Triumph of the Will

Walter Benjamin posited in his article, "Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" that all art was political. In speaking of the "aura" of certain original works of art, and the lack-of-aura that comes along with such mediums as film, Benjamin discusses the effects of a mass-produced product on an audience. He defines the term aura as the unique quality or identity of an original piece. While certain things, such as actual objects like trees, have an aura around them, a painting or a film of the tree loses the aura by portraying an interpretation of one person to an audience of many people. Benjamin is wary of the effects of a communal audience, which he felt created a mass identity for the viewers, a single point of view. Benjamin's argument is a worthy one of discussion, but I wonder what he would have to say about political films specifically, instead of only the medium. Did Benjamin, in 1934, see in the codes and conventions of cinema the tools for a nation of mindless drones? I think, while he may have realized this, Benjamin was more wary of the idea of a communal experience of art, rather than the abilities of that art to trick an audience into belief.

At this point you may be wondering how a film goes about "tricking" an audience. After all, film captures the real world like no other medium can, in that it can successfully reproduce real world images and movement for an audience. To really understand the way this is done, however, it is important to note the "rules" or the "language" of cinema. Just like any other medium, film uses specific conventions in order to relate something to its audience. While these are so common that they are now understood as a realistic portrayal of the world, they do not reflect real-world actions and sounds. Take for example, the shot-reverse-shot, the classic element of filmic convention in Hollywood cinema. This effect is created by the montage of two shots, which is basically a word film theorist's use for editing. (Hitchcock explains the capabilties of montage here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-R-zCVFbwLw ) Understanding of the shot-reverse-shot, which describes the editing between two shots, often between two people in a conversation, is necessary for any person who desires to watch a film. By seeing a shot of one person talking, which is then edited in sequence to a shot of another person listening, we understand as viewers that these people share the same space, and that they are talking.

This type of distinction, (i.e. shot-reverse-shot, montage, and editing) describes what Christian Metz argues make up the discourse of a film. Metz theorizes that our understanding of film is based on two concepts: story and discourse. Story is exactly what you imagine it is, in our basic hypothetical scene: two people talking. Discourse however are shot-reverse-shot and editing, the ways the camera is used to tell the story to the viewer. Through the director's use of discourse, we are able to understand a story. The trouble with film, however is that sometimes the story being presented is not always true. Discourse can be used to trick the viewer into believing something that is not really there. (Consider Hitchcock in the above video, describing the way a shot of a man smiling can be sequenced with either a woman feeding her baby, or a girl in a bikini) This, is where the real danger of film, in my opinion lies. Not in its ability to present a single view to an audience, but in its potential for trickery, which stems from our basic understanding of the language of film.

A great example of a film that does this is "Triumph of the Will," a 1934 film which documents the Nazi Party congress in Nuremberg, Germany. I have recently watched this film in my Intro to Film Class, at Duke University, and the great thing about it is that it manages to bring into discussion many of the key texts with which we have been engaging throughout the year. Benjamin was one of our first, and while few people understood what he was saying at the time, after viewing "Triumph of the Will," it is apparent to many why he says that art and politics are so intertwined. In addition, the film is a great example of the classic combo of story/discourse gone awry. Through normal filmic conventions, the film's director, Leni Riefenstahl, manages to create a thoroughly positive image of Hitler, and the Nazi party. Her use of basic discourse to propagandize a point of view is revolutionary in that it reveals the potential film has as a medium. By filming Hitler from the ground up, Riefenstahl is able to create an image of the leader as one of greatness and mightiness. Hitler appears larger than life, and, coupled with shots of children smiling, boys waving, and women grinning, the audience believes that Hitler has captured the hearts of millions. Indeed, "Triumph of the Will" is a beautiful film, but it scares me. By using such simple tactics as non-diegetic music to score the film, an image of a grand, happy ol' empire is created. One that makes the audience want to join in on the fun. This scares me because I see the power film has for manipulation, but also makes me wonder at the many possiblities it offers as an art form. The simple tweaking of a shot's basic elements can turn it into something powerful, beautiful, or disastrous. This is the true beauty of film: its possiblities as a medium, however scary they may be.

Flipping Noir on Its Head

“Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” a 2005 film directed by Shane Black and starring Robert Downey Jr. craftily exploits the film noir genre; making fun of its conventions as it uses the very same ideas it mocks to build an engaging and entertaining story. The movie, like any other noir film, has a slightly convoluted plot. It employs many of the devices that made my intro to film class scoff when we screened “Detour,” a ridiculous example of noir’s datedness as a genre. Voiceover narration, banter, flashback, cheesy chapter titles, classic crime caper music, and cigarettes litter the film. And yet, unlike some other noir movies, “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang” still retains its credibility for a modern audience- in fact, judging from the amount of laughs, I think my class really loved it. What then separates this film from others like it?

To answer this question, a discussion on genre is necessary. Steve Neale, in his article, “Questions of Genre” defines the term genre as “a specific system of expectations which spectators bring with them into a film.” Neale’s definition makes sense enough- when we see a musical, we expect to hear the characters break into song; when we see a horror film, we expect to see unrealistic monsters ripping off cute blonde’s heads. Genre provides a system of recognition to the viewer so they can understand what is happening and so they have an idea of what will happen. Without genre, if a character spontaneously broke into song, people would begin to laugh at the screen, not understanding that the film was a musical. Neale argues that through the system that genre provides, the elements of film that are most appealing to the audience are those that “are least compatible with the cultural verisimilitude,” or in simpler terms, those that are unrealistic. He is not arguing for the effectiveness of unrealistic plot turns, like those in Detour, in which all the characters are seemingly connected and men die without cause, but for the magical elements of movies; the appearance of the monster; the first note of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Through the understanding of genre, audiences derive their greatest pleasures in the cinema.

This is not to say that all characteristics of genre films are appealing. Voiceover narration, as Robert McKee (played by Brian Cox) says in “Adaptation,” is “flaccid, sloppy writing. Any idiot can write a voice-over narration to explain the thoughts of a character.” While this is not always true, it could be argued that voiceover has been done so many times that it has little appeal to a modern audience. Yet, in “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” Downey’s narration is one of the best characteristics of the film. With his trademark wit and thorough self-criticism, Downey guides us through the story, all the while acknowledging not only his faults as a narrator, but the very fact that we are watching a film. This, like many other aspects of the film, acts as a sort of mocking praise of the genre conventions of noir films. It plays on our expectations in two ways; to create a comedic effect and to give pleasure to the viewer as one of Neale’s non-cultural verisimilitude compatible elements.

This device allows Downey, and the film, to really make fun of itself, which both delights the viewer and provides an excuse for the otherwise clichéd noir-ish plot. Do not let my use of the word “cliché” convince you that I did not enjoy “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” because it is rather the opposite. I love the way that the film mocks every notion of the genre film, be it from Harmony’s (Michelle Monahagan) obsession with cheesy Johnny Gossamer novels, to the strange interconnectedness of the characters that recalls the famous incest reveal at the end of “Chinatown.” Every notion of the classic noir lead is turned upside down with Downey’s turn as a fast-talking, somewhat idiotic thief who is by no means a Robert Mitchum. Downey’s character is like many other noir leads in that he is a victim of fate. From the start of the film he is thrown into a situation that takes him to the opposite end of the continent, only to eventually assume the role of a private detective in order to woo Harmony, the one that got away. However, Downey is by no means in control of the situation, and he spends most of the film being played by Gay Perry (Val Kilmer), a Hollywood private eye, or being controlled by Harmony. However, Downey still manages to maintain a sense of coolness throughout the role, showcased in scenes like the one pictured below, where he takes a drag of his cigarette while looking off screen, a classic noir shot. He spits out lines like "sorry sweetheart, you deserved better," a line that could have been uttered by any noir great in his heyday. Harmony, it could be argued is, like Downey, a classic noir character at times, and at others something very different. While she definitely, at times, represents the "damsel in distress," exemplified by her wearing of the skimpy santa outfit through much of the second half of the film, she is also very much in control of Downey's character, and she knows how to take care of herself, as she shows when she tells the police the wrong room number in the hotel. Val Kilmer plays the only character that is as tough of a guy as the likes of Mitchum or Brando, and yet he's gay. This defies the whole notion of noir detective in a very clever way. All these unexpected turns, as Neale argues, are the elements that combine to provide the audience with so much pleasure in viewing a movie such as this.

A final parallel between the film's treating of noir in a sort of backwards way is its use of the unexpected as comedy. A great example of this is the scene between Downey and Monahagan, in which Harmony passes out, only to have a spider crawl into her bra. While this is not original at all (everyone has experienced "there was a spider" once or twice), the fact that there actually was a spider makes a point about "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang." In the same way the film is comedic by actually having a spider present, yet still making fun of people who say "there was a spider," it makes fun of all the cliched conventions of noir, while still having them present. In this way, it comes off as less of a parody of the genre, but more of a weird, unique celebration of its most endearing qualities.

Identification and Wall-E

In their articles "From the Imaginary Signifier" and "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema," Christian Metz and Laura Mulvey, respectively, discuss the psychology inherent in an audience's identification with character, camera, filmmaker, and the human form. Metz begins his article with a discussion that combines various theories of film. He touches on the issues of "aura" that Walter Benjamin brings up in his article "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" and he brings up the idea of a voyeuristic audience that we have discussed in class with regards to Cache, a film by Michael Haneke.

Metz contends that film is at once the most perceptual and the least perceptual art form. While cinema combines the visual and auditory perceptions like no other medium does, it is also, as the famous quote says, "a lie." Since nothing in film is an actual representation of the real, all the perceptions that the audience comes away with are false. He then uses psychoanalysis to compare an infant looking into a mirror to that of an audience watching a film. An infant sees itself as an object in the mirror, and it sees the world around it without identifying itself in the mirror. In the same way, when an audience watches a film, Metz contends that the film becomes a "glass mirror." We are able to constitute a world of objects without actual seeing ourselves in the world, and we are able to think of this world as real.

This definition of a "mirror-like" film brings up issues of identification in cinema. Metz details the various ways that the spectator can identify in film. Through the objects on screen, through the camera, and through the filmmaker. He explains that such things as strange camera angles, that is, those that are not of the norm in cinema, identify us with the filmmaker, rather than the character. These shots do not show how a "character" as we understand it, looks at the world, but how a filmmaker, who is present on the outside of these characters, looks at the world. In contrast, the shot-reverse-shot format is our understanding of the normal, character and object based world of cinema.

These issues of identification are interesting when discussing an animated film such as Wall-E. Wall-E creates a world that has virtually no aura of its original form. This digital world, although produced with the best special effects and animation technology that Hollywood has to offer, still looks nothing like our own world. We recognize that it is a representation of our world, yet we are continually reminded that we are identifying with a world that is not our own. This is magnified by the presence of live-action videotape in the film. What we would define as a "real representation of a human" is only present in Wall-E on a screen within a screen. Wall-E watches an old video of two actors singing "Hello Dolly," and on screen, the humans are not animated but are "real." Although these people are the kind we usually see, in the all digital world of Wall-E they seem out of place and unwelcomed. After spending most of the movie identifying with the animated world of this robot, these humans seem more lifeless and false than ever. However, at the same time, we identify with Wall-E, as he is the one watching the two characters dance and sing on screen, and we understand his fascination with the love that they share. We have been in his position a countless number of times, and we understand our fascination with the depiction of love on cinema. This contradicts Mulvey's assertion that "cinema satisfies the urge to identify with the human form." In Wall-E, we become accustomed to identifying with the animated world, and representations of humans are no longer satisfying for us, but rather they seem strange and foreign.

Spaces and Looks in Sleepless in Seattle

Mark Garrett Cooper, in his article “Narrative Spaces” discusses the way that story is built through film. He believes that the shot, and the editing process, are not the basis of the language of cinema, but that the “space” is. Cooper begins his article as a response to Heath’s discussion of film as an extension of the Renaissance way of looking at art. Film is basically a sequence of static images that when played together in rapid pace turns a two-dimensional world into something that is identifiable to the viewer as a representation of the real world. However, what in film creates a story, or a narrative to the viewer? Cooper draws a distinction between two types of film, those with a story and those without. In a film without narrative it appears as if the camera is merely an observer. As if it was placed in an arbitrary place and people pass by it going about their normal lives. A film with narrative, Cooper argues, creates divisions of spaces between and within frames. The example he gives, which is really an excellent one, is of the silent film L’Arroseur arosse, in which the relationship between a prankster and a gardener is depicted. The important word here is relationship. According to Cooper, narrative can only be built if there is a cause and effect relationship between two distinct spaces. An action in one frame has an effect on the other. The prankster stepping on the hose in the background causes the gardener to see the water has stopped flowing in the foreground. Although this is an example of early cinema, and is produced using the long static shot characteristic of that era, the division of space between the back of the frame and the front of the frame creates a visual dialogue between the two characters. Cooper argues that the creation of spaces is not accomplished only through shots and edits, but through the organization of the mise-en-scene in the frame. This, Cooper believes, is the essence of narrative.


Now, it is important to ask ourselves if this principle still applies today. Cinema is a much more complex art form than it was previously. Technology has been invented to not only capture a variety of shots, but also to create them artificially. With the special effects capabilities in Hollywood today something can be recorded on film that didn’t even occur. So does the language of film still have the same building blocks for narrative that Cooper argues for? When answering this question, Cooper utilizes one of the most repeated stories in Hollywood; the romance. Before discussing the issue of how narrative is built in romance, it is important to define one of the concepts Cooper uses in his article. He writes,
"The looks characters exchange with one another provide both narrative and spatial information…The exchange and separation of looks animates Hollywood cinema's most common narrative pattern: the love story.” Cooper believes that these “looks” build space in the frame, and through this, build the story of most typical romance films. The two lead characters of a romance often spend the whole movie attempting to build one concrete space of “utopian love” out of the two distinct spaces that they occupy by themselves. These “looks” that Cooper refers to, can be of the characters looking anywhere, although usually out of the frame, to some unbeknownst target in the distance. This creates a feeling of desire for the viewer. We want to know what they are looking at and we feel the longing of the characters for something more. This simple idea of looks, according to Cooper, builds a space around each of the characters, and the interplay of these two distinct frames creates narrative.


A great example of the way this simple concept is used, and in my opinion, even exploited to entice and attract a movie-going audience is in the film Sleepless in Seattle. In case you haven’t seen this movie, its plot can basically be summed up in a sentence or two. Sam (Tom Hanks) and Annie (Meg Ryan) live miles away from each other. Sam has just lost his wife and Annie has just gotten engaged. Sam’s son calls in a talk radio station because he is scared about his dad’s psychological state. Sam ends up talking on the station and is known as the caller “Sleepless in Seattle.” Annie hears him on the radio, immediately has a connection with him, and tries to find him for the whole movie. The plot is ridiculous, but the movie is strangely appealing. This is because of its use of looks and spaces to generate a narrative that would otherwise not exist.


Sleepless in Seattle doesn’t have much story or events to it. The movie’s plotline can be explained only by referring to a select number of events, yet its runtime is close to two hours. Why is it that the film is appealing to so many people then? Aren’t we looking for a satisfying story when we watch a film? The beauty of Sleepless in Seattle is the way it is able to have a narrative structure without a complex plot. The very idea that a movie of this kind could exist makes it hard to contradict Cooper’s notion that narrative is not built of shots and edits but of spaces.


In the movie we have two, distinct, separated spaces that only meet for minutes at a time. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan share only two minutes of screen time in the film, yet there is an undeniable connection and chemistry between the two actors. This is accomplished because of the alternating “looks” of the characters throughout the film. One of the best examples of this is the scene in which Annie first hears Sam on the radio. Here, we have an exact example of Cooper’s definition of narrative. Annie and Sam are present in two distinct frames, yet the two spaces have a cause and effect relationship. When Annie hears Sam’s voice on the radio, she reacts to it. She even finishes his sentence at one point, as he describes how he had a perfect wife who made everything “magic.” This connection is accomplished on film via the looks that Annie gives as she is driving and listening to the radio. For a sequence of a few minutes, shots alternate between Sam on the phone and Annie driving. Sam is looking out of the frame as he talks to the radio host, and Annie is also looking out into the distance at an unknown target. While I am not suggesting that the two are actually looking at each other, the use of this type of shot, with a focus on the face and the character looking at something out of the frame, builds a relationship between the two characters, even if one does not exist.


This goes back to Cooper’s initial example of a narrative film. Like the gardener-prankster relationship, Sam’s words have an effect on Annie, and the juxtaposition of the two spaces builds a connection that the audience can understand. The trouble is, that this juxtaposition creates a feeling of longing for the two characters to meet; to occupy the same space. Cooper points this out by explaining that a storybook romance movie cannot occur in a singular “diegetic space.” The story takes place by bringing two spaces together. Nora Ephron, the director, must have understood this, because she continually taunts the viewer by creating a space, and then destroying it. Cooper defines “spaces lovers can occupy” with a specific set of qualities. These spaces have to be evenly illuminated with no obstructions, and the scene is often done with a wider angle then normal, to fit both on the same frame. He claims that these are unique to all romance movies, and this is particularly fitting for Sleepless in Seattle since Annie has an obsession with An Affair to Remember, a classic romance movie, where the “space” is never established as one of the leads is killed. Unlike An Affair to Remember, Sleepless in Seattle does eventually build this space for its lovers, but only at the very end of the movie. After being prevented by oncoming traffic, tourists, and the distance of the continent, Annie and Sam finally find what they are looking for in the last scene of the movie. The screenplay holds off from giving not only Sam and Annie, but also the audience, what they desire, until the very last moment. They meet atop the Empire State Building and create a new space, merging their previous two spaces into one. The important part of this scene is the focus from a one shot of either Annie or Sam, to a two shot of them standing and maintaining eye contact. The entire movie is about looks, and the look that the two share at the end of the movie is one of the most important. They have no words to express what they feel, and keep eye contact even while walking away. As they move they are shot as a two shot. In this way, the camera does not separate the two of them, as they do not separate from each other. This is the most powerful moment in the film because of the way the looks merge into one.


I think the best part of watching this movie and reading the articles about narrative space, is what I got from it. I really like that Cooper can analyze a seemingly simple movie like Sleepless in Seattle and talk about it as if it is art. I don’t know if the director, Nora Ephron, knew the power of spaces, two shots, and the “look,” but if meaning about the universal language of film can be derived from a movie such as this, then I have hope for cinema as a whole. Sleepless in Seattle teaches a lot about the way a story can be told only in film. If we tried to read the screenplay as a book, it would not be nearly as effective, mostly because we would lose the idea of individual “spaces” and the “looks.”

Flims Affect on the Way Life is Seen

Many things have an effect on the way we view the world around us. Our opinions are shaped by external forces, and, now, especially in the digital age that we live in, our view of the world is often shaped by the media and the consumer culture around us. We are relying on things that are not tangible- they don’t actually exist- to tell us what is going on in the world. For instance, when we watch a news report on television, we listen to dialogue on a talk radio program, we are not, according to some, actually experiencing the "aura" of these things.

Walter Benjamin in his article, "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" defines this so called aura as "the unique appearance of a distance, however close it may be." An example he gives is a branch which casts a shadow over a person. When looking at this branch, you experience its aura. Although when watching a film we are not actually experiencing the original aura of the actors, but we are being presented images by means of a camera. Benjamin contends that when an audience identifies with an actor that they are really just taking the position of the camera, and thus identifying with it. He also points out that often, the product of a finished film can be decieving. We are not always seeing what we think we are, but rather, video can be edited, splicing two shots together, or special effects can be used to portray something that is not really there. This brings up an issue as to how much we would like to be influenced by film. In this day and age when Brad Pitt can be transformed to an old man for the lengths of an entire movie, we need to evaluate the way that film distorts our perception of the world, and if these so called "fabricated" images of special effects are valid.

In any case, however you define the experience that film presents, there is no argument that it presents a view of the world that is juxtaposed with the one we know. In the case of Fight Club, a movie whose story alone can change the way we look at the consumerism and role of males in our society, the actual film has quite an impact on the perception of the world around us. In particular, Fincher's camera, and the dark, bleak, green-tinted cinematography alter the way we perceive the movie, and also the world.

The camera work is unique, original, and very important to the movie. From the opening scene, where we are presented with increasingly bigger and bigger pictures of the brain and then travel out through the narrators nose, and down the barrel of the gun, we are thrown into this world analyzing every detail of the minutia that is our lives. Fincher's shoots small, everyday objects in close ups that fill up the screen, as we, the audience, are taken through a trash can or around an empty room being filled up with possessions. In his article, Benjamin seems wary that an audience does not identify with the original source of an aura, an actor, but rather a camera, which presents the actor to us. In Fight Club, the focus is not always on the people, or the actors, but on the camera work- as we become the camera and are gliding through the stories of a building or down the hall.

In the language of film, we do not need to see something happen to understand that it is occurring. Fincher shows us a sequence of shots of donuts, tea bags, dollars in a basket, and the list of the disease groups over audio from the narrator. We understand the meaning of these shots to mean that the narrator was going to countless support groups. We don't actually need to see it occur. Film, as opposed to real life, does not need to show us the actual sequence of events in real time for us to believe it. It does not follow the rules of the real world, but it still draws us into a world that we want to believe is real.

One consequence of this understanding of a film, however, is that we are subject to the whims of the camera, and in particular, the director. In real life when we look around a room we focus on different things, the way people act, move, touch, look. In a movie, these shots are presented to us, and we understand how the director or main character is looking at the world. In one particular scene where Brad Pitt's character is reading off the rules of fight club, Fincher cuts around the room, alternating shots of Pitt speaking with that of the audience. He shows a man popping his gum, a hand taking off a ring, cracking of fingers, the slide of a shoe on the floor, the whip of a belt as it is being slid through the pant loops of someone's khakis. This shows us, what details the director wants us to see in the room.

In contrast, we see the narrator's boss speaking to him, and do not hear it, as he narrates that "after fighting everything else in your life got the volume turned down." We also see quick glitches in the film, prior to Tyler Durden's first appearance, that illustrate the deterioration of the narrator’s psyche. This is an example of the audience being able to see life through one of the main character's eyes, instead of the directors.

Film allows us not only to escape and become a part of a movie's story, but it allows us to see an alternate view of the world. We can use this alternate view to shape our own everyday way of seeing the things around us.