Or, A Pensive Image That Thinks.

Here is a piece I wrote for Art&Culture online journal:

In the context of Photography, Roland Barthes in Camera Lucida writes: “Photography cannot signify except by assuming a mask.” (Barthes, pg. 34) This mask is the meaning that goes beyond that which is depicted. It goes beyond the face and the expression. In the context of film, it is perhaps the meaning that exceeds not only the aesthetics of the composition, but one that surpasses different layers of narrative; a meaning that lays within the form.

Or (2004, Keren Yedaya) is a film, where its impact is mainly due to the meaning that resides under the layers of the narrative, and signified through the form. The film is empty of any camera movement. The camera never follows anyone. It is always there, but passive. The characters walk freely regardless of the framing. In many times there heads are cut off by the frame. Sometimes all we get is a frame empty of any person, only the off-screen sound. For Yedaya, it’s not so much about the face or the characters, rather how the camera by its mere presence within their everyday life can create meaning.

As in Avedon’s photograph of William Casby, it is not Casby’s face that is affective but what it signifies: the essence of slavery that is laid bare. In the same sense Or is not so much about Or or even her mother. The meaning and the significance even go beyond the issue of prostitution. Or is rather signifier of complex sociopolitical dynamics.

Qouting Barthes: “Society,[…] mistrusts pure meaning, It wants meaning but at the same time it wants this meaning to be surrounded by noise, which will make it less acute. Hence the photograph whose meaning (not its effect) is too impressive is quickly deflected; we consume it aesthetically, not politically.” (Barthes, pg.36) Or rather than a political film is a film that is “made politically.” It is perhaps for this very reason that Yadeya finds camera movement excessive. Her minimalism and discount for glorification (what Barthes calls “noise”) is what makes the film more than an aesthetically pleasing and satisfying image. Yadeya does not want her picture to be less acute. She is neither interested in oversimplifying a politic nor reassuring our already existing political beliefs, but rather in creating a context for us to question them.

Barthes writes: “Photography is subversive not when it frightens, repels, or even stigmatizes, but when it is pensive, when it thinks.” (Barthes, pg. 38) Perhaps it is its simple aesthetics, treatment of the form and open politics that create the room for self-reflection. It induces a curiosity to seek the suggested meaning which is different than the literal one, to move beyond the narrative of Or and/or her mother. Or is consumed politically for it speaks, and induce us to think; for it thinks.


Reference:
Barthes, Roland. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Hill and Wang 1981.

Memory and the Everyday life in Fertile Memories

“The philosopher Leibniz showed that the world is made up of series which are composed and which coverage in a very regular way, according to ordinary laws. However the series and the sections are only apparent to us only in small sections, and in a disrupted or mixed up order, so that we believe in breaks, disparities and discrepancies as in things that are out of ordinary.” (Cinema 2, pg.14) Cinema has mainly been the action-image spectacle of extraordinary because of its use of breaks and discrepancies in recreation of real life. It has primarily depicted events discretely. However some filmmakers such as Ozu, and Michel khleifi in the case of The Fertile Memories (1980) have tried against that by raising the emphasis on the mundane everyday banality, along with using strategic cinematic techniques: Camera movements are minimum, and mainly in the form of slow panning shots. Close-ups and deep depth of field have been constantly used. Dissolves are abandoned in order to make room for the simple cut. Empty spaces (both exterior and interior) and silent moments; occupy a good amount of screen time. The montage is somewhat rhythmic with low tempo, creating a certain temporal calmness.

Also in search of a more continuous recollection, by a particular way of gluing the sound to image, Khleifi has tried in reducing the affect of discreteness of film. The sound often continues to the next shot, be it an absolutely different environment. Or sometimes what seems to be a voice over narration becomes the actual onscreen sound of the shot that follows. This perhaps has been an attempt in reproducing the “pure” memory. Deleuze writes on Bergson’s notion of memory: “On one hand the following moment always contains, over and above the proceeding one, the memory the latter has left it; on the other hand, the two moments contract or condense into each other since one has not yet disappeared when another appears. “ (Bergsonism, pg. 51) In The Fertile Memories, sound acts on a higher level, as a linkage that merges the images together. In overall, reproducing memory in a sense that each segment would contain the proceeding one, and would not necessarily disappear with the arrival of a segment that follows.

Therefore considering khleifi’s way of editing in creating a sense closer to pure memory, the importance given to the everyday banality, and also the singularity of the separate narrations of the two women, he’s approach to history can be viewed as a genealogical one. By showing the everyday life, Khleifi “reveals disparity and dispersions” of the identity of the women, which would have regularly been cut out.


References:
• Deleuze, Gilles. (1991). “Memory as Virtual Coexistence.” Bergsonism. New York: Zone Books.
• Deleuze, Gilles (1989). “Beyond the movement image.” Cinema 2 : The Time-Image. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
• Foucault, Michel (1984). “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History.” The Foucault Reader. New York: Pantheon Books

Soundprints

In Soundprints a group of people whom are given wireless headphones and binaural microphones, get to walk together in the city. One of the prerequisites of the walk is the collective relation between individuals in the group. The wireless range of the equipment, limits each member to maintain certain proximity with the fellow walker. Therefore each member would determine his/her routes based on both sonic information that s/he receives from the fellow walker, and also a visual sense of closeness with the group. This makes the group an entity by itself that moves within the space, a whole (“le Tout”); a whole that transforms with the space, rather than translate in the space. An invisible qualitatively changing whole, rather than simply a shifting of positions in the space.

I think it would be appropriate at this stage to talk about the concept of multiplicity developed by Henri Bergson and Edmund Husserul; a concept which ought not to be confused with the traditional notion of multiple where there is a direct division between one and multiple. Bergsonian multiplicity, seeks to move away from this traditional division by conceiving a unity immanent to the system. To better understand the notion of multiplicity it is necessary to discuss its two types: quantitative multiplicity and qualitative multiplicity. A simple example for a quantitative multiplicity would be what Bergson supplies: a flock of sheep. They are all the same and of the same particularity of being sheep (homogenous), however each has a distinguishable singularity and spatial position. This spatial dispersion enables us to enumerate them, and sum them up into a quantitative whole.

On the other hand there is as well a qualitative multiplicity; a multiplicity that regards the qualities of different heterogeneous elements. Since this is harder to grasp I will provide two different examples, each to highlight a different aspect of a qualitative multiplicity. The first is the example of sympathy. When we sympathize we put ourselves in the place of others. In Time and Free Will Bergson explains in detail how sympathy consists of “transition from repugnance to fear, from fear to sympathy, and from sympathy itself to humility.” (Time and Free Will, pp. 18-19) Therefore sympathy consists of heterogeneity of feelings, which are continues with one another, and yet cannot be juxtaposed or said that they negate one another. Each feeling is heterogeneous to another, yet absolutely necessary to complete one another. The second example is the example of the water and oil, which is to underline movement within the multiplicity, and the relation of each heterogeneous element with each other and the whole. Imagine a drop of oil inside a bowl of water. The ‘water and oil’ is a qualitative multiplicity, since both of them are heterogeneous to one another, and perhaps even oppositional considering their reluctance to mix. Each has different viscosity and property, however they hold a continuous relation, and are in constant perturbation of one another, since they both have a kind of liquid quality. To think of the water and oil as a qualitative multiplicity is also to be able to examine them as one whole entity. No matter how distinct the water and oil are from each other, it would be a challenge to draw their boundaries with one another. So even though they are heterogeneous, they are as well one. In this context to study the movement of the oil in the water, would be to regard the transformation of water-oil. In other words when the oil moves from one point to another, it is not just the oil that is shifting its position in space, rather the whole multiplicity is going through a transformation. Each molecule of the water has to also change within a given duration, in order for the oil to move. Therefore in a qualitative multiplicity rather than translation of particulars, we have transformation of the whole (which consist of heterogeneous singulars.)

To think of the group as a Whole, is to think of the space as part of the group as well. To differentiate between body and space, is to consider their boundaries with each other. The only thing that separates our body from the space is our skin. Alan Watts writes: “although our bodies are bounded with skin, and we can differentiate between outside and inside, they cannot exist except in a certain kind of natural environment. So to describe myself in a scientific way, I must also describe my surroundings, which is a clumsy way getting around to the realization that you are the entire universe. However we do not normally feel that way because we have constructed in thought an abstract idea of our self." (The Book, Chapter 1) Therefore the question of our body-space multiplicity being heterogeneous is directly related to our perception of ourselves. If we remove the idea of self (or perhaps selves) from the context of the body then, as Watts mentions, the space-body boundary becomes a gray area that would result in a topological body that is in direct relation with the space. So as long as the notion of self and the possessive body is removed, the group (including land, space, exchanged sounds, and time) can be thought of as a qualitative multiplicity. In other words each component of the Whole can be considered a separate topological element that would hold a heterogeneity with others. However looking at the Whole or the multiplicity of these components they can only be functioning in unity once there exist a correct relation between one another.

In Soundprints, sound operates towards removing this idea of self. Erin Manning writes:
If my body is created through my movement toward you, there is no “self” to refer back to, only a proliferation of vectors of intensity that emerge through contact. This contact is not an end point; it is not a moment of arrival where something like two bodies “meeting” happens. It is far beyond tact. Rather, it is a signaling of a reaching that arrives, momentarily, only to have been arrived at, relationally, again. (Politics of Touch. pp 136)
Sound creates this contact. It forms the desire of reaching toward. But at the same time it prevents the moment of arrival. The bodies never meet. Sound holds the bodies in their potentiality. It creates bodies that are always beyond them-selves. (Politics of Touch. pp 136.) Sound becomes the ‘of body’ and ‘of space’ hybrid that unite different bodies, space, and time. It brings together all heterogeneous elements towards forming a qualitative multiplicity – towards a Whole.

If the group (including land, space, exchanged sounds, and time) is thought of as one unity, then the notion of bodies navigating within the space becomes absurd. There would be no such a thing as navigation, because the navigator and the space to navigate in are one thing. They transform as a whole. They become as a whole. The movement of bodies in the space, becomes a dance with the space. A dance with the land, where the bodies become the land, and the land becomes the bodies. It would no longer be about locating. The desire to locate and seek the destination, is replaced by the desire to simply experience. That is why it becomes a dance. The purpose is not to reach the end of the choreography. In fact there is no purpose, there is only the desire to experience, to transform with the whole (land, body, sound, space, time, experience), to become.

References:
- Bergson, Henri. (1913). Time and Free Will: An Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousness. New York: Dover Publications, INC.
- Deleuze, Gilles. (1991). Bergsonism. New York: Zone Books.
- Manning, Erin. (2006). Politics of Touch. Minnesota: University Of Minnesota Press.
- Watts, Alan. The Book: On the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are.
- (2008). Henri Bergson. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Retrieved from http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/bergson/

Spiritual Impression of Time in The Diary of a Country Priest

In order to have a thorough understanding of Bresson’s style, particularly in The Diary of a Country Priest (1951), it is crucial to study the film through the perspective of time. Bresson’s treatment of time in this film is very different than that of the typical narrative cinema. He provides his audience an unusual impression of time; one that removes any sense of real-time versus onscreen-time relation. Philip Lopate describes his first viewing experience of the film:
Suddenly I had the impression that the film had stopped; rather, that the time had stopped. All forward motion was arrested and I was starring into eternity. Now, I am not the kind of person, readily given to mystical experiences, but at that moment I had a sensation of delicious temporal freedom (Lopate, 27).

What Lopate calls “delicious temporal freedom,” is the spiritual sensation that transcends any notions of real-time; a sensation that is achieved by a multiplicity of temporal, and non-temporal effects. A multiplicity that slows down all the bodily and mental processes and prepares the spectator for the use of intelligence at the correct moment. Unlike Brechtian distanciation this multiplicity, does not disregard emotions, rather, as Sontag puts it, disciplines them (Sontag, 59).

The most significant way in which Bresson treats time is through editing. He places the cuts at the exact moments, highly uses dissolves, fade-ins and fade-outs, but never abuses them. He creates certain unique tempos and rhythms, and then in a larger scale collages different ones skillfully together. Most scenes in this film are cut short. Bresson never leaves any unnecessary extra time within a scene. He takes you right at a point of a conversation that is important, and doesn’t leave any room for extra dialogues. By this he achieves a minimalism that frees the film from any extra cliché , focus the attention of the spectator on the key elements of the novel, and presents every scene with an equal importance to the narrative structure.

In The Diary of a Country Priest Bresson repetitively uses dissolves. This consistent use of dissolves gives the film an exclusive temporal sensation, and creates a flow, that blurs the boundaries between separate shots and slows down our impression of time. The experience of specially first thirty minuets of the film is perhaps temporally very disorienting. The combination of the dissolves and short scenes, creates this effect that on one hand the experience of onscreen time would seem very slow, and yet relatively to the real-time fast. In other words when watching the first thirty minuets of the film, the movie would feel to have a very slow pace, however one would never guess that s/he has been sitting through half an hour of it. That is because the story is uncovered very fast, while a multiplicity of aesthetics slows down the impression and affect of it.

The constant use of dissolves also gives the normal cut a new effect: the power to accentuate. Because of the dissolves that have been used frequently, in times a cut gains such a disruptive power that it breaks the flow of the editing rhythm, and consequently results in a powerful self-reflective focusing of attention of the audience. For instance, when the country priest meets the priest of the Torcy in the hut, the scene opens with a fade-in, a cross dissolve from black to a long shot of the two men from back. This shot dissolves into a medium shot of the two men inside the hut both facing one direction yet talking to each other. This shot is kept, and it cuts to a reverse angle shot only before the priest of Torcy delivers the line: “you don’t pray enough, you suffer too much to pray. That’s how I see it.” At this point Bresson adds a dolly in towards country priest’s face, reframing him in a close up, when he replies with guilt: “But I can’t pray.” This cut does not provide us any new visual information. It only switches the orientation of the two characters in respect to the camera. Therefore because of the dissolves that precedes this cut, and also the very minimal visual differences between the two connecting shots, this cut appears much more radical than a normal cut, and highlights the part of the conversation that follows it.

One of the critical techniques that Bresson uses in the treatment of time is compression and expansion of onscreen time with relation to each other. He compresses time in the sense that he eliminates some parts of the action within a shot, mainly transitioned by dissolves. For instances in the scene where the priest visits the specialized doctor in Lyle, we are only shown the doctor’s sign which is dissolved into a shot of the priest leaving the clinic. What happens behind the doctor’s blurry doors is too significant to be eliminated. However by doing so, Bresson achieves three effects; First he avoids an emotionally climactic scene where the priest learns about his cancer. Second, he creates a sense of suspense that awaits the audience for the result of doctor’s diagnosis. And third, he compresses time, by not showing us a period of time that its existence is surely indicated to us.

Another way, in which Bresson is able to compress the experience of time, is by starting a scene from a central point of a conversation, long after the actual beginning of it. In several occasions he just throws the audience in a middle of a conversation, and emphasizes this fact by a line in dialogue. For instance, in the scene where the priest meets the countess for the second time, without and introduction or preparation, Bresson takes us to a significant part of the discussion: the priest expressing his worries for Chantal’s suicidal tendencies. As audience, we are aware that such a line could not have been delivered without any conversational build-up, and as a result, subconsciously become perceptive of the undepicted time. By this technique not only Bresson gives time a new sense within the shots’ relation, but he also achieves what his known for as a minimalist: the elimination of the unnecessary segments, and accentuation of the key points.

Bresson also manages to expand time by very fine techniques. A major method through which he expands audience’s sense of time is the use of the voice over narration. In many parts the voice over narration exceeds its position as a verbal reading of the diary, and becomes a subjective reflection of priest’s thoughts. A good example of how employment of such method would expand time, is the scene where the priest of the Torcy, visits the priest in his home. When the priest of Torcy commands the country priest to sit down, a low angle shot of the priest of the Torcy is cut to a reverse shot of the country priest, depicting him from a slightly higher angle. While his eyes stare at a point near the camera, he says “No.” Then he closes he eyes, followed by a very gradual dolly in camera movement. During the dolly in, a voice-over narration, which can be regarded as a reading of the diary, presents us the country priest’s inner feelings. In this segment of the scene, which lasts for about ten seconds, both characters are silent, in order to create room for the voice-over. This break within such important ongoing conversation, gives the impression that the time has stopped in order to expose us to the priest’s subjective feelings.

The Diary is an absolute key narrative and mise-en-scene element that creates a continuous flow and connection between different shots, forms a unique temporal quality, reveals priests subjective inner conflicts, and establishes an association to Bernanos’s adapted novel. Bresson juxtaposes the diary shots in a way that it mesmerizes any sense of their temporal position within the narrative. In most cases it is very hard to realize, at what point of the timeline it is that the priest is writing down his thoughts. In some parts we see him writing down his reflection of a scene that just preceded it, in some other parts we see him reflecting on the state he is in at that moment, and in other parts he writes about an action that is going to appear on the screen later on. Therefore the relation between the temporality of the diary shots, and the narrative time, is not fixed.

On the top of the visuals the voice-over as well contributes to the diary’s temporal ambiguity. The voice-over appears in four different kinds of relation with the image. In some scene the voice-over starts in a shot prior to that of the diary and continues through the shot of the diary and matches the diary. Sometime the voice over starts with the depiction of the diary and ends as the shot ends. In some other scenes, the voice over reads the diary and then continues through the next shot, as if the shot of the diary has been a flash-forward. In many scenes without any depiction of the diary we get the voice over explaining to us the priest subjective thoughts.

Considering Bresson’s interest in the interior conflicts of characters he uses the diary as a tool to demonstrate the priests inner feelings. But using the motif of the diary, Bresson detaches any sense of omni-science voice over narration, and transforms the voice over into readings of the diary, a more intimate subjective approach to the matter, through the point of view of the priest. In several points he even uses the diary as a visual tool to depict the priest’s feelings. For example, Bresson provides us the image of the priest tearing out some of his diary’s pages, which indicates his regret for some of his misjudgments, or later in the film where he is leaving the country for Lyle we see he packing his all his diary notebooks while Chantal is there, which somehow implies his guard toward his privacy, and his fear of Chantal’s interference in his private life.

Bresson has been well known for his use of sound in cinema. In The Diary of a Country Priest sound serves as a major element, influencing the overall impression of time and performances. In this film Bresson avoids using any ambient sound, therefore any onscreen or offscreen sound would seem isolated. This effect not only triggers a self-reflective response, but contributes to the minimalist touch of Bresson as well. It also gives the film certain quietness that perfectly matches the rhythm and the flow produced by editing, and also the performances and gestures.
The digetic offscreen sound in this film has been skillfully utilized to avoid certain visual redundancies, set a particular mood, and to produce the doubling effect. Bresson uses the offscreen sound to avoid any superfluous image that might add a climactic feel, or disrupt the narrative flow. For example, before the priest learns about the death of the country doctor, we hear an offscreen sound of a gunshot, while the priest is walking with his bike in the countryside. It is only in the following shot that we are hinted about the source of the shot. This way the narrative element is there, while the harsh image is concealed.

Bresson invest a great attention in keeping a consistent use of the camera. The camera movements, camera angles, and the depth of field of the shots has been carefully chosen and kept in a consistent fashion that has created a language of its own. Every time we are exposed to the priest’s inner thoughts we are provided with a dolly in camera movement. The camera often moves in a very subtle way. Sometimes the movements are very minimal yet effective. These delicate camera movements are another key element in shaping the way spectator experiences time. They blend perfectly within the flow that has been created by editing, and contribute to the process of slowing down the experience of time.

The camera angle has been used very cautiously is suggesting the amount of authority. Those who are in a higher position, or in control of a conversation are always shot from a lower angle, than the other. More interestingly, in several scenes as the conversation carries and the authority of characters shift, the camera angle also changes accordingly. For example when the priest meets the countess for the second time, we have this constant shift of control over the conversation. In times the countess seems to be the one in control, but as the issue of her dead baby is brought up, the priest gains a more authority over the conversation. Bresson brilliantly changes the camera angle depiction of the characters by the having them sitting and standing through the conversation. That is, while they talk seated, they are depicted from a high angle, and when stood up, from a low angle.

It has been said that Léonce-Henri Burel, who was the cinematographer for this film has only used a 50mm lens throughout the film, in order to have a higher control over the depth of field, and maintain a consistency over the film. Most shots in The Diary of a Country Priest are in a medium range of depth of focus. We rarely get any shots with a deep or shallow focus. By this steady way of treating the depth of field, Bresson focus our attention on certain characters or objects that are in focus, and he provides only a slightly blurry milieu surrounding the character. The surroundings are out of focus to the degree that they can be identified, yet not receiving any particular attention.

Susan Sontag mentions the Brechtian Aspect of the performances, but on the top of the self-reflective effects of the performances, there relies a more temporal effect that is mainly dependant on movements and gestures. Bresson has directed all actings, body movements, and gestures in way that they perfectly complement the rhythmic flow of the film. Apart from few exceptions we are never given a fast, or aggressive body movement. All gestures are executed is a meditated way. That does not mean they are necessary slowed down, rather, there has been a great attention to the micro movements within movements. The movements of the eyes, specially those of the priest, carry a lot of the expressions’ weight. They tell us a lot about a person inner conflict while the rest of their face is rather less expressive.

As argued above Bresson uses a multiplicity of elements, in achieving an affect that disorients our notion of time, and challenges our cinematic viewing experience. This multiplicity which is the result of skillful editing, sound treatment, camera movement, body choreography, along with some narrative elements and techniques, gives the temporal form of this film a meditative, spiritual and self-reflective feel; One that perfectly compliments the theme of its content.

References:
Susan Sontag, “Spiritual Style in the Films of Robert Bresson” Robert Bresson. Ed. James Quandt. Toronto: Cinématheque Ontario, 1998. 57-72.
Phillip Lapote, “Films as Spiritual Life” Film Comment. v. 27, n. 6, Nov 1991. pg. 26-30.

Kikujiro

Considering Kitano Takeshi’s violent films, the last sort of film one would expect him to make, would be a road movie about a kid who travels in the search of his mother. At a first glance, Kikujiro’s plot, may seem redundant and cliché. The story of a boy who goes after finding his mother is indeed repeated through out literature and cinema, but what makes this film, in particular, interesting is how Kitano presents a humor out of such sad story. Kitano himself admits it in the film when “Traveling Man” says: “That stuff happens, all the time in books.” as a reaction to Masao’s failed attempt to meet his mother. Therefore the challenge that Kitano seems to be setting himself in is how he can develop characters and juxtapose events, in order to present a sense of humor out of a tragic story, and also how he can treat violence in order it to become more invisible. All the details within the narrative is indeed so rich and well crafted, that even a critical audience engages himself/herself in the events, rather than trying to predict the rest of the story.
In Kikujiro, the narrative structure is fairly different than the typical three act narrative form. Kitano unfolds his story in chapters and segments. Kitano mentions the reason for this structure in an interview himself:
I gained the strong impression that this film didn’t have the turning point or decisive narrative moment that my other films have had- you could watch the whole thing without feeling that any particular scene was crucial in terms of the overall shape.
Each chapter begins with an illustrative introduction, in which a particular image representing the chapter is decorated as if it is part of Masao’s diary. That is how Kitano wants us to read the film: as a boy’s summer adventure – a story that is somewhat told from Masao’s perspective.
However, on another level of analyzing the narrative form, the film can be divided into two major segments: before and after the moment where Masao meets his mother. This scene does serve as a turning point. Before meeting Masao’s mother both his and Kikujiro’s motivations were to find her. Once they meet the mother and Masao feels rather unwanted, their motivation shifts. Now it is quite ambiguous what their motivation becomes after this moment. For Kikujiro and other adult characters, cheering Masao eventually becomes the driving force and the objective. From this point onwards the narrative gains a more freedom to maneuver. The characters become more entertaining and less bounded to the restrictions that a story might imply. The film eventually becomes a selection of jokes, games and amusing tricks that don’t necessarily follow logic, and are juxtaposed delightfully in an emotional milieu, as if they are part of a boy’s memoirs.
Even though this is a road movie, there is no precise indication about when the actual trip begins. Kitano avoids providing his audience with any reference to neither time nor place. We can vaguely guess how many days the whole trip took, or how far they traveled, not being precisely familiar with the geography of Japan. It is indicated verbally, in the dialogue when the trip begins by Kikujiro’s wife, yet visually it is only after the first gambling scene that we get to see Kikujiro and Masao in a place that is certainly not home, but also doesn’t very much look like a hotel as well. Also by avoiding to provide us with road shots of them traveling to this place, we are left in this bewilderness of whether the journey has already begun or are they still in Tokyo, just spending the money. With these smooth touches Kitano creates a transition between the scenes prior to the trip and the ones during it that almost makes the beginning of the journey seamless.
What shape the narrative structure of this film more than anything else are Kikujiro and Masao’s relationship, and how their characters contrast each other. While Kikujiro threatens, curses, bullies everyone and has a violent attitude, Masao is calm, polite, and obedient. Masao has this strong motivation of finding his mother, and Kikujiro is conceived perhaps somewhat unmotivated. Kikujiro is a middle-aged man with a violent tattoo on his back, whereas in contrast, Masao is portrayed as a cute innocent boy. Kitano perhaps does over-exaggerate this contrast. For example the way Kitano establishes a comparison between Masao’s character in the beginning of the film and other kids of his own age, is an attempt to maximize his innocence, and emotional empathy that the audience might have with him. On the other end, Kikujiro is involved in numerous acts of violence. The image of his face covered in blood is perhaps one of dominant graphical moments of the film.
Looking at the relationship of the two characters, it is likely to say that Kitano is trying to establish an impression that implies a father-son relationship. This is indicated several times within the film, and Kikujiro himself points it out in the form of a joke, to Masao. However, considering Kikujiro’s naïve childish character, Kitano also places scenes within the narrative that suggest, Masao taking care of Kikujiro. For instance after Kikujiro’s fight in the fun fair, when he is covered in blood, Masao desperately searches for first aid material, and cleans Kikujiro’s face. Now this is a very symbolic act, and it not only portrays an emotional connection between the two characters, but also suggests Masao’s thoughtfulness and caring qualities, over Kikujiro’s naïve inner-child. The way they are represented in this scene, gives the impression of Masao being the adult and Kikujiro the child. This notion can be felt through out the film. Comparing Masao’s and Kikujiro’s solutions for getting a ride can be another evident example; where Kikujiro’s attempts are mean and rude, Masao seems to have a much more civilized approaches.
A narrative process that is very likely and favored in the road movies is the transformation of characters, throughout and because of the trip. In Kikujiro this seems to be the case mainly for Kikujiro comparing to Masao, even though it is Masao who is basically the main subject, and motivation for the trip. A direct example of this would be Kikujiro visiting his mother, after Masao’s failed attempt to reunite with his own mother. A clear parallel can be made between the two incidences, and the way in which in both scenes they get to see their mother from a distance and avoid an actual confrontation. Therefore Kikujiro’s visit to his mother can be viewed as result of the reflection of earlier incident in him.
The film has a beautiful touch in terms of its sense of humor. Kitano has managed this connection with his audience by formal techniques that go beyond the content of the narrative. First he does it through editing. Many of the humorous events function simply because of the way images are juxtaposed, and how the relation between them has been established. For example, in the second part of the bike races scene where Masao’s predictions doesn’t turn out to be accurate, we get this constant switch in picture between the boys wrong predictions and failing of the desired bikers. Another example would be the swimming pool scene: Kikujiro first claims that he knows how to swim, he jumps and then swims ridiculously with a tube around his waist. From this shots, which depicts a lot of activity, Kitano cuts to a static shot of Kikujiro upside down in the pool. This stasis provides us with a sense of humor that is beyond the content of the image, and rather a result of wise juxtaposition.
Even though Kitano has tried to produce a less violent picture comparing to his other films, his temptations in adding elements of violence can be yet felt. It is true that he has cut out the direct scenes of violence, and fights, but the evidences of violence exist through the film. For instance, Kikujiro’s character is indeed a very violent one. He constantly shows an attitude towards different people, curses and participates in the acts of violence. He seems to be only obedient to his wife, who sets the trip and forces him to help Masao find his mother. Some characters react conservatively and some violently to his big mouthing.
Kitano smoothens the level of violence in this film using three techniques. First he does it through framing and editing of the scenes of violence. He either lets the violence happen off-screen, or simply has cut the violent scenes out. For instance in the fun fair scene, when Kikujiro and Masao are participating in a game, and throwing rocks at rewards, all we get to see is their feet, standing on stones. Therefore even such action that is less violent in a direct sense has been hidden from the camera. This shows how Kitano is aware of the impact of gestures, regardless of what narratively they imply.
The second method he uses, is balancing the violence mainly expressed through Kikujiro, by other characters, and particularly Masao. As described before, there has been a great effort to show Masao as an innocent cute boy. Next to Masao we also have “Traveling Man” who is depicted as a relaxed, hip person. Even the two chopper bikers who are expected to be though guys, are considerably naïve and obedient.
The third element is perhaps the music sound track. Even though I believe it is too droning and melodic, and its constant repetition, makes it somewhat frustrating, but it does serve in the favor of smoothening the overall impression of the film.
A certain element that is highlighted through out the film, through both mise-en-scene and sound, is the notion of angel. The film begins with the sound of the “angel bell” while Masao is running carrying the backpack with wings that was given to him by the young couple later in the movie. Kikujiro gives Masao the “angel bell” after the failed attempt of reuniting with the mother. This perhaps is to suggest the feeling of the boy towards Kikujiro and others that they meet on the road. Masao probably viewed these people as his guardian angels, and the people who take care of him, regardless of their senses of irresponsibility and immatureness.
By moving beyond a simple plot, developing an interesting narrative form, and by establishing an odd or rather unique relationship between the two main characters of the film, Kitano has taken a courageous conventional step from his typical violent films, and has created a road movie. The sense of humor, which is a result of skillful formal juxtaposition, along with the whole feeling of the film, that implies somewhat a boy’s perspective of life, have distanced it from a violent tragic drama. At the end looking back at the multiplicity of all the different elements and techniques, we can see how they function together to create an amusing and at the same time touching film.

Claudia's Occupation Sonore

Michel Chion and Michael Snow's Wavelength

Watch the digital version of the film here.

Michael Snow’s Wavelength (Ontario, 1967, 45 min.) has been reviewed and gone under different criticisms, since its production. But critics and theorists have not invested enough attention in analyzing the film through its sonic values. Therefore in this essay, Michel Chion as one of the main figures in cinema theory, who has investigated sound thoroughly, is taken into consideration, and his theories regarding sound and its relation to image have been carefully examined on the way sound operates in Wavelength: the way in which sound adds a value to the image, how it influences the perception of movement and time, how sound functions when it is removed from its source, and finally how different senses transcend the typical sensory system and produce a transsensorial effect.

One of the most vital and perhaps essential films in the history of experimental cinema is Michael Snow’s Wavelength. Screenings of the film have resulted in diverse reactions and experiences, and have triggered more mixed emotions –frustration, boredom, excitement, anxiety and awe– in different audiences than perhaps any other film. It definitely challenges traditional viewing habits, and raises questions and notions on both formal and thematic levels. Louis Goyette describes Wavelength as “a summery of art history which condenses the evolution of painting from the renaissance to the contemporary period, all the while maintaining qualities intrinsic to cinematographic apparatus.”

The film begins with a long shot of a fairly large room, shot with a deep depth of field. The lighting of the room is mainly provided by the natural light, entering through four large rectangular windows, which are at the end of the room, facing the camera. There are also a few florescent lights on the ceiling, which become more effective, in the night shots. The entrance to the room is out of the camera’s framing, but from the flow of characters it can be guessed being somewhere behind the camera on the left.

During the course of forty-five minuets of the film, an extremely gradual zoom-in and in parts track-in takes place. As mentioned, the film begins with a long shot of the room, and then ends with a close-up shot of a photograph on the wall, between the windows, depicting water waves. In addition to this camera movement, there are also textural changes that occur, including subtle and radical changes of color and exposure. There are also black & white shots, different variations of film stock, light flares, day to night changes, visible splices, and negative images.

In wavelength there exists a fine line of narrative as well. This narrative, which is short, comparatively to the length of the film, is kept somewhat abstract, and in parts partially out of frame. There are four human linked events in the film: 1) entrance of a woman followed by two man bringing in a bookcase. 2) Entrance of two women, where one turns a radio on and then off, and the other shuts the window. 3) Entrance of a man, who shortly after falls on the floor. 4) Entrance of a woman who makes a phone call to report the fallen man. The narrative events trigger a shift in the perception of the piece, which is strong and complex on the formal and structural level as well. The audience’s concentration is shifted by these four events, from a formal teleological interpretation of the zoom and the textural manipulations, to the narrative, and vice versa.

More than any other element, it is the sound that shapes the film and creates the necessary relation between the different formal, aesthetic, narrative and contextual factors. However, wavelength has been carelessly described by critics and theorists as a continuous gradual zoom taken from a fixed camera, overlooking the film’s sonic qualities and its effect in the overall experience. In a letter to Peter Gidal on the subject of Back and Forth (1968- 1969), Snow himself did express his frustration with the lack of attention to his employment of sound: “Now as you say seeing the film is a very physical experience. (I can’t understand why you didn’t also say hearing it because the sound, its qualities, relationship to the image, effect, are so important to the whole thing.”

The film begins with the diegetic sound of the location, which is mainly the ambient noise of the traffic outside. Sometimes in parts where the narrative events occur we also get the synchronized sound of dialogues. But the main sound that constitutes most of the film is a sine wave, which begins at around ten minuets through the film. The sine wave starts at a low frequency of 50 Hz and gradually during the course of the film increases its pitch to 12 kHz.
In Audio-Vision Michel Chion introduces the notion of added value¬– an audiovisual illusion in the heart of the most important relationships between sound and image. Chion describes added value as:
…The expressive and informative value with which a sound enriches a given image so as to create the definite impression, in the immediate or remembered experience one has of it, that this information or expression naturally comes from what is seen, and is already contained in the image itself.
The affective influence of sound on image, and the unconscious impression that it leaves on the perception of the motion pictures, acts in two contexts of value added by ‘text’, and the value added by music, as Chion mentions later.

Chion describes cinema as a vococentric or more precisely verbocenteric medium. By this he emphasizes the importance of value added by text, through the spoken voice, or to be more general, language, in cinema. The added value of words can be understood by the way they frame our vision and isolate elements in image. In Wavelength the sound operates on the semiotic level, in two distinct ways, affecting our perception of the visual images. The first and the more apparent one is in the scenes where there are human involvements and we get diegetic sound of spoken words. Those sounds automatically direct our attention towards the presence of the humans, and isolate them from other visual elements in the screen. Now we can argue that this isolation of attention is due to the fact that during most of the film we are viewing an empty room without any human interaction. However in the mentioned events the visuals portraying humans are vague and abstract: characters are visually framed in the dark spots, sometimes partially out of frame, and sometimes under layers of superimpositions. Therefore it can be said that visuals do very little in the process of isolation of attention.
The second and more indirect way in which the sound operates semiotically in adding a value to the image is through the use of a dynamic sine wave. It is quite evident how Snow has used the sine wave as a mean to signify how the film ends. The sine wave which is present almost throughout the film, gains a strong conceptual weight at the end, by the way it highlights the photograph depicting water waves. Here, Snow has played with words and drawn a relation between the image and sound. The sound indirectly by its linguistic qualities adds a value to the image and isolates an element, a photograph– a visual complexity itself.

According to Chion, another way in which sound adds a value to the image is how the sound influences the perception of movement and perception of speed. Chion distinguishes visual and auditory perception referring to their different relationship to motion and stasis. Quoting Chion: “Sound contrary to sight, presupposes movement from the outset. …But sound by its very nature necessarily implies a displacement or agitation, however minimal.” Therefore sound by its very nature has vibrant qualities. However if we avoid physical interpretations of sound and only focus on it perceptive nature, it can be suggested that “fixed sound” is that which entails no variations whatsoever as it is heard. A perfect example of such fixed sound would be a sine wave. Thus the sound that Snow has used in Wavelength is from a “fixed” nature, nevertheless by varying its pitch, and giving it a temporality, Snow has mobilized such sound. Again relating it to the metaphor of wave, it is possible to draw a similarity between water and the sine wave. Water is also by its nature static, but it becomes mobile when it is part of an ocean wave.

Sound can also influence our perception of movement in another manner. It can suggest a movement that is not visually there. A perfect example for this effect, used by Chion, is the sound effect used for the swishy automatic doors in Star Wars saga (Irving Kreshner, 1980), a dynamic pneumatic “shhh” sound. The sound was in fact so convincing that at times the director Irving Kershner, took a static shot of the open door and followed it by a shot of it closed, yet the sound effect which is synced to this cut, gives the spectator an illusion of the movement that is not visually there. In Wavelength, perhaps the ambient sound of the outside traffic suggests such movement, a movement that is not visually there. We never get to see the outside clearly, however because of the diegetic sound of the environment the same kind of infinite temporality that the film has is reflected spatially beyond the windows. Staying in that confined room for nearly forty-five minuets, the sound creates a spatial contrast with the exterior of that location.

This brings us to one of the key notions that Murray Schaeffer has coined, and that is the ‘acousmatic’. Chion defines acousmatic as: “a sound that is heard without its cause or source being seen.” He uses the term acousmatic since he believes both terms, offscreen and non-diegetic, are ambiguous and generally referred to cinema sound. Now the interesting point is that, the acousmatic quality of a sound can only be understood, with its relation to image. In other words, a sound solely by itself has no acousmatic qualities unless it is related to an image, and not necessary an image on the cinema screen. In Wavelength, both non-diegetic sine wave and the diegetic sound of the exterior traffic, have acousmatic qualities. The first one is too abstract to be assigned to any source and the second one’s sources are simply not visible on the screen.

Later in the book The Voice in Cinema, Chion explains two processes of acousmatization and de-acousmatization. acousmatization happens when an image of a sound is removed from it, and vice versa de-acousmatization is when a sound without any image, is given a visual signifier later on. A clear example for de-acousmatization would be when a characters voice is heard offscreen, and s/he enters the frame later. His/her voice is said to be de-acousmatized. Chion assigns a power to acousmatic sounds, a ‘virginity’ derived from the simple fact that its source is not yet inscribed in the visual field. It both challenges the imagination and triggers an excitement for the sound to be known. However as soon as a sound is de-acousmatized, it loses its virginal-acousmatic powers, and becomes a typical image-sound. Snow is very well aware of this power, and he refuses to expose us to the sources of most of sounds in Wavelength. He defines an infinite world outside those windows in that finite space, and creates a metaphor between the sine wave and the waves in the photograph, yet he preserves the acousmatic powers of the sounds and does not reveal their sources.

One of the most important effects of added value is the perception of the time in the image, upon which sound imposes a great influence. Chion uses the term Temporalization for this effect’s process. He then describes ways in which sound can temporalize image: the first is temporal animation of image. Quoting Chion: “ to varying degrees, sound renders the perception of time in the image as exact, detailed, immediate, concrete– or vague, fluctuating, broad.” In Wavelength, even though there are visible cuts, and a cut from day to night, the film gives the impression of being real-time. Chion later on the subject of Temporal Linearization explains:
When a sequence of images does not necessarily show temporal succession in the action it depicts the addition of realistic, diegetic sound imposes on the sequence a sense of real time, and above all, a sense of time that is linear and sequential.
Snow provides the viewer the diegetic sound of the environment, which acts in that accordance, and on top of that the sine wave, even though it is non-diegetic, mainly due to its non-fluctuating quality, linearizes the temporal experience of the image, and gives the image a sense of being in real-time.

The other way in which sound temporalizes image is, according to Chion: “ by vectorizing or dramatizing shots, orienting them toward a future, a goal, and creation of a feeling of imminence and expectation.” In the case of Wavelength, the gradual ascent in the pitch of the sine wave builds up this expectation in the audience. Knowing that this sound is not going to go any higher than a certain pitch, the spectator can vaguely visualize the time when the film is suppose to end. Perhaps a similar feeling to that of viewing a feature length film, where being trained by watching approximately 90 to 120 minuets films, from the beginning of the film we have a quite blurred temporal idea of when the film is going to end.

Chion also analyses the relation between temporalization and sound’s basic qualities such as density, internal texture, tone, quality, and progression. He then names different factors that come to play:
1. How sound is sustained. Chion explains that a smooth and continuous sound is less “animating” than an uneven or fluttering one. At a first glance a sine wave may seem a continuous non-fluctuating sound, but we see that in Wavelength, it perfectly animates the images that are in most parts very difficult to connect with each other. A close hearing of a sine wave will show us, despite our first intake of it, that in fact it is constituted of small cycles of oscillation that occur in the sound. With regards to psychoacoustics, this characteristic of sine wave creates a more tense and immediate focusing of attention on the image.

2. Sound definition. Chion explains that higher frequencies tend to direct perception of the image more acutely, and makes the spectator more alert. This justifies Snow’s gradual tendency towards the high frequency of sine wave, near the end of the film. By the sine wave, he slowly builds up the right tension, and focuses enough attention to expose the photograph.

3. How predictable the sound is as it progresses. As explained earlier, Snow provides the viewers of Wavelength with a sense of time for the film. Considering the threshold of human hearing which is no higher than 20 kHz and the pace of the pitch ascend of the sine wave, the spectator indirectly calculates the film duration and is unconsciously aware. However as the film ends on 12 kHz frequency, Snow conflict that subconscious calculations.

Another key concept that Chion highlights and can be studied in relation to works of Michael Snow and Stan Brakhage, is the notion of transsensoriality. For Chion transsensoriality is that “there is no sensory given that is demarcated and isolated from the outset. Rather the senses are channels, highways more than territories or domains.” He uses the example of rhythm, which is usually thought of as a sonic quality, and generalizes it to other senses:
A rhythmic phenomenon reaches us via a given sensory path– this path, eye or ear, is perhaps nothing more than the channel through which rhythm reaches us. Once it has entered the ear or eye, the phenomenon strikes us in some region of the brain connected to the motor functions and it solely at this level that it is decoded as rhythm.

That is to consider for instance sound and music need not to be confined to the realm of hearing. Brakhage’s silent legacy is perhaps an attempt to produce music with images. He reminds us that because we perceive images with our eyes, we should not necessary draw the conclusion that we can experience it only as visual information. Brakhage states in Film and Music: “I seek to hear color just as Messiaen seeks to see sound.” In Wavelength, transsensoriality is evident in both directions. While the image provide us with a rhythm and musical sensation, the sine wave and the offscreen sounds illustrates an image for our mind; an image of spatial eternity beyond the windows, and at the same time a sensation of temporality.

As it is illustrated above through Chion’s different notions of sound and its relation to image, the sound in Wavelength, operates at different levels, and plays a significant role in contributing to the experience that this film leaves on its spectator, after forty-five minuets of patient viewing. It adds a value on both semiotic and sonic levels to the image, it influences the perception of the movements, and gives a unique temporal quality to the film that is certainly one of the most effective parts of the whole experience. The film presents us with sounds whose sources are never exposed, thereby creating a powerful tension that never goes away. The visual and sonic qualities of this film certainly cross their own sensory organs and create a transsensoriality, a phenomenon that connects them, and creates a powerful film.