Trainspotting - Watching While Flat on Your Back

I teach Danny Boyle's brilliantly directed film Trainspotting in a number of my film courses on the topic of British Cinema and transnationalism (how the film appeals internationally). This is most notable in the film's famous opening "Choose Life" sequence over Iggy Pop's "Lust for Life." Here, American music is played alongside the national/regional of Edinburgh.

Trainspotting is one of a number of films of the 1990s (Pulp Fiction, Permanent Midnight and Basketball Diaries) that explores the dangers of heroin use. A point I brought up in my class is how frequently Renton (Ewan McGregor) is shown lying on his back, particularly when shooting up heroin and how it pertains to being a trainspotter.

In Murray Smith's fantastic BFI book, he explains the various meanings of "trainspotting." He writes: "To be a trainspotter-in the literal sense-is to stand for hours, in the same place, watching trains go by. To board a train is to go somewhere, to move on" (17). 

When Renton decides to stop using heroin, he quickly stands up and "chooses life." After his near death experience from overdosing on heroin, Renton goes through a harrowing experience of withdrawl. He then moves to London to better his life.

And then Begbie (Robert Carlyle) shows up at his door. Begbie, as Murray Smith points out, is a dark and frightening depiction of "new lad" culture.

Begbie's arrival at Renton's flat demonstrates the film's engagement with fate. Here, we can see a dimension of film noir at work in Trainspotting. Renton can choose life, but he did not choose Begbie arriving at his doorstep who happens to be on the lam for armed robbery.

The third act of film entails Renton, Begbie, Sick Boy and Spud orchestrating a drug deal, which lands them 16 thousand pounds. But instead of sharing the money four ways, Renton steals the money and flees. Though, he does leave Spud some money.

Trainspotting's depiction of heroin is both comical and frightening. In many ways, it is a neo-noir film not unlike Fight Club or Requiem for a Dream. Perhaps more frighteningly is Renton's clownish expression as he returns the gaze at the end of the film. Renton is choosing life again. But has he really changed? Here, Renton's distorted expression is reminiscent of the ending of A Clockwork Orange when Alex (Malcolm MacDowell) says "I was cured all right." Of course, the ludovico technique did not work for Alex. And choosing life might not work for Renton.

And let's not forget that Renton switched Tommy's sex tape with his girlfriend with his greatest soccer goals video cassette. This event leads to the break up of Tommy and his girlfriend, which leads to Tommy doing heroin for the first time and then dying of AIDS.

Renton never acknowledges or shows remorse for playing a role in Tommy's death. During the scene when Tommy is dying, Renton happens to be kicking a soccer ball near a poster of Iggy Pop, Tommy's favorite musician. But ultimately, Tommy chose to do heroin.

Indeed, Renton is an unreliable narrator, whether he's lying on his back and high on heroin while life passes him by, or choosing life...

No Deposit No Return

No Deposit No Return is a short film I made when I was an undergraduate student at Long Island University. I shot the film in the summer of 1995 in the Hudson Valley (mostly in Newburgh), and I completed the editing and sound production at the end of 1996.  The film officially premiered in May of 1997 at the Athens International Film Festival in Ohio.

 

I had a lot of fun shooting the film with my friends. I was 23 years old and my first time writing a screenplay. I had great advice from my college professor who encouraged me to write something personal. The story was based on some of my experiences working at a beverage store. My job was to take care of recycling empty bottles and cans. I've seen a lot of interesting folks bring in their "empties" as they called them. I also saw homeless people who would return their empties for money. 

Once I began editing the film, I had to go back to the Hudson Valley for some re-shoots. In fact, some of the close-ups in the film were filmed in the dead of winter! The sound was the most complex part in the post-production of the film. As you will hear, there are crickets during the abandoned basketball court scenes. The crickets were there when we shot those scenes. So, I had to add more crickets to balance the sound mix. The film was shot on 16mm sound sync color film. I used a CP 16mm camera and a Bolex. I chose Kodak's slowest film stock because the film was shot mostly outside. The colors look amazing on the actually print of the film. I do plan to transfer the 16mm print to HD.

 
Except for the song I wrote at the end of the film, I used copyrighted music - clearly a mistake on my part. Believe me, no one made any money from this film! But word to the wise, do not use copyrighted music unless you get permission.

No Deposit No Return did screen at some film festivals. It won a certificate of merit at The Long Island Film Festival in 1997. Looking back, I am very happy for what I achieved in this film for only being in my early twenties. I hope you enjoy the film.

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 Lacanian Gaze and Psycho

The Lacanian gaze is one of the hardest concepts I teach for my Film Theory course. The way we commonly think of the gaze (to look) is not what Jacques Lacan argues. Rather, he argues that when we encounter the gaze, we encounter an impasse, a blind spot within the field of vision. But more importantly, in order to encounter the gaze, you must be invested in the film. When we encounter the gaze in cinema it demonstrates the activity of our unconscious desire. So what does that mean? And why is the gaze is not defined as the look?

One of the best examples of the gaze (from Slavoj Zizek and Todd McGowan) can be found in Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960). After Marion (Janet Leigh) has been murdered by "mother" in the shower, Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins) cleans up the mess. Notice how long it takes for Norman to clean the bathroom. This is important because Hitchcock is a laying a trap for our encounter with the gaze.

After Norman cleans the bathroom, he place Marion's body in the trunk of her car and drives out to the swamp near his motel. Norman pushes Marion's car into the swamp. Norman anxiously watches the car as it begins to sink. Suddenly, for a brief moment the car stop sinking. I always ask my students what their reaction was when the car stops sinking. Their response: they want the car to sink. How does this happen? Why are we suddenly complicit in Norman's cover up of the murder?

This is the moment when we encounter the gaze. The gaze demonstrates your unconscious desire at work in the film. This is why film form is so important to understand in studying the gaze in cinema. In my book Cinema of Confinement, I explain how directors set up these types of cinematic moments such as the swamp scene in Psycho. They are designed so that we encounter the shocking impact of the gaze.

An example I use is the final sequence in Alien (1979) when Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) learns that the alien sneaked aboard the escape shuttle. The way in which director Ridley Scott films this scene sets up the viewer for an encounter with the gaze--namely, when Ripley shockingly discovers the alien. We think Ripley has defeated the alien, which is emphasized when she says: "I got you, you son of a bitch." Even the soothing musical score suggests that Ripley is safe. But as we know, she is far from safe. Alien's final scene is so scary because of the way Scott lays a trap for us to encounter the gaze. This is why it is important that Hitchcock show us all the details of Norman cleaning up the murder in Psycho. He is a laying a trap for the gaze: when the car stops sinking in the swamp. That's when we all go "Oh shit!" You're now siding with Norman's cover up of Marion's death.

 

What does the gaze tells about how we watch movies? First, it demonstrates how our unconscious desire is at work when we watch a movie. And we can locate the activity of desire through cinematic form. Second, you must be invested to look in the movie, otherwise you are less likely to encounter the emotional impact of the gaze. Lacan's example of Hans Holbein's painting The Ambassadors explains this point.

As you observed the painting, you see the riches that surround the men. But when looking  toward the bottom of the painting, there is a stain. When looking awry, you see that the stain is a skull that looks back at you.

 

The skull embodies the gaze. But you have to be invested in looking at the painting in order to discover the skull. When we encounter the skull, it takes our desire into consideration. Likewise, when Marion's car stops sinking in the swamp in Psycho, we have a visceral reaction, demonstrating that we are complicit in Norman covering up the murder. It illustrates how our desire is at work in the film.  

The gaze is the moment when our seeing falls apart. Yet it is these moments in cinema, such as Ripley seeing the alien aboard the ship and Marion's car that temporarily stop sinking in the swamp, that draws us to the movies.

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?

Subway - Homicide: Life on the Street

A few weeks ago, I taught the episode "Subway" from the 1990s police procedural show Homicide: Life on the Street for my TV theory course. "Subway" is an amazing and dark episode, and extremely well-acted by Andre Braugher and Vincent D'Onofrio. It was written by James Yoshimura.

"Subway" is about John Lange (D'Onofiro) who gets pinned between a subway car and the train's boarding platform. The episode's mystery (in a Rashomon manner) is whether or not Lange was pushed by a man named Biedron.

 

Det. Pembleton (in a priest-like role) must console Lange as the city workers prepare to free him from the subway car. It is obvious that Lange's chances of survival are slim. But it is not only Lange who is confronted with the presence of death; Pembleton, too, is reminded of his own mortality, for he recently survived a stroke.

"Subway" is a great example of what I call confinement cinema, a topic that I fully explore in my forthcoming book Cinema of Confinement. One of my claims of confinement cinema is the impact of excess both physically (within the confined space) and psychically (both characters and our engagement with the confinement setting). I argue that excess is what sustains our engagement in the narrative over a long period of time within a confined setting. Some notable films are Misery (1990), 10 Cloverfield Lane (2016) and Phone Booth (2002)

In my book, I not only unpack how movies are able to keep us involved in the narrative over a long period of time within a confined setting, but also the theoretical, social, and political insights confinement cinema offers. 

One topic I explored specifically with my class is "Subway's" existential qualities and large questions about religion, pain, and happiness. Pembleton says to Frank that pain is what universally binds us together, which certainly falls in line with Sartre's notion of anguish; namely, that we are constantly faced with freedom and choices (consciousness of consciousness). For Sartre, existence lies in our everyday actions and choices. The subway setting also has a sense of hell as existing below as both men wrestle with their mortality. Perhaps one of the best lines of the episode is when Lange says to Pembleton: "God invents pain; man invents booze."

Once Lange is finally freed from the subway, he immediately dies. Pembleton seems to be severely affected by Lange's death. Right before he ascends upwards on the escalator, he looks up (symbolically) for a moment. He then meets with his partner Det. Bayliss (Kyle Secor) as they walk to their vehicle. Ending the episode on ambiguous note, Pembleton says to Bayliss: "The guy said, I'm okay." I asked my students is: who is okay? Is it Frank or Lange that is okay? 

After Pembleton and Bayliss drive off, Sarah (Lange's girlfriend) jogs past the subway terminal, not knowing that her boyfriend was just killed as the episode fades to black. Indeed, life keeps moving forward.... 

I hope more people discover Homicide: Life on the Street.

The Pointillism of Walter White and Frankenstein

Spoiler warning!

I realized I had written this short piece, but never posted it back in 2013! It was strange to read what I had written, now knowing how Breaking Bad ended. But here is what I wrote while watching the last season of the show. Of course, I had to update a few things...

The final season of Breaking Bad is getting closer to its finale. Two more episodes until we learn why Walt purchased guns at Denny's, his intentions with the ricin, and what became of his abandoned house.  

 

As we approach the series' finale, Vince Gilligan and his writers continue to spawn twists and unexpected events that keep us on the edge of our seats. Gilligan has called Breaking Bad a hyper-serialized show which is evident in the precision and ordering of narrative information. This is most notable in Breaking Bad's use of restricted and unrestricted information for both viewers and characters alike. White's concealment of secrets primarily drives the show's tension. Of course, Hank's discovery of "W.W." at the end of season 5.A was one of the show's biggest twists.

What is also interesting to note about Gilligan's use of restricted information is how strongly it engages us with the narrative. I particularly found the precise unfolding of the show's narrative information oddly similar to the art form of pointillism: dots applied on the canvas to form an image. Pontillism was created by Georges Seurat, most notable in his famous painting A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.

Indeed, as we approach closer to Breaking Bad's finale, the parceling of narrative information (all the dots) that have unfolded over the past 5 years that form an image (and transformation) of White/Heisenberg are beginning to show us the totality of the show--the painting of Breaking Bad, so to speak.

Lastly, after watching the last episode of Hank's death and Walter departure in "Ozymandias," I kept thinking about the man in the row boat painting that showed up a few times throughout the series.  

This image reminded me of the tragedy of Frankenstein, who could not fit into the world, left to die alone. Indeed, Walter was certainly the "danger" as he famously expressed. But has he transformed into a monster? Or is this alluding to what we are about to encounter in the final episode?