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________________
http://www.unomaha.edu/jrf/truman.htm
Journal of Religion and Film
The God Behind the Screen:
Pleasantville & The Truman Show
By Linda A. Mercadante
Vol. 5, No. 2 October 2001
The God Behind the Screen:
Pleasantville & The Truman Show
By Linda A. Mercadante
Abstract
Two films from 1998, The Truman Show and Pleasantville,
provide a possible basis for theological discussion. They introduce
questions of illusion and reality, control and freedom, viewing and
being viewed. These two products of the media world themselves
ask how much our own interpretations of reality are influenced by
our culture's modern media. Have Americans developed an
obsessive interest in watching without being known (voyeurism)?
Do the films portray society's worst fears about God? What
aspects of human freedom and what aspects of God are left out?
Effectively raising the questions, the films require richer resources
to provide answers regarding the character of God and the power
of human freedom.
Article
[1] Life was good for Truman Burbank. He lived in safe and
pleasant Seahaven Island. He had a respectable job, an attractive
wife, a best friend and a comfortable home. Everyone liked him.
The weather was mostly perfect and no one was depressed.
[2] In Pleasantville, too, life was good. Rain never marred a
beautiful day. Fire-fighters spent most of their time rescuing cats
from trees. Teens trusted their parents and they liked school. The
work was easy, everyone had friends, the basketball team always
won, and no one had low self-esteem
[3] Contrary to what we might expect - trained as we are by
disaster and superhero stories - in these film scenarios from The
Truman Show (directed by Peter Weir) and Pleasantville (directed
by Gary Ross), what you see is basically what you get. Everything
is predictable, pleasant and safe. All seems fight with these worlds;
all is according to prevailing standards. Both films focus on a
world created by a television situation-comedy and each has a
controlling figure behind the screen who maintains the pleasant
illusions. Both films construct this ideal environment out of our
fondest desires and in opposition to many of our common
complaints today. Both depict a devoted audience willing to be
absorbed by this carefully constructed image.
[4] It all seems benign enough. However, not everyone is aware
that these worlds are constructed, that they are actors, and that they
are being viewed. Both films present characters with differing
levels of awareness about their true roles and situations. As their
knowledge of the situation grows, the characters gain freedom and
choice, but they also experience risk, pain, and uncertainty. In each
of these film stories, then, "well enough" does not get left alone.
[5] But let's not jump to theological conclusions and assume these
are "Adam and Eve" type stories of perfection, temptation and fall.
Instead, these are stories of illusion and reality, control and
freedom, viewing and being viewed. These films allow us to raise
several questions about an age when so many of us spend so much
time captivated by moving pictures. Have we become a culture of
voyeurs, looking in on manufactured lives? Or are we, instead, the
ones being watched? Are we evaluating or regulating our own lives
in terms set by the filmic gaze? Also, how adequate are our
contemporary desires and how much are we willing to give up to
attain them? If someone could produce all the necessary
ingredients in the contemporary formula for the good life, would it
be enough and what would it require of us?
[6] It is especially engaging that these questions are suggested
through the work of an image-producing industry. For this is the
same industry that is a major contributor, along with television and
advertising, to the panoply of images that attract people today and
which feed desires for the typical middle-class Western version of
the good life. Regrettably, however, their filmic solutions remain
"within the box," that is, within the terms set by popular culture.
[7] In spite of this failing, there is more here than a good parody of
some contemporary problems. I don't want to put theological
intentions into the minds of the film-makers and I'm not saying
these are "Christian" or even "religious" films. Nor am I decrying
them as the opposite. Instead, a theologically-attuned interpreter
can see how these films -- especially when considered together -are intriguing because they reflect some common fears and
fantasies about God, human life, and freedom. They illustrate well
- but provide their own answers for - a contemporary nightmare
that God may be the controller behind the screen of our lives, that
we are merely actors unaware, and that our best interests are not
being served.
[8] As a theologian who builds bridges between cultural and
theological issues, I search for films like these that open up
productive avenues for discussion in classes, youth groups, and
churches. I have used films this way for the past twelve years, and
have focused primarily on how seminarians and church people
interpret them. My interest in turning a theological eye toward
film, then, has grown out of this attention to a particular audience,
its viewing habits, and its integration of filmic themes into its
theological perspectives.
Media Dominance
[9] It has been frequently noted that we live in a "media-saturated"
culture. Images from television, film, advertisements, bill-boards,
and photo-journalism are everywhere we turn. Yet the situation
goes deeper. For more than just media inundation, we have come
to live in a media-mediated culture, where our understanding of
life, reality and our own experience is filtered through video
frames. Most of us in the industrialized world (and many outside of
it) have become reliant upon modem media, especially television
and films, as we make our interpretations of reality. Without
realizing we have become so dependent, we frequently look
through these frames as we seek understanding, comfort,
reassurance, vision, and structure for our disparate sensory intakes.
This is so, even though the images in these frames do not give us a
consistent, trustworthy, or self-cohering interpretive pattern.
[10] In the West's past, and in many other cultures', the prevailing
religious vision often has provided such a coherent interpretive
grid. Today, instead, there are competing visions, many of them
poorly developed or self-contradictory. Varying understandings of
reality, and prescriptions for life, are given to us through news
programs, commercials, soap operas, and the many stories we see
on television and in film. Even though it is harder to chart a course
amid competing images, the human need for some sort of grid has
not changed. Therefore, although the assortment of images we now
see are fragmented -- and we are the ones who must pick and
choose -- nevertheless, we do select, usually unconsciously, from
this salad bar of images as we strive to find and make meaning in
our lives. To paraphrase John Calvin, today we look through the
"spectacles" of media.
[11] The recent films Pleasantville and The Truman Show are
arresting precisely because they highlight an aspect of this
situation "from within". Who should know better than the imagemakers how constructed these video frames really are? Likewise,
in an industry which must gauge, as well as influence, audience
desires to ensure its own survival, who should know better the
extent of our malleability? And, finally, in an industry well aware
of its monetary dependence upon "product placement," who should
be more certain about the variability of the components of the good
life?
[12] Although the two films do not give the above issues equal
weight, both are important as social markers, especially given that
they were released less than six month from each other (in 1998)
and treat these issues in some similar ways. (The interpretive net
can be widened by noting that several others released somewhat
later - such as Existenz and Blast From The Past - also deal with
related issues.)
Comparing Pleasantville and The Truman Show
[13] In these films knowledge brings control, and the key battle is
around predictability and change. At the top of the hierarchy of
knowledge is a controlling god-like figure who understands
everything, and who takes complete responsibility for sustaining
the actors' roles and maintaining the perfected environment. These
controllers know what they want and are willing to be adaptive, up
to a point, in order to get it. Through advanced technology, they
are able to keep an eye on the characters at all times and to direct
their actions.
[14] How much power each controller has, though, is different in
the two films.. In Pleasantville, the controller (played by Don
Knotts posing as a television repairman) is not the creator of the
sitcom world, although he does maintain it. He can adjust it by
putting people into the world, or taking them out. The controller is
very careful about bestowing this privilege. Only those who truly
long to live in this idealized world are eligible. He only finds one
suitable candidate, the teenager David (played by Tobey Maguire)
whose real life is disruptive enough to cause him to immerse
himself in the details of the program. His twin sister Jennifer
(played by Reese Witherspoon) gets dragged along inadvertently.
But when David wants to get them out of Pleasantville, the
controller is personally offended. He had expected only
cooperation and gratitude for this special girl. He becomes
petulantly angry, won't make contact, and works against David's
wishes.
[15] In The Truman Show, Christof (played by Ed Harris) is the
creator, not just the maintainer, of the sitcom world. The show is
his idea and passion, and he believes completely in his own vision
of utopia. He commands a large number of workers and actors,
sophisticated equipment, and a world-like dome to contain it all.
He can withdraw or insert characters into the show. In the case of
Truman Burbank (played by Jim Carrey), Christof feels the right to
make life and death decisions about him, especially since Truman
was the first baby to be legally adopted and raised by a
corporation. Though distant and unknown to Truman, Christof
believes he loves Truman, has given him the perfect life, and does
it all for Truman's own good. Yet it is clearly his own will that
Christof loves. He is determined to let nothing ultimately alter it.
To maintain his ideal world, Christof must go to great lengths to
keep Truman in Seahaven and in the dark. Christof does this by
frustrating Truman's hopes, instilling phobias and fears, and having
his screen father eliminated. When Truman's growing knowledge
causes him to act unpredictably, Christof is even willing to have
Truman killed.
[16] Next in the hierarchy of knowledge and power are those who
know they are in a show. In Pleasantville, that is only David and
his sister. David tries to maintain the status quo, but Jennifer works
against it. Both feel they are benefiting the others. In The Truman
Show everyone knows it's a show but Truman. Their job is to
insure the show follows the will of the creator. The actors are
tightly controlled and must sustain an ongoing deception of
Truman whether as coworker, wife, or best friend. Their jobs on
this lucrative, successful show are always at stake. The workers
feel controlled by Christof, who appears even in the middle of the
night to check on things. Although they protest, they can't prevent
Christof from trying to drown Truman in the fabricated storm.
[17] Finally there are the actors who have no idea they are on
stage. On the surface they seem content and have no desire for
change - at least the controller believes this. But time reveals that
they are vaguely unsatisfied. Not knowing change is possible,
however, they feel they must cooperate and adjust. As they gain
knowledge, things do begin to alter, but not always in their favor.
Relationships end, the weather gets worse, choice and risk are
introduced, confusion and pain set in. Fulfillment and growth come
at the expense of placidity and predictability.
[18] The male lead actors are opposites in these two films. David
who becomes Bud in Pleasantville has a fair understanding of the
difference between fiction and fact, although he prefers the
fictionalized world of the show. For Truman, on the other hand,
fiction and fact are the same. David's dissatisfaction and longing
get him into the show. Truman's nascent dissatisfaction and
growing suspicion are what get him out. Knowing the truth, neither
wants to remain in these static worlds. But David/Bud (and his
sister) becomes concerned to free the others, while Truman simply
wants to free himself.
[19] The shows' viewers have an intriguing place in this hierarchy.
They are seemingly free: they know the truth and they are on the
outside. But, although they are well aware that this is a television
program, they are so absorbed by it that it colors or even replaces
their own lives. Thus, even though they have considerable
knowledge, they don't affect much change. In Pleasantville, we
learn from the controller that the viewers simply want the reruns to
stay the same. In The Truman Show, through their viewing habits
and purchases, the audience potentially has the power to keep the
show alive or to end it. They could alert Truman to his situation, or
turn off the set. But most don't do these things because they are so
captivated by eavesdropping on him. Some leave it on twenty-four
hours a day, and many are formed by this show, owning its
products, working in its businesses, intently discussing the
characters, arranging their lives around the episodes.
Social Commentary
[20] At first glance, these films seem very irreverent towards the
cultural ethos that supports their own industry's existence. They
suggest that audiences are easily manipulated, overly caught up in
screen stories, and also quite fickle. The last scene in The Truman
Show is exemplary. Two garage attendants, one minute so
obsessively caught up in Truman's life that they ignore their
business, the next minute when he's gone just look, with very little
emotion, for something else to watch. Perhaps, instead, the films
simply represent an in-house poke by movie-makers at the more
superficial stories of television programs. But they would know the
two media's audiences overlap.
[21] More trenchantly, these films prompt questions about our
media-cultivated voyeurism. A voyeur has an obsessive interest in
watching without being known or noticed. In the case of screen
stories, we know we watch actors, but the best films are the ones
that most convincingly foster the illusion that we have a ringside
view of a real life. In The Truman Show, this voyeurism is real.
Through some 5,000 hidden cameras anyone can watch almost
every aspect of Truman's life without being known by him. Of
course humans have always watched and evaluated each other, but
media-viewing is a peering without chance of participating. So
much pseudo-intimacy can only exacerbate for viewers the
common contemporary complaint of alienation. In the two films,
community of a sort is formed around watching and discussing the
shows, but when the program dissolves, there is little left to link
the people.
[22] But the filmic gaze does not go only one way. As Michel
Foucault indicates, a society that closely watches its members in
order to control them is most successful when it gets the members
to internalize the gaze and police themselves. Truman does not
know he is being watched, but he's been controlled through the
camera all his life. No matter what impulse he's ever had to act
unpredictably or to break free, he finds himself amazingly blocked.
He takes this as a matter of course and adjusts his behavior. But
when he eventually figures out the truth he is willing to risk death
in order to get off camera. Are we controlled by the filmic gaze?
At first glance, we believe we are the viewers, not the viewed. But
self-assessment and self-regulation happen regularly as we adjust
our self-image and behavior in order to conform more closely to
the ideal presented to us through the video frame. In addition,
hidden video cameras are an increasing factor in everyday life.
[23] What solutions do the films offer? In Pleasantville sex is
equated with liberation. As characters gain sexual knowledge, they
become more fully human (and colored). Also, it is ironic that
other fictions and images help liberate them. (All the books that
surprisingly get words on their formerly blank pages are classic
stories, as well as a book of modern art.) Even though the film
opens by having teachers in the 1990s giving students dire
predictions about the world, the innocence and placidity of 1950s
Pleasantville is boring to the time-travelers. But they have nothing
to offer except what they have just left. Change, rather than simply
being inevitable, is presented as a value in itself
[24] In The Truman Show, too, the problematic standards that
prompted the need for an idealized world in the first place are all
the film-makers have to liberate Truman. Thus, individual freedom
and autonomy, the ability to break connections and defy authority,
are the only options for Truman. He can't redeem or reform his
community, he can't form a relationship with Christof; he can only
rebel and leave.
[25] Both films show, though, that change will bring pain and risk,
not just liberation. They are realistic about the price of freedom
and knowledge. And they are good at exploding our idealized
fantasies about how much we would love the perfect world.
However, their image of perfection is limited to material security,
comfort, predictability, good weather, and placid relationships.
Theological Issues
[26] Whether or not intended, these films graphically portray some
of our society's worst fears and fantasies about God, and about
God's relationship with humankind. As I said earlier, this is not to
claim that the films are 'religious,' 'Christian' or 'anti-Christian.'
Nor can they only be read in this way. But I know from experience
that some audiences will, in fact, pick up on a film's potential
theological implications, and incorporate, dialogue with, or be
challenged by them. Although this is often done fleetingly or
unconsciously, the process can be accessed and explored when a
group gathers to discuss particular films. I believe this effort
creatively links theology and culture in ways we can and must
productively pursue, especially given the influence of media today.
[27] In Pleasantville, the god-figure is not the creator, but simply
the maintainer of the status quo. He has some significant power,
but is not omnipotent or sovereign. Reminiscent of George Bum's
portrayal of God in the Oh God films, this god speaks to his
characters from a television set, so he can be visible when he
chooses. But he doesn't necessarily come when you need or want
him. In fact, this god comes across as immature, vengeful, easily
upset, and sulky when disappointed. He does not have his
characters' best interests at heart, and yet has a self-centered need
for gratitude and appreciation. If his own interests are at stake,
however, he becomes fearful and amenable to compromise.
[28] Doesn't this sound like the root of many persons fear of God,
and resulting compliance or rebellion? God is recognized to have
great power, but cannot be trusted to use it in a loving manner or
for our good. "He" is only available when he feels like it, but is
constantly evaluating us from afar. This God seems to have an
inordinate interest in getting his own way; his will must be done.
In order to avoid trouble, or to get what one needs, one must work
to placate such a God and find out what he wants. At the least, one
must give the appearance of going along, being grateful, and not
disrupting his plans. The only other alternatives, according to the
film, are to similarly trick or use such an inadequate God. Or,
ideally, one can maturely reject this God and bravely face
uncertainty and risk with human strength alone.
[29] The god-figure in The Truman Show is more powerful, but
also more dangerous and less reasonable. His ultimate creation
doesn't even know he exists. He is never visible, always distant and
inaccessible, but his creation feels the control. This god is the
ultimate voyeur. He jealously protects his own privacy while
giving none to others. With his advanced technology, nothing goes
unobserved and uncontrolled. This god is dependent upon his
creation; he lives to control it. The world is his grand experiment
and those who know him fear him. They rightly recognize him as
creator and sustainer, and know their roles and livelihoods depend
on obeying and pleasing him. He is creative enough to adapt a
measure of unpredictability into his overall plan, but true freedom
is not allowed.
[30] This is an excellent parody of a more sophisticated, but no
less problematic, theology of God. On the plus side, it is often said
that God (like Christof) is determined to have the divine will done,
but that we can trust this plan because God knows best. It is said
that God is not a petty or petulant despot (unlike the Don Knotts
character in Pleasantville). Like Christof, God is uncontrolled by
our machinations and is able to accommodate all our choices into
the divine vision. Like Christof, too, God does not force people to
be robots, but gives them a measure of freedom. In this type of
theology, God, from behind the scenes, makes sure everything
goes according to the ultimate plan. God has created us and loves
us even when we don't realize it. (In a parody of this, Christof is
shown stroking Truman's sleeping image on the television screen).
Like both Christof and the Don Knotts character, God is constantly
watching, and has a hidden side which is inaccessible to
humankind. These are standard components in many persons' view
of a sovereign and benevolent God. But what is wrong with this
picture, when transposed into film?
[31] The gods in these movies (especially The Truman Show),
although incorporating some key elements in a contemporary
understanding of God, skew or omit others. In both films, full
human freedom goes against the gods' arrangements. They are not
god enough to permit it. Nor are their plans as good and
benevolent as they believe. Christof, in particular, is a self-deluded
and obsessive god. He does not truly love Truman - even though
he shows some affection for him. This is not a god who created out
of overflowing love and is determined to work with humans until
they can enjoy true partnership. He is not self-sacrificing and never
tries to form a relationship with his creation. Indeed, it is key to the
whole scheme that he keeps his existence hidden from Truman.
Rather than longing to be known, this god needs to remain secret.
In addition, Christof does not really fight evil or remove it from
Truman's world. Instead, this god just keeps the prerogative for
himself.
[32] Again, all this reflects common, though problematic, views of
God. But the films suggest that if we prize our freedom, we have
no choice but to rebel and depart from gods such as these. If we are
content to believe such a God has our best interests at heart, the
films indicate that we, like Truman, are sadly deluded. The
implication is that we are allowing ourselves to be bought off by
petty favors in order to avoid the risk and pain of bravely facing
life on our own strength. Even if we don't put much stock in God,
the film hints that we may nevertheless be God's grand experiment,
controlled without knowing it, being watched obsessively,
subconsciously conforming to the divine plan. The films indicate,
too, that we may not always know the difference between illusion
and reality, or fiction and fact, and are more malleable than we
realize. Even the names in The Truman Show could be taken as
tongue-in-cheek parodies. Christof is 'of Christ,' but really an
obsessive control-freak. Truman, who seems representative of the
ideal or 'true man,' is really just a grand experiment mentally
conceived in Burbank, a prime location of the image producing
industry.
[33] Both films, then, are good at making graphic some inadequate
perceptions of God. This makes it easier to start a theological
discussion around the issues. But such a discussion will also
challenge believers who have relied on such views or who harbor
them unknowingly. As useful as the films are at starting a
discussion, however, they give no good answers for people of
faith. They show no alternatives for mature human beings except
to reject God and accept the consequences. They offer no standard
of discernment when trying to separate fiction and fact, no way to
tell if we, on a cosmic scale, are the watchers or the watched, no
guide for knowing how free we are or how much controlled.
[34] These films offer only flight, change and individual freedom
as routes to human liberation, even though they honestly recognize
that these contemporary values are not unmixed blessings. But they
find the risks preferable to a world where we have only stasis and
the illusion of freedom. Many believers would agree with them. In
framing the issues this way, the films open up the classic questions
of free will versus determinism, or our will versus God's. But it is
we who have to ask the further questions. Does the living God
stand against human freedom? Does God only support the status
quo, or permit, even encourage, change? If God supports freedom
and change, what is the price? Can we still trust that God's
promises and plans will triumph in the end? And what do we use to
help answer these questions?
[35] Anyone leading a theological discussion around these two
films should be prepared to depart from the filmic "texts". In any
case, this is the key in using films as a bridge to theological
discussion. While we should first try to understand the film's point
of view, evaluate why it appeals or repels, and appreciate its ability
to give pleasure and meaning, we can't stop there. If we want to
speak a prophetic, critical, or constructive word to our culture, we
will have to deepen the conversation which the film has so
graphically launched. In using these two films, facilitators will
have to do their homework, and be prepared to present a much
richer array of theological options about the character, intentions,
and power of God, and a more realistic evaluation of human
freedom, with all its potential, limitations, and risks.
________________
February 18, 2010, 3:28 PM
On the Scene: Analyzing Scenes in Film
and Literature
http://learning.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/02/18/on-the-scene-analyzing-scenes-infilm-and-literature/
Overview | What are the elements of a scene? How does
deconstructing scenes reveal meaning? In this lesson, students start
to think like film directors by storyboarding an experience from their
lives. They then examine the Times Movies feature “Anatomy of a
Scene” and develop their own analyses of scenes from film and
literature.
Materials | Computers with Internet access and a projector;
preselected video clips from NYTimes.com; handouts
Warm-up | Invite students to brainstorm the basic “vocabulary” of
film, and write ideas on the board. Their list might include opening
shot, characters, setting, camera angle, shot, lighting, costumes,
props, music/soundtrack, etc. Leave this list on the board to refer to
throughout class.
Next, provide the following prompt:
Think of your morning as a collection of movie scenes. Freewrite
about the key moments you’ve lived so far today – the anxiety of a
classroom full of students awaiting a test, the fight you had with your
little sister over your new boots, the embarrassing episode in front of
the girl or boy you like, or even just what you ate for breakfast.
Describe the scenes you choose in as much detail as possible,
including dialogue whenever you can.
Once students have finished writing, have them form pairs or small
groups of “filmmakers,” with the task of choosing one group
member’s scene and imagining it as a scene in a movie by
storyboarding. (If they are reluctant to share, allow them to work
individually.) After they choose their scene, they should talk about
what they will need to think about and decide in turning the jottings
into a movie scene. Examples: Who are the “characters”? Where is the
scene set? How will the scene open – what is the opening shot? What
is the mood, and how can it be established – by music, other
elements? What props are needed? What action takes place in the
scene? What do the characters say to each other?
Ask students to draw rectangles in their journals to create
storyboards like this one, and sketch key bits in the scene in each
rectangle. Underneath or next to each rectangle, they should jot down
important information about that moment.
Once students have finished their planning, invite the groups to share
their ideas. Discuss the following: Do you think these would really
make for good movie moments? Why or why not? What’s the
difference between scenes we live and scenes we see in movies or read
in books or plays? How do directors shape the events of “real life” to
make them story-worthy? What is subtext? What techniques can
directors use to bring out subtext?
Tell students that today they will be reading films in the same way
they read literary texts. Ask: Do you think you need to be familiar
with a film’s subject or setting in order to fully “get” it? Why or why
not? How can films reinforce, or challenge, a viewer’s experience and
opinions? How can they introduce new ideas and experiences? Can
you think of any movies you have seen in which familiarity with the
content helped you understand and enjoy it? Can you think of any in
which your unfamiliarity with the content opened your eyes?
You may wish to introduce the subject of the film they will consider
first, Jason Reitman’s “Up in the Air” (based on the novel of the same
name by Walter Kirn), whose main character is a frequent air
traveler.
To evoke students’ associations, ask: How many of you have been to
an airport recently? If you’ve never flown, how do you imagine the
airport experience? How does being in an airport feel? What process
must travelers go through between arriving at the airport and
boarding the plane? What hassles are associated with flying? What
would make the experience smoother and easier? If you were going to
shoot a movie scene set in an airport, what details would you want to
include?
Tell students they will now watch a scene from “Up in the Air,” in
which the lead character, Ryan Bingham, played by George Clooney,
goes to the airport.
Related | In “Anatomy of a Scene: ‘Up in The Air,’” director Jason
Reitman describes how he shot the airport scene.
View the feature with your class, using the questions below. Notice
that you can adjust the volume of the director’s commentary vs. the
soundtrack of the scene itself with the slide bar at the right. First,
show students the scene without commentary. Then, show it again,
playing Mr. Reitman’s commentary.
Questions | For discussion:
What do you notice most when watching this scene?
Think about George Clooney’s line about the “systemized touches”
of the airport experience — how does the way in which this
scene was shot reflect this phrase?
What light does the director shed on this scene in his commentary?
How does it change the way you view the scene?
Do you think Mr. Reitman made the right choices – fast cut versus
slow motion – for this scene? Why or why not? How does his
choice affect you?
RELATED RESOURCES
FROM THE LEARNING NETWORK
Student Opinion: What Movies Have Carried You Away with Awe?
Lesson: Tell Me Something Good
Lesson: The Envelope, Please
FROM NYTIMES.COM
Review: “Neither Here Nor There”
Times Topics: Movies
Blog: The Carpetbagger
AROUND THE WEB
Internet Movie Database
Film Education
Filmsite: Greatest Film Scenes and Moments
Activity | This is a two-part lesson, in which students consider
additional “Anatomy of a Scene” features and how filmmakers’
decisions produce reactions in viewers, and then create their own
movie “Anatomies.”
Part 1
Show students another one or more additional “Anatomy of a Scene”
features. Suggestions: the feature on “Precious,” based on the novel
“Push” by Sapphire, or, for younger students, “Fantastic Mr. Fox,”
based on the novel by Roald Dahl. Additionally, you might show
students one or more clips from Critics’ Picks, in which Times movie
critics discuss the highlights of selected movies.
Depending on your curricular focus, you may wish to preselect and
show features that have a certain focus. For example, in the “Up in
the Air” feature, Mr. Reitman discusses how the scene was shot, and
tells us a bit about character; in the one on “Precious,” Lee Daniels
explores the emotional undercurrents in the scene; and in “Fantastic
Mr. Fox,” Wes Anderson explains the visual imagery and technique.
In the feature on “It’s Complicated,” Nancy Meyers discusses
wardrobe, body language and subtext along with camera shots and
angles; in the one on “Nine,” Rob Marshall focuses on visual imagery,
color and symbolism.
If the class’s focus will be entirely or partly on acting and
performances as opposed to filmmaking, you might show “The Best
Performances of the Decade.”
Discuss the features with students, focusing on what light the director
and/or critic, as appropriate, sheds on the film, and whether and how
the commentary affects how viewers “read” the scene(s) shown.
Remind students that great films are constructed in the same careful
way as great novels or plays, without stray scenes, images or lines.
The best directors draw on their “intimate, comprehensive
understanding of how sound and image work together to create
meanings and moods,” as A. O. Scott put it in his review of the Martin
Scorsese film “Shutter Island.” The choices made by the screenwriter,
director, actor and other crew members are deliberate, and viewers’
reactions are responses to these choices.
You may wish to delve more deeply into film terminology before
going further. Guide students to think about how these film aspects
and techniques cause reactions in viewers, and show them examples
of some techniques.
Part 2
Explain to students that they will now work in groups to
create their own “Anatomy of a Scene” features. You might wish to
select one of the following options as the foundation for the activity:
Student-selected favorite films
Teacher-selected films being taught as primary text or as part of
a literary unit
Students’ own films
For a Shakespeare unit, for example, student groups might study the
same scene from three different versions of a play like “Romeo and
Juliet” or “Hamlet,” and analyze how the scene works in each case,
providing fodder for comparison. In a filmmaking class, student
directors would choose one scene from their movies to explain.
Provide each pair or small group with the Anatomy of a Scene
handout (PDF) to guide their analysis. Make sure that they watch
their chosen or assigned scenes numerous times; you may also want
them to do some research on the movie and/or director to inform
their own insights.
With their handouts complete and their focus in mind, students write
and rehearse the scripts for their commentary, to be presented
alongside the film clips.
Finally, have students present their “Anatomy of a Scene” features, by
recording them on video or audio them and playing them alongside
the film clips, or by turning the volume down on the film and reading
the commentary aloud as their classmates watch the scene.
Going further | Students apply the principles of “Anatomy of a
Scene” to a textual scene, again using the handout to guide them.
Options include these:
Assign or allow students to choose a scene they feel is pivotal in
the work and write an “Anatomy”-style essay explaining why it
is key to the plot or themes or to understanding characters in
the work as a whole.
Students analyze their assigned or chosen a scene and create
“Anatomy of a Scene” audios, videos or live presentations, as
they did for the film.
Students analyze the scene in the source novel or play that
corresponds to the film scene they looked at in class. Later, they
compare the scene on the page to the scene on the screen.
Assign or have students choose a New York Times article to
imagine as a film, using the handout Telling a Times Story
(PDF).
Students choose a scene from the text you are studying and
write a “pitch” describing how they would go about filming it
and the specific choices they would make and why.
In a future class, have students share these textual analyses. To wrap
up, discuss the differences and similarities between analyzing a visual
medium like a movie and a textual one like a novel or play.
Standards | From McREL, for grades 6-12:
Language Arts
1. Uses the general skills and strategies of the
writing process
5. Uses the general skills and strategies of the
reading process
6. Demonstrates competence in the general skills
and strategies for reading a variety of literary texts
7. Uses the
general skills and strategies to understand a variety of informational
texts
8. Uses listening and speaking strategies for different purposes
Visual Arts
1. Understands and applies media, techniques, and
processes related to the visual arts
2. Knows how to use structures
(e.g., sensory qualities, organizational principles, expressive features)
and functions of art
3. Knows a range of subject matter, symbols,
and potential ideas in the visual arts
4. Understands the visual arts
in relation to history and cultures
5. Understands the characteristics
and merits of one’s own artwork and the artwork of others
Theatre
5. Understands how informal and formal theatre, film,
television, and electronic media productions create and communicate
meaning
6. Understands the context in which theatre, film,
television, and electronic media are performed today as well as in the
past
Arts and Communication
1. Understands the principles,
processes, and products associated with arts and communication
media
2. Knows and applies appropriate criteria to arts and
communication products
3. Uses critical and creative thinking in
various arts and communication settings
4. Understands ways in
which the human experience is transmitted and reflected in the arts
and communication
Life Skills: Working With Others
1. Contributes to the overall
effort of a group
4. Displays effective interpersonal communication
skills
________________
http://www.cornerstonemag.com/imaginarium/movies/truman.htm
The Truth May Be "Out There":
The Question Is Can We Get
There From Here?
The Truman Show
starring Jim Carrey, Ed Harris; directed by Peter Weir.
Reviewed by Mike Hertenstein
Truman Burbank's entire life, from before he was
born, has been the subject of a television show, The
Truman Show -- only he doesn't know it. All the
people in his life are actors, all the places sets, all
the objects props. Fans around the world watch his
every moment in real time, 24 hours a day, following
his personal ups and downs, speculating on what's
gonna happen next.
He begins to suspect something is up. A movie light
falls from the sky and crashes into his street. A
technical problem causes the communications among
the camera crew to play on his car radio. The actor
playing his father, whose character died years ago,
sneaks onto the set. "Dad" tries to talk to Truman,
and is whisked quickly away by bystanders -something that has happened before, most notably
with a girl in college who tried to tell him the truth
before she, too, vanished: yet not before becoming
the symbol of all Truman desired, all that was
somehow kept from him.
Potent themes are set in play. The success of The XFiles makes it clear audiences strongly identify with
the notion that what they have been told is reality is
false, and that this has been orchestrated by dark
forces for unknown ends. In The Truman Show, the
conspiracy also implicates television: the town and
people are just too perfect -- television perfect. And
overlayed onto these ideas is the notion of complete
exposure, the idea that what one considers secret
and private is on public display.
For sheer smartness regarding the contrast between
media-created reality and what we call by consensus
"the real world," this film is what Wag the Dog
aspired to be, and hangs together even better. (Of
course, my attitude toward Hollywood movies that
presume to debunk Hollywood is a little cynical, I
must confess.)
As Truman catches on to his position, he becomes
unpredictable, and by dodging his daily routine
manages catch a few irrefutable glimpses of the
falseness of his "reality". He then tries to escape, but
like Bill Murray in Ground Hog Day, is thwarted by
the seemingly unsurrmountable limits of his personal
nightmare.
The film cuts between Truman, trapped in his world,
and the people watching him on televisions. We also
visit behind-the-scenes, the stagehands and
cameramen of Trumen's reality, and especially the
mastermind, Christof. The conflict comes to be
focussed on this Creator, in absolute control of his
creation and a rebel who refuses to submit to the
overwhleming forces challenging him, ala
Prometheus. This "vindictive God" pose seems at
odds with the name Christof -- the choice of that
name would seem to raise expecations that the
Creator might become a character in his own story,
perhaps to redeem or rescue Truman.
Indeed, the question "How Will It End?" is the slogan
of The Truman Show, and director Weir raises the
stakes by so drawing attention to his film's own
climax. Alas, for all the knowing set-up, and the
subtle flirtation with anti-religious Promethean
themes, The Truman Show evidences absolutely no
consciousness of its own Hollywoodesque
contrivedness, its own deus ex machina. How it does
end (and if you don't want to know, STOP READING)
is that Truman sails to the end of his world, finds a
door, and walks out -- to the "real" reality, one
presumes. But the exact moment Truman exits
through that door, the filmmaker enters Hollywood
fantasy. Peter Weir may be a fine craftsman, but he
tends to be oblivious to the questions his movies
raise. In the likewise well-made Witness, the obvious
question -- What is the nature of law, i.e. from
whence comes our notions of right and wrong? -- is
lost in the race to action and romantic entanglement.
In this case, the question is not simply "How will it
end?" but rather, "How can we know what seems to
be the ending is real?" If Weir was truly interested in
reality, he'd have to admit to the audience that
locating the borders of the real is not as simple as
bumping into a set wall. A more truthful end to this
film would have been to leave some questions
whether the reality Truman enters through that door
is real, or just another fantasy. (Or, perhaps, to
leave some question whether Christof's own "reality"
was "real"!) In any case, there should have been at
least a little understanding that the task of
apprehending reality is going to get tougher on the
other side of that door. Thus, a film which presumes
to pass judgment on Hollywood's phony "reality"
turns out to be just another example -- just another
spurious claim to reality that gets deservedly
debunked.
Yet behind this bogus claim, and all the others, those
of us who keep looking can't help but notice those
tantalizing flickers of Something going on still further
behind the scenes.
________________
http://noggs.typepad.com/the_reading_experience/fi
lmfilm_and_literature/
THE READING
EXPERIENCE
Contemporary Literature and Criticism
November 06, 2007
Getting to Know You
This article on the adaptation of Russian "literary classics" to tv
concludes:
One argument that producers brought forward when defending
TV adaptation of classics a few years ago, when the trend had
just started, was that teenagers who would have never read a
book would at least watch a TV series based on it and get
acquainted with literature classics in this way. And that argument
seems to be valid. The rationale of those who argue that
contemporary TV adaptations of classical novels are vulgar and
simplistic may be right to a certain degree. But they are
definitely missing one important point: literary classics have
become part of pop culture and should be viewed in that way,
not like something sacred.
What exactly does it mean to "get acquainted with literature
classics" by watching a tv show? Simply to know that they exist?
This was for a long time one of the implicit justifications of
"exposing" students to great works of literature--make them
aware that these books exist so that they might know where the
"best" examples of human expression can be found, might be
able to follow a conversation in which these illustrious names are
mentioned, or might even--gasp!--one day read the books and
take them seriously. But I doubt that E.D. Hirsch understood
"cultural literacy" quite to mean that "literary classics have
become part of pop culture and should be viewed in that way,
not like something sacred."
I've tried as earnestly as I can to understand the logic behind the
notion that it's good that "teenagers who would have never read
a book would at least watch a TV series based on it." This is also
a long-standing justification both for making adaptations of
"literary classics" and for showing such films and programs to
students as either a supplement to or an outright replacement for
reading the works in question, but it has never made sense to
me. It's based on the assumption that "literary classics"
(specifically works of fiction) are stories about characters and
that, since these visual media are able to tell stories about
characters, if you faithfully tell the stories and present all the
characters you've adequately reproduced the book. (Or even if
you haven't, it's not a big deal because viewers will still get
"acquainted" with it.) While it's true that some "literary classics,"
especially those written in the 18th and 19th centuries, have
stories and characters, surely it isn't the case that they are
conveyed to us in the same way from "classic" to "classic." What
gets lost in the adaptation is narrative voice, fluctuations in point
of view, subtleties in characterization, shades of description. Most
importantly, what gets lost is the encounter with language. And
this is unavoidably true even in adaptations that are not "vulgar
and simplistic."
To believe that adaptations are acceptable substitutes for the
works adapted is to believe that the experience of watching a
film or television show, even the most intelligent and wellwrought shows, and reading a novel are essentially the same. Or
at least the differences are negligible enough that the "essence"
of the work is still getting through. It seems to me an implicit
devaluation of what is actually the distinguishing feature of
fiction--its status a patterned prose, as writing--to maintain that
it can be translated into visually realized images without
sacrificing its essence. A given adaptation of The Master and
Margarita may work on its own, visual, terms. It may even be
more successful than another adaptation at capturing something
recognizably "Bulgakovian" in the treatment. But it still isn't The
Master and Margarita, and viewers of the film who don't become
readers of the novel still don't really know what it's all about.
A good television or film adaptation can certainly provide
pleasures of its own, but they are the pleasures available in that
medium. A good film requires careful attention, just as does a
good novel, but the kind of attention being paid is not the kind
required by fiction. It can provoke us into immersing ourselves
into the mise-en-scene (in a way perhaps analogous to painting
but not continuous with it, since the image moves) or force us to
keep track of the information conveyed through editing, but this
is ultimately the work of the eye and ear keeping pace with
appearances. We have to look and listen. Fiction requires a kind
of looking, but even our visual registering of word, phrase and
sentence, and the way these elements arrange themselves in a
"style" distinctive to the author we're reading, is more an
internally-oriented mental process than an externally-oriented
process of sorting sights and sounds (although a kind of
"listening" is also certainly involved, as language manifests itself
to our mental "ear"). Our imaginations then have to finish the job
the writer has started. We have to mentally transform the words,
phrases, and sentences into the "actions" or "thoughts" or
"emotions" of the "characters" we agree are being brought to a
kind of life. (Films, of course, do this work for us.) And we have
to keep straight the way in which the characters and their actions
are being presented to us in a particular sort of formal
arrangement, an arrangement that is again mostly a
phenomenon of our mental engagement with the text.
Sometimes--as in some modernist and postmodernist fiction-this formal arrangement overrides our immediate connection to
the characters and the actions and has to be processed before
we can even comprehend the characters and actions.
I don't say that fiction is superior to film (I have a background in
film study and criticism myself), but to the extent it makes the
kind of demands on us I have described, it certainly is different in
its aesthetic and psychological effects. For a "literary classic" to
finally be appreciated, it has to be appreciated as literary. It
probably doesn't do any harm to people (as opposed to
literature) when they're allowed to be "acquainted" with
literature through film, but I can't see that it does them much
good, either.
November 06, 2007 in Film and Literature | Permalink | Comments (7)
July 19, 2007
The Wisdom of Crowds
Anyone who doubts that fiction has largely become subsidiary to
film, even for writers, should look at Next Stop Hollywood:
Short Stories for the Screen, an "anthology" recently
published by St. Martin's. It is, literally, American Idol brought
into print. From the introduction by editor Steve Cohen:
. . .The voice of the marketplace--indeed the wisdom of crowds-is far more powerful than the taste of any one studio executive.
True, the studio executive can "green-light" a project. But they
can't ignite a trend, build word of mouth, or get people to watch
films they don't want to.
We believe there is a fundamental transformation taking place in
the entertainment business. It is a shift in power from a few
"experts" to the consumer--and Next Stop Hollywood is part of it.
That is why we are asking you--the readers, the moviegoers, the
trendsetters--to tell us what you like and what you don't. Tell us,
via our Web site. . ., which stories should be made into movies
and who should star in them. We are also conducting
competitions for the best move poster and trailer based on these
stories. . . .
The stories were not chosen by Mr. Cohen. He sent submitted
stories around "to lots of readers," who were asked:
[D]id a particular story work for you as a potential film? Were
there characters--either heroes or villains--that you cared about?
Was there a plot with a beginning, a middle, and an end? Would
this be an easy or hard story to adapt to the screen? And lastly,
would this story have a narrow or wide appeal?
In addition to revealing what Steve Cohen (a self-described
"entrepreneur") thinks are the characteristics of a good movie-characters we "care about," linear plots, and a "wide appeal"--his
project also reveals what, apparently, large numbers of people
think fiction is worth: not much, unless it can be seen as a
"potential film."
The stories in the anthology range from the professionally
competent (Perry Glasser's "An Age of Marvels and Wonders" is
probably the most proficient story, although it also contains the
requisite degree of pathos to make it potentially appealing to
Hollywood) to the utterly atrocious. Most of them lean to the
latter. Very few of them are genre pieces. It would seem from
the selections chosen for this book that appropriate movie
narratives (which are, after all, what these stories ultimately
aspire to be) are essentially realistic, with suitably dramatic plot
twists and turns, and involve characters not so far removed from
the ordinary that we can't identify with them.
To the extent that writers of "literary fiction" (here defined as the
sort of thing encouraged by most creative writing programs and
the editors of most literary journals) are also usually enjoined to
think of fiction in this way (absent the more melodramatic
flourishes of plot and executed more adroitly and in more
polished prose), I find it hard to consider most of what gets
published with that tag attached as any less designed to attract
the attention of those holding the "green light" than what has
been gathered in Next Stop Hollywood.
July 19, 2007 in Film and Literature | Permalink | Comments (1)
July 17, 2007
Market Penetration
In his recent disquisition on fiction's loss of audience to
television shows about the Mafia, John Freeman opines that
"America's most powerful myth-making muse long ago moved in
to Hollywood" and that the novel has additionally "been whacked
by a number of things," such as the decline of public education
and the rise of advertising.
While the spread of a kind of voluntary illiteracy in American
culture certainly doesn't help in the effort to perhaps entice a few
current nonreaders into becoming readers, I really don't think
The Sopranos has likely distracted the attention of many people
who might otherwise have been reading novels, certainly not
many people who under different circumstances might have
spent their time with Nabokov or Beckett. Would it really be a
coup for literature if some of those watching The Sopranos were
instead reading James Michener or Mario Puzo, in reality the true
"myth-making" alternatives to "the screen in its many
incarnations"? And if by pointing out the dominance of the
"language of advertising" Freeman is criticizing the "book
business" for its marketing of trash of all kinds, including that
which is sandwiched between covers and called a "book," then I
certainly agree with him, although presumably he would be
satisfied if such advertising were used to attract readers to real
books. Indeed, later in his article Freeman lauds the way such
writers as Thomas Pynchon, Ralph Ellison, and Jack Kerouac
managed to combine literary ambition with "market penetration."
Freeman is probably correct, however, to cite competition from
Hollywood as a detrimental influence on the standing of fiction,
but its influence is not of the kind he imagines it to be. If the
novel is being marginalized, it is not because too many people
are watching HBO; it's because too many novelists are writing
novels that are clearly meant to be made into movies. If fiction is
being undervalued, by readers and critics alike, it's not because
shows like The Sopranos are better, or more accessible, than
contemporary novels; it's because fiction writers themselves
implicitly concede that film and television are the narrative forms
to which they ultimately aspire. If certain movies and the various
cable miniseries programs seem livelier than fiction, it's not
because fiction no longer "develops characters" on a grand scale,
or has abandoned "some of the primary themes of the Great
American Novel" or fails to render itself in "a deeply American
language," characteristics Freeman believes are positively in
evidence in The Sopranos; it's because too few novelists manifest
any interest in sounding out the yet undiscovered possibilites of
fiction as an alternative to the conventional narrative practices
upon which film and tv continue to rely.
It is precisely the desire to achieve "market penetration" (a
market that the movie business has not only penetrated but has
saturated with its seed) that has caused fiction to become less
and significant to the development of American culture.
I began to ponder these issues well before reading Freeman's
article. I have long thought that most mainstream "literary
fiction" was inspired less by writers' familiarity with literary
history and more by the narrative demands of film. This doesn't
necessarily mean that most writers want to produce plot-driven
thrillers and melodramas or sweet romantic comedies. Indeed,
the sensibility exhibited in much contemporary literary fiction is
perhaps closer to that informing the "art film," the "independent"
movies that can be described as "quirky" or "offbeat" or, simply,
"serious." This kind of film has the advantage of combining a
degree of artistic credibilty with some plausible prospect of
popularity, should the film in question "find its audience,"
manage to accomplish a measurable act of "market penetration."
With many writers, my impression is that their most deeply-held
ambition is to see their work adapted into such a film, which
would allow them to maintain their artistic cred while also having
the work affirmed by those attuned to and sanctioned by our
"most powerful myth-making muse."
But I was especially provoked into examining this phenomenon
more closely when I recently watched Todd Field's adaptation of
Tom Perotta's novel Little Children (screenplay written by Perotta
himself.) I found it to be a reasonably pleasant, mildly "quirky"
satire of suburbia, one that especially zeroes in on Americans'
increasingly fraught attitudes toward parenting, fraught because
so many parents have hardly ceased being "little children"
themselves. My impression of the novel, based on the reviews
and weblog discussions I'd read at the time of its release, was
that it was a relatively unquirky literary satire written by
someone specializing in the "youth" scene (his previous novels
were Joe College and Election, the latter also made into a wellknown film.) I decided to read Little Children to see if I had
perhaps too quickly discounted him as a writer, although I
suspected I would find the novel just another in the very long
line of mediocre works of fiction that Hollywood directors and
scriptwriters had managed to elevate into better films.
What I found was not just a mediocre work of fiction that
managed to be transformed into a watchable film, but a mediocre
novel that was mediocre precisely because it was obviously
written in order to be so transformed.
If ever a movie could be said to have "filmed the book," the
Field/Perotta version of Little Children is it. Very little of the book
is left behind in the transference to film. The plot remains
virtually undisturbed, much of the dialogue comes from the novel
verbatim or with very minor changes, and almost all of the
characters introduced in the novel are included in the film
(although a couple of them, such as the husband of coprotagonist Sarah, have a diminished role, and the husband's
subplot in particular--concerning his obsession with an online
porn vixen--is pared back). The novel's scenic narrative
structure, by which relatively brief, self-enclosed scenes,
alternating primarily between those involving Sarah and those
involving Todd, the "Prom King" with whom Sarah begins an
extramarital affair, move us forward in a leisurely, episodic
fashion is faithfully reproduced in the film. The ending is changed
slightly, but not in such a way that the novel's underlying point
("boy, aren't these people pathetic!") is lost. One can easily
imagine the screenwriter making his way, page by page, through
this novel and converting its prose into scene headings and
dialogue.
And yet the film, as an aesthetic experience, is an improvement
over the novel. It's not a great film, but as "quirky" independent
films go, it holds one's attention and provides the occasional
amusing insight into the reverse trajectory (it's all downhill after
college) so many Americans have followed in the last few
decades. (In this way the film--but not the novel--is reminiscent
of Richard Yates's Revolutionary Road, although Yates's novel is
much bleaker, less content with mere amusement.) The novel,
on the other hand, is a slog, full of uninspired prose and
hackneyed observations. And this difference, in my opinion, is all
the difference in the world. The movie spares us Perotta's
labored, cliche-ridden, "unobtrusive" writing. It spares us
passages like this:
Aaron had discovered his penis. Whenever he had a spare
moment--when he was watching TV, say, or listening to a story-his hand would wander southward, and his face would go all soft
and dreamy. This new hobby coincided with a sudden leap
forward in his potty training that allowed him to wear big boy
underpants at home during the day (at night, during naps, and in
public he still needed the insurance of a diaper.) Because he
often had to sprint to the bathroom at the last possible moment,
he preferred not to wear pants over the underwear, and this
combination of easy access and an elastic waistband issued a
sort of standing invitation that he found impossible to resist.
Almost every sentence here is built out of banal phrasing and
worn-out expressions: "had discovered his penis"; "a spare
moment"; "soft and dreamy"; "a sudden leap forward," etc. The
last sentence in particular is a headlong accumulation of cliches.
(I can't decide if the "standing invitation" is meant as a pun--a
bad one--or is just lazy writing.) This is supposed to be a "plain
style," but its effect is precisely, through its very shoddiness, to
draw attention to itself rather than away. I spent more of my
time wincing at the woodenness of the prose than following the
story, and without "story" a novel like Little Children has nothing.
The film rescues the story from the writer, as the director has at
least some "style" in cinematic terms. The novelist has none.
One might say that since Perotta himself wrote the screenplay he
was able to preserve most of the story another screenwriter
might have altered, or that since it is his story he clearly does
have some talent as a writer. But these claims only reinforce for
me the conclusion that the novel was probably written with the
screen version in mind and that the talent Perotta has is precisely
a talent for screenwriting. The concepts of "story" and
"character" his novel manifests are those prized by moviemakers.
Aside from the adultery plot and the supporting cast of "offbeat"
characters, Little Children (the novel) has little else to offer,
nothing readers who read novels that in one way or another
advance the form (even a little bit) would find compelling. I
understand that practically everyone in the world has a
"screenplay" in the works, and that few of them will ever be
produced, but if you're going to write a novel that exists only as
a proto-movie, why not just write it up as a script to begin with?
July 17, 2007 in Film and Literature | Permalink | Comments (12)
March 08, 2007
Plot-Wise
David Denby asserts that
The cinema, in which actors appear to be moving in consecutive
time through patches of genuine space, has always created a
strong expectation of realistic narrative. But here’s the paradox:
thanks to the mechanical nature of the recording medium (still
photos, or digits, strung together in rapid succession), playing
with sequence and representation is almost irresistible. As soon
as film was invented, experimental film was invented. Some of
the fooling around was just exuberant exploration of a fabulous
new toy, but some of it arose from political or philosophical
convictions, and was intended to turn us upside down.
In my previous post, I suggested that while fooling around with
chronology is more or less identified as the one properly
"experimental" mode of fiction writing, few critics and reviewers
express much interest in, or tolerance for, other kinds of literary
experiment. Here Denby also equates "experimental film" with
"playing with sequence." He is discussing a cluster of recent
films, such as Babel, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and
Memento (all of which in turn, claims Denby, are in a lineage that
began with Pulp Fiction) that "disorder" time, and he ultimately
questions the efficacy of such manipulations.
When himself casting back in time for "classic" precursors to
today's fractured narratives, Denby offers Alain Resnais as an
example:
Of all the highbrow directors of the late fifties and sixties, Alain
Resnais, working with experimental writers like Alain RobbeGrillet and Marguerite Duras, and drawing on ideas developed by
those writers in their fictions, played the most extreme (and
infuriating) games with time and narrative. In “Hiroshima, Mon
Amour” (1959), two lovers, one French, one Japanese, mainly lie
in bed trying to retrieve their memories of the war. The movie
ceases to move forward in any conventional sense; and the past,
it turns out, becomes ungraspable, even irrecoverable, leaving us
stranded in an elegant time warp. In Resnais’s “Muriel” (1963), a
variety of distancing devices hold at arm’s length an unendurable
recollection—a French soldier’s experience of torturing an
Algerian girl. At the same time, the present-tense narrative is
developed intermittently, and without the usual climaxes and
tensions, so that the structure of the story’s emotions, rather
than their power, becomes the subject of the film.
That Hiroshima, Mon Amour "ceases to move forward in any
conventional sense" and that Muriel's "present tense narrative is
developed intermittently, and without the usual climaxes and
tensions" does not, it seems to me, make them the inspiration
for the jumbled chronologies of current films. Resnais is looking
for alternatives to the "power" of narrative; these films want to
see if cinema can carry on without "story" in the Hollywood
sense, not to find novel ways of presenting story that continue to
convey its dramatic force. Films like Babel and Memento (and I
actually like the latter film a great deal) do not focus on "the
stucture of the story's emotions." They are all "climax and
tension," if anything only reinforcing the importance of story:
Reassembling the fragments of narrative we are given into a
conventional story becomes perhaps our primary prerogative as
viewers of such movies. Story remains all.
Part of the problem with Denby's formulation of "the new
disorder" is that he opposes it to "realistic narrative." He
confuses "realism" with conventional storytelling. Resnais's films
are hyperrealistic, even while they do abandon story
conventions. Indeed, "experiment" in film is more likely to move
toward greater realism than toward ever more frenzied
disruptions of narrative line, at least as long mainstream
filmmaking continues to be focused on delivering greater and
greater narrative punch. Efforts to achieve realism in either
mainstream or independent filmmaking are more likely to draw
out fresh and innovative approaches to the art of cinema than
the admittedly exciting but finally story-bound "scrambling of
time frames" that Denby describes. This is not to say that realism
is preferable in cinema, just that what Denby calls realism is
really just the use of storytelling strategies that don't call
attention to themselves.
Denby concludes from the perceived failings of Babel that a
return to tried-and-true storytelling techniques might be
necessary, that they might lead to "the paradise of a morally
complicated but flawlessly told story." I'm all for moral
complication, but I don't see that this must be the Holy Grail of
filmmaking. I don't see why experimenting with the possibilities
of film can't be a sufficient justification for making one, just as
similar experiment with literary form has often been for writing a
poem or a novel. If Neal Gabler is right and "movies can no
longer be the art of the middle," then all the more reason not to
single-mindedly pursue the mass audience with more gaudy
refinements of "plot." Or mollify them with a "flawlessly told
story."
March 08, 2007 in Film and Literature | Permalink | Comments (2)
October 10, 2005
What Happens Internally
A while back, Stephen Hunter wrote an essay for the
Washington Post in which he examined the differences between
fiction and Hollywood films taking fiction as "source." At one
point he makes this claim:
. . .The primary issue in prose is motive: You have to understand
why the people do what they do, or else the whole shebang falls
apart as illusion. The minds of the characters have to be
consistent to be believable; action has to flow from character.
Fiction writing is about what happens internally, even if lots of
guns come out and stuff blows up.
I know that a lot of people believe that this difference between
the external and the internal is an important distinction to make
between fiction and film, and that drawing it usually results in an
implicit--or not so implict--valorization of fiction over film. Fiction
gives us access to "the mind" of a character in a way film cannot;
a corrollary of this is that the internal view is perforce a defining
feature of fiction, that those stories and novels (particularly the
latter) making a claim to be "serious" must provide it or risk
being dismissed as not properly literary.
It is true that often the difference between a given novel and its
adaptation to film is the greater focus on "mind" in the former.
But this is a difference that is really only palpable when otherwise
the novel and the film have much in common, when it was
possible to adapt the novel to film to begin with because they
both emphasize character, setting, plot in more or less
conventional ways. (When finally the guns do come out and stuff
does blow up.) In my opinion, the internal/external oppositon is
not a very solid peg on which to hang one's hat in promoting
fiction's putatively greater sophistication. We all recognize the
ultimate tradeoff: immediacy in film vs. "depth" in fiction. But
what makes depth the more valuable property? In aesthetic
terms, why is it important to provide such depth in the first
place? If you're more interested in "empathy" or "motive" than in
art, perhaps.
What if you don't really care about "believability"? What if
character is something you're not really interested in at all,
except insofar as it enables the fiction's aesthetic design? Is such
a writer (or reader) not being serious? What if it doesn't matter
whether action follows from character? Couldn't character follow
from action, if incident and event comprise the engine of
aesthetic effect? Couldn't you dispense with action altogether?
Couldn't you dispense with character altogether? (Think Beckett's
later work.) Some writers want the "whole shebang" of illusion to
fall apart. It's precisely a way to divert the reader's attention to
some of the other aesthetic possibilities of fiction. Why is this less
"serious" than writing the same old character-based story in
which we get supposedly "luminous" glimpses into that
abstraction called "human consciousness"?
Such fiction as I am describing would indeed be (mostly)
unfilmable, at least according to currently reigning ideas about
what film properly does as well. But wouldn't this be the whole
point? We wouldn't need to have advice about how to approach a
film based on a novel. They'd each have their own separate and
entirely respectable jobs to do.
October 10, 2005 in Film and Literature | Permalink | Comments (1)
June 27, 2005
Spurious Motives
Katherine A. Powers loves a "good read":
In fiction the qualities essential to a good read are generous
portions of character, character development, and plot; a
palpable sense of place and material reality; reoccurrences of
situations and quirks that become an inside joke between writer
and reader; some seriousness -- though not solemnity -- of
purpose; and, above all, consistency and follow-through. You
have to trust your writer not to let you down: not change the
tacit rules of the narrative or simply be sloppy. He must not
disobey the laws of nature or time. He mustn't cry wolf more
than once or twice, or trump up spurious motives. And he will
never be forgiven for simply calling it a day, leaving a mess of
loose ends at the end. . . .
Perhaps this description is an acceptable enough account of
"escapist" fiction, but why must such escapism be equated with a
good read? Is this truly what makes reading worthwhile?
Encountering a novel that's so predictable, so easily reduced to
"generous portions" of character development, plot, "material
reality"? That doesn't challenge one's accepted notions of
"consistency and follow-through"? Isn't the implicit message here
that a "good" read is an easy read?
What among Powers's list of desirable attributes couldn't be done
just as readily in a film, or even a situation comedy? What on
this list gets at the distinctive qualities of reading, those qualities
that involve not merely being mesmerized ("intoxicated" is
Powers's preferred term) by the secondary effects of prose fiction
("generous portions of character," "the tacit rules of the
narrative") but lead to reflection or rumination, or to an
enhanced appreciation of the possibilities of writing and reading?
That ask the reader to participate in the creation of meaning or
value? Would a book that encouraged its readers to engage in
these sorts of activities rather than sit back passively, as Powers
would have it do, be a "bad read"?
This implicit equation of the pleasures of reading with
mindlessness is one reason I can't accept the commonly-held
notion that getting people (especially young people) simply to
read--it doesn't matter what, as long as they're reading--should
be the goal of language/literary instruction. The idea seems to be
that once we've encouraged non-readers to find in book form the
equivalent of what they enjoy in movies or video games they'll
move on to more challenging books providing other, more
complex reading experiences. I don't see how this could happen.
If what you want can be offered more readily, with more
immediacy, in these other media, why would you settle for the
diluted version in a book, much less seek out different kinds of
gratification in more difficult books? What service to either
reading or writing is it to suggest that books are worth our
attention because sometimes they're almost as good as movies?
Why not let movies do what they do, and books do what they do-which is something qualitatively, not just relatively, different?
Wouldn't even Katherine Powers more reliably find what she
thinks of as a "good read," something to which she can
"surrender," at her local cineplex?
June 27, 2005 in Film and Literature | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)
May 23, 2005
The Irreplaceable Conditions of Prose
According to Andrew O'Hagan, "There may be a coming
generation who will know the literary classics only from
television's adaptation of them, but that knowledge is better than
no knowledge at all."
This is wrong. It couldn't be more wrong. What good is it to have
"knowledge" of books if they go unread? Would O'Hagan say the
same thing about, say, music? Better to have "knowledge" of
Bach's Brandenburg Concertos, even if one never listens to
them? A faint memory of the excerpt that used to be played on
William Buckley's Firing Line will do?
O'Hagan continues:
I'm a novelist, so I'm hardly going to argue against the
irreplaceable conditions of prose, the pattern and rhythm and
truth of good writing. But literature is also about narrative and
morality; if it takes a television show to get some of that over to
an audience - and possibly to send them to the original source then there are small grounds for moaning.
I haven't read any of Andrew O'Hagan's books, but if he really
believes this, he can't be much of a novelist. Literature without
the words is good enough? If television (or film or "graphic
novels") can provide "narrative and morality" as well as fiction,
which O'Hagan seems to concede here, why bother with fiction in
the first place? The other forms are clearly more popular, so if
"getting over" some morality to an audience is what you're after,
wouldn't it make more sense to use them instead?
In saying all of this, I am not denigrating these other narrative
forms. I would simply maintain that tv is tv, film is film, fiction is
fiction. Indeed, I have always found television adaptations of
"classic" novels to be among the least interesting uses of this
form, and much more likely to frighten viewers away from the
"original source" than provoke them into reading. The best film
adaptations of novels tend to be of those novels less tied to
notions of "literature" in the first place, leaving the filmmakers
with much more freedom to alter the source in ways that
emphasize the strengths of cinema without leaving the novel's
fans feeling outraged. If you prefer the visual to "the
irreplaceable conditions of prose," fine. But let's not pretend that
tv versions of fiction manage to negotiate some blurry terrain
between the two modes. It's still just television.
"My stepsons are fairly good readers," writes O'Hagan, "but,
recently, they have begun to say that reading is boring":
I find it hard to imagine what they mean, except that when I see
them watching stuff on television I see that their eyes are lively.
In this situation, are you going to force them upstairs to read
Kidnapped, or are will you guide them towards the BBC's recent
adaptation of Kidnapped starring Iain Glen as Alan Breck?
I would do neither. I'd let them watch whatever television
program they want to watch. I'd suggest to them that Kidnapped
is a pretty good book, but I wouldn't force them to read it. If
they're going to grow up to be non-readers, I guess I'd just
accept it. Maybe I'd try to teach by example by skipping that
night's tv lineup altogether and reading a book instead. But
watching Iain Glen rather than reading about Alan Breck isn't
going to make anyone a Stevenson fan.
May 23, 2005 in Film and Literature | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack (0)
December 27, 2004
Serious
It's no wonder that the very term "serious art" is so completely
misunderstood, the art it names so often dismissed and laughed
at, when reviewers and arts journalists seem so often not to have
a clue as to what it actually might mean. This article in the
Boston Globe is a good example. Ed Siegel tells us:
It often seems that there's as big a gap between so-called
Hollywood movies and "serious films" as there is between red
states and blue states. Hollywood movies cater to adolescents
and families at megaplexes, while what are loosely, and usually
inaccurately, termed independent films cater to those looking for
more celluloid thoughtfulness in art houses.
But:
What is particularly interesting about the serious film as opposed
to the Hollywood movie is how there are traces of Hollywood in
even the most serious of films, whether they're the brainchildren
of auteur directors, playwrights, or Booker Prize-winning
novelists.
Of what do these "traces of Hollywood" consist? Apparently it is
in the "happy ending," which, according to Siegel, even "serious"
filmmakers can't quite resist:
In Hollywood films of old, the leading man almost always got the
girl. But as girls became women and directors in the 1970s
started subverting the Hollywood film, escapism became a thing
of the past in serious films.
Sort of.
Now the aesthetic has become: The guy may or may not get the
girl. Thus "Sideways" ends with Miles knocking on Maya's door.
This implies some ambiguity, but the opinion on the way out of
the theater seemed to be that they would get together.
It is striking that in differentiating serious films from "Hollywood"
films Siegel can only point to the way in which these films
conclude. (He does speak of an "emotional honesty to all these
films that make the quasi-happy endings something between
forgivable and desirable," but it isn't very clear what he means
by this.) The unhappier the ending, the more serious the film?
Because this implies a more "serious" view of life? It's not a bed
of roses? No matter how slipshod or dishonest the rest of the film
might be, if you tack on an unhappy ending this redeems the
whole enterprise?
I'm sure that Siegel did not intend to imply such things (or I
hope not), but it's what happens when the "seriousness" of a film
(or any work of narrative art) is reduced to what the "moral" of
its story seems to be. And this is essentially what a fixation on
happy/unhappy endings amounts to. Of course one could dispute
that such films as Sideways or Closer, upon which Siegel bases
his analysis, are particularly serious films to begin with, but
surely even these films display features that separate them from
run-of-the-mill Hollywood product: Narrative ingenuity? Attention
to detail? Care in composition and camera work? Directorial style
in general? These sorts of things can even be brought to bear on
films with conventional happy endings. Is an unhappy ending all
that a filmmaker needs to provide to be taken seriously?
Ultimately Siegel's focus on how the story turns out is
symptomatic of much criticism of both film and fiction. It is finally
a way of reducing a film or a novel to its story. I suppose that
when story is everything--as opposed to the artful ways in which
stories can be told, or even to the attempt to get by without
"story" in this most simplistic sense--the ending is going to take
on extra gravity. In determining what is "serious" about films or
novels, however, such a consideration is more often just dead
weight.
December 27, 2004 in Film and Literature | Permalink | Comments (1)
December 14, 2004
Aesthetic Heroes
Terry Teachout recently put up a provocative post on the
adaptation of fiction into film in which he raises at least two very
interesting issues. The first has to do with the critic's
responsibilities in reviewing films adapted from fiction:
. . .full-time film reviewers. . .rarely have sufficient time to do
the research that would allow them to intelligently compare film
adaptations to their sources. The classics, yes—we all at least
pretend to have read them—and it’s also taken for granted that
film-to-source comparisons will be made in the case of Gone With
the Wind-type blockbusters, if only because the first thing
everybody wants to know about such films is how faithful the
screen version is to the original book. But when it comes to old
movies adapted from obscure novels, who bothers?
Terry seems to conclude that finally it isn't necessary to read the
book from which a film has been adapted, affirming the principle
more or less accepted ever since George Bluestone's Novels Into
Film (1957) that fiction and film are separate media embodying
separate artististic ambitions that need to be judged by critical
standards appropriate to each. And as Lance Mannion points
out in a response to Terry's post, "it's generally agreed around
Hollywood that the best movies are made from the worst novels."
In other words, the artistic goals of the two media are so
disinctive that, by and large, good novels almost never make
good films (they were not written to be films in the first place),
whereas bad or pulpy novels, which often borrow heavily from
movie conventions and are usually so focused on plot or punchy
dialogue they can be adapted fairly directly, often make great
ones. They were movie-friendly to begin with.
But Terry draws another conclusion from this that strikes me as
rather peculiar. "Most of us prose-oriented types," he writes,
"have a sneaking suspicion that film is by definition a lesser art
form than the novel. We like the idea that every word of a novel
is personally written by the person who signs it (even though we
also know that an anonymous editor may well have played a
more or less substantial part in its creation). . . ." Although he
accepts that "[i]t’s the work that matters, not the attribution,"
still "there’s a difference between knowing that to be true and
feeling it in your bones. It takes a special kind of confidence to
buy an unsigned painting without a provenance, based solely on
the evidence of your eye. Most of us aren't nearly so sure of
ourselves. We like to see that signature in the lower right-hand
corner." Speaking as a "prose-oriented type" myself, I don't
believe that "film is by definition a lesser art form than the
novel," just that it's different, and different in ways that are
important to remember. What's most peculiar in this passage,
however, is the apparently Romantic preference (I wouldn't have
expected Terry Teachout to express such a preference) for the
"signature," the assurance that the work in question is the
product of individual vision. Would Terry think less of
Shakepeare's plays if it were discovered that not just one or two
of them had been written in collaboration with other playwrights,
but several of them, even some of the best ones? I would not,
but if he really believes what he says here, one would have to
conclude that Terry Teachout would have second thoughts about
them.
The second issue has to do with the so-called "auteur theory."
Writes Teachout: "Film, after all, is a radically collaborative
process in which creative responsibility can only be assigned
tentatively and on a case-by-case basis. This is something that
all but the most rabid auteuristes accept as a given. . . ." And
later: "In short, most of us stubbornly persist in believing in
aesthetic heroes, a belief which I think goes a long way toward
explaining why the auteur theory caught on. It goes against
human nature to accept the attributional ambiguity inherent in
the process of making films, in the same way that you’d think
less of, say, Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony were some
musicologist to discover that it had been orchestrated by a
student of the composer." Terry thinks the auteur theory goes
too far in assigning "authorship" of films to the director, that it
doesn't sufficiently account for the "radically collaborative
process" of making films. The "radically" here is telling. Plenty of
art forms are collaborative: classical music (where would the
composer be without the orchestra?), dance, theater, etc. Why is
film "radically collaborative"? Is it more collaborative than opera?
I understand that the word "auteur" has been horribly abused by
those who, if they've read the Cahiers du Cinema critics or their
American followers at all, have interpreted the notion of the
cinematic "auteur" in the most simplistic and reductive ways.
However, it is worth remembering that the auteur critics were
responding precisely to the collaborative nature of filmmaking
and were attempting to rescue, specifically, American cinema
from the assumption that this sort of collaboration meant films
could not be accomplished works of art. If movies were in effect
assembled rather than made, if creative responsibility was too
dispersed for the result to be considered artful in any meaningful
way, why were so many films from the 1930s and 40s (or from
the silent era, for that matter) so good? The auteurists posited
that directors were in the best position to provide a film with its
signature style and outlook, and that the best directors (not all
directors) did just that, as any careful analysis of the body of
work of a John Ford or an Alfred Hitchcock would manifestly
show. Can anyone really examine the careers of directors like
these and deny that their films are of a piece, products of an
artistic vision as coherent as any other artist's, and this despite
the fact that the screenplays of their films were mostly written by
other and diverse hands?
For people like Truffaut and Godard--later Andrew Sarris-directors like these were indeed "aesthetic heroes." (Although
perhaps Sarris could be charged with diluting the strength of the
auteur theory in his book The American Cinema by in effect
spreading it too thin, celebrating too many truly minor directors
at the expense of obviously accomplished writer-directors such
as Billy Wilder. Still, The American Cinema remains one of the
most consequential books I've ever read, having literally changed
the way I watch movies.) Perhaps Terry is only explaining why
movies do still appeal to us as works of art, challenge us to
account for this effect by identifying the "artistry" involved. In
this sense, something like the auteur theory was inevitable. It
has resulted in its share of excess in its application, and any
number of hack directors have illegitimately claimed its favors,
but it did indeed save many great movies from unwarranted
neglect.
Since TEV has worked as a screenwriter, I'd be very interested in
his views on this subject.
December 14, 2004 in Film and Literature | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)
March 08, 2004
Freedom to Roam
Over the weekend I watched Woody Allen's Anything Else on
DVD. (I believe I am correct to say it is his most recently
released film.) To sum up the experience quickly, it was very
painful.
As the author of a "scholarly" essay on Allen, as well as other
such essays on film comedy more generally, I feel like I do have
some modest authority to speak on this subject (as well as to
occasionally change the focus of this blog from literature to film),
and to judge that Anything Else is a complete dud, perhaps the
most disheartening failure of Allen's career. (Interiors was bad,
but for other and to some extent understandable reasons.) This
may be the first time Allen sets out to be funny in the manner of
his earlier films--at least the "romantic" comedies Annie Hall and
Manhattan--and just isn't.
The jokes are generally tired and derivative (with a few
exceptions, as when the protagonist's girlfriend tells him (in
essence) she can no longer stand to have sex with him, but that
of course it has nothing to do with him), but that is really the
consequence of the film's lack of authenticity more generally. The
film's main characters are young--even younger than Allen and
his own co-stars in their "younger" days in the 70s--and Allen
seems to have no clue what to do with them other than rehearse
the old routines in what is only a superficially similar mileu.
How much more interesting it would be to see Allen attempt to
portray--comically, of course--characters of his own age (60s)
dealing with the kinds of problems they still confront, rather
than, as he does in this film, trying to keep up with the kids.
There aren't that many precedents for either slapstick or
romantic comedies about older folks, but one would think that
someone as unconcerned about Hollywood and its conventions
and as bold a filmmaker as he once was, at least, would be
willing to tackle such a subject. Allen's comedic talents and jokemaking facility in this context might produce something "edgy"
indeed.
Of course, that Allen has chosen in Anything Else to make a
conventional romantic comedy focusing on younger people-unmarried people--may just be an obvious sign of the kind of
audience to which filmmakers must appeal. It's certainly possible
that a film of the sort I've described would fail miserably at the
box office (although it probably couldn't fail more miserably than
Anything Else apparently did), since the audience for even the
"mature" subjects that do get screen treatment now is assuredly
small and perhaps getting smaller. However, if a filmmaker as
free to do as he pleases as Allen has generally been can't break
out of the constraints of the "youth market," who can?
In this way writers of fiction still have an advantage over
filmmakers. In some ways their biggest obstacle lies in the
opposite direction: actually cultivating a youthful audience for
fiction. Still, literary fiction generally depicts the full range of
available experience, from childhood to old age, if anything is
able to explore the less familiar if not deliberately ignored
circumstances of the various kinds of "marginal" people movies
don't always like to examine. (And if they do, frequently they're
movies based on novels.) Perhaps novelists and short story
writers ought not to aspire to the kind of popularity movies
enjoy, if it would mean giving up this freedom to roam through
the whole open territory of human experience.
________________
https://honors.rit.edu/amitraywiki/index.php/Film_as_Literature,
_Literature_as_Film
Film as Literature/Literature as Film
Adaptation across Media and Genres
Virginia Madsen recreating Ophelia in Fire With Fire (1986)
Literature 0504 444-70 *Winter Quarter 2005-2006 *Tuesday 6-9:50PM
*Bldg 6 Room A205
Dr. Amit Ray [2]
Office: 2309 Liberal Arts Building
Office hours: Wednesday, 10AM-12PM and by appointment.
Office phone: 475-2437
E-mail: axrgsl at rit dot edu
Description
John Everett Millais's Ophelia (1851-52)
Literature is driven by the written word. The power of images during the
twentieth century (particularly in film), has seemingly supplanted the power
of the written word. However, the relationship between word and image
continues to evolve as we enter into new and varied relationships with our
multiple, intertwined and increasingly interdependent media. This course
will offer a comparative look at film and literature in order to examine how
the two have continued to modify one another during the past century.
Themes, Terms, Concepts: An Interactive Space
Consider contributing to the glossary with definions for these terms. As this
is a wiki, also consider editing other's entries. Make sure you register in a
manner that will allow me to identify you for the purposes of crediting you
with participation. I will also consider well-conceived entries and edits
for extra-credit.
Modernism/Modernity
Postmodernism/Postmodernity
Genre and Genre Theory
Media
Adaptation
Mimesis
Realism
Reflexivity
•Reader feedback on Robert Stam, Literature through Film: Stam
•Comments from Jeff Michaels: User:Jjm6140
•June 2006 Poll by the Guardian UK: Top 50 Cinematic Adaptations of
Literature
Student Web Pages
http://www.maine2georgia.com/ I spent the past 5 months hiking from
Maine to Georgia along the Appalachian Trail with my best friend from high
school. It was an amazing experience. Our site has pictures and journal
entries from the entire trip. -Dennis Mannion
http://www.fourl3x.com/ I am a graduate student in Graphic Design and
this is the page I put together as part of the application process. I enjoy
seeing what my peers are up to, I think it makes for a more productive
creative environment. Hope to see some other peoples work. -Alex Girard
http://www.rit.edu/~crf6110/ I am also a graduate student in Graphic
Design, with a background in Illustration. This site is a portfolio that I
compiled of my undergraduate work. -Christina Fisher
Collaborative and Multi-media Projects
Students have started to approach me about doing a final project instead
of the final exam. Let me remind you that you have the option to design a
project (a paper, a film, a multi-media presentation, etc.) dealing with
topics, issues and/or works that we have studied in this course. The
prerequisite is that you draw up a formal proposal in order to obtain my
input and final approval. If you are considering this option, please consult
with me sooner rather than later. I will not consider proposals after the
sixth week of classes. --ProfRay 10:29, 14 Dec 2005 (EST)
NOTE: If you have received approval for your final project, post a
brief description of the project as well as any other materials that you
would like the class to view, critique, comment upon, etc.
Art Print / Mural based on "Rashomon" -- Matt DeTurck & Trent Brown
Short story adapted from a music video that I created. - Nicki Murray
A number of the film students are going to be creating three different
filmic interpretations of the same two page script (written by Alex
Goldberg). There are no scene descriptions or action lines, so the
only common anchor is dialogue. My team, consisting of myself
(James Demetri), John Kelly, Eric Yellin, and Derik Bibb, are placing
the action (which seems to lend itself to a "college students after a
party" reading) into a "criminals after a bank heist" scenario. - James
Demetri
Just to check in, I am part of another of the groups that James talks
about above. My group (consisting of myself, Reza Lackey, Aaron
Pavlisko, and Cody Miller) are taking more of an apocalyptic spin on
the script. - Chris Keth
In hopes of capturing adaptation in its purest form several groups are
taking part in a project where each group group begins with a
simple script describing three friends parting ways. Only the
script has been provided. Each group will have complete
freedom to do adaptation as they please in the areas of acting,
scene, photography, and mood. Our group (Alex Goldberg,
Susan Lanier, Keven Kilcher, and John McCartney) decided to
set the scene in a bathroom with the three main charecters
parting ways as college ends. We decided to shoot and edit
our short film using a new viewing convention. This was more
of an experiment with photography than with theme.
-John McCartney, Susan Lanier, Keven Kilcher, Alex Goldberg
Adaptation of "Beyond the Black Land", my short story, into a tryptich of
sculptural paintings. Michael "Beard" Skyer 17:13, 5 Feb 2006 (EST)
Case study of adaptations across various mediums using Hitchhiker's
Guide to the Galaxy -- Devin Herron
Comicbook adaptation of an excerpt from Harlan Ellison's short story
"Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman" -- Sushil Reshamwala
A collection in book form of different interpretations of components of A
Clockwork Orange --Christina Fisher & Alex Girard
Announcements
Please check here regularly for news and updates
NOTE: The last class and final exam will take place on February 28th.
The first 90 minutes will be devoted to viewing student projects. The
exam will take approximately 2 hours. Final Exam:Hints and
Allegations
Assignments
Week One (11/29): Introduction to the Course and
Adaptation (2002)
Adaptation (2002)
This course will examine the relationship between word and image,
literature and film. The goal of the course will be to develop an
understanding of the historical and formalistic relationships that
structure processes of adaptation across various media.
Screening of Adaptation (2002).
Some Additional Materials: Information on the film and screenwriter
Charlie Kaufmann [3]; Early Drafts of the Screenplay from 1999 and
2000 [4].
For next week (12/6): Please read the 'Introduction' and Chapter One of
Robert Stam's Literature through Film (through p.62). In preparation
for week two's screening, please examine the following entries from
Wikipedia: Don_Quixote and Lost_in_La_Mancha. You can also
peruse an English translation of the original 1605 novel by
Cervantes [5].
Week Two (12/6): Lost in La Mancha (2002)
Lost in La Mancha (2002)
Discussion of Adaptation and Stam's "Introduction"
Key concepts: *adaptation *mimesis *realism *reflexivity[6]
Screening of Lost in La Mancha: This documentary chronicles director
Terry Gilliam's doomed attempt to adapt Don Quixote.
For next week (12/13): Please read Handout of Ryonosuke
Akutagawa's(芥川 龍之介) short stories "In a Grove" (藪の中 Yabu
no Naka; 1921) and "Rashomon" (羅生門; 1914).
Also re-read Stam's "Intro" and "Chapter One" as we will revisit these
topics.
Week Three (12/13): Rashōmon/ 羅生門 (1950)
Discussion of Lost in La Mancha and Stam, Chapter One
Rashōmon 羅生&#38272 (1950)
Screening of director Akira Kurosawa's (黒澤 明) Rashomon (1950). Now
a classic of world cinema, Kurosawa's adaptation of two stories by
Akutagawa is credited with bringing Japanese cinema to a global
audience. The stories and the film demonstrate some of the key
elements of artistic modernism, including unreliable narration,
multiple points of view and the possibility that truth is a contingent
affair. The film has been noted for making the camera itself a factor
in the story-telling and with bringing novel natural lighting techniques
into broader use.
Take Home Essay Exam #1 (10%) Approximately 300 words. Time: 35
minutes
Essay Question: Compare short stories and film, using specific examples
from both to discuss how the adaptation of the stories to the medium
of film reflects on the theme of "the indeterminancy of Truth"?
Essays must be turned in by 5PM on Friday (12/16), either as a hard
copy to my office (06-2309) or as email attachment.
For next class, January 10, 2006: Obtain and read Anthony
Burgess's novel, A Clockwork Orange.
Week Four (1/10): A Clockwork Orange (1971)
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
The Simpsons, "Treehouse of Horror III" from Season Four (1992)
Mad Magazine Spoof (1973)
The Simpsons "Dog of Death" 3rd Season, Episode 19. (1992)
•The original movie poster on the left and a few re-mixes center and right.
There has been an ongoing series of references to Director Stanley
Kubrick's film adaptation of A Clockwork Orange in The Simpsons[7] Both
film and novel have become thoroughly integrated into popular culture,
regularly being invoked in literature, film, television and music.
•We will discuss the novel before the screening. Keep in mind that the
British version of the novel was one chapter longer than the version
released in the United States. In addition, the British version did not
include the glossary of nadsat words.
(Reading A Clockwork Orange is a lot more interesting and enjoyable
when you can understand all the slang. Here are two pages that should
help if you get caught up on a word. Hope this helps! --Dennis Mannion
•English to Nadsat •Nadsat to English)
The 21st chapter was finally published in the US in 1987 by Rolling Stone
magazine. Subsequent US versions of the novel have included the 21st
chapter, but not the glossary. I have tried to find an on-line version of the
chapter, but to no-avail. If anyone has access to a digital version, please
let me know and I can post it for those who do not have a later American
edition of the novel. NOTE: That chapter can be found here [8], thanks
Casey. Kubrick's film was based on the American version and thus does
not allude to the 21st chapter.
Week Five (1/17): Blow-Up (1966)
Blowup (1966)
The Argentine writer, Julio Cortázar, is known for his experimental fiction.
His novels and short stories defy traditional generic expectations and flout
narrative convention. (His 1963 novel Hopscotch invites the reader to work
through the chapters in linear fashion, or to follow a different order
prescribed by the author.) As you will see in the short story, "Blow-Up" (in
Spanish, "Las Babas del Diablo" from Las Armas Secretas, 1959) actively
invites the reader to think about the structure of the story as it relates to
theme and content. Once again, self-reflexivity rears its ugly head. The
1966 film directed by Michelangelo Antonioni relocates the story to London
during the its hip, swinging heyday. Think Austin Powers, but not as
comedy. Different days indeed.
Exam#2. In-class. Time: 60 minutes.
Week Six (1/24): Black Orpheus/ Orfeu Negro (1959)
Black Orpheus (1959)
Since Greek antiquity, the legendary figure of Orpheus has been a
representative of the arts and, with his mastery of the lyre, particularly of
song. A version of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, from Bullfinch's
Mythology, can be found here: [9] The film Orfeu Negro (translated as
Black Orpheus), directed by Frenchman Marcel Camus, won the Palme
D'or Prize at the 1959 Cannes Film Festival and the 1960 Academy Award
for Best Foreign Film. This retelling of the Orpheus myth moves the story
to the favelas of Rio de Janeiro during Carnaval. The film's soundtrack,
featuring the bossa nova compositions of Antonio Carlos Jobim, is one of
the most well regarded soundtracks in film history. The Orpheus myth has
been reworked continuously since antiquity and in modern times has been
adapted by a wide range of painters, composers, filmmakers, writers,
illustrators and poets.
Week Seven (1/31): Total Recall (1990)
Total Recall (1990)
Philip K. Dick was an American science fIction writer whose prolific output,
beginning in the fifties, was well-suited to the pulp quality which
characterized the genre at the time. Dick developed a significant following
amongst science fiction fans that only increased over time. However, Dick
never achieved significant fame outside of this community until after his
death. An eccentric personality whose drug use often fueled his writings,
the quality of Dick's work could vary greatly. He did achieve a significant
body of high quality work that began to increasingly circulate outside of
science fiction circles in the seventies and eighties. Dick died a few weeks
before the 1982 release of Ridley Scott's Bladerunner, an adaptation of
Dick's 1968 novel, Do Android's Dream of Electric Sheep. Dick has since
become a canonical figure in a genre that has gained much more literary
credibility since the fifities, due in no small part to a number of his short
stories and novels. His thematic concerns with mass media, consumer
culture and the unstable nature of reality would presciently forecast many
of the concerns of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Total
Recall is adapted from the short story, "We Can Remember it for You
Wholesale". The story can be found here:[10] (1966). Also, a podcast
episode about PKD, from Benjamen Walker's "Theory of Everything"
Program can be found here: [11] (Originally Aired October 3, 2004). For
those interested in finding more materials of PKD, the Philip K. Dick fan
site is loaded with multi-media relating to the author. [12] Particularly
interesting is a mid-eighties comic book from legendary underground
cartoonist R. Crumb that depicts Dick's psycho-spiritual transformation as
the result of 'visions' he experienced on February 3, 1974. [13]
Week Eight (2/7): The Five Obstructions/ De Fem
benspænd (2003)
The Five Obstructions [1] (2003)
In this fascinating film, Danish director Lars von Trier collaborates with his
aging mentor, filmmaker and writerJørgen Leth. Leth's 1967 short film, The
Perfect Human (Det Perfekte Menneske), deeply influenced von Trier and
others. More than twenty years later, von Trier asks Leth to revisit his film,
but with certain conditions--or "obstructions"--dictated by von Trier. In a
course such as this one, this film should lead us to revisit our notions of
influence, adaptation and genre. Of course, von Trier is known for a
different set of "obstructions": the list of stringent rules or "vows of chastity"
developed with fellow Dane Thomas Vinterberg. These ten rules have
come to be known as the Dogme 95 manifesto and include exacting
requirements regarding location, props, lighting, sound and special effects,
amongst others. In addition, they included the rule that the director must
not be credited. Watch for this particular condition in the last of the five
obstructions. The intent of this collective of filmmakers was to return
filmmaking to the kind of technical purity that had been lost in an age of big
budget, effects-laden films. Any film that adheres to these guidelines in
considered a Dogme film, whether or not the filmmakers have an affiliation
with the original group. Interestingly enough, only one of von Trier's films is
considered a true Dogme film (The Idiots, 1998), though most of his work
is suffused with the spirit of Dogme if not the precise letter. Exam Three
Week Nine (2/14): Memento (2000)
Memento (2000)
The film Memento was adapted by director Christopher Nolan from his
brother Jonathan's short story "Memento Mori". The story was first
published in the March 2001 issue of Esquire magazine. The full text of the
story can be found here: [14].
Week Ten (2/21): O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000)
O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000)
This musical comedy is loosely based on Homer's Odyssey. There are
several references to the classical myth but the writing and directing duo,
brothers Joel and Ethan Coen, claim to have never read the epic poem.
Week Ten Discussion Archive
Course Requirements
Assignments and Grade Percentages:
Exam One (Week 3): 10%
Exam Two (Week 5): 15%
Exam Three (Week 8): 20%
Final Exam (Finals Week): 40% Hints and Allegations
Attendance and Participation: 15% (Participation includes speaking in
class, as well as contributing on the wiki with notes,
commentary, discussion, questions, etc.)
Grading Guidelines: I take the grade of C to be “adequate,” that is, the
work fulfills its purpose with its audience in a manner that is adequate both
in form and content. If either the form or content is excellent, that raises the
work one letter grade in range; if both are excellent, that raises the work
two letter grades in range. If either the form or content is inadequate, that
lowers the work one letter grade in range; if both are inadequate, that
lowers the grade two letter grades in range. Since longer works are often
not of uniform quality in form or content, I adjust grades using pluses and
minuses; I may occasionally do this with shorter works also. Assigning
grades for a writing course is no simple, mechanical process. I will gladly
discuss the grades with you, but only in the week after the work has been
returned. (Courtesy of Eric Rabkin, University of Michigan)
Attendance and Class Participation: •This course will include significant
collaborative effort with your peers. Attendance and participation are
mandatory and will count significantly in the weighing of your grade. It is
important, therefore, that you attend all classes and engage actively. Life
has more than its share of bumps and, obviously, I will excuse absences
caused by serious illness or emergency. More than one unexcused
absence will affect your grade. If you acquire more than two unexcused
absences you will fail.
•You must read the required assignments before we discuss them. I will
expect you to participate in discussions and contribute enthusiastically to
the learning environment of the class, and I will consider your general
preparedness as I compute your final. If I feel that a number of people are
coming to class unprepared, I will institute graded quizzes based on the
day’s reading.
Plagiarism:
Plagiarism is defined as “submitting a piece of work (for example an essay,
research paper, assignment, laboratory report) which in part or in whole is
not entirely the student’s own work without attributing those same portions
to their correct source” (University of Michigan LSA handbook).
"Remember that you are required to cite a source if you include a direct
quotation, or if you borrow an idea and put it in your own words." It is often
difficult to determine the line between being influenced by a text or person
and taking words and ideas from that text or person. If you have any
questions about whether you should give credit to a source in your work, I
suggest you play it safe and cite the source. For a more detailed
explanation of plagiarism and the correct citation of sources, see "Student
Plagiarism in an Online World." [15]
"To the celestial, and my soul's idol,
the most beautified Ophelia--Doubt thou
the stars are fire,
Doubt that
the sun doth move;
Doubt
truth to be a liar,
But
never doubt I love.
O dear Ophelia, I am ill
at these numbers. I have
not art to reckon my groans;
but that I love thee best,
O most
best, believe it. Adieu.
Thine evermore, most
dear lady, whilst this
machine is to him, HAMLET." in a letter written to Ophelia
NOTE TO ALL AUTHORS/EDITORS
To keep each class nicely organized, at the bottom of every page in Film
as Literature add the following wiki code:
[[Category:FilmLit]]
This causes all pages done for this class to appear together when desired,
yet integrated with other class wikis as well. Also, please remember to log
in before editing and make meaningful edit summaries. It is advisable
that you use a username that will allow me to identify you for purposes of
gauging partipation.