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Include Me Out Odysseus On The Margins o PDF
Include Me Out Odysseus On The Margins o PDF
Edited by
Almut-Barbara Renger and Jon Solomon
LEIDEN • BOSTON
2013
Introduction ...................................................................................................... 1
Almut-Barbara Renger and Jon Solomon
Historical Ancients
Mythological Ancients
Christian Pischel
The Diagram
2 Richard Dyer, White: Essays on Race and Culture (London, 1997), p. 165.
3 Pierre Sorlin, “Die Genrefijilm der 1960er Jahre. Kolossalfijilm und Western,” in Das
goldene Zeitalter des italienischen Films. 1960er Jahre, ed. Thomas Koebner and Irmbert
Schenk (Munich, 2008) 371–90.
Ulisse (1954)
When Mario Camerini made Ulisse in 1954 the response was positive, but
far removed from the prototypical status achieved three years later by
Pietro Francisci’s Le Fatiche di Ercole, which offfered a full realization of
Dyer’s defijinition: Steve Reeves, who had had a successful career as a body-
builder before turning to acting, embodied the stereotypical strong man
and thus put his stamp on the fijigure of Hercules, which would represent
the stable axis of the further development of the genre. Even past the apo-
gee of the genre in the mid-1960s, it was heroes such as Hercules, Samson,
and Maciste (a legendary fijigure invented by Gabriele D’Annunzio) who
strutted their poses and feats of strength on the pseudo-antique stages of
the Italian sword-and-sandal fijilms, displaying their muscle mass and virile
agency in exhibition battles.
Odysseus, in contrast, is portrayed less as a muscle man than as a scru-
pulous but passionate adventurer, whose contradictory yearnings – for
the unknown, on the one hand, and for home and hearth on the other –
must be pacifijied. From the perspective of the Homeric Odyssey, one is
tempted to regard this as a forceful handling of literary complexity. In
genre fijilm, however, it is an impressive testament to the integrative power
of Hollywood, the capacity to mold heterogeneous material into appar-
ently originless narrative, which draws the impetus for events solely from
the story itself. The narrative process retreats behind the opulence of the
depicted world or is tied to the diegetic fijigures. In this sense, Hans Blu-
menberg describes the realistic legacy of the epic as the restraining of its
narrative quality.4
Since Homer, the epic has been the genre devoted to absorbing the world,
to putting oneself in the place of the world according to the abundance
und degree of reality, in order to gather wholly unto oneself the intensity of
relationships to reality.
4 Hans Blumenberg, Die Lesbarkeit der Welt (Frankfurt am Main, 1981) 222.
masculine Cyclops. The epic operates within the boundaries set out by
the cathartic tale of a conflicted soul; epic poetry’s power to open up the
world is translated into the reflected images of a desiring male subject, to
which Penelope’s tears respond. In this sense, gender binarism is incorpo-
rated into the tension that carries the entire narrative arc and conceives
of the topos of homecoming as the reunifijication of originless, reciprocally
gendered souls, in keeping with the matrix of monogamous marriage.
Naturally, the episode with Polyphemus also undergoes a correspond-
ing transformation: Odysseus must not deny his identity. No “mimicking
the amorphous” preserves him, as Adorno and Horkheimer put it.6 Nei-
ther does Odysseus cling to the woolly underbelly of the ram in order to
escape the Cyclops’ cave, nor does he have to resort to the insipid word-
play whose interpretation the Dialectic of Enlightenment unfolds:7
In the Greek version it is a play on words; in a single word the name – Odys-
seus – and the intention – nobody – diverge. To modern ears Odysseus and
Udeis still sound similar, and it is conceivable that in one of the dialects in
which the story of the return to Ithaca was handed down, the name of the
island’s king did indeed sound the same as “nobody.” The calculation that,
once the deed was done, Polyphemus would answer “Nobody” when the
tribe asked who was to blame, thus allowing the perpetrator to escape pur-
suit, is a thin rationalistic screen. In reality, Odysseus, the subject, denies his
own identity, which makes him a subject, and preserves his life by mimick-
ing the amorphous realm.
In the fijilm, however, the mastery of higher powers remains tied to being
“somebody.” While Homer’s work highlights the capacity to negate and
position oneself, the fijilm exclusively emphasizes the self-identity of the
acting subject: Odysseus, back on the ship after a successful ruse, mock-
ingly and boastingly dares to call out not just his name but also his descent
and homeland. But it is not simply his proud name, which marks him as
an acting male subject, nor his athletic fijigure, which precisely locates him
between the efffeminate Phaeacians and the testosterone-loaded god’s son
Polyphemus. The fijilm removes all ambiguity from the protagonists and
not merely on the level of representation; a further aspect of the fijigure
of Odysseus becomes clear against the backdrop of the Homeric epic. As
Adorno and Horkheimer note,8
6 Max Horkheimer and Theodor W. Adorno (Gunzelin Schmid Noerr, trans.), The Dia-
lectic of Enlightenment: Philosophical Fragments (Stanford CA: Stanford University Press,
2002), 53.
7 Horkheimer and Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment, 53.
8 Ibid., 61.
Le Mépris (1963)
The fijilm tells the story of a couple, Paul and Camille, who are drawn into
a fijilm production: the adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey by Fritz Lang. There
is much to indicate that Godard’s fijilm version of Alberto Moravia’s novel
Il disprezzo (Contempt) should not be understood solely in the context
of auteur and œuvre or the tension between literature and fijilm. Among
the fijilm’s many allusions, one, I believe, is especially worth emphasiz-
ing in this context: Godard quite expressly addresses the genre of epic
and sword-and-sandal fijilms, just as À bout de soufffle (Breathless, 1960)
addresses the gangster fijilm or Les Caribiniers (1963) the war movie.9 This
is suggested not just by the volume of relevant productions that year, and
9 Jacques Aumont, “The Fall of the Gods: Jean-Luc Godard’s Le Mépris,” in Susan Hay-
ward and Ginette Vincendeau (eds.), French Film: Texts and Contexts (London and New
York, 1990) 218–19.
not just by the Odysseus theme, which shimmers through in the reflection
of the fijilm production within the fijilm and the story of its protagonists,
Camille and Paul. There are also countless details such as the Cinecittà
studios as a setting, the crass calculations of the producer, Bardot’s naked
movie-star body, and not least the fijilm’s multilinguality, which in its con-
stant mistranslations reads like an ironic commentary on the eclecticism
of the genre – or the sometimes Babylonian conditions of production and
distribution. The list could go on and on.
However much it might be interpreted as a commentary on the sword-
and-sandal fijilm, Le Mépris operates, as Jacques Aumont has emphasized,
within the aesthetic paradigm of the literary avant-garde of the 1950s and
1960s. Rather “coincidentally,” according to Aumont, Godard’s fijilm follows
the trends set for instance by the Nouveau Roman or the Tel Quel group,
to the extent that it reflects formally and politically on its own poetics
and seeks to render its aesthetic strategies transparent within itself. This
“modernist” approach takes a line of attack all its own, since it adopts a
dimension of the Homeric epic especially in its mise-en-scène: a reflexive
defijinition of the epic, which likewise sets the process of narration within
the narrated world.
“The cinema,” said André Bazin, “substitutes for our look a world which con-
forms to our desires.” Contempt is the story of this world.
These words are spoken by a male voice during the fijilm’s opening sequence.
Here is an echo of the aforementioned opening dialogue from Ulisse, in
which Eurycleia refers to Penelope’s gaze as the expression of her longing.
And in the subsequent odysseys we actually experience a world tailored to
our desires, desires encapsulated in a triangular family structure and the
temptations and dangers that derive from it. But instead of producing an
additional, coherent diegesis, the mise-en-scène, as it unfolds in the fijirst
fijive minutes, already shows that Le Mépris distances itself from this world
in order to narrate it, clearly revealing how it dissects the components
and conditions that constitute this world in order to make of its func-
tions the interrogated subject matter of the fijilm. And now this world of
desire is narrated, the acousmatic voice says, and this narration unfolds as
an emphatically analytical poetics: this construction of perceptible telling
and being told is the fijilm.
Shooting from a low angle, the camera shows us an alley between
buildings on the Cinecittà studio lot in Rome, which ends at visually at
a housing development on a hill. In the wide Cinemascope format, the
depth of the shot is only suggested by vanishing lines, which delineate
the tracks along which a camera dolly slowly moves towards us. While a
man’s voice reads the credits against the background of Georges Delerue’s
mournful score, the camera crew accompanies a young woman walking
into the foreground. Almost imperceptibly, the camera rises towards its
approaching counterpart and the crew disappears from the frame until
only the cameraman Raoul Coutard and his camera can be distinguished
from the blue of the sky. He turns the camera precisely, rolls down, and
the literally Cyclopean Cinemascope lens is staring us in the face.
As Farocki and Silverman assess from the corresponding camera angle,
what follows now is the “the reverse shot to the shot,” what this camera
appears to show us: the image of a bed seen through a red fijilter; on it is Bar-
dot’s naked back with Michel Piccoli lying on it and facing her.10 Camille
initiates a game in which she asks whether he likes one after another of
her body parts, going through the various modes of fijilmic intentionality in
the process. She spells out the ways in which the spectator relates to her:
some body parts are evoked in their absence (appearing only in silhou-
ette on the sheets, and others are addressed as mirror images), while we
see others concretely on screen. All this is accompanied by the repetitive
structures of the music, the gliding camera, and changes of light fijirst to
white and then to the blue of a nuit américaine. The spectator is already
in the thick of things, oscillating between the fijilmic complexity on display
and simple desire, between the individual components, the colors, the
regions of the body, words, and music, on the one hand, and their undi-
vided afffective impact on the other. It is actually the naked Bardot, but
cited through the open construction, as if in quotation marks.
As in the opening sequence, in what follows, too, Le Mépris takes things
apart, assembling paratactically, to borrow Rancière’s term.11 It sets ver-
sions alongside versions, translations alongside translations, Greek against
Roman antiquity, blue next to yellow next to red, Poseidon against Athena.
The mise-en-scène creates strings of correspondences and reminiscences,
which are constantly becoming entangled. The camera moves towards us
with its anamorphotic lens, addresses us as desiring subjects, and follows
the naked Bardot in Cinemascope, the format of spectacle, which later on
in the fijilm Fritz Lang would claim was good only for shooting snakes and
funerals. The format responds to the camera, Bardot to the format, the
female body to exhibitionism as marketing logic, the muscle-bound male
10 Kaja Silverman and Harun Farocki, Speaking About Godard (New York, 1998) 33.
11 E.g. Jacques Rancière, (Gregory Elliott, trans.), The Future of the Image, (London,
2007) 46.
bodies of sword and sandal fijilms, our desire, etc. But Le Mépris does not
lose itself in the abyss of endless allusions when it goes through the semi-
otic “exchangeability” of things. Rather, it adopts a sort of dual strategy, on
the one hand displaying things in their symbolic, relational value, and on
the other repeatedly emphasizing the state of presumptive “self-sufffijicient”
concretion.
If the fijilm begins with the approaching Cyclopean camera, it initially
insists on the monocular vision, the simplicity of the cinematic image,
which is associated over the course of the fijilm with the fijigure of Fritz
Lang. As a monocle-wearing director and personifijication of a glorious
cinematic past, he represents the positive side of fijilm, especially clearly
in the scene in which his fijigure teaches us about the Greek belief in real-
ity. Horkheimer and Adorno have similar associations with the Cyclops
in Homer’s Odyssey:12
The singleness of the eye suggests the nose and mouth, more primitive than
the symmetry of eyes and ears, without which, and the combining of their
dual perceptions, no identifijication, depth, or objectivity is possible.
Much the same is attributed to the camera; like Polyphemus, its one-eyed
vision knows no negation. The nominalism of Odysseus is foreign to it,
since its fijirst language is concretion.
Joseph Vogl elaborates on this subject using an incidental scene towards
the end of the fijilm:13
Fritz Lang strolls past, hesitates, points to Francesca, who is leaning against
the flaking red of the wall in a yellow bathrobe, and says, “Lovely yellow
color,” while he walks on.
Vogl then develops a Deleuzian reading of the situation, which interrupts
the fijilm’s color code for a moment and marks the interval, since yellow –
according to Piercian semiotics – is still fijirstness, pure potency. This
means that it is established as a quality of sensation, whose efffability and
materiality are pending. The scene continues, however, and underlines
how the potentiality of “yellow” is actualized. Naturally it is Fritz Lang
who makes this comment about the color event, but he is followed by
Paul, the scriptwriter. When the latter encounters the translator Fran-
cesca, she does what she always does, she exchanges, but not as usual
words in one language for another; in this case, she exchanges fijirstness
for the relationship, “yellow” for the emblem of intrigue. For it is a pistol
she pulls from the yellow bathrobe, which, according to Francesca, Paul
had forgotten on the boat, and hands it to him. This immediately creates
a relationship, which becomes part of the texture of the intrigue. A gun
and a girl, Godard notoriously said, is all you need for a movie – and natu-
rally the gun alludes to the producer Prokosch, his rival, but it also refers
back to Francesca, to whom he had previously made advances. The girl
and the gun – they emblematically represent the dramaturgical push and
pull that rescues the characters from the underdetermined situations, the
“any-space-whatevers,” and entangles them with one another.14
Far removed from the questions of intrigue, such as why Camille
despises Paul, or whether Odysseus had had enough of Penelope, as Paul
speculates, a central principle of mise-en-scène appears here in a nutshell.
The fijilm begins by laying out its objects separately, but openly, only to
join them in fatal constellations in a second step. And yet undetermined
intervals repeatedly remain in between them. These potentials are threat-
ened by the decision prototypically represented by the producer Proko-
sch’s constant demand that his interlocutors choose between yes and no.
“I wanna hear now, yes or no, if you’re gonna rewrite his stufff?” – “Let’s
have a drink at my home. Yes or no?” We can literally watch pure situ-
ations of perception – colors and sounds, but also bodies and words –
appear and then be sucked into the narration, but only to add another
level to the epic. After all, Le Mépris operates not just performatively here
but also allegorically to refer to a concept of the epic that encompasses its
own conditions. Viewed from this allegorical standpoint, Lang alternates
between the imperturbability of the cinematographic apparatus and clas-
sic realism. The scriptwriter Paul refers to the afterwardness of writing,
just as Camille only stands for Brigitte Bardot herself, who for her part
represented the very epitome of erotic production value in those years.
Francesca functions as the unreliable medium through whom the various
production authorities communicate. But it is ultimately the production,
manifested in Prokosch, that exerts the pressure to engage in relationship
games. The potential of “yellow” becomes a bathrobe from which a pis-
tol emerges, which transforms the bathrobe into the attractive girl with
whom Paul was flirting when Prokosch turned to his wife.
Thus ultimately it also becomes clear that Le Mépris develops a notion
of the epic that can only be grasped as an aggregate of the process, con-
14 Gilles Deleuze (Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam, trans.), Cinema 1: The
Movement Image (Minneapolis, MN, 1986) 208.
dition, and object of the narrative. It is an epic that knows its intervals
and conditions and that also marks the construction of gendered, in this
case above all female, bodies. For, as the above-described scene at the
beginning of the fijilm illustrates, the mise-en-scène emphasizes that it did
not simply fijind the genders as they were, that they do not come from a
previous world that the fijilm merely represents. This exact body, which is
displayed from the beginning as the erotic center of the narrated world,
points beyond this world – to the production, which forces it into a rela-
tionship, into desire or contempt. And this also points to the authority
that moved Godard himself to fijilm additional scenes with Bardot, whose
market value he immediately converted into reflexive-aesthetic added
value.15
L’Odissea (1968)
The television production L’Odissea aired some fijive years later, at a time
when the Italian sword-and-sandal fijilm was already well past its peak.
As with Ulisse fijifteen years before, the producer was Dino de Laurentiis,
and Franco Rossi, whose roots lay in Italian neo-Realism, was hired as
the main director. The eight-part television format conscientiously trans-
lated the epic quality of the Odyssey into episodes, for which reason the
individual parts have little of the architecture of suspense traditional in
epic fijilm. Instead, L’Odissea is wholly devoted to a reconstruction of the
Homeric epic: it includes all of the perspectives, most of the characters,
places, and occurrences, while undertaking some dramaturgical fijilling in
of cracks, embellishing this or that aspect and above all adding a wealth
of concrete detail.
It is no accident that the fijilm begins with a prologue at the excava-
tions in Troy, south of the present-day Turkish city of Çanakkale, where it
takes its cue from the factual nature of the remains. To the solemn tones
of the commentator, the camera pans the desolate landscape and then
the massive ruins, observing the paved paths, exploring the roughness
of the stones, the cracks, laying out rhythmic perspectives through the
deserted ruins. Then the fijilm switches to close-ups of Mycenaean death
masks, in the manner of the so-called gold mask of Agamemnon discov-
ered during Schliemann’s excavations. The camera eyes them, tracks their
faces, shooting them in profijile and zooming in, as if this movement could
compensate for the silence of their expressions. After the credits there
follows a horizonless shot of the shore, and a female voice announces
herself as Athena on her way to Ithaca; a panning shot, however, captures
a mature, bearded man who begins to climb the karstic slope to a settle-
ment on a hill: the divine voice has assumed the guise of Mentis, a male
narrator now announces. Then we look into the palace, or more precisely
the chamber in which Penelope (Irene Papas) works at the loom, pack-
ing the weft with the weaving comb, then walks to the window, closes
the curtains, and gazes silently. Massive walls, crude wooden grates, and
loosely woven fabrics defijine the visual space. A short while later, when
a top view shows the palace courtyard, the scene is complete, for we see
people grinding, combing, and shearing among gnarled trees. The osten-
tatious textures as well as the constant preparing, washing, or roasting
show us how this world is grounded in the activities of everyday life, and
is constantly being reproduced through labor. There is nothing here of the
gaudy splendor familiar to us from the costumes and sets of genre pro-
ductions. It was from this agrarian world, the fijilm intimates, that Odys-
seus went offf to war. He repeatedly incorporates this world as a point
of reference, since it is against the image of home and hearth that the
distance travelled is measured. In this sense, the nature of the surfaces,
the shadings, the ornaments, and the fijineness of the weave change with
the stations of his journey. Despite its closeness to genre fijilm, even the
Polyphemus episode directed by Mario Bava remains committed to this
poetics: the cave of the Cyclops consists of scattered tree trunks, bits of
cheese adhere to beards, the breaking of bones is accompanied by pain-
ful cracks, and sharpening the stake that will be used to blind the Cyclops
becomes a time-consuming labor.
The art direction, however, deviates from actual archeological meticu-
lousness. The nature of the objects and the wealth of detail are more remi-
niscent of the forced sensualization of the open-air museum, in which
legibility is everything. Thus the blood is too red, the dirt too picturesque,
and the knitting and the seams too crude, as if the physicality of this world
had to be redeemed on the television screen. But this is not the expression
of some “misguided” realism, but the very foundation of this production’s
epic quality. L’Odissea incorporates the polyphony of memory, narration,
and song into its serial format and delivers it by unfolding the various
spaces under the premise of accessibility to the senses. The diversity of
pictorial textures lives up to the pluralism of the epic, so that we see how
each perspective and each voice is situated in an experiential world. For
Odysseus and Penelope, as well as for Telemachus, this means that they
“Include Me Out”
We have now presented three diffferent concepts of the epic, each of which
difffers in its own way from the recitation of heroic deeds pursued in the
16 Walter Benjamin, “Der Erzähler. Betrachtungen zum Werk Nikolai Lesskows,” in Ben-
jamin, Gesammelte Schriften, II, 2. (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1977) 438–65; English:
“The Storyteller: Reflections on the Works of Nikolai Leskov,” in Benjamin (Harry Zohn,
trans.), Illuminations (New York: Schocken Books, 1969) 83–109.
may be the case, but the reference to an isolated character trait appears
rather weak. If we turn once again to the Homeric epic, a further aspect
presents itself. For we must take into account that the fijigure of Odys-
seus represents a particular interpretation in the work of Horkheimer and
Adorno, just as do the reflections we have made on the margins of the
genre. Their history of the Enlightenment focuses more on the protago-
nist’s cunning qualities, his capacity for instrumental negation, and less on
his second well-known epithet: Homer’s epic also refers to him as Odys-
seus the much-enduring. Horkheimer and Adorno address this endurance
only as forbearance, the painful passing of the tests set him. In Homer’s
epic, however, endurance insists on the value it has in its own right, since
it is the mirror image of cunning – the instrumental self-reference that
gains us the world – of the melancholy self-reference that transforms the
world into an image of its loss. Successful self-mastery through self-denial
correlates structurally with the experience of powerlessness, for in both
instances the individual retreats from the world, extricating him/herself
from immediate entanglements.
Against the backdrop of a subject who experiences power and pow-
erlessness equally, the mismatch between the genre and the fijigure of
Odysseus appears more serious than it seemed at fijirst. For the Italian
sword-and-sandal genre, it is not just the melancholy of its male protago-
nist, or, more generally, the ambivalence of the experiencing subject, that
constitutes the scandal; the actual problem is the challenge that the epic
quality of Homer’s Odyssey represents, since it refers fundamentally to a
concept of the subject derived from the interval between impulse and
response. It is only in this intermediate space that a ruse can be consid-
ered, just as it can be fijilled with the experience of loss, mourning, and
dependency. What appears problematic here are not the values of the
potential contents of experience, since the indeterminate openness of the
subject proves to be an elementary precondition of narrative reflection.
Constituted in this manner, the experiencing subject is capable of articu-
lating itself through storytelling, by placing itself in relation to the various
experiences and processing the contradiction between instrumental and
pathetic self-reference through narrative. According to Horkheimer and
Adorno, this contains an element of emancipation, since it is a matter
of “the self-reflection which causes violence to pause at the moment of
narrating. . . .”17
Conclusions
“Include me out” means freeing the subject from the immediate con-
texts of violence.
Works Cited
Aumont, Jacques. “The Fall of the Gods: Jean-Luc Godard’s Le Mépris,” in Susan Hayward
and Ginette Vincendeau, eds., French Film: Texts and Contexts (London and New York:
Routledge, 1990).
Benjamin, Walter. “Der Erzähler. Betrachtungen zum Werk Nikolai Lesskows,” in Benja-
min, Gesammelte Schriften, II, 2. (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1977) 438–65; English:
“The Storyteller: Reflections on the Works of Nikolai Leskov,” in Benjamin, Illuminations
(trans. Harry Zohn; New York: Schocken Books, 1969) 83–109.
Birkenhauer, Theresia. “Episches Erzählen – ein Erfahrungsraum,” program for Isabel
Mundry, Ein Atemzug. die Odyssee, Deutsche Oper Berlin, 2005/2006 Season.
Blumenberg, Hans. Die Lesbarkeit der Welt (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1981).
Deleuze, Gilles. Cinema 1: The Movement Image (trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Hab-
berjam; Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1986).
Dyer, Richard. White: Essays on Race and Culture (London: Routledge, 1997).
Horkheimer, Max and Theodor Wiesengrund Adorno. Dialektik der Aufklärung: philoso-
phische Fragmente (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1998). English: The Dialectic of Enlight-
enment: Philosophical Fragments (trans. Gunzelin Schmid Noerr; Stanford CA: Stanford
University Press, 2002).
Rancière, Jacques. The Future of the Image (London: Verso, 2007).
Silverman, Kaja and Harun Farocki. Speaking About Godard. (New York: New York Uni-
versity Press, 1998).
Sorlin, Pierre. “Die Genrefijilme der 1960er Jahre. Kolossalfijilm und Western,” in Thomas
Koebner and Irmbert Schenk, eds., Das goldene Zeitalter des italienischen Films: 1960er
Jahre. (Munich: Ed. Text + Kritik, 2008).
Vogl, Joseph. “Schöne gelbe Farbe, Godard mit Deleuze,” in Friedrich Balke and Joseph
Vogl, eds., Gilles Deleuze – Fluchtlinien der Philosophie, (Munich: Fink, 1996).