Pluralism and Narrative in Contemporary American Film

Viewable on https://www.academia.edu/26567084/Pluralism_and_the_Cinematic_Narrative_in_Contemporary_American_Film.docx

Futures for Adaptation

A book review essay looking at new books in adaptation studies.  Available via academia.edu
https://www.academia.edu/26483481/Futures_for_Adaptation

An Adaptive Inspiration to All Readers

It is not often that I can consider a book game-changing in terms of impact.  This is certainly true of Annette Kuhn’s edited collection Little Madnesses: Winnicott, Transitional Phenomena, and Cultural Experience (I. B. Tauris, 2014).  Drawing on the theories of the psychoanalyst D. W. Winnicott, the contributors look at different ways in which individuals make use of the experience of watching movies, attending art galleries, or viewing installations to make sense of their lives.

I have referred in previous posts to the effect that Winnicott has had on my own thinking.  This collection reinforces the idea of the ways in which we create “third spaces,” using transitional objects (such as films) that help us redefine the relationship between the psyche and the environment.  In such spaces we are both “me and not me” – in other words, we can reconsider our previous behavioral constructions while exploring the potential to create new possibilities.  This “third space” is potentially limitless; there are no boundaries other than those that we choose to impose on ourselves. 

This model is especially appropriate to fan cultures, where aficionadoes of particular movies (e.g. Star Wars, Blade Runner) not only construct their lives according to the characters and their actions, but rewrite the movies in their own way, publishing their work online or in discussion-groups.  Kuhn’s anthology not only looks at movies as transitional objects, but also shows how cinema buildings fulfill similar functions, especially in the mid-twentieth century. At that time movie-goers went on a regular basis to local cinemas, not just to see movies, but to savor the behavioral rituals associated with the event – meeting their potential spouses, dressing up, enjoying the double feature, and so on.  When the massive picture-palaces opened, with their carved interiors, plush seats and elegantly uniformed staff, this sense of occasion was increased: movie-goers could forget the humdrum realities of their quotidian lives and enter dream-worlds offering illusions of gentility.

Other transitional objects explored in the collection include sounds.  This is a suggestive concept, reminding me of my own life, in which my daily ritual of “me-time,” where I sit down in peace and read a book, is inevitably accompanied by classical music in the background.  The sound of the music is associated subconsciously with relaxation, allowing my mind to wander wherever it wishes, and to reflect on my past and the way it can determine my future.  Put more simply, the sound of classical music becomes the catalyst by which I can learn how to adapt to changing situations.

The collection also invites us to question the distinction between “fiction” and “reality” by showing how fictions – as represented in movies or other cultural products – offer alternatives to readers and/or viewers, giving them the chance to reconsider or redefine their lives.  The text becomes the means by which they learn how to adapt to changing situations, and thereby determine future actions.  Storytelling assumes a highly powerful function; by submitting to the alternative reality (perhaps a more appropriate term than “fiction”) of the tale, we learn how to redefine our own realities; we reflect on past experiences and use such reflections to determine our futures.  Storytelling stimulates creativity in everyone’s consciousness, so long as they appreciate the value of transitional objects.  Kuhn’s collection is a highly democratic work in this respect.

The collection also emphasizes the importance of “de-differentiation.”  This is a suggestive notion: if we all understand the power of transitional objects, we can appreciate the value of the transformative processes associated with them.  Such moments encourage us to set aside our notions of social, gender, ethnic and racial difference and understand how every human being is capable of enjoying them.  All of us can learn how to contemplate and reflect on our lives if we are given the time and space to do so.

This conclusion should be understood by everyone involved in the pedagogic profession – educators, learners, administrators.  It suggests that “learning” has little or nothing to do with factual acquisition, but only occurs when individuals are stimulated to do so.  They need to be creatively stimulated, so that they learn how to create their own spaces and identify their own transitional objects.  This process involves a considerable amount of laissez-faire; rather than telling people what to think and how to think, educators and administrators should be prepared to listen to their learners and learn from them.  Winnicott talked a lot about the ways in which infants learn from their mothers; Kuhn’s collection suggests that this is a two-way process in which mothers (and other figures of responsibility) should learn from their infants.

The collection contains so much to reflect on and learn from, it needs to be reread more than once.  I congratulate Kuhn on her efforts.

How I Discovered the Meaning of 'Traveling East'

Abstract This essay exposes the constructed nature of the east/west binary as a means by which westerners (especially) can reinforce their sense of superiority, while easterners can use it as an intellectual stick to criticize their western counterparts. In its place I advocate a more measured approach based on listening to and understanding alternative perspectives, not only in terms of interpersonal relationships but in terms of personal psychology. The importance of mesearch as a concept, uniting scholarly and personal approaches, is proposed as a means to achieve this aim.

Keywords: colonialism, binarisms, mesearch, travel, psychology

Download the article on http://www.degruyter.com/dg/viewjournalissue.articlelist.resultlinks.fullcontentlink:pdfeventlink/$002fj$002flincu.2015.2015.issue-2$002flincu-2015-0033$002flincu-2015-0033.pdf/lincu-2015-0033.pdf?t:ac=j$002flincu.2015.2015.issue-2$002fissue-files$002flincu.2015.2015.issue-2.xml or
http://www.degruyter.com/view/j/lincu.2015.2015.issue-2/issue-files/lincu.2015.2015.issue-2.xml

Wharton in Washington

I recently stayed for six days in Washington DC, partly on holiday and partly to attend (on a part time basis at least, the ‘Wharton in Washington’ conference held near DuPont Circle. This was something of a change, as I had not attended a single-author event since May 2015, when my home institution had devoted two days to Scott Fitzgerald.

The event was held in the library of Anderson House, a mahogany-and-brass room lined with leather-bound books and the heads of Ivory-statued males staring forbiddingly at anyone daring to penetrate their space. It seemed an ideal venue to discuss the oeuvre of someone who grew up in this kind of patriarchal environment and spent a lot of time criticising it both implicitly and explicitly.

As the proceedings unfolded, so I became increasingly uncomfortable, physically as well as literally. The majority of the papers were delivered by speakers with no sense of environment; rather than concentrating of the sociology of Wharton, past or present, or reflecting on how the situation might reshape our understanding of her, they mostly stuck to the kind of character analysis that I though had been abandoned long ago in literary criticism.

I was wrong. Years ago D. H. Lawrence advised his readers not to look in twentieth century novels “for the old stable ego of character.” This dictum could apply equally to Henry James or Edith Wharton. I have found the latter two authors especially in the way they eschew characterisation in favour of psychology: few of us are coherent in our behaviour, and this trait is embodied in many of their characters.

At this conference, however, one or the chief pastimes consisted of reading as many symbols into the text as possible. This sentence had purposely been written this way to emphasise the ancient art of symbol-hunting, a sport beloved of critics since the New Critical era. Even if you believe in the Barthesian notion of the death of the author, you too can show off your wisdom and learning by squeezing every gram of symbolism out of your selected text.

I am not suggesting that authors refrain from resorting to the technique; but I do believe that symbol-hunting actually deflects attention away from texts and authors and onto critics. The ‘best’ at their job are those who uncover the most elaborate symbols that no one has previously thought.

When I began my career, I always used to be in awe of such people whose sensibilities seemed so much further developed than my own. Now I realise that symbol-hunting is at best pleasurable, at worst futile as it detracts from rather than enhances our imaginative engagement with a work.

It does not really matter about the symbols; what should concern us is the need to be drawn into the author’s world and the characters that people it. Their behaviour does not have to be ‘rational’ or ‘stable,’ or even ‘coherent’; it should engage us subliminally.

And it is this quality I found so lacking at the conference, whose participants preferred to challenge one another on their knowledge of the inner highways and by-ways of Wharton’s oeuvre rather than communicating any real sense of joy, passion, or even cultural awareness at being in the Anderson Library. I am not positing any either/or scenario here, but rather suggesting more emphasis on pleasure, on the instinctive and spontaneous thoughts – akin to stream of consciousness- arising every time we open a book.

Three days after the conference ended, I went to the Chicago Institute of Art and browsed among their extensive American art collection. Among the exhibits in the pre-20th collection were several paintings depicting the rarefied world of urban Washington: stylish, mannered, constricting. Looking at the women in their starched crinolines exchanging polite small talk while perched uncomfortably on heavy mahogany chairs offered immediate insight into Wharton's milieu and why she was so preoccupied with it, whether positively or negatively.

I am not in any saying that paintings are doing the work that literary critics should; but I do believe that scholarship has to emerge from its often incestuous ivory tower of ‘specialists’ and become more all-encompassing. In that way Wharton's reputation can be consolidated as well as enhanced.

Difficult Adaptations

Can We “Understand” Adaptations?

 

Sometimes we encounter moments that completely redefine the way we look at adaptation studies, irrespective of which theoretical standpoint we might embrace.  Whether we favor a Piagetian view (relating the self to the adaptation process); a text-based view; or a transmedial view; there are times when we realize that each one of these approaches have their shortcomings.

 

Such was the case for me during the last week.  I was fortunate enough to watch G. W. Pabst’s version of The Threepenny Opera (1931) on television.  Premiered in pre-Nazi Germany only three years previously,  the film contained three of the cast who had been involved in the stage version.  Evidently Brecht himself had been initially involved in the film version, but Pabst eventually dispensed with his services.  The finished product contains few of the original Brecht/ Weill songs, and some critics have noted that the lush recreations of the London underworld detract attention away from the musical’s political overtones.  Nonetheless Pabst’s vision does not shy away from the satiric material, with the actors (Rudolf Forster, Carola Neher, Fritz Rasp, and Lotte Lenya) singing the lyrics in deliberately discordant tones direct to camera.  They function as commentaries on the action, especially the overriding emphasis on self-interest that dominates the characters’ minds.  Sometimes the story seems slightly incoherent (we do not quite understand why Mackie Messer (Forster) is eventually reprieved from a death-sentence by hanging), but the film provides a valuable record of “Brechtian” drama as conceived during his time.

 

Three days later I watched the Berliner Ensemble perform the same work at İstanbul’s Zorlu Center, directed by the American Robert Wilson.  This time the group used the whole text with all of the songs.  Performed on a cavern-like and largely bare stage, Wilson used a variety of visual effects drawn from a cornucopia of traditions – commedia dell’arte, Japanese Noh theater, the circus, cabaret, the Theater of Cruelty, mime – to emphasize the play’s political material.  The effect was quite stunning: a set comprised of a series of metal bars, horizontally and vertically placed, could double up as Macheath’s lair, a prison, a courthouse, or whatever venue was required.  The actors’ use of mime recalled how much Brecht was indebted to early silent film in his drama.  Most of the lines were delivered at the front of the playing area direct to the audience, so as to sustain a Verfremdungseffekt, or a sense of alienation, preventing us from identifying with the characters in any way.  With a live orchestra performing the songs, and displaying a remarkable versatility in the process, the entire production not only challenged our concepts of what “drama” could encompass, but forced us to concentrate on the importance of the words – whether delivered in spoken or singing voices.

 

Some of the packed house of 2,000 did not like what they saw.  The first half lasted just over two hours without a break; when the interval finally arrived, several playgoers walked, complaining that they had been short-changed in their expectations from an organization as prestigious as the Berliner Ensemble.  I do not want to speculate too much on their opinions, but I venture to suggest that these playgoers had expected something more along the lines of a “well-made play,” with a beginning, middle and an end, and a story they could become emotionally involved with.

Throughout the evening, I felt exhausted, as if I had been blown away by an artistic tornado.  I could not judge whether I “liked” or “disliked” what I saw; perhaps it did not matter.  What I did understand, however, is how a performance – whether live on stage or filmed – is a highly complex text sending out a multiplicity of messages, both visual as verbal.  As spectators, we not only have to make sense of the sets and costumes, but we take into account the actors’ movements, the director’s management of space, the music, facial expressions and the use of silence.  And all this on top of trying to understand the words, stresses, intonations, verbal interactions, and so on …

 

What I am trying to say is that watching adaptations is difficult.  Our judgments are continually shaped and reshaped from moment to moment; in a revival like Wilson’s Threepenny Opera this process of development can become overwhelming, rendering us mentally exhausted.  I would venture to suggest that such interpretive issues arise while watching every adaptation, irrespective of the medium for which it has been conceived and/or performed.

I began by making distinctions between three types of standpoint – the textual, Piagetian and intermedial.  My experience of watching The Threepenny Opera prompts me to conclude that all three approaches play an intrinsic part in the experience of every adaptation.  This is what renders them such complex texts to decode and relate to our own experiences as audiences and/or critics.

 

Radical Adaptations

Ever since I became associated with adaptation studies, I have always been led to believe that ‘radical’ versions of a source-text are identified with something positive.  Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet (1996) reinterprets Shakespeare for a ‘young’ audience; Michael Winterbottom’s A Cock and Bull Story (2005) uses a film-within-a-film structure to recapture the narrative flexibility of Sterne’s Tristram Shandy; while Luhrmann has another go at rethinking an established classic with The Great Gatsby (2013).  A  course at the University of Minnesota devoted to “Teaching Film, Television, and Media” has a module devoted to adaptation, where the description quotes Louis Giannett’s Understanding Movies (2002), wherein adaptations are divided into a tripartite typology – literal, faithful, and loose (“Different Modes of Adaptation”).

“Radical” adaptations are good.  They help viewers and critics to “rethink” texts by offering new perspectives on familiar material.  They can expand the discourse of adaptation to encompass alternative modes of thinking, visual styles and/or cinematic narrative.  They invite us to re-examine our beliefs in terms such as “fidelity,” or “originality,” and the value-judgements associated with them.  Hence it is hardly surprising that “radical” filmmakers form the subjects for academic articles, books, and other materials produced by colleagues willing to advance the discipline of adaptation studies.

Yet it is frequently the case that “radicalism” is a critically contested term, especially if used in a cross-cultural context.  Peter Brook might have been considered innovative in British terms with his version of Peter Weiss’s Marat/Sade (1967), based on his stage production of the same name, but the cinematic style is entirely in keeping with the French-inspired tradition of the Theatre of Cruelty.  Likewise Luhrmann’s Great Gatsby might not seem especially innovative to the connoisseur of Hollywood musicals of the classical period; many of the stylistic conventions owe a lot to Busby Berkeley’s and Vincente Minnelli’s example.

In light of a recent documentary on the life and work of composer Peter Maxwell Davies, recently broadcast on BBC Four in the United Kingdom, I was prompted to deconstruct that term “radicalism” even further.  In his early life as a composer and educator at Cirencester Grammar School, Maxwell Davies was perceived as something of a “radical” in his determination to question established conventions of musical appreciation.  He embodied the spirit of the Sixties in classical music, as he tossed aside notions of harmony that dated back to the eighteenth century and set about retraining listeners to appreciate more discordant forms.  Within three decades, however, Maxwell Davies had become an Establishment figure, whose work was regularly performed at the Proms, and who was regularly featured on BBC Television.  In 2004 he became Master of the Queen’s Music, the equivalent of the Poet Laureate.

His biography suggests that “radicalism” is a term identified with youth (as opposed to age); freshness (as opposed to staleness); and anti-establishment attitudes.  Like John Osborne in the theater, or Tony Richardson and Karel Reisz in British film history, Maxwell Davies underwent a kind of psychological metamorphosis; as they grew older they progressed inexorably towards membership of the Establishment, while younger talents assumed the radical mantle instead – Edward Bond, David Edgar (theater), and Ken Russell and Peter Greenaway (film).

While this is a very schematic mode of looking at media history, we are nonetheless made well aware that “radicalism” is a slippery term; one that might help career advancement during one’s early years but erodes over time.  Mid-career artists who retain that soubriquet are described as “aging radicals,” as if gray hairs and increasing waistlines should separate older from younger individuals.     

Yet perhaps we should not dismiss the term so easily.  The Maxwell Davies tribute program included an archive interview with the composer where he suggested that the inspiration for his so-called “radicalism” was not wholly provoked by the desire to challenge established values, but by a need to “push the notes” in different ways; to “get inside the music” and understand its ebb and flow.  He was as interested in past musical traditions as in contemporary music; he spent much of his life trying to synthesize the two in new ways.

The metaphor of “pushing the notes” is a suggestive one, implying that any creative artist – including adaptors and/or screenplay writers – should try to inhabit their source-texts; to become involved in their nonverbal as well as the verbal nuances and let their products be shaped by their instincts.  “Radicalism” in this formulation means discovering new ways of thinking and feeling, but not necessarily produced by the desire to challenge established conventions.  The past should not be rejected but embraced as a means of understanding the future.

In this formulation every one of us – artists, audiences, critics alike – are “radicals” insofar as we learn how to adapt to new material and new experiences; this process is a lifelong one, not restricted by age and/or reputation.  An understanding of this potential helped to render Maxwell Davies an accessible figure throughout his sixty-year career, and offers encouragement to us all.

Laurence Raw

May Day 2016.