Quality Time: A Phenomenological Analysis of the Transcendental Ability of Time in

Jesse van der Mark 10348220 [email protected] First Reader: Floris Paalman Second Reader: Marie Baronian University of Amsterdam MA: Media Studies Date: 23/06/2016 Words: 23409

Table of Contents

Introduction 2

i. Theoretical Framework 1. Transcendental Cinema 4 2. Phenomenology 5 3. Media Archaeology and Auteur Cinema 7 ii. Methodology 1. Corpus 8 2. Models for Analysis 9

Chapter 1: Media Historical Time

i. The Web That Is Media History 13 ii. Bergman and Persona 14 iii. Tarkovsky and Mirror 16 iv. Bresson and Pickpocket 18

Chapter 2: Rhythmic Segmentations

i. Introduction 20 ii. Persona 20 iii. Mirror 29 iv. Pickpocket 40

Chapter 3: Analyses of Time in the

i. Introduction 49 ii. Persona 50 iii. Mirror 52 iv. Pickpocket 53

Conclusion 57

Bibliography 59

1

Introduction

When I first saw the balloon aviator sequence in Tarkovsky’s Mirror (1975), I was overwhelmed by its ability to evoke intense emotions within me. The archive material is introduced around halfway into the film, immediately after images of the Spanish Civil War and the mysterious staring of a young girl into the camera. It starts silently, but after two shots, the music (Pergolesi’s “Stabat Mater, No.12: Quando Corpus Morieteur”) starts and accompanies the rest of the sequence. This was one of the first times that a film was able to evoke such strong, almost transcendental, feelings in me. The problem was that I could not understand where those feelings came from. What I witnessed on the screen wasn’t particularly emotional or spiritual on its own, it wasn’t really ‘connected’ to the rest of the film and it was not even by the director himself. When the film finished I had to see this particular sequence again, but this time, watching the sequence on its own, it was not that overwhelming anymore. I figured that this sequence shouldn’t be seen in isolation. It is in some way connected to the images shown before and after this sequence and to other of Tarkovsky, and even to other films and media in general. As I watched more films, had more of these experiences and started reading more about it, I came to realize that it somehow involves time and rhythm. I am not referring to time and rhythm as standalone elements, but always in relation to a bigger framework: in relation to and as part of a bigger framework: the film itself, the filmmaker as an auteur, media history and the spectator and his memory. All elements of the framework are relevant in the confines of time and they are constantly intertwined. In this web of time and history, the filmmaker takes a central place, connecting all the elements when forging a film. In this thesis I intend to delve deeper into this assumption and I will argue that time and rhythm constitute the groundwork of film and that these particular elements can evoke metaphysical, transcendent feelings in a spectator. I’ll argue furthermore, with a clear focus on the filmmaker as auteur, that they can be seen as a media archaeologists, constantly aware of their work’s position within the field of media history and their own oeuvre. With this view I renounce the chronological approach to film in ‘conventional’ Film History, moving towards the ideas suggested by scholars who plead for a “New Film History”: a media-archaeological approach that breaks with oversimplified ideas of linear developments and trends in media history (Elsaesser; Friedberg; Hagener; Parikka; Strauven). These scholars argued that the genealogical view on media history overlooks phenomena that are important in our understanding of the media: “[a] media archaeologist would therefore notice above all what is missing or has been suppressed and left out in our genealogical chart” (Elsaesser 18). In the field of new film history and media archaeology however, scholars have moved away from the media texts to focus on the (economical) contexts.

Many of its [new film history] practitioners sought new insights into the specific nature of cinema by introducing extended cultural, social and economic contextualization, based on the

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consultation of varied firsthand source material, and by emphasizing cinema’s intermedial relationships. In a way Zielinski’s Audiovisions also pointed in this direction […], the context and the technological apparatus were given central stage. (Huhtamo and Parikka, 19)

Although this focus on context was a necessary step in our understanding of media history, I believe it is time to bring back the media texts to rediscover them using a media archaeological view, because we, film scholars, cannot discuss film when we ignore the actual texts. Without the film texts themselves there would be no such thing as film scholarship. Furthermore I want to add a phenomenological perspective to this approach, believing that we cannot deny the role of our embodied awareness in relation to time and history. Memorizing or thinking about history and time (which are both some sort of existential acts) is always connected to a bodily experience of time. One cannot think or talk about time without understanding its relation one’s own existence. These ideas are founded in the work of Maurice Merleau-Ponty, which will be the theoretical base of this thesis. Merleau-Ponty was the first to make a connection between phenomenological philosophy and (the experience of) art in our contemporary, media-filled world. Besides using his work as a perspective on New Film History, I will also use it to propose a new model to understand how transcendence through film is evoked. Relatively little is written on the subject of transcendentalism in film. The scholars that are dealing with this subject (Nichols; Efird; Lopate) could be considered descendants of Paul Schrader’s theory of the transcendental style. In his book Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer Schrader argues that there is a certain style that may evoke transcendental feelings in the spectator. He created a model to analyse film (style) which uses three features/characteristics: the everyday, disparity and stasis. For him these are the necessary stylistic elements for a film to be able to evoke transcendental feelings. The problem with Schrader’s argument is that it’s only about a certain style. Following his argument, a film cannot evoke transcendental feelings if it lacks this particular style. Thus, according to Schrader, many films that do not have such a specific style are not able to create feelings of transcendence. In the model that I propose style is replaced by elements that are essential to all films: time and rhythm. I agree with Schrader that there are films that can have a transcendental/spiritual meaning, films that can conjure transcendental feelings, but in my opinion these are fuelled by time and not by style. Time plays a major role in this thesis, not only as its subject, but also as its structure. The auteur as media-archaeologist is constantly aware of, and working with three layers of time: the huge stack of time called history (media-history in particular), the rhythm and duration of a film, and time as a tool (paraphrasing Tarkovsky: that magical moment between ‘action’ and ‘’). These three layers of time will shape this thesis’ structure. In the first chapter I will elaborate on time as history, wherein I argue that we should move away from conventional film history to new film history in order to understand how the auteur can be seen as a media-archaeologist. In the second chapter I shall delve into time as a film’s rhythm. I will present rhythmical segmentations of the three films from my

3 corpus, trying to understand how rhythm works in relation to the evocation of transcendental feelings. In the third, and final chapter, I examine the phenomenon of time closer, by means of an analysis of a long take from each of the three films from my corpus, researching how time is presented by the auteur. Concluding each chapter I revert to my thoughts on how time is the main element for feelings of transcendence in film, and how that particular layer of time plays a role in the argument.

I. Theoretical Framework

1. Transcendental Cinema Firstly I want to delve into Schrader’s statements on transcendental cinema. Transcendence is such an abstract anomaly that it can hardly be described. Schrader tried to give a definition: “the transcendent is beyond normal sense experience, and that which it transcends is, by definition, the immanent” (5). His statement is justifiable: it is true indeed that transcendence is a (spiritual) elevation of the palpable. Oddly enough though, Schrader does not elaborate on the palpable (in this case our body) in relation to the feelings of transcendence. In his search for the elements that can evoke transcendent feelings, Schrader focusses on style. I believe that by doing this, Schrader stays too close to the text, ignoring the experience of the spectator (who is eventually the one that experiences this state of transcendence). When one writes about transcendentalism, one cannot ignore the fact that transcendentalism is something that is experienced bodily. In doing so, the phenomenon of transcendence becomes a phenomenon on its own, cut off from our (bodily) understanding of it. To explain his ideas, Schrader came up with a model to understand how style evokes feelings of transcendence, and this is where I disagree with him. His model consists of three characteristics: the everyday, disparity and stasis. According to Schrader, these characteristics are structured always in the same way (in transcendental films). First of all I think that his particular hierarchical structure/order of ‘the everyday -> disparity -> stasis’ contributes to making his model rather simplistic, ignoring more complex ideas on structure of time and rhythm and spectatorship. The model Schrader created is founded upon these three characteristics, which (always) follow up on each other in the same order. When talking about the first stage, “the everyday”, Schrader argues that in the films that have a transcendental style, dramatic conflicts are replaced by every day actions. In these films, the stage of the everyday is merely “the bare threshold of existence, a cold surface reality stripped of nearly everything expressive” (39). “Disparity” is the second stage, and can only be realised if the everyday is established. This stage “casts suspicion on the nonemotional everyday” (42). In other words, the spectator will lose its trust in the -cold- world of the everyday, because there seems to be a human density. Then, only in the final stage that is “stasis”, feelings of transcendence can arise through a final shot of the film. Schrader provides a definition for this stage/shot: “a frozen view of life which does not resolve the disparity but transcends it” (49). In this final image, everything that the spectator experienced throughout the film comes together. I believe it is far more complicated than Schrader claims. I disagree with Schrader’s 4 statement that the feeling of transcendence discloses only with the display of a single shot (like his most famous example: the vase in Ozu’s Late Spring (1949)). I think that the feeling of transcendence exceeds the film itself and can be experienced anywhere within the film and even (or especially) after the film has ended. It can leave the spectator with indescribable feelings that can last for a long time, which are not necessarily connected to a particular image, or to a (never-changing) stylized structure. It is connected to the sensual experience of the film as a whole, and to the impact of its rhythm1. Of course there are certain shots/images that seem to have more significance than others, but this is always in relation to time. By this I am not only referring to time as moment in the film, duration and rhythm of the film, but also to time as media history: some images have more significance because they (explicitly or implicitly) reflect upon media history. However, this is solely based on experience (and thus subjective), making these ‘significant shots’ different among spectators.

2. Phenomenology

The basis of my claims is grounded in the work of phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty, a French philosopher who argued against Cartesian philosophy. According to Merleau-Ponty, we have to go back to our basic instinct, and focus on our senses in order to understand the world around us. More importantly, Merleau-Ponty was one of the first philosophers who talked about phenomenology in relation to art, making him a very important figure in the phenomenological approach to film. Two statements from Merleau-Ponty on film are of major importance for this thesis. The first is the idea that time is one of the most important elements of film. In a radio lecture on his basic ideas he states the importance of cinematographic rhythm and the duration that is given to cinematic elements: “important is the selection of suggested episodes and in each of them the choice of viewpoints that one let appear in the film. A certain general cinematic rhythm is constituted by the length that is given to each element and by the order in which one chooses to present these elements (77)2. Secondly, he argues that the importance of stories, film celebrities, dialogue and fancy muddles the potential of film as art:

People idolize film stars. The spectacular possibilities of montage of image and intrigue, of the interference of fancy pictures and of clever dialogue are only temptations for the practice of

1 I acknowledge that this notion of time as most essential element for the evocation of transcendental feelings could be problematized by the role of the cinematic apparatus. Transcendence arises in our immanent bodies, and so it is important how and where our bodies are positioned. This does however not influence the statements I’m making here. 2 Own translation of: “Dat wat van belang is, is de keuze van voorgestelde episodes en in ieder daarvan de keuze van gezichtspunten die men laat figureren in de film. Een bepaald cinematografisch ritme wordt gevormd door de lengte die men geeft aan alle verschillende elementen, door de volgorde waarin men kiest deze te presenteren”. 5

film, wherein one risks that film can be successful without using expressive means that are inherent to cinema3. (77)

This is an important statement in relation to my corpus and the auteurs I’m discussing in this thesis, who all somehow ‘reject’ these elements and instead are interested in the art-form only. Merleau-Ponty’s thinking has been important for film scholar Vivian Sobchack who has also been an influence for this thesis. In her work, Sobchack has drawn a link between transcendentalism in film and the spectator’s embodied experience. In “Embodying Transcendence: On the Literal, the Material, and the Cinematic Sublime” Sobchack argues that transcendence emerges in “our ontic immanence” (197). What she means by this is that feelings of transcendence that seem to release us from our bodies’ restrictions, paradoxically emerge from our sensual embodiment. In other words, we transcend our bodies through our bodies. This becomes even more complicated when looking at this paradox in relation to film. According to Sobchack “both our sense of bodily transcendence and the sensuality of our bodily existence are often amplified at the movies. […] That is, we not only feel but often also feel ourselves feeling- and this even as we are transcendently “elsewhere” (198). What is important here, is that although we might feel as if we’re in another world (that is, the cinematic world that is presented to us), and although we are in a heightened state of transcendence, we consciously feel that these sensations arise within our bodies. To better understand the phenomenological relation between our bodies and the film, I would like to introduce another film scholar who was influenced by Merleau-Ponty’s work: Jennifer Barker. In “Musculature” Barker uses the term ‘gestures’ to explain our bodily connection with the cinema. In the phenomenological approach of film there are two types of bodies that are constantly intertwined with one-another: “viewer and film are two differently constructed but equally muscular bodies, acting perhaps in a tandem or perhaps at odds with each other, but always in relation to each other” (Barker 72). Although the latter (film) is an abstract body, we understand it through our own bodies. When a camera pans from left to right, we recognize that ‘gesture’: when we turn our heads from left to right, the same sort of imagery arises. This recognition creates a strong connection between these two bodies. According to Barker this has to do with kinaesthetic memory: “when [a] film ‘ducks’ or ‘swerves’ or ‘races’ or ‘stalks’ its subjects, or ‘crashes’ into something, we can relate, having performed many of these basic gestures ourselves, in our own way” (75)4. Through the theory of gestures, we understand that our bodies are able to strongly connect to film. This connection enables

3 Own translation of: “Men dweept met filmsterren. De opzienbarende mogelijkheden van montage van beeld en intrige, van inmenging van fraaie foto’s of van scherpzinnige dialoog vormen voor de film alleen maar verleidingen waarbij het risico bestaat dat zij daarin blijft vaststeken en zo succesvol kan zijn zonder daarbij gebruik te maken van expressieve middelen die het meest eigen zijn aan cinema. 4 Notice here that memory is a purely time-related phenomenon. If we wouldn’t memorize those actions we have experienced in the past, we would not be able to connect to the cinematic body. So, the greater lines of time are hugely relevant for our essential connection with cinema to begin with. 6 the film’s ability to evoke transcendental feelings: because we are (bodily) connected to the film, we are able to experience intense feelings.

3. Media Archaeology and Auteur Cinema

The three filmmakers I’m focussing on -, and - are very distinctive for the European Auteur Cinema. In post-war Europe, starting in France with the foundation of Cahiers du Cinéma (with André Bazin as its most central critic), more critics started recognizing the directors as the creative geniuses behind films. In his famous article in ‘Cahiers’, François Truffaut attacked (post-war) French cinema of psychological realism and (especially) its scenario-based methods:

That school [psychological realism] which aspires to realism destroys it at the moment of finally grabbing it, so careful is the school to lock these beings in a closed world, barricaded by formulas, plays on words, maxims, instead of letting us see them for ourselves, with our own eyes. The artist cannot dominate his own work. (7)

It’s exactly this dominance that the critics of Cahiers consider important. The auteur must have full control over his film, and should therefore be “responsible for the scenarios and dialogues they illustrate” (7). The influence of the French critics became apparent when films became more of a director’s medium instead of a screenwriter’s medium, moving away from storytelling towards cinematic artistry. A growing number of filmmakers started experimenting with the medium, in search of their own visual style and signature. In this new approach to film, directors were not only interested in telling a good story, but they questioned the phenomenon of cinema itself. The tendency of these filmmakers to shift focus from plot to medium specific expressiveness created a new perspective on film history. They tried to push the boundaries of the medium by radically breaking with the common ideas of what cinema should be. Provocative techniques, like the or the freeze frame, were introduced to amplify the visual language. Of course, I need to be careful in talking about these auteurs as creative geniuses, because the auteur theory definitely has its flaws. One of the dangers is its invitation to romanticize these filmmakers, interpreting every single element in their work in search for meaning in every small detail. However, I do think that the auteur theory is important when looking at it from a media archaeological standpoint. I propose a perspective on the auteur not as a creative genius (though we should not completely disregard his creativity) but rather as a participant in the debate on film as phenomenon. The auteur is in a way a film scholar who questions the (existential) ontology of the medium. Bergman, Bresson and Tarkovsky flourished in the era in which the auteur theory became

7 popular and they were considered as some of the greatest5. Their films touched upon existential themes of alienation, religion and death. More importantly, their films asked ontological questions about cinema. These three filmmakers were aware of their position in the media-landscape, using the context of film history to shape their own work. Looking at these auteurs from this point of view, they could be considered as active media archaeologists. They are constantly rethinking and reviving the knowledge of film history, and that is why I feel it is important to bring the texts they produced back into the media archaeological field.

II. Methodology

1. Corpus

To understand how the three layers of time work in film, I have chosen three films that will be central in this thesis: Bergman’s Persona (1966), Tarkovsky’s Mirror (1976) and Bresson’s Pickpocket (1959). By selecting these films, a strong focus on arises. That is not particularly remarkable, as the prestigious European filmmakers from the fifties to the seventies all “pursued distinctive themes and stylistic choices in film after film” (Thompson and Bordwell 382), thereby fuelling the idea of the auteur as an artist. So why these three particular filmmakers and films? First, these three directors are simply considered as some of the greatest auteurs. Secondly, they are all from different countries, each with a different cinematic tradition. Because of this variety in nationality, I can make a broader claim on the auteur (in general) as media archaeologist. Furthermore, these filmmakers explicitly expressed their affinity with the spiritual, which closely connects to the subject of transcendentalism. Finally, they all explicated their ideologies on the medium of film (both in film and in text). For that reason I can place them in the category of filmmaker as theorist. Persona is probably Bergman’s most famous and radical film. “Persona’s ambiguity and reflexivity made it one of the key works in modernist cinema” (Thompson and Bordwell 387). With its famous opening sequence, anarchistic visual effects (the projector breakdown) and focus on the machinery behind the imagery, it’s ultimately a film about film. From that perspective it is possibly the best entry for analysing it regarding my argument on the auteur as media archaeologist. Mirror is the film that made me think about the relation between the transcendental quality of film and time. Another main reason to include this film in my analyses is its depiction of time and memory. The film is not structured around a story, but it is structured around memories. In his book Sculpting in Time, Tarkovsky discusses the importance of time for the medium of film, not only in production but also in ‘consumption’: “I think that what a person normally goes to the cinema for is time: for time lost or spent or not yet had. He goes there for living experience” (63). In Mirror he most

5 Other major filmmakers in this era that made European Auteur Cinema distinctive were Antonioni, Buñuel, Fellini, Godard, Renoir and Truffaut. 8 explicitly addresses this idea of an altered experience of time, with its fluctuating stream of different timelines. In that sense is Mirror the film that most explicitly expressed his ideas on cinema, as it’s “a philosophically personal and autobiographical film dealing with memory and temporality” (Menard). The final film is Pickpocket, which was Bresson’s fifth feature-length film, but the first in which he fully established his own style. (1943) and The Ladies of Bois de Boulogne (1945), his first two films, are stylistically very different from his other work. Joseph Cunneen calls these films even “Bresson before Bresson” (25), because they are so offbeat compared to the rest of his oeuvre. Diary of a Country Priest (1951) was then a “major step in the discovery of his own approach to cinema” (Cunneen 44), and in (1956) he developed this style even further. But it was Pickpocket that made Bresson the distinctive Bresson. According to fellow director Louis Malle “Pickpocket is Bresson’s first film” (Cunneen 71). It is the complete realization of Bresson’s approach to cinema. Hence I chose this film to look at how such a distinct auteur worked with the elements of time. I will analyse these three films on three levels of time: media history (the big web of time that encompasses all), the rhythm of the films and, finally, the most primal use of time in the auteur’s use of the long take.

2. Models for Analysis

Firstly, I am approaching my corpus from a media archaeological perspective. In the first chapter, based on the first layer of time, I will focus on the auteur and his reflection on media history. In that chapter, my arguments are built around statements by the directors in relation to media history and in combination with examples from their films. I look at how the filmmaker as media archaeologist guides his audience in their understanding of the phenomenon of film. For my argumentation I use quotes and notes by the auteurs themselves on their ideas of what cinema should be. Furthermore, I look at how their work is positioned in the media-historical web, what their influences were and how they influenced others after their work’s completion. Finally I explain how this layer of media- historicity is important in the films’ abilities to enhance a cinematic experience into a transcendent (cinematic) experience.

In chapter two I move towards a phenomenological approach when I look at the rhythmical structures of the films. For understanding the rhythmical structures I want to introduce Herbert Zettl. In his book, Sight Sound Motion, Zettl wrote about understanding film and video aesthetics. Although this book is not written from a phenomenological viewpoint, it has chapter in which Zettl elaborates on the experience of time. In this chapter he introduces a model for understanding how certain elements can influence our experience of time while watching film (or video). The model Zettl constructed consists of three main characteristics: event’s density, event’s intensity and experience intensity. The first characteristic, an event’s density, is based on “[t]he relevant number of event

9 details that occur within a brief clock time period […]. For example, if you would attend a three-ring circus, more things are going on at the same time than you can watch. A movie or video sequence with many brief shots and shifts of point of view, location, or angles is also a high-density event” (241- 242). This is related to the speed and quantity of the presented event(s). The second characteristic, an event’s intensity, is based on the “relevant energy and significance we perceive about an event” (242). The event of two men aggressively fighting has more energy than the event of two men talking with each other. We experience time faster if an event has more energy, and if it’s significant to the story. If the fight between the two men is not significant for the main story, we experience the event not as fast as when it would be significant. This closely relates to the third, and final characteristic: experience intensity. Experience intensity depends on “the number of relevant experiences we go through either simultaneously or in rapid succession and the relative depth or impact such events have on us” (243). This particular characteristic is the most difficult to ‘measure’, because it’s mainly subjective: “[e]xperience intensity is less dependent on the relative energy or density of the event and more dependent on how much the event means to you” (243). If we watch the death of a character we can relate to, our experience intensity would be much higher than if we watch the death of a character that is barely introduced to the story. And so the subjective aspect of experience intensity is depending on how much the spectator is emotionally involved in the events presented on screen. The less intense these three characteristics are, the slower a shot feels. A long take of a cow grazing in the field would feel durational longer than a high-speed car chase.

The model I will use as a basis for my long take analyses in chapter three was proposed by Don Ihde in his book Experimental Phenomenology and was later applied by (among others) Vivian Sobchack in her analysis of Derek Jarman’s Blue (1993). Ihde suggests five steps to get to a phenomenological interpretation. He names these steps “hermeneutic rules” built on existential phenomenological philosophy. Sobchack points out that this model (and phenomenological analysis in general) is very important to demonstrate that lived experience, or “subjective experience” is as important, if not more important, as “received knowledge”. She argues that many film scholars “are highly suspicious of their own “subjective” experience. They ignore, mistrust, and devalue it as trivial, mistaken, or irrelevantly singular — this last, a false, indeed arrogant, humility that unwittingly rejects intersubjectivity, sociality, and culture” (22). When it comes down to the evocation of transcendental feelings, indeed I cannot deny my own subjective experiences in understanding the phenomenon. However, I do think that I need to add an extra step, or degree, to Ihde’s model, because despite how subjective my experience of transcendence, and my experience of time may be, to understand the function of the film we also need to take in mind the context of the film. Although the first step in the observation of the films’ long takes is from a phenomenological perspective (with the focus on the experience of time and

10 transcendence), I also need to explore the ideas of the auteur in relation to my claim of the auteur as media archaeologist, working with and within the three layers of time. The first two rules of Ihde’s model are closely linked and lay down the basis for analysis: “attend to the phenomena of experience as they appear” and “describe, don’t explain” (34). These rules seem superfluous, because both actions seem obvious. However, it’s of major importance for the sake of phenomenological experience to enter the object of analysis without preconceptions. Theories and sets of predefined criteria should be subordinated to direct observation in investigating how one experiences the object. An accurate phenomenological description emerges next in “cursory and habituated perceptual responses – these then interrogated by a careful looking that precedes classification and systematization (Sobchack 24). Important here is Ihde’s third rule: “horizontalize or equalize all immediate phenomena. Negatively put, do not assume an initial hierarchy of ‘realities’ that might foreclose the phenomenon’s possibilities” (36). It is very important that I do not make a hierarchical distinction so that every element can be given equal treatmen, based on a first (subjective) observation, without judging them rationally. When I analyse my corpus, I will not elaborate on both naturalized film terms, genres and categories and on the material, measurable aspect of time at first. I will only describe my objects of analysis in terms of my sensual, embodied experience. Next, I will look at the corpus from a more meta perspective, acknowledging the context of the film. This is where Ihde’s model and my own working methods merge. What follows is the stage of reduction, the fourth rule of Ihde’s model: “seek out structural or invariant features of the phenomena as they appear” (39). This step is crucial to determine which details are of most importance to the object of analysis. In phenomenological philosophy the ‘essence’ of an object is rather irrelevant. I would like to use Merleau-Ponty’s example of a table to clarify this. When I give a formal description of a table, ignoring its shape and details, I can feel as if I approach the essence of the table. However, that is just a description, not an observation. When I observe a table, I am interested in the way it fulfils its task of being a table. In that way I am particularly (and solely) observing the uniqueness of the table (its shape and details, its ornaments, height, decorations, etcetera). Each detail is as important as the other for my experience of the table. The meaning ‘table’ is only significant to the extent that she appears with all her own unique details (75). All these details together constitute my experience of that particular table. That is why Ihde’s fourth rule is crucial: find qualitative variations that “possibilize phenomena, bring forward invariants in variants and to determine the limits of a phenomenon” (40). With this, Ihde means that to understand how the phenomenon works, one has to alter the phenomenon’s elements. One of the tools I introduce here, is to change a scene’s music (as a qualitative variation) to find the uniqueness of the (experience of the) long take. Music is a very important cinematic element when it comes to time, because music is the only other medium besides film that can record time (in a non-visible way). Music thus accompanies the image in its depiction of time. Therefore when I change the scene’s 11 music, I change the way time is depicted. From thereon I can conclude how time is being depicted in the first place. Finally after determining the structural invariants of the object of analysis, and thus have a clear view of what a phenomenon does (in a unique way of ‘being’), there’s one more rule left to expand on: explicate the phenomenological interpretation. According to Ihde, “[e]very experiencing has its reference or direction towards what is experienced, and, contrarily, every experienced phenomenon refers to or reflects a mode of experiencing to which is present” (42-43). So, meaning of the object of analysis (as it is experienced) is stated through the interrelation between observation and ‘description’ (rules one two and three) and reduction (rule four). While using this methodology I will focus primarily on time, rhythm and space within my corpus. I determine which details affect the experience of time and space, and how they influence our stream of consciousness. Ultimately, I will elaborate on the relation between time and rhythm and the feelings of transcendence in film.

These three different approaches seem unconnected at first, but in fact they are a logical accumulation in relation to the structure of this thesis. The first step, the media archaeological view on my corpus, is necessary in understanding the films in a broader network of time. I could not expand upon the notion of time in the chosen films, if I did not explain first how these films are affected by (historical) time in the first place. Next, to understand how time works in the context of the films as objects, the most obvious step is to analyse their rhythm. In order to do that I have chosen a model that can explicate how certain cinematic features influence a film’s rhythm and the spectator’s experience of time. Finally, with the phenomenological model founded by Ihde, I can explore how time works as a tool in the films. Each layer of time is important in the evocation of transcendental feelings and using these different approaches I am in a position to explain how.

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Chapter 1: Media Historical Time

I. The Web That Is Media History

To understand how time in film works, I look at it from a meta level first. Looking at time in relation to cinema from a macro perspective, it is obvious that we’re dealing with media history. A particular film, scene or even shot cannot be separated from the web, or network, that is media history. The media history that I refer to, is the media-archaeological perspective on media history: “challenging or even severely criticizing the methods of traditional historiography such as chronology, genealogy, and especially teleology” (Strauven 63). From a media-archaeological perspective, it is impossible to define film history as a linear progression from The Arrival of a Train (Lumière 1885) until now. Media history should be seen as a web of media-historic references which is paradoxically both timeless and ephemeral. Media history is timeless in the sense that it more resembles a place, or a map. In the web of media history all elements can be both past and present: cinematic ‘toys’6, techniques, styles and ideas on film are constantly revived, revisited and rethought in ‘new’ texts, while the new texts immediately become a part of (media) history when they are materialised. However, at the same time media history shows how in different eras different ideas of film were popular (for example the auteur theory). In that sense media history is inevitably bound to time and the events that are linked to a particular time. Although this seems complicated, it is safe to say that one of media history’s foremost ‘functions’ is that of a collective memory of media and cinema that influences both filmmakers and spectators. A filmmaker is always influenced by the history of the medium he works with, just as a spectator’s expectations and (cinematic) experiences are built upon their knowledge of media history. One cannot say if he/she is watching a film, if one has never watched a film before. That means that in a certain way the ontology7 of film is closely connected to media history. Furthermore, the auteur plays a vital role in the connection of the three layers of time. My claim is that these auteurs should be considered media-archaeologists. When making a film, the auteur is aware of film history and brings that (consciously or unconsciously) along with him in his creative process. An auteur is, one way or another, always involved with film history. Not so much in traditional film-history however, but more in a fragmented and non-linear remix of different kinds of media-histories. The auteur takes his place in this web of media-historical influences and, aware of his position, is always self-conscious about his work in this field of media history. In this chapter I evaluate the three films from my corpus to see how they intertwine, react and reflect on media history. I claim that the work of an auteur can be considered a media-archaeological video-essay, through which the auteur engages in a dialogue with his audience asking ontological

6 Cinematic toys: objects as the phenakistoscope, zoetrope, praxinoscope etc. 7 When I use the term ‘ontology’ I do not use it in the Bazinian way of the ontology of the photographic image. I use it in the more basic philosophical way of a phenomenon’s nature of being (in the world). 13 questions about the medium. The term video-essay is somewhat embroiled because in the field of media studies, the video-essay seems to gain in popularity as a legitimate way to present an argument. When I say these films are video-essays, I mean that although these films are feature films, they are also debates on what film is, or should be. The filmmakers that made these films should therefore be considered serious participants in the theorization of film as a phenomenon.

II. Bergman and Persona

The opening sequence of Persona is a logical place to start, as it explicitly refers to many different media-practices in a relatively short amount of time. The opening sequence alone almost stands on its own as an encapsulated essay on film, as it refers to slapstick, animation, the mechanics of film and Bergman’s own oeuvre. In this paragraph I want to take a look at a few of these references Bergman makes in relation to media history. In his use of these references, Bergman asks the spectator to think about the medium and explicitly reminds him that he is watching a film, while at the same time he recognizes and acknowledges his own position as filmmaker and auteur in the broader landscape of media history. The idea of this opening sequence came to Bergman during the process of making the film. In his own words: “[w]hile I was working on Persona, I had it in my head to make a poem- not in words but in images- about the situation in which Persona had originated. I reflected upon what was important, and began with the projector and my desire to set it in motion” (Duncan 341). The whole idea of this opening sequence therefore raised in Bergman’s desire to make films, to create with the medium. This focus on the medium was extremely important for Bergman. It was not only important for himself as a filmmaker, but even more so for the audience, whom he wanted to be constantly reminded of the machinery behind the beautiful imagery and emotions they evoked: “[t]o continue this idea of artifice, when the film was released, Bergman insisted that all stills should consist of frame blowups, complete with sprocket holes down the side” (Duncan 341). In short, Persona is as much a visual poem as a visual reflection on its own medium. In this light, it is obvious that the opening sequence starts with two projector beams that slowly light up, slowly making contact. It’s the first reminder to the spectator that what he’s about to witness is a film, and, at the same time, it’s a reference to the archaeology of the projector itself. The projector is connected to the magic lantern, a device that could project images onto a wall or a screen. It was used for the creation of phantasmagorias, the “so-called ghost shows of later eighteenth-century and early nineteenth-century Europe- illusionistic exhibitions and public entertainments in which “spectres” were produced through the use of the magic lantern” (Castle 27). Important to notice, is the connection with the world of the fantastical, of spectres and phantoms. According to Castle “amid all the technological breakthroughs and the refinements in cinematic technique, the ghost-connection, interestingly enough, never entirely disappeared” (42). In fact, this is apparent in Persona: the haunting quality of the desolated island and the ghostly movements of the characters are reminiscent of that phantasmagorical characteristic, but it’s even more obvious in the imagery presented in the 14 opening sequence. One of the first images that is shown, is a fragment from a silent film showing a man in pyjama’s being chased by a skeleton and a vampire. With this, Bergman almost made a tribute to the magic lantern, acknowledging the importance of the device in film history. It comes as no surprise then that his autobiography is titled Lanterna Magica. In his autobiography Bergman recalls the moment he discovered his love for film and theatre, here recited by Mervyn Rothstein: “[a]t the age of 9, he traded a set of tin soldiers for a battered magic lantern, a possession that altered the course of his life. Within a year, he had created, by playing with this toy, a private world in which he felt completely at home, he recalled. He fashioned his own scenery, marionettes and lighting effects and gave puppet productions of Strindberg plays in which he spoke all the parts” (NY Times). Bergman learned the phantasmagorical quality of film through the device of the magic lantern, and he went on to show this to his audience8. Bergman not only refers to the mechanics of film, but he also refers to media texts and contexts. The first image we see (extremely briefly) is that of an erect penis. It could be seen as a nod to subliminal advertising which was fairly popular among advertisers in that period (Moore 38). Furthermore, it could also be seen as a reference to 1910’s ‘sex hygiene films’. These films, in which nude bodies were explicitly exposed, were produced in the guise of educational films for the prevention of STD’s (Schaefer 37)9. At the same time, this shot is being referenced in David Fincher’s Fight Club (1999). In this case, we can see that chronology of media history is not as simple as it seems. When a reference is made between two objects, they will be always linked to one another. This creates the timeless condition of the web of media history. Although Persona came first, the only thing that really matters (in their relation) is the connection that has been established by Fight Club. The latter makes Persona exist in the same present as itself because the reference influences our experience of the film ‘now’. In that sense, on experiential level, they will always exist within the same timeframe despite the more than thirty years gap between the films. Finally Bergman also points to his own filmography with the images of the tarantula, crawling over the screen. Using this image he refers to Through A Glass Darkly (1961) in which God is represented in the form of a spider. By including this image in the opening sequence that is stacked with media-historical references, he positions himself in the field as well. He, quite literally, recognizes his own work in the broader context of media history. With this statement he shows his self-reflexivity and his awareness of his position in the media historic web. All the ‘quotations’ to media history Bergman uses to build his film around are important in the enabling of transcendental feelings. What is probably critical in this transcendental quality, is its phantasmagorical intention. When people went to see the illusionistic exhibitions of the phantasmagoria, they knew that what they saw was not real: “[o]ne knew that ghosts did not exist, yet

8 He even made a film about this theme with The Magician (1958) 9 This interpretation is further strengthened by the space of the hospital which plays a big part in the sequence 15 one saw them anyway, without knowing precisely how (Castle 30). In Persona Bergman explicitly emphasized the fact that although one knows they are watching a film (which is not real), they can experience extraordinary feelings (that are real). With this observation, Persona transforms the phenomenon of film into a mystifying, phantasmagorical phenomenon. By reminiscing this quality of media, Bergman heightens the spectator’s conscious experience of the film.

III. Tarkovsky and Mirror

When Tarkovsky came up with the idea of a personal film about memory, remembrance and time, he did not have any idea of how such a film had to be constructed. He played with different ideas to tell this story. One of them was that of fictional reconstructions of events from his own memory in combination with non-fictional interviews with his mother about these same events (Tarkovsky 129). He eventually abandoned this idea, but he did not abandon the idea of merging fiction and non-fiction. In Mirror, fictional events are interspersed with archival of The Spanish Civil War, the Soviet Army crossing Lake Sivash, the political triumph of Mao in China and tests with air balloons by a Kurdish aviator. This is where Tarkovsky takes his place as an active media-archaeologist, asking questions about film, referring to our collective memory not only in terms of historical events, but also in media-historical terms. I want to elaborate in two different ways on Tarkvosky’s use of archive footage. First, I want to highlight the complexity of archive material in relation to time, politics (which is always in relation to history) and the role of the archive in our society through the work of theorists Derrida and Pisters. Second, and more important, I argue how the archive material makes statements on time and cinema, and how it’s important in the evocation of feelings of transcendence in the film. Derrida argues “the archive doesn’t simply record the past. [But] it also, of course, constitutes the past, and in view of a future which retrospectively, or retroactively gives it its so-called final truth” (41-42). He continues his argument on the archive in claiming that it’s “not a living memory. It’s a location” (42). What he means by this, is that the act of archiving consist mainly in leaving a trace in an external location. This is subsequently threatened by the possibility of destruction (for example a library can be burnt down). Partially because of this threat, and partially because of hegemonic power structures, the archive is always political. It is constituted by the dominant power. There’s a “general acceptance of the fact that archiving is never a neutral operation but one that involves ongoing transformations and the operation of different agendas” (Baronian 81). We would have had a completely different collective memory (which is mainly shaped by the archive) if for example Nazi Germany would have won the war. Therefore we can never separate archive material from its political basis. So, although Tarkovsky “had to look through thousands of metres of film before hitting on the sequence of the Soviet Army crossing Lake Sivash” (Tarkovsky 130) we are not just dealing with a (media-)archaeologist who ‘discovered’ this material, we are also dealing with the fact that this material exists in the first place (and was not destroyed). The material therefore is not only an ‘objective’ view on historical events that influenced the protagonist (here, the auto-biographical 16 auteur), it also functions as a catalyst for our own internal memory. The archival footage is a political, pre-selected, hegemonic regulated, ‘objective’ collective memory, while our own memories are phenomenological/experiential. However, the ‘objective’ collective memory becomes part of- and influences our own internal memory when it is presented on screen. Notice that there is a close link between the act of archiving and the work of a media-archaeologist and his/her views on media history. In the archiving of media history, many phenomena are forgotten because they are considered unnecessary or unimportant. The media-archaeologist however, pursues a ‘complete’ historic framework in which all media-objects are equal. Through this act of archiving, the media archaeologist (in this case Tarkovsky) makes the events he shows relevant again. Pisters states, in extension of Lipovetsky and Serroy, that “contested and judged history becomes living memory in an open archive” (225). What this means, is that through cinema (which functions as an open archive) we can re-think past events which then re-live in our collective and internal memory because of this re- thinking. This completely disrupts the linearity of history, creating a flow of events that is constantly mingling different timelines, altering both collective and internal memory. What, however, does the archival footage says about time and cinema, and why is it important for the experience of the film itself? Of course, what shocks a spectator at first when archival footage is presented, is its ‘realness’. We are familiar with the aesthetic which we recognize as a documentation of real events. This disrupts our experience of the film, which, until the introduction of archival footage, was just ‘innocent fiction’. Suddenly it is suggested that we are not watching ‘film’ anymore, but we are watching a newsreel. Our idea of what film, or cinema, is supposed to be, suddenly begins to waver. Furthermore, while we are in doubt about the ontology of film, we are plunged into world history. However, the historicity transcends through its intertwining with fiction and our experience of it. It is not that fixed event in the past anymore, it becomes a comprehensive membrane that influences our present experience of being. The events that are shown are not static points on a timeline that are looked back upon, but ever-moving traces that merge with our experience of ‘now’. This is in a way also capsulated in its visual presentation. The aesthetic of the footage stands out from the rest of the film, because it is very textured. This makes it tangible like, indeed, a membrane. As a spectator you can almost (bodily) feel the film grain, it creates a sort of skin through which we can connect to the film better. In her book The Skin of Film, Laura Marks elaborates on this connection, and on what kinds of images are tactile or, in her words, “haptic”.

Marks defines haptic visuality as containing some of the following formal and textual qualities: grainy, unclear images; sensuous imagery that evokes memory of the senses (i.e. water, nature); the depiction of characters in acute states of sensory activity (smelling, sniffing, tasting, etc.); close-to-the-body camera positions and panning across the surface of objects; changes in focus, under- and overexposure, decaying film and video imagery; optical

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printing; scratching on the emulsion; densely textured images, effects and formats such as Pixelvision. (Totaro, Off Screen)

It’s clear that the archival footage Tarkovsky uses contains most of these characteristics, making it tangible. The historic events shown in the footage therefore are not conserved and distant, but fluid and close, affecting our experience of being in the world right now. This makes it important in the film’s evocation of transcendent feelings, elevating it to more than ‘just a story’.

IV. Bresson and Pickpocket

I have shown that Bergman and Tarkovsky reflected on media history quite explicitly in terms of referencing and use of the medium. In the case of Bresson and Pickpocket it is done in a much more implicit and subtle way. In his book Notes on Cinematography Bresson presents his vision on cinema through a collection of small notes and statements. He is in fact trying to explicate the ontology of film using really small steps. The most crucial aspects of his vision are actually closely connected with the media archaeological approach of film. He pleads for an approach of the phenomenon as a phenomenon on its own, not just as a successor of other media: “The truth of cinematography cannot be the truth of theatre, nor the truth of the novel, nor the truth of painting. (What the cinematographer captures with his or her own resources cannot be what the theatre, the novel, painting capture with theirs.)” (5). Surely the medium of film can be influenced by theatre or literature, but these arts are not inherent to it. Film should, in the eyes of Bresson, create and not reproduce. In the book, he emphasizes the idea that film should always produce new relationships. He states for example that “[t]o create is not to deform or invent persons and things. It is to tie new relationships between persons and things which are, and as they are” (7), and that “[f]rom the clash and sequence of images and sounds, a harmony of relationships must be born” (51). What he means with this, is that it is not the filmmaker’s duty to invent a new world, but to create an environment in which characters and objects react to one another. That is why he also wants his ‘models’ not to act, but just to do. They must not think about their actions, they must do their actions:

Models who have become automatic (everything weighed, measured, timed, repeated ten, twenty times) and are then dropped in the middle of the events of your film – their relations with the objects and persons around them will be right, because they will not be thought. (12)

This is apparent in Pickpocket in which Martin LaSalle (who plays protagonist Michel) seems to just be, instead of acting his part. Pickpocket is in fact almost like an adaptation of Notes on Cinematography: a realisation of Bresson’s vision on (the use of) the medium. What Bresson presents in Pickpocket, the first film in which his style was realized completely, is not only a story about a pickpocket, but also a story about the medium of film and how, according to him, it should be used. What stands out watching Pickpocket is the restrained and static use of the camera. There are no spectacular dolly- and crane movements, grotesque angles or sweeping pans and tilts. Every frame 18 has an extremely formal composition. This meticulously crafted style does not only refer to itself, but, indirectly, to the practice of film as a whole. This formality is a contrast to the films made in Hollywood at the time. Where Hitchcock and Welles tried to overwhelm their audiences with exhilarating stories, miraculous set pieces and beautiful actors and actresses, Bresson tried to find a form that could show how film could capture the transience of life. He even “deliberately avoided ‘special effects’” (Cunneen 14). With his strict and formal style he distanced himself so explicitly from the popular filmmakers, that he in a way reacted on the course that the medium had taken. According to Bresson there are “two types of film: those that employ the resources of the theatre (actors, direction, etc.) and use the camera in order to reproduce; those that employ the resources of cinematography and use the camera to create” (2). He dismissed the first type as an art form, not only in words, but also in the way he crafted his films. As a spectator of Pickpocket, one is constant in debate about the ontology of film. At first one could complain about the (lack of) talent of the actors, and say the film is bad because of this10. However, a film cannot be judged by its actors, because then only the actors are judged. This also applies for camera movements: they are not spectacular, but a film does not need camera movements to legitimize its status as a film. A film doesn’t even need movement in frame to be called a film (think of Chris Marker’s La Jetee (1962)). What Bresson does with Pickpocket, is arguing with the spectator about what cinema can and/or should do/be. He implicitly asks the spectators if they think that films should entertain them, or that films should make them feel. Although Pickpocket seems so modest and subdued, it is actually very radical and anarchistic, going against the grain of popular filmmaking. He dares his audience to think about the medium as an art form, not as escapist entertainment. By doing this, he self- consciously positions himself in the field of media-history, almost as a branch on its own with his distinctive (and radical) view on film. Bresson thus uses film history indirectly, shattering the expectations that film history had established. This shattering of expectations is an important factor in Pickpocket’s ability to evoke transcendental feelings. A spectator is constantly mislead, while at the same time the immaculate rhythm builds towards a strong emotional climax which completely surprises the spectator. This sudden destruction of expectations highly elevates the cinematic experience.

10 On the message boards of this film on IMDB this is a frequently occurring argument 19

Chapter 2: Rhythmic Segmentations

I. Introduction

To understand how time works on the level of the film itself, that is rhythm, I elaborate in this chapter on my statements of time and rhythm being fundamental for the transcendental experience of film. In order to do so, I analysed the rhythm in the three films from my corpus. To be able to understand how rhythm is connected to time as a bigger entity (in a media historical way) and to the experienced time of a long take, I need to understand how rhythm plays a role in the experience of a film as a self- contained phenomenon. How does the rhythm plays a role in the evocation of transcendental feelings, and why is rhythm important in the phenomenological experience of the film? To understand how rhythm in film works, I propose rhythmical segmentations of the films. Instead of dividing the films in chapters of narration, I have divided them in terms of rhythm. In doing so I get a clear view on how the film’s time is ‘shaped’ in a particular rhythm that is essential for the experience. I link these rhythmic ‘chapters’ to the aforementioned model of Herbert Zettl, which helps in understanding the experience of time. While I have explained his model in my methodology, I will briefly explain his main points again here and show how I channelled his model into a practicable form. Zettl claims that subjective experience of time in film is depending on three different factors: an event’s density, an event’s intensity and experience intensity. In short: an event’s density has to do with the speed in which an event is presented, the event’s intensity has to do with the energy-level of an event and the experience intensity is the event’s subjective relevance and how much it means to a particular viewer. The more intense these characteristics are, the faster a film/scene/shot feels. In each chapter I analyse how time is being experienced according to the characteristics of Zettl’s model. To get a grip on this analytical process I gave each chapter a title, a rhythmical indication, a time-code, explanation of the events that take place and an image to illustrate the chapter. Finally I also made a timeline for each film to get a better overview of how they are shaped in time. These timelines show the rhythmical chapters and, in doing so, you could see in one glimpse how time is structured within these films. The darker the colour of a chapter is in the timeline, the faster it rhythmically feels.

II. Persona

While in preparation for Persona, Bergman told Sven Nykvist11 he had not written an ordinary screenplay, but “something more like a melody” (Duncan 338). In another piece on Persona, titled ‘Internal Rhythms’, Bergman tells that he wanted to create a visual poem, which had to be established through a rhythm of long shots and close-ups (Duncan 340). This becomes clear when watching the film, in which intensity is not so much driven by story as by the rhythm of powerful

11 Nykvist was Bergman’s cinematographer of choice, collaborating on nineteen feature films and a mini- series. 20

imagery. Persona tells a story of two women: Elisabet, a famous actress who stopped talking, and Alma, a young nurse who is appointed to help the actress. A doctor sends the two women to her seaside house where Elisabet can slowly ‘recover’ under supervision of Alma. The latter talks constantly to fill up the silence. She reveals her biggest secrets, while Elisabet remains silent. Elisabet is, in fact, analysing Alma the whole time for her own benefit. When Alma discovers that Elisabet used her, the film becomes a surrealistic and haunting descent in the women’s psyche. The two women’s identities slowly start into each other, leaving the question if there were ever two women at all.

The film could be divided into fourteen different rhythmic chapters. Each chapter obviously differs in pace and rhythm to the chapter before and after.

1. Part one of opening sequence. Extremely fast paced. [00:00-02:14]

The first rhythmic chapter consists of the imagery of the projector and the projected images that flicker on the screen. It is extremely fast and feels very rushed and chaotic. This feeling of extreme fastness demonstrates what Zettl calls the “event’s density”. The shots are following each other in an insanely high tempo, leaving no space for the spectator to think about the imagery he witnesses. It is like a train on full speed, of which you can only identify its colour and the fact that it’s a train. In Zettl’s words, it feels like a “rapid assault on our senses” (242). The event’s intensity is high as well: we see a comedic act in which the characters are running, the slaughter of a sheep and the hand of a man who is crucified. All these events are high-energy events, speeding up the pace of the sequence. The only characteristic that isn’t as high as the others is the experience intensity. The film doesn’t give the spectator enough time to care about the images, making the events not very relevant (yet).

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2. Part two of opening sequence. Slow paced. [02:14-05:35]

The flickering of fast paced imagery gets delayed halfway through the opening sequence. The speed of the images slows down immensely and the images of trees, architecture and corpses stay on the screen evidently longer. The images almost look like photographs because of their stillness. The slowness of these images is followed, in the same rhythm, by the scene of a young boy that wakes up, reads from a book and touches a blurry projected image of a woman’s face. This chapter is highly contrasted by its predecessor and its successor. In this case the event’s density is quite low. There is much time to think about the imagery on the screen, but even more important, there are less images presented, reducing the event’s density. The event’s intensity is also low: the trees, the architecture and the corpses are very static, and the boy’s activities aren’t full of energy either. In the words of Zettl, they are “low-energy events”, which, if we don’t understand the significance of the events, don’t involve us as much as high-energy events do. Finally the experience intensity is very low as well. Although experience intensity always has a personal foundation, there is no relevance of these images at this point for a spectator within the confines of the film.

3. Title Sequence. Extremely fast paced. [05:35-06:25]

In the title sequence title cards and images from the film take turns in a rapid pace, creating a rushed flow of information. This has, in terms of Zettl’s characteristics, basically the same results as chapter one has. I witness a high event’s density because of its fast cutting. Secondly, there is a high event’s intensity because of the imagery (self-immolation of monks, the comedic act we saw earlier), although some images are very static (trees and faces). Finally there is a low experience intensity, although it is higher than in the previous scenes because curiosity arises because of the faces that are repeatedly shown.

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4. The hospital and stage scene. Natural paced. [06:25-11:08]

After the title sequence the two main characters (Elisabet and Alma) are introduced, as well as the doctor. It’s explained that Elisabet stopped talking on stage. Then the two protagonists meet in one of the hospital rooms. These scenes are in a relatively ‘normal’ rhythm. There is no fast cutting, nor the use of extensively long takes. Movements are in an every-day pace as well. This natural pace is established because of the balance in events’ density and intensity. The density is not particularly high, nor particularly low. Alma meets with the doctor and with the silent Elisabet who is shown in a where she is on stage and stops talking. There are some events going on, creating a relatively every-day pace which is established even more by the event’s intensity. Alma is walking through the hospital, not running, not sitting down, just walking. She talks to the doctor, she helps Elisabet with her pillow and, later, with the radio. These are not high-energy events, nor very low-energy events. Experience intensity is finally increasing here. These sequences are relevant for the audience to understand what this film is going to be about. It sets up a premise and creates an environment in which the story will unfold.

5. Staring of Elisabet. Extremely low paced. [11:08-12:21]

The every-day pace from the previous chapter is broken in this chapter by the staring of Elisabet. Alma puts on music on the radio and Elisabet is silently listening to the music, staring right past the camera. Time feels immensely stretched and slows down the rhythm of the film. This is a prime example for understanding how our experiential time differs extremely from material time. In this shot there’s practically zero density and zero intensity fabricating 23

an experience of time where the passing of time almost feels non-existent. This shot feels excruciating (not in a negative sense) long, making the spectator feel the passing of time fiercely. Paradoxically the experience of time in this chapter enhances experience intensity. The longer the shot goes on, the more intense I experience it. This means that while time is passing, experience intensity increases, which enhances the pace. Its enhancing of experience intensity is not enough however to boost the chapter’s pace. It still feels very slow, while in the material sense of time it only lasts for a little longer than a minute.

6. Alma’s Bedroom monologue. Natural paced. [12:21-13:50]

In this sequence Alma contemplates her life by speaking to herself right before she goes to sleep. Although the scene is filmed as a long take which in duration is longer than Elisabet’s scene, it feels much faster. This basically has to do with the event’s intensity which is higher than in the previous scene with Elisabet. There’s a clearer sense of continuation, not only because Alma is speaking, but also because she fidgets, rubbing her skin with some kind of cream. These actions enhance the event’s intensity. Furthermore, the experience intensity is enhanced because we, as spectators, get more relevant information making us care more about this scene than the previous.

7. Television sequence. Extremely fast paced. [13:50-15:24]

Elisabet is alone in her room and looks in agony at the conflicts she sees on her television. Here we basically have the same construction as in the fast parts of the openings sequence. Fast cut images are rapidly filling the screen which is strongly enhancing the event’s density, intensity and experience intensity.

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8. Transition from hospital to the summerhouse. Natural paced. [15:24-26:25]

This chapter consists of multiple scenes, which play out in the same, ‘normal’ rhythm. Alma is reading a letter to Elisabet, the doctor sends both of them to her summerhouse on an island, the women are cutting mushrooms and humming in the garden and Alma talks a lot to Elisabet both outside as well as in the house. The rhythm feels very natural, nothing feels stretched, nor compressed. Density and intensity are balanced, while experience intensity is enhanced a little.

9. Erotic monologue and building tension. Slow paced. [26:25-44:34]

This chapter is another one in which time feels stretched intensely. Alma talks about an erotic experience she had on a beach. The scene is followed by a mystifying night scene in which Elisabet visits Alma in her bedroom. Of importance here is that this sequence is the most transcendental in my experience. Other scenes that rhythmically belong to this chapter are the ones in which Alma reads Elisabet’s letter and where she deliberately doesn’t remove the glass shard. It all feels extremely slow and drawn out. While the experience intensity of the erotic monologue is quite high (and phenomenologically immensely thought provoking), the event’s density and intensity are not. The same goes for the scenes following the monologue, where the experience intensity even decreases. We see the women interacting in the house, wander on the rocks and silently sitting in the sun.

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10. Broken projector, boiling water and apology. Fast paced. [44:34-54:25]

The slow sequence in which tension is built suddenly stops when there’s a ‘projection failure’. This is followed by two other ‘fast’ scenes in which Alma respectively threatens Elisabet with a pan of boiling water and tries to apologize for it afterwards. After the projection error, images that are reminiscent of the opening sequence are flashing on the screen (though they seem to linger a little longer). This speeds up the rhythm, enhancing density and intensity. In the next scene the event’s intensity even increases because of the conflict between the two women and the tension that lingers after the clash.

11. Cross cutting Alma and Elisabet. Slow paced. [54:25-56:39]

In this scene Alma and Elisabet are separately showed. Alma is at the rocks, Elisabet is in the house. The friendly bond between them is now fully broken. Again, the slow pace here is constituted through the low density and intensity of the events. The women, apart from each other, are silently contemplating the previous events. Nothing much goes on in terms of action. The experience intensity isn’t very high either. The moment of high tension is gone, and their actions are not relevant for the story itself.

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12. Rhythm of faces. Fast paced. [56:39-1:03:10]

Elisabet is looking at a picture of the Warsaw Ghetto. The details of the photograph are shown in rapid order. This is followed by the scene in which Elisabet’s husband shows up and sees Alma as Elisabet. The rhythm of all the different faces (both from the photograph as from the characters in the film) makes this scene very fast paced. This, of course, is part of the event’s density. The intensity in the photograph is conceived through the fast cutting, whilst the intensity in the scene with the husband is built through the event itself. The experience intensity is equally high, because of the pain the photograph evokes, as well as through the look of agony of Elisabet’s face in the scene with the husband.

13. The conversation. Slow Paced. [1:03:10-1:11:30]

In this scene the same conversation takes place twice. One from Alma’s point of view and one from Elisabet’s point of view. The scene ends with the morphing of the women’s faces. The event’s density is extremely low because of its repetition and the way the conversation is played out (from one viewpoint at a time). The energy of the event itself, of two women talking, is not high either. Experience intensity is however high, because the conversation is about a disturbing experience. Alma accuses Elisabet of trying to kill her own baby when she was still carrying it. This last characteristic keeps this chapter from being extremely slow paced.

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14. The end. Natural paced. [1:11:30-1:19:03]

In the final scenes Alma and Elisabet meet one more time. Elisabet sucks the blood from the cut that Alma made in her arm. Then we see Elisabet packing her suitcase and Alma leaving the island. Finally, a camera operator is explicitly being shown and then we see the projector that stops projecting. Here everything seems back to normal again. It feels rhythmically very natural and every-day like, almost as if nothing ever happened. There are different things going on in the screen, though not with a high energy. This creates a balance in density and intensity making this scene feel rhythmically not deliberately drawn out or abbreviated.

Timeline

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

When one looks at this timeline of Persona, there are certain aspects that stand out. The first thing that is striking, is that the extremely fast parts do only appear in the beginning of the film. These chapters in the beginning are also the shortest in terms of actual duration. They are followed by the three longest rhythmical chapters (in actual time). It seems like Bergman used a variety of short rhythmical sequences to establish the story. After the establishment, he used longer sequences to let the characters’ relation unfold, while building tension at the same time. From chapter eleven on the sequences get shorter again, showing that Bergman changed pace more often when the women’s psyches start to collide. The fifth chapter immediately stands out as well, because it’s the only chapter that is extremely slow paced. It’s an important chapter in establishing the character of Elisabet, while chapter six is important in establishing the character of Alma. The fifth chapter is however the more striking of the two, when it comes to the experience of time. We can see that chapter five is shorter in terms of actual duration, however it feels much slower than its successor. Furthermore it is an important chapter in the evocation of transcendental feelings, because it’s a necessary sequence in understanding

28 the characters (in combination with chapter six) which later on leads to the possibility of a transcendental film experience. In the ninth chapter, in which I have experienced the feelings of transcendence, the relation of the characters is central. To understand their relationship however, we first have to understand the characters, hence the importance of the fifth (and sixth) chapter in which the characters are exposed to the spectator.

III. Mirror

Tarkovsky was a filmmaker who was self-conscious of his work and his working methods. He wrote a philosophical, theoretical book on his thoughts on cinema. In this book, Sculpting in Time, he emphasizes the importance of time for cinema (in his working methods at least). For Tarkovsky time was everything: “the dominant, all-powerful factor of the film image is rhythm, expressing the course of time within the frame. The actual passage of time is also made clear in the characters’ behaviour, the visual treatment and the sound – but these are all accompanying features, the absence of which, theoretically, would in no way affect he existence of the film” (113). What’s important here, is that Tarkovsky thinks of time as the only cinematic feature that cannot be removed: you can have a film without characters or without sound or production design, but you cannot have a film without time. Mirror might be the film that exemplified this vision on cinema best. Mirror is not so much a story, as it is a flux of memories presented in non-linear logic of time. Aleksei is the narrator who’s memories and thoughts are shown. He reminisces his early childhood, later childhood in the army, and stories his mother told him, as well as moments that occurred later in his life as a father and a husband. They float interchangeably creating a stream-of-consciousness-type narration that lacks a straight plot.

1. Prologue. Natural paced. [00:00-04:05]

Before the names of the cast and crew are presented in the opening credits, Mirror opens with a prologue scene. In this scene we see a young man who has a bad stutter. He is in an empty room together with a woman, who is some kind of specialized doctor. She does some psychological exercises with the man in order to release him from his stutter. After they’ve been through the exercises the man can speak fluently. A fade to black follows and the opening credits enrol. Density and event’s intensity are quite low. The camera is very static, only zooming in

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at some points. Furthermore, the exercises they perform aren’t particularly intense. However, because the film opens with this scene, we’re immediately invested in what’s happening on the screen. We wonder who the man is, if the doctor really has some magical powers and what this is actually all about. Feelings of curiosity arise, increasing the film’s experience intensity.

2. Opening Credits. Extremely slow paced. [04:05-05:47]

The credits are shown on a black screen, accompanied by slow music. It’s all very formal information that is presented, making it feel detached. Obviously all of the characteristics are low in this chapter.

3. Visit from a doctor. Natural paced. [05:47-11:45]

After the opening credits, the film opens on a beautiful landscape. A woman sits on a wooden fence, staring into the distance. A voice-over from an unknown character tells of a memory that is connected to what is being shown. A man approaches from the distance and starts talking to the woman on the fence. After a brief conversation, the man, who announced himself as a doctor, takes place besides the woman. The fence breaks and the two fall on their backs. After the incident the doctor leaves, going back in the direction he came from. This chapter feels rhythmically very natural, like real-life. The film takes its time to show what happens, but doesn’t compress or stretch time while doing this. Zettl’s characteristics are pretty good balanced, making this chapter rhythmically feel very smooth.

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4. The first poem. Fast paced. [ 11:45-14:31]

When the doctor is out of sight, the voice-over returns, now reciting a poem. This poem is accompanied by a multitude of images, almost fluently edited to the rhythm of the poem. We see two young children, the interior of a house, imagery of the surroundings. This montage of images in combination with the poem makes this chapter really fast. While we, as spectators, try to understand the poem that is being cited, all sorts of images pass by creating an audio-visual flow. It feels like we have to keep up with its fast pace, which is caused by the high density and experience intensity of the chapter. Fast editing and lots of new impressions make this chapter feel very fast paced.

5. Burning barn and decaying chamber. Slow paced. [14:31-19:59]

This chapter breaks with the fast rhythm of the previous chapter by means of a long take. The camera slowly moves through the house, ending with a shot of a burning barn. This is followed by a sequence in which the woman washes her hair in a big bowl of water. She gets up from the bowl and takes a central position in the screen in a beautifully terrifying pose. The room around her is in decay, water pours from the ceilings and we even see a part of it collapsing. The woman looks in the mirror, now we see an old woman as her reflection (who later turns out to be another main character in the film). Despite its sweeping camera movements, this chapter feels pretty slow. This has to do with the use of a long take and the abstractness of the events. There are almost no cuts in this entire chapter, creating more of a sealed piece of time instead of a rhythm. The movements of the characters are incredibly slow, if not non-existent at all, decreasing the event’s energy. Then this decreases the event’s intensity. Although there are a lot of things going on in this chapter, their abstractness detaches the images from the spectator. These 31

events are almost avant-gardist, which makes it hard to get emotionally involved with it. This reduces the experience intensity.

6. Empty Apartment. Extremely slow paced. [19:59-22:18]

The only thing that is presented in this chapter is an empty apartment through which the camera slowly moves. In voice-over we hear a conversation over the phone between the narrator and his mother. They engage in small talk, giving the scene no extra intensity whatsoever. The extremely slow pace is being established through the chapter’s low values of density and intensity. This is a scene where one could say that nothing really happens, however this scene is important in the rhythm of the film as a whole. It adds to the spectator’s experience of time, the experience of the drabness of time. I think this is the chapter in which time is used in the most ‘Tarkovskian’ way: time as an event on its own.

7. The Press Factory. Natural paced. [22:18-34:32]

In this scene we see the memory of the narrator’s mother. She hastily moves over the street on her way to the factory where she works. When she arrives it becomes clear that she thinks she might have made a spelling mistake (probably at the expense of Joseph Stalin). After she discovers that she did not make any mistakes, she gets into a confusing argument with one of her co-workers, making her leave the office. Just as in the third chapter, this chapter feels very life-like on a rhythmical level. All of the actions feel natural paced. The density is balanced, as both long sweeping takes are interspersed with short montage shots. This balance is present in the event’s intensity as well, as she is both calm and nervous at the same time, running and ambling, crying and emotionless. 32

The experience intensity is no exception, as at the same time we are both aware that she might be in danger and confused about her situation, keeping us from engaging in her fear.

8. Conversation about Ignat. Slow paced. [34:32-37:40]

In this chapter the narrator becomes suddenly diegetic, but is also the point of view (never revealing him). Here he talks with his ex-wife about his son, and his son’s future. Because everything is shot from the narrator’s point of view (POV), we only see his ex-wife on screen, decreasing both the event’s density and intensity. This is due to the fact that I only see one character engaging in the conversation. It feels very one dimensional because this POV technique is excluding the camera angles and energy that ‘belong’ to the character that is off screen. The experience intensity is not high either, because we are not really emotionally involved in the boy whom they are talking about.

9. Spanish buzz. Fast paced. [37:40-41:24]

The slowness of the previous chapter is suddenly broken when we’re introduced to new characters. A Spanish man imitates a famous toreador (cross cut with archive material), a woman is dancing on traditional Spanish music and gets in a fight with the Spanish man. This is followed by a fast montage sequence of of the Spanish Civil War. Images of people running, bombs hitting the ground and children leaving their parents are presented at a rapid pace. The archive material achieves the same effect as it does in Bergman’s Persona. It increases the pace enormously because of the increase of the event’s intensity, density and experience intensity. It’s like a burst of violence on the senses, completely overthrowing slowness that comes before. 33

10. Aviator Sequence. Slow paced. [41:24-42:37]

After the swift stream of archive material of the Civil War, more archive material is presented but in a much more contemplative pace. This time Tarkovsky presents us footage from a Kurdish aviator that undertakes a balloon journey. It’s not only less rapid edited, music and sound are much more reluctant as well. Because of this sudden break in speed it heightens the sequence, creating an atmosphere of overwhelming wonder and awe. Although this chapter presents archive material just as the previous chapter, this time it doesn’t feel rushed. This is of course due to density that is decreased through its more quite editing. What’s more interesting to notice however, is the way the event’s intensity is decreased as well. This is a perfect example of where we can see how the experience of time arises through imagery. In the footage presented in the previous chapter, the imagery is very hectic. People running through the screen, crowded streets, lots of faces looking into the camera etc. In this chapter however, we see huge balloons levitating motionless. The screen is filled with huge light grey structures that are reminiscent of art installations instead of the miseries of war. The height of an event’s intensity on screen arises thus through the imagery itself.

11. Browsing a Book. Extremely slow paced. [42:37-44:14]

In this chapter we only see a book, and the hand of Ignat turning the pages, presenting us pages full of text and images of paintings. This sequence feels again detached from the story, but is important in the construction of the overall rhythm of the film. Just as in the empty apartment chapter, we are not guided by a character in this chapter, but by slowly passing time.

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12. A Paranormal Woman. Slow paced. [44:14-51:58]

While Ignat’s mother (and the narrator’s ex-wife) leaves the apartment, she accidentally drops her purse. Ignat helps her to put all her belongings back in again. They engage in small talk and then she leaves. Suddenly there seems to be another woman in the apartment. She asks Ignat to recite a letter in a particular book. After he’s done reading, there’s a knock on the door. It is the narrator’s mother, but she tells Ignat she’s at the wrong address. When the boy returns to the living room, the woman is gone. The phone rings, it is Ignat’s father. They talk on the phone. This chapter is again quite slow. It’s one of the few sequences in the film where the camera stays fairly static, decreasing the film’s density. Furthermore the whole sequence is quite confusing, but not in a ‘Lynchian’ suspenseful or bizarre way, but more in just a plain confusing way. This decreases the experience intensity, because we’re deliberately withdrawn from the events that are presented.

13. Army Boys. Natural paced. [51:58-1:03:16]

On the phone Ignat’s father recalls memories of his time in the army. These memories are presented on screen. We see a young red-haired girl looking into the camera. The narrator and his (young) fellow soldiers are trained by a Jewish commander. One of the boys, a war orphan, deliberately goes against the grain because he lost his parents. Images of these young soldiers are intercut with archive footage of the Red Army crossing lake Sivash. Pace is again very balanced. There are no quick cuts or swift camera movements, which means that density is moderate. The event’s intensity varies between high and low. One of the actions in this chapter involves a sergeant throwing himself on a grenade (which then turns out to be a non-exploding training grenade). The other moments in this chapter are very low-energy events however, balancing the event’s intensity. Experience intensity is on the low 35

side because the events are somewhat detached, as they feel so much like someone else’s memory. It is like we, spectators, get to see inside someone’s head remembering these events, but we do not get access to the feelings that belong to the events. This prevents us of feeling involved in the events.

14. Violent War Footage. Extremely fast paced. [1:03:16-1:04:09]

The archive material is sped up when more intense footage of the Second World War is presented. Sound gets more violent, because of both the input of ominous music and of the sounds of gun shots and explosions. The sequence ends with images of atomic bombing tests. Images are shown for shorter duration, because of the multitude of fast cuts. Here the archive material works as a way of speeding up the film’s rhythm again. Its presentation of war is intense, contrasting the relatively calm presentation of the boys training in the previous chapter.

15. The Boy and the Bird. Slow paced. [1:04:09-1:04:43]

Despite it’s a very brief pause between two intense and fast paced sequences, it’s important to distinguish this as a chapter on its own. Between all the intense violence, we see the sad army boy climbing up a hill, experiencing a truly uplifting moment. We see the boy moving away from the camera, he positions himself next to a tree where a bird lands on his head, after which he takes it in his hand. The camera is static in this chapter, creating a huge contrast with the archival footage that is presented before and after this sequence. The slowness is extremely important in the experience of this chapter on its own and in the experience of the rhythm of the film.

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16. Celebration of Mao. Extremely fast paced. [1:04:43-1:06:13]

The fast and intense imagery continues with the presentation of stock footage from Mao’s election celebration.

17. Second Conversation about Ignat. Slow paced. [1:06:13-1:17:46]

The archive footage is interrupted by another memory of the narrator: the return of his father. After the young boy and his sister embrace their father, there’s another jump in time. The narrator as adult, again has a conversation with his wife about the upbringing of their son Ignat. Again, the whole sequence is filmed from his POV, creating a one-dimensional perspective. This is rhythmically similar to the other chapter in which the parents talk about their son. The POV technique decreases density and intensity, while experience intensity is low as well.

18. Dream Sequence. Extremely slow paced. [1:17:46-1:20:30]

In black and white imagery a dream of the narrator is presented. In we see how the narrator as a small child wanders around the garden of his former home. There is a clear focus on the wind caressing the grass and the trees. Though it’s beautifully captured, the event’s intensity is very low. Our experience

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intensity is low as well. On some level it’s very intimate, but in a disjoined way. Almost as if we are not allowed to experience his dream.

19. Visit to an Acquaintance. Slow paced. [1:20:30-1:32:55]

Again this is a memory of the narrator, this time visiting an acquaintance with his mother. They walked a long way and need to take a rest. The acquaintance invites them in. The mother goes to another room with the woman to sell her a pair of earrings, while Aleksei stays behind. In this darkened room he thinks of the girl with the red hair he fell in love with while he was in the army. Suddenly the light turns off. It’s slow paced, mainly because of its low intensity. For most of the time we see a boy in an empty room, staring. The experience intensity is low as well, as there’s not much input for emotional engagement.

20. Another dream sequence. Extremely slow paced. [1:32:55-1:37:14]

The scene at the acquaintance’s house is interrupted by another dream sequence. First we see the famous image of the narrator’s mother levitating above her bed. This image is followed by images that are from the same dream we saw earlier. This time it’s even slower, ending with a long take of a very young Aleksei with a jug of milk. Just as in chapter eighteen, this scene feels disjointed. It is someone else’s dream, and the spectator does not get enough access to be fully involved. Furthermore, the slow motion adds to the slowness of the sequence making it feel even longer.

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21. Assemblage. Natural paced. [1:37:14-1:46:06]

In this final chapter all of the different characters and memories seem to merge in one segment where time seems non-existent. All logical ideas on time are thrown overboard in a sequence in which different timelines come together. Long sweeping movements in combination with short shots make this sequence balanced, creating a natural pace.

Timeline

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 12 13 141516 17 18 19 20 21

When I looked at Mirror’s timeline, the first thing I noticed was that it is more balanced than Persona’s timeline. There is not a huge contrast in the chapters’ durational length. There are some shorter chapters and some longer chapter, but overall it is balanced. The peak in terms of speed lies at chapters fourteen to sixteen, which are durational the shortest as well. Peculiar is the fact that after this peak, there are no fast chapters anymore. The last third of the film is presented at a slow pace. What is striking here as well, is that, just as in Persona, the slowest chapters are short in actual time. Chapters two, six, eleven, eighteen and twenty are all relatively short chapters, but they feel very long and drawn out. From these chapters I want to point out chapter six as the most crucial on a rhythmical level, because it is used as a sort of contemplative moment of chapter five, which was very abstract and unnerving. Furthermore, it takes on a supporting role in my experience of transcendental feelings in this film. For me, the moment of transcendence is grounded in chapter ten: the aviator scene. As one can see in the timeline, chapter six functions as a sort of bridge between the first five chapters that are durationally somewhat equal and the chapters after six that lead to chapter ten which differ more in duration. It is also placed almost exactly in the middle and it is (besides the non-diegetic title sequence) the only chapter that is extremely slow paced. Therefore this chapter is important in the rhythm that builds up to the archive material that is presented in chapter ten. Besides the rhythmical elements, is this ‘story wise’ the first chapter that is not a childhood memory, but a moment of

39 reflection in the present time of the narrator. This makes it therefore crucial in building up different timelines that enhance the spectator’s experience of time.

IV. Pickpocket

Bresson was (in)famous for his continuous ‘fight’ against theatrical acting. Later in his career he even did away with the term actor, and instead talked about models, completely under control of the director. However, although his ‘models’ didn’t show any (dramatized) emotion, his films can hit the spectator with emotional impact because of Bresson’s use of time. According to Cunneen this is caused by their rhythm. In a case where Cunneen talks about (1962) he says: “[i]f our emotions are touched by Bresson’s Joan, it is because we are caught up in the rhythm of shot and counter-shot during the many interrogations by the implacable inquisitor, convinced by the absence of special pleading in Joan’s bold yet vulnerable voice, shaken by her recantation and its subsequent disavowal” (13). When it comes to time and rhythm, Bresson’s films are quite different compared to the films of Bergman and Tarkovsky. Bresson doesn’t particularly uses extreme long takes to make the spectator give the experience of the passing of time, but the average shot length seems much longer in general. Every shot feels meticulously crafted and placed and Bresson gives his audience the time for each shot to sink in. In Pickpocket we closely follow Michel and his odyssey as a small-time pickpocket. The film starts with his first theft at a racetrack. As the story’s unfolding, we slowly come to understand Michel’s reason for theft: to fill up the numbness and emptiness of his life. It’s the only way for him to feel alive. He teams up with other thieves, with whom he engages in a major theft at a train station. Afterwards, he sees his associates caught and flees Paris in panic. After his return to Paris he discovers that Jeanne, a neighbour of his late mother and a friend, has a baby. He promises he’ll take care of them, but he can’t resist a last act of pickpocketing. As with his first theft, the last one takes place at the racetrack as well. This time he’s caught however. In jail he finally experiences a feeling of redemption, when Jeanne visits him and he realizes that he loves her.

1. Introduction and credits. Extremely Slow Paced. [00:37-02:28]

The first chapter of Pickpocket is a non-diegetic introduction, followed by the opening credits. The credits are presented very simple: white text on a black screen, accompanied by instrumental music. It’s a very slow sequence because there’s nothing going on. It’s all formal information

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that does not trigger any kind of curiosity. Density, Intensity and experience intensity couldn’t be much lower.

2. The first time. Slow Paced. [02:28-08:30]

When the opening sequence ends, the film opens with a view on a crowded racetrack terrain. We’re slowly introduced to our protagonist, Michel. He is about to commit his first crime: stealing from the purse of a woman in front of him. He gets caught afterwards, but the police sets him free because of a lack of evidence. Then he pays a visit to the apartment of his mother. This is also the first time he meets Jeanne. These events of the first scenes unfold in a fairly slow pace. There are a few things going on, but it’s captured in a very static manner. The camera is motionless and static in every scene, decreasing the event’s density. The event’s intensity is very low as well. Although Michel is stealing, it’s more apathetic than suspenseful. All the actions are handled in a very quiet and subtle way. The experience intensity isn’t much higher either. The act of pickpocketing does activate a feeling of discomfort, somewhat increasing experience intensity. In the end however, the overall pace is rather slow.

3. Newspaper technique. Natural Paced. [08:30-19:24]

This chapter starts off with a conversation between Michel, Jacques and the police officer in a bar. Michel explains his theory on the ‘superhuman’ to the others. Because of its busy environment, and the cutting between the characters, this scene feels generally faster than the previous scenes. This natural pace is perpetuated in the following sequence in which Michel learns a new pickpocketing technique. The natural pace of this chapter is predominantly created through the editing in the 41

scenes. There are overall more cuts more frequently, increasing the event’s density. In other words: time is manipulated and compressed more than in previous scenes, by the cutting. Event’s intensity stays quite low however, just as the experience intensity. This restrains the chapter from being fast paced.

4. A fellow thief. Slow Paced. [19:24-23:33]

In this chapter Michel notices a man following him. He is both frightened and curious, resulting in him wanting to know who the man is. He follows the man to a bar, where he approaches him. The rhythm in this chapter falls back on the rhythm from chapter 2, with fewer cuts and longer shots of urban imagery (without any actions). Decreasing the density automatically decreases the overall tempo of the chapter. Intensity of the events as well as of the experience are even decreasing. Most of the shots are all about Michel just walking through the city of Paris.

5. Learning new techniques. Fast paced. [23:33-24:52]

The fastness of this chapter strongly contrasts with the previous chapter. It’s a montage sequence in which Michel learns new pickpocketing techniques from the man he followed to the bar, who turned out to be an experienced pickpocket. Different kinds of techniques follow each other up in a rapid pace, with lots of cutting, creating a rhythm of its own inside the film’s overall rhythm. Because of this speed, it is almost if Bresson is elevating the ‘art’ of pickpocketing to a religious ritual. It is the fastest sequence in the film and, using different kinds of cuts, it’s almost like a showcase of editing techniques. The fast rhythm has, of course, mostly to do with rapid editing, greatly enhancing the density. Furthermore, the event’s intensity is increased as well. Many hand-movements in 42

close up speed up the actions, intensifying them. Finally the experience intensity is increased as well. The techniques shown make the spectator think of how these techniques will work in real life and if one has ever witnessed or encountered pickpockets working this way.

6. Jeanne’s Note. Slow Paced. [24:52-27:22]

The fast rhythm of chapter five is broken by chapter six. The fast cutting of the montage sequence makes place for a sequence in which there’s almost no cutting at all. The camera stays focussed on a small piece of paper that is placed on the doorstep of Michel’s apartment. Michel doesn’t notice it, for the spectator it’s the only thing one can look at. The camera does not cut away from it as Michel walks over it, or walks around in his room. We see his shadow on the wall, but the camera stays focused on the note. After finally discovering and reading the note, Michel goes to his mother’s apartment. His mother is very ill and they talk quietly with each other. The slow rhythm is, again, largely enabled through a low density. Shots linger on the screen for a fairly long time, slowing down the rhythm. In contrast with the previous chapter, time is not compressed here, but the filmmaker lets the spectator feel and experience the drabness of time. The lack of intensity, especially the first part (with Jeanne’s note), slows down the rhythm as well.

7. Funeral. Extremely slow paced. [27:22-28:16]

This is the slowest sequence of the film. In this long take we see how Michel, together with Jeanne and Jacques, mourns the death of his mother. It’s the first time he shows any emotion. There’s no cutting in the scene and everything feels, again, very static and motionless.

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All of the characteristics from Zettl’s model are at a very low point, making this scene feel extremely slow.

8. Middle Part. Slow Paced. [28:16-45:50]

After the funeral there’s an extremely long chapter in which the rhythm stays on a constant low level. Michel brings home some things from his mother’s apartment, he robs a man near a bank, he plays cards with his pickpocket friends, he lends a book to Jacques, he has another conversation with Jacques and the officer at the bar, and he goes to the police station only to realize that the officer set up a trap so they could investigate Michel’s apartment. There is absolutely no change in pace in this chapter, and it is fairly slow. There are certainly some events going on, but they’re shown very statically. There is not much cutting in the dialogue scenes either. For example, the conversation in the bar is shown in the same type of medium shots for its entire runtime. There’s no change in camera height or distance from the characters. There’re only a few cuts for shot-reverse shot technique, but it’s very conventional and it firmly maintains its stillness. What makes this chapter so slow is essentially its extremely low density and experience intensity. After the funeral scene, it feels as if we experience everything like Michel does, as some kind of numbness in which a feeling of emptiness arises. The film makes us loose interest in plot events, only to let us think about what it is being a human being. It reaffirms the existential themes of this film from an embodied perspective. This existential thinking can only be achieved if there’s enough time to think about it, and that’s exactly what happens in these seventeen minutes.

9. Station heist part one. Natural paced. [45:50-48:28]

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After the long during slow chapter, pace intensifies during the start of the big ‘show’ of pickpocketing: the centre set piece of the film. In this sequence Michel and his two associates are at the train station for a large theft. They start pickpocketing travellers with various original techniques which are being shown in this very elegant, choreographed scene. The choreography of the actions and the camera enhances the intensity and the density of the film, but doesn’t reach full speed yet because of its editing.

10. Station heist part two. Fast paced. [48:28-50:22]

The editing speeds up when the three men carry on their pickpocketing from the station into an actual train wagon. It’s reminiscent of the earlier montage sequence in chapter 5, but it becomes clear that they are much more experienced now. In a few complex, collaborative manoeuvres, they steal from several passengers passing by. It is very fast paced and feels like a big emotional departure from chapter eight, as if pickpocketing is Michel’s only way of escaping his numbness. Because of faster cutting this chapter feels even faster than the first part of the train station heist. Density is even more increased, evoking a certain rushed, adrenaline-fueled experience.

11. Desperation. Slow paced. [50:22-1:00:32]

After the big set piece, rhythm returns to ‘normal’. He has his usual conversations with Jacques and with the officer, he sees his associates being caught by the cops and then he pays a visit to Jeanne, where he finally seems to realize that the path he has chosen isn’t the right one. He decides to leave Paris, afraid of the cops and of his own hopeless future as pickpocket.

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Rhythmically it starts feeling like a vicious circle. After the ‘uplifting’ moment of thievery, the film’s pace falls back. We start feeling the drabness of time again, because of these unfulfilling events that seem to lead nowhere. Michel is still heading down a desperate path to find meaning in his life.

12. Departure. Extremely fast paced. [1:00:32-1:03:38]

Michel flees Paris in a moment of desperation. This desperation can be felt through its pace, which is strongly increased. Michel gathers a few of his belongings and takes a taxi to the station from where he leaves Paris. Then, with use of voice over, Michel tells that he has been to Milan, Rome and London for a couple of years. None of these places are actually shown. Bresson makes a leap in time, totally ignoring the ‘drabness’ of time here. Furthermore, Michel tells that he has spent all his money on women and alcohol, which contradicts our image of Michel’s character. Because of this huge leap in time, and of the confusing statements on Michel’s actions abroad a feeling of confusion and displacement arises. We have to process this confusing information, giving us less space to experience the passing of time, thus speeding up our experience of the sequence.

13. Return to Paris. Natural paced. [1:03:38-1:09:27]

After Michel’s fast and desperate departure, he now returns. It rhythmically feels a little faster than the chapters prior to his get-away, creating a sense that Michel might be a changed man. He pays a visit to Jeanne, who now has a two year old child to take care of. This does affect Michel, giving him a new goal in life: helping Jeanne and her baby out. In this chapter there’re less shots of empty frames, speeding up the action. Density 46

increases, but intensity of both the events and the experienced are quite low. This is balancing it’s rhythm to a natural pace.

14. Final Crime. Slow paced. [1:09:27-1:10:40]

Although Michel seems a changed man, he cannot ignore his instinct. An undercover cop lures Michel to the racetrack, where he is tempted by the same cop who waves his stack money around. Now there’s a cut to an image reminiscent of the opening scene. It seems as if Michel watches the race, but he is really focused on stealing money from the man standing behind him, not knowing it was a cop all along. The cop arrests Michel on the spot and cuffs his hands. Again, just as in the openings scene, everything is shown very statically. All of the characteristics from Zettl’s model are very low, making the audience feel the passing of time.

15. Punishment and transcendence. Extremely slow paced. [1:10:40-1:15:25]

Michel is now imprisoned, only allowed to leave his cell when he gets visitors. This is also the end of the film, in which Michel finally gets his moment of redemption. In this chapter Bresson makes the audience feel the passing of time as every inmate feels the passing of time: like there’s none at all. We can’t help but feel this excruciating slowness. However, this slowness is needed to experience the uplifting moment, the transcendental moment, that arises in the final moment between Michel and Jeanne. The slowness of the sequence empties the spectator’s mind to fill it finally with one pure moment of emotion.

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Timeline

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

In Pickpocket’s timeline, I notice that the long stretched, slow and natural paced chapters are being fractured by short bursts of fastness. There is overall a big contrast in durational time between the fast chapters and the slower chapters. The most obvious chapters are of course the extremes: the extremely slow chapter one, seven and fifteen and the extremely fast chapter twelve. Although these chapters stand out, that what they implicate is more significant in regards to rhythm. There is just one moment in the entire film that feels extremely fast, and two that are extremely slow (not counting the non- diegetic title sequence as a contributing scene to the story of the film). These two extremely slow chapters are also the ones that are crucial in the evocation of a transcendental experience. Chapter seven is the funeral scene, a low point for Michel. From hereon he numbly walks the path that leads, eventually, to his moment of redemption in the final chapter. Chapter seven is therefore crucial in conveying Michel’s mind-set, which is ultimately pivotal the spectator’s experience in understanding and feeling the moment of transcendence in the final chapter.

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Chapter 3: Analyses of Time in the Long Take

I. Introduction

To understand how the auteur works with time on a micro-level, it makes sense to analyse the use of the long take. The long take gives the auteur the opportunity to use time as a tool in its fullest potential. In the work of the auteur for whom, I claim, time is the most important element to create with, the long-take occupies a vital position. Different uses of the long take can construct different experiences of time. Following Rattee’s argument about his experiment in which he used different types of long takes to achieve different effects (218), the way the long take is used determines the way the spectator experiences time. A filmmaker therefore can guide his audience in their experience, touching upon different kinds of emotions in one single take. The fact that a filmmaker can guide his audience by using a long take is extremely alluring from a phenomenological perspective. With my analyses of the long take, I try to determine how the filmmaker (as auteur) uses time to navigate the spectator towards a transcendental experience. The experience of cinematic time however, is highly variable, depending on the spectator’s state of mind, mood, previous experiences, environment etc. For the sake of my argument, my point of focus is on the guidance of the filmmaker and how he highlights different ‘domains’ within a spectator’s mind. As an example we can look at my experience of the balloon aviator sequence in Mirror. When I’m experiencing this sequence my first and foremost experience of that sequence is in relation to the film itself. I try to understand this sequence in the context of the film. At the same time however, I’m reminded at the paintings of Dali, causing me also to think back of my visit to the Dali museum in Barcelona, creating a whole new internal timeline within my experience of time of the long-take. This is just one of the many references that can come up watching this sequence. Another part of the experience makes me think of the balloon take-off in Andrei Rublev (Tarkovsky 1966) for example, linking this sequence back to media-history and to the history of Tarkovsky himself. I’m constantly switching between memories, experiences and ideas from the three layers of time when I’m experiencing a long take. These experiences seem to come from within, but they are activated by the imagery the filmmaker presents on the screen. Moreover, although Tarkovsky wasn’t aware that he would evoke memories of Dali’s paintings, he certainly was aware which kinds of domains he wanted to activate within his audience. The long takes I have chosen to analyse logically resulted from my rhythmical segmentations from the previous chapter. These long takes play an important role in the evocation of transcendental feelings. These scenes are not the ones in which the feelings of transcendence arise, because if I would do that, I would not be able to show how time (as a build-up) is the crucial factor in understanding the feelings of transcendence that can arise.

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II. Persona

The long take in Persona that I have analysed is a sequence that disrupts the film’s rhythm, breaking the film’s progression. In the scene Elisabet lies in her hospital bed, staring slightly past the camera, while classical music plays over the scene. Slowly the lights around her dim, while she keeps staring. Suddenly she turns on her back, after which the scene ends.

1. Hermeneutic step one, two and three. In Ihde’s model of the hermeneutic steps, the two steps are attending the phenomenon and describing it (qtd. in Sobchack 34). The third rule of the model, to not assume an initial hierarchy of realities (qtd. in Sobchack 36), is important in describing the phenomenon, because to analyse it in a truly phenomenological way I have to focus on my embodied, sensual experience and not analyse it from a meta level. While experiencing this scene, a strong bodily connection arises between myself and Elisabet on screen. Her face in close-up is extremely tangible. It’s overwhelming, almost grotesque, evoking a brooding angst. The scene drags me into the ominous atmosphere, conjuring a bodily experience of uneasiness. It’s also a very ‘cold’ scene, Elisabet is very haunting. The reflection of light in her eyes, piercing in the darkness, enhance the feeling of threat. Bodily discomfort grows as the scene goes on. Bodily tension swells, as the music is becoming more overwhelming. I’m anticipating a big climax, but instead I’m released from the rising tension as Elisabet turns her head. The feeling of discomfort extinguishes, as well as the ominous atmosphere.

2. Hermeneutic step four It is in these steps that both Ihde’s model and my input come together. Ihde suggests to add variations to the scene to “determine the limits of a phenomenon” (qtd. in Sobchack 40). I want to add a meta perspective to this step, by doing close analysis of the scene’s elements in relation to time, while adding variations to this scene. This way, I think, I will be able to understand the phenomenon better in regards to this thesis’ subject. The first thing that I notice is how this scene feels excruciatingly long. While Elisabet stares into nothingness, I am fully aware of the passing of time. If the light would not slowly be turned down, it would look like a photograph. In this case the light therefore plays a crucial role in the portraying of time passing. However, because the light turns down so slowly, I experience this slowness as well. It is, besides the music, the only element that proves to us that time is indeed passing. In that sense, it’s crucial in my experience of time in this scene. Furthermore, it is important in its depiction of Elisabet as a very powerful being. Because of her intense staring, it seems as if she controls light that is slowly fading. It enhances the already ominous aura that surrounds this character. If a variation of this scene would be that 50

the light wouldn’t change, Elisabet’s staring wouldn’t be as haunting as it is now. Another element in this scene that’s important, is the music that is played. Before the scene starts, Alma turned on some classical music for Elisabet to listen to. We hear Bach's Concerto for violin, strings & continuo No. 2 in E major, BWV 1042. Important to notice is that music gives meaning to a scene. In this case it is a ‘heavy’ piece of classical music that evokes an uncanny atmosphere, immediately connecting the music to the character of Elisabet. Besides it being a gloomy piece of music, it’s also in a way very repetitive. With its returning, recognizable strokes of the violin, a rhythmical reiteration emerges. So as the light slowly dims, and a passing of time seems apparent, the music contrasts this passing of time. Now I try another piece by Bach as a variation to this scene, say Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major BWV1007. This music is more variable both rhythmically and melodically. When this music plays over the scene, the linear progression (that is evoked using light) is enhanced, and even accelerated. The scene doesn’t have enough power to communicate the haunting presence of Elisabet. This is also due to the more hopeful tones of the music.

3. Hermeneutic step five This last step of Ihde’s model is explicating the phenomenological interpretation. In other words: what does the bodily experience say about the phenomenon. Here I claim that Bergman uses time to establish Elisabet’s emotional control over Alma. In this scene Elisabet keeps hauntingly staring at the camera, fully in control of the situation. She dominates the screen without speaking a word. Just her presence, combined with the music and the light, is enough to fill this ‘piece of time’ with a certain eeriness that affects the entire atmosphere and the experience of the spectator. This in contrast to the subsequent scene in which Alma goes to bed and (almost banally) talks to the camera. In the scene Alma seems very insecure, and naïve; almost childish. She is captured in a long take as well, however she seems to be not in control of time because she has the urge to fill it with small talk (which she projects to seemingly no one but herself). It is almost as if she is afraid of the silence that will arise if she would stopped talking. This becomes even more apparent by the fact that she starts talking after she tries to sleep in the silent darkness that arises when she turns out the lights. In the end it is this contrast between these characters that is can evoke feelings of transcendence in the film. In these two scenes the characters of Alma and Elisabet are established and it is made clear that these are two contrasting characters: one is presented as a naïve and silly woman, while the other is presented as a haunting and intimidating woman. In these scenes, time is used as a tool to establish these characters. However, in this film the feelings of transcendence arise when the characters explore their relationship over the duration of the film, and slowly start merging into each other. Here one can clearly see how both time on a micro level, as a 51

tool, and time as rhythm and duration of the film work together to eventually evoke feelings of transcendence.

III. Mirror

In the previous chapter I emphasized the importance of rhythmical chapter six, which is fully occupied by the long take which I will analyse here. It is a long take without any characters, music or action. In the scene the camera moves through an empty apartment, only accompanied by the voices of Aleksei and his mother talking on the phone. This is the best example in the film of Tarkovsky’s use of time for a cinematic experience. The scene starts right after an abstract and surreal scene in which Aleksei’s mother washes her hair in a room that is slowly collapsing.

1. Hermeneutic steps one, two and three When I watch this scene I’m fully aware of the passing of time. I feel the immersion, the drabness of time. I sense time as a turbid fabric on its own, projected in the texture of the apartment which functions as an embodiment of time itself. It tires me and fascinates me at the same time. It’s like I’m moving through my own memories, walking in a house I vaguely seem to recognize but cannot fully remember. Memories of my own childhood are activated, thinking of all kinds of different houses I visited, both familiar and unfamiliar. Feelings of nostalgia and longing arise. Memories of Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev are also triggered, as a poster of this film hangs on one of the walls. This scene is furthermore very intimate, making me feel the atmosphere of one’s house and the atmosphere of one’s life.

2. Hermeneutic step four When trying different variations of this long take and analyse it at the same time, I can see which elements are crucial in the experience of the scene. First, I want to see what happens when a character would be added to the scene: instead of an empty apartment through which the camera moves, there’s a man the camera follows through the apartment. By adding a character to the scene, our focus on ‘nothingness’ changes to a focus on a human being. We’re therefore not as much invested in our experience of the passing of time, because we now have a character to hold on to. This immediately diminishes the tangibility of time. The tangibility of time is embodied in the apartment (and its texture), however by adding a character to the scene, our focus on the apartment switched to a focus on the man. Furthermore, by adding this man to the scene, the share of our own input, our own memories, decreases. Instead of absorbing this movement through the apartment as a personal experience, this experience is channelled into the man, making the experience his. This has to do with our bodily connection to the film. In the scene without a character, the spectator can merge his own body with the filmic body, because one will recognize the movements of the 52

camera. When adding a character, the spectator would of course also recognize the movements of the camera, but he would legitimize it through the character: ‘the character is walking through the apartment, and I am following’ (instead of ‘I am walking through the apartment). Another aspect that enhances my experience of the drabness of time, is the absence of music. Again, I put other music under the scene to see what it did. For this experiment I used Love by Eduard Artemev. Artemev was a frequent collaborator of Tarkovsky, composing scores for Solaris (1972), Mirror and Stalker (1979). The two most important results of this experiment are the faster progression and the addition of meaning. Music makes the progression of time feel smoother and faster, avoiding the boredom that can arise when watching a scene without action. In this case however, the boredom is the action. This scene is all about the sluggishness of time. The addition of music breaks this seal of slowness, completely abandoning this scene’s function. Secondly the inclusion of music adds a layer of meaning to the scene, again changing the scene’s function. Music on its own has meaning and an image on its own has meaning. Combining the two, a third, new meaning arises. In this case a certain meaning of tragedy occurs, creating a sense of mourn for the house.

3. Hermeneutic step five One can see the parallel between the aforementioned quote by Tarkovsky and these observations. Nothing happens in this scene, there’s no action whatsoever, no characters and (for a small part) no dialogue either, and it is still, undoubtedly, cinema. This is because the capture of time on film. This scene functions as a propagation of Tarkovsky’s perception of cinema. The intersection of the three time layers is also clear in this scene. There’s time as an element with which this long take has been made, this long take as an important part of the film’s rhythmical structure, and there’s the connection with media history, not only provided by the addition of a film poster, but also by the function of this scene: to make a statement on the ontology of film.

IV. Pickpocket

Pickpocket (1959) shows Bresson’s technique in its full potential. He started shaping his technique with Diary of a Country Priest (1951), refined it with A Man Escaped (1956) and finally established it with Pickpocket. The (non-)actor who is cast as the main character, a small-time pickpocket by the name of Michel, doesn’t show much (if any) emotion. Still, the end of the film, when Michel is finally caught and gets a second visit in prison from Jeanne (the woman he has fallen in love with), is surprisingly emotional and, indeed, even transcendental. However, watching only the last 10 minutes of the film, this feeling of transcendence is absent. This isn’t because one is not emotionally invested

53 in the characters due to missing the rest of the film, because even watching the whole film doesn’t get one emotionally invested. It is because one misses the full embodied experience of time that is essential for this scene to evoke such a strong feeling. Just as one cannot experience Vermeer’s Het Melkmeisje by only looking at the jug in her hands, one neither can experience Bresson’s Pickpocket by only watching that last scene. In both cases, there is serene artistry, but not the experience of the complete body of art. While Pickpocket feels loaded with fast and clever cuts, it paradoxically feels as if each shot lingers on for quite some time. There’s one scene in particular that I’d like to discuss: the funeral scene. With the rhythmical segmentations I demonstrated that this is an important scene in the evocation of transcendental feelings, and here I want to show how the scene works on its own. The funeral scene is placed around the half hour mark and it is one of the two scenes where Michel shows any emotion (the other placed at the final end of the film). In the previous scene we see Michel by the side of his mother’s sickbed. They talk about her illness and while it seems that she’s given up hope, he seems determined that she’ll recover. However, in a blink of an eye, in just one single cut, Bresson bridges an unknown amount of time and we see Michel with his friends Jacques and Jeanne in an otherwise empty church, in front of an altar. This is where the scene starts, and this is where I follow Ihde’s five steps to formulate a phenomenological interpretation of this scene in relation to the experience of time.

1. Hermeneutic steps one, two and three The first thing I experience in the funeral scene is the feeling of intense emptiness. I sense an image of an empty room full of dust particles converting the few sunbeams that enter the room into greyish light. It’s not so much an experience of sadness that is activated, it’s more a sense of numbness that arises. I feel emotionally detached from the image, only experiencing bodily discomfort. This bodily discomfort even increases when Michel kneels on the floor. The touch of his knees with the hard and cold church floor, is transmitted to my own body while I memorize how the floor of the church I visited with elementary school looked and felt like. The music traps me with its long and deep echoes, making me feel tangled in a web of sound. When Michel finally turns his head, I can see his wet, teared up eyes. They detach me from the image even more, while the feeling of numbness gains. The candles in the back of the church do not evoke a sense of warmth, or comfort. Instead, they create an atmosphere of obsolescence, enhancing the innervation of emptiness.

2. Hermeneutic step four The previous scene showed for the first time that Michel does care about something: his mother. The immediate cut from her sickbed to her funeral enables the feelings of confusion and emptiness. It is as if I, the spectator, experience this sudden change in events the same way Michel does. However, the feeling of confusion fades after I accept the fact that

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Bresson chose to cut away all the time in between. The feeling of emptiness is nonetheless very intense and holds on until the end of the scene. Emptiness is a hard feeling to describe, but one major aspect of it is that it is very spatial. This is due to the fact that this feeling is being felt in a purely bodily way. The feeling of emptiness can be felt throughout the film, but in this scene it’s particularly strong. One of the consequences of this experience of emptiness is the experience of time. The scene feels lengthy as if it won’t ever come to an end. It looks as if the characters are stuck, as if there’s no continuation at all. The characters are moving just twice: the first time when the three of them slowly kneel and the second movement is the subtle and slow turn of Michel’s head. Those are the only movements we see within the image. There’s also only one camera movement: the camera closes in on Michel when he’s kneeling down. Bresson makes the spectator feel the passing of time in a scene where feelings of emptiness dominate the experience. The combination of these two feelings construct a situation in which time doesn’t seem to pass, an experience of ‘overextendedness’ arises. The feeling of emptiness is firstly evoked by the scenery itself. We see only three characters in an empty church. If the church would be filled will lots of other people the scenery would be creating a feeling of togetherness and collectivity, instead of emptiness and loneliness. Another variation that would transform the experience of emptiness in something more abundant would be the ‘production design’ of the church. Although Bresson’s films are built around a Catholic worldview, it seems that this scene takes place in a Protestant church. It’s very sober and austere: there’s no decoration besides the few candles and the altar. If the scene would’ve played in a Catholic church (or just a more decorated church), feelings of emptiness wouldn’t be as strong as it is now. Both these variations of this scene seem very obvious, but they are crucial and cannot be ignored. The experience of emptiness is further enhanced by the music that’s being played: we hear a rather generic, very familiar Biblical hymn that evokes more a feeling of repetitiveness than a feeling of progression. Music usually speeds up the experience of time, but not in this scene. It feels very monotonous, the lyrics are not easily audible and the deep echoes create a feeling of infinity. All these elements together build a soundscape that is like an enclosed web of echoes, which breaks the linear progression. A variation on this scene would be a replacement of music that has a more linear and less familiar and echo-like structure. To see if this actually works I’ve played another piece of classical music over the scene: Schubert’s Serenade. The experience changes immediately when this music guides the scene. The instruments are much more distinctive, distinguishing the melody more clearly. This then feels more continuous, creating an experience in which the pace seems a lot faster. The character- and camera movement, or non-movement, are two other elements that feed the experience of emptiness and overextendedness. The shot is stationary for most of the 55

time, and the only movements we see within the image are the kneeling of the characters and the subtle turn of Michel’s head. His face isn’t shown for the majority of this scene, whilst we even never see the faces of the other two characters. We can only slightly see the sides of their faces, making this scene feel impersonal, unemotional (whilst being a funeral scene) and, indeed, empty. While we can see tears slowly rolling down his cheeks, the look of Michel’s eyes doesn’t show anything but emptiness. This might be the most crucial element in the experience of time. Here I’m returning to Zettle’s argument in which he argues that “an event’s intensity (the type of activity occurring), an event’s density (the number of things going on in the frame) and experience intensity (the relevance of activity to the particular spectator) affect our experience of time” (qtd. in Rattee 217). In this scene all of these characteristics however are extremely low. The only thing that’s going on in the frame is the silently praying and kneeling of the characters.

3. Hermeneutic step five This scene is crucial for both the protagonist and the spectator, as a starting point in the search for fulfilment. For Michel this is his lowest point. He lost the one thing he seemed to care for. He was on the wrong track before his mother’s death, but now he lost total connection to life. He gets more and more caught up in his ‘profession’ of a pickpocket in a desperate attempt to give meaning to his life. In the end however, this path was necessary to come to terms with his life and to fulfil a destiny: to reach a state of ‘transcendence’ through the (mutual) love between him and Jeanne. Hence his quote: “Oh, Jeanne, to reach you at last, what a strange path I had to take” . This theme of fulfilling a certain destiny, a path that one has to walk in life is one of the main themes in Bresson’s oeuvre. Think of Balthazar the donkey from (1966) or the little girl from Mouchette (1967). No matter how hard their life is, they will have to walk their (pre-destined) path to fulfil their lives destiny. Only then will they reach a state of transcendence. In this film it is in a way the same for the spectator. When the funeral scene is experienced, one feels empty. By the amount of time the spectator is exposed to, that emptiness creates a new starting point from which he can follow a pre-destined (by Bresson) path that leads to transcendence in the final scene. After the funeral scene there won’t be another scene that feels so long and so empty. The sensual experience of time is therefore crucial in the construction of a (celluloid) path that leads to transcendence.

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Conclusion

After delving into the three different layers of time, analyzing them in relation to the auteur, I have shown that time is crucial in the evocation of transcendental feelings in film and that the filmmaker functions as a catalyst in the merging of the tree layers of time. Firstly, the auteur is always involved with media history. He will take this with him into the creative process of making the film, establishing the first layer of time in his work. I have showed how that particular layer has a direct influence on the filmmaker’s work, while the filmmaker, in his turn, has a direct influence on media history. By involving Bergman, Bresson and Tarkovsky into the debate on film history, I presented them as theorists who are conscious about their work in the field of media history. With their films they have asked legitimate questions about the medium they worked with. Furthermore they elaborated on the forgotten media through the use of references, and reflected on other formats by implementing them in their work. I claim therefore, that the filmmaker as auteur could be seen as a media archaeologist. For the auteur to make films is to engage in debates on film as a phenomenon. Their way of talking about the ontology of film is by making films. In this regard, they must be considered film theorists that are actually involved within the field of media studies. Working with different kinds of formats, reflecting on media history, and going against the grain of popular filmmaking, the auteur took the role of explorer in the development of film as an art form. Always experimenting with-, and always pushing the limits of the medium. Secondly, through the use of rhythm, a filmmaker can set up certain events in a particular order to establish a flux of time that can, eventually, lead to the evocation of feelings of transcendence. In my second chapter I analyzed the rhythm of the three films from my corpus, and showed that rhythm (in combination with duration) is essential in the evocation of transcendental feelings. I built my arguments around the model of Herbert Zettl, while simultaneously trying to mold his model into an easily enforceable method. By segmenting the films into chapters based on rhythm, I could get a clear overview of these rhythms. These chapters eventually led to a visual representation of the films’ rhythm in the shape of the timelines. By introducing these timelines to a phenomenological analysis, I have, in hindsight, brought phenomenologist research and cognitivist research (which usually relies heavily on pattern-finding) a little closer to each other. Although these two approaches seem contradicting, I have shown that they could both be useful in our understanding of certain phenomena. Finally, in the last chapter, I explained how time can even be better ‘directed’ with the use of a long take by which the filmmaker can guide the spectator in his experience. I used Don Ihde’s model of the five hermeneutic steps as a basis for analysis. I watched the scenes first, trying hard to focus only on the experience itself, after which I would write my sensual observations down (Ihde’s first three steps). Then I came up with variations, after which I ended the analysis with an interpretation. However, I thought that an interpretation solely based on my first embodied

57 experience did not have enough persuasiveness for a convincing interpretation in relation to time and transcendence. Hence, I also touched upon the context of the film and mixed Ihde’s fourth (and fifth) step with close analysis. I think this hybrid form is more convincing in the construction of my interpretations. By using this model I demonstrated how time is used and experienced throughout these long takes, and how this relates to the experience of transcendence. For understanding this transcendentalism, I mainly used Schrader’s model of the transcendental style as an opposing, counter model which enabled me to reflect my own ideas upon an existing model. Media archaeology was important for building my arguments on the importance of non-chronology in media history and for my structure of the three layers of time. At the same time, I also used ‘conventional’ film history to elaborate on the role of the auteur in the era in which European Art Cinema peaked. On the one hand, my methodology of using all these different models works very well, because they are convincing as scholarly approved methods for analysis and, with the knowledge that other scholars used them successfully, one knows they will function as good models for analysis. However, these models also restrain the metaphorical working space, limiting the writer to research the phenomena only within the confines of an existing model. To break these limitations of the models, whilst retaining their benefits, I made additions of my own. This not only allowed me to delve deeper into the films, it also made me articulate my own vision on film and film scholarship in a better way. Finally, to gain further insight in the transcendental quality of time in cinema, I think it is necessary for film scholars to do more research with a focus on one’s own experience. Transcendence is an abstract phenomenon that we cannot understand in words. In my opinion, to understand transcendentalism in film, a phenomenon that we can only experience with our bodies, we should not ignore and discount these embodied experiences, but instead use them as a valid source for research. In doing so, in combination with other perspectives and approaches from media studies, as well as philosophy and psychology, our understanding and recognition of this extraordinary phenomenon might expand.

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Barker, Jennifer. “Musculature.” The Tactile Eye: Touch and the Cinematic Experience. California: University of California Press, 2009. 69-93. Baronian, Marie-Aude. "Archive, Memory, and Loss: Constructing Images in the Armenian Diaspora." Transnational Memory: Circulation, Articulation, Scales. Eds. Chiara De Cesari and Ann Rigney. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014. 79-97 Bresson, Robert. Notes on the Cinematographer. Trans. Jonathan Griffin. New York: Urizen, 1977. Clarke, David. "Music, Phenomenology, Time Consciousness: Meditations After Husserl.” (2011). Cuddon, J.A. A Dictionary of Literary Terms. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1984. Cunneen, Joseph. Robert Bresson: A Spiritual Style in Film. New York: Continuum, 2003. Derrida, Jacques. “Archive Fever.” Seminar. University of Witwatersrand. Johannesburg, August 1998. Duncan, Paul, and Bengt Wanselius, eds. The Ingmar Bergman Archives. Taschen, 2008. Efird, Robert. “Andrei Rublev: Transcendental Style and the Creative Vision.” Journal of Popular Film and Television 35.2 (2007): 86-93. Elliott, Lisa M. “Transcendental Television? A Discussion of Joan or Arcadia.” Journal of Media and Religion 4.1 (2009): 1-12. Elsaesser, Thomas. “Early Film History and Multi-Media: An Archaeology of Possible Futures?” New Media, Old Media: A History and Theory Reader. Eds. Wendy Hui Kyong and Thomas Keenan. New York: Routledge, 2005. 13-25. Friedberg, Anne. Window Shopping: Cinema and the Postmodern. London: University of California Press, 1994. Hagener, Malte. "Where Is Cinema (Today)? The Cinema in the Age of Media Immanence." Cinéma & Cie 8.2 (2008): 15-22. Huhtamo, Erkki and Jussi Parikka, eds. Media Archaeology: Approaches, Applications, and Implications. California: University of California Press, 2011. Lopate, Phillip. “Films as Spiritual Life.” Film Comment 27.6 (1991): 26. Menard, D. G. "A Deleuzian Analysis of Tarkovsky’s Theory of Time-Pressure." Part A. Tarkovsky’s Theory of Time. Pressure as“Cine-physics.” Off Screen Journal 7.8 (2003): www.offscreen.com. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. De Wereld Waarnemen. Amsterdam: Uitgeverij Boom, 2011. Moore, Timothy E. “Subliminal Advertising: What You See Is What You Get.” Journal of Marketing 46.2 (1982): 38-47. Nichols, Bill. “’American Gigolo’ Transcendental Style and Narrative Form.” Film Quarterly 34.4

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(1981): 8-13. Pisters, Patricia. “The Open Archive: Cinema as World Memory.” The Neuro-Image: A Deleuzian Filmphilosophy of Digital Screen Culture. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2012. 219-237. Rattee, James. “In Your Own Time: How The Long Take Expresses Personal Experiences of Time On-Screen.” Journal of Media Practice 13.3 (2012): 215-225. Schaefer, Eric. “Of Hygiene and Hollywood: Origins of the Exploitation Film.” Velvet Light Trap: A Critical Journal of Film & Television 30 (1992): 34-47. Schrader, Paul. Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer. Cambridge: Da Capo Press, 1988. Sobchack, Vivian. “Embodying Transcendence: On the Literal, the Material, and the Cinematic Sublime.” Material Religion 4.2 (2008): 194-203. Sobchack, Vivian. “Fleshing Out the Image: Phenomenology, Pedagogy, and Derek Jarman’s ‘Blue’.” New Takes in Film Philosophy. Eds. H. Carel and G. Tuck. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. 19-38. Strauven, Wanda. “Media Archaeology: Where Film History, Media Art, and New Media (Can) Meet.” Preserving and Exhibiting Media Art: Challenges and Perspectives. Eds. Julia Noordegraaf et al. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2013. 59-80. Tarkovsky, Andrey. Sculpting in Time. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1989. Thompson, Kristin and David Bordwell. Film History: An Introduction. Third Edition. New York: McGraw-Hill, 2010. Totaro, Donato. “Deleuzian Film Analysis: The Skin of the Film.” Off Screen Journal 6.6 (2002): n. pag. Web. 18 may 2016. Totaro, Donato. “Time and the long take in The Magnificent Ambersons, Ugetsu and Stalker.” Ph.D. thesis. Warwick: Warwick University, 2001. Truffaut, Francois. "Une certain tendance du cinema francais." Cahiers du cinema 31 (1954): 15-29.

Media

A Man Escaped. Dir. Robert Bresson. Gaumont, 1956. Film. Andrei Rublev. Dir. Andrei Tarkovsky. Colombia Pictures, 1966. Film. Angels of Sin. Dir. Robert Bresson. Les Films Richebé, 1943. Film. Blue. Dir. Derek Jarman. Zeitgeist Films, 1993. Film. Diary of a Country Priest. Dir. Robert Bresson. L'Alliance Générale de Distribution Cinématographique, 1951. Film. Fight Club. Dir. David Fincher. Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation, 1999. Film. La Jetee. Dir. Chris Marker. Argos Films, 1962. Film. Late Spring. Dir. Yasujirô Ozu. Shôchiku Eiga, 1949. Film. 60

Mirror. Dir. Andrei Tarkovsky. Kosmos-Filmi, 1978. Film. Persona. Dir. Ingmar Bergman. United Artists, 1967. Film. Pickpocket. Dir. Robert Bresson. New Yorker Films, 1969. Film. Solaris. Dir. Andrei Tarkovsky. Asociace Ceských Filmových Klubu, 1972. Film. Stalker. Dir. Andrei Tarkovsky. Darelcine, 1981. Film. The Arrival of a Train. Dir. Auguste Lumière and Louis Lumière. Lumière, 1886. Film. The Ladies of Bois de Boulogne. Dir. Robert Bresson. Les Films Raoul Ploquin, 1945. Film. The Magician. Dir. Ingmar Bergman. Janus Films, 1959. Film. The Trial of Joan of Arc. Dir. Robert Bresson. Pathé Contemporary Films, 1965. Film. Through a Glass Darkly. Dir. Ingmar Bergman. Janus Films, 1962. Film.

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