(images found here)

If you think about it, a rack focus actually imitates our natural perception of perspective in the world around us by blurring the thing we’re not focused on and sharpening the other. (If you’re looking through a window, you’re focusing on the hill outside rather than the curtains.

But wait…there’s more!

A rack focus is not a simple shift of focus from one thing to another. In that case, why not a cut or a pan? Rack focus is a way to keep an eye on two things at once. Sometimes the true object of focus is not what the camera is focused on, but the other part of the shot. It allows the audience to shift between several images or ideas while still considering all of them at once. While most film shots tell you where to look, rack focus merely suggests.

And that’s why I’m in love.

www.serenae.com

Beautiful film, and I’m not going to be done with it for years, I suspect. If ever.

I know we already talked this one to death, but I’m feeling the need to explore it further. We explored the nature of the statement, but not really the statement itself. We asked what was meant by “creativity”. What qualifies as creativity? What is the connotation of the word “problem” in this context? Why is it phrased as “taking in” rather than “approaching”? Is it even possible to approach these question in a way that produces answers?

I think the only way I’m going to get anywhere with this–and the only way any of us can, really–is to use whatever interpretation that is meaningful for me personally. When I create art, in whatever form it takes, am I doing it because I’m trying to address a condition that is present in my world and important to me? I think Dr. C misinterpreted (only slightly) my intent with that question. I’m not really judging myself and my art by whether or not I’m “taking in” a “problem”. Rather, I’m simply asking myself whether or not that’s what I do, as a condition of my creativity. I’m not overly concerned with conforming to this statement or feeling guilty by not doing so. Just wondering if, somehow, that statement represents a basic intent that I was never fully aware of.

I’m not sure if I can tell you whether the statement is true for me or not. I know my basic motivations for being creative, but do they somehow conform to this underlying principle? First and foremost, I create art because it makes me happy. Because it makes me think. Because I enjoy it. But what do I try to do with it? I think that every artist has the same basic motivations, though secondary motivations may vary. When you create art, you’re doing it to:

1. Express emotion
2. Affect others
3. Reveal yourself

If you feel something strongly, you create. You draw, photograph, write, compose, sing, paint, think.

When you create, you want to inspire observers and show them something new, whether about the world, themselves, or others. If I create something and it makes someone look at the world in a different way–not even a significant, life-changing, “aha!”-moment way–I am satisfied. I want to show everyone something beautiful and inspire thoughts, or even just one tiny thought, that they never would have had otherwise. Even if they forget all about it the next second, it was there. And I think that’s important. Is that a form of “taking in the world as a problem”? I think so. Our OED definition of “problem” used the phrase “throw out”. I’m taking in the world as a problem, interpreting it, channeling it, and then throwing it back out for others to take in. Each resulting thought is a new interpretation of my interpretation, which is, in turn, an interpretation of the one that I’ve taken in, which probably also originated as an interpretation. Does it ever end? Can you trace back thoughts? Ideas? Problems? Inspiration?

Perhaps everything should just be under a Creative Commons license, because nothing is truly the work of one person. Everything I do, think, create, or feel is the accumulation of the thoughts, creations, and feelings of millions of people before me.

Most of all, in my art I show people who I am. And maybe it just so happens that who I am–and who we all are– is a composite of everyone else who ever thought, created, or felt in the entire history of the world. We don’t need to consider what it means to take in the world as a problem. It’s already what we are.

The Vanishing
(Of Original Plot, Meaning, and Art, but Unfortunately Not of Kiefer Sutherland.)

It is the frequent and generally unavoidable fate of most great foreign films to be, at one point or another, remade for American audiences. Hollywood snatches up popular foreign films, eager to capitalize on their success overseas by catering to the very different tastes of what is perceived as the ‘average American viewer’. George Sluizer’s two versions of The Vanishing illustrate this situation perfectly.

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In 1988, Sluizer made Spoorloos (The Vanishing in the U.S.). Five years later, he turned out a Hollywood version of the film. The first question to consider when comparing these two films is how to classify their relationship to one another. According to the criteria set forth in “Rewriting Remakes”, an ‘updating’ is a film in which “the structure of the original is only minimally modified”, while a ‘remake’ is a “new production, with a different cast and location, and a modified story line.” (20) Clearly, the 1993 version of The Vanishing is a remake. However, it is subsequently mentioned that “the ‘true’ and censurable remake, therefore, is a film that copies the way that the original’s images are presented on the screen. A ‘false’ remake is not a remake at all but an adaptation.” While the American version of the film has obvious differences in plot, structure, pace, characters, and dialogue, it still manages to recycle many of the original shots and shot sequences. Although much is added to this newer film, the parts of the original plot that are left intact contain reasonably faithful images. The differences in the scenes that both films share are so minute that I would still classify the 1993 version as a remake rather than an adaptation. But this brings up yet another issue. Is this imitation of shot composition also reprehensible? According to André Bazin, “the way American producers copy the images rather than work merely from the basic storyline” is “particularly irritating.” (8) However, it is stated in “Reviewing Remakes” that citation and plagiarism are barely distinguishable in most cases. Additionally, the fact that the original director was in control of the new version pretty much eliminates the possibility of plagiarism. This does, however, bring in the idea of the ‘autoremake’, or the “reworking by a director of his or her own material.” (21) When examining films and their remakes, it is generally hoped that the experience of each is different, but enhanced in some way. “While the new work asserts its own identity in distinction to a first version, both old and new garner new meaning by their very intertextuality.” (22) Unfortunately, any new meaning discovered through the relationship between these two very different films only serves to highlight the risks inherent in Hollywood remakes.

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There are many immediately observable differences between the two versions of this film. Plot is the most obvious one, of course. The original film has a chilling—but perfect—end, one that is in keeping with the style of the entire movie. In a terrifying, claustrophobic scene, Rex, the protagonist, realizes that he has been buried alive. This is followed by a few brief shots suggesting that the outside world has continued despite his death. The murderer, meanwhile, continues to enjoy his life, untouched by remorse or legal repercussions. Whether a result of the American need for satisfactory resolution or, perhaps, the producer’s reluctance to kill off Kiefer Sutherland, the ending in the 1993 version is radically different. Jeff (our American version of Rex) is indeed buried alive. However, this is where the similarity stops. Sluizer attempts to replicate this scene, but the thing that makes the original so haunting is its permanence, something that the new version distinctly lacks. Jeff’s remarkably dedicated girlfriend tracks down the murderer and confronts him, eventually managing to defeat “Barney” and dig her boyfriend up before he suffocates. Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times complains that “the ending of the original ‘Vanishing’ is of a piece with the rest of the film. It is organically necessary to it. No other ending will do. That is why this Hollywood remake is so obscene.” I couldn’t agree with him more. Although basic plot structure is also toyed with in the remake, it is only in the final scenes that we see a glaring difference. However, the fact that many original scenes, or even shot sequences, were preserved does not necessarily mean that they are faithful.

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Bazin’s comment about Hollywood preserving images while distorting nearly everything else is especially relevant in this case. Important dialogue is altered in a way that completely removes meaning and original intention. For example, the opening scene in Spoorloos consists of Rex and Saskia chatting playfully while driving down a European highway. This is replaced in the American version by Jeff (Sutherland) and Diane (Sandra Bullock) driving past a charred Mt. St. Helens and arguing about their vacation together. Jeff suggests that they choose a different national disaster area, and that’s about the extent of their conversation, in terms of content, meaning, and depth. The vitally important tunnel scene, in which we discover that Saskia has dreamt of drifting in a ‘golden egg’ in space, is completely different in the new version. Perhaps it was decided that American audiences either couldn’t understand or would be too impatient with the golden egg theme, despite the fact that it is a pervasive force throughout the original film. Regardless of the reason, Diane has no such dream, and her abandonment in the dark tunnel becomes simply an incident illustrating her fear and attachment to Jeff. Diane’s later insistence that Jeff promises never to abandon her again is familiar, but not quite identical to the original. In Spoorloos, Rex and Saskia have already made up after the tunnel incident and are lying together in the grass. She has him repeat after her: “I, me, Rex Hofman…swear that the wonderful…exquisite and sweet…” Here he alters his repetition: “…almost always sweet”, but she insists on her original phrasing: “the always sweet Saskia Wagter…will never be abandoned by me.” This scene is both touching and meaningful, representative of the dedication that later drives him to pursue the truth of her fate so single-mindedly. However, Jeff and Diane’s version is slightly, but significantly different. “I, Jeff Harriman…swear that the wonderful…the exquisite and sweet…” His alteration: “…the exquisite and potentially sweet” and her response: “the always sweet Diane Shaver…will never be left by me again…till death do us part.” His final comment, accompanied by a grin and sheepish chuckle, simply adds to the levity of the situation in this version: “That makes it sound so official.” In Spoorloos, this exchange serves as a poignant, serious, and meaningful break in the temporarily light mood of that particular scene. In its remake, the exchange is used as nothing more than an apology of sorts, and end to their fight. This is intentional trivialization of dialogue that was originally very important and emotionally loaded. Why? Because it is enforcing the familiar pattern of conflict and resolution. The film is promising its audience that it will resolve everything satisfactorily, from the basic plot to the relationships between characters. Not only this, but everything will conform to easily recognizable patterns, limiting the amount of serious thought and introspection that it demands from its viewers.

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This idea of resorting to predictability to soothe audiences is explained further on page 17: “The audience at an art film does not get a mimetic image of itself. Instead, audience members are made uncomfortable by the film’s refusal to fall into familiar and reassuring patterns, ones that in genre deceptively strike to reconcile collective and personal moral contradictions. The commercial cinema is one of masks, the art of cinema one of truth.” It would probably be fair to say that Spoorloos is art, while The Vanishing is merely another example of a Hollywood attempt to maximize economic gain. But, as Michael Harney points out in his essay, “the typical big summer movie is a theme park, a trade show…a multifunctional marketing vehicle. It sells itself, it sells toys, it sells food, it sells books and music. You can say it’s zero as art, but you haven’t said much of anything, since art was far from the minds of the people making it.” (73) So perhaps I shouldn’t be quite as critical of the 1993 version. After all, it has entirely different goals.

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This difference in motivation is especially apparent when considering genre. Although Spoorloos falls under the category of ‘psychological thriller’, I would be hesitant to assign this same classification to The Vanishing. (Even the original does not fit our dramatic, Hollywoodized model of the psychological thriller. As Ebert points out, in Spoorloos, Sluizer has “constructed a psychological jigsaw puzzle, a plot that makes you realize how simplistic many suspense films really are. The movie advances in a tantalizing fashion, supplying information obliquely, suggesting as much as it tells, and everything leads up to a climax that is as horrifying as it is probably inevitable.”) As for the remake, melodrama, action, and even ‘slasher film’ come more readily to mind. It is entirely incapable of being a ‘psychological thriller’ due to the absence of any real psychological aspects. Yes, there is a vague structure that hints at the suspense and thoughtfulness of the original, but it fails to follow through with anything but basic plot points and clichéd situations or exchanges. In the American version, they felt the need to develop the romance between Rita Baker (the new girlfriend) and poor, obsessed Jeff. Her origin as a waitress is revealed and the progress of their relationship is both shown and implied. This is obviously done because the change in ending necessitates it. We need this new woman to run up and save Jeff from certain death. In the original, it doesn’t matter where his new girl came from or how they interact, except to show that she doesn’t really exist for him in the same way that Saskia did. This is a very bleak message, and one that was, unsurprisingly, deemed unappealing to most American viewers. This is perfectly in keeping with one of Harney’s main points. “Art, even bad art, is that work which strives to reveal human beings, to hold up ‘a fearsome mirror to our selves and social orders.’ Entertainment is, by contrast, both a ‘mode of address to the most superficial levels of the personality’ and a denial of the very existence of social and psychological depth. Entertainment ‘disperses between the sub- and the superhuman.’ It purveys ‘dreams of redemption [that are] cynically aware of their own unreality’.” (67)

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Both the music and pace of The Vanishing highlight this emphasis on entertainment rather than art. The non-diegetic sound in Spoorloos, while very distinctively 1980’s, is relatively unintrusive and serves as a supplement to the dialogue and images. However, the musical score in the 1993 version is dramatic, moody, and predictable. The irony here is that while the music itself is predictable, it enforces and encourages further predictability of plot, emphasizing certain scenes. The music serves as the audience’s emotional cue, leaving nothing up to thought and completely eliminating ambiguity. Similarly, the speed of the plot in general and individual shots also conveys a very “American” sense of filmmaking. The long, thought-provoking shots of the original are replaced with a multitude of rapid cuts. This carries the action along quickly, bombarding the audience with meaningless visual stimuli while leaving them with virtually no time for serious reflection. But this is not the only technical aspect of the newer version that results in a dramatic reduction of significance.

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While the shot structure in many scenes, especially the one in which the antagonist is ‘rehearsing’ for his crime with the chloroform and car, is identical between the two films, there is still something noticeably different. Aspects of these shots are, again, either ignored or trivialized in the new version. The best way I can think of to describe the difference between these shots is that they are simplified in the American version. Tiny details are either eliminated altogether or, if deemed sufficiently important in the creation of suspense, made glaringly obvious. As an American filmgoer, I feel fairly insulted by this decision to convert an entire film in this way. Is Hollywood saying that we, as a society, are unintelligent? Or perhaps just incurably lazy? Either way, it’s not especially complimentary. This unfortunate phenomenon is explained particularly well in “Reviewing Remakes.”

“In her recent discussion of American remakes, Vincendeau distinguishes between American and French cinematic traditions, asserting that the former privileges ‘clear-cut motivation, both of causality (no loose ends) and character (good or evil),’ whereas the principle of the latter is “ambiguity”. The American remake of a French/European film serves to reveal this difference primarily through film endings, with the former providing a comforting resolution altogether absent in their European counterparts. The incompatibility of the two cinemas emerges equally in the dissimilar relations the remake establishes with its characters; American cinema deals in black-and-white oppositions with the neat elimination of all the grays. In this sense, the remake functions as the ideal point of cultural comparison between the two cinemas with one intended ostensibly for the supposedly naïve, childlike American, the other for the ironic, adult European.” (8)

What Vincendeau says is especially true in this case. The Vanishing is simplified to a degree that approaches the ridiculous. Complexities of the antagonist, Raymond, are reduced in an attempt to make him as clear-cut as the rest of the movie. In the original, he is understandable—occasionally even likeable. Two of the most important scenes that accomplish this are flashbacks. In the first, he leans over a balcony, looking down at the street below. He wonders what prevents him from jumping, and “in order to go against what is predestined” he jumps and breaks an arm. This idea is a tantalizing one even for the sanest of us. What guarantees that we won’t make the same kind of choice as him in a situation like that? The idea of ‘escaping destiny’ has always been an attractive one in society. We can understand this desire of his, in spite of where it ultimately leads. The second scene consists of Raymond leaping into a river to save a little girl. His own daughter is bursting with pride for him, but he arrives at the conclusion that he cannot be a true hero unless he is incapable of true evil. To test this hypothesis, he therefore must do the worst thing he can think of, which is, of course, burying a person alive. (We learn that he is claustrophobic from a scene in which a policeman pulls him over for not wearing a seatbelt. This detail is left out in the 1993 version.) But the Hollywood version villainizes him by delegating him to the role of obligatory ‘evil guy’. Barney Cousins is a grinning, remorseless villain, whose only goal seems to be the psychological—and eventually physical—destruction of his nemesis, Jeff. The original film is about understanding, whereas the new one is about relentless malevolence.

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But what about the issue of Sluizer? After all, he also directed the original film, which was brilliant. Roger Ebert certainly wants to know: “What’s the story here? Do Sluizer and his American producers believe the American movie audience is so witless it will not accept uncompromising fidelity to a story idea? Are Europeans deserving of smart, cynical filmmaking, but Americans have to be approached on a more elementary level? I don’t know. I simply know that George Sluizer has directed two films named ‘The Vanishing,’ and one is a masterpiece and the other is laughable, stupid and crude.” So what exactly went wrong? It’s obviously not a reflection of his talent as a director; the first version is proof of that. It follows, then, that the disappointing quality of the remake is due primarily to the American film industry. In his essay, “Twice Told Tales”, Thomas Leitch elaborates on this. “George Sluizer’s 1993 American remake of his own dark thriller The Vanishing (1988) corrects the error that made the earlier film so bleak and unsettling by providing a happy ending for American audiences and Kiefer Sutherland, a star in whose welfare they could be expected to have a residual investment.” (57) I’m not sure I agree with Leitch that Sluizer is ‘correcting an error’. This implies that an error exists, and, for most of the world, it did not. The ending of the original is only an ‘error’ as perceived by simple-minded American viewers. Quite honestly, I wouldn’t have minded if they’d just kept Kiefer Sutherland buried. And not because the original ending is so spectacular, which, incidentally, is also true, but because Kiefer had grown unbearably tiresome and by the end of the film I was more than ready for his permanent disposal. I’m not sure whether Kiefer Sutherland is most ridiculous when humming to himself as he waits for his girlfriend on the hood of the car, or emerging, Christ-like, from his near-death experience to eliminate a melodramatic villain. If I were one of the wittier film critics, I would probably say something like “The title of this film inspired misguided hope, and as a result I spent the entire movie waiting for Kiefer Sutherland to vanish. But, as with every other aspect of the film, I was left disappointed.”

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“Great films are not made. They are remade!” (3) Although occasionally true throughout cinematic history, as stated in the essay this quotation is drawn from, it’s definitely not true in this case. It was unnecessary to remake this film. Sometimes if a film is great enough, the remake can only hope to attract new and different audiences. This often translates to less discerning and sophisticated audiences, especially in the case of Hollywood remakes of foreign films. As long as there is widespread viewership for these cinematic monstrosities, the process will continue. But there is hope, at least for those of us who do care. After all, as Bazin argues, “…if there exists an audience for old and foreign films, there is no need to remake.” (19) And even if the misguided ‘powers that be’ do remake, we always have the option of maintaining our undying loyalty to the superior original, which is exactly what I intend to do.

This is an assignment for my small group communication course, so I’ll be examining this film (which happens to be one of my all-time favorites) for its group problem-solving elements. Fun!

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Lesson One: The flaws of having appointed leaders

The most immediately apparent lesson involving functional (or, in this case, dysfunctional) small group decision making is the question of leadership and evolving roles of group members. Though there were many factors that contributed to the conflict of the jury members, one of the main complications was the fact that there was no distinct leader. This might have been all right if each member had respect for the others and their opinions, but in this case the leadership role was necessary for group progress. It is clear very early on in the film that the appointed leader, the foreman (Jury Member 1), is a little insecure with the role given him and lacks the assertiveness to maintain order in a group of this size and diversity. Even a simple exchange in the opening stages seems to make him uncomfortable with his status:

Jury member: “Should we sit in order?”

Foreman: “Gee, I dunno…I guess so.”

Even though the question isn’t a particularly important one, the way he handles it and later tries to enforce it reveals how little confidence he has in his ability to maintain this position and comfort with it. He’s fairly timid and consistently has difficulty getting the attention and cooperation of the other jury members. It seems as if he’d be much better–and happier– with an organizational role rather than a leadership one. He begins by offering different options for how to proceed with the discussion, but the reaction shots of the other members show that he’s not really viewed as a particularly authoritative figure. The type of initial vote that he decides upon is also not the best way of making everyone’s opinion heard. While preliminary voting is useful when determining very generally where the group stands, it’s important to remember that it is meant to be a starting point for discussion, not a decision in itself. When the other jury members are unhappy about the lone dissenting vote, he fails (yet again) to maintain proper control when everyone jumps on Henry Fonda’s character and it takes the group a significant amount of time to take the next step into discussion.

Later he tries to enforce the decision of going around in a circle and letting everyone have a chance to speak, but he seems uncomfortable even asserting his own power: “Wait a minute. We, uh, decided to do this a certain way and I think we oughta stick to that way.”

The way this is going for him, it is practically inevitable that someone will challenge his authority, and a conflict arises over this. Annoyed, he says, ““You think it’s easy? You take over” and sits, facing away from the group and visibly upset. When another member asks him for his approval of a step being taken in the discussion, his only response is: “I don’t care what you do.”

This continues, and in this way his role gradually shifts further away from a leadership one and more towards that of a moderator and coordinator, while Jury Member 8 (Henry Fonda) moves closer to being the leader. The bottom line is that the best way to establish a group leader is to simply let one emerge naturally. This is also true for each of the other group roles, and several very clearly developed roles become apparent as the film continues.

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Lesson Two: Approaching the discussion with an open mind

The idea of being an unbiased group member is a pretty straightforward one, but something that many groups tend to forget, at least initially. The characters in the movie are fairly extreme examples of this, but it’s important to remember that even in a group that seems homogeneous, each person is always going to have a slightly different perspective. It’s completely fine to let this affect the way you approach the discussion and feel about the subject matter, but it’s quite another matter when personal prejudices interfere with the group’s progress and put a strain on relations between group members. Two jury members (3 and 10) illustrate this particularly well. Between them, they represent two different kinds of biases that can be found in a group like this. Through his speech about the unsatisfactory moral character of all residents of slums, Jury Member 10 reveals exactly how prejudiced he is. Not only does this impede discussion by creating intense conflict, but it creates feelings of antagonism between him and other members of the group, which is not at all conducive to the kind of teamwork they’re attempting to accomplish. Jury Member 3 has a personal agenda. He is upset about his own son, as he explains at the beginning, and this emotional anxiety he’s feeling leads to a desire to take out his hurt feelings on someone who is wholly unconnected with his real problem–the defendant. For him, it’s a personal vendetta, and the other group members have a hard time understanding and tolerating the behavior that results from this.

He is the last, and most difficult to convince because his reasons for wanting to convict are based on emotion rather than logic. Although these characters are extreme, they serve as good representations of common mistakes groups can fall into. Everyone has biases, but when an objective decision is called for, remaining as unbiased as possible is vitally important. Members of a group like this should examine both their own motives and also take into consideration where each other group member is coming from. Mutual understanding and respect is something that most groups take for granted until it is thrown into question.

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Lesson Three: Appealing to different learning styles

Henry Fonda’s character (Jury Member 8) is remarkably persuasive. Is this just because he’s a good leader? Is it because he’s unquestionably right? Or is it, perhaps, his tactical approach to the task of convincing his fellow group members? Unless all members of a group come from identical backgrounds and hold the exact same opinions and beliefs on everything, people are going to disagree. One of the most important steps of group problem solving is discussion, of which persuasion is an integral part. What exactly is it that Henry Fonda is doing from the point he casts the lone dissenting vote to the end of the film, when everyone is (at last) in agreement? He convinces all 11 of his group members, some of whom were vehemently opposed to his opinion, to change their votes. And the cool part is, he does it by employing a technique most of us (especially teachers) are very familiar with. He appeals to different learning styles. His three main arguments are each geared towards a different type of learner.

The first argument is the one involving the knife. By actually producing a knife identical to the one belonging to the defendant, he makes a very visual appeal to his group members. They can see the two knives side-by-side, and are forced to accept the possibility, however slight, that the boy’s father could have been killed with another knife.

The second, the question of the train, appeals to more auditory learners, which is appropriate considering the auditory nature of that specific piece of evidence. He outlines clearly and logically the timing of the train and amount of sound it would produce. This is done in such a way that the other jury members can follow his arguments to their logical conclusion, one that they eventually accept as true.

The third piece of persuasion is the one involving the timing of the witness getting out of bed and running to the door. He appeals to kinesthetic learners by actually getting up and demonstrating the chain of events, even letting another group member time him. This exercise maintains interest through its interactive nature and is also a highly effective technique.

Throughout his main arguments, he continually appeals to jury members for input, drawing on their personal experience and opinions. This also strengthens his arguments because they’re composed of elements contributed by other group members. Good persuasive ability is essential during discussions, and he manages to overcome extreme differences in the group through these tactics.

I think I’ve watched this film 4 or 5 times, but this is the first time I’ve noticed many things, probably because I’m approaching it from the perspective of a small group analyst rather than that of a film student. It’s interesting to be paying attention to possible group roles and organizational difficulties rather than camera angles and filmmaking techniques. But perhaps the complications of group interaction and their accurate portrayal is just as important to consider as all the other elements of film. This just reinforces the idea that film is incredibly versatile and multidimensional. I can’t wait to see what I’ll discover next.

So my carefully thought-out (ha) opinion of Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End…

I’ve heard quite a lot of complaints about this film, but I think maybe the issue here is that their expectations were too high. I went in expecting it to be fun, not good, and my expectations were fulfilled. Honestly, do any of us really watch the PotC movies thinking that they’re going to be spectacularly amazing, life-changing cinematic works? Probably not. I expected adventure, good special effects, some funny lines, and the usual quirkiness found in the first two. It had all of these things. So no complaints :)

Also, Keira Knightley’s hat is truly ridiculous. And how can you miss that? ;)

TRAILER

Fallen Angels (a Chinese film directed by Kar Wai Wong) is spectacular. Stylistically, it is completely breathtaking. Thematically, it’s incredibly powerful. I don’t have any criticisms, which is rare. I have never seen anything quite like it.

So please, please see it. I don’t think it’s too difficult to find. Dr. Campbell, this means you. And Stephanie. And Ben. And everyone, really. I said that I’ve been thinking about this movie for the past three days, but I still haven’t even begun to explore everything I’d like to. I don’t even know if I have the right to try to approach it until I’ve seen it again.

Just…there are no words. (Still.) Perhaps I’ll think of some, but don’t hold your breath. I think I’m in love.

There has been a lot of focus, both in class and among prominent film critics, of Hitchcock’s use of color in Vertigo. However, I don’t think that any of these discussions have even come close to fully exploring the relationship between specific colors, the main characters, and general recurring themes. Furthermore (I shock myself with my own unadulterated audacity), they are all missing a key element in the spectrum (haha) of analytical possibilities. My claims will be ambitious, my theories convoluted, and my discussion tangential. Ready?

The color green is clearly a frequent narrative and thematic device in Vertigo. Madeleine/Judy seems represented by green fairly consistently throughout the film. In Scottie’s first glimpse of Madeleine in the restaurant, she is wearing a green wrap over a black dress, which highlights her in the crowded room, drawing his attention immediately to her and holding it. Similarly, Judy is wearing a green dress when Scottie spots her on the street in the second half of the film. And when she steps out of the bathroom after putting her hair up (transforming into Madeleine), she is bathed in a hazy green light, presumably issuing from the neon hotel sign through the window. But, as Dr. Campbell said, we know that’s really not it. And of course, Roger Ebert has to put his two cents worth in, stating that the green light is “apparently explained by the neon sign, but is in fact a dreamlike effect.” Sadly, Ebert leaves his discussion of green here. Good thing we have the editor’s notes. Jim Emerson, Ebert’s editor, knows better than to leave it at this. He explains,

the thing that imprinted itself indelibly on my brain, was something simple and powerful: the color green. Say “Vertigo” and I see green. For the color green is associated with Scottie Ferguson’s vertigo and, especially, its underlying cause: the dizzying fear of falling, and of falling precipitously, deliriously in love…In a blood-red restaurant (rather womb-like, if you ask me—a place in which a romantic obsession is born, surrounded by a bright red warning signs) Madeleine appears, walking through a doorway in a deep-green stole and pauses in profile like a mysterious work of art…In this manner Madeleine, and the color green, are introduced into Vertigo, and Scottie’s subconscious.

We get it, Hitchcock. Green is important. And now that I’ve covered the painfully obvious details, let’s move on. As Emerson mentions, this early scene in the restaurant introduces a new element: red. So what does all that red mean? Is it simply there to highlight the green of Madeleine’s dress? Or is it, as Emerson claims, a warning to Scottie? Well, this is where I part ways with Emerson. He is very quick to take the conventional, knee-jerk reactionary approach to an otherwise promising color analysis. If it’s red, it must be warning us, right? Red means DANGER, capital letters and all. Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s what the red in this particular film is about. It’s a good guess, but lacks the higher degree of critical thinking necessary when examining anything created by Hitchcock. “DANGER” would be a very simplistic message for an otherwise dizzyingly layered film. I feel that if Jim Emerson had managed to remember his color wheel, this problem would never have arisen. Don’t worry, I’ll explain.

Green and red are complementary colors. This means that they are opposite of each other on a color wheel. It also means that each highlights the other. (And when mixed, by the way, they produce a beautifully nondescript shade of dark gray.) So let’s follow this to its logical conclusion. I agree wholeheartedly that green represents Scottie’s fear, both of his vertigo and the same feeling induced by love. If red is the opposite of green, then it follows that red represents the opposite of this. Red signifies Scottie’s courage, occasionally counteracting his fear. However, his courage is just as frequently unfounded as his fear is. But that’s not the point. You cannot have red without the green. You cannot have courage without fear, and vice versa. The two are opposites, but part of each other, and Hitchcock is clearly playing with the same kind of duality seen throughout the film. Though green is almost never present without red nearby, this detail seems to have been overlooked–or at least trivialized–by most critics. It’s a shame, because I think this is one of the most important aspects of the film. Bear with me. I promise I’ll start to make sense soon. Prepare for an overwhelming (but necessary) deluge of screenshots. (Would you say I have a plethora?)

Let’s return to the RESTAURANT SCENE, briefly. The entire room is an intense red color, playing off of Madeleine’s green. She rises from her seat, displaying herself for Scottie, who is immediately captivated by her. Now here’s the really cool part. There is a reaction shot directly following his first few glimpses of her. And in this shot, Scottie’s normally blue eyes are green. Yes, green.

Intentional, Mr. Hitchcock! The color of his eyes in these few frames was clearly tampered with in post-production to achieve this effect. There is simply no other way they could have managed it. This must mean that Hitchcock thought it was a very important detail. I agree. The room is swimming in red and Scottie is confident. He’s just started this job and feels as if he can handle anything after his long break from police work. The red reflects these feelings of bravery and self confidence. Enter Madeleine. He sees her and is struck by something, but can’t really grasp what. She’s still far off, and red remains the dominant color. But when she moves closer, we see Scottie’s eyes light up with green. It is at this moment that he first experiences a flicker of doubt. She’s starting to affect him, and his courage wavers slightly.

I’m going to pause here to introduce (gasp) a new color. Everyone else seems to have ignored this, but I think it’s an important–even essential–supplement to the red and green. In my post earlier this week, I pondered the meaning of all the orange flowers. Well, now I’ve got it! Because green represents the fear associated with love and red represents the courage, orange has to play a similar, but separate role. Let me make this very clear–I don’t believe that orange is used in this movie as an occasional substitute for red. We need to assume that Hitchcock was extremely conscious of every color choice and every shot composition choice. So what does orange represent? Desire. Desire is related to the fear and courage that are associated with love and often intermingles with them, but is also separate. Hitchcock probably felt the need to differentiate between courage and desire. The courage goes hand-in-hand with the fear, whereas desire, represented by orange, is independent of these. Scottie is watching Madeleine in the graveyard, and we are suddenly presented with shots framed by orange flowers. Also note that it is not just Madeleine appearing with these orange flowers. Scottie has his own share of flaming flowery shots. When we realize that this whole scene is a very intentional act put on by Madeleine, we also realize that she must have been watching him. So for her, too, Scottie is surrounded by orange. Hmmm.

…use of subjective camera from the point of view of the male protagonist draw the spectators deeply into his position, making them share his uneasy gaze. The audience is absorbed into a voyeuristic situation within the screen scene and diegesis which parodies his own in the cinema…Vertigo focuses on the implications of the active/looking, passive/looked-at split in terms of sexual difference and the power of the male symbolic encapsulated in the hero.

Scottie is hiding behind a door, and the green boxes are the closest thing to him. He is clearly fearful, and in awe of Madeleine. But at the same time, those red flowers are present in the background, allowing him just enough courage to admire her from his hiding place. Though he’s lurking fearfully behind a door, Scottie is still being fairly bold in terms of the type and intensity of his attention towards Madeleine. Note also the continued presence of orange. Once again, Scottie is watching Madeleine, and enjoying it. There’s something very voyeuristic about these two scenes, although it could be argued that in both we’re not entirely sure who the true voyeur is. Madeleine is being intentionally exhibitionist, but she’s also watching Scottie carefully. And then there are these orange flowers all around them, perhaps symbolizing this mutual voyeuristic desire.

After her “suicide attempt,” Madeleine reprises her initial entrance in Scottie’s apartment, coming toward him (and the camera) in a red robe that reminds us of the decor of Ernie’s restaurant in which we first spied her. On a table to the right of the frame is a striking green box (an ice bucket?) reminiscent of those at Madeleine’s florist —so green it’s somewhat distracting. The color scheme—red suggesting Scottie’s fear/caution/hesitancy when it comes to romance, and its opposite green, suggesting the Edenic bliss (and/or watery oblivion) of his infatuation with Madeleine (or, from Midge’s point of view, jealousy)—seems to be indicating perhaps that Madeleine may appear to be one thing, but may actually be another.

Emerson is pretty adamant about red representing caution and hesitancy, isn’t he? But in order to accommodate this, he’s changed his analysis of green. I don’t see why this is necessary. The problem he keeps running into is heavy reliance on the most common meanings associated with these colors in society. I feel very strongly that Hitchcock wouldn’t have been so simplistic as to use green to represent “Edenic bliss” or “jealousy”, just as he would not have had red represent “caution”. I have more faith in him than that. Let’s look at this critical scene shot-by-shot.

What is Scottie doing here at the beginning? Stoking the fire. The ORANGE fire, I might add. Got it? Also notice his green shirt, the green pillow, and the dull red window drapes.

Scottie is in green, obviously, but he’s also surrounded by green. The two pillows on either side of him and the green hue of the television screen create this effect. The only red in this shot is in the drapes, and it’s a very dull, subdued sort of red. Is Scottie’s fear, represented by green, overpowering his courage? Or is it perhaps simply that he is doesn’t feel the need for courage because he’s in his own apartment, in control of the situation. (He thinks.)

Well, this complicates things. The robe Madeleine is wearing is bright red and is, in fact, the only bright color we see, apart from a speck of green on the right. Suddenly the ratio has reversed. What is Hitchcock trying to say here about Scottie’s emotional state? Maybe in this scene Scottie is more comfortable with Madeleine than with the situation. He feels brave in respect to dealing with her, but a little fearful of the overall situation he finds himself in. After all, he undressed her, so perhaps he feels that he has a better knowledge and understanding of her. There’s nothing dangerous or mysterious about her, he’s telling himself. I’ve seen everything. But is Madeleine wearing the red for him or for herself? And what about Scottie’s green? Is his green sweater an open defiance of his former fear? That bright green pitcher in the corner seems to be reminding him to be careful. This is especially meaningful when considering that it’s side-by-side with Madeleine and her red. It’s saying that she’s not as safe as she looks. This also further complicates the voyeur/exhibitionist question. Is he the voyeur because he undressed her and enjoyed it, or is she the voyeur because, in a way, she had control of the situation and was using it as an exercise to observe something about him?

And of course, Madeleine sits right in front of bright orange flames.

Something that’s very important about this shot (which is a point-of-view shot from Scottie’s perspective) is the fact that Madeleine is in focus but the fire is not. So the desire is there, but he’s still focusing most of his attention on her. His guard is not quite down. The climax (ha) of this scene has not yet been reached.

Alas, when Scottie looks at her, he sees only red. There is no green for him at the moment. But don’t think that his is entirely due to his overconfidence. Madeleine has chosen to sit on the ground in front of the fire, rather than on the couch, between the green pillows. She is intentionally surrounding herself with red and, yes, orange. She’s encouraging his bravery and desire, but attempting to block fearful feelings that might cause him to behave with more caution.

And suddenly they’re in the same shot. Note that the green pillows that were on the couch at the start of the scene are no longer visible. The only green is Scottie’s sweater. His fear is gone. So this is when Madeleine decides to make her move.

Just look at this shot. Her expression in combination with the now in focus orange flames. She’s making herself completely available to Scottie, posing once again. The message is very clear: “I want you. I know you want me.” This shot is entirely about their mutual, burning desire.

And to some degree, they have acted upon their mutual desire. Look at the way in which green and red, the sole colors in this shot, are intertwined. And what do each of their expressions say? It looks like Scottie’s says “don’t worry”, while Madeleine’s expression is much more concerned and cautious. She’s trying to warn him, but he doesn’t notice because of the red. At the end of the scene, the red is all he’s left with. He is left alone with his overconfidence.

But what’s missing here? The green, of course. Midge cannot be Madeleine because she doesn’t have the green to counteract red. She is wearing red, the color of bravery, but it doesn’t do her much good. Perhaps because to create love you need both red and green, and she’s missing the green—it’s whatever Madeleine/Judy has that makes the romance complete. Emerson says that “Midge is wearing bright red when she attempts to put a stop to Scottie’s romantic illusions about Madeleine.” Again, I disagree. Midge is not wearing red for Scottie. She’s wearing it for herself, because she’s the one who needs the added courage. But how can she possibly succeed without the other aspect of love as represented in this film? Midge is doomed from the start. Let’s jump to a later scene involving Midge.

It’s true that she has the red and green, but there’s something a little off about the red. It’s not quite right. And the flowers are probably reminding Scottie of the graveyard scene with Madeleine. Midge is trying so hard, but things just aren’t right between them. It is unclear whether it’s because she is wrong, or because Scottie is so obsessed with Madeleine that he will never really see Midge.

This time, all Scottie sees is the green. But instead of letting the fear this represents guide his actions, he finds himself drawn by it. That’s a very dangerous situation. Because he associates his fear with Madeleine, he is anxious to move closer to it, even to embrace it, if it means recapturing what he’s lost. Judy, on the other hand, is completely conflicted. In a green dress, she’s moved to place herself once again on display for Scottie. She wants him to watch her, rediscover her, and renew their former relationship, but she’s also warning him off at the same time. By reminding him of his fear, she may assume that this will be enough to keep him safe. However, whether she realizes it or not, her prominent display of herself and the green of her dress has the opposite effect on him. And maybe she’s hoping, just a little, that it will. As she walks away, a man in an orange(ish) jacket approaches. Could this message be any clearer? At this point, how can Scottie resist following her?

In a last attempt to warn Scottie off, Judy has positioned herself right in front of the green. We can’t even see the details of her face; green is all there is. But Scottie is so far beyond caring by this point that it accomplishes nothing. He probably notices the warning, the fear, but is so obsessed by now that he simply chooses to ignore its implications.

From inside Judy’s room, the whole room is suffused with that green light, filtered through fine-mesh curtains. As Judy emerges from the bathroom, competing her visual transformation into Madeleine, she is bathed in green and shot through a hazy filter that recalls the soft, dreamy lighting of the garden sequence…As he kisses Judy/Madeleine, the camera circles dizzyingly—vertiginously, you might say—around them and the whole world bursts into green—green, the color of rebirth, of growth.

I’ll overlook the fact that he’s created yet another meaning for green because he has an excellent point. Although Scottie has been watching Judy and the green around her, even surrounding her with it intentionally, it is not until he is practically drowned in green–until they are drowned in it together–that he feels as if he’s truly rediscovered Madeleine and the emotions associated with her. They are both enveloped in fear, and Scottie finds this exhilarating. We’re not sure how Judy feels about this, but it seems pretty clear that she is not enjoying the feeling as much as he is.

Here, Scottie sits in a green chair, watching Judy enter the room. He has embraced his fear. He lives for it. He is beyond help. And then there’s the clincher.

It’s the final red. Her last attempt to balance out the frightening effects of the green. Does it work? Well, the ending can be argued either way. The final scene is mostly gray, which is, if you remember, the color you get when red and green are mixed. It is a culmination of their emotions, the ultimate result of the two sides of their love. It is also the final solution to Scottie’s obsession. This red, counteracting the green light, puts an end to everything. Problem solved, though not happily. But how could it be? When love is based only on fear, can there be a happy ending?

I’d like to explore the greater symbolic meanings of these colors a little further. I’m going to make a sweeping philosophical statement and assert that the interplay of courage and fear is essential to love. The euphoria commonly associated with romance is produced entirely by this balance. So is this what love is all about? Courage and fear? Perhaps. (And don’t forget the orange, the desire.) However, if these were the only necessary elements for love, wouldn’t things have worked out for Scottie and Judy? Or, perhaps, they weren’t destined to be together at all. This brings up the question of soul mates all over again. Does the fact that things don’t ultimately end well mean that it was never meant to be? Are Scottie and Judy, just like Eben and Jennie, doomed from the outset? Is their love less true because it doesn’t culminate in their lasting happiness? This question leads nicely into…

Eben and Jennie are not soul mates…Their love is not true. On Eben’s part, it’s the idea of it and on Jennie’s side…who knows? They’re both completely in love with the idea of love and the security and comfort of it.

What does Eben love about Jennie? She makes him feel wanted. She’s mysterious. She represents variation and excitement in the monotony and misery of his daily life. Does he really know her? I don’t think so.
And what does Jennie love about Eben? He’s her anchor. As she says, she’s lost, and he keeps her grounded.

I stick by this previous assessment. In fact, I think we can draw some meaningful parallels between these reasons for love and the reasons in Vertigo. Scottie is attracted to Madeleine for the same reasons that Eben is attracted to Jennie. Both women are glamorous, mysterious, and elusive. As for Judy’s attraction to Scottie, I think she and Midge aren’t actually as dissimilar as we first thought. They both seem to need their respective men, for whatever reasons. Jennie feels lost, and clings to Eben for this reason. Perhaps Judy also feels lost. A huge part of her identity was destroyed in the first half of the movie, as it is fairly clear that she has trouble separating herself from Madeleine. They’re two aspects of the same person, and so perhaps the only thing that makes Judy feel as if she hasn’t lost that part of herself is being with the person who knew them both. This is, of course, Scottie. Steph’s discussion of Judy’s split identity as well as her general discussion of duality in Hitchcock films is particularly relevant.

But regardless of their motivations for entering into it, why does their relationship fail ultimately?

Should we put all the blame on Scottie because, as Craig says, he has “descended deeper into a focused obsession, becoming less and less patient with someone he claims to love”? We could easily ask the same question of Eben and Jennie. Does Eben’s obsession with the idea of Jennie limit the extent to which they can take their relationship, and ultimately lead to their downfall? But Madeleine also plays an active role in encouraging Scottie’s obsession, just as Jennie encourages Eben’s attachment to her for fear of losing him or herself. I think both women have the same basic motivation.

Stephanie H. proposes the opposite of Craig, deciding that Judy is

the shadow of the ideal female. She is the one that is dangerous, intriguing and sexual. She uses those qualities to seduce Scottie into “following” her and she eventually gets him to fall in love with her. She lies to him and deceives him and is ultimately responsible for his downfall as well as her own.

If we extend this idea back to Portrait of Jennie, isn’t it similarly possible that Jennie’s selfishness in needing someone to cling to leads to eventual misery for both of them? Or is the problem perhaps in the transitory nature of both women? Leighton makes a good point when she questions the reality that both Eben and Scottie are creating for themselves. “Both are trying to create a woman who, arguably, does not exist.” Although stated very simply and without extensive further discussion, this is a brilliant assessment and summary of both films. I feel that Leighton encapsulated the main relationship between the two films perfectly.

Another issue worth exploring is that of timing. The idea was explored in class that Eben and Jennie are soul mates whose lives just didn’t happen to coincide, so time ‘bent itself’ to accommodate them. Megs has a great commentary on this idea of time being an inhibiting factor in a relationship, but ultimately working out if the love is ‘true’.

I don’t think we’ll ever answer this question of ‘true love’ and ‘soul mates’. But would we really want to? If love is something that can be explained, then doesn’t it lose a bit of its appeal? I would argue that the thing that makes any theory like this so tantalizing is, in fact, its ambiguity. Like Scottie and Eben, we like to pursue things we don’t understand. After all, the questions, at least in this case, are much more important than the answers.

I was not in anyway attempting to undermine feminism, motherhood, or devalue life. Nor was I trying to degrade vaginas. I think vaginas are wonderful! In fact, I happen to have one.