Coming soon from the Criterion Collection. Huzzah.

And while we’re at it… How badly do you want your TV to be more like this?

Peter Baker reviewing Psycho for Films and Filming. September 1960.

Via chained and perfumed.

“The iguanas are the best thing in the movie. And I must have five minutes of iguana time! And if I don’t have my full five minutes of iguana time, I will never make another movie again!”

—Werner Herzog

I’m amazed by how imagistic directors like Cronenberg and Lynch develop a very strong sense of cinematography and tone in their early short films and then don’t bother to bring in plot until later. It seems like movie conventions are afterthoughts to their ideas rather than the other way around.

Via @caketrainpress.

As Brian Winston put it on the BBC program, “I don’t think you can make a moral judgment about Riefenstahl’s work on the basis that it embodies fascist aesthetics, because I don’t think there’s any such thing. I think she stands in the mainstream of Western aesthetics, and I think that Western aesthetics can be, on occasion, fascist. That’s the problem with the whole phenomenon of fascism — that we want somehow to treat it as a virus. It isn’t; it’s part of us. It’s the dark side of the European tradition, and she represents that dark side perfectly.”

It goes on…

The reasons for such myopia, I would argue, don’t really have much to do with Riefenstahl’s international standing as an artist. Rather, they have to do with a glaring contradiction in our notions about art and politics — a contradiction that Riefenstahl’s career throws into sharp relief. To put the matter crudely, we tend to celebrate artists who have absolute, dictatorial freedom and control over their resources, and condemn politicians who pursue or achieve the same aim.

I’m saddened by the fact I beat Wonkette to the punch on this.

EDIT: I Work at Blockbuster is also pretty cool.

One potential way of reading the film would be through a Kierkegaardian lens, which I think shines some light on the trinity used within the film. Hence, we can think of Kierkegaard’s Christian existentialist trinity of the aesthetic, the ethical, and the religious as roughly equivalent to the pledge, the turn, and the prestige.

The aesthetic and the pledge are essentially the same: it involves something of a pact, but crucially adorned in a baroque manner (the importance of masks, titles, and theatrics in the film and magic itself). Think of any magic show you have ever seen as well: there is always something of a glam theatric that surrounds the entire performance. We might also parallel it to Lacan’s imaginary order, the order of ego adornment and spectral identification.

The ethical, then, is roughly equivalent to the turn: in it, the object disappears from our sight, as if by magic. But the “as if” here is crucial, because in our heart of hearts we must unconsciously believe that the trick is merely an illusion, even if we consciously wish it to be something more: if we were to fully accept it as something truly mystical, our entire basis of reality would disintegrate. Here the Lacanian connection would be to the symbolic, the stable foundation of language that sutures the wound of the void, as well as what introduces the dimension of the non-all to being: as soon as there is the Word, something can both “appear” and “disappear” (similar to Freud’s Fort-Da game).

Finally we arrive at the religious, which is equivalent to the prestige, when the object returns from “inner space.” It might be helpful to think of it in terms of the Lacanian Real, the point at which we encounter the traumatic kernel at the core of the illusion: on the one hand, we can conceive of it in terms of the violence underlying the illusion, such as the killing of the bird in the disappearing bird trick or the violence the magicians inflict upon one another. Yet it’s also something more: it’s when magic truly happens, when the “illusion” is actually that the trick is merely an “illusion”: it’s the mystical that exceeds and destroys the foundation of our entire reality. It must therefore appear as something evil and monstrous, like the diabolical cloning machine that Nikola Tesla builds for Mr. Angier.

On a final note, one might argue that the truly magical kernel masked by the “mere illusion” is l’objet petit a in its purest form, the object-cause-of-desire, the “lack, the remainder of the real that sets in motion the symbolic movement of interpretation, a hole at the center of the symbolic order, the mere appearance of some secret to be explained, interpreted, etc.”

If The Dark Knight is a parable of the “war on terrorism,” it is also a parable about its dangers. Having said that, it should not be pigeonholed as simply a “progressive” or “reactionary” film—but neither does it transcend these labels. It wants to have things both ways, as when Batman builds an incredibly invasive eavesdropping device, uses it, then has it destroyed because it is too powerful.

UPDATE: On the further subject of the politicization of The Dark Knight, here’s a great write up by k-punk.

North by Northwest isn’t a film about what happens to Cary Grant, it’s about what happens to his suit.

I guess I never thought about it like that before. (Via 3 Quarks Daily.)

The film is undoubtedly steeped in the post-Watergate zeitgeist of conspiracy, scandal, and suspicion, comparable in many ways to Sydney Pollack’s Three Days of the Condor, although I prefer Parallax for a number of reasons. But it would be wrong to not give due weight to the tumultuous events of the 1960s as well, which indelibly leave their mark on the film in the form of retrospection, subtly cued by the time-jump employed by the director. Thus, rather than immersing the viewer in the chaos of assassination, the film creates a “temporal parallax” by re-reading, as it were, the milieu of the 1960s from the frame of the 1970s: the “parallax gap,” produced by the minimal difference between the event as it was experienced and as it appears in retrospect, creates the effect of a stain, that of an unsolved crime, left upon the lap of hapless Joe.

What drew me to the film originally was the fact that it happened to share the same name of Slavoj Zizek’s “magnum opus,” but which conspicuously and, most likely, intentionally bears no mention of Pakula’s film. In Zizek’s Parallax View, “parallax” is defined as

the apparent displacement of an object (the shift of its position against a background), caused by a change in observational position that provides a new line of sight. The philosophical twist to be added, of course, is that the observed difference is not simply “subjective,” due to the fact that the same object which exists “out there” is seen from two different stations, or points of view. It is rather that, as Hegel would have put it, subject and object are inherently “mediated,” so that an “epistemological” shift in the subject’s point of view always reflects an “ontological” shift in the object itself. Or, to put it in Lacanese, the subject’s gaze is always-already inscribed into the perceived object itself, in the guise of its “blind spot,” that which is “in the object more than object itself,” the point from which the object itself returns the gaze.¹

So where in the film do we get “parallax”? Perhaps by breaking the film down into its various constituent elements gives us a clear idea. There are three main actors: Joe Frady, the Parallax Corporation and the Senate. The object of inquiry, of course, is the assassination. At first glance, then, it would appear that the parallax is produced by the two antagonists of the film, Joe and the Parallax corporation, yet this doesn’t produce any change in the object, nor does it imply any sort of mediation between subject and object. Perhaps, then, parallax designates the very refraction of each of the various constituent elements in the film. First, there is the case of the Parallax corporation itself: when Joe visits Parallax, it does not appear ominous at all, neither from the outside nor from within, at least any more so than a typical corporation. It is only the fact that Joe approaches Parallax as Joe qua potential assassin that the truly sinister dimension of Parallax emerges. In this instance, the object itself is the Parallax Corporation, and its ontological status is affected by Joe’s change in subjective position. There is also the obvious parallax produced by Joe prior to his knowledge of the conspiracy and Joe after he becomes aware of its true nature: in the case of the former, the assassination appears to be just a disparate act of a crazy man, but afterwards it becomes clear that the assassination is part of a much wider conspiracy involving the Parallax corporation.

Yet these solutions don’t potentially tell us anything new about the film. A far more interesting effect is produced by comparing Joe as he apprehends his activity as an investigator to his concrete activity after his undertaking the Parallax indoctrination montage.

Joe thinks he is a journalist trying to uncover the mystery of the Parallax corporation, a kind of noumenal entity that seems to exist outside the boundaries of normal everyday society, reflected in the eerie darkness of their video-viewing room. Yet, in striking similarity to Glenn Ford’s character in Fritz Lang’s The Big Heat, Joe’s concrete actions in pursuing his investigation produce the desired consequences of the Parallax corporation itself. In a strangely Hegelian way, he carries out the very mission he intended to prevent and expose, and thus the parallax object is Joe himself, Joe as fractured by Joe qua his subjective stance and his objective status as an agent of the Parallax corporation thinking he is simply acting in a duplicitous manner. This may explain why, after his viewing of the indoctrination montage, we no longer receive much, if any, dialogue from Joe.

Yet one variable remains unaccounted for: the Senate. The Senate appears twice in the film, each time marking an assassination: once at the beginning and once at the end. The Senate is clearly the dimension of the big Other, the symbolic Law that quilts a given signifying chain in establishing knowledge as subordinate to the Master. The Senate qua big Other decide what the events “meant,” thereby lending them a certain fixity acquired through the propagation of Master-Signifiers. After the assassination, numerous stories are told about what happened, how and why: perhaps it was an inside job, or maybe it was perpetrated by a foreign country, or maybe it was simply a freak accident. All of these stories have the potential of acquiring the status of “knowledge,” but only insofar as they are subordinated to a Master-Signifier that secures the stability of their meaning: this is the job of the Senate qua big Other.

The bureaucratic stamp that provides knowledge with its ontological status, on the one hand, appears at first to be totalizing, but is in fact barred, incomplete, and marked by a certain lack that appears as a distortion. This appearance of distortion, however, is inherent to the parallax object itself: while the Master’s knowledge gives the illusion of fixity and stability to meaning, there is always the shadowy double, the “dark side of the Moon,” so to speak, that resists signification. This is the angle from which Joe proceeds in his inquiry, but gets caught up in the game and is eventually duped by the Parallax corporation as a result of not taking into account his own subjective position.

The uncanny effect produced by the disjunction between Joe’s unrelenting quest to uncover the truth against the Master’s Law and its shadowy, obscene counterpart in the frightening libidinal space of the Parallax corporation, echoes the aesthetics of classic film noir and its predecessor, German Expressionism. What gives The Parallax View its unique flavor, one that, not without coincidence, marks the historical-cinematic break between the era of classic and neo-film noir, is the undermining of Joe’s very subjective position. Moreover, Pakula’s use of negative shots (a hallmark of film noir), particularly of Joe in his apartment after he has faked his own death and is “officially” no longer among “the living”—shots which evoke those of Madeleine in Hitchcock’s Vertigo—, depict nothing other than the formal emptiness of the Cartesian cogito, the overwhelming excess and mad doubting that expels everything from the interiority of its being. Pakula’s depiction of this constant doubting, this “night of the world” inherent to the subject, marks the film’s truly radical dimension.

1. Slavoj Zizek, The Parallax View. Available online here via Lacan.com.

Is dictatorship plus a planned economy the sure-fire formula for a natural aphrodisiac? At least in bed, according to the statistics, the communists were victorious.