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I’m not sure where filmmakers lost sight of the reality of romantic relationships, but it seems important to remind them that jealousy is not part of the process of developing a healthy partnership. I’m thinking of two Canadian films: Clement Virgo’s Lie with Me (2005) and Bruce McDonald’s The Husband (2013).  The problem with both these features is that jealousy is taken to be a natural and accepted facet of compulsory monogamy.

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In Lie with Me, David falls for Leila. Later, Leila is “caught” dancing with two men. David then berates her, names her a slut, and forces anal sex upon her. Leila apologizes, will never dance again, etc. We see Leila panic, in various states of crises; we see the effects of misogyny on her and unfortunately she cannot help but participate. In short, stronger female characters are necessary. Had this film been made in France, by Catherine Breillat for example, David’s jealousy would have led him to murder; but in the end, the two reconcile their differences, and fall even deeper in love.

David’s desire for complete possession of Leila is, in fact, not a natural part of their budding relationship. It is nothing short of psychotic. The only legitimate response that Leila should have given David, and in other romantic love stories of this type, is Gloria’s in Gloria (2013): she tells her jealous partner to “Grow a pair.”

McDonald does us worse in The Husband. There, jealousy attains an ever greater legitimacy as Henry’s wife is caught fornicating a teenage boy. Henry’s friends and family “understand” the husband’s plight; not only had the wife broken their (impossible to uphold) promise of monogamy, but it was with a minor. Any erratic behavior then, on Henry’s part, is totally rational.

I’m sick of this approach to love. Dominating a partner is for the dark, psychological narratives that border on horror films. This is its place, not in the positive and affirming (quasi-realistic?)  love story. I want to see fictional couples growing a pair and addressing jealousy in all its seriousness: as an unhealthy aspect to love, not a small and necessary part in a relationship’s process or striving for longevity.

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I apologize for the length. My humorous title plays on the length a bit, something to the effect of: this post is long enough to warrant multiple chapter headings.

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Abdellatif Kechiche’s “freely inspired” Blue is the Warmest Color turned one of the most powerful and unique stories of love into one of the blandest and universally accessible. The graphic novel was rich in character development, narrative, plot, dialogue, internal monologue (in the form of diaries), surprise, beauty, and color. Kechiche’s film transplants these wonderful elements into the mundane. We have seen this film before, save approximately 10% of the film comprised of expertly choreographed and shot sex scenes. Nevertheless, Blue is an art film in the worst sense of the word.

The film refused all the elements of the novel that I found so engaging, so my problems are about adaptation and narrative. First, and most importantly, Adèle’s diary has almost no place in the film. The novel was structured on the diary. Beginning with Emma’s brief residence in Adèle’s parents’ home, she reads through her former lover’s personal thoughts after her death. This becomes all the more interesting as the flashbacks inform us that Adèle’s parents exiled their daughter because of her relationship with Emma. In the film Adèle keeps a diary every now and then and, as if Kechiche had forgotten, about two-thirds into the film, Emma mentions to a friend that her lover keeps a diary and is an excellent writer. It is never broached again because, given the ending of the film, it would be superfluous.

The conflict between Adèle and her parents is omitted from the film additionally. In the novel Adèle moves from her childhood home and into a place with Emma. In the film, in perfect accord with the ambiguity of art film, Adèle appears as a live-in partner with Emma quite spontaneously. This would seem to mark the elusive second chapter in the film’s French title (La vie d’ Adèle – Chapitres 1 & 2). No intertitle indicated chapters. In the novel, what was a heart-wrenching scene, full of tears and screams and an ejection and disavowal of their daughter, in the film, the lovers’ choice to live together is neither monumental nor terribly interesting.

The break-up between Emma and her former lover, thus replacing this monogamous partner with Adèle, is not discussed in the film. Again, in the novel, we have a confrontation between Adèle and Emma’s partner; the film does not bother to address the complications of the partner swap. What the film does feature, unfortunately, is a very jealous Adèle, a jealousy which then gives her the impetus to cheat on Emma and the latter’s subsequent ejection of the former from her home once the extra-monogamous affair is exposed. Adèle, in tears and without the capacity to account for her affair, is destroyed by Emma’s seemingly justified dissatisfaction and disapproval of non-monogamy.

And, at more than three-quarters through the story, I felt completely disappointed in the refocusing of the original narrative. A beautiful story of a young girl’s coming-of-age, her new desires for Emma, her difficulties with heteronormativity, are here turned into a universal account of a love story on par with heteronormativity (monogamy, jealousy, etc.). What is more rational, justified, and universally understandable than, firstly, jealousy and cheating, and secondly, punishment for cheating! My reading of this event in the film is that it serves as a deliberate attempt to make an otherwise inaccessible and mostly unidentifiable couple accessible and identifiable, i.e., psychologically bland and undifferentiated from popular psychological states and responses. Look here, the film seems to say, same-sex couples have the same problems as heterosexual couples! While certainly true, the novel does nothing of the sort. Julie Maroh’s graphic novel presents two unique individuals whose problems begin, first, internally, then expand into familial issues, and lastly, broach the complicated reception of friends and society of their same-sex love. Kechiche was less inspired by the novel than misinterpret what made the story so wonderful.

Take an early scene in Maroh’s book. Adèle and Emma are growing attached and fond of each other. Emma says her goodbyes for the day and, almost in tears, mentions to the sexually uninitiated Adèle that she will one day make a man very happy. Internally, we see Adèle reflect that Emma is in fact the one she wants. She rushes after her and, in this passionate scene, the two perhaps have the best sex of their lives (Adèle most certainly, since it is her first time).

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In the corresponding scene in the film, the two lay next to each other in a park. Smiles are exchanged, they kiss, and the next scene is one of the five sexual encounters the film depicts. The passion has been extinguished from the beautifully drawn and dialogued graphic novel. In the novel I was almost weeping; the film bored me with this bland display of seduction.

In a recent Cineaste review (Spring 2014), Darragh O’Donoghue briefly mentions the adaptation problem as well. He writes, “Kechiche’s relationship to his source material is problematic. Whatever the merits of a much-garlanded middle-aged male filmmaker in adapting a work begun by an author in her late teens and completed over five years as a labor of love – and ironically for a film now famous for its lesbian sex scenes – it is clear that Kechiche’s charges serve to ‘un-queer’ its narrative. Maroh inserts her comic into a long-established tradition of coming-of-age/coming-out stories,” and the film clearly changes this focus.

The superiority of the graphic novel is evident, to say nothing of the film’s omission of Adèle’s death. In her brief review of the film for the Criterion edition, Rich could not praise the film enough. Rich outlines the performances, the cinematography, the tactile quality of many of the images, and many other cinematic feats of a seasoned professional filmmaker. Blue is a thoroughly an art film, thus garnering the Palme d’or at Cannes last year. The film, however, takes its cues from David Bordwell’s analysis of art film.

As I’ve mentioned Blue goes to great lengths to deny a cause and effect narrative logic. It presents a heightened realist style, complete with real spaces, direct cinema cinematography, temporal gaps, and eroticism. It is naturally episodic, episodes which sometimes grant us access to the life of Adèle, other times not. The story of the graphic novel is shunned in favor of plot: “who is telling this story? How is this story being told? Why is this story being told this way?” I’m not sure how to answer any of these questions. Refer to Maroh’s book perhaps.

Furthermore, Adèle’s life is without a goal or meaning, thus Emma’s insistence that she become an artist and be more than a nursery school teacher. There is no real indication of the social or cultural forces at work conspiring against same-sex relationships, something the novel exposed with both clarity and apt critique. Rich notes the timely release both in France and the United States, both countries undergoing massive conflict about same sex marriages, yet Kechiche does not dive into such problems.

Overall the film succeeds in rendering itself ambiguous, Bordwell’s key term for a description of art cinema. Ambiguity plays itself out perfectly in the very last shot, again living up to Bordwell’s analysis of art films, namely a feature’s open-endedness. As Adèle exits Emma’s art show after bearing witness to her former lover’s new life with a new partner, the last shot is of Adèle strolling away down a street. Kechiche might as well have done a long tracking shot and ended on a close-up freeze frame of her face. But what will become of Adèle?? we think leaving the cinema or when turning off our blu-ray players. Kechiche knows about the ambiguities of life, we surmise; “he knows that life is more complex than art can ever be, and the only way to respect this complexity is to leave causes dangling, questions unanswered.” Blue is an art film, no less. As Bordwell suggests in his 2007 afterword to his earlier piece on art cinema, success at film festivals secures a feature’s status as art film. There were fewer films more successful than Blue last year.

I suggested at the beginning of this entry that this love story, touted by one critic as the greatest of the 21st century, is nothing new. In fact, if I had the time and space, I would argue that this film has already been made, both recently and in the same country. Mia Hansen-Løve’s Goodbye First Love (Un amour de jeunesse, 2011) follows the same narrative arc and takes place over the same amount of time. A young high school girl meets and has a relationship with her first love; they break up, get back together, and encounter each other later in life. The two films share too many similarities to bother naming, the key difference being the earlier film’s heterosexual couple. My difficult task, like Vivian Sobchack’s in her article in Film Comment (Jan-Feb, 2014) on Upstream Color (2013) and To the Wonder (2012), would be to make an argument as to why I prefer Goodbye to Blue. Sobchack’s recourse to poetic imagery to justify her preference is insufficient to say the least. I suppose a good reason to prefer Goodbye is its ambiguity; while we are left dangling, in exactly the same way Kechiche leaves us dangling, Hansen-Løve hints that the memory of that first love will shape all other loves. There is thus something ironic in the title in that one can never truly say goodbye to their first.

All my complaints aside, the eroticism of Blue is worth praising. Rich is correct in pointing to the sex scenes between Adèle Exarchopoulous and Léa Seydoux and admiring them. I’ve yet to read about the actresses’ possible mistreatment at the hands of the filmmaker and his team, but the result is as wonderful as the nude sculptures on display in the film. I enjoyed the emphasis on the characters’ backsides as something like a motif. More importantly, there has not been a sexually explicit film that takes the pleasure of its characters so seriously. Long gone are the dispassionate if not disturbing sex scenes found in the films of Kechiche’s French peers (Bruno Dumont, Gaspar Noé, Catherine Breillat, to name a few). In Blue the multiplicity of positions, the emphasis on vocalizing pleasure, the tendency of the camera to almost get down and dirty with the performers, make the scenes stand out from the bland story otherwise presented. Rich incorrectly suggests the camera documents every crevice, for it is still taboo in art cinema to show female genitals, even in a film as erotic and artful as this one (although the unsimulated sex is, I think, unquestionable).

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Critics are right to return again and again to the few sex scenes. They are as memorable and as beautifully choreographed as they are explicit.

One last note on the Criterion edition: it had been approved by the director, which is something necessary for a film of this magnitude. What has been neglected are the lack of special features. The Criterion edition, whose products are often crammed full of interviews and commentary, features a trailer – available online anywhere -, an 18 second “TV spot,” and a short written piece by Rich. In the absence of visual content, there could have perhaps been a short text on just exactly what the controversy was regarding the actresses’ performances, or perhaps a reprinted interview with the director. For the price, this edition is lacking in substance for the cinephile or curious observer. That being said, I can forgive Criterion because the necessity of releasing the film quickly, while the hype still lingers, is certainly a smart and profitable move.

Part 1

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I’ve been enthused about Bruno Dumont’s films since beginning my study of contemporary cinema. While I appreciate his films up to and including Flanders (2006), his films after 2006 seem to have fallen a little short of his aesthetic goals, or, a hint at some work to be done in the future, he has been too concerned about the competition between himself and Carlos Reygadas (a real competition or something I’ve alone noticed). Dumont and Reygadas share the same stylistic and thematic interests: long takes, long scenes, tableau rather than cause and effect plot, non-professional actors who resemble Bressonian models, an emphasis on the look/personage of the performer (Eisenstein perhaps), sparse dialogue, lack of psychological depth, unclear temporal frame, madness and violence, ambiguous sexual encounters (shot explicitly), religiosity (monotheism), religiosity and interpersonal relationships, religiosity and community, and miracles, to name a few.

Dumont’s first four features had less to do with religiosity than his most recent three which are explicitly religious or transcendentalist in tone, plot, and story. This is despite his professed atheism. Reygadas, a self-proclaimed Catholic, has followed the same trend: his first two features secular or atheistic – Battle of Heaven (2005) merely had the backdrop of Catholicism but was not its focus – and his two latest films overly transcendentalist (in Schrader’s sense). Silent Light (2007, an homage to C.T. Dreyer’s Ordet [1955]) ends with a miracle and Post Tenebras Lux (2012) begins with Satan or a satanic creature.

Dumont says that cinema is the perfect medium for spirituality, “its tendency to cut to the core and reveal to us the very substance of beings and objects” (Cineaste, Fall 2013). He goes on to say that the foundation of religion is in fact art, and “future art will replace religions and their institutions.” In his statement there appears a drive to move beyond the religious, yet, he cannot seem to wrench himself free of it. I suggest that Dumont’s inability to get out of religion is, as he says, because of cinema’s “fairly extraordinary ability to transfigure [reality]” on the one hand, and on the other, the generic conventions of the contemporary art film.

Camille Claudel 1915 (2013) is the most ambiguously spiritual of Dumont’s recent films. It is devoid of story, although contains some plot or events. We have Camille Claudel (Juliette Binoche), the sculptress/artist, in 1915. At this time in her life she was a patient, held perhaps against her will, in an institution for the mentally unstable. We are informed early on that her brother Paul will pay his first ever visit on Saturday. She anticipates his visit. An hour into the feature we are introduced to a very spiritual Paul. He makes his way to Camille; they have an exchange. Paul then exchanges spiritual words with a priest or priest-figure who works at the institution. The film ends in medium close-up on Binoche.

In the art film I identified the lack of an investigation into characters’ psychology as an essential feature. Given this trait of art cinema, is there a better person and set of characters to depict than those in a mental health institution?

First, the patients around Claudel. Their motivation and relationship to Claudel is, as expected, ambiguous. Claudel is occasionally asked by nurses to care for some patients momentarily and is treated by doctors and nurses as if she is not as physically, emotionally, psychologically unstable as the others. The “real” patients are there to contrast Claudel’s position as one in which she should perhaps not be there. In the doctors’ and nurses’ recognition of Claudel’s condition, the relationship between her and the employees is not further developed, and therefore ambiguous. An old and seemingly uninterested psychologist challenges her on some angry remarks about Rodin, but no further evidence of her psychological instability is really addressed.

Seen from a different angle, the other patients take on a meaning of their own. In the first cafeteria scene, three women are eating their meals. Their words indecipherable, their banging on the table and playing with food providing a real sense of improvisation or authenticity. These characters, or perhaps persons, look as if they really belong there. Another component of the art film genre I have not yet mentioned is its capacity for producing the real – not realism as a style, but confronting spectators with the real, a reality. In this case, perhaps these individuals require care by healthcare professionals. The whole scene had the feeling of an Ulrich Seidl feature, or the direct cinema of Frederick Wiseman and Allan King.

Towards the end of the film, Camille’s closest patient (friend?) informs her that Paul has arrived. Dumont lingers in a close-up of this patient, here, I think, like someone informing the wise men of Jesus’s birth in year zero – she is a messenger of the good/Good/God. This woman has the same look of transcendence as David Dewaele at the end of Hadewijch (2009) and during the miracles of Hors Satan (2011). Something “more” (deeper meaning) lurks behind their acts, thus the lingering close-ups, but less intensely in Camille.

Second, the character Claudel. For Dumont, this is the first use of a well-known professional actor, or in better words, the first use of a star. (Twentynine Palms [2003] featured professional actors, but they were not stars.) Dumont chose Binoche because Claudel herself was a star, and the former also an artist. “To create by using an artist is like asking a peasant to play a peasant, a sailor to play a sailor. In short, it is my usual method. The chemistry is the same. Juliette Binoche is Camille Claudel: the character disappears and dissolves in the person of the actor” (Cineaste, Fall 2013). This statement by Dumont reminds me of King’s use of actors for his actuality drama A Married Couple (1969). There, a couple of actors are documented, filmed on the theme of their married life. Both are thoroughly performative to say the least. Returning to Camille, Dumont’s art cinema tactic of casting non-professional actors, as if their lives resembled the characters portrayed, is therefore maintained. Or so he had hoped.

But Binoche’s acting is far too professional. Her outbursts in tears at a production about Don Juan and her long speech against Rodin were so perfectly executed that the dynamic or authentic appeal of the non-professionals in previous Dumont films was lost. Yes, a strange criticism, but from the art cinema I’ve come to expect a certain authenticity through performance/inauthenticity (rather than an accurate portrayal of emotion through acting.) Binoche is a trained star and will remain as such.

She will be a star even as she gets older. I asked myself as she nakedly dipped into a bath: Is this really the Binoche I’ve seen in films past? Her very brief nudity at the beginning of Camille was a shock, and now I see that it was a shock that should have been expected. Binoche’s nudity was nevertheless as unannounced as Julie Delpy’s in Before Midnight (2013) and the extreme case of Emmanuelle Riva’s aged body in Amour (2012). In each of these films an aging star reveals herself to audiences, as if to challenge past audiences’ desire for the more youthful actress.

The main issue with Camille was its narrative, or lack thereof. The historical year of Claudel’s life, 1915, was to correspond to Binoche’s age. Thus a story is already secondary to the portrayal. But without some narrative component to frame Camille, the film turns into a kind of whodunit. Why is she instituted, what is her psychological issue? Christopher Sharrett sees the film as a blow against the men who treated Claudel unfairly; however, this reveals itself in one way only, i.e., in Binoche’s sorrowful speech to the doctor about Rodin. Yes, she was perhaps wronged by Rodin (I know nothing of Claudel and her story), yet the doctor notes this was 20 years ago, therefore brushing aside her complaints as (perhaps) part of her psychological issue. The “destruction of women by men” (Sharrett, Cineaste, Fall 2013) is nowhere apparent, clear, or represented. We would be much better with a Catherine Breillat film, or for the more Hollywood-keen spectators, Woody Allen’s fantastic feature Blue Jasmine (2013).

Camille appears instead as neither spiritual or transcendentalist, as with characters in Dumont’s prior films, nor do we have here a satire or mockery of Christianity and its believers as in Seidl’s successful Paradise: Faith (2012). Hadewijch and Hors Satan are serious about its content, although without a specific message; these two films were able to investigate the relationship between religiosity and art film aesthetics – there was an honesty about the generic conventions of the art film genre, a sticking to its conventions then pushing their limits in stylistically interesting, and psychologically complex ways for the spectator.

Sharrett suggests there is always “something else” going on in a Dumont picture. This is what I meant by the deeper meaning of art cinema – art cinema (sometimes dis)honestly asks spectators to unravel or deconstruct the images and sounds, associating those hidden meanings with the intention or message of the auteur. This is the generic convention of art cinema and how spectators have critically received it, i.e., when they see something positive or productive in a film or oeuvre of course. (I do not touch upon the boredom, pretentiousness, or spiritually incomprehensibility some spectators would see in art cinema.) With Camille I can’t find what this something else is, despite Sharrett’s claim about the destruction of women by men. The film lacked substance, which is true for most of Dumont’s features; in his previous attempts to produce (bodily) sensations in the spectator, and not making narrative or psychological sense, his prior output maintained a beauty that was unique to art film genre. Camille is ultimately an unsuccessful film in Dumont’s oeuvre, devoid of story, content, spirituality, and style. Everything in this film is simply dull – Dumont parodying a Dumont film. Too much nothing, not enough sensation, and definitely no sense.

Paper Presentation: November 16th, Cine-Excess VII: European Erotic Cinema: Identity, Desire and Disgust, Midlands Arts Centre, Birmingham, U.K.

Paper Presentation: December 4th, Symons Seminar Series, Trent University, Peterborough, ON

Pornographic genre codes are appropriated by Breillat and twisted to produce a particular message, meaning, or truth: the shame of feminine sexuality under patriarchy. In this paper I argue she must be pornographic, and explicit, if some element of truth in obscenity is to be recovered. I situate Breillat within a style of cinematic pornography, recuperating the term from otherwise hostile definitions.

I first consider how her pornography is unlike the erotic. Sexual encounters within her films are ripe with dissatisfaction, distaste, and misery and therefore far from the classical definition of viewing erotic art as a composed spectator’s aesthetic appreciation. Secondly, I articulate the difference between Breillat’s films and a pornography designed to titillate a specifically male viewer. True, Breillat falls in with pornography defined by Williams (1991) as a body genre, producing intense sensations in the spectator; pornography, in some manner, should move the viewer, often to a state of arousal or if shared in a theatre amongst friends, in bursts of nervous laughter. Breillat greatly separates herself from hard core in her efforts to move spectators. The sensation Breillat is able to produce in spectators is a cinematic displeasure of both narrative and images. According to Brinkema (2006), Grønstad (2006), and Horeck and Kendall (2011), among others, Breillat transmits her message with this method of provocation by engaging the spectator’s senses, therefore calling the viewer to ethically and immediately respond to the work. She accomplishes this cinematic brilliance – treading a line which is pornographic yet not erotic and causing a sensation in the viewer which is not arousal – by frustrating habituated viewing, challenging the common film-experience of identifying with characters, or symbolically recognizing the genre.

[I wasn't able to formally share these thoughts on the night of the 4th. I provide them here.]

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My claim is that there is no better contemporary film which so explicitly deals with the topic of rape culture than Spring Breakers, or at least, for those who despise the feature, Korine’s film gives us the tools to think critically about it. Korine accomplishes this by refusing to critique or give this culture a direct address. Instead of the obvious critique of someone like Catherine Breillat or other directors associated with New French Extremism or New Extremism more broadly, Spring Breakers presents the setting and conditions under which rape culture exists.

The first half of the film, up to the moment Faith (Selena Gomez) goes back home, underscores my point. We have images of the diegetic characters and the extras engaging in common spring break activities. As Francey Russell notes in her review we can find any of these images on the internet: partying, asses shaking, alcohol and drug use, young women exposing their breasts, young men gawking and groping young women, and everyone there, as Faith relates in a voicemail to her grandmother, having the time of their lives. The shot Korine returns to repeatedly, therefore calling our attention to it, is the topless girls beckoning the alcohol phalluses of young men followed by the spraying of liquids over their breasts. With this shot Korine shows us the importance of the beach and party scenes; these individuals appear as faceless extras, the normal crowd already there on spring break – in a sense this is the authenticity or truthfulness of what Korine presents, blurring the division between a documentary picture or series, e.g., Girls Gone Wild, and the story of Faith, Candy (Vanessa Hudgens), Brit (Ashley Benson), and Cotty (Rachel Korine). The fictional narrative, as the excessive account of an otherwise banal spring break shot through a point-of-view with the same tone and color as the partying extras, therefore depicts a realistic or true account of the events that take occur in St. Petersburg.

In addition to the authenticity this pseudo-documentary footage provides it also highlights the consensual nature of the acts and events. This is reinforced in the scene in which Cotty is intoxicated and a young man pours alcohol over her; he commands her to “Take it like a stripper,” and mentions how he wants “that pussy,” the one that is (perhaps unfortunately) attached to the rest of her. She playfully sings to him, “Never gonna get this pussy,” and exposes her breasts. She eventually consents to kissing and, we should expect, further sexual activity. In both beach/party scenes and in this diegetic scene Korine stresses a completely fabricated or false consent, and a commenter on Russell’s review observes much the same, i.e., Spring Breakers does not contain even the slightest hint of rape or sexual aggression (except briefly between Alien and Faith) and is, against Russell’s argument that the film is about rape culture, simply a testament to a group of consenting youths which we can then read into as similar to real youths on a real spring break. This commentator, whether he agrees with Russell or not, suggests that the film is the truth of students on spring break – is it not much of a leap then to claim it is also the truth of sexual violence?

This ambiguity or lack of clarity is what I find so appealing about New Extreme cinema. With the inclusion of violence and sexuality to a narrative picture the critique is often lost on spectators. For the most part, when sex and violence appears in a Hollywood narrative feature, the director and film crew are complicit in that sex and violence, showing images of sexuality to titillate, arouse, and excite, and scenes of violence to show off their skills at choreography, special effects, or CGI. New Extreme cinema disturbs this habitual response to sex and violence; viewers don’t know whether directors are providing a spectacle, enjoying the filming of sex and violence, or critiquing some aspect of sex and violence in contemporary Western culture. Korine has a history of not saying anything specific about his films and I think this is his brilliance. For Spring Breakers I believe he tries to make a play or make fools of the viewers by stating that his images and sounds are nothing but “candy,” but this I don’t fully accept, or I’ve been giving the director too much credit. I agree with Russell that there is a right way to view this picture, regardless of Korine’s seemingly irresponsible statement that “there’s no right or wrong way of viewing the film.” Russell states, “if someone could watch Spring Breakers and not experience a moment of fighting rage or bleak sadness, I would say they haven’t seen it rightly.” The question is what we should be getting out of these first 45 minutes, and later the irreal second half of the film, which I’ll leave open for discussion.

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Now I can provide a provisional answer to some of the film’s more confusing elements and how it more definitely relates to rape culture. Quoting from Russell’s review, we have in Spring Breakers the beginning of an analysis of rape culture, irreducible to any one of these singular items: “gun culture, consumerism, wealth inequality, college culture, American Christianity, racism, our global obsession with underdressed young girls,… and Britney Spears.” Yes, Korine gives us Spears twice in the film. A young girl dressed in an outfit which reveals much of her skin, telling the viewers of her music video, Hit me baby one more time. But the public discussion about clothing, namely the consensus that a woman’s attire does not give a man the right to sex, does absolutely nothing to answer the question of where this right came from and why a man is still able to pose the question today of whether or not to assault a woman who is dressed in such a manner that causes him sexual excitement and the will for violence.

All these factors, and likely much more, contribute to the posing of the question to rape or to not rape. It is not enough to claim the solitary male who stumbles upon an unconscious woman will rape if he hasn’t been sufficiently reminded not to – and this is why I find the “Don’t be that guy” advertisements ineffective. Where is this man, what music has been playing, has he been drinking, is there binge drinking, what has he been drinking, which drinks are more likely to confront a man with the question of rape, are there friends nearby to make suggestions for sexual assault, are they drinking, what have they been drinking, and so on. It is naïve – but nevertheless satisfying for the legal system – to do an analysis of an occurrence of rape based on the responsibility or irresponsibility of an individual.[1] It is a simple answer for conservatives to go the responsibility route. The conservative position – opposed to a radical or revolutionary position, one which would actually want to change the structures of oppression, etc. – would believe that through an individual’s will and intelligence he is author of his own destiny, so to speak. Complete freedom of choice is the philosophical position conservatives begin from. This would be what the reminder ads reinforce: from nothing, or out of nothing, you can decide not to rape. There is no empty and valueless space or process of decision-making however – each space brings its own history and challenges, or in different words, before we can talk about some essence in Man, i.e., the desire to rape which needs to be quelled by posters, commercials, and even scholarly articles, we must begin anew with the problem of rape and ask in each of the instances in which it occurs or we think it likely to occur: how does this environment facilitate the posing of the question of whether one should rape or not. In other words, study the environment and the objects in it; from there we can perhaps determine why individuals still pose the (absurd) question of whether it is permissible to be a rapist or not.

This is what Spring Breakers shows to us. We are all complicit in this culture of violence against women when we are participants and consumers of spaces, objects, and things which contribute to it.


[1] Of course I hold rapists responsible for their actions. My discussion here is hopefully providing provisional hints towards an analysis of the phenomenon, not individual cases after the fact.

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The Lucas Clinic sells manufactured diseases and infections derived from the real life diseases and infections of celebrities. Infections are plucked direct from the celebrity then modified to be less dangerous and non-contagious, and finally packaged for the consumer; it is taking an interest in a famous person’s life to the next extreme, creating a fabricated bond, through disease and decay, from celebrity to average person. An employee of the clinic, Syd March (Caleb Landry Jones), is also a consumer of celeb diseases and is perhaps even more infatuated with stars than clients of the clinic. In Antiviral, Syd is assigned to extract the blood of Hannah Geist (Sarah Gadon), the most famous of the famous, who has recently contracted a mysterious disease. The employee does the extraction, but before the blood can be rendered non-life threatening, he injects himself with a bit of Geist. The celebrity later dies, the world mourns, and Syd must find himself a cure for this incurable disease.

Through a series of encounters and exchanges we learn Lucas Clinic’s competitor purposely infected Geist and they must keep Syd quiet so her life-ending disease can be sold to consumers, at great profit of course. Syd, in exchange for a cure, provides an even more profitable solution for the company – a sort of stem cell Geist that lives forever, can be purposely infected, then that disease extracted and sold to the public. Syd’s world returns to normal and the film ends in a scene where he re-injects himself with a new Geist virus.

In sci-fi cinema three broad storytelling options are possible (among others certainly). The first is the obvious alien story with its myriad manifestations. The second is creating a new world out of pre-existing technology – the real world’s technological advances inspire to create another. For example, technological possibilities in the form of space travel, androids and other artificial intelligence, gaming and virtual reality, etc. The third is what I’ll call cultural sci-fi, where an existing cultural problem or fascination is magnified, exaggerated, and intensified. Antiviral falls into the third category. Celebrity culture, for the 20+ years I can remember in South-Central Ontario, has always been an object of curiosity and/or obsession. We like to know what famous people are up to. Antiviral’s turn in cultural commodities is not far from the world outside the film whereby consumption of news and products brings an illusory closeness and intimacy between celeb and consumer. However, the celebrity phenomenon reached its peak with the death of Princess Diana in 1997 and numerous films and television programs profited from the homicide. And various scandals pop up here and there, usually with female celebrities, and the public takes an interest in them to varying degrees (myself, not so much). So why in 2012 does Brandon Cronenberg feel the need to remind us of our obsession? What possible critique or message do we get from Antiviral? I’m not sure. It resonates with his father’s Videodrome (1983), but lacks the urgency of that film’s critique. That being said, Antiviral does make for a good bit of entertainment.

The title shot plays a bit with Lars Von Trier’s Antichrist (2009), beginning with the same scrawl on the screen and no credits. The employee we are introduced to is probably already infected by various celebrity infections and diseases by the time we find him. His scrawny form, pale look, and long hair make him the most obvious candidate for the role. His ability to play a deteriorating character, decaying slowly as the virus takes hold of him, is simply outstanding. He has no heroic qualities, spending most of the film held up by a cane, and even his moment of grace in which he bargains for a cure, has every bit of ill-intention and self-indulgence that we would see in any of cinema’s most villainous. He wears a black suit and white shirt throughout, in various states of disarray and uncleanliness; sweat and blood stain his costume, face, hands, and in his only act of physical strength – a poorly planned escape from the competitor’s clinic who abducted him to document and film his last days of life for consumers so they can see how Geist similarly perished – his blood and grime streaks the walls and attaches itself to whomever he comes in contact with.

On this point then, the utter sterility of the film, the editors of Cinephile (8.2) are correct to note its power. As one would expect of a clinic, the setting is bare and white – a sterility matching Catherine Breillat’s Romance (1999) where the blasé couple’s apartment aligns with their sex life. When Syd spits up his blood and plasters the walls in red, the white acts as a canvas for bodily fluid. But making similar the interest in celebrity and the clinics where products are purchased, Syd’s home is equally as bland in color. The blurring of work, home, and leisure stand out and echo the late capitalist lived experience.

At times the non-diegetic drone adds to the decrepitude of Syd’s diseased body trying to make its way in the world; at others silence would have been more preferable. Some of the camerawork could have been improved, the sometimes shaky camera getting a little overused these days; but much of the framing of the static shots – again highlighting sterile environments – was eye-pleasing. Transitions between sequences, especially in the second half of the film, were unintentionally disorienting, but this is more a fault of the storytelling than editing. A sense of space and place is slightly confused.

The editors of Cinephile reviewed the film in a recent issue on New Extreme Cinema. I had expected, from the trailer additionally, the film would explore the body in a way that perhaps Marina de Van’s In My Skin (2002) had, or play with some of the other features of the cinema du corps. Antiviral did have some of the abjection of In My Skin, but does not quite reach the quality and disgust inherent to de Van’s feature. Geist and Syd’s bloody lips and spluttering blood did prove to be somewhat disgusting nevertheless. Without the sex and/or sexual violence (not a necessary component surely), and Cronenberg’s film containing a singular act of violence (stabbing a man in the neck with a pen) that is not climactic but a piece of the plot to push ahead the narrative (New Extreme cinema ends with a climactic and surprising violence as a result of the events preceding it), Antiviral does not, in my opinion, earn a place in the recent tendency for cinematic flesh and blood. And if it does, New Extreme cinema has become a useless term, given a breadth that makes it impossible to work with.

Paper presentation at Western University’s (Re)Activating Objects, March 1 – March 3, 2013

http://reactivatingobjects.wordpress.com/

Abstract:

In this paper I argue that actors and actresses’ performances are key objects of analysis in addressing the ethical challenges of New Extreme films. Breillat’s Fat Girl (2001) and its fictionalized making-of, Sex is Comedy (2002), incites an ethical engagement not merely in the sense of textual analysis, but requires a deeper investigation inherent to the filmmaking process. The reflexivity of the paired films – the latter as a staged re-enactment of the sex scene of the former, re-performed by lead actress Mesquida – motivates the development of a theory of performance following Linda Williams’ reflections, and in so doing shifting emphasis from director-auteur to the equally important actor-auteur, as Dyer argued decades ago.

Breillat places high demand on her actors to perform (physicality) as well as act (deliver dialogue), evinced by Mesquida’s reluctance and difficultly in shooting the twenty minute scene in which her character, Elena, is coerced out of her virginity in Fat Girl, and its alternate but similar re-performance in Sex is Comedy. The unnamed character-actress of the latter bursts into sobs when director Jeanne finally utters “cut” after the long take. Her tears are powerful within the narrative to be sure, but reflexivity is used here as a method of rethinking Mesquida’s earlier role in addition to films of the New Extremism generally, as Breillat is an oft-cited name for the recent cinematic tendency for flesh and blood: it poses the question of whether onscreen acts of physical and emotional violence manifest in the bodies of actors and actresses off-screen, and further, to what aesthetic and ethical end. In making the parallel between the films (hitherto unaccomplished by scholars) I sidestep theorists who label New Extremism aesthetic pornography or transgressive cinema, and instead refocus the theorizing of these films to issues of performance, the actor-auteur, and ethics.

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