Christian Metz’s observations on voyeurism and fetishism within cinema were challenging, but fascinating to read. When he talks about theater or burlesque, Metz distinguishes voyeurism as having an inherent agreement on the part of the object or performer to be seen and desired by the spectator since they both exist in the same place at the same time. For film however, that consent is absent because the object or “actor was present when the spectator was not (=shooting), and the spectator is present when the actor is no longer (=projection).” (Metz, 704) The film actor has no opportunity to peer back at the spectators when taking a final bow, like those involved in theater or striptease have. Rarely even does the film actor have the opportunity to look directly into the camera which would create the illusion of peering back at the viewer. Instead, the moviegoer is given the opportunity to look without the threat of being discovered by the object/actor. Additionally, the object/actor, though only a trace or simulacrum of the actor, exists solely in that particular role. There is no final bow that whisks away the illusion of character. The credits roll and the spectator leaves the theater with the experience of peering into the life of a stranger, perhaps thrillingly without their consent. In addition, that important distance between his body and the object he desires onscreen remains intact. On top of that, he can repeat this experience night after night and the performance will never change. The object will satisfy his desire with the same amount of success, contrary to a theatrical performance that can change from night to night or even be recast midway through the show’s run. Because of these assurances, it is no surprise that the fetishization of the cinematic experience can occur. The objects and people on the screen “put a fullness in place of a lack, but in doing so [they] also affirm that lack.” (707)

Delving into Verhoeven’s filmography quickly transformed from feelings of dread to enjoyment. The idea of spending hours with the likes of Schwarzenegger and other men of his ilk as well as the overindulgence in gore and women’s naked bodies was not entirely enticing. However, I quickly fell under his spell. Robocop was the most surprising in its delightful takedown of corporate-owned America through the sympathetic cyborg and his spunky female sidekick. In fact, Verhoeven’s depictions of women are the most fascinating aspects of his films for me in all their frustrations as well as elations. Women always play a key and active role in these films, which is not always common in the action adventure tales. What is so fascinating is the play between exploitation and elevation. On the one hand, the viewer sees the breasts (and often much more) of just about every featured actress in his films. I am not of the mind that nudity should be avoided at all costs, but one could see some Girls Gone Wild comparisons in several of his film sequences, especially those involving a communal shower scene.  On the other hand, these same women are intelligent, witty, strong, brave, inventive and often save the leading man’s life at some point in the proceedings.   This dichotomy is even apparent in an early Dutch film of his that I was able to scour up, Katie Tippell (1975). Surprisingly, there are many echoes of Katie’s story in Nomi’s sordid tale. This is a story of a poor but strong-willed young woman who has just moved to Amsterdam with her parents and siblings who hope to find a better life. Tippell’s story is a depressing one rife with prostitution, rape, familial problems, poverty and ill health. In the end, she inadvertently finds her place with a wealthy young man and lives happily ever after, though Verhoeven gives us no view of that part of her life (this is based on a true story). Katie’s body is continually used, abused and discarded. There is a brutal rape scene (similar to the extraordinarily violent one in Showgirls) where Katie is attacked by her boss. She obviously does not return to that job so she is forced into prostitution by her mother in order to help support the family. An artist spots her and asks her to pose for a painting (happily without any ulterior motive) and it is through him and his friends that she begins to escape her hard life.

So, here in an early film is another example of Verhoeven’s knack for simultaneously exploiting and heralding a young woman. We all saw Nomi clawing her way to the top despite huge hurdles, defending her friend’s honor in beating up her vicious rapist, having some amount of morality in refusing to pimp herself out to an investor, etc. However, in between all these acts of nobility or courage she was naked about 80% of the time exploiting her sexuality for money and proving to be less than intelligent. Similarly, Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct uses her sexuality to manipulate everyone she encounters, male or female. However, she is in complete control of her own exploitation. And on another note, Denise Richards in Starship Troopers is a highly skilled pilot who often saves her fellow “civilians” but she does so with vapidity and iciness. She is a shell of a person. What exactly is Verhoeven’s opinions of these women? It seems there is some attempt to demonstrate the ways that these women and women in general are constantly being taken advantage of in one form or another, as well as constantly being underestimated. However, the only solution Verhoeven seems to offer is for them to sexually exploit themselves or to resort to violence. Perhaps in the end, it’s as simple as sex and violence sells movie tickets, who knows. But there is something very intriguing going on in Verhoeven’s choices when it comes to his leading ladies.

And as a quick aside, Nomi in the form of Elizabeth Berkley is the hardest for me to take because it seems that he was intentionally directing her to act badly – her performance is so consistently frenetic and manic that I cannot imagine it was not intentional on his part. I would love to hear her story on how she and Verhoeven collaborated.

Foucault argues that the difference between discourse and science is that in discourse a “proposition’s theoretical validity” is defined in relation to the work of the founders whereas with scientific theories its validity is defined in relation to what physics or cosmology actually is (116). So, the founders of discursive theories (Freud, Lacan) originate and the founders of scientific theories (Galileo, Newton) discover. It may be interesting to think about this scientific aspect: for Foucault it is distinct from discourse and scientific theorists are not authors (since authors have to put forth ideas that can be studied, discussed, contradicted, expanded, etc. forever). But what about those filmmakers that invented new techniques and technology? Could they be considered authors or did they simply discover a scientific fact that already existed? I think in general technological innovations can contribute to a director’s position as auteur–for example, Orson Welles’ development (although not discovery of) deep focus in Citizen Kane. To what extent can the invention or discovery of technological innovations in cinema contribute to auteurism?

Balasz certainly writes eloquently about the close-up in the excerpt from Theory of Film. And I found Maria’s post spoke further to the power of the close-up. But what made it all come alive for me was the excerpt from Joan of Arc that we saw in class this past week.

Almost fairly early on from when we recognize other beings around us, we humans strive to communicate with them, and with the world around us. We further learn to speak, as the primary means of interacting with other human beings. So it was with me.

By the time I started watching films, the talkie was a fixture. I grew to love film, but the only kind I knew and watched was films with dialogue. I have loved many films for their script, and certainly many actors for their dialogue delivery. I have also been guilty of dismissing silent cinema as more comedic, even goofy in a sense.

It is in this context that the comment about unlearning and relearning ((that Professor Herzog discussed), resonated for me. I saw the power of silent cinema – and the close-up – when we watched the sequences from Joan of Arc. I saw the volumes that Falconetti’s face conveyed about the conflict Joan faced, and the poignancy of her situation. I realized I need to unlearn my ideas of film as always being tied to the spoken word, and relearn the language and nuance of silent cinema. I really need to discover this new world!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Xr_msBoi6I

For the past week I have been thinking about Busby Berkeley and the “I Only Have Eyes for You” scene from Dames (1934). To me it is the ultimate in surreal Busby Berkeley experiences. Countless replicated visions of Ruby Keeler swarm the screen, the leading lady’s face copied over and over in a dizzying array of patterns. (And that shot of Keeler’s face that focuses in on her eyeball – talk about extreme close-ups!) The nature of the strange scene, as a dream within the framework of the musical sequence supposedly happening onstage, reaches a level of bizarreness eclipsed only by “Lullaby of Broadway” from Gold Diggers of 1935 (almost like a short film separate from the rest of the picture).

Considering both the readings for last week and for our upcoming class, I also find myself thinking about the “Eyesight to the Blind” scene in Ken Russell’s Tommy (1975). One could certainly make a case for Russell as an auteur. In this scene the image of an iconic movie star, Marilyn Monroe, is co-opted for the masks worn by acolytes of a cult. This group and their leader have turned the hypnotic power of a star’s face, persona and history of substance abuse into a religious experience that can heal all kinds of ailments – all intended to help the main character, who cannot see, hear or speak. (Is Marilyn’s face an Idea or an Event, as Barthes wrote about in his essay “The Face of Garbo”?) I must also point out that the first shot in the clip is the first time that we see Roger Daltrey in the film; it’s a close-up that announces, “Here he is! The star you want to see!”

When I was reading Epstein and Balasz, I was struck by the beautiful language that they used to talk about something that isn’t easily explained by words alone. The close up is a purely cinematic invention that allows us to see the inner workings of a character’s mind and focus in on a particular object that the filmmaker wants us as an audience to be aware of. This is a powerful tool that if used rightly can produce the feeling of awe within the spectator like one sees when watching Joan of Arc. Balasz says that “by means of a close-up the camera revealed hidden mind springs of life we thought we knew so well.” (273) By looking upon the visage of a character, one can know so much more about that character than merely knowing what his or her actions are. What we see is the emotions that the character is going through. These emotions might be at odds with what they are saying or doing. For instance, we see Joan of Arc go through the pros and cons of confessing that her visions were not of God but of the devil not through her pacing up and down the room, wringing her hands, but by the flutter of her eyes and the tears that stream down her face. She knows that the confession would save her life, but it would also damn her when she does eventually pass on. However we are not told this through narration, dialogue or even inter titles. We see it in her face. We see it all at once, as if the actress really was about to get executed. It takes someone a split second to read the emotions of a face and in that moment you see what is conscious and a lot of times what is unconscious. If someone had been crying, you see the red streaks down their cheeks or if someone is upset by something their furrowed brow may indicate their abstraction. By adding the close-up as a cinematic tool, we get to experience this real life phenomenon in the theater. I think that Epstein and Balasz were right in expressing their love for the close-up. Without it we would loose something inherently cinematic, the face.

Kracauer argues in “History and Fantasy” that the filmmaker may go to the “limit” (81) in portraying the peculiar modes of a certain historical era. The practical implications of historical cinema are interesting to me here: what about when we add on a layer of distance; that is, what is it like for people in the present day to watch a black-and-white silent film made in the early twentieth century that depicts even more distant events? Does the time between today’s era and that of Gance’s Napoleon, for example, become another aspect in the historical portrayal? For me, historical films made closest to my own era are the most “realistic” depictions of history. Watching a film like Napoleon I forces me to consider the limitations of cinema at that time as well as the lack of color and sound. So when Kracauer stresses shifting the emphasis from history proper to camera-reality and posits that Joan of Arc’s face is located in a kind of no-man’s-land (80) through use of the close-up, it makes me wonder how we today experience that face, through the double temporal distances of 2010s → 1920s and 1920s → 1400s. Does that extra layer cause problems for our reception and interpretation? Could or do we see Joan of Arc’s face as nowhere but rather very firmly in and of the 1920s, as well as the 1400s and the 2010s? Can mere technological innovation between then and now diminish the timelessness of her face?

Welcome to the Seminar in Film Theory! I’ll be adding content, links, and updates throughout the semester, and adding all of you as site authors within the upcoming week. Looking forward to working with you…