Deren and Brakhage - but mostly just Brakhage

In all of the films we watched in class Tuesday there was a common theme: visual stimulation. This was done in both public and private settings. For example, a party moving in slow motion Deren's "Ritual in Transfigured Time" and the intimate steps of a woman's birth process in Brakhage's "Window Water Baby Moving."

It's easy to see why the presentation of "Ritual" does not give the viewer the feeling of a spy looking in. It's an everyday occasion, and Deren lets us view what is going on at the sort of cocktail party taking place. She puts us right up to the action with the close camerawork, and there's just nothing going on that we feel we should not be privileged to see. But the fact the Brakhage's "Window Water Baby Moving" does not give off the feeling of spying with it's the private place it takes us -- well I found that interesting.

Okay, so maybe "Window" does give many the sleazy sensation that they're watching something private, but this comes out of moral and ethical constructions rather than the actual viewing process. Seeing another woman's bleeding vagina is not something our society is accustomed to at all. Brakhage speaks of the infant's eye as "an eye which soon learns to classify sights," and writes of this as a sad fact. One can never go back he says, "not even in imagination" to the time before words obscured our vision of the world. And yet, Brakhage suggests, "there is a pursuit of knowledge foreign to language and founded upon visual communication." "Window" definitely brings this pursuit of knowledge into focus for us; again, I do not feel there is anything voyeuristic about the way in which the the film was shot. Additionally, Brakhage makes a thing of beauty out of something that we have never felt the privilege to see as beautiful. In these ways, he has altered the way we look at the world the film. This is the "magic" he refers to in his essay.

When speaking of "looking in," otherwise knowing as scopophilia, we can't help but think of "Vertigo." But honestly, it's hard to compare a filme like "Window Water Baby Moving" to "Vertigo," but I guess I'll give it a shot. The former does not have any aspect of scopophilia in the way it was filmed, but of course the viewing process feels invasive because of the content. So Brakhage is working against social connotations and expectations. With "Vertigo," Hitchcock has society on his side. The viewer knows what it means to spy on Judy as Scottie does, and taking part in this activity can be shared with Scottie - who is caught up in it - as a guilty pleasure. The downward, around-the-corner filming of Vertigo serves to remind us of the activity we're engaging in. That Scottie is often hidden from Judy's view and that we see her but she doesn't see us confirm the activity as spying. But with "Window," there is no character acting invasively on another. We are the only ones seeing something we feel we're not supposed to be seeing. And this is based on our experience with and knowledge of intimate relationships.

This brings up an interesting dilemma. The viewer who says "I wouldn't want someone watching me in this situation" but continues to watch "Window Water Baby Moving" might be called a hypocrite. This is because Brakhage has presented a morally invasive activity very objectively through film. To view a man and woman's intimate relationship, a woman's vagina during menstruation and a crowning baby so closely, in normal light, at normal film speed, would have a different effect than what has Brakhage has done. I don't know what exactly, though I imagine we would feel more invasive as viewers if there was no quality of "art" to it. By producing the events of "Window" non-linearly, Brakhage creates a cohesive work that puts all aspects of love and birth on the same playing field. He equalizes them in a way, and we view each in less biased ways because of it. Of course, being squeemish at the sight of blood coming from a vagina is something that Brakhage cannot prevent, but his objective presentation of everything at least serves to make us think that maybe, just maybe, we shouldn't be so squeemish.

I am not exactly sure how Brakhage makes "Window" as artful as he does. I'd probably have to watch it again, too, to come up with more reflection on lighting techniques and lense speed and things of that nature. Any one with more ideas on this, please feel free to post them.

La Dolce vita

We've watched a few films with subtitles this semester, and the viewing process always feels a little disjointed. For one, when reading the dialog my eyes are taken away from important visual elements. It's also near impossible to take notes without missing something. While these are just a few problems that arise when watching a foreign language film, I'd say it's definitely worth the sacrafices. And of course, it beats becoming multi-lingual. But of all the foreign films we've viewed so far, La Dolce vita was by far the most conflicting on my eyes. There were just so many moments of visual euphoria that I did not wish to avert my attention from, but I had to to know what was going on. And for what? For the most part, there wasn't anything going on, in the sense of a plot or structure (at least within my own comprehension). For this blog post I decided to devote my attention to the parts of La Dolce vita that conflicted my eyes and left me wondering...well, just wondering.

Frankie
The only thing I was certain about when it came to Frankie was that he looked a lot like Will Ferrell's character in Zoolander, Mugatu. I did like how Sylvia's description of him as"an actor" was good enough justification for his insanity. The reading helped me understand the role of Frankie more than I did upon first viewing. He definitely serves as a "charicature" within the film's "almost documentary realism, making us see the "unusual in a familiar context."

Sylvia's voice
Did anyone else notice how hers was often the only discernible voice? It would be normal for her voice to standout among the mashup of background noises in an effort to let her be heard, but in the dance scene, for instance, the background noises were incredibly muffled, and no one even responded to what she was saying. She was the focal point to an extreme, with no legible responses from anyone.

EYES
Eyes were a prominent symbol in this film, but of what? When the one celebrity gets off the plane, the paparazzi beg to see her eyes but she refuses to take off her sunglasses. She has no problem accomodating the photographers in other ways, but her eyes are off limits. Then there are the portraits of the women in the one family. They all have the same eyes, Marcello says. To me they all shared similar intensity to the Mona Lisa's. And of there's that mysterious fish that washes up onto the coast in the closing scene. I couldn't tell what it was, but I could see two very large eyes, the only real proof that it was a once-living creature at all. And finally, we are left with the image of the girl, with the focus on her thoughtful eyes. I have one proposal about this symbol: perhaps Fellini meant to question the way we view people. With eyes such a focus of the film, he seems to stress the importance of how we use our eyes, how we perceive the world from our own perspectives, and how others perceive us.

Marcello rides the girl like a horse
This was clearly meant to shock. Not only in what Marcello was doing to the "chubby country girl," but the way she put up with it. He rode her like a horse, feathered her to look like a chicken, and what did she have to say for herself? "SQUAWK!" It was disturbing. If anything, the extremes Marcello used in depicting women as defenseless had me siding with the women. But they did not seem like real depictions at all and in some cases I honestly wasn't sure what to feel other than perturbed. When Marcello left his wife stranded after verbally abusing her, however, because she had put up somewhat of a fight I naturally felt far more sympathy for her -- she seemed more real.

Death Becomes Orpheus

The role of death in "Orpheus" struck me as downright morbid, which sounds like an obvious statement, but hear me out.

From early on, we get a sense that death is to be treated as a separate entity from life -- not the end of life, but the beginning to something else. This is portrayed by a series of signals. Early on with the death of Cegeste, I was immediately thrown. What caught me off guard was the way he was carried away, with no one supporting his sulking head. The gruesome way it bobbed reminded me that usually when a body is carried away, full support is given to the head. This alerted me that what I was watching was taking place in more than just the realm of life but the a realm of bizarre afterlife as well.

Death certainly serves as a character, not just literally, but as a prominent presence in the "Orpheus." I believe this to be linked to the idea of dreams, as we discussed in class, and I think the inconsistencies of afterlife in Orpheus, in both plot and and delivery -- "Death's" starkly shifting feelings toward Orhpeus, from hate to love, the inexplicable radio-voice of dead Cegeste that we hear while he is alive in the beginning of the film -- are meant to imitate the frequent inconsistencies of dreams.

As for the reading, I was intrigued by Naomi Greene's assertion that poets in "Cocteau's universe" have a power similar to homosexuals in Western society. That "he is a prodigous consumer of signs" and that "exclusion from the common code impels the frenzied quest" certainly relate to the poet who seeks greater meaning with words -- meaning of a different dimension even. "Orpheus" takes place in two dimensions, and we are left to interpret the signs of that bizzarre dimension as newcomers. This might be the reason why the meaning of "Orpheus" is said to really set in only after multiple views.

Psycho-thrilled

Vertigo the Thriller...it doesn't quite sound right. But add one word -- psychological -- and Vertigo has been properly described. A Psychological Thriller. There it is. So why does this work and not the other?

I do not come away from Vertigo feeling spooked, or exhilarated, or anything else that comes with the sensation of being thrilled. I do, however, come away feeling violated. My brain has been molested. Midge, when I saw your face painted onto the body of Carlotta, I felt betrayed. Vertigo is jarring in a way only a Thriller could be, but while the typical Thriller leaves me gasping for air, Vertigo had more of a dizzying effect. The former tries to surprise us, but we've signed up for this; in Vertigo, the elements of surprise work as unwanted invaders.

Laura Mulvey's explanation of the gazed-at woman in two other films can easily be applied to Madeleine in Vertigo: "She is isolated, glamourous, on display, sexualised. But as the narrative progresses she falls in love with the main male protagonist and becomes his property, losing her outward glamourous characteristics, her generalised sexuality, her show-girl connotations; her eroticim is subjected to the male star alone."

The conditions work exponentially; because she is isolated, she is his to behold. Scottie can have that creepy relationship with Madeleine/Judy, where every move she makes is for him to enjoy. If she were with others, especially another man, there would be too many distractions; his viewing would be diluted. In isolution, her glow brightens, she attains greater glamour, and she is certainly on display -- and eventually sexualized. When Judy actually falls in love with Scottie and the relationship is closer to mutual (though certainly still very unbalanced), he becomes even greedier towards her in an attempt to act on his sudden false sense of control. This is where things fall apart.

We expect so much. We expect the authorities to be running up the stairs of the church, when a nun is certainly the more practical option. Judy's reaction to the nun -- without ever seeing who is coming up the stairs she jumps to her death -- is bizarre. She was, of course, in a state of overwheliming shock, but why jump so prematurely? Even more bizarre, after witnessing the suicide, the nun makes a brief, snide remark before ringing the church bell -- business as usal.

Perhaps it's the shear mass of unexpected moments Hitchcock hands us, sometimes all at once, that make Vertigo more than just a Thriller. But it also seems that he has perfected the opposite. Whatever happens could not be farther away from what we expect. And that messes with out heads.

Harry Citrus

So we know how Harry Lime compares to Dracula, but here's a thought: How does Harry Lime compare to the Hairy Lemon? Narrative Film after 1940, I await your responses...

count-less thoughts on The Third Man

It wasn't until about 8:45 a.m. this morning that I realized I had forgotten to do this. So it's not in on time and this sadly doesn't "count" (get it? count-less?), but after seeing The Third Man I really did have a lot to say. While Sunday's distractions -- the Super Bowl and the Puppy Bowl -- may have slowed me down, today's the day I put that all behind me and write.

In class on Thursday we threw around questions of 'who are we supposed to like?' and 'is Harry Lime a hero? an anti-hero?' The film might lead us to like Harry Lime, or to want to like Harry Lime, but once I stepped away from it and considered the way he views his fellow man -- as ants -- I had no trouble hating the guy. Or, at least, knowing that I should.

I am sure that Carol Reed and Graham Greene meant for us to feel conflicted after watching this. Based on the setting of the film in post-WWII Vienna, I have a feeling this internal conflict was meant to inspire us to ask: Who do we follow? And should we?

These questions have everything in common with speculation that arose following WWII. While this will always be debated, one could say the Nazis went along with Hitler's plan to wipe out the Jewish people not because they themselves were evil, but because Hitler was a convincing leader. The Germans were desperate for new leadership to bring them out of economic recession and Hitler put on a show, offering strong promises of recovery they had trouble saying no to. This could have been Reed and Greene's way of looking at it, and The Third Man seems to remind and warn of us the dangers of having our minds tricked. To give in to our instinct to root for Lime based on how he looks to us, and how his character works within our expectations, might be easy enough, but this is only a temporary conviction for most due to the menacing nature of Harry Lime's actions -- few crimes are worse than intentionally killing sick children to turn a profit.

The deceptive theatrics are not limited to Harry Lime. In the scene when the Russian sector villagers think Holly is a killer, they are lead by not only their convictions, but a screaming infant. He chases after Lime at a slow, doddling pace -- the others could easily have surpassed the infant but the filmmakers choose to let him lead the pack. I believe this is to stress the idea that people will follow the most unreasonable leader, even one with a child's mind, if he's loud enough.

The Third Man presents our senses with a puzzling story. Reed and Greene put us in the passenger seat with a few crazed drivers at the wheel. One driver, Lime, crashes the car out of his own recklessness and dies, and as survivors we can't stop asking ourselves why we ever got in the car with him in the first place. Reed and Greene challenge us to look past the theatrics and consider a man's actions before setting foot in his car. At the same time, they remind us just how big a challenge that can be.

Citizen Kane

Many oldies argue that our generation can be best-described with one word: irony. They're right, and we never stood a chance at avoiding the title. Irony has been hand fed to us by guys like Michael Ian Black and Michael Showalter, whose Stella Comedy is the only TV show I can think of made entirely of ironic dialog -- every line is a cliche, intentionally. Post-modernism and all things self-aware have been taken to a new level. Every story has been told and retold, every chord progression played and remixed -- all knowingly, and we know this. Lawsuits occur left and right over artists stealing songs but it hardly stops us from listening to said thieves. What choice do we have? Irony may be a passing phase, but it's what we Millennials, as Pepsi likes to call us, currently have to our name, so it came as no surprise that when watching Citizen Kane for the first time, I couldn't get that single word out of my head. IRONY. It pops up in Citizen Kane more than once, which to me suggests that we might have more in common with Orson Welles than most would at first believe. He was unarguably ahead of his time -- who's to say he wasn't in ours?

The most hard to ignore example of Welles saying one thing and doing another came in the form of the film's bookends, as Kim Krenzer called it in class, the "No Trespassing" sign on the fence that we see first and last in our viewing. I couldn't help but chuckle at the abrasively foreboding nature of the opening scene -- the haunted house theme music, the generic house on the hill, the Gothic fence -- all of which say, along with the sign, it's not a good idea to enter this film. But we entered nonetheless. Sure, most will sit through a movie if it means class credit, but I was definitely intrigued regardless. The fact the we left the movie with the reminder, "No Trespassing," seemed to me Welles' way of saying, don't say I didn't warn you. From the blogs I've read, the consensus appears to be that this film poses a lot of questions that do not get answered. We never really know the story of Kane because it is told after his death by untrustworthy sources, and adding to the confusion is that we see the story through camera work that would be impossible for the human eye to capture. As Cardullo's essay gets at, this film stresses construction -- of the film, of our own beliefs -- over the actual story. Leaving this film frustrated seems a natural reaction; as humans, we want questions to be answered, especially when they're thrown at us. Whatever Welles' purpose for sending us home with unanswered questions, it certainly reflects the nature of reality. His ironic delivery -- warning us from the start not to trespass into his constructed reality -- serves, more than anything, to remind us that we're watching a movie, and more specifically, that he's watching us.