Positioning Art Cinema: Film and Cultural Value 9781788318945, 9781786735560

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Geoff King is Professor of Film Studies at Brunel University London and author of books including Quality Hollywood: Markers of Distinction in Contemporary Studio Film; Indie 2.0: Change and Continuity in American Indie Film; American Independent Cinema; Indiewood, USA: Where Hollywood Meets Independent Cinema; New Hollywood Cinema; An Introduction; Spectacular Narratives: Hollywood in the Age of the Blockbuster; and Film Comedy.

‘For too long, the term “art cinema” has suffered from slippery, I-knowit-when-I-see-it usage. Incisively and intrepidly, Geoff King dissects this contested category, deliberating on the diverse, yet codified ways of attributing cultural value to film drama.’ – Mattias Frey, Professor of Film and Media, University of Kent, UK ‘Here’s a book film studies has long needed. Geoff King is sensitive to nuances of both text and context and he introduces fruitful terms like the “heavyweight” film. Essential reading for anyone interested in art cinema!’ – Michael Z. Newman, Associate Professor and Chair, Department of Journalism, Advertising, and Media Studies, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, USA ‘With Positioning Art Cinema, Geoff King deftly executes a delicate intellectual maneuver: writing nonjudgmentally about critical judgments. The book navigates the subjective and contradictory terminology that surrounds a range of films, filmmakers and modalities framed as distinct from perceived mainstream entertainments. Never drifting into schematic taxonomy, King shrewdly unpacks the proliferating categories that scholars, critics and filmmakers themselves have used to assign cultural value to cinema.’ – Mark Gallagher, Associate Professor of Film and Television Studies, University of Nottingham, UK ‘Following his leading work in the fields of Hollywood blockbusters, American independent cinema and quality Hollywood films, Geoff King here shifts his attention to the often vaguely defined and understood field of art cinema. Through questioning established critical orthodoxies and with the help of his trademark close textual analysis of key recent titles, Positioning Art Cinema does a great job in laying bare the complex, culturally determined and often unspoken assumptions that help elevate this type of cinema to the top of cultural hierarchies. Superbly researched and utterly readable, the book will appeal to both experts in the field and art film novices.’ – Yannis Tzioumakis, Reader in Film and Media Industries, University of Liverpool, UK

Positioning Art Cinema Film and Cultural Value Geoff King

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2019 by I.B. Tauris Paperback edition published 2022 by Bloomsbury Academic Copyright © Geoff King, 2019, 2022 Geoff King has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. vii constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Paul Smith Cover image: The Weeping Meadow (2004: Theo Angelopoulos) (© Moviestore Collection Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record is available from the Library of Congress. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available ISBN: HB: PB: ePDF: eBook:

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Contents List of Figures Acknowledgements

vi ix

Introduction:

1

1

Positioning Art Cinema

Situating the Art Cinema Field of Cultural Production and Consumption

31

2

Art Film and American Indie Cinema: Points of Distinction and Overlap

59

3

The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality

79

4

Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema

105

5

Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden

140

6

Serious Restrained Drama and Realism

179

7

Art Cinema and Genre: Uses and Departures

212

8

Art Cinema and Exploitation

255

Conclusion

289

Notes Select Bibliography Index

294 314 322

v

List of Figures Figure I.1 Influenced by, and to have reciprocal impact upon, Hollywood genre films: Jean Luc Godard’s Breathless q StudioCanal Image/Iberia Films/Societe Nouvelle du Cinématographie.

12

Figure I.2 Arthouse classic prod uced within a commercial stud io context: Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story q Shochiku Co., Ltd.

22

Figure 1.1 Selling auteur status: Eureka ‘Masters of Cinema’ Blu-ray cover for Federico Fellini’s City of Women q Eureka Entertainment Ltd.

56

Figure 2.1 Converging narrative threads towards the end of Pulp Fiction q Miramax.

66

Figure 2.2 Quirky ind ie pastiche of arthouse classic in Me and Earl and the Dying Girl q Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation and MEDG Films LLC.

70

Figure 2.3 Impressionistic imagery in Knight of Cups q Dogwood Pictures, LLC.

71

Figure 3.1 The daughter in the bleak, windswept landscape of The Turin Horse q T. T. Filmműhely/Vega Film Production/ Zero Fiction Film/MPM Film.

80

Figure 3.2 ‘One of the most important film directors’: Michael Haneke on the set of Hidden q Les Films du Losange.

86

Figure 3.3 Realist textures in The Earth Trembles q Universalia Film.

91

Figure 3.4 The disorienting world of Last Year at Marienbad q Fox Lorber.

99

vi

List of Figures Figure 4.1 Extended shots as a way of creating empathy for characters performing difficult actions, such as acting as human advertising stands, in Stray Dogs q Homegrown Films, JBA Productions.

114

Figure 4.2 Departing the action: The start of an extended pan away from a couple having sex (just visible in the lower right of the frame) in Battle in Heaven q No Dream Cinema/Mantarraya Producciones/Tarantula/Arte France Cinéma/Universidad de Guadalajara/ZDF/Arte/Tartan Video.

116

Figure 4.3 Part of the extended shot of the weeping protagonist in Vive l’amour q Central Motion Pictures Corporation/ Strand Releasing.

123

Figure 4.4 Meditative reflections on art in Museum Hours q The Cinema Guild, Inc.

139

Figure 5.1 Markers of distinction: Critical endorsements in short version of the trailer for The Turin Horse q T. T. Filmműhely/ Vega Film Production/Zero Fiction Film/MPM Film.

144

Figure 5.2 Bleak still lives in The Turin Horse q T. T. Filmműhely/Vega Film Production/Zero Fiction Film/MPM Film.

146

Figure 5.3 Teasing final sequence: Pierrot and Majid’s son come to the foreground, screen left, but without any clear indication of what this implies, in Hidden q Les Films du Losange/ Wega Film/Bavaria Film/Bim Distribuzione.

149

Figure 5.4 A second perspective: The more distanced and fixed view of the meeting between Georges and Majid, and its aftermath, in Hidden q Les Films du Losange/Wega Film/Bavaria Film/ Bim Distribuzione. 153 Figure 6.1 Unmoved? Bruno about to sell his baby in The Child q Les Films du Fleuve, Archipel 35, RTBF, Arte France Cinéma.

185

Figure 6.2 Heightened drama as Lucas responds to the music of the choir in The Hunt q Arrow Films.

191

vii

Positioning Art Cinema Figure 6.3 Closely following camerawork in Rosetta q Les Films du Fleuve/ARP/RTBF.

193

Figure 6.4 ‘Magical hour’ sculpting by light when Klara is questioned in The Hunt q Arrow Films.

196

Figure 7.1 Melodrama within the narrative: Manuela acting in the training video in All About My Mother q El Deseo SA/Renn Productions/France 2 Cinema.

220

Figure 7.2 Theatrical background: Manuela outside the theatre in All About My Mother q El Deseo SA/Renn Productions/ France 2 Cinema.

225

Figure 7.3 Stylised but not abstract: men-with-guns poses in The Mission q Milky Way Image (Hong Kong) Ltd.

240

Figure 7.4 One of the cinephile set pieces from Exiled q Med ia Asia Films (BVI) Ltd.

244

Figure 8.1 Grotesque food imagery in A Hole in My Heart q Memphis Film Rights AB.

275

Figure 8.2 Mixing sex and intellectual engagement: Fibonacci numbers superimposed over images of the young Joe in Nymphomaniac q Zentropa Entertainment.

279

Figure 8.3 Uncomfortable sex? One of the bondage scenes in Romance q Flach Film/CB Films/Arte France Cinéma.

281

Figure 8.4 ‘Exotic’ sex: the son achieves stimulation by stabbing in Moebius q Kim Ki-duk Film.

285

viii

Acknowledgements Thanks in particular to Mark Jancovich and Rosalind Galt for reading all or part of the manuscript and offering useful feedback. Thanks also to Daniele Rugo and Leon Hunt for helpful discussions on film philosophy and Johnny To, respectively.

ix

A critique is not a matter of saying that things are not right as they are. It is a matter of pointing out on what kinds of assumptions, what kind of familiar, unchallenged, unconsidered modes of thought the practices that we accept rest. Michel Foucault, ‘Practicing Criticism’

Introduction: Positioning Art Cinema

Art cinema occupies a position in the film landscape that is characteristically accorded particular kinds of cultural value. From films that claim the status of harsh realism to productions that embody aspects of the tradition of modernism or the poetic, or others that blur the lines between any such categories, art cinema encompasses a variety of work from an increasingly wide range of locations across the globe. But how exactly is art cinema positioned, and how can we understand and explain the very specific forms of cultural value attributed to films of this kind? This book examines the positioning of art cinema at various levels, exploring the roots of this process in a number of prevailing but often unstated discursive assumptions and institutional imperatives. The term ‘positioning’ is usually associated with the way films are marketed and sold, but it is used here to suggest a broader way of understanding the status accorded to art cinema. An effective positioning is implied by the textual qualities of art films, characteristically situated as embodiments of particular forms of cultural value. Overtly positioning discourses are found in marketing materials that sell art cinema in specific ways and in the evaluative work of critics. They are implicit in the workings of institutions such as film festivals and arthouse d istributors and exhibitors. This book also closely examines for the first time the role of long-standing but generally unacknowledged and sometimes questionable assumptions that underlie much of the positioning of art cinema in more substantial academic analysis. Art cinema itself is a complex and often contested category, the operational use of which embraces considerable diversity. No single

1

Positioning Art Cinema recipe or approach can be identified within this terrain, the boundaries of which remain far from clear cut. There is no fixed definition of art cinema, a category that has no singular identity or essence. It cannot be defined in general in terms of any particular formal or thematic bases, for example. But a number of distinct and recurrent tendencies can be identified, both textually and in the discursive regimes through which such films are positioned and accorded value. Films customarily included within the institutionalised realm of art cinema (a dimension to which I return below) provide particular kinds of satisfaction of their own, to suitably oriented viewers, but their basis is often distinct and their constituency limited. Markers of difference from the commercial mainstream (itself variable in its forms) can be sharp and clear cut but they can also be more nuanced and graded, at various levels. Some forms of art cinema offer marked challenges to the viewer. The films of Michael Haneke, to take one prominent contemporary example, are positioned explicitly as anti-Hollywood in character and widely celebrated, on this basis, as important works of art cinema. Funny Games (1997, remade 2007), most notoriously, toys with the expectations of the audience. Having encouraged the viewer intensely to dislike two intruders who brutalise a middle-class family, the film appears to offer a moment of cathartic pleasure: a victim escapes her bounds and shoots one of the invaders. But, no sooner than the moment of victory is offered, it is immediately withdrawn. In a gesture of overt reflexivity unusual even in a work accorded the status of art cinema, the image we are watching is, literally, rewound by the other antagonist and the instant of viewer satisfaction is undone, the ‘funny games’ of the title including those played on the spectator. Other instances of art cinema offer additional challenges to more commercially-mainstream viewing pleasures. Endurance rather than any conventional notion of entertainment characterises much of the tradition into which we would situate the films of the Hungarian Béla Tarr, for example, most notably in the bleak seven-hour minimalism of Sátántangó (1994) or the slowly drawn-out implied apocalypse un-dramatised in The Turin Horse (A Torinói ló, 2011). Challenges to the viewer are offered by many other varieties of art cinema, either through slowness and opacity, difficulty, ambiguity and complexity, or confrontation with various forms

2

Introduction of uncomfortable material. If some employ visual or narrative approaches that seem distinctly ‘arty’ or poetic in nature, or that offer the opacity and reflexivity associated with modernism, others are positioned as providing acute realism and/or the exploration of troubling existential or moral dilemmas. While many films that are accorded the status of art cinema differ sharply from the conventions associated with the more commercial mainstream, in other cases such lines can be blurred. Frameworks such as familiar genres provide strong points of departure in some instances, but their conventions can also be deployed to varying degrees as well as undermined (as, for example, in Funny Games). The same can be said of mainstream/classical film conventions generally and of numerous examples of art cinema that offer more accessible experiences than those presented by the most challenging varieties. In each case, a particular positioning is entailed by the employment of such approaches, marking a variable distance from the qualities usually associated with the commercial mainstream; a positioning that entails the mobilisation of a range of underlying discursive frameworks explored in this book. I share with David Andrews an understanding of art cinema as an entirely relational concept, one that makes claims to certain kinds of cultural value and status that can only be understood in terms of various degrees of differentiation from more commerciallyoriented others.1 In examining a spectrum of difference from that which is associated with mainstream traditions, my account also has something in common with the distinction made by András Bálint Kovács between what he terms the ‘classical’ and ‘modernist’ art film, to which I return in Chapter 2.2 The positioning of films, in an overt sense, is a process usually associated primarily with the marketing of individual titles, as suggested above. An active sense of positioning is a key part of marketing and associated activities, situating films in a manner appropriate to their qualities (more or less) and the audience they seek to reach. An effect similar in many ways is achieved by film reviews and other forms of criticism or analysis: positioning and usually evaluating films for a putative audience (in the case of art film, primarily for a limited range of demographic sectors), and on some occasions in explicit statements by filmmakers. An understanding of each of these is important to the focus of this book. But it also examines the notions of positioning and framing

3

Positioning Art Cinema more broadly than existing work on the subject, to include analysis of both the qualities of the films themselves and how these are situated in the wider cultural landscape. To do this, I draw on a combination of approaches drawn from the fields of film analysis and cultural studies, offering an exploration of key positioning strategies drawn upon by filmmakers, critics and in academic analysis. An implicit act of positioning is always entailed in the production process – and well before this, in most cases, from the earliest moments of conception and development. Textual qualities imply an act of positioning: as more or less commercial/mainstream in orientation, for example, within whatever options are available in prevailing institutional structures, an axis of particular importance to the understanding of work associated with the art film sector/s. These also often entail, implicitly or explicitly, a complementary suggested positioning of the viewer in some respects; broadly, in art film, through a marking of differing degrees of distinction, on various bases, from that associated with the consumption of more mainstream-commercial products (what exactly constitutes ‘the mainstream’ is also in need of further interrogation, the term often functioning as a convenient negative other that oversimplifies the nature of the cinematic spectrum). All of these positionings can then be situated within wider industrial and socio-cultural frameworks, including long-standing discursive bases within which notions of cultural worth and artistic value can be understood, as the outcome of particular processes of interpretive framing. Many of the ways in which works of art cinema are positioned as more or less serious, challenging, radical or worthy than more popular types of cinema are founded upon processes of distinction marking, elaborated more fully below, in which the latter are often denigrated and an implicit sense of superiority is established on the part of the former and, by implication, its spectator. If art films are actively positioned in such ways we can also understand them as positional goods, the value of which is at least to some extent predicated on limited access and often invidious comparison with other types of film or cultural production. Those who engage in such processes, meanwhile, including figures such as critics and other mediators, are involved in a process of position-taking, or an array of contested position takings, to use an approach adopted by Pierre Bourdieu.3 While the most obvious point of negative comparison is the Hollywood mainstream, a

4

Introduction similar process can be identified in some distinctions made between art cinema and other parts of what is known in the industry as the ‘speciality’ market, including its points of difference and overlap with the American indie sector. The aim of this book is to examine recent/contemporary art cinema at each of these levels. It begins, following this Introduction, with an examination of the broader social and cultural processes through which art cinema is positioned as a particular field of production and consumption. It then considers the relationship between art cinema and American indie film. A number of different positions within the realm of art cinema are subsequently examined in detail. At one end of the spectrum is what I term the ‘heavyweight’ or ‘hard-core’ art film: that which is received as being most ‘serious’, demanding, substantial and ‘worthy’ in various ways. This would include the work of Haneke and Tarr and the longer traditions in which they are located, and which I take their work to represent as contemporary case studies. Elsewhere, qualities associated with art cinema are mixed with more commercial dimensions. These include the use of popular genre frameworks and a more accessible variety of emotional engagement. I use terms such as hard-core and heavyweight modality to indicate a broader and also more nuanced understanding of the textual positioning of certain kinds of art cinema than is suggested by more specific labels that are also employed in this book – and widely elsewhere – such as modernism, realism and postmodernism. The concept of modality is used to suggest a broad sense of the manner in which particular kinds of texts work, or are positioned, particularly in relation to ostensible notions of an external reality, a formulation drawn from the work of Robert Hodge and David Tripp on children’s television.4 The modality within which a text operates, and/or is situated by others, includes the kinds of claims it makes in relation to our understanding of the world, such as the extent to which the viewer is encouraged to feel implicated in the events of a fictional universe and/or what this is taken to suggest to us about the world beyond.5 I make a point of using terms such as ‘encouraged’, here and elsewhere, rather than assuming any identifiable effect in any specific case, an issue to which this book returns on many occasions. All texts contain modality markers that signify this kind of positioning, although

5

Positioning Art Cinema the process usually remains implicit rather than drawn to attention. Modality markers range from peripheral elements such as titles and marketing materials to core dimensions of films such as the basics of form and content. Markers of a broadly-comic modality, for example, establish that certain kinds of represented events should not be taken too seriously; we should not worry, for example, if a character is hit on the head in an instance positioned as slapstick comedy, in which the consequences that might be expected in a more serious or realistic context (serious injury, death) are unlikely to follow. Markers of greater seriousness of modality suggest otherwise: that what happens on screen is meant to be interpreted as mattering in some way, as having ‘importance’ and ‘significance’, including importance and significance beyond the fictional world. This is precisely the kind of modality established by what I term the heavyweight variety of art film, and the manner in which such films are usually interpreted, as is demonstrated in many examples that follow. Hard-core, a term more familiarly deployed in relation to pornography, is used to suggest what can be seen as the most demanding, resistant and uncompromising varieties of art film. These, I suggest, can be seen as operating within (or being ascribed) a heavyweight modality, one that makes claims to certain kinds of substance, seriousness and worth. Each of these terms implies a ‘softer’ or ‘lighter-weight’ opposite. This is manifested, in one part of the spectrum, by relatively more accessible forms of art cinema or, elsewhere, by what is usually associated with, or closer to, the commercial mainstream. The use of these terms lends itself to analysis of a spectrum of different degrees to which particular manifestations of art cinema are positioned as more or less different and distinctive from qualities associated with articulations of the mainstream/ popular. They might also be distinguished on such grounds from that which is positioned as ‘middlebrow’, a term often used to disparage material considered to have the merits of neither ‘proper’ art nor the ‘genuinely’ popular. This approach offers a framework that enables us to step back from the more immediate qualities offered by any individual examples – or by categories such as realist, modernist, classical or postmodernist, or particular strands of art cinema – to examine some of the key, and usually unexamined, bases on which differential forms of cultural valuation often rest. A broad sense of ‘seriousness’ or ‘weightiness’

6

Introduction is a quality and/or attribution applied to quite different types of art cinema in many cases, but one that is usually taken for granted and not examined as a specific positioning in itself. To highlight and examine this as something specific, with particular socio-cultural roots and implications, is one of the major aims of this book. Each of these modality positions is considered at a number of different levels: as involving products of particular commercialindustrial-institutional conjunctures; as concerning films the textual features of which entail specific positioning strategies; and at the level of surrounding marketing, critical and analytical discourses. All these are situated within wider discursive regimes and notions of cultural valuation outlined below, particularly in Chapter 1. This is the first book to examine the broad territory of art cinema from this combination of perspectives. It is also the first to focus on the positioning of films in all the senses outlined above, either in this or any other part of the film landscape. In both respects, it represents a development of my previous work. In its focus on art cinema, it constitutes an extension of my existing studies of the relationship between relatively more and less commercial dimensions of cinema, previously focused on the American context, particularly in American Independent Cinema (2005), Indiewood USA: Where Hollywood Meets Independent Cinema (2009), Indie 2.0: Change and Continuity in Contemporary American Indie Film (2014) and Quality Hollywood: Markers of Distinction in Contemporary Studio Film (2016). In its focus on positioning strategies and modalities, it builds particularly on approaches employed in Quality Hollywood. Compared with the realm of art cinema, those of Indiewood and the quality Hollywood film might be associated with the mixtures of elements from both the popular and the more art-distinctive usually taken to characterise the middlebrow. This is a term historically employed primarily as a negative signifier but that has been used recently in more positive analysis of examples from a range of national contexts.6 It might also embrace certain ‘lighter-weight’ films that circulate within the arena of art cinema. In its area of focus, this book adds to what I hope to be an increasingly comprehensive analysis of forms of cinema positioned as, to varying degrees, distinct from the commercial mainstream. In its approaches, it aims to contribute to a deeper understanding not only of textual forms

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Positioning Art Cinema and their industrial and immediate cultural locations, but also of how these can be viewed in the context of broader and historically rooted discursive frameworks that are key to the processes through which such films are accorded particular forms of cultural value. This book includes something of an archaeology (in the sense associated broadly with the ideas of Michel Foucault) of the underlying bases of value judgements of the kind used to make distinctions such as those often articulated between mainstream and art/indie as a whole or more locally within the speciality arena; bases of judgement often taken for granted even within substantial areas of film criticism and/or analysis (I would include here some of my own earlier work), and that have not previously been explored at any length in studies of art cinema.7 It combines study of certain modalities of art cinema itself with a metacritical analysis designed to make explicit a number of tacit assumptions often employed in its critical valorisation.

Defining art cinema To start, we need an initial working definition of the category of art cinema, one that encompasses a large body of work from across the history of cinema and a broad range of geographical locations, and one that might not always be understood in the same way from all perspectives. Like ‘indie’ or ‘independent’, the term usually serves as a marker of distinction from dominant industrial-commercial institutions, particularly but far from only Hollywood. It implies not just institutional difference but the production and consumption of films that are marked or understood as distinctive in particular ways, making claims of various kinds to a ‘higher’ cultural status, as implied in the usage of the heavily loaded term ‘art’ as the key feature of its designation. Art cinema is viewed here as a complex and often contested category rather than a realm that has simple or clear cut boundaries. Definitions of art cinema have often tended to fall into two principal camps: those based on institutional factors (art cinema as involving a particular mode of finance/production, distribution/circulation and consumption) and those based on textual qualities (art cinema as entailing a particular variety of narrative, for example, or other formal qualities; and/or as involving engagement in particular ways with certain kinds of serious issues or experiences). Two of the most influential earlier accounts 8

Introduction of art cinema can partially be divided along these lines: Steve Neale’s ‘Art Cinema As Institution’ (1981) and David Bordwell’s account of a particular variety of art cinema narration as a distinctive style in Narration in the Fiction Film (1985). Any thorough account of this sphere needs to embrace both dimensions, the components of which tend to be closely correlated. When it comes to the specifics of these two accounts, the advantage of Neale’s approach is that it embraces a wide variety of types of art cinema that are produced or which circulate within its institutions (although he also highlights certain textual features). Bordwell focuses on one particular conjuncture of formal qualities, even if this is one that has been highly influential within art cinema more broadly. In many cases, art cinema can be defined reasonably straightforwardly at the textual level, where sufficiently distinct markers are present to differentiate the work in various ways from that which is associated with the commercial mainstream. But there are also plenty of grey areas, where textual qualities might be more ambiguous and where other factors – particularly the realm of circulation – might provide the primary, or sometimes the only, basis for such a designation. One way of understanding art cinema in institutional terms is as any kind of cinema that circulates primarily in certain festivals or arthouse theatres, or their equivalent fora for non-theatrical viewing, regardless of the qualities of the work concerned. It is this dimension that gives a quite wide range of cinema something in common: that is to say, the realm of circulation is best understood not just as an afterthought, something secondary to the production of texts, but as a constitutive component of this or any part of the cinematic landscape. That which gains the status of art cinema in some spheres, particularly outside the country of origin, can be produced in more commercial contexts in some instances, a further complication of any overly simplistic account of this terrain. The many and varied examples that might be included within the scope of art cinema range from early European movements such as German expressionism and French impressionism (both 1920s) to the particular consolidation of the category in the post Second World War era via influential strands such as Italian neo-realism, the French nouvelle vague and many subsequent ‘new waves’ (more recently, for example, the Iranian, Romanian and Chinese), and similarly identified currents ranging across many parts of the globe.8 Categories such as art and indie, usually

9

Positioning Art Cinema restricted to the domain of feature-length narrative cinema (which is my focus in this book), are best seen as broad, inexact and complex, when subjected to close examination, but also as potent operational markers of particular regions of film culture in which strong investments are often made by producers, consumers and the relevant interpretive communities – including, in some cases, investments in notions of distinction between the two or between aspects of one and the other. A useful definition of art cinema provided by Rosalind Galt and Karl Schoonover has much in common with how I have defined indie elsewhere, as a category ‘defined by its impurity’ rather than any essence and describing ‘feature-length narrative films at the margins of mainstream cinema, located somewhere between fully experimental films and overtly commercial products.’9 Art cinema often invites different modes of engagement from its viewers, as Galt and Schooner suggest, ranging from the distancing perspective encouraged by some work that draws on the modernist inheritance to a more mainstream-familiar brand of emotional involvement; or, in many cases, a blend of the two.10 Galt also identifies a category of ‘popular art film’ that has much in common with some of the less heavyweight varieties considered below.11 Equally applicable to both indie and art cinema is Galt and Schoonover’s suggestion that each is a realm for which ‘the lack of strict parameters’ is best seen as ‘not just an ambiguity of its critical history, but a central part of its specificity, a positive way of delineating its discursive space.’12 If, as I would agree, art cinema is defined by its impurity this is ‘a difficulty of categorization that is as productive to film culture as it is frustrating to taxonomy.’13 The complexities of art cinema as a category are one of its sources of fascination and illumination of broader artistic-cultural processes of production, distribution and consumption. That the boundaries of art cinema are imprecise or subject to ongoing debate is not grounds for abandoning use of the term, as some have argued.14 It remains a concept that has significant currency, in operational and institutionalised usages, as is suggested by Andrews: ‘Art cinema exists as a real human perception and as a shifting set of events and things unified and impelled by that perception.’15 The term is also valuable from the particular analytical point of view taken in this book. The key designator – art – can alert us to the underlying basis of many of the discourses within which the films to which it refers are characteristically situated: that is,

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Introduction within broader inherited assumptions about what is constituted by art within the prevailing ‘western’ tradition.16 This is an important dimension that has been insufficiently explored to date. It is touched upon by Andrews, but only briefly, while I use it here as a major framework within which to explain a number of the discourses through which art cinema is positioned. The lack of clear cut boundaries to the sphere of art cinema does not mean significant tendencies cannot be identified. Kovács offers the most detailed typology. This begins with his broad distinction between classical and modernist varieties. Within the latter, his principal focus, he offers several additional sub-categories, including identification of styles that he labels the minimalist, the naturalist, the ornamental and the theatrical.17 He highlights a number of thematic frameworks within the body of work on which he focuses – modernist art cinema from Europe between 1950 and 1980 – including the alienation of the individual from the environment and subjective redefinitions of reality.18 All these traits associated with the modernist tradition are manifestations of the broader heavyweight modality as understood here: a concept that helps us to understand the manner in which they are positioned in relation to a wider range of discursive formations than are considered in a more closelyfocused account such as that of Kovács. What I seek to identify are best described as certain broadly located tendencies. These can help us to understand some of the variety of qualities found across a wide spectrum of art cinema. What results is something considerably less clear cut than any fixed typology. Kovács, likewise, describes his four major styles as ‘trends’ in which unambiguous cases are less the norm than those which are mixed or transitory in nature.19 As a term deployed within the film industry, by critics and elsewhere, art film is, again, best seen as ‘ambiguous and flexible’, as suggested by Barbara Wilinsky in her history of the arthouse theatrical institution in the United States.20 But it is also a concept that has a great deal of currency in its use at various levels. If art and indie cinema can be defined in broadly similar terms of this kind – as relatively specific but broad and impure fields of film-cultural production and circulation – one key point of difference between the two is that the latter is often seen as tending more towards the commercial while some forms of art cinema lean more strongly towards the heavyweight end of the scale. How this distinction is articulated is a key part of what follows,

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Positioning Art Cinema particularly in Chapter 2. I also identify some significant points of overlap between the art and indie film sectors, however, including the uses of genre examined in Chapter 7. In charting such a range of positions, I aim to complicate any simple binary understanding of the differences between art and more mainstream types of film, continuing a process begun in my previous work on the various different relative positions occupied across a spectrum of American cinema. Some similar arguments about cultural interplays and exchanges that complicate any overly simplistic oppositions between Hollywood and prominent art cinema movements such as the French nouvelle vague and New German Cinema are suggested by Thomas Elsaesser.21 While the nouvelle vague was influenced by American genre films, for example, it was to have a reciprocal impact on many films associated with the Hollywood ‘Renaissance’ of the 1960s and 1970s (see Figure I.1). Others, including Peter Lev, have offered a comparable perspective in tracing the involvement of Hollywood in funding some now classic ‘European’ art

Figure I.1 Influenced by, and to have reciprocal impact upon, Hollywood genre films: Jean Luc Godard’s Breathless q StudioCanal Image/Iberia Films/Societe Nouvelle du Cinématographie.

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Introduction films of the 1960s and 1970s. One result was the creation of what he terms the ‘Euro-American art film’, a hybrid in which dimensions associated with art cinema were mixed with more mainstreamcommercial aspirations and contexts of production, notable examples including Contempt (Le mépris, dir. Jean-Luc Godard, 1963), Blow-Up (dir. Michelangelo Antonioni, 1966) and Last Tango in Paris (Ultimo tango a Parigi, dir. Bernardo Bertolucci, 1972).22 If art cinema at its most heavyweight and Hollywood at its most mainstream are very distinctly different, this does not eliminate the potential for such mutual influences or overlappings. Regardless of how much they might be in need of qualification, however, binary oppositions are characteristically and frequently mobilised in much of the persisting discourse through which the one is characteristically valued above the other, in academic work as much as elsewhere. Where art cinema is defined largely through its difference from Hollywood, as has often historically been the case, such difference can take numerous forms. This is a factor cited by Neale as an explanation for the variety found within the field. At the same time, however, such variety is contained by both the modes favoured by the institutional infrastructure of art cinema and ‘by the repetitions that tend to mark cultural discourses in general and the discourses of high art and culture in particular.’23 Lúcia Nagib argues that cinemas from across the world are best seen as polyvalent phenomena, with their own various influences and bases of production, rather than being confined within traditional binaries that include the opposition between art and popular film or, particularly in this case, between Hollywood and ‘world’ cinemas that are defined in terms of their status specifically as alternatives to Hollywood. Binary discourses, Nagib suggests, risk perpetuating exactly the kind of colonialist dynamics they seek to deconstruct, in their definition of the one primarily in terms of the other.24 She adds: ‘Once notions of a single centre and primacies are discarded, everything can be put on the world cinema map on an equal footing, even Hollywood, which instead of a threat [to other cinemas around the world] becomes a cinema among others.’25 This is a useful corrective to overly binary approaches, drawing on the broader arguments of Ella Shohat and Robert Stam in favour of an anti-Eurocentric form of multiculturalism.26 It might also entail an understanding of the dominant Hollywood style as itself local and specific in nature (if not in geographical

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Positioning Art Cinema spread and influence), rather than as having the status of an unmarked or unaccented norm against which alternatives such as art cinema are distinguished.27 But to treat the entire spectrum of cinema as if it were a level playing field is to risk ignoring the material and discursive dimensions within which a range of specific differences and distinctions are often established on the ground, even if this occurs within a more complex context of multiple influences and interrelationships.28 These include the mobilisation of deeply rooted binary oppositions at the discursive level that underpin many of the processes through which art cinema is understood and valued, as I argue here, within academic and more general critical work as well as within its institutionalised realms of circulation. That such discourses involve what are often invidious processes of distinction marking, in one direction or another, does not mean they can be wished away, in their operative dimensions, even if we might want to challenge them in various ways. One of the arguments of this book is that art cinema remains primarily an elitist form, in practice, to varying degrees, whatever oppositional dynamics the films themselves might sometimes contain and that might be a key part of their historical or contemporary valorisation by some commentators. It is primarily targeted at, and likely to be viewed by, a minority audience of a particular type of social status. The fact that art cinema occupies such a realm has led to it being treated as an object of distrust by some commentators, as if the category itself should be seen as unworthy of study on that basis. Galt and Schoonover observe that many scholars to whom they spoke about their edited collection on the subject ‘responded with perplexity that we would endorse such a retrograde category.’29 A degree of distrust of the basis on which art cinema is sometimes celebrated seems understandable, and will be found in this book. The manner in which the valorisation of art cinema sometimes implies or explicitly involves a devaluation of other types of film, within a hierarchical system of oppositions, is one of the major bases of skepticism of this kind, as are tendencies in some cases to overreach or essentialise in the making of such claims. But what is required is not condemnation (or praise) but an understanding of the particular status of art cinema, in its various forms, and of the discourses through which this is articulated and the specific historical, institutional and other dimensions in which they are rooted. This is my aim, where I identify examples of practices such

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Introduction as overstatement or the essentialising of particular qualities identified in some forms of art cinema in the chapters that follow: less to criticise than to locate these as part of much broader and prevalent positioning tendencies.

Mapping art cinema This book explores these issues through a mixture of approaches including the close analysis of textual examples and the various contexts in which they are produced, circulated and discursively positioned. Textual analysis remains an important starting point in many cases, establishing particular filmic qualities that characterise specific types of what are designated as art cinema from particular perspectives. These can never fully be understood in isolation, however, but as products of both proximate industrial/ institutional contexts and the kinds of broader social and cultural frameworks outlined further in Chapter 1; factors that shape not just the manner in which they circulate and are discussed and evaluated but the very nature of their qualities in the first place, as embodiments of certain notions of art/cultural value. How exactly particular instances of art film are positioned for viewers is examined through analysis of paratexts ranging from trailers and other forms of marketing to journalistic reviews and more substantial or academically-oriented accounts. The aim of this book is to identify a number of key positioning tendencies within and applied to the established and institutionalised field of art cinema, rather than to attempt to chart anything like all its variations or historico-geographical manifestations and traditions. I do not offer an account of the history of art cinema, although key parts of this are considered along the way. Neither do I set out to present an exhaustive analysis of any particular period or geographically defined component of the wider realm (unlike, for example, Kovács’s Screening Modernism), nor to offer an encompassing survey of art cinema themes or styles. This book takes, instead, a very particular approach to the topic, argued through a limited number of case studies, mostly from the past two decades, although these represent significant broader tendencies. Similar frameworks are also found in a wider body of positioning discourse examined during the completion of this project, both academic and that aimed at a broader audience, including studies of the work of numerous filmmakers other 15

Positioning Art Cinema than those selected as the main focus of the chapters that follow. A major framework in relation to which other varieties are situated in my account is the notion of the heavyweight or hard-core art film, as suggested above, one that embodies a heavyweight modality. This is established, across Chapters 3, 4 and 5: not as the essence of art cinema but as art cinema in what is generally positioned as its strongest forms, in terms of marking points of distinction from the qualities associated with the commercial mainstream. As such, it forms a useful measure against which to situate both American indie film, in Chapter 2, and other variants of art cinema that offer sometimes reduced, if still significant, markers of distinction, as considered in Chapters 7 and 8. Art cinema is a large and complex realm, with roots in many different times and places. Its scope has become even wider spread in recent decades, tending by the early decades of the twenty-first century to be referred to as a global phenomenon.30 As Galt and Schoonover suggest, the terminology matters. The dominant early history of the concept was Eurocentric, positing a primarily ‘European’ art cinema constructed as standing in opposition to Hollywood: ‘Clearly, between the Eurocentrism of art cinema’s emergence to the global flows of the [contemporary] film festival circuit, the choice of words carries significant baggage.’31 The concept of art cinema as conventionally employed can still be viewed as western-centric, in many of the core assumptions by which it is underlain and in the dominance of the sector by many western institutions, even if it is far from entirely western in the work that gains circulation within its orbit. Similar limitations can accompany certain uses of the term ‘world cinema’, which has in some cases implied cinema from other parts of the world as viewed from a specifically western perspective, rather than an appreciation of other more local or regional dynamics.32 Whatever specifics some forms of art cinema undoubtedly have that relate to their places of origin, art cinema as a whole is understood here from the perspective primarily of its international circulation within a relatively distinct (if not exactly bounded) sphere of its own. This is constituted by a particular body of institutions, practices and criticalinterpretive protocols. A crucial role in constituting this realm is played by a network of international film festivals, venues at which works of art cinema often play, a process through which a key part of their cultural value – and in some cases, their very status as art cinema – is typically

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Introduction established. So important are such events that ‘art film’ as a designator has become almost coterminous with ‘festival film’.33 Some such films can appear to be produced largely – or, at least, initially – in order to play at prestigious festivals. Some have been commissioned, co-funded or otherwise supported by festivals, or by markets and other fora associated with such events.34 Another key part of the discourse and practice of art cinema surrounds the notion of the filmmaker as auteur, as an individual artistic creator, an issue to which I return in more detail, within its longer historical context, in Chapter 1. If not the commissioner or the final target, the festival is a venue that can perform a central role in the ability of any individual film to succeed, or even to be positioned at all, within the arthouse market. Presence at the top festivals is itself taken to be a marker of quality, according significant power in this arena to festival programmers and raising various questions about the disproportionate influence of particular events, especially those located in Europe, and their role in relation to films from other parts of the world.35 Western critics and festivals expand the arthouse ‘canon’, as Shohat and Stam suggest: ‘The representatives of the cultural centers of the “Global North” hold the key that opens the door to artists from the “Global South”’.36 The terms on which this occurs are far from neutral, however, and not usually critically examined by those involved, tending to replicate familiar dynamics such as the centrality of auteurist practice and/or the favouring of certain kinds of textual qualities to the exclusion of others.37 Festival appearances or the winning of prizes tend to feature prominently in the marketing of art films. For some that might be less obviously weighty in their textual qualities, circulation and celebration in this realm might be one of the clearer signifiers of the achievement/ ascription of art-cinema status. This applies in particular to some examples that employ relatively more mainstream features of genre, as explored in Chapter 7, or that draw on some qualities associated with traditions of exploitation cinema, as examined in Chapter 8. The manner in which such films are understood is liable significantly to be influenced by the positioning that accompanies a presence in viewing contexts of this kind, a point that applies more generally to the role played by spheres of distribution and exhibition in the shaping of filmcultural experience.38

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Positioning Art Cinema Festivals are also key venues for the attraction of attention from influential critics, both during festival screenings and when such films subsequently achieve release in individual markets. The approval of critics is generally understood to play a significant role in guiding the likely choices of viewers in this sphere, hence their frequent presence in marketing materials. The importance of positive reviews is partly because of the limited funds usually available for marketing, which makes unpaidfor sources of coverage more important than is the case in the commercial mainstream. Art cinema is also an arena in which the nature of the basis of valorisation is such as to depend significantly on the act of consecration entailed in the process of endorsement by authoritative critical commentators. The latter is not generally seen as being of such necessity for works aimed at mass/popular appeal, where large-scale audience takeup – as counted especially by box office returns – is the only measure that really matters.39 The market for contemporary art cinema depends heavily on the central international dimension constituted by the festival circuit. It serves effectively as a launch-pad for the career of most art films that are able to achieve theatrical or other substantial forms of release, particularly for circulation beyond the initial place of origin; for the careers of individual filmmakers or of newly identified movements. My focus is primarily on the English-speaking dimension of the institutional realm, particularly that rooted in the United States and the UK. This is a partial perspective, although justified to some extent by the relative dominance of these viewpoints as important arbiters, in practice, in the wider process of valuation and consecration within the sphere of art cinema as currently constituted. That is to say that the views of major US and UK critics and the choices of which films to take up by US and UK distributors of art cinema – alongside the choices of the largest international festivals – are likely to have disproportionate impact in setting agendas beyond these shores. We should not assume, however, that a concept such as art cinema necessarily means the same, or has the same resonance, in all times and/or places. In cultures with a longer tradition of recognising film itself as an art form, more broadly, rather than one dominated by large-scale industrial formations, the notion of art film as something existing in opposition to the commercial/industrial might be less prominent. This may be the

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Introduction situation to some extent in the French context, for example, although it remains one in which a d istinct arthouse trad ition can also be id entified . Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau suggest that in France and Italy ‘critical discourses tend to erect a distinction along the lines of auteur versus mainstream, which can allow for more flexible definitions of each pole of the dichotomy than that of “art” versus “entertainment”’, one in which auteur films can be identified at all cultural levels of production.40 The latter might also be true to a degree in the context of Hollywood, where the discourse of the auteur as individual creator can have value to the studios in certain, if limited, circumstances.41 Notions of art or auteur-based cinema are important to many smaller nations, in Europe or beyond, the festival network dedicated to such work providing an international platform for films from countries with small domestic markets, a domain in which sufficient critical mass can be achieved to sustain a level of production that would not be viable in any one location alone.42 From an Anglophone perspective – or any individual linguisticgeographical one – notions of art cinema are complicated by the extent to which the category is often rooted also in ideas of the ‘foreign’, the ‘overseas’ or the subtitled. What most academic commentators now tend to call ‘global’ or ‘world’ cinema, labels with less ethnocentric connotations, was once often generally referred to as ‘foreign’ in the US and the UK, a term that clearly has very particular connotations (and has far from disappeared from use). The sense of foreignness – or otherness understood in cultural-geographical terms – remains an important part of the broader resonance and valorisation of art cinema in many such cases, as it is consumed outside its place of production, as something that can suggest the exotically different and/or a sense of authenticity rooted in such particularity. A regular source of criticism is the suggestion that institutions such as major western-oriented international festivals have often favoured certain kinds of films from other parts of the world, and so enabled these to gain the status of art cinema within this sphere, to the neglect of others. This has in some cases applied to examples seen as offering aestheticised or exoticised portrayals of alternative ways of life, sometimes located within uncomfortably colonial inheritances, an issue examined by Lindiwe Dovey in relation to the presence in festivals of work by African filmmakers.43

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Positioning Art Cinema Language difference, or its absence, also contributes to some of the less clear cut borders of how art cinema is understood as a category. This applies, for example, to the relative positioning of art cinema (primarily seen as global/international) and American indie film. The same goes for some other ambiguous positions. These would include the position of nonmainstream, or relatively non-mainstream, English-language overseas films when distributed in the United States, including productions from Britain or Australia. Such films often circulate in the same theatres and via the same distributors as foreign-language productions, even if their linguistic status might position them as more mainstream in potential in these markets than would otherwise be the case. This can be another source of variable cultural positionings. In the European case, as Dyer and Vincendeau suggest, the standard practice in some places is to use subtitles for work in foreign languages while in others the norm is to dub films into the domestic tongue, a variation also found in other parts of the world that can have a significant impact on the relative status-positioning of any individual title.44 A useful term to capture the location of these sub-categories collectively is that used within industry circles, where ‘speciality’ is employed to include anything that circulates within this sphere, from art and indie to the likes of documentaries and most English language imports in the case of the US. This is not a term that has gained broader resonance within the public sphere, however, unlike art cinema, which, as Galt and Schoonover suggest, for all its complexities, ‘remains an everyday concept for film industries, critics and audiences.’45 Art cinema is also a concept that has more specific resonances – claims to the higher status of art, and so a link to the range of discourses outlined in Chapter 1 – that do not apply to all types of film embraced by the concept of speciality. Individually or collectively, particular types of films can change status in their movement from the national to the international arena, another marker of the relative, proximate and contestable nature of what can be drawn into the realm of art cinema. Films that are popular, or relatively so, in their home market might be consumed as art films elsewhere (although in far from all cases). This is one explanation suggested by Dyer and Vincendeau of a tendency for European cinema often to have been overassociated with its art-film manifestations, leading to a critical neglect of more popular European traditions. Highly popular European films ‘seldom

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Introduction travel well beyond their national boundaries’, as they suggest, and when they do ‘they are generally repackaged for art cinemas.’46 This could also be said of many British films that travel to the US, despite the lack of requirement for subtitling. A distinction can be made between relatively accessible British films circulating in this manner and those more clearly marked as art cinema at the textual level, including the work of figures such as Peter Greenaway, Derek Jarman and Sally Potter. The same applies more generally: films that circulate in the arthouse market outside their places of production can be distinctly ‘arty’ in their own right, and hence their status as art cinema rooted substantially in textual qualities, or considerably less so, in which case such a position is likely to rest largely on the grounds of the realm of circulation alone. In the latter case, the quality of foreignness marked in particular by the presence of subtitles, generally regarded as a barrier to widespread distribution and consumption, can effectively translate a relatively mainstream type of work into one likely only to reach a more limited arthouse market (this might occur to a variable extent, however; perhaps to a lesser degree in any market in which films in languages other the local are shown in greater numbers). Many instances can be cited in which locally popular films remain largely unknown aboard, unlike those more suited to the international festival and arthouse circuit. 47 This is one reason why a significant distinction remains between the category of world cinema, when used in any inclusive sense, and that of art film. A related division between the domestic and overseas domains is suggested by Deborah Shaw in the case of Mexican cinema in the 1990s and 2000s. Shaw suggests that the most popular domestic films in the home market were attributed a middlebrow status, based on the employment of some markers of quality combined with a generally conservative social position.48 This is contrasted with the more critical perspectives on the basis of which others – including works by some of the same filmmakers – enjoyed arthouse success overseas but were not so widely embraced at home. The potentially complex and dynamic nature of such positioning is underlined by the ability of individual filmmakers such as Guillermo del Toro and Alejandro Gonzáles Iñárritu strategically to move during their careers across the range from these two locations to employment within Hollywood. Shaw identifies a process though which certain works, such as Iñárritu’s Amores Perros (2000), can

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Positioning Art Cinema be seen deliberately to employ stylistic features that create ‘an aura of international sophistication’, drawing on established qualities associated with art cinema, designed specifically to appeal to a particular range of overseas constituencies.49 Another notable complication of any simple art/mainstream binary at the level of production can be found in some examples by consecrated auteur figures from Japan who worked within commercial studio contexts, including Akira Kurosawa, Yasujiro Ozu and Kenji Mizoguchi (see Figure I.2). The art film market is effectively the only viable international arena for films from many countries.50 This was also the fate of some films associated with the concept of Third Cinema, a category designed to offer a politically revolutionary alternative to both the dominant, commercial Hollywood (First Cinema) and the personally expressive realm of art cinema (labelled here as Second Cinema). As Paul Willemen suggests, works designed according to the principals of Third Cinema have often been viewed outside their place of origin in the terms of art cinema, their politics being bracketed in some cases in favour of appreciation at the level

Figure I.2 Arthouse classic prod uced within a commercial stud io context: Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story q Shochiku Co., Ltd.

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Introduction of authorial artistry.51 If some productions can reasonably unproblematically be attributed art-film status, on the basis of their textual qualities and the motives and institutions through which they are driven, in others the question is not one of whether or not a particular example is a work of art cinema, in any fixed or absolute manner, but whether (where, when) it might circulate and/or be experienced or interpreted as such. A broad association of the ‘foreign’ with art cinema might be heightened by the fact that, in many contexts, the popular tends to be dominated either by Hollywood – as a globally dominant form – or local popular cinemas, in some cases at a regional or transnational rather than national level. This is a process that also entails particular histories and dynamics in any specific context. If French cinema is predominantly associated with art cinema in Britain, for example, as seems often to be the case, this is a very partial understanding – one that ignores more popular forms of French cinema – that also has very specific and quite narrowly based social roots, traced by Lucy Mazdon and Catherine Wheatley to initiatives taken by a particular group of enthusiasts in the late 1920s and early 1930s.52 A particular notion of art or ‘quality’ cinema was defined by a small coterie of upper-middle-class British critics, film-lovers and filmmakers who created institutions such as the Film Society and early speciality cinemas to provide a space for the exhibition of non-mainstream films they admired and wanted to make available to like-minded individuals. The tastes and choices ‘of a small group of cinematic pioneers who acted as both distributors and exhibitors would to a great extent determine what was shown to British audiences and thus go on to play a vital role in constructing dominant notions of what constituted “quality” cinema.’53 This is a classic instance of the cultural dynamics associated with the work of Bourdieu, explored in more detail in Chapter 1, in which the very particular taste preferences of a limited but influential constituency have the power to shape a significant part of the relevant field of cultural circulation. Much the same continued to be the case in subsequent decades, Mazdon and Wheatley suggest. French cinema remained associated in Britain primarily with particular notions of quality and prestige (targeted at certain audience constituencies) maintained by persisting frameworks of critical evaluation and the congruent strategies pursued by distributors and exhibitors. If the dominant discourse is one

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Positioning Art Cinema of relatively elevated arthouse prestige, this has been mixed in some cases since the 1950s with a selling of notions of sexual or other forms of transgression (in French and other overseas imports), dimensions sometimes played up in an attempt to reach wider audiences and to which I return in Chapter 8. A broadly similar process, involving the active construction of an artfilm culture, is identified in the US by Barbara Wilinsky. Venues such as ‘little cinemas’ and screenings by film societies from the mid 1920s created an exclusive and intimate class-based realm similar to that initially developed in Britain. As Wilinsky suggests, they ‘both demonstrated and cultivated the potential audiences for specialized films’ and ‘laid the groundwork for the growing association between cinema, art, and high culture.’54 Such frameworks were then built upon, but also partly transformed , as arthouse theatres with more commercial ambitions carved out a space within the exhibition sector of the late 1940s, from which Wilinsky dates the expansion of this sector in the United States. If art cinema from many places circulates through institutions that have important international dimensions, it can also be understood at least partly at this level in terms of its textual characteristics. Art cinema is not a phenomenon that exists in vast geographical difference and then only comes together in the realm of circulation, but one the institutional status of which can encourage the production of certain kinds of films in the first place, as is suggested by the role of the festival circuit as an important initial target constituency and shaping influence and the notion of the festival film as a related category in its own right. Certain key aspects of art cinema – traditions, approaches, styles, content – can be found in productions from very different parts of the world, even if they might sometimes have different inflections or sources. If the kinds of ‘slow’ cinema examined in Chapters 3 and 4 below are often associated with the films of European stalwarts such as Antonioni, Tarkovsky and Tarr, for example, other celebrated manifestations include the work of Abbas Kiarostami from Iran, Lisandro Alonso from Argentina, Apichatpong Weerasethakul from Thailand and Lav Diaz from the Philippines. Types of art film from around the world are shaped by their own specific geohistorical-political contexts, but they can also draw on, or be conditioned by, existing traditions and parameters of art cinema itself, at the levels of both form and content.

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Introduction Particular instances of slow cinema, for example, can be seen to be ‘variously embedded in local roots and indebted to distinct cultural, intermedial and cinematic traditions’, as is suggested by Tiago de Luca and Nuno Barradas Jorge.55 William Brown identifies a number of specifically Philippine dimensions to the ‘long, slow cinema’ of Diaz.56 But recent/ contemporary examples – including the work of Alonso, Weerasethakul and Diaz – have also benefitted from the international infrastructure that supports art cinema, including financial help from the Rotterdam festival’s Hubert Bals Fund.57 Such filmmakers also often cite earlier exemplars as key influences on their work, as in the case of Tsai Ming-liang and Antonioni. Something similar is argued from the opposite direction by Darius Cooper about the films of Satyajit Ray, a major figure in the western circulation of art cinema, particularly in the 1950s.58 While Ray’s work has frequently been viewed by European critics as influenced by western cinema and other cultural reference points, Cooper suggests, it is also structured by key aesthetic and political dimensions specific to its Indian or more specifically Bengali contexts. The films of Kiarostami and others associated with ‘New Iranian Cinema’ can be situated within similarly complex dynamics: on the one hand, significantly dependent on overseas appreciation (and funding) within the established international parameters of art cinema; on the other, shaped by locally-specific factors such as Iranian literary and cinematic inheritances and the particular dynamics created by forms of individual expression within the constraints of Islamic state censorship.59 An exclusive focus on the broader contexts of art cinema can lead to certain misreadings, suggests Christopher Gow, including in this case a western tendency to read the humanist sensibility of the films as a manifestation of secularism rather than an expression of Islamic values that depart from preconceived notions of fundamentalism.60 A balanced understanding is needed of the exact dynamics that might be in operation in any particular case: between the geographically or historically specific and that which can be understood as embodying broader approaches, even if the latter are also rooted in particular conjunctures, a point also made by Neale. Different engagements with this kind of cinema might stress one more than the other. But a dialectical relationship exists between the local and the global dimensions of art cinema. As Galt and Schoonover suggest, the notion of art cinema has

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Positioning Art Cinema played a major role in creating what became canonical national cinemas.61 Many key components of the established art cinema tradition are identified through national labels (Italian neorealism, French new wave, New German Cinema, et al) along with the names of consecrated individual auteur filmmakers (the two dimensions frequently work together, national cinemas often being associated at particular times, especially from the outside, with the work of a limited number of figures).62 That this was often to some extent a retrospective process, rather than a canonisation at the time of initial release, is suggested by Mazdon and Wheatley in the case of the British critical reception of the French nouvelle vague. At the same time, a sense of cosmopolitanism has also been central to the resonances of the concept of art cinema, grounded in the process of international travel and consecration beyond the place of national origin. For Galt and Schoonover, ‘art cinema always carries a comparativist impulse and transnational tenor.’63 This might be heighted by a sense that some art films also engage in issues that are themselves global or transnational in nature. For Galt and Schoonover, art film entails a ‘sustaining concept of universal legibility’, ‘an investment in visual legibility and cross-cultural translation.’64 I would qualify this notion, however, with the suggestion that its legibility – or, further, its appeal – tends to remain particular rather than universal. In its international circulation, art cinema is targeted at, and primarily consumed by, specific and limited cultural constituencies, an issue explored more closely in Chapter 1. The parts of the middle-class audience to which it is primarily targeted might have an existence at a supra-national scale, providing a quite widespread and strongly rooted ground of appeal on this level. But this is far from universal as a basis of taste and cultural value, despite a tendency considered below for the tastes of such a constituency to be presented (ideologically) as if this were the case. This does not mean that what is institutionally defined as art cinema can appeal only to such sectors, but that these are often the primary ground of its existence. A key question that follows from this status is how we should understand the political valence of art cinema. If art cinema is predominantly an elitist arena, in terms of the particularly constituencies that form its primary target and actual audiences, what does this mean for its political status more generally? Art cinema is sometimes seen, as a result, as an inescapably bourgeois phenomenon, as Galt and Schoonover

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Introduction suggest and as seems to be implied by the position it occupies in the wider social-cultural field examined further below. Its position at this level should not be seen as entirely conditioning its meaning at the textual level, however; its structural position, even as something that circulates primarily in a bourgeois sphere, is far from dictating the politics of its content or entirely circumscribing the potential influence it might have in some circumstances (the latter something of which we can never be sure, however). A great deal of art cinema positions itself as antithetical to dominant regimes of power, whether this involves explicit or implicit opposition to global capitalism, for example, or other contexts such as some of the work produced in Eastern Europe in the era of the Soviet bloc or films of the Chinese Fifth Generation that came under attack from state authorities. Much art cinema inhabits a position in this respect that is ambiguous or contradictory, similar to that attributed by Michael Newman to products from the American indie sector that can be understood as simultaneously oppositional in content and elitist in terms of their primary audience constituency.65 This may be an ambiguity of status that is impossible to resolve, but it has important implications for accounts that attribute to certain forms of art cinema a potential for transformative change, an issue addressed at several points below. The rest of this book begins with closer examination of a number of frameworks within which we can understand art cinema as a particular field of cultural production and consumption. Chapter 1 draws at length on the work of Bourdieu and others in establishing the specific social positioning of art cinema and the role of discursive practices and wider historical contexts in establishing particular regimes of cultural value, including the broad marking of distinctions between that which is accorded the status of the artistic or the mainstream-popular. One of the key arguments resulting from this material is that many claims made on behalf of art cinema draw on a very particular heritage of often unstated assumptions that this book seeks to bring to light. Chapter 2 considers the relationship between American indie film and the wider realm of art cinema, one I suggest involves certain points of differentiation but also some significant areas of overlap. This chapter introduces key frameworks provided by the categories of realism, modernism and postmodernism, and certain distinctions along these lines within art cinema, that are developed further in those which follow. The next

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Positioning Art Cinema three chapters develop the notion of the heavyweight or hard-core art film, beginning in Chapter 3 with a general definition of this modality and an examination of the manner in which it draws on a combination of realist and modernist approaches. A key focus of this and the following chapter is on the way such work is positioned in academic discourse, including the correlation between heavyweight modality and what are situated as equally ‘heavyweight’ modes of analysis. Chapter 4 focuses on a particular variety of the heavyweight modality in which slowness is celebrated as an alternative to the speed often associated with mainstream film, media and society more generally. Both of these chapters highlight a tendency in much analysis of such films to overstate or overreach in the attempt to make a case for their value, an approach identified as characteristic of some of the major discourses outlined in Chapter 1; either through claiming that particular approaches constitute some kind of ‘essence’ of cinema or making excessive claims about the potential such work might have to enact change on the part of the viewer. Similar arguments are found in relation to the work considered in the chapters that follow. Chapter 4 also gives more general attention to the way certain philosophical approaches are taken to such films, particularly in the making of inflated claims, especially via the work of Gilles Deleuze. Chapter 5 returns to Michael Haneke and Béla Tarr, figures whose work I highlight as contemporary case studies representative of the broader heavyweight tradition, the focus of the book from this point onwards containing more detailed analysis of individual films. I examine here the manner in which Tarr’s The Turin Horse and Haneke’s Hidden (Caché, 2005) are positioned in terms of their textual features, their marketing materials and distribution strategies and in the discourses of critics and other media coverage. Chapter 6 examines a strand of art cinema positioned as less heavyweight, ‘difficult’ or demanding than those considered previously, although still marked clearly as within the broad institutionalised sphere of art cinema through a commitment to a notion of seriousness and ‘restraint’ in its dramatic modalities. Central examples are the films of Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, situated towards the realist-heavyweight end of this category, and Thomas Vinterberg’s The Hunt (2012), taken as an example of a more accessible variety of ‘restrained’ art cinema, the kind that tends to feature in fora such as the best foreign language film category at the Academy Awards. While identifying some parallels between these two

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Introduction main examples, this chapter highlights the very different positioning of the work of the Dardennes and that of films such as The Hunt in terms of their aesthetics, a distinction used to explore broader issues relating to the place given to style in the analysis of art cinema. If notions of genre and formula feature regularly as discursive markers of that to which art cinema is conventionally seen as being opposed, Chapter 7 examines examples in which markers of art-distinction are combined with the employment of more familiar/commercial genre frameworks, a marker of another shift towards a relatively more accessible variety of art cinema. The main examples considered here are works that combine distancing dimensions often associated with art film, such as intertextual referencing and reflexivity, with the more affirmative mobilisation of genre conventions: melodrama in the work of Pedro Almodóvar and the crime/gangster film in the cinema of Johnnie To. While Almodóvar’s status as an internationally recognised auteur is firmly established, that of To provides an example where such a categorisation is potentially liable to be contested or overstated. A case such as that of To, occupying what might be seen as a position towards the borders of the territory, offers a useful vehicle through which further to highlight some of the key dimensions in which art cinema is considered throughout this book, including the importance of its institutional as well as its textual basis. The same can be said of the subject of Chapter 8, which focuses on instances in which signifiers of the status of art film are mixed with those associated with the tradition of exploitation cinema, particularly the inclusion of more or less explicit sexual material. This chapter examines the combination of qualities offered by a number of such works, particularly within an upsurge of films of this kind that began in the late 1990s, examining the balance they offer between explicit sex and/or violence and textual qualities more conventionally associated with art cinema, such as those designed to distance the viewer. A key opposition here is that which is established between notions of bodily engagement or arousal and intellectual distance: a significant component of the wider discourse through which notions of ‘art’ and ‘entertainment’ have often been distinguished within the tradition outlined in Chapter 1. The Conclusion returns to some key underlying issues relating to the manner in which art cinema is characteristically distinguished from the

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Positioning Art Cinema mainstream-commercial. This includes critical analysis of the bases on which the latter is often denigrated as part of the process of elevating the former. If the mainstream/popular is often associated with formula, for example, consideration is given to the extent to which art cinema itself might also be seen as formulaic in some ways (an argument that can be made about much ‘higher’ art), not as a way to denigrate art cinema but to complicate distinctions often implied between such films and those of the mainstream. A brief summary is provided of the terms in which some commentators have challenged the tradition within which ‘lower’ or ‘mass’ culture has been devalued, a phenomenon that remains a key part of the discursive complex within which value is often ascribed to art cinema. As before, the aim of this manouvre is not to de-value art cinema but further to complicate and specify the particularity of the bases on which it is customarily valorised.

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1 Situating the Art Cinema Field of Cultural Production and Consumption

How should we understand the sphere of art cinema more broadly; the way it is positioned and typically ascribed particular forms of cultural value? A number of social, cultural and historical frameworks are outlined in this chapter, to provide an analytical basis drawn upon in the rest of the book. These include issues relating to the location of art cinema within the wider field of cultural production and the likely social constitution of its core audiences. This chapter also examines some of the key discursive frameworks through which differential hierarchies of value are established and maintained in this region of cultural production, situating the particular case of this kind of cinema within a longer history of western conceptions of art. Approaches of this kind appear to be treated with distrust by some who come to topics such as art cinema from more arts-specific backgrounds, perhaps on the basis that they might be seen as threatening to reduce matters of artistic production to elements of their social basis, such as class or other social or institutional contexts. Far from reducing art cinema to something else, the aim of this book is to use such perspectives as part of the process of more closely examining both its specific textual features (or, at least, some of these) and the manner in which they are typically accorded particular forms of cultural

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Positioning Art Cinema value. This might be seen as constituting a threat to certain kinds of investments in art cinema (academic or otherwise), the bases of which are often unacknowledged, but I seek to do this in the interest of a broader understanding rather than reduction of what is constituted by art cinema as an established and institutionalised arena of production and consumption. A useful starting point is Bourdieu’s concept of the field of cultural production, one that helps to articulate the range of positions found in cases such as art or indie film. The field of cultural production, for Bourdieu, the location within which any particular form is rooted, has two poles, functioning according to what he terms the autonomous and heteronomous principles.1 The autonomous principle is separate from any pressures from the commercial market, a realm in which the only measure of value is artistic prestige in its own right. As far as film is concerned, this would be confined primarily to marginal areas such as the activities of various forms of avant-garde or experimental production. At the other extreme is work governed by the heteronomous principal, in which creative production is subject to exactly the same constraints as those faced by any other commodities. In this arena, we might customarily locate most of the productions of the Hollywood studios, with some exceptions that might also partly be motivated by prestige concerns. In between the autonomous and the heteronomous are many potential points at which such imperatives might be mixed to various degrees. It is here that we can locate the territories of art and indie film. Commercial imperatives remain important in most such cases, but on a smaller scale than is usually the case for more mainstream forms of production in Hollywood and elsewhere, and mixed with varying degrees of investment in the importance of artistic prestige and/or socio-cultural imperatives in their own right. If Bourdieu’s concept of the field of cultural production is a useful one, so too are his arguments about the extent to which the pleasures offered by different cultural forms are best understood in the context of the particular social groups to which they are designed to appeal. Taste preferences, including those central to the prevailing valorisation of particular types of film, are profoundly social in nature, as Bourdieu suggests. They are rooted in upbringing and education and in the resultant possession of differential resources of cultural capital; that is, the acquired ability to take pleasure from the consumption of one form of culture or another. The pleasurable

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Situating the Art Cinema Field consumption of art film usually requires a requisite stock of cultural capital, variable in extent depending on the nature of any particular variety. The expenditure of such capital, in this much-cited account, produces a pleasurable sense of distinction marking on the part of the consumer/ viewer, an implicit sense of superiority to those who might lack such resources and be limited (or, perceived to be limited) to the consumption of more mainstream-conventional fare. If such a marking of distinctions might occur generally and implicitly in the consumption of art films, it can also include a more specific sense of belonging to a particular kind of community; literally so in the case of attendance at arthouse cinemas, as is suggested by Barbara Wilinsky and Elizabeth Jane Evans, the latter on the basis of an empirical study of arthouse audiences in the UK. 2 Evans uses the term ‘indirect community’ to characterise the degree of communal belonging she identifies in her study of audiences at three independent artoriented cinemas in the East Midlands, one that involves a broadly shared cultural identity – defined in dimensions such as demographics and attitudes towards both films and the viewing experience – but that lacks any more than fleeting intra-community interaction. This approach leads us directly to the association of particular forms of consumption with specific social groups, in work that has generally tended to focus on class as a primary determinant. For Bourdieu, cultural capital is closely tied to social class location. A focus on the importance of formal qualities, for example, is associated mainly with certain middle-class fractions (especially intellectuals and artists) while the lower classes are generally viewed as more strongly invested in the substantive material of content.3 If the one entails a position of relative distance from matters such as plot and character, as might be found in some instances of art cinema, the other is based on a strong sense of emotional participation in the material. Emotional engagement is also entailed to varying degrees in many works of art cinema, however, as suggested above; one of numerous factors that complicate any overly binary statement of such distinctions. Many art or indie films alternatively mark their difference from notions of the mainstream through an emphasis on certain conceptions of realism, particularly those which offer a harsher picture of the world than is usually found in, or associated with, the popular end of the spectrum. Another classic example of this approach is found in the work of Herbert Gans, whose five ‘taste publics’ are similarly linked to positions in

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Positioning Art Cinema a class hierarchy.4 Formal experiment is again seen here as a marker of ‘high’ culture, consumed primarily by highly educated members of the upper and upper-middle classes, with an increasing preference for plot and melodramatic modes associated with the lower end of the scale. Much high cultural fiction, for Gans, deals with issues such as individual alienation and conflict between the individual and society, qualities strongly shared by many canonised works of art cinema. Low-culture fiction, in this account, (which would include much of Hollywood and its equivalents elsewhere) is ‘often melodramatic’, offering a clearer division between heroes and villains, ‘with the former always winning out eventually over the latter.’5 If qualities associated with melodrama are attributed to lower cultural tastes in the accounts of Bourdieu and Gans, this is not best seen a critique of either such texts or their most likely constituencies, but as a question of the particular kinds of materials broadly likely to be most suited to the life situations of the occupants of lower class positions. This includes a negative dimension, in their lack of the resources of cultural capital required for the enjoyment of the products of the ‘higher’ arts, and a positive dimension, provided by the kinds of satisfactions considered more likely to appeal to those who might use such experiences as a source of relief from constrained circumstances (qualifications such as ‘broadly’ and ‘more likely’ are important if we are to avoid oversimplifying such issues). In the discourses through which notions of art cinema are articulated, however, or certain notions of ‘art’ more generally, a notion of the melodramatic is often employed as a negative other against which certain qualities are valorised, even if this is frequently an oversimplification. The role of melodrama within art cinema is considered at several points in this book, including in Chapter 3 and at greater length in relation to the films of Pedro Almodóvar in Chapter 7. What seeks to be an analytical association of particular types of qualities broadly with particular constituencies can be distinguished here from a more pernicious evaluative framework, in which that which is associated with those of lesser means is assumed to be intrinsically of lesser worth. The latter is a key part of the dynamic through which prevailing notions of ‘higher’ art were historically created, an issue addressed below. Class location might also be combined with other forms of status grouping in accounts such as these, in the sense in which the term is used

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Situating the Art Cinema Field in the earlier sociological tradition of Max Weber. While class is defined in relation to the production and acquisition of goods, Weber suggests, ‘status groups are stratified according to the principles of their consumption of goods as represented by special “styles of life”’.6 If this can be seen as one element in the inheritance on which Bourdieu draws, another is the work of Georg Simmel, particularly his notion of the distinction-marking function of the fashions and tastes of the middle and higher classes.7 Another variant on the exploration of the social bases of different preferences is suggested by Sheila J. Nayar, who argues that the ability to take pleasure from the qualities associated with art cinema can be linked to a broader literary episteme: a socio-historical formation that permits or encourages textual qualities such as individual introspection and experimentation, not usually found in more affirmative and communal oral storytelling traditions of the kind strongly drawn upon by commercial cinemas such as Hollywood and Bollywood.8 This raises further questions, not really addressed in Nayar’s account, relating to the particular social basis of different preferences that might be found within broadly literate culture. Literacy in general, as defined here, might be a necessary but less than sufficient requirement for the appreciation of art cinema. If links of various kinds can be made between social position and taste preferences, these need not be understood as crude and onedimensional processes. Scope exists for nuances, including the possibility for consumers to mix and match to some extent in their personal preferences, as a result of what might be complex combinations of environmental factors or relatively more flexible taste patterns rooted in particular social conjunctures (although we should also beware of any naïve celebration of supposed cultural freedom of the kind promoted by some advocates of so-called ‘market’ capitalism). Recent studies of the middlebrow in film, for example, tend to see it as designed to appeal to middle-class audiences but often within a context of dynamic change and aspiration as much as any fixed relations.9 If Bourdieu’s work has a strong focus on the unity of tastes and their relation to class, a substantial application of his approach to more recent British cultural consumption by Tony Bennett, Mike Savage, Elizabeth Silva, Alan Warde, Modesto Gayo-Cal and David Wright suggests a more complex and multi-dimensional picture.10 Rather than just class, Bennett et al find distinct forms of cultural capital relating also to gender, age and

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Positioning Art Cinema ethnicity, in potentially complex interaction with one another and class. They also find differences in the extent to which particular dimensions come into play in different fields of culture (along with some areas of overlap), another major qualification of Bourdieu’s emphasis on unity across fields. If the central axis in Bourdieu’s work includes a higher-class emphasis on supposedly Kantian disinterestedness and an ‘aesthetic’ orientation towards form, Bennett et al suggest that this is only one of numerous possible orientations. Something akin to this seems resonant with the basis on which certain forms of art cinema are critically valorised, as is argued in the chapters that follow. In this case, the emphasis is on a requirement for a more general active engagement on the part of the viewer, which might include an awareness of the dimension of form. But this is a basis of distinction not found to figure greatly in the broader cultural patterns examined by Bennett et al. The work of Bennett and his collaborators is part of a substantial body of literature that has followed up and sometimes questioned Bourdieu, with various arguments about the extent to which his findings might translate beyond the geographical and historical context of the French society of the 1960s on which his major work, Distinction, was based. For Richard Peterson, in a much-cited account, the highest status position in the US is claimed by what he terms ‘the inclusive yet discriminating omnivore’ rather than a favouring only of the higher reaches of culture.11 Subsequent studies have either questioned or supported this argument in various national settings and in the more recent/contemporary context of an era of proliferating media, including those accessed via the internet and/ or which make various kinds of culture at least potentially more accessible to a wider range of people. Several studies based on empirical consumption data agree with Peterson, suggesting that boundaries have been blurred to some significant extent in a process of cultural democratisation. Peterson and Roger Kern argue for an historical shift in the consumption patterns of those of high status from a position of snobbery (based on the rejection of lower-cultural material) to one of omnivorousness. This is based on a study of musical taste that identifies a broad change towards omnivorous consumption, but more so for those who consume highbrow materials than for other social groups.12 This is attributed to a range of potential factors including broad changes in social structure (rising incomes, broader education,

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Situating the Art Cinema Field the availability of arts via media); shifts towards a greater tolerance of those holding different values; changes in art-worlds themselves as a result of the impact of market forces that undermine any notion of a single standard of artistic inclusion; generational shifts in which the preferences of younger people have become established as viable alternatives rather than a stage on the way to traditional elite culture; and a change in status-group politics in which dominant groups have tended to ‘gentrify’ and incorporate rather than reject elements of popular culture. These seem generally to be plausible arguments, although this account does not suggest anything like the wholesale disappearance of cultural boundaries or the capacity for artistic consumption to act as a source of social distinction marking. The omnivore approach is supported to some extent by respondents to the UK arthouse audience study by Evans. While they express a preference for films from beyond the Hollywood mainstream, some also indicate an ability to take pleasure from studio blockbusters, although broadly similar measurements of ‘discernment’ are also in play here, such as favouring those deemed to be ‘well made’.13 This is in keeping with the suggestion by Peterson and Kern that omnivorousness does not entail an indifference to the making of distinctions but can itself be seen as a discriminating process; an application of distinction marking to a wider range of territories.14 A similar general conclusion is reached by Bennett et al, for whom the principal divide in British cultural consumption is between those who engage in a wide range of activities, at the higher end, and those in the lower classes who are less engaged overall and have a more limited range of interests. Boundary-spanning tastes are found in this study to be ‘particularly prevalent among higher status individuals, implying that an omnivorous disposition itself might be a mark of distinction.’15 The basic mechanism of distinction identified by Bourdieu still appears to be in play here, even if sometimes in a more nuanced form than can be implied by a one-dimensional understanding of the link between cultural taste and factors such as class or other forms of status, or by the dominant opposition established by Bourdieu between the aesthetic and other modes of engagement (there is also scope for some considerable variation of orientation in matters of detail within any particular social grouping). It is easy to overstate the degree of cultural flexibility found in a domain such as the consumption of art cinema, as is suggested by Ailsa Hollinshead in a study of viewers from socially deprived communities who generally choose

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Positioning Art Cinema not to attend arthouse cinemas for reasons that include an implicit sense of not belonging to such a realm. What Hollinshead terms ‘the more celebratory aspect of the debates around cultural omnivores’ risks ignoring ‘the still classed realities of cultural life and the potential limitations that are imposed on individuals with limited cultural capital.’16 The British study by Bennett et al finds that film and television are in general less strongly marked by class distinction than some other cultural fields (notably music, books and the visual arts). But the category they employ of ‘art and alternative cinema’ is found – as we might expect – to be one in which engagement is most clearly associated with membership of their highest-class category, the professional and executive. The types of films ‘that register the most strongly differentiated rates of class response are those most closely identified with traditional “arts” or “high culture” conceptions of cinema: alternative and arts cinema [. . .].’17 The main focus here is on films viewed in the cinema rather than via home media and it is again unsurprising that, among those who attend such works, the authors find a correlation between types of films and the venues in which they are watched, ‘with “arthouse” films being interpreted as a more cerebral or authentic form of participation than the mainstream films associated with multiplex cinemas.’18 An ability to move between such spaces is found not to be spread evenly across classes, another indication of the extent to which omnivorousness tends to be limited to particular social sectors. A discussion among members of a group of skilled manual workers demonstrates a distance from the realm of the art house similar to that identified by Hollinshead. Whatever conclusion we reach in the debate about the development of omnivorousness in some sectors, it remains clear that many differences based on class and/or other forms of status persist in the societies in which these issues have been studied. If contemporary social status is conferred by at least some engagement with a wider range of cultural products than was typically the case in the past, any such range is likely to include certain forms that are accorded a more traditionally established variety of ‘higher’ status, among which many forms of art cinema would generally be included. If the constituency for recent/contemporary art cinema is also likely to engage in more mainstream-popular forms, it remains socially distinct from that which engages only or primarily with the latter. Its consumption continues in such circumstances to be a potential marker of

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Situating the Art Cinema Field distinction, even this is not necessarily a matter of being chosen to the exclusion of any more popular material. The general absence of such consumption by those in positions of lower class/social position seems likely to be a more clear cut matter and thus to confirm its status as a marker of apparent superiority (as measured from the perspective of prevailing cultural hierarchies). Any general openness to diversity on the part of the professional-executive component of the middle class, Bennett et al suggest, crucially, ‘has not resulted in the diffusion of high culture downwards.’19 Their findings also suggest that the consumption of higher cultural forms continues to matter considerably to some members of the middle classes, as a marker of their identity, even if it has become de rigueur not to express an overt sense of superiority or any sweeping distain for popular culture. A strong sense of hierarchical opposition and differential valuation remains a prominent part of the broader discourse within which a product such as art cinema is positioned, regardless of any relative changes in the taste structures of contemporary societies.

Interpretive communities and art worlds: The creation of cultural value The process through which products such as art cinema are situated in relation to particular consumption communities, however exactly these are conceived in terms of their social status, is one that entails an ongoing process of discursive articulation, an active positioning that involves the work of a range of gatekeepers and authorities. An important role is played by critics, both journalistic and more academic, in establishing the frameworks within which particular products are situated for prospective consumers/viewers. We can understand this process further with the help of approaches drawn from literary reception theory, in the work of figures such as Stanley Fish and Hans Jauss. As Fish suggests, the properties we understand to be present in a text do not exist objectively, on their own, but are the product of how we pay attention to them; effectively, how they are positioned and framed. How we understand the formal qualities of a text, for example, is not a matter of innate, inherent properties but of the interpretive model we bring to bear upon the text. It is not that formal patterns do not exist, as Fish puts it: 39

Positioning Art Cinema ‘There are still formal patterns, but they do not lie innocently in the world; rather, they are themselves constituted by an interpretive act.’20 Interpretive strategies determine what is noticed in the text, what is considered to be significant, and: ‘what is noticed is what has been made noticeable, not by a clear and undistorting glass, but by an interpretive strategy.’21 None of this is to suggest that such interpretations are insubstantial or endlessly variable, as is often implied in critiques of this position, or that texts do not have specific qualities that have particular grounds of appeal. Another key part of Fish’s argument is for the centrality to this process of particular interpretive communities. These are shared and consolidated bodies of interpretive practice, powerful and in various ways institutionalised bases from which particular reading or viewing formations – and their consequent positionings – are established. We might include here the broadly shared dimensions that critics or academic commentators find (and therefore make) most noticeable in particular kinds of art film; or the qualities, probably similar and recognised from within the same interpretive community, sought by other gatekeepers such as those who select films for important festival screenings. This approach is closely related to that suggested by Jauss in the notion of the particular ‘horizons of expectation’ through which we experience texts, along with other aspects of the world.22 All of this matters because, as Fish suggests, the perspectives brought to bear on texts through such interpretive communities are interested rather than neutral.23 The views expressed by intermediaries such as critics, or in other framing materials, are not disinterested, when considered at this level, but involve various position-takings of the kind analysed by Bourdieu. They are interventions that effectively allocate particular positions to both the texts at issue and figures such as critics themselves and other institutions, within a dynamic and sometimes intensely hierarchical cultural field. As Jonathan Gray suggests in his analysis of film paratexts such as trailers, reviews and DVD ‘special features’, such media can play an important role in framing and agenda-setting, establishing in more proximate ways some of the key contexts in which the work itself is likely to be understood.24 Approaches of this kind, drawing on the work of theorists such as Bourdieu, Fish and others, are important to our understanding of the

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Situating the Art Cinema Field manner in which particular textual qualities tend to be more or less strongly valorised in art cinema, as will be seen in more detail below in relation to particular films or types of film, their qualities and critical mediations. To understand the active nature of the interpretive processes involved is to take a significant step beyond any perspective that assumes cultural value to be self-evident or inherent in any kind of text. Instead, the approaches on which I draw view such phenomena as products of sociocultural construction, rooted in relational processes of constitutive differentiation and framing within a wider array of available positions or position-takings. I follow Bourdieu again in understanding such processes to be essentially relational in this way, part of a sociological approach to understanding the production and consumption of cultural or other symbolic goods or activities. As is also suggested by Mary Douglas and Baron Isherwood, consumption provides a ‘marking service’ for those involved, one in which value is conferred not one object at a time but through each object’s place within a series of others.25 A similar position is taken more broadly by Jonathan Culler, in terms akin to those used in this book. The very constitution of the aesthetic object is the outcome of a process of framing, as Culler suggests. It is the frame that creates an impression of intrinsic qualities, within its borders, but these are equally dependent on that which is excluded by the act of framing.26 A relational model of this kind can be contrasted, as Bourdieu suggests, with a ‘substantialist’ and ‘naïvely realist’ reading, in which each individual social practice – among which we can consider the consumption or valorisation of cultural products such as different kinds of films – is considered ‘in and for itself, independently of the universe of substitutable practices’ and seen as having a ‘mechanical and direct relation’ to particular social positions or classes.27 According to the latter position, the activities or preferences of certain individuals or groups in a society at a certain moment are treated ‘as if they were substantial properties inscribed once and for all in a sort of biological or cultural essence’, rather than being the outcome of an active, variable and changeable process of cultural construction.28 Something similar can be said of the bases on which art cinema is often valorised in the critical accounts explored in this book. One tendency, as will be seen, is for particular approved qualities to be accorded the status of the essence of film. This is a highly questionable discursive

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Positioning Art Cinema move that has the effect of evading any consideration of their more specific and contingent status and/or their operation as markers of distinction for a restricted constituency. The basis of acts of distinction marking among other social actions lies in what Bourdieu terms the habitus, the shared life-world of a particular social group that involves a close interpenetration of objective circumstances and subjective or inter-subjective constructions. This is a domain that has a life and thickness of reality of its own, rather than being a simple imprinting of objective onto subjective.29 Most social actions are understood here not to be the product of conscious intention but to result from sets of ‘acquired dispositions’, the nature of which is such that ‘an action can and should be interpreted as oriented toward one objective or another without anyone being able to claim that that objective was a conscious design.’30 The process is described by Bourdieu as akin to that involved in internalising the rules of a game: activity that does not require conscious application of the rules during play but that remains predicated on particular, shared, variable and learned bases of this kind. This is a useful way to understand the process involved in marking cultural distinction through the consumption of products such as art films. It does not have to be understood as entailing explicit conscious intention on the part of the consumer to be viewed as effectively functioning, at least in part, in this manner. This point would extend to the more complex cultural mapping identified by subsequent commentators such as Bennett et al, one that might include some disavowal of the invidious forms of distinction marking that might often be at work, if not overtly articulated, or that might be thought inappropriate to a more democratic and openminded approach. The whole basis of what Bourdieu terms ‘the economy of symbolic goods’ is founded in part on not making explicit what is entailed in such processes; on denying what interests are at stake in that which presents itself as the disinterested valuation of cultural products. The question of differential valuation is one that looms large in territory such as the analysis of the kinds of films examined in this book, the definitions of which – ‘art’ or in some cases ‘indie’ – are inescapably implicated in embedded notions of value, located as higher or relatively higher than others such as the products of Hollywood or Indiewood (or, variously, relatively higher or lower among and between themselves). A key dimension of this project is an attempt to excavate some of the bases

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Situating the Art Cinema Field on which such films are evaluated more or less highly, and in relation to what others. If some types of film are generally accorded greater worth than others, within prevailing/dominant hierarchies, on what grounds do such interpretations rest? What are the articulated or unspoken bases – the acquired dispositions – on which such judgements are made? The argument of this book is that no objective basis can ultimately be found for any such valuation and that all such positions, including mine, are socially situated and active position-takings and, thus, inevitably partial and inessential. This does not mean that we cannot argue for the merits of any particular position or positioning, on a proximate basis and as one that might seem substantial and important from a particular perspective. We cannot step out of a human-social world in which value-judgements in general are inescapable and often desirable.31 But valuation always comes from a particular perspective, even if the hardest achievement might often be fully to comprehend this in the cases of the types of works we might ourselves choose to prefer to others on certain stated or unstated grounds. The fact that we cannot obtain a position of wholly objective neutrality does not mean that we cannot usefully shed new light on any phenomena of this kind, such as the particular bases on which the valorisation of certain forms of art cinema often lie. Critically to examine such bases need not be to reduce the textual qualities of works such as art films to matters of social/discursive positioning, to fail to appreciate the particularity of specific products and the basis on which they appeal to their constituencies, a criticism that can be made of Bourdieu.32 It is, however, to appreciate that any valorisation of such qualities cannot be separated from the broader discursive apparatus and social situation within which it is located. We need to address both dimensions, the more broadly social and the art-film specific, as I seek to do by drawing on a combination of approaches from both film and cultural studies. The discourses employed by critics and other influential members of the interpretive communities for art films are part of a broader array of institutionalised practices that constitute any domain of this kind. Another useful framework through which to understand this is Howard Becker’s notion of the art world as a collective construct, one that includes the central roles of distributors, festivals, awards, arthouse cinemas and arthouse oriented forms of home viewing, in the promotion and circulation of

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Positioning Art Cinema films of these kinds.33 As Arthur Danto suggests, any particular art world is also dependent on the existence of artistic theories and practices within which any particular type of work is accorded such status.34 This is another perspective in which such territories are understood to be the outcome of active processes of constitution rather than reflecting any pre-given essence. ‘Art’ (and, subsequently, art cinema) is not an objective, clearlybounded category, the notion of which is self-evident, but the product of particular discursive and institutional operations. In addition to studying the texts themselves and the critical discourses within which they are situated, we need also to examine these various industrial-institutional dimensions of art cinema. If the establishment of the value of formations such as art cinema is founded on a process of distinction marking, what are the key bases on which such distinctions are made? I offer a brief outline of some of these here. The following section builds on a longer account of some similar points of distinction (although generally lesser in degree) elaborated in relation to the Hollywood studio ‘quality’ film in Quality Hollywood. Two major dimensions can be identified, as suggested above, although these remain closely interrelated. One involves the types of textual qualities associated with, or attributed to, the most valorised forms of art films. The other relates to the way these are associated with particular realms of cultural production at an industrial/institutional level, a dimension that is clearly a major factor in shaping the former.

Art, industry and hierarchies of cultural value Some broad oppositions can be suggested, as ideal types, even if the reality is often less clear cut and these function to a large extent as exaggerated rhetorical formulations. A key framework is a distinction between that which is understood to be serious, substantial and important and that which is accorded the status of the unserious the insubstantial or the trivial. Some forms of art cinema are seen as offering important insights into the nature of humanity, human existence and the state of contemporary society, either in a broad and general philosophical sense or in relation to more specific socio-political circumstances; or, perhaps ideally, a combination of the two. What I term hard-core or heavyweight art cinema, examined in more detail in Chapters 3, 4 and 5, often presents 44

Situating the Art Cinema Field itself, and is interpreted, as ‘weighty’ in nature, tackling ‘big’ themes such as the existential status of the human condition or aspects of this such as loss, disaffection, illness or death. This kind of material would most obviously be contrasted with an association of popular cinema, the key exemplar of which is usually Hollywood, with ‘merely’ distractive, spectacular or melodramatic entertainment (similar oppositions can also be found where other large-scale commercial operations exist, such as the bases on which Indian art cinema is characteristically distinguished from Bollywood).35 If the one is designed to force the viewer to confront ‘difficult’ and often uncomfortable issues, the aim of the other is taken to be largely the opposite: to offer an easy and easing form of recuperative fantasy, or a variety that takes on some difficult issues primarily in order to wish them away. Indie is often associated with positions somewhere in between; less in the way of ‘feel-good’ fantasy than Hollywood but also less hefty than the heavyweight art tradition, while Indiewood and some other cinemas might be associated with a more middlebrow combination of qualities. A key underpinning opposition between these and many other markers of distinction is that which is understood to exist between the realms of art and entertainment. Art, in the context of feature narrative film, tends to be seen as involving a commitment either to a greater immediate impression of realism or to a more expressive or distancing mode of presentation, although the latter is usually understood also to involve an engagement with issues of weight and substance. Entertainment, a term not so often interrogated in any detail, is often seen as a more trivial process.36 Whatever pleasures it offers are likely to be viewed as providing either nothing of any substance, in the way of enlightenment or understanding, or as exactly the opposite: a realm heavily implicated in the production of mystifying ideological discourses. Some writers who question the devaluing of the popular in this and other ways, a key opposition through which the higher value of art cinema is often asserted, are considered briefly in the Conclusion to this book. The art vs. entertainment opposition brings us directly to questions relating to the industrial/institutional bases of such cultural production. The negative other of art and indie, primarily but not just Hollywood, is rooted in a process of production and circulation the overwhelmingly prior motivation of which is seen as commercial. Not just that, but in recent

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Positioning Art Cinema decades this has become a form of commerce located within huge globallydominant corporate capitalist entities, widely seen as unsympathetic to any agenda other than the making of profits. The art and indie sectors are generally seen as lying outside or on the margins of these manifestations of contemporary capitalism. This is a key marker of their distinctive status, although the opposition here is not so clear cut. As suggested above, neither belongs to the realm governed by Bourdieu’s autonomous principal, a world as close as we might get to the notion of ‘art for art’s sake’. Art and indie film, as generally known, remain commercial enterprises, at scales that vary quite considerably. They are, however, often positioned as activities the nature of which includes some commitment to purposes other than the commercial. They occupy a realm in which the motivation might be to achieve sufficient commercial viability to permit the support of types of filmmaking that are not themselves driven by such an imperative. If commercial investment is usually much less than in Hollywood, investments might also be made in the pursuit of other objectives, such as supporting the ‘vision’ of particular filmmakers, at the direct cost of greatly lowered potential for financial returns. This is the kind of stance taken by some producers, who position themselves as having a mission to use their specific skill-set, one that includes an engagement with the business side of the enterprise, to protect the creative freedom of the individual filmmakers with whom they work. A broad rhetorical opposition to Hollywood, and what that is taken to stand for, might often be as important in such discourses as the details of any particular claim to distinctively art/alternative status. This is a phenomenon traced by Tatiana Heise and Andrew Tudor to the early development of notions of art cinema in the 1920s and 1930s.37 The cost of film production, and resultant dependence on a certain level of financial returns, was such as to make it difficult to demonstrate freedom from commercial pressures, even in favoured instances. ‘To minimise this difficulty, the film-as-art-movements routinely took refuge in an antiHollywood position. Autonomy that might be difficult to demonstrate on a case by case basis could thus be secured macroscopically through a contrast between the (presumed) general evils of the Hollywood system and the (presumed) qualities of artistic alternatives.’38 It is from this opposition, Heise and Tudor conclude, ‘that the distinctive and rather peculiar notion of the “art movie” is born.’39

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Situating the Art Cinema Field These oppositions can be related quite directly to those cited above by Bourdieu and Gans, in the contexts of the general likely cultural preferences of different audiences on the basis of their location in terms of class (or other social dimensions). It is here, also, that we can consider further the differential evaluation of such qualities. On one level, it might not seem unreasonable to assert that the serious exploration of big human/ social issues or experiences is of more inherent worth than the provision of what might appear generally to be quite simplistic escapist entertainment. The former seems to have more to contribute to furthering our understanding of the world. Art cinema can, in various ways, offer valuable challenges, for example, to dominant ideologies and/or forms of perception. If film, among other arts, has the capacity to explore and expand our understanding of qualities such as human consciousness, as Murray Smith suggests, this is the ground particularly (if not always exclusively) of some prominent varieties of art cinema.40 Such work might, therefore, be said to have an objective basis of value for its users, as Mark Banks argues of cultural objects more generally.41 A key part of this argument is to retain a sense of the value of cultural products as such, without this being reduced to value solely at the levels of social distinction marking or commercial worth. It is impossible, however, to escape what remains a situated – and therefore relative – judgement when it comes to questions of comparative value. Who is to say that the kind of understanding offered by some works of art cinema is essentially more worthwhile than the provision of mainstream-pleasurable entertainment, particularly when the forms and contexts in which it is presented are such as to exclude the majority of the population from any likely access (and when sources of broadly affirmative entertainment can, themselves, be more nuanced than is often suggested through the application of such binaries)? From what position could such a judgement neutrally be made? Gans suggests that higher cultures are ‘better or at least more comprehensive and more informative than the lower ones.’42 They can be more comprehensive, he writes; ‘because their publics are better educated, these cultures can cover more spheres of life and encompass more ideas and symbols than the other cultures.’43 But he argues that this judgement only stands up when we do not – as we have to – take into account the actual publics that choose one kind of culture or another, according to their own background, education, and so on. To the

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Positioning Art Cinema extent to which cultures reflect the characteristics of their publics, he concludes, they are all equal in value.44 Why, then, are some products, including certain types of films, generally accorded higher status within prevailing cultural hierarchies? The answer to this question is largely that they are the types favoured by the social groups that are in dominant positions within the relevant cultural field: those in a position to play leading roles in shaping the judgements of the interpretive communities to which they belong. This is not quite a question of the ideas of the rulers being the ruling ideas, in classic Marxist terms. Those in this position are not the rulers of society, in the sense of the ruling class that commands the economic and political heights. They tend to have a more modest role, as members of the uppermiddle classes within particular fractions that are generally higher in cultural than economic capital. They might also occupy positions that are at least partially oppositional in political terms, in relation to the dominating forces of capitalism and the critique of this that can be found in some art and indie films. The most serious art cinema, positioned at what would conventionally be seen as the highest level within existing hierarchies, is not so much the material of the ruling classes as more traditionally establishment high art forms such as opera and ballet, although there can be various gradations and differences of degree in such matters (ones that are always easy to oversimplify). Prevailing discursive hierarchies are far from universally accepted, of course. This is one significant area of difference between the orientation of Bourdieu and that of Bennett et al and others who have devoted more attention to the specifics of lower-class cultures. While Bourdieu suggests that the position of the dominated classes is one of implicit recognition of the terms set by dominant cultural values, Bennett et al find no evidence of deference to what is accorded the status of legitimate culture.45 They identify ‘faint awareness’ that it is given special value and brings advantages but a sense of detachment rather than either exclusion from, or being in thrall to, what it offers. The nature of most work accorded the status of art cinema and the basis on which it is sold, reviewed by ‘serious’ critics, analysed by academics and positioned in all these ways within broader discursive terms is largely premised on its confinement to certain social sectors. While art cinema is often valorised in the terms suggested above, this is far from always the case, however. For some, it can be a

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Situating the Art Cinema Field signifier of pretentiousness or boredom rather than prestige, and plenty of attempts have been made to valorise other forms of cinema instead, from various perspectives, whether those of the commercial mainstream or other alternatives such as the ‘cult’ or ‘bad’ film. Such moves can involve an attempt to reverse the polarity of prevailing evaluative oppositions or can seek, more usefully, to throw the terms of any such schema into question.46

Historicising the concept of art Why these kinds of hierarchies exist more generally is a question that invites us to situate discourses around products such as art cinema within a larger historical context. Contemporary oppositions between notions of art and entertainment are rooted in distinctions that began to become institutionalised during the eighteenth century. Raymond Williams dates the use of the term ‘art’ to suggest something of a higher type of imaginative or creative skill to this period, before which it was used to denote any kind of human skill; likewise the use of the term ‘artist’ as distinguished from the notion of the artisan or craftsman.47 Larry Shiner argues similarly that: ‘After over two thousand years of signifying any human activity performed with skill and grace, the concept of art was split apart, generating the new category of fine arts [. . .] as opposed to crafts and popular arts.’48 This change was not a sudden one and had some roots, Shiner suggests, in the development of notions of art and aesthetics in the Renaissance. It was a result of a conjunction of various factors, one that was gradual, uneven and contested. But, Shiner argues, ‘this much is certain: prior to the eighteenth century neither the modern ideas of fine art, artist, and aesthetic nor the set of practices and institutions we associate with them were integrated into a normative system, whereas after the eighteenth century, the major conceptual polarities and institutions of the modern system of art were largely taken for granted and have been ever since.’49 Before the eighteenth century, Shiner suggests, no institutionalised distinction was made between notions such as art and craft. After, the two were seen as opposed. A series of further distinctions followed, between: artist and artisan; genius and the following of rules; inspiration vs. calculation; spontaneity vs. skill; creative imagination vs. reproductive imagination; originality vs. imitation of models; creation vs. copying; freedom vs. trade.50 All of these remain highly germane to the positioning of products such as art cinema. 49

Positioning Art Cinema The main cause of this change, for Shiner, was the very process of commercialisation that was denigrated in the developing notion of a ‘higher’ form of art to be separated from other forms of creative work. It was the product, effectively, of its perceived opposite. The industrial revolution ‘drove more and more painters, musicians, and writers into the ranks of hired workers or paid entertainers’, giving increasing potency to the notion of an idealised figure of the artist as someone working in an arena free of such imperatives.51 The increasing commercialisation of cultural production, and the resultant widening of access, beyond the confines of a small elite, also provoked a reaction that further reinforced the kinds of discursive oppositions outlined above. The advent of ‘mass’ culture, including the development in the nineteenth century of masscirculation newspapers and serial periodical fictions, and later of cinema itself, prompted a conservative critical response that often saw such forms as a threat to the maintenance of ‘higher’ culture and broader social order. It is here that we find a clear manifestation of the slippage identified above between an analytical association of products with specific constituencies and a strongly evaluative condemnation of certain materials on the basis of their association with particular social groups, namely those at the lower end of the scale. For the influential commentator F.R. Leavis, media such as cinema and radio were passive diversions, not only denigrated in themselves but considered to make active recreation more difficult, particularly active use of the mind.52 Such an opposition between supposedly passive consumption of mainstream products and active use of the mind in engagement with products of higher cultural status remains strongly in play in the manner in which certain forms of art film are frequently valorised, as is seen throughout this book. Likewise, those involved in the institutionalised side of art cinema – particularly distributors and exhibitors – have often faced criticism when perceived to be approaching it in the same terms as any other kind of business, rather than seeing it as a realm in which other imperatives might be considered to be equally or more important.53 Leavis was far from isolated in taking such an elitist position, in the face of what was seen as a class threat from below, drawing on an inheritance that included the work of figures such as Matthew Arnold, T.S. Eliot and I.A. Richards. Such commentators played a central role, Chris Baldick argues, in establishing key frameworks for the development of English

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Situating the Art Cinema Field literary criticism, approaches that also shaped, and continue to shape, those often employed by film critics, both journalistic and academic.54 The elevation of ‘higher’ forms of art, coupled with the denigration of that associated with popular or ‘mass’ audiences – and sometimes also that which threatens to undermine the distinction, such as work accorded the status of the middlebrow – was further sedimented into widely taken-forgranted critical assumptions through the work of figures such as Clement Greenberg, Robin Collingwood and, from a Marxist perspective, Theodore Adorno and Max Horkheimer.55 Such perspectives can also be located within a much longer history of debate about the value of art in general, or of particular forms, a controversy in the western intellectual tradition that dates back to the work of Plato (hostile to the arts in general) and Aristotle (who argued for important positive benefits from the right kinds of material). The tradition associated with Aristotle, either his own work or its manifold interpretation or development by others, values the arts as sources of education, enlightenment, civilisation and moral improvement. It is within this broader heritage, outlined by Eleonora Belfiore and Oliver Bennett, that we can locate much of the argument made for the particular cultural value of ‘higher’ forms such as those associated with art cinema, even if the explicit articulation of a distinction between high and low culture was primarily a product of the eighteenth century.56 The idea that the arts in certain favoured forms can offer valuable and educative moral lessons, or a transformative power, is a key component of this discourse, one that plays directly into some valorisations of art cinema, in general or particular varieties, as is seen in the chapters that follow. The point, for my purpose, is not that products such as art cinema cannot have educative or moral value, or be produced in circumstances that include some significant autonomy for the creator. But the case for any of these needs to be made specifically in any particular instance, rather than being assumed as part of the oftenunarticulated basis of such deeply sedimented oppositions. A strongly gendered dynamic can also be identified in the types of art, artistic activity and ‘genius’ promoted within such discourses throughout the western tradition, as argued by Christine Battersby, one that also remains resonant in contemporary formulations.57 These include a tendency to characterise as ‘feminine’ the qualities of ‘mass’ culture or of the middlebrow (soft, weak, disposable, etc.) against which the more

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Positioning Art Cinema patriarchal-conventionally ‘male’ attributes of higher art (hard, tough, challenging, important) are often discursively established. This is one explanation for the employment of a certain understanding of melodrama (one that associates it with the articulation of strong emotions, often identified stereotypically with women) as a negative other to certain valorised notions of art cinema. One important dimension of the approach developed in the period analysed by Baldick, from the middle of the nineteenth century to 1932, was an emphasis on the unspoken nature of the bases on which critical valuation was to proceed. For commentators such as Matthew Arnold and F. R. Leavis, a positive virtue was claimed by this attitude, one that disavowed any investment in theory or the kind of interest identified more accurately by Fish as always being in play in any critical engagement. This was despite the highly partisan and deeply conservative nature of the position taken by critics of this kind. What was promoted was an implicit consensus that ‘could offer a model of unspoken community to pit against the prevailing disintegration of culture’ diagnosed by such figures.58 Similarly unspoken and assumed bases can be identified for the critical assumptions that often underpin the valorisation of particular qualities within art cinema, the critical frameworks surrounding which can sometimes be seen as part of the heritage of this formative earlier context. These might also be similarly located against the negative other represented by the threat perceived to be posed by denigrated ‘mass’ or mainstream media forms. One major aim of this book is to make explicit the underlying bases of such discourses. A similar general argument to that of Shiner is made by Bourdieu, in tracing the development of distinctive fields such as that of art, with their own logics, in response to the spread of the logic of the capitalist economy into more and more social spheres.59 A key quality of these fields, for Bourdieu, is the denial of the economic and the exclusion of the vocabulary of the market, even where this remains part of the underlying reality.60 This is another way such realms are seen as avoiding making explicit the bases on which they rest, as with the general process of distinction marking suggested above. Such a process of denial, including the widespread use of euphemisms, is again seen by Bourdieu as not involving conscious duplicity or hypocrisy but as an outcome of collective understandings, within the particular habitus of any group, and a reliance on not unpacking

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Situating the Art Cinema Field what might be concealed through a conveniently ambiguous conflation of potentially contradictory terms such as ‘production’ and ‘creation’, to single out a pairing that seems of particular resonance to the field covered by this book.61 There is, clearly, an economy to the realm of art cinema but it is one to which exactly these sorts of discursive practices appear to be applied. The basis of art cinema is often viewed as not something essentially economic, unlike that of Hollywood and other more commercial operations. It is often seen as being motivated more strongly by other concerns, such as in some cases the serious exploration of pressing social issues or the investigation of form. But economic viability, of one kind or another, remains a conditioning factor of the existence of such work, and the relationship between these two domains is one that is constantly in negotiation or denial in discourses related to the field. The historical context of the development of the notion of art as a separate field is another important part of the picture as far as our approach to notions of art cinema is concerned. It adds to an understanding of the status of such fields as the outcome of specific cultural-historical processes and removes the concept of art – as a term suggesting something of special status – from any sense of existing as some timeless higher realm. The notion of art or aesthetics occupying an elevated and universal sphere, as in much influential work based on certain readings of Immanuel Kant, is itself an example of the process of denial examined by Bourdieu: one based on ignoring its own very specific economic and social basis of articulation.62 The assertion of a universal basis for any such social phenomenon is another way of claiming a disinterested status and denying the particular – privileged, far from universal – social conditions upon which such a perspective is founded. Kant’s aesthetics (or those derived by others from some Kantian concepts) could only really be universal, Bourdieu suggests, if these economic and social conditions were themselves universally distributed.63 This is a position similar to that of Gans: if everyone had access to the resources available to the best endowed, then the cultural preferences of such groups might be able to claim a broader and less sectional basis. The same is true of any claims to universality or unrooted objectivity in academic work, based as they are on what Bourdieu terms the ‘scholastic point of view’. My own position in this book is clearly also a specific one, rooted in the approaches outlined above.

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Positioning Art Cinema The distinctions charted by Shiner remain prevalent today and play an important part in the manner in which art cinema is customarily distinguished from Hollywood or other more or less mainstream forms of cinema, or the ways in which such status might in some cases be challenged. A key part of this discourse is the notion of the filmmaker as individual author/auteur and artist, distinguished from those working without such freedom within contexts such as the Hollywood studios or other more commercial sites of production. This is a basis of distinction that dates back at least to the early art-film movements examined by Heise and Tudor, although the discourse of the auteur did not become more widely institutionalised until some decades later, initially primarily in France and then translated elsewhere, particularly via the criticism of Andrew Sarris in the US in the early 1960s, a process in which it was also applied to selected filmmakers from Hollywood. The concept of the individual auteur, as the creative force at the centre of the work, provided a key means of extending to film (generally, or in particular cases) the broader status of a medium considered to have potential for a specific notion of ‘artistic’ merit. The approach was widely taken up by journalistic critics and in the then-growing discipline of academic film studies, in both cases helping to justify the treatment of film as a sphere of art.64 This discourse remains strongly institutionalised and present, at an operative level, in prevailing practices, understandings and mediations relating to art cinema, as seen throughout this book. As is the case with the broader notion of art examined above, the fact that there is no essential quality of art – relating to the notion of ‘the artist’ or otherwise – does not prevent such notions having very considerable discursive and institutionalised power, in practice. The oppositions on which this discourse is based are generally taken for granted, as Shiner suggests, as the basis of particular positionings, rather than being seen as culturally-specific constructs open to question or qualification. That valorised forms of art cinema should be understood, often primarily, as the creations of especially talented individual auteurs – a very particular, historically-specific Romantic view of art – is an unquestioned given in a great deal of their mediation in the public sphere, including much academic work. This is frequently the case, even where some qualification is offered on bases such as the involvement of regular collaborators or the influence of broader cultural contexts. Identifying

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Situating the Art Cinema Field films as the distinctive, high-status-claiming work of individual creative figures has prevailed at least partly because of its functional convenience for many of the stakeholders involved in this part of the film landscape, from filmmakers themselves to critics, ‘cinephile’ viewers, academics, distributors, exhibitors and funding bodies. It is largely through the notion of the auteur filmmaker that art cinema has frequently been understood and defined, often alongside various national or transnational movements or tendencies. Auteurist assumptions remain at the core of the way art cinema functions as an institution – from their role in the organisation of funding, production and distribution to the positioning of films by both critics and many scholars – regardless of the extent to which they have more generally been questioned or qualified.65 One good example of such institutionalisation of auteurism is provided by New German Cinema, the subsidy-funding basis of which was rooted in an explicit articulation of the concept of personal-artistic expression. As Julia Knight suggests, this approach was encouraged by filmmakers and strongly embedded in a new training programme: ‘Hence, unlike the French concept of “auteur” which was applied to a director retrospectively on the basis of an existing oeuvre of work, the status of Autor was conferred on the film-makers both conceptually and institutionally before they had even made their first films.’66 If those who gain the status of critically consecrated auteurs play a key role in the choices of films that gain theatrical distribution and exhibition in any particular era, their names also provide a key basis for circulation and positioning in the arena of home viewing. The latter is especially the case for figures whose work has been accorded ‘classic’ status, through specialist labels such as The Criterion Collection and Eureka’s ‘Masters of Cinema’ series, the accompanying paratexts of which (extras, glossy booklets, online materials) usually stress a commitment to the auteur-creativity dimension of the work (see Figure 1.1). Auteur-based discourse can be highly rhetorical in its implications, however, often oversimplifying the real distinctions that can be made on the ground between different kinds of cultural production and consumption. An auteur-based approach, at the centre of which is the notion of the expression of the distinctive artistic talent of the individual filmmaker, does have more general purchase on the realm of art cinema than that of many more commercial areas of production. A greater degree of freedom is likely

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Positioning Art Cinema

Figure 1.1 Selling auteur status: Eureka ‘Masters of Cinema’ Blu-ray cover for Federico Fellini’s City of Women q Eureka Entertainment Ltd.

to be available to the filmmaker in this arena than is usually the case in larger-scale contexts such as Hollywood, for various pragmatic reasons. These include the simple fact that greater scope for individual freedom generally exists the further we move from the most highly capitalised 56

Situating the Art Cinema Field contexts of corporate media production, even if certain niches can also be created within the latter. Another factor is the substantial degree of commercial traction, at a particular scale, that can be gained by the already-consecrated or up-and-coming auteur figure in this region, a key framework often employed in the positioning discourses of marketing and criticism. Works that gain the status of art cinema are often strongly rooted in the personal approaches of their makers, sometimes based industrially in the creation of their own production companies, if usually on a small scale, or collaborations with producers (a key factor, for example, for many of the filmmakers of the French nouvelle vague, one of the most influential art cinema movements). But this is a case that needs to be argued and demonstrated in a proximate manner in specific circumstances – and often qualified and rendered more complex and multi-dimensional – rather than simply being assumed, as tends sometimes to be the case in the effective mobilisation of such discourses. This is a situation that applies to the individual filmmakers considered in detail in the rest of this book: cases in which a central authorial imprint and impetus can often be identified, even where this might involve the work of collaborators such as separate screenwriters or other significantly creative contributors. Even in the strongest instances, the proclivities of individual filmmakers never exist in a vacuum but are shaped by numerous forces, to varying extents, including existing tendencies, models or templates available within the institutionalised realm of art cinema itself, as well as broader socio-cultural horizons of meaning and expectation. As C. Paul Sellors suggests, ‘the most personal and poetic filmmaking does not justify the excesses of a Romantic conception of authorship.’67 In the case of the nouvelle vague, for example, as Richard Neupert demonstrates, an auteurist emphasis might remain appropriate but as something situated within a range of broader social, historical and cultural factors.68 Such ‘generating mechanisms’, as Neupert terms them, range from large-scale post-war social change in France and technological developments to factors such as trends in French literature and theatre. The international reach, and therefore reputation, of such work was also boosted by the fact that a devalued franc made the rights to already-inexpensive films even cheaper for purchase by overseas distributors. As Neupert concludes: ‘The reason that a “wave” rather than simply a new cohort of directors came upon the

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Positioning Art Cinema scene around 1960 is not just a matter of strong personalities. It is the result of an unusual set of circumstances that enabled a dynamic group of young directors to exploit a wide range of conditions that opened up incredible opportunities for inexpensive filmmaking in Paris.’69 The more general point, for my purposes, is not that the auteur-director cannot gain a significant degree of autonomy, within certain parameters; nor that products such as art cinema cannot have educative, political or moral value of the kind often ascribed to the arts more generally. The point is that a specific case needs to be made for any manifestation of such phenomena, the stronger identification of which, in this realm, seems often to be on the basis of unstated assumptions of the kind outlined in this chapter.

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2 Art Film and American Indie Cinema: Points of Distinction and Overlap

If art cinema is most obviously positioned in opposition to Hollywood, as a primary model and dominant global form of mainstream/commercial cinema, its location can also be clarified through an understanding of its relationship with the American indie sector, one of the more substantial alternative/speciality points of reference. Both of these formations – each of which is a complex and often contested territory – are defined in large part through their differences from the output, institutions and motivations of the major studios. But what do they have in common, and/ or what markers of difference (in a neutral sense) or more value-laden distinction can be identified between the two? American indie film has largely been ignored in many accounts of art cinema, the international or global basis of which is often marked in distinction from a US cinema sometimes seemingly conflated with Hollywood. Studies of indie have often viewed art cinema as a point of influence but the exact nature of the relationship has not been explored at any length or, I would suggest, with due acknowledgment of the multiple currents of each. This chapter examines the relationship between the two formations at the two main levels outlined above: the types of films involved (and the traditions on which these draw, including those associated with broader

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Positioning Art Cinema currents such as modernism and postmodernism) and the channels through which they circulate. If indie film is sometimes located in a position between art cinema and the more commercial mainstream, the argument here is that it often draws on qualities associated with art cinema and that the lines between the two are significantly blurred, even if some points of distinction can be identified and have been mobilised in certain discursive contexts. A similar point could be made about examples of indie/independent cinema identified in many other geographical locations, beyond the scope of this chapter, some of which would fall within the usual bounds accorded to art cinema while others would not. In some cases independence is defined, or questioned, in relation to state censorship or support rather than (or in addition to) the pole marked by Hollywood or other more mainstream-oriented institutions; that state support is often a major element in the conditions of existence of art cinema is another factor that complicates any overly simple sets of oppositions in this territory.1 I use the term ‘indie’ here to signify a particular range of American independent cinema that came to prominence in the period from around the mid 1980s and early 1990s and that has remained a reasonably distinct category to date. Indie, in this usage, is often an abbreviation of ‘independent’ but is not coterminous with everything that goes under the latter label when it is used to refer to any kind of filmmaking beyond the realm of the Hollywood studios. Independent, here, is an inclusive term that embraces a very wide range of different kinds of non-studio film. Indie is used to delineate a more specific type of cinema – although itself containing considerable variety – that became institutionalised in certain ways in this period. This is the kind of cinema associated with the names of filmmakers such as Jim Jarmusch, John Sayles, Allison Anders, Todd Solondz, Hal Hartley, Steven Soderbergh, Spike Lee, Quentin Tarantino, Nicole Holofcener and the Coen brothers; films such as Stranger than Paradise (1984), sex, lies, and videotape (1989), Clerks (1994) and The Blair Witch Project (1999); institutions such as the Independent Feature Project and the Sundance Film Festival; distributors such as October Films, Artisan Entertainment, Miramax and studio ‘speciality’ divisions (including Miramax during its period under the ownership of Disney) such as Fox Searchlight and Sony Pictures Classics. A number of important distinctions can be made among and between examples such as these but I would argue that they can be seen, collectively and broadly, to represent a

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Art Film and American Indie Cinema particular field of cultural production, to use Pierre Bourdieu’s term, in the conjunction of industrial, textual and discursive practices they embody.2 To what extent, then, has each of these categories been considered or included in accounts of the other? Indie cinema has generally received little sustained attention in major accounts of art cinema, for a number of reasons. A search of the index of the collection edited by Galt and Schoonover, for example, reveals no entry for ‘indie’ or ‘independent’. A section on ‘non-Hollywood models’ exists as a sub-category of ‘United States’, but the examples to which the references apply are works from the experimental avant-garde – and, in one instance, to a mixture of art and soft-porn qualities – rather than anything that would be included in the category of indie as employed here. Galt and Schoonover themselves suggest a broadly inclusive definition of art cinema that seems to embrace American indie film as well as what I elsewhere term ‘Indiewood’ productions, from the speciality divisions of Hollywood studios, the latter described as ‘a more popular iteration of art cinema’, although the basis of this is not established in any detail.3 A more sustained exception to the tendency to separate out indie and art film is found in David Andrews’ Theorising Art Cinemas, which employs a very broad definition of art cinema that ranges from the avant-garde to the quality Hollywood studio production, including indie, on the basis of a shared, if variable, basis in the creation of comparative forms of cultural value. A key emphasis here is on the institutional grounding of such definitions, and of the channels through which such films circulate and are valued as different from notions of the mainstream. This approach is useful in general but the inclusiveness of Andrews’ definition comes at the cost of any closer textual engagement with the distinctive qualities that can be identified in different parts of this very broadly conceived realm. Little detailed consideration is given to the specific qualities found in works across this wide spectrum, with the result that a number of important sources of distinction and differentiation are left unaddressed. My account follows more general academic practice in viewing art cinema as a realm that is at least relatively distinct (textually and institutionally) from the more radical and commercially marginal practices of the avant-garde, at one end of the spectrum, and the likes of the Hollywood quality film at the other. Art cinema has more often been associated with an international or global territory (the term often preceded by one or other of these

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Positioning Art Cinema designations, or in some cases the narrower ‘European’) in which America is frequently not included (or, at least, not explicitly). This is largely, it seems, because of a conflation, in this discursive context, of America and its globally dominant institution, Hollywood; so strong a pole of opposition is constituted by Hollywood, and so much has the concept of art cinema, consequently, come to be conjoined with geographical markers that seem often to imply anything-but-American. The flip side of this is the tendency noted in the Introduction for other cinemas, such as those of Europe, to be associated disproportionately with their art-cinema manifestations. Studies of art cinema have in some cases focused exclusively or primarily on what is often seen as the heyday of the form, in the 1950s and 1960s, a period before the emergence of indie as a consolidated entity. Art cinema has also sometimes primarily been associated with particular forms that display characteristics associated with modernism that are far less prevalent in the indie sector. This is a point of distinction more central to the understanding of the relationship between the two offered by this chapter. American indie film has also tended to be downplayed in accounts of art cinema, I would suggest, because of a general tendency to position it less highly in prevailing film-cultural value hierarchies. Aspects of art cinema have often been seen as contributing centrally to the particular range and blend of qualities associated with indie. I suggest elsewhere that art cinema is one major pole of influence on the sector, in textual dimensions such as the prevalence of low-key or more complex narrative strategies and in the use of both realist and expressive formal approaches.4 Connections with overseas art cinema were also recognised by some early academic commentators, notably Annette Insdorf in an essay published in 1981 which suggests that makers of films of the period such as Northern Lights (1978) ‘treat inherently American concerns with a primarily European style’, citing consecrated art-filmmakers including Ingmar Bergman and Francois Truffaut as sources of inspiration.5 Art cinema is also identified as an important influence on the independent sector by E. Deidre Pribram.6 She usefully locates some examples of independent film as falling within categories of art film, although in this case the category ‘independent’ is used more broadly than usual, to include films that circulate within the same channels as American indies in the United States but that come from a wider range of national locations (a number of her primary examples are British films). This blurring of lines

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Art Film and American Indie Cinema is useful as a way of breaking down some indie/art distinctions, and suggesting some overlapping of the two, but it leaves unclear exactly what might conventionally qualify for American independent or art film status – as far as these might be understood institutionally as at least partially distinct realms – in the first place. A more explicit account of the relationship between specifically American indie film and art cinema is offered by Michael Newman, although I would suggest that his approach overstates some points of distinction between the two. Newman’s primary argument is that indie, as a distinctive film culture, ‘succeeds art cinema’, at least within the repertoire of film cultures available in the United States.7 Indie is seen by Newman as ‘inheriting the social functions previously performed by foreign art films’, as ‘a mode of filmmaking that those aspiring to certain kinds of status adopt as a common point of reference, a token of community membership.’8 That indie effectively supplanted art cinema to some extent, in the sense of taking over much of the limited space available to broadly artisticallyleaning alternative narrative film in the American marketplace (and a considerable part of that beyond America, in the wider arthouse market) seems clear enough. It did not do so entirely, however. Both indie and art films continue to circulate, through many of the same institutions. Within just the American context, then, or that of the broader circulatory sphere of both, we can still ask what ongoing relationship exists between the two, rather than seeing one as having replaced the other. This brings us to questions about differences between the two. For Newman, art and indie share certain qualities, particularly an emphasis on realism and authorship as major interpretive frameworks. But, he suggests, they also entail different viewing strategies rooted in two different contexts. Each is associated with the intellectual currents of its time: for art cinema, those of existentialism and modernism; for indie, ‘in place of existential angst and alienation we find the multiplicity and fragmentation associated with multiculturalism and postmodernism.’9 This distinction is useful up to a point, and cuts to some key differences that can be identified between the two fields, but it also risks oversimplification. It is true, as Newman suggests, that one key marker of difference between these categories is that art cinema includes many works that are more seriously challenging to the viewer than is anything like the norm in the indie sector; and that this can, indeed, be seen in terms

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Positioning Art Cinema of its greater commitment to qualities associated with modernism and some related intellectual currents identified in this account. Another useful distinction, one that acknowledges a wider range existing under the label of art cinema, is that made by Kovács between what he terms ‘classical’ and ‘modernist’ strands within the broader realm of art film. This amounts to a difference in the nature and/or degree of departure from the norms of the mainstream-classical. For example: ‘If an art film in general tends to present a complex situation that cannot be reduced to one or two welldefined problems [and on this basis departs from the norms of the conventionally classical] and therefore concentrates on the character’s complex persona, what happens in modern art cinema is that this complex situation becomes ambiguous or impossible to define.’10 This distinction is similar to some of those I make in subsequent chapters between the heavyweight art film (which often draws on the modernist tradition but can also include varieties of realism and so is not the same as the category employed by Kovács) and relatively more conventional or accessible varieties that can be identified as art cinema at the textual level and/or that circulate through the channels with which it is associated and by which it is, to a significant extent, constituted. How far this difference is understood to map neatly onto distinct periods remains open to debate. Kovács suggests that the era of modernist art cinema has ended, having gone into decline by the 1970s and 1980s, in terms of the particular ideological project he suggests was its original impetus. While some formal qualities associated with the modern continue to be found in subsequent art films, and remain available as options, he argues, they are accompanied by ‘imported aesthetic phenomena [. . .] that are essentially uncommon to modernism’ and drawn from the broader context of the postmodern.11 Modernist art film, in this account, is film that responds specifically to the broader historical modernist art movement (associated particularly with the avant-garde upsurges of the 1920s and 1960s), one that is seen to have been replaced in more recent decades by that of the postmodern, an account broadly similar in this respect to that of Newman. In the field of art cinema, the outcome is seen by Kovács as a shift in favour of the classical variant of the form, or a fusion of the classical and modernist elements. For Kovács, the postmodern has not had a large presence in art cinema, although some examples from the 1980s onwards are said to have followed certain postmodern principles.

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Art Film and American Indie Cinema Whatever their roots or whatever the overall balance might be considered to be, across the entire field of art cinema, films that display distinctly modernist characteristics continued to exist into the period in which indie came to prominence, and persist today.12 This seems to complicate an association of either type with currents seen as prevailing or having significance only in one period or the other, as seems to be implied by Newman (even if they are viewed as more prevalent in a particular era). Multiplicity and fragmentation, for example, qualities Newman associates with the postmodern/indie conjunction, are qualities strongly to the fore in much of the work of Michael Haneke, a prominent figure whose work also retains dimensions that seem clearly modernist (challenging to the viewer, reflexive and marked as deeply ‘serious’ in orientation) rather than postmodern (often seen as more playful) in character. Fragmentation is, indeed, a key part of the definition of modernist art film provided by Kovács (a major distinction between the modernist and the postmodern, in this among some other accounts, is that the former retains a sense of underlying reality, even if this is viewed as fragmentary and abstracted, while the latter entails a loss of any faith in the existence of any single reality).13 Even if some of this can be viewed as an inheritance from the earlier period, such concerns seem equally appropriate to the social, political and/or cultural climate of the present in many ways, making any such distinction far less clear cut. Modernist art cinema might be less prevalent after the period of its relative heyday, as suggested by Kovács, or might have less cultural reach and presence than it did in that period. To conclude that its era is ‘over’ in any general sense seems to risk simplifying the picture, however, given the number of films that continue to display features of the kind associated with the modernist tradition well into the twenty-first century. For Newman, a key characteristic of indie film is that it involves a sense of play, in its use of form, as opposed to the radical ambiguity and difficulty (and all that this entails) associated with some major currents of art film.14 This might be true in some cases, but seems to me too great a generalisation. Elements of play might also be identified in some works of art cinema from the heyday of the 1960s, as in some of the earlier films of Jean-Luc Godard, for example (a different and harsher kind of play is also foregrounded at times in Haneke, particularly in Funny Games). It might be identified as a component of tendencies often associated with the

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Positioning Art Cinema

Figure 2.1 Converging narrative threads towards the end of Pulp Fiction q Miramax.

postmodern, and is a quality found in some indie films (a prominent example is the play with narrative sequence in Pulp Fiction [1994]) (see Figure 2.1). But whether such a dimension should be seen as a defining quality of a broad arena, either indie film or contemporary art or other currents labeled postmodern, seems to me to be doubtful and always to risk oversimplification. If play can also be identified in some art films from the period associated with modernism, there are also many examples of indie film (from the period associated with the postmodern) to which this does not seem to apply, including but not limited to those which share with art cinema a strong commitment to notions of serious socially-conscious realism. While the most heavyweight of modernist approaches might rarely be found in the indie sector, I would suggest that more points of overlap can be established between some aspects of the two than Newman seems to imply. Realism, modernism and postmodernism can usefully be identified as three broad tendencies in historical and/or contemporary art-film practice, even if they might be mobilised to greater or lesser degrees in particular cases from one period or another and some of their usages might be contested. Distinctions between concepts such as the modernist and postmodern are often far from definitive, as is the case to some extent even for Kovács, for whom the former is a major organising principle. Other terms are also adopted in some accounts of this territory. John Orr, for example, uses ‘neo-modern’ and ‘meta-modern’ to categorise some art and indie cinema of more recent decades, arguing that many of the qualities

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Art Film and American Indie Cinema typically associated with the postmodern can be found within modernist or meta-modern works.15 One persistent strain of art cinema, particularly rooted in postwar Italian neo-realism, claims to present a more objectively realist picture of the world than is the norm in dominant commercial contexts such as Hollywood or mainstream pre-war Italian cinema. Another can broadly be associated with wider artistic practices characteristically grouped together under the label of modernism, or at least some of these, including elements such as radical ambiguity or opacity, denial or weakening of emotional identification with character, and radical selfreflexivity. These are often taken, more or less directly, to embody thematic issues such as alienation, uncertainty and critique of forms of representation such as film and other media. The latter are concerns typically associated with a major part of the heavyweight end of art cinema, examined in more detail in the next chapter (familiar reference points here would be the work of figures such as Antonioni, Resnais and Tarkovsky, but also later filmmakers including Haneke and numerous others). Some of these thematic issues (particularly some forms of uncertainty about the relationship between the nature of reality and representation) can also be identified in currents associated with the postmodern, if with some important differences of emphasis, including in some cases a lighter stress on the playful rather than the bleakly nihilistic. If the style and content of one tendency makes claims to the status of objective realism, others can in some cases be related to another key pole in prevailing notions of art, what Steve Neale terms ‘the other primary ideology of Art, the Romantic view that Art is subjective expression.’16 A key part of the definition of modernist art cinema offered by Kovács involves a slippage in many cases between that which can be interpreted as objective, subjective or located somewhere in between the two. Within the axes provided by these tendencies, some distinctions can usefully be made between art and indie. A strong vein of realism is a major component of many indie as well as art films. Heavier forms of modernism or overt focus on issues such as alienation are associated far more strongly with the latter, however, while lighter varieties of play might be more common features of indie. The realist tendency remains an important part of indie film, however, which means a considerable area of overlap exists between the two domains at this level alone. We might also identify other

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Positioning Art Cinema tendencies that can be located across the art/indie divide, including some forms of subjectively expressive filmmaking, often rooted in what might best be viewed as a kind of subjective realism, thus drawing on another major component of the wider artistic tradition. Also found in both spheres is the use of popular generic formats as vehicles for alternative or less mainstream approaches, an issue to which I return in Chapter 7. In the indie sector, elements that have something in common with art cinema are often mixed with more conventionally mainstream-oriented dimensions, usually associated with the ‘classical’ Hollywood style. This is also true of many products of international art cinema, however, particularly those which fall into Kovács’ category of the classical art film.17 Even where we might find some important differences of degree, particularly the extent of departure from the classical, the relationship between art and indie as a whole seems distinctly less than clear cut in a number of significant respects. If we were to map a spectrum that included both sectors, it would take the form of a continuum with considerable areas of overlap, even if more examples from the art sector might be found at the ‘heavier’, modernist end of the scale (beyond which, at the farthest reaches from the mainstream-commercial, we would find the realms of the fully avant-garde and experimental).18 Making a case for continuity between the two realms in the case of films that stake claims to the status of presenting more objectively realist views of the world seems relatively straightforward. That this is a major strand of art cinema, with an important emphasis in some cases on social realism, seems beyond argument. The dominant reference point for this tendency is the long-since canonised phenomenon of Italian neo-realism, a key point of reference for many subsequent examples, among the more recent of which is the work customarily grouped under the label of the Romanian ‘new wave’ from the mid 2000s and the films of Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne. A similar strand is also easily identifiable in American indie film, from progenitors such as the works of John Cassavetes and others to a number of films that played a central role in the development of the sector in the 1980s (for example, Heartland [1979] and Working Girls [1986]) and recent/contemporary examples such as the features of Kelly Reichardt and Ramin Bahrani.19 It seems equally clear that there is no real equivalent in the indie sector of what I term heavyweight art cinema, in the sense of a sustained body of

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Art Film and American Indie Cinema films that present themselves as more ‘weighty’, ‘intellectual’, ‘difficult’ or ‘forbidding’ in character, often drawing on qualities associated with modernism and/or the overt exploration of themes such as the alienating nature of contemporary life. Plenty of such films are to be found among favourites of the art-cinema canon, just a few examples being: the social alienation manifested in Antonioni’s The Eclipse (L’Eclisse, 1992); the chilly ambiguities of Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad (L’Année dernière à Marienbad, 1961); the philosophical discourses found in films by Tarkovsky such as Solaris (Solyaris, 1972) and Stalker (1979); and more recent instances such as the alienation/abstraction of Haneke’s The Seventh Continent (Die siebente kontinent, 1989) and the radical questioning of the position of the viewer in his two versions of Funny Games, or the bleak minimalism of films by Tarr such as Sátántangó and The Turin Horse. The tendency to situate indie film as a ‘softer’ or ‘safer’, ultimately more commercially-oriented cinema, has often been highlighted by the difference that remains in some examples that have been inspired, in some way or to some degree, by works that embody this kind of heavyweight modality. Thus Steven Soderbergh’s characterisation of The Limey (1998) as ‘Get Carter as made by Alain Resnais’, a formulation that seems to capture the positioning of the film mid-way between more conventional crime-revenge thriller and art film, or the position of the same filmmaker’s remake of Solaris (2002) as a studio feature the qualities of which share a comparable location somewhere between those of Hollywood norm and arthouse classic. 20 Another example is the use by Gus Van Sant of the kinds of extended tracking shots associated with Tarr, in the trilogy loosely comprised by Gerry (2002), Elephant (2003) and Last Days (2005); films that include some such material that is formally radical by indie standards but without quite the type of historical, political or otherwise intellectual weightiness of context associated with the work of the Hungarian director (it is notable, however, that some of the accounts of ‘slow’ cinema examined in Chapter 4 include these examples on an equal basis with those from elsewhere).21 We might also compare, on similar lines, particular examples from the indie and heavier-weight art film sectors that tackle comparable issues. As far as treatments of death are concerned, for example, a typical example from the more commercial end of the indie spectrum might be a film such as Me and Earl and the Dying Girl (2015), independently produced but

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Positioning Art Cinema

Figure 2.2 Quirky indie pastiche of arthouse classic in Me and Earl and the Dying Girl q Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation and MEDG Films LLC.

released by the studio division Fox Searchlight. Centred around the responses of the main protagonist to the experiences of a high school contemporary suffering from leukemia, Me and Earl is distinctly ‘quirky’ in style, employing a range of playful approaches including unusually wideangle compositions, narrative self-referentiality including ‘chapter’ headings and overt comments about the nature of the film, and numerous references to other films and filmmakers, including witty pastiches of classic films made by the protagonist and his friend (see Figure 2.2). The film follows an arc typical of some similar Searchlight releases, notably Little Miss Sunshine (2006) and Juno (2007), in gradually shifting from a greater reliance on quirkily-ironic distance in the first half to an increasingly ‘sincere’ sentimentality towards the end.22 Me and Earl did not replicate the kind of cross-over box-office success achieved by its two predecessors, a marker perhaps of the less commercial implications of having a central narrative focus on death and dying. To highlight the distance of such material from more heavyweight art film, for which death is a subject that brings requisite notions of high seriousness, if sometimes mixed with the blackly comic, it could be contrasted with in various ways ‘tougher’ examples such as The Death of Mr. Lazarescu (Moartea domnului Lazarescu, 2005) or Haneke’s Amour (2012). What is the nearest we can find to the heavyweight variety of modernist-leaning art film in the indie sector? Among the strongest

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Art Film and American Indie Cinema candidates would be the work of Jon Jost, a figure usually located outside the more institutionalised indie sector, however, in features ranging from The Bed You Sleep In (1993) to Over Here (2007), which employ oblique minimalist strategies to convey a sense of alienation or disconnection.23 It is precisely because of the radical nature of these films, by indie standards, that they have not usually participated in the more concerted sphere of particular distributors, festivals, etc., that constitutes an important part of its field of cultural production and consumption. As I have argued elsewhere, a substantial gap exists in the indie sector between films of this nature – and, to some extent, the Van Sant films cited above – and those that more closely mix alternative and mainstream-classical components.24 We might identify some other examples at the more art-leaning end of the indie spectrum – including, for example, the aspects of radical narrative uncertainty at the heart of David Lynch’s Lost Highway (1997), or the expressive digital textures of Harmony Korine’s Julien Donkey-Boy (1999) – but such cases are both relatively rare and still often less heavyweight in their modernist or other non-mainstream strategies that some of the art films cited above. More overtly heavyweight in their philosophical/spiritual orientation are films by Terrence Malick such as The Tree of Life (2011), To the Wonder (2012) and Knight of Cups (2015): works that offer an unusual mixture of meditative, impressionistic, close-to experimental style with polished aestheticism and the presence of major star performers (see Figure 2.3).

Figure 2.3 Impressionistic imagery in Knight of Cups q Dogwood Pictures, LLC.

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Positioning Art Cinema The explanation for the general absence of such films might seem reasonably straightforward; a matter of the degree of commercial viability required within the particular constraints of the indie sector in its principal manifestations of recent decades. If the market for indie films in general can be a difficult one, that for the most demanding art films is likely to be all the more so. Given that the two markets overlap, however, both forming part of the broader speciality business in the United States and beyond, why might the difficult varieties remain more prevalent elsewhere? The indie sector might have more commercial leanings, in general, as a result of factors specific to the American context, such as the existence of a more commercial, market-oriented culture. Financial subsidy at the national or supra-national level has been a major factor in the support of art cinema historically, particularly in Europe and for many examples in the heyday of the immediate postwar decades, and continues to play a significant role into the twenty-first century.25 Limited support was received by some indie features in the latter decades of the twentieth century, through organisations such as the National Endowment for the Humanities, but this proved short-lived. A stronger commercial imperative, coupled with expectations created by some notable break-out hits, might also help to explain what has often been seen as a leaning in the direction of qualities associated with the postmodern in the indie sphere. Approaches such as the playful, as identified by Newman, tend to be easier to mix with larger commercial potential than the bleaker currents of modernist alienation (Pulp Fiction is, again, a good example here, among others, both in its qualities and its status as a cross-over success in the marketplace). That is to say, leanings in these directions might be dictated, or encouraged, as much by particular national-cultural contexts as by broader historical periodisation, although there are dangers of oversimplification in any such arguments (any attempt to make broader generalisations about such large fields of cultural production run this risk to some extent, including this one). If the generally lighter quality of much indie film is associated with the more commercial US context, the heavier varieties of art cinema might be said to be rooted in locations more hospitable to such material, for various reasons. This might be related to the more complex, storied histories, politics and cultural inheritances of the ‘old’ world, for example, as applicable to locations such as Europe and Asia. These, or some of these, might also have stronger

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Art Film and American Indie Cinema traditions in areas such as the kind of philosophical reflection that feeds into the heavyweight tendency and that might be expected to find less traction in the United States, the avowedly democratic/populist cultural context of which has often harboured suspicion of that seen as unduly ‘intellectual’. Heavier-weight varieties of art cinema might also be triggered in parts of the contemporary ‘developing’ world by the more sharply drawn social contexts affecting some such places, where sufficient resources permit. Underlying contextual frameworks of these kinds might help to explain the relative presence or otherwise of certain kinds of art cinema in particular times and places, although this is another area in which we should be cautious of oversimplification. The wide international spread of film festivals has offered one dynamic counter to anything rooted in particular places, creating a sense of the existence of a nearly global variety of festival/art film that has been drawn upon by filmmakers from very different locations. It would be a mistake, however, too closely or exclusively to identify the international art sector with its most heavyweight, demanding or modernist-leaning exemplars. It is here that the degree of distinction from indie can easily be overstated. Considerably closer connections between the two can be identified in many cases, particularly within the territory signified by Kovács’ notion of the classical art film and/or examples in which aspects of art or indie are combined with more commercial genre frameworks. The latter is a familiar dimension of indie film, on which I have written at length elsewhere.26 The valuation of indie, as something distinct from mainstream/Hollywood, might often include a disavowal of that seen as the generic, but many indies have worked within genre frameworks, even when seeking to complicate them or to put generic ingredients into contexts usually associated with the realist. The same can be said of many features that circulate within the realm of international art cinema, with examples ranging from some of the early work of Godard and Truffaut to many ‘arty’ treatments of genre material, including horror or horror-related films such as Let the Right One In (Låt den rätte komma in, Sweden, 2008) and Park Chan-wook’s ‘Vengeance’ trilogy (South Korea, 2002, 2003, 2005). Some such uses of genre are the subject of Chapter 7. A key point here is our understanding of art cinema as a field of circulation and consumption, mediated by various institutions and critical discourses, rather than being constituted by particular kinds of texts

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Positioning Art Cinema viewed in isolation from this context.27 As Barbara Wilinsky argues, art film is best understood as ‘a dynamic and shifting concept created with pragmatic functions’ within particular parts of the film business.28 A central part of the discourse surrounding this realm is the myth of its non-commercial nature, as Wilinsky suggests, a notion propagated by those invested in the sector, including producers, distributors, exhibitors and viewers whose consumption of such work plays a part in their own marking of social distinction. This discursive separation from the commercial, a form of disavowal of the kind identified as typical of such phenomena by Bourdieu, is important to the success of art cinema within a particular commercial realm.29 From an early stage, as Wilinsky and others have suggested, one part of the appeal was less high-cultural in nature, art cinema often having traded also on its capacity to be more explicit in areas such as eroticism and violence, dimensions examined in Chapter 8. While art might often be positioned as higher-cultural in location than indie, in comparisons between the two, Wilinsky’s account offers a useful shift of emphasis, in its focus on the extent to which art cinema has also tended in many cases to offer that which is marked as ‘different’ from the mainstream ‘but not too different’.30 The latter is a formulation that might also be used in relation to the American indie sector, suggesting, again, that what is involved in a comparison between the two is often a difference of degree; what we might term, if rather awkwardly, a difference in ‘not too different-ness’. Another key point that follows from Wilinsky’s comment about the ‘dynamic and shifting’ nature of art cinema is that there is no essence of the form, or any type of art cinema that should especially be privileged over others that circulate within its realm, as was suggested in the Introduction. What often seems to happen is that particular types of art film are privileged over others, however, particularly those which engage most strongly with its social realist or modernist tendencies. This is understandable on more than one count. These are the types of films positioned furthest from the norms of Hollywood (within the realm of feature-length narrative production, rather than including the avantgarde). Given that distance from Hollywood (and/or other manifestations of popular cinema) is the single most prominent working ground of definition, greater distance might seem to imply more essential belonging to the category (that difference from Hollywood can itself be marked in

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Art Film and American Indie Cinema numerous ways is a good explanation of the variety found within the art film sector, as suggested by Neale).31 Added to this is the differential investment in art films, as sources of distinction, on the part of those who participate one way or another in this sphere. The strongest sense of distinction is likely to be gained by – or by consuming, or having any other mediatory relationship with – films situated at the favoured pole. (In reality, the picture is likely to be more complicated, depending on exactly what combination of distinctionmarking difference and more comfortably consumable familiarity/lesserdifference might appeal in any particular case.) Some films within the artfilm sector might, therefore, seem ‘artier’ than others, in what amounts to a competitive process of marking of degrees of difference, one that includes the differences sometimes asserted between art and indie as a whole. A division can thus be made between how we might understand this analytically – with art cinema as a wider and inessential category that might not be sustainable institutionally without its relatively more classical/mainstream components – and the manner in which such a category tends to function in on-theground processes of cultural distinction marking. Another key point of overlap between art and indie is that they share, broadly, much the same arena of circulation and discursive articulation, including major festivals, approval by certain kinds of ‘serious’ critics, theatrical exhibition primarily in arthouse venues, and an emphasis throughout on the central role of the filmmaker as individual creative auteur. This remains the case, even if relatively less distinctive indie films have taken over some of the space within this realm that was formerly available to international art films, of whatever pitch those might be. It is for this reason that American indie and international art films are sometimes mixed together discursively without any particular distinction marking between the two, in forums the focus of which is dictated by the broadly defined ‘speciality’ arena of circulation. The indie-oriented website Indiewire, for example, often provides lists with headlines such as ‘The 12 Indies You Must See’, the contents of which shift without any specific marking of difference between American and overseas/art titles.32 The role played by subtitles in internationally-circulated art film is another prominent factor in its differential positioning in relation to American indie, when the two circulate in Anglophone contexts. Subtitles are key markers of distinction, often fetishised, as Mark Betz suggests, as

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Positioning Art Cinema markers of authenticity (and, by implication, difference from the mainstream).33 If we imagine the existence of two films circulating in the US or the UK or an English-language dominated festival context, one international art and one indie, that are otherwise much the same in the extent to which they depart from mainstream/classical conventions, the additional factor of subtitles (where these are required in non-Englishlanguage examples) would be likely to make the art film seem considerably more distinctive and specialised a product overall. Hence the extent to which dubbed versions of such films tend to be seen as ‘dumbed down’, as Betz puts it, or generally rejected by those with strong investments in art cinema as a distinction-marking category. Part of their distinction is based in this dimension specifically on their status as markedly ‘foreign’ or ‘exotic’, within particular viewing contexts, and requiring viewers prepared to tolerate the distancing or work created by the presence of subtitles. This is another example of a point of distinction marking that is undoubtedly in play, in the evaluation and consumption of such films, but also based on an oversimplification. As Betz suggests, subtitling is no guarantee of something closer to any notion of the original artistic vision, however much it might generally be preferred as a marker of authenticity by many consumers of art films, as not all dialogue tends to be included (and quality of translation might be variable), and the process of reading titles imposes a form of attention on the viewer that obstructs the integrity of composition and mise-en-scène.34 Many examples can be suggested of indie films that might seem a significant degree closer to the status of art cinema, if not the most heavyweight modernist variety, were they to be imagined (or themselves viewed, in non-Anglophone contexts) with subtitles. These might include the work of the likes of Jarmusch, Solondz and Todd Haynes, among many other contributors to the establishment of the indie sector from the 1980s and 1990s. At the same time, we might identify additional works that circulate in the international subtitled art sphere that embody characteristics widely associated with indie, for example the manifestly ‘quirky’ aspects of films by figures such as Aki Kaurismäki (Finland), Roy Andersson (Sweden) and Johnnie To (Hong Kong) or the more general pitch of the films of Pedro Almodóvar (Spain), generally accorded the status of one of the auteur stars of the early twenty-first century art house. The work of a figure such as the Austrian director Ulrich Seidl could, along

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Art Film and American Indie Cinema similar lines, be positioned quite similarly to that of Todd Solondz, in its use of strategies designed to discomfort the viewer. Terms such as ‘quirky’ and ‘offbeat’ often contribute to the connotations of less heavyweight modality associated with indie films. They suggest something relatively weak, flimsy and superficial, compared with the weight, depth and steeliness often associated with heavyweight art films. But they are far from exclusive to the American indie sector. The associations of such terms can also be seen within the context of the gender oppositions cited in Chapter 1 (an invidious tendency to associate that which is valued less highly with the ‘feminine’). The quirky, in particular, can also carry associations of the childlike and/or the naïve, another less lofty source of valorisation, even if it can carry positive connotations of its own kind.35 Another ground on which art cinema seems often to be accorded higher status than indie is the notion that it (or privileged manifestations) offers a more serious expression or exploration of the nature of contemporary existence than tends to be argued in relation to the latter, in whatever particular historical currents either might be located. James Tweedie, for example, reads art cinema ‘new waves’ such as those in France, Taiwan and China as figurations of various aspects of issues relating to major processes such as modernisation and globalisation, and the various hopes, fears or complications entailed by such developments.36 These cinematic movements matter, Tweedie implies, precisely because they engage in such weighty issues, both thematically and in their implications for the use of various formal strategies. Tweedie offers a brief postscript that asks whether any equivalent new wave was experienced in America, concluding that if it was, it was very brief and soon became complicit in the world of corporate media. The implication is that all that followed remained similarly complicit. Passing reference is made to a more recent ‘American independent cinema’ (placed in scare quotes that imply a questioning of its independent status), but no comment is made about this sector as it developed from the 1980s, as if none of this has any scope to be read in any similar terms, either related to the specific issues discussed in the rest of the book or as of any significance at all at this level. Whether or not it might partake in any of the particular currents explored by Tweedie, indie film can clearly be read as an expression of particular socio-cultural/historical phenomena that might be accorded substantial significance.

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Positioning Art Cinema For Sherry Ortner, for example, many indie films offer what amounts to a critique of the downside of neoliberal economic policies.37 Something similar is suggested by Claire Perkins, who argues that indie films often take the contradictions and dissatisfactions of life under capitalism as their primary subject.38 An example such as Haynes’ Safe (1995) might also be seen as offering an exploration of middle-class alienation similar (thematically and formally) to those of numerous instances of classic European art cinema. Some of the issues considered by Tweedie might exist in a more heightened form in the case studies on which he focuses, particularly in the context of the epochal shifts undergone by both society/economy and cultural producers such as filmmakers in China in recent decades. These might also seem somewhat weightier, in their location in the context of such large-scale topics as globalisation and its discontents – compared, say, with a satirical portrait of the mores of middle-class Americans. A difference of tone might sometimes be an important factor here, in the relative seriousness of modality presented by such cinemas or the seriousness with which they are taken by commentators, academic and otherwise. But any distinction between the two seems, again, to be one of degree rather than absolute, and in neither case do examples such as those cited typify the whole of the sector they might sometimes be taken to represent.

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3 The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality

An elderly father and his daughter eek out their lives in a bleak, monochrome and windswept rural landscape. Life is laborious, slow and tedious, mostly wordless; the persisting viewer obliged, through long takes and repeated activity, to share aspects of its temporal extension. Their impoverishment is highlighted by a diet that seems to consist solely of potatoes, boiled in their skins and eaten – gingerly, burning the fingers – with bare hands from wooden plates. Water has to be raised arduously by hand and carried from an outside well. The wind howls constantly, oppressively, raising dust and flurries of leaves (see Figure 3.1). Its sound, whether loud, outdoors, or muted, from inside, alternates as background accompaniment with a repetitive, dirge-like and somewhat doom-laden musical score. Lengthy sequences repeatedly depict humdrum activities such as getting dressed or undressed, mixed with inactivity that seems closer to still life. The picture is one of existence on the margins, bleak and stripped of anything other than the basics. As the film develops, however, these appear to have been the ‘good’ times, relatively speaking. Gradually, what little they have is removed. The horse gives up, refusing to move and declining to eat or drink. The well runs dry and the protagonists leave home, a few

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Figure 3.1 The daughter in the bleak, windswept landscape of The Turin Horse q T. T. Filmműhely/Vega Film Production/Zero Fiction Film/MPM Film.

possessions piled into a heavy hand cart. They disappear over the nearest hillside but then reappear and return, for some unspoken reason. Towards the end, an unexplained darkness occurs in what appears to be daytime. The lamps are lit but gutter, die and refuse to light again – we know not why – despite having been filled. By the final scene, in partial light, the stove has ceased working, the potatoes now served cold and raw. The light diminishes and fades out, the film ending in nothing but darkness, or a nothingness that seems to be conveyed by darkness, in what appears to be an intimation of some kind of undramatised apocalypse. In its utterly bleak minimalism, Béla Tarr’s The Turin Horse is a model of certain aspects of the kind of cinema outlined in this chapter: what I term the ‘hard-core’ art film, the form conventionally positioned at the most ‘heavyweight’ end of the spectrum. It is joined here by many other examples, including most of Tarr’s features and the work of other filmmakers such as Michael Haneke and numerous predecessors and contemporaries. One of the aims of the next three chapters is to examine a number of markers of the heavyweight, serious modality established in, or ascribed to, such films and often celebrated by critics, both journalistic and academic. I also want to emphasise the status of this as a particular 80

The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality modality, one with specific types of qualities, conditions of existence and broader cultural positioning, rather than as a more disparate or ad hoc collection of traits or tendencies. That is, to locate this phenomenon in the terms suggested by Bourdieu: not as involving qualities that exist only ‘in and for themselves’, but the significance of which is inseparable from their position in a network understood in relational terms. An initial list of such markers here would include a number of the qualities evoked above, including: the use in some cases of very long takes; the depiction of the most ordinary and quotidian of activity, particularly in the context of hardscrabble poverty lifestyles; a general sense of very little happening, in terms of overt action, and of this happening, or barely happening at all, slowly, painfully and sternly; and, especially, the demands put on the viewer in the process of engaging with such material. Other examples, including the work of Haneke, sometimes share in certain of these features, while also offering more, such as middle-class/ bourgeois-oriented depictions of misery, suffering, alienation, repression, memory or other psychological states, and/or more overtly satirical/critical portrayals of contemporary society, in general or in particular sociohistorical contexts, or of particular institutions such as those relating to politics or the media. Some such material can be associated with a broader history of modernist engagement with a state of existence experienced as being uprooted from traditional anchoring sources such as religion or nature and a questioning of any replacements or the subsequent role of art.1 One alternative to these approaches is the earthiness of some of the late films of Pier Paulo Pasolini, in which a celebration of the bodilysensual offers both an escape from the confines of the modern/alienated world and a relatively more commercially-accessible type of cinema. An escape from bourgeois alienation is also offered by a wider range of art cinema that focuses on what are presented as more traditional ways of life, often in non-western settings, while other films explore the transition from rural-traditional to modern-urban existence (one of many examples of the latter being the Apu trilogy by Satyajit Ray). As David Andrews suggests, ‘downbeat materials’ of the kind often featured in art cinema ‘act as signs of the seriousness’ that is a conventional marker of high art status.2 A key factor in some examples is the deliberate frustration or confrontation of the viewer, a refusal to meet mainstreamconventional expectations or to conform to more familiar narrative,

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Positioning Art Cinema generic or other norms. One of the markers of this kind of art cinema is the distance or ambiguity it can provide in relation to central characters, as opposed to the more clear cut, positive and usually more immediately pleasurable variety of affective engagement associated with the Hollywoodstyle mainstream.3 Art cinema can offer a cognitive challenge to the viewer, in various ways, but a strongly felt sense of distinction can also be marked by the denial or complication of more mainstream-familiar experience at the emotional level. As Murray Smith suggests, an inexpressive performance style, such as that found in the films of Robert Bresson, can deny viewers one of the basic vehicles through which engagement is offered in more mainstream work, via a process of affective mimicry of on-screen facial or bodily expression.4 Such approaches might involve the active production of discomfort and unease, qualities highlighted in what Nikolaj Lübecker aptly terms the ‘feel-bad film’.5 In the examples examined by Lübecker this entails the encouragement of desires and expectations that are deliberately withheld or turned back upon the viewer. In many cases these dimensions are located by commentators within a sense of the educational or moral value of films of this kind, clearly situating such discourses within a western tradition that dates back to Aristotle and to the writings of Renaissance humanists and the French enlightenment.6 Another factor in many examples of heavyweight art cinema is the foregrounding of film form, a key dimension associated with the modernist tradition, whether this is overt and explicit or the more implicit awareness of form that can result from the use of devices such as the minimalist very long take. Differences of degree can be found here, and in any individual aspects of form, as in the variable other bases on which this kind of art cinema might be defined. If heavyweight modality might be associated most strongly with films that can, at least in part, be described as modernist (as elaborated particularly in the work of Kovács and Robert Philip Kolker), it also encompasses certain varieties of realism, as is suggested in some of the examples to which it is applied below. As Galt and Schoonover suggest, art cinema can be understood as sometimes involving a hybrid that includes elements of both.7 Different degrees of complexity or opacity might be found in narrative, for example, as suggested in the distinction between ‘classical’ and ‘modernist’ art cinema offered by Kovács, cited in Chapter 2. Another way of framing this is within the terms suggested by David Bordwell in his influential account of art cinema narration.8

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The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality Narration is examined here as a function of the relationship between a film’s plot and its style. In classical cinema, style is meant to be subordinated to the demands of plot and narrative clarity (ideally, at least). In art cinema narration Bordwell suggests that style can be more prominent, as a result of its deviations from the familiar norms of the classical. A key distinction is the one Bordwell draws from the Russian Formalist literary critical tradition between fabula and syuzhet. The former indicates the underlying story the viewer is meant to construct on the basis of the latter, which denotes the actual material presented on screen. A key marker of art film narration, for Bordwell, is a complication of the manner in which the syuzhet presents the fabula: one that tends to include gaps and uncertainties of the kind that leave more work to be done by the viewer or that result in ambiguity. Such effects make claims to present a more adequate portrayal of the vagaries or complexities of real life than the tightly organised causal conventions usually associated with Hollywood. The process is understood through a cognitive approach to film comprehension, one in which cues provided to the viewer are less clear cut than is the norm for classical style. The presence of gaps or ambiguities might themselves help to draw form to the attention. Bordwell does not suggest that this form of narration is found in all instances of art cinema (or, as he puts it ‘all films shown in “art theaters”’).9 It is identified as distinctive mode, associated particularly with a mixture of objective and subjective realism in a substantial body of films shaped by particular factors in the late 1950s and 1960s. A slippage between this particular and a more general usage is implied (or risked) by the use of so broad a term as ‘art-cinema narration’, however, a factor that has led to criticism from a number of sources.10 But many subsequent varieties of art cinema have offered a similar sense of complexity and challenge as one of their defining features, if not always exactly in the terms suggested by Bordwell. No single formal quality can exclusively define a field as broad and inexact as art cinema, as was suggested in the Introduction. But narrative characteristics of this kind are among its more prominent textual markers, as will be seen in a number of the examples included in the rest of this book. Bordwell identifies another mode that goes further in its distance from the classical: what he terms ‘parametrical’ narration, in which style ‘may be organized and emphasized to a degree that makes it at least equal in

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Positioning Art Cinema importance to syuzhet patterns.’11 Style here becomes a major organising principle in its own right, an approach more likely to be found in the heavyweight than the more classical forms of art cinema (or, beyond these, in the avant-garde). This is a framework Mark Betz argues has become more widespread and marketable than is suggested by Bordwell, one Betz applies to a number of filmmakers associated with the minimalist, longtake style, including Lisandro Alonso, Abbas Kiarostami, Carlos Reygadas, Hou Hsiao-hsien and Apichatpong Weerasethakul.12 The approaches outlined above are strongly contrasted with the norms of mainstream-commercially oriented cinema, and often valorised as such. Apart from playing this role, discursively, as markers of the strongest distinction from Hollywood or its nearest equivalents in other cinemas, films of these kinds also lend themselves to particular varieties of engagement that further cement such a position. They are often interpreted, variously or in combination – implicitly or explicitly – as expressing or raising important socio-political issues, embodying ‘big’ philosophical topics/questions, exploring dimensions such as time and memory, or expressing states that can be viewed as spiritual, religious or otherwise ‘profound’. The ground they provide for such engagement is one of their key markers of ‘serious’, heavyweight status, characteristically located in opposition to either the perceived superficial ‘lightness’ of mainstream films or the relatively less substantial status sometimes ascribed to other forms of art or indie production. My aim is not so much to argue for or against the merits of such readings as to identify this as a significant part of the positioning of such work within the film-cultural landscape. To foreground the emphasis on this kind of positioning, I begin with this chapter to examine examples of the ‘weighty’ approach in work situated either at an academic level or which seeks a position that crosses over between the academic and more general serious critical engagement, rather than with more detailed consideration of individual examples of such cinema itself.

Heavyweight Modality; Heavyweight Analysis That the work of filmmakers such as Tarr and Haneke, and their many predecessors and contemporaries, is often more or less assumed to merit engagement at a particularly serious, heavyweight level can be demonstrated through an initial glance at the kinds of topics with which 84

The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality it tends to be associated. Take, for example, an academically-oriented collection of essays on the films of the latter, The Cinema of Michael Haneke: Europe Utopia, edited by Ben McCann and David Sorfa, which I use here as a characteristic manifestation of broader tendencies in the framing of films of this kind. Much can be gleaned from a look at the list of titles in the contents page (or a check on the major issues in the text where this is not immediately clear), the foci of which in Haneke’s films is as follows: reflexivity and the ethics of viewing practices; acting, performance and the Bressonian impulse; suicides as ethical/authentic acts (reference points including Lacan); the ‘virtual’ in relation to ontological and epistemological issues concerning point of view, shot structure, etc. (Deleuze, Debord and others); the politics of film form (Nietzsche and Adorno, among others); existential space; travel and tourism in relation to capitalism, identity, culture and spirituality; Derrida and cosmopolitanism (also references to Freud, Kant and Lyotard); Austrian literary adaptations for television; adaptation of Kafka; the construction of bourgeois space (including Bloch, Debord and others); ‘Supermodernity, Sick Eros and the Video Narcissus’ (Augé, Baudrillard and Deleuze); the ethical screen (Levinas); ‘Superegos and Eggs’ (Derrida and Žižek); music and violence; images of confinement and transcendence; psychoanalytical theories of sadomasochism (Freud, Deleuze); issues of history and memory (Benjamin, Baudrillard, Levinas and others); digital cinema and the ‘schizophrenic’ image (Deleuze and Guattari); shame, guilt and morality; opacity, mystery and ideas of moral spectatorship (and a more distanced reference to the provision of ‘a veritable feast for ravenous Deleuzians’).13 Not exactly a lightweight series of readings, but exactly the kinds of perspectives that tend to be brought to bear on films of these kinds, complete with various references not cited here to other makers of serious art films and the namechecking of some philosophical topics familiar to this territory. A mischievous commentator might be tempted to suggest that such a menu could be open to parody, particularly when, somewhat unfairly, reduced to bare list form. My aim at this point is less to engage with the specifics of any of the arguments made by the contributors in this or other cases than to identify the nature of the types of approaches that such work tends to attract, and their position within a relational framework of distinction markers. The exact balance between the use of one philosophical or film-philosophical source and another is likely to change over time, with

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Positioning Art Cinema shifts in prevailing academic trends, but their broader positioning as ‘heavyweight’ seems less likely to vary within this terrain. I am certainly not seeking to advocate an anti-theoretical (or capitalised anti-Theoretical) position as such, although I would agree with those who suggest that such approaches can in general be – and sometimes are – used in a sweeping manner, particularly where particular films or bodies of work are seized upon because they seem to fit a theoretical perspective (as if this could be a validation of theory) rather than because the theory necessarily helps to make sense of the film in a more concrete manner.14 How, then, might this process of positioning be sketched in a little more detail? If we begin with the introduction by McCann and Sorfa, we find the establishment of a characteristic set of reference points. The first sentence is a strong assertion that Haneke is ‘one of the most important film directors working in Europe, and arguably the world, today.’15 (See Figure 3.2) The basis for this judgement seems to be formed by the next statement: ‘His films and earlier television productions examine the ethical dilemmas of our era with forensic clarity and merciless insight.’16 That these are a measure of ‘importance’ is not spelled out, as such, but is taken as read. The assumption, one I am seeking to make explicit more than to question, is that examining ‘ethical dilemmas’ is an important thing to

Figure 3.2 ‘One of the most important film directors’: Michael Haneke on the set of Hidden q Les Films du Losange.

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The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality do. Such an approach can clearly be situated within the broader historical debate about the value of the arts cited in Chapter 1. It is also implied that it is the quality with which Haneke does this that makes his approach so worthy of praise; that is, his ‘forensic clarity’ and ‘merciless insight’, quite specific phrases that imply a serious, steady and almost scientific level of engagement. His films, we are told, ‘look at their audience as much as the spectator considers them and that audience is often found wanting.’17 To consider this dimension (it is again implied but not spelled out) is to offer another level of engagement, one that is (implicitly) approved. There is also ‘a dark strain of optimism’ running through his work, one that ‘elevates it above fashionable nihilism’. The latter phrase further contributes to the establishment of a specific position, in this case separating Haneke’s films from any sense of merely indulging in a particular trend for darkly-toned material. That the basis of these valuations is implied, rather than spelled out, is one of the key issues here. This fits closely with Bourdieu’s suggestion that the economy of symbolic goods is usually founded on an absence of explicit articulation of what exactly is entailed in the process of marking cultural distinctions. This reading of Haneke, and the other examples that follow, can all be viewed as instances of the deployment of the kinds of acquired dispositions examined by Bourdieu: the application of the internalised rules of the particular game/activity involved in a case such as this. I am not seeking to single out this volume as a target of criticism (or to criticise it as such at all) but to use it as one of a number of representative examples of such an approach. From the opening assertions outlined above, McCann and Sorfa’s introduction moves on to establish a range of credentials and associations, in a manner that is again characteristic of the positioning of the modality of such work. The filmmaker’s status as a serious critical thinker is related to the fact that he studied psychology and philosophy at university, and to his subsequent employment as a film and theatre critic. This implies a grounding for the application of philosophical and related concepts to his work. Mention of his early career in television is followed by the noting of the number of features he had made at the time (11) and that his most recent, The White Ribbon (Das weisse Band – Eine deutsche Kindergeschichte, 2009), won the prestigious Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival, a key marker of status in the art-film sector. Haneke is then situated within the

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Positioning Art Cinema wider European filmmaking context of what is here termed ‘critical realism: ‘By this we mean that his films engage not so much with “reality”, although being very much involved with historical events, but with the problems and possibilities of presenting such a reality through a fictional, normative medium.’18 A sense of depth of engagement is suggested by such a positioning; as going beyond surface level ‘realism’ to a questioning of the process of mediation, a key ingredient in the modernist tradition. Association is then suggested with the work of Bertolt Brecht in the theatre and the films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder, the kind of reference to already-consecrated figures from related spheres that plays a key part in the discourse through which positive reputations are established or reinforced. Comparison is also made to more contemporary figures such as those associated with the ‘French New Brutalism’ of the late 1990s and early 2000s and particularly the films of Lars von Trier (the latter marked as exhibiting a similar interest to that of Haneke in ‘cinematic formalism and the current political state of Europe’).19 Haneke is also established as a figure who has provoked much critical interest. The volume of this, relating to ‘a single European auteur’, is considered ‘almost unprecedented since the 1960s’,20 and thus another marker of serious substance and importance. An initial sketch of some of the themes attributed to Haneke’s work further underlines the kinds of issues customarily associated with work of serious, heavyweight modality: questions of ‘ethics, audiences and power.’21 Haneke’s ethical universe is ‘a complex one that seldom yields an easy moral stance.’ This is a strong marker of heavyweight art-film status, contrasted, but again only implicitly, with the more simplistic approach of that which presumably does offer ‘an easy moral stance.’ More specific issues located within this frame include others that are characteristically weighty, in the way they are articulated by both the films themselves and critical/analytical mediation: bourgeois guilt, repression and alienation; power, society and the complex relationship between the weak and the strong; the relationship between high and low culture. Another key issue is the status of the viewer ‘as being in a position of culpable responsibility’ for what is contained in the media. If tackling such a topic is itself a marker of serious engagement in depth, this is one area in which the editors offer some criticism of the filmmaker (‘it is perhaps here that there is a weakness in Haneke’s analysis of the almost entirely passive spectator’).22

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The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality All this positions Haneke solidly within the tradition of serious, heavyweight art cinema, with distinct leanings towards the kinds of qualities associated with modernism. His work is established as valuable because it offers a range of potential insights into major issues of the type outlined by McCann and Sorfa, but much of this remains characteristically implied rather than spelled out. Many more examples of such an approach could be cited, some of which follow, ranging from earlier writing about or in favour of particular movements or filmmakers to more general accounts of art cinema. In many cases, art cinema in general or the work of particular filmmakers, or particular types of art cinema, is presented as something of special value, either broadly or in relation to more specific issues or agendas. This might involve seeing it in more or less its own terms, or those advocated by the filmmaker; or it might entail the application of more distant, external theoretical frameworks. Heavyweight art cinema can also be understood as a particular type of product with particular conditions of production and circulation within the broader cultural sphere, a perspective in which the qualities on the basis of which it is evaluated are subjected to more explicit critique, or at least brought more clearly into the light. The latter is the position taken by this book. This is not to question the idea that such cinema can be seen as having various kinds of value and reasons to be appreciated: just that we need to be as clear as we can about the basis and assumptions, often unspoken or implicit, upon which such valorisation tends to rest. Being clear about these also opens up the question of why certain qualities or types of films should be elevated over others, in prevailing cultural hierarchies. For the next examples of the kinds of discourses produced in relation to such work, I turn to some earlier instances, both the critical readings and the parts of the established canon of art film on which they are based. These include the valorisation of some textual qualities similar to those already cited above, although in some instances celebrated in relation to very particular bases of judgement.

From Neorealism to Modernism One key dimension of art cinema, both heavyweight and more generally, is that which is understood to offer a more ‘realistic’ picture of the world, as established in the previous chapter. A key historical manifestation, and 89

Positioning Art Cinema future reference point, for films of this kind is what became known as Italian neo-realism, one of the greatest advocates of which was the French critic Andre Bazin. Bazin’s work on the subject can be viewed as a significant benchmark in the celebration of a particular set of cinematic tendencies, including some of those also valorised in the accounts cited above. He is often quoted in support of the valorisation of later films that are seen as sharing some of the same virtues and so is a useful figure to consider in some detail at this point. His writing also appears more directly to have influenced some subsequent filmmakers. A key marker of realism for Bazin is a depiction of the world that is rooted in concrete, physical/ social reality, and one in which responsibility for overt interpretation is handed to the viewer.23 Both levels underpin his valorisation of the cinema of long takes and/or depth of field, formal approaches viewed as avoiding what is seen as an artificial focusing of attention by the filmmaker; both are also frequent points of reference in the broader literature of appreciation of heavyweight modality. At the opposite pole, Bazin locates what he refers to as ‘the expressionist heresy’, as in works of German expressionist film, in which everything is designed artificially to express a particular meaning, or what is viewed as the artifice of dominant Hollywood convention.24 Depth of field cinematography or long takes are viewed as restoring ‘to cinematographic illusion a fundamental quality of reality – its continuity.’25 This is seen in opposition to the basic principles of the classical Hollywood form of editing, in which ‘reality’ (or, rather, the perspective offered to the viewer) is broken down into separate shots, abstracted from the pro-filmic reality. András Bálint Kovács makes a similar, although more analytical rather than evaluative, distinction between what he identifies as two fundamental formal approaches found in modernist art film: the radical continuity involved in the cinema of the extended take or the radical fragmentation found in other examples, including some of the films of Jean-Luc Godard (approaches identified here at the levels of both audio-visual style and narrative structure).26 For Bazin, the favoured approach has the potential, as manifested in key works of Italian neo-realism, to create a blending of the fictional construct and its situation within a world of real, independent materiality. The qualities of the latter are given a life of their own, rather than being subordinated to the central narrative focus. One example cited from Paisà

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The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality (1946) is worth quoting in full, the textual elaboration offered here by Bazin seeking to mirror the effect he finds created by the film: In the admirable final episode of the partisans surrounded in the marshlands, the muddy waters of the Po delta, the reeds stretching away to the horizon, just sufficiently tall to hide the men crouching down in the little flat-bottomed boat, the lapping of the waves against the wood, all occupy a place of equal importance with the men.27

A similar effect is valorised through the use of temporally extended shots and depth of focus in Luchino Visconti’s The Earth Trembles (La terra trema, 1948): ‘If a fisherman rolls a cigarette, he spares us nothing: we see the whole operation; it will not be reduced to its dramatic or symbolic meaning, as is usual with montage.’28 (See Figure 3.3) The ‘profound originality’ of Roberto Rossellini’s Germany, Year Zero (1947) lies, similarly for Bazin, in its refusal to offer sentimental sympathy for its child

Figure 3.3 Realist textures in The Earth Trembles q Universalia Film.

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Positioning Art Cinema protagonist (this is asserted, despite the strongly melodramatic character of the film in some respects). The meaning we are meant to take from the material, its ‘moral or dramatic significance’, is never made visible on the surface of what is represented but has to be extracted by the viewer: ‘Isn’t this, then, a sound definition of realism in art: to force the mind to draw its own conclusions about people and events, instead of manipulating it into accepting someone else’s interpretation?’29 Much the same point is made about Bicycle Thieves (Ladri di biciclette, 1948), the implicit thesis of which is seen as gaining strength from never being stated as such. The film ‘never makes the events or the people part of an economic or political Manichaeism.’ It takes care ‘not to cheat on reality, not only by contriving to give the succession of events the appearance of an accidental and as it were anecdotal chronology, but in treating each of them according to its phenomenological integrity.’30 Events ‘are not necessarily a sign of something, of a truth of which we are to be convinced; they all carry their own weight, their complete uniqueness, that ambiguity which characterizes any fact.’31 Much of this position might be taken as characteristic of wider definitions of art, or of realism in art. But it is also characteristic of something that needs to be understood as a particular position, as such, rather than anything self-evident, given, or otherwise more neutrally located. All of the above involves or assumes a particular status on the part of the viewer or critic: one that is happy to forgo what would generally be understood to be more popular/mainstream pleasures in favour of experiencing the kind of rigour that tends to be involved or implied. It is notable, and again characteristic of this kind of approach, that Bazin emphasises the absence of particular qualities, those usually associated with the mainstream, as much as or more than what is present. It is the absence of anything too explicit or spelled out that produces the space for a certain kind of viewer engagement; one that, however effective it might be considered to be from one perspective, cannot be considered to be universally available. Bazin is clearly aware of this up to a point. If La terra trema is celebrated for its ‘extraordinary poetry’, Bazin also notes that Visconti’s ‘disinclination to sacrifice anything to drama’ is likely to bore ‘the public’, limiting such a work to ‘no more than a restricted commercial future.’32 Bazin is also careful not to offer an essentialised notion of realism, which ‘can only occupy in art a dialectical position – it is more a reaction

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The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality than a truth.’33 What he describes in Bicycle Thieves is notably couched as a contrivance, the creation of an impression of the accidental or anecdotal, rather than such qualities in actuality. But if his position is qualified in these ways, the broader, underpinning bases of the oppositions within which his position is located are not opened up to question of the kind I am seeking to establish here. Certain approaches are celebrated and advocated. They are seen as products of a particular social context, within the specific historical and geographical location of post-war Italy, and the underlying reasons for approving these approaches is closely related to the socio-political engagement of which they are seen as a part, another characteristic feature of the valorisation of such work. But the deeper grounds on which they are opposed to the qualities associated with the mainstream are left unarticulated. Another celebration of a variety of art film that shares some central qualities with neo-realism is offered by the then-future Hollywood screenwriter and director Paul Schrader, in his very particular notion of the ‘transcendental style’ in film.34 This is a striking example of the making of very strong claims for austere works that fit into the heavyweight category as defined here. Transcendental style, for Schrader, is one that aspires to, and can achieve, a sense of expressing a capitalised form of the ‘Transcendent’; that is, something of the ineffable realm of the religious. This is presented quite explicitly as something special, worthy and lofty in character, and part of a longer artistic-religious tradition. Schrader focuses on what he sees as two exemplary cases, the work of Yasujiro Ozu and Robert Bresson, and one more marginal example, Carl Dreyer. The style is rooted in a plain, stripped-back approach characteristic of neo-realism and a wider range of art film, one that is willfully non-expressive in such domains as plot, acting, characterisation, camerawork, music, dialogue and editing. Rather than seeking simply to capture or create a sense of the textures of everyday life, however, as might be expected to be a motivation for such approaches in a work of neo-realism, the aim is seen as being to strip away any basis for conventional, worldly interpretation (including those based in notions of realism, psychologism, romanticism, expressionism, impressionism or rationalism). This approach is described as formalist rather than realist. The degree of non-expressionism is such, Schrader suggests, as to go beyond anything that might claim the status of a portrait rooted in unvarnished reality.

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Positioning Art Cinema In both Ozu and Bresson, the style is manifested by the use of nonexpressive performance, designed to strip away any notion of psychological depth, combined with formal approaches such as simple, regular forms of composition and editing intended to be denied any particular editorial powers; any ability to add interpretive meanings of their own, a point similar to that made by Bazin. The initial focus of such films has much in common with some of the ideals of neo-realism, and of many subsequent tendencies in art cinema, including those identified above in the work of Béla Tarr and, for example, Chantal Akerman: on conveying an impression of the everyday, ‘a meticulous representation of the dull, banal commonplaces of everyday living [. . .]’.35 For Schrader this is merely the ground from which such films enact two key moves central to his notion of the transcendental style. These are the creation of a ‘disparity’ between the everyday world so presented and some outburst of spiritual emotion, leading to decisive action, and a climactic move into a stage of ‘stasis’, in which the disparity is not resolved but transcended. It is not necessary to go into the details of this; but, in Schrader’s view, a successful achievement of this process expresses the Transcendent, and the viewer who perceives and appreciates this ‘undergoes the experience of transcendence.’36 As this is articulated in the case of Bresson: ‘The decisive action forces the viewer into the confrontation with the Wholly Other he would normally avoid. He is faced with an explicably spiritual act within a cold environment, an act that now requests his participation and approval.’37 The sense of viewer determinism implied here is very different from the claims made by Bazin on behalf of Italian neo-realism. But the point for my purpose is less to engage with the plausibility of this account than to use it as an example of the lofty nature of the claims that are sometimes made on behalf of the heavyweight art film, this perhaps being one of the most elevated of all such examples (some engagement with aspects of Christian theology is, however, quite widespread in numerous manifestations of European art cinema, including, for example, the work of Ingmar Bergman). A number of religious-artistic precedents are suggested for each of his case studies, but Schrader’s favouring of a stripped-back film style is based on a claim that such an approach comes nearest to conveying the domain of the spiritual. Given the option between the employment of ‘abundant’ and ‘sparse’ means (an issue taken from more general writing on religion),

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The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality Schrader suggests that the latter draw the viewer away from the familiar material world and towards that of the spiritually other. His articulation of this point is worth quoting at greater length, given the resonance it has for bases on which the minimalist style, or other forms of art cinema, have been celebrated elsewhere, but along with its need also to employ more familiarly mainstream devices to some extent: In transcendental style, sparse means are, to a large degree, simply a refusal to use the available abundant means. There is no great need to invent new abstract forms; sparseness can be achieved by gradually robbing the abundant means of their potential. Transcendent style must always ride this thin line: it must use the given abundant means to sustain audience interest, and it must simultaneous reject the empathetic rationale for that interest in order to set up a new priority. And because the abundant potential of films is so great, its rejection can be even greater.38

For Schrader, the likes of Ozu and Bresson are helping to return art to the more spiritual role it played in the past. A particular style put to a particular purpose, identified in this limited corpus of work, is elevated to a particularly high status. This is a very specific reading, the explicitly religious nature of which makes it untypical of contemporary film analysis more generally, but also one that contains a number of components that are present more widely in the valorisation of this type of art film (something of this kind of transcendence has also been viewed by some critics as a feature of the films of Alexander Sokurov and Bruno Dumont, for example). The association of the implicit other, that of mainstream cinema, with an abundance of means, and of the hard-core art film with a deliberate refusal of this – in the positive celebration of the sparse and minimal – is one that recurs frequently in the discourses explored further below. A ‘spiritual’ dimension is also frequently identified in the work of another mainstay of the heavyweight art-film tradition, Andrei Tarkovsky, a figure located in a broadly similar manner to those outlined above. For Robert Bird, for example, each of Tarkovksy’s seven features resonated as ‘a major cultural event’, both in the Soviet Union, where he was based for most of his career, and ‘throughout the world’.39 Each film was received, Bird suggests, as a ‘revelation’, another term that suggests religious 95

Positioning Art Cinema connotations, confirming the director’s status ‘as the only Russian filmmaker since Eisenstein who could rival Russia’s great writers and composers in the power of their epic narratives, at once deeply national and profoundly universal.’40 His features have sometimes been revered ‘as a sacred septateuch’, again located as ‘on a par with the masterpieces of Russia’s novelists and composers’.41 In addition, or as a result: ‘His work may rank as the single most important influence on the style of contemporary European [art] film, with its open narrative structures and slow, pensive mood.’ Moving beyond the distancing phrases employed on occasion in some of this discourse (‘received in the West as. . .’, ‘sometimes been revered as. . . ’), Bird argues that it is possible ‘both to take seriously the spiritual claims made on behalf of Tarkovsky’s films and to analyse these films on rigorous aesthetic criteria.’42 Contrary to some interpretations, the filmmaker’s focus on key issues such as earth and nation should not be seen as an essentialised approach – a clearly negative concept, as articulated here – but as one that entails an exploration of the encounter between the medium and the world. A belief in ‘the power of cinema to channel fundamental forces of human reality and thereby transform the human world’ – that is, a very big claim to make, akin to those made by Schrader in relation to the work of his favoured trio – is measured against ‘the representational limits of the medium.’43 The work is associated with a tradition of ‘poetic’ cinema and viewed as ‘an investigation into the elements of cinema by means of which a merely visual world is displaced by an intensely palpable reality, the ceaseless flows of information crystallising into concrete, somatic experience.’44 Such an approach is seen as embodying not just one variety but the ‘essence’ of cinema. Taken together, these constitute another characteristic set of criteria for the attribution of revered heavyweight art film status: associations with notions of spiritual insight; importance; specific but also universal status; comparison with major established artistic traditions; influence; and reflexive implications relating to the nature and status of cinematic representation as a whole. In reference to the broader notion of poetic cinema, Bird does at one point refer in passing to this as an ‘elite’ form, but at no stage is any more critical reflection offered on the broader, relational basis of the kinds of value judgements sketched above. Whatever we might think of them – positive or negative in character, and including some

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The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality approaches investigated further in relation to particular examples below – this is another example in which the basis of valorisation seems to be treated as if obvious and self-evident, on the grounds of the qualities of the work and various sedimented assumptions, and not in need of any further elaboration or situation as part of a broader array of cultural positionings of the kind explored in this book. One particular approach is not presented as such, but is accorded the lofty and universal status of embodying the ‘essence’ of the form, a position that seems actively to obstruct any more relational understanding. The qualities associated with heavyweight art cinema in the accounts cited above bring us back to the notion of modernism considered in the previous chapter. Either taken separately, or more often when combined, such approaches include some of the core elements of modernism as applied to film. A good account of this dimension of art film is found in Kolker’s The Altering Eye: Contemporary International Cinema, first published in 1983. Italian neo-realism is identified as a key break from the mainstream classical style associated with Hollywood, one Kolker sees as important both in itself and as a pointer towards a number of modernist tendencies that followed in its wake, a key component of which is the foregrounding of form. Kolker begins by setting up a familiar opposition between two types of narrative films: those associated primarily with the studio mainstream and its more radical other in the shape of certain kinds of art cinema, an opposition of the kind outlined in Chapter 1. Film can ‘set out to please its audience, sooth it, meet and reinforce its expectations. Or it can challenge, question and probe, inquire about itself, its audience, and the world that both inhabit and reflect.’45 The latter is his subject: ‘film made in a spirit of resistance, rebellion, and refusal’. It is clear, although still left largely implicit, that he considers such films to be superior to those of the commercial mainstream, or some art films he sees as failing to achieve the standards of the most effectively alternative. The modernist tendency, he suggests, is one ‘whose diversity has a common location in the desire to challenge attitudes about the work and place of art, to attack conventions and complacency, to reorder the relationship of the work and the spectator.’ The forms of melodrama associated by Kolker with the conventional mainstream are seen as offering security and repetition to the viewer: ‘Just such forms of repetition, emotional safety, and reinforcement are what

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Positioning Art Cinema the modernists oppose with forms of question and surprise.’46 Melodrama is established as a point of comparison against which modernist films react. It is established, that is, as the kind of opposite to ‘high’ culture suggested in Chapter 1 via the accounts of class-based taste formulations in Bourdieu and Gans. Kolker suggests that some films that fall into the category of the modernist also incorporate melodrama, however, to one degree or another. If neo-realism is credited with marking a key historical break, in its attempt (far from always successful) not to impose abstractions onto the specific, concrete material of the film world: ‘The history of film after neorealism is the history of how much overt recognition was given by the filmmaker, by the film itself, to the artifice that created it, that made it appear “real” or a commentary about “reality”.’47 Film, Kolker suggests, ‘caught up with what the other arts had been doing since the turn of the century: expanding, reflecting upon, and defining its own formal nature, subordinating content to the expression of content, the story to its telling.’48 This is much the same context as that suggested by Kovács, in which the modernist art film is seen as a product that is ‘less a specific type of film than a specific version of modern art.’49 As elsewhere, for Kolker, ‘form was recognised as the essential content of the work of art.’ Or, we might add: form was recognised as the essential content of a certain notion of ‘high’ art, or more specifically modernist or avant-garde work, the historical context of the separation of which from a broader notion of art is outlined above. The distinction between a reflection upon form itself and a more straightforward telling of story is exactly the kind of distinction made by Bourdieu and Gans between the types of material viewed as appealing to those of different social status. To see this as the ‘essential’ content of art in general is to buy entirely into that separation, the historical background of which is charted by Shiner. Given the extent of its institutionalisation, this is hardly surprising, but it is a move that remains significant and worthy of attention as a key part of the broader discursive process of positioning such work. If a critical reflection on form is a key part of most definitions of modernism, as is the case here, an early example of this equation in relation to film is found in Stanley Cavell’s The World Viewed: Reflections on the Ontology of Film, first published in 1971, a work in which ‘serious’ and ‘modernist’ seem to be used as if coterminous.50

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The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality An important reference point for Kolker, and many others who adopt a similar position, is Brecht’s elaboration of a form of theatre in which various devices are employed in an attempt to distance the viewer from emotional engagement in the drama, in favour of encouraging an attitude of critical enquiry towards both form and content. One ‘model’ example of this kind of modernism is found in Alain Resnais’ Last Year in Marienbad, a work widely acknowledged as representative of certain austere hard-core art film characteristics: a teasing and provocative film that constantly plays with the viewer’s sense of temporal and spatial orientation (see Figure 3.4). The filmmakers ‘prod us to expect the conventional, and relish making us squirm when they overturn the expectation at every instant,’51 a characterisation that has something in common with Lübecker’s notion of the feel-bad film. Marienbad is, for Kolker, a film ‘greatly to be admired, but not loved’, one of numerous occasions when his engagement seems to mix the academically analytical with the more overtly evaluative.52 The problem with this film, he suggests, is its total removal from reference to any world other than that of its own creation, a position rooted in the political agenda that underlies Kolker’s stance, to which I return below. Preferable is the work of the French new wave, particularly that of Godard, in which he finds a more agreeable balance between challenge and invitation to the viewer: ‘In the counterpoint between familiar genres and the commentary they make on them and on the way we look at film in general, an active engagement between film and viewer is maintained that comes from a forthright wish to please.’53

Figure 3.4 The disorienting world of Last Year at Marienbad q Fox Lorber.

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Positioning Art Cinema This is a key part of Kolker’s argument, one that goes some way towards undermining too simple an opposition between the mainstream/ conventional/melodramatic and its modernist alternative. If modernist art film opposes the conventional, it can also feed off some of its central dynamics, Kolker suggests, often to its benefit. His position here is closer to that sometimes associated with indie film or to Kovacs’ notion of the classical art film: understood as involving a variable blend of the more and less conventional (this is something he detects in many cases in the films of neo-realism, among others, some of which contain distinctly melodramatic dimensions, although leanings towards the conventional are often couched in more negative judgemental terms). This stance is important when it comes to the question of accusations of elitism and inaccessibility, as considered further below. If the interrogation of form is a key component of modernist art, as Kolker suggests, his reason for valorising this approach is not simply on that basis alone, as a purely aesthetic judgement, but located in relation to an explicitly political position. To foreground form, and to reveal its status as an arbitrary construct, is to challenge the ideological dimension of classical film. To disrupt the flow of images associated with classical style is also to disrupt the impression it creates that, not just representation but the ‘reality’ it signifies, is unproblematically given and self-sufficient. It is, therefore, to challenge the whole basis of a Hollywood approach rooted in a particular ideology, one that denies the importance of social inequality as far as individual experience and happiness is concerned. This is another very strong set of claims to make on behalf of films of this kind, one typical of a particular variant of ideologically-oriented film analysis that takes the classical style as a negative point of departure against which an emphasis is put on the subversive potential of more radical approaches ranging from modernist art cinema to the avant-garde (an issue to which I return in Chapter 5). If one of the merits of neo-realism was its challenge to the classical position at the level of plotting and events, modernist film goes further, in deconstructing the formal basis through which such a vision of the world is constructed and upon which these manifestations of ideology rest. As Kolker puts it: ‘By alienating the viewer from a simple emotional reaction and from unquestioned involvement in a film’s story, Godardian cinema integrates the viewer in an active engagement with the meaning-

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The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality making process. In so doing it can create alterations in the way we see and understand. It can teach.’54 And, further: If we can learn that the stories we see on screen are not simple reflections of reality – complete, closed, satisfying – but meditations on reality, mediations of reality, even intrusions upon reality, then we may come to understand that reality is not an absolute, but something malleable and, in the end, created. Alterable.55

This is a solid enough rationale in itself for the celebration of filmmaking that seeks to create Brecht’s famous ‘alienation’ effect in the viewer, and for similar reasons to those motivating Brecht, and one with which I have much sympathy. But it immediately raises a number of awkward questions. Who can it teach? And does it, really, teach anyone other than the already (or very nearly already) converted? This is where the thorny question of accessibility becomes important, along with the distinction Kolker seeks to make between most of the films of Godard at the time (and other favoured instances) and an example such as Marienbad or other more austerely demanding and unforgiving films such as those of Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet. Other instances celebrated by Kolker, along similar lines to Godard, include revolutionary filmmaking from Latin America, works that he suggests, at their best, ‘are able to combine emotion, insight, and calls for change within narratives that are engaging at all of these levels, that are didactic and moving simultaneously.’56 Examples cited in detail include Humberto Solás’ Lucia (Cuba, 1969) and Glauber Rocha’s Antonio das Mortes (Brazil, 1969). The work required by the viewer to engage with the kinds of films examined in his book is responsible for their lack of commercial popularity, Kolker concedes. But, he adds, this is a sad fact ‘because the majority of these works are accessible to anyone who cares to confront them’.57 In relation to Godard in particular, he adds (with the exception of the films made with the Dziga Vertov group in the late 1960s and early 1970s, which he convicts of hectoring agit-prop), ‘Godard’s work is enormously accessible. He is able to fuse wit and irony, intellect and passion into narratives any of which covers a large area of subjective, social, political, and cultural experience and has a vitality that invites any viewer willing to engage and meet its demands.’58 Some aspects of Godard might 101

Positioning Art Cinema indeed be relatively more accessible than others, or the work of those used as comparators by Kolker. But it is necessary to examine more closely the phrasing used here by Kolker. These films are accessible to ‘anyone who cares to confront them’ or to ‘any viewer willing to engage and meet’ their demands. The term ‘any’ here, which implies a wide range, seems heavily to be qualified by the phrases that follow. Anyone ‘who cares’ to ‘confront’ works of modernist art cinema is likely to remain a small minority constituency. To ‘care’ to ‘confront’ such work suggests a quite specific socio-cultural position. It implies those who really want to, who are already sufficiently engaged in the kinds of issues raised here to make this particular investment in both time and concern. Likewise, the somewhat restricted ‘anyone’ who is likely to be ‘willing’ to engage and meet their demands. Kolker’s phrasing seems to evade the real and awkward issues of elitism and restricted audience constituency that confront such forms of cinema, however much anyone might admire them (myself included) for particular reasons in their own right. Kolker acknowledges that the modernist emphasis on form in much post-neo-realist cinema (and thus, often, on difficulty and opacity) threatened to create a ‘new artistic elitism’.59 But the distinction he draws between some examples, where this seems to result, and others, where he suggests it does not, seems questionable. A film such as Godard’s My Life to Live (Vivre sa vie, 1962), which he cites approvingly, is relatively more accessible than Marienbad, but seems still unlikely to appeal to other than a quite specific audience, even if the constituency for art cinema of this kind was some degrees larger during its heyday and relative fashionability at the height of the 1960s. The socio-political lesson Kolker draws from such a film is also far from self-evident for other than a very specialised viewing experience. It might well be implicit within the text but would seem likely to require a considerable armoury of preconditions, such as those found in a context of academic study, in order fully or substantially to be activated by any individual viewer. The notion of the requirement for active audience engagement in art cinema, or particularly its modernist strand, is one to which I return in the next two chapters. It is also part of the broader underlying basis on which ‘higher’ art is conventionally distinguished from popular/mass culture. That ‘difficult’, modernist or avant-garde work might sometimes require or at least encourage this kind of audience involvement seems, on

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The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality the face of it, a reasonable assertion. That popular culture does not – a key part of the rhetoric in which this is frequently positioned as one of the virtues of higher art – is more questionable, an element of the discourse to which I return at the end of this book. Whether or not art film actually requires or results in activity greater than that involved in the consumption of mainstream cinema also remains uncertain, as Barbara Wilinsky suggests. The Brechtian assumptions that underlie the approach of Kolker and many others can themselves be questioned from both sides: what they claim about both the ‘passively’ consumed mainstreamconventional and exactly what activity is likely to be involved in the viewing of certain types of art-cinema alternative.60 But, as Wilinsky adds, an opposition between notions of activity and passivity (one rooted in the broader, historical discourses outlined above) has frequently been mobilized as a way of marking a distinction from mainstream film by those invested in art cinema, from producers to critics; the latter, we might add, both journalistic and academic.61 Other accounts of specific varieties of art cinema also make inflated claims about its supposed capacity to bring about transformational change, whether at the level of the individual experience or within society more broadly, as will be seen in Chapters 4, 5 and 6. This tendency to overstate the transformative potential of art or other forms of alternative cinema might be viewed as the flipside of assumptions rooted in the strand of film theory that seems greatly to exaggerate the determining potency of more conventional-mainstream cinema, particularly that which is rooted in Lacanian-Althusserian notions of interpellation and construction of subjectivity. If one form of cinema is considered to have the power to support existing regimes of subjectivity, its alternative is viewed as having potential to do the opposite. But the argument seems unconvincing even within the terms of this questionable opposition. Whatever questions might be raised about the potency classical or mainstream cinema might have in this dimension (a huge subject, impossible to summarise here), it does at least have the benefit of extremely widespread dissemination, a claim that cannot be made on behalf of whatever powers are attributed to its art-cinematic alternatives. It is useful to view all such claims in the light of broader (and highly questionable) assumptions embedded in historically prevailing notions of the supposedly transformative powers of the arts, a perspective that sheds fresh light on the particular arguments attributed to

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Positioning Art Cinema certain kinds of film.62 As far as arguments about the radically transformative potential of the arts are concerned, these are notions associated particularly with a history of avant-garde production in the early decades of the twentieth century. The aim of such work, which as Andreas Huyssen suggests was not achieved, was to overcome the opposition between high/elite and low/popular culture within which art cinema of the kind examined in this book usually remains situated to a large degree, both textually and in the grounds on which it is most often celebrated.63

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4 Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema

If, for figures as different in some ways as Bazin and Kolker, the principal negative other of valorised forms of art cinema is classical Hollywood in general, including for the former its style of continuity editing, a recent tendency has been to juxtapose a particular facet of the heavyweight tendency with a more frenetic contemporary studio style. A major object of celebration here is the cinema of the extended take, often combined with minimal overt action, one of the elements cited in the previous chapter, and how this is credited with allowing greater freedom for viewers to explore the image themselves. The latter is a process that has been praised either generally or as one way of drawing attention to the formal dimension. Against this is frequently set a Hollywood style of recent decades associated with ever-faster editing and increasingly mobile, sometimes jarringly unsteady, camerawork. These are qualities often positioned as lower in cultural standing, either generally or in combination with their frequent usage in low-status formats such as action films and blockbuster production. We find here a heightened example of the broader juxtaposition between notions of the mainstream and certain forms with which it is contrasted, one that is sometimes explicitly situated within a social-historical diagnosis of the state of contemporary society. Exactly how slowness is defined or constituted in particular examples is somewhat variable, as suggested by Song Hwee Lim’s study of the 105

Positioning Art Cinema phenomenon in the work of Tsai Ming-liang.1 Quite how extended a take has to be to qualify as ‘long’ has never been quantified, as Lim suggests, although the term implies something considerably longer than the norms of mainstream/classical style, a protraction that can draw attention to the issue of duration and, thereby, to the process of viewing itself. As Lim suggests, the extended take might be static, as in the case of Tsai, or mobile, or a combination of the two. As well as such formal qualities, slow cinema is also usually defined according to a minimalism of action within the frame, often focusing on what would conventionally be seen as mundane, everyday rhythms of life. The form is frequently viewed as also having a poetic/expressive dimension or potential, either combined with or moving beyond the qualities conventionally associated with realism. Contemporary versions of this approach can be located within an established history of art cinema, including the work associated with Italian neo-realism and that of consecrated figures such as Antonioni, Tarkovsky, Miklós Jancsó, Chantal Akerman and Alexander Sokurov, along with more radically minimalist work from the avant-garde. The slow style has potential to bridge the two central categories encountered in the previous chapters, within which art cinema has often been understood and valorised: those of realism and modernism. A frequent ground for the celebration of the slow style is the claim made on its behalf for the status of realism, within the tradition established by the approach taken to its Italian predecessor by Bazin. Slow films are often viewed as capturing something closer than usual to the rhythms of ordinary life, without the dull parts elided as they tend to be in classical and related styles or more fragmentary variants of modernism. They are also seen as providing potential for realism to cross over into something expressive, obscure or more Brechtian and distanced, in the capacity of extended duration in some cases to become elliptical or draw attention to the dimension of form in its own right. A common theme of writing that embraces slow cinema, in the work of Lim and others, is that this modality invites a relationship between the viewer and the moving image different from that found in more conventional filmmaking, one that is often counterposed not just to the style associated with Hollywood or other mainstream cinemas but to a wider sense of the speed of contemporary society. Both an analysis of contemporary Hollywood style and an argument for a slower and more contemplative alterative have been made by David

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema Bordwell, alongside a growing body of subsequent work on this variety of art cinema. For Bordwell, the dominant tendency in the Hollywood of the early decades of the twenty-first century is what he terms ‘intensified continuity’, the four main dimensions of which are: more rapid editing; use of extreme lens lengths, resulting in sharper contrasts between shots; a greater reliance on close shots as opposed to long and mid-shots; and increased camera movement, particularly what Bordwell terms the use of the restless ‘prowling camera’.2 To Bordwell’s list we can add the employment of marked camera unsteadiness, a feature of many contemporary films in the action or related genres, an element often combined with either longer takes or more rapid editing, and a generally ‘twitchy’ style that seeks to mimic the appearance of documentary/vérité footage. A key point for Bordwell is that intensified style is not only used in heightened sequences, to create specific effects measured to particular onscreen experiences, but has become more widely adopted; not just in action films, for example, but also in a format such as romantic comedy. Bordwell offers a number of possible explanations for the advent of this style, focusing particularly on changes in studio production processes. These include: the development of lighter and more mobile cameras; pressure to reduce shooting schedules, resulting in a tendency to shoot more angles on the action, to provide options in post-production; and the development of digital editing tools that make faster cutting easier to achieve. A clear evaluative implication of his account is that the majority of contemporary Hollywood films have become over-insistent and lack discrimination and nuance. He does not position himself as entirely opposed to the use of this style. Some positive instances are cited of the employment of aspects of intensified continuity ‘in imaginative ways’ by particular filmmakers, both inside and beyond Hollywood.3 In its prevalence and dominance, however, Bordwell suggests that it leaves other approaches ignored or under-used, particularly the employment of ensemble staging. The element of critique in Bordwell’s account of intensified style is found somewhat more pointedly in his book-length celebration of elements of heavyweight art-film style identified in the work of Mizoguchi Kenji, Theo Angelopoulos and Hou Hsiao-hsien.4 It is clearly implied here that these approaches are of greater value, in ways that mirror some of the accounts of art cinema cited above. Intensified style is viewed as an

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Positioning Art Cinema ‘inflated’ technique, one that ‘risks bombast’, particularly when used in the treatment of ordinary scenes rather than heightened moments.5 The implication is that this is not a good thing; that it is overwrought and unjustifiable, and somehow, it seems to be suggested, morally wrong. Explicitly, Bordwell pitches his account as a call for more variety, rather than specifically as a critique of intensified style. One goal of his book, he says, is to coax young filmmakers into exploring alternatives. But, as I have argued more briefly elsewhere, a clearly hierarchical impression emerges from the distinctions he makes between these two types of style and the grounds on which they rest.6 An opposition is suggested between that which is viewed as inflated and heavy-handed and approaches accorded the status of the ‘subtle’ and the ‘nuanced’, a dynamic that fits closely into the scheme of oppositions suggested in Chapter 1 and that I have also explored in relation to the articulation of notions of ‘quality’ in studio production in Quality Hollywood. The language employed by Bordwell in relation to his examples of the favoured alternative is telling and loaded. The films of Mizoguchi are ‘predicated on distant shots, meticulous compositions, and graceful camera movements.’7 He cultivated ‘exceptionally delicate’ staging tactics.8 That is, it is implied, as opposed to the heavy-handed and unsubtle associated particularly with the Hollywood mainstream. This is the language of a certain kind of ‘art’ or higher culture, with particular resonances as such (although not necessarily that of the ‘highest’ art, or the modernist tradition, given the soft and gentle – patriarchal-stereotypically, ‘feminine’ – connotations of the language). In an example such as The Life of Oharu (1952), the camera remains at a distance and key actions are ‘almost entirely hidden’.9 ‘The staging narrates, but it often unfolds the story in an opaque or ambiguous fashion. It offers decorative resonance but with a subtlety that demands that the viewer explore the frame.’10 Opacity, ambiguity, subtlety and the placing of such demands on the viewer are features typical of those ascribed in such accounts, usually positively, to the heavyweight end of the art-film tradition in general or the slow film in particular; qualities that are again implicitly situated in contrast to the simplistic over-emphasis and heavy-handedness associated with its opposite. In the case of Angelopoulos, an image from whose Trilogy: The Weeping Meadow (Trilogia To livadi pou dakryzei, 2004) appears on the cover of this book, the opposition Bordwell establishes includes much of

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema contemporary European cinema, in a distinctly rhetorical passage: ‘In today’s thin-textured European cinema, where formulaic decoupage and big close-ups rule nearly as much as in Hollywood, at least one stubbornly highfalutin artist tries to keep alive the rich evocative image.’11 The use of the term ‘highfalutin’ is notable, a seeming acknowledgement of the elitist status of such work but one that seems to evade any engagement with what that might entail, through what appears to be an almost ironic, distancing usage of a colloquial and non-analytical term. Valorised here is the use of long shots, long takes, seemingly dead screen time (‘temps morts’) and the role of off-screen space: qualities linked in this case both to Brechtian distancing strategies (in the earlier films of Angelopoulos) and to the elliptical, de-dramatised modernist heritage associated with canonical figures including Antonioni, Tarkovsky, Jancsó and Akerman. In this case: ‘The commitment to long takes, distant views, sparse frames and temps morts stakes everything on the unfolding image. Since cuts are unlikely to come, we must wait for the shot to reveal its mysteries at its own pace.12 What is implied and valorised is a sense of discipline and of demands made upon the viewer, the effect of which is likely in many cases to reduce the appeal of such work to a small minority, as opposed to the over-emphatic spelling-out associated with the cinema of the mass market. Broadly similar value is given to the films of Hou Hsiao-hsien: ‘As in Mizoguchi’s films, we must be alert to just-noticeable differences, those barely discernible changes in the image that ordinary filmmaking overrides in favour of sweeping effects.’13 Another book-length celebration of such approaches develops more explicitly the notion of a slow cinema contrasted positively with that of contemporary Hollywood. Slow Movies: Countering the Cinema of Action, by Ira Jaffe, is a characteristic example of a tendency to neglect to offer any exploration of the broader cultural-historical context of the construction of such an opposition, either its own or that of numerous critics whose evaluations of the films discussed are cited at face value rather than considered as evidence of a particular discursive complex. Jaffe focuses on examples in a period starting from the mid 1980s, a body of work considered even more stringent than much of the tradition in relation to which it is positioned, including many of the earlier instances cited above. The approach to plot, character and emotion, ‘and to stillness, motion, time and space’, is said to ‘underscore aspects of contemporary existence rarely foregrounded in either popular or art films.’14 Such films are

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Positioning Art Cinema characteristically viewed as saying something significant about big questions and the manner in which they do this is distinguished not just from popular film but also from the bulk of art cinema. The valorisation of such films can be viewed in the context of a number of criticisms made of recent/contemporary slow cinema, from various directions, as usefully summarised by Tiago de Luca and Nuno Barradas Jorge.15 These range from complaints, mostly at a journalistic level, about the supposedly ‘boring’ nature of such work, to more substantial concerns about their potential socio-political implications. On the latter, for example, some have argued that such films are too strongly focused on the international realm from which their funding frequently comes, selling highly aestheticised visions of their often impoverished locations for the pleasures of metropolitan critics, festival-goers and art house audiences. Concerns have also been expressed about what is sometimes claimed to be their reactionary nature, in both the aestheticisation of life on the margins in many examples and the making of a nostalgic appeal to a past experience of temporality. In response, writers in favour of slow cinema have made a range of arguments, including those of Lim, Jaffe and others who suggest that such films can be viewed as progressive in both putting a focus on the lived experiences of the marginalised and in using slowness of style as a way to confront various issues relating to the fast-paced nature of global modernisation.16 That the films to which Jaffe refers are considered in his account to be of superior importance is indicated by a number of rhetorical, evaluative statements: they are created by ‘some of the finest film artists working today’ (that is, not just filmmakers but an emphasis on the claim to higher artistic status); they are ‘hailed at’ a list of the most prestigious festivals ‘as well as in the pages of leading film journals’, each of which suggests further markers of discernment.17 Likewise, they are ‘embraced by cinephiles around the world’, assumed to be further guarantors of supreme quality, while being largely unknown to the public: itself just as clear a marker of this kind of status. The specific function of none of these kinds of endorsements, as sources of active institutionalised consecration, is subjected to any consideration. Jaffe situates this body of work in relation to that of the likes of Ozu, Bresson, Antonioni and Dreyer and also to the critical writings of figures ranging from Bazin and Bresson to the more contemporary film theory of Gilles Deleuze and Laura Mulvey.

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema Like Kolker, Jaffe seems to assume a kind of reading generally that seems likely in reality to be much more specific and limited in its social base. He suggests that: ‘The physical stillness, emptiness and silence in slow movies may instigate, for instance, pensiveness about the non-existence that precedes and follows life, or about metaphysical emptiness in the human soul, a void at the root of human consciousness [. . .].’18 So it might, and it might reasonably be said that the films invite such a reading, but probably only for the minority constituency that a) is ever likely to watch such films and b) is already attuned to perspectives of this kind; qualifications that are important to any full understanding of this kind of cinema, however much it might be admired in its own terms. Referring to the influence on such work of the tradition of the Theatre of the Absurd, Jaffe comments that: ‘Obviously laypeople as well as playwrights and film directors contemplate one void or another when life slows down.’19 How ‘obvious’ this might be seems rather questionable, and somewhat risible is the example that follows, a reference to a comment made by Hilary Clinton during a campaign in 2008, as if she were a useful example of a ‘lay-person’. The evasion of the specificity of the constituency for such films, and for particular readings of them, seems quite pronounced in this instance. Jaffe goes on to cite Mulvey on the fact that celluloid movies derive their impression of movement from sequences of still images, and other theorists on the simultaneous combination of presence and absence entailed in the physical basis of the form – as if this constitutes the essence of film (as Mulvey argues, somewhat implausibly, in the case of the still image20). It is implied, therefore, that films which focus overtly on such qualities as slowness, stillness or absence might be viewed as somehow closer to the heart of the medium. This seems to be another form of special pleading for what is seen as the more lofty status of films of a particular kind, similar to that made by Bird when finding the essence of film in the work of Tarkovsky. As in the case of Bird, the making of such a claim has the effect of negating any sense that these remain very specific kinds of cultural products, the nature of which exists in relational rather than absolute terms, regardless of how much they might be appreciated or otherwise from any specific perspective. The choice of filmmakers to use ‘slow’ approaches remains one among various options, however potent it might be in some cases, and not remotely anything to do with any ‘essence’ of the medium; the latter, were we to believe in so mythical a quality, might

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Positioning Art Cinema equally (un)convincingly be argued to be to contain movement and the strong illusion of active presence (qualities more often associated with the distinctive characteristics of film in relation to other media). Another example of this kind of over-claiming is found in a study by Justin Remes of what he terms the ‘cinema of stasis’, a body of avant-garde work in which the on-screen image remains either mostly or entirely stationary: an extreme variety of the slow film (notable examples include Andy Warhol’s Empire [1964]). By halting the movement generally associated with moving pictures, Remes suggests, ‘the static film permits a more substantive understanding of cinema, foregrounding its temporal dimensions and the stillness that is pivotal to its ontology.’21 It seems reasonable to suggest, as Remes does, that motion should not be seen as a necessarily defining quality of film (any more than sound or colour). Instead, he suggests that temporality is a necessary dimension, which again seems a reasonable conclusion, given that all films have some kind of duration. Static films might be understood to highlight the latter quality in particular, but is seems a considerable and unwarranted leap to suggest that this means they offer a ‘more substantive understanding’ of the medium in general (‘more substantive’ than what is not explicitly articulated, but presumably refers to the general run of moving pictures), or that stillness is, as a result, ‘pivotal to its ontology.’ The terms in which this is put imply that such films are in some way superior to others, a claim that seems unjustified and also unnecessary to an analysis or appreciation of their specific qualities. It appears to be a common rhetorical move, however, to elevate the value of a particular type of film, or a particular dimension of the medium, in order also implicitly to elevate the importance of its study. Although he rejects the suggestion that there is any ‘essence’ of film, Remes further elevates the status of the kinds of films he examines in emphasising their ‘contemplative’ dimension, an extension of a frequent basis of the valorisation of slow cinema more generally. If conventional film has often been seen as foreclosing space for contemplation – Remes cites authorities for this view such as Walter Benjamin and Roland Barthes – static films are viewed as inviting contemplation to an even greater extent than art forms to which they are compared on this basis, such as painting and photography. To have fully engaged with films of this kind requires a sustained period of such response, he suggests, as opposed to what can be a

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema temporally more passing experience of a painting or photograph. That this is, again, viewed as a source of superiority is made clear in the terms in which it is elaborated. In comparison with what Tom Gunning terms the cinema of attractions – a notion developed in relation to early cinema that has been applied to a wider range of mainstream films, including the spectacular Hollywood blockbuster – most examples of the cinema of stasis ‘aim to create a space for meditation, for immersion in an image, for sober reflections on the nature of movement and stasis, time and space, cinema and art.’22 This is a familiar position from which to valorise art cinema in general, slow cinema in particular, or the more rarefied territory of this kind of avant-garde work.23 It enacts a familiar construction of rhetorical oppositions, the underlying bases of which are taken for granted as markers of distinction. In the various forms in which it is examined by Remes, the cinema of stasis is positioned as offering important insights, either into the cinematic medium and spectatorship or into broader issues such as the nature of time itself. Jaffe locates his slow movies more overtly than does Bordwell as a response to various aspects of what he terms ‘the frenzy of modernity’: as hankering after an earlier notion of time. This is seen as an alternative to the contemporary media environment associated with MTV, advertising and films that draw on such styles – familiar suspects in this kind of discursive positioning in relation to cinema. A broadly similar context is elaborated by Remes for the cinema of stasis, primarily a post-war phenomenon, viewed as a form of resistance to ‘the pace of spectacle and money-driven modernization.’24 The aim of slow cinema, for Jaffe, in reference to one instance, is to access ‘the purer time of contemporary slow movies, time undisturbed by advertising’.25 This is another formulation that seems guilty of essentialism, as if any notion of time, or its representation, can claim to be ‘pure’ rather than one among various cultural constructs. My point here, as above, is not to argue for or against the merits of any of the qualities of slow cinema or to suggest that it cannot be understood in these oppositional terms. Plenty of value might be attributed to the slow, contemplative approach, in itself or when contrasted with the insistent time pressure of contemporary life. This is the case both generally and within contexts with a more specific political inflection, such as those found in some of the contributions to a collection edited by de Luca and Barradas Jorge. If William Brown, for example, suggests that the very long

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Positioning Art Cinema and slow films of Lav Diaz should be understood as countering the mainstream of Philippine cinema as well as that of Hollywood, he also locates this as standing in political opposition to the capitalist propaganda considered to be embodied by the mainstream as a whole.26 For Brown, the cinema of Diaz seeks to induce a form of education defined as ‘a deprogramming away from capitalism.’27 How effective this might be, in films of extreme duration that are unlikely to be seen by any substantial local audience, remains open to question, however, whatever implications might be identified at the textual level. Cecília Mello, in some ways similarly, identifies a political resistance in the slowness of the films of Jia Zhangke, seen here in the context of the intense transformations of urban landscape experienced in the China of recent decades.28 Patrick Brian Smith and Philippa Lovatt find some related markers of resistance to accelerated change in other examples of slow Chinese cinema, including works of both documentary and fictional status.29 An ethical dimension of such filmmaking is stressed by Asbjørn Grønstad, particularly in the case of Tsai Ming-liang’s Stray Dogs (Jiao you, 2013), in which extreme duration is seen to generate a degree of presence capable of promoting understanding and empathy with the difficult lives of characters (see Figure 4.1).30 Aesthetic minimalism is viewed here as a

Figure 4.1 Extended shots as a way of creating empathy for characters performing difficult actions, such as acting as human advertising stands, in Stray Dogs q Homegrown Films, JBA Productions.

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema means of conveying to the viewer something of the experience of minimal living conditions. The arguments in these examples have the merit of not seeking to over-claim at the level of the likely effect of any such dimensions. As Jaffe suggests, broader ‘slowness’ movements, with which slow cinema is associated, often lean in a leftward direction, in their opposition to aspects of global capitalism and its impact.31 The point for me, generally, is that the merits of this type of cinema are best seen as being specifically located, and within systems of discursive opposition (whether explicit or implicit) that tend to involve an often unavoidably elitist process of distinction marking at the level of who actually gets to view and admire such work. They are not anything to do with the kind of ‘purity’ or essence proclaimed by Jaffe; claims to the latter often act, effectively if not intentionally, as cover for the former. In another book-length study, Tiago de Luca shares with Jaffe a tendency to elevate into a lofty sphere of the ‘pure’ something that seems likely to be more complex and ambiguous in its status. For de Luca, the employment of very long takes in the work of figures such as Tarr, Alonso, Carlos Reygadas, Tsai and Van Sant extrapolates beyond the confines of narrative motivation (and, hence, beyond even any idea of ‘excess’ that remains related to such a chain of causality). He situates his approach as going beyond that applied by Bordwell, the latter being one in which the style of such films is still interpreted in terms of how it relates to narrative schemas and representation.32 Within what is defined here as a ‘cinema of contemplation’ (akin to that attributed by Remes to the avant-garde cinema of stasis), the extended take ‘conveys a sense of pure material and sensible presence which translates, at least in principle, into a sensory mode of spectatorship [emphasis in original].’33 Such an approach promotes ‘an aesthetic mode of perception’, for de Luca. The latter might be the case for the viewers of such work, in terms of what such an approach seems to encourage as a mode of engagement, and it is helpful to see this as ‘promoting’ rather than determining any such outcome. A qualification is present also in de Luca’s phrasing that this translation occurs ‘at least in principle’, but the status of this formulation seems distinctly double edged. While expressing a degree of caution and non-commitment, as far as any actual impact might be concerned, it seems to be implied that this is likely to be the case: ‘in principal’ is a much stronger and more solid formulation, for example, than saying that this ‘might’ or ‘might, in ideally imagined

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Positioning Art Cinema theoretical circumstances’ be the case. If every type of cinema imagines an ideal spectator, as de Luca suggests via one of his sources, that source also comments, in parenthesis, that the same is the case for every film theory.34 But when de Luca adds that one of his aims is ‘precisely to delineate and analyse this relation’, it seems to be only the imagining conducted on the part of the films (or their makers) that is included, not that which effectively underpins his own theoretical approach.35 A particular variety of ideal (that is, imaginary, non-existent) spectator remains in play in this account, one that involves a number of questionable assumptions of the kind elaborated above. The terms used by de Luca also vary in their implications. Films of the kind that are his focus ‘solicit [my emphasis] an engagement with the audiovisual components of the image as physical presences in their own right, that is to say, as sensory realities’, as he puts it quite modestly at one point.36 On the same page, however, he suggests that an example from Carlos Reygadas’ Battle in Heaven (Batalla en el cielo, 2005) – in which the camera enacts a highly extended 360-degree pan that ignores the central diegetic action of a couple making love (see Figure 4.2) – ‘impels [my emphasis] the viewer to

Figure 4.2 Departing the action: The start of an extended pan away from a couple having sex (just visible in the lower right of the frame) in Battle in Heaven q No Dream Cinema / Mantarraya Producciones / Tarantula / Arte France Cinéma / Universidad de Guadalajara / ZDF/Arte / Tartan Video.

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema appreciate images and sounds in their purely phenomenological qualities.’ This statement might be questioned on two grounds: the determinism of ‘impels’, which is much stronger than ‘solicits’, coupled with the absolutism of the term ‘purely’. Again, my point is not to question that any of these dynamics might be in play to some significant extent, merely the need for careful qualification. That the experience of viewing such films is ever really likely to constitute something ‘purely’ phenomenological seems unlikely, I would suggest. Concerns relating to narrative and character might significantly be displaced by such an approach, as de Luca argues; but this seems unlikely to be totally the case, even if we could ever actually measure such a thing (which also seems doubtful), even in the most extended of sequences. This remains so, I suggest, even if we restrict consideration to the manner in which such films play in the theatrical environment. This is a setting in which they ‘demand’ to be watched, according to de Luca, because the phenomenological investment that they ‘require’ can only be accomplished in this context (what happens when the ‘demands’ of the film are ignored or when such investment might be declined, to whatever extent, is left unexplained).37 In the example cited above, the camera that departs for so long from its central characters might encourage a focus on the concrete textural detail of the images that follow, but there is no reason to assume that this should be an exclusive mode of engagement and might not work in combination with thoughts about narrative/character in all sorts of ways. It seems more useful to characterise such work as having a hybrid status, in which narrative-related and other dimensions are combined to varying extents, the overall effect being likely to differ among examples and among potential viewing experiences. This might constitute a distinctive basis of difference from more mainstream-conventional norms, or those of some other varieties of art cinema. But it is not helpfully described as anything ‘pure’ or necessarily experienced in the manner privileged by de Luca, by anyone other than those primed for such a reading. To make such claims is to demonstrate another instance of special pleading: an understandable desire to make a case for a particular type of art cinema, but one that results in an overstatement of whatever merits it might have. This is a position that is both unhelpful in its own right, in relation to its immediate object of study, and that entails a mobilisation of the kinds of questionable binary

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Positioning Art Cinema discourses (artistic/pure vs. commercial/impure) examined earlier in this book. (A contrasting account of another manifestation of art cinema, one that highlights ambivalence and complexity rather than purity, at various levels, is offered by a study of the films of Aki Kaurismäki by Andrew Nestingen, a work that goes further than most in seeking to examine a range of discourses within which the films have been positioned.38) De Luca also finds a potentially progressive politics in the approach of such films, one he suggests can avoid simplistic moral judgements and help to reveal the constructed nature of cultural conventions: that quality often associated with the Brechtian tendency cited in Chapter 3 and in other accounts of slow cinema. He also overreaches in this dimension, however, ascribing to some of the films he examines a potential for transformative change that is another familiar (and often unquestioned) part of traditional discourses about the powers attributed to the arts. The films of Reygadas, for example, are viewed as bringing together ‘impossible’ socio-political situations, particularly the sexual coupling of figures from very different social/racial strata in Japón (2002) and Battle in Heaven. The suggestion made by de Luca that this constitutes a challenge to more widely prevailing Mexican notions of national identity seems entirely plausible. So does the claim that this is given added potency by the explicit nature of the sexual encounters, including real penetrative sex in the latter case. But it seems questionable to go on to suggest, as de Luca does, that this, therefore, contributes to the production of a new social order: its actual production, that is, rather than whatever impact might be attributed to the powers of a particular kind of fictional representation (even one that entails the use of unprofessional performers sometimes playing characters close to their own reality). The political impact of these films, for de Luca, ‘consists in the way they tear these bodies away from their assigned places so as to rearrange them in unexpected sensory configurations. As such, they build alternative realities in which all starts up anew and change unleashes itself.’39 The latter seems an inflated and implausible claim. A degree of changed social reality might be constituted by the pro-filmic events that occur in the staging of such sequences, but this is extremely local and constrained by the film-production context. The idea that such events happening in this context and subsequently screened (probably to a very limited audience) can be seen as part of any broader process of actual social change seems distinctly fanciful, but also symptomatic of the wider discursive apparatus

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema implicitly mobilised in this kind of valorisation of art cinema. In this case, the argument is based on the aesthetic philosophy of Jacques Rancière, who argues that art offers a form of sensory experience different from that of the everyday, and that this can escape the forms of domination embodied in the latter, thus carrying within it a promise of emancipation.40 This seems a highly conceptual and abstract notion, however, one that is difficult convincingly to apply to any concrete and specific situation when it comes to making claims about the creation of actual social change. It might well be the case that films of this kind can give representation to figures and/or experiences not usually included within more mainstream-conventional forms of cinema. This could, on that basis, be viewed as widening a sense of ‘what is seen and what could be said about it’, as Rancière puts it.41 But this seems distinctly short of effecting actual change: among other questions it raises more broadly remains that of the potential effectiveness of films that are only likely to be viewed by narrow social constituencies. Claims of a similarly inflated nature, on a broadly similar basis, are made by Lúcia Nagib on behalf of what she identifies as the ‘presentational’ dimension of certain examples of realism in world cinema: another argument based on the notion of a production as well as reproduction of reality within the text. We might agree, as with De Luca, that a certain very proximate degree of making of reality inheres in the process of the creation of films, within their particular material production contexts and for the few individuals directly involved. But Nagib’s account is based on what seems a rather naïve notion of the production of a broader and strongly valorised ‘truth’, via the commitment of cast and crew in some cases to the physical qualities of landscape and performance, one example of which she cites is the Inuit-language feature Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner (Atanarjuat, 2001). That the filmmakers make strong claims to the authenticity of the film is one thing, which might or might not be accepted entirely at face value (and should be viewed as a positioning strategy in its own right). Nagib’s approach seems to fetishise the degree of physical reality and/or endurance with which cast and crew might have engaged, however, asserting that such a process guarantees the emergence of some higher and more ‘ethical’ truth. While she claims earlier not to seek to privilege the presentational mode over the representational, she proceeds to do exactly this, in the lofty terms in which the former is repeatedly characterised. In the case of Atanarjuat, she suggests, the physical engagement of the performers

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Positioning Art Cinema results in a ‘presentation of reality as it happens, rather than [my emphasis] representation’, an argument that seems implausible given the heavily fictional narrative frameworks within which the events of the film are strongly embedded (a background in fable that foregrounds a number of strong character-based conflicts).42 My point, as elsewhere, is not to argue against the fact that this or any other of Nagib’s examples might be of value, but to question the basis of the grand (and rather simplistic) terms in which this is expressed. It seems more useful to view the presentational and the representational dynamics of this (or any) kind of cinema as more closely interrelated, as suggested above in the case of the arguments of de Luca. This is a position taken in Vivian Sobchack’s phenomenological approach to the process of engagement with film. We might respond bodily/sensually to the cinematic material, as Sobchack argues, but she more helpfully sees this as always in simultaneous combination with a rational/cognitive process of making sense, rather than being privileged as some special source of authenticity.43 The politically progressive dimension of slow films suggested by de Luca is broadly in keeping with another dominant tendency within which slow cinema is celebrated: one in which slowness is valorised as offering resistance to the ‘speed’ associated with various aspects of contemporary life in the industrial/post-industrial/capitalist world and/or a range of alternative experiences considered to be of socio-political, aesthetic, ethical or other forms of value. The merits of such claims are variable and can be argued on a case-by-case basis, but it is not uncommon for such accounts to slip into the making of excessively broad celebratory claims akin to some of those identified above. When de Luca puts the work he studies into the context of the broader contemporary media/information landscape, for example, he draws on very familiar tropes. We live in a world, he suggests, ‘in which a more direct experience of material reality is increasingly replaced by technologically-mediated communication models and ways of being that favour information and stimulation at the expense of physical experience.’44 This is a distinctly rhetorical formulation, one that again risks oversimplification of complex socio-cultural realities. It tends to imply, nostalgically, some earlier or more ‘pure’ state of unmediated experience, of a kind never likely really to have characterised human existence. ‘It is in this context,’ de Luca adds, that the trend illustrated by the filmmakers on whom he focuses ‘holds a crucial importance in our

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema day.’45 Such films might be of particular interest in a context such as this, an understanding of contemporary society that has widespread currency, however simplified it might often be. But to whom, exactly, and how, are they of ‘crucial importance’? This is not specified, as is characteristic of such discourse. One reason might be that really to specify the basis of such an importance is to have to concede its limitations: of importance, it seems most likely, to a small constituency of those who see and value such work, however interesting it might be to them/us, rather than the more sweeping and epochal basis of valorisation implied by de Luca’s phrasing. Some similar kinds of over-claiming can be found in Lim’s study of slow cinema, which draws on many of the same philosophical approaches. Like de Luca, Lim uses Jacques Rancière in his consideration of links between the aesthetics and politics of such work. The outcome, akin to that suggested by de Luca, is the argument that slow cinema creates a different from usual relationship between film images and the audience; that ‘through the use of long takes, extended duration, and the trope of waiting, this cinema comprises aesthetic acts that promote new modes of temporal experience, new ways of seeing, and new subjectivities that are politically committed to an ethos of slowness.’46 As with de Luca and some of the others cited above, a degree of caution is included in the suggestion that these experiences are ‘promoted’ rather than guaranteed, but a huge weight is being placed here on what films can be expected to do. That the work of a filmmaker such as Tsai might offer useful or provocative meditations on qualities such as stillness, drifting and movement, with references specific to their local context and also broader resonances, seems an entirely reasonable suggestion. That they might in this way offer new cinematic experiences, to one degree or another, along with other works of this variety, seems likewise (the argument of figures such as Jaffe, de Luca and Lim is that this body of work goes further in various ways than most of its predecessors). That they might lead to new ways of seeing or new subjectivities (that is, major transformations of the individual or collective experience) more broadly, beyond the frame of the film viewing, seems much less plausible, were any such thing ever possible to demonstrate (which it surely is not), and even if such films were viewed by larger numbers than is likely to be the case. It is notable that Lim makes this claim after having acknowledged and stressed the specific material-institutional conditions of the existence of

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Positioning Art Cinema slow cinema, as part of the wider sphere of art cinema, and the social stratification that characterises its basis of circulation. In making his strongest case for the form, he seems to evade this more proximate and qualified positioning of slow cinema. In the light of his reading of Rancière, Lim suggests, ‘a cinema of slowness is much more [my emphasis] than a temporal aesthetics that appeals to a certain class audience with a particular taste for art cinema’.47 The phrasing (‘much more’) implies that the acknowledgement of the institutional status of such films is of less significance than the interpretation Lim makes of their potential impact on viewers; an interpretation that seems questionable even when applied to the limited constituency for such products. Lim also makes arguments for the weightiness of the issues he suggests are embodied in the films of Tsai that are characteristic of the valorisation of both art film in general and the particular variety manifested by its slow component. A key feature of Tsai’s work identified by Lim is its emphasis on experiences of drift. For a filmmaker influenced by Buddhist ideas, this is taken to be ‘not merely a representational trope’ but something as all-encompassing as ‘the general condition of life.’48 If the work is read in such broadly existential terms, it is also viewed – again, in a familiar manner – as having more specific socio-political resonances. I Don’t Want to Sleep Alone (Hei yan quan, 2006), for example, is read by Lim as offering a critique of the myth of the supportive Chinese family and the alternative presentation of ‘a new modality of queer intimacy,’ the latter seen as grounded in the specific nature of a minimalist form that puts an emphasis on a slow and painstaking process of caring.49 Lim also suggests that the slow style, here usually involving a combination of static camera, absence of overt diegetic action and minimal dialogue, invites the viewer to come face-to-face with a similar way of understanding the world. The terminology employed by Lim is again relatively modest – an invitation to the viewer rather than something more deterministic – but we might still question how far any such experience is really likely to result, for anyone other than a viewer or analyst already strongly primed with such an orientation. That the films of Tsai are capable of making viewers feel uncomfortably aware of their own viewing position in some sequences seems an entirely reasonable and grounded argument. One such instance cited by Lim is an almost six-minute-long final shot of the female protagonist of Vi ve l’amour

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema

Figure 4.3 Part of the extended shot of the weeping protagonist in Vive l’amour q Central Motion Pictures Corporation / Strand Releasing.

(Ai qing wan sui, 1994) sobbing inconsolably, a sequence also highlighted by de Luca (see Figure 4.3). That this might elicit ‘a corporeal response from us as we wriggle in our seats in a state of discomfort’ seems highly plausible.’50 It might create some such reflexive distance along with a discomfort that can, up to a point, stand in (in a much-attenuated manner) for that of the character. It is a huge step, however, to extrapolate from this kind of proximate film viewing experience to assert the likelihood of any process of change on the part of the viewer’s subjectivity.

Philosophical positioning Much of the analysis of slow cinema cited above draws on the film writings of the post-structuralist philosopher Gilles Deleuze, which makes this a useful point at which to consider further the effects and implications of the use of theory of this kind as part of the discursive positioning of heavyweight art cinema within the academic or more seriously-critical spheres. This type of theory, often leaning towards the highly general and abstract, particularly in areas such as psychoanalytically-informed notions of the spectator, became a major influence on academic film studies during an important period of its consolidation, particularly in the 1970s. It was challenged from around the mid-1980s by a turn towards more historically 123

Positioning Art Cinema grounded approaches and others rooted in cultural studies, but was far from being entirely displaced. Deleuze took over something of the prominence in this arena previously gained by a mixture of Lacanian psychoanalysis and ideological analysis rooted particularly in the work of Louis Althusser. De Luca goes as far as to suggest that Deleuze’s work is prophetical in relation to a body of films that appeared after his writing. It is not hard to see the attraction of Deleuze in this context. His book Cinema 2: The Time-Image is focused on varieties of art film that often fit closely with, and have clearly influenced, these readings of the slow film. Many of the qualities highlighted by Deleuze, in the analysis of an earlier generation of cinema, are strikingly applicable to the work examined by Jaffe, de Luca, Lim and others; even more so, in many cases, as Jaffe suggests, than to the work cited by Deleuze himself (which includes examples of the heavyweight tradition such as the films of Antonioni alongside some from Hollywood). For Deleuze, films of this kind – often embodying states such as absence, waiting, suppression and uncertainty – are contrasted with those of the mainstream/classical tradition in rather grand philosophical terms. The work on which he focuses in Cinema 2 is designated as embodying what Deleuze terms the ‘time-image’, a form he sees as having succeeded a classical cinema defined by the centrality of what he calls the ‘movement-image’. The terms of this distinction are similar to some of those used by Bazin: the time-image is defined as one in which objects and places are marked no longer by the role they play in another scheme (that of action, narrative, etc.) but as having a concrete reality of their own, the contemplation of which entails what Deleuze characterises as a ‘pure’ experience of time itself (time being understood here in terms of multi-layered complexity, rather than of simple linear succession). Deleuze’s notion of the time-image is, unsurprisingly, also drawn upon heavily by figures such as de Luca and Lim and one within which Remes situates the avant-garde cinema of stasis, which he views as taking this logic to its extreme form. The split between the movement and time images is marked, for Deleuze, by the break created by the Second World War and the creation of what he terms a ‘crisis’ in the movement-image (although he does suggest the existence of some predecessors of the time-image in the earlier history of cinema). While the post-war period might have seen an upsurge in the

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema kind of art or avant-garde cinema that exemplifies some of the qualities outlined by Deleuze, this seems a distinctly unhelpful formulation. For Deleuze, a crisis of the movement-image results from the aftermath of wartime destruction and a loss of prior coordinates for action. Rather than being seen in such sweeping socio-historical terms, however, it would be more useful to view this as being restricted to particular kinds of cinema, some of which might have responded in such a way to broad aspects of the cultural context. It would be better put, that is, in terms of the existence of two broadly different types of cinema rather than as marking a change in cinema as a whole: that of the action/movement and/or melodrama-focused Hollywood-type mainstream and that of either art cinema in general or its more heavyweight manifestations (as well as the pole represented by the avant-garde cinema of stasis). This is an opposition that invites consideration of the various bases of each, rather than taking these as more abstract and essentialised quantities, as seems to be the case in Deleuze. It is hardly the case that the mainstream cinema of movement/action was in any way eclipsed or replaced, overall, by that designated as embodying the timeimage, whatever interest the latter might have as a concept with some grasp on the qualities of certain types of post-war art film. The ignoring of more recent Hollywood cinema, and therefore of any attempt to explain its nature or the basis of its continued existence, is one glaring weakness of the two Cinema books, as is a general tendency to overstate and hypostasise the nature of the whole distinction between movement and time images.51 There is also a tendency in this kind of writing to make other sweeping or absolute statements, even if some qualifications are offered on occasion. Deleuze repeatedly describes the time-image as something of ‘pure’ status and might be considered the chief culprit in any investigation of the roots of the tendency for the adoption of such language in the work of commentators such as Jaffe and de Luca. In sequences focused on ‘everyday banality’, he suggests, the territory of one major strain of heavyweight art film, ‘the action-image and even the movement-image tend to disappear in favour of pure optical situations.’52 Empty spaces in the films of Ozu, for example, ‘reach the absolute, as instances of pure contemplation.’53 That anything should be so pure and unencumbered by other dimensions seems unlikely, even in the most striking examples of slowness, stillness or other forms of cinematic reticence, a point I would also apply to de Luca’s use of the same term.54

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Positioning Art Cinema If Deleuze offers some useful frameworks in which to understand this kind of cinema, his arguments are frequently undermined by recourse to more absolute philosophical rhetoric of this kind, along with a general tendency towards the imposition of abstract theoretical concepts. One other such example is the suggestion that ‘the essence of cinema – which is not the majority of films – has thought as its higher purpose, nothing but thought and its functioning.’55 So essentialist a claim can never be other than an act of abstract assertion. It seems almost unnecessary to state that this does not apply to something as lowly as ‘the majority of films’ that are taken to represent a debased version of the form. On the basis of such claims, certain (modernist) forms of art cinema are valorised by Deleuze on the dubious basis of being seen as evolutionarily superior, as Kovács suggests; that is, by being abstracted from any more concrete understanding of their status as the products of particular institutional contexts.56 The work of theorists such as Deleuze is quite often applied to films of this kind, as was also seen in some of the approaches to Haneke listed in the previous chapter. Beyond the direct applicability of any of its arguments, the persuasiveness of which varies, its appeal can be understood in terms of positioning on more than one level. Particular films or bodies of work can, effectively, be elevated through the process of association with that which is seen as serious or demanding film theory, film philosophy or philosophy itself, as can the position of the analyst, particularly within the academic or seriously-critical sphere. Films that can be elucidated through the application of serious concepts, often relating to what might be seen as core philosophical issues such as the nature of contemporary existence or any of its constituent parts, are, in the process in which this is usually manifested here, given the status of themselves exploring such matters. This does not have to entail a tendency towards essentialising claims, however. Lübecker’s study of the feel-bad film, cited in the previous chapter, is another that makes regular recourse to ‘heavy’ philosophical sources that have the same implicit positioning impact. These range from approaches less often employed in film studies, such as those associated with Friedrich Hegel, to the writings of Jean-Paul Sartre, Maurice MerleauPonty and George Bataille. These are the kinds of writers to whom Lübecker turns when seeking explanations of the work of the filmmakers he examines, as key figures in the intellectual tradition of his own

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema background. But they are not used in this case as the basis of any sweeping or universal claims. The principal measuring rod in this case is the politico-ethical value attributed to films of this kind. If they put the viewer through challenging and often uncomfortable experiences, they are suitable objects for viewing or study, Lübecker argues, because they contribute to political and ethical debate.57 Where any such contribution has been questioned, they have sometimes come under attack, and such validation has been withdrawn (although not by Lübecker himself), an issue to which I return in Chapter 8. Deleuze can also be employed in a more measured way, as he and other French theorists are used, for example, by Douglas Morrey in a study of Godard: one that seems quite reasonably to draw parallels between some of the concerns of a theoretically-oriented filmmaker and writers who explore similar territory such as various aspects of the relationships between reality and representation or capitalism and sexuality.58 The theory, here, seems to help in the explication of work produced in a similar cultural context (regardless of whether or not the reader agrees with the theory itself). ‘Heavyweight’ theory can also be applied to products of popular culture, of course, and often has been.59 In this case it might be employed, at least in part, as a way to justify the taking seriously of such material in the face of institutionalised defenders of narrowly elitist cultural hierarchy (that the study of popular/mass culture is itself somehow a lesser intellectual enterprise is a depressingly persistent element of wider public discourse, despite the bankruptcy of the assumptions on which this notion is based). It seems more often, or more consistently, to be employed at the equally ‘heavy’ end of the film spectrum, however, where a more obvious sharing of perspectives is likely to occur. To bring to bear theory of this kind is also effectively to stake a particular kind of position on the part of the critic/analyst, one that entails an ability to both comprehend and apply such work and to partake in the gravitas that tends to accompany its usage. The latter need not be viewed as a cynical or calculated process to be understood within the framework of the kinds of position-takings analysed by Bourdieu, as they can be applied especially in this case to the academic sphere. To reject the application of such theory in some cases can also serve a similar purpose, one that might claim, as I do here in some cases, a more measured perspective, less guilty of shortcomings such as abstraction and overstatement.

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Positioning Art Cinema A tendency of some critics, academic and serious-journalistic, is effectively to adopt a position alongside that of the favoured filmmaker. This is stance that often celebrates and seems to share the position of the filmmaker, explicating it and often citing the filmmaker as a key authority for the basis of the analysis. This frequently seems to be the case with Jaffe, de Luca and Lim, among others, despite the expression of some reservations on occasion. A similar position is often taken by Kolker, in relation to those whose work he celebrates, and used as a measure against which others are sometimes found wanting. This is a position that can be contrasted with that often taken in relation to less-favoured examples, such as the contemporary Hollywood mainstream, in which a superior stance is often (if not always) implied. Works of popular cinema, or what are seen as its more conventional manifestations, are more likely to be examined as symptomatic of something other than themselves, particularly in socioculturally oriented readings; as an expression of something they would not be seen as themselves comprehending. Art cinema can also be read symptomatically, and often is in the kinds of accounts considered above, but more often in a context in which filmmakers are seen either implicitly or explicitly to be making the same kinds of points themselves as those made by the analyst. The heavyweight art film, then, is often seen as conducting a critical examination of the world, or laying bare key aspects of contemporary life, in a manner with which the critical analyst is likely to be sympathetic. Such films are sometimes seen, explicitly or implicitly, as carrying out a philosophical enquiry of their own, as is implied by Stanley Cavell as part of the wider modernist tradition.60 The idea that films can themselves do philosophy, or embody thought itself rather than existing ideas (philosophical or otherwise), has been critically explored by John Mullarky, among others. While films have often been interpreted via philosophy or used as tools for teaching philosophical concepts, Mullarky argues that the relationship is a one-way street because ‘there has yet to be an idea identified as philosophical in film which bears no resemblance with any current written philosophy.’61 Philosophies of film, as Mullarky suggests, tend towards the kinds of essentialism identified in Deleuze and elsewhere, particularly because of the certainty and absoluteness with which they are often proclaimed. If individual films or filmmakers can be credited with an engagement with philosophical issues, the dominant tendency in the celebration of such

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema work, as Mullarky suggests, is an elitist favouring of familiar suspects (among which Haneke tends to figure prominently among contemporary directors). Deleuze ‘betrays his modernist credentials’ in various respects, for Mullarky, including his emphasis on what are presented as the unique qualities of art cinema.62 Something of the same goes for Daniel Frampton, whose account of the supposed ‘thinking’ of film, for which he coins the term ‘filmosophy’, is also rooted largely in Deleuzian assumptions.63 Frampton’s focus is not as exclusively on heavyweight art cinema as Mullarky suggests, although this is privileged in some of his more extended examples, including the films of Haneke. While Frampton sometimes acknowledges the ideas embodied in works of popular cinema, he also falls back on a familiar opposition between films said to leave no room for thinking (including, unsurprisingly, those ‘overrun by special effects’) and those which embody a ‘meditative’ approach (including in this case Haneke, Tarr, Kiarostami and Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne).64 Frampton is another who argues from what seems an essentialist starting point. We must begin with the film ‘as pure sound-image experience’, he suggests, ‘before films are mangled [a highly loaded term] by contextual knowledge’ – as if any point of pure engagement is ever available to anyone anywhere.65 This is another argument that fails to take adequate account of what are likely to be the very different perspectives of different viewers. Frampton offers ‘filmosophy’ as something of use to some generalised notion of ‘the filmgoer’, as if so arcane an approach as that which he develops would ever reach the attention of anyone other than a tiny minority of academic or, at best, hard-core cinephile viewers. Both film/filmmaker and analyst can, in many such cases, be understood to be products of much the same social conjuncture, including their class or broader social basis. The relation between the class location of the filmmaker and the approach of different varieties of art cinema is considered by Kolker. It is seen, for example, as marking some of the differences between Italian neo-realism, with its leftist socialpolitical focus, and the greater attention to the dilemmas of the alienated individual – from a more middle-class perspective – in the work of filmmakers such as Antonioni. Another step in this analysis, however, one that is usually missing, is to consider the significance of such homologies between the position of critic/analyst and that of the films and their makers.

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Positioning Art Cinema Much the same stands for the situation of the broader audience for such films and what is expected of it in the kinds of accounts examined in this and the preceding chapter. A key dimension for many of these is the notion that, in certain kinds of art cinema, space is (or should be) provided for the viewer actively to engage, to become part of the creative process, through the filling of gaps or spaces for contemplation or speculation of various kinds. This is a recurrent theme, one in which certain forms of art cinema are often valorised in terms identical to those attributed to the modernist tradition more widely. The notion that modernist art requires such engagement, and is valued on this basis specifically in opposition to the supposedly ‘passive’ consumption of mainstream or ‘mass’ culture, is a persistently recurring topic in debate about the nature of art.66 The celebration of slow cinema, or of the heavyweight art film more generally, can be understood as a specific instance of this wider discursive complex. The requirement for viewer activity of a particular, critical, variety might be seen as a progressive dimension of some types of film. But, along with other aspects of engagement considered above, it strongly presupposes a very particular kind of spectator, one that is not remotely applicable to spectatorship as a whole or as an abstract notion. It implies a viewer who both wants to do this and is capable of such an engagement in this kind of work, as was suggested in the case of the films of Godard in relation to Kolker in the previous chapter, each of which requires quite specific reserves of cultural capital that are structurally limited, in practice, in any society. That mainstream/mass culture might also require more activity than is suggested by its critics, thus undermining a key basis of the differential valorisation of ‘low’ and ‘high’, is an issue to which I return at the end of this book. To appeal to an audience in more general, abstract terms, as often seems to occur, is another way of collapsing the real and important differences between the very particular positions occupied by the academic analyst, the serious journalistic critic or the seriously engaged aficionado of such films, and any other components of the potential audience. The ability and desire to engage in the manner that might be encouraged by many of these films is precisely the kind of marker of distinction examined by Bourdieu, and precisely not, by definition, something generalisable or abstract. There is a distinct tendency in writing such as that of Kolker, Jaffe and Bordwell to want more viewers to see such films. This is understandable, given the value they attribute to the work. But simply to

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema exhort, or to regret a lack of viewing, seems to involve a blindness to the very real reasons why the constituency for such films is limited. This is not some unfortunate happenstance that can be wished away, but a fundamental aspect of their cultural positioning at various levels. An exploration of a more specific mode of viewing, associated with a much greater than usual investment in certain kinds of cinematic experiences, is offered by Christian Keathley in his contribution to the study of cinephilia.67 For Keathley, cinephilia, a term used generally to suggest an intense love of the medium but one that can also involve various more specific resonances, entails a focus especially on marginal detail within the film frame and so involves a particular type of viewing: a ‘panoramic perception’ that entails a sweeping of the expanse of the screen on the lookout for any such phenomena. This seems a highly particular and rather narrow definition of what might be suggested more broadly by cinephilia.68 It is a version that emphasises audio-visual qualities similar to those celebrated by various commentators above (rooted in notions such as the access to the contingent reality celebrated by Bazin) and is cited in this regard by de Luca. Keathley also situates this notion of cinephilia in relation to familiar oppositions between different kinds of film aesthetics. Two major threats to this version of cinephilia are outlined. One is a shift in film studies from a cinephile-friendly form of criticism to more distanced, academic orientations, from around the late 1960s and the 1970s. The other is a change in prevailing film style, one in which familiar suspects are held to blame and familiar value judgements are implied. This is a shift, blamed on the influence of television and related small-screen media (of lower implied status), towards faster cutting, shallower depth of field and generally less complexity of imagery. In this context, it is suggested, films can be viewed in the ‘distracted manner of the television viewer’ (language that makes various questionable generalised assumptions about the viewing of television and that suggests it is not a favoured modality) rather than requiring or providing scope for a more viewer-centred scanning of the screen.69 The notion of cinephilia implies a particular, minority investment, either in film as a medium or the institution of cinema; or some combination of the two, depending on its exact form or moment. It suggests exactly the kind of distinction-marking practice understood through the work of Bourdieu and implied by some of the approaches outlined above, and so is useful as a concept through which to emphasise

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Positioning Art Cinema the specificity and positioning of such forms of viewing. It is akin, as Keathley suggests, to notions such as connoisseurship and the attribution of particular kinds of taste, involving a sense of heightened appreciation and higher than usual levels of engagement – each of which assumes a less favoured opposite, although one that is characteristically implied rather than articulated. This is the case whether the term is used more generally (as, for example, by Jaffe) or in relation to the specific practice outlined by Keathley and a number of instances on which he draws (including, centrally, the writing of Bazin and the younger generation of critics associated with the French journal Cahiers du Cinéma). Cinephilia is seen by Keathley as a particular type of engagement associated with a minority approach. But the dimension of distinctionmarking elitism, likely to be rooted largely in particular social constituencies, is not considered at all in this account, or in any of what Keathley draws from other writing on the subject.70 Keathley also shares with some of the other accounts considered in this book a tendency to claim that a particular viewing practice can be related to a notion of the ‘inherent’ essence of the medium. The emphasis on fragmentary imagemoments that is privileged in this account of cinephilia is seen as ‘a reminder that films are themselves made up of fragments’, those portions of space and time selected via framing and editing: ‘By fetishizing certain shots or certain actions within shots, the cinephile reminds us of, and asks us to consider anew, the fragmentary quality of all films, also reminding us of the inherently fragmentary nature of the filmmaking process.’71 This seems like another rather specious form of special pleading: an attempt to claim a relationship with that said to be ‘inherent’ in the medium as a whole for what remains a very particular, minority perspective (it could just as easily, and equally unhelpfully, be argued that it is inherent in film practice to link individual elements together in a manner that can create relationships or unities). Such discursive manoeuvres tend to obscure rather than to reveal the specific positionings entailed in viewing strategies such as these, whatever potential merits they might be argued to possess.

Slowness and cultural diagnosis Celebrations of the ‘slow’ variety of heavyweight art film are often presented in relation to a symptomatic reading of contemporary culture, 132

Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema one in which such products are typically hailed in opposition to a mainstream associated with notions such as speed, hyper-mobility and assumed shortcomings in areas such as depth and attention spans (or Jaffe’s ‘frenzy of modernity’). This is a territory staked out more broadly by Lutz Koepnick in On Slowness: Toward an Aesthetic of the Contemporary, a volume the main focus of which is on a range of artistic expressions somewhat different from those considered above, including video installation art and sequences of still photography, but one that positions such work in familiar rhetorical terms. If a key marker of the intensified continuity style, for Bordwell, is a decrease in average shot lengths in Hollywood, Koepnick declares that it is ‘difficult not to think of’ this phenomenon ‘as a sign and symptom of larger cultural transformations, i.e. as part of a general reorganisation of attention spans in postindustrial societies.’72 This despite the fact that a substantial leap is required to make such an association, and the sweeping terms it implies. We can contrast this with Bordwell’s more cautious approach, which favours proximate explanations rooted in the practices of the film industry itself and the agents involved in the filmmaking process. How ‘difficult’ is it, really, outside of rhetorical formulations, not to think of it in the way suggested by Koepnick? Add to this, in his account, the spread of home viewing technologies that allow spectators to have more control over their watching, and we have a classic instance of the kind of exaggeration often found in discourses of this kind. ‘Haunted by both overwhelmed and technologically empowered spectators, visual pleasure today – some have argued – might either derive merely from the isolated fragment or it may no longer respond to the film text at all but instead solely register the viewer’s own narcissistic gratification of shaping the flow of images.’73 This supposedly ‘transforms us into utterly distracted spectators who have no tolerance for succumbing our perceptual authority to the splendor of traditional film projection [. . .].’ It is in this overblown rhetorical context that the merits of the slow are in this case celebrated. The main cinematic example cited by Koepnick at this point is the work of the German director Christian Petzold, a less pronounced instance than most of those considered by other commentators above. Such cinema, with passing reference also to the work of Haneke and Tarr, is valued because: ‘It makes us ponder and grow pensive, not because pondering itself is a desired goal and desired

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Positioning Art Cinema destination, but because pondering can reveal the cracks and folds within the everyday from which we may be able to envision new connections and develop alternate orders of experience.’74 This might be a worthwhile enterprise, but one the articulation of which here is within an oversimplified set of oppositions and assumptions. It seems necessary, in this account, to overstate the supposed ‘threat’ constituted by the negative other in order to elevate the case made for the favoured alternative. That is, if the likes of decreased Hollywood shot lengths and the elements of viewer control permitted by home viewing technologies do not have the exaggerated effects proclaimed here (as is almost certainly the case, if any such thing were ever provable), then the merits of the slower alternative are less urgently needed. And we might ask whether they are needed at all, rather than simply being designed for, and approved by, a particular minority constituency (whatever their merits might be considered to be from that perspective), as seems more likely. Much the same could be said of the rhetorical formulation within which de Luca locates the supposedly ‘crucial importance’ of the work he celebrates. Both Koepnick and Jaffe join other writers on slow cinema in making connections between the types of films or other art works they celebrate and a range of wider ‘slow’ social movements that grew around the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century in response to a broad sense of opposition to what is seen as excessive speed and superficiality in the cultures of contemporary industrial or post-industrial societies. These are often pitched as oppositional discourses and practices, including some with green, environmentalist orientations, the negative other against which they stand frequently being associated with phenomena such as the strategies and impact of key elements of global capitalism.75 They can also entail elitist dimensions of distinction marking, however. A ‘Slow Media Manifesto’ published in 2010, for example, includes progressive elements such as propagating diversity and sustainability, but also highlights elements such as ‘quality’ and the emanation of ‘a special aura’; components that are harder to separate from a distinction-marking role, or at least their potential to serve in such a way.76 The latter also forms at least one element of the ‘slow food’ movement, probably the most prominent of such lobbies, a phenomenon that offers a number of parallels with the celebration of slow film. The promotion of slow food is located discursively in a manner akin to its equivalent in film: that which is positively valued is

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema positioned in opposition to a large-scale and globally dominant corporate other, in this case the world of fast-food giants and agribusiness. Slow food is by no means an entirely elitist conception and can include alternatives that are less expensive than their fast/agribusiness alternatives, but it includes a distinctly ‘foodie’ component that entails investments in notions of distinction much the same as those characteristic of the consumption of art and indie film. A useful study of this phenomenon by Josée Johnston and Shyon Baumann sheds light on a number of dynamics involved in this process that can be applied to the context of film.77 Two core bases for the valuation of distinction-marking foodstuffs identified by Johnston and Baumann are notions of authenticity and exoticism, each of which seems translatable to the equivalent realms of art or indie film. Their focus is particularly on the US context, one in which, as they suggest, notions of status-marking and discrimination exist in tension with national ideologies of supposed democracy and equality. A traditional conception of distinction-marking snobbery (historically associated with French haut cuisine) is viewed as having lost most of its currency in this context, in favour of the kind of omnivorousness of consumption suggested in the work of Richard Petersen, cited in Chapter 1. If what are viewed as arbitrary and particularly pernicious social distinctions lose their legitimacy, alternative bases of cultural distinction are required (in what remains an unequal and hierarchical society) that appear more inclusive and progressive on other grounds, such as healthiness and sustainability. Establishing authenticity as a basis for approval is one way of achieving this shift: ‘A focus on authenticity in cultural consumption provides a standard for distinction that is not overtly snobbish, which is to say that it appears to be a reasonable standard rather than an arbitrarily discriminatory standard.’78 This remains a suitable terrain for status-seeking, however, the authentic often being expensive or more difficult to obtain and appreciate without the resources ‘that generally accompany higher education and income levels.’79 As Johnston and Baumann conclude: ‘authentic foods, despite possessing many genuine democratic qualities, simultaneously facilitate distinction and the perpetuation of taste hierarchies within foodie discourse.’80 Their position, in this sense, is similar to that ascribed by Michael Newman to American indie film and one that might also be applied in many cases to the art-film sector, as suggested in the Introduction: simultaneously elitist, as a distinction-marking product, and often rooted in difference, resistance and opposition.81

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Positioning Art Cinema Authenticity is a major basis for the valorisation of heavyweight art film (along with the art and indie sectors more generally), as seems clear from many of the accounts cited above. This is not just in the claims often made in relation to forms of realism, but also in a broader sense that such films provide access to dimensions of life and experience that are ‘deeper’, ‘purer’ or more substantial in some way (or supposedly closer to some imagined ‘essence’ of the medium) than those offered by what are viewed as the shallow confections of mainstream escapist entertainment. Films of this kind can also offer something of the other key dimension explored by Johnston and Baumann: the valuation of exoticism. Here, again, they find a tension between more and less progressive dimensions; between the negative connotations of notions of the exotic that come from a colonial inheritance, as explored in Edward Said’s concept of the orientalist fetishisation of essentialising concepts of difference,82 and more positively valued ideas of broad-minded and inclusive cosmopolitanism. That which is valorised in terms of exotic difference from more familiar western norms can be viewed as a form of cultural colonialism or as an attempt more positively to embrace difference; or, as Johnston and Baumann suggest, a mixture of the two. This is further material for cultural distinction marking, in a manner that can also be applied to certain approaches to art film. Finding new exotic foods is a characteristic move in the position-takings involved in foodie practice and discourse, as can be the process of ‘discovering’ or celebrating new, more radical or more far-flung sources of film. A now-familiar dynamic in the operations of film festivals, for example, is exactly such an apparent ‘discovery’ or championing of new filmmakers, often from previously under-represented or under-acknowledged geographical territories, a key strategy through which less established festivals can seek to make their mark.83 From one perspective, this can be seen as offering socially progressive insights into other cultures; from another, it can potentially be viewed in some cases as a vicarious form of selfindulgent ‘poverty tourism’ from a safe distance. It is useful also to apply to the arena of art cinema a distinction made by Johnston and Baumann between what they term ‘weak’ and ‘strong’ exoticism, marked by greater or lesser degrees of distance from the familiar norms of the western/American consumer. Interview-based research on participants identified as foodies showed a clear preference for the weakly exotic, as measured by a combination of social and geographic distance.

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Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema What is favoured is a limited degree of difference, mixed with more familiar elements, as opposed to strongly exotic foods that are perceived as being more extreme or norm-breaking (the consumption of matter such as organs or brains, or food sources such as dog or insects).84 This seems similar to the greater cultural circulation often achieved within the speciality market by what might be viewed as weakly exotic forms of art cinema (as in Kovacs’ notion of the classical art film) or indie film, as opposed to the most heavyweight and demanding of hard-core varieties. A lower preference for the strongly exotic was found by Johnston and Baumann in their sample of foodies than was the case in the realm of gourmet food journalism, a pattern that might also be expected to be found in relation to variable degrees of exoticism, difference or alterity favoured in the sphere of art cinema (some stronger forms of art cinema that have been positioned in terms of the exotic, within orientalist frameworks, are considered in Chapter 8). Professional critics and academics are more likely here, as in the realm of food, to invest strongly in the radically different forms, and for similar reasons. These are articulated by Johnston and Baumann in the terms used by Bourdieu and through the evocation of parallels with the arts. For those who hold the highest levels of cultural authority and institutional legitimacy, as experts in the field, ‘norm breaking exoticism is a dominant form of symbolic capital’, the appreciation of which is a key marker of status. ‘Preferring strongly exotic food [for which we can also read, more heavyweight or challenging art cinema] appears to be unnecessary within the gourmet field for foodies’, where sufficient markers of distinction can be obtained through the consumption of weaker and presumably more appealingly palatable forms. ‘However, for the experts who need to maintain their cultural legitimacy and leading positions in the field, a preference for strong-exotic foods [or films] is highly valued.’85 The distinctions examined by Johnston and Baumann might also contribute to our understanding of the relative positions of art and American indie film, or at least some of the associations that might in broad terms be attached to such forms. An important issue in their account of the American foodie perspective is the negatively valued dimension of snobbery associated with looking to Europe, particular France, for a traditional source of elitist legitimacy. This might also be applied to some extent to the predominant initial association of art cinema with Europe (either before the Second World War or in its more concerted institutionalisation post war), as

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Positioning Art Cinema an overseas source of higher-cultural legitimation. A number of deeplyrooted assumptions are built into the terms in which the relationship between the United States and Europe, the ‘new world’ and the ‘old, is predominantly understood, including that of ‘open’ and ‘democratic’ versus ‘closed’ and ‘elitist’. A sense of American insecurity has sometimes been identified in discourses related to the artistic/cultural field, in which case the valuejudgement terms of the opposition might be reversed and the American be seen as weaker and shallower compared with the deeper-rooted traditions of Europe (or, potentially, other older civilisations). But any such notions are likely to exist in tension with the kinds of positive oppositions outlined above. Those in the United States with investments in nonmainstream cinema might look to Europe (and a wider range of international alternatives) as a source of stronger and more substantial traditions, compared to which American indie might generally appear relatively superficial, without the storied roots, complexities and aesthetic, historical or political resonances available in the ‘old world’. This seems likely to be part of the general cultural complex through which indie is positioned as less heavyweight than significant parts of the spectrum of art cinema, as was suggested in Chapter 2. Indie, understood in this way, might also be celebrated in these terms, however, as less elitist and requiring less exclusive forms of cultural capital in order pleasurably to be consumed (as might other more accessible forms of art cinema). If most of the films celebrated as ‘slow’ constitute part of the heavyweight end of the art-film sector, it is notable that a minority also come from the American indie sector, suggesting at least some blurring of these lines. While Jaffe excludes a celebrated arthouse auteur such as Theo Angelopoulos, for example, his main examples include the work of Jim Jarmusch – a core indie pioneer – along with Gus Van Sant’s Elephant (2003), and Safe, directed by Todd Haynes. Van Sant also figures as one of the three main case studies in de Luca’s book-length study. A list of ‘20 Slow Films From This Century That Reward Patience’, published on the cinephile-oriented website Taste of Cinema, also includes Wendy and Lucy (Kelly Reichardt, 2008), Man Push Cart (Ramin Bahrani, 2005), Putty Hill (Matt Porterfield, 2010) and Museum Hours (Jem Cohen, 2012).86 Such films are generally situated towards the more ‘moderate’ end of the slowness scale, the only indie among the top 10 in the latter case being

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Figure 4.4 Guild, Inc.

Meditative reflections on art in Museum Hours q The Cinema

Museum Hours, an example that uses a slim narrative component (the relationship established between a guard who works at a Viennese art museum and a visitor to the country) as the basis for a meditative reflection on a number of issues including the relationship between life and art (see Figure 4.4). This is an example that situates itself clearly at the ‘arty’ end of the scale in more than one way, from a filmmaker whose work was at the time primarily associated with experimental forms of documentary. Indies that lean closer towards the heavier end of the spectrum have often been viewed as somewhat lighter-weight versions of their international art-film relatives or influences, as was noted in relation to some cases in Chapter 2, including Elephant and Van Sant’s increasingly minimalist Gerry and Last Days, each of which bear formal influences from Tarr, to whose work I return in the next chapter.87

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5 Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden

Trailers for art films are not always known for restricting themselves to a close reflection of the qualities of the works themselves, sometimes having a tendency to ‘bend’ towards the more mainstream ingredients of a production to try to sell it to a broader audience than might otherwise be attracted. The English language trailer for The Turin Horse cannot be accused of any such duplicity of positioning, however, or at least not in its principal tone and contents. It offers something like a version of the film itself in miniature, even if much is lost as a result of the brevity of such paratexts, as well as a clear illustration of the grounds on which the heavyweight art film is typically sold. As such it is a useful starting point for this chapter, in which I return to more detail from this and other examples of the heavyweight tendency, particularly the work of Haneke, along with a focus on how they are positioned overtly, in accompanying paratexts of this kind. Trailers and other marketing materials are understood here primarily as what Jonathan Gray terms ‘entryway’ paratexts, which can play an important role in shaping advance meanings or expectations and suggest particular reading strategies that might be applicable to one type of text or another.1 I also examine how the two films were mediated by journalistic critics and commentators in a wider sphere than the more academic commentary examined in the previous chapters. Trailer paratexts can 140

Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden substitute for the actual viewing of texts, as Gray suggests, given that they are likely to be seen by more individuals than the works on which they are based, a role in which they also contribute to the broader landscape of positioning discourse. The main case studies used in this chapter are The Turin Horse, as an example of the ‘slow’, minimalist variant of this category, and Michael Haneke’s Hidden. The latter is a film that gains its status from more explicitly tackling a range of social issues, including a dimension of overt film/media reflexivity typical of much of the Austrian director’s work. It is also a case in which some of the marketing might be accused of seeking to position the film as several degrees more mainstream than is really the case.

Positioning The Turin Horse Opening after a company credit with a black screen and part of the dirgelike score, the US trailer for The Turin Horse begins with references to Béla Tarr via his other best-known films (best-known, that is, to a very particular constituency), Sátántangó and Werckmeister Harmonies (2000). This is a characteristic strategy, also for more mainstream films where the identities of filmmakers are evoked, of putting the emphasis on other titles rather than the names of directors themselves. Next is the first of four extracts from the film, from its opening sequence: a low-angle view of a horse pulling a cart, the framing emphasising a grey expanse of sky. A fade to black is followed by the first in a series of critical endorsements. These are a key component of the marketing of films of this kind, for which critical praise is generally understood to be an important marker of quality and recognition. Approving quotations usually feature quite prominently among the marketing hooks used in this territory, more so than is generally the case in the commercial mainstream.2 The precise terms of these, their sources and the manner in which they are combined, are worthy of detailed consideration, to see how they contribute to the overall positioning established by the marketers and distributors of such films. ‘An auteurist triumph’ is the first such statement, attributed to Manohla Dargis from The New York Times. It seems notable that such wording is chosen to begin the explicitly positioning commentary. It evokes not just the quality of the film but a whole dimension of ‘serious’ critical perspective in the use of the term ‘auteurist’, one that implies a set 141

Positioning Art Cinema of strongly artistic orientations in play across the trailer. The identity of the filmmaker is, again, typically a more important part of the marketing mix in art and indie films than it is in the mainstream, as would be expected given the greater commitment to notions of ‘higher art’ and of the individual artist as creative source. Embedded here is a whole set of unexamined assumptions based on a specific, Romantic model of artistic production, as suggested in Chapter 1. The viewer of the trailer is thus encouraged to situate the film as an example of a work of individual ‘genius’, a framework that, if confirmed in other dimensions, as here, can allow for expectations of substantial departure from mainstreamconventional norms. That an endorsement from The New York Times is foregrounded is what might be expected, given its status as an authoritative ‘quality’ paper, an important review source for art films and one with widespread reach. Next, perhaps balancing the more abstract focus of the previous endorsement, we have ‘Gripping and powerful’, from Jonathan Rosenbaum in Film Comment. The terms here suggest something more specific about the film itself and seem more broadly accessible in the kinds of qualities evoked. Both ‘gripping’ and ‘powerful’ might be terms also applicable to a positively received mainstream Hollywood thriller, for example, and so can be seen as drawing to some extent on hooks associated with genre territory. They might encourage an expectation that the film is, to at least some extent, available to more conventional viewing strategies than might otherwise appear to be the case. The names of both Rosenbaum and Film Comment would also be expected to be familiar to a cinephiletype audience of the kind to which such a film is most likely to appeal, suggesting the more specific context in which such qualities are being evoked in this instance. The first two endorsements are followed by another extract from the film, from one of the sequences in which the daughter trudges to the well to collect water. This again foregrounds the bleak and laborious nature of the material and is held longer than would be expected in a trailer for a film of more mainstream leanings. After this come two more critical comments: ‘A death haunted masterpiece’, from J. Hoberman in the Village Voice, and ‘Visually extraordinary’, from Jonathan Romney in Screen Daily. These also seem carefully chosen to give a particular range of impressions. The former is certainly not trying to sugar the pill offered by the film, the term

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden ‘death haunted’ evoking the qualities of the most dark and heavyweight art cinema and the kind of viewer orientation required if it is to be a source of appeal. This is reinforced by the addition of the key positioning term ‘masterpiece’, with its strong claim of individually-authored, high-art status. ‘Visually extraordinary’ seems, somewhat like ‘Gripping and powerful’ earlier, to offer a more vivid basis of appeal. If a film is dark and haunted by death, such sombre qualities are, it seems, balanced by something striking at the aesthetic level; the latter, of course, is another key marker of the claim to artistic/auteur status. The names of Hoberman and the Village Voice are further familiar markers of the world of art and indie film, and/or of serious engagement with any part of film culture. The same might be said for the name of Romney, as an established serious critic, if less so in relation to Screen Daily, a more commercial/industry focused publication. The third extract continues to highlight the qualities embodied by the film itself: part of a shot that begins with a view of the bleak, wind-blown landscape seen through a window, the camera pulling back slowly to include a partial out-of-focus view of the back of one of the characters. This is followed by text reading ‘the final film by’ and Tarr’s name in capital letters. The reference to this being the director’s final film adds to the generally portentous tone. His name is given major billing here, as would be expected given its importance as a hook for the mediation of the film more generally, although this is its only direct noticeable presence in the trailer. The title follows, framed separately, after which the music stops and is replaced by the sound of howling wind. From black, the image fades up on a shot of an oil lamp, which gutters and dies; a strong reflection of the ending of the film itself (a shorter, minimalist trailer features just the dying of the lamp, followed by three of the critical endorsements [see Figure 5.1]). This is succeeded by a title block beneath which are a number of festival laurel-branch logos, informing the viewer that the film won the Grand Prix at the Berlin Film Festival and was part of the official sections at Telluride, Toronto and New York. Along with critical endorsements, these are also familiar elements of the marketing mix employed in such films, another source of exterior endorsement of quality and/or of more general belonging to the world of art film. The creators of the trailer for The Turin Horse do not appear to have been tempted to try to make the film seem appealing to a larger

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Positioning Art Cinema

Figure 5.1 Markers of distinction: Critical endorsements in short version of the trailer for The Turin Horse q T. T. Filmműhely/Vega Film Production/Zero Fiction Film/MPM Film.

constituency than was likely in reality to be the case. On the whole, the trailer creates impressions appropriate to the particular kind of viewing strategy encouraged by the film itself: one based on expectations of minimalist bleakness, darkness and a requirement for some measure of endurance on the part of the spectator. No effort is made to insert what little can be found in the film of more conventional character interaction, for example, including exchanges that occur between the two principals and either a garrulous visitor or a band of gypsies. The reason for this might not entirely be a desire to provide an accurate reflection of the film, however. To have included character interaction – or, more specifically, dialogue – would have required revealing the fact that, for international audiences, the film is subtitled, a marker of more restricted audience appeal. It is notable, for example, that a distinctly duplicitous approach was taken to the equivalent trailer from IFC Films for Tarr’s preceding film, The Man from London (A Londoni férfi, 2007), a blend of typical Tarr qualities with elements of noir thriller. A small part of this film has English-language dialogue, the bulk being in French and subtitled for the Anglophone market. Only extracts from the English-language portion are vocalised in this trailer, however. It is hard not to see this as a deliberate aim to mislead potential viewers, not just by omission of the fact that the

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden film is subtitled but by an active process of unrepresentative inclusion. The omission of any dialogue material from the trailer for The Turin Horse can be seen as part of a broader tendency in the overseas film market, although it is perhaps less misleading in this case than in many others, given the general paucity of spoken material in the film. In general, the trailer positions the film in a manner that seems appropriate to its most likely constituency, and to the qualities offered by the text. It does this both directly, through the choice of extracts, and through the interpretive and evaluative frameworks provided by critical endorsements. The main poster for the film is similar in its emphasis on a combination of grey bleakness and critical/festival endorsement. The imagery consists of a shot of the daughter on her way to the well, viewed from behind, in the lower half beneath the title. The grey tones of the sky are taken up as the background to the poster as a whole. The same image forms the basis of other materials including the covers of DVD and Blu-ray releases. Beneath the title is ‘A film by BÉLA TARR’, under which in smaller letters is ‘From the director of ’ and references to the same two films as in the trailer. Beneath a titles block at the top of the poster is centred the ‘An auteurist triumph’ line from Dargis, in capitals, to either side of which are the same festival icon/references as in the trailer. The textual selections within the trailer are quite strongly representative of the film as a whole, a general flavour of which was offered at the start of Chapter 3. The Turin Horse is characterised by lengthy and repetitive sequences of which the excerpts are characteristic in kind, if not in temporal extension. The opening sequence of some four and half minutes, depicting the horse pulling the cart driven by the father, Ohlsdorfer (János Derzi), establishes the bleak, dour mood and the grey, windswept environment that pervades the film. The sequence in which the daughter (Erika Bók) goes out to the well is one of several such laborious excursions in the film, repeated to put an emphasis on the daily grind of their lives. The view through the window onto the grey landscape is also seen on more than one occasion, along with others in which both camera and character/s are held in frame in shots that come close to the status of still life (see Figure 5.2). Humdrum activity such as dressing and the performance of domestic chores is shown, again often repeatedly and in full detail, without elision. The effect is not entirely minimalist, the music and the sound of the wind providing expressive

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Positioning Art Cinema

Figure 5.2 Bleak still lives in The Turin Horse q T. T. Filmműhely/Vega Film Production/Zero Fiction Film/MPM Film.

heightening of the material, if only a heightening of an impression of stripped-back bleakness. Despite the dominant emphasis on the minutiae of life, The Turin Horse is not solely a realist rendition of its world of the kind favoured in some of the critical approaches considered above. It also seems portentous and open to symbolic readings, although exactly of what is left open to speculation. Such openness is another basis of valorisation for many advocates of the slow, minimal style in particular. Some commentary is provided by the occasional presence of a narrator, although this is not of a strongly interpretive variety. There are also intimations of some kind of apocalypse. At one point Ohlsdorfer comments that he can no longer hear the woodworm in the building and concludes that they have stopped their work, a strange observation (can anyone really hear such a thing when it is present?). This prompts his daughter’s question: ‘What’s it all about Papa?’ (one that might also be asked by the viewer) to which he responds that he does not know. A lengthy disquisition on the coming of some kind of cataclysm as a result of the ‘debasement’ of the world is offered by a visitor, who refers to the nearest town as having been blown away by the wind. Everything is lost forever, he suggests, part of a six-minute speech the prolixity of which is sharply out of keeping with the remainder of the film. 146

Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden A framework established at the start of The Turin Horse provides scope for philosophical interpretation in Nietzschean terms, which might seem appropriate in the case of this speech in particular. An opening preamble from the narrator refers to an incident in which the philosopher witnessed the beating of a horse on the streets of Turin. The implication is either that the beast that features in the film is the same one, hence the title, as a number of critics seem to assume, or that some looser connection is being established. How far the film is intended to be interpreted in terms of Nietzschean philosophy is far from clear, particularly when Ohlsdorfer responds to the speech of the visitor with a dismissive: ‘Come off it! That’s rubbish!’ But any such reference to a famous philosopher – either the initial, explicit citation or material with scope to be read in the context of his ideas – functions as another strong positional marker of heavyweight art status, providing scope if not positive encouragement for readings in these terms (various references to Nietzsche were made, for example in one discussion thread about the film on the cinephile-oriented website mubi.com).3

Hidden: Text and paratexts Hidden is a very different film in many respects, and generally likely to appeal to a more substantial arthouse/speciality audience, although both can be embraced by the broader category of heavyweight art cinema examined in this and the preceding chapters. It is a more explicitly elaborated narrative, relating to issues of middle-class guilt and discomfort, situated within a post-colonial context, and inviting potential reflection on the status of its own moving images. These are the kinds of issues that mark it as having serious arthouse status, both in themselves and in situating the film within the established oeuvre of Haneke as a critically-consecrated heavyweight auteur. The film features Georges Laurent (Daniel Auteuil) as the presenter of a literary discussion programme on public television, clearly established as a member of the intellectual French bourgeoisie and open to being read as representative of his class. He is forced to confront a repressed event from his (and also the nation’s) past by events that begin when he and his wife, Anne (Juliette Binoche), receive a videotape recording taken from outside their home. A second tape is accompanied by what appears to be a 147

Positioning Art Cinema threatening image: a crude drawing of a face with a slash of blood coming from its mouth. Similarly menacing images feature in postcards sent to Laurent at work and to his 12-year-old son, Pierrot (Lester Makedonsky), at school. Further tapes include footage of the childhood home of Georges in the countryside and lead him to an apartment block where he confronts his apparent adversary, Majid (Maurice Bénichou), the grown son of an Algerian couple who had worked on the farm owned by the protagonist’s family. It turns out that Georges’ parents had been planning to adopt Majid after his own disappeared, presumed killed, during a notorious massacre in Paris in 1961 following a police attack on a demonstration organised by the Algerian National Liberation Front. Unhappy at the prospect, the six-year-old Georges succeeded in averting the adoption, particularly by manoeuvering Majid into killing a rooster, after which the boy was taken to an orphanage, and thus deprived of the more privileged upbringing gained by Georges. The full detail of this background emerges only gradually, in stages, throughout the film, which takes the form, at least partially, of a mystery structured around a process of investigation and revelation. There is a strong central enigma: where/who do the tapes and images come from, and why? Partial answers are supplied while other questions remain in play to the end, including who shot the videos. Majid denies having done so, and seems convincing, before shockingly killing himself by slashing his throat in front of Georges with a razor. A similar denial comes from his son (Walid Afkir), who seems the obvious suspect other than Majid. The final scene of the film shows a conversation between Pierrot and Majid’s son. This might create the impression that maybe the pair colluded in the process, among other options, although none of their dialogue is audible, the two initially situated midframe among a crowd on the steps outside the former’s school, the only sound a general hubbub. This is a particularly teasing sequence, the two figures remaining at a distance before moving closer to the front and little being done by mainstream-conventional standards to highlight either their presence or the apparent significance of what might be implied (see Figure 5.3). Some scenes in Hidden are tense, particularly the initial meeting between Georges and Majid. But, despite the mystery/enigma dimension and some implied threat, the dominant tone is not one of high ‘thriller’ tension relating

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden

Figure 5.3 Teasing final sequence: Pierrot and Majid's son come to the foreground, screen left, but without any clear indication of what this implies, in Hidden q Les Films du Losange/Wega Film/Bavaria Film/Bim Distribuzione.

to dramatic events and immediate jeopardy. The overall mood is more one of thoughtful questioning and pondering on the various moral issues raised by the film around questions of guilt. While Georges might appear smug, his anger generated partly by a perceived threat to a privileged position that is taken for granted, with a sense of entitlement, the film also allows space for a somewhat more sympathetic reading. The issue might be less how far the adult can be blamed for the actions of his child self than their broader resonances, beyond the sphere of direct personal responsibility. The story of Georges and Majid can be read as emblematic of wider post-colonial relationships, particularly in the tendency of the former arrogantly to dismiss any sense of guilt or responsibility. His default response to any approaches from Majid or his son is dominated by anger, distrust and implied threat. He refuses, at least openly, to acknowledge the implications of his childhood actions, in limiting the life chances of Majid and his family, whether or not we might consider his adult self to remain culpable. Something similar could be said of the contemporary implications of historical colonialism, raising the same kind of issue for those who benefit from its fruits today even if they were not alive at the time. A broader background context is also established implicitly in the narrative, including a passing clash between Georges and a cyclist of 149

Positioning Art Cinema African origin (one that highlights, if only briefly, the anger of the latter and the prickly arrogance of the former) and in television news footage including material relating to events in Palestine and following the 2003 American-led invasion of Iraq. If the colonial issues raised by the main narrative can be seen as resulting from events ‘safely’ situated within the past, a device that often makes touchy subjects more easy to handle, these elements suggest an important continuity from the past to the present-day inheritance.4 The use of background television coverage of various overseas crises, ranging from the breakup of Yugoslavia to American intervention in Somalia, is a device through which Haneke implies a wider context of serious international issues of this kind in many of his films. Another key dimension, and a strong marker of the film’s status at the heavier-weight end of the art-cinema spectrum, is provided by the videotape recordings themselves and their role in what the film seems to encourage in the relationship between the viewer and the screened image. Hidden opens with a fixed view of a quiet residential urban street, over which the credits slowly accumulate. The first-time viewer has no reason to believe this to be other than a standard initial establishing shot. A figure identifiable as a woman (who will prove to be Anne) leaves through a doorway and disappears quickly to screen left. Dialogue over this image (between what will prove to be the central couple) refers to something having been left in a plastic bag on the porch (a reference to the video we are now watching, although this is not yet apparent). A closer shot of the entrance to their home follows, now at night, during which Georges and Anne exit the house, the former commenting ‘he must have been there’ as he looks down a smaller side street opposite, from which the initial shot will appear to have been taken once its status is made clear. We are then returned to the initial image and further dialogue between the couple. At this point horizontal scan lines appear across the image, making clear for the first time its status as a video recording being viewed and discussed by the pair; as, that is, a second-level of moving image within the primary diegesis, rather than the principal mediation of the fictional world that would otherwise generally be assumed. The effect of this shift is quite radically to alter the status of the opening shot, to situate it as not just the ordinary material of cinematic fiction but as a text-within-the-text, the status of which is uncertain and potentially threatening. The image is not different in quality from those of the main

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden body of the film, the whole having been shot with digital video cameras, and thus indistinguishable at this level. It is, as a result, substantially different in its textual effect from the videotaped images that open Haneke’s earlier feature Benny’s Video (1992), the lower quality of which are marked off from the images of the film itself, as are numerous others. (Benny’s Video opens with footage of the killing of a pig, the subsequent showing of which to a teenage girl culminates in Benny killing her in a similar manner.) The initially interruptive effect in Hidden is closer to the subversive rewinding moment in Funny Games, cited at the start of this book, although in a manner that is less overt and more subtly pervasive. The viewer is invited to suspect the status of some subsequent imagery, as well as to be drawn into the narrative enigma about the source of, and motivation for, the tapes. A night-time view of the house from a similar position to the opening shot is presented some nine minutes into the film, encouraging its interpretation as another videotape, which proves to be the case. Some other shots of the street from a slightly different perspective invite a degree of uncertainty as to their status. In one case, we have a view similar to that of the opening sequence, although from a position that seems closer to the middle of the side street and therefore may be less likely to be regarded as from within the diegesis, as such a position would not seem viable for a prolonged period. Where the camera-within-the-narrative is situated in the earlier videotape sequences is far from clear, however, its position seemingly too high to be from inside any of the parked vehicles with which it appears to be in line. In the instance in which the view is from closer to the middle of the street, Georges and Pierrot exit the house and approach towards the camera. At this point it pans down, appears to backtrack and swings around to follow them to Georges’ car, thereby proving its status as Haneke’s more omniscient perspective rather than that of the mystery antagonist. Soon after this we are given a shot through the windscreen of a car driving on a small country road. This proves to be from another videotape, one that shows Georges’ family home, but no reason has been provided at the start for the viewer initially to suspect its status as such, so this is another potentially disorienting shift. When another driving shot is offered, subsequently, through urban streets, the viewer is likely to be cued to be suspicious, on the basis of its predecessor’s establishment of

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Positioning Art Cinema this as a mode in which the footage turned out to be from a tape. A handheld shot down an apartment block corridor leads up to a particular door. Its status as part of a videotape is revealed when it goes into rewind mode, another of these moments in which the image-withinthe-fiction is drawn to overt attention through such processes of manipulation. Much of this kind of process is also figured in Benny’s Video, where video images are replayed, paused and slowed down, and where they also play a key role in central narrative events. Hidden includes an implicit invitation to the viewer to consider the status of such moving images more generally: not just those of the videotapes (their source, motivation and effect) but those of professional creators such as Georges or the filmmaker himself (in one sequence we witness Georges editing down, and in the process manipulating, a sequence from his television show). If we start to think about the likely location of the video camera outside the Laurent home, for example, as seems to be encouraged (it is hard to determine where it might have been situated without being noticed), we might also think about the positioning of the main camera itself and/or its status as a creator of preferred meanings. An implicit invitation to question the status of various forms of imagery within the film can be found, for those engaging at this level, in the two versions we are given of Georges’ first visit to Majid. Initially, as what appears to be an unmarked conventional fictional staging, their exchanges are presented in a standard and familiar style, mostly a combination of shots and reverse shots of each character in turn. Later, however, we are given another perspective, that of a more distant and fixed camera, of the kind associated with the videos-within-the-film, from another of which this appears to come when we see it viewed by Anne and Georges (see Figure 5.4). The latter version includes the response of Majid after the departure of Georges, in which he bows his head in tears. As Catherine Wheatley suggests, a comparison between the two shows how different the same material can appear when shot in alternative ways and so, effectively, from different perspectives.5 The second version creates the impression of being a more complete, literally unedited, account, therefore perhaps to be taken as more honest (even if, as Wheatley suggests, both remain fictional constructs). The sequence in which we see Majid kill himself on a later visit from Georges is shot from a very similar position, although not quite identical, which raises the question of whether

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden

Figure 5.4 A second perspective: The more distanced and fixed view of the meeting between Georges and Majid, and its aftermath, in Hidden q Les Films du Losange/Wega Film/Bavaria Film/Bim Distribuzione.

footage of that incident also exists within the diegesis, capturing the inadequate nature of the response that follows from Georges. What, also, of the final shot in which the two sons converse? The camera here is fixed and distant, a perspective much the same as that of the recordings of the Laurent house. Is this to be understood as part of another tape from within the diegesis, or is it solely the viewpoint of the filmmaker? The film seems designed to encourage such questions, particularly when subjected to repeat viewing or close analysis. Some similar issues are raised in Code Unknown (Code Inconnu, 2000), in which a slippage occurs between Haneke’s text and sequences from a film-within-the film in which one of the principals appears. Any such approach is certainly in keeping with the established reputation of Haneke, one theme of whose work, and its surrounding critical debate, has involved questions relating to the impact of moving image production and manipulation, particularly in examples such as Benny’s Video and Funny Games. This dimension is an important contributor to the heavyweight status of the film, giving it a significant extra layer of complexity and scope for distinction-marking consumption than would otherwise be the case. As with all such interpretations, engagement

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Positioning Art Cinema in such issues is dependent upon certain assumptions about the likely spectator. Far from all viewers of Hidden can be assumed to experience the film at this level, a dimension that requires very particular cultural resources and orientation if fully to be activated. But it is clearly a film that offers potential for this form of engagement as one of its markers of serious art-film status, in its positioning at the textual level. What, then, about the positioning of the film in its marketing paratexts? With its mystery/enigma dimension and the element of threat entailed in some aspects of its narrative, Hidden lends itself to some more mainstream-oriented strategies than could be envisaged in the case of The Turin Horse. It has, in this respect, something more in common with Tarr’s The Man from London, in its combination at the textual level of serious art-film with elements that have potential to be sold in relation to aspects of popular genre. This dimension is figured quite strongly into the main English language trailer, although it differs from The Man from London in not shying away from making clear the film’s subtitled status. The theatrical trailer strongly plays up the jeopardy/thriller dimension of the film, to a degree that significantly skews the overall impression. Genre forms an important marketing hook in this case, to a greater extent than is usually seen as the norm in the art-film sector, and potentially invoking expectations that are less likely to be met. This is closely linked to a reliance on the evocation of aspects of the film’s narrative, a much stronger hook here than in The Turin Horse and one that reflects the difference between the two films. Beginning by establishing the role of Georges as a television presenter and giving an introduction to the family context of wife and son, with subtitles included from the start and throughout, the trailer moves swiftly to establish the basic situation as far as the tapes are concerned, and to give this a more immediately menacing character than is the case in the film itself. A key imposition of the trailer onto the material is the use of sound effects in transitions from one sequence to another. The first extracts from the tapes, their status indicated via scan lines, are followed by a cut to black, an indistinct dark image and a portentous echoing ‘boom’ sound. A doubled image of the title is then provided, an out-of-focus reflected version receding behind the main, sharper typeface, an effect that adds to rhetorical emphasis on mystery/thriller resonances. Next comes an extract from a dinner party scene, the laughter of which is interrupted by a

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden doorbell, a cut to black, and one of those present asking: ‘You’re expecting more guests?’ This is followed by a shot of Georges, which fades to black, accompanied by a dark ‘whoosh’ sound of the variety that would be associated with a horror film. The implication is that some kind of threatening figure is about to appear. The reality in the film is that the occasion marks the arrival of another tape. It is part of the broader threat that appears to be posed to the family, but no actual jeopardy is involved in the moment itself, contrary to the impression created in the trailer. The shot of Georges is followed by a screen devoted to the name of Auteuil. Stardom is clearly an important element in the marketing mix, Auteuil and Binoche having the status of substantial figures within the world of international art cinema, although most of the work in this dimension is done through their presence in the scenes provided from the film rather than via overt reference to their names. More narrative detail about the tapes and an anonymous telephone caller follows, accompanied by further instances of the dark sound effect over some of the transitions. A sense of investigation is sustained through elements of the video footage taken from the car and in the apartment hallway. The sound of what seem to be footsteps along the hall is used as a beat for the faster cutting of one sequence. A sound effect that includes something almost like a scream is inserted at one point, after a reference to Pierrot being missing. We also see some of the film’s arguments between the main couple. The latter stages are faster cut, in a style typical of trailers for mainstream action or thriller productions, which often build to a similar crescendo, against sound that incorporates that of Georges thumping on the apartment door. The montage here includes an image of the child Majid approaching the camera holding an axe and a subsequent closer shot in which he appears to be wielding it at the screen, implying violent action. This is followed by a cut to black, another echoing bass note, and the main title and further credits. At the end, a shot of the hallway door opening is provided, as if it is about to supply an immediate revelation of some kind, followed by a black screen reading ‘A film by Michael Haneke’, in block capitals. Behind this are the lines ‘I’ve nothing to hide’ and the response, ‘Really?’, and the trailer-generic promise: ‘coming soon’. The latter half of the trailer creates a clear impression of a strongly forward-moving drive built around the approach of Georges to the apartment, one that implies and encourages expectation of a more

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Positioning Art Cinema straightforward process of dramatic revelation than is found in the film. What is notable about the visits of Georges to Majid’s home is how much remains withheld from the viewer at these points, particularly on the first occasion, when any expectation of clear revelation is largely unfulfilled. There is a suspicion at one point that the disappearance of Pierrot is linked to Majid. This results in the police being called to the apartment and arresting both Majid and his son. The most shocking moment of the film occurs at this location, Majid’s sudden suicide. But none of this unfolds in quite the manner implied by the trailer, either in the precise nature of the events or with anything like the rhetoric imposed here by the fast editing of some sequences or the genre associations brought by the imposed sound effects. This is a clear case of the marketers creating an impression of something considerably more mainstream-leaning than the qualities exhibited by the film itself. If this is largely a process of addition and imposition of a certain rhythm, generic style and pace, it also entails the omission of any reference to the political/racial context of the narrative, the focus of which appears far more exclusively individual in scope. The trailer is also distinctly light on specific claims to serious art-film status, beyond a Cannes endorsement at the very start and the presence of Haneke’s name, which suggests little attempt overtly to play up that kind of distinction-marking prestige. This is likely to add to the more mainstreamconventional expectations encouraged by the exaggeration of the generic dimensions: the latter seems to play more strongly in the absence of any countervailing emphasis on more art-distinctive ingredients. The strategy seems very different from that adopted in the case of The Turin Horse, which includes little if anything with potential to be sold in more commercial terms of the kind found here (whether the degree to which it mirrors the nature of the film is an act of honesty or the result of having little alternative remains open to debate). The theatrical trailer for Hidden examined above also differs considerably from a later version created for the Sony Pictures Classics DVD release. The existence of variations within marketing materials helps to make more explicit the nature and particularity of the choices made in any one manifestation. This version opens with a concerted listing of festival and awards credentials, giving them considerable prominence in the initial mix. It begins with Cannes, like its predecessor, but with the added detail that the film won prizes including best director. The next

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden screen lists as credentials its selection for the closing night of the New York Film Festival and its official presence at Telluride and Toronto. Another screen informs the viewer that it was nominated for seven European film awards, including best picture and best director. Much of the same material from the film is used in the first half of the trailer as in its theatrical equivalent, but noticeably without the heightening sound effects and intercut with lengthy critical endorsements. The content of the latter is spelled out one word at a time, against a silent background, a form of presentation that increases the prominence of this dimension within the overall mix. The result is likely to be the encouragement of a significantly different balance of expectations about the nature of the film itself. The first of the critical endorsements is another marker of approval from Manohla Dargis of The New York Times: ‘One of the most hotly debated and hands-down exciting selections at this year’s Cannes Film Festival.’ The next is from Ken Tucker from New York Magazine: ‘Michael Haneke maintains such a tight rein on our emotions that we sit spellbound, stunned by our own helplessness in the face of such a disturbing story.’ These seem to highlight a combination of the serious status of the film (‘hotly debated’, at Cannes, disturbing) and emphasis on its more accessible or dynamic qualities (‘hands-down exciting’, ‘we sit spellbound, stunned’). The latter part of the trailer develops a much lower-key variety of the drama imposed in the theatrical version, finishing with the blackness created by an image of Georges closing his bedroom curtains. The names of both Auteuil and Binoche are given full-screen credit in this case, a marker of their status as important ingredients in the positioning and selling of such films as works of a certain quality. The trailer closes with the obligatory and capitalised ‘A film by Michael Haneke’, as an auteur signature. The second of the two trailers seems considerably more in keeping with the overall tone and textual positioning of the film: in what it shows, how the textual material is presented, and in the much more extensive use of critical and festival-based endorsement of its art-cinema credentials. Varying strategies and points of emphasis can also be identified in posters and associated artwork used to sell the film, from the theatrical poster to versions employed on websites and DVD covers. The principal artwork used in these formats is taken from the scene in which Majid kills himself (as also echoed in the drawings sent to the Laurent family),

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Positioning Art Cinema although abstracted into a dramatic slash of blood-red against a plain white background. The spattered quality of the edges of the diagonal slash clearly signify its status as a dramatic blood mark, one that creates generic associations with the thriller and/or horror formats, and so is another example of a positioning in such mainstream generic terms. Different variations exist but this version usually employs the original French title, Caché, with the English Hidden beneath and in brackets. This is a significant marker of the film’s ‘foreign’ origin in certain territories, one that usually indicates art-film status. Haneke’s name is prominent in large letters at the bottom of the poster, those of the two stars in smaller lettering but above the title. One version includes some of the same critical endorsements as those found in the second of the two trailers examined above, along with the festival and prize markers of quality. Another, including the version used on the US DVD cover, has just one critical comment, the more mainstream inclined ‘Like Hitchcock, only creepier’, attributed to the Philadelphia Enquirer, thus creating connection with the work of a major name director from the Hollywood past although one associated with accessible genre films. A rather different approach was taken to the British theatrical and DVD releases, for which the red-and-white theme was abandoned in favour of more literal imagery of the two stars caught in a semi-dramatic pose that suggests some form of anxiety or discomfort while putting the emphasis on the arthouse star performers. More specific positioning is provided by the accompanying critical endorsements. The largest type on the poster other than the English title is the fully capitalised ‘A great movie’, attributed to Geoff Andrew in Time Out magazine. Beneath this, also in substantial-sized font, is ‘Utterly gripping . . . A breathtaking film by a masterful, formidably intelligent director’, from Jason Solomons of The Observer newspaper. In this case the star names are again above the title, in larger type than that of the director. Laurels representing its Cannes prize and the fact that it has won five ‘European film awards’ including best film and best actor are also given some prominence to one side. The British DVD employs the same image and the same text for the title, stars and director, but the critical endorsements are pared down. Those of the poster suggest a combination of accessibility (‘gripping’) and the more lofty-seeming (‘masterful, formidably intelligent director’), along with the plainly evaluative ‘great movie’, which could be applied to any

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden kind of film strongly liked by a critic. The DVD eschews any identification of its blurbs, a row of hyperbolic six-star symbols being placed before each: ‘Brilliant’, ‘A stunning thriller’, and ‘The most gripping film of the year’. Here, the broadly positive evaluation of ‘brilliant’ is accompanied by phrases that more specifically imply the kinds of pleasures offered by a mainstream product of the thriller genre. Festival laurels are confined to a relatively small space at the bottom of the image. The covers of the Anglophone DVDs on both sides of the Atlantic seem to opt for a relatively more mainstream approach to the marketing-positioning mix, on balance, which might reflect what can be expected to be a broader or less certain realm of circulation than posters that are primarily deployed in particular locations (at least, in the original usage as location-based marketing rather than when employed as promotional art-work more broadly), although this seems most strongly the case in the British example, at least as far as the critical blurbs are concerned.

Distribution strategy and critical reception A key dimension of the broader positioning strategy adopted by the distributors of such films is their presence at major festivals, an important source of kudos in their own right as well as of early reviews and the kinds of credentials displayed in marketing materials. Both of the films examined in this chapter made their mark at one of the most prestigious European events, a typical launch-pad and imprimateur of quality for films of this kind. The Turin Horse had its world premiere at the Berlin International Film Festival, where it won the Silver Bear (officially, the Jury Grand Prix), effectively the festival’s second prize, having also been nominated for the Golden Bear. It also won the festival’s FIPRESCI prize, awarded by the International Federation of Film Critics, a significant marker of critical approval. For Hidden, the key event was Cannes. It was nominated for the top award, the Palme d’Or, and won Best Director, the FIPRESCI prize and the Prize of the Ecumenical Jury. As well as providing key credentials of valorisation, successful appearances in leading festivals are often important to the securing of distribution for art or indie films, partly as a result of the standing they provide for any individual title and also in their role as venues attended by distributors. It was at Cannes that Hidden secured its US distribution from 159

Positioning Art Cinema the studio speciality division Sony Pictures Classics (SPC). SPC was exactly the kind of distributor that might be expected to take up the film, given its orientation as the most art-cinema leaning of the studio divisions. The dark and quite cold nature of the film, combined with its subtitled status, would make it a less likely candidate for generally more commerciallyoriented rivals such as Universal’s Focus Features and Fox Searchlight. The art-film star presence and the stature of Haneke, combined with the relative accessibility of the film (compared with the likes of The Turin Horse) would make it a suitable candidate for release by a division such as SPC, however, rather than a smaller stand-alone independent operation. The latter would be the kind of destination likely for The Turin Horse, as proved to be the case, rights to its release in the United States being acquired by The Cinema Guild, a New York based distributor the principal focus of which was on overseas and documentary films. The kind of distributor gained in the US by works of international art cinema is generally, as here, a good indicator of their relative positioning at the textual and industrial levels. Much the same goes for the production basis of the two films. Hidden is one of a number of relatively higher-profile films made in the later part of Haneke’s career, on the basis of its status as an international coproduction including arthouse stars such as Auteuil and Binoche. Haneke’s films tended to shift ground from his Austrian roots to an orientation towards France – French language and stars – as a seemingly more hospitable environment for art cinema of this variety. As Catherine Wheatley suggests, a move can be seen from the limited reach of his first three theatrical releases to a strategy of mixing challenging, modernist approaches with more commercially mainstream elements such as genre and stardom, a process begun with Funny Games and Code Unknown and maintained in most cases thereafter (one exception to this tendency would be The White Ribbon).6 This demonstrates some of the variety of positioning that can be found within a broad category such as the heavyweight. Hidden was originally planned as solely a French production, Haneke suggests, but it was not possible to raise sufficient funding on that basis.7 It ended up as a four-way international co-production with backers from France and Austria (primarily) along with Germany and Italy. It had a fairly substantial budget for the art-film sphere at e8.5 million. Of this

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden e600,000 came from the Council of Europe’s Eurimages cinema support fund and e320,000 from the European Union’s MEDIA programme. These are varieties of state (or supra-state) subsidy that have long been a feature of the financial support of European art cinema and that go some way to explaining the greater scope for the heavyweight variety here as opposed to a source of comparison such as the American indie sector. Hidden also received an advance against receipts of e350,000 from the state-funded CNC (Centre national du cinéma et de l’image animée).8 Haneke commented in relation to Hidden that co-production of this kind represented ‘the only chance that Europe has in film’, as an opportunity to work together ‘to create films and to oppose the American cultural imperialism.’9 A key part of the viability of Haneke’s later films on the kind of budget involved in this case is the inclusion of stars such as Auteuil and Binoche (a similar position of relative art-cinema prominence, via international co-production and use of such performers, is occupied by Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Three Colours trilogy [1993 –1994], among other examples). Binoche also took a leading role in Code Unknown while another major established arthouse name, Isabel Huppert, featured in The Piano Teacher (La pianiste, 2001), Hour of the Wolf (Le temps du loup, 2003) and Amour (2012), the latter also starring Jean-Louis Trintignant. Such figures are, as suggested above, key signifiers of a certain kind of artfilm status, one that guarantees a particular level of attention, media coverage and likely awards prominence within this sphere. The general absence of any such figures is also a marker of the lower profile and lower-budget nature of the work of Tarr, one exception being the presence of Tilda Swinton in The Man from London. The Turin Horse was also an international co-production. It had initial backing from producers in Switzerland, Germany and France, although the majority of the budget appears to have come from Tarr’s own production company, T. T. Filmmuhely. The cost of the film has not been reported, although it can be assumed to have been well below that of Hidden. Subsidies of e240,000 and e100,000 were provided, respectively, by the Eurimages fund and the Medienboard Berlin-Brandenburg in Germany.10 T.T. Filmmuhely closed in 2012, having supported other Hungarian films during its nine-year existence, at which point Tarr had become a critic of changes to film financing rules in the country that were seen as putting more emphasis on commercial considerations.11

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Positioning Art Cinema From these positions within the art-film landscape – scale of production, commercial factors or their absence, nature of distributor – flow the likely distribution strategies for any examples such as these. I will again use the US release as a measure of the more general approach taken to such works within the international art-film sector. As would be expected by the small scale of its distributor and its austere nature (themselves closely correlated), The Turin Horse gained only a very small scale American release. It opened on a single screen in New York and achieved a widest scale of just three. This is exactly the kind of fate that would be expected for a film at the most ‘difficult’ end of the distributable art-cinema spectrum. The US domestic gross was a distinctly modest $56,391; another $105,697 was earned overseas, making a box office total of $162,088.12 Hidden fared much better, again closely in keeping with both the nature of the film, with its stronger commercial hooks, relatively speaking, within the speciality market, and the greater resources of its distributor. The film debuted with a classic version of the platform release strategy traditionally used for art and indie films, opening at five cinemas in New York and Los Angeles. At its widest it showed on 90 screens, a substantially wider reach than that achieved by The Turin Horse, although still very much within the confines of the arthouse market rather than demonstrating any large-scale cross-over appeal. It grossed $3,647,381, many times the sum achieved by the Tarr film, although still a relatively modest figure. Its overseas theatrical gross was $12,550,443, making a total of $16,197,824, approximately twice the estimated size of the production budget. The speciality press reporting of the opening of Hidden included some notable comment about the position of the film, and the audience for such work, in the contemporary context of subtitled/overseas art cinema more generally. Indiewire reported that the film came first out of 47 titles for its opening weekend when ranked on the basis of its perscreen average box office of $13,851. Per-screen average is a favoured measure of the performances of films on platform release, where the overall weekly grosses are likely to remain low when compared with any film released more widely. On the basis of this performance, Indiewire situated the film explicitly in the context of the history of the heavyweight art film, suggesting that: ‘The European film that dares to challenge its audience’s comfort levels – once a mainstay of American arthouses in

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden the commercial heyday of Antonioni, Bunuel and Alain Resnais – may be staging a comeback’.13 This was a view generally at odds with prevailing opinion about the state of the US market for films of this kind, but was based on some of the specific qualities of the film. While Haneke is ‘a critics’ favourite’, this piece suggests, previous films of his such as Time of the Wolf and The Piano Teacher ‘have been too difficult for a variety of reasons to attract an American following beyond devoted cinephiles.’ It then quotes Michael Barker, co-president of SPC, suggesting that Hidden is ‘his most accessible film’ and that it is ‘attracting more of a crossover audience and people are discovering him for the first time.’ It helps, he suggests, to have ‘great performances by two stars’ and to be winning awards from critics. Comments such as these offer some insight into how the exact nature and positioning of such films is understood and articulated by those within the art-film business, including in this case the importance of the role of stardom and critical celebration to the securing of relative success. Hidden is, indeed, a film more accessible to a relatively larger audience than most of Haneke’s previous work at the time. The same piece also includes a broader note of caution about the state of this part of the market, however. Mark Urman, head of the US theatrical department of the smaller independent ThinkFilm, suggested that the prospects for foreign-language releases remained bad, few earning more than the costs of marketing (which he put at between $400,000 and $500,000). It is useful to consider where exactly these two films might be positioned, in relative terms, within the oeuvres of their respective creators. Hidden is, as Barker suggests, a film more accessible to a relatively larger audience than some of Haneke’s previous work at the time, although not necessarily all of it. Those that might be considered more demanding, or with fewer relatively easy points of entry, would include, as well as the examples cited by Barker, The Seventh Continent, with its detached narrative of a middle-class family’s collective suicide, and the multi-strand 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance (71 Fragmente einer Chronologie des Zufalls, 1994). The general tenor of these, along with Haneke’s second film, Benny’s Video, is captured in the ‘glaciation trilogy’ label by which they became known. Benny’s Video is in some ways a more accessible work than the other two, although also bleak and offering little in the way of comfortable viewing position to the viewer. Much the same might be said

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Positioning Art Cinema of some of the narrative ambiguities of the historical drama The White Ribbon and the unflinching portrait of ageing and death offered by Amour. The most accessible of his films to date are probably the two versions of Funny Games, but these also retain some core Haneke features, particularly the manner in which they at times overtly toy with the likely responses of viewers (including self-reflexive comments made to the camera). As far as Tarr is concerned, The Turin Horse is as austere as any of his work, although lacking the sheer duration of what is considered by devotees to be his magnum opus, the 450-minute Sátántangó, the bleak rural setting of which has something in common with that of his final feature. To have viewed a film as long and as minimalist as the latter might be expected to be a particular badge of honour for a certain variety of art-film cinephile (the same might be said of those who have viewed the extremely long works of Lav Diaz). Both The Turin Horse and Hidden met generally with positive reviews from journalistic critics and were positioned primarily in the terms that would be expected of successful works by heavyweight directors such as Haneke and Tarr. The review aggregation website Rotten Tomatoes gave Hidden an 89 per cent overall approval rating from critics (based on 131 reviews) with 78 per cent positive from users of the site (a total of 50,653). Similar results were given for The Turin Horse: 88 per cent from critics (from a sample of 51) and 75 per cent from users (from 2,481 ratings). These suggest high levels of regard. Although the user ratings are somewhat lower, they remain positive, not displaying as large a gap as is sometimes found between the responses of critics and more general respondents to demanding films (a difference that might in some cases be seen as a marker of a greater preference on the part of critics for the more strongly exotic/alternative, as suggested in the previous chapter). Another aggregation site, Metacritic, gave somewhat lower but still positive ratings in most cases. Hidden received an overall critics rating of 83 per cent (based on 37 reviews), much higher than the ‘user score’ of 6.3 out of ten (based on 231 ratings): an indication in this case that the film appealed considerably more to critics than to posters on the site. For The Turin Horse, the ratings are much closer, although based on smaller samples that indicate its more limited circulation. The average for critics here is 80 (from 14 reviews), the user score 8.2 (based on 21 ratings).

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden Among the more prominent of national US press sources, the Los Angeles Times lauded Hidden for both its approach and its subject matter. It is a psychological suspense drama ‘of the utmost rigor and originality’ – important signifiers of a particular kind of approach – ‘that raises universal issues of individual responsibility of the citizens of world powers for evils past and present wreaked upon Third World countries, and in particular France’s debt to Algeria.’14 The issues, then, are not just substantial but elevated to the level of the ‘universal’, and not just in reference to the particular context evoked in this case but to a broader geopolitical realm. Further underlining what amounts to a celebration of the heavyweight credentials of the film, it is ‘tough-minded in the extreme’ – as opposed, it is implied, to the weak-minded nature of more mainstream entertainment film. The nature and function of such unspoken opposites is very much the same here as in the manifestations within more academic writing examined in the previous chapters. It is also ‘understated’ and ‘spare’, also key signifiers of serious art cinema, implicitly opposed to notions of that which is overstated and lacking subtlety, another key component in the valorisation of art or indie films. It ‘confronts viewers head-on with those issues that are so profoundly uncomfortable and, for most people, so easy and tempting to evade’. The latter, again, is implied but not stated outright to be the case either with other kinds of cinema or in the preferences of viewers who might be included within a less favoured category such as ‘most people’. A.O. Scott in The New York Times expresses some reservations, including that there is ‘something schematic about his [Haneke’s] moralizing’, a criticism that has often been made of the director’s work.15 This implies something not so subtle or understated, and therefore a potential threat to the more valorised of art-film status. Tempting as he finds it to dismiss the film, he continues, ‘as a liberal guilt trip in the guise of a thriller, it is at the same time hard to deny its creepy, insinuating power.’ It is not possible, either, to ‘tune out his accusatory message. Civilization and barbarism are not antithetical, Mr. Haneke insists, but adjacent, perhaps even identical’, a point he has made in previous films ‘but never with such visual polish or rhetorical refinement.’ Despite any reservations, that is, the film is treated as having a highly serious and important argument, one with broader contemporary resonances. It can be interpreted, Scott suggests, ‘both as a response to the Sept. 11 attacks and,

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Positioning Art Cinema in retrospect, as a prophecy of the riots that convulsed France’s impoverished suburbs this fall [2005].’ It can be situated, this suggests, in relation to the most pressing of social concerns. If the film ‘can seem politically simplistic, it is nonetheless psychologically astute’, ‘and more complicated than it at first appears.’ The notion of psychological acuity or depth is another familiar ground for the valorisation of art cinema, set in opposition to the more simplistic or superficial qualities often associated with the products of the commercial mainstream. Complexity, too, is a core value in this context: as opposed, again, to assumed notions of mainstream simplicity. Other reviews at the serious end of the journalistic spectrum that would be expected to favour such films make more of the uncertain status of the on-screen images. A notable example is a piece in the Village Voice which suggests that ‘every minute’ of the film is untrustworthy as a result of the shifts between that which is marked as ‘live’ or as videotape.16 Haneke himself is positioned here, in true heavyweight auteur terms, as a ‘hardcore existentialist’ – not ‘our’ only one but maybe ‘the most pure-minded.’ These are, again, characteristic terms of valorisation in this territory. Haneke is not only an existentialist, a term that suggests weighty significance as well as a link with the philosophical basis of historically canonised art film, but one of ‘hardcore’ credentials, a usage of the term akin to my own. Not only that, but also ‘pure-minded’, another very strong positional characterisation. The film was also received positively in the more mainstream publication USA Today, among others, the pitch of which is suggested by the fact that the subtitled status of the film is pointed out at the start of the second paragraph, suggesting that such films might be less familiar to its constituency.17 The language and approach employed here is less highflown and more down to earth. The ‘viewer’s job’, we are told, is to ‘untangle the web of lies and assess the true meaning of things’ – which, it might be argued, is less the case than to acknowledge that some such things remain beyond easy assessment. Some might find the conclusion unsatisfying, the review argues, suggesting again a constituency that might be less oriented towards the kind of approach that is designed to remain at least partially open and ambiguous, as might be expected by the more heavyweight-oriented cinephile. That such films can also be rejected by broadsheet critics is illustrated by the response in the San Francisco Chronicle, however, from a city with

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden the kinds of cultural resources that would be expected to include a substantial constituency for the demanding variety of art cinema. It dismisses Hidden as ‘a fraud’ in both its style and its message.18 The film ‘lures the audience in with the promise of a thriller’, the reviewer suggests, perhaps a criticism more fairly leveled at the theatrical trailer, ‘but it trails off into drab social polemic.’ For this critic, the parallel the film draws between the past of Georges and French colonialism is ‘bogus’, while its adoption of a slow-movie style in some parts is declared to be unjustified: ‘This is not a Bresson, Bergman, Antonioni or Rivette film, in which something is always going on when nothing seems to be going on. This [a scene in which Georges awaits Anne in their bedroom] is true nothingness, the real McCoy.’ This critic’s evocation of figures from the heavyweight tradition is a notable example of an attempt to de-consecrate a film, through negative association, by denying its right to be considered in the same valorised terms as the work of such canonical auteurs (figures such as Bresson and Antonioni have been identified as important influences on Haneke’s work). The same underlying and implicit schema remains in place, however, whether the verdict on any one particular example is positive or negative. Of the two films examined in this chapter, Hidden gained the wider cultural traction in terms of its capacity to fuel debate and discussion in certain circles (including, centrally, it might be suggested, bourgeois artsoriented circles akin to those in which the central couple are situated). This is partly a result of its greater presence and prominence on release. But it is also a factor of the scope its content offered for explanation and interpretation, and the political (and therefore more contentious) nature of many of the issues it had potential to raise. The latter provided plenty of grounds for both critical comment and engagement with Haneke in interviews, either during the film’s screening at Cannes or when it went on theatrical release (it is partly for this reason, but also because of limitations of space, that I focus more on this film than The Turin Horse here and in the consideration of journalistic reviews above). The main hook for coverage based on interviews with Tarr in relation to The Turin Horse was the announcement that it would be his final film. Journalistic interviews of this variety are further instances of the paratextual apparatus surrounding such work. They are not an accidental by-product of the films, when understood this way, but an integral part of the art-cinema world. Their

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Positioning Art Cinema ability to attract this kind of attention is one of the bases of the appeal of such filmmakers to funders or speciality distributors. The status of figures such as Tarr and Haneke guarantees as least some coverage of this sort, a valuable source of free publicity in sources likely to be read by potential viewers of films of this kind. Of the two filmmakers on which this chapter is focused, Haneke is the better known for taking advantage of the interview forum as one in which explicitly to position his work, particularly in relation to Hollywood. Many examples of this can be found in comments made in relation to the two versions of Funny Games, for example, the nature of which tended to highlight such issues more than usually. His primary reason for making the American version, he suggested, was to enable its commentary on violence to be viewed more widely in the US than was the case for the Austrian original, which was restricted to the arthouse market, to reach the kind of audience that consumes violent Hollywood films. This was a move that ‘caused considerable controversy among hardcore cinephiles’, as one interview feature puts it, ‘not least because of Haneke’s reputation as one of Hollywood’s most outspoken critics.’19 For some aficionados, that is, such a move risked undermining his higher status, although the film that resulted was a very close remake of the original, not subjected to any studio process of rounding off harsh edges. How exactly the second version of the film was to be positioned in the marketplace appears, unsurprisingly, to also have led to conflict between the filmmaker and its American distributor, Warner Independent Pictures.20 In one interview associated with the Cannes screening of Hidden, Haneke states quite frankly that his films are ‘a protest against mainstream cinema, a response to the films screened in cinemas today.’21 In another, in challenging the basis of one question from his interlocutor, he offers a strong assertion of the precise nature and positioning of the film, both in itself and in relation to the appropriate level of engagement by the viewer. Asked ‘whodunnit?’ as far as the creation of the tapes is concerned, he responds by suggesting that ‘if you come out wanting to know who sent the tapes, you didn’t understand the film.’22 To ask this question, he says, is to avoid the real issue raised by Hidden, ‘which is more: how do we treat our conscience and our guilt and reconcile ourselves to living with our actions?’ This Haneke relates explicitly to the dimension of genre discussed above in relation to the marketing materials.

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden People are only asking, ‘whodunnit?’ because I chose to use the genre, the structure of a thriller, to address the issues of blame and conscience, and those methods of narrative usually demand an answer. But my film isn’t a thriller and who am I to presume to give anyone an answer on how they should deal with their own guilty conscience.

The film is positioned here as using aspects of the genre but not belonging to it; as setting up one kind of dynamic but only to divert the attention elsewhere, onto a dimension in which the usual thrust of the genre – to demand an answer – is inappropriate. The film is thus positioned away from its more conventional and generic dimension and towards an emphasis on serious issues of the kind that customarily mark the territory of heavier-weight art cinema. Haneke suggests, along similar lines, that Funny Games is also ‘an anti-genre film’, one that ‘moves like a thriller’ but also comments on the format (the latter also implying a very different level of engagement).23 Such formulations seem to capture quite well the qualities of the films themselves. But they also provide a mechanism by which to establish a potential distinction between those who do or do not really understand what is intended; those who are or are not equipped with the requisite reserves to ‘get’ the real point, rather than to experience the work primarily in terms of its genre dynamics. Haneke positions his films in various such ways that contribute to their heavyweight art status within paratextual discourse. His own comments in interviews provide one source of authorisation (literally), alongside the films themselves, for critical interpretations of this kind. Key issues articulated by the filmmaker include a critique of the manipulation of the viewer by mainstream media, both Hollywood and television. In Funny Games, Haneke very effectively manipulates the viewer into feeling a strong antipathy to the two home invaders, to the point at which the shooting of one encourages an emotionally positive celebratory reaction. The rewinding of this moment, and the denial of the pleasure that has been offered, constitutes an effective rebuke to the viewer and a potential laying bare of the whole processes. Haneke’s stance regarding manipulation is linked to his favouring of the static long take, a key marker of the strand of the heavyweight tradition examined in the previous chapter. He fits squarely into the broader valorisation of this approach and its basis in opposition to what is seen as the dominant fast-cutting style of 169

Positioning Art Cinema contemporary television advertising and commercial cinema. The long take, Haneke suggests, is a means through which cinema can enable the viewer to ‘experience the world anew’, a position akin to a number of those examined in Chapters 3 and 4, one he articulates in one interview in relation to Code Unknown: Code Unknown consists very much of static sequences, with each shot from only one perspective, precisely because I don’t want to patronize or manipulate the viewer, or at least [to do so] to the smallest degree possible. Of course, film is always manipulation, but if each scene is only one shot, then, I think, there is at least less of a sense of time being manipulated when one tries to stay close to a ‘real time’ framework. The reduction of montage to a minimum also tends to shift responsibility back to the viewer in that more contemplation is required, in my view.24

This might also be applied to the comparison between the two renditions of the scene between Georges and Majid discussed above, the second of which seems to embody the approach in which the level of manipulation is at least reduced. The emphasis on viewer contemplation and openness to interpretation is another key marker of heavyweight art-film status, as we have seen, one connected by Haneke, as by sympathetic academic-critical commentary, with what is viewed as a more realistic understanding of the world itself. The point, as Haneke puts it in another interview, is ‘that there are no solutions’ to the kinds of problems his films invoke. Mainstream cinema ‘tries to feed you the idea that there are solutions, but that’s bullshit.’25 He adds: ‘You can make a lot of money with these lies. But if you take the viewer seriously as your partner, the only thing that you can do is to put the questions strongly.’ This is clearly established as a marker of the status of art: ‘I think every art form today can put out only questions, not answers. It’s the fundamental condition.’ The oppositions invoked in such comments are familiar aspects of the broader positioning of art cinema examined in this book: manipulation vs. openness and a greater role for the viewer; the telling of lies (simple, pleasurable: the realm of profitable entertainment) vs. the raising of questions to which no easy answers are apparent (complex, difficult/challenging: the realm of higher art). While Haneke’s films are widely praised in such terms by both critics and academic commentators, another marker of his standing is perhaps his

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden controversial status, even within the spheres in which critical consecration is customarily bestowed. Some have accused him of moralising selfrighteousness and/or of excepting himself from the strictures he imposes on others, notably a withering response to the original Funny Games by the ‘name’ critic J. Hoberman in The Village Voice, probably the single most frequently cited review of his work. For some critics, or in relation to some of his films, Haneke occupies the position of a provocateur similar to that of a figure such as Lars von Trier, one around which the status of valorised auteur is often contested in a manner that further helps to clarify the basis on which such celebration stands. Exactly what marks the highest status for this kind of cinema is itself open to dispute. If one persistent marker of artfilm status is narrative openness and indeterminacy, and the consequent scope or requirement for the viewer to enter into the process of meaningcreation, this is sometimes viewed as a problem, particularly for films that deal with issues that are likely to be interpreted as involving overtly political dimensions.

Positioned between counter cinema and indie Hidden is one of the group of ‘feel-bad’ films examined by Nikolaj Lübecker that faced accusations from some critics of taking a mystifying, and therefore reactionary, attitude towards issues with socio-political dimensions – in its refusal of full explanatory closure and, as a result, what some felt to be its evasion of confrontation with reality. As Lübecker suggests, however, this denial can be read in support of one of the key points implied by the film: the danger constituted by Georges’ own desire for closure and what this sparks in the narrative. This warning is, for Lübecker, a ‘clear ethical lesson’ supplied by the film, his basis for the valorisation of such work.26 This is a position broadly similar to some of those outlined in Chapter 3, where we saw Haneke being celebrated for his exploration of ethical issues. To make such a claim in relation to any film is to elevate it into the realm of higher art/ culture on the grounds of a certain kind of valued, serious engagement. Too clear-cut a stand, however, can result in accusations of moralising or lecturing; a lack of the complexity, nuance or sophistication expected of a higher work of art. Capacity for reading in terms of ethical insights that themselves remain complex and challenging is perhaps the ideal position to adopt, or to be found, in this realm. 171

Positioning Art Cinema This is exactly the position ascribed to Haneke’s films by Catherine Wheatley, in another study the central focus of which is on the seriousmodality marking ethical dimension of his work. She suggests that his films go beyond the bounds of either an aesthetically focused modernism or a more politically aggressive variety of the kind associated with a figure such as Godard. Reflexivity is used here, Wheatley argues, not as a vehicle for a particular political and moral agenda, but to encourage ‘a more openended reflection on the spectator’s part about moral questions.’27 That is, valuation is established here on the basis specifically of not offering the kind of ‘clear ethical lesson’ found by Lübecker. His films ‘co-opt spectators into a uniquely moral relationship with the film’, a quality implied to occupy a higher position than that of the various other strands of modernism on which it draws. Viewers must strive to find their own positions in relation to the ethical dilemmas explored both within the films and raised by their implications for the act of viewing itself. For Wheatley, this entails a development across Haneke’s work of a varying balance between determinist manipulation of the viewer and the creation of space for subjective interpretation, a process viewed as reaching a high point in Hidden. While his films have something in common with the notion of counter cinema promoted by figures such as Peter Wollen in the 1970s, as a radical alternative that seeks to break down the illusions created by the ‘classical realist’ text, Wheatley suggests that the manner in which they do this is significantly different and, it is implied, superior. Counter cinema, as defined by Wollen in relation to the work of Godard, particularly Vent d’Est (Wind from the East, 1970), is contrasted with the cinema of the mainstream in a series of oppositions that encompass many dimensions of the hard-core/heavyweight tradition invoked in this book.28 It is a cinema of narrative gaps and interruptions, as opposed to one in which events follow one another in a clear chain of causation; it offers a relationship with characters based on estrangement rather than identification; it makes the mechanics of the film visible and explicit rather than seemingly transparent; it contains a heterogeneity of narrative worlds rather than a unitary homogenous world; it is open-ended and intertextual rather than offering self-contained closure; instead of pleasurable entertainment, it aims to dissatisfy and, as a result, change the spectator; in the place of fiction, it offers claims to the status of capturing truth and real life. So defined, counter cinema is a radical practice that

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden tends towards the avant-garde end of the film spectrum that is generally excluded from the commercially institutionalised realm of art cinema, as also manifested in films made by Wollen himself in collaboration with fellow theorist Laura Mulvey, the best known of which is Riddles of the Sphinx (1977). Mulvey argues similarly, in her famous article on the gender dimensions of Hollywood style, for an alternative practice based on a destruction of conventional pleasures, ‘to make way for a total negation of the ease and plentitude of the narrative fiction film.’29 The aim of counter cinema is to deny any of the conventional pleasures offered by mainstream film, as part of a project designed to lay bare the nature of cinematic mechanisms and the negative role they are said to play in the underpinning of bourgeois ideology (a process understood in such theory as revolving particularly around the interpellation of the spectator as individual subject). Rather than seeking in this way to reveal the reality of active construction that lies behind the illusion of classical realism, Wheatley suggests, Haneke’s films ask viewers to consider their own relationship with the cinematic institution. A move increasingly in this direction is identified across his career. Reflexive techniques of the kind employed in counter cinema are used ‘not to ask how we are victims of cinematic interpellation’ but how we collude in such a process.30 This, for Wheatley, is a more nuanced and effective approach than that of counter cinema, in which she suggests no such space is provided for viewer complicity or emotional involvement. Reflexive devices have all the more force, Wheatley argues, when used to rupture a more pleasurable relationship developed by a film. Unlike both the Hollywood mainstream and counter cinema, each of which she says offers fixed moral conclusions of its own (a point that might be debated in either case), Wheatley suggests that Haneke’s films leave viewers to make up their own minds about the various moral dilemmas they raise. If, in this view, his films do not offer ethical lessons of their own, this is clearly another basis of valorisation rooted in the broader historical Aristotelian and associated discourses on the arts cited in Chapter 1 (in Wheatley’s case, the principal source drawn upon to underpin her position is from Immanuel Kant). Although this approach is based on a particular blend of mainstream and alternative qualities, the effective position on offer suggests a heightened example of the key heavyweight ingredient of openness to viewer interpretation (far more so than is said to be allowed in the counter

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Positioning Art Cinema cinema model). The fact that some of Haneke’s films contain elements of more conventional cinematic pleasure, and/or have sometimes been sold this way, as in the case of Hidden, might suggest that they are also open to a relatively broader audience than that attracted to some hardcore art films. But the mix is likely to be distinctly uncomfortable for some viewers, a major source of the hostility they provoke from certain critics, effectively restricting them to the arthouse sector. Wheatley’s account is another that seems to overreach in the claims it makes for this kind of cinema, a tendency seen in some of the perspectives examined in previous chapters. The viewing of films that operate in this way will ‘affect subsequent viewings of other films’, she suggests; ‘from the first time that the spectator becomes aware of classical realist cinema as a system of ethical interpellation that constructs them in a certain way, that awareness is always with them.’31 Never again, she adds, ‘can they be completely interpellated by the cinematic institution.’32 From this point on, they can choose to ignore their ‘moral duty’ to reflect at this level, but ‘this must now be a conscious decision.’33 There are a number of problems with these assertions, which seem to be made at a rather abstract level rather than one that engages with the real, practical likelihood of such dimensions being actively in play for actual viewers, as was the case with some of the claims examined in the previous chapter. It seems doubtful that the nature of this process is likely to come to awareness for any viewers other than the small number who engage in academic or similar analysis of this kind. How many viewers, even from the arthouse minority, are really likely to walk away from a Haneke film with anything like an explicit awareness of the implications Wheatley reads in at the textual level? Very few, I would suggest. It is one thing to identify such a potential in the films; quite another to be so sure of its activation in any particular instances (and, if this is in doubt, it seems prudent to be cautious in making such claims). Even for anyone who takes away some such awareness, it seems a huge and unwarranted assertion to suggest that this would forever change their attitude to film viewing. As a film scholar specifically interested in these issues, and so situated at an extreme end of the spectrum, likely to be most oriented towards such a form of investment, I would not be so bold as to suggest that engaging with them in some instances comes close to affecting all of my other viewing experiences. It seems even more unlikely to have such an effect more widely.

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden Why, then, make such sweeping assertions, ones that seem especially inappropriate in a generally nuanced work focused on the complexity of the various issues handled by Haneke and the subtlety of approach diagnosed in an example such as Hidden? The dynamic seems similar to some of the other examples of over-claiming examined above: a symptom of a desire to ascribe special importance and value to particular varieties of art cinema (or to a conception of ‘high’ art more generally). The films of Haneke are positioned by Wheatley as generally superior to much of the modernist tradition, particularly in her reading of their status at the level of engagements with the ethical situation of the viewer, as a result of their blend of different strategies. It then seems felt necessary to make enormous claims for their impact on future viewing experiences in order to accord, or further to increase, this especially high level of valuation. To be able to make the strongest of claims, it would seem, some lasting transformation of the viewer seems to be a necessary component, however implausible this might appear. In enacting such a manoeuvre, Wheatley seems to participate in a broader tradition in which extra-special value of this kind is accorded to the powers of art. It is easy to criticise this move, but more useful to try to understand it as symptomatic of the broader cultural complex within which such transcendent potential is credited to the ‘higher’ variety of art – or, in this manifestation, art cinema – as situated within the discursive context elaborated in Chapter 1.34 If Haneke himself positions his work in opposition to mainstream cinema and television, it is notable that he also situates it explicitly in distinction to work from the American indie sector, the closer basis of comparison examined in Chapter 2. He distinguishes 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance and Code Unknown, for example, from what might be considered to be relative indie equivalents such as the multinarrative-stranded Short Cuts (Robert Altman, 1993) and Magnolia (Paul Thomas Anderson, 1999). The latter ‘have a tendency to tie up all the strings of all their stories at the end’, while he says he sought explicitly to avoid so reconciliatory and conventional a dynamic.35 In 71 Fragments, for example, the various threads are connected via links between characters and those who are killed in a climactic and seemingly unmotivated massacre, but the association is otherwise entirely arbitrary beyond their shared presence within the same socio-historical moment. This can be seen as a strong marker of the different status of such films: one variety in which

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Positioning Art Cinema a degree of complexity and challenge greater than that usually associated with the mainstream is softened and reduced; the other in which it is heightened and maintained. The distinction made here is very similar to that articulated by Kovács between his notions of classical and modern art cinema. As far as his use of violence is concerned, Haneke also distances his work from examples including Pulp Fiction, where he finds a problem with the Tarantino film’s use of comedy. ‘Humour of that kind is all right, even useful, as long as the viewer is made to think about why he is laughing’, he suggests. ‘But that’s something “Pulp Fiction” fails to do.’36 The distinction is, again, very characteristic of the relative positioning accorded to indie and heavyweight art cinema: the one generally being viewed as lighter and less serious or thought-provoking than the other. The violence of Pulp Fiction is, for Haneke, made easily ‘consumable’ by its mixture with comedy, as seems largely to be the case (although I have argued elsewhere that such a blend of modalities can also potentially destabilise the response of the viewer).37 A similar basis of distinction is drawn between other films with which Funny Games has been compared: A Clockwork Orange (dir. Stanley Kubrick, 1971) and Natural Born Killers (dir. Oliver Stone, 1994). These are viewed as failures, from Haneke’s perspective, because (deliberately or otherwise) their stylised violence could be consumed as a source of pleasure in its own right. Haneke’s films, on the contrary, are rarely viewed as offering pleasure other than that of a distanced and more intellectual variety. The distinction between easy pleasure and discomfort is another classic marker of heavyweight/hardcore and sometimes more general art film status. The films of Tarr have also been positioned in political terms, although their approach is one in which the ideological dimension is generally less explicit than is the case with Haneke. For András Bálint Kovács, they represent an expression of a widespread feeling of disappointment and disillusionment on the part of the peoples of Eastern Europe in the period before and following the collapse of state communism from 1989.38 Kovács reads Tarr’s oeuvre, particularly his better-known later works from Damnation (Kárhozat, 1987) to The Turin Horse, as achieving a combination that again seems characteristic of the basis on which much of the heavyweight tradition is valorised. He found ‘a way to express powerfully a sentiment about a historical period without ever directly

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Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden referring to this period specifically, which made his expression open to universal interpretation.’39 If Haneke has often argued against the more narrow reading of his films, as critiques of particular national contexts – the Austrian, say, or the French – the style and content of much of Tarr’s work, including The Turin Horse, creates a balance in which the locally specific appears less prominent than what appears to be a more ‘universal’ statement about the nature of existence. The balance between the two is a characteristic basis for the celebration of art cinema, in which the nationally or regionally specific is ideally positioned as also providing insights of more universal application. We might ask whether the basis of this is really the universalisation of particular, western-centric perspectives, however, as Gow argues in the case of the art-cinema framing of the films of Abbas Kiarostami and others associated with the Iranian new wave.40 This is often, it seems, part of the basis on which such work, from particular geographical locations, gains the ability to circulate successfully in the internationalised arena that constitutes so fundamental a part of the art-cinema world. For Kovács, Tarr’s films express on the part of the people of Eastern Europe ‘a feeling of disappointment, of having been tricked, because the work of a lifetime has been wasted, because they have become the victims of petty intrigues’.41 It is this vision of the world, he suggests, one in which no-one can be trusted and no ideals remain uncorrupted, that is embodied by the recurrent qualities of Tarr’s films. These include in many cases a circular narrative structure and an extreme slowness that expresses a sense of hope of a way out that will always ultimately be denied. This is, again, what would generally be positioned as an ideal blend of form and content, along with the combination of the historically/locally specific and the globally resonant. If Tarr started out in the 1970s with hopes of making films with more direct political effects, Kovács suggests, his radicalism proved to be at the level of his filmmaking rather than his political thinking or activism, in his career-long stance as an outsider with a reputation for being ‘difficult’ and ‘uncompromising’ in dogged pursuit of his own vision, at whatever cost in terms of limiting his access to resources.42 What is evoked here is a very familiar Romantic portrait of the artist battling against those unsympathetic to the pursuit of his art. The progression of Tarr’s career is also understood in terms that seem rooted in this very culturally-historically specific notion of the auteur/artist. A key

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Positioning Art Cinema part of Kovács reading of Tarr’s films, which includes quantitative analysis of their formal qualities, is the identification of a process of evolution and development that leads, through various experiments in his early work, to the arrival of what is labelled ‘the Tarr style’, as if the manifestation of this in his later work is an inevitable product of a developing vision.43 The point, for my purposes, is not to argue against this reading but to draw attention to the extent to which it participates in a very particular manner of positioning the work of such figures: within the conception of artistic ‘genius’ developed in the eighteenth century. This is an approach that remains central to the manner in which filmmaking of this kind is usually framed, without its status as so particular a perspective usually being drawn to attention. Elzbieta Ostrowska and Joanna Rydzewska emphasise a more pragmatic basis for the change in Tarr’s films from Damnation onwards. They situate this as part of a shift towards a more transnational sensibility, less rooted in the specifics of place than his earlier work (following the collapse of state communism), of precisely the kind that enabled him to benefit from both the funding and sources of circulation that typify the contemporary arthouse sector. 44

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6 Serious Restrained Drama and Realism

The heavyweight art film as defined above is a fairly broad category. There are a number of ways in which individual films or the work of particular filmmakers might be accorded this status, as suggested in the previous three chapters. Any such realm remains far from exact in its boundaries, with plenty of room for disagreement about what it might or might not include. But it is also possible to identify a range of art cinema that seems to some degree less heavyweight in its textual and extra-textual positioning, including the broad category of what I term ‘serious restrained drama’, on which this chapter is focused. One defining aspect of this tendency is a central notion of realism that might be situated in some degree of contrast to the more modernist dimensions of many examples of the most challenging hard-core art cinema. That these strands intermingle in the broader history and culture of art cinema complicates any attempt to separate them out into entirely distinct categories, but some points of contrast can usefully be identified. In terms of the historical background outlined in Chapter 3, the variety of contemporary art cinema to be considered in this chapter would characteristically be positioned closer to the heritage of movements such as Italian neo-realism and its successors or the work of figures such as Ozu and Bresson than that associated with the likes of Antonioni, Tarkovsky or Godard, even if such distinctions remain far from clear cut. 179

Positioning Art Cinema This is another region within which considerable variety can be found, including differing degrees of relative weightiness of positioning. A notion of restrained drama captures, for me, a sense of the modality of some distinctly more accessible/commercial films that circulate within the realm of art cinema, one example of which I examine in detail here is the Danish feature The Hunt (Jagten, 2012), directed by Thomas Vinterberg. Some other examples that might be positioned similarly, in broad terms, are considered later in this chapter. The category can also embrace more challenging work associated with a marked realist tendency, such as that of the Belgian brothers Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, the other principal focus of this chapter. The positioning of the films of the Dardennes shares some features with that of the output of a figure such as Michael Haneke, including an emphasis on questions of ethics that often entails the invocation of works of philosophy. Notable differences between The Hunt and the work of the Dardennes can also be identified at the level of their formal qualities, the rough-hewn neo-realist-variant qualities of the latter contrasting with the more polished aesthetic of the former, a difference of the kind often subject to variable modes or degrees of valuation. A key marker of distinction in each case, textually and in the manner in which such films are received by critics, is a denial of some of the major devices associated with the ‘melodramatic’ dimension of more mainstream/commercial films. This is a negative point of reference shared to varying degrees by advocates of both the realist and modernist tendencies. Melodrama is a key marker of the qualities associated with the products of ‘lower’ culture by figures such as Bourdieu and Gans, as also deployed generally as an indicator of less-valorised status by Kolker. The main examples examined in this chapter are films that contain narrative scenarios that, in themselves, might constitute heightened and potentially melodramatic material, but treated in a restrained manner that tends to downplay any such approach and sometimes to locate these events within more quotidian contexts. Such films still invite strong emotional engagement, however, as is true of a great deal of art cinema beyond the most distancing of modernist approaches, a dimension that situates them closer to Kovacs’ less examined category of ‘classical’ art cinema. They also favour a non-judgemental presentation of moral issues, one that offers a complexity of character and motive that contrasts with the Manichean oppositions more characteristically associated with the Hollywood-style

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism mainstream. The basis of their valuation on such grounds, as with many examples of the heavyweight tradition considered above, leans on the unspoken existence of an absent other and is rooted in the kinds of discursive oppositions outlined earlier in this book, a dimension to which I return more explicitly later in this chapter. Such oppositions can also be identified in the relative positions attributed to a film such as The Hunt and the work of the Dardennes within the arena of art cinema, particularly in relation to their formal qualities and the manner in which form is understood to relate to content. The emphasis on restraint in this chapter is not intended to suggest that the ‘unrestrained’ is never valorised as a marker of ‘higher’ art, including some examples of art cinema cited below, but to identify one recurrent emphasis found in this sphere.

Non-judgemental narrative The films of the Dardennes are positioned clearly within the ‘serious’ dimension of art cinema, most immediately through their focus on characters who exist on the margins of society and are viewed as in this way representing significant contemporary socio-economic trends. This applies both to their location in a specific region afflicted by the problems of deindustrialisation (the Wallonia region of Belgium) and the extent to which this can be read as a microcosm of broader aspects of globalisation (including the loss of traditional working-class jobs and trafficking in illegal immigration). This is exactly the kind of context seen as giving importance to certain contemporary art cinema movements by James Tweedie, as cited in Chapter 2. The broader background remains implicit in the work of the Dardennes, rather than being drawn overtly to attention or commented directly upon, but usually plays a prominent part in the manner in which their films have been understood and accorded substance and significance.1 It is also within this broader social context that we can make sense of one of the defining characteristics of the films of the two brothers: the lack of any overt judgement of central characters who often act in a manner that seems morally questionable. The implicit conclusion is that this is a result of the force of the circumstances within which they live. This does not remove them from a domain of personal moral responsibility, which remains a core aspect of the work of the Dardennes, but it situates such acts 181

Positioning Art Cinema within what can be interpreted as a broader explanatory context. Another framework within which the films have been located by critics is the moral philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas, an influence acknowledged by the filmmakers. From this perspective, they offer a dramatisation of a process of awakening and recognition of responsibility to others, as discussed in more detail below. How far this represents a transformational change on the part of individuals remains open to debate, however, given the general openness of the endings of the films. The sense of non-judgement of characters who perform dubious actions in various more or less difficult circumstances is strong in most of the films through which the Dardennes achieved their international reputation. In The Promise (La Promesse, 1996), for example, the film that first brought them to attention beyond Belgium, the central character Igor (Jérémie Renier) assists his father Roger (Olivier Gourmet) in running part of an immigration racket. While painted as an essentially decent individual, he ends up forced into complicity with murder, when one immigrant, Amidou (Rasmané Ouédraogo), is seriously injured. Igor tries to help Amidou but his father, seeking to avoid any complications with officialdom, allows him to die and enforces Igor’s assistance to bury the body. The promise of the title is made by Igor to the dying Amidou, to look after his wife, Assita (Assita Ouédraogo), and her baby. Igor follows through on his pledge, eventually to the point of choosing to help her in direct conflict with his father. He remains compromised until the closing movements, however, by failing to tell her what really happened to her husband. If Igor is led towards some kind of change through the making of a promise to another, the teenage protagonist of the Dardennes next feature, Rosetta (1999), is depicted as driven by a more encompassing sense of desperation. Living in a caravan with an alcoholic mother and struggling to keep a job, Rosetta (Émile Dequenne) is desperate to maintain some sense of normal existence. Befriended by a young man, Riquet (Fabrizio Rongione), who works for an employer from whose factory she has lost her job, she betrays him by informing about a scam through which he is selling his own products and pocketing the money. What appears as her only chance of a personal relationship is sacrificed to enable her to obtain his job. In an earlier scene, she seems for some moments to contemplate allowing Riquet to drown in a pond near her home, into which he has

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism fallen while trying to help her to recover a fish trap, before eventually coming to his help. The most overt and conventionally shocking act of a Dardenne protagonist to date is that committed by another wayward teenage character, Bruno (Jérémie Renier), in The Child (L’enfant, 2005), a petty criminal who sells his newly born baby son into black market adoption. He manages to recover the child; less, it seems, in realisation of the wrongness of this action than because the response of the mother, Sonia (Déborah Franc
ois), means trouble with the police. As a result he finds himself in debt to a gang, a situation that results in the near death of a younger child accomplice in the aftermath of a robbery. In none of these cases is the viewer encouraged to take a judgmental position on the negative actions (or significant non-actions) of the protagonists. No overt justification or excuse is made, either, beyond the presentation of the bare facts of the situations in which they find themselves. The approach of the Dardennes is to depict such situations and leave viewers to form their own conclusions. In this regard, their work fits one of the core dimensions in which art film is often valorised, as seen in previous chapters, in leaving space for the active engagement of the viewer. In some cases, circumstantial forces might seem powerfully determinant and capable of explaining or legitimating action. This might particularly be the case for Rosetta, in which the protagonist is repeatedly shown to be struggling to maintain a basic sense of viable existence and identity within a world that is generally inhospitable. Less justification might seem apparent for the central act committed by Bruno in The Child, but it is presented as consistent with the general nature of his status as a petty criminal constantly on the make; one who does not seem to think through the implications of such an action. Bruno is far from being depicted as a ‘bad’ or ‘evil’ character, in any simplistic terms. Neither is the sale viewed as the product of meanness or selfishness as such. Earlier in the film, for example, when Sonia is first released from hospital with the baby, Bruno blows the proceeds of his most recent escapades on buying a pram and hiring a convertible for the day, for a care-free family joyride. After setting up the adoption, he is seen playing an idle game in which he wets his foot in a puddle and jumps up to leave a mark on a wall. He is presented, that is, as youthful and child-like in some respects, playful even in the midst of the organisation of the sale of the baby. Minor detail of this kind typifies the approach of the filmmakers, one in which such a character

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Positioning Art Cinema is presented as no less ordinary in general, despite performing what seems to be a heinous act. This is a clear marker of the kind of distinction sometimes found in the art or indie film sectors, one that in some ways normalises what might more conventionally be seen as exceptional behaviour (a similar trait is found in some of the contemporary films of Bruno Dumont). Rather than being seen as the evil action of a character treated as if suitable only for condemnation, an act such as that committed by Bruno is presented simply as what one flawed but ordinary-enough figure does, as a part of the way he has been shaped by an environment that encourages a particular way of getting on, in whatever way presents itself, within limited horizons. Much the same could be said of Roger in The Promise: as Jean-Pierre Dardenne himself puts it, he is presented as a figure ‘of ordinary evil’ rather than any kind of monster or exception to the normal world.2 The mode of presentation is an important aspect of this approach. There is generally no great build up to, or overt dramatisation of, such actions. They are presented quite flatly, without any heightened cinematic articulation. This can be viewed as an example of the denial of clear cut emotional cues in art cinema, as considered in Chapter 3. Such cues are rendered less explicit or redundant than is usually the case in more mainstream productions, an approach usefully identified by Greg Smith as a source of the subtlety and nuance often associated with art or indie film.3 The characteristic Dardennes mode is not to offer any sense of psychological agonising on the parts of characters caught up in situations of the type outlined above. The style is one that suggests that they just do what they have to do, or what their situation encourages. The viewer is given no access to the thoughts of Bruno, for example, during the process that leads up to and involves the sale of the baby (see Figure 6.1). The actual exchange occurs off screen, while Bruno waits in a nearby room. He does not look particularly happy during this period, one of lengthy silence, but the interior is not brightly lit and nothing is made explicit. Little basis is provided for an understanding of his state of mind, other than the connotations provided by a bleak location. Any further interpretation is left to the viewer. Likewise, Bruno’s realisation that he needs to get the baby back seems to be immediate and the product of force of circumstance rather than any apparent change of heart or realisation. Bruno ends the film in jail,

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Figure 6.1 Unmoved? Bruno about to sell his baby in The Child q Les Films du Fleuve, Archipel 35, RTBF, Arte France Cinéma.

having done ‘the decent thing’ in giving himself up to take the blame for the robbery that nearly led to the drowning of his young accomplice. The film closes with a visit from Sonia that ends in a tearful embrace between the two during which nothing is said. This is another typical Dardenne approach: an ending that is open and inconclusive with a hint of the establishment of positive change, or at least its potential. Their films tend to tread a path between a ‘miserableist’ treatment of such scenarios, one that might be seen as respecting intractable realities by being entirely downbeat rather than offering any individual-level escape route, and any clear notion of the mainstream-conventional variety of ‘happy ending’.4 Something similar can be said about the conclusion of The Son (Le fils, 2002), which ends with a moment of working quietly together following a chase and struggle between the two protagonists: Olivier (Dardenne regular Olivier Gourmet), who teaches woodwork at a centre that offers courses to young offenders, and Francis (Morgan Marinne), a new recruit who was the killer some years earlier of Olivier’s young son. The Son illustrates another tendency that can be identified with a wider sense of restrained narrative, in which the underlying nature of much of the action is left unexplained to the viewer for considerable periods of time. When 185

Positioning Art Cinema Olivier sees the paperwork for Francis, he rejects him and is clearly disturbed, although we are not told why. He takes what is marked as an unusual interest in the boy and decides to let him into his class, but it is some 32 minutes into the film before the viewer learns what Francis did in the past, suddenly raising the dramatic stakes. What Olivier is planning to do is also left open throughout the remainder of the film. Is he taking Francis on in an attempt at redemption and reconciliation, we might wonder; or is he planning some kind of revenge? Such questions come into sharper focus in the latter movement of the film, in which Olivier takes Francis on a weekend trip into the countryside to pick up supplies from a lumberyard. He packs ropes and a tarpaulin, accessories that might have a perfectly innocent explanation but could also have potentially nefarious uses in the circumstances. Another question that hangs heavily over much of the film is at what point Olivier might reveal to Francis that he is the father of the boy’s earlier victim. One implication of this treatment is that Francis himself is unclear what he is doing and why. As in the case of The Child, he appears to be led largely by circumstances and drift rather than any clearly drawn plan of action. This can be understood as one of the realist credentials of the work, based on the likelihood that much real-world behaviour might be of this kind rather than shaped or planned out in advance. During the scenes at the lumberyard, Olivier suddenly blurts out that it was his son Francis killed. This is similar to the manner in which Igor informs Assita that her husband is dead and explains the circumstances in which this happened, just before the close of The Promise. The suddenness of these revelations has a ring of plausibility; that important material of this kind is often likely, in the real world, to be revealed in such a manner rather than being imparted in a more considered or carefully choreographed manner. A similar abruptness occurs more generally in the films of the Dardennes, an approach situated implicitly in opposition to any notion of more carefully contrived narration. This remains just as much a confection as any more conventionally shaped arc or other narrative structure; realism in film or any other medium is always a constructed impression rather than involving any direct access to an unmediated reality. The impression remains a strong one, however, closely linked to the visual style of the work, a dimension to which I return later.

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism A non-judgemental approach also seems central to the art-cinema credentials of The Hunt, co-written and directed by Thomas Vinterberg, along with its circulation in the subtitled arthouse environment outside its place of origin (the largely straightforward nature of its narrative might otherwise give it a relatively more mainstream status). The scenario is another that has strong melodramatic potential but given muted treatment, if with some notable differences from the approach taken by the Dardennes. The central character, Lucas (Mads Mikkelson), works in a nursery school. He is presented as a committed teacher, liked by the children and enthusiastically throwing himself into play activities. He appears to have established a particular bond with one young girl, Klara (Annika Wedderkopp), the daughter of his closest friend, Theo (Thomas Bo Larsen). Klara then makes an accusation of inappropriate sexual behaviour on the part of Lucas, a claim strongly implied to be untrue. At her home, Klara’s older brother and a friend laughingly show her a picture of an erect penis on an iPad. The following day (it seems) Lucas quite properly seeks to maintain appropriate boundaries with Klara after an incident in which she kisses him at the end of a play activity. She also appears to have left a gift in his coat pocket, a plastic heart he suggests she should give to one of the boys at the nursery instead. She denies having given it to him, accusing him of lying. At the end of the day, Klara makes a comment to the senior nursery teacher, Grethe (Susse Wold), about Lucas having a ‘willie’ that is ‘pointing straight out. Like a rod.’ The clear suggestion to Grethe is that Klara has seen Lucas with an erection, during some form of abusive behaviour. But the equally clear implication to the viewer is that Klara is making this up, the term ‘rod’ being one used by the two boys when they showed her the picture. Klara then claims the plastic heart was given to her by Lucas, not vice-versa, but that she did not want it (the attentive viewer knows this not to be true, having earlier been shown Klara wrapping the heart amid evidence that she created it during a craft session). The presentation of these and subsequent events encourages a strong sense of sympathy for Lucas, as a victim of injustice. The situation escalates when the nursery follows its obligation to inform the parents of other children, as well as those of Klara, and to warn them of particular ‘symptoms’ that might indicate the presence of wider abuse. Given that these are not uncommon phenomena such as bedwetting, headaches and nightmares, it seems

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Positioning Art Cinema unsurprising that the outcome is a widening of the basis of accusation. As the film proceeds, Lucas faces increasing levels of exclusion, contempt and eventually violence from formerly close members of the community. One part of the dynamic encouraged by the film is a sense of injustice on the part of Lucas (unless the viewer suspects a twist in which it might subsequently prove that he is guilty, which is not the case) and frustration and sometimes anger towards those who treat him badly. The latter seems particularly likely in relation to the staff of a food store who refuse to serve him, one sequence of which results in a physical assault. The film can function, in this respect, to some extent like certain aspects of Haneke’s Funny Games, in working on the encouragement of a sense of moral infuriation on the part of the viewer, although without any of the modernist reflexivity found in that case (a measure of satisfaction is also offered to the viewer here, without being rewound, when Lucas stubbornly strides back into the store and head butts his initial antagonist, the large figure of a butcher, before successfully leaving with his purchases). What gives The Hunt the quality of restrained cinema is the balanced and measured way the reactions of others are presented. Given the nature of the accusation, and the apparent strength of the initial case against him, the response, if viewed more objectively rather than through the eyes of Lucas, seems understandable. Thus, Grethe, who turns increasingly against Lucas after some initial doubt, need not seem any less reasonable and sympathetic a character in herself. Someone in her position could hardly be expected to react otherwise, we might think. The initial questioning of Klara, by Grethe and then by Ole (Bjarne Henriksen), seems cautious and measured. The film also draws in a nuanced manner the initial effect of the accusation on Theo, who allows Lucas some space to respond to him on a personal level. As more characters effectively gang up on Lucas, a sense of mob behaviour is created, if quietly, something that might not appear salutary in any circumstances, but the basis of which – from their perspective – can still be understood, whether or not condemned. A sense of nuance also applies to the film’s treatment of Klara. She is presented as a sensitive child who makes the accusation for no clear reason. What the film implies is that such things can just happen and that large consequences can result from what might be arbitrary combinations of circumstances. She was, perhaps, slighted by the reaction of Lucas to her kiss and the gift of the heart, but there is no clear suggestion that this

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism motivates the accusation in any one-to-one fashion. She appears, from her own comments, to have said something ‘foolish’, without properly understanding its impact, and seems at times to have lost track of what exactly did or did not happen. Like the characters of the Dardennes, she is not treated as a ‘bad’ or ‘evil’ child, in any such simplistic terms. A clear sense of the truth seems capable of being lost amid such dynamics, a potentially chilling prospect for an innocent accused. It is possible to be critical of the positions taken by some of the adults at times, including Grethe, but they also seem understandable in the circumstances. What the film offers is positioned implicitly as a restrained and ‘grown-up’ approach to such issues, one that can offer a strong feeling of allegiance with the protagonist without resorting to any simplistic caricaturing or demonising of those who become his antagonists. This is a clear marker of distinction from how such issues are most likely to be treated in a more mainstream film context, one in which figures located as antagonists are often rendered as overtly or exaggeratedly unpleasant in personal terms, to maintain a clear, black-and-white moral economy, as in a studio example such as Avatar (2009). The above is an approach the valorisation of which can be situated within a particular critical-discursive position that more widely favours a canon rooted in realism, restrained drama and a liberal attitude towards moral questions. Such a complex is identified by Mattias Frey as central to the reassertion of a specific form of film-cultural value, rooted in the literary criticism of Lionel Trilling, in the pages of the British magazine Sight and Sound at the end of the 1950s, a period in which such a critical stance faced a challenge from the alternative orientation of the French Cahiers du cinéma.5 While the Cahiers critics celebrated the work of certain Hollywood directors working within popular genre frameworks, Trilling was drawn upon heavily by Sight and Sound editor Penelope Houston, Frey suggests, as part of a reassertion of the superiority attributed to a tradition of the kind within which the films examined in this chapter are located. The promulgation of such values is situated by Frey in a context similar to some of the earlier historical frameworks outlined in Chapter 1 of this book, one in which they are reasserted against a perceived threat to traditional authority represented by a process of (relative) democratisation, in this case that represented by the stance of the Cahiers critics and a growth in the number of knowledgeable ‘cinephile’ filmgoers among the readership of such publications.

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Positioning Art Cinema In The Hunt, Lucas is eventually arrested and appears in court, but then released when holes in the case against him become apparent. If this might be a positive step, the informal campaign against him seems to intensify, a rock being thrown through his window and his dog being killed, incidents that precede the sequence in the store that leaves Lucas bloodied. Events appear to be reaching a crescendo when he attends that night’s Christmas Eve service in the local church, a heightened and potentially melodramatic setting, the details of which are considered further below. Some kind of final rapprochement is reached with Theo at the end of the night, following an exchange in which Klara tells her father Lucas did not do anything. A conclusion, a year later, in which Lucas appears to have been accepted back into the community but continues to be under threat, has something in common with those of many of the films of the Dardennes, in offering a balance between a sense of potential closure/redemption and ongoing uncertainty as far as the prospects for the central character are concerned. If The Hunt is not as explicitly located in a wider socio-economic context as the films of the Dardennes, it is clearly dealing soberly with serious and substantial social issues, one marker of art-cinema status, both the specific dilemma raised by the question of who to believe in cases relating to allegations of child sexual abuse and the broader topic of witch-hunts against those accused of such crimes. While the films of the Dardennes and an example such as The Hunt have something in common in their generally restrained, non-judgemental forms of presentation, and the critical frameworks within which these are likely to be valorised, there are also some points of contrast in the extent to which they depart from more melodramatic conventions. The principal events of The Hunt build to a climax that occurs at Christmas, a setting that adds a heightened level of emotional pitch of the kind not generally found in the work of the Dardennes. The plots of many of the latter have been read by commentators, and positioned by the filmmakers themselves, as secular versions of narratives that have Biblical as well as other associations.6 This is not the same, however, as using such a context as one in which to increase the emotive stakes of particular material. Part of the mission of the Dardennes appears to be to avoid any melodramatic contrivances, one of the bases on which their work has been valorised (examples of which are considered in more detail below). The Hunt does not seem to be so constrained in this case, although the melodrama remains of a relatively muted variety.

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism The scenes involving Lucas at the church on Christmas Eve offer a heightened sense of his struggle with the community, as manifested by his insistence on being present at so strongly marked a collective ritual event. Looks are exchanged between Lucas and Theo, the latter seeming uncomfortable as a result. Asked by his wife what is wrong, he replies ‘I can tell by looking at him’. What he can tell is not spelled out but seems to imply a belief that Lucas is innocent. Any explicit answer is lost, however, in the development of events. Further shots of Theo underline a sense that he is coming to a new realisation. At this point the melodramatic stakes are raised by the arrival of the nursery choir to sing a hymn, with Klara prominent at the front. The presence of the music is significant, both specifically, in being the product of the children from the nursery, but also more generally in a film that generally does not employ music to heighten any of the dramatic events. It is literally non-melo-dramatic in that respect (the term meaning music-drama), with the exception of another seasonal theme employed during one earlier transition and a low-key guitar theme used in the later stages. This is one strong marker of restrained realism it shares with the films of the Dardennes. Non-diegetic music is not used at all by the latter from The Promise until the very end of The Silence of Lorna (Le silence de Lorna, 2008). Lucas is clearly discomforted at this point in The Hunt and confronts Theo and his wife to demand to know what they are saying, bringing the service dramatically to a halt (see Figure 6.2). This sequence is followed by the exchange between Theo and Klara in which she seems to confirm the

Figure 6.2 Heightened drama as Lucas responds to the music of the choir in The Hunt q Arrow Films.

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Positioning Art Cinema innocence of Lucas, after which Theo takes a plateful of festive food and a bottle of whiskey to Lucas. Nothing is said between them on the central matter, an approach typical of the generally nuanced approach of the film. The church sequence is more overtly melodramatic than most of The Hunt, and more so than anything in the oeuvre of the Dardennes, but also includes unspoken elements that remain within the sphere of that which is marked as restrained and downplayed.

Style, from harsh realism to aestheticisation Much stronger differences between the work of the Dardennes and The Hunt are found at the level of their visual style, a dimension that opens up a number of other characteristic bases of distinction marking within the field of art cinema. I use this aspect of the films to examine more closely the discursive strategies employed in the positioning of such work, particularly in the case of the Dardennes. After beginning their filmmaking career with work in video documentary and some earlier features that gained little circulation, the Dardennes developed a style that constitutes a distinct brand of realism based on the use of camerawork that is handheld, unstable and often abrupt in both framing and the manner in which it is edited. This is a style that aspires not to be a style, as such, but is designed to be subordinated to the close following of actor performances and the navigation of particular spaces (that it remains a specific style in its own right, despite being positioned in this manner, is a point to which I return below). It is situated often as a style that is happy to be considered ugly and not to seek admiration in itself, only as a vehicle for the pursuit of what are positioned as more important ends (how far these two are really kept separate might remain open to question, however). The Hunt, in contrast, offers a distinctly beautified or aestheticised visual style, one that might, in some accounts, be accorded a lower position in the kinds of hierarchies within which art cinema is characteristically located. This remains a style that can be considered ‘subtle’, however, rather than overtly stylised, thus situating it in a position that remains in accord with some of the dictates usually applied to notions of ‘quality’ or of more commercially accessible art cinema. The films of the Dardennes often open very abruptly, in medias res, taking the viewer directly into a character situation without any more 192

Serious Restrained Drama and Realism conventional establishing devices. Rosetta begins with an unsteady handheld camera, closely following the title character as she storms along a corridor and through doors, part of her angry response to losing her job. The camera becomes highly unstable, located very close to the protagonists, during a physical struggle that leads to her being chased from the premises. A similarly abrupt opening features in The Child, in which Sonia climbs a staircase with her baby, in hand-held shots, shouting out the name of Bruno. The impression created by such openings is of plunging the viewer into close proximity with the experiences being undergone by the protagonists, immediately evoking a sense of lives that tend to be hectic, unsettled and often oppressive in nature. This sense of proximity and instability is one of the most characteristic stylistic traits of the work of the Dardennes, a formal quality that plays a substantial role in the encouragement of viewer alignment with the perspectives of characters, however dubious some of their behaviour. We are more or less obliged, that is, to follow within the constraints of their worlds; often literally, with the camera closely accompanying from behind, or more generally (see Figure 6.3). Any sense of broader orientation or distance is usually absent, a style that creates an often-claustrophobic effect and that strives to put the viewer as close as possible to the position of the protagonists.

Figure 6.3 Closely following camerawork in Rosetta q Les Films du Fleuve / ARP/RTBF.

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Positioning Art Cinema In the case of Rosetta, this means accompanying Rosetta in the movements that establish the narrow contours and rhythms of her daily existence: repeatedly crossing the lanes of a busy dual carriageway, entering woods, changing her footwear before entering or leaving the muddy caravan site, and so on. A more claustrophobic effect is created in The Son, in which the camera remains almost always very close to Olivier, the viewer being largely restricted to a vision of the world as seen from behind his head and neck. This is a realism that shares something in principle with the dimensions of Italian neo-realism celebrated by Andre Bazin, as cited in Chapter 3, although with some notable points of difference in visual style. The Dardennes do not use long takes combined with depth of field to create a sense of continuity between the fictional action and a real-world background setting. Their preference is for much closer camerawork, also employed in harsh real-world settings, although with the emphasis on the transition of characters through the world from something near to their individual perspective. Long takes are used in many cases, although sometimes combined with more abrupt editing, to create a sense of extended presence within close confines. The aim or effect is very similar in some ways to that valorised by Bazin, the style contributing to the dimensions of the films examined in the previous section such as the reduced extent to which moral or melodramatic significance seems to be imposed onto the narrative material, leaving much of the work of interpretation to the viewer. The visual style is a far from viewer-friendly approach, in conventional terms, offering what is often a distinctly uncomfortable spectatorial experience, one of several factors that locate the films closer to the heavyweight end of the artcinema scale than some of the other examples examined in this and the remaining chapters. The style of The Hunt is very different and seems designed to be much more appealing in its own right, one of the factors that positions the film at the more commercial end of the spectrum of art cinema (closer to the domain associated with the middlebrow). The Hunt often features what appears to be hand-held camerawork, but of a much more stable variety, generally marked only by very slight movement of the frame and only noticeable on close examination. This is an approach that gives a moderate but largely subliminal sense of realist ‘edginess’ to the material, very different from the overt unsteadiness of the Dardennes. The most striking feature of the visual style is the careful beauty with which the film is lit,

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism often employing the equivalent of what is known as ‘magical hour’ lighting, in which warm golden or similar illumination from the side is used to create a glowing and/or edge-highlighted form of cinematography (the term ‘magical hour’ refers to the qualities created by soft, diffused and often golden-toned light created naturally by shooting in limited pre-dusk and post-dawn periods in which the sun is low on the horizon). This is the case in some of the most uncomfortable sequences, including those in which Klara is first questioned on what she says about Lucas. The first is when Klara is sitting alone in a mostly darkened office waiting to be picked up from the nursery in the late afternoon. Grethe is standing outside the door in an area bathed in golden light that is quite directional in quality, coming from an unseen artificial source to screen left and creating shadow contrast on the other side of her face. The effect is a form of chiaroscuro sculpting, the golden tones of the light accentuated by her red hair and the brown of her cardigan. The film cuts between Grethe and Klara, moving progressively closer to Grethe as the accusation is made, a conventional method of increasing emotional impact. The serious and disturbing content of the exchange is perhaps suggested by the darker location in which Klara is situated, seen mostly in head-and-shoulders shot, although she is also carefully lit, with subtle highlights on her hair and one side of her face. Broadly similar lighting quality is found in the sequence in which Klara is questioned by Grethe and Ole, this time in an office where most of the effect is motivated by what is meant to be a combination of daylight coming through blinds, a largely unseen lamp to one side and other sources, distinctly golden toned, lighting a space behind an internal floor-length window. Each of the three main set-ups employed in this sequence offers some variant on the same sort of carefully sculpted lighting, particularly evident in a single shot of Klara and a two-shot in which she and Grethe sit at approximately right angles to one another (see Figure 6.4). Lighting of this kind is more widely employed in the film as a whole, as well as other beautifying effects such as shooting exterior material with ‘magical hour’ back- and/or rim-lighting effects. This is a world away from the style of the Dardennes, in several respects. These include the kind of polishing of the image exemplified by the examples cited above, but also the use of largely conventional camera set-ups and editing as a whole. The Hunt generally abides by the conventions of continuity editing, including devices such as sequences shot

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Positioning Art Cinema

Figure 6.4 ‘Magical hour’ sculpting by light when Klara is questioned in The Hunt q Arrow Films.

in alternating shots and reverse shots. A moderate handheld motion is often present, as suggested above, but not such as to interfere generally with an impression of quietly classical style. The images are often aestheticised but not to the point of drawing overt attention to form, beyond creating a general impression of visual elegance and a degree of refinement. The effect is one that is often described, usually approvingly, as ‘painterly’, either broadly or when drawing on specific resonances from the chiaroscuro style in the work of figures such as Rembrandt.7 The style is as restrained as the overall mode of presentation of the film considered above, the chiaroscuro effect itself a subtle rather than extreme variety. The Dardennes generally avoid the strictures of conventional continuity in favour of the closely following or otherwise mobile camera, often in extended takes, combined at times with movement that is distinctly disorienting; visual style itself is not restrained, in many cases, but frenetic. The contrasting styles of The Hunt and the films of the Dardennes can be seen simply as different options within the range found in the field of art cinema. But these differences are also liable often to be viewed less neutrally, particularly from a position that strongly valorises work such as that of the Belgian brothers (and studies of such filmmakers often tend to have a celebratory tone, their subjects likely to be chosen on the basis of admiration on the part of the author/s). The valorisation of the style of the Dardennes tends to involve the setting up of oppositions very familiar from the kinds of discourses examined earlier in this book. This applies to distinctions made generally between their films and other approaches and

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism to the basis on which comparison is made between the body of work for which they gained international recognition, from The Promise onwards, and their own earlier forays into fictional features, which tend to be viewed as unsuccessful. Both juxtapositions can be found in two substantial treatments of the work of the brothers: Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, by Joseph Mai, and The Cinema of the Dardennes Brothers: Responsible Realism, by Philip Mosley. The approaches of Mai and Mosley both valorise the main body of work of the Dardennes on the basis of qualities that are juxtaposed with a negative other positioned variously but consistently in terms such as ‘conventional’, ‘symbolic’, ‘lyrical’ or ‘rhetorical’. These terms are employed to characterise some of their earlier films but not as the ‘true’ Dardennes style as it became established with The Promise.8 My intention here is not to question the core aspects of the latter style identified by Mai and Mosley but to draw attention to the very particular manner in which its celebration is articulated, one that seems guilty of considerable rhetorical overstatement and rooted in the wider discursive complexes outlined earlier in this book. Mai, for example, seems to adopt entirely uncritically Luc Dardenne’s notion of a ‘cinema without style’, as if such a thing were possible, and as if the style of their films were not a distinctive confection in its own right (however much it might be approved for particular reasons). Mai also suggests that from The Promise onwards the filmmakers ‘eschew conventions and develop a pure form of realism.’9 The term ‘pure’ should immediately raise suspicions of overstatement, the making of absolute claims on the basis of one specific approach or another, of the kind seen in some instances in Chapter 4. The idea of a ‘pure’ approach that embodies no conventions of any kind is a rhetorical gesture but one that seems characteristic of numerous positionings of the kind examined in this book, even in serious-critical or academic work that might be expected to be more carefully rigorous in tone. The films of the Dardennes to which this comment refers may eschew certain conventions (in the employment of others) and we might understand their style as raw and creating a powerful impression of realism (rather than some illusory notion of a ‘pure’ version); but these are major qualifications. Why, then, overstate in the kinds of terms found here? What seems to be involved is a process in which a legitimate basis of understanding such films, including the identifications of markers of distinction from more

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Positioning Art Cinema commercial-mainstream approaches, becomes inflated as a result of its entanglement in a broader realm of value-laden discrimination. Underpinning this discourse seems to be a fundamental distrust of any notion of ‘style’ as opposed to conceptions of ‘substance’. The films of the Dardennes are usually valorised on the basis of their substance, their approaches to particular issues of the kind outlined above. The style they employ is a key part of this, in manifesting a particular approach to the understanding of the issues. That this is the case is acknowledged by commentators such as Mai and Mosley, but it seems necessary in these accounts to deny it the status of a ‘style’ as such. Underlying this is a much wider suspicion of style, as a dimension in its own right, in some traditions of film criticism and the broader intellectual tradition on which they draw, as has been argued at length by Rosalind Galt. As Galt suggests, a tendency towards a suspicion of what are seen as the dangers of seductively appealing or beautiful images, what she terms generally ‘the pretty’, has a long history in the western cultural tradition, one that embraces a spectrum ranging from Plato’s distrust of representation to religious iconoclasm and negative accounts of contemporary Hollywood spectacle.10 Among many other locations, this thread is identified by Galt in the heyday of the establishment of internationally-circulated art cinema (and of key elements of film theory) in the period after the Second World War. As she puts it: ‘The European and Asian new waves, Third Cinema, and later the new Hollywood put faith in an anti-aesthetic visual openness that required as a founding rhetorical gesture a negation of studio perfection, stultifying formalism, or bourgeois aesthetic pleasures.’11 The aestheticised image, Galt suggests, became viewed in many cases as inescapably mired in ideology and thus something to be rejected, as seen in the form of counter cinema advocated by figures such as Mulvey and Wollen, a cinema designed to deny any conventional forms of pleasure. ‘In this influential theoretical field, an image that is ugly, sparse, or imperfect performs a formal critique of ideology that is in many accounts precluded or actively undermined by spectacle, beauty, or visual pleasure.’12 Numerous manifestations of this discourse are identified by Galt in the work of journalistic and academic critics in relation to the art cinema of the postwar decades. A similar dynamic is found in the bases on which more recent examples of what Galt elsewhere terms the ‘popular art film’ are rejected in some critical/

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism academic circles. This is a category examined by Galt in the context of Italian cinema (examples such as Cinema Paradiso [1988] Il Postino [The Postman, 1994] and I’m Not Scared [Io non ho paura, 2003]), one that might also include The Hunt and some of the other examples I consider towards the end of this chapter or in the next.13 The valorisation of the style of the Dardennes by Mai and Mosley seems often to be founded on a suspicion of the kind identified by Galt in this long-standing complex. When Mosley celebrates the approach of The Son, for example, the terms in which this is expressed are to a significant extent based on negative points of comparison: ‘No grand monologues, dialogues or rhetorical tours de force’ are employed to offer explanations (in this case, terms that relate to some of their earlier films). The brothers are characterised as ‘Resisting the lure of visual spectacle [. . .]’.14 When the death of a major character occurs off-screen in The Silence of Lorna, this is another example of the style of the brothers, ‘ever wary of lurid spectacle [. . .]’ (as if it would not be possible to depict such a moment in any way other that the luridly spectacular).15 More generally, he suggests: ‘Their film practice hinges on steadfastly refusing to be lured by the formulaic, the glamorous or the visually excessive [. . .].’16 When Mosley suggests that the films focus on the surface of the world ‘in unadorned detail’, he is careful to point out that this is not done ‘superficially’, with the negative connotations carried by such a term.17 It is not hard to identify a very familiar list of negatively-valued qualities here, against which much of the work of celebrating the Dardennes is established. Their style can be seen to differ from that of more commercial types of cinema in some of these terms, but the manner in which this is articulated remains characteristically rhetorical, and rhetorically value-laden. Visual spectacle is clearly established here as something not just negative but dangerous and/or morally threatening; it is something to be ‘wary’ of, the ‘lure’ of which is to be resisted. The underlying discourse is much the same as that employed so routinely in the questioning of supposedly ‘excessive’ spectacle in the contemporary Hollywood blockbuster. This is a noteworthy example of the pervasive nature of such complexes, capable of being applied variously at such distant ends of the film spectrum. The unadorned is clearly favoured over the glamorous, the excessive or the superficial. There is at work here an almost Puritanical favouring of a bare, stripped back style. My point, again,

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Positioning Art Cinema is not to argue against the merits of such a style in its own right, one that I would agree works very effectively in the films of the Dardennes, but to question, or at least to bring to light, the unspoken assumptions that govern the oppositions within which this is located. Style or spectacle are seen as essentially dishonest and to be disavowed. This is why, it seems, the style of the Dardennes themselves cannot be viewed as a style in some of these accounts, or as one that could possible offer any spectacle or excess of its own. What is subject to particular distrust in such discourse is the notion of stylisation or stylishness, the employment of style as a foregrounded component in its own right or as a source of pleasure. Viewed more neutrally, however, without the rhetorical baggage carried by such accounts, the Dardennes’ variety of realist style can just as easily be understood to be very prominent in their films, rather than in some way absent or negated. Their critically valorised films are highly stylised in their own ways. The degree of instability and of camera proximity to character is such as itself to be exaggerated and stylised. It also sometimes functions to heighten certain moments, such as the opening of Rosetta, even if the intention is to subordinate the camera to the following of action or exploration of spaces. If the evaluative discursive baggage is jettisoned, there is no reason to see this as a negative feature or anything of which to be suspicious. Such a stylisation does not seem to be acknowledged as existing here, within the terms of debate outlined above, because the variety involved is one that does not seem designed to offer pleasure in its own right. My broader point is not that a case cannot ever be made for questioning the implications of some forms of stylisation or spectacle, on particular grounds in particular cases, but that the specific bases of these needs to be made clear. The nature of these discourses is such as often to override any such specifics and nuances, however. In a context in which these rhetorics are so prevalent and powerful, it seems easier to remain within their terms than to question them if a particular type of film (art cinema or otherwise) is to be celebrated. The relation between style and substance is an important one here. It seems quite reasonable to make a case for the value of the rough aspects of the Dardennes style in relation to the substance of their films. The lives of characters that are charted are difficult, challenging and uncomfortable, and it seems entirely appropriate to employ a style that can be viewed as

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism providing similar qualities. The style is itself often distinctly challenging and uncomfortable for the viewer, and can be understood as offering some sense of vicarious sharing of a degree of the discomfort undergone by the protagonists. It might be reasonable to question the use of a more ‘prettified’ approach in a specific context such as this, one that might seem to smooth over or to aestheticise the subject matter and thus to be in conflict with the particular tenor of the material. Such an argument can be made without needing to invoke the kind of sweeping rhetoric found quite regularly in the accounts of Mai and Mosley or in the inheritance examined by Galt. So, what about The Hunt? Vinterberg’s film is also about difficult and uncomfortable material, but the style does not in itself reinforce these qualities, certainly not in the same manner as in the films of the Dardennes. It might be seen to contradict them, precisely through a process of beautifying and aestheticising the quality of the image. Is this something that should be morally disapproved, as a denial at the formal level of what is being suggested by the narrative? If the audio-visual style of the principal films of the Dardennes follows on from their approach to character and situation, just as the camera often literally follows the protagonists, does that of The Hunt fail to do so in its narrative or thematic context? Is it wrong, in some way, for the viewer to be presented with what might be characterised as quietly beautiful images while disturbing content is being discussed, as in the sequences outlined above? Again, to put the issue in such terms is to risk setting up value-laden oppositions rooted in a predetermined favouring of substance over style, drawing on the inheritance examined by Galt. As Galt suggests, a strong art cinema tradition also exists that has argued for the importance of the expressive potential of the aesthetic, including the work of lauded figures such as Antonioni and Bertolucci, even if this has often been contested (some similar points are made about the progressive potential of the style of slow cinema by contributors to the collection edited by de Luca and Barradas Jorge).18 The widely valorised canon of art cinema includes numerous examples characterised by un-restrained visual and other forms of excess, quite different from those examined in this chapter (or other manifestations of the austere or the minimalist), including films by Federico Fellini such as the highly stylised Satyricon (1969) and the bawdy later works of Pasolini. Satyricon is one of the works included by Kovács in his category of the

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Positioning Art Cinema ‘ornamental’ variety of modernism.19 Other examples of stylistic exaggeration and artifice are situated under his heading of the ‘theatrical’, including core entries in the canon such as Fellini’s 8½ (1963) and Alain Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad, films in which such a style is seen to reflect thematic dimensions. Kovács generally avoids the kind of evaluative discursive positioning found in many accounts of art cinema considered in this book, but it is notable that he also feels a need to add a rather loaded qualification to his characterisation of the ornamental as found in modernist art cinema. This variety, he suggests, ‘is not mere [my emphasis] decoration or spectacular effect’, implying a familiar denigration of such phenomena.20 They get their weightiness and substance though an equally familiar process of association with ‘some deeper meaning’ that they are meant to convey, in this case a representation of inner psychological states, fantasies or emotions. In a more restrained example such as The Hunt, it is not necessarily the case that form should be seen as out of kilter with substance. From a more positively evaluative perspective, the film’s style could be viewed as ‘subtle’, in keeping with the nuanced handling of narrative events, even in its more pleasing and comfortable aesthetic, a quality itself often contrasted approvingly with the heavy-handedness associated with some forms of Hollywood production. The issue of how far style and substance are in accord with one another brings in an additional basis of valorisation with a long history in western culture, the use of the concept of organic unity as a measure of quality, one I have examined at length elsewhere (it is against such a notion that Culler argues for the role of framing in the constitution of the aesthetic object, as cited in Chapter 1).21 It is always possible to make alternative arguments, however. In this case, for example, it could be suggested that an effective counterpoint is established between the image quality of The Hunt and the darker undercurrents exposed in the society where the narrative is located. A highly literal process, in which form directly matches onto content, might, in some cases, be viewed as itself heavy-handed, formulaic, in one way or another, or conventional. It is clear that the films of the Dardennes employ conventions, not some purity of style; conventions strongly associated with a broader realist tradition, even if with their own blend of particular qualities. My point is to suggest that various arguments can be made, in proximate fashion, for the merits of various approaches in various contexts, but that the discourses often

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism employed in such areas tend neither towards such an openness of possible approach nor to make clear the largely unspoken broader bases on which they draw for key aspects of their underlying rhetoric. The career of Thomas Vinterberg is such that no equivalent of the book-length celebrations of the Dardennes can yet be found in his case. Unlike the Belgians, whose filmmaking trajectory has lent itself to analysis in terms of the development and refinement of a ‘true’ auteur style, that of Vinterberg has been more mixed and uneven, less easily conforming to such a narrative. He remained at the time of The Hunt best known for his breakthrough feature, The Celebration (Festen, 1998), a key entrant in the Danish Dogme 95 movement, of which he was one of the founders alongside Lars von Trier. Dogme was itself a rhetorical gesture towards a stripped-back style of filmmaking that disavowed many elements of more commercial cinema (or, for von Trier, the more formalist approach of his early work).22 The terms in which it was defined draw on many of the standard oppositions outlined in Chapter 1 of this book, positing a notion of ‘truth’ and authenticity articulated in contrast to familiar suspects such as that considered to be superficial, cosmetic, predictable and illusory.23 The Celebration marked an influential development in the use of lowergrade digital video as a medium for feature filmmaking. Its unstable handheld camerawork at times shares some qualities with the films of the Dardennes, although it is often more expressive (including, for example, the use of very wide-angle lenses and eccentric camera positioning). It also shares some thematic dimensions with The Hunt, in this case the exposure of child sexual abuse from the past. If no equivalent of the books of Mai and Mosley can be found in the case of Vinterberg, we can look instead to journalistic reviews of The Hunt to get some sense of the interpretative frameworks within which its style was received, among other dimensions of the film. The film generally gained very positive responses, including for its cinematography, summarised in a 94 per cent positive rating on the review aggregation website Rotten Tomatoes, based on a sample of 124 reviews.24 A sense of the visual style working positively with the content is expressed, for example, by David Rooney, in the US trade press publication The Hollywood Reporter, who suggests that: ‘The elegantly framed widescreen compositions of cinematographer Charlotte Bruus Christensen maintain a certain detachment in the establishing action, bearing witness to the awful

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Positioning Art Cinema events with a distressing clarity.’25 Detachment, here, can be seen as a positive virtue, as often in art cinema, as opposed to the extremely closeup-and-personal approach of the Dardennes. It is notable that a number of reviews credit the cinematographer rather than the director for such qualities, perhaps a product, at least in part, of the less clear cut auteur narrative in relation to Vinterberg (but also probably because this kind of aesthetic is more likely to bring to mind the art of the cinematographer). Some offer more general praise (for example a reference to the film having been ‘tremendously photographed’ by Christensen in The Guardian in the UK),26 while numerous reviews express admiration for the restraint embodied by the film, either in general or in any particular detail, confirming the wider resonance of one of the key qualities employed to define the types of art cinema examined in this chapter.27 One of the latter reviews, in The Washington Post, comes down favourably on the film but in doing so articulates some of the kinds of oppositions suggested above. As far as the narrative is concerned, the film is found guilty of stumbling in its ending, an apparently attempted shooting of Lucas, ‘which feels overhyped and unearned.’28 These are exactly the kinds of terms against which more favourable qualities are often opposed, including, as here, those associated with a more ‘classical’, balanced or restrained approach. The film makes up for such a shortcoming, the review concludes, ‘by presenting audiences with a textbook example of classical cinema, wherein all the elements – crisp photography, astute editing, atmospheric sound and visual design and magnificent performances – come together in one simple but utterly riveting unified whole.’ This is one critic, then, for whom the film manifests organic unity rather than any clash between the registers of style and material, demonstrating how the very different style of The Hunt can be interpreted in certain positive terms (those of organic unity) similar to those that might also be applied to the films of the Dardennes. A characteristic approach from the tradition analysed by Galt might be to dismiss the subtly prettified and relatively more commercial aesthetic of an example such as The Hunt, as being a ‘safe’, ‘bourgeois’ confection; one that drapes its material in a softening and unthreatening glow. It can certainly be seen as a relatively more audience-friendly film in this and other respects, clearly a significant factor in terms of its business prospects. The style of the Dardennes, in contrast, might be seen as tougher and

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism harder edged, and hence, it might be implied, more muscular and effective in approach. It would be hard to see the films of the latter as any less bourgeois than The Hunt, however, when it comes to the reality of their most likely constituency of viewers, however different the nature of the worlds in which they are set. If anything, they might be likely to reach a smaller, more niche and more elite audience, even if their subject matter focuses on very different social strata. We also find ourselves, in the use of such characterisations, very much in the territory charted by Galt, one in which the pretty has often been denigrated through invidious association of its qualities with notions of the feminine-as-inferior. This can be viewed as part of the same complex as that cited in Chapter 1, in relation to the gendered dynamics within which patriarchy has tended to characterise as feminine the qualities of ‘weaker’ varieties of culture, against which notions of ‘more challenging’, higher forms, associated with the male, have historically been established.

From style to philosophy The distinctive style of the Dardennes also plays an important part in accounts of another dimension in which the work of the brothers has been accorded major/serious art-film status: its reading as an expression of some central tenets associated with the moral philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas. To read filmmakers in such terms is a gesture characteristic of a positioning at the heavyweight end of the spectrum, as seen in previous chapters. The films of the Dardennes have been interpreted in relation to numerous substantial literary, artistic, cinematic, political or philosophical sources cited by the filmmakers themselves (particularly Luc) but it is the evocation of Levinas that is most characteristic of this aspect of their positioning. For commentators such as Mai and Mosley, a central feature of their main body of work is its dramatisation of aspects of Levinas, particularly revolving around a process of recognition of the other that leads to a turning away from a negatively selfish course of action (at its strongest, the latter involves a potential killing). For Sarah Cooper, a source cited approvingly by both Mai and Mosley, the style of the Dardennes embodies a particular staging of the Levinasian encounter, as manifested in the key moments of revelation in The Promise and The Son. Each of these occurs with the protagonist positioned behind 205

Positioning Art Cinema the back of the individual to whom they confess their crucial knowledge (the fate of Amidou in the former, the fact that Olivier is the father of the boy killed by Francis in the latter).29 Ethical thinking is articulated here and elsewhere, Cooper suggests, through the filming of bodily movements and actions (an oblique version of the ‘face-to-face’ encounter examined by Levinas).30 The manner in which this is achieved is, in this account, closely related to the aim of the brothers to depart from cinematic conventions, offering spatial proximity to the protagonists but frustrating any more familiar impression of viewer identification with character.31 Mai and Mosley seem to extend such a reading to a point at which some kind of transformative impact is assumed to take place on the part of the viewer. This notion of transformative power is another familiar and usually unexamined component of the assumptions on which the dominant western tradition of art is based, as noted in previous chapters. Mai states, for example, that the point of the cinema of the Dardennes is ‘not to relay the viewer into an imaginary world, but to teach [my emphasis] him or her to perceive better than before in order to readjust our views and behaviour.’32 This is a very strong presumption, not just of aim but of the capacity of cinema to have any such identifiable effect. For many, he adds, ‘a film by the Dardennes is a transformative experience.’33 But this is an assertion that seems to rest on a host of unexamined assumptions. The brothers are ‘willing to remain indifferent to the box office in order to shake their viewers out of complacency’, Mai suggests, although this statement seems to risk self-contradiction.34 If they are sufficiently indifferent to end up reaching only a very small audience, are they not at risk of addressing only the already converted? This is a problem that raises large unacknowledged questions about reach and likely effect on viewers of a kind also witnessed in Chapter 3. Mosley, meanwhile, engaging with various Marxist theories in relation to which he situates their approach, argues that the realism of the Dardennes can be viewed as ‘reimagining a political consciousness’ suited to its times. This is another very large and lofty claim, whether we agree with it or not. It is not clear how any such thing might ever be proved or disproved. He goes on to suggest that ‘profound human meanings may emerge’ from the visceral experience offered to the viewer.35 Maybe they will (and there is some qualification here), but this is again a very substantial claim to make for any type of cinema (or any other kind of

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism art-cultural product). It would be equally possible to doubt how much impact might result, or to open this up to more considerable question or skepticism. Again, a carry-over is suggested between what is dramatised on screen and what might be offered to the viewer. The films of the brothers depict the transformation of the individual, Mosley suggests: ‘The Dardennes’ major films dramatise this change in their protagonists, but it is a change that implicates the viewer too.’36 Quite what this ‘implication’ really means continues to beg a great many more unanswered questions. Claims of this kind might be made, and questioned, in relation to any type of film. Suggestions of change of a transformative variety are generally more likely to be made in relation to works of alternative film, art cinema or otherwise, while the productions of the mainstream tend to be associated with the maintenance of dominant hegemonies. In neither case is it clear that any distinct effects can be identified rather than asserted with one degree of qualification or another. A particular case seems to be made on the part of the Dardennes, on the basis of the emphasis their style puts on close bodily proximity to the protagonists; as if this can, somehow, almost physically leverage some transformative effect on the viewer (or, at one remove, convince the reader of such analysis). While the style is relatively distinct, and perfectly worthy of valorisation in its own terms, this seems an unwarranted assumption to make, one that seems at least partially rooted in the kinds of discursive formulations examined above. Watching such films might offer a distinctive experience in some ways, but to assume translation from this into actual change on the part of the viewer seems to require the kind of leap that risks flights of rhetorical exaggeration. Mosley warns against relying too heavily on Levinas in reading the Dardennes, particularly in relation to the more political dimensions of their work and other theoretical frameworks within which this might be understood. But, I would suggest, this kind of philosophically-informed reading also risks overstating certain dimensions of the films, in its efforts to position them strongly in this manner. The films often revolve around moments of some kind of change or awakening, to some degree, but quite how transformative these are remains open to doubt. One of the strengths of the films, as exemplars of the ‘restrained’ mode examined in this chapter, is precisely that nothing of this kind is made clear cut and obvious; that any changes seem mostly hesitant and provisional and left open-ended, as a marker of realist approximation to the vagaries that characterise much of

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Positioning Art Cinema real life. We might add that the same could be said, with perhaps even more lack of certainty, about any notion of change on the part of those who actually view such films.

From casting to the Academy Awards If the films of the Dardennes are positioned closer to the heavyweight end of the art cinema spectrum than The Hunt, in dimensions such as their uncomfortable aesthetics and the manner in which they lend themselves to interpretation by some via sources such as the moral philosophy of Levinas, they are also generally situated further from the more commercial end of art cinema in other ways. One notable example is the practice of the Dardennes of primarily casting non-professional performers in central roles, a key part of the claims the films make to the status of authenticity; or, later, tending to work repeatedly with the same small group with such origins. This can be contrasted with the presence of Mads Mikkelson in The Hunt: by no means a major star, in mainstream-commercial terms, but a figure with distinct name recognition within the arthouse sector (if to a lesser extent than the French arthouse stars employed in some of the films of Haneke). One exception in the work of the Dardennes at the time of writing is the presence of Marion Cotillard, a French performer who had roles in major Hollywood films such as Inception (2010), in Two Days, One Night (Deux jours, une nuit, 2014). Cotillard received a nomination for best actress in the Academy Awards, another institutional marker that tends to signify a relatively greater commercial positioning and presence. The Hunt occupies a position within the spectrum of art cinema that has something in common with many others that tend to offer relatively mainstream/accessible hooks when compared with work of the most heavyweight variety of either modernist or realist leanings. Differential locations such as these are not matters of exact calibration but suggest a broad sense of relative degrees of positioning. Presence in the Academy Awards is one way of identifying a certain level of international prominence and circulation, a likely source of greater media coverage than other key endorsements such as those provided by major festival awards. The Hunt was nominated in the Best Foreign Language Film category in the Oscars of 2014. Some broad similarities of positioning can be identified between this example and the winner of that year’s award, Ida (2013), and 208

Serious Restrained Drama and Realism other winners of this accolade in the previous decade, which I would summarise as follows, as a sample of films that have gained this relatively greater than usual prominence (dates here are those of the Oscar award): Ida (Pawel Pawlikowski, 2014, Poland/Denmark/France/UK) : Emotive but low-key drama about journey by young religious novitiate who learns that she is Jewish and her parents were massacred by locals who had been hiding them from the Nazis. Striking monochrome cinematography including some distinctive framing of images low on screen. Major emotional scenes highly underplayed. The Great Beauty (La grande bellezza, 2013, Paolo Sorrentino, Italy/ France): Ageing writer/journalist and socialite propelled to look back on earlier love of his life. Fluently stylish camerawork, capturing impression of decadent contemporary Roman lifestyle while central romantic theme itself underplayed. Amour (2012, Michael Haneke): Low-key and unflinching portrait of ageing and death, as cited in Chapter 5. A Separation (Jodaeiye Nader az Simin, 2011, Ashgar Farhadi, Iran): Low-key emotional drama revolving around multifaceted conflicts that ensue after split between couple, one of whom is left with elderly father suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Similar to The Hunt in offering complex, non-judgemental portrait of actions and reactions of a plurality of characters, none of whose position is presented as clearly right or wrong. Downplayed in style, with neither aestheticised nor rough approaches. In A Better World (Hævnen, 2010, Susanne Bier, Denmark/Sweden): Tense and emotive drama featuring moral dilemmas relating to bullying, revenge or other responses, in storylines shifting from the lives of two schoolboys in Denmark to the work of one of their fathers in an African refugee camp. Another example that offers complex, non-judgemental approaches to various character positions, combined with moments of heightened dramatic conflict and far from entirely muted melodrama. The Secrets in their Eyes (El secreto de sus ojos, 2009, Juan José Campanella, Argentina/Spain): Layered and unhurried crime/legal thriller in which retired prosecutor revisits a case from the past. Quietly emotive and political subtexts; some distinctive framing and occasionally more eye-catching camerawork. A degree of reflexivity via protagonist’s writing of novel about the same events.

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Positioning Art Cinema Departures (Okuribito, 2008, Yôjirô Takita, Japan): Initially wry, gentle comedy about cellist who loses his job and returns to small home town to take unpopular role in ritual of preparing the dead for burial. Turns increasingly emotive and more serious as he gains understanding of the meaning of the task, eventually applied to his own long-estranged father amid much quiet tear jerking. The Counterfeiters (Die Fälscher, 2007, Stefan Ruzowitzky, Austria/ Germany): Second World War drama based on true story of forger who helps run Nazi concentration camp counterfeit currency operation. Moral dilemmas result from struggle with rival who does not want to help German war effort. The Lives of Others (Das Leben der Anderen, 2006, Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, Germany): Mostly understated, slow-burning political thriller about East German Stasi spy who gradually becomes disillusioned with his mission. Quietly classical in style with some more melodramatic moments. Tsotsi (2005, Gavin Hood, UK/South Africa): Redemptive emotional drama of transformation of young township gang leader after he steals car containing baby, which brings back memories of his own childhood experiences. Some crime/gang atmospherics combined with strains of melodrama. The Sea Inside (Mar adendtro, 2004, Alejandro Amenábar, Spain/ France/Italy): Emotive drama of quadriplegic man’s campaign for right to die. Relatively low-key but also with distinctly melodramatic tone and music at times. Smoothly classical in style. While these films display numerous points of difference in some respects, taken together they offer a sense of the broad segment of arthouse-circulating cinema within which The Hunt might usefully be located. What distinguishes such films is a general absence of any of the modernist leanings found in many examples of the hard-core/heavyweight tradition, or the unvarnished realism of the Dardennes. They also tend to revolve around strongly personal-emotive dramatic hooks that are, in themselves, of a generally quite mainstream-conventional variety, although some do so through a focus on difficult or uncomfortable subject matter that marks a clear claim to serious status. It is notable, for example, that five or more have some focus on the issues of death and/or ageing. Most involve a strong sense of emotionally-driven moral dilemma that has at

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Serious Restrained Drama and Realism least something in common with the realm of melodrama from which the modernist part of the heavyweight tradition is often distinguished. In the schema of this book, most would fit best in this chapter, as low-key and primarily restrained dramas alongside The Hunt. They might also be located within the broader category of the middlebrow, on the basis of the particular ways they mix more and less mainstream/accessible dimensions, particularly within the more positive and/or analytical rather than judgemental use of the term.37 Some include elements of aestheticisation (Ida; In a Better World, with some visual qualities similar to those of The Hunt; The Secrets in Their Eyes). Some, with stronger generic hooks, might also fit into the following chapter (The Secrets in Their Eyes, The Counterfeiters, The Lives of Others, Tsotsi). A number have some degree of ‘name’ recognition on the part of the director, but several do not, while internationally recognisable arthouse stars are relatively thin on the ground. This is, in some ways, an arbitrary sample, to which many other examples could be added, but it offers some sense of the parameters within which many of the relatively more conventional varieties of art cinema are situated and on the basis of which they might gain the broader recognition marked by niche Oscar awards.

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7 Art Cinema and Genre: Uses and Departures

Genre or the generic is often positioned as the antithesis of the artistic or the original, in film as elsewhere. The employment of genre conventions, especially those familiar from the mainstream end of the cinematic spectrum, tends to be associated with the predictable and the predetermined, as opposed to that which is innovative and/or challenging. This is one of the key oppositions, between originality and the imitation of models, identified by Larry Shiner, in the context of the historical institutionalisation of the distinction between art and popular culture, the legacy of which remains strongly in play.1 A key role of genre for some forms of art cinema is to act as a point of departure, as something that might be evoked and employed to some extent, but often in order to be negated, challenged, complicated, displaced or thrown into question to some degree. If genre elements are often seized upon by marketing departments, as ways of offering hooks that might appeal to a somewhat larger audience than the film itself – as in some of the materials used for Hidden examined in Chapter 5, and plenty of other examples – they are sometimes used by filmmakers and celebrated by supportive critics for their ability to highlight difference and distance from the norm. A range of possibilities exists, from wholesale deconstruction and

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Art Cinema and Genre departure to substantial usage of genre conventions, and many positions in between. A spectrum can be found across the landscape of cinema as a whole. If any new entry into the corpus of a reasonably clearly established genre (none of which are exact in their boundaries or definitions) offers some balance between repetition and novelty, as seems generally to be the case, the nature of this mix can vary in mainstream-commercial forms of cinema such as Hollywood as well as within regions such as the art and indie film sectors. We might expect a greater degree of departure to be likely, overall, the further we go towards the heavyweight end of the scale. The substantial fulfilment of genre expectations is a major component of commercial film (and other media) strategy in many cases, offering familiar sources of pleasure: the fulfilment of particular trajectories of expectation, albeit with some variations at the level of detail. The denial of expectations, or a complication of the manner in which they are handled, is one of the clearest ways of marking difference of the kind found in some types of art cinema. But this is far from an all-or-nothing set of options. Films that have grounds for art-cinema status can be seen sometimes to refresh rather than to undermine familiar genre conventions, a position that, among other factors, is likely to place particular examples towards the relatively more accessible end of the art-film spectrum. If the presence or exaggeration of certain genre components can offer appealing hooks for marketers of films of a more challenging nature, their mobilisation can be an important source of relative commercial viability for others. Thus, we find examples such as the ‘arty’ crime or horror film that are, all other things being equal, often more likely to gain attention and relatively wider circulation than films without such points of reference. Films that avoid or undermine the conventions of such genres are more likely to be valorised as the most ambitious or demanding examples of the heavyweight tradition, within the kinds of discursive schemes outlined in the previous chapters. But such films might also manifest certain kinds of formulas and predictable conventions of their own, whether or not these are viewed under the heading of genre, an issue considered further in the Conclusion to this book that undermines any sense of essential opposition between the two. Elements of genre can be identified in some manifestations of the heavyweight tradition of the kinds cited in previous chapters, with varying

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Positioning Art Cinema degrees of balance between the two. If Béla Tarr’s The Man from London has distinctly film noir/crime elements, for example, in its narrative scenario and its cinematography, it remains a film that would seem primarily to fit the category of the ‘Tarr-esque’, in its very slow and doomladen manner of unfolding. If the two versions of Funny Games are homeinvasion thrillers, they remain distinctly ‘Haneke-ian’ in their disturbingly reflexive gestures. Many other examples could be cited of films that have gained art-film status while drawing upon the broad territory of the crime film. This would include some of the landmark works of the French new wave, as suggested in Chapter 2, along with a number of productions by Jean-Pierre Melville. Others would include crime-related films by the celebrated Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa. If the Turkish director Nuri Bilge Ceylan is one of the creators of the kind of slow cinema examined in chapter 4, his work also includes a notable combination of this approach with a crime scenario in Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (Bir Zamanlar Anadolu’da, 2011). Similarly, we can find instances of art-horror films such as manifestations of the vampire genre, one notable example being the Swedish feature Let the Right One In, cited in Chapter 2. Deborah Shaw identifies the fantasy-horror dimension of Pan’s Labyrinth (El laberinto del fauno, 2006) as a notable example of what she describes as a ‘commercial turn’ in the evolution of auteurist art cinema in this period, one that enabled some such films to achieve wider than usual international circulation, although she risks overstating how new a development this was at the time.2 Genres such as these have often been seen as having potential to provide vehicles for more serious approaches than might be expected in their most commercially-mainstream manifestations. If the more conventional crime or detective fiction can model a world where the lines between the criminal and the non-criminal are relatively clear and where rational investigation usually triumphs and the world is effectively put to rights, for example, the genre can also be used to undermine any such notions and create a more morally complex and ambiguous view of the world, whether in some mainstream productions or in the art and indie sectors. Likewise, if horror can effectively enact the drawing of clear moral boundaries between qualities such as ‘good’ and ‘evil’, it can also act to blur any such reassuring lines. While films that can be located at the heavyweight end of the scale might be more likely to lean away from, rather than towards, any basis in

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Art Cinema and Genre genres of this kind, the main focus of this chapter is on examples that mobilise genres to a substantial extent, while also possessing some dimensions that can situate them within the international arthouse sector. To be ascribed the status of art cinema, in broad terms, a film that employs genre to a relatively large degree generally requires certain markers of distinction or difference. This would usually entail textual features that depart from, complicate or offer reflexive commentary on genre conventions to some extent. But, as with questions of definition of art cinema more generally, institutional factors can also contribute importantly to the establishment of such status. This is particularly the case in relation to forms of circulation such as festival appearances and the role played by critical consecration. These might in many cases follow logically from the existence of particular textual qualities that mark distinctions from mainstream genre norms; that is, films that offer marked departures from prevailing genre conventions might more obviously lend themselves to this kind of treatment or reception. But institutional factors can also play a stronger role in establishing art-film status for productions that might otherwise seem relatively more mainstream-conventional in themselves, as can the simple fact of ‘foreign’ or subtitled status within international contexts of consumption. David Andrews suggests that films that come less clearly from fields traditionally accorded the status of ‘legitimate’ art cinema can secure ‘a qualified legitimacy [. . .] as art movies’ via ‘secondary recognition by accredited audiences and institutions.’3 The extent to which such a clear hierarchy is maintained might be questioned, however, given the importance of institutional factors in many operative definitions of the category. But a relatively conventional genre film that circulates in subtitled form outside its place of production is, on this basis alone, likely often to find itself restricted primarily to the art-film sector as far as formal sites of exhibition are concerned, and is likely to be interpreted differently as a result. This seems likely even if it might, in some cases, be allocated a particular status such as that of the ‘popular’ art film identified by Galt, as seen in the previous chapter (one of Galt’s main examples, I’m Not Scared, is, in part, a crime narrative). This is one reason why art house venues, and related institutions, have often been host to a variety of different types of production beyond that which might fit the usual confines attributed to art cinema in textual terms, as highlighted by commentators including

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Positioning Art Cinema Barbara Wilinsky and Mark Betz.4 In general, though, films that are situated at least partly within popular genre frameworks such as crime and horror are more likely to gain circulation through the institutions of art cinema if they include some specific departures from the relevant conventions (beyond merely being subtitled), often involving typical characteristics associated with the arthouse sector such as marked subtlety, restraint or greater than usual complexity at some level. Works by filmmakers that have strong links to two genres form the principal foci of this chapter. One, to continue the crime theme, is the gangster/crime films of the Hong Kong filmmaker Johnnie To, considered in the latter part of this chapter. The other is the use of certain forms of emotional melodrama by the Spanish director Pedro Almodóvar. Both are genres in which scope for more serious or substantial treatment than the commercial norm has been found but is sometimes subject to contest, providing a useful way further to highlight some of the broader bases of cultural valuation underlying many of the issues addressed so far in this book. In each case a key part of the act of valorisation of the films entails the establishment of distinct individual-auteur identity as a signifier of quality within genre territory, a marker of distinction from what is seen (often rather simplistically) as the ‘run-of-the-mill’ genre norm. This is a highly characteristic manifestation of the Romantic assumptions underlying auteur-based approaches to the study or celebration of certain kinds of film.

Melodramatic reflexivity and deployment in All About My Mother The films of Pedro Almodóvar are far from alone in drawing on aspects of melodrama within art cinema, although the focus of the genre on the expression of strong personal emotions is at odds with some of the bases on which the heavyweight tradition is often valorised. The tendency for melodrama to be accorded a position lower in prevailing cultural hierarchies (considered in Chapter 1 and in the argument of Kolker in Chapter 3) is partly the result of its focus on the emotional and the heartfelt themselves, qualities often distinguished negatively from the more distanced or ‘intellectual’ approaches usually associated with heavyweight modality in art cinema. It is also rooted more specifically in the dominant 216

Art Cinema and Genre contemporary association of melodrama with the expressions of emotions by, or on behalf of, women. Relevant predecessors to Almodóvar in this territory would include some of the films of Ingmar Bergman, among the canon of consecrated postwar art-filmmakers, in examples such as Persona (1966), although the generally restrained and brooding nature of work of this kind might make it more easily integrated into the heavier-weight tradition than the colourful excess and heightened plotting that often characterises the films of Almodóvar. An exchange from Berman’s Autumn Sonata (Höstsonaten 1978) is a point of intertextual reference in Almodóvar’s High Heels (Tacones lejanos, 1991), although part of the same scene (in which a successful concert pianist offers a quietly devastating critique of the playing of her daughter) contains advice that seems to apply to the Swedish filmmaker far more than to his Spanish counterpart. ‘You have to be calm, clear and austere’, she suggests, in playing Chopin, terms that seem to apply to this and other Bergman films, and to a certain view of art cinema more generally, but not to Almodóvar. Another major figure associated with approaches to this type of melodrama is Rainer Werner Fassbinder, one of the leading lights of the New German Cinema of the 1970s, a figure with whom some aspects of Almodóvar have been compared. A combination of melodramatic modality and elements of realism can also be identified, among other instances, in productions associated with the Fifth Generation of Chinese cinema, a movement that earned notable festival and overseas success. András Bálint Kovács suggests a broader amenability to certain, although modified, melodramatic dynamics within the modernist variety of art cinema. He identifies what he terms a ‘modern intellectual melodrama’ that involves the passivity, suffering and anxiety undergone by protagonists who find themselves confronted with existential situations they cannot understand, a classic example of which, he suggests, is Antonioni’s The Eclipse.5 A key marker of heavyweight distinction remains in this conception of melodrama, in the emphasis on an intellectual rather than a physical or emotional reaction. A more classical/conventional emotional allegiance with central characters remains a frequent ingredient of a great deal of art cinema, however, both in its historical and more recent manifestations, from milestones of Italian neorealism to the kinds of Oscar-winning examples cited in the previous chapter.

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Positioning Art Cinema The films of Almodóvar draw on a range of genres, often mixed, including melodrama, comedy and, in some cases, elements of the thriller. His work has often been seen as playing with such blends, although melodrama generally gained a larger place in many of what are usually viewed as his more ‘mature’ films, from the late 1990s onwards, works that enhanced an international arthouse reputation first established in the previous decade. Many of his films offer reflexive dimensions, with central characters involved in theatre, filmmaking, writing or other creative pursuits, the nature of which they explore alongside other issues. This chapter focuses primarily on one of many potential examples, All About My Mother (Todo sobre mi madre, 1999). All About My Mother offers reflexivity and other grounds for being interpreted as more than what might be seen as a ‘routine’ example of emotional melodrama – textual grounds often for qualification as art cinema – while also making strong and direct use of core aspects of the genre concerned. It also goes beyond this: not just in some respects employing the devices of melodrama but effectively producing an argument in favour of its value, along with that of related notions of performance and fabrication (the latter being persistent themes in the director’s work). In doing so, it can be seen to be taking a position opposite to that of the counter cinema considered in Chapter 5 or the broader tradition in which melodrama is often evoked, implicitly or explicitly, as a negative other to either realist or modernist varieties of art cinema. The film is filled with intertextual references to melodramatic film and theatre. The two most prominent sources are the classical Hollywood feature All About Eve (1950) and the Tennessee Williams play A Streetcar Named Desire (1947). These are not just passing citations but structure significant parts of the fictional world and provide numerous sources of potentially distancing reflexivity.6 The two main characters in the opening scenes, Manuela (Cecilia Roth) and her son Esteban (Eloy Azorín), watch All About Eve on television. Its title is used by Esteban as the basis for a story he is beginning about his mother, translated as ‘All About My Mother’, providing that of the film itself. Explicit attention is drawn to the question of how the title of the earlier film is translated into Spanish. The viewer of All About My Mother is then presented with an extract from the earlier film that echoes an important aspect of the subsequent plot: a complaint by the ageing actress Margot (Bette Davis) about autograph

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Art Cinema and Genre hunters. A more substantive connection between the two films is the scenario in which Manuela finds herself working as assistant to the stage actress, Huma Rojo (Marisa Paredes). If All About Eve appears briefly in All About My Mother and then offers an implicit further point of reference, A Street Car Named Desire figures in a more sustained manner within the diegesis of Almodóvar’s film. It is after watching a performance of the play in Madrid, starring Huma, that Esteban dies, hit by a car while chasing after the star’s taxi in an attempt to get her autograph. We also learn that a younger Manuela once played the part of Stella, wife of the fiery Stanley Kowalski, in an amateur production. An additional parallel is provided by the fact that this is where she met Esteban’s father, who was playing Stanley, and that he is subsequently revealed to have been a macho bully, akin to the Williams character. Manuela attends another performance of Streetcar by the same company in Barcelona, to which she moves after the death of Esteban, in search of his father (later revealed to be dying from AIDS). Drawn to the backstage area, Manuela helps Huma and earns the position of assistant. After this, Huma utters one of the best-known lines from Streetcar: ‘I have always depended on the kindness of strangers’, an explicit intertextual nod but one that seems to be delivered straight here, rather than with any knowing wink, and that might be applied to the help offered to others by various characters in the film, including Manuela. She later gets to play Stella again, for one night, and is well-received, when the usual performer is incapacitated. A number of elements of narrative parallel are suggested between All About My Mother and these two main intertexts. One is the scenario of rivalry that results from Manuela’s employment by Huma. Another set of parallels, or echoes, is established around the theme of women who are pregnant or have newborn children, and problematic husband/father figures (the questionable status of the latter is another theme common to many Almodóvar films). The presence of such intertextual resonances has potential to distance the viewer from the dramatic action. This is what would be expected in the modernist or Brechtian tradition, although its realisation would usually be dependent upon the degree of viewer familiarity with the intertextual sources. But this is not the primary modality in which the film seems to operate. Despite such distancing potential, All About My Mother employs and directly draws upon melodramatic conventions to offer its own

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Positioning Art Cinema effects, far more than it seems to undermine them. One early example of the two possibilities, and of the position taken overall by the film, is provided by sequences relating to the issue of organ donation. Manuela works as a nurse for a hospital transplantation team, her duties including taking part in fictional enactments used in the training of staff to handle relatives of the recently bereaved. We see her performing a melodramatic scenario in a training seminar, in which she plays a woman whose husband has died (see Figure 7.1). This is presented in some shots in the same style as the film itself, as if it were the primary fictional level of the diegesis, although in the first shot a camera is visible on the right-hand side of the screen and we see a group sitting around a table watching and studying the sequence on video (to add another layer of referentiality, this is an almost exact repetition of a sequence that opens Almodóvar The Flower of My Secret [La flor de mi secreto, 1995], one of many instances of self-citation or recycling in his work). The sequence is accompanied by quietly melodramatic, classical-type orchestral strings on the soundtrack, another familiar component of the films of the director. The general situation echoes the opening of the film itself, in which a series of tracks and pans across details of hospital bedside paraphernalia leads to the moment at which the transplantation system is put into operation by Manuela in her diegetic real-life duties. This is a distinctly melodramatic scenario, given treatment typical of classical instances of the genre, from the opening array of gliding pans and tilts of

Figure 7.1 Melodrama within the narrative: Manuela acting in the training video in All About My Mother q El Deseo SA/Renn Productions/France 2 Cinema.

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Art Cinema and Genre the camera and the quietly emotive accompanying music to the red titles that fade in and out over the sequence in an evocative wavy ‘liquid’ style. Space is clearly created in the fiction-within-the-fiction of the training video for a distanced approach to melodrama by the viewer of the film: watching both the performance itself and its diegetic audience. But the positioning of the sequence is also more complex than this might suggest, with elements that have potential both to distance and to draw the viewer more closely into the scenario. The former includes a moment when the video recording fills the entire screen and is rewound, a distancing device of the kind found in some of the films of Michael Haneke considered earlier in this book, although not of the radical variety that features in Funny Games. It is, unambiguously, the rewinding of a text within the text, away from which the camera pans to reveal a woman who is leading the discussion. A clear hierarchy of textual status is maintained. A more subtle and ambiguous potential is created by other dimensions of the sequence, including the presence of Esteban. That Esteban is also a diegetic viewer of the performance is made clear at the start. The first shot of Manuela, acting alongside two doctors, is followed by a quick pan to the left that stops briefly on Esteban, who is looking to his left (not towards Manuela). A continuation of the pan shows the seminar group watching a video feed, to which Esteban’s gaze appears to be directed. The hierarchy is, again, clearly maintained. But a subsequent shot of Esteban is intercut directly with material from the fictional performance, which seems potentially to blur the lines. At this point, his look to screen left seems to tie it to what are presented as the unmediated shots of Manuela and the doctors. In this moment, his figure seems to occupy something closer to the same level of diegetic reality as the fiction-within-the-fiction. The dialogue within the simulation here also seems to apply to the top-level scenario of the film, Manuela’s character saying she does not have any family and adding ‘Just my son’ as the cut is made to this shot of Esteban. The melodramatic strains on the soundtrack exist only on the level of the film itself, rather than being a component of the performance-within, another potential blurring of the lines that gives the performance increased emotional impact. All of this gains a painful sense of irony in retrospect, in the sequence in which Manuela experiences the reality of such a situation when in hospital and asked to sign the forms permitting the donation of Esteban’s organs.

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Positioning Art Cinema The lines between the two sequences are blurred to some extent, the same two doctors appearing in each. This time Manuela is not acting. We are still watching a performance, of course, that of the actress Roth, and the presence of the earlier sequence has potential to draw this to the attention of the viewer. But the context, the previous establishment of the relationship between mother and son and its sudden and shocking end, is one in which we are encouraged to be drawn emotively into the fictional scenario, rather than to watch in a more distanced manner. To some extent, a more ‘realistic’ impression might be offered on this occasion. Manuela’s grief seems to some degree harsher and it is notable that the orchestral strains of the earlier sequence are initially absent. It is possible to read this as a more ‘authentic’ rendition, compared with the overtly mediated version witnessed earlier, as is suggested by Ernesto AcevedoMuñoz, although it seems to me that the distinction is less clear cut.7 This appears all the more so given the extent to which the film as a whole questions distinctions between notions such as authenticity and performance, the supposedly real or the fabricated, a series that includes the opposition between authenticity and the conventions of a genre such as melodrama. All About My Mother draws strongly on a number of familiar melodramatic tropes at the level of narrative action, themes and style. It is full of heightened emotionally melodramatic situations. These include the centrality of issues relating to motherhood, a frequent component of the classical Hollywood ‘woman’s film’, and related topics. As a term used to identify a particular genre, rather than a broader modality, ‘melodrama’ has been used primarily in recent decades in relation to what is sometimes also labelled the ‘woman’s film’, a format that includes a focus on strongly emotive relationship issues such as the bonds and tensions between mothers and daughters, particularly as incarnated in the classical Hollywood era from the 1930s to the 1950s. Taken more broadly, melodrama can be understood as a much larger category and as a mode of presentation rather than a particular genre. As the literal meaning (melo þ drama ¼ music-drama) suggests, it identifies a modality in which music or other expressive means are used to heighten the dramatic representation of fictional events, an approach common to a great deal of commercial cinema across genres. Within industry discourse in the classical Hollywood era, Steve Neale suggests, the term

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Art Cinema and Genre was more often used to define conventionally male-oriented genres of action and suspense that feature heightened plots and events than films targeted at women. It was usually employed neutrally, Neale argues; there could be good or bad manifestations, rather than the term itself having evaluative connotations.8 In this period, Neale suggests, the concept of the woman’s film was more likely to be used within industry discourse in relation to films of higher status or prestige, for a variety of reasons including the use of such material by the studios to seek to convey a more ‘respectable’ image for the business.9 ‘Melodrama’ has also been employed in its broad usage as a term with primarily negative connotations, however. In this sense, it might be positioned as something opposed to certain valorised forms of art cinema, as was suggested in Chapters 3 and 6. When employed in more mainstream contexts, the term often implies what are considered to be ‘excessive’ or ‘obvious’ uses of certain over-familiar devices. In each case, both the broad and the more gender-specific connotations might sometimes be in play. That is to say, if it is the heightened expression of certain kinds of emotions that is judged negatively from one perspective, such a phenomenon has been widely associated (patriarchal-stereotypically) with material oriented towards women, as are large swathes of popular cultural more generally. This is so regardless of the extent to which varieties of melodramatic presentation might be equally often used in genres conventionally given more masculine associations, from the classical Hollywood western to the contemporary action film or superhero blockbuster. All About My Mother begins with a focus that offers a variant on the central topic of many classical Hollywood women-oriented melodramas, in the prominence of the mother-child relationship. The death of Esteban is a ‘big’ melodramatic moment of emotional shock and heightened mediation. The impact of the car on Esteban is followed by a striking sideways panning shot that offers something like a subjective impression of his fall to the ground. The camera ends in a disorienting position, sideways-on to the surface of the road, into which the shouting figure of Manuela appears, in slowed motion, from the extreme screen-right edge of the frame at an angle of 90 degrees to the vertical. The camera is lifted into a more upright position as her desperate and wailing visage moves into large close up. The heightened status of the sequence is increased by the

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Positioning Art Cinema sense of disjunction created between her vocalised response, at normal speed, and the slowed movements of her mouth. All this is accompanied by pouring rain, a conventional/clichéd signifier of emotional outpouring and tears. It is notable, however, that the melodramatic piano-led theme that accompanies the build up to the death of Esteban is abruptly halted. This might be taken as a marker of the intrusion of harsh reality, although the other components in the sequence make any such distinction less clear cut. Further heightened melodramatic situations abound, ranging from the breaking of the news of Esteban’s death in the hospital to assorted issues relating to the nun Rosa (Penélope Cruz), her pregnancy and the fate of her child, and to Manuela’s search for Esteban’s father and her various ongoing relationships with other characters. Female bonding, a staple of the classical tradition and of numerous Almodóvar films, occurs in various forms and across a number of intersecting and sometimes conflicting relationships, albeit in a context that is more liberal than might be expected of classical-era examples as far as the potential blurring of some gender identities is concerned. All About My Mother also offers an expressive form of setting and/or mise-en-scène in a manner that seems to draw directly on the classical melodramatic tradition, a tendency in the director’s work that can be traced back to one of his earlier films, Dark Habits (Entre tinieblas, 1983).10 This has scope to be read as an expression of the emotional or other states of characters, or to be seen as offering implicit ironic commentary and distancing from the material. The latter is an approach taken by some commentators to the Technicolor melodramas of Douglas Sirk in the 1950s, a major influence on both academic work on the genre and Almodóvar himself. Sirk’s approach has often been interpreted as involving a use of expressive mise-en-scène that amounts to a position of ironic distance from, and commentary upon, the dramatic events on screen.11 When Manuela and Esteban meet outside the theatre before the first performance of Streetcar, for example, a large part of the wall is covered by an outsize image of the visage of Huma, her blonde hair contrasting with a bright red background, seeming to echo and suggest a parallel with the blonde figure of Manuela wearing a red coat (see Figure 7.2). In a closer shot, something akin to a pixellated or pointillist effect is visible in the texture of the image, which seems to suggest a parallel with grainy images of television screens earlier in the film. This effect is heightened in a final

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Art Cinema and Genre

Figure 7.2 Theatrical background: Manuela outside the theatre in All About My Mother q El Deseo SA/Renn Productions/France 2 Cinema.

shot during this sequence, in which the screen is filled with the image of Huma. The line ‘why are you looking at me?’ bridges from this image to the next scene: words from the play that offer another reflexive gesture within the film, seeming also to apply to our gaze at the visage. All About My Mother is also filled with what can be interpreted as expressive interior décor of the kind often associated with Sirk. Its world, like that of many of the director’s films, is often one of strikingly bright shades that have potential to be read either in specific symbolic terms or just as an expression of warm and/or colourful lives. In the early scenes involving Manuela and Esteban, for example, she is in bright red and he in blue, colours that recur significantly in the film (red figures widely, as the conventional colour of passion and/or danger, including in the theatre exterior discussed above and on the walls of Esteban’s room, while blue is the dominant tone of the downbeat extracts from Streetcar). The most striking setting, as far as potential for symbolic interpretation is concerned, is Manuela’s Barcelona apartment, the surfaces of which provide an array of what seem to be uncoordinated or clashing patterns: design that, as Acevedo-Muñoz suggests, can be read as signifying the multiple conflicts and tensions dramatised by the film.12 If the settings and aspects of mise-en-scène in All About My Mother have potential to be read as in some cases excessive, and potentially drawn to the attention of the viewer on this basis, this is not in the context of a film that offers a critique of the theatrical or unrealistic nature of such material. A key theme of the film, and a recurring dimension of the works 225

Positioning Art Cinema of Almodóvar, is a suggestion that it is precisely within the fake, the contrived, the theatrical or the artificial that authentic expression can often be found (even if popular media culture can also become a source of dangerous delusion in some cases within his oeuvre). These are categories, often given negative connotations in dominant western aesthetic discourse, that would include the conventions of genre, either generally or especially in a case such as melodrama. As Acevedo-Muñoz suggests, it is frequently in acts of performance within Almodóvar’s films that characters get most honestly to express their emotions. Overt forms of acting and performance are viewed not as sources of fakery and inauthenticity, as is often implied in some of the discourses cited in previous chapters, but as vehicles through which the real can often be expressed, or which can be used to blur the lines between the two. This position is given explicit articulation in a speech by the transsexual Agrado (Antonia San Juan), who goes onto the stage to fill in after one performance of Streetcar is cancelled. Agrado regales the audience with details of the reconstruction of her gender identity via various forms of expensive cosmetic surgery. This is the cost, she suggests, of being authentic; a version of the authentic than is clearly a construct but that, in the process, undermines the boundaries between the two categories. As she concludes: ‘You are more authentic the more you resemble what you’ve dreamed you are’, a statement that receives enthusiastic applause from the crowd. Authenticity, in this view, is not located in something given, essential and immutable – the kind of essence or purity evoked by some advocates of slow cinema cited in Chapter 4, for example – but can be constituted by the realisation of a dream; a quality that, in the other schema, might be viewed as nebulous and insubstantial. This can be understood, effectively, as a valorisation of the various categories examined by Galt as being denigrated within a dominant strain of western aesthetics and in influential elements of film theory: manufactured versions of the pretty, the attractive or the seductive that can be viewed as containing potential for the expression or realisation of real identities or emotions, rather than being seen as necessarily misleading and inauthentic. In its emphasis on the positive powers of dreams, artifice and illusion, this position has something in common with the cinema of Federico Fellini, a figure whose work faced criticism from some sources for what was seen as an abandonment of earlier neo-realist tendencies.

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Art Cinema and Genre A similar position to that relating to questions of authenticity of identity could be taken to the use of expressive décor and/or mise-enscène. In comparison with the celebration of harsh realism found in the previous chapter, and in earlier writing about neo-realism such as that of Bazin, such an approach might seem too deliberately faked, engineered and confected. It might be seen, from this perspective, as distracting from any sense of realism or reality, and, therefore, within such discourse, of seriousness, importance or worthiness. On the one hand, we have valorisation of the use of unvarnished real-world settings, effectively as guarantors of the greatest possible authenticity within fictional narrative; a sense of filming amid the recalcitrant ordinary materiality of the real world. On the other, we have something that might be viewed as too clearly fabricated, to impose or force meaning or commentary ‘artificially’ from without. But both sides of this discourse are open to question. To claim a heightened status of realism through the deliberate avoidance of expressive-artificial background could be argued misleadingly to imply that the whole of such a text is something other than a construct, which can never be the case. It can also entail a denial of the expressive potential of certain ways of staging within a real-world background, as was suggested in the previous chapter in relation to the style of the Dardennes. It is also to deny that more overtly expressive forms can convey something that can be understood to be genuine or authentic in its own way. The classic case in favour of melodramatic types of expression is that, contrived though the means might be (as are any means of representation), the emotions involved can be as authentic as anything else (an argument that has been made in the context of television soap opera, for example). As Agrado puts it: ‘All I have that’s real are my feelings’ (a comment comically undercut by the additional: ‘and the pints of silicone that weigh a ton’). Colours such as red and blue, as deployed in All About My Mother, might be considered to be overly familiar as signifiers of particular states of mind. From one perspective, that might make them appear stale, overused and ineffective. But, according to the view expressed by this film, their status as conventions need not rob them of the ability still to convey real and authentic emotions, even if their mobilisation might in some circumstances draw attention to their status as signifiers of such. The denigration of emotion and of emotional expressivity is, as suggested above, a core component of the broader tradition in which

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Positioning Art Cinema certain forms of cultural production have often been favoured over others. Engagement at a highly emotional level is characteristically located in opposition to the coolly distanced form of contemplation frequently valorised in the patriarchal western aesthetic tradition, both generally and in some of the specific bases of the celebration of certain forms of art cinema considered in this book so far. This is one of the grounds of some of the cruder distinctions sometimes made by Bourdieu in his characterisation of the differences between ‘high’ and ‘popular’ culture, along with much of the earlier tradition outlined in Chapter 1. If the work of Almodóvar is filled with reflexive dimensions of the kind outlined above in All About My Mother, the exact balance these offer between critique or celebration of particular forms can vary from one instance to another. A pointed attack on certain kinds of ‘self-indulgent’ and ‘mawkish’ romantic fiction is found in The Flower of My Secret, for example, by a writer seeking to escape a contractual obligation to continue to produce such work in order to pursue what she sees as something closer to reality (although the narrative the latter involves seems not just somewhat over-the-top but to echo at least one other Almodóvar plot). Potential for a more unambiguously negative verdict on the process of living through the medium of damaging media-based fantasies is found in some other Almodóvar films, including Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! (Átame!, 1989) and Bad Education (La mala educación, 2004), each of which is read by D’Lugo as creating a Brechtian distance from the events dramatised on screen.13 This is a position that seems closer to the relationship between genre usage and commentary favoured by Kolker, as seen in Chapter 3. How, then, do we position All About My Mother, overall, in relation to the respective pulls of the dimensions of art film and emotional melodrama? The film can be said to refresh aspects of genre convention, as one marker of distinction that contributes to art-film status, although it does this in some ways that lean towards giving it a wider audience appeal. The fluidity of some aspects of gender identity, here and in many other Almodóvar films, can be seen as a marker of progressive status. The same can be said of the positive and reconciliatory dimensions of the film in relation to such matters; that those involved in such processes do not have to come to ‘tragic’ ends. This would be seen as a more mainstream/conventional narrative leaning in general, rather than in relation to its particular gender

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Art Cinema and Genre politics. The film departs from the tendency of much classical emotional melodrama to focus on a sense of hopeless social entrapment, particularly although not exclusively for women. Almodóvar’s films often have ‘happy’, or far from entirely unhappy, endings, even after large doses of emotional trauma and assorted vicissitudes along the way. This, along with their lively plot- and incident-filled nature, contributes to their position at the more commercial end of the internationally consumed art-film spectrum. Many of his films have enjoyed large-scale success at the Spanish box office, where, as is the case with some films that circulate within the art sector elsewhere, they would be considered to be works of considerably more popular appeal than is usually associated with art cinema, the director having achieved major celebrity status in his home country. The reflexive components of All About My Mother and numerous other works by Almodóvar are important parts of their artier credentials, but it is notable that these need not detract from a more immediate engagement with character, plot and emotion. They are not overtly disruptive, in the manner of the more radically Brechtian strategies employed in some examples of the work of Godard, for example, as considered in Chapter 3. The development of character, narrative, relationships and the emotions these create is not halted for such reflexivity to occur: the two are able to coexist simultaneously. For Thomas Elsaesser, in his influential account of what he terms the ‘sophisticated’ Hollywood melodramas of the 1950s (the work of figures such as Sirk and Vincente Minnelli that are clear reference points for Almodóvar), the conscious use of elements of style and décor as a creator of meaning is ‘the mark of a modernist sensibility working in popular culture.’14 To deploy the term ‘modernist’ in this context is clearly to attribute a high level of valorisation to the work. For Elsaesser, the sophisticated melodrama offers a critique of dominant American ideology and achieves the lofty status of tragedy, one against which melodrama is often located as a lower form. Work such as that of Almodóvar, in which such conscious use of style is combined with reflexive reference points of the kind detailed above, has more often been given the status of the postmodern, particularly when the combination can be viewed as involving an element of playful engagement in conventional/generic terrain. This would fit, for example, the definition of the postmodern offered by Linda Hutcheon in relation to a certain kind of literature that both subverts and installs familiar conventions.15

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Positioning Art Cinema Although it can in some contexts be used as a term of praise, ‘postmodern’ tends to have less positive connotations than ‘modernist’, particularly within the types of discourse outlined earlier in this book. Even where no overtly judgemental tone is employed, the postmodern tends in many uses to imply a position that is less serious, critical or difficult, and therefore (whatever else it might be) likely to be of greater commercial potential than that which is accorded the status of modernist (that elements of the postmodern can retain radical/critical potential has also been argued by some commentators, including Andreas Huyssen).16 This is a territory considered by some commentators, such as Michael Newman, to be of greater salience to the American indie sector, as seen in Chapter 2. Whichever term we prefer – if any of these, both of which remain highly contested – it seems a reasonable judgement to say the films of Almodóvar have something more in common, in broad positioning within the available spectrum, with some works of indie cinema than they do with the heavyweight end of the art-film scale. The presence of numerous reflexive elements, including and beyond the intertextual references, provides scope for the filmmaker to mark a ‘knowing’ status of the kind likely to contribute to critical consecration. They also enable viewers who pick up on these to gain the particular pleasure of exercising appropriate reserves of cultural capital, and thus to mark their own relatively distinctive mode of engagement. But they do this without making the possession of such reserves necessary for any pleasurable engagement, which makes the films able to appeal to a range of constituencies wider than those likely to be reached by some of the more heavyweight examples of art cinema, as has been demonstrated by their success at the box office in Spain and beyond. Academic accounts such as those of Acevedo-Muñoz and D’Lugo identify numerous sources of self-referentiality and intertextual citation capable of adding to the status of the films but that remain unlikely to be picked up, or fully mobilised, by other than a small minority even of arthouse viewers. Exactly how distanced actual individual viewers are likely to become by this kind of material remains open to question and easily overstated on the basis of what might potentially be available in the text. A parallel with an example from the more commercial end of the American indie sector can be found in the heavily intertextually-referencing Kill Bill films by Quentin Tarantino (2003, 2004), works that offer extra pleasures to those equipped with certain reserves of mostly lower-film-cultural capital

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Art Cinema and Genre (in relation to a range of cult films), but again without any such expertise being likely to be possessed by a large proportion of viewers or required for a more immediate enjoyment of the text.17 All About my Mother and many other Almodóvar films would customarily be situated as more ‘serious’ than the likes of Kill Bill, however, on the basis of their capacity to be read as containing more substantial social, historical and political subtexts, as well as their questioning of essentialised notions of identity, particularly in relation to gender. Sociopolitical resonances provide another dimension in which the director’s work can be positioned as art cinema, as we have seen in other cases above. Such elements have been identified from the start of Almodóvar’s career, by commentators including Acevedo-Muñoz, D’Lugo and Paul Julian Smith. A differing overall balance is usually detected between some of his earlier features, however, likely to be viewed as more postmodern and ‘superficial’ in style, and what is generally seen as the more mature phase of his career, within which All About My Mother would be included. Smith observes such a shift, for example, in the appearance of The Flower of My Secret and Live Flesh (Carne trémula, 1998). On the latter, he suggests: ‘While a comedy like Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown favoured irony, fragmentation, and superficiality, Live Flesh tends rather towards direct engagement with its characters, coherent integration of plot, and a sense of psychological, social and historical depth.’18 The film is able to occupy what seems, in some respects, an ideal position, for one that wants to be considered serious but also to be more widely accessible than more heavyweight alternatives: ‘Live Flesh is thus flashy but not superficial, serious but not po-faced.’19 The inclusion of a substantial social/historical/political dimension is another element that tends to remain implicit rather than overt, a quality Almodóvar’s work shares with some of the more heavyweight examples cited in earlier chapters. For Acevedo-Muñoz, all his films have potential to be read as representations of issues relating to the Spanish nation in the period after the rule of Franco. If All About my Mother has a reconciliatory dynamic among its characters, for example, Acevedo-Muñoz reads the film as offering an implicit reconciliation at the national level, the principal action moving from the capital, Madrid, the principle city setting of Almodóvar’s films, to its rival, Barcelona (via an excursion to the Galician city of Coruña). A parallel is suggested, in this account, between the

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Positioning Art Cinema unification of the disparate body parts of Agrado and those of the body politic.20 A wide range of father or authority figures are interpreted in relation to the inheritance of Franco. A similar emphasis on the treatment of serious issues is highlighted by Smith and D’Lugo, as an important part of the credentials of the filmmaker, even when the former is dealing with the earlier part of Almodóvar’s career (up to High Heels). The ‘conspicuous frivolity’ of his cinema at this stage, a source of conventionally lower status, remains ‘intimately linked to serious concerns that have often gone unnoticed’, Smith suggests. The frequent dismissal of his work of this period as ‘zany’ or ‘kitsch’ is attributed to the gender dimension outlined above: ‘a disrespect for a register coded as “feminine” and for those men who identify themselves with women’s concerns.’21 Even up to this point, and Smith identifies an increasing substantiality in his later work, his films ‘constitute a body of work which deals in a complex and sophisticated fashion with a number of vital issues: gender, nationality, homosexuality.’22 This is a language very much in keeping with some of that encountered above in relation to the heavyweight art tradition: complexity and sophistication, related to ‘vital’ issues. In this case, however, it seems to require argument against some aspects of the discourse that underpins such valorisation elsewhere, when it comes to work of this kind, particularly at the level of deeply embedded cultural-value associations related to gender. As well as positioning the work of Almodóvar himself in this way, Smith addresses the kinds of uses to which he has been put by others, including his value both within the arthouse film business and academia, two very different but in some ways complementary spheres of consecration. For the former, he suggests, the director played an important role at a time when some of its staples were losing their appeal: ‘For arthouse distributors and exhibitors, concerned by the deaths of Fassbinder and Passolini, the decline of Godard and Fellini, and the unfulfilled promise of new French directors such as Beneix and Besson, Almodóvar was the one true auteur to emerge in the 1980s and a regular source of high-profile new product.’23 For academics, his thematic concerns made him ‘a dream director, equally exploitable for courses of gender, ethnic, or lesbian and gay studies.’24 If the work of a figure such as Haneke lends itself to a particular range of academic-theoretical approaches of the kind

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Art Cinema and Genre sketched in Chapter 3, as one of its grounds for elevation to high status, the same can be said of Almodóvar in the areas suggested by Smith. While the films of Almodóvar have been positioned as ‘serious’ and significant in such ways, at various levels, it is notable that, at the outset, the filmmaker situated himself in opposition to established elite forms of art cinema. D’Lugo suggests that he defined himself and his work ‘in contrast to the quasi-official Spanish film traditions of “cinema of quality”, works based on literary adaptations of classic or contemporary novels.’25 This is a position defined in terms similar to those employed by Francois Truffaut in his famous celebration of a director-led auteur cinema in opposition to a similarly literary-based French ‘tradition of quality’.26 The influences Almodóvar cites as shaping him draw from a range of popular cultural sources. ‘Rather than emulating contemporary high-culture cinema, embodied in examples such as Víctor Erice’s Spirit of the Beehive (1973) or Carlos Saura’s Crí! (1976) and Elisa, My Life (1977), Almodóvar’s early films take a perverse pleasure in flaunting their inspiration from comic books, popular music, scatological humor and loud colors.’27 Elements of such material remain in evidence to some extent across his career, including the more widely critically-praised films of his later period. It appears to be as a result of this combination of factors that Almodóvar offers so striking an example of a figure whose films have enjoyed large scale popular success in his home nation (after beginning with only a smaller cult following) while also featuring as one of the most prominent international arthouse auteurs of recent decades. In a piece originally published in 1998, Smith comments: ‘At a time when only tiny numbers of foreign-language features achieve distribution in the UK and US, Almodóvar holds a unique position in his claim to both artistic ambition and commercial clout’, a position he has maintained since.28 His films have regularly featured among the top grossing in Spain as well as gaining recognition through festival and other prizes (including a Best Foreign Language Oscar for All About My Mother), critical approval and popularity within arthouse audiences. His status as a major international auteur was established by the critical and commercial overseas success of Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios, 1988), one of his lighter and more unambiguously comic films. This dimension of his career was effectively launched by Dark Habits in 1983, which gained attention after being withdrawn from competition at

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Positioning Art Cinema the Venice International Film Festival amid criticism related to allegations of anti-Catholicism. The stage of Almodóvar’s career that followed Dark Habits involved the conscious development of qualities that lent themselves to international as well as domestic marketing, D’Lugo suggests.29 This includes the general process of combining specifically Spanish resonances, such as the theme of the respective pulls of tradition and modernity and references to previous Spanish films and other cultural productions, with the kinds of references to American film or theatre outlined above. It involved the founding of his own company, El Deseo S.A., jointly with his producer brother Agustín, an important source of independence and control for the films that followed. The point for my purposes is that the development of the international auteur dimension of Almodóvar’s career, a crucial ground for his status in the domain of art cinema, is not something that just happened, automatically or as if by chance, simply on the basis of the qualities of the films as free-standing entities, but the outcome of an active and institutionalised strategy at various levels. A particular strategic approach on the part of the filmmaker, and his international distributors, in turn helped to generate the crucial art-cinema currency of critical consecration and the achievement of awards at prestigious film festivals. Marketing materials can also contribute to this process, as we have seen elsewhere. Just to give one example here, those used in relation to All About My Mother provide mixed resonances that suggest the generic terrain while also providing signifiers of art-cinema status. A trailer produced to accompany the US release by Sony Pictures Classics offers early status markers such as ‘A film by Almodóvar, winner best director Cannes Film Festival 1999’, highlighting the film’s auteur credentials and its success at a key festival. This is followed by an endorsement from Richard Corliss, of Time magazine, which proclaims it to be ‘The best film of the year’, although without attributing to it any specific qualities. The main body of the trailer is structured around a series of titles followed by appropriate images from the film. An initial title reading: ‘Part of every woman’ is followed on each occasion by large and colourful block-capital text reading, successively: ‘is a mother’, ‘is an actress’, ‘is a saint’ and ‘is a sinner’, establishing what seem to be fairly conventional melodramatic associations (the saint/sinner opposition is a very familiar restrictive couplet). A twist is offered at the end of this sequence, however, that seems to indicate some of

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Art Cinema and Genre the more distinct territory of the film: ‘And part of every man . . . is a woman.’ The key artwork, used in both the Spanish and overseas releases, features an outline sketch of the figure of a woman from the upper arms upwards, her top and lips coloured in bright red that, along with the title, also seems a relatively clear indicator of the type of generic territory to expect. A US version of the poster tops this with the Corliss ‘best film of the year’ legend, along with details of its Cannes award, while the US DVD replaced this with its subsequent and higher-profile status as ‘Academy Award-Winner’, images of the main characters being positioned in the lower part of the design, further suggesting the category of melodrama/ woman’s film, and so combining the genre and art/quality resonances.

Positioning the crime films of Johnnie To A combination of the establishment of his own industrial base and the gaining of recognised auteur standing from critics is also central to the artcinema status attributed to the Hong Kong crime films of Johnnie To. This is another case in which such credentials are combined with material located at the more commercially accessible end of the film spectrum. If Almodóvar’s status as a major international auteur was firmly established by the time of what is seen as his mature phase, that of To might be considered to be somewhat more contested or sometimes less clear cut. The employment by To of conventions from the popular crime/ gangster format, among a wider range of films with which he has been involved, including collaborations with other filmmakers, is such that a case for art film status seems sometimes required to be more explicitly argued for rather than being seen as self-evident, as might seem to be the situation with some of the types of films examined in the earlier chapters of this book. (It is not that the status of these others should be taken to be self-evident, either; just that this is more often likely to have become the case in established practice.) This might also be true to some extent of Almodóvar’s use of melodrama, and of the lower status often accorded to that genre, although some accounts of To’s work seem to feel a need to persuade, and sometimes to overstate, that might be evidence in this case of a status that is relatively more liable to contestation. If some of these examples might be positioned towards the margins of the art-film sector, such a location is always a useful one to examine; it is often at the borders 235

Positioning Art Cinema of any category that issues of definition are thrown into the sharpest relief. Such cases also provide a useful way of emphasising the relational, variable and contestable nature of art film as a category. Like much of Almodóvar’s employment of melodrama, To’s use of aspects of various types of crime films (gangster, uniformed police, detective) can be seen to entail a refreshing of genre conventions as much as (or more than) any more radical departure, although the line between the two might be variable and subject to disagreement among commentators. This section begins with an analysis of the terms in which To has been accorded the status of an art-filmmaker in critical analysis, particularly in a book-length account by Stephen Teo, before moving to a closer analysis of aspects of some individual titles such as The Mission (Cheung foh, 1999) and Exiled (Fong juk, 2006). Teo makes a strong argument on behalf of some of what he defines as To’s ‘action’ films, a category that seems quite closely to accord with the crime-related genres cited above.30 For Teo, what he sees as the best of the director’s work in this area earns artistic status on the basis of qualities attributed to two main dimensions. The first is his standing as an ‘auteur’ who brings his own individual and idiosyncratic approach to the genre territory (even though this is also appropriately located within the context of earlier traditions of innovation within this field in Hong Kong, rather than being seen as existing in isolation). Some examples mark what Teo terms a ‘conspicuous personalization’ of the genre, a typical basis on which such status is accorded to work that has a familiar-mainstream genre dimension.31 The second factor highlighted by Teo, as part of this personal idiosyncrasy, is the element of difference from standard norms supplied by cultural specificity, in this case the particular texture provided by the Hong Kong milieu. As Teo puts it: ‘Both the authorial function and the cultural specificity of the work are the engines of To’s idiosyncratic enunciations transforming his action genre films into artistic achievements.’32 The terms in which Teo further marks this status are familiar from much of what we have seen earlier in this book. If these films are to be distinguished from the norm, distance has to be established from what might be associated with more mainstream productions within the same generic territory, whether these are more conventional action/crime films from Hong Kong or from Hollywood. To’s films, therefore, are situated within a tradition of other films that lean towards the art end of the

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Art Cinema and Genre spectrum. They are ‘like art films in the vein of Jean-Pierre Melville rather than James Cameron,’ the latter taken as a representative of the Hollywood mainstream.33 Negative markers of lower-status action films are found to be downplayed or absent, as in the case of audio-visual spectacle (identified as a key source of negative connotations in Chapter 6). For Teo, ‘action in To’s films is portrayed less as spectacle – or if it is that, it is a very different, restrained [a key positive term from Chapter 6] kind of spectacle [. . .].’34 It is either not defined as spectacle, or if that (suspect) quality is involved, it is of a significantly different kind. His heroes are less muscular than their more mainstream equivalents, more subtle and conflicted; again, key discursive markers of quality, alternative or art status. A similar positioning is entailed by the manner in which To’s most celebrated work is characterised by Vivian Lee, in a comparison with the films of a Hong Kong predecessor such as John Woo. To’s films are viewed as manifesting a change of approach from one that had previously foregrounded heroic action. The Woo-style hero film ‘dramatizes the heroic act as a spectacle in and for itself,’ Lee suggests. By contrast, ‘in To’s films there is a movement away from action-as-spectacle to action as a part of, if not subsumed under, an unfolding psychological drama.’35 Action as part of ‘psychological drama’, with the various serious-modality connotations suggested by the term (one applicable to many classic works of art cinema, including the films of figures such as Bergman and Antonioni), is clearly accorded higher status than action defined as being only for the sake of so often distrusted a quality as spectacle. A major result of To’s idiosyncrasy, for Teo, is a level of complexity that stands as another key marker of higher status, a dimension also suggested by Lee’s emphasis on psychological drama and qualities such as characters who exhibit psychological and moral conflict. An earlier phase of his career earned him the position of what Teo terms a ‘hardworking craftsman’,36 an established and commercially successful filmmaker who moved around among genres. This is precisely the kind of opposite to the artistic the historical roots of which were outlined in Chapter 1. The dynamic entailed in this process is similar in some ways to that identified in many accounts of the career of Almodóvar: a movement towards greater ‘maturity’ marked by factors including a tendency to settle on a particular genre as the primary terrain. It is through this process, for Teo, that To emerges as a fully-fledged auteur. To be granted such status is, in itself, a major mark of

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Positioning Art Cinema quality status within prevailing western Romantic conceptions of artistic creation. Like his Spanish counterpart, To has received consecration in the form of critical praise and the winning of awards, but he is ‘still underappreciated’, Teo suggests, as a result of the low status of the genres in which he has worked and the fact that his career has been viewed as uneven in quality and focus.37 Michael Ingham makes a similar point about To’s standing within Hong Kong, where he suggests that the aesthetic qualities of his work have not been fully appreciated, largely because of their situation within genre films, despite their recognition among what he terms film cognoscenti in a number of European countries.38 To the fact that the genre for which To is best known is often associated with ‘lower’ cultural status can be added the range of genres within which he has worked across his career. These create an impression of inconsistency, another factor likely to detract from the ideal form of auteur-artistic reputation. Teo defines To as an ‘inconsistent auteur’, a negotiation that seeks to maintain this (higher) status while also qualifying it. Teo’s is an account that seeks actively and explicitly to make a case for the art-film status of certain of To’s films, although the underlying terms on which his valuation is based remain as implicit as is the case in the other instances examined above (why, for example, a quality such as complexity or subtlety should be valorised as such does not seem to be viewed as necessary to state, as if it is entirely self-evident). As in the rest of this book, my point is less to argue for or against Teo’s position in general than to highlight the fact that this is a specific position that can be situated within many of the broader discursive frameworks encountered above. But Teo also seems to overstate his case in regard to some aspects of the To films that are his main subject, those which are seen as his most innovative contributions to the crime/action genre, in a manner that can be viewed as symptomatic of some manifestations of this kind of positioning discourse. To’s crime films can certainly be situated as works that offer innovative twists on familiar genre conventions of various kinds, in areas such as visual style, characterisation and narrative more generally. The extent to which they do this is variable, across a substantial body of work, but includes some marked departures from what would generally be seen as more mainstream-conventional norms. These include dimensions such as moral ambiguity, complexity of character, narrative that is sometimes opaque, and a mood often of fatalism that Teo attributes

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Art Cinema and Genre to the particular cultural context (the latter could also be said of the crime films of Jean-Pierre Melville, however, which would make it less culturally specific overall, even if it might have particular grounds in each case). Teo makes much higher claims on the part of some dimensions of To’s most critically lauded work, however. Some of his action sequences are viewed as offering ‘abstraction’ and ‘formalism’, terms that imply a very strong claim to higher-art associations, the appropriateness of which seems questionable. A landmark example, for Teo, is the use of ‘inaction within the action’, in The Mission among other examples, a style for which Teo and others credit the influence of the approach to such sequences pioneered by Akira Kurosawa.39 The existence of such a source does not ‘lessen the innovativeness’ of To’s work, Teo stresses (which in this case does not involve the use of slow motion, the formal device most strongly associated with Kurosawa’s treatment of action, particularly in Seven Samurai [Shichinin no samurai, 1954]). Kurosawa’s influence ‘is integrated into the contexts of To’s own artistry and the standards of the Hong Kong cinema’,40 he suggests, a careful negotiation of the balance between the credit to be gained from association with a consecrated ‘master’, the desire to claim something original on the part of To-as-auteur, and a recognition of the more immediate cinematic-historical context within which he should be situated. The principle of inaction-within-action is valorised in terms that are, again, familiar from the material examined earlier in this book, in this case particularly in Chapter 4: its relevance as a marker of higher status ‘can only be appreciated when we pitch it against the maxim of speed and fast-paced action that is standard practice in the Hong Kong Cinema.’41 This is a variant of the discourse that celebrates slow cinema, applied in the rather different territory of the crime/action movie shoot-out, the more mainstream version of which in the local cinema serves the same role here as a negative reference point as does Hollywood more generally. The main set piece used as evidence of this approach is a sequence in The Mission, one of To’s most critically praised films, during a confrontation in a shopping mall. The principal protagonists stand still, in formation, their guns pointing in various directions as they are positioned among a series of pillars, taking turns to shoot enemies who appear from one side or another. Long shots in wide angle, in which their collective deployment is emphasised, are intercut with closer shots of individual

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Positioning Art Cinema characters shooting and/or their assailants. The most striking feature of the sequence is the general fixity of the positions of the protagonists, who strike a variety of ‘men-with-guns’ poses, particularly the one in which legs are bowed in a ‘brace’ position and both arms are stretched out holding a handgun (see Figure 7.3). How, then, might this sequence most usefully be understood? For Teo, the key interpretive terms are abstraction and formalism, concepts that bring the resonances of higher-art film status (along with at least one reference point familiar from earlier chapters). Like the pillars in the shopping mall space, he suggests, ‘the erect human figures are objectsymbols making up architectonic patterns in To’s conception and realization of abstract action, almost uncannily [whatever that quite means here] capturing the quality of “static violence” described by Gilles Deleuze in The Movement Image, an “originary violence” of the impulse which “gradually penetrates a given milieu.”’42 The style is read in ‘lofty’ terms, in other words, including a citation of the vogue-familiar figure of Deleuze. Whether or not the Deleuzian reading has purchase here is not the issue, for my purpose, but simply the fact that such a figure is cited as a way of providing some of the kind of heavyweight resonance seen in other examples in Chapters 3 and 4. It is useful to compare Teo’s reading with that offered by David Bordwell, one that also valorises To and attributes to him qualities of ‘artistry’ but does so in less elevated terms.43 As far as the style of the films is concerned: should this be seen as amounting to formalism and

Figure 7.3 Stylised but not abstract: men-with-guns poses in The Mission q Milky Way Image (Hong Kong) Ltd.

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Art Cinema and Genre abstraction, as Teo suggests, or something that might better be described as a form of stylisation? Some overlap might exist between such terms as they could be applied here, but there are also significantly different broader art-cultural resonances. Formalism and abstraction are the terms usually of serious art. Stylisation is more likely to be coded less positively in prevailing discursive regimes of the kind outlined in Chapter 1, sometimes distinctly negatively, as was seen in the previous chapter. Formalism or abstraction tend to be associated with the serious interrogation of, or experimentation with, form. Stylisation tends to be seen as something more superficial, a kind of gloss added to the work, one that is often implied to be artificial, although it might also be celebrated in some forms and/or contexts or from a different perspective. The language used by Bordwell in relation to To’s style, both generally and specifically in relation to sequences such as that set in the shopping mall in The Mission, seems more usefully analytical than either of these options (formalism/abstraction or stylisation) when they are used with weighted connotations of these kinds. Bordwell suggests that To’s films offer something of the set pieces associated with the Hong Kong films of figures such as John Woo or Tsui Hark in the 1990s, but downsized in a manner suited to the more modest budgets available after the partial collapse of the Hong Kong film industry later in the decade. ‘He shrewdly realised that he could maintain the tradition of flashy set-pieces by scaling down their spectacle but boosting their formal appeal. He made, we might say, cinephile set-pieces.’44 This is a formulation that usefully identifies the position of this To style, expressed in terms that help explain its ability to gain a certain kind of auteur status. Notions such as flashiness and spectacle tend to be accorded lower status, as we have seen. But when they are downplayed they can move into the realm of higher status, in prevailing regimes, in the same way as can other downplayed elements such as lowkey or restrained narrative of the kind examined in Chapter 6. Stylisation of this variety also lends itself more easily to interpretation as a self-conscious use of form, another key marker of artier-film status, similar in this respect (although of a different variety in itself) to that found in the work of Almodóvar. The term ‘cinephile set pieces’ seems appropriately to capture what results: a style that is likely to appeal to the kinds of constituencies that play a crucial role in the attribution of art-film status (critics and festival audiences and judging panels, as Bordwell

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Positioning Art Cinema suggests), without needing to make higher claims such as those implied by terms such as abstraction and formalism. An appeal to such a constituency seems particularly important to the achievement of art-film status in cases such as this, where any such standing might be less obvious, or subject to potential contest, when considered at the textual level alone. Set pieces of this kind offer an extra level of appeal to the cinephile, to the viewer with more than usual relevant cultural capital, whether academic, journalistic or otherwise. This lies in the extent of their aesthetic stylisation and the presence of intertextual reference points akin to those found in Almodóvar, all of which provides scope for them to be read as self-referential. The broader tradition in which To’s crime films can be located would include reference points ranging from Melville and Godard (the latter in some of his early works that employ elements of the genre) to an action set-piece style that draws on the likes of Kurosawa, Sam Pekinpah (himself influenced by Kurosawa) and Tarantino (influenced by figures such as the previous two). But these sequences also remain accessible as sources of pleasure to a wider audience that would be unable to mobilise such resonances, as carefully orchestrated high points within and contributing to what remain substantially genre-oriented narratives, even if they have certain distinctive qualities of their own. They combine the two dynamics in a manner that would not usually be associated with the terms abstraction and formalism, each of which tends to imply a considerably greater distancing from the action, of the kind that would be expected to be found at the more heavyweight end of the artcinema spectrum. Abstraction and formalism suggest a substantial denial of the more immediate pleasures of such material that does not seem to be the case in these examples. The dark-clad figures of the mall shootout in The Mission are strikingly etched against the generally glossy pale backgrounds of the setting, particularly in the longer shots that depict them in multiple numbers. The effect is a distinct one but it seems to fall some way short of what is usually signified by abstraction or formalism, or most usefully designated by the use of such terms. It contributes to, rather than offering any substantial distancing from, the dynamics of character, narrative and genre. The same can be said of other sequences of this kind in the work of To, including a number of heightened set pieces in Exiled, loosely a sequel in some respects to The Mission. These are full of elements that seem designed

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Art Cinema and Genre to appeal especially, but not exclusively, to a ‘knowing’ cinephile-type audience, but in a manner that again contributes to rather than undermining their function as genre components. The opening sequence of the film, for example, gives us two pairs of gangster/hitmen arriving and waiting at the new home of a former colleague, Wo (Nick Cheung), who has returned from exile after a past transgression. One group wants to kill him, on the orders of the gang boss, the other to protect him, although this is far from clear at first; an element of opacity that is a regular trait of To’s films. The sequence is drawn out and stylised in a manner that provides space for the suitably oriented viewer to savour its resonances, but without undermining the core generic trope. The music, including a spare, twanging guitar theme, the general scenario and other points of detail (the smoking of cigars, the laconic nature of some of the dialogue) invoke aspects of the western genre (particularly the spaghetti variety), and seem to invite viewers to bring such a context to bear on the material (in addition to an accumulated lore associated with ‘cool’ gangster figures of this kind). The visuals offer some striking images – an overhead shot, compositions that include all of the figures, deployed on the street – but these are mixed with more conventional perspectives and seem to heighten rather than to break or undermine the particular inflection of the genre/ plot-based mood established by the film. To often employs a wide-angle image that creates its own stylised impression but, again, one that remains integrated into the overall effect rather than being overt to the point of disruption. The opening sequence of Exiled is extended in time, adopting a distinctly slow-burning style. Tension increases with the arrival of Wo (unprepossessingly, in a little blue van), with the guitar theme in particular adding a portentous quality to a building rhythm of expectation. The assorted gangsters follow Wo into his new home, where his wife and baby await. An explosion of gunfire eventually occurs, but only after further retardation of the action. A cutaway shot to a boiling cooking pot emblematises the peaking of tension that is then released in a three-way exchange of shots. This is followed not by escalation but another pause, a moment of quiet regrouping, before a further round of gunfire. The latter consists primarily of a partially-stylised montage of shots of guns being fired (shots of the guns, or arms holding guns, sometimes with the figure firing visible behind). A more outlandishly stylised effect is provided briefly by the image of a door that tumbles between the antagonists,

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Positioning Art Cinema supposedly as the result of the fusillade of bullets by which it is hit from two directions. Exactly who is shooting at whom is not always entirely clear, here and in other sequences in the film, including a later set piece in a makeshift hospital in which waving sheets of fabric add extra stylised texture to the overall impression. The general style in both of these cases is typical of such sequences in the film, in their use of a slow, moody build-up to bursts of violent action that are themselves staged in a stylised manner (see Figure 7.4). This is exactly the kind of rendition of generic action that would be expected to receive praise of a particular kind, the slowness of build-up displaying a sense of restraint of the variety often favoured within certain art-evaluative regimes. Teo uses the term abstraction partly to suggest the separation of such sequences, and of the generic milieu of the protagonists more generally, from the real world. I am not sure it is the best term to convey this, but the point itself seems reasonable: set pieces of this kind often seem to occupy a very movie-genre specific locale (one of a number of features the work of To has in common with that of Quentin Tarantino). But Teo also uses the term in a more art-specific sense that seems questionable. The violence in Exiled, he suggests, ‘has an abstract art quality with a kind of Jackson Pollock luster and gloss to it.’45 On the basis of the inclusion of the sight of ‘blotches of red’, he cites Pollock’s 1952 painting Convergence. But the use of such a reference point seems more strongly to mark the gulf than any similarity between the To variety of stylised violence and anything really resembling truly abstract work of this kind. This seems to manifest an

Figure 7.4 One of the cinephile set pieces from Exiled q Media Asia Films (BVI) Ltd.

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Art Cinema and Genre overreaching as far as the degree or nature of art-status that might be attributed to To is concerned, a tendency we have seen elsewhere above. The attempt to claim a particular kind of artistic status for work that might have other dimensions with conventionally lower-cultural associations results here in what might be viewed as a compensatory overstating of the case in some respects (this within an account that is more measured in other dimensions, carefully situating the filmmaker within particular industrial and cultural contexts). That the films of To have certain qualities that have earned them the status of art cinema, within some of the institutions that contribute centrally to the conferment of such standing, seems clear enough. The overstating of these, in some instances, in order to make a stronger assertion of artistic status, can be seen as a symptom of the way these systems of cultural valuation tend to operate in the discursive sphere. Part of what seems to be at stake in how Teo positions the films is a perceived need to make strong claims in order to legitimise them as suitable subjects for academic or serious-critical analysis. To has produced films that ‘justify serious study’, he argues; To is a figure who ‘deserves a book’.46 This is the kind of argument that often has to be made to prospective publishers, or more generally, when pleading the merits of any filmmaker or type of films. But the terms in which Teo does this are based on an embedded and unquestioned, although very particular and questionable, value hierarchy. To’s films are distinguished here ‘from the average run-ofthe-mill genre product of the Hong Kong cinema’, the implication being that the latter is not so much a worthy object of study. At some points, Teo seems to move away from a stronger version of claiming artistic status. To’s work remains ‘embedded within the popular culture industry and its genres’, he suggests. ‘Thus by definition he can’t be called a “high culture” artist.’47 Teo then cites Bordwell’s argument about Hong Kong cinema more generally and the point that ‘the compromises of business do not prevent mass entertainment from achieving genuine artistry.’48 But there seems to be some slippage between the resonances of these terms as deployed across this account. What exactly ‘genuine artistry’ means is not pinned down here, its connotations remaining implicit, as is so often the case in the use of such terms. Something that might be viewed as ‘genuinely’ ‘artistic’, in the sense of demonstrating imaginative creativity within the conventions of popular forms such as the

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Positioning Art Cinema crime genre, need not entail the use of stronger terms such as abstraction and formalism. This is largely a question of how particular terms are used and intended, but they are never neutral within the overall positioning of films of these kinds. Teo employs terms such as abstraction and formalism for something that seems rather short of what such concepts usually imply and he uses them repeatedly and with some emphasis, at one point referring to some of the examples considered here as ‘sequences of high formalism’, which seems to suggest something much closer to the arena of the ‘high culture artist’ from which he distinguishes To elsewhere.49 A brief moment that comes closer to abstraction occurs at the opening of The Mission, but it is not sustained in a manner that would seem to justify a more substantive use of the term. The main title and name of the director come up against a black background, some five minutes into the film, accompanied by the sound of multiple gunshots, smashing glass and running footsteps. This is followed by two very close shots of a handgun firing, in slowed motion, one from the front and one from the side. These are quite abstracted images, in the degree of closeness of camera and as a way of evoking, more than depicting, the action. The camera then moves slowly across part of what appears to be the aftermath, a massacre in a restaurant, giving the impression that the whole event has been reduced to this minimalist rendition. The action continues more normally, however, with a brief stand-off followed by more shooting and the escape of a gang boss, the subsequent protection of whom constitutes the main body of the film. Any abstraction, then, is brief, passing, and a stylised way into a more conventional sequence, rather than being sustained in its own right. This might be contrasted with the substantial abstraction offered by John Jost, a figure cited in Chapter 2 as an outlying example of a more experimental feature filmmaker within the American independent tradition, in his nearest entry to this kind of genre territory, the couple-on-the-run road movie, Frameup (1993). A hold-up and shooting sequence in this film is treated highly obliquely, the protagonist kept in a close shot that frames him from the neck upwards as he shoots; as I put it elsewhere, ‘we see neither the gunshots nor the impact on the victims, only the noise of the gun and the sound of bodies falling.’50 In this case, this is all we get by way of rendition of the violent incident, rather than moving from such a distanced and formalist treatment into any more conventional depiction.

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Art Cinema and Genre Another example would be the similarly oblique style of Robert Bresson in an incident such as the barely-viewed bank robbery in which the central character becomes implicated in L’argent (1983). The difference between these and the To example is substantial. To’s style tends to embody a distinct romanticisation of, and luxuriation in, gunfire action that is entirely stripped from these far more abstracted treatments. If the terms sometimes used by Teo are those that might usually be employed in relation to the more austere modernist tradition, the films of To, like those of Almodóvar, seem to have more in common with the playful combination of stylisation, reflexivity and use of conventions often associated with the postmodern. Exiled also marks a degree of distance from generic routines of this kind in what follows from the first shootout. The initial exchanges proving inconclusive, the standoff is halted by the sound of Wo’s baby crying and his wife’s move to comfort the child; material that would not be a usual ingredient in the genre recipe. A soft piano tone comes onto the soundtrack. Wo proposes that they ‘sit down and talk’, which seems a more familiar movement towards a gangster têteà-tête, but this is greeted by a glance around by the leader of the group sent to kill him, Blaze (Anthony Wong), and the question: ‘Sit where?’, the room being empty of furniture. A cut then occurs to the start of a sequence in which the gangsters work together to help Wo unload the van, which seems to contain most of the couple’s worldly belongings. They also help to repair damage to the apartment and to prepare a meal. This is all accompanied by a much lighter modality, again led by the choice of music on the soundtrack. The shift is markedly incongruous, in conventional genre terms, the masculine posing of the initial sequence being replaced by a distinctly domestic tenor. The outcome of the initial confrontation is put on hold throughout these sequences, as is the whole future direction of the film on numerous subsequent occasions. One clear marker of distinction is a lack of any clear trajectory for the remainder of the film, along with a distinctly oblique tendency as far as some key plot developments are concerned. This approach, found in many of To’s films, can be understood as another relatively more accessible version of the basis on which heavier-weight art films are often valorised, for the demands they make on the part of the viewer to fill in some of the gaps. As Bordwell suggests, To’s films employ a number of devices to restrict either the viewer or their characters’ access to

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Positioning Art Cinema important plot information, another source of the kind of complexity that appeals to a cinephile audience and that can be seen as a marker of a status that shares some dimensions with those of more established art cinema, but without going as far as the radical aporias or uncertainties found in some heavyweight examples. The overall balance of qualities offered by the film in these various ways – employment of and departures from genre convention, stylisation, incongruity – is one that seems to have much in common with the position of many products of the American indie sector, including the work of Tarantino among others; far more so, I would suggest, than with notions such as abstraction and formalism and the associations such terms have with the modernist or otherwise heavyweight end of the art-film spectrum. The approach of To includes a number of characteristics that can be situated in the domain of the ‘quirky’ or the ‘off-beat’, qualities often associated with the indie sector and that signify distinct but relatively modest departures from mainstream convention, particularly when compared with the more radical strategies found at the heavyweight end of the spectrum. A notable example of the incongruously quirky in The Mission, for example, is a sequence in which the principals engage in a surreptitious kick-around with a ball of paper while waiting outside the office of their boss. The sequence displays some of the skill and precision required by a team of gangland bodyguards and also signifies the development of team-bonding among the group, as is suggested by Lee; issues of substance appropriate to the milieu in which they operate. But the display of such qualities in so frivolous an activity, and under the noses of passing members of staff in a location where quiet respect might be due, gives it a distinctly incongruous dimension that seems very much within the realm of the quirky/offbeat. Some of To’s films occupy this territory to a larger extent, with plots or central characters that seem more strongly marked as quirky or oddball, notable examples including Mad Detective (San taam, 2007) and Sparrow (Man jeuk, 2008). A similar general positioning in relation to the American indie sector is suggested by Michael Ingham, in an account that also seeks to celebrate the ‘special’ character of To’s films in familiar ways but that does so in terms that seem generally more measured than some of those employed by Teo. Ingham uses language that also makes claims for distinctive standing in a number of dimensions typical of those accorded to art or indie cinema.

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Art Cinema and Genre To’s films offer a ‘fusion of highly aesthetically refined arthouse cinematography’ and ‘minimalist narrative exposition and development’ with established genre material, Ingham writes, a clear ascription of artfilm status in some dimensions.51 His metier appears to be the ‘serious police-gangster’ film, a phrase that also suggests a mix of the substantial and the more familiar-conventional.52 The context of this argument is a book-length study of one film, PTU (2003), a title the merits of which as one of To’s best films Ingham argues on a number of grounds. These includes both positive and negative markers of position, of the kind encountered elsewhere in this book. On the positive side, Ingham accords artistic status to the visual style of the film, in which he finds a ‘painting-like richness’, ‘virtuosic use of colour’ and ‘brilliant chiaroscuro effects’.53 As a more negative marker, signifying distinction from less valued qualities, he cites its use of a low proportion of shots in close up, ‘which has the effect of distancing the viewer emotionally [. . .] unlike more melodramatic and sentimental films which encourage the viewer to engage with and empathize with the protagonists’ point of view, desires and emotional responses [. . .]’, the latter a category that would include some of To’s own generally less valorised work along with the films of Almodóvar considered above.54 The way To ‘playfully subverts yet respects crime and action genres’ in his most highly regarded work gives it a distinctive quality, Ingham suggests, compared here with that of the American indie and studio films of Joel and Ethan Coen, reference points that seem more apposite than the language of higher-art sometimes employed by Teo.55 I should make it clear that my purpose here, and above, is not to seek to ‘police’ the boundaries of art cinema, to produce an argument for what should or should not be accorded such status or placed in a particular position within a value-based hierarchy. My aim is to examine the manner in which certain kinds of claims are made in particular accounts and how consistent these are with the prevailing connotations of the terms that are employed. I am not in any way suggesting, for instance, that To’s films are of any lesser value because they do not manifest qualities such as abstraction; merely that this positions them differently within the broader spectrum of possibilities. The practice of making claims of the kind found in Teo and Ingham, in the particular terms that are employed, is fully understandable. Like many of the accounts of art cinema considered in the

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Positioning Art Cinema previous chapters, these are from writers who admire the films and want to make a case for their value. Within prevailing discursive schemas, that tends to involve associating them with certain qualities that carry resonances of ‘higher’ culture and distinguishing them from that which is usually taken to mark the ‘lower’. The terms that are used are often questionable, especially when taken for granted, with no consideration of the bases on which they stand, but they are the currency in which such claims are widely (if not always) made and recognised. The very fact of their widespread usage, in varying forms and degrees, as seen, for example, in the different versions found in Teo and Ingham, is evidence of the power they have gained within the wider cultural sphere. To’s crime films also share with the work of Almodóvar a capacity to be accorded more substantial status than might otherwise be the case on the basis of interpretation in socio-political or historical terms. Exiled, for example, contains a number of overt references to the upcoming Chinese incorporation of the former Portuguese colony of Macau, in which the primary action is set. As Teo suggests, this and many other To films can be read as offering implicit comment on wider political situations such as this, most obviously the 1997 takeover of Hong Kong, along with often offering alternative crime film dimensions such as the moral ambiguity that results from a blurring of distinctions between those on either side of the law. The context of uncertainties surrounding the changing status of Hong Kong is also the major framework within which Lee situates qualities of To’s films such as their downplaying of heroic individual action in favour of an emphasis on more flexible solutions to problems achieved by a pragmatic professional group ethic, in films such as The Mission, Breaking News (Dai si gin, 2004) and PTU.56 To’s work is viewed here as embracing rather than seeking to resolve ‘ambivalences and contractions’, another dimension that suggests the kinds of qualities associated with the traditions of art cinema.57 Ingham makes a similar case to those of Teo and Lee for the thematic substance and significance of PTU, although he seems guilty of some overreaching when he goes as far as to describe the film as ‘a sociopolitical “essay”’ on issues such as the practices and powers of the police.58 As is the case with Almodóvar, such socio-political dimensions are left implicit for the most part, and certainly not articulated in anything like the explicit form of a ‘social political essay’; they are present as extra

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Art Cinema and Genre resonances that can be brought into play without undermining a focus on more immediate narrative content. Whether or not the implicit position of To’s films is progressive or reactionary, another potential basis for the ascription or otherwise of higher status in many accounts, has been a matter of some debate. In frequently blurring the moral lines between criminal and police, his work seems to combine a degree of complexity with a progressive approach that questions institutionalised sources of power. On gender politics, an arena in which the work of Almodóvar has often been lauded, the verdict on To seems rather more mixed, both in his presentation of violent masculinity (sometimes seemingly questioned, sometimes less so) and of the role of women (often absent and sometimes figured negatively when in positions of power).59 Whatever conclusions we reach about the textual qualities of To’s films, Teo is right to assert that they have gained a significant degree of art-film status through their critical reception and presence at key festivals, which is usually an important part of the basis on which a reputation of this kind is based. Such recognition has been achieved both internationally and at home. Teo suggests that a retrospective of his work at the 1999 Hong Kong International Film Festival was the first official acknowledgment of To’s status as a ‘major filmmaker’ within Hong Kong.60 A key marker of the achievement of international prominence was the appearance of two of his most widely-known films, Election (Hak se wui, 2005) and Triad Election (also known as Election 2, Hak se wui yi wo wai kwai, 2006) at the Cannes Film Festival.61 Like Almodóvar, To’s freedom to pursue less commercially conventional approaches in some of his work was a result of the establishment of his own production company, Milkyway Image, created in 1996, a base from which he also worked in collaboration with other filmmakers, both as producer and co-director. To has himself positioned some of his works, including those examined above, as personal ‘exercises’ made alongside more commercial productions, an approach that might have encouraged critics such as Teo in their attribution to such examples of some of the status of higher forms of art film.62 Marketing materials for the examples examined above sell a mixture of the generic and the distinctive, as might be expected, although sometimes in different ways. A Chinese-language trailer for Exiled, for example, is dominated by the ‘cool’ guitar-led theme of the opening sequences and

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Positioning Art Cinema many images of stylised shooting. The film’s appearance in competition at the Venice Film Festival is flagged early on, as a marker of international artistic recognition. To’s name is provided in one of the titles but just factually: ‘Produced and directed by Johnnie To’ being spelled out in both Chinese and English. A trailer produced for the US release by the indie distributor Magnolia Pictures offers a similar overall balance but somewhat differently comprised. To’s credit is more loaded but also mixed in its associations. ‘From acclaimed action director Johnnie To’ provides both a claim to distinction (‘acclaimed’) and a location in the more commerciallyaccessible generic territory of ‘action’. The first half builds slowly, without any extracts involving gunfire, but with a series of titles that set up a generic-narrative frame (concluding with ‘And there are some men that just can’t walk away’). One screen informs us that it was ‘official selection’ at both the Toronto and Venice festivals while another provides a critical endorsement from The New York Times that also suggests a mix of action-convention and something distinctive within this terrain: ‘One of the most accomplished, elegant and exciting action films of the year.’ The latter part of this trailer focuses primarily on shooting action, often fast cut, to the accompaniment of a drum beat that establishes more conventional resonances than the theme used in the Chinese-language version cited above. The US DVD artwork is dominated by the image of one of the characters aiming a pistol, clearly signifying the generic terrain, while the background includes a large fiery region that also suggests an emphasis on explosive action. To is credited across the top and the same quotation that featured in the Magnolia trailer appears at the bottom. A region 2 DVD cover has a less dramatic image: a character holding his gun in a downwards position as he stands in front of a nondescript wall on which the paint is peeling. If this has less genre-conventional connotations, the critical endorsements are more straightforward, suggesting a more mainstream pitch. The quotation from The New York Times has been ‘creatively’ edited to remove any emphasis on the distinctive, to read simply: ‘One of the most exciting action films of the year’, the term ‘exciting’ being emphasised through the use of a slightly larger typeface than the rest. Below this is another endorsement from a source identified as ‘Neo’ reading ‘Move over John Woo’, making an association with a predecessor who achieved earlier cross-over into a Hollywood career.

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Art Cinema and Genre A tendency to emphasise more mainstream-commercial grounds of appeal in the marketing of To films in the United States is identified in a study of a number of examples from the US and the UK by Daniel Martin, an analysis that helps to identify some of the tensions or contradictions that can be found in the positioning of such films in different markets and/ or at different moments in the development of a particular filmmaker reputation. To has been ‘branded’ in a particular manner in the west, as Martin suggests, associated with only the crime/gangster genre, his films of other kinds having been effectively ignored in these territories.63 An emphasis on sex and violence is identified by Martin in the UK marketing materials for Fulltime Killer (Chuen jik sat sau, 2001), which featured as part of an ‘Asia Extreme Roadshow’ organised by the distributor Tartan Films, associating the film with a commercial exploitation-style approach of the kind examined in Chapter 8. This differs considerably from the manner in which the film was originally positioned in Hong Kong and elsewhere, including the US, where the emphasis was on the main plot rivalry between two male protagonists.64 At this stage, Martin suggests, John Woo remained an important point of reference, associating the film with either the ‘heroic’ style of Hong Kong action for which he was known or the features he directed after moving to Hollywood. By the time of the two Election films, a notable split is identified between the handling of the films in the US and the UK. In the latter, the marketing campaigns put the emphasis on dimensions such as ‘artistic credibility’ and strong characterisation, with no references to Woo, here or in critical reviews. To was ‘finally gaining recognition as a distinctive individual director’.65 In the US, however, no such change occurred at this point, the films being promoted with materials that continued to emphasise action in the earlier Hong Kong tradition. These include a DVD cover for the first film that shows one of the main characters holding a handgun, ‘an image that totally misrepresents the film’, one of the notable features of which is that its triad members do not use firearms.66 This campaign also ignored the more serious potential resonances of the films, the internal triad “elections” having been widely interpreted as offering a dimension of satirical commentary on promised elections for Hong Kong under China. A growing emphasis on the status of To as a distinctive ‘auteur’ director is identified by Martin in the marketing campaigns and critical commentary relating to subsequent UK releases of examples such

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Positioning Art Cinema as Exiled, PTU and Mad Detective, the latter in particular being sold ‘as an art film with none of the connotations of action.’67 Martin’s account offers a useful reading of the manner in which industrial positioning strategies can vary at the point of distribution and marketing, in some cases differing in relation to the same films. This is further illustration of the extent to which the according of the status of art film is best seen as an active process of attribution and consecration (or, alternatively, contestation and denial), rather than something simply inherent in the qualities of one type of film or another. Many other such examples could be cited, including the history of the reputation of JeanPierre Melville, one of the predecessors often cited in relation to the crime films of To. The films of Melville can be positioned in some ways similar to those of To, including their mixture of classical and more stylised and minimalist qualities, along with other dimensions such as their fatalism and moral ambiguity. Melville’s standing has gone through a number of phases, as Ginette Vincendeau suggests, from association with the French new wave to achievement of a more mainstream status that was both championed and condemned by critics, depending on their perspective.68 In this case, as in some others, the revival of his status as a significant pioneer of particular approaches to the crime genre was spurred largely by the extent to which he was cited as an influence by others, in this case figures including Quentin Tarantino and John Woo, a process continued through his use as a positive reference point in relation to To.69

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8 Art Cinema and Exploitation

The term ‘exploitation’ is used in reference to cinema primarily to suggest certain kinds of products that sell what are customarily viewed as varieties of ‘cheap thrills’ as inducements to viewers, particularly those involving sex and/or violence.1 This might be a type of cinema that includes certain kinds of sexual or violent material that is more explicit than usual or otherwise seen as transgressing the established boundaries of any particular time or place. It is often viewed as exploiting what is characterised as a ‘base-level’ viewer attraction to such content, or the limitations (self-imposed or otherwise) faced by what are positioned as more ‘respectable’ films. Alternatively, ‘exploitation’ might involve the use of titles, trailers or other paratextual phenomena that promise a supply of material not delivered by the film itself, or only selectively so, and therefore includes a dimension of duplicity, a more direct taking advantage of the filmgoer who might be misled. All this might seem the opposite of what is typically associated with art cinema, particularly in some of its most valorised forms: heavyweight engagement, restraint, contemplative distance, realism, reflexivity, the poetic, and so on. There is, however, a long history of overlap between elements of art and exploitation cinema. This is another dimension (like that of genre) in which the former can be less clearly distinguished and have certain potentially more commercial dimensions than are found in the most austere examples, or be positioned 255

Positioning Art Cinema in this manner regardless of textual qualities. Some elements associated with the exploitation tradition can be identified in the uses of genre examined in the previous chapter, if considerably less than those which are the main focus here: the transgression of gender boundaries, among other issues, in much of the work of Almodóvar; the employment of shootout and other such material, if often in a restrained manner, in the crime films of To. Art cinema has often been able to include more of what is characterised as ‘extreme’, unconventional, disturbing or explicit sex and violence than is the norm for more mainstream production in any particular conjuncture. The category, in its operative and institutionalised dimensions, provides a certain licence for transgression of boundaries that are likely to be maintained in more commercial realms (the same is true, often to a greater extent, of the avant-garde, in its considerably more marginal location). Notions of seriousness and weightiness, as outlined earlier in this book, can provide what is presented or understood as a legitimating rationale for certain kinds of sexual or violent material: a framework in which it can be deemed more acceptable than if it is seen as existing as something to be ‘indulged’ in bodily (by the filmmaker or viewer) or exploited (commercially) in its own right. This is a classic instance of the manner in which art cinema exists within structured oppositions of the kind outlined in Chapter 1. Art cinema can provide a context in which what might elsewhere be viewed as ‘gratuitous’ sex or violence, usually negatively valued, can be seen to have a purpose that can be positively regarded, within the terms of dominant/prevailing hierarchies of cultural value. This might entail claims to be offering serious exploration of such material, rather than its use as an unreflective source of sensuous ‘prurient’ attraction. Such a positioning often involves a disavowal of any notion of the provision of immediate and/or ‘seductive’ pleasure through the inclusion of content of this kind. A sense of distinction is in this way established, as Mattias Frey argues, between the position of the art-filmmaker or the suitably appreciative viewer and the more immediate emotional experience associated by a commentator such as Bourdieu (and often more widely) with the taste preferences of those of lower social status.2 This is a key marker in the case of sexual content, especially: a distancing from the qualities associated with pornography, the latter often defined as material intended to offer physical

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Art Cinema and Exploitation arousal to its consumer. As Linda Williams argues, however, it is often more difficult to separate out any notion of ‘immediate stimulation’ (a term used in one legalistic definition of prurience) from other dimensions of the experience offered by the screening of sex. ‘Sex is rarely ever “just” sex, Williams suggests: ‘Art films know this [although this is a point contested by some critics], pornography tries not to.’3 The employment of ‘higher’ cultural associations to legitimate the display of sexual imagery in art cinema can be linked to a broader historical phenomenon in the arts. As Torben Grodal suggests, the portrayal of scenes from religious or mythological sources has often provided an opportunity for nudity that might otherwise be considered questionable.4 In the case of art cinema, a focus on examples that include dimensions associated with exploitation helps to throw into sharp relief a number of the issues discussed so far in this book. Even more so, perhaps, than the conjunction between art film and genre, the extent to which some films might appear to tread in exploitation territory – and are, as a result, condemned or at least questioned by some commentators – means they can be seen to require a more overt process of legitimation or defence by others, if their status as ‘art’ is to be maintained. The making of such a case ranges from close textual analysis of the particular manner in which sequences of sex or violence are deployed, and their likely effect on the viewing response, to broader interpretations of such material as contributing to what are marked as serious thematic dimensions. The licence offered to art cinema is also, effectively, related to the particular nature of its primary constituency: to the long-established but often unspoken notion that material that might be considered unsuited to a broader popular audience is acceptable when restricted to those of higher class/status background, on the highly dubious assumption that the latter are less likely to be subject to any supposedly potential damaging effects. This is a position usually denied in public statements by regulators, for example the British Board of Film Classification, which claims to deal with films of all kinds in the same terms, but one that appears to be mobilised in some of its internal documentation.5 The underlying assumption is part of a broader and long-standing conjunction of classed, patriarchal and racist ideologies, in which social groups such as the lower classes, women and people of colour are often associated with more impressionable and/or childlike qualities.

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Positioning Art Cinema Art cinema of the kind examined in this chapter is certainly often sold, at least partly, on the basis of the access it can provide to more explicit or controversial material, particularly in the realm of sex. Some works include sequences that can be seen to draw in certain ways, and to varying degrees, on the kind of material associated with the exploitation tradition. Such elements have also often been highlighted in marketing materials and other discourses, including the responses of critics or other media coverage, a dimension in which it can have commercial value in gaining wider attention for films or offering some grounds of appeal to wider-than-usual audiences. Coverage of this kind can also provide a benefit for institutions such as festivals, controversies over certain titles being a familiar source of media attention for events such as Cannes and constituting an art-cinema equivalent of the extra-filmic ‘ballyhoo’ considered by Eric Schaefer to be a key component of the classical American exploitation tradition he examines from 1919 to 1959.6 This is a dimension in which some examples have faced criticism for treading in territory too strongly associated with qualities from which art cinema is conventionally meant to be distinguished, whether in terms of the textual material itself or its propensity to provoke wider public attention (it also sits alongside a broader tradition of provocative artistic work in various media). If the 1950s and the 1960s are often seen, particularly from an Anglophone perspective, as a ‘golden age’ of art cinema, in terms of an increase in its exportation from continental Europe and elsewhere to locations such as the US and the UK, it became something of a cliché that one reason for the boom in arthouse audiences in this period was the access works of this kind permitted to more ‘racy’ material than was generally available in such markets (or the claims made on their behalf when this was not always actually or very much the case). This was related to a number of factors, including a relaxation of censorship regimes in some territories and the creation of ratings frameworks that widened the general range of what could be shown in cinemas. In the UK, for example, the creation of the X certificate in 1951 had a significant early impact, as Lucy Mazdon and Catherine Wheatley suggest, permitting the showing of many features that would otherwise have fallen victim to censorship.7 This often had little to do with overt representation of sex or violence, but that did not stop some such films being sold in these terms. Mark Betz identifies numerous examples in promotional material supplied by US distributors

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Art Cinema and Exploitation of art films during the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, including the employment of tropes strikingly similar to those used for contemporary varieties of exploitation cinema.8 Marketing materials provided in press books for landmark works of Italian neo-realism such as Rome, Open City (Roma città aperta, 1945) and Bicycle Thieves prominently deploy unrepresentative images such as a woman with a hiked-up skirt, in the former, or a bare leg, in the latter, along with tag-lines or pull-quotations that similarly emphasise such qualities (for the former, ‘violence and plain sexiness’; for the latter, ‘The Bicycle Thief: He’ll steal your heart!’).9 This is an approach the origins of which in the US are traced by Schaefer to the handling of the Czech film Ecstasy (Ekstase, 1933), a film released after battles with regulators and marketed on that basis and via nude images of a young Hedy Kiesler (later to become Lamarr).10 As Mazdon and Wheatley suggest: ‘While the X helped to label Continental cinema as both “racy” and “challenging”, it was essentially in its racy guise that it attracted significant numbers of movie-goers.’11 Prominent display of the certificate rapidly became a feature in the marketing of many such films and their stars, despite criticism of its inappropriate usage. If this could apply to Italian neo-realism, the same went for a notably heavyweight example with more modernist leanings such as Resnais’ Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959), another film marketed in a manner that created an impression very different from that likely to result from any viewing of the film itself; the focus was placed, as Mazdon and Wheatley put it, very much more on the ‘amour’ than on Hiroshima.12 Betz suggests that imagery used to promote French and Italian art films of the 1960s employs similar approaches to those used in the 1950s, not just emphasising female sexuality but doing so in a manner that adapts iconography used to sell the low-status burlesque variety of exploitation cinema.13 In the move into the 1960s, Betz says, the presence of signifiers of high-cultural status in such materials is reduced and the exploitation quotient increased.14 As far as the US market was concerned, the limitations of the Hollywood production code had played a key role in enabling overseas exports, particularly from Europe, to be differentiated on the grounds of their more liberal attitudes towards sexuality (the prohibitions of the code also formed the basis of much of the material seized upon within the lower-status classical exploitation tradition, as Schaefer suggests).15

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Positioning Art Cinema The development of the art house circuit was aided in the postwar years, as Steve Neale argues, by anti-trust legislation that required the studios to sell off their cinema chains, weakening the grip of the code and opening the market to European films that were, as a result, ‘able to trade more stably and commercially both upon their status as “adult” art and upon their reputation for “explicit” representations of sexuality.’16 From the mid1960s onwards, art cinema ‘stabilised itself around a new genre’, that which Neale terms the ‘soft-core art film’, a phrase used here with the specific resonances associated with pornography. This was, for Neale, an important consolidation of what art cinema as a category came to constitute. Whereas its previous history had been ‘one of a series of unstable and short-lived movements (expressionism, Poetic Realism, Neo-Realism, the New Wave), the names of its authors [. . .] serving as the only conceptual means by which to categorise its output consistently, it now appears’, Neale writes in 1981, ‘that there is a relatively permanent genre towards which Art Cinema internationally has begun to gravitate, assured as it is of an international market, notoriety and (generally) a degree of cultural and artistic prestige.’17 This is a situation that continues to apply to some of the most prominent examples of art cinema today. If marketing materials for art cinema in the postwar decades were often unrepresentative and/or created misleading impressions in many instances, it remains the case that art cinema could provide sexual material, more or less explicit, that was unavailable in what was considered to be the respectable commercial mainstream. While in some cases this might be limited to brief nudity or otherwise suggestive material, a number of films gained particular notoriety for their sexual content, including I Am Curious (Yellow) (Jag är nyfiken - en film i gult, Sweden, 1967), Last Tango in Paris, In the Realm of the Senses (Ai no korîda, Japan/France, 1976) and the late films of Pasolini. A distinctive feature of Last Tango, for Linda Williams, was the manner in which the sexual content was not separated out from other elements of the film, as was suggested at the time by Pauline Kael in a celebratory review in The New Yorker: ‘For the first time in movies, as Kael’s review would claim, complex emotional relations of ecstasy, alienation, and humiliation are enacted in the performance of the sex itself’, a clear marker here of the attribution of art-cinema status to the sexual material involved.18 Last Tango was also notable for achieving wider recognition and circulation than usual for works of art cinema, particularly

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Art Cinema and Exploitation in the US market where it benefitted from the star presence of Marlon Brando and the fact that much of the dialogue was in English. In the Realm of the Senses went considerably further, in its inclusion of explicit detail of non-simulated sexual activity, a position unmatched in this arena for some two decades. While the history of art cinema includes numerous examples that draw on notions of sexual transgression, either in their textual qualities or the ways they have been promoted, a marked tendency of this kind is found in a body of work associated particularly (but far from exclusively) with European art cinema in a period from the late 1990s to the early 2000s, a phenomenon that remained in play up to the time of writing. This forms the main basis of the examples and issues examined in the rest of this chapter. I begin with an examination of the general parameters of this tendency, sometimes known as the ‘new extreme’ cinema, and a number of critical/analytical frameworks within which it has been positioned, particularly those that have found grounds for the valorisation of such work. If the ‘new extreme’ was initially associated in particular with French cinema and then with European cinema more widely, it also had a significant equivalent in this period in Asia, one that received its own form of institutionalisation and exploitation-oriented international marketing, most prominently in the shape of the ‘Asia Extreme’ series developed by the distributor Tartan Entertainment. One example of this tendency, Kim Ki-duk’s Moebius (Moebiuseu, 2013) from South Korea, is examined at the end of this chapter.

Positioning the ‘new extreme’ The late 1990s and early 2000s saw the appearance on the festival and arthouse circuits of a number of films that seemed to push beyond the usual contemporary limits of what sexual material could be depicted in films circulating in any kind of commercial realm other than hard-core pornography. Scenes of non-simulated sex, including shots of vaginal penetration, were included in examples such as The Idiots (Idioterne, 1998, Lars von Trier) and Romance (1999, Catherine Breillat). Some included sequences of very strong violence, including, most controversially, graphically presented rape sequences; for example, Breillat’s À ma soeur! (awkwardly translated as Fat Girl, 2001), Irreversible (2002, Gaspar Noé) 261

Positioning Art Cinema and Baise-moi (somewhat crudely translated as Rape Me, 2000, Virginie Despentes and Coralie Trinh Thi). Accounts that seek to explain the existence of an upsurge of such work in this period can be divided broadly into two camps. On one side are those which interpret films of this kind as products of their broader social-cultural or political context, along lines similar to those seen in many previous instances in this book, usually as a basis of valorisation. On the other are those which focus on factors more specific to the commercial-institutional basis of such films, an approach that can be more questioning of their merits, or of the kinds of arguments sometimes made on the basis of sweeping socio-cultural diagnosis (a position I share to some extent). I begin here with consideration of factors that can be identified at the institutional level, in the context of a number of particular issues facing the often-embattled art-film business in this era. The existence of the ‘extreme’ variety of art cinema and its relative prominence within the festival and arthouse circuits can be attributed to a number of specific industrial-institutional factors, although the list of films usually cited in connection with this tendency also contains considerable diversity and the same factors might not be in play in all cases. The use of material that could be expected to court controversy is associated in some accounts with a particular level of commercial difficulty facing the art-film sector at the time. This is a factor that might be expected to lead some filmmakers to draw on exploitable elements of these kinds, as a way to gain increased attention in a crowded marketplace.19 The most concerted examination of these issues is offered by Mattias Frey, who identifies a number of interrelated institutional incentives that encouraged the production of such films in this period.20 These include their particular appeal to key institutions such as festivals, distributors and exhibitors, especially as sources of publicity-generating ‘scandal’ and notoriety.21 That which falls within the category of extreme cinema is seen by Frey as contributing to the process through which festivals articulate a desired identity as liberal and cosmopolitan spaces, less fettered by restrictions that apply in other exhibition contexts.22 Such films join other types of art cinema in helping to affirm the reputation of festivals as sources of ‘innovative, artistic, and unconventional work’, often through an emphasis on notions of transgression of conventional boundaries.23 The discourse of festival programmers is often similar to that of both filmmakers and academic commentators examined earlier in this book, stressing the

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Art Cinema and Exploitation supposedly transformative impact of such work on the viewer. The large volumes of media coverage gained by some examples is clearly one part of their appeal to festivals, a factor that, in turn, is likely to encourage other filmmakers to produce work that includes similarly contentious material. The same goes for some of the production funding provided via festivals which, as Frey argues, can also produce ‘standardized potential career pathways for filmmakers – especially those from small nations or countries outside the circuit of Western capital.’24 Extreme forms of art cinema, or cross-over between the realms of the art house and ‘cult’ consumption, have become associated with individuals from some nonwestern nations or regions, particularly from Asia. In the latter case, the notion of the extreme can become coupled with that of the ‘exotic’, in western consumption, a combination that includes ideologically dubious orientalist dimensions considered further in the last part of this chapter.25 Types of art cinema that bring with them associations with the extreme can be of similar benefit to arthouse distributors and exhibitors, two other major institutions involved in the determination of the types of films that find their way to viewers and that might, as a result, also help to shape future production trends. In the often fluid, unstable and highly competitive world of smaller-scale art film distribution, Frey suggests, a combination of elements of art and exploitation can bring commercial benefits, but also risks. Such films are seen as offering mixed blessings. Their hybrid nature offers the promise of reaching relatively wider audiences than usual for art films, but can also create difficulties as a result of falling between stools, more so in general distribution and exhibition than within the rarefied environment of the film festival.26 They can also face difficulties of a legal or regulatory nature, although this itself is a source of exploitation in the shape of the media attention it can generate. The extent to which the circulation of extreme examples of art cinema has been facilitated or hampered by regulatory or classification regimes varies from one territory to another. The ability of such films to circulate within the arthouse circuit was in some cases the outcome of a liberalisation of censorship restrictions, a notable example being the policy adopted by the British Board of Film Classification (BBFC).27 In the US, meanwhile, as Frey suggests, an attempt to open more space for serious adult-oriented films through the creation of the NC-17 certificate failed, the category proving unable to escape the stigma associated with the X

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Positioning Art Cinema rating it replaced in 1990. Films carrying the certificate were refused space in many cinemas, faced bans on advertising from mainstream media and would not be stocked by major outlets such as Blockbuster and Wal-Mart. The result was that more challenging art films were required to face cuts to achieve an R rating or were released unrated for home viewing, a situation that in some cases restricted their circulation within this market.28 Interviews with distributors conducted by Frey demonstrate the presence of discourses in this area very similar to those employed by festivals, emphasising artistic worth and serious socio-political dimensions as the basis for the selection of such films, even where acknowledgement is made of potential commercial benefits. Much the same is found in positive reports by examiners from the BBFC, a further demonstration of the persistence of a familiar set of positioning approaches across the institutional infrastructure.29 Frey also outlines the potential attraction of extreme films, and other varieties that can gain cult status, to exhibition venues seeking to attract younger audiences. The key benefit resulting from the mixture of art and extreme or exploitation-related components remains the media attention it can generate, which can in some cases become extensive, whether during initial festival appearances or on subsequent release. This is a valuable source of unpaid-for publicity, in a sector where marketing budgets are usually limited. A familiar part of the phenomenon is the widespread reporting of accounts of viewers walking out in apparent disgust at the more notorious examples, including the work of figures such as Noé and Takashi Miike, or even fainting or vomiting. This is a factor that places such works at least partly within the exploitation tradition, within the history of which accounts of such reactions are highly familiar (if often exaggerated). The films faced angry condemnation from some critics, often in terms familiar from some of those outlined earlier in this book, and a volume of media coverage, whether positive or negative, that has become part of a predictable discursive apparatus surrounding such works. As Frey suggests, critical responses to such films tended to coalesce around ‘familiar categories’ of both praise and rejection, demonstrating the existence of a regularised and institutionalised discourse of the kind examined more generally in this book, within which this variety of art cinema has been either valorised or denied such status.30 On the negative side, many such films were attacked for offering what was seen as a ‘cheap’ form of sensationalism, particularly when accused of

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Art Cinema and Exploitation deliberately and cynically seeking to stir up controversy, and so gain attention in that manner, in classic exploitation style. What became one of the most prominent and subsequently cited polemics, by James Quandt, which can be seen as representative of a wider tendency, accused filmmakers of giving in to what he positioned as a ‘fashion’ or ‘vogue’ for such material.31 That is, something viewed as essentially superficial, rather than having any other redeeming purpose or logic. This is what Frey terms ‘cynicism criticism’, a concerted strand of responses that focus on what are seen as the ‘underlying commercial interests’ of the use of exploitation elements, rather than any artistic motivation for the inclusion of such material.32 In the most polemical cases, as Frey suggests, this approach entails a denial of any distinction between such films and pornography. A figure such as Bruno Dumont, for example, positioned loftily as having been seen previously as ‘a true heir to Bresson’ (that is, high praise in heavyweight terms), was said by Quandt to have ‘succumbed’ to the fashion with his violently-ending, American-set road movie, Twentynine Palms (2003). A key point for some such critics is that the films associated with this tendency seem to have no clear social or political subtext of a kind that might validate and give more weight to their provocations, a point on which they are seen to differ from earlier traditions of art cinema such as the work of Buñuel, Fassbinder or Passolini.33 Such responses manifest a simplistic nostalgia for a supposedly ‘better’ past state of art cinema, Frey suggests, a manouvre that helps to maintain the lines of distinction between that which is viewed as worthy of the status and that which is not.34 One basis for the valorisation of such films is, therefore, to find thematic subtexts or issues they can be said to explore or manifest, a familiar basis for the weighty quality often attributed to art cinema of all kinds, as seen in previous chapters of this book. Such an approach is found in both academic and journalistic responses, as well as in some of the classificatory examiners’ reports examined by Frey. In contrast to the argument of Quandt, for example, grounds of this kind are outlined in relation to the French and wider context in Victoria Best and Martin Crowley’s interpretation of some of the same films, along with contemporary works of literature.35 The extreme dimensions of the kinds of films dismissed by Quandt are interpreted here, in a manner characteristic of this kind of reading, as part of an exploration of a number of sexual issues, anxieties and possibilities prevalent at the time.

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Positioning Art Cinema The artistic use of images and figures drawn from pornography is taken by Best and Crowley to be symptomatic of the cultural moment. This is argued with reference to a range of issues, some associated with what is diagnosed as a condition of postmodernity, such as loss of belief in progress, fragmentation, a desire for experiences of the real, various aspects of sexuality within this context, and what adds up to a contemporary ‘crisis of meaning’.36 It is seen, that is, as a reflection of phenomena that have the status of major cultural/historical trends, a key basis for claims to serious/ significant standing. This remains the case even if the works examined are positioned by Best and Crowley as sometimes slipping between achieving a valorised critical distance, a key discursive marker here of ‘higher’ art status, and what is customarily presented as a more questionable degree of complicity with some of the phenomena under discussion. A central issue is how far the works they consider can be seen to have any progressively transformative potential of the kind attributed by some to earlier avantgarde provocations, such as those associated with the work of Georges Bataille (a figure who represents a frequent point of reference for those who celebrate what are seen as the transgressive qualities of such material). Any such potential provides another strong source of valorisation for work of this kind, as we have seen in a number of examples in earlier chapters. A similar approach to that of Best and Crowley, in reading films of this kind as expressions of broad social issues, is used by Barbara Creed in relation to an example she identifies as a forerunner of the ‘new extreme’ tendency, Maîtresse (1975), a film that includes explicit and unsimulated sequences of sadomasochistic sex. The S&M sequences are employed, Creed suggests, to expose the fragile nature of aspects of more conventional sexual behaviour, exposing ‘the dark underside of so-called civilized societies.’37 It is not necessary to take issue with any individual interpretations of this kind, or those of Best and Crowley, to see them as typical of the manner in which value is ascribed to work of this variety. The identification of what are seen as serious social dimensions, whether general or related to particular national/regional contexts, is also a frequent basis for positive responses to such films from journalistic critics. This is a key component of what Frey identifies as the positive ‘aesthetic embrace’ of examples of extreme art cinema by critics who characteristically mobilise and seek to maintain distinctions between films of this kind and lowerstatus exploitation cinema.38 What Frey describes here as a tendency in

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Art Cinema and Exploitation such responses to attribute ‘grand and altruistic ambitions’ to filmmakers is along lines very similar to those identified in other instances of art cinema considered throughout this book.39 An approach founded on the reading of films in terms of what they are said to tell us about their socio-cultural context is a basis of explanation very different from an account such as that of Frey, the emphasis of which is on institutional incentives specific to the realm of art cinema, either generally or in any particular location. Institutionally based explanations tend to be more concrete and specific than those rooted in broad social context. Some of the latter can be distinctly sweeping and speculative, although their presence remains widespread, in practice, as a basis of valorisation within this field. In addition to what are seen as its social resonances, the explicit sexual material of Maîtresse is valorised by Creed on the basis of being integrated into the overall narrative of the film, both its events and its broader thematic dimensions: another familiar ground for the attribution of higher status to work of this kind. Narrative substance and integration also form the basis on which films of the type considered in this chapter are distinguished from pornography by Jacob Held, in an account that raises a number of questions about other bases of definition, including the argument according to which pornography is identified on the grounds of an intention to arouse.40 For Held, the marker of pornography is the lack of any narrative other than a bare minimum, the only function of which is to present sequences of sexual material. An example such as Baise-moi, his main case study, is distinguished from pornography because the sex sequences are found to both further narrative development and underscore various thematic concerns implicit in the film. These accounts by Creed and Held are part of a collection edited by Lindsay Coleman that sets out to make a case more generally for such merits of films that feature explicit sex, including some of the examples cited above and others such as the American indie films Ken Park (2002) and Shortbus (2006) and the British feature 9 Songs (2004). Rather than being pornographic, Coleman argues, ‘explicit sex can be an essential element of storytelling in narrative cinema. It aids characterization; highlights themes; provides events which develop plot.’41 This is, again, characteristic of the manner in which value tends to be ascribed to such work, including here a focus on other specific factors that can serve as

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Positioning Art Cinema markers of artistic status: quality of performance and direction. Whatever we might make of these arguments, it is notable that it is the spectacle of sex offered for its own sake, without any such rationalisation, that is confined to the lower-status category of the pornographic. This is a perspective that, whatever its merits in this case, remains within the broader set of discursive oppositions in which the spectacular, of all kinds, tends to be accorded lower status than that which remains subordinate to narrative or thematic dimensions that are usually valorised. Material that might be seen as having something in common with pornography, in its use of sexually explicit imagery as an attraction in its own right, offers a particular potential challenge to the dominant western aesthetic tradition outlined earlier in this book. The emphasis of this tradition often on the disembodied and the rational, as modes of engagement, is challenged by the pornographic, as Best and Crowley suggest, which ‘refuses the distance of contemplation and reflection, and highlights the relationship between art and the unethical, avid desire of the consumer.’42 This helps to explain what is at stake in the debate around such films, both the vehement terms in which such material is rejected by some commentators and the requirement for alternative grounds to be found if work of this kind is to be valorised within the conventional terms applied to art cinema. A notable feature of one strand of academic writing that has attributed substantial cultural value to the films associated with the new extreme is that it has not sought to ‘recuperate’ them (or, at least, not immediately) via interpretation at the level of narrative or thematic meaning, but in terms of their engagement with precisely the bodily and affective dimensions on which their more sensational appeals seem designed to work. This entails a distinct initial shift from some of the grounds on which art films have been valorised in some other cases, particularly those examined in Chapter 6, on the basis of qualities such as ‘restraint’. The process also includes some striking elements of continuity, however, with others examined above and earlier in this book. Academic sources that have attributed value to these works from the 1990s and after in these ways include a collection edited by Tanya Horeck and Tina Kendall, The New Extremism in Cinema, and a preceding book by one of the most prominent contributors to this volume, Cinema and Sensation: French Film and the Art of Transgression, by Martine Beugnet. Quandt’s polemic forms a recurring negative point of

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Art Cinema and Exploitation reference in the former, while Beugnet is often cited approvingly. Beugnet’s starting point, focused on two examples of more marginal commercial status, Sombre (1998, Philippe Grandrieux) and Tenebrae Lessons (Lec ons de ténèbres, 1999, Vincent Dieutre), is a focus on the sensually affective dimensions of cinema that she suggests are highlighted by such work. The value of these films, in this account, is precisely the resistance they offer, through their sometimes-impenetrable textual qualities, to narrative/ rational interpretation. Instead, Beugnet suggests, they encourage a sensual engagement with the film medium itself. Beugnet situates this reading in the context of other work in film studies that has adopted such an approach more widely, rooted in bodily or sensual levels of engagement, including that of Laura Marks, Steven Shaviro, Vivian Sobchack, Linda Williams and Gilles Deleuze.43 This is a move that can be seen to depart significantly from the tendency examined in Chapter 6, in which the ‘seductive’ qualities of the moving image are distrusted within some discourses on art cinema and seen as something to be avoided, in cases where positive cultural value is to be attributed. For Beugnet, an engagement at the sensual level that does not seek to reduce it to something else is an important complement to approaches based on attempts to interpret and rationalise. These films ‘resist attempts at meaningful contextualization’, she suggests, a key basis of the critique made by Quandt.44 This is precisely the kind of contextualisation that often seems to be felt necessary if material of this kind is to be valued rather than being seen as gratuitous, the latter a term often employed in the condemnation of such qualities or in their association with more commercial exploitation traditions. There is here an attempt to overturn or question, at least partially, the aesthetic/intellectual traditions – those in which notions of art cinema are often rooted – that favour matters of the ‘head’ over those of the ‘heart’ or ‘body’ (although this seems more applicable to some examples associated with the extreme tendency than to others). The significance of the films examined by Beugnet, and the contributors to Horeck and Kendall, ‘emanates from their resistance to being reduced to metaphorical readings in the conventional sense.’45 What Beugnet advocates is not a rejection of more conventional critical analysis and assessment but an inclusion of alternative approaches: ‘Here, the initial sensory shock [that of the openings of Sombre and Tenebrae Lessons ] is not dismissed but welcomed as the first step of a process of sensual

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Positioning Art Cinema awareness which will shape our response and our reflections.’46 This is in keeping with the approach taken by Sobchack, cited in Chapter 4, in which the experience of film viewing is understood as a simultaneous, reciprocal and non-hierarchical combination of the bodily-sensual and the dimension of cognitive meaning-making.47 Each of these is situated by Sobchack as existing within specific historical and cultural systems, a dimension also maintained by Beugnet in her focus on the affective dimension as understood in relation to a particular context within French cinema. Although this approach (and those found similarly in Horeck and Kendall) is one that foregrounds a consideration of the affective dimension of such films, it is accompanied by a general process of rationalisation of a kind more typical of the manner in which art film is valorised. Even where the sensual, affective experience is highlighted, as something to be experienced rather than just interpreted, this process is not free from interpretation, in terms of the basis on which it is seen as a worthwhile dimension of the consumption of the films concerned. For Beugnet, this experience seems ultimately to be of value for reasons other than itself. It is presented as telling us something about both the nature of film as a medium and what film, understood in this way, is considered to offer as a new way of approaching major social issues (film is seen here as a form of ‘embodied thinking’, a concept that seems similar to the ‘film-thinking’ of Frampton considered in Chapter 4). The latter entails precisely the kinds of ‘big’ topics an exploration of which is one basis on which other forms of art cinema have long been valorised, even if said to be found here in a distinctive manner. In this case, these issues relate to what Beugnet terms ‘the persistence of the French malaise’, which is detailed as follows: The growing supremacy of technology permeating all areas of human existence, globalization, exclusion, ethnic diversity and national identities and the blurring of gender and genre definitions – such are the issues that, rather than being addressed in the representational or metaphorical mode, appear literally embedded in the ‘flesh’ of the film-text, imprinted in the texture and combination of its images and sound.48

That is, an awful lot of very big thematic issues. My point here is not so much to question the suggestion that such issues can plausibly be found in 270

Art Cinema and Exploitation the text in this manner as to point out the underlying similarity of this to what are situated here as more conventional interpretive processes, in terms of the ultimate kinds of issues to which such inquiry is addressed. There is a bottom line still, it seems, in which the value of such films remains in some ways premised on finding dimensions other than the more immediate or sensuous experience on which to be grounded, and ones that display a familiar concern with what would be seen as large and important issues. The more questionable certain kinds of art cinema might be considered to be from one perspective – that which distrusts the salacious, the outrageous or the extreme for its potentially exploitative or bodily-affective qualities – the more some such rationale seems often to be required if such films are to be valorised within this discursive context. Beugnet’s approach seems useful in joining that of others who highlight a need to include an understanding of the sensuous and/or affective dimensions of film, in a broader historical and cultural context in which these have been downplayed or ignored in favour of the rationalising tendencies of the dominant western tradition (particularly, in this account, within France). There is also a tendency here, however, to suggest or imply that these dimensions are closer to the essence or ‘inherent’ properties of the medium than others. This includes what is termed the ‘containment’ (which implies something secondary) of the potential of affective qualities through devices such as conventional forms of narrative or characterisation. Such an approach seems to entail not so much a re-balancing of the agenda as an over-claiming on behalf of one particular perspective, of the kind encountered in other accounts examined in earlier chapters. If a strong and substantial case is to be made for the merits of such films, maybe particularly so in instances such as these, where they have faced strong criticism on grounds that seek to deny them the credentials of art cinema, what results seems sometimes to overreach in this manner rather than to put its argument in more nuanced terms. If this is true of the primacy accorded to the approach at hand – an exploration of the sensuous and affective dimension in its own right, initially, at least – it also seems to apply to the weightiness of the grounds of interpretation that are subsequently applied, as suggested by the list quoted from Beugnet above. Foregrounding the materiality of the medium in the manner achieved by the films under consideration, in this account, has enormously weighty effects of the kind we have seen attributed to other

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Positioning Art Cinema forms of art cinema. To do this, for Beugnet, is ‘to unsettle the frontier between subject and object, figure and ground – the basis of our conception and representation of the self as a separate entity.’49 We are taken here into very large philosophical questions, which Beugnet subsequently relates to more proximate issues arising from the social impact of global capitalism (some aspects of this political context are similar to those also evoked by Best and Crowley). Cinema ‘as a cinema of sensation captures most acutely the alternation between the experience of being in the world as one of sensory plenitude or as radical alienation and sense of loss [. . .].’50 This seems an enormous claim to make and, however valid or otherwise it might be considered to be, is a typical move in commentary that seeks most strongly to valorise any particular variety of art cinema, here very much within a heavyweight philosophical tradition. Beugnet offers a number of detailed readings of particular films along these lines, heavily influenced by Deleuze in particular, including the work of figures such as Grandrieux and Clare Denis. But this is an approach that is far from being self-evident from the texts themselves. Even if its immediate starting point is an emphasis on textual materiality, the choice of this starting point is itself prompted by an array of very particular academic and/or philosophical/intellectual perspectives. The reading that results, likewise, relies on the mobilisation of a very specific intellectual heritage. It seems unlikely to be available to viewers coming to the films without the requisite cultural/intellectual capital. My point, as elsewhere in this book, is not so much to question the reading itself, as one that might make a case for plausibility in its own terms from a specific perspective (although one that might equally well be challenged), but to identify this as a very particular process and one that, whatever its own distinctive vein, has some dimensions very familiar in the wider discursive positioning of art cinema. Another, related, point of familiarity in the approaches found in Beugnet and in Horeck and Kendall is the suggestion that this kind of film offers a source of reflexivity as far as the experience of the viewer is concerned, a key ground for many of the valorisations of art cinema encountered in this book. For Horeck and Kendall, ‘the films of the new extreme and the controversies they engender are indispensable to the critical task of rethinking the terms of contemporary spectatorship’; ‘it is first and foremost the uncompromising and highly reflective appeal to

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Art Cinema and Exploitation the spectator that marks out the specificity of these films for us’.51 They add: ‘In their concerted practice of provocation as a mode of address, the films of the new extreme bring the notion of response to the fore, interrogating, challenging and often destroying the notion of a passive or disinterested spectator in ways that are productive for film theorising today.’52 By pushing at the limits of what might be considered to be ‘watchable’ in various ways, Horeck and Kendall suggest, ‘these films involve and implicate spectators in particularly intensified ways with what is shown on screen, demanding critical interrogation and ethical and affective response.’53

Implication vs. distance The question of how far viewers are implicated in the strategies of such films is an important one that requires a digression before we return to this position as expressed here. If certain kinds of art cinema offer extreme, violent or otherwise usually questionable imagery, a key issue in much of the debate around such work is how far the viewer might take direct pleasure from such material. To enjoy the kind of imagery associated with the films identified above would, generally, be considered to be at least questionable or disturbing (although this might not be the case with many other instances of sexual display within art cinema, when it might be deployed in a more conventionally ‘seductive’ and less confrontational manner). The dynamic here is similar to that identified by Michael Haneke in Chapter 5 in relation to the violence of films such as Pulp Fiction or Natural Born Killers. Haneke differentiates his films from examples such as these on the basis of the latter’s provision of pleasure rather than critical engagement. The stakes are raised even higher in cases that involve the explicit representation of sexual violence, particularly rape. To offer rape in a form that permits the possibility of pleasurable consumption from anything close to the perspective of the rapist would be considered clearly to be morally unacceptable. In many cases, disturbing material of this or related kinds, where it is found in works of art cinema, is presented in a manner that is designed to be uncomfortable, or to deny any potential for pleasurable consumption. A clear marker of valorised sex-in-art-cinema, from this perspective, would be an attempt to prevent any easy use of the material for the 273

Positioning Art Cinema purposes of sexual arousal on the part of the viewer. This is a way of marking a boundary between such material as found in this kind of art cinema and the realm of pornography, which would usually be located at an extreme opposite pole in the value hierarchy (the frequent use of ‘softer’ sex as a source of attraction in more mainstream-commercial cinema would doubtless lie somewhere variable in between). A frequent characteristic of the ‘extreme’ sexual material found in works of art cinema in many of the examples from the late 1990s onwards is its deployment in a manner that seems designed either to avoid offering a source of arousal or to provide awkwardness and discomfort (or a combination of the two). It is on this basis, for example, that Wheatley valorises the manner in which Haneke handles sexual material in The Pianist, where framing is employed to keep the detail off screen and rendered implicit rather than explicit and where the aim is to provide ‘unpleasure’ rather than titillation, asking viewers to consider the moral implications of their own frustrated desires for the sexually explicit.54 The treatment of sex found in many of the films under discussion here is in keeping with Lübecker’s notion of the feel-bad film, a category that includes many of the examples considered in this chapter. The material often seems designed to be more likely to make viewers feel discomfort, awkwardness or embarrassment than arousal (such an effect might not be guaranteed in all cases, however, given the multiplicity of potential viewer orientations). The type of sexual pleasure that seeks to be avoided here, in pursuit of certain forms of art-cinema legitimation, offers a heightened example of the wider disavowal of what are seen as the ‘seductive’ popular pleasures to which art is often opposed in the kinds of discursive structures outlined earlier in this book. The context is also one in which the more radically ‘shocking’ nature of the explicit is seen as having lost some of its impact. Best and Crowley identify a shift here from the celebration of the use of explicit or shocking sexual material in an earlier avantgarde tradition, associated particularly with the writings of Bataille. ‘Instead of the empowering sexual charge invested in previous avant-garde appropriations of pornography’, they suggest, contemporary work ‘provokes a reception of profound discomfort and uncertainty, and instead of the hope of climactic catharsis, current art tends towards painful and anguished frustration.’55 The historical context implied in such an account is that of a contemporary society in which more or less explicit

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Figure 8.1 Rights AB.

Grotesque food imagery in A Hole in My Heart q Memphis Film

sexual imagery is viewed as having become widely commodified and co-opted across a range of media, thus potentially depriving it of the kinds of transgressive or revolutionary potential sometimes claimed by, or associated with, the avant-garde. Plenty of examples can be cited in which more or less sexually explicit material is presented in an uncomfortable or uncertain fashion, a point at which we need to consider how this kind of content is handled at the textual level. A strong example of this strategy is Lucas Moodysson’s A Hole in My Heart (Ett hål i mitt hjärta, 2004), which offers an all-round assault on the sensibilities of the viewer. A stormy narrative about a threesome involved in making a low-grade pornographic film, A Hole in My Heart appears to set out to avoid any prospect of offering conventionally arousing material of its own. The audio-visual style is distinctly uncomfortable, combining rough and often unstable footage with devices such as rapid editing and sometimes flickering images, and a music/noise soundtrack that is as grating as the images. Sudden cuts into extreme close-ups seem designed to create disorientation, some involving ‘shock’ effects such as cutting to details of surgical procedures (images of open-heart and, most notoriously, labial surgery). Much commentary is provided on the porn business, along with parallels suggested between sex and food in one scene that involves gross-out images of excessive eating

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Positioning Art Cinema that culminate in one of the male characters vomiting into the mouth of the female lead (see Figure 8.1). Little actual sexually explicit imagery is included, although this is not at first clear in some sequences that involve the use of a plastic model of a female vagina and anus, a device the use of which seems designed to toy with the responses of the viewer. A sense of disorienting assault on the viewer also characterises the early stages of Noé’s Irreversible, in which the camera sometimes twists, spins and lurches in a very unconventional manner, giving some sense of, but seemingly not being limited to, an evocation of the subjective experiences of the central characters. In contrast, formally, the film’s most controversial sequence is an extended low-angle static shot that forces the viewer who sticks with it to experience in real time the anal rape that forms the key inciting incident of the narrative. Grandrieux’s Sombre is another example that offers a very uncomfortable approach to sexually violent material, in this case a dark, elliptical and sometimes disorienting serial killer narrative that verges closer to the avant-garde at times in some of its strategies, including imagery that approaches the abstract. Any clear access to most of the sexual or sexually violent material in Sombre is occluded through the visual strategies adopted by the filmmaker, often veiled in darkness and obscurity or left in the interstitial space of the text. This is one way of claiming the position of art cinema, here marked by obliqueness and a degree of opacity, as opposed to the ‘maximum genital visibility’ associated by Williams with the tradition of pornography and its intention to arouse.56 A more straightforward example is found in Moodysson’s Lilya 4-Ever (2002), the story of a teenager eventually forced into sexual slavery after being abandoned by her mother. Moodysson conspicuously avoids any naked or partially naked display of the eponymous Lilya (Oksana Akinshina), in a manner that would seem likely to frustrate anyone seeking to take pleasure in this dimension of the diegesis. Scenes involving her enforced sexual experiences after being tricked into moving to Sweden from her home somewhere in the post-Soviet bloc are notable for employing her subjective optical perspective: that is, giving the impression of being her actual point-of-view rather than a more conventional close-to point-of view perspective. This is a strategy that both avoids making any spectacle of her body-in-sex and puts the emphasis on giving some sense of what the experience is like for her.

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Art Cinema and Exploitation If the textual qualities of Sombre lean towards the artier or more experimental end of the spectrum, for what remains a narrative feature, the harsh, lo-fi digital video of one of the more notorious examples of the new extreme, Baise-moi, contributed to a tendency for it to be ascribed lower status. Along with its highly explicit sexual imagery, the style of the film led many critics to dismiss or attack Baise-moi as little (if any) more than pornography or ‘trash’. Leila Wimmer notes the extent to which many such commentators in France focused on the aesthetics of the film to the exclusion of any consideration of its more radical content, specifically its engagement with issues of sexual and ethnic politics (apart from anything else, Baise-moi is notable for challenging the tendency for ‘extreme’ material exclusively to entail the representation of sexual violence against women).57 The problematic status attributed to the film was a more acute issue at home than where it circulated overseas, Wimmer suggests, a point that relates to the question raised earlier in this book of ‘foreignness’ or being subtitled as one institutional marker of more distanced art-film quality. Some examples prominent in debates about the new extreme adopt what can be seen as relatively traditional strategies, as far as the deployment of sexual imagery is concerned, compared with the likes of Baise-moi or A Hole in My Heart. Romance, for example, includes plenty of display of the naked or partially naked body of the protagonist Marie (Caroline Ducey), along with shots of erect penises, previously a marker of porn-only status, and fleeting images of penetration in one fantasy sequence. Such images have the capacity potentially to implicate the viewer in the creation of a state of arousal, an issue considered in more detail in relation to this example below. But the film mixes them with a great deal of commentary from its characters on sexual matters that has the kind of intellectual cast that seems the typical material of art cinema. The film positions itself, in this respect, explicitly in the tradition of being ‘about’ various aspects of sex and relationships, like A Hole in My Heart, rather than being a text that presents sexual material for the immediate pleasure of the viewer or one in which any exploration of issues remains more implicit. That is to say, some of the associations are firmly with the ‘head’ dimension rather than that of the bodily-affective, as within certain more traditionally established art-cinema approaches. Such films can be seen as actively combining these dynamics, however, despite the efforts of some

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Positioning Art Cinema critics to restrict them to one status or the other (on the basis of which they are liable to be either celebrated or condemned). As Williams puts it in response to a review of Romance by Kenneth Turan in the Los Angeles Times that she sees as typical of those of American critics more generally: ‘[. . .] it is precisely the firewall between philosophy, politics and emotion, on the one side, and pure pornography, on the other, that hard-core art cinema is breaking down, forging new ways of presenting and visually experiencing cinematic sex.’58 A mixture of these two dimensions is also offered by Lars von Trier’s two-volume Nymphomaniac (2013), which has a central focus not just on sexual activity but on what is presented as an obsessive variety that includes what would usually be considered to be ‘perverse’ masochistic elements. The original release was explicit enough to have gained its share of controversy, including occasional shots that include vaginal close-ups, erect penises and images of fellatio. The ‘director’s cut’ includes significantly more of these and some images that go further than any in the original in seeming to depict actual penetrative sex. The Nymphomaniac films fit into the tendency for explicit art films to mix their sexual representations with more distancing and sometimes selfreflexive disquisitions about sex (among many other topics), the latter provided in this case by the male figure, the erudite Seligman (Stellan Skarsgård), who provides a number of framing devices for the telling of the female protagonist Joe’s story. After Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) recounts her first experience of intercourse with a young man, for example, she notes that he fucked her three times vaginally and five times anally, adding that she never forgot those numbers (they also account for the number of episodes in each of the two films). Seligman observes that these are Fibonacci numbers, a typically art-film-oriented translation of the physically sexual into something with intellectual pretensions, the figures subsequently being superimposed onto the screen (see Figure 8.2). The second volume includes an early sequence involving Joe masturbating and hitting herself, but then cuts to the provision of an interpretation from Seligman relating to Zeno’s paradox. Joe complains about his engagement at this level, a comment that implicitly raises the issue, self-reflexively, about the works themselves. But the films are structured in such a way as to offer a sustained combination of the two dimensions, in a manner characteristic of this variety of art cinema.

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Art Cinema and Exploitation Nymphomaniac also offers what can be read as a disavowal of any interest in providing sexual arousal via the orientation of Seligman. In response to Joe’s accusation that he is turned on by her ‘dirty stories’, her interlocutor declares himself to be asexual; a disavowal of any prurient interest on his part that might be implied to carry over potentially to the viewer, given Seligman’s role as an internal audience for the narration of her experiences. Other devices are used, again in typical art-cinema style, to provide distance and reflexivity amid sexually-focused material. A sequence in which Joe and a young friend compete to see who can seduce the most men on a train, for example, begins with the playing of the song ‘Born to be Wild’, as the two young women, ‘provocatively’ dressed for the task at hand, walk down the corridor. The song creates the impression that the film is offering the viewer a position of celebratory anticipation of the ‘salacious’ sexual activity to come. It is interrupted, however, by Seligman – asking if he might interrupt, so another reflexive device – who offers one of his characteristic analyses, in this case continuing a sustained association between the activity of the women and fly fishing. As he makes the comparison, the sequence is rewound and replayed, now with the accompaniment of his interpretation and, hence, a degree of distancing from the action that makes it play distinctly differently. The rewinding, along with various other devices in the film, offers further evidence of reflexivity as part of a distinctly art-cinematic texture.

Figure 8.2 Mixing sex and intellectual engagement: Fibonacci numbers superimposed over images of the young Joe in Nymphomaniac q Zentropa Entertainment.

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Positioning Art Cinema If one option is, as far as possible, to avoid or reduce the implication of the viewer in whatever sexual activities are depicted on screen, often through the stronger distancing strategies employed in some of the examples considered above, the account of Horeck and Kendall also suggests the possibility of a more ambiguous process, in which some implication is entailed, as might also be argued of an example such as Romance. The idea is that viewers are drawn into being implicated to some extent, through the manner in which the material is presented to them, but also, at the same time, encouraged by the dubious or unpleasant nature of such material to question and thus to think about it. The heightened quality of the material, it is suggested, makes this process stronger and perhaps more overt, another dimension in which the relative extremity of such films is the basis of a strengthening of claims of value rather than the opposite that was suggested in the negative parts of the media coverage. This is similar to some of the processes we have seen suggested in relation to the films of Haneke. One way of implicating viewers is to establish a situation in which they are encouraged to want something to happen within the diegesis that might, in itself, be considered to be of questionable moral or ethical standing, as perhaps in the shooting of one of the antagonists in Funny Games. In Breillat’s Romance, the viewer might be drawn into some measure of complicity but also have this position challenged or undermined, resulting in a potentially complex mode of engagement. Marie is refused sex by her male partner and seeks it elsewhere. The viewer, particularly a male, heterosexual viewer, might effectively be positioned as wanting her to do this, to provide sexual content to watch (this seems to be structured into the film to a significant extent, even if we cannot predetermine the orientation of individual viewers). Such a viewer might subsequently feel complicit to some extent, vicariously, in the experiences that follow, in the sense, perhaps, of willing some of these to develop, to provide whatever pleasure might result from watching. Viewers seem to be encouraged into some such position by the filmmaker, at least in part. These experiences include Marie agreeing to be tied up by one regular partner in semi-naked states of display (see Figure 8.3). Where the viewer is meant to stand in relation to some of this seems ambiguous. Marie is at first upset and asks to be untied, which might make any viewer who has been taking pleasure from the spectacle feel uncomfortable. But she also

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Art Cinema and Exploitation blames herself primarily for her reaction, amid what seems to be the genuinely concerned response of the partner involved, and submits to a similar process again later. She seems to will seemingly unpleasant sexual experiences upon herself at times, including a sequence in a stairwell that appears to develop effectively into rape, or at least to allow them to occur. The males who engage in these activities might be considered to be blameworthy, and likewise any viewer who takes pleasure in viewing them. But what all of this adds up to contains much potential for ambiguity (a classic marker of art film status, as highlighted particularly in Bordwell’s account of art cinema narration), both in the on-screen material and the likely range of viewer responses. One dimension that appears to be at work, however, is a process in which the viewer is at least offered a potential position of complicity, to some extent, that is then questioned. This returns us to Lübecker’s account of the feel-bad film, the approach of which, he suggests, is one that appeals at the bodily level in order to produce desire on the part of the viewer, only to frustrate its satisfaction.59 In doing so, Lübecker suggests, such films have ‘a unique potential’ to provoke political or ethical debate, a customary basis he employs to attribute cultural value to such work.60 How likely such potential is to be activated, however, remains open to question.

Figure 8.3 Uncomfortable sex? One of the bondage scenes in Romance q Flach Film/CB Films/Arte France Cinéma.

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Positioning Art Cinema The suggestion by Horeck and Kendall that these films ‘demand’ critical interrogation and ethical response is similar to some of the claims made on behalf of Haneke by Wheatley, as seen in Chapter 5, and what is implied by Lübecker in the case of Haneke and others. It might similarly be questioned as far as its general application is concerned (similarly deterministic terms are employed by some of the contributors to Horeck and Kendall, and Coleman). Such films might, indeed, allow or encourage such an approach from suitably oriented commentators such as these, but how widespread or clearly defined is such an orientation likely to be? We can say that an example such as Romance is structured so as to encourage this. That any film should demand such a response, which implies that it is close to a requirement of consumption, seems to be overstating the point and typical of the kind of slippage found in other instances in this book, in which a particular analytical response is presented as if it is inherent in what is required by the film itself, rather than only likely to result in specific circumstances. It seems doubtful that most of the already-limited constituency that views such films would experience them in quite this way, and the burden of proof should lie with those who make such claims without specifying to whom they might apply. Horeck and Kendall’s characterisation of the process is based on the art-film-familiar notion of ‘destroying’ the concept of the passive or disinterested spectator. It thus mobilises an equally familiar, although unstated, opposition between what such films are said to do and the ‘passivity’ that seems to be assumed to be involved in other cases. While an emphasis on the particular provocations offered by such films is clearly of interest, and might help to highlight some of these more general issues, I would suggest that this should include a more widespread questioning of such terms of reference rather than what seems to be a continued reliance on some of their underlying bases. If films of this kind can, in certain readings, help to make visible active processes involved in all acts of film viewing, that would seem to be a more useful point to make. But the focus here on the specifics of what these films are said to do – that it is very specific to them and what makes them ‘indispensable’, which suggests that nothing else can do the job – seems to lean in the direction of maintaining rather than questioning or complicating familiar oppositions between valorised forms of art cinema and their discursive others.

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Moebius and the selling of the Asian variety of ‘extreme’ As Mattias Frey observes, a striking contradiction is often apparent between the discourses employed by those who both make or champion the ‘extreme’ or exploitation-related variety of art cinema and the strategies adopted in the marketing of films of this variety. The former stress the status of such work as serious, artistic and substantial, in ways that seek to maintain distinctions from lower-status realms such as pornography, horror or certain variations of cult. Marketing, however, tends to follow the well-established practice of more strongly emphasising the ‘lower’ qualities, particular sex and sometimes a mixture of sexuality, violence and notions of the ‘exotic’.61 The last part of this chapter examines the textual and marketing positioning of the South Korean director Kim Kiduk’s Moebius, used here as an example of a prominent Asian strand of the art/exploitation phenomenon, one that raises additional questions relating to the employment of racial or national stereotyping in the selection and promotion of some such films. At the textual level, Moebius combines material that seems conventionally to be located as ‘sensational’ or taboo-breaking with certain markers that can be seen as establishing art-cinema distinction. It does so in a manner that seems in some respects specific to the basis on which a wider range of Asian cinema has been circulated within this realm. The appeal made by the film, as a product sold outside its country of origin and particularly in western markets, can be seen to draw on a number of qualities associated with an orientalist tendency in the consumption of works from various parts of what is stereotypically figured as the ‘exotic’ east. It contains a number of striking ‘extreme’, ‘transgressive’ or otherwise provocative elements, starting with the initial narrative inciting act in which the character referred to as Mother (Eun-woo Lee) cuts off the penis of her Son (Young-ju Seo) as an act of redirected revenge against a philandering Father (Jae-hyeon Jo), after the latter evades her attempt to do the same to him. The lover of the father, with whom the son becomes involved, also severs the penis of the leader of a group by whom she is raped, in what seems to combine an act of revenge with the attempted provision of a replacement for the boy. The son eventually receives a penis transplant from the father. The film offers what seem designed to come

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Positioning Art Cinema across as distinctly alternative/exotic sources of sexual stimulation, the father inducting his son into ways of achieving organism in the absence of a penis through the infliction of pain, most notably via stabbing with a knife (see Figure 8.4). A major taboo breached by the film involves masturbatory incestuous sexual activity between the son and his mother, with whom (unlike the girl) he proves capable of achieving an erection after the penis transplant. None of this material involves transgression at the level of explicitly detailed images, the ‘sensational’ here being confined to the nature of much of the activity rather than the manner of presentation. The main claim to art-film status made by Moebius is, notably, the opposite of one of the most frequent markers in the context of the international circulation of such work: subtitles. In this case the film seems distinctly ‘arty’ at the textual level in its total avoidance of audible dialogue, and thus any need for titles. This is an effect achieved in what is marked as a subtle manner (itself another marker of quality/art status), without seeming to be an obvious stunt to which overt attention is drawn. Some characters are seen talking in the background on occasion and the bulk of the narrative events are carried quite effectively and conventionally through the expressions (and much grunting and moaning) of the performers. The absence of dialogue can be seen as having a positive industrial-commercial basis, permitting the film to be consumed without subtitles and so to seem, on that basis, more likely to reach a wider audience. But it remains unusual enough as a textual quality to constitute a marker of art-film status, as conventionally established, in its own right. It gives the film at least something in common with the extreme paucity of dialogue found in the ‘slow’ films of Tsai Ming-liang, while extending the approach of Kim’s earlier 3-Iron (Bin-jip, 2004), in which an absence of dialogue characterises not the entire film but the relationship between the two main characters. Another factor that marks Moebius and some of the other work of Kim Ki-duk as distinctive, in a manner that has some of the resonances of art film, is the somewhat strange and often quite heartfelt nature of the relationships between central characters that are sustained amid such irregular narrative events. The films of Kim up to Moebius range in their textual qualities between ‘lurid’ material such as some of that found in this example and the film that first brought him to international attention, The Isle (Seom, 2000), and

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Figure 8.4 ‘Exotic’ sex: the son achieves stimulation by stabbing in Moebius q Kim Ki-duk Film.

the more quietly lyrical Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter. . . and Spring (Bom yeoreum gaeul gyeoul geurigo bom, 2003). 3 Iron, another work that gained international prominence, including winning Kim the award for best director at the Venice International Film Festival, falls somewhere in between these two categories but leans towards the subtle and the off-beat in its qualities, as is suggested in its US distribution by Sony Pictures Classics, the most art-film leaning of the studio speciality divisions. His work, like art cinema more generally, can be understood within a combination of global and local dimensions. Within South Korea, as Jinhee Choi argues, examples of art cinema or art/cult hybrids exist in active relation with national manifestations of both the large-budget spectacular blockbuster and local versions of more commercially-oriented ‘quality’ filmmaking, each shaped by a blend of global and nationally-specific dynamics.62 A number of grounds can be identified on which potentially to criticise the selection of a film such as Moebius for certain kinds of international circulation. Such a process can be viewed as entailing the deployment of essentialist and reactionary orientalist stereotypes that are far from representative of the range of cinema that exists in the country of origin. A key dimension of such critique is that, through selective choice, it entails a tendency to associate certain parts of Asia with particular forms of ‘exotic’ – i.e. ‘foreign’, ‘strange’ but also seductively appealing – eroticism,

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Positioning Art Cinema transgression or ‘depravity’. This is an issue central to the context of the industrial strategies surrounding the distribution of such films within or beyond the art film landscape.63 Moebius can be taken as in some ways representative of a wider range of Asian films that have been sold into the art film market, among others, on the basis of transgressive qualities, the work of Kim Ki-duk gaining circulation on this basis alongside many others (notable examples include Park Chan-wook and Takashi Miike). The institution that has gained most academic attention in this realm is the former British-based distributor Tartan Films, specifically its influential ‘Asia Extreme’ label, employed primarily for DVD releases of a diversity of material that contains variable textual grounds to be sold in these terms. The strategies adopted by the label offer a striking instance of an attempt to sell films of this kind to an audience that includes, but also seeks to reach beyond, the core constituencies for art cinema, with a particular appeal to a younger cohort: in this case, a target combination of arthouse and cult-fan audiences.64 Approaches such as these, including the title of the label itself, have received substantial critique for their reliance on orientalist or related assumptions.65 As Frey argues, however, the position of work of this variety is rather more complex than is suggested by any implication that this is a matter solely of western exploitation of certain dubious notions of the east, at the expense of the latter. A key dimension of the process is a ‘self-exoticization’ or ‘self-orientalism’, in which the creators of such work themselves actively draw on familiar orientalist stereotypes as a way to give their films readily-marketable traction in the west and are, as a result, complicit in any process of ideological production and reinforcement that results. This is a practice that, as Frey and others suggest, has a lengthy tradition within the realm of art cinema, predecessors including the consecrated Japanese auteurs Akira Kurosawa and Nagisa Ôshima. The latter’s sexually explicit In the Realm of the Senses is among numerous cases that involved an overt process of targeting international/western audiences; a process begun, as Yoshiharu Tezuka suggests, as part of broader dynamics in Japanese culture, following the international success of Kurosawa’s Rashomon (1950).66 Whatever we might think of the ideological implications of this process, in the reproduction or heightening of reductive stereotypes, the key point, as argued by Frey, is to understand its functionality

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Art Cinema and Exploitation for filmmakers from regions for which the currency of such constructs provides a comprehensible basis for their work to achieve international recognition and sales.67 Frey identifies what he describes as a ‘remarkably standardized’ iconography drawn on by the Tartan label, particularly in the DVD releases that constituted the core of its business model before its closure in 2008. This involves central images of the sexualised body (usually female) and ‘warning’ comments or critical citations that refer to, and thus highlight, sexual and/or controversial content, along with a relative absence of markers of art house status such as references to previous works by the filmmakers or festival appearances.68 Poster and cover artwork for Moebius, distributed by Terracotta Distribution, a specialist in what it terms ‘quality Asian Cinema’,69 follows this model to a considerable extent, although with somewhat more art-film referencing that Frey suggests was typical in the case of Tartan. The main image is of the female protagonist, fully clothed but in a characteristically ‘suggestive’ pose, with her legs apart and dress hiked up to her upper thighs. The US poster and DVD cover carry a quotation attributed to the website Film School Rejects reading: ‘A Grotesquely Rewarding Experience’, a line that emphasises the transgressive/exotic in the ‘grotesquely’ while also suggesting something of more substance in the use of the phrase ‘rewarding experience’. Beneath the title is the tagline ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’, which suggests (along with the steely expression on the face of the female lead) a more conventional revenge-generic scenario. The UK DVD cover replaces this with ‘A twisted family of rage and lust’, the exotic (‘twisted’) but more conventionally exploitation-style (‘rage and lust’) phrasing of which is underpinned by a quotation from the website Twitch that locates the film firmly within the category on which this chapter is focused: ‘Controversial [i.e. a reference to its status as well as its content], extreme, brutal’. Text on the rear of the UK DVD box offers more examples of the mixture of reference points from art cinema and the tradition of exploitation. The most prominent text, from the mainstream Empire magazine, declares the film to be ‘Enjoyably perverse’. Another quotation, from Film Divider, establishes credentials for the film by association with a more established figure in the international art-film landscape, suggesting that Moebius ‘Brings to mind the more extreme, prankster side of Lars von Trier.’ The largest-sized part of the text written by the marketers

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Positioning Art Cinema themselves puts the emphasis on the status of the film as controversial (‘Initially banned’), before citing the filmmaker’s auteurist credentials as former winner of an award at a key festival (‘the latest tour-de-force from Cannes-award winning director Kim Ki-duk’) and offering another mixture of resonances that include the exotic and a reference to canonised works of art (‘plays like a warped Greek tragedy). The marketing of Moebius, like that of many of the films considered in this chapter, fits into a broader framework suggested by Frey, in which films of this kind can be viewed as, seemingly paradoxically, selling the transgressive, the unusual or the ‘ground-breaking’, but doing so in a manner that is itself very familiar and part of what has become an institutionalised routine. That this kind of art cinema can involve such a sense of predictable convention leads us to one of the key issues to be considered in the Conclusion to this book.

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Conclusion

Whatever value we might wish to accord to art cinema for any particular reasons, the broader cultural status associated with this realm remains a specific and relative one, the bases of which need to be explored and acknowledged if this region of film culture is fully to be understood. This need not entail any rejection of the potential merits of such films but it does involve a recognition of the wider socio-cultural grounds on which these rest, a dimension not usually brought to attention. One way to do this is to lay bare the specific terms within which value is ascribed to such products and to acknowledge the status of these as particular and proximate, historically and culturally specific, as is the case with prevailing western notions of art more generally. If this involves a specific way of understanding the bases on which art cinema is usually accorded cultural value, the other side of the coin entails a questioning of the syndrome in which this is often achieved through a devaluation of what customarily functions as its negative other – whether implied or stated more overtly – in the shape of ‘popular’ or ‘mass’ culture, terms the particular connotations of which carry plenty of baggage of their own; or, in film, its specific manifestations in that which is understood as the mainstream (whether in the case of Hollywood or more generally). This is a fundamentally relative process, with various degrees of difference in between, in which the elevation of one, within institutionalised discursive complexes, is frequently dependent at some level on the devaluation or denigration of the other. This does not mean that individuals or groups cannot find value in work from different ends of the spectrum. But even the phenomenon of ‘omnivore’ taste, considered in Chapter 1, tends to imply the maintenance as well as any potential

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Positioning Art Cinema breaking down of the process of distinction marking, and a wider sense of differential valuation remains in place in many of the discursive and institutional frameworks examined in this book. It is important, therefore, to consider the various ways in which cultural value can also be accorded to the popular, although this is not the place to do this other than extremely briefly. This need not entail a onedimensionally celebratory approach in order to contribute to a questioning of the mutually-reinforcing art/good, popular/bad dynamic, the historical development and socio-political implications of which were outlined in Chapter 1. We can have a ‘critical populism’, as Jim McGuigan suggests in his analysis of the cultural studies tradition that has been a major source of challenge to traditional elitism in this sphere.1 A critical populism is one that contests many of the bases on which popular cultural production has often been negatively contrasted with that which is accorded the label of art or ‘higher’ culture – and that ascribes potentially positive and progressive qualities to certain aspects of the popular – without having to surrender any criticism of its limitations, either broadly or in particular manifestations. A key basis on which popular mainstream products have regularly been denigrated is the assumption that they involve ‘passive’ consumption, as Noël Carroll argues.2 This is a clear point of opposition to the active work, thought or contemplation taken to be a major basis for the valorisation of art cinema, as seen throughout this book. A prominent tenet of work that has argued for the value of popular culture has, as a result, done so on the basis of stressing the activity often involved on the part of audiences for such material, thus undermining the status of this as any essential basis of differentiation. This is not to deny that there might be significant differences in the degrees or kinds of active engagement most likely to be prompted in any particular cases. Some forms of art cinema seem clearly to require a more overt process of viewer effort to follow the events on screen, for example, as one dimension of the process through which they effectively position themselves as works likely to appeal to a more restricted audience. Arguments about forms of activity involved in the consumption of more popular forms again need not be asserted uncritically and naïvely, with no recognition of the powerful institutional forces that continue to dominate the shaping of commercially-distributed forms of popular culture, in order for them considerably to complicate the binary assumptions

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Conclusion sedimented into much of the prevailing discourse. The part of the cultural studies tradition that has emphasised the potential for social or political resistance within popular culture is another example of the attribution to this realm of one of the grounds on which art cinema has also been valorised. Which of these claims might be more persuasive is a large question, but the ascription of such potential to the popular at least has the merit of relating to forms that have a much wider social circulation within which to have any possible impact. Mass art, as he terms it, is valorised by Carroll on the basis of its engagement at an emotional level, a key marker in many discourses of a lower status from which products such as art cinema are often distinguished. This is a level to which we can attribute significance and substance in its own right, as Carroll argues. It is a quality found strongly in some canonised forms of high art, such as classical tragedy. If the emotional might be valued in its own terms, we can also question the binary separation between the emotional and the intellectual/cognitive realms upon which the valorisation of the latter often rests. Contemporary findings in the science of the brain suggest the two are closely linked and work together.3 This is a major part of the argument of Carl Plantinga, whose work suggests a number of bases for the positive valuation of many of the often-denigrated emotional pleasures offered by mainstream cinema. If the more critically-distanced position associated with varieties of art and independent cinema is conventionally viewed as superior and more sophisticated, as Plantinga suggests, he argues that popular works that encourage sympathetic emotional engagement can also be capable of prompting critical thought. A more detached position can also be questioned on the basis of discouraging any viewer involvement in whatever issues are being addressed.4 If the simplifications and exaggerations of the sentimental found in many Hollywood features can be harmful, he argues, this might not always be the case; likewise, an emphasis on harsh and painful realism need not always be the highest good.5 In all such cases, as Plantinga suggests, judgement is best made on a case-by-case basis, not in terms of sweeping binary oppositions. If it is not necessary to elevate popular/mainstream film in an uncritical manner to seek to deconstruct the way it often operates as a negative other to art cinema, neither is it necessary that art cinema should be ‘brought low’, to compensate for what might be seen as its sometimes favoured and

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Positioning Art Cinema elitist status. But we do need to understand art cinema as the product of particular and proximate socio-cultural and institutional frameworks, rather than as something that occupies any inherently ‘higher’ or ‘purer’ realm of production. We can also consider the extent to which art cinema, as a result of this status, has its own conventions, regularities and formulas, qualities according to which art is often rhetorically or implicitly distinguished from more commercial realms. There are certain quite familiar types or varieties of art cinema, as I have sought to show in some instances in this book, across a wide spectrum of potential approaches. They might not be exact but they demonstrate some repeated tendencies and variations of themes and approaches. A similar point is made by Kovács, who identifies a number of recurrent plot elements and patterns within the modernist variety of art cinema: investigations, often of a mental variety and without solutions; wandering or travel; mental journeys; closed-situation dramas; satire and genre parody; and the film essay.6 The nature of such tendencies can be shaped by various cultural or industrialinstitutional factors, including sources of funding and other transnational, regional, national or local influences on production trends. To suggest that art cinema is conventional, in its own ways, is, again, not to seek to criticise or disparage it, but to acknowledge the reality of its status as a particular variety of institutionalised cultural production and circulation. The existence of convention is a familiar part of much canonised high art, in spheres such as literature, painting and music, another point emphasised by Carroll and others, including Richard Shusterman.7 The point is to acknowledge that this is a fact of life for all kinds of cultural production, regardless of whether they appeal to larger/mass or smaller/niche audiences. Particular conventions might be considered to be employed more or less effectively, from any particular perspective and in any specific manifestations, within either the realm of the popular or of the more restricted, or anywhere in between; but it is not at the level of the use of convention per se that any such judgement is helpfully located. We can also question the claims to particular value made by, or on behalf of, certain forms of high art or, here, particularly the heavyweight varieties of art cinema. As John Carey argues, there are no rational grounds for the assumption that what is categorised as ‘high art’ is inherently superior to more popular forms.8 The basis of its valorisation remains

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Conclusion highly specific, as a particular historical and social construct (for example, the celebration of the notion of the individual auteur/artist and, along with this, the concept of ‘unique’ individual insight, a product of specific historical and institutional conditions outlined in Chapter 1). The qualities valorised in such work are not at all typical of what a broader sense of artistic activity has entailed in most human societies, as is also suggested, for example, by the evolutionary approach to the arts taken by Ellen Dissanayake.9 This is not to suggest that they are not of value, but that this should not unquestioningly be assumed. As Shusterman suggests, within discourses relating to distinctions between high and low culture, criteria relating to high modernism such as originality and difficulty are often ‘unconsciously smuggled in as a general standard of experiential relevance and significance’, despite their very specific nature and basis. This is, again, coupled with an unjustifiable assumption or assertion, on the other side, that popular art has no ability to engage with ‘deep realities’ or ‘real problems.’10 There is no basis, either, for claims that certain valorised qualities of particular types of art cinema embody some ‘essence’ of cinema or offer ‘pure’ access to any dimension of experience. Art cinema, of any variety, remains a field of cultural production, circulation and consumption that is, of necessity, both conventional in its own ways, specific in its qualities (however much these might be admired for particular reasons from any perspective), and usually situated within a broader regime of institutionalised position-takings through which greater cultural value is customarily attributed to some forms rather than others. We cannot easily escape these frameworks, and no-one can claim to be able to step into some entirely objective exterior place of analysis, but we can at least seek to identify them as such, to highlight bases of valuation that often remain implicit and unstated and to guard against unwarranted over-claiming on the behalf of any particular body of work. If debates about aesthetic (or other) forms of value are located between the opposed poles of universalising essentialism and radical relativism, an alternative (although one that skews more towards the latter than the former) is for a more provisional and negotiated basis of valorisation, as argued by Janet Wolff, an essential ingredient of which is a reflexivity that seeks to lay as bare as possible the bases on which any such judgement, including our own, rests.11

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Notes

Introduction: Positioning Art Cinema 1. David Andrews, Theorizing Art Cinemas, 2. 2. Screening Modernism: European Art Cinema, 1950 – 1980. 3. ‘The Field of Cultural Production’, in Bourdieu The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature. 4. Hodge and Tripp, Children and Television: A Semiotic Approach. 5. The dimension of implication is from Susan Purdie, Comedy: The Mastery of Discourse. 6. See Sally Faulkner, ed., Middlebrow. 7. Any such archaeology can also be subject to an analysis of its own proximate bases, rather than offering access to a realm of pure rationality. 8. Given the debate that often surrounds the substantiality or otherwise of any individual manifestations, I have adopted a general practice in this book of using lower case for terms such as ‘new wave’, ‘neo-realism’ or similar. One exception is ‘New German Cinema’, which I capitalise primarily because this example looks odd when rendered otherwise. 9. ‘Introduction: The Impurity of Art Cinema’, in Galt and Schoonover (eds), Global Art Cinema: New Theories and Histories, 7, 6. 10. ‘Introduction’, 8. 11. ‘The Prettiness of Italian Cinema’ in Louis Bayman and Sergio Rigoletto, eds, Popular Italian Cinema. 12. ‘Introduction’, 6. 13. ‘Introduction’, 6. 14. See, for example, Eleftheria Thanouli, ‘“Art Cinema” Narration: Breaking Down a Wayward Paradigm’, Scope: An Online Journal of Film and Television Studies, 14, June 2009, accessed at https://www.nottingham.ac.uk/scope/ documents/2009/june-2009/thanouli.pdf. Thanouli argues that the category has become ‘so diluted over the years that it can contain practically everything’, a claim that fails to deal with precisely the reasons why it can operate effectively as so broad a field.

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Notes to Pages 10 –18 15. Theorizing Art Cinemas, 22. 16. I put the term ‘western’ within scare quotes to acknowledge the complex inheritances that contributed many elements usually associated with the concept. I also use a lower case ‘w’ throughout, to avoid the reification that can result from capitalisation. 17. Screening Modernism, 140– 201. 18. Screening Modernism, 203. 19. Screening Modernism, 140. 20. Barbara Wilinsky, Sure Seaters: The Emergence of the Art House Cinema, 12. 21. ‘German Cinema Face to Face with Hollywood’, in Elsaesser European Cinema: Face to Face with Hollywood. 22. Peter Lev, The Euro-American Cinema. 23. ‘Art Cinema as Institution’, 15. 24. Lúcia Nagib, World Cinema and the Ethics of Realism, 1. 25. World Cinema, 1. 26. Ella Shohat and Robert Stam, Unthinking Eurocentrism: Multiculturalism and the Media. 27. See Song Hwee Lim, ‘Speaking in Tongues: Ang Lee, Accented Cinema, Hollywood’, in Lúcia Nagib, Chris Perriam and Rajinder Dudrah, eds, Theorzing World Cinema. 28. For more on the complex dynamics that exist between different levels of cinema, see Nataša Durovicová and Kathleen Newman, eds, World Cinemas, Transnational Perspectives. 29. ‘Introduction: The Impurity of Art Cinema’, 5. 30. Galt and Schoonover, eds, Global Art Cinema: New Theories and Histories. 31. Rosalind Galt and Karl Schoonover, ‘Introduction’, 11. 32. See Nagib, ‘Towards a positive definition of world cinema’. A similar point is made by Andrews, Theorizing Art Cinemas, 52. 33. For an account of the festival film in these terms, see Cindy Hing-Yuk Wong, Film Festivals: Culture, People, and Power on the Global Screen, chapter 2. 34. For examples, see Wong, 145– 158. 35. See Galt and Schoonover, ‘Introduction’, 13. 36. Unthinking Eurocentrism, 396. 37. See Tamara Falicov, ‘Migrating from South to North: The Role of Film Festivals in Funding and Shaping Global South Film and Video’, in Greg Elmer, Charles Davis, Janine Marshessault and John McCollough, eds, Locating Migrating Media. 38. For an argument in relation to lower-status channels of distribution, see Ramon Lobato, Shadow Economies of Cinema: Mapping Informal Film Distribution. 39. See David Reinstein and Christopher Snyder, ‘The influence of Expert Reviews on Consumer Demand for Experience Goods: A Case Study of Movie Critics’, The Journal of Industrial Economics, vol. 53, no. 1, March 2005, and Gerda Gemser, Martine Van Oostrum and Mark Leenders, ‘The impact of film

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Notes to Pages 18 –27

40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65.

reviews on the box office performance of art house versus mainstream motion pictures’, Journal of Cultural Economy, vol. 31, no. 1, 2007. Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Introduction’, in Dyer and Vincendeau, eds, Popular European Cinema, 8. See King, Quality Hollywood, especially Chapter 2. Dyer and Vincendeau, ‘Introduction’, 8. See also Mette Hjort and Duncan Petrie, eds, The Cinema of Small Nations. Curating Africa in the Age of Film Festivals, 52. ‘Introduction’, 9. Galt and Schoonover, ‘Introduction’, 5. Dyer and Vincendeau, ‘Introduction’, 1. In the case of China, for example, see Ying Xiao, ‘“Leitmotif”: State, Market, and Postsocialist Film Industry under Neoliberal Globalization’, in Jyostna Kapur and Keith B. Wanger, eds, Neoliberalism and Global Cinema: Capital, Culture, and Marxist Critique. ‘The Mexican romantic sex comedy: the emergence of Mexican middlebrow filmmaking in the 1990s’, in Sally Faulkner, ed. Middlebrow Cinema. The Three Amigos: The Transnational Filmmaking of Guillermo del Toro, Alejandro Gonzáles Iñárritu and Alfonso Cuarón, 105. Galt and Schoonover, ‘Introduction’. Paul Willemen, ‘The Third Cinema Question: Notes and Reflections’, in Jim Pines and Paul Willemen (eds), Questions of Third Cinema, 9. Mazdon and Wheatley, French Film in Britain: Sex, Art and Cinephilia. French Film, 34. Sure Seaters, 61. Tiago de Luca and Nuno Barradas Jorge, ‘Introduction: From Slow Cinema To Slow Cinemas’ in de Luca and Barradas Jorge, eds, Slow Cinema, 17. William Brown, ‘Melancholia: The Long, Slow Cinema of Lav Diaz’, in de Luca and Barradas Jorge, eds, Slow Cinema. De Luca and Barradas Jorge, ‘Introduction’, 11. The Cinema of Satyaji Ray: Between Tradition and Modernity. Christopher Gow, From Iran to Hollywood and Some Places In-Between: Reframing Post-Revolutionary Iranian Cinema. From Iran to Hollywood, 58. ‘Introduction’, 7. See, for example, Thomas Elsaesser, ‘European Cinema: Conditions of Impossibility’, in Elsaesser, European Cinema: Face to Face with Hollywood. ‘Introduction’, 7. ‘Introduction’, 10. Michael Newman, Indie: An American Film Culture.

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Notes to Pages 32 –41

1

Situating the Art Cinema Field of Cultural Production and Consumption

1. ‘The field of cultural production, or the economic world reversed’, in The Field of Cultural Production. 2. Wilinsky, Sure Seaters, 3; Evans, ‘Superman vs Shrödinger’s Cat: Taste, Etiquette and Independent Cinema Audiences as Indirect Communities, Participations: Journal of Audience and Reception Studies, vol. 8, no. 2, November 2011. 3. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, 34. 4. Popular Culture and High Culture: An Analysis and Evaluation of Taste. 5. Popular Culture and High Culture, 116. 6. Weber, ‘Class, Status, Party’, in H.H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills, eds, From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, 193. 7. Simmel, ‘Fashion, Adornment and Style’, in David Frisby and Mike Featherstone, eds, Simmel on Culture: Selected Writings. 8. ‘Ecriture Aesthetics: Mapping the Literate Episteme of Visual Narrative’. 9. Faulkner, ed., Middlebrow Cinema. 10. Culture, Class, Distinction. 11. ‘Measured markets and unknown audiences: case studies from the production and consumption of music’, in J. Ettema and D. Whitney (eds), Audiencemaking: How the Media Create the Audience, 180. 12. Richard Peterson and Roger Kern, ‘Changing Highbrow Taste: From Snob to Omnivore, American Sociological Review, vol. 6, no. 5, October 1996. 13. ‘Superman vs Shrödinger’s Cat’, 334. 14. ‘Changing Highbrow Taste’, 904. 15. Culture, Class, Distinction, 57. 16. ‘“And I felt quite posh!” Art-house cinema and the absent audience – the exclusions of choice’, Participations: Journal of Audience and Reception Studies, vol. 8, no. 2, November 2011, 395. 17. Culture, Class, Distinction, 140. 18. Culture, Class, Distinction, 140 –141. 19. Culture, Class, Distinction, 189. 20. Is There a Text in This Class? The Authority of Interpretive Communities, 13. 21. Is There a Text in This Class? 166. 22. Toward an Aesthetic of Reception. 23. Is There a Text in This Class? 14. 24. Show Sold Separately: Promos, Spoilers, and Other Media Paratexts. 25. The World of Goods: Towards an Anthropology of Consumption, xxii. 26. On Deconstruction. 27. ‘Social Space and Symbolic Space’, in Practical Reason: On the Theory of Action, 3. 28. ‘Social Space and Symbolic Space’, 4.

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Notes to Pages 42 –53 29. ‘Social Space and Symbolic Space’, 12. Bourdieu develops the concept of the habitus especially in Outline of a Theory of Practice. 30. ‘The Economy of Symbolic Goods’, in Practical Reason, 97 –8. 31. For more on this, see Mark Banks, Creative Justice: Cultural Industries, Work and Inequality, 3 – 4. 32. See Banks, Creative Justice, 19. 33. Becker, Art Worlds. 34. Danto, ‘The Artworld’, The Journal of Philosophy, vol. 61, no. 19, October 1964. 35. See, for example, John W. Hood, The Essential Mystery: Major Filmmakers of Indian Art Cinema, 5– 8. 36. One exception is Richard Dyer’s ‘Entertainment and Utopia’ in Dyer, Only Entertainment. 37. ‘Constructing (Film) Art: Bourdieu’s Field Model in a Comparative Context’, Cultural Sociology, vol. 1, no. 2, 2007. 38. ‘Constructing (Film) Art’, 182–3. 39. ‘Constructing (Film) Art’, 183. 40. Film, Art, and the Third Culture: A Naturalized Aesthetics of Film, 114. 41. Creative Justice, 15. 42. Popular Culture and High Culture, 167, emphasis in original. 43. Popular Culture and High Culture, 167. 44. Popular Culture and High Culture, 170. 45. See, for example, Bourdieu’s comments in Distinction, 387. 46. See Perkins and Verevis, eds, B is for Bad Cinema. 47. Williams, Culture and Society 1780 – 1950, 60. 48. The Invention of Art: A Cultural History, 5. 49. The Invention of Art, 15. 50. The Invention of Art, 115. 51. The Invention of Art, 197. 52. Chris Baldick, The Social Mission of English Criticism 1848 – 1942, 166. For more on this context, see Leo Lowenthal Literature and Mass Culture. 53. Examples of this approach in the British context can be found in Mazdon and Wheatley, French Film in Britain: Sex, Art and Cinephilia. 54. The Social Mission of English Criticism. 55. The approaches taken by the latter four are criticised by Noël Carroll in A Philosophy of Mass Art, chapter 1. 56. Belfiore and Bennett, The Social Impact of the Arts. 57. Battersby, Gender and Genius: Towards a Feminist Aesthetics. 58. Baldick, The Social Mission of English Criticism, 228. 59. See essays in The Field of Cultural Production, as well as contributions to Practical Reason. 60. ‘The Economy of Symbolic Goods’, 110. 61. ‘The Economy of Symbolic Goods’, 120– 1. 62. For an argument that this is often based on misreadings of Kant, see Carroll, A Philosophy of Mass Art, 89–109.

298

Notes to Pages 53 –68 63. ‘The Scholastic Point of View’, in Practical Reason, 135. 64. See, for example, Shyon Baumann, Hollywood Highbrow: From Entertainment to Art, 83. 65. For a useful account of the limitations of auteur-based approaches, see C. Paul Sellors, Film Authorship: Auteurs and Other Myths. 66. New German Cinema: Images of a Generation, 28. 67. Film Authorship, 103. 68. A History of the French New Wave Cinema. 69. A History of the French New Wave Cinema, xxvi.

2

Art Film and American Indie Cinema: Points of Distinction and Overlap

1. For examples of non-US independent cinema, see Doris Baltruschat and Mary Erickson (eds), Independent Filmmaking Around the Globe. 2. Bourdieu, ‘The Field of Cultural Production’, in The Field of Cultural Production, Cambridge: Polity, 1993. One distinction within these examples is between that which is fully independent of the studios and the realm known as Indiewood, constituted primarily by semi-autonomous studio speciality divisions. 3. ‘Introduction’, in Galt and Schoonover, eds, Global Art Cinema: New Theories and Histories, 8. 4. King, American Independent Cinema. 5. ‘Ordinary People, European Style: Or how to spot an independent feature’, American Film, 6: 10, September 1981. 6. Cinema & Culture: Independent Film In the United States, 1980 – 2001. 7. Indie: An American Film Culture, 15. 8. Indie, 2, 15. 9. Indie, 28. 10. Screening Modernism, 63. 11. Screening Modernism, 47. 12. See also Mark Betz, ‘Beyond Europe: On Parametric Transcendence’, in Rosalind Galt and Karl Schoonover, eds, Global Art Cinema: New Theories and Histories. 13. Screening Modernism, 120– 1. 14. An association of art cinema with ambiguity is a key part of the definition offered by David Bordwell in Narration in the Fiction Film. 15. See The Art and Politics of Film and, for the latter point, Cinema and Modernity. 16. ‘Art Cinema as Institution’, Screen, 22, 1, 1981, 14. 17. Untypically, Kovács mentions some examples from the indie/Indiewood sectors, including modernist narrative procedures in David Lynch, Tarantino and the

299

Notes to Pages 68 –82

18. 19. 20.

21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

3

Coen brothers, although this is framed in the context of occasional space for such approaches in ‘quality Hollywood’ production. Screening Modernism, 60. For useful definitions of these, see Kovács, Screening Modernism, 27– 32. On the latter two, see King, American Independent Cinema, 63– 84, 107 –119. On the former, see King, ‘Doing Time: Consciousness, temporality and the crime-revenge drama in The Limey’, in R. Barton Palmer and Steven M. Sanders (eds), The Philosophy of Steven Soderbergh; on the latter, King, Indiewood: USA: Where Hollywood Meets Independent Cinema. See King, ‘Following in the Footsteps: Gus Van Sant’s Gerry and Elephant in the American independent field of cultural production’, in New Review of Film and Television Studies, 4, 2, August 2006. For more on these dynamics in Little Miss Sunshine and Juno, see King, Indie 2.0: Change and Continuity in Contemporary American Indie Film, chapter 1. On Jost’s earlier films, see King, American Independent Cinema, 139–141. American Independent Cinema, 138. See, for example, Neale, ‘Art Cinema as Institution’ for historical detail from France, Germany and Italy. American Independent Cinema, chapter 4. This is a key part of the intervention made by Neale in ‘Art Cinema as Institution’. Sure Seaters, 39. Wilinsky, 33–34. Sure Seaters, 39. ‘Art Cinema as Institution’, 15. For example, Anon, ‘The 12 Indie Films You Must See This January’, 1 January 2015, accessed at http://www.indiewire.com/article/the-8-indie-films-you-mustsee-this-january-20150101. Beyond the Subtitle: Remapping European Art Cinema. Beyond the Subtitle, 91. See, for example, James MacDowell, ‘Quirky Culture: Tone, Sensibility, and Structure of Feeling’, in Geoff King, ed., A Companion to American Indie Film. The Age of New Waves: Art Cinema and the Staging of Globalization. Not Hollywood: Independent Film at the Twilight of the American Dream. ‘Safety Not Guaranteed: Emotionalism, Capitalist Realism and Middle Class Indie Identity’, in Geoff King, ed., A Companion to American Indie Film.

The Hard-Core Art Film and Heavyweight Modality

1. See, for example, John Orr, Cinema and Modernity, 15– 17. 2. David Andrews, Theorizing Art Cinemas, 94. 3. See, for example, Carl Plantinga, Moving Viewers; American Film and the Spectator’s Experience.

300

Notes to Pages 82 –96 4. Engaging Characters: Fiction, Emotion, and the Cinema, 101. 5. Nikolaj Lübecker, The Feel-Bad Film. 6. See Eleonora Belfiore and Oliver Bennett, The Social Impact of the Arts: An Intellectual History. 7. Rosalind Galt and Karl Schoonover, ‘Introduction: The Impurity of Art Cinema’, in Galt and Schoonover, eds, Global Art Cinema. 8. Bordwell, Narration in the Fiction Film. 9. Narration in the Fiction Film, 205. 10. See, for example, David Andrews, Theorizing Art Cinemas, 172– 3. 11. Narration in the Fiction Film, 275. 12. Betz, ‘Beyond Europe: On Parametric Transcendence’, in Rosalind Galt and Karl Schoonover, eds, Global Art Cinema: New Theories and Histories, 39– 40. 13. John Orr, ‘The White Ribbon in Michael Haneke’s Cinema’, in McCann and Sorfa, 261. 14. For more on this, see Mullarky, Philosophy and the Moving Image. 15. The Cinema of Michael Haneke: Europe Utopia, 1. 16. The Cinema of Michael Haneke, 1. 17. The Cinema of Michael Haneke, 1. 18. The Cinema of Michael Haneke, 1 –2. 19. The Cinema of Michael Haneke, 2. 20. The Cinema of Michael Haneke, 2. 21. The Cinema of Michael Haneke, 4. 22. The Cinema of Michael Haneke, 4. 23. See writings collected in Bert Cardullo, ed., André Bazin and Neorealism. 24. ‘Cinematic Realism and the Italian School of the Liberation’, in Cardullo, 38. 25. ‘Cinematic Realism’, 39. 26. Screening Modernism, 122– 139. 27. ‘Cinematic Realism’, 47. 28. ‘La Terra Trema’, in Cardullo, 53. 29. ‘Germany, Year Zero’, in Cardullo, 60. 30. ‘Bicycle Thieves’, in Cardullo, 65. 31. ‘Bicycle Thieves’, 65. 32. La Terra Trema’, 55. 33. ‘Bicycle Thieves’, 62. 34. The Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dryer. 35. The Transcendental Style, 39. 36. The Transcendental Style, 51. 37. The Transcendental Style, 81. 38. The Transcendental Style, 160. 39. Andrei Tarkovsky: Elements of Cinema, 7. 40. Andrei Tarkovsky, 8. 41. Andrei Tarkovsky, 10. 42. Andrei Tarkovsky, 13. 43. Andrei Tarkovsky, 14.

301

Notes to Pages 96 –110 44. Andrei Tarkovsky, 17. 45. The Altering Eye. This and the two following quotations are from the first unnumbered page of the Preface. 46. The Altering Eye, 6. 47. The Altering Eye, 107. 48. The Altering Eye, 122. 49. Screening Modernism, 52. 50. Cavell, The World Viewed. 51. The Altering Eye, 155. 52. The Altering Eye, 157. 53. The Altering Eye, 180. 54. The Altering Eye, 207–8. 55. The Altering Eye, 208. 56. The Altering Eye, 278–9. 57. The Altering Eye, 9. 58. The Altering Eye, 208. 59. The Altering Eye, 125. 60. See, for example, Murray Smith, ‘The Logic and Legacy of Brechtianism’, in David Bordwell and Noël Carroll, eds, Post-Theory: Reconstructing Film. 61. Wilinsky, Sure Seaters, 89. 62. For a wider questioning of such assumptions, see Belfiore and Bennett, The Social Impact of the Arts. 63. Huyssen, After the Great Divide; Modernism, Mass Culture and Postmodernism.

4 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

Celebrating ‘Slow’ Cinema Song Hwee Lim, Tsai Ming-liang and a Cinema of Slowness. How Hollywood Tells It: Story and Style in Modern Movies, 121 –138. How Hollywood Tells It, 180. Figures Traced in Light: On Cinematic Staging. Figures, 31. King, Quality Hollywood, 51. Figures, 85. Figures, 86. Figures, 91. Figures, 96. Figures, 141. Figures, 177. Figures, 218. Slow Movies, 2. Tiago de Luca and Nuno Barradas Jorge, ‘Introduction: From Slow Cinema to Slow Cinemas’, in de Luca and Barradas Jorge (eds), Slow Cinema.

302

Notes to Pages 110 –20 16. Such arguments are found in numerous contributors to de Luca and Barradas Jorge. 17. Slow Movies, 2. 18. Slow Movies, 4. 19. Slow Movies, 4. 20. See Mulvey, Death 24x a Second: Stillness and the Moving Image. 21. Remes, Motion(less) Pictures: The Cinema of Stasis, 16. 22. Motion(less) Pictures, 22. 23. For a critical examination of similar assumptions in film-philosophical readings of Terrence Malik, see Martin P. Rossouw, ‘There’s something about Malik: film-philosophy, contemplative style, and ethics of transformation’, New Review of Film and TV Studies, 15, 3, 2017. 24. Motion(less) Pictures, 23. 25. Slow Movies, 6. 26. William Brown, ‘Melancholia: The Long, Slow Cinema of Lav Diaz’, in de Luca and Barradas Jorge, eds, Slow Cinema. 27. ‘Melancholia’, 118. 28. Cecília Mello, ‘If These Walls Could Speak: From Slowness to Stillness in the Cinema of Jia Zhanke’, in de Luca and Barradas Jorge, eds, Slow Cinema. 29. Patrick Brian Smith, ‘Working/Slow: Cinematic Style as Labour in Wang Bing’s Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks, and Philippa Lovatt, ‘Slow Sounds: Duration, Audition and Labour in Liu Jaiyin’s Oxhide and Oxhide II’; both in de Luca and Barradas Jorge, eds, Slow Cinema. 30. Asbjørn Grønstad, ‘Slow Cinema and the Ethics of Duration’, in de Luca and Barradas Jorge, eds, Slow Cinema, 280. 31. Slow Movies, 8. 32. Tiago de Luca, Realism of the Senses in World Cinema: The Experience of Physical Reality, 24– 5. 33. De Luca, ‘Realism of the Senses: A Tendency in Contemporary World Cinema’, in Lúcia Nagib, Chris Perriam and Rajinder Dudrah, eds Theorizing World Cinemas 198. I draw here on a combination of this essay and Realism of the Senses in World Cinema. 34. Thomas Elsaesser and Malte Hagener, Film Theory: An Introduction Through the Senses, cited in Realism of the Senses, 9. 35. Realism of the Senses, 9. 36. Realism of the Senses, 10. 37. Realism of the Senses, 16. 38. The Cinema of Aki Kaurismäki: Contrarian Stories. 39. Realism of the Senses, 91. 40. See, for example, Rancière, ‘Aesthetics as Politics’ in Aesthetics and its Discontents. 41. Rancière, The Politics of Aesthetics: The Distribution of the Sensible, London: Bloomsbury, 2013, 8. 42. World Cinema and the Ethics of Realism, 32. 43. Vivian Sobchack, Carnal Thoughts: Embodiment and Moving Image Culture, 74.

303

Notes to Pages 120 –33 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

60. 61.

62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

69. 70.

71. 72.

Realism of the Senses, 234. Realism of the Senses, 234. Lim, Tsai Ming-liang and a Cinema of Slowness, 33. Tsai Ming-liang, 32 –3. Tsai Ming-liang, 108. Tsai Ming-liang, 98 –9. For another reading that attributes queer potential to the slow style, see Karl Schoonover and Rosalind Galt, Queer Cinema in the World, 281– 286. Tsai Ming-liang, 134. See critique of Deleuze in John Mullarky, Philosophy and the Moving Image, Chapter 4. Cinema 2: The Time-Image, 17. Cinema 2, 15. For a questioning of the notion that such images in Ozu are in any way ‘pure’ from within the literature on slow cinema, see Lúcia Nagib, ‘The Politics of Slowness and the Traps of Modernity’, in de Luca and Barradas Jorge (eds), Slow Cinema, 35. Cinema 2, 163. Screening Modernism, 41. The Feel-Bad Film, 169. Jean-Luc Godard. William Brown, for example, uses Deleuze in arguing for the potential for creation of time-images in blockbusters in Supercinema: Film-Philosophy for the Digital Age. The World Viewed. Philosophy and the Moving Image, 16. For various perspectives on this issue, see Murray Smith and Thomas E. Wartenberg, eds, Thinking Through Cinema: Film as Philosophy. Philosophy and the Moving Image, 104. Daniel Frampton, Filmosophy. Filmosophy, 191, 193. Filmosophy, 75. For a critique of this tradition, see Noel Carroll, A Philosophy of Mass Art. Cinephilia and History, or The Wind in the Trees. For a critique of the tendency of cinephilia to be associated with an emphasis on fragments, see Adrian Martin, ‘Beyond the Fragments of Cinephilia: Towards a Synthetic Analysis’, in Scott Balcerzak and Jason Sperb, eds, Cinephilia in the Age of Digital Reproduction, Vol. 1. Cinephilia and History, 25. One of the main sources used by Keathley is Paul Willemen, ‘Through the Glass Darkly: Cinephilia Reconsidered’ in Looks and Frictions: Essays in Cultural Studies and Film Theory. Cinephilia and History, 38–9. On Slowness, 153.

304

Notes to Pages 133 –61 73. On Slowness, 155. There is no suggestion that the writer disagrees with the ‘some’ who have argued in such a manner. 74. On Slowness, 157. 75. For a general account, see Carl Honoré, In Praise of Slow: How a Worldwide Movement is Challenging the Cult of Speed. 76. Benedikt Köhler, Sabria David and Jörg Blumtritt, ‘The Slow Media Manifesto’, 2 January 2010, http://en.slow-media.net/manifesto. 77. Foodies: Democracy and Distinction in the Gourmet Foodscape. 78. Foodies, 94. 79. Foodies, 94. 80. Foodies, 94. 81. Newman, Indie, 2. 82. Particularly in Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient. 83. See, for example, Marijke De Valk, Film Festivals: From European Geopolitics to Global Cinephilia. 84. Foodies, 120. 85. Foodies, 124. 86. Aidil Rusli, ‘20 Slow Films From This Century That Reward Patience’, Taste of Cinema, 4 May 2015, http://www.tasteofcinema.com/2015/20-slow-films-fromthis-century-that-reward-patience/. 87. De Luca’s Realism of the Senses is an exception to the tendency to attribute a lighter-weight position to Van Sant.

5

Positioning The Turin Horse and Hidden

1. Jonathan Gray, Show Sold Separately, 35– 36. 2. For a general discussion of marketing hooks, see Finola Kerrigan, Film Marketing. 3. Accessed 30 March 2015 at mubi.com/topics/the-turin-horse?page¼1. 4. On these issues more generally, see Derek Gregory, The Colonial Present. 5. Catherine Wheatley, Caché, 77. 6. Catherine Wheatley, Michael Haneke’s Cinema: The Ethic of the Image. 7. Karin Luisa Badt, ‘Family Is Hell and So Is the World: Talking to Michael Haneke at Cannes 2005’, Bright Lights Film Journal, 1 November 2005, accessed at http://brightlightsfilm.com/family-hell-world-talking-michaelhaneke-cannes-2005/#.VV86OusVcbA. 8. Details from Fabien Lemercier, ‘Hidden by Michael Haneke’, Cineuropa, 30 September 2005, accessed at http://cineuropa.org/ff.aspx?t¼ ffocusarticle& l¼en&tid¼1064&did¼55358. 9. Badt, ‘Family Is Hell and So Is the World’. 10. Details from Fabien Lemercier, ‘Tarr inspired by Nietzsche for The Turin Horse’, Cineuropa, 21 October 2008, accessed at http://cineuropa.org/nw.aspx? t¼newsdetail&l ¼ en&did ¼ 87231.

305

Notes to Pages 161 –73 11. Scott Roxborough, ‘Bela Tarr Shuts Down Production Company TT Filmmuhely’, The Hollywood Reporter, 24 May 2012, accessed at http://www. hollywoodreporter.com/news/bela-tarr-shuts-down-tt-filmmuhely-329227. 12. These and following figures are from the entries on Box Office Mojo, boxofficemojo.com. 13. Steven Rosen, ‘“Cache” Strong Atop iW BOT: “Fateless” Opens Well’, Indiewire, 11 January 2006, accessed at http://www.indiewire.com/article/cache_strong_ atop_iw_bot_fateless_opens_well. 14. Kevin Thomas, ‘Evil and its echoes’, Los Angeles Times 23 December 2005, accessed online at http://articles.latimes.com/2005/dec/23/entertainment/ et-cache23. 15. A.O. Scott, ‘A Nice Middle-Class Couple With Their Own Stalker’, The New York Times, 23 December 2005, accessed online at http://www.nytimes.com/2005/12/ 23/movies/23cach.html?_r¼0. 16. Michael Atkinson, ‘Camera Obscure’, The Village Voice, 13 December 2005, accessed online at http://www.villagevoice.com/content/printVersion/199112/. 17. Claudia Puig, ‘Hidden paranoia emerges in powerful “Caché”’, USA Today, 22 December 2005, accessed online at http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/life/ movies/reviews/2005-12-22-cache-review_x.htm#. 18. Mick LaSalle, ‘“Caché” tries to dig into what lies beneath, but comes up empty’, San Francisco Chronicle, 27 January 2006, accessed online at http://www.sfgate. com/movies/article/Cache-tries-to-dig-into-what-lies-beneath-but-2505820.php. 19. John Wray, ‘Minister of Fear’, The New York Times, 23 September 2007, accessed at http://www.nytimes.com/2007/09/23/magazine/23haneke-t.html? pagewanted¼print. 20. Wray, ‘Minister of Fear’. 21. Badt, ‘Family Is Hell and So Is the World’. 22. Jason Solomons, ‘We love Hidden. But what does it mean?’, The Guardian, 19 February 2006, accessed at http://www.theguardian.com/film/2006/feb/19/ worldcinema. 23. Wray, ‘Minister of Fear’. 24. Christopher Sharrett, ‘Austria, The world that is known. Michael Haneke interviewed’, Kinoeye, vol. 4, no. 1, 8 March 2004, accessed at http://www. kinoeye.org/04/01/interview01.php. 25. Scott Foundas, ‘Interview: Michael Haneke: The Bearded Prophet of “Code Inconnu” and “The Piano Teacher”’, Indiewire, 4 December, 2001, accessed at http://www.indiewire.com/article/interview_michael_haneke_the_bearded_ prophet_of_code_inconnu_and_the_piano_. 26. The Feel-Bad Film, 79. 27. Catherine Wheatley, Michael Haneke’s Cinema. 28. Peter Wollen, ‘Godard and Counter Cinema: Vent d’Est’ in Wollen, Readings and Writings: Semiotic Counter-Strategies. 29. Laura Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, Screen, vol. 16, no. 3, Autumn 1975, 8.

306

Notes to Pages 173 –99 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

6

Michael Haneke’s Cinema, 37. Michael Haneke’s Cinema, 182. Michael Haneke’s Cinema, 183. Michael Haneke’s Cinema, 183. Some similar claims about Haneke are found in Tara Forrest, Realism as Protest: Kluge, Schlingensief, Haneke. Michel Cieutat, ‘Interview with Michael Haneke: The Fragmentation of the Look’, Positif 478, December 2000, translated and reprinted in Peter Brunette, Michael Haneke, Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2010, 141 –2. Wray, ‘Minister of Fear’. Geoff King, Film Comedy, 186– 8. Kovács, The Cinema of Béla Tarr: The Circle Closes. The Cinema of Béla Tarr, 4. From Iran to Hollywood and Some Places In-Between. The Cinema of Béla Tarr, 4. The Cinema of Béla Tarr, 12–14. The Cinema of Béla Tarr, 1. ‘Developments in Eastern European Cinemas Since 1989’, in Rob Stone et al., eds, The Routledge Companion to World Cinema.

Serious Restrained Drama and Realism

1. See, for example, Joseph Mai, Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, and Philip Mosley, The Cinema of the Dardenne Brothers. 2. Quoted in Mosley, The Cinema of the Dardenne Brothers, 80. 3. ‘Local Emotions, Global Moods, and Film Structure’ in Carl Plantinga and Smith, eds, Passionate Views: Film Cognition and Emotion. 4. For more on this, see Mosley, The Cinema of the Dardenne Brothers, 14. 5. Mattias Frey, The Permanent Crisis of Film Criticism: The Anxiety of Authority, 73. 6. See, for example, Mai, Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, xiv. 7. For more on the significance of such resonances in the studio ‘quality’ tradition, see King, Quality Hollywood. 8. See, for example: Mai, xi, Mosley, 104. 9. Mai, 53. 10. Rosalind Galt, Pretty: Film and the Decorative Image. 11. Pretty, 177. 12. Pretty, 178. 13. ‘The Prettiness of Italian Cinema’ in Louis Bayman and Sergio Rigoletto, eds, Popular Italian Cinema. 14. Mosley, 104, 105. 15. Mosley, 120. 16. Mosley, 3. 17. Mosley, 14.

307

Notes to Pages 201 –17 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

7

For more on this, see Galt, Pretty, 192. Screening Modernism, 178. Screening Modernism, 175. For an extended discussion, see King, Quality Hollywood: Markers of Distinction in Contemporary Studio Film, chapter 6. See, for example, various essays in Mette Hjort and Scott Mackenzie, Purity and Provocation: Dogma 95. The text of the Dogme 95 ‘Manifesto’ and ‘Vow of Chastity’, which can be read ironically, are available at http://www.dogme95.dk/dogma-95/. See entry for the film at http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/the_hunt_2013/. ‘The Hunt: Cannes Review’, The Hollywood Reporter 19 May 2012, accessed online at http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/movie/hunt/review/326887. Peter Bradshaw, ‘The Hunt – review’, The Guardian, 29 October 2012, 2012, accessed at http://www.theguardian.com/film/2012/nov/29/the-hunt-review. See, for example, from the ‘quality’ end of the US press, Ann Hornaday, ‘“The Hunt” movie review’, The Washington Post, 25 July 2013; and Betsy Sharkey, ‘Review: “The Hunt” a searing study of a single lie’s aftermath’, Los Angeles Times, 11 July 2013. The same term is used in relation to Vinterberg’s direction in the larger market New York Post: Lou Lumenick, ‘Engaging and Harrowing “Hunt” for truth’, 12 July 2013. All accessed via entry for the film on rottontomatoes.com. Hornaday, ‘“The Hunt” movie review’. Sarah Cooper, ‘Mortal Ethics: Reading Levinas with the Dardennes Brothers’, Film-Philosophy, vol. 11, no. 2, August 2007. Cooper, ‘Moral Ethics’, 74. Cooper, ‘Moral Ethics’, 84. Mai, x. Mai, xv. Mai, xv. Mosley, 14. Mosley, 17. As employed by various contributors to Sally Faulkner, ed., Middlebrow Cinema.

Art Cinema and Genre: Uses and Departures

1. The Invention of Art, 115. 2. The Three Amigos: The Transnational Filmmaking of Guillermo del Toro, Alejandro Gonzáles Iñárritu and Alfonso Cuarón, 73, 77. 3. Theorizing Art Cinemas, 22. 4. Barbara Wilinsky, Sure Seaters; Mark Betz, ‘Art, exploitation, underground’, in Mark Jancovich, Antonio Lazaro Reboll and Julian Stringer, eds, Defining Cult Movies: The Cultural Politics of Oppositional Taste. 5. Screening Modernism, 89.

308

Notes to Pages 218 –40 6. Almodóvar’s work can also be related to Spanish melodrama traditions; see Marvin D’Lugo, Pedro Almodóvar, 30– 1. 7. Ernesto Acevedo-Muñoz, Pedro Almodóvar, 222. 8. For more on this, see Steve Neale, Genre and Hollywood, Chapter 5. 9. Genre and Hollywood, 193. 10. See D’Lugo, Pedro Almodóvar, 32. 11. For the classic account, see Thomas Elsaesser, ‘Tales of Sound and Fury: Observations on the Family Melodrama’, in Barry Keith Grant, ed., Film Genre Reader II. 12. Pedro Almodóvar, 233. 13. Pedro Almodóvar, 70, 126. 14. ‘Tales of Sound and Fury’, 362. 15. Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction. 16. After the Great Divide. 17. For more on this example, see Geoff King, Indiewood, USA, 111 –136. 18. Paul Julian Smith, Desire Unlimited: The Cinema of Pedro Almodóvar, 160. 19. Desire Unlimited, 160. 20. Pedro Almodóvar, 223. 21. Desire Unlimited, 2. 22. Desire Unlimited, 2. 23. Desire Unlimited, 5. 24. Desire Unlimited, 5. 25. Pedro Almodóvar, 5. 26. Francois Truffaut, ‘A Certain Tendency of the French Cinema’, in Bill Nichols, ed., Movies and Methods, Volume 1. 27. Pedro Almodóvar, 7. 28. Desire Unlimited, 160. 29. See D’Lugo, Pedro Almodóvar, 45 –66. 30. Stephen Teo, Director in Action: Johnnie To and the Hong Kong Action Film, 207. 31. Director in Action, 10. 32. Director in Action, 16. 33. Director in Action, 10. 34. Director in Action, 10. 35. Vivian P.Y. Lee, Hong Kong Cinema Since 1997: The Post-Nostalgic Imagination, 90–91. 36. Director in Action, 24. 37. Director in Action, 26. 38. Michael Ingham, Johnnie To Kei-Fung’s PTU. 39. Director in Action, 118. 40. Director in Action, 119. 41. Director in Action, 119. 42. Director in Action, 126.

309

Notes to Pages 240 –57 43. David Bordwell, Planet Hong Kong: Popular Cinema and the Art of Entertainment. 44. Planet Hong Kong, 252. 45. Director in Action, 189. 46. Director in Action, 27. 47. Director in Action, 19. 48. Director in Action, 20. 49. Director in Action, 207. 50. Geoff King, American Independent Cinema, 190. 51. PTU, 8. 52. PTU, 9. 53. PTU, 68. 54. PTU, 69. 55. PTU, 12. 56. Hong Kong Cinema Since 1997, 90. 57. Hong Kong Cinema Since 1997, 88. 58. PTU, 18. 59. More on each of these issues can be found in Teo and Ingham. 60. Director in Action, 101. 61. Teo, Director in Action, 27. 62. Cited by Teo, Director in Action, 126. 63. Daniel Martin, ‘Another week, another Johnnie To film: the marketing and distribution of postcolonial Hong Kong action cinema’, Film International, vol. 4, no. 4, 2009. 64. ‘Another week’, 32. 65. ‘Another week’, 33. 66. ‘Another week’, 34. 67. ‘Another week’, 38. 68. See Ginette Vincendeau, Jean-Pierre Melville: An American in Paris. 69. Ginette Vincendeau, Jean-Pierre Melville, 17.

8

Art Cinema and Exploitation

1. On the earlier history of exploitation cinema, see Eric Schaefer, “Bold! Daring! Shocking! True!”: A History of Exploitation Films, 1919 –1959. 2. Mattias Frey, Extreme Cinema: The Transgressive Rhetoric of Today’s Art Film Culture, 21. 3. Linda Williams, Screening Sex, 124. 4. Torben Grodal, ‘Antichrist, Explicit Sex, Anxiety, and Care’, in Lindsay Coleman, ed., Sex and Storytelling in Modern Cinema: Explicit Sex, Performance and Cinematic Technique, 183. 5. See Frey, Extreme Cinema, 111–112. See also Julian Petley, ‘Them and Us’, in Martin Barker and Petley, eds, Ill Effects: The Media/Violence Debate.

310

Notes to Pages 258 –65 6. “Bold! Daring! Shocking! True!”, 4. 7. Mazdon and Wheatley, French Film in Britain, 87. 8. Mark Betz, ‘Art, exploitation, underground’, in Mark Jancovich, Antonio Lazaro Reboll and Julian Stringer, eds, Defining Cult Movies. 9. ‘Art, exploitation, underground’, 206. 10. “Bold! Daring! Shocking! True!”, 333. 11. French Film in Britain, 89. 12. French Film in Britain, 113. 13. ‘Art, exploitation, underground’, 210. 14. ‘Art, exploitation, underground’, 212. 15. “Bold! Daring! Shocking! True!”, 8. 16. ‘Art Cinema as Institution’, 33. 17. ‘Art Cinema as Institution’, 33. 18. Williams, Screening Sex, 117. 19. See, for example, Hampus Hagman, ‘“Every Cannes needs its scandal”: Between art and exploitation in contemporary French film’, Film International, 29, 2007. 20. Extreme Cinema. 21. On the ‘scandal film’ in festivals, see Marijke de Valke, Film Festivals: From European Geopolitics to Global Cinephilia, 146, 155– 157. 22. Extreme Cinema, 56. 23. Extreme Cinema, 47. 24. Extreme Cinema, 64. 25. Extreme Cinema, 64. For more on Asian examples, see Cindy Hing-Yuk Wong, Film Festivals: Culture, People, and Power on the Global Screen, 90–91. 26. Frey, Extreme Cinema, 79. 27. Daniel Hickin, ‘Censorship, Reception and the Films of Gaspar Noé: The Emergence of the New Extremism in Britain’, in Tanya Horeck and Tina Kendall, eds, The New Extremism in Cinema: From France to Europe; Frey, Extreme Cinema, 95. 28. Frey, Extreme Cinema, 97– 8. 29. Extreme Cinema, 115. 30. Extreme Cinema, 33. 31. James Quandt, ‘Flesh and Blood: Sex and Violence in Recent French Cinema’, in Horeck and Kendall, eds, The New Extremism in Cinema, 18; originally published in Artforum, 2004. On the wider trend, see Martine Beugnet, Cinema and Sensation: French Film and the Art of Transgression, 36. 32. Extreme Cinema, 38. 33. See Tanya Horeck and Tina Kendall, ‘Introduction’, in Horeck and Kendall, eds, The New Extremism in Cinema, 6; and Beugnet, Cinema and Sensation, 34 –5, on comparisons more specific to France. 34. Extreme Cinema, 42. 35. Victoria Best and Martin Crowley, The New Pornographies: Explicit Sex in Recent French Fiction and Film.

311

Notes to Pages 266 –87 36. The New Pornographies, 5. 37. Barbara Creed, ‘Maitresse: Pornography, Ritual and the Question of the Animal’, in Coleman, ed., Sex and Storytelling in Modern Cinema, 11. 38. Extreme Cinema, 34. 39. Extreme Cinema, 35. 40. Jacob Held, ‘What is and is not Porn: Sex, Narrative, and Baise-moi’ in Lindsay Coleman, ed., Sex and Storytelling in Modern Cinema. 41. ‘Introduction’ to Coleman, ed., Sex and Storytelling in Modern Cinema, 4. 42. The New Pornographies, 5. 43. Martine Beugnet, Cinema and Sensation, 9. 44. Beugnet, ‘The Wounded Screen’, in Horeck and Kendall, eds, The New Extremism in Cinema, 29. 45. Beugnet, ‘The Wounded Screen’, 31. 46. Cinema and Sensation, 8. 47. Vivian Sobchack, Carnal Thoughts: Embodiment and Moving Image Culture, 73. 48. Cinema and Sensation, 18. 49. Cinema and Sensation, 63. 50. Cinema and Sensation, 108. 51. Horeck and Kendall, ‘Introduction’, 1 – 2. 52. Horeck and Kendall, ‘Introduction’, 2. 53. Horeck and Kendall, ‘Introduction’, 8. 54. Catherine Wheatley, Michael Haneke’s Cinema, 134– 136. 55. The New Pornographies, 134–5. 56. Screening Sex, 183. 57. Leila Wimmer, ‘“Sex and Violence from a Pair of Furies”: The Scandal of Baisemoi, in Horeck and Kendall, eds, The New Extremism in Cinema. 58. Screening Sex, 295. 59. The Feel-Bad Film, 2. 60. The Feel-Bad Film, 5. 61. Extreme Cinema, 179. 62. Jinhee Choi, The South Korean Film Renaissance: Local Hitmakers, Global Provocateurs. 63. See Edward Said, Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient, cited by Frey and by Oliver Dew, ‘“Asia Extreme”: Japanese cinema and British hype’, New Cinemas: Journal of Contemporary Film, vol. 5, no. 1, 2007, and Chi-Yun Shin, ‘Art of Branding: Tartan “Asia Extreme” films’, Jump Cut, 50, Spring 2008. 64. Dew, ‘“Asia Extreme”’, 45. 65. Chi-Yun Shin, ‘Art of Branding’, Dew, ‘“Asia Extreme”’. 66. Yoshihara Tezuka, Japanese Cinema Goes Global: Filmworkers’ Journeys, 26, 28. On In the Realm of The Senses, see Linda Williams, Screening Sex, 188, and Frey, Extreme Cinema, 139. 67. Extreme Cinema, 150.

312

Notes to Pages 287 –93 68. Extreme Cinema, 193. 69. ‘About Terracotta Distribution’, text on the home page of the company’s website, http://terracottadistribution.com.

Conclusion 1. Jim McGuigan, Cultural Populism. 2. Noël Carroll in A Philosophy of Mass Art. 3. For a popular account, see Daniel Goleman, Emotional Intelligence: Why it can matter more than IQ. 4. Moving Viewers, 192. 5. Moving Viewers, 194. 6. Screening Modernism, 99 –118. 7. A Philosophy of Mass Art, 62, 67; Richard Shusterman, Pragmatist Aesthetics: Living Beauty, Rethinking Art, 189. 8. John Carey, What Good Are the Arts. 9. Ellen Dissanayake, Homo Aestheticus: Where Art Comes From and Why. 10. Pragmatist Aesthetics, 187, 189. 11. The Aesthetics of Uncertainty, 37.

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Select Bibliography ———, ‘The Logic and Legacy of Brechtianism’, in David Bordwell and Noël Carroll, eds, Post-Theory: Reconstructing Film Studies, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996. ———, Film, Art, and the Third Culture: A Naturalized Aesthetics of Film, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. ———, and Thomas E. Wartenberg, eds, Thinking Through Cinema: Film as Philosophy, Oxford: Blackwell 2006. Smith, Paul Julian, Desire Unlimited: The Cinema of Pedro Almodóvar, Third Edition, London: Verso, 2014. Sobchack, Vivian, Carnal Thoughts: Embodiment and Moving Image Culture, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004. Teo, Stephen, Director in Action: Johnnie To and the Hong Kong Action Film, Aberdeen, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press 2007. Tezuka, Yoshihara, Japanese Cinema Goes Global: Filmworkers’ Journeys, Aberdeen: Hong Kong University Press, 2012. Thanouli, Eleftheria, ‘“Art Cinema” Narration: Breaking Down a Wayward Paradigm’, Scope: An Online Journal of Film and Television Studies, 14, June 2009, accessed at https://www.nottingham.ac.uk/scope/documents/2009/june2009/thanouli.pdf. Truffaut, Francois, ‘A Certain Tendency of the French Cinema’, in Bill Nichols, ed., Movies and Methods, Volume 1, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976; first published 1954. Tweedie, James, The Age of New Waves: Art Cinema and the Staging of Globalization, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Vincendeau, Ginette, Jean-Pierre Melville: An American in Paris, London: BFI, 2003. Weber, Max, ‘Class, Status, Party’, in H.H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills, eds, From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, London: Routledge, 1970. Wheatley, Catherine, Michael Haneke’s Cinema: The Ethic of the Image, New York: Berghahn, 2009. ———, Caché, London: BFI, 2011. Wilinsky, Barbara, Sure Seaters: The Emergence of the Art House Cinema, Minneapolis, Minnesota University Press, 2001. Willemen, Paul, ‘The Third Cinema Question: Notes and Reflections’, in Jim Pines and Paul Willemen (eds), Questions of Third Cinema, London: BFI, 1989. ———, ‘Through the Glass Darkly: Cinephilia Reconsidered’ in Looks and Frictions: Essays in Cultural Studies and Film Theory, London: BFI, 1994. Williams, Linda, Screening Sex, Durham: Duke University Press, 2008. Williams, Raymond, Culture and Society 1780–1950, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1961. Wollen, Peter, ‘Godard and Counter Cinema: Vent d’Est’ in Wollen, Readings and Writings: Semiotic Counter-Strategies, London: Verso, 1982, first published 1972. Wong, Cindy Hing-Yuk, Film Festivals: Culture, People, and Power on the Global Screen, New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2011. Xiao, Ying, ‘“Leitmotif”: State, Market, and Postsocialist Film Industry under Neoliberal Globalization’, in Jyostna Kapur and Keith B. Wanger, eds, Neoliberalism and Global Cinema: Capital, Culture, and Marxist Critique, New York: Routledge, 2011.

321

Index

3-Iron (Bin-jip), 284 8 ½, 202 9 Songs, 267 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance (71 Fragmente einer Chronologie des Zufalls), 163, 175 À ma soeur!, 261 Academy Awards/Oscars, 28, 208, 209, 211, 217, 233, 235 Acevedo-Muñoz, Ernesto, 222, 225, 226, 230, 231– 2 Adorno, Theodore, and Max Horkheimer, 51, 85 aesthetic/aestheticisation, 19, 25, 29, 36, 37, 41, 49, 53, 64, 71, 96, 100, 110, 114, 115, 119, 120–1, 122, 131, 138, 143, 172, 180, 192, 196, 198, 201, 202, 204, 208, 209, 211, 226, 228, 238, 242, 249, 266, 268, 269, 277, 293 African cinema, 19, 210 Akerman, Chantal, 94, 106, 109 All About Eve, 218– 19 All About My Mother (Todo sobre mi madre), 216– 29, 231– 2, 233, 234 Almodóvar, Pedro, 29, 34, 76, 216–35, 236, 237, 241, 242, 247, 249, 250, 251, 256 Alonso, Lisandro, 24, 25, 84, 115 Altman, Robert, 175

Amenábar, Alejandro, 210 American indie cinema, 5, 7, 8, 9 – 10, 11–12, 16, 20, 27, 32, 33, 42, 45– 6, 48, 59– 78, 84, 100, 135 –9 Amores Perros, 21 Amour, 70, 164, 209 Anders, Allison, 60 Anderson, Paul Thomas, 175 Andersson, Roy, 76 Andrews, David, 3, 10, 11, 61, 81, 215, 301 n.10 Angelopoulos, Theo, 107, 108– 9, 138 Antonio das Morte, 101 Antonioni, Michelangelo, 13, 24, 25, 67, 69, 106, 109, 110, 124, 129, 163, 167, 179, 201, 217, 237 Argentina, 24, 209 Aristotle, 51, 82 Arnold, Matthew, 50, 52 arthouse c inemas, 9, 11, 21, 24, 33, 37, 38, 43, 75, 162, 187, 262, 263, 286 Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner (Atanarjuat), 119–20 Austria, 76, 85, 141, 160, 177, 210 auteur, auteurism, 17, 19, 22, 26, 29, 54–8, 75, 88, 138, 141–2, 143, 145, 147, 157, 166, 167, 171, 177–8, 203, 204, 214, 216, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237– 9, 241, 253, 286, 288, 293 Autumn Sonata (Höstsonaten), 217

322

Index avant-garde, 32, 61, 64, 68, 84, 98, 100, 102, 104, 106, 112–13, 115, 124, 125, 173, 256, 274, 275, 276 Avatar, 189 Bad Education (La mala educación), 228 Bahrani, Ramin, 68, 138 Baise-moi, 262, 267, 277 Baldick, Chris, 50, 52 Banks, Mark, 47, 298 n.32 Bataille, Georges, 126, 266, 274 Battersby, Christine, 51 –2 Battle in Heaven (Batalla en el cielo), 116–17, 118 Bazin, Andre, 90 –3, 94, 105, 106, 110, 124, 131, 132, 194, 227 Becker, Howard, 43 Bed You Sleep In, The, 71 Belfiore, Eleonora, and Oliver Bennett, 51, 302 n.62 Belgium, 181, 182 Bennet, Tony, Mike Savage, Elizabeth Silva, Alan Warde, Modesto Gayo-Cal and David Wright, 35, 37, 39, 42, 48 Benny’s Video, 151, 152, 153, 163 Bergman, Ingmar, 62, 94, 167, 217, 237 Bertolucci, Bernardo, 13, 201 Best, Victoria, and Martin Crowley, 265–6, 268, 272, 274 Betz, Mark, 75– 6, 84, 216, 258–9, 299 n.12 Beugnet, Martine, 268–9, 270– 2, 311 n.31 Bicycle Thieves (Ladri di biciclette), 92, 93, 259 Bier, Suzanne, 209 Bird, Robert, 95– 7, 111 Blair Witch Project, The, 60 Blow Up, 13 Bollywood, 35, 45 Bordwell, David, 9, 82– 4, 106– 9, 113, 115, 130, 133, 240– 1, 245, 247– 8, 281, 299 n.14

Bourdieu, Pierre, 4, 23, 27, 32 –3, 34, 35, 36, 37, 40, 41, 42, 43, 46, 47, 48, 52, 53, 61, 74, 81, 87, 98, 127, 130, 131, 137, 180, 228, 256, 298 n.29 Brazil, 101 Breaking News (Dai si gin), 250 Brecht, Bertolt, 88, 99, 101, 103, 106, 109, 118, 219, 228, 229, 302 n.60 Breillat, Catherine, 261, 280– 1 Bresson, Robert, 82, 85, 93– 4, 95, 101, 167, 179, 247, 265 Britain, 20, 23, 24 Brown, William, 25, 113, 114, 304 n.59 Cahiers du cinema, 132, 189 Campanella, Juan José, 209 Carey, John, 292 Carroll, Noël, 290, 291, 292, 298 n.55, 298 n.62, 304 n.66 Cassavetes, John, 68 Cavell, Stanley, 98, 128 Celebration, The (Festen), 203 Ceylan, Nuri Bilge, 214 Child, The (L’enfant), 183, 185, 186, 193 China, 77, 78, 114, 253, 296 n.47 Cinema Paradiso, 199 cinephilia, 131– 2, 304 n.68 class, 2, 23, 24, 26, 31, 33 –9, 41, 47, 48, 50, 78, 81, 98, 122, 129, 147, 163, 181, 257 classical art cinema, 3, 6, 11, 64, 68, 73, 75, 82, 84, 100, 137, 176, 180 classical Hollywood style/conventions, 3, 64, 68, 71, 75, 76, 83, 90, 97, 100, 103, 105, 106, 124, 172, 173, 174, 196, 204, 210, 217, 220, 222, 223, 224, 229, 254 classification (of films), 257, 263 Clerks, 60 Clockwork Orange, A, 176 Code Unknown (Code Inconnu), 153, 160, 161, 170, 175 Coen brothers, 60, 249, 300 n.17 Cohen, Jem, 138

323

Positioning Art Cinema D’Lugo, Marvin, 228, 230, 231, 232, 233, 234 Dogme 95, 203, 308 n.23 Douglas, Mary, and Baron Isherwood, 41 Dovey, Lindiwe, 19 Dreyer, Carl, 93, 110 Dumont, Bruno, 95, 184, 265 Dyer, Richard, 298 n.36 Dyer, Richard, and Ginette Vincendeau, 19, 20

Coleman, Lindsay, 267, 282 Collingwood, Robin, 51 Contempt (Le mépris), 13 Cooper, Darius, 25 Cooper, Sarah, 205– 6 Counterfeiters, The (Die Fälscher), 210, 211 Creed, Barbara, 266, 267 Crí!, 233 crime/police genre, 29, 69, 209, 210, 213, 214, 215, 216, 235– 54, 256 Cuba, 101 Culler, Jonathan, 41, 202 cultural capital, 32– 5, 38, 130, 138, 230, 242 Damnation (Kárhozat), 176, 178 Danto, Arthur, 44 Dardenne, Jean-Piere and Luc, 28, 29, 68, 129, 180, 181– 6, 187, 189, 190, 191, 192– 4, 195, 196– 8, 199–201, 202, 203, 204, 205–8, 210, 227 Dark Habits (Entre tinieblas), 224, 233, 234 de Luca, Tiago, 25, 110, 113, 115–19, 120–1, 123, 124, 125, 128, 131, 134, 138, 201 de Luca, Tiago, and Nuno Barradas Jorge, 25, 110, 113, 201, 303 n.16 Death of Mr. Lazarescu, The (Moartea domnului Lazarescu), 70 del Toro, Guillermo, 21 Deleuze, Gilles, 28, 85, 110, 123– 6, 127, 128, 129, 240, 269, 272, 304 n.51, 304 n.59 Denis, Clare, 272 Denmark, 209 Departures (Okuribito), 210 Despentes, Virginie, and Coralie Trinh Thi, 262 Diaz, Lav, 24, 113, 164 Dieutre, Vincent, 269 Dissanayake, Ellen, 293

Earth Trembles, The (La terra trema), 91 Eastern Europe, 27, 176, 177 Eclipse, The (L’Eclisse), 69, 217 Ecstasy (Ekstase), 259 Election (Hak se wui), 251, 253 Elephant, 69, 138, 139 Eliot, T.S., 50 Elisa, My Life, 233 Elsaesser, Thomas, 12, 229, 296 n.62, 309 n.11 Empire, 112 Erice, Victor, 233 Eurocentric/Eurocentrism, 13, 16 Europe/European, 9, 11, 12, 16, 17, 19, 20, 24, 25, 62, 72, 78, 86, 88, 94, 96, 109, 173–8, 157, 158, 159, 161, 162, 176, 198, 238, 258, 259, 260, 261 Evans, Elizabeth Jane, 33, 37 Exiled (Fong juk), 236, 242– 4, 247, 250, 251, 254 exploitation, 17, 29, 253, 255– 88 extreme cinema, 137, 256, 261– 5, 266, 268, 269, 271, 272, 273, 274, 277, 283, 286, 287 Farhadi, Ashgar, 209 Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, 88, 217, 232, 265 Fellini, Federico, 56, 201, 202, 226, 232, film festivals (general or specific examples), 1, 9, 16– 18, 19, 21, 24,

324

Index 25, 40, 43, 60, 71, 73, 75, 76, 87, 110, 136, 143, 145, 156, 157, 158, 159, 208, 215, 217, 233, 234, 241, 251, 252, 258, 261, 262– 3, 264, 285, 287, 288, 295 n.33, 295 n.37, 311 n.21 Finland, 76 Fish, Stanley, 39– 40, 52 Flower of My Secret, The (La flor de mi secreto), 220, 228, 231 Foucault, Michel, 8 Frameup, 246 Frampton, Daniel, 129, 270 France/French, 19, 23– 4, 26, 36, 54, 55, 57, 77, 82, 88, 90, 127, 132, 135, 137, 144, 147, 158, 160, 161, 167, 177, 189, 208, 209, 210, 232, 233, 259, 260, 261, 265, 268, 270, 271, 277 French impressionism, 9 French new wave/nouvelle vague, 9, 12, 99, 214, 254 Frey, Mattias, 189, 256, 262– 5, 266, 267, 283, 286, 287, 288 Fulltime Killer (Chuen jik sat sau), 253 Funny Games (1997, 2007), 2, 3, 65, 69, 151, 153, 160, 164, 168, 169, 171, 176, 188, 214, 221, 280 Galt, Rosalind, 10, 198– 9, 201, 204, 205, 215, 226 Galt, Rosalind, and Karl Schoonover, 10, 14, 16, 20, 25, 26 –7, 61, 82 Gans, Herbert, 33– 4, 47, 53, 98, 180 gender, 51– 2, 77, 173, 205, 223, 224, 226, 228– 9, 231, 232, 251, 256, 270 genre, 3, 5, 12, 17, 29, 73, 99, 107, 142, 154, 156, 158, 159, 160, 168– 9, 189, 212–54 German expressionism, 9, 90 Germany, Year Zero, 91 Germany/German, 133, 160, 161, 168, 210

Gerry, 69, 139 Godard, Jean-Luc, 12, 13, 65, 73, 90, 99, 100–2, 127, 130, 172, 179, 229, 232, 242 Gow, Christopher, 25, 177 Grandrieux, Philippe, 269, 272, 276 Gray, Jonathan, 40, 140, 141 Great Beauty, The (La grande bellezza), 209 Greenaway, Peter, 21 Greenberg, Clement, 51 Grodal, Torben, 257 Grønstad, Asbjørn, 114 Gunning, Tom, 113 Haneke, Michael, 2, 5, 28, 65, 67, 69, 70, 80, 81, 84 –9, 126, 129, 133, 140, 141, 147– 59, 160 –1, 163– 4, 160–72, 173–7, 180, 188, 208, 209, 214, 221, 232, 273, 274, 280, 282 Hark, Tsui, 241 Hartley, Hal, 60 Haynes, Todd, 76, 78, 138 Heise, Tatiana, and Andrew Tudor, 46, 54 Held, Jacob, 267 Hidden (Caché), 28, 86, 141, 147– 61, 162, 163, 164, 165–9, 171, 172, 174, 175, 212 High Heels (Tacones lejanos), 217, 232 Hiroshima Mon Amour, 259 Hodge, Robert, and David Tripp, 5 Hole in My Heart, A (Ett hål i mitt hjärta), 275– 6, 277 Hollinshead, Ailsa, 37–8 Hollywood ‘quality’ film, 7, 44, 61, 108, 300 n.17, 307 n.7, 308 n.21 Hollywood ‘Renaissance’, 12 Holofcener, Nicole, 60 Hong Kong, 76, 216, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 241, 245, 250, 251, 253 Hood, Gavin, 210

325

Positioning Art Cinema Horeck, Tanya, and Tina Kendall, 268, 269, 270, 272, 273, 280, 282 Horror, 73, 155, 158, 213, 214, 216, 283 Hou Hsiao-hsien, 84, 107, 109 Hour of the Wolf (Le temps du loup), 161 Houston, Penelope, 189 Hungary, 2, 69, 161, 177–8 Hunt, The (Jagten), 28, 29, 180, 181, 187–92, 194–6, 199, 201, 202, 203–5, 208, 209, 210, 211 Hutcheon, Linda, 229 Huyssen, Andreas, 104, 230 I Am Curious (Yellow) (Jag är nyfiken – en film i gult), 260 I Don’t Want to Sleep Alone (Hei yan quan), 122 Ida, 209, 211 Idiots, The (Idioterne), 261 I’m Not Scared (Io non ho paura), 199, 215 In a Better World (Hævnen), 209, 211 In the Realm of the Senses (Ai no korîda), 260, 261, 286, 312 n.66 Iñárritu, Alejandro Gonzáles, 21 Inception, 208 India, 25, 45 Ingham, Michael, 238, 248–9, 250 Insdorf, Annette, 62 intensified continuity, 107, 108, 133 Iran, 9, 24, 25, 177, 209 Irreversible, 261, 276 Isle, The (Seom), 284 Italian neorealism, 26, 89 –93, 98, 217 Italy, 19, 93, 160 Jaffe, Ira, 109– 10, 109– 11, 113, 115, 121, 124, 125, 128, 130, 132, 133, 134, 138 Jancsó, Miklós, 106, 109 Japan, 22, 210, 214, 260, 286 Japón, 118 Jarman, Derek, 21

Jarmusch, Jim, 60, 76, 138 Jauss, Hans, 39, 40 Jia Zhangke, 114 Johnston, Josée, and Shyon Baumann, 135, 136–7 Jost, John, 71, 246, 300 n.23 Julien Donkey-Boy, 71 Juno, 70, 300 n.22 Kant, Immanuel, 36, 53, 85, 173, 298 n.62 Kaurismäki, Aki, 76, 118 Keathley, Christian, 131– 2, 304 n.70 Ken Park, 267 Kiarostami, Abbas, 24, 25, 84, 129, 177 Kieslowski, Krzysztof, 161 Kill Bill, 230 –1 Kim Ki-duk, 261, 283, 284, 285, 286, 288 Knight, Julia, 55 Knight of Cups, 71 Koepnick, Lutz, 133– 4 Kolker, Robert Philip, 82, 97– 102, 103, 105, 111, 128, 129, 130, 180, 216, 228 Korine, Harmony, 71 Kovács, András Bálint, 3, 11, 15, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 73, 82, 90, 98, 100, 126, 137, 176, 177– 8, 180, 201, 202, 217, 292, 299 n.17, 300 n.18 Kubrick, Stanley, 176 Kurosawa, Akira, 22, 214, 239, 242, 286 L’argent, 247 Last Days, 69, 139 Last Tango in Paris (Ultimo tango a Parigi), 13, 260 Last Year at Marienbad (L’Année dernière à Marienbad), 69, 99, 101, 102, 202 Leavis, F.R., 50, 52 Lee, Spike, 60 Lee, Vivian, 237, 248, 250

326

Index Let the Right One In (Låt den rätte komma in), 73, 214 Lev, Peter, 12–13 Levinas, Emmanuel, 85, 182, 205 –7, 208 Life of Oharu, The, 108 Lilya 4-Ever, 276 Lim, Song Hwee, 105–6, 110, 121– 3, 124, 128 Limey, The, 69, 300 n.20 Little Miss Sunshine, 70, 300 n.22 Live Flesh (Carne trémula), 231 Lives of Others, The (Das Leben der Anderen), 210, 211 Lost Highway, 71 Lübecker, Nikolaj, 82, 99, 126– 7, 171, 172, 274, 281, 282 Lynch, David, 71, 299 n.17 Mad Detective (San taam), 248, 254 Magnolia, 175 Mai, Joseph, 197 –8, 199, 201, 203, 205, 206 Maîtress, 266, 267 Malick, Terrence, 71 Man from London, The (A Londoni férfi), 144, 154, 161, 214 Man Push Cart, 138 marketing, 1, 3, 6, 7, 15, 17, 18, 28, 57, 140–5, 154 –9, 163, 168, 212, 234, 251–4, 258, 259, 260, 261, 264, 283, 288, 305 n.2 Marks, Laura, 269 Martin, Daniel, 253– 4 Mazdon, Lucy, and Catherine Wheatley, 23, 26, 258, 259 McCann, Ben, and David Sorfa, 85, 86– 8, 89 McGuigan, Jim, 290 Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, 69, 70 melodrama, 29, 34, 45, 52, 92, 97– 8, 100, 125, 180, 187, 190, 191, 192, 194, 209, 210, 211, 216– 35 Mello, Cecília, 114

Melville, Jean-Pierre, 214, 237, 239, 242, 254 Mexico, 21, 118 Miike, Takashi, 264, 286 minimalism, 2, 11, 69, 71, 80, 82, 84, 95, 106, 114, 122, 139, 141, 144, 145, 164, 201, 246, 249, 254 Mission, The (Cheung foh), 236, 239, 240, 241, 242, 246, 248, 250 Mizoguchi, Kenji, 22, 107, 108, 109 modality, 5 –7, 11, 16, 28, 69, 77, 78, 79, 80– 1, 82, 87, 88, 90, 106, 122, 131, 172, 180, 216, 217, 219, 222, 237, 247 modernist/modernism, 1, 3, 5, 6, 10, 11, 15, 27, 28, 60, 62, 63 –7, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 77, 81, 82, 88, 89, 90, 97– 9, 100, 102, 106, 108, 109, 126, 128, 129, 130, 160, 172, 175, 179, 180, 188, 202, 208, 210, 211, 217, 218, 219, 229, 230, 247, 248, 259, 292, 293 Moebius (Moebiuseu), 261, 283– 8 Moodysson, Lucas, 275, 276 Morrey, Douglas, 127 Mosley, Philip, 197, 198, 199, 201, 203, 205–7 Mullarky, John, 128– 9, 304 n.51 Mulvey, Laura, 110, 111, 173, 198 Museum Hours, 138– 9 My Life to Live (Vivre sa vie), 102 Nagib, Lúcia, 13, 119– 20 narrative/narration, 3, 8 – 9, 10, 45, 62, 63, 66, 70, 71, 74, 81, 82 –4, 90, 96, 97, 101, 108, 115, 117, 120, 124, 139, 146, 147–9, 151, 152, 154, 155, 156, 163, 164, 169, 171, 172–3, 175, 177, 180, 181, 185, 186, 187, 190, 194, 201, 202, 203, 204, 214, 215, 219, 222, 227, 228, 229, 238, 241, 242, 249, 251, 252, 267, 268, 269, 271, 276, 277, 279, 281, 283, 284, 294 n.14

327

Positioning Art Cinema Natural Born Killers, 176, 273 Nayar, Sheila, 35 Neale, Steve, 9, 13, 25, 67, 75, 222–3, 260, 300 n.25 Nestingen, Andrew, 118 Neupert, Richard, 57 –8 New German Cinema, 12, 26, 55, 217, 294 n.8 New Iranian Cinema, 25 Newman, Michael, 27, 63, 64, 65, 66, 72, 135, 230 Noé, Gaspar, 261, 264 Northern Lights, 62 Nymphomaniac, 278– 9 omnivore (cultural), 36, 37, 38, 289 Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (Bir Zamanlar Anadolu'da), 214 orientalism, 136, 137, 263, 283, 285, 286, 312 n.63 Orr, John, 66– 7 Ortner, Sherry, 78 Ôshima, Nagisa, 286 Ostrowska, Elzbieta, and Joanna Rydzewska, 178 Over Here, 71 Ozu, Yasujiro, 22, 93, 94, 95, 110, 125, 179, 304 n.54 Paisà, 90– 1 Pan’s Labyrinth (El laberinto del fauno), 214 Park Chan-wook, 73, 286 Passolini, Pierre Paolo, 232, 265 Pawlikowski, Pawel, 209 Pekinpah, Sam, 242 Perkins, Claire, 78 Persona, 217 Peterson, Richard, 36 Peterson, Richard, and Roger Kern, 36, 37 Petzold, Christian, 133 Philippines, 24, 25, 114

Piano Teacher, The (La pianist), 161, 163 Plantinga, Carl, 291 Plato, 51, 198 Poland, 209 Porterfield, Matt, 138 Postman, The (Il Postino), 199 postmodern/postmodernism, 5, 6, 27, 60, 63, 64– 7, 72, 229– 30, 231, 247, 266 Potter, Sally, 21 Pribram, E. Deidre, 62 Promise, The (La Promesse), 182, 184, 186, 191, 197, 205 PTU, 249, 250, 254 Pulp Fiction, 66, 72, 176, 273 Putty Hill, 138 Rancière, Jacques, 119, 121, 122 Rashomon, 286 Ray, Satjajit, 25, 81 realism, 1, 3, 5, 6, 9, 26, 27, 28, 33, 45, 62, 63, 64, 66, 67, 68, 73, 74, 82, 83, 88, 89, 90– 3, 94, 97, 98, 100, 101, 102, 106, 118, 119, 120, 129, 136, 146, 170, 172, 173, 174, 179– 211, 217, 218, 221, 222, 224, 226, 227, 255, 259, 260, 291, 293 Reichardt, Kelly, 68, 138 Remes, Justin, 112–13, 115, 124 Resnais, Alain, 67, 69, 99, 163, 202, 259 reviews/criticism (journalistic), 3, 15, 18, 40, 48, 159, 164–7, 170, 203–4, 253, 260, 278, 295 n.39 Reygadas, Carlos, 84, 115, 116, 118 Richards, I.A., 50 Riddles of the Sphinx, 173 Rocha, Glauba, 101 Romance, 261, 277, 278, 280– 1, 282 Romanian new wave, 9, 68 Rome, Open City (Roma città aperta), 259 Rosetta, 182– 3, 193, 194, 200 Ruzowitzky, Stefan, 210

328

Index Safe, 78, 138 Said, Edward, 136, 312 n.63 Sarris, Andew, 54 Sátántangó, 2, 69, 141, 164 Satyricon, 201 Saura, Carlos, 233 Sayles, John, 60 Schaefer, Eric, 258, 259, 310 n.1 Schrader, Paul, 93– 5, 96 Sea Inside, The (Mar adendtro), 210 Secrets in their Eyes, The (El secreto de sus ojos), 209, 211 Seidl, Ulrich, 76 Sellors, C. Paul, 57, 299 n.65 Seven Samurai (Shichinin no samurai), 239 Seventh Continent, The (Die siebente continent), 69, 163 sex, lies, and videotape, 60 Shaviro, Steven, 269 Shaw, Deborah, 21–2, 214 Shiner, Larry, 49–50, 52, 54, 98, 212 Shohat, Ella, and Robert Stam, 13, 17 Shortbus, 267 Short Cuts, 175 Shusterman, Richard, 292, 293 Silence of Lorna, The (Le silence de Lorna), 191, 199 Simmel, Georg, 35 Sirk, Douglas, 224, 225, 229 slow cinema, 2, 24, 25, 28, 69, 81, 105–39 Smith, Gregg, 184 Smith, Murray, 302 n.60 Smith, Patrick Brian, and Philippa Lovatt, 114 Smith, Paul Julian, 231, 232, 233 Sobchack, Vivian, 120, 269, 270 Soderbergh, Steven, 60, 69 Sokurov, Alexander, 95, 106 Solaris (Solyaris), 69 Solaris (2002), 69 Solás, Humberto, 101 Solondz, Todd, 60, 76, 77

Sombre, 269, 276, 277 Son, The (Le fils), 185– 6, 194, 199, 205 Sorrentino, Paolo, 209 South Korea, 73, 261, 285 Spain, 76, 209, 210, 230, 233 Sparrow (Man jeuk), 248 Spirit of the Beehive, 233 Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter. . . and Spring (Bom yeoreum gaeul gyeoul geurigo bom), 285 Stalker, 69 Stone, Oliver, 176 Stranger than Paradise, 60 Straub, Jean-Marie, and Danièle Huillet, 101 Stray Dogs (Jiao you), 114 Streetcar Named Desire, A, 218– 19, 224, 225, 226 stylisation, stylishness, 176, 192, 200, 201, 202, 240, 241–4, 246, 247, 248, 252, 254 subtitles, 19, 20, 21, 75–6, 144, 145, 154, 160, 162, 166, 187, 215, 216, 277, 284 Sweden, 73, 76, 209, 260, 276 Taiwan, 77 Takita, Yôjirô, 210 Tarantino, Quentin, 230, 242, 244, 248, 254, 299 n.17 Tarkovksy, Andrei, 24, 67, 69, 95– 7, 106, 109, 111, 179 Tarr, Béla, 2, 5, 24, 28, 69, 79– 80, 84, 94, 115, 129, 133, 139, 141– 7, 154, 161, 162, 164, 167, 168, 176– 8, 214, 219 Tenebrae Lessons (Lec ons de ténèbres), 269 Teo, Stephen, 236– 40, 244, 245, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250, 251 Tezuka, Yoshiharu, 286 Thailand, 24 Third Cinema, 22, 198 Three Colours trilogy, 161

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Positioning Art Cinema Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! (Átame!), 228 To, Johnny, 29, 76, 216, 235–54, 256 To The Wonder, 71 Tree of Life, The, 71 Triad Election/Election 2 (Hak se wui yi wo wai kwai), 251 Trilling, Lionel, 189 Trilogy: The Weeping Meadow (Trilogia To livadi pou dakryze), 108 Truffaut, Francois, Tsai Ming-liang, 25, 106, 114, 115, 121, 122–3, 284 Tsotsi, 210, 211 Turin Horse, The (A Torinói ló), 2, 28, 69, 79– 80, 140, 141 –7, 154, 156, 159, 160, 161, 162, 164, 167, 176–7 Tweedie, James, 77, 78, 181 Twentynine Palms, 265 Two Days, One Night (Deux jours, une nui), 208 Van Sant, Gus, 69, 71, 115, 138, 305 n.87 Vent d’Est (Wind from the East), 172 Vinterberg, Thomas, 180, 187, 203, 204 Vive l’amour (Ai qing wan sui), 122– 3

von Donnersmarck, Florian Henckel, 210 von Trier, Lars, 88, 171, 203, 261, 278–9, 287 Warhol, Andy, 112 Weber, Max, 35 Weerasethakul, Apichatpong, 24, 25, 84 Wendy and Lucy, 138 Werckmeister Harmonies, 141 Wheatley, Catherine, 152, 160, 172–4, 175, 274, 282 White Ribbon, The (Das weisse Band – Eine deutsche Kindergeschichte), 87, 160, 164 Wilinsky, Barbara, 11, 24, 33, 74, 103, 216 Willemen, Paul, 22, 304 n.70 Williams, Linda, 257, 260, 269, 276, 278 Williams, Raymond, 49 Wimmer, Leila, 277 Wolff, Janet, 293 Wollen, Peter, 172– 3, 198 Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios), 231, 233 Woo, John, 237, 241, 252, 253, 254 Working Girls, 68 world cinema, 13, 16, 19, 21, 119

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