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.