Online Response #11: Still Walking and Bazin

In name, Kore-eda’s Still Walking suggests tension, a contradiction in going on with life while preserving one’s memories.  In the case of the Yokoyama family, Ryota somewhat reluctantly brings his new wife and stepson to his parents’ house, where the entire family commemorates the twelfth anniversary of the eldest son Junpei’s death.  Ryota, at times, voices frustration at the futility of remembering; he sees a problem, in particular, in the annual practice of inviting Yoshio, the boy whose life was saved at the expense of Junpei’s, to the Yokoyama house on the anniversary of Junpei’s death.  During the night of the anniversary, Ryota makes a suggestion to his mother:

“Say, isn’t it time we let Yoshio off the hook?  Let’s stop inviting him.”

“Why?” replies Toshiko.

“I feel sorry for him.  It seems painful for him to see us.”

“That’s why we invite him.  Can’t have him forgetting after just a dozen years.  It was his fault Junpei died.”

“But Yoshio didn’t--”

“It makes no difference.  Not to a parent.  Not having someone to hate makes it all the worse for me.  So once a year I make him feel awful too.  Will the Gods punish me for that?  So I’ll invite him next year and the year after.”

“That’s what you keep inviting him here for?  You’re cruel.”

“I’m not cruel.  I think it’s normal.”

“Everyone keeps using that word.”

The idea of “preservation of life by a representation of life” constitutes what is normal or not normal for individual characters in Still Walking.  Toshiko preserves her son’s life by keeping his room intact, inviting (and, subsequently, mocking) the beneficiary of Junpei’s sacrifice, and even celebrating the appearance of a butterfly as a sign of Junpei’s visitation.  Atsushi’s idea of normal, in contrast, consists of a rejection of preservation via symbolic action when he describes to Ryota his “normal” reaction to a rabbit dying at school. 

“Rena started saying we should write letters to the rabbit.” 

“What’s wrong with writing letters?” Ryota asks.

“Letters no one will read?” says Atsushi, answering Ryota’s question with a question of his own, which is not to say Atsushi does not have his own methods of preservation.  His desire, after all, of becoming a piano tuner when he grows up is his way of preserving, and by extension, continuing, traditions of a father he does not remember. 

Photos figure prominently as objects of preservation throughout Still Walking, as the camera rests on a framed portrait of Junpei several times and also during a scene in which Toshiko shares childhood pictures of Ryota with her daughter, Chinami, and her new daughter-in-law, Yukari.  The concerns characters have with representation are mirrored by Kore-eda in his presentation of the film.  Stylistically similar to Uzo, at least in terms of framing, Kore-eda provides deep shot after deep shot in an attempt to reveal the complicated realism of family life.  In doing so, he offers the spectator a glimpse at the dynamism of individuality in conflict with the static nature of environment.      

Kore-eda “create[s] the illusion of three-dimensional space within which things appeared to exist as our eyes in reality see them,” thus satisfying, in a Bazinian sense, the spectator’s desire for reality.  In scenes that capture the family at mealtime, we see a mixture of long, medium long, and medium shots of mundane activities that emphasize relationships among characters.  During Yoshio’s visit, for example, the scene begins with the camera fitting six characters completely within its frame.  The deep plane of action aids the spectator in understanding the feelings of each Yokoyama family member towards Yoshio, center-left and sweaty.  To his left (and closer to the lens) is Ryota, downcast and sympathetic to Yoshio.  To the right and closest to the lens we see the backs of Chinami and her daughter, hands on their chins, as they courteously, if not a little patronizingly, ask Yoshio about his current prospects.  Farther in the distance and to the right of Yoshio is Toshiko, setting up a fan to ease the guest’s suffering but also to get a close-up look of it.  Farthest in the distance is Kyohei, back turned to the camera in utter disgust of Yoshio, the pathetic surviving preservation of his proud son. 

In The Story of Film, Mark Cousins describes the effect of the composition in Ozu’s films on the spectator, a description equally fitting for Kore-eda, at least in Still Walking: “the more you watch, the more you feel the order of space in his movies.  His frames were windows on very balanced pictorial worlds.”  The order of space in Still Walking implies objectivity, a fly-on-the-wall perspective that accentuates the unemotional detachedness of its technological medium, the lens.  Bazin states, “between originating object and its reproduction there intervenes only the instrumentality of a nonliving agent.  For the first time an image of the world is formed automatically, without the creative intervention of man.  The personality of the photographer enters into the proceedings only in his selection of the object to be photographed and by way of the purpose he has in mind.” 

Kore-eda’s purpose, arguably, is to show us a normal family (with each member sharing his/her own ideas of normal) doing normal things, as they remember their son, brother, husband, and father.  His framing of multiple objects at once uncovers the complexity of the family get-together by giving us moving snapshots.  Recurring tableaus of the kitchen, the dining room, and other locations show us places that do not change but characters that do (or at least have the desire to).  For by the end of the film, we see a familiar scene with a familiar backdrop, a family visiting a cemetery on commemoration day, but instead of an exact repetition of an earlier scene with Ryota and his mother, we see Ryota and his family, now with the addition of a daughter, visiting the grave of Junpei.  “Photography does not create eternity, as art does, it embalms time, rescuing it simply from its proper corruption.  Viewed in this perspective, the cinema is objectivity in time.”  Kore-eda captures a family that, despite claims to do otherwise, fails to keep promises and/or make changes.  Regarding his father, Ryota “never did get to a soccer match with him,” nor did he give his mother “a ride in a car.”  Predictably, the tension between Ryota and his parents continued up to their deaths as he and his family returned for Junpei’s annual commemoration.  Kore’eda’s portrayal of realism is a life in which things change while not really changing.  As if the subject in a still shot, one must keep walking even if he or she is repeating mistakes from the past.          

Online Response #10: (500) Days of Summer & Bordwell

Bordwell’s claim that “filmmakers—scriptwriters, producers, directors, editors, and other artisans of the screen—build their films in ways which will coax most of their spectators to follow similar elaborational pathways” appears evident within the first 70 seconds of (500) Days of Summer.  The average spectator would, presumably, see Summer and Tom’s first scene together on Day 488 as the joyful culmination of more than a year of ups and downs, the happy ending to a story not yet witnessed.  After all, as they are sitting on the park bench, Tom turns to Summer longingly as she gazes with amusement at the midday city skyline; Summer reciprocates, turning her head toward Tom, and they stare into each others’ eyes determinedly yet anxiously.  Tom, at least, seems somewhat out of breath.  The close-up reveals a possible source of Tom’s nervousness: the diamond ring Summer is wearing hints at the context of the setting.  We are witnessing the tail end of a proposal or perhaps seeing the newlyweds on their first lunch break together as a married couple.  The narration that coincides with the close-up does nothing to betray the general assumption at this point: “This is a story of boy meets girl.”

 

            As the narration continues, though, the spectator becomes aware of the temporal structure of the film, which operates unconventionally. A calendar with a smudgy pencil drawing of the city in the background and two colored trees in the foreground signals the rewinding and fast-forwarding of time.  In the middle of the screen, in parentheses, is the number indicating the specific day.  (488) rewinds to (1) with an audible clicking.  In retrospect, the flashback to (1) is not the first flashback in the film; the same clicking noise takes us from the title screen, (500) Days of Summer, to the first scene with Tom and Summer, (488).  That the film does not follow traditional temporal norms complicates the assumption that “the patterns of elaboration are shared by many spectators.”  In fact, (500) Days of Summer’s out-of-order (but purposeful) sequencing invites multiple elaborations, opening pathways for both the “trusting” and “skeptical” spectator. 

            The aforementioned clues that lead the trusting spectator to conclude that Tom and Summer end up happily together are cues, which “initiate the process of elaboration, resulting eventually in inferences and hypotheses.”  Most viewers have sufficient schema to elaborate on the hand holding close-up cue, made complete by the sparkly ring.  One need only recall the slogan “A Diamond is Forever” to infer what is happening.  On closer inspection, however, the skeptical spectator will find counter cues.  Why, for example, does the film start at the end (or nearly the end)?  If Tom and Summer end up together, as we are led to believe, what is the purpose of watching the film?  The trusting viewer might claim a “curiosity hypothesis” as a reason to engage in the story, despite knowing the ending (i.e., the ending itself is not as important as the past events that lead to their happy union).  An engagement (or marriage) as the unequivocal resolution would certainly kill any suspense the film attempts to generate in Tom and Summer’s backstory.     

            Many films and novels begin at the end, but (500) Days of Summer, perhaps surprisingly, is not one of them.  On first impression, the spectator might infer resolution based on norms and cues.  If “this is a story of boy meets girl,” one would assume it ends with boy getting girl.  The skeptical spectator, though, elaborates on the explicitness of the calendar.  The scene of Tom and Summer on the park bench is clearly not a flash-forward to the end of the film and the end of their story, for this scene takes place on (488) (and it is critical that we know the exact day).  If this seeming resolution were truly the end of their story (and therefore the end of any conflict), what would we expect in the final 12 (of the 500) days of Summer?  Uneventful wedding planning?  Even if things are what they seem in the first scene of (488), the skeptical spectator sees trouble, if not in the scene itself then in the days to come. 

            These inferences and elaborations, as mentioned, come to the spectator via the calendar, which periodically appears, not unlike a title card in a silent film.  Calendar as cue card functions as an indicator of the ebb and flow of Tom and Summer’s relationship in all of its nonlinear glory.  The calendar especially denotes Tom’s worldview at a given time; when (488) recedes to (1), we learn that Tom “grew up believing that he’d never truly be happy until the day he met “the one.”  Summer, in contrast, begins (1) “not [sharing] this belief.”  Tom’s belief in finding “the one” subsides as he and Summer grow apart; by the time he learns of her engagement he is completely disillusioned, to the point of quitting his romantic job as a Hallmark-style card writer. 

            At the return to (488), this time near the end of the film, we discover the meaning behind Tom and Summer’s expressions during their park bench encounter and discover “the film’s opening narration has misdirected” the trusting spectator.  Summer holds Tom’s hand, not so much an embrace as a reassurance; in a reversal, Summer now believes in fate, having met her husband by chance in a deli.  “Tom was right,” she says, in reference to his previously held beliefs of “destiny, and soul mates, and true love.”  Tom smiles, the same smile we see during the first (488) scene, a smile all spectators (trusting and skeptical) recognize as a signifier of renewed hope.  Using cues, can one elaborate this scenario on a first viewing?  Skeptical spectators might not agree on the specifics of the couple’s situation at first glance, but the placement of (488) next to (1) implies Tom’s state of mind on the park bench, even to someone who knows nothing else about his story: he is someone who believes in finding “the one.”  By the end of the film we understand that Tom has come (nearly) full circle, thanks to Summer’s validation.  

       

Online Response #9: Spellbound and The Labyrinth of the Guilt Complex

Anthony Edwardes, if we can call him that, makes a perfect case study for the repressed individual.  During an otherwise delightful dinner with his new colleagues, he squirms when Dr. Constance Peterson traces the shape of Green Manor’s yet-to-be-built swimming pool on the tablecloth with her fork.  

The same parallel-line pattern shocks him once again when he notices it on Constance’s robe after their first kiss, which, not coincidentally, coincides with the image of three doors opening; though their relationship is not exactly doctor-patient at this point, Constance unwittingly performs the duty of the psychoanalyst stated at the beginning of the film: “to open the locked doors of his [the patient’s] mind.”  Constance soon discovers the Anthony Edwardes she has known for only a short time is not actually Anthony Edwardes; when he remembers he is not Edwardes, the impostor can only come up with the initials of his real name: J.B.  Constance and J.B.’s adventures over the course of the story become an exercise in uncovering hidden memories. 

J.B.’s episodes, his “manifestations of insanity” (828), are uncanny because they “lead back to what is known of old and long familiar” (825), even if the familiar and its accompanying meaning is veiled.  The aforementioned stripes surrounded by white elicit a similar response from him each time, an “involuntary repetition” (833) of anxiety.  Neither Constance nor J.B. can identify the root of this uncanny trigger, not until she takes him to her mentor, Dr. Brulov.  It is during their stay, as fugitives, at Dr. Brulov’s house that J.B.’s repressed memories finally come to light.  It is also during their stay at Dr. Brulov’s house that the viewer witnesses the uncanniest scenes in Spellbound: J.B.’s mental break, brought on by the stark whiteness of the bathroom fixtures and the lines of the comforter, and the retelling of his dream, presented in surrealistic fashion, thanks to its design by Salvador Dali.  Both of these scenes speak to the importance of the artistic choices in producing the uncanny, which Hitchcock does successfully in his use of point of view. 

Freud recognizes instances in which his hypothesis of the uncanny is contradicted, especially in “the realm of fiction, of imaginative writing” (837).  A severed hand most certainly seems an uncanny effect, as long as it can be traced to the castration complex, a universally repressed fear in Freud’s opinion.  He readily, acknowledges, though, that just as many stories with severed hands are not uncanny.  Such discrepancy “suggests that we should differentiate between the uncanny that we actually experience and the uncanny that we merely picture or read about” (837).  Spellbound is, obviously, a work of fiction, but it aims to tell a story that deals directly with psychology, a story set in the real world.  Most importantly, its goal is to present an uncanny that the viewer experiences, as evidenced by the scene in which J.B. carries his razor blade downstairs and into Dr. Brulov’s living room, presumably to do damage to whomever he encounters. 

The camera alternates between third and first person, the former implicating the viewer in the crime that is sure to take place, the latter putting the viewer in the madman’s shoes.  J.B., and by extension, the viewer, watches on in silence as Dr. Brulov calmly deals with the situation by offering, and later retrieving, crackers and milk.  The quick cuts to J.B.’s hand, holding the razor blade, externalize his thoughts to the viewer; the various triggers in the upstairs bedroom and bathroom have induced a certain monomania in him.  They remind him of a time when he killed, and he is about to kill again.  Luckily, Dr. Brulov gives him a bromide-laced glass of milk, which has an immediate effect. 

Woken up and back to his senses, J.B. recounts in detail his dream from the previous night.  The imagery in the dream, if not uncanny, is truly unsettling.  The viewer sees walls full of eyes, a scantily-clad woman, a “proprietor” whose face is covered with a hole-less linen sack, and a man with skis falling off the ledge of a house, among other things.  While the viewer might take the dream sequence for granted, it functions as a type of dramatic irony, albeit in a limited way, for only one person in the film truly knows what this dream looks like: J.B.  Partly because J.B. does not do justice in his telling of the dream, the viewer knows a few things Constance and Dr. Brulov cannot know: the realness of the “painted” eyes, the horror of the proprietor’s appearance, the absurd size of the playing cards, the distorted shape of the wheel, etc. 

             

The explanation of Dr. Anthony Edwardes’ disappearance and death does not occur until the end of the film, leaving the viewer hanging with regard to J.B.’s guilt/innocence.  Freud alludes to this practice, which he claims improves a writer’s chance of success at instilling the uncanny: “[the writer] can keep us in the dark for a long time about the precise nature of the presupposition on which the world he writes about is based, or he can cunningly and ingeniously avoid any definite information on the point to the last” (840).  Granted, most mysteries do not give away their secrets until the end, but the uncertainty with which we are faced as we see things through J.B.’s eyes hints at the implications of a living a life full of repressed memories, an uncanny life.  

How does a man perceive himself when traumatic memories are hidden, and only an inkling of what has happened, be it good or bad, remains?  Mr. Garmes, much like J.B. later, believes he literally killed his father.  Constance reassures him that he did not, that he is only projecting guilt for something else.  Whether he killed his father or not, Garmes believes he did, which leads him to violently act out at Green Manor.  He tries to kill Dr. Fleurot and then cuts his own throat.  Though the attack happens off-screen, it nearly reenacts itself in Dr. Brulov’s house when J.B., razor in hand, approaches the doctor.  J.B., after all, has already admitted his crime against Edwardes to Constance: “I remember now.  Edwardes is dead.  I killed him and took his place.”  That he errs in uncovering his repressed memories almost leads him to commit the type of crime of which he considers himself guilty.  As viewers, our closeness to J.B., facilitated by our ability to see through his eyes at times, leaves us in a state of suspended disbelief; did he kill Edwardes, or did he not?  What we cannot deny is the complexity of the psyche, The Labyrinth of the Guilt Complex; what is more terrifying than misremembering the past, ascribing to oneself horrible crimes that were not committed?