Update to Classical Hollywood Cinema directors list...

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I've added a couple of names to my ongoing list of directors whose films go unmentioned in Bordwell/Staiger/Thompson's The Classical Hollywood Cinema (1985): Robert Rossen, Jacques Tourneur, and Robert Wise. See here.
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What does feminism look like?

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This day, marking (in the UK) that absurd leap-year-female-proposal tradition, seems as good an excuse as any to share an excellent line I came across during my recent recapping on feminist history. Made into a cheery, meme-able image.



(The image, by the way, shows a clash between suffragettes and British police in Parliament Square, November 1910; it can be read about here.)

Incidentally, while preparing the lecture on romantic comedy that occasioned my re-trawling through past articles and books, I was reminded again of quite the extent of the anti-feminist backlash in the U.S. that Faludi wrote so well about in the early '90s, and again for the post-9/11 climate. Looking absent-mindedly, as I often do, for easy anecdotal evidence with which to catch students' imaginations, I ventured onto Youtube and actually began seeing the site's like/dislike bar as some kind of depressing barometer of just where we're currently at on this subject.

Entirely unscientific as the evidence is, it's difficult not to feel disheartened when an almost embarrassingly friendly and non-confrontational video promoting feminism like this one gets this rating:



...while one that carries this title gets rewarded with a bar that looks like this:


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Directors whose films go unmentioned in 'The Classical Hollywood Cinema' (1985)...

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That is: directors who (while they may be named in passing) do not have their films mentioned or taken into account in David Bordwell, Janet Staiger and Kristen Thompson's long-canonical survey The Classical Hollywood Cinema: Film Style and Mode of Production to 1960 (London: Routledge, 1985). I've gathered the information through re-reading the book, as well as by performing word searches for all the titles in the directors' bodies of work, via Google Books.

To be periodically updated...

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Dorothy Arzner
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E.g.: Dance, Girl, Dance (1940)

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Leo McCarey


E.g.: The Awful Truth (1937)

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Oscar Micheaux
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E.g.: Body and Soul (1925)

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Max Ophüls
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E.g.: Letter From an Unknown Woman (1948)

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Nicholas Ray
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E.g.: Johnny Guitar (1954)

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Robert Rossen

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E.g.: All the King's Men (1949)

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Frank Tashlin
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E.g.: Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter (1957)

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Jacques Tourneur

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E.g.: Out of the Past (1947)

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Robert Wise

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E.g.: The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)
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Book Review: Britton on Film

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I'm happy to be able to provide a link to downloadable version of a book review I wrote for CineAction; the book in question is the indispensable Britton on Film: The Complete Film Criticism of Andrew Britton, edited by Barry Keith Grant. Britton is one of my very favourite film critics, so it was a pleasure to be able to delve in detail into his work and argue its merits. Thanks to editor Richard Lippe for permission to reprint the article online.

Here's a brief extract to give a flavour of my approach:

Andrew Britton believed in setting out his stall. A merciless critic of hypocrisy and evasiveness in others, in his own work he sought always to declare his attitudes and assumptions as explicitly as possible, often opening articles with declarations of principle that served as landmarks for the field upon which battle was soon to commence. As he writes in ‘The Philosophy of the Pigeonhole: Wisconsin Formalism and the “Classical Style”’, “If readers do not know where the critic stands in relation to the work, they have no means of defining or assessing the critic’s judgments” (p. 125). In tribute to such candor, let us begin this review with the conclusion I hope will be reached by anyone upon closing this book: the marginalization of the work of Andrew Britton by the field of film studies must be regarded as nothing short of a scandal. This review will in large part attempt to argue why I consider such a conclusion unavoidable.

Originally published in CineAction no. 84, (2011), pp: 44-49.
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"For me, the root cause of this mindless selfishness is [...] a complete lack of responsibility in parts of our society - people allowed to feel that the world owes them something, that their rights outweigh their responsibilities, and that their actions do not have consequences."

- David Cameron, 10/8/2011
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Notes on Empathy in the Quirky: Bunny and the Bull

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In his book Wes Anderson: Why His Movies Matter, Mark Browning objects to Anderson's supposed occasional shifts from 'ironic' detachment to moments of 'sincere', melodramatic engagement with characters' emotions:

It is very difficult to maintain a dominant tone of detached quirky irony and then expect audiences to engage emotionally with characters to the level where tears are expected. This kind of tonal seesaw does not really work. (62)

I remembered this passage whilst watching one of the first British films to be transparently influenced by what I've defined as the quirky sensibility of American indie cinema, Bunny and the Bull (2009). If Wes Anderson is guilty of mismanaging his tonal ironic detachment to the point of seriously endangering our ability to empathise with characters at moments of pain and suffering, then Bunny and the Bull should be convicted ten times over.

In my view, Anderson is on the whole extremely skillful in the way he envelops his entire films in largely the same melancholic, yet gently amused, tone. Comic moments tend always to still be slightly sad, sad moments still slightly comic. Even the funeral in Darjeeling Limited (2007) is dealt with using the director's trademark slow-motion-and-retro-song combination, which encourages us to reflect on the extent to which the film is in a significant sense performing this gesture of transcendence and seriousness. (I'd need more time to get across this completely convincingly, but allow me to take this point as read...)

Bunny and the Bull, by contrast, is a film which most certainly for the most part strives to "maintain a dominant tone of detached irony". Strongly cribbing from the quirky - and particularly Michel Gondry/Jared Hess - most of the film is told via a flashback that takes the form of highly stylized cut-out-cartoon locales and unreal landscapes. See, for instance, the restaurant near the opening:



There's nothing to say that, just because the places they inhabit are always patently artificial, we couldn't empathise with this film's characters - it could mobilise any number of conventions or devices to try to bring the viewer into a close empathetic relationship with its central figures. However, despite the seemingly clinically depressed nature of the movie's main character, Stephen, the film is determined always to undercut the integrity of its world and the feelings it potentially has at its disposal - often via either absurd surrealist humour that places us near the realm of Monty Python (see: Julian Barratt's dog-suckling cameo), or through bathetic bawdiness (at the moment when our hero finally goes to bed with the girl of his dreams, the camera pans away and we hear "Hmm, nice penis!"). Basically, this seems to be a film that is unconcerned with placing us into a relationship of empathy with its characters and reality - more Mighty Boosh than anything else.

And that would be fine. Except that, very close to the end, the film reaches the primal scene it's been hinting at throughout: Bunny's fateful encounter with a bull in the field. And at this moment, the film really wants us to feel something. The problem is that the trauma comes so suddenly, emerging unheralded from beneath the veneer of "detached irony", and doing so all but literally.

The sequence begins with us in the artificial, naively-rendered fantasy world that the majority of the film has taken place in, with Bunny on the field with the (at this point mechanical) bull...



...and Stephen watching from the wings by a nearby fence:



However, just when it seems that Bunny might have bested the beast, dark music begins. At this, we begin quickly intercutting shots of what we have till now seem only as a Mechano-like toy (on a patchwork rug) with a real-life bull (in a real-life field)...





As it begins to charge Bunny, this pattern continues - frantic cuts between the stop-motion animal and its real-life counterpart...





From the moment it makes contact with Bunny, we're exclusively in the 'real world' - a world we've never before seen in this film. Stephen scrambles terrified over the fence, pursued by a handheld camera (a further aesthetic signifier of 'real'), over to his fallen friend, who is now dead...





So, seemingly believing that - if it wants to elicit empathy from the viewer (which it quite clearly does) - it is necessary to strip away 'artifice' wholesale, the film at this moment transforms itself into an entirely different sort of aesthetic object than it has previously been. The result is a huge tonal lurch which the movie cannot handle, feeling entirely unearned - precisely the kind of "seesaw" effect Browning claims takes place in Anderson's films.

But no Anderson film attempts anything as clumsy as this. Indeed, Bunny and the Bull makes you realise quite how impeccably nuanced and coherent Anderson's approach tends to be, reminding us that the reason the quirky sensibility works (at least, when it does) is that it is concerned above all with tonal balance, not tonal shifts. While clearly a descendent of the sensibility, Bunny and the Bull doesn't have enough faith in this fundamental lesson of quirky cinema: empathy doesn't require a 'real', merely consistent relationships and attitudes towards the 'real'.
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V. F. Perkins on 'Inception'

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"‎ANATOMY OF A MURDER could run for another three hours after the end titles, cover another three years in the life of its hero, and we should still be no nearer the truth of the case. In LA NOTTE the ‘real ending’ is knowable, but has been withheld. The picture would need to cover at most another two or three hours in its protagonists’ lives in order to resolve the ambiguities of its last sequence. In Preminger’s movie the story ends with a major issue unresolved. In Antonioni’s the story is abandoned when it has served the director’s purpose."

- Film as Film (1972: 148)
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