“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.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
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