Fabricating Images at the Color Factory

DOI 10.15664/fcj.v0i17.2074

“You made it to the moon!”

These were the words that welcomed me as I turned the corner into the final room at the Houston location of the Color Factory, a self-described “interactive exhibit that celebrates the discovery, serendipity and generosity of color”.[1] The speaker was one of the exhibition’s many “greeters” – essentially docents who supervise its various participatory installations. Clad in an aggressively purple jumpsuit, the greeter explained to me that I was to take off my shoes before entering the ball pit, and to turn the volume up on my phone (“You can’t imagine how many we’ve lost in there!”). Having already been to the New York location, I knew what to expect: every rendition of the Color Factory culminates in a ball pit of monumental proportions. Exhibition goers wade their way into the pit, lie on their backs, and pose for automated photos taken by cameras mounted on the ceiling. But whereas the ball pits in San Francisco and New York were bright yellow (“in honour of Michael Stanley, the man who only wore yellow”) and powder blue (matched to a Pantone swatch of a New York summer sky), respectively, the Houston location’s was an almost phosphorescent silvery white. The surrounding walls and ceilings were black, and twinkling dots of light hovered above the pit. Sponsored by NASA, whose headquarters are located in Houston, to commemorate their fiftieth anniversary, the ball pit (titled simply To the Moon) is one of many nods to local geography in an exhibition that claims to be site-specific. In addition to the floating, weightless experience of the ball pit, visitors can listen to a recording of the 1969 Apollo 11 moonwalk. This integration of sound also echoes a central theme of the pop-up across locations: namely, to create a multi-sensory experience linked to environmental colour. For a moment, submerged neck-deep in the pit, gazing up above at the fibre-optic lights, I could almost believe that I was in zero-gravity – until the aerial camera’s flash shattered this illusion.

Figure 1: To the Moon, an immersive ball pit in Houston featuring fibre-optic lights and recorded sound. Sponsored by NASA.

Figure 2: To the Moon, an immersive ball pit in Houston featuring fibre-optic lights and recorded sound. Sponsored by NASA.

Founded by event planner Jordan Ferney, San Francisco-based artist Leah Rosenberg, and designer Erin Jang, the Color Factory debuted in San Francisco in 2017, where it was only supposed to run for one month. Instead, the exhibition lasted for nearly nine months (I couldn’t get tickets because it was completely sold out), and by popular demand, moved to New York the following year, and opened a new location in Houston in 2019. The space is a 20,000 square foot warehouse where every visible surface has been covered with abstract patterns of brightly saturated colour. Mounted cameras take photos or Boomerangs of participants and send them directly to their email so that they can then be posted on social media platforms, earning such pop-ups the moniker of “Instagram Exhibitions”.[2] Such experiences, which are designed with digital reproducibility in mind, are part of an attention economy that turns sensory pleasure into data by existing in two places simultaneously: the physical gallery space and on social media. While few visitors to the Color Factory, where one can dive into piles of confetti or eat colour-coded French macarons on a rotating conveyer belt, are likely to see it as anything other than pure entertainment or spectacle, the exhibition can be seen as an almost perverse quantification of the body through algorithmic colour. Though the pop-up at first glance seems to foster unmediated physical intimacy through activities that emphasise human connection, it actually renders colour further abstract and quantifiable while simultaneously normalising self-surveillance: ultimately participants must adapt to the infrastructure of this environment, and by extension, to increasingly regulated understandings of selfhood.

The phenomenon of the pop-up event or visual spectacle is by no means a new phenomenon – we might think of nineteenth-century World’s Fairs that showcased new developments in electric lighting, the “happenings” of Fluxus in the 1960s and more recently, installations such as Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Rooms or Random International’s Rain Room (2012). These installations, where photography is encouraged, mark a clear departure from site-specific performances such as Marina Abramovic’s 512 Hours (2014), where audience members had to store their camera phones in lockers before entering the gallery. Because the Color Factory constantly announces its hyper-mediated nature, it is highly relevant for thinking about the digitally mediated nature of experiences that announce themselves as discrete “events.” Unlike the televised media event, where “the referent becomes indissociable from the medium” (is the event being broadcast deemed important because it is considered newsworthy, or because television must assert its importance by covering breaking news stories?), the pop-up installations of the digital age emphasise that such “experiences” must be first and foremost experienced in the flesh.[3] This focus on in-person interactivity and the notion that a full and memorable experience must activate all five senses is inseparable from widespread anxieties that digitisation will eventually render daily existence increasingly detached, impersonal, and ephemeral.

In an effort to bridge the gap between physical and virtual space, the Color Factory takes part in a long-established tradition of colour-based synesthesia, most clearly seen with regard to sound. In New York, visitors are encouraged to play comically-large xylophones with coloured keys and to experiment with different harmonies; the most “harmonious” intervals, such as the first and fifth notes of a scale, correspond to specific colour combinations.[4] Here, centuries of sound and colour-based synesthesia are on full display, with intertexts ranging from Newton’s division of the spectrum into musical intervals to a fin-de-siècle fascination with colour and music.[5] Like the colour-organ performances of the 1920s, the Color Factory’s sound-based installation aims to create a multi-sensory atmosphere that blurs the boundaries of colour, light, and music.[6]

Figure 3: Interactive sound-based installation at the Color Factory, New York.

Sensory media environments at the Color Factory extend beyond sound into smell and taste: the original San Francisco location featured scratch-and-sniff wallpaper (a nod to Willy Wonka, owner of a very different colourful factory), and in New York, choosing a dusty teal-coloured button from the “Wall of Buttons” led me to a room where I was offered a blue, raspberry -flavoured gummy banana and a mango-flavoured Swedish fish candy (complementary colours corresponding to the button I had chosen). The Houston location features a smell-based installation by nonprofit Art & Olfaction titled Chromorama: a circle of colourful tubes resembling industrial pipes features various verbal “clues” as to what scent the visitor will smell when leaning in and lifting a circular cap. Chromorama posits a direct correlation between colour and smell – that is, colour and the unseen origin of the scent, which are intended to activate past memories. The sea-green tube corresponds to the clue “Sand Between Your Toes” and the briny scent of the ocean, and the purple tube titled “Home Sick From School” couldn’t be anything other than the smell of grape-flavoured cold medicine. Other times, however, the relationship between colour and smell is less straight-forward: red is “First Kiss” (lipstick?), pale grey, “Crying and Frying”, is onions, and green, “Winning the Lottery”, is cash. Chromorama recalls historical attempts at a multi-sensory cinematic experience, such as Smell-O-Vision, which failed in part due to their attempts to universalise sensory experience while simultaneously trying to activate individual memories. It’s no coincidence that the most successful colour/smell pairings are those involving artificial colour and flavour: rather than some sort of Proustian revelry, the purple cold medicine smells and tastes purple in the same way that blue raspberry candy and pink lemonade evoke objects to be found nowhere in nature. They function as empty signifiers – taste and colour in the abstract with no referent to speak of.

Figure 4: Chromorama, a smell-based installation by nonprofit Art & Olfaction in Houston.

Figure 5: “Winning the Lottery,” a synthetic scent meant to smell like paper money.

Figure 6: Complementary-coloured gummy candies in New York.

Figure 7: “Black Hole” activated charcoal ice cream is offered in conjunction with the NASA-sponsored To the Moon ball pit in Houston.

Figure 8: French macaron conveyer belt in New York

Because synesthesia creates unexpected sensory experiences that are ultimately subliminal, it is an ideal marketing tool by which to capitalise on both pleasure and attention.[7] It is ultimately attention – both in a physical visit to the exhibit and by posting images to social media – that the Color Factory sells. Despite its name, what the pop-up produces isn’t actually colour, but digital images of participants that ultimately find their home on photo-sharing apps. Each visitor to the Color Factory receives a card with a personalised QR code which, when swiped, activates a mounted, often concealed camera that automatically takes a hands-free photo Instagram-ready photo or Boomerang of them and sends it to their email. In today’s attention economy, where value is measured not by singularity or originality, but by “eyeballs” (that is, clicks, likes, and reposts), eye-popping, high-contrast colours perform an essential role.[8] While other competing pop-ups, such as the Rosé Mansion, the Museum of Ice Cream, 29Rooms, the FOMO Factory, and Room for Tea, don’t explicitly take colour as their theme, the photographs they produce look strikingly similar to those taken at the Color Factory: flat, brightly saturated colours in simple geometric shapes pop against a white background, revealing that if there is one common denominator, it’s not simply the commodification of experience via social media, but how these experiences are mediated through digital colour. As new media theorists such as Carolyn Kane and Sean Cubitt have noted, because digital colours originate first and foremost as algorithms, texture, colour, and lighting on electronic screens will have corresponding numerical values.[9] Most crucially, these numbers serve to average and standardise the colours seen on multiple screens at a massive scale: on Instagram, where 27,264 images are tagged #colorfactoryco,[10] physical colour must be reliably and seamlessly translated into numerical code.[11] This means that the specific paint shades chosen for the interior are those deemed the most “photogenic,” requiring the Color Factory’s designers to constantly move between subtractive (pigment-based) colour and additive (light-based) colour. Prior to opening, the Color Factory’s team tested out different lighting scenarios and invested in mirrorless Canon EOS RP cameras, whose autofocus feature compensates for poor lighting conditions.[12] Colours that are supposedly drawn from specific locations are sampled and reduced to commercial paint swatches, abstract geometric shapes, and those that photograph the best.

Figure 9: Scannable tokens in Houston

Figure 10: Card with QR code in New York

Figure 11: Confirmation email after registering email address for photos.

Figure 12: Thought Bubbles installation in Houston

Figure 13: Wall of Buttons in New York.

The Color Factory claims to be site-specific: at each location, the project collaborates with local artists and business and attempts to engage with the surrounding city, as with the Manhattan Color Walk in New York, installed in the garden at Cooper-Hewitt in conjunction with their exhibit “Saturated: The Allure and Science of Color”.[13] Visitors to the Color Factory are also given a printed “Neighborhood Map” with local “secrets,” such as an ATM that doles out colourful stickers rather than cash. However, despite these nods to geographical specificity, the Color Factory ultimately presents itself as a temporary reprieve from the frenetic pace of urban life. In the tradition of the white cube gallery, the exhibition space is presented as a place where “the outside world must not come in,” “windows are sealed off,” and “there is no time.”[14] But the Color Factory also turns the white cube on its head by having visitors wait in a lobby where ceilings, walls, and floors are a pristine white, building anticipation for visitors to move from what is essentially a blank canvas into an explosion of colour: only by entering this space do we leave the monochrome world of banal urbanism for a fantastical, synesthetic one. Though the Color Factory and its partners claim that the colours they use are drawn from specific places in New York (wall text states that the Balloon Room is meant to “[conjure] the colours you might see at sundown over the Hudson River or at sunrise, reflected against a skyscraper”), these colours are always sampled quantitively into paint swatches and geometric shapes, or those that photograph the best with an iPhone camera. The Color Factory thus functions as both a site-specific installation and a “non-place” of waiting and transition.[15]

At the Color Factory, there is a clear separation between self and environment in which visitors never quite belong to or inhabit its colourful interiors. Just as Dorothy steps out of monochromatic Kansas into Technicolor Oz, for an hour and half (the average amount of time at the Color Factory) and for the price of 38 or 35 dollars (depending on whether you are in New York or Houston; children 12 and under pay 28), we are invited into a fantastical play-space for adults that is, as one visitor described it, “like walking through a rainbow.” Colour at the Color Factory is not meant to be atmospheric; instead, we are meant to view it as existentially separate from those who pass through the exhibition space.

Figure 14: Still of Color Factory home page, where brightly coloured circles plaster a black-and-white photograph of New York as the page loads.

There is also a clear separation between self and environment in which visitors never fully belong to or inhabit its colourful interiors. Though official social media posts often have models coordinate their clothing with the photo background, most photographs taken at the Color Factory feature viewers wearing clothes in more subdued shades or in colours that do not match their surroundings, and the corresponding Instagram posts tagged #colorfactoryco reflect this dissonance:

         “Be a pop of color in a black and white world”

         “We all need a bit of color now and again”

         “Why live and dream in black and white when you can enjoy life in color?”

          “Enjoyed having a little more color in my life”

By creating a clear separation between self and physical environment, the message is clear: our bodies can only become part of this space when we submit to the gaze of the cameras. While visitors consent to being photographed within the gallery space, the eventual posting of these images to social media platforms poses key questions about the relationship between colour as visual attraction on the one hand and the ubiquity of self-surveillance on the other. The cameras are designed to take photographs that visitors couldn’t take themselves, using wide angle lenses and aerial shots.[16] In addition to the cameras, mirrors and reflective surfaces are everywhere, making self-presentation and monitoring, rather than colour, becomes the Color Factory’s primary subject. In an attention-based economy in which we must be “always on,” The Color Factory forces us to participate in a “compulsory labor of self-management.”[17] Inverting the logic of the selfie, the photos we leave the Color Factory with have a unique gaze: one that is disembodied, but paradoxically also self-reflexive. We choose how to pose and wait for the ten-second countdown before the flash, but ultimately, the gaze belongs not to us, but to the decentralised vision of social networks and tagged posts.

During my visit to Houston, my photos failed to send to my email; after asking the staff whether I could still access them, they assured me that every single image is stored off-site. These images belong to the Color Factory and can be used for promotional or other purposes. This normalisation of self-surveillance has sinister implications in a time when biometric technologies, such as facial recognition and surveillance cameras that can “see” in colour and infrared, make it easier to track and identify individuals with a precision beyond the limits of human vision (“computer vision dazzle,” also known as CV dazzle, is a recent attempt to thwart facial recognition algorithms through colour and makeup).[18] At the Color Factory, under the pretence of the positive emotional impact of brightly coloured media environments, the body itself becomes a computable entity, stored as data in the company’s cloud. With a swipe of a QR code, we go from viewing subject to object viewed: we can only become part of the Color Factory by being converted to pixels ourselves.

Notes

[1] Throughout this piece, I default to the British spelling “colour,” except in direct quotes and titles that spell it “color,” such as the Color Factory.

[2] Natalia Winkelman, “The Color Factory is Made for Instagram, but Is It Art?” The Daily Beast, August 21, 2018. https://www.thedailybeast.com/the-color-factory-is-made-for-instagram-but-is-it-art

[3] Mary Ann Doane, “Information, Crisis, Catastrophe.” In Old Media, New Media: A History and Theory Reader, eds. Thomas Keenan and Wendy Hui Kyong Chun (New York: Taylor & Francis, 2004), 251.

[4]  Robin Young and Karyn Miller-Medzon, “Pop-Up Museum Lets Visitors Take Sensory Plunge into Wide World of Color.” WBUR:  Boston’s NPR News Station, April 1, 2018. https://www.wbur.org/hereandnow/2019/04/01/color-factory-new-york

[5] Examples of sound and colour-based synaesthesia include colour organs designed by Alexander Wilfred Rimington, Alexander Scriabin, Mary Hallock Greenewalt, and Thomas Wilfred; Kandinsky’s philosophy of painting, Rimbaud’s poem “Voyelles”; and as abstract animations by Oskar Fischinger, Mary Ellen Bute, and Len Lye dubbed “visual music”. See Polina Dimova’s forthcoming book At the Crossroads of the Senses: The Synaesthetic Metaphor Across the Arts in European Modernism, as well as Chapter 3, “Synthetic Dreams: Expanded Spaces of Cinema” in Joshua Yumibe and Sarah Street, Chromatic Modernity: Color, Cinema, and Media of the 1920s (New York: Columbia University Press, 2019): 104-146.

[6] Joshua Yumibe and Sarah Street, Chromatic Modernity, 125.

[7] David Howes, “Hyperesthesia, or, the Sensual Logic of Late Capitalism.” In Empire of the Senses: The Sensory Culture Reader, ed. David Howes (New York: Berg, 2005), 293.

[8] Carolyn L. Kane, “GIFs That Glitch: Eyeball Aesthetics for the Information Economy.” Communication Design 4 (2016): 41-62.

[9] See Carolyn L. Kane, Chromatic Algorithms: Synthetic Color, Computer Art and Aesthetics After Code (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014) and Sean Cubitt, The Practice of Light: A Genealogy of Visual Technologies from Prints to Pixels (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2014)

[10] As of May 2020

[11] The calibration and standardisation of colour for light-emitting screens is part of a much longer history of compression, seen most clearly in the development of photographic test cards and standards for colour television in the 1950s. See Jonathan Sterne and Dylan Mulvin, “The Low Acuity for Blue: Perceptual Technics and American Color Television.” journal of visual culture, vol. 13, no. 2 (2014): 118-138; Susan Murray, Bright Signals: A History of Color Television (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2018); and Claire Lehmann, “Color Goes Electric.” Triple Canopy, May 31, 2016. Online. https://www.canopycanopycanopy.com/contents/color-goes-electric/#title-page

[12] Ashley Carman, “Experience, Experience, Experience! Behind Color Factory, one of the photogenic pop—ups trying to conquer the experience economy.”  The Verge, November 6, 2019. https://www.theverge.com/2019/11/6/20949838/color-factory-houston-instagram-pop-up-experience-museum

[13] Saturated ran until March 2019. https://www.cooperhewitt.org/channel/saturated/

[14] Brian O’Doherty, Inside the White Cube: The Ideology of the Gallery Space (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976)

[15] See Marc Augé, Non-places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity, trans. John Howe (Brooklyn: Verso, 1995)

[16] Ashley Carman, “Experience, Experience, Experience!”

[17] Jonathan Crary, 24/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep (Brooklyn: Verso, 2013), 46.

[18] See Adam Harvey, “Computer Vision Dazzle (Camouflage).” Last updated June 3, 2020. https://cvdazzle.com/

Bibliography

Augé, Marc. Non-places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity, trans. John Howe (Brooklyn: Verso, 1995)

Carman, Ashley. “Experience, Experience, Experience! Behind Color Factory, one of the photogenic pop—ups trying to conquer the experience economy.”  The Verge, November 6, 2019. https://www.theverge.com/2019/11/6/20949838/color-factory-houston-instagram-pop-up-experience-museum

Color Factory. https://www.colorfactory.co

Crary, Jonathan. 24/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep (Brooklyn: Verso, 2013)

Cubitt, Sean. The Practice of Light: A Genealogy of Visual Technologies from Prints to Pixels (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2014)

Doane, Mary Ann. “Information, Crisis, Catastrophe.” In Old Media, New Media: A History and Theory Reader, eds. Thomas Keenan and Wendy Hui Kyong Chun (New York: Taylor & Francis, 2004): 251-264.

Harvey, Adam. “Computer Vision Dazzle (Camouflage).” Last updated June 3, 2020. https://cvdazzle.com/

Hess, Amanda. “The Existential Void of the Pop-Up ‘Experience.’” The New York Times, September 26, 2018.

Howes, David. “Hyperesthesia, or, the Sensual Logic of Late Capitalism.” In Empire of the Senses: The Sensory Culture Reader, ed. David Howes (New York: Berg, 2005): 281-303.

Kane, Carolyn L. Chromatic Algorithms: Synthetic Color, Computer Art and Aesthetics After Code (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2014)

“GIFs That Glitch: Eyeball Aesthetics for the Information Economy.” Communication Design 4 (2016): 41-62.

Lehmann, Claire. “Color Goes Electric.” Triple Canopy, May 31, 2016. Online.

https://www.canopycanopycanopy.com/contents/color-goes-electric/#title-page
Murray, Susan. Bright Signals: A History of Color Television (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2018)

Odell, Jenny. How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy (Melville House, 2019)

O’Doherty, Brian. Inside the White Cube: The Ideology of the Gallery Space (Berkeley: The University of California Press, 1976)

“Saturated:  The Allure and Science of Color.” Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum. https://www.cooperhewitt.org/channel/saturated/

Sterne, Jonathan and Dylan Mulvin, “The Low Acuity for Blue: Perceptual Technics and American Color Television.” journal of visual culture, vol. 13, no. 2 (2014): 118-138.

Winkelman, Natalia. “The Color Factory is Made for Instagram, but Is It Art?” The Daily Beast, August 21, 2018. https://www.thedailybeast.com/the-color-factory-is-made-for-instagram-but-is-it-art

Young, Robin and Karyn Miller-Medzon, “Pop-Up Museum Lets Visitors Take Sensory Plunge into Wide World of Color.” WBUR:  Boston’s NPR News Station, April 1, 2018. https://www.wbur.org/hereandnow/2019/04/01/color-factory-new-york

Yumibe, Joshua and Sarah Street, Chromatic Modernity: Color, Cinema, and Media of the 1920s (New York: Columbia University Press, 2019)

About the Author
Lida Zeitlin Wu
is a PhD candidate in Film & Media at the University of California, Berkeley, where she works on colour technologies, media theory, and the politics of visual culture. Her dissertation, “Seeing By Numbers: Color Systems and the Digitization of Perception,” traces how colour systems – diagrams and models that attempt to encompass the full range of human colour vision – came to play a key role in engineering perception over the course of the twentieth century. Lida’s writing has been published in Adaptation: The Journal for Literature on Screen Studies, The Nabokov Online Journal, The Art Newspaper China, and LEAP, China’s bilingual contemporary art magazine.

Small-Gauge Colour Visions: The Role of Amateur Filmmakers in Italy’s Transition from Black-and-White to Colour

DOI 10.15664/fcj.v0i17.2081

“One of the most powerful and dramatic changes in visual rendition permitted during the past hundred years has been the inclusion of color. […] Like many other “improvements” we have come to take for granted, the coming of color was seen as a threat as well as a benefit.”[1]

—Neil Harris

In the field of visual studies, the chromatic regime of images is not just a perceptual or technological matter, but also an aesthetic, cultural, and political issue. This is particularly true if we look at the transition from black-and-white to colour in the history of Italy’s media landscape. From a historical perspective, in the institutional setting of the Italian media system, the mass transition from monochrome images to the so-called “natural colour” images was delayed, compared to that of other European countries and the United States. Due to technological limitations and a deeply rooted cultural prejudice against colour, Italian institutional footage – by which I mean theatrically released feature films, newsreels, and television programs – was still predominantly monochrome between the 1930s and the 1960s. However, if we consider non-theatrical, small-gauge productions (16mm, 8mm, 9.5mm), instead of the institutional, industrialised, and state-run media context (35mm), the transition happened much faster.

Initially, the use of colour took hold in the amateur scene and only later became the de facto standard of mainstream 35mm theatrical productions. From a strictly technological standpoint, the first effective monopack systems for subtractive colour synthesis were developed by Kodak (Kodachrome, 1935) and Agfa (Agfacolor, 1936). These film stocks are reversal emulsion systems, meaning that the negative film used for shooting is chemically converted into a projection-ready positive.[2] Therefore, every movie shot on reversal film is a unique specimen, and its duplication is very difficult. Far from being an inconvenience, as the audience for home movies was relatively limited, i.e. family members, the single copy obtained through reversal film was still sufficient (and of a high enough quality) for domestic screenings. Beyond individual aesthetic preferences, small-gauge colour film stocks gained wider use in Italy during the 1950s and 1960s. At that time, the Italian amateur filmmakers that embraced colour constituted a small group of techno-enthusiasts. For them, colour was a significant improvement rather than a threat.

This article investigates the key role played by Italian amateur filmmakers in challenging and modernising the chromatic regime, by asking how was colour normalised in Italy? And what role did Italian amateur filmmakers play in this technological, aesthetic, cultural, and political transition? In order to answer these questions, this article will first trace the main stages and formal strategies adopted for the introduction of colour in different areas of the Italian culture industry: press, cinema and television. This brief overview will highlight the main theoretical and methodological issues related to the change from black-and-white to colour. The aim is to contextualise the various forms of circulation of colour images, in order to assess the familiarity of amateur filmmakers with them, and thus the relevance of small-gauge colour films in terms of a renewal of the chromatic regime. Second, it will analyse a corpus of Italian home movies in order to observe the timescale and stages of this stylistic transition and to identify some aesthetic patterns, connecting them with the coeval institutional production of still and moving images. I have traced the profile of the average Italian amateur filmmaker in the 1950s and 1960s through the analysis of a selection of private collections archived by Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, an Italian institution in Bologna dedicated to the preservation and valorisation of the Italian small-gauge film heritage. In order to reconstruct the context of production and the biographies of the amateur filmmakers I have conducted interviews with them, and in some cases with their relatives.

Considering that “Amateur activities […] neither emerged nor evolved in a visual, social or temporal vacuum”, as Heather Norris Nicholson suggests, this article will assess how Italian amateur filmmakers were fully engaged in their contemporary visual culture.[3] The circulation of the same chromatic solutions among different media, and between the institutional and the amateur sphere, testifies to the nature of colour as an authentic intermedial cultural system. As Joshua Yumibe and Sarah Street have stressed in their volume on the chromatic culture of the 1920s, every given colour media product (or corpora of colour media products) must be considered in relation to its surrounding visual culture.[4] Even apparently trivial products, such as colour home movies, can shed light on the transition to colour in the Italian media-scape, not as a singular and isolated event, but as a networked and multi-layered process, a process driven from below and still partially unexplored.

Colour and Black-and-White in the Italian Media Landscape

For newspapers, periodicals, and magazines, the main technological innovations date back to the turn of the century and are, above all, the application of photography to printing techniques (for the creation of the matrices; the main photo-mechanical reproduction techniques are photo-engraving, photo-calcography and photo-lithography) and the invention of the photographic screen to allow half-tones to be accurately printed.[5] These technological innovations triggered the production of colour magazines, with full page illustrations. However, the first occurrences of colour images in journalistic publications were not photographs but illustrations and paintings, reproduced with photomechanical techniques in large print runs. While advertising, with its bright applied colours and drawings, was predictably one of the first means for the diffusion of colour in magazines another important and widespread form of circulation was indeed represented by the reproduction of famous paintings for educational purposes. In the publishing industry – as in the broader media-scape beyond print media – the first aim was to find a balance between the highbrow (colour as an element that recalls the masterpieces of art history) and the lowbrow or vernacular (colour as purely decorative). In the art reproductions, natural colour is contained in an image that combines the handcraft and the mechanical reproduction, and thus becomes a transition step between handmade illustration and photography. This is a recurring compromise, one that can be found in periodicals of very different style, from the Sunday supplements of the main national newspapers (introduced in the late Nineteenth century) to the new weekly illustrated magazines produced after the Second World War. However, moving from general-interest publications to the more technology-oriented Ferrania – a house organ monthly magazine published from 1947 to 1967 by the eponymous company, which produced black-and-white and colour film stocks for amateurs and professionals – one can find the same form of pictorial mediation of natural colour. Contrary to what might be expected, even in Ferrania, which was at the cutting edge of technology and aesthetics, colour became the standard only by the mid-1950s, after a slow process of adaptation which resorted again to art and paintings (namely, with a column devoted to the Italian Old Masters, including tipped-in colour plates).[6]

In regard to news, both weekly publications such as Epoca or Tempo (the Italian equivalent of Life magazine) and newsreels (such as those produced by Istituto Luce), black-and-white is dominant well into the 1960s. According to a long-standing cultural convention, in fact, a-chromatic images evoke the feeling of a journalistic objectivity.[7] Even after the Second World War, newsreels remained black-and-white. The Settimana Incom, a weekly newsreel featuring current events and gossip, produced between 1946 and 1965, was usually in black-and-white, except for some special episodes. In the latter, colour was perfectly suitable for an “euphorisation of the representation”, as Augusto Sainati wrote, that is for creating an optimistic, sweetened image of Italian society, essentially for propagandistic aims.[8]

This applies to Arcobaleno italiano (Italian Rainbow), filmed in Ferraniacolor and released in 1952, coinciding with the highly successful movie Totò a colori directed by Steno (Stefano Vanzina), which was widely regarded as the first colour feature-length Italian film, also shot in Ferraniacolor. The newsreel Arcobaleno Italiano focuses on subjects and landscapes enhancing the pictorial qualities of the image, such as a picturesque village of Central Italy and a trompe l’œil painter (again, a subject connected to arts).

As for the Italian film industry, as it is often the case with technological change, the large-scale adoption of colour was advanced by popular films rather than arthouse productions.[9] In Italy, indeed, the theatrical production of colour films in the 1950s and 1960s was concerned with certain popular genres such as sword-and-sandal films, horror and comedy (like the already mentioned Totò a colori). On the other hand, established directors such as Federico Fellini or Michelangelo Antonioni embraced colour only in the mid-Sixties with Juliet of the Spirits (1965) and Red Desert (1964) respectively.

However, the use of colour was not pioneered by mass-market films, but by genres such as documentary and animation, especially in short form.[10] In the field of documentary, particularly between 1945 and 1955, hundreds of debut films and other titles were produced, especially with regard to the subgenres of tourism films, ethnographic or exotic films and documentaries on painters or sculptors. The rationale behind many of these productions was usually related to marketing, art appreciation or ethnography.

Another crucial element is television. It took twenty-three years for Italian public TV to embrace colour. The first programme in colour was aired on February 1st, 1977 (black-and-white programmes were airing in Italy since 1954).[11] This late transition became a hot button issue in Italy, considering that most technologically advanced countries reached this milestone at least a decade earlier.[12] This delay however, is due more to cultural than technological reasons, and it is generally considered a political issue motivated by biases and prejudices. Indeed, the intense economic development (the so-called “boom”) that affected Italy between the 1950s and the 1960s determined a tumultuous growth of private consumption of durables (cars, refrigerators). The manufacturing companies of television sets were experimenting from the 1960s, in cooperation with Rai (Radio Televisione Italiana, the national television broadcasting company), on the transmission of colour signals, and were pushing towards the adoption of this technology and the substitution of the old black-and-white TV sets with the new ones. The government, however, issued some measures in order to restrict individual expenses and encouraged public and social investments, because according to the main political parties and the labour unions colour TV sets were an unnecessary luxury in a country that was lacking the main social services.[13] Furthermore, the new colour commercials were considered dangerous in so far as they could have been too tempting, thus encouraging those expenses that the measures against consumerism wanted to restrict.[14] Ultimately then, the very same symbolic dichotomy – realism/phantasmagoria – accompanying the introduction of colour in other media applies to TV as well. As a matter of fact, in the Western world precise cultural meanings have been attributed to colour images; meanings that can be summarised in the double register of the authentic documentation, on the one hand, and of the fantastical on the other hand. Compared to black-and-white images – both still or moving – colour images seem closer to the “real thing”, “transparent”, and less mediated. Conversely, if compared to black-and-white images, they appear somehow “fictional”, artificial.[15]

This overview of the Italian publishing industry, of news and newsreels, commercial cinema and television allows us to individuate the circulation and the uses of natural colour between the 1930s and the 1960s, in a media environment still dominated by black-and-white images. It represents the context in which the Italian amateur filmmakers built their average ‘colour images literacy’ in the above-mentioned time-span. This literacy – especially for those, like amateurs, who make images without a professional background – is not built only on intentional and “self-aware” media consumption (e.g. the films watched in movie theatres), but also on all the accidental, distracted views of everyday situations: newsreels or documentaries screened before the films, printed magazines, televisual images. The work of Italian amateur filmmakers that I am going to analyse in the next section of this article draw fully, but with different degrees of awareness, from this iconographic repertoire.

Colour in Amateur Filmmaking Practices

Between the 1950s and the 1960s, in a country still stuck in its pre-industrial phase, even in the years of the economic “boom” (conventionally 1958-1963), amateur filmmakers represented an élite of people with an inquiring mind, who were irresistibly attracted by “the new” – especially by technological novelties. In order to analyse how the Italian amateur filmmakers use colour film stocks in their home movies, this article will first consider them as a collective and anonymous subject (on the basis of the sample mentioned in the introduction), and then proceed with a close analysis of individual case studies with their own names and identities, in order to highlight the heterogeneity and the complexity of the phenomenon.

According to the main scholarly works on the subject, the typical Italian amateur filmmaker in the 1950s and 1960s was a wealthy individual, who had a highly specialised technical job (there are numerous engineers; as for women, female amateurs usually are not housewives, but they have a job outside their homes).[16] Before devoting themselves to small-gauge cinema, almost all the amateurs surveyed for this research were also amateur photographers, for whom the possibility of recording movement was considered an improvement. They all shared the necessity to film in the right way and a negative judgement towards wrong images – like a chaotic or shaky tracking shot, backlit or blurred images – thus demonstrating a good average level of knowledge of the cinematic language. At the same time, there was a sort of spontaneous agreement about what makes a colour image good, as taught in the how-to literature on this topic. The good colour image should be shot with a correct camera aperture and and harmonious composition of the hues within the frame.[17] However, besides the single aesthetic results, what is worth noting is that there was a unanimous acceptance of colour images, which were considered better than black-and-white ones because they were perceived as “more modern”, regardless of any aesthetic and social implications.

For a male or female amateur filmmaker of the 1950s and 1960s, indeed, colour was already natural, because it was one of the emerging features of their visual present. Conversely, black-and-white was a visual quality of the cinematic forms of their past, in particular of the 1930s and the 1940s, the only period in which film images were for the majority achromatic (with no hand-colouring, toning, tinting or sepia, just a “pure” black-and-white). Using colour film stocks, these amateur filmmakers demonstrate the fact that they belong to a specific social and historical context, that of modernity.[18]

I will now focus on private collections of amateur films, in order to individuate the most common uses of colour images in home movies, as well as to understand which relationship these works establish with the coeval “institutional” media production and with the main strategies of assimilation of colour film technologies.

First of all, like in the majority of theatrical, mainstream films, in several amateur films colours are taken for granted because of their omnipresence.[19] They work as a sort of neutral background that nonetheless is often the subject of the image; everything is in colour, so colours are not seen and perceived as a relevant visual feature of these images. By way of example, one could mention the numerous films of landscapes, particularly of vacation spots, in which the amateur filmmakers film extreme-long and long shots – without any visible human subject – of coasts and slopes, that are enlivened by slow, controlled tracking movements. In these filmed fragments, especially compared to similar establishing tracking shots in black-and-white, the loss of depth of field is truly evident. In some moments, the camera almost seems to explore a two-dimensional backcloth barely ruffled, a papier-mâché bas-relief. In this way, the “realistic” use of natural colour is redirected towards an imaginary of oleographic, glossy landscapes that seem to have only a feeble connection with the reality they should record.

Extremely popular among the amateurs, this postcard-like use of colour film can be attributed to the aesthetic of those documentary short films mentioned above, unmercifully described by  Federico Pierotti as “a random juxtaposition of photographic postcards, ruled sometimes by poor taste, some other times by a flat, oleographic sensitivity”.[20] This definition can apply both to the colour documentaries and to the home movies of the same years. In fact, if we consider the home movies as an offspring from the family album, the metaphor of the postcard is even more appropriate. The tracking shots of sea or mountain landscapes that so often appear in the private home movie collections of those years are, as a matter of fact, precisely landscape photographs or postcards just slightly animated.

The correspondence between the Italian colour documentary of the post-war era and the home movies shot in colour concerns also the choice of subjects. The fountains in Rome, for example, constitute a real subgenre in itself (called “romano”) in the institutional documentary catalogues.[21] Water fountains are frequently filmed by amateurs, who also like to edit together all the sequences dedicated to the capital’s fountains. The postcard, furthermore, is not just a metaphor, but a literal insert in many films, especially in the subgenres of holiday or travel movies. A recurring visual solution is indeed represented by the insertion, at the beginning of the film, of the shot of a real postcard, or of the front cover of a travel guide, or of a page from an illustrated brochure. Usually this opening shot has, in the pro-filmic sense, writing that indicates the name of the place, which thus can work as the title of the film.

Figure 1: Pietro Tade’ collection, reel 3, 1958, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna

Figure 2: Mantovani collection, reel 7, 1959, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna

Figure 3: Mantovani collection, reel 7, 1959, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna

The pages of the travel guides or of museum catalogues, however, are not just used as opening shots, but are also shown in the middle of the films, as if they were “second hand” inserts that are intercut with the shots of the real “live” places, monuments and buildings visited. This use of still images is present in the collection of the engineer Carlo Fuzzi, which includes numerous didactic and educational documentaries (rather than holiday home movies). These are shot in many important archaeological sites, with the addition, in postproduction, of a voice-over commentary written and read by the amateur’s first wife, Laura, a graduate in literature and an archaeology enthusiast – the majority of their documentaries, indeed, open with the caption “Carlo and Laura Fuzzi present”. Some of their titles, entirely shot in colour, are: Volti d’Etruria (Etrurian Faces, reel 1), Viaggio magico (Magic Journey, reel 4, in the Sicilian former colonies of the Magna Grecia), Pompei (reel 7), Lecce Fiore Barocco (Lecce, Baroque Flower, reel 9), Le ville di Tivoli (Tivoli’s Villas, reel 10), all documenting journeys that the couple had carefully planned thanks to travel guides and historical volumes.[22]

Another subgenre of this collection – again in colour – consists of the development of a topic using famous paintings. Il banchetto (The Banquet, reel 5), for example, is a sort of pamphlet on the value of having dinner together at the table. The film shows paintings from various ages, all representing banquets and convivial scenes. Laura’s voice over, in the opening, recites “This journey through time and arts wants to be a protest against canned food and conventional, hurried meals…”

Figure 4: Carlo Fuzzi collection, reel 5, 196?, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna

Figure 5: Carlo Fuzzi collection, reel 5, 196?, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna

The same thematic principle is adopted for Le stagioni (Seasons, reel 22), in which the four seasons are presented using the masterpieces of the macchiaioli. The images of art masterpieces are often shot “live”, that is, “stolen” from museums and exhibitions, while in some other cases Fuzzi filmed (with many zooms in and out) the photographs of the paintings reproduced in catalogues and art history books.[23] Therefore, also in this case there is the mediation between the natural colour of the Kodachrome film and the applied, hand colouring of the works of art, a strategy similar to the one adopted by illustrated magazines, which negotiate the introduction of colour using photographs of works of art and tipped-in colour plates.

Together with the highbrow images of the art masterpieces, the other influences in the amateur films of the 1950s and the 1960s are drawings and illustrations taken from popular sources, such as children books, comics, animated films, posters, with a playful use of colour that reflects the many festive occasions and the colourful ceremonies that are represented in the home movies. In this respect, the amateur production of Emilio Grimaldi is truly representative of the most common strategies in the use of colour in amateur cinema. Emilio Grimaldi was of a military background – first an official, and then a colonel of the cavalry. Often combined with the making of photo albums, his 8mm cinematic production, both in black-and-white and in colour, spans intermittently twenty-five years, from the end of the 1930s to the first half of the 1960s. Amateur filmmaking practice for him constituted an ideal point of convergence of his many interests and, like Fuzzi, he pushed his practice towards “heretical” uses, different from the most common amateur productions. The images devoted to his family are sporadic, and they are just labelled as Casalingherie (Domestic Stuff) and stored a bit haphazardly as random, unedited fragments. The other films, however, really show an expert use of the camera and of colour, and thus make this collection emblematic.

Reel number 10, for example, is a film “on Martians”, dated 1960 and entirely shot in colour. In the years of the space frenzy (the opening caption reads “February of the Earth year MCMLX”) Grimaldi invents the peculiar figure of a yellow Martian, very similar to a chicken, with a beak and a pointy crest, that is going to attack the Earth – or more precisely Pinerolo, the small village in which Grimaldi lives. The opening of the film shows a painted backcloth that depicts the sidereal space, the extra-terrestrial planet and the chicken-alien, a hand animated cardboard cut-out that, with its giant telescope, individuates its target.

Figure 6: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

Figure 7: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

Figure 8: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

 

Figure 9: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

Figure 10: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

Figure 11: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

Figure 12: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

The attack scene is made by live action shots in which, to the aid of the terrified inhabitants of Pinerolo, rushes no less than the cavalry! Colonel Grimaldi takes advantage of his role in order to ensure the presence of some trucks and army tanks, obtaining a truly spectacular effect (as in many war movies, the camera at some point shoots from below, thus making the vehicles look even more majestic).

Figure 13: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

Figure 14: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

And then, at the climax, as if we were waking up from a nightmare, the caption “It’s Carnival!” appears, and the film goes on documenting a parade of carnival floats, one of which is a spaceship full of chicken-Martians.

Figure 15: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

Figure 16: Emilio Grimaldi collection, reel 10, 1960, 8mm. Courtesy Home Movies – Archivio Nazionale del Film di Famiglia, Bologna.

The film, therefore, is a sort of second-degree narration, inserted over a pre-existing staging activity in which the amateur filmmaker participated (that is, the design of the float and of the Martians’ costumes for the Carnival parade). Even though this cannot be considered an animated film (the drawings are part of the pro-filmic, and there is no stop motion animation), the transition from a hand-painted image (usually painted by the amateur filmmaker) and its “embodiment” in a live shot is not just the synthesis of the poetic personality of Grimaldi, but more broadly another form of mediation, frequent in small-gauge cinema, between applied, artificial colour (usually used for titles and captions) and natural/photographic colour.

Emilio Grimaldi, Carlo Fuzzi (a painting, music and archaeology buff) and the other amateur filmmakers I encountered were, often unconsciously, the true evangelists or, at least, ambassadors of colour. They, indeed, were also spectators, as outlined by Valérie Vignaux and Benoît Turquety in a recent study on amateur cinema.[24] The amateurs filmmakers’ media literacy is not just built through theatrical screenings, but above all through other forms of image consumption, maybe less organised and more often “accidental”.[25] The chromatic solutions adopted, in particular, recall more or less consciously the forms of circulation of colour in many popular and lowbrow media products, such as documentaries, colour newsreels, illustrated magazines. The analysis of the way in which colour is used in the home movies demonstrates that the model is not represented by institutional cinema, but by other kinds of images, other stages, forms and histories of the images, attributable to a longstanding tradition of popular art forms (or to popular forms of diversion from the “main” artistic production).

As Richard Misek writes, “Cinema’s transition to color was the sum of innumerable transitions to color […], a transition that […] remains perpetually incomplete.”[26] According to Misek, the transition to colour is actually a “network of transitions”.[27] This is especially true for the Italian media context, where the transition to colour remains perpetually incomplete and configures itself as a layered network of transitions. A crucial layer of this network is constituted by the anonymous mass of amateurs, a small army of pioneers, who were very important to the social diffusion of mechanically reproduced colour in moving images.

To conclude, approaching the transition to colour in the Italian media-scape through amateur cinema may be productive, more generally, in order to conceive colour as an authentic intermedial cultural system, circulating not only “on the surface”, in the institutional, theatrical, state-run media, but also and especially in an underground way, in the most overlooked and apparently uninteresting areas of iconic production, where intermediality is particularly emphasised.

*Translated from the Italian by Chiara Grizzaffi. A special thanks to Matteo Bittanti for his final reading

Notes

[1] Neil Harris, Cultural Excursions: Marketing Appetites and Cultural Tastes in Modern America (Chicago-London: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 9.

[2] On the main principles of the subtractive system and on monopack technology see Steve Neale, Cinema and Technology: Image, Sound, Colour (London: Basingstoke-Macmillan Education, 1985), 110-111 and Leo Enticknap, Moving Image Technology: From Zoetrope to Digital (London-New York: Wallflower Press, 2005).

[3] Heather Norris Nicholson, Amateur Film. Meaning and Practice 1927–77 (Manchester-New York: Manchester University Press, 2012), 18. The recent scholarship on amateur cinema includes Laura Rascaroli and Gwenda Young with Barry Monahan, eds, Amateur Filmmaking. The Home Movie, the Archive, the Web (New York-London: Bloomsbury 2014); Ryan Shand and Ian Craven, eds, Small-Gauge Storytelling. Discovering the Amateur Fiction Film (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press: 2013); Charles Tepperman, Amateur Cinema. The Rise of North American Moviemaking, 1923-1950 (Oakland: University of California Press, 2015); Susan Aasman, Andreas Fickers and Joseph Wachelder, eds, Materializing Memories. Dispositifs, Generations, Amateurs (New York-London: Bloomsbury 2018); Annamaria Motrescu-Mayes and Heather Norris Nicholson, British Women Amateur Filmmakers. National Memories and Global Identities (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press: 2018); Annamaria Motrescu-Mayes and Susan Aasman, Amateur Media and Participatory Cultures. Film, Video, and Digital Media (London-New York: Routledge 2019). On the relationship between amateur and institutional film practices see in particular Masha Salazkina and Enrique Fibla-Gutiérrez, eds, “Towards a Global History of Amateur Film Practices and Institutions,” Film History: An International Journal, Vol. 30, no. 1 (Spring 2018). See also Masha Salazkina and Enrique Fibla-Gutiérrez’ forthcoming edited collection Global Perspectives on Amateur Film. Histories and Cultures (Bloomington: Indiana University Press).

[4] Sarah Street, Joshua Yumibe, Chromatic Modernity. Color, Cinema, and Media of the 1920s (New York: Columbia University Press, 2019), 5.

[5] Arturo C. Quintavalle, ed., La bella addormentata. Morfologia e struttura del settimanale italiano (Parma: Università di Parma-Ist. Di Storia dell’Arte, 1972); Paola Pallottino, Storia dell’illustrazione italiana. Libri e periodici a figura dal XV al XX secolo (Zanichelli: Bologna, 1988); Fausto Colombo, ed., Libri giornali e riviste a Milano. Storia delle innovazioni nell’editoria milanese dall’Ottocento ad oggi (Milan: Abitare Segesta, 1998).

[6] It is possible to see the transition from black-and-white to colour of the Ferrania cover images at the following website, http://www.fondazione3m.it/page_rivistaferrania.php (last accessed April 22, 2020), in which there are the covers of some issues of the monthly magazine, along with the table of content.

[7] Thierry Gervais and Gaëlle Morel, The Making of Visual News: A History of Photography in the Press (London: Bloomsbury, 2017). On colour in the news press see Kim Timby, “Look at those Lollipops! Integrating Color into News Pictures,” in Jason E. Hill and Vanessa R. Schwartz, eds, Getting the Picture: The Visual Culture of the News (London-New York: Bloomsbury, 2015), 236-243. On the use of colour images in Life see Melissa Renn, “Life in Color: Life Magazine and the Color Reproduction of Works of Art,” in Regina L. Blaszczyk, Uwe Spiekermann, eds, Bright Modernity. Color, Commerce, and Consumer Culture (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017), 167-188.

[8] Augusto Sainati, “Stile e formato dell’informazione Incom,” in Augusto Sainati, ed., La Settimana Incom. Cinegiornali e informazione negli anni ’50 (Torino: Lindau, 2000), 32.

[9] On Italian cinema and colour, see Federico Pierotti, Un’archeologia del colore nel cinema italiano. Dal Technicolor ad Antonioni (Pisa: ETS, 2016).

[10] Orsola Silvestrini, “Il colore (non) viene dall’America. Documentari e film di animazione a colori in Italia (1935-1952),” in Alice Autelitano, Veronica Innocenti, Valentina Re, eds, I cinque sensi del cinema (Udine: Forum, 2005), 213. For the data and the analysis of the production of colour films in Italy see also Federico Pierotti, “Dalle invenzioni ai film. Il cinema italiano alla prova del colore (1930-59),” in Sandro Bernardi, ed., Svolte tecnologiche nel cinema italiano (Rome: Carocci, 2006), 85-139 and Orsola Silvestrini, “Tu vuò fà l’americano. La couleur dans le cinéma populaire italien,” 1895. Mille huit cent quatre-vingt-quinze 55 (juin 2008): 25-51.

[11] Aldo Grasso, Storia critica della televisione italiana 1954-1979 (Milan: Il Saggiatore, 2019).

[12] In 1954 – the first black-and-white programmes were broadcast in Italy – and the United States launched the first colour broadcasting with the NTSC (National Television System Committee) system. At first, the system did not work properly, and the acronym was sarcastically transformed in Never Twice Same Color, due to the chromatic instability. On the transition to colour in the US television system see Susan Murray, Bright Signals: A History of Color Television (Durham-London: Duke University Press, 2018). On Italian television’s transition to colour see Gloria Gabrielli, “L’introduzione della televisione a colori in Italia 1962-1977,” in Piero Melograni, ed., La paura della modernità. Opposizioni e resistenze allo sviluppo industriale (Rome: Cedis, 1987), 68-90, and Paola Valentini, “Società a colori: la televisione italiana e il passaggio al colore,” in Maurizio Rossi and Andrea Siniscalco, eds, Colore e colorimetria. Contributi multidisciplinari, Vol. IX A (Santarcangelo di Romagna (RN): Maggioli, 2013), 856-863.

[13] Peppino Ortoleva, Un ventennio a colori. Televisione privata e società in Italia, 1975-95 (Florence: Giunti, 1995); Giandomenico Crapis, Il frigorifero del cervello. Il Pci e la televisione da “Lascia o raddoppia?” alla battaglia contro gli spot (Rome: Editori Riuniti, 2002).

[14] The debate on the use of colour was also accompanied by the battle over the standards, that is a conflict between two different systems for the transmission of the signal, both technologically advanced: the German PAL (Phase Alternation Line) and the French SECAM (Séquentiel Couleur à Mémoire). Obviously, the choice also implied a precise political position: choosing one system or the other meant to stipulate political alliances with one of the two nations involved, see Andreas Fickers, “The Techno-politics of Colour: Britain and the European Struggle for a Colour Television Standard,” Journal of British Cinema & Television VII, n. 1 (April 2010): 95-114.

[15] About the cultural meaning of colour in Western countries, see the works of Michel Pastoureau, like Dictionnaire des couleurs de notre temps. Symbolique et société (Paris: Bonneton, 1992). On the “fear of colour” in art history, see David Batchelor, Chromophobia (London: Reaktion, 2000).

[16] On amateur cinema in Italy see Luisella Farinotti and Elena Mosconi, eds, “Il metodo e la passione. Cinema amatoriale e film di famiglia in Italia,” Comunicazioni sociali 3 (2005); Alice Cati, Pellicole di ricordi. Film di famiglia e memorie private (1926-1942) (Milan: Vita e Pensiero, 2009). On Italian female amateur filmmakers, see Sara Filippelli, Le donne e gli home movies. Il cinema di famiglia come scrittura del sé (Pisa: ETS, 2015).

[17] I analysed the how-to literature on amateur colour cinema in Elena Gipponi, “Fireworks and Carnivals: Applied and Natural Colours in Italian Home Movies,” in Giovanna Fossati et al., eds, The Colour Fantastic: Chromatic Worlds of Silent Cinema (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2018), 33-50.

[18] This work’s use of the term “modernity” refers to the process of consolidation of the cultural industry that occurred in Italy between the 1930s and the 1970s: creation of a truly mass audience, supremacy of the image over the word in all forms of communication, importation – mainly from the USA – of a large part of the cultural products. In particular, in the five years of the economic boom, modernity in Italy experienced a significant acceleration: at the turn between the 1950s and the 1960s there was a real modernisation within modernisation, David Forgacs, Italian Culture in the Industrial Era 1880-1980. Cultural Industries, Politics and the Public (Manchester-New York: Manchester University Press, 1990).

[19] The most part of the amateur filmmakers that I interviewed, when asked about the reasons why they chose colour instead of black-and-white for their home movies, answered that, since colour films were available, they “obviously” bought colour films, abandoning black-and-white (but not for photography, photographs were still shot preferably in black-and-white: “I liked it better”, is a recurring declaration).

[20] Federico Pierotti, “Il catalogo è questo. Fonti per la storia del documentario a colori in Italia nel secondo dopoguerra.” in Alice Autelitano and Valentina Re, eds, Il racconto del film / Narrating the Film (Udine: Forum, 2006), 61-62.

[21] Ivi, 62.

[22] The notation of the reels is the one adopted by Home Movies to catalogue the archival fund.

[23] This technique, that is “the shooting of a monument or of a landscape, […] filmed literally through photographs and postcards” is a recurring one in colour short documentaries, thus demonstrating once more the mediocrity and the limited economic resources of these “professional” productions. Analogously, the “four seasons” is another frequent subject of the Italian colour documentary of the 1950s, Ibid.

[24] “The amateur filmmaker is a concretely active spectator, a spectator who thinks of him/herself as a producer and becomes a producer, while also remaining a spectator. Without any doubt, he/she still likes to watch films in a dark screening room, but for him/her, cinema doesn’t end in that room. The cinematic screening is just one of the possible forms of cinema as a dispositif, is one of the nodes of a network of instruments and practices that contain cinema into a more extended concrete and imaginary totality” [my translation], Valérie Vignaux and Benoît Turquety, eds, L’amateur en cinéma. Un autre paradigme. Histoire, esthétique, marges et institutions (Paris: AFRHC, 2016), 17.

[25] Curiously, the institutional cinema with its genres is the acknowledged reference for the production of black-and-white amateur fiction films. By way of example, in the works of Ignazio De Falco (consulted thanks to a personal contact, since they are not archived at Home Movies) there is an unrefined fiction film, one of the few black-and-white works in a 8mm collection that otherwise is almost entirely constituted of colour films. The film is called Winston 7 ricevuto, is dated 1957 and is a crime/noir with a basic detection plot. The choice of black-and-white film is intentional, and it is compliant with a precise expressive strategy: “Giallo can only be shot in black and white”, the author himself has declared.

[26] Richard Misek, Chromatic Cinema. A History of Screen Color (Malden, MA-Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 83-84. On cinema and colour, see also the two volumes by Jacques Aumont, Introduction à la couleur: des discours aux images (Paris: Armand Colin, 1994), and Jacques Aumont, ed., La couleur en cinéma (Paris-Milan: Cinémathèque française/Musée du cinéma/Fondazione Mazzotta, 1995).

[27] Ivi, 84.

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Gabrielli, Gloria. “L’introduzione della televisione a colori in Italia 1962-1977.” In Melograni, Piero, ed. La paura della modernità. Opposizioni e resistenze allo sviluppo industriale. Rome: Cedis, 1987.

Gervais, Thierry and Gaëlle Morel. The Making of Visual News: A History of Photography in the Press. London: Bloomsbury, 2017.

Gipponi, Elena. “Fireworks and Carnivals: Applied and Natural Colours in Italian Home Movies.” In Fossati, Giovanna et al., eds. The Colour Fantastic: Chromatic Worlds of Silent Cinema. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2018.

Grasso, Aldo. Storia critica della televisione italiana 1954-1979. Milan: Il Saggiatore, 2019.

Harris, Neil. Cultural Excursions: Marketing Appetites and Cultural Tastes in Modern America. Chicago-London: University of Chicago Press, 1990.

Misek, Richard. Chromatic Cinema. A History of Screen Color. Malden, MA-Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010.

Motrescu-Mayes, Annamaria and Heather Norris Nicholson. British Women Amateur Filmmakers. National Memories and Global Identities. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press: 2018.

Motrescu-Mayes, Annamaria and Susan Aasman. Amateur Media and Participatory Cultures. Film, Video, and Digital Media. London-New York: Routledge 2019.

Murray, Susan. Bright Signals: A History of Color Television. Durham-London: Duke University Press, 2018.

Neale, Steve. Cinema and Technology: Image, Sound, Color. London: Basingstoke-Macmillan Education, 1985.

Norris Nicholson, Heather. Amateur Film. Meaning and Practice 1927–77. Manchester-New York: Manchester University Press, 2012.

Ortoleva, Peppino. Un ventennio a colori. Televisione privata e società in Italia, 1975-95. Florence: Giunti, 1995.

Pallottino, Paola. Storia dell’illustrazione italiana. Libri e periodici a figura dal XV al XX secolo. Zanichelli: Bologna, 1988.

Pastoureau, Michel. Dictionnaire des couleurs de notre temps. Symbolique et société. Paris: Bonneton, 1992.

Pierotti, Federico. “Dalle invenzioni ai film. Il cinema italiano alla prova del colore (1930-59).” In Bernardi, Sandro, ed. Svolte tecnologiche nel cinema italiano. Rome: Carocci, 2006.

Pierotti, Federico. “Il catalogo è questo. Fonti per la storia del documentario a colori in Italia nel secondo dopoguerra.” In Autelitano, Alice and Valentina Re, eds. Il racconto del film / Narrating the Film. Udine: Forum, 2006.

Pierotti, Federico. Un’archeologia del colore nel cinema italiano. Dal Technicolor ad Antonioni. Pisa: ETS, 2016.

Quintavalle, Arturo C., ed. La bella addormentata. Morfologia e struttura del settimanale italiano. Parma: Università di Parma-Ist. Di Storia dell’Arte, 1972.

Rascaroli, Laura and Gwenda Young with Barry Monahan, eds. Amateur Filmmaking. The Home Movie, the Archive, the Web. New York-London: Bloomsbury 2014.

Renn, Melissa. “Life in Color: Life Magazine and the Color Reproduction of Works of Art.” In Blaszczyk, Regina L. and Uwe Spiekermann, eds. Bright Modernity. Color, Commerce, and Consumer Culture. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017.

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Silvestrini, Orsola. “Il colore (non) viene dall’America. Documentari e film di animazione a colori in Italia (1935-1952).” In Autelitano, Alice, Veronica Innocenti, Valentina Re, eds. I cinque sensi del cinema. Udine: Forum, 2005.

Silvestrini, Orsola. “Tu vuò fà l’americano. La couleur dans le cinéma populaire italien.” 1895. Mille huit cent quatre-vingt-quinze 55 (juin 2008): 25-51.

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Timby, Kim. “Look at those Lollipops! Integrating Color into News Pictures.” In Hill, Jason E. and Vanessa R. Schwartz, eds. Getting the Picture: The Visual Culture of the News. London-New York: Bloomsbury, 2015.

Valentini, Paola. “Società a colori: la televisione italiana e il passaggio al colore.” In Rossi, Maurizio and Andrea Siniscalco, eds. Colore e colorimetria. Contributi multidisciplinari, Vol. IX A. Santarcangelo di Romagna (RN): Maggioli, 2013.

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About the Author
Elena Gipponi
is a postdoctoral fellow at IULM University of Milan, where she received her PhD in “Communication and New Technologies”. Since 2008, she collaborates to IULM’s courses of History of Cinema. She has edited with Joshua Yumibe “Cinema and Mid-Century Colour Culture”, a special issue of Cinéma & Cie. International Film Studies Journal (n. 32, Spring 2019). Her first book, Una rivoluzione inavvertita. Dal bianco e nero al colore nello scenario mediale della modernità italiana, has been published in Italy by Mimesis (2020).

Letter from the Editors

DOI 10.15664/fcj.v0i17.2079

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Issue 17 of Frames Cinema Journal ‘The Politics of Colour Media’, guest-edited by Dr Kirsty Sinclair Dootson.

This issue responds to the exciting and rapidly blooming field of chromatic scholarship in film, screen, and media studies – specifically, the study of colour as a technology, material, and apparatus.

The advents and evolutions of colour technologies across the globe each have complex histories that have been shaped by and are telling of their specific industrial, social, political, cultural, and ideological negotiations. It is the importance of these, and other, intersections that drove the creation of this issue. By exploring the power of colour beyond its aesthetic realm, we wanted to spotlight how colour technologies are revealing of critical forces and hierarchies that have been key not only to the development of cinema, film, and other media technologies, but to their respective national, international, and social histories.

Indeed, philosophical inquiries on the presence, use, and composition of colour in film have made significant contributions to the world of screen studies, and within the broader discourses of identity, race, gender, sexuality etc. However, with this issue we wanted to shift the conversation’s attention away from reading colour-as-symbol or colour-as-representation and focus on colour-as-apparatus.

We are pleased to announce that this issue is packed with a dazzling array of examinations of colour technologies from a variety of viewpoints and contexts. Each piece questions, challenges, and revises a different example of colour application in film and cinema, thus offering fresh and unique contributions to this developing field.

Our Features section’s articles explore divergent uses of colour in different levels of mid-century filmmaking in Europe. Sarah Street explores how the medium of film critiqued and satirised the phenomenon of advertising in Britain in the 1960s, by examining the politicised use of colour in Don Levy’s Herostratus (1967) and Peter Watkins’ Privilege (1967). Elena Gipponi calls attention to the early adoption of colour film in the work of amateur filmmakers in Italy during the 1950s and ‘60s, to investigate their role in the country’s transition from black-and-white to colour media.

Both articles in our POV section consider how camera technology implicates the materiality, currency, and visual representation of the human body, via its capturing and reading of colour. Lida Zeitlin Wu reflects on her visit to the Color Factory pop-up exhibition in Houston, Texas, to offer thought-provoking realisations about the digitally mediated infrastructure of such spaces – mainly the commodification and quantification of the physical self through algorithmic colour. As an international cinematographer, Yu-Lun Sung provides professional insight on the technical and aesthetic decisions contemporary cinematographers make with regards to light when working with actors of different skin tones, specifically Asian ethnicities, using Columbus (Kogonada, 2017), Crazy Rich Asians (Chu, 2018), and The Farewell (Wang, 2019) as examples.

Our Film Featurette section is abundant with a diversity of work, each investigating undermentioned films in screen scholarship. Lucia Szemetova discusses the political commentary of the drab colour palette employed in Nimród Antal’s Kontroll (2003), to argue that the film’s vision of Hungary recalls aesthetics linked to the country’s Cold War past despite its new capitalist present. Tamara Tasevska places Claire Denis’ use of intensified, fluorescent hues, and digital colour in High Life (2018) in dialogue with critical, but divergent, approaches to colour by Gilles Deleuze and Olafur Eliasson, to argue for the philosophical inquiries they prompt. Louisa Wei reflects on her experience of making the documentary film Havana Divas (2018), by ruminating on how the chromatic decisions deployed in the film were inspired by the Chino-Cubano histories and cultures being investigated.

Paul Frith and Keith M. Johnston’s video essay for this issue examines the advent of the Eastmancolour in Britain. Through a series of interviews with a variety of professionals in the British film industry, it discusses the creative and technological agency that chromogenic monopack offered British filmmakers and creatives at the time, and more.

Our Book Review section features reviews of Ewa Mazierska’s Poland Daily: Economy, Work, Consumption and Social Class in Polish Cinema (2017), Sheila Skaff’s Studying Ida (2018), Hunter Vaughan’s Hollywood’s Dirtiest Secret: The Hidden Environmental Costs of the Movies (2019), Catherine Russell’s Archiveology: Walter Benjamin and Archival Film Practices (2018), Mallory O’Meara’s The Lady from the Black Lagoon: Hollywood Monsters and the Lost Legacy of Milicent Patrick (2019), and Sarah Street and Joshua Yumibe’s Modernity: Color, Cinema, and Media of the 1920s (2019), along with the edited collections Prostitution and Sex Work in Global Cinema: New Takes on Fallen Women (2017), Thai Cinema: The Complete Guide (2018), and The Colour Fantastic: Chromatic Worlds of Silent Cinema (2018).

With this issue, we are delighted to also be publishing the dossier ‘Preserving and Restoring Asian Cinema: The Transnational Dimension’, curated by Dina Iordanova. With this dossier, Iordanova wishes to draw attention to the important restoration work being done in Asian film archives – that has, at its essence, a transnational scope and reach – as well as highlight the importance of Asian archives to academic scholarship on the subject. The dossier comprises a preface written by Iordanova; articles by Sanchai Chotirosseranee, Deputy Director of the Film Archive (Public Organization), Thailand, and Karen Chan, Executive Director of the Asian Film Archive (AFA), Singapore; and interviews with Bede Cheng, Managing Director at L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia, by Andrea Gelardi, and Nick Deocampo, Associate Professor at the Film Institute, University of the Philippines, by Anushrut Ramakrishnan Agrwaal.

Happy reading!
Ana Maria Sapountzi and Peize Li
Co-Editors-in-Chief

* This letter’s thumbnail image is a film still from Herostratus (Don Levy, 1967), featured and discussed in Sarah Street’s article ‘Colour and the Critique of Advertising: Privilege (Peter Watkins, 1967) and Herostratus (Don Levy, 1967)’

** The issue’s banner image is a coloured black-and-white photograph featured in Louisa Wei’s article ‘The Memory of Colour: Havana Divas, Cantonese Opera’. Courtesy of Blue Queen Cultural Communication Ltd.

The Politics of Post-Socialist Colour in Nimród Antal’s Kontroll (2003)

DOI 10.15664/fcj.v0i17.2080

Kontroll (2003), Nimród Antal’s directorial debut, is mostly known for its iconic location as it is set entirely in the Budapest metro system. In this gritty (fictional) environment, the film follows the fate of the cast-out Bulcsú (Sándor Csányi) who, escaping from his past, has resigned himself to a life underground. During the day he works as a ticket inspector, and at night he wanders the alienating labyrinth of Budapest’s metro system. The film thematises systematised control and power structures inherited from the socialist past. It relocates them in a subterranean reality where individuals struggle to take command of their lives.

Although the director denies the political implications of his work, Kontroll is commonly assessed in the context of local identity politics.[1] The film was released in 2003, a year before Hungary’s “return to Europe”, when the country’s status would be determined in relation to the West. The EU accession re-opened the country’s scepticism towards Western influences and highlighted disappointments brought on by the system change. However, it offered the country a chance to leave behind its socialist past. Whether consciously or not, while these concerns have been recognised in the film’s narrative, they appear to have been overlooked in its aesthetics – specifically, its colour palette.

This case study discusses the legacy of Cold War colour constructions and competition over colour cinema that determine the chromatic meanings in this film, lying at the intersection of history, politics, and identity. The provided analysis of the subversive use of colour in Kontroll hopes to illustrate a complex picture of self-representation in a crucial post-socialist moment.

The film’s plot revolves around Bulcsú’s miserable life underground; full of humiliating challenges and comical situations. Together with his team of misfits, he spends his days arguing with freeloaders, competing with rival colleagues, or chasing a young boy who plays tricks on them. Lacking any respect, these ticket inspectors are ridiculed, tricked, even beaten up daily, yet they take it with a sense of humour. In this oppressive reality, the only comfort for Bulcsú is a quirky passenger in a bear costume, Szofi (Eszter Balla), with whom he falls in love. Meanwhile, the metro system’s image is facing a distressing threat as a rising number of passengers end up under the trains, for which the uncompromising bosses hold the ticket inspectors accountable. These apparent suicides are in fact murders, perpetrated by a mysterious hooded figure, who alarmingly resembles Bulcsú. The serial killer’s motives and his existence remain ambiguous, leaving the audience to decide whether he is Bulcsú’s alter ego or the embodiment of all the imagined evil roaming the dark underground. It is only after this unknown perpetrator’s defeat that Bulcsú is finally able to ascend above ground, with the hope for a new life with Szofi.

Although Kontroll was marketed as a universal story between good and evil, it is the film’s deliberately exaggerated representation of a post-socialist experience that has attracted critical attention.[2] As György Kalmár argues, the film thematises the confusion in Hungary after the collapse of the totalitarian communist regime.[3] Through addressing issues of inferiority complexes, and coming to terms with both the past and a possible new future, the film reflects on the post-colonial struggles of this former Eastern Bloc country. Kalmár refers to the double colonisation of Hungary – from the Soviet Union and then the capitalist West – where the latter strongly influenced the post-socialist countries’ European integration. Deriving from a Eurocentric discourse, a term introduced by Ella Shohat and Robert Stam, the former Eastern Bloc countries were still considered as underdeveloped and separate from the leading West.[4] Post-socialist films that thematise this East-West division and these issues of self-presentation for so-called periphery states such as Hungary, are thus often analysed in a post-colonial mode.[5]

A dominant practice in this region is the self-colonising imagination, which according to Alexander Kiossev “emerged as a spin-off in the process of Euro-colonial hegemony” – in this case referring to the West’s epistemological domination during and after the Cold War.[6] The self-colonising or self-exoticising mode mimics the discursive power of an external observer. It relies on Western models to reproduce the common stereotypes with irony, resulting in a parodical self-image. Thus, deploying this common representational method in Hungarian post-socialist cinema, Antal presents an Eastern space through a Western gaze by relying on stereotypes of backwardness and oppression, where characters strive to escape from their unliveable circumstances.[7] Kontroll uses Western genres and narrative tropes, as it blends dark comedy together with the conventions of a crime thriller to overturn stereotypical associations with the East.

Recent scholarship on colour cinema stresses the necessity of chromatic aesthetics and technology not only as fundamental aspects of mise-en-scène but as important signifiers of a film’s ideology and politics.[8] The drab colour palette, which determines Kontroll’s overall mysterious atmosphere, was previously associated with the Soviet colour film process, as well as with the whole region of the Eastern bloc as envisioned by the West. The stereotypical greyness of the Eastern bloc was a product of the Western imagination related to its material and political landscape. As Krisztina Fehérváry observes, the brutalist concrete-based architecture of the Eastern bloc led to a standard Western view that life behind the Iron Curtain was colourless and claustrophobic.[9] This concrete-like grey became shorthand for oppression, poverty, and depression, whereas colour signified the pleasures of capitalist consumption.[10] In reality, however, the well-known housing estates were seldom grey and colour was abundant in the commercial sphere.[11] Thus, often the grey-East association speaks of a Cold War construction or a nostalgic memory rather than a reflection of the presence of colour in everyday life under socialism.[12] The colour grey’s nuanced meanings, when used internally, can also signal that the colourful capitalist victory simply did not happen. Not surprisingly, post-socialism is often defined as a “grey zone”, where grey does not stand for colourlessness but for ambiguity, uncertainty, and polarity, breaking away from previous unproductive East-West dichotomies.[13] This in-between zone is neither in the oppressed past nor in the idealised future, and is filled with disappointment and confusion. Kontroll reflects on this moment of post-transition by establishing conventional colour binaries in order to challenge them, thereby showing the futility of such an approach.

These conventions were also established on the screen as post-war cinema’s advances turned into a matter of competition between different countries and ideologies that politicised colour.[14] In the 1940s the American firm Technicolor dominated the film market, a colour film process connoting bright, high-key lighting and saturated colour aesthetics. Technicolor offered a high degree of colour standardisation and rapidly became a brand associated with quality and consistency suitable for mass production. Its primary European competitor with sufficient capital and diffusion was the Agfacolor process developed by the German company I.G. Farben based in Wolfen.[15] Although Agfacolor was a cheaper and relatively simple process, due to exposure issues its aesthetic benchmark was muted and pastel as opposed to Technicolor’s intensity.[16] In 1945 the company in Wolfen was seized by Western forces taking hold of its technological foundations and consequently, its remains were relocated to the Soviet Occupation Zone.[17] Thus, Agfacolor in Dudley Andrew’s terms, was “typed as a ‘socialist’ method”, despite the fact that it continued to thrive in the post-war world with patents taken by American, European, and Japanese interests, in addition to its Soviet successors.[18] The latter developed the Sovcolor process, whose stereotypical desaturated look can be traced back to Agfacolor film stock’s limitations in colour registration. Meanwhile, the Eastman Kodak Company, Agfa’s rival since the 1930s, also released its chromogenic stock onto the market in this post-war period.[19] The Eastmancolor process prevalent from the 1960s was known for the quality of its vibrant colour reproduction. This binary between the two processes became a trope influenced by political agendas, where as Andrew suggests, Eastmancolor was coded as a product of “American domination”, while Sovcolor presented both an economic and aesthetic distaste for capitalist gaudiness.[20] As Michelle Beutler points out, however, aesthetic standardisation was often “independent of the technological potentials” of these processes as issues of compatibility, quality, and institutional control played a more decisive role.[21] According to official narratives, Eastern Bloc countries only used socialist stocks, yet they often imported American stocks as the economic needs for participation in global cinema markets meant privileging quality over political conflicts.[22] The fact that Eastern bloc countries’ films are still considered colourless further shows how official narratives did not mirror the reality of colour reproduction on the screen.[23]

In a self-colonising mode, Kontroll relies uniformly on a washed-out colour palette to challenge the stereotypical associations of representing an Eastern space through what David Crowley and Susan E. Reid call “the gray tinted glasses of Cold War”.[24] The film confronts the assumption that the drab era of socialism is in the past, and that a new, brightly coloured capitalist present is immanent by locating the perceived “Eastern look” in the disorienting capitalist present. By relying on colours discursively coded as socialist the film shows how Cold War politics of hierarchy continue to the present.

The clichéd Eastern drabness lends itself to the film being shot entirely on location in the Budapest metro system built in the 1970s, a landmark of socialist modernist architecture. Influenced by space travel and modern technology, the metro’s steel grey topography resembles an allegorical dystopia of a non-organic labyrinth. As Kalmár observes, the metro is made of concrete, stone, metal, and glass materials that all evoke coldness and rigidity and constructs a distinctly Eastern space.[25]

Already the opening sequence’s palette is symptomatic of the aesthetics of the film as a whole. In the first shot, as we follow a drunk woman (Enikő Eszenyi) going down the escalators to the dark void, the monolithic style of the metro appears unwelcoming. The mise-en-scène fails to make the underground a familiar and pleasant place; there are no colourful advertisements, no music, no shops or cafés. It is a desolate place. The metro setting should be the epitome of movement, but instead, it stagnates as unpleasant, dirty, and most importantly, an unsafe territory. As we follow the woman stumbling on the platform, there are hints of red in the background as part of the set, such as red bins, seats, handrails, advertisement and lights, which provide a visual contrast to the darkness. In these compositions devoid of colour, the red comes across as overtly saturated and striking creating a sense of unease. Red’s connotation of danger and death, being the colour of blood, is often used in slasher films to invoke fear and repulsion in the audience.[26] The presence of red strengthens the thriller narrative in the film but also suggests the continuing legacy of the communist past.[27] As the lonely passenger anxiously waits, the lights suddenly go off and she is pushed under the passing train leaving behind only her red shoe. Thus, this opening scene assists with establishing the stereotype that Eastern spaces are unliveable, and where individuals are under constant threat. Whereas the political system change was supposed to bring progress, the film presents the contemporary world as decaying and unnatural. The film’s concrete-like reality with splashes of red, thus, problematises the idealistic representation of Western integration as an escape from oppressing socialism.

The use of cold, flat lighting positioned far away from the subjects and the narrow depth of field in the film further emphasises this menacing ambiance. After the mysterious crime committed by an unknown killer, we next see Bulcsú waking up on the platform as neon lights glare up above him. As we observe his daily routine he appears to get lost in this bleakness. The muted colour palette, with harsh artificial lights, thus mirrors the dullness and dreariness of Bulcsú’s everyday life wasted underground as an inspector. He is unable to leave. Even during the night he cruises the grey brutalist underworld as a lonely figure on an inner quest.[28] As opposed to the flat lighting during daytime, the use of low-key lighting at night transforms the familiar platforms and tracks into ominous, shadowy prisons. The contrasting lighting, a technique that is used often for science fiction, horror, or mystery thrillers, emphasises the two-identities of the metro and underlines the overall eerie mood of Kontroll.[29] More importantly, it addresses what Márton Csillag calls “the schizophrenia of Hungarian society” in a post-transition period where new progress on the surface is artificial and the suppressed past in the subconscious is imprisoning.[30] Both the director and cinematographer, Gyula Pados, insisted on shooting on 35mm to achieve what they described as this specific “look and feel” of the film.[31] The aesthetics of Kontroll derive from the contrast between an unpolished, nostalgic feel to the stock and artificial look of Tungsten lighting, which overall creates a modern, yet destructive atmosphere. This technique plays upon the trope of the East as run-down, painting a dystopian picture reinforced by the buzzing sound of the neon lights and fast-paced electronic music.

As opposed to this deliberately constructed “Eastern” nightmare the odd mix of characters brings a comedic aspect to the film. The ticket inspectors are the laughingstock of this new society, despised both for their profession and for their appearance. They symbolise the past legacy of authority, surveillance, and institutional control evoked by the colour red linked to them. The sign they wear on their forearm, a white “M” on a red surface brings to mind the symbol of the Arrow Cross Party as well as evoking the country’s red past. However, it does not have any effect on the passengers.[32] The inspectors themselves detest their job and disrespect their superiors as they jokingly call the head of the metro system, who has a red birthmark on his face, Gestapo. Despite their unhealthy appearance, they are the only living part of the decaying metro system. Even their skin colour becomes one with the grey and washed out green walls of the metro, making them appear sickly.[33] Furthermore, their minimalist, desaturated costumes contributes to their perceived “Eastern” look as they appear smelly, poor, and “undemanding.”[34] They wear faded jackets, shabby jumpers, and are overall dressed in shades of brown, black, and dark green. Thus, Bulcsú’s team neither appears vital nor up-to-date, unable to break out from what Fehérváry calls “the grey confines of socialist era.”[35] As the ultimate underdogs in this changed society, their behaviour, appearance, and humiliating treatment by others makes them Eastern European caricatures. When Bulcsú realises that in order to escape from this prison he needs to confront the mysterious killer, revealed to him by Szofi in a dream sequence, he begins to physically suffer. Throughout the film his looks deteriorate extensively because of several beatings he receives. In the final chase scene with the killer however, Bulcsú manages to escape, allowing him to leave this cruel life behind. As Steve Jobbit argues, Bulcsú’s way out could suggest “the integrative and redemptive fantasies” of a post-socialist country aiming for European membership.[36] However, that the almost blinding lights are artificial rather than natural, indicates that Bulcsú is moving towards a non-existent utopia with Szofi, who happens to wear an angel-like costume. For the final shot, the camera stays underground, not following the characters as they move above ground because there is no escape from the colourless post-socialist situation. The idealised other place is non-existent.[37]

Although colour is often viewed as secondary to narrative or considered an excess, Kontroll’s aesthetics demonstrate the significance that colour carries in post-socialist Hungarian cinema.[38] By relying on a washed-out colour palette, often disrupted with saturated red, the film engages with the Cold War colour discourse. The film combines colours traditionally associated with the East to highlight how the prevalent devaluation of former communist countries by the West endures even after the fall of the Iron Curtain. Its use of grey challenges the persistence of the past in the new capitalist present, the problems of control and suppression of the individual remain, just now in other forms. The post-socialist space is suffocating both from the past and present, its exaggerated construction problematises East-West binaries on the screen. The film’s seemingly utopian ending, thus finally destroys both the image of the drab East and colourful West and confronts such discursive categories. Kontroll points toward a need for a new trend where colour could become a primary tool for a self-representation devoid of stereotypes.

Notes

[1] Works that assess the film within the context of identity politics: Steve Jobbitt, “Subterranean Dreaming: Hungarian Fantasies of Integration and Redemption” Kinokultura (2008), http://www.kinokultura.com/specials/7/kontroll.shtml, Accessed May 2, 2020.; György Kalmár, “Inhabiting the Post-Communist (Kontroll. Nimród Antal, 2003)” in Formations of Masculinity in Post-Communist Hungarian Cinema: Labyrinthian Men, ed. György Kalmár (Cham: Springer International Publishing, 2017), 67–91, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63664-1_4.; Kalmár, “Apostate Bodies: Nimród Antal’s Kontroll and Eastern-European Identity Politics,” in Spaces, Bodies, Memories. Cultural Studies Approaches in the Study of Eastern European Cinema, ed. Andrea Virginás (Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2017), 112-131.; Christine Grimes Topping, “The World Is out of Control: Nimrod Antal’s Kontroll (2003) as a Socio-Political Critique of Powerless Individuals in a Postmodern World,” Studies in European Cinema 7.3 (December 1, 2010): 235–45, https://doi.org/10.1386/seci.7.3.235_1.; Owen Evans, “Going Underground: Margins, Dreams and Dark Spaces in Nimród Antal’s Kontroll (2003)” The Urban Uncanny: A Collection of Interdisciplinary Studies, ed. Lucy Huskinson (London and New York: Routledge, 2016) 18-33.

[2] The film opens with a disclaimer read out by the director of BKK (Budapest Public Transport Centre) who stresses that despite the familiar locations the film is entirely fictitious.

[3] Kalmár, “Apostate Bodies,” 112-131.

[4] László Strausz discusses the concept of Eurocentrism in relation to Hungarian cinema in: “Visszabeszélés és önegzotizálás. (A posztkolonialista elméletek kelet-európai alkalmazhatóságáról)” [Talking back and self-exoticisation. The use of post-colonial theory in Eastern context] Pannonhalmi Szemle XXII (2014): 104-119.; Although Shohat and Stam do not discuss the Eastern bloc, the book helps to understand and consequently challenge the West as a dominating construct. Ella Shohat and Robert Stam, Unthinking Eurocentrism (London, 1994).

[5] Periphery states are the former colonised, their attempts to define their own culture is a post-colonial gesture. Further details on how this applies to Hungarian cinema in: Strausz, “Visszabeszélés és önegzotizálás.” [Talking back and self-exoticisation.] 104-119.

[6] Alexander Kiossev, “The Self-colonization Metaphor.” Atlas of Transformation (2008) http://monumenttotransformation.org/atlas-of-transformation/html/s/self-colonization/the-self-colonizing-metaphor-alexander-kiossev.html. Accessed May 3, 2020.

[7] A detailed study on New Hungarian Cinema (a generation of directors starting to make films in the early 2000s) in a post-colonial framework: Gábor Gelencsér, “Back and Forth. De-Europeanization as self-colonization in Hungarian film after 1989,” Studies in Eastern European Cinema 9.1 (2018): 63-75.; Anikó Imre (ed.), A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas (Malden, Oxford, Chichester, 2012).; Eva Mazierska et al., Postcolonial Approaches to Eastern European Cinema: Portraying Neighbours On-Screen (London: I.B. Tauris, 2015).

[8] Sarah Street and Joshua Yumibe, Chromatic modernity: color, cinema, and media of the 1920s (New York: Columbia University Press, 2019).; Richard Misek, Chromatic cinema: a history of screen color (Chichester, U.K.: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010); Sarah Street, “The Monopack Revolution, Global Cinema and Jigokumon/Gate of Hell (Kinugasa Teinosuke, 1953)” Open Screens 1, no. 1 (6 June 2018): 2. https://doi.org/10.16995/os.2.;

[9] Krisztina Fehérváry, Politics in Color and Concrete: Socialist Materialities and the Middle Class in Hungary (Indiana University Press, 2013).

[10] Regina Lee Blaszczyk and Uwe Spiekermann, eds., Bright Modernity (Cham: Springer International Publishing, 2017), https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-50745-3.

[12] This debate is especially fruitful in the German context. For further details see: Sebastian Heiduschke, East German Cinema: DEFA and Film History (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2013).; Wendy Westphal, “‘Truer than the Real Thing’: ‘Real’ and ‘Hyperreal’ Representations of the Past in ‘Das Leben Der Anderen’” German Studies Review 35.1 (2012): 97-111.

[13] Ida Harboe Knudsen and Martin Demant Frederiksen (eds), Ethnographies of Grey Zones in Eastern Europe: Relations, Borders and Invisibilities (London; New York, NY: Anthem Press, 2015). David Batchelor also discusses grey as a “colour of in between,” more details in: Luminous and the Grey (London: Reaction Books, 2014).

[14] For a more detailed analysis of technology and colour discourse see: Dudley Andrew, “The Postwar Struggle for Color,” Cinema Journal 18.2 (1979): 41-52, https://doi.org/10.2307/1225441.; Barry Salt, Film style and technology: history and analysis (London: Starword, 2009); Michelle Beutler, “Standardising Color Film. Technicolor No. IV and Agfacolor during the 1940s,” in Color Mania. The Material of Color in Photography and Film, ed. Barbara Flückiger, Eva Hielscher, Nadine Wietlisbach (Lars Müller Publishers, 2019) 197-211.; Josephine Diecke, “Agfacolor in (Intern)National Competition” in Color Mania, 211-223.

[16] Ibid, 199-200.

[17] Alice Lovejoy gives a detailed account of the dispersal of the Agfa patents in: “Celluloid geopolitics: film stock and the war economy, 1939–47,” Screen 60.2 (Summer 2019): 224-241,

https://doi.org/10.1093/screen/hjz009.

[18] Agfa derivates: Ferraniacolor, Ansco Color, Gevacolor, Sovcolor and Orwocolor. Further details in Diecke, “Agfacolor in (Intern)National Competition,” 211-223; Andrew, “The Postwar Struggle for Color,” 46.

[19] Diecke traces the history of Agfa and Kodak in: “Agfacolor in (Intern)National Competition,” 211-3.; Heather Heckman challenges the common misconception that Eastmancolor was responsible for destroying the Technicolor monopoly. The anti-trust suit in 1947, which launched the release of chromogenic stocks, was precisely because Kodak worked in collusion with Technicolor. Further details about the relationship between Technicolor and Eastmancolor in: “We’ve Got Bigger Problems: Preservation during Eastman Color’s Innovation and Early Diffusion,” Moving Image 15.1 (July 2015): 44–61.

[20] Andrew, “The Postwar Struggle for Color,” 51.

[21] Beutler, “Standardising Color Film,” 202. Andrew’s assumptions about post-war Agfacolor associations and its contrast to Eastmancolor are complicated by the work of Beutler and Diecke who point out the diverse uses of the original patents and the similarities between the two processes.

[22] Anna Batistová outlines how Czechoslovak film industry, though isolated in the Eastern Bloc, also followed the international adoption of widescreen in the 1950s for which it was forced to use Eastmancolor. Further details in: Anna Batistová, “Glorious Agfacolor, Breathtaking Totalvision, and Monophonic Sound. Colour and ‘Scope’ in Czechoslovakia, in Color and the moving image: history, theory, aesthetics, archive, 47-55.; Tereza Frodlová, “In the colours of Agfacolor. Introduction of colour to Czechoslovak cinema of the 1940s and 1950s,” In Lucie Česálková, Czech Cinema Revisited (Prague: National Film Archive, 2017) 277-301. ISBN 978-80-7004-181-9.; Interview with János Kende (Hungarian cinematographer working from the 1960s): Ágnes Kovács, “Beszélgetés Kende Jánossal. Fények, világok.” [Interview with János Kende. Lights and Worlds], Filmvilág.hu http://www.filmvilag.hu/xista_frame.php?cikk_id=13999, Accessed May 2, 2020.

[23] Dina Iordanova discusses how the majority of East Central European films were dismissed by Western viewers for their “vision of metaphoric greyness.” Whereas, as she argues, when looked closely the filmmakers used greyness consciously to argue for individuality devoid of politics. Further details in: Cinema of the Other Europe: The Industry and Artistry of East Central European Film (London: Wallflower Press, 2003) 93.

[24] Crowley and Reid, Pleasures in Socialism, 10.

[25] Kalmár, “Inhabiting the Post-Communist,” 70.

[26] Mark Richard Adams, “Roses are Red, Violence is Too: Exploring Stylistic Excess in Valentine,” in Style and Form in the Hollywood Slasher Film, ed. Wickham Clayton (Springer, 2015) 92-106, 96.

[27] Since the twentieth century, red, besides acting as a primary signifier of (often contradictory) emotions such as love, passion, anger, or madness, has also become the colour of the Communist revolution. For further details see: Paul Coates, The Red and the White: The Cinema of People’s Poland (London: Wallflower, 2005). This is not limited to Europe, but also included in Asia. More detail on the use of red in Chinese cinema and its relation to the communist regime in Chris Berry, “Every Colour Red? Colour in the Films of the Cultural Revolution Model Stage Works,” Journal of Chinese Cinemas 6.3 (January 2012): 233–46, https://doi.org/10.1386/jcc.6.3.233_1.; Zhaoyu Zhu, “Weaponised Colour: A Brief History of the Dye-Transfer Process in China’s Cultural Revolution” Colour and Film (2019), https://colourandfilm.com/2019/01/23/weaponised-colour-a-brief-history-of-the-dye-transfer-process-in-chinas-cultural-revolution-by-zhaoyu-zhu/. Accessed May 27, 2020.

[28] Kalmár, “Inhabiting the Post-Communist,” 90.

[29] Bill Goodykoontz and Christopher P. Jacobs, Film: From watching to seeing, Second Edition (San Diego, CA: Bridgepoint Education, Inc., 2014) 133-163.

[30] Márton Csillag, “Local Trains,” Filmkultura.hu, https://filmkultura.hu/regi/2004/articles/films/kontroll.en.html, Accessed May 27, 2020.

[31] Interview with the director: Walter Chaw, “The Thinking Man’s Nimrod: FFC Interviews Nimrod Antal” Film Freak Central.net (2015), https://www.filmfreakcentral.net/ffc/2015/07/the-thinking-mans-nimrod-ffc-interviews-nimrod-antal.html, Accessed April 15, 2020.

[32] The Arrow Cross Party was a far-right party in power shortly during WWII in Hungary.

[33] Reproduction of flesh tones is crucial for all colour film processes to achieve reality effect. However, Kontroll goes deliberately against it to create a connection between the characters and the space. For further details on accurate skin tone in cinema see: Brian Winston, “A Whole Technology of Dyeing: A Note on Ideology and the Apparatus of the Chromatic Moving Image.” Daedalus 114.4 (1985): 105–23.

[34] For further discussion on how people from Eastern Germany were described by Western Germans in: Fehérváry, Politics in Color and Concrete, 181-2.

[35] Fehérváry, Politics in Color and Concrete, 221.

[36] Jobbitt, “Subterranean Dreaming.”

[37] Kalmár, “Apostate Bodies,” 115.

[38] Brian Price, “General Introduction,” in Color: The Film Reader, ed. Angela Dalle Vacche, Brian Price (Routledge, 2006) 6.

Bibliography:

Adams, Mark Richard. “Roses are Red, Violence is Too: Exploring Stylistic Excess in Valentine.” In Style and Form in the Hollywood Slasher Film. Ed. Wickham Clayton. Springer, 2015. 92-106.

Andrew, Dudley. “The Postwar Struggle for Color.” Cinema Journal 18, no. 2 (1979): 41. https://doi.org/10.2307/1225441.

Batchelor, David. Luminous and the Grey. London: Reaction Books, 2014.

Batistová, Anna. “Glorious Agfacolor, Breathtaking Totalvision, and Monophonic Sound. Colour and ‘Scope’ in Czechoslovakia.” In Color and the Moving Image: History, Theory, Aesthetics, archive. Ed. Brown, Simon, Sarah Street, and Liz I. Watkins. New York, N.Y.: Routledge, 2013. 47-55.

Berry, Chris. “Every Colour Red? Colour in the Films of the Cultural Revolution Model Stage  Works.” Journal of Chinese Cinemas 6.3 (January 2012): 233–46. https://doi.org/10.1386/jcc.6.3.233_1.

Beutler, Michelle. “Technicolor No. IV and Agfacolor During the 1940s. In Color Mania. The Material of Color in Photography and Film. Ed. Barbara Flückiger, Eva Hielscher, Nadine Wietlisbach. Lars Müller Publishers. 197-211.

Blaszczyk, Regina Lee, and Uwe Spiekermann, eds. Bright Modernity. Cham: Springer International Publishing, 2017. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-50745-3.

Brown, Simon, Sarah Street, and Liz I. Watkins. Color and the Moving Image: History, Theory, Aesthetics, Archive. New York, N.Y.: Routledge, 2013.

Chaw, Walter. “The Thinking Man’s Nimrod: FFC Interviews Nimrod Antal.” Film Freak Central.net. https://www.filmfreakcentral.net/ffc/2015/07/the-thinking-mans-nimrod-ffc-interviews-nimrod-antal.html. Accessed April 15, 2020.

Coates, Paul. The Red and the White: The Cinema of People’s Poland. London: Wallflower, 2005.

Crowley, David, and Susan E. Reid, editors. Pleasures in Socialism: Leisure and Luxury in the Eastern Bloc. Northwestern University Press, 2010.

Csillag, Márton. “Local Trains.” Filmkultura.huhttps://filmkultura.hu/regi/2004/articles/films/kontroll.en.html, Accessed May 27, 2020.

Diecke, Josephine. “Agfacolor in (Intern)National Competition.” In Color Mania. The

Material of Color in Photography and Film. Ed. Barbara Flückiger, Eva Hielscher, Nadine Wietlisbach. Lars Müller Publishers, 2019. 211-223.

Evans, Owen. “Going Underground: Margins, Dreams and Dark Spaces in Nimród Antal’s  Kontroll (2003).” The Urban Uncanny: A Collection of Interdisciplinary Studies. Ed. Lucy Huskinson. London and New York: Routledge, 2016. 18-33.

Fehérváry, Krisztina. Politics in Color and Concrete: Socialist Materialities and the Middle Class in Hungary. Indiana University Press, 2013.

Frodlová, Tereza. “In the Colours of Agfacolor. Introduction of Colour to Czechoslovak Cinema of the 1940s and 1950s.” In Lucie Česálková. Czech Cinema Revisited (Prague: National Film Archive, 2017) 277-301. ISBN 978-80-7004-181-9.

Gelencsér, Gábor. “Back and Forth. De-Europeanization as Self-Colonization in Hungarian Film after 1989.” Studies in Eastern European Cinema 9, no. 1 (January 2, 2018): 63–75. https://doi.org/10.1080/2040350X.2017.1404703.

Goodykoontz, Bill and Jacobs, Christopher P. Film: From Watching to Seeing, Second Edition. San Diego, CA: Bridgepoint Education, Inc., 2014.

Haines, Richard W. Technicolor Movies: The History of Dye Transfer Printing. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2010.

Heckman, Heather. “We’ve Got Bigger Problems: Preservation During Eastman Color’s Innovation and Early Diffusion.” Moving Image 15.1 (July 2015): 44–61.

Heiduschke, Sebastian. East German Cinema: DEFA and Film History. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2013.

Imre, Anikó, (Ed). A Companion to Eastern European Cinemas. The Wiley-Blackwell Companions to National Cinemas. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012.

Iordanova, Dina. Cinema of the Other Europe: The Industry and Artistry of East Central European Film. London: Wallflower Press, 2003.

Jobbitt, Steve. “Subterranean Dreaming: Hungarian Fantasies of Integration and Redemption” Kinokultura (2008). http://www.kinokultura.com/specials/7/kontroll.shtml. Accessed May 2, 2020.

Kalmár, György. “Apostate Bodies: Nimród Antal’s Kontroll and Eastern-European Identity Politics.” In Spaces, Bodies, Memories. Cultural Studies Approaches in the Study of Eastern European Cinema. Cambridge Scholars, 2017.

———. “Inhabiting the Post-Communist (Kontroll. Nimród Antal, 2003).” In Formations of Masculinity in Post-Communist Hungarian Cinema. Cham: Springer International Publishing, 2017.  https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-63664-1.

Knudsen, Ida Harboe and Frederiksen, Martin Demant (eds). Ethnographies of Grey Zones in Eastern Europe: Relations, Borders and Invisibilities. London; New York, NY: Anthem Press, 2015.

Kovács, Ágnes. “Beszélgetés Kende Jánossal. Fények, világok.” [Interview with János Kende. Lights and Worlds.] Filmvilág.hu http://www.filmvilag.hu/xista_frame.php?cikk_id=13999. Accessed May 2, 2020.

Krivý, Maroš. “Greyness and Colour Desires: The Chromatic Politics of the Panelák in Late Socialist and Post-Socialist Czechoslovakia.” The Journal of Architecture 20.5   (September 3, 2015): 765–802. https://doi.org/10.1080/13602365.2015.1088053.

Lovejoy, Alice. “Celluloid Geopolitics: Film Stock and the War Economy, 1939–47.” Screen, Volume 60.2 (Summer 2019): 224-241, https://doi.org/10.1093/screen/hjz009.

Mayorov, Nikolai. ‘Soviet Colours’. Studies in Russian and Soviet Cinema 6, no. 2 (September 2012): 241–55. https://doi.org/10.1386/srsc.6.2.241_1.

Mazierska Eva, Kristensen, Lars and Eva Näripea. Postcolonial Approaches to Eastern European Cinema: Portraying Neighbours On-Screen. London: I.B. Tauris, 2015.

Misek, Richard. “‘Last of the Kodak’: Andrei Tarkovsky’s Struggle with Colour.” In Questions of Colour in Cinema: From Paintbrush to Pixel. New Studies in European Cinema. Ed. Everett, Wendy E. Oxford, New York: Peter Lang, 2007. 161-179.

———. Chromatic Cinema: A History of Screen Color. Chichester, U.K.: Wiley-Blackwell,  2010.

Price, Brian. “General Introduction.” In Color: The Film Reader. Ed. Angela Dalle Vacche, Brian Price. Routledge, 2006.

Salt, Barry. Film style and technology: History and Analysis. London: Starword. 2009.

Shohat, Ella and Stam, Robert. Unthinking Eurocentrism. London, 1994.

Strausz, László. “Visszabeszélés és önegzotizálás. (A posztkolonialista elméletek kelet-európai alkalmazhatóságáról).” [Talking back and self-exoticisation. The use of post-colonial theory in Eastern context]. Pannonhalmi Szemle XXII (2014): 104-119.

Street, Sarah. ‘The Monopack Revolution, Global Cinema and Jigokumon/Gate of Hell (Kinugasa Teinosuke, 1953)’. Open Screens 1, no. 1 (6 June 2018): 2. https://doi.org/10.16995/os.2.

Street, Sarah and Yumibe, Joshua. Chromatic Modernity: Color, Cinema, and Media of the 1920s. New York: Columbia University Press, 2019.

Grimes Topping, Christine. “The World Is out of Control: Nimrod Antal’s Kontroll (2003) as a Socio-Political Critique of Powerless Individuals in a Postmodern World.” Studies in European Cinema 7, no. 3 (December 1, 2010): 235–45.  https://doi.org/10.1386/seci.7.3.235_1.

Westphal, Wendy. “‘Truer than the Real Thing’: ‘Real’ and ‘Hyperreal’ Representations of the Past in ‘Das Leben Der Anderen’.” German Studies Review 35.1 (2012): 97-111.

Winston, Brian. “A Whole Technology of Dyeing: A Note on Ideology and the Apparatus of the Chromatic Moving Image.” Daedalus 114.4 (1985): 105–23.

Zhu, Zhaoyu. “Weaponised Colour: A Brief History of the Dye-Transfer Process in China’s Cultural Revolution.” Colour and Film (2019). https://colourandfilm.com/2019/01/23/weaponised-colour-a-brief-history-of-the-dye-transfer-process-in-chinas-cultural-revolution-by-zhaoyu-zhu/. Accessed May 27, 2020. 

Filmography:

Kontroll. Directed by Antal Nimród. Budapest: Budapest Film. 2003.

About the Author
Lucia Szemetova is currently finishing her taught postgraduate degree at the Department of Film Studies, University of St Andrews, UK. She completed her previous master’s in Nationalism Studies at the Central European University, Hungary. In the upcoming academic year, she will be continuing at St Andrews as a Film Studies PhD with the project on the use of archive in Hungarian documentary films across three different socio-political contexts. Her research interests include the intersection of nationhood and cinema, post-socialist identity politics and visual media, and found footage reappropriation in documentary films.

The Politics of Colour

DOI 10.15664/fcj.v0i17.2073

This issue of Frames Cinema Journal was conceived in the winter of 2019 as a response to the chromatic turn in film and media scholarship that has produced so much exciting recent work. However, in the summer of 2020 “The Politics of Colour” carries an additional resonance that must be addressed here. As the protests in response to George Floyd’s murder continue to gather momentum, and the Black Lives Matter campaign has forced an acknowledgment of how anti-blackness and white privilege structure our societies and academic institutions, it is necessary to recognise the intimate connections between the politics of colour-as-hue and the politics of colour-as-race.

This conflation of colour and race has deep historical roots as well as a continued contemporary relevance, particularly in relation to the British Empire. In both material and economic terms colour, slavery, and colonialism were inseparable. The British extraction of pigments and dyes from colonised nations meant that colour was closely tied to imperial violence. One report on the British Indigo industry in the nineteenth century claimed that no quantity of the colour had “reached England without being stained with human blood.”[1] The practice of trading enslaved Africans for this dyestuff, and the use of their enforced labour in its cultivation on plantations in the Caribbean and North America, further tightened these ties between colour, racial violence, and colonialism.[2] Epistemology also fused racial and chromatic ideas. European racial taxonomies developed during the Enlightenment reduced the worlds’ peoples to a small number of chromatic categories, whether black, white, red, or yellow. Skin colour became increasingly privileged as the primary marker of racial difference and of racial identity. These conflated chromatic and racial categorisations, in Anne Lafont’s words “lie at the foundation of the differentiation, comparison, and creation of hierarchies among human beings.”[3] Colour and race were therefore also indelibly linked through nomenclature, as colour names were formulated through racialised and imperial thinking, whether artists’ pigments such as Indian Yellow or fashion colours like African Brown.[4] The inseparability of chromatic and racial terminology persists today when considering recent debates over problematic colour terms such as “nude.”[5]

The imbricated histories of racial identity and colour were inherited by chromatic media emerging in the nineteenth century and continue to shape colour film and television today. These media bear witness to such histories because, in Kara Keeling’s terms “anti-black racism inheres in the film apparatus.”[6] Film stocks, lighting practices, make-up technologies and laboratory methods are all components in a system conventionally engineered to privilege the correct rendition of whiteness at the cost of darker skin tones. Although each new colour process developed in the twentieth century boasted of an enhanced capacity to render the full spectrum, whiteness typically remained the guarantor of any system’s success, distorting how blackness was represented on screen. Writing on the lack of colour processing laboratories in Sub-Saharan Africa a decade ago, John Akomfrah lamented that all the colour film “ever ‘exposed’ in these countries… has to first make the Homeric journey abroad – usually to Europe – to be ‘processed’; other than the lack of immediacy involved in this uneven traffic of images, the absolutely overwhelming and forbidding socio-economic burden this places on cinema as a photochemical enterprise cannot be underestimated.”[7] As Akomfrah demonstrates, white Euro-centrism is not only an ideological barrier for black filmmakers, but a systemic obstacle that manifests in the materials, technologies, and chemistry of filmmaking itself, as well as the distribution and control of these resources.

By making whiteness a benchmark against which all colours are measured, chromatic technologies both produce and perpetuate the systems of anti-blackness that are at the centre of today’s discussions. Chromatic media therefore present tangible and informative examples of how whiteness is constructed and privileged at the expense of blackness, and are crucial objects for understanding our contemporary moment.

Yet the material basis of colour media is merely one way these images collude in and reproduce racist ideologies. Repeatedly in Britain and America, the subjects chosen to demonstrate, market, and capitalise on colour film technologies were people of colour. Even the briefest survey of landmark films made by American market-leader Technicolor evidences that although whiteness was the structuring principle of colour cinema, people of colour were routinely exploited as part of the system’s chromatic appeals: from the Orientalist fantasy used to debut its two-colour system Toll of the Sea (1922), and the “Mexican” musical-short that launched its three-strip process La Cucaracha (1934), to the notoriously racist feature that secured the firm’s market dominance in classical Hollywood (that has come under renewed scrutiny of late) – Gone with the Wind (1939). In these films, the racial ideologies that inhere in the apparatus of colour cinema were further articulated through the images carried on the film. These films participated in and reinforced the notion of white supremacy built-into the technology, while also, in the case of Gone with the Wind, aestheticising violence against black bodies. By no means was this practice limited to cinema however. That one of the first television shows selected for broadcast when the BBC began colour broadcasting in the 1960s was its Black and White Minstrel Show, makes only too clear how overdetermined is this relationship between new chromatic technologies and established racist ideologies.

That the politics of colour-as-hue and the politics of colour-as-race are so closely linked means that scholarship on chromatic media can be an important participant in these urgent conversations about race and racism. While this issue of Frames was conceived to explore “The Politics of Colour” in the broadest manner, and race is only one of several political dimensions discussed within, the current moment makes clear that race shall become the most pressing area of inquiry in the field. The anti-racism protests taking place around the world will undoubtedly have a profound impact on the future trajectory of academic work on colour. This seems to be particularly urgent in Britain at a moment when timely calls are being made to acknowledge and interrogate the colonial and imperialist legacies of our visual and material culture. Projects like Third Text’s Decolonising Colour forum offer one model for precisely this kind of work, and Priya Jaikumar’s work on colour’s role in colonial politics and cinematic depictions of India presents another.[8]

Race is one among a number of intersecting political aspects of colour examined in this special issue. The essays collected here consider colour’s relationship to identity politics through gender and immigration, interrogate the use of colour in post-war political critiques of consumerism and socialism, as well as colour’s place within debates about digital surveillance and data collection. The politics of colour are shown here to be highly contingent, never fixed into a single signifying system but qualified by a host of contextual factors. That these essays present a globalised approach to colour, encompassing the Caribbean, China, North America, as well as Eastern and Western Europe, underscores the diversity of potential meanings in colour’s political spectrum.

This slippage in colour’s political meanings as it traverses borders (between nations, media, and regimes) is one of the strongest themes to emerge here. The issue of a transnational colour aesthetic is insightfully explored in Louisa Wei’s essay. Considering how the palette of Cantonese Opera was conditioned by its performance in pre-revolutionary Havana, Wei demonstrates how the politics of colour can be qualified by fluid and hybrid identities, and filtered or distorted through memory. Similarly, Sarah Street and Lucia Szemetova’s essays, which form an illuminating counterpoint to one another, demonstrate how the conventional associations between bright colours and capitalist consumerism might be subverted to mount political critiques in different national contexts, whether reckoning with the slick advertising culture of sixties Britain or the discontent of post-socialist Hungary.

Both Tamara Tasevska and Lida Zeitlin Wu’s essays examine how the migration of colour between media can transform its meanings, considering the shift of colour from installations to moving images, or between spaces both “physical and virtual” in Wu’s terms. Wu’s focus on chromatic code is a necessary reminder that although digital technologies promise to dematerialise and depoliticise colour by uncoupling it from physical referents and economic networks, this is far from the case. Yu-Lun Sung’s contribution similarly considers the political dimensions of digital colour technologies, which do not necessarily disrupt, but can also extend the longer political and ideological biases of cinematic systems. Examining the techniques developed by digital cinematographer’s for accurately rendering Asian skin tones, this essay poses urgent questions and presents practical strategies for decentring whiteness as a norm in imaging technologies.

The politics of chromatic technologies are a recurring theme here, examined in Elena Gipponi’s essay on small-gauge colour stocks, and Paul Frith and Keith M. Johnston’s video essay on laboratory practices. Despite laboratories operating as crucial sites where the aesthetics and politics of colour film are forged, not least because in Akomfrah’s terms they helped produce the “‘correct exposure truth’ which increasingly worked against appropriate black skin tones”, these spaces and practices are underrepresented in the scholarship on colour film.[9] This video essay should serve as a new source for future scholarship on the topic, adding to the trove of interviews collected by The British Entertainment History Project.[10]

These essays offer vital contributions to a field of scholarship that is experiencing a dynamic moment of expansion, and readers can find two of the most exciting recent titles covered in our book review section – Giovanna Fossati’s edited collection The Colour Fantastic: Chromatic Worlds of Silent Cinema (2018); and Sarah Street and Joshua Yumibe’s Chromatic Modernity: Color, Cinema, and Media of the 1920s (2019). This issue therefore presents a varied but partial account of colour’s political significance, offering one contribution to a conversation that is far from complete.

Notes

[1] Report of the indigo commission, 1860, cited in Subhas Bhattacharya, ‘The Indigo Revolt of Bengal’, Social Scientist 5, no. 12 (1977): 13.

[2] On the brutal history of Indigo in particular see Natasha Eaton, Colour, Art and Empire: Visual Culture and the Nomadism of Representation, (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013) and Michael T. Taussig, What Color Is the Sacred? (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009). The legacy of Indigo’s relationship to slavery in America is also elegantly explored in Julie Dash’s Daughters of the Dust (1991).

[3] Anne Lafont, “How Skin Color Became a Racial Marker: Art Historical Perspectives on Race,” Eighteenth Century Studies 51, no. 1 (Fall 2017): 91.

[4] On the imperial history of Indian Yellow see Jordanna Bailkin, “Making and Breaking the Imperial Palette” in Martin Jay and Sumathi Ramaswamy eds, Empires of Vision: A Reader (Durham : Duke University Press Books, 2014), 91-110; on African Brown see Lynda Nead, The Tiger in the Smoke: Art and Culture in Post-War Britain (New Haven: Published for the Paul Mellon Centre for Studies in British Art by Yale University Press, 2017), 130-148.

[5] See the Victoria and Albert Museum’s display label for Christian Louboutin’s launch of ‘The Nudes Collection’ http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O1295667/the-nudes-collection-swatch-book-christian-louboutin/

[6] Kara Keeling, Queer Times, Black Futures (New York: Columbia University Press, 2019), 118.

[7] John Akomfrah, ‘Digitopia and the Spectres of Diaspora’, Journal of Media Practice 11, no. 1 (March 2010): 25

[8] http://www.thirdtext.org/decolonising-colour-forum. Priya Jaikumar, Cinema at the End of Empire: A Politics of Transition in Britain and India (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006); Where Histories Reside: India as Filmed Space (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2019). Lynda Nead’s discussion of “The Question of Colour” in British post-war visual culture presents another useful model for thinking together histories of colour and Empire in Britain: Lynda Nead, The Tiger in the Smoke: Art and Culture in Post-War Britain (New Haven: Published for the Paul Mellon Centre for Studies in British Art by Yale University Press, 2017), 127-242.

[9] Akomfrah, ‘Digitopia and the Spectres of Diaspora’, 23

[10]  The BECTU Oral History project contains a number of interviews with laboratory technicians (https://www.uea.ac.uk/film-television-media/research/british-film-and-tv-studies/british-cinema/interviews-a-to-f, and a curated selection of interviews with female laboratory workers can be found at https://historyproject.org.uk/blogs/women-west-london-film-laboratories

The Lady from the Black Lagoon: Hollywood Monsters and the Lost Legacy of Milicent Patrick

By Mallory O’Meara
Hanover Square Press, 2019
Reviewed by Ana Maria Sapountzi, University of St Andrews
DOI 10.15664/fcj.v0i17.2034

When Mallory O’Meara was seventeen years old, she discovered Milicent Patrick. Having just watched Creature from the Black Lagoon (Jack Arnold, 1954), she was completely entranced by the graceful and primitive form of the Creature. Immediately, O’Meara researched everything she could about the film. During this process, she was stunned to find that the designer of the iconic creature was a woman. Up until that moment, all the monster-making artists O’Meara knew of and admired were men. The discovery of Milicent Patrick changed her life; Patrick opened the door to a world of monster movie magic and horror filmmaking she had assumed would always be closed to her.

With The Lady from the Black Lagoon: Hollywood Monsters and the Lost Legacy of Milicent Patrick (2019), O’Meara has set out to unearth and rightfully restore Patrick’s place in film history – a contribution to cinema that has through the years been overlooked, neglected, and overwritten. Now a filmmaker, writer, and producer of horror films, O’Meara tells Patrick’s story through the lens of her own personal experiences of the movie business, in particular a series of misogynistic and sexist encounters similar to those that suppressed Patrick’s promising but short-lived career.

In The Lady from the Black Lagoon, O’Meara alternates between narrating Patrick’s biography – enriched through scrupulous historical and archival research – and delivering her own observations on the spaces and places her study has taken her. The early chapters of the book give Patrick flesh and blood by providing her origin story pre-Creature from the Black Lagoon. These chapters chronicle her life from the 1920s up until the early 1950s: her childhood spent on the grounds of the Hearst Castle at San Simeon; her late teenage years in the suburban neighbourhood of Glendale, California; her term as an art student at the Chouinard Art Institute; her time in the Ink & Paint and the Animation & Effects departments at Walt Disney Studios; and her stint as a background actress in Hollywood films, such as Texas, Brooklyn & Heaven (1948), Thunder in the Pines (1948), Abbott and Costello Meet Captain Kidd (1952), Limelight (1952), and We’re Not Married! (1952).

The middle chapters of the book record Patrick’s career development in the makeup department at Universal Studios in the early 1950s and her success as the designer of the Creature from Creature from the Black Lagoon. They detail Patrick’s meeting with Bud Westmore, head of said department, and his invitation for her to join his workshop. They recount Patrick’s distinguished makeup work for Against All Flags (1952), It Came from Outer Space (1953), and Abbott and Costello Meet Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1953), and delve into the project that would become both her career’s crowning achievement and the most contested chapter of her life – Creature from the Black Lagoon. They illustrate Patrick’s process of creating the Creature and relate her triumphant tour around cities across America, promoting the film and showcasing the creature’s design to its future audiences. They discuss how, out of jealousy, Westmore had engineered the tour to falsely credit him as the designer of the creature, and how, contrarily, Patrick’s presence on the tour made her all the more popular with the public. The book goes on to report how Westmore, engulfed with rage and resentment, removed Patrick from Universal’s makeup department and from all of her then current and future projects – Captain Lightfoot (1955), This Island Earth (1955), and The Westmore Beauty Book (1956) – thus preventing her from working in makeup at Universal ever again.

The later chapters of the book focus on Patrick’s life post Creature from the Black Lagoon until her passing. They describe her short return to background acting and her retreat into living a more private life preoccupied with charity work and society events. The most telling passage of these chapters describes how only after Westmore’s death in 1973 did the unspoken embargo lift on the bogus narrative that he was the Creature’s designer, allowing Patrick to finally update her CV with the truth about her work on Creature from the Black Lagoon.

Although The Lady from the Black Lagoon’s core focus is indeed Milicent Patrick’s story, the book also offers accounts of other significant women who crossed paths with her. Such women include: Julia Morgan, Head Architect of the Hearst Castle; Madam Nelbert Chouinard, founder of the Chouinard Art Institute; Marcia James and Retta Scott, Disney’s first female animators; and Adela Rogers St. Johns, writer and journalist in California since 1912.

The Lady from the Black Lagoon debunks the long-standing misconception that the Creature was Bud Westmore’s creation, and deservedly reinstates Milicent Patrick as the Creature’s chief designer. By outlining Hollywood’s systemic gender biases that limited Patrick’s career – biases that are still rampant in the industry today – O’Meara’s work provokes two questions: which other women’s labour has gone uncredited, been overshadowed or forgotten? And who really are the Hollywood monsters referred to in the book’s title?

Hollywood’s Dirtiest Secret: The Hidden Environmental Costs of the Movies

By Hunter Vaughan
Columbia University Press, 2019
Reviewed by Cassice Last, University of St Andrews
DOI 10.15664/fcj.v0i17.2056

In Hollywood’s Dirtiest Secret: The Hidden Environmental Costs of the Movies (2019), Hunter Vaughan takes a vibrant and interdisciplinary look into the environmental impact of producing, advertising, watching, distributing, and buying films. Focusing predominantly on Hollywood, his investigation encompasses films such as Twister (Jan de Bont, 1996), Singin’ in the Rain (Gene Kelly and Stanley Donan, 1952), The Life of an American Fireman (Edwin S. Porter, 1903), and Avatar (James Cameron, 2009). Despite spending some time on textual analysis, and indeed he defends the validity of this method for examining Hollywood’s relation to the environment, his investigation goes beyond this through archival research, historical analyses, genre studies, and a foray into a relational-values approach. To justify his approach, he argues that the environmental discussion would benefit from a stronger communication between media studies, social sciences, and the humanities.

Vaughan’s overall goal is to “attempt an accessible environmentalist study of popular films across Hollywood history”, considering “how films have both shaped and reflected – and continue to shape and reflect – our relationship with the nonhuman world” (5). Throughout his investigation, he keenly reiterates the need to recognise or re-acknowledge the material impact films have on the world. While he is insistent that his study is not intended to lay blame on any individual or their actions, his work is organised around the belief that the best way forward in lessening the environmental costs of films is to lay bare their damaging material impacts. To this end, he highlights the need to address a core value of Hollywood, one in which viewers are complicit: “the sacrifice of the real on the altar of entertainment spectacle” (2). He proposes, firstly, acknowledging that this “sacrifice” has a material impact and, secondly, analysing in detail the full weight of these consequences. His work is organised into five chapters. The first three chapters take a closer look at Hollywood’s specific manipulation of the environment, focusing on fire, water, and wind respectively, while the final two examine a digitised Hollywood and the concept of positioning Hollywood as an invasive species. Throughout his investigation, he underscores the absolute necessity that viewers and filmmakers alike “begin to fully assess the complex relationships among our screens, our natural resources, and the ecosystems, ecologies, and economies they are a part of” and make visible the obscured material costs of films (7).

Chapter One investigates Hollywood’s use of fire, with an emphasis on the material impact of burning down buildings for films. Vaughan closely examines Gone with the Wind (Victor Fleming, 1939). He translates the human desire to see objects burn into a kind of agreement wherein we seek “to convert reality into destruction spectacle” (26). While highlighting several explosively destructive recent blockbusters, such as Godzilla (Gareth Edwards, 2014) and Furious 7 (James Wan, 2015), he also points to a fiery history of American films, including Thomas Edison’s Starting for the Fire (1896) and Fighting the Fire (1896). He links the onscreen explosive spectacle to the volatile chemical nature of film itself and then, later, to a kind of “collective catharsis” (36). He ends this chapter with a thorough analysis of the burning of Atlanta sequence from Gone with the Wind, employing eye-witness testimony and archived memos.

Chapter Two takes Singin’ in the Rain as the main point of inquiry for an examination of Hollywood’s use of water. Vaughan underscores how vital water is to the general population, before then outlining the many ways in which water is necessary to the filmmaking, distribution, and watching process. He further highlights the power of water on screen through the ways it has been used to raise awareness about global warming, and he cites The Day After Tomorrow (Roland Emmerich, 2004) for its plot, scenes of spectacle, and its promotion as a “carbon-neutral production”. Vaughan highlights however that, whether carbon-neutral or not, the film process requires an immense amount of water usage and wastage, and to this end, he discusses the extreme example provided by James Cameron’s Titanic (1997). He closes the chapter by analysing Singin’ in the Rain and its general theme of being complicit with artifice, before positioning this as an environmental issue wherein “we position the nonhuman natural world as expendable fuel for our popular entertainment” (78).

Chapter Three examines The Wind (Victor Sjöström, 1928) and Twister, initially to consider how wind functions in cinema and then, more broadly, to reflect on how Hollywood films make visible the invisible matters of the environment. Continuing the discussion begun in Chapter Two regarding Hollywood’s contract with artifice, he highlights the Hollywood myth of its own “wizardry”, arguing that what the industry has “perfected is the presentation of itself as a magically conjured realm of virtual worlds, not as a product of matter” (93). He foregrounds a link between the Scientist-Hero archetype emerging in eco-disaster films and the offscreen technician “intertwining production discourse and representational meaning […] in which the diegetic scientist acts as a stand-in for the directorial wizard behind the filmmaking curtain” (93). With this in mind, he examines how films have used special effects to visualise the invisible effects of climate change and selects the wind as his subject. After a brief glance at The Wind, he ends his chapter with a thorough analysis of Twister.

Chapter Four examines “film culture’s transition to the digital age” and takes a closer look into the emergence of “digital Hollywood”, situating our current era within this technological moment (126, 169).  Once more, Vaughan emphasises that new film technologies have continued to shroud the material impact that films have on the environment. He investigates genre here, positioning the eco-disaster film within the broader science fiction genre to uncover its relationship to the apocalypse and placing a particular emphasis on the theme of responsibility. After establishing the importance of responsibility in this context, he unpicks the myth that digital technology is “some miraculously green network” (137). He then highlights “the great irony of the eco-disaster genre”: as a form of green-washing for films at “the forefront of a neoliberal digital turn” (140). To this end, he closes his chapter by analysing Avatar and its extreme use of CGI to create a new on-screen reality and environment.

Finally, in Chapter Five, Vaughan characterises Hollywood productions as a kind of “invasive species” that affect a locale’s environment, economy, and human health (165). Vaughan outlines how Hollywood often functions as a series of decentralised productions that quickly colonise an area for the duration of shooting, before abandoning the site. He investigates two case studies, Michigan (2008–2016) and Florida (2010–2016), in the hope that his work will “encourage more dynamic ways of understanding how such programs interact with human groups and the natural environment” (190).

Vaughan leaves the reader with a sense of hope in his conclusion. Throughout his work, he reveals how films have had an extremely damaging environmental impact, but he is keen to point out that changes can and have been made. Situating his book as a plea “for us to consider the environmental ramifications and role of screen culture”, he urges readers to see themselves as part of this world, able to enact meaningful change (194).

The Colour Fantastic: Chromatic Worlds of Silent Cinema / Chromatic Modernity: Color, Cinema, and Media of the 1920s

The Colour Fantastic: Chromatic Worlds of Silent Cinema
Edited by Giovanna Fossati, Victoria Jackson, Bregt Lameris, Elif Rongen-Kaynakçi, Sarah Street, and Joshua Yumibe
Amsterdam University Press, 2018

Chromatic Modernity: Color, Cinema, and Media of the 1920s
By Sarah Street and Joshua Yumibe
Columbia University Press, 2019

Reviewed by Patrick Adamson, University of St Andrews
DOI 10.15664/fcj.v0i17.2062

Truism or not, scholarly interest in the use of colour in silent cinema has certainly grown in recent years. One need not look much beyond the covers of 2015’s lavishly illustrated Fantasia of Color in Early Cinema (Amsterdam University Press) or 2019’s Color Mania: The Material of Color in Photography and Film (Lars Müller Publishers) to find original and often revelatory research in this sub-field. But as is generally the case with overdue recognition, this sudden surge follows on from a period of undue neglect. In no small way, early colour’s current boom owes to its status as a “new” field for study – one with a brief and distinct genealogy easily traceable over the past quarter-century.

Released in the Aprils of 2018 and 2019 respectively, The Colour Fantastic: Chromatic Worlds of Silent Cinema and Chromatic Modernity: Color, Cinema, and Media of the 1920s make something truly compelling of this process of rediscovery. In recovering not only the oft-overlooked uses and discourses of early colour but how these informed film history more generally, they offer rare testament, and indeed testimony, to the very keenly felt necessity behind recent decades’ outpouring of research in this area. Sharing in the imperatives of this heritage, these are titles linked by more than their subject matter and common inclusion of high-quality frame scans, illustrations, and diagrams. Both owe a stated debt to 1995’s ground-breaking Amsterdam workshop: “Colours in Silent Film”, which EYE Chief Curator (and Colour Fantastic co-editor) Giovanna Fossati explicitly credits with inaugurating the new era of research into the topic.

To begin with The Colour Fantastic, it is the direct product of a 2015 EYE Filmmuseum conference, which was itself arranged with a mind to reflecting on the first two decades of the colour turn. Sarah Street and Joshua Yumibe co-organised the event, as part of the research project that became Chromatic Modernity (moreover, the aforementioned Fantasia of Color in Early Cinema was launched at it).

Quite fittingly, the resulting edited collection opens with a return to those decisive days of the 1990s, when the study of silent film colour set out on its current course. In a candid and engaging prologue, Peter Delpeut – former Artistic Deputy Director of the Nederlands Filmmusuem (1988–1995) – recalls the first steps in this incipient scholarly direction, along with the people that took them. Of his own signal efforts in bringing the extent of past colour-usage to broader notice, he states that his found-footage film Lyrical Nitrate (1991) is “a document of a revolution”: “Colour is there and has no plans to leave” (29). A personal highlight of the collection – vivid, suggestive, even oddly stirring – this opening persuasively attests to the corrective resolve that was behind the chromatic surge in early cinema studies: to restore an overlooked cultural heritage, uncover local and technological specificities, and challenge the deterministic orthodoxies of film historiography, which have so long reduced this story to the development and adoption of natural colour in Hollywood.

After this rousing prologue, the volume is organised thematically, with the first of its four sections being on non-fiction and amateur filmmaking. Elena Gipponi gets things underway by highlighting small-gauge cinematography’s crucial contribution to the development of colour reproduction techniques: 8mm, 9.5mm, and 16mm users comprised the original market and test audience for a number of 1920s and 1930s colour film processes – something she demonstrates through contemporary instructional literature and the preserved home movie collections of hobbyist pioneers, including Guglielmo Baldassini (1885-1952) and Piero Portaluppi (1888-1967). Spectacles are afforded particular attention here, with firework displays and carnivals centred in the analysis; scenes from nature are, nevertheless, also considered. It is this latter aspect – cinema’s depictions of the natural world – that Liz Watkins and Jennifer Peterson revisit and nuance in the next two chapters, on the frozen white landscape of the poles and the powerfully poetic motions of rough seas respectively. Watkins adopts an intermedial framework to demonstrate the profound role that applied colour played in experiencing the polar exploration films of the 1910s and 1920. Dissatisfied with the direct photographic registration of visual phenomena, the likes of Herbert Ponting used tinting, toning, and hand-painting to contrive sensual and temporal impressions based upon “recollection[s] of the chromatic effects of light refracted by the Antarctic ice” (57). Peterson likewise turns to intermediality when exploring how the silent-era trope of crashing waves – often found in nonfiction titles, such as travelogues and scenic films – drew upon Romantic aesthetic traditions, with applied colour again serving affective ends. Realism and sensation, the indexical and the sensual functions of colour, are yoked together throughout this section.

By uncovering alternative histories and foregrounding the diversity of intent behind early colour-usage, the first chapters of this collection present a strong justification for one of the field’s guiding principles: read together, they contradict linear models in which the history of film colour is reducible to the film industry’s teleological pursuit of ever greater realism. This push for sophisticated, historicised readings is extended into what might be considered more mainstream territory in the collection’s second section. “Natural-Colour Processes: Theory and Practice” begins with John Belton on a Hollywood spectacular that was shot entirely in two-colour Technicolor, Douglas Fairbanks’ The Black Pirate (1926). He interprets Fairbanks’ commitment to using a purposely subdued palette as indicative of a wider film-industrial anxiety about colour technology having a potentially distractive impact upon audiences. Benoît Turquety then looks at a 2008 Screen Archive South East restoration project involving 1908 Kinemacolor films, linking past attitudes towards additive colour processes to the archival and historiographical quandaries of today. Again, the possibility of brining a new chromatic perspective to familiar aspects of Hollywood history emerges when Hilde D’hayere traces Hollywood comedy pioneer Mack Sennett’s adoption of colour processes across silent comedies, Depression-era talkies, and small-gauge 1930s Kodascope re-releases of his earlier material. Closing the section and complementing the earlier piece by Turquety, Screen Archive South East’s Frank Gray compares the developments of additive and subtractive processes, specifically Kinemacolor and Kodachrome.

The next block, “Intermediality and Advertising”, lives up to its title and expands the volume’s perspective for it, opening with a piece by Kirsten Moana Thompson on the animated advertisement signs of Broadway and Times Square. Framing signage and cinema within a wider horizon of visual cultural forms, she explores the former’s liberal use of colour from the 1890s on. In the following chapter, Natalie Snoyman examines the Kodachrome McCall Colour Fashion News shorts, made between 1925 and 1928 in conjunction with the popular pattern magazine McCall’s. Once more, chromatic concerns are shown to transcend any one medium or industry, meeting in this instance at the intersections of film, fashion, and commerce. Returning to the reflexive function of applied colour, Federico Pierotti then draws parallels between advertising and 1920s French avant-garde films on the basis that they appeal to a visual culture predisposed to subjective, intense, and non-indexical techniques rather than inviting the more classical spectatorial tendencies that were then taking hold among cinemagoers.

The third section, “Archiving and Restoration: Early Debates and Current Practices” begins with Bregt Lameris’ chapter on the 1927 founding of the Ligue du noir et blanc – a group of young Parisian cinephiles that might easily be characterised as chromophobic for their opposition to natural colour systems. Instead, Lameris uncovers their long-overlooked place within a more complex debate about colour’s function and its potential to serve an artistic purpose beyond the mere imitation of reality. This comparatively brief section ends with Barbara Flueckiger, Claudy Op den Kamp, and David Pfluger’s overview of three University of Zurich-based research projects pertaining to the digitisation of early colour film material: “Timeline of Historical Film Colors”, “DIASTOR”, and “ERC Advanced Grant FilmColors”. As in D’hayere’s earlier discussion of Kodascope libraries, the issue of afterlives emerges as a concern here, albeit with a new urgency prompted by the developments and challenges of the digital turn. With technological limitations, the potential for obsolescence, practical issues, and ethical concerns all shown to impact upon approaches to digitisation and restoration, the trio insist upon the need for consistent and systematic practice in their field. Two brief roundtable abstracts from the 2015 EYE Filmmuseum event round off the collection, providing further welcome coverage of current archival policies and access policies.

Picking up perhaps the most common recurring thread from The Colour Fantastic, Street and Yumibe’s Chromatic Modernity again takes as a starting point the interrelationship between advertising and cinema. But this is by no means to bemoan any putative lack of originality; far from it. Rather, the pair’s assiduous, interdisciplinary approach to what has often been dismissed as little more than a transitionary decade for cinematic colour-usage results in an authoritative and necessary reconsideration of a long-mischaracterised period.

In short, Chromatic Modernity reads cinema within a broader 1920s “chromatic revolution”, granting it a central role in a vibrant set of cultural discourses involving art, colour science, and philosophy. Its focus encompasses American and European trends, with their cross-germinating intellectual formations and interlinked industrial trajectories serving as testament to the experimentation, exchange, and collaboration that governed modernist developments.

Rather than downplaying the intermedial exchanges of earlier days on the basis that this was a key decade of consolidation for Hollywood filmmaking as its own distinct art form, Street and Yumibe instead foreground them. In doing so, they stress a fundamental continuity of colour consciousness that united producers and consumers across multiple products and media. The period at hand played host to not only mounting interest in advertising science and public relations but also a drive to standardise the “meaning” of colour, in which fashion, interior design, advertising, and urban planning were all involved. In tracing these shifts and reconfigurations within the media landscape, Chromatic Modernity recovers an overlooked facet of the history of not only colour in cinema but a linked array of cultural series too.

Chapter One explores post-Great War efforts in codifying colour-usage through the various global companies and institutions that were then involved in trying to develop colourmetric standards. Unlike in later chapters, the focus here is firmly on industrial history, specifically the research endeavours of companies such as Eastman Kodak, Technicolor, and Pathé Frères. In practice the influence of this work turned out not to be as unidirectional as might be imagined; companies could not simply foist their findings upon consumers. Enlarged by mass media and increasingly judicious for it, the consuming public are shown to have had their own significant impact on the colour debate. Continuing the focus on standardisation efforts, Chapter Two then uncovers a wider effort to influence popular tastes, noting its profound impact upon the mass consumption ideologies of the 1920s. Colour became a mediating agent between hierarchical cultural practices – design, fashion, art – and, for it, being colour conscious became a means of negotiating modernity. Much as in the previous chapter, the fact that chromatic tendencies beyond those of filmmakers are examined at such length proves well justified, for they are all aspects integral to the history of the “revolution” at hand, having shaped its mores and guided its technological innovations. Nevertheless, these opening chapters together make clear the certain prominence that film did enjoy in this discourse. As well as being a focal point for experimentation, it was an inherently cosmopolitan medium – or so its advocates insisted. Its democratic and “universal” potential – a singular capacity for reaching mass audiences and engendering common experiences – made it sure to enact a particular sway over the day’s trends.

The following chapters touch upon concerns that recall somewhat those encountered in The Colour Fantastic. Chapter Three details contemporary developments in theatre lighting and colour-light displays, while also attesting to their lasting impact upon popular colour consciousness. Familiar discourses prompted experimentation in this domain; media were to be combined and audiences educated as to modern colour standards. Another artistic usage of colour provides the focus for Chapter Four. Avant-garde films, notable movements, and filmmaking sensibilities, many of them staples of the film-historical canon, are discussed but through their innovations in terms of chromatic style. Colour, argue Street and Yumibe, “was as important to the international formation of modernism as it was to industrial modernity” (149). A comparatively brief Chapter Five then examines hybridity and changing colour aesthetics through popular cinema. The examples used include The Ten Commandments (1923), The Phantom of the Opera (1925), and Cyrano de Bergerac (1925), along with a number of other films that combine multiple colour systems: tinting, toning, stencil colour, Handschiegl, Technicolor. Bringing a modernist, abstract sensibility to popular entertainment, such practice would prove largely unique to the silent era.

It is in these later chapters that one of the overarching themes of the volume emerges most forcefully: that filmmakers’ demands for new ways of creatively expressing themselves brought together concerns both industrial and affective and, in doing so, prompted new innovation in colour reproduction. For their final chapter, Street and Yumibe attempt to reconcile these elements against the landmark technological change of the 1920s: the widespread adoption of sound. Preferences in terms of technology also shifted around this time, as can be seen in the general decline of applied processes. And it is so – with the technical and cultural issues of this transitional moment in mind – that the pair lay their final claim as to film-historical importance of 1920s colour.

The Colour Fantastic and Chromatic Modernity are undoubtedly two significant contributions to their growing sub-field. Alongside their historicised analyses of the films at hand, these volumes together work to nuance the reductive and anachronistic doctrines of earlier film historiography. They promote a fastidious treatment of relevant key contexts, from aesthetic discourses and polemics to technological and cultural innovations. And yet, equally, they prove that insisting upon the complexity of this history and eschewing simple linear explanations is not to make it inaccessible to non-colour specialists – such is the profound impression of originality and scholarly necessity created by their consistently sophisticated argumentation and deftly articulated interventions.

Keeping Cinema’s Memory Alive in Hong Kong: An Interview with Bede Cheng, Managing Director at L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia

DOI 10.15664/fcj.v0i17.2066

In March 2019, Professor Dina Iordanova asked me to contribute to a dossier focusing on film archives in Asia. I was particularly thrilled by this project, which aims to highlight the history, work, and latest developments of archival organisations and film heritage institutions operating in Southeast Asia. Following the publication of the UNESCO Recommendation for the Safeguarding and Preservation of Moving Images (1980), this region has witnessed a boom in attention towards the safeguarding of cinema’s memory. Indeed, under the aegis of UNESCO and FIAF, several new film heritage institutions were established in the Asian region between the late 1980s and the 2000s, such as the Thai Film Archive (1984), the Hong Kong Film Archive (1993), the ABS-CBN Film Archives in the Philippines (1994), and the Singapore-based Asian Film Archive (2005), each mandated with the specific aim to protect its nation’s film heritage.[1]

With “classic films” establishing a thriving market in the long-tailed catalogues of VOD platforms and gaining visibility through the international film festival circuit, the preservation and restoration of Asian film heritage(s) has become an appealing target for media giants and film heritage institutions throughout the last decade. By fostering various forms of trans-regional and trans-continental co-operation, which is often necessary to retrieve the “original” copies – when they actually exist – of a film, the archival movement in this region bears further evidence of the essentially transnational history of cinema and film culture.

To investigate these and many other compelling issues, we have interviewed Bede Cheng who currently serves as Managing Director at the film restoration laboratory L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia. The interview provides an overview of Cheng’s personal voyage through the archival world, that includes valuable insights into an extremely rich field which is rapidly transforming under the challenges of competing interests (the national, the commercial and the cultural).

Figure 1: L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia: film cans

Andrea Gelardi (AG): Can you tell me about your educational background, and professional experience? How has your involvement in film archiving and curatorship emerged and evolved?

Bede Cheng (BC): I started off working for a Chinese language TV company, back in the day, in the 1990s, when I was living and attending college in San Francisco (California, USA). The company I worked for was a small, ethnic TV station catering to the Chinese community living in the US – if you have an idea of this kind of TV networks.

While I was working there, I continued cultivating my interest in films as well. So, I decided to enrol at a film school and, like many aspiring filmmakers, I thought I would make my film straight after. Looking back, this sounds kind of naïve of me. However, in those years I used to listen to a Chinese language radio programme, and once in a while it featured Lambert Yam, the owner of the San Francisco Chinatown’s film theatre, promoting the films shown at his cinema. At that time Lambert was a film distributor of Hong Kong films, representing the sellers in Hong Kong and distributing the films through a network of film theatres based in the various US Chinatowns. Eventually I got to know him and this was my formal introduction to the world of film industry.

In those years I developed a special interest in arthouse films, and so I decided to go to the University College of Los Angeles. During my university years, I was hired for a part-time job in a film theatre in Los Angeles that had just opened. My duty was to sell tickets and candies, then go upstairs and start the movie with the projector. After that, I’d come back to sell more candies and popcorn. After a while, I moved back to San Francisco to work for the World Theatre, where a lot of Hong Kong films were shown for the first time in North America. After the films were shown they were just left in the theatre. Though the World Theatre closed in the early 2000s, it played a very important role for Hong Kong films. Most of the Hong Kong films were repatriated from there to the Hong Kong Film Archive. In some cases, these were titles that were unavailable even in Hong Kong. I have also had the chance to work on movie sets, doing different jobs, like being assistant director and script supervisor on some action movies that were being shot in North America, such as Rumble in the Bronx (Stanley Tong, Hong Kong, 1995) and Once Upon a Time in China in America (Sammo Hung and Lau Kar-wing, Hong Kong / China, 1997). That is how I got to work in the film industry, but soon after I came to realise that I was more interested in non-mainstream cinemas and telling people about films.

When I moved back to Hong Kong, around 1997, I started working as assistant for the Hong Kong International Film Festival (HKIFF). On this occasion, I met Law Kai, a living encyclopaedia of Hong Kong cinema, and other programmers of the festival. In 2000, the Hong Kong Film Archive (HKFA) was founded, and since Law Kai was hired as Programmer-in-Chief, I got involved with the constitution of the local archive, where I worked until 2006. Since then, I continued working with the HKIFF until 2013, when I was hired as programmer to run an alternative festival: the Sundance Film Festival Hong Kong (SFFHK). The same year, Davide Pozzi from L’immagine Ritrovata in Bologna informed me that they were going to set up a restoration laboratory in Hong Kong to facilitate the restoration of films from the Asian region. In 2015, the L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia lab was established in Hong Kong, and I was appointed its director. I have worked there since then.

Figure 2: L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia: Lau Gladys repairing a film

AG: Did you have first-hand experience of the FIAF’s Summer Schools and, if this is the case, how seminal where they in your later career? The number of academic curricula and professional courses devoted to film restoration and conservation has slowly but significantly increased throughout the last twenty years. As an established professional in the field, what can you say about this fairly recent trend, and what do you deem as crucial in the education of a film archivist?

BC: Despite the terrible heat, my experience at the FIAF summer school in Bologna was very helpful for my current job at the L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia, particularly in terms of networking. The school was a chance to meet many people from different parts of the world, and working in the field was helpful for my future. I decided to attend the summer school for my personal interest and to learn something more about film restoration, even though my work as assistant for the HKIFF was not related at all with it. Today, I see lots of people with nothing to do with archival work, who are working in the film industry or in film distribution, that decide to apply for the FIAF summer schools on their own initiative.

In general, I believe that you need an all-round education to work in a film archive. You need to know about history, of course, because film archiving requires the knowledge of how films were made physically and distributed at a certain point in history. Personally, I think that the best way to know about cinema and its history is to see as many films as possible. Then, as film archivists, our mission is to attract new and young audience to the films of the past. Nowadays, my work is mostly dealing with people collecting old movies and often most of them ignore basic information such as the aspect ratio of a film or how it was made. In this sense, I think it would be good to have some background understanding of film archiving. For instance, in a film history course, it would be helpful to have a number of classes that give a walkthrough of film archiving so that students have a better idea of all the effort that it takes to keep a film alive – especially since many of the younger generation watch films on their iPhones or laptops.

Figure 3: L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia: Entrance Hall

AG: What are the specific processes carried out at the L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia laboratory? Does the laboratory store celluloid films? 

BC: Yes, here we do store films from our clients, and some people go crazy when they find out we have a film collection. We do have a film collection, because we always prefer to do the restoration from original negatives. We basically carry out one third of the whole restoration process which is the transfer from analogue to digital. We scan the films and turn them into digital files. Then we send them to Italy for further processing. So, that’s what we do here, and of course we have several workstations as well. This means we can do some minor adjustment work here. Some of our clients had made comments about the fact that they could not be involved in the restoration work. Therefore, we decided to set up some new workstations here in case the clients would like to see the developments or indicate eventual corrections with the light colour, for example.

Specifically, we handle the film, clean it, and check its integrity, because sometimes the original negatives were prepared very hastily to make the release deadlines. One thing that we do here is that we take out the tape that was on the original negative because it was processed into the inter-positive very quickly. This is because films from Hong Kong cinema are usually made in a very short time. We need to take the tape out because our scanner is very sensitive, and the tape would affect the scanning process. In the case of Hong Kong action movies, they were edited very heavily and we usually have films with an edit every three frames. It takes about a week to prepare a reel of let’s say one thousand feet [three hundred metres]. Scanning then takes about eight to ten hours for 4K resolution. A 2K scan is much shorter. Once it is digitised, it is sent to Bologna. We do our best to keep the original negative in our shelter here until the whole restoration process is completed. When we are sure that the negative won’t be necessary again it can be returned to the client.

Figure 4: L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia: view of the lightbox and the digital scanner

AG: Can you describe the administrative arrangements and the relationship between the L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia and the Fondazione Cineteca di Bologna? In terms of decision making, how is the Hong Kong laboratory accountable, and can it propose restoration projects? In this regard, could you provide any example from your own experience?

BC: The Foundation Cineteca di Bologna is our big boss of course. The laboratory was set up through funds by the Italian government that promoted and contributed financially to overseas business. However, we do not have much to do with the Foundation, administration-wise. Our clients are from Hong Kong, Taiwan, Philippines, Singapore, Korea and Japan. They can send the films directly here to be scanned, and they don’t need to send them all the way to Italy anymore. Davide Pozzi from L’Immagine Ritrovata in Bologna asked me to work here because of my connections in the film industry in Hong Kong and South East Asia, which I made while I was working at HKIFF. Yes, we can propose the restoration of films, of course, and I can also say that the Hong Kong Laboratory is very independent in a way. People in the industry know that I work here at the lab. I receive some proposals every now and then, and sometimes these end up being restoration projects.

Figure 5: L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia: view of the digital scanner

AG: With environmental hazards and natural disasters in mind, how do you plan the safeguarding of your physical and digital assets?

BC: We are based in a very old building, and there is not much we can do to modify the place. If we wanted to stick to all the protocols it would be extremely expensive, and we do not have enough space to fit all of the instruments. We keep the place cool though and do have a fire cabinet where we keep the nitrates because they can combust. We also have an alarm system that monitors the internal temperature in case something goes wrong.

AG: Do you cooperate with other local cultural institutions, such as universities, schools, and museums?

BC: We don’t have a long-term relationship with urban institutions at the moment, no. We sometimes have visits by Hong Kong University students, mostly from the Department of Film Studies, because lecturers want to show students what films actually look like. For the last two years, we have worked with Asian Film Awards Academy, which has some kind of internship to send people from Hong Kong to the L’Immagine Ritrovata in Bologna for about six weeks to learn about film restoration. I would jump on that if I could qualify. Actually, starting from 2020, the Hong Kong International Film Festival Society is going to collaborate with the Cineteca di Bologna to do a kind of miniature version of Il Cinema Ritrovato film festival here in Hong Kong. I think an organisation in Shanghai is planning something similar as well.

Figure 6: L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia: view of the quality control room

AG: The L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia works at the forefront of film restoration and conservation in Southeast Asia. How has the attention towards film preservation evolved in the Southeast Asian area? What are the main challenges film heritage institutions face in this region?

BC: Of course, our location has drawn more attention among people working in the film industry in this region. Film restoration was more a European and North American thing in the past. Now, I think that more people in Asia know the importance of this work and that film represents a form of national heritage. As someone who has lived in Hong Kong for most of his life, I think I know what Hong Kong films are worthy of being restored. For instance, a lot of film festivals around the world have people locally seeking what films should be shown. I see them all the time. They go around gathering information about what new films are being made, and then, maybe, the festival programmer flies over here to check out the films that the local consultant has spotted. I think in terms of film restoration, it can also be done in this way, with local consultants spotting what films are in need, and worthy, of being restored. However, it’s not just a matter of heritage but of money as well.

Film preservation is becoming a profitable business, particularly with new streaming platforms needing large amounts of content to fill up all their categories. Look at Netflix, for instance. Netflix is showing a lot of Hong Kong films made in the 1980s and 1990s, but once you click on the film you realise that the quality is not good. I think the streaming service would be ready to pay for better quality or to fund restoration projects. Distributors know that in order to sell a film to a streaming service they need to have a 4K version, because TVs and hardware are going to have a 4K resolution. Therefore, distributors need to scan and restore films in 4K. The economy and profits are the driving forces, even in this case. Local film studios are approaching us to do the scanning and carry out other processes because they know there is a market for old movies, and it is a “4K market”. For instance, we are currently working with the Criterion Collection right now to restore all of Wong Kar-Wai’s films. We have completed about two thirds of the work and are also contributing to locating the originals.

Figure 7: L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia: repair room

AG: For the restoration of Eric Khoo’s Mee Pok Man (1995), L’Immagine Ritrovata and L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia have cooperated with the Asian Film Archive in Singapore to preserve a fundamental tile in the wider mosaic of Asian film history. Can you tell us more about this project?

BC: Finding the right material is one of the main challenges for us, since a lot of original materials cannot be retrieved. Films from the 1980s, in particular, are not very well kept and are all over the place. It is difficult to find the negatives, and of course there are also problems with temperature and humidity. For instance, the films we retrieve from the Philippines are usually in very bad condition.

Vinegar syndrome and celluloid films sticking together are the most common issues we come across. Once, one of my colleagues got sick by opening one of the films. Now I know what the mummy’s curse is! Fungus, bacteria, and especially the mould, because it grows rapidly and has a complex organic structure. Films are made up of several layers of plastic, and the mould grows between the plastic layers. In these cases, there is nothing we can do but remove them digitally because you cannot tear the mould from the film.

Of course, the rights of films are kind of messy, because you do not know who owns them. Copyright issues are a major obstacle preventing films from getting restored. The Asian Film Archive (AFA) is one of our partners in the area. We started cooperating with AFA on the Mee Pok Man (Eric Khoo, 1995, Singapore) restoration project, and that was one of the first projects we scanned here at the lab. Though AFA is based in Singapore, it does not only restore Singaporean films. In fact, we are currently cooperating with them on a Sri Lankan film. We also cooperate with the ABS-CBN (Alto Broadcasting System-Chronicle Broadcasting Network) on the restoration of the cinema of Philippines. Actually, one of the good things about working here is that I get to know a lot of Asian cinemas that I have never heard about before. We did a lot of work on Philippine Cinema and it was a kind of discovery for me that this cinema in the 1970s was so good. Lino Brocka, Mike de León, Ishmael Bernal, and also commercial cinema is very well made.

AG: Do you cooperate with film heritage institutions based in the People’s Republic of China, such as the China Film Archive in Beijing?

BC: We have restored a number of films that were previously scanned in mainland China. It was a joint project with the Shanghai International Film Festival (SIFF), because we had carried out some restoration projects for them. SIFF had funding to restore one Chinese language film, and that is how John Woo’s A Better Tomorrow (Hong Kong, 1986) was restored. This year it was Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s Flowers of Shanghai (Taiwan, 1998). However, we have not cooperated with any Chinese film archive to  date.

Figure 8: L’Immagine Ritrovata Asia: quality control workstation

AG: Film festivals have increasingly become key nodes in the circulation of newly restored films. How do you see the trend influencing the field of film preservation and restoration? Do film festivals ever commission restoration projects?

BC: Every year we have films in Cannes Classics, Venice, the Berlinale, and most of the latest restorations from L’Immagine Ritrovata are premiered at festivals. Essentially, film festivals have always been launching pads for new films, but now they are launching pads also for new “old” films. For instance, the restored version of King Hu’s A Touch of Zen (Taiwan, 1975) was launched at the Cannes Classics section. Also, in the same year, Hou Hsiao-Hsien won the prize as Best Director for The Assassin (Taiwan, 2015), and so, it was a big year for Taiwan. This goes back to the point that a restored film is a kind of national pride. Of course, for Taiwan this is very important because their film market has always been marginalised by China within the international arena, and so, they have to do something to make themselves visible and also distinguish themselves from Chinese cinema.

Film is a very good medium to show one nation’s heritage to the rest of the world. In a way, this is an incentive for a nation to have films restored. And yes, film festivals do commission film restoration. This happens quite often, actually. The Udine Far East Film Festival has done two projects with us: Johnnie To’s Throw Down (Hong Kong, 2004) and Fruit Chan’s Made in Hong Kong (Hong Kong, 1997). The Shanghai Film Festival also commissioned us for the restoration of a few titles, including John Woo’s A Better Tomorrow (Hong Kong, 1986).

AG: The shift to digital distribution has changed the market for audiovisual products tout court, but how do you see it impacting and shaping the economy of film restoration? Has the digital turn effectively opened new ways to make cinema’s history accessible to wider audiences? 

BC: The digital platforms need to have content and widen their catalogues, not just with brand new films. They give old films, classic films, restored films a new channel to be distributed through. They have created a new market to cater for, and if there is a new market for old cinema then there is also a way to make more money out of it. This is another big incentive to restore films. This leads us to consider a problem that may come in the near future: bad practices in film restoration. Restoration is something that takes a long time, involves lots of effort, and is quite expensive. However, the increasing competition in the field of film restoration together with the growing demand for classic films is pushing companies to hasten the restoration process that tends to prioritise its outcome rather than its quality. People will just see the label “restored” on a film but won’t go through all the details of how bad or good that restoration actually is. All that people care about is looking at some shining image. They do not care about the frame rate or aspect ratio. Nowadays, audiences are used to films shot digitally, that are very comfortable to look at, and because of that, even filmmakers want their restored films to look equally clean and sharp.

I believe that, since there is not a standard for what a restored film should look like, this business risks following the false belief that a film should have a digital and comfortable look to satisfy audiences’ desires. I think that today the terms “restored” and “restoration” are being abused. Therefore, educating cinemagoers and people who love cinema about what a film restoration is should be key aim for our institutions.

AG: Do you agree that restoring and preserving cinema’s memory has become an effort that, these days, normally involves specialists and institutions from more than one country?

BC: This question leads me back to something I talked about at the beginning of this interview. A lot of Hong Kong films were distributed across the world and in Southeast Asia, so now if we want to reconstruct the history of this cinema we need to retrace the transnational circulation of these films and cooperate with institutions based in other countries. This is especially true for Hong Kong cinema from the 1980s and 1990s. We have restored films that were co-produced in the 1960s by South Korean and Hong Kong companies. At that time, the Shaw Brothers were hiring South Korean directors to shoot films in Hong Kong. So, nowadays, since the Korean Film Archive (KOFA) is trying to get these films back, they asked us to scan copies and carried out the actual restoration by themselves.

Notes
[1] Notable exceptions are the Sinematek Indonesia and the Bangladesh Film Archive, which are the first film archival organisations to be established in South East Asia, respectively in 1975 and 1978.

About the Interviewee
Bede Cheng
 started his media career in radio production in Hong Kong, and later worked in a variety of posts on film and television productions: assistant director, line-producer, script supervisor, and camera crew. Since 2002, he became involved with programming at the Hong Kong Film Archive, later as Programme Manager of the Hong Kong International Film Festival Society, and Senior Programme Manager of The Metroplex Cinema. He facilitated bringing in the inaugural edition of Sundance Festival to Hong Kong. He is currently the Managing Director of L’lmmagine Ritrovata Asia, the Hong Kong-based branch of the film Italian restoration laboratory.

About the Interviewer
Andrea Gelardi is a PhD Candidate at the Department of Film Studies of the University of St Andrews. Funded by the AD Links Foundation and the Russell Trust, his research focuses on the history, politics and economy of the Cineteca di Bologna, tracing the relationship between film institutions’ practices and world cinema historiographic developments. His work has been published in Excursions, Alphaville and Imago and he collaborates with specialised journals like Cinergie, Frames Cinema Journal and Studies in European Cinema.

Thai Cinema: The Complete Guide

Edited by Mary J. Ainslie and Katarzyna Ancuta
I.B. Tauris, 2018
Reviewed by Forrest Pando, University of St Andrews
DOI 10.15664/fcj.v0i17.2059

The fluorescent pink, blue, orange, and yellow of the cover are the first things to catch the eye of the reader of Thai Cinema: The Complete Guide. The front cover’s kinetic presentation of actor Tony Jaa mid flying-knee in front of an ornamented building helps to frame the ensuing introduction in which co-editors Mary J Ainslie and Katarzyna Ancuta describe Thai cinema’s explosive rise to international recognition in the early 2000s. The Complete Guide comprises ten chapters, which take readers from the beginning of Thai cinema in 1919, when the first “foreign shadows” were projected onto buildings, to the international success of independent Thai film directors in the 2010s. Between introductions to critical modes and movements, contributors review key films from these time periods and give them further context. This structure allows for a throughline which gives the reader a historical understanding of film’s trajectory in Thailand and its key figures. What is in store for those drawn in by the topic is an exploration into the history and production of Thai film provided by leading experts in their fields. The Complete Guide delivers an eclectic approach to a multi-faceted film culture and history.

As promised by the front cover, the introduction highlights how Muay Thai film’s international success launched Thai cinema into the global spotlight at the turn of the century. Ainslie and Ancuta go on to explain the intricacies of Thai cinema’s history that could be difficult for a Western audience to grasp. For example, they address the prevalence of films a Western audience might consider genre and tonal mash-ups, as well as inconsistencies in director names and film titles between posters, end credits, and IMDB credits due to variations in phonetic spellings. Within the introduction, the co-editors express their regrets for not being able to include certain genres due to word count limitations. This is at odds with the title of the book, Thai Cinema: A Complete Guide. Despite this, their acknowledgement of this shortcoming and the care and consideration they gave to what was included speaks volumes to the editors’ passion for and advocacy of Thai cinema.

In its first chapter, the book introduces ten key directors from throughout Thai cinema’s history. Though informative, the reader has yet to have been introduced to a chronology of Thai cinema and therefore has no reference points with which to place these directors. One might wonder if this section could have benefitted from having been towards the end of the book as a glossary of key directors. This section’s placement, as it stands, disrupts the linear flow of the following chapters.

Thai Cinema: The Complete Guide feels most at home as a companion for someone who watches a Thai film, becomes intrigued, and would like to follow that interest as far as they can. A good example of this would be if someone found Thai cinema through Ong-Bak (Prachya Pinkaew, 2003) and read this book for deeper insight and a sense of the relevant cultural connotations. Through reading Daniel Martin’s film review and contextualisation, the reader would have a clearer understanding of the film’s themes in relation to Thai national identity. Martin calls attention to parallels between the film and Thai life. Jaa’s character, Ting, battles in a secret fight club surrounded by an entirely foreign audience. Martin explains how this echoes Thai film’s underdog attempt to achieve international appeal while coming up against the reigning ubiquity of Hong Kong action films. Foregrounding cultural context for the reader gives them a better understanding of the film and the surrounding history.

The Complete Guide can also be helpful when coming up against difficulties with a particular film due to an absence of subtitling. In my efforts to view Dang Bireley’s and Young Gangsters (Nonzee Nimibutr, 1997), a film the book recognises as invaluable to the history of Thai Cinema, I found it nearly impossible to access. When I finally did find a version I could stream online, it was peppered with ads which took up more time than the actual film and did not have English subtitles. The Complete Guide calls attention to this lack of accessibility while giving readers a roadmap of Thai Cinema, both historical and contemporary. I was able to get a general sense of what was going on within the film and the reviewer’s insight acted as a contextual map for my viewing experience. The book enabled me to watch this cornerstone in Thai cinema without feeling as if its historical importance and story were lost on me.

The bulk of the book’s structure relies on introduction to the historical context for a film mode or genre given by a relevant scholar. In a “show, don’t tell” fashion, additional scholars continue to flesh out that history through a recounting of a film’s plot, production, and critical reception. Despite the inaccessibility of many of these films, the format of the chapters makes learning about a genre or mode very easy. The Complete Guide quickly paints a broad-strokes picture of the first seventy years of Thai film. An example of this in action is Ainslie’s review of Ngu Phi (Ratana Saetthaaphakdee, 1966), a horror film about a supernatural woman who can transform into a snake. Ainslie interprets the film’s symbology by contextualising Thai anxieties about pervasive encroachment of American ideals and culture into their society and the embodiment of that through the social mobility of women post war. Ainslie touches on the cultural and historical context wrapped up in Ngu Phi’s production and explains why the film is a touchstone in Thai cinema’s history. The next film review, on Pisat Saneha (Pan Kam, 1969), is also written by Ainslie, and it further explains the ubiquity of the supernatural in Thai cinema and, more broadly, Thai culture. The reviews speak to each other clearly and allow a broader comprehension of the cultural and historical context of entire movements or genres.

The final two-thirds of the book feature eight chapters, which focus on the nearly twenty-year span from 1997 to 2014: New Thai Cinema, Heritage, Horror, Action, Romantic Comedy, Queer Cinema, Animation, and Independent Cinema. Similar to the early Thai Cinema section, each chapter consists of an introduction followed by reviews that give cultural context and production insight for each film. This reviewer was particularly interested in the section on independent Thai cinema, as I am well acquainted with Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s readily available work. It was exciting to learn about Weerasethakul combating censorship in Thailand as well as his pursuits to support other Thai independent directors. Philippa Lovatt’s effective introduction to independent Thai cinema suggests an optimistic future while grounding Thai independent cinema in its common aesthetic traits. A particular moment of clarity occurs at the end of Natalie Boehler’s review of Uncle Boonme Who can Recall His Past Lives (Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 2009), where she writes “…several scenes and characters … refer to Thai melodrama and ghost movies of the 1960s, as well as to pop culture of more recent eras”. I was able to grasp Boehler’s references as they were pieces of information I picked up throughout my reading of the other scholarly reviews and introductions in The Complete Guide. This was a moment when the book’s throughline came together for this reviewer, and the promise of a “complete” guide began to feel warranted.

The Complete Guide is an absolute must for anyone interested in learning more about the cinematic history of Thailand. The pedigree of scholars involved, the depth of film history and knowledge distilled, and the care and passion that clearly went into this book make it a cornerstone for further academic endeavours into Thai cinema.