Tag Archives: Experimental

Short Film Tuesday : The Mermaid (Georges Méliès, 1904)

Favorite of Méliès’s fantastic shorts! 1904


Short Film Tuesday (Marcel Duchamp, 1926)

Marcel Duchamp, Anemic Cinema 1926

The Passion of Lovers is for Death

Jean Cocteau’s Orpheus reimagines the Orphic legend, telling the immortal story of the poet’s love affair with Death.
It depicts the story of Orpheus, a poet beloved by the public – but a pariah among the art set who have turned their affection towards Cegeste, a new and younger voice. Cegeste is like Arthur Rimbaud, whose early death cements his accomplishments as insurmountable.

So the poet, Orpheus, pursues death at the risk of life. As a reward, he receives the sounds of his new poetry as transmissions through the car radio coming from another realm. “I’m on the trail of the unknown,” he says as he is possessed by the words of the dead.
The poet is torn between two loves: Life and Death. He is alive and there is the natural obligation of self-preservation. But he would do also anything to prove himself as a poet.

It is death that the poet longs for. He sees it in himself as he gets older, the reflection in the mirror, taunting him but not taking him. Death steals his vitality, his life, his wife, and he descends into hell to retrieve her. There is a cyclical pattern of death and rebirth, the pursuit of one at the stake of the other. This is consistent with Cocteau’s notion of the poet’s need for a series of deaths in order to prove himself.

Orpheus redeems his life/ wife but is not allowed to look at her. Salvation requires repentance – which literally means “to turn away.” To look back at the object of desire is to want more than what has been given. Death is not satisfied by only looking and not touching, as Orpheus needs to have and to hold.

In the end, Death relinquishes Orpheus because she loves him and through his trials and poetry, he has become immortal.
Death as a lover is a common theme in poetry. Shakespeare says, “The stroke of death is a lover’s pinch,” (Antony and Cleopatra IV, ii: 280). Baudelaire describes the Dance of Death in his “Flowers of Evil”.  Emily Dickinson writes that “Death is a suitor” while Stephenie Meyer transforms vampires and monsters into heartthrobs. It is not (always) just a morbid preoccupation. Death is the common terminus of all humans. And as such it holds a certain power over life.
It is a paradox and poetic that the only way to achieve immortality is to woo Death.

by Brian Warfield

Orpheus screening and discussion:
July 1st, 7:30pm
AxD Gallery, 265 South 10th Street / Philadelphia, PA
Like us on Facebook for additional information.

Short Film Tuesday: 2084 (Chris Marker, 1984)

Chris Marker short made for the Nyon Film Festival in France.

A Sunless Chris Marker

Audiences will be most familiar with Chris Marker through La Jette, the 1962 short film he directed twenty years before Sans Soleil. La Jette served as the source material for Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys, on which Marker is credited as a writer. Prior to making his own films, Marker assistant directed 1955’s Night and Fog, Alain Resnais’ vivid documentary about the horrors of Nazi Concentration Camps. Two years prior, the two co-directed Les Statues Meurent Aussi (Statues Also Die, 1953), a thirty minute documentary which opens with:

When men die, they become history.
Once statues die, they become art.
The botany of death is what we call culture.

Les Statues Meurent Aussi was one of the first films to take on colonialism and was banned in France almost instantly after its first screening.

Marker wasn’t just a filmmaker (although I’m sure all filmmakers say the same about themselves). Marker was also a writer, a documentarian, multi-media artist and a photographer. (SoHo’s Peter Blum gallery recently closed “Passengers”, a photographic exhibit featuring over 200 digital photographers taken by Chris Marker on the Paris Metro.) Several of Marker’s films, including La Jette, are composed of nothing but still photos. Sans Soleil follows this format and includes asides and photographs depicting life in the twentieth century, using Japan and Alaska as its poles. Narrated by an unknown woman reading letters from a friend, the story also includes a stop in San Francisco, retracing the locations of Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo.

Sans Soleil gets its title from Modest Mussorgsky’s Song Cycle, itself a montage of music. Just as Marker pieces together images from Hitchcock, Mussorgsky was known to make his compositions out of other composer’s works.

Marker did not give interviews, was hardly ever photographed and was known for showing up at his film screenings unannounced and unrecognizable, a pre-Banksy, if you will. While he is remembered as being a recluse of sorts, Jonathan Rosenbaum, in his Criterion Collection essay “Personal Effects, The Guarded of Intimacy of Sans Soleil“, recalls Thomas Pynchon’s sentiments: “My belief is that recluse is a code word generated by journalists… meaning doesn’t like to talk to reporters.”

Rosenbaum questions why Marker chooses to create a separate character, a cameraman, to tell the story in Sans Soleil and his conclusions rely on how individual audience members react to the film. Rosenbaum writes:

The implication is always that it’s the sincerity and lucidity of thoughts and feelings rather
than the individual ego behind them that counts. This has direct consequences
in the various ways we attend to and respond to Sans Soleil; the personal address,
even if it’s detached from the actual person, can’t help but elicit a personal response from us.

While audience members and Rosenbaum ponder these questions, the 1983 New York Times review of Sans Soleil reads, “While Mr. Marker pretends to be examining the quality of contemporary life, though what he actually is doing is examining his own” brings up the age old question, can we really ever separate the artists themselves from the art? (The Times has a point, though, as the San Francisco scenes in the film do not only reference Vertigo but Marker’s own La Jetee.)

I will have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting, but rather its lining. We do not remember. We rewrite memory much as history is rewritten. How can one remember thirst?While artist versus art questions are constant, and usually interesting fodder, that is not the question audiences should be asking while watching Sans Soleil, or leaving the theatre when the film is over. It is not about the narration, or the speaker. It’s about time and memory. In the film, the narrator says:

It is by this, Marker asks his own questions in his film: what narration and images make up memory? How does time effect it? How do we choose what we remember or does what we remember become what happened? And if that is true, how does that effect the history of the world?

And the net Marker casts in Sans Soleil – from Alaska to Japan to the theatre where you’re sitting – taking it all in, is wide enough to catch everyone’s ego, not just the director’s.

by Jennifer Leah Peck