The World and A Touch of Sin

Jia Zhangke's The World and A Touch of Sin approach the notion of global capitalism through two distinct ways: lack of isolation and violence. Though they briefly overlap, the two films seem distinct enough to warrant individual analyses, if only for the way the camera moves and acts in The World and the use of violence in A Touch of Sin.

What is striking about The World is not that it attempts to address the relationship to the global in a park featuring miniaturized landmarks from around the globe, but instead that it does so in a way that investigates the meaning of being alone within such an environment. The opening scene sets the tone for the rest of film: vibrant colors, chaos, and people as performers everywhere. The exception here being the camera movement which, after following Tao through the halls throughout the scene, becomes much calmer and steadier in the rest of the film. Because the length of shots remains almost unnervingly long—specifically in a number of dialog scenes—the film casts the camera as another body within the scene. It seems to linger far longer than it should, and stays in rooms while other characters come and go (particularly with the scenes involving Wei and Niu). In a related way, this addresses the notion of individuality because of how seldom characters actually get to be alone. Performers are constantly entering rooms, leaving because someone has to change, or just loitering in the halls backstage. Even in the rare cases where Tao or others are actually alone—like when she is riding the tram around the park—we hear the voice over the loudspeaker. By combining this penetrating sight of the camera with the constant inability to be alone, the film seems to be hinting at the constant stimulation and encounters that are associated with the spread of technology and capitalism. Like the blurring of the divide between work and leisure time, The World showcases this same decreasing divide between the individual and their connection to others.

This can also be seen in the illustrated sections of the film, which always occur when a character is responding to another through text message. While some hint at being fantasy, like Tao's dream of flying and “being free,” they all assume the perspective of those looking at the phone in an attempt to display their reaction to the other person. Particularly with the final case—when Tao intercepts the message from Qun—the feel of the illustration becomes dark and swamp-like, mirroring how the message has affected Tao. In this way, Jia and the film call attention specifically to this divide: where the individual is pulled into the multiple. Just as we see the modern sense of capitalism depicted in Yella, here we see the modern notion of societal interaction in the age of globalization and widespread technology.

Where The World and A Touch of Sin intersect (and then part again) is their commentary on capitalism, which revolves around death. The most telling scene in The World follows Little Sister's death, which we learn is caused because the pay of working at night is better than in the day. Not only does the long shot outside the hospital room create anxiety for what the note actually says, but it also draws so much attention to his brother's sobbing that it boarders on being excessive. Jia and the camera force us to stay there and observe him crying much longer than we want to, which doesn't appear in A Touch of Sin. While there is certainly death as a result of capitalism, the camera functions much differently because it's no longer another witness; it instead becomes more stylized. Particularly for the Dahai story, the camera is constantly trying to show us more violence and more blood. While we could just as easily see Dahai enter the accountant's house, hear the gunshot and watch him come out, we are meant to watch his face being shot off. And we have to see the gun shots during the robbery, and the knife wounds, and the suicide. In this way, I would suggest A Touch of Sin is not just highlighting the resulting violence of capitalism, but is entirely dependent on it.

I wonder if Dr. Abel could comment on some point about the use of violence in the film (and, by extension, judgment) in relation to his book Violent Affect. I am interested in the Dahai storyline because it seems to cinematically align with Patrick Bateman in terms of the pleasure they derive from their killings: the image of Dahai's bloody grin in the back of the car seems to correlate nicely with Bateman's blood-smeared face as he wields a chainsaw. While the satire and metaphor of the novel is nonexistent in A Touch of Sin, both characters are still related to “capitalism's cannibalistic cruelty” (42) in their own way. And while Dahai may not be seen as a “ludicrous monster” like Bateman (43) because we can understand his motives and his mannerisms aren't over the top, he seems to arrive at a similar place in terms of violence. My question would be if our suspension of judgment—the act of taking no stance—is augmented at all because of the difference in characters. In other words, whether the process of masocritism is changed if, instead of looking at an event like 9/11, an event is represented where we may understand the motives behind the violence that might issue an answer to “why?”--as in the case of Dehai and the belief that his village is being cheated out of money. 

Week 3 procedures

Just to reiterate what I said in class yesterday:

By Monday, 10am, everyone should have posted their blog contribution on It's a Free World by Ken Loach. We'll discuss the film on Monday before screening Code 46. 

On Friday, we'll discuss both films by Zhangke Jia, A Touch of Sin and The World. The latter will be screened in class; the former you need to watch on your own (like It's a Free World it's available on amazon.com streaming). You can post on A Touch of Sin anytime till Friday 10am. Since you will also have to post on The World by Friday 10am, you might consider posting on AToS earlier, but it's up to you.

Please let me know if you have any questions.

Perception in Babel

Though both Syriana and Babel attempt to comment on the global political environment through perspective, Babel is more successful as a result of the depiction of the Chieko storyline. By oscillating between the intimate world of Chieko and the vaster geographical and political landscape, Iñárritu makes a powerful claim about the marginalized role of civilians within the broader global sphere. As a result, I would argue against Deborah Shaw's reading of the film as being entirely dependent on the “tourist gaze,” and would suggest the film more closely aligns with Wallace Katz's understanding of the dialectical movement showcased by Syriana that highlights these marginalizations in a significant way.

Shaw's argument is built around her reading of Babel as a Hollywood attempt at world cinema that not only necessitates and adopts the gaze of a tourist, but also erroneously hinges on cross-cultural empathy—something that Shaw argues is impossible. “The film presents an image of a linguistically and ethnically unified country,” Shaw suggests, “because it is not concerned with creating an authentic documentary-like portrait of rural Morocco, but seeks to present characters as archetypes that sit comfortably in a tale ultimately more concerned with representing U.S. concerns” (22). Shaw is right to point out the link between film watching and tourism, and it is true that Iñárritu calls attention to this fact with the actual tourists displaying foreign anxiety throughout the Morocco storyline. While Iñárritu's depiction of the Moroccan people and culture can be called into question, Shaw does not focus on the storyline that the viewer is able to interact with most: that of Chieko. Indeed, Shaw's theory somewhat backfires when she mentions, “While the film has a focus on non-Western cultures, the shadow of U.S. socio-political concerns hangs over all of these, with the exception of the Japanese storyline” (15). Even within her own argument about the importance placed on an American “tourist gaze,” it does not seem to apply to Chieko's depiction. The reason is because Iñárritu is making a different, unique claim with Chieko that hinges on the act of perceiving, instead of the reaction to perception.

Chieko fits more into Katz's realization about the characters in Syriana and how they fit within the larger global scheme. Speaking of Syriana, Katz admires how:

“[Syriana] always relates the core of the global world to its margins, and global institutions such as imperial governments and corporations to lesser but value-laden institutions such as the family and the community. Indeed, it is this dialectical spheres of global policy and action to the peripheral and microscopic spheres of local and human life, that makes for the film's real and necessary complexity” (108-109)

While Babel might not share the “complexity” of Syriana, Chieko's “microscopic sphere” appears to be the central focus of Iñárritu. Though we share an intimacies between Richard and Susan, Iñárritu forces us to view the world through Chieko like no other character. We witness the lives of the Moroccan family and the wedding of the Mexican family, but a large time is spent inhabiting the perception of Chieko. Whether in the “J-Pop,” the night club, or walking through the street, the muteness of Chieko's world offers a stark contrast to the commotion of the Japanese streets or the Moroccan village. In this way, Iñárritu is just simply not relying on a “tourist gaze” or a “world cinema gaze,” but is forging a unique view that habitually functions through the character.

In keeping with Katz's notion, then, Iñárritu re-establishes the hierarchy of perceptions by placing more importance on Chieko's interior machinations than on exterior (American) viewpoints. Shaw is right to point out that despite the sale of the rifle by Chieko's father, “the characters affected will never be more than a momentary, miscommunicated news item that appears on her television set. Thus, while her storyline is very powerful, no real ties link her to others” (27). Both of these notions make Chieko integral to Babel, and allow the film to suggest a more provocative understanding of transnationalization. She is kept apart from the others because of her marginalization—her link to the rest of the film is through her father, who is just barely connected as well. And yet, the viewer not only inhabits her point of view more than any other character, but she also gets the final shot. As we see her nakedly embrace her father, the pair is lost as the camera pans to a wider and wider shot, revealing the sprawling skyline and lights of Japan. This move, along with the focus on Chieko overall, suggests Iñárritu's attempt at a reversal of focus and emphasis. Katz opines that what is often “ignore[d] about globalization is that...every action at the top of the pyramid or its core engenders a reaction at all other levels and especially at the bottom or on the periphery” (109). With Chieko, Iñárritu questions the influence of globalization over her by making her not only indifferent to the Richard and Susan storyline, but also by first focusing on Chieko and her father in this closing shot. It is not the movement from the top down (like an inverted base and superstructure?) but is instead focusing on the bottom and revealing how it gets lost at the top. Syriana does this to a certain extent, but the film is more guilty of employing the tourist gaze than creating a unique viewpoint through which to interpret the other actions occurring in the film.

Katz, Wallace. “Hollywood Rarity: Imperialism Unmasked: Syriana by Stephen Gaghan; The Constant Gardener by Fernando Meirelles; Why We Fight by Eugene Jarecki.” New Labor Forum, Vol. 15, No. 3 (Fall, 2006), pp. 107-112. http://www.jstor.org/stable/40342651?origin=JSTOR-pdf

Shaw, Deborah Anne. "Babel and the global Hollywood gaze." Situations: Project of the Radical Imagination, 4.1, pp 11-31 (2011).

http://0-ojs.gc.cuny.edu.library.unl.edu/index.php/situations/article/download/742/1203

This weekend: Babel and Syriana

As a reminder I want to reiterate that you should watch BOTH Babel and Syriana at home over Memorial Day weekend.

Also, please post on AT LEAST one of the two, though you may post on both. If you post on both you may post your contributions either under each individual movie (i.e., your comments on Babel under the Babel heading and your comments on Syriana under the Syriana heading) or, if your comments are comparative, under one or the other (if you end up saying more about one than the other perhaps choose that movie's heading).

Let me know if you have questions.

A few comments about the first week of your blog contributions

First, I want to thank you collectively for having, overall, done an excellent job with your posts. The overwhelming majority of your posts were rich with insights, some developed others merely briefly mentioned but all the same rich fodder for thought.

I'd like to remind many of you, however, of an important aspect of the assignment's requirement: namely, a) to work on occasion with a source and b) for that source to be on occasion academic in nature.

Most of you did indeed incorporate a source in one or more of your posts--though some of you made your lives a bit too easy by just using the source I've provided or one of your peers already provided before you. I'd like to ask you to be a bit more creative and find your own source, though of course you can most certainly also address a source already provided by someone else before you.

Where almost all of you have called short thus far is with regard to point b): that on occasion one of your sources should be an academic essay or book (realistically speaking: just a chapter or section from it). If I recall correctly it's been only (some of) those of you taking the course for graduate credit that in fact brought those kind of sources to the table. I'd like all of you to do this as we move to the next round of posts next week.

If you are unclear whether or not you found a relevant academic source please ask me. The source may be a discussion of the film or the filmmaker; it may also be a discussion of a topic relevant to the film or to the class at large (globalization) that you then mobilize in your discussion of the film at hand.

You can find such academic sources online but perhaps more likely you may have to use one of the academic search engines LOVE LIBRARY provides here: http://iris.unl.edu. You might just type in the film or the director's name in the search box and see what happens. For instance, if you typed in "Dirty Pretty Things" you'd get 5 sources. Click on one or more of them to see where they were published (in a newspaper, in which case the article isn't academic, or in an academic/scholarly journal?) You'll see that the article "I's Wide Shut..." is a relevant article, as is "Border Politics and..." You'll also notice that both texts can be downloaded as a PDF.

If you have questions about how to do scholarly/academic research please ask me. Note that Google can be helpful finding some academic/scholarly materials but is ultimately limited; it's not a substitute for what a library search engine can do.

Thresholds in Dirty Pretty Things

I think a lot of my post is in accordance with Elaina’s in terms of both the morality called into question by the film and the importance of the camera work in the heart scene. 

Stephen Frears’ Dirty Pretty Things creates a conversation regarding immigration into England by juxtaposing the situation with the threshold between life and death. In addition to constant references to spirituality and life beyond death, Dirty Pretty Things cements this relationship with a scene that showcases the importance placed on a human heart found in a toilet. Through a discussion of Slavoj Žižek’s understanding of the importance of otherworldly elements and excrement, Dirty Pretty Things not only situates itself within a tradition of similar scenes, but also welcomes the viewer to choices concerning the interaction with the limit.

            Though Žižek is infamously interested in toilets and what they mean for ideology, his fascination is extended to film in The Pervert’s Guide to Cinema. The following clip shows this understanding (using the gaze as his starting point) as he provides commentary over Coppola’s The Conversation and Hitchcock’s Psycho:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sysQ3La4Mws#t=646

I agree with Žižek that the explanation for this fear—which I would argue is rather ubiquitous—is grounded in our inability to comprehend the return of matter from a “netherworld” back to ours. More importantly, it is hard to miss the resemblance between the scenes of The Conversation and Dirty Pretty Things. Though the intention of both characters and their interaction with the bathroom space is different, both not only display the flowing of blood into the clear water as matter is brought to the surface, but also “return the gaze” onto the characters to reveal their looks of horror. For Dirty Pretty Things especially, there is a point of view shot from the toilet as the blood begins to rise. In this way, organs inhabit the role of the threshold that teeters between life and death, just as desperate immigrants rest precariously on the same limit. If Okwe’s encounter with the toilet is indeed based within this understanding, it creates the opportunity to view the remaining characters in a similar context because of the magnitude of the discovered heart as the catalyst for the film’s action.

            Guo Yi and Ivan are depicted as two options for threshold crossers. Though Guo Yi and Ivan have their individual methods for dealing with this limit—Guo Yi explains his motives for the pocket-stitching scene and Ivan converses with Okwe about the need to ignore the illegal activity of the hotel—their relationship is cemented with their discussion of Charon’s obol. Indeed, Cynthia Lucia suggests a similar understanding by stating “Both men ferry others to subterranean worlds - the hotel is the last stop on the way to the morgue - either literally or figuratively - for those forced to venture there” (9). In both cases, the role of these characters is attached to their relevance for the barrier to the underworld. Though other contrasting views certainly occur between characters—namely the clashing religious views of Okwe and Senay about God and love—the interaction with the underworld makes a startling claim about the nature of the immigrant’s lives.

            This claim, however, appears to be left somewhat ambiguous. On one hand, as Okwe suggests to Senay, their goal is to simply survive. Immigration into England—along with the absurdity of the situation into which immigrants granted asylum are placed—is focused less on the ability to gain access to work than it is access to life itself. On the other hand, Okwe and Senay successfully operate on Juan and are able to achieve their respective goals. In the Lucia interview with Stephen Frears, however, this resolution is complicated:

“Cineaste: What have [the characters] learned?

Frears: Ivan has learned a sort of cynicism that will get you through. If you understand all these things, you can keep your head down and survive. The other two, Okwe and Senay, get trapped by it, though I suppose they learn that they'd rather operate on Sneaky…than get operated on themselves. They've turned the tables on the system. Of course, it would be much better if it weren't necessary for them to do that.

Cineaste: Do they become tainted by their experience?

Frears: No. They're strong people who can deal with it, but the fact that Senay doesn't break down and crack, doesn't mean that something awful hasn't happened” (12).

Part of the illusion of the resolution is this realization that Frears offers: that actions lose their morality due to the constant interaction with the limit between life and death. This is driven home when Juan is trying to coerce Okwe into performing procedures by suggesting his actions are going to help a little girl in need of a kidney.

Thus, Okwe’s speech about worker invisibility pertains to the greed and exploitation associated with capitalism, but it is simultaneously a condition of simply being alive. In other words, if the immigrants inhabit the same space as the heart, the exploiters take the place of Okwe and gasp in horror when they actually see what should belong to the netherworld.

There also seems to be a great interaction between this film and Giorgio Agamben’s homo sacer and bare life, but this post is long enough as it is.

Cynthia Lucia and Stephen Frears, “The Complexities of Cultural Change: An Interview with Stephen Frears.” Cinéaste, Vol. 28, No. 4 (FALL 2003), pp. 8-15

Hybridization in La Promesse

In Globalization: A Very Short Introduction, Steger offers a notion that appears to align with how the Dardenne brothers wish to convey the mixtures of worlds for Igor in La Promesse. By recognizing how the brothers combine the choppy, chaotic shots of the illegal immigration realm with the steadier, freer shots of Igor alone, they create an ultimately pessimistic rendering of globalization through the lens of transportation and motion that simultaneously removes the impact of agency from those subjected to it.

La Promesse is fundamentally a film about movement. It begins and ends with rather ominous sounds of transportation—gas being pumped in the beginning; trains arriving and departing in the ending—and all the action revolves around the desire to move between places: from Assita’s wishes for transportation to Italy to the climactic confrontation with Roger revolving around Roger’s inability to escape. This is particularly the case with Igor, whose only semblance of childhood resides in the will to interact with the go-cart. In the brief moments of motion in which Igor is seen—actually riding the go-cart or his motorcycle—there is a marked difference in both his demeanor and the way he is captured by the camera. In order to fully appreciate this change, the preceding tendency can be observed from the film’s opening.

In the first glimpse of the apartment in which Roger and Igor house illegals, the visual expression of the “apartment” world is characterized by fast cuts and off-screen noises. The continuous employment of shaky camera can be observed throughout the entirety of the introduction to this space, and it remains unsteady through all of the shots inhabited by Roger, Assita, or any other occupant of the apartment world. In this sense, the Dardenne brothers establish this world as singular, distinct one from the rare observations of Igor’s freedom. These shots not only display Igor’s transition in behavior, but also allow for a different view of Igor because they are shots of just his countenance with his hair blowing, instead of shots comprised of the daily tasks associated with the apartment. More apparent, though, is the change in camera steadiness that accompanies these shots. Though technically there be no easy way to apply a shaky camera technique to such a fast moving shot, it nonetheless achieves the effect of creating a second space kept apart from the one previously introduced and often reencountered.

As a result, the witnessing of these two realms clash fits into Stegers understanding of how two cultures meet in the current globality in terms of social interaction. Though Steger is largely interested in the breakdown of barriers between cultures, he also suggests that “language, music, and images constitute the major forms of symbolic expression” (74). Both the illegal world of the apartment and the one of free motion is characterized by two distinct expressions and, as a result, these two realms created by the Dardennes are congruent with Steger’s notion in terms of an expression that is significant for any particular “sphere.” I would agree with Steger in the sense that one of the elements of globalization is an increase in the acceleration of this kind of hybridization (6), and so motion in Le Promesse enters the conversation of the modern globality.

Once this step is taken, it would appear that La Promesse boarders on a dystopian understanding of globalization in terms of its universality and impact on agency. The shots of Roger and the van transporting illegals through the city allow one to infer the size of similar processes occurring at different scales around the world, and even a country the size of Belgium swallows up emigrants from numerous countries. Likewise, though Igor and Assita valiantly attempt to combat this trend of illegal transportation, they ultimately are returned into the mass of crowd in the metro station. This futility of opposition renders agency meaningless because of the power and scale of globality the film portrays.

In this sense, I agree with Monica’s suggestion of a cyclical element to the film, and I would even extend that idea to a greater emphasis than just location. Though exchange of money and people certainly plays into this conception, I wonder if the Dardennes have in mind a much more pessimistic and cyclical notion of globalization that renders all actions, not just movement, irrelevant.