Sunday, October 28, 2007
Tokyo Story
Tokyo Story has been acclaimed as truly "Japanese" film, keeping true to the conventions of traditional Japanese travel narratives, while also being the marker of new traditions in film. Tokyo Story is a depiction of the banal, a representation of the day-to-day, a narrative of the unremarkable.
What is so special about a film focused the banal?
Japanese cinema was predominantly unknown outside of Asia until the release of Rashomon (1953), a film that received international acclaim during its time and to this day influences film across the world. This film helped lift Japan from its "post war" period. What had emerged from the period of cinema to follow, including Tokyo Story, is recognised as landmarks in cinema's history. Tokyo Story had made such a prominent mark upon cinema as a film making use of the long shot, a film consisting of shots in which the camera barely moves, and fewer shots than the conventional Hollywood film.
In Tokyo Story, the camera, in many of the film's scenes, remains still and just below eye level. As a result, scenes consist of one shot in which characters leave and enter, and within these shots, we see very little physical movement. Characters sit and converse in scenes, rarely do they move, and when they do, they move by train, a symbol used repeatedly in cinema – in this instance, the train is used as a nod to the motif in Japanese art of the traveller, who is typically seen in the undertaking of their journey as separating from they group to which they belong. Long shots in cinema are considered to be the convention in cinema that closely represents reality. In reality, we are not exposed to what we see and feel through a series of images composed by seamless editing; instead, we see life from our seats, as we see it in Tokyo Story. Also in Hollywood cinema, the transition between scenes is always without the mundane – there is no need to wait for the next anticipated action, it is delivered to the viewer immediately. This does not occur in reality or in Tokyo Story.
Not only is the film banal in its aesthetic, but in terms of narrative, patience in its audience is highly recommended. Much of the film's dialogue is polite exchanges shared between characters. Audiences are not explicitly exposed to the feelings of the characters on screen, which in a typical mainstream film they would become very familiar, we remain – politely – distant. The story of distance between parents and children told in this film (reportedly a common theme in Ozu's oeuvre) is felt between audiences and the film.
Telling stories of the banal in film is a revolutionary step: film has its origins in the spectacular, the novelty of seeing something on screen was once a very, very special affair. Early films that were recognised as spectacles ranged from images as simple as the shots of people moving in and out of a warehouse, a recording of an exploding wall played in reverse to the electrocution of an elephant. Each of these attracted audiences simply because they were part of the spectacle of film. To transform film to a medium in which reality can be accurately depicted is to transform the medium into a recognisable form of art.
The following sources were used for research:
The Story of Film by Mark Cousins, Pavillion, 2006
Travel Toward and Away: Frustration and Journey in Tokyo Story by Linda Ehrlich from Yasujiro Ozu's Tokyo Story (edited by David Desser), Cambridge University Press, 1997
History of Film bu David Parkinson, Thames and Hudson, 1995
What is so special about a film focused the banal?
Japanese cinema was predominantly unknown outside of Asia until the release of Rashomon (1953), a film that received international acclaim during its time and to this day influences film across the world. This film helped lift Japan from its "post war" period. What had emerged from the period of cinema to follow, including Tokyo Story, is recognised as landmarks in cinema's history. Tokyo Story had made such a prominent mark upon cinema as a film making use of the long shot, a film consisting of shots in which the camera barely moves, and fewer shots than the conventional Hollywood film.
In Tokyo Story, the camera, in many of the film's scenes, remains still and just below eye level. As a result, scenes consist of one shot in which characters leave and enter, and within these shots, we see very little physical movement. Characters sit and converse in scenes, rarely do they move, and when they do, they move by train, a symbol used repeatedly in cinema – in this instance, the train is used as a nod to the motif in Japanese art of the traveller, who is typically seen in the undertaking of their journey as separating from they group to which they belong. Long shots in cinema are considered to be the convention in cinema that closely represents reality. In reality, we are not exposed to what we see and feel through a series of images composed by seamless editing; instead, we see life from our seats, as we see it in Tokyo Story. Also in Hollywood cinema, the transition between scenes is always without the mundane – there is no need to wait for the next anticipated action, it is delivered to the viewer immediately. This does not occur in reality or in Tokyo Story.
Not only is the film banal in its aesthetic, but in terms of narrative, patience in its audience is highly recommended. Much of the film's dialogue is polite exchanges shared between characters. Audiences are not explicitly exposed to the feelings of the characters on screen, which in a typical mainstream film they would become very familiar, we remain – politely – distant. The story of distance between parents and children told in this film (reportedly a common theme in Ozu's oeuvre) is felt between audiences and the film.
Telling stories of the banal in film is a revolutionary step: film has its origins in the spectacular, the novelty of seeing something on screen was once a very, very special affair. Early films that were recognised as spectacles ranged from images as simple as the shots of people moving in and out of a warehouse, a recording of an exploding wall played in reverse to the electrocution of an elephant. Each of these attracted audiences simply because they were part of the spectacle of film. To transform film to a medium in which reality can be accurately depicted is to transform the medium into a recognisable form of art.
The following sources were used for research:
Real toys - Toccata for Toy Trains
Looking at this film feels, to me, like looking at a representation of a representation, but simultaneously, the film is also a representation of invention, the invention to which I refer being the toy. The film opens with a blurred close-up of a train filled with candy, moved in a forward direction by a giant hand that enters the shot. The film is established as most definitely being about toy trains – and no other kind. This toy train represents an actual train, but in itself and on film, is clearly not. In itself, the train being filled with candy makes clear that it is a piece of design that is not for travel. It is transparent, without moving parts, and is filled with brightly coloured edibles. On film, it is made clear to the audience that we are to think of this as a toy and not a train when the hand enters to move it forward.
These toy trains, however, even though are evidently toys, more closely resemble actual trains. An education-film style voiceover can be heard: "This is a film about toy trains. These are real toys, not scale models." This makes clear that the film is not focused on trains as a modern creation; instead, the focus is on the abstraction of such an invention. The narrator's statement "these are real toys" suggests that the focus is in fact on the toys themselves, as a legitimate creation. To further emphasise this sentiment, the narrator says "we have lost the knack of making real toys."
The narrator goes on to say that older toys are of a "direct and unembarrassed manner", that the pleasure derived from these toys is different to the pleasure derived from toys that are more like replicas of the invention on which they are modelled. This suggests that Charles and Ray Eames had an intention to focus on the creations based on another creation – what perhaps fascinated them was the architecture of the idea of a train. A toy, based on the idea of a train, communicating the idea of a train, without actually being a train – while still being an invention itself.
The film's introduction as a celebratory display of toy trains – one toy sits upon a revolver to be displayed to the audience. Simultaneously, the narrator speaks of the tradition of old toys - "what is wood is wood, what is tin is tin, what is cast is beautifully cast." This sentiment highlights the appreciation of the design of these items. What is to follow later is something we, as students of this subject, have become quite accustomed to – the cityscape. In the filmic sense, Toccata for Toy Trains bears many similarities to the cityscape films, in that like Berlin, Symphony of a Great City is a collection of city images set to a symphony, the Eames cityscape is set to a toccata. Visually, and in meaning, Charles and Ray Eames' version of the cityscape in this film is far from what we have been accustomed to.
In some ways in this film, we are to use our imagination as would someone playing with the toy, but in many ways, we are not. We engage with the cityscape as a cityscape, in that we imagine what we see on screen to be functioning cityscape, however, with the entrance of the hand in the beginning of the film, and the continual reminder by the narrator, we the audience are prompted to view the toy trains as toy trains – in this cityscape, what is wood is wood, what is tin is tin, and what is cast is beautifully cast.
These toy trains, however, even though are evidently toys, more closely resemble actual trains. An education-film style voiceover can be heard: "This is a film about toy trains. These are real toys, not scale models." This makes clear that the film is not focused on trains as a modern creation; instead, the focus is on the abstraction of such an invention. The narrator's statement "these are real toys" suggests that the focus is in fact on the toys themselves, as a legitimate creation. To further emphasise this sentiment, the narrator says "we have lost the knack of making real toys."
The narrator goes on to say that older toys are of a "direct and unembarrassed manner", that the pleasure derived from these toys is different to the pleasure derived from toys that are more like replicas of the invention on which they are modelled. This suggests that Charles and Ray Eames had an intention to focus on the creations based on another creation – what perhaps fascinated them was the architecture of the idea of a train. A toy, based on the idea of a train, communicating the idea of a train, without actually being a train – while still being an invention itself.
The film's introduction as a celebratory display of toy trains – one toy sits upon a revolver to be displayed to the audience. Simultaneously, the narrator speaks of the tradition of old toys - "what is wood is wood, what is tin is tin, what is cast is beautifully cast." This sentiment highlights the appreciation of the design of these items. What is to follow later is something we, as students of this subject, have become quite accustomed to – the cityscape. In the filmic sense, Toccata for Toy Trains bears many similarities to the cityscape films, in that like Berlin, Symphony of a Great City is a collection of city images set to a symphony, the Eames cityscape is set to a toccata. Visually, and in meaning, Charles and Ray Eames' version of the cityscape in this film is far from what we have been accustomed to.
In some ways in this film, we are to use our imagination as would someone playing with the toy, but in many ways, we are not. We engage with the cityscape as a cityscape, in that we imagine what we see on screen to be functioning cityscape, however, with the entrance of the hand in the beginning of the film, and the continual reminder by the narrator, we the audience are prompted to view the toy trains as toy trains – in this cityscape, what is wood is wood, what is tin is tin, and what is cast is beautifully cast.
Piccadilly
The relationship between celebrity and the public in Piccadilly shares a great deal with the film's relationship with its audience. Our gaze in the film shifts from character to character (namely Mabel and Shosho) depending on their own celebrity status – the unfolding of this narrative is much like the search for gossip, and as a way of establishing a narrative in film, is to say the least an intriguing one.
The film's narrative is established through gossip. The film's first shot depicts two women discussing Vic and Mabel, the "talk of the town". One woman is shown telling this to the other. This, as an opening to the film, engages the audience through positioning them as the listener in this conversation. These characters are established from a distance – even before we have seen Vic and Mabel on screen, they become an object of interest. The introduction of these characters, through the fashion of gossip, indicates to the audience their potential interest to them. Our eyes are placed on Vic and Mabel as the pair to watch – and soon, when this is shown to be untrue, the narrative takes a step further in its development.
Our gaze upon Vic and Mabel is first established by shots of them dancing alone on the dance floor. Previously, we are shown shots of a hugely populated dance floor. In a silent film, establishing characters on screen without spoken dialogue relies heavily upon images. This is such an example. When we are shown Shosho for the first time, she is treated by the camera with an intimacy that no character in the film receives, and one that is unusual for film at the time. The emulation of the hand-held camera "look" would have been atypical for pieces of cinema of this calibre, and so would have marked the audience's view of Shosho profoundly. As we are shown the women surrounding her, many women populating a single shot, we are shown that she is special, and through the hypnotised expressions they hold, we are shown that she is exotic.
Exchanges that take place in the film behind closed doors are the film's scenes of high drama – romances ending, romances flourishing, the intensity of Shosho's rivalry with Mabel – are contrasted to scenes in which there are many. The audience are made to feel as though they are insiders to gossip – witnessing affairs between those who are gossiped about, the celebrities, affairs that are not visible from the outside.
In continuing with the film's representation of celebrity characters as individuals rather than one of the many, Shosho's ethnicity acts as a marker to single her out from the crowd. In the scene in which she dances for the public in her exotic costume, though the shot is populated by many, the audience's gaze is directed towards Shosho. However, having many within the shot and Shosho in the centre implies that she is public property.
Piccadilly is a strange natured film. Heavily focused on celebrity, the film indulges its audience in the kind of fascination they would have with the celebrity in the everyday – a distant one, one with an eagerness for access through gossip – while engaging them with the intimacy of the celebrities' everyday. The audience is allowed to break through the barrier of privacy in this film, and as a result Shosho becomes a prize of exploitation.
The film's narrative is established through gossip. The film's first shot depicts two women discussing Vic and Mabel, the "talk of the town". One woman is shown telling this to the other. This, as an opening to the film, engages the audience through positioning them as the listener in this conversation. These characters are established from a distance – even before we have seen Vic and Mabel on screen, they become an object of interest. The introduction of these characters, through the fashion of gossip, indicates to the audience their potential interest to them. Our eyes are placed on Vic and Mabel as the pair to watch – and soon, when this is shown to be untrue, the narrative takes a step further in its development.
Our gaze upon Vic and Mabel is first established by shots of them dancing alone on the dance floor. Previously, we are shown shots of a hugely populated dance floor. In a silent film, establishing characters on screen without spoken dialogue relies heavily upon images. This is such an example. When we are shown Shosho for the first time, she is treated by the camera with an intimacy that no character in the film receives, and one that is unusual for film at the time. The emulation of the hand-held camera "look" would have been atypical for pieces of cinema of this calibre, and so would have marked the audience's view of Shosho profoundly. As we are shown the women surrounding her, many women populating a single shot, we are shown that she is special, and through the hypnotised expressions they hold, we are shown that she is exotic.
Exchanges that take place in the film behind closed doors are the film's scenes of high drama – romances ending, romances flourishing, the intensity of Shosho's rivalry with Mabel – are contrasted to scenes in which there are many. The audience are made to feel as though they are insiders to gossip – witnessing affairs between those who are gossiped about, the celebrities, affairs that are not visible from the outside.
In continuing with the film's representation of celebrity characters as individuals rather than one of the many, Shosho's ethnicity acts as a marker to single her out from the crowd. In the scene in which she dances for the public in her exotic costume, though the shot is populated by many, the audience's gaze is directed towards Shosho. However, having many within the shot and Shosho in the centre implies that she is public property.
Piccadilly is a strange natured film. Heavily focused on celebrity, the film indulges its audience in the kind of fascination they would have with the celebrity in the everyday – a distant one, one with an eagerness for access through gossip – while engaging them with the intimacy of the celebrities' everyday. The audience is allowed to break through the barrier of privacy in this film, and as a result Shosho becomes a prize of exploitation.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
King Kong
It’s been made very clear to us all (“us” being the general Arts population) that images in film, television and other media of the past and present can inform us on the acceptability of certain attitudes and how they are developed. I approached King Kong in the same fashion, viewing carefully with its pseudo-ethnographic nature, often overlooking it as a piece of cinema. However, thinking about King Kong under the light of Cinematic Modernism, I felt I was seeing something new.
I find our interpretations of images to be quite explicit: for instance, that Kong is representative of the other, and translates many associated feelings with the other. This, however, could be communicated through many texts, not film alone. I feel that film is often examined as evidence for racist attitudes, rather than a medium in which racism has been communicated specifically through cinematic means. What I started thinking about in watching King Kong was how I could identify how the film communicates racist ideals through cinema exclusively. The treatment of a group in film is not through narrative means alone, but also through the camera.
The filmmakers, Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack, utilised the conventions of the medium to communicate otherness. What has been captured within the shot, strengthened by sound, is an image particular to cinema. Images depicting the tribes-people suggest homogeneity through depiction of the people in mass. The camera is typically situated some distance away from the people shown on film, depicting large crowds. The audience hears chanting often – singing on mass – also suggestive of homogeneity.
By contrast, white characters receive close-ups and shots which single them out, providing details of their appearance, particularly their faces. It made me think that this was as though an image of many non-white people was of equal value (or ability to hold the attention of the audience) to that of a single white person. The camera only comes close when examining the detail of a religious ritual.
When the camera sits further away from a scene (in particular the scene when the crew first sights the tribe), the audience sees the people as a distant cluster, making part of the scenery. In this scene, they are shown to be filmed by the filmmaker character, as though to emphasise this. The group make a scene, rather than a depiction of a group made up of people.
King Kong was remade in 1976 and again in 2005 – at this rate of remaking, it seems that King Kong has a “quality” that is continually relevant to cinema audiences. I’ve not seen the 1976 version, but I did see Peter Jackson’s 2005 version. I do not recall if the treatment of non-white people by the camera in the film resembled that of the 1933 version, but I do remember feeling enormously uncomfortable with what I was seeing. Obviously, the images of the original had taken affect, resonating in the remake made in the past few years.
I think that this shows King Kong is significant in looking at approaches to the other through cinema, I think that is representative of many films of the time and how depicting otherness was further developed in films of the future.
I find our interpretations of images to be quite explicit: for instance, that Kong is representative of the other, and translates many associated feelings with the other. This, however, could be communicated through many texts, not film alone. I feel that film is often examined as evidence for racist attitudes, rather than a medium in which racism has been communicated specifically through cinematic means. What I started thinking about in watching King Kong was how I could identify how the film communicates racist ideals through cinema exclusively. The treatment of a group in film is not through narrative means alone, but also through the camera.
The filmmakers, Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack, utilised the conventions of the medium to communicate otherness. What has been captured within the shot, strengthened by sound, is an image particular to cinema. Images depicting the tribes-people suggest homogeneity through depiction of the people in mass. The camera is typically situated some distance away from the people shown on film, depicting large crowds. The audience hears chanting often – singing on mass – also suggestive of homogeneity.
By contrast, white characters receive close-ups and shots which single them out, providing details of their appearance, particularly their faces. It made me think that this was as though an image of many non-white people was of equal value (or ability to hold the attention of the audience) to that of a single white person. The camera only comes close when examining the detail of a religious ritual.
When the camera sits further away from a scene (in particular the scene when the crew first sights the tribe), the audience sees the people as a distant cluster, making part of the scenery. In this scene, they are shown to be filmed by the filmmaker character, as though to emphasise this. The group make a scene, rather than a depiction of a group made up of people.
King Kong was remade in 1976 and again in 2005 – at this rate of remaking, it seems that King Kong has a “quality” that is continually relevant to cinema audiences. I’ve not seen the 1976 version, but I did see Peter Jackson’s 2005 version. I do not recall if the treatment of non-white people by the camera in the film resembled that of the 1933 version, but I do remember feeling enormously uncomfortable with what I was seeing. Obviously, the images of the original had taken affect, resonating in the remake made in the past few years.
I think that this shows King Kong is significant in looking at approaches to the other through cinema, I think that is representative of many films of the time and how depicting otherness was further developed in films of the future.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Berlin, Symphony of a Great City
Like most of us, my view of films, not matter how seemingly sure, can be altered dramatically when I read about them. My focus, when watching Berlin, Symphony of a Great City, seemed very sturdy, that was until I read that the film was not the product of predominantly one creator, but rather was the product of three: an idea conceived by Carl Mayer, a candidly filmed record of the city by Karl Freund, edited by Walter Ruttmann.
Originally, I was absorbed by the occupation of space on screen: what shapes were depicted, how they were juxtaposed, how movement of these shapes on screen made an impression. However, my focus changed when I read that the film had been filmed and edited by two separate people, I then thought of the film as Ruttmann's creation, and the arrangement seemed much more pivotal than what was recorded. Berlin, Symphony of a Great City is a great example of how much of an influence editing has upon footage. Ruttmann has taken Freund's interpretation of the city and created something entirely new from it, to be, I speculate, its form as a symphony.
The film does not document the view of Berlin alone, but rather provides the audience with a series of moods, much like a symphony – even instrumental music has the ability to lift or dampen the state of the listener's mind, and the symphony, I imagine (I know very little about the conventions of music) gives the listener the experience a full range of emotions. I think that Berlin, Symphony of a City functions similarly to a piece of music: without narrative, the viewer's feelings shift from one sentiment to another.
Although music can change mood independently (without film), music in the film acts as just one element, rather than acting as the primary emotive force. By this, I mean that music can be manipulated to make the audience feel something that the original composer hadn't imagined. When the filmmaker arranges their film to music, the images seen by the audience will often change the meaning of the music. To use an outside example, "Singing in the Rain" meant something entirely new to audiences of A Clockwork Orange. In Berlin, Symphony of a Great City, music adds meaning to the image, but in film the images also give meaning to the score.
Music is not the only element of the film's “arrangement”. The arrangement of film, the edited product, or the montage, is the new meaning given in the presence of music. The film's images do not affect sentiment alone: montage was a technique created in propaganda films, and could be seen as quite manipulative, but is undoubtedly something that makes film into an art. Montage in this film is used to draw comparison between human, machine and animal, all three contrasted with each other.
Because of this technique, the film's effect is both emotive and intellectual, a series of ideas suggested to the audience. The presence of shapes and lines on screen are given meaning when contrasted by images to follow or be followed by, and is not simply the visual effect of occupation of space on screen.
Considering the film further, this space within the film, early on, is dominated by technology, architecture and waste, without any evidence of human life, is a bit like the film itself: for as many hands that were involved in its making, all we see is the product of incredible technology.
Originally, I was absorbed by the occupation of space on screen: what shapes were depicted, how they were juxtaposed, how movement of these shapes on screen made an impression. However, my focus changed when I read that the film had been filmed and edited by two separate people, I then thought of the film as Ruttmann's creation, and the arrangement seemed much more pivotal than what was recorded. Berlin, Symphony of a Great City is a great example of how much of an influence editing has upon footage. Ruttmann has taken Freund's interpretation of the city and created something entirely new from it, to be, I speculate, its form as a symphony.
The film does not document the view of Berlin alone, but rather provides the audience with a series of moods, much like a symphony – even instrumental music has the ability to lift or dampen the state of the listener's mind, and the symphony, I imagine (I know very little about the conventions of music) gives the listener the experience a full range of emotions. I think that Berlin, Symphony of a City functions similarly to a piece of music: without narrative, the viewer's feelings shift from one sentiment to another.
Although music can change mood independently (without film), music in the film acts as just one element, rather than acting as the primary emotive force. By this, I mean that music can be manipulated to make the audience feel something that the original composer hadn't imagined. When the filmmaker arranges their film to music, the images seen by the audience will often change the meaning of the music. To use an outside example, "Singing in the Rain" meant something entirely new to audiences of A Clockwork Orange. In Berlin, Symphony of a Great City, music adds meaning to the image, but in film the images also give meaning to the score.
Music is not the only element of the film's “arrangement”. The arrangement of film, the edited product, or the montage, is the new meaning given in the presence of music. The film's images do not affect sentiment alone: montage was a technique created in propaganda films, and could be seen as quite manipulative, but is undoubtedly something that makes film into an art. Montage in this film is used to draw comparison between human, machine and animal, all three contrasted with each other.
Because of this technique, the film's effect is both emotive and intellectual, a series of ideas suggested to the audience. The presence of shapes and lines on screen are given meaning when contrasted by images to follow or be followed by, and is not simply the visual effect of occupation of space on screen.
Considering the film further, this space within the film, early on, is dominated by technology, architecture and waste, without any evidence of human life, is a bit like the film itself: for as many hands that were involved in its making, all we see is the product of incredible technology.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Le Sang d'un Poete
To be colloquial, I am a sucker for avant-garde films. I think they’re very exciting. I know little about the concepts behind this realm of cinema (surrealism and the avant-garde), but I love, very intensely, its aesthetics. It is definitely the way these films look that draws me in so much. Perhaps excitement is an understatement. Every time I see even a tiny little bit of a film of this period I feel like I've been witnessing something quite precious. I feel that there is a barrier between film and myself, the viewer, so precious is an apt word, but not in the sense that I would want this film to stay safely on display, I think what I’d much rather do is wrestle with it to the ground, just to break this barrier, and feel that I grasp it.
While watching the screening, I came to wonder, am I enamoured by Cocteau’s film for the wrong reasons? My love of the look of the film is, in part, to do with its antiquity. I love the film as a film of its period, and I appreciate as something which would not appear from our contemporary times. Once I have learnt more comprehensively about the film’s context and meaning, I’m sure I will appreciate it further, but I can’t help but wonder if I will ever see the film in its intended light.
We, the film’s audience on Friday – like its audiences in most contemporary contexts – have an understanding of film that has been shaped by the viewing of many hundreds of films from many different decades. Our expectations for how a film should be are firmly cemented, arguably from quite a young age. Audiences who would have been the first to see Le Sang d'un Poete would not have such extensive film history stored in their minds. What would they have seen, in contrast to us, who have watched the films to follow Le Sang d'un Poete, and to have potentially drawn from it?
For those were involved in the surrealist movement, film was something exciting – a relatively new medium. Contemporary avant-garde films, however, have a long history of film to defy: their filmmakers do not intend on creating an equal level of comfort experienced in conventional cinema, they do not use conventional cinematic language – we do not glide through the narrative by seamless editing or comfortably short takes. The discomfort created sets the film apart from conventional cinema, and perhaps allows meaning to be presented without manipulating the audience, instead, forcing them into a state of contemplation. Having been so exposed to film means that contemporary experimental filmmakers must do exactly that – experiment – to affect their audience. Cocteau’s film is experimental in its ideas and its aesthetic, but how does it fare as a piece of avant-garde cinema? Or rather, should I be asking, how do we fare as an audience to an avant-garde film…
In contemplating all this, I wonder if wanting to wrestle with Le Sang d'un Poete, to break it down and manhandle it, just in order to break the barrier and understand it more fully, is the experience of only the contemporary viewer – if only there were someone to ask.
While watching the screening, I came to wonder, am I enamoured by Cocteau’s film for the wrong reasons? My love of the look of the film is, in part, to do with its antiquity. I love the film as a film of its period, and I appreciate as something which would not appear from our contemporary times. Once I have learnt more comprehensively about the film’s context and meaning, I’m sure I will appreciate it further, but I can’t help but wonder if I will ever see the film in its intended light.
We, the film’s audience on Friday – like its audiences in most contemporary contexts – have an understanding of film that has been shaped by the viewing of many hundreds of films from many different decades. Our expectations for how a film should be are firmly cemented, arguably from quite a young age. Audiences who would have been the first to see Le Sang d'un Poete would not have such extensive film history stored in their minds. What would they have seen, in contrast to us, who have watched the films to follow Le Sang d'un Poete, and to have potentially drawn from it?
For those were involved in the surrealist movement, film was something exciting – a relatively new medium. Contemporary avant-garde films, however, have a long history of film to defy: their filmmakers do not intend on creating an equal level of comfort experienced in conventional cinema, they do not use conventional cinematic language – we do not glide through the narrative by seamless editing or comfortably short takes. The discomfort created sets the film apart from conventional cinema, and perhaps allows meaning to be presented without manipulating the audience, instead, forcing them into a state of contemplation. Having been so exposed to film means that contemporary experimental filmmakers must do exactly that – experiment – to affect their audience. Cocteau’s film is experimental in its ideas and its aesthetic, but how does it fare as a piece of avant-garde cinema? Or rather, should I be asking, how do we fare as an audience to an avant-garde film…
In contemplating all this, I wonder if wanting to wrestle with Le Sang d'un Poete, to break it down and manhandle it, just in order to break the barrier and understand it more fully, is the experience of only the contemporary viewer – if only there were someone to ask.
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