I feel I may face great opposition in bringing this question up, but does anyone else feel that Snead’s argument is somehow lacking in justification of the idea that King Kong is the representation of, mainly, the black man and the entire movie a political message supporting colonization and the suppression of minorities?
While I feel Snead makes great observations about how the film could be interpreted if this basic argument were proven, I feel the basic assumption is never truly justified.
On page 17, he makes some convincing arguments about the parallels between Denham’s venture and the African slave trade, but if even if we go along with this comparison, I’m not sure how Snead can then make the argument that the film is endorsing this concept. The consequences of Denham’s removal of the beast from his natural habitat into “civilization” are not positive, I think most would agree; even if the beast is killed in the end, I wasn’t left with a feeling of endorsement of Denham’s venture.
In fact, I wasn’t left with much sympathy or sense of identification with Denham either; perhaps it is because I am from a different time and background than the majority of the intended audience at the time of the release. All connections to colonization and the idea that we have the “right” to intrude and take things or even living beings are tied to Denham, who is not considered the hero of the story, and does not seem to be the one the audience identifies with; isn’t Jack the typical Hollywood hero?
Don’t get me wrong, I feel like the article brings up many interesting points and definitely makes me reconsider the way I interpreted the film; I think I consider it an example of the point that our lecturer last class brought up, which I thought was very important: Sometimes these writings are more about inspiring discussion than proclaiming ultimate truth.
02 October 2008
Passive Viewing vs. Critical Audiences
When I first read Mulvey's article discussing the role of the woman in classic cinema as an object to be gazed upon and the role of the man as a narcissistic and relatable image, I was rather outraged by the entire concept. I felt the article as a whole was sexist and painted an incomplete picture of cinema, overlooking its specific relevance to vintage Hollywood in an attempt to keep my ideal worldview intact. If there was any such blatant sexism embodied in movies, I thought, it certainly wasn't the fault of the audience - it was merely the error of the director.
In Monday's lecture, when we discussed the psychoanalytic background of the article and related it to Freud and Lacan's theories, my view of it was transformed; after we watched Rear Window and King Kong that night, my opinion was radically shifted to one entirely in agreement with Mulvey. There was just one remaining idea that I refused to let go of, however, and that was the notion that the blame lay entirely with the director, not with the passive audience. After all, Mulvey seems indifferent as to who perpetuates the scopophilia and ego libido that embodies itself within the frame of sexism within classic cinema; she simply identifies it and deconstructs it.
It took Snead's analysis of King Kong, then, to fully bring me over to the other side. Certainly, the makers of King Kong were far from blameless. The movie (and Mr. Denham himself, one of our relatable images) actively perpetuates racist and sexist stereotypes that almost certainly worked against social progress. The question, however, is how much of that was the fault of the director and how much of that was the error of the viewer. Snead holds nothing back when he blames the audience for accepting King Kong even more than those who created it, saying that the film "reveals one's society to itself," explaining that "King Kong dies for everyone's sins," and ultimately concluding that "the general guilt inheres in the general gaze" (27).
What Snead is saying can be tied back to the Benjamin reading about the establishment of film as an art form. As a consequence of the reproducibility of art, he argued, audiences could actively critique films instead of being passive viewers. Benjamin used this argument in a political sense and tied it to the downfall of fascism, but here it can be applied to Snead's argument. When we as an audience watch King Kong, our natural response is to let our base desire for spectacle overtake our ability to think for ourselves as a critical audience. Instead of processing and thinking for ourselves, we instead regress to the stage of passive viewing. We let the reprehensible undertones of such a movie take us over subconsciously and find ourselves in Denham. It's certainly depressing, but I find it to be a particularly fascinating warning of the perils of passivity.
In Monday's lecture, when we discussed the psychoanalytic background of the article and related it to Freud and Lacan's theories, my view of it was transformed; after we watched Rear Window and King Kong that night, my opinion was radically shifted to one entirely in agreement with Mulvey. There was just one remaining idea that I refused to let go of, however, and that was the notion that the blame lay entirely with the director, not with the passive audience. After all, Mulvey seems indifferent as to who perpetuates the scopophilia and ego libido that embodies itself within the frame of sexism within classic cinema; she simply identifies it and deconstructs it.
It took Snead's analysis of King Kong, then, to fully bring me over to the other side. Certainly, the makers of King Kong were far from blameless. The movie (and Mr. Denham himself, one of our relatable images) actively perpetuates racist and sexist stereotypes that almost certainly worked against social progress. The question, however, is how much of that was the fault of the director and how much of that was the error of the viewer. Snead holds nothing back when he blames the audience for accepting King Kong even more than those who created it, saying that the film "reveals one's society to itself," explaining that "King Kong dies for everyone's sins," and ultimately concluding that "the general guilt inheres in the general gaze" (27).
What Snead is saying can be tied back to the Benjamin reading about the establishment of film as an art form. As a consequence of the reproducibility of art, he argued, audiences could actively critique films instead of being passive viewers. Benjamin used this argument in a political sense and tied it to the downfall of fascism, but here it can be applied to Snead's argument. When we as an audience watch King Kong, our natural response is to let our base desire for spectacle overtake our ability to think for ourselves as a critical audience. Instead of processing and thinking for ourselves, we instead regress to the stage of passive viewing. We let the reprehensible undertones of such a movie take us over subconsciously and find ourselves in Denham. It's certainly depressing, but I find it to be a particularly fascinating warning of the perils of passivity.
The idea of women as objects to be looked at seemed especially interesting to me within King Kong. Mulvey claims that analysis of pleasure is the road to its destruction, but King Kong both analyzes and exploits women as objects to be gazed at. Mr. Denham expresses his distaste at the fact that audiences desire women in their films to "have something to look at." Seeing that women typically become reduced to this singular purpose in film Denham desires to creat films without women in them, so as not to distract from the plot. At the same time that Denham bemoans this aspect of the cinematic world, Fay Ray, as Ann Darrow, does everything she can to flaunt her body for the cinematic audience of King Kong. At one particular moment in the film when this effort was particularly obvious many people in the class, including myself, laughed. By capitalizing on the exact aspect of film that the filmmaker within the film decries, King Kong presents an interesting contradiction. It both analyzes cinematic pleasure and attempts to create it. This is not to say that King Kong is or was in any way radical or comitted to the idea of destroying cinematic pleasure, merely that it points out one of it's own tools: that of the female form as a pleasure object. Was it still possible for audience members to enjoy looking at Fay Ray when it was clear that she represented exactly what Denham despised in film? I imagine that it probably was. This coexistence of pleasure and analysis bring up an interesting question. Does analysis mecessarily destroy pleasure? and if so, at what point?
Mulvey's argument and YouTube
What is the effect of looking at Mulvey's argument through the lenses of YouTube and the widespread availability of MiniDV cameras? Technological advances have affected the nature of the spectator as increasingly the spectator becomes both a spectator of videos and an active maker of videos. Does this change facilitate identification or distance the spectator-creator?
In his manifesto "The Council of Three" Kino Vertov revels in the potential of the camera to evoke change and educate the masses. He views the camera as a mechanism for improving upon and extending the eye with the result being a new being, which more than capturing reality, improves upon reality. "The camera 'carries' the film viewer's eyes from arms to legs, from legs to eyes and so on, in the most advantageous sequence...I am kino-eye, I am a mechanical eye...I decipher in a new way a world unknown to you" (52, Cousins, et al.). Though writing in the 1920's, Vertov's manifesto holds new significance today as the camera becomes the extension of not just the eyes of professional filmmakers, but amateurs and dilettantes. Mulvey argues that there are three looks: the look of the camera/cinema apparatus, look of the spectator, and look of the characters on screen; and that the latter subordinates the former and thus allows the spectator to passively identify with the characters and to take pleasure in the viewing process. As the spectator becomes spectator-maker, the first two looks continue to be subordinated, but in a different way: not solely by the third look as Mulvey argues, but also by the camera becoming the extension of the everyman. In this way, the look of the camera/cinema apparatus is less important since it is so familiar as to go unnoticed. Similarly, the spectator's awareness of his spectatorship becomes irrelevant since it is commonplace and the difference between spectator and maker diminishes. One could use the above argument to say that the growth of YouTube facilitates identification by aiding in the break down of the first two looks defined by Mulvey; however, one can find an equally strong argument in favor of YouTube having a distancing effect.
YouTube can be said to have a distancing effect by breaking down the invisibility of the first two looks. It heightens the look of the apparatus as the spectator-maker is increasingly aware of the process of filmmaking and can thus view films with a more critical eye and conscious, judgmental lens. Similarly it heightens the look of the spectator and awareness of spectatorship by creating a community of viewers. YouTube clips are shared through online social-networking sites, through emails, etc... However, a similar community was created by the cinema. I would argue that the YouTube community differs in the immediacy of response and awareness of response: view counts on YouTube's website, response videos, and spoofs. Consequently, the first two looks that Mulvey argues are subordinated by the third look become exaggerated so that the audience is unable to subordinate them to the the third look of the character on screen, disallowing identification.
However, YouTube is not wildly successful because it eliminates the pleasure experienced in film-viewing. Indeed it has heightened the ability to be seen, to show off oneself and to observe others. YouTube provides an unprecedented outlet for scopophilia as defined by Mulvey's article. However, it seems here to function on a much more personal level as the viewer does not identify with glamorous Hollywood star; it is simply the basic pleasure in looking. So while YouTube does not fit precisely into the looks and the interrelations of the looks as defined by Mulvey, one finds that the basic premises for the pleasure derived in both classic cinema and YouTube stem from the same base.
Three Looks: If Only it Were That Simple
A concept central to several of this week's readings, the idea of "three looks" in cinema has become an accepted tenet of modern media studies. Yet as the related screenings show in two dramatically different ways, the structure of cinema-audience relationships is rarely that simple: the dynamics of repression associated with the first two looks have especially in recent years been manipulated in ways that build upon these complexities, dramatically altering the central assumptions of film as spectacle. The two films, Rear Window and King Kong, approach the idea of the look in ways that are diametrically opposed, one building upon and strengthening the accepted hierarchy of sight while the other cuts out its foundation. Yet both approach the idea of looking from a unique perspective that undermines the universality of the audience response to film.
First, there is King Kong, a film in which the making of film is a central aspect. It would seem as if this explicit portrayal of the process would serve as a distancing factor, reminding the audience at every turn that what they are experiencing was created for their amusement by similar means, and yet the opposite becomes true: rather than force the viewer to an informed distance, the film within a film creates an interior layer of identification and looking that draws the audience deeper into the narrative. The catalyst by which this is accomplished is certainly Anne, an admitted "pretty face" for the movie audience as well, of course, as the audience of King Kong itself. The role she plays within Denham's film is identical to that which she plays for us on the silver screen, and in this a natural association between the viewer and Denham's camera, both looking with greedy eyes, falls into place as if naturally. The fictional camera merely becomes another set of eyes through which we regard these filmed images, in effect investing us in the film on a deeper level than if merely watching from outside the screen. The appearance of the camera on screen does not counteract the denial of the first look, that of the real camera that captures Denham as he films; rather, it helps us to, through identification, forget that this other, more tangible camera exists behind the scenes, creating these images for our reception. It doubles down on the original structure, creating a microcosm of the audience's enthrallment within the film itself.
Hitchcock's Rear Window, in contrast, while it does not contain similar scenes of the actual filming of a movie, sets the stage for more modern Hollywood films centered upon the creation of the film or another artistic work in its playful, unsettling manipulations of the three looks. Where King Kong uses a clever half-admission of its unreality to subvert audience doubt and detachment, Hitchcock seems determined to maximize their awareness and discomfort. As Jeff, to his nurse's chagrin, peers across the courtyard into the lives of his unsuspecting neighbors, the implication for the audience, doing much the same with regard to Jeff's fictional world, is stark and more than a bit critical. In King Kong, the audience was made to feel a part of the creative process; here, they are invested, willingly or not, in its deconstruction and analysis. The parallels only become clearer as Jeff bolsters his limited eyesight with binoculars and, ultimately, a deeply symbolic telephoto lens. He now has at his disposal the potential to zoom in on faraway scenes, objects and people, the same technique that allows the audience to see everything that is necessary to understand the film. It is only with a sense of unease that we are forced to identify with Jeff the secret watcher, himself being secretly watched by us, the audience. Again, we encounter an expansion of the standard architecture to include a second level, but this time rather than digging deeper, the new layer of focus is directed and pointed outward, into the realm of awareness. Where in a standard model we, the audience, are encouraged to forget the reality of the camera behind the frame, here we are challenged to see all: the walls of the theater, the gaze of the camera. Yet even as he gleefully indicts the viewer as as much a voyeur as the characters at whom he looks, Hitchcock is not content to leave him with such a simple conclusion: even as voyeurism is condemned as perverse, its usefulness or even necessity is clearly established through the justice it singlehandedly enables. There are no easy answers here; we identify with Jeff even as we are repulsed by his unashamed invasions into private lives. How much of the unrepentant voyeur is within us is a question that follows us out of the cinema door and into the sunlight.
The vast potential of these "looks" and the structures they sustain is evident in the two dramatically different techniques in the above films, perhaps most clearly revealed through their respective scopes. In King Kong, the viewer enters directly into the film through a shared, identifying objectification of Anne, forgetting entirely the possibility of distance or detachment from the spectacle. In Rear Window, the journey is in the opposite direction: through an unsettling parallel that passes judgment on both the characters and, by virtue of their identification with those characters, the viewer as well, the audience is forced so far out of the now-artificial frame that their view must be turned into themselves.
First, there is King Kong, a film in which the making of film is a central aspect. It would seem as if this explicit portrayal of the process would serve as a distancing factor, reminding the audience at every turn that what they are experiencing was created for their amusement by similar means, and yet the opposite becomes true: rather than force the viewer to an informed distance, the film within a film creates an interior layer of identification and looking that draws the audience deeper into the narrative. The catalyst by which this is accomplished is certainly Anne, an admitted "pretty face" for the movie audience as well, of course, as the audience of King Kong itself. The role she plays within Denham's film is identical to that which she plays for us on the silver screen, and in this a natural association between the viewer and Denham's camera, both looking with greedy eyes, falls into place as if naturally. The fictional camera merely becomes another set of eyes through which we regard these filmed images, in effect investing us in the film on a deeper level than if merely watching from outside the screen. The appearance of the camera on screen does not counteract the denial of the first look, that of the real camera that captures Denham as he films; rather, it helps us to, through identification, forget that this other, more tangible camera exists behind the scenes, creating these images for our reception. It doubles down on the original structure, creating a microcosm of the audience's enthrallment within the film itself.
Hitchcock's Rear Window, in contrast, while it does not contain similar scenes of the actual filming of a movie, sets the stage for more modern Hollywood films centered upon the creation of the film or another artistic work in its playful, unsettling manipulations of the three looks. Where King Kong uses a clever half-admission of its unreality to subvert audience doubt and detachment, Hitchcock seems determined to maximize their awareness and discomfort. As Jeff, to his nurse's chagrin, peers across the courtyard into the lives of his unsuspecting neighbors, the implication for the audience, doing much the same with regard to Jeff's fictional world, is stark and more than a bit critical. In King Kong, the audience was made to feel a part of the creative process; here, they are invested, willingly or not, in its deconstruction and analysis. The parallels only become clearer as Jeff bolsters his limited eyesight with binoculars and, ultimately, a deeply symbolic telephoto lens. He now has at his disposal the potential to zoom in on faraway scenes, objects and people, the same technique that allows the audience to see everything that is necessary to understand the film. It is only with a sense of unease that we are forced to identify with Jeff the secret watcher, himself being secretly watched by us, the audience. Again, we encounter an expansion of the standard architecture to include a second level, but this time rather than digging deeper, the new layer of focus is directed and pointed outward, into the realm of awareness. Where in a standard model we, the audience, are encouraged to forget the reality of the camera behind the frame, here we are challenged to see all: the walls of the theater, the gaze of the camera. Yet even as he gleefully indicts the viewer as as much a voyeur as the characters at whom he looks, Hitchcock is not content to leave him with such a simple conclusion: even as voyeurism is condemned as perverse, its usefulness or even necessity is clearly established through the justice it singlehandedly enables. There are no easy answers here; we identify with Jeff even as we are repulsed by his unashamed invasions into private lives. How much of the unrepentant voyeur is within us is a question that follows us out of the cinema door and into the sunlight.
The vast potential of these "looks" and the structures they sustain is evident in the two dramatically different techniques in the above films, perhaps most clearly revealed through their respective scopes. In King Kong, the viewer enters directly into the film through a shared, identifying objectification of Anne, forgetting entirely the possibility of distance or detachment from the spectacle. In Rear Window, the journey is in the opposite direction: through an unsettling parallel that passes judgment on both the characters and, by virtue of their identification with those characters, the viewer as well, the audience is forced so far out of the now-artificial frame that their view must be turned into themselves.
Snead, I Disagree
Snead says, on page 22,
[Denham] sees the removal of Kong not as theft, but as a good business proposition. In any case, the viewer’s attention focuses on the danger that the girl seems to be in, while overlooking the actual dangers to which Kong (blacks) is being exposed.
Besides the fact that it looks like he is trying to overtly imply that the viewer is racist, I think he’s just plain wrong. Seemingly unnoticed by the characters, there are certainly points in the film where Kong shows emotion and evokes a kind of pathos from the viewer. I mean, I’d be angry if people came in and interfered with my lifestyle too. Kong’s just hanging out on his island when Denham and crew show up and ruin everything.
Later, on page 24, Snead says that, “for a black spectator, [Ann’s] position – being terrorized by blackness – could only be shared with the greatest psychic conflict.” It’s not blackness terrorizing her; it’s a forty foot gorilla. If you can’t empathize there, you probably don’t understand what the gorilla is capable of, though there is plenty of evidence in the film.
On the same page, he goes further:
A white male viewer might sense in Kong’s death a cleansing of his previous identification with the beast. A black viewer might not only reject the price Kong pays for his own ‘guilt,’ but also would wonder why there is no price to be paid by Kong’s exploiters.
I think any kind of viewer might experience either of these, and I don’t think skin-color would give any preference; it’s more of a psychological difference. If the gorilla Denham brings back from its home hundreds of miles away solely for monetary gain kills people and destroys things, I think Denham should definitely be held responsible. After Kong dies, I’m supposed to breathe a sigh of relief because I felt like I was rampaging through the jungle and city, which would make me feel guilty? I feel like someone was kidnapped and murdered.
Denham says “he’s always been king of his world, but we’ll teach him fear.” He was fighting T-Rexes his size, and doesn’t know fear? Denham is just making stuff up so he can bring him home, and Snead sees no problem with it, even suggesting that “we never question Denham’s right…to abduct Kong.” I can’t agree with Snead about any of this. It’s nuts.
[Denham] sees the removal of Kong not as theft, but as a good business proposition. In any case, the viewer’s attention focuses on the danger that the girl seems to be in, while overlooking the actual dangers to which Kong (blacks) is being exposed.
Besides the fact that it looks like he is trying to overtly imply that the viewer is racist, I think he’s just plain wrong. Seemingly unnoticed by the characters, there are certainly points in the film where Kong shows emotion and evokes a kind of pathos from the viewer. I mean, I’d be angry if people came in and interfered with my lifestyle too. Kong’s just hanging out on his island when Denham and crew show up and ruin everything.
Later, on page 24, Snead says that, “for a black spectator, [Ann’s] position – being terrorized by blackness – could only be shared with the greatest psychic conflict.” It’s not blackness terrorizing her; it’s a forty foot gorilla. If you can’t empathize there, you probably don’t understand what the gorilla is capable of, though there is plenty of evidence in the film.
On the same page, he goes further:
A white male viewer might sense in Kong’s death a cleansing of his previous identification with the beast. A black viewer might not only reject the price Kong pays for his own ‘guilt,’ but also would wonder why there is no price to be paid by Kong’s exploiters.
I think any kind of viewer might experience either of these, and I don’t think skin-color would give any preference; it’s more of a psychological difference. If the gorilla Denham brings back from its home hundreds of miles away solely for monetary gain kills people and destroys things, I think Denham should definitely be held responsible. After Kong dies, I’m supposed to breathe a sigh of relief because I felt like I was rampaging through the jungle and city, which would make me feel guilty? I feel like someone was kidnapped and murdered.
Denham says “he’s always been king of his world, but we’ll teach him fear.” He was fighting T-Rexes his size, and doesn’t know fear? Denham is just making stuff up so he can bring him home, and Snead sees no problem with it, even suggesting that “we never question Denham’s right…to abduct Kong.” I can’t agree with Snead about any of this. It’s nuts.
Power Dynamics of The Voyeuristic Gaze
According to Mulvey, cinematic voyeurism is phallocentric and linked to the male gaze. In classical Hollywood cinema, the traditional object of this gaze is the female body. Mulvey goes on to describe a power dynamic in which the position of looking is one of power and mastery while the position of being looked at is one of powerlessness and subordination. Interestingly, some sequences in “Rear Window” seem to complicate this differentiation. When Lisa climbs into Thorwald’s apartment and sees Thorwald approaching, Jeffries (the looker), watches helplessly. He subjects the scene to his gaze and thus exerts a certain degree of mastery over it, but simultaneously he is in a position of helplessness--- unable to directly influence the scene played out before him. He can see all, but he cannot act.
Also according to Mulvey, visual pleasure is rooted in seeing without being seen. This is observed throughout the film as Jeffries, Stella, and Lisa obsessively observe Thorwald and some of the other neighbors. For the immobilized Jeffries, this is his only form of reaction and he enjoys being an amateur-detective of sorts. However, the threat of unpleasure described by Mulvey by the disruption of this one-way gaze is made very real in the character of Thorwald. Once Thorwald realizes that Jeffries has been watching him, Thorwald attempts to murder Jeffries.
On a separate note,I was a little confused by Mulvey’s classification of voyeurism as sadistic. Sadism is the enjoyment of causing pain or degradation to another person. I do not think that voyeurism necessarily harms the object of the gaze. There is definitely a breach of privacy and a certain domination exerted over the object of the gaze, but I don’t think this is born out of a sadistic intent. Is Mulvey using a more nuanced definition of sadism from psychoanalysis? She explains this sadism as relating to the male desire to punish the woman for her “guilt” (lack of a penis), but this doesn’t make a lot of sense to me and I don’t think it could be applied to every voyeuristic situation (after all, Thorwald, the object of Jeffries’ gaze, is a man). It would be great to have this clarified in section.
Also according to Mulvey, visual pleasure is rooted in seeing without being seen. This is observed throughout the film as Jeffries, Stella, and Lisa obsessively observe Thorwald and some of the other neighbors. For the immobilized Jeffries, this is his only form of reaction and he enjoys being an amateur-detective of sorts. However, the threat of unpleasure described by Mulvey by the disruption of this one-way gaze is made very real in the character of Thorwald. Once Thorwald realizes that Jeffries has been watching him, Thorwald attempts to murder Jeffries.
On a separate note,I was a little confused by Mulvey’s classification of voyeurism as sadistic. Sadism is the enjoyment of causing pain or degradation to another person. I do not think that voyeurism necessarily harms the object of the gaze. There is definitely a breach of privacy and a certain domination exerted over the object of the gaze, but I don’t think this is born out of a sadistic intent. Is Mulvey using a more nuanced definition of sadism from psychoanalysis? She explains this sadism as relating to the male desire to punish the woman for her “guilt” (lack of a penis), but this doesn’t make a lot of sense to me and I don’t think it could be applied to every voyeuristic situation (after all, Thorwald, the object of Jeffries’ gaze, is a man). It would be great to have this clarified in section.
Freud: wait, what?
If we talked about the Introduction of Laura Mulvey’s Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema and nothing else in section on Friday, I would be a happy man, and this would probably also run contrary to Mulvey’s intentions with her piece. The reason why I would be happy is twofold, and Mulvey neatly divides it for us in parts A and B. It is because I want to ask two questions. The first question I want to ask is can one be compelled by the theory of the three looks and agree that they, at least in part, contribute to the pleasure of a (positive) cinematic experience, and still find the psychoanalytic foundation on which they are made to be outrageous. To put it another way, to what extent is Mulvey’s argument dependent on Freud, or is Freud being used ironically by her to argue against the patriarchy through one of the 19th and 20th centuries most influential patriarchs? To name one example, when Mulvey argues on page 201 that “…conditions of screening and narrative conventions give the spectator an illusion of looking in on a private world,” I believe that claim to be true both experientially and anecdotally. But, when I look back at the theoretical grounds on which the claim is made—“The paradox of phallocentrism in all its manifestation is that it depends on the image of the castrated woman to give order and meaning to is world” (198)—I find it impossible, first, not to challenge that assertion or at least acknowledge that it’s embedded within a discourse that is currently facing challenges it did not face when Freud was writing; and second, I also find it impossible not to imagine that in some sense Mulvey must be joking, or at least riffing on Freud’s understanding of the world with which I would think she disagrees (I doubt penis envy is a universally agreed upon phenomenon anyway, not to mention among feminists). I think it would be fruitful to talk about the tension between plausible and implausible argument, and about the absurdity (or the lack of absurdity for all you apologists for Freud; I would love to hear your stances) of Freud to the modern ear.
The other thing I would like to discuss is the same question that Professor Chun ended Monday’s lecture with, the question of whether or not analyzing pleasure or beauty destroys it (Mulvey, 200). My inclination from the brief amount of time I have spent in academia is to say certainly not for some people, but I suppose that’s not the interesting question either. The question that really seems worth asking is whether or not a “negation of the ease and plenitude of the narrative fiction film” is possible given the medium itself. Sure, it’s one thing to, as in Ceddo, move away from some of the misogyny, xenophobia, racism, and homoeroticism (to name a few themes) present in classic Hollywood cinema to make way for something else, but does that move actually succeed in destroying pleasure or a certain facile quality to film? And furthermore, I would like to ask what Mulvey means when she claims she does not want the “reconstruct[ion of a] new pleasure” but instead “to conceive a new language of desire” (200). What is the difference, exactly? There’s much to discuss…
The other thing I would like to discuss is the same question that Professor Chun ended Monday’s lecture with, the question of whether or not analyzing pleasure or beauty destroys it (Mulvey, 200). My inclination from the brief amount of time I have spent in academia is to say certainly not for some people, but I suppose that’s not the interesting question either. The question that really seems worth asking is whether or not a “negation of the ease and plenitude of the narrative fiction film” is possible given the medium itself. Sure, it’s one thing to, as in Ceddo, move away from some of the misogyny, xenophobia, racism, and homoeroticism (to name a few themes) present in classic Hollywood cinema to make way for something else, but does that move actually succeed in destroying pleasure or a certain facile quality to film? And furthermore, I would like to ask what Mulvey means when she claims she does not want the “reconstruct[ion of a] new pleasure” but instead “to conceive a new language of desire” (200). What is the difference, exactly? There’s much to discuss…
Mirrors, Screens, and...the Ego Ideal!
A particularly useful correlation in understanding classic Hollywood cinema is that of Lacan’s mirror stage and Mulvey’s notion of male identification with the male movie star. Lacan’s mirror stage is the moment in an infant’s life when he recognizes his reflected image (although does not necessarily have to be from a mirror) as a more perfect version of himself. The difficulties in managing his body are unseen in the reflection whose movements seem intentional. This stage “gives rise to the future generation of identification with others” as it produces an “ego ideal” (Mulvey, 201).
This “future generation of identification” manifests itself in the act of watching a movie. Now the spectator is the infant and the screen the mirror—at least while a leading actor is present. The acts of Humphrey Bogart seem more perfect than anything that could happen in real life. This is largely due to editing and our obsession with the narrative, both of which allow for poignant timing and satisfaction as narrative problems are solved (by the man). As Mulvey says, “the cinema has structures of fascination strong enough to allow temporary loss of ego while simultaneously reinforcing the ego” (202). The ego ideal, fed by the male star, is the gold standard for which the ego must strive to realize. This sets up a powerful relationship between the spectator and the onscreen character. The spectator’s “visual pleasure” stems from his willingness to learn from the male star; Bogart’s every move will be stored in the memory bank of the spectator who will have further knowledge of how to be “perfect”—how to evade danger, how to come up with profound one liners, and, of course, how to get the girl. Through this engagement, enthusiasm, and identification, the masculine / feminine binary proliferates.
01 October 2008
Rear Window and the Jeff's Gaze
In Cowie's discussion of how Jeff interacts with Lisa in an early scene of Rear Window, stating that "while he (Jeff) does not wish to marry her, neither does he want to end their relationship" (482), I see multiple facets of Mulvey's own arguments arising. The first concerns Mulvey's statement that with a woman as an icon, she is "displayed for the gaze of enjoyment of men..." (205). Yes, agreed. Lisa's role as the female protagonist is also largely to give the audience 'something to look at'. Perhaps preemptive of the validity of this statement, however, is quote which says that women in mainstream cinema "symbolize the castration threat..." (199). After all, Lisa does this as well. I see both notions thoroughly manifest in Hitchcock's depiction of Lisa and would like to draw further connections:
Jeff's indecision regarding his relationship with Lisa, the almost upsettingly beautiful Grace Kelly, reflects a deeper desire for masculine power/male dominance. Immobilized in a wheelchair, Jeff faces Lisa's threat of physically leaving the apartment for the evening as well as that of ending the relationship. The thought furthermore confronts Jeff with the greater threat of total emasculation. Though it may seem contradictory, I believe that men and women from this age were defined by each other and more so by their union. That Lisa my leave Jeff gives rise to the fear that he may be further immobilized by the lack of a woman in his life. Playing the stereotypical role of the beautiful, maternal female who cooks and cleans with style, Lisa serves in many ways to validate Jeff's position as the male dominant figure in the film.
One irony of this idea, moreover, lies in the fact that Lisa stands within not only the physical frame of the camera (often times taking up most of the screen due to Hitchcock's close-ups) but also within Jeff's own domain: his apartment. The fact that Jeff is able to gaze out and control his gaze over his many neighbors is countered by the instability of his own relationship with Lisa in this scene. He controls what's outside 'the window' but can he really control what is inside his own 'window'? Jeff stutters and cannot decide on action when presented with the choice to end the relationship, yet he stares out his window defiantly each day, easily exerting his (however immobilized) dominance over those around him simply by looking.
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