Contents

Prcf~lce YII
Fdillhurgh L'ni\er.. . it~ Pre.. . :-. I,td
\hout this Book IX
22 (;c(Jq.~:e Square, Ldinhurgh

\\ho '\eeds Genres?

'1\ P"'''! ill \ \01101\ P" Ehrhard!
h,· "-()iIlOni~l, \ Lll1che...;tcr, JIlll
2 Before Genre: \lelodrama 2<)
p~'il1led ~lI1d hound in (irc.11 l~riLlin h~
:\11[0'" I{O\\l' I ,Id. (,hipIKllhalll. \\ il" Part 1: Classical Paradigms
3 The Western: Genre and Histon
.\ CIP rLTord for Ihi...; hook i:-. ;\\<liLthk frum the Hriti~h l.ihLlr~ -+ The \ I llsical: Genre and Form
), The \\ar/Combat Film: Genre and '\ation
ISIli\ ° 7~K(1 1'102 \ (hardhack)
fl, The G,l11~ster Film: Genre and Societ~
ISIl'J 0 7~K(1 11)03 K 11'"pcrh,itk)

Thl' right or H.llT~ I ,<lIl~'I()rLl Part 2: Transitional Fantasies

to he idcntified ;\.. . ;lut!lOI" uf thi . . \\ork 7 The Horror Film
Ius hel'n ;l ........ erlcd in ;llTO["{lll1cC \\ irh
N, The Science Fiction Film
the (:op~ri~·ht, Ik.. . ign . . ,1l1d P.IICIl\<'" :\d IqSS

Part 3: Post-Classical Genres

t), Fillll .\011'
2IO
10, The .\ction Blockbuster
233
II, Genre: Breakin~ the Frame
2.17
(!) Docllmen tary
257
(ll) Holocaust Film 262
(III) Porno~raphy
26 7
12, (~onclllsion: Transg:enre?
273
Bihliog;raphy
279
Index
2<n
 Preface

The concept of gCllrc - a French word meaning 'type' or 'kind' - is used

throughout film culture: in film production, in the popular consumption and
reception of films ,1I1d in academic film studies. Yet the \\ays in which genre
is understood arc anything but consistent across those different constitu-
encies. :\t a more fundamentalleH~1too, genre remains a perplexingly c\'asi\c
.tnd. philosophically speaking, idealistic entity. On the one hand, no individual
genn.' film can ncr embody the full rang;e of attributes said to typify its
genre; hy the same token - as \olumes of frustrated critical cff(lrt attest - no
definition of a genre, hO\\e\cr t1exible, can account equally well ftH' e\cry
genn.' film. For newcomers to the field, it must often seem that, as with
(intrude Stein's Oakland, 'when you get there, there's no "t here" there.'
This book proposes that, such problems notwithstanding, genre remains
an essential critical tool ftlr understanding the ways that films are produced
and consumed, as well as their broader rclations to culture and society. How-
e\ cr, the shifting \alences, relations and definitions of the concept of genre
pose ob\ious problems ftlr students, who must additionally halance abstract
,lnd/or g;encralised categ'ories- in 'defining' indi\idual g-cnres and in under-
I SLlllding the underlying principles of g;cncric classification as such - on the
one hand against their realisation (or repudiation) in any given film on the
I
other. Rather like the barned private eye Harry \loseby in the 're\isionist'
genre film Sip)iI\!o;:'cs (l(n~), anyone studying g;enre is prone to encoun-
tering; an unexpected complexity in apparently common-sense categories
II hel-C even. new turn threatens further consternation. Harr\ . eVloseby
. ends
lip lJuite literally going around in circles. Students risk a similar btl'.
The aim of this book is to make that dismal outcome less likely. Focusing
nLlinly on the best-known and longest-liyed Holly\\ood genres - those with
rOots in the classical studio era, eyen if like the action film they haye taken on
a different generic char,leter and a hugely expanded industrial importance in
VIII FILM GENRE

the post-classical period I hale tried to shOll the \\ays in \\hich film genre
theory has informed the most influential accoul1Cs of major genres and lice
\ersa. In some GISeS, students may find that their prior assumptions about
what makes films generic, or hO\y indi\idual genres \\ork, are challenged ..-\s About this book
disorientin[?: as this mig'ht sometimes he, it seems nonetheless ,111 appropriate
dimension of learning to understand \yhat arc after all complC\ entities \\ith
widely ramified connections to film, social - and critical history. Such
ramilications defeat Harry i\loseby, \\ho at the end of the film \\e lea\e adrift
in a hoat named Po III I or 11'(,11'. Ylp,ll/ .\10('('.1' lel\TS it deliberately ambi[?:uous
\\hether I-Iarry himself lacks a point of \ie\\ or is baffled by too many con-
tlictin[?: ones. The reader of this hook \\ill I hope be able to understand the
reasons for the contrO\Trsies and conflicting' \'icy\s of film [?:enre and genre
lilms, and throug'h such understandin[?: de\elop a critical perspecti\ e of their
own.
Books, like films, are collaborati\T productions. Thanks are owed to many The o\erall approach of FIIIII (;Cl/re: HoIIJ'II'IIIIIIII/ld fJeJ'ol/l1 situates [?:enres in
colleag;ues and under[?:raduate and post[?:raduate students, and to Ro\al their historical - primarily, cultural and (film) industrial conte:\ts; the
Holloway, Cni\Trsity of] ,ondon, \\'ho ha\T in a \ariety of formal and inf()rmal O\erarching context of the book is the transition from the 'classical' Holly-
contnts helped formulate and refine the ideas about lilm genre explored in wood system to a 'post-classical' mode that extends to the present day. [n
this book. J haye also had the benefit of airing some of these ideas, notably on making this separation, I neither explicitly challen[?:e nor endorse arguments
Westerns ,Illd on Holocaust film, in papers deli\Tred at conferences in the Jbout thc extent to \\ hich 'post-classical' Holly\YooJ represents a qualita-
Uk and the United States: I am grateful to the conference organisers I(JI' ti\eh different set of yisual stylistics in Holly\Yood film, or is essentially
those opportunities and, once again, to numerous colleagues for the responses continuous in formal terms with the 'classical' Hollywood cinema (see
and insig'hts they ha\'e \,(llunteered. Some material is based on essays pre- Bord\\ell, Staiger and Thompson, r9k); Bordwell, 2002). It is clear enoug'h,
\iously published in 1"11111 [;) IIlslor]' and the ]ol/rnill or 1I01IICIIl/SI 1;'d/lCIIllolI. as numerous studies ha\T no\y established, that the relati\'ely standardised
My editor at Edinburgh Uni\Trsity Press, Sarah Ed\\ards, expertly co,I:\l'l1 mass-production of lilm entertainment that typilied the studio era until shortly
the book thnlu[?:h the initial proposal and then waited (and waited!) p,ltientl~ ,ll'tcr the war has been repLlCed by a Ell' more dispersed and heterogeneous
for the cyentual arriyal of the manuscript. \ly L.Imily had to li\e \\ith an Illechanism (this does not mean of course that the outcomes are equally hetero-
increasingly reclusi\T and grouchy author as his deadline first approached, geneous), and thus the structure of contract artists stars, \\Titers, directors,
then passed, They did so \\ith a good deal more [?:race than he did. In set and costume designers, composers, etc. ,studio b,lcklots and standing sets,
particular, without the support, tolerance and keen editorial eye of m~ \1 ife ,1I1nual release 'slates' and \ertically integTated corporate org'anisations that
Carole Tonkinson this book \\ould not hale been possible, and it is dedicated collecti\ eh comprised \\hat .-\ndre Bazin GIlled 'the genius of the system' and
with I<l\T to her. 1\ hich supported and encouraged genre production, has gone. Some g'enres,

like the musical and the "'estern, seem I(JI' a \ariety of reasons to hale been
so much a part of that system that they could not easily sUl'\iYe its passing',
\\ hile others, like .film 1I0ir and the action blockbuster, arc in different ways
clclrly outcomes of a different order of production th,\I1 the Holly\Yood studio
S\steIll and may usefully be considered in the context of a post-classical
cinema. In any eYent, [ haye arrang;ed the genres discussed in the book into
three categories - classical, transitional and post-classical. Like other bound-
aries discllssed in this book, these too are porous and certainly open to
challenge: they are intended as heuristic tools rather than Jefiniti\e statements,
LICh chapter addresses both genre histol'\ and some of the principal
X FILM GENRE

critical approaches each genre has invited. Histon' and criticism are at e\-cry
stage interlinked: it is easy enough in genre study' to lose the wood for the
trees, and so I have not attempted either to cover e;ery major crirical approach
to every genre (a task in any case undertaken mag'isteriallv bv Steve '\Jeale,
2000), nor h,l\'e I aimed to prO\ide in each case a comprehen-siv~ genre history,
as this can easily end up simply offering; lists of insufficiently differentiated
film titles. Each chapter docs, I hope, give a reasonably clear picture of a genre's
historical de\'e1opment while also engaging with those critical perspectives
that seem to have the most direct bearing either on the current state of crirical
understanding; of a genre or its location within genre studies as a w'hole. In
citing genre critics and theorists I have maintained a slig'ht bias towards
recent research to reflect the current state of play and new critical directions.
Each chapter concludes with a brief 'case study' of a genre film or pair of
films. These films ha\-c not been selected fflr either their 'classic' or their repre-
sentative status, but simply as films that can be and have been firmly located
within the genre in question, whose more detailed consideration seems to me
in useful ways to complement or amplify the issues raised in the main section
of the chapter. The account given of the film(s) is not intended to be com-
prehensive, nor could it be in the space a\ailable: the clements highlighted
arc those that bear most directly on genre history or genre theory.
Genre studies has historically been dominated by analysis of the major
Hollywood genres, and this book is principally about Hollywood. H()\\C\cr,
the subtitle JJII//J ' /I'III)(/ allr! RC)'III/{/ reflects firstly my own concern to
indicate that Hollywood genres not on Iy colonise the rest of the world, but
arc and ha\c been open to it; secondly, the stream that in recent years has
hecome a flood of critical studies of the popular cinemas of other nations and
their genres; and third, that e\cn .\merican g-Cl1lCS arc not and ha\-c not been
exclusi\-cly produced by I Iol1~ WoOl\. The first concern means that, where relevant
(ff)r example, the horror film and ji/II/ IIl1lr) influences on Hol1y\\ood from
other national cinemas and cultures arc considered in their proper place in
the main hod~ of each chapter. The second is inadequately - ffn- reasons of hoth
space and in many cascs the limits ofm~ o\\n expertise - cO\ered in a conclud-
ing section to each chapter (har Chaptcr .=; on thc war/ comhat film, which, to
highlight the interaction of genre and nationhood, proceeds on a comparati\c
international basis throughout) which briefly indicltes some of the wa~ s rhat
major J Iol1ywood gelllTs ha\-c also figured importantly (sometimes under
IIol1ywood's influence and sometimes \\holl~ separately) in other national
cinemas. l'\on-Hol1yw ood ,\merican genres like documentary and pornogTaphy
arc discussed at somew'hat gre,llcr length in the final chapter.
C1L\PTER I
Who Needs Genres?
hinking' about why we might 'need' genres means thinking' about the
T uses to which w-c commonly put genre concepts and the value we derive
from doing so, Thus wc can focus on genre's role as an active pror!uccr of
cuI rural meanings and film-making' practices alike. The provisional answ-cr to
the question 'who needs genres?' is 'E\cryone but in different wa) s, and
not to the same degree'. For film-makers, organising prod uction around
genres and c~ cles holds out the promise of attracting and retaining audiences
in a reliable way, so reducing commercial risk. For audiences, genre cate-
gories provide basic product differentiation while the generic 'contract' of
LI1l1iliarity lea\cned by novelty seems to offer some guarantee that the price
of admission wil1 purchase another shot of an experience already enjoyed
(oncc or many times) hefore. For scholars, genre provides a historicall~
grounded method of establishing 'Lunily resemhlances' betwcen films pro-
duced and released under widely differing circumstances, and of mediating
the relationship hetwcen the mythologies of popular culture and social,
political and economic contexts.
L nlike many topics within academic film studies, the basic concept of
genre is readily grasped and widely used in the larger contemporar~ film
Culture, as a visit to any video rental store readily illustrates. In my own local
outlet in South \Yest I ~ondon, ff)!- nample, videos and ))Y))s arc arranged
into the fol1<l\\ing categories: latest releases, action, thril1ers, drama, science
fiction, horror, comedy, Llmily, classics, cult and world cinema. Such a
listing il1ustrates hoth the practical utility of genre and some of the problems
that genre theory and criticism have ahvays f:lCed. Certainly perhaps
unsurprising;ly for film consumers in this high-street context at least it is

\01(: Films arc listed \\ ith their \ car of release on their tirst citation in al1\ indi\ idu,d eh'lpter:
the eountn of ori~in is assumed to be the L'S unless other\\ ise indiL',nnL
,
~
'I g'cnre, rather than other means of gTouping; films adopted by film scholars,
t hat offers the readiest means of charting a path throug'h the \ariet y of
a\ ailahle films to those they arc most likely to want to see. ,\lthough film

JI
I
2 FILM tiENRE
history, for example, plays some role in these classifications, the oyerarching
principle is not a historical one. Nor does the notion of the 'auteur' playa
terribly yisible role: although the identification of (usually) the film director
as principal creatiye agent has become an interpretatiye norm for broadsheet
and specialist magazine film criticism, directors in general feature only
marginally in the promotion or classification of yideos. This of coursc tells us
nothing about the percentage of customers who enter the store to find a
particular film, or a film by a particular director, and are thus uninterested in
or uninfluenced by the genre categories: indeed, as we shall see, genre theory
generally has found it rather difficult to establish \\ith any certainty how Elr
the film industry's categories map onto, let alone determine, audiences'
actual experience of mo\"ie-going.
Stars, another major focus of academic film studies, playa much more
yisible part in the promotion of indiyidual films - 'abO\e the line' talent
usually features prominently on yideo or DV]) cO\crs and is clearly a major
bctor in attracting audiences. Yet stars as such do not comprise generic
categories. Film students, indeed, may bc surprised to see that star personae
a major force in film production and consumption since the I()I0S, \\hen
public demand forced reluctant producers to identi(y their hitherto anony-
mous performers (and pay these nc\\ 'stars' accordingly inflated salaries) -
are also suppressed as a criterion for classification. Industrial changc has
clearly played a part here: no longer salaried contract players assigned to
seyeral different film roles annually within the studio's O\crall release 'slate',
today's film stars are frec ,lgents, leading industry players in their 0\\"11 right,
and usually haye their own production companies to orig;inate film projects
and bring them to studios f(lr financing and distribution deals. A.ctors today
are accordingly much freer to diyersify and extend both their acting range
and their star inuge; they need not be pigeonholed in just one style or genre
of film.
In the classical period the interplay of star, studio and g-enre \\",IS complex
and not necessarily unidirectional: Sklar ([()()2: 7+ 106) argoues that rather
than hiring performers to meet pre-established generic needs (let alone
compelling actors against their \\ill into restrictiye genre roles), ha\"ing
Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney, both actors \\ith 'tougoh' urban screen
personae, as contract players encouraged vVarner Bros. to make a speciality of
the crime thriller during the [(nOS and I9+os. Eyen the \Vestern Tlte
O!... !a!zol/la Kid (HU9) \\holly conforms to the template established in other
contemporary Cagney and Bogart gangster films like. ill/!,e!s Willt Dlrly FI/as
(I93 g ) and The ROllrillg T77'i'IIlies (1939). "-\s usual, Cagney (much the bigger
star at this point) plays the hero- here in the 'pro-social' gangbusting mould
into which his early I930S gangster persona had subsequently been recast
(see Chapter 6) - and Bogart the underworld boss 'heayy' in a narrati\c that
WHO NEEDS GENRES? 3
simply transposes the racketeering/syndicate g,lI1gland template of G-Mell
(1935) to the 'wide-open town' Western. In general - and with different
approaches from one studio to another - the bigg'er the star the greater his or
her opportunity for diyersification: thus Cagney in the I930S played not only
gangoster parts but musicals (Foolhj!,/II PI/mde, 193+), ayiation films (Cei!ill/!,
/ero, 19.'1) and eyen Shakespeare (-1 oHidsllllllller Nigltl'S Drel/III, 1935)·
\)orem"er, star personae could transform oyer time, as with Bogart's own
transition from second-lead heayies in the I930S to the ideal romantic leading
m,ll1 for the \\Oar-torn I9+os. But the studio system generally made casting a
much more reliable guide to the nature of a film than today: whereas fans of
Errol Flynn in Tlte .-1(l<'i'IIllIres or Robill l100d (HjJg) could be reasonably
confident that Tlte Sell HI/ JI'/'" (r 9+ I) would ofler similar pleasures - and that
this \\ ould be true e\'en if the generic mode shifted from swashbuckling
actioll-adyenture to \Vestern (Tile)' Died Hillt Tltor Bools 011, [()+I) or war
film (Desperale ]OUrtlC)', 19+2) - admirers of Tom Cruise in Top GUll (19X6)
or \l Issioll !I/lpossi/J/e (1996) may be surprised, disappointed or eyen outraged
°
by his per!(lrmanCe in A1agllo!i11 (11)1)1)). The moyement of a contemporary
star like Julianne "'loore between large-budg-ct popcorn spectaculars like
]lIrmsll Pil d' 1/: Tlte Losl World (H)97) and stylised independent films like
FI/r Frol/l lfel/7'l'1I (2002) offers audiences little clear g-eneric purchase.
o-\rt\\ork on film posters and ()VD jackets typically relies at least as much
on sending' out generic signals .- typically b~ means of ilollo/!,rl/p!lI( conyen-
tions (see belo\\") - as on star personae, \\hich arc indeed often modified or
gcncricdly 'placed' by such imagery ..\rnold Sch\\arzenegger grins goofily in
lincn lederhosen on the front of TJ7'ills (I9gX); on Killdcrgllrli'll Cop (1990) he
gurns in cxagger.lted alarm as he is assaultcd by a swarm of pre-schoolers.
Both films arc comedies and both images kno\\ingl y playoff the unsmiling,
tooled-up .\rnie fenurcd on the publicity filr the techno-thrillers Tlte
TerJ/IIl1lllor ([()X+) or Eraser (1996).
Yet as centLJ! an ,1spect of film consumption and reception as genre may
bc, another look at the yideo store's gcneric taxonomy quickly rcyeals what
fi'om the perspectiye of most acadcmic g'Cnre criticism and thcory look like
c\ idcnt '1l1omalies. For example, \\hile some of these genres - action, thriller,
horror, science fiction, comedy - match up f~lirly well with sLmdard g;enre
headings, the \"ideo store omits se\Tral categories \\iuely regarded as of
central importance in the history of genre production, such as vVesterns,
gangster films and musicals (examples of all of these arc dispersed across
dr,lnL1, action, thriller and 'classics') - let alone more controwrsial yet (in
academic discussion) ubiquitous classifications as .fi/III I/O/!' or melodrama.
Other categories are uncanonical by any standard: 'btest releases' is self-
c\identl y ,1 time-dated C1'oss-g;eneric category; 'classics' is generically prob-
Icmatic in a different \ray, since it apparently combines both an e\aluati\e
4 FrLM GENRE
term ('all-time classic', 'landmark', etc.) with a temporal one (the small and
seemingly random selection of pre-lIn5 films available for rental arc auto-
matically classified as 'classics', regardless of critical standing). The 'Lmli1y'
category combines G-rated films from a number of conyentionally separate
genres (animated films, comedies, Disney Iiye-action adyenrures and other
children's films). 'World cinema' is used, not as it is in academic film studies
(somewhat reluctantly, given its implicit Euro- or .\nglo-centrism) to designate
film-making outside of North America and Western Europe, but rather
includes any subtitled film, most independently produced CS films and
British films - for nample, the films of Ken Loach - that fall outside recog-
nised and bmiliar generic categories like the gangster film, romantic comedy,
etc. Nor arc these categories stable in themseln:s: all nell titles nentuall~
mutate from 'latest release' into one of the other backlist categories; those
(English-language) films that last the course may in due course be eleyated to
'classics'.
Anomalies of course beset classificatory programmes of any kind, In a
celebrated example (much quoted by critical theorists, most Lrmously \lichel
Foucault, IlnO: XI), the .\rgentini,m Llbulist Jorge Luis Borges quotes a
'certain Chinese encyclopedia' in Ilhich animals arc diyided into '(a) belong-
ing to the Emperor, (b) embalmed, (c) tame, (d) suckling' pigs, (c) sirens, (I)
Llbulous, (g) .stray dogs, (h) included in the present classification ... ' and so
on, concluding in 'in) that hom a long Ilay off look like flies', The 'IYonder-
ment' of this taxonomy, ,IS Foucault puts it, consists less in its sheer
heterog"Cneity per se since it is precisely the function of cOl1\entional lists
to enumerate similarities and discriminate differences than in the epistemo-
logical and ontological incompatibility of the categorics: 'the common ground
on Ilhich such meetings arc possible has itself been destroyed' (Foucault,
I(no: xYi), While film genre criticism 1\()lIld seem to ayoid such difficulties,
many studies of g"Cnre including the present one - combine II ithin their
pag'es genres II ith rather different standing's: those that haye ,I long and
yerifiable (for ex,lmple, through film-makers' correspondence or trade paper
reyiews) history of usage as product ion categories II ithin the film industr~
itself", such as \Vesterns, musicals or war films; those II here industry uS,lg'e
differs m,lrkedly from critical usage, notably melodrama (sec Chapter 2); and
those that ,liT largely a product of critical intel"\cntion, pre-eminentl~ .//111I
IIl1ir. The histon of early cinema memlyhile rneals that film distributors in
, ,
moying pictures' first decade tended to classify films under such heterodox
(by tOlby's standards) heading's as length (in feet of film) and duration LIther
than the content-based generic categories that emergcd by 1 l) 1 O. E yen the
most uncontrmcrsial categories remain heterogeneous: Iyar films and \Vesterns
are identified by subject matter, the gangster film by its protagonist(s),
thrillers and horror films by their effects upon the yinYer,jillll IlOir by either
WHO NEEDS GENRES? 5
its 'look' or its 'dark' mood, Studio-era producers, in addition to the familiar
genre categories (usually referred to in the industry as 'types'), used the
;'(lIIlIIIIlIC category of the 'prestige picture' to denote their most expensiye,
hig'h-profile and (hopefully) profitable pictures - Iyhich could of course also
be'long to one or more of the staI1lbrd types, but Iyhose audience appeal
I\ould be expected to break out beyond that type's core market.
Our sojourn in the yideo store illustrates aboye all that genre is a proccss
LIther than a LICt, and one in Iyhich different perspectiyes, needs and
interests can and do deli\er Iyidely yarying' outcomes. Genres arc not born,
they .IIT made. The store manager explained to me that the 'classic' category
combines iI1lliyidual preference Iyith institutional supen-ision: that is, while
store m,ll1,lgers h,1\c Iyide personal discretion in assigning 'classic' status to
imlilidu,tl films, corporate policy mandates that if one film in a series is
categorised as a 'classic', other series entries must automatically be filed
alongsidc. Thus since Die lfilnl (Il)HH) is (so I Iyas informed) '<m obvious
classic', Die Hard: Willt il 1 ('lIge(/II«' (rl)l)S) ,t1so has 'classic' status thrust
upon it. This bears out James '\;aremorc's (1995 <)6: q) obsenation that
'indil idual genre has less to do Iyith a group of arteLICts than with a discourse
a loosc tyolying system of arguments and reading's, helping to shape the
coml11crci,tl strategies and aesthetic ideologies.' (One might note that the
k'CII,ly this system ,Iffords indiyidual managers brings into play the social
categories through which contemporary cultural studies eng-ag-es popular
media tC\.ts LICe, g'ender, ethnicity, sC\.uality, elcn age. The lideo-rental
busiJless is, ,IS Kelin Smith's microbudget indie film ClericS (199-1-), testifies,
domin,IlL'l1 by young- Iyhite males: the 'classics' section abounds in stereo-
1.1 piulh 'male' genres like \Vesterns, action films and science fiction, Iyith a
striking deficit of musicals or family melodramas.)
11011 mig:ht any of this be relnant to genre studies; In relation to the last
C\amplc, genre critics and theorists h,lle in recent ~ears laid increasing
importance on institutional discourses and pLlCtices, broadly conceiYed
II hat StCI e '\ealc (Il)()3, citing Greg-ory Lukow and Stel e Ricci, I<)H-I-)
desig:n,Iles the industr~ 's 'inter-textual rela~ " comprising- both trade journal-
ism (1 ariel)', FillII Dill/)' and so on) and nelyspapers as Ilcll as the Lmguag"C
of film promotion ,1I1d publicit~ as a means of locating- in a determinate if
,1l1Ia~s changing' historictl context the understanding's of g-eneric categ'ories
UpOJl II hich g-enre criticism in turn bases itself For such catef!;ories, hO\ye\er
'lpparenth dcceptilcly solid 'in theory', often prole surprisingly e1usiye in
hoth industrial, and hcnce critical, practice. These 'historicist' approaches to
~L"nre studies h,lye in some clses - notably the \\'estern ,Iml melodrama -
sig n ificl11th extendcd the historical horizons and cultural contexts for under-
standing' genres and productilcly prohlemOltised cOl1\cntional critical accounts.
Tqday's genre-constituting 'relay' includes such yenues of film consumption
6 FILM GENRE
as the corner yideo store, \yhich occupies an important place in the global and
yertically integrated 'film industry' - not in fact the singular and unified
entity that term suggests, but a complex network of cross-media enterprises
mostly clustered into a few \cry large transnational corporate enterprises, for
whom a film's performance in ancillary (but no longer secondary) markets
like home yideo prO\ides a gnl\\ing share of its profitable return on imest-
ment.
As Christine Gledhill (2000: 225f.) points out, the empirical history of
industry relays neither defines nor exhausts the terms on which audiences
engage with genre texts . .\loreO\cr, film genre studies today itself constitutes
its own 'relay': the terms and categories that haye de\cloped through decades
of analysis and theory about inui\idLul genres and genre in g;eneral h,I\'e
established meaningful contexts in \\hich genres and genre films ,liT
understood today. This process of generic legitimation is the principal reason
this book generally cbl\cs to 'canonical' genre categories like the \"estern,
the combat film, etc. \Vh.1t on the other hand I ha\c tried to a\oid is any
sense that such categ'ories .Ire more th.m prO\'isional or that generic identities
can be fixed, IHl\\C\er critically comenient such fixity \\ould undoubtedly
be. If am thing, genres may intermittently stabilise in the sense of becoming
for strictly delimited periods carriers of particular mcmings or yehicles
through \\hich specific issues may be negotiated (for example, '\\hiteness' in
early \Vesterns (sec Abel, 1<)<)1\), or 'technoscience' in the contemporary
science fiction {ilm (see Wood, 2002)).
THE SYSTEM OF GEI\JRES
Cenre, as a police detectiye in a (British) crime film might say, has form.
Aristotle opens his PIICI/(S, the foundational \\ork of \\estern literary
criticism, by identifying it as a \\ ork of genre eriticism: 'Our suhject being
Poetry, I propose to spclk not only of the art in general but also of its species
and their respecti\(: capacities' ([()I[: 3). By [(JOI-2, \\hen Shakcspcare's
JIIIII/Iel was first performed, genrc cltegories - and thcir ahusc \\erc clearly
'hot' issues. In 1I1I1I/1cI, .\ct 11, Scene ii, the busybody court ier Poloni us
excitedly announces the arri\al of a troupe of tra\elling pbycrs. PLlising-
today we \\ould say hyping their abilities, he declares them 'the best actors
in the world, either f(lr tragedy, comedy, histon, pastoral, pastoral-comical,
his torica 1- pastora I, tragica 1- historica I, tragica I-comica 1- his \(lrica I-pas tora I,
scene indi\isible, or poem unlimited' (I. 39 2f1. ).
Shakespeare here is clearly making fun of Polonius' ludicrous attempt to
pigeonhole, ratif~ and standardise the aesthetic realm to \yithin an inch of its
life; howe\'er, he may also be targeting for satire the <lbuse of ,'Ii/lil categories
WHO NEEDS GENRES? 7
th<lt \\ill ultin1<ltely lead to the bre.lkuO\\I1 of the utility of categorisation
itself. Genre, in other \yords, is a tool that must be used wisely but not too
\\ell: defining the incliyidual artefact in generic terms can be helpful but
shouldn't be pursued at <Ill costs. ."."ot C\ery <lspect of the genre text is
necess,lrily or purely attributable to its generic identity, hence there is no
need to in\cnt <lbsurd refinements of generic denomination, or to make the
mesh of the classificatory or definitional net so fine as to allow no light
through.-\t the same time, if the concept is to haye any critical utility at all,
it nt:eds to be able to make meaningful discriminations: 'scene indiyisible' or
'poem unlimited' seem unhelpfully broad as workable categories for genre
criticism. Polonius seems unconsciously to exemplif~' Jacques Derrida's
(199 2 ) dictum that texts - ,Ill texts, any text - neither 'belong to genres'
(because texts can ahYays exceed specific expectations and labels), yet nor can
thC\ escape being generic (because all texts are encountered in contexts that
in \ ohe some, often major, measure of expectation on the part of readers in
reg<lrd to style, identity, content, usc, meaning: a text is necessarily 'placed'
as ,I \cry condition of its heing able to be read at all).
}lo\\C\er, e\en if 'there is ahyays a genre or genres' (Den'ida, 1992: 230),
this merely establishes that the task of film genre studies must be to establish
the p,lrticular A'illds of genres that arc characteristic of commercial n,lrrati \c
cinema, the \ arieties of assumptions and expectations that play around and
through them, the uses to \\hich they are or haye bcen put, and finally the
identities, roles and interests of the different stakeholders (film-makers, film
distributors and exhibitors, ,1Udiences, critics and theorists) in this process.
One approach might be to emphasise those relatiyely concrete and \erifiable
aspects of the film-industri,l1 process that historically sub tend genre pro-
duction, aboye all though by no means exclusi\ ely in Hollywood cinema, to
dCllurcate a field of study ..\t the same time, one might want to look at the
\\,IYS in \\hich indi\,idual films seem either to conf()l'm to or to confront and
challenge the (assumed) e:\pectations of the spectator.
Douglas Pye ([ 1<)75 Il<)<).~: [1\71'.) has described genre as a context in which
meaning is created through a play of difference and lin repetition, one
'naITO\\ enough f(Jl' recognition of the genre to take place but wide enough to
allo\\ enormous indi\idual yariation'. This combination of sameness and
\ariety is the linchpin of the ,\.!,"Cneric contract. While it may . reasonablY
. be
assumed that audiences do not \yish to see literally the same film remade time
and again, considerable pleasure is to be deri\ed from g"Cneric narratiyes
throug'h the ICliS/lIll between no\ el clements and their e\ entual reincorpor-
,nion into the expected generic model. The confirmation of generic expec-
tations g'enerates \yhat Rich,lrd \laltby (1995a: 112) describes as a 's,ense of
pk.lsurable mastery and control'. In an analysis of genre {ilms in the 1970s,
a period \\ hen many traditional genres unden\cnt considerable re\ision and
8 FtLM GENRE
revamping, Todd Berliner (2001) has argued that even 'revisionist' genre films
'bend' rather than 'break'- that is, manipulate and modify, but do not \\holly
dispense with - generic conventions as they seck to engage their alilliences in
a more conscious scrutiny of genre conventions and the values they embody.
l'or most film genre theorists, the concept of 'genre' has implied a great
deal more than simple conventionality. On the contrary, genre was historic-
allv an important means for writers interested in popular, and abO\e all
HI;lIvwood, cinema - as distinct from, for n:amp1e, European art cinema
(tho~gh sec Tudor, [Il)731 11)76; i'\eale, tl)l)I) - to establish the value and
interest of their chosen field of critical enq uiry. This was an important mme
because some mid-twentieth-century critiques of popular/'mass" culture
tended to blur the lines between genre, formula, stereotype and simple cliche
as part of a critical project to deprecate popular culture generally on grounds
of unoriginalitv and derivativeness. Those popubr cultural forms to vvhich
genre is ~nost ~vidently indispensable vvere on that v"Cry ,1ccount discounted:
for carl\" twentieth centurv modcrnists, for C'\ample, this included such
Victoria~ relics ;IS the bout:geois nmcl and theatrical melodramas both of
which C'\erted a strong shaping influence on early cinema .Ind so to speak
helped damn it by association.
Such deprecations of the popular/mass may partly be attributed to the
cultural privilege attached to 'orig;in.dity' by post-Rolllantic literary theory.
Whereas earlier ages had judged works of literaturc 'lccording to their up-
holding or replication of, and consistency vvith, pre-existing standards of
artistic e\.cellence and \lecorum', from the late eighteenth ccntury onvvards
aesthetic theorv laid increasing stress on the irreducible particularit~ of the
artwork that 'is, the vvays in vvhich it stretched or transgressed the '1.1\\ s' of
!.!,'ood taste, craftsm'1I1ship, and so forth (see l(ress and Threadgold, ll):-;:-I). In
~he age of industrialisation, a growing divide grevv up betvveen the 'merely'
workmanlike or 'well-crafted' arteClCt - vvith the implication that such vvorks
vvcre the products of apprenticeship and the aL'l]uisition of essentiall~
mechanical skills and the 'true' vvork of art; the latILT vvas increasingly seen
as the product of inspiration not perspiration, of gTnius not hard graft. .-\rt,
in short, was henceforth to stand IIlIlsldc rules and com entions: th.1I is vv hat
made it art. Writing in the I{!30s, Walter Benjamin (I lln(l! 1<)7 0 ) noted that
the vvork of art had come to acquire an 'aura' born in part of its uniqueness and
indivisibilitv, an 'aura' th;1I f:lcilitated art's institution.llisation as secuLlI' cult.
!\ dclini;ion of art th'lt places such heavy emphasis on originality and self-
expression vv ill inc vitably tend to dev'alue vvorks that appL';lr to be produced
through collectivc rather than individual endeavour, and .1long quasi-industrial
lines: this vvill be all the more true vvhen the resulting artefacts themse1vTs
seem to manifest qualities of repetition and stereot~ picalit~, or vv hen they
seem to have been designed vv ith an existing template in mind. Questions of
WHO :'\lEEDS GENRES? l)
;luthorship are implicitly invoked by such critiques of genre - for in the new
.Iesthetic orthodo\.y that emerged out of Romanticism, the individual author
had become the best guarantee of a vvork's integrity and uniqueness. So it is
vv holly logical that it vvas through the category of authorship that the first
serious critical attempt to recover Hollywood genre te\.ts like \Vesterns and
I1lusicals for the category of 'art' vvas undertaken, in the French auteur
criticism of the ll)~os.-\uteurism seeks to (and claims to be able to) identify
submerged patterns of continuity - them<1tic preoccupations, characteristic
patterns of narrative and characterisation, recognisable practices of 1111.1('-('11-
s,':lIl' and the like - running through films with (usually) the same director.
Est.lblishing such individuating traits makes a claim for that director's
creative 'ovvnership' of the films he has directed: the director earns a status
as a creativc originator - an {II/Il'llr - along; the traditional lines of the lone
novclist or painter. Thus, for C'\ample, John Ford's films can be seen to work
through .1 repeated pattern of thematic opposition between vyilderness ano
civilisation ('the desert ano the g'arden '): this is Ford's auteurist 'signature'
(sec Caughie, Il)NI).
.\lthough the limit.ltions of auteurism arc often correctly identifieo as an
important factor motivating the development of genre studies, without
auteurislll it is doubtful genre vvould h,IVC made it onto the critical agenda at
al1.-\uteurism provcd particularly effectivc in establishing the serious critical
reputation of directors vvho had rarely if ever hitherto been conceived of as
artists becllIse their entire careers had been spent filming \Vesterns, gangster
pictures, Illusicals and the like· quintessentially disposable US junk culture.
The\lllerican .luteurist critic .\mltTvv Sarris proposed a model of 'creative
tension' hetvv een the creativc drivT of the film director and the constraints of
the cOlllll1Cl-cial Illedium in vyhich he vv orked. Thus, fill' Sarris, vv hether a
director (()1I!d st.llllp his myn artistiL' persOIulity and concerns on essentiall~
stereotvpical Ill,lterial vvas in a sense the qualifying test fill' being avvarded
auteur stat us .
.\uteurislll at least dn:vv g'enre tnts vv ithin the scope of serious critical
attention. I Imyevcr, within auteur criticism gUlre itself remained nTv much
the poor rdation - since the unspoken assumption in Sarris's schel~1a that
aut curs vv CIT more desen'ing of crit ical consideration than non-a uteurs (or as
Fran~'ois TrufLllIt notoriously classified thelll, mere 'lIIl'!!mr,H'II-S(;1/l") relied
111 turn on the claim that vv hat distinguished an auteur vyas precisely his
~rallsjilrl1l.ltion of formulaic gTneric materi,d into something pnsona1. Genre
1: thus in some measure the culture· like a petri dish on which genius
feeds, rat her than meaningful material in its 0\\11 right. Directors and film's
thl1
. .st'lam ' . or b rea k t Ile I"lmlts 0 f' t I
. ag'amst ' gl\cn
le11' . !.!,'CIllT are thus evaluated
as \uperior' to texts that remain unashamedl; and 'unproblematically, eyen
hanalh. generic. In this vvay auteurislll recapitulated the birfurcation, i~lll1iliar

10 FILM GENRE
as we have seen since the early IRoos, of (true) 'artist' and (mere) journey-
man, It was the transcendence, not the comfortable inhabitation, of genre
that marked the auteur (as I1IJun:lle I'ague film-makers, the orig'inal French
auteurist critics mostly used genre as a fi'amework for transgressi \e indi\i-
dualising gestures),
Obviously, such an approach will discourage sustained attention to the
particularity of genres themseh'es, other than as tedious normative values for
the inspired artist to transgress or transcend, The desire to find a means of
talking about the things that typified com-entional commercial narrative film
as well as those that challenged or sub\'erted it, \\as a gO\erning factor in the
emergence of genre studies in the late H)60s and early 1970s, Early genre
critics stressed auteurism's inability to e\:plain such important questions as
why genres t10urish or decline in particular cycles; how spectators relate to
generic texts; how genre artefacts shape the \\"Orld into more or less mean-
ingful narrative, moral or ideological patterns - in other \vords film genre's
history, its aesthetic C\"olution, its social contexts,
The problems [ICing early film genre theorists \\ere not especially
recondite, and indeed ha\'e not changed fundamentally in the thirty-five
years since Edward Buscombe first tabled them:
IT]here appear to be three questions one could profitably ask: first, do
genres in the cinema really exist, and if so, can they be defined? second,
c - -
what are the functions they fulfill? and third, how do specific genres
originate or \\hat causes them? (Buscombe, 119701 1995: I I)
Most accounts concur that generic labelling historically preceded organised
genre production in early cinema, with distributors prior to H) 10 classifying
films in a variety of \\a\s including length as \\ell as topic for the benefit of
exhibitors, Duri~g and :lfter the First World War, \\ith film production in all
national cinemas increasingly concentrated in a small number of studios and
feature-length narratives becoming the norm, more closely defined and con-
ventionalised generic categories started to appear. .-\ltman (I 99 S: 16-23)
suggests that the crystallisation of a genre may be traceable in its e\ohing
nomenclature, as the defining term moves fi-Ol11 adjecti\al and modifying (as
in 'Western melodrama') to substantival ('/he Western'), This shift also
seems to mark a shift of emphasis in terms of production, as genre concepts
move from the descriptive to the prescriptive: a '\\-estern melodranu' is
simply a melodrama (a term generally used by exhibitors before the First
World \Var to describe non-comic dramatic narratives of any type) set in the
American West; a 'Western' is a film set specifically in the his/orical \rest
that also involves certain strongly comentionalised types of cluLICters, plots
and, rather more debatably, thematic motifs or ideological positions,
WHO NEEDS GENRES? II
Since such a degTee of comentionalisation ob\iously happens over a larg'e
number of films, the concept of film genre in turn implies a system for some-
thing like the mass production of films, The studio systems that developed in
Europe as \\ell as the CS.-\ during the 1920S all relied on genre production
in some measure, but it \\as in the American film industry, the world's
hll'gest, that genre became most fundamentally important. Most theories ofr
film gcnre are based primarily on analysis of the Hollywood studio system,
Contemporary theories acknO\dedge Tom Ryall's (1975) argument that
g:enre criticism needs to triangulate the author-text dyad in which auteurism
conccin:d meaning by recognising the equal importance of the role of the
<ludience as the constituency to which the genre film addresses itself. The
resulting model recognises genre as an interactional process between producers
\\ho develop generic templates to capitalise on the previously established
popularity of particular kinds of film, ah\ays with a \ie\v to product
rationalisation and efficiency - and generically literate audiences \\ho antici-
pate specific kinds of gratification arising from the genre text's fulfilment of
their g:eneric expectations, Thus, as Altman summarises:
_\ cinema based on genre films depends not only on the regular production
of recognizably similar films, and on the maintenance of a standardized
distribution/ exhibition system, but also on the constitution and mainten-
<lnu: of a stabk, generically trained audience, sufficiently knowledge-
able about genre systems to recognize generic cues, sufficiently familiar
\vith genre plots to e\:hibit generic expectations, ,md sufficient": commit-
ted to g,-encric \alues to tolerate and even enjoy in gcnre fiims capri-
cious, \ioJent, or licentious beha\iour \\hich they might disapprO\e of
in 'real life', (.-\Itman, H)96: 279)
The importance of the audience is worth emphasising here since, as we shall
sec, in lllost genre theory and criticism the audience has remained a some-
\\ hat e1usi\e presence, n(;tionally an indispensable interlocutor in the generic
process but in practice, in the general absence of clear e\idence about its
I:istoricl! composition, remaining largely a projected and undifferentiated
function of the text (or rather, of the meanings ascribed to the text), its
responses 'read' at best hll'gely in terms of the spectator 'implied' by the
genre text. The difficulty of verif~ing the responses conjectured for histor-
2
Ical genre audiences helps explain \vhy the unfolding history of film genres
and critical readings of genre films ha\e dominated critical discussion, ,
, Broadly speaking, genre criticism has e\ohed through three stages, each
of \\ hich roughly corresponds to one of Buscombe's three questions, A first
phase focused on classification - the definition and delimitation of individual
g-cnres, :\ second stage, overlapping \\ith the first, focused on the II/callings of
12 FILM GENRE
individual genres and the social funcrion of genre in general, \vithin broadly
consensual generic definitions and canons - principally, through .malyses
that understood [!;enre in terms of either ritual or ideology (as we shall see,
there is some overlap between the terms). Alongside int1uential \\"Orks of
genre theory, mostly in essay fi)f\11, se\cral book-length studies of individual
genres, each informed by a distincti\'e understanding of genre but tending to
follow either the ritual or the ideological approach, were produced in this
period, including Basinger's (H)H6) study of the war/combat film, Sob-
chack's (I9Ho, 19H7) study of science fiction, analyses of the Western by
Wright (H)7S) and Slotkin (1992), Doane's (lgH7) study of the 19-+os 'woman's
film', Altman's (lgH7) book on musicals and Krutnik's (lgg1) study of/illll
/1(11,., FinallY (to date), more recent scholarship, as part of'l generally renewed
interest aC1:oss film studies in understanding film historically and reacting in
particular to what has been seen as the second phase's at times essentialist
and decontcxtualiseu accounts of g'enre idcntities, has focused on the
hislonm/ (1iI/le.\"/s of genre production the forms inherited from other media
like the novel and the popular theatre, and the institLltional practices (studio
policy, marketing anu publicity, modes of consumption, .Iml so on) through
which genres become available, in .111 senses of the term, to audiences,
The ven earliest studies of film genres, of which probably the best-known
arc ess.l\S '1)\ Andre Bazin ([ 1<)561 I(nll on the "'estern, and by Robert
Warsho~ (I ;g-+31, u)7sa, [Il)5-t1 Il)75b) on the Western and the gangster
film .\ were onlv indirectlv concerneu to define their novel objects of stuuy:
that'is, in the 'very act (;f arguing fill' the serious critical consider.ltion of
popular film genres they were necessarily performing some basic ddinition.d
work. Like many later wTiters, RlZin set the Western \\ithin existing mrra-
tive traditions, <ira\\ing' parallels \\ith traditional 'high' literan forms such as
the courtlY romance; he indicates core thematic material, proposing the
relationshi'p bet\\ een individual mOLdity and the gre.lter commun.d good, or
the rule of law and natural justice, as the issue which charges the genrc; and
he makes the first attempt .It establishing a genre 'canon', identifying the
period Il)37-' -to .IS the \V estern's moment of 'classic perfection' \\ith John
Ford's SIi/I.:I'(Oac!1 (HH9) as thc 'ideal' \\'estern- and contrasting this \\'ith
the postwa'r period \yJ~en large-budget 'supcn\csterns' stLl\ed Ii'om the true
generic path by importing topical politicd, social or psychological concerns
that Bazin sees as extraneous to the genre's core concerns (although the '13'
Westerns of the Il)50S in his opinion m.lintained the form's original vigour
.Iml integrity). Both Bazin and especiall~ - \\arsho\\ based their arguments
on a rather small sample of genrc films (just three in the case of \Varsh()\\''s
gang'ster essay), and treated genre history, by today's academic standards,
rather casually (B.lZin identifies as examples of H)50S '13' \Vesterns such major
stuJio releas~s as Tbe CIiI//ig/ill'!' (lg50), .md simply ignores the thirty-fi\c
WHO NEEDS GENRES? 13
years of \Vestern genre production before Slagccoac!z (fi)r more on problems
of sampling and genre history in relation to the \Vestern, sec Chapter 3).
.\lost fundamcntally, while Bazin and \Varsho\\ both insisted on the
integrity and distinctiveness of generic character, their project did not extend
to considering the means whereby indi\idual \Vesterns or gangster films can
be identified as such in order to then be periodised, classified or evaluated,
Setting the terms for such recognition then became the project of the first
\\a\c of genre theorists proper starting; in the late 1960s.
PRO B L E 1\1 S 0 F DE FIN I T ION
Fairlv early in the dC\elopmcnt of film genre theory, Andrew Tudor
succinctly nailed an incscap'lble and basic crux in trying to definc individual
gClllTS, '-.'oting that most studies of this kind start out with a 'provisional'
notion of thc ficld thcy .Ire working' on that they then set out to define more
clcarly, he suggests there is ~l basic problem of circularity:
To LIke a gcnre such .IS the 'wcstern', analysc it, and list its principal
characteristics, is to beg the question that we must first isolatc the body
of fIlms \\'hich arc \\cstcrns', But they cm only be isolated on the basis
or the 'principal charactcristics' which can onh he disCll\cred from the
films themsehes after they ha\c been isolated. (Tudor, 1I<)731I<)7(): 135)
Onh \ery recently has the fClCUS on industrial discourses .\Ild 'relays' su[!;-
gesled <1 means of squaring this circlc. .\luch prC\ious \york on genre defini-
tions cither ignores the problem or proposes itself as an empirical approach
that nonethcless c1carly begs the questions Tudor asks,
In his uno essay quotcd abo\(.', 1-:dwanl Buscol11be proposed to identif~
gen res I hrough their illl/lrlgra pli J' (a term deri \ed from art theory) - their
Ch.1LlL'teristic 'yisua I cOl1\cntions', such as set! ings, costume, the typical
pl1\sical at tributes of characters and the kinds of tcchnolog'ies ayailahle to the
characters (six-shooters in the \,"estern, fill' e\ample, or tOl11my-g'uns and
\\hite\\<1lkd motorcars \\ith running boards in the g;angster fIlm). These
IC(l11o:,;raphic conyentions WClT to he seen not only as thc fCJrln.l1 markers of
.J gi \ ell :,;enre, but as important vehicles fill' explicating its core themat ic
m'Herial: in a celebrated passa:,;e, Buscombc ([ uno] 1<)()5: 22--+) analyses the
Opening of S.lm Pedinpah's Ride I/Il' fhgli CO/llllr)' (LI(: G/II/S III IiiI' .1jicr-
1/1}l11/) and notes h()\\ the juxtaposition of cOl1\cnlional and non-col1\entional
(a policeman in uni!i)rm, a motor car, a cllnel) \\estern clements, with the
non-col1\entiOlul ones nrioush signihing lJrogress or at least ch.\l1ge, by
]' , , " c , ,
<1St llrbing the genre's standard iconographic balance communicates the
14 FILM GENRE WHO "JEEDS GENRES? 15

film's 'essential theme', the passing of the Old West. Iconography was also
central to Colin McArthur's (U)72) Clldenl'urld Us.oJ, a book-length study of
the gang'ster film. Iconographic analysis is as subject to Tudor's circularity
charg'e as any other, hut its taxonomic yalue is apparent: an empirically
deriyed set of generic attributes helps both to establish the domin'lOt yisual
motifs and by extension the underlying structures of a genre, and to determine
membership of that genre, A particular strength, as Buscombe pointed out,
is that iconographies are grounded in the yisuality of the film medium: they
are literally what \\'C see on-screen. Nloreoyer, as the cOl1\cntional meanings
that audiences understood to inhere in iconographic de\ices (for ex'lmple, the
Westerner's horse) deriyed not from the genre alone, but from the interplay
between common-sense understandings of their \'alences and their specific
generic usage (as Buscombe notes in his analysis of Ride the High CUlIllt':)', in
Westerns the horse is 'not just an ,l11imal but a symbol of dignity, grace and
power'), iconogTaphy potentially established a porous fi'ontier where the
genericltcxtual and the social interacted \yith one another- hence a basis for
discussing a gcnre's larger socio-cultural currency. Finally, inasmuch as
iconographic analysis took its force from those clements that \\cre repeatedly
or consistently present in genre entries, it centred on those yery qualities -
conyentionality and repetition - by \\hich genre as a \\hole is typified.
One limitation of iconographic analysis \las its limited applicability.
Buscombe and McArthur focused on the Western and the g-angster film,
well-established and Clmiliar g;enres that both lend themsehes particularly
well to iconog-raphic interpretation. Ho\\e\cr, .IS se\'Cral writers \yho haye
tried and biled to disC()\ er such \\ ell-defined and defining- \isual cOI1\cntions
in other major genres (comedy, biopics, social problem films, etc.) haye
noted, the \'Cry consistency of their iconog-ra p hic con \cn tions makes these
genres atypical of film genre generally; the \\'estern is particularly unusual in
haying such a tightl~ defined physical and historical setting (sec Chapter 3).
Also, iconography's interest in film as .1 yisual .Irt form, a considerable Yirtue,
stalled in the pro-filmic (the space fi',lI11ed by the camera) ,lI1d Cliied to
engage \\ith yisual style (ClIllera mO\cment, editing, etc.), :\or did it seem to
offer a means of identifying and discussing narrati\ e structures, although
From S"" II! FIIIIIA'<'I/s!<'111 (193<)). Reproduced courksy Cni\Tl'sal/The Kobal Collecriol1,
narratiYe models - such as the musical's basic 'boy meets girl, boy dances
with girl, boy gets girl' template - probabl~ f()rm as or more important a part
of the audience's expectational m.ltrix than abstracted iconographies. What is possible or plausible in our liyed reality, Regimes of\erisimilitude arc
An issue to which the discussion of iconog-raphy interestingly relates is generically specific, and each hears its own relation to reality as such. ,Many
that of generic \crisimilitude, since one function of yisual cOI1\entions is to genres include 'unmarked' \crisimilitudes like the laws' of the physic;1
establish .1 representational norm, de\iation fi'om \\ hich constitutes generic unl\ erse ", whose obser\ance can simply be taken for granted and establishes
discrepancy (which can of coursc also be generic iI1I1o\'ation). These norms the continuity of the generic \\orld with that of the spectator. On the other
are in turn hound up \yith our sense of \yhat is likely or acceptable in the hand, the suspension of those laws (teleportation, trayelling t:lster than light
g:iyen generic context, \\ hich mayor m.1Y not relate to our underst.lOding of or through time) may form a basic and recog'nised element of the Yerisimili-
From. fill 0/ Fralll.:wslein (1939), Reproduced courtesv Uni\'ersal/Thc Kobal Collection,
16 FILM GENRE
tude of an outer-space science fiction film. As discussed in Chapter 4-, the
classic Hollywood musical has its own quite distinct, specific and readily
recognisable verisimilitude. Altman's summary of the genre audience quoted
above suggests that the audience's willingness to 'license' certain departures
from what would normally be considered desirable and/ or believable behavi-
our constitutes an important part of the generic contract. (For fuller discus-
sions of genre and verisimilitude, see Neale, 2000: 3 1---<); King, 2002: 121 f.)
Considerations of verisimilitude extend iconography's implicit socialisa-
tion of genre convention further into the domain of the everyday and this has
important implications for discussions of generic meanings (see below).
Clearly, too, while iconographic conventions are entailed in verisimilitudes,
so are the narrative dimensions iconography lea yes out. Yet lifelikeness, even
conventionalised lifelikeness, is not the principal agent of generic form. The
model for genre analysis proposed by Rick Altman (llqR4-] H)9), Iq R7) seems
usefullv to combine many of the strengths of each approach. Altman argues
that ge·nres are characterised, or organised, along two axes which he nomin-
ates, employing linguistic terminology, the semantic and the syntactic. If the
semantic axis imolves the 'words' spoken in a genre, the syntactic concerns
the organisation of those 'words' into 'sentences' into meaningful and
intelligible shape. Every film in a particular genre shares a set of semantic
elements, or components: these certainly include traditional iconographic
aspects like setting, costume and the like, but range more widely, taking in
characteristic narrative incidents, \ isual style and even (as hard as this mig'ht
be to quantify) typicli attitudes. A contemporary action blockbuster like
PiI(e! O/n J()q7), then, might number among its semantic components port.lble
armam~'nts ranging from automatic pistols to light artillery, car (or bo.lt or
plane) chases, large set-piece action sequences usually involving; explosions
and/or the destruction of buildings and expensive consumer durables (the
aforementioned cars, boats, planes), and a distinct disregard for the v,due of
human life. Genre films' svntactic dimension imolves their characteristic
arrangement of these semal;tic elements in plots, thematic motifs, symbolic
relationships, and so on. (FiI(e! O./.( shares a recurrent motif of H)l)OS action
films: the hero's defence or reconstruction of the f~llllily through, paradox-
icallv enough, ever-greater violence to <1nd destruction of people and objects -
see C:hapter 10.) Altman (Iq<)6: 2R.1-4-) adds that \\hereas semantic elements
usuallv deri\ e their meaning's from pre-existing soci'll codcs, generic synt<1X
is mor-e specific and idiosyncratic and thus more fully expresses the meaning;(s)
of a given genre.
The major problem of Altman's interpret<1tive matrix, as\ltn1<1n himself
acknowledges, is knowing where to draw the line bet\\een the sen1<1ntic and
svntactic. For example, if as suggested ,Ibove spectacular action seq uences are
a' semantic 'gi\cn' in the action film, it would be highl~ surprising if at least
WHO ~EEDS GENRES? 17
one of these did not occur at the climax of the film and resolve the central
n<1ITative connict in other \\ords, enter into the syntactic field.
Q_uestions of definition cycntually became somewh<1t discredited as insuf-
ficiently critical and inertly taxonomic, and g'enre studies st<1rted to focus
increasingly on the functions of genre. Recently, ho\\-e\cr, genre definition(s)
h,l\c been put back into critical play. Collins (uN3) and others have argued
that postmodern tendencies to generic mixing or hybridity e<1ll into question
the tr.lditional fixity of g:enre boundaries. 4 Perhaps partly in response to this,
,I historicist trend has emerged - Gledhill (2000) compares it to the innu-
cnti,il 'ne\\ historicism' in literary studies in the late IqRos - that has used the
empirical anahsis of hO\v genre terms \\cre and are used \\ithin the film
industn itself (by producers and exhibitors) to reassess traditional under-
standings of and claims about the historical basis of genres. This has indeed
challenged some fundamental assumptions about genre stabilit~ and
boundaries, and suggests that much of the postmodern preoccupation with
gcneric h~ bridit\ relics on a historically unsupported notion of classical genres
as ElI- more rigid .lnd secure and much less porous and prone to generic
mixing th'lll \\as actualh the case. One docs not have to deh'e very deep into
genre historY to find ex'lmplcs of g'eneric mixing: for example, a quick scan
reveals \\estern musicals (ClilillIIl!y .JiI/le, 1<))3; PilllI! }-o/lr II ilp:r!ll, ({)6(»),
\\estern melodramas (/)/ld III !lie S/I/I, 1<)4-6; .JolillllY GIII!ilr, {(ISO), /loll'
\\ esterns (Pllrs/led, I<)4-R; Tlie 1"111'11'.1', 1<):")0; RiI/lrI/1i .Vo!rJr!o/lS, 1<):")2), horror-
\\"esterns (HilI)· !lie kid ,'.1'. /)1'110111/, H)(»; Grilli Prairie Tilles, 1<)<)0), even
science fiction \\esterns (Gene .\utry in nrc PI/il/r!olll fllljJ/re, HU)).
"eale (2000: 4-3) argues that the industn's 'inter-textual rela~' (see abO\c)
must constit ute the primary evidential basis both for the existence of genres
:Ind fi)r the boundaries of any particular g-cneric corpus:
... it is only on the basis of this testimon~ that the history of anyone
genre and an analysis of its social functions can begin to be produced.
For a genre's history is as much the history of a term as it is of the films
to \\ hich the term has been applied; is as much a history of the
consequently shifting; boundaries of a corpus of texts as it is of the texts
themselves. ("eale, 2000: 4-3)
PRO B L L\I S 0 F 1'1 E A "J I l" G
\s \\e have seen, earh ozenre studies, in aiminoz to introduce and identifv the
• ... "- w
core groupings of films in kev genres, also made obsen-ations about the
function of genres; indeed, the~e ~)la\'ed .In important part in their argument
for the value of genre texts. Ho\\c\cr, they typically stopped short of theories
Ii{ FILM GENRE
of genre as a whole. Subsequent critics advanced various theories of the kinds
of meanings that could be deri \'ed from the genre text. Despite diverse
approaches, they commonly centred on an understanding of genre as a form
of social practice - as ritual, myth or ideology. All were motinted by the
conviction that film genre offered a privileg'ed insig'ht into 'hmv to under-
stand the life of films in the social' (Gledhill, 2000: 221). And all proceeded
from a shared basic assumption about hmv that insight \\as generated. Genre
films by definition are collective rather than singular objects: their meanings
arc comprised relationally rather than in isolation. Whereas to attempt to
'read off social or political debates in the broader culture onto individual
films is thus likely to prO\e reductive and speculative, the sheer number of
films in a given genre means that changes in generic direction and attitudes
across time may reasonably be understood as responses and/ or contributions
to the shifting concerns of their mass public. Genre films solicit audience
approval throug'h both continuity and \ariation; audience responses encourage
genre film-makers to pursue existing generic directions or to change them.
The closely linked concepts of 'myth' and 'ritual' aim to relate this
transaction to the underlying desires, preoccupations and L\ntasies of audi-
ences and to ascribe these in tLIrn to the social and cultural contexts in and
through which film genres and their audiences are equally constitLIted. In the
standard anthropological sense, 'myth' denotes something like an expression
of archetypes on the part of a particular community (grounded in that
community's social experience of the natLIral world and/or its collective
human psychology). Sometimes 'myth' is in\Oked in genre critil'ism in
precisely this sense: in his study of the \Yestern, Wright (r<J7 5: I H7) states
that 'the \Vestern, though located in a modern industrial society, is as much
a myth as the tribal myths of the anthropologists.' ~lore often, as applied to
popular media fi)rms, myth in its most neutral filrnlulation designates fimns
of (culturally specific) social self-representation, the distillation and enact-
ment of core beliefs and values in reduccd, usually personalised and narrative,
fimns. Myth is also characterised by specific kinds of filrlnal stylisation, filr
example extreme narrative and characterological COl1\ entionalisation. The
strongest influence on mythic readings of popular culture is the structuralist
anthropology of Claude r,c\i-Strauss, which argues that the role of myth is
to embody in schematic narrative form the constitutive mntradicrions of a
society - typically in the fimn of pairs or net\\orks of strongly opposed
charactersh'alues - \\hile throug'h the stories \\0\ en about these oppositions,
and filrnlally in the Llct of their integTation into mythic narrati\c, partially
defusing their potentially explosive force. Thus in film genre theory, 'myth'
broadly desig'nates the ways in which genres rehearse .1I1d \\ork through these
shared cultural values and concerns by rendering them in symbolic narra-
tiws. 'RitLIal' mean\\hile redefines the regular consumption of genre films by
WHO NEEDS GENRES? 19
a mass public as the contractual basis on which such meanings are produced.
The ritual and mytholog'ical models of genre quickly encounter genre
theory's characteristic problems, noted earlier, \vith the audiences whose
participation in g'eneric ritual plays so central a role. Thus although mytho-
logiGd analyses frequently pay scrupulous attention to individual genre texts
a~d Glrefully differentiate their negotiations of generic conventions, the
audience features as a homogeneous and largely notional presence. The pre-
\ ailing assumption appears to be that audiences seek out, and respond to, the
mytholo!:6cal address of the genre film - \\hat the Marxist theorist of ideolog'y
Louis .c\.lthusser would term their 'interpellation' - in the same ways. There
seems little possibility of concretising this claim, at least as regards historical
audiences. Box-office popularity·· of individual films or of entire genres - is
sometimes cited as an apparently objective criteria filr demonstrating the
popularity of a genre - hence of the values sedimented within it. Yet to
purchase a ticket fill' a film of course docs not (as academics studying popular
films \\ ould certainly have to acknmdedge) necess'lrily prove assent to all or
indeed any of a film's ideological content. It is also enormously difficult to
compute popularity: \Vesterns, filr example, were by no means universally
popular and \\ere sho\\n by audience surveys in the 1930S to be strongly
disliked by a considerable proportion of mmie-goers. Regular Western LlI1s,
ho\ve\cr, \\cre dedicated filllO\vers of the genre and likely to see most or all
the \Vesterns that made it to their local theatre: thus the reliable market that
supported the huge number of 'B' (or series) Westerns produced during' the
1930S. Docs this nalTO\\ but deep audience base make the \Vestern more or
less representative of the national temper than a genre with a broader but
perhaps less 'committed' filllowing, such as scre\vball cornel"'?
To complicate matters further, recent research has sho\\~ how even the
most apparently orthodox and classical genre films \\ere not necessarilv
uni\crsally percei\cd in that \\ay at the time of their orig'inal release. Lelan~1
Poague (ZOOT H9) demonstrates that SlagC(lIac!" partly to counteract the
\V estl'rn 's recei \ed image at the end of the I930S, a decade dominated bv 'B'
\\esterns, \\as publicised in \\ays that de-emphasised the film's generi~allv
'\Vestern' aspects (\\hich \\(mld limit its appeal to exhibitors and aUdience~,
especiall\ in metropolitan areas) in f:lvOur of elements of broader appeal such
as the dramatic interactions of a disparate group of characters in enfilrced
proximity ('Grand Hillel on \\heels', as a contemporary review put it) or the
~hardly realised) promise of sexual tension among '2 \\omen on a desperate
Journey \\ith 7 strange men!'. While the expectations created around a film
do not of course exhaust its range of possible meanings, such examples
II1(lIcate that large assertions about the ritual function of individual genres are
eqllall~ incapable of dealing with the range of responses audiences may bring
to he,ll' on any single genre film.

Claims that the \Vestern or the musical articulate dominant or f(lUnda-
tional paradigms for American national identity also need to take account of
the presence within the same industry at the same time of genre films that
seem directly to challenge those yalues: jillll lIoir, for example.' In the most
int1uential argument for genre as ritual, Thomas Schatz (H)X I, rqX 3) partly
addresses the latter question by identif\ing different genres \\ith different sets
of key American ideas and dilemmas. Each g'enre has its o\\n 'generic com-
munity': thus
what emerges as a social problem (or dramatic conflict) in one genre is
not necessarily a problem in another. I,a\\ and order is a problem in the
g'angster film, but not in the musical. COlWCl"Sely, courtship and marri-
age arc problems in the musical but not in the gangster and detectiye
genres. (Schatz, ]()Xr: 25)
In so far as these problems arc discrete, each genre has its o\yn specific set of
concerns and per/l)rms a particular kind of cultural \york; in so Llf as these
issues arc generally relc\ant to :\merican life, the system of Holly\Yood
g"Cnres as a \\hole enables a kind of ongoing l1<ltional cOll\crsation about such
issues. The classical Holly\yood studio system, Schatz argues, \\as especially
well-suited to this 'ongoing' discourse - the process of cultural exchange'
because of its mass production of genre films and domination of the
American popular imagination (I<)XI: 20-X). In the di\crsified entertainment
markets ,IIlll weaker gTneric landscape of the :\e\y Holly\Yood, b\ contrast, as
Schatz acknO\dedges in his I<)X.1 book, this cOll\crsation and hence the
mO\ies' ritual function is greatl~ \\eakened.
In its association of core generic preoccupations with specific ritual func-
tions, Schatz's argument seems to presuppose ,I degTee of generic segregation
and consistency the generic record h'lrdly bears out. The t\yO examples
quoted aboye - the musical and the gangster film arc rendered as distinct
and their concerns clearly differentiated. It is cert.linly a(I\ antagTous to haye
a model of genre that allo\\s fin' the possibility of different 'solutions' to
comparable problems in line \\ ith the changing cult ural undersundings that
subtend such solutions (sec, for ex,lmple, the analysis of Si'JI' ) ·or/..:, .YelP
Yor!..', 1977, in Chapter -J. bel()\\). But \yhere does this le<l\C a gangster
musical like (;11)'.1' illld Dolls (I9S':;)? A.lternati\ely, what arc likely to be the
'problems' tackled by a series of detectiye films about a married couple (like
the popular Tllill .HI/II series, I93-J.--J.7)? Schatz ,llso seems to o\erstate gTneric
homogeneity - not all musicals, for example, ,Ire about courtship and
marriage (backstage musicals, an extremely important sub-genre, may be at
least as much about professional prestige).
;\lyth-based readings of genre ,Ire rehlted to ideolog'ieal critiques: in a
WHO NEEDS GENRES? 21
foundational text of semiotic analysis, indeed, Roland Barthes (r (57) names
the per\"asiYe ideological fictions in contemporary capitalist culture as, pre-
cisely, 'mytholog;ies'. Place (197X: 35) states that popular myth 'both expresses
,Ind reproduces the ideolog;ies necessary to the existence of the social
structure'. Yet in general myth is, as :".'eale obsenes, ideological criticism
minus the criticism: that is, \\hereas writers such as Judith Hess Wright
(I I<)7-J.) 19<)':;) identif~ genre's ideological dimension with its prO\ision of
imaginary and bogus resolutions to the actual contradictions of liYed experi-
ence under capitalism, proponents of genre as myth tend to a more neutral
deseriptiYe account of hmy genres satis6' the needs and answer the questions
of their audiences. In other \\ords, they do not stigmatise such satisbctions
,IS delusion designed to maintain iIllIi\iduals and communities in acquiescent
ignor'll1ce of the real conditions of their oppression. wloreoYer, the dialectical
n,lture of the J ,c\"i-Straussian schema implies that underlying social contra-
dictions arc less resol\"ed a\yay than repeatedly re-enacted and thus - at least
in principle exposed by their mythic articulations.
Initial ideological accounts of gTnre like Wright's often imputed a some-
I\hat monolithic character to the ideolog;ical work perfllrIned by genre films.
.-\s products of a capitalist film industry, genre films must necessarily pro-
duce meaning's that support the existing social relations of power and
domination: their ideological function, in bct, is precisely to organise percep-
tions of the \\ orld in such a \yay as to elicit acquiescence and assent to the
proposition that this is not onl\ the \\ay the world is , but the way. it OLwht
. . b
to
be - or e\en the only \\ay it e\er could be. In Theodor Adorno and Nlax
Horkheimer's excoriating' account of the 'culture industry' ([ ]()HJ H)7Z:
l2o-(7), the standardising imperatiYes of genre production signified the
absolute unfiTedom of contemporary mass medi'l fl)rms (and conYCfseh the
rclatin: and onl\. rclati\e - truth-content of their mirror-imao'e t' cou~1ter-
parts, the recondite practices of high modernist art).
On all ideological analysis, genre closes off alternati\es, resists multiple
nwanings and symbolically resohes real contradictions in imaginary (here
meaning illusory) \\ays. Specific generic outcomes (like the gangster's
nempLIn LlIe reiterating' that 'crime docs not pay') also work to promote a
larger pattern or acquiescence in conyentional and rule-g'()\"erned methods of
'soh ing" problems.
One \\ould ha\e to say that if the genre system is as secure and sealed as
this \ ie\\ holds, it is hard to see \\here the impetus fill' any kind of change
Comes fi-om- still less \\hy a genre mig'ht be mo\ed to perform the kinds of
quite Lldical sclf-critiq ue undertaken by numerous Hollywood \V esterns,
l11usieals, gangster films and other tradit ional g'enre films during the 197os, a
mOIl' t I1.lt moreO\"er encompasse(I exp I"IClt cntlClsm
'" 0 f' t h e \10
. Ience and racl<ll
.
prejudice of _-\.merican society (as in such 'counterculture' films as /:'i/s)'
22 FILM GENRE
Rida, I<)69, or the contemporaneous 'Vietnam Westerns': see also helO\\} Of
course, American society and the core ideologies sedimented in its principal
cultural f(lrmS confi'onted a major crisis of legitimation in the late I960s; but
with contemporary opinion polls shm\-ing a majority of Americans still
su pporting consenatiye positions on \\ar, race and sexual! gender issues,
genre films ought to haye heen \\"(lrking harder than eyer to sustain rather
than to challenge the status quo. Ideological analysis also seems to haye
difficulty acknmdedging the real differences het\yeen genres: eyen if the
'affirmative' nature of Westerns and musicals is granted, this still leaves
unaccounted for the strongly critical charg'e of much .lillll 1/011', to say nothing
of the gangster film's historically well-attested ideological amhiyalence (see
Chapter 6). In this sense, ideological criticism's yinY of genre is hoth too
reductive -- in that all genre films are held to relentlessly promote a singular
message of conf()rmity and not reflecti\-e enough - in that it seems not to
allow filr the possihility of interference in core g'enre propositions by changes
in social and cultural contC\t such as those pm\Trfully at \\ork in ,\meriean
society from the late I960s ol1\\ards. The \irtual disappearance of the
'woman's film' since the I960s, to take ,mother C\ample, seems hard to
account f(lr without ackno\\ledging the impact of the \\omen's moyement on
traditional concepts of gender roles (sec Chapter 2).
Ideological criticism in the later I970S generally started to modify the
inflexible model inherited from Alth usscrian ~ larxism, inspired in particular
by the rediscmTry of the writings of the Italian .\ Luxist .-\n tonio Gramsci in
the 1920S. Gramsci's concept of 'hegemony' reinscribed ideological domina-
tion as an ongoing process in \\ hich dominant orthodoxies continually
stru[!;g-Jcd to retain their mastery mer both residual (older and outmoded)
and emergent (newer and potentially n:yolutionary) positions..-\pplying this
to the study of popular culture allowed critics to trace the fractures and
contradictions in the apparently seamless structure of classical Holly\\'Ood,
and thus to discmer ways in \vhich e\Tn the genre film could perhaps
unconsciously - take up positions at variance \\ith dominant ideology. \luch
contemporary film analysis remains rooted in the critique of ideology, in f~let,
in the sense that it addresses itself to the ways in \\-hich films \H)rk through
(or act out, to use psychotherapeutic terminology) the values and interests of
different groups in society. An increasing dissatisfaction \yith the older
monolithic models of ideological domination, ho\\c\ er, as \\ell as the \\aning
of explicit Marxist critical affiliations, means that analyses f()cused on issues
of gender, race, ethnicity or sexuality - and on the ways that the popular
media structure attitudes t()\\-ards minority groupings - are less clearly
marked as ideology critique in the older sense,
WHO NEEDS GENRES? 23
----------------------------------
PROBLEMS OF HISTORY
The 're\-isionist' tendency e\-ident across se\Tral major Hollywood genres in
the 19705 (including the Western, the gangster, pri yate-eye and police
thriller, and the musical) impelled se\eral genre theorists to propose 'eYoJu-
tionary' models of generic deyelopmenr. .-\ccording' to John Cawelti:
One em almost make out a life cycle characteristic of genres as they
1110\e fi'om an initial period of articulation and discO\cry, through a
phase of conscious self-a\yareness on the part of both creators and
audiences, to a time \\-hen the generic patterns ha\-e become so well-
knm\Il that people become tired of their predictability. It is at this point
that parodic and satiric treatments proliferate and ne\\- genres generally
arise, (Cmelti, I H)791 I995: 2++)
Schatz (I9i\I: 3 6-+ I ) deyelops this theory of generic e\olution much morc
systematically - indeed, naming' it as such - yet f()lIows the same hasic
outline, \\hile gTounding his account in his 'ritual' thesis. Thus 'at the
earliest stages of its life span' a genre expresses its material in a direct and
unsclfconscious manner - hecause 'if a genre is society speaking' to itself, then
any stylistic flourishes or f()rmal self-consciousness \\ill only impede the
transmission of the message', .-\fi:er this experimental stage \yhere its con-
\Tntions are established, the g'enre enters its classical stage (a phase heloyed
of genre theorists since RlZin). This stage is marked by ~/;mllilllrill/SpilrCl/{y.
Both the narratiye formula and the film medium \york togTther to transmit
and reinf(lITe that genre's social messagT ... as directly as possible to the
audience' (emphasis in original). Eyentualh, the genre arri\Ts at a point
\\ here 'the straightfonYard messag'C has "saturated" the audience': the
~lutcome is that the genre's 'transparency' is replaced by 'opacity', manifested
111 a hig-h degree of f(lrmalistic self-consciousness and retlexiYity. Schatz
Suggests that both the musical and the Western had reached such ,~ stage by
the earl~ 1950S, and he cites as examples such 'self-reflexiYe musicals' as The
BarNc)'s oj Broad/pay (I9+()) and SllIi~/II' III Illc Ralll (J().:;2) and 'baroque
:' esterns' like Red Rlc'a (I9+i\) and Tlte Sl'iIl'dlas (I95S), .'\t this stage the
unspoken' conyentions of the genre - the centrality of the courtship ritual to
the musical, the heroic indi\idualism of the Westerner - themselves become
narrati\ ely f()regTounded,
From today's perspecti\l\ howeyer, the Il):;OS seems yen t:lr from the
ultimate dnelopmental stag'e of either the 'Yes'tern or the m~sical. . .JII Tltill
.~( ~~ (l<)i\o) and J1em'el/ '.I' Gille (I 9i\0) are \ery differen t fi'om .JII _-llllerloill III
fal'/S (I9.:;I) or Tile Seanltas (U).:;.:;), and .HUIIIIII RUllge (200I) and Tlte
- \II.\.\III,~ (200+) are different again. So to be \vorkable the nolutionan model
24 FILM liEN/U.
would at least need extending: one would probably want to differentiate a
further stage where 'opaque' self-consciousness intensifies yet further and
mutates into outright genre 'revisionism': this period may also often be accom-
panied by a slowdown in the rate of production of genre films. 'Revisionism'
implies that traditional genre attitudes may be seen as articulating a world-
view no longer applicable, perhaps in changed social circumstances: thus a
key aspect of revisionism is that the genre is no longer self-sufficient, but is
criticallv scrutinised for its abilitv to offer a cognitive purchase on the
contemiJorary world. Yet another '-stage' might involve the re-emergenc.elof
the O'enre under altered (industrial or cultural) circumstances, partla Iy
Q
purged of ils original ideological or mythic content (or those parts thereof
which no longer speak to a contemporary spectatorship). Such texts never
recover the unselfconsciousness of the 'classical' period, but equally they are
neither as serious as the 'mature' period or as corrosively critical as the
'revisionist' period; rather, they will often display a playful degree of refer-
entiality and generic porosity of the kind frequently regarded as charac-
teristically postmodern, for example by injecting anachronistic elements into
period settings (a 'riot grrl' Western like Bad Girls, 199-1-) or highlighting the
racial diversitv traditionallv suppressed by the classical genre text (for
example, the t;ansformation -of gangster to 'gangsta' in the New Black Cinema
of the early 1990S).
Such a model of generic development is appealingly straightforward. However
-- even if one overlooks the obvious objection that genres, as a form of
industrial practice, are not organisms and to propose generic phylogenies of
this kind risks a category error - it raises several problems. In the first place,
its historical account smacks of special pleading - seemingly designed to justify
the critical attention alreadv bestowed on certain groups and periods of genre
film. If one accepts the en;1 utionary model, the allegedly more complex and
self-aware films of the 'mature' and 'revisionist' phases arc always likely to
command more attention than the str;lightforward presentations of generic
material in the 'c1assictl' period. In fact, as Tag Gallagher ([ 193 6 ] 1005: 237)
argues, earlier films are to an extent set up as naive 'fall guys' for later, allegedly
more sophisticated, challenging and/or subversive approaches. However,
as earlv film historians are quick to point out, many pictures from the silent .
and ea'rly sound periods in a variety of genres display a surprising degree of .
generic self-consciousness (surprising, that is, if one assumes as the enllu-
tionary model suggests that these classical phases should be typified by the
'straight' presentation of generic material). In fact, the entire, rather literary,
notion of self-consciousness, inwardness and ret1exivity as a function of 'late
stYle' seems to bear little relation to the realities of market positioning, a
pl:ocess which is more likely to be typified by a variety of approaches ranging
from the steadfast and generically secure to the playful and experimenLl1.
WHO NEEDS GENRES? 25
.·\nother problem, as :\eale (2000: 2 qf.) notes, is that the evolutionary
model necessarily, despite Schatz's (I 9S I: 36) citation of 'external (cultural,
thematic) factors', tends to attribute generic change to intra-generic factors:
,,'enre is in Llct hvpostatised, sealed off from social, cultural and industrial
~ontf\ts. It is a~ idealised and implicitly teleological model (that is, its
outcomes are predetermined). As "'lark ]ancovich (2002: 9) observes, 'narr;ltive
histories of a genre .. , usually become the story of something ... that exists
i, Jbove and beyond the individual moments or periods, an essence which is
.~ :.>I". unfolding before us, and is either heading towards perfect realisation .,. or
f:lilure and corruption.' Yet one of the most obvious examples of genre
.1 'rClisionism' already referred to, the cycle of strongly, even militantly pro-
Indian Cl\alry \\'esterns made at the start of the 1970S - such as Lillie Big
~ Hilll, So!di(/' Bille (both 1(70), C/~ll1lil 's Rilid and Cha/o's Land (both unl)
.- th;1I depict white Gl\alrymen or paramilitaries almost to a man as venal,
brut.II, sadistic and exploitative and thus neatly invert nuny of the categories
of the classic Western (in Solid(/' Bille it is the white clvalrymen, not the
Indi.ms, \\'ho threaten the white heroine with rape, and at one point the
soldiers break out in ,,'ar-whoops while scalping ;\0 Indian brave), are trans-
\1<lrentl) intended as allegories of and statements about US military involv'e-
ment in Indochina: they .Ire not 'natural' or ine\ itable outcomes of the
generic lifecycle.
Genre revisionism thus appears to be a function of larger trends within the
.-\merican film industry, and in turn within American popular and political
culture, as much as, or more than, of evolutionary change in a generic
universe closed off hom interaction with the world outside. Manv critics
indeed ha \ e filund genre a useful tool fill' mediating large and hard-to-gTasp
socio-historical issues and popular media texts: rather than simply reading
ofr, sa\ , th<: cynicism and paranoia of the \\'atergate era onto bleak mid-u)7os
Westerns like Posse (197.1) as a set of one-to-one correspondences, the idea of
genre allm\s social reality to be mapped onto individu.l1 fictional texts in a
Illore subtle and indeed plausible way. Robert Ray (19S): 2{Sf.) has suggested
that the binary 'ret1ection' model can helpfully be triangulated bv the addi-
tion of the audience as the missing link bet\\een text and (soci;l) context.
Thus th<: accretion of con\entions mer the totality of a genre's historical
e\olutio!l, the film-maker's modulation of these conventions and the role of
the audience as both a p'lrticipant in and in a sense the arbiter of this
lnt erani \ e process, together map the evolving' assumptions and desires of the
culture.
111 bu, research on the _-\merican and global film industry in the both its
classical and contemporary periods has increasingly tendcd- to suggest that
the film stud ies' preferred notion of genre is likely to need some important
rnodifications..-\s f:ll- .IS the ':\e" Hollywood' (broadly speaking, Hollywood
20 FILM GENRE
since the late It)60s, with an important watershed within that period around
1(77) is concerned, new genres (or sub-genres) such as the 'yuppie night-
mare film' (see Grant, 1(98), the road moyie (see Cohan and Hark, 1997;
Laderman, 2002) or the serial killer film seem to be difTerently constituted
than those of the classical period. Put simply, earlier generic structures - the
indiyidual genres and the system of genre produetion as a whole - were part
of a system for mass-producing films in \\hich regularised production, a
carefuilY managcd, monitored and highly centralised machinery of distribu-
tion ,lO~1 exhibition, and on the audience's part regular mming-going in a
relatiYelY undiYersified entertainment markct, together enabled the kind of
informai \ct powerful generic 'contract' .\Itman describes. A well-known
series of e·yents oycr about 20 years starting in the late 19-1-0S - including the
legal ruling that compelled the studios to sell ofT their theatre chains; the rise
of teleYision, itself part of a general transformation of American lifestyles and
leisure pastimes; the loss of creative fi-eedoms and personnel as a result of the
anti-Communist witch-hunts and blacklist of the 1950S - largely put a end to
this system (sec Ray, 1985: 129-52; Schatz, 1993; Kr~imer, 1998; King, 2002:
24-35). (her the course of the late It)50S and 1960s, the deceptiyely .singular
term 'Holhwood' masked an increasingly dispersed and decentralised mdustry
in which 'agents, stars, directors and writers \vorked \vith independent
producers to orig'inate indiyidual projects conceived outside the assembly-
line and economy-of-scale principles of classic Hollywood. The role in this
process of the m'ajor studios \\ho by the end of the 1<)60s had themselves
mostly been taken oyer by larger conglomerates for \\hom the entertainment
secto; was merely one part of a di\crsified business portfolio W,IS in many
cases limited to prmiding' finance and distribution. The armies of craft and
technical personnel who under the studio system had contributed so much to
the stvlistic continuities bv which studio identities \\ere detined, and who
had ~ade LIeton-st\ Ie g;e~eric production possible, had long since been laid
off. Although the 1980s and '990S would see further major chang'es in the
American film industry, including the major studios' return to the exhibition
sector in a changed re~uIatory climate as their corporate parents increasingly
restructured themsehcs into dedicated, yertically integrated multimedia
businesses (sec Prince, 2000: -1-0-89), neither the majors' eyer-greater empha-
sis on blockbuster production (sec Ch,lpter 10) nor the rise of 'independent'
production enabled anything like a return to the generic production of the
It)30S. Ne\y genres such as those mentioned aboye are br more likely to
appear as relatiycl~ short-Ii\ed cycles.
The latter may in Llct be a <.!;ood deal less nmel than this menie\\ implies.
In bct, an arg'l;ment can bee made that the very concept of 'genre' -- if
understood as it usualh has been as a large, diachronic yehicle for producing
and consuming meanil;gs across a rang'e of texts -- needs radical modification
WHO NEEDS GENRES? 27
----------------------------------
if it is to be made releyant to the practices of an industry that has more often
relied on shorter-term series or cycles of films seeking to capitalise upon
)ro\en seasonal successes or topical content. The fluctuating patterns of
~)llpularity .'lOd ideological address i~ genre ~Ims owe as .much ,t.o continge~t
industrial factors as they do to generrc eyolutlOn or the krnds of mtra-generrc
di,lkctic f~l\oured by critics. Writing in 1971, La\\Tence Alloway argued that
it \\as misleading to import into the study of popular cinema approaches to
'fenre inherited from ,Irt criticism that sought out thematic continuity and
~ni\crsal concerns, insisting rather that Hollywood production was typified
by ephemeral cycles seeking to capitalise on recent successes, hence by
discontinuities and shifts in meaning and fllCus in what only appeared (or
\\LTe critically constructed as) consistently eyohing 'genres' . .c\laltby (1995:
, I 112) states t1atly that' Holly\\ood never prioritised genre as such', instead
\\ orking in the studio era as today in 'opportunistic' ways to pull together
clements from different genres into a profitable \\·hole. Barbara Klinger
(199-1-a) has proposed a category of 'local genres', such as the teen delinquent
films of the mid-1950s (Tlte Wild Olli', '<)5-1-; The Blackboard .Jllllgle, Rebel
lIl!holl! a Calise, l()55), marked by clear topical affinities and competing in
the same markets, and which comprise a clear and time-limited c1assificnion
O\er ,I particular production cycle.
,\n added iron~ is that even as the classic Holly\\ood system of genre
production was disappearing, film genres - newly understood in the light of
an industr~ 'rehly' that for the first time included academic film criticism -
took on an increasing importance as explicit points of creatiye reference for
emerging' '\e\\ Holly\\ood film-makers. As is again \vell established, the
\\ riters and directors most strong;ly associated \\ith the :\'ew Holly\\ood, the
'mmie brats' of the [(nOS (for example, ,\lartin Scorsese, Paul Schrader, Peter
BOt!;danO\ich, Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas, Brian dePalma) and
their diverse successors (James Cameron, Robert Zemeckis, Oliyer Stone,
Quentin T,lrantino), came to professional film-making throug'h pathways
(tele\ision, film school, film journalism) that equipped them with a different
historical understanding of film culture than their classic Hollywood pre-
decessors. \rhether or not :\ew Hollnyood film-makers arc actuallY more
self-conscious and film-literate than (li;r example) John Ford, Hmvard'Hawks
~)r '\icholas Ray, or whether they simply possess and exploit those qualities
In different \\ays, is an open question. Hmyeyer, as the \yeb of generic inter-
tC\tuality that enfi)lds (some might say constitutes) a film like Tarantino's
Aill Bill (2003, 200-1-) amply demonstrates, not\\ithstanding the end of the
system that created and supported genre film production, the historical
legacy of classical film genres clearly proyides :\e\\ Holh\\ood film-makers
\\ ith a preferred means of establishi'ng not onlY (in c1assi~ auteurist fashion)
their own creative identities, but connecting t~ larger traditions of national
28 FILM GENRE
identities, social conventions and ideology. In this sense, to adopt .\Itrnan's
(1996: 277) terminology, while 'film genre' may have become a questionable
category, the 'genre film' remai~s very much alive. _ ,..
Between the institution(s) of him genre and the genre hIm text s activatIOn
of those institutions arc of course the structures of indi\idual genres, each
with its individual history, thematic concerns and representational traditions.
But underlving and informing those structures there may also be less tangible
modalities' that can neither be identified firmly with larger ideological
categories nor located or contained within individu~l g.enres. It is ~o such a
modal form, crucial to the history and in all Ilkellhood the luture of
American film genre, that the ncxt chapter \vill turn its attention.
NOTES
I. Th()u~h habitu'llh confused, thc terms arc tw no me"ns s\non\mous and hal e been
hoth deb"ted: sec Strinati (T<)i)S: 2 50).
, ;\ p;'obkm shared \\ith film app"ratus thcon, \\ hich has somc intcrcstin~ affinitlcs with
~cnre thcon.
3. On WarshO\\"s ~ang-ster cssa\, scc Ch"pter () plissilll.
-1-. Srai\.':er (2001), ho\\c\Tr, arg-ucs that 'Inbridit\·' is an inappropriatc conccpt to brrng to
bear on film.
5. COIl\C!"sch, as l\laltb\ ([ f()I\-1-1 Il)i)2: .'17) poillls out, neithcr shuuld /loi,. be uscd, 'IS it
oftcn Ius i'ccn, to cmbmh thc Zeitg-cisr. Lither constrm·tion, hc sug-g-csts, cntails 'a
proccss of historical distortion \\hich comcs about from the practice of gcneric
idcntification, and has [I might prcfer to sa\, em h']IC I thc effect ot Imposmg- an
artiticial homogcncit\· on t(olh\lood production'.
CHAPTER 2
Before Genre: Melodrama
M ost of this book is concerned with generic categories that have, over
the course of decades of sustained production, established dear generic
identities in the eyes of producers, audiences and critics alike. As discussed
in Chapter I, this does not mean that all or any of those groups share the
. same generic understandings, nor that these identities arc in any way fixed or
immutable. On the contrary, as Derrida observes, if the 'law of genre' dictates
that e\ery text belongs to a genre it also dictates that texts do not belong
\\holly to any III/C genre, hence that they can and will find themselves serving
a range of different interests and put to a range of dilTerent uses in a variety
of contexts of reception, distribution and consumption. Thus generic identities
_. those of genre texts, and those of genres themseh'es as ultimately the sum of
the texts that comprise them - arc prO\isional and subject to ongoing revision.
Such obsenations apply strongly to melodrama. Critical debates in
particubr ha\e played a gO\erning role in consolidating' melodrama's g'eneric
panldigm(s). Indeed, no genre - not e\en the endlessly debated .film noir -- has
been so extensi\ely redefined through critical intervention. (On the contrary,
as we shall see in Chapter 9, the initially esoteric critical conception of noir
became naturalised by widespread usage to the point where noir eventually
realised an autonomous generic existence within the contemporary Hollywood.
By Contrast, a gulf persists between the Ii1m-theoretical and the industrial
understandings of 'melodrama'.) By identil~ing' melodrama with the allegedly
marginal female-centred and oriented dramas of the studio era, feminist
~riticism in the 1970S and 1980s successfully overlaid a new definitional
Irame\\ ork onto a long-standing industry category - a project that successfully
reoriented the gender politics of film theory itself. Feminist criticism located
melodrama in the intense pathos generated by narrati\-es of maternal and
rOmantic sacrifice in lilms such 'women's films' as Sldla Dallas (1937) and
.\l)iI', I O)'agcr (19+2), and has fiercely debated the g'ender politics of these
30
FJLM GENRE
texts - the gendered social roles created by and for their female protagonists,
and the 'viewing positions' they offer female spectators. ",1e1odrama has also
been identified with a rather different body of films, the emotionally wrought
dramas of family conflict directed in the 1950S by Nicholas Ray (Rebel
Without a Calise, Il)55; Bigger Than I,iff, 1(56), Elia ~azan (East or Eden,
1(55) and above all Douglas Sirk (MagllljicCIlI Ollsessioll, 195-1-; ,-1.11 Thill Heal'en
Alloms, 1955; WrillCll on the Wind, 1959; II/Iltation or Lire, 1(59), dubbed
'family melodramas' in the 1970S by such critics as Thomas Elsaesser ([197 2 ]
1(91), Geoffi'ey N mvell-Smith (1977] H)<) I) and eh uck Kleinhans ([ 197 8]
Il)9 J), whose high emotional pitch and 'excessive' visual style arc held to
effect a subversion of ideological norms. I Behind and beyond all of these
studio-era films in some way lay the melodramas of the silent era and further
back still the legacy of popular nineteenth-century theatrical melodrama, a
seemingly separate tradition whose connection to Ray, Sirk, et al. film studies
has until recently conspicuously failed to address.
Clearlv, to what extent these strains constitute (a) genre(s) is a question
that can "be needs to be, and is endlessly debated. As in other areas of film
genre studies, recent historical research has uncovered new fields of melo-
drama - notably in pre-Hollywood silent cinema while problematising
pre\'ailing assumptions about others. The exact status of the 'w'oman's film'
as an industry category, for example, is open to question: while Rick :\ltman
(J999: 27-."') labels it a 'phantom genre' (i.e. critically rather than
industrially constructed), Steve Neale's (2000: 1SS-9-1-) research on the film
industry's own generic terminologies as reflected in the trade press from at
least the 1920S to the 1950S indicates that the term was used from the 19IOS
onwards, but in neither as localised nor as consistent a way as feminist
cri ticism has suggested. Recen t research has also placed a question mark over
the woman's film's 'subaltern' status in studio-era Hollywood, an important
dimension of its retrieval! construction as a critical object. On the other hand,
based on the same research methodolog;y Neale (1993, 2000: I 79-S()) argues
that in studio-era Hollywood at least 'melodrama' was a term w'hich, while it
could and did mean many thing's, rarely meant what 'melodrama' has come
to mean in contemporary film studies and in particular meant almost
anything /Jut '\\"()men's films'; 'family melodrama', meanwhile, is a term
Neale declares himself unable to locate anywhere in this 'industry relay' at
all. 'Melodrama' seems generally (though by no means exclusively) to have
denoted blood-and-thunder dramas of passion, crime, injustice and retribution
- in f~lct the term was widely used to describe films across (in standard genre-
critical terms) a wide variety of classical genres, hom \Yesterns to crime
thrillers and exotic adventure films. Richard ",laltbv (Ilj();: I I I ) notes that of .
the si\: major categories used to classify pictures for the Production Code
Administration in the 19-1-os, melodrama was by far the largest, accounting
-
BEFORE GENRE: MELODRAMA 31
for between a quarter and a third of all production.
-\ growing body of scholarship, starting with Gledhill (1987, 1(94), has
,Irg ued for the centrality to Hollywood film in general of a melodramatic
mode that extends back to and derives directly from the popular nineteenth-
century stage. While the theatrical inheritance is most clearly visible in silent
film, the melodramatic mode in this larger, even capacious conception
extends well beyond the silent film-makers most readily associated with
melodrama such as D. \Y. Griffith, into not only studio-era film, but
contemporary Hollywood too. ;\'1oreover, this melodramatic 'mode' maps
directly onto neilher the earlier gender-based critical constructions of sound-
era melodrama (Sirk, :\linnelli, the woman's film, etc.) nor onto the 'industry
relav' e\:plored by '\:eale. As a set of narrati\'e comentions, affective forms
and" ideological beliefs present across a wide \ariety of genres in different
periods, melodrama is at once before, beyond and embracing the system of
<renre in US cinema as a whole. Linda \Villiams offers perhaps the clearest,
t'
as \Yell as the most ambitious and far-reaching recent statement of this
reconception of melodrama:
\lelodr,lma is the fundamental mode of popular .-\merican moving
pictures. It is not a specific genre like the western or horror film; it is
not a 'de\iation' of the classical realist narrative; it cannot be located
primarily in woman's films, 'weepies', or Elmily melodramas - though
it includes them. Rather, melodrama is a peculiarly democratic and
.\merican form that seeks dramatic revelation or moral and emotional
truths through a dialectic of pathos and action. It is the foundation of
the classical Hollywood mO\ie. (Williams, 1995: -1- 2 )
Thus any discussion of film melodrama needs to begin not by defining the
genre - because if \Yilliams is right there arc clear grounds for arg'uing that
melodrama is not a genre in the same, relatively if ah\'ays questionably well-
ddined, sense as the other genres described in this book - but by demarcating
a field. \\illiams and several other wTiters, indeed, suggest that melodrama is
a 'mode' or 'tendency' that has been taken up at different times and with
diffcn:nt formal and stylistic characteristics in numerous different literary,
theatrical, cinematic and more recent! y tclevisual genres (f(>r example, soap
Operas). In her celebrated studv of the woman's film, ~lan Ann Doane
(19 ST 72) suggests that, '[\YJheti1er or not the termmelodram"a is capable of
defining and delimiting a specific group of films, it docs pinpoint a crucial
and isolable signifying tendency within the cinema which may be activated
differentlv in specific historical periods.'
I II ill be employing; this notion of melodramatic 'modalities' in this chapter
and el"ewhere in this book. In a seminal study, Peter Brooks (H)76) speaks of
32 FILM GENRE BEFORE GE:-.IRE: MELODRAMA 33
.----------------------------------_.:....::....
'the melodramatic ima[!:ination', which he finds informing a wide \'ariety of
nineteenth-century cultural practices from the popular stage to the novels of
Henry James. 'Melodrama' here is something like the specific literary Or
performative expression of a 'world-view' that can be compared to those of
tragedy, comedy or satire. Like those lar[!:e categories - \\hich are referred to
in literary theory as [!:enres but which, as Alan Williams (I<)H.j.) and others
observe, mean something very different !i'om the more localised genres of
film studies and film history - the melodramatic finds expression in a rariety
of contexts, styles and media. If this is starting to sound dangerously
amorphous, one \\-ay to translate the reified concept of 'the melodramatic'
back into the critical practices in film [!:el1l"C theorY discussed in the pre\'ious
chapter might be to sug[!:est that, in '\Itman's terms, melodrama has a syntax
but lacks a clear semantic dimension. In Llct, such a proposition may be
essential if the term is meaningfully to take in, as it usually does, D. W.
Griffith's mostly large-scale historical films of the late I<)IOS and 1920S
(Brnl.,l'II BIIISSIII/IS, I<)H); WilJ' 1)1111'1/ EilSI, I<)20; Orplwl/s IIrll,C .')'IIIrt/l, 1922),
studio-era 'women's films' such as .')'Idlil J)iIIlils, Til f'ildl His 01/'1/ (1<).j.6), or
Lclla 1"1'111/1 illI Ul/hllllNI 1/111/11111 (H).j.()), as \rell as the I(»)OS films of Ray,
Sirk, Kazan and Vincente :\linnelli (Tltc CII/JII'C/J, 19)5; SIII/IC CIIIIC R/IIlIling,
H)5<)). If the nOlion of melodrama is extended, as Limb Williams (I<)<)H) and
Deborah Thomas (2000) have recently proposed, to take in either science
fiction films like Tltc III({cdi/J/c Sltril/hl/g\IillI (1<)57) or such contemporary
films as Rill/I/JlI: F,rsl Bllllld Pal'l 11 (19H5) or Sdlll/(lla's I,isl (H)<)3), it becomes
clearer still that we are indeed talking about a fimn that, in Thomas's words,2
goes well 'beyond genre' in the con \cntional sense.

MEL 0 D RAM A AS G E N REA N D AS 1\10 D E

Altman (r <)96: 27(») states that melodrama was, along with comedy, one of the
two fi>undational strains of the :\merican narrati\c cinema that formed the
basic 'content categories' used by early film distributors in their catalogues to
distinguish rcleascs fill' exhibitors. The later 'substanti\al' generic categories
of Hollywood cinema originated as 'adjecti\-al' modifiers - '\\estcrn melo-
drama', 'musical comedy' -- of these parent genres, But if melodrama was a ,
catch-all category fi)r non-comic films, this does not mean it was either random
or unfi)cused. On the contrary, the strong int1uencc of nineteenth-century
popular theatre, in which melodrama was the dominant fimn, ensured that the l1lqral absolutes personified in broadly drawn characters, eyentful narratives
characteristic forms of theatrical melodrama - w-hich were unified f:\]' more packed with sensational incident, a ~trong scenic element and a powerful
by narrative structures and ideology than hy strict icono[!:raphic conn-'ntions Cl1lQtionai address - carried mer to CS cinema, since even this brief summary
- transferred wholesale to the screen. The question is not ,P/lcll,a melodrama's makes it quite plain they did and indeed continue to do so. The real questio~
established attrihutes - including stolll and simplified oppositiom bet \\ een IS. 11'/,·III I. f' e\ .er - me I'o(I rama ' s grasp on t he .,mencan
\ ' .
cll1ema ,s (ramatlc
I .
From III That IJem;e1I.'I/IU1I's (1955)- Reproduced courtesy Cni,-eTsal/The -obal Collection_
34 FILM GENRE
imagination slackened and gave way, wholly or in part, to a more recog-
nisably 'realistic' mode, and also whether the emergence out of melodrama of
substantiyal genres like Westerns and gangster films leaves behind a distinct
generic residue of 'melodrama' that can be identified as a separate generic
category in its own right. Neale's research suggests that at least as far as the
industry was concerned, melodrama remained a 'live' taxonomic presence
throughout the classical period and indeed beyond. 1 The wide-ranging
relevance of the term is apparently testified by the industry usage that, as
already noted, encompassed or modified virtually nery standard generic
category and type of genre film used by subsequent critics and theorists (with
the notable ('-,"aptio/l of the 'womcn's films' or 'family melodramas' on which
critical debates about film melodrama in the 1980s focused).~
A furthcr problem in determining what 'melodrama' might usefully mean
in relation to Hollywood film invohes the distinctly pejorative qualities the
term acquires in some critical usage starting in the early twcntieth century.
Undoubtedly, the negative associations of the form - including a reliance on
stcreotypes, cliche and formula, a reductive and gross simplification of
complex issues and emotions, and a sensation-oriented appeal to the lowest
common dcnominator of the audience grounded in emotion rather than
reason arc bound up with larger debates about mass culture in elite and
academic circles from the U)20S on in particular. They also dra\y on a
strongly gendered critical lexicon in which the audience for melodramatic
fictions is 'feminised', that is ascribed a 'feminine' sensibility based upon
assumptions about femininity itself as 'hysterical': unreflectiyc, irrational,
easily swayed and prone to outbursts of violent, excessive and undirected
passionate emotion (sec Huyssen, 1(86). ~le1odrama thus becomes both a
form of representation damned by association with '.Ill undemanding if not
actually debased audience, and itself the embodiment of the Llilings with
which such an audience is typically aff1icted. In fact, one could argue that
melodrama becomes the generic text pilr c-,"allmCi', as the failings attributed
to melodrama essentially recapitulate the negative aspects of popular genre
generally (as discussed in the Iwevious chapter). To the extent th~\t the
(critically) privileged concept of realism became increasingly associated with
representational and perf()rmative restraint, excessi\l~ display in these areas
was understood as trivialising or caricaturing the richness of emotional and
imaginative experience. This divisions operated not only to separate high
from low culture, but to discriminate relati\ely privileged modes of the
latter: thus, that the Western emerg;ed as (white male )\merica 's preferred
self-representation may ha\c as much to do \vith its valorisation of a
restrained virile masculine style as with the myth of the frontier.
There is an irony of sorts that this negative association of melodrama with
a sexist construction of the 'feminine' was implicitly endorsed by feminist
BEFORE GENRE: MELODRAMA 35
---~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-------
theory which collapsed melodrama into the narro\ver category of the 'woman's
filill'. :\s wc shall see, the acceptance of a g;endered version of melodrama was
nlOtiyated by the intention both sceptically to interrogate and also to
recuperate for a female subjeethood the terms on which women/'woman'
\\ere constructed and/or interpellated by these texts .~ a polemical critical
intenention that is in no way discredited by recent research. A key theme of
this book is thM genres arc not static entities with clearly defined essences
and meanings, but rather moving targets - subject to ongoing reappraisal and
reconstitution not merely at the leyel of interpretation but at the Inel of basic
"eneric identification. Thus the reorganisation of 'melodrama' into a clearly
defined generic tradition, even one with a questionable basis in film history
or ~let ual industry practice, can itself be historicised without being dnalued
1)\ that historicisation. !'\onetheless, this critical strateg-y left unexplored the
\\~aYs in which the melodramatic mode functioned in Hollywood film more
gmer,llly, possibly to destabilise the apparently secure gender/genre cate-
gories of such 'male' forms as the \\estern, the combat film or the gang'ster
film.
It might be, hO\ye\cr, that by bringing the ncgative cultural construction
of the 'melodramatic' to bear upon the (somctimes dismissive, but often
straightf()nvardly descriptive) industry understandings of melodrama unearthed
by :\eale, we can relHe the construction of melodrama as a gendered mode
to the expanded field of meanings opening up throu[!,"h current research.
Christine Gledhill (2000: 227) suggests that 'if male-orientated action mo\"ies
are persistently termed "melodrama" in the trade, long after the term is more
wide! v disg-raced, this should alert us to somethin[!," from the past that is ali ve
in the present and circulatin[!," around the masculine' ~ the implication being
that this 'something' il1\ ohes an uneasiness or instability in the apparently
secure concept of 'nusculinity' that subtends its representation in 'male'
genres like the crime thriller, whose presence is 'confessed' through the
ad.now ledgement of 'melodramatic' elements in such films. If \ye refer back
to the thumbnail sketch of melodrama abO\c (pnsonified moral oppositions,
com cJ1tionalised char~lCteris~\tions, action-packed storics, scenery and emotion)
it is ,lhcr all evident how much the Western continued to owe to its melo-
dLllllatiL' origins
•
even as it achined substantiyal '
generic
c o
status and hegemonic
maleness. In bct, a great deal of critical \\ ork has been done on constructions
ofnusculinity in [!,"cnre films - for example, :\Iitchell (1996) on the Westcrn,
or Jdf()rds (1989) on the \ietnam combat film - but thc identification of
Il1dodrama \vith the woman's film or the Llmily melodrama has generally
inhibited considering these issues in lig-ht of their melodramatic affinities_ In
this book, the explOl~ation in Chapter ~ of the paradmical ways in which the
gangster's dominating phallic individualism is bound up \\ith the 'weakness'
of reliance on others might seem to bear Ollt Gledhill's obsenation.
 3() FILM GENRE
None of this is intended as an argument for radical generic surgery or
genre reassignment. Even if Film Dail)' or T 'ariet)' characterised The Lor/.'el
(194- 6 ), .Jesse James (1939) or Ps)'cho (1960) as melodramas or 'mellers' (see
Neale, 2000: 179--81), this docs not mean that their conventional genre
designation as jilm 110ir, \Vestern or horror film somehow becomes either
misplaced or redundant. Quite clearly, at any number of Inels, semantic and
syntactic alike, Jesse James has a good deal meaningfully in common with
Stagetoilch (J(B9) and Bill)' tlie Kid (194-1), and more in common with them
than with either Tlie I,odet or P'J'clio, let alone such 'critically assigned'
melodramas as The Ral'/css ,110 111 ell I (194-9) or _'111 I Desire (I(),3). Yet by the
same token trying: to understand what is being said about these films by
attributing 'melodramatic' qualities to them may help us understand the
operations of horror films, \Vesterns or 110lrs better - particularly if acknow-
ledging the force of the melodramatic mode encourages us to question our
assumptions about realism as a norm in ('male') popular cinema.
REALISM AND EXCESS
The ongoing- debate that has both bnl,ldened and deepened the undersLlI1d-
ing' of film melodrama has involved a crucial reassessment of some sLlI1dard
thinking about the place of realism in Hollywood cinema, and according:l~
the extent to which melodrama and melodramatic 'excess' can or should be
seen as a deviation fi'om or a challeng-e to standard realist codes. To cbrify
this point, we will need to digTess briefly into film-theoretical history.
In the HnOS, a series of essays .1I1d articles published in SacCll identified
the domin.lI1t representational mode of Hollywood (and other mainstream
narrative) film with the 'classic realist text' of the nineteenth-century nmcl.
The proponents of 'classic re.l1ism', notabl~ Colin \lacCabe, cited certain
common discursive properties shared by the novels of, for example, George
Eliot and Honore de Balzac - principally their alleg-ed narrati\c transparency
and <\\'oidance of 'contradiction' in Ll\our of homo~?:enised narLlti\es that
reassured the reader \vith their comprehensive grasp of the narrative situation
- and argued that the underlying principles of this brand of literary realism
carried mcr into the classical Hollywood film. Classic realism's most chaLlcter-
istic attribute, its reassuring narrative integrity, \\as ,lCcomplished ,lccording
to NlacCabe by the deployment of a 'metalan!,?:ua!,?:e'. In literary terms this
meant the (usuall~ unmarked and impersonal) narrati\c 'voice' through
which all of the other voices in the text - the \vords spoken by characters, for
csample, or letters - \vere placed in a 'hieLlrchy of discourses'. \Yhile
individual speakers in a narratiYC might be characterised as untrust\vorthy or
mistaken, the voice that brought their error or deceit to the reader's knmv-
BEFORE GENRE: MELODRAMA 37
ledge - that declared it to be raining or foggy on a given day, that was in a
position to \\Tite the words 'he said' before a passage of direct quotation -
\\as not capable of challenge: its absolute competence, even 'omniscience',
\\as a condition of the \'ery readability of the text itself. In Hollywood and
other mainstream narrative film, the equi\-alent of the novelistic 'meta-
LlI1g:uage' was, so it was claimed, the 'third-person' gaze of the camera (any
shot, that is, not nplicitly marked as a point-of-view shot).
This account of realism \vas linked to a larger theoretical project -
influenced by psychoanalysis and by Althusserian Manism - for explaining
the cOl1\cntions of the continuity system and the ways in which the spectator
\\as discouraged from attending to the mechanisms of representation -
I(H'mal (i.e. tC\tual) or institutional (the studio system) - in f:nour of a whole-
sale illusionistic and identificatory immersion in the unfolding narrative and
in turn, by some\\h,lt debatable extension, collusion in the social and ideo-
10!,?:ical norms sedimented in those narratiYes. Opposed to 'classic realism'
\\ere a variety of modernist textual practices that in various \vays (and with,
it should be said, a \\ide variety of aims) served to highlight the textuality of
the filmic arteElct, from the decentred narrati \e style of Carl Dreyer (t(lr
example, J -a 1IIpyr, S\\cden I ()34-) to the didactic dialectical montag"C of Sergei
Eisenstein. Gi\en the clear impossibility of such radical fllrmal experimenta-
tion in classical Hollywood, critical attention f(Kused on those texts \vhich
seemed throu!,?:h v'lrious flll"lnal devices !,?:athered together under thl' category
of 'excess' to indicate ironic distance from, and thus call into question, the
ideological, aesthl'tic and !,?:eneric col1\cntions of thl'ir basic narr<lti\e material.
Thl'sl' 'ncl'sses' mi!,?:ht include such 'melodramatic' elements as a high-
pitchl'd, extreme or 0\ ersLlted emotional tl'nor, florid and/or ostentatiously
symbolic 111lsc-ell-SU;lle, an ovcrstated USl' of colour or of music, and plots
k.Iturin!,?: a hi!,?:h degree of ob\ ious eontri\ancl', improbable coincidcnce or
sudden reversals. Through such dl'vices, as Thomas Elsaesser ([ 197 2[ 199 I:
p. 1'\,) arg:ued in a hu!,?:ely int1uential paper that effectively set the terms for
the next 20 years' criticall'nga!,?:l'l1lent \\ ith the genre, melodran1<i 'f(lrmulate[ s I
a devastating critiqul' of the it!l'olo!,?:y that supports it'.
The idea of 'classic IT.dism' \\ as challeng:ed almost as soon as it was
proposed, in particular by \\Titers \vho made the ob\ ious point that the
ninetl'l'nth-centun novels invoked as a benchmark and model for the trans-
btion of the concept into cinem.1 \Vl'IT themselvcs Ell' from the stable,
monohwic t"
arteLicts constructed b\- the theory. The motlernist orthodoxies
~ .
underpinning: the arg:ument \\cre also questionl'd (as neither as wholly
origin,11 nor as thoroughlv subversi\-e of normati\c Glteg-ories as \vas arg'ued
c c •
lobe the case). Ironically enough, Brooks's study of the 'melodramatic
inl'lO'inat
, t" r
ion' focLlsed on t \\ 0 \\Titers - Ihl/.lc .lI1d Henr\• <[mes
~
\\ho as
much as or more than any Wl'IT ('lI1d .Ire) identified \\ith Iiter,lr~ realism.
jO 1'1 Ll\1 l, Ie:'>! Kle
More ironically still, however, the leg-acy of 'classic realism' is still ,isible
today in (what became) the standard account of melodrama in the 19Sas.
Many of the most widely cited accounts of melodramatic 'e:xcess' - far
example Rodowick ([19S2] 19(1) -- continued to assume the centrality to Holly-
wood film of a realist mode whose integrity was predicated upon a systematic
repression of its own signifying practices. The presence of melodramatic
excess could according;ly be read as 'hysterical' symptoms, deformations and
effusions on the textual body dnlwing attention to those 'unspeakable' but
fundamental dimensions of American social life - such as class and se\:uality
- on whose repression the ideological coherence of the realist film relied. This
'symptomatic' rC<lding of the melodramatic text mirrored the understanding
of melodrama's generic place within the larger system of realist representation
as locateu at the point where intense ideolog-ical oYerdetermination elicited
rnelatory confessions" albeit in the coded form of hysterical symptom - of
the unacknowledged forces g-O\crning the whole.
Yel it may be possible to read these melodramatic symptoms in other
ways, not as deviations from or challenges to a normati'"e realism but as the
characteristic e\:pressive forms of a different, non-realist order of represen-
tation. For instance, the deprecatory identification of melodrama w"ith one-
dimensional characterisation, ob, ious narrali,c contri'ance and so on may
indicate, as Elsaesser's essay suggests ([IlJ72] 1<)<)1: 73-SI), that melodrama
above all abjures ililaillril,)', locating its conf1ictual content not within the
fully realised psychological landscapes of comple\: indi,iduals but in styliseu
and acted-out, interactional form. \lelourama e\"(Jhed a st~ lised and guite
formalised hut at the same lime f1e\:ible set of dramatic structures and
characterolog"ical cOl1\cntions thal aided the audience's interpretation of their
lived realities b~ rendering those realities and resohing their contradictions
in clarified, simplified and emotionally satisf\ing moral and dramatic terms.
\Vhereas realism often Uses an indi,idual character to guide the spectator
throug'h a com pie\: narrative tow,Ii"lls greater understanuing, melodrama is
much more likely to situate mC<lI1ing not as a process but ,IS a sil/lillillll, fi\:ed
anu e\:ternaliseu in a binary oppositional structure (good/had, desire!
frustnltion, happiness/misery, amI so on).
Ben Singer (zoo I: -1--1--9) identifies five 'key constituti,c [lCtors' of melo-
drama, not all of which are always present in e'"ery indi,"idual nample:
pathos, overwrought emotion (which includes pathos but also other highly
charged emotional states such as jcdousy, greed, lust, anger and so on), moral
polarisation, non-classical narrali ,"e structure (with coincidence, e\:treme
narrative reversal, plot cOl1\olutions and dellS ('.\ "wel/illi! resolutions all
exacerhating a tendenc~ to\\ards episodic rather than integrated/linear
narrative) and sensationalism Can emphasis on action, ,iolence, thrills,
awcsome sights, and spectacles of physical peril'). This list certainly suggests
BEFORE GENRE: MELODRAMA 39
the ongoing modal affinity of major Hollywood genres - in particular the
contemporary action blockbuster (see Chapter 10) - with the melodramatic,
while also clearly allowing room for classic Hollywood 'women's films', which
'llthough they largely lack moral polarities and sensationalism are certainly
rich in pathos and other overwrought emotions.
Sing-er's 'constituti'"e factors' still fall, as he himself acknowledges, into
the category of 'ncess'. Howe,er, 'excess' here is reconceived not in relation
to a normati'e realism that it either knowingly ironises or symptomatically
deforms, hut to the moral world melodrama seeks to render that simply
cannot be hodied forth except under stress. Byars (199 I), among the first
critics to argue the case for hroadening film studies' operati"e conceptual-
isation of melodrama hack out from explicitly female-oriented 'weepies',
describes melodrama as 'the modern mode for constructing moral iuentity'
and argues, following Brooks, that
tradition,llly, melourama has focused on the problems of the indi,iuual
within established social structures, and as it attempted to make up for
the loss of the categorical but uni(,ing myth of the sacred, melodrama's
m'thmaking functioned at the 1e,e1 of the indi,"iuual and the personal,
drawing its material from the e,"eryday. (Byars, 1991: I I)
The desacralisation of modern culture - the rise of secular society and the
concomitant decline of established religion and its capacity to supply a
'master narrati,e' for nuking sense of the world - forms one of the generally
agreed conte\:ts for the rise of melourama. \lelodrama takes its cue not fi'om
the di,ine or the ineffable (the traditional domain of tragedy) but from the
modern world around it, and aims 10 enact the key terms for understanding
that world. While retaining abstract notions of good and e,il inheriteu from
an older, tragic episteme, in the absence of trag;edy's sustaining religious
ti'amemJrk these concepts are personitieu in stock characters whose function
moral embodiment - renders them almost equally abstractions.
Byars argues for melourama as a fundamentally non-contestatory mode,
one that insists on the rightness and '"alidity of binding social (but uepicted
not as social but ,IS uni,ersally human) institutions as marriage and the
bmily. "lelodranu addresses, and seeks to resoh"e, conf1icts Il'il hill a given
order (what :\eale (I <)So: 22) calls an 'in-hollse arrangement') rather than
conf1icts of order as such: it seeks to recli/i' the situation- by 'anguishing'
'illainy and ha'"ing ,irtue and innocence triumph -- rather than to transform
the conditions upon which that situation of injustice or ,"ictimis,ltion has
arisen or challenge the terms in which they are concei'"ed. It is the impossibi-
lity of this project that generates both the ntremity of melodranu's narrative
dnices and its char,lCteristic affect, pathos. Rainer \Yerner Fassbinder, the
40 FILM GENRE
major figure in the 'New German Cinema' of the 1970S and a fen'ent admirer
of Sirk (whose All ThaI Heill'i'll "-lIlo]l's Fassbinder transposed to modern
West Germany in Fear Eills lhe Soul, 1974), explained that he cried \Ihile
watching Sirk's Imi/illioll orL~fi' because 'both [the film's main characters]
are right and no one will be able to help them, Unless \\T change the \Iorld,
At this point all of us in the cinema cried. Because changing the \Iorld is so
difficult' (Fassbinder [19721 199T IOh). And, he might ha\'e added, because
melodrama indicates no way of making it happen. Pathos, and the tears that
are its trade mark, are functions of helplessness. This does not mean that
melodrama is fatalistic; on the contrary, melodrama's huge energies strain
violently against their perfllrmatile contexts, intensifying the sense of entrap-
ment that is also one of melodrama's hallmarks (for example, the rigid social
hierachies and prejudices that both Stella Dallas and Cary Scott (Jane
Wyman) in ,III Thill IIefl7.·l'/l .111001's must battle against).
On this reading', melodrama takes shape as the fllrm that seeks to make
moral sense of modernity itself. HO\\T\Tr, at this stage \\T ha\T come a long
way from the specifics of film melodramas. In order to understand hml the
issues outlined here 'bOlh themseh'Cs fllrth' in ,'\merican film melodrama in
its \arious fllrms, we need to look at the particular perflmnatile tradition
inherited from the popular stage by early cll1ema.
MELODRAMA FROM STAGE TO SCREEN
Broadly speaking, melodrama emerged during the late eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries in England and France to supply the need fll!' enter-
tainment and diversion of the burgeoning \\orking class in the rapidly
C\:panding urban centres of the industrial 1'C\olution. Since in France the
officiall~ licensed theatres enjoyed a monopoly on the spoken \Ionl, the ne\\
popular theatres relied on music, spectacle and a strong'ly perfllrmative
gesturallan[!,'uage (,melodrama' literalll means 'm usical drama', a point notl:d
by Douglas Sirk in ,I 1 <)7 I intenie\\ - sec Halliday, 1<J71: <nf.). (her the
course of the nineteenth century, these Imler-middle-class and proletarian
entertainments increasingly intersected \Iith the needs of the ne\1 industrial
middle class, \Ihose gTO\\ ing economic and political influcnce seemed as yet
unsatisL1Ctorily reflected by the ossified eOl1\cntions of the neoclassical and
aristocratic theatrical tradition. Facing both competition fi'om unlicensed
melodramatic perflll'lnances and the demands of an increasingly so(idl~ dilerse
audience, 'official' theatres responded by appropriating the ne\1 popular
styles. By the time that theatrical perfllrmance lIas delicensed in the middle
of the nineteenth century, melodrama had become the dominant theatrical
style across both popular ,1I1d elite theatre.
BEFORE GENRE: MELODRAMA 41
Stage melodrama bequeathed both stylistic and institutionallcgacies to the
cinema. An important clement of nineteenth century theatrical melodrama,
for example, \Ias its stress on \'isual forms of audience address, to some
cxtent at the expense of spoken dialogue, \\hich became increasingly inert
.1Ild stylised. As ne\\ theatrical technologies of lighting, set construction and
scene-shifting,' de\'eloped, ne\1 storytelling' styles with a strongly pictorial
dimension also emerged. In some of the largest-scale late-nineteenth-century
spectacular productions, the proscenium arch became a picture frame, estab-
lishing,' pictorial com'entions (for example, the elaborate historical or exotic
t,lbleau) that would be carried O\'CJ' into early film. The huge expansion of
the theatre 'industry' in this period also necessitated a new rationalisation
,lIld professionalisation of the processes of writing and producing dramas: the
r,lpid turno\'er of the melodramatic stage encouraged a promotional emphasis
on spectacle and on readily recognisable sub-genres that followed intense
ncles.
\ lelodrama \Ias characterised by a strongly polarised depiction of moral
lJualities- \Ihat has often been termed a '~lanichean' \\orld-\'iew with equally
halanced fllrces of absolute good and e\'il battling one another in the person-
alised shape of hero and \illain, their contest usually wagcd mer the symbolic
terrain of an 'innocent' \IOm,1I1 or child. Other classic melodramatic opposi-
tions included those bet\leen country and eitl and (closely related) between
the bmih and the world of \Iork (and money). The melodramatic imaginary
lIas strongly motivated by a nostalgic reaction ag'ainst the complcxification
.tlld perceiled challenge to traditional modcls of g'emler and the family posed
b\ new urban \Iays of liling, a reaction that flllll1d narrati\'e expression in
plots that obsessilely reworked themes of injured innocence.
TO\lards the end of the nineteenth century, a 1'C\i\al of 'serious' drama
(partly reflecting the desire in some sections of the nOlI-hegemonic middle
classes to difkrentiate their cult ure fi'om that of the pelt ~ bourgeoisie and
\\ orking classes) l'Cne\\ cd the scission of popular and elite theatrical fllrms,
\\ ith the ne\v topical, political and symbolist dramas of Ibsen, Shall and
Ilarley Gramille Barker reasserting the primacy of speech mcr spectacle
'lIld reflection mer sensational action. The emerging modernist reaction
.tgainst Yictorian proprieties flllll1d in the pious sentimental cliches of melo-
drama a ready target for derision and, more importantly, a structure for self-
d ifferen tiation.
Thus at the moment of cinema's imention, a \\ell-established tradition of
pictorial and episodic narratile mass entert<linment prm'ided a ready repertoire
of both narratives, creati\'e personnel (actors and writers) and represen-
tational cOl1\entions fllr the ne\1 popular medium to draw on. Howe\'er,
cinema's emerg'ence - as of course a silent medium - coincided with a renewed
cOl1\iction of the importance of (spoken) discursiH' reflection and debate in
4Z FILM GENRE
the most advanced serious theatre of the time. High cultural practice was
thus recentring itself on a dimension cinema was specifically unable to pnnide.
This further cemented the association between popular narrative cinema and
the melodramatic tradition (see Brewster and Jacobs, 1(97).
That tradition, however, was itself 'in process' - evohing and dividing -
in the late nineteenth century. Thus while the 'ten-twenty-thirty' cent
theatres in America offered blood-and-thunder narrati\es in the traditional
earlier nineteenth-century melodramatic \'ein to a mostly working-class
audience - the same audience that would soon crowd the nickelodeons - at
the same time modified forms of melodrama and the 'wcll-made play' ofTered
more respectable pleasures to middle-class audiences alienated by the more
boldly experimental and confrontational forms of the realist and social
theatre. 'Modified melodrama' mitigated the narrative and pictorial extLl\a-
gances of the traditional popular model and placed a greater emphasis on
character, morc nuanced and deeply felt states of feeling, and emotional
rather than grossly physical conflict. 1'\eale (zooo: ZOIf.) and Singer (ZOOI:
167-77) suggest that subsequcnt critical confusions around the valances of
'melodrama' in film may be attributable to inadequate understandings of this
prior bifurcation with the melodramatic tradition. \V,liker (198z: 16-18)
suggests that a genealogy of film melodrama distinguish bet\veen 'action
melodramas' - out of which emerge such film genres as the \Vestern, the
war/combat film and thc various forms of crime thriller - and 'melodramas
of passion, in which the concern is not with the external dynamic of action
hut with the internal traumas of passion', and which g;ive rise to, among other
cinematic genres, the woman's film and the LIl11ily drama. (As wc shall see in
Chapter <), .fillll 11011', in its classic form at least, might be seen as straddling
these fl)rms of melodramatic inheritance in a unique w'ly.)
SILENT MEI.ODRAMA
""lc1odrama thus offered cinema at least two difkrent popular dramatic
traditions on which to build. Initially at Jc.lst, in the era of the nickelodeons
it was the now culturally denigrated forms of working-class theatre that
dominated the new medium, and early cinema's strong; appeal to urban
working;-class audiences (and the anxious commentary this prO\oked in elite
opinion circles) has been well documented (see Hansen, UN 1; RabinO\ itz,
1998; Charney and Schwartz, 1995). HO\vever bourgeois spectators certainly
did not deprecIte the pictorial ,llld episodic. On the contrary, as the success
of Bir/h lira lVa/11I1I (H)I S) shows, it \vas primarily the perceived 'excellence'
- measured in terms of scale, narrativc ambition ,md historical 'seriousness' -
or othcnvise of a form that coloured its class reception. Griffith's film owes
BEFORE GE:-.rRE: MELODRAMA 43
a great deal more to popular melodrama than to the 'well-made play', but its
actual and perceived enhancement of the cheap ephemera of the nickelodeons
(actualised not only in the film but in its exhibition contexts, with reserved
selting and ticket prices during its premiere run closer to the leg'itimate theatre
than to storefront cinemas) made it - and through it the cinema generally -
more attractive and acceptable to a middle-class audience.
The importance of melodrama to silent film has always been recognised,
but melodrama's reconception in film theory to denote studio-era domestic
and Llmilial dramas has meant that silent melodrama has until recently been
comparatively little discussed (an important exception being' Vardac, 1(49).
Two exceptions to this rule .Ire D. \Y. Griffith and Charlie Chaplin, whose
historical importance to cinema's development as a mass medium has
compelled consideration of their preferred dramatic modes. As a comedian
Chaplin would seem to stand outside the melodramatic tradition, yet his
films repeatedly - particularly tl)llowing his move to features - draw on
recog;nisablc melodramatic motifs. In The Kid (19Z0), when the fl)l\ndling
adopted by the Tramp is forcibly remmcd by the authorities, Chaplin and
Jackie Coogan as the child pantomime their anguish in a parade of wretched
g-csticulations and facial contortions. Both the scenario heing played out - the
,ictimisation of the innocent by the heartless and powerful, here as elsewhere
in Chaplin's work given a powerful dimension of social criticism by the
depiction of Charlie's destitution and the rigidity and indifference of
established authority (the medical senices and the police) to human misery
and the manner of its performance are unmistakably melodramatic.
Griffith's debt to melodrama is equ,llly apparent and has always been
recog-nised by critics, from his earliest short subjects at Biograph as a specialist
in sensational melodramatic narratives to his celebrated features of the late
t cens and e'lrly 19zos. Griffith's films ,Ire universalh marked by the presence
of such melodramatic hallmarks as pathos, the victimisation of innocents (the
transhistorical subject of Ill/olerilll(e, H)I7), threats to the Llmily and sensa-
lional sequences rendered 'respectable' by their integ;ration into carefull~
de\ eloped LIther than episodic narratives (such as the climactic ridc of the
h.lan in Bir/h lira S,UiOIl, I<)IS, or the escape across the ice in Tray DOII'II
rast) . .-\nother 'abduction' scene, in Griffith's (hp/wIIs or/he Slilrlll' when
Henriette recog-nises the mice of her blind sister Louise in the street below,
but is plTvented from rescuing her ti'om the beggar's life into which a malign
beldame has forced her when she is arrested ,It the behest of an aristocratic
LIther who aims to prevent her marriage to his son - displays a similar stylised
g-estural intensity to The Kid, but in a narrative context that hetter typifies
melodLlm,I's reliance on coincidence and sudden reversal to generate and
intensify pathos (on Griffith and melodrama, see Allen, 1999: 4z-74; the
Olp/IiII1S recognition scene is analysed in detail on pp. 98-103).
44 FILM GENRE
The general tendency in early bellelettristic film criticism was to regard
the melodramatic aspects of Griffith's and Chaplin's work as fll "'S that either
(depending on the writer's attitude) qualified their artistic achieyement or
could he set aside in estimating it. The perceiyed legacy of Victorian
sensibilities in Griffith - for example, the model of Dickens, first noted with
a different emphasis by Eisenstein - elicits such judg'ements as:
[W]hat we haye in Griffith is the surface \\orld of Dickens - that which
made him so popular because it touched on the surface neryes of the
public - but not the wit or the penetration, the insight into complexity
and emotional depths that underlay the surface simplicities, the types, the
sentimentalities of situ.1tion and emotion. What is left is the energetic
rendering of the shell: Griffith's cinemat ic embodiment of exaggerated,
sentimental emotionalism, naive, simplistic confEct and tension, and
one-dimensional character stereotypes. (Casty I J(n zl H)9I: 3(q.)i
The modernist orientation of much film scholarship in the IlnOS eneourag'ed
an approach that 'retrined' Griffith's technical and stylistic innovations
from the surrounding Victorian baggage (or reconeei\Td Chaplin in terms of
modernist urhan typologies). Alternatively, as in Belton's (11<nz] 1(9 1) com-
parative reading of Griffith and Frank Borzage, the 'intensity' of the artist's
engagement with a melodramatic 'world-yiew' can be seen as conferring upon
their work an 'integrity' lacking in more routine melodramatic production.
As with several other classical genres to be discussed in this hook, the
upsurge of interest in silent cinema and the allied historicist trend in recent
film scholarship has resulted in studies that aim both to broaden the
discussion of silent melodrama beyond the 'canon' of major auteurs and to
engage with the historical specificity of the forms of speetatori,d address
characteristic of silent melodramas. Singer (ZOOI), for C\ample, focuses on
the popular sensational melodramas of the 1<) 1os typified by seria I at!\entures
such as TlIl' Perils III' PI/II!illl' (1<)1.4-) and TlIl' J!I/::;I/u!s III' J!l'!<'I1 (J()q-17)
(films notable not least f()r their acti\T heroines),
THE WOMAN'S FILM
The woman's film has recei \ed the most sustained critical ,ltten tion of ,m y of
the Hollywood g:enres in the melodramatic genealogy. "henever the term
'woman's film' became \\ idely used in Holly\\ood (see Simmon, 1<)<)3), it is
clear that from at least the late 1910S and probably before, the notion that a
certain type of film mig'ht h,I\'e a particularly strong appeal to women was
present in the industry 'relay' (:\eale, 2000: 191-2). This type of film centred
BEFORE GENRE: MELODRAMA 45
f on women's experiences, specifically domestic, familial and romantic (though
\\ith romance subordinated to or at least crossed with the domestic or
f~lmilial rather than carrying the story in its own right); their protagonists
\\ere women, and women's friendships often fig'ured importantly (f()r example,
the professional partnership of Mildred Pierce and Ida Corwin). Woman's
films \vere frequently hased on literary properties written by women, and
fem,lle script\\Titers were also often il1\olved (see Francke, 1994.). The value
of such films to the film industry stemmed from the perception - which by
the J(HoS had firmed up into something like an orthodoxy - that women
comprised both a simple majority of movie-goers and the most reliable and
regular yiewers, that they often had a more decisive voice in choosing' the
films thev attended \\ith their male partners, and that this important
constitueI~cy was dra\\n to films on cOI1\'entionally 'feminine' subjects. l)
These last points are \vOrlh emphasising because of the sometime assump-
tion in feminist criticism that the \\omen's film was a Cinderella genre,
occupying a subordinate position in Holly\\ood's aesthetic and economic
hier,lrchy, The \\oman's film's attraction to melodramatic rather than realistic
modes of representation - 'realism' being a privileged category in elite (male)
opinion (sec Gledhill, 1<)1'7) - confirmed and exacerhated the general depreca-
tion of the gT11re, Thus, it was held, like other f()rms of women's expression,
\\ omen's films, ho\\C\ er numerous and popular, remained suhject to mascu-
linist interests and perspecti\es. In reality, in line \\ith the received industry
\\isdom concerning female audiences, a "om,m's film was if anything likely
to be a more rather than a less prestigious production in terms of hudget,
profile and \ery often critical reception too, .\s cOI1\Tntional and middlehrow
as producers' assumptions ahout 'quality' may seem today, quite clearly
\\ omen's films along: with other prestigious product like costume dramas,
biopics and literary adaptations (all of these could of course be women's films
too, though biopics usually featured male subjects), sened as adYertisements
of the 'best' Holly" ood could produce, "'omen's films \\Tre almost il1\ariably
major studio productions, usually ':\' features, and were assigned top stars
,md directors. (This industrial prestige need not of course have ref1ected the
personal tastes of male studio heads ,md indeed, as Gledhill (zooo: 2z6)
obsenes, economic importance is not neccssarily an indcx, e\Tn in a
Llpitalist enterprise, of 'cultural value'; but H,lITy \Varner's remark to Bette
1),1 \is that he hated her films and onh made them because the box office
demanded it surely cuts both \\ays.) .\s ?\Ldtby (1<)<)5a: 1336) notes, the
deprecation of the \\oman's film feminist theory set itself to contest existed
Llr more among the male critics \\'ho dominated the early years of film
studies and tended to carry through their theoretical propositions through
such 'male' genres as the "'estern and the gangster film ..\s Llr as melodrama
is concerned, it f()llo\\s fi'om \\ h.lt has alreadv been said about the general
46 FILM GENRE
industry usage of the term that, as far as contemporary film-makers and
(presumably) viewers were concerned, women's films \\'ere I/ot melodramas
(like thrillers or combat films) and quite likely all the hetter for it. It does not
at all follow from this that it is 'wTong' to focalise critical discussion of such
films through the theoretical matrix of melodrama, merely that it is hard to
use the melodramatic address of the w'oman's film to press arguments about
its cultural status.
Of the many women's films of the studio era, Stella Dallas (1937, follow-
ing a silent version in H)2 5) has become perhaps the paradigmatic example.
The film tells the story of a working-class woman who, ha\'ing married
'above her station" ewntually drives away her belO\ed daughter Laurel to be
brought up by Stella's estranged hushand so she will not be dragged down by
association with her mother's \'ulgarity, and was the focus of an extensive
critical debate among feminist film theorists in the mid-I980s that encapsu-
lated the ditlcrent and frequently ambi\alent responses prO\oked by the
female-oriented films of the studio era. Crucially at stake was the extent to
which Stella's sacrifice at the altar of bourgeois domesticity represented a
submission the film was recommending to its female spectatorship, or
alternati\'e1y the possibilities fllr that spectatorship's recO\ery of a positive
sense of female strengths from her story - albeit strengths that Stella's social
context and her interpellation by patriarchal ideologies ensure she is unable
to actualise. The nature and degree of women's imestment in the comen-
tions to which Stella finally surrenders wcre crystallised in the film's extra-
ordinary final scene, where the rain-drenched Stella fights her way to the
front of a crowd of g;awkers outside her ex-husband's mansion so that, tearful
yet triumphant amid this crO\nl of strangers, she can view Laurel's wedding
- symholic of her acceptance hy the high society that has shunned Stella
herself. This pathos-filled scene, which seemed to position Stella as a specta-
tor analogous - in her rapt, teary intensity -. to the female cinema viewer
herself in ways that made a clear judgement of hn choice almost impossible,
summarised the woman's film's compelling yet deeply amhiguous attraction.
Another much-discussed \\'oman's film, . Hi/drce! Plcl"i"t' (!()-J.5), presented a
conflict of gender roles articulated through .1 generic contest bet\\'een the
'wom.l11 's film' and the I/olr thriller. The film's I/olr elements include the
extensive use of geometric patterns of light and shade, expressionist lighting,
a con\'oluted narrative presented largely in flashback, and strong strains of
pessimism and paranoia; the contrasting; 'woman's film' elements include the
domestic focus, the centrality of ehildrearing and specifically motherhood,
and a narrative centred on female experiences. Hi/drcd Plcnc is an unusual
and interesting film inasmuch as it straddles the different (contemporary
industrial and critical) undersLlI1dings of melodram'J and indeed acti\.ltes
them as its central conflict.
BEFORE GENRE: MELODRAMA 47
THE FAMILY MELODRAMA
Identifying the part played by the family in American life of course opens up
" \'ast field of enquiry, but as Gallagher (1986) suggests, as a subject the
family is often absorbed back into other genres and accommodated to their
normative coneerns: The Searchers, for example, is more likely to be read as
,1 film about white racism or the pathology of masculinity than as a parable
of the struggle to emision and constitute or maintain a family. It is also
notahle that the traditional dramatic construction of numerous genres -
including romantic comedy (sec Wexman, 1(93), the series Western, etc. -
locates the moment of f;nnilial imestment (that is marriage, or at any rate the
confirmation of the couple) as the climax and the conclusion of the drama
rather than as the central dramatic situation. By contrast, according to
Lieoffrey '\()\\"ell-Smith ([ H)771 H)<) 1: 268), the family melodrama is inscribed
by 'a set of psychic determinations ... which take shape around the family'
,1l1d takes its subject matter primarily and consistently from the hmilial
domain.
.\lthough of all 'phantom genres' the 'f;1111ily melodrama' is the most
elusi\'e, appearing nowhere in the contemporary relay (see Neale, H)<)3), it
has become as closely identified with the critical construction of melodrama
as any, largely owing to the revi\al of interest in Sirk's 1950S Hollywood
films during the 1970S on the ironic terms noted above (strongly encouraged
by Sirk himself). Family melodramas intensify, arguably to a parodic degree,
the pathos of the woman's film, relocating melodramatic excess to the
stylistic domain. The f1I11ily melodrama is often understood in terms of its
contradictory imperati\'es to rC\cal and to repress issues, tensions and
stresses around the hmily - the arena in and through which psycho-sexual
identity is most importantly constituted -- denied either a 'polite' hearing in
.\meriean society, or direct cinematic representation under the terms of the
Production Code, hence its characteristic resort to the fl11tastic, the highly
stylised and the 'contrived'.
.\Luxism suggests that melodrama's emphasis on conflicts within and
around the hmily enacts a classic bourgeois displacement of problems
actually present in the economic and political field onto the personal and
domestic scene: morality thus becomes a personal rather than a political issue.
Once on that terrain, ho\\'e\cr, e\en if class conflict is displaced onto
domestic types, nonetheless the unspoken - and socially unspeakable - tensions
inside the hmily matrix within which the indi\idual is formed inC\itably
push their way to the fore. The hmily is (in .\Ithusserian terms) a classically
'O\erdetermined' arena: it is both inadmissably social and political (because
bourgeois ideology denies the impact of the economic upon the hmily, where
personal morality reig"ns supreme), al/d the site of the equally unspeakable

I
48 FILM GENRE
desires and drives of the Freudian f:mlily romance (Elsaesser, (1972) 199 I:
81] punningly describes the family melodrama as 'where Freud left his Marx
on the family home').
Sirk's films in particular constitute a repeated investigation of the ways
whereby normative social demands are enforced or regulated, and social
authority refracted, through the institutions of the family. In All That
l!ecl1'ell Allmps, the widowed Cary's relationship with her younger gardener
Ron Kirby (Rock Hudson) - transgressive in terms of both age and class - is
initially curbed by a combination of regulatory methodologies applied by her
children: on the one hand her son's forceful, aggressive, punishing and overtly
repressive mode, on the other her social worker daughter's therapeutic,
cajoling, professionally 'sensitive' approach. Written on Ihe Wind (1958) is a
dynastic melodrama that associates issues of patriarchal authority in decline
with eruptions of sexual and social deviance and further links these domestic
pathologies to business and industrial crises: the collapse of one is directly
implicated in the breakdown of the other. The apparent triviality of Sirk's
subject matter - its consumer magazine romance material - is belied by the
promiscuous vitality of his style: an overtly stylised and incipiently reflexi ve
mise-en-scene - saturated and non-naturalistic usc of colour, elaborate camera
movements, the construction of frames within the frame, extensi\T usc of
reflective surfaces, etc. - combines with a heightened acting style to manifest
'hysterical' symptoms of repressed thematic material on the textual body of
the film itself.
The extended range of familial representations explored during; the 1950S
may have been in part a response to the normative familial ideology promul-
gated above all by television in this era. Situation comedies of the era in
particular offered an idealised vision of the suburban middle-class WASP
f:mlily, significantly lacking in major problems or conflicts; possibly television's
identity as a domestic medium demanded that it not challenge the consensus
forming during the decade around the fundamental importance of the Llmily,
and of conventional gender (and ag;e) roles within the family, to American
life. (1\ centrality perhaps never better encapsulated than when .'\ikita
Kruschev and Richard Nixon confronted each other in a US show kitchen at
a Moscow trade fair in \959: their famous 'kitchen debate', amidst gleaming
white goods, defined the home as a symbolic arena, the new terrain of the
Cold War.) It is surely no coincidence that the 'reward' Carey recei\'es from
her children for her compliance with their demands to subjugate her sexuality
is a television: a subsequent shot catches her lonely reflection in the blank
screen, ironically apposite for the principal medium of the traditional nuclear
family's valorisation. Klinger (199-t-) has identified the ways in which several
canonical 'family melodramas' \\'ere promoted on the basis of their challeng-
ing 'adult' content ". in Wrlflt'll Oil tlte WIlld, for example, psychological
49
BEFORE GE;'\lRE: MELODRAMA
instability, incestuous desire, homosexuality, alcoholism and impotence -
offering audiences sensational material beyond the constrained domesticity of
the TY m:t\\orks.
\1 E L 0 D RAM A TIC LEG A CI E S
\lelodrama, at least in the modality that has most preoccupied contemporary
film theory - the family drama and the 'women's film' - would appear, as
","calc (2000: 19,:;) suggests, to have lost some of its impetus with the
disappearance of the producti\e repressions of the Production Code in 1906
as \\TIl as the !.II'ger transformations of gender, sexual and familial identities
in the \\ake of the 1960s and consequent broadening of women's personal
and professional options. "ie\crtheless, from [m'e SIIIIY (1970) and Terms I~r
!:'lIilearll/l'IIl (1983) to Ordll/ilr)' People (H)80) and jHolllllt~!!;hl /vIile (zooz),
'\\cepies' and generically identifiable Llmily melodramas have continued
intermittently to appear. Attempts to fashion modern versions of the
'woman's film', similarly updated to take account of changing social norms,
h;\ \ e included" ,lila Dllesi/ 'I LIu' Here, "JII)'II/Ilre (197-t-),JII Unll/ilrried ~VIIIII(1I1
(1()78), Slarllllg (her (1979), Bear/ii'S ([()88), Siellil (a remake ofSlellil Dililils,
1(90), Fried Grel'll Tlllllilllli'S (1991) and !l1I11' Til ,HilA'r ilil ,·JlllerlwlI Qllill
(1995) . .\laltby (H)f)5a: 1Z-t-) notes that the psychological romance The PUlne
IIr Tides (I 9()I) \\ as described by se\cral re\'iewers as a 'melodrama',
sug-g-esting that, as with .lillll 1/1111', critical usage may have crossed mer to
industry and popular generic understandings. In zoo 3 two films, The {{II/II"S
and Far Froll/ !Iea-ceII, presented themsehcs quite explicitly as intertexts of
the classic woman's film - the latter a quasi-remake (in period) of .-111 Tf/ill
!lCiI,'l'II ,lI/IIII'S, complete with lush Sirkian ",Ise-Cl/-scclle and emoti\ e Henry
\Lmcini score, but no\\ using' stylistic excess to point up the contrast of
mode and pre\iously off-limits content (homosexuality and miscegenation)
rather than as symptom of the textu;llly inexpressible.
This diminution of the domestic and maternal melodrama, h()\\C\cr, docs
not mean that melodramatic modes ha\'e reduced in their centrality to
I Iolly\\ood generally. On the contrary, as Chapter IO \vill explOIT, a renm'ated
melodramatic mode combining' aspects of both blood-and-thunder and modi-
fied melodrama characterises the most important contemporary Hollywood
g-enre, the action blockbuster. .\loremer, an understanding of the melo-
dramatic imag-ination may indeed prmT an essential tool for comprehending
;lnd responding' to the political climate of t\\enty-first century America (of
which the action blockbuster is itself an important g'auge) - \\hich is to say
for citizens of e\ery nation in the \\orld. In his study of the sensational
melodramas of the H)IOS, Ben Singer quotes LULkig Lewishon, a critic for
50 FILM GENRE

the liberal Nation who in 19Z0 associated melodrama \\ith 'the primal
brutality of the mob'; in the age of the 'war on terror' and a successful re\i\al
of the i\Ianichean sensibility in American politics, his words haye an uneasily
prophetic ring:
Part I
[For the a\erage American I his highest luxur~ is the mass enjoyment of
Classical Paradigms
a tribal passion. War, hunting, and persecution are the constant di\er-
sions of the primiti\e mind. And these that mind seeks in the gross
mimicry of melodrama. Violence, and especially moral \iolcnce, is shO\\n
f(lrth, and the audience joins \icariously in the pursuits and triumphs of
the action. Thus its hot impulses are slaked. It sees itself righteous and
erect, and the object of its pursuit, the quarry, discomfited or dead. For
the great aim of melodrama is the killing; of the yillain ... The melo-
drama of this approved pattern brings into \icarious play those forces in
human nature that produce mob yiolence in peace and mass atrocities
in war. Nations addicted to physical \ iolcnce of a simpler and more
direct kind ha \c cultiYated the arena and the bullring. Those \yho
desire their impulses of cruelt, to seem the fi'uit of moral energy
substitute melodrama. (Q.uoted in Sing;er, 2001: -1-0-1)

NOTES

[. .\11 of these l'SS,11 s and Schatz's chapter on E\llli" melodramas are eoIILTtl'l\ in J .allLh
( [<J<J I ).
2. Though her olin usc of thc eonecpt of melmlram'l is in somc "'1\S quitc IdloslncLltic.
3. I lis namples of lilms identified as 'mcllcrs' include citatiollS from [;lri"lj' in thc IIl70S
(elillill's /'ill/d. a "'cstcrn) and thc I<JSOS ClllsslIIg iI/ [(1/111/. I<)S+, a 'ictnam eomb,1t
film)
+. ]\oote. hOllcler, that 'IS :\ltman (I<)IJS: 72) points out, '\eale tcnds somcllhat to eollapsc
thc distinction bctllccn (trade) film critil'ism and film production, .IS if thc perceptions
of the former neecssarih or il1\ ariabh retkctcd the crcatil e praeticcs of the lattcr.
J' Sergei J':isenstein's [<)H eS"1\ 'Dickens, Grirtith and Film Tml'1\' Ius ellSurcd th,1t the
relationship has bccn the subject of cnthusiastic critiLtI discussion. Dickens is of course
the nO\ e1ist IIho morl' than al1\ other c,;poses the bogus claims of 'classic re'llism '.
Altman ([1<)X<)JII)<)2) np\ores Dickens's mdmlramatie Ieg'ael to (irirtith ('lIld
Eisenstein).
(,. It should also bc noted th,1t in thc [Ii [as. as thc film industn 'Ittcmptl'd to bre'lk out

past its core urban lIorking-ciass audiencc to thc hitherto inditlLTent middle-class
'1lIdiencl" (attraeti,e beLluse of its abilitl and lIilling'ness to 1"1\ morc I<l!' ,I tickct 'Illd
also bCLllIse of its political support in thc industn 's battles lIith municipal and st,lIe
ecnsorship hodies). attracting' female licllers lias an Important benchmark of cillt'm'I's
gro\\ing' rcspcetahilitl (see I Jansen, [<)<)1: ho-SI)).
I The four genres considered in this section, along with the romantic or
'screwball' comedy, are \irtual embodiments of classical Hollywood. These
are the genres which, on account of their long production histories -- stretch-
ing back in each case (bar, obYiously, the musical) to the silent era - and
exceptionally high degree of generic codification and con Yentionalisation, are
most reliably inyoked in support of the \arious iconographic, semantic/
syntactic or ritual accounts of genre film generally discussed in Chapter I.
T.ess consideration has generally been giyen to the ways in which these
g:enres can also be seen as modalities of film melodrama (the musical aside,
\\hich as 'musical drama' combines melodrama's basic elements - me/os [music]
+ drama - in different ways). All of these genres haye in common a
preoccupation with how masculine identities - as cowboys and caYalrymen,
soldiers, singers and dancers and gangsters (sometimes as sing'ing cowboys or
dancing gangsters) - are constructed and portrayed, a concern that might be
understood as the specific ways that such 'male melodramas' articulate the
melodramatic mode's characteristic concern with gender and family outside
the context of the domestic melodrama.
Giyen the long production histories and the rich and extensiYe critical
literature on all of these genres, these pages do not aim to proyide either
summary O\eniews or critical historiography. Rather, each genre is discussed
in a specific interpretatiw matrix: fix the Western, its relationship to
(generic and social) history; for the musical, questions of form; for the war/
combat film, questions of nationhood and national experiences of modern
\\art~lre; and for the gangster film, the relationship between the gangster as
an exemplary figure and the social context out of which he emerges and to
\\ hich he ans\yers. While not pretending to exhaust the releyant issues in any
of these genres, these frameworks for discussion and analysis arc intended to
shed light both on these indiyidual genres and on questions of genre theory
;llld interpretation as a whole.
 ,
CHAPTER -'
'.
The Western: Genre and History
M ore, and larger, claims han: been made for and about the \Vestern than
any other film genre. It has a fair claim to be the longest-li'ed of all
major film genres, as "ell as the most prolific. \Vesterns are immediately
recognisable- anybody, C\en a nm'ice, can identif\ a Western within a few
minutes' ,iewing time - and almost e,eryone knows, or thinks they kno",
what makes a \Vestern a \Vestern. Instan tly recognisable '\Vestern' qualities,
including not only the genre's classic iconogTaphy .. corrals and ten-gallon
hats, swinging saloon doors and Colt re'ohers, stagecoaches and Cnalry
charges, schoolmarms, saloon girls, showdowns and shoot-outs - but its
abiding thematic clements - the frontier, 'the desert and the garden', 'dead or
ali'e', ' a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do' -' are lodged deep in the
American and indeed the global popular imagination. And this despite the
fact that with the precipitate decline in production since the late [(nOS and
[fl'i17:i'11'S Gilll' (H)~O) (only in small measure, hm,e,er, because of that film,
Hollywood folklore notwithstanding), \\esterns han: increasingly become
curiosities, relics of an older age in a film culture dominated by ne" er
technologies of action spectacle like science fiction and techno-blockbusters.
Westerns ha'T long been seen as a kind of master key to unlod.:ing and
understanding the most basic elements of American identity. '\Vesterns appeal
so much to us [i.e. AmericansJ,' according to Joan .\lellen (I<)<).t: +II),
'because they are explorations of who "T are, dr.lmas in "hich :\merica's
soul, the national identity, hangs in the balance'. The particular complex of
history, fantasy and ideology clustered around the 'frontier myth' codified in
the Western has been assigned a central, e,en defining, place in the forma-
tion of American national identity and national character. This renders
Western motifs, in particular the genre's emphasis on ritualised and usually
lethal ,iolence as .1 means to personal .111l1 social regeneration, a handy and
concise means of commenting' (usually negati\cly) on aspects of ,\merican
THE WESTER": (iE"RE AND HtSTORY 55
domestic or foreign policy. (Such critiques of course can be and ha,e been
mounted from "ithin the genre itselt~ notably the 're\isionist' Westerns of
the late 1<)60s and H)70S and the highly successful and influential European
'Spaghetti' Westerns of the same period.)
.\lore than any other genre, too, the Western illustrates the use of genre as
a means of mapping historical e:xperience onto popular media texts through
an analysis of shifts in genre comentions. The exceptionally high degree of
codification and comentionality to be found in Westerns makes tracing this
process unusually' transparent. It is not necessarily true that the \Vestern
possesses a more distincti\e iconography than other genres ,. a shot of Rz-Dz,
Illr instance, sends just as clear a generic signal as John Wayne cradling a
shotgun· but its semantic elements generally ha,e remained unusually stable
()\ er time. It is these constants, themsehes rooted in a clearly defined and
limited (albeit he.nily fictionalised) historical setting, that in turn make the
\\'estern's limited repertoire of narratin: situations and thematic preoccupa-
tions seem e:xceptionally condensed. Hence, perhaps, the "idespread belief
that \Vesterns are both exceptionally formulaic and, partly as a result,
gcnerically 'pure' in a "ay that genres less fixed in a particular time anu
space, and less tightly bound by narrati'e con\ention (melodrama, say, or
action-ad'enture films), are not. This consistency makes the \Vestern an
attracti'e point of reference for theoretical accounts of genre film but also, as
se'Tral recent commentators ha,e noted, probably an atypical example of
genre film in general: in particular, setting up the \Vestern's unusual degree
of (in ,\ltman's terms) semantic/syntactic continuity as a yardstick of g'eneric
integrity seems an unduly prescripti'e and restricri'e critical approach (see
"-cale, zooo: 1.",-+).
In any case, e,en if as Buscombe (I<)~~: 15-16) says the Western's basic
generic material displays a 'remarkable ... consistency and rigour', the
perception of generic purity is at best only partly accuratc.·\ny ,iewer with
more than a passing bmili'lrity with Westerns knows that the bad guy only
occasionally wears a black hat, and that rarely if e'er is the only good Injun
a dead Injun ..\s the list of 'hybrid' Westerns in Chapter I m.lkes clear,
\\'esterns are as prone to generic mixing as any other gTI1IT. '\loreo,er, as we
shall see, the genre's syntax (in ,\ltman's terms) has not only 'aried in some
important ways mer time but has de'eloped une,enly in different intra-
generic strains in the same period.
:\c\ertheless, it is certainly true that the Western is ,I 'strong' generic
fl)rm; Saunders (ZOOI: 6) notes the Western's 'ability to digest and shape
,tlmost any source material.' Of all genres it has been perhaps the most
reliable to the widest audience for the longest period of time. This long and
continuous history of a (notionally at any rate) historical genre makes history
itself an appropriate frame for considering the genre. The sections below
56 FILM GENRE
address, respectively, the history of the genre and ongoing critical debates
about that history; the influence of Western historiography on the Western's
narrative and thematic material; the particular versions of the 'real' history of
the West favoured by the Western at different points in its evolution; and the
impact of contemporary historical events upon that evolutionary process.
HISTORIES OF THE WESTERN
The Western's semantic constituents coalesced at a remarkably early stage in
the history not only of the genre but of cinema itself. Edwin S. Porter's
eight-minute The Great Train RoMer)' (190 I), a landmark in the history of
narrative cinema and often claimed as 'the first Western', \vas probably not
received as such - rather than, say, a crime film or a train film - by its original
audience (see Musser, 1990: 352-5; Altman 1999: pp. 3+-H). Ho\ve\u, its
principal elements would become instantly recognisable iconographic and
narrative touchstones for the genre: the masked outlaws, the carefully engin-
eered hold-up, the fight atop the moving train, the posse, the chase on
horseback, the climactic shoot-out. Even the structural opposition of ci\ilised/
effete East and rugged/savage West emphasised by Kitses (1969) and others
is embryonically present in a barn dance interlude where the assembled
cowboys torment a 'greenhorn' or 'dude' (immediately identifiable by his
derby hat) by shooting at his feet. The film's status has undoubtedly been
enhanced by the f:lmous extra-diegetic shot I of the moustachioed outlaw
shooting directly at the camera, an iconic image that resonates through the
subsequent century of Hollywood's most popular and prolific genre (Sergio
Leone echoes Porter's act of specular aggression when Henry Fonda fires at
the camera in 011ce Upon a Tillie in tlte HfSI, 19(9).
Out of the very large critical literature on the Western, a fairly standard
genre history has emerged whose outlines might be summarised as follows:
having established itself as a popular genre if not with Porter then certainly
by H)05, the Western thrives throughout the silent and early sound eras. The
genre reaches its peak of both popularity and cultural centrality in a twenty-
year period starting in the late 1930s. During the postwar decade, the
Western is characterised by a self-conscious expansion and 'deepening' of its
generic remit and takes in a greater range of psychological, narrative and
sometimes political complexities. The 'adult' Westerns of the 1950S -
including such classics as Slta ne (195 I), H/~~1t XOOIl (H) 52), Tile Sfa rcllers
(1955) and Rio Bral'o (1958) - are often either ostentatiously mythic (Sllil/le)
or directly contemporary (H/~~II SOOIl, or the cycle of early 1950S 'pro-Indian'
Westerns including BroA'Cll _~/TOlfJ, 1950, De1'l1 '.I DOOl'l/Jll)', 195 I, and _ipac!le,
195+) in their address. During the H)60s and intensifying in the 1970s, a
THE WESTERN: GENRE A:-.ID HISTORY 57
combination of interrelated factors - generic exhaustion, ideological confusion
,md shrinking audience appeal - led to the Western's 'demoralisation'
(Slotkin, 199H: 6) and ultimately, despite (or, depending on the writer, partly
because of) the injection of \'iolcnt pop energy from the Italian 'Spaghetti
\\'estern', its eventual demise as a mainstream Hollywood genre by the end
ufthe 1970s. Although the subsequent decades have seen occasional nostalgic
ITvivals and the genre's core thematic preoccupations - in particular, the
myth of the frontier - persist in other genres (notably science fiction), the
\\'estern must now be regarded as a largely historical form.
\ reliable feature of such histories is the assertion of the Western's
ccntrality to the history of the American film industry, reflected in the
cnormous number of \Vesterns produced - more than any other g'Cnre - from
thc early silent period until the 1970s, and the Western's consistent
popularity with (some) audiences throug'hout much of that period. Yet most
such accounts imolve a striking if unacknowledged anomaly. On the one
hand, the sheer scale of Western production, which during the genre's years
of peak popularity saw wTll mer a hundred \Vesterns released each year
(Buscombe, 1<)8H: +26-7, estimates some 3,5°0 films in the sound era alone),
importantly sustains the large - sometimes \Try large - critical claims made
for the \\'estern's importance as a cultural document. On the other hand, in
pursuing such claims \\'estern criticism has tended to rely very heavily on
rather a small selection of this enormous filmogTaphy perhaps two dozen
films, almost all of them made after the Second World War II. The most
influential and frequently cited discussions of the Western have tended to
conduct an internal comersation about a \TrV limited number of films that
together f()rm an established Western 'canon': Slage(()ac!1 (I<J39); infi'equentl~
.I1lother late HnOS prestige Western such as .lesse .lallles (H)+O); Ford's AI)'
/)adillg C/elllCllI ille (19+6) and his 'en aIry trilogy' - Fori. iparlle (19+H), Site
/I ore a } clio II' Ri/J/)(I/l (1<).10), Rio Gtilllde (19.11); Howard Hawks' Red Ril'er
and RIO Bra,'o; SllilllC; Anthony ~lann's series of 1<).10S Westerns - especiall~
lIilldlcsler '7') (1950) and Tltc\"alml Spllr (I<)53, both with James Stewart),
,1l1dHall oFillc ifni (19.1H, \vith Gary Cooper); Ford's Tltc Scanlters, and
perhaps one of the 19.10S 'pro-Indian' Westerns, most likely BroA'cII .'lrrolfJ;
nlc Jlall IU/() SI/()I Li/Jerl)' "alallte (H)62, Ford ag'ain); Sam Peckinpah's Tltc
/lilt! BUllc!1 (1969). These, plus a few post-197° films, notably LilliI' B/~r: .Mal1
(((no), _HeCi/lle alld .HrsHlller (1971), Peckinpah's Pal Carrell alld Bill)' Ihc
kid (r973), and the newest candidate for entry into the pantheon, Unjil/-gtl'en
(I<)92), are rewarded with ongoing debate and reinterpretation. 'The Western'
thus concei\ed becomes all but synonymous with a selection of prestigc
\\'esterns from the postwar era, \yith moreoyer a strongly auteurist slant in
the emphasis on Ford, .\lann, Peckinpah and most recently Eastwood.
Slagt'Coac!1 remains in such accounts - including most recently Coyne (1997)
 ,
5~ FILM GENRE
and Saunders (2001) - as it was for Wars how and Bazin, a watershed if not
actually a foundational film in which the 'mature' genre's principal motifs
and concerns crystallise for the first time. Nobody of course claims that
Westerns had not been made prior to 1939; rather, it is asserted that only
then was 'the time ... evidently ripe for the Western to take its place as a
major Hollywood genre' (Coyne, 1997: 16). Like Wright (1975) before him,
Coyne (1997) attempts to construct clear and transparent criteria for
producing a representative sample, using either production budgets or box
office returns as a useful and, on the LICe of it, relatively objective measure
to identify 'major' Westerns within this 'major genre'.
The question is whether such 'major' works alone - e\Tn if one accepts the
criteria fix selection - necessarily constitute the most appropriate sample for
understanding a genre. We encounter here an important problem in genre
studies: the process of selection and exclusion through which a generic
corpus is constructed. Largely \Hitten out of the standard accounts are not
onh many 'A' Westerns of the [()50S amI early- to mid-1960s, but the
lite;'ally thousands of silent Westerns and the 'B' (or series) Westerns of the
[()3os and early 1940S - the menvhelming majority, in EICt (at a very rough
estimate some 75-i{0 per cent), of all of the American \Vesterns eyer
released. 2 Thus the \Vestern constructed through comentional genre histories
is a somewhat inex,ICt mirror of the Western as actually produced and
consumed fex approximately half its life-span. Of course, the critical
construction of almost any artistic field, the Victorian novel no less than the
\Vestern, is marked by a process of emon formation through \\ hich classics
and major artists arc established, subsequently del\ving the greater pro-
portion of critical attention and defining the key terms of debate in the field.
i\nd developing any coherent account of 'the \Vestern' out of a vast field \\ ill
quite clearly require some degree of selectivity: few critics have been \\illing
to undertake the truly Herculean vie\\ing' task a truly comprehensive account
of the genre \\ould entail. But this problem of requiring a quite clearly
unrepresentative sample - in purely statistical terms at am rate - to 'stand in'
for a \asth_ Iaru;er
. field
. ' and the difficultv- of g,lUging the merit of the claims
made for or about that larger field through analysing such a sample, is a long-
standing one; it is particularly vexed in the context of popular media studies,
where it is compounded by problems of marketplace competition and access
to material (infrequently screened on television, rarely featured in genre or
autcur retrospectives, even the rene\ved profitability of the major studios'
film libraries during the video explosion of the early Iqi{os did little to restore
the visibility of series Westerns produced by Republic or .\lonogram).
Beyond the usual questions of bi.ls and ideological preference that canon
formation inevitabl~ raises (sec Fokkema, [()q6; Gorak, H)9 I), the specific
critical problems \vith such extreme selectivity in relation to \Vesterns are
THE WESTERN: GENRE AND HISTORY 59
perhaps twofold. In the first place, a general rule of Hollywood production
throughout the classical period was that the larger the budget, the more
extended a film's audience appeal needed to be. Whereas routine, low-cost
programme \Vesterns could earn a decent return from the Western's core
extra-urban and regional audience alone, bigger stars and higher production
,.liues necessarily entailed outreach beyond that core eonstitueney.3 This
requirement of generic amortisation becomes all the more pressing with the
spiralling budgets of the 0.'ew Hollywood: accordingly, when embarking on
\\hat eventually became Ht'{[l"CIl's GI/lt' (198o), the infamous $40 million
rmge\\ar catastrophe that would lose most of them their jobs and virtually
b,mkrupt their studio, United Artists' production executives balked at
\ lichael Cimino's script's original title - PI/ydlrl - which struck them as 'very
\\cstern indced' (and undesirably so, given the genre's long-term declining
popularity) (Bach, 19i{5: (76).~ This is not simply an issue of marketing -
,lithough if box office returns are to be used as sampling criteria, what
audiences expected to sec in a particular film is surely as important as what
modern critics of the Western see today -' but also of content. A prestige
\\cstern might, felr example, include a more fully developed romantic interest
to dra\\ in female audiences, as in the Errol Flynn-Olivia de Havilland star
\chicle ThC)' Dit'd IVllh Their Bools On (Il)41). In short, 'A' Westerns- a
category into which most of the canonical films listed above would Eli I -
might \\ell be less generically representati\c in so f~lr as, by design, they
k,lture elements that transcend, and hence extend, the \Vestern's essential
generic hame.
Indeed, much of the discussion of these canonical \Vesterns turns out to
ti>eus on just such qualities of generic innovation and extension. The postwar
films on \\hich most scholarship has f(lcused are typically disting'uished from
pre\\ar 'B' \Vesterns (not to mention the progLlmme \Vesterns that con-
tinued to be produced in sig'nificant numbers until the late 1l)50s) by higher
hudgets, more complex approaches to character and history, and quite explicit
in many cases hig'hly elaborate and self-conscious - attempts to extend
and/ or transgress generic comentions and boundaries: all characteristics that
naturally recommend themse!\'es to critics frequently schooled in techniques
or literary analysis for whom complexity, formal experimentation, etc., are
privileged qu,liities. This in turn raises a second difficulty: felr the claim of
these films' generic nme!ty (hence usually, at least by impliCltion, artistic
'>uperiority) necessarily relics on their deviation hom or ad'lptation of generic
norms \vhich, however, are thcmsehes typically .lssumed rather th,m exem-
plified or explored.
It is timely then that the history of the \\'estcrn genre is currently the
subject of a scholarly range war, or at least a border skirmish. The standard
narrative of the genre's evolution is being' challenged ,1l1d the Western's
60
I
FILM GE:-JRE
generic map partly rewritten. This inevitably complicates matters for students
- not least because it inevitably tends to emphasise films outside the existing
canon, many of them difficult to access - but should nonetheless be \\e1comed
as rebalancing a long-standing problem of critical bias. Gallagher (I (95)
argues that the standard account rhetorically constructs a large, and largely
unseen, body of prewar films as naively primitive purely to prO\ide an
unflattering comparison with the psychological and ideological complexities
and ironies of thc postwar Western. S Neale (2000) and Stanfield (2001),
among others, have also strongly criticised the distortions caused by the
obviously partial .~. both incomplete and also pa rl i pris - version of a long and
extensive genre history summarised above.
The loss of so many silent films of all kinds, and the extremely limited
circulation of all but a few of those that h,ne sunin:d, makes serious study
of the silent Western very difficult for all but specialists. Seminal Western
stars such as Broncho Billy Anderson, Tom \'lix and William S. Hart,
although their films established many of the genre's enduring formulae, are
for most modern viewers dimly glimpsed figures the other side of a sizeable
historical and cultural chasm. HowC\er, contemporary scholarship has
started to give the silent Western its generic due, as reflected in recent books
by Lusted (200.r (>7-94-) and Simmon (200T 3-rn)..\longside studies of the
early Western as an important discourse for mediating and refining .\merican
white male identity in the Progressin: era, a period in which mass immigra-
tion and the spectre of racial pollution troubled the white imagination (Slotkin,
1()9R: 24-2-52; Abel, 199R), a growing body of \vork has paid attention to the
unexpected complexities of the representation of Native .\mericans in pre-
First World War Westerns (Aleiss, 1995; Griffiths, 1996, 2002; Jay, 2000).
The latter research sug;gests that some prevailing; assumptions about the
novelty of canonical postwar 'pro-Indian' \Vesterns such as BrokclI .·lrrllll',
Dail's DillinI'll)' amI .,lpad/c may need to be re-examined.
The problem posed by the critical neglect of 'B' - or, more accurately,
series - \Vesterns is even more acute, particularly since unlike the silcnts this
body of films is largely extant (and has recently started to find its way onto
home video). !V1ore than a thousand Westerns were produced during the
HnOS. Howe\er (following the box-office failure in HnO of the prestige
Westerns Thc BI~I!, Trail- the film intended to break John Wayne as a major
star, which instead consigned him to series Westerns fClr the rest of the
decade - and Cill/arrllll), only a handful of these \\ere 'A.' pictures. :\ot until
the very end of decade did the' .-\' Western see a renaissance that persisted
through US entry into the Second World \Var at the end of 194-1. Yet today,
as Peter Stanfield (2001) points out in the introduction to his path breaking'
recent study, the series \Vestern is almost entirely forgotten, consigned to the
same memory hole as the silents, treated as juvenile ephemera of interest only
THE WESTERN: GENRE AND HISTORY 61
to collectors and their numerous buffish enthusiasts. As with Hart and Mix
in the silent era, the names at least of some series Western stars remain very
familiar - Wayne, of course, and in particular, the 'singing' cowboys' Gene
.\utry and Roy Rogers - but the films that made their fortunes, to say
nothing of their writers and directors, are today hardly known except to
specialists and 'bufTs'. Similarly, the series Western has been mostly ignored
by serious criticism. Slotkin (1998: 271-7) devotes just seven of Gun./ighter
\allllil's 850 pages to a consideration of 1930S series \Vesterns. In his seminal
cssay on Westerns, Warshow ([1954] HJ7Sb) in the same breath dismisses
silents and 'Bs' alike ell nIasse as 'nothing that an adult could take seriously'
. \\hile confessing to having never seen a single example of either! It seems
that the popular conception of the Western as formulaic and simplistic relies
upon a sort of folk memory of childhood Saturday matinees or faded
television showings of such films.
Stanfield (I 99R, 2001) argues that the settlement of the frontier (see
bclrm) is much less important to 1930S series Westerns than issues around
land O\\Oership, regionalism and urbanisation. The critically despised singing
\\esterns of Gene Autry - most of which featured contemporary, not frontier
settings - directly addressed 'the difficulties his audience confronted in
making the socioeconomic change from subsistence farming to a culture of
consumption, from self~employment to industrial practices and wage depen-
dency, from rural to urban living' (Stanfield, 199R: 1q). Leyda's (2002) work
on a variant form even further below the critical radar of standard accounts,
the 'race' (black audience) Western, has found striking similarities with the
mainstream series \Vestern.
Such research, simply by extending the genre's historical and critical
puniew, changes the context for understanding the Western. In the case of
the post-Second World \Var \Vestern, more research remains to be done on
the significant number of routine Westerns still being produced until the
l11id- 1960s. The key task facing genre criticism of the post- 194-5 period,
however, may be less the extension of the canon _. as we have seen this is
already heavily \veighted towards the postwar \Vestern - than critical interro-
~!;ation of the received understanding of the genre's central preoccupation in
this period- the frontier.
THE WEST(ERN) OF HISTORY
:\eale points out that the critical focus on the theme of the frontier largelv
, L.
constructed in terms of the 'desert! g'arden' opposition derived from John
Ford by structuralist critics, not only obscures large portions of the historical
record of \Vestern production but has also tended to have difficulty with

62 FILM GENRE
such important categories of contemporary criticism as gender, sexuality and
class. 'It is at least worth asking whether the male-orienled \ersions of
frontier mythology promoted by post-war western theorists are borne out in
full by the industry's output, or whether the critical preference has tended to
obscure the existence of ... other trends and titles' (:\eale, 2000: q2). It is
equally important to consider whether, in light of renewed critical interest in
the series Western, the Western's apparent preoccupation with the idea of
the frontier itself represents a significant shift of generic f(Jeus, and what the
factors impelling that shift might ha\e been. Whereas Slotkin (I99~), for
example, argues for the ideological centrality of the frontier myth throughout
the twentieth century and indeed before, Engelhardt (IlN5) proposes that a
prog;ressi\e crisis in the dominant '\ictory culture' in the post\\ar period,
attendant on social change and setbacks and confusions in f()reign policy,
made con\entional notions of American identity, such as those \Tsted in the
frontier myth, objects of urgent debate,
The institutionalisation of the myth of the frontier as the dominant
paradigm for discussing the Hollywood Western owes a good deal to two
influential, loosely 'structuralist' studies that adapted U~\i-Strauss's model
to identify the Western's basic conceptual materials - its imaginati\e
building-blocks. Jim ~itses (19()9) identified a set of 'shifting; antinomies' (p.
I I) org.mised around a central opposition of \\ilderness and ci\ilisation,r'
while Will Wright (H)75) outlined f(lUr main models of Western narrati\es
and their numerous \ariant subsets.! These and other accounts of the \Yestern
in many ways take as their point of departure the \\estern's imbrication in
American history. Nor is this surprising: the Western is, ostensibly ,It least,
the most historically specific and consistent of all film genres. :\ccording to
Phil Hardy, 'the Western is fixed in history in a relati\e1y straightforward
way': specifically, 'the frontier, and, more particularly, the frontier between
the Ci\il War and the turn of the century, forms the backdrop to most
Westerns' (Hardy, 1991: x-xi).
Hardy freely acknmYledges, as do most similar sur\eys, the need f()r
g'enerie boundaries flexible enough to accommodate such ob\ious '\Yesterns',
albeit displaced in time and/or space, as Drullls ..Jlli/lg f/ie .Hlilllll!'J: (1939, set
in Colonial :'\iew England), Clili,I!.IIll's BIIII.! (I96~, a contemporary urban
thriller) and Wesf}}Jlirld (I<)73, a science fiction film), Hardy's identification of
'the frontier' as the general organising imag'inati\e and conceptual axis of the
\Vestern is also entirely cOl1\entional. :\nd like \irtu,llly e\ery other \\Titer on
the \Vestern, he asserts from the outset that the \Yestern transf()rms
historical material into archetypal myth. Yet there is nonetheless an inherent
underlying problem in using 'the frontier' as a straightf()\'\\ard historical
category and a means of arguing the historicity of the \\estern. For, as this
section explores, the \ersion of history that in such accounts is 'mythified' by
I
THE WESTER:"J: GE'JRF. AND HISTORY 63
the Western is itself already as much myth as history - and, like so many
; \Yesterns, consciously so,
'The frontier' has a decepti\ely precise and stable ring: but according to
its most influential chronicler, historian Frederick Jackson Turner, whose
celebrated ([ 19.+71 1986) essay 'The Closing of the American Frontier'
defined the terms of Western historiography for oyer half a century, in reality
the frontier was always and by definition mobile, not a clear boundary but an
uncertain and shifting; prospect alongside, or just ahead, of the leading edge
ofthc \\hite colonial ad\'ance across the North American continent. Although
"hite settlement took some three hundred years, from the early se\enteenth
century to the uawn of the t\\entieth, to span the continent fl'om the Atlantic
to the Pacific Ocean, the generic f()Cus of the modern Western is usually on
the decades f()IIO\\ing the end of the Ci\il War. These \\ere decades of large-
scale industrialisation and population grm\lh during which, with the support
of the federal gO\Trnment in Washington and encourag'ed by enthusiastic
hoosterism in the Eastern press, the major \\'a \e of white colonisation
penetrated the Llstnesses of the American interior west of the wlississippi,
The defining images of this epochal story - the co\ered wagon; the construc-
tion of the transcontinental railroad; the 'claim' staked out in the trackless
prairie; the one-street frontier township; the cowboy as the paradig;matic
\Yesterner; abO\T all, the encounter of white settlers with the 1'\ati\e
\merican tribal populations they aimed to displace and the subsequent brutal
[ndian \Yars, the C\:terminatiH~ campaigns of pacification waged by the US
Cl\alry on the colonists' behalf - in turn became the key motifs of the
\\estern film.
Turner's fi'ontier thesis is worth exploring briefly- not least beCiuse
recent challenges to the Turnerian account of \Yestern history ha\'e had as
decisi \e, if mediated, ,\11 impact on the Western as did the intellectual and
conceptual hegemony of the origin.ll argument. For Turner, the mO\ing
lI'ontier had been the defining element of :\merican history, .'\s a source of
'fi'ee land', the seemingly inexhaustible \Yestern wilderness allowed American
society to grO\\ and de\e1op in unique ways (Turner, [1<).+7] 19~6: 259 6 I).
Because of the challeng'Cs of pacifying and settling the fi'ontier, the American
national character \\as shaped not by the urban class conflicts that typified
the industrialising European economies during the nineteenth century, but
by the encounter between ci\ilisation and untamed, sometimes sa\ag;e nature
(p. 3f.). In fact, the frontier acted as a 'safety \ahc' for potentially explosi\'e
cLJss conflicts by allowing marginalised social elements - the poor, newly
arri\ed immigrants, etc. - to start afresh and f()I'ge their O\\n destinies while
playing' their part in the inexorable athance of :\mericm ci\ilisation (pp.
263~). The frontier \\,IS thus nothing less than the 'crucible' of :\merican
democracy, and its singular and defining aspect.
 64 FILM GENRE
Even on such a heavily abbreviated account, the power of Turner's thesis
is clear. Its historical sweep and the bold, broad brushstrokes with which
f unconfined spaces of prairie, sierra or desert. Although interior spaces do
Turner outlines an entirely novel account of American historv certainly
captured the public imagination as fnv other academic theses did, a resuit
that Turner doubtless fully intended \\hen he deli \cred his original paper at
the Columbian Exposition in Chicago in July IH93 (see Peterson, 199.r 743-
5)· And the influence of the e:xtensively popularised 'Turner thesis' on the
fictive \Vest is widespread and profound, Sometimes the debt is e:xplicitly
acknowledged, as in the debate concerning the nature of 'progress' conducted
by the civic worthies heading to the frontier to\m of Dodge Cil)' (1939) on the
first westbound train. More generally, the schematisation of the frontier
experience in terms of a Turnerian opposition bet\\een the \'alues of (White)
civilisation and the r~l\\ wilderness (tvpically including the non-White
cultures of Native .\mericans) is readily identifiable in numerous \Yesterns,
and figures consistently as the central preoccupation of the genre's t\VO pre-
cminent directors in the sound era, John Ford and Sam Peckinpah,
Although a full exploration is beyond the scope of the present work, a
brief look at the genre's treatment of social space reveals the impact of
Turner's ideas on Westerns, The most quintessentially 'civilised' of spaces,
thc city, enjoys a very mixed reputation in \Yesterns, .\s ELhvard Buscombe
(I9 HH : HH) notes, a significant proportion of the population of the Old West
lived in cities; \ct cities as such arc offscreen presences, railheads, unreached
destinations (such as Junction City, \\here the train \\ill be held 1<1I' Senator
and Mrs StOlltLtrd at the end of Th1' Hall Who SI/()l 1"A'l'll' [ilii/llce), points
of pioneer departure or cultural reference' pre-eminently such paradigma-
ticIlly 'Eastern' cities as Boston, \\ hence hail Doc Holliday and Clementine
\\ith their ambivalent baggage of both culture and corruption in. H)' Dar/illg
C!('///('111ill1' (194-6). The inclusion of an actual cityscape in a \\estern (Caspar
in //('(11.'1'1/ 's Gille, or "lachine in neill!. HI/II, 199.5) is a cast-iron guarantee of
re\isionist intent. Numerous \Ycsterns Ii'om /fell's flillges (I<)16) on h,1\e
what mig'ht be ca lied proto-urban setting,'s, usually '\\'ide-open', i.e. ,1S yet
virtually tl\\less, to\\nships \\ hose sustailubility remains \ ery unceruin, and
\\ hose pacification thus prO\ides the basic narrati\ e material of the 'to\m-
taming' \\'estern (I<Jr example, J)odge Cil)' and its se\eral imitators). The
'settled' Tonto and the '\\ ide-open' Lordsburg', the t\VO to\\ns that bookend
the EIleful journey in Slil,!;(,(OilCh, respectively embody snobbery, bigotry and
hypocrisy, and \iolence, anarchv. and degradation: the decided Iv. mixed
'blessings of civilisation', as the lilm's L1l110US closing line puts it.
Similar ambiguities beset the representation in \\esterns of the city's
'other', the \\ilderness. The \\'estern is, of course, supremely a genre of
exteriors, .\lore accurately, it is a genre \vhere definitive experiences and
understandings are usually to be 1<)lll1d out of doors, preferabh in the
THE WESTERN: (jE:'oJRE AND HISTORY 65
rc,lture regularly, they usually have the rough, unfinished, provisional quality
one \\ould expect of frontier settlements - sometimes literally, as in the
dlllrch, as yet barely a scaffold outline against the big sky, around which the
I1<1SCen t community of Tombstone gather in dedication of the building and of
themsehes in one of the most celebrated sequences in any Western (in fact,
in all .\merican cinema) in Ford's H)! DI/r/illg ClemClliille. By contrast, the
jl'1'r~-built, half-finished \\Teck of a house built by Little Bill, the brutal,
,11110ral sheriff of Big Whisky in Ulljiirgi,'CII, points not to an evolving
ci\ ilisation but to one in civic and moral decline. The crudely functional
quality of most \\'estern interiors ,- saloons, homesteads, cabins - confesses
their ne\\ness and confirms the need for ongoing decisive action beyond the
threshold if their fragile purchase on the wilderness is not to be swept aside.
(Refinements of design and elaborate architectural features tend to denote
sL',\ual licence - such as the brothel in The C//(]'ClII/(' Socilt! Cll/h, 1970 -
1l1Oneyed corruption - the palatial ranch house in The B/~I!, CO/l1Iirv, 19.5H -. or
both Barbara St~lI1\v~Tk's altogether 1111 I/'(; mansion in Samuel Fuller's
\\ildly stylised PorlV Gllns, )().57.)
It is not, however, purely in the depiction of these apparently dichotomous
spaces, interior and exterior, urban and wilderness, but in the ambivalent
relationship bet\\een and the \alues reposed in them, that the Western finds
its determining ground. In the Ltmous paired opening and closing shots of
nil' Smrdlers, Ethan Ed\vards respectively arrives li'om and retreats back
into the desert that is his only real 'home', filmed in both cases from illside
the \\,lrm darkness of a domestic space he is committed to defend yet within
\\ hich he is a po\\erfully disruptive, even a destrueti\e, f<)ITe ..\nd although
Ft han's e\ ery action bears po\\crfully on this sheltered E1milial space
defending, avenging and finally restoring it - the sphere in which he conducts
such decisive ,Iction, like the man himself, remains fundamentally separate
ti'om and outside it. .\lthough he docs not cite Turner, I\..itses' 'shifting
,1I1tinomies' reflect classicalh Turnerian attitudes to\\ards the almost contra-
dictory interdependency of \\i1derness and ciyilisation. For on the one hand
Turner's account is a hymn to progress; hence the taming of the \\ilderness
is a, perhaps lltl', quintessential .\merican triumph. But as the ad\ance of
settlement moycs the (i'ontier \\'est\\ards, it also ine'l:orably shrinks it. Turner's
p'1per therefore not only sought to make the case I<Jr the frontier as the
dcfiniti\l~ aspect of the .\mcrican national experiencc, but explorcd the
implications of its disappearance. The closing of lhe frontier X formally
pronounced by the 1H90 Federal Census three years prior to Turner's
presentation in Chicago - parad(nically threatened the Ycry .\merican demo-
cracy to \\hich it bore \\itness by climinating the force that made\merica
unique, Thus there is an undertow of both nost,tlg'ia and anxiety for thc
66 FILM GENRE
future in Turner's survey of an ostensibly triumphant present: contradictory
but powerful impulses that the postwar Western in particular would take up
and make its own.
, THE WESTERN: GENRE AND HISTORY
The ambivalences and ironies of the 'closing' of the frontier came to
dominate the imaginative landscape of the postwar Western. Although
Western film-makers have largely ignored the conclusions Turner drew,9
Westerns have long drawn on the yaledictory quality of his account as a
source of dramatic tension and elegiac colour. 'Boys,' intones \Villiam S.
Hart in his final film Tumbleweeds (1928), 'it's the last of the West'. Ford's
The Man Who Shot Libert)1 Valill/re deals quite explicitly with the 'closing of
the frontier' theme, with the film's protagonist Ransom Stoddard an
advocate of statehood and the rule of law and the yillainous Valance the
hireling of big ranching interests who have profited from the more loosely
regulated territorial status. Valance is a psychopathic thug and there is no
question where the film's sympathies lie. Yet Valance's actual killer, the
honorable frontiersman Tom Doniphon, retreats into the (literal and figura-
tive) shadows and subsequently declines to an alcoholic pauper's death in a
way that suggests that the cry - 'I jberty's dead!' - that rings through Shinbone
following Valance's murder carries an ironic charge. The film's rich symbolic
lexicon makes it clear that the story of Shinbone is a parable of the closing of
the frontier and an object lesson in the 'yalences' of 'liberty'.
Two other notable Westerns released along'side Libcrl)' Tii/allre in 1962,
Lonel)' .cJre the Brllz'e and Peckinpah's Ride the llip,h COllllliy, dealt with the
same theme. With these three films, the elegiac strain present from the
Western's inception emerg'ed as the dominant theme of the decades during
which the genre itself experienced its most marked and seeming'ly terminal
decline. The 'end-of-the-Iine' Western, in which the Western hero is brought
LICe to LICe with the inescapable Llct of his 0\\11 redundancy, dominated the
genre in the I960s and I970s. BIIlth Cassidy IIl1d the SlIl/(llIlIte Alii (1969) meet
their doom in a mood of amiable acquiescence rather than bloody despair,
and with the consolation of their crystallisation into legend; the doomed
heroes of Dealh (~r a Gllldighicr (1969), Wild ROn'rs (1971) or Tom Hom
(1980) are less fortunate, their ugly, painful deaths merely testif~ing to the
yenality of the societ y that has lost its use for them. TT ill PCI//lY (I 9(n), ,Hllllie
Walsh (HnO), seyeral modern-day Westerns including The .Hls/ils (1962),
Hlld (1963) and a cycle of early I970S rodeo films - J. W Coop, TUCI/ Ihe
Legends Die, The JJOIIJ.:crS and Peckinpah's .lll/lior BOllller (all I97r) -
rendered the mythic West's heroic codes bleakly irrele\ ,mt to the working
Westerner's subsistence-Ieyel daily grind. :\lany of these films seemed to be
claiming to strip away the trappings of myth to sh(J\\ the \Vest 'as it really
was'. On the other hand, their interest in doing so was clearly motivated by
a desire to provide a counter-history (or myth) to the dominant one. This
raises questions about the kind of history-making process in which Westerns
themselyes participate, which the following pages \yill explore.
67
THE HISTORY OF WESTERNS
'This isn't the Wild West. I mean, e\Cn the Wild West wasn't the Wild
West'. John Spartan (Syhester Stallone), Deff/olitioll MI/II (1993)
Recent critiques of the Turner thesis make it very clear that Turner self-
consciously rendered his account of frontier history in the simplified, arche-
typal terms of national myth. Much the same can of course be said about the
film Western. Film-makers consistently attest to the rigour of their historical
research and the resulting historical 'authenticity' of their productions -
indeed there is a sort of generational contest in this, each new wave of
\\estern film-makers aiming to retrine a 'truer' picture of the 'real West'.
But nen the first great Western stars of the silent era, Broncho Billy
\nderson and (especially) William S. Hart, derived the outward trappings of
their screen personae from the elaborate paraphernalia of the Wild West Show
cO\yboy more than his comparatiyely drab real-world working counterpart
(see Lusted, 200]: 90) ..\nd the powerful character types they synthesised -
notably Hart's 'Good Bad :\:lan' - in their turn established firm rep resen-
Lltional parameters (and created audience expectations) against which
subsequent film-makers wcre inn-itably compelled to define their own
\ crsions of the \Vest, even if their stated intention was to return beyond such
fictions to a putative historical actuality.
In the wake of modern histories of the West - which have had an
undeniable, if usually rather delayed and unpredictably mediated, impact
upon the fictional \Vestern (see \VorLmd and Countryman, H)98) it has
become apparent that some of the \Vestern's most central motifs have their
origins in the intersection of popular memory, cultural myth and ideological
necessity rather than 'real' history. To take one example, the professional
~unfighter, a key figure in the postwar Western from The Glllljighicr (1950)
to The QllltJ.: alld Ihe Del/d (1995), 'for whom formalized killing \vas a calling
and e\Cn an art,' is, as Slotkin (1998: 38-4-) puts it, 'the imention of movies
' .. the reHection of Cold \Var-era ideas about professionalism and yiolence
and not of the mores of the Old \Vest'. Even guns, or at least handguns, may
have been less ubiquitous than \Vesterns would have us believe: Robert
\Itman is perhaps on to something in .HtCl/he I/lld JlrsHiller (1971) when
the sidearm .\lcCabe sports proHlkes curious/alarmed comment upon his
arriyal in the mining settlement of Presbyterian Church (it is left deliberately
unclear whether .\lcCabe is indeed, as the townsfolk assume, the notorious
68 FILM GENRE
gunslinger 'Pudgy' McCabe, or indeed whether 'Pudgy' is himself merely
another figment of the frontier imagination).
MoreoHT, the process of rendering history as myth is the explicit focus of
a significant number of important post\yar \Vesterns. Historians themselyes
- especially if one broadens that categ'ory to include reporters and dime
noyelists - feature surprisingly frequently in Westerns, particularly from the
Ig60s onwards as the genre becomes marked by ,1 gnl\\ing self-consciousness
about its role in fabricating the national self-image. The I I2-year-old Jack
Crabbe in J.ilt/l' Big /HI/il tells his life story to a bemused ethnographer, \\hile
sensationalising hacks arc a standard feature of most yersions of the Billy the
Kid story. Perhaps the most LImous line of dialogue in any Western (the
apocryphal 'a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do' aside) is spoken by one
such chronicler towards the end of John Ford's The /HI/II Who Shol J.//Jl'rl)!
VI//allce. The local newspaper editor in the \Vestern outpost has just listened
to hometown celebrity US Senator Ransom Stoddard's startling confession:
the heroic reputation on which Stoddard has built a national political career
- that many years before in the streets of Shinbone, then a Ia\yless fi'ontier
outpost, Stoddard shot down the notorious gunman Liberty Valance - is in
f;'lCt a lifdong lie. In reality it was local rancher Tom J)oniphon, \\hose
pauper's funeral Stoddard has returned to Shinbone to attend, \\ ho shot
Valance unseen to saye the greenhorn Eastern Ll\\yer fi'om cert.lin death.
Stoddard W'll1ts to set the record straight as a form of restitution - to the dead
Doniphon, to his \yifi: Hallie (originally Doniphon's girl) to history, to himself.
Yet the newspaper editor refuses to print Stoddard's truthful, but IT\isionist,
account on the grounds that 'This is the \Vest, sir. \Vhen the legend becomes
Ller print the Ieg:end!' - a m,lxim often cited as a reflC\i\c summary by the
genre's most celebrated film-maker on the \\estern's o\\n ambiguous rela-
tionship to history.
In the film's account of ho\y hisron is \\Titten, alternate \ersions ,1l1d
perspecti\es arc .1\ ailable onl~ through Ellltasy, a point Ford underlines by
employing' a self--consciousl~ stilted, almost archaic \isual style during
Stoddard's flashback, marking the element of self-sening distortion in his
account; ho\\c\er, this remains the only account \\e ha\c. 'History' begins
and ends in leg"Cnd, and that legend is essentially autonomous of eilher
historical LIct or any indi\idual retelling of it. So the lesson Ransom
Stoddard finally learns as he, like Tom Doniphon in his coffin, is nailed back
into the mythical identity \\ hich time, circUmsLll1Ce and historical necessity
ha\e all forced upon him, is that while this may not be the (\\cstern) history
he (or we) want, it remains the histor~ \\e\e got. lIence ,my nai\-e ,lttempt
to 'set the record straight' is doomed by its O\\n idealistic illusion that history
exists outside of retellings of it; the ideological 0\ erdetermination of some
stories prohibits their redemption fi'om \yithin the representational paradigms
THE WESTERN: GENRE AND HISTORY 69
b\ which those stories are comeyed. By this pitiless generic logic, not only
~ust the legend, famously, be printed-, but the possibility of printing (or
filming) anything else - anything more 'truthful' - ne\er really existed.
:\ similar implication is communicated by the rather majestic final shot of
Sergio Leone's OIlCl' CPOII 1/ T/Ille /11 .1/11er/cl/ (1969), the Spaghetti Western
maestro's first American studio picture. As the dust settles on the climactic
~lInfight to which the entire epic film has been inexorably building in orthodox
~Tneric fashion, and the suniying gunfighter, with equal predictability, rides
into the sunset, the first train arri\"Cs on ne\Y)y laid rails into the embryonic
to\\I1 of S\yeet\\at<:r and the frontier life fades before our yery eyes. As if to
confirm that the railroad and the monopoly capitalism it represents are
indeed harbingers of historical time and the simulLmeous retreat of the
m~ thie \Vest into legend, the film's title (excluded from the opening credits),
etched in classic '\\estern' typeElCe, spirals into the frame and eyentually
Lldes ,I\\ay into the dusty plains. Thus OIlCl' .,. purports to prO\ide the
prehistory of the \\estern. But for the specLltor, the film's representational
paradox is that this prehistory has itself been ,lCcessible only in the terms of
the \\estern itself. For \\hile the action of the film may address the Western
myth's foundational moment, it CIll do so only in the genre's own para-
digmatic narrati\e and characterological norms (silent re\Tng-er, 'outla\\
hero', Bad \lan, unscrupulous businessman, \yhore, etc.). OIlCl' ... strips bare
the \\estern's claims on historictl \crisimilitude .111d pushes its innatel~
ritualised and stylised aspects to near-parodic extremes that cyacuate the film
of narrati\e credibility and ps~ chological realism alike, to the point where we
hecome fundamentally a\yare only of the pre-gi\en structural reh!tions het ween
generic clements. Leone's ludic film at e\ er~ stage cha lIeng"Cs the \Vestern's
,lbility to sustain g"Cnuine historical enquiry ,111d dC\e1ops the object lesson in
gcneric necessity taught Ransom Stoddard in 1./IlerlJ' l-il/IIIICl' into its central
pcr/()rmati\c contradiction. The not-so-simple truth is that f()r the spectator
there is no ,Iccess throug'h representation to any putati\e time 'hcf()re' the
"-estern itself - and no spectator of 0/1(,' L pOll II 1'/1111' /11 lhl' Iresl could
doubt it hence no possi bi lity of direct his torica I represen ta tion. In ot her
\yords, in the \Vest it h,ls ah\a~s already been 'Once upon ,I time'.
Cii\cn this ineluctable textuality, it should come as no surprise that the
film \\estern's \ersion of "estern history is often only loosel~ \\edded to the
historical \\est ITeo\cred by historians. For example, although the story of
the settlement of the \Vest is in large part a story of Elrming and entre-
preneurial acti\ity, Schatz (1981: -t~'n notes that the \\estern typically pays
merc lip senice to the agrarian \\ays of life that it narrati\e1y champions:
from ,')'//(/111' to PiI/l' R/da (IgSA) the \irtuous, ind ustrious husbandsman is
opposed to the ruthless rancher, prodig.11 of l1<ltural resources and indifferent
to communitarian principles, yet 'HollY \\oml's \ ersion of the Old \Vest has
70 FILM GENRE
as little to do with agriculture - though it has much to do with rural values
- as it does with history'. Farmers and small businessmen (as opposed to
cattlemen ,md rohher harons) are rarely central figures in \Vesterns - unless
like Jesse JlIl/les (1<,)39) or The Olltlllll' JIl.I'e)1 TVllies (H)76) restlessness or
injustice compels them to abandon their homesteads. Exceptions to this rule,
such as GollI' Soulh (1978) and The Bllilad o(Llllle]o (I<)()S) tend also to be
generically atypical in other ways.
It is after all not the rich loam of Missouri or Idaho but the red dust of
Arizona and the austere peaks of the Rockies that supply the genre's most
readily recognisahle landscapes. In f:lCt, the postwar Western often discO\·ers
a pathos in the conflict of irreconcilahle values bet\\een the itinerant cowboy
or gunfighter and the Llrming communities he defends and to which he is
partly drawn, yet which he can never become part of. Despite little Joey's
heartbroken appeals, Shane rides ~l\\ay into the plains whence he arrived,
perhaps [Hally \\ounded ..\s the t\\O suni ving memhers of The Hagl1ljircllt
SCI'ell (lq60) depart the :Vlexican village they have saved from marauding
handits (a third has returned to his own peasant roots), it seems to Chris, the
Seven's IClder, that 'the [lrmers won. \Ve lost. We always lose' (HUOS 'B'
Westerns, hy contr,lst, typically ended \\ith the hero romantically paired off
and headed directly for the altar, supporting Sunfield's (I qq8, 200 I) argu-
ment that the settlement of the frontier is much less important to these films
than land ownership, to which since the Regency and \"ictorian novel
comedies of marriag"e ha\c heen intimately linked).
In short, the image of the historical West in the Western is ahvays and
already just that· an inugT, {i-amed in the lig·ht of a historical record that is
itself anything· but innocent and impartial. This of course does not mean that
\Vestern history is in any facile sense 'unreal' or 'false'. It does, hmvever,
mean that such histories ha\c heen hom the outset 'mcrdetermined' cultural
productions"· that is, subject to multiple and sometimes contradictory causal
t:lCtorS. As ·\Iexandra Keller (ZOOI: 30) observes, 'if \\·esterns had no real
relationship to historical discourse, they would hardly have the p(mer they
do. But the relationship is far more complex than the genre itself typicall~
suggests'. Janet Walker (ZOOI) points out that Westerns are rooted in history
in some fairly ol1\ious ~et also fundamental ways. \Vesterns clearly draw on
the documented history of the West for their narrati\c premises. Individual
historical figures likc Wyatt Earp, Billy the Kid, Jesse James, George
Armstrong· Custer, '\\ ild Bill' Hickok, 'Calamity Jane' (.\larthy Cannery),
Geronimo and many others figure centrally or peripherally in many \\"esterns,
while the larger narrati\es of the Indian \Yars, the building of the trans-
continental railroad and the Gold Rush supply a number of the basic \Yestern
narrative paradigms identified by \\"right (I(ns) ~md sene ~IS a backdrop to
fictitious stonlines.
THE WESTERN: GENRE AND HISTORY 71
.\-lore complexly, h()\\C\er, given that the 'real' history the Western
exploits is itself 'fragmented, fuzzy and striated with fantasy constructions'
(Walker, 2001: 10), it \\ould be equally naive to insist on any unambiguously
[lCtual historical reality (to \\hich \ve could in any e\·ent have no unmediated
access, since all history is of necessity constructed through discourse and
narrative). The railroad- (and nation-) building epic The Iron Horse (1924)
claims in its opening titles to be 'accurate and faithful in every recorded
particular', and climaxes in a tableau-like restaging of the famous meeting of
the Continental and Pacific Railroads ,It Promontory Point in Utah. However,
given that the image Ford recre~ltes here \vas itself carefully staged by
;'ailroad photographer .\. J. Russell, the precise nature of the 'history' being·
rendered is open to question. As the final section of this chapter will discuss,
most analyses of Westerns in [lCt emphasise the importance of the immediate
contexts - industrial, social and/or political - of their production, or the
\\estern's internal conversation around its O\vn evoh"ing generic paradig·ms,
rather than focusing on the elements of Western history being recorded, even
if those elements, as they frequently do, dramatise real events and personalities.
THE WESTERN IN HISTORY
Sam Peckinpah's Westerns of Iq6q-73, The Wild Buuth, The Bililild o(Cil/J/e
lloguc and Pill Gilrrell illld Bill)' lite Kid arc quintessential examples of the
'end-of-the-line' Western discussed abme (p. (6). With Jllllior Bonller as a
less tragic modern pemhmt, in these films Peckinpah explored the West's
shrinking horizons and the \Yesterner's few remaining options in an era
\\hen, as the Bunch's leader Pike Bishop (William Holden) memorably
obsencs, '\Ye \c got to think beyond our g·uns. Them days arc closing· fast.'
Peckinpah's protagonists typically find themsehcs unable or uO\\illing to
'ldapt to the new times, but equally unable to hold back the inexorable pace
of soci~d change..\s Douglas Pye has commented (I C)1)6: 18), their 'range of
action [is I finally limited in some cases to a choice of h(m to die' - as at the
climaxes of Ride Ilze High COIIIIIIT and, above all, the notorious bloodbath in
\\ hich the \\"ild Bunch finally immolate themsehes (and se\·eral score of
\kxicm soldiers and camp foll(mers). Tellingly, the Bunch m~1ke their fin~11
stand surrounded by avatars of a technological modernity compared \\·ith
\\ hose industrial killing practices their own brutality seems merely the violent
child's pLly depicted in the film's viscerally upsetting opening sequCI1ce
(children torturing insects). These murderous modern monuments include a
Prussi,ll1 military ~ldvisor and a .\laxim gun, both foretelling the imminent
l11ech~ll1ised mass slaughter of the First \Yorkl War (the film is set in 1<)!3),
\mericll1 entry into \\hich conflict would definitively export the frontier of
 72 FILM GENRE
American experience away from the Old West and into the \vider \vorld. This
traumatic transition to modernity is at one level a moment in and of history;
at another, this recorded history is also continuous \vith the historical
moment of the film's production, within which one historically contingent
consequence of America's own violent modernity was the Vietnam War, II-hose
escalating bloody barbarism Peckinpah explicitly intended The Wild BIlIliPS
unprecedented ferocity to invoke. (On Peckinpah, see Prince, H)<)<); Dukore
1999; Prince 19<)8; Seydor 1997.)
Jack Nachbar (200T 17<)) writes that 'the suhject matter of Westerns has
usually been the historical \Vest after 1850, but the real emotional and
ideological subject matter has ill\ariably been the issues of the era in which
the films were released.' The WIIrI Bllllch and other, more explicit' Vietnam
\Vesterns' of the early H)70S such as LI///( B/~~ .Hall, Silidier Billc and
U!::.af!a's Raid (1()7 I) are ob\ious instances where the \\-estern addresses
itself to an immediately topical e\cnt outside its ostensible historical frame.
In the case of Vietnam, the tang:ible if impressionistic sense of Jl.merican
filreign policy recapitulating the mythic \ersion of frontier history combined
with the outrage at the war some film-makers shared \vith the anti\var move-
ment to make such rnisionist Westerns not only socially and industrially
(given the impossibility of m,lking actual \'ietnam combat films: sec Chapter
..f.) but also gcnerically necess,lry (on Vietnam and the \Vestern, sec Slotkin,
1<)<)8: 520--..f.8, 578-()2; Engelh,mlt, [()()S: 2.H-..f.0). In general, the 'rnisionist'
\Vesterns of the late [(iloS and [(nOS arc usually seen as confi'onting' and
subverting the genre's tLlditional affirmati\c mythologies in the contnt of
Vietnam, the civil rights struggles ,1Ild the '\e\\ Left. In various \vays, films
such as .;\i[cCa!Jc allil_Hrs. MilIa, The 1AIsIHIIL'le (l(riI), Aid BIlle (l(ri3), The
'vIlssllllrl Brcaks (I<)7S), BlI/lillll Bill alld Ihe 111dlillls ([(ri,) and !leac'm's Gall'
arc motivated at least in part by an anti-Establishment cultural politics that
finds expression in transgressing this most 'official' and normative of
HollYI\'()od genres, In LIet, although the critical interest in the 'mO\ ie brat'
New IIollywood directors of the [()70S has tended to 01 LTemphasise the
e\tcnt of attitudinal and artistic shifts within the industry in this period, in
the Western at least oppositional and revisionist attitudes undoubtedly
predominated.
Both because the \Vestern has such a long' history and because its o\ln
ostensible subject matter is historically circumscribed, the imprint of its
\,lrious contingent historical contexts has to different degTees and at different
times been especially marked. Some of these - such as the wartime mobilis,l-
tion of series Western heroes to combat '\,lzis and Japs- arc superficial and
obvious, \lhile others arc deeper rooted. Stanfield's \\ork on the series
Western (\lhuT in Clct the sense of historical period is often \vc;lker)
percei\l~s an emphasis on struggles OITr land OIl nership rehlted directly to
THE WESTER'\!: GENRE AND HISTORY 73
the immediate economic preoccupations of the 'B' \Vestern's primary
(mostly rural) audience during the dustbuwl years of the Depression. After
the \var, as several writers halT remarked, the gnming emphasis on the
victimisation of .-\meriean Indians in Westerns since the 19SoS has in most
cases less to do with a rene\ved interest in Indian rights as such than with the
civil rights struggles and racial politics of the postwar period, for which 'the
Indian' offered a usefully displaced and relatively uncontroversial metaphor
(though '\eale (1998) rightly warns against simply eliding Indians and Indian
history - \vhich after all are concretely present in the pro-Indian Western,
whatever its metaphoric intent - with African-.-\mericans).
\Vesterns in g'eneral had been no more (or less) cOIl\Tntionally racist in
their limited portrayal of .-\frican-Americans than most classic Hollywood
films (for instance, the timorous, reluctantly Iiherated darkies deploring the
ntremism of anti-shl\cry crusader John Brown in Sanla Fe Trail, 19..f.O,
direct descendants of Griffith's 'f~lithful souls' in Blrlh oj'a Nallllll, 1915).
But unlike other genres, race was already explicitly a core element of the
\\-estern, since dramatising the settling of the frontier necessitated depicting
relations bet\veen \vhite settlers or soldiers and the indigenous Native
\merican population. Issues of miscegenation and interracial confEct were
carried O\Tr \vholesale from the \Vestern's principal narrative sources, from
eighteenth-century captivity narrati\-es to dime novels and melodramas,
typically fiKusing on \Vhite-Indian relations but with some treatment of
I Iispanic characters too. \Vhile there arc exceptions to this general rule of
Indians as 'stand-in' victims of persecution and genocide (which might
incl ude Ford's Chc)'l'lllie III I 1111111, [() (l..f. , f)a /Ices If Ii/I II II hI'S (I <)<)0), and the
modern \Vesterns If-ar Pari)', [()88, and Tllllllilahcarl, I<)<)2), even when
reconceived as victims of genocid,d ,-\mericlIl imperi,dism, Native Americans
remain constructions of a \vhite social imaginary, 'Pro-Indian' \Vesterns arc
,J1most always narrated from the perspective of a classic Western fig'ure, the
\lhite 'man \vho knows Indians'. This ethnocentric frame remains largely intact
from HI'II!.."'lI _11'I'1I1I' and f)enl's /JOlinI'll)' throug'h Tell Thel/i Ill/lic /Jill' Is 11<'1'1'
(l<){)(») to Dallres Ifllh Wllhes and Gel'llllil/ill: _Ill _Il/ierlca/l 1,(~md ([()()3),
The ad\ance of the LS civil rights movement ensured that Black faces
gradually started to appear in substantive though still suhordinate roles from
the early I <) {lOS , \\ith \Voody Strode establishing himself as a member of John
Ford's repertory company (Sgl RlIi/edge, 1<)60; Tl7'Il Rllde TlIgclhl'l', I<)61;
[,i!Jall' 1 ii/illli'<') to the point where he could function as a symbol or the
cbssic \\'estern fil!' J,eone in Ollre CplIII a 1'11/1<' III lli<, II <'.I'I amI ,\brio van
Peebles in PIISS<' (I<)<)3). Sidney Poi tier directed and starred in the carefully
revisionist Blld' <!IIJ lli<, Prc<!i'licr (197 I), \vhich features an alliance between
filrmer sb\(~s and Indi,lIls based in their common victimhood at the hands or
the \\hitt man. Yet possibly because or the genre's indelible association
74 FILM GENRE
with white supremacist attitudes - Black-centred Westerns have remained
very rare: notably, both blaxploitation-era hits like The Legend or Nigger
Chllrley (1972) and Posse, a 'gangsta' \Vestern, distance themselves ideologi-
cally from the mainstream tradition of the American Western by adopting
the stylistic motifs of the Italian Western, which has a distinctly different
political and cultural trajectory (see below).
The role of the Western in constructing models of American masculinity,
particularly in its 1950S heyday, has recently been the subject of considerable
critical interrogation (see, for instance, Tompkins, 1<)92; Mitchell, 1(96).
However, situating this in a determinate historical context (beyond general
evocations of 'the 19Sos') has prO\ed somewhat harder: Leyda (2002), in
attempting to speci(v the audience (jU\cnile African-American males)
interpellated by black singing Westerns and consequently concretising the
particular kinds of male behaviour identified as worth emulating, is notably
successful in this regard. In Llct, for all the voluminous commentary on the
genre, the postwar \Vestern has only rarely reCl:i \cd as rigorous a
reconstruction and exploration of its historical contexts as, for example, the
silent Western in recent years (see above, 'Histories of the Western'; though
Slot kin (1<)98) and Corkin (2000) have related e\oh'ing post \var reconcep-
tions of the ti'ontier myth to concurrent ideological delxltes among elite
opinion-formers and policy-makers).
A wholly different, and admittedly speculative, perspective on the
Western's decline since the early 19{jos might note the simultaneous rise to
national political prominence of the West and South-West, the Western's
traditional geographic heartland. 8etween J<)OO ~lI1d J<)-I-S, the hitherto rather
marginal and underpopulatnl 'Sunbelt' states had sent just one representa-
tive (Herbert HoO\er) to the White lIouse; since I<)-I-S all but t\vo presidents
have hailed either from west of the ?\lississippi (California, Texas, '\ebraska
- t \\ice each - and l\lissouri) or from the former Confederacy (\rkansas,
Georgia). One possible outcome of this decisin~ and much-analysed shift in
the political g;eography of the CS is that the West, no\\ a highly visible,
influential and (some would say) all-too concrete political and economic force
in US life, is less easily over\\Titten by the traditional mythic terms of the
Western. Although such mythic rallying-points as the .\lamo remain
enormously popular tourist attractions, the West may no longer be the space
onto which metropolitan America projects its bntasies of national identity:
now increasingly it is the (urbanised, entrepreneurial and polluted) West that
itself defines the terms of :\merican culture.
Nonetheless, the Western is not \lead': the e\olutionary model of genre
history is disprO\cd b~ nothing so much as allegedly moribund genres'
refusal to g:i\e up the ghost. Rather, the \\estern lives on both as point of
cultural reference and a source of narrati\c and thematic motifs in a \vide
THE WESTERN: GENRE AND HISTORY 75
variety of Holln\ood films, including Slar Wllrs (1977), Die Hard (1<)86),
Falling DOlTm (199-1-) and Toy Storr (1995), and as a permanent part of
Hollywood's generic repertoire available for periodic renewal. The Western
has seen at least three major revivals in the twenty-five years since Heaven's
Gille allegedly killed it off, in 198-1--88, a more extensive and successful cycle
in 1990-<)5 centring on the major critical and commercial successes Dances
ITIlh WO!c'es and Unfi!lglun, and most recently in 2004, with the release of
Open Rallll:e, The .ilan[(), The /HIsslng and the European Western Blackberry
;IS \vell as the HBO mini-series Delldwood (on the two earlier cycles, see
'\eale, 2002: 29-3-1-).
BEYOND HOLLYWOOD
So intimately is the Western \\oven into the imaginative bbric of American
life that it is surprising to realise that the genre has been successfully taken
up by senTal other national cinemas at different times. \Vesterns were
successfully produced in Germany, t()r example, from the silent era through
to the outbreak of the Second World War - including scyeral productions in
the '\azi era - and ag;lin in the 1960s, in many cases drawing on I\..arl J\lay's
popular turn-of--the-cen tury nO\els (the best-knO\\ n probably Der Sdlill:::. 1111
,,,'Ilhersee! Tile TrCilsllre 11/ llie Silt'a Sell, filmed in J<)62, and Old Sililllallil/ul,
filmed in 1<)6-1-). I\..oepnick (199S) finds in German Westerns of the J<)20S a
specific redaction of the ubiquitous \V eimar Republic Llscination with
'\mericmism', using the primitivism of the mythic West to balance and
ground the rationalised hyper-modernity with \vhich the US was typically
associated. Thus German audiences were enabled to make 'crucial com-
promises with modernity' (p. 12), compromises that in Nazi-period Westcrns
predictably tipped O\cr into more unequi\ocally reactionary attitudes.
By br the best-known as well as the most numerous European \Vesterns,
hO\vC\er, arc the Itali,m 'Spaghetti Westerns' (often, in tlCt, trans-European
co-productions), of \vhich \\agstaff (1992: 2-1-6) estimates some -I-So were
released bet\\een [()6-1- and 1978 (br outnumbering American Westerns in
l he same period, and comparable as \Vagstaff notes to the rate and mode of
production of serial \Vesterns in the 19.Ws). Discussion of the Spag'hetti
\Vestern has been heavily distorted by the colossal status of its princip.t1
auteur Serg'io Leone, \vhose increasingly .Imbitious, stately and classical films
are, hO\\ever, as unrepresentative of the disorderly, pop-baroque style of
many of his contemporaries as Ford's 'Cl\alry Trilogy' is atypical of the
19SOS Hollywood \\estern, The gnming critical literature on the Spaghetti
\\estern can be diyided into those commentators \yho sec the European
\\estern as a 'critical' (sulnersive, carniyalesque, sometimes - notably in the
76 FILM GENRE THE WESTERN: GENRE AND HISTORY 77

films of Sergio Damiano - politically radical) \'ersion of the "'\merican

Western (notably Frayling, 1(97), and those - in disciplinary terms more
likely to be specialists in Italian cultural studies than in film st udies - \\ho
locate Italian Westerns in the institutional and cultural contexts of the Italian
film industry and popular culture in the 1960s (Wagstaff, 1992; Eleftheriotis,
2004). Landy (2000: 11\1-204) locates the Italian Western in such performa-
ti\'e traditions as the co1nmedla del'arle and also explores the direct implication
of many films in debates about class and reg'ional (Southern) identity in
contemporary Italian politics. Many commentators in both schools note the
general absence in the Italian Western of either the empathy or the ethical
concerns that had come to typif~' the Hollywood \V estern in the H»)OS. What
is certainly clear is that the sometimes crude but \'igorous style of Italian
Westerns decisi'ely shifted the tenor of the US genre, dramatically increas-
ing' the le\'e1 of gTaphic ,iolence (including not only gunplay but often
elaborate torture) while diminishing the ethical significance of indi,idual
\'iolent acts, and establishing new motific codes filr the staging' of showdowns
and other set pieces. A routine early I(nos CS Western like Lall'lI/all (1971)
clearly demonstrates the impact of the Italian style, as do the baroque
f10urishes and bizarre gamesmanship of a later rC\i \alist \V estern like The I:rom Th" (Jllillill' .los,,)' 11"1,,.1' (1<J7h), Reproduced courtes~ \\arncr Bros/The J(obal
QIIICA' alld Ihe Dead (H)<))). ( :ollect!o!l,

CASE STUDY: TIff:' Ol1'l"11/ .rOSie'} II /fJ'S (1976)
Clint Eastwood's Tile OllIla}}' ]0.1'1')' H'ales is by no means as aggressi\ely
're\'isionist' a genre entry as many of the decade's other notable \,"esterns,
from Arthur Penn's I,ll/Ie BIP, Hall and Ralph :'\elson's sensationally grue-
some Sli/tIler Bille in 1<)70 to Cimino's 1<)1\0 epic of range \,ar as class
struggle, IIem'ell's Ga Ie. In bct, it maybe more instructi,e to consider ]11.1'1')'
Wales alongside John Wayne's \aledictory Western, Tlte SI/IIlIllsI, directed by
))on Siegel and released just six \\eeks after East\\ood's film. (luite unlike
most of Wayne's obstinately traditional 1<nOS \\esterns, many directed by
Andrew \. McLaglen (e.g. Blp,]aA'e, Tlte Tralll RIiMers, Call/II ['lIiled Slales
Marsltal/), Tlte Sl/IIlIllsl is both elegiac and highly ref1exi,e, explicitly imiting
the audience to identify the dying gunfighter \\a~ ne plays \\ith \\ayne
himself (the career of Wayne's character J. B. Books is summarised beneath
the credits in a montag'e of sequences from \\ayne's silent and series
Westerns) and the 'golden age' of Westerns filr \\hich he is the metonymic
sig-nifier. The film's deployment of the tropes of the 'end-of-the-line'
Western by 1976, itself a \Cry \\ell-\\orn generic 'ariation took on an
added poignancy from the common knO\Y1edge that \\ayne himself \\as
f:lcing death from the same cancer that \\as eating a\\a~ J. B. Books's insides.
Like Ste\e Judd in Ride lite Hlp,!1 CIIIIIIIIT, the Wild Bunch, and Butch and
Sundance but more purposefully than any of them, and with none of the
Bunch's Dionysiac frenzy Books arrangTs a final showdO\\O, and with his
passing the West itself recedes.
\\'ayne had been ranked lanely's I'\umber One box-office star f)'om 1<)50
to I <)Cl). In Hn2 Eastwood reached th'lt pinnacle filr the first time, during; an
unbroken t\\ ent y-~ car run in I IlI'lel)"s Top Ten from 1<)Cl7 to 1<)1\7. East \\ood
had made his name in the three ironic, ncar-parodic, he<l\i1y stylised and (filr
the time) ultra-,iolent Sergio Leone Dlillars \\esterns in the mid-I <)(lOS. In
their gleeful e\acuation of the \\estern's tradition.d moral codes - abo'e all,
the traditional \\'estern hero's reluctance to resort to lethal fi)1'Ce and his
ultimate commitment to a cause or code beyond himself - in [l\our of
indiscriminately ,irtuosic gunplay and nihilistic self-interest, Leone's pop cari-
catures of the \\'estern radically redre\\ its ethical and narrati'e topographies
and established East \\ ood 's brand of cool imulnerability, de'oid of an y ,isible
inner life, as a ne\\ heroic model that only gre\\ in popularity as the idealistic
Iq{jos collapsed into the cynical HnOS, \\hile \\ayne himsclf \\as ampl~
conscious of his O\\n ossified status as a kind of national landmark by the
early 1970s, his in'ariant character nonetheless retained some human and
social dimension, hO\\e\er cliched (usually, fi)l' instance, granted a romantic
and/or familial imohement that neither East\\ood's '.\lan \\ith :'\0 :'\ame'
hom Tlte null(/1I' ]lJsC)' II iii,s (11)76). Roproduced courtesy Warner Bros/The Kobal
C Ilecrioll.
78 FILM GENRE
nor his modern urban corollary, 'Dirty' Harry Callahan, e\-er hinted at). Of
Eastwood's previous American \Vesterns, Hang 'Em High (1969), TJpo _'vIllles
.lin Sister Sara (1970) and Jlle Kidd (1972), had been fairlv formulaic affairs
that traded heavily on the Dllilars persona and milieu, \~hile Tlte Beguiled
(1970) and Eastwood's own High Plains Drifier (1972) \vere both intense,
almost hallucinatory psychological allegories with a strong sado-masochistic
strain that explored a Gothic strain in the genre far distant from the terrain
of Ford or even Mann. In Jose)' Wales, adapted by Phil Kaufman (\vho was
originally assigned to direct the film but \vas fired by East\vood one \veek into
shooting) and Sonia Chern us from Forrest Carter's novel Gillie III Texas, for
the first time Eastwood's \Vestern character acquires a set of personal and
communal responsibilities and a dimensionality that extends beyond his
gunslinging bcility and extravagant cynicism.
Josey J;Vales not only revises and humanises Eastwood's familiar mono-
syllabic gunslinger character but self-consciously reconnects East\vood to the
American Western tradition and affirms him as Wayne's rightful successor.
Jllsey Wales carefully establishes links, both honorific and critical, to earlier
Westerns. The graphic and plentiful violence clearly differentiates Jllse)!
rrides from classic \Vesterns - an early scene \vhere Josey turns ,I \:laxim gun
on a Union camp, mmving do\\n scores of soldiers, many unarmed, would
have been inconceivable pre-I,eone for a sympathetic character even in
justified anger, as Josey's surely is (he has just seen his comrades murdered
by the treacherous Union commander Terrill).
The loose, almost picaresque narrative structurc (\\hich recalls both :\1ann's
J;Villellesler '7.) and East\\ood's last film \\ith Leone, Tlte Glllld, lite Bad alld
Ihe UPo/)!, 19(6) alhms the film to take in a wide \ariety of traditional \\-estern
scencry and narrative situations, from the thickly forested borderlands \\here
the film begins to the red Texas dcsert, and fi"om bar-room face-offs to
Indian parleys, and to make n umlTOUS allusions to previous cbssic \Vesterns.
The trajectory of Josey's m\l1 chaLlcter, as Sickels (2003) notes, ii1\ites the
viewer to draw parallels to Ethan Ed\\ards in Tile Searellers (something of a
privileged film in the New Holly\\ood, directly quoted in :\ tu"tin Scorsese's
lWeall Streets, J()73, and providing the narrati\e model fllr Paul Schr,lder's
script for Scorsesc's Taxi Drin'r - a film, as \\e shall see, of particular
relevance to JIISC)' IVales). Both men are on obsessi\ e quests for vengC<lI1ce;
both unreconciled to the defeat of the Southern Confederacy (Ethan refuses
to swear an oath to the Texas Rang'ers because 'I already took an oath of
allegiance '); both are, as it scems, 'doomed to \vander fore\cr between the
winds', existing' as itinerants on the marg'ins of \\hite society _In se\eral \\avs,
ho\vever, Jose), Wales revises and critiques the earlier fil~. . they both knmv he will inC\itably (given Josey's speed on the draw) lose:
Whereas Ethan refuses to recognise the parallels - \vhich are olnious to
the audience - bet\\een himself and the renegade Comanche Scar, at his first
THE WESTER~: GENRE AND HISTOR't 79
meeting \vith I,one Watie Josey recognises in his story a kindred spirit:
'Seems like we can't trust the \\hite man'. The feisty, attractive and Y()cal
Sioux female character Little Moonlight is a clear revision of the infamously
caricatured and objectified 'squa\\' 'Look' \vho attaches herself to Ethan and
:\larty in The Searellers. :\lthough Fletcher identifies Josey as a figure of
rcmorseless \'engcfulness, in the film Josey is arguably the quarry rather than
the pursuer of an obsessi ve hate-filled ideologue, Terrill. The key difference
in Eastwood's and Ford's films, however, is less the superficial updating of
racial attitudes (Ethan's pathological racism is of course very much the focus
or Ford's film) than thc resolutions they offer their respective protagonists.
Lnlike Ethan Joscy is permitted - in fact invited - to re-enter society at the
end of the film.
\\hen:as the end of Ethan's quest, and his ostensibly redemptive gesture
in saving rather than killing Debbie, lel\CS him finally without remaining
direction or purpose, Josey's similar revelation of the limits of venge,lI1ce
comes about in the context of values that have come to replace vengefulness.
Josey's final meeting \\ith Fletcher (John Vernon), the former commander of
his band of Confederate irregulars, implies an acknmdedgement by both men
that some wounds, paradoxically, run too deep to be a\cnged and can only be
n:conciled. This is \vhere Josey II ales's generic rC\ isionism and its purpose,
\\hich unusually for the period is con- rather than deconstructive - becomes
evident. Josey's accretion of a heterogeneous, multi-racial 'f;lmily' during his
travels enforces on the \vould-be lone rider an initially unwelcome host of
attachments th,lt ultimately persuade him of the impossibility of living outside
social relationships (unlike, say, Shane, though perhaps recalling Randolph
Scott's similarly encumbered Ben Brig-ade in the ironically titled Ride
1,0111'sllllle, J():i9). By presenting" this passage to settlement \\ith little of the
nostalgic ambivalence with \\-hich John Ford treats simibr transitions (fllr
example, in _tIl' Dar/illp. ell'llli'lIlille - nodded to in Jose), II "ales's barn dance
scene at the Crooked Ri\er ranch - or !)!Jerl.l' I ala lice), 1':ast\\ood undemon-
stratively transforms archetypal genre patterns. While Jllse)' Wales gratifies
audience expectations with ample evidence of Josey's prowess at solo
gunplay, it also rcpeatedly shmvs others coming" to Joscv's aid as his self-
imposed isolation gradually modifies over the course of the film.
This aspect of Jose), Ilides might be seen in generic terms as less the
fi"ustration of generic expectations than a refusal to allo\\ genre conventions
to determine outcomes as they reflexi\Tly do for so many other 1970S
\Vestern protagonists. Josey's earlier encounter in Santa Rio \vith ,I bounty
hunter identifies the crux: Jose~ tries to talk the man out of starting a fight
'You kno\v, this isn't necessary, you could just ride on'. The bounty hunter
turns and slm\l~ lea\es, only to return a fell moments later: 'I had to come
80 FILM GENRE

back', he says, regretfully. Josey nods his understanding; they shoot it out;
, THE WESTER:-J: GENRE AND HISTORY

h. Kitses' modd IS citeJ sufticienth often to he \\'()rth reproducing in p,u·t once again
HI

the bounty hunter is killed. What is at stake here - why the bounty hunter here:
'had to' come back - certainly includes status, male self-identity and the TI!L IInDJ:R\ESS CIIILIS. I TlO\
difficulty of peaceful resolution in a culture grounded in violence, all ideas Tllc !1lI!i,'/iI/i1/1 Thl' COll/lIlll/lily
freedom re'itriction
Josey Wales repeatedly engages; but it is perhaps abO\e all the rules of the
honour in'ititutions
generic game, a logic that ruthlessly subordinates individual will. (A similarly
self-knO\\ ledge illusion
impersonal generic imperative is at work, as Maltby (1995a: 123-32) notes, in int<:g-rit~ compromise
Peckinpah's Pat Garrett and Bill)! the Kid, 1973.) By the end of the film, sci 1'- i ntcrest social responsibilit\
Josey has successfully changed the generic situation. solipsism democrac\'
This transformation has a social and political context that the tilm alludes \'i//il'l' CII 1111 1'1'

to both in its Civil War setting and in its final dialogue exchange. As part of I '\ameh, the 'cb'i'iicaj plot' (e.g. SIIilIlC) , the '\Tngeance \atiation' (Till' ,\'I/A-,'d .'1'/,111'), the
the two men's tacit agreement to let the dead bury the dead, Fletcher 'transi;ion theme' (fllgh SOOIl) and the 'profession,II plot' (Till' Pm/i'ssio/ll/Is, I \)(,(»).
declares his intention to seek Josey in l\lexico: should he find him there, he S. I )dined ,lS a population dcnsit\ of te\\er than two persons per square mile.
'I. Turner arg:u~d that \\ith th~ loss of the social 'safet\· "lhe' of 'tiTe Lllld' .'\meriean
intends to 'tell him the war's over'. By way of reply Josey (looking offscreen)
'iociet\ 111 the t\\Tnticth centut'\ \\'()uld tinalh h'1\e to conti'ont the problems of all othcr
mutters, 'I guess all of us died a little in that damn war'. Audiences in 1975 1l1od~rn Industrial nellions, including class antagonism'i.
would doubtless have understood the allusion to America's more recent 'civil
war' - the intense social divisions and the crisis of the ,'\merican political
system surrounding the war in Vietnam. Jose)' Willes thus situates itself at a
generic intersection of the Western and the emergent genre of the Vietnam
veteran tilm (Tracks, 1975; Rollin.1!, Thunder, 1976; Tllxi Drirer). Cnlike both
those films and The Sellrchers, however, JosC)' n'llles affirms the possibility
that the returning veteran need not compulsively act out the traumas of
defeat in a society whose own ongoing violence is barely under control, but
can move through and past violence into a renewed social contract - one,
moreover, where the \Vestern hero's masculinity is not diminished, though it
is necessarily changed, by his incorporation into communal and personal
relationshi ps.

NOTES

I. I':~hibitors liTre free to spliu: this im'lge onto either the start or (more usu,dh) the end
of the t1lm.
2. Figures of Western reLlses t()r the sound era are tahulated in Buscomhe (I()Sk: +2~-7).
For the silent period, see the IF! CI/II/log o(.HollOlI PIOWC Pmdll(cd III Ihc ['llliCiI
.'I'll/II'S: 1893 J()10 (19q~), J()11-J<)20 (lqSS), J(j2o-1930 (\()71) .
.\. Poague's (2003) account of the marketing of SII/,~l" OI/c!1 cited in Ch'lpter I is ,I gooJ
cxample.
+. '''We Jidn't \lant just another \\estern," ILA. PresiJent\nd\)\lbeck agreeJ. "\\'e
"anted an epic, an\cJdem~\II ,ml-\\ inning' epic'" (Bach, t 9S~: 2 I 7).
~. Note, hOlle\er, that Gallag'her nukes the \\'ildh' h\perbolic cbim that from H)Oq to
191~ 'there \\Tre probabh more \\esterns released CI/c!1 ll/ollih than Juring the entire
decade of the 1930s': this \\ould mean roughh [,000 \\ estcrn'i a month, or 12,000 a
\Tar' I ha \e founJ no tig;ures to 'iUpport such a grossh intlated reckoning;.

CHAPTER 4 fi'om Manhattan to medieyal England, and in musical style from light opera
The Musical: Genre and Form
A t the end of Mel Brooks's Western parody Bfa:::.!"g Saddles (1973), a
sprawlin~ bar-room brawl exceeds the boundaries not only of its diegetic
situation (with bodies and furniture flying in standard Western style through
windows and doors out into the street) but its ~eneric location: a particularly
powerful haymaker sends a cowboy tearin~ throu~h the \yall of the saloon set
and not into the adjoining room in the saloon, but into the next-door
soundsta~e, where an elaborate musical production number somewhat in the
re~imented Busby Berkeley manner, 'the French \listake', is being per-
formed. As burly, unshayen cowboys, dudes and saloon girls tumble pell-
mell into the gleamin~ polished proscenium to mingle with and assault the
dancers, the stage is literally set for a riotous generic encounter. Brooks's
stereotypically epicene dancers, campily fleeing across their ne\Tr-neyer-land
set fi'om this sudden intrusion fi'om a definitiyely. 'masculine' oTneric
~
uniyerse and shrilly defending if not their honour then their looks ('.'\ot in
the LICe!' squeals one, hced with a knuckle sandwich; ' ... thank you!' he
gasps as the attacker redirects his punch into his balls), reflect dominant
perceptions of the musical as organised around tropes of narcissistic display
and artificiality as opposed to the Western's rugged yeracity ..-\s eyer, the
parodic thrust cuts both ways: while the streamlined, pristine musical set
bespeaks an 'artifice' in contrast to the roug'h, \yorkmanlike surLIces of the
Western, at the same time the latter's incorporation into the generic space of
the musical both undermines the Westerner's monolithic masculinit\ and
also reminds us that their ostensibly more 'historical' milieu is, as .1 con-
struction of g-cnre, in its \yay as stylised and out-or-time as that of the
musical. In bct, the Western and the musical are two halyes of a whole: the
cowboy and the song-and-dance man together are strong and uni yersal
metonymic signifiers of Hollywood, and Holhwood genre, as a whole.
Ranging in structure from reyue to integrated musical dranu, in setting
THE MUSICAL: GENRE AND FORM ~3
to rock, the American musical is remarkably heterogeneous. From another
perspectiye, hO\yC\er, the musical may be regarded as the 'purest' of all film
genres. L' nlike the Western or the gangster film, the musical seems unen-
~umbered by any ongoing commitments to social realism, historical authen-
ticity or for that matter any suggestion of per formative naturalism (though
the genre may embrace any or all of these at different times). The musical
creates a hermetically enclosed generic world whose conventions and veri-
similitudes are purely and peculiarly its own, and whose function is to enable
<lOd situate the musical performances that define the form.
Cniquely, the musical is named not for its subject matter (the Western,
the war film, etc.) or eyen its effect upon the spectator (the horror film), but
tClr its mode of performance. '~lusic' in the film musical of course usually
means singing, accompanied by inyentiye (not necessarily lush - se\eral
memorable musical numbers feature improyised accompaniment on 'found'
objects) orchestration and abO\e all dance. Although a great many non-
musicals include songs (less often dance), sometimes as interpolated 'turns'
but quite often as narratiyely integrated and eyen central elements (for
(,"":,Imple, Casablal/ca (19.1-2) includes sC\eral musical performances at Rick's
Cafe .-\mericain; at least two of these, '.-\s Time Goes By' and the sin~in~ of
the Hal"sclla!sc orchestrated by Victor Laszlo, are crucial to the story), dance
and song offer the forms of yisual pleasure that help define the musical.
\luch critical discussion of the musical has identified the construction of
narratiye opportunities for musical numbers as a focal point of the genre; this
in turn has promoted analysis of the specific fClrms of expressiyity promoted
in the musical, and the ideological positions these open up or foreclose upon.
For these reasons, compared to other genres the musical is unusually often
treated in terms of its formal mechanisms and attributes. Sometimes for
c\:ample in discussion of the musicals created by Busby Berkeley at Warner
Bros. in the I (nos· this entails the e\:plicit subordination of the consideration
of the specific narrati\(: content of indiyidual films, which may be dismissed
.IS wholly stereotypical and superficial, merely an inert 'carrier' fClr the
musical numbers. Conyersely, the 'integrated' musical that renders musical
performance an 'organic' extension and direct expression of issues within a
character-dri\(:n na1T<ltiye - pre-eminently the films made at ;vIGM in the
first decade ,lfter the Second \Vorld War by the production unit oyerseen by
\rthur Freed - has often been regarded as the most fully achieyed form of
the genre .111d has drawn the larg'est body of critical discussion.
84 FILM GENRE
THE CLASSICAL MUSICAL
Self-evidently, the musical is a ~Tnre of the sound era: Tile JII:;:; Sillger
(H)27), the first feature-length 'talkie', \\as also the first musical feature, and
indeed the strong audience appeal of music and song' as much as or more
than spoken dialogue helped 'sell' sound technology not only to audiences
but to sceptical exhibitors LlCed \vith the expenses of comersion. By HUO, as
Hollywood comerted to sound, more than 200 musicals had been released by
the major and minor studios (see Altman, 1996: 29-1--7; Balio, I99T 211-18).
What the new sound technology enabled \\as the immediacy of direct address
to the audience - as in AI Jolson's 'You ain't heard nothin' yet!' in Tile Jazz
Singcr - that would emerge as one of the genre's distinctive formal markers.
Jolson's f:lInous interpellation, like many subsequent examples, \vas mediated
by the presence of a diegetic (on-screen) audience in a live performance
setting: this establishes carlyon the film musical's adoption of live theatrical
performance and the direct interaction \vith the audience as a per formative
ideal, in\"Oked most clearly in the backstage musical - musicals about the
staging of musicals or musical performances but arguably a persistent
structuring presence e\'en in 'integrated' musicals \vhere the per/ilrmers sing
and dance in purely expressive \vays 'fill" themselves or each other, \vithout
the self-conscious imocation of a per/ilrmance situation, It is \\orth noting
here that live musical accompaniment - including singing - \\'as the norm
throughout the silent era, and dancing' \\as .1 featured attraction in a great
many silent films. Gnlikely as it may no\\ seem, there \\TlT silent ad'lptations
of both popular operettas like Tlic .lIeITl' // idoll' (192:;) and cbssical operas
like Ca rlllL'll (19 I:;) and Dcr ROSC/lA'llutlicr. Thus there is a certain historical
irony that the vi\ idness and 'immediacy' of the sound-era musical \\as achie\'ed
at the cost of an actual derealisation of the audio-\isual experience of mO\ing-
going that found compensation in \\hat Collins (I9~~: 270) describes as a
'sense of nostalgia filr a direct rclationship \\ith the audience' that is a generic
constant throughout the classical era.
As already noted, certain kinds of film musicll have attracted much more
critical discussion than others. "eale (2000: I o~) notes the sparsity of critical
discussion of the musicals produced at the other majors compared to .\[G\[,
let alone the minors. This sclectivitv extends also to fimll aI \'ari.lIlts. The
musical comedy-revue, filr example - comprising the majority of the early
sound musicals bet\veen 1927 and I<).W -3 I, re\i \ cd b~ P.uamount till' its
series of I930S 'radio revues' starting \vith Tlie Big Broadwsl in I<n2, and
including' patriotic \\artime spectacles like Sta r Spallglcd Rilyllllll (I C).p) and
.)'tagc Door Calltccil (19-1-3) - has been larg-cly overlooked by serious criticism
(althoug'h the recent upsurge of interest in the silent 'cinema of attractions'
amI its legacy in the classical and post-classical era sug'g'ests that a reassessment
THE MUSICAL: GENRE AND FORM 85
of these largely non-integrated, 'attraction'-led entertainments may be due').
:\ much longer-lasting and in the I930S very popular form, the operetta (for
example, the films starring the duo of Nelson Eddy' and Jeanette MacDonald
.It .\lG.\l such as Rose J,Jarie, 1936, SrfJeetllelirts, 1938, and Bitter Sweet, 1(40)
has also received very little attention as a cinematic form (there is a more
extensive literature on the theatrical operetta that includes some discussion of
film adaptations), although individual films have been analysed (see, for
example, Altman's (198]: I6~22; also in Cohan, 2002: 41-5) analysis of the
'dual-focus' narrative of the MacDonald-Eddy whicle New Moon, 1940; also
Turk (I99~)). Whereas the lack of interest in the revue may be attributed in
part to its 'primitive' serial structure, this is clearly not the case with the
operetta - among the most integrated of all forms of the musical. Rather, it
may be the perception of the operetta as an ineradicably bour/ieois form,
'lheatrical' in the bad sense, that accounts ti)r its critical disfavour. Not only
its stilted romantic narratives but its nostalgic invocation of a pseudo-
.lristocratic Old World cont1icts with the widespread perception of the Holly-
\\ood musical -- pre-eminently, again, the Gene Kelly MGM series - as a
distinctive expression of the (idealised) American national character: optim-
istic, unaffected, can-do and democratic (see especially Schatz, I9~I: I96f1'.).
In fact, this perception of at least some film operettas was current in the
I (nos: Variet], described the french stage property on which Paramount
b'lsed its .\lacDonald-.\laurice Chevalier effilrt Lou Me TOll(g;ht (1932) as
'<llien to American ideas' (quoted in Balio, H)93: 2q). (Recently, E-eita, H)96,
displays affinities with the operetta tradition.)
.\s with other classical genres, therefore, the critical canon of the classical
musical betrays a significant degree of preferential treatment. Within that
canon, till' that matter, the distinction between the genre's key filrmal vari-
ants has decisively privileged the integrated musical - in which the musical
numbers are woven into the narrative structure, moti\ated by character
psychology and/or plot development and expressive of the emotions, opinions
or state of mind of the singer(s) - over the non-integrated - in which numbers
simply accumulate serially, and are effectively stand-alone spectacles connected
only loosely, if at all, either to each other or to the narratiYC in which they arc
embedded. :\part from Busby Berkeley, who is treated as something of a
special case, almost all of the most popular as \\ell as the most widely
discussed and critically bvoured musicals -- above all, the Astaire-Rogers
series at RKO in the I930S and the .\lG.\l freed Gnit/Kelly-Donen-
\linnelli productions - have been integrated musicals. Solomon (1976, quoted
in :\eale, 2000: 107) states that 'there is no evident reason' for privileging
integration in this \\ay; but it is equally plain that the perception of a unified
aesthetic totality fits a traditionalist critical agenda quite well. Whateycr the
reasons, since these structural distinctions han; been of such importance in
86 FILM GENRE
critical studies of the musical, it will be helpful to e'l:plore them in a little
more detail.
The notion of 'integration' is not quite as straightforward as it might at
first appear. Focusing on the Astaire-Rogers musicals, ~lueller (198+: 28-g)
offers six ditferent possible relationships of musical number to plot, ranging
from complete irrcJeyance, through 'enrichment' (a rather yague term we
could also understand in terms of amplification or complement, f(lr e'l:ample
'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' in Tlte Wizard III' OZ, 1(39), to those that
clearly advance the plot. In the latter category he includes both songs like
'Getting to Know You' in Tlte KIllg allil J (1956), whose lyrical content alerts
the characters to new information or insights about one another, and the very
different c:xample of musical numbers in the backstage musical whose staging
provides the narrative with its (ostensible) object. Howeyer, the inclusion of
the backstage musical complicates this ta'l:onomy by highlighting the perhaps
counter-intuitiYe ways in which 'integration' here is not simply synonymous,
as one might expect, with dramatic 'motiyation' - that is, accounting for
passag;es of expressiye performance by proyiding narratiye situations where
the characters (rather than the performers) can plausibly sing and dance.
Typically this is achieved by creating characters who arc professional enter-
tainers - which is where the backstage musical comes in, one of the genre's
most durable forms from early classics like pili/ Slreel (19.13) and Glild Diggers
111'1933 (1<)33) to Caharel (1972), Fllr lite BII)'s (H)9I) and rock musicals like
The Rllse (1979) and Grt/ce IIrH)' Hearl (1996).
The backstage musical is thus arguably the most highly 'motiyated' of all
f(lrms of the musical: the characters perti)rm only onstage or in rehearsal (or,
as in the 'I Only Haye Eyes For You' number in Dailies, 1<)35, in dreams or
their mind's eye) accompanied by diegetic orchestras or bands. Howcver -
and leaving; aside ti)r the time being the many ways in which Busby
Berkcley's backstagers at least play t:ISt and loose with the yerisimilitude of
their theatrical milieu -- some l<)3os backstagers also typit~ the non-integr.lted
musical: that is, the on-stage pertilrmances haye little or no dramatic relation
to the romantic and professional conflicts played out in the backstage, non-
musical portions of the tilm. Even in pili/ .)/reel, which t:lmously pioneers
one of the genre's hoariest cliches '. an ingenue plucked from the chorus line
sent out to understudy the injured star with the \\ords 'You're going; out a
youngster -- but you\e gill to come back a star!'· the chorus girl's ine\itably
triumphant perfi)nllance is played with almost no suggestion of or till' that
matter interest in her emotional or psychological reaction to the esperience
during the performance itself. Rather, the yisual pleasure of the musical
numbers is Yirtually autonomous of the (usually) mundane progress of the
backstage narrative. (A useful contrast here might be the many sequences in
rock musicals such as The Rllse or Tlte Dllllrs, 1991, modern yariants on the
THE \llSICAL: GE'JRE A'JD FORM 'K7
backstage mode, where the performance itself cathartically \\orks through, or
.JlternatiYcJy is yisibly wrecked by, the emotional, psycholog'ical or pharma-
ceutical crises of the performer-protagonist.) J _ater backstage musicals
ofkred a much higher degree of integration, either through the inclusion of
directly npressiYe numbers that arc part of the protag'onisfs onstage routine
(I .')'Iar Is Bllrtt, J()5+; also the 1977 rock musical remake) or by using the
I1lusical numbers to offer ironic commentary on the characters' sexual, social
or political attitudes (Caharet).
In t:lct, the distinction of integrated and non-integrated ti)rms is, pre-
dictably, not an absolute one. Yery few musicals are wholly uninteg-rated
"ncr the fashion of theatrical yariety shll\\s: indeed, the backstage musical
itself emerged as a response to the declining bO'l:-oftice appeal of the rush of
l'C\ue-style musicals at the yery start of the sound era (til!' e:xample, The
//Ii//)'/I'lIlId Renle 111'1929, 1929; Part/1I101I1I1 1111 Part/dc, and KIllg 1I!]azz, both
1<)30) ..\ft:er a brief ensuing lull in musical production pili/ Slreel introduced
the relatiyely more integrated timn and its stock personae of the driYen
\isionary director or impresario (a ti'l:ture up throughlll Tltal ]a.'::,z, 1( 80 ),
the naive ingenue who gets her big break in the circumstances outlined
abmT, the wisecracking, worldly-wise chorus girls and the besotted millionaire
\\ ho bankrolls the production. C:oI1\Trsely, some or all of the musical
numbers in eyen the most integrated musicals arc to some degree 'e'l:cessiYe'
in relation to their basic narrative function - inniubly, one might say, giYen
the genre's basic contract with its audience, which is not storytelling as such
but deli\ering memorable songs and I or pyrotechnical d.l11ce pertilrmances.
11I_·ll11l'1Hall III Paris (1951) 'smug'gles' many of its musical numbers into the
lilm by presenting them as fe'ltS of e:xuberant imprO\isation in workaday
el1\ironments like cates and city streets, perfilrlned til!' an 'audience' of passers-
by who particip'lte with casual enthusiasm rather than the regimented high-
kicking of the professional chorus line (the tilm also includes by way of
pointed contrast, and as a clear nample of pertimnati\ e inauthenticity, a
brief e:xcerpt from a stage pertilrmance in the grand nunner, complete with
feather boas and an illuminated staircase - a grandiose yersion of the Llmous
\staire/Rogers 'Big White Set'). Bowner, _111 .1l11erlrall III Paris also
bmously concludes with a lengthy rhapsodic ballet sequence with a strongly
non-integratiye driYe (like the comparable climactic sequences in other Freed
Cnit musicals such as 011 lite TIIII'II, 19+9, and SlIIglIl' III lite Ralll, 1952, it
essentially recapitulates the main narratiYe in stylised, archetypal torm) whose
function is to deliyer the postponed, but not denied, pleasures of breath-
taking yisual display in the form of both yirtuosic dancing and elaborate sets.
Rubin (199T 12-13) argues that the histor~ of the musical is 'not so much a
relentless, unidirectional driYe tow anls efbcing the last stubborn remnants of
nonintegration, but a succession of different ways of articulating the tension
<HI FILM GENRE
and interplay between integrative (chiefly narratin~) and nonintegrative
(chiefly spectacle) elements'.
Thus the apparent opposition of integration and aggregation is in fact an
oscillating and interdependent relationship, and in this reg'ard rehearses the
larger issue of the dialectical interplay in the 'classical Hollywood style'
between narrative - to whose linear, centring imperatives all the elements of
Hollywood cinema in the continuity era are, according to Bordwell, Staiger
and Thompson's (1985) int1uential account, ultimately subordinated - and
the contrapuntal force of spectacle, conceiwd as largely static and in narra-
tive terms non-developmental. (This highlights the interesting point that at
least at this structural level there are therefore marked affinities betvveen the
musical, stereotypically a 'feminine' genre, and the emphatically masculine
genre of the contemporary action film: for more on this and a more detailed
discussion of the question of narrative and spectacle, see Chapter ro.)
In any case, a third term may have to be added to thc integration/non-
integration dyad if one is to give an adequate account of the most remarkable
variant of the musical to emerge in the 1930s, the cycle of Warner Bros. films
directed andlor choreographed by Busby Berkeley. These - strictly speaking,
their spectacular musical numbers - have provoked extensive critical discus-
sion for their transformative objectifications of the human (typically female)
form " what Fischer (I 19761 198 I) calls their 'optical politics' (' Pet tin ' in the
Park' in Gold Diggers III' J 933 features dancers in lingerie and in nude
silhouette); their similarities to various European avant-garde cinemas of the
period (Arthur Freed remarked on Berkeley's 'instinctive surrealism'); and
even their affinities with the 'Llscist aesthetics' of Leni Riefenstahl's films of
mass ceremonials in Nazi Germany (see Sontag, 1966). Sequences such as
the 'l.Jymn to My Forgotten Man' in GII/d Digp,ers oj'J()33, which introduce
narrative and in this case social content (the descent of the First World War
veterans into povcrty and despair) quite unprepared for by and unrelated to
the backstage story, typify Berkeley's non-integrative mode. Equally remark-
able, however, is their elastic treatment of diegetic space, which has no ready
parallel in any other classical Hollywood form and vvhich might vvell be
characterised as 'disintegrative'. All of the musical numbers in a Berkeley
musical ostensibly f()rm part of a theatrical performance, preparations for
which constitute the binding backstage narrativc. However, in visual style
and technique as well as sheer scale Berkeley's numbers explode till' beyond
the confines of any plausible the,llrical show or for that matter 'lUditorium.
The stupefying scale and variety of these numbers renders them 'blatantly
and audaciously impossible in terms of the theatrical space in \\hich they arc
supposedly taking place' (Rubin, 1993: 58). Berkeley's approach is typified
by his signature ultra-high-,mgle overhead shots- the 'Berkeley top shot' -
where massed ranks of dancers form shifting complex patterns ranging from
THE MUSICAL: hL"IKt. Al"IJ r ,,":Vi "'J
Oo\\ers .md abstnlct shapes to actors' f:lccs (as in DOilies), his most famous
,Ind \\'idely copied dev'ice (also the most parodied, for example m The
prodllrers, H)68, \\here a chorus line of goose-stepping S5 arrange the~.selvcs
into a s\\'astika): the camera's v'antage point which renders these ~'lslOnary
biomporhic transfigurations visible to the cinema audicnce would Simply be
un.I\'aiLlble to any conceiv'able theatrical audience.
Berkelev's \\ork remained unique; a wholly different, and in the long term
lllore int1~ential, approach was adopted in the series of nine RKO musical
romantic comedies starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers (with choreo-
graphy by Hermes Pan) in the 1930S st,lrting \\ith FI)'illg P"Il)1I III R,ill (~?~3).
\\"hereas Berkeley \Vas notoriously unconcerned about hiS dancers abrlltles,
interested rather in achieving an appropriate blend of uniformity and com-
plementary contrast in physique and physiognomy (see Fischer, [.197 6 ) 19 81 :
7+), .\staire and Rogers' OV\l1 performativ'e ~ifts and th~ promise of l:yro-
tcchnical dancing displays constituted the major appeal of these star vehicles.
Lv cn the musical leads amid Berkeley's serried armies of dancers were such
p1cas,mt but uninteresting figures as Ruby Keeler ,~nd Dick PO\~ell (~vith the
dramatic momentum in the backstage scenes mamtamed by forceful non-
d'll1cing male stars like \Varner Baxter in ,12111/ Slr((.'1 and James Cagney in.
(1IIIIIig/1l Port/de, HJ33); ,\staire and Rogers were at the undisputed centre of
t hcir films, featuring in numerous duets (:\staire also has many solo
llumbers), and evcn in the larger-scale production numbers the chorus line or
b,lCk,rround lLlI1cers remain anonvmous am} strictly secomhlry. This relation-
ship "'is emphatically symbolised- in a Elmous number in T(/~ !lal (1~)35),
perhaps the best-knO\vn .\staire-Rogers production, when Astalre transfor~ls
his cane during 'Top Hat, White Tie, ,1ml Tails' into .1 tommy-gun With
\\hich he mows do\\ n his top-hatted 'riyals' in the chorus line, a routine that
Edvnrd Gallafcnt (zooo: 35) among; others has characterised as an assertion
of both 'ph.llIic potency and ... (.\staire's) standing as a massively successful
professional', . .
The :\staire-Rogers musicals decisively shifted the mUSical away from
mass spcctacle to individual expressivity and the exploration of the
conditions of and constraints on that expressive drive. These would become
the key concerns of the classically integrated :VIG:Vl musicils of the late
1()+OS :lI1d early 1950s, a period that continues to dominate critical discuss-
ions of the musical. Since the case study for this ch.lpter looks closely at one
such .\lG.\lmusical, SlIIgill' ill Iltt' Rain (H)5z), the following section focuses
less on textual detail and looks <it the relationship of the musical's
characteristic forms to ideological structures.
90 FILM GENRE
'GOTTA DANCE'
"ring couples serially impersonated by Astaire and Rogers) or even of com-
The most obyiolls formal element that sets the musical apart from the great
majority of other American films is its radical departure from the forms of
realism that dominate the rest of classic Hollywood practice. As limited
(compared to, say, Italian neorealism or British 'kitchen sink' social realism)
and stylised as this Hollywood brand of 'realism' certainly is, the musical is
nonetheless quite clearly 'unrealistic' in still more marked and fundamental
ways. Rubin (J()93: .17) suggests that the classic musical may eyen be defined
by its inclusion of 'a significant proportion of musical numbers that are
impossible - i.e., persistently contradictory in relation to the realistic dis-
course of the narratiye'. The most ob\ious and manifold examples of these
impossibilities are the ostensibly spont,meous yet often hugely elaborate,
flawlessly concein?d and executed song-and-dance routines that typify the
Hollywood musical, particularly in the classically integrated yersions that, as
we haye seen, are often regarded as defining the form. This quality of impossi-
bility is not determined by the regime of yerisimilitude specific to a giyen
narratiye: whether a musical is as anl\\cdh. and yisibly. f:mciful as Y%nda
ol/d llie T!1/i:!(J()-+S) or as social realist as TI 1'.1'1 Side Slor)' (J()6[), the trans-
diegetic quality of its musical numbers is a constant. Interestingly, it is the
integ-rated musical of which this is truest. For w"hereas the impossibility of
(most) BlIsby Ikrkeley numbers consists not in their spontaneous effusion -
they are in bet presented as painstakingly rehearsed theatrical performances
by professional entertainers but, as we haw seen, in their defiance of
principles of spati,d and temporal continuity and integrity, the impossibility
of the numbers in (most) integrated musicals innllyes the ,lpparently un-
conscious, or at any rate unsclfconscious, discoyery of music and movement
by the characters ,IS a perfect externalisation and expression of inner states of
mind. In other words, the integrated musical emphasises the cxpressi,'c Irill/s-
./iml/oliol/ of the object world at the expense of c011\Tntionally understood
forms of realism; and its impossibility i11\ohes both the ostensibly spon-
taneous perfection of the expressi\l' form, and the plasticity of a \\orld (the
places and people in it) that consents to be taken o\cr for, or actually to
participate in, such expressiye tr'l11sformations.
This aspect of the musical has been influenti,dly interpreted by Richard
Dyer ([ J()771 J()H I; also in Cohan, 2002) as lending the genre a utopian
dimension: this utopianism consists less in the liter,d bbrication of ideal on-
screen worlds, although this may sometimes happen - for example in the
magical make-beliC\e realms of Bnj"oJo(J11 (19.:;-+) or Xil/Uu/n (J()Ho) - nor e\"en,
prim,lrily, in the emphasis on reconciliation and the creation of the romantic
couple (most classic Holl~ wood genres, after all, \vould be utopian in this
sense). Rather, according to Dyer the musicI1 shO\vs us \vhat utopi,l \vould
THE MUSICAL: GENRE AND FORM 91
fl'e/like: the reconciliation not simply of indiyidual characters (like the spar-
munities (like the crowds of Parisian children and street yendors who
applaud and flow around, in and out of Jerry's (Gene Kelly) i~provisation~1
dances in .11/.ill/eriCilI/ ill Poris), but of space, style and expressive form. It IS
a quite literally harmonious experience, charged in Dyer's account with
energies of intensity, transparency, abundance and community.
Of course, this utopian dimension in the musical is firmly located within
its O\\l1 social and historical coordinates, and critics have been quick to note
the clear limits on its transformatiye aspirations. Dyer himself notes that the
\Trv suggestion that free expressiyity is possible in a society actually closely
co~strained by social and economic barriers can be seen as an ideological
f,l11t,ISY, \\hile' inasmuch as the musical numbers promote hegemonic yalues
that c'onfirm, rather than challenge, those of the narratiye (romantic and
professiomll fulfilment and consensual social yalues) they also promote ideo-
jogical homogeneity. (.\lore recently, Dyer (2000) has noted that the priyilege
of joyous self-expression in the classic musical is policed along racial lines -
it is a privilege enjoyed only by whites, never by performers of colour.)
'\onetheless, eyen raising the possibility of finding a utopian dimension in
a central Hollywood genre powerfully challenges some abiding assumptions
,lbout 'industrially produced' commercial popular culture. Notably, the Frank-
furt School writers Theodor _~dorno and .\1ax Horkheimer, in their critique
of the 'culture industry' (Adorno and Horkheimer, 1[9-+-+] 1(72), resened
particular scorn for popular musical forms like Tin Pan Alley and big-band
j,IZZ, regarding their crudely pentatonic rhythms ,IS regressiye and repressiye
in equal measure and their lyrics as asinine doggerel. For Adorno (who had
studied \\ith the pioneering atonal composer Arnold Schoenberg bef(lre
tllrning; to philosophical aesthetics and political economy), the romantic escapism
of popular music typified the duplicity of mass culture: appearing to promise
li'eedom from the drudgery of late capitalism, mass-produced popular music
\\as p,lrt of the yery structures from which it blsely proposed relief. It was
quintessentially part of the problem, not part of the solution. Adorno would
haye greeted \vith incredulity the critical L!nlllr attracted to the integrated
music'al in particular, and \v;luld haye been contemptuous of claims th,lt its
sophisticated interphlY of performatiye expression ,l11d dramatic and/or
comedic complexity makes it something like the \Vagnerian concept of the
(;esolllA'I'illslll'crk - the 'tot,ll \york of art'. Rather, he would doubtless seize
upon those moments when musical performers, in the preamble to a number,
admit to experiencing almost ,I physical compulsion to dance """ for example,
~staire's lead-in to ''\0 Strings' in Top Hal, or Kelly's incantatory 'Gotta
Dance!' at the start of the 'Broadway Rhythm' ballet in Sillgill' ill llie Rain -
as unintended textual confessions of the musical's inherently coerciye nature.
 92 FILM GENRE
From SlIlgill' III IIII' Rillll (1())2). RqJroduced courtesy \IG\I/The I\:.obal Collection.
Adorno put what little f~lith he retained in art's emancipatory capacity in
a few ,mmt-garde forms (Schoenberg's music, Beckett's theatre of pri'ation)
which retained a massi'ely attenuated utopian aspect -- not, like the musical,
in their abundance and promises of freedom, promises _\dorno reg'arded as
lies, but precisely in their formal difficulty, their denial of easy pleasure or for
that matter access to the mass audience. Only by saying 'no' to the uni'ersal
'yes' of the culture industry, .\dorno argued, could art hold out any image,
THE MUSICAL: GEC'JRE AND FORM 93
be it merely a negati,e one, of a world geared to a different order of human
social relations than the one that actually exists. Adorno's commitment to
this 'autonomous' art, which is perhaps more justly criticised for its rigidity
Jnd g;enerality than, as it has often been, for its elitism, clearly and specifi-
cally excludes such mainstream genre forms as the musical.
Hm,e,er, since musicals, as we ha,e seen, operate according to generic
\crisimilitudes that differ in some fundamental ways from Hollywood's
dominant quasi-realist regime of representation, it is at least possible that this
f()1'1nal differentiation affords them a correspondingly greater freedom to
explore dimensions of human social experience closed off to more con-
\ entional forms. Dyer's construction of the musical as at least potentially an
ideologically progressi,e form opens up the possibility that musicals may
ha\c offered a space, howe,er limited, for the articulation of subjecti'ities
otherwise marginalised by classic Hollywood con'entions. Gi,en the musical's
clear emphasis on the personal and experiential (rather than, say, historical or
political) and also - through the centrality of performance - the bodily, it
might make sense to see whether there is a greater dimensionality than the
\-Iollywood norm in the genre's treatment of gender and sexuality. Indeed,
these ha,e been important areas for contemporary research on the musical.
:\s pre,iously noted, Fischer ((1970) 19H1: 7S), in line with Laura Mul,ey's
(Il)7S) contemporaneous conclusions concerning ,isual pleasure and gen-
dered spectatorship, argues that Berkeley's mass spectacles effecti'ely reified
the female form - 'a ,ision of female stereotypes in their purest, most
distillable form' - and nullified any suggestion of acti'e female agency in the
backstage narrati'e (see also Rabinowitz, Il)H2; ~lellencamp, 19(0). "l\lore
recent writers, influenced by Joan Ri,iere's theorisation of female masquer-
ade, Judith Butler's \'ork on gender performati'ity and other queer theorists,
ha'e suggested that the camp excess in Berkeley's work may in fact in,ert
these ,ery techniques of objectification, throwing into relief the typically
il1\isible ways in which female identity is constructed through, but not neces-
"arily for, a male spectatorship (sec Robertson, 11990]2(02). Similar theoretical
positions ha,e worked to reconcei'e the musical's relationship to masculinity
and male sexuality. The traditional class terms in which the contrast of
\staire's urbane hill/Ie !JII/I/;r;eois elegance with Gene Kelly's muscular blue-
collar physicality has been concei'ed, for example, is reassessed in terms of
complementary models of masculinity: Cohan (i 19931 2002: HH) notes Astaire's
exploitation of 'the so-called "feminine" tropes of narcissism, exhibitionism,
and masquerade', \,hile both he and Dyer (i 19H(l] 2002: 111-12) remark on
the contradictions of the more cOl1\entionally \irile' Kelly's construction of
his own body as spectacle in The Pirale (19-l-H) and other ~lGM musicals.
Then there is the matter of the politics of the musical text itself. Jane
Feuer (l1977J 19HI) notes the ways in which the late .\staire and :YIGyl
From Singin' ill 'he Rain (1952). Reproduced counes,· 'I liThe Kobal Collection.
94 FILM GENRE
musicals in particular both de- and remystif~- the act of performance itself
through a dialectic of ret1exivity that works to promote the illusion of the film
musical as a spontaneous, 'liv-e' performance. In manv W,1\S, 'art musicals' like
those of the Freed Unit perform many of the form~l m~ves associated with
the avant-garde and hence with resistant or oppositional art forms (art that
articulates a challenge to hegemonic v'alues through its subversion or abandon-
ment of the formal eom'entions bound up with the maintenance of that
hegemony, for example the films of Jean-Luc Godan.l): the standard narra-
tive dev'ice of 'putting on a show' ret1exiv-ely addresses the text's own
production; direct address through the com-en tiona I 'fourth wall' is also
frequently found in musicals - for example, Gene Kelly's announcement
(direct to camera, in sudden tight close-up) that 'the best is yet to come!' as
the lead-in to the climactic number in The Pirale, and the oscillation between
'ordinary Joe' character and star performer that occurs across the 'impossible'
transitions from narrative to number and back again dra\\s our attention to
the gap between the musical's idealised world of personal fulfilment and our
own more constrained realitv,
We will look in more detail at hO\\ this works in the analysis of SingIn ' in
lite Rain below. Howev'er, the key paradox Feuer identifies is that, all these
ret1exive modernist touches notwithstanding;, the musical is of course not a
radical t(lrm- it remained rather for many years securely at the epicentre of
Hollywood's profitable enterprise, Critics have therefore addressed them-
selves less to 'claiming' the musical for a hitherto unsuspected radicalism
than to exploring, first, the fissiparous and potentially multivalent qualities
of what the Frankfurt School perceived as the mass-culture monolith, and
second and comersely, the ways in \\hich uncomentional formal dev-ices
previously unprob1ematically associated \\ith radical intent may in tact be
domesticated and .lccommodated to heg"emonic systems by context. Thus
Feuer notes that while lvlGM musicals appear to lay bare the mech,misms of
their own production as commercial entertainment, at the same time they
typically end up reaffirming 'myths' of spontaneity, integration and imme~
diacy. Vcry similar questions have been considered in relation to music video
by Kaplan (tl)H6) and Goodwin (1993), who recognise the extent to \\hich
any number of formal devices previously confined 10 experimental and art
film are taken over and exploited without difficulty in the supremely com-
modified world of the promo. The v-alue of such debates is their recognition
of the need for film studies to move away ii'om a formalist essentialism that
attributes specific political valences to formal practices outside of their actual
contexts of production and consumption.
THE MUS[CAL: GENRE A:-JD FORM 95
THE MUSICAL IN POST-CLASSICAL HOLLYWOOD
\lore than any other genre - ev'en the \Vestern, news of whose demise, as we
h,l\e seen, has been considerably exaggerated - the fortunes of the classical
ll1usical deteriorated dramatically with the waning of the classical Hollywood
sl\lc and the transformation of the .\merican film industry from the 1950S
o~\\ards. While for most historians of the musical the early to mid-19Sos
marked the musical's creative as \\ell as commercial peak, above all in the
Freed Cnit musicals at \lG\l (see above), this vitality did not persist beyond
the end of the decade, It was 19.i7 which sal\' the effective culmination of the
l11usical careers of both Astaire (Sill.: Sloct:lngs, HiS7) and Kelly (II's AhpilYs
rilir Weillher, 1l)55, was Kelly's final film as starlchoreogr.lpher and Les Girls
his last starring musical role, though he \\ ould continue directing musicals
and making cameo appearances as a dancer into the Il)SOS). This is not to say
th,l[ musicals did not continue to enjoy considerable popularity into the early
r<J(ws. \lusicals' scale and spectacle made them a key element in the studios'
battle \\ith low-resolution, monochrome television, while their apparently
reliable appeal across a \\ide range of audiences made them an attractive
investment in an era characterised by audience fragmentation and justified
increasinglv large budgets and roadsho\\ (limited run, reserved seating)
entr.wemen ts, Blockbusters like 5,'o/l11t Panfil' (19 is), TI,e ;H IIsl( Ala II (19 62 )
anJ t'H)' FiliI' Lild)' (J(iq) were indeed m~ljor su'ccesses -- as \\as Hesl Slile
SIOIT, which in addition won several Oscars including Best Picture and Best
])ir~ctor. l-Iowev-er, as these examples - all adaptations of Broadway hits --
\vould suggest, Hollywood W<lS increasingly reliant on the 'pre-sold' cachet of
st,lge success for its properties and decreasingly successful in generating
popular original musicals itsclf (on [960s musicals, sec ,Vlordden, J()S2).
:\ much gre,lter problem in the longer run \\as the growing disjunction of
the classical musical's formal and thematic direction and both the \Y()r1d ,lnd
the industn of \\hich it remained a part. The musical's high-gloss, studio-
bound aesthetic was almost diametrically opposed to the 100v-key, location-
shot naturalism f:1\ oured by ,I new gener.nion of feature film directors emer-
~ing from television in the early 1960s, such as Sidney Lumet, "[artin Ritt
'lI1d John Frankenheimer. Similarly, the musical's increasing escapism, typi-
lied bv the trend for exotic, picturesque settings distanced either in time,
place ~lr both \\as at odds with the f:lshion for contemporary urban subjects
for example Hilrly (1955), SII't'CI.')'IIIc1lo(SIIC(CSS (I95 S), Thc HlIsller (J()6r)
and ,I greater me,lsure of engagement \\-ith difficult social and political
realities such as racism, pO\crty, Cold W,ll" tensions and disaffected youth, all
of v\hich had started to crystallise as pressing public preoccupations \\ith the
dm,lmic John F. Kennellv-'s election as President in 1960, Hesl Side Slor),'s
tl:ansposi~i()n of Romeo a~d Juliet to g,mg" warLlre in '\ew York's \\hite and
 96 FILM GENRE
Hispanic. sl~ms, shot partly on location in the Bronx, was an exception that
~roYed. dlfhcult to emulate. Thus as the decade wore on the musical hecame
ll1creasmg'ly the province of classical-era directors such as George Cukor (.Uy
Fillf Lild)'), .the,msehes approaching the end of their careers, and Yisibi y
creaky hoth In form and content. . !llent of classic Hollywood forms, enacted through a deconstructiYe per-
N:me of this of course mattereu to the studios as long as the musical
remaIned c~~mm~rcially Yiable, and the enormous success of Disney's part-
anllnateu \! Ictor~an tan.tasy ,Wilf)' Poppil/s (19(q) anu Fox's The SOl/l/d oj
All1.I'I( (19 6 5) which rapidly o\(:rtook GOIIC J1,1 h I hc H/I/d to become the all-
time box-office champion, seemeu to prme the genre's dur,lbIe appeal.
Howcyer, Thc SOl/l/d or. 'viI/sir pnl\Td not the harbinger of a ne\\ era for the
ch~s.sical musical, but its swan song. In the \\ake of the film's commen:i,11 and
cntlcal success - The ."'ol/I/d ol'.tIl/sir emulated 111'.1'1 Side SIOf)', also directed
by ~obert Wise,. in winning Best Pil,ture and Director Osc.~rs the major
studH~s pl~mgHl,lnto a scries of enormously e,,"pensi\e attempts at repeating
t~e tnck, 1Jlclu~lng /)oC/or f)ollfllc (1<)67), Thorollglil)' .Hodall Hillie (19 6 7),
."1111" (1<)61\), CoodlJ)'c.Hr Clllps (I<)(H»), SOllg ol'YOI"7I'ill' (uno), 01/ iI Clear
f)iI.)' y (/1/ CIIII Sec FOfeUf (I <)70, directed b~ Yincen te \ linnelli) and Hellll.
/)011)'. (I <)70, ~Iire.c_ted hy Gene [(e1ly), :\11 of these WTre large-scale f10ps and
contrIbuted slgndlclntly to the ncar-ruinous financial situation in which the
m,ajors f()um] t hemsehes at the turn of the 1<)70S, Perhaps t be most oh\'ious
of these productions' bilings in conception and C'.:ecution was their common
,lssu1l1ption- encourag'ed by ilic SIIIII/d or HI/sir's success of a now-
c1~imerical Llmih audience, classic Hollyw ood's deLllIlt setting, hut in the ,lge
of !]Ol/IIIC lilld e/l'dc, '!'Iic Gradualc ,md ille !)irl.J' /)0';,1'1/ (,III H)()7) neither
:,~sily reached nor, as it increasinglY prm cd, necessary li)r ,I film's profitability.
I he surpnse success of /;'11.1')' Ridcr (I()(H») seem cd to confirm the commerci:Il
\iability of the youth marker; importantly, morem er, althoU!!.'h music ,1ll'd
songs k,lIured prominently in both r'lIs)' Rider and Tlic C'mdlli;lc in the f()rm
of a C<.H1temporary pop and rock soundtrack, these pointed up thematic <lnd
nanatl\ e de\elopments in a ne\\ \\ a~ th,1I differed both fi'om the standard
'throug'h-scoring' of the classical Hollywood soundtrack. and fi'om the set-
piece song'-and-dance numbers of the classical musical.
_ For the young'Lr generation of film-makers emerging from tele\ ision and
hIm school by the late 1<)()OS the so-called 'mmie brats' - the musical \\as
like the Westcrn, an object both of admiring study ,1l1d critical enLjuin, ,111d
they approached hOlh genres in a ',!:enerally ironic, parollic ,111d s<ltirical'spirit.
Rare attempts at 'straight' musicals In '\ew Hollyw ood directors like FLlI1cis
I,'ord CoppoL! (1'11"'"1 's R II ill II II})" 1 Q()7, sl.lrring \sLlire) and Peter Bogdan-
)vidl (JI rllll,!!, /.'1.1'1 !AJ,'C, 19,,:;, sufficiently disastrous almost to Ljualif:' as ~1
'lost: film) \\ere unqualified Llilures. Lndoubtedly the most imporL111't and
ImhltlOUS '\e\\ ~Iolhwood 'musieIl' - thoug'h on its orig:inal release, in ,I
TilE :YIUSIl.I\L. \II.,""', n"~ •
drasticalh' shortened edit, the film f()Und Lnour with neither cntlcs nor
,ludience~ - ,,'as ",Lu,tin Scorsese's Sl'77' 1'111'1". NCIP '{lIrk (H)77), of all his
!ilm s the most intensely intertextual as wTIl as sdf-rdnential, and in effect
" complex thesis on both the utopian appeal and the ineluctable disenchant-
(ormance of Holly\\ood's most potently alluring genre. A quintessential
c:,..lmplc of \yhat '\oc\ Carroll ([ 91\2) terms the 'cinema of allusion', NelP
} lid'. SCII' 1'IIr~' includes numerous references, direct and indirect, to the
Technicolor musicals of the genre's postwar peak, including those of Kelly
,l11d \linnclli, and closely models its narrative after the somewhat ohseure
1<).+ 7 melodrama The. Hil 1/ 1 LII;"c - although to most audiences its story of
the marital and professional cont1icts of two musicians will more readily
reedl the 195.+ version of,.j Slilf Is Bllm (see Grist, 2000: 167f.)· Casting
Illl" Garland's daughter Liza '\linnelli in the lead role of Francine Evans
'(opi)osite Rohert De '\iro as saxophonist jimmy Doyle) highlights this deht
of inf1uence. \C1l1 1'lId', \C/l' ) lid' sulwerts the musical's optimistic romantic
nuster n,UT,lti\e hy juxL1posing.1 stylised period narrative, filmed in the
saturated colours of the postwar period, \yith Dc :'\iro's improyisational
perf()rmati\e style and nemoticdly contemporary persona. The film's critical
take on the musical - which might he summed up as 'the myths don't work'
can be compared to the contemporary tTYisionist Westerns (discussed in
(:lupter 2), though without those films' clear political dimension or topicality.
In YCII' ) 'lid'. YC})' }od', the musical's (literall\) harmonious imaginary,
quickly est.lblished in jimmy's personal mythology of the 'major chord' -
'\\ hen you haye the \\oman you want, the music you \\ant, and enough
money to get by' is exposed as un'lttainable. !':,Irly on in the lilm, jimmy
\\ .ltches a sailor and his girl dance 'llone, silently, illuminated by the lights o!'
a passing elevated train. The couple ,Ire ,I direct and unmist,lkable allusion to
01/ llic TOI/'II, in whose most LImous number - \\hich lends NCII' ) lid', NCII'
}lIr!,> its title, rell .\lanhattan locations were used as the spectacular h,lek-
drop for the three sailors' exuberant, transf(lrmatiye cclebration of self. Here,
1)\ contrast, as elsew here in .\CIl1 ) 'lJd·. .\'ell' YlJd', we arc ostentatiously and
,\;1<1chronistiCllh on a studio set, its theatricality highlighted by the st~ liseu
play of mO\'ing: iight ,1l1d shadow' and jimmy's position, 10\\ in the li'ame with
his hack to camera hut looking dm\n on the lh1l1cers ,1S if from the [i'ont row
of' the circle. The f()1'm.ll distanciation of the setting as \yell .1S the ,1bsence of
music - as if the dancers, who nlOn: \\ ith the precision and grace of their
g'olden aL!;e f(lrbears, are moving to ,1 prerecorded score in their m\ n he,lds -
~mphasi~es the ,lrtifici,llity of' the classicII musical 'number'. ;\t the same
time, the vignette (which is wholly narrati\e1y redundant) is limpidly beautiful,
t\oe<lli\c ,1l1d oddlY melancholY - as the lL11lcers skip ,1\\ay into the darkness
around the felture'less urban S~)'1Ce they ha\e briet1y made their sl<lge, the\
 '-}'-J 1.- J.L.. 1Vl UL1""'1t\.r..
THE :\lUSICAL: GE:'\IRE AND FORM 99

carry with them a yearning desire for the simpler pleasures of the classical
countenance the staple and distincti \"e gesture of the classical integrated
musical. That such pleasures are no longer available is, ho\\ever, confirmed
musical, the moment \\"hen a character breaks from speech into song.
by Jimmy's response, or rather lack of it - annoyed at being excluded from
.\ttempts have periodically been made to rC\i\"e this traditional lorm ~f the
his hotel room so his friend Eddie can try (unsuccessfully) to coax his pick-
li\"e-action musical, \\'ith some success in the late 1970s, for example Grells:,
up into bed, he watches the dancers silently and moves on, shO\\"ing no
T/le Wi;::: (both linS) and Hair (1<)7<)): perha~s sig~ificantl,y, all nost~lg.la
emotion or even any particular interest.
films that also adopted softened and homogel1lsed forms of rock musIc 111
Impelled by the conventions of the genre and the attractions of the two
phice of Tin Pan Alley standards. Since the 1<)8~s, hO\\T\Tf, tradition~1
stars, \ve may wish to believe that sax-player Jimmy and singer Francine belong
integTated musicals hale largely failed to find an audience (I\C/7'SICS, I<)<)Z; [ /1
together; they may eYen for a time belie\e it themsehes. But as the film
f)o '-JII)'lllillg; [()9-+, Eeila). The fe\\" exceptions to this rule ha\e tended to
unforgivingly unfolds the realities of a dysfunctional and abusive relationship
rel\' h~avih on camp and knO\\"ing irony (Thc Rod.]' }fol'i'IIr Piclllrc ,')'holT',
we become increasingly aware that it is cOl1\ention alone that keeps the pair
I<Y7S; [,illl(: Slllip o(Hlirrors, 1<)86; JJolIlI1I Rllugc, ZOOI) orf;lI~r~lIlll(nostalgia
together when they would be - and indeed, once separated, are- far better
(/;'I'<'Iy!JoJ)' Sal's [ Lon' YOII, It)<)6). The surprise success of Ulln~go (zooz)
apart. NCI]) Yor!.:, IVc/lJ YOrA' climaxes with 'Happy Endings', an extended film-
relied on numerous tactical accommodations of contemporary audience pre-
within-the-film-within-the_film 'starring' Francine as a theatre usherette
t'crences, notably establishing heterog'eneous discursiYe spaces - one broadly
CPeggy Smith') who dreams of becoming a star. Predictably, a chance
n'lturalistic, the' other essentially a straightfilf\\ard recording of the original
encounter propels Peggy to stardom, heartbreak and ultimate redemption _
sta!!;e shO\\' - for narrative and numbers in \\hich the latter reiterated and
only, in a dizzying ",iSC-Cfl-ll!JilllC, for her to realise, tirst, that it has all been
iro~ically expanded on the liJI'mer. CII/ca/!,II also relies on a technique pioneered
a dream, and second, fiJr her dream to actualise itself in the 'reality' of 'Happy
in FlashJalicc (I<)Xj) and Footloosc (I<)X-+), in th'll its musical numbers largely
Endings'. Shot in the stylised, oneiric mode of Kelh's climactic extended
(.md necessarily, gi\en its principals' strictly limited .lbilities as crooners and
ballets in Oil Ihc TOI7JII, An .·llllcr/nill ill Pllris and S;'IWIII' ill Illc Raill like
hoofers) deny the audiencc the traditional genre pleasure of seeing skilled
those sequences 'Happy Endings' (excised fro~l the ori~inal release pri'nt of
pcrtiJfIllerS u~dertake complex and technically demanding routines, filmed in
Nm' Yor!.:, NCI/! YOrA') echoes the narrati\"e in which it is embedded. Unlike
long full-figure takes; the film instead relics on \lTY-style fast cutting and
them, however, it acts not as a utopian fusion of desire, music and mO\Tment
regimented team dancing in the style pioneered by Paul .'\bdul as choreog.Ta-
but as an ironic commentary on the unsustainahility of such desires as \\"ell as
pl;er li)r Janet Jackson and others in the early I ()(jos (see Dodds, 200 I: -+9-56).
on the liJrm - the musical, in which such hopes are fostered. The large-scale
:\longside this apparently irre\crsiblc decline in its traditional he-actIon
production numbers that climax the sequence (includin<T Francine/PelTO'\"
t" t"'~~ form, h;J\\e\er, the classic musical has strikingly re-emerged in the animated
heading a chorus line of usherettes ag.·ainst a backdrop of giant popcorn
feature. DisneY, the traditional leader in the liekl, ha\ing di\crsified into
cartons) are self-consciously absurd. l\lorei)\'er, in an echo of the earlier scene
.HlLllt features ~arlier in the decade, successfully relaunched its reil1\ig.·orated
by the El, we view thc entire sequence through Jimmy's unimpressed e\es.
.1l1imation di\ision in 19X9 \\ith 7lic Lillie .Hcrl//aid, subsequently re-estab-
In the lilm's uneasy g.'ender politics, although Francine is depicted s~'m­
lishing the animated musical as the centrepiece of its annual release schedules
pathetically, Jimmy is clearl\" portrayed as both the more dyn.lIllic (often
and el;joying major hits \\ith Rcalll)' alld Ille RcaI'I (l<)()l), ./ladJIII (1<)()2), Till'
\"iolent) and realistic of the couple, and Francine/Peggy's yearning immersion
I,ioll killg (1<)<)-+) and Till' HlIlIlII!Jack or :Yull'e Dalllc (l<)<)fl).
in the seductiH~ Cdlacies of the sihTr screen recalls the frequent .lttribution
by mass culture critics of such stereotypically 'female' qualities as passi\itv
and suggestibility to the 'dupes' of the culture industries." \\hen Jimm~
HEYOND HOLLYWOOD
dismisses Francine's hit lilm as 'sapp)' ending's', she significantly has n;J
answer.
\1akin o ' music and song is as uni\crsal a human impulse as one can imagine,
Jimmy, a figure of 'street' realism \\ho rejects the musical's palli.ltive m\ths,
.md e\;n national cine'ma \vithout exception has developed its o\vn lorms of
stands in a sense liJr the 1<)70S audience, assumed to be intolerant oj' the
musical film. Fe\v of these, hO\\ever, are \\cll-kno\\n to audiences beyond
classical musical's optimism and romanticism along \\"ith its defining stylistic
those national borders, and almost e\ery English-language study of non-
characteristics.~ Contemporary musicals, as Telotte (2002) notes, have had to
Holh\\ood musicals opens \vith a reference to the near-uni\crsal identiti-
find various ways to deal \\"ith modern audiences' apparent reluctance to
catio'n of the lilm musical \\ith its .\merican liJrm, both in the popular
 r J J. IV! \.) r.l~ K t.
THE J\lUSICAL: GE'-IRE AND FORM 101

imagination and in historical criticism. Furthermore, one problem studies of

CAS EST U D Y: S 1\ G 1 X' LV T 11 F R .1 IN (I 952 )
film musical traditions repeatedly encounter is determining the n:tent to
which the Hollywood musical established standards, generic norms or, for
Si//!;ill' ill IIII' Rilill is generally regarded as the apotheosis of the integTated
that matter, conventions fi'om which indigenous musicals can consciousl\"
distinguish themselves. . mu~ical: indeed, it has no real rival as the most popular and highly regarded
of all musicals, making the BFI's Top Ten in its most recent polls of all-time
Probably the best-known non-Hollywood and non-English language
"Teatest films (the only musical to do so). Gene Kelly, who starred in and co-
musical form is the Hindi film. With its high le\els of output, rang'e of
Jirected the film (\\ith Stanley Oonen) himself regarded it as his most suc-
production yalues fi'om blockbuster to bargain-basement, strong generic
cessful achievement, and more than any other film it embodies the spirit and
traditions (far more rigidly cotl\cntionalised and policed, in bct, than an\"
character of the musicals produced by the Freed Cnit at MGM between
Hollywood genre) ;lnd industrialised production system, 'Bolh\\ood' offer:s
I (H() and 1<)3<). :'\iot only does SiIlP:III' ill I/Ie Rilill typil'\ the domesticated
numerous points of suggestive comp;lrison \\itl~ the c1;lssi~ Holl\wood
lll(~dernism that Feuer ([ J()771 I<)S [) sees as characterising' the Hollywood
musical. One obvious and major difference is that the gre;lt m;ljority (iHindi
musical, but \\ith its numerous interte'\tual glances and allusions, the film
films feature music;ll (\()cal and dance) performances, and to a viewer accus-
ampll nt,lkes the point that reflni\c parody/pastiche as generic functions
tomed to the integrated musical in particul;lr the transitions from serious
,Ire bv no means limited to the post-classical :'-:ew Wa\c of the \(nOS, but can
dramatic content to upbeat and dieg;etically heterogeneous musical number is
~mo(;th" be incorporated into a lilm that is often seen as a \irtual emblem of
bound to seem jarring. In flct, the COtl\ entions of musical integration in
classic tIoll\\\Ood . .\loreO\cr, as Cuomo (1<)<)6) arg-ues, SiIlJ!.ill' ill l/ie RilIII
Hindi cinema are fundamentally different, operating not at the sub-generic
C'\tcnds the'musical's characteristic rcllc'\i\ity into a reflection on the genre
level (i.e. the distinction bel ween the Berkeley and Freed musical) but in a
as a \\hole at a kev stage in its e\olution - one might e\en say it rdlects on
g-cnre in g-eneral. .\'illgll~' III I/Ii' Rilill after all tells the story of an actor \\ho is
trans-generic manner: musical performance is an accepted dramatic cotl\'en-
tion in a discourse which operates according to different regimes of \"eri-
compelled by technolog-ical and industrial changes (the cOl1\crsion to sound)
similitude and concepts of realism than the Holly\\ood or European model.
to change his star and generic personae.
Thus whereas to a \Vestern \ie\\cr the Hindi musical might be concei\ed as
S""()/~/' ill I!li' Rilill 1;1<1\ not be a critical modernist te'\t, but it remall1s
a single if cxpansi\e 'musical' gTnre, in opposition to the social realist cinema
c1earll" a modernist rath'er than a postmodern lilm: indeed, it illustrates
of Rhit\ak Gh~ltak or the international art cinema of Sat\ajit Ray (Bint()rd,
the d-ifferences bet\\cen the t\\O quite clclrly. \\hile many of its traits
I<)S7), to Hindi audiences powerful g'eneric distinctions operate }}lil//l1I a set
intertntualit\, reflC\.ivit\, nostalgia (the lilm is set in I<)2S IIolly\\ood during
of representational cotl\cntions that operate in parallel to the equally cotl\cn-
the cOl1\ersi;m to soun,i) - arc confusing-Iy associated \\ith both modernist
tionalised and itl\isiblc 'realisl' ground of \Vestern cinema. Pendakur (200j:
.l11d postmodern f(lrms, in SlIIgill' III I!li' Rilill these are .tli located in relation
\ I<) q+) sug'gests that both the musical (\\ith decreasing reliance on tradi-
to a di~course of (re-)integration that marks out ,In essential difference
tional instruments and tonalities) and \isual styles of musical perf()rmance in
het\\een the modernist le\:t and the postmodern celehration of untra11lmclled
conlemporary Hindi cinema sho\\ the impact of urbanisation and \\estern-
heterog;eneity, difference ~lI1d fLIg-mentation.
isalion in Indian society as a \\hole.
Inte!.!;rat ion, in LId, ma\ be seen as at once the narrative and thematic
focus a~ld the perf(>rIllati\: modc of .),illgill' III I!I" Rilill. In narrali\c terms,
Folkloric traditions, a marked feature of Hindi cinema also li,rure in other
nalionalmusical cinemas and mark a significant point of'dinlTe~ce li'om the
intc'rration is crucial in terms of the illicit disassoci~It ion/ disinteg-r;ttion of
\ oic~ and image that occurs \\hen Lina L1l11Ont appropri,lles as her ()\\Il the
Hollywood model. Hope\\cll (\<)S6: +S) describes the folkloric musical as 'the
lOcal talents hatl1\ h,1S 'lent' her lllr T!I" f)illI(//l~ CIt'iI/,cr. The g;oal of the
big genre' in Francoist Spain during the I<))OS, \\hile BergfClder (2000: SI-3)
stresses Ihe im portance of folk song to the post \\ar German f{,'illlillIi/III
narrati\c thus bec;lmes the reintegration or voice/speech and body (linalll
(,Homeland films'). In both cases, it appears that the inclusion of distinctive
.Ichin cd through Cosmo's oposure of Lim at the lilm's premiere). Peter
nati\T musical traditions in lilm musicals expressed po\\erful ideological
\\ollen (1<)<)2: ~3f.) relates this .Ispect of the film to J'ICqucs Ikrrida's thesis
dri\es towards Ihe re-eslablishment ofcohesi\c national identities in societies
of the organisin!.!: 'Io!.!;occntrislll' of \\ estern culture in \\ hich speech, its
li'actured by major historical traumas.
authentici~\ \ouc'hsal~d b\ the singularity ,l11d integrity of the spe,lkillg; body,
is pri\ i1ege-d O\cr \\Titing: \\ hose tr'lI1smissihility and multi\alence 1ll.1kes it
potentially untrust\\orthy. It is ~uggestj\e ill this regard that the film clo~es
[02 FILM CiENRE
with Don and Kathy rt:garding; a billboard advertising tht:ir new star vehicle,
'Singin' in the Rain', 'a clinching self-citation' (Starn, 1992: (3) through
which, as StC\cn Cohan (2000: 57) puts it, 'the film and its diegt:sis mesh ...
perfectly'. The unity of the romantic couple is associated with the restoration
of Kathy's voice and ht:r belatt:d rt:cognition as a musical star in her Own
right: this climactic and celdmnory accumulation of successful integrations
effectively o\cf\vhelms our awareness of film's necessary mt:diation (as film)
of performanct: and accomplishes the same nostalgic invocation of immediacy
as tht: backstage musical. Thus ,)'IIIP, III , III lite Ralll justifies Feuer's ([1977]
J()H I: 16 I) claim that tht: Freed Unit musicals 'used the backstage format to
present sustained rdlections upon, and affirmations of, the musical genre
itself. The film promotes a distinction of image and inner reality in the on-
going conviction that bt:hind and beneath the mask of the former it remains
both possible and ethically vital to t:ncounter the latter. Ho\\ner, this
straightforward appearance/reality di,lleetic is complicated in SllIgllI' III Ihe
Ralll because the reintegration of (personal, priYate) self and (professional,
public) style is accomplished not, as in integrated backstage musicals like Tlte
Balltllt ilP,IIIl, through the representation of live and unmediated (i.e. theatrical)
performance but in relation to the 'second-order' reality of film itself.
\)on and Kathy's duet 'You \Vere "\lcant For ~le', set on an empty sound
stage, epitomises the film's playful engagement with these multiple contra-
dictions. As has been \\idely noted, the number at once ackno\\ledges and
disavow.s the artifice of the musical: acknowledges it, by establishing Kathy's
idealised image as a function of the technology I)on arranges around her to
produce it coloured gels, a wind machine, a spotlight - yet disaHl\\s it, by
excluding these tools of illusion from the frame once the song begins and
pIa.' ing 'straight' the resulting c1assicall.\ idealised image of the romantic
couple. In this regard, the number rC\ises and updates for the medium of
film what Feuer characterises as the 'let's-put-on-,I-sho\\!' myth in the
musical, \\herc thc artifice of musical performance is registered by making
the principal characters professional performers, but cancelled by represent-
ing their (successful) performances as originating in their 0\\11 vigour and
native enthusiasm. :\lusical numbers in the musical promote 'the mode of
expression of the musical itself as spontaneous and natural rather than cal-
culated and technological' (Feuer, [19771 19H1: 1(5). (In the case of SillgllI'
III tlte Ralll, the \ isible artifice of 'You \Vere ~leatlt For \le' contrasts
interestingly \vith the unacknO\dedged use of similar technologies in Llct,
aeroplane engines ' to create the draught that billO\vs up Cyd Charisse's scarf
in the 'Broad\vay Rhythm' ballet.) Since film performance by its nature ne\er
encounters its audience 'live', Don and Kathy's duet that simultaneously
evokes and cancels the technological artifice and mediation of cinema can be
seen as stag'ing the return out of artifice to the sclf and creating an imaginary
space, at once inside and outside the diegesis, \vhere perception ,1l1d reality
can be reintegrated.
Else\vhere, integration is foregrounded in, for example, 'Fit as a Fiddle',
\vhere the discrepancy bet\vet:n Don's voiceO\er account of his early career,
I narrated to the Louella Parsons-like gossip columnist Dora Bailey, and the
flashback vignettes \ve see of Don's and Cosmo's 'real' past - not, as Don
I m,lintains, 'dignity, always dignity', high society and the (ollserI'atlilre, but
pool halls, the bread line and the hard grind of the burlesque and vaudeville
I circuits - enact a mismatch of public and pri\'ate self that must be rectified.
I (Don's LIke bio is quite literally a public affair: Don speaks to Dora over a
microphone in front of an audience of fans at the premiere of his latest film
I \\ith Lina Lamont, Tlte Ro}'al Ras(al.) Don, like several of Kelly's other
characters in his ~lG\l musicals, for example Fill' Me allil /H}' Gal ([().. p)
I ;ind Oil lite Til IIJ II , must retrieve an authentic inner self from underneath a
shallO\\ defensive veneer '. often associated \\ith a 'slick' urban persona, a
I carapace to cope \vith the vicissitudes of big city life - if he is to achieve
happint:ss. Characterising Don as in 'a state of self-division', Cohan (2000:
I ()2) nott:s ho\\ the 'real' biography revealed in 'Fit as a Fiddle' casts him
1'L']Katt:dly as a substitute, literally ,I 'stand-in'. In such a contnt, '~1ake 'Em
I
l.augh' - \\hich \\as conct:ivt:d as a virtually ,Iutonomous showcase fllr Donald
I O'Connor's gymnastic abilitit:s - prO\es thematically integratt:d, as it reprt:-
st:nts a reconnection of sorts \vith Don and Cosmo's suppressed perfllrmativt:
I past. In tht: narrative, it is Kathv - t:stablished in her initial appearances as
unaf1ccted and attractively artless compared to tlw 'Like' Lina Lamont who
I provides the means of Don's redemption.
l<'inally, tht: film is not only formally but in the most concrete way
I predicatt:d on tht: principle of intt:gr,ltion, as a 'catalogut: musical', that is a
\chicle fll!' tht: recycling of an existing catalogue of song' m,lterial (in this cast:,
I
the 1920S songs of Frt:t:d and his \\Titing partner :'\iacio I Ierb Bnl\\n, to
I \\ hich \lG\l had purchast:d the rights in I<H9) around \\hich a narrati\t: had
to be organist:(1. \Vollen (H)fJZ: 31 f.) records that in tht: case of SIIIP, III , ill Ihe
I Ralll it took Betty Comden and .\dolph Green, the scrt:t:I1\\Titers charged
\\ith the task, 'a despt:rate mon th and a half at least' to prod uct: a \ iable
I structurt: and scenario.
In one rt:g,IHl ,110ne is SllIp:!II' III lite Ralll ostentatiously non-intt:gratin':
I tht: ntended ballet sequenet:, 'Broad \\ay Rhythm', that climaxes the film's
I performative spectacle (although it does not clost: out the narrative). Indet:d,
the c\traneous (in narrativt: terms) n,lturc of this sequt:nce is comicall.'
I rcmarked by the dialogue cxchang'es that bracket it, \\ith Don first 'pitching'
the conccpt of a ballet ostensibly to be incllltkd in Tit£' Dill/Illig Cill'itller to
I \ lonumenta I Pictures ht:ad of production R.I" ..\t the t:nd of the st:quence \ve
return to Don, Cosmo and R.F., \\ho responds to Don's proposal \vith thc
I
I
104 FILM GENRE

line, 'I can't quite visualise it. I'll have to see it on film first'. This ret1exive (1-1 APTER .5
gag underlines that the q.-minute ballet \ve have just "itnessed literally has
no 'place' in the film's diegetic world of 1928 Hollywood (it also clearly has
no conceivable relationship to the costume musical Tile Dallclng ('aut/ler): it
The War/Combat Film: Genre
exists in a different realm of pure performance and spectacle. Kelly's co-
director on Slngln' In lite Ralll (and also Oil lite TOil'''), Stanley Donen, later
and Nation
criticised Kelly's desire to interpolate heterogeneous ballet selj uences into
both films as 'interruption(s) to the film's main thrust' (ljuoted in Wollen,
U)92: 59)·
Yet there is, as Cohan (2000: 59f.) notes, an ironv in 5'llIgIII' III lite Rain's
integrati\e enthusiasm - that Debbie Reynolds, playing Kathy \\hose dubbed
voice J ,ina Lamont claims as her o"n, \vas dubbed by the singing voice of
Betty Noyes and by Jean Hagen - "ho played Lina for dialogue. Thus the
material circumstances of the film's o"n production gin; the lie to the seam-
less integration· the 'marriage' that the text seeks so tirelessly to promote.
In f:lct, the introduction of dubbing as both plot device and dominating I n a spectacular seljuence one of manv - mid"av thrOLwh Giovanni
P,lstrone's silent epic Ca/I/l'lil (Italy, I()I{), a po"erful Ron;an fleet lays
siege to the f(Jl'tified city of Syracuse, ally of Rome's nemesis Carthag·e. The
metaphor (f(lI' inauthenticity and splitting) seems almost like the musical's
textual confession of the impossibility of its o"n utopian project, setting imminent threat rouses :\rchimedes, a Syracusan scholar, from his esoteric
loose a rogue, unanchored discursi\ e ficld "hose energies can only be ruminations to ill' ent a radical ne" "capon to save his city from the invader
contained by the magical deli\cry of the c\()\\n \\ho pulls aside the curtain. by harnessing the po\\er of the sun itsclf. His "ildly anachronistic, da Vinci-
like invention uses an array of mirror 'petals' around a central lens to f()Calise
,I deadly beam of light and heat that incinerates everything in its path. The
NOTES \\e,lpOn - particularly in its small prototype bears a striking; resemblance to
one of the ne\\ high-intensity inGmdescent lights that were in the early I<)IOS
I. On thc 'cincma of attractions'. SCT hclm\ (:Jupin 10 rapidly tranSf()J'Jlling the nature and range of lig;hting; effects being achien~d
, FdLh\ SlTCTIl prCSC11l'T is .slIl'Tilll"lh Llplurul ill \\mdden\ (")~2) dc.slTiption of him on sound stages throughout :\merica and Europe, its 'petals' identical to the
as a 'singing liTe'. 11100ie light's adjustable 'barn door ' shutters. The association is heightened
3. \\'omh \lIcn\ thr P/lr/,!r NilS,' II/em" (Il)~~) Ilukc.s simiLtr assumptions 'Ihout
\\ hen\rchimnles tests his ill'ention on a square of "hite camas that could
\\omcn\ susccptihilil\ to thc .sircll SOIl~ of thc slhn sLTL'CIl.
~. ,:otc, hm\c\n, that .\'('1/' \ "d'. \('/1' \ IIrk su~~csts that .Iillll11\ (,lI1d \\c) runaill in
p,ISS f()r a mO\ie screen; the lethal ray itself looks for all the \\orld like a
Ihrall to such m\ tholo~ics: fm thc 111m cnd.s 11\ holdin~ out thc' prospL'c·t initiatcd \1\ projector beam. \\'hen the death ray is turned on the Roman fleet to dnas-
.I im m \ of the coupk\ rcullion, onh ti,l' l'c~~\ to rcfu.sc, not \\ithout lT~ITt. thc offer. tating efkct, as \larcia Landy (2000a: 34-) notes, the combination of para-
I Lt\ 1I1~ so ullspal"lll~h dcmonstratcd that thc.sL' t\\O pc<>pk ,llT ddlllitiH'h 11111 SuilL'd to cinematic technolog;y \\ith scenes of barrle and terrible carnage underscores
hc a l'Oupk. tIll' 111m slill pla\S on and offthL' ,ludiL'llcc\ \c'lrnin~ (IikL' I'c'~~\/
cinema'5 long-standing; aninit~ \\ith the technolog;ies of ",II'.
!"LllllillL') lor such a ITdcmptiH' conclu.sion, '111d C\POSCS it ,IS nLIsochistic ,111d driH'n
\\arf:lre has been one of the mO\ies' principal subjects since their inEl1lC\.
ollh \1\ thL' ~ellre\ pO\\nlul n'lI'LltiH' l"lll1\cntion,tlil\.
The ill\cntion of cinema coincided \\ith a decade of imperialist milit,I;'y
contlicrs (the 1!'\<)!'\ Spanish-~\merican \\ar, the 18<)9I<)02 Boer \Var, the
t904- 5 Russo-Japanese \Var), and consumer demand to see these e\cnts
onsereen stimulated the ne" medium (Bottomore, 2002: 23<)). :\Ithouf!,'h the
technolog;ical ,11ld representational limitations of early cinema inhihited the
immediacy of such depictions, "hich comprised either staged recreations or
scenes filmed \\ell to the rear of the front lines, the elaborately st,lged battle
scene, the larger the scale the better, emerged as a Llyourite cJ'(md-puller in
106 FILM GENRE
early feature films - including, of course, Griffith's Birth lila Na/ioll (1915).
Griffith's masterful synthesis of the deYeioping grammar of narratiye film,
and his innovatiye use of the close-up and object-gaze (point-of-yiew) shot
sequences decisiyely relocated the audience's relationship to screen warfare
away from the simple consumption of war-as-spectacle towards narrati\'e
participation and empathetic participation in the terrif)ing experience of
modern war. While occasional films such as FIIII.tie/al JatA>e/ (19S7) or The
Thin Red /,ille (1998) haye rendered battle as a distanced object of specta-
torial contemplation, a far more consistent theme of the \V,lr film e\er since
has been the progressiye annihilation of the self-preserying distance between
the cinema audience and the bloody realities of military connict, deploying
increasingly innoyative and high-intensity stylistic and technological
strategies, fi>om-111 Q/lie/ 1111 the Wes/em Froll/ (1930) through.-1 Walk ill the
SIIII (1945), COllie alld See (USSR, 19S4) and Pia/lloll (19S6), to SaI'lllg Pri,'ate
R)'a II (1997).
It is these combat scenes, playing a central dramatic role, that generically
dc/inc the war film. A comprehensi\c historical account of any connict, or of
war as a whole, necessarily includes the home fi'OI1t, supply lines, espionage,
diplomacy, goyernment and military general staff, to say nothing of the
build-up to and the aftermath of connict, alongside accounts of battle; and
eyery national cinema of course includes a large number of films dealing with
most or all of these subjects, some of them such as spy films and stories of
returning \ctcrans - comprising; distinct sub-genres in their O\\n right.
Rubenstein (19<)4: 456) identifies eig'ht major generic variants of the (Holly-
wood) war film - the Embattled Platoon; thc Barrie Epic; the Battling
Buddies (in which two riyals, fi)r example for the Ion: of the same girl, fight
each other as much as the enemy but eyentually bury the hatchet, proto-
typically What Price G/II/T? (Uj2(l), [ later FI)'illg Fllr/resses (1942), Crash Di,'e
(J()43)); the Strain of Command; the Anti\\ar Film; the PO\\ Escape; the
War Preparedness Film; the Sen icc Comedy-.\lusical (an extremely elastic
category that runs fi'om jO\ial Llrces like Blldi Pri,'a/es (1941) and morale-
boosting musical l"C\UeS like Stage DOllr Call/em (1943) to fierce later .mti-
war and anti-military satires like .H*-/*S*H .1I1d Ca/(h-22 (both uno)). Such
a list olwiously makes the war film a di \crse and expansi ye category, and for
this reason most commentators tend to foll<m lhsinger, \vho argues that the
'war film' as such 'does not exist in a coherent generic fl)rm' (I 9S6: 10) and
sets aside war-related strains such as musicals and the PO\\ film to isolate
the film of combat, represented primarily by the first fllUl" categories..\s
eyer, such distinctions .lre anything but \yatertight: combat scenes /Cature
importantly, for example, in both the classic \y.lr preparedness films TIll'
Figh/illg 69/h (1940) and Sergeall/ Lnli (1941 ).2 The \yar/ combat film deals
distinctly \\'ith modern \yarLIre: \yhile historical dramas \yith milit,lry themes,
THE WAR/COMBAT FILM: GENRE AND NATION 10 7
from TIle Chalge o(/Ile L/~f(ht Brigilde (1936, GB 1968) to Briluhcart (1995)
ob\'iously intersect \vith the modern war film in their presentation of military
t.lctics and staging of battle scenes, it is the experience of modern, mechan-
ised warfare that gi\es the genre its distinctiye syntax. Notably, too, the
connicts which ha\'e proyided the most enduring generic variants - the First
\\'orld War, the Second World War and Vietnam - were all fought by con-
script armies, thus lending an important representative quality to the seryice
experience (although more recent films dealing with the modern profession-
.I1ised military like BlatA> /-fa /1'1.' /)0/1'11 and Behilld EIICllI)! Lilies (both 200 I)
suggest that perhaps the notion of soldier as EYenman is so firmly
established that the combat genre can dispense with thi~). .
The operatiye definition of 'combat' in the warlcombat film is from the
military analyst's point of yie\y quite naITO\Y and excludes many if not most
key areas of modern \yarfare. The combat film usually focuses not on stra-
tegic military planning - indeed the ignorance, cynicism or nen contempt of
sen ing troops for the grand strategic designs that haye placed them in
h,lrm's \yay is a repeated generic motif ,- but on the direct experience of battle
of the small military unit \vith clearly defined membership and boundaries
(paradigmatically the infantry platoon, gunship or bomber 'crew). Badsey
(.W02: 245) obsencs that these units arc 'a yen small minority in any re,;1
()\crall \var-effi>rt', compared to log'istical, planning and supply ;)perati<;ns or
homeland defence, but their dramatic appeal is precisely the clarity and
simplicity of their task: they eng'agc in fighting' 'as Hom~r understo;)d it'.
Pierre Sorlin (1<)94: 359-(0) argues that this emphasis on the self-contained
unit, crcating: an 'imaginary \yar ... rcpresented as the sum of heroic actions
clrried out by handfuls of indiyiduals' so well suited to narrativc cinema's
dramatic needs, O\yed something to changin ot'>' modern military" theory in the
hlte nineteenth cent ury in the light of colonial episodes such as the siege of
\lafeking or the battle of Rorke's Drift (fictionalised on film in ,),) /)a')'s a/
Pd-II/g (ui)3) and ZI/III ([()(q), respecti\ely).
The e\'()lution of the \\ar (or combat) film is marked perhaps more directh
than any other by dnelopments in the \vorld beyond the frame. The shif:t
from The Big Pamde (1<)25) to Til" Slll/ds or/mo Jill/a (u)45) and thence to
Pla/olil/ (I<)S(l), Three Kil/gs (H)<)t)) and BfacA' Hall'l.' /)011'11 olwioush cannot
simply he explained in terms of internal ~eneric c\olution or 'lif~-C\cles'.
Changing perceptions of particular \\ars and of war itself, arising fi'o~ the
cumulati\e sharcd cultural experience of difterent conflicts and their em-
bedded politics, elicit unusually direct effects in the shifting: tenor, icono-
graphy and generic \crismilitudes of \var films. Thus, as \ve shall sec, \\hile
First \\'orkl \\'ar and \ietnam combat films tend to emphasise the futility,
brutality and sufkring of \\ar - in the uni\ersal or the particular - Second
\\orld \\ar mO\ies are more likely to emphasise 'positi\e' \alues of valour,
108 FILM GENRE
patriotism and purposeful sacrifice. Similarly, different national experiences
of conflict and of \ictory or defeat ensure a remarkable dissimilarity in the
generic conventions by which wars are rendered in different national cinemas
- sometimes even curtailing direct representation altogether (for instance the
'un,lvailability' of Second World War combat as a direct topic in postwar
German cinema). At the same time, war films exercise their O\vn pO\verful
capacity to structure popular memory and hence to 'rC\\Tite' history. Finally,
the war film is also notable for the high degree of interest and sometimes
active iIwolvement (or interference) it attracts from national gO\ernments
and its implication in propaganda efforts. For all of these reasons, while
retaining a focus on Holly\\ood, this chapter will throughout consider and
compare variants of the war / comhat film across se'Tral national cinemas,
sampled primarily through their different representations of four major con-
fliers: the two World Wars, the K.orean War and \"ietnam.
THE FIRST WORLD WAR
The consequences of the First World War (Il)q-18) for global cinem.] \\ere
in their way as far-reaching as for \\orld politics and economics. The deform-
ations the war eff(lrt inflicted upon the economies of the \v.lITing' European
nations retarded the dnelopment of distinctive national cinemas; in Russia,
the most extreme case, military collapse, revolution and civil \var etfecti,'Cly
annihilated the domestic film industry until the mid-Il)ZOS. COl1\Trseh the
American film industrY, "
sustained lw. its hug-e intern,tlmarket and ..\merica's
late entr\' (:'v1arch [()I/) into the \\'ar, \vas well placed to t'lke competiti\'e
ad\',mtage of the situ~1tion and emerg-ed from the \var enormously streng-
thened, f(JI" the first time clearly the g-Iobally dominant industry. The \var
also made plain lilm's unprecedented potential as a 1001 for disseminating
inf()rmation and propag-,mda, resulting- in sig'nificant changes to the relation-
ship bet,veen g'overnments ,1I1d national film industries. In the CS ..\, as \LInt
(19 8 :;) argues, although lilm h'ld only a limited impact upon .\merican
audiences during the brief CS il1\ohement in hostilities, intlustrygo\'ernment
collaboration on \\ ar bond dri\ es led to former Trelsury Secret.lry \Yilliam
:YlcAdoo's .Ippointment to a senior position at the ne\\ ly f(lrmed Cnited
Artists, setting- a precedent f(JlO \vhat \vould subsequently become a L1irly
frequent l'\chang-e of personnel bet,\'een go\,ernl11ent and Holly\\ood and a
br more Ll\ourab\c ,1ttil ude in g-oyernment circles g'Cneralh I(lr the hitherto
unrespectablc medium of film. In .Iddition, the \Yilson administration's
acceptance th.n the film's industry's economic independence need not be
compromised or curtailed for the cinema to be mobilised in the national
interest would pro\'e hug-ely significant f(lr the next \\ aI'.
TilE WAR/COMBAT FILM: GENRE AND NATION 109
\Vhile all the \varring countries produced highly partisan patriotic wartime
dramas and propaganda films, no clear generic template for the representa-
tion of the First \Vorld \Var coalesced until later in the silent period, when
it formed part of a much larger cultural and political reckoning with the
meaning and implic1tions of the \\ar. :\"otably lacking during the war itself
\V,IS the later identification of combat scenes as central to making dramatic
sense of the \var, \vith spy films, hagiographic biographies of military and
politic11 \caders and - especially - sensational melodramas that purported to
depict (largely imented and soon discredited) German atrocities on civilian
populations in occupied Fnll1ce and the Lo,v Countries all vying to define
the \var f(lr audiences at home. Perhaps the most lasting; consequence of such
IIr
in LlIllOUS en tries as TI,c Beas/ Bali" (Il) I 8) \vas the later reluctance of Allied
film-makers in the Second \Vorld W,lr to inflict such crude, bare-knuckle
propaganda upon sceptical audiences (sec Dibbets and Hogenkamp, 199:;).
Cinem.nic representations of the 'Great \Var' in the 1920S and Il)JOS
demonstrate \cry clearly the close relationship between this genre and con-
temporary politics. In the-\lIied countries, the initial jubilation of \ictory
quickly gave \\ay to a negati\T perception of the \var's afterm'lth thM in turn
came to colour understandings of the \var itself. The best-knO\vn expressions
of this mood of disillusionment arc t\VO larg-c-scale anti-,var melodram,ls,
\bel Gance's .7'-l(({{sc (France 1(19), \\ith its uncompromising depiction of
the horrors of \\ar folll)\\ing hard on the\rmistice itself, and The B,p, Parade
(I()z:;), \\hose hero returns from the trenches minus his illusions, most of his
comrades and his leg' to find a glib and shallO\v civilian \vorld that shabbily
C\ploits fighting men's sacrifice for its 0\\ n self-interested ends.
This contr.lst het\\een the fierce integrity of the blood brotherhood of
comhat troops and the ullo\\ness or indifference ofci\ilians and, somclimes,
military brass became .1 hallmark of First \Vorld \Var films. '\otably, this
sympathy \\as able to cross the lines of fortner hostilities in the name of ,I
shared humanity, most Ltmously in /II Qllle/ 1111 /he /It's/em Fro/II ([(no), the
story of a young German soldier's suffering' and death in thc trenches. (The
rl'\Tlation of German \var crimes and the Ilolocaust \vould make the
svmp.nhetic treatment of Second \\orld \Var Gcrman soldiers much more
difficult, although a clear distinction \\as ofien dra\\ n bet\veen 'decent' Wehr-
macht oHicers such as those plaved by \ lichad Caine in Tilc h'ag/e !las I,allded
(1<)I(l) and James Coburn in Cross 0( /rllll ([()II) and their cOl1\inced ;,\LlZi
superiors.·') It is \\orth noting incidentally that this \videspread ele,ation of
the experience of the trenches into a kind of C1hary or existential crucible,
geIll'!'.lting pri\ i1egnl insights tLll1scending' the Iri\ialities of the home front,
\\.IS not necessarily associated \vith pacifism or liheralism: 'Ilthough the :\'azis
(still .In opposition party) and other right-\\ ing German natiol1<llist parties
\ io!cnth' denounced _-/II Qllie/ ... and disrupted screenings, the extreme right
110 FILM GENRE
shared a perception of the war as a transcendent experiential moment that
demanded expiation and restitution. The dominant iconography of the First
W~orld \Var that emerged from ..11/ QlIlcl ... and its European counterparts -
notably Wesl/i'(ill! 1918 (Germany I<)3I) - is of the trenches, the moonscape
of No Man's Land, mud, decay, squalor and (physical and moral) confusion.
Chambers (1994) suggests that such 'anti-war' films should be generically
distinguished from 'war films'; Kane (1988: 87) on the other hand insists that
such films, which operate by complicating or imerting standard generic
dualities, 'represent a predictable place on the established genre continuum'.
In LlCt, very few combat films about any \var arc 'pro-\var' in any simple
sense: most retain a serious awareness of the suffering and loss war entails
even if they wholeheartedly endorse the reasons for fighting (as is the case
with the overwhelming majority of US and CK Second World \Var combat
films through the 1960s and in most cases beyond).
The situation was somewhat different in Britain, where despite the intlu-
ential portrayal of the war during the I<)ZOS by (mostly officer class) veterans
through memoirs, novels and abO\e all poetry as 'wholly traumatic and
catastrophic', films tended to cleave more closely to official versions (which
as recent revisionist histories have suggested may also have in Llet more
closely retlected the common soldier's experience and understanding of the
war: see Burton, zooz). Thus although 'they deplore the carnage of war ...
they do not question the necessity of duty' (Landy, I<)91: IZO). In this sense
British portrayals of the Great War did not 'catch up' with other national
cinemas until the 1900s, when according to Korte (ZOOI: IZI-Z) 'a new contcxt
of sceptical self-examination' definitively disassociated the image of the First
World War from positive notions of patriotic s,lcrifice ,Ind attached it
exclusi\Cly to suffering and pity. (Korte notes that this is the period when
the war poetry of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfrid Owen became standard
school texts.) Burton suggests that it \V,lS in Llct the institutionalisation of the
Second World War as Britain's 'finest hour' that reinforced the cinematic
representation of thc First \Vorld \Var as, by necessar: contrast, brutal carnage
at the behcst of a corrupt and cynical establishment, for instance in kill/!, illld
Counlr)' (19(>4) and more recently RegClleralioll (I<)(n); such early sound-era
Great \Var dramas as Tell Ellglillld (1931) may accordingly prO\e upon closer
inspection less blindly patriotic and affirmative than often beliC\ed.
It would be \\Tong- to suggest that every cinematic treatment of the First
World War is polemically anti-war in spirit and bkak in tone. :'\otably, a
robust sub-genre depicting the (in strategic terms Elirly marg-inal) air war
cekbrated the dashing elvalry spirit of the fighter ace (Willgs, I<)Z7; The [)il lI'Il
Pillrol, 1930, remade I<)38; more recently ~1ces High, GB I<n6) . .\loreO\er, in
many First World War combat films there is a strong train of (albeit some-
times despairing) romanticism th,lt mitigates the bloodiness of the slaughter:
THE WARCOMBAT FIL:\1: GE"JRE AND NATION III
]ollrlle)"s Elld (193I), which like Tell Ellglillld eulogises the tragically honour-
,Ible British officer class, is perhaps the classic example (see also Kelly, 1997;
Burton, zooz). ~onetheless, so firmly \vas the image of the First World War
,IS futile slaughter lodged in the American public mind by the 1930S that the
earlier war presented real problems as a background against which to encour-
,Ige war preparedness in the years leading up to Pearl Harbor for those studios
that were keen to do so - notably \Varners, who did manage to produce two
of the most important preparedness films, The n:e:hling 691h and the multi-
\cadem y-:\. \vard-\vinning SClgeil III }'o!'l', in First W orld War settings (sec
Leab, 19(3).
THE SECOND WORLD WAR
Lniquely, the generic paradigm of the Second World War combat film was
established during the \var itself, and has been largely maintained since.
\loreO\er, this generic model subsequently becomes the principal frame of
reference for almost all later combat films. Regarding the Hollywood combat
film, key Elctors in this speedy and enduring generic crystallisation, com-
p,lreu to both earlier and later major conflicts, \vould presumably include the
l1luch more extensive (compared to the First World War) conversion of US
society to the \var eff(Jr!, the high degree of consensus about the necessity
,1l1d value of the \var (unlike Vietnam) and clarity about its aims and out-
comes (unlike Korea). ~\merica's four-year participation in the confEct
(19-P-43) also allowed ample time f()r the establishment anu refinement of a
\ iable generic model (by contrast, post- \ ietnam conventional campaig-ns,
with the notable exception of the second Iraq \Var (zo03-), have been com-
pleted in weeks or days). \loreO\Tr, what is true f()r Hollywood is true as well
!<)r the national cinema of every other major combatant. Also without
exception, testifying to the \var's political and cultural centrality not only for
the war generation themselves but f()r those who were children during the war
,InU those born in the following decade (in CS terms, the 'baby boomers'),
national cinemas ha\T periodically returned to the Second World War
combat film, updating and revising the classic generic paradigm in the light
of both ne\v unuerstandings and perceptions of the war itself~- notably, the
growing centrality to Second \\orld War historiography of civilian suffering-
in general and the Holocaust in particular - and the changing contemporary
political em ironment (the two arc of course closely linked). For this reason,
this section is subdivided into t\VO parts, dealing respectively with Second
\Vorld \Var combat films made during the war and those made subsequently.
112 FILM GENRE
The Second World War COIl1bat Film 1939--45
The experience of the Second World War highlights the extent to which the
war / combat film is implicated in the political needs of its moment of pro-
duction and subject to wholesale revision. Hollywood was cautious about
dealing with war-related, let alone explicitly anti-Nazi themes during the late
1930S, mindful of the still-fragile state of its finances in the lingering
Depression, its reliance on lucrative foreign (principally European) markets,
and hostility from isolationist elements in Congress. With the outbreak and
spread of the European war these markets were progressi\"ely closed to
Hollywood, until only the UK - in any event Holly\\ood's most important
overseas market - remained (thus confirming the studios in an anti-Nazi,
interventionist line). Simultaneously, as Schatz (I 99H: 92--+) points out,
Roosevelt's massive rearmament drive after 1939 both put a definitive end to
the Depression and boosted working populations and incomes in those \"ery
urban industrial areas where mO\'ing-going \vas strongest - thus ensuring
that Hollywood's own rising fill'tunes \vere firmly hitched to the war economy.
'Nevcr before or since', he argues, 'ha\"e the interests of the nation and the
movie industry been so closely alig"ned, and nc\er has Holly\\ood's status as
a national cinema been so \ital ... I with an I cfTecti\"e integration of Holly-
wood's ideological and commercial imperatives' (p. H9). The production of
war-related (though rarely actual combat) themes rose from a bare handful in
1939--+0 to some three dozen (still only 6.S per cent of total output) in the
last year of peace, 1941 (see Shain, 1(76).
As Thomas Doherty (1993: HS-121) argues, neither of the t\vin paradigms
established filr Hollywood representation of the First World War during the
1920S and early 1930S - pacifist despair in the trenches, giddy heroism in the
air - were appropriate to the needs of the conflict into \\"hich the US,'\. \\as
finally impelled by the attack on Pearl Harbor in December 19-+1. The gTOUp
ethos promoted during" the conflict would require not only the recasting: of
existing war film motifs but the subordination of prnalent attitudes and
their corresponding narrative templates in Hollywood g-cnres and filr that
matter in America at larg-c, 'The necessity of personal sacrifice and the \"alue of
communitarian purpose were not exactly main currents in ,'\.merican thought
... The cheeky newspaperman, the lonesome cO\vboy, the private detective,
the single-minded inventor, e\cn the \\"ill to power of the urban gangster
strike chords unsounded by the re\vards of group solidarity and communal
work' (Doherty, 199]: IOS). Thus the theme of'col1\"ersion' emerged as central
to the wartime film industry, both as narrative template of \var-oriented films
and a touchstone for the reorganisation of production processes, as studio
operations and establishcd story formulas and star personae \\cre retooled for
the war effort.
TIlE "'AR/COMBAT FII.!\I: (iE:"JRE AND NATION 113
Building on thc lessons of the First World War, the US government
maintained an arm's-length relationship to the film industry during the war,
liaising and coordinating production of war-related films through the Office
of \\"ar Information (0\-\"1) but stopping \vell short of gross propagandising
or direct state control in the German or Soviet mode. Indeed, democratic
pluralism and diversity, as \\e shall see, became the defining motif of Holly-
\vood's \var effort, The dominant tenor adopted by the combat films pro-
duccd by the Hollywood studios during the \\"ar itself was - contrary to the
popular recei\ed wisdom of Boy's Own heroics- a hard-bitten, sometimes
g-rim professionalism rather than the sho\\y valour of prewar period military
films such as Tile C/Ill/:e:e orllte J,lgltl Brigade (1936). In keeping with govern-
Illent concerns not to raise unrealistic expectations of early victory, the war
\vas presented as a tough, often grimly attritional struggle ag"ainst fierce,
on.>;anised and ruthless enemies (in the case of the Japanese, often freighted
with negati\"e racial stereotyping). In the first disastrous months after Pearl
Harbor, as Allied forces \vere rolled back across the Pacific Theatre, Holly-
\\ ood combat films \\ ere not guaranteed happy endings: the Embattled Platoon
\ ariant found its classic expression at this time in such tales of heroic
annihilation as /I id'e Islalld (19-+2) and Balaall (19-+3). In any case, with some
six million CS sen"icemen and women sening' O\erseas by the war's end,
Emtasy \crsions of the \var could be quickly discredited. Such bctors, com-
bined \\"ith the imperati\cs of historical immediacy - Columbia's SulJII/llrille
Raider (H)-+2) \vas in cinemas \vithin six months of Pearl Harbor, and such
tight turnaround times \vere not unusual - and the influence of wartime
nnvsrecls, lent Hollywood a ne\v degTee of realism,
One shou Id not o\"erstate the clement of \vartime innO\"ation as opposed to
traditional industrial adaptation: Schatz for instance notes how not only
James Cagney's Crmiliar tough-guy persona \\as carried over into the \-var
milieu in Tile Fig/I II II,!!, hi)lll but also a rcfill'll1ation/ cOl1\ersion narrative -
here, his suppression of his anti-social super-individualism in Ll\our of the
team bmiliar from his gangster film "Illgeis Willt Dlrl)1 Fa(es (I<)JH) and
aided by the same means - a priest played by Pat O'Brien. Yet combat film
narrati\cs did sho\\ marked differences with the pre\var norm, Dana Polan
(19H6: I I2) argues that Holly\\ood's classical narrati\e paradigm with its
indi\"idual protag'onist and clearly resoh"ed conflicts unden\"ent a temporary
but profound shift to accommodate the \\"ar effilrt, subordinating the indiyi-
dual to the collecti\'e (or 'team') and the romantic couple to the g-cnder-
specific \\artime duties of men and \\omen (see also Ray, 19H5). The theme
of sublimating personal ambitions and desires into a larger unit becomes
commonplace, focusing either on the need for se\eral indi\iduals to pool
their differences or on the lone nuverick \\ho becomes a team player. Paris
(I <)<)7) shows hO\\ the depiction of the bomber ClT\V in an early Second
114 FILM GENRE
World War film like Air Pllrte (1943) consciously mo\es away from the 'lone
eagle' heroics that characteriscd 19305 aviation movies, with their emphasis
on fighter aces, towards the prevailing model of democratic 'teamwork' -
exemplified in Air Fllree by the transformation of the initially embittered
failed pilot Winocki into a 'team player'. As part of the dneloping pattern,
war films showed how the sen-ices could reward all skills - and not just the
ostensibly more 'glamorous' ones -- with a key role in the team: in Rear
GUllller (1943), pintsize crack-shot backwoodsman Burgess Meredith finds
his ideal niche in the tail cockpit of a B-2S bomber crew. Such examples,
readily multiplied, support Basinger's argument that the 'hero' of the Second
World War movie is a collecti\e one, the combat unit - the inL1I1try platoon
or the bomber crew, an ethnically and socially variegated CIT\\ whose differ-
ences arc suppressed, superseded or set aside for the duration of their mission
and whose different skills and abilities (and sometimes nen weaknesses)
complement each other to mould a unit whose value is definitively more than
the sum of its constituent parts. (Landy (1<)91: 1(12) identifies a similar project
in the British combat film: 'War narratives like Tile Way .iltead (19-+0) are
dramas of conversion, but unlike traditional cOl1\ersion patterns, \vhich focus
on a single character, this film focuses on transformations of the group.' In
both Air Fllne and He Dic'e .11 Dall'll (GB 1<)-+3), the opening credits identify
characters by rank or function rather than name.)
Although Kane (I<)XX) notes the general lack of er/ll/eil ideologising in
Second World War combat films, the 'tean1\\Ork' model \\.IS instantly legible
in terms of the preniling ideology of the 'good \var': Wood (H)X I: (8)
describes the bomber crew as 'an idcal democracy in microcosm' \\ho achieve
'a perfect balance ... between individual fulfilment and the responsihility of
each member to the whole. The cre\v enact the v,dues they arc fighting fllr,'
a reading wholly supported by contemporary industry publicity and corres-
pondence with the OWl and uni\ersally endorsed hy commentators. ))emo-
cronic diversity importantly extends to demography too: the ethnically diverse
platoon - emblematically enacted in the roll-call of recognisably 'hyphenated
American' names - is of course an abiding genre cliche, and, as Basinger
(I <)86: SS) obsen es, mcrtly invokes the 'melting pot'. This in terpretation
again confl)rms to industry and gmernment's contemporary relay and fllrms
part of the cOl1\entional critical \visdom. Thus Paris (I<)<)j: -+X) arg'ues that
'from Gillig IIII! (1<)-+2), in \\hich a .\larine colonel ... orders his racially
mixed unit to "cast out prejudice, racial, religious, and every other kind", to
Pride 1I(tlte /fiatilles and 1 1/ idA' in 1111' SIIII (both J()-+S), the combat group has
stood as a metaphor fllr a democratic society.' This democratic inclusiveness,
however, has its contradictory dimensions, particularly in relation to race.
Not only were mixed r,lcial groups at odds with the realities of military
segregation (in Gnllg HII! and Balaall they are accounted for dramatically by
THE WAR/COMBAT FILM: GENRE AND NATION lIS
the ad hoc nature of these films' combat units, patched together for special
missions from the remnants of routed larger forces);-+ Slotkin (2001) argues
that the broadening of the CS ethnic and racial community enacted in films
like these' \\as achievable only through the outward expansion of the 'racial
frontier' and the projection of the negative stigma of the racial Other onto the
enemy, usually the Japanese.
Street (2002: (3) records that British wartime films were popular and
highly regarded in the US. In Samuel Goldwyn's opinion, the war had enabled
British cinema finally to discmer a distinctive style of its own, 'broader and
11101'1.' international' than HollY\\"(lod and expressive of 'the intimate univer-
s,dity of everyday living'. Like its US counterpart, British wartime cinema
used depictions of combat not only to record the course of the war but to
project the core values of the struggle: whereas US combat films reinforced
and extended traditional A.merican democratic principles, however, their
British counterparts helped construct a nmel collecti\ist ethos that was defined
hy its differences from pre\var society: 'The ideology of the people's war
\\ hich emerges from (British) wartime films is one of national unity and social
cohesion: class differences have all but disappeared and han.> been replaced
instead by a democratic sense of community and comradeship' (Chapman,
[l)l)X: I(JI; sec also Kuhn, J()XI) ..\s a na\-al power, maritime combat fcatures
Illore prominently in British tl1<1n in US war films, and the enclosed com-
Illunity and enfl)rced intimacy of scagoing warfare lent themsehes readily to
object lessons about about the ne\v professional alli.mces emerging from the
liar effort, challeng.-ing and superseding traditional class differences. In the
submarine film Ifi' lJ!L'e al Da!l'n, successful soldiering resolves the con-
fusions and complications of domestic and civilian life. (The British war film
has probably been the most thoroughly explored of any national cinema: sec
also Hurd, «)X-+; Landy, 1<)<)1: q6-66; Chapman, Il)9X; J'Vlurphy, 2000;
Paris, 2000.)
'\oting' the relatively small number of Smiet front-line combat films made
during the \\ar - particularly in light of the genre's notable and consistent
popubrity in the post\var era - Kenez suggests that 'perhaps the struggle was
fllr the SO\iet people too serious an aff~lir to be depicted as a series of
adventures. Or maybe the directors considered the st.lbility of the home front
a greater concern than the behaviour of soldiers under fire' (2001: 176). By
contrast, films about partisans \vere more numerous, more popular and
generally regarded as better quality. Parallels to the multi-ethnic combat unit
in the Holly\vood war film <:<111 be flmml in the stress on multinational and
pan-Slavic cooperation against the ~azi threat - an important propaganda
line gin:n '\azi attempts to exploit (justified) anti-Bolshnik nationalist
resentments among the minority nationalities in the Soviet Cnion. Hmvever,
a distinguishing; feature of Smiet films such as Site De/ends lite _Hllt/lerlant!
116 FILM GE:"JRE
(USSR H)+3), The RIlII/liOIl' (USSR 19H) and Zolll (CSSR I(J-!.-I-) is their
ftlcus on female protagonists whose sex mitigates neither their inyolyement
in the resistance to the Nazis nor indeed thc ferocity of their yiolence (here
dnnving on Soyiet cincmatic precedents, ttl!" example PudoYl.;in's Thc .Hother,
1(26). Another notable difference was the stress in Soyiet 'historical' wartime
epics on heroic inspirational leader figurcs such as l(utUZO\ (with the
incvitable and transparent analog'y to Stalin). Gillespie (zOOT IzR-9) finds
the Russian war film 'deadly serious, with a more \'isceral immediacy' than
its western counterparts, and notes the much more graphic depiction of
extreme and sadistic yiolcnce. Unsurprisingly, gi\ en that thc Soviet film
industry \\ as wholly state-owned and con trolled, Soyiet \var films were also
often more crudely propagandistic than Amcrican or British films, as
reyealed, for example, hy a comparison of the deliberately low-key depiction
of submarine warfare in We DI,'c 11/ DIII/"Z w'ith the absurd heroics of
SIl/Jlllilril/e T-q (USSR 1()+3), in which 'a single submarine sinks countless
enemy ships, raids a German port and C\ en lands some marines ashore to
blow up a strategic hridge, <Ill with the loss of just one man' (Gillespie, zo03:
130).
The wartime films of the defeated :\xis powers are rarely seen and hence
little known except hy specialists. There is, howcyer, a t:lirly considerable
literature on Nazi film generally, including war films, of \vhich probably the
best known is the historical epic A"o/lierg (11)-1-.5), produced under Goebbels'
personal supenision (but ironically barely seen by German audiences beftlre
the war's end since Allied bombing had closed most German cinemas by the
time A"o//Icrg premiered in Januar~ J<)-I-.5). Japanese \\ar films are c\"Cn less
well-known in the West: hlme,,:r, according to Freiberg (1996), Japanese
combat films of the late 1<)30S - responding to the mixed f()rtunes of the 1937
imasion of China - surprised suhsequent western viewers (ineluding military
analysts) in their hleakness, austerity, relatin' lack of propagandising and
cardhoard heroics, and acknowledgement of suffering. Fol1<l\\ing Pearl Harbor
and Japan's initial spectacular successes in southeast .-\sia, howcyer, a fully
mobilised film industry increasing;!y employed nationalist and military rhetoric
hitherto absent fi"om the genre. 'Generally', Freiberg notes, '\v<utime films
posit the army unit and the nation as an extended family, or surrogate family,
to replace the biological LlInily ... All personal relationships, including those
among re,d family memhers, were to be subordinated to national sen'ice,
Romantic IO\"C and e\ en family affection had to be repressed in these films of
national unity' (pp. 33-.5). (On Japanese combat films sec also .\bmell. 197-1-,
and Anderson and Richie, 191'3).
THE WAR-COMBAT FILM: GE:"JRE A:"JD NATION II7
The Second World War Combat Film since 1945
Broadly speaking, the Second World War combat film was a staple of the
principal Allied national cinemas -- the USA, the USSR and Britain - until
the late HnOS, at which point the genre Ellis into disuse until the end of the
Cold War and a series of large-scale public commemorations of Second
\\orld War anniyersaries prO\oke a revival in the 1990s.1> Kane (1<)88: 86)
identifies Z-I- Holly\yood combat films produced between 19-1-2 and 19-1-5; after
I this there is a two-year hiatus until production of combat films resumes in
1l)+7, follo\ving which at least one Second World War combat film is released
I
each year until 1970. By contrast, in the defeated Axis powers, the combina-
I tion of defeat, wholesale social and economic reconstruction, rapid incorpor-
ation into the western anti-communist alliance and the shameful but largely
I unaddressed legacy of \\'ar crimes made the production of combat films,
particularly in (West) Germany or Japan, too problematic and contentious a
I proposition to generate more than a handful of films until much later. The
mythology of resistance in Italy and France offered alternative narrative
I p<lradigms for the \yar, but the nature of partisan warfare sets these in some
degree outside the mainstream combat genre tradition.
I
The dinTgent British and American experiences of actual warfare post-
I 19-1-5 of course pnl\ide essential context for the differences between the
directions taken by the combat g'enre in their respecti \'e national cinemas. In
I both America and Britain, the cessation of hostilities saw a corresponding
immediate demobilisation of the film industry, upon the assumption that
I \var-wC<lry audiences f.l\oured a return to either lighter EIre or serious
dramas more relevant to the new challen[!:es of 'winning the peace' (as in the
I cycle of postwar social problem films dealing with racial discrimination in the
LS: Gl'II//CI/IIII/ '.I' • Jg/'Cl'IIll'II/, H)-I-7; Pil/I.T, 19-1-9). Upon the genre's re-
I
l'lnergence in the late 19-1-0S - coinciding with the renewal of !arg"e-scale
I o\"Crseas military operations in h.orea (see below) - interesting diyergences
appear bet\\ecn the CS and British models.
I British \\<lrfare during this period was typified by the series of bloodv,
protracted and messy campaigns against nationalist insurgents in the shrink-
I ing Empire, but these \vere massi\ely O\'ershadowed by the 1956 Suez Crisis,
a disastrous, divisive and humiliating episode which effectively extinguished
I
Britain's ambitions to remain a Great Power on the \yorld stag'e, Counter-
insurgency and postcolonial adyenturism alike compared yery poorly to still-
I
fresh recollections of wartime experience where military yalour allied to moral
I rectitude and national unity laboured to secure ultimate Yicrory, The ensuing
boom in \\ar film production in the 19:;OS both contributed to and reflected
I the rapid crystallisation of wartime memory into defining nostalgic national
myth. Richards (1997) and Geraghty (zo03) identif~y in British war films of
I
I
118 FILM GENRE
the H)50S a moye away from the collectiyist tone of the \\ar years towards a
renewed focus on the officer class alongside a new emphasis on processes of
elite planning' and decision-making. The Cmel Sea (1953), one of the decade's
most successful war films in the UK, eliminates much of the below-decks
material in adapting :'\ieholas Monserrat's best-seller and focuses more
narrowly on the captain's sometimes intolerable burden of command. The
popular sub-genre of POW-camp escape films such as Tlte lJoodt'll Horse and
Tlte Coldil;:, Slor)' (both [()55), confined to the ofEcer class, emphasise meti-
culous planning and the role of a 'management class' (the escape com-
mittees). Scientists and strategists - 'boffins' in wartime lingo - emerge from
the shadows to stand alongside selected cadres of specialist commandos in
recreating notably nmTl, and now declassified, tactics such as midget sub-
marines (Abrn'e Us Ihe Wat'es, [()55) and the 'bouncing bomb' (Tlte Dam
Buslers, 195+). (On the postwar and H)50S British \\ar film, see \ledhurst,
11)8+; Pronay, 1988; Rattigan, 199+; .1\1urphy, 2000: 179-239; Geraghty, 2003:
175-95; Chapman, 2000).
Far more than its US counterpart, the British 'war film' is yirtually syn-
onymous with the Second World War: colonial and postcolonial conflicts
(such as the 1982 Falklands War and British military il1Yohcment in :\'orthern
Ireland from H)67) haye not been depicted on-screen as generic combat
situations (see McIlroy, 1998). The British combat film shri\clled alongside
other traditional genres during the near-collapse of the domestic film
industry in the [(nOS; \\hile it would appear to offer suitable material for
either of the dominant genres of the 1980s, social realism and the heritage
film, combat films of any kind did not feature until the turn of the millen-
nium, and then only in such generically marginal examples as the First
World \Var-set Regmcralioll and f)ealhll'a/(It (2002, a trench \\arelIT-horror
hybrid).
The defining US engagement of the immediate postwar period \\as the
'police action' in Korea (19+9 53), in which US fi)ITeS, leading a liN-
sponsored international coalition, confronted the new Communist enemy for
the first time in the shape of first the :\'orth Korean and subsequently the
Red Chinese armies. The absence of an~ immediate thre,lt to US territory, as
well as the anti-Communist hysteria dominating the domestic political
landscape throughout the war's duration clim,lxing in the diyisiye Red-
hunting campaigns of Senator Joe ~lcCarthy, made Korea a difficult war to
'sell' in the inspirational terms of the Second World \\',Ir by now firmly
established in US national mythology as the 'Good War'. Despite its later
reputation as the 'fi)rgotten \\'<11", hmYe\cr, at le,lst t\\"() dozen \\ar / combat
films dealt with Korea, the great majority made betwcen 1952 and 1956. In
the absence of a distincti\c iconog-raphy, Korean combat films like Relreal,
Hell! (1952) and .Hol al War (1957) tended largely to adopt the established
TilE WAR COMBAT FIL~I: (iE'JRE A'JD NATION 11<)
I
Second World War platoon model, superficially updated to include new
I military technologies such as the helicopter and jet plane (e.g. Sabre Jet,
I H)53) and new social realities - notably the racially integrated military. The
confusing, attritional nature of the conflict (in which periods of stalemate
I .dternated \\ith enormous campaigns of manoeU\Te, while objectiyes changed
hands seyeral times oyer the course of the war), howeYer, may account fi)r
I the weary, unillusioned tone that increasingly characterises both Korean and
Second World \Var combat films in this period.
I Porl' Chop Hill (H)59), a late Korean War entry - released closer to the
start of full-scale liS military in\"()lyement in Indochina in 1965 than to the
I end of the Korean conflict itself - includes most of these elements alongside
I
interesting glances at earlier genre traditions. The action takes place during
literally the final hours of the conflict, and depicts an inf:mtry battalion charged
I to retake and hold a North Korean position of minimal strategic yalue other
than as a counter in the negotiations concurrently taking place between the
I L.'\/CS and Communist commands. Some traditional Second World War
clements are updated: the multi-ethnic platoon now includes a Nisei (second
I g;eneration Japanese-,\merican) junior officer as well as Black soldiers, onc
of \\hom is mutinous (it is implied, as a result of his experiences of racist
I treatment) and has to be persuaded that his country desencs his loyalty.
I Enemy propaganda - often glancingly featured in the genre in the fi)rm of
.Iirdropped leaflets or (as in Balaall) a radio operator inadyertently tuning
I into 'Tokyo Rose' '. is a major presence in POI'/'" Cltop IIill yia the character
of a Chinese Communist broadcasting morale-sapping news to the troops.
I (So-called 'brainwashing', a nmTl Korean War fear prominently featured in
LS media, \\ould supply the premise of TltcHaudl1lrli/l1 Caudidale (19 62 ),
I \\hich opens with a Korea combat sequence.) A striking; anachronism
remarked upon as such by the protagonists - is a fixed-bayonet 'oyer the top'
I assault on the Korean lines: in fact, the cross-cutting between the fighting
I men, the operational HQin a shell-beset bunker and the \\ rang;ling top brass
whose choices about lines on maps are life and death to the men under their
I command combine with the iconography of trenches (complete with street
signs and chicken hutches) and barbed wire to lend the film at times a
I decidedly First World War ambienceJ
Giyen the \\idespread interest in gO\erning elites disseminated down from
I
-\merican sociology during the 1950s, one might expect a similar pattern in
CS combat films to the prominent 'boffins' in the British war film. However,
I this is not ob\-iously the case. Arguably, the bbrication of technocratic
military-scientific-gO\ernmental alliances in confronting external enemies
I
becomes a major feature of the science fiction films of this decade (see
I Chapter 8; see also Biskind, H)83), bu t it is noticeably less prominent in
combat films. In fact, second-waYe combat films retain the wartime films'
I
I
120 FIUvt GENRE
focus on the day-to-day experience of ordinary fighting men. If anything,
more than eyer the infantryman's perspecti\e, which (possibly with Korea in
mind) now emerg'es as clearly the paradigmatic combat experience, is
depicted as remo\ed, e\en bamingly distant, from the grand strategies of
generals and politicians. Baftlegro/llld's (HJ-I-9) portrait of 'the battling
bastards of Bastogne' shows the platoon poring; oyer week-old copies of Sfars
and Stripes to determine \\hether they are in France or Belgium. The
footslogger's perception of his role in the opaque workings of grand military
strategy is a simple one: 'nobody cares'. Here and elsewhere in the period,
with the real war won and in the past, morale-raising' and O\ert ideological
lessons arc superseded by weary resolution and an eyer more hard-bitten
tone that increasing'ly \erges on outright cynicism: Balliegrollllil's reluctant
hero explains that his PFC rank stands fllr 'Praying For C:i\ilian'. The
implicit indi\idualism of such attitudes, strongly at odds with the didactic
collecti\ism of the classic Second World \Var model, emerges strongly post-
Korea in the loners played by William Holden in T/ie Bridge Oil flii' Ril'er
AIl'ai (1<).17) and StC\c McQueen in Hell is For Ili'l'oes (u)6z). In Tlie Dirty
Do::,ell (] <)67) and other late I <)60s 'dirty group' films, almost any sense of
shared endea\our has been jettisoned in Ll\OUr of a brulally Darwinian
landscape in which friend and foe alike are percei\cd as merely obstacles to
the o\erriding objecti\e of imli\idual suni\al.
While undergoing these generic shifts, Second World War combat films
continued to thri\e into the late 1<)60s in the contest of the bipartisan con-
sensus on CS stratq6c objecti\es and policies: the ideological dogmatism and
ruthlessness of these films' l'\azis and Japanese could be readily construed as
stand-ins for the equally Lmatical Communist opponents .\merica con-
fronted in theatres from I tl\ana to Hanoi. :\s this consensus fractured under
the combined strain of military Llilure and increasingly strident domestic
political opposition during the \ietnam War, howe\er - with student pro-
testors decrying GIs as 'babykillers' and comparing CS leaders to :\azis - the
resulting ideological \acuum appeared not only to put Vietnam itself off
limits as a dramatic subject, but to ha\e stripped away the credibility of all
and any heroic depictions of US military action, Disaffection with unac-
countable authority and disinclination to concei\e e\en the 'Good War' in
terms other than imli\idual self-preser\ation arc elements that grow stronger
in the coming decades: Neale (1991: -1-8) identifies .illart:.! (19.16), Tlie Dirfy
Do:::,eJ1, Play Dirty (19(l7) and Tolmil..' (1967) as films in which representati\es
of command draw up plans and issue orders "\hich arc both contrary to the
in terests of the men and (in some cases) ... of Ii ttle or no strategic \'alue'.
Rather earlier th,m the \Vestern and in a more condensed period, the
ideological disjunction between genre and its socio-political con tnt results in
a heightened re\isionism foli<l\\ed by a wholesale generic collapse. Thus,
TIlE WAR COMBAT FIL\\: (jE'JRE A'J[) NATION 1Z1
between July 1969 and July I <)70 ten US-made Second \Vorld War combat
films (and one Korean War film, AI*.i*S*H - although the film's anarchic
'Korea' was uni \ ersally umlerstood as a transparent mask for Vietnam) were
released onto US screens, a rate of production in keeping with the rest of the
decade..\nd just as highly traditional Westerns like Chis/lll/ (uno) and B/~f!;
7(/1:1' (Hnl) were being released alongside re\isionist landmarks like I,illie
'Hi~ \la II (J<no), some of these combat films, like T/ie Bridge af Rell/agell
(J<J6<)) and 11 OSij/l ifo Sijuadroll (1970), hewed \ery closely to the traditional
model; others (Too !.afe f/ie Hi'l'o, 19(9); KellJ"s Heroes, 1(70) - in both cases
l he titular 'heroism' is beyond ironic) pushed the demythifying tendency to
;1n extreme, while still others (Ca{(/i-22, 1(70) were coloured by counter-
cultural sensibilities. The poor box office of the massi\e CS-Japanese co-
production Tom.! Tom.! Tom.! (uno) tarred the combat film \\ith the same
brush of npensi\e f;lilure as the Lunily musical. Thereafter production
dwindles to almost nothing: the next twel\e months saw just fi\e releases -
and then no Second \Vorkl War combat films of any kind until the block-
buster historical recreation , \lidII'Il)! in un6 (possibly encourag;ed by the
upsurge of patriotic sentiment attendant on that year's Bicentennial cele-
brations). ~ The late I <nos saw a handful of prod uctions, including Cross of
!rOil, the 'critical epic'} Bmlgc Too Far (1977) and Samuel Fuller's magis-
terial Tlie IJi~f!; Red Olle (1<)1'\0); following the release of The Deer Hl/llter
(Un7), howC\cr, the combat film's centre of historical gTa\i ty had shifted
decisi\ely to \ietnam (see below) ..\part from oddly anachronistic \ehicles
like, \lempills Belle (I <)90, a fictionalised retelling of William Wyler's J()-I-.1
documentary of the same name), the Second \Vorld \Var combat film
remained in abeyance until its spectacular re\i\ al in Sa,'IIIp, Pn,'ofe Ryall
(liJ<)X), fol!<med by Tlie TIl/II Red I,ille and h'IlClll.J' af fllc Gafes (zooo, a pan-
European co-production about Stalingrad shot in Eng-lish with British and
\merican stars).
In the other major wartime\lIied nation, the SO\iet Union, the 'Great
P.ttriotic \\ar' (as the Second \\orkl War was officially known) became the
focal national cult during Stalin's last years and beyond; numerous wartime
re-etuctments produced according to rigid Socialist Realist principles glori-
fied SO\iet military accomplishments and Stalin's personal military genius
(most notoriously T/ie Fall or Ber/ill, 1<)-1-9). Critical attcntion h,IS focused on
the ways in which, starting with the 'thaw' period under Kruschn in the late
J()'=;os and earl~ 1960s, new approaches to this central plank of So\'iet ideo-
logy became a means of exploring hitherto illicit complexities and alternati\e
perspeeti\'es on the Communist experiment in Russia, and ultimately of
challenging the \alidity of the entire system (sec Ll\\ton, 199Z; Youngblood,
1<)96, ZOOI; Gillespie, ZOOT (l-l--79). Collaboration, for example, long a t,lboo
subject in CSSR cinema, emerged tentati\ely during the 'thaw' (e.g. Tile
122 FILM GENRE
Fate ora Mall, 1959) and with much more force in the 1970S anu 19i\os, with
a growing suggestion of the unuerlying moral equivalence of Nazi and
Stalinist tyranny in Trial Oil lite Road (1971, rdeaseu 1986), Tlte ~.Jsrelll (H)76),
Sign o/Disaster (lqi\6) anu the shattering Come af/d Sec. Youngbloou sees the
latter film as 'a cinematic reflection of the SO\'iet public's morale near the end
of the regime, No one belie'"es in the cause in Come alld See; no one seems
to unuerstand it. All humanity h,IS uegenerateu, ,I1though the Germans are
unueniably much worse than others' (Youngbloou, 19q6: 9+).
As the uefeateu aggressors in the most uestructive connict in world
history, further burueneu by the re"elation of war crimes anu crimes against
humanity, Germany anu Japan, the principal Axis powers, in uifferent ways
confronted throughout the postwar periou the challenge of what Charles
Maier (199 I) has calleu 'the unmasterable past', This still incom plete process
of cultural reckoning in both cases, although to uifferent uegrees at uifferent
times, entaileu processes of abjection, amnesia, uenial, guilt anu uefiance,
The perception that Japan anu Germany hau faileu fully to work through
their tarnisheu historical legacies ensureu that any representation of Japanese
or German combat experiences woulu be greeteu with suspicion and sub-
jected to an unusually high degree of critical scrutiny in the former Allied
nations. It is therefore understandable that before the late twentieth century
very few combat films of any kinu emerged from either country, A conspicu-
ous exception - and a major critical and commercial success - was Das Boot
(The Bo(/I, 19i\1), which earned a theatrical release as a three-hour film edited
down from the original ten-part West German tele,"ision series. Possibly the
perception of the Battle of the Atlantic as a 'dean fight' largely unembar-
rassed by the atrocities of the Occup<1tion and the Eastern Front (to say
nothing of the Holocaust) accounted for its enthusiastic reception as a stir-
ring story of men and the cruel sea. The attempt in Slalilign/(1 (1992) to
recast the Russian war in similarly unproblematic generic terms was corres-
pondingly less successful. Japanese war films ha"e until ,cry recently focused
almost exdusi'"elv on the national trauma of atomic devastation at Hiroshima
and Nagasaki; the 2001 release of JJerdd:a marked virtually the first point at
which the combat nperience of Japanese forces was made the central
uramatic focus of a major Japanese film.
VIETNAM
The history of the Vietnam combat film is well km)\\n: absent, with the
notorious exception ofJohn \V ayne's Tlte Greell Berels (1968), from CS screens
during the conflict itself (US troops were engaged in Vietnam from H)65 to
1973; South Vietnam finally fell to the Communist :\orth in 1975),<) the
THE WAR'C01\lBAT FILM: GENRE AND NATIO;\J 123
Vietnam combat genre emerged in the late 1970S in several diverse forms,
some (Go Tell lite Sparlalls, Tlte Boys III COif/pail)' C, both 1978) clearly
p,ltterned after the stanuard Second World War model, ~t~ers (Th:' Deer
Illllller, 1977; ~ .Jpoeal)'pse ;Von" 1979) owing more to the stylIstIC expenments
of the early 1970S 'Hollywood Renaissance', The Vietnam combat film peaked
in the mid-Iqi\os with Plaloon (19i\6), Hall/burger Hill (1987),8.; Char/le Mople
(191\9) and others: these too largely adopted the 'embattled platoon' variant
of the Second World War combat film (notably, given the jungle setting, the
p"cific campaign version), but combined a familiar generic syntax with novel
scmantic elements such as napalm, drug abuse, 'fragging', rock music sound-
tracks, graphic, visceral violence and a distincti'"e and memorable jargon
('grunts', 'gooks', 'clicks', 'on point" and so on) to cstablish a distinctive and
brieflY yen popular generic strain (see Adair, 191\9; Auster and Quart, 191\1\),
Both the Vietnam combat film's belatedness and the terms on which it
eventually crystallised into a recognisable sub-genre reflect the intense and
onlToin lT J)oliticisation of the ,var and the fallout from modern AmericI's first
C' C'
experience of defeat (see Klein, J()9+)" The Vietnam film foregroundeu a
thematics of male identity formation through combat that drew on the
consenative discourses that had developed by the late 1970S for making
sense of the war. To some extent, the Vietnam film's focus on masculinity
C"xtends a well-established aspect of the combat film generally, which Susan
Jeffords characterises as
first and foremost, a film not simply about men but about the con-
struction of the masculine subject, and the combat sequence - or, more
generally, scenes of violence in combat films, whether as fighting in
hattie, torture, prison escapes, or explosions - is the point of excess, not
only for the film's narrative, but for masculine subjectivity, .. Ueffords,
191\9: +1\9)
It has often been pointed out that the combat film is one of the few genres
in ,vhich men are 'allowed' to cry without being diminished, This element of
pathos points up the combat film as another melodramatic modality, albeit
one in which, unusually, masculine rather than female subjectivity is explicitly
thematised.
That issues around the (re- )construction of masculine identity would come
to the fore once Vietnam emerged as an acceptable commercial proposition
Was perhaps innitable, given the terms on which the CS defeat in Indochina
had already been culturally concei'ed. During the conflict itself, US
President Lyndon Johnson repeatedly justified his obsessive commitment to
the war in terms of competitive phallocentricity - a 'pissing contest' between
himself and both :\orth Vietnamese leader Ho Chi \linh and "Iso anti-
124 FII.M GENRE
communist hawks at home (see Dallek, IqqX). According to Johnson's suc-
cessor, Richard Nixon, post-Victnam thc US risked ~Iobal ridicule as a
'pitiful, helpless giant'. C nsurprising;ly, therefore, in this climate of urgent
phallic anxiety the principal foreign policy project of the '\e\\ Right, \\hich
took the White House with the election of Ronald Reag'an in IqXO, became
what Susan Jeffords (lqX9) calls 'thc remasculinisation of .\merica'. Vietnam
films, both combat and homefront, were highly recepti\e to this cultural
discourse around masculinity: sexual dysfunction as a result of \yar \\ounds
is the dramatic focus of both CIIII/Illg HIIII/e (J()7X) and Bllm /III Ihe Fllurlh of
]/1 I)! (J()X9), the Vietnam yeteran anti-hero of Rllilillg Tllllllder (1977), a
surviYClr of VC torture, suffers a symbolic cmasculation by haying his hand
forced into a \\aste disposal unit, and a G r is actually castrated by the NVA
in J)eild Presldellls (J()<)5).
Hollywood's mobilisation of these tropes of damaged and/or recoyered
manhood has been highly ambiguous. The idealised images of '\lichael, the
hno of The Deer Hlllller, posed on the trail against misty peaks and mountain
streams as a model of the American frontiersman, explicitly il1\oking -"latty
Bumppo, the eponymous J)eerslayer in James Fennimore Coopcr's celebrated
nineteenth-century nmel and thus by extension associating :\Iichael's
personal 'one shot' ideology of the clean, 'pure' kill \\ith the long; .\merican
tradition of 'regeneration through yiolence' (see Slotkin, 1<)<)X) - also pro-
voked comparisons \\ith Liscist imag;ery. Ho\ye\ er, \\hether 'one shot' and all
it metonymically stands fCl!' should be seen as undermined or reaffirmed by
its tr'lLlmatically parodic IT\\"Orking' as Russian roulette in the film's pi\otal
Vietnam combat anti captiyity sequence, the film lcayes (deliberately?) un-
clear. Oliyer Stone's two Vietnam films of the I<)XOS, Pia 11111 II and Rllm 111/ IIII'
Fllllrlil 111']111)' - the first a 'pure' combat film, the second like The Deer
I1l1l1ler a would-be epic sag;a whose Vietnam combat episode organises and
defines the film's thematic and ideological concerns- explicitly foreground
the emnging trope of Vietnam as ,I mythic bndscape across \\hich symbolic
narratives of American Illale selfhood are enacted. \\'hile its dominant mode
is clearly the Second \Vorld \Var comtxlt film, Pia 1111111 also disintcrs some
First \Vorld War 'lost g'eneration' motifs in its Llble of :\merican e\eryman
Chris Taylor's passage to disenchanted manhood and lost innocence (the
jung'\c setting; offers opportunities fClr such hCl\yhanded Edenic touches as a
lurking coiled serpent) Yia the symbolic intercession of 'good and bad LIthers'
in the shape of his platoon's t\\O sergeants, the saintly Elias and the demonic
Bates. Bllm 11/1 tile Fllllrlh IIj]lIl)' is e\Tn more explicitly Oedipal, as idealistic
recruit Ron KO\ic returns from Vietnam a paraplegic. The film deYCltes the
greater part of its second half to Kovic's reckoning \\ith the loss of his sexual
function, an emascubtion the film strongly associates - in a repla~ of Iq50S
pop-Freudian myths - with his 'castrating' patriotic mother and KO\ic/
TilE WAR C01\IBAT FIl."'!: GE'JRE A'JI) NATION 125
:\merica's entrapment in an infantile dependency, both sexual and ideo-
logical. The film's climax, in \\hich the radicalised Koyic leads lello\\
veter,ms in 'taking" the hall at the J()72 Republican "\ational C:ol1\cntion,
.Ipparently proposes a commitment to the public and political as a \yay of
breaking' free from this complex; ho\ye\cr, it is notable that the \Try last
images of the film - which see KO\ic, no\\ an honoured actiYist, taking the
pbtfclI'I11 at the 1<)7(1 Democratic COl1\ention - arc filmed as a recapitulation
of the opening, \\ith applauding expectant f:lces beaming down at the
\\heelchair-bound KO\ic as befclre at his childhood self, fulfilling his
mother's yision of his destiny \\hich echoes, \yithout ohyious irony, on the
soundtrack (see Jeffords, IQX9: J(»).
If Stone's Vietnam films chart an Oedipal trajectory of sorts from depen-
dency to\\ards adulthood, the hugely successful FIrsl Bllllld (IQX2) and
NOII/IIIi: FIrsl Bllllld Pllrl 11 (I <)X4) fix their eponymous hero, the child-man
\ietnam yeteran John Rambo, in a rq~Tessi\e spiral. The monosyllabic
simplicity of Rambo's understanding of the \\orld - he is \\ounded by the
ah,lIHlonment of his symbolic 'parents', the nation betrays an emotional and
ideological ndnerability at odds \\ith the hypertrophic masculinity of his
pumped-up hody, and the key mediating figure in his battle to make sense of
the incomprehensible complexities, insincerities and hetrayals of the adult
\\orld is his former commander and surrog'ate father, Col Trautmann. At the
end of FIrsl Blo/ld, it is Trautmann to \\hom the besieged Ramho \\hose
sClpegoating in the film represents an extreme \crsion of widespread cultLIral
111~ ths ,Iround the yictimisation and rejection of returning Vietnam \Tterans
(sec Lembcke, j()<)X) - explains that '\\e li.e. Vietnam \etsl just want our
country to Ime us as much as \\e Ime it'. :\t the start of the sequel, given the
opportunity to return to Vietn,lm on ,1 PO\V rescue mission, Ramho fi'ames
the film's ensuing Lmtasy rerun of the \\ar ,IS a GI Joe-style LIntasy \\ith the
childish question 'Do \\e get to \\in this time?' RillI/f,o's centr,Ji premise that
.\merican troops remained, to obscure purpose, capti\ e in Vietnamese camps
a decade and more .lfrer the \\,lr'S end, a i\e\\ Right shibboleth shared by
( 11(111111111111 l'iI III,. ( IqX 3) and. H Isslug 111 . lellliu (1 9X4) - offers a 'rescue bntasy',
analysed by Burgoyne (1994) in terms of a rq?;ressi\e complex operati\e at
\arious Inels. (.\mong others, these films 'return' to the goal-oriented
certainties of O/J/t'iII7.·l'. Bllrll/lI.' (lq45) and its like: RIlII//Jo's 'Vietnamese'
soldiers are indistinguishable fi'om the Imperial Japanese in Second World
\\ar combat films.) It also connects to the Yietnam film's preoccupation \\ith
Ill,lsculinity inasmuch as it offers ,I contemporary \ariant of the captivity
narrati\cs that featured prominently in :\merican popular culture during the
nineteenth century of the Indian \\ars, In the Yietnam PO\V myth, howe\er,
the tLlditional object of sa\age capti\it~- \\hite \\omen - arc substituted by
soldiers. The soldiers' reco\ery (they arc usu,l11y roused fi'om passi\e despair
126 FILM GENRE
to play an active role in their own liberation) represents a parallel restoration
of American manhood - particularly since defeat of the Yietnamese enemy
(sometimes accompanied by Soviet advisors, in an even more uncannily exact
inversion of US involvement in Vietnam from 1<)60) is typically accom-
plished in the face of indifference or actual opposition from an incompetent,
hypocritical or even outright traitorous governmental bureaucracy. [0
POST-VIETNAM CONFLICTS
The 'asymmetrical warf:Ire' of post-Vietnam conflicts - "ith CS forces
deploying overwhelming manpower and military technology pO\\er in light-
ning campaig'ns against hopelessly overmatched developing-world opponents
in Grenada, Panama, Iraq and Afghanistan- apparently offered fn\ compel-
ling: narratives to shift the combat film's dominant paradigm a\vay hom the
Second World War/Vietnam composite. Certainly, these mismatches have
enjoyed little screen time: Hear!break RI{~l!,e (H)S6, Grenada) and TitreI' Kings
(I<)99, Iraq) are exceptions. In fact, as perhaps the 200-1- remake of The
/Vland711rlal1 Calldldil!t' suggests (relocated to the first Gulf \Var of 1<)91 but,
with obvious overtones of the second, substituting for the original's mind-
bending Communists a ruthless military-corporate entity clearly patterned
after Halliburton Inc., f()l'mer employers of Vice President Dick Cheney), the
ramified, op;1que and infinitely extensible 'war on terror' declared in the
wake of the September I I th attacks will propel film-makers closer to the
espionag'e thriller's shadowy world of sUr\"Cillance and cO\"Crt action than the
combat film's terrain of pitched battles aIllI firefig·hts. ,'\daptations of Tom
Clancy's bestselling techno-thrillers such as Pil !rio! Gallles (1992) and Clear
ilnd Prt'st'll! Danger (1<)9-1-) illustrate the f()rm these spy-combat hybrids might
take. 'Humanitarian' interventions, "'hether successful (I\..osovo) or cata-
strophic (Beirut, Somalia), have proved equally unattractive as combat film
subjects, although Blaik HillI,k Do 11'11 , an account of the disastrous Somalia
episode that adopted many motifs of the standard 'embattled platoon' type,
was released amid the post-September 11th "ar on .'\fghanistan and quickly
pressed into service as a true story of American heroism in llcfence of
universal freedoms.
CAS EST LJ D Y: .~·.1 T J S G PRill Tl;' R LL\ (I 9 9 8 )
Upon its release in July 1998, Steven Spielberg's SilL'llig PUL'iI te RJ'II// waS
quickly recognised as a self-consciously traditionalist Second \Vorkl \Var
combat film, thus reviving a strain of the combat film that had been largely
THE WAR/COMBAT FILM: liENRE AND NATION 127
From Slii'lllg PUi"Ilt' Rpll/ ([()<Jil). Rcproduccd c"urtcS\ I )rcarl1\\'()rks I J .C/Thc "-"hal
C"lkcri"!l/I)a\ id Jamcs,
in ,Ibeyance since the late I<J7os..-\s noted above, from that point on the
llolly\\ood ",Ir/combat film became largely synonymous with the Vietnam
film albeit the latter in numerous \vays appropriated and adapted the
Second \\'orld \\ar p'ILHligm. '\Jone of the few clear inst,lI1ces of the f(Jrm in
this period - including as "ell ,IS the films noted ,lbove the somewhat
IT\ isionist .1 .H Idlll!!,I/! Cleilr (I ()1)2), "hich imported the well-known Great
\\ar trope of festive-season felll)\\ship across battle lines" into the Second
\\orld \\'ar 'embattled platoon' genre model - ,,"Cre commercial successes,
and it has been suggested that studio executives "ere unn:ceptive to what
t he\ perceived as an uncommercial subject. SiI"'"g Prl,'iI!(, R)'all is, as has
also been "idcly perceived, very much a post-Vietnam (film) Second World
\\ar film: both the beach-head sequence (in its unprecedented bloodiness
and hyper-realism) and the subsequent rescue mission (in recalling the
'missin!!" in action' Yietnam sub-genre: see abme) imoke the Vietnam film.
\\hat has been less remarked is that Sm'illg PriL'iI!e RYillI not only rehabi-
litates the Second World \Var combat model but in so doing undertakes a
clear project of generic correction in specific relation to the intenening
\ictnam combat film."
Sill'llIg Prl,'lI!e RYlIlI is carefully modelled after the classic Second \Vorld
\\ar platoon film, "ith its ethnically and reg:ionally diverse company includ-
ing in time-honoured Llshion a Je", an Italian, a Southern Baptist (a deadeye
From m:'illg Prii'llle RYflll (r99' ). Reproduced L:nurtes, Drearnworks LLC/The Kobal
Collecrion/! alid Jllm:s.
 128 FILM CiE'JRE
sniper who prays before shooting), a tough-as-nails ~CO and e\cn the
inevitahle platoon member from Brooklyn. Unlike many Second World War
(and even more Vietnam) combat films, ho\\e\cr, in R)'illl it is an officer,
Captain Miller (Tom Hanks), \\ho is the dramatic and affecti\c centre of the
film. Many wartime comhat films, as Basinger (1<)86: 53--\-) notes, kill off the
commanding officer early in the narrative - demonstrating, she suggests, in
the loss of a symholic Elther the inevitable costs of \\ar. C-\ Second World
War film with an officer hero that R.J'il II closely recalls is O/~jC(! Ic'c, Burma I,
whose combination of quest and 'last stand' narrati\·es R)'il// also echoes.
Errol Flynn's Capt. Nelson in the earlier film is a schoolteacher, a profession
shared with Miller in R)'illl, although \liller is - pointedly - a lils!lIr)' teacher.)
In making' a commissioned officer the protagonist and moreO\er rendering
him as a model commander: tough, sensitive and principled -- R)'illl estab-
lishes a positive attitude to\vards established authority that informs the entire
film. The ultimate example of this attitude is the portrayal of Gen. George
~larshall as a beneficent and Llrsighted paternalistic leader (explicitly identi-
fied with Lincoln hy his quotation fi'om memory of the 'Bixby letter').
The respectful - in .\ larshall's case \\orshipful treatment of authority
might be read as an act of generic restitution in relation to the Vietnam films
of the I<)80s, in \\ hich combat officers \\ere typically portrayed as irrelev,mt
or incompetent (Lt Wolfe all but imisible in Plil!OIlIl; Lt Gorman in the
Vietnam/SF h~ brid lliclIS, H)86) or dO\\I1rig;ht craz~ (Col h:ilg;ore in
lpllCilI)'psc NIII/'). It mig'ht also be considered a 'screen memory' (in every
sense of the phrase) cancelling' out the traumatic history of 'fi"ag'ging'
(infantrymen killing their commanding officers) in \ietnam. (Fussell (1<)8<):
1-\-21".) cites instances of this occurring' in the Second \\orld \\ar as \\ell.)
I lowe\ er, it also re\ ises the e\cn longn"-standing comhat film trend noted by
:\'eale (H)<)I: -\-8; sec ahO\c) to\\ards ,I deficit of accountability and duty of
care by officers to thc men under their command. This is of consider,lhle
importance in R)'illl sincc thc mission Capt. .\ lillcr's team arc sent on initially
damncd by :\liller himself as a 'puhlic relations stunt' \\ould seem to
excmplif~ "'eale's cltegor~ of orders issued that arc 'contrary to the interests
of the men' or 'of little or no stLltegic \alue'. \liller and his men come to
belie\ e that finding, and saving', Ryan is an ohjecti\ e of enormous, C\en
inestimable, value. Rather as in O/Jjn!ic'l', BUrll/il.', the suniving GIs realise
only at the \er~ end of the film the role thcir mission has played in the Ln"ger
strategic plan, the higher humanit~ of miliLlr~ authority hecoming ,lpp,lrent
to the diminishing' ranks of \ liller's platoon ,IS the~ fight their \\,Iy to\\ards
the rendez\(llls \\ith R~an. HO\\ever, the military \\isdom thus justified is if
anything' even more rarefied than in OII/cc!lc'l', Bllrt/lil.' as it relates not to a
miliLlry objective - the im asion of Burma - but to an ,lbstr,lCtion, the deeper
humanity of .-\merican v,dues as exemplified and embodied by Gen. \Iarshall.
THE WAR CO:\IBAT FtLM: CiE;\lRE A'JD NATION 12<)
This tics in elosely \vith R)'i1Il's depiction of the Second World War as the
'Good \Var', an understanding fully in line \vith that of Stephen Ambrose,
the author of se\eral hestselling popular histories of the European war from
the perspective of the CS inLmtryman (1<)<)3, uN5, 1<)<)7) that heavily
stressed the unique contribution and heroic, unstinting sacrifice of America's
'Greatest Generation' to the ClUse of liherty and democracy. Amhrose's
,lpprO\al of R)'illl \\as solicited (and secured) by Dreamworks prior to the
lilm's release. (.-\mbrose \\as suhsequently an adviser to the Spielberg-
prod uced HBO mini-series Eil wi IIF Bm! liers, 1<)<)<).) While challenged by
some historians (notably Fussell, 1<)<)3 and Zinn, 1<)<)5), this remains un-
doubtedly a dominant mainstream understanding of the war in US culture.
The question is \\hy this memory needed to be reaffirmed at this juncture,
and h(m R)'ilU exploits genre to do this.
Three contextual ElCtors defined the terms of SilL'lllg PrlL'il!c R)'illl's rnival
of the Second World \\ar combat film. First, a rediscO\ered confidence in
LS military pnmess f()llo\\ing victory in the I<)<) I Gulf \Var diminished the
appeal of the then-dominant combat genre paradigm, the Vietnam film, with
its typical focus on victimhood and disenchantment. -"\t the same time, as
\uster (2002) notes, the Gulf \Var itself \\as too one-sided (and its final
outcome, \,ith CS ally-turned-archenemy Saddam IIussein forced out of
I'\..u\\ait hut still in po\\er in Baghdad, too amhiguous) to offer viable gnlCric
material as a direct alternative. The 50th anniversary of the end of the Second
\\ orld \\ar, in particular the commemoration of the D-Day landings, thus
Il:licitously spurred Icne\\ed interest in a hard-fllllght, purposeful \\ar \\ith a
dean and dearcut victory. Finally, the \\ar albeit an aspect of it remote
li"om, and in the main suppressed in, com entional combat films had retained
a strong and disturbing presence in .\merican collecti\c memory \\ith the
increasing' \ isibility of the IIolocaust as a subject of public education, poli-
tical debate (Ill[" example, on possible parallels \\ith the ongoing ethnic and
confessional \\ars in the Balkans) and cultural product ion, culminating in
1<)<)3 \\ ith the opening of the CS Holocaust \Icmorial .\luseum in Washing'-
ton, DC and the release of Spielberg's 0\\11 multi-_\cademy-.-\\\ard-\\inning
Sellilldin's 1,ls! (1<)<)3): Holocaust awareness is one of the nO\cl elements in
Silc'llIg PUc'il!e R)'illl's careful mixture of generic tradition with innO\ation
(see also Chapter 11, section III). _-\uteurist Llctors also played a part, with
Spielberg's elnation to the status of 'serious' historical film-maker secured
by the success of Sell/lldler's 1,ls!. Cniquely among; the 'movie brats', as
Doherty (1<)<)<): 303--\-) notes, Spielberg's films had repeatedly il1\oked the
\\ar e\en prior to Sell/l/dll'r's Lis!. \loreO\er, Spielberg's assiduously culti-
\ated personal mythology stressed the centrality of the \\ar - or an imag;e of
the \\ar mediated by film and television - to his creat ive imagination since his
youth.
130 FILM GENRE
Rvan unusually frames its combat narrative within an explicitly retro-
specti\e framework: the film opens with an elderly man (revealed as Pri\'ate
Ryan when we return to him in the film's closing moments) stumbling
through a vast war cemetery and falling to his knees before one among the
thousands of headstones. A slow dolly close into his grief-stricken face then
cuts to 'June 6, 1944' and leads directly into RVilll's most celebrated passage,
the astonishing 2s-minute sequence at the Omaha beach-head. This framing
of the war as a past event both remembered (by the \eteran) and com-
memorated (by his family - \\ife, children and grandchildren - tagging along
behind him) is generically atypical: while many combat films both during and
after the war opened or ended \vith title cards recalling to the audience the
actuality of the events dramatised in the ensuing film and dedicating the film
to the memory of those who laid dO\m their own lives, R)'l/Il's eulogistic
opening is more typical of nostalgic hnitage films like LilJI)rCl/(c o( Arabia
(1<)62) - one of Spielberg's most admircd films - or Chariots o(Firc (1981),
both of which unfold as (unmotivatcd) flashbacks from memorial sen'ices for
the protagonist.
At the samc time, Ryan's 'memory' is both uniquely his O\vn and clearly
collective ' thus, in a sense, generic: for not only is his recollection situated
physically in a space of public commemoration, \\ith other veterans and their
bmilies glimpsed among' the graves and thus generalised, but the 'flashback'
which ensues is not R)'l/lI 's 011'11. Ryan, as we learn in due course, parachuted
behind enemy lines \\·ith the IOlst A,irborne Division: thus thc landing at
Omaha, and indeed everything th'1t foll<)\\s until the point at \\hich \liller's
platoon of Rangers meet up with Ryan's decimated compal1\ in the cornfield,
is known to Ryan himself only second-hand at best (and then only if we
imagine he either heard the story from \liller in an elided offscreen exchange
prior to taking on the Panzers, or elicited it from the sole suni\'()r Upham
after the battle). Yet the hyper-real quality of the beach-head sequence at
least allO\\s us no room to accept it as anything but 'reality' experienced ,11 first
hand indeed, traumatically so. In some \vays, the landing sequence stands
outside genre conventions, a traumatic assault on the spectator that cannot be
readily accommodated to any expectational matrix and simply has to be
experienced 'survived' -. by the audience as by \liller ,1ml his platoon, "ith
whom an intense identification is thus sutured, \\'hile this might be con-
sidered another instance of Spielberg's 'Cmtasy of witnessing', discussed by
Weissman (199S) in relation to ,')',.hilldlcr's Lisl, equally \arious devices in the
film- including the presence of the elderly Ryan's camera-clicking gTandson,
the almost subliminal re-enactment of Robert Capa's famous war photo-
graphs amid the frenzy of the landing, and the inclusion of the bookish
outsider Pn C pham in the platoon as a more ambiguous version of the
reporter familiar from O/Jialiu', BIII'II/iI.r, Thc Stor)' o( G.1. .loe (19-1-5) and
THE WAR/COMBAT FILM: GE"JRE AND NATION 131
other combat films (see I3adsey, 2002) - hint at the mediated, collective and
(re-) constructed nature of this history / memory. I would not suggest that the
C'-plicitly generic terms of Ryan's remembrance (a suitably ambiguous term
that denotes both personal memory am! collective acts of tribute) suggest,
like Ransom Stoddard's unreliable memories in Thc .\Iii II 11'110 Shot Liberty
J Il!all(C (discussed in Chapter 2), the il1\idious inescapability of myth: rather,
R)'illI's explicitly generic aspects may in L1ct sen'e to adYl:rtise the repre-
sentatin' quality of the story and its trans-personal dimension - an important
element given the film's generically atypical emphasis on individual rescue.
1\\OTES
I. Thi, strain \\as sOIllctimcs ]..no\\n a, '(~uirt-I:lag:g;' aftl'!' thc sparrillg; protag:ollists of
fllilll 1'1'1'<' Glorl'.i
, S<'Igi'lllll } roFs publicit\ pac].. includcd 'Ill authoriscd statcmcnt h'om thc rcal-life First
\\ orld \\ ar hero II hosc stOrl it dram'ltiscd alII crti,ill~' thc film's timclillcss (scc
Shindler, '<)7 'j: +3)·
". ,\ distinction larg:cll cra,ed hI recent rcseareh alld thc cOlltrllll'!'sial Il)l),:; nhibitioll of
\\ ehrmacht Il'ar l'!'illlCS in Ihmbur~·.
+. L S armed forccs IITrc dcscg:rcg:ated In Truman's prcsidcllti,d ordl'!' ill 1(I+X.
, filllllill/'S orig:inal sl'!'cenpLII Includcd a \,'atil'c ,\ml'!'ican character.
1>. Russian lIar film production continucs throug:hout thc period of g;lasno't <md
percstroika in the Il)XOS until thc dissolution of thc LJSSR in ")l)': scc hclllll.
/. Pori.' Cliop IIi/I lIas directed hI LCllis .\lilestonc, Illw also dirccted III QII/(/ 011 III"
11 <'.\11'1'11 Fro II I as \\cll as thc nujor Sccond \\ orld \\ ar com hat films I 1'1111.· III 11i<' SI/II
,lIld 'l'1i" III/lis rI Iioli/<'~.IIIIII/ (Il)S I),
.~. For a com]lrchensill' annotatcd listing; 01',111 comb,lt films rcleased onto thc LS markct
bUllcen Ill+' md Il)XO, scc Basing:er (ll)X/>: 2XI ,13.1).
l). Bcnjamin Siorr (ll)l)7) Ius l'\plolTd parallels bl'tlleen thc tr;\LIm,ltic and contrlllersial
l'\peril'nccs of thc \'ieln,ml \\ar In thc L S,\ and the :\Ig:erian \\'ar in Francc. The
,lbscl1l'l' of direct im'lges of thc conflict itself is notahle, as is the scnse of an 'absencc'
surrounding: rhc 11;11' despire SOIllC thrcc dozcn \']ellch tilms ,incl' Iljll2 dcaling: direct"
II ith thc conflict (,I1most II hoI" throug:h homcfnml m I l'teran l'\pl'ricnccs). III thc "Imc
toJ..cn, I ,a l\'ton (llll)2: I (7) and others ha I c com]l'lI'l'd btl' SOl il't-era and post - [<)() [ films
ahout the lIar in .\fg:hanist'lil (1Iidc" characteriscd in thc Ilestcrn media throug:hout
the Il)XOS as 'thc SOIil't \ictnam' alld itself illladcd in 'I surrcal ju\uposition bl thc
\ iclILlm leteran/rcdccmer John Klinho in RI/I11/Jo III, Il)XX) in thcir emphasis on the
confusioll of phlsicalil and p'lchiLII" maimcd Il'teram Ilith thc \ il'[]um Il'teran tilm.
10. Scc also rhc di,cussion of ,,)XOS al'tion film in C:hapter 10,
I I. 1'01' ,1 compcllin~' account of thc leg:cndan 'Christmas trucc' on thc \\cstl'rn l-'ront in
Il)q (,dso illlflkcd on film in this period in Paul .\kCartl1l'l \ lal ish I idco promo f(lI'
thc sing:1e 'Pipes of Pcace', I<)X3), scc Eckstcins (Il)Xl): rOll 1+).
I' "'rin Gahh'lrd (2001) sccs S<"'III~ l'rl,'1/11' RYI/II as 'I ITbutt'll of thc \ictnam era,
I'l'ndering: 11'11' oncc a~'ain 'lll object of 'tClscin'ltion 'lild I'l'l ercnce' in thc sen icc of a
rcnellcd patriotic militarism I ,Ig:rce Ililh this rcading: and Ilould 'Idd tlut il has bccn
'Imp" bornc out bl suhsl'Llucnt clcnts. HllIlcler, Ciabbard docs not 11m].. his critiquc
of Rr<1I1 throug'h ,m 'Ina"sis of thc film a, ;1 ~'l'IHl' tl'\t.

CIIAPTER 6 Lee \lanin and elu Galag;er in Tlie Killers (196+), among others, This retro
The Gangster Film: Genre and
Society
os /\n~·des,. 1<)<)+. Professional hit~llL'n \.incellt rega and Jules \\infield,
L ITrurnlng' from another successful assignment, h'l\e to deal \\ah an
unnpected problem: engaged in an ,1I1imated discussion of chance and fate,
Vincent unintentionally prO\es a point by accidentally discharging his pistol
and killing their assoL'iate l\lanin more nacrly, he splatters his brains
copiously O\er the bad; seat and \\indo\\s of their Lincoln Continental.
Understandabl\ 'Ipprehensi\c of the ul1\\e1eome attention their sanguinary
state might dLI\\ should they continue cruising the L\ IiTe\\ay, Jules
arranges an emergmcy pitstop at his friend Jimmie's pbee. The cool \\deome
Jimmie gi\'es them has nothing to do \\ ith any moral re\ldsion or e\en
physiL'al squeamishness ,Ibout murder and bloodshed, and L'\erything to do
\\ ith his apprehensions at hO\\ his \\ ife - a night-shift nurse, entirdy innocent
of Jimmy's unden\orld connections - \\ill respond upon her imminent return:
'I f she comes home and sees .1 bunch of g;ang;sters doing a bunch of g.lngster
shit, she's going to /lip',
In this celebrated (or notorious) sequence fi'OI11 his bre'lkthrough hit Pilip
FI(lloII (I ()(!+), (.b.lentin Tarantino's characteristically memorable slllllm.ltion
of his (ddibeLIt eh) t \\o-dimensiona I criminals and their milieu .IS 'g.ll1g'ster
shit' re\c,lls a good deal about the place the gangster genre occupies in
contemporan I Iolly\\ood film. In the first place, \\C .UT referred to .m inst<mrly
recognisable and moreO\er highly stylised and cOllified \\orld, \re, Jules and
Jimmie's \\ife all knO\\ 'g.1I1gster shit' \\hen \\ e see it. This bmiliarity is
accentuated, flattened out comic-book style, and pushed to a parodic extreme
by T.lrantino, recasting the gangster's tradition,d interest in self-expression
throug;h person,d cool .1I1d sartorial style as an ironic mod uni/()rmity: rincent
and \'brcellus inherit fi'om the LTL'\\ in Tar.mtino's debut film Rcscr-i'lllr Dogs
(1<)<) I) a parodic unden\Orld 'uniform' of black suits, \\hite shirts and skinny
bhlCk ties, in homag'e to the earh I()(JOS style of the contract killers playnl by
THE CiA"JfiSTER FILM: GENRE AND SOCIETY I]]
intertextual styling immediately ,mnounces these gangsters' distancc from
'rcal' crime and their imbrication in an ebboratc, hermetic \\orld of their
O\\n (it also makes the 1 L1\\aiian beach gear in \\hich they begin and end the
film still morc richly incongruous) (see 13ruzzi, I()9T 67-9+),
Tarantino's \crsion of gangsterdom may be by some distance the most
highly stylised and re/lni\e in contemporary CS cinema, but the in\ocltion
of a codified, sdf-consciously ritualised flctin? uni\'erse is common to many
other films of the H)90S and zooos, In Tlilllgs 10 Do III Dem:er H'II('// YOII're
I)(ilil (]()():i), the sharp suit and slick mO\ es of doomed gang'ster Jimmy 'the
Saint' instantly out him as a gangster to the society girl he dreams of
rom'll1cing, \Iiehad \Iann's gangster films push to a hermetic cxtreme a
'professional ising' tendency built into the genre from its emergence in the
earl\ j(J3os, excluding' the ordinary public almost entirdy fi'om their daborate
L'ops-and-robbers (and killers) arabesques: in nl/e( (lq'K I), !fcill (I()9S) and
Cllililicrill (zoo+), theft and murder arc largdy impersol1<ll afhirs in \\hich
indi\ idual interaction is simph a means to \\ork through obscure principles
and opaque codes; \\ealth is not the ohject of crime as a means to personal
emichment hut a \irtualh ahstract entity that prO\ides a notional stake for
the essential contest bet\\cen pursuer ami quarry, In many \\ays the kn()\\ing,
stag\ tenor in \\hich such n.llTati\cs unfold recalls the Italian 'Spaghetti
\\esterIls' of the IljCJOS and early IlJ70S it is no coincidence that Sergio
I ,cone is a major in/luence on, and is fiTqumtly alluded to by, both Tarantino
(parriclllarh in AI/I Ihll. /o!. I, Z003) and other contemporary gangster
ill/l,'llr( such as John \\00 (notahly ,1 Bcller 7il/l/llrrlll/', Hong I(ong H)'K'K),
(:olltelllporar~ g'angster films often make the .Iudience's assumed t:llnili-
,lrit~ \\ith g',lI1g'ster film codes and COI1\ ent ions a source of kno\\ing' humour,
such as \ !arIon Brando's imperson,ltion of his o\\n L1I11OUS God Lither
chaLKter - a kind of 'Corleone drag' - in 'Ilic Fr",dl/lli111 (1<)<)0), or similar
COI11ic turns by actors \\ ith est,lhlished \Ioh personae such as Joe Pesci (VI)'
CIIIISII/ / II/II)', j()<)z) and J.II11L'S Ll<1n (llol/c)'II/OOII II/ /CgilS, H)()Z; VllcI:c) , Bllie
r),C', ]()<)l»). ,\lthough thc l'Omic stylis,aion in the successful HBO T\ series
iii" SlIprillios (H)<)'K ) is less broad, the series still takes as a gi\cn the post-
cbssical g.mgster's ine\itable reli'action through the archaeology of the g-enre;
I'ellni\il\ and intertntualit~ here arc less stylistic /lourishes than naturalised
1,IUs of \Ioh life, as Tony Soprano and his suburban CIT\\ constantly il1\ oke
.Ilheit they reliably bil to lin' up to the heroic l110dels of their screen
1<1\ ouritcs, abO\c all the GOII/ii/lil'!' trilogy (HJ72, IlJ7+, I()(jl). In het, Tlie
SlIprrl//lis' central conceit - that .1 contemporan organised crime boss is liable
to find the challenges of modern ~\meric1l1 suburban life as taxing, and
harder to resohc, than the traditional ,\lafia business of murder and
c\torrion is comprehensible .1I1d enjoyahle hirgely because the audience .IIT
134 FILM GENRE
assumed to be familiar "ith the g'enerie norms and hO\y Tlie Soprallos plays
with them (sec Creeher, 2002; Nochimson, 2003-+).
OUR GANGSTERS, OURSELVES: CRIME, AMERICA
AND MODERNITY
As these examples help demonstrate, the gangster has become a highly yisible
figure in contemporary cinema. Indeed, "hile recent decades haye seen
Hollywood's other classical genre protagonists (the CO" boy, the song-and-
dance man, the pri\ate eye) suffer a Elirly steady decline, the gangster has
gone from strength to strength. Since Tlie Godlii/lia launched a major
generic re\i\al in the early l(nOS, the genre's popularit~ has gnmn, to the
point where the gang'ster can Elirl~ claim to stand alongside the Western hero
as a glohally recognisable :\mericm cultural emblem (albeit a much more
ambiyalent and contrO\ersial one).\s "eale (2000: 77f.) notes, the film
gangster like the Western hero has often been discussed in socially symp-
tomatic terms; in EICt, the gangster is frequently reeei\cd as the \\'esterner's
urban mirror imag'e, en,teting the conflicts and complexities of an emergent
urban modern imaginary as the cO\ybo~ enacts those of a residu,d agrarian
myth. r Like the VVesterner, the gangster and his yalues ha\c been embedded
in a Elirly stable thematic and iconographic uniyerse established and consoli-
dated throug-h decades of reiteration and reyision, and ,I certain masculine
style and the claboration of a code of beha\ iour throug-h acts of decisiye
\iolenee arc central concerns in hoth g"Clues ..\ number of "Titers draw
parallels bet"cen the t\yO genres: "lcCarty (llJlJJ: .xii) describes the gangster
film as 'the modern continuation of the Western - a ston' the \Vestern had
gTO\\"Il too old to tell.' Direct narratiye translations from one genre to the
other, lHl\\eyer, thoug;h not unkn()\\n, arc infrequent - Tlie ()lda!lOlIIa A.'id
(I(n(») is a straightfof\yard transposition of the \Varners gangster model to
the frontier, complete "ith Cagney and Bogart, during a transition,d period
f()r both genres; fAlSI .Hall Slallililig (H)lJ(») relocates ,1 FislliI! of Dolla rs
(llJ6+; itself a Western remake of Akira Kurosawa's samurai film 1"!J/III1/!O,
Japan 19(2) to a Depression-era gangster milieu. The rarity of these generic
exchanges may point to some more fundamental di\ ergenLTS.
In the first place, during the classical Holly"ood period the gangster
featured Ell' less frequently as prolagrlllisl than the CO" boy or gunfighter. The
sensational success of the first "aye of sound-era g'angster films in the early
HnOS fired a (larg'el~ synthetic) moral panic that has been "idely cO\ered by
g'enre historians (sec Roso" , IlJ7H: 1,:;6-71; .\laltby, J()9:;b; .\lunby, IlJ99: 93-
110) and \\'hose outcome \yas the announcement in IlJ3:; by the Production
Code Administration of a moratorium on Holl~ ,,00l1 gangster film production.
THE GA"IGSTER FILM: GENRE AND SOCIETY 135
In f~\Ct, the gangster cycle may haye run its commercial course by 1935, and
since the Production Code - an enforceahle reality from 19.H - was going to
make the sympathetic or eyen balanced depiction of any kind of professional
criminal \ery dif1icult if not impossihle, the studios may haye felt the
s,lnifice of the gangster film \yell \\orth the public relations benefits it
secured, The upshot in any e\ent \\',IS that after 1935 gangsters became
hCI\ies - antagonists to such 'official' heroes as police detectiyes, FBI agents
,llld T-.\lcn (Treasury .\gents), or the balefully anti-social presence that
ensured that an 'outla\\ hero' like the priyate eye, howeyer often at odds with
official h1\\ enforcement, nonetheless remained yisibly on the side of the
,lllgcls (sec Ray, H)H:;: :;9-(6). Often enough, the same actors \\ho had risen
to stardom in the first \\a\e of gangster films, like James Cagney and Edward
cr. Robinson, nO\y represented the f()rces of hI\\' and order (frequently with
t:lirly minimal retooling of their screen personae). As early as IlJ3lJ, the
tr,lditional racketeering, bootlegging mobster had already become something
of a nostalgic figure: Cagney laments in Tile Roarillg TII'C11lies (llJ3lJ) that 'all
the .\- I guys are gone or in ,\leatraz ... all that's left arc soda jerks and
jitterhugs'. Films f(JCusing once again not on heroic gangbusters and under-
cm er agents but on the career criminal himself ,md his organisation became
possible only \yith the gradual relaxation of the Code during the IlJ50S and its
final ,lbolition in IlJ6(). Tlie Godlii/lia- by no means the only Mafia chronicle
of the late IlJ60s and early I (nOS, though by far the most successful combined
a careful sense of prior genre history \\ith a ne\\ emphasis on the intricate,
hermetic inner \\orld of the .\1<1Iia, and its scale and seriousness as well as its
huge popularity established ne\\ and durable parameters f()r the genre.
\Vesterns and gangster films share a defining amhiyalence with \\hich the~
engage the yalues of settled ciyilis'ltion. Howeyer, where the \Vestern
t\ pically offers the spectator a subject position olllside comntunity fi'om
\\ hich to measure its gains and losses, the gang-ster's story unf(llds f(ll' better
or \\orse wholly \\ithin the domain of a highly dC\cloped and aboye all urban
culture. In E\Ct, just as the \\'estern \yorks through issues around the closing'
of the historical frontier, the gangster genre ans\\ers to the metropolitan
experience of rapid, large-scale urbanisation. Both distil nuteri,ll history into
a set of narratiye p,lradig:ms, character types and typical settings that reshape
historical experience into meaningful aesthetic form. The gangster is the man
of the city as the cO\yboy, is the man of the frontier.
,
In terms of genre history, the same endemic critical selectiyity we haye
already seen at \york upon the \\estern and musical canons has in this case
ensured that the reeeiyed \ersion of the 'classic' gangster film and its iconic
prorag:onist in the most influential and \\idely-read accounts has been deri\cd
fi'om ,1Il extraordinarily small number of films. ,\eeording to Schatz (llJH I:
~6'-9:;) 'the narrati\e formula seemed to spring fi'om no\\here in the early
1]6 FILM GENRE
i
'I
I<)3os', when eflecti\ely just three films make up 'possibly the briefest classic
period of any Holly\\ood genre'. These films - Tltc PI/Mic Dll'II/J' (1930),
[jl/lc Cacsar ([()JI) and Scar/ilcc (193Z), the first t\\O at \rarner Bros., the
last independently produced by Ho\\ard Hug'hes ha\e hugely o\er-
shadowed both their predecessors in the silent and \ery early sound eras and
all but a few later g'angster films until the gangster rni\al launched by The
Glld/ililter. IIardy (I<)<)R: 304-lz) direclly contradicts Schatz's account of the
genre's origins, Slating that 'the genre did not spring to life fully formed', but
while extending Ihe gangster film's prehistory back into the late silent period
and [ftlilcrtl'lIrld (I<)Z7, scripted by Ben Hecht, \\ho also \\Tote the screenplay
for Scar/ilce, also cited, though not discusseu, by Schalz), he too takes the
canonical 1<)30S trio as generically ddiniti\e. Shadoian (ZOOT .P--()[) declares
that 'the flurry of early thirties gang'ster films laid dO\\l1 the bases for future
de\c1opments', but discusses only [,il tic C(/CSI/ rand Tltc PI/Mic 1:'I/CII/J' and
otherwise refers in his section on 'the Golden\ge' of the 1<)30S only to
S({/r/iw' and one other 11)J0S gangster film, the comedy Tltc I,il/lc Giant
(().n), \\hich is cited in passing' to exemplif~ the \\ays in \\ hich (exactly
t \\ehe months after the release of SCilr/i/(c, 'the ultimate expression of the
g;enre's early phase'2) the HollY\nJod gangster had become 'a domesticated
creature ... an anachronism ... the stuff of legend more than bct' (p. 3 I).
Howe\er, Roso\\ (llnR: 120-ZI0) lists at least nine other directl~ contem-
poraneous gangster films of the late 1<]20S and early 1<)30s.
In bct, Hardy, Schatz and e\ en Shadoian do all make reference to one
\ery much earlier film abou t urban criminal gangs, \). \ \. Ciriffit h 's Thc
Hl/sA'i'lars II/P/~~ IIIC)' (1<) 12), but none of them explore either the intencning
t\\O decades or the possible relationship bet\\een the (earl~ /Iate) silent-era
gangster and his more celebrated successors. Shadoian's \ ie\\ that after
Griffith the gangster film 'strugg'led in unfertilised soil through to the end of
the t\\enties' (p. 2<)) seems to be the majority opinion. Ilo\\e\cr, GriC\eson
(2005 f()rthcoming) discusses a range of more than thirt~ silent gangster films
dating' back as early as 1<)06, of \\hich Rcgcl/aalilll/ (1<)1.:;) described by its
director Raoul \\alsh as 'the first full-length gang'ster picture e\er made' is
perhaps the best-kno\\ n. \\'hile some of these films, such as the series of
films in the mid-I<)los on \\hite sla\C ring's (notabl~ Traffic III Sill/Is, 1<)13)
and another, slightly later series about ChinatO\\l1 and 'Tong' gangs, seem
remote fi'om the concerns of later g~l11g'ster films, others ha\ e quite clear
connections: f(Jr n:ample, the films dealing \\ith the Italian 'Black Hand' (in
'I'IIC Gild/it/ita, Pari !J, the predatory Don F~lI1ucci, thc young \ito Corleone's
first 'hit', is identified as a member of the Black lland).' This genre
archaeology is of more than narnmly academic interest since it bears directly
not only on the standard accounts of genre c011\entions but also on the \\ays
in \\hich the gangster film has most often been historicilly located.
THE GANGSTER FIL:\I: GENRE AND SOCIETY 137
:\umerous studies of the genre, including the three cited abo\e, take it as
~l\:iomatic that the seminal gang'ster films are directly contemporary with the
phenomenon they depict. The banner nC\\'spaper headlines screaming of
mob \\arf~ll'e that spiral dizzily out of the screen, an instant genre cliche
(nostalgically i11\0ked in Tlte Gild/iI/iter's 'mattresses' montage), arc taken as
metonymic of the gangster film's O\\n determined topicality. Organised crime
h'ld of course rocketed, and hence come to national prominence, during
\merica's e:\traordinary and \\holly unsuccessful experiment with Prohibit ion
from IlJI9 to 1<)33 (although as Ruth (1996: 45) points out, both as crimino-
10giclI [ICt and as a public figure the gangster 'predated his bootlegger
incarnation '). The unremarkable desire to ha\'e a drink set millions of other-
\\ ise Ll\\-abiding citizens on the \\Tong side of the law; quenching their
thirsts required the establishment of regional net\\orks of illegal production,
distribution and sale of aleohol, an immensely profitable if risky business that
\\on huge f(Jrtunes and in a fe\\ cases - most notably Chicag'o's f\1 Capone,
the original 'Sclrf~lCe' nation\\ide notoriety, aided and abetted by a sensation-
hungry press.
,\s clearly rele\an t as Prohibition-era gangsters \\cre to the (()J0S gang'ster
cycle, hO\\c\er ' Roso\\ (I InR: 20 I-10) incidentally identifies not [jl/Ie Cacsar
but Tltc DllllrtI'il]' III !Jell ([()J0) as the first film based on ,.\1 Capone and a
,trong influence on the better-knO\\l1 later films - if the gang'ster is truly to
be identified \\ith the Prohibition-era mobster one might ask \\hy such
C\ identl~ topical and compelling material only f(lllnd its \\ay onto moyie
screens \ cry shortly bd()re the \ olsted .\ct \\as repealed in I <)33, Schatz
( I()R I: R5) and ot hers argue that the gangster film had to awai t the coming' of
,ound (in IIJ27) fiJI' the soundtrack of gangland 'gunshots, screams,
. ,creeching tires' and also ~I specific style of [1st-paced, hard-boiled dialog'ue
to bring the gang'ster and his urban milieu fully to life," 110\\ e\ er, \\hat
(irie\cson and other scholars of early cinema's relationship to urban
l11odernit~ demonstrate is that throug'hout the silent era in US political
terms roughly congTllent \\ith the ProgTessi\c period there \\as a \\ell-
est~lblished discourse that comprehended crime and \ice in\merica's
hurgeoning metropolises (abO\c all :\e\\ York and Chicago) in terms of social
11\ giene and rd(mll (see CiriC\eson, I<)In, 2005 f()rthcoming'; Gunning;,
[()In), and that the silent-era gangster \\as more likely to be concei\ed in
these terms than in the quasi-:\ietzschean mode ofien identified \\ith the
(()J0s film g'angster (Roso\\, IlnR: 67 also notes that gangster films first
appeared 'in the contnt of Progressi\e documentary realism'). In other \\ords,
the silent gangster film used a different, rather than simpl~ an inadequate,
'Ll11guage' to articulate the e:\perience of urban modernity.
The emphasis on social e11\ironmental ElCtors in the production of crimin-
,!lity, and the ~Issociated C011\ iction in the efficacy of refi)rm, meant that one
138 FILM GENRE
of the dominant themes of silent-era gangster films \vas the concept of
personal redemption from a life of crime (such coO\'ersion narrati\es also
dominated the Victorian and early-twentieth century stage melodramas that
provided early film-makers with many of their dramaturgic models), The
striking absence of any suggestion of remorse or efforts at restitution from
the protagonists of the early 1930S films who - with the possible and limited
exception of Tom Powers in The Public Enemy - go \\'holly unrepentant to
their violent ends is often cited as a decisive break and an indication of the
classic gangster's breakout into modernity from the residual Victorianism of
the silent era, In fact, the reintroduction of such moralistic motifs into later
1930S gangster films, both pre-moratorium VHallllll/!a/l J/lelodraI/{a, 1934,
whose gangster protagonist BIackie (Clark Gable) \irtually lobbies his best
friend the DA to send him to the chair) and after (Dead E/ld, 1936, \vith its
slum setting and strong elements of social critique, and" -l/lgels W"h Dirty
Faces, H)3R, whose gangster anti-hero (Cagney) feigns co\vardly breakdown
on his way to the gas chamber to save the next generation of street kids from
wanting to emulate him) is often cited ,IS evidence of their g.'eneric inauthen-
ticity and the gangster film's general decline after .')'tilrlilcc, HO\\c\er, if the
H)30-.12 classics are not regarded as the g;angster film's originary moment but
located in a longer generic history, it is if anything the repcntance theme that
starts to look like the mainstream generic tradition and the titanic SUlljilCC-
style individualist the exception.
Gi\cn for example that the genre has influentially been read as an allegory
of both the allure and the potentially catastrophic consequences of untram-
melled individualism, it may be no accident that the gangster film thrives in
the early years of the Depression, in the immediate aftershock of the Wall
Street Crash of October 1929. The traumatic collapse of the 1920S boom -
fuelled by wild stock-market speculation rather than industrial n:pansion -
not only undermined the triumphal capitalism of the Coolidge ,lI1d HoO\er
eras, but called into the question the very premises of the A.merican social
,lI1d economic system, In the years before more positi\e, pro-social models of
responding to the crisis emerged under Roosevelt's ,\'e\\ Deal, the screen
gangster \iolently articulated the disturbing; possibility that the quintessential1y
\merican values encapsulated in the 'Horatio .\lger myth'- the poor boy
who makes good throug'h his O\vn determination, hard \vork, dedication to
achieving his goals and so forth - might actual1y prO\c destructi\t~, both to
himself and to the wider society, if left uncurbed. The gangster shares the
Alger myth's ,lttracti\e qualities of vitality, \igour and determin,ltion; but he
also exposes their dark underbel1y: recklessness, seItishness, sadism and ,111
ultimately self-defeating spiral of \ iolent self-assertion, Thus the gangster
film typically stands in an at least implicitly critical relationship to the society
it depicts. In Robert \Varshc)\\'s (l194Rl rc)/ sa) inf1uential argument, to the
THE GANGSTER FIl.1\1: GENRE AND SOCIETY 139
{-\merican) audience the gangster is an exemplary and admonitory figure of
fatall~ o\erreaching ambition, yet one \\'ho also bespeaks some uneasy truths
about :\merican capitalism. This critical dimension to the gangster film may
be qu,l1ified by the perception that the gangster's typical narrative trajectory
, hom obscurity to \vealth and power, only to end in inevitable downfall and
defeat - is constructed to underpin a simplistic moral that 'crime does not
pay'. As ~lunby points out, hO\vever, the intense contro\'ersy culminating in
the Hays' Ollice 'moratorium' implies at the very least that such a message,
nen if intended, \vas not \\holly or satisElCtorily transparent to contem-
porary Establishment viewers of H)30S gangster films. On the contrary, elite
opinion in this period was persistently exercised at the prospect that the
glamorous portrayal of ~lob life in these films notwithstanding the
gJngster's ine\it,lble bloody doom - \vould attract impressionable urban youths
to\\ Jrds a life of crime rather than deter them from it (sec also Springhall,
J{)9R).
.\ lunby and other commenutors also suggest, howC\er, that elite depreca-
tion of the gangster film \vas in ElLt less a ref1ection of real anxiety about
these films' role in encouraging an upsurge in violent racketeering than a
IlKal point for a deeper nativist hostility to the growing visibility and political
and economic po\\cr of ne\v ethnic groups in the early twentieth-century
Cnited States, directed at Catholics in general and Italian-Americans in
pJrticular. The Depression-era gangsters might thus serve JS cautionary
I~lbles not only of indi\idualism rampant, heedless of social constraints, hut
also of the dangers of ethnic particularism \crsus assimilation, Portraying
1t,l1ian- (as in Lillie Caesar and Scarline) or lrish- (as in Tile P"hlic Fl/e/llY)
\mcricans as gangsters might seem to sene such xenophobic ideolog'ies
r,llher \\ell. (The scenes of public outrage at gangland e:\cesses in Scarlilcc -
interpolated just prior to reblse O\er director Boward Ha\vks's protests and
\\ ithout his cooperation include a reference to thc g;angsters as 'not e\en
l
citizens ' suggesting that one part of the gJngster film's agenda is to render
criminal violence 'un:\merican'.) Cnsurprisingly, prominent ltalian-.'\mericans
like :\e\v York ~ layor Fiorella La Guardia quickly denounced such characters
'IS Rico (in Lit/Ie Caesar) as debmatory. (Vigorous protests accompanied the
production and release of The Codlil/ha, and ha\ e themsehes become the
object of satire in The Sopral/os.)
On the other hand, by implying th<lt\merican society, [II' fi'om \\elcom-
ing the 'huddled rirnmig;rant] masses' into the mainstrC<ll11 culture, relegated
ethnic minorities to the economic margins \\'here asoci<ll actiyities offered in
effect the only escape route from poverty and social e:xclusion, the gangster
[ilm could be read <IS a cO!Tosi\e critique of hegemonic American values,
\nd, endO\ved \vith so much more \'ig;our, \vit and charisma than the ossified
fl)rCeS of established authority (criminal or legal) he opposes <lnd O\ercomes,
140 FILM GENRE
the gangster prO\'ides a powerful- and a transgressi\T - figulT of identification
for the ethnic, urban constituency he represents,
Alongside ethnicity, as an urban form dealing \\ith responses to depri\a-
tion in a highly materialistic culture the gangster film also ine\itably sheds
light on a greater unmentionable, not only in Holly\\ood but in :\mcrican
society generally: class, While the 'official' :\merican ideology - including the
Turnerian myth of the frontier - stigmatised class societies and class struggle
as 'Old \Vorld' nils that had been purged fi'om the idealised\meriean
commonwealth, the gnmth of labour unions and such political mo\ements as
Populism meant that class conflict \\as in Elct at its most intense in .\merican
society in the years immediately before and after the First World War.
Lulled by the briet1y shared prosperity of the 1<)20S, the onset of the
Depression S,I\\ the spectre of class cont1ict return \\ ith a \Tngeance (see
Parrish, H)<J2: +O~-2I). As \\ith ethnicity, the gangster ambi\alently enacts
some of the brutal realities of class in modern ,\merica, both csposing and
falling \ietim to the csigencies of class struggle. In Elct, the g;angster might
be seen as an exemplary subject of ideological misrecognition: Tony Camonte
in Stilljinc mistakes the ~1(hertising slog;an 'the \\orld is yours' as a personal
messag'e and sets out to act upon it. Established at the outset of the narrati\e
as belonging to a lower prokssional and social order than his boss or patron,
the g'ang'stcr de\'(ltes his ferocious energies not to assaulting or O\Trturning
this social and economic hierarchy, but to triumphing \\ ithin it by a more
ruthless csploitation of its \alues than anyone else. Far fi'om being dis-
atlccted or alienated fi'om the system, the gang:ster displays an cstreme degree
of in\estment in it. :\s Ed\\ard ~litchell (IlJ7(l) arg'ues, he \\holeheartedly
adopts the logic of the key elements of early t\\entieth-century :\merican
ideology that underpinned the existing' distribution of resources a secularised
Puritanism (\\hose concept of the 'elect' could be adapted to underpin the
notion of a heroic 'man of destiny', Elted to triumph \\here others Liil) and
Social Dan\inism (\\'here the neutral processes of natuLiI selection \\ere
recast as 'the sun i\al of the fittest' and used to justify the \ieious dog:-eat-
dog: contest of laissez-Eiire capitalism). The g:ang:stcr's progress up the
professional ladder is accompanied by the traditional trappings of self-
imprO\ement not only fine clothes, List GlrS and the \\oman of his dre,lITIs,
but a self-conscious culti\,1Iion of taste (rony Camonte attends a perfilrm-
ance of Somerset ~Iaug'ham's Rllill, 'a serious shO\\'; Bug:s Raymond (Ed\\ard
G. Robinson) in the g:angstcr comed~ Tllc Ijl//c Gill 1/1 studies Plato and
acquires abstract modern art). Yet his gutter orig:ins ultimately betray him,
both to the audience and to his peers: Poppy finds Tony's ap,lrtment 'g:audy',
the Corleones endures \\:\.SP jibes at their 'g:uinea charm' and 'silk suits';
I\oodks in (JlltC ['pOll 11 Tilllc il/ .llllaim finall~ accepts his lost lo\e's
Deborah's insig:ht that 'he'll ahYays be a t\\o-bit punk'. In Elet, it is the
TIlE GANGSTER FIL\t: GENRE AND SOCIETY I4I
(j',lI1gster's deracination that finall\ dooms him: his il1\estment in ascending
~1e 'ladder of class compels him t(; adopt an alien identity and attenuates the
powerful energies of self-assertion that ha\e taken him this far.
.'\ .\lar'\ist reading of the genre \\ould stress this notion of self-alienation
,1S an ineradicable function of clpitalism, ,md might point to the corruption
of the f~lmily, a repeated motif in g,mgster films since the ICnOS, as a key
1l1'lrker. :\ccording to .\Lin ,lOll his collaborator Friedrich Engels, the
cultural pri\ileging- of the 'Holy hlmily' under bourgeois society is a
characteristic ideological ruse - di\erting the \\orker's \alid aspirations
to\\anls self-realisation in a politically harmless direction (\\hich is also
economically necessary to replenish the \\orkforce) \\hik offering- him a petty
tH,ll1ny of his O\\n (O\Tr his \\ife and children) to assuage the misery of his
I;\\n class oppression. The bmily unit thus becomes a gTim parodic
mini,ltulT of the unjust and t\\isted pO\\er rehllions that typify bourgeois
clpiLilism as a \\ hole. HO\\C\ er, this implies th,1I the inherently unstable
coni radict ions of class society and their potential for cltastrophic implosion
might also be encountered in the family. From such a perspecti\e, the
gangster's characteristic obsession \\ith presen ing 'his' Elmily, \\hich none-
theless leads ineluctably to its destruction, becomes enormously re\Taling. In
.','((Il/ila, Tony Camonte's incestuous bond \\ith his sister Cesca, \\hieh dri\es
him to murder her husband, becomes a 100Tr's pact that sees them die side
In side in a hail of police bullets. \Iichael Corkone insists throughout Tile
Cod/il/iler. Pllrl II that his criminal enterprises, like his Either's, arc ,ill
intended for 'the good of the Llmily'; but as his po\\er crests his family is
progressi \ely decimated, and he is himself cit her direct Iy responsible for, or
implicated in, the deaths of his brother-in-hl\\, his brother and his daughter
(and his unborn child, aborted by his \\ ik kay in IT\ulsion ag;ainst the 'e\ il'
\ Iichael has \\Tought). His uncomprehending' mother reassurcs him th,lt 'you
can ne\Tr lose your Llmily', but \lichael realises that 'times ha\c changed'.
\Iichael's blind pursuit of pO\\er, ostensibly in the n,lme of the Lunil\,
unk<lshes uncontainable forces that must ultimately destroy it, perfectly
ellcapsubting' the .\Linist insight that the 'protected' Llmilial ITaim cannot
lin,dl~ be protected from the atomising; {(lI'CCS of the \Tn capitalism that
claims to presenT it. In F()rce ()f r,1! ([(Hi) .\lob hmyer Joe \lorse's
il1\ohTment \\ith ruthkss rackcteer Tucker Ie<lds indirectly but innorabh to
his brother Leo's murder; Tilc G()d/II/iler. PIIII II ends \\ ith \lich<lel himself
ordering the murder of his brother Fredo.
The centrality of the E1l11ily to the g'angster seems ,It first glance
p'lradmical: f(lr if anything the gangster is identified \\ ith the cat,lstrophic
apotheosis of the o\en\cening, e\en imperial self. The gangster film is in fact
the only major genrc to he named ,Iftel' its protag'onisr. Yet as the \cn \\onl
implies, the gang-ster's ,Ipparently hypertrophic illlli\ idualism is itself only
 142 FILM GENRE
skin-deep and ultimately vulnerable: unlike the Westerner the gangster - an
orp;llnised criminal - is he~l\'ily reliant on others not only for his po\\er but for
his identity. For all that his story apparently enacts wild self:'assertion and
radical self-fashioning, from another perspective it becomes apparent that the
gangster:s selfhood is really constructed through the group. GOIII(/dias (19 89)
opens wIth the bald statement in voicemcr: ':\11 my lik I ahyavs \\anted to
be a gang'ster', but the remainder of the film \\orb throug'h' \\ith brutal
thoroughness the mutually contradictory thrust of the desire on the one hand
to belong, and by belonging' to confirm an apparenth secure selthood
(knowin[!: what one wants and actin[!: to achieve it) versu~ on the other the
inherent logic of violence that will inevitably end up making victims of the
[!:ang's mvn members and reducing the gangster himself to a state of paranoid
uncertainty S
Warshow's sense of the gang'ster as thrO\ving into relief the yalues of
mainstream America is captured in the gangster's ambivalent relationship to
his 'L1I11ily' (the [!:ang or his actual blood relations), \\hich may n:press the
prof(llIndly ambi[!:uous place of community in a society that supremely
valorises the individual at the expense of the collective. Typically, the gang
itself is both indispensable and a burden, even a threat, to the gangster: he
needs the support of his soldiers, and it is 1)\ his ascent from th~ r~;nks that
his self:'assertion is measured; yet the gangster knO\vs onh' too \vell how
dang"Crous it is to rely on any tics, even those of blood. i'\ot o'nly the outright
treachery, but the simple unreliability of one's associates is a repeated trope
of the genre: Fredo Corleone's weakness and resentment make him an
unwitting accomplice to an attempt on his brother \lichael's life in The
God/ii/her Part l! (in the first God/ii/her it is Fredo \\ho is drivin[!: his Lither,
and who Llils to draw his own g'un, \yhen the Don is shot down in the street);
Carlito spends most of Carlilo 's /I ill' (H)(J3) trying', and biling, to n:tricate
himself from the toils of his attorney Dave Kleinkld's [!:reed and recklessness.
The g'ang'ster film implicitly ironises its subject inasmuch as it stresses the
self-suflicicnt individual the g'angster desires to be and insists he is, vet -
precisely because he is a p,lIlIp,".I·ler - he can never become. ' .tl)()lition in H)66 and its replacement in 1<)68 by a national ratings system also
This performati\c contradiction of radical autonomy and dependency can
also be read in psychoanalytic terms: the gangster's 'riotous se1f:'asse~tion,
whether expressed through the violence he inflicts on others or throug'h his
characteristic ostentatious displays of \vealth and pmver (clothes, cars,'guns,
womcn), literally embodies Lacan's notion of the 'gaze of the Other'. The
g'angster concei\"Cs of himself as self-authored/authorised, in thrall to no one
- in bct, as classically in Tony Lamonte's ruthless rise to pm\er in Smr/ilCe,
being in the power of, or reliant on, others is intolerable to him. Y~t as
Lacan's account of the subject's constitu tion throug'h entry into the Svmbolic
order (paradigmatically language, but by extension' all of ;he social stl:uctures
THE GA"'JGSTER FILM: GENRE AND SOCIETY 143
through \vhich the individual is socialised) makes dear, individualit~ is a
function of relationality: identity is confirmed only by its constitution in the
regard of an Other. Refusal to register the role of otherslthe Other in
lil11ning the subject's selfhood is at best regressive inLlI1tile f~lI1tasy, at worst
psychotic. Elements of both tendencics .lre present in the classic 1930S
gangsters; as the genre takes on 1I0lr shadings in the post\var period, in the
mother-fixated sociopath Cody Jarrett Games Cagney) in Wltile Ileal (1949),
both arc wholly uncontained and violently acted out.
In this section \\"C have touched on several themes that have structured
g,mgster films since the silent era, including imliyidualism and the 'American
])ream', selfhood and subjectivity, masculinity, urbanism, the Llmily, class
.lI1d ethnicity. ,\11 of these \\"Cre very much 'live' categories in the cultural
discourses of pre-Second World War .\merica. Following the I<)J5 morator-
iUI11, the gangster \\as displaced by the pro-social 'official' hero - the polin:
detective, Treasury or FBI agent - in the later HUOS and by the early 1940S
had become a nostalgic figure. During the \\<11' years eyen gangsters (on-
screen at least) placed their patriotic duty bdi.)re their priyate gain (see
Young', 2000). Throughout the 1950s, in such films as The B(e: IIl'al (1953),
/hi' Big CIIJII/JII and The Phl'lIl.\ CII)' SllIr)' (both 1(55) gangsters featured as
increasingly impersonal antagonists - quasi-corporate crime syndicates that,
like the pods in 11I7.'asloIl0(tlll' Hod)' SlIlIlllters (1<)55), mirrored contemporary
.1I1xieties about both Communism .1I1d the domestic culture of confi.JrInitv -
to 'official' heroes \\hose o\\n motives and methods became increasingly
qucstionable. \lason (2002: (17-119) sees the films of this period as pre-
occupied with conspiracy and thc systemic Llilures of 'straight' society to
protect and enable masculine indiyiduality, consequently proyoking that
indiyiduality to take on ever more stressful and 'illegitimate' forms.
Other major genres suffered br mOlT fi'om Old Hollywood's terminal
crisis than the gangster film, which was neither ideologically central to the
outgoing system (like the Western) nor directly implicated economically in
its collapse (like the f~liled musicals of the late I<)6os). The Production Code's
meant that the remaining inhibitions on content - massiyely attenuated by
the mid-I<)6os, but still with some f(lrce to the n:tent that exhibitors were
attached to the Code Seal of _\pprO\al - \\ere no longer a problem. The
remainder of this chapter will look in more detail at the \\ays that since the
return of the g'angster as protagonist in BIIIIJlie IIlIrI CirriI' (1967) and Tlte
Glld/lillter, the thematic preoccupations of the HBOS gangster cycle haye been
rene\\ed, re\ie\\cd and ntended, in a period nurked in the g'angster film as
in other traditional genres by an in tensc self-consciousness concernmg
:,;cneric traditions and the uses of genre revisionism.
1..1-4 FILM GENRE
THE GANGSTER REVIVAL
The Gild/it/her - whose success was a major [lCtor driying Holly\\ood's early
1970s nostalgia boom established an enduring popularity fi)r the 'retro'
gangster film, often layishly mounted prestige yehicles, sometimes on an epic
scale, dramatising the halcyon years of the pre-Second \\orld \Yar \lob:
e\amples include, in addition to GIII(lit/hers II and III, LepA>e (uns), Lucky
[,ilIl), (un6), F*I*S*T(Hn'l:l), Ouce ['plill a Till/e III_iII/erica, The Clllllllchables
(19'1:17), Miller's Crossing (1990), Bill)' Badlgale (1991), Bllgs)' (1992) and Tlze
Road III Perdil ill II (200 I). Grandiose thematic pretensions, generally aspiring
to statements about the (lost) .\merican Dream, alongside the self-conscious
rendering of the gangster as a quintessential _\merican figure, arc notable
feat ures inherited by m,1I1 y of these films from Coppola's saga (\yhich opens
with the line 'I bclin'e in America' spoken symbolically enough by an
undertaker), as is a Stygian \isual register aping' Gordon \Yillis's atmospheric
photography fi)[- the first t\\ 0 films and in tended to communica te the murky
moral uni\erse inhabited by the characters. :\lost retro .\lob films fi)Cus on
the trials of leadership and seHTal ad yertise the parallels bet\yeen the
objecti\es and the methods of organised crime and those of 'legitimate'
corporate business. This marks a subtle yet clear ideolog'ical shift in the
presentation of the generic material. In post-classical I lolly\\ood the gangster
becomes less of an C\ceptional and cautionary figure, and increasingly
representatiye of the fi-ustration and disillusion that ha\e terminally corroded
the promise of America. E\ploitati\e, ruthless organised crime itself is repre-
sented- most ClIllously in Tlte Gild/it/her as not a caricature but simply the
unmasked truth of 'straight' contemporar~ A.merican society, in all its relent-
less dehumanisation. Rumours about ~Llfia implication in the ass.lssination
of President l'..ennedy in 19(13 had gained \\ide circulation by the start of the
I<nOS, and with ongoing' re\elations about criminality at the highest political
Incls, culminating in un3 \\ith flJrIner \Yhite House Counsel John Dean's
dramatic refusal to reassure the Watergate enquirY that the :\i\on \Yhite
1I0use's 'dirty tricks' would stop e\en at murder, the gangster film seemed
all too apposite a \ehicle fiJI' allegorising po\\er relations in contemporary
America.
SeYeral post-classical gangster films, including The Gild/it/iter, earl II,
Bugs)' and Tllillgs III Do ill [)ell7.·!'r TrhCII } -11/1 're Dead, IT- (and dis)locatc the
gangster away from his natural dense urban milieu into the \Yestern
wilderness, ironically obserying the incongruities that result; 'old-school'
\'eterans such as Frankie Pentangeli in Glid/illl,er II and Joe Hess, the
narrator of Tltillgs to DII ill DCII7.·er, nostalgically figure the lost \eritics of the
gangster's urban origins and il1\oke integrated ethnic communities dissipated
by suburban dispersal. \Yith the \irtual absence of an y \isible or effecti ye
TIlE GANGSTER FILM: GE"iRE AND SOCIETY 1..1-5
structures of la\\ enforcement in many of these films, the identificatory
conl1ictual locus reorients itself around the clash bet\\een an 'old-school'
criminal - characterised by loyalty to cre\\, (some) regard for human life and
rug'ged imliyidu.rlism - and an impersonal, quasi-corporate criminal organ-
is'ltion. The anti-heroic yersion of the American Dream embodied by the
classic indiyidualist gangster seems to dissipate alongside the decline of its
'ot1icial' counterpart in mainstream society; thus the old-style gangster
becomes a nostalgically heroicised figure standing in opposition to a machine-
like bureaucracy \\hose ruthlessness is intensified, rather than diminished, by
its depersonalisation. This sub-genre is fiJreshado\\-ed in both some prewar
l2;angster films like Ti,e Roarillg TI/'elllies and Hlj!,-II Sierra (1941) - compare
C:arlito Brigante's (A.I Pacino) characterisation of the contemporary scene
\\here 'there ain't no rackets ... just a bunch of cowboys ripping each other
off with Eddie Bartlett's s\\ipc at 'soda jerks and jitterbugs' in The Rllanng
TJI'CIIlies, quoted abO\c .1I1d post",rr IIlIir g'angster films like Fllrce IIr /:'7.'11
,Itld The Gangsler (uH9). Ho\\'eyer, its paradigmatic film is {Jllilll ElaIlA'
(l<lh7), whose dream-like narrati\e sees the betrayed Walker, in sing'le-
minded pursuit of the loot stolen from him, frustrated and suspended - 'on
hold' in an endless series of stone\\alling referrals to higher authority. The
obsessiye simplicity of \Yalker's quest fiJr 'his' money is repeatedly charac-
terised by the 'suits' he has to deal \\-ith as a relic of an older, obsolete way
of doing business. PIIIIII Bialik is narrated as a series of stylised \ignettes
\\hose frequently unpbceable, dream-like quality opens the possibility that
the entire film is the dying Walker's Pilld,l'r Harlill-like Lmtasy of rnenge as
he bleeds out on the 11001' of Abaraz, and links the film strongly to the
oneiric strain injill/l IlIlir (sec Chapter <J). ~lore prosaic accounts of maycricks
out\\ itting sclerotic corporate crime in the same period include Charle)'
I orrid' ('the last of the independents') and Tlte Ollr/il (both 1973)·
:\Iongside mythic and nostalgia narrati\-es, another strand in the post-
classicd gangster film has been a series of films focusing not on titanic
kingpins but on Il)\\er-Inel gangsters: '\\-iseg'uys', 'soldiers' and day-to-day
\ illains \\ho aspire not to the Presidency but to more modest degrees of
comfiJrt and status. In this mode, .\lartin Scorsese's /vIellll Slreels (11)]3), a
portrayal of a group of Italian-A.merican petty hoods critically lauded but
little seen on its original release, has prO\ed enormously inl1uenti.rl. Scorsese's
()\\n distincti\e style, refined in Glilid/dias and Casillil (Illl)S), combines an
intense naturalism of setting and performance \\ith a highly demonstrati\e
and intensely aestheticised \isual style, resulting in an almost hallucinatory
and yet also hyper-real penetration of his ch<lracters and their milieu. _11/alllic
Cily (19'1:11), Srale IIr Grace (1990), DlJllllie Brasm (1997) as \\ell as Tlte
SlipralllJS and the comedies _Had Dllg al/(I Glllr)' (19'1:19) and Ti,l' IVlllllc N Ille
Llrds (2000) \\holly or in part C\plored terrain opened up by "Heall Slreels
146 FILM GENRE
(itself strongly influenced by P,NJlini's A((ilIOlle, 1(60), though lacking
Scorsese's kinetic, yisionary style.
The focus on urban small-timers in some cases - such as DOlillie Bmsco -
imparts to the mainstream urban gang·ster film some of the fatalism
traditionally associated with its rural yariant. Films relating the exploits of
Depression-era outlaws from Machille GUll Kell)' (I (58) to Blood)! .l1ama
(I(nl) and Thiel"C.I· Like Us (197+) emphasise the roots of their protagonists'
turn to crime in dispossession, deracination and despair, and offer fewer
correctiye alternative models (the priest, the crusading journalist) than their
urban counterparts. The most famous rural g·angster film, BOlillie and C!)!de
(1967), identifies its highly glamorised couple explicitly with Dustbowl victims
of economic banditry - at one point, Clyde hands his gun to an unhoused
f~lrmer (and his Black farm worker) to take cathartic potshots at their former
smallholding, now foreclosed on by the bank - as well as morc loosely with
the youth counterculture then adopting a more militant stance in relation to
the straight Establishment. While both rural and urban gangsters arc typically
doomed, rural gangsters seem to enjoy few of the glamorous fruits - the
penthouse apartments, sleek automobiles and designer clothes - of their
urban colleagues: their pickings arc slimmer, their liyes more fugitive and
itinerant. The rural gang closely resembles a LJmily horde like the James
Gang or the Daltons and is correspondingly small-scale, lacking the hierarch-
ical, crypto-corporate aspect of the urban crime Syndicate. \Vhereas the
urban gangster film has usually, as we have seen, been constructed in mythic
polarity to the Western, there are strong links between the rural gangster
film, some film versions of the Jesse James and Billy the Kid myths (notably
Bill)' Ihe Kid, 1930, Pal Garr{'/I alld Bill)' Ihe A"id, 1l)73, and Jesse .Jallles,
1939), and the outlaw tradition that Eric Hobsbawm terms 'social banditry'.
Another traditional syntactic feature of the Western to migrate to the
contemporary gangster film is the dream of escaping 'across the border',
which features in Carlilo's 11 lI.l' and the Tarantino-scripted Tme ROil/illite
(I(J9+): these films playoff the established post-God/iilher concept of
organised crime as the image of a uni, ersally oppressive and destructive
social reality and suggest that \\hereas for the classic gangster Lmtasies of
self-adYancement ami fulfilment were sustainable and nen (however briefly)
realisable within society, these arc today only achievable in an imaginary
'elsewhere'.
The most obvious innovation in the gang·ster film in recent years is the
incorporation of the African-American experience into the classic ethnic
gangster paradigm, with films like Boy::. X II,e Hood (1990) and Dead PresidCllls
(1995) faithfully translating classic models like Deild Elld and The Roarill!!.
T,7JCIlI;cs to the modern urban ghetto. Other films, howeycr - notably" HCIlace
lJ Sociel)' (1993) - evince a nihilistic despair at odds with all but the most
THE GANGSTER FILM: GE"IRE A"ID SOCIETY 147
dyspeptically revisionist ~e\\ Hollywood white gangster films. As Munby
(1999: 225-6) and "lason (2002: 15-+"-7) argue, these differences can be
<lttributed to the irrelevance of the mythology of the American Dream to
Black Americans -" upon whose exclusion from the possibility of 'American-
isation' and ellibollrgeoisemelil the Dream is in fact partly predicated. A
controversy yirtually identical to that surrounding the 1930S gangster cycle
erupted around the African-American themed gangster ('gangsta') films of
the early 1990S, with both White elite opinion-formers and Black religious
and political leaders inveighing yirtually unanimously against the high body-
coun ts and apparent glorification of inner-city drug lords in such films as
\(11' .Jad.: Cily (1991) and J1ena((' II Sociely. Both box-office returns and
,lccounts of audience response in African-American neighbourhoods, by
contrast, suggested that some Black audiences found in the larger-than-life
protagonists figures of these films precisely the kind of militant empower-
ment their critics so feared (sec l\lunby, 1999: u5f.).
BEYOND HOLL YWOOD
\lost national cinemas - other than those, such as the Soviet-era Eastern
Bloc, for whom domestic crime was an ideological impossibility - haye
produced their indigenous variants of the gangster genre, with particularly
strong indigenous gangster traditions in Britain and France. Few, howeyer,
have used the figure of the gangster himself in the culturally and socially
paradigmatic manner of his American incarnation. A notable exception to
this rule is Harold Shand (Bob Hoskins), the London gangland boss in The
JAilig Good Friday (GB 1980), whose plans to internationalise his operations
b\ a link-up to the CS ,\lafia and to di\crsify into property development are
depicted as a cautionary Thatcherite fable. Harold's plans are ironically
undone by the return of a political and colonial repressed, the Troubles in
'\orthern Ireland; Swain (1998: 2) argues that Harold's 'railings against an
unseen and unknown enemy (which turns out to be the IRA) are suggestiye
of a generic as well as political anxiety,' and the film indeed suggests that
Harold's aspirations to leave his roots behind (he lives on a boat) and become
a player on the global gangster stage are doomed by his (and Britain's) bloody
unfinished business at home.
Whereas the :\meriean screen gangster takes paradigmatic shape early on
in the genre's history, the British gangster mutates through several guises,
from the postwar 'spiv' cycle, including Tile)! Made HI' a Fugitire, Brt~~hfOIl
Rock (both GB 19-+7),11 "ill/Jays Raills Oil SUI/dal's and The Noose (both GB
HJ+8: see .\lurphy, 198<): q6-67) through Stanley Baker's Americanised
crime boss in Ti,e Crill/illal (GB 1<)60). HO\vever, arguably it is only with the
qH I'ILM GENRE THE G A:'oJGSTER FI LI\I: Ci E:'oJ RE AND SOCIE TY l.j.9

emergence of the Kray Brothers as mythic g,lngland archetypes that the

British gangster film acquires its defining semantic element, the 'firm'.
British gang'ster films of the early 1970S such as 1'1///1111 and Gel Carler (both
GB 1(71) as well as PerjimllallCt' (GB Il)70) clearly imoke the I(ray myth,
which becomes an increasingly nostalgic informing presence in later gangster
films including The LOllg Good Friday, The IIiI (H)8.j.), Gallgsl('/" .Yo.[ and
Se,,:]! Beasl (both GB zooo), as well as the liS-made The rillle)' (ZOOI).
(Several of these, as Ste\c Chibnall (zoo I: z81-9 I) notes, adopt revenge
motifs from Jacobean tragedy.) The late Il)90S saw a cycle of semi-comic
g'angster films (including I,o(!.:, Slor/.:, IlIld 1'11'0 SII/(J!.:illp, Barrels, GB 199 8 ,
and SnaIr/I, GB zooo) whose casual \'iolence and macho posturings hare been
connected by Chibnall \\ith the concomitant rise of 'lad culture' in the UK
(see also "lurphy and Chibnall, Il)99).
Bruzzi (Il)9:;: z(J) compares the American and French genres in terms of .:
....
:: ...
'

the g'angster's personal style, arguing that whereas classic :\merican gangster --\:,. ',~ ... -
films arc characterised by fi'enetic action and LIst talking', their French
counterparts arc quiet and exaggeratedly sl(m, and despite their generic
"-:.
similarities, 'the French amI :\merican films hare always diverged on the level .--:......
" '<
of tone. Though the gangster film may come more naturally to .\mericans,
the French do it with more st\le.'
In non-western cinemas, I(eiko ~lcl)onald (H)9Z) explores the long-
running popularity of the Jlpanese }a/""u::.a film since the IlnOS as an
example of a genre, like the Western, that ()\er its long lifespan directly
reflects changing Japanese social consciousness. Perry Farrell's The IIarder
The)' COllie Uamaica, 1(!7Z), set in the slums of l(ingston, reno\"<ltes tropes
fi'om both the urban (Rep,clleral/(Ju, 1,//111' Cacsar) and the rural (Bollllie and
C/]!dc) US gang'ster film and demonstrates h(m the phenomenon of 'uneven
development' permits categories originating in Depression :\merica to
translate themsehes readily into the terms of other cultures undergoing
comparable socio-economic upheaval.

CASE STUDY: USCI:' L PU.\I 'jf \11:' 1,\ j\[[;'RICI (1()1'l..j.)

1:"<1111 Ollrl' l /'011 Ii 1'11111' III . I III I'I"/rli (I()~\.l). Reproduced courtes\ I.add (:<l111pany/Warner

J .ike many epics, the plot of Sergio Leone's four-hour Oil(£, [j)()11 a Tillie in Ilr<l,/The "-oba! Collection.

.1111('/"i((/ is a long-breatheu but simple melody, essentially a plain story of

betrayal and loss, dishonour among' thie\cs. In the years after the First \,"odd
War, Prohibition transforms four petty teenag'C hoodlums fi'om :\'C\v York's
Jewish Lower East Side into \\calthy throug'h still small-time gansgters. .\lax,
the leader of the gang, ambitious beyond his parochial comrades and restless
at their self-imposed limitations, embroils the gang with ,I more po\\erful
:Mob outfit and finally proposes a \\ildl~ ambitious and almost certainly
'>uicidal heist. Degg'ed by .\lax's mistress to save her l()\cr fi'om himself~ his
tello\\ g,ll1g member anu best friend :"oodles agrees to rat out the gang on
their last bootlegging run together so they em share a cooling-off period in
the can. But :\ooules misses the job, and in the police ambush resulting fi'om
his tip-off .\lax anu his t\VO other friends arc gunned u(mn - Max's body
roasteu to an unrecognisable cinder in the firefight. :'\ooules escapes the
From OIlCf UpOIl a Tillie ill !/lIIuim (198+). Reproduced courtesy Ladd Company/VII mer
Bros/The Kobal Collection.
150 FILM GENRE
Syndicate killers out for his blood and escapes ;\'ew York - but not before
discovering that someone, sometime, has stolen the gang's accumulated loot,
stashed since their first teen exploits in a left-luggage locker at Grand Central
station, and to which, as the sole sunivor, I\'oodles is now entitled. Dazed,
alone and tormented by guilt for the death of his friends, Noodles buys a
one-way ticket to 'anyplace. First bus.' Thirty-five years pass: it's now 1968
and the aged Noodles receives a mysterious summons back to the city.
Returning to the transformed streets of his youth, he e\'entually discovers
that all those many years ago l\lax had double-crossed him, manipulating
Noodles and the others, feigning his own death and stealing the gang's money
to purchase for himself a new life as Secretary Bailey, a powerful political
player. Noodles is innocent of the burden of guilt he has carried for decades.
'Bailey' - who has also married Noodles's childhood s\veetheart, Deborah,
whom Noodles had long ago alienated by a self-destructively brutal act of
sexual violation - now bees exposure by an impending Congressional hearing,
and confronting Noodles at his opulent Long Island mansion he imites his
old friend to take his long-overdue revenge. But Noodles refuses, preferring
to cling to his memories of a 'great friendship' that 'went bad' long ago.
Noodles walks away into the night; looking back, he sees "lax/Bailey at the
gates of his estate. A garbage truck passes bet\veen them: when it grinds by,
Max/Bailey has disappeared. Has he ended his life by throwing himself into
thc chopper? Or have the gangland interests threatened by his imminent
exposure assassinated him? As a passing carload of revellers dressed in the
flapper [Ishions of the 'Roaring' 1920S recalls for us Noodles's gangster
heyday, the film ends on a note of deep ambiguity.
The most ambitious of a series of period gangster films made in the wake
of the enormous success of the first two God/ii/her films, Ol/c(' .. , self-
consciously embraces Coppola's vision of organised crime as less a re\e1atory
mirror image of the American dream (the classic model) than a simple, direct
and logical extension of American \'alues into a realm \vhere their \iolence
and corruption are made manifest. As Fran .Mason puts it, like The
G()((/illher, Once .. ,
extendls J the metaphor of the 'double-cross' to the le\'el of American
society which is re\ealed to be a culture of betrayal and complicity ...
where a depersonalised and hostile sociality cannot be transcended, but
ultimately extends its ruthless logic. (Mason, 2002: q3)
The film's bootlegging and union racketeering milieu exploits similar
material to Llldij' Lad)' and F*I*S*T, two routine and unsuccessful earlier
entries in the Mob nostalgia cycle. However, the film's formal complexities
,- which ha\e some similarities to The G()((/il!her, Parl II, and like that film
THE GA~GSTER FIL:\t: GENRE A~O SOCIETY 151
encompass at once the gangster's myth of origins, the alienated present-day
reality of corporate crime and an ironic relationship between the two -
Jdn~rtise its ambitions to comment both on its parent genre and, through the
!!:Jngster film's generic tropes, on American life, Leone's str'lightforward plot
~nfolds as an intricate skein of memories, with Noodles's story unfolded in
.1 series of fi'agmentary interlinking f1ashbacks and f1ash-f(lr\vards with no
clc<lrly established narrative 'present tense' (the opening sequence, combin-
ing carefully obsened period detail, jarring violence and a growing sense of
temporal and spatial distortion .. , \vith two flashbacks-\\ithin-f1ashbacks and
thc disorienting soundtrack punctuation of an amplified, diegetically unplaced
telephone - establishes the film's stylistic tenor), The end of the film returns
full circle to its beginning, with a final flashback after Max/Bailey's mysterious
disappearance outside his mansion to '\oodles in 1933, taking refuge from
\vhat he belie\es to be his blood guilt in ,I Chinatown opium den. The last
image is a freeze-fi'ame of Noodles grinning broadly in stoncd reverie at
something or someone \\'e cannot sec.
The opium-den frame imites a reading of the narrative as unfolding
Iarg;ely in Noodles's head: the teenage scenes in the Jewish ghetto his
memories, the H)6S sequence his bntasy of a story in which he turns out to
be not traitor but \'ictim, not a rat but a patsy. The slightly 'ofT tenor of
se\eral of '\oodles's encounters \vith figures fi'om his past in this time-frame
lends the sequencc as a whole an oneiric quality that supports such a reading.
In fact, Ol/CC '" shares this basic ambiguity around the exact phenomeno-
logical register of its narrative with some other major post-classical gangster
films, notably Poil/l Blank, and in rather different ways Thc God/illher, Parl
I f and Ca rlilo '.I' /tay. All of these films ad vertise their g;eneric revisionism by
employing complex time schemes that fi'agment their narratives and render
theIll re\eries of their protagonists, as often as not at the moment of (real or
symbolic) death, Such de\ices both underscore the generically predetermined
downbll of the protagonist, and confirm his story, presented with all the
(Ilerdetermined and streamlined logic of J dream, as a f:l1Jle of the btl' of
indi\idual hope and ambition in [dlen corporate America,
Ol/ce ... in effect combines Poil/l Blalli/s radical modernist ambiguity \vith
I Fhc God/ii/her, Parl Irs critique of corporate gangsterism/capitalism. In
[lCt, the film's insistent and fetishistic accumulation of period detail across
I not one but three separate periods (1<)22, 1933, 1<)6S) recalls not only the
God/ii/hi'/" but .\lichael Cimino's maniacally authentic recreation of the
I li'ontier \rest in Hcal'cil ~\' Galt' (19S0), like Ol/ce ... a large-scale, lengthy and
expensi\e re\isionist entry in a classic genre that [Iilcd to find an audience
Jnd was substantially recut for subsequent release, Howe\ er, whereas
!lcal't'II '.I' Galt' seems to be un.I\\are of the kinds of textual and generic cruxes
entailed in the project of historical recO\cry through genre (see Chapter 2,
152 FILM GENRE THE C;ANGSTER FtL\1: GE"JRE AND SOCIETY t53

'The History of Westerns'), Once ... appears reflexively to acknowledge its apparently undirected elpers, {i'om the opening (frustrated) 'roll' of the
own periodisation as precisely a function of style and of genre. Amid the drunk to the jewel heist (\\iIh its sidebar rape) and the callous maternity ward
elaborate recreations, certain jarring anomalies stand out, notably in the 1968 S\\~\p. \Vhat Leone's decentred n.IIT.lti\e and simulacrum of the g'angster
sequence: a TV news bulletin that looks nothing like TV news footage; (Iilm) past suggests, hO\vever, is 'the old days' themsehes were never more
Deborah's strangely unaged face when Noodles meets her again, thirty-five lh~lI1 ElI1tasy projections, the dcsire to defeat the alienations and disempo\\er-
years older. These devices not only sustain the reading of the film as Jl1ents of capitalism through violent means that, as \lax understands but
Noodles's opium dream, but may be taken as textual parapraxes (Freudian '\ oodles refuses to, could only ever replicate, newr challeng;e, tha t s~ stem.
slips), confessions of the inescapably manufactured nature of any cinematic
past. When Noodles, on his return to Manhattan, hires a car, the wall of the
rental office is hung with 'period' photographs of the island - 'framing' the ,\OTES
frozen, reified memory of the past as commodity (the scene is scored to a
muzak arrangement of Lennon-McCartney's 'Yesterday'). This in turn The COllccpt of 're"idual' and 'cmug:cnl' idcolog'ics is from Ra\ mond \rilliams (111173\
invites comparison with another New York image glimpsed earlier in the ['ISO: +0 2)
same Iq68 sequence: the wall in Grand Central that in 1933 bore a mural _. .\<llr/,lil \"h rcle.l"cd Oil I)\pril 11).12: fIJI" 1.llll.. Gli/I// prcmicrcd Oil q \pril 1 <J.n,
,i. (;,I/i~' oj \"Ii' \ "d' (200,), loosch hascd on Ilcrhcrt \shul'\ \ (11J2i) popuLlI' 111';[01'\ of
advertising Coney Island in the style of Thomas Hart Benton - crowds of
Ihe sall1L' rrrk, rcturns to all c\cn carlicr (Ci\ il \rar) pCr10d of \.C\\ York g:'lllg: \\arElI'C
archetypal New Yorkers teeming towards stylised rollercoasters, in turn
+ '1 1III'ii h'IS thc "plTd .\\lll thc "inister "tacLato sound qu.llit\ of a m'lchinc g'un'
recalling the milling; throngs in the film's Lower East Side sequences - this (.\,I'<,III<ll/d l'l'\ic\\er, quotcd in Roso\\, 1(J7~': 1.13).
has been replaced in Iq68 by an abstracted rendition of thc midtown skyline ). (,'""df,'II,ls cnClpsuLltLs this douhle hind 111 a montag'c that chorcog'!'.Ij,hs an cndless
enveloped in New York's corporate urban logo, the Big Apple. People are "eriL's of g:~1I1g: ,1.1\ing:" moti\,ltcd not \" hct!'.I\.rl hut thcF<lr of hCt!'.I\'ll to thc
wholly absent from the image, and in many ways this is a film about the loss pl.lng'L'nt pLl\-out of Eric CL1pton\ 'Ll\ la', onc of rock', most urg'cnt statcmcnts of
(!c"irl',
of not only a future but a p.lst as well - one in which \\e have almost as much
invested as Noodles, but which is as much a fabrication as his own.
Leone is significantly less invested in the mythic grandeur of his prota-
gonists than Coppola. Only Max aspires to truly grand criminal schemes, and
only in his stolen second life as Bailey does he in bct become imohed with
the political circles, grand schemes and ultimately (and terminally) Congres-
sional hearings with which Michael Corleone's Cuban enterprise imolves
him: and in the film this is only hearsay and TV footage, not centre stage. As
mobsters, Noodles's gang's horizons are confined to the (considerable)
rewards to be gained from rum-running; Noodles himself is Clll1ceived as a
nobody, albeit a complex one: his romanticism \itiated by (in LICI, indissociable
from) his brutality, and unable or unwilling; to see beyond his illusions about
Max (and Deborah), he remains an outsider and a definiti\'e small-timer. A,s
the plot summary above indicates, in what is ostensibly 'his' story, 0:oodles
is most frequently a bystander, too confused, undirected and distracted ever
to match up to the Promethean gangster model of Cagney, \Iuni or for that
matter Brando or Pacino (De :\iro of course played the young Vito Corleone
in God/ii/her In. The film's meandering plot unfolds at a meditative, even
funereal pace with few generic set-piece highlights apart from the shoot-out
in the dO\m f;lclory and the drive-by shooting, \vhich Shadoian (2003; 286)
suggests is included as a consciously nostalgic thrO\\back to the 'good old days'.
In their place Ollce .. , prmides only a series of unredeeming', nploitative and
I
I
I
Part 2
Transitional Fantasies

~l
The two genres discussed in this section both have roots - in the case of the
horror film, deep roots - in the classical studio era. Yet in important ways
they also look ahead to the post-classical period, a period of reduced levels of
tilm production and corresponding'ly weakened genre identities. As fantasy
genres, both horror and science fiction depart in significant ways from the
;Jre\ailing canons of representation in the classical Hollywood style, whether
one takes that mode to be a form of realism (not the chimerical 'classic
realism') or, as I have suggested, of melodrama. Horror and science fiction
,tlso share an identity as unrespectable genres for an undiscriminating
ju\cnile audience (or an audience that has its mind on other things), with
strong roots in exploitation cinema, that have only [lidy recently emerged as
attr,ll'tive genres for large-scale production at major studios. Finally, both
genres have attracted significant critical attention in recent years, and in each
case theories of postmodernism and - which is not always the same thing -
currents in postmodern theory have played an important part in reconceiving
the genre for audiences and film-makers alike. This critical interest is, I
argue, related to the relative weakness in hoth cases of traditional semantic/
S\ 11 tactic matrices of generic identity, lending them a protean aspect that is

\\ ell suited to exploiting marketplace currents and trenus. That horror and SF
LIke their core generic material from the body and technology, respectively,
both engines of contemporary critical en4uiry and popular cultural dehate,
has confirmed their relevance.

CHAPTER 7 Orlok's grotesque, rodent-like appearance and his yisual association with
The Horror Film
he experience of limits, and t~e tr.'msgression of limi~s, is ecntl'~1 to the
T horror film: the boundanes of samty and madness, of the conscIous and
unconscious minds, of the external surfaces of the body and the f1esh and
organs within, pre-eminently the boundaries of life and death, Yet merely to
speak of 'boundaries' or eyen the transgression of bound.lries without
registering the \'ery specific affecti \e charge with \yhich the horror genre
enacts those mO\es would be largely to ignore its most distinctiye aspects ..\s
the name sug;gests, while on the one hand horror insistently pierces and
penetrates the yesscl of bodily and representational propriety, at the samc
time it registers that moye as profoundly, e\en elementally transgressi\e, in
a f100d of \isceral, disturbing and often \iolent imagery (though yiolence is
not a giyen, being mostly absent from many ghost stories from The Jl/l/o(ml.l ,
1962, and The Ifallillil/g, 196-1-, to The Si.\'i/I Sel/se, [qqq, and The Olhas, 200 I).
Death, and of course undeath and death-in-Iife, are omnipresent in horror.
usually personified as fearful forces to be shunned and/or destroyed, but
occasionally as states capable of generating transcendent insight (as in
He//raiser, GB 19H7),
Horror films dramatise the eruption of yiolence, often (bur not imariably.
and much less in recent decades) supernatural and always irrational, into
normatiye social and/or domestic contl'.\ts, often \\ith an undercurrent - at
times ,1 good deal more than that· of phobic sexual panic. The ag'ent of horrific
Yiolenc: - the 'monster' - is often seen as embodying' and/or enabling the
expression of repressed desire(s), One of the most obyious examples is Dracula,
who animates intense sexual desire in the (typically bourgeois, demure)
women he seduces/assaults \\hile at the same time enacting male ambiyalcnce
towards female sexuality in blurring lines between seduction and rape, sex and
yiolence, \Vith thc progressiye slackening of censorship this sexual dimension
has become increasingly explicit. In SOs/I'ralll (Germany I(22), the \ampirc
I HI'. HUKtHJK 1'ILIVI I,y
vermin (rats, spiders) mitigates the explicitly sexual aspects of the character
in Bram Stoker's original noyel of [893. Dracula's increasingly suaye incarna-
tions by Bela Lugosi, Christopher Lee and Frank Langella (1930, GB 19SH
(US title Horror ofDram/a), [979) progressively blu: the diyiding line betw:en
violation and seduction, The 'underground' B/oodjor Dracu/a ([97-1-) speCIfIes
Dracula's need for the blood of yirgins, In Bra III Slo~'er ',I' Dram/i/ (1992), the
vampire's first assault on Lucy \Vestenra is associated with her own unsatisfied
sexual appetites (when first seen she is paging through a pornographically
illustrated edition of The .·1m/Ili/1/ KI/(f!)lIs and musing about 'unspeakable
acts of desperate passion'), and Dracula, apparating as a man-wolf, couples
with her in the gazebo,
In ideological terms, horror is ambi\alcnt: on the one hand, it unmasks
latent unspeakable desires in (white, patriarchal, bourgeois) society and
shows the inadequacy and hypocrisy of the culture that demands such
repression (although the graphic yiolence is restr.lined by later standards, this
is a particularly strong strain in the British Hammer horror films of the late
1950S and Il)60s). On the other, it identifies its prot'lgonist(s) and through
them the audience with a project of re-suppression, containment and restora-
tion of the slailis iJlIO i/Ille through the yiolent elimination of deviance and
disturbance- the destruction of the 'monster'.
The status of horror as a critical object has underg'one a marked trans-
formation in recent years (it is note\vorthy that neither horror nor SF merits
a chapter in Schatz's HO//)'I7'ood Cmres, perhaps the most 'c1assically'-oriented
work on film g'enre, but they are extensiyely discussed in the successor
volume, which focuses on the transition from classical (or 'Old') to post-
classical ("":ew') Holly\\ood (Schatz, [qH3). Indeed .1S jancuyich (2002: [)
notes, the horror film has superseded the Western as the genre that is most
written about by genre critics. This says something about not only the
enhanced status of the genre but also about the changing priorities of genre
criticism. For if, as was suggested in Chapter [, early film work on film genre
prioritised the project of defining secure and stable generic boundaries and
establishing a defined corpus of films in each categ'ory, more recent work has
tended LIther to emphasise the porosity and leaky borders of genres; mindful
that in am case that the work of definition, if regarded as anything more than
a proYisio'nal project of practical utility rather than absolute yalue, is doomed
to Quixotic failure, contemporary criticism is minded to embrace and explore
textual diyersity and contradiction,
Such qualities arc themsehes central to the kinds of theoretical paradigms
that haye come to dominate what Feury and ?vlansfield ([9<n) call the 'new
humanities' since the late H)Hos - deconstruction, queer theory, post-Freudian
analyses of subjectiyity inf1uenced by .\lichel Foucault and Gilles Deleuze,
and a renO\~~lted, multi-perspecti\al historicism. Horror, as a notoriouslY
difficult genre to define satisfactorily- that seems itself to take on th~
polymorphic, elusi\e properties of so many horror-film monsters - is \\cll
adapted to these altercd critical states. :'\ot only embracing' as narrati\e and
thematic content contemporary criticism's concerns \\ith race, gender, sexual
identity, the body and the self - sometimes in \\ays that seem quite explicith
informed by contemporary theoretical positions (notabl\ in the films <;f
Da\id Cronenberg and in such independent productions ~s SlIllIre, 1<)<)3)
horror today, like science fiction and the action film, re\e1s ill the carni\al-
esque sub\ersion and re\ersal of g;eneric proprieties and expectations.
Compared to horror's trickster moyes, the efforts of traditional genres like
the \Vestern and the musical to come to terms \\ith the demands of the post-
classical context can seem sclerotic and predictable. Fimlly, horror remains
an attracti\e critical proposition precisely because of its enduring unrespect-
ability: horror has ne\~er \\holly shed the 'disrepuLlble' f1anlUr noted b\
Robin Wood (1<)7<): 7.1), nor its pleasurable /;'/.1'.1'011 of the illicit or at lea~1
impolite. Horror films in general remain sensational, gory and relati\eh
cheap, and arc promoted in \\a\s that discour,lge 'serious' critical attcntiOl~
The seriality and repetition to which horror properties arc prone (11<1//0)/'COI,
fire instalments since I<n~; Friday Ihc 131h, nine since I<)XO; Slghllllarc Oil
h'/III SI rccl, se\cn from [<)X-l- to (()<)-l-, plus the parodic franchise 'EICc-off
Frcdd)' ,'.1'. ]asoll, 2003; e\en the kno\\ing post modern p~lstiches Scrc<lIl1,
1<)<;(l, SUllY .Hm·lc and I kliOIl' l1/wl LJII J)/(/ I,asl SIIIIIIII<,r, 1<)<)7, generating
their O\\n p<lrt-parodic hut seriously profiLlble fr,mchises) also render horror
'g;eneric' in the old, pejorati\c sense of the term. \Vhereas, as Hawkins (2000:
('fl) obsenes, prC\ious criticll generations \\ere minded to remO\c horror
films deemed worthy of critical attention (usuall\ such European films as 1,<,.1'
YCIIX Salis 1 ~isai!,cI I:')'cs 1111/10111 a Facc, France Il)5<), Pcepillg 'JIJIII, (iB 1<)(>0.
and RCplI/slolI, (Tn I<)fl5) to a different, non-generic Ji'ame of critical reference
'a critical site in \\hich the film's ,If'Cecti\(: li.e., its sensational ,lIld horrific I
properties tend to be di\()rced fi'om its "artistic" and "poetic" ones'
contemporary criticism's highly de\e1oped tr,lsh aesthetic is eager to explore
the cult ural purchase of indelibly g;eneric, e\ en exploitati\ e materi,ll ,111<1 to
take \ cry seriousl\ not only its sociological, ps~ cholog'ical and ideological
formations but its form,lI and thematic dimcnsions too.
PI.ACI:"Je; HORROR
Like other g;enres, the prehistory and early history of the horror film is dellt
\\ith rather sketchily in the critical literature. There is a significant gap
bet\\een the 1110st ambitious contemporary theoreticll constructions of the
genre, \\hieh largely focus on postwar and in some cases e\~en more recent
films, and historical accounts, usually directed at a broader readership, such
as C1arens (1968), Gifford (197.1), Kendrick (1991) and Skal (1993)· The
latter pay much greater, sometimes fondly antiquarian attention to the trick
films of Georges .\lelies (see also Chapter X), British and American silent
films such as the first adaptations of FraliRclIslcl1l (I<)IO) and Dr }dT// 1/111/
Mr Hyde (filmed se\cral times in the silent era fi'om 1<)08, the most
celebrated \ersion featuring John Barrymore in 1<)20), and the films of Lon
Chaney and Tod Bnmning at MG.\1 and Cni\ersal in the I<)20S, as well as
the influence of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century theatrical
traditions, notably the g'ore-Iaden Grands Guig'nols spectaculars in Paris (sec
Hand and Wilson, 2002) and the popular and long-running stage adaptations
of JeRJ'//, FraIlA'clIslt,11I and /)ram/II in London and :"Jew York, the last of
which \\as the direct source filr the first film in the Uni\ersal horror cycle,
Browning''s Dram/II (1<)30), and prO\ided that film's star, Bela Lugosi.
It is useful to note the inf1uence of the domestic stage gi\en the
importance assigned in many o\eniews of the genre to European cinema,
notably the German Expressionist films produced between 1<)1<) and 1923, as
a defining moment in the crystallisation of the horror film as a genre and a
decisi\'e inf1uence on the :\merican fl)rm. The argument fllr Expressionism's
direct stylistic inf1uence on horror, as later \\ithjj/m lllilr (sec Chapter <)), can
easily be o\ersLlted: "\merican directors and cameramen did not need the
example of Clllip,lIri or Sli4;'ralll to teach them about the dramatic impact of
shadow-play, silhouettes and 'low-key' lighting. Such techniques \\ere
widely used by both British and American directors and cameramen prior to
the First \\orld \Var and usually to cOI1\CY a sinister atmosphere, albeit more
associated \\ ith scenes of crime and melodramatic skulduggery than outright
horror. Domcsticated Expressionist touches are, hO\\C\Tr, yisible in the first
I930S Cni\ersal horror cycle, fl», instance in the canted, yertiginous sets of
Bride iiI' FI'iIIIR<'lIslelli (1<)35) or the sepulchral shadO\\s in the opening
sequence of The tlll III IIlJ (1<)33): this inf1uence owed something to example
1
and something' also to the direct p<lrticipation of some key Weimar film-
makers, including among numerous others Edgar G, Ulmer, a !llrmer
collaborator of F. \\'. o\lurnau and Robert Siodmak whose American films
included the hallucinatory Uni\ersal horror film The B/I/d, Cill (1<)35), and
Karl Freund, cinematographer on the Expressionist films Del' }1I1I1I,-A'lipI(an
unlicensed adaptation of Dr ]dT//) ,111d TI/(, Gli/eill (both 1<)20) and for
Uniyersal Drllm/II, TlleHllu/t'I's III Ihe RIIi' IHlirglle (IC)32) and (as director)
The tlll III IIlJ Expressionism's enduring inf1uence, howeyer, perhaps lay in
I,
the establishment less of a specific stylistic model than of the principle of a
generic yocabulary that expressed extreme psychological states and deforma-
tions of reality throug'h the integration of perfl)rmance, stylised set design
anu mise-en-scene, and aboye all in its delineation of a narratiH~ terrain that
systematically threatened conyentional waking rationality \yith oneiric super-
natural terrors.
If Expressionism points towards the classic horror film, with a hea\y
reliance on sinister, atmospheric mise-en-scellc and contained yisual uistortion
to create a sense of threat and uisturbance, the other internationally celebrateu
European cinema of the 1920S, SO\iet ","10ntage, contains important pointers
to the more graphically confrontational aesthetic of contemporary horror.
For example, uespite his emphatic lack of interest in the inner \Hlrkings of
the human mind - motiyateu by the comiction that human subjecthoou was
generated out of anu through material circumstances and characteriseu b~
productiye labour anu interaction with the material \\O\·lu rather than internal
psychic processes - Eisenstein employeu 'shock' effects as a central part of
his uialectical montage experiments. Indeeu, at the climax of the f~mlOus
Ouessa Steps sequence of Thc BOlllcslJip PolclI/!.:ill (1925), a Cossack officer
slashes his sabre uirectly anu repeateuly at the lens: a re\Crse shot of his
eluerly female yictim, her eyeball sliced open, uemonstrates both the mut
specular aggression and gruesome \"iolence associated with the contemporary,
post-Ps}'c!/(J horror film.
The first major horror film cycle, the 1<)30S anu 1<)40S Cniyersal prouuc-
tions, mostly seem to mouern eyes rather calm affairs b~ comparison with
later horror films. (In Llct, as Balio (1<)93) notes, there were t\\O Cniyersal
cyeles: the first inaugurateu by Dramla, including the career-uclining
per/llflnances of C ni\Trsal's series horror stars Lugosi and Boris I-.:.arloff amI
running through until Bridc o( FraIlA'eIlSlcill, HJ35; the seconu following on
the hugely successful re-release of Dramla and FrallA'cllsleill as a uouble bill
in HJ3H and running through the more action- anu humour-orienteu sequels
anu 'monster meet-ups' of the 1<)40S - starting \\ith FraIlA','llsleill .Hccls Ihc
/l01( MOil, H)4(1- to the :\.bbot anu Costello horror burlesques of the late
1940S anu early H)50s.) Although James \\"hale in particular employed all
occasionally baroque yisual style and at key moments something like 'shock'
euiting - for example, the first appearances of Frankenstein's .\lonster anu of
the Bride - fll!' the most part the Lmtastic, uncanny anu transgressiye thrust
of the narratiye material \yas held in check by a restrained lI/iSC-CIl-SC1;IlC th,11
emphasiseu atmosphere anu the siueshow appeal of make-up effects oyer
graphic horror. The Uniyersal horror film in which contemporary theory,
with its imestment in marginality, has taken the greatest interest is the
notorious (anu unseen for many years between its initial release anu the
19(1OS) Frco/..:s (193J: see Herzol-':enrath, 2002).
A uiffcrent approach, e\Tn more reliant on atmospheric lI/i.\e-ell-su;llc but
largely abjuring special effects for intense psychological protraiture, was
auopteu by the 'B' feature prouuction unit heaued by Val Le\\ton at RI-.:.O in
the mid-1940s. The films of this unit, including Gat Pcople (1942), J Wal!.:ed
With a ZomlJfc (1943) and The SCl'elllh Victim (1945), haye long been highly
praised both for their 'restraint' (a term which suggests that these are horror
films for people \yho uon't usually like horror films, anu was in any case
partly predicateu on their budgetary ceiling of $ [50,000) and also for their
unusual focus on female subjectiyity. In some ways, precisely in their
avoidance of prewar generic monster cliches and their relocation of (often
'Old \Vorlu') supernatural threats to contemporary American urban locations
(the most celebrated scene in Gal Pcoplc - replayeu to lesser effect in the
19 82 remake - features a woman stalkeu by an unseen creature lurking in the
shadows around a basement swimming pool), the RI-.:.O films bring the
viewer into unsettling proximity with the limits of this rational, 'ciyilised'
world's ability to tame and contain the irrational. Althoul-':h critical praise of
the 'power of suggestion' often betrays an unease with horror's more anarchic
and carniyalesque aspects, the success of the Imy-budget, effects-free chiller
The Blair Ililell Pm/c(/ (1<)99) testifies to the cnuuring power of this approach
(as, in a yery difTerent way, uoes the inuistinct, uncanny, half-glimpseu terror
of Vampyr, Sweden [<)32).
Sequels notwithstanuing, the Cni\Trsal cycle had run its creatiye course
well before the end of the Seconu \Yorlu \Var; after the rnelations of
Dresden, ."-uschwitz anu Hiroshima, the C)othic terrors of Dracula, Franken-
stein and the \Vollinan may in any null haH: seemeu too quaint to retain
much of a Fissil/l for audiences. The cycle's studio-bound, dehistoricised
Ruritanian milieu \\as also at ouus \yith the shift towards location filming and
greater topicality in post\yar cinema. During the H)50S, the debatable generic
status of not only the 'cre,lture features' (discusseu in more uetail in Chapter
8) but many other science fiction/horror hybrids bclilre and since points up
the difficulty genre historians and theorists haye always had in uistinguishing
between the two g'enres. Inasmuch as horror anu science fiction (SF) audiences
were largely perceiyed by prouucers as identical, especially in the [950S-
hence exploitation directors such as Rog"er Corman as \\ell as stuuio uirectors
like Jack ."-rnolu (11 Call/c Fmll/ OilIer Spacc, [<)53; Thc Crcalllrc Fom Ihc
Blat!.: Lagooll, 1(54) switched between (\\hat might be externally cbssified
as) SF and horror \\ithout any eyiuent prior sense of generic difkrentiation
- Wells (2000: 7) is probably rig-ht in arguing that 'there is no great bene/it
in seeking to disentang-Ie these generic perspectiyes' and that \\T should
instead address our attention to 'the distinctiye elements of anyone text
Within a particular historical moment' .."-11 the same, some e\'ident points of
distinction may help illuminate important aspects of both genres.
While in itself a uistinction between SF and horror drawn on the basis of
'science' \'ersus 'm,lgic' would be quite inadequate, if one accepts the
criterion of scientific explanation not as an oillmll/c to be assessed (i.e. with
 reference to contemporary scientific understanding), but rather as a form of
rhc/rll"/r and a Illode o( presell/I//ioll, it may proye more useful. In the SF
uniYerse, that is, the appearance of aliens, monsters and other destructiye or
malnolent forces is not only depicted as e:xplicable according to the scicntific
understanding diegetically ayailable (\\hich mayor may not map onto our
own), but moreoyer is narratiyely subject to such analysis, e:xplanation and -
more often than not - systematic response, By way of e:xample, although the
Monster in Frall!..'CIIs/eill (193 I) is manifestly a creation of misguided/ penerted
science - stitched together from corpses, animated by electricity, his yiolence
accountable by the erroneous insertion of a 'criminal brain' _. the film does
not present him as a scientific problem but as a terrifying monstrosity, both
pathetic and malign, On the contrary, Fmll!..'ells/eill's narratiye arc, spiralling:
up through intensifying chaos and panic, could hardly be more differellt
from the progress /hrollgh and PilS/ p,mic to\\ards a scientific/military solution
that characterises innumerable SF alien imasion and monster moyies fro!1l
The Thillg (It)51) to llli/epClldCII(c DiI]' (I<)<)(»), Yiolence, to be sure, may pla~
,I ubiquitous role in defeating the intruder and restoring 'normality', but the
yiolence of the SF film is LlI' more likely to be ostensibl~ rational and
considered, that of the horror film, ritualised and reactiye (the pog:rom-like
rnenge of the \illagers \\ith their flaming torches).
These opposed generic rhetorics, of clarification and the occult, arc reflected
too in the different yisual registers of horror and SF. SF {i'om the It)50S and
J()(JOs in particular generally employs an unobtrusi\ e yisual style, \\hich
might be seen as affecting a quasi-scientific neutrality appropriate to the
solutions that \\ill nentually be fi)und to the threats at hand. This contrasts
starkly with the highly stylised and often floridly E:xpressionistic IIl1sc-se-sl,;lIe
of classic horror. /\s Yi yien Sobchack (I<)1'\T 2<) .W) usefully suggests, horror
and SF arc also distinguished by the latter's tendency to lend its threats a
public and collectiYe aspect, \\hcreas horror - :IS the recent dominance of
psychoanalytic interpretative paradigms suggests - e:xplores realms both
intimatc and - in all senses of the term - occult. The c1austrophobicall~
constricted spaces of horror magnify and condense profilllnd ami phobic
impulses regarding the body, the self and se\uality. In the 1<)70s, hO\\e\cr, in
SF-horror as elsewhere, such stylistic generic markers become inLTC<lsingl~
unreliable.
Horror's status within the film industry has changed significantly in the
post-classical period, although not al\\ays in immediately obyious \\ays.
Clearly, horror is no longer quite so marginal in industry terms as it mostl~
was from the end of the Lni\ersal 'Golden .~ge' in the early 1l)-f.OS until the
late 19(JOs. The massively magnified commercial importance of the college
and high-school audience as \\e11 as the e:xplosion - intensified since the advent
of the Internet established Lm cultures \\ith a global and inst:ll1taneous reach
I
in the popularity, yisibility and hence market potential of 'cult' (usually SF
and horror) film, teleyision and comic books, haye ensured that these former
'pulp' (or worse) genres are now taken \'ery .seri~JUsly_ by studios .and film-
makers. Yloreoyer, ne\\ genres such as the serIal killer hIm have splICed more
mainstream forms like the police procedural thriller with horror tropes and
themes to bring ghastly generic material before a far wider audience than
horror's traditional inner-city and jU\eniIe demographic - nen, in the case of
The Si/mlc o( the La III/JS (199 I), earning the ultimate seal of establishment
appro\al, an Oscar fi)r Best Picture (on the generically ambiguous place of
Silence or/he LillII/IS, see J:mcoyich, [2001 I 2002).
Still, horror has not fully crossed oyer to the mainstream to the degree of
its sister genre science fiction. \Yhereas since S/ilr Wars SF blockbusters (as
discussed in the ne:xt chapter) hne regularly commanded vast budgets, top
stars and directors, arc often the central 'tentpoles' of annual release
schedules, and reliably feature in lists of top bO\-oflice attractions, this is
rarel\ the case \\ith horror. Horror budgets remain relatiyely low, and major
'abo;'e-the-line' talent is only infrequently att:lched to out-and-out horror
projects. The more clearly generic the material, the truer this is: thus while
understated ghost stories like n,l' Si.r/h Sellse :lre perceiYed as relatively
'classY', especially if they have a period setting (like The Others) and can
attra~t m,ljor stars such as Bruce \\illis and :\icole k.idman, a slasher film
like SacillII, a traditional shocker like Ghos/ Ship (2003) or a rem,lke like
Dill/'ll 0(//'" J)cild (2003) \\ill typically fe,lture :1 cast of lesser-known actors,
someti~les \\i th :1 'l1:lme' (\)re\\ Barrymore in Sacil III, fil!' c:xam ple) in a
featured or Clllleo role. \)espite the breakthroug;h success of William Friedkin's
The F.ro!"lis/ (l<J73), fe\\ leading directors in the last thirry years haye under-
taken out-:md-out horror films (n,l' Shill III,!!, (SLll1ley I\. uhrick, 1<)1'\0) and Bl'i/I/I
Slo!..'('/' 's J)I'i/(f(/" (Francis Ford Coppola, H)(J2) being ob\ ious C\ceptions).
Although they operate at a lo\yer le\e1 of \ isihility than the major summer
blockbusters, horror films nonetheless typif\ the contemporary 1 Ioll~ wood
preference fiJI', ill industr~ parlance, 'm:lrketahility' the technique of
opening a film in as m:ll1~ \ enues as possihle simultaneously, with a harrage
of high-impact print and spot '1'\ alherrising; O\er 'playability' (a film's
ability to npand its audience \\eek-on-\Yeek through LIHlLIrable critical
reception and \\ord-of-!1louth: see I.e\\is, 200,r ()3 70). Horror films usually
'open wide' in hundreds of screens on the same \Yeekend, perform strongl~
enough in their Erst weck to rise to the top, or ncar the top, of the \\eekly
box-(~ftice list, hut then drop ofT sharply in subsequent \\'eeks to disappear
from theatres after :1 relati\e1y short re1c<lse. In LlCt, horror's most lasting'
contribution to contemporary llolh \\ood may ha\T heen :IS :1 paradigm fill'
marketing and promotion in the post-elassie:11 era ..\s I,-e\ in I lcffcrnan 's
recent research (2000, 200-f.) has IT\caled, the techniques identified abO\c as
typical of Hollywood's marketing techniques for its most prestigIOus and
expensive projects - wide opening accompanied by saturation TV, radio and
print a<hertising to clearly defined audience demographics - were pioneered
in the 1960s on a smaller (regional and citywide) basis by independent and
exploitation distributors marketing low-budget horror films, principally to
black inner-city audiences. Heffernan's \vork adjusts standard accounts that
sing'le out ]i1I1)S (and the role of \ICA President Lnv Wasserman) as
innovating' such practices, and nluably helps concretise the well-kn()\\"n
general narrative of Hollywood's increasing adoption of both genres, narrati\cs
and publicity techniques from the drive-in and exploitation markets from the
1()50S omyards, as part of its ongoing efforts to retrie\e shrinking audiences.
During the 1<)50s, the 'creature feature' cycle- \vhich \vas dominated b~
major studio releases - and the short-lived 3-D boom were clear early indi-
cators of this trend.
MAKING MONSTERS
A concept th,lt binds together much cinematic horror is the idea of the
'monstrous'. ?Ylonstrosity is not a sclf-evident category: monsters are created,
not born, Furthermore, as se\eral writers ha\e noted, //Iillisier has its
etymological roots in the I,atin //I II IIsl ra re, 'to show': thus the monster exists
to de-llIlIlIslrale, to teach an object (social) lesson of some kind. The visual
trope indissociably one of the genre's semantic constants- of the tight
'choker' close-up on the screllning; (usually kmale) bce, giving the spectator
ample opportunity to reflect on the terror and horror expressed therein,
could be seen ,IS a textual marker of this educati\c process, an instruction in
horror (what we find horrific), In some horror films, the process of 'monster-
ing' - of rendering someone or something an object of fear and rentlsion -
itself becomes part of the narrati ye: in different wa~ s films like Freil ks,
QUiller//liiSS i111t! lite Pil (GB I <)M\), Cronen berg's Tlte FI)' (I<)X6), EJIlJim!
SrissllrilillIi!S (19<)0) and ncn FmllJ..'i'lIs!<'ili invite their audience to rellect on
the psycho-social dynamics of monstrosity. The 1931 version of Dr ]eJ..~)'1I
i111t1 \11' ill/tic emphasises Jekyll's 'monstrous' .tlter-ego as a manifestation of
repressed sexual desires that are in themsehes perkctly 'normal', but
rendered hyperbolic and destructi \e by their systematic frustration in a rigid
social order predicated on denial. Such films might be seen ,IS taking their
cue from Franz h.afka's bmous parablel1elilllllllp!/llsis, \vhose protagonist
Gregor Samsa's sudden transformation into a giant insect and the rendsion
and rejection this transformation prO\okes in his bmily and fi'iends allegorises
bourgeois conformity, hostility to and fear of difference, and social isolation.
Far more horror films, however, .Ippear simply to exploit the 'monster
reflex', posilIoning their audiences so as to share the hatred, terror and
aggression justifiably directed against the monsters they depict. Indeed, the
misguided sympathy for, or attempts to reason with, the monster on the part
of ivory-tower scientists or well-intentioned liberals, usually ending in the
cautionary death of the do-gooders, is a familiar genre motif. Robin Wood
(19 86 : 7 0ff.) identifies this affective charge in horror as at once a graphic
enactment of and a reaction to 'surplus repression" the structures of denial
and oppression peculiar to 'patriarchal capitalism' (which go beyond the
basic repressions necessary, on Freud's account, to the socialisation of the
individual). Surplus repression relies crucially on the construction of a
terrifying and hateful Other whose embodiment of the forces suppressed by
patriarchy·, energies centred, for Wood, on sexuality, gender, race and class
_ reinforce the perception of those desires as monstrous.
Wood, ho\\cyer, goes on to argue that just as repression in the individual,
on Freud's account, is liable to generate a 'return of the repressed' in the
domain of the unconscious through dreams, bntasies and in some cases
neurotic or hysterical symptoms, so too surplus repression in the social meets
with a displaced and distorted rejoinder in the transgressive energies of' low'
cultural forms like the horror film. I Horror film monsters are rarely wholly
unsympathetic, Wood argues (dra wing the majorit y of his examples from the
classic Cni\ersal and Expressionist horror cycles), and at some level they arc
acting out our 0\\11 unacknowledged desires: thus horror films offer
'fulfillment of our nig'htmare wish to smash the norms that oppress us and
which our moral conditioning teaches us to re\cre' (Wood, I9X6: Xo). The
doubling motif'i that abound in the genre arc a textual 'symptom' of this
ambivalence, re\caling the deeper affinity of the pro-social hero ,md the anti-
social monster. (Wood notes that in 81111 III' FrallkmslCifI (1939), the
eponymous ne\\ Baron comphtins that e\cryone thinks 'Frankenstein' is the
name of the monster his bther 'merely' created; similarly, Hardy (19 X5: 107)
points out the ways in which Frankenstein's creations in the Hammer cycle
are mirror images reflecting back the Baron's O\\n 'moral flaws and emotional
atrophy'.) Thus horror is an unstable and unreliable ally to dominant ideology,
at once serving its purposes and articulating the desire to destroy it.
One way of classifying horror's many monsters is proyided by Andrew
Tudor's (19X9) historical study of the gcnre, \\hich maps out the n,lture of
the threats in different periods across .1 schematic grid whose key categories
are external/internal and supernatur,tI/secular. In prewar horror, threats
mostly orig'inated from outside (the indi\idual or the community) and \\'eIT
more likely to be supernatural in origin. The postwar decade, the heyday of
atomic mutations and alien imasion, also stressed external threats but shifted
decisi\cly to\\ards the secular. External threats could usually be effectively
dispatched, given the right kno\\ ledge and technology (arcane lore, silver
hu Hets or, in the case of mutations and aliens, the combined scientific-
military might of the modern nation-state). For Tudor and others, PSj'r!I{J
along with the later Sigh/ II/he Lii'illg Dead (1968) mark the transition from
the ontological and practicl1 security of externalised horror to the much more
uncertain and radically destabilising threats that originate \yithin. That tradi-
tional Gothic horror has recently' been incorporated into the mainstream action
blockbuster (TheHIIIIII/l)I, 199<); h i l i He/si/lg, 200-4-), largely shorn of its
horrific elements, may suggest that the genre's focus has shifted ~l\\ay from
such 'external' threats towards the less \\ell-defined ground of indiYidual
psychology and the paranormal rather th~lf1 the supernatural.
I-I 0 R R 0 R SIN C E P ,..,. ) C f J()
Modern horror films ~lrc much morc likely to ccntre on threats originating
from inside both thc imliyidu;ll psyche (ps\chopathic killers) and . bccause
e\Tn isolated indi\'iduals liye in neccssary relationship of some kind to ~1
larger human comnlltnity - our O\\n social institutions (~lbO\e all the bmi!\),
that arc patholo~6cal Lllher than supernat ural. '\ Ions tel'S' such as "orman
Bates and his successors arc all the more terrifying becausc they ~ll-c not
marked, or ~1l'C less olniollsly so, by the yisiblc indications of difference
physical dcf(Jrmities, \ ~lst size, othcl'\\orldly appearance - of their coml(JI't-
in!,dy unmistakable l()\"(:bears; they retain the lransgressi\l' l1lut~lbility of
earlier shape-shilting monsters such as the \\olf \lan, but thcsc symptoms of
difICrence and de\ iance ~II'C nOli internalised. ClO\er (1<)()2: .q) identilies
fJs)'d/ll's 'sC:\lwlisation of 1l1oti\e and action' as a feature that clearh distin-
guishl's the lilm from preyious horror tilms. Of course, Ps]'dw is 'llso
(in)C1mous l(n' massi\c1y intensifying the dq;ree of graphic \iolencl' horror
films \\cre \\ illing ro inflict on their eh~lL1Cters and yicarioush upon their
audiences (not\\ ithstanding that "orman's knife is ne\er secn to penetrall'
\!arion Crane's lksh). Ps]'d/ll's m~1llipulation of audience sympathies to\\anl"
characters (tirst \ !arion, th~n '\orm~1l1, then the im estigator\rbogast) onlY
10 \\ rench them \ jolcntly allay is also \Iiddy creuited \Iith opening' ~l nc\\
lickl in the play of sadi"m and the g~lze in popular cinema (echoed in the
subplot ill\ol\ing Detccti\e k:.inderm~ll1 in 'flie /;',IIJrust), .\L1ltby (H)().:;: 211'1
20) credits PS)'tllII with the end of 'sccure space' in Hollywood film, both
litcralh and tig'urati\c1y: audicnce" ~lfter PS)'tllli could no longer conlidenth
rely on narrati\ e, generic ~1l1d representational con\cntions to 'pmtecr' the
intq;rity of their \ielling e\:perience, ~lIlY more than they could be assured
that a \iolent attack would still be prcp;lred fiJI' - as had hitherto becn the
cOll\cntion - through eutaw,l\S to sinister fiplres shambling ~1t.TOSS mist \
marshes, etc.
Hitchcock's decision to make an inexpensi\e black-and-white thrillel
using members of the production team from his eponymous television serie.
broke \\ith his then-reputation, established during the 19505, as a master 0
the \;n'ish action-suspense film (pre-eminently i'\/or/h II)' Nortllll'l's/, 1(59) and
the resulting film undoubtedly shocked and repulsed a proportion of both his
mass audience and his critical admirers (see Kapsis 1992: 56-6-4-). Howe\er,
his successful appropriation of such exploitation-circuit marketing gimmicks
as refusing entry' to latecomers (a standby of the celebrated e\:ploitation
producer \Villiam Castle) and more importantly his adaptation, extension and
intensification of lurid amI grotesque narrative material more than justilied
the experiment and re\caled the enon~10US market beyond Hollywood's
traditional, but increasingly chimerical, 'family' audience for this pre\iously
untouchable generic material. Saunders (2000: 75) describes Ps)'tllIJ as 'an act
of permission for film-makers in the genre to further expose Isir] the illusol'\
securities and limited rationales of contemporarY life ro reveal the chaos
which underpins modern existence and constantly threat~ns to ensure its
collapse' .
As Tudor's careful tabuhltions ntake clear, howC\er, the generic shift that
occurs \\ith l\yr!11I is a shift in emphasis, not an o\ernight generic trans-
formation. \Vhilc \arious cheaply produc~d imitations of PS)ldlll (and of the
pre\ious season's hit psychological thriller-horror hybrid lA'S J)ia/Jo/ti/Iles,
France 1<)59) quickly t100ued the market (JiII/IIICida/, 1<)63; DI'IIII'II/iil 13,
1964; etc.), the older, more restrained and comforting:ly distanccd - in place,
time and nature of thre<ll - Rom~ll1tic Gothic moue persisted throug'hout thc
19605, notably in Roger Corman's cyck of Poe adaptations (!JOIISI' or Usher,
19 60 ; The PI/ lIl/{/ /hl' PClldllllllll, 1961; IOlllb o( I,/:~e/{/, 1<)65; etc.) and the
British Hammer horror series; so too such low-ke\' g;host stories as Tile
Innocen/s and Tile Iflil/II/il/g. Hitchcock himself de~eI;)ped two aspects of
PS)Jcho - the relentless <lss<llIlt of the shO\\'cr scene ,lml the idea or the
inexplicabilit y of \iolcnce further in The Birds (1 Q(J3). Although The Birds
seems to return to the 'external threat' model (and louks fOl"\\anls to such
1970S 'eco-horror' (ilms as Frogs, 1<)72, Pi/,(//Ii/(/, 1977, Prophl'C)', unl), and
even JIIII)S), strong; hints in the film sug:g;est that the hirds' sudden attack is
in sume \Iay related to the cluracters' EI111ilial dysfunction anu emotional
repression.
Bur it \\as arguably not until t\\O films of the 1l)()8 season, the exploitation
film Nig/il fir/lit' 1,1l'lIIg DCl/d ;1nd the major studio release ROSi'II/{I!'J' 'I' 1311/!)',
that any horror films repe~l1ed PS)'tlIO's enurmous impact. Both liims share
Psycho's key generic innO\ ation, the r~fusallO allOY\ the audience a stable or
secure final pusition, Ps)'d/ll \ refusal to allo\\' its threat to be rccupcr;1ted by
the all-roo-neat psychoanahric categories of the penultimate scene \\as
inuelibly etched in the snperimposition of \lother's mummified face ()\er

Norman's in the fade-out. Nl~r;ht ... , whose horror is more explicitly sociall~
grounded, uses its principal metaphors of zombies and cannibalism to
portray US culture in the era of the Detroit and Chicago riots and the
Vietnam War as both mindlessly conformist and endemically yiolent, and
rams the point home by haying its (Black) hero shot by his supposed 'rescuers',
and his body thrown onto an .\usch\yitz-Iike pyre at the end of the film.
Night ... eyacuated comentional categories like heroism and good and eyil of
any relevance to the horror film. ROSell/illY's Bilh)' looked inwards to open up
an eyen more phobic field - the body itself.
BREAKING BOUNDARIES
In her powerful reading of the sub-genre of 'body horror', Barbara Creed
(1986, 19(3) il1\okes the notion of 'abjection' explicated in J ulia ~riste\a 's
POII'Crs o(Hol"rol" (H)8z). Emerging in the mid-T970s in lilms such as Tilt"
E,ol"cist (I<n3) and. i/iCll (Hn9), body-horror blended traditional supernatural
(demoniacd possession) and threat (alien monsters) motifs \yith a quite ne\\
emphasis on explicit bodily yiolation suffused with imagery of parturition
and monstrous sexuality. In The E\ol"cist, a pubescent girl masturbates \yith
a crucilix and spe\\-s green nllnit onto the faces of the priests ministering to
her. Carrie (1976), another adolescent girl, unleashes terrifying telekinetic
powers against her schoolmates in a lilm \yhose lirst scene sees her yiciousl~
mocked for the onset of her lirst period. In S/ll7"C1"S (Canada 1(75), ,I sexuall~
transmitted parasite produces rampant sexual anarchy. :\ lost infamous of all
is the monstrous parody of birth in .-J/iell as the embryo creature bursts out
of John Hurt's stomach. Creed understands the pO\Yerful effect of reyulsion
operatiYe in these lilms in terms of ~riste\-a's analysis of taboo and
delilement in (western) societies, a realm of the excluded or 'abject' the
construction of which is fundamental to the establishment and maintenance
of social norms: for it is through acts of primal prohibition that a discrete
sense of the self is effected.
Analysing the feelings of ITyulsion and disgust elicited by bodily secre-
tions such as 1~leces, urine, mucus, semen, menstrual blood, etc., ~risteYa
notes that these 'abject' substances share a quality of extrusion: haying once
been part of our bodies, they are ejected into the \yorld \\here they exist,
intolerably, as both part of ourselyes and as objects outside ourselyes, as us
and not-us. Ultimately, they recall to us that point at which \ye \yill all ine\'it-
ably become strangers to ourselyes, and at \yhich our corporeal persistence
will offer no reassurance of our continued existence as subjects - our O\\n
death, after \yhich the decaying shell of our bodies remain but '\\e' arc no
longer present. This indicates the source of the pO\Yerful affect in body-
- I -
horror films \yhere, in Kelly Hurley's (1995: z03) words, we find 'the human
body defamiliarised, rendered other'. Thus conceived, the larger relevance of
the abject to horror, the genre that aboye all concerns itself with death, decay
and - in its su pernatural yersions at least - the persistence of life after or
beyond death, is readily apparent.
"Kristeya notes that this reyulsion is learned rather than instinctiYe
(animals and infants do not share it) and names the process that results in it
'abjection'. Three points of her complex argument are releyant to horror.
Firstly, as noted, the original focus of abjection is those substances and
processes that are properly o(our bodies but become detached/imll it - thus
alienating us from our sense of ourseh-es as coherent, integrated beings.
Second, the establishment of a sense of the abject is a key boundary-making
device: it sorts out what is clean and \\hat lilthy, hence (by social and
ideological extension) what is right and proper and \yhat eyil and loathsome.
That is, the constitution of the realm of the abject plays a crucial role in
setting the terms of the normati\e and desirable: only through a sense of limits
and exclusion docs the latter become a\ailable. But the process of abjection
akin to acts of primary rcpression in a traditional Freudian schema is ne\er
complete or secure, and the abject reappears in a yariety of displaced lilrms,
all sharing a similar aspect as '\yhat disturbs identit y, system, order. What
does not respect borders, positions, rules' (Kriste\a, 198z : 5).
Employing a diffnent theoretical \ocabulary, the work of the radical anthro-
pologist !\1ary Douglas, :"oel Carroll (1990: 33) comes to somewhat similar
conclusions about the issue of boundaries. 'Horrific monsters', he notes,
'often innl!\e the mixture of \yhat is normally distinct ... The rate of
recurrence \yith \yhich the biologies of monsters arc \aporous or gelatinous
attests to the applicabilit~ of the notion of f(lrmlessness to horri/ic impurity'
(Carroll cites the yagueness of the descriptions of infernal creatures in the
horror fiction of H. P. LO\ccraft).
That monster.\. is categoricl1ly interstitial [using Mary Douglas's terms I
causes a sense of impurity in us \yithout our necessarily being aware of
precisely what causes that sense ... In ,lddition, the emphasis Douglas
places on categorical schemes in the analysis of impurity indicates a \Ya~
for us to account fil!· the recurrent description of our impure monsters
as 'un-natural'. They arc un-nalUral relati\e to a culture's schema of
nature. They do not fit the scheme; they \iolate it. (Carroll, 19<)0: 3-1-)
Like much psychoanalytic theory, ~risteYa's account of abjection has been
attacked as uni\-ersalising - i.e. insufficiently attentiYe to historical and cultural
differences and contexts. HO\yeyer, there is no real reason why abjection
cannot haye an e\ident socio-political dimension, one moreO\-cr that is
immediately rele\'ant to the horror film, E\l~n if the processes of abjection
are, as Kristeya insists, uniyersal, its objects are necessarily contingent. In
our flight from the intolerable [lCt of mortality, it is possible to trace a process
whereby those aspects we loathe and fear in ourselyes - as our body's traitorous
confessions of its o\\n limitations, are projected onto specific Others \\ho
then take on a murderous qualit~, as if they \\ere somehO\y responsible for
the death that ineyitably a\yaits us,
Creed's essay suggests the importance of feminism as a context for the
films she discusses - construing the 'monstrous-feminine' as a manifestation
of male phobic rage against the empO\\erment of women (as has also frequenth
been noted, the eruption of the De\il in The Exor(isl into Washington, DC,
in the era of Watergate and Yietnam is not \\ithout ob\ious satiric appli-
cation), It is certainly possible to extend the application of abjection beyond
this time-frame to a broader engagement \\ith the horror film's dynamics of
protJna tion,
QUEER HORROR
As suggesti\e as Creed's exploration of the abject has been, she still in the
end finds horror to be a genre that articulates phobic fantasies of maternal
monstrosity with the ultimate aim of recontaining female energies in socially
acceptable forms. In this regard, her critique reflects the difficulties experi-
enced by much feminist criticism in recO\ ering a positi\e dimension from a
g;enre that seems so consistently to trade in the \ictimisation - the terrorisation
and increasingly graphic physical \iolation of \\omen. This tendency has
been particularly marked in the stalker I slasher films that emerged as belated
after-echoes of PS)'c//O in the late HnOS, One marked stylistic de\ice of these
films was their deployment of a point-of-\-ie\\ camera that seemed frequently
to put the audience in the position of the killer stalking his \ictims and to
encourag;e vicarious identification \\ith the murderous gaze, For \Yilliams
(I <)i'\.1: (l I), the female spectator of a horror film is 'asked to bear witness to
her own po\\crlessness in the [lce of rape, mutilation ,md murder'.
More recently, howe\'er, \\Titing about horror from the perspecti\e of
queer theory has fi)Cused attention on the \\ays in which the horror film's
textual instability and focus on the 'category error' of the monster em be
seen as articulating positions \\hose challenge to cOll\entional dualities of
g'ender, race and especially sexuality are ultimately not recontained by the
monster's final destruction. In some cases, indeed, \ictorious 'norm,llity'
triumphs precisely by taking on itself some of the 'de\iant' properties of the
monster. As pro-social as this mO\c may be in narrati\e terms . thM is, it is
aimed at eliminating the monster - it produces not a 1'C\crsal but a trans-
valuation of the normati\e categories that Wood and Creed understand the
horror film finally to reinforce, Thus identities are not resecured and the
original (imaginary) integrity of the subject remains in process, This has little
to do \\ith the narrati\e incorporation of gay, lesbian or bisexual characters
into traditional Gothic horror subjects, for example the homoerotic elements
in !nlerl'/eJl' Wilh Ihe Val/lpire (199-t) or the lesbian \ampires of The Hunger
(19 8 9) (see Benshoff, 1997; lesbian \ampires have a lon~ ci~ema~ic his.tory
dating back at least to Dram/a's Da/lghler, 19.16, and objectIfied m entIrely
con\entional 'girl-on-girl' pornogr'lphic f~lshion in Hammer's early [inOS
cycle starting \\ith The T'alllpire Lfreers, [(no: see Weiss, H)92 2 ).
- A relati\ely early example of a modern horror text that resists final
reincorporation (literally) is the [<)S2 remake of the classic [()SOS SF monster
moyie The TlII/lg. The 19i'\2 \ ersion replaces the confiden t if watchful Cold
War tenor of the earlier film's [lOWUS conclusion - 'Keep \Vatching the Skies'
- with a much grimmer ending in \\hich the t\\O suni\'ing cast members wait
amid the smouldering embers of their !\xetic research camp for ine\itable
death. What makes the ending notable though is not only its bleakness but
also its indeterminacy: the film's extraterrestri,JI is a shape-shifter, able
almost instantly to mimic the physical appear.lI1ce of any organism it attacks.
Although the Thing appears to ha\c been destroyed in the climactic
conflagration th,lt has destroyed the base, neither the two sur\i\ing scientists
nor the audience CII1 be absolutely sure that one or other of them is not an
imposter, .lOd the film ends ha\ing; refused to resohc the question.
The TllI/lg focuses narrative attention on the question of identit\ and
'passing' in its all-male g;roup and seemed to reflect anxieties proy(lked by the
nO\el threat of the 'gay plague' ,\IDS in the early H)i'\OS (in a key sccne, the
group members test each other's blood fill' ,Jlien con taminan ts). The film's
threat originates in a definitive 'elsewhere' (outer space) but penetrates
American male bodies in \\ ,IYS that render indi\iduals strange and terri(\ing.
The TllI/lg also relies hel\iI y on prosthet ic effects to im,lge t hc monstrous
transformations and transgrcssions. Such effects (as Ne,11e ([()i)O) notes, the
object of refkxiYe commentan in The T/llllg \\hen a cll'lr'lcter responds to a
particularly speetacuhlr/grotesque effects lour t/ejiircc \\ith the \\ords 'you\e
got to be fucking kidding!') not only rcnder the hidden interior spaces of the
body graphically visible but. by ill\ iting; the spectator to register their \isceral
artifice, stress the constructed nature of apparent biological or bodily gi\ ens.
The most inbmous instances of this probably remain the embryo alien's
eruption Ii'om Kane's stomach in 11/1'1/ and the oozing \ideo slotlaperture in
James \Yood's stomach in T,t/mt/ro/l/e (Il)S-t). T,lIli,1 .\lodleski (I ()i'\i'\: 2i'\<))
finds such im.H!,cr\ '\er\ Ell' from the reJim of \\hat is traditionally called
c
"pleasun:" and m'uch I~earer to so-edled jO/l/SSil//U', discussions of \\hich
. '1 eg;e terms \.1"e
pn\l L " gaps ", " \yountI s,
" "t-ISSlll'CS, C C<I\ -ages " ,alllI·
" "I so f'01 ·tI1'.

Although relatively few horror films have explicitly explored this
rapturous violation - one exception might be Hellraiser, \\ith its Bataille-Iike
confluence of pain, mutilation and pleasure- this gives rise to the notion of
horror as a 'critical genre' \yhose subversion of identities extends beyond the
transformed or violated body to the text itself: :\lodleski goes on to a;'gue that
lthe 1 contemporary horror film thus comes very close to being the
'other film' that Thierry Kuntzcl says the classic narrative film must
always work to conceal [i.e. because of open-endedness, lack of identifi-
able characters, nihilistic qualitiesJ: 'a film in \yhich ... the configuration
of events contained in the formal matrix \yould not form a progressive
order, in which the spectator/subject \yould never be reassured ... '
(Modleski, [19H6] zooo: Z(1)
Judith Halberstam (1995: 155) similarly asserts that 'the horror film makes
visible the marks of suture that classic realism attempts to coyer up.' Hmye\cr,
Halberstam and other queer theorists differ from \lodleski and other earlier
feminist writers on horror in their attitude tmyards horror's textual politics.
Q!.leer theory emphasises the disturbances and carniyalesque reyersals
inflicted upon normative (,straight') identity concepts by the fundamentallY
unstable nature of categories of sexuality and gender (and in a gTmYin~'
number of queer theory formations also of race, disability and nen class),
and the rampant semiotic proliferation that is encountered at the borders of
such oyer-determined socio-sexual categories. So \yhereas \lodleski still
questioned the political progressiYity of horror's oppositional stance inas-
much as it exploited male fear of, hence relied on yiolencc tmy.lrds, \yomen,
Halbcrstam sees the postmodern splatter film (Tile Texas Cllil/llSa 1/' . Hassacre,
1974; The Texas Cllilil1Si1l1' ;Uassa(J'e 2, H)H6) as mmin o' beyond the demonisin o'
~ ~
binarism of the classic monster movie tmyards a riotous 'posthumanism'
where 'orderly' categories of gender in particular are not only not reaffirmed
but exploded. Thus whereas 'monster-making ... is a suspect' activity because
it relies upon and shores up comentional humanist binaries',
the genders that emerge triumphant at the conclusion of a splatter film
arc literally posthuman, they punish the limits of the body and they
mark identities as always stitched, sutured, bloody at the ~eams, anj
completely beyond the limits and the reaches of an impotent humanism.
(Halberstam, 1995: 143-4)
The endless procession of sequels that typifies the contemporary horror genre
might itself be seen as 'queering' traditional notions of narrative closure and
resolution: however apparently fatal and final the end inflicted on Jason,
'/J
Freddy or :\lichael, the audience is well a\vare that this is merely a formal
marker of the film's ending that in no real sense genuinely 'ends' the story.
BEYOND HOLL YWOOD
Horror films, like the musical, are found in every national cinema. Probably
best-known outside Hollywood are the British horror films produced by
Hammer. Hammer revived and updated the classic Universal Gothic series -
Dracula, Frankenstein, the Mummy - along with a variety of home-grown
monsters in a series of mostly period films from the late 1950S until the mid-
1970s. Hammer horror is often approached in terms of its scrutiny of class
relationships (with the middle-class specialist - Van Helsing , for example -
like the 'boffins' in British \\ar films of the same era, using' his technical
expertise to triumph over the combined forces of medieval superstition and
an outmoded aristocracy: see Hutchings, 19(3). These categories mig'ht not
have been so releyant in the US, where Landy (zooob: 69) suggests that
Hammer horror was able to capitalise on anxieties about authority gone awry
and beleaguered masculinity and femininity. Street (zooz: I 6z) adds that 'the
cycle's international popularity implies that these gender issues were eq ually
relevant to other [i.e. non-eJB 1 societies.'
The horror film has also flourished in continental European cinemas, with
perhaps the best-known traditions those of Italy and Spain. Italian horror in
particular received international attention as an aU/I'llI' cinema in the 1960s
through the p, ia 110 tradition in the films of Mario Baya (The Mask o(ihe Di'7.'il,
1960; Blad, SUllday, 19(0), Ricardo Freda (The Termr IdDr llilrhmd" 196z)
and in the 1970S Dario Argento (SLlspiria, H)76; Iliferno, 19Ho), all of which
won critical praise fill' their bravura visual style and their refunctioning of
~
art-cinema motifs in unexpected genre contexts (see Jenks, 199z). Outside
Europe, the Japanese horror film, olien with a strong basis in folkloric and
native theatrical traditions (Olli/Ja/Ja and the antholog'y film KJ7)aidall, both
1964) has been one of the most notable: recently, such Japanese SF/horror
hybrids as Te/suo: The !rOil ;Uall (H)90) and its sequel TetsLlo II: BOIl}'
Hammer (1991) have contributed to the 'body-horror' sub-genre, while a ne~
wave of turn-of-the-millennium East Asian horror films, principally from
Japan (including Rillp,L1, 199H; fla II Ie Royall', zooo; .illilztioll, zooo; Dark
Water, zooz; and The Grudge, Z003) and South Korea have achieved cult and
Crossover success in CS and \\,(lrldwide markets (sec ~lcRoy, zooS).
The expansion of fan culture, as well as horror's arguably universal
preoccupations, has led to both the increasing visibility of non-European
genre films in the US and UK, a greater - thoug'h still limited- penetration of
English-speaking markets by non-.\nglophone horror films, and importantly
the employment on Hollywood horror films of genre film-makers like
Guillermo del Toro (director of the widely distributed l\lexican horror films
Crollos, 1993, and The Den!'s Backbone, 02001, as well as .HIII/ic, 1997, and the
action-vampire sequel Blade fl, 02002). (On the internationalisation of horror,
see Schneider, 2002.)

CASE STUDY: RIVGU (HIDEO NAKATA, JAPAN

1998)/THE RiNG (GORE VERBINSKI, 2003)

Hideo Nakata's Rtllgu -- which quickly spawned two follow-up films, Rlngu
2 (1999) and the prequel Rillgu 0 (2000) - is perhaps the most celebrated of
the new wave of East Asian horror films to be released in the late 1990S in
Western Europe and the US, securing sizeable cult followings. Rillgu was
quickly remade both in a low-budget South Korean version (Tlte Rlllg T lrtlS,
1()99) and in the US by Dreamworks as The Ring, released in October 02002.
The American remake is largely Llithful to the Japanese original and indeed
includes several shots patterned directly after :\akata's film." The plot
involves a mysterious video whose viewers are condemned to certain death
exactly one week after watching the tape for the first time. The faces of the
victims are frozen masks of indescribable terror, and their hearts seem quite
literally to have stopped from sheer fright A journalist (Reiko in Rlllgll/
Rachel in The Rillg) following the trail of what she originally believes to be
an urban myth, having watched the video finds herself the victim of the
curse. Her increasingly frantic search fill' the truth behind the video in the
hope tlMt this will lift the curse, intensified when first her ex-husband (Kyuji/
Noah) and then their son (Yoichi/Aidan) see the curse \"ideo, makes up the
main body of the narrative. The curse is re\caled to have its roots in the
strange and tragic story of a child, Sadaka/Samara, born decades previousl~
into an island community with extraordinary but destructive telepathic
powers. It is the vengeful spirit of this girl, thrown into a well and left to
starve to death by her own bther after her mother committed suicide, that
has sent the curse video into the world. The film Lllls into an established
categ"ory in Japanese horror, the kaldall or 'avenging spirit' film (see .\lcRoy,
02005), typically as here fllCusing on a wronged, usually female entity returning
in spectral form to avenge herself upon those who harmed her in life.
Sadaka/Samara's appearance, her Llce cloaked behind a mask of long black
hair apart from a single basilisk eye, is iconographically conventional in this
tradition. (It has been sug"gested that the ongoing popularity of this motif in
contemporary Japan reflects anxious and/or phobic negotiations in the
masculine imaginary of the changing role of women in Japanese society.) From Til" Rill.~ (2002). Reproduced courtes\ of J)rean1\\orl.s J J ,C/The hobal Collection/
The central device of the curse video illustra tes weJl the horror film's Merrick \ [orton.
From The Rillg (2002). Reproduced courtesy of IJrc;Jmworks LLC/The Kobal Collectionl
I\Ierrick :\lorton.
178 FILM GENRE
capacity to update its semantic elements while retammg its characteristic
generic syntax. The deyice of the \'ideotape substitutes for the traditional
face-to-face imprecation an impersonal medium where the identity of the
yictim is irrelnant (although Reiko's response to the curse may be seen as in
classic horror-film style a challenge she rises to meet). The origin of the tape
is left deliberately obscure, as is the precise means whereby (,lS opposed to
why) it comes to be in the inn oyer the \yell. In the context of a medium in
which sequels and series are de n~r;e/lr- and a film that would in due course
generate two sequels of its own - there is at least the suggestion of an ironic
ref1exive dimension in the idea of a Yideotape which demands to be exactly
copied and passed on in an endless chain.
Both Rillgu and The RiIlP, confront a perennial problem for the horror film
the yisual communication of the othef\yorldly and the infernal - that has
become especially yexed as the traditional 'external' (in Tudor's classifica-
tion) terrors (Frankenstcin's monster, the Wolf Man, Godzilla) haye for
modern audiences lost much of their capacity to frighten. Jacques Tourneur
was compelled by his distributor to add seyeral shots of a fire-breathing giant
demon into his otherwise yisually restr,lincd satanic thriller Sight o!' the
Del1loll (1<)57), a mO\'C generally held to han: damaged a \yell-regarded film.
Alongside the decline - or at least the shift into ,I less horrific affective
register- of old-style monsters, howeyer, thc post-Psyc!to horror film faces a
transf()rmed context of reception \yhere audiences anticipate and require
intensified 'shock' yalue, usually measured in C\cr more graphic simulations
of yiolence and bodily \'iolation. Films aiming to ITyitalise horror's traditional
supernatural terrain thus perf()rm a difficult balancing; act bet\\een the
'tasteful' atmospherics of T!te Si.rth .')'l'Ilse and its imitators on the one hand
and the full-on pandemonium of the splatter film on the other. The attempt
in the SF-horror hybrid EUllt !Jori.::,oll (GB H)()7) to conn:y the experience
of a parallel uniyerse of absolute eyi\ into \yhich the eponymous spaceship
has slipped illustrates the problem. The transition into the hell-realm is
imaged for the yie\\cr by the ship's yideo log, which shifts from recording
routine tasks to fragmentary and f1eetingly glimpsed images of yiolence and
madness accompanied by a soundtrack of shrieks, mad laughter and sonic
distortion. While this achiC\cs a modestly satisfying \'isceral frisson in a
crowded theatre, as an encounter \yith a \yholly Other order of being its
horror-comic images (the ship's captain holding a denucleated eyeball in the
palm of each hand and so on) lea yes quite a bit to be desired.
The key textual and narratiYe mediator of the uncanny in Rillgu and The
R illg is the curse Yideo, seen entirely or in part seycral times in both films:
this is our bridge to the discourse of the Other in the film, Sadaka's demonic
psychic effusions. Riugll attempts to communicate a sense of the uncanny
without resorting to standard generic shock techniques \yhile ,1Iso not giying
THE HORROR FILM 179
,1\\<lY the secret of Sadaka's story, which unfolds oyer the course of the film
through Reiko's imestigations. Quite clearly, if the Yideo is risible or simply
L1ninteresting a great deal of the element of threat instantly leeches away.
Rillr;H accordingly takes great care in manufacturing a series of oneiric images
th<l~ present a sufficiently cognitiye rather than merely interpretatiye challenge
to the spectator to be unsettling beyond their manifest content (that is, we are
sufficicntly unsure about \I'hat \Ie are seeing as to challenge our simple
deIll,llld of\l'hat it might 11/1'1111). The Yideo contains just six separate elements
SClen if one counts Sadaka's mirrored ref1ection separately from her
lllothcr's - none of them readily generically placeable or indeed placeable in
any other \lay (of all the images, that of the stumbling, contorted people .
\ ictims, as \Ie later learn, of Sadaka's telekinctic outburst - is the most
disturbing in terms of its content). The yideo is extremely IO\l-definition and
none of thc (static) shots ha\c any sense of being 'composed'. The intensely
disturbing effects of the sequence are traceable to the inexplicable and
incomprehensible nature of its images rather than their superficial horrific
conteIlt.
fit" Riug's curse yideo is significantly longer than Rillgu's and although it
repeats key images from the Japanese yersion -, the mirrors, the yie\l of the
ski from inside the well. the exterior shot of the \lcll - it adds a number of
others, seyeral of \\hich arc generic 'horror' imag'es: an electrode unspooling
fi'om an open mouth, a giant centipede snaking away from underneath a
table, a finger impaled on a nail, sC\cred fing;ers in a box. The images are
cOIlsiderably clearer than in Riugu, more striking'ly composed and on at least
Ollc occasion - :\nna's suicide .. the camera Ste,ldicams in to\lanls its subject.
nl<- Riug's yideo lacks the key discursiye elements of the yideo in Rillg/l - the
II ord 'eruption' pulsing across the screen, and the ideogTam 'Sada' g;limpsed
in the close-up of Sadako's eyeball substituting some technological detecti\c
\I (Jrk by Rachel \lho, by manipulating the tracking on the frame of the image
of the dead horses, is able to identif~ the location depicted in the Yideo, her
lirq rcal breakthrough in her researches. Indeed, sner,rl of the curse I"ideo's
images prO\ e to be straight indexical traces, Samara's memories that prol"ide
direct pointers f(lI< Rachel to track dO\ln and confirm the location of Samara's
hl11ih.
Rather strikingly, TIle Rillg introduces a rd1exil"e anticipation of the
~llIdience's rejection of, or indifference to, this much more elaborate sequence
lJl' images in :\oah's dismissil"e description of the tape as 'I"ery student film'.
Oh contrast, Kyuji seems uneasy and unsettled by his first I"iewing of the
tape.) This g'esture of disal"o\l,rl also highlishts the different gender politics
lJf the t\lO films, \I"ith :\'oah a signilicantly more sceptical, 'realist' ('I'm sure
it's much scarier \lhen you're alone', he adds) presence than Kyuji, whose
lIl\estigatil"e partnership \lith Rachel is l11otil"ated by his o\ln externally
IHo FII.M liENRE THE HORROR FILM IHI

verifiable evidence (the tell-tale distorted photographs that identif~ him as a NOTES
victim of the curse) rather than in direct response to her expressed fear. This
I, Its 'Itl\\ness' is key to its transgressivity ,as apparent detritus, the subH'rsi\e ch'lI'gc of
reflects a generally morc empirical attitude in Tlic Rillg that shifts the story
horror so to speak creeps in beneath the radar of ideological censorship.
away from Rill/!./I's roots in folk myth to\\'ards the cstablished generic
_ For ,1l1 interesting' reading of the 'yuppie nightmare' film Single I1hile Fell/llle (1992) as
vernacular in contemporary .\merican popular culture for rendering the .1 lesbian vampire lilm, see Creed (1<)9:;)·
paranormal (Tlic X-Files, etc.). The increased dramatic prominence of 3, For a shot-bv-shot comparison of the t\VO films, see the I:In site ,11 http:! hY\\'\v.mandiapple.
Samara's f:lmily compared to Ring/l reflects these different priorities, as does com 1 sno"bloodl ringcompare. htm.
the wholesale suppression of the flllk loric e1emcnt, Sad aka as the child of a
sea-god or demon. Tlic Rillg also introduces t\\O set-piece scenes, the uncanny
panic of the horse ,lhoard the ferry and the scene in \\hich Samara's father
electrocutes himself in the bathtub. :\either of these ha\e any direct parallel
in l\akata's film and appear to ha\(~ been introduced to gi\'e an e\cntful boost
to the narrative of Rachel's quest and meet audience expectations of disturbing
and \iolent plot incidents. TI,c RlI1g also establishes a direct parallel between
Samara and Aidan by reassigning telepathic abilities from ~yuji in Rillgu to
Aidan - again accommodating the source material to LS generic cOl1\cntiol1s
by echoing TIi,. Six/Ii SCI/SC'S trend-sctting portrayal of a child \\ith para-
normal powers.
Tlic Rillg emplovs a morc g'cnericalh placeable \isual st~ Ie than Ringu,
using both shock cuts, List dollies and tracks, and the prosthctic/make-up
effects the Japanese version abjures (for instance, the \cry bst track into the
first \'ictim's face as she - preSL1l11,lbly sees Samara offscreen, the last frames
of \\'hich substitute a horrific make-up effect fllr the actress' screllning f:lce,
the s\vap masked by the speed of the camera mO\ement). \Yhereas Reiko is
called to ~yuji's apartment by the police, Rachel discO\ers '\oah's deld body
herself in a scene that is constructed as a horrific (ll1Ip d,. I!/(;cilr,., \\ith a tense
build-up to the re\Tal of :'-.;oah 's corpse, posed tableau-like atop a eLlis (this
is unexplained as \\ hen last seen [\.Jo,lh \\ as scrambling' along the floor, bur
recalls fllr example Hannibal I,ectcr's spectacular body-compositions in The
Silm(,. orllic IAlllllls), his [ICe grotesquely transfllrmed into the 'terror mask'
of Samara's victims.
Perhaps the most notable difference het \\ een the t\\O films, however,
i11\ohes the ending'. Rill/!.II bdes out on a high-,mgle shot of Reiko's car
speeding; up the moton\ ay: \ve knO\\ she is Liking her son Yoichi to shO\v her
f:nher the curse \ idco, determined to sacrifice the old m,1I1 rather than her
only child. The film thus ends on a ble,lk note: there is no escaping the curse,
merely the ine\itable tLl11smission of the contagion. \\hile TIi,. Rillg repro-
duces the t\vist of the copy, at the of the film Rachel makes no ,I11S\\ er when
Aidan asks her \\'ho she intends to shO\\ the video to: the specific sense of
desperation and cruelty at the end of Rillg/l is considerably mitigated, \\ hill'
also pointing up the different, more atomised, sense of bmily ,md community
in TIi,. Rill/!.'s suburb,m LS mileu.

CHAPTER 8 film) but in music, Llshion and product design - and in turn to
The Science Fiction Film
S cience fiction (SF) is a dominant presence in contemporary Holly\\ood.
SIll r IYII rs (1977) established a commercially potent alliance between SF
and a new breed of action blockbusters (see Chapter 10): of the 100 all-time
box office leaders (adjusted for int1ation) eighteen are SF films (or, as some
SF purists might prefer, action films that Jeri\e their narrati\e content and
some or most of their thematic preoccupations from SF's traditional con-
cerns), all released since H)77. SF films number thirteen of the t\\Tnty-seYen
annual top-grossing films bet\\Ten [977 and 2003, and no fe\\er than t\\enty-
se\en of the top 100 (unadjusted) highest grossers in the same period. I Year
in, year out, the principal releases onto the lucrati\'e summer market from the
major US studios - the blockbuster 'tentpole' films around which a year's
schedule is organised, and which can make or break a balance sheet and the
careers of studio executi\es .- are dominated by effects-laden SF spectacu-
lars, preferably entries into reliably super-profitable series 'franchises' such
as the /Hillri.\' (1999,2002,20°3), Termillillor (H)8-+, H)9I, 2003), .1Iie/l (1979,
1986,1990, 19c)7, 200-+), or pre-eminently Slar IIl1rs (1977,1980, IC)8-+, 1999,
2002) series. Classic comic books like SpiderJIlilll (2002, 200-+) and X-. Hen
(2000, 2003), which all centre on classic SF motifs (genetic mutations,
radiation poisoning, mind control, etc.) and \\hich from the stllllios' point of
\iew are attracti\e1y 'pre-sold' (i,e, ha\e \\idespread 'brand' recognition and
a dedicated audience in their original medium), ha\'e also est,lblished strong
film series.' Intensi\e1y marketed and subject to elaborate publicity strategies
that build anticipation for months (in the case of SllIr 11 (Irs, years) prior to
release, such films address themsehTs to a global spectatorship as crucial
media 'eyents' (though still relying hea\'ily on their appeal to the jll\'enile,
principally male audience that has traditionally prO\ided SF's core constitu-
ency)." Hyper-modern almost by definition, SF is \\ell-placed to 'lppropriate
cutting-edge styles not only in \\orld cinema (for example, Japanese mll/lgil
n lIe SCI E'-' CE Fl cn ON Ft L M 183
,l\1 d a/lillle
reformat these as 'must-ha\e' elements in co-onlinated global cross-media
Illarketing and merchandising strategies centred on the film (the Ray-Ban
sunglasses ,1l1d Nokia mobile phones prominently featured in the first .Hlllrix
,liT a good example).
It \\as not al\\a\s thus. SF has risen to industrial pre-eminence both ,IS a
function of and; dri\ing force in the rise of the ':"Je\\ Holly\\ood', the
lransf()rmation of the :\merican film industry since the IC)70S, in \\ays that
could not easily ha\'C been anticipated prior to the mid- [970S, Bef()re SllIr
11 lirs ,Iml Close !:'/I(o/llllers o( lite Tll/rd kill,! (1<)77), whose combined box-
ortice impact transf()rmed pre\'ailing prior assumptions ahout SF's limited
,1IIdience ,Ippcal, the genre had generally occupied a dccidedly secondary
position in Holly\\ood's hierarchy of genres, SF's current ascendancy has
~one hand-in-hand with an explosion in the \isual effects industry - grown
:ince ."'/lIr /I lirs into a billion-dollar business in its o\\n right (with
Lucasfilm's o\\n Industrial Light and \lagic subsidiary still pre-eminent) -
but cannot simply be accounted f()r in terms of the capacity to de!i\er eYer
more astonishing and seamless \ isions of the future and transf()rmations of
the present. In Llct, the dC\e!opment of a mass audience with an apparently
innhaustible appetite f()r these technological \\ onders, \\hich con temporal')
SF cinema both exploits and carefully nurtures, itself needs to be socially,
historically and culturally contextualised.
It \\Olild seem that SF's ,Ihiding concern as a genre \\ith the - usu,llly
threatening - consequences of technological change on human society and
identity is particularly \\ell placed to ,Iddress the concerns ,1I1d anxieties of a
culture in \\hich achaneed technolog) is mon' central, in rapidly and
endlessly mutating; forms, than e\'Cr before. ,\ny social history of the last fift)
\ cars \\ ould stress the multiLIrious \\ays in which - from the unleashing of
the rc,lrsome destructi\e pO\\Tr of nuclear \\eaponn, to the introduction of
the umtracepti\T pill in the early 1<)60s \\ith its t~lr-reaching implications f()r
\\omen's sexu,I! independence, to the ongoing digital 1'C\olution sLlrting in
the late 1980s rapid technolog;ical change has accompanied and in many
C\',es intensified the often dizzying pace of social and cultural chang;e. As a
genre \\hose speculati\e futuristic orientation has often combined \\ ith a long
tradition of both Lmtasy and soci,I! allegory, SF seems Llr hetter suited than
either nostalgic genres like "esterns or musicals, or intensely topical genres
like the \\ar or the social problem film, to mediate these changes and their
possible meanings, in narrati\e f()rms that arc illuminating;, challenging,
entertaining, yet in most cases not inescapably didactic or directly impliclted
in ephemeral political debates.
SF's public dimension (noted by Sobcl1,lck, [(J8i) adds to this critical
currency. :\ lost clearl y typified by the spectacular sequences of urban panic
1K4 FILM GENRE
and destruction - or indeed of eerie post-apocalyptic abandonment - where
the surging of terror-stricken mobs and/or the downfall of recognised land-
marks like the Washington Monument, Golden Gate Bridge or Statue of
Liberty via alien attack, natural cataclysm or nuclear war (Eartlt ,'.1'. the FI)'ing
Saurers, 1956; Tlte Core, 2003; and PlaJlet o!, tlte ~-1pes, 1967, respectively)
signify the destruction of human civilisation itself, SF emphasises the trans-
personal. Even the isohted scientific crank or obsessin~, wilfully probing
'those things man must leave alone', embodies a larger crisis of scientific
trustworthiness and accountability. Whereas horror films circle obsessively
inwards to a Gothic interior realm of individual dementia and dysfunction-
ality, Sf's unguessable abysses of interstellar space or desert wastehnd by
contrast minimise and ironise petty human concerns on a cosmic scale.
Numerous SF films - especially those \vith epic pretensions - express this
Ta1/itas theme with climactic long or extreme high-angle shots, representing
nobody's point of view (unless it be God Himself), which dwarf the figure of
the human protagonist against a backdrop of implacable nature and/or
absolute devastation: Tltc World, tltc Fleslt, awl the !Jcri! (1959), PlaJlet o!,the
4pes, THX 1138 (I970), Thc OJlIi'/!.a ALIII (I<)7I). Sometimes humanity is
et'L!ced altogether, as in the shot sequences that conclude the nuclear ~'\rma­
geddon fantasies 0" t/ic Be((r/i (1959), Or StrilJl.gclm·c (I963) and BCllcath the
PlaJlct o!, l/ic "'Jpcs (uno).
SF's pressing currency in film history and cultural studies is equally clear.
As we shall see, SF has a good claim to be considered the first distinctively
post-classical Hollywood genre, and as such occupies an important place in
industry history. MOlTO\Cf, both literary and cinematic SF have become
focal points fiJI' debates in contempor,lry cultural theory, and a tally of the
kinds of characteristics of contemporary SF cited abmc helps nplain why.
Institutionally implicated in shifring practices of global film distribution and
marketing; placed at the cutting' edge of changes in representational practice
such as digitisation that challenge traditiOlul assumptions about the ontology
of the photographic image (notably its indexical, or reality-produced and
reproducing nature); porous and hybrid across boundaries of genre and
national cinema alike; centrally fiJeused on questions of technological change
and their impact on human identities; and sceptical about the continuing
validity of traditional assumptions ahout the stability and fixity of human
nature: these key attributes of SF film also comprise a \irtual checklist of the
hallmarks of postmodernism (see Bertens, J()95). SF can thus be reg;arded
both as a quintessentially postmodern g.·enre (if such a concept is not a
contradiction in terms) and as an imponan t vehicle fiJI' the dissemination of
ideas in and about poslmodernism to a wide audience.
The degree of generalisation in such comnwnts should certainly il1\ite a
healthy degree of scepticism. In particular, givcn the notoriously elusi\'e
TIlE SCIE"iCE FICTION FILM 1KS
location of material history in much postmodcrn criticism and theory, it may
be useful to tesl ,md justify these claims through a historical consideration of
the ~\merican science fiction film.
.\ GALAXY FAR, FAR AWAY: SF FILM TO 1977
\mericlI1 SF film befilre Star Hilrs may be divided into three distinct phases:
horror themes and jll\enilia mark the genre's indistinct beginnings pre-
Second \rorld \\~,u, sensational pulp narratives and Cold War allegories of
interplanetary conf1ict and atomic mutation dominate the 195os, while dark
d\Slopic visions predominate in the late 1960s and HnOS. ~'\s broad-brush as
s~ch periodisations inevitably are, it is perhaps more important to recognise
from the outset that these are as en~r not really ey(llutionary stages: each
responds as much or more to its immediate industrial and cultural context
than to prior stages of generic dn elopment, and clements of all three are
clearly \isible in the post-1<)77 SF film, true to postmodern form less syn-
thesised into a ne\v and integrated form than jostling in an energetic I,rimla/!.e
of periods, styles and ideologies. It is also worth noting, hmve\cr, that if this
eapacit\ to incorporate a wide variety of elements is to be regarded as one of
SF's 'postmodern' attributes, this tendency is marked even in the genre's
earliest period. C:omp,lred to 'strong' classical genres like the \Vestern or the
gangster film, SF's generic boundaries arc exceptionally porous, particularly
as has been widely noted and discussed at the boundary with the horror film.
\s ~ing and ~rzywinsb (200I: 57) point out, SF's lack of a consistent
iconograph~ means that definitional eft(lrts need to rely more on syntactic
propositions than on the rebtin:ly concrete semantic dimension. This has
posed notorious difficulties of generic definition, again frequently com-
n1l'nted on in the critical literature, but fill' our purposes it may be more
useful to note that this relati\ely amorphous and heterogeneous aspect has
lent the genre the f1cxibility and adaptability that has sel'\ed it so \\ell in
recent decades. SF has been and continues to be a recombinant genre.
This mutability means that prior to the Second World War SF film lacks
~l!l\ clear p,lradigmatic expression (this is absolutely not the case with literary
SF). In fact, as already suggested, science fiction was barely a classical
Ilolly\\ood genre at all. \Iost ,ll'counts agree that what \\llLlld bter crystallise
as SF themes \\cre mostly incorporated into the horror film's Gothic imagin-
.tr\, fill' example radioacti\ity (Thc IIl,'isiMe Raj', 193(l) and miniaturisation
(!he De,'1/ Doll, I<)36; Dr en/ups, I9-4-0)' The theme of technology, by which
the genre will subsequently be defined (sec belm\), is typically tackled in this
11J30S 'SF Gothic' through the catastrophic C\periments of the 'mad'
(usually, in Lll't, ohsessi\e, monomaniacll, ruthless and wholly unconstrained
186 FILM GE:"J RE
by moral or ethical scruples) doctor or scientist: for example, The Im:isible
A1al/ (1933), Island IIrLllst 5'o/lls (1933), "Had Lm:e (1935) and of course
, "sio'ninO'
Fmn/.:enstei/l (193 I) and its sequels. Including the Frankenstein myth, one of
the foundational paradig'ms of the horror genre, in a discussion of SF simply
emphasises once again the particular porosity of this generic boundary.
Howeyer, at least two important differences bet\\"een the 'SF Gothic' 'mad
doctors' and the nuclear and genetic scientists of post\\"ar SF might be noted:
firstly, the H)30S characters are much more often desocialised, conducting
their operations from isolated, distinctly Gothic locations - identifiably
versions of the horror film's 'terrible place' - like medie\,Ji castles, tropical
islands or isolated mansions, rather than military or ci\"ilian research centres
or hospiwls that will later predominate. Secondly, in keeping \yith this
ambience their techniques arc less likely to be rendered as futuristic than as
surgica I or e\ en alchem ica I. 'This isn't science ... it's more likc Ma C/.: II/agic!'
protests a horrified Henry Frankenstein \yhen confronted \\"ith Dr Pretorius's
jarred homunculi in Bride or Fran/.:el/stein (H)35), but the distinction is an
extremely fine one in this period. In contemporaneous large-scale European
SF films such as ~·lc1ita, Q!leen III' .Hal'S (USSR I<)2.j.), . Hetroplilis (Germany
1<)27) and Thi/lgs Til ClillIe (GB HJ3(») this anachronistic cont1uence of
adyanced technologies and pre-modern impulses and rituals, projected onto
imagined future societies, propels an enquiry into the nature and social
implications of industri,11 technolog'y and the 'machine age'; ho\\"e\"er - eyen
though American cities like ~e\\" York and Chiclg-o 'l!H.l inrlO\ati\e ,\merican
labour practices like Fordism and Taylorism \\Tre the explicit inspirations
fiJI' these bntasies and allegories - 1930S Hollywood SF seems largely
uninterested in such spccula ti ye q uesl ions, apart fi'om the much more light-
hearted ]WI 11lIagine! (H)30 )~ (sec Telotte, 2001: 77<)0).
The other principal form takcn by SF in\merican cinema betiJre the
H)50S \\as the hm-budg;et 'spacc opera' serial, the best-remembered of \\hich
are Flash Gllrdlln (HUh, remade in high-camp style in 19XO) and H/ltA, Rllgers
(193<)). '\imed firmly at juyenile audiences, the serials dre\y their narrative
form fi'om the popular pre-First World War .-\merican and Europe.m serials
(The Perils IIrpa/llinc, H)I.j., or]/lde.\', France 1<)16) and arg-uably looked back
e\Tn further ro cinema's inEmcy in their reliance on simple model work ,md
photographic effects to \lelies's celebrated 'trick films' during cinema's first
decade. Unlike HJ30S SF Gothic, the serials' tales of interplanetary \\"arEne,
time trayc\ and alien ci\ilis,ltions - \\ hich dre\\" hea\ily on both contemporary
comic strips 'l!H.l the hug-ely int1uential pulp SF magazines- \\ere clearly SF,
and their iconography of rocket ships, robots and de.lth r,lys supplied imagery
for numerous later SF films. Ho\\ e\cr, as Telotte (2001: 73) obsenes, the
serials 'offer little hint of the sort of e:xplorations that the best of the pulps
and the more ambitious science fiction nO\"e!s to follO\\" \\"ould stake out:
l 1\... t"l t"
of societ\"'.
•
HIE SCIENCE FICTION FILM
concerns \\"ith artificial life, the ethics of scientific experimentation, the
Perhal)S this explains the \\"idespread feeling among
187
'serious' SF \\Titers and consumers that despite the SF boom in the \yake of
Stilr II'ilrs, the conscious and int1uential inyocation of the spirit of the serials
1)\ George Lucas ga ye a poor ret1ection of the genre's more significant
c;Jncerns (see Singer and Lastinger, IqqX).
SF emerged for the first time as ,1 really significant Hollywood genre at
the start of the 1950S, with a dramatic increase in production of SF films by
the majors as \\"ell as independents and exploitation producers, now including
'\' productions as \\"ell as lo\\er-end films. It is not at all the case that, as the
recei\cd image of Styrofoam bug-eyed monsters and scantily-clad green-
skinned space goddesses \\ould sugg'est, science fiction was exclusi\"ely a '13'
film and exploitation genre throughout the H)50S and H)60s. It is on the
other hand true that the genre had a f~lirly \<)\\ profile at least in the pro-
duction schedules of the major studios. The bmous 'creature feature' (typically
featuring anomalous atomically mutated, or atomically resuscitated, human,
or insect monstrosities) and alien-imasion cycles of this era usually read as
articulating in a \ariety of \yays Cold \Var anxieties and preoccupations -
\\TlT in purely numerical terms indeed dominated by low- (often micro-)
budget features aimed at the teen exploitation market from independent
production houses such as the incongruously grandly-named American
International Pictures (\1P). The titles and reputations of some of these and
their m,lkers- such ,IS-\1P's Rog-er Corman (It C/II/ill/emi the Ifllr/d, 1<)56,
'/~'<'l/ilg<, Cal'ClI/illl, H)5X, amid countless others) and the inimitable Edward
J). \\ oml,.Ir (Pial/ l) From Oilia SpaU', 1<)5X) - ha\e become fondly remem-
bered tokens of a more innocent film-making age, and themsel\es the occa-
sional object of ironic but 100"ing homage/pastiche from New Hollywood fan-
directors like.loe Dante (f:'.rplllrcrs. 1<)X.:;; Hatil/ce, I<)XX) and Tim Burton (h'd
III1I1J, l<j<).j.; .Hal'S "Iffacf,:s!. H)(j6). Yet in their own time, a measure of SF's
distance from the centre of the Il)50S Holly\\ood uni\erse was the absence of
a single top-ten-ranked star - aside from the burlesque duo Abbot and
(ostello - fi'om any science tiction themed film in any year of the decade
until Greg;ory Peck's noble submarine commander confronted nuclear doom
in Ol/ Iltc Bcadl.
\!though some SF films of this era enjoyed sizeable budgets, these \\ere
de\ oted primarily to re.I1ising; spectacular futuristic or alien teehnolo~ies - an
enduringly central generic element - on a scale and with a cOI1\iction that
their Po\erty Ro\\ peers could not approach (for example, in the space
pain tings of Chesley Bonestell, featured in Dcstil/a till 1/ _HII(III, U)50, and The
II ar IIrthc /I"IIr/ds, 1952, and the desolate landscapes of the planet :\letaluna
in nils Islill/J 1;'arth, 1<)5.:;). \Yith some important exceptions like Tltc Day thc
I:arrh Stll/ld Still (1951) and FIir/liJJcl/ Plal/ct (1<)56), the scripts, casts and
188 FILM GENRE
performances of cyen the more expensiye yehicles remained rooted firmly in
SF's pulp and comic-book heritage, giying rise to \yhat l\lichelle Pierson
(2002: 109) aptly characterises as 'that peculiarly science fictional Hollywood
phenomenon, a B-picture film with a below-the-line budget of \\ell oyer a
million dollars'. Good examples are the pioneering George Pal-produced
Technicolor effects spectaculars of the early H)SOS (Deslillalioll .HoI!ll, When
Worlds Colliilc, 195 I, and Tile War or lite Worlds, the last two produced at
Paramount), Vivien Sobchack (198;: 1.+3-S), however, suggests that the often-
lamented flatness and lack of directorial signature that afflicts much 19SOS SF
may operate as a means of naturalising (by understating) fantastic narrative
content. The stolid framing, four-square blocking, even high-key lighting
and lockjaw acting in 1950S SF bespeaks a confidence in the ultimate trans-
parency and explicability of the physical \vorld mirrored in the technocratic
alliance of science and military that typically brings the films of the decade to
a satisfactory, if fiery, conclusion,
The launchpad for thc new directions explored by 1970S film SF was
Stanley ~ubrick's landmark 2001:1 Spa(£' Od)'sse)' (I 9fJ8), which not only
set a new benchmark fllr special effects under the supenision of Douglas
Trumbull (later to ()\ersee the effeets fllr Closc £I1((1l1l1lers), but in its depic-
tion of a dehumanised, banalised human culture dominated by technology
reacquainted American cinema audiences with the idea of SF as a \Thicle for
social commentary and satire. Many subsequent HnOS SF films focused on
dystopic future societies, although ~ubrick's characteristic glacial detach-
mcnt- which recei yed a further airing inl Clochl'od' Ora IIge (197 I) -
remained uniquely his own, Rather, it lIas the successful s~nthesis of vaguely
anti-Establishment political satire, fast-paced action and tub-thumping
moralising in Pia 1Ie1 of IIle ,Ipes (1<)67) that set the tonc fllr numerous 1970S
SF films including, as \yell as the "Ipes saga itself (fllllr sequels bel\\cen 1970
and 1<)7-+), tales of deep-space alienation such as ,')'il('l/I Rllllllillg (1<)70 and
/Jar/..' Slilr (1<n-+) and numerous \crsions of quasi-Ol'\lcllian future t~ rannies.
Pre-Sial' TYars, HnOS SF thus manifests clear continuities \Iith thc critical
trend in many othcr ;\ie\y I loll~ wood films of that decade..\s \\hat might be
termcd a 'subaltern genre', less clearl~ and thoroughly il1\ested in classic
llollywood's (which is to say, mainstream ,\merican) idcological imaginary
than major genres such as the \Vestern or thc musical, and \yith a less
continuous and clear-cut generic identity, SF's critical charge lIas less prone
to find expression through genre reyisionism aimed at exposing and
sulwerting generic conventions and assumptions. In keeping \\ ith the temper
of the times, ho\yever, early HnOS SF films \\ere firmly dystopian in their
outlook, and \\ere frequently prepared to carry this through to an appro-
priately bleak narrati\c conclusion. The narrati\'e arc spanning the five Plallel
ofille .lpes films portrayed a millennia I time loop across which inter-species
THE SCIENCE FICTION FILM 189
--------------------------------
\y.lrf~llT - transparently allegorising interracial conflict in contemporary
\I1lcrica, particularly in COlli/llesl of lite Plallel of lite .ipes (1973) - cycles
inesc1pably bacbyards and flll'\yards to global annihilation. (As Greene (1998)
notes, the monolithic presence in the first I\YO films of Charlton Heston, a
n1.1rtyred exemplar of white male pathos in other films of this period including
(he post-apocalyptic Tlte Oil/ega Hall, complicates the . .fpes' films' racial
politics.) The alien-il1\asion narratiyes of the 1<)50s, with their inescapable
Cold \Var oyertones, were largely abandoned: the themes of state surveillance,
thought control, media manipulation and the struggle to retrieye indiyidual
identity, dCleioped in films such as TIL'<. 11}8, PilIlisil/lIt'f11 Park (1971),
SOj'klll Crecil (1973), Rollerill/il (uns), Logan's RUII (Hn6), the remake of
11I,'as10II 1I111,c Blld)' SlIalcllers (1978) and Esmpe Frllll/ Nell' Yllrk (1979), drew
much less on phobic imagining;s of the Communist enemy and more on
current rCl elations about the nature of the American national security state
in the \\ake of Vietnam, \Vatergate and reyelations of illicit counter-
intcllit';ence programmes up to and including assassinations of opponents of
LS policy both domestic and fl)reign.
These films shared a yision of oppressi ye pO\yer as largely depersonalised,
L\ en .1l1onymous, its workings confusingly dispersed across a yariety of
'lgencies, \\ith the conspiracy-thcmed crime, political and espionage thrillers
that coalesced into a distinct sub-gcnre during the same period in such films
.ts PilI/II 8!all/'" (1967), Tlte Paralla,r 1 /ell' (1973), Tltc Cllm'ersalioll (197-+) and
nIIC,' f)ays III IIle Clllldllr (Hn S). As Cler, patterns of generic 'e\,(llution' on
closer inspection proye strongly inter- and intra-generic. (It is notable that
ad\ .tnced technology - particularly related to sllncillance and intelligence
processmg' plays a key role in conspiracy thrillers.) Together, SF and
conspir'lcy films helped popularise a \ersion of the H)60s Ne\\ Left: critique
of the corporate state - a critique strongly inf1uenced by H)SOS sociology,
\1 hose critique of consumer culture and corporate confllrmity in its tllrn
inf<)J"J11S some I<)SOS SF films Iikc thc original Bud)' SIIl/IdICrs (H)5S). (Scicnce
fiction's emergence as .1 LI loured \ ehicle for disseminating Ncw Left
~l1titudes into the broader .\merican culture itself doubtless owed something
to the popularity in 1<)60s countcrcultural circles of classic SF noyels such as
\rthur C. Clarke's cosmic eyol utionary fable CI"lcIlwod ',I L'"d (1<)53) and
Robert Heinlein's Simllper ill a SII'lIII,f.;C Ll/lld (1<)61)).
lndoubtedly, the enhanced production yalues and greater sophistication
oj' t(nOS SF payed the \yay fllr the genre's subsequent expansion, broadening
its audience .rnd starting to lift the driye-in/ exploitation stigma. Neycrthe-
It,s, in some key regards early [<)70S SF was Yery different hom the SF boom
.11 1he decade's end. Its typically sardonic, satiric tone as \yell as a general
preference for future-Earth rather than outer-space settings signalled clear
intent to offer commentary on contemporary society. By olwious contrast,
190 FILM GENRE
1<)XOS SF's actual instantiation in that decade's febrile culture \\ars \\as often
veiled behind a surface preoccupation with star \oyagers and technological
hardware. SF in the 1<)SOS, moreover, \vas in certain ways clearly the seedbed
for the genre's modern Holly\yood hegemony: the fond recollection of pUlp
serials and monster movies at Saturday matinees - follO\\ed by the assiduous
recreation of favourite genre films in backyards and local parks, and
ingenious approximations of special effects techniques - are E1111iliar tropes of
the hiographies of key Ne\\ Hollywood players and technophiles like George
Lucas, Steven Spielberg and James Cameron. Their successful translation of
adolescent generic tastes into ClT,Hive (and immensely profitable and
powerful) adulthood has enabled them to revisit such ju\'enile pleasures,
albeit on an incomparably more lavish and sophisticated scale. The early
H)l'Ios sa\\ big-budget remakes of se\cr,11 classic Il)SOS SF films including The
TlI}ng (1<)SI, 1<)1'11), hlI'l/ilers Fronl .\lllrs (Il)53, I<)X6) and Till' Blob (1958,
1 <)I'IX). However - and notwithstamling the heavy symholism of the little boy
fishing' in the hea\ens in the logo for Dream\\orks (the studio Spielberg co-
founded in I <)<)4-) the alchemy that has tranSf()\"\l1ed such simple if geeky
pleasures into solid plutinum global brands m\cs less to f()llo\\ing one's star
than to a complex ,1ml unpredictable synergy of economic, cultural and
ind ustrial factors.
TIlE CULTURAL POLITICS OF SF I:'-J TIlE IqXOS
The general narrative of the !\ie\v llolly\\ood's emerg;encc out of the collapse
of the classical studio system is by no\v an oft-rold talc, as is the consolidation
of a ne\\ly corporatised, \crticall~ integrated and increasingly global media
husiness during' the H)l'Ios after ,1 period of re1arive instability and creative
experimentation during the 1<)7os (see Biskind, H)<)I'I; I(ing, 2002; Prince,
2000). Science fiction prmcd unexpectedly cruci,l1 in this thoroughgoing
industrial tL1l1sf(Jrl11<Hion hecause it \\'as able to pull together key elements in
the emerg-ent corporate strategies of the ne\\ media conglomerates. Out of
the unprecedented success Of]IIII'S in 1<)7S and SllIr Irlln t\VO ~ears later a
new industrial orthodoxy quickly crystallised, centring a radically slimmed-
down ye1rl~ production schedule on a handful of high-, and soon ultra-high-
budg-et ,1erion-oriented summer blockbusters t,lrgeted ahme ,Ill ,It th,lt season's
key market, teens and young adults. The willingness, re\e,l1ed by analysis of
SllIr IVllrs's dumbf()Unding success, of high-school and college-ag;e nules in
particular to vie\v their L1\ourite genre films numerous times mer the course
of a summer season, and their intense, sometimes ferocious loyalty to
favoured movie 'brands', has gi\(~n this audience a crucial say in setting the
cultural and genene profile of contemporary Holly\\ood cinem,l. SF's
THE SCIENCE FICTIO"J FILM 191
----------------------------------
enduring ,1ml historic popularity with this demographic (paid cross-gener-
Jtional tongue-in-cheek homage in Bllc!.: 10 till' FI/turt' (ItjXS) and Glllllx)'
Ollcsl (2001) among others) consolidates its strategic position. (SF f~1l1
~Iitures are analysed in Tulloch and Jenkins, 1995; Penley, Itj<)7; Pierson,
'002). SF, moreover, offers an obvious sho\\case for spectacular state-of-the-
~rt technologies of visual, sound and abO\'C all special-effects design, the key
attr,lctions that provide a summer release \\'ith crucial market leverage. The
oT11l"C is \vell-suited to the construction of simplified, action-oriented narra-
0\es \\ith <lCcordingly enhanced \\orldwide audience appeal, potential for the
t~lcilc generation of profit,lble sequels (often, as with the two ]urasslc Pllr!.:
sequels (1<)<)7, 1<)<)<)), \irtu,l! reprises), and ready adaptability into profitable
tributary media such as computer games and rides at studio-owned amuse-
ment parks (see I(ing, 2000b). Finally, SF is reliably replete with eye-
cJtching artefacts (monsters, spaceships, light sabres, 'technical manuals',
etc.) ide,l1 for merchandising across the ancillary markets \vhose immensely
lucrari\c potential SllIr 11'lIrs rncaleJ, in a variety of formats from action
figures and comic books to cereal boxes and duvet co\'Crs, These industrial
conditions g;merning SF's ITne\ved visibility and prestige have plaYed a
signilicant role in determining the particular sub-generic strains f~lvoured b~
contemporary Hollywood - in the initial afternuth of SllIr flllrs at least
promoting ,1 rcturn to deep-space fantasies modelled after the I<).\os 'space
operas' .
This rnival of an C<Hlier eLI \vhen ,\merican SF film abjured AIL'1{'opolls-
st\ Ie soci,J! speculation caught the political tide, \vith Ronald Reag'an's
eleerion to the \\hite House in H)I'IO on a platform of consenati\e populism
and homely patriotic platitudes encouraging ,1 \\ilful diseng,lg;ement from the
Llte-f()jos 'malaise' of social and political compln:ities in [,IVOur of the
appeding simplicities of a bntasy lUSt. For l11am commentators, trends in
earh I<)I'IOS SF confirmed this regressi\e tendency: not only the hard\Yare-
hel\ y, PG-rated space sagas that aimed to capitalise on the SllIr Irllrs boom
including the second and third Sial' Iral's instalments themsehcs and The
11/<1 iI.' Hole ([()7<)), BIt/tic Bq'olld Ille Slars (1<)1'10) and Balliesiar Galacllia
(1<)1'10) " but a ne\y \ya\c of alien yisitation films, many featuring- beneficent
C\tra-terrestrials in clear rejoinder to the pitiless city-razing im,lders of the
I<).;OS (the \cry un-benevolent alien horror in the remake of lite Tll/lIg
))]'I)\nl unpopular \\ith ,1udiences, ,1S did Olliialld (1<)1'12), an SF remake of
!Il~h SIIIIII \\ith cleu' affinities to the [()70S dystopic/conspiraey mode).
\ t first glance, the reconception of alien yisi tors in posi ti \e terms in films
such as CllIse };IIUilllllcrs IIrlhe Third A.illd ,1l1d F T. (I<)1'I2) seemed to imply
,1 more liberal, less \Lll1ichean yie\\ of the uniyerse than Reagan's simplistic
perception of thc SO\iet Lnion ,1S (in terms dra\yn directly from Slar Irars,
life mimicking art) 'an c\il empire', Yet, just as the '\e\y Right's f()reign
 192 FILM GENRE

policy ~)~sturing was argunbly directed primnrih at a domestic constituency,

Ihe polItIcs of the 19kos ET films gestured less to the geopoliticnl realities of
, THE SCIENCE FICT!O;\l FILM

onboard computer that secretly docs the bidding of the net~lrious Company).
1<)3

the renewed Cold \Var (directly engaged as they \yere in the decade's new
action films: sec Chapter 10) and more to the fierce Kl/llllfk{lIl/p/\yaged On
the home front. Aliens were often depicted as galactic innocents abroad, all
too human in their vulnerability to the yiolence and corruption of human
ciyilisation. Thus these ostensibly optimistic alien encounters \yere under_
pinned by a desire fl)r other-\\orldly redemption from the disenchanted
present. In bct, the dose alliances fl)rged againsl established (adult) authority
between childlike aliens and human children (or childlike adults) in Close
I:'I/COlll1lcrs, E. T., ,)'lilnJliIll ([<)k.j.) and Fh:v,hl orlhe Swcigillor (H)k6) seemed to
proposc the wholesale rejection of the intractable difficulties of contemporary
t:lmilial and professional life in Ll\our of a numinous enchantment strongly
identified with pre-adult perspccti\es. (COCOOII (I<)k:,) and *Ihilleries not
il/clue/ee/ (l<)k7) used c:xtra-terrcstrials 10 \,dorisc 'innocence' at the opposite
end of the agc spectrum, allying the literalh uO\\orldly attributes of the ETs
with those of sentimentally imagined senior citizens.) In the era of Reagan,
the pursuit of enchantment in these 'regressi\ e te,\ts' \\as anything but
apolitical; on the contrary, it \\as consistent \yith the anti-rational appeal long
associ,lted \\ith react ionary political tendencies (sec Benjamin, [H!3() I 1(170).
Their distinct iye contribution \\ as to stake out a terrain of (/fill/rill politics for
I<)kos SF· the politics of pri\ate Iill:, of bmily, gender and sc:xualit\ that
marked a de;lr break \\ith Ihe public polic~ preoccupations of their· imme-
di;lte precursors in the late I<)6os ;l11d I<nos (sec also Ryan and 1'.e1lner, IOXS:
2SX hS; Sobch,lck, l<)k7b). \lore relTntly, the cosmic t:lmily romance of
Coulll(1 (1<)<17) c:xplores some of the same thematic territory.
In considering the enormous success of/hcu, \\hich in m,ll1~ \\a~ s seems
to contradict Reag;an-era trends, this cultuLd-politieal dimension is crucial.
.1Iim's \or,lCious and repulsi\c predator is dearl~ the di,lmetrical opposite of
cuddly FT, \\hile the film's nameless but nidently mendacious ;l11d c:xploit-
ati\e 'Company' c:xtends the anti-corpor;lte critique of earlier I<nos films like
So)'leul Greell. Il00ycyer, the aspect ofllieu that has been most pO\\erfully
addressed in the C\tensi\e critical discussion of Ihe film indudin<r two
theoretical intenentions of major imporLl11ce tllr both SF (and horror) criti-
" I
cism and gcnder theon (Creed, 19Xfl, 1<)<)3; Springer, 1<)9h) .. is its phobic
\ ision of f('m,1Ie se\.lulity and rcproduction.\s discussed in the prnious
chapter, Creed adapts I'.riste\a's theon of abjection to argue that .1Iim (;lI1d
other 'body-horror' films of the I<nos and early H)kos such as The /:'\or(isf,
H)73) creates a \ision of the 'monstrous-feminine' (citing as \\ell as the film's
manifold pennse imag;es of parturition most inLlmoush the embno alien
that g;rotesL]ueh 'bin hs' t hroug;h John Hurt's chest .. and th'e ramified hostility
to the materl1<l1 C\pressed, for C\ample, through '\lother', the duplicitous
,I
'y{
\s Bukatman (199.): z(J2) obsenes, '.·lI/el/ presents the return of the repressed
. the body·· to the space of the science fiction film'. At a time \yhen the rise
of Ihe :\e\\ Right put \\omen's reproductive rights back into political play,
\\ hile also stigmatising autonomous female sc:xuality amI (a seemingly
economic issue powerfully roped into the cultllre \\ars through the image of
the unruh female body of colour) mythical 'welfare mothers', Aliel/'s
repulsi\e images of the tCma1e body seemed geared to endorsc a powerful
disciplin,ln response.; 1 ie/coe/roll/c (I <jX.j.) and The FI)' (I<)X6) used similarly
\isccLIl 'body-horror' imagery in SF contests to explore ansieties around
sexuality, identity and infection - thc latter making \cry clear allegorical
refl:rence 10 ."-IDS, stigma tisI'd in the mid-I<jkos as a 'gay plague'.
In Llct, \yhile Sial" 11 ilrs is historically of huge significance in cstablishing
SF ;IS a nujor production category in Holly\Y()od, ~Jliel/ is in many \\ays the
more generically significant film. While like olher SF films of the period it
IransL!tes the public and political concerns of the I<nos into the new cultural
terrain of the !<)Xos, it is nonetheless pluf!,"ged into the historical mainstream
of SF film in \yays that the child-alicn films of the 1<Jkos arc not, in particular
through the clear implication that the alien, \\hose body combines organic
and machine-like elements, is effectiyely if unknowingly allied \\ith the
equ;dh inhuman and lethal pO\\er of the Company, whose representatives in
the film, significantly, ,Ire cybernetic: .\lother, the ship's computer, and the
,1Ildroid science officer .\sh. For the unfolding, but usually anxious if not
outright hostile, relationship to technology has been SF's closest approxi-
mation of a consistent semantic core. It is this relationship to \\hich we "ill
no\\ lurn.
I SF, TECIINOLOGY At\;D (POST),\10DERNITY
I
In so Llr as its preoccupations reflect \\idel~ shared nperiences of modernity
I it'dL the concerns of science fiction arc unlike, say, the high degree of
cultural specificity in the \\estern - potenlially uni\ersal ones. Indeed, the
,1Lldience to \\hom SF's concerns speak directly has only hroadened as the
1()rlllS and pr,lctices of industrial and post-industri,1I society, formerly con-
I celltLlled in the First \\orld, h,lye extended themsehes inC'\orably to the rest
I of the world. Thus, although this chapter has so far considered SF lilm
principally in light of the unfolding institutional context of post-classical
I Ilolh \\oOlI, it is eqLully helpful to situate those s,lme shifts in the LS film
industr~, and SF's prominent place in that process, in the context of the
I much larger indeed, global - experience fl)r \\hich SF has also been regarded
,IS a kcy expressive form: the Hydra-headed concept of 'postmodernism'.
I
l
194 FILM GENRE
On the one hand, SF both directly depicts and thematises the economic
and cultural transformations held to typifY the onset of postmodernity, in
particular the ever-expanding reach and exploding economic importance of
new electronic and digital information technologies and the concomitant
fragmentation and decline of traditional industries and the communities
organised around them. Typically these are rendered in SF in lurid comic-
book and video-game images of urban entropy, for example Jlldge Dredd
(1995) or RolJocop (19 H7)· (The landscapes Sobchack (IgH7a) identifies as
characteristic of SF in the I950S - deserts, beaches, \\astelands - have been
largely displaced by these decaying cityscapes.) On the other hand, SF's
move in from the cultural margins and its appropriation of the industrial
prestige traditionally resened for more 'respectable' forms (the social problem
film, the biopic) itself encapsulates the collapse of long-standing oppositions
between 'high' and 'low' cultural forms. The contemporary blockbuster SF
film, conceived as merely the leading edge of a cross-media promotional blitz
across a wide range of ancillary markets sp;mning several months from pre-
release promotions to subsequent cable and terrestrial TY 'premieres' and
))VD release (with 'added features'), exemplifies the commodification that
has (according to Fredric Jameson (1991) and many others) entirely colonised
the cultural space hitherto presened, ho\\eHT insecurely, for the aesthetic.
The growing reliance on 'pre-sold' properties - themsehcs mainly drawn
from the same junk-culture universe of old TY sho\\s and comic books -
captures the sense of a constant cannibalistic recycling of an exhausted set of
tropes and paradigms to an ever-Io\\cr common denominator. .\nd a pro-
fusion of knO\vingly reflexive gestures - a to~ Godzilla, representing that
summer's rival SF blockbuster, crushed b~ an asteroid sho\\er at the start of
.'lrmagedr/li/l (I99H); a pan across racks of merchandise at the Jurassic Park
gift shop, identical dO\\l1 to the log;o on the coffee mugs ;md T-shirts to the
promotional materials for the film in \\ hich thev . feature'
' a brief cuta\\av. of
a panicked Jap;mese businessman fleeing the T-Rn terrorising' dO\\l1town
Santa Cruz in Tlte I,os/ "'orld: Jllrassic Par/' II, a reference back to the
fleeing hordes in numberless Toho atomic monster mO\ies of the I9(lOS - also
support Jameson's C!mous contention that the critical edge of modernist
parody h;ls been blunted into the blankly imitative pastiche of the post-
modern text Uameson, 1990: 1()-I9).
At the formallC\el, the increasing generic hybridity of SF films (;dongside
most other major genres) produces the same bewildering !Jricolage of periods,
places and styles C!mously experienced by Deckard, the hero of Bladc Rllnner
(19H2), .1 film that a number of pO\verful readings, especially Giuliana
Bruno's influential essay (I9H7), have rendered something of a touchstone for
postmodernism in SF and film generally. Deckard \\alks dO\\l1 (or rather,
hovers above) the mean streets of 2019 Los .\ngeles, a t\\enty-first-century
THE SCIE.'JCE FICTION FILM 195
city steeped in the rain-soaked neon tones of I9..f.0S lIoir, an American
conurbation vvhose streets are a cross betvveen \Veimar Berlin and
contemporary Osaka or Tokyo, an Earth city whose most affectingly 'human'
denizens are the android Replicants, fugitives from the off-\\orld mining
colonies they have been constructed to sen'ice.
Drawing on theorists such as Jean Baudrillard, Telotte (1995: 233)
identifies the 'ncar fixation on the artificial, technologized body - the robot,
evborg, android' in Blade RIII/IIC1' and other SF films of the I9Hos and early
I;)<)OS (including the first two Temlllla/ors, Ro!Jocop and lHOA,iJlg /Hr R/j!)Jl,
I<)SS) as a negotiation of the extreme anxieties induced by human-created
technologies that increasingly threaten not only to exceed human
understanding or control, but somehow to dilute or even supersede human
identity itself. That Deckard in Blade RIIJlJlCI' may himself be, it is strongly
suggested, a replicant \\hose laconic, Philip ~larlowe-esque doggedness and
integrity have therefore all been pl'ligraJill//ed into him confirms the point.
Flsc\\here, Telotte argues that SF since the mid-I<)Hos has decisively
reoriented itself around issues of technology- specifically, machine intelli-
gTnce, androids and their like, and virtual/ computer-g;enerated realities
and relates this to the embracing chronotype of postmodernism (Tclotte,
200I: IoH-20). The ongoing exploration of these themes in .1.!.: .1r///iciol
1///clltgL'l/ce (2002) \\<wld seem to bear out his claim.
.\ndroids have certainly provided contemporary SF \\ith a rich vein of
thematic material, as the rather complex progressive nploration of the figure
01 the cyborg' in the/lteJl series sug·g;ests. The ruthless and treacherous
android\sh in the first film is follo\\cd in the first sequcl,JI/ells, by the
trust\\orthy and brave Bishop (who expresses a preference for the term
's~ nthetic person' over 'android'). \Yhile . 'Uie//} docs not feature a ne\\
android char,lcter, the nO\v-terminated Bishop's orig'inal human prog-rammer
a dutiful tool of the murderous Com pany, hence ironically Llr less humane
than his lookalike creation - appears to\\,lrds to the end of the film to try to
C\ploit series heroine Ellen Ripley's h,lrd-\\on trust in his creation. Finally,
1I/i'1I: Rcsllrt'cr/io// (1997) features both ,I young female android \\ho taps
into Ripley's po\\erful maternal instinct, established in .U/eJis -- and revives
Ripley herself as a cyborg-like clone \\hose blood combines both human and
,dien lX\.\.
It is actually rather questionable \\hether, as has been claimed, this ambi-
\ alent technocentrism is really specific to contemporary SF, let alone a
manifestation of 'postmodern' f'(Jfces in Hollywood or the liSA. In f:1ct,
C\amples spanning the history of SF film tend to suggest that if anything the
~'enre 's elusive semantic core - or the closest thing to it - consists in its
enduring focus through serial visions of possible futures on the transform-
<Hive, sometimes il1\asive, impact of advanced technology. :\s early (in terms
196 FILM GENRE
of genre history) as 1927, Alctrllpolis retlects the ambi\alent Elscination
widespread in Weimar Germany and indeed e1se\\here in inten\ar Europe
with the technologies of the 'machine age" including the assembly line, the
automobile, the telescreen and most famously the robot. The film's sleekly
Deco-styled female android and the destructi\e energ'ies she/it unleashes
imag'e perfectly the film's anxiety that modern scien tific \\izardry - quite
literally: the robot's animation is depicted as part science, part Kabbalistic
ritual - has outpaced its imcntors' capacity to manage or e\en comprehend
it, a note repeatedly struck in SF film eyer since. ,MoreO\'er, as a comparison
of Aiclropolis with such celebrated contemporaneous documentary films
about the transformation of the experience of labour in the modern industrial
city like Ail1l1 Wilh II Alonc Ctlllli'ril (USSR, 1(29) or Bcrlill . .s)l/Ipl/IJII)1 rJa
Grcill Gil)' (Germany, 1(27) rC\eals, preoccupations allegedly peculiar to
postmodernism such as the cinema's implication in a circulatory s~'stem of
'pure' information, and e\en the notion of the cyborg, e:\tended at this time
into a\ant-garde intellectual circles \\ell beyond the generic matri:\ of SF:
according to Brodna:\ (200 I: 90), Bcrlill's director \\'alter Ruttmann 'pro-
posed to merge the body \\ith the cinematic apparatus in order 10 indice the
birth of an adequate, cybernetic person.'
Such examples perhaps confirm that SF can fllCUS and refine in stylised
alleg'orical form concerns \\idely at issue in the culture. HO\\cyer, they also
indicate that SF's rele\ance to theories of postmoderni,sm may consist less in
a specific post modern turn on the genre's part th,lI1 in the increasing
imbrication of its abiding' thematic concerns \\ith those of the larger society
whose present has started to match SF's past images of its possible future.
One might claim that SF's generic boundaries arc necessarily and increas-
in!,dy porous: fllr of all genres, SF is the most dircctly responsi\e to the massi\e
transflJrmations that ad \ anced technology has cfli:cted, and continues to
cfkct, upon our world. :\5 the paraphernalia and jarg'on of SF, fi'om space
tra\e1 to \'irtual realit\, li'om Sltlr TrI'A'-style 'communic.Itors' (mobile
phones) to On\ellian 'telesereens' (CCT\ and \\ ebcams) gTO\\ e\er more
inescapably part of our daily life, so SF's thematic preoccup,ltions come to
seem less and less the outlandish ,llld ju\enile L1I1tasies they struck ])J'e\ious
general ion,s: this is, as Sobchack (19SS: 237) puts it, 'the \ cry "science
tietionalisation" of '\merican culture.' Just as .\IOOll hInding's, thc f'urthest
lunge of quasi-scientific Lllltasy in the ell'ly decades of the t\\CI1tieth century
(.1 Trip III Ihl' .Hoo//, [()03; The 1I11//{(1I/ ill Ihe .HOIIII, 1()27), ha\e become
rarely recalled hisloric.l1 LlCt, other SF tropes like artificial intelligence are
the rapidly ath'ancing fi'ontiers of' hoth contempoLlry computer science and,
in response, of philosophy, ethics and e\en theology.
Fe\\ thing's of course date so rapidly as past \'isions of a future which has
no\\ become our o\\n present or indeed past (in a digital age, the rotary
THE SCIENCE FICTION FILM [()7
counters on the shuttle tlightdeck in 2001 ine\itably jar). A fe\\ science
fiction films ha\e fllregrounded this odd temporal double exposure: Marty
\\cFh"s many anachronistic double-LIkes in BllrA' I(} Ihc Plliure include an
~,pos~lre to the \isions of 1950S SF - stumbling out of his time-tr~\ellin.g
I )eLorean upon first arri\ing in 1955, his crash helmet and protectl\e SUIt
trJnsform him in the horrified eyes of a hick t:1I11ily into the alien spaceman
of Junior's cOIllic book, .Hilrs .ll/lIrA'S.1 is a Ir)\ingly assembled homage/
),n:mh of [()50S alien-il1\asion that re\e1s in the period futurism of Bakelite
~lnd tl~e thereminh\n isolated spark of' originality in TerJ/IIII(llor 3: Rise orlhe
Ilildlllli's (2003) lilllis John Connor future leader of' the human resistance
1110\ Clllent ',lg,linst the cyborg empire trapped not in the e:\pected gleaming
t 1\ ent \ -lirst-centun mainframe, but in a mothballed Cold \Var-\'intage
colltn'JI room compicre \\'ith state-of-the-art consoles and transistors straight
Ilut of the original Sllir Tn' A' series or COlllllt/OIl'1I (19(l9), In ,I lilm series
\\ hose entries recycle a single plot \\ith minimal \ariation, this \ignette mig'ht
be seen as ,I confession of the cyclical and circular nature not onh of the
'f,'rJII/II(lllIr franchise but of the g'elHe as a \\hole,
In Jn~ case giH'n that it is gener,rlly ~Iccepted that SF's ostensibh
predicti\ e Jspect more oftcn masks soci,rl ,Illeg;ory or critiquc - these Ldlible
future prognostications, \\hieh in t:ICt lend a considerable retrospecti\e charm
to past SF, tend instead to highlight SF's enduring- IlJCUS throug'h such serial
I isjons of possible futures on the transflJrlnati\e, sometimes in\asi\e, impact
or ,Ilh ,mced technolog\, \\'hat lILwlifies as 'ad\anced' ob\ iously chang-es \\ ith
thl' pJssing' of time, but the unfl)lding- rdItionship to lechnolog\' has been ,111
issuc of gro\\ing fascinat ion and concern in de\ eloped societies since at least
the bte nineteenth cent un (usually reg'arded ,IS the birthdate of modern
sciellce fiction in the no\cls ofJulcs \ erne and II. G. \\clls, c\en though the
tl'l'l11 itself \\as not in gencral us,lge betllre the Il)20S (sec James, I()().j.)) and
h~lS supplied the protean genre of SF \\ith its closest appro:\imation to a
consistent semantic core.
\Iien \ isiLmts or iIl\ aders, Illr C:\,lmple, b~ definition possess technologies
Illore alh,lI1ced th,m earthlings (and ,Ire often characterised b~ 'machine-like'
1.1t1 of emotion: recently, fllr C:\ample, in 1I/II(/,(I/t/l'I/l( Oil)', [()()Cl). Stories
'lboUl computers (e,g. C(}lo.l.lII.l: The Fllr/Jill Pm/ed, [()II; II ({rG,"lIcs, I<)S.j.;
//'1' 1"III'IIII/IIII'crll(lIl, 1<)<)2; 'flic Illl/n,r) or ,Indroids (Ilelmpoli.l; RO/JOIIi/,;
I/'( 'f,'rll/illillor; L,'e "fO(slmllioll, I<)()O) centre on humanoid machines that
111imic and/or thrcaten human bch~1\iour. \'isions ofhul11anity's future reliabl~
il11,lge societies structured and shaped b~ technolog~ in fundamental \\,I~ s
l'l cn if, as in post-nuclear-holocaust fantasies li'om Fi,'c (1<)5 I) on\\ards, the
crfl:ct uf that technolog~ h,IS been to bomb subsequent human cultures back
to the Stone\ge (literall\, in 'I"clI,I,!!." Cll'CII/IIII). Fol1<ming the lead of
\ldous Hu\le~ 's 1<)32 nO\cl Bm,'(\clI' 1/ 0,./,/, future technologised societies
198 FII.M GENRE
are usually depicted ,IS ha\ing in some \\'ays surrendered important human
freedoms, even \\hen this subject is tackled satiricall\ (as in Dell/olillOIl ,Han ,
,
1 (93). More specifically, SF has concerned itself \\ith the increasing mediation
of human nperience by technology at all len~ls, from the public and
intersubjecti\'e - obvious e:xamples include atomic wart:lre and space travel _
to the psychological and emotional (thus imentions that enable the recording
and projection of indi\idual dreams, memories and fantasies figure in
QUillamass il/ld 111i" PII, GB 1968, Brcl/lIslorll/, 1983, and Till' Lil/I'II/flower
JHall), and \\ith the thrCiIt this poses to the integrity of the human sensorium.
While not e\ ery single SF film foregrounds technology, at some level most
SF works through technological motifs. [weasioll or 11Ji" Bod)' SlIalclJers, for
example, seems on the Elee of it not to imohe technology at all: the alien
'pods' that are taking' O\er the small Califl)rnian community of Santa Mira,
\\hate\cr they are, posscss none of the fearsome \\ar-making hard\\are of
other 1<)50S imasion fantasies (lIar orilic Ilil/Ns, [II,.-adi"rs Fro III Hilrs; even
the 'intellectual carrot' in Thc Th illg, though he spends most of the film
stomping around murderously and \\ithout great obvious forethought, has
arrived by interstellar craft); and the process of pod 'possession' is subtle,
seemingly organie and quite mysterious - no cumbersome brain\\ashing
apparatus or drugs apparentl~ needed, E\cn so, the leeching of human
emotions and imaginatin: life the pods bring about - 'IO\e, desire, ambition,
Elith: without them life is so simple' resonates strongly \\ith popular
notions of the emotionless, implacable machine (and this holds true \\hether
one sees the film as an allegory of 'machine-like' Communism (see Biskind,
H)i-\3) or of post\\ar .\merica incn:asingly subject to domination by actuarial
computation and the ne\v culture of the nascent corporate :\,merican techno-
cracy (see JancO\ich, 1<)()6),'
As mam commentators ha\c noted, SF's IHe\ailing mood .- perhaps
surprisingly or nen parado:xically, gi\en the historical importance in the
gUlre of technical advances in \isual effects, \\ hich since the early I()i-\OS have
relied in ncr gre,lter measure on computer technologies- has most often
been technosceptic if not outright technophobic. Perhaps the ultimate
symbol in SF film of the btal III/Ims of technological \\izardry is the literally
to\\ering achie\cment of the extinct Krell in Forbidd"11 Plalli"l: circuits and
generators banked miles deep, tools of an ung'uessable intelligence ..-\s usual,
the Krell's story reveals the necessary limits on technical mastery, given the
fi'ailty of the flesh: their dri\c to liberate themsehcs altogether from reliance
on crudely physical instrumentality unleashed 'monsters from the id', an
unreconciled primiti\e psychic residue that, once tapped into the boundless
PO\\ ers of Krell tcchnology, acquired annihilating; po\\ers the Krell \\cre
pO\verless to defeat. HO\vner parado:xically, SF frequently appeals to pre- or
trans-technological means as a solution to narrati\ e crisis.
THE SCI E"lCE FICTI ()"l FILM 199
'\[ost Elmously, in Slar TVal'S Luke Sky\\alker must learn to 'trust the
Force': only by turning off his sophisticated targeting mechanism and channel-
ling the mystical animistic po\\er that in the film's mythology binds together
the li\ing fabric of the universe can Luke destroy the Death Star, an artificial
planet that symbolises the death-dealing nature of technology allied to pure
\\ill-ro-po\\er, unconfined by morality or compassion. The entire code of the
Jedi Knights is founded on this cOl1\iction of the fundamental inadequacy of
'mere technological masten (echoing similar oppositions in Arthurian legend,
one of the many sources of J .ucas's syncretic mythology): the Jetli's chosen
\\ Clpon, the light sabre, is itself (as an e:xcited Thermian Obs<:T\'eS of the matter
trJnsporter in the delightful Slar Tri"k parody Galax)' Q/li"st) 'more art than
science' (see Ryan and Kellner, 1()i-\i-\: 2.+5-5+; also in Kuhn, 1()90: 58-(5).
In general, this surprising technophobia is placed in the sen ice of a larger
humanistic ideology, \\here the unchecked grO\\th and/or misuse of a
detiniti\ely inhuman, or nen anti-human, technology becomes the inspira-
tion fl)!' a rerurn to 'real' human qualities - if, that is, it isn't already too late,
'1 'he f:1t110US 1950S cycle of atomically mutated monstrous insects - as Jancovich
(I<)<)C>: 27) points out, carefully selected b'om those parts of the animal
kingdom least susceptible to the sort of anthropomorphisations that had
rendered earlier monsters like ki/lg A.o/lg (I ()33) and his descendants so oddly
s\ mpathetic - compels us to reflect back upon the human qualities they lack
yet th,lt arc so urgently needed to combat them, Sometimes the screen
function seems \ery O\crt indeed, as in the amorphous Bloli, \\hose \ery lack
of any distinguishing features makes it an irresistible symbol of half-shaped
fears. Technology is a conte:xtual rather th,m an explicit fl)rce in the creature
features; hut the Ti"ml/llillor ,md ,Hillrix films, centred on the struggle against
genocidal machine tyrannies, ha \ e similar stark messag"Cs on the need to place
reliance in basic and indelibly human qualities like Imc, community, valour
and self-belief. The persistence of this humanistic, and if anything pre-
modern, ideologeme' suggests that, just as the hard\\are that in past SF
,ignified an unguessably teclmic futurity no\\ seems quaintly antiquated,
,i11lilarl~ somc at least of the more enthusiastic and uncritical prognostications
of SF film's postmodern prospects in the early I <)<)os, such as the final chapter
of Lmdon's Tlie/esilielies or,llllhi,'alellCi' (H)<)2), have dated as quaintly as
the Futurist and Constructi\ist machinist manit<:stos of the H) I os and 1920S.
It seems clear enough, in any C,lSC, that SF's recombinant aspect endO\ys
the genre \\it h continuing \itality and \alidity entering the t\\enty-first
century and taking on b(l<\rd ne\\ de\elopments in technology, such as genetic
engineering; (e:xplored in Gilililm, l()97, and Code I.;.(J, 200+). One mark of
this continuing energy may bc the \\ay in \\hich traditional SF dnices haye
recently started to be incorporated as narratiye premises fill' films \\hose
principal concerns arc quite distant ti'Ol11 SF: for e:xample, suneillance and
 t
200 FILM GENRE
artificial societies (Tlie Tmlllal/ 5'1/1111', 199i\), rejU\enation (T "allliia Sk)', Z002,
pre"iously addressed in Secol/ds, HjM), and memory alteration (Elcrnal
SI/I/shine 0( the Spoiless JIII/d, 2003).
BEYOND I-IOLLYWOOD
Science fiction has not been an equally popular genre in all national cinemas,
largely it would seem for practical relsons. A.s de\oted as literary SF has
frequently been to e:xploring the philosophical implications of the Lmtastic,
narrati\l' cinema is better suited to realising its potentially spectacular
material dimensions. \Vith some conspicuous but isolated auteurist European
nceptions - Alain Tanner's .lol/as TThll Trill Be 2.) III Ihe }ca I' 2000 (S\"itzer-
land t<)j(l) and I,/~~hl Yi'arSlm/l ' (GB/France «ji'lt), Godard's J/phm:ille
(France I<)()S) and TTeekellt! (France I<j()7), and '\icolas Roeg's The HIIII Who
Fe/I 10 h'ar/Ii (GB H)j(l) SF cinema has subordinated ideas to images. Thus
filmic SF tends to lay a he~1\ \ emphasis on the \"isualis,llion of futuristic
technologies -- computers, spaceships, future ci"ilisations and so lilrth. This
in turn ine\itahly Ll\ours llolly\\ood as hy Ln' the hest-resourced and
technically prolicient global cinema, particularly after 2001: ,1 Space Odl'ssey
set new st~lI1dards lilr special effects: it is surely no accident that IargT-scale
SF lilms with a soci,llly specuhtti\l: dimension such ,IS Fritz Lang's \[elropolis
~111l1 nli' Hilll/all ill Ih,' ,11011/1 \\cre produced \\hen Germany's LF\studios
\\cre (\\ith significant LS il1\cstmcnt) the largest and best-capitalised in the
\\orld after Holly\\oOlI. (\luch more recently, the multinational Luropean
production n", Fljih h'Ii'lI/elll (I<)<n), sugg'ests that the integr.Ited EL economy
may in time again support a lilm industry cap,lhle of challenging Holly-
\\ ood's near-monopol y on Iarge-hudget gen re prod uct ion. )
This is not to S,I~ that SF films h,l\c not been produccd outside the US,
sometimes \en sllccessfull~. 1. Q, Ilunter (I I)l)lj) arg'lIes lill' the distincti\"e-
ness and specificity of British SF lilm: hO\\C\er, his O\\n IT\ ie\\ ,Idmits that
r,nher than setting' nn\ trends in its O\\n right British SF tends to lilllO\\ the
\merican IeMI, filr nample in the alien-il1\,lsion c~ cle of the HI,:;OS and the
post-111m 'body-horror' lilms of the I<)i'los (British n,lmples of the LItter
include Insel/I/llolil, (iB I<ji'lo, and I,IF/llrce, GB II)i'lS), ,md int1ecting these in
distinct directions - t(lr instance, lilcusing in the «jSOS less on the thrcn of
Communism than disturh,ll1ces in posl\\ar consensus (see also Land~, 1<)91:
3<),:;ff). \loreO\er, the dominant (and cheaper) Gothic tradition mcms that
Ihitish SF is aka\s . likeh. to Edl back on horror motifs and modes.
Despite the ahundance of science liction ,tnd utopian literature in both
pre- and post-re\olutionar~ Russia, Telorte (1<)tIT 3+) linds th,n 'as in the
Clse of the more thorough hind ustri,llised lutions, SO\iet science liction
THE SCIENCE FtCTION FILM 20r
linds only a \yeak retlection' in lilm. The fascination with an eagerly antici-
p,lted (proletarian) technologised future that coursed through early SO\'iet
society lilUnd npression in t\\"O films. Ley k..ulesho\'s The Dcatli Ray
(L SSR 1<)2 S) condensed the popular alh'enture serials of the time (rather as
his HI' TTesl, LSSR I<)23, had aped the style of the silent comedy), and Adila,
Ql/e<'i/o(Uars (LSSR [()2+) \"as notahle as much li)r its Constructi\ist decor
,IS its propagandistic narrati\e (see Tdone, 1999: 37-+6). The state-run
SO\ ict lilm industry was ob\iously sufficiently resourceu to compete with
I Ioll~ \\00l1, and some epic prouuctions included Road 10 Iiii' Slill's (uSSR
]()~+), PilI/it, I or Slorll/s (CSSR 1962), \\hose manned Venus expedition
coincided \\ ith the real SO\iet (unmanned) Venus landing mission,') anu Thi'
Illdrol/it'da\chllia (L SSR I<)6i'l); but the Cold \Var ensured that few main-
StITJI11 Russian SF lilms secured a \\cstern release. (Sneral Russian SF
lilms, hO\\c\cr, purchased cheaply by Roger Corman in the mid-I Cj()OS, were
'iuhsequently cannibalised to prO\iue material fi)r ,\IP productions including
I o]'ogi' III llie Prell/sllmc Plallel (HilS), and Qllei'll or Blood (I<)()()).) Two that
did \\ere _\ndrei TarkO\sky\ Solans (USSR 1(172) anu Sli/iker (LSSR 1979),
hut these arc in essence SF \ariations on Tarko"sky's preoccupations c1se-
\\ here _\s Gillespie (ZOOT 173) ohsencs of Solans, '(O)uter space is simply
the b,lckdrop to a philosophical ret1cction on man's relationship with the
e~lrth, his home anu his Elmily ... although ostensibly a sci-fi rumination on
the impact of'icientilic discO\cn on human life, Solal'ls is, in bct, an anti-
,eience film, assert ing the suplTiorit ~ of art and poetry.' The troubled
scientist Snout decbres in the lilm that 'we don't need other worlds, we neeu
a mirror, man needs man'.
Japanese cinema of course made a major contribution to the genre \\ith
C'II/mil Gorl::.illa (Japan /l1~S) and his inIlLlmeLlhle monstrous ri\als, hut nen
here the lilm-makers at Toho Studios \\cre in brge measure elaborating (and
enlarging) a concept prniously ul1\eiled in the LS in Tlii' lJeaslji'IJ/fi 20,000
/',,11/1111I.1' (1<)':;3). The impact ofJap,mese ,lI1imJted lilms or il/l/llIi' ' from the
III id-l iji'los ma ~ be more profound: in p,lrticular, the phantasmagoric en-
l'<)untlTS \\ith trans!ilrmati\e technologies in _1kim (J,lpan tiji'li'l) ,lI1d Gllllsi ill
lilt' Sliell (Japan 199,:;), \\hile themsehcs clearly int1uenced by fJladi' RlIlll/a,
ha \ e manife'ith" int1uenceu both the naIT,lti\ es and the II/i'dla 'look' of the
1/,,11'1.\ lilms, among- others (see Telone, 2001: 1\2 I(l; :'-Je\\itz, 1<j<jS).
In 1i'l7i'l Lld\\eard \luybridge (iii; Ed\\ard \luggeridge), an Englishman \\ork-
ing' in San Francisco, arranged ,I series of still clIneras along- a track to record
the mo\ ement of a cll1tering horse, p,lrt Or.1 set of motion-stud ~ experiments
202 FILM GENRE
funded in part by the ex-gO\ernor of California, Leland Stanford. He
projected the results by slotting photographic plates into large re\ohing discs
in a device called (typically of the elaborate nomenclature of the late Victor-
ian period) the Zoopraxiscope: the result, in which images \vere projected in
a rapid sequence, ga\'e an illusion of movement to the spectator for the
display's brief duration. Muybridge's work is among the most famous contri-
butions to the prehistory of cinema: his eerily evocative side-on images of
horses, other animals, men and women, shot against neutral backgrounds, are
widely reproduced in histories of film and have been il1\oked by film-makers
as different as Peter Greena\vay, George Lucas - and :\ndy and Larry
Wachowski, writer-directors of The 1\:11/Iri.r.
In 199R American visual effects company \lanex organised an array of 120
still cameras in a looping pattern around l'.emu Ree\Ts and other performers
for blockbuster action producer Joel Siher's latest project, The 'Wi/lrix.
Developing; a technique known as 'time-slice' originated by British film-
maker Tim McMillan in the early Il)Hos, \1anex prod uced a stunning effect
labelled (typically of the canny marketing of turn-of-the-millennium Holly-
wood) 'bullet time'. As Ricketts (zooo: I f\ 5-6) explains, each shot had been
pre-visualised in a computer model to determine the precise positions,
aiming and shutter intenals of the cameras in the array. J .aser positioning
ensured that the computer model \\ as filllO\ved to the most minute degree. A
circular green-screen around the cameras \vould enable the imag;es of the
actors subsequenth to be isolated and composited into ne\v backgrounds. As
Reeves per!ilrmed, e.lCh camera took its single photograph, all I zo cameras
shooting in sequencc in one second or less. \\'hen the resulting IZO frames
were projected at the standard cinematic speed of 2{ frames per second, the
resulting sequence 'stretched' one second of action into a fi\l~-second shot
with the camera app.lrently circling around a 'frozen' central image. Further
computer manipulation enabled the duration of the sequence to be extended
to 10 seconds by interpolating one ne\v digitally generated frame filr each
'actual' frame, and the finalised filOtage \vas then composited into ne\v, again
cot11puter-g;enerated, cityscape backgrounds. The resulting sequences \vere
among the most \videly-discussed and n:lebrated cffects of the decade, seem-
ing; perfectly to illustrate the film's lTvpto-philosophical insights on the
phantasmic and manipulable nat ure of \\ hat \ve (mis )take fill' 'reality'.
There is an odd symmetry bet\vecn the t\\O eflillts to capture, isolate,
dissect and finally to restore motion, both applying sLile-of-the-art, indeed
cutting-edge (a phrase that didn't exist in I H7f\) technolog~ to the solution of
problems \vithin the field of mO\cment. \\'idely enough spaced in time, they
are an aeon apart in not only their levels of technical sophistication but their
objectives and their moti\es. One is part of cinema's prehistory, motiLlted in
the first instance by disinterested scientific curiosity (though see \\'illiams,
Y.
THE SCIE'JCE FICTION FILM 203
I<)<)<f 37-{3); the other is a function of the contemporary commercial cinema's
1110 st elaborate and technically ambitious \'entures and the imperative to
deliver a commercial smash. Whereas ;\luybridge was an individual artisan
funded by a scientifically-minded philanthropist, :Manex is a well-capitalised
specialist business in a billion-dollar sector of'1 multi-billion-dollar industry,
working for one of its most comnH.Tcially-minded and successful producers.
\Iore fundamentally perhaps, \vhereas \luybridge used photographic
technology to penetrate the mysteries of natural motion, 'bullet time' distorts
and recreates motion in a digiLl1 el1\ironment in physically impossible ways.
Finally, .\luybridge \vas limited to an inexact and time-limited reproduction
of motion by the absence of adequate means filr recording and projecting;
il11.lges (notably of a flexible celluloid photographic emulsion which could
p.1SS rapidly enough and filr long enough through an intermittent mech'lI1ism
to record more than mere snatches of mO\ement) . .\:lanex of course are able
to npand, change and radically alter mO\Tments that are not recorded on a
physical surLlce at all but rather digitally.
The echoes of .\luybridge make The J/1i/lri.r a film \vhose reflections on
reality .1I1d perception extend beyond the basic and immedi'1te questions of
sensory and cogniti\l~ experience with which Neo is traumatically
confronted, to take in our medialted constructions of the real. Thus The
lii/lri.\ highlights, although in an unusual \vay, the reflexivity that shadows
much SF film. \\'ith its ubiquitous screens, monitors and A/\' presentations
(like the guides to the Death Star presented in slideshO\v bshion in Slilr
11 iiI'S and in imprO\Td holographic fiml1 in Reillm orlhe .ledi (I <)I\{), or the
pioneering CGI (computer-g;enerated imagery) Genesis sequence in Slilr
he/.: II: The 11mlh or A)/ill/ (I l)Hz)), SF maintains a running implicit com-
ment'1r~ on its O\vn mC<lI1S ofrepresenL1tion. In Rrill/lslom/ (1l)1\3), the inten-
sdied sensorium accessed in the film through a breakthrough technology that
records the mind's unconscious .11ld LlnL1sy im'1ges \\as cOI1\Tyed in premiere
cngag'Cll1ents by s\vapping the standard 35 mm-gauge fi'ame fill" an enlarged
higher-definition 70 mm \\idescreen image filr the 'point ohie\\' shots in the
L1I1LIS\ sequences. Se\Tral films, fi"om TrOll (I<)I\Z) to The !d1l1'1I/1I01l'('/" .HillI
(]()<)z), made pioneering' use of CGI to cOl1\ey the simulacral el1\ironment of
\irtual-reality realms. Such reflexive touches make SF in a sense the flipside
to the music11, \\hich according to [<'euer is ch'1racterised by its repeated
il1~cription of its 0\\11 textual processes rendered not as artifice but as spon-
taneity (see Chapter {): by contrast SF film, .111<.1 contemporary ('postmodern')
SI: film in particuLIr, often il1\ ites its spectator to register the role techno-
I()g~ plays in our possible future, and also in hO\\ those futures ,liT rendered.
The \Ta I n.\ actually lacks many images of audio-visual technology: the
Icbcls' experiences and 'mO\ements' \\hile j'lcked into the :\latrix are
l11onitored through their somatic tLlces - hC<lI"t r.ite, brain \\aves and so on -
204 FILM GENRE
and the computer world itself cannot be 'seen' except as the hallucinatory
endless streaming of code. This tics in to the film's counterposing of tangible
flesh-and-blood 'reality' to mediated 'unreality': \\ith the additional t\yist, of
course, that the 'unreal' world of the 7<l1atrix is largely undifferentiable from
our, the audience's, own reality (though somewhat richer in lIolr-ish spaces -
alleyways, photogenically derelict buildings and the S/~l thrash club where
Neo first follows the white rabbit to meet Trinity - and shot uniyersally
through green filters to lend the whole a tell-tale green-screen ambience).
In its ambivalent technophobia, The ;\IIlIlrl.\' seems to be quite thoroughly
in what we haw prcviously identified as the generic mainstream of SF film.
The film's narratiye premise - the rise of a machine tyranny - is of course
yery similar to that of the Ter/lllllllior series, and The AllilrlX also similarly
blurs a distinction between inert hig'h technology (such as spaceships and
guns), which can be put to cffectiYe and spectacular usc in the film's main
action sequences, and the self-conscious and hence proactiye technologies of
artificial intelligence. The film's apparent complexities mask a basically simple
opposition between a 'real' that once established remains unquestioned and
ontologically unproblematic, and an 'unreality' \yhose principal confusion is
that it resembles the yiewer's O\yn extra-textual reality, that is late twentieth-
century Earth (for no \Try good reason established in the text: \\ouldn't the
machines have been better adyised to [Ishion a pre-industrial or at least pre-
digital imaginary where human subjects \yould lack the necessary knowledge
to challenge or eyen conceive the ~1atrix?). !\s Layery (2001) has noted, this
is a considerably less labyrinthine structure than that of Dayid Cronenberg's
cXIslmX (1<)<)<)), a contemporaneous film \\ hose \ in ual reality computer game
reyeals at least four narratiYe 'frames' nesting', Chinese box Elshion, inside
one another, \\ ith no g'uarantee that the final and presumably outermost
fi"ame is in LIct 'the real', rather than the film's mIn abitrary foreclosure of
what is in effect an unguessable /IIIse m II/i/I/lc.\rguably, Thc Allllrl.r is also
less challenging than Tolli/ Rcm// (1<)<)0), \\here the audience is left uncertain
whether ,'\.rnold Sch\\-arzeneg-ger's \\orld-sa\ ing heroics arc simply the
unfolding of a VR scenario he has paid to experience. '\eo's heroics in The
AIIlIn.r arc neyer ambiguous in this \\ ay (although in the incomprehensible
first sequel Thc :HIII n".\· Re/ollded (2003), it is suggested that '\eo, like the
Oracle, is simply a recurring- 'bug-' in the .\latrix b.lse code that loops end-
lessly in a series of failed rebellions against its progTammers). Thus The
iVllllrl.r appears to bear out Scott Bukatman's (1<)<).): 17; quoted in \Vood
200+: I I <)) claim that eyen in post modern SF, 'the utopi.m promise of the
science fiction film the superiority of the human - may be battercd and
beleaguered, but it is still there, fighting for Yalidation.'
HOWe\Tr, the relationship may not be quite as straightfonl-ard as it first
appears. In her discussion of the film, \Yood (200+: 120) cites Samuel
THE SCIENCE FICTION FILM 205
I)e1aney's notion of 'paraspaces' - juxtaposed aIternatiye \Hlrlds \yhich supply
.In ongoing commentary on one another. The concept of 'paraspace' allows
the film's t\m 'realities' - our O\yn late-t\yentieth-century location that is
derealised by the narratiye, and the diegetic reality that is \\-holly manu-
t:lCt ured - each to call into question the claims and assumptions of the other.
That '\eo takcs a pill - associated through the .\Iice in Wonderland imagery
\\ ith LSD, LImously hymned in The Jefferson :\.irplane's 'White Rabbit' - to
<\Ccess the 'rell \yorld' identifies his journe~ both with I<)60s-style spiritual
all'lkening through hallucinogens, and \yith a pharmacological flight from
social reality into a hermetic interior realm. Furthermore, the powerful [mtasy
construction that '\eo's reyealed messi.mic identit~ buys into- the proYcrbial
ordinary man rendered superhero may act reflexiyely upon the audience's
II ish-fulfilment fantasy constructions. On the one hand, we want the free-
dom fighters to smash the .\1atrix and triumph mer alienating technology:
gilen the .\latrix's simulacrum of our O\yn \yorld, this jacks into pO\Yerful
an'\ieties and desires about the degree of disempmYerment and estLmgement
in the modern Iyorld ..\t the same time, in the film's own terms '\ ictory' fll!"
thc ITbels means dematerialising tlut \\orld (\ isually, our O\yn) into the
numinous streams of base code \\ hich '\ieo percei\ es .IS a digital epiphany
II hen he \ anquishes\.gent Smith. Finally, as \Voml points out, the binary
polarities of Thc I III I rl.\"s rendering of the aIternati\Ts 'real' slayery /
freedom fig"hting yersus 'false' materi.JI comfllrt, \yith no third term permit-
tl"d or possible -- themsehes bear the characteristic schematic neatness of .1
LlI1LISI construction (they also link the film back to the typical dualistic
constructions of melodrama).
There is a rather ob\ ious irol1\ in that thc 'real' in The Illlln.\' thc
,tv gian subterranean spaces negotiated b~ the\c!i/{(//I/I//le:::..:::'lIr, .IS \\cll as thc
hiles or coils in IIhich the 'coppertop' humans arc stackcd so thcir massed
hrai npoll er can prm ide the machines \\ it h thc encrgy they need to sun i\ e
i, necessarily constructcd on-screen almost entireh through computer-
generated imager~, \\ hile the .\ latrix .IS the '[Jlse' \\ orld the 'coppertops' (as
they think) inhabit is shot on location in contempor.lry '\orth\merica. The
disLlnt echoes of .\lu~ bridge may il1\ ole a time \\ hen film could .Ispire to a
heroically scientific status, an objectiYc tool fll!" thc deeper penetration and
undersLmding" of the natural \yorld. but ironicall~ situating that memory
II ithin a contemporary cinem.ltics that is gcncricall~ and institutionally
oriented not tOllards capturing the seerets of nature, but instilling .md
rendering" [musics and illusions.
206 FILM GE:"JRE

NOTES

I. This docs not induoe another selcn entries in the doseh related - and in terms of its
core audience '\no marketing strategies, largel\ indistinguishable - fantasl -.Id Icnture
genre li'om the Indiana Jones, I larn Potter .1llO IAml 1I(llie Rillgs series.
Part 3
2. Of course, this bn basL' can .i1so pose problems bl loicing dissatisbction at perceiled
E1ilings or transgressions in the screen adaptation. Probabh' the best-knoll n and most
post-Classical Genres
organised of these bn communities arc the Sli/r 'lid,: fans, or 'Trekkers', but I\ith the
massilc boost from the .llhcnt of the \\'orld \\"ide \\cb to Ems' abilitl to 1lL't\lork,
e\:changT I iell s .ll1Ll organise, other such LlCtions hal e eml'lO\ cd the PIT,SUIT unics
pioneered 11\ Trekkers. On SF .1udienees, sec Tulloch and Jenkins (J()t).:;).
J. This audience is, hO\IL'\er, bl no me.ms homogcncous: fiJI' insunec, a, Pcter Kr;imer
(200+) Lkmonstrates, thcre .1rc clear differcnces betllTen the' Sli/r II "rs, .llIraSSl( Pi/r/':
and other series addresscd centralll to childrcn (often induding a child prot'lgonist as a
pOInt or identitication), and R-rated properties like thc . IIi/In! and IIIi'll serics, II'hich
highlight 'adult' content like gTaphic I iolence .md (mudl nl\IIT rareh) se,ualitl ano in
I\hieh a degree of thematic complnitl or intclleL·tu,i1 prL'tension is Itself 'I kel part of
the bLmd identitl.
+- Such speculations, as (:orn ([()S6) and others sh,)\\, eert.linh formed part of the
discoursL' of both .\merican modl'rni,m and literan \mcric'lll SF in this period. On
11clroplllIs, see also belO\I.
,'i . . J/iells relics less on I iseeral birth imagen hut if al1\ thing centre's elen morL' elearh on
Illotherhood, bifurclting the maternal into the 'good' Riplel and the 'bad' \hen queen.
6. Il1\ented bl Leon There'min in 1<)1<)20, the theremin used radio freljuenClL's Ilhleh
Ilhen interrupted bl the h'lnd, of the 'pLIler' transmitted ton.t1itie' tb'lt L'Ould be
moduLtted from melodic nlusiL' (ThLTemin's O\ln intention fill' hi, instrument) to
unearthh Ilaiis the LlttL'!' fi:atured prominenth in the soundtracks L'Omp'N'd till' Till'
!Ji/Y illt' fi/r/II Stlilid .'lilli, Iii,' l'IlIlIg and II CIIIlt' Frolll (Jilier SPi/(C ([().:;3) bl Bern'lro
I krrman, Dmitri Tiomkin ,md I knn \LnL'inl, rL")1L'etilch. On the theremln .md
1().10S SF, sec \\"ier/bieki (2002). (Ilannibal LL'L'tLT incident,t1h pLl\s a theremlll In
Tbomas IIaITis's nCJ\L'\ 1Ii/llllih'll (IlJ')I): +.13).)
i. '\ote that the pod, arc disper,L'd natiol1\lide lia the na'LTnt frL'L'I"11 netllork, a
pOll LTful Sl mhol of the 'ltomising fiJrces at Ilork in POq II ar \ merie.l to erode
tr'lditional comnlunittes.
S. The tLTm is (,'redl'lc.lameson's ([I)S,) .ld'lpUtion ofthL' l,L'li-StL111"iannOlion of the
'n1\ theme',
C). Thl' SOl iet I i'/liTi/ programme of unmanned mi"ions to \'enus Lm bUI\L'L'n [cJlli and
IlJS+. I ,'I/{'ri/ IJ tLlnslllitted the first photogr'lphs fl'CJlll the pLmet's surEILT III Ili/.:;'
thirteen H'.lI'S after tbe LS spacenaft \LrinLT 2 tirst orbited the pLtnet.
The genres discussed in this final section arc all 'post-classical' in one or
nlO re senses: they emerge historically once the decline of the studio system is
unden\ay (using the Pi/rtlll/OI/I/! decision as a historical marker); they come to
industrial prominence in ne\\ configurations in the post-classical period;
,lilli/or they are simply uncl!lonical as genres either in terms of classic
llolly\\ood (Holocaust film), in .\merican commercial cinema as a whole
(documentary), or in mainstream narratin: cinema generally (pornography).
The first t\\O chapters deal \\ith genres,jillll I/o;r and the action blockbuster,
that ha\c in different \\ays become central to the critical enterprise of academic
film studies and to contemporary Holly\\ood economics, respectiYCly. The
tinal chapter addresses - in considerably less detail· genres that in different
\"I~ s seem to me to pose challenges to and com plicate (producti\cly) the
eJ1tnprise of genre theory and criticism itself. Because the entries in this final
c1uptcr are brief, they are neccssaril~ more general and also more speculative
than the lengthier discussions of imlividual genres elsewhere in this book.
The\ arc very much intended as introductory comments for further study
and discussion.

CHAPTER <)
Film noir
H ig-h-school students in the UI( undertaking an 'Y lC\el (diploma)
course in Media Studies frequently undertake a module on film genre.
A typical assignment for their linal assessment is to create 'publicity' materials
which, depending- on the school's resources ma~ be conlined to print media
(posters, D\'I) corers, etc.) or may extend to lilmed 'trailers' - for a (non-
existent) lilm in an assig'ned g'enlT. The most commonly attempted genres
are the horror film and /illll /llIir, There are ob\'ious reasons \\11' such an
exercise would Ll\our genres that rely more on mood than on material re-
sources and are rebti\ely unconstrained by time or place (hence can be shot
in students' houses, local parks, garages, etc.), Clearl\ such Llctors will
discourage attempts to mimic \\,11' films, science liction films or \\'esterns
(though equally clearly the else might be dilferent in a high school in, say,
Wyoming) Gi\cn such exigencies, student presentations predictably pay
gTeater attention to iconogTaphic and st~ listic conn:ntions than narrati\e, let
alone thematic, elements: thus much eflt)rt is put into m,1l1uElcturing
'moody' lig'hting- and including such g'eneric prerequisites as guns, cigarettes,
rain-drcnched streets (preferably ref1ecting neon sig'mge), ceiling Lms and
seducti\el~ threatening; 'ICmmes Lnales'. Such economic consideLltions con-
tributed significantly to /lilir's memor,thle \ isual style, and students some-
times achie\c a strikingly plausible /lilir pastiche. :'\onetheless, it is striking
that /illll /llItr should be presented quite so routinely as a mainstrclm film
genre- g'i\en that at le,lSt until relati\ely recenth the genre had no existence
,It all liS II gmre beyond film criticism.
This \ ignette indicates the ntent of /llIir's dissemination into contem-
porary popular culture. In fact, /lilir is arguably ,IS instantly recognised and
inf1uential in contemporary media culture as \\as the \\'estern It)]' the post-
Second World \\ar generation, libeLllly quoted, pastiched and parodied
from television ad\crtising to graphic nO\els. Ycr this example also illustrates
FILM ,\O/R 211
---------------------------------
the \\,lYS in \\hich /llIir has become reilied - detached from the historical ,md
cultural contexts that originally inspired it into a set of formal mores and
st \ listic motifs largely di \Orced of meaningful content. Enquiry of the
st~tdents \\'ho are producing these teasing simulacra (textbook examples of
!e,ln Baudrillard's notion of the perfect imitation \\ith no original) reveals
'th,lt \\hile sometimes they will ha\e seen part or all of DIIIIMe !/ldemnitv
(I <).j.-f.), often their knO\\ledge of /lilir is con Ii ned to \'iewings of recent neo-
/lillI'S such as the Coen brothers' Bllllld Silllple (198-1-) or John Dahl's The Lasl
Scdwi io/l (199-1-). These films are kno\\ingly allusi \'e, richly intertextual; yet
inlTclsingly the ficti\e and social uni\erse of the late 19-1-0S and Il)SOS they
in\oke, \\hich charges their o\\'n bbric with meaning, is constructed only
throug;h and out of these ,lllusi\'e g'estures themselves.
,\ second, \'ery different example is even more suggesti\e of /llIir's potent,
ramified presence in contemporary culture, Da \'id Thomson's cult H)8-1-
nO\ cl S/lSPC(/S is at once a meditation on the place of the mo\ies in the
:\merican im'lgination and a playful genealogy ofjillll /lilir. S/ispeclS comprises
a series of encyclopedia-like entries on a host of characters from key nllir
films like S\\ede Larsson (fi'OIl1 The Killers, 19-1-6) and Jeff Markham/Bailey
(from (Jill 111'1111' Pasl, I<)-I-7) thM extend their stories beyond- belt)re and
aftn their screen appearances, allO\\ing them to mingle \\ith (frequently to
Erthn, couple \\ith, or murder) their descendants in neo-/Illin such as CIIl/lI/-
11111'/1 (I<J7-1-),llIIerili/l1 Glj;1I11I (1<)80) and Bllt/v Helll (1<)81). It comes as a
shock to lind that that at the dark he,lrt of this dense \\eb of narrati\e and
te.\tual intrig'ue lies, of ,Ill films, Frank Capra's It '.I' II H '!JIIdl'rjiti I,iji: (1()-I-6),
a film that repe,lted television sho\\ings han~ in the half-century since its
original (coolly rccei\ed) release rendered a Christmas perennial ,Iml one of
the definiti\c filmic represenLltions of mythic sm,lll-town L\merica.
HO\\l'\n, thc annual celebration of family, community and the little man to
\\ hich Capra's film has become consecrated ignores the distincti \eI y Iwir
shadings ofambi\alence ifnot outright desp,lir that actually colour its picture
of George Bailey's '\\ ()l1derful life' in BedltJrLl Falls.
\s Robert Ray (I<)k.=;: 179-21'=;) points out, It's II H!Jllllerjiti !,iji:'s exem-
plan tale of George's ingenuously pi\()tal inten'ention in the Ii\es around
him can be seen as less an al1irmation of core ~\merican \alues than a salutary
reminder of hem slender and fortuitous is the thread \\ hich separates that
'\orman Rock\\TII \'ision of soda parlour and friendly beat cop from its I/oir
Other, the infernal Potters\ille - a quintessential Dark City - of the night-
1l1<1IT vision George recein's at the hands of his guardian angel Clarence,
\ loreO\cr, the fil~1 's nelr-hysterical insistence OI~ the indi \i:lual citizen's
Illtegrity as the pin)t of historical change and progress, and the allied
depiction of George's allxltross, the Baile~ Building; and Loan (an emblem of
I 1l1iddle-class financial probity since ironised In the spectacular collapse of the
~

212 FILM GENRE
US savings and loan industry in the late 19~os) as the crucial bukark
between the depredations of unbridled capitalism personified by the nefari-
ous banker Potter and the proletarianising urban jungle of George's vision,
places 11 '.I' a WOllilalid Lt/i' firmly in the 1I0ir tradition. :\Ithough his story
docs not turn, like most classic 1I0ir, on the melodramatic cliche of a criminal
act and/ or illicit sexual desire, the fi'agility and desperation of George Bailey's
balancing act - an ordinary, decent man trying to make sense of a nightmare
from which he is struggling to awaken - is mirrored in numerous noir
protagonists of the postwar era such as Professor Warmley and Chris Cross
(both played by Edward G. Robinson) in Tlte WOl/lil/l i/l lite Tlil/do77' (1944)
and Smr!1'1 ,)'Ireel (1<)4S), Frank Bigelow (Edmond O'Brien) in D.o..i. (19So)
or Jim Vanning (Aldo Ray) in Niglillidl (I<)S7)· Equally, the /loll' elements in
George Bailey's nightmare - urban blight and alienation, anonymity and the
omnipresent threat of violence - also creep into the edges of other btl' 1940S
films that are clearly not themsehes 111111' but which, like Capra's film, are also
preoccupied with male identity in a changing and unsLlble world, such as the
social problem film Tlte ilesl }eilrs or Our l,i7:es (H)4 6 ).
In a transgressive and poign,lI1t postscript to .'·;/lspals, Thomson rewTites
George and !\!lary Bailey's family romance as the core of 1I0ir's palsied vision
of American life, and simultaneously locates /loir at the centre of the postwar
American experience: 0111 o(ille PilSI'S tragic Jeff Bailey is re\caled as Harry
Bailey, last seen ,IS George's Second World War fighter ace brother; the
Baileys arc in bct the parents of two key avatars of post-\Vatergate, post-
Vietnam neo-Iloir, Harry "'loseby and Travis Bickle (protagonists of Night
A107:l's, 1()7S, and Taxi f)m'cr, 1<)76, respectively); in a final Borgesian
Icversal, Thomson indicates th,1t the \vhole Lmtastic landscape of S/lspe(/s is
bshioned by the disappointed, disorientated imagination of Georg.e Bailey
himself as he travels the back roads and the bte-night motel television screens
of a twilit i\merica, seeking fi'om the fragmcnts of a disappointed life ,md a
brokcn mythology the missing pieccs of a jigs,lw that, likc Susan :\lexander
KalH.: in another near-lilliI', eil i::ce/l ;':llIle (I ()40), he is doomcd ne\cr to finish.
Thus Gcorg;c Bailey prO\cs doubly exemplary of the larger Iloir imaginary,
not only enacting a tragic IlIIir sag,] in his (mn stor~ and that of his extended
L1I11ily, but also an imeterate watcher of old films who constructs from those
films a meaning - howcver bleak - for an atomised and disoriented life.
S/lspals seems to work through an insight about lill/l l/oir shared not only by
its many critical commenLltors but more recently by two generations of cine-
literate film-makers: that this group of mostly low- to-medium-budget crime
l
melodramas, the majority produced between the end of the Second \Vorld
War and Eisenhow'er's inauguration as President in 1()S3, ,md comprising
only a small proportion of Holly\\ood\ total output in that period, nonethe- ,
Ie" pw,;o" " k" to unluckin~ the "l'l'''t"enth monolithic edilice of
rnll .\ 0111 213
Hollywood's confident :\merican imaginary. Xolr is the buried scam of
doubt, neurosis and transgressive desire along \vhich that monument can be
split open. ~like Da\is (1991: 38) characterises IlIlir as 'a transformational
!.!:r,lmn1ar' working to imert the - in any case false- categories of late
~.,1pit,dism, :\merican-style. For Paula Rabinowitz (2003), IlIIir is 'America's
pulp modernism'. For such !arg'e, e\Tn grandiose elaims to be sustainable,
lilli/ /loir would perhaps need to be considered in the first instance a mood or
ncn an attitude rather than a genre, a paranoid and hostile sensibility that
extends out from its historic core to pollute the superficially brighter visions
of \1lore mainstream films, before it finallv emerg;ed as a durable and dearlv_.
~ '--
ddined generic presence in the disenchanted 1970s.
Lnlike the \\estern or other prominent g'enres like the musical, the genre's
thri\ ing existence as a contemporary genre owes much less to industrial than
it docs to critical practice. Originally a term applied by French critics to a
(conlested) group of wartime and post\\ar Hollywood thrillers ,lIld melo-
dramas, 1I0ir illustrates the actiye role that academic film criticism cm
sometimes play within the industry's own relay, gi\Tn the now-established
p~lssag.·c into professional film-making yia uni\ersity film programmes with a
thcoretical and historical component. Its central place in contemporary film
studies clearly owcs Illuch to 1I0ir's particubr concerns and content: the sense
oj" a gUlre (or mode, or style, or mood, or tone, or tendenc\, or e\Tn world-
,iew all oj" these terms and more ha\e been used to chara~terise noir , often
to signal its historicl1 and institutional differences from more elassical genres)
o]Jl'Llting in some sense hom the margins of Hollywood (and America), with
the potential for critique and e\cn subyersion of norms such a position
implics, continues to intrigue aCHJcmic critics who ,Ire themselyes both t:Iscin-
atl'll [)\ Jnd deeply ambiyalent about the ideological positions promulgated
[1\ mainstream Hollywood cinema (on this 'bscination" sec lL1rris, 2003).
CI.\SSIC\O! R: OR IGI1\'S, INFLUENCES, (I N - )OEFINITIONS
'!'()\\ards the end of the Second \\'orld \\ar and imIllediately thereafter, LS
rl'\ iewers \\ere \\ell aware oj" a tendency in current crime thrillers towards
bklkness and cynicism and an ,lpp,lre~t preoccupation with psychological
dhturh'1I1ee. HO\\e\cr, as is CIirly well known, the term fillli 111111' itself was
nllt a category used by either :\merican film-nukers, rniewers or film-goers
at ,Iny stage during the I940S or early II)SOS.' The crystallisation of the
1l1c!11orahle and durable concept of 11011' was the contribution of French
lli/';,I.llc.I and was itself the result of a conf1uence of se\cral bctors. During
thc Occu pation (194°-44), the French market, like e\en other in "'\xis~
dO!11inated Europe, was closed to .'\merican film export~. Following- the
214 FILM GENRE
Liberation, the rush of Holly\vood releases onto French screens clustered
alongside ne\\ releases such as DOl/Me iI/JeJlJl/Ill' and Lill/ra (both 1(44)
sC\cral older films including The JIilliese FalmJl (1941) and Tills GI/I/ For
Hire (1942), accentuating; what struck French critics as a new 'dark' tendency
in Hollywood, in striking opposition to the traditional optimism of US
cinema. The nocturnal settings, Expressionistic lighting schemes and staging,
complex, sometimes cynical and anti-heroic characters, and tortuous, often
downbeat narratives of criminal intrigue, deception and violence featured _
though by no means consistently or uniformly in these films starkly
differentiated them fi'om the standard Hollywood register of high-key opti-
mism. First baptised/illll I/olr in H)4(l by Nino Frank - \\ho \\as applying for
the first time to .'\merican films an existing critical designation in prewar
French film cult ure - this 'dark cinema' commended itself to French
intellectuals for ot her reasons too. As Naremore (H)9H: I 7ff) shows, these
films' preoccupation with the transgressiYe p<mer of sexual desire resonated
with the concerns of surrealism, still an important force in postwar
in tellect ual circles (interestingl y, I/olr's somet imes dreamlike labyrinthine
narratives and anti-realist yisual style appear to have been less striking), while
Jlolr protagonists' lonely quest for self-realisation in a hostile and fundamentally
meaningless uni\ erse \\ ere also key ingredients in existentialism, the hot
philosophical trend on the Left Bank in the immediate post \\ ar years ..'\ngst
and pessimism, the hallmarks of this ne\\ tendenc~', struck answering chords
in a France prostrated Gaullist mythology notwithstanding; by the humi-
liations of defeat and occupation, and e\ en its pulp origins and distinctiyely
American vernacular, hitherto deprecated by French intellectuals, now
seemed a fresh and authentic ~e\\ "'orld rejoinder to an exhausted and
morally and ideologically bankrupt European cult ure. Finally, French yiewers
could recognise many of Jlolr's character types notably the yulnerable male
and the sexually aware, morally ambig;uous city \\oman fi'om the 'Poetic
Realist' films of the 1930S. Such films as iA' ]ol/r Se i,h."e (H)3H) are more
meditatiYe and btalistic th,111 most .-\merican I/oln, but can be seen as
important mediators for Jlolr's post\\ ar reception in French film circles. (Le
]ol/r Se Lh'e was remade as a Holly\\ ood 1/01,., The i,ol/g .\lglil (1947), while
Jean Renoir's Lil ehlel/lle (1931), \\as the original fill' Smrlel ,')'lreel.) (On the
film and cultural contexts of lIol,.'s French reception, sec Yincendeau, 199 2 ;
Vernet, H)9j: 4-(1.)
The twenty-t\\o Hollywood pictures identified as 1101,. in Borde and Chau-
melOn's infl uential Pa lIora 1/1 a JII FI11/I Sol,. .1111(;riollll, published in 1955 (I ( 83)
(rising fi'om just se\cn in the initial post\\ar essays) included more spy and
intrigue films (lol/mel' IlIlo Feilr, 1943; The .HilS!" o( Dilllil,.ios, H)44;
lVolor/OIlS, 1(46) and priyate-eye mysteries (The .Hilliese Falmll, .Hunlcr, .\{JI
SI/'ccl, H)44; The Big Sleep, 1945; i,aJ)' ill the l,ilA'e, 1946; (JI/l o( the Past)
.l..
I'll. 1/ \O/I? 215
---------------------------------
th.111 the studies of criminal desire that would later become synonymous with
the filrm. (Such 'canonical' I/oirs as DOl/Me II/delllllily, IA/l1ra, The POSlll1i111
/ll1'a]'s Ril/gs T/I'i(e (1946), and Sighl illld the Gill' (1950), \vere all relegated
(0 a ~atellite category of 'criminal psychology'.) This perhaps suggests that
Illr French yie\\ers the association of I/oir with the tradition of the 'hard-
hoiled' pulp2 thriller - a bleak French yersion of \\hich the series published
bY Gallimard under the brand of shie Jloire lent Jloi,. its original usage - was
s;rong er than the clements of psychological distortion and libidinal energy
that for many later writers would define the style. Certainly, much of lIoir's
most characteristic narratiye material, as well as the distinctive style of lIoir
di,dogue - brusque, cynical and aphoristic - is deriyed fi'om the 'hard-boiled'
\\Titers of the 1920S and H)30S, the best kno\\n of whom arc the pioneering
private-eye nO\elists Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, and their
~Timmer, more carnal and sometimes hysterical contemporaries James M.
C:ain and Cornell Woolrich. NO\c1s and stories by all of these writers were
,Idapted into lIoir films during the H)40S and early H)50S, \\hile Chandler
adapted Cain's DOIIMe IJldCIIJlJll) , for Billy Wilder.
HO\yC\ er, the priyate eye, perhaps the best-known 'hard-boiled' type,
rather complicates the effort to locate /Illir firmly in either style or ideology.
To many, Humphrey Bogart is the definitiYe screen gumshoe and his two
roles as priYate detectiyes in adaptations of classic 'hard-boiled' thrillers are
canonical, eyen definitiYe /lIIir: The B/g Sleep makes most lists of classic lIoir,
\\hile The .Hililese FalroJi is sometimes cited as the prog;enitor of the entire
cycle. Yet \\hile both films imohc complex (in the case of The H(~ Sleep,
inLlI1lOUsly and bewilderingly so) criminal conspiracies in variously sleazy
,1I1d dcm n-at-hec1 urban settings, The Jlilliese Fa 1m II at least lacks most of the
stYlistic disorientations usually associated with Jloi,.: on the contrary, bar a
tendency to\yards low-angle shots that distort his characters' (notably
Gutman) physiognomy, Huston's compositions arc mostly balanced and his
scenes eYenly lit. The Big Sleep is by contrast replete with shadO\YY interiors
,1I1d sinister night-time settings; but a stillmore notable di\ergence fi'om the
prcsumptiye Jloi,. standard is the effect communicated by Bogart's perfilrm-
ances in both films. This effect is oyerwhelming;ly one of mlliro/: although
Sam Spade and Philip \1ar1<me, respectiYcly, are frequently endangered and
sometimes deceived, Bogart's classically hard-boiled, Yirile persona here
rarely displays the confusion or yulnerability exhibited by the private-eye
protagonists of, for example, .Hllnlcr, JI)' SI/'ccl or (J111 o(lhe Pasl (or fi))' that
I1latter by Bogart's o\yn performance as the screem\l'iter Dix Steele in the
strongly Jloir IJI.J LOlld)' Place (1950)). Yet such L111ibility and \\eakness -
particularly in relation to an insecure mascLllinit~ has ag'ain been cited as a
ddining lIoi,. attribute (sec f..:.rutnik, 19(1).
Gangsters feature strongly as antagonists in the priyate-eye films, ,1ml /lIIi,.
216 FILM GENRE
clearly takes over the subject of organised crime and criminal conspiracy
from the gangster cycle of the early 1930s. Howe\'er, where the classic
gangster was a career criminal, typified by his virile individualistic energy
and ruthless ambition (see Chapter 5), I/oir prot.lgonists are usually smaller_
time, are more likelv to be drawn into crime bv. simple greed or sexual desire ,
~'
external pressure or simple error than by ambition, and are typically far more
passive and easily defeated than Tom Powers or Tony Camonte - more likely
to go out with a whimper than a bang,
Alongside these native inf1uences, noir displayed more perhaps plainly
than any previous American cinema the impact of prewar European art film
- albeit in a much modified and inevitably Americanised form, While the
inf1uence of such trends as German Expressionism can be seen in many
studio films of the 19Z0S and H)30S - for example, John Ford's Tlte In/urmer
(1935) - noir seemed to put these influences to work in something like a
systematic way. Both Il)ZOS Expressionist film ami, as already noted, French
Poetic Realism of the H)30S bear clear aHinities \\ith the later American form.
As already discussed in relation to 1930S Universal horror, .\merican directors
and cameramen had a well-established native tradition to draw on in using
night-time settings, shadow-play and the like to depict sinister or criminal
milieus - ami these elements are in any case much less ubiquitous in classic
I/oir than their adoption as a stylistic fetish appropriation by contemporary
music video and advertising would suggest. (For a sceptical discussion of the
thesis of Expressionist inf1uence, see Vernet, 199]: 7 IZ,) Perhaps as inf1u-
ential as Expressionism on l/liir was its immediate successor in \Veimar
cinema, the Nelle Sacblicid'eil ('New Objectivity') and its preferred genre, the
street film, also bequeathed I/oir its characteristic milieu: the night-time city.
A film like TlIi' Sired (Germany Il)ZZ), stylistically a transitional film between
Expressionist excess and the more neutral style of the ;\;e\v Objectivity,
clearly prefigures such classic I/oirs as SCi/riel SIJal in its tale of a civil
servant who impulsively breaks away from stifling bourg'eois domesticity for
the allure of the city by night - only to find himself ensnared in a night-
marish \\eb of vice and even murder (see Petro, Il)93). In one striking
vignette early in his prO\d, the civil servant is taken aback by the apparently
rebuking gaze of a giant pair of eyes (an optician's sign) at one level
obviously a literalisation of his guilty conscience, but also f1agging the theme
of surveillance that would become so prominent in I/oir. Ginerre \'incendeau
(199Z: 53-4) meanwhile suggests that the portrayals of Paris in French PoetiC
realist films of the 1930S bridge the abstract, studio-created Expressionist
city with the still stylised but - especially \\ith Holly\vood's return to urban
location filming; in the late 1940S (see Saunders, zoo I: zz6ff.) " increasingly
concrete city of I/oir, E(hard Dimendberg (1997, Z004) has identified the
increasingJy decrepit, even entropic depictions of the city as I/oir mO\es from
1"11. \1 ,\ Of R ZI7
----------------------------------
the J()40S into the H)50S \vith the phenomenon of postwar suburban flight
li'onl the teeming, densely populated traditional inner cities. This finds an
objecti\e cinematic correlative in the shift from New York to Los Angeles
~lnd !i'0I11 the vertical skyscraper city - \vhose soaring structures had inspired
the titanic dreams ofpre\\'ar gangsters like Tony Camonte in Scar/c/(c (193 2 )
to the dispersed extra-urban sprawl of tract homes and freeways across
\\hich the drifters and chancel'S of films like Dc/ullr (I (45) and A.·iss A1c
f)eadl]' (1955) lind, or lose, their \vay. L\'s association \vith the Hollywood
'dream LICtory' also allO\\'s ample scope for sardonic ref1ections on the
promise and the reality of the .\merican .Dream. . .
The image of the nocturnal metropolis as a labynnth with the sexually
avaihlble and aggressi\e \vomen at its centre is key to many American lIoir
lilms. Prototypicll femmes fatales had first appeared on-screen in Europe
bcl()\T the First World War, impersonated by such '\'amps' as Asta Nielsen,
but ag:gressi\Tly, e\Tn destructively sexual women were another notable
ftature of \Veimar cinema, most bmously I,ulu (Louise Brooks) in Pi/I/t/ora's
Box (Germany I l)2X). Lulu's voracious sexuality is instinctual rather than
mnlli\ing, but in his first .\merican film, Sill/rise (H)Z7), F. \V. Murnau
presented not only a phantasmagoric nocturnal city, bur in the character of
'The \Voman from the City', a high-heeled seductress who entices a simple
countryman \vith lurid Lll1tasies of urban high living and almost manag'es to
persuade him to murder his innocent \\'ife, a clear precursor to the celebrated
'spider \\'(lmen' played by, amid others, Barbara Stanwyck (DoIIMc Jllt/ell/I/ily,
lhe Siral/ge IArce of.Harlllil has, 1(46), Claire TrC\or (Farel/lell JJl' IAn'e/l',
1()44; Deadlier Tltal/ Ihe .Hale, H)47), Rita Hayworth (Gl/da, 1946; Thc I,ad)'
From Sltal/g/lili, 194X) and f ,izabeth Scott (Deat/ Red'ollil/g, H)47; Tllc Pil/ci/I,
1()4 S).
1ft his brief summary indicates some of the \\idely ranging references and
sources on \\hich Iloir drew in Llbricating its distincti\e style, it still lenes
the question of \\hat the factors \\ere that crystallised these di\erse elements
into the 11(111' style in late-1940s Holly\\ood. A common answer is that /loir
relk-cts the penasi\e anxieties besetting .\merican culture in the immediate
po'>t\\ ~lr period. This interpretation typically imokes such Llctors as the
\:collomic uphea\als ine\itably imol\ed in the eon\ersion fi'om a \\ar to a
peacetime economy, including: labour unrest (as workers agitated for pa~
rises postponed for se\eral ye~lrS in the interests of the war effort) and job
losses. One particularly \'exed issue relates to gender conf1ict in the workplace.
The ne\\-found (though limited) economic fi'eedom enjoyed by \\omen
l1lohilised into the industri~ll \\orkforce during the \\ar pro\oked some
~ln \iety if not outright hostility in their return\:d boyfioiends and husbands -
ill-feeling returned in kind \\hen \\omen \\ere laid off, as fi-cquently occurred,
to make room for returning male \\orkers. It has been argued that the
ZI8 FILM GENRE
manifold negati\'e portrayals of predatory \\omen who aspire to or actually
achie\'e (usually though illicit means and at the expense of men) a degree of
financial and sexual independence can be seen as a phobic projection of male
fear of and hostility towards female autonomy .. Hlldret! Pierre (19-1-S), the
story of a wife who lea\'es her indolent husband and becomes a successful
businesswoman, only for her mismanagement of her domestic life to lead to
tragedy, has been read as a cautionary allegory of women in the wartime
workplace (althoug'h the war is never mentioned in the film, adapted from a
19-1-1 James ,\1. Cain nowl): the final shot, in which a chastened Mildred,
reunited with her husb.md, passes by a pair of chan\"Omen on their knees
scrubbing the floors of the forbidding, gloomy police headquarters, may be
seen as a symbolic relegation of \vomen back to their socially 'appropriate'
roles (see Cook, J()78: 79-80).'
Howner, Thomas (I <)<)z) has suggested that \\'hat is at centrally stake in
I/lilr is less women's place than men's: in particular, the conflicting masculine
identities at play in the immediate post\\ar era, \\'hen the martial male
subjecthood offered hy the \\ar which promoted a \'iolent, homosocial
masculinity underpinned hy the ubiquitous threat of sudden death - faced
accommodation to the conflicting; demands of peacetime domesticity,
docility and social confilrmity. In such a reading, not only the f:lmous femmes
CHales but the 'good' \\omen with \\hom they are often doubled (Phyllis
Dietrichson's daughter Lob in Dlil/Me Jllllelllll/l)', fill' example, or A.nn :Miller
in Gill lir Ihe Pi/S!) are projections of deep-seated male ambi\alences and
anxieties. This account can be usefully extended by reference to dcbates in
postwar media ahout the 'maLldjusted' male -- desocialised and rendered
incapahle of adjusting to domcsticity and producti\'e work by the traumatic
\'iolence hc had both suffered and inflicted during thc \\ar. \Iurderous
\'eterans fe,ltured in 7lte 811/(, Di/lt/lil (H)-I-6) and Crossfire (H)-I-7) (though
softened in the fi1rl11er under prcssure from the armed sen ices and the Breen
Office: see 1'\,aremore, I ()<)8: 107-q),
:\s the immedi,Ite post\\',l1' period segued into the confiJrlnist I<)SOS, the
flipside to the unstable, h\ pertrophically masculine \'eteran emerged in the
shape of p,lrallel anxieties about emasculation generated by the rise of the
corporate cult ure and the salaried office \\ orker as the pre-eminent fi)rces in
the post\\ar economy, Widely-read popular sociological \\orks suggested that
traditional (male) :\merican imli\'idualism and entrepreneurship were being
transfi)rmed into confilrmism and passi\'ity by the ne\\' conditions of \\'hite-
collar work. Impersonal crime 'syndicates' - also a feature of g,lngster films
in the I<)SOS threatening the freedoms of the indi\'idlwl figure prominently
in numerous I/lilrs: Flirli' lir F,'II and The Big !Jelll feature particularly \i\'id
depictions of corrupt quasi-corporate criminal enterprises, in the filrmer
explicitly counterposed to a more humane, 'small business'-style LlCket.
F/LH NO/R ZI9
----------------------------------
"ernet suggests that the prototypical I/lilr protagonist can be identified
\\ith the petty-bourgeois small businessman, anxious at the percei\'ed threats
t ohl·'s (im,lo'ined)
t ' self-sufficiency
. , and class status in the increasingl\'•
'orporatised world. This interpretation tallies well \\'i th not only such venal
~nd/ or desperate middleman protagonists as Walter Neff in DlillMe Indemnitv
(,111 insurance salesma~1) or ,~rank Bigelo~\' in D.GA. (a cert.ified ac~ountant)
but also Jl's i/ H Iil/der/111 LI/e s George Bailey. It IS also pOSSible to situate the
private eye- for many \'ie\\'ers, an archetyp~llllilr protagonist -- in t.his cla:,>s
wrspecti\'e, as a self-made man whose role IS to expose the corruptIOns of a
~lcc,dent ruling elite (such as the Sternwood family in The B/~f{ Sleep), to
reign in thc excesses of o\'ermighty 'combines' and in so doing to reassert the
"deuc of a suitahly humanised capitalism. (This self-conception and its
delusions seems explicitly to inform Roman Polanski's revisionist portrayal of
the pri\ate eye in CIIII/i/llirT''', H)7-1-: see below.) HO\\'e\'er, it runs somewhat
coUllter to the perception of IlIIlr as a genre that pays unusual attention to
\\orking-class experience, often with conscious political moti\'ations. Brian
'\e\e (Il)()z: QS -70) notes the in\'olvement in IlIIlr production of numerous
memhers of the H)-I-0S Hollywood Left:- including such later \'ictims of the
blacklist as directors Edward Dmytryk, ,'\braham Polonsky (Flirce lir Fe'i!)
and Jules Dassin (The Si/ked Cily, 1l)-l-8), writer-director Rohert Rossen (Blld)'
lIIIj :';11/11, 1l)-I-7) and producer ,'\drian Scott (FlIr,.ll'ell "H)' Llln,/)', Cross/ire)-
and cmphasises the prominence of class, illicit power and authoritarian power
structures in nHny II II irs (see ~dso .'\ndersen, 1<)8S).
Thc critical emphasis on pathologies of masculinity helps illuminate IIlIlr's
llluch-commented oneiric (dream-like) ,lspects, exemplified not only by its
sOl1lctimes surreal \isual distortions and spatial disorientations hut its
looping;, oftcn confused narrati\es, its g;rotesque apparitions of \iolence and
desirc, and the pre\alence of uncanny doubling. If these arc dreams,
ho\\c\er, thn ,Ire elclrly dre~lmed by men, as a piHHal scene early in SrI/ril'l
Slre(/ illustrates. The nondescript h,mk clerk Chris Cross is making his way
home from a dinncr \\here he has been honoured filr his years of selfless
scnicc to the bank \\ith the time-honoured gold \\atch.\fter el1\ciously
\v:ltching; their employer J. J. Hogarth lene \\ith his young mistress, Chris
and his colleague Charlie share an umbrella to the bus stop, exchanging
\\i,tt"lll banalities about youthful 'dreams' th,lt 'ne\er pan out'. Left alone,
Chris \\,mders through the deserted night-time streets of Greenwich Villag'e,
C\cntu,dly seeking directions from a policeman as 'these streets get all tlIrned
,1rOllnd dO\\I1 here'. The Village's established associations \\ith soci,d and
Sl'\U,l! de\iance, emblematically figured in the \Ianhattan street plan's abdica-
tiun of the gridlines abO\e qth Street, set it apart spatially and experientially
from Chris's drab \\orkaday reality (a motif rni\ed by \LJrtin Scorsese's
'~uppie nightmare' neO-IIIIII' c-1lia Hllllrs, H)8S): it is a labyrinth of desire.\s
220 FILM tiENRE
--------------------------------
the older part of the city, the Village may also be associated with a wishful
regression on Chris's part to a time when he could still realise the 'dreams'
of his youth. What happens next seems, for Chris, literally to fulfil those
dreams. Happening upon \yhat he takes to be a robbery or sexual assault - a
young girl in a transparent plastic mac being beaten by a young man - Chris
runs heroically to her 'rescue', brandishing his umbrella - the symbol of his
middle-class, middle-aged propriety transformed into a phallic w·eapon.
Although Chris barely touches him, the girl's assailant miraculously falls
unconscious to the ground. Chris uncoils fi'om his protecti\e crouch to find
himself the 'saviour' of a beautiful young \\oman.
This entire scene is strikingly staged by Fritz Lang with an eerie
distanciation: throughout the 'fight', the only sound on the soundtrack is the
noise of a passing subway train, \\hich crests to a deafening roar as Chris
yanquishes his opponent. Framed initially against the surrounding cityscape
in extreme long-shot, the girl (Kitty) and her attacker (Johnny) struggle
soundlessly and as if in sl(m motion. Chris's absurdly easy yictory seems to
reflect what hc /I'i/IlIS to happen more than any imaginable reality (his
subsequent wilful and self-destructiye refusal to recognise either the 'beautiful
young girl' Kitty's real nature - she is a prostitute- or her utter contempt for
him confirms this bntasy clement).
The diagnosis of CS society in the late I()-l.os as anxious and angst-ridden
also cites deyelopments in foreign and national security policy: the
uncertainties attendant upon :\merica's unprecedented and clearly ongoing
invol\"t~ment in European and \\orld afl;lirs at the war's end, a decisi\"e shift
away from traditional US exceptional ism and isolationism; the reyelation of
the dreadful pO\\cr of the atomic bomb, used against the Japanese at Hiro-
shima and Nagasaki; the swift transformation of the USSR from wartime ally
to Cold \Var antag:onist, armed after 1()49 with its O\\n Bomb; and in 1949
the renewal of large-scale US combat operations abroad in the Korean \Var.
Domestic politics were dominated by the hysterical pursuit of (largely
imaginary) Communist sul1\ersion, \\ith public paranoia skilfully exploited
and intensified by demagogues such as Joseph \lcCarthy and the young
Richard Nixon, leading to signific1l1t curbs on ciyil liberties, a huge
expansion of the internal security apparatus and hundreds if not thousands of
people dri\en from their liyelihoods, imprisoned and eyen, in the case of the
alleg'ed atomic spies Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, executed. In the early
195os, /loirs began to engag'e \\ith the panic about infiltration ,1l1d sub\crsion,
either through metaphor and allegory (Pi/lilt" III llie ,')'1r('(' IS, 1950) or directly
(The WOl/li/1l Oil Pier 13,1949; PId..'lIp Oil SOIlIIi Slreel, 1(52). The apocalyptiC
late Ilolr Kiss Me Dei/dl)' (1955) perhaps conjoins the \arious gender and
political paranoias of the period better than any other film.
These critical approaches often throw a great deal of light on the textual
FI J.. \1 .v () I R 221
---------------------------------
Jolitics of both indiyidual nolrs and the cycle as a whole. However, industrial
:',\Ctors as ahyays played a crucial role too. The reduced production schedules
of the majors in the \Iake of the 1947 Paramollill decision (that declared the
\errical integration of production, distribution and exhibition an illegal
monopoly practice and compelled the studios' parent corporations to sell off
their theatre chains), with a shift to\yards fewer, prestige productions, opened
up greater opportunities for both independent producers and existing minor
studios to produce cost-effectiye g'enre films to meet the gaps in the market.
The generally small-scale atmospheric noll' thriller was well suited to tight
budgets, \\hile some independents at least sa\\" the competitiye adyantage in
"Idling riskier (more topical or yiolent) material than the majors. Although
hoth \\ere short-liyed enterprises, the independent Diana Productions -
\\hich brought together \eteran independent producer Walter Wanger, his
\\ ifc actress Joan Bennett and director Fritz Lang - and the left-liberal yenture
Enterprise Productions made major contributions to the noll' cycle with
Lang's Sm riel Slreel and The Serrel Be)'ond Ihe Door (I (48) for Diana, and
Enterprise's Bod)' i111i1 SOIlI and Force orEl"l1 (sec Spicer, 2002: 34-5).
\\hat none of this energetic critical acti\ity has deli\cred is any consensus
on the definition or extent of 11011' production in postwar Hollywood. There
arc certainly a number of films that yirtually e\"eryone agrees belong in any
putati\c IlIlIr canon, among them (in chronological order) 1t11mler, 1t1)' Sl7'eel,
f)oll/JIe 1IldeIf1l111)', The Trol/li/II III llie Irlndoll', Smrlel Slreel, Tlie Poslmall
ili/'(1)'s RlIIgs TIl'Ice, Gilda, Tlie Killers, Cross/ire, Force or En!, 0111 or llie
Pilsl, nelollr, S/~l!,hl i1l1d Ihe CIly, and t\H) late, highly self-conscious entries:
kiSS \Ie Deildl)' and TOllrll or E,'iI (1958). -+ Set against these, howe\cr, arc a
much larger number of films \\hose 11011' status is subject to debate: costume
films like Re/Jerra (1940), Gasligll! (I (44) and e\en Dr ]eli),11 alld AII' H)'de
([(HI) all included by Borde and Chaumeton ([ If)5SJ 1983) but more
Ilb\iously in the Gothic tradition, as is another problematic candidate, TI,e
.",'plml.)'lalrcilse (194S)- or gangster and police films like IVIIl/(> Heal (1949)
,Ind The Big Heill (1952).
!-Ilme\er the canon is dLl\\n up, there could be no pretence that such
films comprised anything like a plurality, let alone ,1 majority of Hollywood
prod uction e\"Cn in the immediate postwar years \\"hen the 11011' tendency was
~aid 10 be at its strongest (a point made at the time by Leslie Asheim in the
COurse of an exchange with producer John Houseman in the Holl)'IPood
Q/{arlerl)' about the merits of the post\\ar wa\c of 'tough' thrillers').
I kpl'l1ding on whose reckoning one prefers· and both the timeline of 11011'
pn)duction and the criteria for inclusion \ary enormously from one critic to
anolher - the total number of 11011'.1' could be .IS fey\" as twent\-t\\O
. or as many-
~h 300. E\en the higher figure, howe\er, as Ste\c ~eale (2000: 156) points
OUt, represents under 5 per cent of total Hollywood production during this
222 FILM GENRE
period. On the other hand, Andrew Spicer's (2002: 27-R) cumparative
, -------------------------------
tabulatiun of Iwir figures suggests that in its peak year (1950), 1/oirs cumprised
at least 8 per cent and pussibly as much as 15 per cent of Hullywuud releases.
But 1/olr's perceived significance has never been estimated in crudely
quantitative terms. In fact, viewed as a 'tell-tale' genre - a furm, that is, that
was able to speak unpalatable truths abuut and to .'\merican suciety uf a kind
typically excluded from Hullywood pruduct - or in other \\ords as a kind of
return of the sucio-cultural repressed, lIolr \\uuld of necessity be a minority
g·enre. After all, oppositiunism and subversion - both impulses \\ith which
/loir has sometimes been credited - are virtually by definition minority, even
marg;inal, concerns. (One might add that throug'hout its critical history, the
Fisson of marginality and deviance has been vicariously enjoyed by 1/oir's
defenders and commentators.)
As lIoir has mO\cd from a (illcaslc preoccupation to wider critical acceptance
and popular \isibility, the critical debates around the dimensions and even
the existence of 110lr ha \e only intensified. Neale (uN<r I RR) maintains that
'lioir is as a critical category and as a canon of films both logically and chrono-
logically incoherent' (see also Neale, 2000: 173). HO\\ever, \\hile most writers
accept the difficulties of codifying' or containing ,wlr m,my perhaps regard
this unfixable quality as an integral part of lIoir's nature and forming a central
clement in its transgressive charge. SO/{''s textual and generic instabilities, like
those of horror, commend it to the attentions of postmodern cultural theory.
The concept of.lillll lIoir \\lJUld in due course be translated back, first to
American critics, subsequl'ntly to film-makers,(' and e\cntually popularised
f()r a mass audience. Son entered the film-criticallC\:icon as part of the wider
upsurg'e in film culture through 'sl'rious' criticism in small journals, film
societies and college film appreciation courses that provided the seedbed for
the emergence of the New Hollywood 'film generation ' (or '-" 100ie Brats').
Classics of the I/oir canon \\ere staples both of late-night television and of the
urban repertory houses that in a pre-home video age supplied young cine-
philes with a grasp of film history and e\olution ..\nd French film culture,
perceived as significantly more sophisticated and advanced than the
homegrown \arid\, offered both influential critical models such as auteurisrn
and, in the critics-turned-film-makers of the ;Yolln'lle 1 'ai!,lh', ,I model of how
a critically informed practice could appropriate, rewurk and ITvitalise the
ossified conventions of American commercial mO\ie-making. It is note\\orthy
that one of the most influCl1tial, and still much anthologised, early American
essays on .Iillll I/oir \\as written by Paul Schrader ((1972) 1(95), then a
freelance film critic but soon to become a sig:nilicmt .'\e\v Holly\\()()d player
and subsequently \\Titer and/or director of a loose 'trilogy' of strongl~ lIo;r-
influenced urban dramas (Ta,r; Dn,'cr; . 1IIICri(a 1/ G/~~olll, 19Ro; Llglil 5'II'cper,
1<)9 I).
1
rn,l/ VOIR 223
-
:,EO-\O/R: PARODY AND PASTICHE
\olr's rediscovery coincided \vith the professional emergence of a generation
. f \merican directors and \\Titers \\ho came to prominence in the wake of
~1()l1~\\ood's crisis of confidence and direction in the late 1960s. These writers
~]\1d directors \vere armed with a highly developed sense both of Hollywood
film history and, particularly in the light of the 1960s European New Waves'
experiments \vith nan~ati~e film form, .a. sense of ~o\~' nati~nal cin.ema
tr;lditions could be rentalIsed through cntIcal appropnatlOn. 1'vll/r pro\'lded
an apt model for such experiments. As constrained as the formal, let alone
politicil radicalism of the 'HoIlY\YOOlI Renaissance' \\as by the ca~tion and
conscnatism of an emphatically commercial industry, numerous films pro-
duced at major studios bet\\een 1<)67 and 1<)77 abandoned the well-lit high
road of classic Hollywood for the seductive, subversivc shadow-world of IIl1ir.
\\ hile some I<J7os 'neo-lIo;rs', ,IS the cycle became known, like Tilt' kil1g III'
IIi/r,1/1 Ganlms (1<)72) echoed the defeatist strain of classic l10lr represented
11\ 0111 1{I!le Pasl, /11 a Llllld)' Plact' or He Rail .--111 I!le Wa,)' (I<)5I) and
~1;'l!:lIabh the f()rm's most characteristic mode - a much Iarg;cr numbcr
ad'optni the priLlte-eye variant, ,1S this seemed to allow more room fex
IT\isionist manoell\Ting. The implicit intertc:xts felr such films as T!lc Long
Glilid/J)'c (1<!73), Cl1/1I011l/l'1I and\I~~!l1 .\;/I)('CS were Bogart's star \ chicles Thc
I"Jlh'se Falolll and Tilt' Rig Skep. Sometimes this intertextu,dity was not
onl~ l'\ ident but explicit: CIUIIOIII/l'II's monochrome opening credits mimic
those or T!lc .Ha!tne Falcoll; in .Yi~!l1 .lIon's, cuckolded pri\ate eye Harr~
\losehy is tauntingly ill\ited hy his \\ile's 100er to 'take ,I s\\ing, just like Sam
Spade \\ ould'; confronted \\ ith hostile cops in '1lie IAlllg Goodll)'c, Elliot
(iollld's \larlo\\e cracks relexi\ely wise: 'Isn't this \\here I say "what's this
all ahout?" and you say "\\'e'll ask the questions"" (One should be careful
thollt:'h not to O\crstate the novelty of such rdle\.i\e touches: bcing down
gangster Eddie -" !<Irs at the clim,lx or T!le RI:~ Slap, Bot:art's .\ larlowe
delll~ll1ds: '\\'had,ha \\ant me to do, Eddie? Count to three like they do in the
1ll0\ ies' ')
The sulncrsive purpose of this festival of generic allusion might be
\llllllllarised as exposing the pri\ ate eye, often as we ha\e noted the exception
to IIlIlr's rule of masculine crisis, to the rigours or that t:'Cl1eric paradigm.
(jll"a/oll'", as has been often pointed out, ruthlessl~ C\.poses the limitations
1)1 its \\ould-be street-smart private eye hero, Jake (iittes (Jack .'\icholson),
hI repeatedly placing him at a disa,hantage in sit uations \vhere Bogart's
\ Llrlo\\ e would ha\c smartly triumphed: a rib;lld joke cmbarrasses him in
Irollt of a client; his nose is sliced open b~ ;1 diminuti\e ps~ chopath (contrast
Bogart's effortless disarming of the hapless gunsel \\ilmer in T!lc .I'a!tcsc
l'ill,IIII), forcing him to wear an enormous bandage f(H' much of the film (,I
224 FILM ut.NKE
joke too at the expense of Gittes's carefully-modelled Holly\\ood-style 'star'
persona); in the course of his imcstigations a crippled farmer heats him
~enseks~ with his crutch; and so on. ,\hO\e all, Gittes mistakes the intrigue
IOta whIch he st umbles for a conyentional, if far-reaching, story of civic
corruption, and his employer/lmcr belyn Cross (Faye Duna\\ay) for a
classic femme fatale: \\hen in LlCt she is the \ictim of her own penerse and
u,ns~r~pul.ous.f~1the~', \yhose incestuous Elthering of a daughter upon EYelyn
slgmfIes tItamc deSIres that arc transgressiye far beyond CJittes's horizons _
asked what he \\ants, Cross simply replies 'the future, \ lr Gittes. The future.'
\Vhile the tortuous narrati\e of Ylg!J! .\loc'es - i1l\olying .1 promiscuous
tcenage run.may, the fringes of the moyie industry, sexual C'\ploitation and a
complex antiques-snlllg'gling ring - is c10sn to traditional I/oi,. territory,
I larry i\:Iosehy (Gem: Hackman) is equally rudderless - a metaphor dnasta-
tingly literalised in the film's final high-ang-Ic inuge of the \\ounded Harry
helplessl~ circling around in a boat ironically named Poill! or I iell'. HarrY is
passiye-ag;gressi\c, e.lsily manipulated, and tile dead ends of'his il1\cstiga;ion
in the film parallel the frustrations and disappointments of his pnsonallife,
i\S an adapution of Raymond Ch,lI1dler's final (and most self-consciously
Iitnan) non:l, Rohert\ltman's Th,. IAil1!!. (;ood/J)'e is of all the llJ70S priyate-
eye films thc most securel\ locltnl in I/oi,.'s traditional narrati\ c territorv,
Ho\\c\cr, :\Itman's Philip .\L1r1mn: (\\hom he conu:i\(:d ,IS 'a loscr', also the
judgement passed on .\ larlo\\ e h~ his treacherous fi'iend Terr~ Lenno\:) is eyen
less the classical model th<ln Gilles or \losehy, In LICI, \lar1<me is firmly
located <IS a man \\ holl~ out of touch \\ith the' \\orld around him - <I patsy
ncn to his cat.\ltman suhstitutcs f(lI' \larl(l\\e's \\orld-\\C<II'\ ~ct sayvy
narr<lti\ e \ oice in the nmel ,I ramhling,' running commenLln mumhled by
Gould throughout the film in ,I so//o ,'0/1' monotonc, typicall~ concluding
\\ith the careless coda 'S'ob~ \\ith me ... ' \\orlds apart from \larlowe's
fierce moral and ethical implication in the sleaz~ \\orld he nplores \\ ithout
inhahiting (hut directly ,1l1ticipating 'II ])on't \\orl'\ \le', the kno\\-nothing
,1l1them of ,\ltman's most celehrated film, ,\11.1 !J ,-,IIc, IIJ7h).
The timeliness or lIoi,.'s re\iyal \\as underlined hy the renm <ltion of the
'maladjusted \ eln<ln, theme from the post-Second \"orld \\ar cycle to take
in the yet more dangerously desocialised clsu,llties of the' far more
cont rmcrsial <lnd hrutal \\ <lr in \ ·ietnam.\s well as Ill'rol's (I <)7 ~) <lnd Taxi
/),.iu'r, a late and criminally unden <llued ent ry in the 1<)70S nco-lion cycle,
CI///cr's /I II)' (llJSO), de\ eloped tr<lditionall/ol,. themes of the ahuse of pm\er
in an emotional moonsc<lpe sh<ldm\ cd hy the \ietn<lm \\ar, of which Cutter
is a mutilated, cmhittered \ctnan.
Spicer (2002: Lt-S) arg'ues that 1<)70S Iloi,. ,,<IS mostly uninterested in
IT\ ie\\ ing the classic ICmme LiLlie in light of the \\ omen's l11mel11ent.
Certainly, l11<11e subjccti\ ity renuins the central f(JCUS of l110st of these films,
------------------------------------
\\ith the strong strain of \\hite male pathos preyiously noted in some
contemporaneous SF films (sec Chapter S) finding; expression in a flurry of
CJstration imagery - Gittes's slashed nose, the bullet in Harry ",,1oseby's
thigh (and the cane used by his \\ife's crippled loyer), Cutter's amputated
Iilllhs. 'dorcoyer, in general these films steer clear of the compulsiye sexuality
portrayed in the 1940S James \1. Cain adaptations. Yet they do reyisit the
fi~'ure of the manipulatiye, sexually desirable \\oman, and sub\'ert this generic
t\'pe to the same deconstructi\e logic as her male partners. As already noted,
I~\ehn \luhway in CII/IIII!O)}'1/ all haute couture and razor-slash rubied
I1louth - appears an archetypal scheming woman, and for much of the film
both Gilles and \\c expect that she \\ill turn out to be implicated in the
1l1urder of her husband, The reyelation that E\e1yn is a yictim, not a \'illain,
comes too bte to Sa\T either her or, probably, her teenage daughter from the
log'ic of a \\ orld in \yhich corrupt pO\\Tr holds absolute sway: 'Forget it, Jake,
it's ... Cll/l/a!oll'I/', as the film's famous last line has it. The adulterous and
de\ ious Eileen \\'ade in Thc [Alllg Good/J)'c matches the traditional model
more closely, but the film's most indelible image is of another brutalised
in1locent, the teenage girlfriend of brutal mobster ,'\larty Augustine (played
\1\ director \lark Rydell) \\hom he smashes in the bce \\ith a bottle simply
to prme to \larlO\\T that he is ruthless enough to get what he \\ants, The
tcen 11\mphet Deily in Sigh! ,\lou's again initially appears a modern \crsion
of the drug-addicted nymphomaniac Carmen Stern\\ood in The B/~I!. ,)'Iap
(" ho at the end of the film is destined f()r puniti\c institutionalisation:
\larlo\\e muses that 'maybe they can cure her') but she too dies tragicall~
and futilely. In the same film, Paula Ucnnifcr Warren), \\ith \\hom Harry
\ losehy hriefly shares a bed ,1l1d (it seems) some moments of mutual tender-
nl'SS in a film \\ here such thing;s are at a premium, turns out another LIke in
" lilm full of fakery (she makes Imc to Harry simply to distract him \\ hile her
S11ll,!:!,'gling ring' retrie\es a sunken consignment), hut her duplicity is treated
h\ the film simply as another indC\: of Harry's impotence: her death at the
end or the film is horrific, not remotely g;ratifying,
\ strong emphasis on sC\:uality is one of the main Llctors disting'uishing
the second \\a\e of neo-I/oirs inaugurated in It)SI by Bod)' Ileil! and the
I'l'I11,lhe of Thc PO(!l/lll/llI)}'iI)'( Ril/gs TJl'irc, accompanied b~ a shiti a\\,ly fi'om
t hl' rnisionist pri\ate-eye/ conspiracy model back tll\\ ards crime-of-p'lssion
11 alTa ti\es. ,\ number of these films usc the Lll' greater sexu.11 explicit ness of
till' post-Code era to emphasise the helplessness of their male protagonists
L1L'ed \\ith the sC\:ual allure of their \,lsth more intelligent fCmmes L1tales.
Films such as Th,. Las! S{'{/I/(!iol/, Thr Ifo! Spot (1990), Basil' Il/s!I1/(! (IlNI)
,md Bod)' or L'idCl/lC (I C)c)3) keep their gender politics carefull\ ambiguous,
\l,lLll1cing the incipient misog'yny of the 'phallic \\oman' EIntasy against
l1,lrratiyes that asserted \\omen's po\\er and satirised the culpable gullibility
226 FILM GENRE
of the hapless and often self-regarding and unlikeable men \\'ho get in\"olved
with them. (For a discussion of Tile Last Seductioll as a narrati\"e constructed
around a 'female subject', see Bruzzi, 19c)7: IZ7-,P; see also Stables, 1999).
BI({(k Wldoll' (1987) sidelined men almost entirely, reframing' the nair
doppelganger narrati\"e as a story of desire and pursuit between two women
a female murderer and a federal agent. This exploration of the allure of
forbidden sexuality has been extended in the flourishing genre of the 'erotic
thriller', usually made f(Jr cable or released straight-to-\'ideo, \\hose unique
industrial position both relocates l/Ii/r tropes to the borders of soft porno-
graphy and prO\ides a rare context in contemporary Holly\\ood (or possibly
'off-Hollywood') film-making that most closely resembles the lo\\-budget
'prog-rammcr' production of the late classical period (on the erotic thriller ,
see Williams, 1993, zo05; Eberwein, 199:-\).
One genuinely nO\'e1 de\'elopment in the 1990S has been the exploration of
1111/1' territory by black film-makers like Carl Franklin (Olh' Fa Is,' JJIIU, 199 2;
Der/I/II a BIlle Dress, 1995) and Bill Duke Ci Rage /11 lIar/elll, 1991; Deep
Cllur, 199z) - a genuinely transgressi\'e mo\'e not only inasmuch as Black
Americans \\'ere as largely il1\isible in classic 1111/1' as in all other Hollywood
g-enres, but because 1/11/1' itself traded both explicitly - in the descriptions in
Chandler and other 111111' \\Titers of their heroes' 'dark passage' into the
'Neg-ro' quarters of L:\ and other cities - and implicitly - in the dominant
associati\'e trope of III1/r/'blackness' itself - in a racialised discourse,
If the 1970S neO-l/Iilrs in g'eneral, to apply Fredric Jameson's (H)<) I: 1h~19)
f.lntoUs distinction, inclined to modernist parody - the pointed satirical re\ision
and il1\ crsion of g'Cnre cOl1\entions such as the heroic and capable pri\ate eye
- the H)80s and H)<)OS \'ersions tended to\\ards pastiche - defined by Jameson
as 'blank parody', the painstaking renO\ation of tropes ',l11d styles \\ithout any
critical perspeeti\c. 7 A,n extreme n:ample of this is \Vim \\enders' f(Jrmalist
rehearsal of 1111/1' tropes in the h~per-rellexi\'e ilallllllell (1983) . .'\arrative
structures of spir,llling complexity, recalling but significantl~ intensif~ing classic
1111/1' patterns - in the most extreme examples, such as Tllc [,wal SIISPCc!S
(1995) and "\[clII<'II11I (ZOOI), to the point of radicalnarrati\e indeterminacy-
repbced the allegorical conspiratorial ramitiCitions of ](!70S modernist 1111/1'.
:\s Leighton Grist (19C)z: z8.:;) obsen'Cs, '\\hat is \ital is not so much the
continuation of ./illll 1/11/1', as the perspecti\'C of its reworking: \\'hether its
COl1\entions present and analyse social tensions, or just exists as a l'OlIection
of generic signifiers', Certainly, no one can doubt that 111111' has become an
essential fi'ame of stylistic and thematic reference for contemporar~ \isual
(not just film) culture. The impact of Blade Rllllller (198z) ,111d 'tech 1111/1" (see
Chapter 8) ha\e ensured that IIII/r's distincti\e \ision of urban entropy and
({1I1111//C has become the debult setting for depictions of the dystopic ncar
future in SF films as different ,IS Tile ,\1alnx (1998) and SI,,,' 11;"',1 Ljllslltle
'.I..
1'11.\1 VOIR 227
J/: . Jtllick IIrlllc CIIIIICS (Z002). It is perhaps appropriate that as contested and
non-identitarian a form as 1111;1' should ha\'C been adopted as one of
poh 11l0rphous postmodern culture's preferred self-representations.
BEYOND HOLLYWOOD
FIIIII I1I1;r's poly\'alence, 'phantom' g-eneric identity and international influences
J1l,lke it unsurprising that other nation,ll cinemas ha\e adopted 1111/1' modes
,md l1lotifs, although its LItalism and penersity may appear less radical in
cinemas less geared to high-key optimism than classic Holly\\'Ood. In addition
to the pre\\ar proto-l1l1;r European trends - Expressionism, New Objecti\'ity
,1Ild Poetic Realism - noted abO\e, 1111;1' traditions ha\e been especially strong'
in France ,lOd in Britain, while Jordan and ~lorg-an-Tamosounas (1998: 86-
105) discuss the importance of Spanish C;I1C IICP,'I'O from the 19S0S to the
present day, \\here its influence can be seen in such films as i,l"c Flesh
(I99 S), They argue that C;IIC IICgTIl found a particular purchase during' the
tr,lJ1sition to democracy after Franco's death in 1975, a period \\hose re\e-
btions ,Ibout the Sp,lOish state apparatus meant that 'the corruption and
C\ llicism ,l! the centre of classic American IlIIlr mo\'ies f(lUnd a resounding
echo in contempcmlry Spain' (p, :-\9),
Spicer (zooz: 17 5-z03) explores the tradition of British 111111', arguing
strong'ly for a tradition of crime melodram,ls that, like their American
counterparts (and, although in different ways, like Hammer horror) strongly
clullenge the middle-class \crities ,lnd complacencies of mainstream British
cinema. \\'hile Spicer's 1111/1' ClOon is some\\hat diffuse, taking' in alongside
L'Ontemporary thrillers \\ith e\'ident IIl1ir attrihutes like Odd .Hall (Jill (]()·n),
l!i,yl1l1dc .Hc.I Fl/g;I;,'c (Ilj.n), Til<' TIi;rdHIII1 (]()-1-9), lie/lis 11 Cill' (1960)
and (;cl Carler (Icnl) - but strangely not Br;g/illllI Rllck (]()-1-:-\) - ,I large
numher of period films. GlIsliglil (19-1-0), P;III" ,')'Irillg 1I11t! SCIII;lIg Wa.\' (H)+5)
and e\en Ol;,'er TII';sl (]()-1-:-\) seem to belong, but Grcill f:'.rpallll;III1S (1l)+6)
,md A.'1IIt! HCllrls 11/111 COI'IJl/cIS (19-1-8) seem in both stylistic and narrati\'e
terms remote from 1111;1'. :\ problem here may he the importance of the
Ln~dish Gothic tradition combined \\ ith (bef(Jre Hammer's breakthrough in
Ihe mid-19S0s) the LIck of a clearly eSl<lblished cinematic Gothic. Hcme\'Cr,
Spicer is able to tLlCe ,lO important lineage tiJr such contempoLlry British
nco-III1;I'S ,IS /)III1CC "';Ih 11 SlrIIl1gcr (]():-\5) and \[111/11 1,lsa (19:-\6) and more
recently S11II111I1I' Gm,'c (1995) and CI'IJI/P;cr (199Cj), Of these, one might note
that the 1980s films seem to partake of the Tlutcher years' intense politi-
cisation and .Iddress themsehes clearly to British class, racial and gender
pathologies, \\hl'reas thl' 1990S films ,Ire in properly postmodern Llshion
L\ther more sociall \ decontC\tualiscd.
228 FILM GENRE 1"11.,\1 N01R 229

Austin (1996: 109-1 I) discusses POIIsslhe d '_lllge (1987) as a contemporary

French lilm 1I0lr; Buss (19l)..l.) meal1\\hile identifies 101 French lIoirs
pf(:pond~rantly from the post-lVolI,''';le Vaglle period, but like Spicer some or
his inclusions arc curious: alongside such ob\'ious 1I0lr candidates as Rififi,
130/1 Ie Flamli('//r (both Il)5S), Llll 10 llie S({J(liJld (I<)'=;7) and the later La
Eal,IIl({' and the flashy Dim (both I<)8 I) are listed Godard's Jl'ec/.:clld (I9 6 7)
and Robert Bresson's L'_ -lrgelll (1983), Another of Buss's selections, Robert
Bresson's Pic/.:pod:cl (HjS9), prO\'ided the model fl)r Paul Schrader's nco-nair
Amerlcall G/j;olo (there arc also strong echoes of Bresson in Taxi Dril'cr).
Examples such as this and the adaptations of Patricia Highsmith's Ripley
noyels produced in the US (Tilt' Tlllelllcd _VIr Rlple)', 2000; Rlple)' 's Clime,
2003), France (Pleill 5'0Iell, Il)S9) and West Germany (Tlic _-ll/lcrJcall Friend,
Iln7) are strong testimony to 1I01r's international appeal ,IS a mode for
exploring themes of exploitation, \'iolence and transgressi\'e desire.

CASE STUDY: Ol 'I OF '1fff:' P 1,)''1 (JACQUES

TOURNEUR, 194-7)

Robert Ottoson (I l)X [: 132) speaks for man y in declaring (Jill 0(1 lie Pasl (UK
title: Blllld iVIy Galloll's IIlgII) 'quite simplY the Ii(' pillS IIllr,1 of forties film
1I0ir', The film's cOl1\oluted plot of criminal intrigue, murder, fatal attraction
and betrayal; its dense Yisuals, periodic narrati\c confusion, flashbacks and
yoiceoyer narration; its iconographically apt pri\ate-eye protag;onist Jeff
Markham/Bailey (Robert \litchum) complete \\ith belted trench coat, soft-
hrimmed hat and permanently lit cigarette (Grist, IlJl)2: 20()) - anLl quint-
essential femme [!talc I-.:.athie 'tofCIt (Jane Greer) - cool, sn:ually confident,
manipulatiye, untrust\\orthy and murderous; its melanchol~, Cltalistic tone
of doomed nostal~:da and dO\lnbeat, amhiguous ending - all comprise, as
Tom Flinn (lInT 38) puts it, 'a \critable motherlode of 1I0ir themes and
stylisations'. (Jill 0(1111' PoSI's institutional and production contexts arc also
archetypal 11011'. The film adapts a number of the economical but clll:cti\'e
stylistic elements (particularly a structured alternation of high-key and lo\y-
key lighting; to reinforce character and thematic relations) pre\ iously refined IIOIlI (Jill ,,111,< J>"sll HII/IJ \/)' (;"II"ws //l~/I (11)+,). Reprodlll'l'llcourll'" of R"-O/The
by director Jacques Tourneur in the \\ell-regarded horror films he made for I,(,h,il (:olkcIIOIl,
RI-.:.O's 'B' production unit headed by \ ,Ii Le\\10n earlier in the l()..I.0s (Cat
Pcoplc, 1l).f2; Till' 5'1'('('//111 Iidi/ll, I()..I.3). Tourneur also inherited cinemato- (\\liting as Geofhe~ Homes), bter to \\Tite the IIlilr-ish gangster films Tlte
gr,lpher '\icholas \lusuraca hom the LC\\tol1 features: a specialist in 'mood IJI~ ,,,'Icill (1<)+lJ) and Thc fJltclllt CIl)' Sllir]' (II)SS), \\ith contributions fi'om,
lighting' (Spicer, 2002: 17), \lusuracl m,ltlc a major contribution to the IlIIir ,\lll()J1~ others, fames.\1. Clin.' Of the film's principal cast members, .\Iitchum
cycle, his other 1I0in including 7iJc SpJral SllIinasl' ([lJ+'=;), Tlie Lockcl (1<)+6), (/lic l,oc'l.'CI, C:rl/ss/irc, Pllrsllcd, J()+7 - a Freudian IIl/lr \,"estern - and .\lcli'lII,
TIll' Hi)/J/{/II011 Pier 13 (1<)5°), Clash /J)' _\1/;11/ (1<)52) ,1Ild Tlte Bille Cardmia 11j'i2) is particulari\ strough identified \\ith H)..I.0S IIl/lr\s .\ laltb\ (i H)X+ I 1l)1)2:
([ (53). The screenplay \\,IS adapted hom his 0\\11 nO\cl b~ Daniel .\ bil1\\ aring I ; 21 slims lip, '\\h.lle\ er /illll 1I1i/1' is, {Jill o(llte Pilsi is undoubtedly /illll /llilr'.

il
Fronl QIII or Ihe Pasl/ lJlIlld ,1'I1' Calloll's lfigll (1l)~7)· Reproduced courtc y of ItKO/The
Kohal Cllliccrioll.
230 FILM GE"'RE
As a private-eye film, 0111 III' lite Pasl is firmly located in one of the
narrative paradigms most closely identified vvith the nllir world. However
0111 (~rlhe Pasl g'oes some way to reconfigure the private-eye narrative awa;
from its classically 'haru-boiled' versions (such as Tlte Big Sleep) towards
I1l1ir's more typically disoriented, self-destructive vision of masculinitv, For
Krutnik (H)<) I: I 12), 0111 111'1 he Pasl undertakes 'a remarkable problematising
of the Spaue-type priv'ate-eye hero' anu the narrative never finally or fully
resecures Jeffs masculine identity in the patriarchal oruer he destabilises
through his illicit relationship with Kathie. Whereas Bogart's impersonation
of Spade and !vbrlow'e enacts alpha-male dominance, ,\litchum's Jeff
Markham is characterised by a wilful passivity: having tracked Kathie down
to Acapulco in his assignment to retrieve Whit's purloined S+o,ooo, Jeff
surrcnders both his professional responsibilities and his individual will in a
mood that Grist (1992: 207) aptly characterises as 'ardent abandonment' (of
scruples and of self), silencing Kathie's protestations of innocence with the
memorable line 'Baby, 1 don't care'. :\fter the couple flee to San Francisco,
Jeffs \oiceO\er of his debased condition obsessin:ly insists on his careless
abjection: 'I opened an of1ice , .. Cheap little rathole which suited the work
I did, Shabby jobs for whatever hire. It was the bottom of the barrel, and 1
scrapeu it. But 1 didn't care, I had her.'
Despite the emphatic last sentence, hO\vevcr, Kathie, is an elusiye signifier
who will not be 'had', or possessed (unlike Jeff, vvho will be 'had' in the other
sense of the term - duped, conned); her narrative function, like so many noir
women, is to illustrate the fugitive, LlI1tasy nature of desire itself. \loreover,
and characteristically for male Jlllir protag'onists, Jeffs own morality, though
shaky, is more resilient than he professes: \yhen he finally discO\ers that
Kathie has actually stolen Whit's money, he is disenchanted and repelled.
Jeff suffers the !III/I' nule's repcated double bind: affecting a cynicd, vvorld-
weary L1I11iliarity with the \vays of the vvorld, he nonctheless remains prey to
insistent romantic LlI1tasy constructions vvhose inevitable disenchantment
leaves him disempO\\ ered anu directionless. The narrational and snual dis-
empowerment of the masculine ideal represented by the 'hard-boiled' private
eye in (Jill IIrlhe Pasl confirms that the variously inept, inadequate and/or
impotent 'private dicks' of [(nOS Jlllir arc less namples of ag;gressi\e genre
revisionism in thc f:lshion of contemporaneous \\esterns, musicals and war
films than intensifications of Jlllir's nisting tendencics to pJranoia and male
pathos. As \bltby (I )()~+J H)l)2: (l7) obsenes, post\\ar JlOir is distinctive in its
rcfusal of a place for 'the separate heroic figure, the embodiment of the
.\mericlll individualist heroic tradition', either reintegrating its 'maladjusted'
proLIgonists into normal society (Tlte Big CIII d.', I(H~) or, ,IS in (Jill IIrlhe
Pasl, compelling a LIlal e.\piJtion of past guilt.
Tn the later San Francisco scenes as Jeff undertakes his second assignment
1'11.11 ,VOIR 231
.-----------------------------------
f<lr Whit (he accepts the job as an act of restitution only to find that Whit
intends to frame him for a murder), the fantasy aspect of the narrative is
Ol,lde clear as the film slips into the characteristic !lOir oneiricism discussed ,, i,
'Ibo\e. This sequence, involving a fairly impenetrable intrigue and intro- I I
I, ,
ducing important characters quite late in the film, unfolds in an elliptical, ! '
disloC1ted and fragmentary vvay, posing difficulties of basic legibility - of space,
of !11oti\,ltion and of identity - th,lt centre on the striking visual confusion of
J'"llhie \\ith \leta Carson (Rhonda Fleming), the film's secondary and super-
nUIllary femme f:ltale. The blurring of identities, sudden melodramatic
rC\crs,rls and spatial dislocltion of this sequence can be read as textual
stresses ansv\cring to Jeffs o\\n intensifying inner conflicts and confusions at
this point in the narrative.
\leta prO\ides a 'negative' uouble of Kathie mirrored by her 'positive'
fe11l,lk counterpart in the film, Jeffs Bridgeport girlfriend Ann (Virginia
Huston), emphasising' the film's tendency to\vards a symbolic schematism in
its narrativc ,1ITangements:\nn is identified \\ith the small-town mounLlin
community of Bridg'eport, initially at least a daylight/'high-key' vvorld oftradi-
tional relationships and soliu, if mundane, decency (tracked dov\l1 by Whit's
underling Joe Stef:lI1os, Jeff lectures him on the values of traditiOlul American
entrepreneurship: '\\'e call it nuking '11i\ing. You may have heard of it some-
\\here') contrasted to the v,lrious lo\\-key, urban or f(lreign milieus associated
\\ith Kathie and \\'hit and \\ith dishonest or at least undeseneu wealth.
Such schematism seems to reinf()rce simplistic oppositions of city and
countn, sc.\ and marriage, the 'good' self (in Bridgeport, Jeff renames
himsclfJcff Bailey) and the 'bad'; hO\\c\cr, it can ,I!so can be read as drawing'
attention to the LlI1tasy, or mythic, n,llurc of such dichotomies ,Iml thc ,,. !II,
cultural logics that sub tend them. The more effort the narrative puts into
holding apart the valorised and the vitiated discursi\c anu actantiYe realms,
,II::II
I!i
:
,I I
the more they insist on collapsing back into one another. The narrational ,'I ,
stress of the San Francisco scenes confesses this ideolo~ieal tension in one
\\<l~; the gTadual but gnming penetration of Jeff -'!arkham's Itm-key !IOIr
urh,1I1 \\orld into the hi~h-key sl1l,dl-to\\'n one of 'Jeff Bailey' is another (as
in the ni~ht-tiI1le dialog'ue bet\\een Jeff and\nn to\\ards the end of the
film). \\e should note, moreO\cr, as Oliver and Tri~o (200,): 22+f.) suggest,
that\nn is not quite the one-dimensional homebody that in many vvays the
film's narrative schem,1 secks to render her: her readiness not only to ~o
against her Elmih's \\ishes and ditch her long-time homl'to\\ n suitor for Jeff
hut to abandon j~ridgeport altog'cther ,1I1d go off \\ith .lefT indicate that the
ilkJlised small-tO\\ n \\mld is perlups no Illore satisf:Ictory for the 'good girl'
,
than f(JI' the 'femme LILlie'. Earl, in the film, Jeff confesses to .\nn that he i,' ,1
, I
h'h been 'a lot of places': '\\hieh" one did you like the best?' she asks him, to
\I hich Jeff replies, 'This one ri~ht here'. 'Bl't \OU say that to all the places',
Ann responds. Ann's playful fusion of the places and the \\omen in Jeffs life (ttAPTER 10
not only re\'eals her to be more knowing than her homespun image would
imply, but points up the ways in which fantasy relations and oppositions
structure Jeffs experience of the social and the scxual alike: the O\crdeter_
The Action Blockbuster
mined opposition of the small-tO\\n ideal and the urban jungle mirrors that
of l(athie and Ann as good and bad objects in Jeffs psychic economy.
This exchange makes the end of the film all the more poig,·nant. \\'ith Jeff
and Kathie dead, !\nn faces an implicit choice bet\\een staying - which
means, in effect, quashing the curiosity and desire f(lr change that her
attraction 10 Jeff bespoke - or lea\ing Bridgeport altogether, this time alone.
Jeffs mute assistant confirms to her that Jeff \\as Ic.l\ing to\\n \\ith l(athie
- a 'good lie' that frecs her from Jeff's memory and cnables hcr to return to
her 1<mg'-time suitor Jim, Thus the film ends \\ith Jeffs posthumously suc-
cessful recontainment of energies of female autonomy: haying \olunteered to
f all the genres discussed in this book, the action filmlaction
enter Jeffs 110ir \\orld, ,\nn is restored to a stable location
'good girl'
the daylight
within the dichotomous masculine Cll1tasy structures her self-
awareness had briefly threatened to puncture, Indeed, in a sense Jeff goes
O blockbuster is at once the most contemporary, the most \isibly rele\ant
to presenH.la~ Holly\\ood film-making, and also the least discussed and least
knowingly 10 his death precisc1~ to sccure this outcome. It is interesting \\ell-dc1ined. Lntil the publication of a recent anthology (Tasker, 200+),
therc!(lre to considcr \1 hether in a sense it is -\nn, rather than Kathie, \\ho is reL1ti\ eh little has been \Hitten about action film as a genre: the notable
Ihe film's femme E1Iale: her 'thre,lt' consisting precisely in hcr /1111 consenting C\cept ions, the st ud ies by Tasker (J()03) and Jeff(lHls (I <)0+), f(lCUS speci-
(unlike Kalhie or \leta) to be constructcd purel\ on and in the terms of lIlli, l1calh on construct ions of masculini t ~ in the hig;h-octane male act ion films of
ElIllas~ unlil, that is, Jeffs 1in,11 reassert ion of patriarchal authority, far the I qXos and early H)<)OS, The contemporar~ blockbuster has become a
more successful in death than he had been in life (the bst imag'e of the film "c1lOlarl~ f(lcUS e\en more recently, notably in \\\,Itt (1<)<)+), King (2000a),
is Jeff Baile\'s name atop his garage), I lall (2002) and Stringer (2003). \\hereas 'LiskeI' and Jeffords focus on the
ultra-I iolent, usually R-rated \ehicles f(lI' pumped-up stars such as Arnold
Scll\\arzeneg'g'er, Syhester Stallone, Jean-Claude \<111 1),1I11111e and their like,
0JOTES the emphasis in the blockbuster studies is much more on institutional context
and thc aesthetics of spectacle in special eflects-dri\en, large-scale SI.' and
I, SlT thc l'''lltCl11p''LlrI rCliclI' ;md C"JIS c"llectcd ill SiilLT .md L r,illi (1(I,jI,), L1I1LIS~ films from Sial' 1101'S to T!le lAird IIrl!le RI/lgs.
, S" l,;tlled hCCJu,c thc 111;I:';Jzilll" 1!1;1I 'I'cci.tli'l'll ill 11ilrd-h"i1l'l1 l11.lILTiJI 11Ot.lhil IUiI(/: It ma~ seem therc1(lI'C that there is a basic incohcrence in the idea of the
\/"'/ IILTC IHlhli,hcd "Il ChCIlP IIIHlll-l'lilp pl!JllT, ',lliion blockbuster'. It is certainh the case th,1I neither of the t\\O terms
J, l.illlLJ \\ i1IUI11' (II)~'~), hOlIl'ILT, l'.IUtl"Il' J:';IllIht (()" 1.llilc ;m idclllilie.ltI<m "I \li1drcd
i1ll {)h ed is as straightf(ll'\\<IHl ,IS other genre concepts used in this book. One
Jl1d thc l'!CJI1LT', '1rl'"ill:'; thill Ilwir dilTLTCll1 l'l.l" 1',,,iti"Il,' CIlLlilcLJlI.tliI dilkrcill
l"rIll, "I' piltri,trehJI 'llhjlTli"ll, diliintlty in defining' the blockbuster is that \\hile most critics identif~
-t' ,,,tc, h"IICILT, t11i1l Il"1'l1e ilild ChilUl11ct"l1\ (II).:;:;) li,t c\l'!udc' S,,/lI(1 SII'«I th"ugh l'\Cl:"si\ e scale (including cost and length) as a generic marker, others include
Il"t, "ddil, it, e"l11l';lI1l"l1 111111 '/I", /I III!I,/Il /II III( II II/dll II , /'''1'« "I f,t! .md /)(111111'. colbumption - that is, runa\\ay success ,11 the box oftice- as itself ,I sufficient
) Thl' C'ehilll:';l' i, LJu"lcd ;md di'l'l",cd III \l.tltlll (I J()'~-tl I,!,!~: :;11 ~) caU'ie f(lr blockbuster sLitus, In some \\ays, a f()\,\ll like the action blockbuster
(l. \llh"ll:,;h SillLT ,md L r,illi (Iql)h) l,ilc ;1 ph"t":';L!J,h "I' J{"hert \Idrieh "Il the 'C'I "I
PU'ihe'i genre study to its limits, requiring it to integTate se\eral di\erse
1\1« \1,- /)'-Ildh h"ldill~' il mI'l "I' Il"llle Jl1d ChiIUll1ct"ll\ (i Iq:;.:;I, II)~.;) PillIll/'ill/liI ,III
1'1111/ \ IIII' III/,n,,,ill, critical approaches (film-historical, economiclinstitutional and aesthetic/
/' ,,,tc, h"lll'IlT, Ihllt J;ll11l'"m eill" C/IIIII!/ll II 'II. Ilhich hc cLI",ilic, II' II '1l("l;i1~lil lill11'. ilS ideological) in the \ er~ process of constituting, defining ,lnd historicising a
ill1 c\.1ll1pk "I' p'I,tiehc, ~l'ncric field. This already daunting task is made yet more difficult by the
x. ,·'01' I1HllT dl'Llil~ of the tilln'..., production hi~r()r~, ~l'l' (iri . . r (1t)<)2: 203) ~llHl SLh\\.l~l·r rampant gcneric hybridity of contempoLlry IIolly\\ood in general and the
(11)1)1),
action blockbustlT, as the p,lr,ldigmatic contemporary Holly\\ood genre, 111
234 FILM GENRE
particular. Slarsizip Troopers (199X), for example, combines the teen film, the
war/combat film, elements of the \Vestern and the SF monster moyie, while
satirising all three.
Nonetheless, in simple iconographic terms the action blockbuster does
have some reliable constants, most of which relate to the spectacular action
sequences that are an immutable feature of the genre. Sky-high orange fire-
balls; vehicles and bodies pitching, often in slow motion, through plate-glass
windows; characters diving and rolling across "Tecked interiors, either under
the impact of rapidly fired bullets or to escape from them; automatic pistols
and large-calibre pOl·table weaponry like grenade launchers; death-def~'ing
stunts: these arc all immediately recognisable attributes of the action block-
buster.
The structure of the action blockbuster punctuates intensc linear momen-
tum -' plot eyents driyc the picture fonYanl, usually excluding the narrative
space available for nplorations of character psychology or relationships or
reducing these elements to a series of terse exchanges - with spectacular
passages of action, often prominently featuring special effects and/or stunt
work that radically nceed the needs of the narratiye situation that giYes rise
to them. Car chases - ,yhich in strict narratiye terms often deliH:r yery little
- typif~ this structure. I Thus rather than the 'wcll-made' complex plot of the
traditional thriller, the central narratiYe premise of an action film may come
to seem lirrle more than a thin spine from "hich dangle essentially dis-
connected large-scale action episodes. '\ lack of interest in genuine complexity
may hardly be nmel in Hollywood action and thriller cinema, but whereas,
for example, Hitchcock used his famous '\1acGuffins' as a means to not only
trademark 'Hitchcockian' set-piece sequences, but the exploration of emotional
and psychological relationships of dependency ,ll1d manipuLition, the contem-
porary action blockbuster seems largely uninterested in any plot clement
except as a narrative ruse through which to deliyer nplosions, chases and
gunfights, the bigg'er the better. The blockbuster typically opens with a large-
scale action sel]uCllce of the type that mig;ht hay e climaxed ,1 cbssic Holly,yood
film: thus whereas FOI"l'/~~1I Correspolld'>/Il (19+°) concludes "ith ,I pLine crash,
Fate/ O!l"( I<)97) opens Ilit h a high-intensity ch,lse seq uence im 011 ing a jet,
numerou" police cars and a helicopter, at the end of IIhich the jet ploughs
through the usual pLite-glass curtain wall into a hang;cr.
Identifying the g'eneric "ynL1x of the action blockbuster is more difficult.
Geoff I-.:.ing (2000a) has argued that frontier motifs are a submerged presence
in action films; 1l)l)OS action films ofien centred on confusion" of idenrity and
the self, which featured in face/Oil; Tolal Retail (1991), 1;raser (H)96) and
Til,> LOllg Kiss Good/llglll (H)97) among others. But the bottom line of most
action blockbusters is the decisi, e (usually yiolent) action taken against oyer-
whelming odds by a 'malcrick' indilidual, most often unsupported b~ 01'
J
THE ACTION BLOCKBUSTER 235
cycn in connict with establishment authority, to restore order threatened by
,I \;Irge-scale threat. The action hero, who may be paired with a more law-
,Ibiding or comention-respecting 'buddy' - the Lelltal Weapon series (from
Il)XX) is the obyious example - is thus a ycrsion of the classic 'ourlaw hero'
,IS discussed by Robert Ray (1985: 59-(6). Opposition to authority, whether
,Irising out of principle (COli, -1/1', 1(97), wTongful conyiction (AIlnorlt)l
Reporl, 2002), betrayal (Ral/l!Jo: Flrsl Blood Pari 11, 1985; Gladlalor, 2000) or
simply personal style (flldepelldt'l/te Day, I<)96; ,-1rll/ageddoll, 199X) ensures
that the action hero is denied recourse to the (dramatically uninteresting)
proced ures of the justice system and must Llll back on inner resources:
II huc,ls these are often - as with John Rambo and John "lcCLine (in the Die
liard series, I<)XX, H)<)O, 1(95) - simply a giyen, at other times the hero's
discOlcry of these capacities for yiolent action constitutes his narrati,-e 'arc':
I()r example the initially desk-bound characters played by :'\icolas Cage and
John Cu"ack in Tlte Rod,. ,md COil . iiI'.
Some commentators haye discerned a degree of estrangement in the hyper-
bolic lisual style of contemporary action cinema and particularly in action
sequences' distortion of normative tempor,llity and spatiality -' through the use
of "lOll motion and multiple camera angles (effects that owe a great deal 10
the pioneering; action sequences of S,lm Peckinpah in Tlte Wild BUlld/) - and
the fetishistic arrention both to the kinds of hanll'are that comentionall,
signify wealth and (male) status (pmyerboats, sports cars, etc.) and to their
literal dem,lterialisation (being spectacularly torched or blm,n apart). The
knOll ing humour and wilful excessiyeness, ,yhether in deploying' ulrra-
I iolcncc or in prodig;ality of consumption, that typif~' rill: work of such
Lhhionable action din:ctors as Paul \'eerhoeven, Quentin Tarantino and John
\\ 00, lIould tend to support such claims. Howe,er, it is equally clear that
most action films seem less intercstcd in activating their spectators in l]u'lsi-
Brcchtian fashion than in nploiting the unparalleled technical resources of
eontempor,uy Hollywood simply to overwhelm any capacity for discngagement
hI thc yiolent sensory assault of kinetic ,i"uals and multitLlCkcd sound
dreus ;lnd music.
Thc emergencc of the contemporary ,lctiol1 blockbuster as (in financial
lerms ,11 least) Holly"ood's dominant gcnre since the mid-I()Xos is account-
,thle in terms of the '\n\ Holly"ood's o\yn transformation into a g;lobal
cel1tre of conglomerate media actiyity. In fact, one could argue that the
millennial (I()()OS and 2000S) action film is g;enerically characterised by its
1)\1 n repeated enactment at n'Cry leYel, hom n;lrrative to distrihution and
m;lrkcting, of the same imperati' es of relentless market domination th,1£ typif\
modern corporate HollI,yood. Contemporary action spectacuL1rs ruthless"
collmise traditional genrcs such as thc historical epic (Bnll'cltcarl, 1995;
C/"dlillllr; TI"II)', 200+) and most often science fiction, and c1sually subordinate
2J6 FILM GENRE
such classically crucial elements as narrative and character to literally show-
stopping' special-cffects- and stunt-dri\en action sequences. These action
sequcnces comprise the ,1ction film's principal selling-point and feature
centrally in the saturation marketing campaigns that attend these films'
release, and they typically employ a 'high-g.·loss' \isual style, drawing heavily
on advertising and music video, invohing a markedly accelerated cutting rate
(compared to Hollywood films of the I<!70S and before: see Bord\\ell, 2002)
that intensifies the already kinetic experience of the action-laden story.
Traditionally secondary (or in any case hack-room) areas of film production
such as star 'branding', the dominance of the 'high concept' and the
aggressive marketing of aspects of tilm-making technology (e.g. CGI) are
given a ne\\' prominence. These comhine \vith a heightened puhlic a\\areness
of production costs and box-office returns to create a genre \vhose film/
spectator interLJce is no longer contined to the textual len~l hut enters the
public realm - carefully husbanded through the multiple arms of \crtically
integrated media conglomerates as cross-media 'e\ents'.
Dominating' and integrating all of these is the central 'high concept', in
ddining which term reference is usually made to the producer partnership of
Don Simpson (d. I()l).j.) and Jerry Bruckheimer, \\hose series of enormously
successful action vehicles from the mid-Il)Ros oll\vards (En'crl)' Hills Cop,
IyR.j.; Til P Goo, I yR6; The R lid.', )()l)6;1 nlwgeddllll, l()yR; etc.) consolidated
the elements listed above in a glossy package topped by a high-protile male
star (Tom Cruise, Eddie ~lurph~, Bruce Willis) in an easily summarised plot
formula ('1\ street wise black Detroit cop in Holly\\ood', 'a hotshot tig'hter ace
learning lessons in !<)\c allli in combat') (sec \\yatt, I<)(!-1-). (Robert :\ltman's
I1olly\\ood-on-Holly\\ ood .s,ltire The Pla)'cr (I<)I)R) guys the high concept
\\ith increasingly haroque and ahsurd pitches: 'Prell)! '1"111//11/1 meets Ollt oj
·lfl"l((/'. )
Yet as ultra-modern - e\cn post modern . as in so man v \\,1\S the action
hlockhuster o\niously is, it also manifests abiding' continuities \\ith ,md
through the history of Holly\\ood genre. In its combination of \isual spectacle,
sensational episodic storylines, performati\c ,1I1d presentational excess, and
starkl~ simplified, personalised narrati\ es, the action blockbuster is umhilically
linked to the tiHllldationalmelodramatic tradition of Holh\\ood tilm ..\It hough
this chapter \\ ill focus on the institutional contexts, textual politics and issues
of spectatorship informing critical reception of the ,lCtion film and the
hlockhuster, in many \\JYs the genre em best he understood as the emphatic
restoration to industrial pre-eminence of the orig'ilury mode of the :\merican
cinema- it is in bet most protitable to regard it as 'action melodrama', a
form that synthesises hoth the blood-and-t h under Jnd the domest ic/ pathetic
melodramatic traditions.
TilE ACTIO'J BLOCKBUSTER 2J7
I'J YOUR FACE: THE RISE OF A POST-CLASSICAL
GENRE
\lost ,1ceoulltS of the ;\'e\\ Holly\\ood identi(\ the period 1975-77 as a
~\,Itershed in the transition from the Ne\\ \Vave-ish 'Hollywood Renaissance'
period to the popcorn era of the Il)Ros an~ since (see, for instance, Sch,~tz,
1."in"
I 1)1) ",~.l'\.- t'"
200~)
- •
But neither the actIOn hIm nor the blockhuster matenal-
ise<\ out of]!Il!'s' deep blue sea in I<!75 or Sial' 1/a/'s' intergalactic space in
1<)7/. In bct, the term "Iction blockbuster' pulls together a \\ell-estahlished
\lenre the action-alhcnture tilm \\ith deep roots in classic Hollywood
l),lck to the silent era, \\ith ,1 mode of production - the hlockhuster - most
strongh associ,!ted \\ith the changing economics of the post-classical period.
\ third terlll that often triangulates this pairing, 'spectacle', relates simul-
t,lIleously to the action hlockhuster's properties of visual display, ho\\ thes<:
,dYeet ,1lIdienc<:s' consumption of th<: moving' imag<: (,1 subject of consid<:rable
contrmcrsy, particuLIrh in relation to narrative and characterisation), and
Illdh th<: cultural construction of the blockbuster film as a 'sp<:ctacular', or
in industry parlanc<: an '<:\cnt', through marketing and medi,\. This s<:ction \vill
tLlce hm\ these separate .str,mds h,1\<: com<: together into the contcmporary
action blockbust<:r.
\ction and action-adv<:ntuf<:
In one sense, of course, C\er~ motion pictUIT is an 'action' tilm. \lor<: to th<:
point, a great many cLIssic Holh \\00l1 gTl1lTS notahly the \\ar film, Ih<:
!.!.·'lllg·~t<:r film and the \\estern includ<: and ar<: in some llleasure defined by
SITnes of \iolent 'Ietion. Thu.s the cont<:mporan US,IgT of the term 'action
film' 10 deserihe tilms such a.s SiI"1I1~ PrI,'ille Rj'(/II (1I)1!7), Fald 0l! and
Slilr.,I/lp Tl"IJlipas, all of \\hich could he and ,liT equ,Ill~ \\<:11 locat<:d \\ ilhin
thl"~l" mor<: traditional g'<:nnic traditions, confirms the Glt<:gor~ is an C\pansin:
Olll". This <:x\xlIlsi\cness in turn might refket the increasingly mlltable natur<:
of ~enre idelltities in contemporar~ I lol1~ \\oOl!.
\ loosdy definl'll categ'or~ oj"action-a<henture' has nisted inlloll~\\oOll
~ince the silent era. ","elle (zooo: :;:;) notes that the tnm \\as appli<:d by
umtempor;Iry revi<:\\ers to a H)Z; I )oug'las Fairbanks \ehick, The Gill/dill, and
l'.lirhanks's sur person,I - coura~Tous, earnest, light-hearted and supITmdy
athletic eSLlhlish<:d ,1 romantic heroic style tak<:n up by latn action stars
~lIch ,1S Errol Flynn and Burt I.,mcaster. During' till: classical period, th<:
actioll-a<hTnture g'elllT incorpoLlted s\\;Ishhucklers, sCI-g'oing and luhberh
(F,lirbanb' The Blad: P,mle, I(P;; The lthm/!/res lij" Rli/lill Hlilid, lin:;;
Iloralili flonlb/iI!I'cr. R.\., 11):;1), jung'lc-qu<:st ,llld s,Iflri a<hTntures (kill~
sololl/lill\'\Iilles, II):;'; lIiIIii ri l , II)()Z), For<:ign Legion ~arns and other
238 FILM GENRE
examples of what John Eisele (2002) has recently called 'the Holhwood
Eastern' (The Lost Patrol, 193-1-; Bca 1/ Ccste, H)39), ;nd Hitchcockian thrillers
of espionage and international intrigue (Foreigll Corrcspondmt, 19-1-0: Sorth by
Northl7'est, 1(59). The popularity of long-running characters like Edgar Ri~e
Burroughs's jungle aristocrat Tarzan (impersonated by se\eral actors in at
least -1-0 features and serials from I9IH to the late I960s) indicates the genre's
strong appeal to a ju\enile male audience. As such examples indicate, action-
adventure often imohed a significant displacement from contemporary
American life, into exotic, far-flung locales like colonial :UricI or th~
'mysterious Orient' and/or the historical past (the picturesque Re\olutionary
and Napoleonic eras \\ere especially fa\oured), \\ith a strong scenic emphasis.
Taves (1993) points out that this touristic quality necessarily implicates the
genre in recognisably imperialist tropes, albeit in some \\ays qualified by the
emphasis on freedom-fighting amI the restitution of injustices (fi)r example
in the numerous \ersions of the Zorn) story). A.ction-ad\cnture films tended
to flaunt high production \alues, \\cre likely candidates in due course for
colour and widescreen treatment, and usually featured attracti\e, robust stars
in relati\ely Iighl-hearted romantic and/ or quest narrati\-es. 2 Slar J1ars' debt
to classic swashbucklers (as \\hen Luke \~lllits across the tlthomless core unit
in the Death Star clasping' Princess I _eia in his arms) is ob\ious. Emphatically
a Llmily genre, the action-ad\entlllT film has really neler g;one out of Llshion,
although along;side other traditional large-scale genres it suffered from
Hollywood's temporary shift: of attention in the early [(nOS to\\anls smaller-
scale, more characler-centred contempoLlry dramas. Bet\\een 1970 and 1975
only The Three .Hl/sA'I'let'l's (H)7J) could be clearly identified as an action-
.ld\enture in the traditional sense. Hm\e\er, the same season, Hn:;-76 -
perhaps sig;nificantly the year after the end of the \ittrum \\ar - that saw
the emergencc of the ne\\" slyle of action blockbuster \\ith .lall's also saw
something of a IC\ i\al in thl' traditional exotic/historical ad\ l'ntulT film \\ith
such large-scale productions as The Hall 11/11! l1"ollld Be A.illg and 'lite l1"ind
(/1/(1 Ihe I_ilill (both Hn:;).
Blockbusters
The blockbustcr - massi \ely spl'CLlcular prod uctions concei \ cd and marketed
on the grandest possibk scale - has fCltured importantly in _\merican, and
world, film history for elen longer than thl' action-.ldn:nture film. D. \Y.
Griffith's epochal Ci\il War melodrama Hirlh oj" a _\alilill (Il)I:;), \Ihose
release .rccording to stand.lrd histories of film marks both the culmin.rting
moment Df cinema's formatiH decades .lml the crystallisation of \1 hat \\ould
become the classical HoIlY\IOOll st\ 1e, \Ias not only the lDngcst, largest and
most npensi\e _-\mericlIl film to d.ltl'; it I\as alsD the dl,<lrtst to see (\Iith
THE ACTlO"i BLOCKBUSTER 239
ticket prices for its premiere engagement fixed at the unheard-of sum of $1)
.IIld the most profitable, \\ith domestic box-office re\enues estimated at $3
million. Subsequently, physical scale, stars, cost and length would all mark
out the blockbuster. Griffith himself \\as responding to the enormous success
on t he liS market of recent antiquarian Italian epics such as Cahir/a (19 I3)
.llld QIIO l-adis? (19 q) and effecti\e1y 'American ising' the mode after his own
pI"C\ious film in the Italian style,]/h/ilh oj"Belhlllio (I9q) (see Bowser, H)90).
\\ith his nest production, IllllileulI/u' (1917), Griffith aimed even higher,
recreating Biblical Babylon on a scale of stupe(\ing Ia\ishness; however,
llIlli/cralice's ambitious attempt to esplore an abstract concept in a set of
intcrlinked scenarios sp.mning centuries pro\ed Ell' less popular with audiences
th.ln Birlh oj" a Salllill's simple (and relctionary) family saga. A nascent
Holly\\ood deri\ed t\\in lessons from Griffith's experiences: that the block-
buster's massi\e earnings potential \\"as matched by colossal risks; and that to
minimise those risks as tlr as possible simplicity of conception, Llmiliarity of
subject matter and emphasising action mcr reflection were a more promising
rl'cipe than philosophical speculation to appeal to a di\erse mass public.
Thus the Llilure of IlIllilculIlC( confirmed that the preferred mode of sub-
sl'Ljul'nt blockbusters \\ould be, and continues to be, melodramatic.
Prior to the Second \YorlLl War, in Llct, ultra-high-budg'et spectacle films
J...nm\n as 'superspecials' - featured only intermittently on the major studios'
production schedules, \yhich \\ere mainly geared to offset risk through mass-
producing a di\erse slate of releasl's to all market sectors in a steady stream
~ ear-round, rather than emphasising one production at the expense of all the
othLTs; the best-kl1(mn pre\\ar 'superspecial', the hug'ely successful GUIIC
11 lilt Iltc Utlld (19.19), \\as produced independently hy Dayid O. Selznick,
and \\ .IS onl' of only three pictures released by Selznick International Pictures
that \ear..1
\s .'\eale (zoo,r -I-S-50) outlines, it \\as the film industry's changing;
post \\ ar fortunes that propelled large-scale prod uctions back to the fi)re, as
thl' majors radically reshaped their operations in the early H)50S in the [Ice
or shrinking' audiences and the loss of their e:xhibition arms. In an era when
occlsional, rather than routine, mO\-ing-going \\as becoming' the norm, high-
profile one-of-a-kind 'specials' seemed a good \\ay to dra\\ this increasingly
sl'kcti\e public into theatres. :herage budgcts increased markedly during the
[l):;OS as blockbusters took on increasing importance, both in defining; a
studio's public profile and in its annual .lccounts. This period according;ly
Sa\\ the return of the prmerbial 'cast of thousands' in remakl's of silent-era
Biblical .md Roman epics such .IS Tltc TCII COIIl/lli/lldlllcr/ts (19:;6), QIIO Vi/dis?
(1l):;I) and BCI/-HI/r (19:;9) alongside ne\Y!y minted peplum behemoths like
nlc Ro!Jc (H):;3) and Cleopalra (1963) and globe-trotting costume capers like
Jrlil/I/d tlte 11"IIr/d ill Eigltt) , Days (19:;9), their spectacular aspects further
240 FILM GENRE
enhanced by colour and the new widescreen f(lrmats (see below). True to
Hollywood traditions, postwar blockbusters relied heavily not merely on scale
- crowds of milling extras and enormous sets - but on their deployment in
dynamic action sequences invohing daring stunt work: among the most
celebrated were the chariot race at the Circus Maximus in Ben-Hllr and the
enormous battle scenes in Spa rtaclis (1960). Blockbusters showcased the
leading male action stars of the time, such as Victor Mature (Samson and
Delilah, 1949; DcmetrillS ilnd tlie Gladiators, 195-t), Charlton Heston (The Ten
Commandments, Bt'n-Hllr, EI Cid, 196 I) and kirk Douglas (The VI/.:ings, 1959;
Spartacus). Visual and photographic effects also sometimes played a part,
notably in the parting of the Red Sea in The Tell COIIl/na ndlllClits. Yet in
general these films were stylistically quite unlike today's breathlessly kinetic
action spectacles. On the contrary, their gTandiose physical scale tended to
lend narrative and staging a ponderous quality while dialogue in search of
classical gril7'itas too often came out sounding leaden and stilted - qualities
that in its own time also c1e~lrly separated the epic blockbuster from the
faster-moving, quicker-witted action-adventure film. Some of these difficulties
were related to the problem of satisfactorily integrating' narrati\c and spectacle,
discussed below.
An important bridge to the contemporary action blockbuster was the
disaster cycle of the early 1970s, particularly Invin Allen's big-budget pro-
ductions The PoseidoJl "~ihe/ltlire (1971), Eartllljllilke (H)7-t) and The TOIPering
In/i'rl1o (1975, jointly financed by Warner Bros. and Cniversal, then a highly
unusual move+ that would become more common in the 1990S era of the
$100+ million picture, for example Tilallii, J()97). Clearly, aspects of these
films - for instance, the emphasis on costly \'isual effects, large-scale action
sequences, simple narrative premises and novel technologies like Sensurround
(used for Eartllljllake and Rollerroaslcr, 1976) foreshadow aspects of the
contemporary blockbuster. Ho\vever, their general st~ listic conservatism,
including a reliance on all-star casts studded with Old Hollywood faces (Ava
Gardner, Shelley Winters, Fred .\staire, William Holden) rooted them
recognisably in the old-style blockbuster culture of the J()50S and early 1960s.
Thus the successful alloying of the action-adventure film and the block-
buster was by no means predictable. :\nd in Llet, neither.la II'S nor Sia r 11 itrs,
the two enormously successful films usually credited with transforming "Jew
Hollywood ~lesthetics and economics, in themsehes typified the action
blockbuster th.u would achieve such unprecedented industrial centrality in
Hollywood in the 19Ros and since. Rather, the most important elements from
each - elements themselves artfullv synthesised and refined from current
trends - \vould subsequently be distilled into the new action blockbuster.
]illI'S, as has often been noted, bears affinities to the dis~lster film as \vell
as other mid-H)7os genres such as the conspiracy film (in its portrayal of the
THE ACTION BLOCKBUSTER ..LI.l
1', ~Ittempts of .\mity's petty bourgeois elite to suppress news of the rogue shark
in their own economic interests), \vhile also foreshadowing the later stalk-
and-sLIsh horror pictures . .\clore character-centred than most of its successors,
7<1l1's built up a relentless momentum in its s.ec~m~ hal.f that \~·.oul.d be much
'imitated . .lillI'S' presciencc consisted above all m Its Ic011lcally eftectl\e market-
in~ campaign mastlTminded by -'le\ president Le\v Wasserman - the
t~l1~lOUS poster image of the gigantic phallic shark nosing its \vay towards the
n,lked female swimmer; pioneering high-impact TV spot ads; the avalanche
(If pre-publicity centring on the film's troubled production and the travails of
its principal special effect, thc mechanical shark 'Bruce'; its 'wide' opening
(i.c. simultaneously in several hundred theatres natiol1\vide rather than in
selectcd prestige theatres on the East and \Vest coasts) and summer release;
its runa\\ ay success - quickly becoming the highest-grossing film of all time
to datc - transforming a traditionally minor season into the fulcrum of
Hollywood's fiscal year (see Gomery, ZOOT 7Z-6).
7i1I1'S at least was recognisably a blockbuster production, based on a best-
se!'ling nO\el, its eventual negative cost substantially exceeding its already
considerable budget. Slar liars, by contrast, although it too overran its
original budget (largely because of R&D costs associated with its innovative
special effects techniques), \vas not an especially expensive film; it was also a
considerably darker horse and initiallv regarded
, ' , with confusion and little
optimism by its distributor Twentieth Century-Fox. Compared to]aII'S, Slar
11 ,Irs represents a much more decisive stylistic break with mainstream J<)7os
110llywood. "ot only did it revive a genre - the action space Lmtasy .. barely
seen since the Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers seri.ds of the 1930S; as Peter
"Luller (zo0-t) notes, George J ,ucas targeted his film firmly at a juvenile
(adolescent and younger) audience, at this stage an almost imisible market
sector barely catered to by Disney's low-budget live-action Llmily comcdies
and ignored by the studios, who since the success of Tlte Grad/lale, Bun/lie
<I/lJ C1l'tle (both J<)Clj) and Eas)' Rldt'l' (1<)6<)) had assiduously been courting
the colleg;e-age audience. Both the film's box-office returns and e\'en more
the vast new profit centres caned out by the associated merchandising
honanza confirmed the logic of Lucas's strategy. FOrI1ully, Slar lIilrs was
also distinctive ~md hugely influential, departing much more decisi\'e1y than
]1111'.1' - from the more relaxed approach to plotting and characterisation that
had typified the 'Holly\\()od Renaissance'. Slar liars is ruthlessly focused on
dcli\cring a specific and ne\v kind of mO\ing-going experience that combines
the visual splendours of the old-style blockbuster (and its imperial themes)
II ith the fleet-footed rough-and-tumble of the action-adventure film. Yet a
historical perspective on genre film l'('veals that the nO\elty of all this can
ea"ih be o\ersuted. Emphatically simplistic in its .lpproach to character and
!11orality (\vhich is by no means to say wholly uninterested in them, especially
242 FILM GENRE
the latter), episodic, thrilling and spectacular, SII/r l~itrs in fact drilled down
past the superficial realism of classic Hollywood's prnailing regimes of
, THE ACTION BLOCKBUSTER
verisimilitude to retrieve something' like a distilled essence of Holly\\ood's
foundational melodramatic mode.
TRADITIONS OF SPECTACLE
Where SII/r Wars could indeed he credited \\ith an innO\ati\e generic
synthesis was in its inauguration of a ne\\ regime of \isual pleasure in which
action Is spectacle and vice versa. The nO\-elty of this action-spectacle alliance
arises from the ways it conjoins narrative and spectacle. Spectacular elements
have often been understood as lending to narratiye redundancy or even
interfering with narratiye inlegration, interrupting the flO\\ of the story by
encouraging spectators to contemplate the technical achievement of a specta-
cular sequence - scenery, production design, special effects and the like - at
the expense of empathetic imolyement in the characters and the unfolding
plot. The clumsiness of 19)OS epics has been cited as an e.xample of the way
that the need to gi\c maximum exposure to spectacular production values is
at odds with the creation of a compelling narrative, as longer shot lengths
resulted both from the visual density of the panoramic images amI (at least in
the early years of widescreen processes) uncertainty O\er the correct handling
of the horizon LIlly extended frame. !\loreO\er, whereas the best-known accounts
of classicll Hollywood cinema stress the centrality of narrative, .spectacle as
a stylistic dominant is associated \\ith the pre-classical cinema.
The post-classicll action/spectacle cinema has been interpreted in some
quarters as a return of sorts to the 'cinema of attractions" in Tom Gunning's
influential conception the organising principles of what used to be called
'primitiye' (nO\\ more usually 'early') cinema. In a series of essays, Gunning
(1990, 1(9)) identifies in early (pre-ll)lS) silent cinema an oq;anisational
principle radically different fi-om the linear, character-centred narratiyes that
came to predominate with the ad\cnt of the feature film. Early cinema relied
rather, Gunning argues, on an 'aesthetic of 'lstonishment'. Films of this period
did not solicit audiences' em pathetic identification \\ith psychologically
motiyated and developed characters, nor their immersion in a complex plot
animated by the interactions of these ch,Ir<lcters ,IS \vell as enigmas and
dramatic plot rC\ersals. Instead, early films engaged ,ludiences by imiting
them to manel at yisual spectacle. Initially, the miLlcle of tilmic moyement
itself dre\\ large audiences: l11,my early films consist 'merely' of documentary
scenes of modern (especi,dly urban) life that allowed spectators to review
their own emironments in unprecedented \Yays. The ways cinema addressed
its spect,ltors at this stage could be compared to carniyal 'attLlctions' or
I
J
\audeyille 'turns" and prior to the development of purpose-huilt cinemas in
fixed locations films were often yiewed as touring exhibitions in portahle
243
,luditoriums, sometimes eyen actually as lurt of travelling fairs; short films
themselY-es might comprise merely one element, or 'turn', in a variety bill
,llternating with stage acts and musical numbers. Although the silent cinema
nl0\cd to\\ards more extended and complex narratives to retain its audience
once the ne\\ medium's nO\clty faded, the principle of the marvellous
renuined central, and early narratives remained highly reliant on spectacle,
\I hether understood as scenic effects, exciting action sequences or increas-
inglY elahorate special effects sequences like the eruption of Mount Etna at
the opening of Cablrla.
The hugely inf1uential account hy Bord\\e1I, Staiger and Thompson
(J()S~) asserts that the spectacular effects of early cinema, with their tendency
to o\crwhclm or stall the unfolding story, and the ensuing distanciation of
the audience, \\ere suppressed in the classical style in Enour of linear
n,lIT,lti\cs centred on psychologically motiyated, goal-oriented characters. As
\\c ha\c seen, hO\\ever, the dominance of narrative \yas hound up with film
industry structures and economics, and the postwar need to recapture
shrinking audiences and - not least - to challenge the impact of tcleyision led
to a hc<n~ inyestment in technologies that could promise the cinema spectator
a scnsor~ experience distinct hom, and in aesthetic terms at least enormously
superior to, monochrome low-definition early T\. The large-scale conyers ion
to colour, the introduction of \\idesereen processes ,md stereophonic sound, as
\\ell as shorter-lived Elds like stereoscopic 3-D, all sencd to emphasise the visual
spectacle of cinema-going. The ultra-\\idescreen process Cinerama, whose
non-narratiYe spectacle film Tltls Is ell/cmll/il! ran fill' t\\O years in a specially
COll\ (Tted theatre in Times Square, in particular seemed in many ways a
thnl\\hack to earl~ cinema's 'aesthetic of astonishment' (sec Belton, 1(92).
In Llct, narratiye and spectacle ha\c alY\ays existed in a two-way relation-
ship __ \s much as classical Hollywood narratiyes fiJeus on compelling central
characters through whom n,lrrati\e incident is focalised, ample space still
nists fill' the narrati\(O to pause and take in, for instance, large-scale tableaux
that aim to impress the spectator by adyertising the opulence and scale of the
production ..\ good example is the hurning of .\tlanta sequence in Gill/C Hi/It
lite Jlll/d, which on the one hand excites because of the perilous situation of
the central characters, hut on the other amazes the spectator with the sheer
"cale of thc destruction in rich (and in 19-+0 still no\el) Technicolor. The
elabor,lte preparation fiJI' the sequencc \\as publicised by the film's producer
]),)\ id Selznick ,md heavily cO\ered in the press, with the result that the
burning of .\tlanu beclme one of the film's principal 'attractions' (featuring
prominently in the poster art), ,mticipating today's media attention to
1111l(J\ati\e special effects techniques like CGI (TCrJll/l/alilr 2: ]/Ii/glf/ml Day,
244 FII.M (jENRE
1991; ]/I/'(/ssic Pilrl.:, 1(93) or Thc /vlillrix's (1999) 'bullet time', Comersely
even very early cinema \vas not devoid of narrative interest; it simpi;
presented very basic (by comparison \vith classical narratives) narrative
material in uncomplicated \\ays, Cinerama certainly departed radically from
classical practices, but the 1950S historical epics - although we h~l\e already
noted their difficulties in successfully integrating narrative and spectacle _
deployed spectacle in more conventional ways, The question of spectacle is
closcly related to that of visual pleasure and stylistic 'e:-.:cess' generally, and as
we have seen such 'excessive' elements form an important part of the appeal
of genres such as the musical ,- \vhose alternation of 'straig'ht' dramatic
passages with spectacular 'numbers' offers one paradigm for the blockbuster's
alternation of scenes of f:1Il1ilial or romantic intimacy \\ith large-scale action
sequences - and of course melodrama, the action film's domin~l11t mode.
Perhaps all the same Slilr Wars (1977) docs mark an evolutionary turning_
point for the Holly\\ood film, away from the more reflective mood of the
earlier I (J7os (which in any event by the end of the decade \\as giving way to
large-scale, ultra-high-budget 'auteur blockbusters' like .\'1'11' } '111'1.:, New
Yllrle (H)77), ,lpllm/J'psc NIIII' (HJ79), j(J.!-/ (1979), and llcl/'i'clI'S Gilli' (1980),
all with a notably spectacular Jimension) to\\ards action-driven 'popcorn
movies'. However, the e:-.:tent to \\hich this shift imolved a transformation of
classical narrative style, e\en a rnersion to a kind of 'cinema of attractions',
is much more contentious..\ f~l\ourite retCrence point in this debate is Star
J;Vars' f~lIllOUS opening shot the vast, seemingly endless bulk of the massive
Imperial cruiser gTinding overhead into the starfield, its oppressive \\eight
bearing on the audience, Jiminishing' us and crushing' us back into our seats.
In narrative terms, this shot quite eftCcti\"Cly emblematises the brutal,
authoritarian tyranny of the Galactic Empire. Yet audiences in the main
appear not to have responded to the cruiser's oppressi\ e occupation of the
frame with fear or horror; rather, the sheer scale of the imag:e appears to have
elicited a widespread sense of exhihlrated ~l\\e the first .'\e\\ Hollywood
example of the 'WO\\ f:lCtor' that would become such an important and
fi'equently mobilised aspect of the dnelopmtnt of the blockbuster (more
recently a central element of such meg'a-hits as Ti/il/llc (Il)(n) and Tltc Lord
0(11/1' Rillgs (2001 3)).
This 'WO\\' response - often setn as a 'dumbed-down' vtrsion of the
Jiminution and liminality of the self expressed in Romantic theories of the
Sublime - has led to charges that the blockbuster tllcourages the sptctator to
relinquish the adult capacity for critical discrimination in Ll\ our of an
undiscriminating: rapture. The director most strongly associ~lted with this
rapturous regression is Steven Spielberg, some of whose films - not~lbly Close
J:'/lili/l/lll'rs IIrll/t' Tltirtf A'illt! (an7) v~dorise a pre-adolescent fixation on
'\nmderment' at the expense of such inessenti~d and umvclcome complications
THE ACTlO"J BLOCKBUSTER 245
.-----------------------------------
of ~Idult life as parenthood, sexual Im'e, professional work, etc. A much-
discussed sequence early in ]urilssic Pill'/'" (1993) when the dinosaurs are for
the first time rnealed in all their CGI wonder to both characters and
~luJicnct seems to offer the viewer a virtual primer on the 'correct' way to
look at such man cis. The dinosaurs' initial appearance is bracketed by a
montage of close-ups of the various characters gawping' in astonishment, but
quite clearly not all looks are equally validated by the film: the unaffected
re~lctions of .\lan Grant and Ellie Sattler, the central couple, in which initial
shock is transformed into amazed delight, is contrasted to the frankly
.1\ ~Iricious gaze of the shady lawyer Gennaro ('we are going to make so much
money!'), The cynical yet likeable theoretical mathematician Ian Malcolm is
a more complex proposition, yet the transformation of his initial hostility
('the crazy fools.,. they actually did it!') into pleasure, as a reluctant grin
crceps across his bce, can be seen as a redemptive triumph of innocent awe
O\er \\orld-\\eary over-sophistication: unlike the greedy lawyer, who will in
short order become the dysfunctional theme park's first btality, Malcolm
\\ ill sunivt the forthcoming ordeal. Finally there is John Hammond, the
genially cntreprenturi~d sire of the \\hole n~nture, whose ringing delivery of
the line '\\elcome .,. to ]urilssic Parle" - addressed ostensibly to the other
characters, but Jehered frontally, direct to camera and thus effectively to the
~ludience segues into the film's first 'money shot', a large-scale extreme long-
shot scenic tableau of herds of dinosaurs teeming' across the island, held for
several seconds to all(l\\ the spectator's eyes to scan the image (this shot drew
spontaneous applause from ~llIdiences at the film's premiere engag·ements).
.\ scene such as this \\ould seem to support the charge that the contem-
pOLlry blockbuster privileges spectacle over narrative, Quite clearly, the self-
consciolls 'presentational' mode ('\Velcome to Jurassic Park!'), the length of
the sequence in general ~md the prolongation of the climactic special-effects
shot in particular, and the redunJant emphasis on the gaping amazement of
all the characters, one by one, is excessive to simple narrative purpose;
indeed, it effectively suspends narrative progTess, albeit only briefly, in order
to emphasise the spectacular visual eftCcts (in the no\el, the \,isitors'
realisation of the nature of HammonJ's project is triggered in a much more
understated \vay). Clearly, too, the sequence is constructed this \vay as so to
speak a textual acknowledgement that a large part of]/ll'iIssic Parle's 'dra\\" is
precisely the grounJ-breaking combination of aninutronics and then-novel
C(; I technology to create cOl1\incingl~ photorealistic (or, in Pierson's (2002)
I l1lore precise usage, photosimubti\c) Jinosaurs. Permitting or actually
t:ncourag'ing' spectatorial scrutiny of these visual effects - f()r instance, by
~etting them 'on Jisplay' in a prolongeJ unbroken shot, as here -- asserts the
I Jill11-m~lkers' confidence in the illusionistic viability of their creations (thus
nlarking a significant development in CGI's mimetic utility). Something'
J
246 FILM GENRE
much more complex than the usual 'suspension of disbelief is going on here:
rather, a consciously disbelic('i/lg spectator is in rited to assess, dispassionately,
the technical achierement and measure it against both their expectations and
, TIlE
against criteria of 'Iifelikeness'. Jllrassi£' Pilrl: asks us, in short, if \\e can see
the join and if we cannot asks us to celebrate the artistry inrohed. Ha\ing
Hammond 'present' Jurassic Park/Jlll"iIssil ParI: does not elide the difference
betwcen the diegetic and the computerised and pro-filmic recreation of
dinosaurs (through recombinant DNA and the combined efforts of Industrial
Light and Magic and Stan Winston, respectirely), it adrertises it.
However, it does not 1'0110\\ from the presence of such sequences centred
on spectacular display - and other examples are not hard to find - that
narratire has been simply displaced by spectacle in contemporary block-
busters. On the contrary, as Geoff King (2000a, 2000b) has argued, narrative
remains not merely a 'carrier' for spectacle but integral to its signification.
]lImssll Pild· has been frequently cited as a film with only a nugatory interest
in narratire and characterisation; and certainly, fe\\ audience members were
drawn to theatres by the compelling dramatic interest of :\lan Grant's
cOlwersion to liking kids. Yet follo\ring the scene discussed abore, the
remaining major effects scenes an: ~dl fully integrated into a thrilling and
suspenseful narratire. Eren if the human characters are stereotypical and
one-dimensional and it is the CGI dinosaurs \\'e 'really' \r~lIlt to see, the
dinosaurs themselres - especially, of course, the \illainous relociraptors- are
narratirised and rendered dynamic by their riolent interaction \rith the
humans. Indeed, it mig'ht be argued that the inhumanity of the film's
antagonists partly compensates for, C\cn if it doesn't excuse, the thinness of
the characterisations gi\cn a straight choice bet\\'een humans and reptiles
we hare no difliculty deciding who to root for (\rith the exception of the
sleazy computer h~lCker Nedry). In a sense, this starkest possible - species-
based - oppositional structun: mig'ht be seen as a kind ofrcdlluill ild illlsllrdum
of melodrama's habitually polar narrati\e and moral schemas. There is in fact
no such thing as 'pure' spectacle outside of the world of L\I:\.\. films at
museums and amusement parks (and possibly not nen there: see King,
2000b). Claims that contemporary action blockbusters hare 'dispensed \rith'
narratire usually re\cal themsehes as judg;ements on the I:illds and !Jllillil)! of
narrati\c sophistication and satisfaction offered b~ such films - that IS, on
their perceired inadequacy.
ACTION MELODRAMA
In the wake OfJIIll'S and Slilr Wllrs, the 19kos ~lction film di\erg'CLI into two
distinct strains, each clearly stamped in the melodramatic mode. The first
1
ACTIO"
looked to the blood-and-thunder tradition of the 'ten-twenty-thirty' cent
the~ltre, the nickelodeon and the silent serials: Slilr frllrs and the Lucas/
BLOCKHL'STER
Spielberg collaboration Rllidas III' l lic LlIsl . ·}rl: (19k I) established an alliance
247
bd\\cen action-achenture and the fantastic that persisted into the 1990S and
be\(lIld (Slllrglllc! I 99.j.; Thc .HIIIII/li)!, [9(9). Rlliders and its sequels (19k.j.,
I()S!)) self-consciously rC\i\cd perhaps the action-adrenture film's most
paradigmatic form, the exotic quest narratire, and this traditionalist genre
I1lodel \ras adopted by rarious imitators including ROII/II/Ii'illg 11((' SlllllC ([9k.j.),
!Ji" hllllMc ill Lillic CII/IIII (J()kl» and Islall r ( [9k7). The reappearance of the
"
~Irch-imperialist Yictorian ~Ichcnturer :\Ilan Q.uatermain in two I<l\\'er-budget
a<l\enture films (1985, J()k7) confirmed that, as Robert Stam and Ella Shohat
(Il)!).j.) among others han: noted, Rlliders also reaffirmed the genre's Oriental-
ist perspecti\ e (in a particularly unreconstructed fashion in the first sequel,
IlIdiilllil ]11111'.1' illid lhc Tell/pie II(DIIIIII/).
.\ leall\\hilc, a second strain translated melodramatic traditions of
orcrwrought emotion and pathos into a nord, parodically masculine action
\ crn~lcular through a distinct sub-genre of 'hard' action films th,1I emergnl
into prominence during the 19kos \rith the success of Tllc TCl'lllllllllllr (19k.j.)
and J)I( III/rd (198k). Taking their cue fi'om [(nOS urban rigilante ,1ml 'rogue
cop' films like Th( Frclldl Cllllllerl ill II and J)irl)! HilOT (J(n I), J)uilh Wish
(1(17.j.), Th( 1:\l(I'III1I1I1/lIr (19ko) and their sequels, these films translated the
lonc m~de ~Ichenturer of the action-adrenture film into contemporary urban
and \\arzone settings, courting an R rating; \\ ith extreme amI gT~lphic rioknce.
\\hereas the action-bnLlsy cycle solicited a pre-Oedipal \ronder, the 'hard'
action films expanded ]illl'S' emphasis on a re,lsserted masculinity and male
bonding (in the film's staging of the confront<ltion \\ith the shark as a rite of
p~lssage for the three principal male chaLlCters, and its explicit marginal-
isation of the domestic - coded 'fem~lle' - sphere). ]iI 11'.\" climactic personal
confi'ontation bet\reen Brodr and the sh~lrk also established a trend that
\\ ould be fol1<mcd more closely b~ the nule ,ICtion films than by the Lmtasy-
,1<\\ entures that emerged in the \\ake of S/lir Wilrs, \rhich often - as in Rlliders
or ]Ill'llssi( Porl: -- rendered the proLlgonists \irtllal bystanders to a climactic
\ iSlIal effects sequence. The protagonists of the 'hard' action films \\ere most
ohm police officers (CII/lI'II, 19k6; Die Ho rd; Red /lea l, Il)kk; l:\/ n'lIIe Prc/Ildi(c,
IljS7; Tallgll IIlId Cash, 19k!); Lell/lll Weapoll), soldiers (ROIIIIIII: Firs/ Blolld
POri 1I, .lIissillg ill.J.t'lioll, [9k.j.) or paramilitaries (CIIIII/I/lI//lIII, 19k.j.; RIIII'
f)eol, IC)k5; Preda/llr, 19kk), but they m\ed little to the police procedural or
combat genres. Rather, the ne\\ male action heroes of the 19kos seemed to
l11an~ commentators to embody in lurcly coded form some of the pre\ailing
Political orthodoxies of the Reagan era, such as rampant imli\idualism,
hostility to 'Big GO\ernment' and the \alorisation of 't1'<lditional \,dues' (i.e.
the restoration of \\hite patri~lrch~11 PO\\'Cl' after the challenges of the 191>0s)
248 FILM liEN RE
(sec Ryan and Kellner, 1988: 217-.1-3; Britton, [()86; Traube, 1992: 28-66).
The 1980s action hero mostly sun'i\ed in beleaguered isolation - perhaps
aided by a sidekick, often a \\'Oman or a person of colom - intensified both
by the seemingly impossible odds he faced and the endemic 11.1"S in .\merican
social and political structures that critically impeded his heroic efforts. In an
era when it became the established political wisdom that electoral success Was
best achieved by running as an 'outsider', it is un surprising that Federal
government agencies are often excoriated as incffecti\T or outright corrupt.
Rambo's betrayal and abandonment by the craven C1.-\ man Crocker in
Ralflho: Firsl Blood ParI I I (transparently intended as a re-enactment of the
film's fantasy 'stab-in-the-back' account of the Yietnam War) is a paradigm_
atic example. Smugness and incompetence rather than treachery characterise
the LAPD and the FBI in Die Hard, \\ hile political infighting and sclerotic
hureaucracy imperil heroic US special forces in Clellr 1I11t! Preselll Danger
(1994)·
External enemies, however, remained the male action hero's principal
antagonists. Reaganite action films like Ralllho: Flrsl Blood ParI I I and Rambo
I II ([()89) as \\ell as the imasion Emtasies Red Da 11'11 (ll)84) and ltmlsioll USA
(1985) vigorously exploited the rcne\\ed Cold War tensions and reim'ented
the diabolical yet EHally unimaginative (compared with the improvisatory
genius of his US adversary) SO\'iet enemy. With the transformation of the
Soviet Union during the Gorbachev era and the rapid final collapse of
Communism from 1989 to 1991, new villains emerged in the form of'inter-
national terrorists', usually associated \\ith the ne\\ly designated 'rogue states'
that challeng:ed American heg:emony in the l\liddle East: Liby.m terrorists
feature in Bile/.: 10 Ihe F/llllre (1985) and the Top G/l1I derivative IrOIl Eagle
(1986); in Top G/l1I (1986) itself the na tionality of the enemy fighters is
unstated bUI they arc clearly identified as Arabs. Generic Arab terrorists,
first featured in Black S/llIday (1977), \\ere the antagonists in n'lIe Lies (1994)
and The Siege (1998), hut Palriol Gallles (1992) and BlolI'lI .lll'a)' (1994)
feature Irish Republican extremists (carefully dis.lssociated from the IRA in
order not to offend sentimental Irish-American identification \\ith the
Nationalist cause). The collapse of the SO\iet Lnion allowed for the imention
of revanchist Stalinist diehards seeking: to restore Communism in The
Package (1989),lir Force (Jlle (1997) and Tile SII/II or. ill Fears (2002). A
Bosnian extremist maddened by the timorousness of CS policy during the
Yug'oslay \\ar attempts to set off a portable nuclear device in l'\ew York in
The Pmll'lIIaker (1997). Globetrotting hired assassins, their paymasters
obscure, turned up in The Jacf.:al (1997) and Farc/O/F Extreme rightist
groups also occasionally featured, either as home-grO\\n bscists (Die I larder
or henchmen of the apartheid regime in South .\fricI (Lelilit! 11('apoll II).
Karl Gruber, the Armani-dad master criminal of Die Hard, masquerades as
TIlE ACTION BLOCKBUSTER 249
---------------------------------
I terrorist and demands the release of obscure political criminals whose
;l,lll1eS he has read in Tillie magazine as a cover for his straightforward heist
operation. , . .
The 1980s 'hard' action picture was dommated by such Immobile,
Illuscubr action stars as Syh'ester Stallone and .'\rnold Sch\\'arzenegger, and
the rather less prestigious Jean-Claude van Damme, Chuck Norris, Stephen
SeJgJl and I)olph J.undgren, of \\hom a number began their careers as
1l1'1rtial arts practitioners (or of course bod~builders). That three of these
sLlrs (Sch\\arzenegger, y.m Damme and Lundgren) were European-born and
deli\ ered their lines in hea\ily accented English, tended to support the
ar\.(uJ11ent that nuances of characterisation and motiyation were being largely
si:lclined in fa\'()lIr of muscular action in \\hich the male bodies on disphly
sccmcd as machine-tooled and gleamingly technological as the \\capomy and
other hard\\are they deployed. Susan ]eff()rds (1994) argues that the 1980s
S;lW the rise of a 'hard body' aesthetic as part of a conscious effort to rectify
the perceived (literal, figurative and political) 'soft bodies' of the Carter
\ears, a period \\hen (according' to :'\e\\ Right mythology) an emasculated
'\l1lerica ElCed collapsing morale at home and eroding prestige abroad. IIer
argumCl1t is apparently strikingly borne out by a no\e1ty in 1980s 'hard'
<lCtioll films, the male hero's repeated subjection to extraordinarily graphic
ph ~ sical privations and torture. Rambo is crucified by sadistic Russians and
\iel11,lmese; John McClane in Die Hartf is f()rced to run barefoot across an
office floor stre\\ll \\ith broken glass (a suhsequent scene shlms him
c\tLlCting shards of glass from the soles of his feet); ",lurphy and Rig'gs in
I.,.///(t! Jreaplill II arc subjected to prolonged electric-shock torture; even
Rllck\' Balboa suffers ritual pOllndings at the hands of mouthy ghetto trash
(Rlld')' III, Il)82) and SO\iet supermen (Rod-:r II', 1(85). The punishment
mctcd out to these male bodies masochistically pO\\erfully mobilises melo-
dramatic tropes of pathos and \'ictimhood to render an inchoate yet IXT\'asive
sense of inj my on the part of patriarchal \\hite males. Their protagonists'
ahility to take enormous punishment and come out not just standing but
li~hting asserts the reaction against the passi\it~ and '\\eakness' of the 1960s
alld [(Jlos.
BRI.'\JGING IT ALL BACK HOl\IE
Jeft()rds sees the representation of the masculine body in popular culture as
~l pi \'otal articulation of n~ltional self-identity and goes on to argue that
jIJllo\\in()' the reactively. yiolent but successful reassert ion of male po\\er in
~
the earh [980s, the later 1l)8os and [990S sa\\ a further modification of the
ill1,lgc of the male action hero, undertaken from a resecured patriarchal
250 FILM GENRE
hegemony. During this period, 'hard bodies' like Sylwster Stallone saw their
careers decline dramatic.tlly £i'om their mid-I<)80s peak, LKed \\ith the rise of
less one-dimensional male stars like Harrison Ford, Bruce Willis, :\lichael
Douglas, Tom Cruise, Mel Gibson and :'\icolas Cage (more recent additions
to this list might include John Cusack, the rejmenated John Tnn'olta, and
the boyish Leonardo DiCaprio). The more f1exible personae of the new stars
allowed them to dramatise the successful negotiation of male crisis rather
than simple displays of military prowess. Marriage, the family and/or
parenthood emerged as central preoccupations of the action theme during
this period, in films as \aried as Die HI/rd, Temlli/{/lor 2: ]//dg/l/mt DI/Y, True
Lies and FI/ce! Ofl"( 1<)<)7). The action stars of the I<)<)OS were also likely to
alternate out-and-out action \ehicles \\ith domestically-centred melodramas
like FI/II/I·Jllratiio// (1<)87), Regl/rdi//g J!mrJ' (1<)<)1) and t'j'es Tlide Shut
(1<)<)9) that permitted a more extensi\ e elaboration of their stressed and
embattled masculinitics. In a large number of films, 'female' melodramatic
tropes of helplessness, sacrifice and emotion.d crisis transferred themselves
wholesale onto their male protagonists. HowC\er, whereas in the domestic
ami Llmily melodramas of the J()50S the stylistic excess through \\hich such
pathologies f(Hmd symptomatic expression had of generic necessity been
confined to /l/ise-m-S((://e and perf(lrmanCe, in the ne\\ action melodrama the
massi\e o\'Crkill of the action se4uences themsel\es - as so often noted, often
barely advancing the narrati\e but simply prO\iding opportunities for the
repeated statement, on an e\er-Iarger scale, of the same antagonistic situation
expresses the desire f(lr a transf()rmation and resolution of the intractable
conflicts gcner.lted in the personal and bmilial contexts. (This complex, its
melodramatic roots .1I1d its acting-out through the action genre, arc all
subjected to excoriating satirical treatment in Fighl CIII/I, 1<)<)<).)
The changcs in the action film during the I <)<)os may 'llso relate to its
increasing industrial centrality. With the exception of Stallone, none of the
'hard bod\' 1<)80s male action stars - not e\en Sch\\arzeneg'ger until the \ery
eml of the decade commanded the blockbuster budgets and associated
marketing and release strategies associated \\ith the decade's SF-fantasy
ad\entures. They did, ho\\(\cr, perform particularly strongly both in home
\ideo and f(lreig'n markets. By the late J{)80s, these markets \\ere becoming
increasingly important to Holly\\ood's profitability and action st.lrs accordingly
became incre'lsingly central to studio production strategies. ,\t the same
time, hO\\e\'Cr, the enlarged scale of productions featuring these action stars
entailed some softening of the often brutal tenor of their earlier \ehicles, in
pursuit of the \\ider audience enabled by a PG-13 rating. ,\s agents of this
process, action \ehicles increasingly relied on humour, cartoon \iolcnce and
the combat of depersonalised threats arising: from elemental natural forces
rather than the macho LIce-off against criminal conspirators.
J
THE ACTIO:\[ BLOCKBUSTER 251
----------------------
Thus, supported by the new digital technologies, the late 1990S saw a cycle
of natund disaster mo\ies, including tornadoes in lIFistcr (1<)<)6), volcanoes in
!JiI//IC's Pel/k and foltl///o (both H)97), asteroid or comet collisions in
Jrll/l/gL'lidll/l and Deep I/l/pl/(1 (both 1(98), geophysical damage in The Core
(2 00 3) and catastrophic climate c~ange in The !JI/Y .~/icr TO/l/orro11J (200{).
'rhe same technologies made possible the creation of the fantasy-ad\enture
J.indscapcs of the three-part The Lord 4thI' Ri//gs (2001-3), the rein\ention
of the J()50s-style SF monster picture in hulepe//d('//(e DI/Y (1996) and God:::.illl/
(1<)<)8), the reimagining of classical ci\ilisations in GII/dialor and Troy, and
e\en the rC\i\al of the naval s\\ashbucklcr and the pirate film in IViaster al/d
COl/I/I/lllliia and Pira I es IIrtltl' Cil nbbciI /I (both 2003). \Vhile male heroics are
central to these films, sexual romance is mostly subordinated to the ongoing
concern \\ith parenting. In the g,-reat majority of the SF-fantasy vehides, the
\ Ianichean melodramatic model integral to Hollywood narrative from its
c.lrliest period is some\\h.lt modified by either the impersonal or the inhuman
nature of the threat, prou ucing in some cases a novel and almost abstract moral
Lllldscape in \\hich moral qualities are not establisheu and tested relationally,
as in historic melodramatic anu Hollywood practice, but simply prO\ided
\\ itll a scries of blue-screen emironments in which to act themselves out.
BEYO:\'I) HOLLYWOOD
\s already noteu in this chapter, brge-scale productions, particularly those
produced in Italy, pbyed an important part in the consolidation of the
feal ure film \\orldwiue as the uominant form of narrati \'e cinema bd(lre and
during the First \\orld War. In the LIte silent periou, well-capitalised Euro-
pean studios like LF.\ in Germany and Studios Rcunis in France periodically
suppor!cd spectacuLIr productions such as ,\Idl'lipo!ls (Germany 1(27), res
III.,crl/bles ([<)25-26) and La\Ien'cillc/lsc l'ie dc .JCII/IIIC d'. Irc (France I<)27).
\lier the Second World \Var, hO\\C\er, the massi\ely reduced uimensions of
Luropean film production as a "hole (and the virtual obliteration of the
largest national film industry, Germany's) combined with soaring production
costs in these henilv unionised industries to ensure that blockbuster
productions \\ere a rare luxury. During the Cold \Var, only the state-run
SO\ iet cinem,l consistently produced films that could be dasseu as block-
hU<.,ters on the post\\ar Holly\\ood model (colour, widescreen, epic sweep
'li1d scale, etc.) \\ith enormous productions such as Trilr illlil Pel/((, (I<)6S-67)
and major historical recreations of subjects from the Great Patriotic War (scc
Ch,lpter 5). Recently, EL tax regimes ha\e createu a more [nourable climate
lilr European co-production; ho\\ever, problems of lang'uage translation tend
to mean that large-scale pan-European \entures are filmed either in English
252 FILM GENRE
(HllelllY ill Ihe Gilles, 2001) or in dual-language \ersions ('lOilll o("-1rc, 1999).
The much laf[;cr domestic markets and burgeoning economies of East Asia
and the Pacific Rim make supporting indigenous blockbusters more \iable ,
and Berry (2003) and Willis (2003) explore the economics and cultural
meanings of the contemporarY. blockbuster in Korea and China and in India,
respecti\e1y,
CASE STUDY: f) 10'1,' P IH PI C 1 (MIMI LEDER, I 99 8 ) /
I R M , I (; F f) f) OY (MICHAEL BAY, I 9 9 8 )
The release within two months of each other of two films \\ith all but
identical narrati\e premises - the threat of global .mnihilation by collision
with a comet (Deep Ill/pilei) or asteroid Clf111i1geddoll) - pro\Oked \\idespread
and derisi\e comment about Holly\\ood's imaginati\T bankruptcy. In fact,
the coincidence \\as not all that surprising, The subject itself \\as not new,
haying been depicted in pre\'ious special-effects eras in 11l1Cl/ Worlds Collide
(I<)5I) and Meleor (I<)Ho), and according to Bart (1999: qO-3) two other
asteroid pictures concurrently in the planning stages had to be cancelled
when news broke of Da \id Bn)\\ n's and Jerry Bruckheimer's ri\al produc-
tions. A principal moti\ation for all of these projects \\as the prmen market
for cinematic de\astation on [he largTst possible scale follo\\ing the success of
Volca/lo and Dallie 's Peal: (both I<)(J7) the pn.'\ious summer season and above
all illdepClldl'llcc Day (I<)()(l) the year before that, These films might be seen
as extending, with the aid of the nc\\ generation of CGI effects, the reach of
the disaster films of the I(J7os, \\'hich bar Fill'/h1lllill..,C typically confined
themseln.'s to local catastrophes in skyscrapers, mTrturned liners and so on.
Literal end-of-the-\\ orld cinema (in J(im '" e\\man 's ( I<)<)9) phrase) rendered
catastrophe global, not local (albeit the affecti\e dimension of \\orldwide
apoGJlypse was, as \\T shall sec in both cases, to be realised C\:clusi\e1y through
normati\e American subject positions), Thus asteroid collisions \\ere merely
one olwious narrati\T carrier for the pro\Tn audience-getter of spectacular
annihilation; I<)<)Ws other major summer release, (;od:::.illa (jokily alluded to in
-1nllageddoll's opening sequence), pn)\'ided a different route to the same end.
In hlCt, I<J9H sa\\ a third end-of-the-\\orld film, the Im\-budget Canadian
independent film Lasl Nl:~/1! (not released in the CS until I<)<)(»), \\hose
localised appruach to global e"tinction, alternating sardonic and poignant
\ignettes ,lCross a small group of characters from different social and ethnic
backgrounds as the clock remorselessly ticks dO\m to doomsday -- unspecified
and indirectly represented but utterly unaHlidable - contrasts tellingly \\'ith
the shO\\'-and-tell aesthetic, as \\'ell as the classic melodramatic tropes of self-
sacrifice and last-minute rescue, that organise both HoIlY\\(JOd blockbusters.
II
THE ACTIO:-J BLOCKBUSTER 253
.---_------------------------------
From /rJll'l~('ddlill (1<)<)1-\), Rl'produl'l'd l'ounl'S\ of Touchstone/The k.obal Collel'tion,
-\s J(ing: (2000a: 16-1--70) notes, althoug'h the t\\O films arc bound tog'ether
1)\ their common promise - clearly stated in trailers and poster art- to deli\er
a\\c-inspiring spectacular \isions of disaster, they are significantly different
in some important narrati\e and affccti\T respects. Produced by Dreamworks
SJ((i, the studio set up in [9<)-1- by Ste\cn Spielberg', Jeffi'ey Katzenberg and
Da\'id Geffen on the prospectus of making more 'thoughtful' and 'film-
maker-oriented' blockbusters than the existing majors, Deep ill/PilCI is mildly
uncol1\Tntional in narrati\c slmclllrc - f(lllm\ing' an opening thirty minutes
f()cusing: primarily on T\' reporter Jenny Lerner (Tea Leoni) \\ith a second
half-hour centred on a ne\\' group of characters, the team of astronauts tasked
\\irh destroying the comet, and then shifting ag'ain to a multi-strand narrati\e
dealing \\ith separate (and mutually unil1\ol\ed) gTOUpS of characters,
including President Beck (.\lorgan Freeman) in the days bcf()re the comet
impacts. I-IO\\e\er, its narrati\e iI[1'erl is noticeably more 'traditional' than its
ri \ ai, building: suspense fi'om the asteroid's first sighting by an amateur
,Istronomer throug:h the lhl\\'ning public a\\'areness of the threat, and in the
,econd half relying strongly on \arious sources of pathos (a motif of family
'eparation, hO\\'e\'er, is common to all strands bar the President's) to
personalise and intensif\ the literally global dimensions of the peril. There
arc t \\ 0 main action/spectacle sequences in the film, strategically di \'ided
het\\ een the half\\'ay point - \\hen the astronauts make their initial, unsuccess-
ful ,lttempt to blm\' up the comet and the climactic sequence when a smaller
POrtion of the comet strikes the East Coast of the CS_\ \\hile the larger,
I annihilating: impact is a\oided by the astronauts' sacrificial heroism.
From .'lmlllgeddllll (1998), Reproduced courles~ of Touchstone/The Kobal Colkction.
254 FILM GENRE
Armageddo/l, by contrast, although more it has a more conyentionally·.,
unified narrative centring exclusiyely on 'mayerick' oilman Harry Stamper
(Bruce Willis), his team of 100eably asocial roughnecks and his daughter
Grace (Liv Tyler) - indeed, despite the imminence of global apocalypse the
'world' is represented only by fleeting cutaways to anxious, and finally
joyous, crowds of extras in various picturesque and readily placeable
locations - in every other regard typifies the relentlessly assaultive, full-on
mode of thc contemporary action blockbuster. The film opens with a ten-
minute effects sequence in which Manhattan is deyastated by multiple
impacts from what we later learn are outriding fragments flung off the
approaching asteroid (subsequent impacts allO\y the film to offer its other key
markets the odd compliment of seeing their own urban ccntres - Paris,
Shanghai - bombarded). Although a few stereotypical 'types' (street hustlers,
jiving cab drivers) are sketched into the "'Ianhattan segment to lend it a
minimal human dimension (the 'merseas' locations arc experienced almost
wholly through architectural landmarks), nonc of them are chaL1cters in the
narrative; the sequence, delivered in the high-intensity, kinetic style that
typifies the entire film, clearly aims to impress or e\cn O\cnvhelm the
spectator. The film then introduces its main characters, establishing the
broadest of possible character notes (when first seen, l-Lury is terrorising a
shipload of Greenpeace protestors - who can't spell 'polluter' - \vith golf
drives off his rig; upon finding Grace in bed \vith his protege .\j (Ben
Affleck), Harry stalks him around the rig \vith a loaded shotgun). Compared
to Deep Impacl, which unfillds over a tot,ll of t\\O years (\vith the principal
action taking place mcr eleyen months), both the pace and the time-frame of
.irlf/ap,eddlill arc franticall~ compressed: the ,1pproaching asteroid is spotted
just a scant fiJrtnight before it is scheduled to hit the earth.
Much more than Deep [Illpacl, .imillgeddoll appears to typif~ the action
blockbuster's subordination of character dnelopment and coherent plot to
massive visual overkill. As h.ing (2000a: r (6) obsenes, non-stop spectacle is
the rule for the entire last seventy-five minutes (the film's blockbuster
dimensions include a running time of q4 minutes), \\ith incident and crisis
piled upon one another, less accelerating than accumulating' in serial fashion
(literally: the succession of cliffhanging ncar-disasters nokes the silent melo-
dramatic serials discussed by Singer (200r): see Chapter 2). Eyen relatiyeJy
routine narrative material aims at maximum impact: the gathering of Harry's
team (who haye mysteriously managed, \\ith no ad\ance word or ,lpparent
transportation, to disperse themsehcs across the continental Lnited States in
the 24 hours or less since Harry's departure to '\.\SA) is staged ,lS a series of
high-velocity chases and round-ups.
Both films, howeyer, strikingly fi'ame the experience of g,-Iobal annihiLItion
in terms of familial cont1icts and their resolution, thus confirming the action
J
, THE ACTION BLOCKBUSTER 255
blockbuster as a mode of melourama. Deep IlIIpacl recalls Griffith in its use
of children to generate both pathos and hope: jenny Lerner sacrifices her
pl,ICe Oil the net.work helicopter to safety to a colleague a_nd her daug'~ter
\\ hile she herself seeks out her estranged father to make a fmal peace before
lhe tsunami obliterates them hoth; in a separate narrati\ e strand, parents
h,Illd o\er their newborn child to their teenag-c daughter Sarah and her
bo\friend Leo, who hy \irtue of Leo's ,11l-terrain motorbike can take the
child to (symbolic;) higher ground and form part of the saving remnant that
in the film's COd,I promises to build anew. (\lichael Tolkin, the film's co-
screeIl\\Titer, l)J'e\iousl~ \\Tote ,md directed the unsettling Christian apoea-
\I ptic parable Tile Rapil//'(' (J()94),) Though superficially similar,lrlllageddo/l's
tilCUS is different and less mcrtly moralistic: the principal conflict that is
reso!\ ed in the film's climax is Harry's acceptance of Grace's relationship
\\ it h .\J - but since there seems to have been no reason beyond generalised
rncrse-Oulipal resentment for Harry to disapprmc their afhir in the first
place, this is hardly a major issue (a subordinate plot strand detailing the
reunion of a member of Harry's team \vith his estr,lng'cd \vife is simiLIrl~
i rrelc\ ant). Yet the pat hos surrounding f LIrry 's final martyrdom (he remains
lin the ,IstlToid alone to detonate the nuclear charges manually) is considerably
more hysterical than anything in [)ee/! IlIIpal!, with ,\j - filr \vhom H,I1Ty has
s,lerifici,llly substituted himself - bello\\iIlg his Ime fill' his friend \vhile
(Trace \\ eeps in \ lission Con trol.
1)iflerenn:s in the degTee and na t ure of the spectacle of disaster arc also
telling. Both films emplm essentially the same n,I1T,Itive device to deliver to
their audience both the promised thrill of ultra-Iarge-sede catastrophe and
till' reassurance of a reLIti\ely upbeat ending: since global extinctionlthe
destruction of the pLInet might be felt to he something of a d(l\Yner, each film
SLltles till' impressi\e but fin,IlIy superficial obliteration of discrete portions
lIrlhe pbnet's surface by meteorite fragments, \\hile successfully ,l\crting' the
main threat. Deep IlIIpacl's climactic tsun,I111i is impressive yet restrained:
het\\l'Cn the de,lth of Lerner p(;re 1'1 jille on "irg'inia 13each and Leo and
Sarah's eseIpe up the mountainside, the destruction of the US Eastern
seaboard is rendered in a sequence of eig'ht shots, nOlle less th,II1 t\\O seconds
1()1lg', depicting the destruction of "\e\\ York cit her in panoramic long-shot or
in g'round-Inel mcdium shots. The tenor of the sequellce is ,IS restrained as
it muld be, g'i'en the subject m,ltrer, \\hile the absencc of allY namcd or e\ en
indi\ idu,llised characters lends the sequcncc a summary, slightly impersonal
ILI\ our.
\s ,dready noted,'lrlllagnido/l gcts its terrestrial dcstruction in early, thus
Irl'cing up the rcmaining n,HTati\e fill' thc imli\iuuJlistic heroics of Harry
Stampcr's team. (.l""I{/.~<,Jllol/ is ,I significantly less 'official' narrati\ ethan
/)(.,,/! III/p{/c/: ,dthough military and '\.\5.\ personnel are nominally in charg'e
I
 FILM GENRE

of the rescue mission, the important drilling and demolition \\ork is CIl\PTER I I

s~lb~o~tra~ted to Harry's team - \\ho predictably chafe at the uptight military

disCipline Imposed on them during the mission prep, and by contrast with
"'lorgan Freeman's dignified President Beck in Deep Impllo the President is
Genre: Breaking the Frame
a noticeably less central and more ineffectual figure, \\ho comes under
criticism for slashing the 'object collision' budget.)
By placing tlie meteorite impacts earlier in the film, Harry's climactic self-
sacrificc for the greater good (,I sentimental paternal sacrifice shared \\ith not
only Deep IlI/plI(l but ~dso Illdi'pClldcll(e DIIY) is more central to the film's
climax than the parallel (collecti\e) sacrifice of the astronaut team in Deep
Impll(l indeed, Harry's death arguably supersedes the destruction of the
asteroid and the sahation of the pLmet as the major affectiYe element at the
climax of the film. The enormous CGl firestorm and shock\\a\c Harry sets
off is accompanied by a mon tage of images of Grace, tracking both bacbyards
his final chapter b.rieflY c~msiders 'no,n-canonicar genres, ques,tion:lble
to her childhood and f(Jr\\ards to the \\edding Harry \\ ill ne\cr sec, that
renders Harry's death a cosmic epiphan~ transcending the limits of the T genres, or categorIes of fIlm not typIcally concel\cd as generIc. Lach
'genre' is discussed briefly. The intention in each case is less to argue fill' its
narrati\c or eyen of human comprehension. Thus the ostensibly super-social
- the sacrifice of the one f()r the many is reoriented to the supremely illcorpOr,ltion into or exclusion from the 'canon' of genres, but to explore the
personal: it is as if ./m/II/!.eddoll, hay ing thro\yn e\cry effect bar the kitchen ne\\ insig'hts or problems thnmn out by a speculatiye identification of these
sink at the audience mcr the course of its 2 hr. 2+ min. running time, can 1\ pes of film as genre films ,md ref1cct them hack onto more traditional classi-

concciYe of no more spectacular effect - no phenolllenon of more global or
eyen cosmic sig'nificancc - than the death of its o\\n star.
NOTES
I. \ comparison of Ihl' cl'kbrarcd Ch'l'" ill 'Ih,' (-'(1'111 II CIIIIII<'(//1l1I (I In I) (II hlch ulldlTlines
I'0Pl'\l' I)",k\ m.lllic obsl'ssion lIilh '~l'lIlng his n1;IIl', a compuisioll Ihlll lIill
l'\l'nlualh ha\l' sl'll~dl'S1rucli\l' l'l)nSl'LJul'IlCl'S) Imd thl' c.lr chllsl' Ihrough San I:Lml'isco
that fealUrl'S l'arh ill /II" Nlld (I I)I)!») .md has \ l'n lillie- lwarlllg o!' .Ill\ killd on thl'
maill slol'\ linl' hut l'rO\ idl's thl' film II ilh thl' rl'LJuisill' up-frollt .Iction Sl'LJUl'ncl', helps
cLlril\ Ihl' nO\c1 strlIl'lllrc or thl' Conll'mpOran blockbllstlT
2, Oil thl' historic.Ii IIl],,'IlIUrl' tilm, Sl'l' 'LI\l's (")IU).
.1, Thl' olhns IIlTl'IIII'!(' I;,( 1:'11,11 Olhl'l' and 11111'1'111<':.:11,
+, \loli"ltl'd in Ihis casl' b\ cOlltractual rathlT 1111111 siricth fillllIlcilIi l'onsidl'LlIio!lS,
ll'lI11l'h thl' alm()st simult.llll'OllS pllhlic.ltiOIl or .llld Silk of lihll rights to III() 1l00cls,
lil/I'(,), and 'Ih" CI""" 1111<"1'1111, both pmlr,l\ lllg cllastrophic lirl's in st.Itl'-ol~lhl'-al't
sk\ Sl'LlPlTS,
fications and approaches, These genres arc comnlOnly, though in different
\\,I\S, 'scandalous' - that is, proposing them as genres to be discussed critic-
,III~ or in ,Icademic contexts alongside \,"esterns, gangstcr films and thc like
poses difficulties arising from COll\ entional understandings or, or assump-
lil)!lS ,Ibout, theirlthe genre tnt's subjcct matter, style and social contnt(s).
Such 'sclt1dalous' genres can hopefully hclp us to further our critical intern)-
~ation not only of st,mdard ~e111T categories - \\ hich ma\ prO\c to ha\c
un~uspectL'(l affinities \\ith these uncoll\cntional neo- or crypto-genrcs- bu[
also of the practices and structures that underpin the system of film genre as
a \\ hole. To reiterate the statement in the introduction to this section of the
hook, these brief ,Ind in some \\ays specuLIti\e discussions arc intended to
'IHtr further resC<lrch and enquiry rathcr than in an~ scnse to produce defini-
li\ e ,Iccounts of the 'gcnres' in question,
The
I: DOClT\lE]\;TARY

The tr,lditional, literary, concept of genre clearl~ h,IS a place for documentar~
.lnt! non-fiction film - as distinct from fiction film (similar, and O\crlapping,
Ltr!,!:e-scale generic L',ltegories \\(lllld includc hn'-aetioll and animated film).
HUI as \\e kno\\, film genre theory has usually traded in llarrO\\er generic
Cllegories and has sought to it!entif~ specific thematic and narrati\e
258 FILM GENRE
consistencies within indi \idual genres as part of the definitiona1 project. This
book has followed this practice, while resening a larger category for 'modes',
like melodrama, whose reach seems to encompass se\'eral indi\idual film
genres, as historically and traditionally concei\ed.
It is in this sense that documentary-as-genre becomes a scandalous concept.
For inasmuch as (fiction) genres entail degTces and styles of 7:a/s//IIiI//ude _
that is, com'entionaIised, pro\isional and pragmatically partial l'as/llns of
realit\, with limited (or, as with some musicals, horror and fantasY films ,,
almost no) pretensions directly to transcribe real-world e:xperience - docu-
mentary is on the ElCe of it definiti\e1y anti-generic. .\s a discourse of the
real, documentary abO\'e all relics on, and is judged by, an e:xplicit profession
of encountering reality and being led by it, rather than shaping; reality into
generically harmonious forms, as "lichael RenO\' summarises:
(T)he documentary is the cinematic idiom that most acti\ely promotes
the illusion of immediacy insobr as it foreswears 'realism' in faY<lUr of
a direct, ontological claim to the 'real'. E\ery documentary issues a
'truth claim' of a sort, positing a relationship to history which c:xceeds
the analogical status of its fictional counterpart. (RenO\, I()<n: 3--1-)
Kilborn and hod (I 99T 28) associate this chlim on the re~11 with what Charles
Peirce has characteriscd as the 'indnical' ,lspect of the photographic image -
the promise \ ouchsafed the spectator that what has been captured on the
filmic emulsion was iii/Iii/II)' prcsCII/ at the moment of filming (indeed, needed
to bc present for the image to be produced at all). The technical processes
imol\ed in making' photographs and cinematography guarantee that the film
image is a record of something rCI/I. Of course, in this sense e\ery fiction film
is a documentary: it 'documents' the presence in the pro-filmic space of
actors, sets, props and so on. :\loreO\cr, the ac!\ent of dig'ital technologies
such as CG) has al1<l\\ed filr an intensified degree of seamless manipulation
of images such that the traditional indnical bond lwtween object-world and
imag'C-world is no longer (if it C\er was) assured. Brian \\inston (1<)<)3) and
others ha\e suggested th~lt the erosion of this indnical contract ha\e funda-
mentally challenged traditional understanding's of the nature ~lI1d function of
documentary as a fi)rm of 'scientific inscription'. Document,lry is thus once
ag'ain characterised as not, in Reno\'s terms, 'analogical' - IiJ:c life - but
closer to or in ElCt 'real.' Thus unless re~llity itself h~lrbours g'Cneric fi1rl11s,
'true' documentary must aspire to ~I status 'beyond genre'.
Yet the historY of documentar~, fi'om Robert Flaherty and John Grierson
to Nick Broomfield and Erroll \lorris, refutes such pretensions to a docu-
mentary paradigm 'beyond genre'. In Elct, e\en (or especially) at those
moments in documentary history \\hen claims filr impersonality ~md non-
J
GENRE: BREAKI~(i TIlE FRAME 259
lliediation are most pO\\erfully ac"~mced, there can be clearly seen a con-
flicting dri\e towards con\entionalised narrati\'e, perfi)rnutiY<:' and e\en
iconographic structures that can only be regarded as generic. This is in any
c,lse to say nothing of the \isual and discursi\e styles associated with differ-
ent documentary models that also constitute readily recognisable generic
eltegories (direct-to-camera address by the film-maker, hand-held single-
ell1ler,1 set-ups, usc of ,1\'ailab1c light ,md Ii\e sound, to-camera interviews,
thc inclusion of archi\c footage, etc.).
In his most recent update of what has become a starting-point for much
teaching of documentary history ~md theory, Nichols (199-1-: 95) posits a 1
classical e\olutionary model of generic de\e!opment throug'h fi\e distinct and 1
1.. 1 ,
"I
successi\c modal stages, with each stage seeking to remedy the shortcomings
of its predecessor. Thc model starts with the E:xpository mode in the 1<)30S
amI 1ll00CS through the ObserYational (1960s direct cinema and l/nClllil l·,T/It;);
thc Interacti\e (which relics hCJ\ily on participant interviews and in which
the spectator may also be compelled to interact with the tnt by acti\e1y
engaging in the process of meaning construction, as in the purl' ,Irchi\e mon-
Llge documentary Till' .i/OI/1I1 CI/P, Ilj83); the Refle:xi\e (where a self-
conscious directorial style enables the act of representation itself to become
althe object of documentary and spectatorial reflection, by fi)regrounding'
either the film-maker's O\\n presence, and their encounters w'ith their subjects
,1S in \Iichacl .\loore's Roger IIIIdHc (1988) - or the process of meaning
construction itself, fill' e:xample Errol \lorris' Till' TlIIII BII/I' LI/II', 1<)87); to the
most recent, the Perfi)rmati\c (in which the subjecti\e dimension of
documentar~'s 'classically objecti\e discourse' arc brought to the fi)re'). As
\\ ith all such e\olutionan accounts (see Ch~lpter I), :'-Jichols's is open to the
standanl criticisms of teleology, rigidity and ahistoricism: Bruzzi (2000: 2)
points out that E:xpository documenLu'y's putatiye supersession accounls filr
neither the ubiL)uity of 1urr~ltion-led documentary today nor, cOl1\ersely, the
hi~hly reflni\e films of Dziga ,"erto\ ~111d Jean \'igo in the Il)20S.
The principal concern of documentary theorists- Bruzzi points out that
liI11l-1ll~1kers, e\en theoretically infilrmed ones, ha\e been much less nercised
ahout it (and documentary-m~lkersare more likely to be criticall~ aware than
many fiction film-makers) is the ine\iLlble gap between document,lry's
.1pparent aspiLltions to capture rerlity in ~1l1 absolutely unl1lediated fim11, and
the manifest mcdi,ltions introduced into the documentary arteElCt by, at ~1
hare minimum, shot selection and post-production, to say nothing of authorial
\ ie\\ point ~111d the 'uncertainty principle' of the film-maker's necessar~
presence in the reality s/he proposes merely to record ..\ number of well-
known documentary theorists (for e:xamplc, Renoy, :\ichols) ,liT animated by
poststrucruralist scepticism about such concepts as 'reality' and 'truth', or at
least a comiction th,lt the only 'truths' to be fillll1d in the world arc plural
2{)O FILM GENRE
rather than singular; hy contrast, they tenu to characterise documentary_
makers as naive realists on an endless and chimerical quest for the unattain_
ahle goals of ahsolute immeuiacy anu umarnished truth. Digital technologies'
expanding capacity to produce photo-simulativ'e fictions inuistinguishabl e
fi'om 'the real thing' has only intensifieu such theorists' sense of the
collapsing houndaries of truth and fiction and of the unsustainability of
documentary's 'truth-claims'. Yet such theories often seem uneasily caught
between the logical concl usion of their sceptical premises - that documentary
ought simply to be considered as another form ofnarrative film, its ostensible
facticity of no greater or lesser relev'aoce than the historici ty of the Western
or SF film - and the recognition that documentar~' remains importantly
committed - not least in the perceptions of its audience - to acting in and
even upon the real in ways that fiction does not.
In f~lct, very few documentarians - not just touay, but historically -- have
in reality subscribed to the kinus of realist fundamentalism often ascrihed to
them. (For that matter, neither diu such theorists of filmic realism as :\ndre
Bazin and Sieg-fred kraelUer, sometimes charged vvith prO\iding the
intellectual rationale for the 'nal\e realism' of documentary film. Their -
different positions relateu much more to the ethical anu political implica-
tions of the camera's encounter v\ith physical and social re~tlit~ as lrol/srribed
- 1/01 simply transmitted by film.) Such accounts seem to identif\ the
generic project of uocumentary as a vv hole vv ith the most unguarded claims
made by the :\merican 'direct cinema' film-makers of the e.lrly I<)(ws such as
Robert ))revv and Richaru Leacock (Pnll/uIT, I<)(lO; Cnsis, I<)(l3), D. A.
Pennebaker (/)01/ 'I !,ool..' Hud', l<)(l.:;) anu ,\lbert and ))av id \la~ sles CHeet
'\;Jarlol/ Brol/do, J()(lS; Sa lesll/a 1/, )()()(); Gill/II/e Slidla, [(no). Sometimes,
certainly, inf1ameu by the nevvly available portable cameras and sound gear,
direct cinema did seem to declare itself to ~ldopt Roland Barthes' phrase -
a 'degree zero' cinema, a medium of .Ibsolute transparency and communion
v\ith the real.
Yet the v\ork of the ;vlaysles Brothers, for cxample, instantly reveals direct
cinema's huge debt to popular narrative forms. Sulesll/a1/, an observational
documentar~ about four Bible salesmen in Florid.I, seems to imoke the
pO\verful dramatic par,ldigm of the salesman as contemporar~ ,\mericao
tragedy - the 'tragedy of the common man', in ,\rthur \Iiller's bmous
ueseription of his celebrated pla~ /Jcalli o(a Sale.ll/lrlll (1<)+7) vvhile Gill/me
Sllelia adopts horror film iconographies to render its depiction of the
catastrophic I<)()() Rolling Stones concert at _\ltamont even more infernal. (Io
fact, direct cinema's focus on specific kinds of subjects and personalities -
typically, puhlic figures like politicians (kennedy) or celebrities (Brando, the
Beltles) v\hose o\v n 'performances' of realit~ structure the viev\ing cxperience
- gencrically identifies .\merielI1 ,'cnlt; vvith recording;s of the public realm.)
GE"JRE: BREAKING THE FRAME 261
...-------------------------
,"or does the vv'ork of earlier film-makers VvllO quite clearly mix documentary
'Ind fictional elements - for example, Robert Flaherty in Alall o(.lnlll (1934)
. necessarilv' ref1cct either lack of sophistication or a Llilure to achiev'e
notional goais of pure objectivity. (It is vvorth noting that Paul Rotha's (1<)36)
e~1r1v taxonomy of documentary used the terms 'naturalist' and 'romantic'
illterch~lllgeably.)
It mav just he that a more gener~11 acknowledgement of documentary as a
"'CllIT c;n help square the intractahly circular arguments in documentary
01eo r y around realism and representation. Film genre theory, as we have
scen, acknO\vledges that representational and narrative eom'entions supply
important framev\'(lrks for meaning construction. .\t the same time, the
meanings to be derived from an indiv'idual text are never exhausted hy the
cOl1\entions vvithin, or against, vvhich it v\orks. For documentary theory, this
could point a vv'ay out of the ultimately sterile dehate that presupposes that
the objective of documentar~ is hy some means to access reality - and then
preoccupies itself vv ith the vv'ays in v\hich that g'oal remains forever frustra-
tillo'lv out of reach.
\;1V generic definition of documentary certainly needs to start by
ac!"n()\v ledging the f(lrm's fundamental orientation towards the real and
that this aspect neither cxcludes a rhetorical dimension, yet nor is it purel~
rcd ucible to rhetorieil oper~ltions. Documentary, in other vvords, certainlY
II'UI/Is its spectator to believe that thc multibrious topics with which it
en~'al!;es share a common purchase in historical reality; but this sometimes
oV~T~eag;cr insistence on direct acccss to a reality we know to be necessarily
.1I1d incscapably mediated oug;ht not obscure our recognition that there is
~lltcr all a historical realit~, mediation notvvithstanding. Given the obvious
problcms in establishing a clear semantic basis for the documentary g;enre (an
e"enliallv limitless v~lrietv' of subject matter and a proliferating set of modes,
each vvitll its distinctive' visual style), it might be helpful to conceive of
documentary as cohering generically in syntactic rather than semantic terms.
\'ichols (I<)<)T <)+) speaks of documcntar~ 's 'developmcnt of strategies f(lr
pcrsu,lsive argumentation about the historical world'. This search f()]'
.ldeq uate vv a ~ s vv ith vvhich to eng;ag;e vvit h Ii vcd reality then cons! it utes
documentary's basic s~ ntactic axis: the various st~ Ies, from cxpository to
pcrl(lrmative, across v\hich this search is conducted, together supply an
l'V olving and obv iously related and overlapping series of semantic
registers throug;h v\hich 'the real' can be satisLlCtorily sig·nified.
\ gcnre-based approach to documentar~ vvill necessarily reg'ard the reality
th,1I is made available to the spectator through documentary practice -- like
the 'historv' of the \\estern - as ultimately a function of g-cneric convention
r.tlher tha~ th~lt vv hich stands somehO\\ outsidc the film-te,"t altogether (after
I aiL as Jlcqlles Uerrida ([()I(l: I .')H) once Limollsly ohsen-cd, 'there is nothing
J
 262 FILM liLNRE GE:-IRE: BREAKING THE FRAME

outside of the text'). Thus the formal signifiers of immediacy in obsenational

documentary, the semantic comentions of this mode of documentary, mark
not only the 'presence' of reality in the text - a 'presence' ,n.' recognise as a
generic prerequisite - but also the specific \\ays in \\hich 'reality' is
concei\t:d that make such semantic cOIwentions possible and appropriate (in
this case, for example, the gO\crning: assumption that the object world does
exist 'outside' of the text \\hose job is then Llithfully to record it). On the
other hand, identifying' the syntax of documentary, as suggested abme, as the
interrogation of reality ought to ensure that documentary criticism does not
Llll back into hermetic formalism (because realit~ remains a structuring
presence in documentary eYen if it can neYer be fully apprehended in the
text). Understanding: documentary syntax in this way also offers gTounds for
defending' the elaborately rel1ni\e, suhjective and often artifice-laden work
of contemporary 'performative' documen tarists from Isaac Julien (Loohllgfor
I,ll IIgsloll, I <jXX) to Lrrol ~lorris (7'1t1' Fo/!, or Hil r, 20°3) ag,linst '\ ichols's
chargc of stdistic excess and a retreat into the charmed circles of the avant-
garde.

11'11111 S,liilldla's ris/ (1l)l)3l. Rcproduccd courtcS\ of Lni\Trsal/Thc hohal <:olkction.

II: HOLOCAUST FIL!\l

Ahout halfway through Steven Spielberg''s J()<j3 film of Thomas ~eneally's
nmel Sri/illd/a '.I' I,isl, \\ar profiteer Oskar Schindler confronts a fi'ustrating
and incipiently intolerahle cog'niti\ e and moral crisis: \\ hen reminded by
ltzhak Stern, Schindler's business manager at the enamelware plant he
operates in occupied Poland and the diffident \oice of his increasingly restive
conscience, that the proliferating administratin.' euphemisms of his '\azi
business partners - 'resettlement,' 'special tre,ltment' and so f(lrth are in
reality l11erel~ the thinnest of 'eils mer the reality of industrialised mass
murder, Schindler ,ents on his partner his anger and perplexity at this
representational duplicity. 'Dam mit, Stern,' he shouts, 'do \\C need a \\hole
ne" languag"t'?' 'Yes,' replies Stern quietly, 'I think \\e do.'
I I(me\ er, Sell/lid/a's I,isl and other especially, but hy no me,\I1S exclu-
sin.'ly, fictional - films about the Holocaust ha \ e heen "idely LlUlted for,
precisely, their/i/i/llre (or refusal) to spe,lk 'a "hole ne\\ languag:e'. Sell//Ii//a's
Lisl is indeed is discursively characterised by the comiction that both the key
operati \ e catq!;ories of bourg:eois fiction and drama in general - individ ual
moral choice, a linear g'oal-oriented narrative dyn'lmised by dramatic conflict,
and so on- and in p,lrticular the simplified \ersions thereof employed by
Holly"ood g:enre film, remain adequate to the task of representing e\ ents in
human history reg'arded hv some as in a sense beyond representation
altogether. In Llel, the fundamental project of Sri/illd/a 's 1",,1 is to bring- the
1loloClLlst "ithin this century's most normative, unin.'rsally available and
~dobally comprehended representation,tl parameters, those of the cbssic
Iiolly\\ood film, and it is by the leg:itimacy or other\\ise of that project, and
its success in carning: it throug:h, that the film has to be measured.
Sri/illd/a '.I' Lisl is by some measure the most emphatically and kno\\ingly
g,'/lel'l( of all serious treatments of the Holocaust. That is, Spielberg's film
quite consciously sets out to recreate the 'Final Solution' from ,vithin the
instantlY recog'nisable and comprehensible forms of popular Holly\\ood
genres. For instance, the first thing: lIe notice about Sell/lIi//er's Lisl is that it
is in black and \\hite. This is often t,lken as a documentary affectation: the
rendering: of the story in monochrome is intended to reinf(lrce the truth
eLlims of the film by imoking' the look of contemporary documentary f()()tag-e
olthe Second \\orld \\ar. But for the film's anticipated audience, black-and-
II hite f()()tag:e quite simply prmides the correct ji/III/( reg:ister f()\' a 'Second
\\ orld \rar mo\ ie': in other \\ords, a set of represent,ltional comentions and
,!ssociations is being- quite precisel~ deployed, \\herein black ,md \\hite con-
notes 'old mO\ies' at least ,1S much ,IS 'old times'. The opening scenes of the
Ii 1m, \\hich depict, first, the ,Irrival t'II /I/ilsse of Je\\'ish deportees from the
Polish countryside in ~rako\\, f(ll1<med by the introduction of Schindler
himself in the setting of a German-frequented nig:htclub in the city, confirm
the directive sigl1<l1 of monochrome by their Llintly studied classicism (the
E'rom Schindler's I,isl (1993), Reproduced courtesy of ni"ersal/The 'obal Collection,

t
264 FILM (jE.'\IRE
slightly fetishistic accumulation of period detail, the wreaths of .film nair
shadows, thc withheld 'ren~al' that keeps the Elee of r jam Neeson as Schindler
concealed from thc audience until well into the second sequence) that collec-
tiyely announces the calculated deployment of a classical Holly\\ood style
and moreover of the classic Hollywood's preferred dramatic engine, the
genre tilm. "'/lore specific allusions here include, most notahly, Ci/si//J!i/nca
(I (43), whose postponement of the introduction of t he central character
Scltilldler's I,isl consciously imitates: Ci/Si//J!i/IIUI of course being another
wartime parahle of the transformation of an individual from protiteering and
cynical detachment into passionate commitment to a cause. :\s the tilm pro-
gresses, the progressive darkening of tone as e;leh ne\\ stage in the Holocaust
is reached (from ghettoisation, to deportation, fin~llly to mass e.\termination)
is textually marked by another shift in gCllcric register. The tilm abandons the
assured classical st~ Ie of the earlier scenes - \yhich retlect Schindler's own
brash early confidence for the non-cbssicd modes of doculllentary (inclu-
ding hand-held clmeLl\york that appears to be follO\ying the action anxiously
rather than framed to recei\c it) and - notoriously, in the ,-\usch\yitz 'shower
scene of the post-Psl'dill slasher/stalker horror film.
The critical problem poscd b~ this evident gencric ch,lracter relates to
critical ;ll1d thcoretical positions that insist on the inescapable singularity of
the Holocaust ,Iml accordingly if indeed it is not asserted that the Holocaust
is simply 'beyond' depiction, speech a III1 understanding altogether - demand
of Holocaust represellLitions that they manifest that singubrity through
formal disruption of narrative, etc., cOll\entions and ,lbO\c all - through
the abjuration of mainstream representational strategies such as those of
genre tilm. What Holocaust historians call the 'radical incomprehensihility
thesis' (the claim th,1t the ,Itlempt to understand the IIolocaust defeats the
procedurcs of COll\ entional historiograpl1\ or political econom\) finds its
echo in ,I 'radical unreprcscntabilit~ thesis' \\ hich similarh condemns
normati\ e represenLltional practices to inC\irable Llilure.
Thus thc problematic notion of 'the IIoloclUst tilm' as a genre raises
ethical questions along'sidc critical ones. Since thc rclclse of Sdlllldlcr's List
in 1<)<)3 if Ilot \\ell bdi)re, the Holocaust h,ls become an established if ahYays
contrO\crsial subject tiH' historical drama. Indeed, the opening sequCIlL'e of
S-HCII (2000) \yhich depicts the future '\lagneto' as a child deportee,
using his destrueti\e telepathic PO\\ ers fiH' the tirst time as he is separated
!i'om his parents at the gates of :\usch\\ itz suggests strongh that the
I Iolocaust h,ls becollle increasingly a\ailable ,IS a point of reference fiH' genre
tilms \\ell outside the categories of 'serious' historical drama. \\ith pre-
existing genres (such as the \\ar!combat tilm) offering no \i,lble parameters
tiH' the representation of industri.l1ised mass murder, Holocaust films have
geneLlted their O\\n recognisable representatiOl1<l1 COll\ entions and narrative
(jL~RF: llREAKI.'\I(j TilE FRAME 265
templates. Yet there remains a marked critical reluct,mce to countenance the
ide,1 of 'the Holocaust film' - primarily because incorporating; the Holocaust
into the routinised structurcs of genre appears to diminish its unique horror
l)\ normalising it at the narrati \e and textl!,11 Inel.
. Thc difficulties entailed hy the proposition of a genre, '1111' Holocaust
film,' pn.::sumpti\cly to be set alongside the detecti\c tilm, the Western, the
i1lusical and so on, relatc to thc nature of the g'cneric text itself, which by
definition entails narrMi\e, iconographic, charactcrological and concei\ably
idcological 10111.'1'1111011.1'; \\hich is further to say normati\e and - simply by
\ irt ue of such normati\it~ in some measure perhaps affirmative apprehen-
sions of h(l\\ the \\orld gi\en through the genre artefact to a generic audience
is organised. Genre can he seen as ,1 means of ordering the \\orld which hy
Ihc \en bct of that ordering offers its audiencc thc rcassuring' if circular
consolation that the \\orld is, indeed, orderable. In the context of tilm, this
gl'neric orderliness, or orderly g'enericity, has of course on occasions trans-
Ialell into a more-or-less explicit opposition het\\een (parricuarly HolI~ \\ootl)
genre tilm - construed as commodity, the Eltally facile pablum of Adorno's
'culture industry' and the originary apprehension of the authentic, authored
,lrtcLlct, especially in the tradition of the European art film. HO\\C\u'
exhausted and discredited this opposition has become in critical theor~
g"l'nerally, the dichotomy of the g'eneric/normati\e and the autonomous/
l'\cl'ptionall'Cm,lins .1 sig'niticant presence in critical discussions of narratiYe
,lnt! in p,lrticular tilmic treatments of the IIolocaust.
In f,Kt, ho\\l'\cr, since until quite recently the Holocaust remained largcl~
IIlf-limits to Holly\yood cineIl1,I, hence as subject matter contined, preciscl~,
to the Furopean ,Irt tilm, the implicltions of a full~ generic approach to the
IloloclUst ha\e not needed to be fully explored. 2 The fury of many of the
responses to the :'\BC: mini-series IIolomllsl (I (J7X) \yas itself in large me,lsure
atlributable to th,1t series' historical priority- JIolomllsl \yas, after all, the
IiI'S' time that 'Holly\\()ml' had attempted to ,lccommodate this subject
Ill,iller to its existing generic styles. The ofknce here ,lrguably arose abO\e all
from the perception that the Holocaust \yas indeed being' illeg'itimateh L L •
al'Commmlated III I Ioll~ \\ootl norms, rather than \yhat SCUllS to haye been a
kit imperati\c that it explode them. It is only in thl' latter part of the nearly
I II 0 decades since JIololllIlsl \\as tirst bro,ldcast that, as one highly \isible
clement in a broad cultural front of creati\e, commemorati\e, schol;lrl~ and
critic" concern \"ith the Shoah in Europe and\merica, the destruction of
).urope's Je\\s has gradu,lll~ come to tCature more regularly if still inti'C-
quently in major Holl~ \\oml studio productions. Films like Slllil/lller's I,isl,
SliplllL''.I' C!iIIil(, (I<)X2), Tnlllllpit orllti' Spin! (I<)HX) and]akolllltL' Liar (1991'1)
arc unashamedly and indeed doubly generic: they both tr,lde in existing
~enlTic templates like .lillll lilliI', the \\ar mO\ ie and soap oper,1 ti)r their initial
266 FILM GENRE
appeal, and in themselYl~s help trace out the parameters of a still-nugatory
new genre.
Against that, it em be argued that rendering the unthinkable conventional
allows it to be confronted and acknowledged rather than e\:c1uded as
untouchable. The Holocaust's emerging 'genericisation' may be seen as
insisting, via the j(iI"IlIa! element of generic orthodo\:y and cOl1\ention, on the
necessary (ollllnllily between the quotidian realities of the world \\c think of
as 'ours' and that of the camps. Primo Lni (Il)KH) has insisted that the
lInirefS (ol1cel1lmllolll1alre \vas not a closed universe: if it \\cre, on \\hat basis
does one insist on the continuing relevance of the categories of moral
responsibility, at least for the perpetrators' HO\\ could one, by the same
token, even recognise the penerse il1\'ersion or c\acuation of those categories
inflicted on camp inmates - a phenomenon widely remarked in survivor
literature? Did the camps not possess to at least some degree, as Trevor
Griffiths writes in his play COlllell/lllls, 'the logic of our \\orld - e\:tended'?
(Grittiths, I()?5: (3). To the ntent that the Holocaust is increasingly seen in
historical terms as a potential IIlllhlll modernity rather than (as a more
reassuring prior interpretati\c orthodo\:~ \\ould h,l\c it) modernity's Other,
the project of adequately reintegrating Holocaust representations within the
normative te\:ture of representational cOl1\cntion becomes both more urgent
and more problematic: problematic, since at its most e\:treme (for instance, in
some pronouncements of the later i\dorno) the regimented assembly-line
commodity cuhure that produces the IIolly\\ood genre film is seen as not
only complicit but continuous \\ith the instrumental rationalised modernity
that spawned/enabled the Holocaust; yet urgent, since thc possibility
remains that the Holocaust may he 'refunctioned' through representation to
articulate an immanent critique of modernity's 0\\ n e\:termiluti\ e tendency.]
This does not mean, ho\\ner, th,1t genre forms can be applied unref1ec-
tively and in an undiscriminating \\ay to the HoIOClllsl. On the contr,lry, even
the most conn'ntionally generic (\\hich is to S,I~, in terms of Holocaust recep-
tion, scandalously IIlIcol1\cntioml) Ilolocaust filnts seem to push to\\ards a
point at which the spectator is confronted \\ith the difficulty, if not outright
impossibility, of portraying Ihese scenes in LlIIS (generic) \\ay, a point marked -
like the confusions and contortions of melodrama, or more locally the oneiric
distortions that mark out masculine Cll1tas~ constructions in (Jill or Llle Past
and other/i/Ills I/(ilrs (sec Chapter <) ,!w e\:treme tntual stress and narrative
dislocation. For n,lmple, two late I<)<)os namples of 'I Iolocaust comedy' -
itselfofcourse a m,lssively transgressi\'e category, the most (in-)L1l110us being
LII;' Is Bel/lIlI/iil (Italy I<)<)K) - Ttlllll or LI/;' (FLll1cclRomania, 1<)<)9) and
Ja/"'o!J lhe Llr/r (199K) both confi'ont the spectator in their concluding moments
\\it h radica I 11<1 IT ,It i \C reversals and reflni ve n,IlTa t i ve read j ustments. In
Tnllll orL!I;', this comes about through the re\ elation th,1t the \\hole film has
GENRE: BREAKt:'oJCi THE FRAME 267
been the memory/fantasy of a camp inmate, possibly a lunatic; in Jako/J the
],ir/r, throug'h a double ending that substitutes possible redemption for
'lnnihibtion. Both films seem to pose questions about the desire for
optimistic generic resolutions in a narrati\'e conte\:t where optimism is
uIlsust,linable: their eleventh-hour shift into modernist narrative uncertainty
ll1ig,'ht be construed as an ethical gesture that encourages spectators to reflect
on their o\vn moti\,ltions for \\atching Holocaust narratives and their
opect,ltions of those narratives.
,\s an ntension of our shared culture into the realm of the unspeakable,
theIl, the genericisation of the Holocaust is marked not - or not only -. by the
reduction and routinisation of atrocity: it also brings the spectator to that
point \\here cultural signifying practices are splitji-ollll7'llhlll, where an act of
r,ldicII and absolute separation is performed upon us by a sudden ,md as it
SCUllS arbitrary scission, a moment \\hich - \\ithin the confines of genre,
\\ hich are \\hat enable us to encounter such ,Ippalling historical material in
the first place· \\c e\:perience as an act of violence upon ourselves. Such
text ual aggTession - lllr nample, in the stark tonal/ generic shift: bet\veen
sun-drenched, Lliry-Lde romantic comedy to \\ artime melodrama in LI/;' Is
B,.r/lll1li,! nploits the deceptive security offered by the establishment of a
generic locale to communicate to the spectator a sense of radical disorienta-
tion \vhen th,1t sccuritv is sudden Iv \\ithheld,
" "
III: PORl\"OGRAPHY
That pornographic film (\\hich since the mid-I<)Kos has in Elct usually meant
\ ideo) is a genre is hardly debatahle, In L\Ct, if film genre is understood in
IlTl1lS of the m,lss-production o( standardised n,llTatives \\'hose well-
I
esublished cOIl\entions supply rcli,lble and repeated pleasures fllr a regular
I audience, then porn film could stand almost as a template fllr genre in
~'eller'll. In ,Ill its endless variants, pornogTaphy is ,Irguably structured b~
I ~tronger genre cOIl\entions tlun any mainstream genre, e\en the \\estern.
'\01', unlike the \\estern, docs it ,Ippear in any dang"cr of ntinction, in f\Ct
I lJuite the re\erse: pornogTaphic motifs and allusions have since the early
I<)<)OS been rife in I-Iolly\\ood cinema, \\ hether in films about the sn industry
I (SltuIl'glrls, IlJ95; Boop,le\lglt/.\, I<)(n) that challenge the grimly negative
I depictions in such I (nOS films as IIii rd(ore (1 <)77), + se\:-centred genre films
\I hose narratives mimic pornogLlphic narrati \ e structures (such as the 'erotic
I thrillers' discussed in Chapter <), or simph by incorporating polymorphous
~e"\ual content phone se\: (Girl (), J()<)(J), swing'ing" (Preil(/lllIg /(1 lite
I !)a,'a/ed, 1<)lJ7; Tlte Rilplllre, [()9-+), under-age sn (kids, 1995), S/:\I (Bod)'
IIlf,'ldell(", 1<)<)3) and so on - \\hose e\:ploration had pre\iol\sly been confined
I
J
26S I'ILM GENRE
to porn 'proper'. J\leanwhile, an increasing number of independent film-
makers haYl~ crossed the line that preyiousl~ delinitiyely separated both
upscale 'eroticl' and mainstream narratiye cinema g-enerally fi'om hardcore
pornog;raphy, the direct depiction of unsimulated sex acts (RolI/ill/ce, France
I<)<)S; Billse-iVloi, France 2001; Inlilllil(]l, GB 2000; 9 SOI/p,S, GB 200-1-). This
'pornographising' trend in contemporary film is of course part of a larger
mainstreaming' of porn imagery and porn itself through 'lad culture' men's
magazines, ralk shows and so on.
Yet as a socially illegitimate (and quite often extra- or para-legal) form,
pornography has more often been the su bjeer of sociological than critical
interest. Lntil quite recently, the idea that pornography could be an object of
academic study other than in departments of psychology, sociology or
jurisprudence \\ould ha\e heen fj'ankly bizarre. In particubr, the idea of
paying; serious critical atlention to the formal and stylistic attrihutes of the
pornographic lexi \\as all but unthinkable. This changed in I<)St) \\ith the
puhlication of Linda \Villiams's ground-hrelking' study Ililrd Core: Pomer,
Plellsllre ilnd Ihe FrL'll-::') orlhe l'isiMe. \Villiams argued that pornog;raphy had
I
a distinct g'eneric history that hoth partly reclpitulated, but also in important
ways departed fi'om, the trajectory of mainstream narrati\e film. \\illiams's
relocation of porn \\ ithin the disciplinary contcxt of film st udies \\hich
implied that, fill' nample, the structures of pornographic narratiH~s could be
classified, discussed and assessed like those of \Vesterns or mu.sicals pm\cr-
full~ challengnl the operatiye moral, ethical and legal fj'amc\\orks in \\hich
porn had hitherto bcen encountered. These included both l'<ll1SLT\,Iti\e ,Illti-
pornogTaphy campaig'ners \yhose opposition to pornography \\as grounded in
traditional moral and religious ohjections to pnmissiyeness and scxual
licClKe, and feminists \\110 reg'arded pornogTaph~ as simultaneously ,I perni-
cious expression of phalloL'l~ntric patriarchalm\thologies and a direct spur to
further male sexual aggTession against \\ omen (in other \\ords, as Gertrud
Koch (I1<)SI] It)t).r 3<)) notes, finding in porn 'not (like l'<ll1sen,ltiyes) the
erosion of existing norms hut rather their e,,"pression and confirmation').
Pa~ ing particular ,lltention to constructions fill' and of the pornographic
audience, Williams distinguishes different reg;imcs of pornogT,lphic produc-
tion and consumption, first a (length\) 'primiti\c' phase \yhere 'stag' films-
minimally elahor,lIed depictions of sex acts largely dcyoid of n,llTati\ e content
offered a cinema of pornogTaphic attractions to usually all-m,lle audiences
in contnts (such as brothels) \\here the scxual promise the films youchsafed
might he immediatel~ actualised. Porn thus functioned \\holly or in part as
,Ill adjunct to commodilied scxual actiyity rather than as a scxual commodity
in its o\\n right, and \\as ,I para-cincmatic actiyity that temporarily colonised
other spaces ,IS \eIllICS fi)r cxhihition. Porn's 'classical' period in the I<J7os
finds theatrically-released hardcore films, some of them ,lL'hining \\ide
GE'iRE: BREAKING THE FRAME 269
distrihution and crossing o\cr to mainstream exhibition, with higher produc-
tion yalues, more elahorate Il<lITatiyes ,1ml careful modulations of tone (for
cx,lmple, the extensi\e use of comedy) to court .1 \\ider and more 'respect-
able' audience - thus reclpitulating, ,llbeit on a different time-frame, the
dnelopment,Ii trajectory of mainstream cinenu. \Villiams also finds 1<)70S
porn films less concerned to stimulate desire in the spectator that can (must)
be s,ltisfied 'else\\ here' (like the stag films), than themsehes to supply textual
's'ltisf~lction' through spectacular concluding large-scale sC:\llal 'numbers'.
'(T)he price of manifesting public sexual interest in pornography was the
suppn:ssion of mcrt indiyidual sexual responses that \\ere at least possible in
the pri\<lte party atmosphere of the stag film and often solicited by Ihe films
themsehes' (\\'illiams, It)t)<): 2<)<)). By contrast, 'classic' 1t)70S porn filnls like
!J"/lIl1d Ihe Greell f)oor (Un7)
constructed their ,1lTangement of sexual acts into a climactic satisLlction
meant to st,md as a \isual experience alone. It \\as the conceit of these
narLltiyes ... that the films itself \\(lUld he so ahsorbing' and satisfying
,IS not to lead the yiC\yer 'on the rehound' back to his or her myn hody.
Indeed, the gTeater and [(Teater spectacularisations of the multitudinous
money shots of this er,I's pornography seemcd determined to prmc that
the film's yisual clim,lxes \HTe suflicient unto themseh es. (ibid.)
Such films importantly challenge the pnception of pornographic narratiyes
,IS merel~ instrumen tal 'tools' fl)r sC\.u.tl arousal though in the book's
second edition in 19<)<), \\illiams rc;rsscsses 'classic' l(nOS porn as not, as she
first surmised, thc [('enre's most fully-rctlised fl>rIll but something of an
l'\ccption, historically hracketed In the more 'practical' pleasurahle applica-
tiolls and interactiH' sC\.ual/tC\.tual engagements of the stag film and yideo
porn (pp. 2<)<) 300), Thc home yideo rC\olution of the I<)SOS, \\hich argllabl~
tr,l11sfi>rIned the cconomics hut, fllr the most part, not the aesthetics of
mainstIT,\m Holh \\00l1, ended porn film's 'classical' phase, fl)reclosed on the
",enre's aspirations to theatrical 'leg'itim,lcy' (the ohject of flll1d parody in skin-
Ilid. (11I1L'llr Jack Horner's ,Imhitions in Hoogle ,\I.~ltls to make 'real mm ies'),
.md returned the consumption of porn to conte""ts (the pri\ate home) th,It
()nee ,Ig,lin promoted spectatorial regimes \yhne porn-\"'Iching could be
inte~LlIL'l1 into ,Ieriye se""Lul pleasure-taking.
1I~ the preLlce to Hilnl Core, \Villiams descrihes the book's origins in a
pmject ,lluhsing other film genres in greater or lesser part detined hy their
slImatic aflcct - their direct address to and imp,lct upon the embodied
spectator- a categ'ory that also included 'tearjcrking' melodramas and horror
lilms. This is a suggcsti\e association inasmuch as those other genres too
hay e, as \\e ha\e seen, endured criticIi diS<lpprohation as 'debased' forms
 270 FILM GENRE
appealing; to the lowest common (social and perceptual) denominator, only to
henefit from a much more Ll\'ourable reception in contemporary theOl'ie~ of
the g'cndered subject. In Vil'tor Hugo's opinion, whereas tragedy stirred the
heart, melodrama re\varded 'the pleasure of the eyes' (q uoted in Carlson,
I qH4: 213). Porn's current rehabilitation as an object of cri tical analysis can
thus be located \vithin the larger contest of critical theon's generally
expanded interest in forms that through form and/or narrati\'e conte~t
challenge comentional vie\ving: positions and the critical categories typically
identified \\ith them (see Chapter 7). '\ot coincidentally, a number of scholar~
who have \\Titten about porn haye also contributed important studies of the
horror film and/or melodrama, including \\illiams hersc1f(I<)H3, H)H4, 199 1 ,
1l)<)H), Carol Clover (Hj<)2), S ue- Ellen Case (I(j>ll), I <)<) I), eh uck I\..leinhans
(((J7H, 1()9(l) and Claudia Springer (I<)9(l),
,\11 that said, at first glance porn, its transgressi\c (olllmi not\\ ithsLlnding,
would seem to be an\lhing but uncomentional in its intense genericity - its
attachmen t to rig'id narrati\ e and iconog:raphic proced ures that vary less from
indiyidual film to film than any mainstream genre. Porn must by definition
(and this of course means legalh too) feature graphic, explicit and repeated
representations of unsimulated sex acts; \\illiams's HI/rd Corc introduced
and explained the g-cneric lexicon of 'meat shots' (close-ups of penetration)
.md 'money shots' (the male ejaculation outside but usually on the body
of his female partner(s)). In LIct, the multiplicity of porn's proliferating
specialist sub-genres makes the identification of semantic or iconographic
constants surprisingly difficult. Porn can be tender or ag'gressi\e, comic or
nutter-or-hct; its protag'onists nLlY be old or young', cOl1\entionally 'Ittractive
or not; production \alues ma~ be extremely high (as in 1(J70S porn classics
like Hclillld Ilic Crall Door or contemporary UpSGlle \ ideo porn) or Im\-rent
(in a variety ohvays, fill' different reasons and \\ith different affective modes,
as in amateur, 'gonzo' and much fetish porn); and straight, g;ay, bisexual,
lransgender and transyestite men .md \YO\11en of course can (and do) perf(lrrn
a be\\ildering' yariety of sexu~i1 acts and scenarios from the straightfiln\ard to
the recondite and bizarre, hen nudity is not an absolute gi\cn in all porn
(for example, in some fetish contexts).
In most cases cOl1\cntional \\isdom \\ould also assume that narratiYes in
porn films are no more than inert (.md in the home \ ideo ag'e, rCldih skipped
mcr) 'carriers' for the pri\'ileged sex seq uences, \\ hich in terms both of
perfi)l'mance and consumption arc essentiall~ autonomous of their narratiye
contexts. That is, neither the yie\\er nor t he actors maintain an y pretence of
interest in ostensible characterisations or narratiye deYeiopments during
performances of sex acts th.lt .lI'e to <Ill intents and purposes stand-<llone
textual elements, c<lpable of heing, ,md indeed likely to be, yie\\cd in any or
no order \\ith no me<lningful diminution of their interest or imp,ICt.' E\en if,
GENRE: BREAKINti THE FRAME 271
,IS in some 1970S porn, an attempt is made to produced a more integTated
n~IlTati\c, the powerful 'reality effect' of hardcore sex (whose specular, ,IS
opposed to purely libidinal, charge is in itself, one might note, socially
constructedh) is ah\ays likely to O\cn\hclm its narratiYe contexts, as would
seem to be borne out by the experience of recent mainstream film-makers
\\ ho haye experimented \\ith including hardcore sex in non-pornographic
n,lIT,lti\cs (sec aboYe). \Yilliams, hO\yeyer, argues that porn narratiYes reyeal
thc g;cnre's underlying syntactic coherence and as such are a good deal more
than disposable packaging fi)r sex scenes. For Williams, pornography is 'a
!2:cnrc that is by definition obsessed \\ith Yisiblc proof (p. 230). This accounts
fill' the \\ays in \yhich the sex luI act, and specifically female pleasure, arc
located ,IS objects of intense narratiYe curiosity in I<J7os porn films premised
Oil 'scxual problems' like Decp TllFliltl (1lJ72), Tllc DCi.'iI III Miss ]OIl('S (IC)74)
and III.illllaMc (H)]H).
This in turn reLItes back to the tantalising' insight allying porn and
melodrama: till' porn, like melodrama, is arguably also as much a 'mode' as a
genre, hence despite appeaLII1CeS and assumptions defined more readily in
s\nt,Ktic than in semantic terms'! Porn is g'Cnerically unified by its emphasis
OIl \\hat \\'illiams calls 'the fi'enzy of the visible', which may be understood
.1" the progLlmnutic imperative to render on-screen the experience of sexual
pleasure in unmistakeable, unchalleng'Cable and e\cn \erifiable ways. The
most Eimiliar generic marker of this scopophilia is the 'money shot' of straight
porn, HO\\e\er, both the female orgasm and fetishistic pleasure pose a
problem for the pornographic gazc in their LIck of a transparently signif~'ing'
somatic manifestation.
Pornography poses a particuLIr challenge to com en tional not ions of generic
,<'usllJ/illltufc in so f~lr as it is predicated on a fundamental disassociation of its
I ficti\e' storytelling practices \\hich arc in fi)l'mal terms usually perfectly
uJl1\entional and its ultimate promise to deliver representations which arc
I not It/dll:c hut in Elct rcal. Porn's specific generic \'erisimilitude centres on
the proposition of a \\ orld \\here libidinal energies arc not repressed or
I "uhlimated though they may of course be temporarily frustrated, at least in
terms of their attraction to specific objects (.1 particuhll' partner, orifice or
I tl·tish object) - hut where, on the contr,lry, human beings arc constantly
primed for sC\ual activity. In this sense, as Williams notes, the porn film's
I
construction of a generic milieu premised on the acting-out and ready grati-
I fiution of sC\:ual desire in 'production numbers' that define the genre
p'lrallels both the structure and utopi,m world of pure expressi\'ity (sec
I Chapter 4) in the integrated musical.
Pornography's structural aflinities \\ith not only the musical but that other
I episodic, specLlcuLIr genre, the contemporary action blockbuster, could be
lIsed to support an argument filr narratiYe cinemas as a \d1Ole to be regarded
I
J
272 FILM GENRE
as 'essentially' pornographic, an argument that some psychoanalytically
based theories of spectatorship and cinema's mobilisation of the 'scopic drive'
would support. This book has generally ljuestioned the notion of generic
'essences' in favour of a more proeessual understanding of genres, and it
would be perverse now to reintroduce such ideas at the macro-Ine!. None-
theless, if more modestly \\c pursue the idea of pornography as a mode
studying the \\ays in which the pornographic and the melodramatic mode~
interact in m,linstream, narrative dramatic cinema - including: within and
upon 'canonical' genres - mig;ht well prO\'C a rewarding and instrueti\e area
fl)r further study.
NOTES
I, I\otc that Nichols's O\\n ddlnition of thc 'perti,rmatl\c modc' difkrs si~nillcanth li'om
other construclions of 'pcrtiJrmati\c' documcnt'lr! notahh' Bruzzi (20~0) , in li'ght of
theorics of gTmler and subjccti\it\ ach.lIlccd In Judith Butler and others,
2, '\ comprchensi\(' critical O\TI'\ ic\\ of lilmic trcatmcnts of thc Holocaust is prO\idcd b\'
Insdorf (2002),
3, Z\'g'munt Bauman's ()()~()) ,Hoi/oml)' IIlld IIII' lIolo(IIIISI is probahh thc hcst-knO\\n
nposition of thc casc li)r Ihc Iiolocaust as running \\ith rathcr than ag'linst thc grain of
modernit \ ,
+. Though a 111m such 8\1.\1 (1<)<)<)) indicatcs that thc phohic \ision of porn .IS Illkrno
pcrsists, porn's incorporatioll inlo nuinstrcam popular culturc nO!\lithst'lIldinl';,
), Comparc thc bmous non-diegetie shot of Ihe pistol-packing eO\\ bO\ th,n coul:l eithcr
(or holh) begin or end Till' (;,.<'111 Tn/ill Ro/J/Ja)' (/<)01) (sec Ch'lpter 3)'
h, That is, it is thc social tahoo surrounding graphic imai,(cl'\ that lends lurdcore im'lgcry
its pO\\crful \isual alfect: so \\'ell-cstahlished is thc prinCiple of thc s('\ aet's
UI1\ ie\\'ahilit\, that its inclusion in ,In\ n.lrrati\ c not instituliOlulh placcd as porn is
(presenth, at least) transgressi\c to ,I dl'i,(ITl' that dl,dlengcs thl' possihilit\ of its
narrati\'(' intq~Tation,
/, On melodrama as g'enrl' ,Ind as mode, SlT Ch'lptcr 2,
(IL\PTER 12
Conclusion: Transgenre?
O\vards the end of SCll' } 01'/...', ,\CII' Yor!.:, Francine F \ ans fends off the
T neurotically aggressive needling of her ex-husband Jimmy Doyle, who
h<\s just rebranded her latest hit, lIapp), Elldillgs , 'Sappy Ending's', with a
' ha If-defensive, half-acljuiescent piece of self-deprecation about musicals: 'Seen
one, seen 'em all, huh?'
I fopefully, readers of this book will not find themselves agreeing with
Francine, either about musicals or about genre films generally. The enorm-
ous \ariety of narrati\'Cs, visual styles, modes of performance, ideological
positions, politicJl implicltions and fl)rms of spectatorial address e\'ident
across the rang;e of films and genres discussed in these pages should have
made it plain that both across the system of film gcnl'C as a whole, within
Ilolh \yood <ltld beyond, as well as bet\veen individual genre films in the same
[!:eneric tr,ldition, seeing one is reall~ nothing like seeing them all. NCll' Yor!.:,
\('11' LII'/"" itself, as a classic work of [<)7os 'New Hollywood' genre l'Cvision-
I
ism, <Ipparently torn between the desire to presenT the bittersweet memories
I of Ilollywood's gem'C p,lst and the urge to bury them ali\e, ,Imply testifies to
the ways that genres change in COl11ple:x rebtionship to changing times and
I institutional conte:xts.
let Francine is not \\holly \\Tong either: in so Ell' as each indi\idual g-enre
I film acts as a summation of and commentary on the tot,llity of its generic
predecessors, there is a sense in \\hich \\hen \\c \\atch anyone genre film, we
I
.It-e if not 'seeing them all' then at least perhaps sellsillg 'them all'. i\lost g'enre
I lilms are of course neither as consciously nor as e:xplicitly intertextual or
directly contestatory of g;enre traditions as ,YCII' LJik, .veil) 'r'or!': or other
I 'revisionist', or critical, genre films of the same period (fl)r ex,lmplc, in the
lS CIl/11iI11II1'11 and Pill Garrell alld Bill)' ;//(' A.'id, in Europe FCilr Eals llie
I SOIlI and Tlie ,-ill/entilll Frimd, <lI1d many others) . .\lost g'enre films inhabit
their generic identities in \\ays that ,Ire both less intensely self-conscious and
I
1
 274 I'lL!\! GENRE
less challenging. Yet something like - to adapt Fredric Jameson's famous
phrase - a 'generic unconscious' persists \\"ithin, beneath and ,Iround genre
texts and sets their horizon of signification \yhether they are fully conscious
of it or not. Some genre images - a stagecoach fording a riyer, ~aY - are so
specifically freighted with generic history that it is hard to imagi~e a film-
maker shooting such a scene without the conscious intention of tipping his
hat to John Ford. Others are so absolutely 'generic', transcending' the need
for a specific textual rd'erentiality- a priyate eye climbing into a taxi and
telling the dri\er to 'follm\ that cab' - that their inclusion is equally e\ocative
of the 'essential' (or ideal) genre text that Tz\etan Todorm (IC)90) sugg'ests
theories of g'enre need to imoke as a heuristic fiction.
A remaining question is what part this genre patrimony plays in contem-
porary cinema. The first chapter of this book closed with thc suggestion that
while 'film genres' - understoou as the systcmatic, routinised production of
genre films for a regular mass-auuicnce spcetatorship - might be a thing of
the past, 'genre films' - indi\iuual films working self-consciously \\ith (if not
within) establisheu generic tradition(s) - had hecome if anything' an e\en
more important instrument guiding' contemporary film-makers anu audiences.
A glance at current releases in any \yeek of the \car \\ill certainly confirm
that Hollywoou films touay are as intensely gen'nic as eYer, perhaps eyen
more so. As I write this conclusion in the autumn of 2004, the most recent
Variely bo\:-office Top IO includes three horror films, three romantic
comedies, two bmily-audience animateu films, an action film and a musical
biopic. I This list is maue up of Elirly traditional g'enres, all with long histories
dating back to the classical studio era - althoug'h closer inspection re\eals
some of the characteristic \\"ays in which contemporary Holly\yood modi/ies
and reno\ates these older p,lrauigms: two of these films are remakes (of a
H)60s British ';\ew \Va\e' romantic comedy and a recent Japanese horror
film); two arc sequels, including" predictahly one horror film but also one
romantic comedy, a genre that has traditionally heen less prone to serial
e\:ploitation; both of the animated features arc digital rather tlun traditional
cel animations, and hoth clearly aim at the crossmcr jll\enile/adult market
established by such breakthrough hits as I'll)' Sill!")' and The LIIJIl Aill" in the
1990S; the musical biopic tells the story of a 'rhythm-and-blues musici~n, Ra \"
Charles, rather than a figure from Broau\yay (a biopic of Cole Porter, De-Lo('clj:,
releaseu e,lrlier in 2004 performed poorly at the bo\: office). Such adapti~"e
features - audience erossm"er, remakes, influence fi'om other national cinemas
updating' of generic comentions (shO\y tunes to R'n'B) in line \yith chano'in~ Q Q
audience preferences - arc \\holly consistent with the ways in \\hich Holly-
woou genres haye historically responded to their changil~g institutional a~d
social contexts.
Yet this picture should not obscure the important \\a\s in \\hich the
"
CONCLUSION: TRANSGENRE? 27.1
'trenericity' of contemporary Holly\\ood films differs from that of preyious
~ ~eriods -" notabh" from either the comfortable (yet flexible) inhabitation of
~'on\cntions in the classical period or the intense and in some cases politicised
re\ isionism of the 1970s, It seems for example that the energetic contestation
of classical g'enre paradigms as a tool of ideological and generational critique
th,lt fuelled Holly\\ood cinema into the 19XoS is a less powerful impulse for
the second and third generations of 'moyie brat' directors than it was for the
first. Indeed, as noted in preceding chapters many of the genres most
strongly identifieu \\ith classical Holly\\()()d ha\e giyen ground to newer and
!1lore fle\:ih1c forms like horror, SF and the action film. On the basis of the
critique of 'e\olutionary' theories of genre in Chapter I, I would obyiously
,Irgue that these classical genres are not 'deau'. 'Yet it is also clear that many
cl.lssical genre parauigms haye a much reduced importance to the contem-
porary film industry and in a number of cases haye mutated into other
treneric conte\:ts. For example, as has been \yidely noted, as the \Vestern has
~lcclined aspects of the frontier myth luye generically relocated themselyes to
the post-Sial' Uill'S SF anu action film. The periodic 'rniY,lls' (that is,
ITne\\ed production cycles) of the Western (in the late 19Xos, miu- 1990S and
,Ig,lin in 2003-4) often produce films burdened \yith a somewhat academic,
almost heritage tone, carefully eYocatiye of genre traditions and their genre
a11lecedents (f()r e\:ample, Keyin Costner's TV)'al! Earp, 1994, and Opell Range,
2003). The classical integrated musical, at least, seems nO\\ to be acceptable
most often in animated cartoon rather than liye-action form. The popularity
and relC\ance of the combat film, in line \\ith the discussion in Chapter .1,
seems to fluctuate in line \\ith the general cultural yisibility of combat and
the military (suggesting' its immediate future, at least, looks rosy), It may
simply be the increasing temporal and cultural - distance bet\\een contem-
porary film culture and the heydays of these classical genres that makes their
IT,lJ1imation through critical engagement ,n once more difficult and less
lIr~ent.
\n important aspect of IlJ70S Holly\\()od's critical engag;ement with
classical genres \yas the assumed industrial and cultural centrality of the
~enres in question, By imerting or radicalising the generic paradigms of the
\\estern or the '\1(;\1 musical, it \\as possible to comment in a coded yet
I'airly transparent \\ay both on the irreley,mce or bankruptcy of classical
Iiolly\yood narrati\ es and on the y,dues sedimenteJ in those generic forms,
The diyersified contemporary entertainment market militates against such a
clear sense of public utterance. The disappearance of classic Hollywood's
I (Ill)tionally at least) relatiycly homogeneous audience, the multiplication of
Ilew genres and sub-generic trends, and the \\eakening of generic boundaries,
I ,til make it Ell' harder to identif\, let alone contest, genre-specific hegemonic
idel)logies.
I
.1

In a more diffuse way, howeHT, a critical impulse is built into some of the
genres and cyclcs that have come to rep LIce and/or supplement classical
genres in the 'New Hollywood' - understood in its hroadest sense, to take in
the entire period since the transformation of Holly\\ood in the mid-Ig6os
and thus covering hoth the Ig60s-HnOS 'Holly\yood Renaissance' and
'Corporate Hollywood' since the Igi\OS. Many of these 'new' genres are in
Llct hyhrids, at once reno\ating and comhining older generic traditions and
alloying them with new concerns, and in some cases the reorientation of
traditional generic coordinates e\:presses a significant ideological shift. The
road moyie, for instance, which takes its ddiniti\e form in u)6q \\ith Easy
Ridn (I <)69), incorporates the tradition of the Western as a quite explicit
interrext, \\ith the free\\"ay network replacing the fi'cedom of the open range:
one shot in Eos)' Rider pointedly frames Billy tinkering \yith his motorevcle
alongside a rancher shodding his horse. Yet \yhile the road moyie updates' the
fi"ontier myth to modern America·" deriying ultimately from Jack K.erouac's
beat rhapsody 0" /ltl' Rllorl it also frequently sharcs in the cultural disen-
chantment that inflJrms contemporary 'cnd-of.. the-line' \\·esterns . ."<ot only
docs the highway of necessit~ channel absolute freedom of mo\cment into
particular routes - constraints fl)lcshado\\cd in the barbed \\ire Bill\ runs
into in Pal Garrell 11IId Bill)' /ltl' A.'irl (un3) but m,my road mmies s~ggest
there is in any e\cnt noplace much left to go to. Bill~ and Wyatt in Easy
Rider journey, counter-canonically, from \Vest to East and from broadening
to inexorably and btally narrm\ing horizons; as expansi \e and cosmic as their
yision of freedom occasionally becomes, it is portLI\cd as fundamentallY at
odds with a contemporary :\mcrica that is hostile "to difference or inLieed
indiyidualism of any kind, e\cn patriotically directed (earl~ on in the film,
Billy and Wyatt arc jailed fllr 'parading \\ithout a permit'). .\ sense of
shrinking physical, political and personal horizons f(Jrms an important strain
of the road moyie, to the point where, as Douglas P~c obsencs of Peckinpah's
Western heroes (J()<)6: IH), their 'LlI1ge of action (is) finally limited in some
cases to a choice of hO\\ to die', as Tite/llla a/lll Llililse (Il)SH) discmer amid
the f:ul1iliar desert buttes of the classic Western. ,\ number of serial killer/
road mo\ie hyhrids films from BI{(IIII/Iris (un3) to Ill'lIr)': Pllr/ral/llril Serial
killer (I<)S6), A.'ali/im//i/ (H)()I) and SII/liral Bllm klll;'rs (1<)<)-1-) parodically
reduce the 'freedoms' of the road to the freedom of anommous slaug'hter
" ,
a landscape of depersonalised transience, \\hile teen-oriented road mo\ies
like Rllad Trip (zooo) e\acuate the myth of the .\merican journey of any
meaning beyond getting drunk and getting laid. " (ropes and motifs. In this \\ay, proliferat ing ,Iml intensif~ing gencric
The blending of di\'erse genre traditions at work in often complex ways in
contemporary film-making indicates that the self-ad\crtised cine-literacy
\\hich was such a notable feature of unos Holly\Yood has if anything inten-
sified. Undoubtedly, the transflJrmed modes of film consumption in the last
"' CONCLUSION: TRANSCiENRE? z77
f (\\enty-fin: years - above all, the irnp,lct of home video '" hare sig'nifieantly
heig'htened le\'els of genre a\yareness among mainstream film audiences.
Freed from reliance on the idiosyncracies of TV scheduling; and repertory
cinema programmers, students of the \Vestern can nmy easily view, fl)r
e\,lmp1c, a \\ide range of [()3os series \Vesterns 2 . and C\"en some silents -
;lnd 11l,lke their ()\\n estimations of the recei\cd wisdom about their stereo-
I\picality, puerility and so on. E\cn more potentially important for both
,!'udicnces and film-makers is the expanded access through home \ideo to
'II odd cinema' beyond either the canons of international art film or the
charmed circles of cult fandom - Japanese, K.orean, Italian, Mexican and
Br,lzilian horror films, fllr example, or Hong K.ong action films (both
contemporary and from the I 9 (lOS and [(nos). The ready a\ailability of genre
(r~lditions has already transfllrmed the flmns of interte\:tllal address typical of
~enre film today, as Geoff K.ing (zooz: I IS· zH) notes in his discussion of the
~enre-bending gangstcr-\ampire-Western 1-'/111/1 Dusk Till [)iI /1'1/ (I l)(/)).
Rather than the \yholesale generic interrogations of the [(nOS, established
~em'l"ic comcntions are often imoked by indi\idllal films today on a localised
basis to guide the audience's understanding of a particular dramatic situation
or character rather than as an overall narratiye paradigm: as noted in Chapter
J [, .\dlil/riler's Lis/ (Il)()3) imokes the \Varner Bros. wartime 'conversion
narr;lti\c' (such as Cilsil/J!ill/m) and PS)'CItIl (not only in the 'shower scene' but
ill the ahistorictl depiction of :"azi Commandant Amon Goeth's \ilb as a
g,lhled 'Bates \lotd'-style house on a rise) to establish a fr~lme of Llmiliar
dramatic refCrence fllr gTossly llnLlmiliar narrali\e material. Such referen-
cing- tends to lack the scholarly precision embodied by such 'moyie brat'
dircctors as \!artin SCOl"sese (\\ho LlI1lOusly insisted that the kerbs of the
\ LlIlhattan sidC\yalk in ,Yi'/I' ") "lirA', ~Yi'l1' YllrA' be constructed artificially hig'h
(0 l1l,ttch the studio sets of his mO\ing'-g'oing youth), and increasing'ly, the
lillll g;enres inloked and mobilised in this Iyay arc themsehcs post-c1assictl
ones. Contemporary gangster films, fll!" C\:ample, arc often intensely inter-
In,lual, but the references they make arc much more likely to he post-
classictl gangster films - notably the Gild/ii/ita series and Martin Scorsese's
",iseg;uy' films, principally GlilidFellils - than the 'classical' early H)30S cycle.
~ill Bill, J iii. I (zoo,)) relics ,r1most exelusi\ ely on serial allusions to not only
in I q60s and ](nOS Hong K.ong kung-fu films and Italian re\'enge Westerns of
Ihe Lite H)60s, but also to such '\ e\\ Holly\\ood pastiches as Bri,111 dePalma's
IJri'sscd /11 kill (H)SO), itself a fCtishistictily C\:act reworking of Hitchcockian
rcJi.'I"enti,t1ity docs not necessarily lead to ,111 e\"pansion of historical awareness
parallel to the historical turn in film scholarship. If anything, the frame of
historical reference of genre films has become increasingly foreshortened,
II hile the sheer intensity ,1I1d density of generic allusion encloses genre films
II.
. .1
27K FtLM GENRE

in an increasingly hermetic circle of reference and counter-reference that can

- in extreme cases such as Tarantino - proceed largely "ithout reference or
obvious releYance to the extra-generic world. This may pose a problem for
traditional genre theory which, as we have seen, has tended to attach Bibliography
considerable importance to the "ays in \\hich film g;enres and genre films
interact with their social, political and cultural contexts.
From another perspective, ho,vever, the changing g'eneric field of play
(and the changing rules of g'eneric production and consumption) return us to
the point where this book began - the realisation that genre, and genres, are
inherently processual. As we ha,e seen, a problem that theories of film genre
and accounts of individual genres ha,e periodically encountered has been
their attempt to make genres seem both more internally integ-rated and more
consistent than they generally are. Even the most atypiedly integrated and
consistent genre, the \Vestern, has under the pressure of recent critical
interrog'ation revealed itself as an interestingly fissiparous and multi-stranded \bel, R. (I ()()N) "'Our Countn "/\\'hose (:ountn: The "\merieanisation" Project of Earll
\\ esterns', in Iluscombe and Pearson (ells) (1l)()S), 77 <)5,
genre tradition. In that sense, the increasingly transgeneric tendency in
\d.!ir, G ([I)SI)) ]]IJII]'II'IJod's 11,'IIIIIIII.li·Ii/1I The Green Berets 10 Full \leLJI Jacket.
twenty-first-century Holly\\ood film may represent not the breakdown of
I.ll\ll]on: I Icinemann.
'classical' genre traditions, but the more visible enactment, in transformed \dllrnll, T. \\. ,md Ilorkheimer, \1. ([I)H) (H)/2) /)1111",11, IJrl:llh.~IiI(lIIIlI'llI, trans. J \\"
institutional contexts, of those 'post-classical' impulses that have ah,ays been Se,l!)lln. :"ell York: Continuum.
present in the system of genres. :\t the ,cry least, such developments confirm \lei.s.s, \, (11)<)5) ':"atil e\meriL1ns: The Surprising; Silents', ]O/lrllill or C/IIill.'II', 2 ['.1.' 3+ h.
that we still ha"e a number of questions to ask about "hat genres are, what \lkll, \1. (H)!)I)) FilII/II]' Se(/'el,,: Til" 1','111/11"1' FIlII/S or/} 1/. (;nflilli, Londlln: IlFL
\1I(JlI.II, I" ([IJlI) I lolml,llllal'lI: Tilt' .\lo,·I,·s 11j./'-II/'-!. :"ell York: \luseum of \\oderll ,\1'1.
they do, why and for "hom, and that genre in turn still has a great deal to
\llnwl, R. (cd.) (I()S[) (,'<"/11,': 1,,1' .1111Si'1i1. Lllndon: IWI.
teach us about hO\v movies work. \llnwl, R.[I()N+I (H)I)5) ' \ SemanticlSlnt,ll'tic .\pproarh to Film lienre', in Grant, Il. 1-.:.
(nl) (1()1)5), 2(, +0
\llm.!ll, R. (I()N7) Till' III/almll 1'1111/ llit,·I'1i1. Blooming;toll, I:": Indiana LnilLTsitl Pre.ss.
NOTES \ltI1W1. R. I H)N()j (1()lp) 'Dickens, Griffith and Film Theon TmLlI', in li'line.s, J (cd.)
(I ()Ip) (;f",,,,,,'; 11(11)'11'0(111 \,/ITII/i;''': '1Ji,' !'(/I'1l!;',~111 ) 'ml"'. I )urhal11, :"(:: I )uke

L nilersitl Press, PI'· -1-5 [(,2.

[. Respectilell: Si'"d orCII/I,AT, Till' (,'rlldg" and SlllIo; Bnd,~('/ ]IJI/<·.': 1,,1' L(~I' IJI RI'IISOI1,
\llnwl, R. (1l)1)6) 'Cinema ,md lienre', in :"(lIIell-Smith, ti. (cd.) (1l)I)h) Tile (il/il/'d
SI/IIII 1/;, /),II/<"i andlllie;'I'll" 1II(I,'dl/>/".' and Til,' PollIl" 1:'.1/,1"".'.'; Ifia Iiii' S/lIIS"'; RIIJ'
11i,1(I/J' or r!"orld C/llt'llIll. (hfonl: (htord Lnilersill Press, PI'· 27 h s5·
(source: I III"Id)' \\'eckend !l()'" ()ffice, 12 I+:"()\ ember 200+)'
\ II nLlI1, R. (I l)l)N) 'Reusclhk l'aebg;ing;: Generic Prod uets 'lI1d the Reelc!in~ Proless', in
2. For rxamplc, all of John \\ aync's \lllnog;ram \\'estern.s arc nOli ayailablc on I )\')) in
Ik()\l!1e (ed.) (1l)<)N), I +1.
the LI-.: and LS:\.
\ It m,l11 , R. (1l)l)I)) FIIIII/(;mre. London: Ill:L
\ndlTson, J L and Richie, D. (Il)S3) Tilt' }t1/'lIllese 1'11111: II"I IIlId III'/lis/iy, 2nd edn.
Princeton, :"-': Princeton LnillTsitl Press.
\ndersen, T. (II)S.;) 'Red HolII \lood', in FlT~u.son, S. and lirosec!ose, B. (cds) 1,I!eWIIII""
I/II'/llle IIS/lill Ill.'. Columbus, OH: Ohio SLlll' LnillTsill Press, PI' [S3 l).
I \rhlotk ([<)[ I) The Poellt's, tr,ms. D. S. \brg;o!iouth. Londun: I-Imlder &. Stou~hton.
\rrll\o, J. (cd.) (2000) /(/il/II/S/,edlld" C/lI,'II;'1. London: Ill'/.
I \lIstlT, '". (2002) 'SII;'lIIg Pn;',lle R)',III and\meriean Triumphalism', ]()lImlll "rpo/'l1ll11"
1'11111 ,lIId Tele;·I.'/IIII, 3S.2: l)N 10+.
\ \lIster, :\. 'lI1d Q.U,lrt, L (I<)NS) 11011' Ihe II 111'11 iI.' R,'1I101lI'el""'/: 1/,,11)'11'00'/ <111'/ I lellllllll.
:"ell York: I'Lleg;n.
I \ ustin, li. (I l)l)!» COIII"I1I/,()/,{/IT Frelldl Ci/lelll<l: III IIII/'(I,/"'/ioll. \Ll11ehesllT: .\bnehester
lnilersitl Press.
I

1
 BIl3L10CiRAPHY ZHI

A \;sar, 1. (H)HS) Filll/illg Ihe HIIIII((f/lSI: C'J111'II1ll'S III/l/ges 1I(Ihe (·"'/'<'<IA·l/;';e. Bloomington, ,'tt O} 1 \ \ (I()oo) '1'1' . . (). 1I t : 'I'he Politic,. of Re'l"'anite EnterLlinment', .111I1'ie, Il.z: I-+Z.
J,n _I.. 0 ) lSSLIl¥: t" . . ' .
IN: Indiana Uni\ersity Press.
Ilr"dn'I:\, .\1. (ZOOI) '.\Ian a \lachine: The Shift from Soul to Identln In Llllg's .llelm/,o!ls
flach, S. (lljH5) Filll/l elll: Drell/lls l/Ild IJiSl/Sla ill Ihe .\Jl/hllg IIrHea\en's Gate. ".:el\ York: ,llld RUllman's Berlill', in Calhoun, K. S. (l'd.) (ZOOI) Pen/,!lel'lll IISIIiIlS: /lIe II/ddell
William "dorro\\'.
SI,/~"S III /I ellllor Cillelllli. Detroit, \11: \\,lIne State Lnilersin Press, Pl'· 73 I)J.
BaJsey, S. (2002) 'The Depiction of \Var Reporters in HollYl\Ood Feature Films ti'om the Ilr""ks, P. (llO(») FiJe Ilelodl'lllllllll( IIIIIIVIlIOII"II: Bi//~lIc, Ilolly ]OIlIl's.llelliilrll/lio. olld 11/1'
Vietnam War to the Present', FI/II/ Hislrl/Y, q.,,-+: z+,,-oo. 1/11'/( o(/;'\(ess. Ne\\ H,"en, CT: Yale LnilC1'sitl Press.
Halio, T. (H)93) Gl'lllId DeslglI: Holl)'/I'I)()d 'Ii l/ ,\lodem BlIsilless Ellla/'rise. BerkeleY, C:\: Ill'"t tIll<Jn, \1. (1I)l!7) Ol.!i'lISi,'e FI!II/s: FIIII'l/r'/s 'Ill .11I1!lm/'ology OrCillill/1I IIIIIIIII(
Uni\ersity of California Press. '
\\ e,tport, CT: Green\\ood Press.
Bart, P. (11)1)1)) 11//11 A'I/Icd 111I11)'1I'lIod.i '" l/Ild PilI Ihe Tl/mish 1111 7illsellllll'lI. Los .\ngeles: Ilro\\ne, '\. (cd.) (lC)l)S) Religllrll/g" III/el'/CIIII FilII/ (,','Ill'l's: 7'!Jeor)' i//III lIislln)'. Berkelel',
Ren,lissance Books,
(:\: Lni\ersin of (:aliforni<l Press.
Barthes, R. (1<)57) ,11)'lhlllligics. Paris: Editions Je Seuil. 111'''\\ ne, \: (zooo) FI'III/o'\ Ford Co!,!,olll '.I' The (Jodbther '(ril"g)'. Cambridge: Cambridge
Basinger, J. (1I)S6) The SC((I/Idllil/-!d 1I'l/r ClllI/hlll FI/III : .11Il/11I1I1)' 111'11 Gellre. \:el\ York: Lni\ ersitl Press
Columbia Lni\ersit\ Press. Ill'uno, G. (il)S7) 'Ramble Cin: Postmodernism and IJ/llde NIIl//ier" (Jcloher, + I: 61'7+·
Bauman, Z. (19SI)) Mlldcmil)' IIl1dlhe /{IiIOCIlIISI. Call1bridg-e: Polin. Ilru/Zi, S. (llil)':;) 'Snle and the Hood: G'lIlgsters,'l.mcriGln and French Style', Slg!ll (;)
Bazin, A. (1956) (Hnl) 'The bolution of the Western', in 11l1ll1 I.< CI/II·II/l/.i, \'01. z. SOlilld, ,:; ('\O\cmber): z(17·
Berkeley, L\: Unilersit\ of Calit()rnia Press, pp. ql)-':;S. Ilru/ZI, S. ([l)ln) l IIdrcssilig ClI/('//lII: Clolhillg 0/1111'/('//111.1' III I!le .11116es. London:
Belton, J. [H!7Z! (11)1)1) 'Souls ,\lade Great In LOH' and :\dlersin: !"I'ank Borzag-e', in R"utln!l.(e.
Land\, !VI. (cd.) (1l)1)lb), "71-{j. Ilrll/Zi, S. izooo) Yell' f)oolllleIlIlIlY: I Cnll(ll! IlIlmdll(/lilli. London: Routledge.
Belton, J. (II)I)Z) lI'idl',(/I'eclI C'JlIl'IIllI. Cambridg-e, \1.\: lIanaI'd Lni,ersln Press. Illlk.ltman, S. (H)I),,) 7i'J'l/1I/1II1 Idol I II)': F!le I Irl 1/11 I Sl/llie(/ ill Poslllllldel'll SO<'l/(e ril111111.
Benjamin, W. [Huol (11)70) 'The \Vork of :\rt in the :\g-c of \lcchmical Reproduction', in I )urham, "iC: I )uke Lnilcrsin Press.
Zohn, I I. (tr,ms. and cd.) (ll!70) flhl/III/hilill"'. London: Jonathan Cape. Illlk,ltman, S. (11)97) 'The S,nmpated Cin: '\ell York in :\lusical Film (ll)2<) [li('[)',
Benshoff, I-I. '\l. (H)1)7) .l1l1l1slas ill Ihe Clliscl: f/oll/lIse.\lIl/lily IIl1dlhe 11111'1'1I1' F,IIII.
'\bnchester: ,\1anchester Lnil ersit\ Press.
S/,eclolllr, IS.I: S z".
Ilurton, \. (zooz) 'Death or Glon: The Great \\'ar in British Film', in I\lonk, C. and
Berg-felder, T. (zooo) 'Betwcen '\ostalg-i'l ,md .\mm:sia: \Iusical Genres in Ihe !lJ,';os Sar!2;eanl,\ (cd.) (200Z) Brills!l 111.1'101'/(111 Cilli'llill. London: Routledg·e.
German Cinema', in Marshall and Stihlcll (cds) (zooo), So-S. Ilusco!;lhe, L. (! InO) (llil))) 'The Idea of Genre III the :\mcril'an Cinema', in Grant, B. K.
Berliner, T. (zoo I) 'The Genre Film ,IS Boob I Trap: II)70S Genre Bcnding- 'lnd '!fIC Frellch (l'd.) (lC)I)':;), ll-Z':;
Cllll/le(/ilill', Cillt'lllll ]11111'1I111, +o ..r z,:; +6. Iluscombe, F. (cd.) (lliSS) F!le BFI COIII/'llllioll 10 I!le I/eslel'll. London: IlFI.
Berry, L (zoo,,) '''What's Big- .\bout the Big Film:" "I)c-\\esternising-" the Blockbuster in Ihl',combe, I:. (1I)li(l) '1ll\cnting .\Ionument \alln: Nllldel'llth-Centufl I,andscape
Korea and China', in Stringer (cd.) (zoo,,), ZI7-ZI). I'hotog-raphY and the \\'estern Film', in Petro, 1'. (cd.) ([liI)6) Fllgilin' 11/I1I,~e'\: From
Bertens, I I. (11)1)':;) The Idl'll IIlthe PIISIII/Ildem. London: Routledg·e. IJ//IIlogl'II/,!I)' 10 I ideo. Bloomington, I\:: Indiana Lnil'crsitl Press, Pl'· H7 IOS .
Bintem!, i\l. R. (H)S7) 'The T\\o Cinemas of India', in 1)00\Iling, J D. I I. (cd.), FI/II/ III/d Ilu,comhe, I-:. and ('carson, R. (l'ds) (lC)I)S) RocA' ill I!le Soddle .1.~lIil/: :VOl' /;'SSl/Ys 01/ till'
Pillili(s ill Ihe Thir'/ 1I·lIrld. f\:el\ York: :\utonomedi'l, pp. [+,:; 66.
1/ eslel'll. London: Ill''!.
Biskind, P. (Il)S3) Se<'lll,~ Is Bd,,',illg: or, 111111' f/oll)'/I'IJII'/ 7~1U~/1I ls 10 Slo/, I/orr)'illg l//111 I;',II'S, J. (11)<)1)11/ Fhol 11,,11)'II'III!i1 1/1111/'.1': Re-Nmdillg Gellder III /[/)0.1' .lldlldrall/i1.
IAI<'e Ihc Flliies. Nel\ York: Pantheon.
I.ondon: Routledge.
Biskind, 1'. ([<)l)S) lo'IIS)' Ri'/ers, Rl/gill,~ BIIIIs: 11,,", Ihe ScI' 'II 'f)mgs 'II 'RocA' 'II 'Roll (;Oll'l'IIlioll ("lllleron, I. (ed.) (I 1)9Z) 'IIle IIoc'le' !JIJIIA' o( FilII/ \011'. London: Studio \'ista.
Chlillged Iloll)'"'"od. London: Bioolllsbur\. LlmC1'lln, I. 'lild ('\(', I) (cds) (I l)lJf.) Fhe .lllm!' !JooA' o( I!le II ~'SIl'!'I/. London: Studio \'ista.
B()(hur, J (ZOOI) ")'l/Z'ill,~ Pnrl/le R)'II/I 'lilt! Post\\ar \lclllon in .\mcrica', .·III/ln(-l/ll Camon,-\. (zooo) "Ihe (;odlill!ll'!' and the \lIthology of the ,\htia', in Bro\\ne, \i. (cd.)
lli'lolHII/ Rn'iell', 106.,r So,:; 17.
(zooo), ':;77':;
Borde, R. anJ Chaumeton, E. I I l!.'i':; I (II)S,,) PII/IOI'lll1l1l dll FilII/ YOI/' , III/ii'll "1/1. Paris: Llr!son, \1. (lliS+l ,{!lmrles o(l!le 'I'!Jmlre. IIh'ICI, \:'1: Cornell CniYersitl Press.
Editions de \linuit.
(.'I!Toll, '\. (lljS2) 'The Futurc of an .\llusion: Holh\\ood in the Selenties (,llld Ik\()nd)',
Bord\\ell, D. (zooz) 'Intensitied Continuity: \'isu,d Sllle in Contemporan\merican him', ()tlllha, 20: ':;1, SI.
FilII/ Qlli/rlerl)', ,:;,:;.Z: I (l-Z".
(:"!Toll, \:. (1l)<)0) 'Ihe PIIlIII.I'IJ/,!ly orlllllIllr, III l'Ol'llllo\!'1 orl!l!' Ilrort. '\Jell York:
Bord\\ell, I)., Staiger, J
and Thompson, K. (II)S,:;) F!le C/,/s,\/(-i/1 1{(11)'1I'01!i1 CIlIOIIII: FI!ll/ Routled!2;e.
SlyIe i/lldHolk o( Prlldll(/lilil 10 lI)fJO. London: Routledg:e. Casc, S.-E.'(H)I)I) 'TLlCking the Y'lIllpire', DI!li'I'l'II(!'s, ".z: I-ZO.
Bottomore, S. (zooz) 'Introduction: \\'ar and "\lilitarislll: Dead \\hite .\lales', FilII/ lIisl IllY , LIse, S.-I':. (H)SI)) 'Towards 'I Butch-Femme .\esthetic', in llart, I.. (ed.) .\1ilA'l/Ig II
q." +: z31)-+z. S/'C(/l/<'!<,: I-'<'II/illisl fssl/)'s II/I CII/II<'III/'lIl'IIr)' 11'lIllIm's 'Ih<'l/Il'!' . .\nn .-\rbor: Unilcrsitl' of
BIl\\Ser, E. (H)<)O) T!le 7i'rlllSlilmllllilill OrClI/('//lII. llj0i" IIjl.:;. \:e\\ York: Scribner. \lichigm Press.
Brewster, B. and Jacobs, L. (19lJ7) Tllelllre 10 ClI/ell/i/: SllIge P,(lonol/'1I/ olld I!le F.orlj' (<lstl,'I..'(11)7 Z) (H)l)!) 'The Film, of I). \\'. Griffith: .\ StIle for the Times', in Lanlh,
Fei/Illre FI/II/. Oxford: O:l.ford Lniyersitl Press.
\1. (eel.) (Il)l)[b), 362-70.
 21'2 FILM GENRE
Caug'hie, J. (ed.) (J()SI) i"1'ori1's Ol·-lllllwrsillp. London: BFI.
Ca\\(~lti, J. (IlJ79) (Il)<)5) 'CIIIIII/II/II'1i and Generic Transf()rmation in Recent A.merican
Films', in Grant, B. K. (cd.) (Il)95), 227-+6.
Chambers, J. \Y. (IlJlJ+) '_111 Qlli1'1 Oil 11/1' l11'sl1'rtI Fmlll (J()30): The Anti\yar Film and the
Image of the First \Yorld \Yar', llisloriml ]lillrlll/l 01 Fillll, RI/dio I/lid T1'I1'c'/slOlI, 1+.+:
377 +12.
Chambers, J \Y., II and Culbert, D. (cds) (J()96) SccIlI/d 11 orid 11'111': FillII IIl1d lIis/(IIY.
O,f(Jr{I: Chf(Jr(1 Uniynsity Press.
Chapman, J (11)9S) The Bril/sh III 11'111': Cill<'lIIl/, .'lIllie 111111 Pmpo,~{II/lII/, 1 1j"I)-1Ij-l-.:;.
London: I. B. Tauris.
Chapman, J (2000) 'Cinema, Propaganda and '\ational Identity: British Film and the
Second World \Var', in :\shb\, J and Hig-son, :\. (eds), Brilisl/ Ci,Ii'IIIII, Pilsi IIl1d
Pr1's1'lIl. I,ondon: Routkdge, pp. Iln-206.
Charney, L. and Sch\\artz, \, (cds) (J()1)5) Cill1'lIIII I/lid 11/1' IlIc'1'I/1101I 01 I:', '(r)'dll) , U/;,.
Ikrkek\, L-\: Uni\ersity of Cdif(Jrnia Press.
Chibnall, S. (200 I) 'Trayels in Ladland: The British Ciangstl'l' Film C\ cle, I <)<)S 2001', in
i\lurpll\, R. (cd.) (2001) 11/1' Brllish Cill1'l/1II Boo!:, 2nd edn. London: 131"1, pp. 2St-9t.
Chibnall, S. and Petley, J (eds) (2002) Brilish Ilormr (;iIl1'll/1/. London: Routkdg·e.
C1arens, c:. (J()6S) Ilormr .1/o'·I1's: 111 1IIIISIrlll1'd lIislllIT- London: Seckl'l' &: \Varburg.
Cloyl'l', c:. (1<)<)2) .1/1'11, 11 (ill/('II IIlId ChiliIISIIII'S: (,'1'II<!N 11/1111' .1/odl'rII Ilormr 1"/1111. London:
BFI.
Coates, P. (11)1) I) '1'!!1' (,'Ii/YOII'S (,'II.~.1': (,'(rllIl/li CIII1'I//(I, /;'.1'1'1'1'.1'.1'/(1111.1'111, IIlId 11/1' IlIIl/g1' iii
Ilormr. Cambridge: Cambridge L ni\ ersity Press.
Cohan, S. (JI)I)3) (2002) '''Feminizing'' the Song-and-Dance .\Ian: Fred .-\staire and the
Spectack of i\Llsculinit\ in the IlolI\\\Ood \Iusical', in Cohan, S. (ed.) (2002), S7- 10 1.
Cohan, S. (2000) 'Case Study: Intnpreting SIlIgil/' III II/(, RI/II/', in Gkdhill, C. and
Williams, L. (eds) ROII'·1'I/IIII.~ FillII SllId/1's. London: Ed\\ard :\rnold, pp. 53 75
Cohan, S. (ed.) (2002) Illill)'II'olid .1111.1'111//.1': 1I/(, FillII RI'I/der London: RoutkdgL
Cohan, S. 'lIld liar\.., I. R. (cds) (I 1)ln) TI/1' Rlilld . I/o,'/(' Boo!:. London: Routkdge.
Collins, J \1. (11)SS) 'The \Iusical', in Gehring, \\. D. (ed.) (I<)SS), 2hl) -S+.
Collins, J (J()1)3) 'Genl'l'icity in the '\il1l,ties: Lckctic Irony and the '\e\y Sincnit\ " in
Collins, J, Radncr, II. and Collins, :\.1'. (eds) (11)ln) F/IIII TI/('or)' (,'01'.1' Iii Ih1' .IIIi,·I1's.
'Je\\ Yor\..: Routkdge.
Cook, 1'. (llnS) 'Duplicit\ in .1/ildr!'!1 Pieri,,", in I\:'lplan, I:. \. (ed.) (1<)7S), 1101111'11 III Film
.\1111'. I,ondon: IWI.
Copjec, J (cd.) (11)ln) SI/IId1's o!\llIr. London: \erso.
Cor\..in, S (2000) 'Cl\\bms and Free \larkets: Post-Second \\orld \\ ar \\esterns and
L.S. Ilq';I'moll\', CIIIOIlI/]Ollrlll/l, 3<) ..10 66 <)1.
Corn, J (I<)Sh) IIIIIIgllllllg Flillw,.,.oll': llislor)', ii'(IIIwlog)' I/ild Ih" .111/<'1'/('"11"111111'1'.
Cambridgl', .\1\: \11'1' Press.
(:mne, \1. (Il)ln) Til" Croll,d!'!1 Prlllri1': /11/('1'1,'<111 \11110111/1 Id1'l/Iily III Ih1' !flill)'II'lil!l1
1/ "Sll'rII, I ,ondon: I. B. Tauris.
Creebn, G. (2002) ''''1'\ Ruined the \Im ies'" Tele\ ision, 'Luantino, and the Intimate
World of Fhl' SOPUIIWs', in Ll\cn, D. (ed.) (2002) Tills Tlllllg O!Ollrs: 11I,'1'Sliglilillg
The Sopranos. London: \\allflll\\l'l', pp. 12+-3+.
Creed, Il. (Il)S6) 'Horror and the .\Ionstrous-Feminine: .-\n Im'lginal'\ _-\bjection', S(/'1'1'II,
27· I: H-70.
C:reed, B. (11)<)3) Fh" I/oilsirolls 1"1'1111111111': FillII, FOllill/slII I/II,! P,q'd/lllllllll)'sIs. I,ondon:
Routledge.
BIBLIOGRAPHY 283
Cro\\dus, G. (ed.) (1<)9+) Th1' Polililill COlllPllllilill Iii .·}III"rimll FillII. Chicago: Lakeyiew
Press,
Cull, '\. (2002) 'Great Escapes: "Englishness" and the Prisoner of \\ar Genre', FillII
111.1'1(1)', '+·3--+: 2S2-95·
Cuomo, P. '\. (19<)0) 'Dance, Flnibility and the Rene\yal of Genre in Sillgill' ill Ih1' RIIIII',
(,'/11<'11111 ]011 mill, 36. 1 : 3')-5+·
I),dk\.., R. (J()<)S) FIIIII'1'd Giolll: LY/llloll 101/11.1'011 1//111 IllS TIIIII'S, 11j(,1-]()73· "\e\y York:
Chf()rd Lniyersit\' Press.
DJ\is, \\. (II){)I) CII)' orQllllrl~. London: \'erso.
I JcL!l1leter, J (I 1)7S) DII/I(I' III Ihl' 11(11)'II'ood IIlIsIml. Ann Arbor, \11: C;\lI Research
Press.
Dl'l'rilLI, J (11)70) OrGrlllllllllllology, trans. G. c:. Spi\ak. Baltimore, .\lD: Johns Hopkins
l ni\l'I'sity Press.
I Jcrrida, J. (11)1)2) 'The Ll\\ of Genre', in Attridge, D. (ed.) (11){)2) .1(/.1' 01 Iii all 1111'1'. l\'ew
Yor\..: Routledge, pp. 221- 52.
I)ihbl'ts, 1\:. and Hog;enkamp, B. (cd.) (1lJ95) FillII IIl/diliC Flrsl II or/dllllr. .'\mstl'rdam:
\l1lsterdam Cni\ersit\' Press.
Dic\.., B. F. (Il)S5) The SllIr-SpIlI/glcd S(/,C1'II: Tile . 11111' rJClill S1'((1I1I1 11 inN 11111' FIIIII.
I.", ington, I\: Y: C ni\crsity of I\:entul'b Press.
I)imcndbl'l'g, E (1l)<)7) 'From Berlin to Bunkn Ilill: Lrban Space, Late .\Iodernity, and
him '\oir in I,'ritz Lang's and Joseph Lose\ 's .11', IIIdc .lllglc, Il).+: 02 In.
I )ll1lcndbng, E. (200+) 1"11111 \ oil' IIlId II/{' Spl/les o(.llod(rIIIly. Cambridge, \IA: Han'1l'l1
l ni\l'I'sit\ Press.
I )i\ol1, \\. \\. (ed.) (2000) FillII (,'Cllr1' 2000: .YCII' CIIIIIIII Fssli.J's. :\Ibam, :,\Y: Statl'
L'ni\ersit\ of '\e\\' Yor\.. Press.
1)lIalle, \\..\. (Il)S7) The f)c.""c 10 /)n'lrc: Thc 11'01111111'.\' Fil/ll o(lhc 1Ij-l-0S. Bloomington,
1'\: Indiana Cni\nsit\ Press.
I)lIdds, S. (200 I) /)011(1' OIl S(/,C1'II: (,'1'l/rCi lilld . Ill'lilli jimll 11(11)'11'01111 10 1:'xpalIllCIIII/I ·lr/.
I.ondon: p,r1g'Ll\ e.
1)lIhcrt\, T. (11)1)1)) PI'I!jcIIIoIIS 01"1111: 11(11)'II'IJlld, llllalmll CIIIIIIIC, 111111 II orid 11'1/1' II.
'\1'\\ York: C:olumbia Cni\ nsit\ Press.
I )ukorl', B. F. (11)1)()) SIIIII Pc<'!:IlIpl/h's FClllllrc F/IlIIs. Lrbana, IT.: Cni\ersity of Illinois Press.
I)\l'l', R. (11n7) (1I)SI) 'Entertainment and Ctopi'l', in :\ltnun, R. (cd.) (II)SI), 175,SI.
I )\l'l', R. (Il)S6) (2002) 'Julh Garland and Camp', in Cohan, S. (ed.) (2002), 107- q.
I )\l'l', R. (2000) 'The Colour of Entertainment', in \larshall and Stilwell (eds) (2000), 23
,,0.
I.hcl'\\l'in, R. (1l)I)S) 'The Erotic Thrilln', Posl S(rJpl, 17·,r 25-33·
I.lkqeins, \\. (I{)SI)) R/I1'.i orSprJlI.~: Thc (,'ICI/I 11111' I/lld tI,C BIr/h o(lh1' .Ilotlcm /g1'. '\ew
\ or\..: l-Iou~hton .\Iiftlin.
lisdc, J (200~) 'The \\'ild East: ] kconstructing the I.ang'uag'e of Genre in the Holh wood
Lastern', CIIICllIi/ 70111'111/1, +1.+: (,S 1)+.
I."l'nstein, s. (Il)H)' 'Dickens, Griffith and Film TmLl\', in Eisenstl'in, S. (J()+l)) FillII
Forlll. I,ondon: Dennis Dobson, pp. J()5' 23+·
1.ldthniotis, D. (200+) 'Spag'hetti \\'estern, Genre Criticism and "Miona] Cinema: Re-
Ikfinin~ the Frame of Reference', in Tasker, Y. (ed.) (200+), 301) 27.
I:Jl'\, G. (2~0 J) 'Find ing' the People's \\ar: Film, British Collecti\ e .\ lemon, and World
\\ ar II', l",,'ril'<lll IIiSlori,'111 RCc'I1'II" 106·.r SIS .IS.
I,"-Il'sser, T. (11)72) (I{)I)I) 'Tales of Sound amI Fun: Obsenations on the Family
\1clodram'I', in I.andy, \1 (ed) (J()l)lb), oS-<)1.
 ZS4 FILM GENRE BIBLIOGRAPHY zSS

Engelhardt, T. (L<)<):;) Till' J:'IIJ o( l'i(loI]' CIIIIIIII': Cold 11111' .llIIeriol alld IIII' IJisillllsioll ofa
GI'IIl'ralio/l. '\ew York: Basic Books.
Fassbinder, R. W. (1<)7Z) (I<)<)Z) 'Imitation of Life: On the Fihm of Douglas Sirk', trans.
K. Winston, in Tiitebcq" \1. and Lensing', L. (cds) (1<)I)Z) Railler 1I<'I"IIer Fassllillda:
ihl' IIIal(II), 0(1111' IlIIagillalioll. Baltimore, \ID: Johns IIopkins Lni\'ersit\ Press, pp.
77 -X<).
Feuer, J (Hn7) (I<)X I) 'The Self-Reflecti \c \ lusical and thc \ hth of Entertainment', in
!\ltman (ed.) (I<)X I), I:;<)-j.l.
Feuer, J (H)l)Z) 'Ihl' 11011]'11'110£1 IIIIsi((/l, znd edn. London: UFI.
Fischer, L. (1<)7(l) (I<)XI) 'The Imag-e of \\'onun as Image: The Optical Politics of IJallles',
in Altman (ed.) (I<)XI), 70--X-+.
Flinn, T. (1<)73) '0111 orlhl' Pasl', Till' 1"/;'1'1 rir;11I Trap, 10: 3X -+(l.
Fokkema, I). (I<)<)(l) 'Comparati\c I,iterature ,1Ild the Problem of Canon Formation',
Calladillll RITil'II' o( Call1paraliI'I' rill'WllIII' / RIT/le Call1lJimlle JI' I,illhlllllll' Co IIII' a reI',
z3.L: -'I h(l.
Foucault,,vl. (1<)70) Till' Older o('lhill,!!,s: .111 , IlcliII 1'0 log]' 0(1111' IlulIlIIII So'm(l's. '\ew
York: Random I louse.
Francke, L (1<)<)-+) Stripi Girls: 11'0/111'11 S'I!'I'/III'l"/lers ill 11(11)'11'01111. London: BFI.
Fra~ ling;, c:.(H)ln) Spllglll'III III'SII'I"IIs: COII'I,o)'s 1111£1 h'lIroPI'IIIISji-olll Ailri .\111.1' 10 Sergio
1,1'0111', znd edn. London: I. B. Tauris.
French, 1'. (1In3) 11I'slel"lls. London: Secker & \\arburg',
Frieberg;, F. (H)<)6) '0111111 .Vi,r!,llIs: The Sustaining; Romance of ,r,lpan at \\'ar', in Chambers
and Culbert (eds) (I<)<)h), 31 -+(l.
(iomery, D. (zo03) 'The Holl\"\\"Ood Blockbuster: Industrial Anahsis and Practice', in
Stringer, J (ed.) (zo03), 7z-X3.
(Jood\\'in, :\. (11)93) Dall(ill,!!, ill Ihl' IJislra(lioll FII(lol]': .lll1si( Tela/silm anJ PopullIl
Clllliill'. London: Routledge,
(ior'lk, J. (1<)<)1) Till' ,llaA'illg 0(1111' .\loJI'I"II CIlIIOII: Gl'lIl'sis III1J Clisis o(a Lilel'ill]' Idea.
London: .'\thllme.
(ir.mt, B. K. (ed.) (1<)<):;) FIIIII Geille Rl'lIder If. Austin, TX: L'ni\ersity of Texas Press.
(ir.lnt, B. K. (11)<)h) The Dmld o(IJlf!eII'IIC1': GmJer IIIIJ Ihe HOlrol 1"1111I. Austin, TX:
Lni\Trsit\ of Texas Press.
(ir.mt, B. K. (H)I)X) 'Rich and Strange: The Yuppie Horror Film', in 1\'eale, S. and Smith,
.\1. (eds) (ll)l)X) COlllelllpoulIY fIolll'II'lIlill CillCllIiI, London: Routledg;e, pp. zXo-{)J.
(ireene, E. (1<)9X) Planet of the Apes 11.1'. -IlIIel'/(1I11 jl)'ill: RlltC, PII Iii it'S, IIlId Pllpular Cullule.
Il.mO\cr, '\I1: \\'esle\ an Cni\ersit\ Press.
(jrie\cson, L. (1<)97) 'Policing the Cinema: Traffic in Souls at Ellis Island, 1<)13', S(lel'll,
31',2: 1,19 71.
(irin eson, L. (zoo:; I(lrthcoming) 'Gangsters and Gmcrnance in the Silent Era', in
(iriC\cson, L. et al. (eds) (zoo:; I(>rthcorning;) .Hllh Cullllle: fIiddl'lI fIisllll"/es O(,IIIII'I"/mll
Gllllpler FIIIII. Oxl()I'd: Berg.
(iriffin, S. (zooz) 'The Gang's :\11 Here: Generic \ersus Racial Integration in the I<)-+OS
\lusical', Cilll'lIIlI ]ollrllal, -+Z.I: ZI- -+5.
(iriftiths, :\, (I<)<)h) 'Science and Spectacle: \iati\e .\merican Representation in E<lrl!
Cinema', in Bird, S. E. (cd,) (1I)I)h) IJlessillg /11 Felliiters: 7"c COlIslrudioll 1{llie Ind/1l1I
III .llIIel"/(11I1 PoplIlIII Clllllm'. Boulder, CO: West\'iew Press.

Fuery, 1'. and i\Ianslield, '\. (I<)ln) Clllillwi SIIII!ll's IIIIJ Ihl' .\"1'11' IIIIIIIIIIIilies: COIICl'PIS and (irifliths, :\. (zooz) 'Pla!inf' at Being; Indi,m: Spectatorship and the Earl! Western',
COlllron'lsies. O,I(lrd: O,I(lrd Lni\ersit\ Press. ]OIll"llIlIIl(Pllplllal 1"1111I 11/111 TI'II'r/sioll, Z<).3: 100-11.
Fussell, 1'. (I<)X<)) lI'a II illll': ellderslllllJillg a/lll BI'IIII,'1II11 I ill 111l' SI'((Jlld 11 <Hid 11 <II'. '\ e\\' (jriftiths, T, (1<)7:;) COlIIl'dillns. London: Faber & Faber.
York: O,I<lrd Lni\ersit\, Press, (irist, L. (II)I)Z) 'Out of the Past', in Cameron, I. (cd.) ([<)1)2), z03- 12.
Gabbard, K. (zo03) 'S,]\ ing; I'ri\ate R\'an Too Late', in Lewis, J. (ed.) (zo03) 'Ihe h'IIJ of (iriS!, L. (2000) flic 1'1111I.1' O(.Hllr/ill Smlsese, 11/>3--11)/;: IlIlIwIsltip alld Crlllll'xi.
Cilll'lIIlI ,'Is 11 i' A/lilli' II' London: Pluto, pp. 13 I X. Ibsing'stoke: \Iaemill.m.
Gallafent, E. (I<)<)Z) '!\Iming Targ;ets and Black \\'idows: 1'1111I .\"llIr in .\Iodern (jross, L 11<)<)51 (zooo) 'Big' and Loud', in .'\rrmo, J. (ed.) (2000), 3 <).
llolhwood', in Cameron (ed.) (1<)1)2), 2h7 X:;, (irossrnan, J. R. (1l)<)-+) The Froll/ier ill ,llIIerimll 111.1'/(11)'. Ikrkele\, c:.'\:
Lni\crsit\ of
Gallafent, E. (2000) ,lsllIill' IIIIJ Rogel'S. London: Studio \'ista, Calil(Jrnia Press.
(iallagher, T. (I<)X(l) (H)<):;) 'Shoot-Out at the Genre Corral: Problems in the "E\olution" (iunning, T. (1<)<)0) 'The Cinema of .\ttr'lctions: E'lrh Film, Its Spectator, and the A\ant-
of the Western', in Grant (ed.) (L<)<):;), 202 Ih, (iarde', in Elsaesser, T. (ed.) EllrI]' eilll'lIIlI: Spll(I', I'm ""', ,\almli,'e. I,ondon: BFI.
Gehring', W. D. (ed.) (I<)XX).I lIa/llllll1oA' o( 111I1'1"/((/11 Fillll Gmles. '\e\\' York: Greel1\\"Ood (iullning', T. (1<)1):;) ':\n :\esthetic of .\stonishment: Earh Film and the (In)Credulous
Press. Spcctator', in \\illiams, L (cd.) Ilell'III,!!, /'osiIIIlIlS. :\e\\ Brunswick, \iJ: Rutgers
Gerag;ht\, c:.
(2003) Blilisll Cillmill ill Ihl' /(/:;os: Gmder, GI'IIII', II/III Ihl' ',\"<'11' rOllA' " L ni\crsit\, Press.
I,ondon: Routledf'e. (iunning;, T. (11)<)7) 'From the Kaleidoscope to the X-Ra\: Urban Spectatorship, Poe,
(iibson, P. c:.
(ed.) (H)1)3) IJir/.1' rIlIlA's: lI0llll'lI, /'Ol"llO,r!,l'iIpll]', IJlill'er. London: BFI. Benjamin, and Tm/fi( ill SOllls (H)13)', lillie. Jllgle, 1l).-+: 2:;-61.
Giff(ml, D. (1In3) .1 Pidolilll lIislor)' II( IIOIIOI ,llm·il's. London: Ibml! n. 1!.Ilberst'lm, J. (1<)1):;) Shll ShOll'S: Glllhi" 1IIIIroi IIl1d lite 'Ii'(llIIology o(,\lllllsiers. I)urham,
Gillespie, I). (2003) RlIssillll Cillmill. I,ondon: I,ong'lllan. '\C: Duke Lni\Trsit\ Press.
Gledhill, c:. (I<)X7) 'The !\lclodramatic Field: :\n 1I1\cstig;ation', in Gledhill, c:. (ed.) (H)S7) I !.Ill, S. (zooz) 'Tall RC\enue Features: The Genealog'\ of the .\Iodern Blockbuster', in
1101111' Is 11 hl'u' 1!lI' III'IIr/ Is: SlIlIlies ill ,lll'lodl'illlla 1I/IIIIhl' I1'0 IIIi1 II '.1'1"1111I, London: BFi. '\eale, S. (ed.) (2002b), II-z6.
Gledhill, C. (11)l)-+) 'Introduction', in Cook, J, Gledhill, c:. and Bratton, J (cds) (1<)<)-+) llalliday, J (ed.) (1971) Sid, 1111 Sid,: IIIII'/Til'/i's lI'illt ]1111 fIIIII/JIIY- London: Seckel' &
jll'loJl'illliII: SllIg(', Pid II II', o5'trl'm. London: BFi. \\"Irburg·.
Gledhill, c:. (zooo) 'Rethinking; Genre', in Gledhill, c:. and \\'illiams, L (eds) (zooo) Iland, R. J and \\ilson, \1. (zooz) Gllllld-GlI/gIIOI: 'l7le FICllell Tltellile (~(J1l1rml. Exeter:
Rl'illI'mlillg 1"1111I SlIlIlies, I,ondon: Arnold, pp. 221--+3. Lni\'ersit\ of Exeter Press.
Godden, R. (1I)In) '.\Iaximizing the '\'oodles: Class, \Iemon, and ClpitaJ in Sergio I J.msen, \1. (19<)1) BIII'cl IIlId Bllh)'lolI: SPCdillolSIllp III . IIller" 1111 SIII'III FIIIII. Cambridge,
Leone's 011(1' ['1'011 II Tillll' ill .·111I1'1"/(11',]11111"1I111 O(.,IIII<'I'/(all o5'llIdl('S, 31.,r 361 X-+. \1.'\: Hanard Lni\crsit! Press.
 '<011 I'ILM ljl'-NIU:
BIBLIOGRAPHY

Hardy, P. ([98::,) Ilormr: Tlic ,1l1mll/ FilII/ fIlCj'clo(>l'iIiIl. I,ondon: :\urum.

.' b \1 . I':WOI ] (2002 ) ' G
1,1l1l'()\!C '" eme ' am I th"~ ' -\udiellce'
. . . Genre Classifications _and. Cultural
,
f LJrdy, P, (cd.) (1(j'JI) Tlic ,rcslem: Tlic .1l1mll/ FIIII/ LIIC)'(/opl'ilill. London: .\urum Press.
I )istinctions ill The Si/,.,,(e II( Ihe 1.,,11/1,.1' , III Janco\ Ich, .\1. (ed.) (2002), I.S I· ()_.
If'lrdy, P. (cu.) (1l)(j8) GlIlIgsll'rs: Tlic ,1l1mll/ Filll/ FII(j'(/opcdill. London: \urum Press.
janl'o\ich, ,\1. (ed.) (2002) II,m:llr: 'Ilic Fill~' Re"da. I AlI1~lon~ Routledg~. . " ..
H'lrper, S. ,mu Porter, \'. (200J) Britisli Cilltlllrl If II", 19.:;0.1'.' T/'c /)1'(1111" o( /),:«'r<'llce.
"a\, (;. S. (2000) '\Yhite .\Iall's Book '\0 Good: D. \\. Gntllth and the Amellcan Indian',
Oxtixd: Oxti)rd Lni\crsity Press.
· (;(/{OI/a .l"llmal, Jl).+: 3 2::'.
Harris, O. (200J) 'FIIII/\olr l'ascination: Outside Histon, But Historicall\ So', Cinf/1I11 · ' as L' \ ..Ie t nam 1"'111
knill'lIS, S. (l<J8H) '\LIscu I 1I11t\ ].>,ccss m
. I I s: Tbe F'lthn/Son [)mamic uf
.l0Il,."III, +3.1: 3 '2+.
· \mnican Culture', (;,'I/I'C, 21: +H7 ::'I~.
Harris, T. (H)l)(j) 11'llIlIibll/. London: Hamish Hamilton.
Id't<,rds, S. (!lJHl)) Till' RCII/IIS({{hl/i.~.alilll/ III.iIllI'Ulil: GCllder al/d II,c l'i,,11I1I1I/ 1/ ar.
I LJsian, :\1. (2001) 'l'\ostalgic Longings, .\Iemories of the "Good \\ar", and Cinematic
· Illoomington, 1'\: Indiana l'ni\ersit\ Press .
Representations in SIII'Ilig Prinllc RYIIII', Criticill SIIII/',.S in ,Hcr/ill COIIIII/IIIIICIlIIoII, 18.3: . ' ·1's, S
Idtllil ' . '(Il)'J+) lIard Blldies: IIIIII)'II'I/{/'!
. ' III I/'( R(agill/ 1:'1'1I. r\C\\ Bnrns\\'ick,
.lIlIsmh/lIl)'
33 8 - 58,
'\ [: l\utg'l'l'S l'ni\'ersit\ Press.
Ha\\kins, C (2000) Clltlillg rd<.;c: ,·Irl-Hormr IIlId IIIC Ilorll(ic ,·"·IIIII-Cllrr/c. \Iinne<ipolis,
ICllks', C (I lJl)2) 'Tbe Other Face of Deatb: Barbara Steele ,md ra .HI/Sc/'"I'II dd f)(11I II 1/11I "
\If\': l'ni\crsit\ of \Iinnesota Press.
· ill D\er, R., and \'inccndeau, G. (eds) I'opl/lar Fllm(><'II11 Cil/olli/. London: Routledge,
Iletlern,lI1, ~. (2002) 'Inner City Exhibition and the Horror Film: Distributing .\,glit o(the
,+'1 h2.
1,t<'llIg /)t'llr/ ("Jh8)', CillC1I/1l .l0Il,."III, +l.,j: ::'<)-71.
l"rcLill, Il . ,mcI ,\1 organ-.[. a1l1osounas,. R (I()')'S) COIII,'IIIOorllr.)'
'/' SOlllllSh
/' CIIICIIIi/. \Lmcbester:
Heftl'l'n,m, k. (200+) Cliollls, CiIl/III1C/.:S, 111Ir/ (;o!J: !lormr Filll/s IllId 1/'1' ill/ClllllI1 .HfJ1'/·e
, \Lillchester lni\crsit\ Press.
BIISillCSS, 19.:;'; IIJM'. Durham, '\C: Duke Lni\ersit\ Press.
f.,..lll, P. (Il)h:;) I 1,IISI II al TIi( .I[o,·ies. Boston: Little Bn)\\n.
Ilcnnelh, \1. \1. (,,)80) 'American '\ightmare: The lnder\\orld in l'ilm', .loill/tril fJ(
",lll1insk\, S. (!l)S:;) ,IIIIO.,,-i/il FillII (;mr!'s, 2nd edn. Cbicago: "elson-Ilall.
Pop II III I' PillI/, h..r 2+0···61.
",11K. ",' ([()SH) "['he Second \Yorld \br Combat Film', in Gehnng, W. D. (cd.) ([()8S),
llcrzogenrath, II. (2002) 'Join the Lnired .\Iutations: Tml ]In)\\'ning:'s Frcil/.:/, PoSI Serif>!,
S~ 102.
21.,r 8 Il).
"-,I P1"111 , E. -\. (I'ISh) I?i/I/.:ilIP Imllilil 1/'1' Cllld:: .HIIsic ·li·/,'usilill. I'lIslll/l/ilcrl/lSI/I, a/lll
Ilills, \1. (200:; ti)rthcomin~d 'Rin:,;ing the Changes: Cult Distinctions and Cultural
COIISIIII/er Clift II 1'1'. London: Routledg'C.
Differences in L S l'ans' Reading:s of J,lpanese Horror Cinema', in .\ IcR(I\, J (cd.)
",Iplall, I':. \. (cd) (Il)')')) 1/ filiiI'll III FillII Yllir, 2nd c·dn. London: BFl.
(200:; ti)rthcomin:,;).
"'II,sis. R. (ll)l)2) 1111i/trlll-/'-: Till' .\Lt/.:(/{g lI(a RC(>lIlallllll. Chicago: Lni\ersit\ of Chicago
Ifobcrnl<ln, J and Risenbaulll, J (1l)83)\1lr/1I(<.;11I .\1",.,...,·. '\'e\\ York: Da Capo Press. Press.
J lougkins, J (2002) 'In the \\'Ike of Desert Storm: :\ ConSIderation of .\Iodern Sel'Onu "e1kr, i.. (2001 1 'Generic Sulncrsion as Countnhisto]'\': \lario \;111 Peebles's 1'11.1'.1'1", in
\Vorld \\'ar l'ilms', .l0II,.,,1I1 fJ(Poplllllr FillI/ 1I1Ir/ 'Ii'iC,'ISIOII, 30.2: 7+- H+.
\\ alkn, .I. (cd) (200[b), 27 +h.
I lope\\e1I, J. (I (j86) (Jill o( 1/'1' 1'11.1'1: S(>'III/S/' Cillt'lIll1 ./fia Prllll(o. I,ondon: IlFI.
f.,.e1h ,V. ("N7l CIIII'IIIi/ i/II,! 1/'1' (,'r(i/I ,r,lr. LUlldon: Routledge.
Hunter, I. (.t (eu.) ([l)<)l)) Brills/' SO,.,,« Fldioll C,IICII/II. London: Routledge
"cI1l1rick, \\. (llJ'I1) n,,· Tlirill o(FI'i/I" 2.:;0 )'l'ilrS oISC'"T rlllalaillllll'lll. '\e\\ )'lJl1: GrO\e.
Hurd, G. (ed.) (I(jS+) .\·IIIIII/tril Fioiolls: SC({)IIr/ l1ill-/'/ 11111' ill Bulls/, FIIIII IIlId 'I~'I(c·isifJl1.
"lllC/, 1'. (2001) CilICllli/ IIII,! SOi'll'l Sili'iely: Frolll I/,e Rec'o/lilti/II III IIII' f)<'II111 ,ISla/ll/.
London: BFI.
l.olldoll: I. II. Tauris.
I lurle\, k. (Il)<)::,) 'Reading Like an :\lien: Posthum,m Identil\ in Ridle\ Scott's .Iltm and
"crn, S. (It)S,) Tilt' Clllillre O(i/IIIC IIII,! S(>i/I". CambridgT, \1.\: lLtr\anll ni\ersit\ Press.
Da\id Cronen berg's H,iI"r/', in llalberstam, J 'lIHI 1.1\ ingston, I. (cds) Posllllilltrill BOlhes.
"ilhul'Il, R. 'lI1d lzod, J. (I'I'JI) /11 1lllrodll,lioll 10 /;·1(,'1.1'11I11 f)II({{III(IIIIIF)': CIIII(i'Ollll/l~
Bloomington, 11\: Indiana Lni\ersit\ Press, pp. 203"2+.
/(,·altl)'. \LlI1cbester: \lallchester l ni\ersit\ Prcss.
1'11ltel1ings, P. (")l)3) 1IIIIIIIIIa IIlId BC)'ollr/: 'Iii,. Urill.dl lIormr FIIII/. \lanchester:
"illg, G. (2000'1) S(>(IIi/IIII,tr \ alIllli,'l's: IloII)'II'oo,! III 1111' .Igl' II( 1/'1' moi/.:;'llslcr. I.olldo[l:
iVLmcbester l ni\crsit\ Press.
I II. T.llIris.
HIl\ssen, .i.. ([l)Hh) 'The \'amp and the \LIl'bine: Techlwlog\ and Scxualit\ in I:ritz
"lI1g, G. (2000b) 'Ride-Films and Film as Rides in the (:ulltemporan Ilolh \\oud (:inem'l
Lang's .l/ell'li(>oh/, in HU\ssen, .i.. (ILJl)h) 1(icr IIII' (;re,,1 f)1,'i,!(: ,lIodemlslll,lIliss
OI,\ttLlctions', Cillt' 1,'1111/1, ,:;1: 2 'J
Clllillre, PIIslllllldemislII. Bloomington, 1'\: Indiana Llll\C1'sit\ Press.
"In~', (i. (2002) \,'1/' 111I11)'ll'ood CIIII'II/II:
III IlIlrlldlloilill. London. I. ll. Tauris.
Insdorf, .i.. (2002) IlIdl'IiMI' Sh'lr/IIII'S: FillII ,,"dlhl' !Iol0lll/ lI /, 3rd eun. Cambridge:
h,in~" (j. (200,) 'Spectacle, '\arrati\e, 'Ind the SpeLtacular lloll\'\\ood Blockbuster', III
Camhrid:,;e lni\lTsit\ Press.
Stringer,}. (cd.) (2003), I q 27·
Isenberg, \1. T. (Il)HI) ''-ar 1111 Fillll: 'IiiI' .!IIIO'/(11/1 Clllm/ll IIl1d FlIsl If IIrIJ lillI', Iljl-/-
h, ing, (j' ,1l1d krz\ \\ insb, T. (200 I) S,iOI'-t' rl(/ioll ('1I!t'IIIII: Frolll OlllaS(>III,' III L')'has(>I/(t'.
"J-I'.Lonuon: .i.ssociated Llli\crsit\ Presses.
I.ondon: \\'alltll)\\er.
James, E. ([l)<)+) SOt'1I11 r'1,!l1l1l ill IiiI' 20lh COllllr)'. Oxtil!'L1: Oxtiml lni\ersit\ Press
"llses, [. (Iljhlj) IllIri~.I)II.' 1/ ,'.,1. London: Thames &. Iludson.
Jameson, F. (1l)l)I) PII.lIIIIO,!I'UIISIII: 01',1/'( Clift Ill'll I I,Opii 11(1."11' Cllpil"lislll. London: \·erso.
klJ'in, \1. (llJlj+l 'Be\ond the .\merican IJre,nn: Film ,1l1d the I.>,perience of IkCe,n', in
Jancu\ ich, \1. (l<Jl)2) '"\1odernity and Suhjecti\it\ in Till' !cmllll<llor: The .\lach1l1e as
klein, \1. (cd.) (['!'!+), .111 ,lllIallilil /IiI/( COllllly: POsllI',lr Cllftllr,' "lid PIiIiII'S ill Iftl'
,\Ionster in (:olltemporaryi.mericall Culture', Tlic I (h'l I,I~/II 'liIlP, 30: 3- 1 7.
I .S.. I. London: Pluto, pp. 20h 31.
J;mcO\'ich, .\1. (It)l)h) Rillilillal Fe"rs: . i III,'1"'-" II f!lIrror 1/11/'( jlJ.)OS. \lanchester:
h,lcinh'll1s, <: (lJ)jS) (Iljlj!) ''\otes on \lelotlrama and the F,]mih lnder Capit,dism', in
:\Lmchestn lni\ ersit\ Press.
LlIHh, \1. (cd.) (It),!Ib)' ['!720".
 llIHLIOGRAPHY
zH8 FILM GENRE

~lcinhans, C. (rl)f)6) 'Teaching' Sexual Images: Some Pragmatics', JIlII/(> elll ~o: r IC)-22. Le,rb, D. J. (rC)C);) ',\n :\ll1biguous [so!:tti"nism: Tlte Flgltllll~ {19 t11 (1C)~Or, 111 Rollins, P. C.
Klmger, B. (l()C)~'I) '''Local'' Genres: The Ho]I\\\'()ou\uult Film in the r950s', in Bratton ,rnd O'Cl)J1no;·,]. E. (cds),' JIIII)'II',,"d:, lil'si 1/ Ili/J /1</1': (,'1'''11/ . id,', 'II 1/11''' III' LII"I (,'l'IIl'll/-
]., Cook,]. anu Gledhill, c:. (eds) (\c)9~)\lclodrall/l/: SII/gl' PllIlire S(rl'<'II. London: ' 1/1111 ,\/.~ltlllll/I<'; Bl)\\Iin\'; Green, 1-.:.1': BO\din~ Green L'ni\TJ'sit\ Pres" pp. rHI I)H.

BI'I, pp. I.H-~!1 Ll'mbcke,]. (rC)!)H) 'Ill,' S;i"/lI.~ lli/ilg,,: I/yili. 11('11/111:1' I/lld Illc IA'gl/')' 01111'1/111/11. i\:e\\
Kling;cr, B. (H)l)~b) ,Hl'lodrl/lII1/ 1/1/11 .\ll'l/llillg: llislor)', Cllllllrl' I/lld llie Fl/lIIs olDolI",ll/s Y"rk: 'sell York Lni\CI'sit\ Press.
Sid. Bloomington, I:\': Indiana Lni\crsit\ Press. . , I.l'\ I, 1'. (I lJHH) Till' /)1'II1I'lIl'd II lid Iltc .\tlc·,'d, trans. R. Rosenthal. "Til York: Simon &:
Koch, G. (I<)Hr) (Il)93) 'Thc 13mb's Shado,,' Rcalm', in Gibson, P. c:. (cd.) (ll)C).'), 22-45. Schuster.
Kocpmck, I. 1'. (H)l)5) 'Lnscttling :\merica: German \\csterns and \Iodcrnit\·' . Ll'lIi" J. (2003) 'FollolI'ing the \Ione\ in ,\merica's Sunnicst Compan\ 'I'<)\\n: Some
.\lodl'miwll.\lodl'l'lllI)-, 2. ,: 1--22. ' ' 's"te, on thc Political ECOnOIl1\ of the I Jolh lIoOlI Blockbuster', in String:er,]. (cd.)
Koppcs, C. R. and Black, G. I). (ll)H7) Iloll)'l/'IliJd GOI'S 10 If 1/1': 11011' Polili(s, P/'IIlils illlIl (200,), hI 71.
Pl'o(>l/gl/lldl/ SI/II/lcd S('((I/Id /1 IIr/d 11111' \loc·/('S. '\CII York: Free Prcss. . I.l'\da,]. (2002) 'Black-.\udiencc \\c'stcrns '1I1d the Politics of Cultural Identification in the
Kortc, B. (2001) 'The (;randt:lthers' \\ar: Re-Imagining \Yorlu \\"11' Onc in British "'o\els 1lI,'O", C'1I/1'/II1/ }fllIl'/I(/I, ~2. r: ~h 70.

and Films of the l<)l)OS'. in (:artmcll, I). ct al. (cds) (2001) R('/l'oC'ISioIlS: Rcillc'(,lIlill~ the I.",hitsk\, Y. (cd.) (lll!)7) .';/liclf,cn;'.' 1!1I11I({{WI: C'l'ill<'ol 1'1'1'S/lI'(/iC'l's Oil Schindler's List.
1'1/,1'1 III Fillll IIl1d FilliOIl. I,ondon: Pluto. . I\!"omington: Indiana Lni\ ersit\ Press.
"racauer, S. (ll)~7) 1-'/'11111 CIlIi.~lIri 10 1/illa: I 1\)'(liolo.~i(1I1 SllId)' 0111", (;,'1'1111111 FI/III, luk,,", G. and Ricci, S (lllH~) 'Thc ".\udience" (joes "Public": InllT-Tntu,dit\, (;l'IHC
Princeton, '\J: Princeton L ni\ ersit\ Press. ,md thc Responsibilitics of I.'i1m [.rteran', (JII FillII, 12: 2ll 3 h .
I--..riimer, 1'. (I l)l)H) '\Yould You 'Like Your Child To Sec This I.'ilm; The Cultural and I ,u,ted, I). (2003) nil' IJ ('(ICI'/l. I Jarll)\\: Pearson I.ong-man.
Social Work of the '.'amih-\d\C1HLII'C \lO\ie', in :\cak S. and Smith, \1. (cds) ([998) \l.lier, (: (Il)!)I) 'I'll<' ('III1I1I(II'I'iIMI' 1'(/(1: Ilisl"I')', Ilollull/lSl, tlild (;1'1'11111/1 \illllIl/IIIIJ(,IIII/)-.

COII!<'III/10I'illy II0II)'II'lliJd Cilll'llili. I.ondon: Rou[ledgT, pp. 2l)~ 3 I I. Cambridge. \1,\: I Lrnard Llli\Trsil\ Press.
"r'lmer, 1'. (200~) "It's\imcd at "ids Thc I--..id in h enblllh': Gcor\,;c I ,ucrs, SII/r \l.dtl1\, R. I I')I~~\ (rl)l)2) 'Thc Politics of the \Llid)usted Text', ill Camcron, I. (cd.)
11 IllS and Childrcn's 1':ntcrt'linmcnt', rn Trskcr (cd.) (2;0~),·.EH 70' ( r')l)2), 31) ~H
I--..rcss, G. and ThrT,rdgold, T. (I<)H,~) 'T')\\'lrds ,r Socral Thcon of Gcnre' SOlillil'l1l \\altb\, R. (Il)l):;a) 111(11)-II'liod Cill<'IIII/. Oxtilrd: Blackllell.
N('('!t'J)J, 21 I: 2 I) -+3. . ' \I.dtb\, R. (Ill!):;b) 'Tragic lleroes; .\1 Cap"ne and the Sl'eet'lde "I' Cnminalit\, \<1+7
"ristc\a,.I. (IC)H2) l'OIl',TS 0111111'/'111': III l;'sstI], 1111. I/,/,',Iioll. "l'lI York: (:o!umhi'l ]<13 1', ill Benson, J. et 'II. (II)c)5), Scrl'l'llillg III<' 1'1/,1'1: '1111' Si\11i ./lIslltil/il11 1/1.'1111')' tllIJ
L ni \lTsit \ Prcss. 1-'11111 COllliTI'II(I'. \lclbournc: I,e Trobc Lni\ersit\ Prcss,
\ 1.111\ cll, R. (1lJ7~) FrllII II/III Iltl' SC(,,"J 1/'lIrlJ 1/ 1/1'. Lonl\on: :\. S. Barnes.
I--..rutnik, F. (Il)l)!) III 1/ 1.11111'1)' SII'('('I: Film '\oir, (,'1'111'(', III/smlilllly. I.ondon: Routledge.
h,uhn, .\. (Il)HI) '1)(,'('1'1/1(/111'1' and thc People's \\ar', S''I'CI'II, 22.2: 1';(,73. \l.rrsh,rIL B. and Stih\ell, R. (cd.) (2000)1/11,1'1(1/1,1': l!olll-II'lIlId tllld /JI')'IIIIII. Exeter:
I--..uhn, \. (cd.) (Il)lJO) IIIi'll /011": Clilllll',d fYII'M)' tllld COIII,.IiI/lOI'iIlY S(/CII«' I-'il'//IIII Intellect.
ClI/I'IIllI. London: \ crso. \ I.rsl >11 , F. (2002) . /111<'/1<'11/1 (;I/lipia C'lI/l'llIlI: FI'IIIII l.ittlc Lrcsar III Pulp Fil·tion. L"nd"n:
"uhn, :\. (Ill')l)) 1/1(// /11111' /I. 'I'1i,. S(>III('S 01 SII,'II(I' 1'1<1/011 CIlICII/(/. London: Yerso Pal~r:I\c.

I.'Hlerman, I). (2002) /)1'Ii'lIl~ I is/f!!ls: rlllllll'lll.~ Iii,. Notld I III''/('. \ustin, '1''\: Lni\ersit\ of \k\nhur, c: (IlJ72) ['IIJI'I'II'lirid (S J. l.ondon: Seckel' &: \\·arburg·.
Te""rs Press. . \kllridc, J. (llJlJ(») SII'c'l'li .\/lII'If,I'I:~: I /J/fI~IIi/lh]-. I.ondon· I-':rbcr.
I.,rndon, B. (Illl)2) '1'11<' I('SIIi('/I,( III IlIrll!C,iI('lI, 1': /?('tll/ld'I/I.~ '\1'/('Ii<'C 1-'1(/11111 FillII III tll(' ,·Igl' \\l'Clrt\, J (IlJlJ3) !llIllpl'lIlId (;(/Il~I,,"J: nil' \[lIc'ICS' 1.11,1'. Wil/I' 11'111i liJl' \11If,. 'se\\ lork:
III !c'1"''/I'llI/I( (r(') I'I'IIJII(//llil. \\ e,lport, cr· (;ITenllood Prcss. St. \Lrrtin's Prcss.
l.al1th, .\1. (ll)l)Ia) lillI/sit (;,'111'(',1' C/lI<'1II11 IllId S"(/<'/)', 1113° 1(;11(;. Princcton, '\ I: \\cl)onald, 1--... I. (Ic)ll2) 'Thc \ (/~'I/;.<I Film: \n Introduction', in 's;ollctti, .\.,.11' 'Ind
Prince([)n Lni\er,it,\ Pre'S. . Iksser, I) (cds) (ll)ll2) I?cli'<lllllll.~ ].111<lIICSI' (,'1I1t'11I11: I I/lliIII'Sll/jI, (;1'111'1', IltslIIlY·
l.anlh, \1. (cd.) (I')lllh) 11I1I1,ilifills 1I11.11i': I RCtld,T 1111 I-'rllII tllIJ '1,'I(','{s/II1I I/ellldl'olll'l. Illoomington, 1'\: Illllian'l L'nr\ersit\ Press.
I )erroit, \11: \\ ,\\ne St,rte L rliYer,it\ PITs<;. \\dlrm, B. (ll)l)H) SllIlf)lill.~ III A'III: FIII!IIII(/~'I1/,~ I/Ild IiiI' "/'rill/Mcs' ill .\"rllll'm Ird<llld.
l.and\,.\1 (2000a) 11011<1/1 FillII. Camhr'i,ke: (:lmbrid"l' Lni\er,ir\ Prcss TrOll hrid~c: Flicks Books.
Lrnlh, \1. (2000b) 'Thc Othn Side of P,;r:ldisc: Briti~h Cinem,l from ,rn \merican \ lc-RO\,.I (cd.) (2005 Ii)rthcomin~) .7<1(>11/1<',1'1' 11111'1'111' (,'11/1'11111. Edinhurgh: Eclinbur~h
Pn'l'ccti\e', in\shI1\,.I. and Ilig,on,\. (cds) (2000) /J1I11.dl C'/lI<'IIIO, P,ISI 1/lIJ 1'1'<'«,111. L ni\crsit\ Prcss.
I.ondun: RouI!ed~c. \lcdhurst,\. (IlJH~) 'Fifties \\,rr "1Ims', in Hurd (cd) (I'JH~), 3:;~H.
I,angford, B. (1I)lJl») "'luu Crnnut I.uok \t Thi,": 'Ihre,ho\ds of Lnrepresentahilit\ m \ !ellen, .J. (Il)ll~) 'Thc \\estcrn', in Cnl\\du, (cd) (Il)lJ+), ~hlJ 7,;,
IloioclUst Film', .7l1l1l'!1ltf ,,1/1111111011,1'1 l.·dll(O II" II , H.,r 23 ~o. . \ldlcnc\l11p, 1'. (Il)')o) 'The Snu,rl Economics of (;II!,/ /)lg~CI'S II! {(j,U', in I.chman, 1'.
Lm~ti)J'd, 13. (2003) 'Thc Re\ isionist \\l',tcrn Rc\ i,ed', {'dill olld Illsl fI 1')', ;;2: 2() .IS. (cd.) (tl)llO), Cillsc III'II'III.~.(: III Illilill 11Ig] , III \('/1' 1'11111 CI'II/(/SIII. Tallalussec, 1:1.:
I ,'\\cn, I). (200 I) 'I.'rom Cine,pace t" C\ ber,p,lcc: Zionists ,md \gTnh, Re:l'Ji',ts <Ind Florida St.lte L ni\ ersit\ Pres<;.
GamCl', ill 'I'llI' \loll'll 'll1d "\1"11'11/', .711I1I'11<tf "I 1'11/111 Itl I' FrllII 1/lIJ '1<'I('c·I.I'/IIII. 2H.~: 1;0-7. \Iichelson, \. (IlJ7l») '])1' Crase alld \11' Clair', (J,IIIf,['/, 1 I: 3 0 :;3·
I.'I\\toll .. \. (IC)l)2) f:11I,,~I'I(I/II(/ . .\flc·i<'l C/lh'llIti /II (Jill /i'1II1'. (.:lmbrilke C,lmbrilkc . \\ilkr, \1. (2000) 'Of Tunes and Toons: Thc \lm ie \lusical in thc Il)l)OS', In I )i",on,
L ni\ ersit\ PIT'S. ' , \\. \\ (cd) (2000), ~:;h2.

~yu tlLM liENKE
Mitchell, E. (H!7(» 'Apes ami Essences: Somc Sources of Sig-niticance in the American
Gangster Film" !rIde .llIgle, I. I: 22--{).
'vlitchell, L. C. (HJ96) rre.</('ms: .Hllhllg Ihe .HIIII III FIol1I1I "lid FilllI. Chica\!:o: Lni\'ersitl·
of Chicago Press. • .
Modleski, 1'. (I9SS) 'The Terror of Ple'lsurc: The Contemporary Horror Film and
Postmodern Theory', in ?vlodkski, T. (cd.) ([()SS), SllIdln III Elllcrllllllllll'lIl.
flIoomington, II\': Indiana L'ni\crsit) Press, pp. I55-6h.
,'\10rdden, E. (I 9S2) The 1IIIII1'1I'1IIId .Hllsl("I. "\e\\ ton Abhot: f)a \ id &: Ch'lrles.
;\1ueller, J. (t(jS+) 'Fred :\staire and the Integrated \Iusical', CIII!'III".7ollm"l, 2+.1: 211-+0.
'\luhTy, L. (1975) 'Yisual Pleasure and '\arrati\e Cinema', in .\Itlh('\', L. (I()SI)) 1',slI,,1
"lid OIIIlT Plc"SIIres. Basingstoh: \1aemillan.
'\Iunh\, j. (H)9()) PIIMI( EIICIIIl{'S, flllMI( IIcroes: S(remlllg Ille GIIIIgslcr from (jttle Caesar
III Touch of E\·il. Chicago: Univel'sit\ of Chicag-o Press.
i\lurpl1\, R. (Il)S()) Rc,,;'sllI "lid 7/11.1<'1.' C//II'III" "lid SIII'ICly III /Jrlllllll. I<jJl)-l<j-/S. London:
Routledge.
:\lurph), R. (2000) /Jnllsh CIl"'II111 "lid II,c .)c({I1/I1 Irllrld 11',11'. London: Continuum.
,'\lurpl1\, R. and Chibnall, S. (cds) (I()()()) /Inllsh Cnll/l' C//Ii'II/II. London: Routledge.
Musser, C (H)()O) 7'hc 1:'1I"'I:~'t'II((' II/CIII(lII": n", . I llIalm II S(/,Ct'II III I<jO;. Berkel:\, C:\:
LTni\crsit\· of CaliflJrl1ia Press. . \\'Ollder Years', S'T!'I'II, +0.2: ISS-7 h .
Nachbar, j. (.w03) 'The \\estern: .\ Ccntun on the Trail', ]lIlIm"III/I'IIf>"I"r Fill/( ,,1/11
7'elcrlslll II , 30.+: 17S-,S+,
!\:aremore, J. (I()()S {)h) 'American Film '\oir: The Histol'\ of:1I1 Idea', FilllI QII"r!a/l', +9:
12 2S.
\,",UTIl10IT, j. (I()()S)t1{J/'C Ihllli .\'I.dl/: FilllI .\1111' //I lIs ClllllnlS. Ikrkele\, C\: Lni\Trsity
of California Press.
Ne:r1e, S. (II)SO) (;<'IIre. London: BFI.
\'"eale, S. (1()90) '''YoU\T Got to be Fucking; hidding l ": hnO\\lcdge, Belief and Judg;ll1cnt
in Science Fiction', in huhn, .\. (cd.) (IIJ90), Iho S.
l"eale, S. (I()()l) 'Aspects of Ideolog\ and '\arrati\e in the :\meric'1I1 \\"Ir Film', SO'et'll,
32 . 1 : 35 S7·
'\eale, S. (1l)()J) '\Iclo Talk: On the .\klning and Lse of the Term "\lclodLlma" in the
·\nlL'riL·,m Trade Press', nil' I c/;-cl I",~II/ '!i-"f> , v: ()(lS().
:'\('ale, S. (II)()()) 'Genre', in Cook, 1'. kd.) (II)()I)) n", CIII1'II/ll !JUII/-, 2nd edn. London: BIT
'\eale, S. (2000) G.'III( alit! Iloll)'II'olid. l.ondon. Routledge.
I\eale, S. (2002a) '\\ esterns ,md GangstLT Films Sinn' the 1I)70S', In '\ealc, S. (cd.)
(2002h), Z7+7.
'\eale, S. (cd.) (200zb) G('I/r( all,! COIIICIIIf>lmIiT /loll)'II'IIIIiI, London: BI'/.
I'\eale, S. (2003) '1lolh\\ood Blockbusters: IlislOricii I )imellsions', in Stringer, J. (cd.)
(200,), +7 (,0.
'\eH', B. (11)112) I'dI/{ alit! l)o;'IIcs III ,II/{NI(a:,1 So(Ial li,It!IIIOIl. Londun: RoutlcdgT.
I\e\\itz, :\. (H)1)5) '.\Iagicctl Girls and\rl)[nic Bomh SpLTm: Jljw1esc\nim'ltion in
,\merica', I'dI/{ f..!lIarl(rI)', +1).1: 2-1 S.
'\e\\man, h. (II)I)IJ) .\Idl(lll/IIIIII .lIO'·h'S: Flit! IIrll,( II orl'! CIIICIlIi/. I,ondon: Tit,m Books.
I\ichols, B. (11)1)+) /11111'1'<'11 /Iolillt!l/nes: Qllesllolls III .lI(alllli~ ill ColIl<'lllf>ol'llr)' 1,'1111111'(.
Blooming-ton, 1'\: Indian'l Lni\'ersit\ Press.
'\ochimsul1, .\1. P. (2003 +) '\\ adLLl\a Looking at: Re-i{e'lding' the Gang'ster Genre
Through n", .)Of>F<III11S', FillII QII"r!al)', .:;h.2: 2 -lJ.
NIl\\ell-Smith, G. (1<)77) (II)I)l) '.\Iinnclli and \lelodr:ll11:l', in Lmd\, \1. (cd.) (I<)L)lb), 2hS-
7+·
BIB LI 0 li KAP H Y 29 I
Oli\'er, h. and Trigo, B. (2003) .\',1/1' IlIxlcl)'. \Iinneapolis, .\1'\: Uni\Crsity of .\linnesota
Press.
Paris, .\1. (19()7) 'Democrae\' Goes to \\ar: .-ill' Fora', Fill/{ all,! IIIs!lilT, 27·I-+: +S5 2 .
p,]ITish, \1. E. (11)1)2) .·111.\1011.,· f)('({/{Ies: .-ill,,'n(a III I'msf>!'nl)' alit! f)ef>I'i'SSIOIl, I<j20 19-/ 1.
'\e\\ York: \\'. \\. '\orton.
p:nil, \\. (Iljl)+) I,allglllllg .')(I'<'IIIIIIlIg: Ilot!Nlllloll)'fI"1I1I1 1101'1'1I1' "II'! C/lll1ol)'. 1\e\\ YOl'k:
Columhia L ni \ ersit\ Press.
I'cll LLlkur, \1. (200.1) 11I,!1i/1I PIlf>III"r CIIICIII,I: li/dllSlr)', Idt'olllg1' ilild CIIIlS(/IlIISIit'SS. Creskill,
'\J: Hampton Press.
Penl~\, (:. (11)<)7) .Y.IS.lllI·cA,: POf>IIIi1r ,'\(11'11«' "lit! SeT 1Il,ll/{alm. I,ondon: \erso.
Petl'l'~on, C S. (H)IH) 'Spe'lking; f,)r the P,lst', in .\ltlner, C .\., II. O'Connor, C. A. ami
SanLh\eiss, \1. .\. (eds) (11)1)+) Till' U,lilr'! HIslor)' orll,e .IIIIt'IHilll lIesl. 1\e\\ York:
Oxford Lni\ersit\ Press, pp. 7+,,(H).
Petro, P. (1()I)J) ]oyless Slre(I.'·: /'-1111"'11 alit! .lh'I/lilml/{all( R(f'rt'sCillalilili III If'l'lI/li/r
(;,'m"IIl)'. Princeton, '\.1: Princeton Lni\ersit\ Press.
Pierson, \1. (2002) Sf'I'(lill l,jli'(ls: Sldl III SCl/I'(!I 0/ lIollt!a. '\e\\ York: Columbia
Lni\crslt\ Press.
l'ILTSOn, \1. (1l)1)1)) '(Jjl Effects in Holh\\ood Science tiction Cinem'l II)Xl) I()I).:;: The
Place, .I :\. (11)711) '\\ol11en in Film '\oir', in haplan, E..\. (L'LI.) (HJiS), 35 (,7·
Poague, L. (200,) 'Th,lt Past, ThiS Present: Historicizing' John Ford, (1).)1)', in (,rant, B.
k. (cd.) (200'3) ]01111 Fours St'lgeeo'lch. Cambridg'c: Clmbridge L ni\ersin Press.
Polan, D. (II)S(,) I'OIl'I'!' illld f'al'illllll,,: 1h.'/IIf)', .\arral"·c illld II,,' ·IIIIt'I'((,11I Cillell/a ilj-/O
il;':;O. '\e\\ York: Columbi'l Lni\ersit\ Press.
Prince, S. (Il)I)X) S''''iI~'1' CIII<'III,I: ,\11111 l'ed'IIIf>all illld ,lie RIsc II [l!u/c'lIIlml .1/0,'1(.1'.
I,omloll: :\thlone.
Prince, S. (cd.) (11)1)1)) S'1I11 l'ed'lI/f>al,'s The \\tld Bunch. Cambndge: Camhridge
Lni\ersit\ Press.
PrllllT, S. (2~00) 1.\<'11' flol orGoM: Ilollj'lI'oot! [ lid,'!' III,' l:'Ieorollll RIIlIII)OIl', ilJ'~O il)S'j.
'\e\\ York: Scribner.
I'rona\, '\. (1l)I-:S) 'The British Post-Helium (:inema', I 11.1'1 II IHa I ]lIlImal or 1",11/{. Radlll alld
'1"1(,',,,,", 11.1: 3() 5+·
PH', D. (11)75) (I()()5) 'The \\estern (Genre and .\l()\ies)', inC,rant, B. h. (cd.) (Il)(),:;),
11-:7 202.
I\e, I). ([I)L)(,) 'Introduction: Critlcisl11 and the \\estern', in Cameron ,mel P\e (cds)
(I()I)(»), I) 21.
IbbinO\ itz, I .. (I ()()S) For II,( 1,0,'1' or I'I(a.'" 1'1': I' ·OIlICIl.. llo,·/('s ,11111 CIIIIMI' III -rllm'lI/~tI"",
COIIIIIT CIIIII/~II. '\e\\ Ilruns\\ick, '\,1: RutgTrs Lnl\ersit\ Press
R,lbinO\\itz, 1'. ([IJI-:2) 'Comml)(!il\ I'etishism \\ omen m GoM f)I,~,~,'!'s IIril).U', Fill/{
RCI/dcr, S: J+I-lj.
Rabino\\itz, P. (200,) /JI"(A- 2: 111111<,2: .\·/ilr: IIII<'I'I((/'s 1'1I1f' .\llIdt'rI/lSIII. '\e\\ York:
Columhia Lni\Trsit\ Press.
Raehurn, J. ([I)SS) 'Th~ (iang'ster Film', in Gehring, \\. D. (cd.) ([l)III-:), +7 63·
i{,lttig:1n, "'. (]{)I)+) 'The LIst (i'lsp of the \liddlc Class: British \\'11' Films of the [1)5°s',
Inc Di'\on, \\. \\. (cd.) (1l)l)2) Rt',II"II'/ll~ fJrlwl1 Cllli'lI/{/ IIjOO -lIj')2.\lhall\, ,\Y: State
LniHTsit\ of '\l'\\ Yurk Press.
Ra\, R. H. ('Il)I-:S) I C'O{/III "'lIdt'II'T Or II,,' 11{}11j'1I'{}(/i1 CIIlt'III{/. Princeton, '\J: Princeton
Lni\ersit\ Press.
i{eid,.\1. (11;1),,) (II)I)S) 'The Black G:lIlg:ster Film', in (,r,mt (cd.) (19 1)5), +S(l 7."
292 FILM GENRE
RenO\, "'\L (1()<)3) 'Inrroduction', in RenO\, \1. (cd.) (1()93) TI,,'orislllp /)o(fI/I""ll1r)',
I>ondon: Routledge.
Rich'lrds,]. (lljlJ7) FillIIs IIlId /J,.,lisl,\lIliolllll Id<'lllily: Frolll /)/I'A'<'IIS 10 /)",/'.1' .11'1!1)'.
.\ Ianchcster: \Lmchester C ni\ ersity Press.
Ricketts, R. (2000) S/'<'(f{/I I:'!i;'ds. London: Yirg·in.
Roberts, A. (2001) SO<'ll«' Fidillll. I,ondon: Routledge.
Robertson, P (Iqq(l) (2002) 'Feminist Camp in Golt! /),g~ers 0/19.J3', in Cohan, S. (l'd.)
(2002), 129-+2.
Rodll\\id, D. :\. (lljS2) (I'!!)I) '\ladnl'ss, .\uthorit\ and ILk'olog\ in rhl' Domestic
,\lclodrama of the Iq~oS', in Lalllh, \1. (l'd.) (I()qlb), 237 +7.
RosO\\, E. (I(J7S) Hol'I! 10 ros{': TI,,' Gllllgsier Fillll ill .11111'1'1111. ,e\\ York: (hiliI'd
L'ni\l'rsit\ Press.
Rotha, 1'. (lq3(1) /)01111111'111111')' /'illll. I,ondon: Faber.
Rubin, .\1. (1()!)3) Sholl'sio/,/,ers: /JlIsII)' HerA'l'l,,)' 1111'/1111' hlld,l/(lll o/S/,,·(/II(/I'. :\l'\\ York:
Columbia Lni\nslt\ Press.
Ruhin, R. (2002) '(i,mgstn Gl'l1eration: Crime, Je\\s and till' Problem of .\ssimibtion',
SI/(IllIr, 20.+: I 17.
Rubinstein, L. (Iqq+) '\Yar I,'ilms', in Cnl\\dus, G. (l'd.) ((Jq+), +~I S.
Russell, I). J. ((()qS) '\Ionstn Roundup: ReinlL'grating the Horror Genre', in llrO\\nl', '\,
(l'd.) ((()I)S), 233 q.
Ruth, D. (I()qli) 11I,'<'IIlillg Ih" PIIMil 10'11011.1': '!'I", (;lIlIpHr III 1111""','"1 Clllllln', f(1"" "III-
(:hicago: Lni\ nsil\ of Chicag'o Press.
R\all, T. (HJ7~) 'Teaching throug'h (jelll'e', ,\,1'('('11 1:'dlll,'IIIIII, IT 27 .n.
R\an, ,,\1. ,md hdlnn, I). (H)SS) (',1111<'/" Pol"im: T!I,' [,ohlin' IIlId Idl'ology 0/ COIIII'III/,llI'IlIy
1I(11)'II'fwd Fillll. Bloomington, I\.: Indi'lIJa L ni\ersin Press.
Sal'h, .\. (I lJ7I) '.\n \n.lhsis of the Gangstn .\ 10\ ies of the Llrh Thirties', TI,<, I <'hl'l
l,i~/" hll/" I: ~ I I.
Saundns, J. (2000) nil' II {'sI{'1'I! (,'1'111',': Frolll rords;'lIr.~ 10 IJi~ II/IISA-'T. J ,ondon.
\\alltlo\\ l'r.
Schatz, T. (lqSI) 1I(11)'l/'Iw'/ Gl'llr,'s: 1'0",""1,1.1', F';lIl1llriA·III.~ 1I1Ie!11,<, SIIIe!/(I S)'.i/<,lIl. 'sC\\
York: Random I louse.
SCh.ltz, T. (I!)S 3) Olt! 11011 )'11'00e!, .\ <' II' 11(11)' o'ooe!: R I 1111/ I, I r/ ,I lie! IlIdllslly . . \n n \ rbor,
.\ II: L.\ II Research Press.
Sch.nz, T. (()'13) The ,C\\ Ilolh \\ood', in Collins, j., Ibdnn, II. and Collins, \. 1'. (l'ds)
((()In) F/lIII TlI<'or)' GOI'S 10 I!I,' .110,'1<'.1'. London: Routledge, pp. :-\ 31i.
Sch'ltz, T. ((()qS) '\\orld \\ar II and the Ilolh\\ollll "\\,1I' I'ilm"', in BrO\\nl' (cd.) (11)'):-\)'
,~() 12:-\.
Schnellkr, S. j. (l'd.) (2003) F('{Ir 11111/11/11 Frollli,'rs: lIorror Cill"'1111 1<lo.'S 1111' (,'101,<,.
(iuildlill'll: ':'\B Press.
Schr'lller, J' ((()71) (Iqq~) "ores on ]'ilin 'oir', in (ir,ml, B. h. (l'd.) (H)l)"), 213 2(,.
Sdl\\agn, j. ((()q I) 'The 1',lst Rewritten', FIIIII (',1I1I1I1i'III, 27 U,lnual'\ /Fl'bnul'\) 2 I .j.
.' ;C\ dol', P. (I l)'i/) [,,,dlll/,III,: nl<' II l'sIerli Filllls: I R,'(OIlSIe!l'l'Ill1oll. lrbana, II>: L ni\ crsin
of Illinois Press.
Sh;tdoian, J. (2003) f)UWIIS IlIleI f)t'<leI (1Ie1.': '//;t' llilt'l'i,WI (;IIIi~"I"1 Fdlll, 2nd l'dn. 'sl'\\
York: (hiliI'd lni\l'rsit\ Press.
Shain, R. E. (Hi/Il) . III 1IIII/pis o( 11,,11011 PI<,lllu's ,dJrl/fl 11111' R,./t"lst'eI /I)' III' llilOh<lIIFdlll
illdllslr)' /113'1 /1170. '1'\\ ) ork: '\1'110 Press.
Shindkr, C. (1')71)) Iloll)'il'ooel (;ot's 10 II <II': Fdill" '11IeI 1111t'lh'lII S"IIt'I)', "ll") 1'62.
),ondon: Routledge.
BII3LIOGRAPH Y 293
Sickds, R. C. (200 1) '.'\ Politicall\ Correct Ethan Echnrds: Clint Easn\'(loLl's T!le 011 till II'
]1I.'t')' I rilles', ]o~II'I",1 "I'Popllllif Fdlll 1111'/ T,.le,·isillll, 30.+: 220 7·
Sihcr, .\. ;tnd Crsini, J. (l'ds) (1<)1)6) F/lIII .\011' Reil,/a. 'sew York: Limelight.
Simll1on, S. (11)1)3) Tilt' Fillll.' o//). II~ Gil/iii/;. CambriLlge: CambridgT Lni\l'rsit\ Press .
.SinlIllon, S. (2003) The 111,','111/11/1 o( I!le I I eSIt'1'I/ Fillll: . I CIIIlllI'rl1 IIISlor)' o( I/;e Gellre's
rirsl 1I1111:Cmll{l'j'. Clmbridge: Cambridge Lni\l'rsity Press.
'; in ~cr, B. (200 I) .\ IcioelUllllii llil'/ .11 "de I'll il.J': Fil I'll' Sl'IIslll iOllii I Cillelllil ilil'/ ils CIIIl/e.I'IS.
. ~l'\\ York: ColUll1bia Lni\nsin Press.
Sin~cr, .\. and Lastingcr, .\ I. (II)()S) 'Thl'll1l's and Sources of Sllir lillI'S: John Carter and
j'LIsh (Jordon Enlist in the First Crusade', Pllplllilr Cllllllre Re,'It'I)', 9. 2 : 6~-77·
Sk,d, I). J. (ll)l13) 'f/;t .\loIISI<'I' S!lm/': . I CIIIIIII'III llislllr)' 1I(lIorrllr. London: Pinus.
Sklar, R. (H)I)2) CII)' Ho)'s: Cllglle)', Hog<lrl, Gllr/i,.1tI. Prilll'l'ton, \.J: Princeton l'ni\l'rsit\
Press.
SJoTkin, R. (I!)!)S) Gilli/igil/<'I' \'1/11111: '//;e .\/.1'111 111'11,,. Frolili<'l' iii 'l'1I'tllli,.II,-COI/III')'
IlIItlhll. 'sorman, Oh: l'ni\nsit\ of Oklahoma Press.
SI"lkin, R. (200 I) 'L nil Pride: '·:thni·l· PLltoons ,md the .\ l\ ths of\mniean 'sationalin "
IlIItrilllll rl/<'I'lIf)' 1/i.,·lor)', 13·3: +(H) ,):-\.
Snlith, I' (I ')l13) elllli F<lsllI'ood: I (.'1111I1ml [')'IlIllIdioli. I,ondon: LCI> Press.
.';ol1Ch;tck, \. (T!)S7'1) S()','mlil.~ S/'II(e: nil' IlII<'I'iU/Il S'I<'III,' FidiOIl Fillll, 2nd rl'\. edn.
'sl'\\ Bruns\\ ick, 'sJ: Rut~ns Lni\ nsit\ Press.
.S"bchack, \ . (ll):-\7h) :Child/.\Iien/Fathn': P'ltriarchal Crisis and (jl'neric ":\chang'C',
Cc Ii II 1'1'11 01'.',111',1, I,,: 7 3+·
S"hduck, \'. (H):-\S) 'Sciencl' Fioion', in (Jl'hnng, \\. D. (cd.) (I!):-\:-\), 22:-\ +2.
SonLlg, S. (I l)(}(') 'The Imagination of I )isaster', in 1.~'IIIISI IIII<'I'/,rt'IlIlioll IIl1d 01/1<'1 1:·s.'Il)'s.
'\1'\\ Y"rk: 1'"'lIT'lr, Strauss &. (iirou\, PI'· 20 l ) 2':;.
Sorllll, 1'. (I')!)+) '\\'ar and (:inl'ma: Interpreting the Relationship', IllsIlIlh,d ]11111'1/111 III'
Fdlll, Hlldill '"Iel ,/('/t','ls/ll//, q.+: 3~7 (Iii.
"picer, .\. (2002) F;/III \ ,,11'. I Llllm\: Pe<lrson.
Spring'cr, ( .. (1,),jll) IJt'd)'ll/lI<' Fill.': Hllllit's '"Iel f)t'slr<, ill 1/;,' Il0SllIldlisll'I,d 1.~t'. I.ondoil:
\thlolll'.
Springh;tll, J. (H)l)~) 'Cl'nsonng 11"lh \\00l1: ) outh, .\ lor,d Panic ,md Crimc!(i'1I1gstn
\(,,,il's of the l'nOs', 711111'1/11111(['11/'111111' CII 1111 1'1', 3 2 .3: 13~ .:;+.
Suhks, h. ((()l)l)) ,'j'hl' l;ostll1odnn \hu\S Rings T\\il'l': Constructing the Fl'll1ll1l' 1',lulc
in l)OS Cinl'll1,I', In h;tplan (l'd.) (H)l)!)), I(q :-\2.
Suiger,j. (2001) 'Ihhrid or Inhred: Thc Purity Ihpothc.S1s ,md 110Ih\\00d (il'nrl'
Ilistol'\ " Fdlll Cl'Ilir'l.(III, 22.1 ~ 20.
SLIm, R. ((()!)2) Rt'!l(\I,'il)' iii 1'11111 '"1'/ l.il<'l'llIlil": 1'1'/1111 I )on (~ui\otl' III ]mll-I,II' (;oelllll.
'sl'\\ York: (:olull1hia L ni\ crsin Pre,s.
SLIm, R. 'Illd Shoh.lI, 1'.. (Il)!)+) I 1I111111hll~ 1.'111'/1,'<'1111'1'111: \lldll, It/iii I'd lliIlI dll'/ I/;t' .11<"1,,,.
I,ondon: Rourll'd~l'
SI,mflcld,P. (l!)l)S) :j)i\ie C,)\\bm, ;tnd Illul's ) odds: Thc Str<lngl' IlistoJ'\ of the Singing
C,)\\ hm " in Bliscoll1lw ,Ind Pl"lrSO!l (l'ds) (H)l):-\), l)1i I 1:-\ .
St,mlil'kl, ·P. (2001) 111I11)Ii'Ollel, 111'.(/<,l'IIs dllellill Ill,i'J.': '//;t' 1,lIsl '1'1'11;/ F\l'ter: Lni\ersit\
of L\l'Ter Press.
"torr, B. (H)')',) Ilfli(~III,lIrt'.' e!c' (,'IIt'rrt': II~OI,·-IIt'/-llillll, t'li Fmlllt' t'l 1111\' 1:/111.' I Ill.'. P.lris:
hlitions 1.1 I JcCOll\ l'rte.
Street, S (2002) 'l'1',IIISllllllllli, (.'r"(.(lIl~S: IJrlll.,.11 /,,',I/llr( FJiIiIS III l!t,' I S I. London:
C'lI1tinuul11.
STl'Ick, 1'. (1'J7h) S,HII',' /'ldlill/l1",'i,',. I ,ondon: I kIIleI1l'lI1n (ktOl'lh.
294- FIL:\1 (iE"lRE BIBLIOGRAPHY 295

Strinati, D. (1<)'1)) 00111 IlIlmdll(lioll 10 Theories o(Po/,lIlilr ClIlllIr(. London: ROlltledge. \\alker, J. (ed.) (200rhl IIl'sII'I'IIS: Fill/ls Tltrollgll Ilis/rIlT· :\Ie\\ York and London:
String;n, J. (cd.) (2003) o\loc'I( Blrd·(,I/Sll'rs. I.ondon: Routledg;eo C RoutleJge,
Swain, J (llJ'IlI) 'Bleeding: Illlag;es: Pcr/;Jrlllill/( and the British Gang:ster \lmie', \1:\ diss. \\.lIker, \1. (1<)112) '\lclmlrall1a and the :\meriL'.m Cincma', ,11061', 29/3 0 : 2-3~·
Birkheek Colleg:e, London. \\ ,ml. I., \Y, (l<jX)) TI'I,IIollllIl I'i<'lllre COl'S If) Will. ,-\nn Arhor, lVII: lIMl Research
T'lsker, Y. (IYlJJ) S/,alilmlilr Bodl(s: Goulcr. Goue Iliid II", lelioll ClI/(lI/iI, I.ondon: Prcss,
Routledg:e. \\,lrshO\\, R. (ly+lI) (lI)7~a) 'Tbe Gangster as Trag:ic IIno', in Til,' IlIIlIIfdlalc Ll/,cl"lr'I/(c:
Tasker, Y. (cd.) (200+) .J(IIOII olld . Lhr"l/llIr( Cill(lIll1. London: Routledg:eo 1/1I,'il's, Cllllli,.,', Tlll'dlre dlld Ollin Is/,I'''ls ,,(I'o/,ular Culillre, 'Jcw York: AthenL'ull1, pp.
T,nes, B. (IYl)J) TI,,' ROIIIIIII( 0(, Idc'mlllr(: T(,( Cmr( o(f1isloriml Lhml II 1"1' Hoc'i,.s. 12 7 33·
Jackson, \IS: l.°ni\ersit\ or \lississippi Press. \\'lrshl)\\, R, (Ili~+) (1I)7~h) ':\lo\ie ChroniclL': The \\csterner', in 'Ilil' IlIIlIIedilll(
Tclotte, J, 1'. (IY'))) R,./,!i(<lI;o!IS: I Rol'oll( Ihslor)' f)(S(iol« rldioll Filllio Lrbana, lL: F"/,eri1'll(. ,llo,'Ies, COllli(s, Th1'aln' 11/111 Diller . JS!'1'(IS rf PO/'lIll1r ClIllllre. ;\Ie\\' York:
l.°ni\ersin° or Illinois Press. ,\thenellm, PI'· 13~-)+·
TclOl!e, J P. (1'I'n) ,I O,shllJl 7'·(11II010g)': S(Ir"I/(t' FI(/Jf)1I FillII illld iI"'\/iI(IIIII( . Jg(, \\'l'iss, ,\, (llil)2) 1'alli/'ires 11/111 l'ioll'{s: I.I'SI'I<IIIS UI illl' CIIICllld, London: Jonathan Clpe.
\Iiddleto\\n, CT: \\eslc\an Lni\ersin Press. \\ cissll1an, G, (IYL)~) '0\ Fant,tS\' of \\'itnessing', ,I/r'llid, Clllillre awl So(il'l)', 17· I: 21J3 3 0 7.
Telotte, J.
p, (2001) S(Jmi<' 1"1111011 FilII!. Cambridg:c: Cambridg:e Lni\'ersin Press. \\ e1b, P. (2000) rite Ilormr (;1'IIrl': Fmlll R1'd:,l'hlll' 10 !JIIIII If il«(,. London: Walltl,)\\er.
Tclolle, J.
1'. (2002) 'Tbe '.;C\\ !-lolh\\l)(,d \lllSicoll: From ,l'lIllIrdllT o\I,~/11 Ft'c''I" to \\dsh, J. (2000) ',\ction Films: The Serious, the Ironic, the Postll1odern', in ])i"on, \\.
Fooiloosl", in "Ieale (cd.) (2002h), +1161. \\. (cd.) (2000), 1(1t ,6
Tbolllas, D. (1<)'12) '110\\ Ilolh\\olld Deals "ith the De\iant \ble', in Llmeron, I. (cd.) \\C\:man, \, \\'. (11)113) Creallllg Iltc COIl/,I,': 1,0c'l', ,I/arrlilgl' IIlId 1/0111'1/'I/IId PI'I'/;II'IIIIIII(('.
( Il)l)2), )l) 70, Princeton, '\1: Princeton Lni\Trsit\ Press.
Thom'ls, I l, (2000) /11')'0/111 COII'I': \I(lodl'lllllll, CO/II(d)' IIlId ROIlIlIlIi<' III Iloll)'/l'flOd FillI!s. \\ hite, L. (200~' fortbcoll1ing:) 'Case Stud\: :\akata lIideo's RIllPIl and Rillgl/ 2', in \lcRO\,
I,ondon: (:ameron &: Ilollis. 1.
(ed,) (200:; forthcoming:),
'\'od"ro\, T (I I)l)O) (;l'lIn's III Ol,"(Olln,', (:'\Il\hridg:e: (:.llllbridg:e Lni I ersil\" Press. \\i~rzhicki, I, (~002) '\\eird \ ibrations: HO\\ the Theremin G,nc \Iusicll \oicc to
Tohill, c:. and Tombs, 1'. (l<ilJ+) 1111111I11'1I1 'I,Ji(s: 1,'lIm!'(1I1I SI'.l IIlId !forror IIo,'i(s, 1I).,{)o, I lo!h \\,o;Jd's F,traterrestrial 'Othcrs' !'Jeetronlc \lusic from l1130s SCleneL' Fiction
J(J'~';'. :\e\\' York: Sf. \!arlin's Pre"" [,'ilms', 701l1'll1l10(1'1I/'lIlrtr FilII! ill/d 'I (-//'''is/lIII, 3°.,1: 2) 3:;·
Tompkins, J. (llJ'p) lI(slo(r;'cr)'illIlI~: Tilt' 111111'1' 1.1/;' o(lIeSII'I'II.' :\e\\ lork (h/(lt"ll \\ illiams,\, (tl)II+)'1s .1 R.ldical GenrL' Criticism Possible)', QlIilrl"rI)' R,TII'II' rl( FJiI/l
L'ni\ ersit\ Press, ,~'/f{d/('s, l).2. 1;1 ).

Traube, L. Ci, (11)lp) nl"i'llIlIIlI~ !dt'IIIII"'S: CIIIss, (;<'IId,.,. 111/,1 (;<'III'I",JlIOII III J()8os 1/(11)'1I'00d \\'dliams, I.. (1<)11.1) '\\hen the \\oman Looks', in ])oane, :\1. '\. et al. (cds), (llJ S ,) RI'-
,1[o,'ies, Boulder, CO: \\'est\ ie\\" Press, I 1.1'/111I: f:'SSil)'.' ill 1-'1'1/11/11.'1 1-'1111I Cnll(lSIII, I,os ,\ng:des: :\meric.m Film I nstitutc, PI" X3
Tlidor, ,\, (lln3) (1In(») '(ienre and Critical \Iclbodolog:\', in '.;ichols, B. (L'd.) (llJ7(»), 1111- l)1); .llso in Janell\lch (ed.) (2002).
26, \\ illiams, I.. (1<)11+) (tl)l)l) '''Sollll'lhini,( Fisc Besides a \lother": Slellli /)111111.1' and the
Tudor, ,\. (11)lIlJ) ,I/OIISII'I'S iI/IIl,lLld S(IOI{lsls: / Cllllllrllllhslor)' 0(11,,' Ilormr ,110,'11'. \laternal \ldodrama', in LanLh (L'd.) (1l)1)lh), 3°7-3°.
(ht(lt"ll: Basil BLlck\\ell, \\'II'.\ms, I .. (I<)SX) 'Feminist hln; Tlwon: 1111r11'I'rI PII'r(l' and thl' Second \\orld \\ar', in
TulloL'h, .I, .\Ild Jenkins, II. (cd.) (1I)lJ)) .\t'im« 1'1<'11011 , IlIdiCII(t's 1llIldlln~ I )octor \\'ho IIlId Prihram, I-:. I). (L'L1.) (I<)IIX) 1-'(1111111' S/,«Ililors: IAillhll,~ III FillII III/d 'I "I,,;'i,\'/IIII. :\e\\
Star Trck, I ,ondon: Routled~'e Yor": \ l'rso, PI', 12 30
Turk, E, n. (II)<)S) 1/f)11)'II'rlr!,IIJi;'II: ,I !i/llprllpli), 0(71'11111/,'11,' \/'I,f)Ollllld Bnkdc\, C\: \\illiClms, I.. (1l)l)X) '\ldodr'IIll.l Relised', in Bl'()\\ne, :\. (cd,) (II)I)X), +2 II~,
L'lli\ nsil\ of Calit()rnia Prc", \\'illiams, I.. (11)l)I») IllIrd Cor,,: POII'a, PII',ISlIrl', ,"111 ill,' 'I-'rm:y (J/1111' IISI/l/I", 2nd edn.
']'lIrnn, F, J (1<)+7) (1I)S6) nil' Fmllll<'r III IIIII'I'l''<II1 IIISlor)', Tucson, :\/: Lni\lTsit\ of Ikrkde\, C\: Lnl\el"Slt\ tIt" Cllit'lJ"\lLl Press,
\rizona PrL'ss. \\illiams, i"
R, (11)tH) 'Fro-tic Thriller.s and Rude \\omen', SI:~/I! ~ Soulld, 3·J: 12 1+,
'I\\itchdl, J (11)11)) /)rl'lId/it/ PII'IISIIII'S: III IlliIlolll)' II! IllIIll'l'II I/ormr. Oxford: (ht(ml \\'illi'1l11s, I.. R, (200~ t"orthcomll1g:) I'!J" 1:'1'1I/1, 'limlla III COII/r'III/'Oi'l/r)' CIII<'III{/. Ed 111 huri,(h:
L ni\ ersit\ !'I·ess. Edinbur~b l. ni\ ersit\ PI'ess
\"lH!aC, ,\, '\". (I<J+lj) SlrI.~C 10 SII'I'"I/: "Illl'rtlri({f1 on~JlIS o(r,lI'/r l'illI!, /),};'id Crtrn,.A, 10 n. \\illi,lms, R' (It)73) (1I)~0) 'Base .1I1d Superstructure in \L\nist CliltULII Theon', in
II. C'n/lilh. Call1bridg:e, \1.\: Hal'\'lrd Lni\L'rsit\ Press. Pr(J/l/olI.' III II,I!r'rlill,SII/ 1111'/ CI/llllr". I.ondon: \'crs", PI'· -' \ +IJ.
\'LTllcl, \1. (11)<)3) 'Ft/Ill \011' on lhe Ld~'e of Doom', in Copjec, J (L'LL) (1l)ln), I 31. \\ illis, ,\. (200.,) 'Locating: Boll\\\ood: "otl'S on the Hindi Blockbllster, lIn) to thc
\ incende;1l1, G, (1<)<)2) '\ Oil' b \Lso a Frellch \\'Ol'll: ThL' French ,\nleccdents of 1-'1111I present', in String:cr, J (cd.) (2003), 2~) !lll,
,\lIlr', in Cllllel'lln, 1. (L'd,) (llil)2), +<) ~S. \\'ilson, It (2000) 'The I ,et"t-Ibl1lkd Form tIt" lilinun Ll1lk\\or: Crinle ]-'ilms Ihlnng: the
\\.Ig:,slaff, c:.
(ll)I)2) ',\ Forkful of \\c,stcrns: Indllsll'\, ,\udicIlLCS and thL' ltah,1J1 \\cstL'rn', 11)l)0", in Di""n (cd) (2000), 1+3 )9,
in I)\cr, R, and \OincL'nLkau, Ci, (cds) (1<)1)2) 1'0/'lI/rtr tllrll/'I'IIII Cilll'llJ,l, I,ondon: \\ ilson, R, G., Pilg:rim, ]) !-I, and T,lshjlCln, D, (ll)X6) 'Il1r'llll,llIlIt' /g" III 1111I'rl!II' JI)I.'>'
ROlltkdg:e. IV';'I. '\L'\\ York:\bLlms,

\\ .liker, J. (2001,1) 'InlrodliLlioll: \\cstL'rns Throllg:h lli,tol'\', ill \\'alker, J, (cd,) (200[hl, I \\'inokllt', \1. (HJ,!I) 'Laing: Children Is \\-ron,,: The I:thnic Famih in C;ang;stcr Films 01
26, the 1I0s .1I1d l)OS', Sldll 0 SOl/lid, I: 10-I"
296 FILM GENRE

Winokur, 1'11. (1995) '\1ari,:inal ",bri,:inalia: The ,·\friean-·\meriean Yoice in the '\oulelle
Gangster Film', Thc / chcl f.lj,111 'hll/' , 35: H)-'J2.
Winston, B. ([q()3) 'The Docume'ntan' Film as Scientific Inscription', in Renlll, .\1. (cd.)
(H)93) Tllcor/sinp f)IH/llllclllllr)'. I,undon: Routledge.
Wollen, P. (HJ9Z) SllIgill' III rill' Rllill. London: BFl.
Index
\Vood, A. (zooz) ii'dolllscimec /11 CO/II<'III!'omr)' Fz!III: lJc)'olld SO'CIII( Fioioll . .\ lanchester:
?ILmchester lJnilTrsitl Press.
Wood, A. (200-+) 'The Colbpse of Realitl and Illusion in 'l'!tl'lTlllrll', in Tasker, Y. (cd.)
(200-+), [53-h5.
Wood, (i. C ([qXS) 'Horror Film', in (ichring, W. D. (cd.) (rqXS), Zll 2X.
Wood, R. (llJ79) '.\n Introduction to [hc .\merican Horror him', in '\ichols, B. (cd.)
(I l)S:;) .lTIJZ'Ics 111111 .lTclhods, 1,,1. If. Ill'rkelcl, C\: LnilTrsit\ of (,alitilrllla Press, pp,
)(),S 220.

\\ood, R, (ll)XT) IlolI'ilrd IIIIII'A's, London BFI.

Wood, R, (19Hfl) lIol/rIl'Olidliliol I lellIllIll 10 RCllgillI. '\CII York: Columhia l nil ersitl
Prl'ss.
\Vmbnd, R, and (:ountn man, E. (ll}l)X) 'Thl' '\CII \\ cstern ·\mericm IIistorioi,:Llpl1l ,md \hdul, Pallia, I)l) .\ltl11all, Rohl'r!, 1>;, 23(,
the Emergence of the '\1'1I .\mericm \\'estern', in BusClJmhe ,md PClrson (eds) (H}l)X), Jill/i'(' l S flit' IIr/l'(',\ (I(»);), IIH \l11hr"se, Stephell, 121)
I Hz 1}1l. Lt's III~/I (IlI;b), 110 /11I"IH'"1 FI'/<'Ild, Il,,' (Illli), 22,\ 273
Wright,). II. (llJ7+) (Il)l).:;) '(,enre Films ,md the Status Quo', m (hant, B. K. (cd.) ,lcti"n bl"ekbu,tl'J', i\, :;, If" 3", +1), S+, XS, J/!/l'rkilll G//.!,u!rI (I ()\~o). 2. I I, 222, 22X

I()O, IS2, 1<)0, 20(). 2JJ-:,(I, 271, 21.~ IJl]cridlJll1l Part.\'. In (I().;I), 23, Xj, <)1, qX
( 1(1)S), -+ It),
,]CtiOll film .1('(' actillJ1-,Hhcnturc film .\llwric;ln Indians, 2,:;, 57, ()3, (q, 70. 73.
()O.
\\right, \\, (HJ7S) Si'-~IIIIS 1111,1 SIIO,'r),: J Sir/ltlllnz! SllIdJ' III lilt' lIi'(/,'I'II. Ill'rkcln, C\:
,1ctioll-alhclltUI"C tilm, )_~, dH), 1<)2,237 S, 12,); SCc' a/so 'pro-lnJian' \\'c.. . tcrns
L nil ersill oj (:alifi)rnia Press. \111criclil Intl'rnational l'icturL's (.\11'), IX;,
2+0, 2+;
\\,alt,). (ll)tH) I!i.dl CO/lec!'l: .111I;i,'s 111111 .\llIrA'l'lill~ ill /lull)'II'IIII'/' \ustin, '1''-: lnilersitl·
\dorl1lJ, ThelJdlJr \\., 2!, 'l I 3, 2(,:;, 2(,f, 201
oj Tnas Press. U't'IIIIIIt" IIrR,,11I1I IIIIII,!, 'Illt' (llJ3X), \ndcr"lIl, llronclllJ Ililh, Ilo, 117
Young, 's, (2000) "\\ e .\\;1\ Ill' Rats, Crooks and .\\urderers, hUI \\ e're .\meriClns': k/'lll, Qllt't'll Ill' I1111S (I (12+), I Xf" 20 I 1/1i/mlll<,.111 .\<,11111<1, nl<' (1l)IlX), 201
COl1trollin['; thl' llolll lIoml (iang'ster Protagonist during ":,\1'11 \\ orld \\ 'u' II', 11'1,11 \friGln-.\111l'ric.lll~, 73 +. 1+() ,. 22(j /1I~,'ls 11,/1,/)11'/)' Filii'S (l'nX), 2, r 13, 13 X

]11111'1I111 ol.IIII<'IHtllI SllIdll'S, q: \ 12 2X, Ilrer !III II IS (I'lS:;), 21l) .I11lnutl'd n111sicaL 275
1. I,:. [llIli,'1I1 11I1t'lllp"II,t' (2002),1'1.' 111111111', I S3. 201
\oun[';hlood, U. , (ll)qll) '1,1111" CII/ldlllllld ,lIul CIiI/I' IIl1d ,),',' Post-SLIllmsl (1I1el11.1 ,md
III Forlt' (I ').U), I q 1/,,,,1,<, (I 'l:;+), :;Il, Ilo
the \11 th of \\'orld \\.11' II', in C1wnhers Jild (:ulhert (cds) (tl)I)Il), S:; qfl.
III F"I,t' Oil( (I'l();), 2+" 11'1I,II/I'/'s<' \11/1' (I '!i')), 12,;, 12X, 2-t+
\Ollllghlood, I), ). (2001) '.\ \\,11' Rememhered: Sill iel Films of the (;reat P,miolic \\ '\1",
\r~'l'nto, Dario, ,;:;
Ihl'll (llIX,';), 201
/1I1t'IHill/ Ills/lIri'lz! R,';'il'lI" I Ofl.Y X,i'! .:;Il, \ri,lolk, Il
11",1,1/11 (I '1')2), l)II
l,inl1, II. (11)l)S) II'l'o!'II''s 1ll(lor)' olil,,' ( III/cd Sr ,1/1'.1' , 2nd edn. "ell \ mk: I Llrpn(:lJllins, 1111111", Illt' (200+), ,:; 1rJ1/t{)!,i')t/Olf (I qqS), r ()-t' 23,). 23(J, 2,:; I. 252. ()
I,i/.ek, S. (llJ(J3) "'The Thin[.'; ThaI Thillks": The l-,,'ll1ti'll1 Il'ICkgToUlld of the \"11 Iii, t' /)"t'w'l I,,,, I la, [1I]'III"rt' (I 'Ii+), +'l \rnold, ,J.'l'k, Ih,
Subject', ill Copiec, J. (cd) (1l)(H), !ll(1 221>. 111t'1i (I()/(»), 170, 173, 11"2, 1()2 3, [<)::;,200, 11'1I111/,( I!lt' I 1111'/'/ III lc'I,~/II)' /)" I'S (I '!.'(I), 23'1
Is, ,'III, Il", (Il!ill), 122
2°5 11
1/1('11' (I()"h), 12.'1, 1(1." 20fl11 \'l.lin', Frell, ,.'I.:;, XIl, Xi, X,}, ql, '13, '1+, 'I:;,
111t'1'.; (IlI'IO), Ill:; 2+0
111('11. N('SIIi"rt'I"!JOII ([ ()l)7), I lJ.; 1/ rOil,!!, I.as! !.fJ('(' (llJ75). \)h
\Ilcn, \\OlJlh, lo+n Illilllll' L'I/], (I l}X I), 1+:;
1// I /)t''1rt' (1l),,3), 3(' [lUI/II, c"r, Il,,' (Il)X3), 2:;1)
III QUIt'l11I1 lilt' [I ,'S/I/II Fi'IIlI/ (1(13°),10(" lilli' A,l (1l):;Il), 120
I Ol) 10, 13111 .1l1l1iCJlCl" .IudiCl1cc.. . , 12. S. II, 12, 1(1, IS It),

III 1ft,1/ 1It'''''''1I /111111'.' (Ill:;:;), 30, -to, +X, -t l ) 2." 2f" ,;+, +:;, "'+, Xi, XS, 'IX, 1of" 1';0,

1/1 'IlIIII}II:: (111"0),2,;, .'Ii I('S. 1/("1, d'." H)3. 20+, 237. 2++ h,

\Ilcn, \ lich"ci, +3 2(lj, 2(lS q, 27+, 27)

\lIlJI"", 1,,,"
rellel', 2i }II,(I//III/ (2000), I i.'

}I/,/I",'';I, (11)1>.;), 200 \ustl'l', \Ihert, 12l)

\Irhu"l'r, I.lJui" !'I, .;i· +i ,llltellri .. m. ,llltellt' r!lcor.' .\c'(' author:-.hip
.\ltllull, Rick, 10, II, 12, 1(, Ii, 2(', 2i, 2.'1, ,lllll)()r,hil', l) 10, 2i
\lltr~. Clene. 17. hi
 9?l-INDTX II\DEX 299

Blld 10 llie Fllillre (HJX~), 19[, J()7, 2.~S Rill)' llie f..ld (1'1,,0), qh Boil'ell ,-Irroll' ([(i50), 51l, )7, 110, 73 Chibnall, Stne, qS
backstage musical, X+, XIl-7, 102
Blld Girls (J()lJ+), 2+
Bill)' Iiii' A.'id (19'+1),
Bnds, Ti,,' (1Iil,.+), 11l<)
"Il HroA'O/ B/(js.wl!1S (l(jll)), 3 2
Brooks, '\lel, .'12
Olin/go (2002), 99
Cliiclille, L" ([(J3[), 2q
B,/(II'"11Is (HJ7"), 271' Blrlli lira ,YoIii! 1/, TIi" (")1 )), .+2 -3, 73, 106, Brooks, Peter, 3'-2, 37 S CIJ/l1alolPll (1(>7-+), 2 I I, 2 J(), 223 +, 225, 2J211,

Hadse,', Stephcn, 107 2 3.'1-9 Broomfield, "iek, 25 S 273

B,"sc-J'loi (2001), 26.'1
Blllilld II/CIII,lc lIogllc, TI", (11J70), 71
Billilid II/ Llllic ]0, Tilt' (IlJ<)~), 70
Blilld fj"l~oll, Tile (1953), 102
Barthes, Roland, 20, 211o
HlIsi" IIISIIII<'! (HJ<) I), 22 ~I)
Ihsinger, Je<1I1ine, 12, 'o(), 11,+, I zS
BIIIII<l1I (19'+,;), II", 11'+, 11<), 1"ln
"/Jlllleries 1101 IIltllldol ( J()X7), J()2
/lli//le BC)'lIlId III,' ,",llIrs (J()Xo), I'll
B<llIle RIIYII/c (2000),175
Biilll<'grolilill (I 'H<)), I zo
1I11111csillp I'll ICIII 1-111, Tlie (1<)25), Ih2
1I11111eslllr C'ililltlltll (I<)XO), 1<)1
Iblldrilbrd, Jean, IIJ~, 211
Ba,a, :J.1.Irio, 175
Jbl.in, .\ndrC'1 ix, 11- J 3, 2", SX, 2ho
IIcil,lin (I<)XX), .+lJ
Hellsl Fmlll .!(),OOO FlllliIlIllS, Till' (J();;;), ZOI
lIei/sl IIrll'Th", nil' (H)IS), 10l) ..
Ilei/ll (;,'sie (HJ,N), 2".'1
/1"111(1)' alld IIII' 8,'IISI (J()li[), lili
/I<',~llIlo/, TIt"(J(J70), 7.'1
lIe/lllld /;'11(11)' I,illes (2001),1°7
lIehiJldli/(' (;reell OOllr (J()77), 2IH), 270
Ilelton, John, H
1I"lIe,11I1 llie 1'111111'1 1I/lIiI' ,11't's (HJ70),
!Jel/-IIIII (1Ii~IJ), Z3'), 2.+0
Ihlli'r SII'"el (19.+0), .'15
Blild' 1...'''1, TIt" (1935), I III
HI"d' 11i111'A- f)1I1I'1i (2001), 10" 1211
BIII<I: 111111', nil' (llJ7lj), 1<)1
Blod' I'ml!c, flit' (Ili2,), 23,
mad, SlIlId'l)' (IIJ,,), 2+X
RI,ld If'ulll/l' (Il)S,), 2211
mlld'I'en)' (200'+), 7,;
BI"de Rill/II"!' (1'1.'12), IlJ.+ '~, 201, 22h
m,ldt 11 (200Z), I,h
BI,m /I'll, It 1'111 It'<I , Tilt' (I<)'1')), (II+
HI'I.~illg S,uldl,'s (((173), X2
BIIII>, rlt" (1'1,;.'1), 1l)0, 1l)'1
hluckbuster, Z,1S- .+2; SCi' ,tl.w ,lctlUIl
hluL'khuster
mlllldfiir Omdllo (1l17.+), 15')
mlloll ,'-,'11111'1" (I 'iX.+), 211
111111(11)' 11'"11" (1lJ71), qll
(((i1H), 2.+.'1
/JI1i1/'1/ ,11/'</)'
!IIII<' OillJlm, Tlte ((().+(l), 21S
!ll1I" (;lIrd<'llill, fli" (((i~,1), 2ZS
Hod)' IIlId ,"'11111 ((().+,), 2((i, ZZI
11,,11)' I/ml (Il)X I), 21 I, 215
11",1)' III' /;,'id""(,, ((()lH), 22~ II, 2('7
hody, the, lSi, I~~( '70, J(J3
h()d~ -honDr, I iO 2, 1/5, II)l 3,
I S.+ Hugart, Ilul11phrCl, 2 3, 13'+, 215, 230
Ilog(LIl1O\ idl, I'~ter, 2" ,jI,
Brown, I)il\'iJ, 25 2 el"""1t1 (1970), [21
B\l)\\ !ling:, Tod, 1 III Cilllilrrllil ([(130), (,0
Ilruckheilncr, Jern, 236, 25 2 Cil11 1110 , ,:J. lIchad, 5')
Ilrlll10, Ciilllial1a, "H (lIU' negro, 227
Ilru/zi, Stella, qS, 2,;1), 27 2n cin~ma of attLlctions, .'1+-5, To.+n, 2'+2-," 2,+,+,
!in. I, </",/lh" I',.,."dlt'l (1<),1),7.1 2(,X
IIlId,: 1'1'I,'ol,'s (llJ'p), 10() Cinerama, 2.+.1
(,'I/I~,ell A.lille (llJ.+O), 212
1111,'1' Ro,~<'I's (,eri,ll, 1<)3<)), ISII
llliflilio Bill '111,1 rli,. IIIIII,"IS (Il177), ,2 (j, il \\ar (CS), (,.::, h" 77 So, [53n, 2,.'1
!Jligs)' (1<)<)2),1++ U<lsli B)' ,:J.I.~iJl (IliS2), 22X
ll11katm<lll, Scott, [(13, 20.+ 'cb,ssic realism'. 3h--X, I ~7~ scc ({Iso realisl11
classical Holh \\oOLI, 1\, 2 .1, I 1,20, 22, 2h,
Burgoyne, Robert, 125
2.7, .-P, "~C)-I. 5", ~X. qo. <)," Q(}-7, lor,
llurtol1,\t1Llrc\\, I 10
'57, I X5, ISS, 227, 23X, 2,+2, 2hJ .+, 275
Burton, Tim, IS,
Ilu,comhc, Fd\\<lrd, la, 13-q, 55, )7 classical Holh\\OOLI stde, .'IS, lJ5, 1'3,2.+3
lllild, 1.'"",'/)' IIII'I 11/1' SIIII'/'I1''''' A.'I'/ (11)lIl)), IIh, cbs ... itic~lti()n sl'e 1.!;l'IHl' classificatiol1
Cle<l' <111,1 Pine II Ie OUlIga (ll)lJ+), Izh, 2+.'1
77
Ihar" Jacki", 3'i C/"o!,'"1'i! (Ill',,), 2"l)
CierI-.> (ll)lJ'+), 5
(:a,1I1, Jall1~', 13,;
Uodll'tl/I (Jl'illl,~e, 1 (llJ, I), I XX
(:ill>,II,'1 ( Ilil 2), ~II, .'I, C/",,. h'1I'(jllllli'/'S "lilli' Tlllr'/ f.',",! (llil71. IS",
1.,i/lll'lii (Ili 1.+), 10;;, 23<), 2.+3 ISH. 1l)1 2,24-4-
<'~1g11c~, J~\I1lC~, 1. .), X(). I [.~, 1,'4., I.,:" 1-+3. C1U'C!', Carul, IllS
1)2
CIl/JrO (I<JS(,), 2,+,
(;,,11111, I 11111''/ SI,II,'s ,\I",.sl/ltll (Ilil,n, ,II (:ohUrI1, }lI11eS, 10'i
200 C~liI1, Janll'~ \1., 21 S. 21~, 22_~. 22{) L'(j'''''" (\l)S~), IIp
e,il1e, \licl1<leI, (01) e,,'/e 1-11, (200+), Ili'i
J.1I1lC~, (:ohan, Stcn.'n, 93, 102, 103, 10+
(~.lll1CrOIl. 11)0

Iknl<unin, \\altcr, S Cold \\ar,h"lJ,;;, 117, 113, ,.'IS, 1.'17, ISlJ,

Bolh \\o(HI, 100 Cl11011 .I1'{' ~l'nl'nL c.l110!1
191, 220, 24-~
IkrkelcJ, Ilusb, , .'12, .'13, X5, X(I, .'IS 'I, '13, 100 Honest"lI, ChnllCl, I ,~, C,lpLI, FLlI1k, 21 I 12
Herl'de)'s II/limlldll'il)', nit' (I '!-t(i), 21 L,,,'!Ilfi '" /1 ,I)' (Ill<).;), q2, I+II, I) I (:(j!dJl ~ SI"r)', Tilt' (((),;;)), I I,
BIIIIIII' '"1'/ U)'de ((()h;), 'Ih, 1'+3, [.+II, qX, 2.+ I
11<'1'/111: 711<' S)'IIII'IIIIIII' 111'11 (;(<'111 CIi)' (lti27), Itih BIIII,~Ii' \/,~hfS (I{)q,). 2(r;, 2()() 1.',11'I11<'11 (11)(5), ~.+ C(jllill,'r,t! (200'+), 133
Berliner, Todd, .'I /1"111, /ill.' (I l)X I), 122 Cdr,.,,, (I <Ji(l), '70 Collin" Jil11, I" S.+
lIeSI \ ,'lIrs II/ (Jllr /'/C'e-" nli' (H!-tll), 212 ColoHm: 'I'l,,' Fo r/I III I'r(j!I'(/ i 1'17 I), IlJ7
Hord\\ ell, I Ja, id, 2.+3 (:,lrroIL "od, 'i"
1,1
(:OIU111hi,l, I 1 J
H,'ller lil/IIIII.,.IIII', I (lljSX), 13.1 B()r~C"i Joq2;c l,uis, + Lil.\itl,f{/f11'(/ (1 tJ+2), S3, l()+. 2/ 1
H,','ct!), /1111, Lilli (J()S.+), 2"h Coml' llJll! .')'1'1' ( I ()<"'+), I oh, 1.!-2
IJllm "" lit,' l'''IiUIt II/}<//)' ([ ,)S'i), [2.+ 1,'''.'1/10 (((Il))), (.+5
11i~ IIrolldlllsl, l'lt, (J()V), S+ Bor/.lgc, Fr,ll1h, .+.+ 1,'''1 I"'fi!, I,' (1li-t2), (h;, 22,~ ((lined}. 3, Il), 4-7. 53
(;(1 !fl ill'!!, f Jonl/' ( IlJlX), 12+
Hl~ Cllld, ?he (IlJ.+S), 2,,0 11(1)'S III CIIIII!'IIIl) C. nit' (((),S), 123 (,'ilh!J-.l.l ([9/0), loll, 121
IIlg (,'1111I/111, l'lte (HJ5~), q3 !i1l)':,:J. 111t'lllllld((()'JO), qh (,a\\ dti, John, 23 COlllllldll,/(j (1'1.'1.+),2'+7
IJig (;IIIII/IIY, nit' (J()~S), r,~ L('I{III.~ /('1'1 1 (19.r7), .) (;011 Ilr (I 'i'J7), 23S
llrillJls/or", (!l)S3), IllS, 203
111~ !It'll I, TIt" (Il)S3), q", 21.'1, 22( Ch<lndkr, KI' 1l1O t1Ll , 215 COlllil,'1 (I l)lJ7), 1lJ2
IJr,1I1I SI"I','r's /ir<l<ltl'l (((1l)2), 15'J, Ih)
c0l1\cntionalirY,7 S, 14-, IX. 53, )), t(IS, 2<11,
IIlg .7<"'e (1')71), 71l, 121 BLll1do, \Llr!O!1, [33, 152 Chal1Cl, ],011, 1("
2())\ 27+
IIlg I'lIrlldc, TI", (H)2~), 107, 10li I1r<l,'" :J. <'II' /I orid (Hu,k,), ((), .~ Ch<lplil1, Ch,rrl"" .+3 .+
IJig Rcd (JJlC, n" (I li'~O), 121 /lr,,,,,./"'<II1 ((()'i,;;), I 0" 2,1~ Lh,lIgI' fif ill:' 1,lglli lIil,~dd" nli' (IlHII), 10" (;011;"".'<11'011, nit' (1<J7.+1, ISl)
Hlg Slo'p, TIi,' (H).+5), .:: q, .:: I ,5, .:: It), 22", 225, Bn,I" I~r Fr"}/~'t'lIslt'il1 (19,,5), J(ll. I ().!, IKh J [ 3,
L'o,,~ulI" /JIIII! (I 'liS), (,.::
Coppola, I'L\Ilci" '::7, 'ill, I H, I So, I ~2
2,",0 RrIJ~i' <II R"IIIII~ell, 'I'll" (((jill)), 121 Cliol'lilis of I'll',' (I liS (), 130
!Ji~ :,'1,'111, l'lt" ( Ilj'+'))' 22<) IJr/{f~(' Ii!! IiiI' Rl~'('r A"II),l! (I (67), 120 U,d,.I,.) I :lInd (1l)73), 1+5 C"r,', fiJ, (200,;), [.'1.+, 2;; [
Hi~ hllil, l'lte (HnO), ('0 fJr{{(~t' rOfJ Far, I (Il);i), 121 Chillll 's 1~(,nJ (I \)71), .2.::;, jon COllin, Stank" 70f
Ih~
Curman, Roger, 1l)3, I()<j, IS7, 201
!i-III//J/e IJI 1,1111,' Clili/ll (IliSh), 2'+, IJrI~IIJ."," (I li5.+), ')0 Chn<rlicr, :J.LIlIl'ice, X)
Blg,~,'r n l i i / 1.lfl' (H),;;()), ,10 CIi,']','IIIii' -I,i/II III 11 (Il)I,.+), ,3 Co..;tncr, r.;..C\ in, 275
/li'I~hl"'l Rud' (l'lof7), q" 22,
Bill)' H"lh~lIle (Il)l)I), IH Brmlnn, \LIn, I,)h C/I<')"'IIII" ,\0<1<11 C/III>, 'I'll' ([(i-a), 1I5 COlilil'/"II'1I (It/Hi), IlJ-
300 INUtiX INDEX 301

(iol Ill', :\lil'kld, S7 S f)c;'11 f)1I11, Tilt' (1l)31». I Xs I':baesser. Tllomas, .10, .'!, .IS, +S Fl..";.'!' (197X), q+, 150
Crils/' f)",<, ( I 'J-tJ), 10(, f)C;'t!III" BIII<, Ih,',(" (1l)'IS). 22h (1I,'IIt)' III Ih" GIII,'s (2000), 12 I. 2S2 FrSllidll/Dllllars, _~ (1'16+),1.1+
CU'illllr.- Frlllll III,' Blild' IAIponll, Til" (I '!.'-+), f),'i't! III 111,1',1' ]011<',1', TII<' (I l)7+), 271 Fngelhardt, Tom, 62 Fli'C (I 9S I), 11)7
1(,3 f)<,;'il's f]ild'f,oll", TII<' (2001), 171> Entcrprise Production~, 22 I Flahertl. Robert, 2S~, 261
Creed, Barh"LI, '70, 172, '73, I,~,n f)<,;,t!'s Dllllnl'iI)' (1l)"I), sh, 73 epics. 23S, 2+0, 2+2, 2++ FII/slr Gllldli/l (serial, 1(36), IS6

Crilll 1/111 I, rlic (ll]l,O), '+7 f)lilf,1I II 'lilt'S , 1.<',1' (I <iSl)), I (Il) hllsa (Il)~(,), 3, 2,\+ FI"slldal/te ([l)g,), '1'1
CnsIs (I l)(,3), 2('0 I )iana ProL!uetiDI1S, 22 I 'erotic thriller', 226, 267 FlI~/l/ IIf Ilrc Y""lga[lI,. (19S6), 1<)2
Cronenherf':, Da\id, I ('a, 20+ 1)1t' fI"rt! (I<)S(,), S, 7S. 23S, 2+7, 2+S<J. 2S0 (,",',11'" F/'IIIIt .\',,/1' ) '/IrA' (I ~7l)), I XI) FI)', Til<' (ll)XI», If16, 1l)3
Cm/los (11)ln), 17h f)1t' !-IlIrt!.' / I illi iI / ,'1((<,,111'" (I l)l)S). F, T Ih" F(II'II-'!,'rr,'slrrlll (Il)X2), 1l)1 Flrl/lg f)1I1I'1l 10 Rio (1'133), X9
Crllss 0/11'011 (1l177), 101), 121 Dimendberl';, hll1,ml, 211> '7 (I<'I'/I,d SlImlllll( II/Ih" S!,IIII"ss ,Ill/III (200+), n)'il/g FllrlrcssfS (Il)F), 106
Cmsslire (1'J+7), 2'S, 2Il), 221, 221) f)irl)' f)o:.1'I1, 'Ihc (ll)h7I,
l)(', 120 200 FII nil, Errol, .\, S9, 12~. 237
Cmll!'icr (I I)'J'J), 227 f)1I'1)' if/liT]' (1l)!1), 2+7 l'thnicit~-, 1 YJ ""0, I +h: SCt' IIlso ral'C Flig If Hill', Fhe (2003), 2h2
Cmcl S<,II, TII<' (Il)S3), I IS disc"ter films, 2+0 I /:';,,, IIf f),'SII'/i(/11I1I (Il)l)O), 1lJ7 Fonda. Henn-, S6
Cukor, lieorg'e, 'Ill I )isnl'\, /)h, l)I), 2+ I (i't'1I1 11111'1 ~IIII (I 91J7 I. 17 S FIIIII!lgll/ Pal'llr!c (193+), .,. Xl)
CII II ,'/' ',I' 11 'I)' (Il)SO), 22+ f), (),-I. (Il)SO), 212, 2 It) l:i<,l\hll<l)' SIlYs I IA"'<, ) -1111 (1l)1)(')' l)l) FIIIIIIIIO,« (lljX+), <)~
CI des, 2('-7 DO'lIle. \lan ,\nn, 12, 3 [ (;'1111 (1I)l)h), SS. 9 l) Fi''' ,1/1' 1I1Ir! ,\1.1' Gal (19+2),10.1
f)r C)'.-Io/,s ( I l)+O), ISS l'\ olutiOll.lry IlHH.ld St'L' ~l'nn' l'\ O!utiol1 For Ihe /Joys (I l)l) I). ~6
f)1I111 HIISICrs, r/,c (I l)S+), I IS f)1I,-lor f)olllll( (I ()()()), l)h " \'1(1,'11/ (11)l)lj), 20+ 1'0rf,lddt'll PlllllcI (Il);;('), IX7, IljX
f)III11CS (I 'J3S), Sh, SS f)r]<'A')'11 ""'/ ,lll,wr 11]''/<, (1l131 I, I(>!, 1\lIIOSI, '!ht' (1l)7,;), IllS, IhS, 170, 172, 1l)2 Font' II/Fi'li (1l1+7). ql, qs. 21S, 2[(), 221.
I ),111liano, Sergio, 76 f)r]t'A:J-I1 ilil'/ Illsler 11r'/( (ltl+l), 221 e,ploiLltlon film, I(,S (', I(H), IX7, lSI) 2.'2tl
f)1I II 0' Ifll/' II Slrallgcr (Il)SS), 227 /)1' Slrilllgt'loi<' (I l]l'3), I X+ FI/'IIIIt'rs (Il)SS), Il)7 Ford, John, I), 12,27, S7, 61, (q, 1l6, 1>7 -X, 7 1 ,
f)illI(S l1il/' 11 1i!;'t'S (Il)l)O), 7.\ dOCU111l'lltar}, :x, 20<), 257-(Ll, 2()3 -t L \.prc""iIJni"nl, (icrIn<ln, I h I 2. I (q, I (Ii, .2 I +, 73, 75, iX, 27-t
Dante, Joe, I S7 f)o,/~e ell]' (I 'J3')). (q 2 I Il, 227 IlIrt'l,~1I L'lIl'!'cs/'lIlllll'll[ (IlHo), 23+, 23X
f)ilrA' Sill I' (Il17+), ISS j)Olwrtl, Th"n)(", I I 2, 12<) c\.pn.: . . . . i\ it~ in 11111Sicd... , S.:;, S+, S:" Xh ;. Sl), Fori '!,,,,lre (19+ S ), S7
/),I/A' II iill! (2002), '7S j)onen, Stanlel, XS. [aI, 10+ 1'01'1)' (;IIIIS (11)S7), 1>.,
{)O I, 27'
Da"in, Jules, 21l) /)ollilic IJrils, 0 (I l)I)7), I+S, I +h (\Iall/lllllillr, Tilt' (19S0). 2+7 -If' SIIt'<,1 (11133), S(" X7, Xl)
l)a,is, \like, 213 f)1I1I'1 1.01lA, IJlltA (I l)hs). 2('0 1\ Ift'III' /'/"Ill'//(t' ([ 9 S 7).2+7 1'-IIUl'llldt, \lichel, +, I S')
f)1I0'/I o/III.- f)mt! (200,), dIS f)ollrs, r/,<, (1t)1) I). SI> h'<" 11'1<1<, SIIIII (Il)l)I)), 2 So Frallkenheimer, John, ljS
f), 1/1' II 1'1111'111, Tilt' (ll130), [10 f)oonl'lI I' 10 11<,11, 'Iii,' ( I l)3 0 ), [,\7 IrilnA'<'lIsl<'I1/ (I l) I0), 161
/),1)' '/fier 'Iillilorrllll', nlc (200+), 2S I f)1I IIhI, , 111'/<'11111111' (Il)++). 21 I, 2 q, 21," 21 S. 1',1,"; 0l/( 1l)l)7), II" 23+. 237, 2+X, 2,,0 1',." IIA'l'IIslt'IIl (1113 I), 11>2, I (q, I Xh

f)1I)' I/,C 1"IIr11r SIIIIIt! SIIII, Tilt' (Il)S I), IS7, 20(m 1'1', III A't'I/>/t'IIl II<,cls Ihc 11111/,11,1/1 (11)+!I), 162
21t), 2.21 FairbJnk"i, I )()lI!:da~, 23i
f)<'ilt!I,'1I11 (1113h), '3S, ,+h l)oUC';LIS, Kirk. 2+0 Filii II/ 13all/l, '!'Ii,. (I lJ+9), '21 Fr'CilA-- (I f),,,,), 162, II>(,
f)Cilt! 11,111 (ll)l)S), (q I )oLIl';la" \!.In, '7' F,rlllIl~ nOIl'11 (Il)l)+), 7 S FI''-'/'/)' ;, 7asoll (200,), 11'0
f)mt!I'rt'sItIOlls (ll)'J5), [2+, 1+1> nrl/odll ( Il),W), I(, I, [('2 f.ll11ih, I (l, I -+ I 2. 1-+3, I (IS, I ()2; s('c Illsli 1'«(Td, \rtiHIr, XS, I~O, 10,; .In' IIlslI Freed
f)OIt! Rt'd'OIIlIlP (IIH7), 2 [7 On/dild's !Jdfl,!!,IJ((T (HJ3{J), [73 , ""nih' lllelllllr.lllla l nit (\IG\I)
f)t'IIt!!ler 111t11l lilt' ,11111<, (IlH7), 2'7 Ilre,ll11l1ork, SK(j, 12l), Il)O, 2,'" Llnlil~ ll1clodr.l!1la, 30. J2, +7 -i)
!'['e(,d Lllil (\l(j\l), S3, X7, 9+, liS, 10[, [02
f)mt!II'oot! (I lllO series, 200+1, 7S f)r,',(s,,<1 IIIA. III (Il)So), 277 Filr Frillli 11,,11;','11 (2002), ", +1) I'r,'II,11 LOIlI/,'dli'lI, Till' (Ilill), 2+7, 2Shl1
f)ml/' II/II (;llIlliplll''/' (I l)(Il)), hI> I hell. Robert, 2110 "'1"bindn. Rainer \\ ernLT, +0 1'1i',lrlllilll, TIit' (11)<)0), 1.13
f)<'illli 0/11 SIIIt'SIII'1/1 (\liller), 2ho /)1'/1111,1 /I1111~ 111<' 1/IIIIiIII'A' (Il)Y)), ('2 1,/1111 /111'11<,111111 (Il)S7), 2S0 Freud, Sip"und, 1('7, '7
'
/)eilill Rill', Tilt' (1l)2S), 201 I)uke, Ilill, 22(' 1'111,' IIf" ,1/1111, '!h<, (Il)S9), 121 l'reul1d, K.n-\, [1>1
f).-illir 111,1/1 (Il17+), 2+7 I h LT, Ri,'hard, l)O I, '13 F.-"r 1,'lIls Ih,' S/lill (Il)7+), +0, 273 1'1'/,1") lilt' I,," ([()So), 160
f)mlllll'til.-II (2002), I IS FCllcr, J,Inc, 93---+. 101, 102,20.) I'i{,-,j (;It'<'I1 rOIlI"III"S (II)l) I). +')
I )a!' CO;'CI (11)1)2), 22(' F'lplt' If", l.illI'/,',I, Tilt' (llj71». lOX II~/II Llllh (I 9l)I)), 2S0 /'/""'..;1(1<)72), j(H)
I)t'c/, IIII/'ilCI ([<)l)X), 2,'[' 2S2 I> (drllr "', IIIi' nl'lIi~ S,III«'rs (Ilj_,(j), I X+ FI"hllll~ (,,/', Th( (I'J+O), 10(', III, "3 I'lil/II f)",'A' '1'111 /),{//'II ([()1)6), 27/
f)ec/, rlrlwll (1l172), 27' r"rllr'IIIIIA'<, (11)7+), 2+0, 2S2 FI'11it nlll)' (pCrIodicd), S' 31l t'rtI11lin mlth, S+, 1>1 -7, 7[2,7+, '35, qo
f)ar lIlli/It'!, 'I'lrc (Il177), 121, '2,\, [2+ r"'1 IIf r'/,'II (1I)5SI, 30 lilill lilliI', 3. +, '7,20,22, 2Xll, 2l), +2, -til, [+3, 1',,11 Ildill ],It-A-<'I (19S7), 106
I klanel, Samuel, 20S 1"'hIIlO'''!. Clint, S7, 77 Xo . '+:" Ihl, 1<)), 20-t' 20l), .210 32, 2(q,
f)t'IAli'elr (200+), 27+ I,'"s)' Nid<'/' (I ()(ll)), 22, ()(" 2+ I, 271, 2h" .:d)() (,'- \1<'11 (1Ii3,'I. 3
delToro, Guillermo, 17h (<I /fllll<! ([l)l)+), 1'7 Fililr Ut'I;It'IlI, nit' (II)lj7), 200 (j,lhhard, K rin, [.\ In
f)ollellllil 1.1 (11)h+), I(Il) hhh, "elson, Ss .,., f)iI)" ill /'dIIl,~ (11)1>.,), 10 7 (",1,/\) OIIt',1 (2001), [()I, II)l)

f)<'III(/rIIIS I/ot! III( t,'/,I'/liI/II( (It)S+), 2+0 1,'/11'" 1''/ S, IsslIrll,llIds ( [()I)O), 1(,(' /-1/1li1Il'S Ri/IIIII(1I1' (lll'7). ljh (i,dl.ll';h:;', T.ll';, 2+, +7. ('a, ~011
f)ollo!lllllil ,1/1111 (1t)113), ('7, It)X \ 1/1/ ([()l)l)), 27211 Firs I nJOII'/ (ItjS2), 12S (;'III~S <If \ <'I}' ) lirA' (2003), I S3 11
Ilcrrid." JICLJUes, 7, 2'J, 101,2("-2 \'-1 Ciri/rlll' I/O!,I, (II)Slj), [23 First \\ orld \\,,1', 10, SS, 10 7. lOX l), I [I, (;,IlI~SI,'I', lh,' ([()+f)), q"
1).-,1'/''-1'11 Ie ]OIIl'lIel' (I 'H2), 3 Fisele, .Iohn, 23S J 7, [3111, l-t0' I-tX, Ihl, 251, it'I' 1{1s1! ~·.ll1~"tl'J" fiIIn, 2, 3, -t' (), 12, 13, l-t, 20, 21 )
2
/),'SIIIII/lioll 1/111111 (It)SI), ,X7, [Sx Li'\l'IhtciI1, Scr~l'i, 37, -t3, 5011, If)2 \\\\1 comb,1t Elm 2." 2-t, 32, 3.;, -t.', .;3, S3, I3z~5J, IS.),
nt'fuur (llJ-+:;), 221, 2.1~11 1.1 ("'III (lljl>l), 2+0 I'iseher, LucI, S~. 93 2rh, 21S, 237, 2,;7
 INDEX 30 J
J02 INDEX

horror film, +,1/,31, X3' ',)7,15 8 - 81 , IS,-h, ft ('II'''IIIi'I'l'd llic Jrorld (I<)S6), IX7
(;allgsHr ,Vo, I (2000), qX Gillig !l".' (1(J+2), I q ft's a 1IIIIlIIcrilli I.il<' (19+6), 21 [--[2,219
200,210,2+1, 2SS, 2(q, 2()() , 27+, 2'"1
(;asll~~1I1 (Il)H), 22/ Gunning, "fonl, 2+2 ft's ,1//1'111'" rllir I1'cllllier (1935), 95
11,,1 ,\)/,111, The ([ ()()o), 225
(;a//al'l/ (1l)97), ll)f) GIlYS <llId /)"lls (I ()55), 20
111111/',(. Tltc (2002), +9
(;,/11<1/0, Tht' ((()27), 237 T,~«IiSC (1919), T09
IIIIIIS' Ill' ['slta (1l)IJO), [hl)
g:ender, 93, 113, I Ih, 160, [h3, 1r,7, I/r" [7l), f!,ur (1()79), l)l) ]<1 dll I, Tlit' ([997), 2+X
11111/' FII\I<lA'e~1I ,~IIICI'I(<l1I QIiIII (1()951, +q
[l)2, 2[7-IX, 22+ -5,270; sa also I LllherstaIll, .Iudith, '7+ }<IA'lIh llic I.illr (1l)9X), 2('5, 2('7
IllId (l()h2), IJIJ
m'lsculinit\ 11,,11,,"'col (I (17X), 1(10 Juneson, Fredric, Il)+, 20(m, 22h, 212n, 27+
Ilughes, Ho\\'ard, [Jo
gcneric canon, SH---()f, XS, IJS-(), 221 11"lls Ill', \1l1l1le::/I 11I<1, JI", (I95[), I31n JlIlcOI'ieh, \larJ.., 25, '3l), 1f)9 .
111111' It/."d Ill' \lIlrc OillllC, Tlte (Il),)h), l)9
~cl1rc classification, 2- 5, '59, IX:;, jNh, 257 H f1<1I11I'llIgcr fIlii (IqS7), 123 }<III1ISA'II/,/ /)1'1' (1l)20), [(IT
IIlIlIg<'/', nil' (I()S+), 173
g:eIlre cl'()]LItion, 23- 5,7+, [X5, IX(), 25l), 27" 11<llIIlel (ShaJ..espeare), h- 7 ]<11I'1' ([l)75), [r,I>, IIH), 237, 23X, 2+0-1, 2+5
I funtlT, I. (~, 22+
g:enre h\briditl, [7, 2Xn, 55, [(J+-5, 233 + I bIll Iller horror, 15'), Ih7, jlHi, 175,227 ]IIC": SlIlg<,r, JJIC (Ili27), X+
I1urln, helh, 17 1
genre n'\-isionisI11, L.t·, 72, 73, 97, 120--1, J27, Ildllllllell (lqX.;), 221J Jefti>rLls, Suqn, 35, 123, 12+,233, 2+l)-5 0
IllIsi/a, JIll' (Iqlll), 95
1+3, 151, [XX, 223,23°,273,275 f laillmert, IJashiell, 2', ]"SSI' ]IIIIICS (lli,N), 31>, 57, Il(i, qll
III bnditl sa g:enIT III bridill
(;ellrlelllllll's Igrl't'I//<'II1 (((J+7), II/ f!,lIig 'Fill Ih<;1t ([l)('S): 7S ]1111/1 or,hl (I 99()), 25 2
(ieL[ght.', Christil1e, 1[7 Il.lnsen, \ liri,IIll, 50n ]111' ",,/,/ (1l172), 7 S
GeFIIllllllo: _111 ,IlIIl'ri,wl I.t'gelld (I ()()J), 73 f1<1rd,lIJ'c (")77), 2h7
I "'111111' 11/1iI1 ) 1111 Old I.<lsi ,1,'1111I11"'1' (")l)7),
1110
]1I1Ii/1i 11/1<1 Il'lil H,' 2, III II", )'CI/!' 2000
(;el (,',1/1<'1' (I (17 [)' I+X, 227 f1<1rda JI,,')' ('1111"', Jlle (1(172), '+S (I (!7Il), 200
I 11 ,IIA','d 11 lilt II /lIllIhlC (Il)+3), I h,
Ghosl III Iht' Shdl (I ()(is), 20' ILmh, Phil, h2, I3h, I h7 ]II/ll'i/I')' 111111 F,,"r (1(1+.\),21+
I'll nil ,III)'i/IIII~ (1l)'I+), ')l)
(;I/Osl SIll/' (2003), Ih, f lart, \\'illi'IIll S" ho, I, I, I,h, h7 ]1I1I1'i/"Y'S (",/ (Ilj.\ I), I I I
iC()Il()g:raph~, .1. IJ-I(J, ,1 2 , 5.1, 5.:;, sf), 2J+,
(;ilda (Ili+r,), 217, 221 11<11<11'1,' (,,)h2), 237 ]IIII!' S" 1.':;'(, I.,' (IlJ3~), 2 q
2S(), 2,0
1I<1l1l1ll1lg, nlc (")1'+),
Gillespie, i)'lIid, I 11>,201
Gilllllle Slidl<'/' (I (170), 2110 f I.lII'J..il1s, Cl'luhia, I ho
I .,S
I(Jl'o!og::, I~L 20-2, 2,. 7-+. S3, ()I 3,120, '+0,
]/1'/<'1' (Il)l 1», I XI>
]/illg( /)r!'!I'/ (Il)')5), Ill+
1St), I(li, '71, li+ .:::;, IS~, 210, 21.;; S((
Girl (, (lli()I», 21>7 11.1I1J..s, I 1(1\\.lrd, 27, .)7, I.1() ]Iilhlli 1I(II1'tlllilIiI (Iljl+), 2.1')
(,Iso hcg:cnlOIl~
Glad/ii/or (2000), 21~' 2~1 llal\lonh, Rit'l, 217 J ulil'n, "a'le, 2h2
1111/1111/1111 1I(I.il" (1l)5(i), 30, +0
Gledhill, Clmstil1c: 'II, '7, IX, ,0,35, +5 11<I":<lrds Ill' I Ielm , nlc (scri;i1 ")1+ 17), ++ 7/1 II IIii' /1,11111<'1' (1(171), (II>, 7 1
III II 1.11111'1) PIII«' (lli50), 2 I S, 22,1
Go ii'llll,,' S/,'II'I<lIIS (I (JlX), I ~ \ Ill' R'"1 ,1/111,,' II',,)' (,,),,1 J, 22.1 '7/1rdS,\!( PllrA' (1l)(U), Il) I, "l+, 201>n, 2++, 2+5-11
11I'1Cdl/l/C ShriIlA'lIl~ ,\Ii/II, il/<' (((i.)7), V
G("Llrd, ./eal1-1 .LIC, l)+, 200 . Ile<lr/hre<lA' Rld~c (I ()Sh), 1211 jmll,'''I( PllrA' II: nlC 1.111'1 1I'1ir/d ((()(JI), 3, Ili+
111<11'/,1'11<101«' /)IIY (I,)()h), Ilq, "J7, 235, 2.)1.
(;odlillha, nil' (((172),133,13+, '35, 13 11 , 137, Ile<l1 (,,)(),,), 133 ]lIsl IlIill~II",1 ([(HO), IXI>
252, 2S(l
'3'i, I +2, I+3, I H, ,+1>, '50, 277 Ileal'en's Cd/C (It)SoL 23, .:;{, .:;q, (Lt, 7 2 , 75,
Indian \\',11" .It'<' ,\Illcricln Indi,lIh
Godlilllla, n"" /'arl l! (((17+), I .13, 131>, qI, 7h. lSI, 2++ ""lllill'lll" (, ql) I), 27 6
IlIdlllllll }II"'S 1111'/ III<' F,'III/,Ic 11/ /)111111I (I qX+),
1+2, q+, '50 , I kdll, !lCll, I"h h,llll', hatherine, I 10, I I +, I I I>
(;od":lll<I ((()55), 20 I IIl'fTl'rnan, hClin, Ih) h 2+7
haplan, 1'., \nll, (J+
God:ill<I (((i')X), 251, 252 IH'~t'I1l()I1:, 22, -+ 9+, I, () I: 250~ .1('( a/sf!
!II«-l'i/" (I (iSo), 17,'
I IIlill'lli <'I , nl( (I (US), 2 I II
h,lrloff, !lori" 11>2
(;0111' Slillill (((17X), 70 idt'o!og: h,lIan, EIi'I, 30, .P
11111",,'111', nil' (Il)1>2), I SX
(;ol<! /)i~g<'/'s 01 1l;,U (((),n), XC>, SS IIdl I., rill' Ilel'llcs (")112), 120 helll'r, ,\Il'\<1ndr,1, 70
IIISIIII,I/I/,' (Il!7S), 27 I
(iold" 1n, S'lI1lUel, 115 lIell" , /),,1/)' (")70), l)h hclh, (il'lll', S" ()I, q", (1+, (i5, Il', (17, (is, 101
(;lil<'lll, 'I 'he (Il)20), 1111 1",'''"'"1111'/ ( Il)SO), 200
IIdlr"ISr'r ("iS7), I,S, 17+ "'<II)' 's Ilall(' (I ()70), 121
illll'gr'ltcd rllll~iLd, S3, X+, Ss X, X(), t)O, <) I,
(;lilll' 11 ilh II,,' /I'II/d (((!3()), 9(>, 2,\(), 2+3 //,,11'., llill~es (") II»), 11+ k..CllCI, PeTer, I 1:1
<)<), lOa, 101 +, 2i l , 27.:::;
(;lili'/, Ih!' lJa'/, 1/11'/ Ille (,~/I" nle (Iqlll,), 7S IImrl': Pllr/rdl! "1'1 SCI'I,II klll(l' (,,)SI,),
inrl'rtl'\tLulit.\, 101, 133,211, 27i ""I, nl" ( Il)20), +3
(;lio,/h.l'!'. \11' 1.'111/,1' ((()lHi), qll 2j() "1'/ HIli,' (((173),7 2
1111<'1';"'11' 11 llli llit' 11/11I/,11''' (Il)q+), '73
(;lili,/Idlas ((()S,)), '+2, I +5, 15.,11, 277 110'11,'" (")75), 22+
lu!/milt']' (2000), Z(lS
",,I, (Il)()5), 21'7
(ioOlI" in,\ndIT", (1+ I lesion, Ch;lI'lton, ISri, 2+0 "ili/lill (200, +),27, 133,277
(;1'1/(,' ,,;,111' I/(dl'l (Iql)II), SI, 'high concept', 2. ,()
f"!IJlt'rtfl/((, (1()lj), +J, 2J()
"Ii las, 'III,' (IlJ+II I, 2 I I, 22 I
I""'I'/<'I's Frulll ,\IIIrs (lli53), 1l)0, l(iS
(;ra,III<II,', nl( ((()I'7), (jll, 2+' Ill~/1 \ ""11 (")S2'), "h, SIll, ") I "'illc!''', 7'11<' (I ql,+), I.U
111"111'/1111 II/III( 1111'/)' SIIIIld,,'!'s (I()55), 1+3,
(JLlI11Sci, .\ntonio, 2.2 Ill~/1 1'1<1111,' IJrlilcr (")7.1), 7S klll'/aW"'lC1l I.'II/' (llj()O), 3
I Sq, I ()S, 20lln
(;1'1'<1'1' (I (17X), l)() 111,~1t SIO'l'lI (")+1), I+S hillg:, Geoff, I S5, 23+, 2+1>, 25 2 , 25+, 277
III;'IISI<IIIIIIIII" 11",/)' ,'iIl"I, lias (I(!7S), IX,)
(,'r(dl iiwII NliM<,/,)', n", (I (iO I), 511, 27211 111/, Jilc (, (i'S+), ,+,S ""l~ IIlId I.'IIIIII/!Y (I q(q), I 10
1";'II,wiI/ (SI (, ,)S 5), 2+.S
(,'1"'(1/ 11<,/,('/" nit' (1l)I,X), 122 IlitcheocJ.., ,\/frecl, I h,S 'lJ ""1,~ 111111 I, lJlt' (Il)51», SIl
11I;'ISIf,/" ,\],11I, il,,' (I(),;';), ISh
(irecnc, Lrie, IX() f/obsba\\ Ill, Eric, qll klll~ kllll,~ (Il) ,13), Il)(i
11I"ISthlt- R'I)', il,,' (Iln ll ), ,S3
C'l'icr'iol1, Johll, 2.~~ 111I11)'II'lIlId Rc; II,' II; ";"'; ( ")2l)), S7 kllig IIr]II~,: (1<!.10), S7
11'1I11 Dlgl(s (I ()SI», 2+S
(;ril'\c~()n, I.ee, ryl, 137 IIIIIII,'<IIISI ('1'\ serics), 211, A.., n,~ (~r. \l (/ fl'!!! C'a rdl'l/S, TIJt' (11)7.2), 223
/rlill IllIrsl', 7'11<' (I ()2+), 7 1
(iriftirh, I) \\', 3 I, 32, +2 +, 1311, 2.,S, 255 I lol(lL',IUsl, rhe, 10q, I I I, '122, 12l). 21>+ h klllg SIIIIIIIIIIII 's 11111t'S (I () 51), 237
Islllll!' (Il)'S,), 2+7
(iriftiths, TrclOr, 2hh Ilo/OClLIsl tilm, 20l), 21'2' 7 k,ss ,\11' /),,"'//)' (Ili55), 220, 221, 2,)211
1s1'IiI<III(!.''''1 S,,"!, (19,1.1), lSI,
Grist, I ,l'i~htOll, 2zh, 230 11""1/(1<11/1 (Il)h,), Ih') hirse" JiIll, 51>,1>2,1>5
It ,1I11',I)'S R,IIIIS "" SIII"I,,)', ([(I+S), ,+,
(;I'I/'/<;e, Fhe (2003), 175 fllJlh'j'JIIIJO!l /1/ f c.~dS (1l)()1), 133 hleillh'll1', ChucJ.., ,10
It Cellll' I'm III O/lla S/,II,,' (1l)5.,I, 111,1,201>11
Gllilligltlr'r, n", (1l),,0), 12, 117 11"1',1/111 IIIII'I/f,/oll'(r. R. \, (Il)51), 2.\,
304 INDEX
INDEX 305

Klin!(er, Barbara, 27, +S-9 J,lIlIg Goodhye, Tht' (1<)73), z13, 22+, 22:; l11,lSS culture, S, 21, 2S11, 3-t, L)I-3, q-+, 9 S \1'1'\, lj<)
Koch, Gertrud, 26S JAlllg K'lss GOOdll/~~hl, The (19lJ7), 13+ \[(/s!t'J" and C;omouIJtdcr (2003), 2S1 .\ ludicr, john, Sh
Kolherg (19+5), I I h JAlIIg .\'I~~hl, The (19+7), l q lL/lillt'l' (II)SS), IS7 .ILlilil/ll', Thc (19.1.\),1111
Korean \Var, lOS, III, 117, IIS-Il), 121,200 [IIOhllgji,,' Lliligsloll (I<)SS), 1(,2 \1,111'1\, Tlte (IlIIIS), IS2, 1S,1, Il)7, Il)9,201-5, \l1/llil/l)', n,c (l<)l)I», IflS, 1+7
Kracauer, Siegti'ied, 260 J.l!rd IIflhe RlIIgs (2001-'3),233, ZH, 2:;1 20hn, 22h, 2-+-+ .\Iullln', jonathan, l.\q, q7
Krilmer, Peter, 20hn, 2+1 IAISI Pilirol, Th" (1<)3+), 23S ILII}i\ Relll{(lled, n", (2003), 20+ \lurdtr, ,\IT Sllyel (I()H), lq, 21:;, 211
Kristeva, julia, 170-1 Lm't' JI" 7illlight (1931), S:; \ htUIT, \ ictor, 2+0 \lurdas ll/ Ibe Rill' .IIlJIgue, 'lhl' (Il).\2), 1111
Krutnik, Frank, 12, 230 !Am' Slor)' (1970), +<) \ \a "ic.. , \Ihert ,md ]);1\ id, 2110 .\Iusic .11,11I, nil' (1<)111), <).'
Krzvwinsb, Tal1\'a, ISS Lucas, G<:orge, IS7, 190, 199,102 11''<111 ,'ilr,'elS (11)/3), q:;-Il music11 .. , i\, 3, +, 5, lj, q, Ill, 17,20,21-2,
Kubrick, Stanley, ISS LUCJsfilm I S3 \lccl lil/r/IIII Brlllldli (I<)h:;), 2110 2,1, 53, 82-1°4, '+3, 1 (,0, IS3, ISS, 10 3,
Kulcshov, Lev, 201 1,lIck)' Llld)' (J(J76), IH, 1:;0 \klic" Georg".. , 1111, ISIl 213, 2~K, 2hH, 273; sec also backsrap:
Kl}!lIidll!l (1<)6+), 175 Lugosi, IklJ, 11>1, ,1'1 \Idlen, joall, :;+ l11usictl; integrated musical; nOI1-
Lumet, Sidnev, l):; nlc!odL1I11a, 3, +, :;, S, 10, 17,29-50, :;3, 12 3, iIltL~ratcd mllsic<ll~ IT\ lie musical
I.acan, j'lCques, 1+2-3 Lusted, Dav'id, 60 IJS, 1:;7, 20S, 212, 23h, 2-+-+, 2-+.:; :;1, IIII.<I'(/(ITS II/I'ig .1/1<,.1', nil' (il)12), 1.\1)
Llld)' Froll/ Shllllgh"i. 'lhe (19+S), 217 252, 255, 2:;S, 2()() , 271, 272 \ lusuraea, "ichohls, 22S
LIII)' IIllhe 1,lIke, 'lhe (I(HI», 21+ .1111((/(1 (I <):;2), 211) llml,'l1l11 (2001), 2211 \ luybridgc, Eadweanl, 20 I 3, lOS
Lancaster, Burt, 237 \ Ic.-\rthur, Colin, q Iloli/'/lis Belle (1<)<)0),121 II)' CIIIIS/ll 1'/1(11)' ('992), I.U
LaIlllv, Marcia, 76, 105, I q, 175 \L1cCabe, Colin, ,II' 111'1111 II ill' (Il»)7), I IS II)' f)t/rllilg U<'I1/Cilllllt' (I (H(,), )7, (,+, !>:;, 7()
L'ln~. Fritz, 220, 221 lfeCllhe IIl1d .ITrs .Ildler (H!7I),)7, h7, 71 \10"1'-1' /I ,"()(Iel]' (IlI'j.\), q:; II)' Ft/lr l.lldJ' ('<)1>+), <)S, 'II)
1,11.1'1 ,HIIII SllIlIdillg (1l!'J1», I.H \1ac])onclld, jeanette, S:; Ilenldli (2001), 122 T11nh, IS-ll, (,2-.\, (17-S, 7+, 117 IS, 12+,
!-lIsl IHol'/e, Th" (1971),72 \Iel )"nald, f..:eiko, I+S 111'0)' Ilidoll" Fhe (1<)2:;), S+ 13 1,1.\+, q(,
[11.1'1 Xlghl (II)9S), 251 .\llIdJlIlt' (;1111 Kell)' (I<):;S), qh Ilo,'ellloj(e III' de ]e(lIlIl(' d'.lre, 1.11 (1Ij 27),
I,IISI S"dllilioll, 'lhe (1l)(H), 2 q, 2Z:; I> \Iel.aglen, :\lId]'(.'vv \'., 71' 2:; I "achhclr, jack, 72
1,11111'1I (IlH+), zq, Zl5 IllId I.o;e (1()3:;), lSI> ,\11'11111101/,//0.\1.1 (l-.,If]..a), 11111 "aLita, Hideo, 17!>
I,ll 11'11/11/1 (I IJ7 I), 71' ,HIIglII/icelil Se;'(')I, nl" (H)I>O), 70 11(/,'01' (I<)SO), 2.,2 \id,t'd S/'lIr, l'ht' (1l).'.\),)7, SIn
!-IIII'IIIIIIII}!I'I' .,HIIII, 'rhe (19()2), 1'J7, II)S, 203 ,\),lgIIO!t11 (H)<)(», 3 \lelrll/,II/ts (11)27), ,SIl, "II, 1(111, I(n, 100, 2:;1 "arcmore, .\<ll11eS, :;, 2 I +
1,lIll'rl'lll<' of.·lmhill (19h2), 130 \Lrier, Charles, 122 \1(;\1, S+, S+, S:;, Sq, lJ.\, 1)+, 1).,,101, 10.\, 1111 \lIsh;'illt' (I (J7(,), 22+
I,,,gi'lld of Nigger L'h" ric)', The (Iln 2), 7+ 1101'11I.1' . \11' Righi (H)SS), HI:; \lid"T BI"e rl'eS (I ()<)(»), 133 ',-ai\ l' .\Illl'ricans sec :\l1lcrican Indians
I,eone, S<:rgio, .,1', I)(), 7", 75, 77, 133, 15 I, '52 \Lrltbv, Richard, 7, 27, 2Sn, 30, +:;, +<), So, .IIldlllghl (;fedi', ,I (1()()2), 127 Ylllllrill Bill'll KifllTs (H)()+), 27(,
!-"/,/:e (1975), IH I I X, 22<), 230, 2.~2n II"!.\II/III/II'r ,\'Ighl's 01'1'11111, ,·1 (Ilj.\')' 3 :\calc, StC\C, \., 5, X, 17,2.1, 2S, .;0, 3-+, .':-"
I,es Girl.> (1957), 95 ,III/III'SI'I-'I/I,-I/II, 'ih(' ("HI), 2q, 21:;, 223 ,IIidll'l/l' (1Inl'), I I I '\(), +2, H, +<), :;on, (,0, III 2, 73, S+,
1,<'Ih,,1 nl'II/'OIl (I<)SS), 235, 2+7 ,III/II I 1.0;1', Tbe (HH7), <)7 ,\Iddn'd 1'11'1''-1' (1<)+:;), +1', 21S 120, 12~';' 1_,-+, '73,221,222,237, 23()

I,elll'l' F/'Iilll 1111 (i ll kIlOIl'1I /1011/1111 (IIH(»), 32 .111/11 01'.11'1111 (Il)3+), 2hl .\ I ilc-.tone, I,cwis, 1.11 n "eeso]], Liam, 21>+
I ,evi, Primo, 261' .111/11 o(tltl' 111'.'1 (I<).,S), 57 .\lilltr'( I:I'II'\'(III,~ (11)'iO), q+ "",e, Ilri;ln, 21()
Le' i-Slr'lus" Claude, ,S, 2 I, 112 11.111111/11 /-'(11 'iii FI/rtlt, Fhl' (IlJ7Il), 200 IIIIIII( (I ')()7), 17 11 '\c\\ l-follywood, 20, 23, 2.:; h, 27 H, :iq, 7 2 ,
Lewton, V"I, 11>2 .1, 22S ,III/II If//II Sltol I,I/ltrl)' 1'1/11/11'-1', 'ilie (1')112), .\Iinnelli, l.in, ')7 I)!>, q7, IHI, IS7, ,SS, I(JO 1,222,13:;,
LnLb, julia, 1>1, 7+ :;7, 1>+, hll, 117 S, 11<), 7() \linnc!li, \ inccnll', 3 I, .\2, s", (ll, IJ7 237, 2-t-+, 273, 27(); st'c a/so post-
1,1/;' Is Helllili/id (199S), 21,h7 .llall rf//II 1111111d Be K'lIIg, Tit" (Il)7.')' 23'~ ,\11//(101)' R"/,lIrt (2002), 13:; cl.h,ical I lollv wI)(ld
l,i/ij;I/I" (I ()S:;), 200 .\lall Il'illt a .\loi'/e Clilltra (H)2l»), H)1l II,shaM,'(, 1,1'.1 (192,11),2.,1 \CII']lIcA' LII)' (H)()I), q7
I,ighl Slce/,<'l' (I ()I) I), 222 ,IIIIIICII/Ioall Lllllllldlll,', The (l(jI12), 11<) \lIs/its, nil' (,,)112), 1111 ,\<'1/' .1111011 (I(Ho), Ss
L,~hl rellrs .411'11)' (]()SI), zoo .\llIlIdl/lril/li Calldldlill', FbI' (200+), 1211 \ <'II' } 'od', \ t'1I' } 'od, (I (J77), 20, '17 S, 10+11,
.\lISSllIg, lite (200+), 13,7)
!-ill/"J', Th" (200 I), qS 1!l{Ulgil, IX2 J: sec also allll!lt' IIISSIi}~ 111,111/1111 (Il)S+), .,on, 12:;,2+7 2H, 273, 177
I,ioll Klllg, 7'h" (1l)9+), l)(), 27+ .\11/111/11/11/11 .IL,llIdmllll/ ("13+), I .IS ,\1,.\.(/1111: III//,oSSIM,' (ll)llI), 3 ,\ clI',ics (11)'12), <)<)
1,/111" Ih~ ,HIIII (H/70), 2:;, :;7, h7, 72, 711, 121 .\LUlll, .-\ntho!l\', 57, 7S ,\li,.'OIiO Hr,',d's, nil' (1')7.')' 72 "ichols, Bill, 2:;<), 2III , 21)2, 272n
I,illll' L'1I"SlIr (1931),13:;, 1.1<), qS .\LlIln, \lichJel, 133 \Iitchcll, Edwcml. qo Y,-~lil lilld llie Cit)' (Il):;o), 2 I:;, 22 I

I,IIJ!" Gilllll, The (HJ33), 1.15, qo lIllI'S .IIII/d's-' (I<)<)h), IS7, HJ7 \Iitchcll, l.lT CLir\.., .1' \/:!.!.h! .\[O"L't'S (J()7.~), \i- \ii, 212, 223, 22-+, 22)
I,illlc .Ilemlll/d, n", (I<)S9), 99 .\ll/rt)' (1<)5:;), l):; \Ii\, Tom, 110, III .\i,~lil oflhl' f)Cililill (1l»)7), 17 S
I,illft Sho/, of 11111'1'1I1'.1' (I <jSI», ()l) .\Lln'in, T.ce, 133 .\Iodbki, TCll1i,1, 173 + ,\Ighl IIfllie I,mllg 01'(1) (I(I(,S), I(,S, 11''1-7 0
LiC'(' Flt'sh (H)<jS), 22 7 \ Lrrxism, 1+11 \101HJG;L1Ill, .:;X. 2/Sn \I~lil/iifl (I<)S7), 212
I,oach, Ken, + \l1/}J' PO!'!'IIIS (11)11+), l)1l IJ,l/Ilc I1'alsh (]()70), Ill) \'i~lilllliire oil LIlli SIn'<'1 (I ()S+), 1(,0
I,od', Slo';':, IIlId TINI SllIof,'III~ Bllrrels (I<)<)S), ll1Jsculinitv, 3+11, +:;, +7, :;3, 7+, Sl, ')3, 123- \loolllighl .IId,' (2002), +') () ,)'uIIgS (200-+), 2hX
I+S :;, I-tJ, 17),212, 2lS, 2IH-rq, 223, .\Ioore, Julianne, ,1 I '!-II (IIJ1<)), lH
IAIc/'<'I, Tht' (J(Hh), 36, 22S, 22<) 22-t-j, 2-'0, 2-+7 -:;0 .\101Ti~, Errol, 2:;S, 2h2 non-intcg:r~lted 1l1usical, S:;-X
l.o,~1I1I 's RIIII (I (n6), I S<j .11*.4~S*f{ (HJ70), 1011, 121 .II "sl/ullo St/uadroll (I [)iO), '2 I Yllo,e, 7'he (HHS), 1+7
I.ollel)' ire Iht' BI'II;',' (ll)h2), I>h ILI.<I' oflJllllil}/IIS, nl" (J()H), 2q .\llIlha, The (Il)2Il), I,ll '\/lrlh 1>.1' .\/lrii/ll'<'si (19:;Q), II)(), 23 S
I,OIl,~ Good Fridlly, the (19So), q7, qS .\Lhon, FL1I1, q3, qi, 1,0 .lllIulili R"lIge (200'), 21, <)') ,\osliTIIIII (1<)22), I:;S-q
 INDEX
306 INDEX

NlllllrillllS ([q-til), 2I-t Picrson, .\lichcllc, [~~, 2-t5 QII1<A' alld lie De,"I, Til<' (]()9:;), h7, 7 h R"ilJ 'I'll Pertiilillll, The (200 I), I-t-t
/V()lP, '·"yilgt'r (19-+2), 2t) I'III~')' (Iq-tq), [17 1,2110 1'lIdls (I9q),2.1'l R,,"ti '1'" Ihe Slill'S, The (IlJ5-t), 20 I
:'-lowell-Smith, Gco['ti-C\, 30, -t7 Pml/llli1 ([ 977), 109 1,2110 11I11i5 (I9,,[),239 R"ilJ TnI' (2000), 270
Plrllle, The (l<)-tX), l)3, 'l-+ R"ilril/g 1'11'''1/11(5, Th" (1939),2,1,,5, Q5, qh
01'/<'1/11"1', Bllrl/I<I,' (IlJ-t5), 125, [2~, 130 1'111111'.1' II/Ih" Carif,f,""11 (20°3),251 Rabino\\itz, PauL!, 21.1 R,,/Je, 'Iile (IlJ53), 2.19
OA-!IIIIOII/ll ;:1<1, Tht' (1<).1')), 2, [3-t I'll IIlId Ih" 1'1'11,11111111/. Tile ([ql>[), [ilq LIce, ho, 79,91,95, Iq-I5, 117, Ill), q(>-7, Robinson, Edward G., I J", 212
Old SllIIlIerillllld (I<)('-t), 75 Pill/III, The (19-t~), 217 Iho, [h7, 17-t, ISq, 227; see also R"I}(J(lIp ([<)S7), I<)-t, 1l)5, [q7
O/l/egll .\/1111, The ([lnl), [~-t, I~q Place, Janey, 2 I ethnici(\'; .\fi-ican-.\mericlIls rock musietls, Xh
Oil II Clfllr f)IIY 11111 CIlII See Fllrn'er (IlnO), 1'11111 l) Froll/ 0111<'1' Spa(e ([q5~), I ~7 RlIgl' 11I1JIlrlelll,-1 (I<)9[), 22h R"d, Tile (19<)0), 2.1h, 25hn
qil PIIIII"t II/SllIrll/S ([qil2), 201 Rlliliers o(llie 1"'.'1 _Irk (['lSI), 2-t7 R"d:r ifl ([9~2), 2-t9
Oil Ihe Bell(h ([q5q), [~-t, [~7 1'111111'1 "llh,' 11'''-' (191)7), IX-t' [~~-q R"I11!>""" Tlie([<)-t-t), Ilh R"d]' /I' (19~5), 2-t9
Oil Ihl' Road (hcrouac), 27(' 1'1111111111 (I<)X(,), I oil, 107, 123, [2-t, 12S RIIIIII,,,: Flrsl Blood Pllrt II (19~5), 32, 12:;, R,,(k.1' H"rr"r P/(Illre Sh"l/" Th" (11175), l)I)
Oil Ihe 7'111'11 (I<)-tq), ~7, 'n, l)~, 1°3 Pia]' f)lrly ([qil7), 120 235, 2-+7- H Rodo\\iek, Da lid, 37
OIlCC CPIIII 'I '11/1/1' ill ,'III/erim ([q~-t), qo, 1'111)'<'1', 7'lie ([q~S), 23il Ralll!>o iii (lqS~), 13In, 2-tS Roeg, :s.iicobs, 200
[H, 14~-53 Po,lf(ue, L<:Iand, Iq, Son Rapillre, Tlie (19tH), 255, 2h7 R"ger illlti .\11' ([9XS), 259
01111' CPIIII II lill/e III Ihe '11'sl (lqil9), 5il, (,q, 73 1'11<'11(.1 (.\ristotlc), I> RIIII' f)Ci/1 (Ilj~5), 2-t7 R()~L'rs, (yinger, HS. H6. H7, Hc)

0111' 1'11/", .\/111'1' ([qq2), 22il 1'111/11 H!ollk(lqh7), q5, 15[, ISq Ra\, "\icholas, 27, 30, V RogL'r~, Roy, 61

Olli/Ja/Ja ([q('-t), '75 Poi tier, Sidney, 73 R,ly, Rooert, 25. 2 I I, 235 R"ller!>illl (1l)75), [S9
01'1'11 Rallge (200-t), 75, 275 Polan, I )ana, I 13 Rea g,ll1 , Ronald, [2-t, ['l[-2, 2-t7 Roilermilsi/'/' ( IlJ7h), 2-t0
OrJi/ll/lY I'eople (Il)~o), -tq Pod Ch"p iilll ([l)"q), Ill) rcalisnl, 33 -t' 3h q, -+), H3, <)0. 100, '57 R"IIiI/~ nl/l//ller (I lJ7h), ~o, I2-t

OrientalisIll, 23~, 2-t7 pOr!logLlph\, '\, [73, 20q, 2il7 72 R"tlr (;111111<'1' (IlH3), I q ROll/illlie (I1)9S), 2hS
Orphlills II/Ihe SllIrll/ (I ')n), V, -t3 Porter, Edwin S, .,h RI'!>e«a (IlHO), 22 I ROII/'/lli/ll~ Ihe SlolI( (lqS-t), 2-t7
Olhel'S, 'I lie (200 [), I 5~, I h; Posodoll .ld"I'lIll1n', Tlil' ([lnl), 2-t0 Re!>ci II il IUJII I II Call5e (111.;.,),27,3° Rose, The ([(j71)), Sh
Ottoson, Robert, 22~ P"SSl' (1l)7.;), 25 RNA-!ess 11"'111'111, nil' (I l)-t'l), .1h Ro.'e .lfilli" (IlH('), ~5
0111 o/Ihl' 1'11.1'1 (llH7), 2[ [,212, 2I-t, 215, POSSI' (1l)'l.1), 7.\, 7-t Red /)1111'11 (['lS-t), 2-tS R"sel/liIl)"S Hilh)' (Iljh~), Ih')
2 I X, 221, 223, 2ZX-J2, 2()() po,sl-cL!ssical 1101" \\ood, I', 2h, 'l5 l), I s-t, R"d R"'er (")-t~), 2,1, .,7 Roso\\, Eugene, I Jh, 1'-'1
Ollilil, I'll" (Iln3), q5 I (n, 20<). 237, L.J.2 J, liS rdlnilit\, 23--t, -t~, 7'l-SO, 'H, 101, l0-t, 1.'.1, Rossen, Rohl'rt, 2 19
011 1111 lid (1l)~2), 1l)1 1',,'11111111 .IIII'II)'S RIIIgs 1''''1(1', FIi" ("i-th), 2 [:;, 173,203 5,223,22(1 Rotha, P'HIl, 2("
011111111' ]11.1'1')' 1/'1111'.1. The (Ilnil), 70, 76-~{) 221 Regll nllllg lI,'IIIT (Il)'l I), 250 Rubenstein, Lel1nl, loh
Pos/m({N l!1J'ays Rmgs '1'/1'/((', Tlte (I<)SJ), 22.) Rl'gl'IlCra/lOl1 (J(j15), 'J(l, I-t H Ruth, ])al iLl\, 1,17
l'III~'II~e, 'Fhe ([q~q), 2-t~ pO"ltnlOl\crnislll, LJ., 101, 1.~7, IS-t 5, )ljJ-j, Rt','!:O!Cftlli()!/ (f()()7), 110, IIH Rutlman, \\'altl'l', Il)('
Pal, (leorf!.e, I ~~ 203, 222, 22(), 227, 2Jh 'reLn',5 h, 17,3° I, H, -t7, 211 RI,dl, Tom, II
I'll Ie Rider ( Il)~il), (H) Pr{'adlin,1.!, If) ,It I' P(r,'t'l"lct! (I ()<)7), 2('j Renol, \Iichad, 2,S, 2'i'l
Pan, IlerIllL's, Xl) P,.,.,{lIlor (I'lSS), 2-t7 Rl'publie, .'S Silhle ]el (, l)S3), I IS
1',1/1<111/'(/ '.I' B",r (1l)2X), 217 prl'stif!.e [ilm, "S, ho ReplllslO11 (I I)h;), Iho SII IOll/illl ([ 9(ll)), 21,0
I'lIlIil 1/1 Ih,. Slr""ls ([q50), 220 1'1'1111' o/tli( IIII,.,IIC-' (")-t'i), II-t RCSefi.'OIl" J)ogs (1<)<)\), [.12 S,III/\(Ill illlti f)ellI,lh (I l)-t')), 2-t0
1'111111111\ , '/l'II', The (I q73), I ~q 1'1'111/11/.1' (I'lho), 2ho Relr(ill.lIcil-'([l)52), lIS SillltiS of Ill'" }lIlIil, 'Iile ("1-+5), 1°7
1',IL1Illount, X-t, I ~~ 1'1'111(1' 0/ 'I I,ll's, nil' (I'l'l I), -tt) Rellll'/l "/Ihe ]etil (J 9S-t), 20; SlIlIlil Fe FUll! (Il)-t0 ), 73
. - . ' ,

Par(/!J1o/iJI! dcci."jOll, 20(), 221 'I'ro-lndi,ll1' \\ e,tl'l'lh, 5h, 57, ho, 7; rCYlSIOlllSOl S(' ~Cllrc IT\ 1'-l10JlISlll S,lrris, .\n<1rl'\\, 9
/'11 rtf 11/0/1111 Ol! fl(f r{{Je (I <) 30), H7 I'r"J,,«'rs, nil' ( l'lhX), sl) rc\ LIC OlllSiclls. X-t -:; S,lun<1l'l", John,s." 57, Ih9
PastrollC, (Jio\"anni, 1o.~ Production (:ode ,\dmini,tration (PC \), .;0, Ric'h,lrds, Jeffre\, 117 Sil;1I1g Pri,'ille R)'III/ (IlJ,)~), loh, 121, 12(,-3 I,
1'111 (;111'1,'11 11/111 Blli)' Ihe A.iJ (lln3), 57, 71, -+7, -t'l, 13-t- ." 1)<), '-+.1, 21X Ricketts, Richard, 20 I 2.;7

Ko, l-t(l, 273, l7() PI'II!<'SSlOlIlIi" Fhl' (I t)hh), SIn Rille 1,,1/I<'SlIlIle (I1)59), 7') S(rllli,le (I1).\2), l.1h, I,S, '.;ll, l-t0' q[, 217
1'1111'1111 (;1111/(.\ (lqq2), 12il, 2-t~ Prohibition, 137, qS Ritie Ih,' iiigh CIIIIIIII)' (19 h2 ), 1.1 q, hh, 71,77 S(ilr/el Slre<'l (lli-t5), 212, 21-t, 21(', 2I1)~~20,
1',.11 (1'II1iI ker, Iii" (lql!7), 2-t~ Pr"plil"y (Il!7'l), [IH) Ricknsuhl, Leni, SS 221,23 2n

Peat'! I Ltrbor, [12, 1[3, III> PSl'dlO (Iqho), .1h, Ih2, I('s 70, '72, 17S' 21>-t, R,lIg, The (2003)' 17('-~1 S(il'Y 11",'ie (1l)97), 11,0
Peckinpah, SaIll, .;7, ('-t, ('(', 71- 2, ~o, 235 277 RlIIg 1'11"-', Til" (I1)99), 17 1, Sdlrlt.: 1111 Silhersl'l', f)er (1<)(12),75
I'eeblcs, .\Llrio \<1Il, 73 Pllf,{/I /;'110111'. n"'(ll!30), 1.1(', l)S' '.)<) RlIIgII (1l)9 S ), [75, 176-~1 Scl1.lt/, Thomas, 20, 2.1, 25, (;9-7°, 112, 113,
I'eepill,~ 'III/II (Ill,o), Iilo 1',,11' FI(I/Ii/l (I'l')-t), '32 RlllglI 0 (2000), 17 h 135 h. 1.,7. 15CJ
Peirce, Ch,lrlcs, 25X PIIIIISII/IIOI/ Pllrk (I [)7')' IS'l Rillgll 2 (199')), 17 h ScillllJI<'I"s 1""1 (Il)l)';), 32, I2l), 1';0, 2IJ2--t, 277
Pennebaker, ]), :\., 21>O I'lIrpl( R"s,' ,,(e'I/I'II, rli, (I'lS-t), I0-tn Ri" Bu/C'" ([1)5 S ), :;(" 57 Schoenherg, .\rnold, ')1, <)2
I'('I)/!I'IIIII/I(e (, 'nO), I-t~ I'll rSII(d ( "H7), 22q Ri" (;1'i/lltie (lliS l ), .'7 SchLldlT, P,Hd, 27, 7X, 222
I'erlls II/Pllllhlle, The (seri,Jl, Iq I-t), -t-t, I ~il P.'l', I)ougla"i, /.7[, 2/() Ritt, \\artin, 'is Sch\\arzcoegger, .-\rnold, 3, 2,-U, 2-t{), 25 0
I'esei, Joe, In ritu.ll. IH-20. 23, 53; st'c Ir!.\{) nl~th Sl'iel1l'C fiction tilm, 5, h, I5- lh , 17,5-+,57,
I'hmlr CII)' SI"r)'. Til<' (lq5.;), '-+3, 22q QII<I/""'"IISS 1111,1 Iii,' Pil (Ill'S), I(,h, [l)s KhO, S5, ~l), '(12-.1, 22S 119, 157, Iho, [h,--t, IS2-200, 235,
PII~'IIP 1111 SlIlIlh Slrn'l (1l)52), 220 1,2/11'1'11 ,,/ HI"oJ ( I ljl>l», 20 I ruad rnoyie~. 26 2ho
308 INDEX INDEX 309

Scorsese, :\Iartin, 27, 7X, q:;-(" 2")
SCOll, .\drian, 2")
Snltt, Lizabclb 217
SO'COIII ("Il)f», If>o, 10:;
S<'II lJol)'A', TlIc (Il).p), 3
S<'IIrdlcrs, Till' (Il):;:;), 23, ·n, Sf>, .17, h" 7X,Xo
Sccond \Vorld \\ar, ('a, 72, X..' 107, 10l), III,
LU, 1()3, IX,,,, 210, 213, 217--IX, 2.1 1,
2f>3; sec olso \V\\' II nJlllbat film
S('(ollds ("ldl), 200
S('(rCI BCI'IJ/I,I IIII' /)0"1', nil' (I lHX), 221
SclzniL'h, 1)", id, 23l), 2..3
semantic-slnucric anall'sis (-\Itman), If>, 17,
V' 53, .15, 12 3, 157, 17 X, ISS, "13,
Sof>r,lIiliS, Til<' (HBO serie" 'l)l)X ), I.n .. ' I.N
SOil lid "I' \ IlISi", Til,' (Ill1 .1), l)(,
SOIlIIi PaoliI' (Il)SX), l)S
"'''.1'/('/11 (;1'1'01 ("1/3), I Xl), 1l)2
'space opera', IX(I-7, 2.. 1
spa~helti \\ esterl", S.i, .17, (ll), 7.1' (" 133
Sf>orroms (1l)(,0), 2..0
spectacle, .lX, .. I, X7, XX, Xlj, 10.., I X7, 200,
23(" 237, 23'), 2..26
Spicer. _"\ndrl'\\", 222, 22-.J.- 5, 227
SIIIJI'I'IIIO" (2002), IX2
Spiclbcq(, StelTn, '2(" 12l)--30, IljO, 2H :;, 262
Sf>lIol Slom"s", Til" (1l)"S), 221, 22X
SI"gc /)001' CeIlII""11 (Il).. 3), X.., 10(,
SII','<,I SIIIt'11 IIr,"II«(S... (I<jSX), <jS 'Iilll(iI III' f;'i/ (Il)SX), 221
SII'<,<,llwllrl( (I<jJS), S., Tourncur, jacque, 17X, 22X
Iilll'alllg /II/i'mo, TlIe (1l175), 2..0
T,Ili~1I "lid C'lIsh (I<jXl)), 2..7 'Ii~)' SIIIIT (Il)l)S), 75, 27+
'Llllner, -\Iain, 200 '!IlIds (ll17S), Xo
Tarantino, Quentin, 27, 132'3, J ..(), 235, 27X Trafl;" III SlIlIls (Iljl3), 136
T,lsker, ),onnL', 233 tl'agelh, 32, Jl)
1;,,\1 /)1I;'a (1l)7h), 7X, Xo, 2[2, 222, 22 .., 22X Tralll IIrLI/i- (1I)!)l)), 2M-7
ted1l1ologl, IX3-", IXS-(), lXX, ")3-200, 20.. limll RIiMas, rhe (IlJ7,;), 7h
,/I'O/i/.!!,C C(!7.'C"WIl (H).;X), ,X7, 1<)7 Trelor, Claire, 217
t,,11 fllglllild (lI)31), 1,0 1'l'lal Oil Ihe Rllad (1<j71), 122
1;,11 TiI"1I1 1Ii/11<, BII)' /.1' fia<' (1l)6l)), 73 hif> III ,lIe \111011, ./ (lIi03), 1<i6
Tclolte, J. 1'., l)X, IX(,-7, I<jS, 200-1 Trllllllf>h III' ,ii,' Sf>lI'll (Il)XX), 2i15
1;'11 Cllllliliolldlllmls, The (Il)S6), 2.'ll, 1 ..0 7/-1111 (Il)Xl), 20"

I<)S, 23+, zh I, 271
Sgl, Rllllcd~c (1l)f>0), 73
Sl'I'g,'11I11 } 'od' (Il)" I), Iof>, "I, I3 III
SCUIIIII 1'1(11111, 'I'llI' ("HS), Ih" 22X
sC\:ualitl, l)3, 1(10, I(q, 1()7, '7 2 .1, ")2 3,
217,22),23' 2, zh<) 72
Si'.\:J' Bcosl (2000), I"S
Shadoian, jack, 13f>, 1.12
SIIIl 110 11' (;I'IlU (I l)l)5), 227
Silo II<' (illS I), Sf>, (ll) 70, XIII
Sill' J),:/i'llds II/{, ,\Iollll'l'lolld (Il)".')' liS 1(,
SlIc 11'01'1' 0 )1'11011' RiMoII (1l)50), .17
SlIillillg, Til" (lljXO), If>S
Slil7'l'I's ("17.1), '7 0
Shohat, ElL!, 2..7
Slioolisl, TI/(, ("17f», 7(, 7
SlIoII',~Irls (1l)l)5), 2f>7
Sicgc, Til<' (")l)S), 2"X
Siq(l'i, I )on, 7f>
:';/gn (~r IJisasfcr ( I <J~(l)\ 122
SdcII"c orllIc /'01111'5, 'Ihc (ll)l)I), Ih" IXO
Si/cIII Rllllllillg ("17 I), I XX
SilA, SIO"A-/IIgs (I l)S7), l)S
Siller, jocl, 202
Sinll110n, Scott, ...., f>o
Simpson, I )on, 23()
Sin~LT, Ben, 3S-l), ..2, H, "l), 2.1 ..
Slligill'ilI II/{, R'illI (,,),,2), 23, X7, l)1, liS, Ill[-"
Sill,~/c IUilc 1'1'1110;'- ("ll)2), IXln
Sirk, J)ou~L!s, 30, 31, V, .. 0, +7, .. S'l)
Sl,uII SCIlSC, Till' (Il)l)l)), I SX, I hi, '7X, I Xo
Sklar, Robert, 2
Slotkin, Rich,ml, 12, .17, f>1, (,2, (,7, 7.. , I q,
12..
SlIol(lI (2000), qS
Sobchack, Vilien, 12, I(q, IS." lXX, Il)", Ill(,
S"Uier BllIc (Il)70), 2.1, 7 2 , 7f>
Sol,lUs (1l)72), 201
.\'Olllt' Camc Rlfl/Ill",!!, (I (59), 32
SOil OrFUIlIA'(//sIOIl (Il),)!)), 1f>7
SOllg 01'.\ Ol'll'il) , (I (170), l)('
Sol' IIII' '5 ClIoi",' (Il)X2), 2f>S
SI"gc(o"dl (")3l)), 12 '13, Il), 3(), .17, (q, Son I;'l'lilllllllllr, nit' (II)X")' 3, I X2, ").1, Il)l), 20.. , Trill' (200.. ), 235, 2.1 I
Stai~'er, janet, 2Xn 2 .. 7 '1'1''''' 1,1<'-' (lI)ll+), 2"X, 2.10
SlollIlgmd (ll)l)2), 122 Iimllllllllll" .2: ]lId~lIIelll /)a)' (1IIljl), 2..3, 2.iO "!i-lle ROlllilil"e (Il)l)"), 1..(,
SI,,/A't'!' (llj7l)), 20 I limlillillor ,;: R,s<, III' Iii" ,111I"hll"'( (2003), Il17 Truthut, Fran<;ois, l)
Stallone, SI'l,Tster, 233, 2"l), 2.10 hl'l"-' III' flld"arlllml (Il)X3), "l) "hllllli/ll Shlill', TII<, (Il!'JX), 200
Stam, Robert, 2.. 7 /;'lslw: Til" /rllllllall (ll)l)O), 175 20'" Centun-Fm:, l)iI, 2.. 1
Stanfield, Peter, 60 1,70,72-3 "1,'1(1111 1/: Blld)' 1/011111"'1' (lI)l)I), 175 TII'IIIS (I l)XX), .,
Stell111 Ick, Barbar'l, 217 1;'1'11.1' (;h,IIIISIIII' .\Iossa,re, The (Il17 .. ), '7 .. Tudor, :\ndrell, S, 12, 1(,7, 1(,9, 17X
SI"r.' (1l)6S), ll) I;"I'II( elill Ill..." II' ,1111«"(1'1' 2 (lI)X(,), 17.. "/'III11/J!ell,,,,,ds (Il)2X), (,(,
SI"r Is B"m, I (Il)S"), X7, lj7 "1'11,,111111 "lid !A'IIIS,' (Il)XX), 27(, Turner, Frederick Jack"m s,',' Turner thesis
SI"r Is nOJli, I ("177), X7 rh",I' /)ied IIIIII Thor Bllllls Oil (Ill"'), 3, .il) Turner thesis, ('3 h, (,7, Xln, qo
SI"r Sf>"II,~/,'J RII,I'IIIIII (1l)"2), X.. IiI".I' .\/0,1<, .\/1' a FlIglliC'l' (1l)"X), q7, 227 tll,I(la (1I)l)(»), 2.1 I
SI 0 I' '!"rcA, C1'\ series), Ill', "17, Il)l), 20(,n ril,,:/ ( II)X I), 133 1"11'11 .\llI/n For Slsl<'l" SlIra (11170), 7X
SI'II TrcA' 1/: 'Ill<' II rolii of' k//(III (Il)S2), 203 nll";'« I_lA'" l's (lI17 ..), qil TII'fI Rode 'li,g,'llla (,,)(1I), 73
SI"r 11 i,rs (1l177), 7.i, I (IS, IS2, I X3, ISS, I X7, "1'11111 /JIll" /.111", Th( (IljX7), 2Sl) .2001:.1 Sf>a<'l' O'/)'s"<'j' (II)(,X), lXX, "17,200
I XX, ")O, III I, ")2, ")l), 203, 20(,n, 233, nlill .\11111 series, 20
237, 23X, 2.. 1-2, 2H, 2..(" 27.i "1'11111 Red 1_111<', "I'I,( (Il)')X), 10(" 121 Llmer, Fd~ar G., 1(1I
Slorp"II' (I ')1).. ), 2 .. 7 nlillg, TII<, (lI)S I). I ('-t, 17", lI)O, Il)X, lOiln I hlllll's Rlllil (11171),25,72
SllImllill (I <iX.. ), 'l)2 "l'llIlIg, The (lI)XI), 173, 1l)0, Il)1 I II (II IIl1l1u II I iIillr ('<jX3), 12.i
stars, 2 3,112--13, IS" LJ.() 50 "1'11111,1'.( 'I;, CIIIII<' (1l)3i1), IXh l'IIJ(I'li'"rU (IIP7), 13('
SllIrslllf> huuf><'r.< (lI)ljS), 23 .., 237 IiIillgs "lu /)11 III !Jm;'a 111"'11 ) ull '1',' I ),-,lil IIl/i,rgiC'l'1I (Illl)2), 57, (IS
Slorlill~ (h'a (Il)7l)), ..I) ( lI)l).i), I,n L nited :\rtists, .ill, lOX
Slol,' ur (;1'11(<' (lI)l)O), q,) "l'lIiS (;1111 Fill' llir<, (Il)"2). 2' .. Lnilersal, 1(1I, 162, I('-t, 1(,7,21(,,2..0
Stein, (iertrude, Ii Tlli... Islalld f"rlll (111.1.'). I X7 I '11l11ll1n"d 11'111111111,111 (IIJ7X), ..I)
SI(II" (lI)ljO), "l) Tbonus, Deborah, 32, 2 I X I II 11111 (IIII/J!<,(, "I'll<' (II)X7), I H
SI,-//II /)1I11"S (11137), 2l), 32, ..(, n",roll~;';)' \llIdel'li. IIi/II<' (l,ji'7), l)iI I silol SiI.'/,<,(I-', TlI<' (Il)l)S), 22(,
Stewart, Jll11l'S, .,7 nll"<' /J1I,l'S IIrllIe Clilldlir (Il17S), IXl)
Stone, Oli,LT, 27, 12.. Thr(e klllgs (1I)1)<i), 107, 12(, 1 II IIII' iI'<' I_II;'<'!'(, 'IiII' (Il)70), 173
Storr, Ilcnj,lmin, 131 n Iilr<,<, .ll,,-,A','I(,'r(, 'IiI<, (11)73), 23X I illllf>)'r (11)3 .. ), 37, ,(,"
Slur)' uf G. I. ]11<', TiI<, (Il!-t.i), '30 TllIlIldalImrl (I l)l)2), 73 I an I ),ll11me, jean Claude, 233, 2..<j
SIWIlP" 1.1Ii'" III' \/',rlil" ha(, "I'll" (1l) ..6), 217 TlI.\ JI';S ( I(17 0 ), I X.. , IXlj 1"'1 Helsillg (200.. ), I (,x
Street, S'ILlh, II.i "I,llIlli( (11197), 2..0, 2H I '"l1lla SAT (2002), 200
Slr<'l'l, n,<, (11)22), 21h Ii, fll,h /I,s (JII'II (1I)..iI), 32 1 ,m<'l.1' (periOLlictl), 5, 3h, son, 77, SS, 27+
Strode, \\'oOlh, 73 "lul>ruA' (lIjiI7), 120 \ 'eerhoL'\ en, P,nd, 235
,tudio Sl stel11 «( cLhsical I !olh \I oOlI TodorOl, TSITtan, 27 .. luisimilitudc, q-I(" X3, ,%, l)o, l)3, 100, 107,
SIII>III"rill" RIIIJa (IIH2), 113 'Iillil JJ,,1'li (Il)XO), ()h 2+2, 2 "::;H, 27 I
SIII>III"I"III" I~I) (1') ..3), II() '1'111111> "rl,lgt'I" (I!)('S), 16!) \"ertOl, Dzip, 2Sl)
SIIIII 111'111 1'(01'(, 'Il,,' (2002). 2"S 'Iiw /,al<' Ihe //all (11)ilq), 121 1 Id<,u'/rolll" (II)S.. ), 173, 11)3
SU)fnst' ((()2/), .2 '7 IiiI' (;1111 (Il)Xh), 3, 23i1, 2"X \ ietlum comh,.t film, 3.:;, son, 107, 121, [22-
S"-'f>,',-IS (Thomson), 217 Till' filII (Il13S), Xl), l)I 6, 127, I2{)
SlIsf>m" (I ')7i1), I7.i 'lillO,' 'I'llI'd.' 'Iill"ll.' (11170),12' \"ietnal11 \\'ar, 22, 2.1, 72, Xo, 107, lOX, III, 120,
SlIllIr" (1I)l)3), lila '1'111,,1 R",-"II (1l)<j0), 20.., 2,)+ 121, 122, l.!(l, 170, '72, ISq, 22{, 2JH
 COl '(h/ll) "/":/ I)') '(Icbl) ".""Wlj I'/ll/
I) I I '(ttb I) 11111:/ ,'l';: 'Lc ',-IL 'L~ '(lH)bl) ,>lU '11->1111[/ /'/1/1
C, '].I,1ljll}[ '''1,),llll,)/ ,'h '(000,) ,>lU 'S/!.I[){ ,11".\ .I/lil/II
' " 'lh '(btbI) II))!! .Illl/11
(Z I ',)~~1I,1( [ 'Pool<l'c1uno \. ,1/"//":) S/'/.I1i /I '''''//1
,~, 'ss r '( I ,'fll)
Db ,(,'tb I) PIiU "1// /'111 1 Ii/'Illi/Ii { llll'l '1)01 '(IFfll) ;,LIIi/:) ,I)i.ld /1111./1
0<)1 '(lI~fll) ,''''/ ',I~'I',"I I .1'1111,1,' 1'/1) { ") I 'S;)IlII'f ';)[1"1.\\
,,) '(lUll) /'l-illdl,,-,I./1
hI' "S' '(000,) 1"'11"-\ all '(lUll) i,lf" /1111.111".1/1
Db '( OSfll) "/111111'\ RLz 'LLz '()Lz 'SLz 'Xlj( 'Lqz
'I(jZ 'O()Z 'LSz 'L~'z 'tfz 'flz "OIZ 'fh'
~L, '(tbbl) I/.II1J 1/1',(1/ 'SSI '~SI 'fSI '0<)' 'b~1 ',)h 'l'tl '~
Il <)" 't" tfl 'OZI '<)b '~(, 'fS ';:S 'IS-t5 '~'~ 'ot
'~', I ';:;:--1 I I '0 II'S COl 'llllU ]eljlllll.1 [1.\\ \\ 'zt ·()t' 'SF 'tf 'Zt' • I f ·~-z "f, 'Z---li" 'Oi:""
t<l 'fill '<II 'II-(,OI 'Lol 'lU[~I]l'ljIlIll.1 1.\\\\ -fl I 't I l'l ';: I '0 I 'b 'I) ',' 't 'f'-, '\1 'Sll.l;)]S,) II
st 'of' '(S~bI) /'111 11,11//1111 1"'1/1.1/1 ')-~b 'ob '(II)bl) ,Llli/,I,' "/",1,' l".1/l
DC '''I 'S~ 's I ';: I '[[1\\ 'llP1U \\ ,)" 'llJl.\\ 'S.I;)P";).\\
I;: ''';)H l[llpn( ']lj,~U \\ DO;: '( LI)b I ) /,I"',y,),) 1/
.II' \\ 1'[.10 \\ 1"IIl,),)S ,)).1' II \1,1. .II' \\ 1'1.10\\ l) I I '~II 'h I '(ftl>l) 1I,1I1!(f II' .I,Il(f "/I
.II' \\ 1'1-'0\\ ]S.II:[ ,1,1," ,)U() .11'.\\ 1'1.10\\ usL;: 's <)c '01) '~~ 'lIljll( ';)UII',\\
ts I l't ',f '(o;:bl) !"IIJ 1I,1I1I(f '('[)II
'(b~bl) ,IIU 'I'-"'(f "1// /"11' '1/-'''1:1 ,'1// '/'I-Ili /I hi '(otbl) .I'U '/,[),>l1I '(/'/1
,',;: 'I1,)ll,lll') 'lj,)U["0 \\ bSI ',LI 'th ';)]I'.~.I;)]1'.\\
S'I ,(~,'fll) ,IIU ',II./II!! ''''/,1111 /I It;: 'II,)'] 'lll'lU.I,)SSI' \\
l'ci 'CI)I '01)1 'h I 'llIljO}[ '1'00\\ ,h 'bsf' I 'II) 'S,' 'l', -" 'j.l;)ljO}[ '1IOlls.II'.\\
LSI' .11" "(1 PW\lP:-l '1'00 \\ U, 'at-< 'f'S ';: "SluH .1,)11.11'.\\
~o, 'ljS'lI\ '1'00\\ ~L,
~l, 'll'l 'llljof '00\\ '~lF 'hI' 'Lf'z 'tlz 'f'SI '~LI 'If-SIll
<)-t-t- 'lS 'l',' '~t 'zt ',T 'I) 't '\ 'llll~l ]I'lj IUll.1 /.111\,
'zt 'Sf 'tf 'zf . I~' 'O~' 'zz ·.luI~1 \ uetuo \\, I~Z '(c ~<)fll) .I'I!,}d /'1111 ,111./1
S', '0" '(lltll') ,IIU 'rl .I,lId lili1II'1I1Ii I I l'L '(SSbl) ,(lllld 111 //
lIZ~'z Sbl 'SSI 'LSI '(Z~fll),>1/,/. ','/,1-111/1 ,>I/ili,·I11/1
' " , '<I, '(ttlll) .IIU '<11Ii/IlIi/I ,1I//1I1111'1I1Ii11 U'I '(tsb I) ,",111111,') .111//
00, 'I)b I '(L,(l[) ,IIU '1IlIfllr ,>1// III II/illllill ' " '.(.)]Ie\\ '.I,).~UlJ.\\
l'ol '101 '.1;)];)<1 'lJ;)W',\\ ,t 'l,wlj,lI!\ '.I')1[!'\\
I)S '(bHll) ,>lU '~() Ii, /'.III-:-l/l I-OC '];)lIel" '.1,)1[1'.\\
bb '(SUll) "IU ':i./1 llll'l 'tl I '1)0 I '(,'tb I) I' 'II[)\,' ,11// III ,y/" II
S~;: 'lleuH 'llO[SUI\\ f II '(,til[) /,"111-'1 .I,y" II
011 '(L,bl) .';'-'"/1 ~L '.I.)ljl!Il]SI.llI:) ',UlJls.;Je\\
Sl;: '(~U)[) ,>lU '1101'/ ,11// /'111' /'111/1 ,oz 'S.I;)lj]OJH I1s.\lolj:J1' ;\\
SL 'L~ '(O~bI) rt, .1,1/.,,11/,111/1
ul~ I 'p"OlU I!'}! '''UI'I[[1\\ I 0, '(~I)I)]) I,I/w/d .JI.IO/SII/,ud ,JI/' 01 ,';ill,(!!, I
IC-S')Z 'll,l;: ';:LI 'zl 'Il 'I'plll'] 'SlUl'llil \\ z~z 'I ~z '(Lh()]) IIlIlJ.I/" I
,l' 'UI'[\ 'Slll\'IIII\\ I) IZ ',)]];)UI~) 'nt!;)pU;):JlII. \
<)<) '(c<)bl) ,(III"'d /fl,/1 st '(I [(II) IIw/!.'1
L') 's 1100[S ]Sd \\ 1'[',\\ h~z 'IIlJ;)[ 'O:ill,\
\:30:-":[ OIr