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.

Chronicle of a Summer (Rouch) and Crisis (Drew Associates)

According to the Stephen Mamber articles, one would believe that verite based on the Drew Associates’ model may be dramatic style over substance. That is to say that allegiance to molding a film around the crisis moment, or focusing on characters who are about to find themselves in such a crisis, is a technique more likely to bring veracity to verite. However, in comparing Crisis with Jean Rouch’s Chronicle of a Summer, a French film (and thus one ascribing to a very different philosophy of attaining truth through cinema verite) it is possible to draw the opinion that perhaps the most honest moments captured on film are not in the most heightened moment of dramatic action.
Crisis (as can be assumed by titular association with what Mamber identifies as the archetypal Robert Drew story structure) is set on an active, tenuous stage. As Mamber mentions, this is traditional fictional structure. However, it seems that in their pursuit of truth in this situation, the varying degrees of intimacy with the characters compromise the complete objectivity of the work. That is not to say that the Drew Associates have misrepresented the facts of the situation, or inappropriately documented it. However, there are some portrayals of Governor Wallace in which he almost appears to be pandering to the camera. Wallace is shown at a further focal length than the Kennedys, which removes the audience from his physical presence and establishes him as a spectacle rather than one in whose life we are participating. Wallace pontificates on the situation, chuckling with his advisors as, conveniently, a map he needs is delivered. His polished presentation and removal from the camera makes it seem as if he is part of a reenactment of the events, rather than experiencing them currently. His responses are too polished and his reactions too controlled for the “truth” of the situation, or really its humanity, warts and all, to be believable.
In contrast, Drew Associates have followed Robert Drew’s concept of capturing crisis on film, as in the Mamber article he relates that he has learned in his career in photojournalism with Life magazine. Drew said that in order to properly capture the exact place and time where the climax occurred, one should be close to the subjects and consistently ready. While the crisis moment of the film Crisis was undoubtedly to occur at the University of Alabama, by keeping the cameras rolling, the Drew Associates were able to capture the tics and fumbles that make the portrayal of JFK and Bobby Kennedy more human. Bobby Kennedy’s noisy family members interrupt each other at the dinner table and argue over even portions. Compared to the controlled environment of his office, ths pandemonium makes Robert Kennedy a far more sympathetic character. Even simple slips, such as when he is unable to find the correct phone, are included details that are not necessarily relevant to furthering the dramatic story, but do contribute to the establishment of the crisis hero (another essential element explored in the Mamber article.) Both President Kennedy and the Attorney General Kennedy are shown to be men in control of the situation, much like Wallace. But when the camera pulls in closer; when they wiggle in their rockers or show weariness in their faces, the emotional pull of such a moment is what establishes them as the heroes of the story.
In comparing Crisis to Chronicles of a Summer, the Drew Associates’ film follows dramatic structure and creates a captivating story through the use of this skeleton plot. However, that is not to say this always makes for the better film. Clearly a story such as the integration of the Alabama university system will have a crisis moment, and characters will be forced to show their true colors as the film reaches its exciting climax. But does this make a more “honest, truthful” film? The use of the narrator in this film (as a disembodied voice) immediately reminds the audience that they are watching a film and that their opinions of the events may have been manipulated by the film makers. In contrast, the number of subjects in the film almost completely disallows its complete orchestration. The subjects have varying reactions to the camera and seem to also have different degrees of comfort with its presence. However, when one is too comfortable in front of the lens, such as Governor Wallace, freely presenting opinions without stuttering or revealing other flaws, one begins to develop a distrust of this seemingly unflappable figure, as if there is something dishonest about the fact that he is not nervous.
Chronicles of a Summer does not ascribe to many of Drew’s verite tenants as addressed in the Stephen Mamber article. There is virtually no crisis structure, and the multiple subjects disallow for a clear crisis hero through which one can follow a complete narrative thread. The closest one comes is Marceline- and even revelations about her situation are far more subtle than any of the judgments that could be made by the audience of Crisis. Chronicles of a Summer keeps us intimate with the characters because they are all we have. Noting Leacock’s shot of Jackie Kennedy’s hands in Primary, Mamber discusses this cutaway as unsuccessfulm seeing as it is delivered out of context. Relevent details in Chronicles of a Summer bear no such flaw. When Marceline is listening to Jean Pierre discuss how his unhappiness stems from his inability to satisfy his love (her) the camera tilts from her worried face down to a tattoo on her arm as she worries she may have imposed her hardships on him unintentionally. Later, as they are discussing race, the camera follow the same path to Marceline’s tattoo, to illustrate her position as another repressed minority. However, even with the highly dramatic, emotionally charged sequence of Marceline walking around the Place du Concord, discussing her father, this is hardly as strict a crisis structure as would exist in an American cinema verite film. Were this an American film, Marceline’s character would be given far more screen time, and not nearly forgotten until the final third of the film.
The truth in this film can also be attached to its self reflexivity. The discussion section at the end fo the film is a true comment on the honesty of verite, straight from the subjects themselves as the first audience. Although they knew of the methods in which they were filmed, they still seemed skeptical about others “acting” or going into histrionics, which was the case with Marilou. This film begins as an exploration into what it means to be happy. There is not necessarily a crisis- no real change to take place, nothing forseen to be documented- merely an honestl exploration of the human condition in Paris at the start of the 1960s. So many of the characters are aborted (such as the painters and factory workers, save one) so the American (Drew Associates) tradition of presenting a crisis hero as the focus does not apply. It is a very subtle crisis moment when we realize the significance of having Marceline ask strangers if they are happy, considering the ghosts of her past that would likely be haunting her present happiness. Regardless of how the subjects reassure each other they are not acting, the film makers end the piece by voicing their concerns that the audience would be similarly suspicious of the veracity of each tale. Comparing this to Crisis, however, the intimacy with which even the hysterics of Marilou or Marceline's overly dramatized recounting of her reunion with her father may seem far more genuine, as it is not being pushed for entertainment value by a particular dramatic structure and ideal character establishment.