2.21.2005
andre bazin and the martial arts
(and you thought i forgot to read my book for the week...)
this week's book was what is cinema? vol. 1 by andre bazin. lately i've been recognizing that my film-nerd-dom is moving beyond a mere hobby, and if i'm ever going to utilize it in any way, i might as well get a little grounding in what's been written on it. hence bazin. anyway, here's a thought inspired by it:
in bazin's essay, "the virtues and limitations of montage," he maps out two different editorial courses a film may take, via children's movies. in jean tourane's une fee pas comme les autres-- a film i haven't seen, so we'll take his word for it-- bazin argues that the element of montage makes possible tourane's intention to "make disney pictures with live animals." the formula is simple enough to a 2005 audience-- through the interplay of cuts and edits, the once-random gestures and utterances of live animals are assembled into a cohesive whole. the animals take on human qualities, interacting with one another and forming a narrative experience that could never have existed outside the realms of an edited film.
he contrasts this with albert lamorisse's the red balloon, a film concerning a single-- you guessed it-- red balloon that follows a small boy around for a day (**incidentially: this is probably the best example i can think of regarding a film as a "moving painting," and you should all totally check it out). here, the impression is slightly different. again, montage supplies the necessary illusion of a single balloon navigating through space. but the duration of the shots themselves have a different quality. the "realism" of the experience is predicated on the knowledge that the balloon is real. when it blows in the wind, for example, it is integral to the film's impression that the balloon is corporeal; that it behaves like a real balloon. this-- in combination with montage, which enables the numerous balloons needed in reality to amount to the single one on the screen-- is what constitutes the film's charming impression.
by contrast, in the recent farrelly brothers comedy stuck on you, there is a scene in which two conjoined twins (played by matt damon and greg kinnear) are working as cooks in a fast food joint. a large group of customers enters and demands that the restaurant live up to a promotional gimmick in which their food is prepared and served in a brief, allotted time. the brothers, attached at the torso, play "beat the clock" in the kitchen. it becomes a sync-gag in which they, in unison, "flip" the patties, cheese slices, etc. from the grill to the buns (which are several feet away) with confidence and grace. but the scene falls flat to me, because it is clear that the patties, slices, etc. are all computer-generated. it loses its affective charm at the moment i realize that the two actors are not actually capable of performing this action in reality.
this peculiar split between realism/illusion got me thinking a bit. it draws attention to the performative quality of a film, and the sense of wonder accompanying a physical feat of some sort. it occurred to me that the dichotomy between montage and, let's say, corporeal illusion is precisely the tension in which a good martial arts film finds its strength. an example:
yuen woo-ping's wing chun contains a well-known fight sequence which makes use of such tension quite well. the film's title character (portrayed by the profoundly acrobatic michelle yeoh) is carrying a large, rectangular slab of tofu on a tray. having been specifically instructed not to slice the tofu in any way, she is forced to fight an opponent. through a series of brilliantly choreographed moves, she successfully keeps the tofu from harm, and defeats her opponent as well. now certainly, computer-generated imagery could supply the necessary supplement to the onscreen action. and we might come away with a competent, if slightly awkward, action sequence not unlike something out of the matrix sequels (sadly, also choreographed by yuen woo-ping). but instead, the camera lets the actions determine the affect. the cuts stay with the gestures long enough that, as a viewer, it is clear that something is really happening. it is understood that the performers have a much larger understanding of hand-eye coordination than one's own (unless by "one" i mean chuck norris). yeoh's precise movements, understanding of gravity, and ability to adapt to her physical surroundings constitute the spectacular element in the scene.
accordingly, the role of montage is to enhance this performative quality-- which is, for me, where a kung fu flick will either pass or fail. when i watch a martial arts film, there are generally two things i'm looking for. one is a theatrical sense of abandonment, best personified in films like those of tsui hark. in this sense, the spectacle of quasi-irrational theatrics take center stage. the film's value is predicated on the excesses of its orchestration. secondly, the performative qualities described in my assessment of wing chun must set in-- the film must also become a kind of dance floor composed of skilled performers. the best films of the genre-- for the most part-- combine these two approaches. and a good time is had by all.
this week's book was what is cinema? vol. 1 by andre bazin. lately i've been recognizing that my film-nerd-dom is moving beyond a mere hobby, and if i'm ever going to utilize it in any way, i might as well get a little grounding in what's been written on it. hence bazin. anyway, here's a thought inspired by it:
in bazin's essay, "the virtues and limitations of montage," he maps out two different editorial courses a film may take, via children's movies. in jean tourane's une fee pas comme les autres-- a film i haven't seen, so we'll take his word for it-- bazin argues that the element of montage makes possible tourane's intention to "make disney pictures with live animals." the formula is simple enough to a 2005 audience-- through the interplay of cuts and edits, the once-random gestures and utterances of live animals are assembled into a cohesive whole. the animals take on human qualities, interacting with one another and forming a narrative experience that could never have existed outside the realms of an edited film.
he contrasts this with albert lamorisse's the red balloon, a film concerning a single-- you guessed it-- red balloon that follows a small boy around for a day (**incidentially: this is probably the best example i can think of regarding a film as a "moving painting," and you should all totally check it out). here, the impression is slightly different. again, montage supplies the necessary illusion of a single balloon navigating through space. but the duration of the shots themselves have a different quality. the "realism" of the experience is predicated on the knowledge that the balloon is real. when it blows in the wind, for example, it is integral to the film's impression that the balloon is corporeal; that it behaves like a real balloon. this-- in combination with montage, which enables the numerous balloons needed in reality to amount to the single one on the screen-- is what constitutes the film's charming impression.
by contrast, in the recent farrelly brothers comedy stuck on you, there is a scene in which two conjoined twins (played by matt damon and greg kinnear) are working as cooks in a fast food joint. a large group of customers enters and demands that the restaurant live up to a promotional gimmick in which their food is prepared and served in a brief, allotted time. the brothers, attached at the torso, play "beat the clock" in the kitchen. it becomes a sync-gag in which they, in unison, "flip" the patties, cheese slices, etc. from the grill to the buns (which are several feet away) with confidence and grace. but the scene falls flat to me, because it is clear that the patties, slices, etc. are all computer-generated. it loses its affective charm at the moment i realize that the two actors are not actually capable of performing this action in reality.
this peculiar split between realism/illusion got me thinking a bit. it draws attention to the performative quality of a film, and the sense of wonder accompanying a physical feat of some sort. it occurred to me that the dichotomy between montage and, let's say, corporeal illusion is precisely the tension in which a good martial arts film finds its strength. an example:
yuen woo-ping's wing chun contains a well-known fight sequence which makes use of such tension quite well. the film's title character (portrayed by the profoundly acrobatic michelle yeoh) is carrying a large, rectangular slab of tofu on a tray. having been specifically instructed not to slice the tofu in any way, she is forced to fight an opponent. through a series of brilliantly choreographed moves, she successfully keeps the tofu from harm, and defeats her opponent as well. now certainly, computer-generated imagery could supply the necessary supplement to the onscreen action. and we might come away with a competent, if slightly awkward, action sequence not unlike something out of the matrix sequels (sadly, also choreographed by yuen woo-ping). but instead, the camera lets the actions determine the affect. the cuts stay with the gestures long enough that, as a viewer, it is clear that something is really happening. it is understood that the performers have a much larger understanding of hand-eye coordination than one's own (unless by "one" i mean chuck norris). yeoh's precise movements, understanding of gravity, and ability to adapt to her physical surroundings constitute the spectacular element in the scene.
accordingly, the role of montage is to enhance this performative quality-- which is, for me, where a kung fu flick will either pass or fail. when i watch a martial arts film, there are generally two things i'm looking for. one is a theatrical sense of abandonment, best personified in films like those of tsui hark. in this sense, the spectacle of quasi-irrational theatrics take center stage. the film's value is predicated on the excesses of its orchestration. secondly, the performative qualities described in my assessment of wing chun must set in-- the film must also become a kind of dance floor composed of skilled performers. the best films of the genre-- for the most part-- combine these two approaches. and a good time is had by all.
a book a week: the talented mr. ripley
token description: patricia highsmith's the talented mr. ripley concerns a young opportunist who leaves new york city (and relative financial squalor) for italy, in hopes of bringing trust-fund-playboy dickie greenleaf home to his father. upon arrival, he develops a peculiar friendship with dickie, which eventually goes sour. upon putting together that dickie and his almost-girlfriend marge are hinting that he should return home, ripley murders dickie and assumes his identity.
there is much to say about the homoerotic sub-text that may/may not pervade this narrative (as well as how the film adaptations draw attention to/away from it by creating an erotic chemistry between ripley and marge-- which is absent in the book). but i think most of it has been said before, and said by people with a deeper understanding of it than me. what I’d like to draw attention to, however, is how the book deals with etiquette...
ripley's pathological desire to abandon his own identity strikes me as an inversion of the conventional "interior dialogue." whereas most books-- even books dealing with murderers-- attempt to unveil layers of social performance to reveal the desire beneath, highsmith's ripley moves in the opposite direction. ripley is dedicated to the surfaces of things with a dutiful intensity. it's as if he would like to eradicate his own complexity and exist exclusively in the realm of high-brow formalities. throughout the book, he constantly evades any sort of existential reflection (this is where the book's often-discussed amorality comes into play), and when he acts, he does so without a trace of introspection, let alone ethical objection. he goes so far as to resent his own need for murder, in the case of dickie's friend freddie miles– whom ripley is forced to kill when things begin to go awry. this act strikes him as messy and gratuitous. ripley objects to his own actions as an assault on good taste, rather than according to some quasi-biblical code of action.
tellingly, there is less emphasis on this in the films (1999's film of the same name, and also 1960's purple noon). i believe this is because it is often such etiquette that enables sadistic activity to go culturally unnoticed. highsmith exaggerates the artillery of superficial gestures enabling a play for power, and ripley is the result. through an infinite array of costumes and impersonations, ripley acts out a compulsive need to remind himself of his own sovereignty. i see this shit every day at work... when a customer asks me a question that is, in reality, an excuse to make a spectacle of their own intelligence. my absolute favorite example: a guy picks up a coffee mug pertaining to the museum's "manet and the sea" exhibition and, with a look on his face of EXTREME self-satisfaction, asks me "if anyone is aware that they spelled 'monet' wrong?". it's this kind of compulsory ego-display that weaves the fabric of privilege and wealth, far more often than the showboating hyperboles we've come to expect from villians in novels.
there is much to say about the homoerotic sub-text that may/may not pervade this narrative (as well as how the film adaptations draw attention to/away from it by creating an erotic chemistry between ripley and marge-- which is absent in the book). but i think most of it has been said before, and said by people with a deeper understanding of it than me. what I’d like to draw attention to, however, is how the book deals with etiquette...
ripley's pathological desire to abandon his own identity strikes me as an inversion of the conventional "interior dialogue." whereas most books-- even books dealing with murderers-- attempt to unveil layers of social performance to reveal the desire beneath, highsmith's ripley moves in the opposite direction. ripley is dedicated to the surfaces of things with a dutiful intensity. it's as if he would like to eradicate his own complexity and exist exclusively in the realm of high-brow formalities. throughout the book, he constantly evades any sort of existential reflection (this is where the book's often-discussed amorality comes into play), and when he acts, he does so without a trace of introspection, let alone ethical objection. he goes so far as to resent his own need for murder, in the case of dickie's friend freddie miles– whom ripley is forced to kill when things begin to go awry. this act strikes him as messy and gratuitous. ripley objects to his own actions as an assault on good taste, rather than according to some quasi-biblical code of action.
tellingly, there is less emphasis on this in the films (1999's film of the same name, and also 1960's purple noon). i believe this is because it is often such etiquette that enables sadistic activity to go culturally unnoticed. highsmith exaggerates the artillery of superficial gestures enabling a play for power, and ripley is the result. through an infinite array of costumes and impersonations, ripley acts out a compulsive need to remind himself of his own sovereignty. i see this shit every day at work... when a customer asks me a question that is, in reality, an excuse to make a spectacle of their own intelligence. my absolute favorite example: a guy picks up a coffee mug pertaining to the museum's "manet and the sea" exhibition and, with a look on his face of EXTREME self-satisfaction, asks me "if anyone is aware that they spelled 'monet' wrong?". it's this kind of compulsory ego-display that weaves the fabric of privilege and wealth, far more often than the showboating hyperboles we've come to expect from villians in novels.
