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girish: Difficult Cinema
Congratulations to Marilyn Ferdinand (Ferdy on Films) and Farran Smith Nehme (Se
lf-Styled Siren) for the just-concluded Film Preservation Blogathon. The event's
aim was to raise money to preserve blacklisted filmmaker Cy Endfield's noir The
Sound of Fury (1950). There is still time to donate to this cause: Please see t
he Facebook page of For the Love of Film. Marilyn and Farran, thank you!
* * *
I've been wondering: What does it mean for a film to be difficult? Are there mul
tiple ways in which films can be difficult? To put the question to myself in a m
ore personal and subjective way: What are some films or filmmakers that I find d
ifficult? And why?
I recently watched Andrei Rublev (1966), a remarkable and quintessential work of
cinematic modernism. It can be called difficult for many reasons: it's three an
d a half hours long; the narrative is episodic and discontinuous; the film is st
ructured in the form of chapters but often there is little idea of how much time
has elapsed between them; there are dozens of characters, and the relationships
between them are not always clear; to complicate matters, the same actors turn
up in multiple roles through the film; Tarkovsky frequently drops narrative and
character in order to focus on the elements (earth, air, water, fire) in an imme
rsive, tactile way. In and beyond matters of plot, action, character and psychol
ogy, Tarkovsky poses challenges to interpretation, especially given the central
theme of the spiritual -- the non-material, the intangible -- that runs through
the film.
Robin Wood has a wonderful passage on the subject of difficult cinema in a 2004
essay on Claire Denis' I Can't Sleep. It appears in a section he titles "Confess
ions of an Incompetent Film Critic." Let me quote it at some length:
For people of my generation, who grew up in the 1940s/50s on an exclusive di
et of classical Hollywood cinema (with the occasional British movie), the Europe
an arthouse cinema always presented problems which linger on even today, a simple
basic one being that of following the plot. This is not because the plot is nece
ssarily complex or obscure, but, frequently, because of the way in which the cha
racters are introduced and the action presented. When I grew up there was remark
ably little serious criticism available (not much beyond the weekly reviews), an
d film studies courses in schools or universities were not even thought of. I wa
s seventeen when I saw my first foreign language film (Torment/Frenzy [Hets, 194
4], by Alf Sjberg, from an early but already characteristic screenplay by Ingmar
Bergman). I knew from the reviews that it would carry me far beyond anything I h
ad seen previously, both in style and subject-matter, and my hand was trembling
when I bought my ticket. I believe I had great difficulty following it (my first
subtitles, not to mention extreme psychological disturbance). Fifty-five years
later I still have the same problem when confronted with the films of Claire Den
is (or Michael Haneke, or Hou Hsiao-Hsien). The habits acquired during ones format
ive years are never quite cast off; when I showed I Cant Sleep to a graduate film
group last year, my students corrected me over a number of details and pointed
out many things I hadnt noticed, although this was their first viewing of the fil
m and I had already watched it three times. A classical Hollywood film however i
ntelligent and complex is dependent on its surface level upon popular appeal and i
ts action must be fully comprehensible to a general audience at one viewing, cov
ering all levels of educatedness from the illiterate to the university professor
. (The same was of course true of the Elizabethan theatre see, for example, the
conventions of the soliloquy and the aside, wherein a character explains his/her

motivation, reactions or thoughts to the audience). One of the cardinal rules w

as that every plot point must be doubly articulated, in both the action and the
dialogue; another was the use of the cut to close-up that tells us This character
is important; yet another, the presence of instantly recognizable stars or chara
cter actors. All of these Denis systematically denies us. It is a part of her gr
eat distinction that her films (and especially I Cant Sleep, arguably her masterp
iece to date) demand intense and continuous mental activity from the spectator:
we are not to miss a single detail or to pass over a gesture or facial expressio
n, even if it is shown in long shot within an ensemble, with no helpful underlinin
g and no spelling out in dialogue.
It is the particular distinction of Denis cinema that sets it apart from almo
st, indeed, in opposition to the work of many of our most celebrated arthouse dire
ctors: Bergman, for example, or Fellini or Antonioni. Their films are rooted in
autobiography not necessarily in any literal sense, but in terms of personal int
rospection whereas Denis left autobiography behind with Chocolat, and even that
film is notable for its poise and critical distance, its objectivity. Where Berg
man or Fellini seems to be saying to us Come with me and Ill tell you my secrets,
share my experiences how I feel about things, my thoughts about existence, Denis
issues a very different invitation to the spectator: Come with me and well play a
game, albeit a serious one. Lets see how much you can notice in what I decide to
show you, how you interpret what you see and hear, what connections you can make
, how much can be explained and how much remains mysterious and uncertain, as so
much in our lives remains unclear. Ill allow you a certain leeway of interpretat
ion, because I dont always understand everything myself, not even my own creation
s, though Ill be as precise as possible
* * *
On the one hand, I agree with Wood that filmmakers such as Denis and Hou are dif
ficult. In comparison to (say) popular cinema, the demands they place on us are
sometimes of a different order. And yet, when I experience each new work by thes
e filmmakers, the difficulty I feel in making sense of them is counterweighed by
the feeling of deep pleasure I take in the very ambiguities, uncertainties and
mysteries that make the work difficult. In the end, the overriding impression th
at lingers is not one of the work s difficulty but of its rewards, and the pleas
ures it brings.
But there is another, more personal and subjective sense in which cinema can be
difficult -- when certain films or filmmakers pose problems especially for us as
individual viewers, problems that don t seem universally shared by other film-l
overs. For example, even though they strike me as very interesting, I find that
I have to work hard to grapple with and tune into the few films I ve seen by J
acques Rivette. (Confession: I haven t seen Celine and Julie yet.) Many of the c
inephiles and critics I admire are devotees of his films, and this leads me to b
elieve that I ve not yet found the secret key to, the way into his work. The
films hold me at arm s length; I ve not discovered how to align with -- and r
esonate with them yet.
I recently read Jonathan Rosenbaum s essay on Rivette s films, "Work and Play in
the House of Fiction." It helpfully begins with this epigraph from Whitney Ball
iett:
[Ornette Coleman s Free Jazz] causes earache the first time through, especia
lly for those new to Coleman s music. The second time, its cacophony lessens and
its complex balances and counter-balances begin to take effect. The third time,
layer upon layer of pleasing configurations -- rhythmic, melodic, contrapuntal,
tonal -- becomes visible. The fourth or fifth listening, one swims readily alon
g, about ten feet down, breathing the music like air.

Jonathan adds:
Apart from the brief ensemble passages written by Coleman, there is no compo
ser behind Free Jazz, hence no composition; the primary role of Coleman as leade
r is to assemble players and establish a point of departure for their improvisin
g.
Rivette s role in Spectre is similar, with the crucial difference that he ed
its and rearranges the material afterward, assembling shots as well as players.
And the assembly is one that works against the notion of continuity: sustained m
eaning, the province of an auteur, is deliberately withheld -- from the audience
as well as the actors. [...] We watch actors playing at identity and meaning th
e way that children do, with many of the games leading to dead ends or stalemate
s, some exhausting themselves before they arrive anywhere, and still others crea
ting solid roles and actions that dance briefly in the theater of the mind befor
e dissolving into something else. Nothing remains fixed, and everything becomes
ominous.
Although I haven t seen Spectre or Out 1, there are many interesting observation
s and insights here. I think I may have gathered some clues to help me with my n
ext Rivette encounter.
I m curious to hear from you: What do you think are some ways in which films can
be "difficult"? And, subjectively speaking, are there certain films or filmmake
rs that you find difficult? And why? I d love to hear your thoughts on anything
related to this large subject.
* * *
A few links:
-- Zach Campbell recalls an Andy Rector post on Joseph Losey s The Lawless (1950
) and uses it to comment on the film. Also: Dave Kehr has an interesting review
of the newly released Losey noir The Prowler (1951).
-- Jeffrey Sconce brings Christian Metz s film theory to Ida Lupino s Not Wanted
(1949) in his post on the "quasi-diegetic insert".
-- From Ignatiy: the new episode of Ebert Presents; and his post "Cabinetry," on
the Liam Neeson Euro-thriller genre.
-- Two Jonathan Rosenbaum-related items: a podcast of an interview he did with C
olin Marshall; and a newly written introduction to his book on Jim Jarmusch s De
ad Man.
pic: Claire Denis I Can t Sleep (1994)