Approaching the Real: Bazin and Indexicality

(A few months ago, while speaking of indexicality, I mentioned I’d write a follow-up post on the relevance of this topic to the film theory of the great French critic André Bazin. Here it is, or a portion of it anyway.)

Bazin addresses the indexical nature of the photographic and cinematographic image most explicitly in his 1945 article “The Ontology of the Photographic Image” but this topic will reverberate throughout his writings, in particular in the essays he writes on Italian neo-realism and its legacy. For Bazin, realism in the cinema is not simply a question of style, as it is in other artistic milieus. A novelist or painter who describes their work as “realist” is referring to a style they have adopted vis-à-vis the objective world. (So, for example, a realist painter will painstakingly attempt to duplicate, as much as possible, the minute details of the environment that they have before them and which they wish to represent in their painting.) In cinema, the indexical nature of the image means that realism is never simply a stylistic choice on the part of the filmmaker. Realism, in an important sense, is already there in the image; realism is given. The objective world is captured by the camera through an indexical process. Thus, Bazin argues, cinema is realist at its basis. Realism is the starting point of each film; whereas realism is the end goal for a realist novelist or realist painter. The issue in cinema then is what the filmmaker does with this realist base. To what extent does the filmmaker acknowledge and embrace the fragments of reality – the fragments of the real – that they have accumulated for the purposes of making a film, and to what extent are they forgotten, ignored, repressed?

Bazin’s love for Italian Neo-realism (and it’s important to stress here that Bazin not only helped popularize the idea of neo-realism but also ensured its continued relevance for the cinema that followed in its wake) is precisely related to the way the filmmakers associated with this movement embraced the everyday world of people and things that had been largely forgotten in the studio-based, star-driven films that characterized not only classical Hollywood film, but also the fascist variation found in Italy and Germany. Filmmakers working in this brand of commercial cinema had little interest in affirming the realist base of film. The distinction between fiction and documentary in this tradition was simple and clear. It is precisely such a division that was undermined by the filmmakers of Italian neo-realism, shooting their films on the streets of Italy with a cast of non-professional actors, or a mixture of professional and non-professional actors (resulting in what Bazin called an “amalgam”, each transformed by contact with the other). There is much talk about the documentary impulse in neo-realism. This is true enough, but let’s not overlook the more fascinating point: the neo-realist filmmakers did not reject fiction in the name of documentary; instead, they created a new hybrid from that is part-fiction and part-documentary – a hybrid form that is, I would argue, truly cinematic. And it was precisely their embrace of the indexical nature of the medium that meant that they never forgot, nor let us forget, the reality at the basis of the cinematographic image.

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Bazin is often quoted as saying that there are two kinds of filmmakers: those that place their faith in the image and those that place their faith in reality. Bazin most admired those that fell into the latter camp. But we need to be careful here not to assume we understand so easily exactly what Bazin means by the term “reality.” People often quite stupidly think that when Bazin writes about reality and realism he is simply talking about mimetic replication or representation, as though all he were saying was that films should be more realistic. To say this though would mean that we already know in advance what reality is; hence the goal would be simply to duplicate what we already know, what we already understand. Bazin never presumes such foreknowledge. In fact, more than once, he describes reality as “fundamentally ambiguous”. Indeed, it is precisely this ambiguity that makes realism a vital enterprise for the artist to pursue; it is precisely this ambiguity that makes realism an aesthetic choice. And if cinema is the most vital of all artistic forms to explore such an aesthetic it is because the realist basis of the medium allows the filmmaker to interrogate reality in an intimate and direct way. The realist filmmaker seeks to attain reality, the real, without knowing in advance exactly what it is; and the viewer comes to participate in this search, this open-ended quest, through the process of viewing the film. Deleuze articulates this point well when he says, in the opening pages of Cinema 2: The Time-Image, that, in Neo-realism, reality or the real is "no longer represented or reproduced but 'aimed for.' Instead of representing an already deciphered real, neo-realism aimed at an always ambiguous, to be deciphered, real."

Neo-realism means new realism and this is exactly what Bazin wishes us to understand as the potential of cinema: through the experience of watching a film, the spectator can be brought face to face with "reality" in all its complexity, mystery and force. It is this kind of realism that is exemplified, for Bazin, by the work of the Italian filmmakers, and this mode of existential inquiry lives on outside the mainstream and the brand of contemporary commercial cinema dominated by CGI-manipulation. Anyone who thinks debates on cinematic realism are old-fashioned or quaint should see films by such contemporary filmmakers as Jia Zhang-ke (e.g., Unknown Pleasures and The World), Abbas Kiarostami (Close-Up and A Taste of Cherry), and Carlos Reygadas (Silent Light), just to name a few. Indeed the first two filmmakers mentioned demonstrate, in their most recent films, the role that digital film can play in this rich, varied counter-cinematic tradition.

S I-G

Thoughts on Making an "Outside" Short (Part Two)

After a few false starts the time came to really shoot. I had already shot most of the beginning two scenes a few weeks earlier. I considered shooting the rest of one of the scenes that was incomplete but inthe interest of time decided to cut it early. This worked and saved me time that I needed for the main shoot. I had a Tuesday night, a Thursady day/night and Friday day to get 90% of what I needed for this 15 minute short (one big scene still has to be shot, more on that later) and based on prior experience and discussions with other students, I story boarded the scenes in an economical way that (I think) stayed true to the film's aesthetic as well as the character's odd position in his own life/surroundings. I have many shots that isolate John from the rest of his surroundings or shots where his surroundings dwarf him; in the story, he's fallen into a situation where he's lost control of his fate and actions, and I wanted to visually convey a sense of being lost but not being able to do anything to change it.

A great tool that any filmmaker should have is a bulletin board. It's not enough to just have the board, though. One must also have things to stick on it. I recommend index cards and pushpins. They are great for organizing and reorganizing the shots of a film and looking to see what works visually and what doesn't, as well as seeing how the dynamic of a scene can change by the juxtaposition of different shots. I admittedly was a little rushed in completing my story boards (try and set deadlines for yourself, they help) and could have perhaps drawn more accurate depictions of the shots, but my simple stick figures worked just fine. Before storyboarding though, I went to the locations I wanted to use (they were all in my neighborhood, which meant minimal travel time) and took pictures with a digital camera. Knowing the spaces I would be working with- any by knowing I mean KNOWING, as in 'what kind of light does it get?' if it's outdoors 'is there a lot of foot traffic at noon?' 'trucks?'- helped me envision the shots I wanted and put them on cards. And once they were on cards, I stuck them in my back pocket and used them as a reference for each shot, each time. I like to draw the shot I want and write a description of the shot and any camera/lens movements under it.

I have some important information about working with actors: sometimes they'll arrive on set sick and in a bad mood. My actor did this. I know him and know what he's like, so I didn't take it personally, but an actor you dont really know could certainly rub you the wrong way. Just try and keep your actors happy and busy in between takes. I had John bring a book so he had something to do while I was lighting him or setting up shots. I also talked him through what I was doing the entire time; this way I made sure he was part of a collaborative process, not just a personified stick figure. He may have not been feeling well, but he certainly didnt sit around waiting for me to finish.

Everyone knows that actors may have input of their own- it might be good, it might be bad. Always listen to what they have to say and even if you don't like their ideas, put them down respectfully and let them know why. You should be prepared enough as a writer and director to defend your ideas, especially to the person that is acting them out for you! Also, lack of preparedness should never be an issue, because you've chosen what shots you want beforehand and are recreating the drawings on your index cards when you shoot. I always leave room for improvised shots, you never know when your muse might strike, but I always stick to what I planned out first, and play later.

That's all for now.

Next time: Why I don't do coverage.

Matt Simon

Infinite Variations

Jim Jarmusch’s new film Limits of Control has just been released to DVD. It is a wonderfully abstract film with sensational cinematography by Chris Doyle. As an added bonus, there is a nifty documentary included on the DVD that includes scenes of Jarmusch and Doyle during the production of the film. (I may post a clip to YouTube in the next few days). It is in this bonus material that Jarmusch states the following:

“Nothing is original. All human expression is really just endless variations. There are only a limited number of stories you can tell. But there’s an unlimited number of ways to tell the same story”

What Jarmusch says here is interesting and consequential for young would-be screenwriters and filmmakers. It is the how that is essential (how you tell the story), much more so than the what (what is it about). And yet, most screenwriting manuals and filmmaking manuals tell you the reverse: they tell you that the how has been solved for you in advance; the mold into which your story will be poured into is preset, has been fabricated in advance. Your job as a screenwriter or filmmaker – according to these guides – is to focus on the what and to make this what go “pop” (especially for the producer who sees $$ flash before his mind’s eye). This is one of the reasons why there are so few interesting films being written or shot today. The what is pure gimmick and the how is pure formulae. Worse, this focus on what means that most aspiring young filmmakers pay little attention to the medium they are working in, when in fact the opposite should be the case: to focus on the how – how you tell the story – would mean that one thinks specifically about the medium they are using, to think about the modes of expression made possible by or through this medium that distinguishes it from other kinds of storytelling. Films tell stories with images drawn from the everyday world; images in movement and time; images placed in relation with other images and transformed through their contact with sound. What the consequences of this are for the stories we tell in cinema, and how we tell them, should be one of the central concerns of young screenwriters and filmmakers.

So, far from being discouraged by Jarmusch’s statement, we should use this as the starting point for our investigations/research into the medium. Indeed, what he is pointing to – if we think about it – is profoundly complex and mysterious: how is it that the same story can produce endless variations? How is it that the same story never exhausts itself but has the potential to reveal, through its repetition, a hidden reserve of meaning, an unexpected depth of feeling? And what role can cinema play in revitalizing the limited repertoire of stories through which we come to know ourselves, through which we come to know the world?

S I-G

Form Is Content

All great works of art give lie to the distinction between form and content. Form and content are not separate entities but two expressions of the same thing. This inextricable link, this indissociable bond, is most easily illustrated in painting. When we look at, for example, Van Gogh’s The Sower or Starry Night no one makes the argument that what is great about these paintings is the “content.” Or, if they do, they don’t mean by content “a sower at dusk” or “a star-filled night.” What is miraculous about these works is the painter’s dazzling use of color, as well as the way he manages to impress upon us his individual perspective on the world – the way he communicates the sensation of color and light. The “content” of these works is color, light, perspective, which is also what we would discuss if we were considering its “form.”

This seems straightforward enough, does it not? The same argument can be made about literature. The use of long-winding sentences in Proust, some of which extend for more than a page, is not a gratuitous addition to the “content” of In Search of Lost Time but an essential component through which the novelist communicates ideas and emotions. (If a no-nonsense translator decided to “simplify” Proust and correct the novelist’s tendency to embed subclauses within subclauses, you would any up with a book that had little to do with Proust. You’d write In Search of Lost Time without Proust.) This is why the adaptation of a great work of literature into a film is a perilous task. As Truffaut once said to Hitchcock, a great work of art is one that has already found its perfect form, and for this reason it cannot be “translated” into another medium without extraordinary difficulty. (On the other hand, a second- or third-rate novel might be ideal material to adapt to the screen, precisely because it has yet to be fully realized. It remains in chrysalis form, awaiting perfection.)

When we talk of cinema too often people assume that the “content” is the story or the plot (i.e., what is in the script), and form is merely a way of embellishing content through the use of a number of stylistic flourishes: a 360º pan, a crane shot which descends from the clouds, a fancy Steadicam shot, etc. It is a common belief, and it results in nothing but mediocre works. In a great film, form is content: the form in which the filmmaker tells a story and through which the viewer experiences the film is what makes it memorable; indeed, it is what makes it unique, one of a kind. A director’s job is to discover, in the translation of a script into a film, the correct way to give life – to embody – the ideas and emotions that remain only half-realized (chrysalis-like) on the written page. (As Godard once said, if you write a script that is so good that readers laugh and cry when reading it, then you should just bind the script and sell it in a store. Your work is complete. A script does not need to do all these things because this is not its purpose.) So a film is not its script, and the form through which a film comes into being is not extrinsic to its content – it is its content.

S I-G

Thoughts On Making An "Outside" Short (Part One)

Hello, blog readers, current and former students of Media Practice: Film Form. I'm writing about the experiences I had shooting a non-assignment short film using the New School's equipment this fall. In other words, a short film that I wasn't assigned but rather one I just felt like doing. I think that we're given so many resources as students here we need to take advantage of them as much as possible and constantly be creating projects big and small. So, what i'd like to do is write about my experience shooting this film and go over things that workd and some that didn't in the hope that some of this may help someone out there.

I wasn't initially planning to make anything outside of class this semester, but when taking a look at the syllabus for Cinematography I realized that there weren't going to be as many opportunities to make films as there were in MP: Film Form.

Working from an idea I had developed over the summer (in which a recently unemployed man receives a mysterious handwritten letter and discovers he can move through time) I set out in September to figure out what I had to do to make the film. I knew a few things from the start: I wouldn't have much money beyond small expenses; with my day-job schedule it would be difficult to have more than 2 days at a time to shoot; I wanted a smallish crew, as in, just me or me and one other person. Had I been able to shoot in one or two days, a larger crew with more tasks delegated might have been feasible, but given the somewhat larger number of locations or a film this length and with virtually no budget, not having too many people involved seemed like the best way to keep things uncomplicated. I also kept the cast to a minimum, casting my good friend John as the lead, and my friends Ryan (fellow New School filmmaker) and Robyn (roommate and a producer) in bit parts. John is not a trained actor, but as a writer and trained improv comic I knew that he could bring just as much to the production as a conventional actor could and that he would be perhaps more understanding of the filmmaking process than a stage actor.

This proved true, but with complications, which I'll explain next time.

Matt Simon

Production Photos: Maximum Stache

Above are some photographs from Ryan Garretson's film shoot. Ryan took Media Practice: Film Form in SP09. He plans to shoot two or three shorts prior to Production Studio in FA10.

"The title of this film (shot on HD) is Maximum Stache: To Protect and Serve and it was more or less inspired by two very talented actor friends of mine who I noticed could grow good facial hair. I guess it was also partly inspired by Magnum P.I., although the end result of this project will likely bare little resemblance to Magnum, with the exception of the mustaches. More or less, the skeletal plot of this film is built upon the premise of two plain clothes police detectives sitting in a car, waiting for a nameless, faceless criminal to make his move, and having screwbally, pseudo-gritty conversations along the way.

The inane nature of the setup notwithstanding, this project has allowed me to experiment with a variety of filmmaking techniques, such as one-shot cutaway scenes expanding on a narrative world, occasional in-camera editing, dream sequences facilitating a carte blanche approach to sound design and post-production, and the utilization of the point of view of a one-eyed cat. My crew consisted of four fellow graduate New School students, three of whom are also in the Film Form sequence, a few friends, and my girlfriend. We shot roughly 40 setups divided by two cameras over the course of one long day spent on the street outside a renovated industrial building in Bushwick. We learned a lot that day - a lot about filmmaking, a lot about ourselves, and, especially, a lot about mustaches."

Ryan Garretson

Claire Denis at the NYFF

Claire Denis with two actors (Isaach de Bankolé, William Nadylam) from her new film The White Material during the Q&A at the NYFF on Saturday, October 10. It is the third film that Denis has shot in Africa, following Chocolat (1988) and Beau Travail (1999), each made a decade apart. It's as though Denis, who spent her childhood in various regions of Africa, was periodically drawn back to the country she first considered her home. (Born in Paris in 1948, Denis – whose father was a civil servant – spent most of her childhood moving from one part of Africa to another. She only returned to France as a teenager. Not surprisingly, her interests as a filmmaker have often been focused on displaced individuals living on foreign soil – which was her own experience both growing up in Africa and returning to France as a young woman.) This is not to say that these films should be understood as autobiographical or sentimental. Indeed, Denis is one of the least sentimental directors working today. She has also developed, over the years, an impressionistic, rhythmic style of filmmaking that should be seen by all who are interested in rethinking the nature of "narrative" as it applies to the medium of film. (The best place to start? See I Can't Sleep and Beau Travail. And see The White Material, if/when it finally picks up a US distributor.)

S I-G