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GLOSSARY OF BASIC FILM TERMS

Aysnchronous sound: Sound that does not have its source in the film image. Available lighting: The use of only that light which actually exists on location, either natural (the sun) or artificial (household lamps). Back-lighting: Lighting in which the main source of illumination is directed towards the camera, thus tending to throw the subject into silhouette. Bird’s-eye view: A shot in which the camera photographs a scene from directly overhead. Close-up: A detailed view of a person or object, usually without much context provided. Continuity: The kind of logic implied in the association of ideas between edited shots. “Cutting to continuity” emphasizes smooth transitions between shots, in which space and time are unobtrusively condensed. “Classical cutting” emphasizes dramatic or emotional logic between shots rather than one based strictly on considerations of time and space. In “thematic montage” the continuity is based entirely on ideas, irrespective of literal time and space. In some instances, “continuity” refers to the space-time continuum of reality before it is photographed. Contrapuntal sound: Sound that counterpoints, or contrasts with, the image. Crane shot: A shot taken from a special device called a crane, which resembles a huge mechanical arm. The crane carries the camera and cameraman, and can move in virtually any direction. Cross-cutting: The alternating of shots from two sequences, often in different locales, to suggest that the sequences are taking place simultaneously. , or depth of field: A technique of that permits all distance planes to remain clearly in focus, from close-up range to infinity. Direct sound: Sound effects, conversations, music, or noise recorded simultaneously as the film is being shot. Dissolve, or lap dissolve: These terms refer to the slow fading out of one shot and the gradual fading in of its successor, with a superimposition of images, usually at the midpoint. Dolly shot, , or traveling shot: A shot taken from a moving vehicle. Originally tracks were laid on the set to permit a smoother movement of the camera. Dubbing: The addition of sound after the visuals have been photographed.

331 Glossary of Basic Film Terms

Editing: The joining of one shot (strip of film) with another. The shots can picture events and objects in different places at different times. Editing is also called montage. Establishing shot: Usually a long shot or extreme long shot offered at the beginning of a scene or sequence and providing the viewer with the context of the subsequent closer shots. Extreme close-up: A minutely detailed view of an object or a person. An extreme close-up of an actor generally includes only his eyes or mouth. Extreme long shot: A panoramic view of an exterior location photographed from a great distance, often as far as a quarter of a mile away. Eye-level shot: The placement of the camera approximately 5 to 6 feet from the ground, corresponding to the height of an observer on the scene. Fade: A fade-in occurs when a dark screen gradually brightens to reveal a shot. A fade-out occurs when a shot gradually darkens to become a black screen. Fish-eye lens: An extreme wide-angle lens, which distorts the image so radically that the edges seem wrapped into a sphere. Flashback: An editing technique that suggests the interruption of the present by a shot or series of shots representing the past. Flash-forward: An editing technique that suggests the interruption of the present by a shot or series of shots representing the future. Freeze frame: An optical effect in which action appears to come to a dead stop, achieved by printing a single frame of motion-picture film many times in succession. Full shot: A type of long shot that includes the human body in full, with the head near the top of the frame and the feet near the bottom. Handheld shot: A shot in which the cameraman holds the camera and moves through space while filming. High-angle shot: A shot in which the subject is photographed from above. High-key lighting: Lighting that results in more light areas than shadows; subjects are seen in middle grays and highlights, with little contrast. Iris shot: The expansion or contraction of a small circle within the darkened frame to open or close a shot or scene. : A cut that jumps forward within a single action, thus creating a sense of discontinuity on account of the temporal ellipsis. Long shot: Includes an amount of picture within the frame that roughly corresponds to the audience’s view of the area within the proscenium arch in the live theater.

332 Glossary of Basic Film Terms

Long take: A shot of lengthy duration. Loose framing: Usually found in full-to-long shots. The mise en scène is so spaciously distributed that the subject photographed has considerable latitude of movement. Low-angle shot: A shot in which the subject is photographed from below. Low-key lighting: Lighting that puts most of the set in shadow and uses just a few highlights to define the subject. : An edit that links two shots by a continuous sound or action. Medium shot: A relatively close shot, revealing a moderate amount of detail. A medium shot of a figure generally includes the body from the knees or waist up. Mise en scène: The arrangement of objects, figures, and masses within a given space. In the cinema, that space is defined by the frame; in the live theater, usually by the proscenium arch. Mise en scène includes all the means available to a to express his attitude toward his subject. This takes in the placement of in the setting or décor, their costumes and make-up, the angle and distance of the camera, camera movement as well as movement within the frame, the lighting, the pattern of color, and even the editing or cutting. Montage: Transitional sequences of rapidly edited images, used to suggest the lapse of time or the passing of events. Often employs dissolves and multiple exposures. Negative space: Empty or unfilled space in the mise en scène, often acting as a foil to the more detailed elements in a shot. Oblique angle: A shot that is photographed by a tilted camera. When the image is projected on the screen, the subject itself seems to be tilted on its side. Overexposure: Occurs when too much light enters the of a , bleaching out the image. Over-the-shoulder shot: A medium shot, useful in dialogue scenes, in which one actor is photographed head-on from over the shoulder of another actor. Pan: A camera movement during which the body of the camera, which is otherwise stationary, turns to the left or right on its own axis. Onscreen this produces a mobile framing, or a constant re-framing, that scans the space horizontally. Parallel action: A device of narrative construction in which the development of two pieces of action is presented alternately so as to suggest that they are occurring simultaneously. Point-of-view shot: Any shot that is taken from the vantage point of a character in the film, showing what the character sees.

333 Glossary of Basic Film Terms

Process shot, or rear projection: A technique in which a background scene is projected onto a translucent screen behind the actors in the studio, so that it appears the actors are being photographed on location in the final image. Pull-back dolly: A technique used to surprise the viewer by withdrawing from a scene to reveal an object or character that was previously out of the frame. Rack focusing, or selective focusing: The changing of focus from one subject to another during a shot, guiding the audience’s attention to a new, sharply delineated point of interest while the previous one blurs. Reaction shot: A cut to a shot of a character’s reaction to the contents of the preceding shot. Reverse-angle shot: A shot taken from an angle 180° opposed to the previous shot—that is, the camera is placed opposite its previous position. Scene: A unit of film composed of a number of interrelated shots, unified usually by a central concern—a location, an incident, or a minor dramatic climax. Sequence: A series of scenes joined in such a way that they constitute a significant part of a film’s dramatic structure. Shallow focus: A shot in which only objects and persons in the foreground of the image can be seen clearly. Shot: Those images that are recorded continuously from the time the camera starts to the time it stops: that is, an unedited, uncut strip of film. : Shots of a subject photographed at a faster rate than 24 frames-per- second, which, when projected at the standard rate, produce a dreamy, dancelike slowness of action. Soft focus: A visual effect in which the image seems somewhat hazy and not sharply defined, achieved by shooting with the lens slightly out of focus or shooting through a special lens, filter, or gauze. Split screen: A visual composition in which the frame is divided into two separate images not superimposed over one another. Subtext: A term used in drama and film to signify the dramatic implications beneath the language of a play or movie. Often the subtext concerns ideas and emotions that are totally independent of the language of a script. Subjective shot, or subjective camera: A shot that represents the point of view of a character. Often a reverse-angle shot, preceded by a shot of the character. Superimposition: The simultaneous appearance of two or more images over one another in the same frame.

334 Glossary of Basic Film Terms

Swish pan: A shot in which the camera pans so rapidly that the image is blurred. Synchronous sound: Sound that has its source in the film image, where it is clearly identified. Telephoto lens, or long lens: A lens that acts as a telescope, magnifying the size of objects at a great distance. A significant side effect is its tendency to flatten perspective. Tight framing: Usually in close shots. The mise en scène is so carefully balanced and harmonized that the subject photographed has little or no freedom of movement. Tilt: The vertical movement of the camera from a stationary position—for example, resting on a tripod. Two-shot: A medium shot, featuring two actors. Voice-over: Commentary by an unseen character or narrator. Wide-angle lens, or short lens: A lens that permits the camera to photograph a wider area than a normal lens. A significant side effect is its tendency to exaggerate perspective. Also used for deep-focus photography. Wipe: An editing device, usually a line that travels across the screen, “pushing off” one image and revealing another. Zoom lens/shot: A lens of variable that permits the cameraman to change from wide-angle to telephoto shots (and vice versa) in one continuous movement. The lens changes focal length in such a way during a zoom shot that a dolly or crane shot is suggested.

335 FILM CREDITS AND DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

The Front Page (1931) Director: Screenplay: Bartlett Cormack and , from the play by and Charles MacArthur : Glenn MacWilliams Editor: W. Duncan Mansfield Production Designer: Richard Day Running time: 101 minutes Format: 35mm, in black and white Cast: Adolphe Menjou (Walter Burns), Pat O’Brien (Hildebrand “Hildy” Johnson), Mary Brian (Peggy Grant), Edward Everett Horton (Roy V. Bensinger), Walter Catlett (Jimmy Murphy), George E. Stone (Earl Williams), Mae Clarke (Molly Malloy), Slim Summerville (Irving Pincus), Matt Moore (Ernie Kruger), Frank McHugh (“Mac” McCue), Clarence Wilson (Sheriff Peter B. “Pinky” Hartman), Fred Howard (Schwartz), Phil Tead (Wilson), Eugene Strong (Endicott), Spencer Charters (Woodenshoes), Maurice Black (Diamond Louie), Effie Ellsler (Mrs. Grant), Dorothea Wolbert (Jenny), James Gordon (Fred, The Mayor)

Lewis Milestone (1895–1980) Seven Sinners (1925) The Caveman (1926) (1926) (1927) The Garden of Eden (1928) Tempest (1928) The Racket (1928) (1929) Betrayal (1929) All Quiet on the Western Front (1930) (1931) Rain (1932) Hallelujah, I’m a Bum (1933) The Captain Hates the Sea (1934) in Spring (1935) Anything Goes (1936) (1936) Of Mice and Men (1939)

337 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

The Night of Nights (1939) Lucky Partners (1940) (1941) Edge of Darkness (1943) The North Star (1943) Guest in the House (1944) (1944) A Walk in the Sun (1945) The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946) Arch of Triumph (1948) (1948) The Red Pony (1949) Halls of Montezuma (1951) Les Misérables (1952) Kangaroo (1952) Melba (1953) (1954) La Vedova X (The Widow, 1955) (1959) Ocean’s 11 (1960) Mutiny on the Bounty (1962)

La Grande illusion (1937) Director: Screenplay: Jean Renoir and Cinematographer: Christian Matras Editors: Marthe Huguet, Music: , Emile Vuillermoz Production Designer: Eugène Lourié Costume Designer: René Decrais Running time: 114 minutes Format: 35mm, in black and white Cast: (Lieutenant Maréchal, a French officer), (Lieutenant Rosenthal, a French officer), (Captain de Boeldieu, a French officer), (Captain von Rauffenstein, a German officer), Dita Parlo (Elsa, a widowed German farm woman), Julien Carette (Cartier, the showoff), Georges Péclet (an officer), Werner Florian (Sergeant Arthur), Jean Dasté (a teacher), Sylvain Itkine (Lieutenant Demolder), (an engineer)

Jean Renoir (1894–1979) La Fille de l’eau (The Whirlpool of Fate, 1924) Nana (1926)

338 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Marquitta (1927) The Little Match Girl (1928) Tire au flanc (The Sad Sack, 1928) Le Tournoi (The Tournament, 1928) Le Bled (The Outback, 1929) On purge bébé (Baby’s Laxative, 1931) (The Bitch, 1931) (1932) Boudu Saved from Drowning (1932) Chotard & Co. (1933) Madame Bovary (1933) Toni (1935) Le Crime de M. Lange (The Crime of Monsieur Lange, 1936) , a.k.a. People of (1936) The Lower Depths (1936) A Day in the Country (1937; final cut, 1946) (1937) (1938) The Human Beast (1938) (1939) (1941) This Land Is Mine (1943) Salute to France (1944) The Southerner (1945) The Diary of a Chambermaid (1946) (1947) The River (1951) (1953) (1955) Elena and Her Men (1956) Le Testament du Docteur Cordelier (The Doctor’s Horrible Experiment, 1959) (1959) The Elusive Corporal (1962) The Little Theatre of Jean Renoir (1969)

Citizen Kane (1941) Director: Screenplay: Herman J. Mankiewicz, Orson Welles, and John Houseman Cinematographer: Editors: Robert Wise, Mark Robson Music:

339 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Art Directors: Van Nest Polglaise, Perry Ferguson Costume Designer: Edward Stevenson Running time: 119 minutes Format: 35 mm, in black and white Cast: Orson Welles (Charles Foster Kane), Joseph Cotten (Jedediah Leland), Everett Sloane (Bernstein), Dorothy Comingore (Susan Alexander), Ray Collins (Jim Getty), William Alland (Jerry Thompson/Newsreel Narrator), Agnes Moorehead (Mary Kane), Ruth Warrick (Emily Norton), George Coulouris (Walter Parks Thatcher), Erskine Sandford (Herbert Carter), Harry Shannon (Jim Kane, Kane’s father), Philip Van Zandt (Rawlston), Paul Stewart (Raymond), Fortunio Bonanova (Signor Matiste), Georgia Backus (Curator of Thatcher Library), Irving Mitchell (Dr. Corey), Edith Evanson (Nurse)

Orson Welles (1915–1985) (1941) The Magnificent Ambersons (1941) The Stranger (1946) The Lady from Shanghai (1947) Macbeth (1948) Othello (1952) Mr. Arkadin (1955) Touch of Evil (1958) The Trial (1962) Chimes at Midnight (1965) The Immortal Story (1968)

Bicycle Thieves (1948) Director: Screenplay: , Vittorio De Sica, Oreste Biàncoli, Suso Cecchi D’Amico, Adolfo Franci, Gherardo Gherardi, and Gerardo Guerrieri, from a story by Zavattini based on the 1946 novel by Luigi Bartolini Cinematographer: Carlo Montuori Editor: Eraldo Da Roma Music: Production Designer: Antonio Traverso Running time: 87 minutes Format: 35mm, in black and white Cast: Lamberto Maggiorani (Antonio Ricci), Enzo Staiola (Bruno, his son), Lianella Carell (Maria Ricci), Gino Saltamerenda (Baiocco), Vittorio Antonucci (the thief), Giulio Chiari (the old man), Elena Altieri (the mission patroness), Ida Bracci Dorati (the fortune teller)

340 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Vittorio De Sica (1901–1974) Red Roses (1939) Maddalena, Zero for Conduct (1940) Teresa Venerdì, a.k.a. Doctor Beware (1941) A Garibaldian in the Convent (1942) The Children Are Watching Us (1943) The Gate of Heaven (1945) Shoeshine (1946) (1948) (1951) Umberto D. (1952) It Happened in the Park (1953) Indiscretion of an American Wife (1953) (1954) The Roof (1956) Anna of (1958) (1961) The Last Judgment (1961) Boccaccio ’70 (1962) The Condemned of Altona (1962) (The Boom, 1963) Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow (1963) (1964) A New World (1966) (1966) (1967) (1968) Sunflower (1970) The Garden of the Finzi-Continis (1971) We’ll Call Him Andrew (1972) (1973) The Voyage (1974)

Forbidden Games (1952) Director: Screenplay: François Boyer, , Pierre Bost, and René Clément, from the 1947 novel by François Boyer Cinematographer: Robert Juillard Editor: Roger Dwyre Music: Narciso Yepes Art Director: Paul Bertrand Costume Designer: Major Brandley

341 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Running time: 102 minutes Format: 35 mm, in black and white Cast: (Paulette), Georges Poujouly (Michel Dolle), Lucien Herbert (father Dolle), Suzanne Courtal (mother Dolle), Jacques Marin (Georges Dolle), Laurence Badie (Berthe Dolle), André Wasley (father Gouard), Amedée (Francis Gouard), Denise Peronne (Jeanne Gouard), Louis Saintève (Priest), Madeleine Barbulée, Pierre Merovée, Violette Monnier, Fernande Roy

René Clément (1913–1996) Battle of the Rails (1945) Mr. Orchid (1946) The Damned (1947) The Walls of Malapaga (1949) The Glass Castle (1950) (1952) Monsieur Ripois, a.k.a. Knave of Hearts (1954) Gervaise (1956) (1958) (1960) The Joy of Living (1961) The Day and the Hour (1963) Love Cage, a.k.a. Joy House (1964) Is Paris Burning? (1966) (1969) The Deadly Trap (1971) And Hope to Die (1972) The Babysitter (1975)

The (1954) Director: Screenplay: Akira Kurosawa, Shinobu Hashimoto, and Hideo Oguni Cinematographer: Editor: Akira Kurosawa Music: Fumio Hayasaka Production Designer: Takashi Matsuyama Costume Designers: Kôhei Ezaki, Mieko Yamaguchi Running time: 207 minutes Format: 35mm, in black and white Cast: Toshiro Mifune (Kikuchiyo), (Kanbê Shimada), Keiko Tsushima (Shino), Yukiko Shimazaki (Rikichi’s Wife), (Manzô,

342 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Father of Shino), Daisuke Katô (Shichirôji), Isao Kimura (Katsushirô Okamoto), (Heihachi Hayashida), Seiji Miyaguchi (Kyûzô), Yoshio Kosugi (Mosuke), Bokuzen Hidari (Yohei), Yoshio Inaba (Gorobê Katayama), Yoshio Tsuchiya (Rikichi), Kokuten Kôdô (Gisaku, the Old Man), Eijirô Tôno (Kidnapper), Kichijirô Ueda (Captured Bandit Scout), Keiji Sakakida (Gosaku), Shinpei Takagi (Bandit Chief), Shin Ôtomo (Bandit Second-in-Command), Hiroshi Sugi (Tea Shop Owner)

Akira Kurosawa (1910–1998) Sanshiro Sugata (1943) (1944) Sanshiro Sugata, Part II (1945) The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail (1945) Those Who Make Tomorrow (1946) No Regrets for Our Youth (1946) One Wonderful Sunday (1947) (1948) The Quiet Duel (1949) Stray Dog (1949) (1950) The Idiot (1951) The Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail (1952) , a.k.a. To Live (1952) The Seven Samurai (1954) Record of a Living Being, a.k.a. I Live in Fear (1955) (1957) The Lower Depths (1957) (1958) (1960) (1961) (1962) High and Low (1963) (1965) Dodeskaden (1970) Dersu Uzala (1975) , a.k.a. The Shadow Warrior (1980) Ran (Chaos, 1985) Dreams (1990) Rhapsody in August (1991) No, Not Yet! (1993)

343 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

The (1957) Director: Screenplay: Federico Fellini, , , , and Maria Molinari Cinematographer: Aldo Tonti Editor: Leo Cattozzo Music: Production Designer: Running time: 110 minutes Format: 35mm, in black and white Cast: (Maria “Cabiria” Ceccarelli), François Périer (Oscar D’Onofrio), (Wanda), (Jessy), Aldo Silvani (The wizard), Ennio Girolami (Amleto, the pimp), Mario Passante (Uncle of Amleto), Amedeo Nazzari (Alberto Lazzari)

Federico Fellini (1920–1993) (1950) The White Sheik (1952) (The Young and the Passionate, 1953) (The Road, 1954) (The Swindle, 1955) The Nights of Cabiria (1957) (The Sweet Life, 1959) 8½ (1963) (1965) (1969) The Clowns (1970) Roma (1972) (I Remember, 1973) Casanova (1976) (1979) (1980) (1983) (1985) (Interview, 1987) (1990)

Some Like It Hot (1959) Director: Screenplay: Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond, from a story by Robert Thoeren and Michael Logan

344 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Cinematographer: Charles Lang Editor: Arthur P. Schmidt Music: Adolph Deutsch Art Director: Ted Haworth Running time: 122 minutes Format: 35mm, in black and white Cast: (“Sugar Kane” Kowalczyk, a ukulele player and singer), (Joe/“Josephine”/“Shell Oil Junior”), (Jerry/Gerald/“Daphne”), George Raft (“Spats” Colombo, a mobster from ), Pat O’Brien (Detective Mulligan), Joe E. Brown (Osgood Fielding III), Nehemiah Persoff (“Little Bonaparte,” a mobster), (Sweet Sue, the bandleader of “Sweet Sue and Her Society Syncopators”), Dave Barry (Mr. Beinstock, the band manager for “Sweet Sue and Her Society Syncopators”), Billy Gray (Sig Poliakoff, Joe and Jerry’s agent in Chicago), Barbara Drew (Nellie Weinmeyer, Poliakoff’s secretary), George E. Stone (“Toothpick” Charlie, a gangster who is killed by “Spats” Colombo), Mike Mazurki (Spats’s henchman), Harry Wilson (Spats’s henchman), Edward G. Robinson, Jr. (Johnny Paradise, a gangster who kills “Spats” Colombo), Al Breneman (the fresh bellboy at Seminole Ritz Hotel who shows interest in Josephine), Beverly Wills (Dolores, a trombone player and Sugar’s friend), Marian Collier (Olga), Sandra Warner (Emily), Helen Perry (Rosella), Laurie Mitchell (Mary Lou)

Billy Wilder (1906–2002) , a.k.a. Bad Seed (1934) (1942) (1943) (1944) The Lost Weekend (1945) Mills (1945) (1948) (1948) Sunset Boulevard (1950) Ace in the Hole (1951) (1953) Sabrina (1954) (1955) The Spirit of St. Louis (1957) Love in the Afternoon (1957) Witness for the Prosecution (1957) (1959) (1960) One, Two, Three (1961) (1963)

345 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Kiss Me, Stupid (1964) (1966) The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970) Avanti! (1972) The Front Page (1974) Fedora (1978) (1981)

Il posto (The Job, 1961) Director: Screenplay: Ettore Lombardo, Ermanno Olmi : Roberto Barbieri, Lamberto Caimi Editor: Carla Colombo Music: Pier Emilio Bassi Production Designer: Ettore Lombardi Running time: 93 minutes Format: 35mm, in black and white Cast: Loredana Detto (Antonietta Masetti), (Psychologist), Sandro Panseri (Domenico Cantoni), Mara Revel (Old Woman)

Ermanno Olmi (born 1931) Time Stood Still (1959) Il posto (The Job, a.k.a. The Sound of Trumpets, 1961) The Fiancés (1963) A Man Called John (1965) One Fine Day (1969) In the Summertime (1971) The Circumstance (1974) (1978) Keep Walking (1983) Long Live the Lady! (1987) The Legend of the Holy Drinker (1988) Down the River (1992) The Secret of the Old Woods (1993) Genesis: The Creation and the Flood (1994) The Profession of Arms (2001) Singing Behind Screens (2003) (2007) (2011) Greenery Will Bloom Again (2014)

346 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Mamma Roma (1962)

Director: Pier Paolo Pasolini Screenplay: Pier Paolo Pasolini Cinematographer: Tonino Delli Colli Editor: Music: Carlo Rustichelli Art Director: Flavio Mogherini Running time: 110 minutes Format: 35mm, in black and white Cast: (), Ettore Garofolo (Ettore), Franco Citti (Carmine), Silvana Corsini (Bruna), Luisa Loiano (Biancofiore), Paolo Volponi (Priest), Luciano Gonini (Zacaria), Vittorio La Paglia (Mr. Pellissier), Piero Morgia (Piero), Franco Ceccarelli (Carletto), Marcello Sorrentino (Tonino), Sandro Meschino (Pasquale), Franco Tovo (Augusto), Pasquale Ferrarese (Lino), Leandro Santarelli (Begalo)

Pier Paolo Pasolini (1922–1975) (The Scrounger, 1961) Mamma Roma (1962) The According to Matthew (1964) The Hawks and the Sparrows (1966) Oedipus (1967) Teorema (Theorem, 1968) Pigsty (1969) Medea (1969) The Decameron (1971) The Canterbury Tales (1972) The Thousand and One Nights, a.k.a. The Arabian Nights (1974) Salò, or The 120 Days of Sodom (1975)

Closely Watched Trains (1966) Director: Jiří Menzel Screenplay: Jiří Menzel and , from a 1965 novel by Hrabal Cinematographer: Jaromír Sofr Editor: Jirina Lukesová Music: Jirí Sust Art Director: Oldrich Bosák Costume Designer: Olga Dimitrovová Running time: 93 minutes Format: 35mm, in black and white

347 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Cast: Václav Neckář (Miloš Hrma), Vlastimil Brodský (councilor Zednicek), Jitka Bendová (conductor Máša), Josef Somr (train dispatcher Hubička), Libuše Havelková (stationmaster’s wife), Vladimír Valenta (Stationmaster), Jitka Zelenohorská (telegraphist Zdenička), Naďa Urbánková (Viktoria Freie), Jiří Menzel (Doctor Brabec)

Jiří Menzel (born 1938) Crime at a Girls’ School (1965) (1966) (1967) Crime in a Nightclub (1968) (1969) (1985) The Life and Extraordinary Adventures of Private Ivan Chonkin (1993) I Served the King of England (2006) The Don Juans (2013)

The Rain People (1969) Director: Screenplay: Francis Ford Coppola Cinematographer: Wilmer Butler Editor: Music: Ronald Stein Art Director: Leon Ericksen Running time: 101 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: James Caan (Jimmy “Killer” Kilgannon), Shirley Knight (Natalie Ravenna), Robert Duvall (Gordon), Marya Zimmet (Rosalie), Tom Aldredge (Mr. Alfred), Laurie Crews (Ellen), Andrew Duncan (Artie), Margaret Fairchild (Marion), Sally Gracie (Beth), Alan Manson (Lou), Robert Modica (Vinny Ravenna)

Francis Ford Coppola (born 1939) Dementia 13 (1963) You’re a Big Boy Now (1966) Finian’s Rainbow (1968) (1969) (1972) (1974) The Godfather Part II (1974) (1979) (1982)

348 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

The Outsiders (1983) (1983) The Cotton Club (1984) (1986) (1987) Tucker: The Man and His Dream (1988) The Godfather Part III (1990) Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) Jack (1996) The Rainmaker (1997) Youth without Youth (2007) (2009) Twixt (2011) Distant Vision (2015)

The Lacemaker (1977) Director: Claude Goretta Screenplay: Claude Goretta and Pascal Lainé, from the 1986 novel by Lainé Cinematographer: Jean Boffety Editor: Joële Van Effenterre Music: Pierre Jansen Production Designers: Claude Chevant, Serge Etter Running time: 107 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: (Pomme), Yves Beneyton (François), Florence Giorgetti (Marylène), Annemarie Düringer (Pomme’s mother), Renate Schroeter (François’s girlfriend), Michel de Ré (The Painter), Monique Chaumette (François’s mother), Jean Obé (François’s father), Christian Baltauss (Gérard)

Claude Goretta (born 1929) The Madman (1970) The Invitation (1973) The Wonderful Crook (1974) The Lacemaker (1977) The Wedding Day (1977) La Provinciale (The Girl from Lorraine, 1981) The Death of Mario Ricci (1983) Orfeo (1985) If the Sun Never Returns (1987) Enemies of the Mafia (1988) The Shadow (1992)

349 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Manhattan (1979) Director: Screenplay: Woody Allen and Marshall Brickman Cinematographer: Editor: Susan E. Morse Production Designer: Mel Bourne Costume Designer: Albert Wolsky Running time: 96 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Woody Allen (Isaac), Diane Keaton (Mary), Michael Murphy (Yale), Mariel Hemingway (Tracy), (Jill), Anne Byrne (Emily), Karen Ludwig (Connie), Michael O’Donoghue (Dennis), Damion Scheller (Isaac’s Son), Wallace Shawn (Jeremiah), Mark Linn-Baker (Shakespearean Actor), Frances Conroy (Shakespearean Actress), Charles Levin (Television Actor), Karen Allen (Television Actress)

Woody Allen (born 1935) What’s Up, Tiger Lily? (1966) (1969) Bananas (1971) Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask) [1972] Sleeper (1973) (1975) (1977) (1978) (1979) (1980) A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy (1982) (1983) (1984) (1985) Hannah and Her (1986) (1987) September (1987) Another Woman (1988) (episode “Oedipus Wrecks,” 1989) (1989) Alice (1990) (1991) (1992)

350 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993) Don’t Drink the Water (1994) (1994) (1995) (1996) (1997) Celebrity (1998) (1999) (1999) The Curse of the Jade Scorpion (2001) (2002) (2003) (2004) (2005) Scoop (2006) Cassandra’s Dream (2007) Vicky Cristina (2008) (2009) You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger (2010) (2011) To with Love (2012) (2013) Magic in the Moonlight (2014) Irrational Man (2015) Café Society (2016)

Veronika Voss (FRG 2, 1982) Director: Screenplay: Peter Märthesheimer, Pea Fröhlich, and Rainer Werner Fassbinder Cinematographer: Xaver Schwarzenberger Editor: Juliane Lorenz Music: Peer Raben Production Designer: Rolf Zehetbauer Costume Designer: Barbara Baum Running time: 104 minutes Format: 35mm, in black and white Cast: Rosel Zech (), Hilmar Thate (Robert Krohn), (Henriette), Annemarie Düringer (Dr. Katz), Armin Mueller-Stahl (Max Rehbein), Doris Schade (Josefa), Erik Schumann (Dr. Edel)

351 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Rainer Werner Fassbinder (1945–1982) Love Is Colder than Death (1969) (Troublemaker, 1969) (1971) Beware of a Holy Whore (1971) The Merchant of Four Seasons (1971) The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (1972) Jailbait (1973) (1973) Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1973) Martha (1974) Effi Briest (1974) Like a Bird on the Wire (1975) (1975) Mother Küsters Goes to Heaven (1975) Fear of Fear (1975) I Only Want You to Love Me (1976) ’s Brew (1976) Chinese Roulette (1976) The Stationmaster’s Wife (1977) Despair (1978) In a Year of Thirteen Moons (1978) The Marriage of Maria Braun (1979) The Third Generation (1979) Alexanderplatz (1980) Lili Marleen (1981) Lola (1981) Veronika Voss (1982) (1982)

The Case Is Closed (1982) Director: Screenplay: Mrinal Sen, from a 1974 story by Ramapada Chowdhury : K. K. Mahajan Editor: Gangadhar Naskar Music: B. V. Karanth Art Direction: Nitish Roy Running time: 95 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Anjan Dutt (Anjan Sen), Mamata Shankar (Mamata Sen), Sreela Majumdar (Sreeja), Indranil Moitra (Pupai), Dehapratim Das Gupta (Hari), Nilotpal Dey (Inspector), Charuprakash Ghosh (Lawyer)

352 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Mrinal Sen (born 1923) The Dawn (1955) Under the Blue Sky (1958) Wedding Day (1960) Over Again (1961) And at Last (1963) The Representative (1964) Up in the Clouds (1965) Man of the Soil (1966) Mr. (1969) Interview (1971) An Unfinished Story (1971) (1972) The Guerilla Fighter (1973) Chorus (1974) The Royal Hunt (1976) The Outsiders (1977) The Man with the Axe (1978) And Quiet Rolls the Dawn (1979) In Search of Famine (1980) The Kaleidoscope (1981) The Case Is Closed (1982) The Ruins (1983) Genesis (1986) Suddenly, One Day (1989) World Within, World Without (1991) The Confined (1993) My Land (2002)

The Mass Is Ended (1985) Director: Screenplay: Nanni Moretti and Sandro Petraglia Cinematographer: Franco Di Giacomo Editor: Mirco Garrone Music: Production Designers: Giorgio Bertolini, Amedeo Fago Costume Designer: Lia Morandini Running time: 94 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Nanni Moretti (Don Giulio), Marco Messeri (Saverio), Ferruccio De Ceresa (Father of Don Giulio), Enrica Maria Modugno (Valentina), Dario Cantarelli

353 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

(Gianni), Luisa de Santis (Lucia), Eugenio Masciari (Antonio), Vincenzo Salemme (Andrea), Roberto Vezzosi (Cesare), Margarita Lozano (Mother of Don Giulio)

Nanni Moretti (born 1953) I Am Self-Sufficient (1976) (Here Comes Bombo, 1978) Sweet Dreams (1981) Bianca (1984) (1985) (1989) Dear Diary (1993) Opening Day of Close-Up (1996) April (1998) The Son’s Room (2001) (a.k.a. The Crocodile, 2006) We Have a Pope (2011) (My Mother, 2015)

Boyfriends and Girlfriends (1987) Director: Eric Rohmer Screenplay: Eric Rohmer Cinematographer: Bernard Lutic Editor: María Luisa García Music: Jean-Louis Valéro Production Designer: Sophie Mantigneux Running time: 103 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Emmanuelle Chaulet (Blanche), Sophie Renoir (Lea), Anne-Laure Meury (Adrienne), Eric Viellard (Fabien), François-Eric Gendron (Alexandre)

Eric Rohmer (1920–2010) The Sign of Leo (1959) The Collector (1967) Ma nuit chez Maud (My Night at Maud’s, 1969) Claire’s Knee (1970) Love in the Afternoon, a.k.a. Chloë in the Afternoon (1972) The Marquise of O … (1976) , a.k.a. Perceval (1978) Catherine de Heilbronn (1980) The Aviator’s Wife (1981) A Good Marriage (1982) (1983)

354 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Full Moon in Paris (1984) The Green Ray, a.k.a. Summer (1986) Boyfriends and Girlfriends, a.k.a. My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend (1987) Le trio en si bémol (The Trio in B-flat, 1987) Four Adventures of Reinette and Mirabelle (1987) (1990) , a.k.a. A Winter’s Tale (1992) The Tree, The Mayor, and the Mediatheque (1993) Rendezvous in Paris (1995) A Tale of Summer (1996) A Tale of Autumn (1998) (2000) (2004) The Romance of Astrea and Celadon (2007)

Ariel (1988) Director: Aki Kaurismäki Screenplay: Aki Kaurismäki Cinematographer: Timo Salminen Editor: Raija Talvio Music: Esko Rahkonen, Rauli Somerjoki, Taisto Tammi Production Designer: Risto Karhula Costume Designer: Tuula Hilkarno Running time: 73 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Turo Pajala (Taisto Kasurinen), Susanna Haavisto (Irmeli Pihlaja), Matti Pellonpää (Mikkonen), Eetu Hilkamo (Riku)

Aki Kaurismäki (born 1957) Crime and Punishment (1983) Calamari Union (1985) Shadows in Paradise (1986) Hamlet Goes Business (1987) Ariel (1988) Leningrad Cowboys Go America (1989) The Match Factory Girl (1989) I Hired a Contract Killer (1990) The Bohemian Life (1992) Take Care of Your Scarf, Tatiana (1994) Leningrad Cowboys Meet Moses (1994) Drifting Clouds (1996) Juha (1999)

355 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

The Man Without a Past (2002) Lights in the Dusk (2006) Le Havre (2011) Refugee (2017)

Tilaï (1990) Director: Idrissa Ouédraogo Screenplay: Idrissa Ouédraogo and Elsa Monseigny Cinematographers: Jean Monsigny, Pierre-Laurent Chénieux Editors: Luc Barnier, Michael Klochendler Music: Abdullah Ibrahim, David Williams, Billy Higgins Running time: 81 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Rasmané Ouédraogo (Saga), Ina Cissé (Nogma), Roukietou Barry (Kuilga), Assane Ouédraogo (Kougri), Sibidou Sidibe (Poko), Moumouni Ouédraogo (Tenga), Mariam Barry (Bore), Seydou Ouédraogo (Nomenaba), Mariam Ouédraogo (Koudpoko), Daouda Porgo (Porgo), Kogre Warma (Maiga)

Idrissa Ouédraogo (born 1954) The Choice (1986) Yaaba (Grandmother, 1989) Tilaï (The Law, 1990) Samba Traoré (1993) The Heart’s Cry (1994) Kini and Adams (1997) Anger of the Gods (2003) Kato Kato (2006)

Danzón (1991) Director: María Novaro Screenplay: Beatriz Novaro and María Novaro Cinematographer: Rodrigo García Editors: Sigfrido Barjau, María Novaro, Nelson Rodríguez Music: Agustín Lara, Pepe Luis, Felipe Pérez, Consuelo Velázquez Production Designers: Marisa Pecanins, Norberto Sánchez Running time: 120 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: María Rojo (Julia Solórzano), Carmen Salinas (Doña Tí), Tito Vasconcelos (Susy), Margarita Isabel (Silvia), Víctor Carpinteiro (Rubén), Cheli Godínez (Tere), Daniel Rergis (Carmelo), Adyari Cházaro (Perla), Blanca Guerra (Colorada), César Sobrevals (Chucho), Mikhail Kaminin (Russian sailor), Rodrigo Gómez (Malena),

356 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Sergio Colmenares (Karla), Ángel de Valle (Yadira), Luis Gerardo (Juan El Padrote), Martha Navarro (Witch), Inés Jácome (Victoria)

María Novaro (born 1951) Lola (1989) Danzón (1991) The Garden of Eden (1994) Without a Trace (2000) The Good Herbs (2010)

Riff-Raff (1991) Director: Screenplay: Bill Jesse Cinematographer: Editor: Jonathan Morris Music: Stewart Copeland Production Designer: Martin Johnson Costume Designer: Wendy Knowles Running time: 96 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Robert Carlyle (Stevie), Emer McCourt (Susan), Jimmy Coleman (Shem), George Moss (Mo), Ricky Tomlinson (Larry), David Finch (Kevin)

Ken Loach (born 1936) (1967) Kes (1969) Family Life (1971) Black Jack (1979) The Gamekeeper (1980) (1981) Fatherland, a.k.a. Singing the Blues in Red (1986) Hidden Agenda (1990) Riff-Raff (1991) (1993) Ladybird, Ladybird (1994) (1995) Carla’s Song (1996) The Flickering Flame (1997) (1998) Bread and Roses (2000) The Navigators (2001) Sweet Sixteen (2002)

357 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Ae Fond Kiss (2004) The Wind That Shakes the Barley (2006) It’s a Free World (2007) (2009) Route Irish (2010) The Angels’ Share (2012) Jimmy’s Hall (2014) I, Daniel Blake (2016)

Farewell, My Concubine (1993) Director: Screenplay: Wei Lu, Bik-Wah Lei, and Pik Wah Li (as Lilian Lee), from Li/Lee’s 1985 novel Cinematographer: Changwei Gu Editor: Xiaonan Pei Music: Jiping Zhao Production Designers: Yuhe Yang, Zhanjia Yang Costume Designer: Chen Changmin Running Time: 171 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Leslie Cheung (Cheng Dieyi), Fengyi Zhang (Duan Xiaolou), Li Gong (Juxian), Qi Lü (Master Guan), Da Ying (Manager), You Ge (Master Yuan), Chun Li (Xiao Si as a teenager), Han Lei (Xiao Si as an adult) Di Tong (Zhang the Eunuch), Mingwei Ma (Douzi as a child), Yang Fei (Shitou as a child), Zhi Yin (Douzi as a teenager), Hailong Zhao (Shitou as a teenager), Wenli Jiang (Douzi’s mother)

Chen Kaige (born 1952) (1984) The Big (1986) King of the Children (1987) Life on a String (1991) Farewell, My Concubine (1993) (1996) The Emperor and the Assassin (1999) Killing Me Softly (2002) Together (2002) The Promise (2005) (2008) Sacrifice (2010) (2012) Monk Comes Down (2015)

358 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Strawberry and Chocolate (1994) Director: Tomás Gutiérrez Alea Screenplay: Senel Paz, based on his 1990 story Cinematographer: Mario García Joya Editors: Miraim Talavera, Rolando Martínez, Osvaldo Donatién Music: José María Vitier Production Designer: Fernando Pérez O’Reilly Costume Designer: Miriam Dueñas Format: 35mm, in color Running time: 110 minutes Cast: Jorge Perugorría (Diego), Vladimir Cruz (David), Mirta Ibarra (Nancy), Francisco Gattorno (Miguel), Joel Angelino (German), Marilyn Solaya (Vivian), Andrés Cortina (Santeria priest), Antonio Carmona (Boyfriend)

Tomás Gutiérrez Alea (1928–1996) Stories of the Revolution (1960) Twelve Chairs (1962) Cumbite (1964) Death of a Bureaucrat (1966) Memories of Underdevelopment (1968) A Cuban Fight Against Demons (1971) The Last Supper (1976) One Way or Another (1977) The Survivors (1979) Up to a Point (1983) Letters from the Park (1988) (1994) Guantanamera (1995)

La Promesse (1996) Directors: Jean-Pierre Dardenne and Luc Dardenne Screenplay: Jean-Pierre Dardenne and Luc Dardenne Cinematographer: Alain Marcoen Editor: Marie-Hélène Dozo Art Director: Françoise Joset Running time: 92 minutes Format. 35mm, in color Cast: Jérémie Renier (Igor), (Roger), Assita Ouédraogo (Assita), Frédéric Bodson (Garage Boss), Florian Delain (Riri), Hachemi Haddad (Nabil), Rasmané Ouédraogo (Hamidou)

359 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Jean-Pierre Dardenne (born 1951) and Luc Dardenne (born 1954) Falsch (False, 1987) Je pense à vous (You’re on My Mind, 1992) La Promesse (The Promise, 1996) Rosetta (1999) The Son (2002) L’Enfant (The Child, 2005) The Silence of Lorna (2008) (2011) Two Days, One Night (2014) (2016)

The Wind Will Carry Us (1999) Director: Abbas Kiarostami Screenplay: Abbas Kiarostami Cinematographer: Mahmoud Kalari Editor: Abbas Kiarostami Music: Peyman Yazdanian Running time: 118 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Behzad Dorani (Engineer), Noghre Asadi, Roushan Karam Elmi, Bahman Ghobadi, Shahpour Ghobadi, Reihan Heidari, Masood Mansouri, Ali Reza Naderi, Frangis Rahsepar, Masoameh Salimi, Farzad Sohrabi, Lida Soltani

Abbas Kiarostami (1940–2016) The Traveler (1974) The Wedding Suit (1976) The Report (1977) Where Is the Friend’s House? (1987) Homework (1989) Close-Up (1990) Life, and Nothing More …, a.k.a. And Life Goes On … (1991) (1994) A (1997) The Wind Will Carry Us (1999) Ten (2002) Five (2003) Shirin (2008) Certified Copy (2009) Like Someone in Love (2012)

360 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Kadosh (1999) Director: Screenplay: Eliette Abecassis and Amos Gitai Cinematographer: Renato Berta Editors: Monica Coleman, Kobi Netanel Music: Philippe Eidel, Louis Sclavis Production Designer: Miguel Markin Costume Designer: Laura Dinolesko Running time: 110 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Yaël Abecassis (Rivka), Yoram Hattab (Meir), Meital Barda (Malka), Uri Klauzner (Yossef), Yussuf Abu-Warda (Rav Shimon), Leah Koenig (Elisheva), Sami Huri (Yaakov), Rivka Michaeli (Gynecologist), Samuel Calderon (Uncle Shmooel), Amos Gitai (Man in bar)

Amos Gitai (born 1950) Ananas (Pineapple, 1984) Bangkok Bahrain (1984) Esther (1986) Berlin-Yershalaim (Berlin-Jerusalem, 1989) Golem, the Spirit of the Exile (1992) Devarim (Things, 1995) Zirat Ha’Rezach (The Arena of Murder, 1996) Milim (Metamorphosis of a Melody, 1996) Yom Yom (Day after Day, 1998) (Sacred, 1999) (2000) Eden (2001) Kedma (2002) (2003) Promised Land (2004) Free Zone (2005) Disengagement (2007) Plus Tard (Later, 2008) One Day You’ll Understand (2008) Carmel (2009) The of the Sons of Light Against the Sons of Darkness (2009) Roses à crédit (Roses on Credit, 2010) (2013) (2014) Rabin, the Last Day (2015)

361 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Our Lady of the Assassins (2000) Director: Barbet Schroeder Screenplay: Fernando Vallejo, from his own 1998 novel Cinematographer: Rodrigo Lalinde Editor: Elsa Vásquez Music: Jorge Arriagada Production Designer: Mónica Marulanda Costume Designer: Mónica Marulanda Running time: 101 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Germán Jaramillo (Fernando), Anderson Ballesteros (Alexis), Juan David Restrepo (Wilmár), Manuel Busquets (Alfonso), Cenobia Cano (Alexis’s Mother), Aníbal Moncada (Don Anibal)

Barbet Schroeder (born 1941) More (1969) The Valley (1972) Mistress (1976) Cheaters (1984) Barfly (1987) Reversal of Fortune (1990) Single White Female (1992) Kiss of Death (1995) Before and After (1996) Desperate Measures (1998) Our Lady of the Assassins (2000) Murder by Numbers (2002) Inju—The Geisha Killer (2008) Amnesia (2015)

Me, You, Them (2000) Director: Andrucha Waddington Screenplay: Elena Soarez Cinematographer: Breno Silveira Editor: Vicente Kubrusly Music: Gilberto Gil Art Director: Toni Vanzolini Costume Designer: Cláudia Kopke Running time: 104 minutes Format: 35mm, in color

362 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Cast: Regina Casé (Darlene), Lima Duarte (Osias), Stênio Garcia (Zezinho), Luiz Vasconcelos (Ciro), Nilda Spencer (Raquel), Diogo Lopes (Black herdsman), Helena Araújo (Darlene’s mother)

Andrucha Waddington (born 1970) Twins (1999) Me, You, Them (2000) House of Sand (2005) Lope (2010) Party Crashers (2012) Under Pressure (2016) Party Crashers 2 (2016)

What Time Is It There? (2001) Director: Tsai Ming-liang Screenplay: Tsai Ming-liang and Pi-ying Yang Cinematographer: Benoît Delhomme Editor: Sheng-Chang Chen Production Designer: Timmy Yip Running Time: 116 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Kang-sheng Lee (Hsiao-kang), Shiang-chyi Chen (Shiang-chyi), Yi-Ching Lu (Mother), Tien Miao (Father), Cecilia Yip (Woman in Paris), Chao-jung Chen (Man in Subway Station), Guei Tsai (Prostitute), Arthur Nauzyciel (Man at Phone Booth), David Ganansia (Man at Restaurant), Jean-Pierre Léaud (Jean-Pierre/Man at the Cemetery)

Tsai Ming-liang (born 1957) Rebels of the Neon (1992) Vive l’Amour (Long Live Love, 1994) The River (1997) The Hole (1998) What Time Is It There? (2001) Goodbye, Dragon Inn (2003) The Wayward Cloud (2005) I Don’t Want to Sleep Alone (2006) Face (2009) Stray Dogs (2013) Journey to the West (2014)

363 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

The Piano Teacher (2001) Director: Screenplay: Michael Haneke, from the 1983 novel by Elfriede Jelinek Cinematographer: Editors: Nadine Muse, Monika Willi Music: Francis Haines Production Designer: Christoph Kanter Costume Designer: Annette Beaufays Running time: 131 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Isabelle Huppert (Erika Kohut), Annie Girardot (The Mother), Benoît Magimel (Walter Klemmer), Susanne Lothar (Mrs. Schober), Udo Samel (Dr. Blonskij), Anna Sigalevitch (Anna Schober), Cornelia Köndgen (Madame Blonskij), Philipp Heiss (Naprawnik)

Michael Haneke (born 1942) The Seventh Continent (1988) Benny’s Video (1992) 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance (1994) Funny Games (1997) Code Unknown (2000) Teacher (2001) The (2003) Hidden (2005) (2009) Amour (Love, 2012) Happy End (2017)

Osama (2003) Director: Siddiq Barmak Screenplay: Siddiq Barmak Cinematographer: Ebrahim Ghafouri Editor: Siddiq Barmak Music: Mohammad Reza Darvishi Production Designer: Akbar Meshkini Running time: 82 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Marina Golbahari (Osama), Arif Herati (Espandi), Zubaida Sahar (Mother), Mohamad Nader Khadjeh, Mohamad Haref Harati, Gol Rahman Ghorbandi, Khwaja Nader, Hamida Refah

364 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Siddiq Barmak (born 1962) Stranger (1987) Osama (2003) Opium War (2008)

Woman Is the Future of Man (2004) Director: Hong Sang-soo Screenplay: Hong Sang-soo Cinematographer: Kim Hyeon-gu Editor: Ham Seong-weon Music: Jeong Yong-jin Running time: 87 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Yoo Jitae (Munho), Kim Toewoo (Hunjoon), Sung Hyunan (Sunhwa)

Hong Sang-soo (born 1960) The Day a Pig Fell into the Well (1996) The Power of Kangwon Province (1998) Virgin Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors (2000) On the Occasion of Remembering the Turning Gate (2002) Woman Is the Future of Man (2004) A Tale of Cinema (2005) Woman on the Beach (2006) Night and Day (2008) Like You Know It All (2009) Hahaha (2010) Oki’s Movie (2010) The Day He Arrives (2011) In Another Country (2012) Nobody’s Daughter Haewon (2013) Our Sunhi (2013) Hill of Freedom (2014) Right Now, Wrong Then (2015)

The Italian (2005) Director: Andrei Kravchuk Screenplay: Andrei Kravchuk and Andrei Romanov Cinematographer: Alexander Burov Editor: Tamara Lipartiya Music: Alexander Kneiffel

365 FILM CREDITS and DIRECTORS’ FEATURE FILMOGRAPHIES

Production Designer: Vladimir Svetozarov Costume Designers: Natalia Brabanova, Marina Nikolayeva Running time: 99 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Spiridonov (Vanya Solntsev), Mariya Kuznetsova (Madam), Nikolai Reutov (Grisha), Yuri Itskov (Headmaster), Denis Moiseenko (Kolyan), Sasha Sirotkin (Sery), Andrei Yelizarov (Timokha), Vladimir Shipov (Vovan), Polina Vorobieva (Nataha), Olga Shuvalova (Irka), Dima Zemlyanko (Anton), Darya Lesnikova (Mukhin’s Mother), Rudolf Kuld (Guard)

Andrei Kravchuk (born 1962) Romance (2000) The Italian (2005) The Admiral (2008) Viking (2016)

Police, Adjective (2009) Director: Corneliu Porumboiu Screenplay: Corneliu Porumboiu Cinematographer: Marius Panduru Editor: Roxana Szel Production Designer: Mihaela Poenaru Costume Designer: Giorgiana Bostan Running time: 113 minutes Format: 35mm, in color Cast: Dragoş Bucur (Cristi), Vlad Ivanov (Captain Anghelache), Ion Stoica (Nelu), Irina Săulescu (Anca), Marian Ghenea (Prosecutor)

Corneliu Porumboiu (born 1975) 12:08 East of Bucharest (2006) Police, Adjective (2009) When Evening Falls on Bucharest or Metabolism (2013) The Treasure (2015)

366 GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

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Grierson, J. (1981). Grierson on the movies (F. Hardy, Ed.). London: Faber and Faber. Haberski, R. J., Jr. (2001). It’s only a movie!: Films and critics in American culture. Lexington, KY: University Press of Kentucky. Harrington, J. (Ed.). (1977). Film and/as literature. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Hochman, S. (Ed.). (1982). From Quasimodo to Scarlett O’Hara: A national board of review anthology, 1920–1940. New York, NY: Frederick Ungar. Huss, R., & Silverstein, N. (1968). The film experience: Elements of motion picture art. New York, NY: Harper. Kael, P. (1991). 5001 nights at the movies: A guide from A to Z. New York, NY: Henry Holt. Kael, P. (2011). The age of movies: Selected writings of . New York, NY: Library of America. Kauffmann, S. (1966). A world on film: Criticism and comment. New York, NY: Harper & Row. Kauffmann, S. (1971). Figures of light: Film criticism and comment. New York, NY: Harper & Row. Kauffmann, S. (1975). Living images: Film comment and criticism. New York, NY: Harper & Row. Kauffmann, S. (1980). Before my eyes: Film criticism and comment. New York, NY: Harper & Row. Kauffmann, S. (1986). Field of view: Film criticism and comment. New York, NY: Performing Arts Journal Publications. Kauffmann, S. (1994). Distinguishing features: Film criticism and comment. Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University Press. Kauffmann, S. (2001). Regarding film: Criticism and comment. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Kauffmann, S., & Henstell, B. (Eds.). (1972). American film criticism, from the beginnings to Citizen Kane: Reviews of significant films at the time they first appeared. New York, NY: Liveright. Kawin, B. F. (1987). How movies work. New York, NY: Macmillan. Knight, A. (1957). The liveliest art. New York, NY: Mentor. Lehmann, P. (Ed.). (1990). Close viewings: An anthology of new film criticism. Tallahassee, FL: Florida State University Press. Lewis, J. (2014). Essential cinema: An introduction to film analysis. Boston, MA: Wadsworth Cengage. Linden, G. W. ( 1970). Reflections on the screen. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. Lindgren, E. (1963). The art of the film, 1949. London: Allen and Unwin. Lopate, P. (1998). Totally, tenderly, tragically: Essays and criticism from a lifelong love affair with the movies. New York, NY: Anchor Books/Doubleday. Lopate, P. (Ed.). (2006). American movie critics: An anthology from the silents until now. New York, NY: Library of America. Lorentz, P. (1975). Lorentz on film: Movies, 1927 to 1941. New York, NY: Hopkinson and Blake. Macdonald, D. (1969). Dwight Macdonald on movies. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. McBride, J. (Ed.). (1968). Persistence of vision: A collection of film criticism. Madison, WI: Wisconsin Film Society Press. McDonald, K. (2008). Film and television textual analysis: A teacher’s guide. New York, NY: Columbia University Press. McDougal, S. Y. (1985). Made into movies: From literature to film. New York, NY: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston. McMahan, E., Funk, R., & Day, S. (1988). The elements of writing about literature and film. New York, NY: Macmillan. Metz, W. (2004). Engaging film criticism: Film history and contemporary American cinema. New York, NY: Peter Lang. Monaco, J. (2009). How to read a film (4th ed.). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Murray, E. (1975). Nine American film critics. New York, NY: Frederick Ungar. Naremore, J. (1988). Acting in the cinema. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Naremore, J. (Ed.). (2000). Film adaptation. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Palmer, R. B. (Ed.). (1989). The cinematic text: Methods and approaches. New York, NY: AMS. Pechter, W. S. (1982). Movies plus one: Seven years of film reviewing. New York, NY: Horizon Press. Perkins, V. F. (1986). Film as film: Understanding and judging movies, 1972. Baltimore, MD: Penguin. Phillips, W. H. (1985). Analyzing films: A practical guide. New York, NY: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston. Richardson, R. (1969). Literature and film. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press.

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Roberts, J. (2010). The complete history of American film criticism. Santa Monica, CA: Santa Monica Press. Robinson, W. R. (Ed.). (1969). Man and the movies. Baltimore, MD: Penguin. Rosenbaum, J. (1980). Moving places: A life at the movies. New York, NY: Harper & Row. Rosenbaum, J. (1995). Placing movies: The practice of film criticism. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Ross, T. J. (Ed.). (1970). Film and the liberal arts. New York, NY: Henry Holt. Ryan, M., & Lenos, M. (2012). An introduction to film analysis: Technique and meaning in narrative film. London: Continuum. Salt, B. (2006). Moving into pictures: More on film history, style, and analysis. London: Starword. Salt, B. (2009). Film style and technology: History and analysis, 1983. London: Starword. Samuels, C. T. (1977). Mastering the film and other essays. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press. Sandburg, C. (1985). Carl Sandburg at the movies: A poet in the silent era, 1920–1927 (D. Fetherling & D. Fetherling, Eds.). Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press. Sarris, A. (1970). Confessions of a cultist: On the cinema, 1955–1969. New York, NY: Simon and Schuster. Sarris, A. (1973). The primal screen: Essays on film and related subjects. New York, NY: Simon and Schuster. Schickel, R. (1972). Second sight: Notes on some movies, 1965–1970. New York, NY: Simon and Schuster. Schickel, R. (1989). Schickel on film. New York, NY: Morrow. Schickel, R. (1999). Matinee idylls: Reflections on the movies. Chicago, IL: Ivan R. Dee. Sillick, A., & McCormick, M. (1996). The critics were wrong: Misguided movie reviews and film criticism gone awry. Secaucus, NJ: Carol Publishing Group. Simon, J. (1967). Private screenings. New York, NY: Macmillan. Simon, J. (1971). Movies into film: Film criticism, 1967–1970. New York, NY: Dial Press. Simon, J. (1982). Reverse angle: A decade of American films. New York, NY: C. N. Potter. Simon, J. (2005). John Simon on film: Criticism, 1982–2001. New York, NY: Applause. Sinyard, N. (1986). Filming literature: The art of screen adaptation. New York, NY: St. Martin’s Press. Slide, A. (Ed.). (1982–1985). Selected film criticism. Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press. Spottiswoode, R. (1950). A grammar of the film: An analysis of film technique. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Stephenson, R., & Debrix, J. R. (1965). The cinema as art. Baltimore, MD: Penguin. Van Nierop, L. (2008). Movies made easy: A practical guide to film analysis. Hatfield, SA: Van Schaik. Van Nierop, L., Galloway, N, & De Reuck, T. L. (1999). Seeing sense: On film analysis. Hatfield, SA: Van Schaik. Walker, A. (1977). Double takes: Notes and afterthoughts on the movies, 1956–76. London: Elm Tree Books. Warshow, R. (2001). The immediate experience: Movies, comics, theatre, and other aspects of popular culture, 1962. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Weinberg, H, G. (1973). Saint cinema: Writings on the film, 1929–1970 (2nd rev. ed.). New York, NY: Dover Publications. Wharton, D., & Grant, J. (2005). Teaching analysis of film language. London: . White, T. R. (2005). Film analysis guide. Dubuque, IA: Kendall Hunt. Wildfeuer, J. (2014). Film discourse interpretation: Towards a new paradigm for multimodal film analysis. New York, NY: Routledge. Wood, R. (2006). Personal views: Explorations in film (Rev. ed.). Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press. Young, V. (1972). On film: Unpopular essays on a popular art. Chicago, IL: Quadrangle Books. Young, V. (1990). The film criticism of Vernon Young (B. Cardullo, Ed.). Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Zucker, C. (Ed.). (1990). Making visible the invisible: An anthology of original essays on film acting. Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press.

369 TOPICS FOR WRITING AND DISCUSSION

1. Discuss the extent to which the “serious” films in this book subvert or re- deploy the following “popular” narrative elements: melodrama, sentimentality, romance, and comedy or comic relief. 2. Using examples from your own viewing experience as well as the films discussed in this book, compare and contrast the commercial-industrial model of cinema with the aesthetic-artisanal model. Be sure to include in your answer a consideration of the following issues: globalization and cultural hybridity versus cultural specificity; federal subsidy versus private financing; film as a “total work of art” versus film as the most financially profitable form of entertainment; professional acting versus amateur or non-professional performance; and auteurist vision versus assembly-line production. 3. “The Hollywood film has traditionally been one of action and clear-cut values, the European film one of character and moral ambiguities, and the Japanese film one concerned with the circumstances that surround a human being.” Discuss the validity of this statement in light of the European, American, and Japanese films treated in this book. 4. Comment upon the use of children as a dramatic device in three of the following films: Bicycle Thieves, Forbidden Games, The Case Is Closed, Osama, and The Italian. How are children characterized in these films, as opposed to conventional or commercial movies, and how are they deployed to advance the “adult” narrative? 5. Discuss the extent to which visual style creates thematic meaning in Ariel, Boyfriends and Girlfriends, and Police, Adjective. 6. Discuss the significance of the titles of the following films: La Grande illusion, Bicycle Thieves, The Lacemaker, The Rain People, The Mass Is Ended, The Wind Will Carry Us, and Police, Adjective. 7. Describe the degree to which three of the following films—Citizen Kane, The Seven Samurai, The Nights of Cabiria, The Rain People, Veronika Voss, The Case Is Closed, and Tilaï—can, or cannot, be considered tragedies, if tragedy is understood as a form characterized by individual pain or suffering leading to sacrificial decay, defeat, death, or destruction; by fear, misery, and terror; by exceptionality and isolation; by an inevitability or irremediableness that may take on metaphysical implications; by enervation and catharsis; and by internal division on the part of the protagonist, culminating in fatal error and finally self- awareness or recognition. 8. Discuss the extent to which documentary principles influenced the conception and shooting of such otherwise fictional works as La Promesse, The Wind Will Carry Us, and The Italian—each of which was made by a former documentary filmmaker.

371 Topics for Writing and Discussion

9. Compare and contrast three of the following sets of characters: Charles Foster Kane from Citizen Kane and Antonio Ricci from Bicycle Thieves; Maria “Cabiria” Ceccarelli from The Nights of Cabiria and Pomme from The Lacemaker; Fernando from Our Lady of the Assassins, Diego from Strawberry and Chocolate, Dieyi from Farewell, My Concubine, and Susy from Danzón; Julia from Danzón, Darlene from Me, You, Them, and Natalie from The Rain People; Charles Foster Kane from Citizen Kane and Walter Burns from The Front Page; Antonio Ricci from Bicycle Thieves and Roger from La Promesse; Maria “Cabiria” Ceccarelli from The Nights of Cabiria and Mamma Roma from Mamma Roma; Miloš from Closely Watched Trains and Domenico from Il posto. 10. In the movies, point of view tends to be less rigorous than in fiction, for fiction films tend to fall naturally into the omniscient form. Using examples from the films treated in this book, discuss how omniscient narration—as opposed to first-person, third-person, or objective narration—is almost inevitable in fiction film. 11. Comment, from a social as well as an artistic point of view, on the relationship between the rise of the Internet and the decline worldwide in the number of movie theaters. Related to this question, how do changes in technology affect the nature of film and of film spectatorship? 12. What should one study at university if one wishes oneself to become a creator of film art? 13. Elaborate on the following statement: “Every film is a fiction film.” 14. What is the relationship between filmgoing and visual perception in general? 15. What are the implications of the replacement of reel (acetate) film by digital film? 16. What can film do that other art forms cannot do, or what can film do better than other art forms? That is, what makes movies “cinematic”? What separates film from theater and from literature? Use examples from the films treated in this book to illustrate your points. 17. Italian neorealist films were often criticized for describing the symptoms of social problems rather than probing their causes; they were often attacked for not examining the implications of the question, “What next?” Discuss whether the post-neorealist Il posto and Mamma Roma are examples of such films. 18. Compare and contrast The Case Is Closed, Riff-Raff, and La Promesse as socially realistic films: for example, what is the social situation or social problem in each film, how is it dramatized, and who are the main characters and why are they the main characters? 19. Is film a record of reality or a way to alter reality? Are movies products of their culture or do they shape that culture? 20. Comment upon the role or treatment of females in Kadosh and Osama, paying particular attention to each film’s social, political, and religious context. 21. Discuss the role of comedy in such ostensibly serious films as Closely Watched

372 Topics for Writing and Discussion

Trains, Manhattan, and The Mass Is Ended. By contrast, discuss what is thematically serious about such otherwise comic, even farcical, films as The Front Page and Some Like It Hot. 22. The following films are adaptations from fiction or drama: The Front Page, Bicycle Thieves, Forbidden Games, Closely Watched Trains, The Lacemaker, Farewell, My Concubine, Our Lady of the Assassins, and The Piano Teacher. Read the original source of at least one of these films and then describe why you prefer it to the film version made of it, or vice versa. 23. What is the difference between film analysis and film criticism? What is the difference between film history and film theory? Which is more important, film theory or film criticism? Are they equally important, or equally unimportant, in the end? 24. Pier Paolo Pasolini has maintained that the cinema is a vehicle far more suited to the transmission of myth than either poetry or prose because its images can reproduce physical reality at the same time that they are larger than life; because, like myths, dreams, and fairy tales, film can move fluidly through time and space and shift emotional tones just as fluidly; and because, even as myth exists both outside and inside history and arrives at universals through particulars, so does the cinema transcend a national language of words by means of the international language of images and transform the reality of those images into an iconography of the human psyche. In your view, which films treated in Teaching Sound Film: A Reader are the most mythic—and the least? 25. Discuss the philosophical concept of existentialism as it applies to What Time Is It There? and Woman Is the Future of Man, being sure at the same time to describe the historical moment out of which each film arises. 26. Which artistic form do you prefer more, the theater or the cinema, and why? 27. Discuss the extent to which The Rain People is a “road picture” more concerned with the journey itself, on the road, and what that reveals about the travelers, than with the end or final object of the journey. 28. Discuss the use of Christian symbolism or reference in three of the following films: Bicycle Thieves, Forbidden Games, Mamma Roma, The Mass Is Ended, and Our Lady of the Assassins. 29. Discuss the extent to which The Piano Teacher and Our Lady of the Assassins can be called vile or subversive films, as opposed to ameliorative, socially constructive works of art. 30. Compare and contrast the effect of war—in particular or II—on the action of three of the following four films: La Grande illusion, Bicycle Thieves, Forbidden Games, and Closely Watched Trains. 31. Describe the function of “telescoping” (setting a film’s action in the past but intending that action as a comment upon the world of the present, outside the film) in La Grande illusion, Veronika Voss, and Farewell, My Concubine. 32. Is the quality of film criticism in decline, now that anyone and everyone can be a film critic by publishing his or her work, without editorial control, on

373 Topics for Writing and Discussion

the Internet? Or will film criticism ultimately be enriched by its democratic, “immediate” practice online? 33. Discuss the extent to which Police, Adjective is a revision of the “police procedural” or crime-investigation genre. 34. Compare and contrast Riff-Raff and Il posto—in action, thesis, tone, and character—as “workers’ films.” 35. The French director once said, “The soundtrack invented silence.” Choose a scene or sequence from two of the following films—Il posto, Ariel, Tilaï, and Police, Adjective—and discuss how, in each instance, the narrative is developed, if not in silence, then without, or almost without, dialogue. That is, discuss how the story is told in these excerpts more through cinematic means—images and sound—than through words.

374 APPENDIX A

THEATER VERSUS FILM, REDUX: AN HISTORICAL OVERVIEW

In 1918, the Russian symbolist poet Alexander Blok wrote to a friend: I have nothing new now ready for the screen but I have more than once thought of writing for it: I always feel, however, that this will have to find a new technique for itself. In my opinion cinema has nothing in common with theater, is not attached to it, does not compete with it, not can they destroy each other; those once fashionable discussions on “cinema and theatre” seem quite unreal to me. I have long loved the cinema just as it was. (Blok quoted in Leyda, 130) Why, almost a century later, are those “once fashionable discussions” of film and theater still going on so vigorously that it seems desirable, once again, to gather some of the best and most representative of them into a book? Over the 120 years or so that constitute the brief but spectacular history of the movies, every major film critic, scholar, or theorist—and a number from literature and drama as well—has considered the relationship between cinema and theater. And the subject is far from exhausted; indeed, over the months that this volume was in preparation, a number of new treatments of the subject appeared and had to be included in the comprehensive bibliography. This topic has proved to be so crucial and seemingly inexhaustible for a number of reasons. One is that, though it has often been treated in rather abstract terms, the relationship of film and theater is by no means of merely theoretical interest. Ever since the day when the stage actor and writer D. W. Griffith walked over to the Edison studios in the Bronx and took a “temporary” job performing in the movies, actors, directors, and writers have found it important to be able to move freely between the stage, the film set, and the television studio. No theater-trained actor can step before the camera for the first time without taking into serious question the relationship and the differences between film and theater. The question is similarly crucial for the dramatist commissioned to turn his stage play into a shooting script, for the television actor who has landed a job in summer stock, and for the theater director who is offered a chance to make his first movie. Another reason the subject of theater versus film is still alive is that, as Blok hoped, film “found a new technique for itself,” and, far from destroying each other, film and theater have continued to evolve and develop each in its own way— sometimes diverging, sometimes converging, but always exercising a powerful, mutual influence upon each other. As they have mutated and evolved at the sometimes

375 Appendix A dizzying rate that characterized twentieth-century art and continues to characterize the twenty-first—art’s “tradition of the new”—it has been continually necessary to reconsider and reformulate critical descriptions of the relationship between film and theater. A comparison of the two written in the 1920s, for example, when film was mute and when the chief dramatic model was (and still is) the well-made play, must have seemed quaintly irrelevant in an age in which the cinema was an auditory as well a visual experience, and in which the theatergoer was less likely to find himself a voyeur peeping into a drawing room than a participant in a ritual, a ceremony, or an encounter-group session—even the victim of a visual, aural, and sometimes personal assault. Historically, each stage in the development of the film has raised new questions and has brought about fresh resolutions in the relationship of cinema to theater. The history of primitive film, from the mid-1890s to about 1915, for instance, was marked by the gradual conquest of the theatrical audience and by the rapid development of a cinematic style clearly different from that of theatrical production. A. Nicholas Vardac, for one, has voluminously documented the theatrical situation at the time the movies were born and the way in which the theater created a “climate of acceptance” for them. The theater of the late nineteenth century, both in Europe and America, was in reality two theaters. On the one hand, there was the flourishing but tiny serious art theater, represented by the Théâtre Libre in Paris, the Freie Bühne in Berlin, J. T. Grein’s Independent Theatre in London, and the Art Theatre, producing the established “classic” drama of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Racine, and the works of the late nineteenth-century masters Ibsen, Strindberg, and Chekhov, as well as the new social drama of such playwrights as Shaw and Brieux. On the other hand, there was the vast theater of commodity entertainment that reached out from the cities to even the smallest villages with vaudeville, light (romantic) comedy, and melodrama. The popular drama of the period was marked by an extreme rejection of realism in content and by an equally extreme insistence upon it in presentation. A domestic drama might deal with stereotyped characters and platitudinous themes and come to a sentimental conclusion, but it was placed on stage with minutely detailed, “cup- and-saucer” realism. A melodrama, for its part, might consist of pure escapism or wish-fulfillment, but the details of its fantasizing were given the most literal, concrete reality on the stage. The masters of this “pictorial realism” were Henry Irving, Steele MacKaye, and David Belasco, in whose theaters ships could sink, locomotives could collide, and battles could be fought with breathtaking spectacle. As W. S. Gilbert wryly observed, “Every play that contains a house on fire, a sinking steamer, a railway accident, and a dance in a casino, will (if it is liberally placed on the stage) succeed in spite of itself. In point of fact, nothing could wreck such a piece but careful written dialogue and strict attention to probability” (Gilbert quoted in Bailey, 7). The movies took over this popular realist aesthetic almost immediately, and it was soon clear that they could easily surpass the theater in spectacular, lifelike effects.

376 Theater versus Film, Redux: An Historical Overview

One of the first productions for the Edison Kinetoscope, for example, was “The Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots,” an 1895 filmstrip by William Heiss inspired by a well-known stage treatment of the subject. Thanks to his ability to manipulate reality by stopping the camera, substituting a dummy, and starting to film again, Heiss was able to show the executioner’s axe actually falling on Mary’s neck and her head rolling off the block. The initial reaction of the theater to such cinematic feats was to try to mount even more extraordinary spectacles, such as those in the turn-of-the-century plays Ben Hur (1899), The Light That Failed (1903), and Judith of Bethulia (1904). But the battle was lost before it was begun, and the theater had been forced to move in other directions even before D. W. Griffith’s epic films of 1915–1916, The Birth of a Nation and Intolerance, signaled the cinema’s triumph in the field of spectacle-for-the-masses. As film succeeded the theater as the chief supplier of such commodity entertainment, it captured the vast popular audience that the theater had once commanded. In Europe, the shift was accelerated by the theater’s wartime difficulties (the shortage of male actors, for just one example) just as imported American movies were becoming popular. The years 1915 to 1920 were marked by the wholesale conversion of legitimate theaters to movie houses, as the cinema expanded into a multimillion-dollar industry. The result, for the theater, was a radical shift in the size and importance of the “two theaters.” After 1920, the popular theater went into decline, while the art theater began to increase, and sustain, its prestige and influence with a comparatively small elite audience. During the years that films were capturing the theater’s mass audience, they were developing a body of techniques more and more divergent from that of the theater. The earliest filmmakers, though, used film strictly as a medium, to record either “found” real events or staged events. In staged films, the camera remained fixed at what would have been third-row center, actors entered and exited from the sides or the rear of a continuously visible space, and the action was arranged horizontally at the same time as it was pointed at the camera-as-audience. Every film student recalls the excitement, in watching a well-selected survey of early cinema, of seeing the compressed development of a genuinely filmic idiom out of such static beginnings. From the filmed stage fantasies of Georges Méliès and the passive recordings of reality of the Lumière brothers through the innovations of Edwin S. Porter—shifts in the position of the camera, free manipulation of space and time, creation of a scene through the combination of a number of shots—to D. W. Griffith’s refinement and consolidation of a full vocabulary of types of shots and of editing, lighting, and acting techniques, the movies within a decade and a half became an autonomous art, not merely a novelty or a medium for the display of theatrical material. As the movies “liberated” themselves from the stage, however, the theater itself was rapidly evolving, often in ways influenced by the cinema. The presence of the movies was continually felt throughout the vigorous theatrical experimentation of the 1920s. On the one hand, the theater was seeking a new area of activity that the cinema—potentially, the most literally representational or documentally “real” of

377 Appendix A the arts—could not usurp; on the other hand, the theater frequently tried to explore ways of imitating and incorporating the fantastic or visionary capability of film form. Throughout Europe, the dramatic avant-garde repeatedly expressed admiration for the film’s dreamlike fluidity, its power to convey interior states of mind, as well as for its possibilities as a truly proletarian and anti-bourgeois art. Particularly in France, the surrealist theatrical experiments of such writers as André Breton, Guillaume Apollinaire, Louis Aragon, and Antonin Artaud were perhaps better suited to the screen than to the stage, assaulting as they did the theater’s traditional objectivity or exteriority and its bondage to continuous time and space. And a number of surrealists did indeed move from the theater to the cinema, most notably Jean Cocteau. In , film was one element among many of the influences that led to the development of dramatic expressionism (or vice versa), as German cinema and theater freely borrowed from each other during the twenties. The debt to the stage, as well as to painting, of such pictures as The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) has often been noted, and, to cite only one example, the characteristic roving spotlight of the expressionist stage was an obvious attempt to control audience attention in the manner of a movie director. The attempts of the Bauhaus group to create a non- representational, manifestly manufactured “total theater” themselves involved the incorporation of film into the ultimate theatrical experience, as did the production experiments of F. T. Marinetti’s “Futurist Variety Theater” in . The impact of film on the work of , the most notable figure in the German theater of

Figure 100. Robert Wiene: The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1920 (Germany)

378 Theater versus Film, Redux: An Historical Overview the 1920s, has never been fully explored, but it may have been a major influence on the , detached style, direct presentation of character, and episodic plotting of this playwright’s Epic Theater—itself an enormous influence on both theater directors and filmmakers to come. In , where Lenin had declared in 1919 that “of all the arts, the cinema is the most important for us,” the twenties were filled with vigorous experimentation in film and theater, both separately and in combination. The productions of the Moscow Art Theatre were filmed, and the director Vsevolod Meyerhold called for a new theater in which live and filmed scenes would be combined. The most famous product of this ferment, of course, is , whose entry into film was a logical step after his stage productions of 1923 had moved far in the direction of the realism and spatial as well as temporal flexibility of the screen. “The cart dropped to pieces and its driver dropped into the cinema,” as he wrote in the essay “Through Theatre to Cinema” (121). It is sometimes forgotten, however, that Eisenstein never abandoned his stage work, and his theater and film directing continued to influence each other throughout his life. The lively, worldwide exploration in the 1920s of new forms in both the cinema and the theater, together with their borrowings from each other, left a permanent mark on these two arts. Their relationship, however, was again abruptly changed in 1926–1927 with the introduction of the sound film. The ultimate effect of this innovation was to complete the displacement of the theater as a major purveyor of popular entertainment and to make the movie the dominant mass performance art for the next twenty years. Ironically, the initial effect, though, was to cancel out much of the film’s hard-won stylistic autonomy and to bring about a marked “re- theatricalization” of the cinema. In 1928 and 1929, playwrights, stage directors, and stage actors were imported en masse to teach the movies how to talk. Their theatrical orientation, plus the new technical problems presented by fixed microphones and cameras, using cumbersome “blimps” or caged-in soundproof housing, resulted in a string of static, photographed stage-like musicals and revues, “all-talking and all- singing” though they may have been. The history of cinema in the 1930s was thus the history of the recovery of the technical mastery of the , through the work of the best directors of this period: , , René Clair, Jean Renoir, Rouben Mamoulian, John Ford, and many others, in the as well as abroad. The movies’ prosperous twenty years between 1930 and 1950 came to an end through two forces: the postwar court rulings that broke up the American corporate chains of studio-owned movie theaters, and the coming of television. The movies’ response to television’s challenge for the mass audience was remarkably similar to that of the popular theater of half a century before, when the movies had been the challenger: it first tried to retain its audience through spectacle and gimmickry— 3-D, Cinerama, CinemaScope, new color processes—but it finally accepted defeat, collaborating with the new medium and, at the same time, beginning to build new, minority audiences of its own.

379 Appendix A

The result of this revolution was to place film in yet another relationship to theater, both sociologically and artistically. The cinema was not “re-theatricalized” as it was after the sound revolution of the 1920s: on the contrary, it tended to guard its integrity as film even more jealously. But economic and technological developments forced it onto a path more parallel to that of the theater than ever before. Like the theater, film maintained its connections with popular entertainment, but like the theater of the twenties, it saw a sudden expansion and increased importance in its minority audience. The result was a gain in some respects for the cinema, because, for the first time in its history, serious ideas and feelings were as likely to find artistic expression in film as in drama. The creators of drama beginning in 1950—Samuel Beckett, Eugène Ionesco, Jean Genet, John Osborne, Harold Pinter—were simultaneously equaled in stature and achievement by the creators of film—Ingmar Bergmann, Federico Fellini, , Jean-Luc Godard, . The richness, complexity, and subtlety of the best films of this period probably resulted from the fact that serious filmmakers, like serious dramatists, no longer had to please everybody but could find an appropriate minority audience for their work. This

Figure 101. Lewis Milestone: Of Mice and Men, 1939 (United States)

380 Theater versus Film, Redux: An Historical Overview might have continued to be the case, except that today almost nothing in the recent theater—which, under threat not only from film in its various formats but also the internet and cable-cum-satellite television, has become prohibitively expensive and therefore artistically unadventurous—is nearly so good as some of the films of the new Iranians; of the so-called Fifth and Sixth Generations in China; of the Europeans Aki Kaurismäki, Michael Haneke, Laurent Cantet, Nanni Moretti, , and Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne; of the Asians Jun Ichikawa, Kim Ki-duk, Tsai Ming-liang, and Hong Sang-soo; of the New Romanian Cinema; and of the following Americans: Neil LaBute, , Jim Jarmusch, Victor Nuñez, and Todd Solondz. Still, the theoretical interrelationships of film and theater continue to be as complex as their historical ones, and indeed the historical development of each art and their reciprocal influence have made theoretical comparisons difficult and short-lived. All the more so since we seem to be moving toward a reign of the mixed medium, or the adaptation, in which the notion of the unity of a work of art, if not the very notion of the author himself, will be destroyed. In the case of the films made of John Steinbeck’s 1937 play Of Mice and Men (1939, 1992) for example, the interdisciplinary critic of the year 2050 would find not a novella out of which a play and at least two movies had been made, but rather a single work reflected through three art forms, an artistic

Figure 102. : Cabaret, 1972 (United States)

381 Appendix A pyramid with three sides, as it were, all of them equal in the critic’s eyes. The “work” would then be only an ideal point at the top of this figure, which itself is an ideal construct. And the chronological precedence of one part over another would not be an aesthetic criterion any more than the chronological precedence of one twin over the other is a genealogical one. Even more so in the case of a work like Cabaret, which began as fiction (the novel Goodbye to Berlin) by Christopher Isherwood in 1939, then was transformed into a “straight” play (titled, of all things, I Am a Camera [1951]), a musical one (1966), and finally a film version (1972); or in the case of August Strindberg’s Miss Julie, which was first a play (1888), then a film (1912, 1951, 1999) and a television movie (1972, 1987, 1991), as well as finally a ballet (1950), an opera (1965, 1973, 1977), and a modern-dance piece (1970). Here is something Wallace Stevens once wrote on a related subject: It is one of the peculiarities of the imagination that it is always at the end of an era. What happens is that it is always attaching itself to a new reality, and adhering to it. It is not that there is a new imagination but that there is a new reality. (656) For drama and theater the task is to determine what that reality is, what has changed in it and what hasn’t; the imagination will take care of itself, on stage as well as on screen. For drama, all I can say is that such a reality does not consist of any one of these terms in isolation or combination: revival, musical, or reverse adaptation (from film); discrimination, patriarchy, or hegemony (collectively making up the Theater of Guilt, in Robert Brustein’s words). And for film, that reality consists of one word for the time being: technology.

Figure 103. Alf Sjöberg: Miss Julie, 1951 (Sweden)

382 Theater versus Film, Redux: An Historical Overview

That is to say, when I look to the future and envision hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of homes with large, wide-screen televisions and surround-sound theaters, I wonder who will go to the multiplexes of today, which themselves made obsolete the movie palaces and drive-ins of yesteryear. I believe that in a short time almost all films will be viewed on DVD at home (with a movie title like Home Alone, from 1990, thereby taking on new meaning), or in their original format only in museums by solitary film scholars, and that the multiplex will become the nearly exclusive province of teenagers trying to get out of the house—not necessarily to see a movie—a trend, of course, that has already begun. If I am right, and films become an overwhelmingly private experience, shared by small groups in living rooms, what might then become of theater? Will the experimental theater groups of the future perform in our living rooms, or will the desire for human contact and communality, together with a concern for the social fabric, drive us back to more traditional theaters? Alternatively, will 3D IMAX be replaced by holographic film, creating three-dimensional worlds into which we can walk, until we eventually “holographize” old movies (just as we colorize them now) and offer audience members a chance to sit down with Rick in Casablanca (1942), have a drink, and then say, “Play it again, Sam”? Whatever the case, more critical attention has been devoted over the years to the differences between film and theater, even though the gross similarities between the two should be obvious. Both are performance arts that ordinarily (until the advent of “home-entertainment systems”) involve an audience gathering at a prescribed time in a theater to witness a scheduled event (like dance and live music, and unlike painting, sculpture, and novels). Both, traditionally at least, are narrative (they tell stories) and mimetic (they represent life). Furthermore, as we have seen, both are poised on a borderline between entertainment and art. Indeed, both suffer when they move too far from this line: the highest artistic achievement in either form seems to require deep roots in popular convention. Here now is a list of the differences between these two media, with a number of them naturally open to exception or qualification: Characteristics of Film 1. A two-dimensional, permanent visual record of a performance. 2. Discontinuous, “smaller” acting aimed at the camera lens; can employ amateur actors. 3. No immediate or physical interrelationship between the actors and the audience. 4. Has a narrator: the camera. 5. Relatively passive audience for whom the camera chooses what will be seen. 6. A visual art primarily, but also a dramatic art that enacts stories (with words once the sound era begins) and a narrative art that tells those stories through the mediation of the camera. 7. A collaborative art, with the director ultimately in control. 8. A total work of art, or Gesamtkunstwerk.

383 Appendix A

9. Reducible to DVD, video, television, etc. 10. Can be a solitary experience, especially if you are watching a film alone at home. 11. The most popular art form of the twentieth century and beyond. 12. Can dispense with overt conflicts, climaxes, and even plots; indeed, can be almost completely non-theatrical or -dramatic. 13. The particle belonging to the cinema is “then” rather than “therefore”; in other words, the cinema gives primacy to succession more than it does to causality. 14. Deals with the relationship of people not only to other people, but also to things and places. 15. The camera can provide the viewer with multiple visual perspectives, through different shots. 16. Intermissions are rare, and scenes changes (as well as costume, make-up, and lighting changes) are accomplished swiftly and easily through cuts or editing. Space is therefore manipulable and time is flexible. 17. The film script is not an independent artwork and cannot be read by itself fruitfully, nor can its words be “performed” as a play’s words could be; a screenplay is a preparatory sketch for a future art work, a fully realized cinematic experience. 18. Usually concentrates on action per se, even when this action is “interior” or psychological; characters are often makers of their own destinies in the present. Characteristics of Theater 1. A three-dimensional, ephemeral performance of events. 2. Continuous, “big” acting aimed at a live audience; does not employ amateur actors. 3. Immediate relationship between the actors and the audience, both of whom are physically present in the same space at the same time. 4. Except in rare cases, has no narrator. 5. Relatively active audience that must choose for itself where to look or what to see; what the audience sees is unmediated by a camera. 6. A verbal art primarily, but it also has a visual component (through costumes, sets, lights, choreography, and action itself). 7. A collaborative art, with the actor finally in control on the stage. 8. A total work of art or Gesamtkunstwerk, but not quite to the extent that film is. 9. Irreducible: to have theater, you must have living actors performing before a real audience in a more or less demarcated space. 10. A group experience, as it occurs in theatrical auditorium of one kind of another. 11. The most popular art form of the nineteenth century and before. 12. Its essence consists of human beings in conflict with each other or themselves. 13. The conjunction belonging to the theater is “therefore” rather than “then”; in other words, the theater gives primacy to causality more than it does to succession. 14. Deals with the relationship between people.

384 Theater versus Film, Redux: An Historical Overview

15. There is only one “shot”: the full picture of the stage. 16. Intermissions are common, and scene changes (as well as costume, make-up, and lighting changes) can be slow and laborious. Space is therefore less manipulable and time is less flexible. 17. The dramatic text is an independent artwork that can be read or performed. 18. Usually dramatizes the consequences of action; characters are often victims of their pasts. The many contrasts between film and theater listed above may be grouped along the old Aristotelian lines of creator, audience, and thing created. The question of who is the creator of a play or film has engaged a number of commentators: in drama it is the playwright, in film it is the director, we are told, at least by the once fashionable film critics. And yet the proposition is far from conclusive. The supremacy of the playwright is an idea promulgated by literary critics, but if we regard drama in terms of performance, rather than text, the playwright assumes a role of primus inter pares with director and actors. On the other hand, the excesses of auteur criticism led to a sometimes absurd overvaluation of the director’s role in filmmaking: a director may occasionally make a good movie out of a bad script, but this is probably rarer than the more extreme auteur critics would have had us believe. In twentieth-century film and theater, the traditional authorial distinctions were further blurred by an increasing emphasis upon the screenplay as a literary form (as

Figure 104. Auguste and Louis Lumière: Arrival of the Paris Express, 1895 (France)

385 Appendix A in the work of Pinter and Alain Robbe-Grillet), and by the rise of something like auteur-directors in the theater (as exemplified by Peter Brook, Jerzy Grotowski, and Joseph Chaikin). The latter tried not only to “author” their own texts through “concept” productions of other authors’ plays, they also tried to overcome the theater’s spatial limitations. These directors did this by using an existing environment that was as close to reality as possible, or by designing such an environment so that it enveloped the audience and thereby not only erased any distinction between viewing space and playing area, but also freed the spectators from static positioning or a single point of vision. The contrast between film and theater in audience and audience-experience, as opposed to author and creative experience, is also a recurring subject in criticism. The idea that appears occasionally in early criticism—that the movie audience is a mass audience, while the theater audience is an elite, minority group—is, as we have seen, a function of particular social and economic conditions and has nothing to do with the inherent properties of the two arts. Marshall McLuhan’s judgment in the 1960s that live theater is a “cooler medium” than cinema—that is, that it requires more active participation from its audience—was anticipated may times in film criticism. The ordinary circumstances of theatergoing, that is, make it a comparatively public event and discourage the dreamlike passivity that has been described as the film experience. In the theater, the audience gathers in a group and waits for curtain time, the auditorium is more brightly lit during the performance than a movie house is, and absorption in the drama is periodically broken by intermissions and scene changes. During the performance itself, the audience member must willingly suspend disbelief, since even the most realistic production requires the acceptance of a number of obvious conventions, and he must actively participate in choosing what to look at, since the entire stage is ordinarily continuously in view. The traditional movie audience, by contrast, is atomized, entering the theater singly or in small groups and at any point during the film. Isolated in the darkness and staring at a screen much more commanding in size and brightness than the theater stage, the moviegoer is much more likely to surrender control of his consciousness. Moreover, it is comparatively easy to suspend disbelief, since he is in the presence of a relatively exact representation of reality and is asked to make a minimal number of choices as to where to look, for he can see only what the filmmaker shows him. The moviegoer is relieved of even the minimal tension that invariably accompanies performances by actors, with the continual possibility of human error—blown lines, missed entrances, and other misadventures. Indeed, the filmic medium has become so lifelike that (in a reversal of what purportedly occurred at the initial screening of Auguste and Louis Lumière’s Arrival of the Paris Express in 1895), when the first footage of the attack on the World Trade Center was shown on television—captured from a myriad of angles by any number of personal video cameras, then aired by the news media again and again—it was virtually indistinguishable from what Hollywood studios could have manufactured digitally for any number of disaster movies.

386 Theater versus Film, Redux: An Historical Overview

There is still a great deal of truth in the above, often-repeated observations, but perhaps less now than in an age when the movies were frankly escapist entertainment and the theater was dominated by the realistic style. The cinema no more than other serious art forms seeks merely to suck us up into mindless, wish-fulfilling fantasies. The Brechtian revolution reached the screen as well as the stage, and films are still full of the distancing devices, implicit along with explicit, that characterized motion pictures in the 1960s, from the openly meta-cinematic devices of Tom Jones (1963) or Persona (1966) to the cool, terse, anything-but-fantasizing tone of Godard’s movies. At the same time, the 1960s, much theater—especially that ultimately derived from Artaud—sought to achieve the kind of visceral, irrational involvement sometimes associated with the moviegoer’s experience. The goal was hardly cool, detached observation in such productions as Peter Brook’s Marat/Sade (1964) and anything by the Living Theatre or the Polish Laboratory Theatre. More numerous than studies of creator or audience, however, have been those of the object itself: the film and the play. Some critics have made an initial contrast that even denies that they are comparable, since a film is literally an object and theater is an event. But surely the essential film is not the celluloid in the can (any more than a play is pages in a book), but rather the showing of the film—a performance event also. There are, of course, a number of sharp contrasts between theater and film as performance, as described earlier: theater is three-dimensional, while film is two- dimensional; in the theater we see a performance being created as we watch it, but in film we never quite forget that we are seeing a record of a performance that has taken place in the past; actors’ performances vary from night to night in the theater, whereas they are fixed in film; performance and role are generally distinct in the theater, unlike in film, where they are generally synonymous. This may be a paradox, but in the age of technical miracles, of the annihilation of time and space, of technologized existence, if you will, an existence in which immediacy no longer has the simple meaning it once had and in which the line between a thing or a being and its image or reproduction has been nearly obliterated— in such an age the theater’s very “live-ness” may be what so often makes it seem to be less fully alive. Moreover, although theater is inherently more lifelike because it occurs live and in three dimensions, the presence of three-dimensional actors in a theater—a non-real or artificial space—may actually undercut a production’s resemblance to life at the same time that the actors increase its live-ness. Of the many other contrasts between the cinema and the theater, we may concentrate now on the three areas that have stimulated most discussion—time, space, and structure—beginning with the temporal element. One of the most liberating insights in the early development of cinematic technique was that film need not be bound to the theater’s use of continuous and sequential time. On the stage, an actor crossing a room has to cross it step by step; on the screen, he can come in at the door and immediately be at the other side of the room. The cinema thus has great flexibility in eliding time, presenting simultaneous action, leaping back and forth among past, present, and future, and repeating moments over and

387 Appendix A over. This flexibility is generally represented as a strength of film, which of course it is, but the theater’s ways of representing time are not therefore a weakness. The theater, in the first place, is not so inflexible in its representation of time as is sometimes implied: in Agamemnon (458 B.C.), for instance, Aeschylus uses a temporal ellipsis in representing the time between the fall of Troy and the arrival of Agamemnon’s army; Shakespeare often uses a flexible “stage time” that compresses, lengthens, or otherwise distorts “real time”; and modern plays frequently use time as fluidly as film does. The second half of Brecht’s Caucasian Chalk Circle (1944), for example, begins at the same point in time as the first half, and Jean-Claude van Itallie (born 1936) wrote a number of dramas that play games with instantaneous action, repetitions, time loops, and other temporal distortions. In the second place, the theater’s more characteristic representation of time as a steady, sequential unfolding is one of its great strengths, as the Greeks and Ibsen had shown us in the past, and as such twentieth-century plays as Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1962) and Pinter’s The Homecoming (1965) demonstrated once again. The contrast between the theatrical and cinematic representation of space is much like the contrast in the representation of time. Theater is confined to a continuous use of space (though the stage space may constitute a figurative treatment of real space, just as stage time may constitute a figurative treatment of real time). Film

Figure 105. Sergei Eisenstein: The , 1925 (U.S.S.R.)

388 Theater versus Film, Redux: An Historical Overview can treat space as flexibly and fluidly as it can treat time, moving freely back and forth over any spatial expanse. The sharpest contrast, however, is in the spatial relationship of the spectator to the action. In the theater, the spectator ordinarily is fixed in one position, viewing the action from a constant position and point of view. In the cinema, the viewer, though he remains physically in his seat, is perceptually constantly changing his perspective courtesy of the camera—moving in toward the action, moving back from it, seeing it from the position of one of the characters, or even from a position impossible in real experience (as in Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin [1925], when we see the crew’s mutiny from high above the vessel). Again, however, the fact that the cinema’s use of space is a great strength does not mean that the theater’s use of it is a weakness. The surest sign of the clichéd mind in filmmaking is a feeling of obligation to “open up” plays spatially when they become films and a conviction that this process proves superiority, that a play really comes into its own when it is filmed. We can really go to Italy in Franco Zeffirelli’s film of Romeo and Juliet (1968), so for some people this picture automatically supersedes stage-bound theatrical productions. We can dissolve and cross-fade more easily in the 1951 movie of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman, therefore the theater proves yet again just a tryout place for later perfect consummation on screen—despite, in this case, the theater’s superior

Figure 106. Franco Zeffirelli: Romeo and Juliet, 1968 (Italy)

389 Appendix A ability to suggest the childishness of Willy’s sons (by having the adult actors of Biff and Happy play their boyhood selves) and the momentousness of Willy’s adultery (by having it occur, not on location in Boston, but on the forestage— right in the Lomans’ living room, as it were). And we can go outside in ’ film of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966), so once more the theater is shown up as cribbed or confined, if not superficially realistic, even though the claustrophobic nature of George and Martha’s single-set living room on the stage is part of the point of this long night’s journey into day. Stage space is thus invariably metaphorical, even when it is most “realistic”—as in the case of Albee’s play—and one of the great strengths of drama is precisely its power to charge a confined space with deep emotional meaning.

Figure 107. Mike Nichols: Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, 1966 (United States)

The trouble here is a confusion in aesthetic logic, an assumption that we are comparing apples and apples when we are really comparing apple and pears. Fundamentally, film takes the audience to the event, shifting the audience continually; theater takes the event to the audience, shifting it never. Just as the beauty of poetry often lies in tensions between the free flight of language and the molding capacity of form, so the beauty of drama often lies in tensions between imagination and theatrical exigency. To assume that the cinema’s extension of a play’s action is automatically an improvement is to change the subject: from the way in which theater builds upwards, folding one event upon another in almost perceptible vertical form, to the way in which film progresses horizontally. Figuratively speaking, theater works predominantly by building higher and higher in one place; film, despite the literally vertical progress of planes in the image, works predominantly in a lateral series of

390 Theater versus Film, Redux: An Historical Overview places. In this way, action in the cinema is more of a journey in the present than a confrontation based on the past (the usual form of tragedy in drama): the one is filled with possibility or promise, the other with suspense or foreboding. By its very form, it can then be said, film reflects for spectators in the twenty-first century the belief that the world is a place in which a person can leave the past behind and create his or her own future—hence one of the reasons the cinema took such a foothold, so early, in the history of the United States.

Figure 108. Laslo Benedek: Death of a Salesman, 1951 (United States)

“Opening up” a play may be desirable, but it must be part of a total rethinking of the way the space is to be used in the new medium. It can be successful when the filmmaker knows clearly what he is doing and treats his film as a new work from a common source, as Richard Lester did in his admirable 1965 film of Ann Jellicoe’s The Knack (1962). But most adaptors seem to think that any banal set of film gimmicks constitutes a liberation for which the poor cramped play ought to be grateful. One film that respects its dramatic source almost completely and is nevertheless cinematic is The Little Foxes. Lillian Hellman’s 1939 play underwent nearly no adaptation in William Wyler’s film of the same name (1941): for instance, there are no exterior scenes of dramatic action in the film—precisely the kind of

391 Appendix A

Figure 109. Richard Lester: The Knack, 1965 (England)

Figure 110. William Wyler: The Little Foxes, 1941 (United States)

392 Theater versus Film, Redux: An Historical Overview scene that most directors would have deemed necessary in order to introduce a little “cinema” into this intractable theatrical mass. Film may offer greater visual possibilities, then, but they are not always necessary, and those possibilities do not prevent some of the most exciting and popular theater from itself being highly visual. From the late 1980s and the 1990s, consider Bill Irwin’s “new vaudeville” pieces Largely New York (1989) and Fool Moon (1993), productions that were virtually silent. What of similarly non-verbal productions such as Blue Man Group’s Tubes (1991) and De La Guarda’s Villa Villa (1998)? And, as early as 1971, Robert Wilson was creating the three-hour speechless epic Deafman Glance, which combined a theater of silence with one of images not unlike that of silent . It is precisely by choosing to overcome the limitations of their chosen medium that these artists have achieved success, for what greater thrill can there be than to see an art form transcend the boundaries that we have become accustomed to assigning to it?

Figure 111. : Vanya on 42nd Street, 1994 (United States)

Or to see an artist do so, for that matter. Think only of ’s predominantly visual theatrical productions, The Lion King (1997) and The Green Bird (2000), and of her highly literate films Titus (1999) and Frida (2002). And consider that Neil LaBute makes predominantly verbal films like In the Company of Men (1997) and Your Friends and Neighbors (1998) at the same time as he fills the stage with

393 Appendix A arresting, even aggressive physical images in such plays as Bash (1999) and The Shape of Things (2001). The list of such artists could be extended as far back as and forward to David Mamet, who continues to write and direct for the screen as well as the stage. And what should not be omitted are the “rehearsal” films, or “filmed theater,” made by people like Louis Malle (Vanya on 42nd Street, 1994), ( of , 1989), and ( [1961] and L’Amour Fou [1969]).

Figure 112. Jacques Rivette: Paris Belongs to Us, 1961 (France)

Closely related to the use of space and time is the question of structure in cinema and theater. The film’s freedom from the theatrical constraints of continuous time and space makes the shot the fundamental unit of cinematic structure. The shot is thus comparable, not to the theatrical scene, as is sometimes said, but to the theatrical “beat”—the introduction and resolution of a conflict of wills that constitutes the minimal unit of drama. Theatrical scenes are built up out of these minimal units, even as cinematic scenes are built up out of a series of shots. The comparison cannot be pushed further, though, since shots are defined by visual considerations— distance, point of view, movement—whereas beats are defined psychologically, as “units of conflict.” Hence at the most elementary level, film is “seeing” while drama is “interacting.” The intermediate structures of drama—the patters that organize larger units such as scenes and acts—are generally public or private rituals: trials, weddings, funerals, arrivals, departures, confrontations, conversations, and the like. It is the nature of the rituals employed in these intermediate structures that largely defines dramatic style, from the pubic and ceremonial style of the Greeks to the closeted

394 Theater versus Film, Redux: An Historical Overview and domestic style of the modern realists. The intermediate structures of film are ordinarily much looser and less ritualistic than those of drama: they tend to organize material along perceptual lines, as the eye would perceive it, rather than along the lines of formal human interaction. When a film nonetheless has a theatrical flavor, like Jean Renoir’s Rules of the Game (1939), this is because it makes heavy use of the kinds of intermediate structures found in drama.

Figure 113. Jean Renoir: The Rules of the Game, 1939 (France)

A similar contrast between the natural structures of film and drama appears to exist for the larger units, as well. Perhaps because of the cinema’s much closer ties to surface reality—the appearance of things—it often seems that a film begins in the concrete and moves toward an organizing idea, while a play begins with an idea and moves toward its concrete embodiment. Whether or not this is literally true, it does seem that the greatest drama tends in its largest patterns toward the mythic and the archetypal, whereas even the greatest films cannot move very far from the welter of immediate reality without appearing “stagy” or “literary.” Thus the essence of many fine, complex plays can often be suggested in a short summary of their basic action, but the essence of a good movie can rarely be captured so synoptically. As for the best material on the subject of cinema versus theater, the difficulty in selecting the contents of any collection would be in choosing from a vast amount, since, so closely have drama and film been intertwined, almost everything that has

395 Appendix A been written on the movies touches, at least implicitly, on the theatrical comparison. Perhaps the best indication that any essay, or any book, on the subject of film and theater is worthwhile at this point in time is the certainty that, before long, it will require updating. The subject is very much alive because film and theater are so much alive, and it is well to pause and survey the terrain behind, as we have done here, even as we prepare to try to understand the new forms and relationships of theater and film that seem certain to appear in the years to come.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Albrecht-Crane, C., & Cutchins, D. (Eds.). (2010). Adaptation studies: New approaches. Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press. Bailey, J. O. (Ed.). (1966). British plays of the nineteenth century. New York, NY: Odyssey. Brewster, B., & Jacobs, L. (1997). Theatre to cinema: Stage pictorialism and the early feature film. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Brustein, R. (1994). Dumbocracy in America: Studies in the theater of guilt, 1987–1994. Chicago, IL: Ivan R. Dee. Cardullo, B., Geduld, H., Gottesman R., Woods, L. (Eds.). (1998). Playing to the camera: Film actors discuss their craft. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Crowl, S. (2007). Shakespeare on film: A Norton guide. New York, NY: W. W. Norton. Eisenstein, S. (1974). Through theatre to cinema, 1949. In J. Hurt (Ed.), Focus on film and theatre (pp. 116–129). Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Erskine, T. L., & Welsh, J. M. (Eds.). (2000). Video versions: Film adaptations of plays on video. Westport, CT: Greenwood. Henderson, D. E. (Ed.). A concise companion to Shakespeare on screen. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Hurt, J. (Ed.). (1974). Focus on film and theatre. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Knopf, R. (Ed.). (2004). Theater and film: A comparative anthology. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Leyda, J. (1960). Kino: A history of the Russian and Soviet film. London: George Allen and Unwin. Manvell, R. (1979). Theater and film: A comparative study of the two forms of dramatic art,and of the problems of adaptation of stage plays into films. Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press. McLuhan, M. (1967). The medium is the message: An inventory of effects. New York, NY: Bantam Books. Nicoll, A. (1972). Film and theatre, 1936. New York, NY: Arno. Shelley, F. (1946). Stage and screen. London: Pendulum. Stevens, W. (1997). The noble rider and the sound of words, 1941. In W. Stevens (Ed.), Collected poetry and prose (pp. 643–665). New York, NY: Library of America. Tibbetts, J., & Welsh, J. M. (Eds.). (2001). The encyclopedia of stage plays into film. New York, NY: Facts on File. Vardac, A. N. (1987). Stage to screen: Theatrical origins of early film, David Garrick to D. W. Griffith, 1949, 1968. New York, NY: Da Capo. Waller, G. A. (1983). The stage/screen debate: A study in popular aesthetics. New York, NY: Garland.

396 APPENDIX B

PLAYING TO THE CAMERA OR THE HOUSE: STAGE VS. SCREEN ACTING

Everybody in the world is an actor. Conversation is acting. Man as a social animal is an actor; everything we do is some sort of a performance. But the actor whose pro- fession it is to act is then something else again…. I don’t understand what a picture is if there is bad acting. I don’t understand how movies exist independently of the actor—I truly don’t. (Orson Welles)

When viewers had their first exposure to film one hundred years ago, it is unlikely that they interpreted silence as loss. Then, motion pictures represented a striking novelty: the ability to convey photographic detail in motion-produced images that on initial viewing must have seemed quite dramatic in themselves. Oddly enough, it was filmmakers’ earliest efforts to convey a story that may have called attention to the unremitting silence of actors on the screen. Almost immediately, dramatic episodes adapted or drawn directly from the legitimate stage began to contend with more strictly documentary forms such as travelogues and newsreels. And the simple sight of people’s mouths moving—an alien one, given the stiffness of nineteenth- century photography—must have prompted audiences to wish for the same range of expression on the screen that they had grown accustomed to in live performances. When stage actors first came to film, they moved and spoke as they had been used to doing before live audiences. In fact, when acting in screenplays adapted from the theater, actors in silent films were sometimes called on to utter the very same lines of dialogue they had spoken on stage. Actors used speech in this way to protect themselves against the distractions endemic to filmmaking, even though they knew their words would not be heard from the screen. They were trying in part to maintain the energy necessary to command the stage and in part to bring the respectability of stage work to the rough-and-tumble world of filmmaking. It is not surprising, however, that many stage actors wondered whether film required techniques different from those they had refined before live audiences. Should they merely try to adapt stage methods to film, or did they need to take more drastic measures to meet the demands of the camera and those of the huge new audience that film had attracted? Was film even worth considering as an arena for serious acting? First-generation movie actors posed such questions with increasing insistence. Yet by 1910 or so, silent film had begun to breed its own stars, in proud and conscious independence from the stage. A number of these, like Betty Compson,

397 Appendix B came to film with only minimal experience before live audiences. Nonetheless, they helped to build a cult of glamour that quickly became distinctive to film, in which physical appearance outweighed more traditional acting skills. Launched with assistance from Hollywood’s burgeoning journalistic establishment, silent film stars achieved a kind of fame without precedent among stage actors. If character actors did not attract the same adoration accorded stars, they lent a cosmopolitan flavor to some of the most important films made in American from the late 1920s until World War II. They were able to do this in part because their stage skills left them better adapted than rank beginners to meet the challenges posed by early sound. Once directors could no longer call out commands during filming, they were forced to rehearse their actors more extensively to achieve the results they desired. In this way among others, sound brought film acting into closer consonance with stage acting, and it lent veterans of the stage assurance in exploiting the latest film technology. Measured against what has arisen since, though, “technology” is probably too flattering a word. The earliest sound equipment was crude enough to make it necessary for much filming to take place either indoors, in controlled conditions that only studios on the east coast could offer, or, sometimes, in the wide open spaces of southern California. In this connection, the advent of sound increased the importance of studios both as sites for production and as agencies for marketing and publicity. Until the mid-1930s, primitive sound recording also required actors to project their voices in much the same way they had needed to do before live audiences. This necessity made actors’ work in films even more like what they had done in the theater, and so placed a higher premium on stage experience than had been the case when silent films were enforcing a more purely visual standard. Even after sound technology had improved, ways of acting and speaking derived from the theater continued to manifest themselves in films from Hollywood as well as Europe; these were the very techniques that had entrenched themselves on both sides of the Atlantic during the early years of sound. Furthermore, actors with crisp delivery prompted more elaborate dialogue as time went on. Screenplays containing such dialogue, in turn, demanded subtler measures for their construction than the melodramatic, formulaic plots typical of silent films. Refinements in filmic narrative additionally had the effect of multiplying the number of character actors, who were generally charged with carrying the twists of plot characteristic of more complex dramatic material. This demand then led to the reconstitution of the older theatrical “stock companies.” These companies were enlarged in the 1920s and 1930s by American actors, of course, but also by Europeans in search of higher salaries or refuge from political and economic ills in their native countries. Under the stewardship of the Hollywood studios, such companies of film actors grew more elaborate and cosmopolitan than any legitimate theater had ever sponsored. A close and often jealous relationship between theater and film extends, in fact, back to the inception of the younger form. Several of the Edison Company’s films

398 Playing to the Camera or the House: Stage vs. Screen Acting of the mid-to-late 1890s, for example, captured scenes from then-familiar plays, musicals, and operettas. Since the days of its early and rather leechlike fealty to the stage, moreover, film has enjoyed a broad popularity that has been held against it by theater folk. Those who align themselves with high culture have often denigrated films in part to erase the theater’s own historical lineage as a popular and therefore degraded entertainment, at least by the standards of the modernist avant-garde. Partisans of the theater have done more than voice steady disapproval, however; they have sought to justify the tendency of the modern stage to reach smaller and presumably more sophisticated audiences. Films, by contrast, were drawing much larger and more inclusive audiences than the stage within a decade of their invention. Largely because of this patronizing attitude on the part of adherents of the legitimate stage, there existed no serious criticism of film acting until the form was nearly twenty years old. Whether performances on film could be considered acting at all in a legitimate theatrical sense remained problematic until the introduction of live sound recording for feature films in the late 1920s. To wit: some of the earliest French films, by the Lumière brothers in the 1890s, used the directors’ family members as performers, and many of the filmmakers who followed the Lumières evinced a similar indifference toward acting talent. With acrobatics, action sequences, travelogues, and trick photography so popular among the earliest film audiences, acting skill of the sort valued on the stage was largely moot. D. W. Griffith shifted the terms of the debate, though, when he advanced the view that acting before cameras posed challenges of its own. Indeed, Griffith’s opinions gave a boost to film at the time when the form needed buttressing if it was to outlive the period of its sheer novelty. A former stage actor himself, Griffith explored means for suggesting and indeed for creating characters’ subjective responses through his pioneering uses of the camera and of cross-cutting. His aim was to refine the previously crude narrative texture of cinema, but his innovations also helped increase the range of challenge—and expression—for film actors. Griffith accomplished this improvement, however, even as he chose to diminish the degree to which early film scripts mimicked those of the theater. That emulation of the theater included the appearance of stage stars to promote some of the earliest feature films, first in France and later in the United States as well as Great Britain; the deferential and derivative ways in which film featured stars on the very same sets and even at times the same stages used for theatrical premieres or revivals; the dependence of early film actors on a set of gestures codified by the nineteenth- century French acting theorist François Delsarte; and the dependence of early film narratives on a brand of melodrama that created an even starker opposition between good and evil than the theater had. This last tendency was a consequence of silent film’s lack of audible dialogue and its reliance on typecasting more rigid than had ever been in force on the stage. In light of the ascendancy film had enjoyed since its early decades, it is not surprising that Griffith’s opinions on the distinctive qualities of film acting found, and continue to find, support among a number of actors. At the same time, though,

399 Appendix B many who have conducted the greater part of their careers in film believe that stage acting offers better training and still stands as the most rigorous test of their skill. Others are willing to give stage and film acting equal weight, in the belief that both make legitimate, if distinct, demands. But most of these actors also express a preference for one kind of acting over the other, with a surprising number (given their success in films) saying that they prefer stage to film. Numerous actors say they value the time for rehearsal and preparation the stage affords them, while even more performers miss the intimacy and the highly charged atmosphere they associate with performing before live audiences. Actors who prefer the stage generally fall into two groups. There are those who assert that they feel greater freedom on the stage and those, by contrast, who contend that they feel greater control there. For some actors, however, “freedom” seems to derive precisely from their notion of control; and perhaps these seemingly antithetical values are only nominally so. Although many actors believe that film acting has effectively supplanted stage acting in its influence on culture as a whole (even going so far as to contend that film acting has wrought permanent and irreversible effects on stage acting), only a small number assert that film acting entails a greater range, complexity, and sophistication in the demands it makes. The view that film and stage acting have maintained a dialogue for some time thus is gaining credibility, although not as steadily as might be expected. Actors’ compulsive need to compare stage to film is indicative of the difficulties they experience in describing either medium. The discourse about stage acting is much older, of course, and has lent film acting a stable and legitimate context. Yet stage and film acting seem to resist verbal description in equal measure. The common actorly inclination to define the one in terms of the other may show merely that actors find it easier to talk about what a particular kind of acting is not than about what it is or might be. In any event, from the beginning a chief concern of actors in the new medium was that it was different from the theater, especially that there was no audience. Remembering his work in 1912, Charles Graham says in “Acting for the Films”: “One thing the shadow people of the screen can never know is the joy that comes from feeling the audience begin to play their part.” In 1916 the Shakespearean star E. H. Sothern writes in “The ‘New Art’”: “One of the strangest experiences in this posing for the ‘movies’ is the absence of the audience.” But by 1938 Lionel Barrymore, a theater veteran who had become a screen eminence, opines in “The Actor” that “the stage actor has an audience trained to contribute to the dramatic illusion…. The film audience is not so trained…. So the [screen] actor has to compete with reality.” In other words, Barrymore thinks that film acting, instead of being shrunken by an audience’s absence, is spurred to contribute even more: collaboration between actor and audience still exists, but a greater share devolves upon the actor. Yet no matter how sophisticated the views of film acting become, comparisons with the theater do not cease. , much later than the people cited above, misses the “sense of space and time” of the theater, he says in “Talking about

400 Playing to the Camera or the House: Stage vs. Screen Acting

Acting” (1961), but is glad to be rid of the burdensome realization that in a long- run play, he’ll “be putting the same glass down in the same place at the same time four months from now.” On the other hand, he declares, acting brings the sobering thought that “the first-day’s shooting is intended to be part of the film”; unlike in the theater, that is, the actor begins work with the finished product. Against a widespread view, Mai Zetterling argues in “Some Notes on Acting” (1951) that though screen acting is fragmentary, done in bits and pieces, the view of theater acting as unitary is false: scene breaks and act breaks fragment stage performances, too. She feels that sufficient rehearsal time for films would eliminate the much-mooted differences in continuity between film and theater acting. But Rod Steiger refutes the argument that film actors don’t have enough time to prepare. In “On the Actor” (1972), he says he has seen them “while they sit around for two and a half hours waiting for a technician to light a candle thirty blocks away.” It’s notable that, from the start, actors believe that screen acting involves personality much more than theater acting does. This view, in itself debatable, was possibly promoted by the proximity of the film audience, for the camera is much closer most of the time than any theater spectator is. Sothern declares, “In the moving picture art you are never your hero [your character] for one moment, you are always yourself intensely interested in showing through your expression what kind of man your hero was.” In “The Film Actor” (1947), Eric Portman decades later suggests, rather oddly, to the screen aspirant “that you can test your audience projection in ordinary life. The next time you go into a crowded room, see if you can project your personality. See if people stop talking when you enter, look at you, rise quickly to give you a drink, a cigarette.” This unique screen test would not appeal to , who loves to change roles because, he says in “The Game of Truth” (1992), either mistakenly or modestly, “changing helped me overcome the problem of not having a strong personality.” Several other issues in the debate about stage versus film acting need to be examined, or examined further. Foremost among these, in prevalence and theoretical significance, is the definition of audience as crucial to film acting. The most commonly held perception is that the camera functions as a kind of spectator, or, in more literal terms, as a viewer. Actors who advance such notions, though, differ in their views of the camera’s nature. Some regard it as a foreign, relentless, and entirely mechanical presence, while others see it as a sort of friendly eye or even, as Michael Caine has written in Acting in Film (1990), as a paramour. This last opinion is noteworthy in gainsaying, probably unwittingly, the contention advanced by Laura Mulvey and others in the late 1970s that the camera’s gaze has, throughout the , been decidedly “male.” This is unavoidable, Mulvey and others have argued, so long as the camera has been wielded in a patriarchal society and largely at the discretion of male directors, producers, writers, and technicians. Feminist film theorists mistrust the camera as a source of power; and, indeed, female and male film actors alike accord it respect. The very reverence actors of both sexes show the camera, however, seems to foster ambivalence toward the instrument

401 Appendix B recording their labor. Some actors recommend ignoring the camera entirely, to avoid a sense of pressure, particularly in close-ups, while others say that the camera should be acknowledged at the least, or even wooed. It is, again, paradoxical that as “presence” has come under attack in many poststructuralist theories of human agency, awareness of a mechanical presence, of the machine as almost a living being, has become customary in other quarters—for example, among actors, who attribute to the camera the ability to heighten or at least alter their own efforts. Most actors regard the camera as either a stand-in or a synecdoche for a group of living spectators. A good many others, though, during the process of filming routinely envision a live audience—an image pulled from their recollections of a screening or a live theatrical performance. The feeling of obligation to hypothetical viewers may well be a legacy of the theater, where actors are used to performing for a body of sentient, engaged, lay spectators. Yet actors also regard their fellow actors, or more often still their crews, as their first and most consequential viewers. This response may seem exaggerated, but film actors are thrown together with crew members during the entire filming, whereas they usually see their fellow actors only during the shooting of shared scenes. With film it is possible for performers to serve as their own audience, too, by watching “rushes,” or previews of filmed sequences. This is yet a further trait that distinguishes film acting from that practiced on the stage. Some actors, however, refuse to watch rushes of themselves, in the belief that though such self-observation might sharpen their critical faculties, it would diminish their intuitive ones. Whom or what actors regard as their audience casts light on broader assumptions about the cultural and political authority they perceive their work to have. It can also reveal what actors crave, or fear, from criticism, and what influence they concede to the public as arbiters of their work. Even more than they vary in their images of audience, film actors differ in whether they regard themselves as part of an ensemble or as individuals performing the histrionic equivalent of musical solos. This divergence is owing to a more fundamental disparity, between the actors who retain a sense of utter solitude before the cameras and those who feel themselves to be integrated within a collective enterprise. The actors who are most obviously and strongly politicized, such as those who appeared in the early Soviet cinema, are more likely to view themselves as collaborators than as stars. Some actors extend the collaborative—or critical and nurturing—capacities of their fellow actors only to the film community, and still more narrowly, in some cases, to the film colony located in and around Hollywood. This clannishness or esprit de corps has its roots in the history of the theatrical world. Actors have always led a life apart from the norm, whether the gypsy-like existence in the theater of former times or the extreme celebrity that has, since the early years of this century, attached to the best known stars of stage and screen. If film actors are in accord on any single issue, it is that film is a director’s preserve, just as in their eyes the stage is incontestably the actor’s realm. But oddly enough, actors’ sense of the power that film directors exercise can feed feelings

402 Playing to the Camera or the House: Stage vs. Screen Acting either of creative communion or of alienation. And which will prevail depends as much on how actors respond to particular directors as it does on how their directors deal with them. Both groups share responsibility for complex relationships that can change drastically from one film to the next, or even over the course of a single film. This process of transformation inevitably involves surprises, seldom all pleasant. Actors’ general agreement about directors’ right to the preeminent role in filmmaking in no way precludes expressions of frustration or even hostility toward directors, whom actors nonetheless regard as their closest collaborators, and vice versa. Their collective sense of film directors’ power may also explain actors’ wish—granted increasingly often in recent years—to direct films in their own right. Even so, some of the actors who are eager to direct also welcome relinquishing a measure of freedom to their film directors, and with it a potentially crushing sense of responsibility for the success of the films in which their appear. Such actors are less likely to regard themselves as stars and more inclined, in interviews, to discuss their directors in detail than are actors who consider their film work as their own, or who imply that they are autonomous, by mentioning only in passing (or not at all) the directors with whom they have worked. Some actors even seem positively to relish the hurly-burly of film work, the technicians and the technology; for all the actors who feel distracted by the bustle, there are always those who draw inspiration from the concentrated efforts of other professionals on the set. One of the reasons that film acting has had insufficient attention in film studies is precisely that film is the director’s medium—at any rate, the filmmakers’ medium.

Figure 114. D. W. Griffith: Way Down East, 1920 (United States)

403 Appendix B

The director and cinematographer, usually joined later by the editor and producer, choose what the audience will look at and how it is to be seen. Charles Chaplin and , successful theater clowns before they made films, were among the first to understand that they had to control the whole process if their performances were to be seen as they intended. But not many actors have had complete control of films, and therefore of their performances—something they have deplored all through the decades of film’s existence. Yet though these matters of execution are fixed, there is a paradox. If the film is finally the director’s work, then, when we think of good films, why do we think of actors as often as of directors? When I remember Way Down East (1920), certainly I recall D. W. Griffith’s mastery, but equally I think of ’s body language as her life and status change. With Mother (1926), Vsevolod Pudovkin, yes, but at the crucial moment, it is Vera Baranovskaya who picks up the flag, not Pudovkin. The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) is exalted by Carl-Theodor Dreyer’s genius, but Dreyer’s work would have come to little without the consecration of Renée Falconetti’s performance. In the sound era, the paradox is even more striking. With Twentieth Century (1934), it’s not I think of first but John Barrymore, epitomizing nineteenth-century acting. With The Grapes of Wrath (1940), not John Ford but

Figure 115. Vsevolod Pudovkin: Mother, 1926 (U.S.S.R.)

404 Playing to the Camera or the House: Stage vs. Screen Acting

Figure 116. Carl-Theodor Dreyer: The Passion of Joan of Arc, 1928 (France)

Figure 117. Howard Hawks: Twentieth Century, 1934 (United States)

405 Appendix B

Figure 118. John Ford: The Grapes of Wrath, 1940 (United States)

Figure 119. : Camille, 1937 (United States)

406 Playing to the Camera or the House: Stage vs. Screen Acting

Henry Fonda, speaking out of the heart of stricken, Depression-era America. With Camille (1937), not George Cukor but , dying. With (1963), not but Marcello Mastroianni, rallying the strikers. With Ikiru (1952), not Akira Kurosawa but Takashi Shimura, singing softly in the snow on the playground swing. With The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1981), not Karel Reisz but Meryl Streep waiting for her lover. With Howards End (1992), not James Ivory but and Emma Thompson in their epoch-ending duet. With The Verdict (1982), not but addressing the jury. Certainly directors touched all those performances, to one degree or another, but it was the actors whose talents fulfilled the films.

Figure 120. Mario Monicelli: The Organizer, 1963 (Italy)

Still, despite its potential lucrativeness, film acting has not always garnered ungrudging respect, particularly when nonprofessionals or fledgling actors figure prominently, as they do in the films of Soviet director Sergei Eisenstein or the Italian neorealists. Such noted directors were convinced that editing could override and definitely shape any impressions actors could make on film. Early producers exploited nonprofessionals as a money-saving measure; but over the succeeding decades, some directors have come to rely for artistic reasons on the acting of “authentic,” “spontaneous” amateurs, especially children, whose innocence and transparency can sometimes outshine more studied performances. This successful casting of amateurs has given some credence to doubts about the need for any trained acting skill at all in film.

407 Appendix B

Figure 121. Akira Kurosawa: Ikiru, 1952 ()

Despite their own trained acting skill, many well-established stage actors have bridled at the degree to which they are treated as commodities in the film world. Issues of marketing and consumption naturally figure in the utopian dream of a state- directed “people’s art” invoked by the Soviets, but also in the ambivalence actors commonly express toward American filmmaking, whose moguls evince an often slavish regard for the marketplace. After all, successful actors’ work is influenced, sometimes profoundly, by the ways their careers are funded. This is not to say that all actors view commercialism with a jaundiced eye. In fact, surprising numbers of them are partisans of the old-style Hollywood studios, and many believe that with the studios’ decline came a diminution in the quality of American films. Not all actors take such a nostalgic view of the studios, though, or of the prerogative those studios exercised over actors’ services. Some of the more onerous aspects of stardom have been voiced by Louise Brooks (in “Dialogue with the Actress,” 1965), who worked when silent movies endowed film stars more heavily with mythic qualities than at any time since. The sort of spectacular stardom that dates from Theda Bara’s heyday might be easier to understand if all the film stars who succeeded her had been great actors. But because that is not the case, it seems reasonable to interpret stardom as a commercial device that film borrowed from the stage and then expanded on in a way only a mass entertainment could. Moreover, most of the actors who have experienced stardom at first or second hand express mixed feelings about it. Latter-day versions of ’s distinction between public and private often seem to lie at the heart of their critiques of stardom; and men and women appear equally inclined to make that distinction. (In his “Paradox of the

408 Playing to the Camera or the House: Stage vs. Screen Acting

Actor,” Diderot—writing in 1773—attributed to performers the enigmatic ability to render public a realm of experience more generally considered private.) Actors of both sexes also agree that casting and “character,” as indicated in the pages of a screenplay, are crucial to them, and that character is almost always expressed in gender-specific ways. It may be equally true that casting is so decisive in its effects on performers that its indications of gender render other matters of collaboration and characterization merely secondary for performers. But when it comes to cases, for every actress who discusses her “feminine” sensitivity to her collaborators, at least one other displays steadfast “masculine” independence. And for every actress who feels objectified, at least one actor reports having felt the same way. It will be interesting to see what, if anything, will change as the number of women grows in specialties other than acting within the world of filmmaking, as is already the case and will continue to be. Will actresses find themselves less objectified, or only differently objectified with change and over time? The same question applies to performers of color. One way to escape objectification may well be to follow the recommendation that actors produce and write screenplays, as well as direct, if they wish to exercise greater influence over their films. Broader and more diverse engagement in the work of production might furnish film actors with at least some recompense for the relentless objectification and commercialization they feel they endure, and for their fans’ volatile and sometimes destructive identification with them. Mae Marsh, who acted in several of D. W. Griffith’s films, for her part did not seem to be bothered by the commercialization of cinema. She considered the invention of “business” in film acting to be her most fundamental obligation, and her interest in “good business,” as she puts it in Screen Acting (1921), underscores the conflation of art and commerce that has typified commercial filmmaking. In its most popular forms, film has not drawn on the religious and sacred origins of the stage but has instead often been conceived in and dedicated to the proposition that it should make money, and the more of it the better. Film acting and, to a still greater degree, stardom in films have been essential to this formula. Some may find it strange, therefore, that film actors—and especially the stars—should feel so tormented about how much they make. But the amount of money that most successful actors in film earn implicates them in the corporate mentality that has come to typify the entertainment industry in the United States and, increasingly, everywhere else. At the same time, these actors’ agonizing over their complicity in a business that is so often crass and exploitative betokens the idealism that most performers here in America have brought to their work. As for the insufficient attention to their work by film scholars, consider the following: it has often been claimed or assumed, at least in academic circles, that any credit for the poststructuralist and postmodernist outlook should go directly to the theorists, or occasionally creative writers, who have given those movements shape

409 Appendix B in writing. But equal credit at least may be due to film actors, who, in considering the disjointed qualities of filmmaking, have offered repeated testimonies to the mechanization, discontinuity, and lack of community now widely understood to plague modern life. In a reactionary or self-protective mode, Jack Nicholson recalls his dawning realization of the significance of film acting, which took place at the moment he “began to think that the finest modern writer was the screen actor.” This remark, from “The Bird Is on His Own” (1985), signals the degree to which images, often speaking images, have come to challenge literature for creative or authorial hegemony in the course of what has sometimes been called the Film Age. Perhaps the Film Age has given way already to the Television Age, and more lately to the Video Age. In any case, actors on film, television, and video have embodied and in some ways helped usher in the postmodern moment. They have come to terms with shooting scenes out of narrative sequence, realized their roles in bits and pieces, reinvented themselves continually, and performed before machines that orient, frame, and finally absorb their efforts. Actors in front of cameras have thus given the “post-” movements some substance by dealing in fragmented images of humanity. Over time, the very diversity of these images has posed a challenge to the notion that human behavior is cohesive, sustained, and “universal”—a notion that no longer seems credible or even desirable to many. Indeed, it is striking how many actors refer to chance or accidents as propitious and even spiritually laden elements of their work. Therefore, when E. H. Sothern, as much a dyed-in-the-wool stage actor as any, called film a “new language” back while the First World War was still raging, he showed great prescience. The language that film actors have studied and in some measure coined over the last several generations has not always been euphonious, nor has its development been linear. And film portrayals have even come to seem troubling, in part, through their enlargement on the longstanding affinity for conflict, tension, and paradox in the theater world (where drama takes its very definition from conflicts at the heart of society and humanity, and acting shows us people in their moments of greatest tension or opposition). In many instances, a casual but persistent utopianism mingles with a distinctly capitalist fervor in filmmaking as a whole, and ever more sophisticated technologies combine to enhance—but, in some cases, detract from—human agency. Most recently these technologies have permitted electronic, computerized, and digitized effects that at times threaten to supplant acting and writing in the forms in which we have come to know them. Screen acting may still be a relatively unexplored subject precisely because such acting takes place in such a daunting variety of technological, material, and procedural circumstances. Screen acting is, moreover, perhaps even more puzzling in its essential mysteriousness of effect and affect than are older forms of acting, in which at least the “bare, forked animals” are continually in view as they perform in real time. It may be startling to say so, but we know relatively little about the ancient practice of acting, in spite of the vast secondary literature on the subject and the abundant testimony of its practitioners.

410 Playing to the Camera or the House: Stage vs. Screen Acting

What we do know for certain by now is that the human voice can be—and has always been—a powerful instrument of that enables destructive giants to come to power. We also know, in Wallace Stevens’ words (from the 1917 poem “The Plot Against the Giant”), that a voice can undo a giant by whispering “heavenly labials in a world of gutturals.” We understand that the body is a tongue that speaks to the unconscious as well as to more mediated forms of awareness. We know, in short, that performers and their witnesses are the tines of a tuning fork by means of which, at least for a time, human isolation can be breached and mortal fixity made to flow. A theater is thus a place where, paradoxically, we can become ourselves by becoming others. And in a movie theater, this may be even truer.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Barr, T. (1982). Acting for the camera. Boston, MA: Allyn and Bacon. Barrymore, L. (1938). The actor. In S. Watts (Ed.), Behind the screen: How films are made (pp. 93–101). London: Arthur Barker. Bermel, A. (1986, September 22). Do film actors act? New Leader, 69, 20–23. Braudy, L. (1976, February). Film acting: Some critical problems and proposals. Quarterly Review of Film Studies, 1(1), 1–18. Brooks, L. (1986). Dialogue, 1965. In J. Kobal (Ed.), People will talk (pp. 71–97). New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf. Caine, M. (1990). Acting in film. New York, NY: Applause. Cole, T., & Chinoy, H. K. (Eds.). (1949). Actors on acting. New York, NY: Crown. Eidsvik, C. (1989). Perception and convention in acting for theatre and film. Post Script, 8(2), 21–35. Finney, A., & Ure, M. (1961). Talking about acting. Sight and Sound, 30(2) , 56–61, 102. Graham, C. (1935). Acting for films in 1912. Sight and Sound, 4(15), 118–119. Hornby, R. (1983). Understanding acting. Journal of Aesthetic Education, 17(3), 19–37. Kalter, J. (Ed.). (1979). Actors on acting: Performing in theatre and film today. New York, NY: Sterling. Marsh, M. (1921). Screen acting. Los Angeles, CA: Photo-Star Publishing. Mastroianni, M. (1992–1993). The game of truth. Film Quarterly, 46(2), 2–7. Naremore, J. (1988). Acting in the cinema. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Nicholson, J. (1985). The bird is on his own (interview). Film Comment, 21(3), 53–61. Portman, E. (1947). The film actor. In O. Blakeston (Ed.), Working for the films (pp. 48–55). London: Focal Press. Sothern, E. H. (1916, September). The new art. The Craftsman, 30, 572–579, 642–643. Stanbrook, A. (1958). Towards film acting. Film, 17, 15–18. Steiger, R. (1972). On the actor. In F. Baker & R. Firestone (Eds.), Movie people: At work in the business of film (pp. 101–122). New York, NY: Douglas Book Corp. Stevens, W. (1997). The plot against the giant, 1917. In W. Stevens (Ed.), Collected poetry and prose (pp. 5–6). New York, NY: Library of America. Taylor, M. (1994). The actor and the camera. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann-Methuen. Von Sternberg, J. (1955). Acting in film and theatre. Film Culture, 1(5–6), 1–4. Zetterling, M. (1951). Some notes on acting. Sight and Sound, 21(2), 83, 96. Zucker, C. (Ed.). (1990). Making visible the invisible: An anthology of original essays on film acting. Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press.

411 APPENDIX C

ART-HOUSE CINEMA, AVANT-GARDE FILM, AND DRAMATIC

The most important modes of film practice, in my view, are art-house cinema and the avant-garde, both of which contrast with the classical Hollywood mode of film practice. While the latter is characterized by its commercial imperative, corporate hierarchies, and a high degree of specialization as well as a division of labor, the avant-garde is an “artisanal” or “personal” mode. Avant-garde films tend to be made by individuals or very small groups of collaborators, financed either by the filmmakers alone or in combination with private patronage and grants from arts institutions. Such films are usually distributed through film co-operatives and exhibited by film societies, museums, and universities. (Consequently, such films can only usually be seen in urban centers—and only in a handful of those with any regularity.) Significantly, this alternative system of production, distribution, and exhibition is not driven by profit. Avant-garde films rarely break even, let alone make a profit, through the markets of either the mass commodity or the luxury item. There is no market in the negatives of avant-garde films, and truly famous practitioners or avant-garde film have made their fame and fortune either through other activities (), or through moving into the realm of the art-house film (Warhol, Derek Jarman, and Peter Greenaway). Most avant-garde filmmakers make a living as teachers, technicians within the film industry, or through other “day jobs.” In this respect, the filmic avant-garde is markedly different from the avant-garde in music, literature, and especially painting—a fact that which is obscured by the tendency of critics to talk of the avant-garde, as if its conditions of existence were identical from discipline to discipline. Within the domain of cinema, the avant-garde differs not only from Hollywood cinema, but from that other mode of film practice known as art-house cinema (even if there have been many practical and aesthetic cross-overs, from Fernand Léger and Germaine Dulac to , Jarman, and Sally Potter). Art-house films are typically characterized by aesthetic norms that are different from those of classical narrative films; they are made within a somewhat less rationalized system of production; and they are often supported by government policies designed to promote distinctive national cinemas. But art-house cinema is still a commercial cinema, which depends for its existence on profits rather than the more ethereal rewards of status and prestige.

413 Appendix C

Although the notion of an art-house cinema had existed since at least the formation of the Film d’Art company in France in 1908, it was not until after the Second World War that European art-house cinema became firmly established, with the succession of movements such as , the French Nouvelle Vague, the New German Cinema, the Czech Renaissance, and the Brazilian Cinema Nôvo. A number of factors accounted for its rise at this point: new legislation in many of the European countries to support indigenous film cultures, combined with new opportunities for foreign films with an American film market increasingly filled with a college-educated audience.

Figure 122. : , 1961 (France)

The “art” in art-house cinema, it is important to note, differentiates itself from the art of other cinemas in two ways. First, art films are usually expressive of national concerns, even if these concerns are ones that, ironically, make them internationally marketable. (For example, it is partly the perceived “Englishness” of Stephen Frears’s My Beautiful Laundrette [1985] that makes it of interest to American audiences.) Second, art films attempt to conform with canons of taste established in the existing “high” arts. That is, art films are generally characterized by the use of self-consciously “artful” techniques designed to differentiate them from “merely entertaining,” popular cinema, these techniques frequently drawing on nationally specific legacies within the established arts. (Expressionistic painting, for instance, in Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari [Germany, 1920], the in Alain Resnais’s , mon amour [France, 1959] and Last Year at Marienbad [France, 1961], Italian opera in ’s The Spider’s Stratagem [1970]). Such “native” cultural markers are often commingled with allusions, critical or affectionate, to American popular culture, and this internal contrast further highlights the national specificity of such films. This strategy enables the to be viewed at home as part of a national culture, and abroad as exotic or sophisticated—or both—therefore as worthy of the

414 Art-House Cinema, Avant-Garde Film, and Dramatic Modernism

Figure 123. Bernardo Bertolucci: The Spider’s Stratagem, 1970 (Italy) attention of an educated audience. In the United States in particular, simply being European gives a film an edge in this regard, because of the view of Europe as the “Old World” repository of Art and Wisdom. For this reason, art-house cinema still tends to be thought of as European, even though a substantial proportion of art-house material has for some time come from Asia, South America, Australia, and (less frequently) Africa. Art-house cinema, then, is partly a matter of the marketing and consumption of films outside their countries of production, and the circumstances of production of art films vary widely depending on the peculiarities of particular national film industries. In aesthetic terms, art-house cinema encompasses a diverse range of options, from the “tradition-of-quality,” literary adaptations of Merchant-Ivory (where the “art” usually amounts to little more than a national, picturesque “gloss” applied to classical narrative form), to the genre reworkings of , to the radical politic-aesthetic experiments of Jean-Luc Godard, Jean-Marie Straub, Dušam Makevejev, , and Glauber Rocha. Within this diversity, however, some consistent trends and patterns stand out. Where the Hollywood film typically featured a sympathetic protagonist pursuing his or her goal until an unambiguous conclusion was reached, the art film dwelt upon characters with less clearly defined and singular desires. This produced a narrative less clearly structured by explicit

415 Appendix C temporal markers like deadlines, and enabled the self-conscious use of style to evoke atmosphere and ambiguity. In general, the art film foregrounds narration (the process of storytelling) as much as narrative (the action itself, assumed to be the locus of attention in the classical film). Distinctive uses of style and idiosyncratic narrational stances in turn become associated with individual directors, around which the marketing of art films centers. (A Chabrol film, for example, was marketed primarily as a Chabrol film, not as a thriller.) Although the art-film director has more freedom to explore stylistic options, a story with recognizable characters must still be told, generally within a screening time of between 80 and 180 minutes, since in the end these are commercial films that must be exhibited on the art-house circuit. For these reasons, art-film narration has been characterized as a “domesticated modernism,” and can be contrasted with the more radical departures from classical form found within the artisanal avant-garde. The key here, once again, is the freedom of artisanal filmmakers to explore spatial and temporal form in the cinema outside any obligation to tell story; and to make films—with or without any traces of narrative—of any length, ranging from a few seconds to many hours. What of the cultural and aesthetic character of avant-garde films, then? If mainstream cinema is governed by an ethos of entertainment—with all the associations of escapism and leisure implied by that term—the avant-garde, by contrast, aims to challenge and subvert. At its most radical, the avant-garde asks us to rethink fundamentally our preconceptions about cinema. The tone of this challenge may vary widely, from the aggressive stance of (Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali, France, 1928)—the film’s notorious eye-slicing scene being an apt emblem of its attitude towards the spectator—to the wit and playfulness of Robert Breer’s work. An evening of avant-garde films ought to be thought-provoking and stimulating, but offers no guarantee of being pleasurable or beautiful in the conventional senses. For its part, the “otherness” of the avant-garde has been conceived in two distinct ways—as a parallel phenomenon and as a reactive phenomenon. Some have argued that the relationship of the avant-garde to commercial cinema is one of “radical otherness,” in which each operates in different realms with next to no influence on each other. More typical is the view of the avant-garde as a “reactive” or “critical” phenomenon, continually challenging and undermining both the established values of mainstream society and the norms of orthodox aesthetic practice. Doubtless there have been individual avant-garde filmmakers who have had little knowledge or interest in commercial cinema, and thus in intentional terms were forging a parallel aesthetic. But looked at from a social perspective, even the work of such filmmakers becomes bound up in the larger rhetoric of the institutions of the avant-garde. But from where, one might ask, do these cultural and aesthetic attitudes come from? One widespread view is that the subversive strategies of the avant-garde are a reaction to the rise of mass culture. Such “kitsch” culture relentlessly reduces art to stereotyped patterns incapable of arousing active, intelligent responses. The

416 Art-House Cinema, Avant-Garde Film, and Dramatic Modernism

Figure 124. Luis Buñuel: Un chien andalou, 1928 (France) formulaic nature of mass culture offers only a debased sentimentality, providing nothing more than a temporary respite from the regimentation of work. The fundamentally stagnant nature of mass culture is masked, however, by a continual striving for superficial novelty, and to this end the “culture industry” co-opts every genuine cultural expression to its own ends. And it is this that gives rise to the avant- garde, the difficulty and obscurity of which is a deliberate act of resistance to such recuperation. The preservation of a sphere of autonomous artistic practice—that is, one guided by internal processes of development, not by the demands of the socio- political order—becomes, paradoxically, a political gesture. It functions as a form of resistance to a society which attempts to rationalize, commodify, and so degrade every aspect of life—to reduce even the “purposelessness” of art to the “purpose” of commerce. Of the many things that such “alternative practices” have challenged, narrative and “realism” have often been prime targets because of their perceived dominance in commercial filmmaking. What counts as “realism” is an immensely complex issue, but what is objected to is realism’s claim to an accurate rendering of the perceivable aspects of the world—continuity of time and space, for example—while equally real, if not directly visible, social and psychological processes are either

417 Appendix C ignored or mystified. Narrative, or more particularly the kind of traditional narrative form associated with the nineteenth-century novel and the Hollywood film, has been blamed for a variety of evils, but once again a constricting realism is central. “Classic realism,” it is argued, presents a contingent view of the world as if it were a necessary, inevitable one, and so inhibits both psychic freedom and any impetus towards progressive social change. Films conforming to such “realism” are thought to induce a kind of passivity in the spectator, while anti- or non-realist texts demand a much more active response. The German dramatist Bertolt Brecht is one of the most influential sources for this critique of “surface realism” and the contribution of traditional narrative to it, though kindred attacks can be found in surrealism and the French nouveau roman. Such attacks react against the same common enemy: in Brecht’s case, to stay with him and the theater for the moment, the modern drama of realism and naturalism, i.e., the social-problem play as fathered by Ibsen, if not pioneered earlier by Friedrich Hebbel. Such realistic and naturalistic drama was based on the conventional, long- lived triad of psychology or motivation, causality or connection, and morality or providential design, but these problem plays banished theology as well as autocracy from their triadic paradigm of human action, in this way deepening the dramatic role played by psychology, sociology, and linearity or linkage. That is, in modern drama, the patriarchal relationship between God and the individual soul has been replaced by the adversarial relationship between man and his own psychology, his will to comprehend himself, even as the patriarchal relationship between ruler and subject has been replaced by the adversarial relationship between man and society, in the form of society’s drive to marginalize all those that it cannot or will not homogenize. Thus the fundamental subject of almost all serious plays of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries—in other words, of almost all of modern as well as modernist drama—becomes the attempt to resurrect fundamental ethical or philosophical certainties without resurrecting the fundamental spiritual certainty of a judgmental God or the fundamental political certainty of a mindful monarch. Modernist or avant-garde drama, however, took modern drama a step farther by demonstrating that a play’s movement could be governed by something completely outside the triad that links motive to act, act to logical sequence of events, and logical outcome to divine or regal judgment. In Maeterlinck’s symbolist play Pélleas and Mélisande (1892), for instance, the characters are led to the slaughter like sheep but for reasons that are never clear, either to them or to the audience. There is sequence but no causality—that is, one event follows another but is not caused by it. Even an otherwise representational work like Chekhov’s Ivanov (1887) can intimate the avant-garde by breaking down the connection between the psychology of its central character and the causal pattern of his drama. There is a causal sequence leading to Ivanov’s marital infidelity and suicide, but there is no sustained motive on his part— which is to say, one event is caused by another but irrespective of this otherwise intelligent man’s clear intent or wish.

418 Art-House Cinema, Avant-Garde Film, and Dramatic Modernism

For the avant-garde, beginning in the late nineteenth century with Jarry if not earlier with such German visionaries as Tieck, Büchner, and Grabbe, the nature of reality itself becomes the prime subject of plays because of a loss of confidence in the assumed model for dramatizing human behavior and thinking about human existence: the representation of the illusion of reality on stage becomes, in other words, the demonstration of the reality of the illusion-making capacity, illusion- projecting essence, or illusion-dwelling tendency of the human mind. Through the introduction of total subjectivity into drama—that mirror of a supposedly external reality—the symbolists in particular imagined a new theatrical model, polyphonic in form and irreducible to rational analysis or univocal interpretation, thereby opening the way for the subsequent avant-garde movements that have dominated the alternative stage, as well as experimental cinema, in the twentieth century. A recurrent motif in the history of avant-garde drama or film, then, is the idea that neither need have become a narrative, representational form at all, but could instead have modeled itself on other art forms, especially painting and music. A history of avant-garde cinema can be constructed in just these terms, counterposing the origins of orthodox narrative cinema in literature and theatre with the painterly, poetic, and musical origins of the first avant-garde experiments. In doing this, one would be elaborating a gesture made earlier by, among others, Léger, Dulac, Maya Deren, and the art historian Élie Faure, who said that “There will some day be an

Figure 125. : Wavelength, 1967 (Canada)

419 Appendix C end of the cinema considered as an offshoot of the theater, an end of the sentimental monkey tricks and gesticulations of gentlemen with blue chins and rickety legs” (4). The most extreme statement of this “anti-narrative” sentiment may be found in the work of the “structuralist-materialist” filmmakers of the 1960s and 1970s such as the North Americans Michael Snow and Ernie Gehr. But surveying the history of the avant-garde as a whole, it would be more accurate to say that narrative has been displaced, deformed, and reformed, rather than simply expunged altogether.

Figure 126. Ernie Gehr: Untitled, 1977 (United States)

One of the ways in which narrative became displaced, deformed, and reformed was through a cross-fertilization among the arts. Poets, painters, musical composers, circus performers, architects, choreographers, photographers, cartoonists, sculptors—any but professional or commercial filmmakers—were the models and sources for the radical shift in the aesthetics of narrative. And this was so not only for the cinema but also for the drama, whose own radical shift in aesthetics was influenced by the movies as well. Their presence was continually felt throughout the vigorous theatrical experimentation of the 1920s. On the one hand, the theatre was seeking a new area of activity that the cinema—potentially, the most literally representational or documentally “real” of the arts—could not usurp; on the other hand, the theatre frequently tried to explore ways of imitating and incorporating the fantastic or visionary capability of film form.

420 Art-House Cinema, Avant-Garde Film, and Dramatic Modernism

Figure 127. René Clair: Entr’acte, 1924 (France)

The drama’s shift to so simultaneously mechanical, democratic, and potentially subjective a model as the cinema is no accident, for film shares several characteristics with the theatrical avant-garde. First, both are fundamentally visual arts. This is not to discount the aural presence in film and avant-garde performance; it is only to say that visual communication was always the primary mode of communication in both forms. Film, because of its early technical limitations, and the avant-garde because of its disdain for literary or bourgeois drama, used visual codes, cues, and designs to affect their audiences. Even in dada play scripts, which place a great deal of emphasis on sound, careful attention is paid to the arrangement of the words on the page and to the overall visual effect. Since many of the earliest avant-garde performers were also visual artists, their costumes, sets, and physical stunts often overshadowed the texts they were enacting. Their performances developed co-terminously with film, and their live stage acts were often based on or related to American silent films widely available in the Paris of the 1920s, as well as on the increasing number of avant- garde films being produced in Paris at the time. Perhaps the most famous (or infamous) dada performances, Relâche (literally, “relax” or “no performance”; 1924) and Soirée du coeur à barbe (Evening of the Bearded Heart, 1925), included, respectively, the films Entr’acte (1924) by René Clair and Francis Picabia and La Retour de Raison (Return to Reason, 1923) by Man Ray. Man Ray’s film consisted of moving “rayographs,” created without a camera

421 Appendix C by covering unexposed film with objects—salt, nails, etc.—then exposing the film to light and developing it. Return to Reason is an entirely silent film, containing only abstract moving images (the shadow of the objects in negative) and devoid of theme, character, dialogue, or plot. Although it is not quite as abstract as Return to Reason, Entr’acte is little more than a series of visual puns and gags embellished by trick photography. Indeed, it was conceived as an intermission (the literal meaning of “entr’acte”) for the dada performance Relâche.

Figure 128. Man Ray: Return to Reason, 1923 (France)

Buildings and rooftops in this film are shot at impossible angles, columns and streets are superimposed over and intercut with images of a ballerina, an ostrich egg, and Marcel Duchamp and Man Ray playing chess. The second half of the film is devoted entirely to a runaway coffin, vigorously chased by its fretful pallbearers. While the outlines of a narrative can be found in Entr’acte—involving the shooting of a man and his subsequent funeral featuring the runaway coffin—the energies of the picture are invested in a variety of non-narrative strategies that cut across and often completely disrupt its progress. Since narrative is a form of rationality— we explain ourselves through stories that reveal our reasons for doing things— rationality becomes an object of attack, along with standards of propriety. (Scattered throughout the film are “crotch shots” of the ballerina, which are ultimately revealed

422 Art-House Cinema, Avant-Garde Film, and Dramatic Modernism to be a bearded man in drag.) Narrative logic is thus replaced by an unpredictable mix of visually associative and abstract links.

Figure 129. : , 1929 (U.S.S.R.)

Film so privileged visual elements over others, not only because of its early limitations in terms of sound, but also because of the fact that its history is tied in with the creation of various optical devices. Cinema’s origins in series photography and devices like the zoetrope illustrate the prominence of the image over sound, text, and even narrative. As André Bazin writes in his “The Evolution of the Language of Cinema” (1950–1955; my trans.), “If the art of cinema consists in everything that plastics and montage can add to a given reality, then the silent film was an art in its own right. Sound could only play at best a subordinate and supplementary role: a counterpoint to the visual image” (26). In fact, although Bazin is best known as an emphatic proponent of realism in film—the long take, deep focus, and a static camera—even he sees a connection between cinema as a visual art and the work of the avant-garde. In his “The Ontology of the Photographic Image” (1945, my trans.), Bazin writes:

423 Appendix C

Wherefore, photography actually contributes something to the order of natural creation instead of providing a substitute for it. The surrealists had an inkling of this when they looked to the photographic plate to provide them with their monstrosities, and for this reason: the surrealist does not consider his aesthetic purpose and the mechanical effect of the image on our imaginations as things apart … Every image is to be seen as an object and every object as an image. Hence photography ranks high in the order of surrealist creativity because it produces an image that is a reality of nature—namely, an hallucination that is also a fact. (15–16) Thus, it is cinema’s emphasis on the visual that connects it to the aesthetic principles of the avant-garde, even though film appears to exactly record reality.

Figure 130. Kenneth Anger: Scorpio Rising, 1963 (United States)

Most importantly, both the theatrical avant-garde and cinema construct their visual landscapes according to the same aesthetic of . Expressed in films such as Dziga Vertov’s Man with a Movie Camera (1929), and in the visual creations of dada artists Raoul Hausmann and Hannah Höch, the technique of collage—and its cinematic twin, montage—dominated the avant-garde in visual art and cinema, and eventually emerged on stage. Specifically, both cinema and the avant-garde (especially avant-garde cinema) create works out of fragments. The principles of editing in film are little different from the principles of collage in art. Both involve the layering of visual fragments in relation to one another to create a cohesive whole. Höch aligns a photograph of a baby’s head on top of an advertisement’s picture of a doll’s body and a single figure is created. Similarly, D. W. Griffith’s parallel editing aligns two simultaneous events into a single narrative moment that articulates the

424 Art-House Cinema, Avant-Garde Film, and Dramatic Modernism complete event in time, even though it is occurring in two distinct places. The very essence of film is its assembly of fragmented images (each individual film frame) run together quickly before the human eye so as to create the optical illusion of movement. This is true of all film, whether avant-garde or narrative. The most linear Hollywood film uses shot-reverse-shot techniques that fundamentally fracture the otherwise straightforward progression of the narrative, even as the American Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising (1963) disrupts its “biker” narrative by juxtaposing footage of it with “found” or quoted material like re-photographed television-program excerpt and cartoon clips. (Anger’s soundtrack itself is created in such a collage fashion.) The theatrical avant-garde likewise constructs its early performances in fragments: spontaneous, dynamic spurts of activity that are layered upon one another until the wholeness of an image or idea is formed, just as it is at the screening of a film. Indeed, even the advocates of cinematic realism recognized the essentially fractured essence of film. As the title of his Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality (1960) suggests, Siegfried Kracauer argued that the essential purpose of film was the straightforward recording and revealing of the visible world. According to him, cinema, as the derivative of photography, favors unstaged reality, random events, and a “tendency toward the unorganized and diffuse which marks [it] as [a] record” (20). His language alone here could be used to describe an avant- garde performance, with its emphasis on randomness and chaos. However, Kracauer also argued that in order to reinforce its role as objective observer of this unstaged reality, cinema must necessarily allude to the world outside its frame, a quality he referred to as “endlessness.” Still what is most intriguing about Kracauer’s argument is that, despite his insistence that film is fundamentally the representation of physical reality, he describes film as a fragment of that reality. He writes: Photography tends to suggest endlessness. This follows from its emphasis on fortuitous complexes which represent fragments rather than wholes. A photograph, whether portrait or action picture, is in character only if it precludes the notion of completeness. Its frame marks a provisional limit; its content refers to other contents outside that frame; and its structure denotes something that cannot be encompassed—physical existence. (19–20; my emphasis) In other words, for film to present reality, it must simultaneously and paradoxically draw attention to its own lack of reality. Kracauer is not dissimilar to Bazin here when he notes that film is not “real,” but rather points to a physical reality that it cannot fully embody because of its limited frame and two dimensions. Kracauer thus establishes film as a fundamentally fragmented art form in terms of its individual frames and its incorporation of techniques such as montage, parallel editing, and the shot-reverse-shot format. Moreover, Kracauer’s language above suggests that even in its most static, linear, and realistic form, film is still fragmented because it is a fragment of the real, which constitutes a whole outside the borders of the film frame. It is only logical then that avant-gardists should have admired the dynamic

425 Appendix C and fragmented quality of film enough to incorporate its principles into their texts and performances. It is precisely the dynamism and fragmentation in the concept of the avant- garde that connect it so intimately to the concepts of modernity and modernism. “Modernity” refers to the network of large-scale social, economic, technological, and philosophical changes wrought by the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution. “Modernism” is usually used to denote that period of dramatic innovation in all the arts, from around the end of the nineteenth century (with symbolism and aestheticism but going as far back as the romantic movement) up to the Second World War and its immediate aftermath (with absurdism), when the sense of a fundamental break with inherited modes of representation and expression became acute. That break is one of the reasons modernist art appears so fragmented and sectarian, as it represents the amorphous complexity of modernity—of industrial and post-industrial society—in a multiplicity of dynamic but unstable movements focused on philosophic abstractions. (Hence the use of such “-isms” as symbolism, futurism, expressionism, dadaism, and surrealism to describe them.) Modernism, moreover, employs a distinctive kind of imagination, one that insists on having its general frame of reference reside only within itself; the modernist mind accordingly believes that we create the world in the act of perceiving it. Such a view is basically anti-intellectual, celebrating passion and will over deliberative and systematic morality. Most important, modernism implies an historical discontinuity, a social disruption, a moral chaos, a sense of fragmentation and alienation, of loss and despair—hence of retreat inside one’s inner being or private consciousness. This movement rejects not only history, however, but also the society of whose fabrication history is a record. Modernism repudiates traditional values and assumptions, then, in addition to dismissing equally the rhetoric by which they were once communicated; and in the process it elevates the individual over the group, the interior life of a human being over his communal existence. In many respects a reaction against realism and naturalism and the scientific postulates on which they rest, modernism has appositely been marked by persistent, multi-dimensional experiments in subject matter, form, and language. Literary excursions of a modernist kind revel in a dense, often free-form actuality as opposed to a practical, regimented one, and they have been conducted by poets and novelists as vital yet varied as T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, Stéphane Mallarmé, Arthur Rimbaud, Virginia Woolf, William Faulkner, W. B. Yeats, W. H. Auden, James Joyce, Marcel Proust, Rainer Maria Rilke, and Thomas Mann. Modernist or avant-garde drama and film are similarly associated, above all, with a pervasive, formal self-consciousness and inventiveness. The avant-garde thus becomes that element in the exercise of the imagination we call art which finds itself unwilling (unable really) to reiterate or refine what has already been created. Many, though, would also identify in the avant-garde not merely a tendency to retreat from the maddening disorder of the world for the purpose of creating, through art, an alternative, visionary, eternal order but also a tendency to absorb the world’s chaos

426 Art-House Cinema, Avant-Garde Film, and Dramatic Modernism into the work of art itself. (The first tendency hold true for most writers of modernist fiction and verse, as it does for Yeats the symbolist playwright. The majority of avant-garde dramatists, however, belong either in the second category—like , the humorist of the grotesque—or in both categories simultaneously, like the pataphysician Alfred Jarry.)

Figure 131. : Berlin: Symphony of a City, 1927 (Germany)

Many would additionally identify in the avant-garde a thematic preoccupation with the modern city and its technologies—with the exhilaration of speed, energy, and rapid development, as in the case of the Italian futurists—as well as with the urban potential for physical, social, and emotional dislocation (the latter dislocation erupting amid the former exhilaration in Walter Ruttmann’s 1927 film Berlin: Symphony of a City). Such an avant-garde has been described as a culture of negation, and its commitment to ceaseless, radical critique—not only of the (bourgeois) art that went before it, but also, in many instances, of the sociopolitical institutions and instruments of industrial-technological practice or power—may indeed by seen as a prime instance of the modernist emphasis on the creation of the new. The term “avant-garde” itself is military in origin—however synonymous with “esoteric” or “incomprehensible” it may now be—referring to the “advance party” that scouts the terrain up ahead of the principal army. The expression was first used

427 Appendix C militarily around 1794, to designate the elite shock troops of the French army, whose mission was to engage the enemy first so as to prepare the way for the main body of soldiers to follow. The expression was first used metaphorically beginning around 1830, by French revolutionary political movements who spoke of themselves as being in the “vanguard.” Used as early as 1825, in fact, by the utopian socialist writer Olinde Rodrigues and later by Charles Fourier’s Gabriel-Désiré Laverdant, the term “avant-garde” was applied to the ‘men of vision’ of the coming society—statesmen, philosophers, scientists, businessmen—whose actions would direct the future development of humanity. It was only during the last quarter of the nineteenth century, however, that the metaphor was transferred wholesale from to literary and artistic activities. Mainly attached to them ever since, the aesthetic metaphor has been used to identify successive movements of writers and artists who, within the larger cultural framework of modernism, generated a vital tradition of formal innovation or experimentation and socio-political radicalism.

Figure 132. Sergei Eisenstein: Strike, 1925 (U.S.S.R.)

There are thus, in some critics’ view, two avant-gardes: a political and a cultural one, which sometimes walk hand in hand but by no means always do so. The political avant-garde in the cinema extends from the Soviet montage directors of the 1920s and early 1930s (the first such overtly political manifestation on film) to the work of such artists as Godard and Miklós Jancsó from the 1960s onward. The Soviets—chiefly Alexander Dovzhenko, Sergei Eisenstein, Lev Kuleshov, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and Dziga Vertov—began their careers in the early years of the new Communist state. Like Soviet artists in other fields—the constructivist painters, for example—they were concerned to harness radical formal strategies to Bolshevik rhetoric, and until the 1930s such experimentation was supported by

428 Art-House Cinema, Avant-Garde Film, and Dramatic Modernism the state (though not without controversy). Eisenstein’s Strike (1925), Pudovkin’s Mother (1926), and Dovzhenko’s Arsenal (1929) all relate tales of revolution drawn from Soviet history, organized around either a typical, “positive” hero, a “mass hero” (the proletariat in general), or both. These narratives form the basis of an agitational aesthetic, in which editing—as the label “montage” implies—plays a crucial role. Whether conceived primarily in terms of architectural construction (Kuleshov), dialectical conflict (Eisenstein), or musical disjunction (Vertov), montage aimed to infuse the narrative with a conceptual interplay our of which a revolutionary argument would emerge.

Figure 133. Alexander Dovzhenko: Arsenal, 1929 (U.S.S.R.)

The apolitical (or, in some cases, less political) avant-garde, for its part, is concerned more with the development of a purist film aesthetic, running from Fernand Léger and others in France in the 1920s through the poetic, underground, and structuralist-materialist movements in postwar American as well as Europe. Indeed, France provides us with the first example of a fully fledged avant-garde film community in a liberal democracy. Over the course of the 1920s a set of institutions developed through which non-commercial films, in three major groups, were made, distributed, exhibited, and critically discussed. First, there were the filmmakers associated with the style of impressionism: Abel Gance, Louis Delluc, Jean Epstein,

429 Appendix C

Marcel L’Herbier, and the early Germaine Dulac. These filmmakers generally made narrative films that dwelt upon subjective experience, and experimented with the ways in which cinema could render aspects of that experience (e.g., Epstein’s La Glace à trois faces, 1927). Many of these films were feature-length and exhibited commercially; in other words, they really constitute an early effort to forge a national art cinema. The second strand is that associated with the notion of cinéma pur (akin to Faure’s “cineplastics”), in which the formal and often abstract exploration of cinematic possibilities dominated. Léger’s Ballet mécanique (1924) mixes such exploration with other tendencies; later films by Henri Chomette and Germaine Dulac were “purer” still. The abstract experiments of cinéma pur have come to be thought of as exemplifications of the quintessential modernist aesthetic.

Figure 134. Jean Epstein: La Glace à trois faces, 1927 (France)

The surrealists, to whom I referred earlier, constitute the third grouping of alternative filmmakers in France. Surrealism was born out of the ashes of the earlier movement dada, which had been founded in 1916 by a group of expatriate artists in Zürich. But the movement became an international one, with practitioners adopting the banner in Berlin, Cologne, and New York. Tristan Tzara, the Romanian poet who became the leader of the movement, moves to Paris, which became the major center for dada, as it was later for surrealism. Dada itself is a nonsense word, and as such is

430 Art-House Cinema, Avant-Garde Film, and Dramatic Modernism a clue to the nature of the movement, which was anarchic, violently anti-traditional, and vociferously anti-bourgeois. Many of the dada artists had been involved in the First World War, and the dada movement—represented in film not only by Man Ray and René Clair, but also by Hans Richter—has been understood as a reaction of disgust at a society that could sustain such a barbaric conflict. If the war was the end-product of a society supposedly built on the principles of rationality espoused by Enlightenment philosophers, then the means of protest against this society would have to be irrational. Surrealism was a more formal movement, with a dominant leader (André Breton) and a more elaborate theory, but it nevertheless continued the dada interest in the irrational. This was now buttressed by explicit appeals to Freud’s theory of the unconscious, as Breton, in 1927, identified two “methods” of surrealist composition: automatism, the attempt to relinquish conscious control of design in the actual creation of the art object; and the controlled depiction of dreams and images of the unconscious. What the two methods share is the recording of fortuitous, “marvelous” juxtapositions, creating an impression of randomness and irrationality for the viewer and thereby rejecting the idea that art must cling to the representation of an everyday, visible reality. These textual strategies were echoed by the viewing habits that the dadaists and surrealists purportedly adopted. According to Breton, groups of them

Figure 135. Fernand Léger: Ballet mécanique, 1924 (France)

431 Appendix C would drift in and out of cinemas—disregarding the beginnings and endings of particular films—and break out picnic baskets and champagne while they watched. The effect of such fleeting, broken attention would thus be to undermine narrative unity and turn fragments of narrative films into prompts for an oneiric, mentally or imagistically associative spectatorship. The surrealists had been inspired by the Russian Revolution to believe in the possibility of a radically new society, and for a period in the late 1920s they formally allied themselves with the French Communist Party. There was always a tension, however, between surrealist aesthetics and the demands of direct political agitation. The movement’s alliance with the Communist Party eventually broke down in 1935, after “socialist realism” was adopted as the official aesthetic of the Communist Party, first in the and then in Western Europe. In the Soviet Union itself, Eisenstein, Vertov, and the other montage directors increasingly attracted criticism for the alleged exclusively and elitism of their innovative work, in spite of its explicit Bolshevik commitments. So much so that their formal experiments were curtailed when socialist realism became mandatory in the Soviet Union in 1934. Thus, for all the differences between the Soviet montage movement and surrealism, there is an important parallel between them in their incompatibility with unalloyed, unadorned political agitation as manifest in the events of 1934–1935 in both France and the Soviet Union. That said, state repression of the avant-garde was much more obvious under the totalitarian regime of the Soviet Union, as well as that of Germany, where avant- garde practice was denigrated, respectively, as “formalist” and “degenerate.” In both cases, avant-gardism in both the theater and the cinema was stamped out because it conflicted with, or merely failed to serve, official government policy. The dramatic decline of the European avant-garde in the 1930s is thus connected with a paradoxical feature of the avant-garde ethos: avant-garde artistic practice can flourish only under liberal political regimes, which are willing to tolerate vigorous expressions of dissent against the state and society. In this respect the avant-garde bites the hand that feeds it, or conversely, it pays involuntary homage to the bourgeois liberal democracies it attacks. The rise of and the arrival of the Second World War, then, were turning points not only in the individual lives of a great many artists and intellectuals, as an entire generation of artists was geographically displaced, politically silenced, morally co-opted, or simply executed (like the sometime Spanish surrealist García Lorca). Fascism and the war were also turning points in the history of the avant- garde as a whole. If the center of avant-garde activity between the had been Europe (with Paris often identified as being the “center of the center”), this role passed to the United States, or, more particularly, to New York after the war. Along with better-known figures such as , Bertolt Brecht, and Jean Renoir, for example, Hans Richter was among the leftist intelligentsia who fled Nazi Europe for America. And, just as abstract expressionism emerged in the postwar years as the first style of avant-garde painting geographically rooted in the United States,

432 Art-House Cinema, Avant-Garde Film, and Dramatic Modernism so too did a vigorous avant-garde film community begin to develop. By 1962 a cohesive non-commercial system of production, distribution, exhibition had been created, with its centers in New York and ; a critical establishment was not long in coming. Something similar occurred after the war in the American avant-garde theater, which, like its cinematic counterpart, is rooted more in visual performance than in written text, in a radical performative technique that dismantles and then either discards or refashions the overwhelmingly “well-made” drama of the American stage, as the work of the Wooster Group, the Living, Open, or Bread-and-Puppet Theaters, Mabou Mines, and Ping Chong attests. Such groups or artists became concerned less with what they were saying, with content, then with form and formal experiment: with the means of communicating, the places where theatrical events would take place, the persons employed as performers, and the relationship of performers as well as performance to the audience. So much so that something called “performance art” developed along very loosely defined lines in the United States, as it privileged the indeterminacy and unpredictability of the event over the finish or finiteness, as well fatedness, of the script. Yet even such performance art, especially in its original incarnation as Allan Kaprow’s “happening” (where, in the late , visual art was “performed” by objectified human bodies), harks back to ideas first introduced by the futurists, dadaists, and surrealists. Impatient with established art forms, they turned first to the permissive, open-ended, hard-to-define medium of performance, with its endless variables and unabashed borrowings from poetry, fiction, film, music, dance, drama, architecture, sculpture, and painting. The impatience of these avant- garde movements was the result of a deep-seated skepticism about earlier modes of perception—skepticism, that is, about the articulation of meaning through the logic of language of the language of logic. Realism together with its more complex descendent, naturalism, had been based upon the assumption that material or positivistic reality can be discovered and articulated through the systematic application of the scientific method to objective or observable phenomena. The consequent tendency to ignore subjective elements and the inner life led, in the view of avant-garde artists, to an oversimplified view of the world. The dramatic movements to come were as deeply concerned about truth and reality as their predecessors, but, finding the old definitions and formulations inadequate, they sought new ones. In this pursuit they were not anti-scientific; rather, they attempted to incorporate scientific discoveries (by Einstein and Freud and later Heisenberg) into a more comprehensive vision of the world. And that revised vision was prompted as much by World War I as by anything else. The assassination of the Austrian Archduke Franz-Ferdinand at Sarajevo on June 28, 1914, started a four-year period of slaughter and mutilation among whose victims was precisely the realistic play of the well-made school. Although the nineteenth- century theatre was not killed outright in the first of the great world wars, it did receive a series of blows from which it would never fully recover. The stable world

433 Appendix C of the pre-war era, reflected in a theatre that had catered to a bourgeois audience and had held the mirror up to their lives, manners, and morals, began to disintegrate. With a million killed at the battle of and another million during the Russian offensive of 1916, with countries appearing, disappearing, and reappearing on the map of Europe, what did it matter if Madame Duclos committed adultery with her husband’s best friend, or if Monsieur Dupont succeeded in marrying off his daughters? After the holocaust of mechanized war, the theatre’s depiction of the material and financial problems of the bourgeoisie became irrelevant, even obscene. The realistic tradition and the well-made play were of course not killed in battle, but only maimed and shell-shocked. They continue to drag out a senile existence in the rest homes of our commercial theatre as well as our commercial cinema— despite the further horrors of World War II (including the creation and deployment of nuclear weapons together with death camps), the fall of Communism but the rise of terrorism, repeated assaults from the Theater of the Absurd, and sporadic sallies on the part of post- or latter-day modernists in every medium.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Bazin, A. (2005). The evolution of the language of cinema, 1955. In A. Bazin (Ed.), What is cinema? (Vol. 1., H. Gray, Trans., pp. 23–40). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Bazin, A. (2005). The ontology of the photographic image, 1945. In A. Bazin (Ed.), What is cinema? (Vol. 1., H. Gray, Trans., pp. 9–16). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Breton, A. (1972). Manifestoes of surrealism (R. Seaver & H. R. Lane, Trans.). Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Faure, É. (1975). The art of cineplastics, 1920 (W. Pach, Trans.). In D. Talbot (Ed.), Film: An anthology, 1959 (pp. 3–14). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Flint, R. W. (Ed.). (1972). Marinetti: Selected writings. New York, NY: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux. Goldberg, R. L. (1988). Performance art: From futurism to the present. New York, NY: H. N. Abrams. Kaprow, A. (2003). Happenings in the New York scene, 1961. In A. Kaprow (Ed.), Essays on the blurring of art and life, 1993 (pp. 15–26). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Kirby, E. T. (Ed.). (1969). Total theater: A critical anthology. New York, NY: Dutton. Kracauer, S. (1997). Theory of film: The redemption of physical reality, 1960. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Poggioli, R. (1968). The theory of the avant-garde, 1962 (G. Fitzgerald, Trans.). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Weightman, J. (1973). The concept of the avant-garde. London: Alcove.

434 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author of many essays and articles over the years, Robert Cardullo has had his work appear in such journals as the Yale Review, Cambridge Quarterly, Film Quarterly, and Cinema Journal. For twenty years, from 1987 to 2007, he was the regular film critic for the Hudson Review in New York. Cardullo is the author or editor of a number of books, including Soundings on Cinema: Speaking to Film and Film Artists (SUNY Press, 2008) and In Search of Cinema: Writings on International Film Art (McGill-Queen’s UP, 2004). He is also the chief American translator of the film criticism of André Bazin, with several volumes to his credit, among them Bazin at Work: Major Essays and Reviews from the ’40s and ’50s and André Bazin and Italian Neorealism. Cardullo took his master’s and doctoral degrees from Yale University, and received his B.A., with honors, from the University of Florida in Gainesville. He taught for four decades at the University of Michigan, Colgate, and New York University, as well as abroad.

435 INDEX

3-D, 379, 383 Akutagawa, Ryunosuke, 60 3-Iron, 305 Albee, Edward, 388, 390 8½, 73, 76–81, 87, 103, 143 Alexander the Great (Alexander III of 12:08 East of Bucharest, 324, 325 Macedon), 226 Algerian War, 274 A Alice, 143 À bout de souffle, 274 Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, 128 À Nous la Liberté, 105 Alice’s Restaurant, xix, 128 Abadani-Ha, 239 Alighieri, Dante, 111 Abecassis, Eliette, 251 , 270 Abecassis, Yael, 255 All He Ever Loved, 1 Absurdism, 280, 306, 426, 434 Allen, Woody, 143–153, 169, 350, 351 (U.S.), 1, 44, 55, 60, Almendros, Nestor, 222 64, 117, 121, 222, 319 Almodóvar, Pedro, 197–203, 265, 270, Academy of Motion Picture Arts and 271 Sciences (U.S.), 126, 222 Altman, Robert, 150 Accattone, 107, 115, 116, 257 Amarcord, 78, 79 Ackroyd, Barry, 208 Amelio, Gianni, 231, 313 Acting, 39, 40, 42, 45, 55, 106, 118, An American Romance, 205 132, 150, 163, 166, 167, 172, The American Weekly (Hearst), 33 181–183, 194, 202, 208, 209, 229, Amerika, 80 237, 238, 240, 248, 255, 269, 271, Amidei, Sergio, 41 280, 281, 295, 300–302, 311, 314, Amin, Idi, 258 371, 377, 383, 384, 397–411 L’Amour Fou, 394 “Acting for the Films” (Graham), And Life Goes On …, 239, 240, 247 400 And Quiet Rolls the Dawn, 163 Acting in Film (Caine), 401 And the Ship Sails On, 78 “The Actor” (Barrymore), 400 Anderson, Lindsay, 63 Adaptation, 2, 4, 9, 13, 48, 56, 100, Angelico, Fra (Guido di Pietro), 156 117, 125, 126, 205, 285, 291, 373, The Angels’ Share, 211 381, 382, 391, 415 Anger, Kenneth, 424, 425 Aeschylus, 388 Angry Young Men (England), 205 Aestheticism, 426 Anna Karenina, 12 Afghan Film (), 295 Annie Hall, 143–145, 150 Agamemnon, 388 Another Woman, 143 L’Âge d’Or, 197 Ansah, Kwaw, 190 Ah, Wilderness!, 145 Antigone, 190 Akerman, Chantal, 413 Antonioni, Michelangelo, 39, 80, 99, Akhadov, Valery, 318 101, 103, 182, 242, 275, 312, 380

437 INDEX

Anything Else, 150 Band of Outsiders, 103 Apocalypse Now, 125, 133 Bara, Theda, 408 Apollinaire, Guillaume, 378 Baran, 296 The Apple, 248, 313 Baranovskaya, Vera, 404 Aragon, Louis, 306, 311, 378 The Barber of Seville, 260 Aranovich, Semen, 314 Barcelona, 227 Arcand, Denys, 394 Barda, Meitel, 255 Arian Film (Afghanistan), 295 Barfly, 258 Ariel, 181–186, 355, 371, 374 Barmak, Saddiq, 293–303, 365 Aristophanes, 9, 143 Baroque, 76, 226, 288 Aristotle, 385 Barry Lyndon, 30 Arriagada, Jorge, 263 Barrymore, John, 404 Arrival of the Paris Express, 385, 386 Barrymore, Lionel, 400 Arsenal, 429 Bartolini, Luigi, 41 Artaud, Antonin, 378, 387 Bash, 394 Assayas, Olivier, 156 Battle of the Rails, 51 , 293, 294, 300 The Battleship Potemkin, 388, 389 Auden, W. H., 426 Bauhaus (Germany), 378 Aurenche, Jean, 47, 56 Bazin, André, 28, 47, 118, 143, 423, Autant-Lara, Claude, 50 425 Auteurism, 11, 47, 56, 61, 81, 87, 105, Beauty and the Beast, 50 140, 143, 150, 161, 271, 273, 371, Beckett, Samuel, 380 385, 386 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 59, 288 Avant-gardism, 60, 281, 305, 306, 378, Before Sunrise, 126 399, 413–434 Beijing Film Academy (China), 214 L’avventura, 101, 103, 310 Beizai, Bahram, 239 Aykroyd, Dan, 183 Belasco, David, 376 Belgian Film Festival, 44 B La Belle Époque, 20 Babenco, Hector, 313 Ben Hur, 377 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 115 Benedek, Laslo, 391 Bachmann, Gideon, 80 Benny’s Video, 283 Bachmann, Ingeborg, 291 Benoît-Lévy, Jean, 314 Bad Education, 270, 271 Bentley, Eric, 93 The Bad Sleep Well, 64 Berger, Christian, 286 Badlands, xix, 145 Bergman, Ingmar, 64, 80, 144–146, Bal poussière, 190 280, 380, 394 Ballad of Orin, 69 Berlin Alexanderplatz, 156 Ballestros, Anderson, 263 Berlin International Film Festival Ballet mécanique, 430, 431 (Germany), 161, 319 Bananas, 143 Berlin: Symphony of a City, 427 Bancroft, Anne, 254 Berta, Renato, 255, 256

438 INDEX

Bertolucci, Bernardo, 100, 214, 414, Bread and Puppet Theater (Vermont, 415 U.S.), 433 The Betrothed; see I promessi sposi Brecht, Bertolt, 9, 240, 378, 387, 388, Bettelheim, Bruno, 50 418, 432 Bianco e Nero, 39 Breer, Robert, 416 Bicycle Thieves, 39–45, 51, 110–112, Bresson, Robert, 101, 103, 156, 172, 301, 313, 340, 371–373 175, 182, 186, 229, 255, 273, 275, Il Bidone, 75 280, 281, 301, 374 Biedermeier, 287 Breton, André, 378, 431 The Big Parade, 214 Brezhnev, Leonid, 319 bin Laden, Osama, 295 Brickman, Marshall, 148 “The Bird Is on His Own” (Nicholson), , 126 410 Brieux, Eugène, 376 The Birth of a Nation, 36, 377 Brightness, 190 Black Girl, 187, 188 Bringing Up Baby, 9 Blasetti, Alessandro, 41 British Film Academy, 44 Bleak Moments, 206 Broadway, 4, 9, 126, 305 The Bling Ring, 134 Brook, Peter, 63, 386, 387 Blok, Alexander, 375 Brooks, Louise, 408 Blood Wedding, 198 Brown, Joe E., 90 Blue Kite, 214 Brustein, Robert, 382 Blue Man Group (New York), 393 Büchner, Georg, xv, 419 Boffety, Jean, 141 Bucur, Dragoş, 329 Bogart, Humphrey, 184, 185 Buddhism, 275, 276 Bogdanovich, Peter, 147 Bukowski, Charles, 258 The Bohemian Life, 278 Bülow, Claus von, 258 Bollywood (India), 295 Buñuel, Luis, 49, 108, 197, 257, 261, Bolshevism, 428, 432 313, 416, 417 Bonnie and Clyde, xix, 128, 145 Burov, Alexander, 315 Boogie, 329 Busse, Fred, 5 Bordwell, David, 24, 25, 27, 32 Butler, Wilmer, 131 Borges, Jorge Luis, 35 Bye Bye Brazil, 265 Born in a Bookshop: Chapters from the Byron, George Gordon (Lord), 287 Chicago Renaissance, 4 Bossa Nova, 265 C Bost, Pierre, 47, 56 Caan, James, 128, 132 Boyer, François, 47–57, 341 Cabaret, 381, 382 Boyfriends and Girlfriends, 175–180, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 161, 378, 354, 371 414 Braine, John, 205 Café Society, 152 Brando, Marlon, 262 , 11, 64 Bread and Alley, 239 Caimi, Lamberto, 101

439 INDEX

Cain, James M., 41 Center for the Intellectual Development Caine, Michael, 401 of Children and Young Adults (), Caldwell, Erskine, 48 239 Callas, Maria, 226, 260 Central Station, 265, 319 Calvino, Italo, 39 Centro Sperimentale (Rome), 39 Camille, 406, 407 “A Certain Tendency of the French Camp Thiaroye, 188 Cinema” (Truffaut), 56 Camus, Albert, 193 Cervantes, Ignacio, 224 (France), 55, 213, Chabrol, Claude, 175, 415, 416 229, 240, 256, 273, 300 Chaikin, Joseph, 386 Cantet, Laurent, 135, 381 Chanois, Jean-Paul Le, 49 Capitalism, 107, 109, 125, 163, 210, Chaplin, Charles, 9, 105, 143, 222, 315, 316, 319–321, 410 404 Capone, Al, 5 Charlie: The Improbable Life and Capote, Truman, 227 Times of Charles MacArthur, 1 Capricious Summer, 117 Chaulet, Emmanuelle, 178 Les Carabiniers, 258 Chekhov, Anton, 144, 376, 418 The Cardboard Village, 99 Chen, Huaikai, 216 Carell, Lianella, 42 Chen, Kaige, 213–219, 358 Carlyle, Robert, 208 Chen, Shiang-chyi, 280 Carné, Marcel, 11 Chénieux, Pierre-Laurent, 193 Carnival in Flanders, 13 Cheung, Leslie, 218 Carrez, Florence, 301 Chiarini, Luigi, 39 Carringer, Robert L., 32 Chicago Herald-Examiner, 5, 8 Casablanca, 383 , 5 Casanova, 78 Un chien andalou, 416, 417 Casé, Regina, 269 The Child; see L’Enfant The Case Is Closed, 163–168, 352, 371, The Children Are Watching Us, 41, 51 372 The Children of Heaven, 301 Case No. 1, Case No. 2, 239, 240 Chinatown, 145 Castro, Fidel, 221, 222, 226 Chinese Roulette, 155 Catherine the Great (Catherine II of Ching Dynasty (China), 213 Russia), 316 Chloë in the Afternoon, 175, 176, 179 Catholicism, 56, 73, 99, 107, 109, 116, Chocolat, 191 169–174, 176, 179, 224, 254, 255, The Choice, 190 260, 261, 266, 270 Chomette, Henri, 430 , 206 Chong, Ping, 433 The Caucasian Chalk Circle, 388 Chowdhury, Ramapada, 163 Cavalier, Alain, 255 Christianity, 12, 53, 56, 101, 109–111, Ceauşescu, Nicolae, 324, 325, 328 172, 224, 230, 261, 276, 301, 373 Ceddo, 188 A Christmas Mystery, 314 Centenary of Cinema (Paris), 244 Chukhrai, Pavel, 319

440 INDEX

Chytilová, Věra, 117 111, 117, 118, 120, 121, 126, 135, CIA (Central Intelligence Agency, 143–145, 149, 152, 169, 170, 173, U.S.), 245 178, 179, 182, 183, 188, 193, 197, “Cico and Pallina” (Marc’ Aurelio), 74 208, 209, 211, 221, 227, 254, 260, Cicognini, Alessandro, 45 265, 266, 270, 273, 279, 280, 296, Cine Mujer (Mexico), 198 305, 310, 371–373, 376 Cinecittà (Rome), 39, 80, 81, 112 Communism, 39, 40, 107, 116, 121, Le cinéma de papa, 56, 155 123, 214–216, 221, 222, 224, 225, Cinema Nôvo (Brazil), 414 274, 306, 319, 329, 428, 432, 434 Cinéma pur, 430 Compson, Betty, 397 CinemaScope, 379 A Confucian Confusion, 274 Cinerama, 379 The Conversation, xix, 125–127, 132 The Circumstance, 99 Copeland, Stewart, 208 Cissé, Souleymane, 190 Coppola, Francis Ford, 63, Citizen Kane, 23–37, 159, 339, 340, 125–134, 348, 349 371, 372 Coppola, Sophia, 125, 126, 133 Citti, Franco, 115 Cormack, Bartlett, 2 City of God, 257 The Cotton Club, 127 City of Women, 78 The Cow, 239 Clair, René, 11, 379, 421, 422, 431 Cowie, Peter, 32, 33, 35 Claire’s Knee, 175, 176 Crichton, Charles, 49 Clarke, Martha, 290 Crime and Punishment, 181 Classicism, 12, 40, 59, 159, 167, 180, Crime at a Girls’ School, 117, 118 186, 286, 288, 290, 291, 413, 415, Crime in a Nightclub, 117, 118 416 Crimes and Misdemeanors, 143, 145 Clayton, Jack, 125, 205 Criticism, xvii, 11, 20, 63, 152, 373, Clément, René, 47–57, 125, 301, 313, 374, 385, 386, 399, 402, 432 342 Cronenberg, David, 214 Closely Watched Trains, 117–124, 347, Cross My Heart and Hope to Die, 47 348, 372, 373 Cruz, Vladimir, 227 Close-Up, 240 Cubism, 280 The Clowns, 78–80 Cukor, George, 9, 406, 407 Cocteau, Jean, 81, 378 Cultural Revolution (Chinese), 213–216 Code Unknown, 284, 289 The Curse of the Jade Scorpion, 152 Cold War, 70 Curtis, Tony, 90 Coleridge, Samuel, 287 The Cyclist, 293 Colonialism, 187, 189, 226 Czech Renaissance, 117, 120, 121, 414 , 301 Comedies and Proverbs, 175, 176, 178, D 179 Da Vinci, Leonardo, 108 Comedy, 1–10, 20, 25, 40, 45, 52, 56, Dadaism, 421, 422, 424, 426, 430, 431, 74, 75, 77, 80, 91–94, 97, 100, 102, 433

441 INDEX

Dali, Salvador, 416 Despair, 156 D’Amico, Suso Cecchi, 41 Desplechin, Arnaud, 175 Dante; see Alighieri, Dante Detto, Loredana, 104 Danton’s Death, xv Devarim, 251 Danzón, 197–203, 265, 270, 356, 357, Devil in the Flesh, 50 372 Di Giacomo, Franco, 173 Daquin, Louis, 49 “Dialogue with the Actress” (Brooks), Dardenne, Jean-Pierre, 229–238, 318, 408 360, 381 Diamond, I.A.L., 90, 92 Dardenne, Luc, 229–238, 318, 360, 381 Diary of a Country Priest, 172, 255 Dark Habits, 197, 270 Dickens, Charles, xv, 317, 318 Darvishi, Mohammed Reza, 300 Diderot, Denis, 408, 409 Darwinism, 8, 231 Digitization, xvii, 372, 386 Das Gupta, Dehapratim, 167 Directors’ Guild of America (U.S.), 126 Daumier, Honoré, 79 Dirty Dancing, 198 Davies, Terence, 206 Disney Company, 49 Day after Day; see Yom Yom Distant Voices, Still Lives, 206 The Day a Pig Fell into the Well, 306 The Divine Comedy, 111 De La Guarda (Argentina), 393 Documentary, 40, 51, 78, 80, 99, De Santis, Giuseppe, 39 100, 103, 125, 152, 163, 165, 167, De Sica, Vittorio, 39–45, 51, 55, 76, 181, 202, 205, 206, 222, 230, 231, 100, 110, 120, 248, 300, 301, 341 239–241, 243–245, 251, 257–259, Deafman Glance, 393 291, 295, 296, 298, 300, 314, 371, Dear Diary, 169 397 “Death and Transfiguration” (Davies), Dodeskaden, 62 206 Doillon, Jacques, 56 Death of a Bureaucrat, 221 Dolby sound, 62 “The Death of Mr. Baltisberger” La Dolce Vita, 76, 80, 101 (segment, ), 117 A Doll’s House, 223 Death of a Salesman, 389, 391 Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, Deconstructing Harry, 152 265 Delhomme, Benoît, 275 Doña Herlinda and Her Son, 198 Delli Colli, Tonino, 115 Donne, John, 224 Delluc, Louis, 429 Donner, Jörn, 181 Delsarte, François, 399 Donskoi, Mark, 187 Demmler, Paul, 158 Dorfmann, Robert, 47 Denis, Claire, 191 Doshusha School of Western Painting Dennis, Sandy, 133 (Japan), 61 La dentellière; see The Lacemaker Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 59, 181 Depardieu, Gérard, 258 , 69 Depression (a.k.a. Great Depression), Dourani, Behzad, 241, 248 407 Dovzhenko, Alexander, 428, 429 Deren, Maya, 419 Dozo, Marie-Hélène, 232

442 INDEX

Dramaten (Royal Dramatic Theatre, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Stockholm), 145 305 Drayman Henschel, 105 L’Étranger, 193 , 135 Evening of the Bearded Heart; see Drechsel, Sammy, 159 Soirée du coeur à barbe Dreyer, Carl-Theodor, 156, 158, 161, Everyone Says I Love You, 152 301, 404, 405 Everything You Always Wanted to Know Drunken Angel, 61–63 about Sex … But Were Afraid to Ask, Duarte, Lima, 269 143 Duchamp, Marcel, 422 “The Evolution of the Language of Dugowson, Martine, 175 Cinema” (Bazin), 423 Dulac, Germaine, 413, 419, 430 “The Execution of Mary, Queen of Duparc, Henri, 190 Scots” (Heiss), 377 Düringer, Annemarie, 159 Existentialism, 66, 213, 241, 273, 277, Dutt, Anjan, 167 280, 306, 373 Duvall, Robert, 128, 132, 133 Expressionism, 62, 105, 324, 378, 414, Duvivier, Julien, 11 426, 432

E F Easy Rider, xviii, 128 Faat-Kine, 188 Ecce Bombo, 169 Fabrizi, Aldo, 74 Edison, Thomas, 103, 375, 377, 398 Falconetti, Renée, 301, 404 Effi Briest, 161 Family Life, 206 Eidel, Philippe, 256 FAMU (Faculty of the Academy of Einstein, Albert, 433 Dramatic Arts, Czechoslovakia), 117 Eisenstein, Sergei, xv, 28, 379, 388, Farber, Manny, 156 389, 407, 428, 429, 432 Farce, xvi, 1–10, 21, 89–98, 179, 269, Ekberg, Anita, 80 373 Ekk, Nikolai, 48 Farewell, My Concubine, 213–219, Eliot, T. S., 426 358, 372, 373 Elisei, Marcello, 115 “Farewell to Cuba” (Cervantes), 225 Elvira Madigan, 69 Farrokhzad, Forough, 245, 247 Emil and the Detectives, 48, 49 Fascism, 39, 108, 115, 116, 120, 159, Emitai, 188 291, 300, 302, 432 L’Enfant, 229, 230, 237, 318 Fassbinder, Rainer Werner, Enlightenment, 426, 431 155–162, 182, 255, 258, 352 Entr’acte, 421, 422 The Father, 145 Entwicklungsroman, 119 Faulkner, William, 48, 426 Epic Theater (Brecht), 379 Faure, Élie, 419, 430 Epstein, Jean, 429, 430 Feiffer, Jules, 146 Erhard, Ludwig, 157 Feininger, Andreas, 147 Escobar, Pablo, 258 Fellini, Federico, 64, 73–88, 101, 143, Esprit, 47 146, 344, 380

443 INDEX

Feminism, 128, 198, 202, 247, 248, Franciolini, Gianni, 41 270, 288, 401 Franco, Francisco, 197 Ferguson, Otis, 24 Franz-Ferdinand of , Archduke, Feydeau, Georges, 9, 93, 179 433 Feyder, Jacques, 11, 13 Frears, Stephen, 414 The Fiancés, 99–102 Freeze. Die. Come to Life, 313 Field Diary; see Yoman Sadeh Freie Bühne (Berlin), 376 Fifth Generation (China), 381, 213 The French Lieutenant’s Woman, 407 “The Film Actor” (Portman), 401 Freud, Sigmund, 33, 290, 431, 433 “Film as the Narration of Space” Freudianism, 56, 107 (Jaffe”), 29 FRG Trilogy (Fassbinder), 155, Film Comment, 59, 60 157–159 Film d’Art (France), 414 Frida, 393 , 55, 161 Fröhlich, Pea, 159, 162 (Paris), 258 The Front Page, 1–10, 337, 372, 373 Finck, Werner, 155 Frunze, Mikhail Vasilevich, 320 Finian’s Rainbow, 126 Fuller, Samuel, 144 Finney, Albert, 400 Funny Games, 284, 289 First Graders, 239 Futurism, 280, 378, 426, 427, 433 A Fistful of Dollars, 59 Fitzgerald, Barry, 42 G Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 125 Gabbeh, 239 , xviii, xix Gabin, Jean, 18, 19 Flaiano, Ennio, 87 Gagarin, Yuri, 320 , 198 “The Game of Truth” (Mastroianni), Flowers of Shanghai, 273 401 Fonda, Henry, 42, 407 The Gamekeeper, 206 Fool Moon, 393 Gance, Abel, 429 Forbidden Games, 47–57, 301, 313, Garbo, Greta, 301, 407 341, 342, 371, 373 García, Rodrigo, 200 Ford, John, 60, 379, 404, 406 Garcia, Stênio, 269 Foreign Correspondent, 2 García Joya, Mario, 221, 226 Formalism, xvi, 118, 167, 280, 284, García Lorca, Federico, 224, 432 302, 432 Gardens of Stone, 127 Forman, Miloš, 121 A Garibaldian in the Convent, 41 Forsberg, Lars, 183 Garofolo, Ettore, 115 Fosse, Bob, 381 Garnett, Tay, 74 Fossey, Brigitte, 54, 56, 301 Gas, 105 The Four Hundred Blows, 277, 278 Gay, John, 9 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days, 323, Gehr, Ernie, 420 324, 329 Gendai-mono (Japanese drama of Four Steps in the Clouds, 41 modern life), 62 Fourier, Charles, 428 Gendron, François-Eric, 178

444 INDEX

Genesis, 101 , xix Genet, Jean, 380 Graham, Charles, 400 Gentil, Dominique, 188 Gramsci, Antonio, 116 Gerasimov, Sergei, 187 Le Grand Chemin, 56 Germany, Year Zero, 229, 313 Grand Highway; see Le Grand Chemin Germi, Pietro, 39, 74 Grand Illusion; see La Grande illusion Gershwin, George, 147, 152 La Grande illusion, 11–21, 338, 371, Gervaise, 56 373 Gesamtkunstwerk (total work of art), Grant, Cary, 3, 42, 91 371, 383, 384 The Grapes of Wrath, 404, 406 Ghafouri, Ebrahim, 294 Grease, 198 Ghobadi, Bahman, 248 The Great Gatsby, 125 Gide, André, 224 The Green Bird, 393 The Gift of God, 189 Greenaway, Peter, 413 Gil, Gilberto, 269 The Greenhouse, 318 Gilbert, W. S., 376 Grein, J. T., 376 Gilda, 2 Griffith, D. W., xv, 19, 35, 36, 375, 377, Ginger and Fred, 78 399, 403, 404, 409, 424 Gish, Lillian, 404 Grisham, John, 126 Gitai, Amos, 251–256, 303, 361 The Grotesque, 77, 146, 159, 201, 427 La Glace à trois faces, 430 Grotowski, Jerzy, 386 Godard, Jean-Luc, 103, 156, 175, 258, Gu, Changwei, 218 274, 280, 380, 387, 415, 428 Guantanamera, 221 The Godfather, 125, 133 Guinevere, 126 Goebbels, Joseph, 11 Gunga Din, 1 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 287, 376 Guthrie, Lee, 144 Golbahari, Marina, 301–303 Gutiérrez Alea, Tomás, 202, Award; see Berlin 221–227, 359 International Film Festival Gyokudo, Uragami, 60 Award; see H Gomes, Flora, 190 Haavisto, Susanna, 183 Gondry, Michel, 305, 306 Haider, Jörg, 291 Gone With the Wind, 2 Hair, 198 Gong, Li, 218 Hamlet, 30 Goodbye to Berlin, 382 Hamlet Goes Business, 181, 182 Goretta, Claude, 135–141, 349 Hammond, Paul, 257 Gorky, Maxim, 59 Haneke, Michael, 135, 283–292, 364, The Gospel According to St. Matthew, 381 114 , 143, 144 Gothicism, 33, 125 Happenings, 433 Gourmet, Olivier, 237 Hashimoto, Shinobu, 62 Grabbe, Christian Dietrich, 419 Hattab, Yoram, 255

445 INDEX

Hauer, Rutger, 100 The Homecoming, 388 Hauff, Reinhard, 167 Homework, 239, 240 Hauptmann, Gerhart, 105 Hondo, Med, 189 Hausmann, Raoul, 424 Hong, Sang-soo, 305–312, 365, 381 Hawks, Howard, 1, 2, 9, 404, 405 Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus), 263 The Hawks and the Sparrows, 107 Hou, Hsiao-hsien, 273 Hayasaka, Fumio, 62 The House Is Black, 245 Haydn, (Franz) Joseph, 63 House of Games, 145 Headlights in the Fog, 41 Hoven, Adrian, 155 Hearst, William Randolph, 5, 26, 33 Howards End, 407 Hebbel, Friedrich, 92, 418 Howey, Walter Crawford, 5 Hecht, Ben, 1–10 Hrabal, Bohumil, 117, 121, 122 Heimatfilm (homeland film), 155 Hu, Mei, 214 Heisenberg, Werner, 433 The Hucksters, 149 Heiss, William, 377 Hue and Cry, 49 Hellman, Lillian, 391 Hughes, Howard, 26 Hemingway, Ernest, 150 Humanism, 6, 12, 20, 55, 59, 101, 111, Hemingway, Mariel, 149, 150 163, 175, 296, 303 Herati, Arif, 301 Huppert, Isabelle, 135, 283, 291 L’Herbier, Marcel, 430 “The Hurdy-Gurdy Man”; see “Der Heritage Africa, 190 Leiermann” Hermosillo, Jaime Humberto, 198 Husbands and Wives, 143, 150 Hershey, Barbara, 143 Huston, John, 125 Hidden Agenda, 206 Hwang, David Henry, 214 The Hidden Fortress, 59, 62 High and Low, 64 I High Heels, 197 I Am a Camera, 382 High Sierra, 184, 185 I Have a New Master; see Passion for The Hired Hand, xviii Life, Hiroshima, mon amour, 277, 414 I Live in Fear; see Record of a Living His Girl Friday, 1–3, 9, 25 Being Hitchcock, Alfred, 2, 329 I Served the King of England, 121–124 Hitler, Adolf, 11, 12, 122, 295 Ibarra, Mirta, 226 Höch, Hannah, 424 Ibrahim, Abdullah, 191, 193, 194 Hoffman, Dustin, 143, 150 Ibsen, Henrik, 223, 376, 388, 418 The Hole, 273 “Ich weiss, es wird einmal ein Wunder Hollywood, xviii, 2, 4, 26, 42, 59, 81, geschehen” (“I Know That a Miracle 89, 121, 148, 159, 161, 186, 255, Will Yet Occur,” Leander), 160 273, 305, 371, 386, 398, 402, 408, Ichikawa, Jun, 305, 306, 381 413, 415, 418, 425 The Idiot, 59 Hollywood Ending, 152 Ikiru, 59, 63, 64, 407, 408 Holocaust, 155 Imperialism, 187, 213, 227, 294 Home Alone, 383 Impressionism, 21, 429

446 INDEX

Improper Conduct, 222 Jireš, Jaromil, 117 In the Company of Men, 393 The Job; see Il posto In the Summertime, 99 John XXIII, Pope, 99, 100 , 293 Johnson, Hilding, 4 Independent Theatre (London), 376 Jonson, Ben, 9 Industrial Revolution, 107, 426 Joyce, James, 426 Interiors, 143–146, 152 Judaism, 14, 15, 18, 122, 145, 221, Intervista, 80 251–256, 303 Intolerance, 377 Judith of Bethulia, 377 The Invitation, 135 Jules and Jim, 56 Ionesco, Eugène, 380 Juliet of the Spirits, 78, 80, 83 Irma la Douce, 97 July, Miranda, 305, 306 Irving, Henry, 376 Irwin, Bill, 393 K Is Paris Burning?, 125 Kaboré, Gaston, 189 Isherwood, Christopher, 382 Kabuki theater (Japan), 59 Islam, 187, 239, 240, 293, 294, 298, Kabul Film (Afghanistan), 295 303 Kadár, Jan, 121 It All Started Here, 313 Kadosh, 251–256, 303, 361, 372 The Italian, 313–322, 365, 366, 371 Kael, Pauline, xviii, 33 Itskov, Yuri, 315 Kafka, Franz, 80, 105 Ivanov, 418 Kagemusha, 59, 62–64, 70 Ivanov, Vlad, 329 Kaiser, Georg, 105 Ivory, James, 407, 415 Kalari, Mahmoud, 242 The Kaleidoscope, 163, 167 J Kandahar, 294 Jackson, Janet, 302 Kanevski, Vitaly, 231, 313 Jaffe, Ira, 29, 30 Kant, Immanuel, 176 Jancsó, Miklós, 428 Kaprow, Allan, 433 Jansenism, 176 Kastner, Erich, 48 The Jar, 239 Kataev, Valentin, 319, 320 Jaramillo, Germán, 262, 263 Kaurismäki, Aki, 181–186, 278, 355, Jarman, Derek, 413 356, 381 Jarmusch, Jim, 182, 275, 280, 381 Kaurismäki, Mika, 181 Jarry, Alfred, 427 Kazan, Elia, 205, 323 Jelinek, Elfriede, 283–292 Keaton, Buster, 9, 102, 143, 186, Jellicoe, Ann, 391 404 Jeong, Yong-jin, 311 Keaton, Diane, 149, 152 Jesse, Bill, 209 Keeping the Faith, 254–256 , 394 Keller, Helen, 147 Jidai-geki (Japanese historical drama), Kes, 206, 207 62 Kesich, Tullio, 104 Jiménez Leal, Orlando, 221, 222 Khayyám, Omar, 245, 247

447 INDEX

Kiarostami, Abbas, 101, 239–249, 256, The Lacemaker, 135–141, 349, 300, 360 371–373 The Kid with a Bike, 229, 230 Ladybird, Ladybird, 211 Kikushima, Ryuzo, 62 Lainé, Pascal, 137, 138, 141 Kim, Hyeon-gu, 311 Lalinde, Rodrigo, 259 Kim, Ki-duk, 305, 306, 381 Lamprecht, Gerhardt, 48, 49 Kim, Toewoo, 311 Lamy, Benoît, 190 Kinetoscope, 377 Lang, Fritz, 432 King Lear, 37, 59 Langdon, Harry, 9 King of the Children, 214 Largely New York, 393 Kiss Me, Stupid, 97 Larks on a String, 117 Kiss of the Spider Woman, 222, 223 Last Days, 305 Kitano, Takeshi, 182 , 214 Die Klavierlehrerin; see The Piano The Last Picture Show, 147 Teacher The Last Supper, 108 Kleist, Heinrich von, 176 Last Tango in Paris, 263 Klimt, Gustav, 290 Last Year at Marienbad, 414 Klos, Elmar, 121 Lattuada, Alberto, 74 The Knack, 391, 392 Laverdant, Gabriel-Désiré, 428 Kneiffel, Alexander, 318 The Law of Desire, 197 Knight, Shirley, 128, 132, 133 Lean, David, 126 Koch, Thilo, 159 Leander, Zarah, 160 Kokain, 159 Léaud, Jean-Pierre, 274, 277, 278, 280 Kolya, 319 Lebanon War, 251 Konchalovsky, Andrei, 61 Lederer, Charles, 2, 9 Kopple, Barbara, 205 Lee, Kang-sheng, 280 Kore-eda, Hirokazu, 251 Lee, Lilian, 214, 217 Kracauer, Siegfried, 425 The Legend of the Holy Drinker, 100, Kravchuk, Andrei, 313–322, 366 101 Krishtofovich, Viacheslav, 231 Léger, Fernand, 413, 419, 429–431 Kubrick, Stanley, 30, 380 “Der Leiermann” (Müller/Schubert), Kuld, Rudolf, 318 287 Kuleshov, Lev, 428, 429 Leigh, Mike, 206, 231, 381 Kundera, Milan, 213, 218 Lemmon, Jack, 90 Kurosawa, Akira, 59–71, 80, 240, 343, Lenin, Vladimir, 316 407, 408 Leningrad Cowboys Go America, 182 Kuznetsova, Mariya, 316 Leopold, Nathan, 258 Kuzui, Fran Rubel, 126 Lesnikova, Darya, 317 Lester, Richard, 391, 392 L Letters from Bohemia, 1 Labiche, Eugène, 93 Life on a String, 214 LaBute, Neil, 381, 393 Lifeboat, 2

448 INDEX

The Light That Failed, 377 MacKaye, Steele, 376 Lima, José Lezama, 224 , 62 Linklater, Richard, 126 Madama Butterfly, 214 The Lion King, 393 Maddalena, Zero for Conduct, 41 Little Caesar, 91 The Madhouse on Madison Street, 5 The Little Foxes, 391, 392 Maeterlinck, Maurice, 418 Living Theatre (New York), 387, 433 Maggiorani, Lamberto, 42 Lloyd, Harold, 9 Magic in the Moonlight, 152 Loach, Ken, 205–211, 231, 357, 358 Magnani, Anna, 107, 115, 116, 269 Loeb, Richard, 258 The Magnificent Seven, 59 Lola, 155, 157 Mahajan, K. K., 166 Long Day’s Journey into Night, 145 Majidi, Majid, 296, 300 of Veronika Voss; see The Major and the Minor, 97 Veronika Voss Makevejev, Dušam, 415 Look Back in Anger, 205 Makk, Károly, 248 Loren, Sophia, 269 Maklmalbaf, Mohsen, 239, 240, Lost in Translation, 126, 132, 134 293–295 Love, 248 Maklmalbaf, Samira, 248, 293, 300, Love and Death, 143 313 Lovers, Happy Lovers, 56 Malina, 291 , 121 Mallarmé, Stéphane, 426 The Lower Depths, 13, 59 Malle, Louis, 393, 394 Lu, Ti-ching, 280 Mamet, David, 9, 394 Lu, Wei, 214 Mamma Roma, 107–116, 347, 372, Lubitsch, Ernst, 89, 379 373 Lucas, George, 63 Mamoulian, Rouben, 379 Lucía, 202 A Man Called John, 99, 100 Lumet, Sidney, 407 Man with a Movie Camera, 423, 424 Lumière, Auguste, 377, 385, 386, 399 Mandela, Nelson, 303 Lumière, Louis, 377, 385, 386, 399 Manhattan, 143–153, 350, 373 Luxemburg, Rosa, 162 , 152 Lynch, David, 381 Manichaeism, 49 Mankiewicz, Herman J., 23, 24, 26, 27, M 33, 34, 37 M. Butterfly, 214 Mann, Thomas, 426 Maborosi, 251 Manzoni, Alessandro, 99 Mabou Mines (New York), 433 Mao, Zedong, 213, 214 Mac, 205 Marat/Sade, 387 MacArthur, Charles, 1–10 Marc’ Aurelio, 74 Macbeth, 54, 59, 64 Marcoen, Alain, 232 Macdonald, Dwight, xviii , 134 The Machine Wreckers, 105 Marinetti, F. T., 378

449 INDEX

Marivaux, Pierre Carlet de Chamblain Melodrama, 2, 5, 6, 21, 32, 40, 64, 75, de, 178 87, 159, 230, 254, 269, 270, 300, The Marquise of O …, 176 319, 371, 376, 398, 399 The Marriage of Maria Braun, 155, “Memories Are Made of This” (Martin), 157, 161 160 Marsh, Mae, 409 Memories of Underdevelopment, 221 Martelli, Otello, 82 Men Who Tread on the Tiger’s Tail, 59 Märthesheimer, Peter, 157, 159, 160, Menjou, Adolphe, 7 162 Menzel, Jiří, 117–124, 348 Martin, David, 245 Merchant, Ismail, 415 Martin, Dean, 160 Meshkini, Marzieh, 295 Marx, Karl, 105, 268 Meyerhold, Vsevolod, 379 Marxism, 107, 109, 117, 140, 163, 172, Miao, Tien, 279, 280 222, 224 , xix, 128, 145 Masina, Giulietta, 73, 74, 78, 83 Midnight in Paris, 152 The Mass Is Ended, 169–174, 353, 354, A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy, 145 371, 373 Mifune, Toshiro, 61, 62 Massoud, Ahmed Shah, 295 Mighty Aphrodite, 152 Mastroianni, Marcello, 401, 407 Milestone, Lewis, 1–10, 337, 338, 380 Matador, 270 Miller, Arthur, 389 The Match Factory Girl, 181, 182 Minnelli, Vincente, 56 La Maternelle, 314 Miracle in Milan, 41 Matewan, 205 The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek, 9 Matthau, Walter, 7 The Miracle Worker, 147 Mayer, Carl, 13 Miss Julie, 382 McBride, Joseph, 25, 32, 33 Mistress, 258 McCourt, Emer, 208, 209 Mizoguchi, Kenji, 60 McCullers, Carson, 125 Modern Times, 105 McLuhan, Marshall, 386 Modernism, 87, 288, 399, 413, 434 Me and You and Everyone We Know, Moiseenko, Denis, 315 305 Molière (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin), 9, Me, You, Them, 265–271, 362, 363, 372 143 Mean Streets, 145 The Money Order, 188 Meantime, 206 Monicelli, Mario, 407 Medea, 107 Monroe, Marilyn, 90, 94 Mee, Charles L., 290 Monsigny, Jean, 193 Meet Me in St. Louis, 56 Moolaadé, 187–189 Megalopolis, 133 Moravia, Alberto, 39, 73, 120 Mehrjui, Dariush, 239 Moretti, Nanni, 169–174, 354, 381 Méliès, Georges, 377 Moritz, Ursula, 158, 159 Melinda and Melinda, 152 Morton, Samantha, 152 Mellen, Joan, 63 Mortu Nega, 190

450 INDEX

Moscow Art Theatre (Russia), 376, 379 Němec, Jan, 117 Mossadeq, Mohammad, 245 Nenni, Pietro, 40 Mother, 404, 429 Neoclassicism, 176, 178 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 63, 290 Neorealism (Italian), 19, 39–45, 51, MTV (Music Television), 274 74–76, 81, 100, 101, 105, 107–116, Müller, Wilhelm, 286, 287 163, 167, 205, 209, 230, 240, 248, Mulvey, Laura, 401 266, 300, 302, 313, 314, 372, 407, Mungiu, Cristian, 323, 324 414 Muntean, Radu, 329 “The ‘New Art’” (Sothern), 400 Muraki, Yoshiro, 62 New Cinema (England), 205 Murder by Numbers, 258 New German Cinema, 155, 414 Murnau, F. W., 89 New Romanian Cinema, 323–330 Murphy, Michael, 149, 150 New Wave (Czech); see Czech Murray, George, 5 Renaissance (New York), New Wave (French), 11, 56, 99, 175, 147 205, 274, 414 Musset, Alfred de, 178 New Wave (Iranian), 239 Mussolini, Benito, 11, 40 New Wave (Taiwanese), 274 Mweze, Ngangura, 190 New York Film Critics’ Circle, 44 My Beautiful Laundrette, 414 New York Film Festival, 175, 230 My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend; see New York, New York, 147 Boyfriends and Girlfriends New York Times, 222, 226 My Name Is Joe, 211 , 78 My Night at Maud’s, 175 Newman, Paul, 407 My Sex Life, or How I Got Into an Nichols, Mike, 390 Argument, 175 Nicholson, Jack, 410 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 12 N The Night of the Shooting Stars, 54 Naderi, Amir, 239 The Nights of Cabiria, 73–88, 344, 371, Nair, Mira, 313 372 Nakai, Asakazu, 62 Nobel Prize (Literature), 145 Nargess, 239 Noh theater (Japan), 59 National Society of Film Critics (U.S.), Norma Rae, 183, 205 126 North Atlantic Treaty Organization Naturalism, 20, 21, 55, 62, 77, 100, (NATO), 159 103, 105, 109, 118, 145, 202, 206, Northern Lights, 205 210, 230, 311, 312, 324, 418, 426, Norton, Edward, 254 433 Notorious, 2 Nazism, 11, 15, 39, 40, 111, 119, 120, Nouveau roman, 414, 418 122, 125, 155, 157, 158, 283, 291, Nouvelle Vague; see New Wave 293, 302, 432 (French) Neckář, Václav, 119 Novaro, Beatriz, 202

451 INDEX

Novaro, María, 197–203, 265, 357 “Over the Rainbow,” 185 Nuñez, Victor, 381 Ozon, François, 275 Ozu, Yasujiro, 155, 156, 182, 242, 256, O 275 O’Banion, Dion, 5 Obsession, 41 P O’Connor, Tommy, 4 , 51, 74 “Ode to the West Wind” (Shelley), 245 Pajala, Turo, 183 Odets, Clifford, 205 The Palm Beach Story, 9 Oedipus the King; see Oedipus Rex Palme d’Or Award (Cannes), 229, 240 Oedipus Rex, 12, 70, 107, 152 Paltrow, Gwyneth, 269 Of Mice and Men, 133, 380, 381 Panahi, Jafar, 240, 300 Ogier, Bulle, 258 , 62 Oliver Twist, 317 Panduru, Marius, 327 Olmi, Ermanno, 75, 76, 99–106, 346 Panseri, Sandro, 104 Los Olvidados, 49, 257, 313 The Parable of the Good Shepherd, 50 L’Ombre, 135 “The Paradox of the Actor” (Diderot), “On the Actor” (Steiger), 401 408, 409 On the Occasion of Remembering the Paris Belongs to Us, 103, 394 Turning Gate, 307 Pascal, Gabriel, 42 , 205 Pasolini, Pier Paolo, 100, 107–116, 257, One Fine Day, 99 347, 373 One From the Heart, 126 Passion for Life, 49 One, Two, Three, 97 The Passion of Joan of Arc, 301, 404, O’Neill, Eugene, 7, 145 405 “The Ontology of the Photographic Pataphysics, 427 Image” (Bazin), 423 , 60 Open Theater (New York), 433 Pathos, 25, 33–35, 37, 45, 105, 117, Orchestra Rehearsal, 78 120, 130, 149, 169, 183, 227, 269, The Organizer, 407 288, 318 Orwell, George, 125 Patton, 125 Osama, 293–303, 364, 371, 372, 415 Pauline at the Beach, 176 Osborne, John, 205, 380 Pavese, Cesare, 39 Oscars; see Academy Awards Payami, Babak, 293, 294 Oshima, Nagisa, 415 Paz, Senel, 222 Ouédraogo, Assita, 237 Pearls of the Deep, 117 Ouédraogo, Idrissa, 187–195, 237, 356 Peking Opera, 214–216, 218 Ouédraogo, Rasmané, 237 Pélleas and Mélisande, 418 Our Lady of the Assassins, 257–263, Peng, Xiaolian, 214 362, 372, 373 Penn, Sean, 152 Outinen, Kati, 181 The Perfect Marriage, 176 The Outrage, 59 Performance art, 433 The Outsiders, 125 Perrugoria, Jorge, 226

452 INDEX

Perry, Matthew C., 60 Pratolini, Vasco, 39 Persona, 387 Problem play, 418 Petronius (Gaius Petronius Arbiter), 73 Proletariat Trilogy (Kaurismäki), 181, The Philadelphia Story, 9 182 Photo Chemical Laboratory (P.C.L.), 61 La Promesse, 229–238, 359, 371, 372 La Pianiste; see The Piano Teacher I promessi sposi, 99 The Piano Teacher, 135, 283–292, 364, The Promise, 230 373 This Property Is Condemned, 125 “Piano Trio in E-flat” (Schubert), 290 Protestant Reformation, 12 Picabia, Francis, 421 Prouse, Derek, 76 Picasso, Pablo, 269 Proust, Marcel, 48, 426 Pickpocket, 229 La Provinciale, 135 Pièce à clef, 4 “The Psychology of Farce” (Bentley), Pinelli, Tullio, 87 93 Pinter, Harold, 380, 386, 388 Pu, Yi, 214 Piovani, Nicola, 173 Puccini, Giacomo, 214 Pirandello, Luigi, 59, 78, 80, 271, 427 Pudovkin, Vsevolod, 35, 404, 428, 429 , 257, 313 Puiu, Cristi, 329 Platte, Rudolf, 159 Puritanism, 117, 145 “The Plot Against the Giant” (Stevens), Purple Noon, 56 411 Purple Rose of Cairo, 143 Polanski, Roman, 317 Police, Adjective, 323–330, 366, 371, Q 374 Quality Film Encouragement Fund Polish Laboratory Theatre, 387 (Israel), 256 Pollack, Sydney, 125 Quattrocento (15th-century Italian art), , 56 101 Poor Cow, 206 A Question of Leadership, 210, 211 Porter, Cole, 152 Porter, Edwin S., 377 R Portman, Eric, 401 Raben, Peer, 159 Portrait of Innocence, 49 Racine, Jean, 176, 376 Portrait of Teresa, 202 Radiguet, Raymond, 50 Portraits chinois, 175 Raft, George, 90, 91 Porumboiu, Corneliu, 323–330, 366 , 101, 145 The Postman Always Rings Twice, 41 Rahmini, Hashmat, 295 Postmodernism, 271, 296, 409, 410 The Rain People, xix, 125–134, 348, Il posto, 99–106, 346, 372, 374 371–373 Poststructuralism, 402, 409 Rainer Werner Fassbinder (Töteberg), Potter, Sally, 413 158 Poujouly, Georges, 56 Raining Stones, 211 Pound, Ezra, 426 The Rainmaker, 126 The Power of Kangwon Province, 306 , 266

453 INDEX

Ran, 59, 63, 64 Riff-Raff, 205–211, 357, 372, 374 Rank and File, 210 Rilke, Rainer Maria, 426 Rashomon, 59, 60, 62–64, 240, 307 Rimbaud, Arthur, 426 Ray, Man, 421, 422, 431 Risi, Dino, 99, 100 Ray, Satyajit, 19, 60, 163, 242, 256 Rissone, Giuditta, 41 Realism, 5, 14, 20, 24, 39–41, 49–52, Rita, Sue, and Bob Too, 207 54, 55, 64, 73, 75–77, 87, 88, 100, Ritt, Martin, 183, 205 102, 118, 123, 133, 166, 173, 189, The River, 273, 280 202, 205, 229–231, 259, 265, 280, Rivette, Jacques, 103, 175, 258, 394 291, 311–313, 319, 329, 372, 376, The Road; see La Strada 379, 386, 387, 390, 395, 417, 418, Road to Life, 48, 49 423, 425, 433, 434 Robbe-Grillet, Alain, 386 Rebels of the Neon God, 273, 280 Roberts, Julia, 269 Record of a Living Being, 59, 70 Robinson, Edward G., 91 Red Beard, 62, 63 Rocco and His Brothers, 101 Red Roses, 41 Rocha, Glauber, 415 Red Wood Pigeon, 169 Rococo, 76, 178 Redgrave, Vanessa, 407 Rodrigues, Olinde, 428 Reflections in a Golden Eye, 125 Rohmer, Eric, 175–180, 255, 258, 354, Regular or Irregular, 239, 240 355 Reisz, Karel, 205, 407 Rojo, María, 202 Relâche (Relax), 421, 422 Roma, 78–80 Remola, María, 226 Roman Holiday, 2, 126 Renier, Jérémie, 237, 238 Romanov, Andrei, 314, 318, 319, 321 Renoir, Auguste, 20 Romanticism, 12, 14, 62, 64, 69, 77, 78, Renoir, Jean, 11–21, 28, 60, 175, 338, 87, 88, 101, 146, 147, 176, 178, 287, 339, 379, 395, 432 291, 309, 426 Renoir, Sophie, 178 Rome, Open City, 40, 51, 74, 107, 111, Resistance (Czech), 120 293 Resistance (French), 51 Romeo and Juliet, 68, 69, 245, 389 Resistance (Italian), 107 The Roof, 41 Resnais, Alain, 255, 277, 414 Room at the Top, 205 Restoration (British), 91 Rope, 2 Restrepo, Juan David, 263 Roseland, 198 La Retour de Raison, 421, 422 Rosetta, 229–230 Return to Reason; see La Retour de Rosi, Francesco, 100, 231 Raison Ross, Lillian, 78 Reutov, Nikolai, 318 Rossellini, Roberto, 39, 40, 51, 74, 100, Reversal of Fortune, 258 108, 111, 229, 293, 300 Reynolds, Burt, 3 Roth, Joseph, 100 Richardson, Tony, 205, 207 Rothschild family, 14 Richie, Donald, 61 Rouault, Georges, 60 Richter, Hans, 431, 432 Rubáiyát, 245, 247

454 INDEX

The Ruins, 163 Schroeter, Werner, 291 The Rules of the Game, 11, 395 Schubert, Franz, 286–288, 290 Rumble Fish, 125 Schumann, Robert, 286 Runaway Train, 61 Schwarzenberger, Xaver, 161 The Runner, 239 Scorpio Rising, 424, 425 Russell, Rosalind, 3 Scorsese, Martin, 101, 128, 147 Russian Ark, 316 The Scoundrel, 1 Russian Revolution, 432 Screen Acting (Marsh), 409 Ruttmann, Walter, 427 , 121 The Secret Game, 47, 50 S Selznick, David O., 42 Saboia, Marlene de Silva, 266 Sembène, Osmane, 187–189 Sade, Marquis de (Donatien Alphonse Sen, Mrinal, 163–168, 353 François), 107 (Japanese history), 65 The Saimaa Gesture, 181 Sentimentalism, 8, 12, 20, 21, 32, 59, Saito, Takao, 62 64, 87, 146, 155, 157, 165, 198, 202, Salaam Bombay!, 313 205, 209, 222, 227, 230, 236, 254, La Salamandre, 135 262, 265, 318, 371, 376, 417, 420 Salminen, Timo, 185 September, 143 Salò, or The 120 Days of Sodom, 107, The Seven Samurai, 59–71, 342, 343, 115 371 Saltamerenda, Gino, 42 The Seventh Continent, 283 Sammy and Rosie Get Laid, 207 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Samuels, Charles Thomas, 24, 75 Chance, 283 Sanshiro Sugata, 61 The Shadow; see L’Ombre Sarraounia, 189 Shadows in Paradise, 181, 182 Sarris, Andrew, xviii Shakespeare, William, 9, 59, 68, 69, Satan’s Brew, 155 181, 296, 376, 388, 400 , 5, 7, 11, 74, 146, 179, 188, 221, Shankar, Mamata, 167 270, 310 Shankar, Ravi, 167 Sato, Masaru, 62 The Shape of Things, 394 Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, Shaw, George Bernard, 9, 376 198, 205 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 245 Saturday Night Fever, 198 Sherlock, Jr., 143 Satyricon, 73, 78 Shimura, Takashi, 62, 407 Scarface, 2, 91 Shinoda, Masahiro, 65, 69 The Scent of Green Papaya, 275 Shoeshine, 41, 42, 44, 45, 55, 248, 313 Schaffner, Franklin, 125 Shoot the Piano Player, 56 Schiele, Egon, 290 The Shop Around the Corner, 2 Schmitz, Sybille, 158, 159, 161 , 121 Schönberg, Arnold, 288 Shuvalova, Olga, 317 Schorm, Evald, 117 Siegel, Don, 144 Schroeder, Barbet, 257–263, 362 Sight and Sound, 61

455 INDEX

Silence between Two Thoughts, 293, Sothern, E. H., 400, 410 294, 300 The Sound of Music, 54 The Silence of Lorna, 229, 230 The Sound of Trumpets; see Il posto Sillitoe, Alan, 205 Spaak, Charles, 13, 14 Silveira, Breno, 266 , 11 Silver Ribbons (Italian Film Awards), Spears, Britney, 302 44 Speidel, Henriette von, 158 Simpson, Jessica, 302 Spellbound, 2 Single White Female, 258 The Spider’s Stratagem, 414, 415 Six Characters in Search of an Author, Spielberg, Steven, 63 78 Spiridonov, Kolya, 314 Six Moral Tales, 175, 176, 179 St. Petersburg Institute of Film and Sixth Generation (China), 381 Television (Russia), 314 Sjöberg, Alf, 382 Staiola, Enzo, 42, 301 Skvorecký, Josef, 117 Stalin, Joseph, 295, 320 Sleeper, 143 Stanbrook, Alan, 32, 33 Small Time Crooks, 152 Stanislavsky, Konstantin, 302 Smiles of a Summer Night, 145 Star Wars, 59 Snow, Michael, 419, 420 Stardust Memories, 143, 150 Soarez, Elena, 265, 266 Starrett, Vincent, 4 Socialism, 40, 120, 206, 273, 315, 428 Steiger, Rod, 100, 401 Socialist realism, 121, 214, 224, 319, Steinbeck, John, 381 432 Sternberg, Josef von, 4 Sofr, Jaromír, 118 Stevens, Wallace, 382, 411, 426 Sohrabi, Farzad, 241 Stiller, Ben, 254 Soirée du coeur à barbe, 421 Stiller, Jerry, 269 Sokurov, Alexander, 315, 316 Stillman, Whit, 227 Solás, Humberto, 202 Stolen Children, 313 Solondz, Todd, 381 Storaro, Vittorio, 125 “Some Ideas on the Cinema” La Strada, 75, 80–83, 88 (Zavattini), 40, 189 Straub, Jean-Marie, 415 Some Like It Hot, 9, 89–98, 225, 344, Strauss, Johann, Jr., 290 345, 373 Strawberry and Chocolate, 221–227, “Some Notes on Acting” (Zetterling), 359, 372 401 Stray Dog, 59 Something Like an Autobiography Stray Dogs, 295 (Kurosawa), 61, 71 Streep, Meryl, 149, 150, 407 Somewhere, 134 Strictly Ballroom, 198 The Son, 229, 230, 318 Strike, 428, 429 The Son of the Regiment, 319 Strindberg, August, 145, 376, 382 The Son’s Room, 169 Stroheim, Erich von, 18 Sophocles, 190 Structuralist-materialism, 420, 429 Sotatsu, Tawaraya, 60 Stuff and Dough, 329

456 INDEX

Sturges, Preston, 9 Thatcher, Margaret, 207 Summer Trip to the Seaside, 314 Theater of Guilt, 382 Sung, Hyunan, 311 Theater-vs.-film, 373, 375–396 Sunset Boulevard, 161 Théâtre Libre (Paris), 376 Surrealism, 62, 80, 102, 120, 197, 259, Theory of Film: The Redemption of 306, 378, 418, 424, 426, 430–433 Physical Reality, 425 Sweet and Lowdown, 152 Thérèse, 255 The Sweet Life; see La Dolce Vita The Thief, 319 Sweet Sixteen, 211 Things; see Devarim The Swindle; see Il Bidone This Property Is Condemned, 125 Switching Channels, 3 Thompson, Emma, 407 Symbolism, 14, 17, 118, 197, 261, 273, Throne of Blood, 59, 64 373, 375, 418, 419, 426, 427 Through the Olive Trees, 239, 240, 247 “Through Theatre to Cinema” T (Eisenstein), 379 Tabío, Juan Carlos, 222 Tian, Zhuangzhuang, 214 Take the Money and Run, 143 Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!, 197 A Tale of Cinema, 307 Tieck, Ludwig, 419 Tales of the Four Seasons, 175, 179 Tilaï, 187–195, 237, 356, 371, 374 “Talking about Acting” (Finney), 400, The Time of the Wolf; see Le Temps des 401 loups Tanner, Alain, 135, 255 Time Out, 135 Tarkovsky, Andrei, 63 Time Stood Still, 99, 100 A Taste of Cherry, 240, 241, 247 Times of London, 33 A Taste of Honey, 207 Titus, 393 Tati, Jacques, 275 To Rome with Love, 152 Taurus, 316 Motion Picture Company Tavernier, Bertrand, 313 (), 61 Taviani, Paolo, 54 Tokyo Pop, 126 Taviani, Vittorio, 54 Toland, Gregg, 29 Taymor, Julie, 393 Toller, Ernst, 105 Téchiné, André, 156 Tom Jones, 387 Telefona bianco (white telephone) Tony Takitani, 305 films, 45 Topaze, 2 The Tempest, 181 Torres, Fernanda, 270 Le Temps des loups, 283 Töteberg, Michael, 158 Ten Days in Calcutta, 167 Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de, 60 Tender Mercies, 145 Tragedy, xvi, 12, 20, 34–37, 39, 40, 45, Teorema, 107 66–70, 86, 87, 117, 120, 121, 131, Teresa Venerdì, 41 133, 144, 158, 167, 189–191, 211, Tessai, Tomioka, 60 254, 261, 262, 307, 371, 391 Tetro, 127 Tragicomedy, 11, 120, 143, 145, 172, That Obscure Object of Desire, 197 206, 247

457 INDEX

Tran, Anh Hung, 275 Vanya on 42nd Street, 393, 394 The Traveler, 239 Vardac, A. Nicholas, 376 The Tree of Wooden Clogs, 99, 101 Variety Lights, 74, 75, 81 , 301 Vasconcelos, Luís Carlos, 269 Trotta, Margarethe von, 230 Vasconcelos, Tito, 202 Truffaut, François, 11, 19, 56, 175, 240, Vaudeville, 74, 376, 393 277, 280 Vega, Pastor, 202 Truman, Harry, 227 (Czechoslovakia), Tsai, Ming-liang, 273–281, 363, 381 121 Tubes, 393 Venice Film Festival (Italy), 11, 55, 60, Tucker: The Man and His Dream, 133 115, 240 Turner, Kathleen, 3 Verdi, Giuseppe, 224 The Turning Point, 198 The Verdict, 407 Twentieth Century, 1, 2, 404, 405 Verga, Giovanni, 39 Two Days, One Night, 229, 230 Verism, 39, 82, 300 Two Women, 120 Vermeer, Johannes, 137, 138, 141, 311 Tzara, Tristan, 430 Veronika Voss, 155–162, 351, 371, 373 Vertov, Dziga, 423, 424, 428, 429, U 432 Uegusa, Keinosuke, 62 Vidor, King, 379 UFA (Universum Film La vie est belle, 190 Aktiengesellschaft, Germany), 159 Viellard, Eric, 178 Ullrich, Luise, 155 Conservatory (Austria), 284, Umberto D., 41, 44 287, 289 Unanism, 20 Vienna: Lusthaus, 290, 291 Under the Sand, 275, 278 Vietnam War, 125, 127, 274 Underworld, 2, 4 Vigo, Jean, 11 The Unknown Girl, 229, 230 Villa Villa, 393 Untitled, 420 La Virgen de los sicarios; see Our Lady Up the Junction, 206 of the Assassins Up to a Point, 202, 227 Virgin Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, 307 V The Virgin Suicides, 125, 126 Valentin, Barbara, 155 , 108, 197 Valéro, Jean-Louis, 180 Visconti, Luchino, 41, 99, 101 Vallejo, Fernando, 257, 258 “A Visit with the Sensei of the Cinema” The Valley, 258 (Kurosawa), 62 Vampyr, 158, 161 I vitelloni, 74–76, 79 Van Gogh, Vincent, 60 Vittorini, Elio, 39 van Itallie, Jean-Claude, 388 Vivaldi, Antonio, 115 Van Zant, Gus, 305, 306 Vive l’amour, 273 Vančura, Vladislav, 117 The Voice of the Moon, 80

458 INDEX

W The Wind Will Carry Us, 239–249, 360, Waddington, Andrucha, 265–271, 371 363 “The Wind Will Carry Us” Wakeman, Frederic, 149 (Farrokhzad), 245, 246 Walker, Eugene, 79, 80 Winfrey, Oprah, 269 Walker, Stanley, 3 Winter Journey; see Die Winterreise Walsh, David, 273 Winterbottom, Michael, 293 Wanda, xix Die Winterreise, 286–290 Warhol, Andy, 275, 413 Wirtschaftswunder (German Economic Warner Brothers, 127 Miracle), 156, 157 Warshow, Robert, 305 “The Wolf, the Forest, and the New Wavelength, 419 Man” (Paz), 222 Way Down East, 403, 404 Woman Is the Future of Man, 305–312, The Weavers, 105 365, 373 Welles, Orson, 19, 23–37, 340, 397 Woman on Top, 265 Well-made play, 376, 433, 434 Women on the Verge of a Nervous Wells, Audrey, 126 Breakdown, 197 Wenders, Wim, 258 Woolf, Virginia, 426 Wesker, Arnold, 205 Wooster Group (New York), 433 The Western (film), xvi, 59, 175 World War I, 11–21, 373, 410, What Time Is It There?, 273–281, 363, 431, 433 373 World War II, 11–13, 21, 39, 43, 60, 89, Whatever Works, 152 119–122, 205, 215, 274, 302, 314, When Evening Falls on Bucharest or 318, 373, 398, 414, 426, 432, 434 Metabolism, 329 Wu, Nien-jen, 101 Where Is the Friend’s House?, 239 Wuthering Heights, 1 , 240, 301 Wyler, William, 126, 391, 392 The White Sheik, 74, 75 Whitman, Walt, 147 X Who Looks for Gold?, 121 Xala, 187, 188 Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, 388, 390 Y Widerberg, Bo, 69 Yaaba, 189, 190, 193, 194, 237 Wiene, Robert, 378, 414 Yakir, Dan, 73 The , xix, 145 Yamamoto, Kajiro, 61, 63 Wilde, Oscar, xvii, 224 Yang, Edward, 273, 274 Wilder, Billy, 4, 9, 89–98, 143, 161, Yang, Pi-ying, 273 225, 345, 346 The Yankee, 183 Willi, Monika, 288 Yeats, W. B., 426, 427 Williams, Tennessee, 125 Yepes, Narciso, 52 Willis, Gordon, 147 , 273 Wilson, Robert, 393 Yojimbo, 59

459 INDEX

Yom Yom, 251 Zech, Rosel, 159 Yoman Sadeh, 251 Zeffirelli, Franco, 389 Yoo, Jitae, 311 Zemlyanko, Dima, 316 Your Friends and Neighbors, 393 Zetterling, Mai, 401 You’re a Big Boy Now, 126 Zhang, Fengyi, 218 Zhang, Nuanxin, 214 Z Zhang, Yimou, 214, 256 Zampa, Luigi, 39 Zionism, 121 Zavattini, Cesare, 13, 40, 41, 45, 75, Zonca, Erick, 135 120, 189, 314 Zurlini, Valerio, 100

460