Black Swan & Shutter Island: The Little Basement in all of Us

“Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy.” -Sigmund Freud

Introduction

The idea of repressed personality within an individual is nothing new as far as cinema is concerned. Pioneered by the renowned Sigmund Freud, it has been incorporated by various directors from Alfred Hitchcock to Christopher Nolan. This essay will focus on two features by two different directors – Black Swan by Darren Aronofsky and Shutter Island by Martin Scorcese. Black Swan centres on a ballet company preparing to open its new season with a production of Tchaikovsky’s famous Swan Lake. The director wants a new leading lady who can take on both the innocent, composed White Swan and its dark, sensual twin, the Black Swan. Among those competing for the role is Nina Sayers – highly skilled but uptight – and Lily, a newcomer to the studio. Nina eventually wins the role, but as the opening looms nearer and her training gets more intense, she begins to lose her grip on reality, falling into a labyrinth where she comes face to face with her inner self. Such theme of unravelling is also present in Shutter Island. Set in 1954, the protagonist is a U. S. Marshal named Edward “Teddy” Daniels assigned to a mental institute on Shutter Island to investigate the disappearance of one of the patients. However, it soon becomes clear that the incident is merely a part of an elaborate role-playing scheme designed for Teddy to come to terms with who he really is.

Freud based his theory that all humans have suppressed thoughts and desires on the id, ego, and superego – components of the personality structure. Primitive and pleasure-seeking, the id is made up of unacceptable sexual and aggressive impulses that need to be kept away from the open. As a result, the id pushed into the unconscious mind to remain indefinitely. These buried elements sometimes float to the surface via dreams, either in a manifest version (dreams as they are) or latent version (dreams representing hidden materials). The frustration in learning to play the seductive Black Swan corrodes Nina’s perfectionist nature. She becomes increasingly delusional to the point of thinking that Lily is out to get her. On the other hand, Teddy is trapped in his little detective fantasy with his sanity challenged by odd, recurrent dreams. The following analysis attempts to unmask the alternate of Nina and Teddy through their dreams, and to elucidate how they end up being consumed by the very elements they vowed to keep secret.

The Dream

Black Swan opens with a shot of a woman (Nina) standing in the middle of a stage. It is pitch-black except for parts of Nina which are lighted by a source coming from the top left corner of the stage. She is dancing as the White Swan in a prologue from Swan Lake. The low-key lighting remains throughout, creating a somewhat mysterious atmosphere. Notice that Nina is hardly ever illuminated fully. Enough is revealed for the audience to deduce that she is the fragile sister/swan, but look closer and one would realize that it is her costumes that indicate the role while her physical body is largely in the shadows. Such implies that the White Swan is only an external layer whereas the real, permanent skin stands for something sinister like the evil twin. Nina’s inclination towards the Black Swan is foreshadowed by the preceding opening intertitle where the film title appears in white against a black background. The minimalistic design sets the tone for the next two hours: ‘white’, regardless of how outstanding it is, is swallowed by ‘black’. The word “black” stands for itself despite having a white font. Viewers are subconsciously aligned to empower the darker shade more than its brighter counterpart. The subsequent scene shows Nina longingly recalling her “craziest dream” (opening sequence) from the night before. As the movie proceeds, it is obvious the entire episode is a denial of Nina’s desire for freedom. All her life she has been under the watchful eyes of her possessive mother whose past failures cause her to groom Nina with zero-tolerance towards error. Although Nina seems thrilled to be the White Swan in her dream, she acknowledges the “different choreography” compared to her studio’s, suggesting that it was not the ‘right’ swan.

Teddy experiences multiple flashbacks and dreams but one dream in particular says a great deal about the true reason behind his coming to the island. The dream sequence occurs in the development – roughly an hour into the movie – when a severe bout of migraine forces him to rest. It takes place at an abandoned Nazi concentration camp with piles of corpses lying around. As Teddy strolls past, he seems to recognize one of the victims – a little girl – and turns back for another look. The girl suddenly sits up and says to him, “You should have saved me … you should have saved all of us.” The scene then cuts to the mansion where Teddy meets Andrew Laeddis, the arsonist who set the fire that killed Teddy’s wife. After a brief encounter, a woman’s scream breaks Teddy’s concentration and Rachel Solando (the missing patient) appears with her three children whom she killed. Once again viewers see the girl from the camp, this time asking why he did not save her. The camera cuts to a lake in which Solando drowned her kids. The girl’s words at the camp mislead viewers into thinking that she meant the victims at the camp when what she really meant is her siblings and herself. This dream is a condensed form of Teddy’s latent memories, specifically feelings of repressed guilt; he is haunted by recollections of his involvement at the Dachau liberation reprisals (hence the setting), and the little girl is actually her deceased daughter, Rachel. She and her two siblings were drowned by their mother, Dolores whom Teddy killed in retaliation. “Teddy” here is also misleading because his real name is Andrew Laeddis. Laeddis blames himself for his children’s deaths because his heavy drinking caused him to ignore signs of Dolores’s mental illness. In extreme denial, he created an alternate character, Teddy for himself and an alternate version of Dolores’s murder in which she was killed in a fire by “Andrew Laeddis”. He has placed himself in a looping fantasy of hunting down “Andrew Laeddis”, ‘looping’ because Teddy is essentially searching for himself. “Andrew Laeddis” and “Edward Daniels” are anagrams as are “Dolores Chanal” and “Rachel Solando”, with the latter pair explaining why Solando appeared in his dream instead of Dolores.

The Ending

The denouement of both films illustrates the destructive forces of both protagonists’ repressed desires and identity upon discharge. The opening night finally arrives; during the intermission prior to the final act of Swan Lake, Nina suddenly realizes that she has stabbed not Lily but herself. Not only was the earlier fight between the two an imagination, the conspiracies and hate and jealousy she felt directed to her all this while were her own creations and hallucinations. Despite the swans being polar opposites, Nina desperately wants to perform both with utter perfection which is exactly what caused her to be so caught up in her new roles, especially the Black twin. She has to let loose of herself, trade in her rigid and composed mentality for a lustful, hedonic personality in order to be play the Black Swan. Her investment paid off; her exquisite performance in dual roles garnered thunderous applause and cheers. But by the time she makes the final jump, Nina is already bleeding heavily. The movie ends with Nina exclaiming, “I felt it. Perfect. It was perfect,” a reference to Thomas Leroy (her director)’s earlier remark that “perfection is … about control … [and] letting go.” Unfortunately, the perfection came at the price of death (implied by the blinding white lights and the profuse bleeding). By releasing the sensuality she has imprisoned for so long, her innocence is in turn held captive by it. The end credits summarize Nina’s journey since becoming the new Swan Queen. Beginning with black-coloured words on a white background, it shows Nina taking on the roles leaning towards the white twin. White feathers slowly emerge in the background with distinct black ones appearing randomly, an allegory for her gradually surfacing darker traits. More and more black feathers appear until they cover the screen entirely. At last, the background becomes black with white feathers coming up aimlessly, marking Nina’s complete transformation into the Black Swan.

After “Teddy” is revealed to be Laeddis at the lighthouse, the film cuts to the hospital ground with Laeddis sitting by himself on a building entrance. A long shot follows, showing Dr. Cawley and Dr. Naehring watching him from far. Dr. Sheehan, his primary psychiatrist comes to sit beside him and when Laeddis calls him “Chuck” – Sheehan’s name as “Teddy’s” partner in his fantasy – Sheehan turns to his superiors and gently shakes his head. This suggests that Teddy is still unable to “accept the reality” that he is in fact Laeddis. The camera then shows a visually disappointed Dr. Cawley; everything that took place on the island – the search for Rachel Solando, a mysterious 67^th patient, the rule of 4 – is a customized treatment plan designed by Cawley and Sheehan to aid Laeddis in escaping his neurotic delusions. Now that things have failed, Laeddis would have to be lobotomized as the institute can no longer cope with his erratic and often violent behaviour. Laeddis is led away by the guards and the movie ends with a shot of the lighthouse, implying an inevitable surgery for Laeddis. However, the question remains of whether Laeddis really regressed into his fantasy again. The answer lies in “Teddy’s” last words to Chuck: “To live as a monster, or die as a good man”. Andrew Laeddis is a man burdened with infinite pain and guilt while Teddy has none of those, only a thirst for truth; Laeddis knowingly chooses to remain as Teddy (the good man) which in effect allows himself to be lobotomize, thus putting an end to Laeddis’s (the monster) existence (Holtreman). The irony is that the treatment to free Laeddis from his detective utopia is the same one which made him even more terrified of himself.

Conclusion

Black Swan and Shutter Island started with a quest; the former seeks perfection while the latter seeks answers. Come the end, what the protagonists discover are far from their original goals. Each has his or her inner self released from years of suppression and the end results are devastating to say the least. Nina could not strike a balance between her innocent and sensual facets leading to a triumph for the darker side. Laeddis’s incapacity to comprehend the past as it is threw him into a limbo of endless search for the ‘real’ answer. Both films demonstrate the notion of repressed elements in human minds, and how dreams can serve as important tools in deconstructing personalities to the core. What makes movies like these so appealing is how people seem to connect with the struggles the protagonists are going through. If anything, Black Swan and Shutter Island are gentle reminders of the little basement locked away in all of us.

 

Works cited

Holtreman, Vic. “Shutter Island Ending Explanation & Discussion.” ScreenRant. N.p., n.d. Web. 06 Dec. 2012. <http://screenrant.com/shutter-island-spoilers-discussion-vic-46052/&gt;.

(ET 12) An “M” within an “M”

Prior to the infamous Third Reich Cinema, Germany gave the world its equivalent of America’s realism in filmmaking called German Expressionism. Although both attempt to present the same substance that is reality, realism requires it to be done as accurately as possible whereas Expressionism utilizes extreme distortion of events to create a subjective surrounding. Among the more prominent directors during the Expressionist era is Fritz Lang. His repertoire of motion pictures includes The Nibelungen (1923-1924), Metropolis (1927), and M (1931), with the latter being the subject of discussion in this essay. Essentially about the hunt for a child murderer on the loose, M stretches Lang’s directorial skills to a whole new level with its potent combination of cinematography, editing, and sound that creates an account that has more than meets the eye. The film also adopts a narrative-within-narrative structure, especially in its exposition. A closer look at the opening eight minutes will reveal a tale so compelling it can pass for a cinematic short.

The sequence opens with an image of a palm emblazoned with the film title, followed by an intertitle stating that this is a movie by Lang. As the screen fades out, a loud gong is heard. This is the very first sound in the film and it initiates the entry to the plot. A little girl’s chanting plays as the screen fades in to a group of children playing in a courtyard. The camera slowly pans left and tilts upwards before stopping at a shot of the balcony. A lady appears, tells the children to stop singing, and leaves. An instrumental motive here is the initial “M”, which appears three times in near succession. In the first appearance, the white font makes the letter stands out against the grayscaled palm and background. In the second, the letter is slightly bigger-sized compared to other alphabets in the title card. In the third, it is formed by a piece of clothing hung upside down at the balcony (see Figure 1). The initial’s prominence is reduced with each passing display, suggesting that it stands for something significant yet concealed. Indeed, the balcony shot remains in place long after the woman has left the screen as if to urge viewers to search for a hidden “item”. Given that “M” stands for the word Mörder (English: murderer) which is the subject of that “awful song” (“M”), the film is implying that the “nasty man in black” (“M”) is lurking around the neighbourhood like how the initial is camouflaged at the clothesline.

Figure 1

With the story arc in place, the camera cuts to a staircase where the lady from the balcony is seen ascending the steps holding a basket full of clothes. She knocks on a door and another lady appears to claim the basket. The former then complains about how the children would not stop chanting about the murderer to which the latter replies, “If they’re singing, at least we know they’re okay” (“M”). The second woman carries on with her chores until the clock chimes signifying noon, bringing a smile to her sullen face. This is followed by a long shot of people waiting outside a school which suggests that the protagonist is anticipating her child’s return. The cross-cutting, however, perplexes viewers: Why isn’t the lady picking up her child in person like all the other parents when everybody is on high alert for the notorious killer? Another element of intrigue is the point-of-view shot of her looking at the clock. Again, this particular shot, like its balcony counterpart, lasts longer than average inviting careful examination of its composition. The lighting here is manoeuvred such that the cuckoo clock forms a shadow against the wall, with the shadow shaped like a figure extending his or her hand (see Figure 2). Perhaps it is trying to say that the murderer is out there somewhere ready to leap at its prey again.

Figure 2

Immediately after the twelfth chime, the audience’s attention is brought to a girl – possibly the lady’s daughter – all alone trying to cross the road. There is a killer in position, and here is an oblivious target out in the open. With her mother still setting the dining table at home, viewers begin to fear for her safety as she walks along the pavement bouncing a ball. But instead of going straight home, she stops in front of a pole and continues bouncing the ball of the pole, each time hitting the reward notice pasted on it. Moments later, a man approaches her and initiates a conversation. Lang not only used shadows to foreshadow the killer’s appearance, but also to reveal his identity. When that stranger first comes into the picture, his shadow falls on the word “Mörder” on the notice. As he bends down asking for her name, his shadow covers the words “Wer ist der” (see Figure 3). As a result, viewers are led to read the notice as “Who is the (man)?” followed by “(this man) is the murderer.” Tension and panic ensue as it becomes clear that little Elsie is standing face to face with the “nasty man in black” (“M”).

Figure 3

It is 12.20pm and her daughter is not yet back. The mother does not know why unlike the audience who are getting more and more tensed in assuming Elsie’s fate. The scene then cuts to a balloon vendor where the man buys one for Elsie while whistling In the Hall of the Mountain King. The mise-en-scene here is interesting: the screen is lighted towards the left, emphasizing a stairway on Elsie’s left. Its upward-narrowing steps suggests that her life is coming to an end, that she is going to ‘see the light’ soon. Even the left position means something – the stairway on the left, Elsie on his left – which is that everything happening to her now is not ‘right’. Notice that the balloon she gets has paper-thin limbs and the playful, childlike music is slightly missing a few notes; the lack of strength and the incompleteness of the tune (hence, incompleteness of a childhood) respectively further exert the idea that she would succumb to the murderer. Next, the mother is seen getting a visit from the newspaperman with whom she has her third conversation for the day. The first one was with a fellow lady tenant while the second was with two neighbouring kids who were going upstairs. The lady and the newspaperman both brought her something – basket full of clothes and newspaper – but the children were running away from her doorstep. Maybe this signifies that her monotonous daily schedule would continue even as her child is slipping away from her.

Mrs Beckmann goes to the window and calls out for Elsie. The scene is cross-cut with a bird’s eye view of the apartment stairways, the attic, and the dining table, all featuring unoccupied space. Lang played with the idea of space to stir up feelings of emptiness, decreasing its size and specificity as he goes from a multi-level stairway to the single-floor attic to the dining table. The final piece to the viewers’ little puzzle comes in the form of Elsie’s ball rolling away on a patch of grass and her balloon getting stuck in the telephone lines overhead. Those spell out the tragic end of Elsie Beckmann.

The innovative directorial and cinematic techniques created a story within a story, an M within an M. The absence of a closure leaves a bitter taste in the mouth, but that is precisely what Lang wanted. Such powerful eight minutes serve more than just another breakthrough in filmmaking; they are designed to be a message to parents and children alike. Mothers and fathers should never take for granted the safety of the neighbourhood or think that any atrocity would somehow elude them. Children on the other hand must always listen to advices given to them, lest the cliché ‘never talk to strangers’. Had she gone straight home from school or had the lioness been there to look out for her cub, the hyena would never have dared to tread an inch closer.

 

Works cited

M, 1931. [Film] Directed by Fritz Lang. Weimar Germany: Nero Film A. G.

(ET 20) A(nne) to G or A(nthony) to G?

Among his fifty years worth of motion pictures, Strangers on a Train stands out as one of Alfred Hitchcock’s most played and studied movie in contemporary times. Featuring Robert Walker and Farley Granger as Bruno Anthony and Guy Haines respectively, the film centres around the idea of criss-cross murders whereby Bruno kills Guy’s unfaithful wife in return for Guy killing his much-hated father. This may at first come across as just another of the director’s signature psychological thrillers, but underneath a screenplay so dense with Freudian concepts and notions, the film holds a strong, if underexplored, homoerotic subtheme. Forget the Id and Ego and Superego; Strangers embarks on a journey through an unsuspecting courtship between the two leading men.

Like any other love story, this all-male relationship begins with mate selection, a process put to life in the film’s opening sequence. Viewers are presented with two sets of feet, shot from the knees down. The first wears brown-and-white brogans with striped pants, the second single-toned shoes with plain slacks. The colors and patterns function to foreshadow the owners’ personality and behaviour; the first is playful and flamboyant while the second is dull and rigid. Their steps converge in the train carriage and a little bump from the brown shoe initiates the meeting of these two strangers. Bruno, the one with striped pants, strikes a conversation with Guy, the one with brown shoes and thereafter, their seemingly chance encounter would go on to develop into a tumultuous pursue of romance, something again foreshadowed, this time by the train’s directions; instead of staying on the ‘straight’ track, it takes on the diverging rails. While it appears that Bruno is the one who stumbled upon Guy, the reverse is really the reality. At the station, Bruno walks in front with Guy trailing behind. Aboard the train, Bruno sits down first followed by Guy. Both instances make it look as if Guy, who is seeing another woman, is keeping tabs on Bruno. And most importantly, had Guy not accidentally kicked Bruno’s leg, both men would never have known each other. Then again, as Sigmund Freud famously claimed, there are no accidents; this explains the odd pairing of two people with very different fashion tastes that would later prove to be a defining event in both men’s lives.

Notice how Bruno immediately shows interest in Guy. Right after he identifies the tennis star, he starts to pry into Guy’s personal life with “too friendly” (“Strangers”) questions. His behaviour throughout their conversation is nothing less than flirtatious, such as sitting a tad too close to his new found friend and constantly trying to establish Guy’s marital status. Guy, on the other hand, presents conflicting perception of Bruno. Initially very welcoming towards Bruno, he became cold and hard after Bruno correctly guessed the tangle between Guy, Anne, and Miriam, which annoys Guy very much. But when Bruno explains that his nosiness “always happen when I meet somebody whom I like and admire” (“Strangers”), Guy swiftly returns to his welcoming position – facing Bruno –once more. Clearly, Bruno is the active pursuer and Guy, as reluctant as he may be, is the passive receiver in this newly formed contact. Next, Bruno presents his idea of swapping murders to Guy to which Guy responds sarcastically in agreement. Bruno interprets it in an entirely different light and proceeds to killing Guy’s wife, Miriam. Apart from simply keeping his part of the deal, the murder doubles as Bruno’s elimination of competitor, anyone who stands between him and his subject of interest. As Barbara exclaims, “It’s wonderful to have a man love you so much he’d kill for you!” (“Strangers”). Of course, Guy does not realize any of this, or maybe deep down he does and that is why he chooses not to betray Bruno; perhaps another indication of his latent homosexuality.

Bruno continues to meddle with Guy’s life, much to Guy’s apprehension. During their encounter at the Capitol building, Bruno tells him that Anne looks better, that she is “a slight improvement over Miriam” (“Strangers”). He sounded almost jealous of her, and this is evident in the sudden change of tone in his voice. He appears again at Guy’s tennis practice, this time taking a step further by meeting his girlfriend and friends. Such is his way of cementing a position in Guy’s social circle. Although Guy feels disturbed by Bruno and repeatedly wants him to stay away, he does not return the pistol Bruno sends him. Why? His holding on to this phallic imagery culminates at Senator Morton’s party when Bruno faints shortly after a strangling demonstration gone wrong. Upstairs in the room, Guy angrily pleads Bruno to leave him alone to which Bruno replies, “But Guy..I like you..” (“Strangers”). That remark is the third from Bruno, with the first and second during their meeting on the train carriage and the conversation in Bruno’s compartment respectively. In both cases, Bruno’s words calmed Guy’s tensing emotions but in the third instance, Guy responded by throwing a punch at him. But there is more than meets the eye in that punch. It is not only his furiousness; it is an emotional – perhaps even sexual – release for Guy. Immediately after that violence, he shares a tender moment with Bruno, helping him with his bow tie. This is followed by Guy walking him to his car side-by-side looking like a couple. Regardless of his outward denial of wanting anything to do with Bruno, subconsciously Guy has already submitted to his relentless pursue.

Guy’s contradictory behaviour remains, as seen when he has a sudden change of heart and decides to fulfil his part of the bargain. However, while navigating his way around Bruno’s house, his face is never completely lit. This suggests that his intention going there is not at all pure; he never intends to carry out the murder and possibly even expects Bruno to be the one waiting for him. Indeed, when Bruno switches on the bed lamp to reveal himself and therefore Guy’s betrayal, Guy retains full composure, as if he actually wants to be found out. Then, he returns the pistol. Just as viewers think that Guy has decides to reject Bruno’s advances, Guy behaves otherwise. He proceeds to leave the room with Bruno right behind him holding the weapon. As Guy descends the staircase, the pistol, in Bruno’s possession, points in his direction. Guy turns to face Bruno with a face that screams seduction (see Figure 1). Could it be that he has evolved from being the passive one to the more active party without even knowing it?

Figure 1

The last stage of all courtship is intimacy. In the case of Strangers on a Train, it is embodied in the carousel scene, which is also the climax of the movie. Guy goes to the amusement park in Metcalf attempting to retrieve his lighter from Bruno. A brief chase scene finds them both on the merry-go-round, embroiled in a big fight. The two get very physical, pushing and punching and kicking and strangling one another. Even when they are struggling on the floor, they appear to be in a tight embrace more than a fistfight. The excessive amount of non-verbal contact, together with the background screams and images of prancing horses form a powerful sexual allegory. Bruno and Guy have become a single entity here. Bruno is seen wearing brown shoes while Guy dons a pair of plain whites and when combined, it gives a visual of Bruno’s brown-and-white brogans from when they first met. Furthermore, the use of aggression and violence in place of intimacy and affection is a recurring – and Freudian – motive, as shown in Guy’s single blow to Bruno’s face in an earlier scene. The climax of the climax finally comes when the merry-go-round collapses, killing Bruno but at the same time granting him release (see Figure 2). If anything, his serene expression is hardly an indication of pain.

Figure 2

What Hitchcock attempted to illustrate in Strangers on a Train apart from the idea of suppressed aggression and anger is the duality of human nature (Spoto 192). Although the audience are presented with clear-cut personalities of Bruno and Guy right from the opening sequence, by the end of the movie most, if not all, viewers would be left with lingering doubts over the motives and sexual orientation of the two. The film’s careful exploration of homoeroticism was more than bold for its time; the way it was carried was as far as one can possibly go under the Hays Code. For that, the director should have been called not just the master of suspense, but the master of suspense and disguise.

Works Cited

Spoto, Donald. The Art of Alfred Hitchcock: Fifty Years of His Motion Pictures. New York: Anchor Books, 1992. Print.

Strangers on a Train, 1951. [Film] Directed by Alfred Hitchcock. United States: Warner Bros.

(ET 19) Eden in a Rosebud

“Rosebud” is regarded by many to be the greatest cinematic enigma. The primary driving device in Orson Welles’ debut feature film, Citizen Kane, it is generally interpreted as the protagonist’s one true love. But is that all there is to this cryptic word that has managed to elude revelation since its first appearance in 1941?

The film revolves around the life of a narcissistic newspaper publisher, Charles Foster Kane whose story is told by five different characters. Each narration is a puzzle piece, with the big picture being the meaning of Kane’s last word – “rosebud”. The fact that “rosebud” is the name of the wooden sled he owned as a child automatically sparks the idea that the word represents his longing for his family, especially his mother, and for the love he lost when he was taken away from his Colorado home “to see Chicago and New York and Washington, maybe” (“Citizen Kane”). But more than that, “rosebud” marks the last – and only – period in Kane’s tragic life that is real. The separation Kane was forced to endure as an eight-year-old became a sort of symbolic death in the sense that he stopped growing ever since; the inner stagnation ultimately led to a self-destructive fixation on his childhood manners. What the five narrators reveal are not so much what Charlie Kane developed into, but rather the innocent snowball-throwing persona he failed to move beyond.

Like a child, Kane had a profound contempt for authority. For instance, he attended various prestigious universities without ever lasting long enough to graduate. It was a record in which he took great pride, something evident during a conversation with Walter Thatcher where he refreshed Thatcher’s memory about his colourful academic journey with a smirk. When Kane turned 25, he decided to try his hand in an unfamiliar field of newspaper publishing because he assumed “it would be fun to run a newspaper” (“Citizen Kane”), much to Thatcher’s chagrin. The plan outlined by his ex-guardian – handling goldmines, oil wells, and real estate – was abandoned altogether in his pursuit of freedom. These behaviours could be projections of Kane’s resentment towards Thatcher whereby he blamed him for that painful separation from home. Kane’s later usage of the Inquirer to attack banks and corruption – Thatcher was a banker – is especially similar to that hard glare (see Figure 1) he gave to his newly appointed guardian as a child outside the boarding house; both held a rebellious undertone. Nevertheless, his pleasure of publicly bleaching the banking sector came at a price of one million dollars per annum. His conviction that it would take him 60 years to go out of business is proof of intellectual short-sightedness given that the daily did not even survive the 1929 Great Depression. But how could Kane have seen it when his takeover of the newspaper was an act of impulse to begin with?

Figure 1

Like a child, Kane craved attention. To generate sales for the Inquirer, he left behind the conventional straight-laced news reporting for yellow journalism. The fictional accounts of Spanish armada’s presence off the Jersey coast and the kidnap-cum-murder of a woman in Brooklyn clearly show that Kane had no qualms about bending the truth in order to hog the spotlight. Ironically, Kane later issued a “Declaration of Principles” containing his intention to “provide the people of this city with a daily paper that will tell all the news honestly” (“Citizen Kane”). An intriguing note of the scene where he explained the declaration to Jedediah Leland and Mr. Bernstein is that he did the talking while standing in the shadows (see Figure 2). A comparison of this with an earlier scene of young Kane playing in the snow (see Figure 3) enables a parallel to be drawn: in the former, we hear but not see him whereas in the latter, the reverse is true. One is a faceless man, the other a voiceless boy. What this translates into is that no matter how hard he tried, whether in constructing a philosophical backbone in publishing or hurling snowballs, the amount of concentration given to Kane would never reach 100% not unlike how a parent does not fully listen to his kid. The only way to replenish the deficit is for the child to focus on himself. At the celebration party of the Inquirer, an ice sculpture of an initial “K” was placed on Kane’s end of the table facing him, so even when everybody else saw Kane from only one trajectory, the sculpture was rightly mindful of him (see Figure 4). His marriage to the president’s niece also was nothing more than an artful scheme to boost his popularity in the political circle.

Figure 2

Figure 3

Figure 4

Like a child, Kane was extremely egotistical. His selfishness was especially protruding in his marriage to Emily Norton whereby he openly criticized Uncle John, who also happened to be the president, through the Inquirer with hope that he would one day replace the President with himself. He continued his little scorning game knowing his actions were placing his wife between a rock and a hard place. Although the bad press coverage of the President failed to hamper Kane’s political ambitions, his conceited arrogance did it with much ease. After Emily discovered his affair with Susan Alexander, Kane chose to remain with his mistress despite Jim Gettys threatening to expose his extramarital hobby, effectively abandoning his family. He did not even for a split moment consider the impact of that decision because he was too disillusioned by the belief that he gained the voters’ support simply by virtue of being Charles Foster Kane. Just as his resistance against leaving home was crushed by Mary Kane’s words, his fury-filled speech directed at Emily and Gettys at Susan’s hallway were tamed with a slamming door. In both instances, what the audience see is a spoilt brat with an inflated sense of self-importance. The same arrogance was also what drove his best friend away. As Leland recalled, his negative review of Susan’s debut performance was in fact completed by Kane whose bigger-than-life ego “was always trying to prove something” (“Citizen Kane”).

Like a child, Kane constantly demanded love from others. When Susan let her temper flared after reading Leland’s review, she repeatedly threatened to give up on singing which prompted Kane to lash out saying that doing so would be equal to poking fun of him. Getting the audience to love her shows was an indirect means of having people love him because he was, after all, the one who built her opera career. Although Kane refused to explain himself to his wife at this point of time except saying that his reasons “satisfy him”, he eventually did so. Twice. The first time happened when Susan attempted suicide, overwhelmed by the stress of having to sing to unwelcoming crowds. Kane finally gave in to her wishes and allowed her to abandon her career. This unusual act of selflessness was in fact a damage control; instead of continuing to push her off the brink, he chose to submit to her just so he would not lose the only source of love left in his life which was Susan. The second time, however, was less straight forward. During the picnic at Everglades, Susan again antagonized Kane, this time regarding his inability to reciprocate her love with any of his personal belongings especially his affection as a husband. For the first time, the audience see Kane professing his feelings – love – to Susan or anybody for that matter, and this is where the answer to his possessive behaviour lies. Emotionally, Kane had the capacity of an eight-year-old. No doubt he loved her, but his definition of loving her was to have her love him first and to do so, he kept Susan by his side by showering her with material gifts and wealth. And because it takes two to tango, Kane’s one-sided bid for love ultimately cost him his wife.

And just like a child, Kane had his outbursts which he was not compelled to hide. This particular characteristic culminated in his systematic thrashing of Susan’s bedroom after she walked out on him. By then, he had lost two wives, one best friend, millions of voters, and a mother. The Kane who destroyed the furniture and the Kane who smashed his sled onto the ground threw their tantrums the moment things deviated from their plans: Susan’s departure was out of his control while Mary Kane’s decision to put his son under the care of a total stranger was made without consulting the defendant. As if dying was not enough, Kane had to withstand being crucified as a result of losing his wife; all his servants stood and watched their hard-skinned employer wept in front of them.

Kane’s emotional death meant that his whole life revolved around his childhood and nothing more. Even as he physically progressed through adolescence, adulthood, and old age, the things he did were all mere repetitions of his time at his parents’ boarding house. Perhaps the biggest tragedy of Kane’s story is the fact that he spent seven decades living in a moment that was never meant to last. Had Kane not be sent away at such tender age, he would probably still turn out to fancy taking the centre stage, try to impress his best friend and run for governor, but at least he would learn to love someone else besides Charles Foster Kane. And maybe, just maybe, his last word would have been something else other than “rosebud”.

 

Works Cited

Citizen Kane, 1941. [Film] Directed by Orson Welles. United States: RKO Radio Picture.

(ET 8) What is Fascism?

If it is admitted that the nineteenth century has been the century of Socialism, Liberalism and Democracy, it does not follow that the twentieth must also be the century of Liberalism, Socialism and Democracy. Political doctrines pass; peoples remain. It is to be expected that this century may be that of authority, a century of the “Right”, a Fascist century.

(Benito Mussolini, qtd. in Kreis)

Introduction

Among the most difficult tasks for modern historians is understanding fascism. Chronologically, fascism arose in the aftermath of World War I. Also known as the interwar years, it was a period of political, economical, and social imbalance. Capitalist imperial kingdoms were fast decaying. Post-revolution Russia was gaining grounds with its newfound preaching of Marxist ideology. And all these were happening throughout Europe. The feeling of being stuck between the traditional established powers and Marxist Russia among the smaller countries in the continent, together with the belief that Western Civilization had became corrupt and self-indulgent ultimately led to a new movement called fascism (Price).

This political concept rejects just about every ideology there is: conservatism, liberalism, democracy, communism. It ceases to identify itself with either end of the left-right spectrum. Worse still, “the left accused conservative anticommunists of being fascists, while the right equated communism with fascism” (Passmore 11).

Fascism’s doctrinal fluidity is precisely what makes it so hard to elucidate. Founder Benito Mussolini’s Italy strived to create a totalitarian government. Japan proclaimed itself Asia’s master race during World War II while carrying out expansive territorial conquering. Slobodan Milosevic decided to ethnically cleanse Serbia after Christian Serbs minority in Kosovo claimed they were being ill-treated by the Albanian Muslim majority. Despite the differences, it is safe to say that the primary goal of fascists is to obtain – and retain – absolute power. And recently in 2003, Dr Lawrence Britt, a political scientist outlined 14 common characteristics among fascist regimes, which would be used as the basis for analysis later in this essay.

Fascism and Third Reich Cinema

Although Italy is the birthplace, the poster boy of fascism remains Germany, or more specifically, Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Germany, albeit for all the wrong reason. The Nazis, short for the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (NSDAP), came to power in the wake of the 1929 Great Depression. Taking advantage of its predecessor, the Weimar Republic’s failure in recuperating the German economy, the Nazis succeeded in capturing the people’s hearts and in no time, Deutschland was prosperous once again.

Along with political and economic transformations, the German film industry also began to respond to Hitler’s totalitarian ruling, often as a direct result of the Nazi’s oppression. Any film produced must be in accordance with Nazi ideologies. Filmmaking was then made even more rigid with the introduction of the 1934 Reich Film Law which introduced the pre-censorship system in addition to the existing, standard post-production censorship (“The 1934 Film Law”). It is clear what the Nazi’s cinematic policy was: inculcation of ideas and mobilization of the masses for the Nazi movement. In short, the Third Reich cinema became a cinema of propaganda.

The Triumph of Nazi Fascism

Joseph Goebbels, the Minister of Propaganda announced, “Films should have a political tendency but that tendency could not be separated from artistic quality” (qtd. in Hake 68). Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will is particularly relevant here. A sophisticated account of the 1934 Nuremberg Rally, Triumph is an explicit piece of propaganda just as it is an impressive work of art. Until today, Triumph is widely regarded as one of the best films ever made. Riefenstahl’s use of camera and editing techniques were almost unparalleled at her time, yet beneath the blanket of cinematography brilliance, the film is but a blueprint of Nazi ideologies.

One of Triumph’s most prominent motives is the military. The film’s beginning features high-angle shots from the plane looking at thousands of miniature figures marching on the streets. There are guard-of-honor greeting Hitler’s arrival at the airport and hotel. And everywhere he goes, the roads are lined with soldiers. The loaded displays of the military serve to exert its might and dominance on the audience and the reason it works so successfully is the psychological response it triggers in viewers. Riefenstahl knew that repetition combined with big crowds is the ultimate potion: soldiers are always pictured in massed troops and never as an individual. Furthermore, there are times when the military appears to outnumber the general public. Just imagining the amount of resources allocated for the military is thought-provoking when one considers the fact that it had only been less than two years since the German economic downfall. Then again, Germany was now under Nazi control, which meant that domestic needs would invariably play second fiddle to the army (Britt).

Fascist regimes often use “prominent displays of flags . . . lapel pins . . . catchy slogans . . . [and] military . . .” (Britt) to exhibit strong feelings of nationalism. Triumph provides ample evidences to this. The primary Nazi symbol, the swastika, is featured everywhere in the film: on the military armbands, on building banners, on the backdrops of the stages where the Führer gives his speeches. A 1991 documentary, The Occult History of the Third Reich: The Enigma of the Swastika suggests the use of the symbol as “a sign of a new and powerful force, a deepening fascination with the arcane, the esoteric, and the occult” (qtd. in Kingsepp 34); obviously, the force in question is the Nazis. Then there are the national flags, one tricolour and another bearing the swastika in the middle. During the Third Reich, flags were to Germans what Christmas trees are to Christians. They were the must-have ornaments be it for homes, work places, or even a memorial service, as shown in the movie. As for slogans, some of the more powerful ones are found at the end of the film during Hitler’s closing speech for the rally. He concluded with the words “Long live Germany!” and it was followed by thunderous applause from the crowd. This prolonged sequence of cheer radiates the people’s undying faith and pride in their leader and the Nazi cause to the audience. In retrospect such acts may seem atrocious, but in 1935, they made perfect sense because, as the Reich Labor Service (RAD) proclaim in Triumph, there was only “ein Volk, ein Führer, ein Reich” (“Triumph”). The most convincing piece of paraphernalia, however, is the Nazi insignia. Known as the Reichsadler, it is shaped like an aggressive-looking black eagle with its claws grasping an oak wreath with a swastika at the centre. Why the eagle? Throughout the film, the emblem is shot almost exclusively from low angles, empowering it to the extent that it appears to be an object of worship, something manifested best during Hitler’s speech on the third night of the rally:

Even the airplane in the opening segment is implied to the insignia which is the very first image to appear in the film. Given that the eagle symbolises Nazi Germany, a composite of the insignia and the plane acts as an analogy for the regime’s saving of Germany.

Perhaps the heaviest theme overall is religion. In keeping true to its propagandistic nature, the film portrays the Nazis – specifically Hitler – in mythical manners. Consider the opening sequence again: Hitler, in an airplane, emerges from the clouds overlooking the city of Nuremberg before landing. Riefenstahl’s choice of images (aerial views, thick clouds) suggests that the Führer is a saviour from heaven descending to his followers on earth. This complies with Britt’s analysis whereby the fascist ruling elites frequently identify themselves as spiritual defenders of a religion (Britt). It could be a manipulation of one of Karl Marx’s view of religion being the masses’ addiction – by ‘becoming’ the religion itself, the Nazis were now the ‘addiction’ of the German people. The theme is also reflected in the speeches, including the prologue. Terms like ‘rebirth’, ‘holy’, ‘purity’, and ‘sacred’ cast a theistic overtone in the film, which further exemplifies the regime’s intent on restoring traditions and order in Deutschland.

The fuel in every religion is the devotees and observers. In Hitler’s case, it is the millions of party faithful. The film’s ‘rally’ format is really a metaphor for ritualized meetings and assemblies, from which Hitler and his Nazi companions draw their powers. Hitler’s writing in Mein Kampf explains best:

            Mass assemblies are also necessary for the reason that, in attending them, the individual . . . now begins to feel isolated and in fear of being left alone as he acquires for the first time the picture of a great community which has a strengthening and encouraging effect on most people . . . and only a mass demonstration can impress upon him the greatness of this community. (371)

Notice how the crowd size steadily increases as the movie progresses, from the gathering at the airport to the 52,000 men at the Labor Service’s outdoor rally to the ‘carpet’ of military men at the memorial service. This is yet another of Riefenstahl’s trick in wielding Hitler’s greatness as a leader (Valasek 369). With that, the Nazis’ establishment is now complete.

If a ‘storyline’ of political beliefs isn’t convincing enough to reflect the totalitarian administration’s attitude, the film’s production certainly is. The director was chosen by Hitler himself. It was made by the Nazis; it starred the Nazis; and it was meant to glorify the Nazis. One can already count the film as controlled mass media even before watching it. The custom-built sets and huge funding from the NSDAP clearly illustrates what Britt calls “access of resources” and “economic pressure” (Britt). Moreover, the party’s heavy involvement in the production phase hints at a suppression of the freedom of expression and the arts. Its supervision of even the screenplay meant that only orthodox ideas that promote the national interest had the right to exist (Britt).

From Glory to Guilt

Despite its stellar power and solid support, the Nazis’ reign was destined to be short-lived. Oblivious to the people back then, Triumph of the Will was in fact a misleading prelude to what Hitler had in store for the country – and the world.

Anyone who watches Triumph is bound to wonder what the magic word is that managed to rally the entire nation behind a man so evil. The key lies in the construction of the film itself. Its power of persuasion is evident right from the opening intertitles: Audience are reminded of the devastating World War (“20 years after the outbreak of the World War”), the subsequent trauma and humiliation inflicted on the Germans (“16 years after the beginning of German suffering”), and finally of Hitler’s heroic ride to the people’s rescue (“19 months after the beginning of the German rebirth / Adolf Hitler flew again to Nuremberg to review the columns of his faithful followers”). The intended audience’s compliance and ideological commitment to the regime are also crucial elements in strengthening the film’s hypnotic effect (Kolker 226). Furthermore, shots of human anatomy are frequently incorporated in the movie, especially during the communal shower scene at an outdoor rally. Clean-shaven chins, neatly parted hair, attractive facial dimensions, masculine body frames – these signify the Nazis’ fixation on the human body cult. Germans, or rather the Aryans, are pictured so perfectly to align viewers to the notion that the Aryan race is the most superior of all. Ironically, it was this ideal that spelled out the Third Reich’s self-destruction.

Fast forward 20 years and viewers are presented with Night and Fog, a 1955 documentary by French director Alan Resnais. The cinematic (and mental) experience in watching Triumph and Night and Fog are polar opposites of each other in every respect. Pride becomes shame, support becomes blame. It is tough to imagine human beings like you and me committing those heinous acts in Auschwitz, Struthof, and Dachau, but the very doctrines illustrated in Triumph were nothing if not lessons for the glorious Nazis. Racial minorities in Germany were demoted to a subhuman level as depicted in Night and Fog – inmates were forced to become guinea pigs for medical experiments; corpses were skinned to produce drawing blocks; and the wooden bunks looked more like dog kennels than sleeping beds. And how were these ‘taught’ in Triumph? Julius Streitcher’s (a prominent Nazi official) rally ‘lecture’ sums it all: “A people that does not protect its racial purity will perish” (“Triumph”).

So far in this essay, Triumph is only regarded as ‘film’ and ‘movie’. Note the missing keyword. Not because it isn’t one, but because it isn’t one in the traditional manner. Recall that Triumph was made by the Nazis to glorify the Nazis. This way, it was guaranteed to present the party exactly how they wanted, which is in direct contrast to the nature of documentaries. A documentary is fundamentally realist, meaning it serves to capture and present events in ways that are as real as possible. While the Nuremberg Rally was artificially reconstructed for filming purposes, the camps and gas chambers in Night and Fog were actual sites. They were the ruins of the Nazis’ atrocities, left to rot away from civilization. There were no guards or prisoners to orchestrate the terrors inside the incinerator. Audience are provided only with a narration by a camp survivor, who is forced to recall his nightmares unlike Hitler who proudly re-enacted (and refurnished) his speeches. Nevertheless, Triumph remains a documentary in its own rights. Viewers ought to keep in mind the context in which it was made. In 1935 the Nazis gave the people a sense of purpose. And there wasn’t the faintest sign of a second World War, much less the Holocaust. These are enough reasons to justify Triumph’s chauvinistic disposition. No doubt it is vastly different from Night and Fog, but look closer and suddenly they appear eerily similar. One documents the birth of the Thousand Year Reich, the other its ghostly remains.

Conclusion

Hitler’s model of Germany provides an accurate testimony that fascism is in fact a double-edged sword. Although its initial appearance unleashed unity and security among the people, the Führer’s hopes of creating an Aryan utopia soon transformed his followers from fascists into fanatics. Riefenstahl’s expressionist approach in Triumph effectively enables viewers to delve into how the conversion took place, such as through the choreographed movements and subjective cinematography. For contemporary audience, however, it is easy to spot the ideals presented in Triumph as a recipe for disaster, which in turn leads to the ultimate paradox of Hitler’s ruling: Instead of carrying out his messianic duties, Hitler ended up a Nazi version of Perses (Titan god of destruction). Unintentional, of course, since his idea of the future stemmed from a “distorted view” (Mackenzie 175) of his present.

 

Works Cited

Britt, Lawrence W. “Fascism Anyone?” Free Inquiry 23.2 (2003). Council for Secular Humanism. Web. 14 Oct. 2012. <http://www.secularhumanism.org/library/fi/britt_23_2.htm>.

Hake, Sabine. German National Cinema. Great Britain: Routledge, 2008. Print.

Hitler, Adolf. Mein Kampf. Trans. James Murphy. London: Hurst and Blackett Ltd., 1939. Web. 16 Oct. 2012. < http://mk.christogenea.org/_files/Adolf%20Hitler%20-%20Mein%20Kampf%20english%20translation%20unexpurgated%201939.pdf>.

Kingsepp, Eva. “Hitler as Our Devil?: Nazi Germany in Mainstream Media.”Monsters in the Mirror: Representations of Nazism in Post-War Popular Culture. Ed. Sarah Buttsworth & Maartje Abbenhuis. California: Greenwood Publishing Group, 2010. 29-52. Web. 16 Oct. 2012. <http://books.google.com.my/books?id=L2baV57lS1QC&pg=PA34&lpg=PA34&dq=Reichsadler+%2B+nazi+germany&source=bl&ots=dZfVQiKNK1&sig=LoDYdQScUiGwSbeHfgQuJxPo7K0&hl=en&sa=X&ei=ZDV8UPevCczhrAez5IGgDg&ved=0CCwQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=Reichsadler%20%2B%20nazi%20germany&f=false>.

Kolker, Robert. Film, Form, & Culture. Indiana: McGraw-Hill, 2005. Print.

Kreis, Steven. “Mussolini, Doctrine of Fascism (1932).” The History Guide, 13 May 2004. Web. 13 Oct. 2012. < http://www.historyguide.org/europe/duce.html>.

Mackenzie, Scott. “From Cinema to History: Kracauer’s Shifting Philosophical Historiography.” European Film Theory. Ed. Temenuga Trifonova. New York: Routledge, 2009. 165-179. Print.

Passmore, Kevin. Fascism: A Very Short Introduction. New York: Oxford University Press, 2002. Web. 13 Oct. 2012. < http://www.revalvaatio.org/wp/wp-content/uploads/passmore-fascism-a-very-short-introduction.pdf>.

Price, R. G. “Fascism Part I: Understanding Fascism and anti-Semitism.” rationalrevolution.net, 23 Oct. 2003. Web. 13 Oct. 2012. < http://www.rationalrevolution.net/articles/understanding_fascism.htm>.

“The 1934 Film Law.” filmportal.de. N.p., n.d. Web. 14 Oct. 2012. <http://www.filmportal.de/en/topic/the-1934-film-law>.

Triumph of the Will, 1935. [Film] Directed by Leni Riefenstahl. Nazi Germany: Universum Film AG.

Valasek, Thomas E. Frameworks: An Introduction to Film Studies. Iowa: Wm. C. Brown Publishers, 1992. Print.

(ET 4) Birth of a Nation: Lincoln’s Assassination

Mention the name D. W. Griffith and immediately The Birth of a Nation comes to mind, not because it was his only piece of work, but because it was his landmark production that would go on to redefine film as a form of art. The American director is widely credited for transforming motion pictures into something more than just an imitation of the theater. With The Birth of a Nation, he elevated realism in a narrative to a whole new level. As Seymour Stern explains, “It (The Birth of a Nation) introduced an important new use for the motion picture: namely, the dramatic teaching and dramatization of history. It was the forerunner, and in some cases the inspiration, technical, exploitative or otherwise, of many historical and spectacle films which followed…” (qtd. in Valasek 268).

One of the most realistic sequences in The Birth of a Nation is the Lincoln assassination at Ford’s Theater. The temporal proximity between the year the film was produced and the year the incident took place – only 50 years apart – made it all the more relatable for the audience. Griffith’s sophisticated use of the camera and editing induced a diverse range of cinematic experience for the audience; instead of making them sit through another history lecture, he manipulated the medium of film to reconstruct the Ford’s Theater and place the audience inside it. In other words, he made them witnesses to Lincoln’s horrific killing. The following analysis of this “historical facsimile” will reveal some of the techniques employed by Griffith which made the composition come alive for viewers.

The sequence starts with an ornate intertitle stating the time, act, and scene of the play Our American Cousin. Besides telling the audience that it is a gala performance to celebrate the surrender of General Lee, it doubles as a historical fact, that it was the fateful night of April 14, 1865 when the first successful assassination of the American president took place. It is an excellent usage of nondiegetic elements to help develop the plot (“Narrative Analysis”). This establishing shot is followed by a long shot of the Ford’s Theater which is limited to the upper floor gallery. But why the iris shot? Wouldn’t it make more sense for Griffith to reveal the entire theater rather than focus on one corner of it? It would appear as if he wanted viewers to keep in mind this particular setting, almost foreshadowing that subsequent events would emerge from there. Indeed, the camera cuts to a medium shot of Elsie and Phillip Stoneman, with Elsie pointing to a mysterious figure at the gallery and asking who he is before the second title card reveals his identity: John Wilkes Booth.

Notice how Griffith shifts the view around after introducing Booth, to the Stonemans, to the gallery, to the stage play, to Lincoln in his box, and finally to the guard at the gallery. Repeated images of Elsie’s earlier point of view of Booth in this chain of shots reinforces him as a central character, but Griffith possibly had a different agenda. Perhaps he wanted to create a sense of alarm in the audience by implicitly implying that “they” actually noticed Booth that night without knowing he was a soon-to-be murderer. Viewers are further absorbed into the sequence here by gaining several different perspectives in the theater, achieved through precise crosscutting of scenes. It is through such narrative rhythm that their attention can be maintained, unlike in lengthy continuous shots which would likely bore the audience instead (Kolker 85). Amidst the jumping of shots, one minor detail stands out, that is when the president suddenly feels a draught and draws his shawl tighter around his shoulders. Again, the current of cool air seems to foreshadow Booth’s coming to Lincoln’s box, except there was no “shawl” to protect Lincoln from his impending demise.

Next, the opening long shot of the theater is shown again, this time with the iris slowly opening up as viewers watch Booth heads for the door against an oblivious full house. Just as the audience attempts to examine the man for the first time, the camera closes in on his pistol, drawing attention away from the owner and to his weapon. By equipping the audience from the beginning with multiple angles of the theater, they now know the lion is waiting to leap at its prey while the occupiers of Lincoln’s box do not. It doesn’t matter that the hunt is written in history because there is, in the words of Samuel Coleridge, “that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment” (“Suspension of Disbelief”). Booth then bursts into Lincoln’s box, takes his aim, and pulls the trigger before jumping onto the stage to escape. The ensuing panic and chaos, together with intercutting shots of the stage from the spectators’ viewpoint, make this train of events the most effective; it has accomplished Griffith’s goal of making his audience feel like they are present for the assassination. For the more careful observers, however, the tempo here deserves just as much credit as its editing counterpart does in heightening the conflict and tension. As the actions near the climax (the gunshot), the crosscutting accelerates, albeit very slightly. This is akin to a 400m dash where athletes use the first 300 meters to flex their muscles and only start to sprint when they enter the final quarter of the distance. Like how the fans cheer in joy the moment their favorite runner crosses the finishing line, Griffith stirs up the same delight with an eerie pinch in his audience as they watch the president gets shot.

Russian director Vsevolod Pudovkin once said, “Editing is the basic creative force, by power of which the soulless photographs (the separate shots) are engineered into living, cinematographic form” (qtd. in Bordwell & Thompson 223). As explained earlier, the parallel editing here is far ahead of its time. While a solitary scene usually doesn’t signify much, a new – and greater – idea can be created by juxtaposing the scene with another scene (Bone & Johnson 84). For example, the scene where Elsie looks through her binoculars simply implies that she is looking at something while an iris portrait shot of Booth striking a still pose makes the audience curious of him. However, when these two seemingly unrelated shots are positioned back-to-back, the resulting effect is that Elsie is watching Booth closely and hence, “we” are doing the same, too. Additionally, it makes “us” wonder why “we” are keeping tabs on this particular person.

The segment depicting Lincoln’s assassination remains one of the best historical accounts ever made for film. Not only did Griffith deliberately cast a Lincoln-lookalike to portray the president, he orchestrated the moment of Booth’s fatal gunshot to coincide with the exact, actual moment in Our American Cousin (Beaver). And just when one may think that is the end to the sequence’s accuracy, historian/writer Mark Reinhart further elaborates that by noticing the lips of the actors in the stage play in the film version, the audience will notice that their lines are similar to those spoken in the real play half a century ago (58). The audience now feels as if they really “attended” the gala performance. Then again, this surely wasn’t why Griffith made this film – just so people can time-travel back to 1865. Again, the editing comes under the spotlight. Revealing the events through several regards gives viewers a greater range of knowledge as opposed to that of when seeing only through the eyes of, say,  the Stonemans. But more importantly, it compels viewers to feel helpless. They watch Booth’s every step that night – and possibly even hurling “watch out!” to the screen – but the inability to prevent the murder from taking place leaves a bitter taste in their mouths. They have become something more than just witnesses to the killing. They become a part of the killing, as did their friends and relatives before them.

As shown through this sequence of the Lincoln assassination, the camera and editing are not merely instruments, passively recording and cutting images to be compiled into a narrative. Quite the contrary, they carry an active, integral role in determining the structure of the storyline. Different camera angles, movements, and positions together with creative assembling of the shots all contribute to the mise en scene. The resulting effect, as Panofsky believes, is that despite having fixed seats in a movie theater, spectators are aesthetically “in permanent motion, as his eye identifies itself with the lens of the camera which permanently shifts in distance and direction” (qtd. in Goehr 211). Chairman Rey’s idea that “all pleasure is tension and release” fits Griffith’s narration of the assassination perfectly. Griffith slowly tightens a noose around his audience’s necks, only letting go moments before they reach hypoxia; the violent bout of exhalation is the director’s interpretation of cinematic pleasure.

Works Cited

Beaver, Frank. “Abe Lincoln on Film.” Michigan Today, 11 May 2011. Web. 2 Oct. 2012. <http://michigantoday.umich.edu/2011/05/story.php?id=7984#.UGrX8k0snB1>.

Bone, Jan & Johnson, Ron. Understanding the Film: An Introduction to Film Appreciation. Illinois: NTP/Contemporary Publishing Group, 1996. Print.

Bordwell, David & Thompson, Kristin. Film Art: An Introduction. New York: McGraw-Hill, 2010. Print.

Goehr, Lydia. Elective Affinities: Musical Essays on the History of Aesthetic Theory. New York: Columbia University Press, 2011. Web. 6 Oct. 2012. < http://books.google.com.my/books?id=Mt7HPiTqBVgC&pg=PA211&lpg=PA211&dq=erwin+panofsky+%2B+in+permanent+motion+as+his+eye+identifies&source=bl&ots=fNPj3TiTdH&sig=5xQi-UClfPJ4-HIEUXSfd0rQuCA&hl=en&sa=X&ei=oBxvUK_eH4PtrQfJt4GwBw&ved=0CDEQ6AEwBA#v=onepage&q=erwin%20panofsky%20%2B%20in%20permanent%20motion%20as%20his%20eye%20identifies&f=false>.

Kolker, Robert. Film, Form, & Culture. Indiana: McGraw-Hill, 2005. Print.

“Narrative Analysis.” Film110. N.p., n.d. Web. 2 Oct. 2012. < https://film110.pbworks.com/w/page/12610268/Narrative%20Analysis>.

Reinhart, Mark S. Abraham Lincoln On Screen: Fictional and Documentary Portrayals on Film and Television. North Carolina: McFarland, 2008. Web. 2 Oct. 2012. <http://books.google.com.my/books?id=Zio49y0tiE0C&pg=PA56&lpg=PA56&dq=abraham+lincoln+joseph+henabery&source=bl&ots=VKmYfYbZtL&sig=ZHP-XpIQHTYbROva0RASIQn4CSg&hl=en&sa=X&ei=bepqUNq3MIHJrQeo5oHgCQ&ved=0CFoQ6AEwCQ#v=onepage&q=abraham%20lincoln%20joseph%20henabery&f=false>.

“Suspension of Disbelief.” The Phrase Finder. N.p., n.d. Web. 2 Oct. 2012. <http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/suspension-of-disbelief.html>.

Valasek, Thomas E. Frameworks: An Introduction to Film Studies. Iowa: Wm. C. Brown Publishers, 1992. Print.