Category: Film

In a society as fast-paced and demanding as ours, it’s no wonder that, given the opportunity to rewind, the average person would opt for a film pre-packaged with all those qualities the viewer knows will suffice to fulfill their expectations without demanding much “mental exertion” on their part: archetypal characters, traditional narrative structures, impressive special effects, maybe a few laughs. A good story, a good time. One might have read a good novel instead and been subjected to the same gist of artistic treatment, but the movie has the added bonus of passive viewing—compared to the arduous demand of reading—within a radically condensed span of time (roughly two hours or so). Indeed, there is a reason Aristotle’s Poetics has become standardized reading for many an aspiring filmmaker: today, cinema has become the equivalent of the “condensed visual novel.”

This is a gross underuse of a medium that, as we shall see, can offer us so much more.

To begin with, any art is most compelling (that is, most likely to emotionally impact the receiver of the art) if it prioritizes those potentialities that are unique to the particular form. In other words, if these potentialities are what come to the forefront in the artistic expression, insofar as they are the principal driving mechanisms by which the artist aims to achieve their goal(s).

This is the presupposition that drives the cinematic theories of avant-garde filmmakers Jean Epstein (1897-1953) and Germaine Dulac (1882-1942), both of whom are invaluable resources in the search for an “essence of cinema.”

That both of these theorists are avant-garde is key, because, as Dulac teaches us, the avant-garde filmmaker is characterized by their “in tune-ness” with this so-called “essence of cinema” in their work–a cinematic approach that dawned after all previous major forms (realism, narrative, psychological realism) had been exhausted. Dulac stresses the importance of the avant-garde scene, for the continued evolution of the cinema form is dependent upon its ongoing survival.

This may seem as if Dulac is interested in cinema’s evolution in and of itself—that is, for the hackneyed postmodern “art for art’s sake” case—but one mustn’t be fooled by the formal intellectualization of her language. Beneath all the technicalities, the reader senses an authentic desire to affect the viewer through a kind of crystallized beauty, which, in film, for Dulac can only be accomplished through the formation of a “visual poem made up of life instincts, playing with matter and the imponderable. A symphonic poem, where emotion bursts forth not in facts, not in actions, but in visual sonorities” (655). Such impassioned—almost sentimental—statements prove Dulac is completely on board with Epstein’s search for a cinema that “arouses an aesthetic emotion, a sense of infallible wonderment and pleasure” (257).

For both theorists, said search is characterized by the filmmaker’s quest to pierce through that elusive, truth-veiling something, which both of them term “the imponderable.” But what is the imponderable? The filmmaker is aspiring to unveil the truth about what?

This is a question that is not particular to the cinematic form and whose answer is virtually the same for all modes of artistic expression: truth about the nature of reality itself. This has been the role assigned to the artist since time immemorial, dating back to the tragedy plays of the Classical era. Even today, the cinema-goer is most contented when they can confidently say about a film that it “told it how it is” (with the bonus fantastical embellishments here and there, of course).

Following the premises of Dulac and Epstein, the question then becomes, “How is the filmmaker uniquely positioned to approach this task, and what are the artistic utilities at his or her disposal?” To the first question, both theorists would answer the same way: that the filmmaker is uniquely positioned insofar as they deal with—by the very nature of the medium—visual movement. This answer consequently explains Dulac’s emphasis for rhythm as the vital technique in fulfilling the artist’s expression. After all, the visual movement exists within a “frozen” space-time continuum (a kind of filmmaker’s “canvas”), and it is only by deriving a contrived cadence from this canvas that the filmmaker achieves personal expression; in other words, the filmmaker concerns themselves with the manipulation of time in order to achieve their creative expression.

Although Epstein’s “Photogénie and the Imponderable” (1935) is far less specific than Dulac’s “The Avant-Garde Filmmaker” in answering the second question, his text nevertheless proves to be a rich resource for a better understanding of this “filmmaker’s canvas,” this “frozen space-time continuum,” especially as it pertains to the viewer’s emotional needs—needs which, by the way, the viewer may be unaware of possessing. We may arrive at these affective ramifications using “Photogénie” in a rather indirect manner.

Epstein points out man’s “physiological inability to master the notion of space-time and to escape this atemporal section of the world, which we call the present” (254). He describes this eternal “atemporal section,” this present, as “psychological time,” as it is borne out of our “egocentric [that is, automatic, subconscious] habit” (255) of accepting this flow as an absolute in our lives—which is true. Despite Einstein’s illuminating truths which characterize space-time as a malleable fabric permeating the entirety of the universe, capable of being stretched, producing myriad ebbs and flows, we on Earth experience only one of these flows and have learned to accept it as an inherent aspect of what is in fact (as Einstein shows us) a very limiting perspective of physical reality.

Here I want to take what will feel like a digression, but I assure you, it’s not (please just bear with me for a second): I want to take a moment to consider the teachings of twentieth-century German philosopher Martin Heidegger.

According to Heidegger, people tend to stay out of touch with the sheer mystery of existence, the mystery he termed “das Sein,” meaning “Being.” One of the main culprits, he notes, is the rapidity of the modern world—always keeping us on the move, overwhelming us with work and information so that we’re virtually in a state of perpetual distraction from the mystery of being, unable to step back and see the strange in the familiar, the act of which, Heidegger admits, has its downside: fear, or “angst,” may take ahold of us as we realize the primordial chaos from which we come, and are in fact constantly in. In this way, we come face to face with the meaninglessness of all things.

Epstein alludes to this “angst” in his own—and more colorful—way: “Not without some anxiety, man finds himself before that chaos which he has covered up, denied, forgotten, or thought was tamed. Cinematography apprises him of a monster” (255).

The thing is, once the initial shock has passed, what follows is a kind of out-of-body, existentialist sensation which is nonetheless therapeutic in its own way. Epstein uses the example of watching footage of oneself from long ago: though we acknowledge the ontological link, this link feels disconcertedly severed by the fact that that former self no longer lives in psychological time–that is, in the present. Consequently, this gives us the impression of a phantom-like projection of ourselves that is simultaneously there and not there. But herein lies the secret of cinema’s unique “medicinal” capabilities.

Both Epstein and Dulac wrote about the rhythmic grace emanated by time-manipulated footage. Dulac mentions the “formation of crystals,” “the bursting of a bubble,” and the “evolutions of microbes,” (656) while Epstein points out how a plant “bends its stalk and turns its leaves toward the light,” as elegant as “the horse and rider in slow motion” (254-255). It is clear that, for both of these theorists (and I am completely on board with this), the key to freeing the viewer from the mentally draining chains of “psychological time,” which is keeping us from experiencing the wonder of “das Sein,” is by showing them the fragility of their cage, accomplished through cinema by its “trappings” of space-time, by absorbing it like a bubble and freezing it to produce crystal balls through which the viewer looks into the past and realizes the obvious anew: that our time here is short, and every instant is filled with boundless grace and beauty. By playing God, the filmmaker may thus bestow the viewer their moment of affective transcendence.

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The single cinephile in my (admittedly small) social group, I have never been inclined to suggest to my friends such “lofty” films as Tarkovsky’s, Bergman’s, or Antonioni’s—all of who play with time (or call attention to the strangeness of psychological time, especially through the use of long-shots [think Steve McQueen’s heart-wrenching eighty-six-second shot of Solomon’s quasi-lynch scene from 12 Years a Slave; however, in light of this example, I will also note that the “balance” between narrative and avant-garde was not touched on in this essay—all in good time]) and have, for me, produced that aforementioned affective transcendent effect. After all, as Dulac mentions on more than one occasion, the avant-garde “does not appeal to the mere pleasure of the crowd” (653).

But perhaps the fault lies with us, who understand cinema’s greatest power. Perhaps we ought to take a cue from Dulac, who wrote and lectured widely on film aesthetics, to be less apologetic about cinema’s “purer” dimensions. After all, academic institutions deem it worthwhile of students to learn the language of literature, visual arts, and music, in order for us to not only gain appreciation for the Arts, but to derive from them momentous personal value as well.

Why shouldn’t cinema be any different? Is it because, as the Seventh Art, it is still relatively new?

Consider last year’s “top-grossing films” list. These films are not bad, nor are their narratives  utterly irrelevant (something I, and both the theorists we have discussed, would disagree on), but there’s just so much to be gained by learning the cinematic language.

And so, I’ve changed my mind—watch Bergman, like, right now!

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Below, a recommended list of more “purely cinematic” works, from which the budding cinephile may “branch” out on their own accord (in order of “difficulty,” 1 being “most challenging”):

  1. Breathless (1960), Jean-Luc Godard.
  2. The Revenant (2015), Alejandro González Iñárritu.
  3. Elephant (2003), Gus Van Sant.
  4. Come and See (1987), Elem Klimov.
  5. The Tree of Life (2011), Terrence Malick.
  6. Melancholia (2011), Lars Von Trier.
  7. Red Desert (1964), Michelangelo Antonioni.
  8. Persona (1966), Ingmar Bergman.
  9. Stalker (1979), Andrei Tarkovsky.
  10. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Stanley Kubrick.

Quotes from: Critical Visions in Film Theory: Classic and Contemporary Readings (First Ed., 2011).

During my Crisis, before watching Güeros, I watched Parks and Recreation…Like, all of it. All seven seasons. Before that, I watched the first five seasons of Futurama. Before that, Breaking Bad, Orange is the New Black, Love, and every Best Picture winner since 1939 (minus a few bad eggs, not the least of which includes 2005’s Crash—c’mon, give me some credit!).

For all my talk of the “primordial power of cinema” in my last column, I would be remiss—and indeed, quite hypocritical—in failing to acknowledge cinema’s second primary function, borne out of its alluring spectacle quality: cinema as a medium for entertainment.

Indeed, cinema has always possessed a two-fold functionality—as emotional therapy and as spectacle—which was made apparent immediately following film’s inception in the late 1890s. This dichotomy is most obvious among the two towering French pioneers of this early era: Auguste and Louis Lumière (the “Lumière” brothers) and Georges Méliès. Today, these two are widely considered to be the “founding fathers” of cinema, though their bodies of work could not be more antithetical.

For Siegfried Kracauer, one of the most prominent figures in film theory, this opposition highlights what he famously coined as the two “tendencies” of the cinema: the realistic and formative tendencies.

The realistic tendency was first exemplified through the Lumière brothers’ archival films. Their most famous work, titled Workers Leaving The Lumière Factory in Lyon, takes footage of exactly what the title suggests—within the span of a then-whopping forty-six seconds. The Lumière brothers were interested in, above all, capturing “everyday life after the manner of photographs.” In other words, the realistic tendency strives to capture (or replicate, through staging) the “nakedness” of life, in the style of, say, a documentary.

By contrast, the formative tendency aims to go beyond the replication of physical reality, which, to accomplish, requires emphasis on cinema-specific techniques (special effects). Méliès employed these techniques more adventurously and innovatively than any other filmmaker of his time. The popularization of universally known modern editing strategies such as “time-lapse photography,” “dissolves,” and “hand-painting,” among others, can all be attributed to Méliès. His legacy as the founder of cinema as a “fantastical art” continues today, where he is most recognizably referenced in allusion to his iconic, anthropomorphic moon from A Trip to the Moon.

Although it is clear that most of cinema displays an overlap between these two tendencies, Kracauer’s teachings have nevertheless continued to serve as a useful starting point for many a timid freshman entering the daunting realm of film theory for the first time. All subsequent cases for a “purpose of cinema” tend to exist within Kracauer’s rough outline of these two core functions: cinema as verisimilitude, and cinema as spectacle.

Modern audiences would tend to agree that the best works of cinema employ a harmonious balance between these two. Films on either end of the spectrum do not hold the attention of mass audiences for very long. If anything, a quick look at any recent “highest-grossing films” list within the last few years will show the People’s obvious predilection for spectacle. Films like Captain America: Civil War, Finding Dory, and Rogue One: A Star Wars Story all feature fantastical worlds narratively rooted and motivated by traditional, realist plots—realist insofar as they thematically mirror the plights of our own modern world, whether at the level of the individual, community, or, as in Civil War’s case, nations. Such films succeed in achieving both awe-inspiring and emotional satisfaction. On the flip-side, this clear predilection for spectacle means studios will blatantly abandon substance by backing up projects that rely on the spectacle element alone (Suicide Squad, Batman v. Superman, The Legend of Tarzan, etc.).

(Note: the ongoing success of this era’s Golden Age of Television indicates an audience leaning towards verisimilitude, seemingly contradicting my observations thus far. However, one must take into account the different nature of the TV show, which is fundamentally distinct from that which be accurately deemed “cinematic”—but all this for a later time.)

Although it’s safe to say that the average Columbian is more cultured than the average person, outside of film majors and cinephiles, it’s also probably safe to say that the average Columbian isn’t as well-versed in film as they are in, say, literature, art, or music. The reason for this is obvious: much of the Columbian’s expansive cultural lore can be attributed to our beloved Core Curriculum, which sadly does not include a “Film Humanities” course.

Attempting to coin a term like “Film Humanities” might seem preposterous and naïve on the outset, but such a negative reaction is unwarranted as it is probably based on one of two (or both) fallacious assumptions:

  1. Film is predominantly a “spectacle-based” art, unqualified for the kind of rich and complex analyses other arts tend to incite.
  2. Film is too young an art form and lacks the historical breadth necessary for making any substantial claims about the human condition that are worth investigating in a scholarly fashion.

To the first, we have already discussed film’s two-fold capacity for realism and spectacle, which implies that there exists a whole canon of films predominantly concerned with verisimilitude, with dealing with subject-matters relevant to the human experience. The “spectacle-based” argument illustrates a biased account of cinematic history, whereby at the turn of the millennium the Digital Age pretty much ensured that film as a “fantastical art” would be the way of the future, rendering all previous cinematic periods obsolete in the public eye.

I would also add that to reject “spectacle” point-blank as an element abolishing any degree of humanities-based discourse in an absolute sense is also erroneous, for it fails to take into account the vast and rich spectrum of variations of genre within the real and fantastical (i.e. Ontological Realism, Psychological Realism, Aesthetic Realism; see Bazin’s “The Evolution of the Language of Cinema”)—a spectrum evident in literature as well. Consider, for example, the tremendous difference, from a genre standpoint, between Homer’s The Iliad and Woolf’s To The Lighthouse, both of which are required readings for Literature Humanities.

I will counter the second point in a later column, it being deserving of its own thorough investigation.

For now, I encourage all Columbians—especially those for whom “cinema” is tantamount to “that which is relevant to the current cultural zeitgeist”—to voluntarily explore the history of cinema with the same level of seriousness with which the Core bestows the other, more “noble” arts.

To begin with, this will require a “survey of the greats,” for which I urge you to temporarily put your beloved Netflix/Hulu/Amazon Video TV show on hold and direct yourself to filmstruck.com, where you can subscribe for a two-week trial. This should be enough time to at least begin exploring the following list I have curated for you below. (And if it’s not, you can use this website to see what other platforms offer these films.) All of the following works share a “crossover” (to “artsy” films) appeal that I hope to instill in all you soon-to-be-cinephiles.

  1. The Red Balloon (1956), Albert Lamorisse.
  2. Y Tu Mamá También (2001), Alfonso Cuarón.
  3. Blue is the Warmest Color (2013), Abdellatif Kechiche.
  4. In the Mood for Love (2000), Wong Kar-wai.
  5. A Woman Under the Influence (1974), John Cassavetes.
  6. Aguirre, the Wrath of God, (1972), Werner Herzog.
  7. Three Colors: Red (1994), Krzysztof Kieślowski.
  8. The Great Beauty (2013), Paolo Sorrentino.
  9. The Spirit of the Beehive (1973),Víctor Erice.
  10. Seven Samurai (1954), Akira Kurosawa.

Enjoy.

P.S. Here is my favorite reference to Méliès, from Martin Scorsese’s Hugo (2011).

Photo from the 2014 film Güeros.

There is a moment in Alonso Ruizpalacio’s 2014 film, Güeros, that has stayed with me since my first viewing: following a confrontation with an angry neighbor, the film’s trio flees the scene by car, and Sombra, the protagonist’s older brother, lies in the backseat undergoing what is clearly meant to be an audiovisual representation of a panic attack.

The scene owes much of its haunting memorability to its experimental track. A selection of ambient sounds—an eerie screech, a low rumble, and an incessant beep—intensify in sync to Sombra’s deteriorating mental condition, blurring his vision and muting the pleading voice of his younger brother (shown above) until his whole existence is reduced to the mere sound of frantic breaths against the backdrop of perilous sonic waves, which are evidently threatening to overtake him.

The reason this scene continues to leave such a lasting impression on me is simple: I, too, suffer from anxiety, and the scene’s mise-en-scène (everything that physically appears before the camera) seamlessly blends with the avant-garde dreaminess and apprehension of the score to elicit a convincing and uniform reproduction of my mental affliction.

In fact, when I first saw this film, two years ago, I was in the midst of my own personal Crisis. This took place seconds after I realized it was mathematically impossible for me to pass one of my CS classes, and that, consequently, I would be unable to graduate from Columbia within the traditional four-year span. Suffice to say, this colossal failure (“colossal,” insofar as it was the only notable one in my life thus far) amplified my anxiety-inducing imposter syndrome to the point where I physically couldn’t leave my room; the specificities of what followed, however, are for another time.

For now, I wish to briefly ruminate on one of cinema’s most sacred, primordial powers, illustrated by the aforementioned example: its ability to instill in the viewer catharsis (Greek: “katharsis,” meaning “purification” or “cleansing”) through poignant verisimilitude, especially as it relates to life’s immanently tragic nature.

As Aristotle teaches us in his seminal work on tragedy, Poetics, this experience is marked by a profoundly satisfying purgation of “negative” emotions, especially those characterized by fear and pity. In the end—if all has gone well—the viewer reemerges with the consoling reaffirmation that, despite one’s misfortunes, they will be able to cope nonetheless; in other words, that everything will end up okay.

But, on a more primal level, why do we experience catharsis at the movies at all?

Here it is helpful to quote the German Continental philosopher, Hans-Georg Gadamer, who is best known for his 1960 work on hermeneutics, Truth and Method, in which he writes:

“What is experienced in such an excess of tragic suffering is something truly common. The spectator recognizes himself and his finiteness in the face of the power of fate…To see that ‘this is how it is’ is a kind of self-knowledge for the spectator, who emerges with new insight from the illusions he, like everyone else, lives.” (132)

The first step in reaching catharsis, “recognition,” is not to be misunderstood as something immediate, for this is the process by which the artist aims to get the viewer to empathize with the protagonist on at least some level (this implies neither likeability nor relatability—think Walter White from Breaking Bad). Neither should it be seen as “contextual” recognition: after all, who else has ever found themselves literally trapped by a boulder in a remote slot canyon in southeastern Utah (127 Hours)? The recognition, then, is a thematic one: to use the previous example, the viewer is familiar with the general feeling of being suddenly pitted against a formidable obstacle which, despite your initial off-guardedness, will come to test the limits of your resolution.

The instant of catharsis occurs when the character’s suffering reaches its crescendo because it is here that the “power of fate” is most viscerally felt. Having been emotionally “led on” by the artist, the character has become us in the abstract sense, so that their trials and tribulations are likewise our own. Hence, we too are subjected to the great emotional weight of intense suffering when the crescendo arrives. It is here that the recognition realizes its consummate form as an utterly affective phenomenon.

It is the aim of the artist to lead the viewer to this step of “affective immersion,” without which the next step is not possible: the acquisition of what Gadamer terms “self-knowledge,” or “new insight.” This is the most important stage of catharsis, for it is here that art fulfills its primordial power: the viewer can now walk away with a rejuvenating, newfound emotional clarity. All that is left is the dissection of this clarity and the study of its personal implications.

For me, after watching Güeros, this meant sitting in shock for several hours, letting the weight of time slowly crush me as I slowly accepted the terrifying reality of my situation: I was having a chronic panic attack, fueled by a feral wave of anxiety, and was caught up in a truly desperate situation which seemed to have no end in sight.

Finally, cinema’s greatest gift: the capacity to incite radical change in the viewer, for the betterment of his or her situation, or those of others.

For me to get up and say:

“Hm…Maybe it’s time I got out now.”

 

The Seventh Art is written by Juan Gomez and runs every other Sunday. To submit a comment/question or a piece of your own, email submissions@columbialion.com.