Transnational Cinemas: A Critical Roundtable

In November 2012, the Society for Cinema and Media Studies (SCMS) approved our proposal to form a new scholarly interest group devoted to “Transnational Cinemas”. One of our primary goals in setting up the group was to address the problem, raised by Mette Hjort in 2009, that “to date the discourse of cinematic transnationalism has been characterized less by competing theories and approaches than by a tendency to use the term ‘transnational’ as a largely self-evident qualifier requiring only minimal conceptual clarification”.[1] With the recent proliferation of research being published on the transnational dimensions of cinema, we felt that it was high time for us to come together as scholars to reflect upon what we mean by “transnational cinemas” and to discuss the most productive ways forward for this emerging sub-discipline.

We wanted this to be an inclusive and broad-ranging grouping that could bring together researchers who might otherwise be working primarily within other frameworks such as national cinemas or area studies. Indeed, while we initially secured support from 36 SCMS members to launch, our grouping has subsequently grown to over 380 scholars and it has become clear that our membership approaches the topic of the “transnational” from a dizzying array of methodological perspectives.

Furthermore, while there have been a number of significant publications and conferences devoted to theoretical and historical research on transnational cinemas, we also wanted to use the group to help interrogate the pedagogical implications of this scholarship. There has been a long tradition of teaching classes on “world cinema”, with each session generally focused on individual national cinemas, yet the recent shift towards considerations of the transnational has meant that many scholars are grappling with how best to address this in designing their syllabi and preparing their classes.

Raising these various issues, our group has organised specialist workshops on such topics as “Researching Transnational Cinemas”, “Teaching Transnational Cinemas” and “Transnational Cinemas Studies: Future Directions” and these have helped move forward the scholarly discourse. Nevertheless, while it is evident that the field is growing and developing in significant new ways, we have found that a number of questions repeatedly emerge that would benefit from further clarification and debate.

For this roundtable, therefore, we approached a number of leading scholars who have published on the topic and invited them to answer five questions that speak to the current discourses on cinematic transnationalism. We hope that this intervention might help us move beyond the theoretical impasse that Hjort identified above, and, ultimately, help produce more rigorous and nuanced scholarship on transnational cinemas, as well as generating a valuable resource for teaching in the field.

Questions

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”?
  2. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?
  3. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?
  4. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?
  5. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

Contributors

Tim Bergfelder

Robert Burgoyne

Elizabeth Ezra

Rosalind Galt

Will Higbee

Andrew Higson

Lucy Mazdon

Lúcia Nagib

Kathleen Newman

Deborah Shaw


Tim Bergfelder

Professor of Film, University of Southampton

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”?

I don’t think it is productive to conceive of a single definition or a core essence of the term “transnational cinema”. It is more productive to consider it as an umbrella that encompasses a range of historically mutable activities and movements between national cinemas and also between nations. These can, among other things, include economic exchanges, movement of labour, co-production practices, instances of cross-national distribution and reception, cross-national aesthetic influences in terms of imitations, adaptations, and transformations of visual style and narrative (genre); and finally the on-screen representation of actual transnational processes and experiences of migration and exile. I believe the term works best when it has a concrete case study at hand; I also believe it is at its most interesting where it is used to question and if necessary debunk some of the exclusionary narratives and historical practices that underscore the majority of national film histories.

  1. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?

The multiplicity of dimensions of transnational cinema as described under question 1 inevitably necessitates a multiplicity of methodological approaches. If the focus is on the textual qualities of individual films or categories of films (narrative, genre, representation etc.), then textual analysis is likely to be the most sensible way to go ahead. If the emphasis is on industrial, economic, or institutional aspects, then it is important to understand them with the appropriate interpretative tools.

  1. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?

Transnational cinema remains difficult to teach for a variety of reasons. For once, there is still a paucity of textbooks and teaching material (including films), compared with the sheer endless resources on national cinemas. This corresponds to the way many University curricula organise their programs around “national” teaching blocks. Teaching transnational cinema also puts higher demands on students because it forces them to negotiate at least two different cultures (if not languages). Constructing courses around themes and genres can be a productive way of avoiding national categorisations, and opens up the possibility for a more comparative approach.

  1. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?

I don’t think that the “transnational turn” has necessarily displaced postcolonialism as an approach, nor do I think that the transnational has to be a less political framework. Where the transnational is used to homogenise different practices and experiences into “universal” or “global” patterns, there is indeed the chance that it becomes meaningless and bland. However, at its most politically probing, it can and indeed should be used to interrogate and challenge myths of national exceptionalism, “purity” and “containment”, and that seems to me to be an important political task today more than ever. At their best, transnational approaches are anti-essentialist, and champion fluidity between cultures and identities over and above demarcations. I think that concepts of transnational cinema and postcolonial methodology can overlap and sometimes share common ground in their political aims and motivations. But in some instances they may also diverge – after all postcolonialism has historically been a by-product of postcolonial processes of national liberation, reconstruction and  (re)legitimation, whereas transnational methodologies often aim to delegitimise the primacy of the nation. I also think postcolonialism as a critical approach can sometimes reach its limits in explaining encounters and experiences where there is no direct link to a colonial past.

  1. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

These are all common terms, but I don’t think they work as exact synonyms for what the term transnational encompasses. “World Cinema” has frequently been employed (especially as a marketing term in the field of distribution) as basically anything that is not Hollywood (or at least Anglophone), and as such can have rather derogatory or at least homogenising connotations. In its economic sense, “world cinema” is valued more for its exotic otherness, or for its educational potential in understanding foreign cultures, than for its aesthetic merit or entertainment value. “Transcultural Cinema” does not need to be transnational, because different cultures can exist in the same national space, but like the transnational it can be a productive term to interrogate and question boundaries and distinctions between supposedly contained cultures. “Cosmopolitanism”, on the other hand, is essentially an idea and an ideal, less a social phenomenon or a specific cultural practice, and more an individual attitude and personal outlook. Cosmopolitanism can infuse transnational practices and motivate filmmakers and audiences, but in certain instances it does not. Like nationalism, cosmopolitanism is essentially an ideology and needs to be carefully understood in its historical lineages.


Robert Burgoyne

Professor of Film Studies, University of St Andrews

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”?

I’ve thought a lot about this question since coming to St Andrews six years ago. When I was first asked this question at my job interview, I did a quick intellectual shuffle and said that I thought it was a term of art – a critical term that was mainly useful for critical theory, rather than for defining or demarcating an existing body of work. Today, I think my answer was better than I knew at the time. In the view of my colleague Dennis Hanlon – who has investigated this question in a focused way – the category of transnational film encompasses more films than it excludes. He argues that film, from its inception, has been transnational in its technological development, in its migrations of talent, in its distribution and marketing, and in the cross fertilisation of concepts of genre, cinematic style, and even subject matter. I am tempted to go even further, and say that “transnational film” might be a tautology, and that the only cinemas that are not transnational are the local, popular cinema forms that are made specifically for an ethnic, national, or regional audience. Essentially, I think it is a matter of critical perspective: we can view a great many films as examples of transnational cinema depending on the angle we take. Maybe we should drop the term “transnational,” and presume that this is the default position of films that are not otherwise defined as specifically national, ethnic, or heritage films.

That said, some types of film travel better than others, and some productions are geared more explicitly to international audiences than others. And as someone who works on Hollywood film, although not exclusively, I am aware that the migration of talent, for example, is pretty much in a single direction, and that the international cultural dominance of US filmmaking is limiting in many, many ways.

Ultimately, I would say that the idea of “transnational film”, while not giving much definitional clarity, has created a critical climate where different cinemas, a “world of cinemas” to use David Martin Jones’ phrase, can be considered in a productive intellectual framework that highlights the lines of connection. The concept is useful for critical practice, as I do believe it changes the way we look at films. I think it might best be seen as a term of art, which has produced a very productive scholarly development.

  1. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?

In my view, it’s more a question of critical perspective rather than methodology. But then I’ve been hesitant to label any critical work I do as a methodology. Methodology is a pretty loose term in our field, and I don’t think it means much, although we are required to cite and defend it for the grant proposals we write. From my perspective, the only rigorous methodology I’ve encountered in Film Studies is narrative analysis. Narratology, I would say, is a genuine methodology, and it is one I have practiced and admire. It gives us concrete categories of narrative structure and discrete methods for asking questions about a text. Narrative analysis has been enhanced and to some extent diminished by the rise of digital approaches in the humanities, as the practice of the methodology requires a great deal of subtlety, which is sometimes lost in contemporary studies. But outside of narrative analysis, which I once considered to be my specialty, there is not much in our field that qualifies, in my view, as a methodology.

That said, our critical perspectives have changed, and this is a salutary development catalysed by the discovery or invention of the concept of the transnational, a term which has a great deal of rhetorical power and changes the way we look at texts.

  1. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?

Teaching is where the rubber meets the road, as they say in the States. If there is a form that we can call transnational – and again, Dennis Hanlon has begun to theorise the forms and conventions of the transnational film – then it should certainly manifest itself in our teaching. If it is a critical perspective rather than a body of films or a style of filmmaking, as I suggest above, then this should also manifest itself in our teaching. In my case, I have been increasingly aware of the need to go outside the Western canon in my teaching, something that the students in my classes have asked for as well. But the cultural tourism that a superficial approach entails is as flawed and limiting as a nation centric approach.

When I taught and wrote on Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Last Emperor, for example, I had no particular interest in exploring the transnational aspects of this pioneering film; for me, it was a fine and brilliant exploration of the politics of the image, and the ways that the emperor Pu Yi was constructed as an image of god-like authority by the traditional Chinese and as an image of abjection and monstrosity by the communist Chinese. I did not attend fully to the remarkable international cast and crew, nor to the occasion of the film’s being shot in the Eternal City, the first time a Western film crew was allowed in. Today, this would take central focus, and its ramifications for future film projects would be of great interest. Some of this is covered in the interesting volume edited by Bruce Sklarew on the film.[2] I would look at the film differently now, although the psychoanalytic / Marxist reading I gave in an earlier treatment still holds up, I believe.

  1. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?

This is a very good question. But I don’t feel I have sufficient grounding in the literature to speak with any real insight. I will have to take this question under consideration, and I look forward to reading the other participants’ views on this important question.

  1. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

This is another interesting question. I think each of these terms can be seen as different lenses with which to view the same object of analysis. In many ways, I prefer “transnational” as the term of art. By preserving the word “national” within itself, the term gains an implicit polemical force. It suggests the tension of working against the old idea of the “national” as the source of cinematic art. “Cosmopolitan”, or “world cinema”, do not communicate a sense of tensions or even that something has changed. “Transnational” implies a perspective that is in contrast or perhaps opposition to older forms of analysis. I think that’s a good thing.


Elizabeth Ezra

Professor of Cinema and Culture, University of Stirling

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”?

As Terry Rowden and I have written, “the concept of transnationalism enables us to better understand the changing ways in which the contemporary world is being imagined by an increasing number of filmmakers across genres as a global system rather than as a collection of more or less autonomous nations”.[3] Transnational cinema is cinema that acknowledges this global system in one way or another, though this acknowledgment is often expressed through interactions between characters from different countries. Transnational films are often co-productions, but I don’t feel that this is an absolute requirement.

  1. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?

I wouldn’t presume to prescribe a methodology because I know there are many approaches to the study of cinema. I personally favour what media studies people call “textual” analysis (and what everyone else calls “close analysis”), but that is merely a predilection and not a prescription.

  1. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?

The shift from a national to a transnational framework has opened up my teaching to a wider range of students. I started out in French cinema, and interest among undergraduates in particular was primarily limited to people studying French, but transnational cinema seems to appeal to a wider cross-section of students.

  1. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?

The transnational is actually analogous to the postcolonial: as the postcolonial bears the traces of the colonial, so the transnational bears the traces of the national. In both cases, the past haunts the present. As we become more historically distant from colonial empires, postcolonialism as an explanatory narrative becomes no less valid, but it has to make room for other narratives that can help us understand the history of social inequality on a global scale. The transnational is a step on the road to globalisation, a stage at which national borders are still, at the very least, recognised. Globalisation is presented as the end of this road, expressing as it does the will to erase national borders altogether. Yet, as I argue in my forthcoming book, The Cinema of Things, “[t]he term ‘globalization’ expresses the aporia of a constant movement toward an imaginary wholeness and plenitude (a unified ‘globe’), an endless supplementation that strives for wholeness at the same time that it undermines the very possibility of wholeness.” Then again, with the development of space travel and the potential viability of habitable spaces “outside” what is currently the global, I’m guessing that sooner or later we will be speaking of transglobalism…

  1. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

“Transcultural cinema” is a potentially useful term for discussing encounters between different cultural groups. It overlaps with the term “transnational cinema”, but it may depict, for example, second- or third-generation immigrants, and it does not place as much emphasis on national identity as on issues associated with acceptance and legitimacy within a culture deemed not to be one’s “own”. I am slightly concerned that the term “cosmopolitan” does not do the kind of work that “transnational” and “transcultural” do, because, to my mind, it has not managed to shake off its associations with the jet-setting elite. “World cinema” is still a potentially useful term if used properly: it is important to include American cinema within this category, but unfortunately, more often than not, the term is used to reinforce the outdated and largely inaccurate dichotomy between “Hollywood” films and “all the rest”. I would also include another term in this lineup, “global cinema”, which I would define as the body of films with a large global circulation (which includes almost all Hollywood blockbusters, but also films from other parts of the world that are aimed at a global audience).


Rosalind Galt

Professor in Film Studies, King’s College London

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”?

I tend to retain “transnational” to think of objects of study that, in themselves, move between or among nations. In this regard, the transnational might be a narrower category than “world cinema”, less interested in films that speak to or about their place in the world and more interested in the specific ways in which films recode the world through transits, circuits, and flows. Of course, these transits might speak to funding, modes of production, shooting locations, talent, or to distribution, exhibition, or audiences, or to textuality, themes, and narrative. Since cinema has always been a global phenomenon, it’s easy to see any film or other cinematic object of study as transnational, and I suspect this plasticity is at once the appeal and the difficulty in the term. Nonetheless, there’s a value to bringing these relationships into critical focus, and at its best, transnational cinema studies leverages this focus to make connections among these various levels (institutional, industrial, textual etc.). There’s also something to be said about the “trans” in transnational: it’s not merely a bridge between more than one traditional national approaches but rather it finds something quite different in that transition. The transnational promises to transform the object of cinema. By shifting our attention to the mode of movement between things, the transnational asks us to look at cinema in terms of processes and transits, rather than objects and states.

  1. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?

The transnational does often require tracking down particular archives: I’ve often found myself tracing exhibition histories across different national markets, following a film around the world via film festival screenings and marketing materials, release dates and box office figures, theatre adverts and reviews. In thinking the relationships between cinema and geopolitics, it’s always helpful to be able to argue institutionally. More importantly, though, I’m committed to the theoretical implications of the transnational, and so central for me are transnational feminist and queer theories, Marxist, postcolonial and anti-imperialist thought, and critical accounts of globalisation.

  1. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?

My teaching has always been worldly: I tend to teach topic-based and comparative classes in which I encourage students to think issues across a range of national cinemas and cultural contexts. The transnational turn makes it easier to ask structural questions that enable students to make links across what might otherwise have seemed like isolated national examples. In a module on Contemporary European Cinema, for instance, we address issues of migration and Fortress Europe by discussing postcolonial theories, European Union histories, old and new media representations, and co-production mechanisms, as well as using close textual analysis of films made across several countries. Here, the transnational nature of the topic is clear, but we can equally use these methods to place apparently more “national” films in a cross-cultural context.

I’ve also found it pedagogically incredibly helpful to draw on the transnational nature of the student body to map out what we mean when we think of “world cinema” and what currents and flows might be at stake for audience members differently emplaced in cinema’s world. I’ve used interactive maps to capture what kinds of films students have seen – and what regions’ films they have had little access to. Asking students to participate in defining what transnational cinema means to them (and what hierarchies might be at play in these flows) has often opened up discussion in productive ways. The transnational supports my pedagogic goals of helping students to critique Eurocentric modes of thought and to decentre dominant maps of the world.

  1. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?

I think this is a valid criticism insofar as there certainly are some strands in transnational film scholarship that are precisely not engaged in thinking the postcolonial, the political, or the work of structural critique. The question becomes whether the transnational structurally excludes these questions or whether it rather describes a contiguous or intersecting set of issues. For me, the transnational is always political because it demands that we think about the relationships of cinema and geopolitics through, between, and beyond the state. Categories such as the postcolonial have been critiqued in the humanities more broadly, and it may be that in film studies, the transnational has, along with “world cinema”, become the presiding conceptual rubric for negotiating problems of world systems, cultural representation, and power. That said, my own engagement with the transnational has closely focused on problematics of geopolitical power: for instance, I’ve written about how the cross-cultural transits of the arabesque depend on Orientalist histories of aesthetic encounter between Europe and the Middle East, and how colonialist attitudes toward the primitive suffuse both classical and contemporary film theory. For me, the transnational is useful to the extent that it opens up ways of thinking cinema’s complex location in world systems, and more so, that it enables a political model with multiple centres, attentive to existing hierarchies without reifying core-periphery reading practices.

  1. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

I am probably more affiliated with “world cinema” or the “global” as categories than with the transnational, but it seems to me that we need a complex ecology of concepts with which to think cinema’s transits and localities. In our introduction to Global Art Cinema, Karl Schoonover and I argued for the inherent difficulty of choosing among these imperfect terms.[4] “Global” sounds too corporate; “world cinema” opens out to all the debates in world literature, not to mention the rather appropriative implication of world music; and “cosmopolitan” similarly evokes the flaws of cosmopolitanism as a world-view that has found it hard to escape accusations of privilege. If we accept that no ideal term exists, each of these concepts has its advantages in drawing something particular to the surface about the relationship between cinema and the world.


Will Higbee

Professor of Film Studies, University of Exeter

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”?

To simply label a particular film “transnational” as if it satisfies a list of criteria (such as being classed an international co-production, involving a multi-national cast and crew) or refers to a universal cinematic phenomenon, in my opinion defeats the object of employing this term as a distinctive way of thinking about cinema. I agree with Mette Hjort’s assertion that transnationalism does little to advance our thinking about important issues if it can mean anything and everything that the occasion demands. Rather, I view transnational cinema as an approach to studying the global circulation of film as a cultural and industrial art form in terms of production, distribution and exhibition / reception. I also see the term as incorporating films that deal, either in their production or thematically, with notions (or experiences) of migration, exile or diaspora. I think it is still very much a scholarly term. What’s interesting is that when you speak to filmmakers as opposed to academics about “transnational cinema” you’re usually met with a blank expression. In that respect, I think there’s more that we as academics could do to bridge the gap with film practitioners. That’s certainly the aim of the new AHRC-funded research project that I am working on in relation to transnational Moroccan cinemas, where the emphasis is on how thinking in terms of the transnational can open up a better understanding of how the global reach of this “small” national cinema from the Maghreb functions in relation to filmmakers of the Moroccan diaspora, the role of festivals and international co-productions, as well as the place of Moroccan cinema’s local and global audiences in the age of digital disruption.

  1. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?

Beyond the work of other film scholars, I personally find the research of sociologists, political philosophers as well as those working in the fields of postcolonial theory and diaspora criticism most useful; though I suspect that says more about my own interests in postcolonial, immigrant and accented cinema than it does about what research methodology might be the most appropriate for thinking about cinema “transnationally”.

  1. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?

The first thing to say is that the national doesn’t simply disappear and we shouldn’t forget that in our enthusiasm for the transnational turn. I think that it is just as important to consider the relationship between the national and the transnational (and indeed the regional and the local) when presenting the transnational to our students as an analytical framework or theoretical approach. The key advantage for me is that the transnational opens up this possibility of a perspective that is at once theoretical, historical and industrial as a means of destabilising given ideas of the nation in national cinema. Of course, part of the challenge now is how we approach the term “transnational” in the classroom, as it has moved away from being a new way to consider the global reach of cinema to, arguably, an integrated part of the syllabus for film studies (in the UK at least). I remember when I started teaching a first year undergraduate module on transnational cinema over ten years ago, it seemed like we were offering a new perspective to our students. Now, as it becomes a more established term in film studies, it feels as if we need to do more to justify the continued relevance of the transnational.

  1. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?

The transnational only eschews or elides questions of politics and (imbalances of) power if we let it. I still maintain the same position as the one I took in the piece published a few years ago with Song Hwee Lim.[5] We defined “critical transnationalism” as an approach that doesn’t ghettoise transnational filmmaking on the margins of global film industries but is, equally, attentive to questions of postcoloniality, politics and power, scrutinises the tensions and dialogic relationship between national and transnational whilst simultaneously promoting the potential for local, regional and diasporic film cultures to affect, subvert and transform (politically speaking) national and transnational cinemas.

  1. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

I suppose that it’s almost an occupational hazard for academics to want to introduce a critical neologism to distinguish their work (!). I do think though that the transnational, for all its potential problems and pitfalls, does offer a productive and enduring framework within which to analyse the dynamics of film as a global, industrial art form.


Andrew Higson

Professor of Film and Television, University of York

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”?

For me, the term “transnational cinema” is a useful way of describing and highlighting a number of features of both much, if not all, contemporary cinema and various historical cinemas. First, “transnational cinema” can describe the ways in which film production, distribution and exhibition often take place across national boundaries. Secondly, the term can indicate the involvement in film production or distribution of personnel or companies from more than one country, people who are therefore in some ways part of a network of economic migrants. Thirdly, the term can describe the ways in which films often narrate the journeys of characters across national boundaries, where the characters may also be from more than one country, and thereby encounter people from other cultures and nations. Fourthly, it may speak of the ways in which such films will occasionally draw attention to the social and political implications of such journeys and encounters. Fifthly, it can draw attention to the ways in which films draw on cultural traditions, genres and formal conventions associated with different countries. Finally, the term can signify the ways in which audiences in different national contexts engage with and make sense of the films they watch. To focus on the transnational is thus a way of challenging the national bias in much film scholarship, which often assumes that the national is a self-contained entity when the evidence is often to the contrary.

  1. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?

What I’m interested in are the empirical dimensions of transnational activity, so the research methods I favour are empirical. To find out about the transnational dimensions of production and funding, it’s necessary to gather and analyse data about production, and especially co-production; to look at the record of particular production companies and filmmakers; and to identify and follow up the funding sources for such films, both public and private. It is important in this context to access official national and regional databases, consult the trade press and equivalent online sources, interview key agents, and analyse the composition and biographies of production teams, cast and crew. The same sorts of approaches apply for investigating distribution, marketing and theatrical and online exhibition, DVD / Blu-ray availability and television screenings.

Then there are the questions of policy, at the national and local level, at the regional level (e.g. Scandinavian or Nordic regional policies) and at the supranational level (e.g. EU policies). What incentives do such policies create, for instance, for co-production, and foreign distribution and exhibition? In all these cases, there is also work to be done to determine why transnational arrangements have been adopted in any particular instance. Is it about prioritising economic decision-making to exploit specific funding or market opportunities, or about responding to specific creative needs or opportunities? Is it the result of contingent pragmatism and the seizing of opportunities as they present themselves, or the result of careful advance planning and long-term strategy? And so on?

Textual analysis is necessary to provide evidence of transnational dimensions at the level of form, theme and content. To what extent do films draw on a range of culturally specific film traditions? To what extent do they tell stories about transnational movement, migration and interaction? To what extent are characters marked by and engaged in such activity? To what extent do films self-consciously address the implications of transnational activity?

Finally, it is necessary to understand the nature and composition of audiences for particular films and types of film, and the extent to which those audiences exist in a variety of countries and engage with films differently depending on their circumstances. This involves examining box-office data and other quantitative evidence of film-viewing, but also undertaking qualitative research with audiences in different countries and in different socio-economic and cultural situations, through surveys, focus groups, interviews, analysis of online user comments and social media, and so on. It’s also important to analyse critical reception across national boundaries.

Most of these approaches can be used for the analysis of both contemporary and historical developments.

  1. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?

First, it is important to focus on transnational activity, to note its existence and importance, and to challenge an exclusively national approach. Secondly, the shift from a national to a transnational framework encourages the development of courses about “national” cinemas that engage with the transnational dimensions of those cinemas. And thirdly, it encourages courses that focus on transnational trends (e.g. Nordic noir) or on trends across a range of world cinemas.

  1. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?

There is surely no necessary reason why attention to transnational developments cannot go hand in hand with postcolonial theories and analysis. One can look at postcolonial problems and strategies just as easily and productively in relation to transnational as to national contexts. If the transnational is defined empirically as I do above, I’m not sure there is a necessary politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational. But I do think it is important to recognise the evidence of transnational developments, relationships and narratives in cinema, both historically and in the present. Inevitably, this challenges those who define the national in terms of purity, exclusivity and self-containedness.

  1. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

I find the term “transnational” very useful for describing cross-border cultural and/or economic activity. It’s not an exclusive term, however, and shouldn’t be defined too rigorously; nor does it in my opinion need to be heavily theorised. Other terms such as “transcultural”, “intercultural” and “cosmopolitan” also work well, but for me they focus more on the cultural aspects of cinema (form, content, personal biography), and tend to overlook the industrial dimensions of production, distribution and exhibition and the issue of policy; perhaps they also overlook the dimension of reception, the nature and composition of audiences and how they make sense of particular films.


Lucy Mazdon

Professor of Film Studies, University of Southampton

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”?

I would argue that transnational cinema cannot be defined in any straightforward way. Indeed on-going debates about the term, not least this collection, are testimony to its complexity. Transnational cinema should not be reduced to international co-productions or an accumulation of national cinemas. Understanding cinema as transnational means being aware of its porosity, its intersections with others (including the national), its indeterminacy and its contingency. Cinema can and should be perceived as transnational at the level of production (industry), text, circulation and reception which of course means that all cinema could simply be defined as transnational. Nevertheless I would urge caution as this runs the risk of reducing the term to a self-evident qualifier and emptying it of all critical force. With this in mind it seems to me vital that we retain a critical and discursive engagement with the transnational and its applicability to film research. Perhaps most productive is an understanding of transnational cinema as an approach, a methodology, a way of thinking about cinema rather than simply an object of study.

  1. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?

A number of methodologies lend themselves well to an interrogation of the transnational dimensions of cinema: textual analysis; industry studies; film historiography. Of particular value I think is a reception studies approach. Analysis of the circulation of film, its consumption and the responses it provokes in audiences are particularly revealing. My own research on remakes and on the UK distribution and reception of French cinema for example revealed the ways in which a film’s identity could be altered radically through its journey from one cultural context to another. To some extent British audiences’ reception of French film meant an underwriting of the national as a film would be perceived and consumed primarily as “French”. Nevertheless, despite this foregrounding of the national, it seems to me that this in fact provides evidence of the transnationalism of film, its indeterminacy. As the film moves from one culture to another so it becomes something different to new audiences. It is unfinished, incomplete, porous, and a focus on transnational reception enables us to reveal and analyse this.

  1. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?

Overall I have found the shift from a national to a transnational framework extremely beneficial from a teaching point of view. My sense is that students are increasingly less interested in focusing on a single national cinema (including Hollywood cinema). They appear to be much more attracted by questions of genre, stars, technologies and so on. All of this can, I believe, be explored and taught much more fruitfully and much more interestingly within a transnational framework. When teaching “national” cinemas (for a number of years I taught a module on 1930s French cinema) I found an engagement with its transnational dimensions and connections extremely productive, provoking a much more thoughtful and sophisticated engagement from the students.

  1. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?

Rather than sharing anxieties about the transnational turn’s displacement of other approaches, I would argue for the vital necessity of an approach to cinema and other cultural forms which questions and problematises nations and nationalism. As we approach the EU referendum in the UK and Donald Trump with his calls for a wall between the US and Mexico makes significant headway in his bid to be the Republican candidate for the US presidency, so an engagement with the transnational, underpinned by an interrogation of the discourse and ideologies of nationalism, seems ever more imperative.

  1. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

I do have some slight reservations about the term “transnational”. As I have already mentioned, a transnational approach should be much more than an acknowledgement of multiple nations or national signifiers. While it should engage with the national and nationalism, it must go beyond this to examine the contingency of cinema and cinema audiences in all their complexity. In using the term “transnational” we perhaps run the risk of ignoring this and reducing the critical force of this approach. However alternative terms are not without their own limitations so I would tend to favour retention of the transnational with the proviso that the term and the methodology should be always subject to critical engagement and potential rethinking.


Lúcia Nagib

Professor in Film, University of Reading

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”?

Theoretically, a “transnational film” should be the one funded by a pool of multinational producers. But this is not exactly what is usually meant by being “transnational”. The desire to transcend the nation has evolved in the wake of the defence of hybridity ushered in by structuralist and post-structuralist theory, and very much in tune with cultural studies’ championing of minorities of class, gender, sexuality and ethnicity. There was also an understanding that the “national” project, in cinema, which was at the core of the Third Cinema movements of the 1960s as a reaction to and resistance to global capitalism, had achieved their historical aims and needed to move forward towards closing ranks with movements of resistance across the world.

  1. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?

Within my polycentric approach to film studies, I tend to organise world cinema according to “creative peaks” and look at them through recurrent tropes. For example, in New Waves and New Cinema movements, one can observe an attempt at engaging physically with the world, as a means to take possession of a land and its culture. For example, I have studied the figure of the runner on foot across a number of inaugural films, such as The 400 Blows (François Truffaut, 1959) (in France), Black God, White Devil (Glauber Rocha, 1964) (in Brazil), Atanarjuat, the Fast Runner (Zacharias Kunuk, 2001) (among the Inuit) and Yaaba (Idrissa Ouedraogo, 1989) (in Burkina Faso). Though strongly connected with a region, a nation and a culture, these films connect across borders through the act of physically engaging with their land.

  1. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?

Processes of nation building are historical and become particularly urgent when the nation is under threat. There have been excellent studies of “cinemas of small nations” (Hjort & Petrie’s for example)[6] that demonstrate how the borders of a nation become crucial, when the country is, for example, Scotland that has a fraught relationship with the United Kingdom, or Bulgaria or Finland or Taiwan, whose bigger neighbours project a shadow on their claim for a distinctive national identity. To answer your question, the focus on issues of the national or the transnational depends on the subject I am teaching and does not cause any particular “problems”.

  1. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?

I don’t think I have ever resorted to “postcolonial” theory to approach any cinemas, because this necessarily defines the perspective adopted as Eurocentric. Countries, nations and cultures existed before, during and after the European Imperialism, but postcolonial theories tend to erase and forget about what they were before the arrival of the European. At the same time, “transnationalism” is not my religion. If anything, it’s a means, not an end. If thinking about the transnational factors that cause a film to be what it is – for example, a Brazilian film needs to have a German actor due to an imposition of the German funders – then it would be silly to disregard these factors in the analysis of this particular film.

  1. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

What is the use of defending one concept to the detriment of another? What determines my methodology is the object under scrutiny. Germany Year Zero (Roberto Rossellini, 1948) is a film about Germany, so one needs to know something about this country at that particular time in order to produce a valid analysis. At the same time, Germany Year Zero was directed by an Italian who was spearheading a revolutionary cinema movement, called neorealism, that changed the way cinema was made in Europe and in the rest of the world, so here knowing German history alone would not be enough. Many concepts are themselves determined by the perspective of those who invented them. The concept of world cinema, for example, only makes sense in the Anglophone world, where “cinema” means American cinema, and “world cinema” means “the rest of the world”. In France, in Brazil, in Germany and most of the other countries in the world there isn’t world cinema, but simply cinema. As for the cosmopolitan turn, that emerged in cultural studies in the 1990s, I find it an important and helpful branch of theory, as it accounts for the extraordinary urban developments in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries that inflected all the artistic outputs coming from these centres.


Kathleen Newman

Associate Professor of Cinema and Spanish, The University of Iowa

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”? and 5. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

Given that cinema is part of the (complex, dynamic, multidirectional) global circulation of narratives (operating at multiple scales), I think the adjective “transnational”, rather than describing a category of cinema, is most useful for describing our area of theoretical inquiry, that is, transnational film theory. We have seen, over the last quarter century or so, a significant geopolitical decentring of the discipline of Film Studies. Whereas European and US cinemas were considered core and all other cinemas were treated as derivative, we can now think of world cinema as the core category, subsuming European and US cinemas, and all cinemas, be they regional or national or defined by another geopolitical scale, as part of world cinema. The general deployment of the term transnational cinema is evidence of this ongoing disciplinary decentring, but I am not sure if it is a sufficiently capacious term to signal all of the current theoretical and analytical stakes. In this same quarter century, the debates of the relation of art and politics have recognised the complexity of the spatial and temporal registers of film narrative and scholars now hold themselves responsible in their analyses for accounting for the ways in which multiple geopolitical scales operate textually. Yet, the question of how film texts serve as evidence of historical transformations and how cinema contributes to social transformation (one and the same thing) is not resolved. The transnational circulation of cinema, because it is always present in the cultural repertoire from which film derives meaning and in which film is meaningful, requires film scholars to examine the geopolitics of all film address.

  1. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?

Formalism – as old-fashioned as possible – mixed with as complete attention as humanly possible to the trajectories of (a) the ongoing interdisciplinary debates between the humanities and social sciences on the relation between nature of print and audiovisual representation and the multiple determinants of social transformation and structuration and (b) the current work on screen cultures and new media.

  1. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?

My research and teaching concerns Latin American cinema and so my classes often address how Latin American filmmakers have dealt with questions of authoritarianism and social inequality in their many forms. There is a very clear distinction between the assumptions of Latin American filmmakers during the short twentieth century (mid-1910s to the early 1990s) regarding uneven power relations, how they are instantiated and how they can be changed, and current Latin American filmmakers, particularly the producers and directors of the various “new cinemas” that emerged in the 1990s (a post-authoritarian period for some Latin American nations). The politics of these new cinemas, in opposition to previous generations, can be seen at the level of story in the characters’ shared distrust of collective undertakings and a much-needed sharp eye for deception and self-deception. The geopolitical imaginary of most of these films is global in reach even when the focus is local (and at times seemingly non-political), and the filmmakers, like most of their audience, seem highly aware of the positive and negative implications of the mobility of people and messages in our times.

  1. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?

A transnational perspective obliges one to take a stance on the nature of capitalism and various social and political-economic relations assigned within the category called globalisation, which leads, in turn, to the ongoing theorisation of the relation of art and society. Transnational studies and postcolonial studies within the discipline of Film Studies share many of the same, longstanding – very political – concerns: what can the study of cinema tell us about how to make the world a better place?


Deborah Shaw

Reader in Film, University of Portsmouth

  1. What is your definition of “transnational cinema”?

The first stage in any young field of study is definitional and there have been scholars who have attempted to nail down the “what is transnational cinema?” question.[7] A number of us have argued that the application of the term was too loose and that we needed to specify which aspects of cinema we were referring to. In a chapter on the subject, I outlined a series of 15 inter-connecting and overlapping categories which would allow us to clarify our focus.[8] These included: transnational modes of production, distribution and exhibition; transnational modes of narration; exilic and diasporic filmmaking; transnational influences; transnational critical approaches; transnational viewing practices; transregional / transcommunity films; transnational stars; transnational directors; transnational collaborative networks. These can be tinkered with, added to, adapted or disagreed with, but the point is that there is no single definition for transnational cinema. This does not mean that the transnational does not provide a useful theoretical framework for film studies, rather that we need to know what we are talking about for it to have meaningful application. I would argue that following the early definitional stages, we can now focus on applications, effects and functions.

  1. What research methodologies do you find are most useful in interrogating the transnational dimensions of cinema?

I would argue that we have to approach this from the bottom up; that is to say, the answer to this depends on the focus of the study. Following on from my response to the previous question, I would argue against a single methodology applicable to all studies.A quick scan through a selection of the most recent articles accepted for publication in the journal Transnational Cinemas (7:1, 2016) is a good example of the focus on applications, effects and functions of transnational cinema, and reveals the diverse methodologies and theoretical approaches employed.

In order to “compare a large number of films and identify broad trends and categories” Huw Jones analyses quantitative data from public databases for his article “The Cultural and Economic Implications of UK / European Co-production”. These include two databases, the BFI database of films produced in the UK (2003-2013) and the European Audiovisual Observatory’s LUMIERE. In addition he “uses the BFI’s ‘Cultural Test’ for film to quantify how much European creative input goes into UK/European co-productions”.[9] Anna Cooper’s article “Colonizing Europe: Widescreen Aesthetics in the 1950s American Travel Film” takes a more theoretical approach and “uses textual methodologies adapted from postcolonial studies to explore the colonialist aesthetics of mid-century American cinema”.[10] Arezou Zalipour turns to Hamid Naficy’s concept of “accented cinema”[11] for her study of “Interstitial and Collective Filmmaking in New Zealand: The Case of Asian New Zealand Film”.[12] I could go on but word space and respect for readers prevents me. The point is, I hope, clear: the focus of the study and the knowledge base of the researcher will determine the methodology and theoretical framework. Each is valid and each sheds new light on a different aspect of the transnational in film, whether that be historical research, an approach that relies on data collection or interviews, or readings that engage with some of the key theoretical interventions in the field.

  1. What implications does the shift from a national to a transnational framework have for your teaching?

The shift to a transnational framework has greatly impacted film studies as a discipline. A recent SCMS (Society for Cinema and Media Studies) study, “The State of the Field of Film and Media Studies”, demonstrated that there are 179 departments / programs that teach modules on “global or transnational cinema and/or television”.[13] This study was limited to the US and there are similar courses in most institutions that teach film studies. I have written more about a shared and personal experience of teaching a course “World and Transnational Cinemas” in a chapter co-authored with Ruth Doughty for an edited book, Teaching Transnational Cinema: Politics and Pedagogy.[14]

In addition, a transnational framework will be applied to other courses without the “T” word in their title. As a recent scan of the SCMS panels sponsored by the “Transnational Cinemas” Scholarly Interest Group run by Austin Fisher and Iain Smith reveals, transnational frameworks are now applied to scholarship in many areas. These include: early cinema, star studies, remakes / adaptations, feminist film theory, fan studies, exploitation cinema, genre studies, experimental film, the growing area of video essays, sound studies, readings of race, regional / national studies, the business / economics of film, and audience studies, among others. A transnational approach is thus informing film studies beyond the obvious courses dedicated to the subject.

  1. One of the criticisms of the transnational turn within film scholarship is that it appears to have displaced other (arguably more political) approaches such as postcolonialism. For you, what are the politics underpinning an engagement with the transnational?

The transnational is as political as we make it, and the transnational is an intrinsic part of postcolonialism; it does not present an oppositional approach or displace it. By way of illustration, the editors of Transnational Cinemas (Armida de la Garza, Ruth Doughty and I) have recently accepted a proposal for a special issue of the journal co-edited by Sandra Ponzanesi and Verena Berger: “Postcolonial Cinemas in Europe: Migration, Identity and Spatiality in Film Genres” (forthcoming 2017). To reference the journal again, in their article for the inaugural issue Will Higbee and Song Wee Lim put paid to the criticism that transnationalism may be less concerned with politics or less interested in postcolonial power relations. In it they call for a critical transnationalism that will explore relations of “postcoloniality, politics and power” that are at the root of the cross-border activities and transactions that make up transnational cinema in all its manifestations.[15]

  1. Is “transnational” the most appropriate term for discussing this topic? What do you think of alternatives such as “transcultural cinema”, “cosmopolitan cinema” or “world cinema”?

There is not a competition as to which is the best term – they co-exist, and have different meanings according to the contexts in which they are used. The key point is that we should use terminology carefully and define our terms of reference critically. We should ensure that we show an awareness of the definitional work that has taken place in film studies and other disciplines, rather than using terms lazily as catch-alls.

Notes on Contributors

Austin Fisher is Senior Lecturer in Film and Television Studies at Bournemouth University. He is author of Radical Frontiers in the Spaghetti Western (IB Tauris, 2011), editor of Spaghetti Westerns at the Crossroads (Edinburgh University Press, 2016) and co-editor of Bloomsbury’s Global Exploitation Cinemas book series. He is also co-chair of the SCMS ‘Transnational Cinemas’ Scholarly Interest Group, and serves on the Editorial Boards of the [in]Transition and Transnational Cinemas journals.

Iain Robert Smith is Senior Lecturer in Film Studies at the University of Roehampton, London. He is author of The Hollywood Meme: Transnational Adaptations in World Cinema (EUP, 2016) and co-editor of the collections Transnational Film Remakes (with Con Verevis, EUP, 2017) and Media Across Borders (with Andrea Esser and Miguel A. Bernal Merino, Routledge, 2016). He is co-chair of the SCMS Transnational Cinemas Scholarly Interest Group and co-investigator on the AHRC-funded research network Media Across Borders.


Notes

[1] Mette Hjort, “On the Plurality of Cinematic Transnationalism”, in World Cinema, Transnational Perspectives, edited by Nataša Durovicová and Kathleen Newman (London: Routledge/American Film Institute Reader, 2010), 12-13.

[2] Bruce H. Sklarew, Bonnie S. Kaufman, Ellen Handler Spitz and Diane Borden (eds), Bertolucci’s The Last Emperor: Multiple Takes (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1998).

[3] Elizabeth Ezra and Terry Rowden, “General Introduction: What is Transnational Cinema?,” in Transnational Cinema: The Film Reader, eds Elizabeth Ezra and Terry Rowden (London: Routledge, 2006), 1.

[4] Rosalind Galt and Karl Schoonover, “Introduction: The Impurity of Art Cinema,” in Global Art Cinema: New Theories and Histories, eds Rosalind Galt and Karl Schoonover (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010).

[5] Will Higbee and Song Hwee Lim, “Concepts of Transnational Cinema: Towards a Critical Transnationalism in Film Studies,” Transnational Cinemas 1:1 (2010).

[6] Mette Hjort and Duncan Petrie (eds), The Cinema of Small Nations (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007).

[7] See Ezra and Rowden, Transnational Cinema; Hjort, “On the Plurality of Cinematic Transnationalism”; Higbee and Lim, “Concepts of Transnational Cinema”; Chris Berry, “What is Transnational Cinema? Thinking from the Chinese Situation,” Transnational Cinemas 1:2 (2010).

[8] Deborah Shaw, “Deconstructing and Reconstructing ‘Transnational Cinema’,” in Contemporary Hispanic Cinema: Interrogating the Transnational in Spanish and Latin American Film, ed. Stephanie Dennison (Woodbridge: Tamesis, 2013).

[9] Huw D. Jones, “The Cultural and Economic Implications of UK / European Co-production,” Transnational Cinemas 7:1 (2016).

[10] Anna Cooper, “Colonizing Europe: Widescreen Aesthetics in the 1950s American Travel Film,” Transnational Cinemas, 7:1 (2016).

[11] Hamid Naficy, An Accented Cinema: Exilic and Diasporic Filmmaking (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001).

[12] Arezou Zalipour, “Interstitial and Collective Filmmaking in New Zealand: The Case of Asian New Zealand Film,” Transnational Cinemas, 7:1 (2016).

[13] Aviva Dove-Viebahn, “The State of Film and Media Studies,” accessed March 11th, 2016, http://c.ymcdn.com/sites/www.cmstudies.org/resource/resmgr/SCMS_StateoftheField2015.pdf.

[14] Deborah Shaw and Ruth Doughty, “Teaching the ‘World’ through Film,” in Teaching Transnational Cinema: Politics and Pedagogy, eds Katarzyna Marciniak and Bruce Bennett (London: Routledge / AFI Film Readers, 2016).

[15] Higbee and Lim, “Concepts of Transnational Cinema,” 18.

Bibliography

Berry, Chris. “What is Transnational Cinema? Thinking from the Chinese Situation.” Transnational Cinemas 1:2 (2010), 111-127.

Cooper, Anna. “Colonizing Europe: Widescreen Aesthetics in the 1950s American Travel Film.” Transnational Cinemas, 7:1 (2016).

Dove-Viebahn, Aviva. “The State of Film and Media Studies.” Accessed March 11th, 2016. http://c.ymcdn.com/sites/www.cmstudies.org/resource/resmgr/SCMS_StateoftheField2015.pdf.

Ezra, Elizabeth and Terry Rowden (eds). Transnational Cinema: The Film Reader. London: Routledge, 2006.

Ezra, Elizabeth and Terry Rowden. “General Introduction: What is Transnational Cinema?” In Transnational Cinema: The Film Reader, edited by Elizabeth Ezra and Terry Rowden, 1-12. London: Routledge, 2006.

Galt, Rosalind and Karl Schoonover. “Introduction: The Impurity of Art Cinema.” In Global Art Cinema: New Theories and Histories, edited by Rosalind Galt and Karl Schoonover, 3-30. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010.

Hjort, Mette and Duncan Petrie (eds). The Cinema of Small Nations. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007.

Hjort, Mette. “On the Plurality of Cinematic Transnationalism.” In World Cinemas, Transnational Perspectives, edited by Nataša Durovicová and Kathleen Newman, 12-33. London: Routledge / American Film Institute Reader, 2010.

Higbee, Will and Song Hwee Lim. “Concepts of Transnational Cinema: Towards a Critical Transnationalism in Film Studies.” Transnational Cinemas 1:1 (2010): 7-21.

Jones, Huw D. “The Cultural and Economic Implications of UK / European Co-production”, Transnational Cinemas 7:1 (2016).

Naficy, Hamid. An Accented Cinema: Exilic and Diasporic Filmmaking. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001.

Shaw, Deborah. “Deconstructing and Reconstructing ‘Transnational Cinema’.” In Contemporary Hispanic Cinema: Interrogating the Transnational in Spanish and Latin American Film, edited by Stephanie Dennison, 47-65. Woodbridge: Tamesis, 2013.

Shaw, Deborah and Ruth Doughty. “Teaching the ‘World’ through Film.” In Teaching Transnational Cinema: Politics and Pedagogy, edited by Katarzyna Marciniak and Bruce Bennett. London: Routledge / AFI Film Readers, 2016.

Sklarew, Bruce H., Bonnie S. Kaufman, Ellen Handler Spitz and Diane Borden (eds). Bertolucci’s The Last Emperor: Multiple Takes. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1998.

Zalipour, Arezou. “Interstitial and Collective Filmmaking in New Zealand: The Case of Asian New Zealand Film.” Transnational Cinemas, 7:1 (2016).

Letter from the Editors

One thing that we have enjoyed while working on Frames is the collaborative venues that a small online publication has allowed us to pursue. With no set agenda and a flexible frame of reference that is not hindered by traditions but is rather adept to exploring new ideas, we have had the opportunity to change between issues and be open to working with contributors who have approached us with ideas of subjects they would like to explore.  This issue of Frames is one such example, and we could not go any further in our introduction letter without thanking Austin Fisher and Iain Robert Smith for their inspiring ideas and hard work that played a large part in the production of the issue.

Looking back, we saw how the act of collaboration had come to influence the shape of this issue in unforeseeable ways, reflecting not only its origins but its theme. Talking about labels cannot be a lone venture, as the labels we use are created and shaped by a larger collective that willingly or unwillingly perpetuates and yet also changes them through discourse. This is a process we saw enacted through the “Roundtable on Transnational Cinema” as compiled by Fisher and Smith, in which they questioned the use of the term “transnational” and invited others to contribute to this discussion. The dialogue, we can happily say, was as illuminating as it was thought-provoking: In their individual takes on the validity and definition of the label “transnational cinema”, ten international scholars largely agreed on the fact that fixing a core essence of the term would be counterproductive given its theoretical and practical potential. As a fruitful approach, “transnational” characterizes a global system of film production, distribution and reception as much as it influences and enhances teaching and academic thinking. It facilitates the conception of film as a cross-cultural medium, and of academia as its institutional agent in communicating and sharing experiences across borders—a strong point made by Dina Iordanova in her essay “Choosing the Transnational”. Reading through these diverse responses, the “transnational” label became not a closing off of dialogue imposed by rigid definitions, but rather a point of exchange that to us reflects not only the productions that fall under this label, but cinema in general as a collaborative art.

An endeavour similar to Smith and Fisher’s has been made with Dennis Hanlon’s collaborative piece, “Labelling a Shot”, for which he asked colleagues and students to come up with a name and a short definition for a specific type of film shot. What Hanlon’s experimental project shows is that anyone’s attempt to describe a cinematic phenomenon within an academic framework both challenges and affirms their respective theoretical and methodological backgrounds. And what it exposes is the diversity of analytical perspectives as well as the extent to which we as media scholars are bound to existing theorems, even when we want to redefine or negate them. Not only does this concern the study of film but also the intrinsic connections between popular culture and media-political strategies: As Geli Mademli points out in her POV article, public discourse and media coverage of Greece’s recent economic crisis have led to the questionable reputation of contemporary Greek cinema as a so-called “weird wave”, a cinema of crisis.

Working against a label inevitably implies working with and through it—a situation artist and scholar Lynne Cameron also finds herself in, as she explains in her contribution on “the spaces between”. Here she makes the point that a shift in perspective can enable us to see the unlabelled, negative spaces that in turn shape the labels we use. As such established categories, terms, and words lose their power, while the new labels we use to undo the old ones can develop a dynamic, positive force.

Through these discussions, we found this issue becoming one not just about labels, and less so about breaking them, but more about how and where they are created, discussed, and transformed. Above all, we were interested in the methods that inspire the conversation about terms we take for granted, using or dismissing them in our everyday contexts but no longer giving the time to reflect on the labels themselves and the changes happening within and around them.

This provoked new reflections for our team as we worked on this issue; not only did we debate how to discuss this topic, a point our contributors graciously answered themselves through their propositions of collaborative and POV pieces, but we also went through a period of self-reflection about our own label of Frames. As a young, free, online journal run by a group of enthusiastic PhD students, we have all the possibilities to explore new avenues of communication that this format can offer us. And yet at times we seem to hinder ourselves by seeking to fit into the recognized labels of the academic universe that we are a part of yet still apart from.

Perhaps the proposed title of our issue, “Breaking Labels”, reflected our own frustration in feeling both the urge to fit into labels of what an academic journal should be and at the same time break those to find something new. And what we have found in our tenure as editors is that this impetus to do something new is perhaps the best prospect for our journal and for our hopes that it becomes a creative space where we can explore rather than follow. Which, in other words, is where we take a bow and entrust our journal to equally determined successors, but not without thanking our colleagues for their passionate work and support in the past two years, and not without expressing our gratitude to the Department of Film Studies at St Andrews for encouraging our bold ambitions as they grew with Frames (and so did we).

We do not know in what direction the journal will go, or what it will look like when we leave (alas, realizations of what one should do in a situation always seem to come at the end when there is finally time to pause and look back), but we are looking to open ourselves up to further opportunities of collaboration and critical inquiry—One pursuit we would like to follow is working with institutions within and beyond academia; responding in our own way to what we see as an interesting development in the increase of PhDs with practical components especially in the field of media and the arts. As changes like these bring about new conversations in academia, we hope to be at the forefront of these dialogues, bringing together scholars, practitioners, and students. Who knows if these hopes will be realized, but in order to make an omelette, one must break a few labels.

Choosing the Transnational

Dear Dina,
I hope we get a chance to lock horns (in friendly fashion!) at some point
about this whole issue of transnational versus the study of national
culture. While I am in sympathy with the intellectual ambition of
transnational approaches and while the study of national cultures can
seem, intellectually and methodologically, an insular ghetto, it is
sometimes the case that the former approach suffers from insufficient
attention to particularities and relies on outdated or superficial
accounts of local or national conditions.

Dear Alan,
I think you are operating out of assumptions that need clarifying,
as I absolutely do not feel we have any battles — neither actual
nor putative. So hopefully when we meet some day it will not be
necessary to lock horns, be it in a friendly or belligerent manner:)

This whole issue is about what you want to see and the respective
selection of a vantage point. If you anchor yourself within one nation —
which is a valid position — you see one type of things; if you anchor
yourself supranationally, you see different things — that is all. My life has
been such that I have felt more attracted to watching across borders and
seeing those things that evolve above and beyond the nation. I have got
many friends who have chosen to anchor themselves differently.

This literal rendering of an exchange with a colleague who has opted to fashion himself as a national cinema specialist took place on 11 December 2014. It alerted me to the fact that the transnational approach to film studies had now gained such currency that it was considered to be “mainstream film studies” and, as his e-mail went on, that it had become a trendy one, so much so that it lead to frustration among those who, like him, came to feel that their national cinema work had come to be “consistently ignored, dismissed or patronised”. Who would think we would be at such a juncture so soon, whilst most of the writers in this journal still ponder how to enter the transnational teaching into what appears a citadel of time-honoured national cinema framework?

Besides providing for a good anecdote, this exchange made me realize that teaching transnational cinema, for me, is not so much about identifying and working with a specific body of films and conceptual frameworks for the analysis of these films, that it is not so much about “introducing transnational cinema into the curriculum” as something distinct from what one would otherwise engage with, but it is about allowing oneself to make some simple choices and accepting oneself, as a teacher, as well as the students, as transnational subjects.

More often than not it is about choosing to recognize a stance that reflects one’s own experience of being transnational. Teachers who engage with the transnational have, in most cases, undergone some life experience that has opened them to the itinerant and sometimes mischievous back-and-forth that comes through realizing the potency of liminality.  It is no wonder that most of the authors contributing to this collection belong to the growing ranks of “transplanted’” and “hyphenated” people, each one in their own way, following a personal trajectory.

For me it was about validating my migratory path in scholarly behaviour. Adopting a transnational approach, at first without reflecting much on it and later on more consciously, enabled me to identify problems that were not particularly noticed, name them, and pursue them. What troubled me and touched me was all happening along with the fluctuation in social landscapes that were at the limits of the national; it was much better felt when one sees it from outside, in flux. I watched, from a distance, the emotionally draining disbanding of supranational political blocks in the aftermath of communism and the imploding dissolution of various doctrinally constructed multicultural “nations”. Cinema was one of the few contemporary art forms that was capable of showing the consequences of whatever was wrong with humankind, and of taking the concern to wider audiences, far beyond those immediately affected. The era that I feel I lived in was somehow not about the nation… All I was doing was choosing to follow my instinct.

Teaching transnationally, however, was also about recognizing the life trajectories and the generational positioning of the students. The people I see in the classroom today are increasingly resettled, mobile, conscious of migrations, and at ease with other cultures. They talk to friends from around the world on a daily basis, and learn how to be in a pluralistic environment, be it in the context of their games, or on Whatsapp and Viber, or on Facebook.

And then, it is about recognizing that teaching transnational cinema comes down to making several choices.

First, about making the choice to emancipate from the prescriptive national paradigm. It is a choice that involves overcoming fear and insecurity.

There is virtue in exploring national identities and studying film as it reflects a national discourse. But this is not the study of film, it is the study of national culture as seen through film, and to me this is a different discipline. Indeed, at many Universities film studies first sprang from (and still dwell in) the language departments that started introducing film in the curriculum as a device for the study of national traditions. In such places, the emergent transnationally slanted approach finds it tough to slot itself, as all those obstinate identities that do not fit and stay barred or marginalized are hard to integrate into the respected storyline. Still, many make the choice to emancipate from the national by changing the vantage point of the inquiry. There is no need to dispense of the nation; the emancipation may express itself in choosing to embrace and uphold a point of view where nations and borders exist yet function differently, not protectively to close off and keep one in, but loosely, to be broken through and superseded.

It is often a matter of self-esteem, of overcoming the simple fear of lacking proficiencies. One may have been trained in the national paradigm, one may have existing competences. One may not want to be challenged for not knowing full details about the unfamiliar cultures that one would venture into. Isn’t the “teacher” one who is supposed to not be an ignoramus? Thus, many stay with the safe bet of the national model and bear with its discomforts. It comes down to challenging the politics of academia, of subverting ingrained fields and embracing interdisciplinarity. Of feeling the fear and doing it anyway.

Second, contemporary cinema’s way of being is transnational – from how it is conceived to how it travels, from how it is made to how it is seen.  We can choose to look at films in the complexity of this context. It means to suspend the close scrutiny of film as text for the sake of bringing in awareness of the multiple other dimensions of film culture. One can choose to position the film transnationally by embracing the diverse and complex knowledge of the environment — how film is produced, how it circulates, how it is received in different places. In that, exploring the setting of global film piracy or the festival circuit, and showing how a fluctuating context redefines the way in which cinema is received is as much a part of the transnational film studies agenda as it is the scrutiny of a specific “transnational” film.

Third, teaching transnationally is a matter of political commitment. It comes down to making the choice to watching across borders, to continuously seeing films not from only one tradition, but from elsewhere as well, and mainly films that, in some way, comment or undermine the established narratives. Teaching and learning to watch across borders means preparedness to imagine and allow multiple points of view. This is not about the material itself, it is about the viewing position one takes from the outset.

For watching across borders to take place, it matters who are the teachers and how they hold themselves in the world politically. But it also matters who are the students and how open they can be to acknowledging the multi-dimensionality of human experience reflected in films. Watching across borders would mean, then, to opt to go beyond the confines of any fixed national identity and problematize it as a multi-faceted and ever-changing dynamic phenomenon. It would mean to leave behind entrenched tropes and evaluations and acknowledge that relativizing the premises can bring about new insights. It is often manifested in challenging and exposing oneself to alternative narratives of one’s own nation past and current conflicts, be it as an aggressor or as a victim.

And, there is one last choice to be made: to celebrate the transnational.

Academic work is at its most vital when life experience informs its emphases and concerns. Our lives have been such that we have come to seeing things across borders. We have made our choices. And so, we can own up to the sorrow and yet choose to bring the joy of migration to the classroom – because it is the atmosphere and the tonality of the pitch that the students will take away, not so much the factual commentary. It is a matter of emotional learning.

When we come to share our experiences, we can choose to keep going on about feeling exiled, excluded and foreign, or we can choose to celebrate the cosmopolitan versus the parochial and take pride in our position of privileged outsiders. Whilst acknowledging the diversity of possible attitudes, the teacher can choose to be a happy trespasser over an abject alien.

Indeed, these were the choices and the approach to teaching we tried to engage with at the program I set up at the University of St Andrews about a decade ago. There was no existing portfolio of degrees that needed adjusting or breaking into; it was possible to do it from the vantage point of a tabula rasa. It was possible to structure the general curriculum around certain principles, and go the same way in the individual course design and in the choice of topics for individual sessions. It was reflected in the way we developed the library collection, and in the viewing recommendations we were making, in and out of class, day in and day out. And it worked for a while. But it did not last long. As we moved on, some reverted to the comfort zone of close up textual analysis; others snuggled up in the national template. Keeping up the transnational still requires hard work, to nourish and sustain.


Notes on Contributor

Dina Iordanova is a Professor of Globla Cinema and Creative Culture at the University of St Andrews in Scotland. She has published extensively on matters of transnational cinema and maintains that one of the most important things in film studies is to “watch across borders”.

Discovering Indian Independent Cinema: The Films of Girish Kasaravalli

By Sakti Sengupta

Amazon, 2015.

Reviewed by Shorna Pal

Girish Kasaravalli, the acclaimed auteur of Kannada language films in India says, “I do not accept the art and commercial divide in cinema. I maintain that you either have a good film or a bad film”(1). Sakti Sengupta, in his reading of eight of Kasaravalli’s films, presents their relevance in a national socio-political context rather than the frequent practice of assigning non-Hindi language films as ‘regional’ cinema aligning readings only to the local context. The connotations of categorising an Indian film as ‘regional’ include ensuring its invisibility in national and international distribution chains. This has the ricochet effect of making any non-Hindi language film a less viable proposition, effectively removing it from the commercial ‘Bollywood’ film bracket and pushing it into comparative ignominy in the Indian ‘art’ film circuits.

The Films of Girish Kasaravalli provides a detailed summary of each of the films that Sengupta has chosen to highlight, clearly supporting his case for presenting the Kasaravalli films not just as interesting narratives woven around core social issues much like the ‘commercial’ Hindi language films exhibited at multiplexes not only in India, but subtitled and released at multiplexes across the world to the Indian diaspora and beyond. Sengupta further comments on the gentleness of stylistic devices used to help the films raise questions about the position of women in Indian society and about issues arising from caste related malpractices, two subjects that come up repeatedly in Kasaravalli’s body of work. He points out that unlike many other directors of ‘art’ cinema, such as the legendary Mrinal Sen, who take an active political stand on social concerns that their films deal with, Kasaravalli’s filmmaking makes a quieter statement by presenting them within a broader narrative of the socio-cultural fabric of the times they are positioned in. This again places Kasaravalli’s films such as Dweepa (2002) (not reviewed in the book), with its poignant story telling and beautiful artistic cinematography, in a more ambivalent position, oscillating between the hard hitting traditional ‘art’ cinema of India and the more apolitical, commercially packaged ‘art’ cinema selling tickets at multiplexes today as Hindi commercial cinema.

The book opens with a telling of Kasaravalli’s familial history and upbringing, positioning him in a particular social milieu and touches on his cultural and political exposure which is reflected repeatedly in the characterisation of the key elements in his films. Sengupta writes of Kasaravalli’s love for literature, ignited by his father’s passion for books which is seen in the varied acclaimed novels that he bases his films on; the mountains and forests of the state of Karnataka that were a part of his childhood, whose memories he translates in the mise-en-scène of his films; and the harsh realities of literary and political movements fighting against the caste system, untouchability, misogyny and the exploitation of the poor, that formed a backdrop to his youth in the 1970s, shaping his beliefs and perceptions in locating themes for his films.

Sengupta traverses the path of Kasaravalli’s filmic journey in his choice of eight landmark films Ghatashradda (1977, The Ritual), Tabarana Kathe (1987, Tabarana’s Story), Mane (1990, The House), Thaayi Sahiba (1997), Nayi Neralu (2006, In the Shadow of the Dog), Gulabi Talkies (2008), Kanasembo Kudureyaneri (2010, Riding the Stallion of a Dream) and Kurmavatara (2011, The Tortoise, An Incarnation). Kasaravalli, in his deep relationship with literature, is known to base films on acclaimed Kannada novels, but often practising creative freedom to the extent of veering noticeably away from the original book narrative. This has caused ripples in intellectual circles in Karnataka and in regions of India where Kannada literature is followed, and Sengupta refers to this trait in the films he discusses, highlighting how films such as Nayi Neralu are interpretations rather than adaptations of the source literature (176). In tracking Kasaravalli’s tryst with cinema, Sengupta shows how the auteur has moved with the times, his themes addressing contemporary social issues such as the attempted commercialisation of objects, persons, rituals and traditions in the current era of globalisation. These themes are brought out evocatively in films such as Kurmavatara through the ‘inner’ story of the commoditisation of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi within the ‘outer’ story of a reliving of the idealism of the past through a person reinventing himself as an avatar of the Mahatma.

Sengupta in his conversational style writes of the notion of Indian cinema as a single cinema, as being “silly”, emphasising that “no country has a single cinema, least of all India, an astonishingly diverse country”(2). Sengupta’s book has indeed brought to the forefront a much needed awareness of another cinema of India beyond the brand of ‘Bollywood’ and another underestimated auteur whose work deserves the attention of global scholarship on the cinemas of India.

Introduction: Digital Secrets, Digital Lies

Here cinema lies. For even if analogue cinema (or what is left of it) benefits from the supposedly indexical relationship that the photographic image has with reality, cinema never presented to us an entirely truthful version of reality, but rather a warped version of reality, in short, a lie. What is more, it is a lie that cinema ever showed us here, since the analogue cinematic image is always an image taken in the past and re-presented to us at the moment of projection; cinema has always shown us a there and a then as opposed to a here and a now.

That said, even if what cinema shows us is both a lie and not here, the lie that is the experience of cinema itself can only take place here; I cannot experience cinema without being in the process of watching a film. In this way, cinema may be a lie, but it also is a lie that in its very here-ness presents to us a truth, since the experience of cinema is real – and thus we must be able to account for that.

In the digital age, that cinema is a lie is only further intensified. For now what we see are images composed of code, and not necessarily the direct inscription of light on a polyester film stock. And yet, the age of new media has seen an immanentisation of cinema, by which I mean framed moving images and sounds, such that cinema is in some senses ‘everywhere’, by which I mean the ubiquity of screens in the urban centres of the global north and other spaces. If cinema has reached pandemic proportions, then the truth is that the lie of cinema, the cinematic experience, does indeed dominate our here and now. If it is true that thus we are surrounded almost uniquely by lies, then how are we to account for the contemporary, screen-saturated world?

The immanentisation of cinema is in some senses the dissipation of cinema, such that cinema no longer exists. If cinema no longer exists, then one way to account for this might be to replace cinema with the plural term ‘new media’, the novelty of which lies not so much in the invention of something new (arguably claims to newness are precisely lies in a universe that only ever consists of rearrangements of pre-existing phenomena), but in the intensification of the multiplication of screens on numerous fronts (in all places, both fixed and mobile).

However, another way to account for this – possibly a secret way – is to suggest that cinema is in some senses the lifeblood of new media, and that if one penetrates into new media, then one finds that cinema is secreted. That is, cinema has like Genghis Khan reproduced itself over and over, often by force, such that its blood now flows through nearly all media. To be clear (to try to pre-empt some obvious criticisms, even though by definition this introductory thought-experiment is almost certainly riddled with conceptual shortcomings): cinema itself did not come into being ex nihilo; like Genghis Khan, cinema also had precursors that did not inevitably (teleologically) lead towards cinema. But, once cinema did come into existence, it has multiplied endlessly. And in the age of supposedly new media, the ubiquity of cinema is perhaps the most open secret going.

The essays and POV pieces in this issue of Frames testify to the secret of cinema, informing us about the secretions of cinema in the age of new media. Sarah Atkinson and Helen Kennedy’s essay about contemporary exhibition company Secret Cinema sets the ball rolling most clearly. Their essay explores the role that various media played in the creation and reception of the company’s 2014 summer blockbuster release of Back to the Future (Robert Zemeckis, 1985), suggesting that the company repeatedly failed to cater for the different types of audience attending the event(s), confusing hipster fans of the concept with more regular fans of the film. However, their essay also suggests that cinema is itself the secret at the centre of this new media enterprise. For if audiences flock in droves to Secret Cinema events (paying handsomely to do so), then in part we might read this as the persistence of the cinema experience, that originary lie, in an era when the ubiquity of lies has intensified to the point of disorientation (as experienced literally by many trying to attend the first – cancelled – Back to the Future event). As the film itself plays upon nostalgia for a more ‘simple’ 1950s past, so does the event play upon nostalgia for a more ‘simple’ lie.

Jennifer O’Meara, meanwhile, explains how the highly successful podcast Serial (Sarah Koenig and Julie Snyder, 2014) itself used various techniques, including other, audiovisual media beyond simply the radiographic, in order to become like a movie for radio. That is, when one scratches the surface of even the podcast, what bleeds through is not radio, but cinema – suggesting that cinema has even infiltrated radio, a contemporaneous medium. What is more, the success of Serial also testifies to the power of cinema to expose secrets and lies, to get to the murky reality of an irrational propensity for violence and a questionable grasp of the truth underlying much, if not all, of humanity.

With regard to the POV section, Cristina Álvarez López and Adrian Martin discuss in detail – and with examples – their own audiovisual and critical practice, exemplifying in the process how the digital file that cinema has become secretes cinema as film critics, scholars and fans (or, better, hybrids of all three) come not only to watch films in the contemporary era, but also to make films about those films – or audiovisual essays. Perhaps it is not by accident that they eventually are drawn to the work of David Cronenberg, whose films are themselves replete with secretions and lies, as media multiply all in the name of cinema!

And perhaps it is not by accident that Cronenberg also features as an important forebear of the contemporary digital horror that Connor McMorran considers in his piece. McMorran suggests firstly that a film like The Hive (David Yarovesky, 2015) allegorises the internet, in that the film tells the story of a disease that ‘connects’ its sufferers, thereby diminishing individuality and creating a hive mind. The disease is induced by exposure to a black ooze (secreted from where?), while the shared experience of the hive mind not only is redolent of the internet, but perhaps also of the collective experience of cinema – cinema as body snatcher. In other words, cinema is the internet’s secret progenitor, as made clear by the subsequent set of films that McMorran considers, and which stage the multiple windows of the computer screen as fitting under the umbrella of, precisely, the singular cinema screen.

What is in particular interesting is how in The Hive, the collective is deemed as a threat to an individuality held sacred under neoliberal capitalism, while films like Unfriended (Levan Gabriadze, 2014) visualise individuality as isolation via the ‘split’ screen, and how precisely collective resistance to capital is immobilised. That is, the immanentisation of cinema is the making-ubiquitous of neoliberal capital – the shared belief that the individual is indeed sacred and isolated in its sacredness from the rest of humanity and the world, which subsequently are posed as a threat; all contact is perceived as contamination. And so, the age of new media is also the age that has neoliberal capital as well as cinema as its lifeblood. Neoliberal capital not just as cinema, but as a cinema so immanent that it is perceived as natural.

A final ‘and yet’. And yet, this cinema as paradoxical neoliberal-isolation-as-pandemic (the ubiquity of cinema as a system of control) cannot help but secrete another cinema, in which the collective is not pitched simply as hysterical paranoia regarding the (very real) perils of fascism or communism – depending on which -ism you want to read into the myth of the body snatchers – but rather in which the collective and realising not our isolation from but our connection to others, including others within ourselves, is resistance to and perhaps even liberation from neoliberal capital.

This is the theme of William Brown’s essay comparing the recent Steve Jobs (Danny Boyle, 2015), a film about the co-founder of Apple, to Tangerine (Sean Baker, 2015), a film about transsexual sex workers in Los Angeles, and which was shot using one of Apple’s best-known inventions, the iPhone. If Steve Jobs in some senses charts the rise to capitalist icon of its title character (dressing the story up as being about a man who learns to accept his daughter), Tangerine uses the capitalist tool par excellence that is the iPhone (think humans not engaging with each as they walk around, but preferring instead to engage with the screen that is their phone) in order to create a queer community of different races and nationalities in a flipside Los Angeles of poverty and struggle. Set on Christmas Eve, Tangerine in some senses plays as a queer remake of It’s a Wonderful Life (Frank Capra, 1946) – version 2015 – since both in their own ways stage the collective as precisely resistance to neoliberal capital. But where in the aftermath of World War Two this is pitched as an imminent threat, in the contemporary world this is simply the status quo. And where in Capra’s film Hollywood can still get away with – just about – cinema as resistance, in 2015 cinema has been immanentised such that iPhone films like Tangerine are perhaps better considered non-cinema in order for us better to understand that it is precisely an immanent and naturalised cinema as capital that is problematic. It is the secret, other cinema that is required, one that cinema as neoliberal capital (purveying lies regarding our isolation) cannot help but secrete into the world (and which is so secret that it is a non-cinema, a kind of anti- or dark matter to cinema’s matter, a less-visible-because-dark energy to cinema’s energy, as the negative was the dark cinema to the positive cinema in the analogue era?).

As we are on the cusp of the release of another Star Wars film in the form of The Force Awakens (J.J. Abrams, 2015), perhaps it is not cinema, but in fact this non-cinema, the collective power of all owners of the iPhone and other devices with moving image and sound functionality to forge new and unlikely audiovisual communities in the shadow of the commercial cinema of isolating-business-as-usual, that constitutes the real new hope.

 

Notes on Contributor

William Brown is author of Supercinema: Film-Philosophy for the Digital Age (Berghahn 2013) and a zero-budget filmmaker, whose films include En Attendant Godard (2009), Selfie (2014) and The New Hope (2015).

 

Filmography (and other media)

Back to the Future (Robert Zemeckis, 1985)

The Force Awakens (J.J. Abrams, 2015)

The Hive (David Yarovesky, 2015)

It’s a Wonderful Life (Frank Capra, 1946)

Serial (Sarah Koenig and Julie Snyder, 2014)

Steve Jobs (Danny Boyle, 2015)

Tangerine (Sean Baker, 2015)

Unfriended (Levan Gabriadze, 2014)

Letter from the Editors

In deciding on a theme for our Fall Issue of Frames Cinema Journal, we were inspired to go beyond our journal’s thematic origins and ask about the new frames that are defining the field we study. Discussions that provoked us, and that later found such accurate articulation in the introduction by our guest editor William Brown, were those of cinema’s significance for—and its position within—the paratextual culture of so-called ‘new media’. Is the study of cinematic forms always a look into the past, or does it also look to the future if ‘cinema’, as Brown suggests, acts as a “lifeblood of new media”?

With Going Viral: The Changing Faces of (Inter)Media Culture we aimed to look at the interdependencies and reciprocal developments of contemporary media aesthetics and cinematic practices, leading to, in the words of Francesco Casetti, the “relocation” of cinema itself.[1] Exemplifying this process with the analysis of secret screening events, intertextual podcasts, iPhone movies and Internet horror films, and providing theoretical and methodological insights into contemporary media scholarship, the articles in this issue represent the diversity of diffusion and suggest at the even greater directions that this study can take. After all, the changing faces of (inter)media culture are to be conceived of as ‘interfaces’, always fabricating new contact surfaces between screen(s) and audience—configurations that will continue to further the reconceptualization of cinema.

We would like to thank our guest editor William Brown for his insightful comments and contributions that pushed the themes of this issue further than we could have imagined. Thank you to our contributors for engaging with us in thought provoking dialogues (as well as those regarding the minute details of publications) and, as always, thank you to our editorial board for making this issue possible.

 


 

[1] See Francesco Casetti, The Lumière Galaxy: Seven Key Words for the Cinema to Come (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015).


Slow Movies. Countering the Cinema of Action

By Ira Jaffe

London and New York: Wallflower Press, 2014

Reviewed by Diana Popa

As the title suggests, Ira Jaffe’s book Slow Movies. Countering the Cinema of Action rests on a central dichotomy between slowness at one end and action at the other end. It is thus not surprising that the book starts from an observation cited by Jaffe that “many times the word ‘slow’ is used as a synonym for dull or boring […] but we want to make a case for movies that work without speeding from one plot point to another” (1), an observation that speaks to the intention of the book itself. Therefore, the book aims “to examine elements beside the plot that make certain movies both slow and compelling” (1). Slow Movies is also one of the first attempts at looking at “significant slow movies and their directors as a group” (2) instead of looking at slowness through the cinematic oeuvre of one filmmaker, for example Tsai Ming-liang (see Tsai Ming-liang and a Cinema of Slowness).

As the second part of the book’s title suggests, the focus is not necessarily on what makes these films slow, especially not in a prescriptive way, but more on what sets these films apart from a “cinema of action” in order to explore how these slow movies can potentially be interesting for a larger audience.

The book’s remarkable achievement is twofold: on one hand, its premise is that slowness is not something new or limited to a stylistic trend that emerged in contemporary filmmaking and is particularly successful at film festivals. This attitude transpires from the choice of films to be discussed, some of which were released decades apart.

On the other hand, I particularly enjoyed the way in which the modernist origin of the contemporary tendency towards the “slow” is not only stated in a matter of fact way, but analysed in terms of both similarities and differences with contemporary slow movies. Notable is the way in which Jaffe points out how “a recent slow movie like Distant may alter our perception of older slow films such as those of Antonioni” (68). Jaffe argues that by looking at the similarities and differences between slowness now and slowness then may “illuminate […] the distinctiveness of recent slow movies compared to their predecessors” (69). This implicitly suggests not only that our perception of what constitutes slow may differ but also, and perhaps more importantly, inscribes this book as an attempt to add variety to slowness and challenge assumptions of what slowness can be and how it can work in different films and over a longer period of time.

For example, the chapter entitled “Long Shot” suggests Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’avventura (1960), La Notte (1961) and L’eclisse (1962) as potential antecedents for slowness in Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s films. Antonioni’s films are widely regarded as antecedents for this contemporary tendency in filmmaking starting from Matthew Flanagan’s seminal article “Towards an Aesthetic of Slow in Contemporary Cinema” (2008). But Jaffe does more than that: he shows the aesthetic distinctiveness of Ceylan’s films, the way in which they depart from Antonioni’s “in their deployment of the camera, editing and sound, for instance, and in their rendering of emotion” (11). This view is consistent with the book’s overall concern with contemporary slowness as distinctive from its earlier and often mentioned antecedents, such as Yasujirô Ozu, Robert Bresson and Carl Theodor Dreyer.

The three filmmakers are the subject of Paul Schrader’s study Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer (1972) and Jaffe points out that the stylistic and aesthetic characteristics as discussed by Schrader are also cinematic traits of slowness (3), particularly as rehearsed in Slow Cinema debates. Illuminating is the way in which Jaffe draws to its final conclusion the observation that “Schrader often discerns in his transcendental films successful quests for spiritual grace, holiness and redemption” pointing out that such quests “rarely occur in contemporary slow movies, which tilt to a more secular and bleak direction” (3). This turn to a “more secular and bleak direction” might not be characteristic of all slow movies but it nevertheless raises the stakes in showing in what other ways than transcendental (or contemplative, for that matter) slowness can work. Here is the novelty of the approach and also where I think a discussion on “a cinema of contemplation”, shorthand for Slow Cinema, could have enriched the book.

Furthermore, the selection of films included can be considered potentially controversial especially in the absence of a discussion on Slow Cinema. Todd Haynes is not a usual suspect on the list of filmmakers who make regular appearances in discourses on a cinema of slowness (cf Lim 2014: 14), while Cristian Mungiu’s and Cristi Puiu’s films don’t altogether conform to the standard view of what Slow Cinema is. Perhaps not accidentally the three filmmakers are grouped in one chapter entitled “Wait Time”.

A criticism to be made is the occasionally unbalanced treatment of the various films included in the book. For example, the author devotes considerably more space (thirteen pages) to discussing slowness in Gerry (Gus Van Sant, 2002) and Elephant (Gus Van Sant, 2003) compared with 12:08 East of Bucharest (Corneliu Porumboiu, 2006), the discussion of which barely occupies a page and a half in the book. Somewhat disturbing is the fact that the film’s title in Chapter 7 becomes 12:08 East of Budapest (168) which only confirms the impression that less effort has been devoted to the discussion of this particular film.

My personal interest in Romanian films turned my attention to Jaffe’s discussion of them. He mentions the Theatre of the Absurd as an influence on directors of slow movies (4). This is not a novel idea in itself. The connection is also made in Song Hwee Lim’s Tsai Ming-Liang and a Cinema of Slowness (2014: 122). In Slow Movies I find particularly insightful the way in which the chapter entitled “Wait Time”, which discusses two of the most well-known Romanian films Moartea Domnului Lăzărescu / The Death of Mr Lazarescu (Cristi Puiu, 2005) and 4 luni 3 săptămâni și 2 zile / 4 months 3 weeks and 2 days (Cristian Mungiu, 2007) draws inspiration from the Theatre of the Absurd and specifically, from “Martin Esslin’s statement in The Theatre of Absurd that the subject of Beckett’s Waiting from Godot ‘is not Godot but waiting’” (11).

The absurdist sense of humour is something of a national trait that Romanians pride themselves with. Moreover, Eugène Ionesco, one of the representative playwrights of the Theatre of the Absurd was born in Romania. The Ionescian brand of absurdist humour is considered by Dominique Nasta (2013: 164, 169) as an influence behind the deadpan humour of celebrated Romanian films such as The Death of Mr Lazarescu and, especially, in A fost sau n-a fost? / 12:08 East of Bucharest and by Doru Pop (2014: 167) a constitutive element of Romanian humour, albeit not the only one. Given that Nasta’s Contemporary Romanian Cinema: The History of an Unexpected Miracle was published in October 2013 and Doru Pop’s Romanian New Wave Cinema: An Introduction came out only in 2014, it is perhaps not surprising that these references and connections are missing from Slow Movies.

Slow Movies. Countering the Cinema of Action is a welcome addition to the growing number of books discussing slowness as a stylistic and aesthetic preoccupation in films coming from a variety of cultural and historical contexts.


Bibliography

Flanagan, Matthew. “Towards an Aesthetic of Slow in Contemporary Cinema.” 16:9, November, 2008. Accessed October 27, 2015. http://www.16-9.dk/2008-11/side11_inenglish.htm

Lim, Song Hwee. Tsai Ming-liang and a Cinema of Slowness. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2014.

Nasta, Dominique. Contemporary Romanian Cinema: The History of an Unexpected Miracle. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013.

Pop, Doru. Romanian New Wave Cinema: An Introduction. Jefferson, North Carolina: MacFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2014.

Schrader, Paul. Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer. Boston: Da Capo Press, 1972.

Filmography

4 luni 3 săptămâni și 2 zile / 4 months 3 weeks and 2 days (Cristian Mungiu, 2007)

A fost sau n-a fost?/12:08 East of Bucharest (Corneliu Porumboiu, 2006)

L’avventura (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1960)

Moartea Domnului Lăzărescu /The Death of Mr Lazarescu (Cristi Puiu, 2005)

L’eclisse (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1962)

Elephant (Gus Van Sant, 2003)

Gerry (Gus Van Sant, 2002)

La Notte (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1961)

David Bowie: Critical Perspectives

Edited by Eoin Devereux, Aileen Dillane, and Martin J. Power

New York: Routledge, 2015

Reviewed by Eileen Rositzka

Shapes of things before my eyes / Just teach me to despise / Will time make man more wise / Here within my lonely frame / My eyes just hurt my brain / But will it seem the same?

Driven by a pounding drum beat and followed by a dissonant saxophone teasing David Bowie’s singing voice, these words make up the first verse of ‘Shapes of Things’, a cover of a Yardbirds song released on Bowie’s 1973 album Pin Ups.
In many ways, Pin Ups epitomises the artist’s work as much as it pinpoints precisely those aspects of popular culture that have spawned countless theoretical debates and critical discussion: the concept of a cover album, as well as the actual cover image showing Bowie and fashion model Twiggy half-naked and with mask-like faces relates to postmodernist ideas of superficiality and reproduction, to art as a play of surfaces, to questions of identity, gender, iconicity, fashion, signs and meanings. Questions about “the shapes of things” that pervade Bowie’s creative output as a whole and concern his various personae, his music, his lyrics, as well as his acting career. We know his alter egos, Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, or The Thin White Duke; we know him as a chameleonic phenomenon, as a fascinosum on stage, on the cinema screen, and on innumerable magazine covers. But do we really know him?

Of course the answer has to be ‘No’, but as an essential part of fandom as such, the thought of getting to look behind and the star’s aura is admittedly exciting. Yet it is as tempting as it is misleading, turning biographical facts into suggestions and from forms of artistic expression into tautological shortcuts. It is the dangerous desire to assign one specific meaning or reason to a certain act, text, or behaviour, which is the essence bestselling biographies feed from. Accordingly, up to this day quite a few of them have been published about David Bowie: Bowie: The Biography (Wendy Leigh, 2014), David Bowie: Ever Changing Hero (Sean Egan, 2013), David Bowie: Starman (Paul Trynka, 2011) and Strange Fascination: David Bowie: The Definitive Story (David Buckley, 2001).

In the wake of these more or less comprehensive accounts, however, we also saw the publication of books focusing on specific periods of Bowie’s career, such as Kevin Cann’s David Bowie: Any Day Now: The London Years 1947-74 (2010) and Peter Doggett’s The Man Who Sold the World: David Bowie and the 1970s (2012). Nicholas Pegg’s The Complete David Bowie (2011) turned out to be the first critical study of the artist’s oeuvre, providing a balanced mixture of information and analysis.

In this regard, David Bowie: Critical Perspectives, edited by Eoin Devereux, Aileen Dillane, and Martin J. Power, now seems to be a true novelty: a compilation of essays by authors who approach the artist, his work, his influences and his impact from various academic viewpoints. Although the book is not divided into thematic parts, the essays are grouped according to their theoretical propositions. Kathryn Johnson discusses Bowie as an authorial figure, as well as his creative tension between power and empowerment based on V&A’s recent exhibition “David Bowie is“—a simple yet complex question, as it provokes multiple readings of Bowie’s work and illustrates the cultural purpose of the exhibition format as such. With reference to Mieke Bal’s monograph on the subject of cultural analysis, Double Exposures, Johnson conceives this specific exhibition as an ‘utterance’ within the musical discourse, which makes Bowie a medium himself. Moving on from there, and drawing on the philosophical doctrine of nihilism, Richard Fitch sheds light on Bowie’s use of allusions. Here, too, the question is not what the artist’s work can mean but how it can mean. Rather than extracting a certain meaning from Bowie’s texts, Fitch focuses on the author Bowie and his technique of creating ambiguous connections to existential questions as a ‘grand organisation of chaos’. By centring on an even more concrete aspect of his musical language, Aileen Dillane, Eoin Devereux and Martin J. Power analyse the figure of the Pierrot as a recurring motif and medium in Bowie’s songs.

The following three chapters look into the star’s ‘self’ from a predominantly psychoanalytical point of view, examining his hyperreal performances (see Bethany Usher and Stephanie Fremaux’s text), his numinous archetypes and conformance to C.G. Jung’s concept of the ‘Visionary Artist’ (see Tanja Stark’s chapter), and his personae as forms of self-defence in a Freudian sense (see Ana Leorne’s essay). While such approaches are usually unsatisfyingly suggestive, they are not as farfetched in this case, as David Bowie himself has expressed his fondness for psychoanalytical theory, and for Jung’s elaborations on the unconscious and ancient symbolism in particular. It seems however more fruitful to apply this analytical framework to the idea of a social psychology negotiated in Bowie’s performances as a musician and actor, comments on worldly matters as expressed through the roles and styles he chose. Most notably, this would concern grades of ‘otherness’, exoticism and androgyny. In her contribution to the volume, Helene Marie Thian interprets Bowie’s display of Japanese-inspired design in the 1970s not as a provocative postcolonial statement, but as a symbolic reconciliation of post-War Japan and the Allies (142), while Shelton Waldrep defines Bowie’s 1980s output, and especially his album Let’s Dance, as “a multi-performative model in which the meanings of the individual songs are merely the ur-text on which to drape other possible interpretations and performances” (157), a model involving the process of ‘orientalising the self’ (154). Mehdi Derfoufi turns to the films Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence (Nagisa Oshima, 1983) and The Hunger (Tony Scott, 1983) to describe them as a diptych subverting masculinity. Following Derfoufi’s argument, viewers of Oshima’s film would get to experience the position of the postcolonial subject—a hypothesis that seems to contradict Thian but in fact proves to be a productive extension of her claim: The symbolic reconciliation of ‘self’ and ‘other’ takes place within the viewing subject, namely as a confrontation with their own desire (a deduction based on Gaylyn Studlar’s analysis of The Blue Angel[1]).

The subsequent chapters focus on several elements of superficiality, simulacra and representation: Tiffany Naiman’s musicological and Baudrillardian take on Bowie’s song “The Heart’s Filthy Lesson”, Ian Chapman’s visual analysis of a selection of Bowie album covers, David Buckley’s rather biographical text on “Bowie’s Berlin” and the sense of disorientation dominating his late-seventies work, and Julie Lobalzo Wright’s essay on “The Extraordinary Rock Star as Film Star”. Chapters 14 by Dene October and 15 by Barish Ali and Heidi Wallace provide two different Deleuzean readings of Bowie’s performativity, both describing it as a process of unfinished becoming in terms of gender and identity.

While Nick Stevenson’s text on fandom and late style treats Bowie’s meaning for and impact on his fans on a more general level, the volume’s very last chapter by Vanessa Garcia is written from the author’s very personal point of view: Garcia initially tells the anecdote about attending a painting class with artist Elizabeth Peyton, then takes the reader on a journey through her memory and her reading experience of Dana Spiotta’s novel Stone Arabia (2011). By using the cultural icon David Bowie as a tool to unravel both the novel and her own relation to the text’s implications, Garcia provides a perfect conclusion to the volume, combining theory and analysis with bits of subjective reflection that enable the reader to relate easily and enthusiastically to her writing.

Critical Perspectives brings together multiple interpretations of Bowie’s contribution to popular culture. The strongest chapters are indeed those that do not try to theorise the artist’s unconscious but acknowledge his fluidity instead—his allusive character, his mutability, his art of playing with surfaces. Despite including perspectives that, naturally, have to be critically evaluated themselves, the volume successfully conveys David Bowie’s contemporaneity, emphasising that he can be seen as a medium through which certain positions towards life and culture can be developed. Thus the critical perspectives on David Bowie are also the critical perspectives of David Bowie as “The Karma Man” (one of his earlier songs): “I see my times and who I’ve been / I only live now and I don’t know why.“


[1] See Gaylyn Studlar, “Masochism, Masquerade and the Erotic Metamorphoses of Marlene Dietrich”. In Fabrications: Costume and the Female Body, edited by Charlotte Herzog and Jane M. Gaines, 229-243. New York: Routledge, 1990.

Bibliography

Bal, Mieke. Double Exposures: The Subject of Cultural Analysis. New York: Routledge, 1996.

Buckley, David. Strange Fascination: David Bowie: The Definitive Story. London: Virgin, 2001.

Cann, Kevin. David Bowie: Any Day Now. London: Adelita, 2010.

Doggett, Peter. The Man Who Sold the World: David Bowie and the 1970s. New York: HarperCollins, 2012.

Egan, Sean. David Bowie: Ever Changing Hero. London: Flame Tree, 2013.

Leigh, Wendy. Bowie: The Biography. New York: Gallery Books, 2014.

Pegg, Nicholas. The Complete David Bowie. Expanded and Updated Sixth Edition. London: Titan Books, 2011.

Spiotta, Dana. Stone Arabia: A Novel. New York: Scribner, 2011.

Studlar, Gaylyn.“Masochism, Masquerade and the Erotic Metamorphoses of Marlene Dietrich.” In Fabrications: Costume and the Female Body, edited by Charlotte Herzog and Jane M. Gaines, 229-243. New York: Routledge, 1990.

Trynka, Paul. David Bowie: Starman. New York: Little, B

Analyse and Invent: A Reflection on Making Audiovisual Essays

Not only is the work we do para-textual in relation to the usual academic work on film; we ourselves are para-academics, in the sense that (like many other people) we are freelance film critics who find ourselves involved in occasional lecturing and teaching, programming, translation, the editing and publishing of magazines or journals, and so forth. Alongside all the different types of writing we do, individually or collaboratively, much of our energy these days goes into the ongoing, entirely domestic production of audiovisual essays. Cristina has been a pioneer in this field since the inception of Transit online magazine in 2009; Adrian joined the fun in 2012. Together we have signed 23 audiovisual pieces; there are also solo excursions.

The current trend of the audiovisual essay is the fruit of a complicated and diverse history or genealogy that various folk are still sorting out – usually according to their own polemical or institutional agendas. Suffice it to say, whether we nominate the founding texts as Jean Epstein in the early 1920s or Marshall McLuhan in the early 1960s, the contemporary push toward ‘doing’ media analysis in an audiovisual form emanates from a widely shared sense of a need to embrace multi-modality: to not restrict ourselves, as scholars or critics, solely to the (considerable) powers of the written or spoken word. For the Scandinavian initiative Audiovisual Thinking, since 2010, the audiovisual essay looks to the twin legacies of semiotics in communication studies, and documentary media (see the 2012 survey “Reflections on Academic Video” by Thommy Eriksson and Inge Ejby Sørensen); for radical theorists and practitioners of contemporary literary translation, the inspiration comes from artists’ books, design, and music – all the varieties of linguistic and pictorial collage. For us, looking to a more specifically cinematic heritage, montage is king – mixed with notions from a century of appropriation art, and a philosophy of aesthetics that stresses the spectator’s ‘reading’ (or interpretation) of an audiovisual text as always, already a remaking or a figural ‘completion’ of it in some other form.

The audiovisual essay remains – uneasily for some – a hybrid form, in-between art and scholarship. Not yet artistic enough for certain artists and curators, too shackled by exposition and rational argument; too arty and open-ended for conventional scholars of the publish-or-perish variety. Widespread fear that the international copyright police will close in and shut the game down at any moment helps to stall this appropriation revolution. The audiovisual essay is likely to remain nervously wedged in this strange inter-space. But multi-modality does not mean (as it is sometimes, kindly or unkindly, taken to be) the ruthless suppression of all written/verbal/logically argued rationality; it signals, rather, that all elements and media are available to us as critic-analysts, and that we should use them in diverse combinations and permutations. In our experiments, we constantly try to shift our working dispositif into new shapes, along the already famous continuum between creative/poetic and explanatory/pedagogical.

Our deepest conviction is that in-depth analyses can indeed be formed and carried within a ‘pure’ audiovisual montage, without voice-over commentary (a device often used badly and clumsily). We insist (in our teaching as well) on the radical extremity of such montage action: on principle, we constantly break both the horizontal (linear) and vertical (image-sound synchronicity) dimensions of whatever we analyse; it is never simply a matter of arranging untampered-with ‘blocks’ (which is more common in video art). It has become clear to us that such works pose a new challenge to spectators, even long-trained academics: unlike some written articles, they cannot always be grasped or digested on just one ‘go through’. They demand a different kind of viewing, listening and apprehending skill – just as many movies do. Cristina’s Small Gestures (2014) on Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le silence de la mer (1949) is one such essay, made initially as a classroom demonstration:

We have often used a combination of writing-on-screen – taking in the main title, intertitles, and other graphical inserts of language – with audiovisual montage. This is the case with Phantasmagoria of the Interior (2015), viewable on subscription at Fandor website, or on the Arrow DVD/Blu-ray of The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Miss Osbourne (1981); and Felicity Conditions: Seek and Hide (2014), our essay on Fritz Lang’s Secret Beyond the Door … (1947):

The somewhat simpler mode of such analysis often takes the form, in our work, of the audiovisual ‘study of a motif’ – not simply laid out in its repetitions (the super-cut temptation), but arranged in its transformations, the logic of which we aim to bring out and develop. Our piece on dance in the films of Philippe Garrel, All Tomorrow’s Parties (2014), follows such a method:

Accepting a commission from [in]Transition and Cinema Journal – to respond audiovisually to a written, scholarly, refereed text on Charles Burnett’s Killer of Sheep (1977) – we decided to dissolve our own prejudice; we worked, for the first time, with a scripted, voice-over narration, and the result was Against the Real (2015):

This assignment got us interested in the possibilities of voice-against-image, and the mix of this voice with a pre-given soundtrack. Just as, in our regular series for MUBI, we explore what it means to ‘accompany’ or collide an audiovisual essay with a critico-poetic text, here we quickly learnt that scripts must be savagely pared down and played off, in timings of literal micro-seconds, against the chosen audiovisual elements. We have since made, in this vein, five separate essays on Hou Hsiao-hsien (three of these commissioned by the Belgian Cinematek), including this one at Fandor, Stirring In: A Scene from Millennium Mambo (2015), originally prepared as part of a live ‘performance lecture’ (like our earlier work in 2013 on Leos Carax):

https://vimeo.com/130262978

Finally, toward the more poetic end of the spectrum, we frequently investigate the notion of what we call an imaginary scene: the combination of fragments from two or more films that, to some extent, are fused into a new unity, while still underlining their different properties for comparative analysis. To Begin With … (2015) investigates what it means to ‘open’ a narrative film; the unfolding of its elements, in audiovisual time and space, mirrors (and this is what we always aim for) the steps of its implicit ‘argument’:

And in Shapes of Rage (2015), we began from the simple observation that certain key scenes in David Cronenberg’s The Brood (1979) reminded us closely of passages in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963) – and proceeded to work intensively, via re-montage, on ‘superimposing’ the two. Only out of this process did the logic of an analysis emerge: one of the great advantages and joys of audiovisual essay work is that theoretical constructs no longer pre-exist and overdetermine what we find in the films (which is the sorry condition of a great deal of academic screen study). On the contrary, it’s our belief that audiovisual essays can take their makers in two directions simultaneously: both deeper into the text that they discover anew, and beyond it, into the necessary challenge of inventing a new, hybrid work of their own.


Notes on Contributors

Adrian Martin is a film critic and audiovisual essayist who lives in Vilassar de Mar, Spain. His most recent book is Mise en scène and Film Style: From Classical Hollywood to New Media Art (Palgrave), and he is co-editor of LOLA magazine.

Cristina Álvarez López is a film critic and audiovisual essayist who lives in Vilassar de Mar, Spain. Her work appears in (among other publications) Fandor, Mubi, Transit, Trafic, The Third Rail and Sight and Sound, and she is co-editor of the audiovisual essay section in NECSUS.

Filmography

The Birds (Alfred Hitchcock, 1963)

The Brood
(David Cronenberg, 1979)

Killer of Sheep
(Charles Burnett, 1977)

Secret Beyond the Door
(Fritz Lang, 1947)

La Silence de la Mer
(Jean Pierre-Melville, 1949)

The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Miss Osbourne (Walerian Borowczyk, 1981)

Horror in the Digital Age

In David Yarovesky’s sci-fi horror The Hive (2015) the internet is positioned as a precursor to a dystopian future. The film follows a group of rural summer camp employees who attempt to avoid infection from a black, viscous substance which causes people to become connected to a larger neural network at the sacrifice of their individuality and mobility. Throughout the film, people who become infected comment on how much better it is to be connected to the network, even though they are shown to be in a state of decay (see Figure 1). When the central character of the film, Adam, becomes infected, his realisation that he can learn anything through taking memories and information from other people is encapsulated in his statement that being part of the network is “just like Google”. Adam, however, briefly frees himself from the infection through the use of memory and emotions, allowing him time to consider how to permanently disconnect from the network. His solution treats the human body much like a computer; making the heart stop and then inducing an electric shock to restart it, much like the often practiced ‘turn it off and on again’ solution to various computer issues.

The Hive makes explicit the link between the infection and the internet. It posits that becoming ‘always online’ has rooted people and that allowing people to experience everything vicariously through the internet has halted the progression, exploration, and construction of identity necessary for the human race to continue. During the film’s finale, as Adam escapes with his partner Katie through desolated landscapes full of the infected, he laments that “there is nowhere left to go […] everything is not going to be okay”. In saying this The Hive calls attention to our growing dependence on internet-connected and always online technologies, arguing that the notion of society as we understand it today is in danger of being lost as humans continue to look to the internet for experience, information, and self validation.

Connor_Fig01

Figure 1: An infected, and therefore ‘connected’, person in The Hive (2015).

Though The Hive is clearly discussing contemporary technology, it does so in a way which hides the technology it is discussing, that is to say that the technology itself (the computer or the internet) is not manifest within the film. Other than brief comments comparing the hive mind to Google, and minor CGI sequences which posit the brain network as a database of information, there are no efforts made to examine the technology of the internet itself. Instead, The Hive opts for analogy, focusing on the infectious liquid as synonymous with connectivity and therefore providing a visual representation of the numerous invisible signals, hidden wires, and masked coding which allow for the internet to exist.

By instead focusing on an invasive foreign body, The Hive harks back to body horror films such as David Cronenberg’s Videodrome (1983) and Shinya Tsukamoto’s Tetsuo: The Iron Man (1989), in which the invasive body was technological and resulted in the human body mutating into a mesh of flesh and technological apparatus (see Figure 2). These films fixate on what happens to the notion of humanity once synthetic technology has invaded the body, looking primarily at how the body could be manipulated or controlled, either through outside forces or an internal loss of emotion or identity. The Hive continues these traditions, presenting technology primarily as an intensified antagonist and harbinger of doom to the conscious notion of self rather than interrogating technology as a contemporary construct removed from the body. As such, the various technologies they are discussing (video signals, industry, and the internet) also lose their specific identity and become collected under a singular object in opposition of the corporeal body.

Figure 2: A videotape is inserted into the abdomen of Max in Videodrome (1983, above), while metal constructs burst through the skin in Tetsuo: The Iron Man (1989, below).

Figure 2: A videotape is inserted into the abdomen of Max in Videodrome (1983, above), while metal constructs burst through the skin in Tetsuo: The Iron Man (1989, below).

The internet, however, has become the locus around which a markedly different fear has grown. As our computer-based interactions become increasingly simplified through app-culture, which restricts our ability to modify settings through the enforced use of sliders or swiping between yes/no or on/off choices, society continues down a path of diminishing levels of computer comprehension. User-friendly graphical user interfaces (GUIs) have featured prominently on our personal computers since the 90s, with the arrival of Microsoft’s Windows 95 operating system. Since that point coding and transparency, with regards to what programs actually do beyond their surface level function, have been pushed further into obscurity. At the same time, by interacting with programs through the manipulation of desktop icons rather than being able to see, interact with, and interpret the executable code of the program, the general computer user in modern society understands how a computer works through what the GUI is telling them. This is not to say that the user is at fault, but rather that the increasing restriction of manipulability offered by software contributes to a growing inability for users to control their interactions with the technology. The internet in particular highlights this dangerous relationship between the user and the computer, where the user is constantly contributing information both intentionally (through the use of social media sites) and unintentionally (through internet tracking). The internet therefore exists as a visualisation of the illusion of control, in which users are given the appearance of being able to modify, or opt out of, certain internet practices, but in reality users lack the ability to actually stop behind-the-scenes processes. As Wendy Chun states;

“Users are produced by benign software interactions, from reassuring sounds that signify that a file has been saved to folder names such as ‘my documents’ that stress personal computer ownership. […] If you believe that your communications are private, it is because software corporations, as they relentlessly code and circulate you, tell you that you are behind, and not in front of, the window.”[1]

Therefore, if our fears about technology now surround the loss of control and privacy as a result of our inability to properly comprehend the internet, how are these fears then realised in film? In the past few years there has been an attempt by filmmakers to position the computer screen as the central narrative location. In doing so, these films initially seem to offer up a drastically different formal presentation of film. By looking at three contemporary horror films which display their entire narrative to the audience through the computer screen – Joe Swanberg’s The Sick Thing That Happened to Emily When She Was Younger (2012) (hereafter referred to as The Sick Thing…), Zachary Donohue’s The Den (2013), and Levan Gabriadze’s Unfriended (2014) – it is possible to see how contemporary filmmakers approach fears about the internet.

In terms of their narrative, these films follow a standard, linear progression. The Sick Thing… consists of a series of discussions between Emily and her partner through a voice chat program, in which Emily becomes increasingly worried about the various supernatural events occurring in her house. The Den follows Elizabeth’s online interactions as she studies online relationships, until she happens across footage of a murder and is then stalked both online and in reality by the murderers. Finally in Unfriended a group of friends are haunted by a vengeful ghost during a group Skype conversation on the anniversary of their friend’s death. What is interesting is how these narratives are presented to the audience. The pro-filmic shift between these films and other horror films can easily be seen just by comparing the screen captures featured within this article. No longer are characters and places matched across time and space through the cut, but now they are presented alongside each other, housed in different windows on the computer screen (see Figure 3). Though there is a history of split-screen storytelling which predates the personal computer,[2] the organising of elements upon the cinema screen in an attempt to mimic a computer screen speaks to a familiarity on the part of the audience with the computer screen as a mode of receiving and processing information. In a way, this mise-en-scène works towards Lev Manovich’s idea of “spatial montage”, a conceptual possibility for how new media would represent images to the viewer. According to Manovich, spatial montage “could involve a number of images, potentially of different sizes and proportions, appearing on the screen at the same time”.[3] The computer screens depicted in these films fulfil the basic criteria for spatial montage set out by Manovich, but they still employ more traditional aspects of mise-en-scène in their narrative presentation. Particularly in the case of The Den, framing and blocking is achieved through the use of computer windows by giving prominence to, or partially obscuring, elements of the webcam image by overlapping other computer programs, such as document folders or antivirus software windows, on top of it.

 Figure 3: The evolution of representations of the computer screen in contemporary horror, as seen in The Sick Thing… (top), The Den (middle), and Unfriended (bottom).


Figure 3: The evolution of representations of the computer screen in contemporary horror, as seen in The Sick Thing… (top), The Den (middle), and Unfriended (bottom).

In the three films discussed, the loss of privacy or control plays a central role. In The Sick Thing…, though Emily’s partner often tells her he forgot to record the session, the very existence of the film relies on the computer screen being recorded. Therefore, the very act of watching The Sick Thing… brings to mind the issue of privacy, as the viewer witnesses private conversations between two people. In The Den and Unfriended, the computer is manipulated through outside sources, removing the control of the user and displaying information and images of the user without consent. Regardless of the origin of this loss of control, be it through hacking or ghostly manipulation, the fear generated through these films is less to do with the corporeal body and is focused instead on criticising our eagerness to interact with a technology we fail to fully understand. Ultimately all of these films work towards the idea that the internet does not function in the same way that society does and that it is easy to be misled. Minor actions such as hyperlinks redirecting the user to a different site or attacks by processes or viruses cause the computer to feel alien. The Storm Worm Trojan virus, for example, was attached to e-mails with a subject concerning the 2007 storm Kyrill and, once downloaded, created a backdoor allowing remote access and connected the infected computer to a botnet, thus not only invading but opening up the personal to an uncontrollable outside force. As such, the internet is positioned as a dangerous media, where users should be wary about who they are interacting with and what information they offer or allow access to, but are ultimately not allowed the freedom to control such information.

In terms of narrative, Unfriended marks a clear divergence from the other films discussed here through its use of websites, online videos, and forum posts to disseminate background information and the majority of the general narrative. As such, the online interactions and dialogue over Skype largely exist as background noise and sites for moments of emotion and reaction, providing a human face to the frustration and anxiety that arises once control over the central character’s computer is taken away by the ghost haunting the group of friends. By clicking back and forth between various programs or internet tabs, Unfriended allows for a coherent narrative to generate through the linking of the constituent minutiae across different computer windows. In doing so, it maps contemporary means of acquiring and interrogating information, in which users will filter through multiple small pieces of information, either in pursuit of a specific detail or until something catches their eye. Though the above images show that all three of these films attempt to replicate the GUI of an Apple operating system, what is interesting is how quickly films have opted for the inclusion of real world program branding in order to present a more realistic realisation of the screen.

In comparison to the other films, which made use of fictional programs, Unfriended makes use of well-known video upload sites such as YouTube or LiveLeak, as well as computer programs which require connection to the internet such as Spotify or Skype. As the user continues to lose control of her computer, the majority of these websites and programs become manipulated by the ghost; songs are played, windows are prevented from being closed, and new tabs are opened linking to particular past moments of the group of friends. In doing this, Unfriended highlights the ease at which control can be taken from the user, and how quickly our familiarity and ability to interact with these programs is lost once the GUI no longer fulfils its purpose as a way to comprehend the computer screen. In other words, once the familiar icons of the computer screen, such as the X housed at the top right of individual programs on a PC or the colour-coded circles at the top left of a program on a Mac, cease to function as expected then the user is reminded of their reliance on a pre-programmed list of functions. In these films, this loss of control (within the digital world) and the threat to the body (within the real world) are treated as equally horrific.

The success of these films as pieces which interrogate our reliance on, and underestimation of, the internet relies heavily on an audience which is able to parse and understand exactly what is so horrific about these films. It is easy to look at the morals of each film – don’t trust internet interactions, the internet allows for horrible practices to occur, and that internet bullying is a serious problem in society – as reactionary and rather backward in their simplicity and positioning of the internet as inherently malicious. Yet, that these morals emerge consistently through the loss of control and privacy speaks to a far more prevailing fear with regard to our lack of understanding about how the internet actually operates. In Unfriended, the group of friends are haunted as much by the database of information they have uploaded to the internet as they are by the ghost itself. In The Den, the central character becomes a target through the seemingly benign action of switching between users on a randomised chat program, resulting in her coming across a horrible murder being broadcast online. In The Sick Thing… the interactions between the couple are revealed to be one-sided, with Emily being manipulated through the façade of distance that the internet creates (she believes her partner to be across the country, but it is revealed that he lives in close proximity to her).

These films make this loss of control explicit through the manipulation of the GUI, allowing for the prioritisation of this fear on a visual level which can be understood by the average user. In other words, by presenting these narratives through a familiar format rather than through any attempt to visualise code, these films aim to engage the viewer to reconsider their position in the power structures of computer interactions. As such, they aim to criticise both our willingness to interact with the internet on a private level, and also the internet itself for its hidden processes designed to track and distribute information without consent. In both Unfriended and The Den the central characters are killed, whereas in The Sick Thing… Emily is left unaware of both the one-sided nature of her relationship and the actual geographical distance between her and her ‘partner’. That these films ultimately offer no solution suggests that the notion of horror in the digital age is one born from the growing realisation that we no longer understand the rules by which this new digital technology functions, and that society’s dependence on always online technology is past the point of return.


[1] Chun (2006), pp. 21-22

[2] See, for example, Abel Gance’s Napoleon (1927) and Richard L. Bare’s Wicked, Wicked (1973), the latter of which was heavily marketed through its use of ‘anamorphic duovision’.

[3] Manovich (2001), pp. 322

Notes on Contributor

Connor McMorran is a PhD student at the University of St Andrews, working on his thesis concerning Korean genre cinema. His other interests include horror cinema, East Asian cinema in general, and the growing confluence between cinema and video games.

Bibliography

Chun, Wendy Hui Kyong. (2006) Control and Freedom: Power and Paranoia in the Age of Fiber Optics. Massachusetts: MIT Press.

Manovich, Lev. (2001) The Language of New Media. Massachusetts: MIT Press.

Filmography

The Den (Zachary Donohue, USA, 2013)

The Hive (David Yarovesky, USA, 2015)

Napoleon (Abel Gance, France, 1927)

The Sick Thing that Happened to Emily when she was Younger (Joe Swanberg, USA, 2012)

Tetsuo: The Iron Man (Shinya Tsukamoto, Japan, 1989)

Unfriended (Levan Gabriadze, USA, 2014)

Videodrome (David Cronenberg, Canada, 1983)

Wicked, Wicked (Richard L. Bare, USA, 1973)