Gloves and Fictitious Crimes

This is, at least, the 12th edition of my attempt to write something about the films, The Blood of the Poet and Rose Hobart. I sit at my desk, in front of my computer [and I sit on trains and in parks and other miscellaneous places, with a notebook and a pen], and try to answer the question: ‘so, what did I think of these films.’

While I resign myself to letting you know that these films intrigued and challenged me, it is by no means an admission that the others didn’t. Berlin Symphony of a City and Man with a Movie Camera were of a genre I had only once encountered in the film Koyaanisquatsi but were sufficiently different that they astounded me. Piccadilly was unlike any other film that I had encountered with respect to the depiction of the Other. Most of the films I had encountered previously – films like Uncivilised, East of Borneo, and even King Kong – were so ingrained in conventional representations of the other that Piccadilly struck me as innovative. Apart from their chairs and penchant for interior design, I knew nothing about the Eames’. And Ozu. A poster-boy for filmmakers who want to violate filmic conventions. A filmmaker who can make lecturers, and this particular student, cry. Especially when a character says, with a smile, ‘yes, it is’ to the question. ‘isn’t life disappointing.’ [As an aside, I also cried in Berlin Symphony of a City and Man with a Movie Camera].

And still, no films have ever bothered me so much as Rose Hobart and The Blood of the Poet. I couldn’t unravel what I felt was the beauty of the plotless, non-sequitar, non-film fan video type film and the one hour long five episode film about the experiences of a man as he searches crevices and keyholes and the universe. This is not unlike my experiences in trying to understand these two films, in trying to understand surrealism and the movements within society that centre these two films in context, in the history of film, in the history of civilisation.

My searches took me everywhere from the Art Gallery of New South Wales to see a surrealist exhibition, to Melbourne to see the legacy of surrealism, to a dinky second hand bookstore, and back to Schaeffer library. I’m no closer to any real conclusions.

I picked up threads that made me laugh [The Simpsons], saw images that frightened me, and screamed upon seeing Un Chien Andalou. It felt like an adventure. As I recall these experience I recall a series of photographs at the surrealist exhibition – I cannot name the artist or images, I can share only my recollections– of a man looking into a department store window and longing to feel a glove, and never being able to, and only being able to scrawl incoherent messages at the bottom of the photographs in biro for the delight of others like me, until of course the same glove presents itself on a vacant bus seat, and he reaches a moment, of feeling, not of clarity. This is not unlike my own adventures.

If I tried to recount to you the narratives of these films I couldn’t. I could, as I have these past 500 or so words, recount my experiences of the films- my frustrations, my first screams and convulsions over a severed moon and slivered eye, my amazement at the visual surfaces and textures of films where words do not matter so much as the feeling of touching velvet and thinking its quicksand.

The conclusions [of sorts]: (1) Film and photography’s inherent duality makes it a perfect medium for invoking the surreal. Commonly perceived as objective, the medium remains open to manipulation, allowing ambiguity to enter, thus, imbued with strange and disturbing qualities these works provoke and intrigue the imagination [this conclusion was partly written on a wall]. (2) Conclusions are unnecessary when you derive as much enjoyment as I have had following clues like a detective. (On that note, the surrealist artworks by Mari Mahr, 13 Clues to a Fictitious Crime circa 1940-1941, 1984 series of 13 @ Art Gallery of NSW).

The Fountainhead

The transformation of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead into a film of the same name raises interesting questions about the nature of adaptation. Most often, the register of conversations about the adaptation of a literary text into a film is that of disappointment. Disappointment manifests itself when actors do not faithfully portray the characters of the novel, when paradigmatic indeterminances with respect to mise-en-scene, for instance, costume are rendered in a manner which does not coincide with our personal expectations (think for instance Ellsworth Toohey’s attire which by no means replicate the novel), when central plot features are removed rendering the narrative illogical or incomplete, and definitely when a film fails to capture what we feel is the spirit or the essence of the novel.

Notwithstanding the attempts of at least the last decade to redress the imbalance, the medium of the novel has historically assumed a superior position in the cannons of criticism. This superiority derives from the fact that as we read, we fashion our mind’s imaginary mise-en-scene of the novel on the private stages of our minds. When we are confronted with someone else’s phantasy, as Christian Metz pointed out long ago ‘we feel the loss of our own phantasmatic relation to the novel, with the result that the adaptation itself has become a kind of bad object.’(54-5).*

Fittingly, recent criticism has begun to deconstruct such hierarchies that are embedded in conceptions of adaptation while highlighting the varied signifying potentials of novel and film. Given the varied signifying potential of film, namely the use of sound, dialogue, visual cues such as movement, acting style, grain of voice, and images not available to the novel medium, critics posit the undesirability of literal fidelity. Ultimately, criticism of adaptation should be less rooted in unacknowledged hierarchies and welcome the difference among the signifying potentials of novel and film (76).* Having been aware of the hierarchies that operate with respect to criticism of adaptation, at least in traditional criticism and those that operate at a lay level [how many times have you heard the words- but the book was better! Don’t watch the film, just read the book!], I found myself aware of my own viewing experience. I found myself analysing The Fountainhead for moments where the film hadn’t properly translated into the film medium but reverted to the signifying means available to the novel form, notably, textual features. For instance one of the most jarring, though comic, moments of the film was when the words ‘NOT BUILT’ were scrawled over the drawings of Henry Cameron which had, well, not been built. Though the film indeed recovered, the most disagreeable moment in The Fountainhead was the structuring image of the novel at the outset of the film. The Fountainhead provided an interesting space through which I could interrogate the varied signifying potentials of novel and film and it shouldn’t merely be considered an adjunct of Rand’s novel.

* Stam, Robert, ‘Beyond Fidelity: the Dialogics of Adaptation’ in Film Adaptation, J. Naremore (ed.), London: Athlone, 2000. 54-76.

Tokyo Story

Yasujiro Ozu’s construction of space and the stylistic and narrative elements of Tokyo Story are radically different to those found in most films, especially those encountered in this course. In The Fountainhead, interior space is configured in relation to the psychology of the characters who occupy those particular spaces. For instance, Dominique Francon’s feeble attempt to damage the fireplace in her bedroom signifies her inability to act. The space of the bedroom itself expresses the nature of this inability. That Roark desecrates the rococo fireplace foreshadows his domination of Dominique and symbolises the larger thematic concerns of the novel and film, notably, his disdain for what ought to be antiquated architectural forms.

In Tokyo Story, interior space does not serve this kind of symbolic function. Although the film is concerned with interior space, that space functions in much the same way as the urban landscape does in, for instance, Berlin, Symphony of a Great City, notably, as a space in which the narrative unfolds. Thus, the space in Tokyo Story signifies nothing more than itself, its interiority and domesticity. Ozu makes a feature of this concept, emphasizing that acts within this space are to be understood as concerning relations between people. Elements of style and design do not reflect a character’s interiority as in the case of, for instance, The Fountainhead. Ozu’s style is therefore, cinematic. Ozu never presents such subjective states as dreams, memories, fantasies or hallucinations and thus human agents are only known ‘behaviorally’ through their words, gestures, expressions, routines and decisions (53).^ The interior space, for Ozu, is a place where action unfolds.

However, Ozu’s style, and construction of interior space, is one of the most intriguing features of this film. Despite the fact that interior spaces do not have a significant bearing upon the narrative, they are of equal interest to the narrative. Instead of making narrative events the central organising principle, Ozu emphasises spatial and temporal structures which become prominent aesthetic elements in their own right (409).* According to Bordwell, we watch the narrative action, the spatial relations, and the temporal relations unfold simultaneously, and all are equally dramatic and engaging (405).*

The film deconstructs cinematic conventions and naturalises the domestic space. In not adhering to the basic Hollywood convention of continuity editing or the axis of action, Ozu adds a sense of realism to the domestic space by denying the kind of artifice that inheres in conventional family dramas. According to Bordwell, Ozu’s approach avoids exaggerated action, complex camera movements, and dynamic montage (24).^ Often the camera remains staid as characters exit a room in order to signify the presence and then absence of a character within a particular scene, adding a sense of realism to the domestic space. For instance, the camera will linger for an extra second or two upon an empty room as it does in the final exchange between Kyoko and Noriko. As the movie progresses, it becomes clear that one of Ozu’s greatest achievements is his subversion of Hollywood cinematic techniques. Ozu subverts the Hollywood convention of filming at eye level and redefines the viewing experience through predominantly filming scenes at floor level. Similarly, temporal movement is not highlighted through the use of the typically Hollywood convention of a fade shot to signify the passing of time. Rather, cuts are used which contextualise the coming scene, for instance, one scene is anchored through an establishing shot from the outside of a room to signify a new place, a new room and a new social interaction.

Ozu’s construction of interior space and the techniques pioneered by Ozu, which are radically opposed those that inhere in Hollywood cinema, render Tokyo Story a constantly refreshing film despite having been filmed over half a century ago.


*Bordwell, D., and Thompson, K., Film Art, New York: McGraw Hill, 1997.

^Bordwell, D., Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1988.

Kong and Shosho

And now ladies and gentlemen, before I tell you any more, I’m going to show you the greatest thing your eyes have ever beheld. He was a king and a God in the world he knew but now he comes to civilisation, merely a captive, a show to gratify your curiosity. Ladies and gentlemen, look at…

Kong and, although the gender pronouns in the quote don’t quite fit, Shosho. It was difficult not to draw parallels between the characterisation of Kong and Shosho and their experiences within their respective films. The above quote from King Kong contextualises the kind of power dynamic that inheres in the films King Kong and Piccadilly. Identity in both films is established through binary oppositions. London and New York are established as civilisation or the Occident while contrarily, China and an undesignated island somewhere in the Pacific represent the Orient. Thus, the films protagonists who hail from these places are constructed as ‘the Other’ whose subjugated place in society is central to Occidental imagination.

In Piccadilly, Shosho’s characterisation as ‘other’ is constructed via visual cues. While her Occidental counterpart Mabel is bathed in incandescent light, Shosho is predominantly cast in shadows. The faces of characters in Piccadilly become a screen upon which judgements about character are projected thereby structuring particular interpretations of these characters.

Similarly, costuming functions to acquaint the audience with the ‘otherness’ of characters in both Piccadilly and King Kong. In Piccadilly, Shosho is constructed as other through contrast to Mabel, the archetype of an Occidental woman. While most scenes contain Mabel resplendent in white, Shosho wears her drab scullery outfit, complete with holes in stockings, or black satin clothing recalling conceptions of the ‘Other’ as dangerous and/or lascivious. Shosho’s costuming in the dance scene is one example of the undifferentiated representations of the Orient by the Occident. The Thai costume sported by Shosho functions to signify the homogenized Orient at the expense of Chinese historical and cultural integrity. Similarly, in King Kong, the marital ceremony that takes place on Skull Island, an isolated island located in the Pacific, features the use of leopard skins as an element of set design. Leopards are scarcely found in places other than Africa, and definitely not found to exist naturally on desolate islands in the Pacific.* Maybe, however, I’m asking too much of a film which featured a human-eating-brontosaurus. (Brontosaurus’ are herbivores).

While Kong is transported from the Orient for the gratification of spectators paying top money to marvel at the ‘eighth wonder of the world’, Shosho is similarly brought out of the scullery for the viewing pleasure and entertainment of the Occident by exploiting the otherness of her own culture at the expense of its integrity. In this sense, the central plot features of King Kong and Piccadilly become an allegory for what is going on in mainstream cinema. In films of the era, the cultural integrity of the Orient is of minimal concern, for instance, white actors in ‘yellow face’ acted the parts of most Oriental characters. Concurrently, ‘oriental actors’ such as Anna May Wong experienced the kind of racism that plays out on screen, notably, through wage and billing discrimination. Humorously, also, Anna May Wong was killed off in most of her films. Both King Kong and Piccadilly remain interesting historical artefacts which depict the relationship between the Occident and the Orient in the early 20th century.

The dragon featured in the picture of Anna May Wong would undoubtedly have evoked the concepts inherent in The Bulletin cartoon of the late 19th century which signifies the dangerous Orient (in the form of the dragon) threatening the Occident (signified by the baby).

*Imdb.