Lars von Trier: Self-Reflection in Female Protagonists of Antichrist and Melancholia

Introduction

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The ugly is a great source of beauty. And much more interesting than the beautiful. You start out with the un-pretty and then you work your way out of that in order to create something pretty. But the un-pretty was there first.

/ Lars von Trier in Lumholdt 2003:45 /

Provocateur, Filmic Terrorist, Enfant-Terrible, Punk Auteur, The Bad Boy of European Art Cinema – these are only a few names associated with controversial Danish director Lars von Trier in the past decade. He has provoked audiences through his films and public persona, generating equal amount of fascination and criticism along the way. Having toyed with religion, communities, ideological aesthetics, genre stereotypes, sexuality and even America, he has also earned his most controversial title yet – that of a misogynist. Although Nicole Kidman’s Grace in Dogville (2003) is, indeed, the only female protagonist to survive von Trier’s cinematic test, it can be argued whether tragic destinies of other women are constructed in hatred or fear.

Originally, this thesis was intended to explore troubled female protagonists in three of von Trier’s films, Dancer in the Dark (2000), Antichrist (2009) and Melancholia (2011). As my research progressed, however, I realized that the man behind the camera cannot be separated from his art, consequently arousing the question of self-reflection. For that reason this work aims to ponder on female protagonists in von Trier’s latest Antichrist and Melancholia, and their relation to the director himself, also attempting to dismiss misogyny claims. In contrast, this thesis is NOT aiming to proclaim Von Trier as an auteur or provide a distinctive analysis of his directorial oeuvre. Likewise, Freud’s Oedipal Complex theory along with feminist response to the two films will be left out of this discussion. Even though  (a symbol for Venus – representing the female) stands in for “T” in the Antichrist’s title and might require a more detailed psychoanalytical examination, this paper lacks the capacity where such reading could be produced.

This work is therefore divided into six chapters. The first will go over general discussion on the topic of self reflection. I will then look at Justine, Claire and She as von Trier’s female messengers within the narrative of two films. The rational male is also analyzed towards the end so that director’s identification with the female could emerge through binary oppositions of the sexes. And finally, a conclusion is drawn in the final chapter - “Chaos Reigns”. It is vital to mention that von Trier is a man of many phobias, including flying and journalists; he does not give many interviews yet some of the responses he provided during his career proved to be invaluable to this assignment. Additionally, Jack Stevenson’s World Directors: Lars von Trier has been widely used in preparation while valuable discussions on the Dane were found online.

Literature Review: A Discussion

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The women in my films tend to be more human somehow, and the men tend to be more stupid. I’m not really sure why this is. In some strange way I think that the female characters represent me better in the films. I do not hate women. It’s difficult to think that anyone could hate women. I can see that you can hate specific women – as you can hate specific men. But to say that you hate them all is to me quite ridiculous.

/ Lars von Trier, in Goddsell 2009 /

Both Antichrist and Melancholia open with a slow-motion prologue. The latter is set to Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde – music von Trier has used on set of his earlier films since it evokes female suffering. But the dreamlike cinematography does not stand for a happily-ever-after; a much larger planet is seen approaching the Earth and we know that the world is about to end. Antichrist too is set to a classic score, there Handel’s aria Rinaldo translates as “Let me weep over my cruel fate, and that I long for freedom”. What we are about to witness next is an excruciating study of human suffering and its affect on body and mind.

Xan Brooks from The Guardian (2009) gathers female artists and scholars to stir up an interesting discussion on Antichrist. For Joanna Burke, the film is more misanthropic (hence diverting hatred towards human nature) than misogynistic. “Nature is Satan’s church”, She announced. “If human nature is evil, that goes as well with the nature of women”. In view of this statement and Burke’s noteworthy argument, it could be suggested that female, as a barer of life, has at some point given birth to evil of which She believes to be a descendant of. As anyone in grief, She blames herself and, as added by Burke, embraces the mysterious, uncanny energies of the unconscious and unknowable elemental forces.

Samantha Morton joins the discussion to imply that “A director pains over every shot, every inch of film, every breath of sound.” Surprisingly, it is the only film where von Trier was too distressed to operate the camera himself, often disappearing in his trailer and working on 40 percent of his full capacity. He has, however, admitted that it was ‘the most important film of his career’ – having written the script during his infamous depression, he has not managed to re-draft. Images seen in Antichrist come straight out of a tormented mind and are therefore incredibly personal. Morton comments on the film’s breathtaking cinematography:

An act of bravery and vulnerability, and sometimes loneliness. The writer/director speaks through every character, so this film must have been incredibly painful to make (in Brooks, 2009).

Linda Ruth Williams, on the contrary, believes that the film belongs to horror genre since it is more bloody than ecstatic. But then again, von Trier has proved to be incapable of producing a genre movie – the best example of which is his anti-musical Dancer in the Dark. When it comes to misogyny allegations, she hassles: “If only tabloids campaigned against real clitorectomies, done on real baby girls, rather than fabricated ones done in fiction movies.” In fact, in Muslim culture female circumcision is still a common, although increasingly controversial practice. When infant girls undergo genital mutilation to reduce their sexual desires, is Lars von Trier really the bad guy here to show it on celluloid?

I just have to say, that what’s important to me with a film is that you use an impeccable technique to tell people a story they don’t want to be told. This is in my opinion the definition of true art (Stevenson, 2002:10).

There is therefore hope that those who fainted vomited or walked out during the film’s screening have learnt something new about either themselves or the world, even if they claim to hate it.

In the “Theatre of Cruelty: Antichrist”, author Linda Badley illustrates other responses to the film, emphasizing She as an embodiment of von Trier’s own psychological struggles. Similarly, Badley questions misogyny claims and presents Erich Kuersten’s compelling perspective on the film’s shocking images of genitals and mutilation. She quotes:

[...] at least he’s not afraid to point his camera and shoot it. A true misogynist would just hide it in a tight spandex and shoot it out of a wet t-shirt canon [...]. Expressing clear-eyed cognizance of masculine fear of women cures misogyny not creates it, that’s the point of art and therapy (in Bradley, 2010:149).

A simple look at the representation of women in a classical Hollywood blockbuster will help illustrating this point differently. Von Trier’s unnamed protagonist differs from the likes of Megan Fox’s heroine in the Transformers (Bay, 2007) in a sense that she is not just another half-naked ‘chick’ who appears onscreen for visual satisfaction of male fantasies. With She he not only delves into the darkest recess of female nature, but also conquers his fear of it. As conveyed in the Antichrist, one needs to expose himself to the object of fear to overcome it.

In Antichrist: A Discussion, Rob White sees traces of Anti-Oedipus complex in objection to Freud’s trademark theory. Certainly, von Trier was well aware of the psychoanalytical debate his on-screen family might create when She erratically questions He: “Freud is dead, isn’t he?”, also claiming to be cured. My point of view, however, is that by sinking into Freudian analysis we appear oblivious to one of the most significant sequences in the film and, possibly, von Trier’s career. After a few days in Eden, He checks Nic’s autopsy report which draws attention to one single abnormality: a slight deformation of child’s feet. He then sees a Polaroid shot capturing Nic with his mother as she forces wrong shoes on him – a vague reference to von Trier’s own mother, perhaps, who only revealed the name of his biological father on a deathbed. It is hence no secret that von Trier has been trying to annoy her with every film, also adding that “one never gets anywhere because of something, but in spite of... (Stevenson, 2002:32)”. Therefore, if we were to agree that that von Trier truly has a complex relationship with women on film, then a closer look at his relationship with his Mother is required. Apparently, when asked if the child who falls with arms outspread like an angel was himself, he replied: “Yes, that is it. My mother didn’t give me a childhood. She was magical to me of course... (Badley, 2010:150/1)”.

The revelation clearly had an impact on adult Lars whose whole system of beliefs was shattered. He, the aging Enfant-Terrible, is the child who walked in wrong shoes and is still limping.

On the contrary, Melancholia seems to be the most polite film Lars von Trier has made so far. What is more, it doesn’t taste like ashes either – even despite it apocalyptic scenario. He avoids traditional clichés of sci-fi genre, such as panic in the big city, constant media updates or casting a male hero who will eventually save the world. Instead, it begins with a wedding and ends with Justine, Claire and Leo holding hands right before the Earth ceases to exist.

When Rob White and Nina Power discuss the film in Film Quarterly, they both agree that Melancholia is about depression, but not in “merely” human terms. Talking about Justine, White points out: “Even as she nears her crisis, she retains a hard-nosed intelligence and presence of mind”. She knows the world is about to end, as we all do (eventually) – but she also sees through its faults and refuses to grieve for it. “Justine’s dejection encompasses her uncanny knowledge, her struggle against social conformity, her complex starlit joy”, adds White.

During the reception she truly is the sanest of all her family members who constantly seem to be at each other’s throats. The way the two authors interpret Justine’s denial of modern conformity (marriage, family responsibilities, work, and estate) is on that account somewhat compelling. They look at the scene where she is seen swapping pages of an art book which later burns as destructive planet draws nearer. For White, it is von Trier’s attempt at reaching for new art “in the form of a highly stylized cinema and digital effects”. Regardless, it is rather difficult to believe that his intention is to dispose of such art, knowing how much he is attached to it. What needs to be noted here is that Melancholia as a film signifies a departure from certain aspects of von Trier’s own modus operandi first. In director’s statement, he exhales: “This is cream on cream. A woman’s film! I feel ready to reject the film like a wrongly transplanted organ.” Indeed, with its strain of German romanticism it looks like canvas and reads like a poem. Even its fatal ending feels more like a happy one and von Trier’s initial rejection of the film is then not surprising. Maybe by depicting Justine’s nihilism and Claire’s journey towards acceptance he has finally managed to get rid of his own demons?

Likewise, Power wonders “if with this film he goes beyond the cruelty he often exhibits towards his female leads: perhaps, with Melancholia, von Trier is toying with the world, albeit a dead and dying one – in favour of a new one?”

Justine: Get a Tagline

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Aside from a prologue, we first encounter Justine heading to her lavish wedding reception in a limo that struggles making its way through the narrow countryside roads. When newlyweds finally arrive at the grand estate, Justine’s sister Claire points out the long-overdue activities they should have been engaging in three hours ago and urges everyone to begin. It soon becomes clear that Justine is present only physically and could not care less about ‘the most expensive wedding on the planet’ – as ironically declared by her brother-in-law, John. She starts disappearing to either take a bath, urinate on a golf course or have an intercourse with a new colleague who has been appointed by her boss to ‘get a tagline’. The fact of the matter is that this bourgeois parade with its silver cutlery, servants and traditions means nothing to her; she is unwilling to buy what this world, or the advertising firm she works for, is selling. Claire attempts saving Justine (and by large the wedding itself) from a looming breakdown, but her artificially constructed facade will not last long. Michael, Justine’s newlywed husband, also makes an effort when showing a picture of the land he has purchased as a wedding gift, and which she is to keep with her at all times. Predictably, the photograph is left behind while she retreats to alcohol, drinking luxurious Hennessey from a bottle. In an interview with journalist Nils Thorsen (2011), von Trier himself confesses: “I think that Justine is very much me. She is based a lot on my person and my experiences with doomsday prophecies and depression”. At this point, one might start to wonder whether his film bears a title of the planet hurling towards the Earth, or the physical condition affecting the sufferer and everyone around him/her. It could be argued, that the nature of both is equally destructive, but we are often too blinded by luxury to even notice sheer magnitude of the latter. Von Trier thus continues: “I’m having a tough time at parties myself. Now we’ll all have fun, fun, fun”, he says. “Perhaps because melancholiacs set the stakes higher than at just few beers and some music [...]. It seems so phony. Rituals are, you know. But if rituals are worth nothing, that goes for everything, you know”.  And this is, indeed, what the filmmaker has done not only in Melancholia, but also in his earlier work – throwing a beautifully wrapped yet stone-hard critique of a movie towards the society which fails to see past the ideology it embraces. Similarly, there is more to Justine’s seemingly pointless actions on the golf course than meets the eye. Von Trier is there with her; he too takes pleasure in walking over meaningless rituals in search of oppression-free self. It is worth stating at this point that filmmaking is therapy for von Trier as much as it is a ritual – one that acquires suffering on the road to redemption and therefore sustains its ritualistic meaning.

Moreover, the director has expressed his fascination with Marquis de Sade, a proclaimed ‘father of sadism’ and his literary works. De Sade’s novel Justine inspired Bess’ character in Breaking the Waves (1996) and, as I would like to argue, Melancholia’s leading protagonist whose past is kept off-screen but repeatedly hinted at via her ongoing self-torment. “Justine is”, writes Jack Stevenson, “about a pure and innocent young girl who goes through life encountering one degradation after another at the hands of her fellow men [...] She is reunited with her sister and lodged in her home, apparently a safe haven (2002:90)”. Although the novel’s connection with Justine in the film is unconfirmed, it is worth mentioning that von Trier has never been shy about comparisons with other greats – Tarkovsky, Strindberg, and Hitchcock – suggesting that true art lays out a background for other works to flourish. The director and De Sade, after all, see masochism and sadism as elements concealed in our psychologies.

The second half of the film reveals preparations for Melancholia’s inevitable arrival, including inner obstacles the two sisters have to overcome on the road to acceptance. Claire, the sensible girl, is unable to come to terms with such a sudden ending and fights denial while the strangely luminous Justine re-assures her: “The Earth is evil. We don’t need to grieve for it”. She also claims to know that life is only on Earth, and not for long; nobody will miss it. Claire, however, hangs onto last comforts of high-density living, proposing a glass of wine and a song on the terrace – a plan which her sister proclaims as ‘shit’. Hearing this as a critique from behind the camera, one might wonder: what would Lars von Trier do if the world was to come to an end? As someone who has battled depression for years, he replies: “So if the world ended and all the suffering and longing disappeared in a flash, I’m likely to press the button myself (in Thorsen, 2011)”. And that’s your tagline from the director himself.

Claire: The Sensible Girl     

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“Claire is meant to be a...normal person”, laughs Lars von Trier (in Thorsen, 2011). And yet, she’s one of his troubled female protagonists and therefore – part of the self-reflection. Appearing calm, optimistic and organized in the first part of Melancholia, she excels at taking care of the situation, be it Justine’s doomed wedding reception or her fading sister herself. It cannot be claimed that Claire bears no resemblance to the director because of her carefully constructed façade. Quite the opposite – she reflects a much lesser known side of von Trier which, despite all, manages to write a script, assemble a crew, face the critics and retreat back to the family life in Denmark, only to do it all over again. This is further illustrated by von Trier’s own confession:

My greatest problem in life is control versus chaos. I can get extremely afraid of not having control when I want it. The best situation I can imagine would be to accept the lack of control – but that’s nearly a masochistic thought for me. All my worst anxieties are about losing control (in Schepelern, 200:282).

If on one hand it could be said that the Dane, like Claire, is a control freak, then on the other he is at his best when control is temporary lost. Claire’s previously composed persona is given little time to adjust, she falls into despair and it is now Justine who holds her sister’s trembling hand. Control and chaos for Von Trier – much like the sisters for one another - represent binary oppositions embedded in his persona. Those are his fire and oxygen: unable to exist apart.

She: The Grieving Mother

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In Antichrist, a prologue of slow-motion images shows a couple making love while their toddler son climbs out of the cradle and falls to his death. During the funeral camera stays focused on his parents while faces of other participants in the final procession remain blurred. He cries erratically, She faints. In a forthcoming sequence She is seen lying in the hospital, He objects to the treatment provided there and claims to be able to cure her himself. Von Trier leaves his characters unnamed and truly, their names would have no significance in the context. Instead, it’s a study of femininity and masculinity, drawn from director’s own struggle with physic disorder, during which a script for this film had emerged as a form of therapy.

As the couple retreat to their countryside cabin Eden, the sequences of events explore grief, pain and despair which overtake She. There, in the woods, her anxieties merge with explicit sexual violence which many viewers have found either repulsive or intolerable. On the contrary, it is She who is exposed and tortured not only by her inner demons, but also by her therapist husband. Film critic Roger Ebert (2009) argues, that the psychological violence He inflicts on She is equally brutal thus insisting on majorly overlooked mutual torture between the couple. With the help of this argument, those initially petrified by the visual can begin re-thinking their reading of the film. Von Trier’s violent images call attention to imperfections of patriarchal society where pain caused to women is simply “there” whereas it is seen as shocking when the tables are turned.

Von Trier has famously said that Antichrist comes closest to a scream. It is built on emotions and fear, and fear of female sexuality in particular– yet his daring cinematic statement was misread, earning the director his misogynist title.  In an interview with Knud Romer (2009) prior to film’s screening at Cannes, von Trier jokes:

My perversions, which are reflected in this film, aren’t news. Only the how of it is different. And because some of the material comes from my youth, it may be unreasonable, ecstatic. The emotions and the fears had to be pursued to the last drop of our blood.

This statement adds to Erich Kuersten’s standpoint presented here previously. If he was once afraid, then the film was made so as to work on this fear. And again, why would he fear women? He is happily married, his kids have Jewish names, and he also makes films which at least some women dare to relate to. I am of the opinion that this fear of women is restrained in misanthropic origins. Having revealed the truth about his real father, von Trier’s mother happened to admit that she simply wanted her child to have artistic roots. Perhaps von Trier fears the unknown within female nature – the irrational choices women tend to resolve to whilst embracing the uncanny energies from the Mother Nature itself?

The rational male

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I’ve always been the female character in all my films. The men tend to just be stupid, to have theories about things and to destroy everything.

/ Lars von Trier in Badley, 2010:149 /

In the first chapter of Antichrist we learn that grief is not a disease, but a normal reaction, much like Justine’s alienation from the world she doesn’t wish to be a part of. In a way, she also grieves for the loss of life even before Melancholia threatens to turn it all into ashes. Von Trier thus exposes human nature as something beyond anyone’s control, showing that origins of pain are embedded within its very intangible core. Then again, excessive suffering is only assigned to female martyrs while male protagonists appear as their oppositions. As mentioned earlier, von Trier envisions men as stupid, consequently pointing out that the urge to seek rational solutions has eliminated   their connection with nature.

A further point to make is that if there is anyone von Trier is not fond of, it is therapists, not women. Drawing on his own experiences, they waste time looking for reasons, logical explanations and trying to solve physical conditions as if those were unfinished formulas needing completion. He in the Antichrist portrays one of those men despised by the director. As noted in Tina Beattie’s discussion (2009),

His target here is not just the therapy industry, but the controlling power of the rational masculine mind which refuses to acknowledge the mystery of good and evil, the primal chaos of nature, and those aspects of human experience which are beyond language and the control of reason.

The rational man is therefore subjected to vicious sexuality of a grieving mother. He is required to see what he had previously decided not to or, in other words, re-connect with the nature and kill in order to survive. Other male protagonists, however, are not allowed to complete the transition. Michael in Melancholia takes off on the wedding night, unable to cope with his irrational new wife. “Sweetheart, you have to trust a scientist”, re-assures Claire’s husband John before learning about the inevitable collision and cowardly taking his own life. In Melancholia, Von Trier only spares his judgement on pair’s young son Leo who believes that ‘magic caves’ built by his ‘aunt steel-breaker’, Justine, will protect them. He, perhaps, is von Trier’s evidence to a fact that we are not born, but made evil?

In Antichrist however, the only other male to survive and be right from the start, is the fox: “Chaos Reigns!”

Chaos Reigns

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I happen to be of the opinion that if things exist, then you’re not only allowed to show them, you have to show them! And life is so richly faceted – it’s just a question of going out there and picking things up.

 / Lars von Trier, in Lumholdt 2003:15 /

If cinema is meant to be a mirror of the world – a sheer reflection of reality captured on celluloid - then von Trier is holding his extremely close to the issues mainstream cinema prefers to ignore. Be it depression, the evil within human nature or genital mutilation: it’s there to provoke a response, thereupon opposing to passive consumption of images. The uncanny fascinates him to the extent that many elements are thrown in to be decoded independently. In case of The Three Beggars and a self-destructive talking fox in the Antichrist, von Trier plays with the rational mind of all men, also allowing multiple readings of the film in the process. Provocation, on the other hand, is not only a mere manifest of the problematic, it’s also publicity.

What also has to be understood about von Trier is that his films are not interested in the reason “why?” instead, he deals with the occurrence. His female heroines are designed to show the lack of rational whilst his males counter it with excess.  

But does Lars von Trier really hate women? – this has been a question embedded into this lengthy debate. Despite all misogyny claims, it hard to prove that he truly does. Firstly, he has openly spoken about identification with his female protagonists – She and Justine being an example discussed in this paper - and secondly, one does not continue ‘making the same film over and over again’ about something he loathes. In fact, as the details of his upcoming film Nymphomaniac emerge, only one thing is for certain: Chaos Reigns! And so does Lars von Trier.

Bibliography:

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Beattie, Tina 2009, “Antichrist: The Visual Theology of Lars Von Trier.”OpenDemocracy online, 13 August, viewed 26 April 2012

           <http://www.opendemocracy.net/article/antichrist-the-visual-theology-of-lars-            vontrier>.

Brooks, Xan 2009, “Antichrist: a work of genius or the sickest film in the history of cinema?”, The Guardian online,  16 July, viewed 2 April 2012,

      <http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2009/jul/16/antichrist-lars-von-trier-feminism>.

 

Ebert, Roger 2009, “Cannes #6: A devil's advocate for Antichrist”, Chicago Sun-Times online, 19 May, viewed 25 March 2012,

         <http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2009/05/a_devils_advocate_for_antichri.html>.

Goodsell, Luke 2009, “I Don’t Hate Women”: Lars von Trier on Antichrist, Rotten Tomatoes online, 9 November, viewed 20 April 2012,

<http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/1210830-antichrist/news/1856901/i_dont_hate_women_lars_von_trier_on_antichrist/>.

Lumholdt, Jan (2003), Lars von Trier: Interviews, University Press of Mississippi.

Romer, Knud (2009) “A Hearse Heading Home” (Interview from Film #66, published by the Danish film institute May 2009), media release for Antichrist, 15 May, viewed 26 April 2012,

           <http://www.antichristthemovie.com/?s=knud+romer&language=en>.

Schepelern, Peter (2000), Lars von Trier’s Film, Copenhagen: Rosinante.

Stevenson, J. (2002) World Directors: Lars von Trier, London: BFI Publishing.

Thorsen, Nils (journalist) 2011, Longing For the End of It All, media release for Melancholia, viewed 27 April 2012,

                                                            <http://www.melancholiathemovie.com/#_contact>.

White, Rob and Power, Nina, Antichrist: A Discussion, Film Quarterly online by University of California Press, viewed 21 April 2012,

                                     <http://www.filmquarterly.org/2009/12/antichrist-a-discussion/>.

White, Rob and Power, Nina, Lars von Trier’s Melancholia: A Discussion, Film Quarterly online by University of California Press, viewed 29 April 2012,

   <http://www.filmquarterly.org/2012/01/lars-von-triers-melancholia-a-discussion/>.

Filmography:

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Antichrist (Von Trier, 2009, Denmark / Germany / France / Sweden / Italy / Poland)

Melancholia (Von Trier, 2011, Denmark / Sweden / France / Germany)

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Renata Kovalcuka (Bachelor of Arts Honours)

Media & Creative Industries

University of East London

London, UK

April 2012

Cinema and the American City

Cinema is a postcard of images, sounds and uncharted space - signed by the director who reflects a specific story on its limited canvas. If cinema is a messenger, then so is the cinematic city which bears similar, if not identical resemblance to reality it portrays on-screen. But it is also more than just a landscape or location which audiences have gathered to explore. Film, after all, is a medium projecting not only its protagonist’s stories and carefully embedded moral codes, it is also taking spectators places they have / have not been before or might never be able to get to. From musical to action, drama, comedy and sci-fi etc. cinema has trapped cinemagoers into the web of emotions, beliefs and unexpected physical reactions. But even those who fainted during the screening of Lars von Trier’s Antichrist (2009) in Cannes and later slammed it in the media have voluntarily submitted themselves to such sadistic experience. The old saying appears to be true: we go to cinema for the experience while cinematic scenarios are scattered all around and within us.

This paper will for that reason concentrate on two of the most depicted American cities in the history of cinema- New York City and Los Angeles within the context of Steve McQueen’s Shame(2011) and Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive (2011). Both directors share European origins and portray America as a somewhat overcrowded and lonely place, encompassing French theorist Jean Baudrillard’s vision which will also be briefly presented in the lengths of this paper.

In his work, Jean Baudrillard has addressed America with equal fascination and critique. When talking about its cinematic representation in relation to reality he suggests that,

The city was here before the freeway system, no doubt, but it now looks as though the metropolis has actually been built around this arterial network. It is the same with American reality. It was there before the screen was invented, but everything about the way it is today suggests it was invented with the screen in mind, that it is the refraction of a giant screen ( in Davies 2003:218).

A simple shot of a yellow cab stuck in Manhattan’s traffic says more than superimposed text announcing “New York” against the city’s background, and in a way it also does both, indicates the location and sets the tone. Similarly, the skyline of downtown Los Angeles paints a different picture by day and night, and yet remains familiar through its lengthy celluloid appeal. Cinematic images therefore work hand-in-hand with reality, blurring the boundaries of the two in order to encompass the notion of an American dream on the spectators. What has to be noted here, is that consumption of postmodern images exposes those in front of the screen to an instant bodily affect which has been intensified by 9/11 events. Erasure of Twin Towers from New York’s landscape has permanently altered the way spectators perceive the Big Apple. In other words, lack of the iconic image triggers memories and evokes bodily responses to the extent that even Woody Allen’s heartfelt dedication Manhattan (1979) is nowadays viewed with sadness. In Mark Shiel’s view, however, ‘cinematic representations of New York had long since degraded into dystopian projections of that particular city as the purest distillation of urban nightmare (2003:166-167)’. He sees industrialization and issues of race and class as forces of fragmentation – affecting the city as much as the individual living in it. With this in mind, McQueen’s film paints a picture of a darker, impersonal NY where various aspects of sexuality are still commonly overlooked by the society.

McQueen’s Shame is primarily centred on Brandon Sullivan, a thirty-something white New Yorker who’s seemingly effortless belonging to the society is overshadowed by an unhealthy addiction to sex and sister’s sudden intrusion in his carefully camouflaged life. This is indicated in the opening sequence where he is firstly seen from a bird’s-eye-view lying in his apartment. Half-covered in crumpled blue sheets Brandon’s protagonist stares vacantly at the ceiling, ready to slide his hands back underneath the covers. Ignoring Sissy’s repeated voice messages on the answering machine he then leaves the impersonal apartment and encounters a young married woman on a subway train, who arouses his senses yet again. Although Shame is, indeed, a character study of Brandon and his inner struggle, its New York setting is an equally significant part of the narrative. Film’s director avoids outlining contemporary icons of the city’s landscape, such as Statue of Liberty or The Empire State building, yet the spectators see New York’s milieu as constantly present in Brandon’s world. It is, as noted by Adam Woodward in “Little White Lies: Shame Issue”, a mundane urban tapestry of cheerless streets, synthetic light and sterilised interior spaces. This is New York City, specifically Manhattan, imagined by McQueen as a sleepless cosmopolitan bordello ready to cater for any vice, however illicit or insatiable (2012:6). Sex is a commodity Brandon occasionally pays for yet genuine attention is not for sale. He offers his prostitutes to have a drink – they swiftly decline since time is money everywhere, be it the financial district or the streets. Simple human contact thus becomes an unavailable commodity, almost a privilege which Brandon hangs onto by taking a subway and observing fellow passengers. In Cinematic Urbanism, author Nezar AlSayyad points out, that ‘when the New York City subway opened in 1904, the New York Times declared, that ‘in modern city life, distance is measured in time’ (2006:22). At the present time though it seems to be one of the few places where people of different race, class, sexuality, political and cultural views come together voluntarily – even if for a single stop only.

Brandon’s lifestyle indicates his belonging to an upper middle class and therefore suggests that subway is a chosen (and not economically necessitated) way of getting around for him.  At home, however, high-density living draws attention to other imperfections of Brandon’s world. He walks around without a sense of purpose, trying to guard the apartment which is the only thing he owns and controls in the city. Director McQueen talks about his own experience with high-rise apartments in relation to Shame:

 It’s almost like funnel; you’re standing at the small end and there’s a whole world out there but you’re very far away from it. It’s like cinema screen in your house, but it isolates you. There’s always this sense that you are one in a million, you have no significance (in Woodward, 2012:26-28).

The film thus paints a strong visual picture of the city that never sleeps through Brandon’s perspective – through experiences of a lone individual amongst millions of its other inhabitants, pointing out not only one’s alienation in the ‘melting pot’ of New York, but also the level of ignorance such society projects on others. Jean Baudrillard notices this trait in his book America when prompting a question:

Why do people live in New York? There is no relationship between them [...]. A magical sensation of contiguity and attraction for an artificial centrality. This is what makes it a self-attracting universe, which there is no reason to leave. There is no human reason to be here, except for the sheer ecstasy of being crowded together (1988:15).

But in spite of Brandon’s alienation and excessive use of viridian blues and sandy yellows in Shame’s composition, even such melancholic projection of New York City appeals to celluloid. Sissy’s emotional interpretation of Frank Sinatra’s “New York New York” (filmed as a long close-up sequence) enhances the overall mood through its familiar lyrics: “If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere, It's up to you, New York, New York”, also hinting at the events that might have shaped troubled siblings, but are never revealed in the context.  Here, the cinematic affect produced via images and sounds plays with spectators own knowledge and experiences, offering either identification or complete rejection of the image. Regardless, images possess an ability to interpellate to the extent that spectator’s body ultimately surrenders under their visual pressure.   

In Cinematic Body, Steven Shaviro explains this by examining cinematic images as events that unfold on both sides of the screen, thus bringing in Foucault’s views on such occurrence:

An event is neither substance, nor accident, nor quality, nor process; events are not corporeal. And yet, an event is certainly not immaterial; it takes effect, becomes effect, always on the level of materiality... (1993:24).

Even though Brandon’s persona might be fictional, his story isn’t. Artlessly, its projection on celluloid confirms the inevitable existence of numerous closeted addictions and, as argued by Baudrillard, reveals cinema’s constant presence in the city through its continuous performance of films and scenarios (in Davies, 2003:219). And while Shame is an intrusion into Brandon Sullivan’s New York – with its skyscraper buildings, their cold corporate offices, daily commutes and closeted problems – audiences have voluntarily submitted themselves to being a part of it until the end credits appear to signify release from cinema’s masochistic imprisonment.

When it comes to modernity, New York and Los Angeles both embody the essence of industrialized, urban space on not only their geographic East and West coasts, but also on camera. Yet the affect of a particular city is not to be underestimated and anyone who has ever been to either would agree. The difference is masterfully highlighted in the opening narration of Paul Haggis’s Crash (2004):

It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In LA, nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.

Likewise, protagonists in Shame and Winding Refn’s Drive are caught up in the milieu they inhabit and are thus somewhat forced to seek this ‘touch’ while playing by the rules of the city. Those, however, differ due to individual architectural design of the city and it is hence worth looking at neon-lit Drive and its Los Angeles setting closer.

Drive comes from a Danish filmmaker Nicolas Winding Refn who’s own relationship with Hollywood has leaped between the contradictory extremes of acceptance and rejection, and thus makes his latest return to LA setting rather surprising. Moreover, the winner of Cannes Best Director award 2011 can not drive himself, having failed his driving test numerous times. Drive can therefore be seen as a manifest to his own fears as much as a critique of the cinematic clichés of the Hollywood system obsessed with CGI and 3D. Contradictory to the title, there are no Vin Diezel-like characters to perform Cirque du Soleil worthy moves on a freeway while the engines roar and occasional blood spills. Instead, Drive focuses on a sole, unnamed flaneur whose safe heaven appears to be behind the wheel, whose home is the freeway itself. This concept constructs most of the cinematic space as camera silently observes Driver from every angle within the vehicle- consequently projecting events from character’s point of view and inviting audiences to not only see, but also feel the city the way he does.

The film opens with a phone conversation confirming the heist for which Driver is to provide getaway while its location is established with a quick focus on the window overlooking LA. As the heist happens, cinematically familiar American urban space confirms its significance within the narrative. Having eavesdropped on the police frequency and followed radio broadcast of the latest basketball game, Driver’s Chevy (described as the most popular car in California) passes city’s iconic Staples Centre, enters its parking lot and blends with the crowd. Tension of the scene is unleashed on audiences who are taken along for a ride with a complete stranger whereas his status as a hero or a villain is yet to be confirmed.  In film viewing, as pointed out by Steven Shaviro, there is pleasure and more than pleasure: a rising scale of seduction, delirium, fascination, and utter absorption in the image (1993:9). Driver thus becomes a mystery audiences are challenged to decode via limited content of the image - which in Drive’s case also bares short dialogues paired with mood setting 80s pop rhythms. It is not to say that the picture is incomplete, it is rather that those watching are compelled to work with its every element in order to satisfy their rising curiosity. Driver’s own statement in the previously mentioned opening sequence describes the city as much as it describes him:

“If I drive for you, you get your money. You tell me where we start, where we're going, where we're going afterwards. I give you five minutes when we get there. Anything happens in that five minutes and I'm yours. No matter what. Anything a minute on either side of that and you're on your own. I don't sit in while you're running it down. I don't carry a gun. I drive”.

It is subway and freeway that connect fragmented spaces of NY and LA, affecting the way millions of people ‘crash into each other’. Per contra, such circumstance is prearranged by the city as an existential code for its inhabitants, no matter how wealthy or deprived. In an urban city, people are required to move around the industrial network and do so as quickly as possible. As noted earlier in relation to Shame, this is where the sense of alienation tends to emerge despite the overwhelming number of individuals passing each other in haste. Both films acknowledge this “alone-in-the-big-city” phenomenon when placing Brandon and Driver in the centre of a faceless crowd – occasional by-passers who have little effect on one another and the milieu.

It has to be said that New York and Los Angeles are at the centre of the world, even if we find the idea somehow both exciting and disenchanting. We are a desperately long way behind the stupidity and the mutational character, the naive extravagance and the social, racial, moral, morphological, and architectural eccentricity of their society (Baudrillard, 1988:22)

In its core, American landscape, especially the metropolis, is largely a product of the 20^th century, lacking the prehistoric appeal encountered in Europe, Africa and Asia; its culture immersed in consumerism and discourse of an all-American dream. Nonetheless, Baudrillard agrees that the whole country is cinematic; – it is by no means perfect, but simply charming. Adding to the criticism, AlSayyad calls Los Angeles a superficial place that is ‘less serene than gray-green New York’. Thus, the roles of light and dark are ‘expanded’, exaggerated, and ‘reversed’ (2006:184). LA depicted in Drive articulates around this statement with its overall noir-ish tone – the game of shadows and unknown dangers those might reveal, gangs, crime, dishonesty and urban nightlife. On the contrary, it’s also an urban fairytale where an urge to change the milieu occurs because of a woman in danger. Driver has Chevy in place of a white horse, appearing to be more of a hero than a character when compared with Brandon. In fact, Driver’s entire relationship with the city is built on four wheels. As noted by Baudrillard, only immigrants from the Third World are allowed to walk. It is, in a sense, their privilege (in Davies 2003:220). There, car is no longer a symbol of wealth, it’s a must-have without which one’s relationship with the metropolis falls apart.

In Shame, Brandon uses New York’s urban setting to blend with such crowd in hopes that his inner affliction would become less apparent as a result. Spectators are subjected to long takes, such as his midnight run through Manhattan’s nocturnal streets, thus adding the real-time-voyeurism feel to Brandon’s odyssey. In the final subway sequence, he spots the same woman he had come across in the beginning, he gets closer and suddenly film’s ending credits start to roll. Audiences are left rather betrayed by such open-ended finale, willing to jump on the moving train if only to satisfy their curiosity. In the end, cinema prevails as it teases, fascinates and then discharges of spectators – leaving them begging for more.

Summing up, AlSayyad’s view on this boundary-blurring relationship has to be considered: he turns to Paul Virilio when pointing out, that

The screen and the lens become new models through which the city is experienced and policed, leading to a ‘revision of point of view and a radical mutation of our perception of the world (2006:147)’.

All in all, protagonists discussed in the length of this paper are encountered in the middle of their journey, beginning of which is untold and destination – unknown. Their true colours show when shadows fall over the city they inhabit. In case of Drive, it is film’s neon-noir feel that depicts the City of Angels, while Shame’s composition reveals New York’s raunchiest corners behind the wall of sterile offices and impersonal public space. Both therefore create a new perspective of the world in a short period of film’s running time. Having voyeuristically followed Brandon’s and Driver’s demons, one should be able to leave his/her cinema seat feeling either relief or sadness brought by the end of this cinematic relationship.  And while cinematic images are there to alter our perception of the world, film as a whole has the power to affect audiences, both bodily and emotionally. This affect produced by pictures, sounds and special effects, because of the rich experiential potency embedded in film medium, plays around the relationship between the image and the reality of the representation. Cinema, after all, holds a mirror over the world which does not feel very cinematic at times.

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Bibliography:

Baudrillard, Jean. (1988) America, London: Verso.

Davies, Jude (2003) “Against the Los Angeles Symbolic: Unpacking the Racialized Discourse of the Automobile in 1980s and 1990s Cinema”, in Shiel, Mark & Fitzmaurice, Tony (eds.) Screening the City, London: Verso

Shaviro, Steven (1993) The Cinematic Body, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press

Woodward, Adam (2012) “Chapter in which we Review Shame”. Little White Lies. Issue 39, London: The Church of London

Woodward, Adam (2012) “Heavyweight”. Little White Lies. Issue 39, London: The Church of London

 Filmography:

Crash (Paul Haggis, 2004, USA / Germany)

Drive (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2011, USA)

Shame (Steve McQueen, 2011, UK)