“Slow” Narrative as Artifice | The "Other" Film Spectator

The “Other” Film Spectator: “Slow” Narrative as Artifice

Everyone loves a good story and the way it is told can make a difference in the film experience. Movement in films, especially in terms of how a narrative unfolds, can be crucial to a spectator’s entertainment. In the wake of many fast-paced films—whether it is through the action, the suspenseful plot, the tight editing and other forms of visual panache—the narrative builds a momentum that is able to sustain a spectator’s interest. Impatient spectators crave for a storyline that is quick in tempo, which is common in most commercial films. But as an alternative to film spectatorship, “slower” films can create a more unique and engaging experience in spite of its tendency to be arguably synonymous to unexciting, incomprehensible, and obscure for most film viewers. I remember listening to an interview with Sophia Coppola amid the wake of her latest film at the time Somewhere (2010) where she commented on the aesthetics of slow where fast editing and scoring were unwarranted.[1] In Somewhere, she mentions that the narrative sort of allows the spectators to experience a sense of one-on-oneness with the film’s protagonist. In turn, the spectators are able to immerse themselves in the mindset of the protagonist who has a tendency to drift in life. For the spectator, the experience is refreshing, as it allows for breathing room and a moment of pause—another type of intellectual vigor—that places the spectator within the film’s emotional context.

Thus, slow films can equally sustain a viewer’s interest through a contemplative, reflective, and thought-provoking form of spectatorship. Through this, an active approach to film screening is inevitable as spectators are prompted to draw inferences and make sense of the “slowness” of a film—both on a literal and figurative level. Although the concept of a “slow” film is relative, there are some noteworthy artistic dynamics in the narrative that are responsible for decreasing a film’s tempo, which, in turn, push normative boundaries in film aestheticism that are not usually found in some mainstream “fast-paced” films. Therefore, I decided to examine how the artifice of “slowness” is presented in films, and I have narrowed it down to three stylistic cinematic components: content (i.e., themes, plot, and subject matter), form (i.e., the technical components that make up the film narrative), and most importantly, the role of spectatorship (i.e., the interpretative and phenomenological relationship between film and the audience).

When it comes to influencing the pacing of a narrative, content plays a vital role—especially in terms of the collective interplay between theme, subject matter, and the dramatic structuring of the story in relation to plot and theme. Although there may be other types of films that may fit this “mold,” one notable example is the use of character as the primary focus of the film as opposed to plot. In this case, the psychology, development, and exploration of the character are centralized, whereas plot becomes secondary. (This is a stark contrast to many mainstream films that place more emphasis on plot.) The tempo of character films is lessened as action is kept to the minimum. Scenes remain uneventful and the exposition (i.e., the fleshing out of a character and the development of setting through mood and atmosphere complement or underscore the character’s personality) takes precedence. In character films, internal conflicts contribute to the rising action as opposed to external conflicts. As a result, specific themes are usually associated with slow film—among them involved ontological explorations, existential angst, ennui, restlessness, and stagnation. In this case, the pacing of the narrative is often immobile and drifting—both literally in terms of pacing of story and figuratively in terms of theme and/or content. Often, there is no resolution and the story itself might be devoid of a climax or might have a climax that is anticlimactic.

: 45 Years (released in 2015) was a film showing at arthouse Laemmle theater in Los Angeles. It was a quiet, moving, and self-reflective film about a wife’s understanding of true love and marriage after 45 years of marriage.

The stylistic technical features of the film (in terms of form) can be examined through the “language of the film, ” which includes the collective relationships between shots, camera movement, sound, editing, and photography; and more specifically, film syntax, the manipulation of space and time, can also be part of the film’s slow narrative. For instance, lingering sustained shots, slow moving camera, lengthy takes, fade ins and fade outs often suggest stagnation, ennui, the gradual movement or manipulation of time, restlessness, and tediousness—all of which contribute to the film’s storytelling cadence. Film syntax can also consist of framing of objects, mise en scène, wide composition, and the symbolic use of negative space. Such film aesthetics can connote sterility, emptiness, moving of time, and spatial relations between characters and objects, abstract themes and/or concepts that accompany a slow rhythmic storytelling. Other forms of “slowness” are represented through gaps or ellipsis in the narration through lyrical interludes. Not only do they fragment and obscure the narrative, they also make it highly contemplative and enigmatic. Film symbolism and imagery can also be presented through prolonged shots that lend themselves through a myriad of interpretive qualities—some based on literary models such as symbolism, character revelations (i.e., flat, round, static, and dynamic), metaphors, similes, denotation, connotation, theme and plot.

Although the momentum for slower films is reflective, cautious, slow moving, it still manages to have an engaging lure to its spectators in spite of its esoteric qualities. Such thematic notions are not easy to grasp upon immediate viewing as the narrative can often be obscurely fragmented or ambiguously expressed due to its stylized slowness. In consequence, a different type of audience seduction takes flight—as the film world is “passively” and “inactively” manipulated in its “action-less” universe where spectators are inevitably asked to search for coherence and meaning by “filling in the gaps” amid its fragmented storytelling or its obscure language. In consequence, the role of a spectator becomes part of the narrative experience or co-creator of the story as the spectators might come up with their own interpretation of the film’s language—whether it is through lingering sustained shots that accentuate the imagery or the symbolic composition. Thus, spectators are both observers and participators of the slowness—visually and intellectually. They are sensitive to the interpretative qualities of the film’s stylistic slowness and inevitably become more cognizant in trying to figure out what the film is trying to convey. This is perhaps why there are those who have an aversion to slow films. Often, they are perceived as boring, obscure, and incomprehensible.

Furthermore, David Bordwell’s Narration in the Fiction Film examines how narrative can be intentionally subversive when it comes to understanding a film. He asserts that “narratives are composed in order to reward, modify, frustrate, or defeat the perceiver’s search for coherence,” and “the perceiver of a narrative film comes armed and active to the task” (38). My focus is to explore the progression that begins with challenging the spectator’s understanding of the film (i.e., frustration) and then later benefitting from that challenge (i.e., the reward)—particularly in a “slow” film. As spectators, either we are asked to make sense of the interpretive cinematic cues or we give up and dismiss what the film is trying to put us through—as “slow” films, with all of their esoteric qualities, do not simply tell the story nor do they do the thinking for the audience. Unlike some fast-paced films, spectators are interwoven in the film text by synthesizing, interpreting, intellectualizing and observing simultaneously. Thus, the interpretative relationship between the film and the spectator is non-passive but rather cerebral. Spectators must pause and reflect on what is actually happening. In essence, we select, arrange, connect ideas, and recognize patterns that will eventually lead to a comprehensive story-construction. Through this, a more cerebrally active screening experience takes flight when screening a film, which can also transcend the entertainment experience.

Application:

I decided to apply the aforementioned stylistic features of “slow” films to three films from various categorical niches: The Thin Red Line a war film, Down By Law an independent film, and L’Avventura a foreign arthouse film[2]. Although there may be other films that may “fit” this particular artistic approach to filmmaking, I decided to use these three films for a couple of reasons. First, I wanted to examine how slow narratives are not limited to a specific genre—and to draw emphasis on the varying forms of slow aestheticism in such a genre. Second, they are films that engage in ontological studies with abstract themes that ponder over man’s purpose, man’s internal conflicts and man’s relationship to the world. And most importantly, they all demonstrate the complex artistry of “slow” film narratives in terms of content, form, and most importantly, spectatorship.

The Thin Red Line 1998: Inquiry, Digressions, and Meditations in a War Film Narrative

Terence Malick’s The Thin Red Line is a true exemplar of the war genre reinvented, especially in terms of its drifting and slow narrative style with a stream of consciousness quality. Thus, the film does not fully meet the spectator’s expectation of the war genre, since it is more of a philosophical meditation on life, the value of human existence, the depravity of man, the beauty of nature, and the ponderings of God’s existence amid the throes of war. Because of Malick’s inquiry-based narrative, action is sparsely interspersed throughout the story. In fact, action does not take place until we are approximately forty minutes into the film where the first battle scene occurs. To clearly illustrate Malick’s unconventional slow narrative is to juxtapose it with a more conventional war film such as Saving Private Ryan by commercial director Steven Spielberg. As Spielberg’s more traditional and predictable depiction of a World War II film reached a wider audience, it achieved the accolades of the Academy Award for best director and became one of the highest domestic box office gross during the year it was released; whereas The Thin Red Line became the forgotten underdog in spite of the fact that it provided a more refreshing narrative style—not just through the film’s pensive and almost inactive world but its ability to still engage its viewers (unconventionally, of course) in spite of its slow storytelling. Hence, both films are each other’s inverse.

Spielberg’s WWII film is considered “faster” in terms of the pacing of the narrative as opposed to Malick’s The Thin Red Line. In essence, Saving Private Ryan is seductive in its quick unfolding of the story while using film techniques such as sound, lighting, photography, movement, composition, and frenetic editing to capture the conventions of the war genre. As a result, the film is able to clearly meet the expectations of the audience. It is heavily action-oriented, which is usually a given in most war genre films. Visually, it provides the realism that places the spectator within the emotional context of the film. It has enough visual stimulants such as exciting explosions and graphic close range shots of bloodshed battles. Last, and most importantly, Saving Private Ryan’s narrative is linear with a story tempo that is easy to comprehend. It is able to successfully sustain the attention of the spectator. In other words, the narrative works in a cause and effect pattern that ties the scenes together. This is clearly supported by the film’s most graphic opening sequence where the film befittingly paints a desaturated color palette, minimizes or mutes dialogue, captures close up shots of the soldiers to convey their feelings of fear and apprehension, immobilizes a rooted camera in order to capture sway of the boat as the men reaches the Havana Beach shore, and breaks the silence suddenly with the terrifying sound of a velocity of bullets and flesh being ripped apart. There are no digressions and no interruptions in this easy-to-grasp storytelling momentum. The moment to moment, shot by shot, action-oriented depiction of the opening sequence immediately seduces the spectators through the fast-paced, visually engaging, and suspenseful narrative.

While Spielberg’s action-oriented, seductive narrative comprised of graphic sensory details and frenetic editing that appeal to the spectator’s interest, Malick, who is hardly explicit in his depiction of violence, operates on a different sensory—the interpretive abilities of the spectator’s mind—especially in terms of the film’s dialectical narrative underscored through its cinematic imagery and figurative language. This is clearly introduced in Malick’s opening sequence that is gradual and reflective, which starkly contrasts with Spielberg’s opening sequence. Malick’s film opens with a sustained bass sound of the organ synchronized with a close up image of a crocodile gradually making his way into the murky marsh. Abstract concepts such as rebirth, awakening, and baptism into a beautiful but ominous and chaotic world set the philosophical and spiritual tone for the film. Also, the lingering shots of nature contribute to the film’s poetic syntax along with the film’s pensive, philosophical approach to the war genre. As spectators, we take the time to pause and reflect on the images and their various spiritual and existential interpretations especially when it comes to the images’ relationship to man and nature. For instance, the somber shot of the plant in the middle of the marsh suggests peace and death and the close up shots of the tangled roots of a tree and the crocodile in the beginning of the film suggest ominousness. The interpretative prompting of the images undermines the expectations of the spectators, as our attention is arrested. In essence, we are placed in a world of elliptical visual poetics trying to make sense of nature, humanity, and the spiritual and physical worlds. Thus, our roles as spectators are actively on task in this richly poetic narrative.

Furthermore, Guadacanal becomes the appropriate setting for this because it is a world that is constantly at odds. It is a beautiful and pristine paradise island that often connotes a Garden of Eden and an inviting transcendental world where man can spiritually feel at one with nature if he chooses to do so. On the other hand, it is also menacing and unpredictable. As a result, the soldiers (the Americans and the Japanese) are placed into two dialectical worlds—war and peace, good and evil, native (the Melanesians) and outsiders (the Americans and Japanese), innocence and corruption, and beauty and ugliness. The film’s cinematic imagery that essentially tells the story of nature’s contradictory dichotomy assumes two forms, that is, the nature of man and the nature of the world (which can also be perceived as Mother Nature). This is accentuated through the film’s color palette, which befittingly oscillates between two extremes depending on the imagery. It can be vibrant and lush to show the beauty of nature; it can also be muted, desaturated, or filtered to show the horrific side of nature. We experience this particularly in the lush, green immaculate landscapes and then the yellowish-orange desecrated battlegrounds triggered by the tumultuous inferno of war; the vibrant shot of the birth of the birds and then the muted photography that captures the death of the soldiers; and the bright and clear camera pause of an owl’s pensive stare and then a desaturated close up of a soldier’s frightening glare who is about to meet his death.

The film’s narrative attempts to makes sense of a universe that oscillates between extremes, which, in turn, transcends another intellectual inquiry that spectators are asked to pause and reflect: Is it a thin red line between good and evil? life and death? the sacred and profane? The themes are not only elusive in its representational musings of a tumultuous world but they are also ontologically and didactically instructive, as the diametrically opposed imagery begs the questions: How does man fit into this complex world that cannot be in accord? The dialogue between Private Witt and Captain Welsh underscores such a question where they cannot come into agreement about the world they live in. Private Witt claims to see a world of paradise, whereas Welsh claims to see the antithesis—a harsh world where man must protect himself.

The Thin Red Line’s complex and reflective narrative is emphasized through man’s need to question the meaning of life and man’s purpose, which is emphasized through the film’s religious conceits—also represented as cinematic metaphors punctuated by lyrical interludes and long takes. The ray of sunlight that makes its way through opulent, green foliage of the trees is a metaphorical representation of the divine who is present but remains inactive, passive, and oftentimes ineffectual in providing answers to the collective ponderings of the soldiers. Such uncertainty allows the narrative to drift into meditative moments that manifest in conversations within the self and/or with an unresponsive higher being. The narrative examines the metaphysical world of spirituality in conflict, that is, a soon-to-be desecrated Dante’s inferno in spite of it being a garden of paradise as well. Unlike Saving Private Ryan whose narrative sequentially and logically walks the spectators through a journey where hope and optimism are possible amid the tragic woes of war—the typical Spielberg-esque heroic narrative—The Thin Red Line offers a narrative pattern that consists of an internal spiritual inquiry, questioning, and prodding about man’s struggles to understand human existence amid the throes of evil, barbarism, and divine uncertainty. It is anti-heroic. It is elegiac.

The film’s inquiry-based, thought-provoking and stream of consciousness narrative is not only represented through the film’s imagery, it is also literally emphasized by the use of non-diegetic sound, that is, the use of voiceovers from the various characters. As a result, the narrative becomes more and more metacognitive. It consists of a linguistic complexity that is beseeching and often unanswerable especially from a higher being who, for the most part, is indifferent and unresponsive. Thus, the veracity of God’s existence is also a question unto itself. And to engage in such an inquiry is to become more cognizance of man’s purpose in life. For instance, is man’s purpose insignificant, profane, and/or trivial, especially in the midst of war? The unanswerable adds to the contemplative quality of the film—as the questions are self-reflexive and rhetorical. The soldier’s overlapping voiceovers, which also function as interior monologues, are not only personal revelations in their understanding of their own existence, it also reveals their own grappling with spirituality, beauty, loneliness, fear of death, existence, and life. The questions deal with the nature of man and the existence of God in a universe that is contradictory. As man sees both the beauty of nature and the ugliness in a beautiful world, how can he live in such illogicality?

Furthermore, the film opens with its most compelling question that is accompanied by another cinematic metaphor of the divine—again, the sunlight. In this particular shot, a voice asks “What is evil?” “Is nature cruel or kind, constructive or destructive?” and “What’s this war in the heart of nature?” Private Witt, whose narration threads the story, reflects on the natural depravity of man and his original sin, the promise of immortality from the divine, and the beauty of nature being threatened as a result of war. He ponders “I wonder how will it be when I die . . . I just hope I can meet it the same way [my mother] did with the same . . . calm.” Witt thinks about his fate while he recalls the death of his mother. This questioning is also accompanied by a picturesque image of Witt overlooking the vast sea. Witt hopes death is beautiful and tranquil (such as the image of the calm ocean). He also implicitly wonders if there is the promise of the divine who will provide this “calm” when death happens. Towards the end of the film when Witt does meet his death, we see images of Witt rejoicing in the nature but what does it mean? And to what extent is the divine’s involvement?

The Thin Red Line, as a war genre, unconventionally abandons plot, but rather focuses on the collective solidarity amongst the soldiers who are all inquisitive, soul seekers wandering in a world they are uncertain about; and because of this, the narrative itself is digressive and drifting, which contemplatively adds to its complex structure. As spectators, we attempt to find out who is speaking, but later as we become more adapted to the narrative, it becomes unimportant. We come to realize that the soldiers make up the everyman who searches for answers about humanity and good versus evil—regardless of our situation. The uncertainty and confusion are the natural processes of following the narrative. It chronicles the characters’ dreamlike and poetic musings, which disrupts the comprehensive flow of the narrative as it meanders and wanders—both literally and figuratively. For instance, Witt’s transcendental odyssey in his “world” of paradise and beauty illustrates this concept—geographically and spiritually. Known for going AWOL, Witt is seen swimming and interacting with the Melanesians and then later, exploring the vast beauty of the island. As spectators, we, too, are wandering in the thought process by exploring Witt’s world that is beautiful and spiritual in all of its transcendence. Because of this, we must come up with our own inferences on what is a more accurate depiction of the world. Is it a paradise? Or is it the antithesis of a paradise, as Welsh mentions at the beginning of the film? A refrain of the duality of concepts is explored.

Other forms of digressions that affect the narrative’s linearity are seen through lyrical and poetic flashbacks. As a result, the spectators temporarily lapse out of the dominant consciousness of the film and must “read” and complete the fragments in order to understand the film’s syntax. It is not linear in which the events are sequentially and logically fused together. We gradually travel through the mind of Bell’s yearning who finds solace in the thought of his wife. The images of his wife swinging on a swing and walking into the ocean are images of beauty and hope—but at the same time, they are also dreamlike and far removed from the reality of the present moment. As the image of his wife symbolizes idolatry and adoration, it provides him some comfort in his most lonesome and harrowing moments. But this is only short lived. The beauty and hope vanish when he receives a dear John letter from her, and he reverts back to the real world that is harrowing and lonely. This same pattern is repeated through another character, Witt. He reflects on his childhood on a farm, a place he has felt a part of. We see a flashback of Witt as a young boy under the splendid sunshine, and then we are taken back to the dreariness of reality, that is, a dark, crowded ship en route to an uncertain world. When Witt also reflects on the death of his mother, the scene flashes back to the images of the flowing curtain, a close up shot of the clock, the dying mom, and a camera pause of a young girl’s white dress. The images beg the question: Can this be reiterated in this adult world? Beauty, hope, and death are concepts that take on different meanings in a soldier’s new predicament and most importantly, they are constantly in disaccord.

As the final scene of the film consists of the men returning to the ship, we are reminded of the “everyman’s” struggles as he explores the world around him in its grandiose beauty, its unrelenting horridness, and its disharmony. Thus, the slow narrative of The Thin Red Line emphasizes this journey of inquisition and intuitiveness where there is no answer and there is no resolution. Through this, a more compelling war genre narrative is offered. And its cadence is philosophical, contemplative, and inquisitive, which enables spectators to examine the consciousness of existence not just in a war setting—but in life in general. It is a film that speaks to all.

Down by Law (1998): Elliptical Narrative (“gaps”) and Intertextuality in Cinema of the Absurd

Jim Jarmusch’s Down by Law exemplifies an avant-garde bluesy New Orleans Beatnik Noir (minus the jumpcuts) with a European flair due to its austere black and white photography, its slow narrative pace, and its concentration on abstract themes such as strangers in a strange land, the scoffing of the American Dream, the absurdity of life, and the descent into existential nothingness that make allusions to classical mythology and literary works. Such themes lend themselves to a narrative structure that is slow, static, and most importantly, engagingly elliptical. As spectators, we experience and become part of the ennui, stagnation and the ridiculousness of life. We do not operate as voyeurs but rather actual participants, trying to make sense of the world that is presented before them amid the gaps in the narrative cued by elliptical editing where shorts scenes operate as vignettes. This is where the allure of the film’s energy resides. Spectators are actually engaged in telling the story by filling in the narrative text, as opposed to the film telling the spectators the story—which most fast-paced films do.

My comparison to the theater of the absurd is also an important element in the film’s unique “fill in the blank” narrative. Often the film may seem disjointed, random, and fragmented at first as characters and setting are slowly introduced. Moreover, its comedic subtlety, deadpan humor, irony, and sardonic tone contribute to the film’s absurdist qualities—which, interestingly dates back to the silent film comedy. In fact, comedic silent films have been have been instrumental in providing the groundwork for the theater of the absurd—according to Martin Esslin’s Theater of the Absurd.[3] In particular, it “has a dreamlike strangeness of a world seen from outside with the uncomprehending eyes of one cut off from reality” and “has the quality of nightmare and displays a world in a constant, and wholly purposeless, movement” (Esslin 335). Similarly, the “holes” in Down by Law’s cinematic narrative, is clearly illustrated in silent moments where the two main characters are seen brooding, drifting, and unresponsive to a world. In the beginning of the film, scenes are loosely connected, and the static camera captures the existential stagnation, repetition, and the banality of life.

Furthermore, the narrative’s framework sets a very simple absurdist “stage.” For instance, it is divided into three parts that is reminiscent of a literary model’s dramatic structure—a lengthy, slow moving exposition that primarily focuses on character, a subdued climax, and an anticlimactic denouement. Each part consists of a series of short and static episodes punctuated by fade ins and fade outs and very few abrupt cuts. There is truly no definable rising action. Plot is virtually dismissed and character and theme become the dominant focus. In this case, only a few characters are the center of the attention where very little action takes place in their lives. They include Jack (John Lurie), a discontented and an ineffectual pimp, and Zack (Tom Waits), an indifferent and uncommunicative disc jockey. We do not know why they are disconnected with the people in their lives as well as the rest of the world. Yet we are given enough information about the absurdity of their lives, which is filled with comical irony. This is clearly seen as the narrative includes parallel “snapshots” of both characters brooding with no zest for life. In these scenes, a prostitute rebukes Jack for not understanding women and being a hopeless pimp, whereas Zack’s girlfriend (Ellen Barkin) chastises him for being indifferent. She finally gets an emotional reaction from him when she ends up disposing his most prized possession, his shoes. Ironically, an inanimate object is more important than his relationship with his girlfriend.

The focus on two characters where nothing really significant happens to them is also reminiscent of the absurdist play Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett. In most of Beckett’s work as well as other absurdist plays, plot does not exist. In Waiting for Godot, Estragon and Vladimir are two tramps on the roadside waiting for a man named Godot. Each act consists of the same endless wait: the men return to the same place to wait for Godot and no real action takes place in the men’s lives as Godot never shows up. Thus, Waiting for Godot “does not tell a story; it explores a static situation” (Esslin 46). Moreover, the expectation for Godot’s arrival as an opportunity to change the men’s stagnant situation is misleading because in an absurd world change is illusory. Estragon and Vladimir’s conscientious decision to continue to wait as opposed to being conscientious of the futility of such efforts make them absurd characters. And Vladimir and Estragon’s volition to wait perpetuates the cycle of stagnation—much like the lives of Zack and Jack who create their own existential nothingness.

As for Jack and Zack, they are allegorical characters who embody concepts such as ennui, displacement, disillusionment, and alienation—particularly in a strange land. They live in a world occupied by ineffectual authority figures and ruthless people who frame others for unknown reasons. This is symbolically emphasized through the film’s stark black and white photography that sketches out a lifeless, colorless world. Such snapshots are separated by fade ins and outs. There are few abrupt cuts. And when they are employed, it reveals the end result between two events—for instance, we first see a scuffle between Jack and Zack and then a cut to a static shot of the two men with their black eyes facing the camera. For Jack and Zack, life is drifting and is often unmoving, which is metaphorically underscored through shots captured by a stationary camera.

What brought them to this existential nothingness is never answered, and this is clearly emphasized through the narrative’s elliptical editing and fragmentation—as each scene consists of loosely articulated, brief vignettes. In fact, the reasons have very little relevance just like there is very little relevance in trying to find out why their acquaintances decided to frame them, which brought them to the New Orleans’ jail in the first place. By serendipity, they end up sharing the same jail cell where they mirror each other’s disconnected personality. In essence, they are each other’s double who suffers from the same dis-ease from life. Does it truly matter whether or not they are in jail or out of jail? According to both Zack and Jack, life is lifeless regardless. And, thus, we feel no true sympathy that they are in jail in spite of the fact that they were framed. Zack and Jack’s existential crisis, that is, the careless decision and choices that led them to their incarceration were done out of ennui. Therefore, they have created their own absurd existence. We see this more pronounced in their jail episodes. Zack spends the day tallying their days of incarceration and refusing to talk, which reinforces the stagnation of life. Jack becomes frustrated by Zack’s silence and tallying and picks a fight with him just to pass time. For Zack and Jack, freedom for the two men is only an illusion—much like change as in Waiting for Godot. Even through they wait for their freedom, will there be any changes in their lives once they get it? The lives they lived prior to their incarceration were not any different than the lives they are living while they are incarcerated. Thus, to achieve true freedom is only an illusion.

The symbiotic relationship with Zack and Jack becomes more pronounced when their new cellmate, Bob (Robert Bernigni) fails to distinguish the two men when he asks for “fire,” (i.e., a cigarette light). He erroneously addresses the men by the wrong name. Zack and Jack almost sound the same and the only distinguishing characteristic is their differing occupations—disc jockey and pimp—but they are not noticeably recognizable to Bob. Instead, what is obvious is their refusal to engage themselves in life. It is no wonder Bob cannot get the names right.

If there is any real movement in the pacing of the story, it begins with the entrance of Bob’s character. He is the source of comedic energy in the narrative. His clown-like characterization is reminiscent of the theater of the absurd. Mimes and clowns, much like the descendants of Antiquity Theater, are absurd characters because they are incapable of comprehending relationships that are considered easy to understand (Esslin 330). Because Bob is an Italian tourist, his English is very limited, and he is only equipped with a small, spiral notebook of his notes that consists of idiomatic English phrases. For the most part, he is uncertain how he can correctly use them in the appropriate emotional context. In spite of this, he is the one who carries most of the conversation ironically. When he first joins Zack and Jack in the jail cell, he makes the comment “not enough room to swing a cat.” Bob refuses to see the dire situation of being incarcerated. To be in a cramped jail cell is part of the punishment. This refusal to see the hopelessness becomes significant later on.

As Zack and Jack continue to be unresponsive to their new cellmate, Bob states “if looks can kill, then I am a dead man.” Bob hopes to break the silence as well as lessen the tension—even though being incarcerated causes tension and hostility. Although his expressions may sound clichéd and extreme, they are not completely out of place. Bob sheds light into their absurd situation. Zack and Jack are bitter and soulless creatures living an empty existence. The killer looks they give to Bob is to emphasize their disdain for making the most out of the situation in which Bob attempts to do (via friendly and idle conversation) in spite of such futile condition. In essence, his character serves as a foil to the despondent, beaten down, and bitter Zack and Jack who allow themselves to be defeated by life. But does it have to be this way? Bob thinks otherwise—and we learn about this later on as we are able to understand the existential implications behind his awkward English expressions.

Another example is when Bob decides to draw a window and asks Jack which is the appropriate expression (or rather the appropriate preposition) such as “I look at the window” or “I look out the window.” Jack responds with the former expression with a tone of resignation to accentuate his hopeless predicament. One major flaw of the clown is his inability to decipher the meanings of basic words, thereby, making them confused about word meanings (Esslin 330). However, this confusion is somewhat a motivation—at least for Bob—and it indirectly becomes instructive to both Zack and Jack when it comes to achieving hope. For instance, Bob learns to momentarily lift Zack and Jack’s hopelessness and muted condition by playing with words and expressions. When he engages the men in a card game, he gets them to chant “I screama, you screama, we screama ice creama.” The situation becomes so absurd that the rest of the inmates join them. Bob is able to break the repetition.

Unlike Zack and Jack, Bob has a passion for living and his drive to make the most out of his life is indicated by his need to escape the drudgeries of his incarceration. Bob’s reference to Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass exemplifies his zest for life and freedom. When he asks Jack whether or not he likes Walt Whitman, it is to offer a more optimistic look at life as Jack and Zack continue to brood over their existence. Leaves of Grass celebrates the self, American Democracy, and a universe that is alive and meaningful—all of which Bob wholeheartedly embraces. Ironically, he makes a startling revelation when he in a matter-of-fact manner tells Zack and Jack that he has killed a man due to a gambling game that has gone awry. Bob expresses no remorse for his murderous actions especially over something so trivial. Yet his appetite for life and his optimistic personality make him deserving of freedom as opposed to his counterparts—in spite of the fact he is a criminal for taking a man’s life and, therefore, rightfully belongs in jail. Unlike Jack and Zack, he is the Italian tourist with an American Dream. He refuses to create his own spiritual imprisonment (i.e., absurdity). For Bob, life will change and, therefore, freedom is not an illusion. Thus, the world he creates for himself is the antithesis of Zack and Jack’s world.

When the men decide to escape, the narrative allows the spectator to complete the sequence of the story even though there are some abrupt continuity cuts used to manipulate time. For instance, spectators do not know how they escape. One moment, a guard releases Jack and Zack for their routine walk where Bob is almost left behind but he manages to convince the guard to join Jack and Zack. The next moment, the scene cuts to their escape. The highly stylized scene captures dramatic shadows of the escapees projected onto the high arching walls of an underground tunnel. We do not see the dogs but we do hear them along with the distress alarms from the New Orleans jail. How they escape is a mystery, but as spectators, we can accept the mystery. Not only does this elliptical technique work for the low-budget filmmaking, it also creates a narrative that, again, lets the spectators do the thinking as they are left with continuity clues on how to piece the sequences together in order to pull the narrative together. At this point, we can infer that Bob’s master plan to escape has successfully outwitted the prison guards.

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The narrative movement becomes a little more fluid and faster as the men hasten to keep their distance from the New Orleans prison and attempt to find a place of refuge. First, the men make their way through a swampy region on a small row boat. And it is through this scene where the black and white cinematography becomes symbolically aestheticized. The harsh and oppressive black and white photography magnifies a world that is absurd, unknown, and sterile. The men appear vulnerable and miniscule as they are placed in a cinematic atmosphere that represents their inability to truly escape their spiritual imprisonment. The men navigate themselves though a swampy region filled with thin, leafless towering trees, which creates a very linear composition accentuated with vertical lines. Such photography metaphorically coincides with Zack and Jack existential dilemma. They represent their perpetual imprisonment that is reminiscent of their previous incarceration, which is represented figuratively and geographically. What exacerbates their predicament is the men’s inability to find a sense of direction amid their escape. Bob, who is an allegorical representation of humanity’s zest for life, cannot help them in their navigation, since he is afraid of the water and, therefore, cannot row the boat. Consequently, Zack and Jack must take matters in their own hands. However, as they continue to make their way through the swamp, they realize that they have been going in circles. Such repetition typifies the absurdist situation. This also indicates that the men still have no path or purpose even after they escape. We see this through the lengthy pan shot and depth of field shot of the infinite and unpromising swampy region—a nowhere land.

When Jack and Zack do find refuge, they end up in an abandoned shack that makes them feel cloistered and imprisoned. Jack states: “Man, this is too familiar.” Zack and Jack argue over who is in charge in regards to their destination even though they have no clue what direction to take. Bob, again, makes another indirect attempt to provide a sense of ontological enlightenment when he asks Zack if he has heard of the poem “The Road not Taken” by Robert Frost. Frost’s poem examines the significance behind making life decisions and the impact it has on a person later on in life. Because the poem is titled “The Road not Taken,” it suggests possible regret or sorrow for what-could-have-been by taking the “other” road (i.e., option). Yet, Zack scoffs at Bob’s endeavor to dwell on the significance of his life decisions, which, later foreshadows Zack and Jack’s predicament towards the end of the film where they have to make a decision on what path (literally) to take.

Furthermore, the futility as well as the absurdity of the situation where their quest continues to repeat itself without any hopes for progression is not only reminiscent of Waiting for Godot but also the mythological character Sisyphus whose punishment from the gods is to repeatedly carry a boulder up the hill only to meet the same boulder at the bottom to repeat the task again. In the case of both Jack and Zack, the futility of their existence will continue to prevail unless they revolt against the defeated existence that they have created for themselves. Thus, their punishment is self-inflicted as they continue to wallow in their tragic state.

Such absurdity is also carried over to the film’s literary allusions, which attempt to flesh out the narrative’s themes—but on a literal and figurative level. During their escape, Bob’s reference to Robert Frost’s poem “The Road not Taken” is also unequivocally reiterated in the final scene of the film. At this point, Bob has successfully reintegrated back into humanity when he falls in love and decides to stay with Nicoleta (Nicoleta Brasci), the owner of a remote home in the woods where the men happen to stumble upon. Bob lives the fairy tale happily-ever-after life with his new love and takes on a more celebratory existence. As for the other two men, their “freedom” still has dire implications. This is symbolically highlighted by the depth of field shot of the two roads diverged—a cinematic homage to Frost’s “The Road not Taken.” But the framing of the shot, although invitingly open, appears ominously bleak for the two men. Both roads look just “as fair,” “worn” and “really about the same” and, therefore neither road is “less traveled.” Regardless of what road they take and whether or not they regret it later on in life do not really matter—as both men are uncertain about their fate, their existence, and their motivation to live. After all, how can they gain true freedom when they cannot escape themselves? Such quandary is the pervading existential theme. Ironically, in their final farewell, they scoff at each other’s outfits, as one is accused of looking like a squirrel hunter and the other a garbage man. In spite of the ridiculous identities, they decided to switch clothes—but in actuality, it does not make a difference; they are, for the most part, identity-less and not any different than one another, much like the two roads that have no distinguishing characteristic.

As Zack and Jack make their way on their chosen road, the “curtain” closes with the final signature fade out and the same slow moving lounge scoring. The ending is anti-climactic, which makes the narrative itself more elliptical and truncated. This final shot of the two men walking is not remotely picturesque. It stains our conscious. It frustrates us. We want to resolve it. But there is no resolution. This is what makes the narrative, in all of its sluggishness and intellectual conundrums, effectively and ironically melodramatic as it leaves the spectators with the most challenging task ever, that is, to fill the biggest gap.

L’Avventura (1960): Textual Minimalism through Slow Narrative

I remember my first screening of Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’Avventura and I was immediately seduced by the film’s unequivocal slow narrative. Its cinematic language was so aesthetically expressive that it had an intriguing lure in spite of its minimalistic form, which will be discussed later. What makes L’Avventura compelling is the very reason many critics have criticized it for, that is, its uneventful and monotonous storytelling. Its expressive and visually provocative vocabulary aimlessly meanders, which, in turn, makes the screening experience obscure and cumbersome—especially when it comes to interpreting the film’s language. As a result, the film has its own unique narrative in its examination of existential angst, the vapidity and verisimilitude of life, and the sterility of an environment. L’Avventura creates a cinematic universe that is compellingly thought provoking in its depiction of human relationships juxtaposed with a hostile, cold, and sometimes indifferent environment. And what belies the film’s minimalistic style is something that is thematically communicative, especially in its revealing patterns in composition and long takes, the interpretive quality of the textual images, and stylistic depiction of existential themes and emotional paralysis—all of which are captured through the film’s slow narrative.

As plot is deemphasized, character again takes precedence, which sets the pace for the film’s slow rhythm—as ontological themes become more pronounced. Claudia (Monica Vitti) is another anti-hero who is disturbed by the sudden disappearance of her friend, Anna (Lea Massari), after a boating adventure in the turbulent Mediterranean seas. Claudia’s search for Anna becomes both a physical and existential odyssey in understanding her place in a world where she later comes to realize that she is displaced as well as disconnected. Thus, the narrative moves in a cautionary, directionless but fluid fashion as it follows Claudia’s existential plight that consists of her own need for self-actualization. Although her personal odyssey often drifts, she endeavors to make sense about her placement in the world, which coincides with an inarticulate and fragmented narrative. Thus, the film centers on how Claudia, unlike the spiritually dying humanity that surrounds her, attempts to unveil, reveal, and discover who she is while attempting to establish genuine connections with herself, the people, and the world around her. In addition to her existential plight, the world does not provide absolute answers—as it is oppressively indifferent and unyielding.

The slow moving narration primarily focuses on character (i.e., Claudia) but in a very unorthodox manner. Claudia’s character is fleshed out not by simply her action, thoughts, and dialogue but how she is “placed” (or rather displaced) literally and figuratively in a universe that is, in its own cinematic voice, expressively antagonistic and empty. Thus, to understand Claudia’s ontological angst is to understand her oscillation between being an outsider and a native in two worlds—particularly amongst her friends and the environment, which is barren and antagonistic. This is clearly depicted in scenes that are not fully fleshed out or explained, especially when Claudia drifts into oblivion. It is up to the spectators to “complete” the scenes. In essence, the film operates “ from impressions and suggestions. A meaning is unproven, and intuition is needed to confirm that the realization of what is suggested will in fact have a purpose. And it is skeptical in that it makes no claims to know the unknowable. Intuition can only go so far” (Nowell-Smith 47). For instance, early in the film, before Anna disappears, Claudia persuades Anna to meet her lover Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti) only to be shut out by the two lovers moments later. As Claudia catches a glimpse of Sandro and Anna about to make love in an apartment window, the camera captures a low angle shot of Claudia standing in front of the building in the reverse shot. The window’s willowy curtains frame Claudia where she is left in oblivion. Such a scene is also repeated when one of her friends, Gulia (Dominique Blanchar), tells her to leave the room while she allows herself to be seduced by a young artist in hopes to spite her lover. Even though Claudia was invited to witness their sordid affair, Claudia later becomes the uninvited guest. In consequence, the door shuts in front of her. Towards the end of the scene, we are left with a shot of her back facing the camera.

In both scenes there is no solid explanation to why she is suddenly dismissed, but it does emphasize her distance with the people around her and the type of relationship she has with her friends, that is, an outsider observing her friends in their most intimate moments. She is also being used as a lover substitute (especially for Sandro) or a diversion for her friends who are in empty relationships. Because of this, she is haphazardly placed in scenes where she is often unwelcomed and hence displaced.

Human alienation, disconnectedness, and spiritual anguish are recurring themes throughout the film and are clearly underscored through the way the camera vary between close ups and distant shots especially between two people. In Claudia’s case, she is not a bourgeois unlike her friends, but she happens to mingle among those who are decadent and/or self-indulgent. Therefore, she is part of this world but not in totality—as she is cognizant of her own spiritual dis-ease. Amongst her friends, distance and proximity are constantly at odds. For instance, conversations between friends—not only between Claudia and her friends but also between people in general—are often random, kept to a minimum, or fragmented. Couples are bickering or contending with some emotional conflict; in most cases, they are emotionally unattached. Often, they attempt to find solace in empty affairs or just meaningless sex. There is a sense of fatalism behind any type of connection. In Claudia’s case, although devastated by Anna’s disappearance in the beginning, she begins to doubt her own altruistic will to find her, especially when she falls in love with Anna’s lover, Sandro, amid their search for Anna. As a result, her relationship with Sandro is strained. She wants to love him but finds it perverse at the same time. She tells Sandro that she does not really know him. When she asks Sandro to tell her he loves her, he cannot. Again Claudia attempts to make sense of her placement with her friends and most importantly, with her lover. In return, Sandro even tells her “I’ve never met a woman like you who needs to see everything clearly.” In essence, her relationships are incomplete if she cannot see things clearly. And, unfortunately, this is what humanity has resorted to.

Claudia’s decayed fragmented and deteriorated connections coincides with the oppressive environment, which is narrated through the elaborate, yet striking photographs of landscape, closed-form composition, and various mise en scènes—which make up the vocabulary of the narrative. Locales are carefully depicted as hostile and menacing. For instance, during the boat ride, their leisure adventure is unwelcoming and threatening. The raging sea, the gray skies, the whipping wind, and the sharp, serrated rocky cliffs are clearly emphasized through isolated panoramic shots. Such composition appears abstractly picturesque. As the film is befittingly shot in black and white, the dark, rocky cliffs and the glow of the silvery, stormy sky act appear as counterbalancing images. It also reveals the clashing of the natural world; the world can be stunning and also oppressive. Moreover, dialogue is overshadowed by the sound of nature, which mainly consists of the roar of an impending storm and the turbulent waves. The world is unyielding and oppressive. Humanity appears insignificant and vulnerable to the intimidating environment. After all, humanity is spiritually devoid and such an atmosphere corresponds with the spiritually dying humanity.

The juxtaposition of the dead world and the deteriorating humanity are reiterated when Sandro and Claudia travel to Noto after receiving a tip from a squabbling young couple who works in a pharmacy. The locale is dreary—as Claudia puts it. The camera pans over the cold and depressing and austere scene. This deserted town appears like a mausoleum, which consists of unadorned simple buildings blocks—geometric, symmetrical, simple, and modern[4]. The scene is expressively direct but minimally so. The locale represents a hollow, empty, and barren world and the fatalism of humanity. It is figuratively and literally lifeless—much like their futile search for Anna and Claudia’s search for existential meaning, which is accentuated through the flat sound of Claudia’s footstep as she walks around the buildings. Claudia functions as an insignificant object placed in a melancholy exhibition of the environment. Her placement renders a spiritual deterioration and more specifically, a spiritual death.

Mise en scène coincides with the psychological prodding of the narrative. It is expressionistic where it prompts spectators to understand how humanity is compared to the world that surrounds them. For instance, in Lisca Bianca—the small island where Anna suddenly disappears—characters are intentionally scattered on top of the rocky cliffs and distant from each other. In effect, they appear insignificant and miniscule amongst the ominous grandiosity of the cliffs. Again, the closed form composition examines humanity’s insignificant nature in a world whose sterility acts mysterious as well as treacherous. In the foreground are the people looking for Anna. They appear to be the most important—as they are trying to search and reconnect with the person who has disappeared. The same concept is also reiterated in another scene where Sandro and Claudia make love in the midst of a desolate field after visiting Noto. The lovers are on the foreground, falling off the frame. A train reverberates in the background as it makes its way through the deserted plains. The mise en scène functions like a painting that may appear abstract on the surface due to its minimalistic expression, but in actuality, it is an explicit representation of a lifeless and fruitless world that houses a deteriorating humanity. Sandro and Claudia are fatalistic lovers enveloped in an unpromising universe of emptiness and indifference.

The narrative’s contemplative rhythm is captured through the film’s use of provocative, meticulous composition, framing, and imagery—again, a cinematic language that refuses to equivocate. In essence, the narrative consists of a conscientious photography. Characters are framed in archways, corridors, as if they are crossing the thresholds to another world, that is, a world of trivialities, nothingness, and insignificance. Wide compositions, especially when negative space places characters on opposite ends of the frame, reveal the spiritual and physical distance between people. Again, the use of a character’s anatomy, more specifically, the back, are carefully positioned. For instance, backs are either used to block another character (as a gesture of shame or uncommunicativeness), to dominate space within a tight composition or to face the camera as an expression of hostility and rejection. They function as walls and barriers amid moments of communication. For instance, there are scenes where Claudia’s back faces the camera numerous times. We see this more specifically when she faces her back towards Sandro.

In addition, the images of fallen monuments correspond to the theme of a dying humanity. Because the images are so conscientious, it forces spectators to be mindful and purposeful in interpreting what is happening thematically as dialogue and scenes are often truncated or fragmented. Depth of field shots of flat regions capture old, run-down condos juxtaposed with newly condos. It appears as if the world is in transition between the antiquated and the modern world but incapable of arriving at some sort of balance or harmony. There is only juxtaposition and polarization. In plazas, facades of buildings appear near ruin and alongside these buildings are displays of modern sculpture. The images oscillate between the emphatic and the evasive (abstract). Such images beg the question: Will the world ever materialize into something significant as is it appears to be in the midst of transition? If so, what is it? Such uncertainty conveys a brooding message. In this case, we can only assume that the exteriority of the environment mirrors the interiority of humanity; it examines humanity’s transition into a world of indifference, spiritless, and disconnectedness. Furthermore, depth of field of shots capture winding, infinite roads that lead to nowhere much like Claudia’s search for Anna as well as herself. The world appears withdrawn and remote, as Sandro and Claudia drive through the barren landscapes. Claudia, although cognizant of her tormented soul, continues to feeds into this soulless world.

The slow moving photography and long takes accentuates the elongated syntax and retards the film’s energy. Claudia’s existential wanderings coincide with the slow movements of the camera that makes her journey slow, careful and disconcerting. Spectators experience the uneventful, tedious scenes of Claudia walking through long corridors, making her way through winding stairs and passing through large, spacious rooms. Again, space suggests elapsing of time and emptiness. As for the long takes, which may appear unnecessary at first, they actually capture the verisimilitude and mundaneness of life. Two notable scenes illustrate such a concept. The first takes place in Noto where we see Claudia waiting for Sandro to come back from a hotel where Anna might have been staying. Claudia is anxious and she meanders aimlessly. She moves from one end of the plaza to another. The camera continues to track left and right and pan up and down. From this, we noticed she is the only woman in the plaza as men surround her and treat her like an alluring spectacle. Impulsively, she walks into a paint store and randomly requests for blue paint when the storeowner approaches her. We feel her displacement as well as her anxiety.

The second scene takes place in a hotel, which consists of another search—in this case, Claudia’s search for Sandro who did not return from his hotel room after attending an evening gala. Like Claudia, we, too are apprehensive in this this final search. We know it might not be a comforting discovery. Such apprehensiveness is foreshadowed by Claudia’s exhausting odyssey throughout the hotel, as she makes her way through the elongated and spacious corridors of the hotel. Again, there is the implication of time passing as well as emptiness, distance, abandonment, and isolation. The search ends with her discovery of Sandro making love to another woman. Claudia is devastated and she runs outside of the hotel and into a spacious veranda. We see her at a distant shot on an open lot with the ocean in the background. Sandro sees her, sits down on the bench, and cries. When she finally approaches him, Claudia towers over him and touches him. Such gesture can perhaps be interpreted as forgiveness. But there is no affirmation of it since the narrative comes to this anticlimactic end.

Thus, we do not find Anna. Claudia does not truly reconcile or reconnect with herself or with the world around her. Her adventure is more of an existential resignation. In short, there is no resolution. Thus, to title the film L’Avventura is an understatement. On the surface level, nothing appears concrete or purposeful. It is trifling but as the same time, it is thematically suggestive. When it is an adventure, it is positively connoted as being epiphanous; it is exciting and life changing. But what we experience as spectators is something brooding and fatalistic—as if there is no escape or a reprieve from the harsh and indifferent world it has seduced us in. And such emotionally evocative experience is clearly achieved through a simplified narrative with a slowness that is thematically purposeful and intentional.

Created: June 27, 2014

Notes:

[1] Lost in Translation (2003) also falls into this slow and drifting narrative pattern.

[2] The Thin Red Line and Down by Law are films that are studied in my Cinema Studies course. Both films received polarized reviews from students—the former being long, winded and very “slow” and the latter being too obscure (thematically) and lethargic in its storytelling. For students who enjoyed both films found the narrative refreshing, and thought-provoking. More specifically, for Down by Law, many perceived it as amusingly strange and avant-garde.

[3] Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton were among the examples.

[4] The actual locale is Santa Panagia, near Catania in Sicily. The architecture exemplifies fascist Mezzogiorno architecture (also known as modernist architecture) during the reign of Mussolini.

Bibliography

Bordwell, David. Narration in the Fiction Film. Madison: University of Wisconson Press, 1985.

Chion, Michel. BFI Film Classics: The Thin Red Line. London: Palgrave McMillan, 2014.

Esslin, Martin. Theater of the Absurd. 3rd ed. New York: Vintage Books, 2001.

Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey. BFI Film Classics: L’Avventura. London: British Film Institute, 2002.