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Paula Willoquet-Maricondi
Peter Greenaway: A User's Manual
Amy Lawrence
The Films of Peter Greenaway
Cambridge University Press, 1997
0521479193
225 pages
If, at the end of the 1980s, Greenaway was a 'succes de scandal' following the release
of The Cook, the Thief, his Wife, and her Lover, it seems that at the end of the 1990s
he is a full-fledged, critically recognized seminal figure of the art house/avant garde
cinema circuit. With the release of The Pillow Book in 1996 (1997 in the US),
Greenaway has even reached 'mainstream stature' within art cinema, as attested by the
overall enthusiastic reviews of the film by mainstream critics in the US, where he has
been most scorned. Greenaway's recognition as an innovative, intellectually
stimulating, and provocative artist is further confirmed by his having recently been
inducted as an Officer of the Order of Arts and Letters by the French Culture
Minister, Catherine Trautmann, and by the release, in the last year and a half, of no
fewer than four full-length studies in English of Greenaway's films and art projects.
Among these recent releases (the first four ever to be published by major presses) is
Amy Lawrence's The Films of Peter Greenaway.
As the title suggests, Lawrence's study deals exclusively with the feature films,
starting with The Falls and concluding with The Cook. The book is composed of:
seven chapters, each dealing with one particular film; an introduction; a fairly
complete filmography; detailed notes; an index; and a solid but by no means
exhaustive bibliography. This is an approachable, jargon free, and informative
introductory study of Greenaway's films. Since it is divided into chapters, each of
which offers a reading of a feature film, it is ideal as an academic text, but would also
be very useful to anyone genuinely interested in making sense of Greenaway's films
but at a loss for where or how to begin. Each chapter elucidates many details, thus
facilitating access to the films by helping crack many of the Greenawayan codes,
tracing the most important references, and clarifying their significance. This is done
in the context of clear and engaging plot analyses, rather than thematically. For
readers very familiar and conversant with Greenaway, the book offers few challenges,
although it explores the references to Vermeer, Boullee, and particularly Piranesi,
more than any other account I have seen. Lawrence also makes many provocative
observations of a more philosophical nature and thus opens the way for interesting
explorations of Greenaway's cinema of ideas, as he himself likes to call it.
The Introduction contains a brief discussion of Greenaway's early short experimental
films, and of his 'cynical' approach to structuralism -- 'I was much too cynical about
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structuralism to be a good, down-the-line structuralist as Vertical Features Remake, I
hope, indicates' (17) -- and a mention of Greenaway's other artistic projects: his
operas, exhibitions, and curatorial work This mention is, however, far too brief and
may mislead the reader unfamiliar with Greenaway's eclecticism into thinking that he
is primarily, or even exclusively, a filmmaker. I believe that much of the negative
controversy surrounding Greenaway's films is due to a lack of appreciation, on the
part of some critics and viewers, of Greenaway's deep historical knowledge of art, and
of his interest, for a number of years now, in exploring the relationships among the
various media -- textual, performative, exhibitorial, and visual. A fuller understanding
of Greenaway's philosophical position vis-a-vis cinema, of his dissatisfaction with the
medium's limitations, with its lack of corporeality, with the 'tyranny of the frame' (this
is also the title of one of Greenaway's exhibitions in Belgium), can only be gained
through an exploration of his other works -- paintings, installations, operas, videos -which are, in a sense, dissertations or meditations on cinema. For more on
Greenaway's non-filmic projects, the reader might want to consult Alan Woods' Being
Naked/Playing Dead: The Art Peter Greenaway; Bridget Elliott's and Anthony
Purdy's Peter Greenaway: Architecture and Allegory ; and David Pascoe's Peter
Greenaway: Museums and Moving Images. Although none of these three books offers
a systematic discussion of Greenaway's various experiments with opera, installations,
etc., they do, to varying degrees, explore the nature, significance, and impact of
Greenaway's multi-media adventures. Most importantly, what is gained from these
studies is a deeper awareness of the way in which these projects comment or reflect
on one another, and on cinema. The advantage which Lawrence's study has over these
others is its straightforward structure and in-depth analysis of the feature films.
The absence of a more thorough exploration of Greenaway's non-cinematic works
should, then, not be held against Lawrence. Such an exploration may have been
outside the scope of the Film Classics series put out by Cambridge University Press.
Neither should the fact that Greenaway's most controversial film to date, The Baby of
Macon, is not discussed at all. Although some mention of the film would have been
appropriate, particularly in the context of a discussion of Greenaway's use of violence,
the exclusion of a chapter on this film may have been an editorial rather than an
authorial decision. Had this book been published by an American university press, I
would have explained this absence by the fact that the film never received commercial
release in the United States, and that it is not even easily available on video format.
These few reservations aside, Lawrence's book offers something unique which also
nicely complements the other three book-length accounts. She gives concise and clear
readings of the films she treats, and her study accomplishes a lot in a very economical
way, elucidating Greenaway both as a person and as a filmmaker.
Lawrence's study is part of Cambridge's Film Classics Series, whose previous
volumes include studies of Alfred Hitchcock, Roberto Rossellini, John Cassavetes,
Wim Wenders, and Woody Allen, among others. It is both encouraging -- for
Greenaway fans, that is -- and surprising that Cambridge would choose to feature
Greenaway in its series, particularly in light of Cambridge's stated goals for the series:
to create a 'forum for revisionist studies of the classic works of the cinematic canon
from the perspective of the new auteurism'.
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That Greenaway should be approached from the perspective of 'new auteurism' makes
a lot of sense. As Lawrence puts it, 'Greenaway's films are easy to recognize and
difficult to describe' (1), defining him as an auteur with a marked style, or signature,
and his audience as split between those who love Greenaway and those who hate him,
or accuse him of intellectual snobbery. Very few viewers, that is, feel indifferent
toward a Greenaway film. 'New auteurism' is also a perfect forum in which to study
the effects of social, political, financial, and technological factors in the creation of
the 'auteur' or author figure, and this is particularly relevant in the case of filmmakers
like Greenaway, who experiment, whether by necessity or preference, with new
technologies and creative financing. Greenaway's long time association with his
Dutch producer, Kees Kasander, a financial guardian angel of sorts, has been a major
factor in his ability to negotiate a personal vision and relative financial health.
Lawrence makes good use of 'new auteurism', and, rather than crusading for
Greenaway, she often lets the director speak for himself, providing only the necessary
context for his commentaries on his own artistic philosophy and intentions. This is
particularly the case in the Introduction to the book, where Lawrence weaves quotes
from her personal conversations and correspondence with Greenaway into the body of
her text, and, in doing so, brings to light an image of Greenaway that challenges past
perceptions of the artist as cold, defensive, and arrogant. Lawrence also draws from
biographical details -- some of which I have never seen mentioned before -- and
personal anecdotes that situate Greenaway's interest in landscapes in his own
upbringing, and bring to light the more personal elements of his films.
Most importantly, I think, Lawrence approaches Greenaway as a self-conscious artist
interested in making art 'out of ideas about art' (5), and in this way places him
alongside other 'classic works of the cinematic canon', a modernist/postmodernist
canon which includes such figures as Godard, Resnais, and Pasolini. 'In criticizing the
artist', states Lawrence, 'Greenaway is critical of his own position' (5). This seems to
be, in fact, one of the central notions of the book, a notion which is crucial to all of
Greenaway's artistic endeavors but which is not, unfortunately, very systematically
developed by Lawrence. Where I don't exactly see how Lawrence's book fulfills one
of the stated objectives of the series is in offering a 'revisionist' study of Greenaway's
cinematic corpus. Rich and interesting, Lawrence's treatment of Greenaway is,
however, fairly orthodox and consonant with earlier accounts, including those
published contemporaneously with hers. Although Lawrence addresses in more detail
certain aspects of Greenaway's work that have received only brief mention by other
critics -- such as his treatment of female characters, and their relationship to nature
and to the figure of the artist -- her readings of the feature films are fairly
straightforward and uncontroversial. If there is a reassessment or revisioning of
Greenaway here, I would say it is in Lawrence's demystification of Greenaway as a
pure aesthete not concerned with politics, in the broad sense of the term. While
Greenaway does not push any personal politics, his films raise profound philosophical
questions about representation which are essentially political, or ought to be. I am
happy finally to see a critic taking steps toward elucidating Greenaway's own
awareness of his position as an implicated artist. Can, indeed, the artist consider
him/herself 'innocent', at the turn of this century, if he/she ever could? That
Greenaway recognizes his own complicity with the ideological system under which
he operates is most evident in some of the accounts Lawrence offers of Greenaway's
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experience working for the Central Office of Information: 'I remember making
programs supporting DDT for spreading on fields in South Africa. I remember
making documentaries about dried milk for babies in India . . . I had a little hand in all
that propaganda' (9-10). Lawrence's inclusion of quotes such as this one demonstrates
Greenaway's sensitivity to the artist's participation in the reproduction and furthering
of ideology and social policy and subtly points to the Faustian predicament the artist
often faces.
It is this critical self-awareness which makes Greenaway an artist of his time -- a
postmodern artist. Lawrence, in fact, liberally uses the term 'postmodern' to define
Greenaway's artistic sensibility, without, however, ever fully clarifying for the reader
the multiplicity of meanings the term carries. She defines The Falls as a 'postmodern
encyclopaedia, an organization of facts and pieces put together in an eminently logical
way, laced with the very slightest regret that none of it is actually true' (3). 'Without
underlying myths to endow [the films] with meaning', Lawrence states, 'everything
we see is unmoored from history, reduced to the status of signs without referents' (4).
Lawrence defines Prospero's Books (Greenaway's adaptation of The Tempest) as in
part 'the usual postmodernist shuffle through the rubble of Western culture, a leisurely
stroll beneath the calves of England's literary colossus' (144), and Prospero himself,
like Greenaway, is a 'postmodern figure' who creates 'by picking and choosing from a
world of works by other artists in other centuries. In this postmodern sense, the author
himself may be nothing more than the fragments of texts from which he is made'
(161).
I insist on Lawrence's use of the term 'postmodern' for two reasons: first, there is still
a great deal of critical controversy not only over the definition of the term
'postmodernism', but also, and most importantly, over whether Greenaway ought to be
considered a postmodern or a modern. Peter Wollen and Alan Woods, for instance,
count Greenaway among the British 'modernist auteurs' of the 1980s and 90s. Other
critics completely avoid bringing up the issue. Ironically, in spite of Woods' selfacknowledged resistance to applying the label 'postmodern' to Greenaway (the term
does not even figure in the index of Woods' book), his linking of Greenaway to artists
such as Andres Serrano, Jean-Luc Godard, Alain Resnais and Cindy Sherman, and his
insightful discussions of the role of ordering systems in Greenaway's thinking and
artistic productions, fully align him with Lawrence's reading of Greenaway as a
postmodernist. Second, although I endorse Lawrence's assessment of Greenaway as a
postmodern artist, I feel an important distinction should have been made between the
brand of postmodernism identified by Fredric Jameson, for instance, one that is
complicitous with the logic of consumer capitalism and is rendered through the
'pastiche' use of quotations from past styles, and the brand of postmodernism
defended by critics such as Linda Hutcheon or Graig Owens. What Hutcheon defines
as postmodern is art that is decidedly political in its use of pastiche. Hutcheon cites
the works of feminist artists Barbara Kruger, Sherrie Levine, and Cindy Sherman as
instances of art that is capable of deconstructing ideology through an ironical
appropriation and use of the 'already said'. Following Hutcheon's view of the
postmodern mode of 'complicitous critique' (_The Politics of Postmodernism_, p. 2;
my emphasis), I would thus define Greenaway's postmodernism as being selfreflexive and parodic, but rooted in the historical world, offering unresolvable
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contradictions that problematize history and knowledge, and that make no claims to
epistemological authority. Greenaway's postmodern sensibility would thus be a far
cry from a simple nostalgic revisiting of the past, as Jameson sees it. While
Lawrence's insightful analyses (of Greenaway's undermining of narrative strategies
purporting to reveal truth in The Falls; of his critique of the artist's 'God-like power of
emptying the landscape' as one of the characters puts it (52) in The Draughtsman's
Contract; of the scientists' blind and futile use of science and statistics 'as a way to
conceptualize their grief' (73) in A Zed and Two Noughts; and of the tyranny of
writing and authorship in Prospero's Books) are clearly consonant with Hutcheon and
with my own view of Greenaway as a postmodern artist, her use of the term remains
vague, misleading, and depoliticized.
Although there is no overarching theme, or unifying theory in Lawrence's book, many
of the chapters pose provocative philosophical questions, which they explore to
varying degrees, while others simply make the films more approachable, more
'viewer-friendly'. The chapter on The Falls suggests that this film may have been
Greenaway's first full-length attempt at critiquing the kind of work he did for the
Central Office of Information; it is a satirical 'tribute to bureaucratic zeal, a monument
to systems for the organization of data and those who use them' (20). While
Greenaway had already begun exploring parodic uses of the documentary mode prior
to The Falls, it remains his most accomplished statement against organizational
strategies, particularly those, like science, that purport to reveal Truth. Greenaway has
gone on producing what Woods calls 'artificial documentaries' (242) that mock the
reporting of truth by confusing fact and fiction, or, rather, by showing up the fictions
behind the constructions of 'facts' -- the conventions that go into the creation of
representations of events, be they linguistic or visual representations. Examples of
such mock documentaries subsequent to the The Falls are: Act of God, a 25 minutes
compilation of interviews of people who were hit by lightning, made at the same time
as The Falls but released the following year; 26 Bathrooms a light-hearted study of
bathing habits; and Death in the Seine, a kind of homage to those whose death by
drowning in the Seine river during the French Revolution has gone unacknowledged.
Lawrence does not discuss these films, and the best source of information I know of
thus far, besides reviews of the films, would be Woods' brief discussion of them.
In this first chapter, as in others, Lawrence also resolves the difficulty of organization
that often haunts studies of Greenaway by subdividing each chapter into parts -- that
is, by categorizing the material, and thus, ironically, by doing precisely what
Greenaway seems to be most critical of, while thoroughly indulging in it himself. In
doing so, Lawrence avoids the fragmentary and episodic structure of Woods' study,
for instance, which nonetheless self-consciously raises the question of 'how to
organize a study of an artist who has thematised and ironized organisation,
classification, and who has done so even in his own case' (22). Thus, the subheadings
in this first chapter ('Names', 'Languages', 'The Body', 'Obsession, Category I: Birds',
'Flight', etc.) help organize the material, clearly designating the content of each
section.
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Lawrence concludes the chapter by stating that The Falls 'is the exhaustive, thorough
documenting of an event that did not happen, which affected people who do not exist,
verified by experts who also do not exist, and ultimately invented by an array of
possible authors none of whom exist either' (48). While this assessment acutely
summarizes the postmodern essence of this self-reflexive work, might this not have
been a good place to start, rather than a place to end the discussion? If we often,
knowingly, abandon ourselves to fictional worlds, delight in the experiences they
bring to us, in the emotions they provoke in us, if only for 2 hours, we seldom stop to
reflect about the nature of the world we actually live in, and the extent to which these
very fictions we seek for our entertainment have become quite literally the 'reality' to
which we devote larger and larger portions of our time. As Lawrence herself notes,
'art so often becomes life -- or, at the very least, indistinguishable from it -- that
representation begins to have the same weight as reality' (39).
It also seems to me that Greenaway is not innocently mocking our organizational
systems, the ways we construct narratives, stories, myths. In showing how, in The
Falls, content defies attempts to categorize it (that is, the VUE commission, try as it
may, cannot construct a system of categorization that will hold, or account for all the
mutations incurred by the VUE victims), he reveals the limits of categorization, not
the limits of content. (The VUE is the acronym for Violent Unknown Event, an
unexplainable occurrence, an Act of God, which affects its victims in different ways:
some seem to mutate into birds, others develop 'sexual quadromorphism', while others
gain the ability to speak unknown languages. The VUE commission has been set up to
study this event and to explain the mutation of the victims. The Falls is a chronicle of
the VUE commission's attempt to study the effects of the VUE on 92 individuals
whose names all start with the letters FALL. These 92 individuals are suppose to
represent a cross section of the population affected by the VUE. The VUE is also the
name of Greenaway's studio/office in London, and his fascination with birds and
flights is not unique to The Falls. In March of 1997, Greenaway organized an
exhibition at the Joan Miro Foundation in Barcelona on the theme of flight entitled
Flying over Water.) If the VUE victims defy categorization, it is because
categorization itself is flawed, limited, and ultimately impossible. Here, Greenaway
presents us with the most extreme example of the limits of categorization by way of
suggesting that content must always be tailored, data must always be altered and
decontextualized to fit the categories. So, perhaps, the point Greenaway might be
making is not regarding the aberrant nature of what happens to the VUE victims, but
about the aberration of categorization itself, which, while focusing our attention on
what it considers relevant information for the purpose of fitting the category, ignores
anything that might interfere with this goal.
Another chapter of Lawrence's study which indulges excessively in categorization is
chapter five, on The Belly of an Architect. Broken down into approximately twenty
sections of varying lengths and depths, each structured around a number of thematic
elements (such as Architecture, Belly, Consumption; Artists, Actors, American
Abroad; Belly, Caesar, Death; etc.), this chapter is organized alphabetically in an
'arbitrarily systematic' way, admits Lawrence (114). This is an apt example of what I
mean by making the content fit the form; the relationships among the parts are not
always evident, and the chapter does not have a cohesive overall thesis, although it is
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extremely well researched and full of insights. This is a postmodern chapter (and
maybe I am not being a postmodern reader).
Of particular interest here are Lawrence's discussion of Etienne Louis Boullee's
drawings for Newton's cenotaph, which is made into a cake and which Stourley
Kracklite eats, thus suggesting his ravenous consumption of the past and of death; her
analysis of the links between fascism and architecture; her investigation of
Greenaway's use of postcards as a structuring device within the film, and as a
compensatory device for its main character, whose inability to express feelings or
have relationships becomes more acute as the film progresses. Ironically, or perhaps
not so ironically, Kracklite's writing of postcards to his dead architect-hero, Boullee,
only further alienates him from the present-day reality of his disintegrating marriage,
life, and health.
Postcards also mediate Kracklite's relationship to the places he visits and render his
experience utterly unsatisfactory when the image of the place on the postcard does not
adequately correspond to the 'reality' of Kracklite's own experience of the place.
Lawrence also shows how Kracklite becomes 'possessed' by the postcards he
possesses, and is reduced to a 'function', a tourist function, a replaceable and
interchangeable individual, therefore a 'disposable' individual whose only value is as
'a means of distribution, just as his propagation of the species through fatherhood
simultaneously fulfills his role in a larger biological scheme and renders his further
existence irrelevant' (133). This notion is, of course, absolutely consonant with
Greenaway's Darwinian preoccupations.
I found Lawrence's elucidation of the references to the eighteenth-century architect,
Giambattista Piranesi, most useful, not only because this remains a little explored
aspect of the film, but also because it suggests interesting links among Piranesi,
Greenaway, and postmodernism. As Lawrence notes, 'in Piranesi's work, the present
is built literally on layers of the past, Renaissance buildings top medieval fortresses
that rest on foundations built in ancient Rome' (129). Piranesi is, in fact, a much better
stand-in for Greenaway than Boullee or even Kracklite; Greenaway treats the latter
with a greater degree of emotion than any of his other protagonists (who often are
artists), but not with any greater empathy or approval. Lawrence points out that the
film's composition seems more indebted to Piranesi's work than to Boullee's, and
Piranesi's pictures are replete with 'the vivid detail of a living world, including the byproduct of life Greenaway is most frequently drawn to, decay (_Zed_, Drowning by
Numbers) -- something nowhere to be found in Boullee's clean, neoclassical, futuristic
spaces, emptied of people' (130).
I found the chapter on Prospero's Books the most intellectually and philosophically
stimulating. Here, Lawrence explores more thoroughly an issue she brings up several
times, that is, the relationship between the spoken and the written word, which
remains one of Greenaway's fundamental preoccupations, from Dear Phone to his
most recent release, The Pillow Book. For me, the strength of this chapter lies in
Lawrence's use of Walter J. Ong's Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the
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Word as the theoretical frame through which to read the film. The chapter's central
thesis seems to be that 'it is Greenaway's goal to provide the spoken world with oral
and visual life while at the same time initiating a subtle, cumulatively devastating
critique of the power of language' (142). Lawrence explores issues such as the spoken
word's relation to magic; the power of writing to create linguistically constituted
worlds (which, I might add, are then superimposed over the natural world, creating
the illusion that all worlds are equally 'artificial' or equally 'produced' by a
consciousness); the ethics of authorship; and the relation among patriarchy,
logocentrism, and power. She approaches Prospero as a dramatist and a ventriloquist,
as an 'omnipotent despot' (147), who takes possession of people and places so as to rewrite them according to his imagination (or rather, hallucinations?).
Of relevance to this discussion, for those interested in pursuing these ideas further, are
the works of Michel de Certeau and David Abram. De Certeau has called writing the
'fundamental initiatory practice' (135) which posits the existence of a distinct and
distant Subject and a blank space, or page. As Lawrence shows, Prospero takes the
island in which he is exiled to be such a blank page, waiting to be scripted by him.
Through the written word he orders the world into being, in both senses of the term:
he summons it forth and imposes on it a specific structure. I see something analogous
to this happening in The Pillow Book, as Nagiko's father ritually inscribes a birthday
greeting on his daughter's face and neck, and, like Prospero, exerts a patriarchal
authorial power over her through writing. Abram's The Spell of the Sensuous: Human
Perception in a More-Than-Human World is a study of the impact of the phonetic
alphabet on our perception of, and relation to, our bodies and the body of the world
around us. Drawing from and expanding on the work of Walter J. Ong and on
phenomenology, particularly the writings of Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Abram
examines the origins of writing and its subsequent gradual divorce from its natural
referents -- the human body and the land. Abram's insightful analysis has led me to
theorize that this split between language and the body brought about by alphabetic
writing is analogous to, consonant with, the split of the Subject from the totally of
Being brought about by the Subject's entry into the Symbolic order, as discussed by
Jacques Lacan, for instance, and usefully applied to film and literary analysis by Kaja
Silverman. This further confirms Lawrence's observation that Caliban remains outside
of language and cannot ultimately be contained by Prospero's words. Caliban is 'a
material body' (147); he speaks with his body and his relationship to his environment
is unmediated by language, in spite of Prospero's pretence to 'speak' for him.
One final aspect of Lawrence's study which I found helpful and constructive was her
effort to forge links between Greenaway and filmmakers as diverse as Hitchcock,
Resnais, and Cronenberg. Her analysis of The Cook as 'a prime exponent of the 1980's
British gangster film' (165) also helps re-politicize Greenaway by arguing that the
film 'is one of several films of the period that revive the gangster genre as a metaphor
for the brute capitalism espoused by the Conservative government throughout the
decade' (166). Moreover, Lawrence demystifies the notion that Greenaway stands
apart from film culture and contemporary society by showing that the film's attention
to style and to stylized violence is congruous with that of gangster films of the 80s
and 90s. 'Frequently attacked as glamorizing violence', argues Lawrence, 'gangster
films as a genre are obsessed with issues of style; the most famous movie-gangsters
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are those who make violence stylish' (166). So, while Greenaway's films may be 'easy
to recognize and difficult to describe' (1), Lawrence's study takes significant steps
toward clarifying many of the films' most complex elements, while also rescuing
Greenaway from his critically induced isolation as a purely eccentric artist, and
bringing him more into the fold of contemporary cinema and culture.
Butler University and Indiana University, USA
Bibliography
Abram, David. The Spell of the Sensuous: Human Perception in a More-Than-Human
World, 1996.
De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1984.
Elliott, Bridget and Anthony Purdy. Peter Greenaway. Architecture and Allegory.
London: Academy Editions, 1997.
Hutcheon, Linda. The Politics of Postmodernism. London and New York: Routledge,
1989.
Jameson, Fredric. 'Postmodernism and Consumer Society'. In Hal Foster, ed. The
Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture. Port Townsend: Washington Bay
Press, 1983. 111-125.
Pascoe, David. Peter Greenaway: Museums and Moving Images. London: Reaction
Books, 1997.
Wollen, Peter. 'The Last New Wave: Modernism in the British Films of the Thatcher
Era'. In Lester Friedman, ed. Fires Were Started. British Cinema and Thatcherism.
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993. 35-51.
Woods, Alan. Being Naked/Playing Dead: The Art of Peter Greenaway. Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 1996.