“We all know a genre when we see one,” (552) writes Rick Altman to convey the ambiguity of genre theory (while implicitly referencing Justice Stewart’s comment on whether Louis Malle’s Les Amants (1958) is pornographic or not – “I know it when I see it”).

Altman pinpoints at three contradictions within the existing literature of genre theory. Firstly, the way films are categorized into designated genres, namely, inclusive and exclusive lists. The former refers to when “tautological definition of the genre” (553) sets the standards for thinking about genre such as Western as “film[s] that takes place in the American West,” and the latter is those lists where the genre conventions are dissected from the films. In this sense, while one lacks detailed distinctions and presents a checklist for categorizing a film, the other picks quintessential examples and revolve the category around them – but it is not clear how that exclusive list has become the “quintessential” one: how film A is regarded as better at capturing the genre conventions and not film B, for instance, if we are not defining the genre from a pre-set understanding of motifs.

As inclusive and exclusive lists are the basis of these contradictions, it is better to present Altman’s intervention first and then show how it solves others. Briefly going over semantic and syntactic approaches, Altman takes Western as an example and presents various definitions for the genre. While some focuses on semantic elements such as “traits, attitudes, characters, shots, locations, sets, and the like” and defines Western in a set of spatial and temporal aspects the story sets in, others focus more on the “relationship linking lexical elements” (557) and argue that “vocabulary is . . . generated by this syntactic relationship, and not vice versa” (557). Altman’s intervention comes with Pennsylvania westerns: he asks if “these films construct plots and develop a frontier structure clearly derived from decades of western novels and films” but does not follow others in the genre spatially and temporally, are they considered westerns?

Altman’s formulation of semantic/syntactic argues that favouring one sort of definition over other creates the problem as these approaches are in fact complementary. Thus, the first contradiction is addressed by bringing “explanatory power” of the inclusive lists and structural focus of the exclusive ones as Altman states that “we need to recognize that not all genre films relate to their genre in the same way or to the same extent” (558). This takes us to the second contradiction, which is the semiotic approach’s failure to address the historical foundations of a genre. Altman proposes two ways for how a given genre emerges: “either a relatively stable set of semantic givens is developed through syntactic experimentation into a coherent and durable syntax, or an already existing syntax adopts a new set of semantic elements” (558). In this sense, instead of treating genres as Platonic categories, Altman considers them historically and accounts for the industry’s impact.

This is where the third, and final, contradiction Altman discusses comes into play: two strands of genre criticism, the ritual and the ideological approaches. Stemming from Levi-Strauss, the former emphasizes “on the mythical qualities of Hollywood genres” and the way the audience forms a ritual bound with the movies. In this sense, they argue, “by choosing the films it would patronize, the audience revealed its preferences and its beliefs, thus inducing Hollywood studios to produce films reflecting its desires” (555). The ideological approach, on the other hand, argues that the audience does not have the authorship power and they, in fact, “are manipulated by the business and political interests of Hollywood” (555). Altman states how two opposing camps of theory usually cite the same group of films to support their arguments because of “the fundamentally bivalent nature of any relatively stable generic syntax” (559). He thus argues that “Hollywood does not simply lend its voice to the public’s desires, nor does it simply manipulate the audience. On the contrary, most genres go through a period of accommodation during which the public’s desires are fitted to Hollywood’s priorities (and vice versa)” (559).

Then how do we distinguish between semantic and syntactic elements? Altman writes that we need to distinguish between “the primary, linguistic meaning of a text’s component parts and the secondary or textual meaning that those parts acquire through a structuring process internal to the text or to the genre. Within a single text, therefore, the same phenomenon may have more than one meaning depending on whether we consider it at the linguistic or textual level” (561).

Following Altman, the obvious destination for us would be discussing Kelly Reichardt’s Meek’s Cutoff (2010) and David Milch’s Deadwood and comparing their different genre sensibilities. As they are different forms of storytelling, textual elements differ accordingly. However, a technical aspect of both stands out: as if addressing Anne Friedberg’s call for film studies to account for different screens, the TV series uses 16:9 widescreen aspect ratio while the film uses 4:3 aspect ratio. Both are outside of conventional cinematic aspect ratio (I mean for contemporary films since 4:3 is technically the Academy ratio), but it still is curious that the TV series opts for a widescreen considering that anamorphic formats (2:1 to 2.76:1) were first used by the industry to differentiate movie theatre screens from televisions. So, my questions are: What kind of difference does this make for our perception of genre conventions in both? Considering the character archetypes Deadwood employs in portraying women, for instance, does Meek’s Cutoff’s aspect ratio makes any difference if we are to consider Emily Tetherow as the protagonist of the film? Or more generally, what does Meek’s Cutoff’s choice of aspect ratio, among many others, tell in terms of storytelling in comparison to the epic ethos of westerns-at-large?

While the Academy ratio of 4:3 used by contemporary films for various reasons (stylistic concerns, to convey a sense of being trapped, authenticity for the setting) Reichardt’s aesthetic choice also brings to mind the question of realism (as a sort of revisionist-“Revisionist-western,” Meek’s Cutoff is more concerned with everyday reality than its genre counterparts, and not using a widescreen aspect ratio helps to give it a more “real” feeling as opposed to cinematic grandeur in terms of depicting vast, open spaces): Where the audience is positioned within the film? Or, in other words, how the suture works when a film chooses a more realistic approach of storytelling as opposed to established genre conventions? Moreover, how should we conceptualize the film’s realism considering the distinction Manovich makes between realism and photorealism (“the ability to fake not our perceptual and bodily experience of reality but only its photographic image” [791])? Are genres, in this sense, mere commercial storytelling styles? If so, as a film more concerned with day-to-day life, how could we position Meek’s Cutoff among other films we have seen this year? From a “genre perspective,” is it more close to, for instance, Stagecoach (1939) or 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days (2007)?

Altman, Rick. 2009. “A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film .” In Film Theory and Criticism , edited by Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen, 552-563. Oxford University Press.

Friedberg, Anne. 2009. “The End of Cinema: Multimedia and Technological Change.” In Film Theory and Criticism, edited by Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen, 802-813. Oxford University Press.

Manovich, Lev. 2009. “From the Language of New Media.” In Film Theory and Criticism, edited by Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen, 777-794. Oxford University Press.

“How much nonsense dare these men permit themselves?” (25) – Pauline Kael

Writing on the main characters of Shadow of a Doubt (1943), Claude Chabrol and Eric Rohmer state how Young Charlie and Uncle Charlie (YC and UC, respectively) are like twins, and then they cite François Truffaut arguing that the film “is based on the number two” (72). Similarly, Robin Wood writes that YC and UC are “the two sides of the same coin” (599) and argues that this point is the most obvious in the scene at the Til Two Bar. This confrontation between YC and UC is also the sequence I would like to talk about as it lays bare the layers of meaning and the subterfuge the narrative employs. However, before that, I feel it is necessary for us to take a little detour to the auteur theory to contextualize the relevance of this particular scene because I will interpret this sequence as a companion to Pauline Kael’s criticism of auteur theorists’ approach.

As he is one of the most discussed directors in film history, I find it hard to write something original about Hitchcock’s body of work. However, it becomes much more complicated once we invoke his name in relation to the auteur theory. Is it possible to talk about Shadow of a Doubt through auteur theory without making references to director’s earlier films, or to Hitchcock himself? Even though Peter Wollen writes “(…) the ‘auteur’ film (or structure) is not an archi-film at all in this sense [as a Platonic Idea]. It is an explanatory device which specifies partially how any individual film works” (468), he still ties that individual film to a body of work when he writes how Ford and Hawks “exhibit the same thematic preoccupations, the same recurring motifs and incidents, the same visual style and tempo” (457) throughout their individual filmographies. Similarly, Andrew Sarris also emphasizes the pattern with a rather interesting comparison: “An expert production crew could probably cover up for a chimpanzee in the director’s chair. How do you tell the genuine director from the quasichimpanzee? After a given number of films, a pattern is established” (453).

Then, it becomes a little challenging to analyze an individual film without connecting it to the director’s filmography if we are to use the auteur theory. Thus, the problem starts here, as Pauline Kael brilliantly identifies while discussing how certain directors are regarded as auteurs while others are not: “There is no rule or theory involved in any of this, just simple discrimination; we judge the man from his films and learn to predict a little about his next films, we don’t judge the films from the man” (23). Moreover, both Sarris and Wollen, who is writing 10 years after Sarris, emphasize the importance of the critic in applying auteur theory. That is, the critic finds the pattern going over the director’s filmography. In this sense, auteur theory is not only about “judging the film from the man,” as Kael implicitly puts it, it is also about centering the critic, in a way, as the meaning-maker.

Surely, interpretation and getting at a meaning is what a critic does. And I agree with Wollen in his statement that “to go to the cinema, to read books, or to listen to music is to be a partisan” (470), but I am confused about what kind of partisanship Wollen promotes. As Kael states in discussing Sarris’ phrase of “elan of a soul,” it seems this “partisanship” is more of “a cult of personality” (17) where the critic identifies with the cult which they create. The confrontation scene in Shadow of a Doubt, in this sense, is fitting when it is considered with Kael’s conclusion to her wonderfully acerbic “Circles and Squares:”

“Can we conclude that, in England and the United States, the auteur theory is an attempt by adult males to justify staying inside the small range of experience of their boyhood and adolescence -that period when masculinity looked so great and important but art was something talked about by poseurs and phonies and sensitive-feminine types? And is it perhaps also their way of making a comment on our civilization by the suggestion that trash is the true film art? I ask; I do not know.” (26)

Two shots featuring YC and UC until the bar scene (it is not an exhaustive list, rather a shot or two from each sequence)

Starting at 01:12:05 and running until 01:16:25, the confrontation sequence between YC and UC in the bar is the first time that there is an object separating them when they are the only characters in the same frame. It is also the first time they are positioned across each other after YC confirms her doubts about her uncle. As they confront one another, what they have been suspecting of the other -UC being the wanted criminal and YC knowing the truth about him- turn out to be true.

Beyond its textual importance, however, the scene is significant in the way that the camera identifies with UC: in the medium two shot, the camera follows UC’s movement and stays static when YC moves (notice the slight pan and tilt in the brief periods at 01:12:37 – 39 or 01:13:18 – 20 or 01:14:59 – 01:15:02). It could be argued that this is mostly because YC sits at the table almost motionless, showing her nervousness – so the frame is arranged following the UC’s body movement. However, in the 7-second period between 01:15:13 – 20, as YC stands up and makes a move to leave the bar (for a second the camera is shaky but does not follow YC’s movement), UC tells her to “sit down,” and after she complies with this “order,” the camera waits for UC to lean forward to fully get the YC in the frame.

The camera is shaky for a second, then stays put

Another way the camera identifies with UC is the perspectives. In the close up of YC at 01:13:57, we are seeing her right across, from the perspective of UC. The following close up of UC, however, is from an angle as if it is an over the shoulder shot. Similarly, the detail shot showing the napkin in UC’s hand (01:14:06), is not from the perspective YC looks at him but again from the same angle with UC’s close up.

Close up of YC – 01:13:57

Close up of UC – 01:14:00

The detail shot – 01:14:06

This is the point this sequence is connected to Kael’s questions and the reason we took that detour at the beginning. “You think you know something, don’t you? You think you’re the clever little girl who knows something. There’s so much you don’t know. So much!” says UC to YC, undermining her disillusionment with him. “Do you know the world is a foul sty,” he continues suggesting that YC is just a naïve, weak person to react the way she did upon learning her uncle is a serial killer pursuing wealthy women – as if that is a common thing, who does not have such an uncle? Gendered nature of the “twin characters” is much more emphasized here as UC’s justification for his actions is from a very adolescent place: he does not make a philosophical case for every crime being social, he specifically argues that the world is corrupt and this justifies his crimes. Doing so, he disregards YC’s emotional response to discovering what her uncle was up to. Thus, as Kael comments on the auteur theorists’ obsession with virility as “assurance that he [director] is not trying to express himself in an art form, but treats movie-making as a professional job” (26), UC stays clear of expressing his anger and disappointment and prefers crime as a profession to get back at the world.

Louise Finch, on the other hand, brings another layer to the scene. As the former classmate of YC, she seems to be on the same “dark side” as UC, having seen “the real world” through her job. Whether it is because of her struggle for survival as any other worker, or for completely other reasons, she seems aloof and apathetic. Even when she seems interested in the jewellery, she does not show a sense of excitement. Here, we could refer to Wood’s argument for classical Hollywood cinema promoting capitalist ideology (593) by saying this is the case because of deep awareness of the fact that she will not possess anything such as that ring. Similarly, neither YC nor UC actually own that ring as it was probably stolen from one of UC’s victims. What is critical in this scene is the alignment between Louise Finch and UC in the way they look down on YC. Not only the way the scene is framed but also the way Finch makes an offhand remark about seeing YC in that bar – clearly stating that she does not belong to the “real world.” This is the point of subterfuge, as Finch’s alignment with UC makes it seem like as if the dynamic between UC and YC is not about the gendered nature of the characters.

This recalls another point of criticism Kael brings to Sarris over his praise of Walsh (as “one of the screen’s most virile directors employ[ing] an essentially feminine narrative device to dramatize the emotional vulnerability of his heroes” (454)): “it is amusing that a critic can both support these cliches of the male world and be so happy when they are violated” (13). Thus, Finch’s addition fits into this conflicted perspective of the auteur theorists. Whether one agrees with Kael or Sarris, this sequence accompanies Kael’s criticism nicely as the way the camera moves with UC makes him the dominant character in the scene and promotes his adolescent worldview.

Works Cited

Kael, Pauline. “Circles and Squares .” Film Quarterly (1963): 12-26.

Rohmer, Eric and Claude Chabrol. Hitchcock: The First Forty-Four Films. n.d.

Sarris, Andrew. “Notes on the Auteur Theory in 1962.” Film Theory & Criticism. Ed. Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen. Oxford University Press, n.d. 451-454.

Wollen, Peter. “The Auteur Theory.” Film Theory & Criticism. Ed. Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen. Oxford University Press, n.d. 455-470.

Wood, Robin. “Ideology, Genre, Auteur.” Film Theory & Criticism. Ed. Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen. n.d. 592-601.