Desire, Coca-Cola, Zizek and Cinema

Following up on my last post on the gaze, I thought it would be important to explain a little bit of Lacan's concept of desire. 

Desire is the desire to desire. What does this mean? For Lacan, the logic of desire operates on lack, not fullness. Think of your favorite song that you listen to over and over, or watching a movie such as Star Wars or The Lord of the Rings repetitively. 

For Lacan, these "empirical" objects stand in for what he terms the object cause of desire, or sometimes referred to as the "lost object." As long as the lost object remains lost, desire sustains its force. Listening to a favorite song or watching a movie repeatedly - both objects stand in for the lost object, but can never be the "thing" itself. And because this empirical object (song, movie, book, coffee, etc.) can not fill the shoes of the psychical lost object, desire continues to desire. 

Slavoj Žižek offers a great example of the lost object using Coca-Cola's old slogan: "Coke is It." Žižek asks: What is this "it"? Why do we keep drinking coke if "it" is indeed "it"? There is a failure in drinking Coca-Cola that keeps us drinking more. Why? Because Coke is not it. This is the logic of desire.  As long as we keep "missing" the lost object, desire continues to desire.

 
Desire also has a temporal component which can be found in classical Hollywood narrative.  Classical narrative films exemplify the notion of desire because they demonstrate that the story's solution resides in the future. Die Hard (1987) is a great example of the logic of desire and classical narrative form. 

John McClane (Bruce Willis) finds himself alone in the Nakatomi building where Hans Gruber (Alan Rickman) and his group of thieves seize the tower and hold a group of employees hostage, including John's estranged wife, Holly (Bonnie Beldelia). John's goal is to outsmart Hans. John is constantly backed into a corner as we wonder how he will survive. The goal is for John to win - to reach his goal - to defeat Gruber. 

It is no surprise that this winning aspect of desire has a strong correlation to the logic of capitalism as explored in Todd McGowan's outstanding book, Capitalism and Desire.

Lastly,  although desire operates on lack, it paradoxically provides the subject pleasure. This is why Lacan argues that the lack of lack (to be lacking lack) equals anxiety. We enjoy our desire. For example, I love to collect DVDs. I think the worse thing that can happen to me is to lose my desire for buying DVDs.

The Conversation - Sound and Surveillance

I often teach Francis Ford Coppola's The Conversation (1974) for my Introduction to Film and Film Theory courses.

 
The Conversation exemplifies the art and theory of sound in cinema, especially the opening long take zoom shot in Union Square in San Francisco.

 

A topic we often discuss is the film's exploration of surveillance. Harry Caul (Gene Hackman) is the best of the best when it comes to secretly recording or "bugging" conversations. During a small party in Harry's studio, we learn from his friend, Bernie (Allen Garfield), that Harry is known in New York for the "welfare fund 68" job, where he secretly recorded a conversation having to do with a bogus fund run by the teamster's president. Bernie asks Harry how he secretly tapped the teamster's president and his accountant--a conversation that occurred on a boat. Of course, Harry does not share his technique. But we do learn that three people were killed because of the conversation Harry had recorded.

Little does Harry know that Bernie has planted a pen mike and transmitter on him.

When Bernie reveals that he had been recording Harry during the party, he becomes enraged and kicks Bernie and his friends out of his studio. As we learn, Harry is a lonely and private person. Harry's motto is that he does not emotionally get involved with the subjects he records. Harry is not curious about what's being said. Rather, it is about getting the best sound that matters to Harry.

A question I asked my students: does Bernie's pen mike speak more to our current times in terms of big data and surveillance? Here, it is worth noting Mark Andrejevic's article, "The Twenty-First Century Telescreen." The telescreen is from George Orwell's novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. The telescreen is a television that watches you. 

One of the concerns with digital televisions, especially internet ready digital televisions, is surveillance. Could these screens watch us? Andrejevic claims that it is a misnomer that digital television is a telescreen. Andrejevic argues that digital television is surveillance with a commercial fare. Whereas the telescreen makes one aware that they are being watched, Andrejevic suggests that the future of digital television is collecting data on our viewing behaviors which can impact how content is curated to us. 

Although Bernie's pen mike and transmitter is not a screen, it does demonstrate how a pervasive object such as a pen can potentially be used to monitor us (not unlike how companies can track our purchasing behaviors online). This is a different type of surveillance - an apparatus that does not make one aware that they are constantly being watched, which brings me to the film's shocking twist at the end.

At the end of the film, we learn that Harry misunderstood his recording of Mark (Frederic Forrest) and Ann's (Cindy Williams) conversation, specifically when Mark says: "He'd kill if he got the chance." Harry believes that Ann and Mark were in danger, but in fact they were planning to kill Ann's husband (the Director played Robert Duvall), the man who hired Harry to bug Ann and Mark.

The film's final scene shows Harry playing his saxophone in his apartment. He receives a call from the Director's assistant, Martin (Harrison Ford), who tells Harry that: "we'll be listening." Martin plays back a recording of Harry playing his saxophone. Of course, Harry is shocked to learn that he has been secretly bugged (again). Harry rips his apartment apart looking for the bug, which he never finds.

The question I asked my students: Is Harry upset because his privacy is now under threat? Or, is Harry upset because he has been out-bugged?

Random Review - January 19, 2013 - Peyton Place

Peyton Place (1957)

Dir. Mark Robertson

For fans of the television show Twin Peaks (1990-1991), Peyton Place is important to film to view.  David Lynch has acknowledged its influence on the show.  There are many similarities between both the television show and the film: the main source of employment is a mill; many of the characters are high school teenagers; the postcard images of a small town and the values of its community.  But most importantly is the dramatic tension in concealing secrets.  Of course, Twin Peaks was marketed as a murder mystery: who killed Laura Palmer?  In Peyton Place, there is a desire to know each others' secrets, which generates most of the narrative tension. The patrons of Peyton Place constantly watch each other, causing one another to be conscious of their own looking.

Peyton Place is also know for its powerful use of Cinemascope photography.  There are many breathtaking shots of New England that I am sure play better on the big screen. Cinemascope and Cinerama were new technologies created in response to the popularity of television and the changing leisure habits in the USA.  

But it would be wrong to suggest that the widescreen images of Peyton Place are there just for purely spectacle means. These gorgeous shot must be considered in relation to the space the characters inhibit. The small town of Peyton Place is where sexuality and intimacy are taboo.  These secret places, by way of contrast, are where the young characters can escape to in order to be intimate and to express their feeling...one of many things to enjoy about Peyton Place.

Random Review - December 12, 2012 - Unfaithfully Yours

 Unfaithfully Yours (1948)

Writen and Directed by Preston Sturges

CAST: Rex Harrison as Sir Alfred De Carter; Linda Darnell as Daphne De Carter; Rudy Vallee as August Henshler; Barbara Lawrence as Barbara Henshler; Kurt Kreuger as Anthony Windborn; Lionel Stander as Hugo Standoff; Edgar Kennedy as Detective Sweeney; Alan Bridge as House Detective; Julius Tannen as O'Brien; Torben Meyer as Dr. Schultz. 

Unfaithfully Yours begin with Alfred, a famous orchestra conductor arriving in town from London. At the airport, Alfred meets his wife, Daphne and her sister, Barbara and her husband, August, and Alfred’s business manager, Hugo. We find out that August had been looking after Daphne while Alfred was away. But August actually thought that Alfred wanted her literally followed, so he hired a detective. This angers Alfred. August gives Alfred the detective's report which he tears to pieces. As the film continues, Alfred keeps receiving a copy of the detective’s report. Finally, when he meets up with Detective Sweeny, he rips up the original report so no more copies can be made. But then Sweeney tells Alfred that Daphne had been seen with Tony, suggesting an affair. Later that night, Alfred heads to the concert hall for this performance.   

Over each number, Alfred envisions three scenarios of on how he would evoke revenge on Daphne. The first vision is a skit where he murders Daphne and pins the blame on Tony; the second is Alfred forgiving Daphne and writes her a check for $100,000; and that last is Alfred forcing himself, Tony and Daphne to a game of Russian roulette, resulting in Alfred shooting himself. The films ends with Alfred in a prolonged slap stick skit of trying to orchestrate Daphne’s murder, which, of course, completely fails.  But at the end he learns that Daphne was not with Tony. Yet Daphne never finds out what was on Alfred’s mind - the three imagined scenarios of her death.

An object that plays an important, but subtle role throughout Unfaithfully Yours is the use of zippers and in relation to Alfred's reluctance to read the detectives report.  During the restaurant scene, early in the film, Alfred approaches August and asks him for the detective’s card. The image cuts to an extreme close up of the wallet as August unzips it and retrieves the card. Of course, Alfred tears the card into pieces. But what is striking about this moment is that Sturges amplifies the sound of the zipper to draw our attention to the object, suggesting that there is something happening in Alfred’s head that neither the spectator nor the characters are privy to. One possibility is that Alfred has always been insecure about his marriage to Daphne because of his age.

For example, Alfred states to Daphne before heading to his concert, (paraphrasing) “Movies fits your culture better.” So when Sweeny tells Alfred that his wife was with Tony, he assumes the worse, which leads to his visions of enacting revenge on them. It is at this point in the film Sturges “unzips” Alfred’s head so we can see his mind's eye - the three fantasy sequences.   

But for Daphne and the other characters, they are “zipped up” and, of course, not accessed to Alfred's visions. They can only hear the music, oblivious on why Alfred acts so peculiar at the concert.  In between the numbers, Hugo approaches Alfred backstage praising his conducting. Hugo ironically states to Alfred, “What vision do you have in your head?” It is only at the end, when the letter finally arrives at its destination, that Alfred learns that Daphne did not commit adultery.  All the work Alfred put into ripping up the detectives story, Alfred finally gets the truth of the letter, which zips the story shut.

The Speed of the Long Take

This paper will be presented at the Society for Cinema and Media Studies Conference on Sunday, March 13 at 8:00am in New Orleans Feel free to leave comments or post questions.

As early cinema developed out of the period of the actuality film and cinema of attractions, and into a narrator system linked to the emerging Hollywood studio, we begin to see the structuring and standardization of filmic space and temporality. This unification of cinematic time and space, according to the research done by Bordwell, Staiger and Thompson came about through the melding of various modes of practices such as division of labor and agreed upon set of stylistic norms on how movies should properly tell a story. In their research, shot duration, in particular, plays an important role in sustaining the realist illusion of narrative time and space. Bordwell et al. note that the majority of Hollywood films (during the classical period) did not exploit short or long takes as a means of narration in order to prevent viewer from becoming aware of the film’s construction of time and space.

But if the management of shot length is to prevent viewers from becoming aware of the apparatuses that create a film’s virtual world, how do we account for the long take that evokes a sense of speed and can even further the experience of narrative immersion? Using the long take as a form of speed, I argue that there is no necessary correspondence or a strict one to one relationship between shot duration, viewership and the concealment of the construction of filmic time and space. This is not to suggest that long takes are not used to disrupt or engage with temporal and spatial continuity in order to evoke perceptions of slowness or contemplation. This style of filmmaking is evident in the works of Gus Van Sant, Bela Tarr and Michelangelo Antonioni, who employ long takes as a means to create a cinema of duration and stillness alternative to traditional narratives.

What I am arguing is that the economic and/or technological mode of production cannot be the single determinant in how meaning is produced from a cultural artifact such as cinema.  As I hope to show in the examples that follow, these filmmakers take technology into their own hands and re-purpose it to meet their artistic vision. I add that the negotiation of the elements which create a film’s story world (such as shot duration) can potentially have a strong impact on a film’s rhythm and speed and overall narrative experience.

The first half of this presentation, I will show some examples of the long take as a form of speed and how these directors and their production crew negotiate and push the limits of the latest technologies to meet their visions. And the second half of the presentation will tackle the theoretical question of shot duration in regards to defining the essence of cinema.

I would like to begin with an example from Joseph H. Lewis’ crime drama, Gun Crazy (1950). The long take we are seeing involves a bank heist, which takes place from the point of view of outlaw and thieves Bart and Annie played by John Dall and Peggy Cummins. To create the sequence, Lewis used a stretch Cadillac and removed all the seats to fit the camera operator and a bare bones production crew.  Instead of following the script, Lewis had both actors Dahl and Cummins improvise their dialogue to enhance the suspense and realism of the scene. 

Lewis stated that the scene was so real that “Off-screen there were people that yelled, ‘They held up the bank, they held up the bank,’ … none of the bystanders [of the town] knew what we were doing. We had no extras except the people the policeman directed. Everything—cars, people—was there on the street” (47). Thus, the Hampton robbery scene illustrates that the long take not only can be re-purposed to create a feeling of immersion and suspense, but also can invoke a sense of speed and velocity.

The desire to move the camera and to create a dynamic cinematic space can be traced back to the silent film period. In Lotte Eisner’s book on German film director and expressionistic pioneer F.W. Murnau, she refers to notes typed by Murnau in which he expresses a wish from “Father Christmas [to create] a camera that can move freely in space” (84). Murnau’s wish would practically come true in the 1970s with Garrett Brown’s invention of the steadicam. Handheld photography had already established itself as a style employed by narrative filmmakers and documentarians. But the Steadicam not only can track its subject with fluidity, but it also run within the profilmic space without the camera obtrusively bouncing up and down. Let’s take a look at the Steadicam in action.

Here, we see Brown sitting in the wheelchair with the steadicam on the set of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980). Similarly, as we saw with Lewis’ rigging of the stretched Cadillac in Gun Crazy, the wheelchair has been turned into a movable camera support. Even though the Steadicam offered more flexibility in moving the camera through pro-filmic space, Kubrick and his production crew still had to pool their resources in order to build a moving device to capture his vision of fluid moving images in the labyrinth hallways of the Overlook hotel.  

Today, with the emergence of state of the art simulation technologies, films now can incorporate many layers blended together within the frame such as virtual actors, crowd sequences and matted paintings with live action recording. More so, as Lev Manovich notes, “Digital compositing does represent a new step in the history of visual simulation because it allows the creation of moving images of non-existent worlds” (153 Authors emphasis).

Thus, new digital technologies not only allow one to create new and imaginative virtual worlds, but also can be mobile within those specific dimensions. Let’s take a look at the making of the long shot from Steven Spielberg’s War of the Worlds (2005).

The use of CGI effects become so life-like that the long take in this scene not only gives a sense of urgency and speed, but shows how these special effects conceals the film’s apparatus. This is what Manovich refers to as synthetic realism through the creation of synthetic 3-D images. In the example of the long take in War of the Worlds, special effects are blended with live action to continue Hollywood’s long tradition of narrative realism.

Conversely, the impression of slowness or fastness does not always have to entail long takes.  Films that use the standard methods of editing can also disrupt the transparency and unity of cinematic time and space through the elements within the frame itself.

The next example is from David Lynch’s Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (1992). What we are seeing is the pink room sequence where Laura Palmer and Donna Hayward go out with Jacques Renault and his buddies to party. 

 

 

 

To create this effect of an alternate plane of reality, Lynch architects a dreamlike atmosphere using loud trance-like music and the disorientating effect of a strobe light.  To further the feeling of drug-induced and surreal state of mind, the characters’ lethargic body gestures and delayed dialogue deliberately slow down the pace of the scene, thus creating a meditative or even out of body experience as if time no longer exists.  Moreover, the scene itself goes on for a long period of time, which alters the pace of the entire film. This sequence is an example of a scene that does not employ overtly long takes, but is still able to slowdown the time and speed of the film by using the elements within the frame itself.
 

As stated earlier, if the management of shot length is to prevent viewers from becoming aware of the construction of filmic time and space, how do we account for the long take that evokes a sense of speed? Moreover, how do we account for films that employ normal shot duration that derail cinematic time and space such as Lynch’s Twin Peaks?

As it is known in classical film theory, one of the central debates in regards to editing versus shot duration is Sergei Eisenstein’s formalist theory of dialectical montage, and Andre Bazin’s accounts of cinematic realism and mise en scene. These two canonical arguments address the question on how is meaning generated in cinema. Is it editing or is it mise en scene that names cinema’s essence? Although Eisenstein and Bazin’s theories make up a major component of classical film theory, the question of film’s essence or ontology continues to be addressed today.

For example, Lev Manovich considers Eisenstein’s technique of montage used in simulation technologies. Eisenstein’s theory of dialectical montage is the collision of shots and the image it creates within the viewer’s mind.  For example, the juxtaposition of cattle being slaughtered and the rounding up of factory workers at the end of Strike and its metaphor or illusion to capitalism. Manovich, however, notes that the virtual image is there for us on the screen, but the modes of production that create the reality (that is, the processes behind the scenes) are synthesizes via the computer to offer us the illusion of a seamless reality.  In other words, simulation technology arranges the components within a shot and renders them in montage like fashion to create a transparent film image as we saw in the long take in War of the Worlds.

D. N. Rodowick makes a similar argument in his critique of Russian Ark (2002), a film shot in one long take using digital technologies.  He notes “The key to resolving the discrepancy between Russian Ark’s self-presentation and its ontological expression as digital cinema is to understand that it is a montage work, no less complex in this respect than Sergei Eisenstein’s 1927 film October” (165). 

 

Rodowick notes a contradiction in Russian Ark’s (2002) experiment of the long take because it relies primarily on many digital events which he notes are digital capturing, synthesis and compositing. In other words, the long take in Russian Arc is rendered mathematically via the binary code of computer language; where as traditional photography capture light as it comes through the lens and penetrates the emulsion of the film, leaving a physical trace of reality.

What I think it is important to point out in these theoretical debates in regards to editing and shot duration is not who has the stronger or better argument in terms of defining the essence of cinema, but the tension that has emerged in regards to its very definition. Here, I draw upon Stuart Hall’s model of articulation which entails how the production and consumption of cultural objects are represented and negotiated within the lived practices of every day life.  

Articulation is an operation of meaning-making that does not have any necessary correspondence or a direct one to one relationship between social practices and processes of production. For Hall, articulation is not universally fixed across various discourses. Therefore texts can become a site of a struggle where groups contest and can potentially transform a leading cultural force or dominant ideology.

For example, we can see how the long take creates a cinema of duration, engaging with filmic time and space counter to the dominant mode of classical narration. And, in other instances, the long take is articulated as a form a speed and velocity that attempts to do what Jean Mitry phrases as “forgetting of the frame.” 

 

But Hall points out that articulation cannot all simply be differences or free floating. We need a system or “fixing” to connect to grids of knowledge. What is contingent is how each prior set of signifying practices can influence the process of encoding and decoding of a text such as cinema or television. Using Hall’s notion of articulation, we can conclude that there is no necessary belongingness or a fixed universal essence in regards to shot duration and editing.  But what is consistent is the tension that emerges in its very definition. And that the struggle in defining cinema’s essence will generate different interpretations as in the case of using digital technologies versus traditional film photography.

To conclude, as I hope to have shown, the ordering of cinematic time and space is not directly tied to a hegemonic mode of production, or linked to a grand essence of cinema. In these examples, we have seen how artists mold the current film technologies to meet their story visions. And we have also seen how the orchestration of the elements within the frame can distort normal pictorial time and space as was the case with Lynch’s Fire Walk with Me. Thus, these examples provide a glimpse into how much information is at work in creating a film’s story world (whether its traditional film photography or digital technologies), and how they can potentially create impressions of speed in relation to the construction of cinematic time and space.