Librari[d]an

Film genre is a particularly vexed issue, as the more rigorously critics define a term (such as “Science Fiction”) the more likely they are to exclude some canonical work. In an attempt to extricate the oft amalgamated genres of Science Fiction and Horror, Sobchack wrote “The Limits of the Genre: Definitions and Themes”. In the essay, the author differentiates between the two based on thematic grounds, including the nature of the conflict, threat, focus, and evocation of emotion within the film. The result of Sobchack’s efforts is a genre gradient, with some films utilizing elements of both genres. However, Sobchack’s model is complicated by the fact that thematic evaluations are subjective. For example, Fritz Lang’s Metropolis is often lauded as the most influential Science Fiction film of all time. The fact that it is an archetype of the genre is taken for granted. However, Metropolis is so rich in the thematic material associated with Horror films that it undermines the idea that a film could be defined as anything but a hybrid.

Sobchack explains that one of the most pivotal aspects of the horror genre is the manner in which the monster is portrayed, and how this informs the thematic elements of the film. One such theme is that of conflict between the individual (or an extension of the self) and society at large. (30) Sobchack clarifies that this dilemma arises from the fact that the double “is not other than Man; he is the darker side of Man and therefore comprehensible.” (32) Rotwang (Rudolf Klein-Rogge)’s Machine-Man acts in this capacity, as it is nearly an exact replica of Maria. Brigitte Helm takes on both roles. The audience can tell the two apart in a variety of ways: Helm’s movements and posture as Maria are usually smooth and poised while as the robot she jerks her body erratically and adopts angular poses. Costume design also distinguishes the two: Maria is seen in a simple frock, while the robot wears heavy eye makeup and ostentatious outfits. However, within the fabula world, all the characters are convinced that the two characters are one and the same. This inability to distinguish between the two reveals uneasiness about identity, as J.P. Telotte identifies in his essay “Human Artifice and the Science Fiction Film”. (57) Thus, the substance of the “Maria” character is split between an inherently good human and the evil robot. (An allusion to this concept can be seen in Helm’s performance when the robot adopts her visage. Maria remains motionless during the procedure. Thus, when it ends why does her head loll to one side, as if a part of her essence had been drained away?)

The latter of the two is then pitted against society, represented by the mob.

The monster of horror films must also be human – and to a certain extent sympathetic – as well. (Sobchack 31) The beginning of such a rapport between the antagonist (robot Maria) and the audience begins with the sheer amount of screen time dedicated to the robot. Sobchack asserts that in horror films “both Man and Monster must be given equal weight and equal time.” (31) After the Machine-Man is introduced in the middle of the film, the robot’s presence pervades the rest of the movie. Often times, lengthy scenes are devoted to following the robot without another main character to divert the audience’s attention. Examples of such scenes occur when she dances in the nightclubs at Yoshiwara, leads the mob in their destruction of the machines, and is finally destroyed. While Science Fiction creatures lack emotion, robot Maria has it in spades. Helm’s performance transforms the lifeless automaton into an insane woman. Sympathy is created for this monster when she ultimately undermines the dystopic metropolis. The robot breathes life back into the workers by inciting them to riot and break the machines that enslave them. No longer do the workers move like cogs. Robot Maria is then promptly destroyed as a scapegoat for Fredersen (Alfred Abel) and Rotwang’s crimes. In Telotte’s essay he remarked on the fact that audiences may begin to empathize with doubles. Here, the slightly humanized robot can be seen in a sympathetic light, as it is marginalized despite being the sole instrument of social change.

A second thematic element Sobchack ascribes to horror films is that the threat monsters pose is distinctly moral in nature. (30) This is most readily visible in the religious discourse of the film, although it is also associated with other elements such as the negative female traits embodied by the robot. A stereotype of women is that they are more easily disposed to insanity. Helm masterfully portrays this with her distinctly feminine performance. In close ups as the robot is being burned at the stake, she laughs psychotically and writhes as if in pleasure rather than pain.

This predisposition toward madness is a manifestation of “an alien potential that resides in man”. (Telotte 60) Another moral failing of the robot is her highly sexual nature. Maria is likened to the Virgin Mary via her name, Jesus when she appears amidst the children in the Eternal Gardens, and John the Baptist in her dialogue that stresses the imminent appearance of a savior/mediator.

The robotic Maria is an inversion of these religious figures. When Freder (Gustav Fröhlich) first sees the robot disguised as Maria, there are many quick cuts between close-ups of the robot and the Grim Reaper. In the nightclub the robot appears as the Whore of Babylon, perched atop a seven-headed beast in a lavish Biblical allusion.

This use of editing and set decoration links the monstrous woman with moral failings: death, rather than a mother producing life, and promiscuity in place of chastity. Later, the script reinforces this view. The Eternal Gardens, a thinly veiled Eden, are described as empty because the robotic Maria has drawn the masses to Yoshiwara (Hell). A final negative aspect of women is their subversive potential. Via her speech in the catacombs, robotic Maria effectively goads the workers into a fit of hysteria that turns the once pacific congregation of men into a violent mob.

The moral threats presented in the film – including the idea of religious corruption – are not limited to the robotic Maria. This theme carries over to the robot’s creator, Rotwang. (Rotwang’s profession is translated as that of a “wizard” in Giorgio Moroder’s 1984 version of Metropolis.) Many elements of the mise en scène associated with the character address paganism. For example, his home is a veritable treasure trove of pagan allusions. Pentacles are present on all of his doors; this symbol, inverted and enlarged, also hangs above the eerie dais on which the Machine-Man sits enthroned.

The implied idea of idolatry is accentuated by the bust of Hel, Fredersen’s dead wife. Viewers familiar with Germanic myth will also note that the name is an allusion to the Norse goddess/realm of the dead. The threat against religion is also manifested in the supernatural, which is achieved by the employing of special effects. For example, the doors in Rotwang’s house can spring open or magically lock without a human manipulating them. Similarly, mattes and fades are used throughout the film to give the impression that physical objects can appear or disappear. This occurs in the nightclub, when a lid-like structure in front of the robotic Maria fades away. The technique is most compellingly employed when the robot takes on and then sheds Maria’s “skin”. The ghostly, seemingly mystic nature of these changes later justifies the mob when they call Maria a witch and burn her at the stake. The argument could be made that audiences would take these special effects as indicative of unseen, advanced technology. However Sobchack asserts that, according to Arthur C. Clarke, “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” (56) Because the viewer cannot understand how or even if technology is involved, it retains a supernatural quality. Thus the threat to morality, especially in the religious sense, is appeased with the destruction of the robot and death of its creator.

It would be difficult to argue that events such as the burning of the robot do not concern all of society, a thematic facet of Science Fiction films. (Sobchack 30) However, conceding this point does not preclude another focus on a more intimate group, the family. At the heart of the film’s narrative is an emphasis on the family. This is exemplified by the love triangles present within the film. Several allusions are made to the tenuous relationship between Fredersen and Rotwang over the woman Hel. This thread is picked up with the robotic Maria. Freder rushes into his father’s office, only to see his beloved in a semi-embrace with his father. The close proximity and contact between Abel and Helm, as well as the fact that they’re centered in the frame, explains why Freder crumples to the floor; his family has been perverted when the father appropriates his son’s love interest.

The robotic Maria also threatens the family, albeit in a symbolic manner. After following her orders, the workers break their machines. However, their lives are not endangered. Rather, the lives of their children are threatened by a flood. Maria uses the gong in the worker city to summon Freder. When the children, Maria, and Freder are finally united in a manifestation of the nuclear family, the film cuts to their speedy escape up a stairwell. At the top, holding the children in their arms, the two stand side-by-side as a family unit. Because he is not a necessary part of the family, Josaphat is noticeably shunted to the background and periphery of the frame.

The clearest aim of the horror genre is to evoke a sense of intense fear within the viewer, whereas Science Fiction emphasizes wonder and awe. (Sobchack 37/38) Metropolis attempts to inspire fear in the audience in many parts of the film. Sobchack quotes Richard Hodgens as saying that the term Science Fiction is often misapplied to films that “suggest a throwback of taste to something moldier and more ‘Gothic’ than the Gothic novel”. (27) With such a stance, Hodgens would definitely list Metropolis as a horror film, because a sense of the Gothic pervades the work. As one of Rotwang’s dialogue cards reads, deep beneath Fredersen’s dual city are ancient catacombs. It is here that a Gothic scene first appears, when Rotwang corrals Maria. The lighting in the tunnels is nearly nonexistent. In the tradition of the Gothic heroine, Maria carries only a candle as she is stalked by Rotwang.

The scientist opts for a flashlight instead. The high contrast lighting created by the device allows him to visually dominate Maria, using its light to blind and terrify her.

When trapped by the beam, Maria casts grotesque shadows on the stone walls. Often times, the darkness is so complete that it, rather than Maria or Rotwang, dominates the frame. The interplay between light and dark is complemented by the set design. Taken out of context, the catacombs seem more likely to be found in a castle than beneath a Bauhaus-styled city. In one scene, Rotwang uses his flashlight to illuminate human remains within crypts.

In a clever move, the subsequent close-up is made macabre by the fact that the character’s face is flanked by two skulls of the same scale as his head.

The classic horror trope of a man stalking a woman is repeated several times in equally Gothic locales: A cell-like room with barred windows in Rotwang’s cottage and the belfry of the cathedral. In the first Maria is framed by the bars, reinforcing the image of her as a Gothic heroine in need of rescue. A similar device is employed atop the cathedral, when Rotwang scuttles up the roof with Maria in his arms like Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Reflected in the formal and narrative elements of Metropolis is a compelling argument that the film thoroughly aligns itself with the Horror genre (as defined by Sobchack herself). An equally persuasive argument that the themes of the film coincide with Science Fiction is accepted as a given. If more than one critical interpretation can be sustained by evidence from the film, how can Sobchack define a genre by “gladly recognizing these hybrid forms as part of a spectrum”? (63) In essence, she simply concedes that thematic elements between these two genres overlap. However, the ability to evaluate the “emphasis” and “lesser emphasis” of the themes of a particular genre is inherently subjective, necessitating that all films be defined as a hybrid of the many generic devices they draw upon. (63) Thus, while some critics err on the side of purity when defining genre, an extension of Sobchack’s conception of the term leads to dissipation.

:: Bibliography ::

• Metropolis. Dir. Fritz Lang. Perf. Alfred Abel, Brigitte Helm, Gustav Fröhlich, and Rudolf Klein-Rogge. 1927. DVD. Kino, 2002.
• Sobchack, Vivian. “The Limits of the Genre: Definitions and Themes”. Screening Space. London: Rutgers University Press, 1987. Pages 17-63.
• Telotte, J.P. “Human Artifice and the Science Fiction Film”. Liquid Metal. Ed. Sean Redmond. New York: Wallflower Press, 2004. Pages 57-63.

You probably haven’t heard of the recent controversy spurred by the new Collector’s Edition of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The color palette of the film has been drastically changed, darkness greatly increased, desaturated, etc. in comparison to earlier mass market releases. According to the motion picture archivist Robert Harris, this is because American Zoetrope has digitally matched the colors to those of the Francis Ford Coppola-approved answer print. According to fans it’s an unpardonable, deliberate revision of their favorite film incarnation of the Dracula story. I honestly don’t care about any of that… as long as consumers have a choice between the two.

My only lingering concern with the Collector’s Edition is that it has been accused of totally altering Eiko Ishioka’s Academy Award-winning costume designs. From very early on in Dracula’s pre-production, Coppola “decided that the costumes would be the set.” (Dworkin 17) When Eiko Ishioka realized “that the costumes would be the key factor in determining the quality of the film itself, I accepted the job.” (Dworkin 21) So that is what this post is actually about. Not the concern for color fidelity in film archiving, but those beautiful costumes - inspired by everything from the Symbolist movement to the Australian frilled lizard - that were conceived of and created by Ishioka. (Dworkin 19, 70)

One of the most memorable garments from the film is Dracula’s “red Oriental-Turkish robe”, which was created to “emphasize the androgynous quality in his character”, “a haunting aura of transsexuality.” (Dworkin 41) In the thematic color of red, Eiko had Dracula’s golden coat-of-arms embroidered on the breast.

This emblem is Dracula’s “identity, similar to the Japanese family crest. I designed a motif of various animals intertwined into a single form.” (Dworkin 42) These included a dragon, wolf, snakes, and birds, as well as fire. (Landau 37) The robe’s voluminous train was constructed to “undulate like a sea of blood.” (Dworkin 41) Not all of Dracula’s planned costumes made it into the film. Check out this sketch of a brocaded vest with red detailing/piping and handkerchief:

The designs for women are the cornerstone of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. And why is that? It’s because the original, decentralized story found in Stoker’s novel - told through every character’s point of view except Dracula’s - has been appropriated for Mina. Screenwriter Jim Hart felt that “The key to writing Dracula was to make it Mina’s story.” (Landau 80) Instead of a fragmented narrative, Mina gives it unity and continuity. While it may seem that Mina’s story is framed by Dracula’s historic prologue, the truth is in fact the opposite. Dracula lacks agency. He can merely react as Elisabeta kills herself, as Mina abandons him to marry Harker, as she makes the decision to become a vampire, as she exploits their psychic rapport to assist her friends, and finally as she delivers them both from the unholy covenant Dracula forged with “darkness”.

Throughout the film, Mina’s costumes convey just as much of the story as the actress beneath all that silk. For example, the dress Mina wears in Rule’s Cafe (the absinthe scene) was colored red - Dracula’s color - to convey that Mina would soon be tainted by vampirism. (Landau 127)

Ishioka “carefully considered Mina’s role in the drama” before she chose green as Mina’s thematic color. (Dworkin 61) The color needed to compass the character’s intelligence, sexual naïveté, stoicism, sense, and strong will. Many of these attributes can be seen in the dress she wears on the streets of London and in the cinematograph. The pert hat represents her vivacity and fortitude, the manly lapels her status as a New Woman with a “man’s brain [...] and a woman’s heart“, etc. (Stoker 266)

Winona Ryder wearing the town dress. Photo by Ralph Nelson II. (Landau 80)

Sketch of the town dress by Eiko Ishioka. Photo by Keith Sherins. (Dworkin 60)

Most of Mina’s dresses - including her typing gown - also sport high collars to reflect her modesty and chastity:

Mina’s typing dress. Photo by David Seidner. (Dworkin63)

The high collar can also be seen on Mina’s three-quarter sleeve dress. This dress is rather domestic-looking because of the contrast between the apron and the skirt and wrap. It also lacks leaf embroidery (whose importance will be discussed later) and is almost always worn while in the presence or under the protection of Van Helsing.

Mina’s three-quarter sleeve dress. Photos by Ralph Nelson II. (Landau 129, 125, 141)

As you can see, Ishioka took a predominantly historical, orthodox approach to Mina’s costumes, only pushing boundaries with her creative embellishments. (Dworkin 94) However, “Costumes should be more than just items that explain the role of the actors who wear them”, she stresses. (Dworkin 27) A costume should challenge the actor, filmmakers, and audience. (Dworkin 27) An example of this type of costume is Mina’s wedding dress, which is featured only briefly in the movie. Rather than a virginal white, it is instead a sombre gray-green:

This type of implicit message can also be seen in the final act of the film, in which Mina wears a historically outmoded style. “I designed her cape in the last scene with a strong Renaissance flavor, a Pre-Raphaelite look.” (Dworkin 91) This costume foreshadows Mina’s realization that she is truly the reincarnation of Elisabeta, Dracula’s 15th century bride.

Mina’s Renaissance cape. Photo by David Seidner. (Dworkin 91)

Elisabeta’s gown, seen at the beginning of the film and later in flashbacks, contains the elements that draw the two (three?) central characters together: Emblazoned on the torso is Dracula’s crest. Elisabeta and Mina’s designs are relatively consistent: On the sleeves and skirt - and even her crown of laurel - is the foliage motif that is often also found on Mina’s dresses. Both have the theme color of green. While Elisabeta wears a farthingale, Mina wears a bustle.

Elisabeta’s gown. First photo by David Seidner, second by Ralph Nelson II. (Dworkin 79, Landau 14)

Ishioka’s desire to design museum-quality costumes and her overall perfectionism meant that making multiple copies of her garments for filming was financially impractical. Richard Shissler, the associate costume designer, said that “We probably should have had duplicates of everything, but we just didn’t have the budget [...] Eiko didn’t want to compromise, so we had multiples only when we really needed them.” (Landau 127) Mina’s costumes were constructed with silk taffeta, imported from France and Italy, by Dale Wibben, a freelance dressmaker from San Francisco. (Dworkin 94) Sally Ann Parsons from Parsons-Meares, Ltd. in New York did the more theatrical costumes for Dracula, Lucy, and Renfield while Vincent Costume, Inc. made the men’s clothing. (Dworkin 94) The elaborate embroidery on many of the costumes was done by Penn and Fletcher and Monogram West. (Dworkin 94)

In retrospect, upon seeing her handiwork, it’s no wonder that Coppola chose Ishioka. However, at the time it was a gamble; she had never worked on the costumes for a film before, only television. Coppola’s “strategy in hiring someone like her - an independent, a weirdo outsider with no roots in the business - it worked in the end. Because I could look at the screen and say, well, these costumes are truly irrational and artistic and absolutely unique.” (Dworkin 93)

If I revisit Bram Stoker’s Dracula again, it will be to talk about the one thing in in the film that is more beautiful than the costumes: Wojciech Kilar’s glissando filled love theme, “Mina/Dracula”. (You can hear it over at YouTube, in this video from 2:00 to the end.)

:: Bibliography ::

• Dworkin, Susan, ed. Coppola and Eiko on Bram Stoker’s Dracula. By Francis Ford Coppola and Eiko Ishioka. San Francisco: Collins Publishers San Francisco, 1992. ISBN: 0002551675.
• Landau, Diana, ed. Bram Stoker’s Dracula: The Film and the Legend. By Francis Ford Coppola. New York: Newmarket Press, 1992. ISBN: 1557041393.
• Stoker, Bram. Dracula. New York: Tom Doherty Associates, 1989. ISBN: 0812523016.

I am a pretty unabashed fan of the Indian Jones films. Yes–even that terrible one where they’re not looking for a Biblical relic. (That would be Temple of Doom for all you non-believers. Tut tut for not remembering it.) Something about banding together to defeat the Nazis has always resonated with me, especially if there are zeppelins and fancy period costumes involved. (I’m probably going to have to rent The Rocketeer one of these days, if only for the set and costume designs.) In my interview for my financial aid/internship, I actually talked at length about how this scene - in which Indy confronts Elsa at a book-burning - made quite the impression on me. (In all honesty, not the book burning itself, but the subtlety with which they were developing Elsa’s character.) For some reason, after this they still decided to give me a job and gobs of money. Bizarre.

So there’s a new one coming out: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Watch the teaser trailer for it here. This promotional peek is so jam-packed with action that I’m not sure what to think. (I know they’re just using it to sell the film, but it all seems too flashy and sensationally shot.) For me, Indiana Jones was never about the action. Dodging deadly, ancient booby traps in the grail temple in The Last Crusade was pretty awesome, but it was a lot more fun watching Indy puzzle out the solutions to these archaeological trials. Plus, Indy isn’t the spring chicken any more. I don’t want to see Harrison Ford gallivanting around, bull whip in hand, as if he was still 35 (or even 45). I felt myself wince every time I saw any stunt work in the trailer. Was this because I was afraid he’d get a hernia, or because it so unabashedly shatters our willful suspension of disbelief? (Funny, that I can handle ghosts making Nazis’ faces melt and a false grail dessicating a man, but can’t stomach Ford’s geriatric acrobatics.)

So, strike the plot stuff that I love: Nazis, Europe (apparently this one is set somewhere in Central/South America), Biblical artifacts. Insert stuff that I am ambivalent toward: that kid with the weak chin from Transformers (Shia LaBeouf), tons of action, tons of kinetic cinematography, tons of cgi, the Russkies. (Communism? Come on! It’s not evil. It can’t hold a candle to Nazis.) Now can you see why I’m a bit worried?

There are, however, two women who can save the film: Karen Allen and Cate Blanchett. Karen has a bunch of stuff going for her; her character from Raiders of the Lost Ark, Marion Ravenwood, is certainly the most plucky and popular of Indiana Jones’ love interests. However, she’s mainly coasting on nostalgia. (And did she get some plastic surgery? Or just get old? Her face looks different…) Cate Blanchett is just really, really good at acting. I know she’ll give a solid performance even if her character - Irina Spalko - isn’t particularly sexy or interesting. (However, despite her frump uniform costume and bob coiffure I think she may end up being both.) Happily she seems to be the main villain and is getting considerable screen time in the trailer. (Hooray for Communism! Equality of the sexes! Finally a villainess that isn’t subservient to a man!) However, the same can’t be said for Allen, who is only in a few shots.

So I guess I’ll just have to wait and see how it goes (on 22 May 2008). Mark your calendars, my little Short Rounds.

Others have tried - and failed - to recreate Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo: In 1976 Brian de Palma created the interesting, if poorly executed, Obsession–a thinly veiled Vertigo knock-off. Sixteen years later, Paul Verhoeven would emulate the film’s visuals to a surprising degree in Basic Instinct. (A visual comparison of Basic Instinct and Vertigo can be found here.) Attempts to recreate key scenes from the film have occurred as recently as 2005. Now, it’s time to add another to the list; Vanity Fair’s March 2008 issue will feature a photographic homage to Hitchcock’s films, including Renée Zellweger as Judy / Madeleine in the final tower scene from Vertigo! (Roy)

I never would have expected Vanity Fair to pick Renée Zellweger to fill Kim Novak’s shoes. Although I admit that she’s a talented actress, Zellweger has never been in a role that required the vulnerability, complexity, and emotional scope that Novak had to bring to her character. And of all the scenes to choose! You’d think they’d pick an easy “grey suit” episode, but instead they chose the climactic dénouement in the tower. It is perhaps the movie’s most emotionally charged scene. However, as you can see in the video of the shoot (also below), Zellweger has pretty much nailed it.

Zellweger’s performance at the shoot - described by Vanity Fair itself as “especially notable” - was both intense and impressive. (Windolf) This praise is pretty amazing, considering that there were five other Oscar winners and a huge amount of A-listers being photographed for Hitchcock’s other films. (Check out the article, cited below, for the full list and scans.) As you can see in the photo and video, everything in terms of the mise en scène was perfect: the coiffure, cosmetics, dress, earrings, tower interior… even Carlotta’s pendant.

At the shoot, Zellweger “was watching the scene over and over while getting her hair and makeup done, and when she came on set she started breathing really hard, almost hyperventilating. [...] She just absolutely exploded on the set and truly became that character like I’ve never seen before. We were in awe.” (Windolf) This method acting may explain why Zellweger’s performance lacked the subtle artistry that Novak brought to Judy’s character in both this and other scenes. (And in all fairness, it was just a photo shoot.) In addition to amplifying the emotions for a traditional camera, Zellweger herself may have been having an emotional reaction to Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak’s performances.

Revisiting Vertigo is something of an obsession for fans of the film. (Unfortunately, this Vertigo fanatic will not be close enough to visit San Fransisco when he goes to Anaheim, California this summer for the annual ALA conference.) Watch a YouTube video of the locations featured in the film here. Check out a stunning visual comparison of scenes from the film and contemporary photographs at Vertigo… Then and Now.

Special thanks to Joel Gunz, Hitchcock Geek for bringing Vanity Fair’s photo shoot to my attention and Deeda Blair for scanning and posting the article.

:: Bibliography ::

Roy, Norman J., photographer. “The 2008 Hollywood Portfolio.” Vanity Fair (March 2008): 370-71. Accessed 8 February 2008. http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/20148385.html.

Windolf, Jim. It’s the Hitch in Hitchcock. March 2008. CondéNet. Accessed 6 February 2008. http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2008/03/behindthescenes200803.

As a child, I would often have dreams about a mysterious blonde, blindfolded and all in white, silently calling out to me for help. She would appear framed in mirrors, reaching blindly towards me, or dead in a ruined coffin. When I related the dream to a friend, he assured me it was not mine at all. Rather, the girl was my misty memory of an obscure live-action Disney film, The Watcher in the Woods. The “dream” was in fact several suspenseful scenes from the science fiction/horror movie, which features a girl who was accidentally sent into another dimension - switched with an alien - during a solar eclipse. Why I came to think of it as a dream was clear: Karen’s costume design was theatrical and symbolic in nature, a softening filter made the images hazy, and little to no sound heightened the suspense of the scenes.

In “Prosthetic Memory: Total Recall and Blade Runner”, Alison Landsberg relates Herbert Blumer’s scientific finding that the mass media can implant memories into audiences via film. (LM 240) Audiences do not simply associate themselves with characters in the film, but incorporate the images and sounds fundamentally into the self. (LM 242) Landsberg views this as an extension of themes developed in contemporary science fiction films dealing with “prosthetic” (i.e. synthesized) memory.

In her essay, the author argues that post-modern film analysis privileges the time before audience’s relationships to events were not so mediated that people could not differentiate between the real and hyperreal. (LM 243, 240) Critics such as Fredric Jameson and Jean Baudrillard express nostalgia for this time – the “prelapsarian moment” – when it was still possible for viewers to experience and participate in true memory rather than inauthentic memory. Landsberg argues, however, that films such as Total Recall and Blade Runner work against this idea. The protagonists of both films don’t concern themselves with their past. This is because an authentic memory is not necessarily superior to a fabricated one, and because both memories exist. (LM 243, 244) Decker and Quaid forge their own identities based on the present moment. Thus, memory is less about the past than the present. (LM 244) A foil to this argument can be seen in the film Dark City. In the course of the narrative, John Murdoch (Rufus Sewell) attempts to unravel his memories to escape the strange people chasing him. As it turns out, these aliens have scrambled memories into a “cocktail” and literally inject them into men and women. By repeatedly changing humans’ identities in this manner, the aliens can keep them ignorant of their captivity. Only with the help of someone with authentic memories (Kiefer Sutherland) can Murdoch learn the truth (via injection of authentic memories) and liberate the humans.

In the “Postfuturism” chapter of Vivian Sobchack’s Screening Space, she also identifies the importance of the coherence of identify. (SS 272) In the postmodern era, Sobchack feels that identity is shaped mostly by space and surface rather than the temporal. Landsberg also asserts that an emphasis on the surface typifies postmodernism. (LM 244) Thus, continuity of time is less important. Science fiction films are either nostalgic or celebratory in regard to this fact. (SS 273) In the first case, the films draw on the past in terms of plot and mise en scène (such as the antiquated fashions seen in Dune). In the second, the films glory in discontinuity editing that confuses the viewer’s sense of time. The Watcher in the Woods is of the first type, as it uses gothic horror and antiquated locales to cleverly mislead the audience into thinking the film is a ghost story (rather than science fiction).

Thus, postmodern memory and its repercussion on how films conceive of time/space can be added to a list of the elements of science fiction film. While critics readily discern the genre’s predisposition to look toward the future, they often neglect the just as conspicuous tendency for the films to look into the past.

I’ve included some screenshots from The Watcher in the Woods. I thought they might be useful in understanding why I subconsciously found the scene so gripping. If you haven’t seen the film, I would suggest it. (Annabel, at the very least, got some laughs when she revisited it.) I think it really embodies the generic tension between horror and sci-fi that Sobchack identified, even more so than Metropolis. (More on that later.)

:: Bibliography ::

Sobchack, Vivian. Screening Space. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1997.

Redmond, Sean. Liquid Metal. New York: Wallflower Press, 2004.

The Watcher in the Woods. Dir. John Hough. Perf. Bette Davis, Lynn-Holly Johnson, Kyle Richards, Carroll Baker, and David McCallum. 1980/1. DVD. Anchor Bay Entertainment. April 2, 2002.