Friday, 24 December 2010

BCG jabs in cinemas, or something that cinema and theatre have in common

It is Christmas Eve and I have flu. Fortunately, it is not as bad as some of the more tragic cases reported in the news but it is bloody there. My main symptoms are: constantly being the wrong temperature; coughing, sniffing and sneezing in a way that makes me insufferable; and an inability to listen to any music with distorted guitars (Sundowner it is, then). However, it also means that I am actually watching and reading the things that I brought back to my Mum's house.

Which is to say that I have read 50-odd pages of Jonathan Rosenbaum's 'Moving Places: A Life at the Movies' before 9am today. Much of it is familiar, I read a lot of it when writing my PhD (I think it was at the writing stage, rather than researching, as I came across it far too late to admit) although in that capacity you tend to, in the words of my supervisor, 'gut books' rather than properly read them. Reading Rosenbaum here is a testing pleasure: his sensibility is romantic and his experiences are fascinating, although I sometimes feel that the prose style can be a little laboured (more so, it should be added, in 1980 rather than today).

This passage struck me this morning:

Most people would say that film is undergoing a profound transformation. Maybe it is, but where do you draw the line between profound transformation and extinction? What appears to be the survival of movies, at least in this part of the world, is an illusion created by advertising, "distinguished critics" whom you can read in magazines sold in supermarkets enacting their weekly rounds of slavery, and a few lonely theatres in shopping malls that already seem haunted on the day they open - places to buy expensive buttered popcorn whose empty tublike containers rattle under the seats afterward. When the Salk polio vaccine was invented in 1953, shots were administered in children at the Princess. And when Rosenbaum Theatres was sold in 1960, one of the first steps taken by Martin Theatres - apart from raising the ticket prices (an issue on which Bo had refused to budge) and firing most of the employees (including nearly all the black cleaning ladies, who used to come in every morning) - was to remove all the pay phones from the lobbies. No wonder that the lobby at the Shoals today feels neither public nor private. (Jonathan Rosenabum, 'Moving Places', Second edition Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995 [first published 1980], p. 43).
It can be easy to forget - amongst all the DVDs, home cinema, Sky Plus, 3D TV (we went to my Aunt's house yesterday, where they have just purchased a 3D TV. I think I annoyed them by finding the idea that they may sit on the sofa wearing 3D glasses hilarious) - that cinema was the most public of arts. The cinema could screen a film around which a community would orientate itself - a common point of discussion, a shared maker of meaning. As Rosenbaum also points out above, it also fulfilled civic duties that we now perhaps see as fulfilled by a church hall (although that also seems very 1980s) or...or what? I don't know. Film doesn't seem to serve that function any more - or if it does it is for very different types of community (cue the literature about 21st century global cinephilia, Internet and film festivals etc...no time here, I'm sure that Film Studies for Free can hook you up). It is this quality of cinema that led me to write about what I did for my PhD, and to try and give it the polemical quality that I hope it did.


Luc Moullet's 'Les sieges de l'Alcazar'
(slightly irrelevant, but hilarious portrait of cinema as a shared, if exclusive, culture).

And it is a love of this property that, ultimately, is why I have found myself describing myself as a theatre artist - happily, reluctantly, and with some embarrassment at the potential reaction from 'real theatre artists'. The nature of theatre - a collection of people, an audience, sharing a collective experience - satisfies that desire for people to come together and play an active role in their community, in their society and in their world. This is why, ultimately, I don't see the leap (although it's not a leap, it's more a cautious straddle, one foot on each island hoping I don't fall in) from cinema to theatre as that great, as that radical. In casual discussion, people seem to find this move incomprehensible, as if I have just moved the knight piece in a straight line. Of course, the idea that you have your medium and that's that is outdated and nonsensical, but even so I just don't see the two art forms - cinema and theatre - as all that different. They're all about public experiences, and if cinema is currently in a place where it isn't necessarily providing that (although, it is in some circles, circles that I wish to seek out) then I am drawn to theatre (which, of course, is also in some quarters doing its best not to provide that). (And it has had the happy side effect of discovering a great interest in and admiration for actors and acting).

I fear I have taken a different route to end up in a similar, but less rich and complex, place to Chris Goode when he articulated some thoughts about running a theatre a couple of months ago. Anyway, if you didn't read it before, you really ought so treat yourself this Christmas.

As a final P.S, please go and look at my friend Michael Lightborne's Kickstarter project. It's called 'Veils'. I saw some of Michael's work earlier this year in Shoreditch and it was great. He also did some video and sound design for me - going far above and beyond what I had hoped for - when I directed Tape last year.





Friday, 17 December 2010

Dancing on the ceiling.

On Wednesday evening, I watched Eric Rohmer's 'Pauline at the Beach' (1983) in my flat. I have (very slowly) been watching all of the Comedies and Proverbs, an endeavour that was inspired by Rohmer's death earlier this year.

'Pauline' is the film that has galvanised me to finish the series. Rohmer's framing and arrangement of bodies is masterfully precise - actors will make little movements, slightly adjust their spatial relationship with other actors, in a way that helps us to understand their mental and emotional relationships with each other. He is not flashy, he is restrained in his use of camera movement and editing, so that when he slowly zooms in to close-up of Pauline here, the moment she realises that of course Henri has been lying, it is like the explosion of a firework.























This is all besides the point (as far as anything this beautiful is ever beside the point), for my purpose in writing is to share some very particular moments. There's a scene, about half-way through the film, when Pauline meets Sylvain on the beach. They have briefly conversed before, and there's an evident instant teenage crush between the two of them. Henri, the mischievous and irresponsible older boyfriend of Pauline's older cousin, approaches the two youngsters on the beach and asks them if they want to come to his beachside house to listen to a record. They do. The clip starts at 06:44






There is such depth of feeling visible in the dance. It is a codified set of actions that permits the expression of desire - something that is particularly poignant for these youngsters who are still feeling their way through such expressions.

I was also struck by the environment in which the dance takes place. Clearly, Henri is an irresponsible cad who believes firmly in immediate pleasures without thought to the consequences (and his quite hilarious exit in this scene suggests - he also thinks that everyone else would be happier if they lived their lives according to these values). Yet the domestic space he keeps is in its own way quite wonderful, people come, people go, they watch television, they eat dinner, they have sex. This dance is one action that primarily defines the space as liberated. He welcomes all - it is a space where people can (and do) get emotionally hurt but it is also a free space which potentially provides physical safety and joy. It is, after all, a space where these teenagers are allowed to explore and discover their emotions.

This led me to investigate and collect other moments of two characters slow-dancing in spaces not primarily intended for dancing. What can be expressed in the dance? How does this change the definition of the space?

Thanks to some thought, some Twitter and Facebook friends (thanks to @squeezegutalley, @beescope, @solittleofuleft, Lauren, Kayleigh and Chris), I have collected some comparable moments for you:


(Deadwood series 1, episode 12: 'Sold Under Sin' 2004, dir. Davis Guggenheim, with Brad Dourif, Geri Jewell, Ian McShane & Paula Malcomson)


[clip starts at 06:40]
(Before Sunrise, 1994, dir. Richard Linklater, with Julie Delpy & Ethan Hawke)


(Beautiful Thing, 1996, dir. Hettie Macdonald, with Scott Neal and Glenn Berry)


(The Notebook, 2004, dir. Nick Cassavetes, with Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams)


(Witness, 1985, dir. Peter Weir, with Kelly McGillis and Harrison Ford)


(Edward II, 1991, dir. Derek Jarman, with Steven Waddington and Andrew Tiernan)


(It's A Wonderful Life, 1946, dir. Frank Capra with James Stewart and Donna Reed)
(They never quite dance in this one, but the structure and the ideas are similar to the others. And, hell, it's almost Christmas.)

Also suggested were: Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova in Once (which I couldn't find the clip for), Matt LeBlanc and Mike Hagerty in Friends: The One with the Ballroom Dancing.. (which I couldn't embed the clip, although typically Friends emptied the motif of emotional feeling), and Patrick Swayze and Kelly Lynch in Road House (which again I couldn't find a clip for, although Monte Pindik described it as the best dance into crazy sex scene ever).

There are two ideas that struck me when watching these clips: the dance as a last-gasp effort to hold on to something more important than circumstance (which is visible in some but not others), and the transformation of public space into private space. By dancing in these unusual spaces - dancing, as we have seen, provides a space for people to express very private and very deeply felt emotions - the dancers create a space and a moment of privacy in otherwise public spaces. Some of the clips emphasise the public watching (to illustrate the discordance between private/public) and others prefer to formally emphasise the constructed privacy of the space (in which case we need to remind ourselves of where they are). In every case, the dancing emphasise the quality of the public space - often underlined by music, which either has a diegetic source (record player, piano, harpsichord) giving a sense of magic to the space or is given by the film, again to emphasise the beauty and the privacy within this public space.

Through this little gesture, the dancers reclaim the public space for themselves and improve it for everybody. It provides a space where our emotions, thoughts and feelings towards one another can be expressed within a codified set of actions (the dance). Being a dance, requiring two people, it allows those sensations to be shared. Even if we choose not to dance, it gives us the opportunity to recognise that there are people who feel and desire like us. This sensation finds its analogue in the music, again something beautiful that improves the everyday life of everybody (and not just the dancers). It is a tiny intervention into the public realm but one that would have benefit for everybody if it just happened more often.