control

Death 24x a Second by Laura Mulvey

by

via GIPHY Psycho by Alfred Hitchcock

Mulvey, Laura. 2006. Death 24x a Second: Stillness and the Moving Image. London: Reaktion Books.

Summary & Implications: What is the author’s project and why is it important now? What’s the narrative about the field that’s emerging from the reading? What narratives are silent? Whose voices are silent?

Mulvey’s project in this book is to rethink spectatorship through the lens of the new possibilities opened by home video technologies like DVD and so on, which she argues returns the notion of stillness to the otherwise moving image. Because the spectator now has control over pausing, rewinding, and revisiting only certain scenes of a film, Mulvey argues, the spectator is made more undeniably aware of the cinema’s inherent stillness (in the material form of being composed of still images played in quick sequence to simulate motion). That stillness, she continues, opens the spectator’s potential line of engagement with a film not only as a story but also as a historical document of the indexical (or, broadly, real) aspects of the film image that are usually hidden behind the story’s iconographic impulses. In other words, recognizing that film is basically made up of photographs via technological manipulation of the film image enables both what Mulvey calls a “possessive” and a “pensive” spectator.

The possessive spectator is one who uses their ability to pause, rewind, and repeat images to sadistically, in Mulvey’s terms, control the object of their spectatorship. They develop a fetishistic attachment to the image that was once only possible with the help of extratextual aids like production stills or calendar images. Interestingly, she points out that this new control over the image basically negates the strong masculine voyeuristic tendency she saw in Hollywood films in her formative “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” essay. Or, if not outright negating the voyeuristic part, it demasculinizes the gaze and turns it towards a more individualized and therefore less-gendered form. This happens for women as well as men, she claims. She also notes that the possessive spectator is one who is attuned to the star persona’s complicated balance of energy/motion (which drives the action of the film and the gaze of the camera) and stillness, which is embodied in the pose which is either captured in still images like the production photos or in the span of time when a star pauses on screen, or when a spectator pauses the action at their own whim.

The pensive spectator is less interested in control and more interested in observing how the stillness they create in a film reflects back within the film when it is played in its normal capacity. What attention does the pensive spectator bring to the film during their pauses, delays, and repititions? It is similar to the attention a film scholar brings to films, and Mulvey convincingly argues that the ability to manipulate the time of a film has turned anybody who wants to be into a film scholar who can almost automatically understand the strange play of tenses that occurs when one watches an older film. The old film plays out in what Barthes calls a time of “this was now” where the index (again, reality, kinda) is captured at a particular moment in time. He had argued that this only works with the singular photograph, while the film tends to blur that indexicality into nothingness. Mulvey rescues his assertion for film by claiming that the ability to pause it and so on snaps spectators into a position where they can recognize the indexicality of the image and the historical nature of it. This, she argues, is crucial for political readings and uses of films to bridge the gap between the present and the past in a world which tends to want to insist on the immediacy of the moment.

Crucially for Mulvey, these ways of seeing films as containing stills was not only excavated via video control. It was always hidden, from the very early experiements of the Lumière and Méliès films, in the moments of slow motion and “still” frames achieved by the repetition of cells in sequence to create the illusion of stillness within a technically still moving medium, a phenomenon she calls “delayed cinema.” These traditional filmic techniques opened opportunities to see stillness on film and recognize the importance of stillness to the medium of film. Mulvey ties this to the narrative death drive she notes motivates many films. Hence the trope of ending on a static shot to, symbolically at least, represent the death of the story being told. With this association between stillness and death, Mulvey continues to pull at the cinema’s relationship between time passing, which is inherently captured on film but now can be paused by spectators and even reversed given the right technological tools, and the ability to see beyond death. When we see old movie stars on our home screens, we are not only watching old movies, we are conjuring ghosts and that is yet another reminder that time passes and the present always comes from the past.

Context: Who is this author debating with and why? What is the context of the text’s production and distribution? What historical, cultural, etc. factors affect the way it makes meaning? Does the author seem to be in conversation with other scholars and/or paradigms? Where is this piece of writing centered in the field? What is their intervention in the literature/field? What text is this text in conversation with?

Mulvey is in closest conversation with the twin pillars of Bazin and Barthes, each of which form a crucial part of her argument about stillness via their writings on photography and its properties. In addition to the two of them, Mulvey also engages with Miriam Hansen’s augmentations of her ideas from “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” which Mulvey also engages with several times. Of course, Freud and various readings of his ideas form the foundations of Mulvey’s fundamentally psychoanalytic approach to spectatorship. I tend to bristle at psychoanalysis, but I was able to dig around in Mulvey’s version of it and find what seemed to be most crucial so I didn’t have to throw the baby out with the bathwater there.

The other bit of crucial contextual info is Mulvey’s writing at the dawn of the 21st century. She uses this temporality to position her argument within conversations about the cinema’s centenary and the nearly concomitant discussions around the “death” of cinema thanks to the invention and propagation of digital filming and projection technologies. Mulvey largely dismisses this later idea, noting that the loss of the direct materiality of film’s imprint of light and shadow is retained in all but a literal sense when what happens is instead a numerical translation of the same data. The indexicality is not fundamentally lost, she claims, and I tend to agree. Otherwise, her arguments tend to rest on the affordances of the DVD, which was picked up and expanded upon by Benson-Allott less than a decade later.

via GIPHY Journey to Italy by Roberto Rossellini

Methodology: What is the methodological framework of this text? What methodological moves or questions does the author engage? What is their object of analysis?

Mulvey’s is a largey theoretical text, working mostly with other theorists who wrote on similar subjects to develop her own thoughts. She does, however, spend three chapters dedicated primarily to close readings of Psycho, Journey to Italy, and the works of Abbas Kiarostami. Here she draws out the ideas developed in the first half of her book about the role of stillness in cinema and how it connects or doesn’t to the death drive/passage of time inherent in cinema and narrative. She also delves into some smaller close readings in several of the other chapters, but those are used mostly to demonstrate ideas rather than as the primary purpose of her text.

Rhetorical Moves: What are the major rhetorical moves of the author’s arguments?

Mulvey devleops her points by first talking about how the video spectator’s ability to pause a film is an extension of the filmmaker’s ability to maniuplate the flow of time in their film. After showing that the spectator’s manipulation is related to the filmmaker’s manipulation, she traces how filmmakers used the manipulation of time to their own ends in metaphorical expressions of death and connects it to the uncanny of both Freud and Jentsch. She goes on to connect these ideas to narrative theories of death as a metaphorical ending to stories. After exploring this idea in her three close reading chapters, she comes back to develop a theory of spectatorship based on the ability to pause, rewind, and reorder a film via technology, which she claims creates a two new kinds of spectators, the possessive and the pensive.

Engagement & Application: How do I engage this text? How does this apply to my work? Does it support or provide a counterargument or model for strong intro or lit review? In other words, why is this piece of writing useful to me and/or how is it limited (bad writing style, problematic, didn’t consider x, y, and z)? Does it intersect with other items on the list?

Though I don’t buy most psychoanalytic theories, Mulvey was still quite convincing in her explanation of the way that home video opens new possibilites in recognizing the stillness at the center of film as a medium, and in the implications thereof. She also inspired a new way of thinking about the legacyquel that I’ll have to ponder on. Ultimately, her work is not only salvageable from the psychoanalysis but likely crucial to some of my upcoming work.

Key Terms: What terms are key to the author’s argument, and are they operationalized explicitly or implicitly?

stillness, movement, death, uncanny, spectatorship, pensive spectator, possessive spectator, fetish, voyeur, the death drive, narrative, video, delayed cinema, aesthetic of delay, automata, cinephilia, star, star system, pose, control, power

Significant Quotations: What key quotations from this work would I want to have quick access to?

Delayed cinema works on two levels: first of all it refers to the actual act of slowing down the flow of film. Secondly it refers to the delay in time during which some detail has lain dormant, as it were, waiting to be noticed. There is a loose parallel here with Freud’s concept of deferred action, the way the unconscious preserves a specific experience, while its traumatic effect might only be realized by another, later but associated, event. (8)

A dialectical relationship between the old and new media can be summoned into existence, creating an aesthetic of delay. In the first instance, the image itself is frozen or subjected to repetition or return. But as the new stillness is enhanced by the weight that the cinema’s past has acquired with passing time, its significance goes beyond the image itself towards the problem of time, its passing, and how it is represented or preserved. At a time when new technologies seem to hurry ideas and their representations at full tilt towards the future, to stop and to reflect on the cinema and its history also offers the opportunity to think about how time might be understood within wider, contested, patterns of history and mythology. Out of this pause, a delayed cinema gains a political dimension, potentially able to challenge patterns of time that are neatly ordered around the end of an era, its ‘before’ and its ‘after’. The delayed cinema gains further significance as outside events hasten the disappearance of the past and strengthen the political appropriation of time. (22-3)

The dialectic between old and new produces innovative ways of thinking about the complex temporality of cinema and its significance for the present moment in history. As the flow of cinema is displaced by the process of delay, spectatorship is affected, reconfigured and transformed so that old films can be seen with new eyes and digital technology, rather than killing the cinema, brings it new life and new dimensions. The process of delay not only bring stillness into visibility but also alters the traditionally linear structure of narrative, fragmenting its continuities. (26)

To look back into the reality of that lost world [of the early 1900s] by means of the cinema is to have the sensation of looking into a time machine. However cliched the concept, the presence of that reality, of the past preserved, becomes increasingly magical and uncanny. Furthermore, as electronic and digital technologies have overtaken the cinema and, as a new ‘new’ arrives, the old ‘new’ becomes relegated to ‘the old’. Paradoxically and incidentally, the new technologies have contributed further to bringing the uncanny back to the cinema. The ease with which the moving image can now be halted exposes the cinema’s mechanisms and the illusion of its movement, as though the beautiful automaton had become stuck in a particular pose. (52)

Cinema’s forward movement, the successive order of film, merges easily into the order of narrative. Linearity, causality and the linking figure of metonymy, all crucial elements in story-telling, find a correspondence in the unfolding, forward-moving direction of film. […] But at the end, the aesthetics of stillness returns to both narrative and the cinema. Death as a trope that embodies the narrative’s stillness, its return to an inanimate form, extends to the cinema, as though the still frame’s association with death fuses into the death of the story, as though the beautiful automaton was to wind down into its inanimate, uncanny, form. In this sense, endings present different kind of aesthetic exchange between narrative and cinema. Freud’s concept of ‘the death drive’ negotiates between the two, including, as it does, movement towards an end as the desire to return to an ‘earlier’ state. (69-70)

While the flow of the image at 24 frames a second tends to assert a ‘now-ness’ to the picture, stillness allows access to the time of the film’s registration, its ‘then-ness’. This is the point, essentially located in the single frame, where the cinema meets the still photograph, both registering a moment of time frozen and thus fossilized. (102)

As people and history recede into the past, the traces they leave on the world mark their absence, the impossibility of regaining time, but also bear witness to the reality of their once-upon-a-time presence. With the cinema, the past is preserved in the full appearance of reality. In the Pompeii sequence [of Journey to Italy], filmed in 1952, with the living presence of the anonymous workmen as well as Hollywood stars, another layer of fossilized history is superimposed on the ruins of the city. Those alive in the scene, then, are now as fossilized in their screen image as the plaster casts of the Pompeiian couple. (107)

The discovery of a particular sequence or segment that responds to textual analysis necessarily leads to questions of film form both in terms of material and language. To halt, to return and to repeat these images is to see cinematic meaning coming into being as an ordinary object becomes detached from its surroundings, taking on added cinematic and semiotic value. But delaying the image, extracting it from its narrative surroundings, also allows it to return to its context and to contribute something extra and unexpected, a deferred meaning, to the story’s narration. (150-1)

New ways of consuming old movies on electronic and digital technologies should bring about a reinvention of textual analysis and a new wave of cinephilia. But the cinema is deeply affected by the passing of time itself. Now, to look at films such as those made by Douglas Sirk is to have the impression of looking into history. Even studio sets and stars take on the status of document, and close readings inevitably lead to questions of context as well as text. But reflection on film now leads not only to its surrounding history. To see Imitation of Life now, after Lana Turner’s death and, no doubt, the death of many of the extras surrounding her on the set, is to see time itself caught and fossilized into the illusion of movement. Now, as Lana Turner runs down the steps onto the Coney Island set, conjuring up the meanings inscribed into Sirk’s film and her performance, she also shifts between the ghostly and the living. Her presence brings with it the cinema’s unique ability to return and repeat the past, which becomes both more real and more mysterious as the film’s fragment is itself subject to repetition and return. (160)

When a film industry streamlines its star system, instantly recognizable, iconic screen actors produce a highly stylized performance, enhanced by an equally highly stylized star-focused cinema. Start performance is, not inevitably but very often, the source of screen movement, concentrating the spectator’s eye, localizing the development of the story and providing its latent energy. But the great achievement of star performance is an ability to maintain a fundamental contradiction in balance: the fusion of energy with a stillness of display. However energetic a star’s movement might seem to be, behind it lies an intensely controlled stillness and an ability to pose for the camera. Reminiscent, figuratively, of the way that the illusion of movement is derived from still frames, so star performance depends on pose, moments of almost invisible stillness, in which the body is displayed for the spectator’s visual pleasure through the mediation of the camera. (162)

Watching Hollywood films delayed both reinforces and breaks down these oppositions. The narrative drive tends to weaken if the spectator is able to control its flow, to repeat and return to certain sequences while skipping others. The smooth linearity and forward movement of the story become jagged and uneven, undermining the male protagonist’s command over the action. The process of identification, usually kept in place by the relation between plot and character, suspense and transcendence, loses its hold over the spectator. And the loss of ego and self-consciousness that has been, for so long, one of the pleasures of the movies gives way to an alert scrutiny and scanning of the screen, lying in wait, as it were, to capture a favorite or hitherto unseen detail. With the weakening of narrative and its effects, the aesthetic of the film begins to become ‘feminized’, with the shift in spectatorial power relations dwelling on pose, stillness, lighting and the choreography of character and camera. Or, rather, within the terms of the ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’ model, the aesthetic of pleasure of delayed cinema moves towards fetishistic scopophilia that, I suggested, characterized the films of Josef Von Sternberg. These films, most particularly the Dietrich cycle, elevate the spectator’s look over that of the male protagonist and privilege the beauty of the screen and mystery of situation over suspense, conflict or linear development. The ‘fetishistic spectator’ becomes more fascinated by image than plot, returning compulsively to privileged moments, investing emotion and ‘visual pleasure’ in any slight gesture, a particular look or exchange taking place on the screen. Above all, as these privileged moments are paused or repeated, the cinema itself finds a new visibility that renders them special, meaningful and pleasurable, once again confusing photogénie and fetishism. (165)

The possessive spectator commits an act of violence against the cohesion of a story, the aesthetic integrity that holds it together, and the vision of its creator. But, more specifically, the sadistic instinct is expressed through the possessive spectator’s desire for mastery and will to power. In the role reversal between the look of the spectator and the diegetic look of the male protagonist, the figure that had been all powerful both on and off the screen is now subordinated to manipulation and possession. Film performance is transformed by repetition and actions begin to resemble mechanical, compulsive gestures. The cinema’s mechanisms take possession of the actor or star and, as their precise, repeated gestures become those of automata, the cinema’s uncanny fusion between the living and the dead merges with the uncanny fusion between the organic and the inorganic, the human body and the machine. (171)

Bellour makes the crucial point that a moment of stillness within the moving image and its narrative creates a ‘pensive spectator’ who can reflect ‘on the cinema’. Not only can the ‘pensive’ spectator experience the kind of reverie that Barthes associated with the photograph alone, but this reverie reaches out to the nature of cinema itself. This pause for the spectator, usually ‘hurried’ by the movement of both film and narrative, opens a space for consciousness of the still frame within the moving image. Similarly, the pensive spectator who pauses the image with new technologies may bring to the cinema the resonance of the still photograph, the association with death usually concealed by the film’s movement, its particularly strong inscription of the index. These reflections are not lost when the film is returned to movement. On the contrary, they continue and inflect the film’s sense of ‘past-ness’. And the ‘pensive’ spectator ultimately returns to the inseparability of stillness from movement and flow; in Bellour’s words, ‘two kinds of time blend together’. (186)

Sometime after writing ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, I tried to evolve an alternative spectator, who was driven, not by voyeurism, but by curiosity and the desire to decipher the screen, informed by feminism and responding to the new cinema of the avant-garde. Curiosity, a drive to see, but also to know, still marked a utopian space for a political, demanding visual culture, but also one in which the process of deciphering might respond to the human minds long standing interest and pleasure in solving puzzles and riddles. This curious spectator may be the ancestor of the pensive spectator and the cinema of delay unlocks the pleasure of decipherment, not only for an elite but also for anyone who has access to the new technologies of consumption. Of particular interest is the relation between the old and the new, that is, the effect of new technologies on cinema that has now aged. Consciousness of the passing of time affects what is seen on the screen: that sense of a ‘sea-change’ as death overwhelms the photographed subject affects the moving as well as the still image. There is, perhaps, a different kind of voyeurism at stake when the future looks back with greedy fascination at the past and details suddenly lose their marginal status and acquire the aura that passing time bequeaths to the most ordinary objects. (191-2)

The tape creates a dialogue between the cinema of the past and video, between the special insights of a 1960s critic and the new technology that makes critics as of us all. This exchange creates a dialectical relation between the old and the new, breaking down the separation from the past from which nostalgia is derived. But at the same time, it is elegiac: there is no escape from passing time and death itself. (194)

Killer Tapes and Shattered Screens by Caetlin Benson-Allott

by

David Cronenberg’s Videodrome

Benson-Allott, Caetlin. 2013. Killer Tapes and Shattered Screens: Video Spectatorship from VHS to File Sharing. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Summary & Implications: What is the author’s project and why is it important now? What’s the narrative about the field that’s emerging from the reading? What narratives are silent? Whose voices are silent?

Caetlin Benson-Allott writes persuasively that the old theories of film spectatorship should now be adjusted based on the fact that the cinematic experience is no longer the most dominant form of filmic consumption. She argues that home video now holds the position of being the primary way one sees films (and that’s certainly true in the very present moment of Summer 2020, thanks to the dangers of COVID-19). She argues that because much of spectatorship theory is based on the cinematic apparatus as a structuring metaphor, the fact that most people now watch movies at home should trigger a revision of spectatorship based on the aspects of home video as the structuring metaphor. She continues to claim that the shift to home video has changed the way filmmakers compose their films and address their audiences, which covers everything from the prevalence of over-the-shoulder shots (that, she claims, provides a presence within the film that excuses the outside attention grabbers like a partner walking in front of the tv or other such distractions) to color changes (which, she argues comes with other shifts in the political nature of the films that have changed).

Similar to Connor‘s claims that films are always about their own making, Benson-Allott uses horror films, which are always about cultural anxieties, to show how many films within that genre are places where filmmakers worked through the anxieties related to the shift to home video viewership. This comes in the form of 5 close-reading-based chapters, which follow a general historical/temporal path. The first, a series of readings of George Romero’s Dead series sees how one filmmaker shifted storytelling and filmmaking techniques in response to changes in distribution models. Then Benson-Allott reads Videodrome and The Ring for their focus on the VHS as a space for thinking through anxieties of cultural imperialism and reproduction/piracy, with the former coming at the start of the home video phenomenon and Canada’s fears of US media imperialism and the latter coming at the inflection point between VHS and DVD, a supposedly more secure home video format which allowed the filmmakers to truly demonize the easy reproducibility inherent in VHS. Then Benson-Allott looks at the Grindhouse film(s) and how they create a simulacrum of what she calls “cinematicity” or the “unique process and experience of theatrical exhibition” as a singular cinema object even as they also prepare for their eventual permanent home on separate home video discs, a fate which would render that simulacrum even more visible and pointed in an effort to bring attention to the falseness of the cinematic “truth” (133). Benson-Allott wraps up her close readings with a chapter on what she calls “faux footage” horror films, from The Blair Witch Project to Cloverfield, each of which, she claims, calls attention to the dangers of peer-to-peer file sharing as a place where unverifiable footage (files) could lead to hauntings and other dangerous outcomes. 

Benson-Allott closes her book in a brief but dense conclusion, thinking through the supposed “freedom” that home viewers feel in relation to the films they watch. She claims that the freedoms associated with home viewership are still largely structured and controlled. In other words, you get some limited temporal control over the film you watch (you can choose when to start it, and to pause it for a moment or overnight if necessary, and you can of course rewind and fastforward and jump around) but that the temporal freedom is not total in that you are not able to choose different orders or takes or events to happen. The movie is still the movie. She also claims that things like DVD menus and the like are used to put your viewership of the film in a particular context, a certain limited perspective on the film. In other words, though the home video spectator is more empowered than the cinema spectator, who is traditionally seen as subjecting themselves before a film, that power is still quite limited and used to turn the spectator into a subject, just one of a different variety.

Benson-Allott’s readings and claims are largely persuasive, as she calls attention to a platform that has largely been either ignored or only marginally considered. I hope that my own work in the future can further extend some of the claims she makes here into the streaming age.

Context: Who is this author debating with and why? What is the context of the text’s production and distribution? What historical, cultural, etc. factors affect the way it makes meaning? Does the author seem to be in conversation with other scholars and/or paradigms? Where is this piece of writing centered in the field? What is their intervention in the literature/field? What text is this text in conversation with?

Benson-Allott’s major task is to decentralize spectator theory put forwards by apparatus theorists like Christian Metz, Laura Mulvey, and company. She does so not by following other critiques of that theory on the grounds of its totalizing vision of the cinematic apparatus from which nobody can escape but by historicizing it as once being somewhat explanatory in its concept of the way films position their spectators but that movies now position their spectators differently because those spectators are most likely to be spectating at home. In the process of this project, she also responds to D. N. Rodowick’s musings on the “end of cinema” to claim that movies aren’t dying, just changing. She uses Vivian Sobchack’s phenomenology to talk about the way VHS and bodies interact in Videodrome, Barbara Creed’s concept of the monstrous feminine to write about the abject horror of the VHS tape as womb, and Derrida’s simulacrum to think about what it means for something to have cinematicity. Each of these theorists are given their due and woven into the larger work Benson-Allott is doing here.

As is becoming a refrain here, though, Benson-Allott’s book has its limitations in that it doesn’t quite come up to the present anymore. What does the proliferation of streaming channels, especially now that companies are consolidating many of their back catalogues under their own service mean for what she lays out here? In many ways her text is easily extensible to the present moment, which marks it as a very valuable text indeed. But it is limited in that she is necessarily unable to address the things that have come to be after the time of her writing.

Eduardo Sánchez and Daniel Myrick’s The Blair Witch Project

Methodology: What is the methodological framework of this text? What methodological moves or questions does the author engage? What is their object of analysis?

Benson-Allott takes the concept of spectator theory and apparatus theory under a microscope using horror films for close readings in an effort to understand how spectatorship changes when one is sitting on their couch watching a movie on their tv instead of in a movie theater. Each close reading has several subsections, which usually revolve around explaining one aspect of the film-in-question’s nature, from the filmic techniques to the political and technological context, including often one major relevant film theorist as noted above.

Rhetorical Moves: What are the major rhetorical moves of the author’s arguments?

Benson-Allott gets most of her rhetorical power from the strength of her close-readings and the context she provides in each chapter for those close readings. She adds on to spectator theory in a valuable and important way, critiquing it for being too narrowly focused and not adapting to the realities of spectatorship over time. In tracking how home video spectatorship was thought about through the films themselves, Benson-Allott is able to provide examples of how this work can be done beyond what she covers in her book as well, opening the door for further work done in her model after the fact. In that way, Benson-Allott provides a great example of scholarship, one to emulate.

Engagement & Application: How do I engage this text? How does this apply to my work? Does it support or provide a counterargument or model for strong intro or lit review? In other words, why is this piece of writing useful to me and/or how is it limited (bad writing style, problematic, didn’t consider x, y, and z)? Does it intersect with other items on the list?

This one really opened some doors for me. For one, it triggered a breakthrough in my conception of the legacyquel as designed for home viewership on platforms like Disney+ (which houses all of the Star Wars films and much of the ancillary material) and HBO MAX (which houses many of the DC universe films). I’m excited to work through the details and consequences of this new area and way of thinking for my project.

Key Terms: What terms are key to the author’s argument, and are they operationalized explicitly or implicitly?

home video (as an expansive term encompassing basically any technology/platform that allows movies to be watched outside of a theater), spectatorship, apparatus, formats, spectator, simulacrum, cinematicity, postcinematic, control, power, film subject, video subject, phenomenology, abject

Significant Quotations: What key quotations from this work would I want to have quick access to?

This study takes the polemical position that video distribution changed and is changing spectatorship and that film and new media theorists must attend to these changes. We must attend to the ways video platforms affect the motion picture experience if we want to continue to comment on the ideological significance of motion pictures for contemporary culture, politics, and subjectivity. (2)

Like movies about video and movies made possible by video (such as the aforementioned 1980s horror cycle or the concomitant increase in children’s features, or “kid vid”), movies made in periods of technological change offer a deep well of material for new theories of motion picture spectatorship in an age of multiplatform distribution. The producers and artists working within the US and Canadian entertainment industries know that most viewers approach their products through one video format or another; only “film studies” continues to insist on the primacy of the cinematic experience, and we do so in spite of our own video-enabled research and pedagogy. (6-7)

[…] I examine how innovations in motion picture exhibition have changed the way filmmakers imagine and address the spectator. What one can show influences what one can say, so the effect of video platforms on filmmaking matters not only because they influence production (as Janet Wasko, Frederick Wasser, and David Bordwell have shown) but also because they shape the transmission of ideas. By examining how the movies’ production design, cinematography, and editing anticipate video distribution, we begin to recognize new patterns and how they interpellate the spectator. By reading these formal innovations in conversation with the narratives they convey, we can see how filmmakers negotiate story, platform, and form to achieve a particular response and a viewer. (26)

Thus I argue (contra Neale and Bordwell) that the allegedly disposable shoulder represents not a concession to but a thematization of video exhibition, specifically of the other video viewers whose bodily presence remains irritatingly visible during televisual exhibition and so must be psychically repressed from one’s movie experience. This need does not exist in the same way at the cinema, where silhouettes of heads tend to block the bottom of the screen instead. Hence Romero’s “over-the-disposable-shoulder shot” – which was nowhere near as prevalent in Day of the Dead and non-existent in Dawn of the Dead and Night of the Living Dead – must be recognized as a new video convention that reflects the current mode of consumption. Indeed, it could even be read as creating a spectatorial continuum between the video viewer and the diegetic look that further involves the spectator in the narrative. (56)

Unlike remakes, reboots rarely follow the narratives of their antecedents and typically create new mythologies for the old horrors, mythologies that can then produce a new line of sequels. In some cases such reinventions can lead to innovations in the horror genre – such as the attention to feminine class markers in the new Texas Chain Saw Massacre – but most reboots merely cash in on name recognition. (59-60)

Videodrome (1983) was among the first narrative representations of home video and develops preexisting anxieties about the technology’s capacity for surveillance, psychic violence, and espionage. As early as 1977, movies like Demon Seed began to suggest that viewers beware lest their new consumer electronics consume their lives and identities. Yet few of the movies about video address the machines of exhibition themselves, much less our embodied encounters with them. Cronenberg’s Videodrome and Gore Verbinski’s The Ring (2002) are unique in their willingness to focus on videocassettes as material objects we manipulate – and are manipulated by. These two movies bookend the videotape’s reign as the dominant motion picture platform, and both use cassettes as metaphors for larger media takeovers (specifically the Americanization of Canadian media and the threat of digital piracy). They do not bear the traces of video distribution in the same ways that Romero’s later zombie movies do, but they do advance the artistic tradition of self-reflexive filmmaking by turning the camera on the VCR and the cultural battles it catalyzed. Through unsettling narrative and formal techniques they ask how home video reconstructs the film spectator and in whose interests these changes occur. (70)

As this chapter will show, Videodrome uses the story of Max Renn’s involvement with Videodrome to contend that video spectatorship forces the viewer to adapt physically to suit a new technological environment. It will then explore how the movie imbricates Max’s story in a series of explicit references to Canadian media history and uses these connections to ground its reading of consumer electronics in a surreal critique of the United States’ technocultural imperialism. After outlining this political intervention, I will argue that Videodrome offers its spectator a phenomenology of new media through a radically destabilizing form of first-person filmmaking. (71-2)

Grindhouse invokes cinematic abjection to emphasize the historical contingency of spectatorship. Its simulacrum of suboptimal viewing conditions thus brings the spectator’s attention to the here-and-now-ness of spectatorship and utopian fantasies about the cinema. For inasmuch as the movie depicts a cinematic utopia – and its idealized theatrical nonplace that never was – it drags the spectator into this fantasy as well, since she is also part of the motion picture apparatus. Indeed, the motion picture apparatus and the simulacrum interpellate the spectator similarly. (146)

By emphasizing the thrills of illicit viewing but associating it with inevitable death, [faux footage] movies make pirate spectatorship horrifying. Taken on their own, these movies can seem innocuous, far-fetched, even silly, but read within their industrial context, including the MPAA’s war on piracy, they offer intimations about the dire consequences of illicit spectatorship that may scare viewers away from the pleasures of piracy. Like Videodrome and The Ring, they promise death to pirates, yet they do so by uniting tropes from horror films, reality television, and MPAA public service announcements. Indeed, they teach the spectator not to go searching for underground videos, because what she finds could be deadly. (168)

Whereas cinema and television immerse the spectator in the illusion of voyeurism or indulge her in narcissistic fantasies of panoptical vision, the prerecorded video apparatus replaces such powers with temporal control. That is, all video playback technologies give their subjects (limited) temporal control over the motion picture and sustain the subjects fantasy of coherence and autonomy through an illusion of temporal mastery. (204)

Prerecorded video compromises some of those [cinematic spectatorial] pleasures by making the apparatus visible to the spectator and foregrounding her participation in it. Indeed, it can be rather difficult to prostrate oneself to a thirty-inch screen when other people, noises, or technologies keep interrupting. The prerecorded video apparatus compensates for these losses by allowing the viewer to fantasize that she is in possession of the text instead of being possessed by it. Not only can the spectator physically possess her video tape or disk, but she may experience similar feelings of possession regarding her digital files. […] Through possession, prerecorded video gives its spectator a powerful illusion that she can control time and marshal outside events to suit her schedule. (206-7)

In foregrounding pre-recorded video as an apparatus, I am suggesting that the video subject internalizes the prerecorded video interface much as she does the remoteness of the cinematic projector or the flow of various television channels. More than any individual technology, the persistence of the basic functions of video playback has come to unify and define the spectator’s experience of video. The video spectator possesses temporal control over a movie, but that is not the same as the power of self-determination, the power to imagine what it means to be a video subject. (207)

Thanks to prerecorded video, it now seems that we can watch what we want when we want, but who we understand ourselves to be in that moment remains a function of the motion picture apparatus, because spectatorship is always a power play. (208)

The Studios After the Studios by J.D. Connor

by

Steven Spielberg’s Jurassic Park

Connor, J.D. 2015. The Studios After the Studios: Neoclassical Hollywood (1970-2010). Post-45. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

Summary & Implications: What is the author’s project and why is it important now? What’s the narrative about the field that’s emerging from the reading? What narratives are silent? Whose voices are silent?

In this book, J.D. Connor writes a history of what he calls “neoclassical Hollywood,” which he defines as the period when the studios aspired to the kind of control over production that they had in the classical period and used that aspiration as inspiration in developing various strategies of control, which they in turn attempted to allegorize within the films they made. These allegorized authorial moves clashed with other authorial voices (both traditional (directors, writers, actors) and not (special effects artists, talent agencies)) such that Connor claims a movie can always be read as an allegory of its own making, as a struggle between competing authorial voices asserting the supremacy of their kind of control over the creative process.

Using this strategy of reading films as allegories of their own making, Connor then traces various trends over the 40 years he covers in his book. He shows how auteur directors weren’t the only paranoid authorial voices in film production in the 70s, how a studio like Paramount asserted its power through a commitment to making movies with high concepts and an emphasis on design as a studio trademark up through the 80s, and how a talent agency was able to negotiate packages (of writer/director/actors) that assuaged studio fears by mitigating risks while asserting the talent and agency’s control over the process rather than the studio’s. He examines how Paramount was able to iterate on the idea of the pop-musicals from Saturday Night Fever through Footloose and at each turn assert more and more control over the film’s final form. He looks, also at that studio’s cultivation and control over the first decade+ of Eddie Murphy’s film career such that by the end of that time the studio could be credibly said to be embodied by Murphy (and vice versa). Then he turns towards the concept of chaos theory and how it both provided a handy storytelling device and an explanation for how the various competing forces of authorship in the neoclassical era interacted and created outcomes readable within the texts of the films.

It is a big ask that Connor makes of us, his readers, to believe that literally every movie made within this system could be read in this way. He asserts this way of thinking several times and in several ways, though I think the most valuable argument he makes is in the sheer volume of believable readings he does of dozens of films throughout the text. The other big claim he makes that I’m less sure about is the cutoff of the neoclassical period that he writes of. He looks at two phenomena that he claims signals the end of this neoclassical period: the failure of several large media-conglomerate mergers and the brief bout of epics like Gladiator, Troy, and Kingdom of Heaven which, he claims, are less about the founding of a national identity as the genre might have traditionally been understood but about the retreat of empire, which he allegorizes to the retreat of the studio. Here once again the problem of writing about recent history rears its head. While I can definitely see the retreat of the studios from a certain position in the epics Connor writes of here, the fact remains that the studios have only gotten more interested in asserting some kind of control over their output, and that, I’d argue has happened in the guise of superhero movies and legacyquels (my own area of study). Combine this with the increasing dominance of megastudios like Disney (who now owns Fox’s back catalogue and current productions) and you’ll see that the things Connor posits as signs of a changing industry aren’t necessarily the death knell he sees them as.

Connor touches even less than Langford did on the expanded possibilities for filmmakers in the 80s and 90s, and doesn’t really look too hard at the indie scene as a force within Hollywood, except to show that Hollywood was interested in creating what he calls “indiewood,” or the small, studio controlled “indie” centers like Fox Searchlight, but each of these is very readily subsumed within the larger corporate structure that Connor focuses on, peculiarities be damned.

Ridley Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven

Context: Who is this author debating with and why? What is the context of the text’s production and distribution? What historical, cultural, etc. factors affect the way it makes meaning? Does the author seem to be in conversation with other scholars and/or paradigms? Where is this piece of writing centered in the field? What is their intervention in the literature/field? What text is this text in conversation with?

Like Langford before him, Connor largely argues against the three-headed monster of Bordwell, Thompson and Staiger, who posited the dominant understanding of the classical era of Hollywood and each produced some update on that for what Connor calls the neoclassical era. Connor, like Langford, most directly counters Bordwell’s account of the intensified classicism that he claims dominates the post-classical era. While there may be some retained classicism, Connor proposes that it comes from the multi-valanced struggle for authorship and the studios’ aspiration to the kind of control they had under the classical system. Against Thompson he argues that the 3 act structure she identifies as central to the neoclassical Hollywood text could and should really be 4 acts, with the second split into two around a decisive turn at the midway point.

Mostly, though, Connor argues with the whole field’s desire to look towards the traditional channels of authorship while proposing his, which accounts for all the competing forces of authorship as exposed within studio histories and the films themselves.

Methodology: What is the methodological framework of this text? What methodological moves or questions does the author engage? What is their object of analysis?

As stated above, Connor largely goes chronologically through the 40 years he covers here, though there is some overlap at either end of some chapters, addressing the industrial changes while showing how the studios (and occasionally other entities in contention with the studios) attempted to assert control over the production process in those various circumstances. He reads texts allegorically to excavate those struggles for authorial control within the very films themselves.

To get at the history side, Connor will look through interviews with studio heads or other relevant figures, earnings calls, financial statements, business media (like Variety), and promotional materials in addition to the films themselves.

Rhetorical Moves: What are the major rhetorical moves of the author’s arguments?

Connor’s greatest strength is his breadth of scope and his ability to tie all kinds of seemingly disparate films into a singular narrative. While some may resist that kind of narrativizing, it is nonetheless compelling because it attends to a less-analyzed area of interest and is well-articulated.

Engagement & Application: How do I engage this text? How does this apply to my work? Does it support or provide a counterargument or model for strong intro or lit review? In other words, why is this piece of writing useful to me and/or how is it limited (bad writing style, problematic, didn’t consider x, y, and z)? Does it intersect with other items on the list?

I found myself, like Connor assumes many of his readers would find themselves, in a kind of constant back and forth over whether I totally bought his claims or not. On the one hand, they’re intensely compelling, particularly in the areas like the discussion of high concept filmmaking and the brief reign of chaos theory within Hollywood. On the other, these kinds of readings are great for making a historical argument about what a studio’s intentions/motivations/commitments were at a given time, but less compelling (at least less necessarily compelling) when it comes to the more culturally based kinds of readings that I’m more interested in. Connor is also largely uninterested in the audience except as a concept within a studio’s decision-making process, which doesn’t really gel with my conception of what matters in filmmaking. However, I can’t say that I won’t go back to him as I start to think about my dissertation, especially as I find myself interested in the same kind of contestation of authorial voices that Connor writes about here and the circumstances that allow for certain kinds of production in certain cultural moments.

Steven Spielberg’s Jaws

Key Terms: What terms are key to the author’s argument, and are they operationalized explicitly or implicitly?

studio, authorship, aspiration, neoclassical, classical, control, chaos theory, talent agency, conglomerate, logorrhea (the bleeding of the studio logo into the world of the film, which inculcates the studio as an entity within the film itself), allegory, design, metonymy

Significant Quotations: What key quotations from this work would I want to have quick access to?

While critics find it easy enough to demonstrate that movies are about many things, and while historians have done prodigious work tracing the operations of the business itself, with very few exceptions we have not explored Hollywood’s peculiar sort of self-representation in sufficient detail, and we have not committed ourselves to reading films as corporate and industrial allegories as deeply as we should. […] We know that movies are at the center of the culture, or very near it; we know that years of labor and millions of dollars go into making and marketing them; we know that they solicit and often reward extreme levels of attention; yet somehow we don’t quite know how labor and capital are transmogrified into story and style – or, how this labor and this capital become this story spun this way. And whenever we do discover a path that leads from the production to the narrative, or from the story to the backstory, that path seems contingent and willful, a desperate mark left by a “defenseless” individual protesting a “ferocious” institution. (1)

I propose that movies (Hollywood movies, in this era) are about the business more intensely – both more personally and more collectively. They are representations of experience, yes, but they can be much besides: scenarios, strategies, suggestions, pleas, business plans – there’s no ruling out the role of the motion picture in the lives or careers or histories of its creators. The pressures that individuals, groups, guilds, professions, and corporations face can be channeled through their collective work on films. The balance between competing potential authors can be worked out on the page, on set, and on the screen far more precisely than criticism typically admits. Working out the correct balance among different accounts of the system and the individual’s role within it required the efforts of highly talented participants. And in the period I am discussing, from about 1970 to about 2010, these participants were guided by the conventions of their crafts and the imperatives of their industry toward classical values of necessity, continuity, and complementarity even when elements in the writing, or design, or effects were riotously excessive. Against those forces that would dissipate individual or corporate identity, Hollywood neoclassicism was in large part and effort to brand movies and their studios, and in the cases of the major franchises, it succeeded. In the process, movies became more intensely “about the business” than ever. (1-2)

The case of Greystoke suggests the following general form: allegory emerges where industrial pressures intersect and where creative actors are able to imagine symbolic solutions to real problems. As we trace the overarching question of the relationship between particular movies and the particular financial and labor relations underpinning their making and marketing, broader questions arise. There are questions of prevalence and significance, history and possibility, method and epistemology. How widespread are these allegories? And how important are they to the operation of the system? How and how intensely are movies about the business? On what occasions does the intensity wax and wane? Is there a history to the very possibility that a movie might be about the business? If movies are, at some level about the business, what are the contours of those levels? And if it is simple enough to say that movies are about the business, why don’t we take that idea seriously? How could our culture continue to elude our attempts to understand it? (5)

If the practical project of this book is to justify the allegorical interpretation of individual films, and the theoretical project is to explain how those allegorical intentions add up to and drive the Hollywood motion picture industry, then the historical project is to show how that sort of self-representation was also self-enabling, how movies retained their hold on the center of the entertainment media escape. How do motion pictures sustain their corporate prominence when the industry is no longer underwritten by the economic structures that supported the classical Hollywood studios? (10)

Logorrhea is an imaginary solution to a constellation of problems that range from the economic and ideological to the narrative and back to the image imaginary itself. And while logorrhea cannot dissolve these problems entirely, it can offer, at different times and in myriad ways, partial solutions. Yet what remains unsolved also remains available for further thought, for further repression, representation, systematization. If the opening of a neoclassical Hollywood film is a swamp of contingency reinscribed as the investigation of necessity, then the remainder of that contingency is available for further reinscription throughout the narrative. The bond between corporation and product can take the shape of an icon or a deus ex machina, of a protagonist or an emblem, of an element in a psychology or an ethics or in a discourse on economics. Yet in its most common form, the studio appears within the film as a place, a locus classicus, as it were. The mountainous landscape of Kauai is one way to bring Paramount into the picture; the Scottish highlands of Braveheart is another. As the property becomes more integral to the corporate imaginary, the logo reaches deeper into the film until the relationship between studio and story switches. Now, instead of slipping the logo into the film, the film takes place “inside” the logo, as in The Core, or Waterworld, or The Matrix. (26)

To see a contemporary film as a studio film is to realize this studio wanted to distribute this film badly enough that it passed on thousands of other possible stories and outcompeted its major rivals in order to put up the money for the project. The studio must have seen something it wanted to see when it agreed to make the film, and the task of its creative executives – aside from riding herd on the budget – must have been to keep that certain something alive. Labor and capital come together at this moment to perpetuate the studio after the studio. (35)

But if the elements of high concept are nothing new, why did it seem to be new? New to whom? Into what industrial configuration did high concept erupt, and what did it leave behind? These questions are methodologically decisive. By making high concept a matter of professional ideology and not, initially and essentially, a matter of style, we avoid battles over definitions. Instead, we operate at one remove: The thing we want to pay attention to exists at the level of the concept (what the studios and producers want) and not the level of style (how the film achieves that). As a consequence, what we are looking for when we look for evidence and attributes of high concept becomes evidence of professional attention. (69-70)

Allegorical readings are naturally the products of experience. But it is a particular experience, the experience of design. Indeed, for all the discussion of high-concept narrative and stylistic allusion, what has been less remarked is the new prominence of production design within Hollywood’s division of labor. Design establishes the contours of the continuous experience in which we develop our expertise. High concept is frequently blamed on philistines in the industry, on the dominance of studio by “suits,” or on some change in the power of marketing within the studio to create movies it deemed salable. But in this chapter and chapter 5, I want to show how the advent of high concept depended on an essential leap of reading that confused image and author, how Paramount in particular made that leap of reading more widely available, and how that leap uniquely suited the studio and its efforts to brand itself into the eighties. What we want to know is how Paramount went from making films that looked like The Conversation to films that looked like Top Gun. That story ranges from the diffuse beginnings of the studios reawakenings through a wide array of examples that included a host of neomusicals and the launching of Eddie Murphy’s cinematic career. (71)

I have been using the term “control” because it suggests the social and organizational aspects of the process, but for Paramount, the crucial term would be “design.” (105)

There were two phases to the CAA plan, which in this martial context we might call the attractive encampment and the fortification. To make an attractive encampment, the agency pursued film personnel with the same focus it had brought to television. In addition to signing a critical mass of above-the-line talent, CAA sought to distinguish its talent pool within the agency oligopolies: It would particularly target directors and writers. In that way, CAA would be able to offer potential stars a vehicle that already came with a vision. After the writers and directors were on board, the agency would hunt out the biggest stars, those whose work seemed allergic to the crapshoot complacency of the movie business. The agency would seek to demonize risk, arguing that certain stars, once committed to a project, would inoculate the studio against financial losses. Still, there was little new in this strategy; it simply amounted to doing what the other agencies did but doing it better. (137)

Form and organization drew closer to one another, overcoming the distance between instance and system, bridging the gap not through Romantic will but through mutually reinforcing connecting threads. As the new form congealed, it suggested that we might judge the success of this corporate redesign and reconception through its practical effects. And within this new paradigm of judgment, we find a way of periodizing Hollywood history: When the allegorical implications of the studios films no longer seem tendentious, then, we might say, has neoclassicism arrived. (189)

Chaos theory provided a way to think about the general situation of the contemporary studio, yet however widely it might be applied, each instance would take on some of the unique coloring of the studio responsible for the reflection. Sometimes, chaos theory appears to impart a cult knowledge to its initiates, the way Sun Tzu’s Art of War did in the eighties. But in other instances, this science of natural recursion seemed ready to guide Hollywood studios through a thicket of indeterminacy back toward the actuality of filmmaking, back, in other words, toward the sort of literalism Hollywood does so well. (219)

The “happy” endings of classical Hollywood have given way to “stable” endings that demonstrate self-similarity at all scales. The consequences are far-ranging. Where the happy ending seemed forced – as in a Douglas Sirk melodrama, a film noir, or even a Preston Sturges comedy – it encouraged an oppositional or even subversive reading. But the stable ending seems tentative and encourages elaboration. To imagine a sequel, one need only imagine the expansion of a single scale – a character, a setting, a plot point. Jurassic Park projects to The Lost World by reversing the scalar relationship between the finished product and the prototype (or pitch), while The Bourne Ultimatum nests most of its action within the space of a cut in The Bourne Supremacy. Narrative closure yields pride of place to the introjection of downstream revenues, and the movies become advertisements for themselves. (242)

Neoclassical Hollywood aestheticizes its own systematicity. When it loses faith in that system, its interest in systemic allegory dies. The allegories may go on (they do), but the system falls out of self-saturation, leaving not genre-as-cycle but studio-as-cycle. Such an event only compounds our questions. What does it mean for a corporation to lose faith in the system? And if that loss of faith amounts to a history, how is that history not the most naïve idealism? Finally, what does this loss of faith have to do with oceans? (251)

In short, the major studio epics that followed Gladiator tell the story of the studios retreat from the genre in the guise of stories of imperial retreat as such. And given their uncertainty about the success of the enterprise, they begin to fret over something supposedly more durable: the imperial legacy. (297)