Enunciating Pleasure in a Nameless Hero

Before taking this "Intro to Film" course, I believed that my intense love for movies stemmed from the escapist aspects of films, of going to far off places and encountering people and situations that I have never experienced. However, throughout the course, it has surprised me to learn that this love has more to do with a narcissistic self-reflexivity and a voyeuristic need, according to most of the articles we have read. My identification with the camera and characters and the gratification I derive from watching the latter is what ultimately provides cinematic-watching pleasure. Of course, this requires accepting a certain reality within the story and ignoring the discourse, or production, that creates it. According to Christian Metz in his essay, "Story/Discourse: Notes on Two Kinds of Voyeurism" he explains that the "traditional film succeeds in giving the spectator the impression that he is himself that subject," and thereby derives pleasure, when "[the film] abolishes all traces of the subject of enunciation," that is to say when the spectator is unaware of the discourse.

While watching Yimou Zhang's film, Hero, I had this very idea in mind. First, I must say, this film was perhaps one of the most visually stunning movies I have ever seen since Ang Lee's Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. The mise-en scene in this film is spectacular and is meant to invoke visual pleasure for the spectator's wandering eyes. The spectator is mesmerized by the gorgeous colors, costumes, and settings, not to mention the acrobatic insanity that ensues for most of the film. All of these elements help to enhance the story and make it more pleasing to that ever-fickle moviegoer.

However, those same acrobatic feats are what make the movie suspend reality and introduce skepticism into the spectator's mind. The action in this film is so unbelievable and magical that the spectator wonders exactly how these amazing shots could be made. For example, the scene on the lake (shown below) is incredible.


Jet Li (Nameless) and Tony Leung (Broken Sword) share an epic battle while practically defying gravity as they fly over the water. Not only that, but the water itself serves as a balancing board for them to regain their battling composure. It's stunning! Yet as soon as the spectator starts questioning how the shot was made the illusion of the story is gone and discourse comes to the forefront. Therefore, the supposed reality of the film comes into question and the pleasure derived from self-identification is somewhat lost. Pleasure can be derived from the amazing visuals, but it is not as intense as primary identification would be.

On the other hand, if there are an abundant amount of gravity defying stunts in the film, there are just as many close-ups. I believe that is where the true pleasure of the film comes from and thus when voyeurism is at it's highest. The spectator is not only watching these characters and objects, but he/she can see also them in detail. In her essay, "The Close-up," Bela Balasz explains close-ups "radiate a tender human attitude in the contemplation of hidden things, a delicate solicitude, a gentle bending over the intimacies of life-in the miniature, a warm sensibility." It is this sneak peek into a previously "hidden thing," as Balasz says, that we enjoy in film. (Hidden in the sense that it is not as defined or able to be seen in detail in long or medium shots.)


In the first ten minutes of Hero alone there are at least 15 or more close-ups showing the spectator a hidden secret, hidden object, or hidden emotion that could not have been seen in a long shot. Throughout the film there are numerous more and each one provides a hidden insight. When they are all combined in the final product, the spectator can derive far more voyeuristic pleasure from the close-ups then he/she could from the discourse-revealing gravity defying acrobatic fights. It's possible that by juxtaposing these two opposites it enhances the visual pleasure even more.

Perhaps I am a bit biased since I was watching the film under the pretense of finding some kind of meaning in order to write this blog or to have something to say about it in class. If I was just going to see the movie in theaters maybe I wouldn't be focused on any of the technical aspects but would rather just be amazed by the extravagant beauty of the movements, settings, and costumes. Who knows? Maybe by studying film itself we are more attune to the discourse and often forget to just enjoy the story.

Never Expecting the Unexpected in Cache

A collective and incredulous moan could be heard from the class after Cache ended as everyone thought, including me, "What just happened? Who sent those tapes? Majid? His son? Georges's son? Ugh." The spectator is never given this answer, and it seems like director, Michael Haneke, revels in tormenting us with that fact. As I explained previously in another post, the classical Hollywood narrative neatly wraps up the film's story line in a sugar coated version of reality. Haneke's film, however, breaks all the rules when it comes to classic cinema conventions causing the spectator to question his or her own involvement with the film as well as the director's purpose in doing so.

Cache centers around an upper-middle class family in Paris, the Laurents, that continues to receive videotapes of the outside of their house and other various strange locations. Throughout the process of trying to figure who is sending them the tapes the audience gets a glimpse into Georges Laurent's (Daniel Auteuil) childhood, specifically relating to an Algerian boy that his family was going to adopt, Majid (Maurice Benichou). By the end of the film we are left as confused, if not even more so, as to who sent the tapes from when the film began. There is no resolution to the story line whatsoever (or perhaps there is, according to one blogger). However, the audience almost expects this absence after nearly 2 hours of unconventional cinema is thrust upon them.

According to Graeme Turner in his book Film as Social Practice, "as realism became the dominant mode of feature film production, editing was required to contribute to the illusion that the film was unfolding naturally, without the intervention of the film-maker" (87). Editing thus serves as a tool for enhancing the film and making the spectator feels as if what he or she is watching is actually real without question. If the spectator beings to question the reality of the film he or she is then fighting "against 'the impression of reality'" (Bonitzer 291) that is created. One such way that this reality can be broken is by the spectator questioning "Who is watching this?" as Daniel Dayan puts it in his essay "The Tudor-Code of Classical Cinema" (125). Once that question is posed the spectator becomes aware of the mechanics of film and "[film] must hide its operations, 'naturalizing' its functioning and its messages in some way" (126) in order for that impression of reality to work. Conventionally, in order to prevent this questioning of "who is watching" is by using the shot/reverse-shot (see this favorite example of mine from Pride and Prejudice starting at about 0:20 until 4:00).


In using this technique the camera occupies the space of one of the characters and thus resolves the question of who is viewing the scene. In other words, the off-screen space becomes on-screen and it reassures the spectator that what he or she is watching is real and not just what the camera is choosing to film. The idea of the camera is no longer in the spectator's mind. Dayan explains that the "reverse shot has 'sutured' the hole opened in the spectator's imaginary relationship with the filmic field by his perception of the absent-one" (128), with the "absent-one" being the off-screen character/viewer.

This idea of "suturing" in the spectator does not happen in Cache and that is what makes it so unconventional and jarring. Several times during the film the spectator wonders "who is watching" and it feels as if there is a constant camera present. This camera feels eerie to the spectator because if we never know who is doing the viewing we think that the characters are constantly being filmed by the person sending the tapes. By pulling the spectator out of the reality of the film we become the "absent-one." We hardly ever get those shot/reverse-shots that suture us in, instead we get lots of long takes, close-ups, and long establishing shots. Even in the shots that almost appear like the conventional shot/reverse-shot, such as when Georges and his son, Pierrot (Lester Makedonsky) are in the car, we do not get the same technique. The camera pans from one character to the other, however the editing used was not that of the shot/reverse-shot because the camera does not take the position of either character, but rather some unknown "absent-one." Another example is of the dinner party scene. The camera is not taking the position of one person when there are close-ups but rather it feels like there is just a camera upon their faces and not the suturing affect of the "absent-one's" view.

With breaking convention, Haneke creates a film that encourages the spectator to rethink the narrative and the classic Hollywood ending. He does not want us to watch a film and know what to expect out of every scene or to expect an ending. He does not want us to look at the patterns of film and automatically use them as a cue for what is about to happen. Instead, I believe he pushes the spectator to form his or her own opinions about the film. The film isn't going to tell us who sent the tapes, but rather we are supposed to infer what has happened via all the information Haneke lays out for us in the film. If we closely examine his shots then we can certainly come up with answers for ourself rather than letting the camera and editing do all the work for us. Neither music nor the camera is going to tell us what to feel when we watch this film. Because of this, I hold an appreciation for the film itself and Haneke's unconventional filmic techniques. I might never figure out "whodunnit" but that's what makes the film so compelling, and it's ending so realistic!

Unresolved Feelings in Cinema Paradiso

After seeing Cinema Paradiso for the second time, I think I enjoyed it even more. As I mentioned in my previous post, movies with atypical endings always appeal to me. These endings do not necessarily wrap the plot up into a neat package. As David Bordwell puts it in his essay "Classical Hollywood Cinema: Narrational Principles and Procedures," the Hollywood "classical ending is not all that structurally decisive, being more or less arbitrary readjustment of that world knocked awry in the previous eighty minutes" (21). Most Hollywood films have made it a point to give its audience a nice pretty ending in order to satisfy, in my opinion, some cathartic need. We would all like to think that if a problem arose in our lives that it would be solved as easily as it is in most films. 

However, Cinema Paradiso presents us with the story of Salvatore Di Vita (Salvatore Cascio), or "Toto,"a little boy obsessed with cinema. He befriends Alfredo (Philippe Noiret), the town's only film projectionist, despite Alfredo's hesitation. We see the growth of this friendship through the years and Alfredo soon becomes a pseudo-father for Toto, who lost his actual father as a child. The story is presented to us as a flashback, but for the most part we do not see a clear cut problem that needs to be resolved by the end of the film. Instead we see Toto as a grown man (Jacques Perrin) remembering his experiences with Alfredo, particularly because Alfredo has died. Ultimately, there is no resolution to this "problem" of Alfredo's death.

Toto's life might have been "knocked awry" as Bordwell puts it by Alfredo's death, but that never gets resolved. Perhaps by the end, it has become even more awry with Toto feeling unsure about the life he has chosen to lead. Years earlier, Alfredo told teenage Toto (Marco Leonardi) to never look back, to never come back to their town of Giancaldo, because in the end the past will only hold you back from going forward. Toto never did go back and he never saw or wrote to Alfredo.  

Structurally, Alfredo's death was not the problem but the starting off point for the plot. By the end, we are not sure if Toto has accepted Alfredo's death, and thus in a way resolves his problem. The movie ends with Toto finally getting all the clipped love scenes that Alfredo had promised him when he was a boy. Their is closure for neither Toto nor for the audience. Alfredo died without seeing Toto ever again and Toto never saw him either. Most certainly, the ending is a bit gloomy. Yet, it seems fitting since other aspects of the film did not get wrapped up either, such as what happened with Elena (Agnese Nano). 

The movie veers from the typical Hollywood ending and leaves us with unresolved feelings. To me, this is more true to life. When someone important in our lives dies we often do not get closure. But I believe the movie ends in the way that it does with the clipped love scenes because ultimately the movie is  about the splendor of film and in leaving these clips for Toto behind, Alfredo reminds him of the bond they shared. 

Film and Its Pretty Packages

According to Walter Benjamin in his article, "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction," film is all about the camera and that "the audience's identification with the actor is really an identification with the camera" (sec. VIII). This assertion that the audience is keen to the movements of the camera more so to an actor's performance intrigued me. As a theater enthusiast (and occasional actor), I have always thought that what grabbed me in a movie or play was the actor's performance. Yet, now I am beginning to reconsider this. 

I recently saw Doubt, a film adaptation of a play by John Patrick Shanley, and I commented to my mother that I although I enjoyed the film, adaptations of plays have to be treated differently cinematographically than any other type of film. Benjamin even says that "there is indeed no greater contrast than that of the stage play to a work of art that is completely subject to or, like the film, founded in, mechanical reproduction" (sec. IX). Because a play is written to work around the the problems of audience visualization, such as by complex staging or over-the-top acting (at least in comparison to film acting), this can be problematic in film which relies on the camera to give the audience its visualization. In a play, the audience's gaze can wander and take everything in, but in a film adaptation of a play the focus immediately is set by the camera onto the actors' interactions. This can prove to be dull especially since audiences are used to more fast paced cuts and displays of distinct images. Therefore,  I think it is important for a director and cinematographer to carefully plan how to bring a play onto a very different medium such as film, because it is possible to make great adapations. Plays turned into films, like The Laramie Project and Angels in America, worked beautifully because they were treated with film conventions rather than keeping theater conventions.

Mechanics aside, film for me is more than just how a camera moves or the quality of the sound. Film affects how I see the world in numerous ways. As Benjamin puts it, film "burst this prison-world asunder by the dynamite of the tenth of a second, so that now, in the midst of its far-flung ruins and debris, we calmly and adventurously go traveling" (sec. XIII). Movies always transport me to these other worlds that I might never get to experience in real life. I could be in London one minute fearing Jack the Ripper and then in a VW Bus driving to a beauty pageant. Movies let me explore on a far cheaper budget. Yet, movies have screwed me over, so to speak. They have made me believe that all of life situations have a happy ending. Prince Charming is indeed out there; back-up will come at exactly the right time, just before my head gets blown off by the villain; the bomb will be diffused with exactly one second left; and if kidnapped I will be found. I admit, I enjoy happy endings. After all, why do I need a reminder that life can be abysmal with a sad ending? Nevertheless, those movies lacking happy or concrete endings are refreshing because they are more realistic. At times you just want to blame movies for giving you these crazy expectations for life and so realistic endings can be comforting in the sense that life is not always wrapped up so easily. Movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Y Tu Mama Tambien, and Fight Club are some of my favorites because of their unconventional storylines but also because of their unconventional endings. 

When I first saw Fight Club at the tender age of 12, it really shook my perceptions of the world. Here was this cool and vastly different guy (wrapped in the gorgeous body of Brad Pitt), Tyler Durden, telling me that, "You are not special. You are not a butterfly or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying matter as everything else." Fight Club showed me the banality of consumerism and the freedom of accepting life for what it is, a harsh and sometimes unforgiving place with darkness all around. This is not to say that my whole world view changed after watching this movie, but I was still intrigued, especially after a lifetime of Disney movies and love stories. Fight Club was really one of the first movies that made me consider the merits of the weird and unconventional. Its assertion is that life is not always a neat and pretty package meant to be coped with by escaping into our mental caves, but rather embraced and explored for what it is. 

Ultimately, film will always be a form of escape for me because movies are, after all, fantasies: people we wish we could be, places we wish we could go, and things we wish we could do. Film enables me to see the world through a camera, but maybe someday I can see the real thing.