SAE Institute London

620: Major Project

Is there a key to unlocking the

puzzle films of contemporary
cinema?

by Mark Minors

Submission Details

Student ID: 16871

Class code: FBHE0114
MP
FBHE0114_MP_16871
BA (Hons) Digital Filmmaking
Supervisor: Gillian McIver
Submission date: 29th August 2014
Word count: 14,880
Abstract

This thesis considers narration in the puzzle film genre, starting with an
overview of the history of cinematic storytelling, which has its roots in
Aristotelian theories of drama. Research into the modes of filmic theory will be
followed by an in-depth analysis of narrative form in puzzle films. Utilising a
cognitive approach, based upon the work of David Bordwell, the paper will
present a new model for puzzle narrative form, underpinned by the filmmaking
techniques of retardation and contradictory redundancy. These tools will be
proposed as the keystones of complex film storytelling.
The methodology employed will be wholly theoretical, using and expanding
upon research undertaken to date in the field of film theory. Alongside the use of
more general examples, two specific case studies will be included in order to
practically demonstrate the proposed model.

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Table of contents

List of figures! iv

Preface! v

Introduction! 1

What is a puzzle film?! 3

An introduction to cinematic narration! 3

Network narratives, mind game films, and complex

storytelling! 5

Modes of film analysis ! 11

The analysis of puzzle films ! 20

Case studies ! 32

Upstream Color! 32

Funny Games! 38

The benefits of repeated viewings! 42

Future directions ! 44

Conclusion! 46

Appendices! 48

Reference List! 52

Bibliography ! 58

Filmography! 64

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List of figures

Figure Name Page

Fig. 1 Film as phenomenal process 26

Fig. 2 Film as phenomenal process -- appended 27

Fig. 3 Puzzle film as phenomenal process 27

Fig. 4 The Sampler helps Kris by transplanting the worm 35

from her into a pig

Fig. 5 Later, the Sampler drowns Kris’s pig’s litter 36

Fig.6 Paul makes a sandwich whilst the soundtrack 40

forces the viewer to infer what events are
occurring off-screen

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Preface

Art is important because it is a language that all people can speak, cutting
across cultures. It follows that the analysis of art is also important, as it furthers
the reach of the artwork, providing added context and meaning.
Following the success of David Lynch throughout the 1980s and 1990s, the
puzzle film became more and more popular. This project will investigate the
building blocks of this sub-genre of cinema and determine where one should
focus one’s research if undertaking the construction of a puzzle film. Certain
commentators, including the critic Ray Carney, have been dismissive of
complex storytelling in cinema, calling it a cynical and pragmatic form of
filmmaking (Carney, 2000). By exploring the machinations of puzzle film plots,
this project will offer to the industry an alternative viewpoint to consider, and
reveal the underlying narrative tools for future puzzle filmmakers.
On a personal note, I have a particular soft-spot for this form of film (no doubt
thanks to a mathematical upbringing) and a desire to understand how such
narratives function, so I might create equivalent works in my own filmmaking
endeavours.
I would like to thank Gillian McIver for the gentle encouragement, Helena Hollis
for the technical things, Andrew Fursedon and Paul Whybrow for proofreading,
and my Dad for giving me the gift of grammar. Finally, I offer a nod to Shane
Carruth and Charlie Kaufman for the inspiration.

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Introduction

The telling of stories is a fundamental element of human communication. Across

millennia, stories have been told in all cultures as a means of education and
enlightenment, and the passing down of cultural norms, morals and values from
generation to generation. From a very young age, children learn customs
through the stories they are told. Everyday life is framed through stories as well.
A trip to the doctors or a conversation at work is likely to involve a story. They
are used to comfort and to coerce, to empathise and to curse. No matter what
your creed, race or religion, stories will have shaped a large part of who you
are.
From the early days of the likes of A Trip to the Moon (1902), the filmmaker’s
aim generally has been to convey a story to the audience. Through the history
of Western cinema, centred in Hollywood, certain techniques and strategies
have been employed in the conveyance of story to the watching audience. One
particular narrative model, based upon Aristotelian theories of drama and
spectacle, has dominated screens. Of course, there have been divergences
from this norm: notably the Nouvelle Vague movement in France of the 1960s,
and Dogme in 1990’s Scandinavia. Yet more recently a form of cinematic
storytelling, in which the audience is expected to invest in the unravelling of plot,
has become the vogue. Instances occurred between 1940 and 1955 and the
mid 1960s to early 1970s (Staiger, 2006, p. 2) but, this time around, it appears
to have infiltrated Hollywood itself. With blockbusters such as Inception (2010)
and The Matrix (1999) following the trend, it could well be that the puzzle film is
here to stay.
Film narrative is well researched. Any aspiring screenwriter can walk into their
local bookshop and find themselves a wealth of material to aid the construction
of their feature script. Within the industry, Syd Field’s Screenplay (1979) and
Blake Snyder’s Save The Cat (2005) are discussed with biblical reverence, but
such publications are written more as manifestos of ‘how to sell to the execs’,
offering little more than a by-the-numbers approach to screenwriting: Blake
Snyder’s most famous script, Stop Or My Mom Will Shoot (1992), is hardly the
mark of a seasoned screenwriter. Most importantly, these guides will outline
generic script structures, based on the three act framework which has served

1
Hollywood for decades. Whilst this is by no means a bad thing (cinema is still
here after all these years), it is somewhat limiting, and fails to account for other
narrative forms available to filmmakers.
This paper will explore how puzzle film narratives differ from those of the by-the-
numbers three act structure, investigating whether there are trends or principles
which permeate all puzzle film plots. The aim is to identify a technique or theory
to underpin the plot of a puzzle film.
The paper will first discuss what constitutes a contemporary puzzle film.
Examination of the origins of filmic narration and Hollywood screenwriting will
establish how puzzle film narratives differ from the mainstream. Further
consideration of current definitions and research into complex narratives will
illustrate the differing approaches to puzzle film interpretation.
A short history and appraisal of filmic analysis will follow. Taking a cognitive
approach to film theory rather than a theoretical1 one, this study will highlight a
baseline for cognitive film interpretation: Bordwell’s model, Film as phenomenal
process, which will be central to the understanding of puzzle film narrative
composition. Having determined a general approach to analysis, Bordwell’s
model will be challenged and refined into a model for puzzle film narration
through a review of various academic approaches to complex narratives by
prominent cognitive theorists. Finally, this model for puzzle film narration will be
demonstrated through two case studies: Upstream Color (2013) and Funny
Games (1997).

1 Here, “theoretical” is used as a collective term for hermeneutic approaches to film analysis.
The distinction between a cognitive and a theoretical approach is discussed in the chapter
‘Modes of film analysis’.
2
What is a puzzle film?

An introduction to cinematic narration

Narrative, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, is “a spoken or written

account of connected events; a story” (Oxford Dictionaries, 2014), but this
definition can be extended to the medium of cinema as well. By its very nature,
fiction film involves the telling of stories, and much research has been
conducted on theories of narration in cinema. One of the foremost voices on
film narration and form is David Bordwell, an American film theorist and film
historian, currently a professor at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
According to Bordwell, there are three ways to study narration in film: through
treating it as a representation of a story world; as a structure or a way of
combining parts into a whole; or as a process of selecting and arranging story
material so as to create an effect on the viewer. This process Bordwell refers to
as ‘narration’ (Bordwell, 1985, p. xi). To best understand the machinations of
puzzle film narration, it is pertinent to first consider the fundamental theories of
film narration itself.

“[T]he criteria Hollywood executives use to evaluate screenplays are exactly

those the legendary philosopher Aristotle thought were the nuts and bolts of
ancient drama...”
(Tierno, 2002, p. xviii).

In Poetics, Aristotle set out his view on the constitutional elements of dramatic
story structure, deeming a ‘unified’ plot to be the most important element of
drama. Breaking down Poetics for the modern-day screenwriter, Tierno (2002,
pp. 2-24) says that, for an Aristotelian plot to be considered to have ‘unity’, it
should focus on one singular action, rather than a character, because a
character will always be defined by the way they respond to the task at hand. In
order for this ‘unified action’ to feel complete, the incidents which comprise the
action must have probable or necessary connections: each incident must be the
effect of a preceding cause. Furthermore, a plot must have a beginning, a
middle and an end, and these must be connected by this cause-and-effect.

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According to Aristotle, by following these few directions, a dramatic narrative will
have the power to affect audiences. (Tierno, 2002, p. xviii).
Additionally, Aristotle marked out differences between simple and complex
plots, wherein a simple plot required this arrangement to be in a single,
continuous action or series of actions, and in an order which audiences find
easy to understand. His definition of a complex plot involved the addition of
“reversal” (an event which counteracts the character’s progress) and
“recognition” (the naming of the moment in which the character realises the
reversal has occurred). This introduction of “reversal” and “recognition” adds a
plot line of causality over and above the events of the story which, according to
Aristotle, makes it complex. He used the term peplegmenos, which literally
translates as ‘interwoven’, to describe this. (Buckland, 2009, pp. 2-3). The
notion of complex storytelling will be explored further in the next section.
Returning to Bordwell, there is a fair understanding amongst the narratological
community as to what constitutes a narrative, covered by two principles: the
action-centred and the agent-centred. Under action-centred narrative, certain
elements are arranged in time, and this can be traced back to Aristotle’s
Poetics. However, many theorists believe that some continuity of agent (e.g.
character), and some causal connections throughout the plot, are required to
create a minimal narrative (Bordwell, 2008, pp. 88-89). For example, three
events arranged chronologically might be:
1. Woodstock festival takes place in Bethel, New York (July 1969)
2. Mrs. Minors gives birth to a son, Mark (September 1979)
3. The Berlin wall starts to be brought down by its people (November 1989)

Whilst there is no doubt that these three events took place, it is not possible to
refer to their combination as a story, or a narrative, because they are not
connected; there is no cause and effect represented between them.
Additionally, for the events to give the impression of a narrative, a viewer
naturally requires an individual character to be party to the sequence of events.
Alongside the action-centred narrative, as set-out by Aristotle, sits the agent-
centred principle, influenced by mediaeval or Renaissance theory where
character was thought of as a mix of vital humours (Bordwell, 2008, p. 89).
Shakespeare, possibly the most famous of playwrights, is noted as a great

4
proponent of the portrayal of character. And yet, the benchmark in Hollywood
still comes back to Aristotelian guidelines:

“[P]eople took at face value Aristotle’s remark that every plot has a beginning, a
middle, and an end. ... This plot anatomy has been virtually taken as gospel in
the US film industry, with producer’s expecting submitted screenplays to adhere
to it.”
(Bordwell, 2008, p. 105).

Network narratives, mind game films, and complex storytelling

Since the 1990s, there has been a wave of films produced which have their
origins in Aristotle’s concept of complex storytelling. This could be attributed to
the success of filmmaker David Lynch and, particularly, his TV series Twin
Peaks, which enjoyed great mainstream success in 1990-91. Often grouped
under the sub-genre of puzzle films, their stories go further than simply adding
“reversal” and “recognition” elements to the plot. Audiences are left perplexed
by the events of the film as they are not interwoven, as Aristotle put it, but
wholly entangled. (Buckland, 2009, p. 3)
Bordwell (2006, pp. 74-75) has explored why this narrative experimentation
became so relevant during the nineties. He points to the rise in off-Hollywood
filmmaking by the likes of Lynch (Blue Velvet, 1986), and the emergence of
independent filmmaking, which so crowded the marketplace that narrative
innovation became requisite. Creative plotting was seen as a way to boost a
low-budget production which lacked stars, whilst the success of Pulp Fiction
(1994), with its back-and-forth timeline, proved to the major studios that the
public would embrace such stories, especially if they featured some star names
(e.g. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, 2004). Furthermore, at that time
the current crop of Hollywood filmmakers -- who had been raised on classic
Hollywood -- were making way for a younger generation who brought with them
influences from TV, comic book and video games mediums, leading to further
narrative advancement. The advent of home video and VHS meant audiences
could re-watch films at home and scrutinise them for plot clues which might not
be apparent in a single viewing in the cinema, so directors would purposely
5
include little details to provide for them. The trend has become such that films
like The Usual Suspects (1995) and Reservoir Dogs (1992) are now studied in
film schools.
Bordwell is not alone in exploring the rise of this form of narration. There has
been much discourse in academia regarding the classification of these films:
Bordwell talks of network narratives and forking paths; Buckland of puzzle films;
Staiger and Simons, complex storytelling; Cameron of modular narratives. The
remainder of this chapter will introduce the main ideas posited by the film
analysis community.
The classification ‘puzzle film’ has emerged in recent years as testament to the
industry’s pride in intricate narratives. In general, the term is applied broadly by
audiences to films which ask the viewer to consider ‘what actually happened’.
Bordwell (2006, p. 82) says that puzzle films draw on the self-conscious
narration of genres such as mystery, horror and neo-noir, such that the
audience is expecting to be misled. At the same time, he argues, puzzle films,
whilst rewarding re-watching and viewer investigation, still “exploit the
redundancy built into classical norms” and, by-and-large, depend upon the
audience’s familiarity with storytelling blueprints utilised by Hollywood for
decades -- the same blueprints which take Aristotle’s poetics as their bible.
Though he prefers the term ‘forking-path’ narratives to describe these films,
according to Bordwell (2006, pp. 82-102) there are a number of types of ‘puzzle
film’, as follows:

•The maladjusted protagonist -- Innovate by furnishing the protagonist with

acute anxieties or neuroses. This template has probably been brought about
by new demands for character flaws, as evidenced by certain character
options (e.g., the ‘outsider,’ the ‘mad character’) in modern-day screenwriting
manuals.

•Degrees of subjectivity -- For many years, dream and fantasy sequences

have been used in film narration. Ordinarily, these sequences are clearly
signposted through technical means such as a change in grade or focus or
sound, making them easy to navigate for the viewer. However, a trend in
contemporary puzzle films is to disguise or even remove this signposting,
leading an audience to interpret such sequences as the objective point of
view of the film, rather than the subjective view of the character.

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•Scrambled time schemes -- Again, the re-ordering of story events has been
apparent in Hollywood narration for many years. Flashbacks and flash-
forwards are both common techniques of film storytelling. A flashback has
traditionally been presented as a character memory, but instances of
flashback within flashback, and parallel flashbacks of multiple characters
have also occurred. In terms of puzzle films, sequences from differing times
are now often simply juxtaposed, as audiences are familiar with their use, so
the character memory is no longer required as an excuse. Less common are
long-range flash-forwards, but they have been used to represent alternative
futures or forking-path plots of contemporary puzzle films and, Bordwell
argues, viewers comprehend these because plots are held together by
“causal coherence” between the time schemes.

•Multiple protagonists -- Commonly referred to as the ensemble film, rather

than elaborating the plot of three or more protagonists equally, these films
tend to expand one or two subplots. The rise of the soap opera on television
is a likely influence in audience acceptance of these multi-plot films.

•Converging fates -- When a multiple protagonist film has no overriding

connection between characters, and their stories interact by accident, the
result is referred to as a converging fate film. Whilst the reliance on a twist of
fate or coincidence is necessary to bring the protagonists together, it is usual
that each protagonist will have their own traditional narrative goal to achieve
and obstacle to overcome en route, so the fact that the viewer dedicates the
time to each character on the way to the moment of convergence justifies the
means. Although the plot relies on coincidence, it is acceptable because it is
inevitable.

•Social networks -- The more protagonists in a film, the harder it can be for a
viewer to recall the intricate connections between them. This genre is
classified by Bordwell as ‘network narratives’, and whilst the sheer number of
characters to follow may appear daunting for a viewer at first, classical
devices are used to smooth grasp of the plot. Prologues to introduce
character relationships, chapter titles and repeated scenes all aid audience
understanding whilst, again, familiarity with soap operas and the popular
theory of ‘six degrees of separation’ help comprehension. “Central to our
engagement with these films is our sense that characters, situations, and
activities tend to parallel one another. ... By asking the viewer to notice
7
 likenesses and differences among the characters, network films are drawn to
certain traditional themes that depend on parallels.” (Bordwell, 2008, pp.
211-212)

Warren Buckland (2009, pp. 1-11) is comfortable with the classification ‘puzzle
film’ but is of the opinion they go beyond Aristotle’s definitions of complex
storytelling. He argues that puzzle films feature “non-classical characters who
perform non-classical actions and events” and represent a post-classical mode
of filmmaking. Where Bordwell attempts to frame puzzle films in the classical
sense, thus making them more coherent for the viewer, Buckland deems this
method strips puzzle films of their intricacies. For instance, a Bordwell reading
of The Sixth Sense (1999) would relate the character Dr. Malcolm Crowe’s
revelation to Aristotle’s theory of ‘reversal’ and ‘recognition’. In doing so, the
audience should experience catharsis at the character’s revelation. However,
the overriding feeling viewers got from that film, and the reason they were
compelled to return to the cinema to watch it more than the once, was that the
director had withheld information from them -- the final twist was shocking
because audiences failed to see it coming. Hence, Buckland adjudges that
puzzle films go beyond that Aristotelian structure. (Buckland, 2009, pp. 1-11).
Allan Cameron (2008, pp. 1-2) chooses to term these films ‘Modular narratives’.
He notes how the pleasure derived from interpreting the structures is central to
an audience’s enjoyment, as they include purposeful alterations to the narrative
order, going beyond the classic device of the flashback. Often these films are
“arranged in radically achronological ways” (2008, p. 1), using flash-forwards
and repeated scenes, and subverting the traditional relationship between past,
present and future. His work runs in parallel with that of Marsha Kinder (2002),
who describes these films in terms of ‘database narratives’. Cameron posits at
least one of four different groupings is present in each modular narrative (2008,
p. 6):

•Anarchronic -- the use of flashbacks and flash-forwards

•Forking path -- the use of divergent or parallel narratives
•Episodic -- the use of an abstract series of narratives
•Split-screen -- the use of parallel, spatially-juxtaposed narratives

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Thomas Elsaesser (2009, pp. 13-14) refers to these types of film as ‘mind-
game’ films. They play games with their audience on one of two levels: one
where a character is being played with but is unaware or doesn’t know who is
playing with them; and the other where the audience is played with because
certain details are withheld from them. An overriding feature of these films, as
noted by Elsaesser, is the delight they take in misleading or disorientating the
viewer. However, the viewer does not mind this. Indeed, they seem to rise to the
challenges set by the film, which suggests people find the films relevant to their
own lives. These films, therefore, could be emblematic of a shift in the
traditional film/viewer relationship: where the staples of point-of-view shot, mis-
en-scene, fly-on-the-wall and shot/reverse shot conversations -- the bread and
butter of cinema for a great many years (and, of course, still completely relevant
today) -- are supplanted in favour of a new style of storytelling. Perhaps the rise
of these films means audiences are ready to be taken in a new direction. In
response to the largely classicist thoughts of Bordwell, Elsaesser (2009, p. 21)
finds the most intriguing aspect of ‘mind-game’ films to be their tendency to
subvert the classical norms. Why else, he says, would the writer or director
make these films? He finds the experimentation with time, consciousness,
identity, causality, chance, and simultaneity, with their knock-on effects on
characters, to be key to the viewers efforts in making sense of these narratives.
For example, it would be impossible to interpret Memento (2000) by applying
Aristotle’s template of cause and effect, because the reverse-time nature of the
narrative dictates that cause follows effect, and not vice versa.
Following on from that point, Simons (2008, p. 122) states that causality is
simply an inference made by the audience based on the juxtaposition of objects
and events in the narrative. A film narrative basically “‘configures’ what would
otherwise be a simple succession of events into a ‘meaningful whole’.” Simons
spends time deconstructing the work of other scholars in the field, suggesting
that “most theorists would agree to subsume these films under the predicate
‘complex narratives’.” (Simons, 2008, p. 111). Further to Bordwell’s suggestion
that complex narratives can be dealt with manageably, Simons counters that,
rather, they open a raft of possibilities and chance between causality and
chaos, and require more complicated language to define how they “cope with
increasingly complex social and cultural environments...” (2008, p. 123).

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Before moving on, it should be noted that puzzles are not limited to fictional
filmmaking. Godard’s Histoire(s) du Cinéma (1988-98) -- essentially a
documentary -- can be considered a puzzle film. First and foremost, a piece of
work which takes a decade to create and which, in the final telling, requires over
four hours to make its myriad points, should, inherently, be complicated. Indeed,
perhaps the best way to explain what constitutes a puzzle film is through the
use of examples, Histoire(s) du Cinéma being a great one. In Histoire(s)...
Godard effectively deconstructs the documentary, presenting a subjective view
of where the medium of cinema has come from, and where it is going. He uses
frequent text overlays and montage and picture-in-picture to make his points,
often divulging as many as four pieces of information to the viewer at once -- a
veritable jigsaw to be constructed by the audience. The witty title is a puzzle in
itself, hiding multiple meanings, as “histoire” in French can be translated as both
history and story. The optional pluralisation permits the viewer to determine
themselves which of the four titles is most appropriate at any point during the
film. Additionally, the film as a whole is presented as a series of eight shorter
constituent parts. This naturally makes the film easier to consume for the
audience and, in arranging it as such, Godard ensures each bite-sized chunk
exposes a different underlying current in the his(story) of cinema; be it gender
politics, the politics of war, or the nature of story itself. His episodic approach
provides a framework whereby subplots to his overall vision can be disclosed
and explored, and multiple interpretations can be realised in the viewing.

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Modes of film analysis

Before anything else, it is important to set the scene with a little of the history of
film interpretation and analysis.
Starting in the period 1914-1930, a theoretical school known as Russian
Formalism was created by a group of literary critics in Leningrad and Moscow.
They deemed it their task to understand how works of art were formed so as to
effect a reaction in the viewer and, therefore, wrote film reviews and some of
the first essays on film theory. A number of prominent Russian filmmakers of the
time, including Sergei Eisenstein and Lev Kuleshov -- known as Montage
directors -- had close ties to the Russian Formalists, and wrote about their
theories. The book Poetika Kino (which translates as ‘The Poetics of Cinema’)
was an anthology edited by the Formalist Boris Eikhenbaum and published in
1927, the theories of which were virtually unopposed until after the Second
World War (Andrew, 1976, pp. 79-134).
André Bazin, who became prominent in European film criticism between 1945
and 1950, is widely considered the most important realistic film theorist. In 1951
he began Cahiers du Cinéma, a critical film periodical and home to a new breed
of young critics such as François Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard -- the founders
of the hugely influential French New Wave movement. Bazin’s technique was to
watch a film and make note of its particular virtues or idiosyncrasies, before
placing it within a genre. By utilising examples from the film in question and
those like it, he would develop ‘rules’ for that genre, and then review those
‘rules’ against a theory of cinema in general. In doing so, by starting with the
facts of the film he has watched, Bazin would arrive at a general theory.
(Andrew, 1976, pp. 134-135).
At the end of the 1960s, the use of semiotics to analyse and understand film
was introduced. In his essay La Grande Syntagmatique du Film Narratif (1966),
Christian Metz devised a language to describe the relationship between
consecutive shots (Andrew, 1976, pp. 212-254). In doing so, he heralded a
move away from the realistic theories of Bazin, into a more scientific realm.
The 1970s heralded a resurgence of the application of psychoanalysis to
interpret film. This came despite misgivings about its value as a critical method;
the danger being the true meaning of a film could be displaced by the Freudian

11
interpretation. However, Jacques Lacan’s updating of Freud’s work appeared to
offer a solution to the need for “a theory of the relations of the subject to
discourse” (Lapsley and Westlake, 2013, p. 67). One of the foremost advocates
of the psychoanalytical approach is Laura Mulvey, who favours the Freudian
aspects of Lacan’s theories. Mulvey’s paper Visual Pleasure and Narrative
Cinema (1975) posits that the gratification offered by mainstream cinema is
dependent upon the psychology of the viewer, and its appeal stems directly
from the attitudes unconsciously shaped by patriarchal society. (Mulvey, 1975,
p. 1).
Alongside the return of psychoanalysis, a number of other analysis tools
developed which have been grouped under the term “Grand Theory” (Flisfeder,
2011, p. 76). According to Bordwell (1996, p. 19), advocates of Grand Theory
focus on the proving of a theory through illustration using example films, and
therefore are prone to missing particular nuances of the film they purport to
analyse. In its stead, Bordwell proposes ‘middle-level’ research, where the
focus falls between theory-driven interpretation and critical evaluation: the aim
being to “provide strong and explicit explanations contoured to matters of
filmmakers’ creative choices.” (Bordwell, 2011).
Grønstad (2002, pp. 4-5) argues that the first opposition to the Lacanian school
of thought was presented by Bordwell in his Narration in the Fiction Film (1985),
which can be viewed as the first truly cognitive approach to film analysis. To
sum up the differences between the approaches of Grand Theory and middle-
level research, Bordwell (2011) suggests that where a Theoretical interpretation
might ask: “What aspects of the film are illuminated by my theoretical frame of
reference?”, a cognitive interpretation might instead query: “What distinctive
qualities of this film can I detect, and how do they enhance our sense of its
value?” (Bordwell, 2011). Because the goal of this paper is to determine
whether a formula exists to express the plot of a complex story where form is
paramount, for the remainder a middle-level approach will be utilised.

A middle-level analysis starts with an Aristotelian distinction between two

theories which film studies have taken up: mimetic (narration as a spectacle, as
drama) and diegetic (narration as a verbal telling). Mimetic theories of narration
begin with Aristotle and concepts of audience perspective within the film; Bazin
noted how a narrative film is akin to a photographed play, where the choice of
12
shot emphasises particular aspects of the story. It could be proposed, therefore,
that the camera acts as an invisible witness to the events. (Bordwell, 1985, pp.
3-9).
In 1926, the Russian Formalist Pudovkin expressed this. He suggested the role
of the camera was to represent the eyes of the spectator, where cuts are those
moments when the spectator casts their glance to another participant or object
or detail. In that way, a cut should not be jarring, as a subsequent shot should
follow a natural progression of the action. Moreover, “quickening the tempo of
editing can replicate in the viewer the mounting excitement of the invisible
witness.” (Bordwell, 1985, p. 9). Pudovkin’s theories included a number of
particular points which meant it became widely accepted. The notion of the
invisible witness casting their gaze about inherently suggested that continuity
editing should be predominant, whilst a cut from a long shot to a closer one
mimicked the human process of observing a detail. Additionally, by asserting
that the lens represented the eye of the director and cuts, his emotional
position, writers came to view the camera as the narrator’s viewpoint. Of
course, certain camera positions, such as a very high or very low angle, or cuts
from location to location might seem implausible to a viewer. As a result, certain
theorists extended Pudovkin’s stance so that the invisible witness (the
audience’s ‘eyes in the room’, so to speak) became an “‘ideal observer’ who
can see ‘aspects which would normally be unavailable to an observer in real
life.’” (Bordwell, 1985, pp. 9-10). This posed a new problem: now the invisible
witness was omnipresent, representative of the audience and the filmmaker,
and was in danger of taking the viewer out of the moment. Therefore it was
proposed that, even though it could go anywhere, the camera should be
restricted in its movement: “The ideal spectator must be an ideally placed
possible spectator.” (Montagu, 1964, p. 141, original emphasis).
Contrary to Pudovkin’s theories, Eisenstein, another Formalist, chose to focus
on style, where his assumption was that the viewer builds the story out of all the
contributing aspects and techniques deployed in the film. His aim was on a
heightening of the emotion of what was staged, training his actors to express
themselves through movement and their inherent physicality. For Eisenstein,
narration came from the dramatic portrayal of the story, where the camera
merely served to intensify the spectacle of the film, thereby emphasising the
effect on the audience. Likewise, the purpose of the edit was to create the
13
greatest impact in the construction of the story in the minds of the viewer, often
forsaking plausibility in the cut. He insisted that the event of the film was already
narrational, and that the tools of form and style served to relay this narrative into
the minds of the spectator. (Bordwell, 1985, pp. 12-15).
The theoretical work of Pudovkin and Eisenstein is particularly interesting
because each was a filmmaker in his own right. Their thoughts and positions
stemmed from a practical application of the concepts they supported, and their
legacy suggests theoretical approaches to film can be useful to filmmakers.
Theories of diegetic narration also have their roots in the work of the Russian
Formalists. Eikhenbaum, whose analogies were partially adopted by other
Formalists, thought ‘internal speech’ was indicative of a linguistic grounding in
cinema, where the arrangement of shots into phrases represented a filmic
syntax. However, it wasn’t until the advent of semiology and French
structuralism that critics formally utilised linguistics in the analysis of film. Colin
MacCabe’s work proposes that, akin to metalanguage in written narrative
framing the spoken word (that enclosed in inverted commas), the camera
represents the metalanguage of film, where the character’s speech is framed by
what the camera shows the audience to happen. This position harks back to
Pudovkin’s invisible witness, giving credence to the camera above all other
elements which combine to create a narrative. Using the analogy of the novel, it
is possible to identify flaws in MacCabe’s viewpoint: there exist written
narratives where the text outside inverted commas (i.e. the narration) is in the
first person, and therefore represents the outlook of the character. This extends
to film, certainly within the examples of complex narratives where, for instance,
a flashback represents a wholly subjective point-of-view. Rather than deeming
all non-spoken narrative as metalanguage, therefore, Bakhtin’s stance on
narration -- that the narrator’s choice of language can interact with character
speech -- seems a more sensible position to take with regard to film narration.
(Bordwell, 1985, pp. 18-20).
It is important to realise that these theories and interpretative methods are only
of any use if the film makes sense to the viewer. Without some level of
comprehension on the part of the audience, there is no narrative, and therefore
there is no film. The viewing of films is a “dynamic psychological
process” (Bordwell, 1985, pp. 32-33) which relies upon the exploitation of
certain human functions:
14
 •Perceptual capacity: The human retina cannot follow rapidly changing light
intensities, and it perceives a string of images as “apparent motion” if the
jumps between images are not too great.

•Prior knowledge and experience: Virtually everything in a film relies upon

the viewer’s previous knowledge. For example, without prior knowledge, a
viewer would not understand dialogue, or recognise objects or sounds.
These ‘templates’ -- audience references from the everyday world -- are
referred to as schemata by Bordwell (1985, p. 32).

•The film structure: The viewer, in perceiving a film, undertakes internal

“story-constructing activities” (Bordwell, 1985, p. 33), which influence the
execution of their schemata.

A spectator will usually begin watching a film ready to spend energy in building
the story by applying their own personal schemata. Their default goal in this is
to strive towards unity -- that Aristotelian term for a simple plot with a single
action. Some coherence in the relations between character, dialogue and shots
must be made, and the likely format of this comprehension is commonly held to
be the ‘canonical’ story format (Bordwell, 1985, pp. 34-35), as follows:

•Explanation of a state of affairs

•Complicating Action
•Ensuing events
•Outcome
•Ending
A viewer’s understanding of the narrative is best when the story follows a “drive-
to-the-goal pattern” (Bordwell, 1985, p. 35). When the goal is stated later in the
plot, or not at all, story comprehension deteriorates. Effectively, the sooner the
goal is stated, the easier it is for the viewer to make inferences and relate the
actions of the story temporally as the plot develops. Where the goal is withheld,
the viewer imagines their own goals, until such a time as the actual goal is
stated. As such, the canonical format can be revised to (Bordwell, 1985, p. 35):

•Setting and characters

•Goal
•Attempts
•Outcome
15
 •Resolution
Achronological narratives require the viewer to apply new schemata in their
rearrangement, but can be confusing, especially in the confines of the cinema,
where it is not possible to pause the action and take stock of events. Taking
audience comprehension as a starting point, then, Bordwell has devised a
theory of narrational patterning to allow films to be understood as coherent
wholes (Bordwell, 1985, p. 49).
Bordwell (1985, pp. 49-50) divides the narrational construction of a film into
three, whereby the plot and style combine in the minds of the audience to give
the story. Taking the lead from the work of the Russian Formalists, he refers to
plot as syuzhet, and story as fabula. The syuzhet is the arrangement of events
in the film, such as actions, scenes and plot twists, whilst the fabula is the story
pattern created by viewers of the film in their application of schemata
throughout the viewing. The style is simply the technical cinematic techniques
used in the making of the film -- things such as lighting, sound and camera
moves.
The syuzhet, therefore, drives the construction of the fabula, and three
principles determine that relationship (Bordwell, 1985, p. 51):

•Narrative “logic”: In the eyes of the audience, events of the syuzhet are
assumed to be the result of another event or, for instance, a character trait.
This goes back to the Aristotelian notion of cause-and-effect. The syuzhet
can aid the identification of these causal events, or mask or complicate them.
For instance, a detective film might withhold certain information in the
syuzhet, thereby making accurate inferences difficult in the fabula.

•Time: The syuzhet can present time in any order, duration or frequency,
which can, in turn, aid or hinder the viewer’s construction of time in the
fabula.

•Space: Again, the syuzhet can present the setting of the film simply, or
otherwise, thereby determining the construction of the film setting in the
fabula.

These principles are of particular interest when discussing puzzle films. Often,
the syuzhet is constructed such that an audience’s development of the fabula is
managed, so particular inferences are only made possible at specific points in
16
the film, thereby increasing suspense, confounding expectations, and the like.
Further, a film’s style interacts with the syuzhet in a number of ways. It could be
closely married to the syuzhet, providing clues for the viewer. Or it might be
used to influence the spectator’s thought process directly, or even contend
directly with the syuzhet for the audience’s attention (Bordwell, 1985, p. 52).
Bordwell’s theory (1985, pp. 54-57) makes the assumption that an “ideal”
syuzhet will provide exactly the amount of information required for an audience
to coherently construct the required fabula for the particular genre. A crime film,
then, might withhold syuzhet information until the outcome is revealed. It follows
that it is possible to conceive of a syuzhet which “overloads” with information. A
complex film might choose, therefore, to both withhold and overload throughout
the course of its narration. Moreover, a syuzhet, more often than not, will not
present all events that a viewer understands to take place during the course of
a film. For instance, in the film which introduces a child character and then
returns to them many years later in adulthood, the audience will assume the
intervening years were without events of note. These instances of ‘missing’
information are referred to as “gaps”, and are “the clearest cues for the viewer
to act upon, since they evoke the entire process of schema formation and
hypothesis testing.” (Bordwell, 1985, p. 55). How the viewer interprets these
gaps is the key to their fabula construction. Additionally, principles of retardation
(the delay of information to kindle suspense and surprise) and redundancy (the
repetition of syuzhet information to reinforce inferences) work to build the
fabula.
Of course, the choice of what should be included in the syuzhet is paramount to
the creation of the narrative. In this, Bordwell (1985, pp. 57-60) refers to Meir
Sternberg (1978), and proposes three categories to aid narrational decision
making:

•Knowledge of narration -- The narration is considered to have a degree of

knowledge regarding the fabula construction. This knowledgeability can be
described in terms of range and depth, where range can be thought of as the
number of characters with knowledge which instructs the fabula, and depth,
the profundity of the knowledge presented.

•Self-consciousness of narration -- The extent to which the narrative

addresses the viewer can be thought of as the degree of self-consciousness.
For example, classic Hollywood staging suggests modest self-consciousness
17
 in the arrangement of characters so that the audience might see them well.
Furthermore, choosing to turn a character away from the audience could also
be considered to be self-conscious in its recognition of the viewer.

•Communicativeness of narration -- Despite a narration having a particular

degree of knowledge, the extent to which that information is broadcast to the
audience determines its communicativeness.

The order of syuzhet incidents is also very important in shaping an audience’s

inferences in the fabula. According to Sternberg (1978, pp. 45-55), it is possible
to elicit particular feelings in the viewer through particular temporal ordering in
the narrative. Curiosity originates from knowledge of past events; suspense
comes from a desire to know what is going to happen next; surprise results from
a disconnect between what was expected to occur and what was actually
presented. Bordwell (2008, p. 100) likens Sternberg’s work to a psychological
phenomenon called the primacy effect. The primacy effect gives greatest
prominence to the first item in the list, and the same is true of a film. An
audience understands events based on the order in which they are presented,
so the opening scene and the first impressions of characters are paramount in
the inferences a viewer will make.
A final point on Bordwell’s model of syuzhet and fabula is in its relation to puzzle
films. Bordwell is of the opinion that puzzle films exhibit enough parallels with
classically-told narratives that they can fit the model -- a point that will be looked
at in more detail in the following chapter. However, there do exist films where
the notion of a fabula becomes opaque. For instance, Resnais’s Last Year at
Marienbad (1961) is a film where Bordwell admits the whole action seems
inconclusive (Bordwell, 2006, pp. 80-82). This suggests the construction of a
definitive fabula for the film is beyond the capabilities of a viewer, which renders
Bordwell’s model obsolete in this case.

Whilst it is considered something of a benchmark, Bordwell’s syuzhet/style/

fabula model isn’t the sole middle-level approach to filmic interpretation.
Buckland (1998), in response to an essay by Noel Carroll, dissects a number of
strategies which Carroll introduces. Buckland states that a Formalist approach
is “object-centred”, where hypotheses are “tested against the film”; reception
studies focus on the activity of the viewer; an explicatory approach looks for
18
hidden meanings in the film; and a symptomatic interpretation understands that
films hide within them a certain ideological depth which only a hermeneutic
analysis can uncover. Whilst, on the surface, explicatory and symptomatic
approaches may appear similar, Buckland argues they are differentiated by the
“degree of abstractness that informs them”, where explicatory analysis results in
a more “concrete” interpretation. More recently, Buckland is one to have
developed an understanding of cognitive semiotics; that is, a cognitive
approach to film theory grounded in a semiotic framework. This differs from the
work of Bordwell and other North American scholars who work within a purely
cognitive structure. (Buckland, 2004, pp. 1-2).
In closing this chapter, it should be noted there are a great many ways to
approach filmic interpretation. Even amongst scholarly advocates of the middle-
level approach, there are differences of opinion and a great deal of theorising,
criticism and counter-theory. However, the vast majority do take Bordwell’s work
on syuzhet, fabula and style as the baseline for their interpretations, and that
will be the case here in the consideration of puzzle film analysis. Bordwell’s
model offers a broad and widely-accepted framework for the narrative of film,
which can readily be applied to the puzzle film genre, subject to some
expansion which will be explored in the next chapter. As such, Bordwell’s model
will form the basis of the work presented in this paper.

19
The analysis of puzzle films

When it comes to compiling a general approach to the understanding of the

construction of narrative in complex storytelling, a principal consideration is the
arrangement of time. According to Simons (2008), Cameron’s work on modular
narratives -- those comprised of an arrangement of small narrative units which
could be recombined in multiple formations -- alludes to the fascination with
mathematical chaos theory in the 1990s (now more commonly referred to as
complexity theory) simply as an analogy, whereas his work actually has its roots
in philosophy and literary criticism. By “de-chronolizing” narratives in this way,
Simons places Cameron’s theory of modular narratives in with the model of
structuralism.
Bordwell’s approach (2002) is to classify these complex stories as ‘forking path’
narratives, and he postulates that they simply employ an extension of the
classic form of film narration. As such, Bordwell has defined seven rules to
govern the construction of a forking path narrative:

•Forking paths are linear.

•Any fork is signposted.
•Forking paths intersect sooner or later.
•Forking path tales are unified by traditional cohesion devices (e.g.
appointments and deadlines).

•Forking paths will often run parallel.

•All paths are not equal; the last one taken, or completed, presupposes the
others (for example, repeated paths often do not show the full action or
event).

•All paths are not equal; the last one taken, or completed, is the least
hypothetical (for example, the ‘recency’ effect -- similar to the primacy effect
-- gives greater credence to the final future shown); the last one taken is
often supposed to be the one that ‘really’ happened.

Bordwell himself suggests a better name for these narratives might be ‘multiple-
draft’, where the last version presented is the “most satisfying revision”.
(Bordwell, 2008, p. 184). His view is that, no matter the number of forks, the
overall effect is that of a classical story-form: a single line of purpose, launched

20
by the spectator’s first impression of the key character(s), and finished with a
single, simple ending. In response to Bordwell, Branigan (2002, pp. 105-114)
suggests more radical forms of forking-path film might be imaginable: whilst the
paths to the ending have already been designed by the filmmaker, the syuzhet
has to be carefully constructed to permit the viewer to visualise multiple
conclusions without unveiling the fact of the construction. Requiring more than a
simple reordering of the syuzhet, these theoretical ‘complex’ forking-path
narratives require the viewer to “discover the processes through which elements
were selected for the plot...” (Branigan, 2002, p. 107, original emphasis).
Furthermore, the device of the interchanging of assumed objectivity (of the
whole film) and assumed subjectivity (of a character) permits the portrayal of
altered states: a character’s awareness of their situation can range from fully
cognisant to fully ignorant. Branigan also makes an analogy to the moment
during a computer-animated morph (like that used to great effect in Terminator
2, 1991) when neither the original nor final object is present, and a ‘nearly
neither’ object exists. This he applies to the “film text” when its narrative sits
somewhere between the filmmaker’s vision and the spectator’s interpretation:
the possible plots contained therein can be considered to be “nearly true”. Of
course, the construction of these not-quite-narratives is a wholly subjective
endeavour, reliant on the gap between the minds of the filmmaker and the
individual viewer and, as such, is awkward to measure.
In her response to Bordwell’s forking-paths, Young (2002, pp. 115-118)
focusses on the maximum number of these alternatives a viewer can hold in
mind at any one time, suggesting that Bordwell is limiting his assessment by
likening these films to classical forms. However, in reference to the cognitive
neuroscientist A. Treisman, Young concludes that, although humans are
capable of the “simultaneous, parallel processing” that would permit the
understanding of multitudinous narrative paths, such cognitive effort is not
possible when the task requires a “spotlight” as, in that case, the viewer’s full
attention is required. Rather, the subject of these films is not the limited
alternatives the viewer can conceive, but a question of the human capacity to
comprehend time itself...a puzzle if ever there was one. Young’s is an important
point. According to a 1956 article by the psychologist George Miller, the human
short-term memory is capable of holding only 7 ± 2 pieces of information at any

21
one time. When watching a puzzle film, therefore, the spectator is restricted in
the amount of information they can decipher during the viewing. (Miller, 1956).
Elsaesser’s (2009, pp. 17-18) approach to his mind-game theory is to
categorise complex narratives based on six typical features:

•Protagonist witnesses events whose meaning escape him; this occurs

alongside a suspension of cause and effect, or time itself is presented in a
non-linear fashion (e.g., Donnie Darko, 2001; Memento, 2000)

•Protagonist is mistaken regarding the difference between reality and

imagination, and there is no marking of this difference in the film style; often
reality transpires to be merely a simulation (e.g., The Matrix, 1999; The
Truman Show, 1998)

•Protagonist has an imaginary friend (e.g., Fight Club, 1999; Lost Highway,
1997)

•Protagonist questions his reality, or even his mortality (e.g., Blade Runner,
1982; The Sixth Sense, 1999)

•The existence of parallel worlds is kept from the protagonist and the
audience until a moment of reveal (e.g., Fight Club, 1999; The Sixth Sense,
1999)

•Protagonist is persuaded of their delusion about, for instance, a missing

child. Having maintained their sanity throughout, the protagonist is proved
correct eventually (e.g., Minority Report, 2002; Flight Plan, 2005)

Through these definitions, Elsaesser suggests that mind game films can be
analysed in terms of the narration, in terms of the character’s psychology, or in
terms of humanity and its place alongside other intelligent entities. However, he
goes on to identify a trend in the mental instability of the characters within these
films, and thus proposes three psychological disorders to govern the plight of
mind game protagonists:

•Paranoia -- where the protagonist has experienced the loss of a child and
fights against a ‘conspiracy theory’

•Schizophrenia -- where the mental illness is often not signposted, or a

benchmark of “normality” is not present against which the audience can
judge the protagonist’s state

•Amnesia -- where the recall of the protagonist wildly affects their subjectivity
22
He attributes this narrative trend to the “reorientation of the body and senses”
as humans adapt to a world where continuous connectivity rules, something
symptomatic of the culture of machines and automated systems although,
Elsaesser states, this may not be possible to summarise succinctly in theory at
present.
One scholar who has attempted to do so is Charles Ramírez Berg, through his
“Taxonomy of Alternative Plots” (2006, pp. 5-61). With the rise in recent years of
films considered to utilise “alternative” plotting, Berg proposes a series of
classifications to aid the identification of narrative patterns. His baseline, as with
many, is Bordwell’s theory of fabula and syuzhet, and specifically the syuzhet of
a classical Hollywood narrative: featuring “a goal-oriented protagonist, who is
the film’s main causal agent.” He chooses not to classify film style, leaving it for
others to do so.
Berg chooses three main categories for his classification, each broken into
several sub-categories. The main categories are: (1) Plots based on the number
of protagonists; (2) Plots with nonlinear timelines; (3) Plots which contravene
classical rules of subjectivity, and the traditional format of goal, causality and
exposition:
Number of protagonists
•The Polyphonic or Ensemble Plot (multiple protagonists, single location)

•The Parallel Plot (multiple protagonists, multiple times/locations)

•The Multiple Personality Plot (multiple protagonists are variants of the same
person)

•The Daisy Chain Plot (no central protagonist, one character leads to next)
Non-linear timelines
•The Backwards Plot (linear events presented in reverse)

•The Repeated Action Plot (one character repeats action)

•The Repeated Event Plot (one action from multiple perspectives)
•The Hub and Spoke Plot (multiple story lines intersect at one decisive
moment)

•The Jumbled Plot (scrambled sequence of events motivated artistically)

Breaking the ‘rules’
•The Subjective Plot (a character’s internal perspective)

•The Existential Plot (minimal goal, causality and exposition)

•The Metanarrative Plot (narration about film narration)
23
Berg’s classification system (with over 150 films cited, dating as far back as
1902) is relatively broad, but this breadth does little to shed light on the specifics
of complex narrative plotting and how they work.
Panek (2006, pp. 62-97), meanwhile, whose theories centre on what he terms
“psychological puzzle films”, groups his analyses into four distinct film types:
deceptive narration throughout the film; films with a single significant moment in
which the narration reveals itself to be deceptive; martyred protagonists who
either time travel and/or have severe mental problems; and the unique narration
of Memento (2000). His research suggests there are patterns within these films
regarding the range and depth of knowledge, self-consciousness and
communicativeness at play -- something that harks back to Bordwell’s use of
Sternberg in the construction of the syuzhet. Panek proffers the regular use of
the “split protagonist” in puzzle films, proposing that this character is
represented with one half repressed whilst the other represses, and that this
relationship corresponds to the Freudian interpretation of id and super-ego
respectively. He further notes that a pivotal scene sees a change in the range,
depth, communicativeness or reliability of the narration, prompting the audience
to reassess the honesty of the narration up to that point. According to Panek,
the frequent use of narrational gaps (as per Bordwell) is also a common feature,
some of which endure right through the film.
In addition to his work on forking-path plots, Bordwell (2006, pp. 80-103)
attempts to demystify the puzzle film genre further. He deems this genre as
films where the viewer is compelled to question “what really happened”: where
there are gaps in apparently objective narratives which are not necessarily
signalled as such. Puzzle films, he says, operate a brazen form of misdirection,
where viewers are encouraged to doubt events originally cast as ‘fact’. Often,
the film does not offer enough redundancy to confirm what really took place,
and the classical technique of showing something three times is omitted.
Rather, for the filmmakers, one showing can be enough and the emphasis is
placed on the audience to determine what really happened.
Bordwell identifies a number of tools used by these films, which all have their
roots in the classical filmmaking of studio-era Hollywood. The popular trend for
Freudianism in the 1940s gave rise to maladjusted protagonists, who also
frequent the contemporary puzzle film, whilst overtly subjective storytelling
techniques, such as dream sequences, hallucinations, and unreliable narration,
24
have long been used in Hollywood, and are staple in the puzzle genre. Out of
sequence narration is also a pillar of both Hollywood and complex storytelling,
with the flashback prevalent, and even the flashforward occurring from the
1960s onwards. Regarding films with multiple protagonists, Bordwell proposes
that whilst not all characters are submitted to the full cycle of goal and obstacle,
their desires are developed beyond that of a traditional subplot so overarching
themes can be emphasised. The techniques used to make such multi-character
narratives understandable range from the use of a single recurring object, or of
a single location or locale, to a restriction to a short span of time, whilst
character links also extend further than mere spatial juxtaposition, with familial
and friendship ties combined with workplace affiliations and the involvement of
strangers in a single event or coincidence. This apparent twist of fate, Bordwell
says, still satisfies the tenets of classical filmmaking, as the various character’s
involvement is driven by traditional goals and obstacles, whilst the convergent
moment itself serves as a satisfying conclusion, given the audience investment
to that point. (Bordwell, 2006, pp. 80-103).
What Bordwell is keen to stress through his examples is the reliance on
redundancy through these complex story structures with, for example,
flashbacks signalled or blocks of action signposted with inter-titles or changes in
style, or upfront introductions of the key players in multiple protagonist plots. Of
Lynch, one of the foremost makers of complex narratives, he states: “If complex
storytelling demands high redundancy, Lynch has been derelict in his duty.”
However, perhaps it is this very lack of redundancy which results in a complex
story: when the pertinent plot points -- from the filmmaker’s point of view -- are
repeated so as to explain their relevance to the audience, the story becomes
that much less complicated to interpret. Indeed, as Elsaesser (2009, p. 21)
states, perhaps the complexity in these narratives is the express aim of the
filmmaker; why would they make the film in the first place if the intention was
not to subvert the classical mode of storytelling?

This question leads nicely to a direct analysis of Bordwell’s model, which will be
followed by its adaptation to form a new model for puzzle film narratives.
First, it can be first assumed that a robust cognitive model for the narrative of a
‘classical’ film is that Bordwell’s syuzhet and style prompts creation of the fabula

25
(Fig. 1), where the filmmaker is responsible for the arrangement of the syuzhet
and the choice of style, and the viewer fashions the fabula based upon these
inputs. However, crucial to the construction of the fabula is the set of schemata
available to the viewer, as these drive the story choices made. For example, a
schema for a doctor might conjure an individual who is helpful, trustworthy,
discreet and well-educated, and so a film character introduced as such will
automatically be assigned these virtues by the viewer. On a viewer-by-viewer
basis, then, the path from syuzhet to fabula is very much dependent on their
personal schemata. With that in mind, an expanded version of Bordwell’s model
for classical narration might include a schematic filter, whereby the viewer’s
fabula becomes a combination of filmmaker syuzhet, filmmaker style, and
subjective viewer schemata (Fig. 2).
A complex narrative differs from a classical one in the viewer’s ability to decode
the events of the syuzhet. This is not to say the viewer’s schemata is lacking in
any way; on the contrary, a viewer’s schemata is precisely what it is: the
knowledge that the individual brings when watching a film. The pivotal
difference between a classical and a complex narrative lies in the viewer’s
ability to make inferences regarding the gaps in the syuzhet. In a classical
narrative, gaps (often the result of retardation) are plugged through redundancy,
where repetition of pertinent plotting information allows the viewer to make
accurate inferences. It follows, therefore, that a lack of redundancy and, by
extension, an excess of retardation, or the redundancy of conflicting plot points,
results in gaps in a complex narrative which, in turn, give rise to the inferred
26
‘nearly true’ plots as defined by Branigan. The number of these possible
narratives is driven by the number of gaps in the syuzhet.
A model to express the construction of the fabula for a complex narrative would
include these unresolved inferences made by the viewer during the course of
the film (Fig. 3). In this case, as with a classical narrative, the syuzhet and style
are defined by the filmmaker and the schematic filter is still applied by the
viewer. The difference from a classical narrative lies in the inferences the viewer
makes in the watching, where n1, n2, n3, ... are the possible narratives the
viewer is able to construe up to the final construction of the fabula, as driven by
excessive retardation, an absence of redundancy, or conflicting redundancies in

27
the syuzhet. Additionally, non-traditional style choices can prompt narrative
inference, such as use of montage over continuity editing. Because the viewer
is only able to hold a certain number of inferences in mind to the end of the film,
because inferences are likely to interact, and because later inferences may
mask former ones, a plus-minus (±) operator is used in the expression. This
results in a fabula which is a subset of the filtered syuzhet/style of the filmmaker
and the possible plots inferred by the viewer.
It is assumed that this model applies to a single viewer of a single film, and that
further applications are beyond the scope of this paper. The chapter “Further
directions” will discuss the avenues of additional research opened up by this
model.

Before moving on to two case studies in the next chapter, first a review of some
typical analyses of recent classics of the complex narrative variety, and to test
the proposed puzzle film model against them. The chosen films are: The Sixth
Sense (1999), featuring a momentous plot twist, and Memento (2000), where
the syuzhet is arranged in reverse chronology, along with a brief consideration
of a puzzle film which perhaps does not work correctly.
In his analysis of The Sixth Sense, Daniel Barratt (2009, pp. 62-86) refers to the
primacy effect (as proposed by Bordwell), along with the viewer’s application of
specific schemata. For example, the schema for “personhood” suggests that a
character who is presented as capable of walking and talking also possesses
life and humanity. Hence, the viewer assumes that the character of Malcolm is
alive following his shooting in the opening scene of the film. Use of the primacy
effect in the introduction of Malcolm and his relationship with his wife add to the
notion that he is a living, breathing human being -- albeit one where his job has
taken a toll on the relationship. Additionally, Barratt introduces the role of shock
and surprise as a distracting influence on the viewer: the shooting of Malcolm
and immediate suicide of his attacker is really quite startling, yet a matter of
seconds later the audience is presented with an inter-title and a shot of Malcolm
supposedly alive and well (another instance of the primacy effect) looking
through notes regarding a new patient. This abundance of information, coupled
with the sight of Malcolm apparently alive, immediately distracts the audience
from lingering on the shooting. Furthermore, the audience accepts the apparent
coldness of Malcolm’s relationship with his wife in subsequent scenes because
28
of the priming effect of the opening scene, and it is only in the grand reveal at
the end of the film that the true nature of these scenes is confirmed.
Applying the puzzle film model, the role of schemata is unchanged from
Barratt’s interpretation. However, looking specifically at the role played by
retardation and redundancy in the construction of possible narratives, there are
two main plots that a viewer looks to resolve during the course of the film: the
mending of Malcolm’s relationship with his wife, and the mending of Cole’s
relationship with his mother, which is driven by the curing of Cole’s problem.
Firstly, because Malcolm’s job is positioned as a barrier in his relationship with
his wife from the outset, subsequent scenes with his wife in the restaurant, in
the bedroom, and outside the antique shop, can all be considered moments of
redundancy in the reinforcement of the narrative branch: ‘Malcolm’s wife is
becoming ever more distant’. The obvious retardation of Malcolm’s ‘alive’ status
merely compounds this. The main driving force of the film is Malcolm’s need to
understand and resolve Cole’s problem. Indeed, Malcolm is so intent on helping
Cole that he is shown to be quite unprofessional in his conduct, regularly
divulging personal information to Cole so that, at the end, it appears that Cole
has helped Malcolm rather than vice versa. This interaction represents further
evidence of redundancy in Malcolm’s quest to reconcile with his wife, whilst the
truth of Malcolm’s plight is retarded such that the viewer believes he has
interactions with Cole’s mother. All the while there is a complete absence of
redundancy regarding the shooting. Cole is clearly presented as Malcolm’s
ticket to professional salvation due to his identical symptoms to the patient
Malcolm failed, whilst the scene of the shooting is not revisited until the reveal.
Finally, the greatest retardation comes in the masking of Malcolm’s ‘life’ outside
the interactions shown in the film. Given Malcolm is actually dead, why does it
take him to the end of the film to realise this? The suggestion is that he only
experiences those moments the audience witnesses, and is oblivious to the
fragmentary nature of his (after)life. Without this retardation and other examples
of missing information and redundancy, the film could not conceal the twist
which was its great success.
Memento, meanwhile, finds its popular success in the reversed arrangement of
time through its narrative. In his analysis, Stefano Ghislotti (2009, pp. 87-106),
tackles the plot by identifying the mnemonic devices used to aid the audience’s
understanding of events, and comparing the original (reverse time) theatrical
29
release with the special (chronological) “easter egg” available on the DVD. In
doing so, he identifies various narrational questions raised by the film, from the
overarching, “Why did Leonard kill Teddy?” to, “What happened to Leonard’s
wife?” and, “Are Leonard’s memories true?”. The analysis is heavily centred on
the structure of the film, calling to mind Cameron’s work on modular narratives.
Whilst this might offer a reason for these plot questions to be raised in the eyes
of the audience, it does not account for why they remain unanswered at the end
of the film.
Considering each plot strand from the perspective of retardation and
redundancy, the reason the viewer is unsure of why Teddy is murdered is the
excessive retardation of the motive; it isn’t until the end of the film, when
Leonard chooses to essentially frame Teddy himself, that a distinct motive is
revealed. The audience’s doubt of this motive is compounded by redundancy
around Leonard’s condition, which accounts for the other two plot questions
mentioned: the film constantly reminds the viewer of Leonard’s condition, and
intercuts Leonard’s present storyline with his anecdote of Sammy Jenkis. Within
both strands allusions are made -- a further example of redundancy -- which
suggest Sammy might actually be Leonard. However, because these various
instances are contradictory (Leonard holds a syringe/Leonard pinches his wife;
Leonard can recall his life before the accident/a flash of Leonard in Sammy’s
place is glimpsed in the mental institute), it is difficult for the viewer to
definitively form the fabula. Therefore, the hiding of categorical information
through retardation, and the overload of possible narratives through
redundancy, could be perceived as making Memento puzzling for its audience.
It is important to also consider a puzzle film where the narrational technique
could be deemed to fail. Elsaesser suggests that viewers of The Usual
Suspects felt cheated through its use of an unreliable narrator and a ‘deceitful’
point-of-view shot (2009, p. 20). Whilst it can be argued that unreliable narration
is a staple of the puzzle film genre (e.g., Donnie Darko, Fight Club, Memento,
etc., etc.), the gratuitous point-of-view shot suggested to the audience there
was a witness to a crucial scene when, in reality, there was none. The question
becomes, in this case, is The Usual Suspects actually a puzzle film, or did it
simply lie in order to create its mystery? Subjectively speaking, the greatest
mystery in that film revolved around the identity of Keyser Sose, with the
syuzhet designed to make the audience question whether or not the character
30
played by Gabriel Byrne was the mastermind -- a puzzle, of course. However,
the point-of-view shot played a large part in that mystery, so it could be argued
the film did lie in order to create its puzzling effect. Conversely, the ‘point-of-
view’ shot is a style choice employed by the filmmaker, and the viewer’s
schemata placed a character in that scene where there was none -- something
which could be interpreted as a form of stylistic redundancy on the part of the
filmmaker in the creation of the puzzle.

31
Case studies

The following case studies will offer analyses using general theories on the
plots of the chosen films, followed by an application of the “Puzzle film as
phenomenal process” model, as introduced in the previous chapter. Both
approaches will be compared and contrasted, before some further comments
on the films’ use in answering the question posed by this paper: Is there a key
to unlocking the puzzle films of contemporary cinema?

Upstream Color
Upstream Color (2013) is the second feature by Shane Carruth, an independent
filmmaker who is a self-confessed control freak (Palmer, 2013). For Upstream
Color, Carruth took on the roles of writer, director, lead actor, producer,
cinematographer, editor and composer, in a similar vein to his first feature,
Primer (2004), which itself was made on a budget of just $7,000 (IMDB.com,
2004) and yet won the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival. Both
films can be considered puzzle films, with their fragmented narration and lack of
exposition. Where Primer is certainly about the vagaries of time travel and its
associated paradoxes, Upstream Color offers a much more disjointed plot which
is, at times, very hard to follow. Refer to Appendix A for a synopsis of the film.

The academic perspective

Given that, at this moment, the film has only been released for one year, there
has been little academic research into its narration. However, a number of
critics have speculated upon its nature.
In his article and interview with Carruth, Jonathan Romney (2013, pp. 50-53)
suggests the final third of the film is constructed merely on “recurring and
juxtaposed images and sounds”, whilst metaphor plays a heavy role in shaping
the narrative. For instance, he says the apparent telepathy between human
character and pig could be interpreted as a metaphor for the viewer
constructing meaning from the narrative fragments, and the signage, which Kris
offers, refused by Jeff, equates to the audience’s need for narrational signage.
Unfortunately, Romney’s appraisal does little to unearth the narrative structure
behind the film.

32
Slightly more useful is Caleb Crain’s essay (2013) on the significance of
Thoreau’s Walden, although her interpretation is more in line with the
theoretical2 approach of trying to prescribe an overarching theory to a narrative,
rather than analysing the film itself for narratological trends. For instance, Crain
ascribes Jeff’s propensity for living in hotels to a transcendental lifestyle, as
recommended by Thoreau’s mentor Emerson.
Carruth has been questioned on the film’s form on numerous occasions. In
interview with Romney (2013, p. 51), Carruth admits the film is “trying to change
the rules. It’s trying to adopt a language that we’ve come to understand -- and
then, proving that it understands that language, it’s trying to push it as far as it’ll
go.” Elsewhere, Carruth dismisses the literal connection with Walden (“I
basically picked that text because the mechanics of the story are embedded in
the natural world...” (Kohn, 2013)), and confirms his preference for ‘puzzle
films’: “Narrative is always going to be a bit puzzling because if it wasn’t it would
be a thesis that would explain the exploration, and no one would read that
because what would be the point.” (Kiang, 2013).
The form of the film is deliberate; Carruth’s intention (as revealed in the
interview with Jessica Kiang, 2013) was to create a narrative whereby the main
characters are affected from afar, and are therefore unable to reconcile their
fates with their feelings. The three stage cycle of orchid-worm-pig is
purposefully distant, creating natural narrative gaps which the viewer is asked to
fill. These gaps are, no doubt, accentuated by the surreal nature of the
narrative, and the non-traditional elevation of score over dialogue. As noted by
Danijela Kulezic-Wilson (2014, original emphasis), “Upstream Color breaks
down the conventional soundtrack hierarchy, often reversing the roles of each
constitutive element.”

Applying the model

Such is the volume of seemingly disparate imagery, sounds, and symbols within
Upstream Color, that it is difficult to know where to start in its analysis. Is the
Sampler good or evil? Do the orchid sellers have any knowledge of the powers
of their harvest? Are the Thief and the Sampler in cahoots? How much blind
chance is there actually at play if the phenomena on show are cyclical and,

2Once again, “theoretical” is used as a collective term for hermeneutic approaches to film
analysis.
33
therefore, seemingly repetitive? Why does Jeff’s reaction to events differ from
Kris’s? Why is Kris seemingly more receptive to the sounds of the Sampler?
Why are memories shared between victims of the identity theft? Why does the
Thief permit the children to drink the infused water? Why is the scene between
the Husband and Wife repeated several times with incrementally differing
outcomes? What is the significance of Thoreau’s ‘Walden’? And can swine
actually be psychically linked to humans? The difference between this and a
single sure narrative is staggering. However, out of the maelstrom, it is possible
to conceive a coherent fabula, even if the agents of the story are unaware of
their connections to one another.
As the model states, a puzzle film is dependent on the number of possible
narratives which can feed the fabula. Upstream Color has myriad plot threads,
which are all forged through considered use of retardation, redundancy and
non-traditional editing. To take a number of examples:

•Are the Thief and the Sampler in cahoots?

By drowning pigs, the Sampler instigates the growth of the special orchids
which are, in turn, sold to the Thief. In harvesting the grubs from the orchids,
the Thief has the means to drug his victims and rob them of their identities.
Subsequently, the Sampler is able to attract subjects from whom he can
himself harvest worms for transfusion into his pigs, thereby allowing him to
divine and observe his subjects via their surrogates. The grey area comes in
the Sampler’s decision to kill the piglets of Kris and Jeff’s surrogate swine. It
is only the Sampler who is victim of Kris and Jeff’s retribution. The Thief
appears to get away with his crime, aside from losing the ability to continue
on account of the absence of grubs. Kris and Jeff have no memory of the
Thief as they were under the influence of the grub at the time of their identity
theft. They are, however, able to track down the Sampler through their
shared recognition of Thoreau and Kris’s recognition of sampled sounds.
Through the sounds, they appear to divine the Sampler as he himself has
divined others via the pigs.
The reason this possible narrative occurs is through the stylistic choice of
edit and excessive retardation. The various plot points above are spread
throughout the film, with none of the sequences mentioned edited together
continuously. Subsequently, there is a complete retardation of connections
between these elements of the film. On a first viewing, a spectator will
34
struggle to piece these bits of information together in the construction of the
fabula.

•Is the Sampler good or evil?

The first time he is seen, the Sampler saves Kris from the torment of the
worm inside her (Fig. 4). By transplanting the worm into a pig, he creates a
psychic link between Kris and the pig. The same is true of the other pigs on
his farm. The Sampler divines individuals through the pigs, and seemingly
uses the influences of their lives in his found sound compositions. When
Kris’s pig gives birth to a litter, the Sampler is offered the choice of giving
away the piglets to a petting farm but, instead, chooses to drown them (Fig.
5).

Fig. 4. The Sampler helps Kris by transplanting the worm from her into a pig
(Upstream Color, 2013, 00:23:15).

This possible narrative occurs through a lack of redundancy. The two main
actions undertaken by the Sampler are to help remove the worm from Kris
(an act of kindness), and to kill her surrogate piglets (an act of evil). Although
it is possible to infer this isn’t the only time he has performed these actions,
they are each shown only once in the film, and so the viewer must determine
which trait is representative of the character in constructing the fabula.

35
Fig. 5. Later, the Sampler drowns Kris’s pig’s litter (Upstream Color, 2013,
1:07:00).

•Why are memories shared between the victims of the identity theft?
In the middle of the film, Kris and Jeff argue about childhood memories. It
seems they share the same significant past events.
This episode remains unanswered because of the absence of redundancy.
Whilst the sequence itself is portrayed as a series of intercut jump cuts
amongst similar conversations between Kris and Jeff, effectively creating the
effect of a continuous edit, the phenomenon is not referred to either before or
after this sequence, leaving it unexplained in the eyes of the audience.

•What is the significance of Thoreau’s ‘Walden’?

The book appears on a number of occasions through the narrative. The Thief
uses it during Kris’s identity theft, and Kris and Jeff realise its significance
towards the end of the film, before sending copies of it to other victims.
Aside from the reading and repetition of a few excerpts from the book, there
is a complete retardation of the significance of the actual book to the story.
Towards the end of the film, it is revealed that its author chose to live self-
sufficiently for a couple of years. However, this point is not elaborated, and
doesn’t appear to be relevant on first viewing. The ambiguity of the text is
reinforced through redundancy: the book is seen on numerous occasions

36
 throughout the film, and is shown to be a binding symbol of the victims of
identity theft, through their subjection to its refrain, and the sharing of the text
in the denouement.
An interesting point regarding the book is its cultural significance to the
viewer, and how that influences the viewer’s interpretation of its significance
to the story. Walden is a set text in many North American schools, so would
have far greater meaning for audiences in Canada and the USA (due to their
schematic understanding of the text) than it would to European audiences.
As such, possible narrative inference of the significance of Walden to the
story is likely to differ on either side of the Atlantic, distorting fabula
interpretations.

These are just a few of several possible narratives posed by the film, but they
suggest that retardation, redundancy and non-traditional choice of edit play a
major role in posing conceivable plots. The lack of explanation and exposition
through retardation results in a great number of possible narratives (nx).
Additionally, the elevation of score over dialogue represents a form of
retardation, as the viewer must infer meaning from sound rather than being told
what is happening through expositional sequences of conversation.

A comparison
The insight offered by Carruth suggests his intention is to subvert traditional
forms of film storytelling; the use of the word ‘puzzling’ in reference to narrative
being particularly telling. With Upstream Color, the aim of the film was to convey
the sense that the main characters were not in control of their destiny, and this
he achieved through the use of dissociative editing and the elevation of the
score above dialogue. These techniques sit very closely alongside the effect of
retardation on a narrative. By fragmenting the cycle of orchid-worm-pig in the
edit, and by conveying emotion through the score and performance rather than
with expositional dialogue, Carruth conceals plots associations, prompting the
viewer to speculate upon the relationships and preventing simple inferences in
the fabula.
The significance of Walden is also distorted through redundancy. Because the
text appears throughout the film, and is especially prominent in the
denouement, a viewer will infer it holds some import in the understanding of the
37
story. This is at odds with Carruth’s intended meaning, choosing the text
because of its affinity with the natural world.

Funny Games
Funny Games (1997) is the fifth feature from renowned director Michael
Haneke, twice winner of the Palme d’Or. The 1997 version is in Haneke’s native
tongue of German, although he himself remade the English language version in
2007 (IMDB.com, 2014). Funny Games has been chosen for a case study
specifically because it allows a first-time viewing of the film, so all inferences will
be without the benefit of repeated watching. A synopsis of the film can be found
in Appendix B.

The academic perspective

The first thing that stands out in an objective analysis of Funny Games relates
to the category of the ‘Metanarrative’ in Berg’s Taxonomy of Alternative Plots
(2006). In this, Berg raises the question of the filmmaker’s responsibility to their
subject and their viewers. Haneke himself has said the film concerns the
portrayal of violence and that he set out “[t]o provide an analysis of the work
within the work.” (Funny Games, 2011). Haneke, in interview, highlighted some
of the techniques he used to achieve the provocation and manipulation of the
audience. He uses the character Paul’s addresses to the audience to “turn the
viewer into the killer’s accomplice...”, and the literal rewind of a pivotal scene is
“the culmination of this system of rupturing the illusion.” His direction is also
crucial to the setting of questions in the mind of the viewer:

Haneke: “...I told the family to play tragedy, and I told the boys to play comedy.
And merging the two is horrendous. Because there are no more rules. The rules
are changed and catastrophe is unavoidable.”
Interviewer: “So it’s the confrontation of the two genres that makes the viewers,
who are in the middle, question whether the film is mocking or documenting
violence.”
Haneke: “Yes, that was my goal.”
(Funny Games, 2011).

38
Catherine Wheatley (2009, pp. 78-112) has explored why it is that Haneke is so
successful in the narrative, given this specific aim. She puts it down to Haneke’s
use of “Hollywood technique” and definite narrative “genre conventions”. In its
first half hour, Funny Games is set-up as a suspense thriller:

“...the classical opening, the scene when the boy escapes to the villa -- very
classical, like Hitchcock. And the audience only engages with the film when they
don’t know what’s going to happen, when they allow themselves hope.”
Michael Haneke (Falcon, 2001, p. 46)

This deliberate use of genre not only appears to establish the type of film being
watched but also, to a large extent, encourages a particular expectation and
even emotional response in the viewer. That Anna, Georg and Georg Jr. are
presented as a family under threat compels the audience to take their side, with
the expectation that at least one of them will triumph over their captors at the
denouement. Of course, this is a clear example of a filmmaker exploiting a
viewer’s schemata, and confounding audience expectations.
Wheatley states that, between the conflicting narrative modes in the film (i.e.
apparent suspense thriller versus knowing metanarrative), the viewer is
subjected to a feeling of “unpleasure”, and therefore looks for the cause of this
within the narrative (2009, p. 105). Whilst it is clear that Haneke controls the
viewer’s reaction to the film, he does not determine what form that reaction
takes. His technique in Funny Games is to present the viewer with a moral
dilemma, and ask them to reflect on it personally:

“[T]he film should not come to an end on the screen, but engage the spectators
and find its place in their cognitive and emotive framework.”
Michael Haneke (Wheatley, 2009, p. 105)

Further responses to the film include Peter Eisenman’s (2010, pp. 124-129),
who highlights the ambiguity of linear time with the literal rewinding of the film
and how an alternative narrative is inserted in that moment, whilst Elsaesser
(2010, pp. 53-74) queries who is actually in control of the games being played:
the intruders, the viewer, or the director? Brigitte Peucker (2010, pp. 136-137)
answers this emphatically:
39
“Manipulating the narrative as if the film were a video and he its spectator,
Haneke makes it abundantly clear that he is in control.”

Applying the model

In terms of puzzle films, there are a number of elements of Funny Games
worthy of analysis. First and foremost, the majority of key events in the film
(particularly those of an overtly violent or sexual nature) occur off-camera. The
camera follows a particular character or sound, whilst the soundtrack alludes to
the unseen events (i.e., the clubbing of Rolfie, the undressing of Anna, and the
shooting of Georg Jr. and second wounding of Georg (Fig. 6)). This clear
retardation permits the viewer to infer multiple narrative readings per event, not
only in terms of possible inferred narratives (nx), but in the syuzhet itself --
sound aside, the spectator is invited to imagine the off-camera scene
themselves.

Fig. 6. Paul makes a sandwich whilst the soundtrack forces the viewer to infer
what events are occurring off-screen (Funny Games, 1997, 1:02:04).

The second clearly puzzling aspect of the film is the point at which one of the
characters picks up a TV remote control and rewinds the action, thereby
initiating an alternative turn of events. This only occurs once, without

40
explanation (retardation), and the contrasting outcomes direct the viewer to
make multiple inferences in the watching: Was Peter shot, or was he not shot?
Thirdly, the intruders regularly refer to each other by different names (Peter and
Paul; Tom and Jerry; Beavis and Butthead) and, at first, this retardation makes it
unclear who they really are. It is only when the pairings are used together that
the viewer is able to ascertain they may all be false, if indeed they are.
Fourthly, the character Paul regularly breaks the fourth wall by addressing the
audience straight down the camera. Given the horrific subject of the film, the
effect is to make the viewer complicit in the events depicted: they too are
master of ceremonies in these sadistic games. The reason for the audience
interaction is retarded, but the style choice invokes an additional line of
narrative over and above the plot itself: the viewer is forced to come to terms
with their own role in the creation of a film such as this. The strongest instance
of this is when the character Paul invites the audience to place bets on the lives
of the family he is terrorising. The point Haneke is making is: were this real life
would the viewer permit the torture to continue?
This notionally puzzling aspect of the film is actually explained by the characters
Paul and Peter in the denouement, where they hold a theoretical conversation
between matter and antimatter. By way of example, Paul states that through
depicting reality, film is itself real. This, more than anything, compels the
spectator to reflect on their watching of the film from a moral viewpoint.

A comparison
The success of the film is reliant upon the audience’s acceptance of being
played with; indeed, their delight at discovering Haneke’s pulling of the wool
over their eyes. Haneke has employed a lot of techniques deliberately to
confound and challenge the viewer, such as the breaking of the fourth wall and
the rewinding of time to different ends. Whilst he did so to elicit specific
responses, the puzzling effect on the viewer can still be considered to create
additional possible narratives through the course of watching the film. The effect
is most unsettling as, to begin with, the viewer is made complicit in the attacks
they are witnessing, before their expectations, based on an understanding of
genre, are completely dashed. This subversion of audience expectation is key
to a successful puzzle film.

41
Academic reviews point to Haneke’s use of genre conventions to create his
desired effects. This is certainly true of the priming of the viewer in readiness for
the eventual hoodwink but, with the coup de grace of the rewind, it is the
absence of explanation or exposition (i.e., retardation) which results in the
audience’s reaction. In Funny Games, Haneke exploits viewer schemata by
initially presenting what appears to be a traditional suspense thriller, before
confounding that expectation with his moral questioning. Conversely, Carruth’s
film resists this, focussing instead on an experimental narrative form which is
consistent throughout.

Summing up
The crux of a puzzle film lies in its ability to create the possibility of multiple
strands of narrative in the mind of the viewer, versus the classical format of
single action or purpose and definite result. Both Upstream Color and Funny
Games demonstrate qualities inherent in puzzle films, making use of
unconventional cinematic style techniques, and retardation or ambiguous
redundancy to create doubt in the spectator.
A dissociative edit in Upstream Color juxtaposes elements which, on first
inspection, do not appear related due to their disparate nature, whilst off-
camera action in Funny Games requires the viewer to visualise their own
narratives. Additionally, Upstream Color gives precedence to the score over the
use of dialogue in its expository sequences, making definite inference
complicated for the audience. Both films retard explanations of key moments of
action, such as the ostensibly gratuitous rewind in Funny Games, and the
apparently repeated scene in the middle of Upstream Color.
At the end of each film, the viewer is required to consider what they have seen,
and determine for themselves which elements constitute the story. As such,
both films can be said to fit the proposed model for puzzle film narration.

The benefits of repeated viewings

Prior to the conclusion of this paper, a note on repeated viewings is appropriate.

Whilst in watching a classical narrative the viewer expects to find out what
happens, in a puzzle narrative the viewer is asked to determine this for
42
themselves. Recalling the work of Young (2002, pp. 115-118), an individual can
only hold 7 ± 2 items of information in mind at any one time. Therefore, the
unravelling of a puzzle plot may be impossible in a single viewing. As a way of
understanding a puzzle film, repeated viewings offer the chance for particular
inferences to be committed to long term memory, freeing the short term memory
to explore 7 ± 2 new items of information.
Whilst the interpretations offered above were the result of a single viewing, a
second viewing of Haneke’s Funny Games revealed clues as to the nature of
the villains much earlier in the piece, and the most puzzling aspects of the film,
such as the rewind, became clear intrusions on the part of the filmmaker rather
than narrative conundrums.

43
Future directions

Whilst this paper goes into some detail regarding the cognitive approach to film
analysis, it has not applied hermeneutic or Grand Theory interpretation methods
to these films. Additionally, Aristotelian theories of drama notwithstanding, in-
depth research of prose or other non-filmic narration has not been carried out.
The possibility exists of revisiting the findings herein along the lines of
hermeneutic theory, and to research further into forms of narration not covered
by this paper.
The paper also focusses on the complex narratives of fictional Western cinema,
and Western storytelling conventions; no Asian, African, Middle Eastern or Far
East cinema has been examined, nor have the narrative conventions of non-
fiction cinema. There is scope, therefore, to re-examine the question for other
regions and other storytelling traditions.
A key assumption made here is that Bordwell’s model forms a robust foundation
for the interpretation of film narrative. There exist other cognitive theories for the
analysis of film, which represent additional avenues of inquiry.
The proposed model itself also offers the opportunity for further research. The
assumption has been made that the model applies to a single viewer of a single
film. Of course, feature films are largely destined for a theatrical cinema release,
implying that they are designed for mass group consumption. Marrying this
concept with the notion that each viewer consumes the film in their own way,
thanks to the very individual schemata they bring to the screening, opens up a
number of further questions:

•Can the model be applied to multiple viewers?

•By increasing the number of viewers, do the number of possible narratives
increase, or do they tend towards a finite amount?

•Is it possible to create a film with an infinite number of possible narratives?

•Is there a mathematical relationship between the number of gaps
incorporated into the syuzhet by the filmmaker, and the number of possible
narratives inferred by the viewer?

Finally, something which has only been hinted at in this paper: can the model be
used to explore the paradox at the heart of film, that a medium designed for

44
mass consumption in the cinemas is so reliant on the interpretation of the
individual?

45
Conclusion

Puzzle films can be thought of as those stories where the viewer is left with
some degree of doubt as to the nature of events at the end of the film. As
Bordwell puts it, the viewer questions, “what actually happened?” In the
classical Hollywood form of film, which has its roots in Aristotelian theories of
drama, a single line of narrative is employed, with a definite beginning, middle
and end. Conversely, a puzzle film will suggest multiple possible narratives to
the viewer, who then has to determine individually which to believe.
There are a number of proposed theories as to the nature and structure of
puzzle film narratives. Some focus on the role of the protagonist and their
psychology, some on the subject of time and temporality, whilst others choose
to categorise the films based on plotting generalities (one such example
identifies twelve different varieties of puzzle film). A problem with the current
landscape is that, despite all the theories available, there is no overall
consensus regarding the nature of narrative in puzzle films. Thus, the aim of
this paper is to identify a theory to underpin the narrative of a puzzle film.
Through an appraisal of filmic analysis, Bordwell’s theories of narration have
been identified as a solid basis for this paper. In considering the narrative merits
of the individual film, the cognitive approach permits an understanding of the
filmmaking mechanisms which result in a viewer’s interpretation of plot.
However, Bordwell’s model remains deficient in the case of the puzzle narrative
form: a single line of causality is not always identifiable in puzzle films, as
demonstrated by examples such as Last Year at Marienbad.
The adaptation of Bordwell’s model to incorporate multiple possible narrative
interpretations results in a fabula which is a subset of the viewer inferences
made during the course of the film, where those inferences are driven by the
filmmaker’s use of retardation, conflicting redundancy, and certain stylistic
choices, as filtered by the individual’s schemata. It might be argued that, for an
essentially experimental art form, this formalisation is not useful. However, the
recent trend appears to be for an upsurge of this form of narrative, to the point it
can be regarded as a separate genre, which therefore warrants academic
investigation. Moreover, the generation of possible narratives offers
screenwriters an indicator of the techniques to employ in crafting the puzzle

46
films of tomorrow. Additionally, by offering a reasoning for how the classical
narrative mould was broken with the puzzle film, the way is prepared for the
next innovation in film narration.
For the aspiring puzzle filmmaker or screenwriter, the key to unlocking the
puzzle lies in removing parts of the jigsaw, and filling some of the resulting holes
with duplicates of the remaining pieces. Without a complete picture to consider,
the viewer is forced into determining its nature for themselves.

47
Appendices

Appendix A
A synopsis of Upstream Color (2013)
The Thief -- owner of a garden centre -- harvests grubs from blue orchids.
When infused with water, the grubs allow the drinkers to exert influence over
one another. The Thief forces Kris to swallow a grub and then, through the
power of suggestion and repetitive tasks, proceeds to steal her identity and rob
her of her savings and mortgage equity. When she comes round from the
ordeal, Kris notices something crawling under her skin and unsuccessfully tries
to remove it with a kitchen knife.
The Sampler plays abstract compositions through large speakers laid face
down on the ground. The sounds attract Kris, who says she “can’t get them
out.” The Sampler undertakes a surgical procedure to remove the worm from
Kris, and transfuses it into a pig, which he labels ‘Kris’. Kris returns to her
wrecked life to find she has lost her job. The Sampler returns to a pig farm
where ‘Kris’ is kept along with twenty or thirty other pigs.
Jeff and Kris meet on their commute. Both are somewhat reluctant and hesitant
in their courting, and both undertake repetitive tasks in private (Kris collects
stones from the bottom of a swimming pool whilst Jeff makes paper chains).
Through his pigs, the Sampler is able to divine human individuals and observe
them. He composes soundscapes from the found sounds around him, and
appears to take inspiration from the lives he observes. As Kris and Jeff become
closer, ‘Kris’ and another unidentified pig begin to separate from the group. Jeff
is shown to have an identical mark to Kris upon his ankle.
Kris and Jeff argue over seemingly shared childhood memories. Kris announces
she is pregnant. At the same time, ‘Kris’ is deemed to have a litter on its way.
‘Kris’s’ companion pig becomes aggressive and protective. Kris visits the
hospital, where it is revealed she has massive internal tissue damage, not
unlike the removal of cancerous cells. She is told she is not pregnant and there
is no way she could ever carry a baby to term.
‘Kris’ gives birth to her litter. The Sampler separates the parents from the brood
and places the piglets in a sack. He drops the sack into a river. Kris finds a lost
grommet at work and senses that she has lost something. Meanwhile, Jeff gets
in a fight with some co-workers. Panicked, Kris and Jeff retreat home and hole

48
themselves up in the bathroom with various supplies. The drowned piglets
come to rest in the roots of a mangrove tree. Chemicals released from the
decaying piglets fertilise orchids growing around the mangrove tree, turning
their petals from white to blue. Orchid sellers harvest the orchids and prepare
them for sale.
Jeff finds Kris collecting stones from the bottom of a swimming pool. Each time
she surfaces she recites a strange phrase. Jeff notes them down: they are the
text from Thoreau’s Walden, which Kris is seemingly able to recite in its entirety.
In the pool, Kris finds a yellow orchid. When she touches it, she hears the found
sounds previously collected by the Sampler. Kris and Jeff set out to find the
origins of the found sounds. They find a humming telegraph pole next to the
letterbox of Quinoa Valley Recording Co. Jeff buys the Quinoa Valley Recording
Co back catalogue, but cannot bring himself to listen to the recordings. Kris,
however, can.
Jeff sits eating a meal in a large empty room. The Sampler continues to divine
individuals through the pigs, and finds himself in the same room as Jeff. The
Sampler observes Jeff eating before Kris arrives. Kris looks directly at the
Sampler, then shoots him, simultaneously in the large room, and on the pig
farm. Kris and Jeff go through the paper records of the Sampler, finding a large
number of others like themselves. They send each of these people a copy of
Walden.
The orchid sellers return to the mangrove tree, but all the orchids have white
petals. The Thief inspects his orchids, but finds no grubs. Kris, Jeff, and others
like themselves take over the pig farm and care for the pigs. Some piglets are
born, and Kris cradles one like it were a baby.

Appendix B
A synopsis of Funny Games (1997)
Anna, her husband Georg, their son Georg Jr., and their dog Rolfie, arrive at
their summer house on the banks of a lake. They pass by their neighbour Fred’s
house and confirm that previously-made arrangements for the following day still
stand. Their neighbours are shown to be with two young men, whom Anna and
Georg do not recognise. Anna asks for help with launching their boat, which
Fred agrees to after some hesitation.

49
The family set about unpacking. Fred and one of the young men, Paul, assist in
launching Georg’s boat. Later, Peter, the other young man, visits Anna and asks
to borrow four eggs. She agrees but Peter drops them. Whilst convincing Anna
to give him four more, Peter accidentally knocks her mobile phone into the
kitchen sink, breaking it. Peter takes four more eggs and leaves. As Anna sets
about working in the kitchen, Rolfie can be heard barking outside.
Anna comes to the front door to find Peter and Paul inside, with Rolfie outside.
Anna shoos Rolfie away. Paul explains that Peter is afraid of dogs and Rolfie
caused him to drop the eggs again. A conversation about funny games ensues,
ending with Paul asking to borrow a golf club and practise a shot outside. Anna
is slightly perplexed, yet agrees. Meanwhile, on the boat Georg and his son
hear Rolfie barking, until he suddenly whimpers and stops. Georg goes to
investigate.
Georg arrives at the house with Georg Jr. to find Anna flustered and demanding
Paul and Peter leave the house. Georg is confused and asks everyone to
explain. Anna is frustrated by Georg’s lack of support, so she leaves. Georg
subsequently gets in an argument with Paul, resulting in his slapping Paul.
Peter reacts by hitting Georg with a golf club, breaking his leg. Anna returns and
Paul challenges her as to where Rolfie might be. The two of them go outside
and Paul plays a game of hotter/colder with Anna until she finds the body of
Rolfie in the car. During the game, Paul winks directly to the audience. Some
neighbours sail up to the jetty. Anna converses with them, and introduces Paul.
Paul enquires where their house is before the neighbours set sail.
Paul and Anna return to the house and they all move to the lounge, whereupon
Peter and Paul begin playing sadistic games with the family. Paul invites the
family to bet whether they will still be alive in twelve hours time, before inviting
the audience to do so too. A cushion cover is placed over Georg Jr.’s head
whilst Anna is forced to strip. Later, Georg Jr. manages to escape to Fred’s
house next door. Paul pursues him whilst Peter guards Anna and Georg and
watches television. Inside Fred’s house, Georg Jr. finds a shotgun and the
bodies of Fred and his family. Paul catches him and talks Georg through the
firing of the shotgun. However, the shotgun is not loaded and Paul survives.
Back at Anna and Georg’s house, Paul returns with Georg Jr. and the shotgun,
now loaded with two shells, to play eenie-meenie-minie-mo with the family. Paul
says there is one shell for him and one for Peter. Paul goes into the kitchen for
50
some food, leaving Peter with the family. While the action stays on Paul
preparing food, a gunshot is heard, followed by the sounds of a scuffle.
Paul returns to the lounge where blood can be seen splattered over the
television. He rebukes Peter for getting the game wrong, and the two of them
leave. Georg Jr. has been shot dead, whilst Georg is unconscious on the floor.
Anna attempts to untie herself until Georg comes round. Anna exits to the
kitchen to free her bonds and Georg weeps uncontrollably. Anna returns;
Georg’s arm is now broken too, and together they struggle to the kitchen. Anna
discovers the mobile phone may now work. Georg stays in the kitchen trying to
make a call, whilst Anna leaves to get help.
On the road, Anna hides as a car approaches, immediately regretting her choice
as it passes. Another car approaches and Anna waits. Back in the house, Georg
is able to cover the body of Georg Jr. with a blanket. He hears the door open,
and a golf ball rolls into the doorway. Paul appears and says there are more
games to play. He enters, followed by Peter with a bound and gagged Anna.
Peter stabs Georg, then Paul invites Anna to recite a prayer. If she gets it
correct, he will permit her the choice of what happens next. Anna succeeds.
However, Paul challenges Anna to recite the same prayer in reverse and, while
he does so, Anna grabs the shotgun and shoots Peter, killing him. Paul is
incensed and frantically looks for the TV remote. Locating it, he literally pauses
and rewinds the film to the point at which he asked Anna to recite the prayer in
reverse. This time, as Anna lunges for the shotgun, Paul grabs it and events are
changed. In response to Anna’s breaking of the rules, Paul shoots Georg. Peter
is alive once again.
Paul and Peter load Anna onto Georg’s boat. They discuss a theoretical
conversation between matter and antimatter, whilst Anna discovers a knife and
tries to cut her bonds. Peter throws the knife into the lake, and sits Anna
between himself and Paul. Paul enquires how many of the twelve hours remain
-- there is just one, so he wishes Anna farewell, and pushes her into the lake.
Paul and Peter sail up to a jetty. Paul calls in at the home of the owners -- the
neighbours who sailed to Anna’s jetty the night before. Paul enquires whether
he might borrow some eggs on behalf of Anna, then smiles directly at the
audience.

51
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Film and TV

A Trip to the Moon (1902) Directed by Georges Méliès [Film]. France: Star-Film.
Bladerunner (1982) Directed by Ridley Scott [Film]. USA: Warner Bros.
Blue Velvet (1986) Directed by David Lynch [Film]. USA: De Laurentiis
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Donnie Darko (2001) Directed by Richard Kelly [Film]. USA: Pandora Cinema.
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Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) Directed by Michel Gondry [Film].
USA: Focus Features.
Fight Club (1999) Directed by David Fincher [Film]. USA: Twentieth Century Fox
Film Corporation.
Flight Plan (2005) Directed by Robert Schwentke [Film]. USA: Beuna Vista
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Funny Games (1997) Directed by Michael Haneke [Film]. Austria: Concorde-
Castle Rock/Turner.
Funny Games (2011) ‘Michael Haneke interview’, Directed by Michael Haneke
[DVD]. UK: Artificial Eye.
Histoire(s) du Cinéma (1988-98) Directed by Jean-Luc Godard [Film]. France:
Canal+.
Inception (2010) Directed by Christopher Nolan [Film]. USA: Warner Bros.
Last Year at Marienbad (1961) Directed by Alain Resnais [Film]. France,
Cocinor.
Lost Highway (1997) Directed by David Lynch [Film]. USA: October Films.
The Matrix (1999) Directed by Andy Wachowski and Lana Wachowski [Film].
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Century Fox Film Corporation.
Reservoir Dogs (1992) Directed by Quentin Tarantino [Film]. USA: Miramax
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USA: Universal Pictures.
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Terminator 2: Judgement Day (1991) Directed by James Cameron [Film]. USA:
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The Truman Show (1998) Directed by Peter Weir [Film]. USA: Paramount
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Twin Peaks (1990) Directed by David Lynch [TV]. USA: American Broadcasting
Company (ABC).
Upstream Color (2013) Directed by Shane Carruth [Film]. USA: THINKFilm.

56
The Usual Suspects (1995) Directed by Brian Singer [Film]. USA: Gramercy
Pictures (I).

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Filmography

A Trip to the Moon (1902) Directed by Georges Méliès [Film]. France: Star-Film.
Bladerunner (1982) Directed by Ridley Scott [Film]. USA: Warner Bros.
Blue Velvet (1986) Directed by David Lynch [Film]. USA: De Laurentiis
Entertainment Group.
Caché (2005) Directed by Michael Haneke [Film]. France: Les Films du
Losange.
The Congress (2013) Directed by Ari Folman [Film]. France: ARP Sélection.
The Draftsman’s Contract (1982) Directed by Peter Greenaway [Film]. UK:
British Film Institute (BFI).
64
Donnie Darko (2001) Directed by Richard Kelly [Film]. USA: Pandora Cinema.
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) Directed by Michel Gondry [Film].
USA: Focus Features.
Fight Club (1999) Directed by David Fincher [Film]. USA: Twentieth Century Fox
Film Corporation.
Flight Plan (2005) Directed by Robert Schwentke [Film]. USA: Beuna Vista
Pictures.
Funny Games (1997) Directed by Michael Haneke [Film]. Austria: Concorde-
Castle Rock/Turner.
Funny Games (2011) ‘Michael Haneke interview’, Directed by Michael Haneke
[DVD]. UK: Artificial Eye.
Histoire(s) du Cinéma (1988-98) Directed by Jean-Luc Godard [Film]. France:
Canal+.
Inception (2010) Directed by Christopher Nolan [Film]. USA: Warner Bros.
Last Year at Marienbad (1961) Directed by Alain Resnais [Film]. France,
Cocinor.
Lost Highway (1997) Directed by David Lynch [Film]. USA: October Films.
The Matrix (1999) Directed by Andy Wachowski and Lana Wachowski [Film].
USA: Warner Bros.
The Matrix Reloaded (2003) Directed by Andy Wachowski and Lana Wachowski
[Film]. USA: Warner Bros.
The Matrix Revolutions (2003) Directed by Andy Wachowski and Lana
Wachowski [Film]. USA: Warner Bros.
Memento (2000) Directed by Christopher Nolan [Film]. USA: Newmarket Films.
Minority Report (2002) Directed by Steven Spielberg [Film]. USA: Twentieth
Century Fox Film Corporation.
Primer (2004) Directed by Shane Carruth [Film]. USA: THINKFilm.
Reservoir Dogs (1992) Directed by Quentin Tarantino [Film]. USA: Miramax
Films.
Sliding Doors (1998) Directed by Peter Howitt [Film]. USA: Miramax Films.
Stop Or My Mom Will Shoot (1992) Directed by Roger Spottiswoode [Film].
USA: Universal Pictures.
The Sixth Sense (1999) Directed by M. Night Shyamalan [Film]. USA: Beuna
Vista Pictures.

65
Synecdoche, New York (2008) Directed by Charlie Kaufman [Film]. USA: Sony
Pictures Classics.
Terminator 2: Judgement Day (1991) Directed by James Cameron [Film]. USA:
TriStar Pictures.
The Truman Show (1998) Directed by Peter Weir [Film]. USA: Paramount
Pictures.
Twin Peaks (1990) Directed by David Lynch [TV]. USA: American Broadcasting
Company (ABC).
Upstream Color (2013) Directed by Shane Carruth [Film]. USA: THINKFilm.
The Usual Suspects (1995) Directed by Brian Singer [Film]. USA: Gramercy
Pictures (I).

66