Online Response #4: The Observational Mode

The Observational mode of documentary—that with “no voice-over commentary, no supplementary music or sound effects, no inter-titles, no historical reenactments, no behavior repeated for the camera, and not even any interviews” (Nichols 172, 173)—is “exhilarating to some film goers, [and] infuriating to others,” due to its ambiguity (Barnouw 231).  Lacking the directness of the Expository mode, the Observational allows the audience to make conclusions.  None of this is to say that it lacks coherence or does not have structure.  Whereas Expository mode uses voice-overs as evidentiary editing to tie together disparate shots, Observational mode uses masked interviews as one means to construct and contextualize its narratives. 

Nichols explains masked interviews thusly: “the filmmaker works in a more participatory way with his subjects to establish the general subject of a scene and then films it in an observational manner” (177).  The filmmaker is off-screen and unheard, while the subject is featured and answers the question the audience doesn’t hear.  Masked interviews largely shape Lonely Boy, as Paul Anka explains the physical toll necessary to become a teen idol (starting at 7:15), followed by some flattering remarks by his manager, Earvin Felt.  Without these masked interviews, the audience is left only with shots of adoring fans, a scene in which Anka changes backstage, and some concert footage—scenes that together are a little too ambiguous to give any sense of a narrative. 

Not that all documentaries that use the Observational mode similarly utilize masked interviews—Primary, for example, brilliantly renders the frenetic pace of a political campaign by maintaining a greater degree of ambiguity than Lonely Boy.  Masked interviews are more seldom as the cameras follow both candidates on their various stops in the state of Wisconsin.  The audience mostly hears stump speeches from Senators Kennedy and Humphrey while seeing—not hearing from—the attendees.  At moments, though, a masked interview illuminates what the people of Wisconsin really think of this primary race.  Following a radio interview with Humphrey, the interviewer—presumably after being asked by the filmmakers what he thinks about his odds—goes on to say that he doesn’t think Humphrey has a chance. 

Masked interviews have been conventionalized to the point of becoming a hallmark of mockumentaries.  In the following compilation from The Office, Michael Scott offers an explanation, not unlike Paul Anka, that gives a context for the “real” footage shown.  

Not coincidentally, The Office differs from traditional sitcoms in its lack of canned laughter; it lets viewers decide when to laugh, which proved disconcerting to some.  Christopher Guest also uses masked interviews in his films.  In this clip from Best in Show, Guest—also the actor—satirizes the masked interview by giving completely useless information.  

In this case, obviously, the interview is constructed, as is the entire film, but it’s not far off from a masked interview in an actual documentary, which constructed though it is, gives some cohesiveness to the looseness of an Observational documentary. 

Online Response #3: The Expository Mode

Born into Brothels blurs the lines between the Expository mode of documentary (considered such by Nichols in Introduction to Documentary) and others, most notably the Participatory mode.  At first glance, it appears Participatory more than anything else—after all, Zana Briski “interacts with her social actors” and “participates in shaping what happens before the camera” (151).  Nichols’s categorization of it as Expository seems to hinge on relatively recent trends in documentary: preference of “voice of authority” over “voice of God,” and an emphasis on individuals as a microcosm of larger issues.  

            The fact that we see Zana Briski and hear her voice-overs makes her a voice of authority; the scarcity of her voiceovers do not make them any less necessary in tying together the narrative.  The first occurs at 4:42 and continues until 5:12, during which Briski explains her purpose—where she and the other subjects are, and what she hopes to accomplish there.  

Much can be gathered, of course, through the interviews with children, but they are best at explaining what they already know, which is life in the brothels.  They are fairly oblivious to Zana’s intentions and the bureaucratic obstacles that nearly keep some of them from leaving home.  The audience learns of these through voice-overs, some typical and some not.  In a scene beginning around 30:00, Briski explains herself to a nun, hoping to make a case for some of the children to be accepted there.  In moments like this, she comes across as more of a subject, like the children, than a filmmaker.  The fact that she has been living there for a “number of years” helping and teaching children gives the impression that she would be provoking these actions regardless of the film, something that might not be true of many Participatory documentaries, which, despite possible social intentions, exist to some degree for the purpose of being a film. 

            Perhaps more in line with newer, recognizable Expository documentaries is Born into Brothels emphasis on the personal.  Not specifying modes (but implying a shift in Expository), Nichols notes, “an important tendency within documentary film since the 1970s has been to shift the focus of these [rhetorical] strategies from using experts and authorities to more personal, individual perspectives” (80).  Specifically citing Born into Brothels, he states, “we learn a great deal about the children…but almost everything we learn relates to the broader question of how to provide a decent chance for a successful life to disadvantaged children” (248).  As stated, we learn much of this through the voices of the children, but something would be lost without Briski’s somewhat authoritative voice. 

            “Two American Families,” a 2013 Frontline episode, also relies on a voice-over to tell personal stories that reflect larger social issues.  Bill Moyers provides the voice of authority, organizing and making sense of the images with the impression of objectivity.  Like Born into Brothels, “Two American Families” depends on multiple modes to tell its story (in this case, a little bit Participatory, a little bit Observational).  That both films address larger issues—abject poverty in India and the decline of the middle class in America—through personal stories while still maintaining a type of voiceover arguably gives them a power that is lacking in the Grierson-style Expository doc and its “impersonal social processes” (Barnouw 99).   

Online Response #2: Doc Beginnings

The four key elements that form the basis of documentary—indexical documentation (shared with scientific images and the cinema of attractions), poetic experimentation, narrative story-telling, and rhetorical oratory—certainly converge in Land Without Bread.  Perhaps most shocking to the audience is its rhetorical oratory, or the particular perspective/values favored by the speaker.  In this case we have an omniscient voice often narrating in a condescending manner, saying lines such as, “Death breaks the monotony of these wretched lives.” 

As Nichols notes elsewhere in Introduction to Documentary, the rhetorical oratory adopted in Land Without Bread is deliberately subversive, calling attention to its constructedness while also pointing a finger at similar documentaries that combine “elements of a ‘cinema of attractions’ with a narrative story, the poetic orchestration of scenes, and an oratorical voice to affirm [their] distinct perspective,” albeit without the irony of Buñuel (48-50, 136).  Of these four elements there seems to be a certain amount of tension between the cinema of attractions and rhetorical oratory, at least when documentary petitions the audience's pity while also having them gawk at its subjects.  If cinema—and documentary, in particular—is really a pulpit as Grierson claims, its aim is to enact social change.  Too often, though, documentary has “pitched its appeal directly to the viewer and took delight in the sensationalism of the weird, exotic, and bizarre.  It sought to amuse, surprise, titillate and shock rather than deliberate, evaluate, or commemorate” (126).  That the narrator of Land Without Bread comes off so harshly simply reflects the true feelings of the documentarian that places so much emphasis on the sensational, whose goal is not so much to present a new perspective as it is to exploit.

            Some modern documentaries didn’t seem to catch Buñuel’s message; The Devil’s Miner (2005), like Land Without Bread, focuses on a destitute people from Bolivia, living in conditions not unlike the Hurdano.  

Unlike Land Without Bread, we meet a character with an actual name—Basilio Vargas.  Just 14 years old, Basilio already works in the mine that inevitably swallows up all of the men in town.  In order to survive, he worships the devil of the mountain—“The Tio,” as it is called in the trailer.  On the surface, the audience is expected to sympathize with the protagonist; they do to a certain extent, but the emphasis on the exotic—the other—leads to mixed messages.  Land Without Bread exposes this incongruity by presenting an explicit rhetoric that reflects its content.

Online Response #1: The Documentary Idea

In his explication of what constitutes documentary, Bill Nichols notes four arenas that have changed (and are continuing to change) our understanding of the term, one of which is institutions.  Among the effects of an institutional framework is a set of limits, or conventions, that we usually see as a presentation of both sides of a question in an attempt at “reportorial balance, in the sense of not openly taking sides” (17).  Jehane Noujaim’s The Square seemingly meets audience expectations of balance—the “it goes without [saying-ness]”—by telling the stories of diverse protesters in opposition to the Mubarak regime.  Though it introduces more than a dozen characters, it mostly focuses on three:

Khalid Abdalla

Magdy Ashour

And Ahmed Saleh

Despite differences among these men, they maintain a unique friendship during the span of the narrative, Magdy and Ahmed, especially—the former a conflicted member/apologist of the Muslim Brotherhood, the latter a young Egyptian everyman who dreams of a country not divided by sectarianism.  Even if The Square’s assortment of characters were limited to these two, the question of who is being represented would be valid.  Is this Magdy’s story or is it Ahmed’s?  Is it Khalid’s or someone else’s?  Each character—and notably the characters that appear more complex—adds a different fold to the story, but identifiability plays an important role in determining which character seemingly represents the average, or better, ideal, protestor. 

              At the risk of oversimplifying their work and influence in the movement, I will summarize the roles of Khalid, Magdy, and Ahmed in the film.  Khalid is the celebrity face of the protests, different from most of his companions because of his recognizability.  It is he who appears on Anderson Cooper and other networks; he is also the character who has to defend his involvement the most, as he struggles to explain the endgame of protesting to his bed-ridden father.  Magdy is the face of the Muslim Brotherhood, though he is not what the audience might expect (which is kind of the point).  His casting likely succeeds in portraying a more nuanced sympathizer, if not member, of the Muslim Brotherhood.  While his inclusion provides a somewhat relatable character to Western audiences, can he be said to represent the group with which he affiliates? 

            Ahmed stands out as The Square’s representative of protestor.  Unlike Khalid, he is a regular civilian, not a celebrity.  His motive for protesting is not rooted in religion; in fact, as the protests drag on, he (along with others) admits that he does not have a solution to the problems; he simply believes in free speech.  At one point, he states, “as long as there’s a camera, the revolution will continue;” he is the documentarian of the struggle, a proxy of Noujaim who, in a reflexive moment of the film, calls attention to the medium that allows for his story to be told.  That The Square most clearly presents these events through Ahmed’s point of view calls into question the effectiveness of the other characters’ stories: are we getting a balanced story, or the appearance of balance?

TMA 691 Online Response #10: Star Wars Uncut & Jenkins

Considering the near-sacred status some die-hards hold of the original Star Wars Trilogy, one might wonder about the purpose of Star Wars Uncut, the recent brainchild of Casey Pugh and soon to be succeeded by Empire Uncut.  Hundreds of fans submitted over a thousand recordings of reimagined 15-second segments in an attempt to “[reshape] George Lucas’s mythology to satisfy their own fantasies and desires” (21).  Given that Lucas himself has met significant resistance in reshaping his own vision of Star Wars in his various Special Editions, a collective reimagining by fans might seem transgressive.  Why mess with a beloved text?  Why not redo one of the lesser Star Wars prequels, each of which failed to satisfy fans’ desires?  The explanation on the homepage of Star Wars Uncut answers this question by shifting the emphasis of the project from the text to the fan: “We cut the movie into 15 second clips; You claim a scene and re-film it however you like; We all become famous in the best films ever.”  Star Wars has invited a participatory culture since its inception—merchandise alone has allowed fans to inhabit roles, albeit in a “top-down, corporate-driven” manner (18).  Emerging technologies, though (Star Wars Uncut being a perfect end-product), allow the consumers “to bring the flow of media more fully under their control and to interact with other consumers” (18). 

Technologically speaking, a shift in protocols made Star Wars Uncut possible.  The value of protocols, according to Jenkins, is in recognizing the changes in production and consumption of media (14).  With regard to Star Wars Uncut’s format—the DIY web-based video—the following trend applies: “new media technologies have lowered production and distribution costs, expanded the range of available delivery channels, and enabled consumers to archive, annotate, appropriate, and recirculate media content in powerful new ways” (17, 18).  Production costs for the 15-second clips in Star Wars Uncut were as expensive or inexpensive as each participant wanted them to be; the developers claim, “You can re-create your scene however you want: live action, stop motion, flipbooks, action figures…animated ASCII art, whatever!  The more creative, the better.”  Creativity is prized over budget.  The cost of distributing an uploaded home video was free.  For those wondering why the film was split into 15-second scenes, the protocols associated with the website dictated the maximum length of high-quality video.  From the website FAQ: “Make sure your scene is under 200MB in size.”  The implications of a small file size are obvious—they either needed many people to make one (or a couple) of video(s) or a few people to make many short videos.       

As a testament to consumption’s “collective process” (4), the former occurred.  Many people participated in Star Wars Uncut, adding their own original take on individual scenes.  The rules of the game were loose enough to allow creativity, as mentioned, and tight enough to allow continuity: “Make sure the beginning and end of your scene matches up closely to the original.  That way, the final piece will be smoother than Jabba’s backside” (the results of which are debatable).  Despite the inevitable alienating nature of cut-to-cut scenes every fifteen seconds, Star Wars Uncut surprisingly demonstrates a degree of humanity in its shots that mirror the original film while also revealing the relationships of amateur actors, whom at times are obviously family members.  Several scenes intersperse when Luke eats a meal with Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru.  The conversation turns to old Ben Kenobi:

Luke: Well, I stumbled across a recording while I was cleaning him. He says that he belongs to someone named Obi-Wan Kenobi. I thought he might have meant old Ben. Do you know what he's talking about?

Uncle Owen: Uh-uh.

Luke: I wonder if he's related to Ben.

Uncle Owen: That wizard is just a crazy old man. Now, tomorrow I want you to take that R2 unit to Anchorhead and have its memory erased. That'll be the end of it. It belongs to us now.

Luke: But what if this Obi-Wan comes looking for him?

Uncle Owen: He won't. I don't think he exists anymore. He died about the same time as your father.

Luke: He knew my father?

Uncle Owen: I told you to forget it.

            In the original Star Wars, the framing of the shot shows Luke in the rear, close to his aunt, who is leaning in closely, concerned.  Uncle Owen is farther away but closer to the camera, detached from the other two.  He hands down commands, but not from the head of the table; he lacks the authority of a father.  The fan scenes, in contrast, change the dynamic of this scene.  This black-and-white still shot shows a Luke who holds more control; equally spaced between his aunt and uncle, he calls the shots.  

This still shot shows a female Luke, not with “Uncle” Owen but with “Father” Owen, much more authoritative.  

Lastly, this still shot shows a culturally different interpretation of the meal scene.  In much closer quarters than any other version, this Luke cedes control to his uncle. 

            The subtle differences in the meal scene (and even the very different shots before and after) underscore the “lives, relationships, memories, fantasies, [and] desires” of the fans that filmed them (17).  They are not trying to make a better Star Wars as much as they are trying to show how Star Wars has made them better, or at least how it has enriched their lives.  Therein lies the difference between this particular project and an individual fan reimagining (e.g., Gus Van Sant’s Psycho).  While some could mistake Star Wars Uncut as an unnecessary and indulgent endeavor, those participating could point to its diversity of content and presentation as a sign of its collective intelligence; it tells one story while also telling many stories.  The process (i.e., the convergence) is as important as the product, for its “implications [of how] we learn, work, participate in the political process, and connect with other people around the world” (22, 23).