This film was recommended to me by poet and Professor Lara Glenum as an
example of a gem of early silent cinema and of high German Expressionsim, and
as a response to my request for films that should be considered in the search
for understanding of the genre of poetry-film. From this perspective, it seems,
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari should
have rich interpretive value—in terms of the psychological and artistic status
of high German art and antebellum German society’s psychological bents.
According to one
critic, Weine wanted to reveal the “uncertainty” of the human mind, which goes
far deeper than we are able to predict or understand clearly. “Therefore, there
are some aspects in this film which significantly involve with the idea of mind
control, dual identity and psychological terror.” One can see how these tropes might
reflect the psychology of German society at this time—a time during which Germany
was occupied by American forces and grappling with defeat after WWI, for
example. Certainly the psychological underpinnings of the film's concepts have important
implications for a time in which Nazism was gaining a foothold in German
politics as well.
However, being that my research has pretty exclusively to do with the question
of the history, development, and current status of the genre of poetry-film,
and being that I have neither the background nor the time necessary to devote
to explorations into questions involving these aspects of the film as fully as
their importance and seriousness would require, I will need to bypass questions
regarding the socio-political implications of the film—and the German
Expressionist movement with which it is concerned/associated—altogether and focus
entirely on the film’s merits in terms of its relation to the genre of
poetry-film. (Although I will try to at least acknowledge the context of the
films in the course of my study, I imagine I will need to ultimately observe
and note this context only in passing, in order to remain focused on the
purpose of this course.)
What is interesting about Dr. Caligari
and the first few films in this study—I will address these individually as well
as broadly in this response—is that they seem to bare little resemblance to my
concept and experience of “poetry-films” as I understand them. For instance,
in-line with the standard tropes of horror films, Dr. Caligari depicts a number of heroes and villains, is driven by
its plot, and resolves itself in an orderly fashion. To me, this type of transparent
linear structure does not reflect the ideology of more experimental films, which
might cross into the territory of “poetry-film” with less resistance. The plot of
Dr. Caligari, for example, might be
summarized in a few short sentences, while, to me, one concept
that seems somewhat essential to poetry and, likewise, poetry films, is that
it resists this kind of summary—what’s
more: its very essence and worth lies in this resistance, in the distinctive
qualities of the thing-in-itself and in the difficulty of “breaking-down,”
synthesizing, or summarizing the “poem” or poet’s logic or intent. While
this film, as I have already implied, is unquestionably complex in terms of its
socio-political implications, it does not seem to me to resist this basic
exercise.
It seems that if one is to understand the
film as an example of, or even a precursor to, the poetry-film genre at all,
one might focus on the visual aspects of the film—the obscure painted backdrops
and hazy, shadowy effects that seem, in truth, to be intended to reflect the “psychological”
implications of the film more so than any “poetic” intent: the horror is
expressed visually in unusual and disorienting ways as well as in the action of
the film. Therefore, one might ask, “Do these artistic qualities of the film (observed
in backdrop, lighting, etc.) merit a ‘reading’ of the film as poetry?” My
feeling is that they do not. While they certainly are “artistic” and
interesting, and I’m sure, important in regards to the time period and the movement
to which they belong, the visual elements do not register as “poetic,” to any
notable degree.
In any case, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is clearly not a poetry-film, despite the fact that certain
aspects of its composition may be called “poetic." To what degree,
however, can we understand the artistic, expressionist methods employed in this
film to inform later generations that move with greater intent and distinction
into the realm of the poetry-film? That is a question that we must keep in
mind, I think, as we continue to move through the content of this course.
Night Mail, (1936)
Benjamin Britten & W.H. Auden
This film was recommended by poet and professor Laura Mullen in response to the same
request for examples of the subject of poetry-film. The implications for this
film as poetry are far more direct, and stated neatly by the author of this
post, which also provides ample information on the film’s origins and on
the process of its creation. Though technically not a poetry-film (rather a
documentary produced by Great Britain’s General Post Office with a poem spoken
into its tail end), Night Mail utilizes
the work of the great English poet W.H. Auden to celebrate the marvel of G.B.’s
modern automotive mail delivery system. The author of the post referenced above
provides some insight into the possible socio-political motivations for the making of the short documentary and into some of the technical aspects of the
construction of the film, but Night
Mail, I think, serves us mainly here as a prime example of one of the
earliest instances of poetry appearing in film. What is interesting about this
particular example is that, as opposed poetry-films “proper,” the main focus of the film is not its
poetic content, but rather the poetry serves the purpose of the subject—“serves,”
I mean, both topically and in its enthusiastic approach to that topic.
Referring romantically in this occasional poem to the train as “her,” Auden
states,
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
The staccato rhythm and incessant rhyme
of the four-part poem mimics both the monotonous chugging of the train’s engine
and Brittan’s musical accompaniment, while the content of the lyric relishes beholding
and describing the train’s progress into the lives, and through the emotive
implications of mail, the hearts of English countrymen and women. It is
interesting to note that poetry-in-film’s earliest history mimics one of the
most prevalent utilitarian purposes of and traditions in poetry: to exalt, to
compliment, to provide tribute. In this sense, Auden is the perfect choice to
elicit a rallying response in viewers. Visually, the film survives as a lovely
early document of trains, if you like trains, and a brief but rare revealing of
the guts of a mail-delivery system. A short scene depicting a number of men
standing, sorting before a much greater number of cubbies labeled with the
names of towns, for example, is a quaint and accurate reminder of the lives
behind the letters that appeared in early 20th century mailboxes.
The next two films were
recommended to me by friend and great thinker Max Greenstreet in response to my
request for fodder to help me along my quest for the meaning of “poetry-film.” Here,
I think, in the film that inspired the "Hollywoodized" Meg-Ryan-Nicholas-Cage romance-genre-classic adaptation City of Angels, we have
a film that serves to define our understanding of the concept of poetry-film in
much the same way as The Cabinet of Dr.
Caligari. By this I mean that both films, while containing “poetic elements," exist well within parameters of a traditional feature film. Wings of Desire has, for example, like Dr. Caligari, a pretty straightforward
plot—a plot that drives the action forward to a defined climax and
resolution—and, in this sense, is not extremely experimental. However, the film
does devote large chunks of itself to spanning shots with little-to-no
dialogue, or scenes in which the dialogue represents a muffled and partial
excursion into the thoughts of the film’s seemingly countless characters. Perhaps
it is this sparseness, the keen attention to language that becomes apparent in
these scenes, paired with the deeply personal nature of the character’s
thoughts that reminds us of poetry here.
Indeed, the film was, for
Wenders, at least to some degree, inspired
by the poetry of Rilke—and a poem titled “Song of Childhood,” written by
Peter Handke at the behest of Wenders specifically for the film, is repeated in
a singsong voiceover attributed to the mind of its central angel character,
Bruno Ganz (“Damiel”), throughout the film. Peter Handke, according to Wenders’
own account (follow link above), also provided much of the interior “dialogue”
of the film: the glimpses into the minds of its characters that the audience is
privy to.
Certainly, in addition to the
language of the film, the ideas in Wings of Desire are also poetic: the
idea of angels, for example, serving as “witnesses” to the inner-turmoil of
mankind, the idea of one angel, then, falling in love with a human and
consequentially sacrificing his powers and immortality in order for the chance
to have his love felt and reciprocated by the object of his adoration. (As I am
writing this, I am realizing that if you were to replace “angel” with “mermaid”
and flip the gender signifiers in the preceding sentence, you would have the
story of The Little Mermaid.)
Visually, the film is stunning: full of high-contrast, invisible shots;
fascinating portrait after fascinating portrait of individuals in the crowd; backdrops
that seem to flow effortlessly into the contemporary out of the “old world...”
Max provided a comment regarding Wings of
Desire to the effect that he remembered only certain scenes of the film as
“being a Poetry Film”—or maybe a portion of the film, like the first third. I
agree that if you were to isolate certain sections of the film, you might have
a very interesting poetry-film indeed; but (putting its merits as a film aside) Wings of Desire, like Dr.
Caligari is ultimately bookended and held
together by the mechanisms of a more traditional film—to the extent that
even Hollywood saw its potential to appeal to large crowds as a straightforward
romance blockbuster.
The last of the films I’m discussing this round was also recommended to me by
Max—before Amiri Baraka died last month. I'm grateful for the opportunity to study (if only very briefly) this important poet near the time of his passing.
The X Is Black is the first of the films that
seems, to me, to land squarely within the realm of the poetry-film. This short
segment, featuring the performance and poetry of Amiri Baraka was part of a five-part series originally aired by PBS, which was
also released in its entirety as a CD titled “The United States of Poetry” by
the first poetry record label, Mouth Almighty. To refer to the assertions made
in my former posts, and in terms of its categorization as a poetry film, we may
say of The X Is Black the following:
- The film resists useful summary.
- A poem is the subject of the film.
- The film does not possess a traditional
narrative structure.
To expand on these (very much
in-process) criteria, I suggest that we go through them one-by one:
(1.) The
film resists useful summary. One could reasonably summarize a work like Wings of Desire, by saying the
following:
In the film, angels serve as “witnesses” to the inner-turmoil
of mankind. One angel falls in love with a human and, consequentially,
sacrifices his powers and immortality in order for the chance to have his love
felt and reciprocated by the object of his adoration.
While this summary is,
undoubtedly, leaving out a great deal of the complexity of the emotional and
visual achievements of the film, it is effective in expressing the basic events
of the film. Because the film is primarily narrative (it tells a story) and
because the subject of the film is primarily that story, the film may be summarized
in the manner that I have done without omitting necessary information about the
plot. However, an attempt to provide a summary of the plot of The X Is Black would sound something
like this: “A man recites a poem.” Since there is only one action in this
summary, and no climax or resolution, the summary does not resemble a plot.
Rather, since (2.—I'm jumping ahead here) the subject of The X
Is Black is the poem “The X Is Black,” a summary of the film would involve
the explanation first that the subject of the film is the poem, and then, possibly,
an attempt to summarize the poem, which, in itself, should present a number of
challenges.
(2.) The subject of the film is the poem “The X Is Black.” This is
proven, I think, by the lack of any actors or performers in the film besides
the poet/author of the poem and by the lack of attention visually to any
subject matter besides the poet and poem.
(3.) The film does not possess any of the conventions of a cinematic film: this has been demonstrated, in part, by the difficulty of providing a summary of the action of the film.
I think these definitions can continue, then, to serve us for now. But there is
perhaps at least one other aspect of The
X Is Black that might help us to distinguish it from other types of film,
and particularly as a poetry-film:
namely, that (4.) it is short; specifically
less than two minutes in length—much shorter than a feature length film and
only very slightly longer than a straightforward reading of the poem would take. My prediction is
that, when a film strikes us as being “more like a poetry film,” it will satisfy
these criteria: (4.) it will be a
shorter film (it will adhere to about the length of an average poem or poetry reading in its
duration), (3.) it will resist a “useful” summary, (2.) the subject of the film will seem
to be a poem, and (1.) the film will resist conventional narrative structures.