Nanook of the North (1922) dir. Robert J. Flaherty

A lot has happened since my last blog post and, as always, none of those things hindered my ability to to watch the next film on the list and write up a piece on it. I just didn't do it. Until now!

This time we have arrived on an ever-so-slightly different piece for the blog, for we have arrived at our first documentary, or our first non-fiction piece. We haven't gotten into any of the experimental films or home movies, but at least we're getting something different. As far as documentaries go, Nanook of the North isn't especially unusual. It tells a story about real life with real people (although its notorious for its fabrications). But it is a beautiful piece of cinema and its not without it's share of interesting trivia. That, and it offers some things to think about as well.

I have notes about this from my film history class. The professor, Pete, had a lot of info on this film, as I recall. I have gone through periods where I have his notes and I have used them for this blog. I've also gone through periods where I haven't due to not knowing where they are. Sadly, though his knowledge and insights were in full force behind this film as we went over it in his class, due to my family's massive summer cleaning event, I've lost them again--possibly for good. I will not let this information fall into oblivion. I've initiated an emergency retrieval plan to get another set of copies of the notes as I have many contacts who took the class as well.

The reason I say this is because I am going to have to provide all of my background information from Wikipedia. I don't often provide a whole lot of background in my reviews, but obviously I would if it came from a good source. 

Technically, the film is what you might call a "docudrama". The story of a great Inuit (referred to as Eskimo) hunter named Nanook actually features a man who is not actually named Nanook and people who are not really his family (the wives, in fact, were with Flaherty, the director). And so the film is often criticized for it's fabrication. Some of it's most celebrated scenes are not only staged but thoroughly faked. The interior shots from the most recognized scene of the film, the igloo sequence, were recreated with an igloo missing a wall to fit the film equipment. The hunting sequences where Nanook and his huntsmen use spears and knives to get food were embellishments.  Nanook was already using a gun to hunt at the time. And yet, a simple change of perspective and a reconsideration of Flaherty's real intention not only reveal even greater filmmaker discrepancies, but authenticity that we didn't see before.  

The film opens with a series of intertitles that set-up the context of what we're about to see. I would argue that here, before the film really starts, we see a documentary mode that is ahead of its time. Reflexivity is a staple of Cinéma vérité, particularly French vérité. In it's true form, reflexive documentary filmmaking is much more complex than anything divulged to us in the intertitles of Nanook. Filmmaker philosophy and introspection play a greater part in true French vérité films like Chronicle of a Summer or the American experimental documentary, Symbiopsychotaxiplasm. The Maysles' Grey Gardens or Gimme Shelter represents this method as well. However, what's interesting to see is in Nanook is similar traits to the reflexivity of a modern movement in its more primal cinematic ancestor. 

The filmmakers of Chronicle of a Summer discuss the plan of the documentary with one of the main subjects.

 As it was 1922, formula was still being developed for narratives in general. Documentary, certainly, had not been able to  evolve into the expository and, for lack of a better word, square educational tool that the direct cinema and French vérité movements were rebelling against. And so in a purely honest and straightforward gesture, Flaherty opens the film by detailing the creative process that went into choosing his subject, the pitfalls he went through in this process, and his ultimate artistic goal, to typify the Eskimos through one "character". The film is less about being truthful in portraying this Nanook character, but in painting a picture of an Inuit lifestyle from an anthropological and geographic perspective. In a way, the criticism that has always surrounded this film is addressed by Flaherty before one can even witness the contents of it. And it is rationalized, although not necessarily justified.

(I want to note that the intertitles during the actual events of the film are not like this. They're the lofty, overly descriptive silent movie intertitles you'd expect.)

Keeping the fact that a lot of the events were made up and that the premise was almost entirely fabricated, the authenticity of the landscape, the clothing, and the way of life of the Inuit (at least a few decades before the film was made) is still there. The glacial plains shadowed by the last glows of dawn begin the events of the film. Without sync sound, the film, in theory, relies on visuals to teach the audience about Nanook's way of life. So does the film achieve cinema truth? In a way. In many other ways, it doesn't. So there.

 In particular, the focus on Nanook as a man comes from the notion of artisan craftsmanship. The thing to be watched and observed is to see how Nanook's "occupation" directly provides his living, something industrialized societies very seldom provide. Take me for instance. I get up at 7:30, go to work at 9, and come home at 5. I get paid currency to perform a task, a task which very, very indirectly provides my living. Nanook and his clan are nomads, more or less. They work as a way of life, hunting for food, creating a new shelter every few days, and training their young to do what they do. They live a life where they don't need money, which is practically incomprehensible, if not impossible, to people like me and you.

And then, in contrast to the more objective and intriguing motion picture visuals, the intertitles contain quaint illustrations and speak to the viewer like the warm, paternal speaker of a children's book. They over-explain, oversimplify, and provide unnecessary breaks in the action. Sometimes, they were written by Yoda. 

Because this is a silent (and not just in a non-dialogue way), it really makes me question the importance of sound in documentaries. Innovation in sound both held back and later improved the genre. The sugarcoated, bland educational style documentaries were mainly so bad because of the stentorian narrator introducing a fake family and speaking to us like children. Direct cinema and vérité movements would break down this technique with their own improved use of sync sound to capture the noises of an environment in real time. To let the beauty stand out in the film, it needs to stand alone. To truly marvel at Nanook's activities, they should go one without explanation. Perhaps, without the necessity of intertitles, the film would have had less over-explaining by telling a story through visuals and sounds. Then again, it's likely that sound would have only invited that same narrator to use his voice instead of intertitles to talk down to us.

The are several forces at odds with each other in this film. I mean, I'm writing a review about it. It's on the registry. Yet it constantly gets called out as a major piece of pre-journalistic ethics bullshit. And that's what it is in a lot of ways. But there's something authentic about it. There's something majestic and dignified about it. And yet, sometimes I wonder how Flaherty regards Nanook (his real name was Allakariallak, by the way). Is this story framed around man vs. nature? Or does Flaherty really consider Nanook a man like himself? The distance can sometimes be felt between the filmmaker and the subject in such a way that it feels like you're watching a nature documentary about a totally different species. In no way are Nanook and his "family" disrespected of dehumanized, per se. But the story is framed by a man who clearly views society from an industrial/technological perspective and his relationship to Nanook is that of an academic to his field of study.

You couldn't force me to say that this was an early example of documentary. Really, if we're going off a pure and simple definition of the word, then the Lumiere brothers were making documentaries when they captured the first moving pictures on their cinematograph.

However, non-fiction events had never really been arranged into a feature-length narrative like this before. That alone earns it its early spot on the registry. I think it's more interesting, however, to see how this films contains techniques that would both inspire and deter the great documentarians of the late 20th century. What cinematic seeds lay germinating under the snow?

On the Waterfront (1954) dir. Elia Kazan

To be honest, I find it rare to watch a movie a second time and like it more than I did the first time. Often when revisiting a movie, the magical, emotional feeling is either maintained (which is still nice) or slightly diminished for me. This was the second time that I have seen On the Waterfront and it was an unexpected surprise to find that it is one of those films that is ten times better when you re-watch it. The psychological makeup of the characters becomes clearer, the suspense becomes intensified, and the appreciation for the overall filmmaking from Kazan and his amazing crew is amplified. I find there are many films that I consider great, but with each reviewing it becomes harder and harder to love. Wilder's films are like this. I remember loving Sunset Boulevard when I first saw it. Then re-watching it for my review, while still enjoyable, seemed half like a chore. What makes this film great for me, in particular, is that it takes just the right amount of aesthetic and thematic risks to tell a really unique story. And it's these peculiarities and unique moments that heighten the re-watch value I am speaking of.

The story concerns the tensions between working class dockworkers and the mob that runs their waterfront, headed by gangster Johnny Friendly. Terry Malloy (Brando) works both on the waterfront and as the lowest peon of the mob, mostly due to his brother's high standing in the organization. When the operation is put under scrutiny due to a dockworker being knocked off for whistle blowing, Terry's loyalties are tested as he and the other workers become torn between morality and the mob intimidation/aversion to "ratting". The sister of the slain dockworker, Edie (Saint), becomes involved with Johnny, complicating his situation further.

On the whole, I found this movie hard to take notes on because it was too much fun to watch. Aside from the many technical and thematic elements of note in the film, there are a few small and interesting stray bits of information that make the film rather engaging. One would be the scattering of recognizable faces in the cast. Of course, the great Marlon Brando and Eva Marie Saint lead the film. But a significant supporting role is performed by Rod Steiger, who plays the brother of Brando's character. Martin Balsam, better known as Arbogast in Psycho (1960), shows up as a police detective. Fred Gwynne (Herman Munster) has a non-speaking role as one of Johnny Friendly's goons.

One of the major things the film is distinguished by is its sexy Leonard Bernstein score. Right off the bat, the music helps bring the film to life without ever being too saccharine or calling too much attention to itself. It's beautiful on its own but also runs concurrently with scenes, completing them but not distracting from them. The music during the opening scene makes a lot of use of percussion and fast paced drumming to intensify the rapid working atmosphere of the docks. The style of the music and its role in telling the story undoubtedly inspired Paul Thomas Anderson and his musical collaborators, especially on films like Punch Drunk Love (2002) and There Will Be Blood (2007).

Of course, there's a great deal more that is often repeated as to why this movie is so great. The famous "contender" scene where Brando's acting is uncompromisingly heart wrenching and intense is the most revered moments in American cinema. The atmosphere is claustrophobic and inescapable, taking place in a moving car, depriving the characters of an exit. The famous crucifixion speech given by Father Barry (Karl Malden) is persuasive and rousing, even for a non-religious viewer like myself. And we know that regardless of his religious background, Barry's sermons have an undeniable, stark, secular truth. The final sequence of the film is the result of impromptu direction and yet it brings the emotions and actions of the story to a hypnotic and frenzied end that seems invaluable to the overall narrative of the film. It contains several iconic and striking sequences that have always been maintained as cinematic staples. And I have deep admiration for them. But since this was my second viewing, I thought it would be interesting to talk about things I responded to that I haven't seen mentioned so often. Or maybe they have and I just don't read enough.

There was something I started to think about in regards to film stories in general while watching this and that was the choice of protagonist. I think when it comes to the themes of the movie, Terry Malloy is the most fitting choice as the protagonist. He represents the victims of McCarthyism. He's a symbol for ambivalence being turned into strong conviction. Because this change is present in the character, he's the inevitable protagonist. He has the arc. But in the context of the story within the film, Edie is the "main character". She's is the quintessential crusader. The turbulent conditions of her surroundings have forced her to leave her life of passivity and seek out justice and principle. She incites a change in the community with Father Barry and she incites a change in Terry, in large part due to her being the object of his affection. And so I started to see the film from Edie's point of view, similar to the way that The Great Gatsby is told. Because the focus of that story is Gatsby. But he's not the protagonist. The path of the narrative follows Terry, but the events of the film in total, what we see and don't see, don't necessarily follow Terry. If you ask me, the events of the film follow Edie. So ultimately, the story we're being told is a very contextual one, following the person who is arguably one of the least likely people to be followed given the situation.

Among the many facets of filmmaking that get talked about with classic films, cinematography, editing, and writing are often hailed the most. And while those are passing with flying colors here, there's also great work being done in other department. Costumes, particularly fabric and textures, play a huge part of in the look and feel of the film. To start, the titles play over this woven sort of texture.

And that was something that I noticed even as a budding cinephile when I watched it for the first time. And like many things in film, it's difficult to describe what kind of impact it has. But it does achieve a very distinct, visceral effect. And if I were to put my finger on it, I would have to say it creates a certain notion for the viewer and slants the film. What I mean is, I think the immediate presence of fabrics in the aesthetic puts us on on the side of the dockers. The visual concept involving fabrics helps differentiate the working class from the mob, the proletariat from the bourgeoise. So we're seeing this stitching behind the titles and it reminds us of making clothes from scratch because we can see the work behind it. And the melancholy opening to Bernstein's score accompanies it. Now it doesn't take too long to notice how the dockers dress and how the mob dresses, or even law enforcement.

The Dockers

The Mob

Law Enforcement

What's interesting is to see the clothes that Terry, who works for the mob, is wearing. They're the same as the shoremen. So without any words or any action, we are shown what side Terry is on, or at least what side he is destined to be on.

The film is very distinguished in its production design as well, and if not the design, then the use of location. In my essay a few months ago about Eraserhead, I talked about how David Lynch derived a lot of inspiration for that film from his experiences in Philadelphia. In addition to that, a lot of scenes were shot based on the already existing aesthetic. I also mentioned Kazan in my last review for The Searchers. John Ford gave him the advice to not look at a script and to shoot the film based on what sort of set or location you have. These two approaches to film come together in On the Waterfront to create not only a story that lives and breathes in its location but also in its sounds.

Here you can see that most shots have the bay in the background and most of them have boats as well. Things are carrying on at all times behind all of this drama. We can also see from this shot the countless rows of spikes on the fences. And trust me, the fences are everywhere. They give us a sense of constriction and possibly incarceration because all of these working class people people really are trapped in their situation, sometimes from external influences, sometimes internal.

In the same scene we get this shot:

Terry and Edie are down below Father Barry and he has instructed Terry to tell Edie what he knows about her brother's death. They've used the differences in elevation in this particular area to compose a shot that conveys Father Barry's influence as he is above them and looking down. Then there's this dead tree in the background. All the trees are dead, so we know its cold and we know its desolate. Then, of course, there's the spiked fence which places the Father on the viewing side and Terry and Edie on the viewed side. Now I mentioned sound before, too. This scene constantly has the changing of tides, the wind blowing, and mechanical sounds from the boats and the docks. When Terry tells Edie the truth, a boat horn blows obscuring the speech. As the audience, we already know what he's saying, so we don't need to hear the words. But what needs to be set up is Terry's inner turmoil and Edie's sense of betrayal. So the blaring of the steam valve is there to represent Edie's anguish and the mechanical chugging of some sort to represent the way that Terry is wrestling with his conscience. It also is remnant of a pounding heart.

Unfortunately, I can't embed the video, so here's a link.

In regards to cinematography there was one thing I really picked up on and it's also a result editing. It's a visual motif and it looks like this.

Looks like a pretty normal shot out of context. But it's important to know that the rest of the film isn't really shot like this. This is a medium shot of a person's face looking into the camera. This kind of shot happens only four times in the film. Now because of the symmetry of this kind of shot and because the subject is looking into camera, somewhat breaking the fourth wall, the image calls attention to itself. It's such that when the image appears in the scene it significantly interrupts the sequential flow. A normal scene, often inconspicuous or bustling with energy, suddenly comes to a brief standstill to include these shots. Here are the others:

Terry is being subpoenaed be detectives. Notice "Arbogast" smoking a pipe in the back 

We then cut to this perfectly symmetrical medium shot. He's not quite looking into the camera, but still

SPOILER: Terry's young friend feels betrayed when Terry testifies against Johnny Friendly. So he kills his pigeons in retribution. The same shot. also, this kid is a damn sociopath. 

And this is one of the very last shots when (spoiler) Terry fights Johnny and walks away to work, his dignity in tact. This man speaks the last line of dialogue, "Alright, let's go to work!"

My reaction to these moments is that they often bring a feeling of judgement or scrutiny. The first occurs after the first docker has been killed and the foreman is somewhat taunting the men by asking who wants to work. The shot this time is of a cohort of the foreman/gangster looking intently at the men, seeing if any of them speak out of turn. The next is when Terry insists he knows knows nothing about the murder and the detective played by Arbogast isn't buying it. The one of the child contains anger and malice directed towards Terry. Finally, and a bit unexpectedly, the shot of the foreman portrays acceptance, and yet it is still a judgement. A shot of Terry stopping in a daze to look at the man as well as his point of view precede this. It's like he stops to see if he's passed some sort of test.

Now this isn't a little discussed aspect of the film but I'll say it anyway because it's one of the major reasons it stands out in history. The "art imitating life" thing is strong with this one. Elia Kazan, besides having a name that sounds like a dark wizard, is also one of the most unique and creative directors from the golden era. He seriously made masterpieces for a living. At the same time he's also the target of a lot of contention because of his involvement with HUAC. Now, I wouldn't call him a straight-up McCarthyist. He was more of a...chicken? I don't know. I actually don't know the whole situation very well. But basically, instead of staying in solidarity like other filmmakers, actors, writers, etc. in the film industry, he rolled over and gave a bunch of names to the House of Un-American Activities. That was the commission that tried to reveal communists. It is now the name of my house, where we are all transliberal athiest vegan babykillers on welfare. 

And Terry's struggle is often thought to be Kazan's struggle and the reason Kazan was drawn to this story. On one hand, the deep personal connection that he had to the content yields a fantastic film in terms of sound, images, symbolism, you name it. But at the same time, it's kind of morally backwards. We simply can't equate a power-hungry mob to "hollywood communists". We can't say that writers and directors just didn't want to snitch like the dockworkers. They actually didn't want to lie and destroy the lives of their peers. Difference. 

I think it's forgivable because Kazan directed this film very emotionally because he identified with the subject matter. And it leads to a very expressive film. Multiple re-watchings are a must. Not only will you notice things you didn't before, but the meaning of the things you did noticed before may have evolved or become clarified. 



The next film on the Registry is Nanook of the North (1922)

The Searchers (1956) dir. John Ford

Every time I finish a review I say to myself, 'alright dude, make your next one sooner. None of this one review a month stuff'.

And now, nearly two months after my last article, I give you my piece on The Searchers, the beloved John Ford epic and so called "ultimate western".

The easiest way to break into the beauty of this film is to simply show the first shot. 

This is only the second John Ford film I've seen, but it's pretty clear from my observations so far and his revered status by filmmakers, that the type of storytelling he employs is visual. It sounds a bit redundant to say, considering that film is a visual medium and is supposed to be that way, but it should really be said with a Ford film. Landscapes and expressions tell us what we need to know. I love how the shot goes from confined and dark to bright and expansive, opening up the story for us. It helps that the last shot of the film is the same as the first, with John Wayne's character framed as he walks away and the door closes. Ford shoots his locations so well that it's practically better than actually being there. 

His influence spreads far to filmmakers like Akira Kurosawa and even to directors like Paul Thomas Anderson today. That whole technique of important scenes in movies being told through meaningful looks and calculated actions from characters is a John Ford Staple. The way the film opens seems like a direct influence to how all of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (1966) is pretty much shot. 

And not only are relationships, mood, and tone established this way, but little character details, roo. The film opens with Ethan (John Wayne) returning to his family after many years fighting for the confederates and in the Mexican revolutionary war, with a large amount of gold coins in tow. His affection for the family, particularly young Debbie and even his sister-in-law, Martha, is told through Wayne's expressions more than any dialogue. It's never called attention to, but it seems that Ethan holds unrequited love for Martha, as seen be his frequent wistful looks towards her. 

And from the positioning and expressions from not only Martha but from neighbors and family members, as seen above, his feelings are no secret either. Even more interesting, Ford takes the time to set up this dimension to Ethan's character, and yet it doesn't become a plot point.

I should mention now that this review is, as always, spoiler filled. I want to say it now because it's necessary to reveal that most of Ethan's family are slaughtered by Comanches early on in the film. Young Debbie is also kidnapped. Aside from finding Debbie, it seems that Ethan is equally fueled by revenge for the murder of his family, and most importantly, Martha. I want to bring attention to this because it's a good example of Ford's visual storytelling and Wayne's oft overlooked acting nuances. There's a story I heard once where Elia Kazan was asking Ford for advice on directing, and when he brought up the script, Ford told him to forget about the "fucking script". That it would confuse him. Directing is a matter of going to the location, seeing what you've got, and telling the story with pictures. 

The other thing I'd like to talk about is the darkness of this film. Not only does a savage family massacre take place in the beginning, but the rest of the film is filled with implications even worse. To start off with, Ethan (and Wayne himself, let's be honest) is disgustingly hateful of all native Americans. It's totally fair to say that Wayne and Ford and all them were Manifest Destiny kind of folk. However, there are moments when the film lets up on this line of thinking. Serious questioning of these prejudices occur. The major one is shown through the character of Martin, the adopted son of Ethan's family, who is part Cherokee. Ethan saved him as an infant, in fact, but refuses to see him as true family and often doesn't treat him with respect. 

And yet Martin is not only a moral and likeable character who acts heroically, but he also embodies traits of Ethan. Good ones, anyway. He's headstrong, mysterious, and committed to the work at hand. He is the only one to stick with Ethan throughout the journey, while everyone else abandons the search relatively quickly.  

Ethan is so disgusted by Native Americans that once he finds that Debbie has been assimilated into Native American society, he tries to kill her as if she had been bitten by a vampire. She must be destroyed because she is beyond saving. Martin, who has the same motivations as Ethan, more or less, shields her with his body, knowing both that she is still the same girl and that one cannot be tainted by exposure to Native Americans. 

This notion of being "tainted" runs along with the rape implications present throughout the film, and even in early Ford films like Stagecoach (1939). It's a pretty grim aspect that's heavily implied, just a few words from explicitly stated, that the older Lucy is raped before being killed by the Comanches. It's assumed, therefore, that Debbie is as well, although she survives. This seems to be part of Ethan's disgust of her once he finds that she has blended into their culture, too.

This blind hatred and anger in Ethan's character develops steadily as they go on. Ethan loses his family and then later Lucy. Then he finds Debbie and considers her lost as well. He is losing his family one by one and starting to unravel. One of the central dramas of the film is seeing Ethan's initial mission slip from his grasp, and revenge against the comanches and recovery of Debbie are covered up by simple bloodlust. Eventually, while the Western genre is thoroughly represented, we start getting the rape/revenge genre vibe as well. Which only goes on to influence more western loving directors like Tarantino and films like Rolling Thunder (1977). One of the most striking images to coincide with this is when Ethan finally kills Scar, the leader of the Comanche tribe that kidnapped Debbie. He pulls his knife out and reaches for the top of Scar's head. The scene cuts there.

Scalping a Comanche. The tables can't turn anymore than that, lest they go a full 360 degrees and it's just an American being scalped like usual again.

Westerns are mostly renowned for their scope and visuals I'd say. The breathtaking wide shots, sweeping scores, costumes, aged sets, and action packed chase and fight scenes bestow an unfathomable debt to cinema. But I don't think I can say it's typical for a Western to be as layered and provocative as this. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I just need to see more.

The last thing I wanna say is that the film takes a break from all the injun' killin' and fire stokin' and such to stage one of the funniest fight scenes in cinematic history. It takes place during a wedding, don't miss it.

Singin' in the Rain (1952) dir. Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly

The older I get and the more movies I watch, the more I appreciate the fabulous. Ever since I was little, the singing of Angela Lansbury, Debbie Reynolds, and many others were instilled in me through repeated viewings of their contributions to children's musical films.

And when you get more exposed to these personalities through film and theater (myself being a professed highschool drama nerd and Sweeney Todd fanboy [not the fucking film, the musical]), you can't help but proudly and unashamedly shout that Angela Lansbury is just fabulous. And that's what Singin' in the Rain is. It's fabulous.

Being a moderate musical theater fan, I don't think I can even call this movie a musical in confidence, though. It's a dance movie. It's a Gene Kelly variety show and, by the way, a plot. Gene Kelly was like an auteur of his own body-- deliberate and tyrannical. There were a lot of dancers back then and they all had their different styles; different visions that they were trying to portray. Kelly was trying to contribute to the film form with dance as both a performer and a filmmaker (with the help of many talented Hollywood men), and these messages have been pointed out by many critics.

Leo Braudy, a prominent film theorist, studies Kelly's specific contribution to the musical (again, though, I don't think this film is a proper musical) in his writings about genre. And what he has to say is that Kelly is sort of an adversary to Astaire in that his dancing was less about fanciness and formality and more about reaching the common man. It was blunt and athletic and emphatically unelegant. It's the dancing a man would do privately, or with friends-- informal and spontaneous. What we see in the titular song is Don Lockwood breaking into dance because he is so madly in love. The steps are improvised by his character (and apparently by Kelly, himself). That's what makes Kelly a joy to watch. He made dancing look easy and fun and common. He made us want to dance.

But I don't want to talk about Gene Kelly. Not really. The movie, I think, has a lot more to offer than it's namesake.

To start off, I want to acknowledge the other half of this film, the one who directed it alongside Gene Kelly. Stanley Donen did a lot of good films, he's just not a household name. Of course, I called this a dance movie. It is a Gene Kelly picture. That doesn't mean Donen had no creative input. The film is not just a well choreographed pageant, it is also visually and technically distinguished.

Donen casts great actors, actors who can portray chemistry even if they don't actually get along (as Debbie Reynolds and Gene Kelly definitely did not). Donen often gravitates to stories that contain two characters whose immediate attraction to each other is put into a stalemate because of one major conflicting factor.

Between Albert Finney and Hepburn in Two for the Road (1967), where it's more of an emotional block (their cynicism, their mutual stubbornness). You've also got Charade (1963) with Cary Grant and...Audrey Hepburn (okay, maybe there's another reasons his movies have chemistry...) where a whole range of things become obstacles. But the real issue is honesty. Both characters feel forced to hide something from one another. To carry on a charade. Hence the title.

Singin' in the Rain takes the simple route, this time, by separating Don Lockwood and Kathy Selden by way of Don's commitment to Lina Lamont. Don instigates many of the events in the film and he is motivated to do so by his attraction to Kathy, an attraction that can't be resolved unless he can drop his relationship with Lina, who only stifles him (Lina is the past, the silents. Kathy is the future, the talkies).

Donen and Kelly

Donen has a unique approach to editing. With Singin' in the Rain, there's a much wackier tone. Not only does it have to keep up with the dancing but it also has to keep up with the setting they have. The films is taking place during the peak of cinematic progress and cut-throatiness. In addition to this, it's a comedy. So as the more cinematically technical side of the directing team, Donen inserts comedic nuances into the visuals. His unique approach to editing comes in play here., It's similar to his later film, Two for the Road.

A sequence showing Don and Cosmo's rise to stardom contains a quick scene of Don performing an explosion stunt. The shot then makes a deliberately obvious jump cut before the explosion to make fun of phony old Hollywood trick shots and special effects. 

Donen uses this comedic jump cut in another context in Two for The Road. Albert Finney's character is running after Audrey Hepburn's after a fight. When his pleas for her to stay are angrily rebuffed, he finally resorts to asking for marriage. He shouts this question when she is easily the length of a football field away from him.

That's probably one of my favorite thing about Donen's style, and so I'll just leave that up as the major example of Donen's trademarks on the film. Suffice it to say, the film is visually and technically competent from a filmmaker's perspective and not just an actor/dancer perspective. While the choreography dazzled me like it did everyone else, there was also big, complex movie shit that really got me jazzed. There's this transition between scenes that goes from color (film being made) to black and white (film being viewed) which was really impressive.

Onto the major thrust of the film. Even though it is a light hearted, sing songy story, it is absolutely brutal in its parody of early talkies and of the whole sound spectacle in general. One of the first things we see is a celebrity reporter interviewing Don and Lina with a conspicuously large microphone.

A scene where members of the studio view early sound footage at a party features a grotesque Vincent Price caricature conducting the experiment.

What's really interesting about this sequence is it points and laughs at the simplicity and the novelty of sound in that time, but it also represents the fear that people had when sound film was invented. People worried that hearing actual voices on film would come across as unsettling and vulgar. Uncanny valley, perhaps?

The most obvious skewering of early talkies happens when Don and Lina's first sound film comes out. The recording is so bad, her voice is so annoying, and the dialogue is so horrendous the audience can't stop laughing. It is a harsh, harsh mockery of those films, yet Singin' in the Rain is its progeny.  The film uses this idea of sound to set up a lot of contrasts. For instance, despite being silent movie stars, the characters themselves are quite chatty. The film actually relies on a lot of verbal gags. Even Cosmo, who does great physical comedy in the film, makes tons of one liners that would have been prime real estate for a talkie.

And speaking of Cosmo, he is easily the greatest character in the film. Not only is the dancing and the energy so mind boggling high in "Make Em' Laugh", but as a persona and actor, Donald O'Connor (Cosmo) is a mad man. His presence in the scenes is not only enjoyable, it's necessary. You couldn't have "Moses Suposes" or "Good Mornin" without Cosmo. His face defies all concept of gestalt, each feature having an independent life and position.

The ironic thing is that no one ever laughs at Cosmo's one liners once in the film.

Well, that's all I really gotta say. An interesting comparison to this would be a previous registry film, Sunset Boulevard (1950). Singin' in the Rain was made only two years later. They are both examinations of their own industry, just with two totally different approaches. What's really cool about the 50's movies is that they quite possibly marked the beginning (and in some way the major precedents) of the study of film. Films like this were the culmination of cinema from the half century it was around, and it's exciting to find the moments where an art has advanced so much that it begins to critique itself.


Next Film on the Registry: The Searchers (1956)

"Lynchian": The Peculiarities of Auteur Theory

Again, I don't update my blog enough. So I want to bulk up the content by showing off my latest monster of an essay. This time, on Lynch, Eraserhead and auteur theory. This is a wall of text filled with spoilers, so beware..........you're in for a scaaaaare. 

Okay, here it is.

"Lynchian": The Peculiarities of Auteur Theory

David Lynch describes his debut film, Eraserhead¸ as “a dream of dark and troubling things”. When asked to expand upon that tagline in an interview conducted by a film student in 1979, his answer was a curt, “No”.[1] Lynch disguises his work in a thick veil. Examining his methods will often reveal a mindset similar to that of a painter (which he proudly is). The mood is the message in Eraserhead and several more of Lynch’s works, so much so that viewing the films often become an existential experience where meaning is achieved in trying to decipher the many symbols the film holds. This deliberate open ended quality lays out an interesting case study for auteur theory. Studying Lynch’s work in Eraserhead in tandem with specific observations on auteur theory raises a few questions, or at least puts an interesting perspective on well-established beliefs in the realm of thinking that ascribes authors to films.

            A necessary step in this analytical pursuit would be to establish what specific studies on auteur theory can be most usefully applied to Eraserhead. An important note before discussing this would be that the auteur theory, of course, is one of the most highly debated schools of film criticism. Auteur theory must first be properly explained and the arguments for its proper usage be laid out. For the purposes of this analysis, the distinctions made by David Andrews in his article, “No Start, No End”, will provide necessary justification for interpreting a “Lynchian” work along the grounds of an auteur. Other observations on auteur theory will be used to corroborate this groundwork. And finally, the informal notes of Andrew Sarris from 1962 on auteur theory will be the ultimate looking glass through which Eraserhead and Lynch’s methods will be scrutinized in order to attain a distinct and useful analysis of the film and the filmmaker.

            Because the observations made by Andrew Sarris were on auteur theory¸ a line will have to be drawn according to a historical and critical study of all things “auteur” by David Andrews. Auteur “theory” is something created by critics gleaning inspiration from Cahiers Du Cinema theorists, whose notions of “auteur” functioned as a form of politics rather than a frame of mind. “Les politiuqe des auteur” swore to only give critical attention to movies deemed “good” by Cahiers critics[2]. Auteur “theory”, according to Andrews, is that form of politics redefined, based on the notion that a filmmaker acts as an author, an assumption that must logically be made in order to shun “bad directors” and praise good ones. Auteurism is a similar term, referring to the general pattern of thinking by most viewers that a film must belong to some independent creator. In his essay, Andrews often uses “auterism” and “auteur theory” interchangeably, as the latter is an academic expansion upon a rigidly held and often automatic pattern of thinking among the movie-going public that defines the former (an attitude that Andrews claims extends back to the silent era. i.e. a “Chaplin” film).

Andrews campaigns for the fact that auteurism/theory is deeply rooted in the public psyche, and that it cannot be done away with because it is “currently the basis of too much infrastructure”[3]. Presumably, this infrastructure is that of criticism and interpretation made by both academics and the general public. At least for the purposes of analyzing Eraserhead, this will be the most relevant. As a result of the auteur theory being non-expendable, its undeniable implications must be acknowledged to be used properly. A simplification of auteur theory made by Kent Jones in his overview of the current state of auteurism, “Critical Condition” provides a general justification of discussing Eraserhead and the accompanying modus operandi of David Lynch through an auteurist scope. He posits that “An auteur was no longer an artist who spoke ‘in the first person,’ as Rivette put it, and who had actually crafted a formidable body of work, but any director who had produced evidence of authorship, i.e., an ability to think in visual terms”[4]. To expound upon this, an auteur is able to deliver a personal experience of life to an objective body, or the viewer. Therefore, David Andrews’ stance that the status of auteur is “hard and real while the authorship to which that status refers is subjective, negotiable, and marked by multiple contexts,”[5] supports the view of an auteur as a subjective force that not only inserts its personal context into the body of work but allows for the audience to insert its own context, the context of each individual viewer, onto the work as well.

            Because these observations will lead to an auteurist interpretation of a filmmaker's work, some final reiterations of Andrews' stances on proper auteurist usage is in order. Ultimately, he states, an auteur critic appropriates “existing attitudes” onto current works (the existing attitudes used here will be that of the rational viewers insistence on giving an independent entity responsibility for a work, and the observations made by Andrew Sarris), and that they have “revised and revived”[6] the political form of criticism championed by Cahiers to current circumstances. The circumstance that arose long after Cahiers ended would be David Lynch’s first film, which defiantly protected its subtext from revelation. The critics from Cahiers were not observably anticipating a filmmaker who, when provided with an auteurist (both publically and academically) interpretation, would warp and bend the meaning of a director’s intent.

There is one final instruction given by Andrews that will bookend its helpful reference to this study.  The key to this instruction lies in the notion of “multiple contexts” that Andrews alludes to. The type of film most suited to auteurist studies, which is both reasonably argued by Andrews and convenient for the type of film to be discussed here, is the “cult” film. Andrews position that favoring the avant garde over the mainstream “benefits film scholarship, for it guarantees that the scholarship on cult auteurs will remain rooted in the collective, collaborative contexts that culminated in their being labelled 'auteurs' and their movies being labelled 'art movies'”[7]. Moreover, an “art film” exists in multiple contexts; its symbols often a collage of the director’s subjectivity. The frequent ambiguity of such art films invites the imposition of individual viewers as well. In the case of Eraserhead, specifically, “collaboration” is a fitting term, for the film is about Lynch’s feelings as well as his validation of the audience’s, resulting in interplay between filmmaker and spectator that occurs both while watching the film and while researching it. Finally, Andrew Sarris, whose observations on auteur theory will be the basis of interpretation for Eraserhead¸ leaves a potently relevant comment in an interview over auterism in 1972. He makes note of that fact that high-brow critics would review films perceived publicly as worthy of criticism, while low brow critics would review films deemed “second string”, although in terms of auteur theory, both are valid specimens for analysis. He goes as far as to say that “Part of the idea of auterism is perversity”[8]. This perversity applies to Eraserhead in terms of both its lurid visual content as well as David Lynch’s indulgence in his own subjective context of which the film exposes without any proper explanation.

Andrew Sarris devotes three categories to auteurism, referred to as “premises”. The utility of using the term “premises” is that it doesn’t restrict studies of auteurs to only those who entirely fulfill the three sections. He uses the metaphor of the premises being circles that contain each other, and a filmmaker can move in between these circles, partially or wholly fulfilling one, two, or all three premises. This is beneficial to a filmmaker like Lynch and to a film like Eraserhead because its status in the three premises is somewhat unorthodox or not complete. More attention will be given to this point upon applying the film to the three premises. Sarris’ first premise is “is the technical competence of the director as a criterion of value”[9]. Lynch’s status in this realm wavers, as Eraserhead was an amateur work. The final film product is unmistakably professional looking, and there is strong aesthetic quality and beauty to the film. However, the typical prototype of an accomplished and professional auteur fulfilling the first premise is contradicted when looking over the means of production for the film. Sarris quickly notes that an auteur (because these premises can be mutually exclusive) can have achieved mastery of “mise en scene” (a symbol of the third premise, to be discussed later) before achieving mastery in technical competence.

Eraserhead corroborates this viewpoint, which Sarris asserted by citing Luis Bunuel, “Bunuel was an auteur even before he had assembled of the first circle. Technique is simply the ability to put a film together with some clarity and coherence. Nowadays it is possible to become a director without knowing too much about the technical side”[10].  It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that David Lynch and his crew learned to make movies while making Eraserhead. The crew consisted of a handful of people, some of whom lived on the set provided by the American Film Institute. Catherine Coulson, the assistant director, was originally brought on as actress for a scene Lynch would never shoot. Her jobs would range from makeup and hairstyling to recording live audio. Lynch was a prop master, key grip and foley artist in addition to directing and producing. Perhaps one inadequate aspect of production was the script[11]. Although story content is entirely intentional, plot structure in terms of proper scriptwriting is practically non-existent. A true script never existed for Eraserhead¸ but rather a short treatment and outline that would be storyboarded before each night of filming.

 Looking back over Sarris’ professed requirements for the first premise, the notion of “clarity and coherence” is brought into an interesting light when associating it with Eraserhead. The film both defies and conforms to this premise. It is not a clear or coherent film in terms of content. It is, however, clearly and coherently executed. When something is unclear in Eraserhead, it is meant to be unclear. Nothing is hard to understand due to a failure to explain things. It is, rather, a refusal to explain things that results in ambiguity and absurdity. There is a prominent affirmation of this premise that exists in the production of the film, and that is David Lynch’s authority as a director, particularly in terms of his direction of actors. This quality, ironically enough, is a necessity due to meagerness in shooting. Because the film was shot with such limited resources in both lighting equipment and amount of film stock, camera and actor moves had to be very precise. In retrospectives, Lynch and Jack Nance often discuss the strict and painstakingly rehearsed blocking of the set. One comment made by Lynch in an interview goes into detail about this blocking process. He says “There was a period of time when we would rehearse—me and Jack in that room—and just work things out. And those rehearsals took a long, long time. Not only was it important for the film, but Jack loved details. And so we would almost break it down into, like, quarter-inch moves”[12]. Production of Eraserhead is defined by lack of professional means and abundance of dedication (an obvious necessity for a film that took over four years to complete). In these respects, Lynch fulfills the role of a mise en scene auteur while lacking all the assumed faculties of a technically competent auteur, like that of Bunuel. However, aspects of technical competency are still present in his methods despite being in an unorthodox fashion due to the film’s grassroots nature.

Sarris’ second premise, and arguably what is thought of most when referring to auteur theory, is the personal style of a director. Sarris asserts that “a director must exhibit a certain recurrent characteristic of style, which serves as his signature. The way a film looks and moves should have some relation to how a director thinks and feels”[13]. The reoccurring characteristics that exist in a filmmaker’s general oeuvre are the driving force behind the audience’s inclination to categorize auteurs. This “recurrent characteristic of style” is analogous to a literary author’s “voice”. It is what draws readers to the body of work and not an individual story, and it creates fan bases. Lynch’s body of work is marked by an eclectic quality, and the notion of a director’s thoughts and feelings raised by Sarris is particularly relevant to the work of Lynch, which relies on questions and mood. Lynch’s feelings are obviously unusual, as what he considers beautiful and aesthetically suited to the film image differs from mainstream standards. He says, “Certain things are just so beautiful to me, and I don’t know why. Certain things make so much sense, and it’s hard to explain. I felt Eraserhead, I didn’t think it”[14]. This attitude applies to Lynch’s work in general. The narrative is often guided by feelings and atmospheres that logically (somewhat ironically, as feelings and mood are not supposed to be logical) flow into one another. If a symbolic image can achieve a visceral effect with the audience, then Lynch will often use that over a portrayal of events that have direct relevance to the plot.

 Even in his more mainstream works metaphorical images can be identified, such as the image of John Merrick’s mother in The Elephant Man. She appears in hallucinatory sequences, singing to John, to bring hope and warmth to the bleak situations that John encounters. This is reminiscent of the Lady in the Radiator from Eraserhead, who plays a nearly identical role both in terms of her presence in the narrative (a hallucinatory, ambiguous apparition) and her thematic implications (warmth and hope). The beginning of the quote by Lynch goes along with his penchant for the repulsive. Lynch finds pathos in deformity and mutation. It can be said with accuracy that the infant in Eraserhead serves as a kind of antagonist because it is the source of Henry’s immediate problems and even appears malicious at times (gurgling and giggling maniacally when Henry is in distress). When Henry dissects it, however, the extremely violent bodily reaction and horrifying death it suffers forms a complete reversal in the viewer’s perception of it, at one moment a burden and then a tragedy. The tragedy and the emotional authority of deformity is repeated often throughout Lynch’s films, the most obvious example being the protagonist of The Elephant Man (the fact that the story is true completes this effect, as well).

Deformed or aesthetically abnormal characters can embody other traits too. The Giant in Twin Peaks is partially associated with the sympathetic representations of the two former as he is benevolent, wise, and clairvoyant. Of course, the infant isn’t an entirely sympathetic character, as for most of the film he is quite antagonistic. The somewhat zombified vagrant in Mullholland Drive has this quality, but he is also related to The Giant because of his otherworldly, superhuman nature. Each of these deformed characters seems to hold an unusually rare or superhuman ability of sorts. The infant is able to discern events far beyond the comprehension of a child its age, and his antagonism seems to be channeled from Henry’s own paranoia and discomfort. John Merrick is shown to have astonishing eloquence and emotional depth in spite of his distance from the human form and ability to express. The Giant and the vagrant occupy separate planes of reality and foreshadow later events with uncanny clairvoyance. Abnormal looking characters and the visceral and emotional weight that they carry are but one example of how David Lynch incorporates pathos and sympathy into the repulsive.

Although Lynch is often described as a surrealist filmmaker (and rightfully so), his frequent use of dark comedy is often overlooked. Many of his films have a steady vein of humor in them that arise out of dark circumstances. In analyses of Eraserhead, it often goes unmentioned that there are several deliberately funny sequences. Lynch himself speaks fondly of the scene where it takes a ridiculous amount of time for the elevator doors to close on Henry, confirming that the scene was intended to be funny.  In fact, he describes the entire first half of the film as “a black comedy, a strange comedy […] It has to be a certain kind of comedy to make a switch into fear”[15]. Lynch finds the use of dark humor convenient because it provides smooth segues into the serious and dark cores of his narratives. Another scene of comedy and morbidity in tandem takes place in Mullholland Drive, where a hitman, due to a misfire of his gun, must assassinate an entire floor of employees to cover his tracks. The humor is incredibly dark, and it helps to avoid any contradictions when it comes to the fact that these hitman are murderers and lead the main characters to very grim fates. This switch that David speaks of, which is present in Eraserhead, Mullholland Drive¸ and several others, is both a part of the surrealistic trademark of his films and coincides with the notion that his films are fluidly evolving displays of moods and atmospheres.

In terms of directorial style and not just recurring narrative motifs, Lynch is well known for having his scenes play out in a way that will cause maximum visceral reactions. Charlotte Stewart (Mary X, Eraserhead) aptly states that Lynch “lets scenes go beyond the point of comfort”[16] when discussing the scene where her character tugs under Henry’s bed for her suitcase for an unusual amount of time. The oddly humorous elevator scene discussed before is a good example, but in that case it is a discomfort that results in amusement. There is an abundance of uncomfortably extended scenes that are meant to express abject horror or disgust in Lynch’s work. The profanity laden rants of Frank Booth in Blue Velvet are intentionally gratuitous and seemingly unending so that his mere presence in a scene will ignite panic and tension. The audience knows that it takes very little to set Frank off and that once his temper is ignited, he does not often back down, which will make the scene long and grueling. Another scene in Blue Velvet features Ben (Dean Stockwell), a cohort of Frank’s, singing Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams” in its entirety, creating a scene that becomes both hypnotic and disturbing due to its length. In Mullholland Drive, the humorous scene with the hitman keeps going and going, which leads to the amusement of the audience through defied expectations. There are also a number of extensive sexual scenes, both between Betty/Diane and Rita/Camilla as well as between the two actresses and their respective co-stars. Almost all of these scenes come unexpectedly with great fervor and passion, and it is this sexuality (and romance) that drives the passions of the characters and motivates them (Betty’s desperation to get the part, Diane’s desperation for Camilla, etc.).

Finally, in terms of style, Lynch often focuses on characters that may live in populated and normal areas but create and perceive a world that is isolated and unpleasant. In Eraserhead, Lynch characterizes Henry’s world as “between a factory and a factory neighborhood. A little, unknown, twisted, almost silent lost spot where little details and little torments existed. And people were struggling in darkness”[17]. People are often struggling in darkness in a Lynch film, and sometimes that is due to the reality of their world, sometimes it is fabricated, and sometimes it is imposed. For Henry, his industrial, dreamlike landscape is inescapable, and other characters suffer from similar behavioral oddities that he does. Henry is constantly aware of the darkness that surrounds him and seems unfamiliar with it, as evidenced by his constantly confused and apprehensive expression. Despite its alien quality, his world is a reality shared by people who experience similar psychological maladies as him. There are two films, for example, in Lynch’s filmography that contain characters who have darkness imposed on them. These are The Elephant Man and Blue Velvet.

There is a major difference between these two films, however, and that is that one has darkness imposed from a place where darkness already exists explicitly. The other has darkness imposed from a secret and undiscussed place, where the normal state of things is positive and pleasant. In The Elephant Man, John Merrick’s purity is under assault from society, particularly the society of England. This culture is portrayed as immoral, insensitive, and generally abysmal. The two competing forces are civilization, which Lynch portrays as corrupt and malicious, and purity, which comes in the form of a man who knows no civilization or significant relationships with people. Blue Velvet portrays a civilization that is not totally amoral despite being a much more graphic and crime-ridden film. One of the main thrusts of the film is the notion of suburban society, white picket fences and picturesque qualities, containing a sinister and depraved underbelly. Accepting this notion is to accept that the good truly does exist. However, people do not belong to either one exclusively. Frank resides in the darkness but goes into the realm of goodness to take Dorothy and her family hostage. He thereby infects Dorothy at the very least (from what is observable) with his darkness, making her dependent on his abnormal sexual fetishes (mainly sexual violence). Now Dorothy resides somewhere in between both sides, and the darkness that has been imposed on her she now transfers to Jeffery (she insists he hit her during sex). In Mullholland Drive, Betty/Diane lives in one of the most populous cities in the country, yet her scope is barren and unrealistic because she has created an illusion for herself to cope with her insecurities and losses. To repeat, characters in Lynch films often live on the outskirts, but whether those outskirts are real or proverbial varies, and the proximity of those outskirts to normalcy varies as well, depending on thematic content.

These are a few, among many, trademarks of Lynch’s personal style. Sarris’ second premise is likely the one that Lynch most purely fulfills, and it is the cause of Lynch’s cult fan base (typical of many directors considered auteur). While Lynch, depending on certain points in his career, is not always fully (or traditionally) fulfilling the premise of technical competence (although it should be restated that his films still look quite finished and professional) and takes a rather unusual approach to the third premise, Lynch’s fulfillment of the second premise is locked and reliable. In regards to the third premise, the terms of Andrew Sarris, as has been the pattern, should be clearly stated.

Sarris’ third premise is that of “interior meaning”, sometimes referred to as “mise en scene” (since mise en scene is an abstract concept, then a director “being” mise end scene presumably has achieved sufficient understanding and ability to execute mise en scene). The ultimate definition of “interior meaning” is not made clear, so speculation and personal opinion will suffice for the proceeding analyses. For simplicity’s sake, interior meaning will hereafter be defined as the theme, goal, or message of the individual film of an auteur director. It expresses a perspective held by that director. What Sarris does determine, is that interior meaning is “extrapolated from the tension between the director’s personality and his material. It is not quite the vision of the world a director projects nor quite his attitude towards life. It is ambiguous, in any literary sense, because part of it is embedded in the stuff of cinema and cannot be rendered in non-cinematic terms”[18].

Several components are worthy of interpretation in this statement. The most obviously relevant would be Sarris’ description of the interior meaning as ambiguous. Lynch’s style alone is marked by ambiguity. Followers of art cinema crave the open ended nature of his films because they lead to interpretation. Therefore, what follows is an ambiguous interior meaning as well, because the theme is intentionally encrypted. As far as “the stuff of cinema” goes, it would seem that the complex and subjective medley of images and symbols that is used to encrypt an interior meaning is being referred to. Of course, this encryption is lighter with auteur directors who work closer to the mainstream. It is generally accepted, for instance, that the imagery, story, and symbols (the stuff) of The Godfather are the encryption for an allegory of capitalism. The more provocative component is the assertion of the tension between a director and his material. A question is raised here, that question being, does an auteur director feel ambivalence towards his film in order to become an auteur? Is there tension between Lynch’s personality and Eraserhead? It doesn’t appear to be so upon first glance due to Lynch’s typical deliberateness. Including the “personality tension” aspect the film with the partial absence of the director’s world view and attitude on life (which Sarris follows with), however, reveals these questions to be affirmatively answered. Close study of Lynch’s particular responses to how the film was meant to be received reveals a perspective that exists inherently in the film, and that is both an endorsement of Lynch’s thoughts and feelings and a refusal to impose those very sentiments on viewers. The interior meaning, in other words, is absolutely and entirely subjective. In terms of what message or goal is being produced, that outcome belongs to Lynch and Lynch alone, and therefore the void must be filled with the viewer’s subconscious experience.

In terms of that interior meaning which belongs to Lynch, the outcome was crafted with purpose. Perhaps the most convincing evidence of this is Lynch’s painstakingly rigid attention to mood and atmosphere. He says that “Once you create a world, no matter how strange it is, you have limitations and you have to stay within them. And if you break them, things fall apart”[19]. Once the notion becomes realized that Eraserhead is, in fact, not experimental but purposefully designed, the interior meaning that serves Lynch is confirmed. In fact, the film is an amalgam of Lynch’s subjective experience, some of which he is willing to explain and some of which he guards fiercely. One aspect of the film that is privy to viewers and critics is its atmosphere’s relation to Lynch’s feelings about his own surroundings. He says that “[Eraserhead] is sort of a Philadelphia film. Philadelphia to me is a city filled with fear, and it’s sort of a decaying, violent, fearful place”[20]. Lynch’s feelings about his home and the feelings that were generated by his subjective experience of a specific city contribute to the mood of the setting of the film. Other pieces of the film, such as the Man in the Planet (an undeniable symbol due to his lack of relation to any of the characters or events of the narrative) are remarked by Lynch to have specific meaning and relevance to the story, although upon that specific piece he will not give an explanation.

Overall, the void that Lynch creates in the space of interior meaning is a generous act. He doesn’t allow his ego to dictate how a film will be interpreted. The power he gains as a director is something he gives back to the audience, maintaining early on that “[Eraserhead]’s an open feeling film. It’s anything goes. If somebody sees it and wants to make a political film out of it, they can do that […] It’s not fair for me to say ‘oh, you didn’t get it’ because the film is so abstract”[21]. Perhaps a simpler way of putting is to quote Charlotte Stewart, the actress who portrays Mary X, once again. She makes an analogy, saying, “if you go to museum, and you’re going room to room, and you’re looking at beautiful art… you really shouldn’t try to figure it out”[22]. At the end this contradicts the goal of this analysis, because figuring Eraserhead out has to be assumed as the primary goal. What needs to be clarified, then, is what this analysis is attempting to determine. There are two options. Is it trying to determine the theme or the function of Eraserhead? The answer, unquestionably, is function. A movie that intentionally lacks interior meaning except to that of its creator provides a function to the mind of those who watch it. Lynch describes Eraserhead as a “dream of dark and troubling things”. This dream is something to be interpreted through the individual viewer’s subjectivity, a very uncommon outcome for that of an auteur. And as for that dream, Chris Rodley asks Lynch a question in an interview for his book, Lynch on Lynch. The question is, “Is Henry dreaming up the film, or is he being dreamt?” Lynch’s answer: “See, that’s something I can’t say”[23].

NEWSPAPERS/PERIODICALS

Andrews, David. "No Start, No End: Auteurism And The Auteur Theory." Film International       (16516826) 10.6 (2012): 37-55. Film & Television Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec. 2014.

Barrett, Gerald. "Andrew Sarris Interview: October 16, 1972 (Part One)." Literature Film             Quarterly 1.3 (1973): 195. Film & Television Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec. 2014.

Jones, Kent. "Critical Condition." Film Comment 50.2 (2014): 40-45. Film & Television            Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec. 2014.

AUDIO/VISUAL SOURCES

Lynch, David. David Lynch and Frederick Elmes Interview. By Tom Christie. 1979. DVD

Lynch, David, dir. Eraserhead Stories. 2001. DVD.

Pretty as a Picture: The Art of David Lynch. Dir. Toby Keeler. Perf. David Lynch, Jack Nance,     Charlotte Stewart, and Catherine Coulson. Fine Cut Presentations. 1997. DVD.

Coulson, Catherine. Catherine Coulson Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD

Stewart, Charlotte. Charlotte Stewart Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD

Roberts, Judith Anna. Judith Anna Roberts Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD

Elmes, Frederick. Frederick Elmes Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD

BOOKS

Lynch, David, and Chris Rodley. 2014. Lynch on Lynch. London: Faber and Faber, 1997. N.      pag. Print.

Sarris, Andrew. "Notes On the Auteur Theory in 1962." 1962-63. Film Theory and Criticism. 7th             ed. New York: Oxford UP, 2009. 451-54. Print

---

[1] Lynch, David. David Lynch and Frederick Elmes Interview. By Tom Christie. 1979. DVD

[2] Andrews, David. "No Start, No End: Auteurism And The Auteur Theory." Film International  (16516826) 10.6         (2012): 37-55. Film & Television Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec. 2014.

[3] Andrews, 2

[4] Jones, Kent. "Critical Condition." Film Comment 50.2 (2014): 40-45. Film & Television Literature Index. Web. 9     Dec. 2014.

[5] Andrews, 3

[6] Andrews, 3

[7] Andrews, 5

[8] Barrett, Gerald. "Andrew Sarris Interview: October 16, 1972 (Part One)." Literature Film Quarterly 1.3 (1973):          195. Film & Television Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec. 2014.

[9] Sarris, Andrew. "Notes On the Auteur Theory in 1962." 1962-63. Film Theory and Criticism. 7th ed. New York:        Oxford UP, 2009. 451-54. Print

[10] Sarris, 453

[11] Lynch, David, dir. Eraserhead Stories. 2001. DVD.

Pretty as a Picture: The Art of David Lynch. Dir. Toby Keeler. Perf. David Lynch, Jack Nance, Charlotte Stewart,      and Catherine Coulson. Fine Cut Presentations. 1997. DVD.

Coulson, Catherine. Catherine Coulson Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD

Elmes, Frederick. Frederick Elmes Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD

[12] Lynch, David, and Chris Rodley. 2014. Lynch on Lynch. London: Faber and Faber, 1997. N.     pag. Print.

[13] Sarris, 452

[14] Lynch, David. Chris Rodley. 1997.

[15] Lynch, David. Christie, Tom. 1979.

[16] Stewart, Charlotte. Charlotte Stewart Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD

[17] Lynch, David. Rodley, Chris. 1997.

[18] Sarris, 453

[19] Lynch, David. Christie, Tom. 1979.

[20] Lynch, David. Christie, Tom. 1979.

[21] Lynch, David. Christie, Tom. 1979.

[22] Stewart, 2014

[23] Lynch, David. Rodley, Chris. 1997