An Invention without a Future. James NaremoreЧитать онлайн книгу.
it destroys our faith in the possibility of an indexical relationship between image and world and our faith in the difference between truth and fiction. But digital special effects aren’t always as invisible as they try to be, and truth and fiction have long been intertwined. From the time of Georges Méliès the cinema has been associated with optical illusions. Citizen Kane (one of Bazin’s touchstones of realism) is so filled with optical printing, lens distortions, black-art settings, painted backgrounds, and other visual tricks that it looks as if it aspired to the condition of an animated cartoon. A more neorealist film such as Powell and Pressburger’s A Canterbury Tale (1944), now available as a Criterion DVD, gains charm and emotional power from nonprofessionals in minor roles and subtly romantic location photography by Erwin Hiller of the bombed-out town center of Canterbury, which the Nazis had nearly destroyed in 1942; it’s fascinating as documentary record, but it also contains visual tricks that most viewers probably haven’t noticed, including art director Alfred Junge’s remarkably convincing re-creation of the interiors of Canterbury Cathedral.
Photography is neither inherently deceitful nor inherently indexical, and the same can be said of digital video. One of the infinitely precious attributes of photography is its ability to preserve traces of history or moments of long-ago time: the early motion pictures of Queen Victoria in a parade and of ordinary workers exiting the Lumière factory transcend art and are arguably more significant than art. But there’s no reason why some of the amateur videos on YouTube won’t someday have a roughly similar effect. Motion pictures that tell stories have always depended upon a dialectical tension between visual realism and visual magic. Digital technology has vastly increased animation in big-budget Hollywood movies, but it has also made it easier for contemporary directors to create documentaries and neo-neorealist cinema.
The loss of the film strip nevertheless raises a problem for preservationists, because DVDs and Blu-ray Discs are said to be more unstable than film. If we want to save the past, the preferred way of storing it is on celluloid. (Ironically, there is now also a need to preserve VHS, because many movies in library archives can’t be seen in other forms.) For this and other reasons, I doubt that the old media will go away completely; indeed, many young filmmakers today are experimenting with 8mm and 16mm. We should keep in mind Raymond Williams’s argument that any given historical moment is compounded of dominant, residual, and emergent forms of culture—an argument that applies not only to technology but also to ideas. Around 1960, for example, the idea of the postmodern (with which the following book is sometimes concerned) was emergent in Western industrial society; it soon became a dominant idea in the world of art and architecture, but now it is becoming a residual or period term like any other. Modernism (equally important to this book), which is associated with formally innovative, relatively difficult art in conflicted dialogue with industrial modernity, has a much longer residual life-span. With some qualification, we can speak of post–World-War II neorealism and the 1960s European art cinema of directors like Bergman, Antonioni, and Resnais as a recrudescence of the modernist impulse often associated with earlier directors like Eisenstein and Welles. As I try to suggest toward the end of this volume, a modernist spirit also animates what is nowadays called “world cinema,” a phenomenon connecting Asian, Latin American, African, and Iranian films by such directors as Jia Zhangke, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Abderrahmane Sissako, Abbas Kiarostami, and the late Raúl Ruiz. No matter what technology these artists use—usually it’s digital—they’ve established continuities with the past and made this a remarkable time for cinema.
In contrast, most of the films I discuss in this book belong to a dead cinema—dead not only because it was produced by an old technology but also because the institutional, economic, and cultural conditions that determined it are things of the past. But as long as we can still see older films in a good form of remediation, the past isn’t dead. Classic Hollywood films may not have the same significance or meanings for us as when they were originally shown (no matter how glamorized and studio-bound they are, they give us intriguing documentary evidence of a different America). Nevertheless, they’re important achievements in the history of a still-living art and are worthy of ongoing criticism and theory.
Somewhat like film, my career as a writer about cinema is entering a late, perhaps last, phase, and the essays assembled here are chosen to reflect my chief interests over the span of that career. Most of them were published originally in academic journals or anthologies, but I have also written several new pieces especially for this volume. All the previously published essays have been rewritten, some in minor ways and others substantially, to correct errors, take note of subsequent research, and reflect changes in my thinking. I’ve avoided reprinting material from the books I’ve authored, although the piece on Cabin in the Sky, to which I’ve added a few things, closely resembles what became a chapter in The Films of Vincente Minnelli (1993), and occasional paragraphs or pages elsewhere are derived from arguments in my books on other film topics.
The collection has three parts. The first consists of essays on general or theoretical issues and the second of case studies. An overriding concern with value judgment should be apparent throughout, and certain topics recur: authorship; adaptation; acting; modernism and postmodernism; observations on the relation between style and politics; and commentary on such figures as Hitchcock, Hawks, Minnelli, Welles, Huston, Kubrick, and other figures associated with classic Hollywood. The third and final section, consisting of mostly new material, is a defense of criticism and film reviewing in an era when print journalism is facing a death similar to film, and when the academy seems to be losing interest in questions of aesthetics, taste, or evaluation. It contains essays on four American journalistic critics who quickened my early interest in film and expanded my knowledge of film history. Appended to these is a sample of my work as a critic/reviewer between 2009 and 2011, when I wrote an annual “Films of the Year” roundup in Film Quarterly. During those years I was particularly interested in the aforementioned “world cinema” and in what some people have called “slow cinema,” which I would argue accounts for some of the most significant motion pictures in the past decade.
It remains for me to say a bit about my intellectual history and how it determines my approach to cinema. I’ve always been passionately interested in movies but never studied them in school. I majored in English and French at Louisiana State University, which was still under the influence of the New Criticism, and in English at the University of Wisconsin, where the department was organized by a “Beowulf to Virginia Woolf” version of literary history. Much of my writing about film tends to be inflected by literary training and an early interest in literary modernism. Equally important, my university years coincided with the civil rights and anti–Vietnam War movements. I became thoroughly politicized and was faced with the problem of how to reconcile my aestheticism with my politics. As a result, there’s a sometimes subdued, sometimes explicit political quality to most of my writing, expressed in two ways: an overarching concern with the relationship between politics and culture, and a belief that formal analysis isn’t enough; to slightly revise a remark by Lionel Trilling, I’m always asking what the text and perhaps the maker of the text wants, whether or not it is aware of it.
While in graduate school I was drawn to Madison’s vibrant, mostly off-campus or ad hoc film culture, and from the moment I began a professional career I felt an urge to write about movies rather than literature. Discussion of cinema was spreading among public intellectuals and academics, and the cinema itself seemed to be undergoing a kind of revolution. I had already read Andrew Sarris’s The American Cinema and everything I could find by Raymond Durgnat and Robin Wood. And, like every academic cinephile, I was affected by waves of ideas about film from a variety of theoretical or politically activist sources, including feminism, structuralism, semiotics, and everything associated with European High Theory (which, despite its radicalism, drew mostly from a French tradition critical and philosophical aesthetics). But I didn’t jump from one paradigm to another. The ideas that shape my work tend to coexist, sometimes conflicting, sometimes interacting, overlaying one another like a palimpsest. The latest of these ideas grew out of academic cultural studies, which freed me from the sometimes puritanical doctrines of High Theory and fed my interest in the relations between “high,” “popular,” and “mass” art (terms I regard as discursive constructions rather than hard-and-fast categories). Even so, I’ve resisted what I see as a tendency in cultural studies toward populism, presentism, and relativism. Most of my work has been about classic