Kontroll: A Radical Film That Isn't

On the surface, Nimród Antal's directorial debut Kontroll seems to take a very non-traditional approach to film. When viewed purely explicitly, the narrative appears rather uneventful and unsatisfying. There exists only minor conflict, a short and undeveloped love story, and very little is ultimately resolved. However, hints occur throughout the film, apparent non-sequiturs or strange behaviors that can lead the audience to a more fully developed idea of the true goal of the narrative. These hints are subtle, and never really explained. Instead, the director leaves the audience with a decision, whether or not to care enough to put together the pieces and extract a greater meaning from the film. Figurative meanings, symbols, and significance must all be deduced with little narrative hand-holding. This concept of leaving the audience to do the work, forcing them to find the meaning themselves despite the existence of an already cohesive, if underwhelming, narrative lies at odds with the conventions of traditional narrative. However, when viewed more deeply, from a filmic level, Kontroll is not nearly as radical as it initially feels. The filmic techniques used, rather than subtly leaving the audience to discern the truth from the clues given to them, enunciate the meaning at which these hints point. A clear example of this is the audio mixing that takes place in scenes involving two of the more mysterious characters. While the narrative leaves the meaning of these characters for the audience to decipher on their own, this audio aid gives the audience a powerful feeling that leads to the answer. Furthermore, the director is unable to escape from traditional techniques such as the shot-reverse shot sequence, even when it would be convenient to do so. Despite the non-traditional narrative, the end result is a highly traditional film experience, much in line with the traditional ideology.

At the most basic level, Kontroll portrays the fictionalized day to day life of the Kontroll, the Metro workers responsible for randomly checking passengers' tickets to ensure that they have paid for their rides, and assigning fines if they haven't. The main focus of the camera is on Bolscú, the protagonist who, despite having once been brilliant in an unknown field, now not only works as Kontroll, but also bizarrely lived full time in the Metro system. The audience is shown, in great detail, the tribulations inherent in the job. The Kontroll have the unenviable position of being both a figure of authority with no actual authority, and an annoyance. They receive no respect from the riders of the Metro, only scorn. During a routine ticket check, Bolscú became enchanted by a girl wearing a bear suit. They met a few more times throughout the film, including a pseudo date at a coffee vending machine in the Metro system. Interspersed throughout these events, a mysterious hooded figure pushed people in front of speeding Metro trains, making the murders look like suicides. Bolscú witnessed one such murder, and as a result, became a suspect. The hooded figure eventually chased Bolscú down a Metro tunnel as the train slowly gained on them. Bolscú made it on to the platform in time, the hooded figure did not. This conflict resolved, Bolscú met up with the girl, and they kissed on an escalator heading upwards and out of the Metro. This explicit narrative settled conflicts in the most basic way imaginable, and with very minor development. The protagonist found love, with very little development of the love story, and the hooded figure died, with no character development at all.

This explicit narrative leaves the two most intriguing mysteries of the film unanswered. First, the audience is left to wonder why Bolscú abandoned his previous occupation for the miserable and menial job he currently holds, and lives fulltime underground. When Bolscú encountered an old coworker (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjpV6YZf-nc&feature=related from 6:15 until end), the first and only time his previous life was hinted at, he showed his disdain for being Kontroll. He pretended not to know the member of his group of Kontroll he had been talking with. He was clearly embarrassed by the thought of being identified with the Kontroll, and took pains to hide this connection, explaining his recent absence as being due to traveling and working. He also made disparaging comments about the Kontroll. It was clear that he preferred his old profession, which based on the clothes worn by the coworker, was lucrative. And, as evidenced by the comments the coworker made about the groundbreaking nature of Bolscú’s work and his hope that Bolscú would come back, Bolscú clearly left a job that he was extremely good at, possibly the best. Why was he working a horrible job and spending his entire life underground? This was never addressed by the explicit narrative beyond Bolscú’s very mediocre explanation that he didn’t want to have to worry about being the best anymore. Secondly, the audience never learns the identity of the hooded figure, or his motivation to murder random Metro travelers. Though he was clearly the main conflict of the film, nothing was ever explained about him. The conflict technically came to resolution with his death, but the important questions about him are never answered.

This leads, of course, to the subtly hinted at implicit narrative, where the audience finds the answers to these questions. An exhaustive analysis of all the clues that lead to this reading would be lengthy, and is not the purpose of this essay, but it is necessary to show some of the more important hints. The hooded figure is actually Bolscú, or more accurately, a projection of his dark side, one that he doesn’t consciously know exists. He has a psychological defect, a sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde type personality split. This idea was mainly conveyed through some strange behavior displayed by Bolscú. In the first scene featuring both the hooded figure and Bolscú together, the hooded figure murders a ticketless costumer (one who constantly harassed the Kontroll) that Bolscú was chasing. Bolscú’s initial reaction was extreme surprise, but that fades quickly to a lack of emotion. He doesn’t run for help, or scream, or have much of a reaction at all. He simply stares at the hooded figure, looking slightly surprised, but no longer shocked; then as the hooded figure turns and walks towards Bolscú, he closes his eyes, and starts to inhale and exhale sharply (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFuBZR0cCBQ&feature=related from 1:58 to 3:03). At first glance this could be interpreted as his shock induced reaction, but even on first viewing it seemed a little odd. Bolscú also displays similarly strange behavior and reactions during his final showdown with the hooded figure. Bolscú inexplicably follows the hooded figure into an enclosed room, despite his history of murder. After a brief fight in the room, Bolscú backs out the entry way, and stands there, waiting for him to emerge rather than the obvious reaction, running. When the hooded figure does appear at the entry way, and walks towards him, Bolscú expressionlessly hops down on the tracks and begins to run. After the hooded figure ultimately dies in during this chase, Bolscú appears tired from running, but in every other way completely unfazed (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QysDVJ2QDJM&feature=related from 7:43 until end, continued http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56lE96Uxn_k&feature=related from start till 0:50 ). The last major clue is the footage from the investigation into the murder Bolscú witnessed. He is a suspect, because the two security cameras involved have limited areas of capture. One only shows Bolscú chasing the murdered person, and the other shows the person flying out from behind a pillar on to the tracks (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFuBZR0cCBQ&feature=related from 5:46 to 6:04). This scene is a more subtle hint than it seems; in the context of the film until that point, it merely seemed like an inconvenience that Bolscú would have to deal with in clearing his name, the logical progression of the narrative would take were it traditional. At this point, while there was clearly something slightly strange occurring, a viewer would have no way of knowing that the conclusion of this film would not bring full disclosure, that the narrative was non-traditional.

This side of Bolscú may not have been consciously available to him, but he did know it at an unconscious level. He must have sensed the existence of the dark side of himself, and it caused him to leave his job and work and live underground in the Metro. This is implied through the idea that the hooded figure was his tie to the Metro. Bolscú spends his entire life in the Metro, and refuses to leave for any reason. When the girl in the bear suit, who he is clearly interested in, asks if he wants to go up and have coffee together, he merely looks up the escalator towards the surface, and instead offers to take her to the vending machine (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xTqECoEVWmQ&feature=related from 5:10 to 5:40). However, as soon as the hooded figure is killed by the Metro train, he and the girl (a symbol for Good) immediately leave the Metro together. This reading of the narrative can only be reached, if looking purely at the slight clues left by the narrative, if the viewer does a great deal of detective work, and pieces together various discontinuities, an approach not taken by traditional films.

This unconventionality ends with the narrative, however. What the narrative hints at, the audio mixing makes far more blatant, holding the hand of the audience and guiding them towards the correct conclusion. The soundtrack for the film was provided by Neo, a Hungarian band that plays a genre of music described as industrial rock, or electronic rock. Neo has a very modern, European sound, one that fits the film perfectly. As the name implies, industrial electronic rock feels like the right music to accompany a film set in the Metro. There are high energy songs played during the bustling of the day time, and more subdued ones for the scenes of Bolscú wandering the Metro alone. This relatively homogeneous soundtrack enhances the feel of the film. Graeme Turner, in Film as Social Practice IV, describes a film’s soundtrack as “an important component of the construction of the world of the film, as a source of atmosphere,” a nice description of the way Kontroll’s soundtrack effects the film. While this use of music so is rather conventional, there seems to be no reason to break with this particular convention.

The audio associated with the girl in the bear suit, however, is one of the few variations from the electronic sounds of Neo, and emphasize her representation as “Good”. In the scenes she appeared, there was occasionally a very slight, warm tone that was barely audible. It is difficult to detect unless one is listening for it, but even if not consciously heard, it served to elevate the mood of these scenes, in a way that does not occur in others (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5HvEt4J_ks&feature=related from 1:52 until 2:05). More apparent is the music that often accompanied her. Neo’s music, while certainly pleasurable to listen to, has a slightly dark, grungy quality to it. The music associated with the girl in the bear suit, on the other hand, was a soft, but extremely pleasant saxophone melody. It sounds like something that could be heard at a fancy lounge (this can be heard, among other places, in the coffee clip). While this sound alone carries good associations, in its contrast with the atmosphere evoked by the other sounds of in the film it seems especially good. The music clearly sets the girl in the bear suit up as being different, and better, than the other characters. Interestingly enough, the saxophone sound appeared very briefly in one other scene, the scene where Bolscú and his old coworker discussed his past life. This strengthens the goodness associated with the sound, but also links the girl to life outside of the Metro. This makes sense, as she eventually did lead him to the surface. The sound enunciates the concrete connections between her and Good, and her and life above ground. This audio takes much of the guesswork from the audience. Bolscú can return to his life above the Metro, once he becomes good again, once he purges himself of the bad.

The bad is, of course, the hooded figure. Much like the girl, the hooded figure had audio associated with him that was quite distinct from the rest of the film’s soundtrack. The audio mixing that best exemplifies the implications of this takes place in a six shot montage during Bolscú’s last encounter with the hooded figure (these six shots can be found alone in a clip at the bottom of the blog). In this scene, the diegetic and non-diegetic sounds were juxtaposed in a way that very powerfully conveyed the intended feelings. Shot 1 is a point of view shot from Bolscú’s perspective, as he looks back towards the entryway to the room in which he and the hooded figure fought. The entire room on the other side is cloaked in shadow. The only sound present is ambient noise, with very quiet tones of mood building music. Then, as the figure's hands suddenly appear clutching the sides of the doorway, an eerie, high-pitched, almost screeching sound occurs. It is extremely reminiscent of the sound used in Hitchcock's Psycho's infamous shower scene. Whether or not this similarity is intended as an homage is unclear (though the sound bears such a striking resemblance it seems likely), but it is definitely an attempt to convey the same emotions. The shrill sound carries a connotation of fear. As it is not a sound one is likely to encounter during their day to day life, it also implies the unknown. And due to the similarity to the shower scene sound, it carries an association with murder, and therefore with evil. Interestingly enough, the high-pitched Psycho-esque sound fades into a sonic match with the squeals of the Metro train accelerating away from the platform. This brings the setting back to the forefront, reminding the audience of the everyday predictability of the Metro. The similarity between the sound associated with the hooded figure, and the more natural sounds of the Metro highlights the contrast between the hooded figure and the predictable. While both sounds are shrill and piercing, the sound the Metro train makes as it leaves is a normal, everyday sound, whereas the shower scene style sound is distinctly abnormal, foreboding, and evil. This enunciates the strong association the hooded figure has with evil and produces the idea that he does not belong in this predictable environment.

The more blatant clue that the audio in this montage gives away begins in shot 2. Shot 2 is a close up on Bolscú with the train moving past in the background. The diegetic sound of the accelerating train continues, but it is very quickly joined by a non-diegetic, high energy background music that sounds like it was created using an unusual stringed instrument. This is not the first time the audience was introduced to this background track. It was initially used when the hooded figure was first seen in the film, and played up until he was about to commit a murder. The song is completely different from any other song featured in the soundtrack. As opposed to the European sounds of Neo, this song has a distinctly foreign, Eastern sound to it. It is not a sound that one would ever hear in the Metro system of Budapest. The contrast between the ordinariness of the setting and the bizarre choice of music compounds the feeling of foreignness, of otherness that permeates this entire encounter. It also carries connotations of murder due to its previous use during a scene where the hooded figure commits a murder. Shot 3 is an over the shoulder shot from the room behind the hooded figure. It shows Bolscú slowly backing up towards the tracks, as the train finally moves out off the shot. As he does this, the overlap of the diegetic and non-diegetic sound continues. In this case, unlike before, the two sounds do not have any remote tonal similarities. The two sounds are completely at odds with each other. There is definitely a conflict between them, the train sound is very mechanical and industrial, whereas the string music sounds almost third world. Shot 4 switches back to a point of view shot of the hooded figure leaving the doorway and approaching Bolscú. The overlayed sounds remain constant. Shot 5 is over Bolscú's shoulder, while he turns around to look towards the tracks. As this shot progresses, the noise of the train has finally disappeared, leaving only the song played by the stringed instrument. At this point, all audio links to the setting have been severed. All that remains is the strangeness of the stringed instruments. There is nothing left in the audio to ground the situation to the everyday, which emphasizes the entire encounter as surreal.

Shot 6 is a fixed camera shot from the tracks. First Bolscú, and then the hooded figure jump down onto the tracks and begin running. The angle of the shot only shows them from about their waists down. The foreign sounding string music continues to play. As Bolscú jumps down, however, a slight burst of percussion begins as soon he makes impact with the tracks. This takes place instead of the diegetic sound one would expect. The replacement of the natural diegetic sound by the similar non-diegetic sound, part of the stringed background music, continues to remind the audience how far removed everything about this occurrence is from the normal. The placement of the camera is very close to where both characters make impact, and the shot is framed in such a way to emphasize the feet, yet this impact and the footsteps that follow as they run down the tracks are not represented diegetically in the audio track. The idea that there should definitely be audible footsteps and impact sounds is supported by the fact that they are in a silent, hollow chamber. Footsteps in this scenario should be explosive and echoing. Instead they are non-existent, leaving the viewer with only the foreign string sound. This last disconcerting aspect of the audio leaves the audience with a very strong feeling that the events that are taking place happen outside the realm of the everyday reality.

One might argue that this was a very unconventional use of sound. It sounds extremely similar to Sergei Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and Grigori Alexandrov’s views on the proper usage of sound in their essay, Statement on Sound: “Only the contrapuntal use of sound vis-à-vis the visual fragment of montage will open up new possibilities for the development and perfection of montage. The first experiments in sound must aim at a sharp discord with the visual images.” In other words, Eisenstein et al. wanted to use sound to add new layers of meaning to a montage by having the sound carry a meaning of its own rather than emphasize the meaning of the visuals of the montage. Eisenstein was, of course, far from traditional, and this montage in Kontroll makes use of the exact technique he outlined, utilizing a contrast between the sound and the visual, adding layers of meaning to the montage that it would otherwise not have had. The difference, though, is that this nontraditional technique was used in order to easily lead the audience to a conclusion that was much more difficult to obtain through the narrative. It filled the encounter with a feeling that the hooded figure was very different from the Metro, that he didn’t belong there, and he didn’t. The hooded figure existed only in Bolscú’s head, so the audio gave all of his scenes an intense feeling of otherness. Graeme Turner’s analysis of the use of sound in film shows us how this use of sound to provide clues differs from the technique used in the narrative. He states, “it has been said that film music ‘feels for us’, by telling us when a powerful moment is happening and indicating just what we should feel about it through the mood of the music.” That is exactly what is happens in these cases. While the narrative leaves hints than can lead to answers, the audio tells us those answers. The hooded figure didn’t belong in the Metro, and the audio blatantly told us he didn’t belong in the Metro, providing a major clue to the audience regarding his true nature.

Further entrenching Kontroll in filmic traditionalism is its hesitance to break cinematographic conventions. For example, the same six shot montage features a shot-reverse shot, classic film language during scenes involving an interaction between two people. This particular shot-reverse shot breaks a pattern of never having the camera take the hooded figure’s perspective. Every other scene featuring the hooded figure shows nearly full body shots from another perspective, and never switches to his. There was a good reason for this. By never taking the perspective of the hooded figure, the audience was provided an extremely subtle visual hint (as opposed to the blatant audio hints) that the hooded figure wasn’t real enough for the camera to take his perspective. The director is unable to maintain this, however, in this particular montage, utilizing a shot-reverse shot with one perspective being that of the hooded figure. The reason behind this becomes clear from Daniel Dayan’s discussion of the shot-reverse shot as it relates to absent-one. In “The Tutor-Code of Classical Cinema”, Dayan argues that the shot-reverse shot is a way to give an identity to the absent-one, the camera’s view. The first shot establishes a missing field, and in the second shot “the missing field is abolished by the presence of somebody or something occupying the absent-one’s field.” He goes on to say that “the spectator’s pleasure [is] dependant on his identification with the visual field,” or in other words, that the audience requires the absent-one to be hidden in order to take pleasure in what we are seeing. In this scene, the director was forced to take the perspective of the hooded figure in order to keep the audience from feeling awkward. In Bolscú’s first encounter with the hooded figure, this hiding of the absent-one did not take place, and there was a decidedly strange feeling about the scene. That scene, however, was supposed to feel strange, whereas this scene was supposed to represent the exciting climax of Bolscú’s conflict with the hooded figure. The director had no choice but to use the classic film technique of shot-reverse shot to maintain the comfort of the audience with the scene. It would have been ideal to be able to continue the trend of keeping the camera from taking the perspective of the hooded figure, but in this case the director apparently thought it more important to utilize standard film language than to continue to advance the non-traditional ideology.

Jean-Luc Comolli and Jean Narboni, in their essay Cinema/Ideology/Criticism classify films a number of different ways based on how they conform or don’t conform to the ideological system. Under this system of classification, Kontroll most closely resembles a “type d” film. Type d films are described as “unremittingly ideological from first to last… but [they] do not effectively criticize the ideological system in which they are embedded because they unquestioningly adopt its language and imagery.” Kontroll is a film that undoubtedly attempts to be at ideological odds with the traditional. It has a very unconventional approach to narrative, leaving the audience to deduce the meaning of subtle clues rather than explicitly explaining. It is, however, stuck in the ideology of traditional filmic techniques. Its use of audio undermines what it sets out to do with the narrative by telling the audience how they should feel about the characters of the girl in the bear suit and the hooded figure, taking away a great deal of the mystery the narrative develops. Furthermore, it is unable to deviate from traditional film language like the shot-reverse shot, even when it takes away from the overall effect at which it aimed. This absolutely has consequences for the ideology of the film. The fact that it does embrace traditional ideology in many ways makes the entire viewing experience feel traditional.

Kontroll, Montage, Audio, and Otherness

Sergei Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and Grigori Alexandrov outlined their views on the proper usage of the new film technology of sound in their essay, Statement on Sound, as such: “Only the contrapuntal use of sound vis-à-vis the visual fragment of montage will open up new possibilities for the development and perfection of montage. The first experiments in sound must aim at a sharp discord with the visual images.” Nimród Antal's directorial debut Kontroll provides an excellent example of how powerful this technique can be when put into practice. The juxtaposition of the layered sounds, and the further juxtaposition with the mise-en-scène, especially in a particular six shot montage from 1:37:37 to 1:37:59, combine to create an extremely disconcerting feeling of otherness. In a very brief period of screen time, Antal manages to artfully utilize both ordinary diagetic sound and setting against otherworldly non-diagetic sound to convey a powerful and complex feeling that highlights the difference between the hooded character and every other aspect of the film.

In order to properly explain how jarring the occurrence of the non-diagetic sound is to the audience, it is first necessary to establish the ordinariness of the setting. The entire film is set in the Budapest Metro system, a form of mass transportation, used for the daily commute. Over a million people are estimated to ride the Metro per day. It is the very definition of an ordinary, everyday setting. Beyond the explicit ordinariness of the setting, there is an implied subtext of regularity behind choosing the Metro. A traveler can rely on the Metro trains to arrive punctually and with regularity. They have to, people base their schedules around the idea that the Metro will arrive on time. Unlike buses, there isn't any traffic or other possible delays. Furthering this idea is the fact that standard time was created in both Great Britain and in the United States as a response to the needs of the new railroad systems. The Metro is a symbol for regularity and standardization.

Despite this backdrop of regularity, something decidedly strange is occurring in the Metro of Kontroll. Much of the film is spent giving viewers insight into the fictionalized day to day life of the Kontroll, the Metro workers responsible for randomly checking passengers' tickets to ensure that they have paid for their rides, and assigning fines if they haven't. The main focus of the camera is on Bolscú, the protagonist who, despite having once been very skilled in an unknown field, now not only works as Kontroll, but also bizarrely lives full time in the Metro system. While Bolscú's behavior is certainly abnormal, the true mystery in the Metro system is a hooded figure has been pushing people in front of speeding Metro trains, making the murders look like suicides. It is the foreignness of this hooded figure to the clockwork-like system of the Metro that becomes emphasized through the clever usage of sound.

To set the stage for shot 1, Bolscú was at a disco party taking place in the Metro system, when he saw the hooded figure. Bolscú had seen him push someone in front of a train earlier in the film, and therefore knew that he was responsible for the murders, so he began to follow him. The hooded figure disappears, but Bolscú correctly guesses that he ducked into a shadowy doorway. Bolscú is ambushed upon trying to leave the room, which leads a brief fight, resulting in a shelf full of various objects falling on them. Bolscú recovers, leaves the room, and looks back at the doorway. Shot 1 is a point of view shot from Bolscú's perspective of the doorway. The entire room on the other side is cloaked in shadow. The only sound present is ambient noise, with very quiet tones of mood building music. At this point, it is uncertain as to whether the hooded figure survived the tussle. Then, as the figure's hands suddenly appear clutching the sides of the doorway, an eerie, high-pitched, almost screeching sound occurs. It is extremely reminiscent of the sound used in Hitchcock's Psycho's infamous shower scene. Whether or not this similarity is intended as an homage is unclear (though the sound bears such a striking resemblance it seems likely), but it is definitely an attempt to convey the same emotions. The shrill sound carries a connotation of fear. As it is not a sound one is likely to encounter during their day to day life, it also implies the unknown. And due to the similarity to the shower scene sound, it carries an association with murder. Interestingly enough, the high-pitched Psycho-esque sound fades into a sonic match with the the squeals of the Metro train accelerating away from the platform. This brings the setting back to the forefront, and emphasizes the contrast between the sound associated with the hooded figure, and the more natural sounds associated with the setting. While both sounds are shrill and piercing, the sound the Metro train makes as it leaves is a normal, everyday sound, whereas the shower scene style sound is distinctly abnormal and foreboding.

Shot 2 is a close up on Bolscú with the train moving past in the background. The diagetic sound of the accelerating train continues, but it is very quickly joined by a non-diagetic, high energy background music that sounds like it was created using an unusual stringed instrument. It is important to note that this is not the first time the audience was introduced to this background track. It was initially used when the hooded figure was first seen in the film, and played up until he was about to commit a murder. The song is completely different from any other song featured in the soundtrack. The band that provided the soundtrack to Kontroll, a Hungarian band called Neo, plays a very European sounding blend of electronic and rock music throughout. This song, however, has a distinctly foreign, Eastern sound to it. It is not a sound that one would ever hear in the Metro system of Budapest. This bizarre choice of music compounds the feeling of otherness that permeates this entire encounter. It also carries connotations of murder due to its previous associations. Shot 3 is an over the shoulder shot from the room behind the hooded figure. It shows Bolscú slowly backing up towards the tracks, as the train finally moves out off the shot. As he does this, the overlap of the diagetic and non-diagetic sound continues. In this case, unlike before, the two sounds do not have any remote tonal similarities. The two sounds are completely at odds with each other. There is definitely a conflict between them, the train sound is very mechanical and industrial, whereas the string music sounds almost third world. Shot 4 switches back to a point of view shot of the hooded figure leaving the doorway and approaching Bolscú. The overlayed sounds remain constant. Shot 5 is over Bolscú's shoulder, while he turns around and looks towards the tracks. As this shot progresses, the noise of the train has finally disappeared, leaving only the song played by the stringed instrument. At this point, all audio links to the setting have been severed. All that remains is the strangeness of the stringed instruments. There is nothing left in the audio to ground the situation to the everyday, which emphasizes the entire encounter as surreal.

Shot 6 is a fixed camera shot from the tracks. First Bolscú, and then the hooded figure jump down onto the tracks and begin running. The angle of the shot only shows them from about their waists down. The foreign sounding string music continues to play. As Bolscú jumps down, however, a slight burst of percussion begins as soon he makes impact with the tracks. This takes place instead of the diagetic sound one would expect. The replacement of the natural diagetic sound by the similar non-diagetic sound, which is part of the stringed background music, continues to remind the audience how far removed everything about this occurrence is from the normal. The placement of the camera is very close to where both characters make impact, and the shot is framed in such a way to emphasize the feet, yet this impact and the footsteps that follow as they run down the tracks are not represented diagetically in the audio track. The idea that there should definitely be audible footsteps and impact sounds is supported by the fact that they are in a silent, hollow chamber. Footsteps in this scenario should be explosive and echoing. Instead they are non-existent, leaving the viewer with only the foreign string sound. This last disconcerting aspect of the audio leaves the audience with a very strong feeling that the events that are taking place happen outside the realm of the everyday.

Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Alexandrov's essay focused on the importance of utilizing the new film technology of sound correctly. To their minds, this meant using sound that, rather than emphasizing the images in a montage, acted contrary to them. They believed that this would add new dimensions of complexity to the montage. These six shots from Kontroll are a beautiful example of how well this idea can be implemented. These shots could work perfectly well with only diagetic sounds. The hooded figure would come to the doorway, the train would begin to leave, and then Bolscú would back up and jump down on to the tracks with the hooded figure following shortly after, with the relevant sound effects accompanying each action. This would be a perfectly fine scene. But in an attempt to portray the hooded figure, and any encounter that includes him, as abnormal, as not fitting in with every other aspect of the setting, as having a deep sense of otherness, the choice was made to add two distinctly foreign non-diagetic sounds with loaded meanings. The end result is a strong feeling elicited in the audience that the encounter Bolscú has is far beyond the ordinary. The effect that Eisenstein, Pudovkin, and Alexandrov wrote of, the added complexity sound can give to a montage, is realized in this sequence of Kontroll.

Noir: Genre, Something More, or Something Entirely Different?

Quick, think about the Noir. What do you see? Come up with a mental snapshot of the most Noir scene you possibly can. If you are anything like me, and I sincerely hope for your sake that you are not, you have an image similar to this: There's a trench coat and hat clad man. He's a back alley of some large, but grimy city, stumbling away from the camera into mist. Streetlights cut bright vertical lines into the mist. And that's it. My quintessential image of pretty much any other genre includes so much more action, or blatant meaning. My Western image is the moment the flawed-but-deep-down-inside-a-good-man hero, who looks like Clint Eastwood no matter how hard I try to imagine someone else, grasps his gun, about to draw in the final showdown. Science Fiction involves an epic space battle taking place with a planet in the background. Romance is, naturally, a passionate kiss involving one of those actors that girls adore but guys never really understand why, and the scorching hot female lead, next to a picturesque lake. So on and so forth. What these have in common is that they are all, in my opinion, the iconic, and somewhat cliched, moments of each of these genres. Can the same be said about my image of the Noir? I think that actually might be the case.

What makes the Noir so unique is that unlike other genres, the common ground between different Noir films isn't similar themes and narratives. Many Noir films do share common themes and narratives, but the Noir is a diverse enough group of films that those aspects can't be the what connects it. Because of this, I'm not entirely sure the Noir can be considered a genre. I see it as more of a style of film making. What makes a Noir film “Noir” is instead a combination of the style of the film, and the mood it evokes.

Perhaps the best evidence of the power of the style and mood of the Noir is that people often talk about its realism. The Noir can really only be viewed as a fantasy world. Yes, it takes place in cities, with real humans, but the real world is nothing like the Noir. The seedy underbelly of the city, the dame chasing detective, these are fantastical caricatures, complete exaggerations, which when put together form a cohesive, but unrealistic universe. Why then, do people always talk about the realism of the Noir? It's not the fictitious universe that the films are set in, and it's certainly not their narratives. Instead, the unique style and tone of the Noir, admittedly in conjunction with certain themes, holistically give an amazing impression of immersion to this gritty fantasy world.

The aesthetic style plays a huge role in this. Black and white film,while the only option at the time, made great strides in making the Noir feel the way it does. The stylistic decisions Noir filmmakers made were also huge factors. The Noir takes place almost exclusively at night, with low key lighting, allowing for the cinematographers to play with light and shadow. Light often comes down in vertical swatches, such as a search light, or my aforementioned streetlight, rather than a typical unfocused billowy lighting. These factors combine to give the Noir a feeling of darkness, grime, and loneliness.

Isolation can also be seen in other aspects of the Noir. For example, Noir films are often narrated in first person by the protagonist. This limited view point, coupled with the traditional “me against the world” situations that these characters are often put into leads to a further sense of alienation of the viewer.

What is interesting is that the aspects of the Noir that make it so unique are completely a function of the time period the films were being produced. Black and white film was the medium of the time, and black and white film just happens to be fantastic at conveying the contrasts of light and dark shadows that makes the Noir so visually appealing. It is entirely conceivable that, had color film developed earlier, the Noir would never have existed. The mood of the Noir is also a reflection of the overall mood of the country at the time. The Noir was at its peak when the country was recovering from the bloodiest war in mankind's history, which in turn sparked an economic recovery from the Great Depression. The people of the United States were, to paraphrase Paul Shrader, sick of the forced optimism during the depression, disillusioned with the war, and ready to accept a darker brand of films. In other words, it was the perfect time for the Noir to come into existence.

This lucky timing led to seemingly random factors occurring all at the same time, and resulted in the Noir, which is, in my opinion, the most cohesive and immersive group of films. They may not be the greatest films ever made (all though some are), but they do evoke their intended feeling on the audience better than any genre does. Every single aspect of them, from the narratives to the style, serves to create the lonely, gritty, and dark mood. Call the Noir what you will, a genre, a style, a reflection of the zeitgeist, but it is undeniable that it succeed at its intended purpose, to make the audience feel a particular way.

Bloggers note: I initially intended this to be defining whether or not the Noir was a genre, if not what it was, and then applying that do Chinatown. The blog took a different direction as I was writing it. I do want to answer those questions and I believe they help clarify my argument, I just couldn't find a way to integrate them into my blog. Basically, I see the Noir as a style of films. It is a style heavily influenced by the time period they were being created in, but at its core a style. I wouldn't discount neo-Noir as not being Noir because they were made outside of that particular time period, as they still contain the style that made the Noir the Noir. For example, I definitely consider Sin City a Noir film. I don't, however, see Chinatown as a Noir. Chinatown is similar to Noir films through its narrative, theme, characters, and setting. If the Noir were a genre, then Chinatown would definitely be a part of it. However, Chinatown did not stylistically elicit the same dark feeling in me that I find essential for classification as Noir. A large part of this is the use of color, and the large number of scenes during the day time. To further clarify, if there were a black and white film that was stylistically similar to the Noir, and had the same mood about it, but had an entirely different narrative, theme, and setting from the typical Noir film, I would consider it more “Noir” than Chinatown.

Mulvey and Hitchcock

After the in-depth class discussions about voyeurism and suturing, the choice to watch Hitchcock's classic films Rear Window, and Vertigo made perfect sense. They both play with the audience's role as a spectator, and therefore voyeur, by having the main characters themselves be voyeurs. L.B. Jeffries, the lead character in Rear Window, is confined to a wheelchair due to a broken leg, with nothing to do but look out of his window and observe his neighbor's lives. Meanwhile, John Ferguson of Vertigo is hired by an old college friend to spy on his wife due to some very strange behavior she has been displaying. In both these cases, the audience is sutured into the role of a voyeur, perhaps making the voyeuristic experience of watching a film easier to handle. In Rear Window, the majority of the plot is made up of what L.B. Jeffries sees through his binoculars or photo lenses. In Vertigo, it isn't quite as pronounced, but the first third or so of the movie revolves around Johnnie stalking and watching Madeline.

This aspect of these movies is of particular interest to Laura Mulvey, who theorizes that in film, the camera's gaze to which the audience is sutured to, is in fact a male gaze. It cuts apart and objectifies the females in the movies purely for the pleasure of the male spectator. While I have difficulties swallowing all of Mulvey's thoughts on this matter, it seems undeniable that strong examples of her image of a “patriarchal” Hollywood can be found in these two Hitchcock films.

Mulvey's contention that the camera looks with a masculine, voyeuristic gaze is especially difficult to dispute in Vertigo. Vertigo takes place almost entirely from John Ferguson's perspective. The beginning of the film is John literally stalking and spying on Madeline. The audience is permitted only to see what John sees, and know only what he knows. Along the way, he begins to fall in love with Madeline. This especially speaks to the voyeurism because Madeline is such a one dimensional character. She is beautiful, but receives no character development at all. She simply responds to questions, and acts mysteriously. In fact, the majority of the time John is watching her, he believes her to be possessed by a dead woman's spirit. During these episodes, she is generally not particularly verbal, but also acts more or less insane. And yet John still falls in love with her. One can only conclude that his romantic interest in her was built entirely on her aesthetic qualities. And it gets worse. After her “death”, he becomes insanely depressed. He mopes around and haunts those few places he can link to her. But then he sees Judy, the girl who pretended to be Madeline. Stricken by how much she looks like Madeline, John becomes romantically involved with her. But he still appears distant and depressed. He then slowly begins to modify her appearance until she looks exactly like Madeline did. Only when her appearance exactly matches Madeline's does he appear to truly warm up to her and break out of his funk. This shows just how much emphasis he put on her appearance rather than personality. He did not care at all for her personality, just her beauty, and didn't feel right about the relationship until Judy perfectly matched Madeline visually. The fact that he forcibly changed her image despite her many protests, and her eventually consenting due to her blind love for him nicely exemplifies the male perspective that Mulvey talks about.

Rear Window blurs this line much more. The perspective is again entirely male. The audience sees everything from L.B. Jeffries' perspective. But while there is a similarly one sided relationship, there is one key difference. Jeff more or less ignores Lisa for most of the film, as she dotes on him. However, Jeff is confined to his wheelchair, and therefore incapable of taking any action. Lisa is not, and ends up leaving the apartment to go dig up the flowers in front of the Thorwald's apartment to try to solve the mystery. And then, in an act of independent thinking that completely flies in the face of Mulvey's characterization of women in films, Lisa decides on her own to break into Thorwald's apartment and look around herself. While the initial action of digging up the flowers was part of a plan decided on with Jeff, Lisa's decision to search Thorwald's apartment not only took place without any guiding male influence, it is what broke the plot open and led to the thrilling conclusion.

It is a third Hitchcock movie, Suspicion, that I find most contrary to Mulvey's theories. Mulvey does not comment on Suspicion in her essay, which is unfortunate. I would have been interested to hear her thoughts on it, because it appears that Suspicion's camera is decidedly female. Suspicion takes place from the perspective of Lina, the female lead. It follows her growing suspicion of her new husband, John Aysgarth. Initially, he seemed ideal, but as their marriage progressed, Lina learned that he gambled, could not hold a job, and eventually that he stole $2,000 from his employee and was trying to make that money back to avoid being arrested. The viewer, trapped in Lina's perspective, is slowly forced into seeing John as a murder, and then to suspect that he plans on murdering Lina as well. Her perspective clouds ours, and we view all of his actions negatively. In what seems to be another role reversal, John seems like the character that is fetishized and spied upon. Lina was initially seen as kind of frumpy and undesirable. Her father specifically stated that he did not think she would ever get married. It turns out she was beautiful, but she was far from the idealistic beauties of Vertigo and Rear Window. Meanwhile, John was an attractive playboy. He was clearly desired by many women. Interestingly enough, it also seems like his character was given less development than Lina. We don't see much more from him other than his prideful, playboy gambler aspect. Lina is intelligent, rebellious, and the mover of the narrative, while John seems one dimensional. The attractive playboy archetype seems like the male reflection of the naïve and beautiful woman.

Mulvey mentions in her article that Hitchcock is a prime example of male voyeurism. The fact that one of his own films seems exactly the opposite of what she describes hurts her argument. I can't stomach her Freudian psychoanalysis arguments, but her argument regarding the male camera does seem valid. What I feel is a stretch, though, is when she applies it to all movies. I think it is safe to say that some movies act exactly as she describes. In fact, maybe even the majority of movies act this way. But it would take a very convincing argument for me to see Suspicion in this light.

District 9 Review

District 9 is a multifaceted film. It manages to overcome the the recent blandness and one dimensionality that has characterized recent science fiction films, while at the same time retaining all the pure entertainment that those films can provide. District 9 has enough fantastic action scenes to satisfy even the most devoted of the Transformers 2 demographic, but also packs in social and political commentary, an engaging plot, gut wrenchingly emotional scenes, and a fascinating visual style. It doesn't do much that hasn't been seen before, but it combines the best elements of some of the best films in the genre to create a remarkably enjoyable, polished final product.

District 9 opens by ingeniously showing clips from what appears to be a documentary made after the main events of the movie have transpired. This documentary allows the director, Neill Blomkamp to introduce the setting and characters in depth, but retain audience interest. In a short period of time, the audience is treated to a fairly detailed history of the first contact with the aliens and how the relationship between the two species has changed over the twenty years that have elapsed, as well as plenty of character development of the charming and friendly, if somewhat incompetent seeming, Wikus Wan de Merwe (Sharlto Copely). It is so well edited that twenty minutes densely packed with information pass without ever seeming to drag on at all. The various people interviewed, differences in perspectives, interspersed news reports, and sheer interest factor of the information dispersed keeps it fresh, to the point that I was almost disappointed it didn't last longer. In those twenty minutes, the audience learns of an alien race unconventional to sci fi, one that arrived for no discernible purpose, and is not abundantly intelligent. In fact, most of the prawns (the derogatory term given to the aliens) seem rather stupid, as the leaders all died somehow (the documentary suggests disease), leaving only the workers behind. This gives the people of Johannesburg complete control over the prawns' fate. This fate slowly develops into one of slum life, with abundant segregation and oppression as tensions between the prawns and the humans rise, and the natural human tendency to be distrustful of the unknown takes over. The opening sequence manages to give us a good feel for the history of the interaction between humans and prawns, while simultaneously offering up amusing tidbits of information such as the prawns' obsession with cat food. The viewer also learns that the corporation that Wikus works for, MultiNational United, has become responsible for moving the prawns from their current slum (District 9) to a new location further away from the humans population of Johannesburg, and that Wikus is in charge of serving them eviction notices. It sounds like a fairly easy job, but the documentary interviews foreshadow something going terribly wrong.

As it turns out, Wickus comes upon a strange alien tube while raiding a house for weapons, which sprays a brown liquid at him. This is where the film begins to shift gears. Odd things begin to happen to Wikus. He vomits immediately. The an unknown black substance begins to seep from his nose. His fingernails start to fall off. As it turns out, the liquid has started the process of slowly turning him into a prawn. As his body changes, he becomes an extremely valuable piece of biotechnology. The very powerful prawn weaponry only responds to prawn DNA, and as it turns out, the newly mutating Wikus. He is especially valuable to his own company, which deals in weaponry, and wants to harvest his body for its genetic projects. He escapes, which sparks the manhunt, carried out by the vicious Col. Koobus Venter (David James) that persists through most of the remainder of the film.

This results in Wikus hiding in District 9, and his chance meeting with Christopher Johnson and his son, perhaps the only intelligent prawns in the film. Christopher Johnson knew immediately what was happening to Wikus, as he had carefully collected the offending liquid himself. As it turned out, the liquid was both the only way Christopher Johnson could return to his home planet, and the only way he could return Wikus to human form. Together, they launched an assault on the well defended MNU headquarters to try to retrieve it.

As hard as it may be to believe after that description, the plot was both well developed and had a gritty realism to it. A brief synopsis cannot properly capture the numerous emotionally powerful scenes, nor the subtlety with which these elements of the plot were actually introduced. Perhaps the best example of these subtleties is Wikus' racism. He is not overtly racist, and doesn't treat the prawns particularly poorly, in fact, he seems to even be somewhat fond of them. However, it becomes clear numerous times during the MNU eviction notices that Wikus subconsciously views the prawns as much lower life forms, most notably when he gleefully talks about the popping sound that the prawn fetuses make as they burn. This prejudice continues even as Wikus turns into a prawn himself, but is eventually addressed.

All in all, District 9 provides a deep, insightful, and realistic experience, all while competing in entertainment value with the mindless action sci fi movies that appear to be the modern preference. It is equal parts realistic action movie and intelligent apartheid influenced commentary against prejudice, with enough wit and presented in a unique visual style to create one of the most complete movie experiences of recent memory. All of the actors are top notch, with Copely delivering a truly amazing performance despite it being his first major lead role. And best of all the touching ending leaves open the possibility of a sequel, for which many viewers, myself included, will be clamoring.

Bordwell and Amelie

Cinema Paradiso seemed like it had already been sufficiently analyzed through the lens of Bordwell, and Sleepless in Seattle seemed too cut and dry, so I thought instead I would take a look at Amelie's status as a possible example of classical Hollywood narrative. Amelie is a much more interesting case for a number of reasons. For one, Amelie is a French film, not a Hollywood film. My initial instinct was that Amelie did not fit the qualifications for a classical Hollywood narrative. After all, this was the film that we as a class tried to determine whether it needed a narrative at all. However, under closer consideration, I believe that it does in fact meet all of Bordwell's criteria for a classical Hollywood narrative, if not perfectly. I'm not sure if I would necessarily classify it as classical Hollywood, but Amelie's narrative is clearly influenced by it.

The most obvious relation between Amelie and Bordwell's classical Hollywood narratives is Amelie's treatment of character. Bordwell sees characters in classical narratives as “psychologically defined individuals who struggle to solve a clear-cut problem or to attain specific goals” (18). The first aspect of that statement is more than abundant in Amelie. I cannot off the top of my head think of a movie that devoted more time to develop the psychology of a character than the treatment with Amelie. Amelie had a unique way of looking at the world, which involved taking great meaning from very small occurrences, and the film took us through her psychology at great length, including utilizing the events that took place in her childhood and affected her psychologically. The second aspect of the statement is a little less clear, but still easily found in Amelie. While at the beginning of the film, it didn't seem like Amelie had any major problem she needed to solve, by the end, it was clear that she did in fact have a problem, even if she wasn't aware of it initially. She was looking for her soul mate, someone who understood the world the way she did. On her way there, though, she have specific goals she tried to attain, namely to correct little wrongs that she saw in the world, such as the grocer's cruelty, two cafe regulars' loneliness, and the boredom of her father's life.

The ending of Amelie also correlates nicely with Bordwell's outline. Bordwell believed the common threads in classical Hollywood narratives were a readjustment back to the status quo after the “world knocked awry in the previous eighty minutes” (21), and the cliché happy ending, complete with the embrace. Again, the only real deviation from Bordwell's words that can be found in Amelie is that the romantic plot line didn't really exist for much of the movie. The world of Amelie was only really knocked awry when she saw the ads searching for the lost photo album. It was clearly resolved in the end though, as Amelie finally got together with her soul mate. And although they didn't do it in the classic Hollywood dramatic embrace, there was a very unique kissing introduction, followed by a shot of them in an embrace. Also, the final shot of the movie was of the two of them riding on a moped, clearly embracing.

What initially seemed most at odds with Bordwell's archetype in Amelie was the dual plot structure. Bordwell defined the dual plot structure as having two plot lines, a quest of some sort, and a romantic plot line. Although it took some time before it popped up, there was clearly a romantic plot line in Amelie. What I didn't initially see was her quest. Sure, she took great pains to accomplish small good acts, but those were just that, small good acts. None of them could be considered her quest. But as a whole, they did have an overarching theme that could. In fact the narrator even said (completely paraphrased because imdb didn't have the quote I was looking for) that if the man who's childhood box she found appreciated it, she would devote her life to helping out mankind. To Amelie, helping out mankind wouldn't mean trying to solve large issues such hunger or homelessness. Instead, she would focus on the little things that she derived so much meaning from, and use those to better their lives. This was her quest, the second part of the dual plot line.

And so, although Amelie doesn't perfectly correlate with Bordwell's image of a classical Hollywood narrative, there is definitely enough similarities there to say that it, at the very least, draws strongly from classical Hollywood films for its narrative.

Comments on the Cinema Paradiso Bordwell blogs

It seems like everyone's thoughts on whether or not Cinema Paradiso was a classical Hollywood film hinged on two key, related personal interpretations of the movie. With this in mind, I thought it more prudent to do one blog entry of my own addressing how I saw each of those possible interpretations affecting its status as a classical Hollywood film than to repost those same views in everyone's comments.

I believe (and so did most people who wrote blogs on the subject) that the key to whether or not Cinema Paradiso can fall under the archetype of a classical Hollywood film, or even a modification of the classical Hollywood film as some argued, lies in personal interpretation of the aspects of Bordwell's dual plot line, and the affect that has on one's interpretation of the ending. It appears fairly obvious that there are at least two plot lines.

The first plot line, the quest aspect of the plot line, is Toto's life. Everyone who wrote blog entries was fairly uniform on this point. Whether or not this can be seen as a classical Hollywood film comes down to whether one sees the second aspect of the dual plot line as the fatherly love he found with Alfredo, his search for true romantic love from women, or his life long love of the movies.

If one sees this aspect as an accumulating, platonic love of a father figure, the ending can be seen as the completion of their relationship. Alfredo had clearly helped guide him on the path of life several times, finally sending him away from the town of his birth and his memories of Elena to become tremendously successful as a movie director. Thus, the reel of censored kisses was Alfredo's last gift to him as a father figure. It was to remind Toto, through a medium that he clearly understands well, and would derive great meaning from (probably more than words could have), of what Alfredo believed to be the most important part of life, finding true love. Under this interpretation, the ending would bring this relationship to a close. Alfredo had died, but he imparted on Toto all the wisdom he had, and presumably would have bettered Toto's life one last time. Under this interpretation, Cinema Paradiso clearly fills all the requirements of a classical Hollywood film, if perhaps an unconventional one.

Many things change, however, if one views the second plot line as Toto's quest for true, romantic love. The only time Toto found love throughout the whole movie was when he managed to seduce Elena. Things in this relationship eventually go sour. After he leaves his family behind, Toto becomes a successful movie director, and is rewarded, among other things, with success with women. The viewer is led to believe that his recent years before the funeral consisted of one night stand after one night stand. Under this interpretation of the second plot line, the ending must be seen as one filled with regret. As he watches dozens of shots of passionate kisses, he begins to cry, thinking of the way his relationship with Elena ended up, how loveless his recent years have been, and the folly of his choice of sexual fulfillment over romantic fulfillment. Under this interpretation, the second plot line has not been resolved. The ending of the movie shows Toto filled with regret, and without a romantic love in his life. Therefore, it cannot be thought of as even a modification of the classical Hollywood film.

Lastly, one can view the second plot line as the progression of his love for the movies. It started as a young boy, when he sneaked into the projection room of the Paradiso, continued as he became the projectionist, and then finally he left home and became a successful director. This leads to one final interpretation of the ending. This view is a bittersweet view in which he takes note of his failure in finding true love, but is reminded exactly how much he loves the cinema, and finds himself finally at peace for making the choice that he made. This view of the ending brings closure to the second plot line, as he has succeeded in his field of choice, and come to terms with himself. Because of this closure, this view leads to accepting Cinema Paradiso as an example of classical cinema.

Personally, I am a believer in the last interpretation. I think that this interpretation allows for the movie to be seen as having more complexity than the other two, but also ties into them as well. Furthermore, I feel this interpretation more closely jives with the director's initial purpose for the film, as an obituary to cinema. He believed that film as he knew it was disappearing, but like Toto, he did not regret the choices he made which led him to it.