Tokyo and the world's Story

Yasujiro Ozu’s 1953 film Tokyo Story is a solemn story encompassing universal thematic concerns of family, modernity and the consequences of when these two worlds coalesce. Tokyo Story really spoke to me in the sense of experiencing that fragile balance between adult life and family. It particularly reminded me of when my grandmother died, after spending two years in a nursing home, being a mere ‘vegetable’ not recognising myself and my family when we visited, not being able to talk, move, etc – it became so depressing to visit her that I saw her every second week instead of every week. Then those two weeks became every third, and after so much work piling up, and other responsibilities, my sisters and I felt so guilty about seeing her so rarely. When she died in 2009, I couldn’t help but feel that I should have seen her more, and not have been so tied up in my own life.

In hindsight our vision is always 20/20, and we’re so much the wiser upon reflection. Tokyo Story explores the joy and grief of familial relations, and how our vision seems a bit out-of-focus in the present. I found a somewhat romanticism of the every-day in Ozu’s film, a real tenderness towards the ordinary and its fragility, being the family unit, and how this familiarity was being jeopardised by the lures modernity. I found Ozu’s low and stable ‘tatami-mat’ shots interesting in paralleling them to the narrative itself; in that the children’s perspectives are limited and unmoving, echoing the vision analogy previously mentioned.

The inevitable drift between children and their parents is poetically portrayed by Ozu. The universality of families and their problems makes audiences world-wide re-acknowledge the importance of family and the precious time we have left with them. This is simply stated in the film when the grandmother solemnly, yet realistically states, “By the time you become a doctor, I wonder if I'll still be here.”

These shifting priorities reflect the transitional ‘liminal’ period Japan was in during the 1950s, after WWII, the devastating atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 and occupation forces retreating in 1951, leaving Japan to be an independent country in 1952. One could observe that Westernisation having introduced a new wave of modernity was a catalyst of the collapse of the previously strong family structures. This state of flux of society’s values causes earlier beliefs and values to be shifted, generating a strong sense of nostalgia of what once was. This disintegration of traditional Japanese values coincide with those of the family unit, in a state of dissolution in the face of a new world and new possibilities offered by the cosmopolitan cities of Tokyo and Osaka.

An interesting technique employed by Ozu that I find intriguing in cinema, is the use of Acousmatic sounds (sounds one hears without seeing its source) When in the village, the distant image and sound of a train was heard repeatedly, insinuating that modernity was passing the village by, and that exciting happenings were taking place elsewhere. This simple technique so poignantly emphasized the long-held traditions being disbanded and forgotten, in pursuit of a new life; in which family is no longer in the foreground.

Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead and all the things in between...

The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand’s 1943 novel and literary success having sold 6.5 million copies worldwide, has received mixed reception, what I call a ‘love it or hate it’ read. After some contemplation and deliberation, I think I can safely say that I fall into the latter category. I finished the book with difficulty, having wanting to throw it across the room with contempt and never pick it up again, but since it’s a ‘must read’ (for Engl3604 class predominantly but also one of those books you have to read to be able to comment on it at dinner parties and the like) I forced myself to finish it, and having finished scanning page 694 I then threw it across the room, followed by a deep sigh and a large mouthful of my dirty martini. Well, not really, but that was how I felt.

Let me start with Howard Roark. I perceived Roark as a vessel of Rand’s individualistic (I’ll return to Rand’s philosophy, Individualism, soon) beliefs, choosing to go through life, struggling in obscurity by uncompromising his values, artistic and personal visions. I read Roark as a mere mouthpiece for Rand, using him as a device to communicate her views and her didactic ideologies. It felt as if Rand subjected her readers to a lecture, similar to the inhabitants of Roark’s buildings living by way of the aesthetics, 'performing to the architectural aesthetics' forced into an environment and lifestyle chosen for them. The preaching-esque narrative quality pushed Rand’s ideals upon the reader without much choice, as the story was interwoven with her notions of the world. Being lectured to became exhausting and let’s be honest here, a bit boring, especially in Rand’s (sorry, Roark’s) 7 page rant in the court-room (p678). This scene reminded me of a play I wrote in high school, in which I had the protagonist ‘preach’ for an entire page, after which my teacher said ‘characters can’t talk that long, otherwise the audience gets bored. A page is too long.’ Tell that to Rand, Mr Green, tell that to Rand.

Nevertheless, Rand’s philosophical principles; Individualism and Objectivism intrigue and interest me, it was just their blatant projection in the novel that irritated me. Individualism places the individual on a pedestal, foregrounding their goals and desires, emphasizing self-reliance and independence. External factors from familiars, society or institutions such as popular mass opinions and behaviours are left by the wayside in favour of self-creation and experimentation. Throughout the book there is a battle between Individualism and Collectivism, finally 'won' by Individualism in the courtroom scene, with Roark defending the American concept of individual rights. From my perspective, individualism is such a first world construction, where egotistical viewpoints are taken up and lived by, where the individual sees themselves as the only person who matters. It is a somewhat insufferable perspective for me; I hugely dislike people who think they are above everyone else and thus why my  anger for Roark soon snowballed; I found him arrogant and very dislikeable.

As for Objectivism, in which reality exists independent of consciousness - human knowledge and values are objective, determined by the nature of reality, to be discovered by man's mind.  Objectivists believe that objective knowledge from perception through the process of concept formation and inductive and deductive logic. The proper moral purpose of one’s life is the pursuit of one’s own happiness (rational self-interest) and that the role of art in human life is to transform man’s widest metaphysical ideas, by selective reproduction of reality, into a physical form – a work of art – that he can comprehend and to which he can respond emotionally (Paraphrased from Wikipedia Objectivism (Ayn Rand) page - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Objectivism_(Ayn_Rand)) Again it is a very solitary and ego-centric stance, a selfish and self-absorbed world-view.

I found this egotistical stance and architectural career path an interesting combination, interpreting the buildings as temples of the self, and phallic extensions of either architect, endeavouring to dominant the city, and even the world, with their designs and self-image. Both Roark and and Keating made self-indulgent, egotistical claims of the world through architecture, with Keating’s classical and Roark’s modernist designs constructing their own world in which they are ‘gods’.

Rand's novel is concerned with individual-mindedness, whilst everyone else seems to be 'second-handers', depicted in a world which seems so man-made itself, which is quite fitting in the context of architect's lives. By 'man-made' I allude to the discussion in class about no 'natural' or 'accidental' elements in the novel, depicting a strange reality painted by Rand's hand. It is an unrealistic strange reality, with unidentifiable characters, justifying my lack of empathy for them and what happened in their lives.

Don't cut yourself, you dare not lose any

Wise Blood, Flannery O’Connor’s first novel and a “work of strange beauty” was published in 1952, exploring the evangelical Deep South and the activities of the curious character, Hazel Motes. O’Connor’s employed macabre humour and grotesque undertones make an interesting read, in both a modern and post-modern interpretation. The immediate reception of Wise Blood in 1952 was mixed; praise, misunderstanding and outrage. At first, some resented O’Connor’s fiction, receiving it as mockery of the Baptist and Methodist faiths. Wise Blood could be seen as a comical account of the creation of an anchorite and a hallowed ascetic, or on the other hand, an existential novel delivered in a tragi-comedy genre, lightening the heavy load of the moral content.
As an atheist myself, I found the book intriguing and rather progressive for its time, especially for a woman’s voice to bring up such controversial issues, such as her own Roman Catholic faith and to question morality and ethics behind such faiths.
There are a number of poetic threads weaved through the novel such as the repeated notion of ‘wise blood’ and how it speaks to its possessor, the obsession with eyes, the gaze and being able to see beyond one’s solid form and of course, with faith and preaching.

Wise BloodThe recurring notion of blood ‘speaking’ and ‘telling’ its vessel what to think and how to act echoes Enoch Emery, Motes’ friend who is searching for a new Jesus, and his theory of ‘wise blood’, being that the blood knows, even if the mind does not and being able to communicate secrets otherwise unknown. The metaphorical, symbolic and significant presence of ‘wise blood’ in the novel portrays the somewhat disillusioned credence in the body, extended to Christ’s and its ability to surpass what is possible, given realistic provisions:
“Naturally, his blood was not going to put up with any attitude like this.” (p92)

EyesAs professed in James Mellard’s essay Framed in the Gaze: Haze, Wise Blood and Lacanian Reading, Wise Blood can be read through a Lacanian lens by applying Jacques Lacan’s philosophy and psycho-analysis, “for virtually every important element in the novel pivots on concepts…in Lacan’s notion of the gaze” (Mellard p52)
Hazel's preoccupation with others is a textual reminder of Lacan’s Symbolic, and what he considers the ‘function of the gaze’ and the ability to see beyond the physical being, to the soul, the eyes, akin to blood, taking on an ultra-human quality, “It’s you that can’t see, Mr Motes.” (p154)

Faith Hazel becomes an anti-priest of The Church without Christ, where "the deaf don't hear, the blind don't see, the lame don't walk, the dumb don't talk, and the dead stay that way," Hazel, therefore, is a believer without belief and a seer without vision. I found Hazels anti-religious sentiment refreshing, amongst the other character’s preaching and soap-box activism, uncovering the truth behind the church’s greediness and shameless profiteering behaviour; “’Listen!’ Haze shouted. ‘It don’t cost you any money to know the truth! You can’t know it for money!’” (p105) By the novel's denouement though, Hazel's church becomes his own body, after his car is destroyed, his physical being taking on a spiritual and religious load. After believing that he can be saved from being evil by believing in nothing,  he is a Christian in spite of himself and his 'redemption' is blinding himself (successfully accomplishing Asa Hawks' failed act), wearing barbed wire across his chest and stones in his shoes.

O'Connor has created a work that divulges the psychological and spiritual guilt and 'enlightenment' through faith, and the radical Calvinism of the South.

Man With A Movie Camera - The Man With A Third Eye

Dziga Vertov’s 1929 film, Man with a Movie Camera, unobtrusively and surprisingly entertainingly captured the everyday actions of Russian civilians and Soviet life in general. Despite an entire hour of pure observance of life’s banalities, Vertov manages to captivate audiences, dominantly through his pioneering cinematography and cinema’s ability to invent new moments.

Vertov’s film, which was a masterful contribution to the Kinoks movement, was extremely experimental for its time as it renounced narrative drive and rhetorical devices such as pathos to affect its audiences. I found it artistically, beautifully edited, masterfully composed in its montage-ing, collage-ing and splicing of life, supporting its seamless transition from society’s work time to ‘play’ time.

The opening image, after the cinema scene, of the ‘mini’ cameraman on top of the camera simply symbolised the film’s mode of address, exploring the ontology of the cinematic space and its ability to create new realms of existence.

What I enjoyed most about the film was my eye’s ambitious curiosity to observe life from 82 years ago unfold, perceiving how urban life has progressed, and in some senses, how it hasn’t changed at all. The everyday is made intriguing through Vertov’s employment of double exposure, split screens, the speeding up, slowing down, reversal and stopping of time through fast motion, slow motion and freeze frames, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy, flirting with the unconscious.

The machinery of modern life has occupied jobs filled by people, such as the woman folding cardboard to make boxes, allegorically demonstrating the organic body turned ‘machinic’, set amongst electronics, machinery and technological advancements. This narrative of organic meets electronic can be easily recognized through Vertov’s reconfigured space in which the organic human eye is replaced by the inorganic, that of the camera.

On a more technical analytical note, I found Vertov’s cinematography (and some content such as the glimpse of a woman giving birth) rather progressive for the late ‘20s. Regarding this point, Vertov actually requested a disclaimer before the film's release concerning its controversial and experimental nature so as not to be disregarded or loathed by audiences. The warning stated:

"The film Man with a Movie Camera represents
AN EXPERIMENTATION IN THE CINEMATIC TRANSMISSION
Of visual phenomena
WITHOUT THE USE OF INTERTITLES
(a film without intertitles)
WITHOUT THE HELP OF A SCRIPT
(a film without script)
WITHOUT THE HELP OF A THEATRE
(a film without actors, without sets, etc.)
This new experimentation work by Kino-Eye is directed towards the creation of an authentically international absolute language of cinema – ABSOLUTE KINOGRAPHY – on the basis of its complete separation from the language of theatre and literature."
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_with_a_Movie_Camera#Vertov.27s_intentions)


Despite its experimental, arguably mundane structure, I truly enjoyed Vertov’s dream-like landscape of Russia, and the neurology of modernity portrayed, even with its anti-narrative drive. I have attached two of my favourite images, which can be seen below. The superimposed eye inside the camera's eye simplistically embodying Vertov's term 'kinoks' (camera-man) whilst the image of the camerman looming over the city symbolises the idea of the 'hyper-human', the "perfect electric man" weaving a poetic thread of the common citizen amongst modern machinery.

The Third Eye






The Giant Capture