Week 7 - Stars

I had some difficulty grappling with the study of Stars. I recognize that it is an important and highly marketable trait in the business of movies, however analyzing it as a theory was strange for me. I will briefly try to address the assigned readings as best as I can before speaking a little on a star that I admire for being both a talented actor and overall good person.

Paul McDonald and Richard Dyer's respective publications on the study of movie stars seek to explain their appeal from four perspectives: semiotics, intertextuality, psychoanalysis, and audience studies. The first two approaches examine the Star as a text, while the latter two look at the ways in which audiences relate to stars. Both pieces strive to answer how stars come to have meaning, how that meaning is historically produced, why and in what different ways audiences identify with stars.

In class we mused on possible differences between stardom and celebrity and the ramifications thereof. In my opinion, it's a little like squares and rectangles: Stars may have celebrity, but not all celebrities are stars. Broadly, a star's job is to act (/direct/write/create) and they are celebrated for doing so skillfully. A celebrity's job is to be known. McDonald himself admits that "not everyone in film is a star (though this is often forgotten even within star studies where the search for new objects of study has led to the analysis of more and more minor performers as though they were stars)" (McDonald 80). While minor celebrities have been known to acquire roles in film and TV based on unrelated fame and media attention, there is a definite lack of skill and regard that separates them from true stars of the silver screen. That being so, I do not completely agree with McDonald's generalization that “[i]f genre theory made reference to the industry but tended to ignore the audience, star studies has made referece to the audience but tended to ignore the industry” McDonald 83). If anything, star studies is, in part, dependent upon the industry and its whims, since a cherished star will bring more viewers and therefore revenue to a film and thereby perpetuate the entire process. A keen industry uses talented stars righty for their ability to best relate to an audience of varied demographics though effective acting (/directing/writing) and so maintains the star's status in the firmament of the public eye.

Designating stars as either "universal" or "relative", though a little heavy-handed, might help illustrate different tendencies between merited stardom based on skill versus constructed or contrived stardom rooted in media inflation. A "universal star" is a star in his own right and acknowledged outside of film. He has overarching talent is skilled in craft his craft. His status as a star still allows him to have a distinct actual personality. His acting prowess is recognized by the fact that the characters played onscreen can be drastically different from his star image and yet we still relate to him. By comparison, a "relative star" might be labeled as “starring in” a film of lesser quality, and the designator is only applied within context of that specific film. He has a weak or contrived star image, and is identified more in fiction, his actual personality overshadowed by the character.

Plying apart fact from fiction when it comes to star image is very tricky, even trying to understand whether that image is merely a put-on projection or a filtered version of who the working actor really is. “Star images are the product of intertextuality in which the non-filmic texts of promotion, publicity and criticism interact with the film text [..] The star’s image cannot exist or be known outside this shifting series of texts” (McDonald 83). In what way? If it is that the star’s persona as a “movie star” be relevant only in the context of relating to that industry, then yes. If it insinuates that stars have no image other than their outward star image, I disagree. It is the job of the performer to do just that: perform as another person in order to exact a specific response from an audience or instill in them a certain understanding of fact or fiction. Outside this context, that of their profession, the actor should be able to be their true selves. I can only hope the audience recognizes that a star, while well-versed in their craft and admirable for their skill, is still just doing their job. Actors can be admired for their performance with relation to the screen as stars and/or for their actions as a responsible member of society and generally good fellow human being.

This segues nicely into introducing someone I admire. I hesitate to call him a star because there is so much more to him than just a media-coined title, a buzzword hinting at profession and past success. I speak of Robert Redford.

“The star is not simply a performer, but a figure with particular associations of glamour and charisma,” and there is no denying the Redford posessed all of these attributes onscreen in The Sting, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Natural, Out of Africa, and numerous others (McDonald 80). Whether he plays a very quiet character or one of questionable moral fiber, there is something that just draws the eye to him. These qualities in the man make the characters he plays sympathetic and so the film as a whole very effective. We trust him with telling the story. “Stars articulate what it is to be a human being in contemporary society; that is, they express the particular notion we hold of the person, of the ‘individual’ […] they articulate both the promise and the difficulty that the notion of individuality presents for all of us who live by it” (Dyer 8). Though everyone relates to people differently, it is nearly impossible to escape the juxtaposition the public image of on-screen appearances of the performer with the publicized private image of the star’s off-screen life, or the "real" person. These two interpretations of one physical being (one inferred as fact and one fictional) don’t and shouldn't need to fall into the categories of either seamless correspondence or antagonistic conflict. You can identify with a character or identify with the actor as a person with a profession that just happens to be very publicly visible. You wouldn’t admire the attributes of a villainous murderer, but you might admire the actor who plays him convincingly for creating such an effective illusion.

I find Robert Redford an interesting case to examine because he is publicly acknowledged for his work offscreen as much as onscreen, namely his impressive range of charity work and roles other than actor in the film community as an actor turned director and supporter of independent film through the foundation of Sundance and its numerous offshoot organizations. Is he recognizable as an auteur? His name certainly carries a mark that the work it is attached to will be of inherent good quality. Even though star studies initially emerged in part as a rejection against auteurism, they are really just different flavors of the same kind of layer cake. Both schools of thought recognize individuals for the unique, or at least identifiable and relatable qualities they bring to and display in their body of work.

Interestingly, though, I can explain his appeal by referencing a study amongst female audience members by Jackie Stacy on relating to portrayals in film. She found that attachment to a character could be categorizes as either Adoration, Transcendence, or Inspiration, while connecting with the actor, the star, as Pretending, Resembling, Imitating, or Copying. These aren’t actually all that different from how we develop our individual personalities, mannerisms, and beliefs based on the influence of those around us. We acquire some from parents, friends, and other role models from afar, imitating those that we agree with most or believe might be most advantageous for our own success in society and all other aspects of life.

Week 6 - Male Gaze

Prologue:
First, I want to apologize for my previous blog entries. At first I misunderstood the purpose of the blog, thinking it more a place to reflect candidly on the past weeks topic, impressions thereof, and let that send me in a related direction plotting my learning process. Subsequent weeks' entries carried forward my initial confusion in the first week and I think the intent of the assignment was a little lost. Perhaps it is the medium of a blog, too, that I have grown familiar with as a less formal environment and sounding board, a place to put all ones thoughts on the table and explore different modes of thought, rather than a place for immediate close reading and polished scholarly endeavors. From here on out, I will strive to use it as such.

I will be taking a few extra days (as allotted to the animators this past week) to polish my entry and to make sure I have done all I can to ensure high quality and fully explore the subject. Right now I can say that I will be examining Le Mépris dir. Jean-Luc Godard. It was a close call between that and The Conformist, which is a little noteworthy as both films are based upon novels by Alberto Moravia. Common threads in his works are sexuality, social alienation, and existentialism, which lend themselves very well to an examination of the male/female gaze and inversions thereof, as they are not exactly reciprocal.

Update, Tuesday 20 Nov: Tonight I was fortunate enough to be able to see a remastering of Lawrence of Arabia at a theatre. It has long been a film I admire and I think it presents an interesting challenge for examining the Male Gaze, so I will do that.

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Lawrence of Arabia, directed by David Lean in 1962, is a unique example of the Male Gaze in film for a few reasons. First, it is based on the life of a real man, T. E. Lawrence, so there is a kernel of truth beneath the layers of epic cinematography, sweeping score, and story. Second, the real and portrayed Lawrence have had their sexuality questioned and so may be implied as non-heterosexual. Third, the objective Male Gaze is not upon a female, per se, but a feminized male, the character of Lawrence. Though women are excluded from the film, the feminine tendencies are preserved. Lawrence is the films "heiroglyphic", both Freudian and as originally intended. He is at once indecipherable and immediately recognizable if one knows how to read him. I will be looking in particular at two scenes at different points in Lawrence's feminization and self-discovery over the course of the film, one at the onset and one toward the end.

"The woman's relation to the camera and the scopic regime is quite different from that of the male" (Doane, 76). What, then, happens when a male character is treated by the camera as a female object? If "the very logic behind the structure of the gaze demands a sexual division," then it can be inferred that Lawrence is being made less male than he who is looking upon him (Doane 77). Lawrence is created as a feminine object because of his 'otherness' to both the British and Arabian sides. The British soldiers see him as feminine due to his affectations and eventual wearing of Arabian costume, like a woman's dress by western standards, and believe that their own trousers and Western habits are the epitome of masculinity. The Arabs see him as feminine because of his English nationality and think him soft because of it, while their own hardy Bedouin lifestyle and customs are the most masculine and honorable. He appropriates the exotic as his own and is the perennial "other," becoming woman to both sides and is available to all as the female subject of a male gaze.

The first instance of gender-bending via the Gaze that I want to illuminate takes place shortly after Lawrence falls in with a band of Harith. In film, "curiosity and the wish to look intermingle with a fascination with likeness and recognition," which in this appear both as the British and Arabian fascination with Lawrence's simultaneous 'otherness' and familiarity and also Lawrence's own earnest examination of himself and his own identity or lack thereof (Mulvey 9). The night before this scene takes place, Lawrence reveals to the Harith Ali that he is a bastard child and would never inherit any title from his father. If the implications of Lawrence's past are that his mother "turns her child into the signifier of her own desire to possess a penis [...] Either she must gracefully give way to the word, the Name of the Father and the Law, or else struggle to keep her child down with her in the half-light of the imaginary" (Mulvey 7). Lawrence, first as the child of a woman and with no father present father, has only her name, which he casts off when he enters the desert as Ali explains that he is "free to make his own name." His old clothes are burned and he is presented with the robes of a Sherif of the Beni Wejh Harith. He rides off to try them out. Thinking he is alone, Lawrence indulges in vanity, gazing upon himself reflected in his dagger as his new costume billows in the breeze. Alone and having recently discarded any old identity, Lawrence is naked. As we explored in class, John Berger muses that to be naked is to be oneself, whereas to be nude is to be inferred as naked by others. Soon, he is startled to find he has been watched by Auda, leader of the Howeitat tribe.

Auda on horseback dominates the screen in the foreground, showing his power over a small Lawrence, so far unaware, in the background. Lawrence is completely vulnerable and behaving completely un-man-like. It is also strange in that to Auda, Lawrence's Harith garb, that of a great leader and warrior, does not seem to match his identity as British and therefore, to Auda, more feminine.

Lawrence is most comfortable in the traditional Arabian garb. Even at the onset of the film, he seems uncomfortable in his British army uniform: his pants are too short, he is not decorated, he is less formal than others. In the middle of the film, he suffers a crisis of identity and changes back into Western clothing for a short while. Here, he is even more unsettled, partially owing to the fact that they are not his clothes and so do not fit at all. He does not really display transvestism in the sense that Doane describes, but masquerade. While the British forces see the Arabian tribes simultaneously as feminine in dress, yet brutish, the tribes see the British in a similar light, so Lawrence is never truly a transvestite. Rather, at one point he puts on airs to seem more masculine to each in different situations. This, however, is taken as cowardly and ultimately belies his true feelings.

The second scene I wish to analyze is perhaps one of the more controversial in the film due to both its content of torture and implied sexual abuse and also contention that the ordeal on which it is based was a fabrication created by the real T. E. Lawrence and never happened. Either way, it is incredibly pertinent to the discussion on the Male Gaze. "Spectatorial desire, in contemporary film theory, is generally delineated as either voyeurism or fetishism, as precisely a pleasure in seeing what is prohibited in relation to the female body" (Doane 76). In this scene, the Turkish Bey has captured Lawrence and is trying to verify his identity. Everything about the Turkish character is repulsive and lecherous: his manner, his ill coughing, his greasy countenance and mustache. And yet, because he is in a place of power, he is playing the part of the man to Lawrence's castrated woman.

Bey completely invades Lawrence's personal space and strips it away by forcibly removing his clothes. In this way, Lawrence's paleness is revealed. Though his face is tanned from the desert, Lawrence still has blue eyes, blonde hair, and very pale skin. This is immediately contrasted with the dark Turks and shows Lawrence as very feminine and, by association, Bey sees him as weak. Though Bey is shorter in stature, he is still able to dominate Lawrence by utilizing the power of the Male Gaze. He touches his chest and pinches his flesh, grinning suggestively, to which Lawrence reacts, nearly at the point of tears, by kneeing him in the groin. The interaction does not end here, though, but continues as Bey becomes a literal Peeping Tom.

The voyeuristic Bey watches from afar through the door as his smiling lackeys beat an unclothed Lawrence. The distance between us and the screen parallels the distance between Bey and Lawrence. Like us, he watches others touching Lawrence because he cannot or will not. He has others fulfill the fetish of his senses for him. The Turkish Bey's sexual instinct, harking back to childhood auto-eroticism, has been modified by his male ego and twisted into a perverted voyeurism, "whose only sexual satisfaction can come from watching, in an active controlling sense, an objectified other" as an analogy for his narcissistic self (Mulvey 9).

Doane invokes another theorist, Linda Williams, in describing an instance in the horror genre when "the woman's active looking is ultimately punished. And what she sees, the monster, is only a mirror of herself --both woman and monster are freakish in their difference-- defined by wither 'too much' or 'too little' (Doane 83). Lawrence sees his own bloodthirsty nature in that of his captor. He is not completely innocent, as he is still not only a soldier but an admitted masochist. Doane asserts that for a woman to identify with a female character, she must adopt a passive or masochistic position. Lawrence takes this a step further for us by filling both at the same time as being male and female from a filmic perspective. When asked how he lets a match burn down in his fingers, he says "certainly it hurts. The trick is not minding that it hurts." We see him seek pain and bloodshed time and again, simultaneously taking pleasure in it and growing aware and afraid of his mental degradation. He eventually does break with reality, seeing himself as a sort of messiah among men, indulging in his own masochism in the name of others.

Week 3 - Genre

Hutchings' Genre Theory and Criticism provided a very novel and thoughtful overview of the first stirrings of identifying film by genre and its implications. I knew I would have to really pay attention (but really get something out of the reading, too) when I had to pause for a moment and think about how "genre as a subject for discussion has always transcended the traditional boundaries of film studies." Normally, that's a sentence that I would just gloss over, seeing it but not really reading it. It has buzzwords of academia: transcend traditional boundaries. Now you know that must be important! All kidding aside, what it really means is that in this case film is a tool to convey a universal message that plays off of or reinforces other commonly divulged information. This could be true of another film, a book, something verbally communicated, maybe, dare I say it, even static art. But I digress...

Bazin is just everywhere. There's no getting around him, but I'm usually accustomed to seeing André invoked with regard to auteurism. It was refreshing to see that even Hutchings noted Bazin's very old-school analysis and that it should be taken with a grain of salt when used to examine more modern cinema. I think he used the word "baroque," which I think even Bazin would enjoy. It's an admission that film theory and criticism thereof is imperfect, as addressed later in questioning the western genre and wether in the 1970s strict genre theory and criticism may have restricted films to being 'classical' westerns and not allowing the genre to be 'mercurial' as nature deemed, as described by Kitses.

Another thing I found interesting, though, was how Hutchings noted that genre was often built off of auteur tendencies. In a way, genre theory highlights commonalities across films in the same way auteur theory demonstrates common threads between a filmmakers works. It's like industrial auteur theory! OH, now THAT'S something! Cool. I like this Hutchings guy...

Grant, on the other hand... well, I'm not exactly enamored. Long story short, he invokes film textbook gods Bordwell and Thompson, explains formal decisions and implications by genre, and provides lots (AND LOTS) of examples. Granted, they are very good examples, but it's kind of like being taught the color wheel: we each know what colors look like to our own eyes, delving any deeper is for artists (which I guess, actually, we are... ah, the life of a film student!) or the very, very literal. Come to think of it, my mother would like reading this. She's an antitrust lawyer. Explaining mise en scene was a fun discussion that turned into three hours of ranting about the film "Blow Up", rotten fruit, and, ultimately, I gave up.

I hadn't thought about genre in a while, actually, before last weeks class. In day-to-day conversation, at least, genre seems to be dismissed as a way to sort through which movies you might want to watch on Netflix or rent/buy at a store. How clever it is to think of it the other way around! Besides providing a proven framework of success for our lovely capitalist industry to pop out another movie, it also provides audiences with a pre-coded way to process the information. It's a key! When we're prepared to see an action movie, we know exactly which parts to pay attention to (pace slows, important dialogue, closer camera shots) and which parts are spectacle (MichaelBay'Splosion). I used to think that making a film that fit so nicely into a genre would be, well, generic in a not-so-good way. In reality, it's in playing with genre, maybe subverting a few qualities here and there, making the audience comfortable enough to be able to question things and recognize key differences and points of uniqueness, that a truly intriguing film is made.

On the flip side, there's something to be said for sitting down to watch a completely hokey old B-movie. I LOVE bad sci-fi monster movies. They are, for the most part, very formulaic but occasionally you get one that tried to do something out of the ordinary and failed miserably. Something about that, though, is kind of charming. I'm talking Plan Nine from Outer Space, The Monster That Challenged the World, The Blob... well, Forbidden Planet was actually pretty good, it even had some impressive special effects animation. I guess modern relatives of these movies would be anything in the Megashark vs. family. These movies totally bomb but still get made, right now Megashark vs. Mechashark is in production. I wish I knew why. But you know what? I'm still going to watch it. I know it's a bad movie, but there's something comfortable, like going to the book store to pick up a Pullitzer Prize-winning novel and then on the way out the door also grabbing some cheesy comic from the bargain bin that's so bad it's hilarious.

Week 2 - Editing

It's been a while since I've seen a text on film theory where I didn't have to read each paragraph three times over just to make sense of it. Not just that, but I really enjoyed this reading, too! Bravo, Valerie Orpen!! I'm often frustrated when texts are too black-and-white with their definitions of filmic styles and form, or insist that a certain film is expressly one or another.


While the moving image was developed, we discovered more and more that we could do with the newfound intricacies and techniques.

Continuity editing; different tendencies nationally but really just used that which was most effective at conveying particular message of each individual film. unify thoughts to make most widely comprehensible.
- 180 degree: often associated with "Hollywood" editing, but really present in most western film and others. Maybe becoming less relevant, though? Classic hollywood and new hollywood, but not ALL hollywood. Because mostly refers to older types of formula, whereas films these days can push envelope more: though we as a whole have a shorter attention span, audiences more used to fast editing, can notice changes more readily and process information in short bursts. punctuate ease of narration with postmodern interest. (17-18)

-emphasis on the speaker -emphasis on listener/reaction -emphasis on action (21)

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Umberto D.
Start just before 11 minute mark
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnvj0horjGc

Now for an analysis of 5 minutes of one of my favorite films, Vittorio de Sica's Umberto D. I will say that I've done a fair amount of other classwork examining Italian Cinema in the past and couldn't resist explaining a little more about things in this kitchen scene that relate to the film as a whole.


Background info: Made in 1952, de Sica’s employs the same Italian Neo-Realistic techniques as in his earlier work, Ladri di biciclette. It follows the downward spiraling life of Umberto Domenico Ferrari, a post-war pensioner seemingly forgotten by the reconstructing world. De Sica uses Neo-Realist tactics to make Umberto’s tragic story mimic the reality of so many Italian citizens in the post-war state.

Besides using nonprofessional actors in order to increase the sense that this story could be one of any average Italian, the most indicative device of Neo-Realism present in Umberto D. is the use of deeply focused and long takes. In this scene, we first meet Maria in the kitchen. The camera cuts maybe five times over the course of five minutes. During these long takes, we focus primarily on Maria as she moves about the kitchen doing what appear to be daily routines: getting water for the dog, plucking a chicken for the next meal, washing things in the sink, etc. In fact, the camera seems to remain planted in the middle of the room while following Maria in a full circle around the edges of the room. It's generally a medium shot from the waist up, unless she is bending down to water the dog in which case the camera pulls out just enough to reveal just enough of that action so we understand what is going on, then it closes back in on a medium shot.

The following sequence in Umberto’s bedroom also demonstrates actions that are a part of his particular daily life. In the longest take, the camera follows him as raises the blinds, opens the shutters, then closes every window from one side of his room to the other. This formal choice taken with Umberto highlights his slow rejection of the outside world and everyone around him.

With Maria, though, the longest take shows her, rather futilely, trying to eradicate ants from the kitchen.

((NOTE: This next bit isn't expressly relevant to editing, but I felt weird NOT including it as it is the LONGEST take in the film, so is noteworthy in that sense. Why would de Sica choose to highlight it through specific editing and camerawork if not to make us recognize its importance and examine it further?)) The constant battle has a dual symbolism. In both instances, the ants symbolize the Italian peoples, but very different sets of people. One interpretation is that they mirror the pensioner’s march at the beginning of the film and the lower class in general. After the war, many were left in situations similar to that of Umberto. Like ants, they washed across the cities, searching for money, food, anything, only to be brushed off and shooed by the other half of the country like what Maria does with the burning newspaper and the hose on the faucet. On the other hand, the ants could represent the upper class like Umberto’s landlady and the government in general whose primary interests lie in themselves and their money. The government withholds money from the pensioners while the landlady tries to extract as much as possible from Umberto. Like the ants, they are unavoidable and constantly present, sapping the life out of the lower class while bettering their own.

Week 1 - Auteurism

After throwing the word "auteurism" back and forth in various classes for the last four years, it still makes me feel gross talking about it. It's not a pointless notion, but it is not anything remarkable or necessary. Any work, creative or not, will most likely show similarities to other works by the same creator. It is nothing unusual. That an entire film created through the collaboration of many people could possibly be attributed to just one "auteur" is laughable. While the director leads the team in the direction of a common goal (production and eventual distribution and an audience's viewing), it is hardly just "his". Each camera move is in the hand of a cinematographer and then camera operator. The relatable nature of a character depends upon the effectiveness of the actor and also the scriptwriter. The pacing and how engaging a film is addressed by the editor and composer. Unless it is honestly a solo piece created by ONE person, a film is and must be a collaborative. Actually, as soon as a film is viewed by an audience, even a solo project, is BECOMES a collaboration. Without an audience, a film is just a personal study, a hobby. I'm getting a little too close to the "tree falling in the woods, does it make a sound?" scenario. I digress...

Per Barthes,the explanation of the work is always sought in the man who has produced it, as if, through the more or less transparent allegory of fiction, it was always finally the voice of one and the same person, the author, which delivered his “confidence.” In actuality, the most relevant explanation of a work is the one arrived at by each individual, each audience. The creator of the work has already done his job and it rests upon his technical skill in chosen medium as to the ultimate impression that each audience may glean upon viewing. If a writer has a good idea, but cannot convey it effectively, then many nuances and subtext may be lost. Alternately, someone may view what is renowned by many to be a priceless piece of art, but if it is not to his liking, then, bluntly, it is his own problem.

What is most irksome to me, however, is when someone dissects PUBLICLY an expressive work and states their opinion of interpretation objectively as FACT. While common discussion of person interpretation is often enjoyable and might open people up to possibilities they had not otherwise considered, imposing ones view onto others and REJECTING theirs destroys the entire intention of the work: to be accessible to anyone.

It is the responsibility of creators to create well and it is the responsibility of the audience to be both receptive and think critically when prompted and yet also be able to simply sit back and enjoy the experience.

To finish, here's a thought from one of my undergrad classes that's stuck with me: "All art is the product of just such compromise between the artist’s idea and the inflexible properties of his medium [and, I posit, audience]. And any creative man who is not in a constant state of siege is not worth his license."