Cronenberg Short Films

            

Camera

           Commissioned by the Toronto Film Festival for the 25^th anniversary, Camera finds Cronenberg at a very reflexive and contemplative point.  Having released eXistenZ the year before, itself a representation of the film industry, this short film turns towards the director’s thoughts about his own death.  Familiar-faced Les Carleson plays the aged and worried Actor who has shared a dream that, word for word, matches one Cronenberg had during the 80’s.  In it, Cronenberg was infected with a disease while watching a movie, a notion played to full effect in Videodrome.  The Actor goes pessimistically on about death and the camera, how it records the death of the moment, and how it is poorly paired with the kids operating the old piece of machinery.

            All but the final shot of the film are captured in a grainy, handheld, and disgusting digital format that accentuates Carleson’s age, his wrinkles and lines, his worried eyes and uncomfortable condition.  In the final shot, the film camera takes a controlled and nostalgic glide towards the actor as he reclaims a bit of calm.  But the final frames, before the film runs out, show him in a state of uncertainty as the light exposes and immortalizes the death of the moment.  Cronenberg is obviously cognizant of the growing infatuation with digital cinematography and is calling for the continuation of the original art.  His thoughts are less concerns than they are opinionated preferences.

At The Suicide of the Last Jew in the World in the Last Cinema of the World

            The second piece comes from a collection of shorts commissioned by Cannes’ 60^th and features renowned directors from across the globe.  Cronenberg’s contribution finds the director himself, the last Jew in the world, taking up residence in the men’s bathroom in the last cinema in the world.  With pained facial expressions, Cronenberg caresses a gun, its bullets too, and slowly explores the best way to end his life.  Two voice-overs replicate a news broadcast where newscasters observe his actions with feigned interest and complete objectivity.  They suggest the weakness and pathetic nature with which the Jew cops out on life.

            Shooting himself shooting himself, Cronenberg has commented on the death of cinema before.  And in later press interviews suggested that the form of cinema as we know it is already gone.  Undoubtedly, Cronenberg understands the nature of the medium, its social relevance, its fluidity and temporariness.  In both of these short films, he makes it clear that nothing, not even a medium that ‘immortalizes’ those that it captures, can last forever.

Let the Film Speak

“I would not think of quarreling with your interpretation nor offering any other, as I have found it is always the best policy to allow the film to speak for itself.”

-Stanley Kubrick

The work of Stanley Kubrick is diverse, deep, and highly praised. It is also quite evidently his work; whether it be obsessive use of tracking or the extreme mental states of his characters. The same can be said for the director that has been under much discussion, David Cronenberg. Replace the tracking shots with stationary shots and add lively special effects and gore. However, as has been addressed, Cronenberg is extremely active in the reception and interpretation of his films. This seems like quite and interesting difference than the mindset Kubrick presents in his quote. I am not here to argue the viability of interpreting either of the director’s films in any certain way. Rather, I find it curious and perhaps telling, that these two esteemed directors apparently share such different opinions when it comes to the reception of their films.

We could, of course, attribute the difference simply to personality. Kubrick was notoriously hermitic, carving out his own little movie making kingdom and only occasionally and selectively opening up his mind to others. Cronenberg, on the other hand, is open and willing to discuss the nature and state of his filmmaking practice. Regardless of personal style, each director has succeeded in making some (many) of the most important movies to date.

It makes me wonder, then, what this says about each director and their relationship to their craft. Is Cronenberg too heavy-handed in suggesting a certain reading into his films? Is Kubrick too naïve to allow the masses to see what they want to see? Or does the combination of styles produce the fertile critical and theoretical landscape needed to further our understanding of the world of filmmaking? Of course the diversity of readings is what prompts debate and opens up new avenues of thought. We need conflict in order to progress, to come up with something novel. But, is this better achieved by an artist sitting back and not giving us any guidance or by taking our hand and leading the way? Or more appropriately, perhaps it is not a question of which is better. (It seems a rare case to find a situation when we are not asked to determine which of two options is better)

Perhaps it is a question of intent. Does Kubrick want us to discover for ourselves despite whether they coincide with his thoughts? Does Cronenberg aim his interpretations so that we both find ways to support and negate and thus inherently foster discussion? It is incontrovertible that both of these director’s are intelligent, talented, and conscious of the way their films are received. (And I don’t mean to suggest that Kubrick simply washed his hands of the films he made upon their release) Likewise, both have an acute sense of how film works. This being so, each are capable of producing an intended effect, of getting an idea across.

Yet like any work that consumes its creator, filmmakers are indeed caught up in their stories and how they are telling them. They are also incapable of removing themselves from the process that has created the product. Spectators, on the other hand, have much less invested in the film, be it money, sweat, or reputation. Thus we offer a fresh set of eyes to see the work, whether this is superior or not remains debatable. This then opens up discussion for the reading of art by its creator vs its audience, which we will not get into at this time.

Cronenbergian Auteurism

For a person who wasn’t going to school for film, David Cronenberg has carved himself a pretty formidable reputation as both master of horror as well as culturally conscious auteur. From his low budget, Canadian government financed body horror to his recent Hollywood and Oscar nominated family dramas, his career has spanned multiple decades and multiple countries. Yet for all the attention he has received both locally and internationally, his reputation, as a confident and competent director, has not been undermined.

Ernest Mathijs describes Cronenberg as an active auteur, someone whose authorial presence transcends the screen and enters the public sphere to help adapt interpretations and reactions to his films. While many are ready to discount his early efforts to the hoards of b-horror stockpiles, he countered them by claiming artistic merit in his work. And while his string of films through the 80’s and 90’s certainly deserve such merit uncontested, his early work demanded a bit more defense. In 1981, Cronenberg’s film Scanners was marketed around a few single seconds of the film. These 47 frames have since entered the cult film kingdom as not only impressive, but immortal. As a character’s tense and panicked face contort to supreme fear and submission, his head explodes in a bloody detonation of rabbit livers and dog food. The aftermath, although bloody on-screen, was much more alarming off-screen. Mathijs devotes no less than half a dozen pages to the exploding head, its effects, and its reception. But more importantly, is its connection and importance in the oeuvre of its director.

If the sex parasites and hematophagic armpit plunger weren’t enough, Scanners’ exploding head gave the cautiously minded and socially concerned (read: uptight) something to complain about. The active and attentive Cronenberg defended his film and every film since then that has fared negatively in the public eye for its content; be it sex in Crash, masochism in Videodrome, or violence in any number of his films. While such shocking subject matter is often deemed exploitative, its true function is a synthesis of understanding and necessity.

Cronenberg’s status as acclaimed Baron of Blood and King of Venereal Horror put him very near, if not atop, the pantheon of cult film directors. So while his visually graphic money shots pertain to the story, they remain important in maintaining the fanship his early films gathered. This is important in recognizing the directorial awareness that has marked his career; a recognition and attention to the audience of his films. Yet this is not limited to the late-night male audience who just want to see exploding heads but expands into the film critic elite who pick apart his films detail by detail and criticize the content. His work has consistently garnered harsh reception by the likes of Robin Wood and others who see his b-grade horror as tastelessly full of sex and violence.

This all said, and again paying attention to his consistent awareness of his films’ receptions, Cronenberg’s active auteurism seems not only a relevant and advantageous approach but a vastly important one for any artist. As I began discussing earlier, an artist projects his work into view of an audience who will certainly bring different interpretations and run the risk of losing the intended message. This is where the creator can, or should, step in to guide how their work is seen. David Cronenberg has done this since the beginning.

The Active Auteur

It is one thing for a director to be considered auteur, something we have thoroughly discussed here. Yet is another thing for said auteur to be active in the process, to consciously and continuously flesh out their work in the public eye. And while the term active auteur is surprisingly new to me, the idea seems only too ingrained in the art world. Unlike business or medicine, where creativity and presentation of personal projects are not a regular part of the job, the artist constantly present themself in their work. However, for every valid interpretation of a piece, for every individual reading and unique viewpoint, there come just as many distorted and unintentional evaluations. This is especially evident in film, where layer upon layer of text can be read to fit the expectations and desires of the audience. Naturally, the audience is composed of hoards of viewpoints, each interpreting and reading the film in a myriad of ways. And while many of these may not be incorrect, the also tend to clutter the filmmakers intentions and can at times dampen the effect. We find this especially evident in cases where the visual content can be challenging and becomes point for discussion thereby ignoring its meaning.

Enter the active auteur, the film author whose participation after the film becomes just as important as his participation in making the film. We have heard countless horror stories about directors who are forced to alter their films because of studio demands or ratings approval, yet it is few and farther between that we hear about the incorrectly evaluated and mis-criticised works. Obviously, the battle between critic and filmmaker will rage until the end of time, evidence of the personal position of interpretation. However, the active filmmaker encourages the viewers to identify with the reading that was intended in the making of the film. It only comes naturally that one who pours their time and energy into a creative and collaborative work of art would want it to be received correctly. Yet at the same time, art is such a personal exploration for both the maker and the viewer. Certainly no director wants to cheat their audience out of experiencing the film as their own. (Ok, we could find a few) And of course, anyone making films does so with the intention that they will be seen, thus finalizing the process.

So then we must ask ourselves, does the given that films are made for an audience negate the desire of the director in helping their reading? In other words, once the film is out, should it be given over entirely to the people it was made for regardless of what afflictions it might garner in the process? Or has the filmmaking process not stopped once the final cut is ready? If this is the case, the creative minds behind the work, who are often willing to engage in talk about its making, must be present and available to present it.

So if we then get more specific, to the auteur whose films bear certain similarities that we have identified and observed, where do we find him and how do we identify him? First, the very notion of the auteur, especially in the self-conscious immersion of the theory today, comes hand in hand with someone who is engaged in their filmmaking practice and would very likely follow through from idea to final evaluation. However, suppose a relatively uninvolved director simply made films, all of the being recognizable in authorship, yet refrained from pulling the oeuvre together as a whole anywhere but the screen. Such a person would either be a recluse or be so incredibly busy that quantity vastly trumped quality. Thus we arrive at a very interesting place in our definition of auteur. For some individuals, this authorship would transcend the screen and arrive in the real world. Of course, this is where it started, the idea of auteur as directorial presence; filmic personality and signature.

Please Sign Here

Writers’ names, or at least book titles, are often printed on each page. Painters sign their work. Yet after the opening titles and before the closing credits, the director’s name doesn’t appear to mark their work. Film demands the dimension of time, unlike painting, so having a signature appear on the bottom corner of every frame would be distracting and unsightly. Yet as we have established, recognizing a director’s work is not only possible but occasionally very easy. Where, then, does this come from? How can we recognize immediately that so and so made this film? Is it in the stock characters they bring to every story? Is it in the continued use of special effects, witty dialogue, or symmetrical composition? Indeed, it is in all of these. The piece as a whole becomes the author’s signature and allows its viewers to identify it as such.

As stated, I remember my first foray into the world of David Cronenberg. It was marked by moments of combined shock and amazement. Likewise, I remember my first experience with the savage and upfront (in)humanity of Stanley Kubrick in his 1971 film, A Clockwork Orange. It wouldn’t be until years later, in the formal structure of film classes, that I would identify the possibility that their work could carry over film to film. I had certainly seen other entries into each of their oeuvres and recognized the repeated elements; I had simply not put a name with it. Now, being conscious of the relevance of the auteur theory and the practice of observing characteristics of film authorship, I am more curious than ever how exactly we come about labeling the auteur. And how thoroughly their style is stamped into each film.

Is it possible, given a certain film or director, to immediately recognize their presence by watching but a fragment of any part of their film? Or do we require at least a scene, an interaction, to grasp its content? Perhaps obviously, story and thematic elements as well as visual style play a large role. If we want dramatic slow-motion and hard-hitting underworld Englishmen then we will likely turn to Guy Ritchie. But what of the case where we get one over the other? What if a director’s work clearly exhibits his signature visual style in photography and editing but branches off into entirely new thematic areas? Or the reverse, familiar plot elements and values exhibited in an unfamiliar style? Where would such a piece fit into the oeuvre and how immediately do we see the signature?

Considering a filmmaker’s body of work is requisite in discussing their recognizable authorial presence. And sub-standard films can be disregarded. But what of outcasts that don’t suffer in quality? What if a director makes a great film that is far removed from their other great films? On the one hand we could give this as validation of their skill, on the other hand we could condemn it for not being their style. More interestingly, could we identify a director whose films bear no resemblance to any other of their films for this reason? Could a director be more original in every piece to the point that their auteuristic film authorship is characterized by diversity and ingenuity?

I seem to have asked more questions than I have answered, yet artistic credit is of utmost importance. We can agree that both form and content is important in recognizing anyone’s work. And recognizing work and assigning it a place is standard human practice of categorization and organization. And with this comes evaluation, the ranking of particular works I briefly discussed before. Certainly a film that stands out in an artist’s body of work demands attention for its placement and for its displacement. Yet the auteur theory would likely reject such a stray from the norm. It would be forced to abandon the expected signs of authorship and instead observe new ones. Perhaps.

Who's the Best?

It had been the tendency of the Cahiers du Cinema writers to rate the directors they admired. Such a policy continued with Andrew Sarris after introducing the auteur theory to America. He argued that such a rating system was but a mere extension from the other arts, where we rate certain artist’s works above that of others. Such a practice, for better or worse, has been implemented for many a year and will undoubtedly continue for some time. Yet I wonder, in modern cinema, where do we place those auteurs whose work is relatively consistent in relation to the director who happens to make a wonderful film? Certainly, as the French filmmakers hailed, a great filmmaker can make a bad film without it damaging his reputation. But it seems more than ever that box office results are the main determinate of who gets money.

Beyond this, though, I question the relevance of any ranking system for today’s cinema. First of all, where does one start? If we based rank on how well a film does in the box office or how many Oscars it gets then we negate the very criteria the Cahiers writers applaud. If we, then, consider only a director’s consistency, then we ignore their popular success, their public approval, their demand as an artist contributing to general society. Yet perhaps this is not of importance. Perhaps, the fact that ranks will always contain discrepancies can dispel our need for rankings entirely. At least official ranking that is.

On the other hand, determining the worth of one film over another is often unchallenging. The question we should ask is whether the presence of the film’s author should be considered. Does the fact that it is a Quentin Tarantino film automatically give it more worth than the fact that it is a Zack Snyder film? (Yes, but that is beside the point) No, a film should be based on its individual merit regardless of whose name is stamped onto it. This is, of course, in direct contention with Bazin’s formula.

Author + Subject = Work

With this in mind, let me briefly compare the work of two filmmakers I have recently watched selected works from. American film director Frank Capra had a long lasting Hollywood career characterized by feel good and generally patriotic films about human goodness. Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, It’s a Wonderful Life, and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington being examples here. Compare these works to Canadian filmmaker David Cronenberg whose body horror in Videodrome, The Fly, and eXistenz are a far cry from the light Capra fare. The fact that I have recently viewed a handful of films by these two well-known artists is not the only reason for choosing them. To anyone familiar with these works it becomes obvious how far they are from one another in the filmic kingdom.

The question becomes again, how do we compare these two bodies of work? We could certainly give some points to the longevity of Capra’s work, yet Cronenberg has simply not been around as long and may, with time, out-produce Capra in quantity. On the other hand we may credit Cronenberg for his unique visuals and usually wholly original content. Yet Capra’s themes seem to run wide and shared in our society. My point being that putting one over the other is simply a matter of personal preference. Much like the Cahiers writers, one person’s preference does not always coincide with that of their peers.

This still does not answer my original inquiry. Do we rate a director’s work as more worthwhile when we can tell whose work it is? And more relevantly, do we need to? Maybe the presence of authorship denotes the individual’s continuity and devotion by claiming artistic ownership. It would make sense that we praise those who continue with something to the point that they become proficient. And if this proficiency is measured by their authorial presence, then it only make sense that we admire such a trait. Thus the idea of auteur, regardless of its debated history as a practice or theory, seems not only helpful and fun but important as well.

Thoughts on the Auteur

In “The Cult of the Auteur” Robert Stam recounts the introduction of the auteur theory to the American public by way of Andrew Sarris. Stam discusses not only the critical reactions to such an idea but the requirements of the theory as well. The article almost instantly becomes a thorough introduction to the theory itself for anyone unfamiliar with how engrained it has become in our modern commercial filmmaking industry. As much as I cringe to admit it, this article was one of my first in-depth looks into the idea of the auteur, or at least specifically by that name. Yet for any one at least minimally familiar with the film industry and the placement of film in our society as a whole, the idea of the auteur seems self-evident.

Countless modern films are marketed by listing the director’s partial filmography in the trailer. The studios seem to understand, and much marketing research likely supports that audiences who like a film will probably enjoy something similar. At times, it becomes a point of pride to identify whose latest film one will see. And much of the time, expectations about upcoming features will be heavily influenced about what creative minds are involved. Even if, in the case of Antichrist, the minds involved have a history of depression preventing work and social obligations from being maintained. This marks our arrival at Lars von Trier, a self-promoting and mentally afflicted Danish filmmaker whose auteurship is far from debated. In this 2009 release, von Trier’s connection to the Dogme 95 collective is self-evident as the main characters interact as if in real life, the camera simply documented their escalating struggles. Certain scenes, whether actually adhering to the strict mandates of Dogme 95, appear natural and unadulterated. Further, Trier, whose often describes as visually distinctive, manages to blend the aforementioned realism with the otherworldly and haunting discomfort of an evil forest.

Yet auteurism is more than each film looking the same. Perhaps an auteur-to-the-extreme would find each and every one of his films a carbon copy of its predecessor. Conversely, Antichrist’s tone suggests a filmmaker in confusion, perhaps disarray. Be it the intense violence without need of graphic accompaniment, the brutal and misdirected sexuality, or the eerily unforgettable horror of the woods, the fact the von Trier suffered from depression while making this film only makes sense. Criticized for blatant misogyny, the film explores the gender relations of countless years in modern context with what seem ancient roots. The film, while in fact having Trier’s name written in uncomfortable handprint, would have his name all over it regardless. What I find interesting here is how the process of filmmaking, as well as the mental processes surrounding it, influences the final product. Immediately evident is that filmmaking is indeed a process, not a simple and immediate product. And, to hammer it further, such a process needs direction or else it will falter and fade. Thus the auteur, the film’s ultimate author, directs this process to his or her preference. The Wizard of Oz notably passed creative hands many times before finally residing with Victor Fleming. Von Trier’s film, conversely, was scripted and envisioned by the director and nothing about the ultimate mood achieved seems to suggest otherwise.

Auteurism, as I understand it, becomes directly linked to he whom most self-exposes in the final product. Film and filmmaker are inextricably linked by common effort and desire. In the end, much the same as any other desire to create something tangible, film succeeds in immortalizing its creator. At least for the moment.

Following

We could easily describe Nolan’s black and white debut feature as the epitome of student films. It has the street energy of the French New Wave, the youthful vigor and attitude of Aronofsky’s Pi, a $6,000 dollar budget, and is clearly made with an experimental innocence. And it should come as no surprise, given the popular names among his oeuvre, (i.e. all of them) that Nolan’s first film marks his arrival as a legitimate filmmaking force.

We don’t have to look too closely to find evidence of his first film in those that follow. The altered chronology of Memento found its introduction here. Acquisition of the Batman franchise seems natural with the films momentary visual reference. The psychological exploration and uncertainty of Insomnia, The Prestige, and perhaps Inception, are actually nothing new. Having seen the director’s entire body of work, and viewing his first film last, it only makes sense that the black and white introduction would in no way be a muted commencement.

A writer in London follows unsuspecting citizens, aroused by curiosity and maintained by obsession. Yet in a matter of no time, one of his subjects calls him out, introduces himself, and in a matter of minutes takes the young man on as partner in crime. The houses they burgle, inspired by Nolan’s own experience with invasion, are staked out, studied, and carefully chosen. But the young man’s inexperience, naivety, and relative insecurity make him the perfect victim for an experienced criminal. We could almost predict that the storyline turn inward on us, the thief being but a figment of the young man’s troubled and creative imagination. Fortunately, that is not the case. When the writer returns to the crime scenes, in attempt to evaluate the victims’ reactions, he is met with an interest that trumps his initial trials in following.

The 1998 film exhibits the energy inherent in it’s low budget production. And to it’s benefit, feels much more natural and invigorating than a multimillion-dollar attempt would be. The twisting and confined stairways, shoddy buildings, textured back-alleys, and lively streets are far more suited to the passive and observant eye than to the imposing and intrusive demands that come along with big productions. At the same time, the inexperience of the actors and the occasional uncertainty of the filmmaker are combated by the perceived experimentation, by the established sense of learning, and by the achieved verisimilitude of what might or might not be a far-fetched scenario. We can almost see the struggling filmmaker, working week by week for a year, in the worried yet learning eyes of the young man. Where he is learning his new craft of deviance, so is Nolan learning his craft of storytelling.

Following, despite its simple premise, or perhaps because of it, is nothing short of great. It is an easily enviable inauguration into the world of filmmaking by a director that has since earned his place. The film also proves that Nolan has the ability to manipulate and create the story, or more precisely his telling of it, regardless of how many dollars he has to do so. Inception will come out in July of next year, you will certainly hear more about it soon.

Film Studies

“Auteurism shifted attention from the “what” (story, theme) to the “how” (style, technique), showing that style itself had personal, ideological and even metaphysical reverberations. It facilitated film’s entry into literature departments and played a major role in the academic legitimation of cinema studies.”

So writes Robert Stam in The Cult of the Auteur from his book Film Theory: An Introduction. Should I thus thank Andrew Sarris, who introduced the auteur theory to the US, for the fact that I watch two movies every Monday, in class? Can we attribute the inclusion of a film studies program at universities to one particular person and event? Doubtful. I can still, however, praise the insight and ability of an idea to have an important effect on the life of those interested in film studies, of which there are many. And it would be naïve to think that film would not have attained the status it has. Film itself is no different, it has changed only in how we look at it and certainly with time we would have come to realize its literary and academic legitimacy.
Now, I could sit here all day and argue about why films are better than books, or vice versa if need be. It seems to have become a matter of the esteemed and elite to suggest that the filmic adaptation pales in comparison to the written source. Some people fail to recognize it is not a matter of better or worse but of difference. Literature has its strengths that film cannot match but for each of these there are just as many that film can capture and that the written word cannot even begin to explain. This is mind; it was only a matter of time that film studies be legitimized. Perhaps it has not reached the level of literary interpretation, it would be arrogant to suggest such a young art could do so, but it is getting there. At the same time, however, it is changing day to day as technology runs rampant and the story, as well as how it is told, has changed.
Like it or not, films are here to stay. And if you are reading this, you’ll probably be hearing a lot more about them and about the ideas expressed above.