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Sometimes things just come together. A couple years ago I found an interview with surrealist director Alejandro Jodorowsky, director of El Topo and The Holy Mountain. He sounded like a nutcase, but he kept talking about “honest films,” and the concept puzzled me. Films are made-up stories—how does honesty factor into them? Jodorowsky went on to claim that he hated Steven Spielberg, and that furthermore he would murder Spielberg if given the opportunity. I was ready to attribute this to the sensationalist ravings of a lunatic except that at the same time I had just checked out Dogme Uncut from the library. It was the last book in the film section that I hadn’t read, and strangely enough it echoed Jodorowsky’s anti-Spielberg sentiments. Apparently Spielberg wasn’t as universally loved as I thought, and it had something to do with these “honest films.”
At the same time, I was going through an extreme anti-consumerist phase. I devoured Adbusters and could rant for hours about hedonistic American culture and meme crisis.
Slowly, the pieces began to fit together. As I familiarized myself with film language I realized that honesty plays a role in film. While films may, by nature of their fictional narratives, be lies, filmmakers throughout history have sought to develop an aesthetic that relies not on manipulation but on truth. All these ideas I’d been wrestling with came together this year at Emerson, and now I’m going to try and compile them in this paper. I guess you could call it my thesis of the year—everything I’ve learned about film since I arrived in Boston.
There’s something fundamentally wrong with the current state of cinema. It’s kind of in vogue at this point to lament the sea of remakes and sequels in our story-deprived culture, but I think that’s only a symptom of a deeper issue. The problem lies in our very concept of film—what a movie is and why we watch it. The problem with American film is that filmmakers are still using the D.W. Griffith model.
D.W. Griffith is widely considered to be one of the most influential film directors of all time. He pioneered many of the techniques that are now taken for granted in narrative filmmaking—continuity editing, camera angles, and the very concept of lighting for mood. Basically, D. W. Griffith was the first director to really understand how to manipulate an audience’s emotions and suspend their disbelief.
And therein lies the problem: the Griffith model is inherently dishonest. It’s excellent for deceiving an audience, and many cases it’s fun to be deceived. We like to be hypnotized, to have our disbelief suspended. We walk into a theater and suddenly we’re no longer individuals—if it’s a well-made movie, everybody in the theater is united in their fear, sadness, joy, or whatever emotion the filmmakers are programming into them. It’s groupthink, brainwashing, bread and circuses.
This is not very harmful when the movie is something like Jurassic Park. All it’s doing is creating an entertaining sensory diversion. But the concept can enter some very problematic territory. Griffith exposed his invention’s own worst tendencies when he made his most famous tour-de-force: a film called Birth of a Nation. He used every tool in the book to deceive audiences into subscribing to his distorted worldview. Watching Birth of a Nation, we’re transported into a world with some very different realities from our own. In this fever dream universe, black people are the root of all evil and Southern land-owners were courageous underdogs during the post-Civil War reconstruction period. The film does not expose truth; it propagates deception. And it does it alarmingly well.
1935 marked another important milestone for the Griffith school of film. Leni Riefenstahl released her magnum opus, The Triumph of the Will. This pseudo-documentary used many of Griffith’s techniques, such as camera angles, soundtrack, and added some of its own, such as long-focus lenses, to create a truly manipulative piece of propaganda. Each camera shot was specifically engineered to present the nazi party with a sense of majesty. Once again, all of these conventional techniques of cinema were employed to show audiences a false reality, one in which the Nazi party was a source of noble salvation.
Birth of a Nation and The Triumph of the Will are only two isolated instances. But today we live in a society built around manipulation. Our consumerist culture depends on it. Every day we’re bombarded by thousands of advertisements that use these exact techniques to brainwash us into subscribing to their worldviews. They use every trick of the trade to get inside our heads and hypnotize us, to deceive us with false needs and skewed worldviews. And our entire society is built on this manipulation, this subversion of truth.
The roots of mainstream cinema are founded in a kind of fascism. In Jason Kovar’s essay “Alfred Hitchcock,” he deplores “emotional effects (which) transcend the logical mind, dynamically seducing the audience into a position of complacent submission to the film” (Kovar). He’s spot-on—love them or hate them, most films operate by placing us in a state of practically hypnotic complacency. Steven Spielberg as been quoted as saying that film is essentially illusion: it’s a way of fooling audiences, of manipulating their emotions. In his essay “Naked Film: Dogma and its Limits,” Berys Gaut writes,
The film of illusion is decadent and bourgeois, its supreme task being to ‘fool the audience.’ It is aided in this by new technology, which washes away the truth, and applies ‘cosmetics’ to it; today this type of film is dominant. Its plots are predictable and superficial, not being justified by the characters’ inner lives. The result is a set of emotional illusions, of love and pathos, generating only ‘sensation’ (Gaut, 89).
The problem is that this model is inherently dishonest. That’s why it’s used so effectively in propaganda. It’s out of this that you get movies like Birth of a Nation. There’s a reason that filmmakers like George Lucas and Paul Verhoeven have copied scenes from Triumph of the Will in their film—while their intentions are much better, they use the same manipulative techniques.
In a sense, Hitchcock subscribed to this too. His genius lay in the precise manipulation of audience emotions and expectations—in his words:
The audience is like a giant organ that you and I are playing. At one moment we play this note on them and get this reaction, and then we play that chord and they react that way. And someday we won't even have to make a movie- they'll be electrodes implanted in their brains, and we'll just press different buttons and they'll go 'ooooh' and 'aaaah' and we'll frighten them...Won't that be wonderful?[1] (Kovar)
What we need is a new film aesthetic. Film should be about revealing truth, bearing witness to fundamental realities of the world. Film should be about honesty, not manipulation. Escapism is fun but today it governs our entire society: we’re a culture of infantilized man-children still stuck in our fantasy worlds and false realities. We need movies that will expose us to the truth, not shelter us from it. The D.W. Griffith model is broken and there has to be an alternative.
This isn’t a new concept. The Italian Neo-realism movement tried to establish an honest aesthetic. They favored long takes, believing that camera cuts were fundamentally dishonest. Later, in the French New Wave, Godard is quoted as saying that “film is truth 24 times a second, and every cut is a lie.” Whether or not you subscribe to this opinion, it’s a good example of what needs to happen if film is going to continue as an art form: we need to reexamine the basics, question the classic “rules” that everybody takes for granted. Why is cutting good? Why are camera angles good? Jim Jarmusch’s film Stranger than Paradise occurs entirely in long shots and the effect is strangely refreshing in its objectivity. The audience is able to draw their own opinions without having them thrust in their faces. Here’s a quote from Alejandro Jodorowsky on Luis Bunuel:
I like Bunuel… because he was always honest. If he had limits, then he would make a limited picture. He always shot at his eye-level, he never put a shot up here, because he was limited, and he agreed to be limited. Bunuel is honest. (Love)
Early Soviet cinema was the polar opposite of Italian neorealism. The Soviet school of thought cared nothing about mise-en-scene—for them, it was all in the editing. This style was much more effective for revolutionary propaganda, but even within the Kuleshov workshop directors sought to maintain a certain degree of integrity. Dziga Vertov, director of Man with a Movie Camera, eventually came to believe that narrative drama was a fundamentally capitalist medium, incapable of delivering genuine honesty. To that end he set about making a series of documentaries called kino-pravda, literally “film truth.” However, Vertov ultimately undermined his own intentions by introducing manipulative “artificialities” into his documentaries—slow motion, freeze frames, and even reenactments.
In the late 60s and early 70s, John Cassavetes pioneered a cinema verite aesthetic. He relied primarily on stationary camera work and long takes. His films don’t feel manipulative; rather than using camerawork or editing or music to tell the audience what to think, Cassavetes lets the audience draw their own conclusions. Without any real technique or even any real plot, all that’s left is pure cinema without the bells and whistles.
What’s tantalizing about this style of film is just how much it reveals about film as a medium. Without a soundtrack, without camerawork, without editing or traditional plot points, we’re forced to ask ourselves what really makes a movie. Cassavetes’ films are great—better than most movies that have all those bells and whistles—so the core of cinema is clearly something else, something deeper and more basic.
Dogme 95
The mid-90s brought yet another attempt to achieve cinematic honesty, this time from Europe. In 1995, Danish directors Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg created the “Dogme 95 Manifesto,” also known as the “vow of chastity.” In Jack Stevenson’s Dogme Uncut, he writes that dogme was a rebellion “against the way Hollywood made movies, the way Hollywood staged everything, the way Hollywood fooled audiences with their endless procession of technical ‘tricks’” (Stevenson, 30). The dogme 95 movement takes its name from a dogmatic set of restrictive rules for filmmaking:
- Shooting must be done on location. Props and sets must not be brought in.
- The sound must never be produced apart from the image or vice-versa.
- The camera must be handheld. Any movement or mobility attainable in the hand is permitted.
- The film must be in colour. Special lighting is not acceptable.
- Optical work and filters are forbidden.
- The film must not contain superficial action.
- Temporal and geographical alienation are forbidden.
- Genre movies are not acceptable.
- The film format must be Academy 35mm.
- The director must not be credited.
The Vow of Chastity goes on to include an oath:
Furthermore I swear as a director to refrain from personal taste. I am no longer an artist. I swear to refrain from creating a 'work', as I regard the instant as more important than the whole. My supreme goal is to force the truth out of my characters and settings. I swear to do so by all the means available and at the cost of any good taste and any aesthetic considerations.
All of these rules are intended to create more honest filmmaking. The idea is that without these superficial elements, more of the focus will be on creating authentic characters and honest stories. In some Dogme films it’s even possible to catch glimpses of the camera crew, since the goal is more about creating authentic moments than about totally suspending disbelief. In the dogme manifesto, von Trier rails against this conventional form of filmmaking:
“The ‘supreme’ task of the decadent filmmaker is to fool the audience. Is that what we are so proud of? Is that what the ‘100 years’ have brought us? Illusions via which emotions can be communicated? …By the individual artist’s free choice of trickery?... To Dogme 95 the movie is not illusion!”
According to legend, Lars von Trier was inspired to found the dogme 95 movement after his mother revealed on her deathbed that the man he thought was his father was not, in fact, his father. She had had an affair with her old boss, who came from a history of musicians, because she wanted her son to have “artistic genes.” Lars von Trier was devastated by her deception and decided to dedicate his life to pursuing honesty in film (Schepelern).
But even before he invented dogme, Lars von Trier was exploring the issues of manipulation in film. His early films are extremely stylized—exactly the opposite of dogme. In 1984 he exploded onto the international film scene with his surreal neo-noir The Element of Crime, a post-apocalyptic genre piece that was lit entirely by sodium light, casting everything in a harsh, monochromatic yellow and accomplishing what von Trier christened “the first color noir.” His 1991 hit Europa (Zentropa in the US) is ridiculously stylized: characters interact with black-and-white rear projections like Alfred Hitchcock on an acid trip—hardly the self-erasing style of dogme. But on closer inspection, the driving ideas behind the films are not so different. In his article “Euro Paian,” Jonathan Romney explains that “Lars von Trier has waxed lyrical about the cheapness of his cinematic tricks. The power of his peculiarly grandiose tackiness is that the tawdrier the effect, the more transparent, and so the less manipulative the film.” Von Trier confesses, “I’m extremely afraid to get into a cinema… I don’t want to be seduced” (Lumholdt, 85). After Europa, von Trier’s next project was a TV series called The Kingdom, where he first began experimenting with the freeform, handheld style that would become dogme. In The Kingdom, von Trier did away with two of the most basic traditions of cinematic language: the 180-degree rule and continuity editing.
Based on interviews von Trier gave at the time, it seems as if manipulation was not the primary impetus for disregarding those principles. His rationale was more about capturing authentic performances:
“When you do the scene, you normally have one set idea about how the actors will play the scene—they’ll all stand at the same time on the same side of the room, holding the glass in the same way, et cetera. We asked them to play the same scene five times in five different ways—cheerfully, gloomily, et cetera—and at different places in the room every time. We then intercut these different takes, and then when you watch it, you’ll perceive it as a perfectly normal take. You create the missing links in your brain. But performance-wise, you really get into some territory that makes for more interesting characters.” (Lumholdt, 91-92)
Nevertheless, the seeds of dogme are clearly visible: von Trier disregarded D.W. Griffith’s ‘common sense’ in favor of his characters’ integrity. In a couple of years he would totally reject the Griffith school of thought in search of a deeper layer of authenticity.
Michael Haneke
Michael Haneke is a contemporary director who has explored issues of manipulation in his films. His 1997 film Funny Games (and its 2008 shot-for-shot remake) is a Hostel-style horror film specifically designed to wear its manipulation on its sleeve and show audiences just how much they’re willing to be manipulated. It starts out like a traditional torture porn horror movie—two dapper sadists show up at a family’s house, hold them hostage, and begin psychology torturing and then killing them—but Haneke refrains from the two manipulative lynchpins of the genre: schadenfreude and catharsis. He avoids actually showing most of the violence, and as a result highlights our desire to be manipulated that way. Later on in the film, one of the protagonists finds a gun and shoots one of the villains in the head. It’s a crucial plot point, and in a traditional horror film it would represent the turning point when we cheer as the protagonist gains the upper hand. But Haneke exposes this manipulative device: the other villain pulls out a TV remote and literally rewinds the movie, destroying the catharsis and the fourth wall and making audiences realize just how much they desired that catharsis. This isn’t the first time Haneke breaks the fourth wall; the villains frequently address the audience, forcing viewers to question their own passive voyeurism. In his essay “Fun and Games,” Daniel Hui writes that “By subverting the audience's wants and needs, Haneke holds up the mirror on himself. It is a manipulation that forces the audience to contemplate his own manipulation — why audiences feel the need to be manipulated by him, and why they have these needs” (Hui).
Haneke’s 2005 film Cache deals with themes of surveillance, and as such the whole film is shot in long takes and long shots, as objectively as a surveillance camera. Scenes go on for longer than they should, and whole scenes transpire for no obvious reason. We’re so used to being manipulated in editing and story structure that a film that departs from these traditions is jarring and psychologically disturbing. We’re left outside of our comfort zone.
Beyond Film
Everybody complains about the abundancy of remakes, but people don’t seem to recognize that the root of the problem is just as present in a ‘good’ film like The King’s Speech. The King’s Speech brought nothing new to the table; it was essentially a remake of every Oscar-winning film ever made. Its creators knew exactly what tricks to employ to tug at the heartstrings of audiences and Academy members. We deplore films that demand ‘leaving our brains at the door’—but in their own, subtle way, films like The King’s Speech also demand that we leave our brains at the door. Why don’t people realize this?
The D. W. Griffith model is broken, but the problem extends outside of film. In the world of visual art, street artists have used their work to try and combat this overwhelming corporate manipulation. Before it became a symbol of corporate faux-counterculture, Shepard Fairey’s Obey Giant campaign was making waves as an experiment in social brainwashing. It’s a pretty iconic symbol by now, and you can find vinyl stickers of the Obey giant in every city. As Fairey explains it, the symbol was a kind of absurdist response to manipulation through propaganda and advertising. In an article on his website, Fairey says, “These posters are designed to start a dialogue about imagery absorption… I put these works on the street in order to send some static interference out into the world’s sea of images and messages” (Fairey). Shepard Fairey’s Obey Giant campaign forces people to actively analyze public images instead of just passively accepting them. He condenses his philosophy into two words: “Question everything.”
The dada art movement of the early 1920s was largely an attack on fascist propaganda—the artists hoped that by creating artwork that didn’t make any sense, they could train spectators to question the motivations of images. While the futurists used cutting-edge artistic ideas to propagate fascistic ideals, Dadaists rejected these techniques and resorted to a kind of “anti-aesthetic,” similar to the shaky camerawork and poor production values that have come to define dogme and mumblecore films. The look is definitely off-putting, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with creating a beautiful image. But at a certain point, the creation of such pure ugliness is cathartic in the context of perfectly crafted ads and movies. Garage band music was the sound of the underground until mainstream business conglomerates took advantage of the indie appeal. Punk was able to retain its cutting edge until mainstream industry found a certain beauty in its frayed stitches and ripped pleather. In an era when it seems like every visual style has been absorbed by the industrial marketing complex, the only revolutionary aesthetic left may be ugliness.
Absurdism is one response to media manipulation. It’s essentially a reactionary defense—an act of throwing a wrench into the industrial brainwashing machine. Movements like dogme and mumblecore are more preoccupied with seeking an alternative. Their aesthetic is connected to Fairey’s “question everything” mantra—by making their films as transparent as possible, the filmmakers reserve audiences the right to interact with their films without having to sacrifice their rationality.
Film doesn’t have to be about leaving your brain at the door. It’s fun to be hypnotized, but there’s a potential here to accomplish something really great through film. In his book Lars von Trier: Interviews, Jan Lumholdt writes that “truth is about searching an area in order to find something, but if you already beforehand know what you’re looking for, then it’s manipulation. Maybe truth is finding something you’re not looking for” (Lumholdt, 122-123). In a society deprived of wisdom, art can put a little truth into the world.
I've attached the works cited as a comment to this post.
[1] In his essay “Alfred Hitchcock at the drag ball,” John Calendo suggests that Hitchcock in fact refrained from all-out emotional manipulation. After Grace Kelly’s departure, Hitchcock began seeking out actresses “who didn’t connect, stars who conveyed a modern isolation.
The director now pointedly chose actresses who had a tendency to appear wooden and uninflected on the screen — limited actresses whose hollow resonances helped define his particular kind of morally vague blonde: Soulless, blank-eyed (think of Janet Leigh driving in Psycho), they were embodiments of modern anomie, of existential emptiness.” Calendo’s essay focuses on a Vanity Fair photo series which replicated famous Hitchcock stills with contemporary actors. Calendo argues that while the photos are technically masterful, the actresses exude too much sympathy, too much manipulation; Jody Foster’s face is “pleading” and “warmly human.”
Hitchcock’s actresses maintain an emotional disconnect: he used nearly every trick in the book to grab his audience by the throat, but he drew the line with their performances.
