Festival de Cannes - Come and Gone

Yes, the Cannes Film Festival for 2009 has come and gone. The winners were announced last night with Michael Haneke winning the Palme d'Or for The White Ribbon, the maverick Austrian director had previously won Best Director in 2005 for Hidden and Grand Prix in 2001 for The Piano Teacher, so it doesn't come as too much of a surprise to see that he'd take out the big one this time. However, I had placed my imaginary bets on Pedro Almodovar, as he as has ostensibly declared his desire for that prize (as one does).

The Grand Prix went to Jacques Audiard's A Prophet; Best Actress to Charlotte Gainsbourg for her performance in Lars von Trier's Antichrist, and Best Actor to Christoph Waltz in Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds. For the other winners, please check out the festival's website: (http://www.festival-cannes.com/en.html).

I think it would be excruciatingly fascinating to be a fly on the wall in the room where the Official Jury arrived at these decisions - to see the criteria that they'd adopted or didn't adopt. I know there has been debate on whether these ecclesiastical awards are necessary or not? If they meant anything? And if they, at all, contribute to the building of the cinematic canon? I think these awards and the festival fuel public interest in cinema, and in particular, contemporary world cinema; the fact that the event is such an international affair and spectacle. The festival, in its selections, attempts to push the boundaries and possibilities of the medium - or well, that is what I'd expect Isabelle Huppert to do. So overall, you could say that I do feel that they are contributing to and helping mold a cinematic canon.*


*With these last few posts, I have been attempting to really define, clarify and justify my personal understanding of the 'cinematic canon'; this topic is one of great interest to me and this course with Dr Melissa Hardie has challenged some of my preconceived notions about it, however, it still seems that even though I may have new ideas and approaches to it, I still am reverting back to my old viewpoints (possibly even with greater intensity).

Are you ready for 'The Best 1,000 Movies Ever Made'?

The New York Times in 2004 published a list of movies that their film critics deemed "The Best 1,000 Movies Ever Made". Interestingly, this list coincided with the first edition of ABC's/Quintessence's 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die. Why, at the turn of the century, has there been such an ardent desire to catalogue films into these lists, and then the dissemination of them to the general public?

Check it out for yourself: http://www.nytimes.com/ref/movies/1000best.html.

What's been happening in Cinema recently?

I'm glad that there's been some debate going on about what I wrote in my first entry on the cinematic canon. The fact that for many readers, the developing 'cinematic canon' is minuscule and insignificant when compared to the literary canon, and by even having the word 'canon' in the term, it substantially devalues the 'literary' counterpart.

There was also passionate opposition to the notion of the cinematic canon being composed of, or rather being informed by, annual award ceremonies such as the competitive international film festivals (Cannes, Venice, Berlin and others) and the Academy Awards / BAFTA / Cesar etc. Indeed, I do agree that these ceremonies are flawed (I mean, how could the daft Julia Roberts in Erin Brockovich win Best Actress Oscar over Ellen Burstyn in Requiem for a Dream, or even Björk in Dancer in the Dark, whom wasn't even nominated, in 2000? [I'm sorry if there are any J.Ro lovers out there, but this one always gets me.]{And no disrespect what-so-ever to director Steven Soderbergh, whose Sex, Lies, and Videotape was an instigator for the rise of American Independent Cinema in the late '80s.}) as they are judged by an exclusive group of 'experts'; in the year in which the film was released; amidst a detrimental whirlwind of media speculation, buzz and obsession. But what I do believe is that these ceremonies (and their respective awards) capture the spirit of judging a work of art (film) from an objective and collective point of view; they record history; they tell future cinephiles what certain cinematic aesthetics/politics were valued in certain years, decades, generations, countries and cultures. Naturally, nothing can compare with the test of time, but what kind of criteria are we suppose to adopt when time is not an option at all?

Moreover, these ceremonies can do something functional which no 'literary canon' can do (unless of course, it's a modern literary canon) - they can inspire and motivate filmmakers (directors, screenwriters, actors, actresses, editors, art directors, costume designers, score composers etc) to strive for the 'best'; to adhere to the respective ceremonies' tastes and win awards, which in turn will provide the filmmaker with industry respect, recognition, and financial and artistic freedom - all of which when he or she is still alive.

I know, I know - I must come off like such a "fountainhead", but I have the utmost respect and admiration for the Oscars, Cannes, Venice and Berlin. And from watching films these 'friends' have recommended, I have been able to better develop my appreciation for cinema.

I do apologise for turning this, what was initially meant to be a loving announcement that the Cannes Film Festival for this year [13 - 24 May, 2009] has begun this week, into an anti-Julia Roberts rant.

Anyhow... so...

... yes, the festival has begun, and check out this video of the official jury, headed by Isabelle Huppert, in a media conference discussing how they will approach 'judging' the films of The Official Selection. (http://www.festival-cannes.com/en/mediaPlayer/9721.html)

Also, please have a look at this trailer for a film called Precious, directed by Lee Daniels, which was featured in the Un Certain Regard section. (http://www.traileraddict.com/trailer/precious/trailer)

And last, but not least, have a glance at this fellow-blog which proves that I'm not the only who has a 'thing' for Ms Roberts. (http://eddieonfilm.blogspot.com/2007/01/top-10-worst-best-actress-winners.html)

But before I close, I just want to express my gratitude and joy that Dancer in the Dark, by Lars von Trier, won the Palme d'Or and Björk the Prix d'interprétation féminine at Cannes in 2000. The film dissects time-honoured conventions of the musical and melodrama genres to a devastating effect, and Björk, like von Trier, who is equally loathed for her eccentricity, brings an emotional vocabulary to her performance.

A Visual Essay on a Visual Essay: Reading 'Man with a Movie Camera' as a Visual Essay on Radical Aesthetics/Politics

Since its inception, film has had two separate functions – one of documentation and one of narrative. Naturally, the two can coalesce and exist as one, if not always. But remember the first time you were given a photograph camera and couldn’t stop taking spontaneous pictures? Or when you bought a videophone and just recorded everything and anything? Though, the irony of it is that documentaries, the genre of film aimed at documenting ‘real’ subjects, are often full of narratives, and this transparent narrativising of ‘real life’ is sometimes necessary for viewers to comprehend the subject matter. Similarly, narrative films are not composed entirely of artifice nor of fiction that escapes all senses of realism – there includes an aspect of documentation. The act of narrativising can be considered an innate human instinct. So therefore, it is very challenging to watch a film that vehemently subscribes to document without the added narrative.

In the prologue of Man with a Movie Camera (Chelovek s kino-apparatom) (1929), the ‘author-supervisor’ Dziga Vertov advises audiences that his film is “an experiment in cinematic communication of real events without the aid of intertitles, without the aid of scenario/story, without the aid of theatre. This work aims at creating a truly international language of cinema based on its absolute separation from the language of theatre and literature.” Vertov provides a more elaborate annotation of these intentions in Kino-Eye, in the section ‘WE: Variant of a Manifesto’ as he proclaims that “the old films, based on the romance, theatrical films and the like, [are] leprous.” Vertov explains that this is because these films involve ‘Synthesis’, “the mixing of the arts,” and such “should come at the summit of each art’s achievement and not before.” Vertov goes on to declare that he wants to search for film’s own material, meter, and rhythm; indeed, such intentions for the development of the medium’s technical capabilities are very virtuous and admirable. However, the question that now remains is ‘Does he succeed in creating this new language?’ and, if so, ‘Is it worth the trade-off of narrative?’
Yes, Vertov does succeed and it is very much worth the trade-off. Man with a Movie Camera can be considered seminal and pioneering by all means; the camera ‘techniques’, ‘experiments’ and ‘exercises’ that Vertov uses are remarkable because of their spontaneous, natural mise-en-scène and also their contribution to the language of cinema. One example is the fast-forwarded moving clouds (a denotation for the passage of time) which is now a cinematic technique/motif/convention used prominently by modern filmmakers, most notably Gus Van Sant and Sofia Coppola. The experimental camera angles, shots, and edits (split screen, jump cuts, superimposition, juxtaposition, slow and fast motion) have created images that possess a poetic, ‘natural’ mise-en-scène reminiscent of photographs – revealing how this non-narrative film can be read as a series of moving photographs.
At the time of its release in 1929, these radical and progressive images must have bedazzled viewers as they transformed everyday public icons and figures such as building fronts, streets, crowds, and bridges into sublime, alien abstract spectacles. For example, seeing the bridge from a nether point of view; though, this image mightn’t be foreign to certain audience members who happen to pass the infrastructure daily. Equally, the film must have surprised viewers by providing the private world in an unpolished light for public spectacle – examples include the woman washing, dressing, cleaning and even giving birth. Moreover, we also get to see the bourgeoning industrial world in action as Vertov catalogues the rapid developments of the modernity period; again, such would have been alien to audience members had they not worked in those industries. Vertov also attempts to capture society in all its varying facets yet also primarily focusing on the working class proletariat lifestyle – we are shown the bars that these people congregate in, their political offices, and religious institutions. Singularly, Vertov has challenged the aesthetic-politics of what is an appropriate film subject – the images, or rather scenes, which he captures are so evocative that within them must lie an ocean of narrative.Another issue that this film inspects is the idea of being filmed unaware versus being filmed when aware. Vertov seems to capture both the performative nature of humans when scrutinised as well as the intuitive habitual behaviours of humans when left to their own devices. These two separate notions of 'acting'/'performing'/'being' on screen tie in very closely to the film's foremost issue of documentation versus narrative. Even though narrative, in a conventional sense, has been sacrificed for the sake of broadening film aesthetics and technicalities here, there still exists in Man with a Movie Camera a sense of storytelling, of aiming to capture Moscow in the 1920s as it was; therefore, it becomes the job of these new, radical, pioneering camera techniques/tricks to imbue meaning into the images - demonstrating how every and any subject that is captured on film will have attached to it a narrative sensibility, be it intentional or unintentional.

In Celebration of Vertov: Another list of 10

In celebration of Vertov's Man with a Movie Camera, I thought I'd post up another list of ten 'important' films that affected me and made me reconsider the possibilities of the medium of cinema. I know this entry must seem very self-indulgent (and conspicuous), but I thought "why not?"

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Mike Nichols, 1966.
Klute, Alan J. Pakula, 1971.
Chinatown, Roman Polanski, 1974.
Reds, Warren Beatty, 1981.
Secrets and Lies, Mike Leigh, 1996.
Happy Together, Wong Kar Wai, 1997.
Far from Heaven, Todd Haynes, 2002.
Adaptation, Spike Jonze, 2002.
The Magdalene Sisters, Peter Mullan, 2002.
Elephant, Gus Van Sant, 2003.

In the Box: The [Re][Con][Figuration] of Rose Hobart

The thing, which stood out for me most when viewing Rose Hobart (1936), was Rose Hobart; or rather the director Joseph Cornell’s ostensible admiration and fascination of her. Like Anna May Wong in Piccadilly (1929), this film elevates its female lead to a realm of divinity, wherein she becomes a sort of sacred cinematic deity. The reason for Wong’s acclivity (in Piccadilly and in cinematic memory) is distinct; she was a Chinese-American actress working to give agency to her culturally stunted characters, meanwhile Hobart is aggrandised here for no other reason than because she can be.

Rose Hobart reflects Cornell’s obsession with Hobart, her cinematic body, gestures and identity. The film, through its intricate compilation process of finding discarded film reels and then cutting them together, alludes to the intensity of this obsession – Cornell’s fetishist desire to capture Hobart as Linda Randolph (from East of Borneo) in a certain way; to remember that screen performance as a separate entity, as being bigger than the film itself. This, of course, is very problematic as the performance essentially does not exist nor make sense without the film. How are we to appreciate Rose Hobart (as Linda) in Rose Hobart?

From the non-narrative aspect of the film through to watching her respond intently to the brief non-contextualised situations, it does feel like Hobart is being trapped in a box; ornamented.

But really, what is the point of all this Cornell? Are we supposed to marvel at Hobart’s performance in East of Borneo from this distorted excerpt? Because the Brazilian flavoured backing music does not embrace the image; it does not glamorise Hobart but rather disfigures her. Cornell maybe should’ve considered copying the style of this video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVcHbykiPSw&feature=related: a brief montage celebrating all the 68 women who have won Best Actress Oscars in 81 years. That video, like Rose Hobart, takes performances out of their original context and places them on another film reel, without the narrative but with atmospheric non-diegesis music – only this time, unlike Rose Hobart, it is conducive to the purpose of glamorisation.

Rose Hobart premiered in December 1936 at the Julian Levy Gallery. At the screening, Dali, apparently, became very agitated because Cornell had stolen the idea right out of his subconscious. Viewing this film does seem to have the effect of a dream – the way things don’t really make sense yet there is still a logical trajectory to their occurrence. The repetition of certain images, such as gestures that Hobart makes and the drop into the river, de-alienates the viewer from all the confusion of the film and emphasises a sense of familiarity and circularity; a sense that this strange nightmare will end. Ultimately though, Cornell has taken Hobart’s cinematic image and stripped it of a spine in order to reveal another element of the image. This other element is something that I still need to work out.

Even Dragon Ladies Get the Blues: The Figure of Anne May Wong in Early Hollywood Cinema

In her article ‘When Dragon Ladies Die, Do They Come Back as Butterflies?’ Cynthia W. Liu argues that Anna May Wong, as a Chinese-American actress working in the hierarchal studio system of ‘20s – ‘40s Hollywood, drew the short straw when it came to not only the roles that were offered but also the resultant cinematic legacy or memory of her and her racial heritage. Wong became a symbol of ‘Asianness’, and her vulgar, one-dimensional characters were one of only a few representations of Asian people in the media. But is it really Wong’s fault for always playing ‘dragon ladies’ and ‘butterflies’? From a viewing of Dupont’s Piccadilly (1929), I would even come to suggest that by 1929 Wong had already begun to subvert the image-making machines of a white Hollywood through her mesmerising performances, which injected so much agency into her characters. Just as Matthew Sweet writes: “Hollywood used Anna May Wong to embody every Oriental stereotype in the book. But her talent shone through.” (http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2008/feb/06/china.world)
I feel that it is a moot point in debating the negative representations of Chinese people in Piccadilly. Everyone knows that early Hollywood (and to a lesser extent contemporary Hollywood) did not come up with the most realistic or nuanced representations of minorities. It ultimately becomes the actor’s or actress’s duty to bestow what ever agency that is left into his/her character. There is something very charming and inviting, yet enigmatic, about Wong’s presence in Piccadilly. She undoubtedly elevates the film, and Dr. Hardie even amusingly compared her vivaciousness to that of Angelina Jolie (back in the day when she was a man-eating Goth). Even though we, as 21st Century viewers, disapprove of Wong’s characters in an ideological sense, we cannot help but be seduced by her performance.

In acting, (I personally believe that) it is all about intuitively understanding your character’s personal and psychological properties, as well as the social, historical and cultural milieus from which they arise from – yet also paradoxically to be seemingly unaware of this. Another consideration is the acting conventions required for your certain medium (film or theatre), school (theatrical, method) and genre. For Wong, she also had to take into account the negative stereotypes that informed her characters. It is indeed very tragic to learn that Wong was refused the lead role of O-Lan in Sidney Franklin’s The Good Earth (1937) – a film which, because of America’s growing sympathy for China in its struggles with Japanese Imperialism, had finally begun to feature positive representations of Chinese people. The lead roles, however though, were given to white American actors who wore ‘yellowface’, and to add insult to injury, the German-American actress who played O-Lan, Luise Rainer, had received her second Oscar for the performance.

I also thought that the actress playing Mabel, Gilda Gray, was pretty good. In the scene where she is dancing and the man is complaining about his dirty plate, Gilda Gray, with her hands partially covering her face, somehow reminded me of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard (1950) – especially in the promotion pictures. I haven’t watched Sunset Blvd. yet, but am well acquainted with the image of Swanson posing at the bottom of the staircase. This bizarre mental connection between the two actresses emphasises how certain moving-images of a film can exist autonomously as still-images; that film as commodity extends all the way through to the visuals on the DVD cover, and by recognising one still-image as belonging to a certain film, it also becomes part of one’s cinematic experience of that film. Maybe, my positive connotations of Swanson, unwarrantedly translated into a positive consideration of Gray.

The 'who-what-when-where-why' of viewing a Film and the Discovery of a 'Cinematic Canon'

It is often noted that ordinary people, fans watch ‘movies’, whilst academics and cinephiles view ‘films’ or ‘cinema’.

From the first seminar of Cinematic Modernism, our lecturer Dr. Melissa Hardie got us thinking about the different modes of viewing a piece of cinema, and the accompanying implications that each encompasses.

What are my aesthetic expectations for a Friday night screening of He’s Just Not That Into You (2008) at Greater Unions with a friend after work? What if we were watching Gus van Sant’s Milk (2008) instead? (We honestly planned to see Milk but there was only one session that day at 4pm.) Do I value the ‘social cinema’ experience more than that of, say, watching a DVD of Ingmar Bergman’s Cries and Whispers (1972) on my laptop, alone in my bedroom? What about illegally downloading and watching a screener copy of The Reader (2008), just so you could see if Kate Winslet really has a chance of winning the Oscar this time around. [See video bar]. How do I feel about accidentally catching a broadcast of Woody Allen’s The Curse of the Jade Scorpion (2001) (considered to be the worst in his whole repertoire) on television with intervening commercials and all? Is my excitement, attention span and aesthetic experience the same for all? Do some films need to be seen in certain contexts? Do I hierarchise certain cinematic experiences over others?

The answer to most of these questions is: “different/same/yes/no.” When I am about to view a ‘serious’, critically esteemed film my open-minded thinking cap is consciously turned on – something that a good cinephile should always have on; meanwhile, if I am watching a run-of-the-mill action or romantic comedy feature then I just fall asleep. The ‘who-what-when-where-why’ part of the viewing experience does matter in getting me in the mood, but inevitably the content of the film delineates the value of that particular cinematic experience. The question now is what distinguishes the serious from the run-of-the-mill, and where can I get more of the good stuff?

Does there exist a ‘Cinematic Canon’ like there is a Western Literary Canon? And how are people accessing the films in this canon? I personally access this imaginary canon every time I log onto www.oscar.com or http://www.festival-cannes.com. I appreciate award ceremonies (Academy Awards, SAGs), international competitive film festivals (Cannes, Venice, Berlin) and critics’ lists (1001 Movies, Time Magazine) for being near-objective entry points into the canon. These invaluable sources advise on which auteurs, directors, screenwriters, actors and actresses to follow and which to retrospectively study and celebrate. And now that most of the edifying cinephile theatres have closed, these sources do seem to be the best alternative places to acquire both a(n) (abbreviate) history of cinema and viewing tastes.

It is indeed from those places where I first encountered the films which I now liberally consider my top 10 favourite films:

A Streetcar Named Desire, Elia Kazan, 1951.
Long Day’s Journey Into Night, Sidney Lumet, 1962.
Cabaret, Bob Fosse, 1972.
Annie Hall, Woody Allen, 1977.
The Piano, Jane Campion, 1993.
Dancer in the Dark, Lars von Trier, 2000.
The Piano Teacher, Michael Haneke, 2001.
Lost in Translation, Sofia Coppola, 2003.
Brokeback Mountain, Ang Lee, 2005.
Volver, Pedro Almodovar, 2006.

Welcome to Matthew's "Cinematic Modernism" Blog

Hi there,

"Film Eats the Soul" is a blog that was previously called "Modern Times: Modern Films: Modern Readings". It features my personal musings on cinema/movies/films and their contingent elements.

"Modern Times: Modern Films: Modern Readings" was a student blog for ENGL3604 Cinematic Modernism, an Advanced Unit of Study taken by students in the Faculty of Arts, University of Sydney. The author of this blog is Matthew Cai. For any enquiries please email maverick.matthew@gmail.com.