout the dining room in the Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover, but frank discussion of infertility (or Georgina’s genetic death, as it were) is absolutely taboo. When Spica forces Michael to join the diners at their table, a three shot of Michael, Georgina, and Spica is held while Spica forces Georgina to tell Michael of her great wealth and luxury provided to her by her husband. Yet when the conversation switches to Georgina’s exceptional gynecologist, who has assured her that due to her several miscarriages she will never bear children (causing the end of the Spica line and the death of the family name) the fact that she is not given focal significance in the frame becomes apparent. This most serious discussion of sexuality, forbidden by Spica who merely minutes earlier had engaged in a conversation about eating testicles, is shot closer than the typical Peter Greenaway moment of intimacy, but as Georgina is merely one of three equally framed characters in the shot, the emotional connection is still made more difficult. Discussion of sex is a free for all in The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover, but when it is at all connected to death, genetic or physical, it is made immediately taboo by Spica, suggesting his brutishness goes against Peter Greenaway’s celebration of eros and thanatos on an equal plane.
A discussion of these themes in Peter Greenaway’s films could continue endlessly; as his body of work increases, that which he considers the most important thematic elements will undoubtedly reappear. But as for the three films addressed, it is apparent that the priority given to an image and its representations of sex and death in the film follows Greenaway’s cinematic imagery and creates a recognizable, consistent thread that runs throughout his work, regardless of specific topic. Using symbolic colors and repeated camera techniques allows the audience to understand a work as Greenaway’s and to then pay suitable attention to his incorporation of sex with death, of the eros and the thanatos, and the unbreakable bonds between the two as the major constructive and destructive forces of the universe.
Works Cited:

Badt, Karen. “Peter Greenaway Holds Court: An interview at the Venice Film Festival.” Film Criticism, Winter 2004 vol. 29 No. 2

D’Arcy, Chantal. “The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover.” Literature Film Quarterly, Vol. 27. No.2 April 1999

Gras, Vernon and Marguerite, eds. Peter Greenaway, Interviews. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi. 2000

Lawrence, Amy. The Films of Peter Greenaway. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1997.

Lehman, Peter. “Review: Being Naked Playing Dead: The Art of Peter Greenaway.” Film Quarterly, Vol. 52, No. 1 (Autumn, 1998) pp. 72-74

Films Referenced:

A Zoo: A Zed and Two Noughts. (Greenaway, Peter. 1985)

The Belly of the Architect. (Greenaway, Peter. 1987)

The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. (Greenaway, Peter. 1989)

The Masculine, the Feminine, and the Sea Worthy

The Masculine, the Feminine, and the Sea Worthy:
Attention to Gender Roles in Jean Vigo’s L’Atalante



















Caitlin Burke
999214658
September 30, 2005
Boys will be boys, as the common adage prescribes. Without too much extrapolation, one may conclude that similarly, girls will be girls. As World War II upset the gender equity in most involved nations, gender roles were forgone in favor of pragmatism. Yet, pre-World War II love stories usually adhere to a stringent outline of trite occurrences: boy and girl are married in the church, with a white dress and a tuxedo, and everyone lives happily ever after in a house with many children. Husband goes to work, Wife keeps house. This may anger the more modernist train of thought that entitles women to the same agency granted to men, but considered contextually, this perspective does not defy tradition. Jean Vigo’s L’Atalante, made in 1934 (just as the storm clouds of the great conflict began to brew) would do well for itself to follow these conventions and exist as a relatively simple romance. What makes L’Atalante remarkable in this sense is its subversion of the expected. Dudley Andrews indicates in his article “Fever of an Infectious Film: L'Atalante and the Aesthetics of Spontaneity” that the titular ship herself possesses characteristics of both the masculine and feminine. (Andrews, 63)However, those aboard the ship, even when they disembark, cannot maintain a duality of gender. They are human, after all, and naturally must ascribe to one or the other. Nevertheless, throughout L’Atalante, socially prescribed gender roles are subverted and reversed by the three main characters: Jean, Juliette, and Pere Jules.
It is a maritime tradition to refer to the ship or boat, an inanimate object, with female pronouns. Because inanimate objects are generally genderless, the context of such a reference is ignored and acknowledged simply as a convention of the language of the sea. While a ship may always be prescribed the female gender, this does not take into account the abstract fulfillment of both gender roles by the vessel. Actively, Atalante the ship takes on the male role as the penetrator- bearing through the waves, pushing its way through a series of locks and canals. In a passive sense, the ship is female. She is under the physical control of a crew of men who dictate her every action. But avoiding sexual associations, the ship Atalante is feminine below decks, serving as a resting place for her “family” and providing them protection from the elements. The physical nature of the ship has a duality of gender roles as well: she is, like a mother, a home; yet like a patriarch, she is the means of employment and the sole source of income for her crew-family.
Early in their time aboard the ship, even whilst boarding the ship, Jean and Juliette effortlessly present the ideal of masculine and feminine. Like a proper bride, Juliette enters the harbor in her white dress, and as tradition dictates, her groom “carries her over the threshold” of their new marital dwelling. Granted, Juliette swings over to her home on the water on the boom of the mast, but Jean has brought her over, albeit through mechanical manipulation, and thus the wedding tradition is safely enacted. At this point, gender roles are established concurrently with sexual roles: Jean is male, masculine, and the husband/dominant/provider; Juliette is female, feminine and the wife/submissive/caretaker, and Jules is also a representation of the male/masculine. The ship’s fourth crew member is also male, yet his role in the film is so negligible that for the purpose of this paper, his gender significance will not be discussed. He is referred to as “the child” and exists in relative neutrality. Even the way in which they refer to each other carries gender connotations, as Juliette is the “boss-lady”, Jean is the “boss” or dominant, and Jules is “papa”. Juliette, like any good housewife, sets to work in her unusual home at traditional domestic tasks, and attempts to gather the ship’s laundry, indignant that they have left this task dormant for so long. It is here that the first step outside the boundaries of gender roles occurs. Jules appears quite frustrated that Juliette wants to do his wash, as expresses he has always done his own before and the addition of a woman to his environment will not limit his self sufficiency. Here, Jules refuses to give up his traditionally domestic work of cleaning laundry, yet it is not apparently so much subversion because he is fighting for control; his birthright as one gendered male.
Nowhere more in L’Atalante is there a better visual and contextual representation of the lack of concern over society’s gender prescriptions then right before the ship docks in Paris. Jules arrives late, and Juliette as provider hands him his plate; the crew eats as a family. The scene is quite domestic, barrign the fact that it takes place in the hold of a ship. This subtle deviation from normalcy paves the way for further deviations. The framing of the shot shows nothing out of the ordinary; in fact, it almost over emphasizes the attention to which the characters are behaving appropriately. “The first third of the film is dominated by Jean’s authority and his desire. As spectators we are all too ready to accommodate him and his desire to frame and possess Juliette.” (Andrews, 72) Juliette is constantly framed by two objects: first her husband and the wall, then two wine bottles, then Jean and the right side wine bottle. The men in the scene may have one side blocked off by a wall or another individual, but they are usually not completely framed, as is Juliette. Interestingly, that which frames her is usually an object of the household- a pitcher, a wine bottle, a chair, as if she is being fenced in by her domestic position. The lighting is consistent with how it has appeared throughout the rest of the film, with bright fills illuminating Juliette and setting her apart visually from the men, who are allowed to exist in greater depth. As the meal ends and the characters exit, the strict control over gender roles dictated by this domestic activity is loosened. Juliette crosses the screen to sit at her sewing machine, and she is shot so that she appears to diagonally intersect all of the other vertical planes in the image; in a sense, she is free. However, the camera follows her in her descent down the stairs, as if she can not escape its watchful eye. As there are few camera movements in the film, this motion is significant and noticeable. She is seen for one of the first times in the film in a less direct, bright lighting, and her typical glow is notably absent. Jules follows her, still shot slightly from below. This gives the impression that his size and masculinity are notable contrasts against and are imposing upon Juliette’s more delicate female form. When he sits next to her at the sewing machine, although there is still notable contrast between his broad back and hers, they are on the same plane. “At Juliette’s sewing machine, he is quickly by turns more domestic than she… the narrative cannot hope to enclose either this character or this actor; he is a signifier of the excess of life over history.”(Andrews, 61) Throughout this sequence, the characters are either depicted in a two-shot or a medium or long shot. This is a marked difference from the rest of the film, which frequently cuts to medium close ups of Juliette’s face. In this scene, as she and Jules take a departure from their gender expectations, Juliette does not have to play the role of the idealized female, and can be a major player in a scene without being subject to an unhindered gaze. The uniform view of both Juliette and Jules, as well as the uniform lighting, establishes that at this point in the scene, they are equals, neither dominant nor submissive. “This is the film’s most important development: the emergence of Jules as the character of beauty and mystery, displacing Juliette as the primary object of our gaze.” (Andrews, 73)
Still ambiguously presenting both characters within their associated genders, the sequence picks up as these conventions are left behind. After Jules is sitting at Juliette’s level, she suggests he is accomplished in all trades, slightly poking fun at his skill at a traditionally domestic, thus feminine, task. His response is to assert his dominance, strangling her in jest; an assertion that masculine hands that create may also destroy. This very masculine gesture is the turning point of the sequence, and the point at which Jules’ departure into the noticeably feminine begins. Juliette takes on the role of the superior, and pushes Jules to the ground. He is then shot from slightly above, diminishing his size (as is typically done for Juliette.) Additionally, while he is on the floor, Jules is framed between the table leg and a chair, taking on the posture of confinement the audience has seen exhibited by Juliette mere minutes earlier. He rises, and regains his stature and masculinity, yet he is still framed by the table and wall, indicating he has not completely returned to the position of dominant male. The purgatory between genders in which Jules exists is taken advantage of by Juliette, who wraps her skirt around his waist, relegating him once again to the feminine role. A change in lighting, bringing Jules into the brighter, fuller light usually reserved for close-ups of Juliette, is a further visual indication of this role switch. Jules’ behavior takes on a more feminine tone as he models the skirt, his typical awkwardness remains, but he giggles freely and prances about, definitely not modeling machismo as the latest Parisian fashion. Juliette’s back is to the camera and the only form to gaze upon or idealize in the way that the audience had the privilege with Juliette throughout the film is the now feminized Jules. “Reaction shots of Juliette reverse her role so that suddenly we find the need to go beyond her as image of our desire.” (Andrews, 73) He is shot from above as he sings and sways his hips, diminished by this camera angle to appear smaller. Similarly, as Juliette hems the skirt, her back fills up much of the frame, commanding the amount of space in the frame previously only occupied by male characters.
Even though they play at assuming each other’s gender specified characteristics, it is all a farce. In his silliness with the skirt, Jules and Juliette get into a tugging match over the material. He then fans at her with the skirt as if she were a bull. At this point, Jules is stooped over and parallel to Juliette, indicating their parallel status with neither as dominant. It is this moment of equality that is the second turning point in the sequence and marks the return to the expected roles of masculine and feminine. After wrestling the skirt away from Jules, Juliette becomes the domestic again, handing him his laundry. His back is now to the camera, and her face is in full view, for one of the first times in this sequence. He rises in front of the camera to take back his clothes, and fills the screen, once again the imposing male form he was at the beginning of the sequence. As the sequence ends with Juliette returning to her chores and Jules to work, their return to traditional roles is not acknowledged. The camera projects its traditional angles, and the film continues on seamlessly as before this interruption.
Calling the ship Atalante home, there is relatively little that Jules, Juliette and Jean do that can truly be considered a step outside gender conventions. But what of when they take leave of the ship, and, in doing so, each other’s company? Angered by Juliette’s behavior in Paris, Jean rashly decides to set sail without her, leaving her completely removed from the nurturing confines of the Atalante. Initially, Juliette’s reaction is not outside feminine norms: she worriedly searches for the ship, and falls victim to a purse snatcher. But left without resources, Juliette does not cater any further to her role as damsel in distress. She instead takes the offensive, even if this means breaking out of her role as wife and domestic. She wanders Paris searching for work. This was not uncommon in the depression era in which the film is set, yet Vigo makes a point about the unconventional nature of Juliette’s position by casting her unemployed sympathizers as all male. Even in the throes of a depression, Vigo comments visually, few women found their way onto a work line. Meanwhile, employment has become a potential matter of concern for Jean as well. He is distraught over his desertion of his love, and it is reflected in his work and his unkempt appearance. The owner of the shipping company makes it clear to Jules that Jean’s tenure with the company will be short lived unless there is a marked improvement in his performance. This suggests a potential reversal: were he to return to Juliette, she would be both his caretaker and the provider of the singular income which would have typically been the duty of the male partner. Juliette’s absorption of both roles would certainly have proved emasculating, furthering the complications of the situation. Although modern times make conceptualizing women as weak, flighty and emotional totally inappropriate, at the loss of Juliette, Jean’s breakdown and irrational behavior could be considered a “womanly” or weak reaction to stress. Luckily, the couple’s reunification allows both to quietly return to their prescribed roles within the relationship without questioning one another’s recent gender subversions.
As desperate times call for desperate measures, unusual conditions force the usually conventional to sidestep social restrictions and act out of necessity. The unique situation in which the crew of the Atalante find themselves makes conformity to gender roles impractical. Actions are performed out of need and desire, and survival does not care much for social niceties. Because of the unconventional climate aboard and surrounding the ship in L’Atalante, it is not unseemly for Jean Vigo’s principle characters Jules, Jean and Juliette to take a cue from the dual gendered significance of the ship to ignore, subvert, and refuse to subscribe to traditionally dictated gender roles.

Works Cited:
Andrews, Dudley. “Fever of an Infectious Film: L'Atalante and the Aesthetics of Spontaneity.” Pages cited in work.

Hot DAMN! How "Tarnation" May be Ushering in a New Era of the Diary Film

In capturing the real, the artificial means through which an occurrence is recorded must be in constant maturation, as to keep up with the needs of the one casting his butterfly net over reality to enclose it in a labeled mason jar and exhibit it. This is especially true of cinema verite, which can easily be considered the true “art of the real world.” Technological advancements were paramount to the improvement of this genre. Lighter camera allowed for greater fluidity and freedom of motion; sync sound made it so the aural aspects of the film could be consistent with the visual representation. In this tradition, Jonathan Caouette’s “Tarnation” illustrates how current technological advancements in digital video editing software have revitalized the medium of the diary film, or autodocumentary. The implementation of the iMovie software allowed Caouette to manipulate existing photographs and home movie footage and create out of these found (or collected) materials his own personal aesthetic. As Jonathan Caouette proves with “Tarnation”, as long as there are technological innovations, the form of the documentary remains as dynamic as it was in the early days of verite.
“Tarnation”, however, belongs less to documentary than to a very different, entirely uncommercial tradition: it is the type of work that usually emerges from film's experimental fringes, or from video art, and that rarely sees any mainstream exposure.” The technology employed by Caouette (and his decisions of inclusion/manipulation) may categorize his film as “other”—a new hybrid of cinema verite, video art and diary. The development process and critical regard for ““Tarnation”” is also worthy of investigation. The film steps out of the traditional genre construction of documentary through the capabilities of manipulation through the iMovie software. Caouette freely discusses, both in the film and off camera, how his dissociative identity disorder has affected the “organic process” through which the stylistic revolutions of “Tarnation” were developed. This approach, complimented by Caouette’s freedom to inexpensively create such a piece, marks a notable development in documentary film, and provides worthy fodder for discussion: is this the future of the medium, or simply a diversion?
By now, nearly everyone in certain cinematic circles has learned the three cardinal truths about “Tarnation”. 1. It cost $218.32. 2. It was made on iMovie, the free software bundled with Apple computers since the late 1990’s 3. It’s the (slightly solipsistic) story of dissociative identity disorder and a dysfunctional family. This low budget and the familiarity of the materials used lend credence to Jonathan Caouette’s unconscious agreement with the viewer that what he presents should be accepted as absolute truth. Beyond this, the family photographs, shaky hand held home movies and deeply familiar interactions with his subjects create the notion that this film is more than just Caouette’s reality, it is “our truth” as well. Nostalgia is a key factor is establishing something as true and universal. In “Tarnation”, these truths are delivered via clips from Zoom, Johnny Cash songs, and traditional nursery rhymes. The accessibility of this common material forges immediate identification with Caouette-- “that use of pop culture references is to hopefully evoke something emotional and familiar within people. And to remind us, and maybe I’m not saying this quite right, of what we are and where we come from, getting back to the familiarity and innocence of childhood.” This is part of Caouette’s mission, to allow all of his viewers to see the film as something in which they could participate and, ultimately, create themselves out of their own personal narrative, no longer fearing the imaginary fences between film maker and common person. As he explains, “I really hope the movie can be an inspiration for would be filmmakers who are maybe intimidated by how much money is takes. You really just need a camera from Best Buy, a firewire, and a Mac. There should be no more excuses” More than simply eliminating financial deterrents, ““Tarnation”” breaks this boundary, explicating the mysteries of editing and achieving emotional affects, which had previously been secrets of the craft. This division is further bridged by virtue of the media it compiles. Super-8 tapes and photo booth strips are at one both particular to an individual and evocative of a collection of personal material that nearly every nostalgic individual amasses. Seeing these images on the screen transforms the idiosyncratic and certainly unique Jonathan Caouette into an everyman, onto which the viewer may transpose his or her own memories. Judging by the emotional response to “Tarnation”, transpose they did. “As to audience response, people would come up to me at Sundance without saying a word and just embrace me tightly. People seem to connect with this movie in an astoundingly real and visceral way.” It is the film’s low-fi appeal that makes it so accessible and thus so beloved, despite the flaws inherent in its low production value. While facts of production are a suitable summary of its exposition, they are severely lacking in describing what drew audiences and critics to hold the film in such regard. “If critics didn’t focus so often on ‘Tarnation’s’ production costs and about Caouette’s lack of experience, they might be more inclined to write about the director’s vision and his astute analysis of sex, gender and sexual orientation in us culture.”
Caouette’s film may be the flagship theatrical release of an iMovie, but one must consider that this is simply another mile marker along the digital pathway into the future of film. Almost a decade before this film’s release, Apple was bundling iMovie in with its standard software package, and Lars von Trier’s Dogme manifesto was legitimizing digital video as a valid medium for serious cinematic endeavors. “Dogme persuaded us- to a degree-- that the visual texture of video should not be seen as an inferior relation of celluloid which in turn fed into the growing excitement of Macintosh customers discovering iMovie.” It is the ubiquity of this software as well as the general acceptance that nearly anyone could edit their life in this way that lends itself to empathy with Jonathan Caouette, as well as skepticism over the performative nature of the piece as a whole. “The iMovie aesthetic might also become a mode of expression for film makers who want a particular way of indicating that something is immediate and real.” Because one is aware of the lack of fabrication of one’s own home movies, the discerning viewer is still less likely to suspect Caouette of anything but outright honesty. While “Tarnation” itself may not be intentionally deceptive, there is a performative aspect, apparent from the outset, that endures through most of the film, until Renee’s Lithium overdose (a tragic reality check) forces Jonathan to face the camera, and his despair, head on. This does not question the veracity of the film, but rather makes a larger comment on the nature of how home movies selectively represent a family history.
The first scene of “Tarnation” sets the stage for the elements of performance that are to continue throughout the film. Her hair askew and eyes wild, Renee LeBlanc (who has not yet been identified as mentally ill) sings for the camera. After a montage of still images, the first interaction viewers have with the other main subject of the film, Jonathan, is via performance as well. However, while Renee mugs for the camera, it is not nearly as overt a performance as Jonathan’s, who transcends gender and age to give a “testimony” as Hillary Chapman Laurel (or Lowell) Lou Garito. It is intense- both in the precociousness of the child who is able to so completely envelop himself in the role, as well as the accuracy with which he can portray this disturbed, battered woman. In his interview with Chris Wilcha, Jonathan Caouette makes note of the fact that for this performance, he was essentially channeling his mother. Regardless, the audience does not necessarily correlate the incredible acting abilities of this child with the possibility that as a filmmaker, he may be able to similarly shape the reality of his life that the viewers are accepting as truth. “The iMovie aesthetic might also become a mode of expression for film makers who want a particular way of indicating that something is immediate and real.” This is a conundrum- are all home movies in some way manipulations of the truth with camera as catalyst, or should one hold Jonathan Caouette suspect for manufacturing a portrayal of his early family life? The camera is, in many undocumented domestic cases, an unwelcome guest at an event, and its intrusion may unconsciously affect behaviors, rather than preserve an unadulterated view of family life. Caouette’s home movies differ, of course, because how many families interrogate their patriarchs on child abuse or witness claims that one’s mother is a transvestite with four nipples, as he has? Luckily, most audiences do not have such trust issues with the film. They can willingly accept it as collected footage and allow it to influence them emotionally without paying too much mind to the fact that the filmmaker/subject hardly ever appears onscreen unveiled, as himself. Granted, it would be exceptionally hard to falsify twenty years of personal artifacts, which certainly lends credence to Caouette’s presentation of the film as absolute truth. The capacity to ignore Caouette as an actor and place full trust in the honesty of his displayed footage is derived from the expectations that come from personal experience with home movies; within the majority of which a performative aspect is either unconscious or non-existent.
Even when discussing immensely personal issues, the footage that Jonathan Caouette has elected to use as the filmmaker always has at least one element of removal from the audience. When he talks about his adolescent understanding of his homosexuality, footage of Jonathan bouncing on a trampoline and otherwise engaging in carefree, childlike behaviors juxtapose his spoken admission that being a young gay man is difficult with almost stereotypical images of youthful delight. This pairing draws the ultimate conclusion that being gay was simply one element of Caouette’s development, and not a particularly stressful one. To illustrate his maturation as an artist, Caouette creates a split screen with footage from his first films, clips from popular television shows such as Zoom, and images of himself lip-syncing the soundtrack and staring dreamily at a television, which bathes him in an ethereal blue glow. There is no artist statement; there is no direct address. There are simply these disparate images woven together to create the impression of Jonathan Caouette as an artist, without a true understanding of who this Jonathan Caouette character is when the cameras are off. This is a privilege granted uniquely to one making an auto-documentary, not only to recreate the events of one’s life, but to also reinvent oneself (through “the best performances” and editorial control) into the portrait of whom one wants to be. Up until a major catastrophic event (Renee’s overdose) Jonathan Caouette can be understood more as a film subject who just so happens to be the filmmaker than an honest, flawed individual to be looked at objectively. When he does “reveal himself” at the end, finally we can ask the question of who the real Caouette is- the narrative subject or the documentarian?
After Renee has overdosed on Lithium and Jonathan must travel down to Texas to care for her, in this most dire of situations, he strips himself of all of the cinematic veils that had previously been his protection. Emotionally naked in front of the camera, sans visual effects, editing tricks or b roll footage to distract the audience, Jonathan Caouette, for the first time in this film, has ceased performing to make way for unadulterated honesty. This act is a synecdoche for Caouette’s experiences upon editing and releasing the film: “It was a way of showing myself and showing other people how I’ve come full circle with everything. It was a way of making peace with things. I think, and realizing that I didn’t need the camera on myself or my family an longer as a way of disassociating or having a sense of control, as I had been doing for the past 20 years.” This difference between video camcorder as observer of unaware subjects, and as catalyst for performance is something to consider once family videos enter the mainstream and audiences are faced with the question of what is truth and what fabrication. “Tarnation” serves as an excellent intermediary for this transition. As Executive Producer Gus Van Sant notes, “They are no longer home movies, but movies of the home.”
To consider “Tarnation” simply a documentary is an oversight bordering on injustice. Part of what sets the film apart is its unique visual aesthetic and editing technique, which Caouette considers an organic process manifested through his depersonalization disorder, but other viewers might consider as a generational influence based on music videos and video art. “Caouette’s directorial vision is not exactly unique—you can see its roots in music videos, television commercials and the multiplicity of images common in much pop art—but it is distinctly not Hollywood or even traditional independent film. Because he is using a collage technique that relies on evoking strong emotional responses through a juxtaposition of immediately recognizable images and sounds… we are pulled into the film’s emotional subtext without much room to resist or even process this material.” Caouette’s creative influence on the manipulation of his family footage into this bright colored, highly contrasted eye candy does more than simply provide for a prettier picture than transferred home video footage. This technique blurs the line between video art and home video, which is rarely the case in documentary films. Yet “Tarnation” is arguably a horse of a different color than the majority of documentaries, through both its exposition and emotional content. Subject matter as intense as that manifested in “Tarnation” is not easy to swallow by a mass audience aware that the maker of the film they are currently digesting has personally suffered through all he has included in the work. But considering the dueling perspectives of “Tarnation” as art vs. therapy, it proves to be an apt choice. In either case, it may be perceived that the film is being shortchanged. "I manipulated almost every single frame that you see in the film with the brightness and contrast button," he explains. 'I went along with the music, but I also let the brightness and contrast evoke an atmosphere, a feeling of what it's like to see things with depersonalization disorder, which is a bit trippy.” In this interview, Caouette claims that the colors and contrast (the more artistic aspects of the film that incite its comparisons to video art) are relevant in that they are visual representations of his disorder. In a way, this combines the film as therapy viewpoint with the film as art stand. Neither of these is particularly comfortable ground for the viewer, as through either lens responsibility shifts. If one is to watch the film as if it is a therapy session for Jonathan Caouette (as he has mentioned that working through the film has allowed him renewed perspective on the events of his life) the viewer is faced with the burden of this man’s unfortunate circumstances, and is made implicit in helping to sort through these issues. However, this approach disregards the intentional stylistic decisions made by Caouette to adopt an aesthetic similar to the experience of his dissociative episodes- fundamentally, to have his art as a true manifestation of his perspective. If one looks at “Tarnation” as cinema therapy, one does not have to come to terms with theoretical questions or solidify a personal definition of art, in which the film may or may not fit. By nature of the medium, “Tarnation” as therapy film puts Caouette’s pain into a larger cultural context that the viewer may or may not choose to entertain. Yet if the viewer chooses not to engage with the film on a confessional, therapeutic level (whether this is a conscious decision with an understanding of one’s own emotional reserves or self preservation- not desiring to perhaps find familiarity in Caouette’s family situation) to view it simply as an artistic endeavor is to pacify the worry within that this sort of horrific occurrence does, in fact, exist. It is easier to handle “Tarnation” if it is not seen as an unflinching look at a brutal life. By expressing these unsettling happenings via visuals (it is here that Caouette’s decision to use title cards rather than voice over narration adds another element of removal) the reality of the film is easier to swallow, as it is a work of art and not a pressing human truth. What is important to recognize, so that the film may be appropriately considered both art and therapy at once, is that Caouette is exorcising his demons through the creative process, and that these veilings are not mutually exclusive. Taking a look at earlier diary films, such as Jonas Mekas’ “Lost Lost Lost” and Ed Pincus’ “Diary,” the collected footage is far more straightforward (although Mekas’ aesthetic of silent 16 mm is more similar to Caouette’s) and would never be compared to video art. However, Caouette is a product of his generation, and infuses his personal narrative with the popular culture that is inexorably a part of his experience; the empathy of the audience comes with the shared memory of these experiences (and herein lies the uncomfortable identification with the unstable subject.)
After making its mark on the festival circuit, after the voicing of praise from all sides for Caouette’s thrifty, inventive feature that exemplified the potential of new technology, there remains the murmur of an unanswered question amongst the cinema set. Does “Tarnation” exemplify the future of documentary filmmaking, or is it a deviation? “Tarnation” serves as an excellent example of how the ease with which iMovie can be learned, along with the relatively inexpensive video camera options currently available, makes filmmaking a far more accessible domain for the masses. “For several years, filmmakers and the industry they support have been hyping a new era of moviemaking heralded by the advent of digital video cameras and high end desk top editing systems…. The technology itself will foster a more direct, personal approach to filmmaking.” Yet iMovie and a camcorder were merely tools for Caouette to implement his vision, which, had he the funds, he could have done on an Avid system with an HDV camera, much to the same effect in terms of technicalities. Such a line of thinking seems to imply that works as personal as “Tarnation” are born out of small budgets, and intimacy and full personal disclosure could not have possibly been attained when the filmmaker’s equipment was more sophisticated and expenses were higher. This is a difficult point to consider. Clearly, the film's DIY aesthetic, that which resonates so deeply with audiences as “the truth” could not have been replicated without Jonathan Caouette’s photo booth stills, answering machine tapes, and super-8 reels. “’Tarnation’ suggests a new era for movies, moviemakers and audiences - a revolution in audio-visual confessional.” This begs the question- could Caouette have confessed any other way? With this consideration, “Tarnation” contributes to the auto-documentary movement via content, not simply by virtue of its medium, and such content, one may argue, is increasingly timely. In recent years, the subject matter of much popular media has centered on the self of the author, oftentimes a self in conflict with situation. These writers did not have the filmmaker’s concern of pricey equipment or studio support: their creation was literally supported by brainpower. “Caouette's need to lay himself bare also has much in common with a current true-confessions strain in commercial American writing, represented by such diverse writers as Elizabeth Wurtzel, Dave Eggers, Augusten Burroughs and psychic damage's self-help pin-up boy Dave Pelzer. “ It should be noted at this point that many of these individuals are at the helm of the McSweeney’s publishing team, which garners great regard throughout the literary community. These contemporary writers, many of whom gained critical attention for their captivating portrayals of immensely personal material, prove Caouette is not alone in this treatment of his art. Nor is it an entirely original direction. As AO Scott notes, this confessional, diary approach also appeared in American poetry of the 1950’s.
Combining this evidence, it is easier to support “Tarnation” as an exemplary moment in the transition from objective to subjective documentary. First the beat poets, then the McSweeney’s writers, and now, like most adaptations—the self as preferred subject has moved to the screen. “As the tide of confessionalism and personal revelation that has come to dominate literary culture moves into the visual realm, we may be entering the age of the autodoc, or moicumentary.” Jonathan Caouette cannot be credited for inventing the diary film, nor for being the first to pen such a confessional, penetrating memoir. However, it can be recognized that with the public appreciation of “Tarnation”, it could perpetuate the trend toward immensely personal narratives in entertainment. As Caouette says in his interview with Chris Wilcha, “the world is ready for a new kind of cinema and I would love to see something with a more hyper-real element coming back.” This sort of cinema may be new, but the idea itself has been a lasting trend. Following Caouette’s example, however, the film memoir may drastically gain popularity as more and more individuals realize they possess the necessary tools to tell their story cinematically. While it may not be the all-encompassing future of documentary, “Tarnation” is certainly more than a singular experiment.
Only time can tell when professional equipment may become publicly accessible, but as Jonathan Caouette has illustrated with “Tarnation”, the backyard auteur has already begun to establish himself as a potential threat to Hollywood’s monopoly on cinema. Caouette’s unique approach to the diary film, pairing video art with art as therapy and creating a pop culture/personal narrative, follows a current trend in the other art forms. With his film as an excellent example of what is possible even with a microscopic budget and relatively unsophisticated tools, the natural trajectory of the documentary may be redirected to a far more personal, accessible venue. If this is not a solid example of what it means to document truth and present it as non-fiction cinema, a better one has yet to reach theaters.


(footnotes.sources cited available in hardcopy)

Final Paper Proposal- Tarnation as the modern diary film

New Technology? HOT DAMN! : How Tarnation May Be Ushering In a New Era of the Diary Film.

In the first part of this course, we spent a great deal of time discussing technological developments in film making equipment and how it affected the technique of those shooting observational cinema. The lighter camera allowed for greater fluidity and freedom of motion; sync sound made it so the aural aspects of the film could be consistent with the visual representation. Jonathan Caouette’s “Tarnation” illustrates how current technological advancements in digital video editing software have revitalized the medium of the diary film. Assembled in the style of a Jonas Mekas film, “Tarnation”’s implementation of the iMovie software allowed Caouette to manipulate existing footage and create out of these found images his own personal aesthetic. (Calhoun) “Tarnation, however, belongs less to documentary than to a very different, entirely uncommercial tradition: it is the type of work that usually emerges from film's experimental fringes, or from video art, and that rarely sees any mainstream exposure.” (Romney) The technology employed by Caouette (and his decisions of inclusion/manipulation) may categorize his film as “other”—a new hybrid of cinema verite, video art and diary. “Caouette's style is a mixture of the rapid crosscutting and repetition found in Jonas Mekas's confessional early work, and the visual flashiness of Kenneth Anger's pop-culture saturated Fireworks and Scorpio Rising--films Caouette references in his voiceover narration--as well as Jack Smith's Flaming Creatures.” (Bronski)
The development process and critical regard for “Tarnation” is also worthy of investigation. The film steps out of the traditional genre construction of documentary through the capabilities of manipulation through the iMovie software. Caouette freely discusses, both in the film and off camera, how his disassociative personality disorder has affected the “organic process” through which the stylistic revolutions of “Tarnation” were developed. (Wilcha interview with Caouette) This “horse of a different color” approach, complimented by Caouette’s freedom to inexpensively create such a piece, marks a notable development in documentary film, and provides worthy fodder for discussion: is this the future of the medium, or simply a diversion?
Sources

Bronski, Michael. “Tarnation.”
Cineaste v. 30 no1 (Winter 2004) p. 38-40

Calhoun, John. “Tarnation Finds Beauty in Chaos.”
American Cinematographer v. 85 no11

Rich, B. Ruby, Tell It to the Camera.
Sight & Sound ns15 no4 (April 2005) p. 32-4

Romney, Jonathan. “The Use of Abuse.”
Modern Painters (March 2005) p. 26-9

Wilcha, Christopher. “Jonathan Caouette.”
Bomb no89 (Fall 2004) p. 30-4, 36-7

Can a documentary, a film that the average viewer believes to be a presentation of facts, exist outside of an entirely objective space? As some examples in this course, such as “Demon Lover Diary” and “Lost Lost Lost” would indicate, once the hand of the filmmaker begins to shape the material with his/her personal account of the events, the addition of subjectivity does not necessarily detract from the veracity of the film, it is simply recontextualized. That being said, Kazuo Hara still remains a bit of a horse of a different color. Hara has created a diary film (which, in the same vein as Pincus and DeMott’s work, can be fully understood as a subjective experience of events) but has also produced several films with less personal subjects. Yet as Hara’s can easily be considered “activist filmmaking,” does it not lose some of its objectivity in pushing an agenda? “The Emperor’s Naked Army Marches On” stylistically blurs the line between observational cinema and narrative fiction, thus making it harder to pinpoint Kazuo Hara’s stand on the issues it presets.

The epigram, so to speak, at the head of this week’s reading, somewhat uncomfortably makes the viewer question Kazuo Hara’s documentary intentions. As he says straightforwardly he wants to have his documentary subjects act as action heroes, making action documentary films. His protagonist in “The Emperor’s Naked Army Marches On” certainly provides this for him, as he is a volatile and uncontrollable subject. He seems to be the perfect “character,” so to speak, so that Kazuo Hara may attempt in his filmmaking to break the rigid taboos of Japanese society. Kento Okuzaki not only openly discusses his botched assassination attempt on the emperor, he also commits acts of violence onscreen against his commanding officers, now frail old men. This sort of insurgence would have rarely found its way onto the Japanese screen. Hara doubly has his hand in breaking such taboos, both directly and editorially. By selecting a subject such as Kento Okuzaki, whose anti-government and slightly unstable convictions were by no means clandestine, Kazuo Hara prepared himself for shooting a disturbingly unconventional film that would likely incense the more traditional viewer. With such an explosive subject, Hara’s film is an interesting comment on Jean Rouch’s idea of the camera as catalyst. If the events in front of the camera are more cataclysmic, is it merely observational and honest to capture them, or is one implicated by the foresight that such a subject could produce these results? This may be considered a reappropriation of the role of the camera/filmmaker, one that Hara took advantage of to allow himself the opportunity to diverge from documentary conventions.

Both Hara’s shooting techniques and editorial decisions mirrored his subject’s radical politics. He supports Kento Okuzaki’s violent nature by rolling his camera (some would say “standing idlely by”) as Okuzaki attacks two of his former commanding officers. One of whom is a weak, nearly paralyzed old man fresh out of surgery. Okuzaki’s attack put him back in the hospital, and despite pleas and chastisement from the commanding officer’s family, Hara did nothing but continue to roll as the events unfolded. This non-interventionist approach most likely was more objective and honest than if Hara had interceded. But it certainly does not free him from the moral implications of acting as an observer to such proceedings. However, it can be argued that by showcasing such violent material, leading the audience to question what the filmmaker’s responsibility is in such a situation, one ultimately directs the viewer to question their understanding of truth through cinema and/or the meanings of their desires to see such action unfold. By this I mean that as the viewer lambastes the filmmaker for not stopping the abhorrent action, he is led to question whether he desires a true record of what has transpired (including violence) or if morally he’d rather that the filmmaker interrupt the events. Kazuo Hara breaks the taboos by depicting violence in this uninterrupted fashion, implicating the viewer in the action and leading him to question his voyeuristic pleasure, if any, received. Hara also challenges authority himself by blatantly disregarding the police when they try to prohibit him from filming. This is a far more obvious breaking of a taboo, which is the unquestioned submission to authority figures. As an activist film maker, this non-cooperative stance is complimentary to the subjects he explores. Apparently it is successful, as his film Sayonara, CP! brought about reform in the public’s understanding and interaction with the physically disabled. Using this protest aesthetic allows Kazuo Hara the ability to passively record his passions, then present them to an audience as a form of activism.

“From my opinion, a documentary should explore things people don’t want explored, bring things out of the closet, to examine why people want to hide specific things.” What is it about Kazuo Hara’s films that make us uncomfortable, and what does that say about us? What sort of cultural judgments can we make about how uneasy such material makes different cultures? Hara presents himself as an outsider-observer, yet his home movie aesthetic with its lapses in sync sound do not necessarily present the material he has recorded as completely reliable/free from directorial influence. This would not necessarily preclude the film from being seen as making a strong case for the cause, but to some discerning eyes, could take one out of the events and into the idea of them as “film,” thus moving from the active to the passive.

Diary Bias

Never before in this class have we been able to see a filmmaker’s complete body of works. But after some hasty research on IMDB last night, I found that Jeff Kreines and Joel DeMott had not been credited with any other film-making past the production of “Seventeen.” This makes it easier to contrast the styles of the two pieces, and make notes on what I would consider to be successfully self reflexive techniques, and what simply made observational cinema seem less objective.

From the outset, “Demon Lover Diary” presents itself as a personal narrative. The very inclusion of the word “diary” in the title implies that this work is going to be heavy handed in regards to inclusion of the film makers’ perspective. “Demon Lover Diary” does not disappoint. The role of the narrator is established almost from the first frame, as Joel identifies herself and her subjects by their position in her personal cosmology of influence. The audience is immediately aware that this is a film about making a film, and that the filmmaker herself will be documenting the process, not sparing her opinion of the proceedings. This is made apparent when Joel introduces Don as “a friend of Jeff’s” and Jerry as “not so much a friend of Jeff’s” (I paraphrase.) Never having met these characters, never having the opportunity for them to establish their own legitimacy or present themselves as complex subjects, the audience is immediately biased against Jerry due to the Joel’s disclaimer. The proceedings of the shooting of “Demon Lover” are similarly colored. Clearly Jeff’s aggravation with Don’s disorganization is mounting, but Joel chooses to shoot mostly Jeff’s emotional state, not necessarily the context that has produced it. We rarely see wasted time, and only towards the end of the film are presented with the affects of Don and Jerry’s poor communication.

Joel DeMott does not frame the other filmmakers outside of her own personal perspective. However, she does cast her boyfriend and friend in a more flattering light, filming Mark’s search for love and Jeff’s candid discussion of his willingness to help his friends. Even the inclusion of the scene in which the three documentarians are enjoying themselves too loudly and are shushed by Don’s mother is biased in that presents the audience with a set of gleeful, young subjects to compare to Don and Jerry’s unattractive, incompetent presentation. Self reflexivity in a film such as “Demon Lover Diary” is a necessity, as it is a personal account of events. However, in this case, by editorializing with the narration before even shaping the piece to reflect favorably upon herself, Joel DeMott shapes the perception of events, potentially violating the veracity of the work.

However, the same criticism cannot be made of “Seventeen,” although it is not devoid of moments of self reflexivity. Much of the candor exhibited by Kreines and DeMott’s subjects in seventeen may be assumed to be prompted by the presence of the camera; some of the teens audacity (especially in their back-talk to their Home Ec. Teacher) could be attributed to a performative inclination. But such examples are limited. Lynn may address Joel directly in a scene, and the mic may accidentally come into frame in a moment of chaotic drunkenness. But “Seventeen” does not suffer from the same immediately apparent editorial feel present in “Demon Lover Diary.” I would attribute this to the lack of voice over narration. The audience is not instructed on how to relate to the subject. Instead, DeMott and Kreines simply “take us along for the ride,” literally—as the audience sits beside Lynn and Wendy as they smoke cigarettes on their ride home from school, it is easy to forget that there is another body in the front seat and that the audience is not simply privy to this private conversation.

In many instances, self reflexive techniques may provide the right critical approach so that audiences respect the nature of the documentary’s production and are made aware that even in this instance, the truth is being molded by the film makers. Yet Joel DeMott’s highly critical, personal presentation of her subjects in “Demon Lover Diary” steps beyond self reflexivity as a tool in the film maker’s arsenal into self indulgence. Luckily, in a situation that necessitated a more unbiased, sensitive presentation of the subjects, DeMott and Kreines were able to leave their personal biases behind and create a film that is more observational than editorial.

Living Out Loud

As a child of the reality tv generation, the opportunity to watch what could possibly be considered the pilot series for the genre was an eye opening look at its maturation over the past thirty years. The critical backlash, as Craig Gilbert described in his reflections, was truly what spawned the negative sentiments surrounding the show- both general viewers and the family themselves seemed, according to Gilbert, content with the content. Personally, I think the parents in “A Married Couple” or the teachers in “High School” are far more deplorable than the Louds, in the two episodes I saw. However, as the Louds were presented essentially in a series of twelve films, the look at their human fallibility is more penetrating as it is broader in scope and readily provides more examples for a critic. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, the wacky pair in “A Married Couple” exit the screen after two hours, leaving the viewer free to disassociate and live his or her life differently or “better” than that of the subjects whose behavior s/he had just spent the time viewing.

A weekly television series provides more fuel for the critical fire, so to speak. Because Craig Gilbert and the Raymonds were essentially making a twelve hour long documentary, they had the freedom to include more minutiae than a single feature length film would allow, for there was less risk of losing the audience. Despite the cataclysmic event of the series, in which Pat asks Bill for a divorce, there are still quiet moments in the episode, reinvigorating a sense of normalcy. The girls awkwardly play flute, missing notes, and only a complete over intellectualization would possibly present that this has anything to do with the state of their psyche (the unbalance of not having their father in the house resounds in a dissonant tone, blah blah blah.) When Pat visits Lance in New York, the tedium of some of their time together is also captured on film. As they both sit in her room at the Chelsea, not really conversing, the lull in conversation is replete with the awkwardness felt by a grown child trying to entertain his mother in a somewhat unusual setting. To me, this is more genuine insight into the lives of these people than a shorter format would allow. The luxury of having twelve hours to present a documentary on the Louds and the state of an/the American family, means less pressure on the construction to speak as definitively towards a thesis in every moment. In fact, Gilbert mentions in the first half of his article that he was ultimately forced to fire an editor who was trying to shape the Louds into character types. He wanted the presentation to be a natural, unbiased presentation of the seven months he spent with this family.

“An American Family” provides fantastic contrast to modern reality television, even when the situations are somewhat similar. My generation, having been raised on MTV’s “The Real World,” spent most of high school trying to figure out “who we would be” on the show, in case the casting agent ever came to call. This is in direct opposition to what Gilbert says he was attempting with “An American Family.” Modern reality TV takes advantage of the understanding that conflict will draw viewers, and intentionally shapes the subjects of its programming into heroes and villains. The teenagers on “The Real World” probably did not outwardly differ much from Grant and Lance Loud. However, the editing establishes this girl as the “militant black lesbian” and this boy as the “intolerant frat boy,” with someone else in the house serving as the “enlightened liberal mediator” between the two. After watching even one season of “The Real World,” a viewer is highly aware of the fact that the title is exceptionally misleading.

Craig Gilbert says that the most negative reactions against the show came from the critics, facing what he called “the shock of recognition.” The mundane moments, as I described before, along with the day to day concerns of the family, were perceived as deep seated superficiality; a product of white privilege. Gilbert argues that this lashing out in the press comes not from the availability of flaws in the Louds as much as from the recognition by the critic of these shortcomings in his own household. One way to pacify the uneasiness of being greeted with your own somewhat ugly behaviors is to publicly decry them, as if you can, by doing this, establish yourself as a moral master above such things. By criticizing the Louds, those writing were able to ignore the unattractive truths of the average American- they had superficial concerns, they fought with family members, and oftentimes did not say anything of particular philosophical worth. However, trapped behind the screen of the television, the normality of the Louds’ idiosyncrasies proved to be a sitting duck for the insecurities of those who would rather that this imperfect family not be representative of the typical.

I would prefer that reality television took the approach of Craig Gilbert in providing a less constructed view of its subjects. But it is likely that the nature of the medium’s structuring towards highly dramatic portrayals has to do with the modern market’s need for constant, intense stimulation. This, and the ease of identification (although still from a privileged critical distance) are the reasons why reality television has had such a prolific history in recent years, as audiences are more willing to invest themselves in the televised constructions of actual people rather than completely fictionalized characters, likely because they know that once the season ends, these real people can disappear back into the obscurity of day to day life.

Respect Your Elders, Or Face Being Trapped in XCU

“In observational cinema, truth, no matter how obvious, can indeed be beauty.” This point, made by Barry Grant in his article “Man With a Movie Camera” in Voyages of Discovery, attempts to illustrate why Frederick Wisemen’s films, although lacking in conventional film vocabulary, can still be seen as works of art. It is true that in High school and Basic Training that Wiseman has, in his camerawork as well as in the editing room, shunned the conventions of narrative cinema embraced by other verite filmmakers such as the Drew Associates and Richard Leacock. However, I would argue that even though these films, especially High School, for the most part lack dramatic structure, clear protagonists and even (in the case of High School) a climax or resolution, as examples of observational cinema, they explore the subject visually in many of the same ways as more conventional examples of verite that remain married to narrative tenets. High School illustrates the use of cinematic technique in an observational way to discover truth. The impressions that Wiseman has shaped in this film, despite his non-invasive practices, is a shining example of observational cinema as Grant establishes it-- “the Observant filmmaker, perceiving not with the naked eye but with the kino eye, must enter what Rouch calls a ‘cine trance’ and discover meaning as embodied in the surface of things.”

The pairing of High School and Basic training for this week’s screening seemed an interesting progression, although the order of the screenings was particularly pertinent in shaping my concept of Wiseman as a film maker and making what I first perceived as the jumble of images in High School to be more coherent. These are rather mundane goings on at what could be assumed to be a typical public high school in the late sixties. Students ready themselves for prom, face disciplinary action, and receive sex education. Yet it is the editorial decisions of the cameraman and editor that present the film’s thesis, as no clear narrative progression can be delineated. Characters do not emerge as focal points and hardly reoccur (with the exception of Rona, the failing student who has apparently secured a full scholarship to college even though she does not want to attend.) Even in the case of Rona, she is not an actual character but merely a topic of discussion until nearly the end of the film. While Wiseman’s “characters” seem, in what can be considered customary adolescent fashion, to be fighting for their individuality, he does not allow them this privilege. As the camera moves from one subject to the next with fairly rapid pacing, the viewer is almost disallowed from emotionally connecting with any of the students. The administration of the high school seems to be pushing the same agenda, as is illustrated with the discussion between the home economics teacher and the girl who has made, in the administrative opinion, an inappropriately short prom dress that does not conform to the school’s notions of proper attire. This is her moment, in the film of differentiating herself from the other members of the student body. However, the camera spends significantly more time on the faces of those teachers chastising her, and only casts a fleeting glance in her direction. She is almost disallowed from presenting herself as an individual as she attempts to stand up for her individuality as expressed through dress.

In a conventional narrative film, or even a more narratively based documentary, the use of close ups is traditionally conceived of as inviting the audience into the character’s psyche. But in a film such as High School, Wiseman almost over utilizes the close up, bringing the camera in so tight on the subject as to render him into individual features or disembodied parts. One cannot empathize with a wagging finger or a pair of quivering lips, so rather than support the boy who has stood up for himself rather than respect the wrongful accusation of his teacher, we see him disassembled into glasses and nose, sliding in and out of focus. Additionally, Wiseman’s decision to not construct High School within a narrative form, creating characters and a story line, seems to present a similar statement on the necessary conformity being pushed on these students. The students are almost never shown at a “comfortable” focal length, which I would personally consider to be anywhere from medium close up to a full face close up with some headroom. They are either members of a group shown at medium shot, (such as the “deviant” who refuses to get off the telephone despite his lack of hall pass) individuals from a distance shown in long shot, or, in their moments of personal crisis, extreme close ups which serve to depersonalize the subject. Most of the adults, on the other hand, are allowed the courtesy of a comfortable focal length, in which the viewer is able to entirely absorb the subject and yet is close enough to develop some intimacy with his or her thought process.

Wiseman’s High School presents an almost biting critique through its disembodiment of the student subjects to the condition of the lack of individuality in the public high school during the Vietnam War. While traditionally an American high school would be conceived of as a breeding ground for mature thinking and individually successful citizens, the conformity necessary to maintain order is illustrated through the depersonalization of the students in their presentation on screen. Fredrick Wiseman’s use of camera and intentional diversion from narrative convention to present these seemingly disconnected moments demonstrates the power of observational cinema to editorially present an unspoken truth about this sub-sect of society.

Salesman (Maysles and Zwerin)

When I was studying in Prague, my classmates and I frequently got into heated debates over whether or not there was a certain “feminine sensitivity” noticeable in films to which women had made a significant contribution. While no consensus was ultimately reached (both camps refused to compromise) the discussion, even though it has passed, encouraged me to watch a film’s sensitivity and ultimately build a case for my point. The Maysles’ Brothers Salesman, although easily perceived as a male driven film, considering its protagonists, would not evoke the same emotional response were it not for editorial decisions made by Charlotte Zwerin. Zwerin herself says that the film “is a difficult film to view…it comes across at a very slow and undramatic pace.” (Zwerin, 91) Yet it could also be argued that Zwerin’s choice to linger on certain moments is the saving grace for what would be otherwise an exceptionally hard to structure film.

Editing can be compared to Darwinism, although having “the strongest shots survive” may certainly be a matter of the editor’s taste. In her interview, Charlotte Zwerin voiced her initial dismay when editing Salesman that, aside from the traditional continuity issues that arise from the very nature of Verite filmmaking, she could not feel the enthusiasm that David and Al Maysles brought back from the set. However, ultimately Al’s “unexciting footage” followed his self-spoken principle to “catch a kind of ‘subjective-objective’ truth… in which ethics and aesthetics are interdependent, where beauty starts with honesty.”( Blue, 259) However, it was from the winnowing down of the footage and the focus on one character, Paul, that the film ultimately gains its poignancy. Watching Paul stutter his way through a sales pitch, with cuts showing the unenthused faces of his potential clients, Zwerin keeps the shot on Paul’s face in his awkward sales pitch long enough for the viewer to empathize with his captive audience in the general feeling he has overstayed his welcome. Then, the reaction is what is valued, and the use of very tight close-ups on the customer, magnifying their facial reactions as Paul needles them, usually unsuccessfully, into making the purchase, takes the focus away from the actual subject of the scene (Paul) and shows what could be considered the consequences of his unpolished pitch. It is these moments where the shot is held slightly too long, where the blank reaction fills the screen for an uncomfortable extra second, that empathy for the characters is bred.
A departure from the Drew Associates’ crisis based films, Salesman could almost be considered the tale of an anti-hero. Rather than structure the story around Ray or Charlie, one of the more successful salesmen (of whom there was equal amounts of footage depicting their triumphs in the trade) Zwerin and the Maysles put the audience’s eye on Paul, who at times is almost painfully human and anti-hero. While the articles mentioned the removal of scenes where Paul goes to his daughter’s wedding, which would have been exceptionally humanizing, Zwerin’s inclusion of moments less maudlin or obvious investigations into Paul’s humanity reinforces the notion that her sensitivity is what truly solidifies the emotional impact of the film. While in many of the repetitive scenes in hotel rooms, Paul appears to mug for the camera, it is when he is in his car, warbling “If I Were a Rich Man” or slipping on an icy path on the way back from a failed call that he is ultimately made sympathetic. The decision to include these tiny, seemingly insignificant moments that gradually build a deep emotional relationship between the audience and the down on his luck salesman rather than beat the audience over the head with sentimentality is a mature decision that would not have necessarily been made in the earlier, crisis oriented direct cinema films, in which the Maysles participated.
Further examples of these “tender” moments, which can also be viewed as exceptionally anti-climactic, reinforce Zwerin’s opinion that the film is undramatic and difficult to watch. However, I applaud her for her decision to include these rather than take the obvious material for building an emotional case. One need only see two moments in hotel rooms, in which the men idle and Paul expresses his dismay at the current selling scene (while the camera captures the uninterested or concerned faces of his compatriots) to imply that this is a common occurrence in the lives of these men, and that every territory looks the same from inside the walls of a budget motel. Yet these scenes depict an intimacy between the salesmen, in their moments of respite, which cannot easily be conveyed in other material. It also builds a slow, strong case for Paul’s discontent at his own lack of success, which appropriately climaxes in a final motel scene, where the same spiel about “join the force and get a pension” is repeated. Yet after the audience has encountered these motel scenes repeatedly, the deviance from Paul’s usual gruff dismay to his almost tearful dejection is all the more powerful. Zwerin’s decision to include the final one, in which that powerful close up of Paul at the end of his emotional tether, past the point where the action would further the story, is an excellent illustration of her decision to value character rather than circumstance. That still shot of Paul, after repeating for the umpteenth time the Irish “dream” he’s avoided by going into bible sales, gains emotional strength as it lingers until Paul nearly breaks down into tears. This moment does not beat compassion into the audience, but by virtue of the fact that Zwerin has chosen to repeat these monotonous, seemingly identical moments, it carries more emotional clout than a more overt event might.
Coupled with less frenetic camera movement on the part of Al Maysles and his prescience to understand when a reaction shot is more valuable than one of the subject speaking, Salesman becomes a film about the small moments that make or break a man. Although Charlotte Zwerin mentions in the interview that she was ultimately unhappy with the film, as she thought its pacing was too slow (to render it almost unwatchable) this is mostly in comparison to the existing, fast paced and crisis driven verite films. As a female editor, the slow pace translates to artistry of the pause, and Zwerin’s innate understanding of when to hold a moment of silence for ultimate emotional impact. Salesman may not be as riveting as a film with perhaps a more action packed situation, but as an investigation into the human condition vis a vis Paul’s struggles, the tenderness of Zwerin’s long held moments brings the film a delicate humanity it would have not achieved otherwise.