Interviewees in David Hoffman’s new film, Sputnik Mania, compare the launch of the Russian satellite, Sputnik, to “the discovery of America,” “the first shot at Lexington and Concord,” and “the second coming of Christ.” Scott Hubbard, of NASA describes it as “one of those moments in history when all of a sudden all of your thought processes changed.”

When the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, “the first man made object ever to leave the atmosphere and successfully orbit the earth” on October 4th 1954, America reacted with fervor (Sputknikmania.com). It was the height of the cold war and this bold display of Soviet strength struck terror in the hearts of political and military strategists who saw in the rocket “an intercontinental ballistic missile that could potentially carry a nuclear bomb.” On the Monday following Sputnik’s launch, “political and military leaders appeared in print, on the radio and on TV, telling [the American people] that Sputnik was a threat to [their] security [and] that it was launched as an aggressive attack.” Sputnik, they said, was “the first shot in a cold war that could quickly become very hot” (Sputnik Mania).

The film, released as part of a year- long program commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the satellite’s launch, draws upon archival footage and interviews with key figures from the Sputnik era, including individuals from NASA, The Jet Propulsion Lab and NPR. Key insights into the Soviet view are provided by Sergei Kruschev, son of the Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev, who lead the Soviet Union in the years after Sputnik’s launch.

Sputnik Mania deftly portrays the launch of the rocket and key events in the year that followed. The film’s emphasis however, is not upon historical detail. Hoffman is concerned less with relating the exactitudes of the technological and political developments represented by Sputnik, than by conveying the “spectacular” dimensions of this event and the transformative effect it had upon Americans’ worldview.

In Cultures in Orbit, Lisa Parks describes the ways in which vision has been transformed by the satellite. She uses the term “televisual” to describe not only “the technical apparatus or popular pleasures of broadcasting,” but also, and more significantly, the “different structures of the imaginary and/ or epistemological structures that have radiated from and taken shape around the medium over its history”(12).

The launch of Sputnik grossly undermined Americans’ sense of security and superiority. Life magazine described the launch as a “devastating blow to the prestige of the United States” and a man interviewed on a nightly news program expressed confusion, asking, “Where is our pride? Where are we? Why don’t we have a satellite up there?” Senator Lyndon B Johnson himself lamented, “Soon the Russians will be dropping bombs on us from space like kids dropping rocks from freeway overpasses.”

America hurried to catch up with the Soviets and launch its own satellite. It was like salt in a wound when a much-anticipated launch at Cape Canaveral in December failed. Sputnik Mania’s narrator Liev Schreiber relates, “It took just seven seconds to set back a nation’s pride.”

Hoffman depicts two distinct though not unrelated sides to the American reaction to Sputnik. Many were struck with fear, of annihilation or at least of the triumph of the “godless communists.” Hoffman explains that “fear changed people” and notes that “Hollywood and our office of civil defense fed this fear.” Montages in Sputnik Mania attest to the proliferation of apocalypse films, and clips from government advertisements include messages recommending that individuals “build shelters and build them right [away].”

However, Hoffman suggests that there was also a positive side to the post- sputnik psyche. He details the evolution of “space culture,” including the composition of “satellite songs” by popular musicians and the establishment of the Rocket Boys club. Hoffman suggests that there was a feeling of liberation (The New York Times announced, “Soviet scientists have launched a symbol of man’s liberation from the forces which have hitherto bound him to earth.”) and a renewed curiosity in the world beyond one’s backyard.

Parks provides a critical framework for understanding the two- sided and apparently contradictory nature of the emergent social and psychological state. She writes of the “dialectic of distance and proximity” which has emerged in the age of the satellite and describes the propagation of a “structure of feelings that enables an experience of simultaneous connection and separation”(174). Parks suggests that the satellite engenders an “anxious disorientation” and a feeling of “pleasurable remote control,” as well as a “desire for the presence of the absent other.”

Sputnik Mania arrives fifty years after the launch of Sputnik but only six years after the destruction of the World Trade Center towers on 9/11. Hoffman does not address parallels between the two historical moments explicitly. When asked about this choice he said, “Am I going to talk about the present? I’m never going to mention it. But I’m going to make a drama about 50 years ago that everyone of you is going to connect to today.”

Hoffman is successful in suggesting these connections without stating them plainly. One cannot help but think of George Bush warning America about the threat of Weapons of Mass Destruction as you watch a clip in which a 1950s political leader says to his constituency, “Lets not fool ourselves. This may be our last chance to secure the means to save our nation from annihilation.”

In an interview with San Francisco Chronicle reporter, Steven Winn, Hoffman reflected upon our reaction to 9/11 and made a distinction between the two moments in history. He said, “Recently its just been fear, fear, fear. I think that the more inspirational side that characterized the space race… has completely gone missing” (San Francisco Chronicle, October 3, 2007).

Reflecting upon Hoffman’s statement, I am led to wonder if there are in fact any “Rocket Boys” in the post 9/11 era. If there were, who would they be? Is there a still a possibility for a “structure of feelings that enables an experience of simultaneous connection and separation”(174) or does George Bush preclude the possibility of this dialectic as he “audaciously declares to the global community [and to the American people], 'you’re either with us or against us!'" (Parks,178)?

References:

Hoffman, David, Sputnik Mania, 2007.
Hoffman, David, Global Media Lab, Watson Institute, April 23, 2008
Parks, Lisa, "Cultures in Orbit (Satellites and the Televisual," Duke University Press, 2005.
Winn, Steven, "On the waves Sputnik I continues to make 50 years later," San Francisco Chronicle, October 3, 2007.

Posted by Megan Billman at 01:12 PM | Permalink

Willem Van Lancker - Film Review "The Battle of Algiers"

First released in 1966, "The Battle of Algiers," written and directed by Italian filmmaker Gillo Pontecorvo, is an historical epic based on the events of the Algerian War opposing French rule from 1954-1962. The film highlights the themes of cultural misunderstanding, terrorism, torture, and counter-insurgency on a level that had not been witnessed previously in the film world. Its effectiveness in connecting with all sides, not just one face of the revolution, has lent the film a longevity and relevance for generations.

The film opens up on one of its many protagonists, Ali La Pointe. La Pointe is depicted as an illiterate, petty criminal, who later rises to the top of the Algerian Independence movement, the FLN (National Liberation Front). From the onset of the film, Pontecorvo demonstrates the tension between the native Algerians and the ‘pieds-noir,’ the white European settlers. Ali is arrested minutes into the film for punching a white Frenchman who trips him in the street. He is sent to the infamous Barberousse prison where he is recruited by the FLN.

The film is by and large a visualization of the conflict during the Battle of Algiers, Algeria’s capital city, as well as the exposure of the organization of the rebel Algerians and the introduction of the French paratroopers. Using the “European District” and the Casbah as two separate and distinct regions of the city, Pontecorvo depicts the entire Algerian conflict in the context of the city.

The struggle initiates with numerous attacks on French police officers which escalate with each side trading blows. Following the murder of several police officers, the French army forms a ghetto in the Casbah. Later, Algerian women place bombs in public places in the Euro-quarter only to see retaliation by French civilians who mistakenly destroy the wrong man’s home in the Casbah. This back and forth narrative creates a view of the struggle that does its best not to be a romanticized version of the cause for one side or the other.

Given the film’s realist cinematography, many initial viewers actually believed that the film was a documentary and not a reenactment of events. Pontecorvo, in the interest a strong screenplay, took many of history’s actual players and synergized them into singular or cause driven characters. The first example is the depiction of Colonel Mathieu. In reality, Mathieu is a conglomeration of several French military leaders including General Massu and Colonel Bigeard who both played critical roles in France’s military strategy in Algiers. In doing this Pontecorvo was able to use Mathieu to represent the institution of the French Army and, on a broader scale, Colonialism. His suave, genteel manner underscored his judiciousness with the press. His beliefs and dialogue in the film provide an important commentary on how the French empire operated its Algerian colony. On the other side of the conflict, Pontecorvo utilized several significant figures. The film begins and ends with Ali La Pointe who is recreated rather precisely as a petty thief that rises through the ranks of the FLN, representing the “everyman” of the Algerian people. Furthermore, Ali represents the force of the FLN, the branch that believes victory will only be achieved through violent assaults on the French. His counter persona is portrayed in Larbi Ben M’hidi, the voice of political rational thought for the FLN. Pontecorvo uses M’hidi to convey the tenets that a revolutionary group must hold close in order to achieve victory. The final protagonist for the FLN is the character, El-hadi Jafar. Jafar was played by his real-life counterpart, FLN leader Saadi Yacef. Having an actual member of the FLN provides the film a unique glimpse into the bona fide world of the Algerian rebels.

Pontecorvo’s lack of a singular protagonist is uncharacteristic of the historical epic genre. However, it is supremely effective in fashioning a mood of detachment within a conflict of larger ideas and players, the FLN and the French rulers. This nonaligned status plays throughout all facets of the filming and score. In whichever of the bombing scenes either side endures, the score is identical, highlighting the verity that their evils are equal and inseparable.

As the film winds down, the French army is able to isolate and eradicate the several braches of the FLN. Finally, with the assassination of its leaders, thus removing the ‘head’ of the FLN organization, they render it lifeless. The film concludes with a post-script depicting the riots and protests of thousands of Algerians. In this final chorus, the narrator dictates that even though the paratroopers ‘won’ the Battle of Algiers, the people did not give up. The inevitable demise of the colony was finally realized as the French were forced to pull out of Algeria after many violent conflicts with the natives.

At the surface this film can be interpreted as an important perspective on one of the bloodiest revolutions in history but it is clear that Pontecorvo sought to present numerous themes for deliberation in this film.

One of the most noteworthy of these themes is the interaction between Ali La Pointe and Larbi Ben M’hidi. This discourse, on a roof of a building in the Casbah, sheds light on nothing less than the philosophy of revolution. Ali, a hard-nosed character set on violence, is admonished by M’hidi that though terrorism is an effective fire-starter of a uprising, it cannot sustain a revolution. M’hidi is convinced that “acts of violence don’t win wars. Neither wars nor revolutions. Terrorism is useful as a start. But the, the people themselves must act. That’s the rationale behind this strike: to mobilize all Algerians, to assess our strength.” This speech, reiterate by the people’s revolt at the film’s conclusion, is a central lesson to be taken from this film from the rebel’s perspective; nothing can be accomplished solely through violent insurrection.

On Colonel Mathieu’s side of the conflict, he is coming under fire from the international and French press because of his use of torture tactics to unearth the leaders of the FLN cells. Here, Pontecorvo opens an important discussion around torture which is especially relevant to our country’s present situation in Guantanamo Bay and Iraq. He argues that his troops are not engaging in “torture” but instead, interrogation that is producing results, something the courts are not doing. When pressed by a journalist, who asserts that following the law is often inconvenient but that it is still the law, he cites that the Algerian’s propensity for exploding bombs in public places is not respecting the law, so why should the Army obey the law in pursuing the enemy. He goes on to elaborate that if the French people really want to stay in Algeria that these are the sacrifices that will have to be made. This discussion is one that also helps force the viewer of the film to maintain a neutral outlook on the situation; everywhere you focus, they are fighting an eye for an eye.

This film’s staying power is largely due to the fact that unlike most historical epics, it does not take sides. It is the essence of a ‘plastic’ film; all parties can relate. The film has been utilized as a training video for liberation groups such as the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) and the Provisional Irish Republican Army as a guide on tactics of guerrilla urban warfare and insurgent terrorism. Other groups and thinkers also have cited the film as important, including the Black Panthers, Andreas Baader, leader of the German Red Army Faction, and the United States government.

Connecting this film’s significance to the present is extremely simple, what is more difficult is attempting to read into what it implies for our current situation in Iraq. When the US Pentagon screened the film in 2003, it released it with a flyer, “How to win a battle against terrorism and lose the war of ideas.” In the film, the French were able to overthrow the uprising in Algiers but lost positive public opinion, which eventually crushed their efforts to maintain their colony. Paralleling France’s use of paratroopers in Algiers, America’s “surge” today in Iraq is doing its job, but at what cost? Are we creating a generation of Iraqis, and on a larger scale Arabs, that resent the presence of an occupational American power? The sad truth is that the writing is on the wall and it seems that the United States government is fully prepared to simply let history repeat itself. Could this be why the French were so vehemently opposed to our invasion of Iraq? It is clear that "The Battle of Algiers," not only provided important commentary on the specific incident of French Algeria but also provokes a discussion of how we will approach cultural tension, terrorism, and counter-insurgency in the 21st century.

References:
The Battle of Algiers. Dir. Gillo Pontecorvo. 1967. Screened, 1 Apr. 2008. Brown University, Watson Institute Occupation/Liberation/Collaboration Film Series.

"The Battle of Algiers." Rialto Pictures. 5 Apr. 2008 .

Lecture: Barrymore Bogues, Professor of Africana Studies. Konstantinos Kornetis, Professor of History. Reda Bensmaia, Professor of French Studies. James Der Derian, Professor of International Relations. Watson Institute. The Battle of Algiers: Discussion. Joukowsky Forum, Brown University, Providence RI. 1 Apr. 2008.

Posted by Willem Van Lancker at 10:00 AM | Permalink

Ben Mishkin
INTL1800N: Global Media
Film Review: Enemy of the State

According to a September 2007 report by the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), we are on the verge of entering an era of complete surveillance: “It’s six minutes before midnight as a surveillance society draws near in the United States…we confront the possibility of a dark future where our every move, our every transaction, our every communication is recorded, compiled, and stored away, ready for access by the authorities whenever they want.” Those with access to the tools of surveillance have accumulated unprecedented power as the watchful gaze of the camera follows us everywhere in public life. The 1998 film Enemy of the State explores the creeping totality of the surveillance society. It goes beyond the conclusion of the ACLU report and finds that we have already crossed the midnight mark. The idea of a surveillance society is not a piece of science fiction or some future possibility, but rather the reality of the present. In presenting this harrowing portrait, the film also critiques the surveillance society by challenging the primary justification for increased surveillance, underscoring the potential abuse of the tools of surveillance, and disputing the basic assumption that images represent absolute truth. However, despite these criticisms, the film ultimately suggests that the surveillance society is inescapable.

At the most basic level, Enemy of the State effectively captures the all-surrounding nature of the modern surveillance society. Watching the film, the viewer is bombarded with cameras, surveillance technology, and satellite images at every turn. This barrage of images reinforces the central message over and over again: the camera is always watching. This cinematic technique is strikingly similar to the photographic tactic that Frank Thiel employs in his 1997-99 work, City TV (Berlin). In this series, Thiel presented 101 photographs of surveillance cameras to emphasize the predominance of video control in the public sphere. As Sabine Himmelsbach explains: “The focus on the cameras themselves imparts a notion of totality. The repetition of the pictorial motif intensifies the statement. The cameras are found everywhere…The large number of silent observers conveys a sense of total surveillance.” Along the same line, we witness the watchful gaze of the camera at every step in Enemy of the State. From the two-minute montage of satellite images, car chase footage, and video cameras that opens the film (see above) to the hidden cameras in Robert Dean’s home at the end, the viewer is presented with a world that is under constant surveillance.

The viewer also finds a strong critique of the primary justification for expanding the reach of surveillance technology. As James Der Derian argues in his September 1990 article, “The (S)pace of International Relations: Simulation, Surveillance, and Speed,” the tools of surveillance instill international actors with considerable power: “The modern panopticism takes many forms, but it is the communications intelligence…electronic intelligence…radar intelligence...telemetry intelligence…and photointelligence…all operating under the 22,300 mile-high roof of technical intelligence…that constitute a new regime of power in international relations.” States recognize the strategic importance of surveillance in the international arena and often invoke the notion of national security to justify the expansion of surveillance powers. Most recently, we have seen this argument put forward in the wake of the September 11th attacks, with the USA Patriot Act and calls for increased wiretapping authority. From this perspective, a bit more surveillance and a little less privacy are the keys to individual safety.

The film contests this line of reasoning both directly and indirectly. On one level, the plot of the film highlights the pitfalls of too much surveillance and stresses the national security vs. civil liberties debate. Government surveillance may bolster national security to some extent, but it also opens the door for potential misuse and the erosion of personal privacy. On another level, the film subtly challenges the national security justification by having the “bad guys” espouse this argument. For instance, at the beginning of the film, Brian Reynolds (Special Advisor to the NSA Deputy Director of Operations) claims that, “we’re at war 24 hours of every day” in order to convince Congressman Hammersley to support the surveillance-friendly Telecommunications, Security, and Privacy Act. When Congressman Hammerseley responds with the assertion that, “national security’s not the only thing going on in this country” and refuses to support the bill, Reynolds has him killed. Similarly, it is the adulterous Congressman Albert who goes on television to argue that the “tens of millions of foreign nationals living within our borders…[who] consider the United States their enemy” are reason enough to expand surveillance measures. In the end, Enemy of the State cautions the viewer to be wary of the national security argument and raises doubts about the government’s capacity to limit its use of surveillance technology.

Along the same line, the question of whether we can really trust those with access to the tools of surveillance to not abuse their power is also central to the film. Once again, the plot of the film makes clear that the answer to this question is a resounding “no.” Enemy of the State is a story of the utter misuse of this technology and a cautionary tale about the risks of widespread government surveillance. In the film, loving wife and ACLU lawyer Carla Dean acts as the primary voice for these concerns. She challenges the idea that the government will only snoop on suspected wrongdoers (“Oh, I know. We’ll just tap the criminals. We won’t suspend the civil rights of the good people. [But] who decides which is which?”) and questions the capacity for objective oversight (“Who’s going to monitor the monitors of the monitors?”). If, as Astrit Schmidt-Burkhardt suggests, cameras, computers, and satellites have indeed taken on the role of the “divine eye” and “the almighty function of control,” we must ask ourselves whom, if anyone, we want playing God.

The film also disputes the fundamental assumption that the picture does not lie. According to James Der Derian, there is an “aura of representational truth that surrounds the image.” Surveillance is an effective information-gathering tool precisely because the image is viewed to be the ultimate representation of reality. Enemy of the State, however, emphasizes that images can often be misleading. For example, the FBI photographs of Robert at Pintero’s place insinuate that Robert has mafia connections that do not exist. Similarly, when Carla sees the photographs of Robert and Rachel Banks together in the park, she assumes that Robert is lying and having another affair when that is not the case at all. Finally, donning a police officer uniform towards the end of the film, Brill makes the FBI agents think that Reynolds and his cronies have kidnapped and bloodied a cop. The film takes yet another jab at the idea of a surveillance society by undermining the very foundation upon which this reality is built.

In the end, though, Enemy of the State suggests that there is no escape from the surveillance society. Time and time again the film reinforces the message that we are trapped in this state. While some may argue that Brill is able to escape, he only does so as a social outcast who follows strict rules to avoid the watchful gaze of the camera. His description of his workplace as “unplugged from the world” perfectly sums up his position. In order to escape the surveillance society, he must abandon all notions of normality and constantly live on the periphery. This lifestyle is hardly an appealing alternative for most people. Even those who control the tools of surveillance fall victim to its power. After following Robert’s every move throughout the film, these men ultimately have the camera’s gaze turned back onto them. In addition, the film (through Brill’s words) proposes an intriguing explanation for the inability to escape the surveillance society: “the more technology you use, the easier it is for them to keep tabs on you.” As long as we fawn over the newest technology, we continue to enhance the power of the surveillance society. Overall, the film makes clear that, despite its many flaws, the surveillance society is a reality that is not going away any time soon.

Works Cited:

Stanley, Jay and Barry Steinhardt. “Even Bigger, Even Weaker: The Emerging Surveillance Society: Where Are We Now?” American Civil Liberties Union. September 2007. http://www.aclu.org/privacy/spying/31846pub20070917.html. 4.

Himmelsbach, Sabine. “Frank Thiel.” In CTRL [SPACE]: Rhetorics of Surveillance from Bentham to Big Brother. Edited by: Ursula Frohne, Thomas Y. Leviin, and Peter Weibel. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2002. 136.

Der Derian, James. “The (S)pace of International Relations: Simulation, Surveillance, and Speed.” International Studies Quarterly. Vol. 34, No. 3304 (September 1990). 304-305.

Enemy of the State. Dir. Tony Scott. Perfs. Gene Hackman, Will Smith. Touchstone Pictures, 1998. DVD. Touchstone Home Video, 1999.

Schmidt-Burkhardt, Astrit. In CTRL [SPACE]: Rhetorics of Surveillance from Bentham to Big Brother. Edited by: Ursula Frohne, Thomas Y. Leviin, and Peter Weibel. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2002. 31.

Posted by Ben Mishkin at 12:20 AM | Permalink

In Peter Weir’s “The Truman Show,” Jim Carrey plays Truman Burbank, a friendly insurance salesman who is married to a sweet-as-pie woman, Meryl (Laura Linney). The seemingly happy couple lives in the town of Seahaven, a perfect setting, where lays row after row of pastel-colored houses, with manicured lawns and friendly neighbors. But such perfection has been achieved not through normal societal development, but rather has been entirely fabricated for the purpose of a television show. In fact, Seahaven is the largest set ever built, a sort of dome where everything has been perfectly reproduced to look like the picture of an iconic American town, and in which every citizen is in fact an actor playing a part on “The Truman Show.” Every citizen, that is, except for Truman, who is the star of the world’s most popular television show of all time, unbeknownst to him.

The film opens on day 10, 909 of Truman’s life, a day which is about to offer him the first clue that the world he lives in is not all it seems to be when a cinema light suddenly falls from the sky, apparently coming from nowhere. But the 5,000 cameras that have been installed in Seahaven by Christof (Ed Harris)—the creator and “televisionary” of The Truman Show—continue to take us along Truman’s journey as more clues unravel, until he soon realizes that he is indeed trapped in a world that is deprived of reality and in which he can trust no one.

But as a member of the audience, it is almost unavoidable to see how Truman’s difficult journey toward finding the truth eerily echoes the culture of fear that is part of today’s society, guiding the decisions of most, and leading us to either overreact to problems which we face or—as is the case for Truman— to simply live undisturbed for 30 years rather than search the truth even if it means facing its painful reality. Indeed, when Lauren (Natascha McElhone ) confronts Christof and accuses him of having imprisoned Truman in this fake world, Christof responds that “Truman prefers his cell” and that it is simply fear that has kept Truman from really finding his own truth. Simply resigned to our fate, and not wanting to challenge our lives, Christof points out that “we accept the reality of the world with which we are presented.” In many ways, this televisionary is right: most pursue the possibilities that are offered them and which appear to be the safest, because they also are the easiest.

The culture of fear that exists for Truman in Seahaven innocently begins when he is only a schoolboy and when, in all the vigor and enthusiasm of his youth, he proudly announces to his schoolteacher and classmates that, like the great Magellan, he will be an explorer when he grows up. Swiftly, his matronly teacher pulls down a map of the world and promptly proceeds to discourage this young soul with the words: “You’re too late! There’s really nothing left to explore.” Indeed, the colored map of the world, already chartered, compartimentalized and categorized, serves as one of the first “proof” given to Truman that he should abandon any ideas of freeing his self, and discovering his own soul.

Not long after we first meet Truman, he seems to be, more than ever before, ready to finally break free of his world. But carefully planted elements in the town of Seahaven only further serve to strengthen his fear of the world. The fear of open waters has been implanted in his mind by Christof, who created the scenario of Truman’s father drowning when Truman was only a boy. Therefore, a carefully placed sunk boat is enough for Truman to cancel his trip away from the island, on a small ferry. But Christof’s manipulation goes further. When Truman attempts to book a flight to Fiji, we see a poster in the travel agent’s office that depicts a plane being struck by a lightning, with the caption: “It could happen to you!” When Truman finally drives across the bridge that leads away from his town—with the reluctant help of his wife—and heads into the distance, we see roadside panels gravely cautioning: “Forest fire warning! Extreme danger!” At that moment, it is hard not to feel that we, like Truman, are trapped in a world of chronic alarms—even if ours have largely been color-coded from green to red.

But by now, Truman has figured out the truth about his word: although he does not understand the reason why, he knows that his world is being controlled and manipulated, and that the residents of the town are “on a loop,” going around the block in a specific order, such as the lady on a bike, the person with flowers, and the Volkswagen Beettle with a dented fender, all of which keep reappearing in this sequence behind the driveway of his home. Truman finally realizes that these human puppets are only playing the roles of normal citizens, and he decides to no longer live in this manipulated world if it means he is not experiencing truth.

Although Truman plans various escapes, his attempts are frustrated by the creator of The Truman Show. When he determinedly walks in to the travel agent’s office to book a flight to Fiji—the farthest place he can dream of going—he is told that no flights are available for at least a month. He then buys a seat for a bus ride to Chicago only to find out that the bus will not budge, until it is announced that there is a mechanical failure that will prevent the trip from proceeding. Truman then finds himself driving away from Seahaven, through the forest fires that miraculously appear right in front of his car, until he is tackled by the police for attempting to pass through an area that has been sealed off due to a “nuclear accident.” Brought back by the police to his home, Truman is once more put in his “cell,” the place from which we can better watch him.

Indeed, Truman’s hometown of Seahaven is used by Christof as a sort of Panopticon, a place in which the audience can observe Truman’s every move, but from which Truman can never see his audience, even if he can “feel” them, or senses being watched. Director Peter Weir chose the architecture of the urban development of Seaside, Florida, in order to portray Seahaven, a place that is drenched in insufferable predictability and “niceness.” The traditional neighborhood design of Seaside enabled Weir to create the perfect studio setting of Seahaven, being sufficiently small and quaint to allow Truman to have a contained life that could be filmed and easily followed by Christof’s cameras. Many of the outdoor scenes were shot on location at Seaside, as were the scenes filmed in Truman’s home. Although the architecture is wildly different from that used by Terry Gilliam in his film “Brazil,” we can still find in Weir’s world the Orwellian quality that was present in “Brazil.” Although both worlds are manipulated and controlled by a higher authority, Gilliam uses the help of fascist architecture to represent this oppression, while Weir uses the sweeter aspect of new urbanism in order to achieve a similar feeling of imprisonment. But in using a seemingly more “friendly” architecture in his set design, Weir succeeds in bringing this Orwellian world closer to our reality.

Just like Brazil’s protagonist, Truman’s deeper need to escape his world eventually prevails, and after his previously futile attempts to leave Seahaven, he finally plans the perfect getaway, being able to fool his surveillants so that he may reach—undetected at first—the sailboat which will take him to the end of Seahaven’s “perfect world” and in to freedom. After braving his deepest fear, that of drowning, and after storm and sun, Truman finally hits the wall of the studio, a beautifully painted mural of a false horizon. As Truman reaches the final exit door of Seahaven’s set, Christof reaches out to him for the first time ever, and his voice resonates through the studio as if he were God: “There’s no more truth out there than there is in the world I created for you. The same lies, the same deceit. But in my world, there’s nothing to fear.” This time, Seahaven’s culture of fear is directly “spoken” to Truman. There is no time left for insinuations. “You’re afraid,” Christof adds. “That’s why you can’t leave.”

But as Truman walks out through the door, out of the set and into society’s frightening reality, we are left to wonder why many of us never take this leap of faith. Christof may not be the one manipulating our world, but we are still allowing our selves to be controlled by our very own fears. Truman’s courage makes us wonder if we will ever have the audacity to free our selves from what was created for us, or if we will simply continue to accept the world with which we are presented, as Truman did until day 10, 909.

Works Consulted:

Glass, Fred. “Brazil by Terry Gilliam.” Film Quarterly, Vol. 39, No. 4. (Summer, 1986), pp. 22-28.

Smith, Neil. “Which New Urbanism? The Revanchist '90s.” Perspecta, Vol. 30, Settlement Patterns. (1999), pp. 98-105.

Posted by Marie-Claude Hamel at 04:37 PM | Permalink

“The Pen is Mightier than the Sword” - Edward Bulwer-Lytton

It does not seem that the three hour documentary, Grin without a Cat produced by filmmaker Chris Marker, is simply a recount of the New Left movements from 1967 to 1977. Rather than simply describing the progressive movement, Marker newly constructs the Leftist movement in the minds of the spectators. His editing acts as the mighty proverbial pen, leaving a more powerful and lasting legacy of the New Left movements then those revolutions of an era long died out. Although Marker’s film documents both the rise and fall of the New Left movements, he simultaneously presents the possibility of a new rise of solidarity among socialists and communists from the ashes of revolutions dashed. It seems that Marker’s proverbial pen (editing) paints a “grin”- the lingering revolutionary essence of the New Left- and poses a challenge to solidify the cat to which the grin belongs- Leftist revolution.

Grin without a Cat is certainly a cinematic tribute to the New Left movements from 1967 to 1977. French filmmaker Chris Marker released the French documentary in its original four hour running time in 1977 under the title Le fond de l’air est rouge. He re-released the film in 1993 to cater to an English speaking audience, cutting one hour from the previous release, adding English subtitles and voice-overs, and re-titling the film Grin without a Cat. The documentary is epic in length, running three hours (180 minutes) and breadth, touching on New Left movements across the globe. The documentary is self-described by Marker as “Scenes from the third world war” and is told in two parts: Fragile Hands and Broken Hands. The documentary ranges from Vietnam to Che’s death, to May 1968 and all that, from Spring in Prague to the Common Program of the Government in France, and onto Chile and what. From one clip to the next the spectator views Paris, Moscow, Berkley, Havana, or Prague to name just a few sites of the film, which continuously jumps back and forth in location and time.

The forefront of the film in my opinion is its style. Although Marker was dubbed writer and director of the documentary, his main contribution, his form of scripting, largely incorporated editing and music selection. It is through the clearly purposeful editing process and music selection that Marker makes his strongest subjective statements. Editing is Marker’s poetry, the unspoken but nonetheless powerful tool of political expression. His editing technique combines footage from a hodgepodge of sources: elements of Marker’s own filming, scenes from pre-released fiction films, raw footage taken on the ground, and unexpected events caught on tape. In the opening scenes, for example, Marker commences the film with outtakes from Sergei Einstein’s 1925 black and white film Battleship Potemkin , referencing the 1905 Russian mutiny. Marker makes the clips his own by coloring over the scenes in a rustic red and interjecting images from the late Sixties.

Marker’s editing style is choppy and his frequent use of scene cuts results in a montage of images, more emblematic than chronological, more poetic than organizational. Although images are grouped thematically, rather than in a clear linear progression, there is a lucid narrative. The film opens with the word “Brother!”; the music commences, and the film begins. Marker opens the film by setting up his most inclusive theme: the brotherhood and solidarity amongst all the New Left movements, whether practical or ideological. This solidarity is represented by Marker through a series of images of the fight against oppression, and then through a series of images of the call for revolution. Firstly, Marker shows, in rapid succession, different clips of police and military repression against demonstrators worldwide including but not limited to France, the US, and Japan. Although the clips span geographic location and time, connecting the images is a powerful aesthetic tool of association. The image of authority and oppression is drilled into the eyes of the viewer, as a function of all nations and societies, an oppression that unites all Leftist movements. Secondly, in the opening scenes of Part One, a montage of individual’s fists gesturing in a strong forward motion indicate that although the individuals hail from different histories and different nations, they all hail to the New Left movement. The succession of images creates the illusion of fluidity and memory, dictating a new reading of the Leftist movement through Marker-colored glasses.

One effective Marker cinematographic technique is the use of chaotic footage, which simultaneously shows the frenzy of the cameraman and embodies the impromptu or hectic moments when an unseen event unfolds. In many of the clips, filming was raw, chaotic, and seemed unfinished, allowing the spectator to truly feel the event. For example, a hand-held shaking camera reveals the rushing of the Pentagon in 1967 by demonstrators to end the war in Vietnam. The chaos of the event is relayed through the chaotic sharp movements of the film as it tries to capture the storming of the Pentagon steps as it unfolds. Likewise at one point during the film Marker remarks, “only looking at the footage now do I see how the camera trembles”. The footage catches the moment and is part of the movement. The spectator is allowed to see the cameraman as an active participant, the role documenting the Leftist events had in helping to create and sustain movements by capturing them on film.

Although the use of collected images could be construed as objective, it is clear that Marker uses speeches, interviews, and images to subtly express his subjectivity. Marker makes France the focus of the film’s attention, appropriate because Marker himself is a French filmmaker, but also because France had an enormously influential Communist Party in which Marker took part. One critic astutely discerned that Marker emphasizes “...radical movements in Vietnam, China, and Latin America, not so much in and of themselves, but as essential for the struggle in Europe” (Fletcher 176). This is an interesting analysis considering that France’s New Left was associated with the Communist Party, whereas American movements of the era were more focused on causes. This is denoted by Marker’s representations of Americans as largely student demonstrators, but including the one Nazi boy hustling demonstrators, and the one American pilot who expressed great joy in bombing the Vietnamese and the countryside. Yet, although Marker highlights the importance of the more Western intellectual movement, with references to Karl Marx and Regis Debray, he does note the suffering of the oppressed in the non-Western world. In a sarcastic moment about fifty-two minutes into the film, Marker states that activists from the Western world talk of pasting posters while he shows real footage of human suffering and prison torture in Vietnam. Marker effectively juxtaposes text and images to create this obvious but nonetheless poignant critique.

In a similar technique of juxtaposition, Marker effectively uses music as a medium of expression and connotation. If one is able to grasp the reference to the socialist soundtrack, the song “Les temps des cerises” was recognized in the credits. The main song of the French commune in 1871 is titled “The Time of Cherries” in English and alludes to a hopeful vision of springtime (Kaplan 241). Although the song itself is not explicitly political, the power of the song is realized in its context to socialist movements. The music choice is an ode, a memory which helps recollect the decade of New Left movements nostalgically.

The film is epic in images, context, and length. Despite the overwhelmingly poignant and poetic images, the film was extremely tedious to watch and even more tedious to successfully absorb. Marker’s extensive use of existing footage assumes that the spectator will pick up on references to both film and historical events, a tall order for one not schooled in the history of the era or a connoisseur of film and documentary. For one familiar with the era, it becomes a montage of familiar images which evokes personal or historical references. For those not as schooled, emotional images such as key Socialist and Communist leaders giving speeches, demonstrations, police repression, military training and images of mercury poisoned victims emphasize the symbolic, allowing for various levels of reading of the film. Perhaps a lack of political knowledge beforehand could lend a more abstract reading of the film, one not necessarily less interesting than an informed reading.

The editing in the film, Marker’s proverbial mighty pen, is his most powerful contribution to the revolution. Despite his portrayal of the rise and eventual fall of the New Left to capitalism, he paints the ‘grin’- remnants of the Leftist movement which still linger. Although many of the leaders of the movement died, including revolutionary leader Che Guevara, Chilean President Allende, and even Czech martyr Jan Palach among many others, the lingering story of revolution does not die with them. The title of the documentary reverberates a faith in the lingering revolutionary spirit. Marker’s film captures the essence of the socialist and communist movements of an era- the 'grin', but his most powerful contribution to the movement is the broader allusion to the cat (which cannot yet be seen)- a new revolution, one to revolutionize the revolutionaries.

References:
Bevan, David. Literature and Revolution. Rodopi perspectives on modern literature, 2. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1989.

Fletcher, Yael Simpson, Persaud, Nalini. “Scenes from the Revolution: A Dialogue on Film, Politics, and History.” Radical History Review 2005 2005: 171-181

Grin without a Cat. Dir. Chris Marker; Iskra Films, Paris, 1993.

Kaplan, Roger F. S. Conservative Socialism: The Decline of Radicalism and the Triumph of the Left in France. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2003.

Posted by Meaghan Casey at 01:34 PM | Permalink

Albert Huber
3 Days of the Condor
IR180, Der Derian and Santos

Conspiracies fascinate the American public. Ever since World War II, we realized that openly combating our enemies would lead to certain destruction. Conspiracies thus became the topic of films dealing with an “enemy,” though sometimes an enemy right here at home. Three Days of the Condor deals with the issue of conspiracy, and trying to find the “man behind the curtain.” Pollack plays with this plot trope while making sure at the end we still believe the world is safe and in control.

First of all, he plays with then subverts our idea of the “other.” We are pretty sure going into the movie that it is going to be based around “conspiracy,” not state to state warfare. This is made clear from the beginning when Turner says that when talking to a superior about strange patterns he had found in the translations of a certain book, “He said it’s not my department.” Watching this film from a modern perspective, this is an immediate tip that the conspiracy is going to be home based.

This assumption is immediately put under attack when we hear the killer, the first person we see who is definitely involved in the conspiracy, speak. He has a French accent, while his unit doesn’t seem to speak at all. This gives us a very strong sense of the unidentifiable “others.” Those who are not American and have somehow been plotting against us from the outside.

We know, of course, that by the end of the movie, this man in the glasses is not the man behind the curtain, but it is in fact someone within the CIA itself. What does it mean that the CIA hired out foreign contractors to conduct business within the U.S.? We are dealing with issues of trying to find out who the enemy is, a constant in Cold War media.

Now let us turn to this ubiquitous “man behind the curtain.” Is it someone in the CIA? Is it a person from an enemy government working against the U.S.? Our first hint that one exists is in the first two minutes of the movie, where we see a list with John Turner’s name on it, and it is slowly crossed off. Every other name on the list, side one, has already been crossed off. There is something brewing, and there is someone behind it.

Through the course of the movie, there are different people who seem to be on Turner’s side and against Turner, and it is not until Turner uses his knowledge of a phone system (because he was in the Army and worked in communications) that we finally think we have found the man behind whatever conspiracy is being covered up, Atwood. This gives us an enemy, somebody to find and somebody to stop. There is somebody in control, and we can fix our problems if we just stop that person.

The confrontation with Atwood comes around in a classic movie format. Turner has a gun to him, and Atwood begins to confess, and we hear that it’s about oil. Our cadence of full confession, then vindication, is cut short when the original assassin returns and kills Atwood. What does this say about our man behind the curtain when Atwood, who we thought was the head of the conspiracy, is so easily disposed of? Is there are larger conspiracy above him? Was he really just killed because he was shameful to the department? If Atwood wasn’t running the show, then who is?

That last question is what is addressed so eloquently in this film. Terrorist networks don’t really have an executive at the top who is running the whole group. There is nobody who we could capture or kill to stop the network overall. Networks like these, and many other “conspiracy” networks are just a group of people, usually loosely organized, attempting to do the best for themselves. While we believed that the conspiracy was a conspiracy all the way to the top, we realize that Atwood was at the end. There was no government conspiracy, there were people trying to make money and it went south when Turner stumbled upon them. There are no more sides any more, no loyalty to certain governments, as Joubert (the original assassin) says to Turner, “No need to believe in either side or any side…the belief is in your own precision.”

The problem with espousing this message, though, is that people begin to panic when they believe that there is no man behind the curtain. Even though we find it sinister, we also find it comforting that somebody we don’t see or know about is always watching us. When we have many people only relying on their own skills and wants, we just have some form of organized anarchy. We also realize there is no single authoritative say in what is happening, every group defines their own version of the truth, and there is no authority to say what is wrong and what is right. This can be frightening to people and therefore turn them off this particular film.

Pollack combats this fear in two different clever ways. First of all, the ending conversation between Turner and Higgins seems to imply that the CIA might just have had more to do with Atwood’s renegade project than previously thought. As Turner says, “Who the hell is Atwood? He’s you, he’s all you guys.” Our fears are further assuaged through Higgins explanation of why the CIA may have let Atwood go ahead with his plan. The CIA could see some benefit for the country in what he was doing, and therefore let him proceed.

It is in the very last shot of the film, though, where we don’t have to worry about the world being thrown into some sort of every man for himself anarchy, and we are assured there is still some higher power watching over us. This is when Turner looks back from behind a group of Christmas Carolers, the shot freezes, and then it turns black and white under the credits. This shot looks exactly like a surveillance photo that someone could have taken from a car Turner would not have seen.

Turner is still under surveillance and that makes us, or at least me, feel safe. No matter how much we like and romanticize the story of one man who can take on a whole organization like the CIA, it is incredibly frightening. What if that one person does not have good intentions, like Turner? What we needed at the end of Three Days of the Condor, and what was delivered, was a way for our hero to be victorious, but for us still to know that there is a watchful eye out there making sure the country still runs safely, no matter what happens.

Posted by albert huber at 05:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

IR180- Global Media
Der Derian and Santos
2.28.08
Maria Mahler-Haug
Helvetica Review

The feature-length documentary Helvetica explores the emergence of Helvetica, a sans-serif type whose popularity exploded after its development in 1957. The film is made by Gary Hustwit, a young producer/filmmaker wanted to answer his own question of; "how do we interact with type on a daily basis?" Helvetica was developed in 1957 by a little-known Swiss typeface designer Max Miedinger and Eduard Hoffmann at the Haas'sche Schriftgiesserei (the Haas Type Foundry) in Munchenstein, Switzerland. In 1960, the Haas' umbrella company officially named the new font 'Helvetica,' derived from the Latin name for Switzerland. The world's embrace of this new font was astounding. It was, as one designer comments in the film, "a landslide just waiting to go down the mountain."

The film explores this question: was Helvetica a reflection of a changing society, or did the invention of this font help shape modernity? Did the popularity of Helvetica arise out of necessity or did it help breed a new culture? Ronald Deibert in his book Parchment, Printing, and Hypermedia explores the answer to this question and the ramifications of this debate.

Deibert writes that the most serious flaw in traditional medium theory is that it identifies and relies on an inherent link between the introduction of a new technology of communication and changes in specific social phenomena. This theory assumes a causal link between society and technology, giving technology unproved power over social constructs and emerging social environments. Deibert writes that by giving technology an inherent generative power, the theory tends to "slight the extent to which the technology itself emerges out of a particular context and is itself influenced by social, cultural, and historical forces" (Deibert, 28). Deibert writes that instead of assuming this causal link, more emphasis should be placed on the social and historical conditions from which these new technologies arise.

The social conditions into which Helvetica was born was a modernizing world, particularly in a technological sense. The film comments on the fact that one of the reasons for the sustained spread of Helvetica was its availability on computers, both mainframe and then personal. Helvetica also describes the rapid spread of this new, crisp font throughout the world of rising corporations that were hungry for a power-makeover. Helvetica provided the perfect letterhead representation for the corporate culture: a clear, crisp reflection of accessibility, transparency, and modernity. So in some ways, one can think of the manufacturing and the rapid and vast spread of Helvetica as a reflection of changes in technology and the redesign of environments. To Deibert, this new technological spread of the use of Helvetica would not have directly spawned aspects of modernity. He writes that "changes in modes of communication have an important effect on the nature and character of society and politics. New technologies of communication do not generate specific social forces and/or ideas, as technological determinists would have it. Rather, they facilitate and constrain the extant social forces and ideas of a society" (36).

Designer Massimo Vignelli says in Helvetica that it was the new, modern social environment that required a new, modern font. "When Helvetica came about, we were all ready for it," Vignelli says. "It just had all the right connotations that we were looking for-- for anything that had to spell out modern."

But perhaps it was these modern connotations of Helvetica that helped shape a more contemporary world. The font may have been the perfect vehicle through which modern ideas could be conveyed to society. Rick Poyner, a design writer in the documentary, said; "graphic design is the communication framework through which these messages about what the world is now and what we should aspire to,…reach us."

The documentary presents the current world of Helvetica by interspersing interviews with artists in the graphic design world with urban shots of the famous font in everyday life. These urban interaction shots reveal just how ubiquitous Helvetica has become and give the viewer a taste of its widespread use. From street signs to warning labels, the Swiss font has become what designer Lars Muller calls “the perfume of the city” and left an imprint on many aspects of our environments.

Whether the font created society or society create the font, it is clear that Helvetica dominates our environment. However, does the ubiquity of Helvetica underscore its power now? If those people who are not inflicted with “typomania,” (which designer Erik Spiekermann describes in the film as “an incurable if not modern disease,”) are not actively aware of the Swiss type’s imprint on their lives, how much more powerful is the font besides providing us with clarity, familiarity, and easy-to-read signs? How closely tied with our street signs and government documents is Helvetica?

Posted by Maria Mahler-Haug at 07:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

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Posted by Julia Hellman at 10:27 AM | Permalink

There are moments when the influence of new media becomes evident to a new group of people or in a new way. We all know about many of these turning points from the past few centuries, and we discussed the "Effects" of the past two decades (CNN, Al Jazeera, Nokia, YouTube, etc.). We acknowledge how significant it is that in the space of fifteen years, we have witnessed two wars in Iraq situated in vastly different media environments; we have missed a big part of the point, however, if we see that acceleration and fail to really dig into the specifics of where we stand today and where we are headed.

Sources:

Friendly fire in Iraq
Mike Gravel in the first Democratic debate
Comey Testimony

Continue reading "Online Video Review" »

Posted by Henry Shepherd at 11:33 PM | Permalink

Lacking a course sanctioned documentary to review from last week, I decided to discuss the premier of Bill Moyers’ new PBS series, Bill Moyers Journal, a feature-length documentary entitled “Buying the War” (props to Joe Posner for suggesting it). The film is a 90-minute chronological exploration of the mainstream media’s failure to sufficiently scrutinize Bush administration claims connecting Iraq to the War on Terror, and is available here: http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/btw/watch.html for anyone interested.

Continue reading "Bill Moyers for President" »

Posted by Shepherd Laughlin at 05:48 PM | Permalink

Andrew Jorecki’s film Capturing The Friedmans, a picture of a suburban family torn apart by accusations of child molestation and the media and legal circus that results, is edited in such a way as to confuse the audience as to whether Arnold Friedman and his son Jesse committed the crimes of which they were accused. It does this in a way that is manipulative of its viewers, revealing a new fact about the case every few minutes and thus preventing the viewer from fully forming an opinion. The film is rich in subtext; it examines the myth of suburban family perfection, the nature of the justice system in investigating and prosecuting sex offences, and the reliability of child witnesses. Nevertheless, Jorecki’s editing cheapens the effect of this otherwise effective and nuanced movie, forcing the viewer to engage the film’s controversial subject matter through gut response rather than through full rational comprehension.

From the very beginning the film toys with the viewer, establishing a sense of place that dares the viewer to subscribe to the stereotypical image of suburban calm before exploding it. Jorecki presents the Friedmans as a respectable middle-class family, albeit one with a secret—not quite the Brady Bunch, but perfectly likeable and functional nonetheless. As the movie progresses and the family is torn apart by scandal, the director exposes the dysfunction hidden beneath the surface: Arnold’s troubled marriage, Elaine’s alienation within the family. A powerful contrast is shown between what had been established earlier and what is revealed later; the image of a family at peace is replaced by that of a family at odds with itself. Yet even in showing the breakdown of the family, Jorecki allows hints of the “old,” jocular Friedmans to appear (dancing to Latin jazz in the living room, clowning on the courthouse steps), creating not only nostalgia in the viewer but also a sense of confused humanity; because one cannot figure out whether the “real” Friedmans are the friendly family of the beginning of the movie or the dysfunctional family of its end, one must conclude that neither contains the whole truth.

The treatment of the Friedman family dynamic exemplifies a process that Jorecki uses throughout the film: he establishes a set of characters or an issue as being simple and direct, reveals an uglier side, and then sets the two in contrast. The viewer, confused about which to believe, believes both and neither simultaneously and is forced to confront the complexity of the characters and issues at hand. Jorecki uses this approach not only to depict the breakdown of the Friedman family but also to address the reliability of the child witnesses upon whom the case against the Friedmans was built, the possible bias of the investigators, and, most notably, the truth of the pedophilia charges themselves.

Jorecki’s process of choice is effective in showing the complexity of difficult issues in an accessible manner; it becomes problematic only when the director chooses to mislead the audience to make his point. By revealing a new fact about the case or about Arnold’s past only every ten minutes or so, Jorecki lies by omission; he allows the viewer to form an opinion based upon the information he or she has at the moment, which then becomes moot when new facts are revealed. This repeats itself numerous times throughout the film, so that by the end, the viewer is unsure of what to believe. While the strategy is effective in driving home the uncertainty of Arnold and Jesse’s guilt, it feels cheap; particularly onerous is Jorecki’s choice to hold back, until the final third of the movie, the revelation that Arnold had relations with underage boys in the past.

Perhaps the film would not be as effective if it did not manipulate the viewer as much, but it would also feel more honest. Moreover, a more straightforward approach would allow the viewer to process the facts and events of the film through high-order reasoning rather than gut response even while presenting the same material. The metaphor of a train track may be useful to describe the effect of Jorecki’s editing. In building a train track between two points, one can build the track in a straight line, or one can build a track that swerves back and forth. The first is a train, while the second is a roller coaster; the first conveys passengers from one point to another as effectively as possible, while the second leaves the passengers thrilled, disoriented, and a bit queasy. Jorecki’s movie is the latter.

A 2003 Village Voice article describes how “[Jorecki] was struck by how [viewers at Sundance] were split over Arnold and Jesse's guilt. Since then, he's crafted a marketing strategy based on ambiguity, and during Q&As and interviews, he has studiously avoided taking a stand. (http://www.villagevoice.com/news/0321,nathan,44228,1.html)” According to the Capturing The Friedmans Wikipedia article—admittedly not the most reliable source—Jorecki had publicly defended the Friedmans’ innocence. One must wonder why he did not do the same in the film. Perhaps he knew that the “strategy based on ambiguity” would make a more effective movie. His editing choices reflect that view—sacrificing an impartial presentation of the facts in exchange for a roller-coaster ride.

Posted by Jonathan Russ at 10:11 PM | Permalink

Rachel Boynton’s Our Brand is Crisis at first seems like a straightforward critique of a team of American political consultants attempting to export a “particular brand of democracy” to Bolivia against the popular will. Many critics have indeed branded it this way and left it at that. The title refers to a scene where the firm’s advertising consultant is explaining the need to frame or brand the country’s staggering economic crisis in the advertisements for their candidate. It can be read as a disconnected foreign consultant using the nation’s real, human suffering for his own political ends, or perhaps just his own financial ends (getting the paycheck for the consulting job). However, there’s a lot more going on in the film than a simplistic critique (an “anti-”, as discussed in class). The consultants are completely aware of their situation, their actions, and the implications of their work. As Ms. Boynton commented in class, the real critique, often overlooked, is of the consumers of these brands, the public (foreign AND domestic) that keeps the consultants employed.

One of the consultants, Jeremy Rosner, comments early on that the firm believes in and promotes a “particular brand of democracy,” which is progressive, social democratic, and market-based. But, he acknowledges that there are “conditions democracy ultimately can’t deal with.” That is not the statement of an ignorant or dogmatic person. He is very well aware of the problems with democracy in Bolivia – he outlines them concisely as indigenous under-representation in the political system, globalization “have-nots,” and regional division. Later, the consultants point out that democracy needs to tangibly benefit the people to work. As Ms. Boynton said in class, these consultants are rigorously logical and rational men.

The interesting questions surround the issues raised when it becomes clear that the consultants are supporting a candidate who does not reflect the popular will. They acknowledge that the country desperately wants change, but that they are attempting to convince it to vote back in one of the old guard. Goni is clearly disconnected from the people, most visible in the dinner scene where a well-dressed woman complains about the peasants attacking the suburbs. Boynton asks Rosner at one point whether it is arrogant for Goni to pursue policies that the majority clearly doesn’t want, and he responds that “that’s a tough one.” But ultimately the blame does not lie with the candidate or the consultants. They all believed in the policies, they all believed in Goni, they were not knowingly or willingly hurting the Bolivian state in any way. And while intention is not necessarily a moral excuse, the greater blame here lies with the public which makes it necessary for a candidate like Goni to hire American political consultants. At one point, Rosner comments on the feeling he gets seeing people voting, positing that they never have more power than in that one action. The real critique arising from that statement is not of Rosner’s arrogance or idealism, but of the fact that, with all that power, the voters ended up only legitimating the need for him, for that “particular brand of democracy” and the consultants that come with it, in Bolivia.

In a documentary about “spin doctors,” the inevitable question is how much are we as the audience being spun? Boynton limited the direct influence of the consultants on the film, but what about Boynton’s influence? She said that she became involved in the campaign on a certain level, just by filming it – she wanted Goni to win too. So, just as the consultants believed in Goni, Boynton believed in the consultants (and Goni). This creates an interesting layering of presentation. As we discussed in class, the consultants seemed to be shaping Goni, giving him form, “filling the empty vessel.” But Boynton to a great extent was shaping the consultants in the film – just as every film shapes its subject, or the audience’s perception of the subject. This parallel was very evident as Boynton talked about the process of filming the documentary. She emphasized going in and listening with an open mind. She talked about being an outsider in the campaign, assuming that they knew more about the subject than she did because they were involved in it. In the film itself, Jeremy echoes these sentiments, but with reference to running the campaign. He said they “listen very hard, very closely, with no preconceptions.” He discussed their position in a foreign country, highlighting the fact that they “come in as outsiders.” In this sense, it is a documentary about itself – the form illustrates the subject, documentary as spin, spin as documentary.

Posted by Daniel Bowman at 08:50 PM | Permalink

Ever since the pictures of the abuses at Abu Gharib spread through the news in 2004, torture by the United States military and CIA has been everyone’s favorite topic for a documentary. These films and exposés range from a television special run on the the BBC, to HBO’s documentary entitled “the Ghosts of Abu Ghraib” to Alex Gibney’s “Taxi to the Dark Side.” Indeed, this horrifying topic deserves all of the exposure that the media can devote to it. Unfortunately, the sheer shock factor does not necessarily make up for the quality of these documentaries. Frontline’s 90 minute feature called “the Torture Question,” provides its viewers with important information on the U.S.’s use of torture, but does so in a very conventional way, complete with a stereotypical male narrator voice.

Continue reading "Review of Frontline's "the Torture Question"" »

Posted by Caitlin Clay at 01:06 PM | Permalink

The most recent ancient battle film, 300, an adaptation of the graphic novel by Frank Miller and Lynn Varley, is the story of 300 Spartan warriors led by the noble and glorified King Leonidas (Gerard Butler). After a messenger of Persian ruler Xerxes rides into Sparta carrying four crowned skulls of past Spartan kings, insults Queen Gorgo (Lena Headey), and demands that Sparta allow itself to be conquered without resistance to Xerxes’s empire, Leonidas becomes furious and forces the Persian messenger and his party into a gaping, dark abyss. Thus, Leonidas has declared war upon the enormous Persian Empire, but without the consent of the atrocious beasts that control the oracle. Knowing that Sparta’s counsel would not authorize a Spartan army to assemble without the oracle’s consent, Leonidas assembles his own troop of 300 ridiculously, even inhumanly buff, Spartan comrades. The army of 300 valiantly fights off the endless swarms of Persian forces for a few days. In the end, Xerxes (Rodrigo Santoro), sporting about 50 pounds of gold jewelry and little else, offers Leonidas riches and power in exchange for the captivity of Sparta and its people, which Leonidas denies in the name of Freedom. Before all the Spartans, including Leonidas are killed; Leonidas hurls his spear towards Xerxes, just scraping the side of the Emperor’s mouth, symbolically showing the slight, yet memorable impact the Spartans had on Xerxes. Back in Sparta the queen kills the counsel’s traitorous leader, Theron (Dominic West) who deterred the council from sending an army to Leonidas’s aid even though he promised the queen he would do so. A year later, the Spartan army has been assembled to defeat the Persians in the name of honor and freedom and in the memory of the 300.

While major film critics from the New York Times to Entertainment Weekly have dismissed the film on the whole, saying “300 is about as violent as Apocalypto and twice as stupid” (Scott, Newyorktimes.com, Mar. 7, 2007), the public audience has rushed to view and acclaim the film. The film garnered $70.9 million in its opening weekend, conquering the March opening record previously held by Ice Age: The Meltdown, which drew $68 million. It’s also the third-highest grossing opening R-rated movie behind The Matrix Reloaded and The Passion of the Christ (boxofficemojo.com).

Maybe this extremely serious period of war, oppression, and lack of valor that we face in real-life today, audiences are looking for a film based on the themes of glory, freedom, and honor that they wish they could find in the world. Maybe audiences are looking for a film that is neither factual, nor will make them think too hard, but addresses these themes while creating artful images with every scene. If that’s it, 300 is the perfect film. Even Kenneth Turan wrote in the March 9th LA Times that, “The film has a striking visual panache, a distinctive style of putting images on film that heightens reality.”

The film, “using little more than actors, a bluescreen, and a massive, computer-based post-production army,” according to Entertainment Weekly, charts new aesthetic territory. Each scene, powerful and artistically appreciative, appears to have been artfully constructed from the scenery to the movement to the costumes. Yet, using computer generated images (CGI) to such a large extent in creating this film is disconcerting for some movie-goers. It’s incredible to see what amazing work can be done with CGIs, but at what cost? Will CGIs eventually take over film-making entirely? The film’s creative authenticity comes into question when viewers are aware that the scenes they are viewing are almost completely generated and fabricated. Will actors eventually be replaced by computers? If this film is just the beginning of Hollywood’s use of the CGI, it is reasonable to be concerned that films will become less personal, and less authentic, and therefore more difficult to truly appreciate. Knowing that the images in 300 are, however beautiful, computer-generated takes away a bit of their sometimes breath-taking appeal.

Where critics deviate from the mainstream audience is in their expectations of this film. While many critics seek a deeper meaning than this film aims to convey, most of its audience take the film and appreciate it for what it is: comic book come-to-life. The film does not try to offer deep resolutions to the world’s problems or try to leave the viewer with more than a memory of its fantastic imagery and costumes. Its classic ancient war movie themes of glory, valor, and freedom/independence are not particularly developed, nor are its characters and their relationships. For critics, this can be problematic, as it can and should be for movie-goers seeking to take away some lasting lesson or profound knowledge. As critic Lisa Schwarzbaum of Entertainment Weekly wrote on Mar. 7th, “This is dazzle for the head, not the heart…Look, but don't be touched: There is much to see but little to remember in this telling of a battle we are meant never to forget.” For audiences looking for a two-hour escape, albeit not a light-hearted one, this film is satisfying.

Even though the film should not be taken too seriously, the portrayal of some groups in the film should be discussed and acknowledged. First, there is the depiction of the Spartans (white Europeans) versus the Persians and their armies of “the other.” While this is just a comic-book story, the images of each group that are projected are important. The Spartans are portrayed as honorable fighters seeking justice and the protection of their freedom. On the other hand, the only Persian character developed to any extent is Xerxes, who is a self-righteous tyrant. All the other members of the Persian forces in the film are faceless, literally. The warriors wear masks and do not get any chances to verbalize. The audience is easily able to dehumanize these characters because of this.

Second, the depiction of women in this film is notable. The only female character who is developed at all is Queen Gorgo. While she is actually quite headstrong, her actions from “offering herself to Theron” to addressing the counsel are out of devotion to her husband. She lives in reference to her husband. She and all the other women in the film, from the oracle girl to the Persian women, are extremely sexualized. There is even a distinction between the Persian and Spartan women in their sexual portrayal. The Persian women are depicted as being much more vulgar and “exotic” than Spartan women. They existed in the film solely to be objectified. Xerxes offered the Persian women to Ephialtes, the dejected and traitorous Spartan, to make the objectification clear. Even if the comic portrayed women and Persians in such an unfavorable light, this film seems to go over the top in bringing these images to the big screen.

Even though the portrayal of some groups is poor, and the characters and themes are not heavily developed, this film is worth seeing. It is stylistically and technologically innovative, and the imagery is really something fantastic.

Miriam Altman

Posted by James Der Derian at 07:52 PM | Permalink

On the week of March 12th, we watched “30 Days” for our Global Media seminar. “30 Days” is the brainchild of Morgan Spurlock, writer and director of the widely popular and hugely successful “Supersize Me.” The idea of his six episode series is to address contentious issues by placing individuals in “living environments that are antithetical to their upbringing, beliefs, religion, or profession.” In both “Supersize Me” and “30 Days,” individuals basically become test subjects who undergo an experiment of living under alien conditions over the course of a month. Since the two endeavors are so similar, I will critique “30 Days” (specifically the “Immigration” episode) by comparing and contrasting it to the documentary that brought Spurlock to the national media scene.

What makes Spurlock’s film so captivating is that rather than portraying for us the experiences of a third party, he instead supplies himself as a human test subject (he provides his body to test the effects of a diet consisting solely of McDonald’s). Most documentaries can be considered secondary documents as far as historical analysis is concerned. “Supersize me,” on the other hand, is a primary document – Spurlock breaks down the wall between experience and human analysis. With little gloss about it, he turns the camera lens upon himself, allowing us to more or less walk through his experience alongside him. I would contend that knowing that the subject and producer/director are the same entity in “Supersize Me” leads us to resist a certain degree of skepticism about the credibility of the documentary that normally arises when the director and subject are separate.

The point of the last paragraph was to point out the key departure that “30 Days” makes from “Supersize Me.” While the TV series still consists of experiential documentaries, these are documentaries that give us a third person rather than second person perspective. The line of transmission has changed from “individual experience to audience (with necessary film edits),” to “individual experience to off-screen editors to audience.” In the first, not only are we closer to the subject of the experience, but by the nature of the fact that he is his own editor, we are relatively confident that all that is being conveyed is what the subject actually intended. In the second, we as an audience are at a disadvantage because we are much less certain of the honesty with which the interlocutors will convey the experiences of the documentary subjects. This is especially important when we think about footage that is left out of the final cut – in the case of the “Immigration” episode, a whopping 299 hours.

For me this point of departure is the grand failing of “30 Days- Immigration.” This story about how a Minuteman and illegal immigrants live together is incapable of providing us with a credible insider perspective like the one that Spurlock made possible with “Supersize Me,” primarily because of the lack of control the individuals portrayed have over their images. The main subject of “Immigration” wrote a letter (http://www.vdare.com/misc/060718_jorge.htm) after his involvement in the episode addressing misconstrued images and misplaced sound bytes (thanks Henry Shepherd). Regardless of the motives he had for writing it, Frank Jorge’s letter in response to the final cut of the episode is ammunition for a lack of confidence in the credibility of Spurlock’s experiential documentary program.

Speaking of all the failings of this series would probably lead people to think that I believe it is an endeavor that should be discarded. Quite the opposite. Spurlock’s experiential documentary technique, in which individuals are really test subjects, simply needs a more flexible arena than television can provide. In about forty five minutes he has to make us feel some sort of affinity with the characters, develop some sort of interest in the issue being problematized, and make the conflicts and resolutions exciting. At the same time, we are expecting the portrayal to be truthful. This is simply too much to ask. During the majority of the “Immigration” episode I felt that the events were rather contrived. It was hard for me to disentangle television time from the “real” time over which the events took place, and thus I was continuously thinking about how Frank and the immigrant family got comfortable with each other way too quickly. I was equally unsettled by the predictability of the conflicts that emerged. At many points I was annoyed by how easily some of the sound bytes fit into the greater plot of the episode.

Spurlock’s documentary outstrips the capabilities of television. So much crucial information must be cut from the final episode that he is unable to equal the impact of “Supersize Me.” If he wants viewers to feel the kind of affinity to the issues that he was able to create in his film he needs to retain the organic aspect that made his film work. He needs more time, or a different structure. To address this, I return to the discrepancy between TV time and real time. On your average sitcom, what happens when our favorite characters are off-screen is relatively unimportant. In documentaries, conversely, what the producers leave out may be just as important as what they decide to show. Sometimes we can determine a significantly greater amount about the producer’s intentions by discovering what they decide to omit (Frank Jorge’s revelation that the production team that filmed this episode was all nominally pro-immigration is particularly enlightening). While even ten hours of footage is only one third of a percent of the “full” story of a Minuteman’s experience with an illegal immigrant family, could we imagine that Spurlock could have aired the “30 Days” over twenty daily thirty minute segments, and retained a greater level of “truth?” Or maybe “30 Days in 30 Days?” Surely, with a subject matter as compelling as immigration this could have been feasible. Or perhaps Spurlock could brand himself like a Steve Irwin of sorts? I brought this up with the director/producer when he was here for our global media lab and he was quick to bring up the immense figure of 300 hours of filming. Certainly, he would become a walking experiment for half of his life (should he make six episodes per season as he has thus far), but the appeal cannot be dismissed.

Posted by Daliso Ngoma Leslie at 02:18 AM | Permalink

Frank (in the article mentioned by Henry Shepard, see below) declares, “Reality shows are not reality driven.” This statement begs the question (for all us MCM types) what is reality and does it drive? Frank claims that the filmmakers of the 30 days Immigration episode fabricate a conclusion where he favors immigration leniency. Frank’s letter aims to clarify that his opinions did not change- that in fact he continues to fight for harsher immigration policy. The fabrication, however does not seem to revolve around his actual opinions on the matter, but instead on the clarity of his emotional journey. Both the Jail and Immigration episodes of 30 days crunch month long experiences into narrative arcs that bring viewers to a satisfying and stable end. In Death 24X a Second, Laura Mulvey, claims that the “linearity of narrative movement” controls and propels all aspects of film (84). These shows follow her paradigm and driven by narrative, seem to create a new concept of reality grounded in the emotional and characterological journey. But the question becomes then, is this “fabrication” deceptive, or actually helpful and generative?

Many of our discussions in Media Labs lead us to search for a personal narrative and identifiable character to carry the viewers’ attention and heartstrings. We often speak of these stories as the treat to lure the viewers into complicated, academic and “real” issues and arguments (as opposed to the emotional drama of fiction). These B-line stories serve to bring something more “popular” to these facts of history and politics. Spurlock, however, takes this concept to the extreme and places the emotional narrative at the forefront and the intellectual and the political in the background- and this is “reality T.V.” He, like Scranton and along the lines of YouTube seem to be offering a new sense of truth, based on the individual experience over the factual, educational and politicized opinion of experts, research and documents. Is this really just a question of helping the masses into complicated issues by simplifying the concepts? Or do dates, names, figures, and experts no longer serve as symbols of reality? In a Barthean sense, if filmmakers want to project the myth of truth does that automatically come in the form of an experiential exploration of the world?

Does this constitute a new focus or understanding of truth? The question is less about whether Jail helps or harms criminals and society, and more about what it feels like to be inside a jail cell. Does the night spent with a shivering Junkie, or the staple “tats” speak more to the reality of jail than the figures of how many men stay out of the prison system? The “accuracy” of Frank’s extremist and hypocritical arguments do not really matter if his psychological transformations elucidate the complexities of the immigration issue. The question becomes instead of weather the information and opinions presented are correct, but if they are gripping. They are. Drawing on Benjamin, Foucault and Arendt (have I hit all my milestones) Michael Jackson (the anthropologist not the singer) argues that storytelling exchanges direct and shared experiences and creates a new truth. Instead of privileging static, authoritative and monopolizable knowledge, the narrative democratizes truth. “The return to narrative is a political act” (Minima Ethnographica, 35).

So outside the extremely academic, it appears that if my T.V show claims to get at “the heart” of any issue, it better not look like Ken burns. No still photos, no experts, no maps, and no numbers (well if numbers they better be animated bubble-letters). This is not just a question of getting aired on FX instead of PBS or of the cheap seats vs. the expensive seats but a question of what truth looks like. Truth may look different to different socioeconomic classes, but I think Spurlock’s shows join a movement to bridge that divide and connect the “real world” of MTV and the elitist’s image of “ essayistic reality” by promoting the authority of emotional and lived experience.

Posted by Jchermayeff at 01:20 AM | Permalink

During Patricia Owens talk today, she brought up the quote from a war-survivor stating something close to...well, I'm not going to misquote it, but summed up it stated that during wartime, this person felt alive, that war made her feel not bored. I just read a Susan Sonntag close that came very close to this statement:

"The photographer is supertourist, an extension of the anthropologist, visiting natives and bringing back news of their exotic doings and strange gear. The photographer is always trying to colonize new experiences, to find new ways to look at familiar subjects--to fight against boredom. For boredom is just the reverse side of fascination: both depend on being outside rather than inside a situation, and one leads to the ohter" (Susan Sontag, 1977, On Photography)

Very different mode of viewing war coverage in the media. I know its arguable of whether or not war is the norm (familiar) or not, but still. War is definitely not boring.

This quote also has some resonance with what I brought up in class regarding "The Devil Rode on Horseback," which was the ethnographic nature of the film. I still stand by this claim, and now I have quotes! In reading Lutz and Collin's article "The Photographer as an Intersection of Gazes," I found a quote which I think more eloquently sums up what I was trying to say:

(regarding the "direct Western gaze" of the National Geographic photograph)
"In its lack of reciprocity, the gaze is distinctly colonial. The Westerners do not seek a relationship but are content, even pleased, to view the other as an ethnic object" (Lutz and Collins, 363)

When I look at those images of African children crowding around the object of the camera, this quote accurately sums up my tiff with it. It doesn't matter that it's an image that is "real." I don't care that it acutally happened. It's that the image has been edited into the film that I find troubling. Filming and editing are two distinct actions.

Anybody who's interested in this subject, I highly recommend reading this article. I tried to find it on Google Scholar but it isn't there, it's definitely in the Rock.

Posted by Lily Kerrigan at 11:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

So I’m not going to recap what this film was about, if you haven’t seen the film it’s useless to read this anyway. Firstly, let me assure you that I did find this film very effective and emotionally pulling. Rarely in film (although maybe more often in documentary) do you see this type of patriarchal hero fail, especially because of his own patriarchal goals. However, I will not concede that because of the good intention of the filmmakers, and the stress and fast-paced nature of editing, necessitates that certain aspects of this film should be ignored. We do not read media with these compromises in mind, so I am not going to analyze this film with those compromises in mind.

I would like to expand of some issues brought up in class. Because of the editing techniques, many believed that the two filmmakers went to Sudan with Stidle, to follow and document him in the quintessential documentary fashion. Only in class did we realize that little of the footage in the film was actually shot by the filmmakers, relying instead on Stidle’s own documentation in Sudan.

It would be convenient to view all of the footage in this film in binary terms, (documentary and staged, Africa and the U.S. [them and us], etc) however that would also be misleading. To limit to a binary is just for convenience sake. This film transgresses this dual-tone way of thinking. For example, take the “action” shots of Stidle brandishing his personal camera, while the film camera lies on the ground looking up to Stidle. Why are these shots in the film? We know Stidle knows how to use a camera. Is it to assure us he is the author of the photographs we see in the film? Documentation of his own documentation? Is that how great our sense of mistrust for the photographic image really is? Because this clip of Stidle is arguably an image that lies to us (as we were told in the lab, these filmmakers did not join Stidle in Africa, so these clips were filmed in the U.S. afterwards), how do these images then speak to our own sense of trust with the filmmakers? Do we not mind, or does the image always have to be ‘truthful,’ can it be reenacted, does the obvious nature of the reenactment need to be expressed to us? Or does the image owe us nothing; can these things be sacrificed in the face of an impending crisis and the ticking time bomb? Why was the obvious reenactment in Gibney’s film questioned and dissected while the (albeit small) bits of reenactment in this film, which easily deceive, were accepted? What is the tipping point?

The truth of Stidle’s images is also something we are given the option of denying, while at the same time we are impressed to believe these images. We are even offered this choice of disbelief within the film, when we see a Sudanese official question the validity of these images. Something this film does, and I’m not sure it means to, is point to the insecure status of the camera. Is the camera an object of power (think action shots of Stidle, the camera’s expressed relation to a gun) or is that idea of power false (think of the questioning of the photographs, and Stidle’s own failure to initiate an immediate change with them)? Stidle’s own weapon is turned against him in this film, and there is no resolution of the issue of the camera’s status. Obviously, meeting with the filmmakers clears a lot of foggy issues up, but the probability of meeting personally with them as we did is pretty slim. We are offered many contradictions of the identity of the camera, and by the end, as also expressed in class, we are left feeling hopeless.

However, this sense of hopelessness is refreshing and quite generous of the filmmakers. If the hero had won, if the weapon of the camera was conceived within the film as successful, then this film would be an irresponsible congratulatory pat on the back. This film successfully acknowledges that this issue is still pending, and can be addressed by the viewer who is also a citizen. This feeling of hopelessness only enforces the viewers own investment in this issue, and therefore, hopefully, their participation.

Posted by Lily Kerrigan at 03:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Deborah Scranton’s The War Tapes offers a look a 21st century combat through the eyes and cameras of soldiers on the front lines in Iraq. Refreshingly human and accessible, the documentary cuts through the usual partisan bluster of “Support Our Troops,” and finds that our men and women on the ground are often some of the most skeptical critics of the way the war is being run.

Scranton’s narrative follows three National Guardsmen, Steven Pink, Michael Moriarty, and Zach Bazzi, through their tour of duty at Camp Anaconda, one of the most heavily attacked bases at the time in Iraq. The characterological approach used by this film follows each of the soldiers from their preparations for war in the States, to Iraq, and back again. As events progress, it becomes increasingly clear: the war exacts a horrible human toll, not just in casualties, but in psychological and physical disfiguration of the soldiers and their loved ones waiting back home.

A main emphasis of the movie is the stark dichotomy between the war as it is being reported by the talking heads back home, and the conditions on the ground that they deal with everyday. This point is driven home with regular cut-ins of news clips from the American media, strategically placed between shots that emphasize the continued horror. As Tom Brokaw tells the American people that a new constitution is in place in Iraq, paving the way towards the future, the soldiers face imminent destruction from IEDs. The clips are fuzzy, emphasizing how far away the media is from the reality in Iraq. One soldier even goes so far as to say that he hates the media, and doesn’t trust them.

The film makes a point to showcase the confusion and unfamiliarity of the new 21st century warfare, where our enemies and the people we are trying to protect are indistinguishable. Since the cameras are carried with the soldiers at all times, this fact comes through with painful clarity, as too many of the routine missions that they film are rocked by gruesome car bomb blasts, and seemingly empty Fallujah is suddenly lethal when gunfire rings out from an unknown location. The use of night vision and thermal imaging cameras are particularly effective here, emphasizing that the best information available is often of no help whatsoever. Pink is chastised for filming the bodies of the enemy and saying “ a few choice words” about them; he laments his lack of training for a mission where respecting the enemy is a virtue. Even the enlightened Buzzi, who can converse with the local citizenry in his native Arabic, speaks in hushed tones about the difficulty of telling just who is likely to shoot and who are the innocent civilians, and the challenge of respecting the principles of a culture while first protecting your fellow soldiers. “Let them have their own civil war,” one states.

Beyond the difficulties of cutting-edge conflict, the film pulls no punches in advertising the futility and grotesque nature of war in general. The soldiers, in an almost Real World-like confessional mode, express their hope, but not their conviction, that in 20 years Iraq will be a better country because of the current U.S. presence there. The cameras catch soldiers debating what entrails most closely resemble, waxing philosophical on the racial slurs they use to help dehumanize the Iraqis that they are fighting, exclaiming in frustration that we should just nuke ‘em all. On the lofty ideals of making the world a safer place by stabilizing Iraq, a solider suggests, “After that, maybe we can buy everyone a puppy.”

The profit drive of the war machine is another focal point of the documentary. A typical mission has the soldiers escorting convoys of Halliburton trucks back and forth, then handing their money over to Halliburton as they visit the shops and Burger Kings that the company has a monopoly over. The soldiers are constantly complaining about the futility of guarding a truck filled with cheesecake. Pink, in a moment of extraordinary honesty, remarks that he knows that the only reason the U.S. is in Iraq is for money and oil, and that in his view, “We had better get it, or everyone who died over there will have died in vain.” There is a palpable sense of frustration felt from the soldiers at putting their high ideals at the mercy of a company’s bottom line.

The impact of death on the soldiers, and their continuing search for humanity in the most inhumane of circumstances is another true highlight of the work. A Humvee collision with a pedestrian evokes a heart wrenching response from the soldiers, and a trip through the equipment graveyard evokes the horrors of days past. However, the soldiers are also nothing if not playful, making snow angels before departure and constantly making fun of one another in down time. They are real people, some who joined for patriotism, some for love of travel, some for money, and some for honor. They miss their wives, mothers, girlfriends, and children back home, who are effectively depicted by the film struggling to understand the soldiers’ reasons for leaving. They want to be heroes, but find it hard to avoid the unmistakable sense of dread at the possibility of being blown up at any given moment. Scranton’s use of National Guardsmen is an excellent choice for getting this point across; as citizen soldiers, they make it abundantly clear that the line between them and us is razor thin.

The movie’s ending follows the men to the conclusion of their story arc: their reintroduction into civilian society. While it could be argued that this section lingers too long, it further serves to reinforce the theme of the movie: the cost of the war that is not reflected in casualties. The men at home are changed, more on edge, more guarded, and their significant others note the difference. They also bring home lasting disabilities, and the hopelessness that comes with knowing that they could be deployed back to Iraq soon. Indeed, if any criticism can be leveled at this movie, it is that is it almost too easy from a conceptual perspective: of course the soldiers are human; of course the war is going to leave the soldiers nearly unrecognizable to those who love them. However, because of its nearly flawless execution, this film deserves its critical acclaim.

Posted by Benjamin Schnapp at 12:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Sir! No Sir! Documentary Review

“Sir! No Sir!” Daivd Zeiger’s newly released documentary, presents an engaging and cogent investigation to resistance against the Vietnam War. Using a combination of historic footage, print media, and interviews, Zeiger addresses one of the most contentious aspects of the anti-war resistance: the GI Movement. Through the film Zeiger dissects how GI opposition to the war was reported and understood by the government and the public. While technically a standard interview/ historical footage documentary, this format serves the film well; its only weaknesses come in attempts to give the film “edge” through frantic montages and rapid cuts. Well timed with the growing upset perceived amongst U.S. soldiers in Iraq, “Sir! No Sir!” is a successful investigation of a forgotten part of American history.

Zeiger’s thesis centers on the simultaneous importance of the GI Movement and how the public and history overlooked it. The GI Movement was a part of the Vietnam War that has not only been forgotten by history, but was attacked by the government when it occurred. By profiling various parts of the GI Movement, from riots at federal stockades, to the off-base GI Coffee houses, to Jane Fonda’s anti-war USO style FTA show, Zeiger creates a narrative that guides the viewer through the life of the movement.

To do this, Zeiger uses the tried and true combination of interviews and historic footage to support and illustrate the monologue of the interviewee. Through the interviews with mostly former GI Movement participants --soldiers who chose to oppose and subvert the war—Zeiger covers a large spectrum of individuals involved. By interviewing the leaders of the movement --the soldiers that ran the coffee shops, the GI Presses and served the jail time-- Zeiger creates a foundation of the obvious types of soldiers that would have been involved. But then by bringing in a former Colonel as well as other officers that “were doing it [their orders] right, but not doing right” Zeiger underscores the importance of the movement by showing that even the most patriotic and steadfast of soldiers were involved.

With the GI Movement being as large as Zeiger portrays it as having been, it is still a forgotten affair, and one must ask, why? Zeiger’s answer focuses primarily on the way the media and the Department of Defense dealt with the movement. In the “The First Casualty,” author Phillip Knightley details how in-country news media was put under intense pressure and even threat from the U.S. government to “get on side” and support the war. (Knightley, 419) Zeiger argues that domestically in the U.S. this was just as much the case. While for the history of news media there has been influence on the part of government during times of conflict, Vietnam was different; it represented the first time that there was a clear divide between the media and government. Vietnam represented a war of ideas one of “no front line, no easily identifiable enemy, no simply explained cause, no menace to the homeland…and, therefore, no nationwide fervor of patriotism.” (Knightley, 418) Vietnam was the first true war that focused on control of ideas, not just the ideological opposition of communism, but the control of information on the successes, failures, and rational of the war. By showing how large the GI Movement was, while at the same time how uninformed the public is and was about it, Zeiger is able to show how the government marginalized it through limited media coverage.

With this understanding of the governments tactics during the war in mind, Zeiger then examines how the anti-war movement as a whole was demonized. Demonized through both its subversive connotations as well as the idea that anti-war protesters did not “support the troops” and were un-patriotic. The infamous idea of protestors spitting on returning troops in San Francisco is the pinnacle of this myth machine as “Sir! No Sir!” exposes. Not only did this even never happen, but how did it become such a powerful image in the minds of Americans? This idea of hateful, unpatriotic protestors also made GI’s powerless to stand against the war because they would be viewed as soldier hating anti-war activists too. While serving as a distinct example of how the GI Movement was repressed and anti-war movement vilified, the spitting example used in “Sir! No Sir!” is indicative of the wider strategy of how the anti-war movement was dealt with by those who opposed it.

Beyond how the anti-war movement was portrayed as a whole, “Sir! No Sir!” focuses down to the individual level to give a human feel to what Zeiger argues was a conscious strategy to demonize anti-war activists. Jane Fonda or “Hanoi Jane” as she became to be known, is chosen by Zeiger for this because of her support of the GI Movement. Through interviews and the hope of a sympathetic heart from the viewer, Zeiger introduces us to the “real” Jane Fonda; the activist who above all opposed the war because she wanted to save the lives of soldiers. In this sense, as with the GI Movement, Zeiger is not only honoring her good intentions but clearing the record the best he can.

While up until this point “Sir! No Sir!” holds a somewhat non-partisan line, the Jane Fonda issue pushes it clearly over to the far left. Being as controversial figure as she is, especially amongst conservative Americans, by casting her in such a good light Zeiger weakens his argument. Regardless of what Fonda argues was the reality of the photo shoot with North Vietnamese AAA, the photo is so emblematic of traitorous anti-war activism that defending it takes away from the strength of Zeiger’s argument. Though it could serve as an example of how successful certain parts of society were at demonizing the anti-war movement, Fonda’s photo with the enemy crosses a line beyond being anti-war activism to near legitimate treason.

“Sir! No Sir!” is not without other weakness as well. Technically, “Sir! No Sir!” follows a standard documentary model discussed before. However, at times Zeiger uses frantic montages and cuts, along with overly enthusiastic period music that is a bit too much at times. In his attempt to give the narrative “edge” and recapture the spirit of the time, Zeiger fails. While it is a solid attempt to liven up an at times static formula of documentary making, a more subtle approach would have been advisable.

In terms of content it seems that in addition to trying to cover too much with the inclusion of the Fonda sideline, Zeiger does not adequately address the motivations of the “man,” the military and government in doing what it did. Although Fonda’s case is useful in detailing the way that the media-government agreement was able to demonize activists, it is too severe of an example. Zeiger would have been better served using this time to take a closer look at the DOD’s motives in controlling information and maintaining the idea of success in the publics mind, rather than trying to save Jane Fonda from her past.

Posted by Oliver Ward Schulze at 04:58 PM | Permalink

“After 911” presents a discussion of difficult questions surrounding the military and media orchestrated war on terror campaign set quickly into action after the fall of the World Trade Center Towers. Meshing media and military footage with footage and commentary from three conferences in the Information War Technology and Peace project, the film distills central points of criticism in the post 911 debate: unilateral and hyper-militarized U.S. foreign policy strategies, media constructions and media myths, the role of technology as weapons of attack and weapons of defense, psychological warfare and the creation of a culture of fear.
The film’s evocative opening is the sound of muffled walkie-talkie voices played to glimpses of a confused looking President Bush. The documentary then transitions to the kooky image of early black and white Disney violence set to the calm, mature voice of writer Robert Coover as he speaks of those “dreams of others” that shape the reality of most; “dreams honed, systematized and transmitted by language” ; dreams accepted and internalized by the conditioned masses. At its outset, “After 911” presents itself as a sharp political and philosophical audio-visual commentary on the psychological warfare central to the historical justification of violent political history across the globe. Even the springs that give chaotic flight to Mickey Mouse and his overweight rival in the opening cartoon sequence seem to suggest the systematic nature of political violence.
Also in its first moments, the film introduces the event of 9/11 with eerie music— evoking the dark, fearful and uncertain mood felt in the U.S. in particular after the terrorist attacks in September of 2001—and the slow motion footage of the towers falling and military action in Iraq and Afghanistan. The slow speed of these visual queues allude to the process of creating a collective memory and the military-media myth-making that saturated the American public even minutes after the attacks in New York. In contrast to this dream-like footage, the film offers the lucid commentary of intellectuals, academics and public figures presented during the TACT Symposium, the 911+1 Forum and Exhibition and the DIS/SIM Symposium.
As the documentary points out, the Information War Technology and Peace project aims to spread awareness and foster politicized dialogue about current U.S. policy. These debates—unlike the deluge of patriotic imagery—did not flood the public sphere in the moments after the attacks. “After 911” thus presents a political conversation that was silenced for months after the attacks with the intensification of surveillance and stripping away of legal protections of individuals in the name of patriotism. For some, fear of personal safety may still stifle public expression of skepticism about the U.S. political motivations. It can be argued then that “After 911” portrays an intellectual openness that was possible only well after 911 and remains largely contained in the safe, insulated space of liberal academia. Speaker Maja Zehfuss comments on the initial silencing of public criticism of the war against terror in the name of paying “respect the memory of the dead.”
The academic narrative of “After 911” pushes past the awestruck attitude that focuses on the tactics of terrorist warfare to reveal a conflict arising from age-old geopolitical issues. Carol Cohn comments that the attacks awoke Americans to interrelated global issues previously ignored: the rise of fundamentalism, colonial legacies, structural adjustment policies, crumbling state sectors and booming shadow economies. Instead of probing the socio-economic and political circumstances in the Middle East that set the stage for terrorist violence, Daniel Deudney, Mary Kaldor, Carl Conetta and Robert Steele point out that the U.S. turned to a warfare strategy that would only add fuel to the fire. Questioning the U.S.’s historically imperialist action or addressing structural poverty in the Middle East was not considered. Instead, the Bush administration pumped the defense budget up to unprecedented levels, draining the U.S.’s resources for social policy and international development and thereby compromising non-military state infrastructure. Furthermore, as Fateh Azzam and P. Terrence Hopmann point out, the U.S. government acted unilaterally, ignoring international legal frameworks and crippling the authority of the UN and foreign interest. The speakers are careful to point out the extreme danger and political arrogance of taking such action without foreign support and international consensus.
One important focus of the documentary is the role of technological innovation as a key facet of contemporary militarization. As Wendy Hui Kyong Chun and Bruce Sterling point out, the Bush administration has deemed technological innovation the perfect remedy and defense solution, ignoring those above-mentioned underlying and ongoing geopolitical processes. Meanwhile, technological innovation has handed power over from the soldier to the weapon itself. As Colonel Tom Ehrhard explains, weapons are designed to autonomously decide whether and how to attack a target. As in the first Gulf War where images showing only the bomb’s perspective removed human casualties from the image of war and lessened skepticism about destruction, “man out of the loop systems” today remove human vulnerability from the equation, leading to less hesitation to use physical force.
Technology is also intimately related to the culture of paranoia cultivated in the post 911 American psyche. Surveillance technology and the quest for vigilance in the name of pre-emptive warfare has led—according to Ahmed Kamal Aboulmagd, Admiral Rodney P. Rempt, Tom Levin and Peter Cornwell—to the uncritical acceptance of “invasive tactics” that strip individuals of their civil and human rights and pit them against one another in a big brother environment. The media’s crucial role to this anxious social-psychological state is best represented in the film’s montage of tens of clips of newscasters’ and politicians’ televised mention of anthrax. The montage makes the point that the media’s function is to drill paranoia into the public psyche, but it also serves as a comical comment on the absurdity of the media’s pavlovian—and sometimes even contradictory—emphasis on specific catch-phrases.
While “After 911” presents a comprehensive discussion of the psychological and technological means by which war is manufactured and public assent solicited, it does not explore the underlying profitability of the military-industrial complex pushing the war-making machine. In this respect, it contrasts Eugene Jarecki’s documentary “Why We Fight” in which the economic interests are focal to the understanding of American politics. Perhaps “After 911” falls short in assuming its audience to have previous understanding of—or to be able to suspect—the profit-driven nature of militarization.
In its final moments, “After 911” turns back to the subject of dreams and the imaginary in post 911 politics. Scholars point to the dichotomized and racialized media myths constructed to demonize the fundamentalist Muslim enemy and to valorize the American soldier as brave freedom fighters. As Thomas Lasner and Mohammed el Nawaway make clear, the media offers a mythical narrative and a mediated reality that viewers accept as fact in their own understanding of reality. In the post 911 rhetoric that facilitated the political-psychological process of ‘othering’—that phenomenon well-explored in the works of Edward Said—American patriotism becomes equated with fearing and hating the dehumanized eastern enemy. John Santos and Sari Nussbeibeh pose difficult questions: So far into this process of alienation and division, what would it take at this point in history to see the ‘other’ as human and to create trust?
It seems that the possibility of overcoming and reversing this process of divisive psychological warfare could occur only if citizens had the tools to demystify and challenge those political and economic dreams that seem to override concerns about the welfare of average members of society—both civilians and soldiers. “After 911” seems to imply that despite the fact that the critical thinking skills and questioning attitudes necessary for this process of demystification may not be widely cultivated in the media-seduced masses, the evidence to destroy these myths are embedded everywhere around us. Coover’s reading of an excerpt of I Only Wish that I Could Weep ends the documentary on this note with a final reflection: “The story behind the story was in the story.”

Posted by Ariana Balestrieri at 04:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

This is my Documentary Review from a week ago -- I'm sorry, it took some time to get me signed up to post! Thanks for reading,

Joe Posner
IR180.95
2/22/05

Incomplete Images

The two short pieces of film we watched this week for class, Late City and VY2K, both have new media and politics directly in their sights. Late City, in representing history and conveying information across great distances through television, and VY2K in creating it with VR military simulators and controllers that also span great distance. At the screening last night, Prof. Der Derian described VY2K as engaging the question of whether all the new technology should be viewed as an “enabler” or an “estranger.” It’s clear from the wide range of opinions expressed in VY2K that both of these statements are in some cases true. But while the utopian arguments for technology and new media made are important and inspiring, considering what we have today, the intermediate between then and the future utopians hope and work for, we need to be skeptical of both technology that eases the possibility of war, and arguments that simply blame that technology rather than the people and institutions using the technology. All the images we’re given now are at least somewhat incomplete – and the most we can learn from them is to be cognizant of that fact, skeptical, but not without a sense of history and of the possible future.

Late City’s segment on the Zapruder film of Kennedy’s assassination in 1963 makes, on the surface, important arguments about media representation of history in our age: if it is not documented in images, it is not history -- but images do not tell the whole story in any way. And as Art Simon points out in Late City, their meaning can be created as much by context as their content. This week’s reading in Tube of Plenty makes an important point about the context that media broadcast has had since the very beginning: “The network, having ‘sold’ a period, seemed to regard it as sponsor property, to be used as he designated. Sponsors were, in effect, being encouraged to take charge of the air.” (Barnouw, Erik. Tube of Plenty. New York: Oxford University Press, 1990. p.57) Though things may seem different, the correlation between Nielsen ratings and advertising prices, between the constant threat of advertisers dropping your show, their influence shouldn’t be undervalued. This fact brings up a key intertext between Late City and “real” TV: while some of it’s advanced techniques in style have been adopted by popular TV, it’s stance against the superiority of images and the “military-industrial-media complex” hasn’t so much. An obvious exception is The Daily Show, but Jon Stewart will readily admit that his much-needed criticism of other media outlets is simply a search for laughs and advertising dollars, not “truth.” Late City seems much more pure in their intentions, and perhaps then its ultimate failure to become “ real TV” shouldn’t be so surprising: from the beginning, centrally broadcasted new media needs to be for the sponsors, because “press is free for those who own one,” not for those who will criticize those who own one.

In Prof. Der Derian’s “Cyber War” section of Late City, and in the various interviews in VY2K we see a more direct engagement of new tools used on the battlefield, and how new media redefines the commander’s relationship to that battlefield. Though Jaron Lanier professes to believe in the possibility of VR to perhaps create a pure improvisational space of human creativity, this half-statement shown in the documentary is certainly not the whole story. In a wired article Prof. Der Derian wrote for Wired about military simulators, he makes a much more pertinent point (to this class at least): “The simulated battlefield makes killing and dying less plausible, and therefore more possible.” (Der Derian, James. “Cyber-Deterrence.” http://www.watsoninstitute.org/infopeace/vy2k/deterrence.cfm) This sentiment is echoed in a general consensus in VY2K: “tele-presence,” and the ability of new technology to extract people from the physical battlefield gives the illusion of control and make the war theatre seem much more like a play than a “human” endeavor. One critic even calls military “seductive,” as technology suggests “battle management,” again calling to mind theatre and business. Lanier’s optimistic statement of the possibility of “shared dreaming” seems much more malicious now – is this shared dream one where we’ll let images convince us to go to war under false pretenses? Or one where the supposed “control” over military action will make us dream of an impossibly “symbolic war?” Michael Ignatieff’s idea of symbolic war, in the context presented seems like a step forward: war will be able to get away from actual killing, and just send messages. This is nothing to be pleased about – I for one, would rather complicated diplomatic politics through conversation (or televised conversations) rather than precision bombs (or televised bombings).

The arguments faulting technology were initially much more convincing than those praising technology’s creative and potentially democratizing power as they inspire fear of technology as an “estranger,” because they show how on a large scale they might make going to war a little bit easier, a little bit less real, and as Der Derian says in Late City, simplified to a “screenful of good guys, bad guys, and passive viewers.” But the cloak that both VY2K and Late City pull over our eyes is a particular subjectivity – one that the producers of the films will readily admit to – that they’ve privileged the importance of their type of media (be it TV or VR) over the powerful forces that existed before it, and still exist above it. At last week’s screening of Why We Fight, Jarecki warned of the same thing. Just as it is “people who make the VR” (Mark Pesce, VY2K), it is people that use it too – people guided by their actions, but also by the pre-existing institutions in which they act. Both of these documents could be partially faulted for their narrow focus, but they do make some attempt to address their incomplete nature: Late City mentions the protests at news stations during the Gulf War and curious lack of demonstration at the pentagon. VY2K engages creative minds that are thinking outside of the box of current events. While both provide adequate and necessary warning about the present skepticism about images and technology, they don’t hold people and institutions accountable: people still pull the trigger on a “smart” bomb and people could read the written word rather than watch images of falling bombs. Their decisions are based on so much more than the technology they use to make them.

Posted by Joe Posner at 10:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)