Cinema without Organs

Mumblecore, the Gif

2011-06-22T07:19:00.000-07:00

Win Win (2011) spoilers

2011-05-27T07:59:00.000-07:00

I just got back from Win Win at the DCA, and I have to say it wasn't the film I expected. I was expecting a quirky dysfunctional-family comedy cashing in on the trend of these movies - it was a fox searchlight production after all - but the film was far more subtle than others that adhere to the quirky-family genre conventions. Sure, it had some of that too, but not enough for me to throw it in the same boat as Little Miss Sunshine (2006) or Juno (2007). Win Win is certainly a comedy, but a comedy haunted by a somber mood as it addresses the financial crisis in the US. I particularly liked this film for the nuanced way it addresses the financial crisis in neither an uplifting or fatalistic manner. Well, I also liked that it had Paul Giamatti and Jeffrey Tambor. Also, Alex Shaffer who appears to be new to acting played his role perfectly.

In the film, Giamatti plays a small time lawyer who represents, it seems, mainly elderly clients. He isn't getting much work, which stresses him out a great deal. We see him having a panic attack that his doctor attributes to 'stress'. Giamatti explains his financial situation to a close friend, but at the same time hides it from his wife and family. It seems that Giamatti is determined to maintain his families quality of life (which appears to be fairly modest). He is constantly cutting corners: refusing to replace the boiler at his office, putting off hiring someone to cut down the rotting tree in his front yard, etc. Finally, he finds a way to make some extra cash by becoming the 'legal guardian' of one of his elderly patients that will otherwise go into state care. Of course, by becoming his legal guardian he is entitled to $1500 a month from his client's estate.

The issue at stake is that his client wants to live at home, but cannot due to the onset of dementia. If the state takes custody of the individual, he will be placed in a facility that cares for the elderly with dementia. Giamatti takes legal guardianship by arguing that he will allow his client to live at home, but immediately puts him in another facility (paid by the client's estate), because he doesn't have the time to take care of him and collects a $1500 check each month. Taking advantage of the elderly financially is a serious issue in cases where the elderly individuals no longer have the mental capacities to make the right decisions for themselves, as is the case in Win Win. Now Giamatti's character is in no way a 'bad guy', he is actually shown to be quite honorable in the beginning of the film in taking the cases of elderly clients. But the financial crisis pushes him to take this step. As he says at one point of the film: what am I supposed to do, become a bartender?

What I really liked about Win Win was the ending tone of the film. As the drama unfolds, his trick with his client's state is revealed (but I won't go into the details here... it is the real plot of the film which I haven't really talked about). Rather than cut and run, however, Giamatti admits his foul play to the interested parties and forks over his $1500 a month to his client's drug-addled daughter and decides to take care of him regardless. Without the extra income, the film ends on a sequence where he rushes home after work and puts on party attire. We then see his good friend show up at a bar, but as the camera revolves around his friend, Giamatti is revealed as the bartender. In the end, rather than exploiting his clients, Giamatti takes another job to maintain his quality of living. In this, he neither triumphs over the difficulties he endures throughout the film, but neither is the film a tragedy. Instead, the film finishes on a subtle note with Giamatti acknowledging his problems and actively working at a solution. I really enjoyed this realistic conclusion with a very down to earth example of a Deleuzian ethics: the way out not in some idealized solution, but by working through daily reality at a better future.

Inception's Ethics

2011-05-04T11:59:00.000-07:00

There is a scene in Inception (2010) where Ariadne builds an infinite mirror, alluding to the thematic of possible worlds in the film. This scene visually mimics the moment in Citizen Kane (1941), where Kane sees himself reflected infinitely:

And here's a photo of Gilles Deleuze projecting himself infinitely for good measure.

Whereas in Citizen Kane, the reflection of images might allude to the many 'Kanes' created in the public eye, Inception's 'dreams worlds' are more visceral in that the characters actually inhabit them, even if only temporarily. This scene in Inception is different from other uses of this visual trope, however, as Ariadne presses against the infinite mirror, which breaks it to reveal a single, long road. While allowing the possibility of many worlds, Ariadne affirms just one of the many.

Throughout the film, her character serves a probing function. She discovers the secrets of Cobb's dream world, and explains Inception's dream-physics to the audience. Her declarative statement in breaking the glass and revealing a singular possibility is significant in terms of the end of the film, where Cobb's top comes spinning to a halt (or does it?). In spinning to a halt, the top affirms that Cobb's present experience is reality and not a dream.

Deleuze's pose between the mirrors illustrates his interest in the time/crystal-image, but ultimately his cinematic ethics was based on the affirmation of a singular existence -- or a 'belief in the world'. Here, 'the world' is something akin to what Deleuze described as life -- not fantasy, not an ideologically-inflected existence, but pure lived experience. As David Rodowick and Ronald Bogue point out, this ethics is based not only on film's ability to inspire a 'belief in the world' but also 'one's ability to change the world'. Because Inception is all about the layering and getting lost in dreams, the world becomes a questionable state. Cobb finally changes his world by taking action to become reunited with his kids in reality. In the very end, however, the film asks: is this reality, or is Cobb just playing in a fantasy world?

Of course, I think the film is ambiguous about this point -- it is questionable as to whether the top stops spinning or not -- I also tend to think the way it wavers at the end suggests that Cobb is in fact back in 'the world'. Does this mean Inception poses an ethical statement by illustrating how Cobb has indeed returned to 'the world' in his desire to change his reality, rather than hiding in the dream world he has created for himself? Although it would be difficult to say it inspires an ethics to the filmgoer the way a truly ethical film would, this sort of ethical question does seem to be at the heart of Cobb's predicament throughout the film.

Kickstarter: best innovation for independent filmmakers since the digital camera?

2010-10-31T02:56:00.000-07:00

We all know that digital cameras revolutionized the art of filmmaking, paving the way for extremely low budget productions and removing certain economic barriers for filmmakers/filmmaking. Mainstream directors even took up digital filmmaking for the advantages in mobility and cost. But what sort of innovation will come next that will further democratize the art of filmmaking? I don't mean to sound teleological here and make the argument that everyone will someday be a filmmaker (But is this not true? With cameras on cell phones, etc.?), but it does seem to be a direction the art is currently taking. I've blogged about alternative methods of distribution previously, and now the same (or similar members) of the group I was referring to before have started a Kickstarter project.

Kickstarter allows anyone to fund a project by contributing any amount of money, from a dollar to a hundred dollars. Often, this comes with some sort of material 'thank you' for the contributor (a t-shirt, for example). It also comes with the idea that one is taking part in the project by virtue of funding it, which is, I think, part of the website's rhetoric. Though, you could treat the site as an online store and 'browse' for purchases (if the projects succeed). Anyway, the point is that it allows funding to come from a multitude of small investors, simultaneously creating an audience and a backer for a project.

The project I've posted here is not breaking ground by using this site for filmmaking. In fact, 'film' is listed as one of the categories of projects you can fund on the homepage of www.kickstarter.com. I've searched 'film' on Kickstarter.com just now, and the search result came up with 866 projects. The project budgets range from $1,000 to $10,000, but I assume they could go higher. Here's the kicker though: these $10,000 projects are being funded! In the world of filmmaking, $10,000 is an insanely small budget of course, but for independents who start with nothing but (perhaps) a digital camera and a story, $10,000 makes a huge difference.

For many of the film projects, donating a certain amount gets you a DVD. So, the website essentially allows one to sell their film before it has been made, but without the need for a producer or distributer. I'd like to hear more about this experience from filmmakers who have tried using Kickstarter.com before. If you have, please comment and let me know how your experience with the website/funding went.

Also, take a look at Keep it Cinematic, a project that blurs the line between narrative filmmaking and music videos (an interesting project, because music in film usually operates to destabilize the narrative). Looks like an exciting project! Also, The Keaton Collective is an excellent band, so if you want to get started with Kickstarter.com, you can't go wrong with a $10 pledge to get their CD.

An Artist on Ideas I Like

2010-09-20T03:29:00.000-07:00

Deleuze and Guattari are fairly well known for being liked by artists as well as academics. So, to help show that academia is not an isolated sphere, here is an excellent piece of writing by filmmaker Donal Foreman on many of the ideas I find most valuable from Deleuze and Guattari: http://donalforeman.com/writing/artandpolitics.html

US Premiere of En attendant Godard

2010-08-09T17:50:00.000-07:00

US Premiere of En attendant Godard is coming up. August 12 at the Northwest Film Forum. Click here for more info on the screening. I'll be there, possibly with a few words.

And a sexy picture of director William Brown at work to spice things up!

Mohsen Makhmalbaf at St Andrews for Screening of Salaam Cinema

2010-07-09T01:16:00.000-07:00

Mohsen Makhmalbaf recently visited St Andrews (with Marzieh Meshkini - so it was a double director billing) for a screening and discussion of his film Salaam Cinema. I wrote up an event report for the journal Wide Screen. Instead of reposting anything, I'll just leave a link: you can read about Makhmalbaf at St Andrews here.

En attendant Godard: Interview and Trailer

2010-04-29T12:38:00.000-07:00

I previously posted a review of William Brown's new film En attendant Godard after seeing it at a screening in St. Andrews. Recently, Brown's film has screened at the CPH PIX film festival in Copenhagen. Festival organizers caught up with the director and some of his cast and crew for a short interview, in which Brown talks about his brush with Godard. For those of you who haven't seen the film, this is an exciting but ephemeral moment where it seems as if Godard will finally be revealed on film after thoroughly reveling in his textual manifestations. The interview reveals what I hoped to be true: Godard actually was present during the filming of this scene - but is Brown's refusal to film Godard up close a result of his humility, or a subtle flourish to the end of his film?

If you haven't seen En attendant Godard, here is the trailer:

Intercessors and Bahman Ghobadi's 'No One Knows About Persian Cats'

2010-04-07T04:04:00.000-07:00

Bahman Ghobadi has been referred to by some as a 'rural filmmaker' because of films such as A Time for Drunken Horses, Marooned in Iraq, Turtles Can Fly, and Half-Moon, which take place along the Iran-Iraq border. These films are indeed quite rural, but what these people seem to miss is that he is a Kurd and he is making films about Kurdish peoples. Despite the fact that Kurds make up 12-15 percent of the population of Iran, many of the Kurds who inhabit northwestern Iran live in rural and even nomadic conditions because little money is spent on infrastructure (roads, electricity) for this region. Throughout history, the Kurds have been used as pawns in various struggles by neighboring countries in order to destabilize regions and gain political advantage. As a result, Iran carefully restricts displays of Kurdish nationalism and culture, fearing that these will result in a secessionist movement. Ghobadi is not a 'rural filmmaker,' but a filmmaker attempting to revitalize the Kurdish community and culture, as he does with the underground music scene in his latest film.

In his latest film, No One Knows About Persian Cats, Ghobadi moves out of Kurdistan to make a completely urban film about musicians in Iran – and it may signal the end of his so called 'rural films' with its controversial content (not to mention lack of a production/screening permit), which will likely bar him from returning to Iranian-Kurdistan. While Ghobadi himself claims that he is not a political filmmaker, but a cultural filmmaker, in Iran culture and politics are inseparable. Much like two of his previous films, Marooned in Iraq and Half-Moon, music draws the characters of these films into political situations.

No One Knows About Persian Cats focuses on a number of different political issues in Iran today, including the ban on Western musical genres, the difficulty of obtaining a permit to produce music or hold a concert, and the difficulty of obtaining visas and passports for travel. Perhaps unlike his previous films, No One Knows About Persian Cats is surprisingly upbeat for a film about censorship. While looking at some of the darker sides of censorship – Negar's lyrics stemming from the time she spent in prison, Hichkas's rap addressing poverty and prostitution – the film engages the great vitality of the underground music scene. In both its conclusion and its overall tone, however, it seems Ghobadi is not optimistic about the current situation. Even so, it is worth noting that most of the characters in Ghobadi's film (who are real Iranian musicians) do not want to leave Iran – they would rather stay in Iran and play their music for friends and family, only their inability to do so drives them abroad. Perhaps what makes Ghobadi's film so enjoyable, even if heart-wrenching, is that the lack of optimism is tempered by the musicians' continued dedication to their art.

It is not really news that there is a thriving underground music scene in Iran – see this BBC broadcast from 2005 – and this isn't the fantastic part about Ghobadi's film. The fantastic part about this film is that Ghobadi found these musicians while creating an underground recording of his own and allowed them to tell their own story. The plot may be fictitious, but the characters in No One Knows About Persian Cats are 'intercessors,' stepping between reality and fiction as they are allowed to relay their own lived experience. At times, Ghobadi's film feels a bit 'underground,' partly because of his use of non-professional actors (which he does in many of his films), and partly because the film takes on a documentary-like feel. Rather than being a documentary about the underground music scene, however, the story of No One Knows About Persian Cats emerges out of the real life struggles of these people. In the end, the film makes you realize that this isn't a story that could have happened, it is a story that has happened a thousand times.

Failed Psychotherapy in Shutter Island

2010-03-20T10:05:00.000-07:00

Warning: contains spoilers!

Although Shutter Island (2010) was perhaps no more than your average Hollywood thriller, I thought it had some enjoyable, artistically playful moments that contributed to the overall dramatic intention of the film in an interesting way. These moments underlie the ending of the film, which is one I think Felix Guattari would have liked. The scenes I am interested in mainly exist in the form of inexplicable dream sequences, which crop up throughout the film - several images from these sequences can be found here, apologies for not finding my own images as the film isn't out yet! Often, they are indistinguishable from the diagetic reality - an extreme example occurs when 'The Marshall' meets the woman he was supposed to be hunting down, who claims she was a doctor on the island. It is likely that this scene never 'really' happened. And more often these dreams provide an example of what Daniel Frampton might call 'film-thinking' through fantastic scenes/images that do not immediately fit with the linear narrative of the film, but instead start to think their own relations to various elements of the film.

The Marshall's dreams increasingly permeate the film, leading the spectator to conclude his insanity in the crash between delusions and reality. Ultimately, this is also a question posed to The Marshall as well: Are you insane, or not? His caretakers admit that they've been letting, even facilitating, these delusions in an attempt to redirect his violent tendencies. In inhabiting his mind throughout the film, the spectator experiences what The Marshall experiences - in other words, we know exactly the effects of this perpetuation. We are able to experience his experience so exactly, because a single narrative has been imposed upon him through the use of drugs and role play - his 'world' has been chosen for him, and although he may be predisposed to inhabit this mode of Being, his therapists have given him no alternatives. Ultimately, when given an ultimatum, either choose death or return to reality, he chooses to die - stating something along the lines of, "better to die a hero than be insane."

He sees his only options as choosing between death and insanity, and why should he not? He has been kept in a constant state of paranoia throughout the film, where the only fluctuation of his identity has been between two poles: US Marshall and inhabitant of the asylum. For Guattari, this would have been a travesty. At La Borde, Guattari devised a system where patients would take part in the running of the clinic itself. Thus, they would be given different 'roles' to inhabit for a set period of time: for this month, patient A will be our cook, patient B will be our gardener, etc. The goal here was to involve the patients in different discourses/worlds where they might make diverse and positive connections, allowing them to see different ways of Being rather than labeling them 'insane' a priori. Had The Marshall been given the choice, who would he have become? Had his therapists prompted other becomings, other ways of existing, might he have given up on his delusions entirely? We can't say, because the therapists forced his delusions upon him for the sake of pacification. Guattari would have liked the film not for its ending, but for the fact that it reveals the problems with forceful psychotherapy where the patient only exists to be 'cured' - or, perhaps more appropriately: disciplined.

Ecosophy

2010-02-22T02:08:00.000-08:00

Since my last couple of posts were about ecosophical issues, and this is something that informs a lot of my thinking, I thought it would be wise to alert folks to www.ecosophical.com.

I set up a profile for myself at www.matthewholtmeier.com, but really I just wanted somewhere to host a Drupal site. Unfortunately, unless I want to pay more, I have to live with it being a prefix to profile..!

Edit: The new site is www.ecosophical.com. Concept is the same.

Avatar Ethics and Belief in THIS World

2010-02-12T05:46:00.000-08:00

I am generally not a fan of big budget Hollywood films, but since Avatar was hyped as the most expensive film made to date, a box office record breaker, and reported to make excellent use of new 3D technologies, I figured it would be one to see in the theater. I was actually pleasantly surprised by my initial response. The science fiction – I am the SFRA web director after all – and fight to save nature did appeal me, so I suppose it isn’t that big of a surprise that I enjoyed the viewing experience on a basic level. I must also say that I was impressed by the new 3D technology, which was used in a somewhat more natural fashion than films such as Coraline. Gut reactions aside, however, I find responses to the film perhaps most interesting of all.

From an ecosophical perspective, we could say that a film is ‘good’ or ‘ethical’ if it inspires positive ecological change – change to the environmental, social, or mental ecologies. Films are well suited to this task, because they reach large audiences – especially films like Avatar. Out of all the most wide-reaching films, Avatar is perhaps a bit unique, because despite all of its problems (When Will White People Stop Making Movies Like Avatar) it has inspired positive change to mental ecologies. These newly reorganized subjectivities – or, if not really reorganized, at least invigorated – have in turn spawned more messages regarding positive ecological change. For example, Adam Hintz’s video, which proclaims: “[Avatar] is more than just another Matrix or Star Wars. It’s a movie with a message.” Hintz speaks here mostly of ‘destroying indigenous peoples and species’, but the message is environmental or easily relatable to the environment. Perhaps even more pertinent is this blog post from dGenerate Films that shows how evictees of urban development in China have likened themselves to the N’avi in Avatar. These articles, perhaps more the latter, show close correlation with real world events, and Avatar translates into a message of resistance. Of course, we already knew bad things like this were happening, but why is it that this Hollywood blockbuster facilitates the entry of these issues into the media/web 2.0?

Could it be that Avatar inspires a ‘belief in this world’ as Deleuze might say? I recently attended a talk given by David (DN) Rodowick, where his project was to show that the ultimate ethical act of Deleuze’s work in his books on cinema was to show how certain films inspire a belief in the world and our powers to positively change it. I believe this is true and a particular faculty of minor cinemas, but Avatar is certainly not a minor cinema. I don’t mean to say that so called ‘major cinemas’ cannot do this as well, but we do run into a problem here: the ability of many major cinemas to enchant and make us forget about ‘our’ world. In fact, Avatar has created something like a belief in another world for many, as the phenomenon the ‘Avatar blues’ shows. One victim of the ‘Avatar blues’ recounts: “I can understand why it made people depressed. The movie was so beautiful and it showed something we don’t have here on Earth. I think people saw we could be living in a completely different world and that caused them to be depressed.” Contrary to what you might think with a topic (belief in this world) attributed to the time-image (and its sensory-motor break), belief actually inspires action, whereas this ‘longing for another world’ creates depression and inertia.

It becomes difficult to understand Avatar ecosophically with these two perspectives in mind – that of those who have turned to Avatar to make connections with this world, and that of those who now long for something imaginary. What exactly inspires the filmgoer to move in either direction?

It seems interesting that the former responses refer to the overall fabula, while the latter seem to respond to the technology involved in creating Pandora. They see Pandora as a beautiful, colorful world through their 3D glasses, and the enhanced images completely outstrip reality for them. This certainly is the ‘major’ method of Hollywood. Therefore, while some find redeeming qualities in Avatar, most are captivated by the filmmaking – the major mode of Hollywood – that creates spectacle.

In the end, it seems to me to be the ‘formal features’ of the film that are detrimental to the filmgoer’s ethical experience of Avatar. Filmgoers are all different, of course, and some will be receptive to its redemptive elements. But cinema technology is a tool of mass communication, so it seems important to look at the large scale effects rather than to focus on exceptions (at least, in this case). Often, formal features are seen as sites of innovation in cinema, and I may previously have thought of them as sites for ethical encounters with cinema. Avatar, however, makes the point that it is just as important to look at the detrimental effects of formal features in emerging cinemas as current ideological underpinnings such as continuity editing are taken to a whole new level.

Gomorrah and the Environment

2010-01-04T17:31:00.000-08:00

I just had the opportunity to watch the criterion release of Gomorrah (2008) and found it very enjoyable. Jack Attard - a frequent film recommender and commenter on this blog - recommended the film to me, mentioning that it had a documentary-like style. It certainly sits in the space between documentary and fiction, with its dispersion of different plots, nonprofessional actors, and focus on real events. This lends it a very neorealist feel, and I do love my neorealism!

The film also seemed to have another type of realism to me, in regards to its depiction of environmental issues. The film is perhaps cliche in how it handled these issues, but I feel like it is a cliche I do not see enough in films. That is: we often know that choices are bad for the environment, but they are made anyway on account of earning profit. I became aware of Lu Guang's award winning photos a few months ago, and think the photo of the sewage pipe spewing sewage into the Yangtze River is especially pertinent, since it was built instead of the commissioned sewage processing plant. Clearly the individuals who were responsible saved a great deal of money by doing so.

What is perhaps not so cliche about Gomorrah, however, is where it directs its focus. While perhaps about 'gang violence' in general, it more specifically focuses on violence against youth, the environment, innocent residents of the violent area, people who try to extract themselves from the violence, etc. Maybe there are films that focus on some of these issues, but Gomorrah is refreshing in that it seems to refuse to have an intended interest in any specific issue. Of course, the one I found most interesting was the case of Roberto, who was helping a member of one of the gangs dump chemicals illegally.

When I think of mafia wars, The Godfather is obviously what comes to mind. There are plenty of other 'mobster-like' examples that follow suit. What I wouldn't think of, however, is how these organizations that exploit legality for profit might impact the environment. As the end-titles state: the amount of toxic waste illegally dumped by the Comorrah could be stacked as high as Mt. Everest and populations in these areas suffer from a 20% increased chance of cancer. Now, the cliche that 'bad choices are made in the name of profit' usually results in the crowd pleasing 'but one person is going to make a change.' In the case of Gomorrah, it is a mixed bag. Roberto does in fact leave his job with the crime family, and there is no follow up to his situation, but I was left assuming mediocrity for his future. Pasquale, in a similar example, quits his job as a very talented haute couture dressmaker to avoid working for the mafia controlled garment maker. In his case, we know what happens, he becomes a truck driver to earn a living. In most other cases, lives of violence lead to death.

In the case of Roberto and Pasquale, the film provides a pertinent statement: yes, one person can make a decision to refuse corruption, but they will pay the price. They will revert to their un-corrupt, unglamorous lives. This is perhaps the saddest truth of this film. In light of Felix Guattari's Three Ecologies, however, this is also the most important truth to be told. In both Roberto and Pasquale, we see a change in their outlook or subjectivity. Roberto realizes he doesn't want to be a part of an operation that poisons the earth. Pasquale realizes that he doesn't want to work for a company who will kill to stay ahead. And this change in subjectivity is one important, perhaps the most important, element leading to improving our affect on the environment. And while it seems like their individual choices won't make much of a difference, their individual choices as part of a film which millions of people will see will perhaps make a difference, because it will influence subjectivity on a mass-scale. For each person who views Gomorrah and says, "Yeah, I wouldn't work for that guy" the film is making a positive impact on the environment.

Collaborative Distribution: Music, Literature, Film

2009-11-05T13:58:00.000-08:00

In a few recent chats I've had with Jonathan Rosenbaum while he's been in St. Andrews, we've talked about the difficulty of distributing certain films. This could be the result of the film being 'too experimental,' that the director is not well known, or the way in which the filmmaker tries to distribute the film (independently). Additionally, film festivals often receive so many submissions that preliminary screening is done by an army of volunteers that are not very representative of the festivals themselves (they may have vested interests in certain types of films, little film experience, etc. etc.), so the 'traditional' way of finding an audience for a film is relatively unreliable. So, how do dedicated, but relatively new filmmakers find an audience for their films?

In a talk Jonathan Rosenbaum gave at St. Andrews on cinephilia (he was partly drawing from this post) he mentioned a 'viewing party,' where he got together with a group of interested people and watched Uncovered: The Whole Truth About the Iraq War. The event, as he described it, sounded very much like the 'film act' of Third Cinema, where a group of people would get together to watch a political film as a sort of political rally. Solanas and Getino thought that alternative methods of screening such as this would be an effective way to circumvent Hollywood (and dominant political) ideologies - I'm oversimplifying for the sake of a blog post, read here for the real stuff. Regarding the 'film act,' Solanas and Getino say: "We thus discovered a new facet of cinema: the participation of people who, until then, were considered spectators." In this situation, the audience members become actors and filmmakers, or perhaps it is more proper to say that everyone involved becomes a 'participant.'

To a certain extent, musicians already follow this model of distribution. Although it would be difficult to reconcile the goals of Third Cinema with the goals of (most) musicians, musicians do still run up against hegemonic forms of distribution similar to Hollywood in its relation to the distribution of films - that is, it is relatively impossible to sell a film or an album through common channels (Border's, etc.) without a media presence. Thus small independent bands do not tour for ticket sales, they tour for exposure in the hopes that they will build a fan base and receive positive press. Even if most bands do not become famous rockstars by touring, they do build a presence that is difficult to extinguish.

Filmmakers have yet to really tap into this method of distribution for the most part. It is true that they have their own methods of distribution, notably film festivals for aspiring filmmakers. As noted above, however, the festival market is anything but easy to tap into. Therefore, it is a great deal different than the band that is able to book a small show for 30 or so people. Certain artists have attempted to hybridize their distribution, for example, I know that my friends in The Braille Tapes often offer novels written by members of the band for sale at their shows. Writers tour as well, in a slightly different sense, offering readings and book signings (although, this is already part of the mainstream method of distribution - so it may not be tenable for relatively unknown authors).

I find it somewhat surprising that filmmakers have yet to really validate an operation such as this, because movies are a relatively easy medium to transport outside of mainstream channels of distribution. What I'm proposing here is not that filmmakers contact local theaters to arrange screenings (although this can't hurt either), but that they arrange small screenings in homes or other willing venues for a very small fee (or, by donation). At the event, the filmmakers can present their film, answer questions, and meet interested folks (who are potential small distributors themselves).

'Touring' with films in this way would go far in circumventing the problems emerging filmmakers face when trying to market their films. This is not a new phenomenon. As I mentioned briefly above, political Third Cinema filmmakers 'marketed' their films in the same way. Of course, their goal was not to sell their films, but to build a political congregates dedicated to a particular cause. But how different is the goal of the emerging filmmaker? - the goal is still to build a network of relations and support of the filmmakers' art, political or otherwise.

It is probable that the myth of Hollywood still cripples such efforts. The myth of succeeding at a film festival and being bought up by a production company, etc. There are limit cases that continue to propagate this myth, but by following it filmmakers are forgetting or leaving behind new potentials for their films. The potential to turn 'audiences' into 'participants' by bringing them an affective experience. Perhaps this is unglamorous, but all the more important for being so - a form of distribution based on hard work and real people, not a transcendental ideal.

If anyone can think of films or people that are working this way, please let me know.

En Attendant Godard, A Review

2009-10-21T02:39:00.000-07:00

Last night I had the chance to catch a new film by Dr. William Brown, En Attendant Godard. I was lucky to be there, because as far as I know this is the first time it has been screened, and the screening room was packed! I'd say that there were around 30 people there, and I ended up sitting on a table because all of the seats were taken! That aside, there are some very interesting things to say about En Attendant Godard.

To quickly summarize: the film is about a young man who starts off on a quest to find his father, the filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard. It becomes clear that this character has actually never met his 'father' - and perhaps isn't really his father at all. Thus, we are left with the meanderings of a bored youth in true Godardian fashion as he travels from the United Kingdom, to France, and finally, when somebody tells the man that Godard isn't in France, to Switzerland. Throughout each step of the way, it is almost as if the characters pass through various films by Godard starting with Breathless. The protagonist steals a car, picks up a young woman giving surveys on the street (about Godard nonetheless), shoots a cop (it is implied), etc. At first, it seems as if Brown is borrowing from Breathless, but soon the characters stumble into a full-fledged rendition of Weekend, a film so distinct, and bizarre, that it becomes clear that this is not a remake of Godard films, but that the characters are literally passing through them experientially. Eventually, the characters do make it to the home of Jean-Luc Godard, but I won't reveal anymore about the story - it is best to see it for yourself.

The style of the film is very interesting - if the writer-director can be called an auteur, then William Brown as the writer-director-producer-editor-actor-etc. needs a new term altogether. What is significant about this, however, is that Brown is unafraid to wield this much power over the medium, and as a result the film becomes something ontologically different. If La Nouvelle Vague treated 'the camera as a pen,' then Brown must have his brain directly wired into the filmmaking apparatus. The film shifts between narrative story, interviews, still images, titles, words imprinted on the images of the film, between monochrome, blue, red, and white filters, different speeds and slownesses, and probably more that I cannot recall. It is as if we see the thoughts of Brown himself. Although, Brown isn't one to naturalize any of these discourses, of course - in several scenes we are quite aware of the presence of the filmmaker and the fact that he is filming. In one scene, we even hear Brown giving our lead character's lines, as the character emotionlessly repeats them. This is perhaps one of the most important points about the film: that what the viewer is experiencing is not reality, but a series of images, and - as one intertitle states - "images lie." The film is about more than a quest to find Jean-Luc Godard, it is about characters from the age of images trying to negotiate 'reality.'

For me, the most interesting thing I experience while watching this film was the pull of some particularly existential refrains. In Chaosmosis, Felix Guattari describes existential refrains, which anchor subjectivity in certain ways. These refrains at their most basic level are things that are experienced by a person repeatedly. Part of the argument Brown makes in his film is that the 'culture of images' disseminates these existential refrains in the form of images to such a degree that they are reality, they are existential. This may not sound like an altogether new argument, but what is new is that Brown is able to operate on the viewer's own 'refrains' through making this argument. For example, certain elements - sounds, images, etc. - in his film pull you towards experiences of other Godard films. The deep voice from the TV is reminiscent of the computer from Alphaville. It may not be the voice from Alphaville, but it nonetheless creates an unrepresentable refrain - an experience, for the lack of a better word - for the viewer familiar with this film. And for fans of Godard, familiar with the entirety of his works, refrains crystallize throughout the viewing of the film. This is a story for the culture it describes.

Perhaps this isn't a 'review,' considering it is not very comprehensive. I really just wanted to get some of my thoughts down on something that I think is a new potential for filmmakers and filmmaking. I'd like to return to this later, and discuss some of the other issues in the film, such as the beginning and its declaration as a low budget, 'minor' work of art. Perhaps, I'll get the chance to view the film again. I've missed a lot of interesting, and amusing things here, such as the part of the film where they travel to Michael Haneke's home to film his door, which - I can't recall whether it was Brown himself, or one of the characters that made this statement - they will 'send to Haneke in the mail.' Well, I hope he likes it!

The Ambivalence of the Future (Flash Forward)

2009-10-09T03:32:00.000-07:00

Theoretical concepts and practices are always ambivalent, because they are never so simple as to have the same effects on each situation where they are applied - not to mention their (un)ethical perversion by certain figures. Marx's proletarian bands together in one instance to earn better wages, but has the creative potential of its subjectivity stripped in another. Deleuze's Plane of Immanence takes power from transcendence and hands it to the material subject in one instance, but is reason enough for the IDF to explode holes through peoples homes in another.

In Deleuze, Cinema, and National Identity David Martin-Jones shows that the 'time-image' is not a simple term to be applied to a film narrative. In one instance, this concept might lead to the liberation from a particularly restrictive or painful national/historical narrative, but in another it reterritorializes without liberation from this negative-narrative - or worse, it reterritorializes in terms of an even more damning narrative. It is not enough to see that the time-image is present, because the concept itself does not imply positive liberation.

This post isn't about the un-Spinozist use of these ideas, however, it is about the new television show from David S. Goyer and Brannon Braga, Flash Forward. The premise would make J.J. Abrams proud: there is an event where 'all' humankind loses consciousness for 2 minutes and 17 seconds. During this brief period, they see where they will be in 6 months time. Everyone sees the future. Except for a few shady characters that we know little about, of course.

I've watched the first two episodes of Flash Forward so far and the driving force behind the show is clear: the characters must reconcile what they have seen of the future with what they are living in the present (and perhaps their pasts as well). The main character, Mark Benford, for example, is a recovering alcoholic. In his vision of the future, he is drinking again (not to mention working on the 'case' of the visions while be hunted by a mask-wearing swat team). Benford's wife, Olivia, is with another man. In the present, neither Mark nor Olivia want their respective futures to come true, but can they avoid it?

It gets more complicated: in Olivia's 'vision,' she actually has emotions for the man she apparently has left her husband for. We could venture to say that these visions are actually affective as well then, at least for the 2 minutes and 17 seconds that they last. They are not just images, but embodied experiences.

The question central to this show, going back to the discussion of the time-image from Martin-Jones's book, is whether or not the characters can 'change' the future - or rather, if they can reterritorialize the narrative in terms of their best interests. Time and lived experience immediately become experimental, a very ontological Body without Organs. Of course, we're only two episodes in, so we'll see how malleable these potential (Virtual, or not? We cannot say.) futures are.

One thing is certain: the future is ambivalent. It carries no particular meaning that is not tied to the lived experience of the characters. Just like the concepts discussed briefly above, the value of the future directly results from material actions/consequences.

LEA Special Issue: Dispersive Anatomies

2009-08-24T11:34:00.001-07:00

I've just had a paper published about J.G. Ballard's Crash by the Leonardo Electronic Almanac in a special issue titled 'Dispersive Anatomies' - guest edited by Sandy Baldwin and Alan Sondheim. I suppose the publication date just missed its timeliness... but so it goes.

LEA SPECIAL ISSUE: DISPERSIVE ANATOMIES
Guest edited by Sandy Baldwin and Alan Sondheim. Gallery curated by Mez Breeze.
This special issue, guest edited by Sandy Baldwin and Alan Sondheim, considers the network as dispersive anatomy. As the call for papers stated, "A fundamental shift in the way we view the world is underway: the abandonment of discrete objects, and objecthood itself. The world is now plural, and the distinction between real and virtual is becoming increasingly blurred, with troubling consequences within the geopolitical register. This shift is related to a cultural change that emphasizes digital deconstruction over analog construction: a photograph for example can be accessed and transformed, pixel by pixel, cities can be taken apart by gerrymandering or eminent domain, and our social networks are replete with names and images that problematize friendship, sexuality, and culture itself. One issue that emerges here: Are we networking or are we networked? Are we networks ourselves?" The resulting texts and works deal with this fundamental shift in new and illuminating ways.

http://www.leonardo.info/LEA/DispersiveAnatomies/DispersiveAnatomies.html

Ramin Bahrani, My New Favorite Director

2009-08-19T17:40:00.001-07:00

Following up on director Ramin Bahrani, I've recently watched his two earlier feature films Man Push Cart and Chop Shop. I was going to post about each of these films separately, but I've decided to roll it into one post about the director.

Man Push Cart (2005) follows a Pakistani immigrant, Ahmad, as he sells coffee and bagels in New York from his pushcart. Unlike the other pushcart vendors who have vehicles, however, Ahmad literally pushes (and pulls) his cart into place and back to the warehouse for an hour each day. Along the lines of Bahrani's other films, the many shots that make up Ahmad's daily routine add an extra layer of existentiality to the film.

Along similar lines, Chop Shop (2007) follows a young boy named Alejandro (Ale) on his daily routine working at auto repair shops in the Iron Triangle. Ale lives in the back of one of the shops he works at and learns auto-body repair from his boss and the other people who work at the shop. Although similarly 'existential,' some of the actions of the characters, such as prostitution and theft, are notably darker than the events of Man Push Cart.

I've already posted a bit about Goodbye Solo (2008) here. After watching Bahrani's earlier two films, however, it is worth mentioning that Goodbye Solo retains much of the characteristics of these first two films.

In my earlier post on Goodbye Solo I pointed out that Bahrani is an Iranian-American and completed his Master's thesis project (from Columbia) in Iran. I found this significant, because his filmmaking shares a great deal of similarities with other Iranian directors, particularly Abbas Kiarostami. After already pointing out scene-for-scene similarities between Goodbye Solo and Kiarostami's Taste of Cherry, I was surprised that Chop Shop opens almost identitically to Taste of Cherry! Each film begins with day laborers looking for work - the difference being that Chop Shop follows one of the day laborers, whereas Taste of Cherry follows a wealthier citizen.

Perhaps the most noticeable aspect of Bahrani's aesthetic, however, is his unique neorealist attention to detail. Each of these films documents the lives of working class people, but at the same time expands the existential situation beyond their day to day affairs by developing a particular psychological understanding of the main characters that is firmly based in an ontological understanding of their lives. For example, the main chracters in each film are generally all working towards some monetary goal (purchasing a taco truck, a vendor's cart, getting a new job), but this goal is a way to connect with something immaterial. It is this immaterial 'thing' (desire?) at the center of each character's existence, that makes each film unique. For example, Ahmad is working to earn enough money to buy his own pushcart, which will allow his son to move in with him. This is clearly connected with atonement for something that is never revealed, but that his son's grandmother clearly blames him for (it is clear that his wife died, and her mother blames Ahmad, but it is never revealed why she blames him).

Because of this almost algorithmic approach to filmmaking, each of Bahrani's films is a fascinating case study of a working-class minority in the United States. What I think makes Bahrani's films especially valuable, however, is how this approach demystifies the ontology of the 'other.' The Pakistani pushcart vendor, the Latin-American street youth, and the Senegalese cab driver's lives are shown to be uniquely difficult, but they also share the same family dramas, economic hardships, and secret aspirations as the people that interact with them. Although it sounds like a cliche, what Bahrani's films do best is make you look at the people who are so completely other to you and realize that their unique situation is just as unique as your own.

Solanas and Getino's Problem with Film Criticism

2009-08-13T13:01:00.000-07:00

Jack Attard told me about this interesting article he read - 12 great foreign films you won't find here - by Mick LaSalle, film critic for the San Francisco Chronicle. Jack and I were having a conversation about the distribution of global films, and LaSalle offers some good, if ambitious, solutions to folks who want to expand their global film watching. The article is good, even if his list of movies is pretty Eurocentric. Jack was telling me that LaSalle has a sort of cult following in the San Francisco area, or at least among readers of the San Francisco Chronicle, so I started reading what was available by LaSalle online.

I find a lot of things LaSalle has to say interesting, but I started to notice that he is clearly building an Ethos that positions itself as above the average movie goer, and often incites response from readers (he likes to respond to 'hate' mail publically in his column). This sort of positioning turns me off as a reader, not because I'm looking for something objective, but because I'm wary of some sort of appeal to 'mastery.' I'd rather read reviews that clearly outline the reasons for the opinions of the reviewer. Take this question and response for example:

Dear Mick LaSalle: Is it idiocy or sacrilege to watch "Casablanca" and think that it's really not such a great film? Having just seen it again, I found it rather awful - melodramatic, poorly scripted and acted, and bordering on boring.
Paul Holtz, San Francisco
Dear Paul Holtz: It's not sacrilege or idiocy, because you're not a critic. You're simply doing what 99.9 percent of the public does (and maybe 50 percent of critics do): You're mistaking a personal predilection for an aesthetic judgment. You don't like it, but that doesn't mean it isn't great. It means it's not your cup of tea. That's OK for a nonprofessional, but a critic should be able to tell you why a movie is good, even if he or she doesn't enjoy it. Or, conversely, a critic should be able to explain precisely why a script that has been loved and lauded for 70 years is actually lousy - and why no one else has figured that out until now.

It is all fine and well for the critic to understand what I'm assuming LaSalle is referring to as formal features of a film (he uses the terms good and bad), but I was having a problem with the rhetorical positioning of the critic over the average viewer - as well as stating that there are 'good' formal features and 'bad' formal features. I'm not sure I understood why I was having a problem (gut reaction) with these features of his answer here, however, until I came to this passage from Fernando Solanas and Octavio Getino's Towards a Third Cinema:

The placing of the cinema within US models, even in the formal aspect, in language, leads to the adoption of the ideological forms that gave rise to precisely that language and no other. Even the appropriation of models which appear to be only technical, industrial, scientific, etc., leads to a conceptual dependency, due to the fact that the cinema is an industry, but differs from other industries in that it has been created and organised in order to generate certain ideologies. The 35mm camera, 24 frames per second, arc lights, and a commercial place of exhibition for audiences were conceived not to gratuitously transmit any ideology, but to satisfy, in the first place, the cultural and surplus value needs of a specific ideology, of a specific world-view: that of US finance capital.

The critic, or at least the way that LaSalle is invoking the critic in his response, serves as an arm of this homogenizing apparatus. The entire goal of this apparatus is to divorce film from its social role in order to turn it into a consumer product by creating a subject that demands a particular (critically acclaimed) product. While this clearly damages the distribution of alternative films (foreign, independent, experimental, etc.) by crowding the market with a particular type of product, it is doubly-damaging in the sense that it creates a subject, an average film viewer, that cannot understand alternative, potentially political, products.

We can all think of someone that loves Hollywood action movies, but just can't understand the point of documentaries or 'art' films. This person has been cut off from a wealth of films, not to mention points of reference for understanding the world. This person has also become very valuable for the Hollywood film industry.

Now, I'm not saying that LaSalle is a tool of Hollywood - I haven't read nearly enough of his reviews to make a judgement like that (and it appears he certainly is not a tool of Hollywood, considering the articles on French and UK productions I posted above). But even this concept of the critic that appears as a refrain in his response to reader letters inherently carries with it values that pre-emptively oppress minor works of cinema, or even the idea that cinema could be a political tool (Solanas and Getino's militant cinema). Of course, if LaSalle did not include this refrain in his works, perhaps he wouldn't have the luxury of such an established place at the San Francisco Chronicle.

Oh Mumblecore.

2009-08-05T11:15:00.000-07:00

This made me laugh out loud, so I had to repost it. This is from the blog Cinetrix. There are more, just click here to visit the original post.

Disclaimer: This image is for purposes of entertainment only. The image does not express actual opinions of blog author/image poster. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Caprica: Film, TV, or Teaser?

2009-08-01T12:15:00.000-07:00

I was never a big fan of TV prior to the shift from episodic sitcoms to narrative driven series' with broader story arcs that span multiple episodes/seasons. Battlestar Galactica is a good example of the latter. I am a big fan of Battlestar Galactica - both because I'm a fan of sci-fi, but also because it makes such good use of the broader story arcs it is based on. It is also just a damn fine show (how's that for critical attention?).

I've started to become addicted to shows that operate in this fashion. Fringe, Lost, and True Blood for example. This narrative structure has caused some pretty intense complications in regards to the funding and continuation of these shows, however, because writers are forced to plan the story according to potential cancellations, etc. A good example is season 3 of lost, where writers advanced towards a possible 'end of the series' since it was still up in the air as to whether the show would continue or not, with Locke meeting Jacob and potentially coming close to unravelling the island's mysteries - the show was then OK'd for four more seasons, and the next two episodes quickly dovetailed away from Jacob to focus on preparing for the next season, complete with the unexpected flashforward rather than the usual flashback.

Because of monetary issues, sometimes shows end up in much more awkward positions though. Take Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles for example. I really enjoyed this show, and would argue that it was the best product of the 'Terminator' franchise - much to my dismay, it was far better than Terminator 4. The show was cancelled after only two seasons, however, and refused the 'potential wrap-up' of the show by tying up the current story arc with a season-3-generating cliffhanger. This leaves the fans with all the excitement of a new season, but without any of the fulfillment of the season's arrival. Awkward.

Perhaps the ratings weren't doing so hot for The Sarah Connor Chronicles, but the shows cancellation spurred fans into action - check out savethescc.com. I want to say Warner Bros and C2 Pictures are fools for for not continuing the show, but perhaps from their, economic, standpoint they made the correct choice. And this turbulence between fandom and and private profit has initiated a number of strange media-formations recently.

Caprica is an excellent case study. The 'pilot' was released as a straight-to-DVD 2-hour movie a year before the show is slated to begin. Caprica was marketed as a standalone film, but after watching it, it is definitely not a standalone film. The show beautifully anticipates a number of the themes that arise during Battlestar Galactica, even while being a much different experience from its predecessor (although, contrary to many critics writing about the show, I still feel like it operates in the same vein of Battlestar Galactica with relationships and drama at the core of the show). It also offers no real conclusion to the events that happen in the film and leaves the ending wide open for the first season like a pilot normally would. The only real conclusionCaprica arrives at is an almost mythological origin of the Cylons (with their creator terming them 'Cybernetic Lifeform Nodes' - Cylons).

I believe it is safe to say that Caprica is not a film, but this makes the decision to release it a year before the show is set to begin a bold choice. It seems like the folks that decided this are banking on fandom fueling hype throughout the year-long hiatus. It also makes Caprica seem like more of a teaser, a 2-hour long trailer, rather than a pilot - though my opinion might differ onces the show actually starts! Regardless, this puts Caprica in a bizarre position. If you look at the film's(?) website (http://www.capricadvd.com/), it seems to carefully step around naming its place in the new Caprica series cannon.

I'm intrigued by the proliferation of these forms of media, because they are different and they are risky. It will be interesting to see how producers capitalize on this in the future (Battlestar Galactica has already produced 'webisodes' that follow alternative storylines). It will also be very interesting to see which ventures succeed, and which fail. As for the Caprica series, I hope it finds success!!

EDIT: I forgot the most obvious example of strange media emergences - Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. Creator Joss Whedon even intended this to be an example of how capital-centric issues might be circumvented when creating media.

The Hangover (2009) and Time

2009-07-24T17:15:00.000-07:00

I just read via Wikipedia's entry on The Hangover that a sequel of The Hangover is in the works. My gut tells me that this will fail to recoup the successes of the original unless they are able to capture formal brilliance of the first. I thought The Hangover was a good, refreshing film, but mainly because of the way the plot was structured, rather than the quality of the humor (though, I have to admit, like many other critics of this film I thought that the composition of the cast was excellent - this may be another important point to the first film's success).

Back to the structure of the plot. The plot device was genius as a sort of emodiment of the experience of a hangover - stripping the characters of a portion of their memory, but making it imperative that they recover their memory in order to save their best friend (with the time-constraint that he is soon to be married). As a result, the film follows the usual result of a night of heavy drinking amongst friends: reconstructing the events bit-by-bit from what each person remembers or can discover from their surroundings (not that I'm too familiar with this process...). The only difference is that an artificial plot point was inserted to prod the characters on in this process - they must save their friend - which initiates another set of situations that they must navigate, such as taking Mike Tyson's tiger back to his house. This structure creates a sort of suture with the characters in the film, lending the viewer the excitement of trying to fill this memory-gap with the events of the night before.

What I think is perhaps most interesting about the film, as well as the point about the film that I may be most wrong about, is the purpose of the photos at the end of the film. I'd have to discuss this more with folks who have recently seen the film, because I saw this in the theater, so I could not go back and view the photos repeatedly (nor the rest of the film), but they seem to discredit what the characters have discovered throughout the film. If this is true, it would be a sort of last-second implementation of the Time-Image in the film. And, I think, a very clever one.

When I first saw the film, I understood these photos as rejecting what the characters had learned the night before, because you see photos such as wedding party winning a great deal of money with 'the asian gangster' Leslie Chow, but it seems as if Alan is the mastermind behind these wins. In this situation, they seem to be friends, working together, unlike the situations that arise during the memory-recovery portion of the film. Additionally, we see photos of Ed meeting Jade, which seem to suggest more than just 'I got married to a stripper' (and I would argue that these affect his future reality as he goes back to Vegas to date her). As a result, these photos make you resituate the main events of the film according to an alternate understanding of what has happened. What you think has been a recovery of reality is actually a fabrication in-of-itself, which illustrates the power of the Time-Image to recreate how we understand an event or narrative. And, even if I am wrong in the arguments I make about these events, I would still argue that the photos make the viewer resituation 'what has happened,' regardless of what meaning they take after this process has occurred.

What I think is most clever about the use of this formal playing with time, is the 'bemusedness' that results. Sure, some of the photos are amusing themelves, but what is more interesting is how they are reconciled with what had already come previously for the viewer.

News from Makhmalbaf Regarding Iran

2009-06-25T20:40:00.000-07:00

I've read a number of accounts on the situation in Iran, but I wanted to post a link to one in particular. Mohsen Makhmalbaf, a very well-known Iranian filmmaker, is apparently close to the allegedly defeated presidential candidate Mousavi. He was asked to give an account of the events on behalf of Mousavi, who is currently being held under lockdown. The article is well-written, and certainly worth a read, but I am especially interested in hearing what Makhmalbaf has to say because of his political past (see the wiki article, linked above - he identified with the '79 revolution, which makes his involvement in this situation interesting).

Makhmalbaf's article can be found here.

Goodbye Solo

2009-06-13T12:26:00.000-07:00

I just saw Goodbye Solo (2008) at the Pickford. I was interested in the film because a friend had told me about Ramin Bahrani's earlier films Man Push Cart (2005) and Chop Shop (2007) after I told him that I was interested in Iranian cinema. Ramin Bahrani is an Iranian-American who actually traveled to Iran to create his first film Strangers (2000). None of these films are actually Iranian films of course (although, Strangers is a more complicated case), but they do all seem to be interested in identity (national/minority) to a certain degree.

Goodbye Solo certainly follows this trend with the main chracter Solo (Souléymane Sy Savané) - often Solo would tell William (Red West) how things are done 'back home,' thinking American ways of life (at least William's) are quite strange. At one point, William responded by asking Solo why he doesn't go back home then, and Solo explained that he was working in America to send money home and that he did intend to return home eventually. Throughout, the film draws attention to different nationalities: Solo is Senegalese, Solo's wife is Mexican, William is American (he once mentions riding Harley's - he's that American!).

Bahrani, born in North Carolina and graduate of Columbia University, is certainly American, but it seems identity is a question in his own life as much as it is in his films. He returned to Iran for three years to create the film Strangers, and although I haven't seen this film, I read a review comparing it to Kiarostami's work. I wouldn't doubt that, as Goodbye Solo is very simliar to the Iranian film Taste of Cherry (1997). It is almost as if Goodbye Solo is a reimagining of this earlier film, but with its own set of interests. In Taste of Cherry, Mr. Badii, who is looking for someone to drive him to his grave and bury him, picks up a number of different drivers and tries to convince them to perform this task. The people Badii picks up are from a variety of different social situations: one is a soldier, one is religious, one is an intellectual (of course, these categories aren't so rigidly defined in the film). So, Kiarostami seems to be interested in how these different people will react to Badii's request, whereas Bahrani seems to be more interested in the situation of US immigrants - but there is this same focus on the reaction to this strange semi-ambigous request to help one assist them in their suicide for a large sum of money.

Bahrani's film carries some of the hallmarks of Iranian cinema as well. The ending of the film is ambiguous and it seems to cut off without a clear resolution (though, I would argue that Bahrani's ending is less ambiguous than many Iranian films). The film is more of a meditation on a concept, rather than a narrative driven plot. The film is clearly focused around Solo's turmoil as he works through his thoughts on William's suicide, making the film seem like more of a meditation. There are many things that don't seem very Iranian about it as well though - although, perhaps these are just boundaries being crossed that wouldn't be in Iran because of the MCIG.

I am curious to know what the average film goer thinks about this film. I thought the film was fantastic, but I enjoy Iranian films, and it does have a certain quality of Iranianess to it. This might make the film seem slow to many viewers. But Bahrani seems to have anticipated this and countered it with Solo's lively - often hilarious - incessant dialogue, a number of side-drama's that the viewer becomes invested in (Solo's marriage, child, job application), and the constant exploration of William's personal life (which is pretty much nil in Taste of Cherry with Badii). It seems then that Bahrani was able to adopt the aesthetic of Iranian films and work towards translating it for American audiences.

To sum up: I liked the film, and I'll be looking for more from Bahrani in the future. It should be interesting to see how he develops as a filmmaker.

Non-Linear-Subjectivity and Virtual Narratives in Film

2009-06-11T11:39:00.000-07:00

Despite the epic title, this is more of a start to an idea. I want to ask for help from all of you blog-readers out there (and yes, I realize that may be very few [if any], but I want to establish the idea now so that I can continue working on it).

The kernel of this idea comes from the film Run Lola Run (1998), but the idea itself resonates with many films with similar narrative structures such as Sliding Doors (1998), Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004), The Butterfly Effect (2004), Too Many Ways to be Number One (1997), Chaos (2000), and Peppermint Candy (2000). I welcome comments that add to this list, or discuss how some of these other films negotiate the same (or a similar) situation.

If you are reading this blog, you probably know Run Lola Run, but the important point for this post is that the film consists of a single narrative repeated three times (with slight differences). David Martin-Jones discusses this film in Deleuze, Cinema and National Identity in terms of how it plays with a Deleuzian notion of time. Each run through the narrative, as it is repeated, ungrounds our understanding of the narrative as we've already constructed it. So, while Lola trips on the dog during the first run through, the film disrupts our expectations by changing this the second run through (she jumps over the dog, thereby gaining time).

What I find interesting about the repetition of these narratives, however, is that each run through, Lola seems to have an understanding of what is coming. As a result, this film has been compared to a video game – you die the first time through the level, but you have an idea of what obstacles you will face the second time you play the level, so you avoid the mistake you know are there. Obviously, this makes no sense in the context of Run Lola Run however, because each time Lola runs her obstacle course it is a completely new event – there is nothing to suggest that Lola is transported 'back through time' in order to replay the events. In fact, there are clear signs that point to this not being the case (Lola dying, for example).

What I'm thinking films like this might evidence, is a sort of virtual savvy, or the privileging of an understanding of time that is not linear by depicting a non-linear-subjectivity. If Lola does indeed use her experience of 'what happened last time' to influence 'what will happen this time,' and these are three separate narratives, a non-linear-subjectivity could explain how she is able to take these separate narratives and employ them to influence the outcome of her third, successful, run through the gauntlet. This virtual savvy points to Lola's ability to understand the virtual possibilities, the forks of the labyrinth that lay before her, and – if not choose one of these possible worlds – use her understanding the influence her approach to the task she must accomplish. This is not so strange, as it is basically Deleuze's third (Nietzschean) synthesis of time (I guess I shouldn't say 'basically' here), but what is new is that it is embodied within the subjectivity of a character within the narrative, as shown through the formal features of the film.

Perhaps, if we consider the subjectivity of characters within films and how it is played out in films, it would give us a new way to consider the films listed above. This is not to say that all of the characters are exemplary of this non-linear-subjectivity, but that we could make an argument about each film based on the maturity of the characters' understanding of time. In the end of Sliding Doors, for example, the main character (Helen/Gwyneth Paltrow) utilizes the 'memories' of a character she has never met, and could not have met, because this character is herself following a rather different path through time (another virtual possibility). These memories allow her to achieve things she, the film argues, could not have on her own. Are these memories not so much 'memories' then, as an understanding of the time-image, or non-linear time?

The greatest question here might be: what is the significance of the emergence of these characters in the late 1990's to early 2000's? And what does each character say about their understanding of time?

Wendy and Lucy

2009-05-29T10:23:00.000-07:00

After reading a review in Film Comment I had wanted to see Wendy and Lucy (2008) while it was at the Pickford, but I missed it sadly. Luckily a friend picked up a copy from the library and passed it along.

From the review I had expected not much to happen during the film, but I am always interested in how 'not much' plays out on the screen. Apparently the director, Kelly Reichardt, pulled a similar move in her last film Old Joy (2006), though I never saw this film. It seems that Reichardt has created a very particular sense of 'not much,' at least in this film. It is very different from Mumblecore films, for example, where we seem to be witnessing time passing as the ordinary events of the characters' lives unfold (Time-Image anyone?). Reichardt's narrative is similar, but instead of focusing on people 'hanging out' and relationships, Wendy and Lucy focuses on the strangely beaurocratic experience Wendy is thrown into as we watch time unfold in a borderline kafkaesque manner.

The film follows Wendy as she is trying to get to Alaska to work in the fisheries, but she gets caught in a small town in Oregon. A series of events result in her waiting for shops to open, filling out paperwork, calling a relative for money (and finding out the relative doesn't have any money), trying to get her car fixed, getting fingerprinted and processed, looking for a place to sleep, repeatedly calling the pound because she doesn't have contact information, and other everyday things that one generally wouldn't think about if they had more than 7 bucks to their name. Throughout all these mundane experiences, the kafkaesque manner in which they are portrayed keeps the movie from being a bore. Almost all the time you feel Wendy's frustration, but there is also a latent dread that follows all of these events (and some genuinely scary events, such as when Wendy is forced to sleep outside and a much less sane homeless person stumbles upon her in the woods).

At times, the the beaurocratic negotiations become almost unreal - when Wendy is caught shoplifting, a young lad starts monologuing to his boss on why Wendy is a terrible person because she has no money (an almost grotesque speech, all in the name of 'equality'). After listening silently, the film cuts to Wendy being arrested. Later, when Wendy is looking for Lucy at the pound, the camera slowly pans accross the kennels with an ominously bassy hum (the louder you turn up your speakers, the more kafkaesque it gets!). At these moments, you have to stop and ask yourself: do these things really happen? Perhaps, but only, the film argues, if you are destitute of course.

There is a clear resolution to the film, which I won't write about here to avoid spoiling it for anyone. But the value of the film, for me, lies in what it renders visible. As Walter Benjamin argued in The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, "With the closeup, space expands; with slow motion, movement is extended. The enlargement of a snapshot does not simply render more precise what in any case was visible, though unclear: it reveals entirely new structural formations of the subject." Here, Benjamin describes the power of film to make things that we don't think about, things that are 'invisible' to us, visible. Wendy and Lucy makes visible a particular experience that the average viewer normally wouldn't think about, simply because they don't have to.

I don't have my hands on a copy of the movie right now, but I'll try to get some stills up as well.

EDIT: While talking about this movie, a friend of mine reminded me of the lists (of expenses) Wendy makes throughout the film. This is a significant issue to remember here, because at one point (post shoplifting I believe) we find out that Wendy actually does have the money to buy food, but she shoplifts in order to stick to this plan she has laid out for herself. I don't think this weakens the 'bureaucratic experience' of the film, but it does mean that it is a strange sort of self-imposed bureaucracy - even if this is a bit paradoxical. It does seem to evoke some sort of Deleuzo-Guattarian program as well.

Life Update: St. Andrews

2009-05-19T17:35:00.000-07:00

It is official. I sent in the paperwork today, accepting a position in the Film Studies PhD program at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. I was offered a position a little ways back, but I was recently awarded a three-year bursary as well, which will provide some much needed funding!
Two supervisors were identified for me: Dr. David Martin-Jones and Dr. William Brown.

The project I proposed involves looking at particular global filmmaking contexts where minor cinemas spring up around strongly situated industries. My provisional argument is that these minor groups of filmmakers are utilizing certain filmmaking modes and methods to find production for their, potentially, politically subversive films - though I do not think all of the films I will be looking at will be politically subversive, the way these films find publication is subversive itself. The idea here is not necessarily to study minor filmmakers, however, but to show the ecologies surrounding filmmaking in a global context. It is because of these ecologies that people desire to create these films, and find the necessary means to make them.

Although I'm still wrestling with the purpose/focus of this blog, hopefully I will be able to continue blogging about cinema in general, as well as my progress on the project I will pursue at St. Andrews.

The Future of the University

2009-04-29T11:29:00.000-07:00

A friend recently recommended checking out Andrew Pilsch's blog, where I found an interesting article from the the New York Times. The article by Mark C. Taylor (of Columbia's religion department), End the University as We Know It, is another article about why the university today sucks. These articles, and arguments, aren't uncommon, but it seems little is actually done - or even suggested - in the way of changing the university. This article, however, does suggest some fairly clear and constructive ways (six in fact) that the university might change in order to become a more productive institution.

Some of these solutions are fairly standard fare, such as abolishing tenure, but Taylor offers some surprisingly simple yet sensible solutions. For example, replacing tenure with 7-year contracts, which he claims "would enable colleges and universities to reward researchers, scholars and teachers who continue to evolve and remain productive while also making room for young people with new ideas and skills." This seems to be a fantastic solution to me, as it would certainly promote research beyond the required 'amount to get tenure,' and would enable some sort of review process (which exists in pretty much any other career type position). Furthermore, as someone currently working as an adjunct, the seven-year security would be welcome, but at the same time I know that it isn't hard to renew your contract if you are doing your job well. So, for most of those professors we've had, liked, and we know are working hard, renewing their contract will be no problem whatsoever. The other half of this equation, however, would either be prompted to become more professional, or would not be offered another contract. And let's not kid ourselves, a 7-year contract would be a sweet gig (but, that's probably just the adjunct in me talking).

Taylor also offers some even more interesting solutions, however, that look less at the problems of institutional traditions, and more at the function of the university today. The two that I found really interesting were his suggestions that:

"The division-of-labor model of separate departments is obsolete and must be replaced with a curriculum structured like a web or complex adaptive network. Responsible teaching and scholarship must become cross-disciplinary and cross-cultural."

And that we should:

"Abolish permanent departments, even for undergraduate education, and create problem-focused programs. These constantly evolving programs would have sunset clauses, and every seven years each one should be evaluated and either abolished, continued or significantly changed. It is possible to imagine a broad range of topics around which such zones of inquiry could be organized: Mind, Body, Law, Information, Networks, Language, Space, Time, Media, Money, Life and Water."

My earlier post about 'Film Studies as a Discipline' spoke to this first question. As a result, it is pretty clear that I readily agree with this first statement. Although I am not sure departments should be abolished (and I believe this in regards to both statements I've re-posted here), but they should has some sort of interdisciplinary focus that makes them useful beyond the self-replication of certain forms of understanding (a sort of autopoiesis that starts emerging, if the subjects within the discipline are unaware of their involvement within the discipline itself). What would this look like? The 'Film Studies' department should not only be studying the aesthetics of films, but also their historical situation, their cultural situation, and their importance for current political questions. For example: looking at how Iranian films invoke the Islamic Revolution of 1979, and illustrate particular epistemologies as a result of certain cultural constructs.

The second statement by Taylor I've re-presented here is certainly the more radical of the two. As I said above, I don't think the abolishing of departments is necessarily the answer to this question, as I think this is a recklessly regressive answer (I believe something would be lost in abolishing departments - the disciplines provide a variety of 'ways of thinking' about problems that are still potentially useful). Creating a 'problem-centered' approach to studies would be an enormous boon for the university system though. Imagine if professors, regardless of their department, would be required to address one of these university-identified problems when submitting courses. This would foster a sort of collaborative attitude amongst the different faculties, all working together on these 'problems.' It is easy to imagine a variety of different film classes that would addresses these question: a class on the circulation of films, film-festivals (see recent activity on Dr. Dina Iordanova's blog about this), and consumption of films that addresses the question of 'Money.' A class on different forms of narrative editing, philosophies of looking at duration in films, and their use in different cultures that addresses the question of 'Time.' I believe this would be a rather exciting way to structure the proposal and submission of classes, which would create a lot of excitement and forward momentum for the faculty who are really interested, and believe in, their work.

Go ahead and check out Taylor's article - while it denounces the position I am in as a PhD candidate, it simultaneously offers hope for what things could look like in the future.

New Translation of Bazin

2009-04-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

If you are reading this blog, it is likely that you already know there is a new translation of André Bazin's What is Cinema? (note that the google books link I provide here is for the old translation, the new translation can be found here). When I first heard this news, I thought it was interesting, considering Bazin is so foundational to film studies. And, because a translation can significantly alter what a text is doing, meaning a new translation of Bazin could possibly alter the way he is interpreted in English-speaking/reading circles a great deal (especially as new students come to read his works). I wasn't about to go out and buy it though, and especially not for 65.00 CAD! That was until I read Donato Totaro's review in Offscreen, "What is a Good Translation?" Bazin Revisited.

Totaro does a great job highlighting what he believes are the significant changes from the original translation by Hugh Gray to the new translation by Timothy Barnard. The couple of changes that really caught my attention, however, are that Barnard has actually revised the material he is including the book, and that he offers a lengthy 'Translator's Notes' section (61 pages!).

What is Cinema? is a collection of Bazin's works published posthumously - so, it isn't necessarilly shocking that Barnard chose to include a different sampling of Bazin's work. I am interested in the new articles he chose to include, however: 'On Jeane Painlevé,' ‘William Wyler, the Jansenist of Mise en Scène,’ and ‘Monsieur Hulot and Time.' Samples of each chapter are available on the publisher's website for the book. A brief reading of the available sample chapters shows that the new material Barnard provides does not significantly alter Bazin's views of cinema, but it might help deepen our understanding of how Bazin viewed 'neorealism.' Taking a look at 'Monsieur Hulot and Time,' for example, clearly shows that he is still concerned with how a particular director evokes reality in his films. I was dissapointed that this sample chapter ended so early, as Bazin says little about time in the short selection that is offered.

Why I'd really like to get my hands on a copy of this edition is to see Barnard's 'Translator's Notes.' Because Barnard spent, presumably, so much time and energy rethinking the way Bazin intended these essays to be understood, it will hopefully give the reader a more detailed look at the issues and complications involved in his translation. I'm hoping that this section might offer a great resource for the nuances of Bazin's thought - and dedicating 61 pages, about a seventh of the book, to these notes suggests that Barnard took care in creating them as well.

Alas, at 65.00 CAD, I think I'll have to wait for one of the local libraries to pick up this one!

Specters of del Toro & Almodovar

2009-04-22T14:13:00.000-07:00

It has been a while since I've read Jacques Derrida's Specters of Marx, but watching The Devil's Backbone (2001) strongly reminded me of some of the arguments Derrida makes, and the way he talks about the simultaneously present and non-presents of hauntology. Derrida is generally referring to political, and perhaps philosophical, movements or revolutions - arguing that after their timeliness has come to pass, they still affect future thought via hauntings, echoes, or traces (Marx may have died, but Marxism is all the more important for it).

In my reading of Specters of Marx, the 'present' of the 'non-present' is established via the circulation of language and thought - so that while a particular revolution may be over, it affects future movements each time it is 'invoked' or reiterated in discussion. For Derrida, this 'invoking' is a serious issue. He begins Specters of Marx with a reading of Hamlet, where Hamlet repeatedly invokes the ghost of his dead father by calling out to him, and later by swearing Marcellus and Horatio to secrecy. The swearing works as a sort of agreement: first, to not speak of the ghost, but as a result, also that the ghost exists.

The Devil's Backbone takes place during the Spanish Civil War and centers around an orphanage where most of the residents have lost their parents in the war. The adults running the orphanage repeatedly refer to 'the cause,' and have a stack of gold that they use to support the Republicans. It appears that most of the orphans were orphaned as a result of their parents playing the role of 'freedom fighter' for the Republicans. This is significant later in the film, when we see several characters associated with the orphanage executed by Nationalists, and also in terms of the final outcome of the film (which is decidedly Marxist in sort of 'Lord of the Flies' way).

While the war continues on around them, the orphans seem to be more concerned, however, with the ghost of Santi that apparently haunts the orphanage. Santi is interesting, because he exists in this liminal space of (non)presence, where it is difficult to determine if he has some sort of real, material affect on the other characters in the narrative (the other orphans). Here we see the protagonist Carlos reach out and take a hold of blood that floats up away from the ghost whenever he appears:

Carlos is actually able to drag down some of this 'blood' out of the air, suggesting that the ghost is a material entity. This is, of course, the only time we actually see a character touch the ghost, though later he does, apparently, rattle some cabinets.

Now, the metaphysical consideration of a ghost's materiality is not what is really interesting here though. As the film continues, we learn that the ghost actually wants something from Carlos: to help him seek revenge by helping the ghost kill his killer, which it turns out, is the reason for the ghost haunting the orphanage. The revenge, however, is complicated. The ghost does not want Carlos to kill the one that murdered him, but instead bring him to the place where he was murdered so that Santi, with all his quasi-materiality, can seek revenge. While the viewer might be left to wonder about the metaphysical reality of the ghost, we now understand that the central issue is not necessarily how the ghost will kill the killer, but how Carlos and company will bring the killer to Santi's grave.

A clear conflict emerges in the end of the film, the orphans against the gold-thiefs (including Santi's murderer). When rallied to fight by Jaime, the bully and sometimes-leader in the film, a younger boy says: "But they have the file. And they are bigger than us, stronger." Jaime's replies: "Yes, but there's more of us." While clearly an allusion to the struggle of the proletariat of Marx, what I'm really interested in here is how this initiates a movement in the film, which directly contributes to how the 'specter' of Santi operates. Once rallied, they are enlisted in the specter's cause, and work together to draw the murderer to the site of the murder as per Carlos's mission. Once they do so, together they attack the killer with homemade spears:

The boys do not, however, spear the murderer to death. Instead they, according to the desires of Santi, push him into Santi's grave, which is the pool you see in the background of this image. The gold-thief is weighed down by the gold in his pockets. Unable to swim, he quickly tries to remove the gold in his pockets, but Santi shows up just in time to make sure that does not happen. The message in the film seems clear though: while Santi orchestrated these events, he did not necessarily have to ever physically play a role - Santi may merely be a concept, but that does not mean he does not affect what is happening.

The question posed here is interesting, and Pan's Labyrinth (2006) ascribing to this tradition of 'magical realism,' does it as well. Forces are at work in both The Devil's Backbone and Pan's Labyrinth that are simultaneously present and non-present. Derrida would say that these forces reject the way we conceive of Western metaphysics. Marx would probably just say that this is how philosophy becomes reality. Either way, the ideas play out in an interesting fashion, and are perhaps even more interesting when considering that the backdrop of both films is the Spanish Civil War.

I refer to the specters of 'del Toro & Almodovar' in the title, because Pedro Almodovar actually produced The Devil's Background, and made the choice to have the narrative occur during the Spanish Civil War, which del Toro (a Mexican director) chose to continue with in Pan's Labyrinth. With the similar thematics of each film, and the sort of collaboration between these directors, it seems as if they are putting certain ideas, certain constructs of language, into circulation. So that while we may doubt the actual reality of the fantasy elements within the diagetic story of these films, we cannot doubt that they have a presentness in terms of their impact on these diagetic stories.

Misleading Movie Posters

2009-04-18T15:49:00.001-07:00

Also, check out this poster for Marnie - it seems entirely misleading to me! There is a scene to warrant this cover, but it certainly gives the film an entirely different vibe.

The Reverse-Explanatory

2009-04-18T14:33:00.000-07:00

Previously, I posted about how philosophy or theory might be applied to film to explain how a particular concept might play out in reality. Applications to film could also be considered useful because of a sort of reverse-explanatory power at work here. By this I mean that showing the operation of a particular idea in a film might help to elucidate the idea itself.

So, we can read Freud and understand what he means by a neurosis, but his 'case studies' don't necessarily provide good examples of how these neuroses play out in reality - the case studies are selected for a reason, probably for their extremity (see the 'rat man' or 'wolf man' for good examples of these). If we take a film like Marnie (1964), on the other hand, we might have a more realistic depiction of how neurosis might play out.

In Hitchcock's Marnie, the main character, Marnie, lives as a crook in order to exist outside of your average social order of the time. In her case in particular, it seems she works as a crook in order to make enough money to support herself and her mother, while giving her the freedom to avoid marrying. In the end of the film, the male protagonist Mark Rutland performs an impromptu session of clinical-psychoanalysis by making Marnie remember repressed memories of her childhood - the source of her fear of men and the color red.

While the depiction of a man-hating woman who is 'set straight' through the use of psychoanalysis is a somewhat ridiculous issue (one that warrants more discussion), the example of how a neurosis operates for Freud is clear. We can look at Marnie as a fairly straightforward example of this, and in our application of psychoanalysis to this film the reverse-explanatory principle emerges. The irrational fears (neurosis) are the result of a repressed memory from childhood, and the understanding of this link provides the patient relief from the fears.

So yes, concepts may be applied to film in an attempt to understand the film, but this also initiates this reverse-explanatory mode of thinking where the film helps to define the concept itself. This seems useful to me, if only for the purposes of teaching, learning, or understanding.

And yes, I am really just saying that movies can help us understand ideas. But it is interesting, because Marnie was not created to be a didactic film - it wasn't created to teach us about psychoanalysis. But, as a cultural text that engages with these particular ideas, there is this didactic quality that emerges as a result of being a cultural construct.

Why is Theory Useful? And Film.

2009-04-16T17:20:00.000-07:00

Theory as a discipline, an established and coherent conversation, is interesting in terms of its utility. 'Theory' certainly has become an established discipline unto itself, but why is it useful? To answer that, I believe it is important to think about the difference between theory and philosophy - which, is perhaps slight. Often in English, Film, Media, etc. Departments we take philosophers and apply them to our discipline, calling it 'theory.' The difference is, then, that the philosophy is applied to something material. In the humanities and social sciences, the question we ask our students, and ourselves, when discussion gets bogged down in abstraction is: how can we apply this to a material situation? What would this really look like?

For our purposes here (or, this blog in particular), this material situation is of course film. The question then becomes, how does a certain philosophical question play out in a particular film or set of films?

This is an interesting question, because film generally implies some sort of narrative, or a real possibility of how life could play out. This is not always true, but how often do you hear the comment: 'that wouldn't really happen!' Consumers of narratives know that what they perceive is not true, but at the same time they understand that there remains a connection to reality - in terms of the potentiality of the narrative, I am thinking here. It follows then, that when we apply some sort of philosophical situation to film under the heading of 'theory,' we are not only attempting to apply a thought or idea to a constructed text, but to a possible reality.

One might argue that this is what philosophy does - apply some sort of idea to a possible reality. The difference between theory and philosophy here, however, is that philosophy seems to prefer a sort of autopoiesis - a self-referential explanation, or explanation according to a particular logic - whereas theory performs according to its ability to be applied to something. These are just two different approaches to the same ideas, under two different headings. Evaluating the philosophy of Marx according to Hegel is a philosophical endeavor, whereas applying the philosophy of Marx to a particular film is a theoretical endeavor. Of course, this distinction between theory and philosophy is probably completely meaningless, beyond what I am postulating here.

Returning to film, then: using theory to work with film, applying certain philisophical concepts to a film, is an attempt to understand the situation that is playing out in a text. This situation is static, but still exists as an example of 'life.' And this static situation of the film-text will never play out in reality just as it does in the film, but certain films have a great deal of resonance with reality - neorealist films, for example. Thus, each time theory is applied, it is not just an attempt to understand an apolitical text, but an attempt to understand a glimpse of reality. This itself is a political act, because this now involves real people and real political struggle. I am not saying that philosophy is not political (or that it can't be political), but theory as I define it here has a more direct correlation with political problems.

Maybe I am the only one harboring this desire to apply concepts directly to lived experience, but for me that seems to be the ultimate goal of philosophy. Applying philosophy to film, for me, seems a logical step along the way. Looking at the previous post where I've applied this issue of 'the refrain' to The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is perhaps a good example. I use this philosophical concept to try and understand what is going on in this particular film, but at the same time I am trying to understand how 'the refrain' affects our lives. What happens when we experience this recurring experience in our own lived realities? Does it happen as it does in the film? Perhaps not, but regardless of its correlation to our lives, the application helps us make some sort of determination about the correlation itself (it does do this in lived experience, it does not do this, it does this with some modification of the concept).

The Refrain in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

2009-04-15T19:31:00.000-07:00

While watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007) for the first time the other day, I noticed a familiar tune recurring during certain points of the film. Of course, musical refrains are not uncommon in film, but this one affected me more than your average refrain. As I listened to it I realized that it was because I knew the tune from somewhere else, eventually realizing it was the familiar violin-plucked tune from The 400 Blows (1959). You hear this theme at various times throughout the film, but it is probably most noticeable at the end, right before the credits roll.

The choice of the tune from The 400 Blows makes sense, as it reflects a sort of ascription to a French cinematic tradition - though, it should be noted that neither director Julian Schnabel nor composer Paul Cantelon are French, but the film was produced by French companies. The choice is complicated, however, considering The 400 Blows follows Antoine as he escapes the confines of first his school and family, and then the boarding school he is brought to after being jailed, while The Diving Bell and the Butterfly follows a man who can who can't physically escape anything. Although it would warrant a close reading, I would guess the tune is most likely played at moments where Jean-Do realizes there is potential 'escape' in memory and imagination. This does in fact seem to be the emotional undertaking of the film.

The refrain itself is used in an interesting manner here. Deleuze and Guattari (but I am thinking mostly of Guattari in Chaosmosis) would say that the refrain here is used to outline the territory of an existential moment - which is a useful definition when thinking about film: most often the musical refrain is used in film to cement a particular mood or feeling of a film, the intended 'affect' of the film. If one knows The 400 Blows well, it would then follow that the refrain evokes this particular feeling of 'escape' in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Indeed, the tune itself sounds curious, as if one is entering new territory for the first time like Antoine experiencing the ocean for the first time in The 400 Blows - check out the video posted above, starting around 3:48.

Perhaps this is why I enjoyed the film so much. The idea that one who is completely immobilized, except for an eye, can appreciate and explore the potentiality of memory and imagination is interesting, but perhaps a bit cliche at the same time. Feeling that exploration, curiosity, and potentiality is entirely different though. This isn't something only film can afford us, but it is something that film seems particularly adept at doing when it is in the right hands.

All the good conferences are in Europe.

2009-04-11T13:42:00.000-07:00

I am already frustrated by the fact that I could not attend the Conference on Global Film I was supposed to present at (on Iranian film) due to funding. To add to this, all the good conferences are in Europe! Apparently, every scholar I want to work with is presenting at this conference.

Film Studies as a Discipline

2009-04-11T12:38:00.000-07:00

I think a big question for anyone going into graduate school, especially in the Humanities, is: what does your discipline actually do?

I found this blog post by Chris Cagle, visiting Prof at Temple University, that outlines four major themes in the study of film. I think he did a great job listing the reasons why Film Studies is worthy as a 'scholarly project' in the university.

See his blog post for his description of each of these categories, but the four categories he breaks the discipline of Film Studies into are:

1.) "Film studies as a literary-interpretive project"

2.)"Film studies as a historical-explanatory project"

3.)"Film studies as an aesthetics-systematizing project"

4.)"Film studies as a philosophical project"

In terms of my own studies, and because I am interested in global and transnational films in particular, these categories combined with the study of specific locations of filmmaking within the world - the people, modes of production, and ways in which culture and aesthetics work together - gives a pretty clear definition of the job of the 'Film Studies scholar.' And all of these things are necesarily political, giving scholarship in the field a sort of productive force in terms of commentary on political situations.

Schizo-Subjectivity in Gran Torino

2009-04-07T18:20:00.000-07:00

I am creating this blog in light of my desire to earn a PhD related to film (not necessarily in 'Film Studies,' but at least in something where I can work with films as source texts). My favorite teachers and writers in the past have been rather prolific when it comes to talking about films, and I hope to develop this quality here - or fail publicly trying.

while I have a wide variety of interests when it comes to 'thinking about things,' from cyberculture stuff to continental philosophy (see review of Dorsality by David Wills), I am really interested in how different subjectivities and epistemologies are established through cultural artifacts - I suppose cyberculture studies and continental philosophy make sense in light of this. I am particularly interested in the way subjectivities emerge from complex social systems and institutions, probably stemming from my reading of Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari's Kafka: Towards a Minor Literature. If readers continue to follow this blog, they will notice that Deleuze and Guattari's concepts have informed my thinking a great deal. But enough background info on my life, and on to what you folks came to read about - my thoughts on Clint Eastwood's Gran Torino (2008). Blogs sure are awkward.

The reason I find Gran Torino so interesting is that the film's protagonist, Walt Kowalksi played by Clint Eastwood, is so amusing because he seems to be the regimented, stratisfied subject Deleuze and Guattari discuss as a result of the time he has spent in the military. When I saw this film in the theaters, the audience laughed uproarously at Walt's overt racism - the kind of stuff I wouldn't laugh at if I met this fellow in real life, but did watching his reactions in the film. A lot could be said about the difference in response between reality and the viewing of a film, but that isn't exactly what I'm interested in here. Instead, I'm interested in how Walt's particular subject position describes something much more akin to the schizo-subject of of Deleuze and Guattari's Capitalism and Schizophrenia rather than the stratified subject, which may come as a little bit unexpected.

To try and make things a bit less abstract here, I want to explain this concept of stratification, or the stratified subject. Part of Deleuze and Guattari's overall argument in Capitalism and Schizophrenia is that certain forces created by late-capitalism free the subject from traditional institutions that create subjecthood such as the nuclear family, the government, and religion. Therefore, those who rigidly think and act according to the philosophies of the nuclear family, a government, or a religion constitute the 'stratified subject.' A subject held 'in place' as the result of adherence to a particular epistemology.

Walt might generally be thought of as this 'stratified subject,' as it is made clear in the film by his values, which seem to be based on his time spent in the military (forgive my poor examples, as I am running off memory since the DVD won't be released until June). The film opens with the death of his wife, which results in his family and folks involved in his life to show up to his house for the funeral. His response to these people is shown clearly by the permanent grimace painted on his face throughout the film, made even more poignant by the eyeline matches to various things that disgust him - such as his granddaughter's bellybutton ring, the attending priest's youth, and the foreign neighbors next door. Each of these initial disgusts points to his old-fashioned, hierarchical whiteness, made laughauble (literally, out loud, not figuratively) by Eastwood's ability to portray this particular subject extremely well.

What I believe makes this film particularly interesting, however, is the way in which this seemingly stratified - old whitey - subjectivity seems to be the very destratifying schizo-subjectivity itself. While yes, Walt clearly has strong and regimented values, they are not in line with the nuclear family, government, and religion triad that Deleuze and Guattari might suggest cement someone in a popular subjectivity. Walt seems to hold only disdain for his nuclear family who wants to put him in an assisted living apartment (nursing home), the priest in his early 20's who knows nothing of "life and death," and he comes to appreciate the neighbors who, early on in the film, he identifies as 'asian-something' rather than Hmong. Indeed, while Walt's experience in the Korean War seems to have created his subjectivity, it is more of a schizo-subjectivity that the film leads on to in the beginning.

Walt's participation in the war is a theme that is returned to throughout the film: when neighbor Thao learns of his experience and guns, Thao's desire to use this military experience to avenge his sister's rape, and the 1st calvary lighter - a memento from the war - that ultimately constructs the pivotal moment of the conclusion. It seems fair enough to argue that Walt's status as a veteran informs his actions throughout the film. The question then becomes: what sort of comment is the film making about this schizo-subjectivity that has emerged from Walt's experience in the war?

*SPOILER WARNING!*

There is a sort of suture that happens between viewers and the neighbor Thao after his sister's rape. Thao wants a violent resolution - he wants Walt to use his guns and knowledge of warfare to help him kill the gang that is causing the trouble. At this point, the film leads you to believe this is the way the narrative will proceed. Walt tells Thao that they have to be patient, and that they have to know when to attack the gang. At this point, I was ready for a conclusion akin to The Outlaw of Josey Wales (1976) - an epic tale of revenge. This time through, however, the war veteran operates under a very different, modern context. Walt, by the end of the film, understands this above all else, perhaps as a result of his experiences with the Hmong neighbors.

His particular schizo-subjectivity (it is of course, one unique subjectivity among many) has no place in this context and, as a result, Walt ends up sacrificing himself for his neighbors. He shows up at the gang's lair, and once he has all of the gang members' guns trained on him he pulls out his 1st calvary lighter, which provokes them into shooting him. It is almost as if the 1st calvary lighter is a manifestation of his subjectivity - extinguished, because it is no longer useful in this context. His sacrifice is all Walt can do to tie back into the modern social order, by initiating the arrest of the gang members and thereby avenging Thao's sister and protecting Thao.

The message is clear though: this schizo-subjectivity does not belong. Its ways of existing, warfare in this case, is not allowed in this particular social situation. The message is rather poignant in terms of current affairs in the world, and the results of war itself. I do not think most people would disagree that war changes people, but this film shows that, beyond the obvious, the modes of production desirable to warfare are not desirable in a civilian context, even when the desire warrants it (as does Thao's, and the viewer's if they feel sutured to this particular moment of vengeance in the film). In the end, we seem to have a story similar to the cautionary tale in chapter 6 of A Thousand Plateaus - the schizo-position of the new subject will be freed from the confines of psycho-restrictive social institutions, but it may also lead to terrible ends. Or, in the case of Gran Torino, a beautiful film with a rather sad ending.