Cinema of Compassion
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[W]hat is the good of film experience?
-- Siegfried Kracauer (1)
Directly one looked up and saw them, what
she called ‘being in love’ flooded them. They became part of that unreal but
penetrating and exciting universe which is the world seen through the eyes of
love. The sky stuck to them; the birds sang through them. And, what was even
more exciting, she felt, too, as she saw Mr. Ramsay bearing down and
retreating, and Mrs. Ramsay sitting with James in the window and the cloud
moving and the tree bending, how life, from being made up of little separate
incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which
bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.
-- Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse (2)
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1. Siegfried
Kracauer, Theory of Film: The Redemption
of Physical Reality (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997), p.
285.
2. Virginia
Woolf, To the Lighthouse (New York,
NY: Harcourt, Inc., 1981), pp. 46-47.
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Think of the
repeated image of the landscape of war in Terrence Malick’s The Thin Red Line (1998): the waving
green grass that remains on the hills as soldiers rush forward to their deaths.
In one long sequence that oscillates between the peaceful changing light on the
hill and the harrowing deaths of men who cross it, we cut to a soldier hidden
in the blades as he catches his breath. ‘Calm down, calm down, calm down, calm
down’, Captain Staros (Elias Koteas) mechanically entreats, and we cut to men
rushing through the grass, killed one after the other. We return, again and
again, to these images of the green hills – so much so that, upon its
insistence, the grass seems infinite, endless. Though definitively ephemeral in
its individual strands that surround the gasping soldier, its masses together
invoke a state of permanence, mooring us in the earth.
Because of
the image of this landscape’s insistence on life, we are in turn violently
unmoored by the soldiers’ frantic movement across it. This contrast, these
opposing rhythms, form an exhortation that the film continuously extends. There
is the grass waving on the hills. And there come the bodies of soldiers,
charging forward into their deaths. Thus, the cyclical permanence of the
natural world juts against the transience of human life. And together, as in
Lily Briscoe’s narration above, these ‘separate incidents’ of life ‘become
curled and whole like a wave’. In watching the soldiers run forward on the hill,
whether en masse in an ascent, or as they are each hit by gunfire with their
bodies flung forward and back, I experience the sensation that she here
describes: the wave of images bears me up with it and throws me down with it,
‘there, with a dash on the beach’. And in this dash, borne of the clash between
the natural world and the transient human bodies rushing through it, comes the
potential for our own magnified perception – our meditation on being – and, in
that, an invitation to feel with what we see.
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In attempting
to define what she means by ‘moments of being’ (as opposed to the ‘cotton wool’
of ‘non-being’), Virginia Woolf tells a story of a fight with her brother as a
child: ‘We were pommelling each other with our fists. Just as I raised my fist
to hit him, I felt: why hurt another person? I dropped my hand instantly, and
stood there, and let him beat me. I remember the feeling. It was a feeling of
hopeless sadness’. (3) She goes on to describe another instance: ‘I was looking
at the flower bed by the front door; “That is the whole”, I said. I was looking
at a plant with a spread of leaves; and it seemed suddenly plain that the
flower itself was a part of the earth; that a ring enclosed what was the
flower; and that was the real flower; part earth; part flower’. (4) These
stories appeal to me not just for their revelation of the complexity of feeling
in and of themselves, but also in the connections between the revelations: the
young Virginia’s refusal to inflict pain on her brother seems a result of her
recognition of their shared rootedness (‘another person’), not merely as
siblings but as people together in the world (‘part earth; part flower’). This
is the shared rootedness which film also has the potential to show us.
Siegfried Kracauer would call this phenomenon an element of film’s endlessness,
its capacity to record and reveal the ‘flow of life’. As he writes, ‘it is as
if the medium were animated by the chimerical desire to establish the continuum
of physical existence’. (5) He later notes film’s ‘affinities’ with photography
and, in turn, the world it records:
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3. Virginia Woolf (ed. Jeanne Schulkind), ‘A Sketch of the Past’, Moments of Being (New York, NY:
Harcourt, Inc., 1985), p. 71.
4. Ibid., p. 71.
5. Kracauer, p. 63
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Due to the continuous influx of the psychophysical
correspondences thus aroused, they suggest a reality which may fittingly be
called ‘life’. This term as used here denotes a kind of life which is still
intimately connected, as if by an umbilical cord, with the material phenomena
from which its emotional and intellectual contents emerge. Now films tend to
capture physical existence in its endlessness. (6)
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6. Ibid., p. 71. |
I consider
these possibilities of rootedness and of the extension of life – its
‘endlessness’ – through a series of images from three contemporary films. My
choice of films and images is somewhat arbitrary, grounded in this context in
which they come together; but they represent broader trends in contemporary
independent and global cinema that invite us to pause and reflect on
connections between our natural world and our social relations in it – what
Kracauer terms ‘psychophysical correspondences’. The visual movement between
the natural and social worlds in these films inherently suggests a shared
rootedness both between them and between us as social beings, all the while
enabling us to feel and then to understand a rhythm of being.
***
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This rhythm
of being is rooted in film’s ability to record and reveal movement: Malick’s
waving grass, the soldier’s running bodies. And both a sense of this rootedness
and its unmooring comes again and again in the soldiers’ encounters with the
natural world. Early in The Thin Red Line,
as a private waits on the hill for further battle, he runs his fingers across a
leaf attached to a blade of grass and observes it folding into itself,
seemingly refusing the violence that surrounds it, instead finding a protective
shell in and of itself. As Kracauer repeatedly suggests, movement is itself
indicative of being. In the case of this leaf of grass, even the slightest
movement recorded and projected is evidence of a life force, or even a visual
manifestation of breath. Indeed, film’s revelation of the world is what Gaston
Bachelard, after Baudelaire, would say is ‘vast’. Vast is a declaration of immensity, the immensity of possibility.
This possibility is evident in our vocalisation of the word itself. As he
writes, ‘The word vast, then, is a
vocable of breath. It is placed on our breathing, which must be slow and calm’.
(7) The calm transmitted through the word, as in Baudelaire’s ‘Correspondences’,
is ‘infinite’. Bachelard continues: ‘With it, we take infinity into our lungs,
and through it, we breathe cosmically, far from human anguish’. (8)
I love an
image that makes me conscious of my own breath, whether it comes in a gasp, a
steady rhythm, or a moment in which my breath literally stops. Our own
breathing with the image is part of film’s (chimerical) animation of the life
before us. (9) Indeed, its quality of movement – and therefore its
demonstration of life itself – animates even the inanimate, as we take in the
images on the screen. Woolf also described this phenomenon, possible in our
very acts of perception and attention, again, in To the Lighthouse. Here Mrs Ramsay considers the world before her,
looking out at the lighthouse:
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7. Gaston Bachelard (trans. Maria Jolas), The Poetics of Space (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), p. 196. Earlier,
he writes: ‘Here we discover that immensity in the intimate domain is
intensity, an intensity of being, the intensity of a being evolving in a vast
perspective of intimate immensity’, p. 193.
8. Ibid., p. 197.
9. Editors' Note: See Ross Gibson, ‘The Searchers – Dismantled’, Rouge, no. 7 (2005), |
It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant
to inanimate things; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt
they became one; that they knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational tenderness
thus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself. (10)
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10. Woolf, To the Lighthouse,
pp. 63-4.
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It is not
simply that film captures an animated world, a world in motion; film animates. It animates the
inanimate: the still, the unmoving, the concrete. It reveals that which is
already moving as an animated body. And it animates us as we watch.
***
Now think of
the ocean in Niki Caro’s Whale Rider (2002): the film opens with an image purely of the water. The camera does not
move. The water simply moves before us. We are both grounded and unmoored by
this image. We do not know where we
are; but we know we are with the water. Soon we move from the surface of the
water to a place under the water, within the water, and a young girl’s voice
rises out of the image: In the old days,
the land felt a great emptiness. It was waiting, waiting to be filled up,
waiting for someone to love it, waiting for a leader.
This sense of
waiting is an entreaty – to be filled up, to be loved, to be led. In the film,
this is a moment in which we are entreated to look and listen. We are invited
to feel with the image before us. So,
in response to the emptiness – or the immensity – of the moving water, we are
next placed immediately in another scene: a hospital, a woman in labour, her husband
at her side. The camera – an inanimate thing – is unsteady. In its movement, it
reveals the urgency of this scene of birth, of imminent death. It begins in
slow motion without synchronous sound; as the tempo increases, sound comes into
being with the mother’s cries in pain. Her husband wraps his hand around her
head, caressing her hair; the doctor’s hand then moves her hair away from her
face as well. The young girl’s voice returns to direct us, to hold us first in
this scene and then as we move between it and the ocean and back again: And he came on the back of the whale, a man
to lead the people, our ancestor. Paikea. But now we were waiting for the firstborn
of the new generation … for the boy who would be chief. As we return to the
scene of labour, the wife’s condition becomes increasingly urgent, and the
husband looks startled, bereft, helpless nearly to the point of being absent
from the scene (and in a cut to his face filling the frame alone, he is in a
sense absent from her). She does not look at him or at the doctor. Finally we
see nothing but the mother’s face in extreme close-up; now the camera takes the
place of those hands that moments before caressed her. It moves towards her,
without actually touching her. Its absence – at least its lack of touch – is
our absence; we can only witness her last breaths as she utters her child’s
name: ‘Paikea. Paikea’. In response to her entreaty, the child’s face appears
as the mirror opposite to its mother: her mouth is open as if to cry but
instead is just starting to take breath. This image is vast in its immensity
and its intimacy of being. Watching it, my own breath stops, stutters. The girl’s
voice returns as the camera moves from the child’s mouth to its eye, opening
wide: There was no gladness when I was
born. My twin brother died and took our mother with him.
And this is
the story of the film, its rhythms: an emptiness that needs to be filled.
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In Rhythmanalysis – a meditation on rhythms
and patterns in space, of time, of thought – Henri Lefebvre describes the
alternating movement between pleasure and pain:
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Pleasure and joy demand a re-commencement. They await it; yet it escapes. Pain returns. It repeats itself, since the repetition of pleasure gives rise to pain(s). However, joy and pleasure have a presence, whereas pain results from an absence (that of a function, an organ, a person, an object, a being). Joy and pleasure are, they are being; not so suffering. (11) | 11. Henri Lefebvre (trans. Stuart Elden), Rhythmanalysis: Space, Time and Everyday Life (London: Continuum,
2004), p. 12.
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Pain is most
evident in the loss and thus the absence of life. Certainly, that is the case
as Whale Rider opens. But, at the
same time, pain and absence are enacted together in the presence of Paikea
(Keisha Castle-Hughes). She does not exist as the thing that her grandfather Koro (Rawiri Paratene) wanted; she is a
reminder of that which is not there
(a boy, a future male leader). This pain of absence is inscribed on her body
before us: in her tears, for instance, as she asks her father, ‘Why doesn’t he
want me?’; or as she recites a speech in honour of her grandfather Koro who is,
at that moment, absent from the space of the audience.
Yet her
grandfather is also there before us, in the scene which alternates with Paikea’s
speech. In fact, the sequence begins with Koro hearing the cry of the whales,
then shifts to a children’s dance performance, Paikea front and center. In her
speech that follows, Paikea tells us the story of her ancestors and the
contemporary expectations: ‘But I was not the leader my grandfather was
expecting, and by being born I broke the line back to the ancient ones, but it
wasn’t anybody’s fault. It just happened’. And she is answered by her
grandfather on the beach, who looks at an immensity of trapped whales between
sand and water and asks: ‘Who is to blame?’ We return to Paikea, as if to answer
his question, but she says, ‘We can learn that if the knowledge is given to
everyone, then we can have lots of leaders, so that everyone will be strong,
not just the ones that have been chosen. Because sometimes, even if you’re the
leader and you need to be strong, you can get tired...’ Crying, she finishes
her speech, ending with the ancestor Paikea’s chant. Certainly these
alternating scenes, with their alternating dialogue, are rhythms as well, ones
which – as a call and response – demand a return to Paikea’s imagination of the
future. In these scenes and those that follow, pain repeats itself, and then
joy re-commences.
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***
Repetition in Whale
Rider invokes difference; for Lefebvre, such alterity is essential to
rhythm. In this way, ‘rhythm implies a certain memory’; it ‘preserves both the
measure that initiates the process and the recommencement of this process with
modifications, therefore with its multiplicity and plurality’. (12) This is the
rhythm, too, of The Thin Red Line,
especially the daydreams of Jack Bell (Ben Chaplin) of his wife Marty (Miranda
Otto) back home; his memories become our own, in their repetition across the
film. His reveries begin before the soldiers embark from their ship and
continue as they land and climb the hill. His third reverie comes amidst an
ascent. As the US troops seem to be in a holding pattern on the grassy hill
below a substantial Japanese rampart, a soldier suddenly appears in a crazed
frenzy, having lost a dozen men. Refusing to be touched, he escapes the group
he enters into and appears alone in a medium close-up, centre screen. Taking a
handful of the earth, he slowly drops it before him, muttering, ‘Dirt. We’re
all just dirt’. Following this desperate moment, Jack is ordered to climb the
hill alone to gauge the enemy’s position. He looks towards us; with a cut, he
moves sideways, from right to left, across the screen; with another cut, he
moves from the centre forward, his back to us; and with another, he emerges in
the grass, moving towards us again. Into his movement across the grassy hill
comes an image of Jack’s back to us, his wife’s head buried in his neck and
shoulders, as they glide in an embrace. The cuts in this scene are similarly
directional to those of Jack’s manoeuvres on the hill: their hands and faces
crawl across the screen, towards and away from each other’s bodies. Then from a
shot of a curtain waving away from an open window, we cut to another scene:
Jack’s wife beckons him to follow her into the ocean, her voice-over
asynchronously calling him, ‘Come out, come out where I am’. And here again we
cut to an imperceptible body moving impossibly fast through the grass. With one
more cut, Jack faces us again, and our view shifts to what he sees on the hill.
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12. Lefebvre, p. 79.
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His
reconnaissance complete (he has spied five guns in a Japanese bunker), the film
pauses again, almost exactly midway. A series of images of soldiers at
semi-rest ensues: first we see Witt (Jim Caviezel), the near-central figure in
a film that largely refuses such character-driven mooring, in conversation with
Sgt Welsh (Sean Penn), who insists that, in spite of what he might believe,
Witt has ‘only this world’. Next we see another soldier erupting on a hillside,
challenging his own imminent death (is it the one who held the dirt in his
hands, moments before?). And then we cut to Jack, lying in the grass. His head
against the ground, we might envision Woolf’s flower (‘part earth; part flower’),
as if Jack himself were bred of the earth. And in this connection to the
natural world begins another reverie which seems a recommencement of the last
one. His own voice now beckons his wife across time and space: ‘We. We
together. One being’. He grasps her from behind. Their bodies move like the
rhythm of breath itself, fluttering towards one another and away, his hands near
breasts, heart, lungs, the very site of her breathing; with the refusal of
contact a kiss would bring, they sustain an infinite state of desire. Together
they are suspended in a rhythm of intimate being – held together at the
forearms and below the waists yet simultaneously leaning away from one another.
In fact, in that movement of leaning away is their very suspension together.
The space between and around them is immensity, the intimacy of their being.
Jack exhorts: ‘Flow together like water, ‘til I can’t tell you from me’. We
leave them for a moment, returning not to the battlefield but the sky above it,
until Jack whispers, ‘I drink you. Now, now’, and we see his wife in the bath,
her back to us, Jack’s hand caressing her. ‘Now’ returns us to the grassy hill
again, to be followed by a shot of Staros, wearily eating his dinner from a
can, looking upwards at the moon, as his own voice-over whispers, ‘You’re my
light, my guide’, itself a return to his earlier prayer: ‘Let me not betray
you, let me not betray my men’.
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Perhaps the
problem with love, whether Jack’s for his wife or Staros’ for his soldiers, is
that it illuminates an emptiness waiting to be filled: an entreaty. (It is an
entreaty vocalised in the repetition of words uttered by Jack and his wife:
‘come out, come out’, ‘we, we’, ‘now, now’. And it is another kind of entreaty
in the echo of the soldier’s announcement of ‘dirt, dirt’ or Staros’ ‘my light,
my guide’.) The sensation of loving someone or something responds to that
entreaty and, in its insistence, our bodies feel fuller – of breath, of blood,
of that which moves through us. The Thin
Red Line, like Whale Rider, makes
visible this emptiness, and the hope of it being filled. But our returns to the
possibility of fulfillment are a recommencement of both sadness and
satisfaction, and this is the rhythm of desire. As such, we feel, with the film, the register of an
inseparability of being with the world.
*******
Film theory rooted in the 1970s and since, developed
through psychoanalytic and ideological analysis in particular, enabled us to
see the processes of identification designed by classical Hollywood film. Based
therefore in questions of power – the spectator’s unconscious sense of power in
relation to the image and the cinematic apparatus’ power over the spectator –
this theoretical approach, still relevant today, locks us in a struggle with
the image. Films like The Thin Red Line or Debra Granik’s Winter’s Bone (2010)
offer other possibilities.
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Unlocked from the inflexibility of classical continuity
style, these films explore the experience of perception itself. In so doing,
they enable a different identity: not with the film (or its apparatus) but in relation to it and its images. In Theory of Film, Kracauer suggests that
film ‘aims at transforming the agitated witness into the conscious observer’.
(13) In linking together the natural and social worlds, enabling a
psychophysical correspondence, these new instances of cinematic realism suggest
something other than a model of control over our agitation. That is, in our
emerging consciousness, we might recognise and enact a spectatorship based
instead on a model of compassion.
This is a compassion not just for characters (although that may be part of it),
but also simply for being in the world.
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13. Kracauer, p. 58.
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Like Whale Rider and The Thin Red Line, Winter’s
Bone is an entreaty, if not an outright demand, for such compassion. In it,
teenager Ree (Jennifer Lawrence) attempts to locate her errant, meth-cooking
father in order to save her family’s house. The law cannot help her; that is the
very structure that has threatened to foreclose on her home and kick her family
out if her Dad does not resurface. Her mother is emotionally lost, so
protection of the younger brother and sister is left to Ree. The film moves
with her as she crosses through the desolate space of the Ozarks in order to
find evidence of her father’s life or death. At the house of her Uncle Teardrop
(John Hawkes), she sits with him at his kitchen table as he tends to his gun,
nonchalantly using it to scratch his head before setting it down on the Lazy
Susan, which he then spins about as if playing a child’s game. He stands up and
takes a spin around the table himself. Ree asks if he knows where her father
is; he tells her it is her father’s business if he does not want to be found.
She pleads, matter-of-factly, ‘Listen’. And, in response, he whirls towards her
and grabs her by the neck. In the span of barely twenty seconds, the film cuts
eleven times, situating Teardrop over Ree in an act of terrifying violence.
These cuts, with each shot in extreme close-up, quicken the violence.
Ultimately the camera lands on his hands at the back of her head, her blonde
hair slipping through his fingers just after he utters ‘No’. In this rapid
series of images, Teardrop’s movement and the film’s editing of it together
create a complex web, a multi-directional force which repeatedly reveals Ree at
his mercy, seemingly under him from six different angles. As he finally moves
away from his helpless niece, he stands for a second in the middle of the room,
amidst a surprising ray of light – the smoke from his cigarette blowing upwards
and away. A moment later, Ree is outside again in the empty landscape, with the
desolation of the open space a welcome relief from the cluttered and violent
interior of the preceding scene.
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In ‘The Dialectics
of Outside and Inside’, the final chapter of The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard describes a ‘mixture of
being and nothingness’, and the threat of our banishment from ‘the realm of
possibility’. About this mixture – between inside and outside – Bachelard asks:
‘In this drama of intimate geometry, where should one live?’ (14) Granik’s
film, like Malick’s and Caro’s, is itself a form of ‘intimate geometry’. We
live between the images before us, caught in the interstitial spaces between
Teardrop’s violent movements towards Ree. As he holds her blonde hair in his
hand, that space between his fingers is another emptiness that demands to be filled.
And, in this moment, we can imagine an alternative response to her uncle’s
‘No’, perhaps the help that she needs. In effect, we drop our hands as Woolf
describes doing as she fought her brother. Is that not the ‘good of film
experience’?
Certainly
such imaginative possibilities also exist between the characters of The Thin Red Line and the landscape they
inhabit: the fingers that glide along the leaves of grass, the hands that grasp
and let go of the dirt they hold, Witt’s sharing of his water with a leaf by
the stream. In the midst of a horrifying raid on a Japanese camp two-thirds
through the film, an American soldier’s voice (which one?) (15) asks: ‘This
great evil – where did it come from? ... What sea, what root did it grow from? ...
Does it help the grass to grow and the sun to shine? Is this darkness in you,
too? Have you passed through this night?’ In seeming response, we see an
American soldier, Dale (Arie Verveen), threaten a dying Japanese prisoner
(Kengo Hasuo), calmly announcing, ‘I will sink my teeth into your liver’. A few
minutes later, the voice-over returns: ‘War don’t ennoble men. It turns ‘em
into dogs. Poisons the soul’. We see again the threatening soldier, now alone
in the frame, holding the teeth he had taken as a spoil of battle; after a
quick flashback to the earlier scene and the Japanese soldier’s entreaty, he
tosses the teeth onto the ground and begins to sob. Rain pours over him; he
grips his upper arms as if he could hold himself, comfort his own undulating
body while he cries. Dirt, leaves, rain: these are like the inanimate things
Woolf suggests ‘one leant to’ and thus ‘felt they expressed one; felt they
became one; that they knew one, in a sense were one’. (16) Such expression
exists as these natural elements of the world come into contact with the
soldiers’ bodies, together creating another intimate geometry. We inhabit this
space, too, attempting to fill the voids that the visual and aural webs
inherently and endlessly design.
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14. Bachelard, p. 218.
15. Editors' Note: For the best and clearest discussion of the ambiguities and
problems involved in attributing voice-overs to specific characters in the
film, see Jeremy Millington, ‘Critical Voices: Points of View In and On The Thin Red Line’, CineAction, no. 81 (2010), pp. 28-38.
16. In ‘The Cinema Seen from Etna’, Jean Epstein writes: ‘One of the
greatest powers of cinema is its animism. On screen, nature is never inanimate.
Objects take on airs. Trees gesticulate. Mountains, just like Etna, convey
meanings … The grass in the meadow is a smiling, feminine genie. Anemones full
of rhythm and personality evolve with the majesty of planets’. Epstein (trans.
Stuart Leibman), ‘The Cinema Seen from Etna’, in Sarah Keller & Jason N.
Paul (eds), Jean Epstein: Critical Essays
and New Translations (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2012), pp.
289-90.
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Staring at
the moving images, locked in our seats, do we sense the emptiness between our
bodies and the screen? (Do we sense the same between the image and the words with
which we attempt to do it justice?) Our potential love for the image is the
entreaty to fill these empty spaces. Nearly inanimate before the images
ourselves, we are in turn moved by the film – say, by a young girl’s cries for
love and justice, a soldier’s cries in the rain. We may feel now, now that
those images, as Woolf describes above, ‘felt they expressed one; felt they
became one; they they know one, in a sense were one’. Together with the image
and with the world before us, we are suffering and joy, stillness and movement.
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The author offers thanks to Geoff Sanborn and
Claudia Steinberg for reading drafts of this essay and for their suggestions
for its rhythms; to Nate Brennan for his conversation with me about Malick, and
his questions which helped form the end of this essay; to Girish Shambu for the
welcoming opportunity to write this piece in the first place; and to the
members of my ‘Cinema and Everyday Life’ class in the spring of 2013 at Amherst
College, who read these texts and watched these films with me and who, in their
own endless intelligence, sustained me for those four months of our work
together.
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from Issue 4: Walks |
© Amelie Hastie and LOLA August 2013. Cannot be reprinted without permission of the author and editors. |