It almost seems futile to add to the vast confabulation this film has generated since its emergence onto the film scene in 1932. Unfortunately, this fact makes it hard to try and watch Tierra Sin Pan with an open mind. To try to pretend I have not read any of the critiques or analyses is an impossible test of the critical mind, however, being forthright about it may at least clarify my perspective. Hopefully, it also provides a background as to why I'm less inclined to discuss the film's content as much as it's structure and place in documentary film's history.
In Lucien Taylor's "Iconophobia," he presents the arguments of famous film critics who believe that film "imposes itself through temporary suspension of disbelief" (Taylor 35). Critics such as Metz, Bloch and Hastrup believe "filmmakers seem not to recognize their works as constructed" (Taylor 35). Tierra Sin Pan seems to exemplify the opposite. Just as the genre of Surrealism was a reaction towards a constructed, methodical, logically ordered world, so too were Surrealist films a reaction to the rigid idea of film's rationality and strict confinement of reality. Tierra Sin Pan did this not by some radical means of experimental filmic approaches, but by employing the very epitomizing methods that have been "holding back" (ethnographic) documentary in the first place. Banuel used a strictly "Voice of God" narration to construct the reality of film, mimicking the pretext of other films before or of the time that seemed to keep ethnographic film's viability as a legitimate venue for capturing cultural understanding. This produced a sardonic and satirical stand against documentary's leading criticism. As it turns out, filmmakers are aware of the constructed nature of the medium, and what's more, their role in that construction as well as the audience's perception not just through "suspension of disbelief" but in relation to other comparable texts (ie. films or writings).
It is a film that implores the audience to think about the action of viewing films, to be aware of the constructiveness of meaning making. There is a disconnect between the signifiers and the signified as a choice of the filmmaker, and that is the point of departure that a critical viewer will have to discover, and construct meaning on his or her own.
Tierra Sin Pan (Luis Bañuel 1932)
Taylor, Lucien. 1996. Iconophobia. Transition, no. 69: 64-88.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Two Brushes
It is always an auspicious event when one gets to view a documentary with the documentarian in the room, if for no other reason, the filmmaker can provide the context so often lacking in this art form. That is not to say film needs context, in fact most great works of art can "speak for themselves" or "stand alone" if you will. However, most good documentaries provoke a viewer (an inquiring mind) into asking questions; questions about the content of the film, or even questions about the process of making the film in general. Two Brushes is an award-winning short documentary film made by Chera Kee and Helen Stone. Only C. Kee was present at the screening, as H. Stone lives in China.
The film was a part of an overseas collaboration project between two Universities (one in the States and the other in China) where each student was paired with an an individual from the other University. Chera Kee was paired with Helen Stone in the summer of 2006 in Beijing, China where the two produced a short film about a well known Beijing artist, Duan Zhengqu.
The title, Two Brushes, is an expression in Chinese. To say that someone has two brushes is to say that they have talent. The title was duplicitous in its nomenclatural nature because of the way it described Duan Zhengqu, and also served as a metaphor for the filmmakers collaboration. They were each a brush coming together in the end to make a solid documentary.
Hearing Chera Kee's side of the story, provided a lesson in the art of filmmaking in general. The two filmmakers apparently did not get along until the end of the production when they realized they actually had a great project, as Chera Kee said, "tends to smooth over any personality situation." Focusing on Duan Zhengqu, a modern artist known for his Western style of paint, the two saw the artist in very different ways. Stone being native to Beijing, insisted on Duan Zhengqu's being a "villager" while Kee's impression was that he was a "modern" man. The argument between the two provided the investigatorial template for the film.
Through scrutinizing his "modern" artwork, Chera Kee was able to see his calligraphic influence coming through. This is where the editing of the film was most affective, showing his calligraphy and then close ups of the bold brush strokes in his modern paintings, mimicking those of his calligraphy. Shots of Duan Zhengqu, and his entourage living in Beijing were quite convincing of his modernity; he lived in a multimillion dollar flat and was constantly on his cell-phone or computer. Stone saw through the modern setting of his Beijing flat, and was convinced by the cultural subtlelties only someone grown up in China would pick up on. He was a villager because of "the way he smoked his cigarettes" and "the way his shoulders were crouched." In the seminal scene of the documentary, the filmmakers confronted him about their inquiry, and he declared himself to be a villager at heart.
The questions that were being asked in this film were having to do with modernity. When confronted with this word "modern," both the Chinese people involved were at a standstill. In their view, Duan Zhengqu was a villager, and therefore not modern. In Kee's view, he was the epitome of modern. So, in the end, the viewer is left with the ultimate answer, which is a typical postmodern theme, one of multiplicitous or fractured identity. Just like two brushes representing the two filmmakers that came together to make one film, two identities, "modern" and "villager" are embodied by Duan Zhengqu. This notion is especially, and more graphically displayed in his art.
cheers
Two Brushes (Chera Kee and Helen Stone, 2006).
The film was a part of an overseas collaboration project between two Universities (one in the States and the other in China) where each student was paired with an an individual from the other University. Chera Kee was paired with Helen Stone in the summer of 2006 in Beijing, China where the two produced a short film about a well known Beijing artist, Duan Zhengqu.
The title, Two Brushes, is an expression in Chinese. To say that someone has two brushes is to say that they have talent. The title was duplicitous in its nomenclatural nature because of the way it described Duan Zhengqu, and also served as a metaphor for the filmmakers collaboration. They were each a brush coming together in the end to make a solid documentary.
Hearing Chera Kee's side of the story, provided a lesson in the art of filmmaking in general. The two filmmakers apparently did not get along until the end of the production when they realized they actually had a great project, as Chera Kee said, "tends to smooth over any personality situation." Focusing on Duan Zhengqu, a modern artist known for his Western style of paint, the two saw the artist in very different ways. Stone being native to Beijing, insisted on Duan Zhengqu's being a "villager" while Kee's impression was that he was a "modern" man. The argument between the two provided the investigatorial template for the film.
Through scrutinizing his "modern" artwork, Chera Kee was able to see his calligraphic influence coming through. This is where the editing of the film was most affective, showing his calligraphy and then close ups of the bold brush strokes in his modern paintings, mimicking those of his calligraphy. Shots of Duan Zhengqu, and his entourage living in Beijing were quite convincing of his modernity; he lived in a multimillion dollar flat and was constantly on his cell-phone or computer. Stone saw through the modern setting of his Beijing flat, and was convinced by the cultural subtlelties only someone grown up in China would pick up on. He was a villager because of "the way he smoked his cigarettes" and "the way his shoulders were crouched." In the seminal scene of the documentary, the filmmakers confronted him about their inquiry, and he declared himself to be a villager at heart.
The questions that were being asked in this film were having to do with modernity. When confronted with this word "modern," both the Chinese people involved were at a standstill. In their view, Duan Zhengqu was a villager, and therefore not modern. In Kee's view, he was the epitome of modern. So, in the end, the viewer is left with the ultimate answer, which is a typical postmodern theme, one of multiplicitous or fractured identity. Just like two brushes representing the two filmmakers that came together to make one film, two identities, "modern" and "villager" are embodied by Duan Zhengqu. This notion is especially, and more graphically displayed in his art.
cheers
Two Brushes (Chera Kee and Helen Stone, 2006).
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Mother Dao the Turtlelike
A promising title for a supposedly ethnographic film. I would recommend watching Mother Dao without any background or context as I did, if only out of respect for the one thing that is clear of the filmmaker's desires; Vincent Monnikekendham withholds the informative portion of the film until the very end.
However, in order to save you I would say 90 minutes of your life, I'll go ahead and tell you what this film is. You will have to excuse my terseness, I was told the film would be 58 minutes upon viewing, and vividly remember checking the clock every two minutes or so once I felt that a solid hour had indeed gone by. Now, had I been talking about a good film just now, I would have said slipped by, a great film this discussion would be moot. Unfortunately, these days, that mootness is few and far in between.
As this is my first real entry in this film journal, and given the medium by which my verse is being delivered, I should probably be reflexive (I'm an anthropologist in 2010 after all) and say outright how I feel about film and time in general. Now, the following is explicitly my opinion, it is not based in any scientific or evidentiary data. I believe the medium of film is very special, in that it has an almost magical quality that allows for complete consummation of the viewer by the art form. A viewer can become enveloped by a film there in the darkness of the screening room. It is a very powerful thing of which I speak, and therefore, should not be taken lightly. This is why I believe a filmmaker has a responsibility to the audience, because life is so precious, time is not something one needs to waste on being consumed in a bad way, or worse and more to the point, longer than necessary. Because film can affect so greatly, every moment counts, and I do not want to spend any time consumed in a film that does not measure up to the way I value my time. Although that sounds utterly pretentious, I want to make it clear that I do not value my time unreasonably higher than the next schmuck. How often does one hear, "yeah, that movie could have been great, but it was just too long?" Even the "bad films" that I have come across in my time as a visual anthropologist that were under twenty minutes were really not "bad" at all; I probably just didn't appreciate the content, which is purely subjective. However, a "bad" LONG film is not just a subjective matter.
Sorry for the tangent. Back to Mother Dao the Turtlelike. The film, at first, is a brilliant compilation of images set in what appears to be the East-Asian islands. It is beautiful black and white footage of different groups of people going about there daily lives. The sound is what I noticed began to have a pattern. First is chanting (non-sync), then there is a narration (non-sync) then there is natural sound that slowly gets louder (sync) making these images appear to be at last telling a story, one which the audience should know at this point needs to be anticipated. The sound has been building, so anxiety should be felt, etc. Then, just when you think a narrative is going to be constructed, the cycle of sound starts over again, with the images staying at a kind of random pace. People in the jungle, people in the village, etc. This reminded me of Reassemblage, only without the meta-narrative calling attention to the structure of ethnographic film-making in general, the thing that makes Reassemblage what it is (to be fair, I even thought Reassemblage could have been twenty minutes shorter and achieved the same brilliance).
Then the images start to show a pattern of sorts, and you think "Aha, this film is about the evils of colonization and imperialism." Which is a perfectly reasonably post-colonialistic point to be making. Then the images just get repetitive. Again, this is not about the content, at this point, I'm speaking of time management. After all, we are not discussing a complex issue here, there is no other point I'm gleaning from this "assemblage" of pictures other than, "what happened to the natives is bad." After about an hour of this, out of nowhere, there is a series of images doing quite the opposite, showing the natives being brutal and at times "savage." This goes on for the rest of the film, but at this point I have completely lost interest in gleaning any other message from the film, feeling utterly taken advantage of for the past 40 minutes of my life.
Once the screen goes black, the message of what this film was illuminates the blank screen. The film was put together from over 200 propaganistic films from that period. The filmmakers indeed wanted to "resignify colonialist imagery" (Griffiths) something that crossed my mind, but did not stay there once I felt the film was dragging on and on. I even thought perhaps that it was the opposite point, perhaps calling us all savages. As far as a meta-commentary "on the politics of cross-cultural representation" (Griffiths) a very important theme to explore in Visual Anthropology and Ethnographic Film in general, the intellectualism and the cultural critique was lost once the film became repetitive, random and exceedingly unnecessary. This film could have been great if the images and sound were carefully chosen. Bigger is not always better, more sometimes is just more, and in this case, more was just excess.
cheers
Griffiths, Alison. 2001. Wondrous Difference: Cinema, Anthropology and Turn of the Century Visual Culture. Columbia University Press.
Mother Dao the Turtlelike ( Vincent Monnikekendham, 1995).
Reassemblage (Trinh T. Minh-ha, 1982).
However, in order to save you I would say 90 minutes of your life, I'll go ahead and tell you what this film is. You will have to excuse my terseness, I was told the film would be 58 minutes upon viewing, and vividly remember checking the clock every two minutes or so once I felt that a solid hour had indeed gone by. Now, had I been talking about a good film just now, I would have said slipped by, a great film this discussion would be moot. Unfortunately, these days, that mootness is few and far in between.
As this is my first real entry in this film journal, and given the medium by which my verse is being delivered, I should probably be reflexive (I'm an anthropologist in 2010 after all) and say outright how I feel about film and time in general. Now, the following is explicitly my opinion, it is not based in any scientific or evidentiary data. I believe the medium of film is very special, in that it has an almost magical quality that allows for complete consummation of the viewer by the art form. A viewer can become enveloped by a film there in the darkness of the screening room. It is a very powerful thing of which I speak, and therefore, should not be taken lightly. This is why I believe a filmmaker has a responsibility to the audience, because life is so precious, time is not something one needs to waste on being consumed in a bad way, or worse and more to the point, longer than necessary. Because film can affect so greatly, every moment counts, and I do not want to spend any time consumed in a film that does not measure up to the way I value my time. Although that sounds utterly pretentious, I want to make it clear that I do not value my time unreasonably higher than the next schmuck. How often does one hear, "yeah, that movie could have been great, but it was just too long?" Even the "bad films" that I have come across in my time as a visual anthropologist that were under twenty minutes were really not "bad" at all; I probably just didn't appreciate the content, which is purely subjective. However, a "bad" LONG film is not just a subjective matter.
Sorry for the tangent. Back to Mother Dao the Turtlelike. The film, at first, is a brilliant compilation of images set in what appears to be the East-Asian islands. It is beautiful black and white footage of different groups of people going about there daily lives. The sound is what I noticed began to have a pattern. First is chanting (non-sync), then there is a narration (non-sync) then there is natural sound that slowly gets louder (sync) making these images appear to be at last telling a story, one which the audience should know at this point needs to be anticipated. The sound has been building, so anxiety should be felt, etc. Then, just when you think a narrative is going to be constructed, the cycle of sound starts over again, with the images staying at a kind of random pace. People in the jungle, people in the village, etc. This reminded me of Reassemblage, only without the meta-narrative calling attention to the structure of ethnographic film-making in general, the thing that makes Reassemblage what it is (to be fair, I even thought Reassemblage could have been twenty minutes shorter and achieved the same brilliance).
Then the images start to show a pattern of sorts, and you think "Aha, this film is about the evils of colonization and imperialism." Which is a perfectly reasonably post-colonialistic point to be making. Then the images just get repetitive. Again, this is not about the content, at this point, I'm speaking of time management. After all, we are not discussing a complex issue here, there is no other point I'm gleaning from this "assemblage" of pictures other than, "what happened to the natives is bad." After about an hour of this, out of nowhere, there is a series of images doing quite the opposite, showing the natives being brutal and at times "savage." This goes on for the rest of the film, but at this point I have completely lost interest in gleaning any other message from the film, feeling utterly taken advantage of for the past 40 minutes of my life.
Once the screen goes black, the message of what this film was illuminates the blank screen. The film was put together from over 200 propaganistic films from that period. The filmmakers indeed wanted to "resignify colonialist imagery" (Griffiths) something that crossed my mind, but did not stay there once I felt the film was dragging on and on. I even thought perhaps that it was the opposite point, perhaps calling us all savages. As far as a meta-commentary "on the politics of cross-cultural representation" (Griffiths) a very important theme to explore in Visual Anthropology and Ethnographic Film in general, the intellectualism and the cultural critique was lost once the film became repetitive, random and exceedingly unnecessary. This film could have been great if the images and sound were carefully chosen. Bigger is not always better, more sometimes is just more, and in this case, more was just excess.
cheers
Griffiths, Alison. 2001. Wondrous Difference: Cinema, Anthropology and Turn of the Century Visual Culture. Columbia University Press.
Mother Dao the Turtlelike ( Vincent Monnikekendham, 1995).
Reassemblage (Trinh T. Minh-ha, 1982).
Monday, January 18, 2010
Statement of Purpose
I will be critiquing/analyzing a series of films from an anthropological perspective. The bulk of the series will be ethnographic films, but social documentaries and even commercial films might be viewed and critiqued as well.
cheers
cheers
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