The Purpose of Story and Discourse

          Just as with language, film has its own rules, conventions and codes. The following and breaking of these particular conventions subtly convey messages about what the filmmaker is trying to express. Whether it is the close up, the juxtaposition of music with visuals or the editing between cuts, each decision says something about the purpose of the film, as well as the film as an entity in and of itself. Many film critics and theorists explain and argue the meaning of these conventions, and what each piece of the cinematography brings to the film as a whole. In his article, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” Walter Benjamin speaks about cinema as a political medium, stating that a film cannot be separated from its political roots. Both Triumph of the Will (1935) and Reassemblage (1

983) support Benjamin’s claim, but in very different ways; while in Triumph, director Leni Riefenstahlsticks to conventions in shot choice, sound and editing, the director of Reassemblage, T Minh-ha Trinh purposefully challenges the codes of cinema. In the end, both films are political

 and controversial in nature, but express their standpoints in different ways.

            Triumph of the Will, commissioned by the German government in order to increase German participation in the Nazi party and furthered the exaltation of Adolf Hitler. Due to the straightforward, propaganda-orientated purpose of the film, Riefenstahlsticks employs typical shot-reverse shots, close ups, highlighting music and continuity editing. Her purpose is to convince people to join, what she is trying to prove, is the right, popular party, and therefore will use everything in her power to force the cinematic qualities to reflect the purpose. In other words, she uses normal, universally accepted techniques in order to convey the message. During a parade in the film, Riefenstahlsticks uses the overjoyed, massive crowd in wide angles to show the happiness and respect of Germany for its leader, Hitler. She often employs individual shots of children, soldiers and women in the crowd, only to pair with an exalted sho

t of Hitler riding through the streets. This standard continuity editing shows the individualistic devotion within the crowd.  In addition, the movement of the music that lays as a background to much of the film firmly reflects her purpose: the music often is a crescendo and swells when Hitler is shown in a position of leadership and hope. Benjamin says: “With regard to the screen, the critical and the receptive attitudes of the public coincide. The decisive reason for this is that individual reactions are predetermined by the mass audience response they are about to produce…” (Benjamin, 679). The idea of the mass, and basic understanding, is exactly what Riefenstahlsticks panders to. Behind her decisions lays the idea that if she can show the acceptance of the masses, she can convert the ideas of the individual, and in order to do so, she must force her discourse to be hidden but also to subconsciously reflect the story

            

Reassemblage is a completely different story. The discourse is not hidden and smooth, but rather jarring and rather distracting. The film explores the lives and roles of Senegalese villagers, with a special focus on women, in such a way that refutes the typical documentary feel that Triumph exemplifies. Reassemblage isolates itself from other journalistic documentaries early, opening with a black screen with confused music and voices, and then suddenly cutting to an image accompanied by silence. The editing is disjunctive, the narrative sporadic and not necessarily reflective of the image being shown, the music and sound an uncanny and inexplicable combination of silence and ethnic beats. However, all together, it is eloquent and powerful. In his article, Benjamin says that because of the reproduction of art, we as a human race have learned to read mediums, such as film, as a language, and therefore can experience it and understand it in a distracted state. Like many of today’s most creative filmmakers, T Minh-ha Trinh experiments with filmmaking in such a way that forces the audience’s attention to be on the film – watching alone is not enough, you have to listen closely, and vice versa. She is able to break the mold of ethnographic documentation because she makes discourse just as part of the film as story.

            Both Triumph and Reassemblage tell its audiences about the nature of the film with its handling of story and discourse. By abiding to typical cinematic codes and conventions, Riefenstahlsticks appeals her argument to the masses in an understandable and relatable way, while T Minh-ha Trinh ignores the ‘normalcy’ of cinema and creates a documentary that redefines an entire genre. But both filmmakers are correct – Riefenstahlsticks wants to universalize, while T Minh-ha wants to individualize and specify the Senegalese citizens that have been generalized through processes like those used in Triumph. Both filmmakers arrange the story and such a way as to reflect the purpose of their reflective films.

The Dangers of Genre

         In his article, “Questions of Genre,” Steve Neal discusses the genesis of genres: what distinguishes one genre from another and the role of verisimilitude in identifying different aspects of genres. These probabilities that occur within each genre make it more familiar, helping the audience draw conclusions about the film. For example, if a picture is classified as a musical, the audience will not be completely freaked out when every single character simultaneously breaks out into song and also happens to be a professionally trained dancer. If one were watching a movie classified as film noir and this occurred, the audience would have no idea what to make of it, and it would seem out of place. Because the audience would already be aware of the musical classification, the story being told in song will be normal and expected.

            In classifying genre, the media and the studios are outlining a narrative image, a description of what to expect. These expectations are as much attributed to plot as they are to moral messages influenced by the time in which the movie is set: Western films reflect patriotic, good-natured hope; film noir expresses the untrustworthiness and pessimism felt in the forties and fifties While in some ways, genres help the industry, attracting viewers who are drawn to different messages and experiences to specific pictures, there are many dangers to classifying movies in such cut-and-dry terms. By forcing every film into a specific genre, it leaves the chance of leaving viewers disappointed, even shocked, at the film’s end. For example, Georgia Rule (2007) was advertized as a comedy-drama, and often, simply a comedy. With a cast including Jane Fonda, Felicity Huffman and Lindsay Lohan, the film attracted a certain audience expecting to see a light, humorous movie. However, the majority of the film is very serious, dealing with issues such as child abuse and drugs, thus leaving the viewers confused about the original intent of seeing the movie. Is it a comedy? Is it a drama? Is it both? What implications do each of these brands have upon the type of audiences the films will pull? Many films, in fact, use this debate on genre ironically, ultimately laughing in the faces of the people who try and classify them.

            The film Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005) spans a wide spectrum of genres. It is a comedy, a film noir, a drama, a mystery, a black comedy, a satire, an almost anything. What do we do with this type of film? What was Shane Black trying to convey with the release of this parody? The plot, as well as the inspiration for the film, (a pulp novel by Brett Halliday called “Bodies Are Where You Find Them”), pull many thematic, dramatic and iconographic components from the film noir legacy. As discussed in Schrader and Neal’s articles, the disillusionment that followed the war was a prime inspiration for this dark, pessimistic genre.

Lighting, music and certain icons are the key to film noir, and Black plays upon each of these components in order to replicate a new spin on this genre. The contrast of black and white, as well as the use of shadows created suspicion and paranoia in the narrative space of a noir film. While Kiss Kiss is filmed in color, many scences implement the use of shadows and the images seem almost black in white. When Perry (Val Kilmer) and Harry (Robert Downey, Jr.) shoot the guard outside of the mental hospital, the scene is quite dark and almost appears as if it is filmed in black and white. Later, in the chase scene, the streets are smoggy and dark, resembling a film such as Out of The Past or any hard-boiled detective story.

In fact, much of the movie seems to reflect the pessimism of the film noir genre; from the impromptu detective striving to find justice, to the quick, witty, monotonous dialogues, right down to the romance between the unlikely detective and the femme fatale. However, the entire film is tainted by Harry’s comedic narration and the overly nostalgic jazz music that scream satire. Black uses icons of the noir era, (such as dramatically placed cigarettes), and flips them in such a way that you know that he is making fun of the genre, and maybe genres in general.  In addition, Black completely changes the pessimistic noir ending, replacing it with a happy, Hollywood ending; he allows the characters to find justice, creates a surviving love connection between Harry and Harmony (Michelle Monaghan), has an ironic death toll of sixteen (which perfectly coincides with the pulp novel plot line) and even brings Perry back to life (which he criticizes by having Harry snidely remark on the classic Hollywood happily ever after).

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang is brings to light the dangers of shutting movies into corners; Black shows us a film that cannot possibly be characterized, and therefore escapes the scope of categorization. In the end, the film appeals to more audiences because it cannot be contained within just one genre, but instead a multitude of them.  As Neale points out, the only way to solve the problems of genre is to treat it as a process, viewing a genre not as a fixed entity, but instead a malleable subject that can, and is, constantly changed by outside influences such as media, social relations and history.

 

      In Chapter 5 as Film as Social Practice IV, Graeme Turner discusses the importance of film audiences and how they form perceptions of characters and narratives. The classic 199

0 film Pretty Woman (Garry Marshall) encompasses many of the themes that Turner, as well as film critic Laura Mulvey, speaks about in their prospective pieces.

      One of the first aspects of an audience’s connection to a film that Turner speaks about is the actual casting – who is in what role and what does their persona outside the film indicate about the character they are playing? Is the hero a tough, gun-holding type? Is he witty and erratic? Is the heroine a sex symbol, or seen as a type of girl-next-door by viewers? These are all questions that a casting agent has to think about. Turner points out: “If we cast Brad Pitt, we do not have to persuade the audience that the character is attractive to women; if we cast Woody Allen, we might have to demonstrate that.” Pretty Woman boasts a leading cast of Richard Gere as Edward Lewis, a wealthy workaholic and Julia Roberts as Vivian Ward, a quirky, beautiful prostitute. In the context of American cinema, we can almost presume before the first shot what will unfold; the public views Gere as a sophisticated, and, to some, sexy male figure while Roberts is beautiful, funny and America’s Sweetheart. Casting Roberts as a trashy prostitute only hastens the plot – as a spectator, we are simply “waiting for her inevitable emergence as an object of romantic desire.” (Turner). We know that, inevitably, Gere will fall head-over-heels in love with Roberts, just as viewers across America have through her previous films and off-camera charisma. Before we even set foot in the theatre, we are rooting for the seemingly unlikely love affair that will ultimately bloom between Edward and his escort, Vivian.

       That said, it is possible that my view of the situation is severely skewed since I was born a mere two months before the movie’s premiere. My evaluation of the stars, even taking into account the specific movies that had been released before this film (Mystic Pizza and Steel Magnolia’s for Roberts and An Officer and a Gentleman and American Gigolo for Gere). Turner also speaks about this phenomenon; since the persona of a star off-set influences the way a spectator views a character s/he is playing, it is also true that the future works and paparazzi-recorded events influence how the film is perceived. Turner, while talking about Jennifer Lopez’s role in Out of Sight (1998), says: “her characterization…was free of many of the contextual complications that would now be available to those who watch it on TV.” I cannot fully judge how audiences in 1990 who flocked to the theaters viewed the stars of the film. For example, Richard Gere, for me, does not represent a hunky actor in the same way that Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp would because of generational differences. However, 19 years ago, and deducing from what types of movies and roles he played before Pretty Woman, I can deduce that to many women, he would be the attractive, sexy actor in the film. Time, in particular the continuing careers and fan infatuation with stars’ personal lives, changes the perspective of audiences years after the initial release of a film.

Throughout the film, director Garry Marshall uses Julia Roberts’ body as the drawing factor in a frame. In fact, our very first shot of her is her behind while she is sleeping, and Marshall slowly and seductively reveals the rest of her body to the audience, drawing them in. In Laura Mulvey’s article, Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema, she explains that the female form is the dominant viewpoint that often drives a picture – films are made for the, as she calls it, the ‘male gaze.’ In her days as a prostitute on the street, Roberts is often shown in a long shot, showing her entire body, complete with scant clothes, to intrigue the audience. Furthermore, Mulvey says, the male lead in the picture, the one driving the sexual plot, represents the gaze of the audience: “As the spectator identifies with the main male protagonist, he projects his look on to that of his like, his screen surrogate, so that the power of the male protagonist as he controls events coincides with the active power of the erotic look, both giving a satisfying sense of omnipotence.” When Roberts and Gere first meet, we identify with his gaze, with his actions. As they begin to talk, we are in the car with Edward, looking at Vivian’s bare back through the window. The camera finds angles and zooms that expose the female form. Later in the movie, as we watch Roberts’ transformation from hooker to lady, the film exemplifies another of Mulvey’s points: “The determining male gaze projects its phantasy on to the female figure which is styled accordingly.” Vivian is literally transformed, and it is Edward who controls how she looks, what she wears, how she acts, etc. The classic scene in which Roberts emerges in a long red evening gown, we see Gere bestow a necklace upon her and literally circle her, taking in her form and beauty. In essence, this is the male fantasy: to create one’s own ideal woman. Marshall uses Roberts’ body as the display the female figure, drawing in the “male gaze” that assists in driving the plot.

            Pretty Woman uses casting and the female form to drive its plot and capture audiences. We, as an audience, assume the eventual transformation of Roberts from a prostitute to a lady of class in part because we see her as ‘America’s Sweetheart’ rather than a true sex symbol. While both the lead actor’s lives may have changed connotations in the past 19 years, their reputations still draw this type of reaction from an audience watching the film on DVD or TV. Furthermore, Marshall employs Mulvey’s ‘male gaze’ by using Roberts’ body as a drawing factor for the film. I believe Pretty Woman has remained a classic film in American culture because of its stars, their prevalence to popular culture and the desire the film provokes, whether consciously or subconsciously, from its audience.

 

 

Suspicion

In the film “Suspicion,” Alfred Hitchcock creates narrative meaning through shot combinations and expressive narrative space. “Suspicion” (1941) tells the story of a proper British woman, Lina, (Joan Fontaine) and a charming, smooth man named Johnnie (Cary Grant) who fall in love and get married. It isn’t until they return from the honeymoon, however, that Lina begins to uncover the deceitful, gambling character of her new husband, and slowly becomes more and more suspicious of him until she is convinced that he plans to kill her in order to collect insurance. Throughout the film, Hitchcock uses different techniques in order to force the viewer to feel the doubt that plagues Lina’s psyche. The setting of the movie, especially the indoor scenes, is filled with heavy shadows and darkness. In addition, the frequent switching of shots between Lina and Johnnie throughout the movie allows the audience to draw connections between the significance and moods of the characters. Hitchcock creates a symbolic narrative space that helps represent the tone of the film.

In “Narrative Space,” Stephen Heath speaks about the evolution of narrative space in cinema. Originally, the purpose of film, and therefore the narrative space, was to mirror reality: “the space of film is the space of reality; film’s ambition and triumph is to ‘reproduce life.’” However, as the industry progressed, movies tended to have more symbolism and opinions, and therefore the space in the film became an opportunity for movement and significance, rather than just a backdrop. Throughout “Suspicion” light and darkness play a key role in conveying the doubt and mistrust that increasingly obstructs Lina throughout the film. The very first scene of the movie, (on the train), begins in complete darkness that foreshadows the rest of the film. Later, after Lina learns about Johnnie’s lies and gambling, her world becomes more and more cluttered by doubt. Hitchcock shows her home, which should be a place of light and comfort, as a cold, open building filled with darkness and shadows. Finally, the most telling in regards to the narrative space, at the height of Lina’s suspicion, Hitchcock composes a shot of pitch black and aims the camera on the floor, allowing a narrow pool of light to spill in and showing only the threatening, ominous shadow of Johnnie, and proceeds to follow him in dark, demonic lighting walking up the stairs to give his wife a glass of milk. The narrative space becomes like a character in the film: evolving as the plot progresses and reflective of the tones Hitchcock wishes to portray. It is the well-calculated composition of this setting that draws the audience in, forcing them to feel the doubt that envelops Linda’s character.

Another way that Hitchcock brings to life the narrative meaning of “Suspicion” is through the constant shot-reverse-shot he uses to portray Lina and Johnnie’s relationship. In these short, clipped shots, it is not necessarily the dialogue (if there is any) that is important, but rather the out of frame gazes that tell the story. It is the audience’s interpretation, namely how they connect the shots, that also creates a feeling suspicion in the film.  When Lina and Johnnie are on better terms, especially at the beginning of the film, the shots often contain both characters, and the gazes are loving, usually at each other. However, once the doubt begins to settle, the shots become choppier and tighter on Lina and Johnnie’s faces. In the scene in which Johnnie returns from his trip and Lina is sure that he has murdered his childhood friend, the two characters sit next to each other, but the camera does not really show them as such. Instead, as the conversation progresses, the camera switches back and forth between their faces, Johnnie’s reflecting his supposed nervousness and Lina’s showing her horror, both of them looking into space rather than each other. As an audience, we know they are not looking at each other, and the the shallow composition and rapid movement between the two characters that expresses the tension in the scene. It is often the connection of the shots that gives the emotions of the film power and narrative meaning.

Without significant narrative space and careful cinematography, “Suspicion” would struggle to express the narrative meaning it is able to successfully reveal. The audience, while probably engrossed in the plot, would not feel the tension and anxiousness that Hitchcock brings to the scene through tight, reversing camera movements and carefully constructed narrative space. It is the audience’s interpretation of the vigilantly assembled visuals that creates the doubt and wariness that make “Suspicion” successful. 

Fight Club

            In his article, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” Walter Benjamin speaks about capturing the aura of an object. He defines this term as, “the unique appearance of a distance,” saying that this aura can be destroyed and contorted by reproducing the object.  In “Fight Club,” director David Fincher uses the visual and audio components of film to challenge and explode not only the aura of the actors and the scenes, but also the audience’s preconception of reality and perception. Throughout the film, the movement and focus of the camera, as well as the emphasis on various sounds, create a reality for the viewer that is synonymous with Ed Norton’s character; we discover what he discovers when he discovers it, we know what is most important to him because it is the most dominant picture or sound that we, too, are experiencing. In some ways, one could argue that the relationship between Ed Norton and Brad Pitt is similar to the audience’s relationship with Norton: we know what he knows as he discovers it. Film presents a reality to the audience by providing them with ears and eyes, and then often, as is the case in Fight Club, systematically deconstructs that reality until we can no longer trust our own perception.

            From the very first frame of the movie, Fincher urges his audience to view the world with heightened observation. Multiple times throughout the film, the camera explores places that overlooked due to smallness or dullness, and explodes the object, roaming in and out every crevice and making the audience aware of the uniqueness of such a seemingly ordinary space. For example, when the camera delves into the trash bin as Norton’s voiceover talks about space travel, the trash looks like satellites in orbit and the space is maximized, transforming it into something interesting and worth exploring. Benjamin speaks of this practice saying, “By close-ups of the things around us, by focusing on hidden details of familiar objects…the film...our comprehension of the necessities which rule our lives.” Film has the ability to expand the way we as viewers view our day-to-day lives. It calls to our attention the most ordinary of objects and makes them interesting, steering us clear of the obvious and forcing us to take a closer look at the physical object, and, therefore, our interpretation of that object as a concept.

            Since the lens acts as the viewer’s eyes, it determines his or her perception of reality. In order to lead us to one conclusion or another, the camera controls what exactly we see and, therefore, what we initially understand. Not only does the camera reproduce the aura of the actors and objects in the frame, but it determines on what we focus using shot composition, camera movement and depth of field. Each image has an emotion or information attached to it that is determined by, among other things, what is in the shot, the lighting, the focus, the movement of the camera and the way everything is arranged. In our own lives, we choose what our own eyes focus on and what information is important in regards to what we are seeing. In film, the director decides what he wants us to see and when he wants us to see it. For example, when Marla, (Helena Bonham Carter), calls Norton to tell him of her attempted suicide, the pills are in the shot when she is speaking. However, it is only while she verbally tells him of the pills that the camera focuses away from her and becomes shallower, making the mostly empty bottle the focal point of the screen. Film allows a certain control of the flow of information because it controls our eyes and ears, and therefore our sense of reality.

            The mood of the characters or a scene is determined by camera movement, as well as by the audio components that go along with the visual aspect. Throughout Fight Club, the way the camera moves and the speed at which it does so reflects the attitude of Norton’s character, while the most dominant sounds indicate what affects him the most. For example, when Norton begins attending support groups, the slower, sweeping movement of the camera reflects his contentment. However, as soon as Marla appears, the camera becomes jerkier and moves quicker, reflecting Norton’s annoyance and anger. Another example of the portrayal of emotions is through sound. After Pitt and Norton start the fight club, we follow Norton to work and see how his perspective has changed. Whereas before, when the boss entered the room, the sound of his voice was central, periodically dotted with Norton’s voiceover, now his voice is muted and distorted, completely in the background of Norton’s own thoughts. It is clear, because of this sound, that his job and his old life are no longer priorities. Throughout the film, we feel what Norton feels not solely because of his monotonous narration, but because of what we see and hear.

            When we visit the theatre, we are surrendering our own senses in exchange for the camera and the microphones. Our reality no longer matters, and all that is important is what the director shows us. We accept what the camera sees as truth and reality, even though, since it is a reproduction of what actually is being shown, we should challenge this largely slanted viewpoint. David Fincher shows us that our reality can be, and often is, so far off from the actual reality, and that the distortion is all in our perception. After finishing Fight Club, it’s almost impossible not to start all over and look for the hidden clues that you feel you must have missed. However, it is only because we are so surrendered to the film what we are so easily duped; the clues are there, but we aren’t suspicious of every frame until Fincher forces us to be. Film forces us to analyze our lives more thoroughly and realize that there is often a vast difference between perception and reality.