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Introduction to "Avant-Garde Film"
From Avant-Garde Film (Cambridge University Press, 1993)
The mainstream cinema (and its sibling television) is so fundamental a part of our public and private experiences, that even when filmmakers produce and exhibit alternative cinematic forms, the dominant cinema is implied by the alternatives. If one considers what has come to be called avant-garde film from the point of view of the audience, one confronts an obvious fact.
No one - or certainly, almost no one - sees avant-garde films without first having seen mass-market commercial films. In fact, by the time most people see their first avant-garde film, they have already seen hundreds of films in commercial theaters and on television, and their sense of what a movie is has been almost indelibly imprinted in their conscious and unconscious minds by their training as children (we learn to appreciate the various forms of popular cinema from our parents, older siblings, and friends) and by the continual reconfirmation of this training during adolescence and adulthood. The earliest most people come in contact with an avant-garde film of any type is probably the mid-to-late teen years (for many people the experience comes later, if at all). The result is that whatever particular manipulations of imagery, sound, and time define these first avant-garde film experiences as alternatives to the commercial cinema are recognizable only because of the conventionalized context viewers have already developed.
Generally, the first response generated by an avant-garde film is, "This isn't a movie," or the more combative, "You call this a movie!?" Even the rare, responsive viewer almost inevitably finds the film - whatever its actual length in minutes "too long." By the time we see our first avant-garde films, we think we know what movies are, we recognize what "everyone" agrees they should be; and we see the new cinematic failures-to-conform as presumptuous refusals to use the cinematic space (the theater, the VCR viewing room) "correctly." If we look carefully at this response, however (here I speak from personal experience, and on the basis of more than twenty years of observing students dealing with their first avant-garde films), we recognize that the obvious anger and frustration are a function of the fact that these films confront us with the necessity of redefining an experience we were sure we understood. We may feel we know that these avant-garde films are not movies, but what are they? We see them in a theater; they're projected by movie projectors, just as conventional movies are... we can see that they are movies, even if we "know" they're not. The experience provides us with the opportunity (an opportunity much of our training has taught us to resist) to come to a clearer, more complete understanding of what the cinematic experience actually can be, and what - for all the pleasure and inspiration it may give us - the conventional movie experience is not.
These first avant-garde films, in other words, can catalyze what I would like to call our first fully critical response to a set of experiences our culture has trained us to enjoy, primarily as a process of unquestioning consumption. I say "fully critical" because the sort of film-critical process I'm describing actually begins the moment we see any form of film that we cannot immediately recognize as a movie, given our previous training. For the generation coming of age in the 1960s, this process often began with foreign commercial features, by Fellini, Bergman, Bufluel, Kurosawa, that did not conform to the expectations we had developed watching Hollywood films. For most people, however, avant-garde films are so entirely unlike "real movies" that they demand a full-scale revaluation of our cinematic preconceptions; they are closer to being "purely" critical.
Obviously, not everyone who has a first experience with an avant-garde film uses the experience as a means of catalyzing thought about Cinema, but for some people, the experience leads them to an extended critique of conventional movie experiences and an awareness that avant-garde film is an ongoing history which has been providing critical alternatives to the mass-market cinema for more than seventy-five years.
The first substantial flowering of avant-garde cinema occurred during the 1920S in Western Europe, most notably in France and Germany, and in the post-revolutionary Soviet Union. In Germany and France, the cinematic apparatus was seen as a tool with which artists working in the fine arts could expand their repertoire, and, by doing so, attract more of the public than visited art galleries and salons. Indeed, film-going was becoming so popular among members of all social classes that artists could hope that the expanding audience might embrace visual critique of convention as well as convention itself. The first film Avant-Garde fueled at least two different critical responses to the mass commercial cinema. Not surprisingly, these responses parallel two of the more salient tendencies in the fine arts during the first decades of this century: abstraction and surrealism. Both tendencies resulted in films that were memorable enough to continue to inspire and inform critical filmmaking in Western Europe, North America, Japan, and elsewhere.
One group of filmmakers questioned the commercial cinema's failure to minister directly to spiritual needs in the way music often does and abstract painting was attempting to do. Hans Richter, in Rhythmus 21 (192.1) and Rhythmus 23 (19234); Oskar Fischinger, in his Wax Experiments (19216), R-i. Em Formspiel ("R-i. A form play," c. 1927), and Spirals (c. 1926); Walter Ruttmann, in Opus No. 2 (1922), Opus No. 3 (1923), and Opus No. 4 (1923); and Viking Eggeling, in Diagonale Symphonie (1924), focused viewers' attention on shape, motion, rhythm, chiaroscuro, and color, in the hope they could touch the spirit more directly than conventional filmmakers did. Related were Dudley Murphy's Ballet mechanique (made in 1924 with Fernand Leger and Man Ray), Marcel Duchamp's Anemic cinema (1926), Henri Chomette's Jeux des reflets et de la vitesse ("Plays of Reflections and Speed," 1925), and Germaine Dulac's Disque 957 (1929), all of which foreswore most of the elements of conventional narrative cinema and foregrounded abstract imagery and rhythms.
The second set of film-critical responses came at the hands of the surrealists. Using elements of plot, character, and location moviegoers could be expected to recognize, these filmmakers relentlessly undercut the expectations their inclusion of these elements inevitably created, in the hope of depicting and affecting layers of the conscious and unconscious mind too problematic for the commercial cinema. Rene Clair's Entr'acte (1924), Man Ray's L'Etoile de mer ("Starfish," 1928), and Luis Buuel and Salvador Dali's Un Chien andalou ("An Andalusian Dog," 1929) continually confront one of the central assumptions of conventional cinema: the idea that the individual personality and social and political relations among individuals are basically rational and understandable. These filmmakers were at pains to shatter the complacency created by this assumption. Indeed, since the contemporary mass-market cinema continues to confirm such complacency, most audiences find these particular films - and especially Un Chien andalou - as unusual now as when they were made.
In the Soviet Union, the revolution produced a cinema that mounted a direct attack on the mass-entertainment film industry, particularly its function as propagandist for capitalism and the political systems that support it - from a position outside capitalist culture. The major films of Eisenstein, Pudovkin, Dovzhenko, and Vertov combined overt political content and experimental form into impassioned critiques of social conditions and polemics for a more humane political system. Like the films of the first Avant-Garde, the Soviet films may never have been seen by the mass viewing public in the West, but they inspired generations of filmmakers, exhibitors, and viewers, and remain formative influences in various sectors of contemporary cultural life. In Depression America in particular, the result was a Soviet-inspired school of experimental narrative and documentary, perhaps the first American alternative cinema movement.
After World War II, technological and esthetic developments catalyzed a major flowering of avant-garde cinema in the United States. The increasing availability of less-expensive r6mm motion picture cameras and projectors made the production and exhibition of alternative forms of film economically feasible, and it facilitated the development of a broader range of production systems: the less-expensive equipment was accessible to individuals and small groups who might not have found their way into filmmaking otherwise. The smaller gauge also revived the film society movement, which had enlivened the film scene throughout Western Europe in the 19Z05 and 1930s, offering audiences a broader range of critical alternatives to the economically dominant Hollywood industry. Film societies had been only marginally successful in the United States, largely because of the economic and social power of Hollywood.' The availability of i6mm equipment made possible Amos Vogel's Cinema 16 in New York and the nationwide network of film societies it instigated.4
The increasingly prolific American alternative film scene took strength from the new prestige of the visual arts, especially in New York. The emergence of the New York School of painting and of generally related developments in experimental music (the increasing prestige and influence of jazz and of John Cage, for example), literature (the New Novel in France, Beat poetry in the United States), and the other arts not only suggested approaches useful to filmmakers looking to provide audiences with alternatives to Hollywood (the gestural emphasis of much abstract expressionist painting, for example, helped to inspire gestural camerawork that tended to give "headaches" to filmgoers weaned on Hollywood movies), it polemicized the excitement of individual self-expression. The motion picture camera offered a way of extending the New York School's commitment to the importance of individual vision (a commitment evident, for instance, in their large-scale canvases), both literally, since the movie screen is a "canvas" of considerable size, and in terms of audience: filmmakers could hope that because of the massive popularity and prestige of the commercial cinema, film-critical alternatives to Hollywood might be of widespread interest. screening rooms. These new interests affected film viewers and filmmakers, many of whom studied or taught film in academic contexts. Some of these filmmakers were interested in developing more sustained and systematic critiques of conventional film and television narrative entertainment, and especially in responding to the tendency toward overconsumption marketed by television advertising and confirmed by the visual/auditory overload of a good many alternative films of the 196os. For them, re-attention to cinema's beginnings became a particular source of inspiration. Since modern cinema had supposedly become what it was by leaving the discoveries of the early cinema pioneers behind, filmmakers began to return to these "primitives" to see if what conventional film history had defined as primitive was really a set of less marketable, but still useful alternatives. After all, many of those who were seeing their first avant-garde films in the 196os, and who were not tuning into them, tended to call the avant-garde films "primitive." Perhaps there was a relationship between what the first pioneers had done, and what the avant-garde "pioneers" were doing.
Avant-garde filmmakers did, indeed, find a resource in what had been called primitive cinema. In some cases, their excitement about what they discovered blinded them to the commercial realities of the early days, but this excitement, whether they explored it directly or whether it formed part of a more general environment that had an indirect impact on them, helped to fuel the approaches that are the subject of this volume. For our purposes here, these approaches can be roughly identified with Eadweard Muybridge and the Lumire brothers.
In film historical circles, Muybridge is known for his discovery that motion can be photographically analyzed into component parts and for his construction of the Zoopraxiscope, the combination of the technologies of animation and projection he used to demonstrate that if he resynthesized the various stages of particular motions, he could create the illusion of the original motion the still images represented. Muybridge's extensive "motion studies" have been seen as an important stage in the move from the animation of drawings, which characterized the popular "philosophic toys" of the nineteenth century (the Phenakistascope, the Zoetrope), to the printing of photographs of stages of motion on strips of celluloid; and the Zoopraxiscope is usually considered an important early stage of the movie projector.
The aspect of Muybridge's work that is most interesting for the films I'll be discussing in this volume, however, has to do with the information he used his technology to discover, and the way in which this information was presented. In order to document his motion studies so that viewers would be able to measure the type and amount of motion accomplished during any fraction of a second by one of the humans or animals he photographed, Muybridge mounted a linear grid behind his subjects. And in order to make possible the precise comparison of one phase of a given motion to another phase, he mounted the photographs of particular phases of motion, recorded at evenly spaced intervals of time, in a grid. (Often a given motion was photographed from multiple camera angles; phases of the motion, taken from the various angles, were mounted on grids within a single frame: This way the differences in a particular movement evident from differing angles could be explored.) In other words, Muybridge's motion photographs are sets of grids within grids - and indeed his entire ongoing exploration of the human figure and of animals in motion is a kind of grid, since Muybridge's approach remained the same, subject after subject. Of course, these grids prefigure the essential grid of the filmstrip!
Regardless of how much Muybridge, or anyone else, actually studied the motion recorded in the motion photographs - his central compulsion seems to have been the recording of information rather than the detailed examination of it his use of a consistently serial organization of both space and time found its way into the works of avant-garde filmmakers interested in studying film's historical origins and the fundamentals of its technology. The way was smoothed by the fact that during the mid-196os many painters, sculptors, and musicians were exploring serial organizations of imagery as a means of avoiding conventional, traditionally hierarchical arrangements of material, space, and time. A good many filmmakers, including all those whose work is the focus of subsequent chapters, have used serial organizations as a means of revealing how things move. In some cases, this interest in serial organization has resulted in films made in conscious homage to Muybridge: Instances include Morgan Fisher's Documentary Footage (1968, discussed briefly in the Fisher chapter of Part i), Robert Huot's Turning Torso Drawdown (ii), Hollis Frampton's INGENIVM NOBIS IPSA PVELLA FECIT (i?), and George Griffin's Viewmaster (1976). 'While none of the films discussed in detail in the following chapters is exactly an homage to Muybridge, each film is structured serially and can be understood as a "motion study." The particulars of the serial structuring, and the rigorousness (or compulsiveness) with which the various grids are developed, reflect the sensibilities of the filmmakers. Together, the fifteen films provide a grid against which viewers can study their experiences of conventional (and critical) films.
Whereas Muybridge's deepest concerns seem to have been scientific, the Lumire brothers' primary concern was economic: Their fascination with motion pictures was a function of their work as camera manufacturers. Ironically, avant-garde filmmakers found a way of ignoring this dimension
of the Lumires, and the Lumire films came to stand for, and to inspire, a nonmaterialistic approach to filmmaking. When Jonas Mekas dedicated Walden "to Lumire," the dedication was a reference to the excitement Mekas assumed the Lumire brothers must have felt when they confronted the visual world, as if for the first time, with their Cinmatographe, and to their apparently innocent openness to the everyday experiences around them. For Mekas, and for others rediscovering the Lumires, the most notable dimension of their films was the seeming simplicity of the subjects on which they trained their cameras (a train arriving at a station, workers leaving a factory, children playing, a mother and father feeding their baby) and of the means used to record these subjects: Each film was a single, continuous, extended shot, recorded by a stable, mounted camera. For the Lumires, their choice of subjects probably had mostly to do with their desire to demonstrate the breadth of capabilities they saw in the Cinematographe, to show off the new technology itself (by using it to record familiar realities, they could be sure that viewers would focus on the magic of their machine), and no doubt they assumed that their juxtaposition of film after film, each recording a different subject or kind of subject, would be exciting for viewers.
But for filmmakers rebelling against the decadence of the Hollywood industry and its contempt for everyday, personal reality, the Lumires' films were a breath of fresh air. Seen from a context created by the history and current practice of industry moviemaking, the Lumires' subjects seemed to subtly polemicize the beauties and pleasures of everyday life and a populist admiration for working-class people. The consistent use of the single continuous shot seemed a form of filmic mediation that allowed for a different kind of motion study: a sustained examination and appreciation of subjects for their wholeness and/or their visual and conceptual subtlety. If Muybridge can be said to represent the analysis of reality so that it can be studied, the Lumires can be said to represent the synthesis of reality so that it can be comprehended.
For avant-garde filmmakers interested in "reinventing" cinema, the Lumires' single-shot approach seemed ideal, and the result was that, beginning in the mid-196os, a variety of filmmakers made single-shot films, often extending the basic form so that the single shot lasted for more than ten minutes.9 All the films I've discussed in detail in this volume either use long, continuous shots or employ closely related means for creating a similar effect. And in general, the goal of these extended shots is much the same: to focus attention - an almost meditative level of attention - on subject matter normally ignored or marginalized by mass-entertainment film, and, by doing so, to reinvigorate our reverence for the visual world around us and develop our patience for experiencing it fully.
The remaining fifteen chapters in this book are arranged in a manner that reflects the dimensions of Muybridge and the Lumires central in the particular films discussed. Each chapter provides an "extended look" at a particular film made between 1966 and 1987, though all the chapters include information about the filmmakers' other work, especially about films that help to clarify the films discussed in detail (and about related work by others). Each discussion explores the potential of the particular film for critiquing dimensions of the commercial cinema. It will be obvious that the films can be approached from other theoretical directions and used in a variety of contexts (indeed some of the films have been widely discussed elsewhere). But my goal is to provide a way of seeing each film that not only makes what some have considered difficult work reasonably accessible, but offers a way of using the films that can energize viewers' experiences with cinema of all kinds.
While the individual chapters provide in-depth discussions of particular films, the overall organization of the chapters facilitates comparisons of films and types of films. The fifteen chapters are divided into a grid made up of three relatively distinct sections, five chapters each. The films discussed in Part , - Yoko Ono's No. 4 (Bottoms) (1966), Michael Snow's Wavelength (1967), Ernie Gehr's Serene Velocity (1970), J. J. Murphy's Print Generation (i7), and Morgan Fisher's Standard Gauge (1985) - focus on aspects of equipment, material, and process that make all kinds of film imagery possible, including the dramatizations (and/or documentations) of characters so central in the conventional cinema. The films in Part z focus on aspects of the tradition of film as dramatic narrative. Hollis Frampton's Zorns Lemma (1970), Laura Mulvey and Peter Wollen's Riddles of the Sphinx (1977), James Benning's American Dreams (1984), Su Friedrich's The Ties That Bind (1984), and Yervant Gianikian and Angela Ricci Lucchi's From the Pole to the Equator (1987) critique the commercial cinema's narrow range of narrative procedures. Part 3 expands the focus beyond the issue of storytelling, to critique the convention that filmmaking is a national (and nationalistic) enterprise. Each of the five films discussed at length - Warren Sonbert's The Carriage Trade (i), Godfrey Reggio's Powaqqatsi (1988), Trinh T. Minh-ha's Naked Spaces-Living Is Round (1985), Yvonne Rainer's Journeys from Berlin I97I (1979), and Peter Watkins's The Journey (1987) - demonstrates ways in which cinema can move beyond its territorial heritage.
Within each section, individual chapters are arranged so as to traverse a certain cinematic terrain and provide a sense of development. The overall direction of the first section is continued in subsequent sections. Further, particular chapters in particular positions within sections are meant to resonate with the chapters in those positions in the other sections. In terms of the types of critique it uses, No 4 (Bottoms) "belongs" in Part i, but it also has more in common with Zorns Lemma and The Carriage Trade than with other films in Parts z and 3. Similarly, Standard Gauge resonates not only with the other films discussed in Part i, but with From the Pole to the Equator and The journey from Part z.
Together, the in-depth analyses of particular films and the organization of these discussions into a grid provide the opportunity for an extended "motion study" of film viewership on a number of different levels. Most obviously, literal and figurative journeys by characters are the central focus of the particular films analyzed, and each character's journey engages viewers in a different form of conceptual travel in the theater. These journeys grow increasingly extensive, from chapter to chapter, and part by part. In the first section, "From Stern to Stem," the journeys are, in a literal sense, quite short, though their implications are considerable. Chapter i discusses Yoko Ono's No. 4 (Bottoms), where the camera rigorously frames on the buttocks of people filmed walking in place on a treadmill: They may not get anywhere on this "journey," but Ono's film offers the viewer extensive conceptual travel. In Part z, "Psychic Excursions," the focus is on journeys of consciousness, though in all instances the psychic travel of filmmakers (and the "journey" of those who experience the films) is imaged and/or catalyzed by literal journeys. The focus of Part 3, "Premonitions of Global Cinema," is films in which filmmakers have used the camera as a vehicle for traveling through the political, linguistic, and conceptual boundaries that divide the world, and the editing process as a way of honoring the distinctions among various regions and peoples while demonstrating their interconnectedness.
Together, the various journeys depicted in the films offer the reader the opportunity of a meta-narrative, a "critical voyage" with a route largely determined by the mass-entertainment film (and television) industry. We come to avant-garde film with our preconceptions already formed and with the habit of resisting any interruption of our cinematic pleasure. This book's grid of extended looks at ingenious critical films can function as a backdrop against which viewers can measure their journeys across the boundaries that separate them from unfamiliar cinematic terrains, toward a larger awareness of Cinema.
Although each of the films discussed in the following chapters is of considerable interest and of considerable potential use to those interested in engaging in an ongoing critique of mainstream film, I certainly am not arguing that these particular fifteen films are the "Best Films" of the past decades. They are simply fifteen of the best films I am aware of for invigorating a cinematic critique of commercial movie-going expectations. I debated for months about which particular films to use, and some decisions were little more than arbitrary. In many cases, particular filmmakers might well have been represented by another of their films. For example, Michael Snow's *-* (1969) could as easily have been the focus of Chapter 3 as Wavelength; and Warren Sonbert's Friendly Witness (1989) could replace The Carriage Trade. In some instances, even the choice of filmmaker was difficult. Larry Gottheim (Horizons, 1973) or Robert Huot (Rolls: 1971) might have opened Part z, instead of Frampton; Jonas Mekas's Reminiscences of a journey to Lithuania (1971) could have been used instead of Friedrich's The Ties That Bind; and Johan van der Keuken's The Way South (1981) would fit perfectly into Part . The single most difficult film not to include was Peter Kubelka's UnsereAfrikareise ("Our Trip to Africa," 1966) which could have ended Part z or begun Part 3.
In any case, my goal is not to canonize, or further canonize, fifteen particular films, or even the approach I use them to exemplify, but to instigate a much more extensive use of the remarkable body of alternative cinema represented by these films. As I write this introduction, the ongoing tradition of critical cinema remains one of film history's most underappreciated achievements and one of its most underutilized classroom resources.
1. I use avant-garde film as a general term to designate the cinematic terrain that has, at various points in its history, been called "underground film," "The New American Cinema," "experimental film," "experimental/avant-garde film," and so on. This very proliferation of terms is evidence of the size and diversity of this particular area of film history, as well as of the ongoing debate about how to understand it. No one term seems entirely satisfactory - including avant-garde film. Avantgarde is not only a military reference (traditionally, avant-garde filmmakers have been anti militaristic), it suggests that the films so designated lead the way for more conventional types of cinema, which is only true in a most limited sense. Some avant-garde films have made breakthroughs in form and content that have been exploited by commercial filmmakers, but in general avant-garde flimmaking has been a derivation of the industry, a response to it in content and form. For all its problems, however, avant-garde film probably has the widest currency of all the designations and, in film studies, is generally understood to refer to an ongoing history that has been articulated in different ways in different places. Most of the other terms tend to refer to particular manifestations of this history. The terms "the first film Avnt-Garde," "the first Avant-Garde," and even "the Avant-Garde" (in caps), generally refer specifically to the Western European avantgarde filmmakers of the 192.05.
2. William Alexander's Film on the Left (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981) details this school.
3. For an overview of the formative influence of the French cin-club on the film society movement, see Chapter 3 of Richard Abel's French Cinema: The First Wave, 1915-1929 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984).
4. The history of Cinema 16 and Amos Vogel's approach to exhibition are discussed in Scott MacDonald, "Amos Vogel and Cinema i6," Wide Angle, vol. 9, no. 3 (1987), pp. 38-51.
5. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1974).
6. See J. Hoberman and Jonathan Rosenbaum, Midnight Movies (New York: Harper & Row, 1983). Unlike many forms of avant-garde film that are the products of individual filmmakers working alone, the trash films are often produced by groups of people working in a rough simulation of Hollywood collaborative methods.
7. William C. Wees discusses the issue of visual perception in the work of Brakhage and other filmmakers in Light Moving in Time (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1992.).
8. Some filmmakers - Paul Sharits is a well-known instance - have mounted strips of motion picture film side by side in a grid to create visually arresting gallery installations of grids within the larger grid.
9. There are dozens of examples. The earliest instances I know of are Bruce Baillie's All My Life (1966, although the camera here isn't stationary) and Still Life (1966); several films included in the 1966 Fluxfilm Program assembled by George Maciunas (see Chapter z); and Robert Nelson's The Awful Backlash (1967). In my teaching, the most useful single-shot films have been Larry Gottheim's Blues (1969) and Fog Line (1970), and Robert Huot's Snow (1971). 1 discuss these and other single-shot films in "Putting All Your Eggs in One Basket," Afterimage (American), vol. 16, no. 8 (March 1989), pp. 10-16.
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