Julian Murphet, Lydia Rainford (Eds.) - Literature and Visual Technologies - Writing After Cinema-Palgrave Macmillan UK (2003)

Literature and Visual Technologies
Literature and Visual

Technologies
Writing After Cinema
Edited by
Julian Murphet
and
Lvdia Rainford
Introduction, editorial matter and selection© Julian Murphet and Lydia
Rainford 2003
Chapter 1 © Colin Maccabe 2003
All other chapters © Palgrave Macmillan
Softcover reprint of the hardcover 1st edition 2003 978-1-4039-1308-1
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Literature and visual technologies: writing after cinema I edited by Julian
Murphet and Lydia Rainford.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Motion pictures and literature. 2. Television and literature.

Murphet, Julian. II. Rainford, Lydia, 1972-
PN 1995.3.L565 2003
791.43'6-dc21
2003053612
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
12 11 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 03
For Nathaniel Oliver
List of Contents
List of Illustrations ix
Notes on Contributors x
Acknowledgements xii
Introduction 1
Julian Murphet and Lydia Rainford
Parameters
1. On Impurity: the Dialectics of Cinema and Literature 15
Colin MacCabe,
2. How Newness Enters the World: the Birth of Cinema and the Origins of Man
Laura Marcus 29
Modernisms
3. International Media, International Modernism, and the Struggle with Sound
Michael North 49
4. Gertrude Stein's Machinery of Perception 67
Julian Murphet
5. H.D.'s The Gift an 'endless storeroom of film' 82
Rachel Connor
6. Ulysses in Toontown: 'vision animated to bursting point' in Joyce's 'Circe'
Keith Williams 96
Bridges
7. Len Lye and Laura Riding in the 1930s: the Impossibility of Film and
Literature 125
Tim Armstrong
8. Writing the Alphabet of Cinema: Blaise Cendrars 137
Eric Robertson
9. The Grammar of Time: Photography, Modernism and History 155
Elena Gualtieri
viii Contents
After the Modern

10. How to Read the Image? Beckett's Televisual Memory 177
Lydia Rainford
11. Writing Images, Images of Writing: Tom Phillips's A Humument and Peter
Greenaway's Textual Cinema 197
Paula Geyh and Arkady Plotnitsky
Index 215
List of Illustrations
Plates appear between pp. 66-67.
1. Fig. 1. Kenneth MacPherson in a publicity still for Wing Beat, published in

Close-Up 1.1 (July, 1927).
2. Fig. 2. H.D. in a publicity still for Wing Beat, published in Close-Up 1.1
(July, 1927).
3. Fig. 3. Voyage to the Congo, published in Close-Up, 1.1 (July, 1927).

Notes on Contributors
Tim Armstrong is Reader in Modern English and American Literature at Royal

Holloway, University of London. His recent publications include Modernism,
Technology and the Body: A Cultural Study (1998) and Haunted Hardy: Poetry,
History, Memory (2000).
Rachel Connor is a lecturer in the Department of English Literature at the

University of Glasgow. She is the author of a monograph, H.D. and the image
(forthcoming from Manchester University Press) and is currently working on a
critical edition of H.D.'s unpublished prose manuscript, 'Majic Ring'. She has
also published on contemporary American writing and on European cinema.
Paula Geyh is an assistant professor of English at Yeshiva University, where she

teaches 20th-century American and European literature and literary theory. She is
a co-editor of Postmodern American Fiction: A Norton Anthology and is presently
at work on a book on representations of the postmodern city and cyberspace.
Elena Gualtieri lives in Brighton, where she lectures in English at the University
of Sussex. She is the author of Virginia Woolfs Essays: Sketching the Past
(London: Macmillan, 2000). Her work on Proust and Musil is part of a wider
project on the intersection between writing and photography in the first half of the
twentieth century.
Colin MacCabe is Distinguished Professor of English and Film at the University

of Pittsburgh where he has taught since 1985. He has also taught as Professor of
English at the University of Exeter since 1998. His most recent publication is
Godard: A Portrait of the Artist at 70 (Bloomsbury 2003)
Laura Marcus is Reader in English at the University of Sussex. She has

published books on theories of auto/biography, psychoanalysis, and Virginia
Woolf. She is currently co-editing the Cambridge History of Twentieth-Century
English Literature, and working on a study of cinema and modernism.
Notes on Contributors xi
Julian Murphet is a lecturer at the Department of English, University of Sydney.

He has published on Los Angeles fiction and postmodernism.
Michael North is Professor of English at the University of California, Los

Angeles. His most recent books are Reading 1922: A Return to the Scene of the
Modern (Oxford, 1999) and the Norton Critical Edition of T. S. Eliot's The Waste
Land (2001). He is currently at work on a new study of the visual arts,
spectatorship, and modern literature.
Arkady Plotnitsky is a Professor of English and a University Faculty Scholar at

Purdue University, where he is also a Director of Theory and Cultural Studies
Program. His most recent book is The Knowable and the Unknowable: Modern
Science, Nonclassical Thought, and 'The Two Cultures' (2002). He is currently
completing two books, Minute Particulars: Romanticism, Science, and
Epistemology and Reading Bohr: Physics and Philosophy.
Lydia Rainford is a Junior Research Fellow at St. Hugh's College, Oxford. She
has published on Samuel Beckett, modern literature and theory.
Eric Robertson is Senior Lecturer in French at Royal Holloway, University of

London. He is the author of Writing Between the Lines (1995), a study of the
bilingual novelist Rene Schickele, and co-editor of Yvan Goll - Claire Goll: Texts
and Contexts (1997), and has published various articles and book chapters on
twentieth-century poetry and visual arts. He is currently completing a book on the
artist, sculptor and poet Hans Jean Arp, to be published by Yale University Press.
Keith Williams is Senior Lecturer in English at the University of Dundee. He has

published widely on aspects of Modernism and visual technology and culture,
including British Writers and the Media 1930-45 (19%). He is currently working
on studies of film and the work of both James Joyce and H.G. Wells.
Acknowledgements
The editors would like to acknowledge the assistance of St John's College, Oxford
for supporting the initial idea of this book. Professor John Kelly was an
indispensable ally in these early stages.
Katy Mullin deserves many thanks for all her help and extensive involvement in
this project. Dominic Oliver has been an invaluable helpmate throughout.
Chapter 7 by Tun Armstrong appeared first in the Forum for Modem Language
Studies, vol. XXXVII (2), 2001. We are grateful to Oxford University Press for
granting permission to republish this material.
Introduction
Julian Murphet and Lydia Rainford
By way of introduction to this volume, we give you a prophesy from 1908:
You will see that this little clicking contraption with the revolving handle will
make a revolution in our life - in the life of writers. It is a direct attack on the
old methods of literary art. We shall have to adapt ourselves to the shadowy
screen and to the cold machine. A new form of writing will be necessary. I
have thought of that and I can see what is coming.
But I rather like it. This swift change of scene, this blending of emotion and
experience - it is much better than the heavy, long-drawn-out kind of writing to
which we are accustomed. It is closer to life. In life, too, changes and
transitions flash by before our eyes, and emotions of the soul are like a
hurricane. The cinema has divined the mystery of motion. And that is its
greatness.'
So Tolstoy, little more than a year away from his death, foretold the crisis of the
greatest narrative form of the nineteenth century - the Realist novel - and the
supremacy of a new mechanical one in the twentieth. We might expect such a
pronouncement on these lips to be offered as a lament; but there is something
unrepentant about the old man's enthusiasm: 'But the films! They are wonderful!
Drr! and a scene is ready! Drr! and we have another! We have the sea, the coast,
the city, the palace...' His excitement was for the momentous formal challenge at
hand: nothing less than the invention of 'a new form of writing'. The 'heavy,
long-drawn-out kind of writing' was now, overnight, an anachronism. The
lightness and speed of scenic transitions in the films would forever alter the
method of literary narrative composition and the style of its discourse.
Was Tolstoy right? Indubitably, yes, and this volume of essays seeks to testify
to the changes he predicted. For in spite of more than a century of film
technology, there has still been relatively little written about its impact on literary
culture. Plenty of analysis of film has ensued, and of cinematic adaptations of
literature, but the ways in which film infiltrated, contaminated and altered literary
forms has yet to receive the scholarly attention it deserves. Why this should be is a
question several of the essays included here will tackle; but the answer is clearly
embedded in the complex history of cinema's cultural reception.
2 Literature and Visual Technologies
The history of the relation of literary and visual technologies has frequently
taken unexpected routes. Just as Tolstoy's excitement at the prospect of cinematic
writing was surprising for a realist writer, so the consequences of the new
technology for literature seemed, at first glance, unlikely. The most immediate
changes provoked by this medium of the masses were, arguably, to be seen in the
more elitist realms of 'literary art', and the most radical adjustments to literary
forms came not in the light of cinema's representational facilities (photographic
realism), so much as its constructive ones. Literary narrative had always had a
'problem' with transitions: what rhetorical prestidigitation could really justify the
reader's forcible relocation from, in The Arcadia say, the blinding of Drialus on
one page, to the song of Amphialus to Philoclea on another? In such 'early' prose
fiction, this mattered rather less than the display of rhetoric per se. But as the
conception of 'organic form' really took root in the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries, the tonal rebalancing of the narrative voice that was forever being
demanded became more awkward. The notebook may simply have read 'get from
London to Bourton', but prior to the films, the novel would be forced to indulge in
occasionally agonizing circumlocutions in order to reach its destination. In the
cinema, this clumsy, or comic, or hyper-conscious late-Jamesian pause over
narrative transitions was obviated at a stroke. Drr! and we're at Bourton! Drr! and
back in London! It was the longer, syntactical periods of transitional verbiage (not
only between scenes, but also within them) that the cinema finally put to rest; so
that, by 1925, Virginia Woolf could 'get us' from London to Bourton with no
noise at all. Let Woolf herself describe the possibilities:
The past could be unrolled, distances annihilated, and the gulfs which dislocate
novels (when, for instance, Tolstoy has to pass from Levin to Anna and in
doing so jars his story and wrenches and arrests our sympathies) could by the
sameness of the background, by the repetition of some scene, be smoothed
away.2
It is worth pondering the typical stylistic and architectural devices of

Modernism as so many reactions to a narrative medium untroubled by the rhetoric
of transitions. Of course, transition by that very token became the greatest of
form-problems for the Moderns, since without that thick texture of conventional
discourse developed for getting us from A to B, it becomes a hair-raising
experience to navigate the now isolated scenes or images within some overall
form. We may recall Woolf describing the effect of reading T. S. Eliot in terms of
a high-wire act:
.. .how intolerant he is of the old usages and politenesses of society...! As I sun

myself upon the intense and ravishing beauty of one of his lines, and reflect
Introduction 3
that I must make a dizzy and dangerous leap to the next, and so on from line to
line, like an acrobat flying precariously from bar to bar, I cry out, I confess, for
the old decorums, and envy the indolence of my ancestors who, instead of
spinning madly through mid-air, dreamt quietly in the shade with a book.3
The assimilation of cinematic transitionality - a trick which by now we have all

come to call 'montage' - meant looking for the logic of transitions elsewhere, in
the genius of the design or the felicities of the style. The basic pleasures of
narrative had migrated to the silver screen; and in spite of Woolfs hankerings
after the dreamy verbosity of the old narrative technology, there was little room
for nostalgia.
The new literature 'will be harder and saner, it will be ... "nearer the bone." It
will be as much like granite as it can be, its force will lie in its truth.... We will
have fewer painted adjectives impeding the shock and stroke of it. At least for
myself, I want it so, austere, direct, free from emotional slither.'4 Thus Ezra
Pound, whose intolerance towards Victorian sentimentality was aligned with a
distate for clutter and rhetoric, as though the persistence of excess verbiage, in
poetics as in prose, amounted to that very Mauberlian vice of pumping up '"the
sublime'Vin the old sense'. Paring away conventional jargon from the bare
austerity of the thing was, moreover, not simply an option; it was 'what the age
demanded': 'an image of its accelerated grimace... a prose kinema'. The death-
sentence pronounced by Imagism over the twitching body of literary rhetoric was,
unlike Wordsworth's and Coleridge's a century before, announced in the name of
a machine, not the common man. Gertrude Stein also made her revolution against
the dead language of Literature in the name of the rhetoric-free cinema;5 and her
principal disciple, Ernest Hemingway would memorably write:
There were many words that you could not stand to hear and finally only the
names of places had dignity. Certain numbers were the same way and certain
dates and these with the names of the places were all you could say and have
them mean anything. Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage, or hallow
were obscene beside the concrete names of villages, the numbers of roads, the
names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates.6
Harder, saner, nearer the bone; dismissive of weary abstractions and the
insidious ideologies that lurked within them; machinic, free of sentimentality, and
able to be assembled in new and unpredictable ways: how much Modernist
literature owes to the cinema, its techniques and forms, is still a long way from
being properly ascertained. As the merest token, we can note that Marshall
McLuhan wrote to Ezra Pound in 1943 at St Elizabeth's, in reply to his gift copy
of the Pisan Cantos: 'Your Cantos I now judge to be the first and only serious use
of the great technical possibilities of the cinematograph.'7 It was not an idea,

surely, at which Pound would have brightened, but it powerfully underscored the
nature of the revolution Pound and Stein had started many years before.
Nevertheless, the initial ecstasy of inspiration was constantly being interrupted
by other factors, above all the cinema's persistent recourse to the novel itself. We
can stay with Woolf here, who, a year after Mrs Dalloway, was ironically and yet
painfully bemoaning this carnivorous assault:
All the famous novels of the world, with their well-known characters and their
famous scenes, only asked, it seemed, to be put on the films. What could be
easier and simpler? The cinema fell upon its prey with immense rapacity, and
to the moment largely subsists upon the body of its unfortunate victim. But the
results are disastrous to both. The alliance is unnatural. Eye and brain are torn
asunder ruthlessly... .*
This is the instinctual, defensive posture of the writer who, almost twenty years
after Tolstoy's excitation, has seen the effects of industrialised cinema on literate
culture: parasitism, infantilization, objectification, depthlessness, commodifica-
tion. Her very metaphor of a rapacious beast of prey tearing into the defenseless
ecosystem of literature suggests a worthwhile model for the comprehension of
what has been a century-long struggle for position on the cultural food chain: a
media ecology. It really was not until sound cinema hit its tyrannosaurus-stride in
the 1930s that the devastating impact of the new narrative beast was fully
appreciated, and by F. Scott Fitgerald more than anybody - an early enthusiast for,
and later wage-slave of, the cinema:
I saw that the novel, which at my maturity was the strongest and supplest
medium for conveying thought and emotion from one human being to another,
was becoming subordinated to a mechanical and communal art that, whether in
the hands of Hollywood merchants or Russian idealists, was capable of
reflecting only the tritest thought, the most obvious emotion. It was an art in
which words were subordinate to images, where personality was worn down to
the inevitable low gear of collaboration. As long past as 1930,1 had a hunch
that the talkies would make even the best selling novelist as archaic as silent
pictures. People still read ... but there was a rankling indignity, that to me had
become almost an obsession, in seeing the power of the written word
subordinate to another power, a more glittering, a grosser power... something
which tended to make my efforts obsolescent, as the chain stores have crippled
the small merchant, an exterior force, unbeatable - 9
Introduction 5
Here the note of economic Darwinism is sounded with a fatalistic fury, muted
only by the perfect past tense and a grudging awareness of which side of the bread
is being buttered. It is a bitter despair given its fullest expression in Nathanael
West's extraordinary Day of the Locust, and Theodor Adorao's and Max
Horkheimer's 'Culture Industry' essay: contemporaneous jeremiads against the
reign of the spectacle on behalf of the word. The 'direct attack' by cinema on the
life of writers, of which Tolstoy had written so optimistically, had finally (in the
heyday of Hollywood's triumph, 1938-41) come to a vanquishing, an elimination,
or so it seemed, of an inferior and superseded species.
Or not quite. The Second World War makes an epoch, at which some kind of
moral equalibrium is regained by writers under the shadow of Tinseltown. This
was due in no small part to the enormous effect of Hollywood's product, and the
U.S. Army it helped urge into action against Fascism, on the intelligentsia of a
benighted Europe. The school of Bazin, on the pages of Cahiers du cinema,
recounted again and again the incontestable fact of 'the movies' as a bulwark
against moribund classicism, called forever into disrepute thanks to its cooptation
by totalitarianism. As the vanguard of a new consumerism of course American
visual culture was corrupt, but the Cahiers school articulated what was felt
generally by the vast majority of French intellectuals after the War (Sartre,
Merleau-Ponty, Camus, Robbe-Grillet and Barthes to name but a few): the movies
were, as William Carlos Williams first put it, 'a moral force'; and cinema's ablest
practitioners, De Sica, Rossellini, Welles, Bergman and Mizoguchi, constituted
the most palpable public conscience of a post-Fascist era. Robbe-Grillet and
Duras wrote screenplays for Resnais; Godard, potentially one of the greatest
literary talents of his generation, reinvented cinema instead; and Truffaut went to
school in Hitchcock as though he were a living Shakespeare. This striking new
accord between the literary intelligentsia and the cinema was echoed, across the
Atlantic, by Frank O'Hara, who wrote, throwing all caution and cadence to the
wind:
Not you, lean quarterlies and swarthy periodicals

with your studious incursions toward the pomposity of ants,
nor you, experimental theatre in which Emotive Fruition
is wedding Poetic Insight perpetually, nor you,
promenading Grand Opera, obvious as an ear (though you
are close to my heart), but you, Motion Picture Industry,
it's you I love!10
This exhilarated cry of relief, with its amoral imperative throbbing just beneath
the surface ('Mothers of America/let your kids go to the movies!'11), shuffled off
the Modernist coils of little magazines and terse poetic strictures. It is what we
have been calling 'postmodernism' ever since. O'Hara's declaration of love

rejoins Tolstoy's initial fervour of approbation, but after the fact of the Culture
Industry, which it negates by sheer flamboyant audacity - just as the nouvelle
vague would do. Henceforth literature, having learned its place in the new media
ecology, is free to flourish in the topsoil of the spectacle.
By one account, the effect has been deleterious:
Literalness, perhaps the dominant aspect of film, has come to occupy, largely
because of film's popularity, a hegemonic place in all the arts. Its chief feature
is the abandonment of subjectivity in the work. In place of interiority, which
presupposed the individual who was distinguished from the objects outside of
her- or himself by consciousness, even if socially determined or conditioned,
literalism dissolves the subject-object split into object relations.12
The novel, overwhelmed by cinema's superficial visuality, apparently no longer

plays that vital role assigned to it by generations of critics: the production of
(good) subjectivity. It has 'abandoned' subjectivity, in anything other than a
pastiched or parodic sense. And indeed, what could be more appropriate a literary
'symptom' in the collective desire to map our social and cultural present? If the
structuralists and post-structuralists have been right to argue that what we call
subjectivity has all along been an effect of various imbricated social, linguistic
and psychological structurations, then where better than the postmodern,
literalised, movie-conscious novel to look for a consciousness of that! While
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry (Hejinian, Bernstein, etc.) playfully recycles the
media's lamentable excuse for 'language', the postmodern novel - from Pynchon
and DeLillo to Perec and Houellebecq - explores the 'post-subjective' landscapes
of the media ecology with an eye to the elusive structures that govern and
perpetuate it. The role of cinema in the twentieth-century's refashioning of not
only art and literature, but of subjectivity, desire and the social itself, has been
inestimable.
And if it has helped to refashion art and literature, cinema has also profoundly
modified the critical languages through which these are apprehended. Fredric
Jameson has written of the extent to which 'film has marked the life and work of
writers in the twentieth century; and it is always worth remembering the degree to
which going to the movies has been a very basic part of the weekly and even the
daily life of modern intellectuals.'13 It is an observation which encourages a
reconsideration of critical discourse in the twentieth century in terms of this
pervasive cinematographic experience. There has arguably been a 'colonisation'
of traditional literary criticism by the terminology of film over the last century:
visual and spatial metaphors, such as 'framing', 'close ups' and 'angles', along
with the more basic categories of montage and focalization. Precisely because of
Introduction 7
its reifying tendencies (its obj edifications of perception, its generic formulae, its
apparatus and 'post-humanity', and so on) the cinema was the quintessential
narrative and figurative medium of the twentieth century, embodying the
technological and cultural logic of 'late capitalism' better than any other medium
until television. It correspondingly enjoyed a 'privileged status' in the purview
and language of the critical intelligentsia; and this has allowed for film criticism's
'gradual supersession of more traditional aesthetic languages'.14 Thus, the very
terms in which we have come to think of literature and the literary have been
ineluctably shaped by the fact, the experience and the language of film and film
criticism: the practice of literary education, in primary, secondary and tertiary
institutions, is (as Colin MacCabe points out below) invariably 'augmented' by
audio-visual, technological components; and the very act of reading seems almost
impossible to rid of the temptation to play casting agent and director - designing
the sets, arranging the arc lights and cameras, and coaching the performers. This
always-already 'adaptedness' of all literature (even poetry, as Tony Harrison has
repeatedly proven) to the medium of film haunts literary criticism in any number
of ways; perhaps most symptomatically when it defensively insists on literature's
textual purity. What seems undeniable is that, after cinema, literature has been
opened up to a process of ceaseless 'secondary revision' in the light of the visual
media, in something like the way that the dramatic text is opened up in the light of
the theatre. Andre Bazin, whose reflections on 'Mixed Cinema' preside over this
entire volume, grasped the truth of this media ecology in terms which still await
their fullest reckoning:
The truth is there is here no competition or substitution, rather the adding of a

new dimension that the arts had gradually lost from the time of the
Reformation on: namely a public.
Who will complain of that?15
As a mark of the methodological sweep of this book, we begin with two essays
which confront the conceptual and institutional impact of visual technology in
modern and contemporary 'literary' culture. Colin MacCabe combines theoretical,
historical and material perspectives in a broad survey which seeks to demonstrate
the absolute embeddedness of visual media in our general culture. MacCabe traces
the 'dialectic' of film and literature through key points of interaction and
contestation over the last century: Joyce's Volta cinematograph and its evident
links with Ulysses; Andre Bazin's essay 'In Defence of Mixed Cinema', his
declaration of the ongoing interrelation of film and literature, which this volume,
and our introduction echoes; the apotheosis of this interrelation in magic realist
prose; and the role and status of the visual media in education. According to
MacCabe, the impact of the cinematic has been such that our cultural history, our
literary forms, genres and institutions, cannot be considered in isolation from the
visual media. Instead, their 'impurity' must be embraced, and a thorough
integration of cinema studies with more established disciplines should be sought.
If Colin MacCabe is calling for a less ambivalent critical and institutional
engagement with visual technology, Laura Marcus traces some of the origins of
this cultural ambivalence in the critical reception of cinema in the early decades of
the twentieth century. Marcus' essay examines the way in which film was at once
acclaimed as an 'entirely new' art and entangled in an anxious preoccupation with
history, memory and time. She follows this uncanny thread through a series of
exemplary moments in Modernist culture and criticism, ranging from critiques
and adaptations of H.G. Wells' futuristic fantasies; to the attempts of Jean Epstein,
Be'la Balazs and Elie Faure to theorize parallels between the new language of
cinema and 'prelapsarian' pictographic languages; and to Dorothy Richardson's
resistance to contemporary evolutionary models of technological and psychic
development. Marcus elaborates and complicates the frequently asserted
connections between cinema and modernity to reveal the complex interaction of
the 'modern' and the 'primitive', of humanism and anti-humanism, in early
cinematic discourse. Her analysis bears out the radical duality - stressed through-
out this volume - of modern culture's response to visual technologies.
In keeping with the parameters set by the first essays in this volume, the
extended section on modernist literature picks up on both the creative anxiety and
fertility provoked by the 'mixing' of written and visual media. Where Michael
North's essay highlights the profoundly paradoxical attitudes of the 'avant-garde'
literati to the visual 'language' of cinema - simultaneously internationalist and
elitist, transcultural and imperialist - Julian Murphet and Rachel Connor trace the
heterodoxical synthesis of different strands of cinematic discourse in the work of
specific modernist authors. Murphet argues that Gertrude Stein straddles the
conflicting theories of Bergson and Munsterberg, and the technical evolution of
cinema from chronophotography to standardized 35mm film, to create a
'cinematic' modernism which was at once American, materialist and avant-garde.
Connor analyses the impact of the new visual culture on H.D.'s literary
techniques, and sees in her 'narrative cinematics' an attempt to complicate notions
of private and public spectatorship, personal and collective experience. The
motivation for these formal innovations is thus social and political as well as
aesthetic.
The multiplicity of formal responses to cinema within literary modernism
testifies to not only to the 'shock' of the new medium in general terms, but the
shock of different technical innovations within the filmic medium itself. Whether
the introduction of sound, developments in film stock and methods, or early
Introduction 9
animation techniques, the capacity of these changes to intrude upon, distort, and
mutate habitual literary forms cannot be overestimated. This is underscored by
Keith Williams' chapter on Joyce's Ulysses, the monumental text in the modernist
canon. His analysis of the 'Circe' episode in the novel finds striking parallelisms
between the 'polymorphous plasticism' of Joyce's 'play for voices' and the
surreal distortions and 'morphing' of objects created in contemporary cartoons
and film animation. Where Briggs and Burkdall have identified the likely
influence of the 'trick films' of Melies and his French contemporaries, Williams'
close analysis of the text reveals animated aspects which could not have been
modelled on stop-motion dis/appearance. This suggests that we should expand our
sense of the range of Joyce's democratic interest in the multiplicity of forms in
contemporary visual media.
The second part of this volume reaches beyond the initial shocks of
modernism's engagement with cinema into the ripples and reactions of later
modernist and 'postmodernist' writers and commentators. Tim Armstrong's
chapter, which analyses the creative collaboration of Len Lye and Laura Riding, is
the first of the 'bridges' towards the later period. Armstrong parallels Lye's
experiments in creating 'direct' films with Riding's poetry, and reads their joint
projects as a reaction against representational notions of film, and thus as a
testament to the 'impossibility' of combining film and literature. It thus runs
counter to Bazin's idea of 'mixed cinema', and indeed, to the predominant
theoretical thrust of this book. Conversely, Eric Robertson traces a whole lifetime
of cross-fertilization between the two media, through the work of the avant-garde
poet Blaise Cendrars. The essay spans Cendrars' early poetic fascination with
cinematic visuality and movement, his collaboration on films such as J'Accuse,
his creation of a hybrid form of 'cine-novel' and various auditory experiments in
the 1950s. Robertson develops an intriguing thesis that Cendrars regarded film as
a 'prosthetic' medium which held the power to extend the body's sensory
capacity. In the last of our 'bridges', Elena Gualtieri provides a perspective on the
still, rather than the moving image. However, her analysis of the impact of
photography on constructions of time illuminates the complex adjustments
provoked in modern narrative technologies by the visual. In Camera Lucida,
Roland Barthes associates photography with the grammatical tense of the aorist,
and with a linear temporality which collapses duration and memory. Gualtieri
traces the different narrative mediations of photography in Robert Musil's The
Man Without Qualities and Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, and argues
that while both authors are seeking to undo mis linear chronology, they do not
bear a purely antagonistic relation to photography: indeed their manipulation of
the spatial dimensions of the medium enables them to suspend or open the
modernist 'grammar of time'.
The after-life of the modem is traced in the final two essays of the book, where
the web of cross-currents between different media, technologies and critical
discourses bears witness to the permanent and complex legacy of the visual image
in written culture. Both essays are indebted to Gilles Deleuze's theorization of
modern cinema, but problematize the limits of his conceptual structure in relation
to the heterogeneous forms of recent experiments in literature and film. Lydia
Rainford questions Deleuze's readings of Samuel Beckett's television plays as
attempts to exceed language and its memories, and aspire to the 'pure image'. She
emphasizes the intertextual nature of these plays, and their foregrounding of the
processes of technical recording, and argues that Beckett is creating an ironic and
impure balance between visual and verbal media which serves to deconstruct
classical notions of memorial 'inscription'. Arkady Plotnitsky and Paula Geyh
employ deconstruction more directly in their analysis of Tom Phillips' 'artist's
book', A Humument, and Peter Greenaway's postmodern 'textual' cinema. Both
Phillips and Greenaway cross the boundaries of their respective art forms, and are
characterized in particular by their incorporation of inscriptive elements and
supplements into their visual creations. Reading these artistic practices as
demonstrations of what Derrida called 'the end of the book and the beginning of
writing', Plotnitsky and Geyh consider them as embodiments of a 'writing image'
which supplants Deleuze's concepts of the 'movement-image' and 'time-image'
in modern cinema. Thus they herald the formation of a specifically 'postmodern'
cinema, and illuminate a further evolution in the relationship between newer
visual media and older literary forms.
Notes
1 Quoted by Jay Leyda in 'A Conversation with Leo Tolstoy', in Kino: A History of the
Russian and Soviet Film (London: Allen & Unwin, 1960), pp. 410-11.
2 Virginia Woolf, 'The Cinema', in The Captain's Death Bed and other essays (London:
Hogarth Press, 1950), p. 171.
3 Woolf, 'Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Brown', The Captain's Death Bed, p. 109.
4 Ezra Pound, *A Retrospect', in Literary Essays of Ezra Pound, ed. T. S. Eliot (London:
Faber & Faber, 1954), pp. 11-12.
5 Gertrude Stein, 'Portraits and Repetition', in Gertrude Stein: Writings 1934-1946
(New York: The Library of America, 1998), pp. 294-295.
6 Emest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms (London: Vintage, 1999), p. 165.
7 Marshall McLuhan, Letters of Marshall McLuhan, eds. Marie Molinaro, Conine
McLuhan and William Toye (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 193.
8 Woolf, 'The Cinema', p. 168.
9 F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Crack-Up, with other Pieces and Stories (London: Penguin,
1965), p. 49.
Introduction 11
10 Frank O'Hara, 'To the Film Industry in Crisis', Selected Poems, ed Donald Allen
(London: Penguin, 1994), p. 99.
11 Ibid., 'Ave Maria', p. 179.
12 Stanley Aronowitz, Dead Artists, Live Theories (London; Routledge, 1994), p. 54.
13 Fredric Jameson, 'Introduction', in Signatures of the Visible (London; Routledge,
1992), p. 5.
14 Fredric Jameson, 'Allegorizing Hitchcock", in Signatures of the Visible, p. 126.
15 Andr6 Bazm, 'In Defence of Mixed Cinema', in What is Cinema? Vol. 1, trans. Hugh
Gray (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), p. 75.
Parameters
1
On Impurity: the Dialectics of Cinema
and Literature
Colin MacCabe
When we consider the birth of film in 1895, we must recognise that it finds its
principal significance for literature as threat and opposition. Whether we consider
film from the point of view of the documentary record inaugurated by the Lumiere
brothers or the peep-show attraction with which Edison started, film very quickly
reached audiences on a size and scale that literature could never dream of. As
perhaps the most visible evidence of a new commercial mass culture, cinema
became for many of the official representatives of literary culture the enemy. If
one re-reads I. A. Richards' influential texts of the 1920s, The Principles of
Literary Criticism (1924) and Practical Criticism (1929), one finds that the very
justification of literary study is often framed in terms of an antidote to a mass
culture of which cinema is the most obvious example. This deep-seated opposition
is carried through to the present day. The biggest cheer that the late and
unlamented Conservative education minister John Patten ever received at a
Conservative Party conference was when he bellowed that he would insist that
schoolchildren were taught Shakespeare and not soap-opera. Indeed, this
opposition is not simply at work in discourses of cultural criticism or political
opportunism. There is a literary sub-genre, the 'Hollywood novel', of which the
two best examples are Nathanael West's The Day of the Locust (1939) and Evelyn
Waugh's The Loved One (1948), that finds its fundamental opposition pitting the
literary worker or artist against an uncreative industry which addresses a mass
audience.1
I do not want to suggest that there is nothing whatever in this opposition of
individual creativity and mass audience, but I do want to say that the merest
* I would like to thank Julian Murphet whose work on and contribution to this piece are
much more considerable than the title of editor would suggest. In particular the final section
which he wrote up from the most scanty of final written notes and verbal comments would
more properly be attributed to him than to me although it makes the conclusion that I would
wish to have written.
15
glance at the history of cinema and literature in the twentieth century should tell
us that we will have understood nothing if we pit the two media in simple
opposition. If cinema announces a death-sentence to 'Literature' - and one of my
arguments will certainly suggest that it does - then I also want to advance the
paradoxical argument that cinema only lives because of writing and that indeed
one of the features of contemporary cinema is that the dominance of writing is
becoming more and more marked. This can be read all the way from Harry Potter
and The Lord of the Rings through what Plotnitsky and Geyh in this volume call
the 'writing-image' pioneered by Godard and Oshima (Dear Summer Sister
[1972] would be a central text for any full development of this notion) to a
'writerly' cinema elsewhere exemplified by the elaborate literary textures of
Selen (1995) or the 'new adaptations' of Proust (Ruiz) and Wharton (Davies).
Indeed if we expand our field to include the new digital technologies, it is
becoming harder and harder to say where writing ends and the image begins.
Modernism
Let us start, however, with a brief consideration of the historical record and limit
ourselves to cinema and literature. Here, I would want to advance the provocative
thesis that it is impossible to give a serious account of any twentieth-century
writer without reference to the cinema. This is true at the level of the crudest
material history - what successful novelist or dramatist of the last century has not
had his works adapted for the cinema? - while there are many from Faulkner to
Pinter who have spent a great deal of their time screenwriting. But there is a much
deeper level, a level which Jameson has described as the ecology of the media,
where cinema has had a more pervasive effect.2 Jameson's point is that at both the
economic and aesthetic level new media are not simply added to an existing
discrete set of technologies audiences and forms but that each new form of media
reconfigures a tightly integrated cultural-economic ecosystem. Just as it is
impossible to think of Paradise Lost and its development of the epic without
reflecting on the poetic form that it borrowed from the despised theatre, or to think
of Hollywood cinema of the fifties without its new rival, television, so the advent
of cinema has repercussions across the whole range of aesthetic possibilities from
poetry to painting, from dance to theatre. My theme here is literature, and I will
focus on narrative fiction; but the net could be cast much wider. If we think only
of the pre-eminent poet of the twentieth century, T. S. Eliot, whose comments
about the cinema are all of the most patronising and dismissive, it is difficult to
imagine The Waste Land (1922) without the development of editing and montage
within the cinema.3
But if Eliot and poetry might be a limit case, Joyce and the novel is a central
one. I can think of no moment as transforming of my view of literary history as
On Impurity 17
Bloomsday 1995, when Luke McKernan and Phil Crossley of the British Film
Institute premiered their 'evening at the Volta'.4 The conventional mix of
programming, which combined a Lumiere-style documentary of city life with the
exotic spectacle of crocodile fishing in Malaya, a slapstick comedy with a
historical or literary classic, never forgetting a primitive melodrama, was a
revelation. I had long believed that Joyce's life-long engagement with the cinema
was of much greater significance than had conventionally been assumed. Walter
Benjamin remarks that by the end of the nineteenth century, the routine demands
of city life had reached the stage where we were all trapped within the city and
that it was the movie camera which, by allowing the possibility of slowing down
time until the rigid and predetermined structures of the city were exploded,
opened up the possibility of travelling adventurously through the newly
spatialised city.5 The voyage of Ulysses (1922) is one that is impossible to
conceive without the movie camera.
What the reconstructed Volta programme taught me was that it was not simply
in terms of style - one could point to the 'Wandering Rocks' episode as
inconceivable without the formal editing of the cinema - but also in terms of
subject matter and the mixing of genres that Ulysses was indebted to the cinema.
And indebted above all to that moment of the cinema which owed least to
literature. Andre Bazin, in 'In Defence of Mixed Cinema', an article to which I
shall be returning, makes the telling remark that the history of the cinema and
literature is the reverse of what one might expect. A conventional view might have
a new art borrowing from the existing arts before it developed topics and styles of
its own, but the history of the cinema presents us with the reverse pattern: an
initial decade in which the cinema develops independently from the established
arts, and then a period of increasing interdependence which has not ceased to
grow since Bazin wrote.6 The cinema that Joyce encountered in Trieste in the first
decade of the twentieth century was both a cinema of great commercial vitality
and one unbothered by its relation to the traditional arts. The appeal of such an art
must have been strong for a Joyce who, unlike Eliot, knew the reality of colonial
subjection and could not divorce literature from its political history. If Eliot was to
consummate his cultural theories with the assumption of British citizenship, Joyce
wished to develop an art which would break with all existing models of
citizenship as unacceptable politically as sexually. And where was this hybrid
internationalism better exemplified than on the screen of his own Irish cinema,
where Italian, French and American films jostled for attention?
One of the delights of these essays on the theme of 'Literature and Visual
Technologies' is that they decisively confirm the centrality of cinema to a reading
of Ulysses and how that centrality involves an international, a global rather than a
national context. The awful repressions involved in the construction of the
national, analogous to and intensifying of the repressions of monotheism, are
unmasked and rejected in 'Circe'. As late in the evening Stephen and Bloom enter
the brothel, their faces merge in the mirror and what gazes forth is a paralysed
Shakespeare crowned by the cuckold's horns. The temptations to follow the
tradition of English literature or invent an alternative Irish literature (the project of
those who surround Stephen in the library), must be resisted in an attempt to
rewrite literature so that the buried repressions begin to speak - which they do in
the Nighttown sequence, which is as much film script as it is expressionist play. In
'Circe', as in the Volta, the polymorphous and protean forms of an international
political and sexual unconscious walk the streets like restless spectres: 'Is not this
something more than fantasy?' (Hamlet 1.1. 57) And that 'something more' is in
part the international language of cartoons which Keith Williams' 'Ulysses in
Toontown' analyses brilliantly.7
There is, however, a deep contradiction within this moment of modernism
which applies as much to Eliot's The Waste Land or Virginia Woolf s Mrs
Dalloway (1925) - both written under the immediate influence of Ulysses. If the
writing is determined to break with the literary language established and
developed since the last decades of the sixteenth century; to open the text to a
much greater range of registers; to let many more voices speak; and, at the same
time, to abandon the notion of a unified authorial voice - then the texts perform
these tasks in contexts which are exclusively literary. First in the patronage and
small presses in which they first circulated, and then in the university departments
of English which found so much of their justification in these texts' ceaseless
explication.
Bazin and impurity
In asking ourselves about the relationship between literature and visual

technologies, it seems evident that we must begin with Bazin, who not only
remains for me the pre-eminent theorist and critic of cinema but whose pre-
eminence is in large part due to his determination to understand cinema in relation
to the other arts: literature, theatre, painting, etc. Bazin's immediate intellectual
context was formed in large measure by the Catholic magazine Esprit and it was
in Esprit in the 1930s that Roger Leenhardt wrote a series of introductory analyses
of the cinema which were unusual not simply for their acuity, but also for the fact
that, against almost all the dominant intellectual currents of the day, Leenhardt
welcomed the advent of sound. For many intellectuals who had early been drawn
to the possibilities of the cinema (especially those associated with the journal
Close Up), the appeal had lain in terms of a new universal art and the purity of the
image.8 The advent of sound dismayed such purists and it was against these
purists that Bazin was to write one of his prescient and still under-explored essays,
'In Defence of Mixed Cinema'. Focusing on the relation between cinema and
On Impurity 19
literature, Bazin was to give equal stress to each side of this relationship in the
moment of modernism, even if his preferred reference is not to Joyce but to what
he calls the American novel, above all the writings of Dos Passos and
Hemingway. But Bazin is concerned to repudiate that easy notion of influence,
most evident in Dos Passos's explicit use of cinema as a narrative device, which
would have literature simply borrowing from the cinema. Bazin's point is much
more complicated. He writes:
Actually, the American novel belongs not so much to the age of the cinema as
to a certain vision of the world, a vision influenced doubtless by man's relation
with a technical civilization, but whose influence upon the cinema, which is a
fruit of this civilization, has been less than on the novel, in spite of the alibis
that the film-maker can offer the novelist.9
Bazin's point is two-fold: first, that cinema and literature are linked less by any
simplistic model of causality, than by a general horizon of technologization and
mass production, which the novel expressed technically and formally more
quickly than the cinema (expressing it directly in its apparatus); and second that,
by and large, when the cinema came into contact with literature and left its
beginnings in circus and music hall behind, it was not the contemporary literature
of the twentieth century that it turned to for its models and inspiration, but to
nineteenth-century forms of realism. To find cinema catching up with the moment
of modernism - with the literature of Joyce and Hemingway - Bazin turns to his
two great examples of 'mixed' cinema: Welles and Rossellini. In praising these
cinematic masters in terms of realism, Bazin was not harking back to the terms of
the nineteenth century novel. If his philosophical vocabulary served his thought
poorly here, it is crystal clear that the realism to which he is appealing is not the
unified master representations of George Eliot or Balzac. The key is in the way in
which the representational apparatus of cinema can not be simply subordinated to
a human consciousness but offers a genuinely new access to reality.10 It is this
new access which is one of the key elements within the development of
modernism and one might imagine Bazin as proposing a moment at which the
failure of literary modernism, condemned to its limited circulation, and early
commercial cinema, condemned to antique literary models, might be jointly
redeemed.
Before returning to the moment of Citizen Kane (Welles, 1941) and Paisa
(Rossellini, 1946), however, we must consider the literary developments of the
last fifty years and come to terms with the overlooked fact that literature has been
affected by cinema in a much more profound way than the missed encounter of
modernism. Much of the development of literary theory and criticism of the past
forty years has been determined by that final flowering of late modernism in the
Theory of the Parisian 1960s. Whether we look at Foucault in relation to Beckett

and Roussel, Barthes in relation to Brecht and Robbe-Grillet, Derrida in relation
to Artaud, and Bataille or Lacan in relation to the Surrealists and Joyce himself,
this body of work is unable to engage either with the cinema, which is largely
absent from its reflections,11 or more importantly with the development of the
popular literary genres of this century: science fiction, horror, the thriller, which
evolve in continuous dialogue with the cinema. Nowhere are these failures more
evident than in the development of magic realism. It is no accident that Gabriel
Garcia Marquez, whose Cien aftos de soledad {One Hundred Years of Solitude,
1967) took developments within the Latin-American novel and delivered them to
a global audience, is an eminent writer on and for the cinema. Marquez is himself
an emblematic figure who engages with the whole series of forms outside and
beyond the book which are provided by the technological, social and economic
advances of capitalism in the last century-and-a-half: the newspaper, photography,
radio, cinema, television, recorded music. It is in such overlapping institutional
spaces, traversing the whole 'ecology of the media', that contemporary cultural
production takes place.
It is true of course that many of these new forms were crucial to literary
modernism. I have already said that it is impossible to imagine the form of either
Ulysses or The Waste Land without the developments of film editing. Joyce's
experiences at the Volta or Eliot's attempts in his most radical experiment,
Sweeney Agonistes (1932), to tap into the energy of the jazz that he so admired,
could both be cited in this context. But both experiments were forestalled by
literary modernism's formal decision to return to the comfortable space between
the covers of a book. Capitalist culture, however, made no such choice, and
writing is now dispersed across a variety of forms, which are unimaginable as
recently as the time of the Romantics. Comic book, video game, film script, rap
video, cartoon, novelisation: the impure forms proliferate across the technologies,
mixing text and image at ever faster velocities.
Early modernism was caught in a constitutive contradiction, attempting to
dismantle many of the conventions of Literature while remaining securely within
its institutions. It is possible to read that limit clearly in Eliot's failed experiment
with Sweeney Agonistes, a failure which the later plays merely confirm. But it is
much more evident in Joyce. It is an easy moralism to condemn Joyce for his
dependence on patrons both direct and indirect, but the political conditions of his
time meant that he was without a broad audience to whom he could appeal. The
founding of the cinema in Dublin, the notorious dramatic career in Zurich, the
almost ludicrous support for the Irish tenor Sullivan - all these gesture towards a
very different version of Finnegans Wake. In reality, had Joyce stayed in Dublin I
have no doubt that as Stephen Dedalus predicted 'the archons of Sinn Fein' would
have provided him with a suitable 'noggin of hemlock',12 and London only
On Impurity 21
offered the insufferable condescensions of the English exemplified by the figure

of Haines in Ulysses. So Paris and patronage it was. But I often fantasise what
could have happened had the British Government stood up to the Unionists and
the Curragh mutiny of 1914 and forced through the Fourth Home Rule Bill. It may
be that Finnegans Wake would have become the multi-media production at the
Abbey that I am convinced it might have been.
I want to consider for a moment, if only to reject, an argument which would see
in the development of magic realism, and particularly in the writings of Salman
Rushdie, a resolution to the contradictions of modernism. Rushdie has himself
acknowledged his debt to cinema and the interpenetrations of cinema and
literature in referring to The Wizard of Oz (1939) as his first literary influence; and
his first ten years as a writer were spent working within the advertising industry
where word and image enjoy the most immediate relationship (we need think only
of the efforts of Leopold Bloom himself, of course). Over and above these
biographical facts, The Satanic Verses (1988) finds perhaps its major structural
opposition in Gibreel Farishta's existence as a voiceless image of Indian cinema
and Saladin Chamcha's being as an imageless voice of British television. Indeed
the whole of The Satanic Verses can be read as a prolonged meditation on the
media, from the transition from an oral to a literate culture in seventh-century
Arabia, to the differing regimes of sound and image in India and Britain. Indeed
the relation of literature to the entire range of contemporary media is one of the
constant themes of Rushdie's work: one can think of the centrality of radio to
Midnight's Children (1981) or painting to The Moor's Last Sigh (1995).
A more recent book, The Ground Beneath Her Feet (1999) emphasises
photojournalism and that great form of the late twentieth century, rock music. The
narrator, Rai, a photographer, tells the epic story of his friends Vina and Ormus
Cama - the biggest rock band of all time, who blast out of Bombay as VTO.
When Vina dies in an earthquake both Ormus and Rai, who have been bound in a
triangle of love with Vina, fall into a state of total collapse. And then miraculously
Ormus finds Vina's reincarnation in a young woman called Mira, and they mount
the greatest rock tour of all time in which the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice is
replayed but with, on this occasion, Eurydice truly rescued from hell. The
complexity of the book's construction, and particularly its astonishing use of rock
lyrics and history, defy easy summary. Suffice to say that Rushdie most fully
integrates the science fiction genre which he used for his first novel Grimus
(1975) into his concerns about identity, place and media on a fully globalised
planet. He also makes clearer than ever before his relation to metamorphosis
which has been perhaps the central motif of his work. Metamorphosis is not to be
understood as a process of a constant change of surfaces, but as the fundamental
revelation of our deepest natures (a rather different conception from that of the
various transformations in the 'Proteus' and 'Circe' sections of Ulysses).
Rushdie's whole body of work, then, and particularly The Ground Beneath Her
Feet, might seem to achieve a certain resolution of the contradictions of early
modernism. The constitutive influence of film, the determining influence of the
popular genres of science fiction and the continuous mixing of ancient myth with
popular culture might seem like a more successful replay of the experiments of the
early twentieth century. Indeed in an almost uncanny replay of the might-have-
beens of Finnegans Wake, there is even a 'song of the book' with lyrics by
Rushdie, performed by the Irish band U2 ("The Ground Beneath Her Feet', 2000).
It might be tempting to suggest that the economic and technological developments
of capitalism, and its ever growing contradictions, now allow the huge ambitions
of modernism to be realised in a properly 'multi-media' form, a true
Gesamtkunstwerk straddling the full gamut of the media. If such an argument be
allowed, it must be one that is fully aware that those contradictions grow ever
more acute and that the promise of resolution is not one to which any time scale
can be assigned, and not without profound political transformations. In the
meantime, the resolution is only fitful and symbolic, a ruse of the system itself
whose only function is to draw us into the abstract fold made by the media and
commerce. Rushdie himself makes this very clear. The epigraph of the novel is
from Rilke:
Set up no stone to his memory.

Just let the rose bloom each year for his sake.
For it is Orpheus. His metamorphosis
in this one and in this. We should not trouble
about other names. Once and for all

it's Orpheus when there's singing.13
Rilke draws on that part of the myth long after Eurydice has been left behind,
when Orpheus is torn to pieces by Maenads - Orpheus's dismembered head floats
down the river but continues to sing. The image has been used time and time
again to assert the eternal value of poetry. But any temptation to take Rilke's
modernist poem as the last word is destroyed by the final paragraph of Rushdie's
novel. The narrator has returned to life not simply because of Mira's love but
because of his love for Mira's child Tara, and its is she who has the last word.
Tara's got hold of the zapper. I've never got used to having the tv on at
breakfast, but this is an American kid, she's unstoppable. And today, by some
fluke, wherever she travels in the cable multiverse she comes up with Ormus
and Vina. Maybe it's some sort of VTO weekend and we didn't even know. I
don't believe it, Tara says, zapping again and again. I don't buh-leeve it. Oh,
On Impurity 23
puh-leeze. Is this what's going to happen now, for ever and ever? I thought
they were supposed to be dead, but in real life they're just going to go on
singing.14
Rushdie holds back, at the last, from the confidence of Rilke. The new media, the
new children always pose new questions: no consolations of art can be eternal.
There is always a new effort of understanding.
The current situation
If we look at the culture, there is no doubt that the new media of the twentieth and
twenty-first century and universal education have completely transformed the
cultural ecology installed by Gutenberg and the Renaissance humanists. If there
can be no truck, of any kind whatsoever, with those who idiotically talk of 'the
death of the book', if in some ways the cultural prestige of literacy, and the power
that flows from it, has never been more evident, nonetheless the book, in
particular, and writing, in general, have been displaced from the position of
unquestioned dominance which they enjoyed for four centuries in the West. But
our educational system and our disciplines remain unaffected by these
transformations.
The enmity between literature and visual technologies that I touched on at the
beginning of this paper is embedded institutionally. In England, literature and
literacy are the preserve of the Department for Education and Employment, film
and media is largely the province of the Department of Culture, Media and Sport.
And while a survey conducted by the BFI suggested that there is almost no
teaching of pre-twentieth century literature in secondary schools which is not
accompanied by audiovisual representations,15 the fact is that this kind of media
remains a kind of guilty secret addressed neither in teacher training nor
examination syllabi. What might offer the opportunity for considering two
different semiotic systems, and thus allowing children access to genres and
language which they find increasingly foreign, is often offered as no more than a
plot summary which spares the child the arduous task of reading the book. The
continuing division between literature and film is thus rendered invisible in the
substitution of one by the other. The ideology which simply opposes the moving
image to literacy ignores the ways in which the moving image can be used to
develop literacy - what little research has been done on this suggests very
different ways of developing children's reading and writing but it falls between all
the existing institutional stools.16
If it is possible to gloss I. A. Richards' concern with close reading of a text in
such a way that it opens up on a whole range of texts beyond the literary, and if
his democratic concerns and the drive for Basic English continue to have valuable
and timely lessons for us, the curricular and disciplinary victory belongs to Leavis
and Eliot, determined to defend the book and its limited audiences against any
form of new cultural settlement. From this perspective the American
domestication of Derrida and Foucault has been nothing short of disastrous,
retaining unchallenged a canon which is not questioned in relation to literacy or
technology but in abstract notions of deconstruction and power which are as
conservative as they are vacuous. Feminism has a better record here and a book
like Margaret Ferguson's Dido's Daughters which juxtaposes material from the
high cultural canon with the history of education is a real example of the kind of
thinking and research which is now necessary; but by and large feminism has
supped with the academic devil using an extremely short spoon and has been
rewarded with a meagre amount of university pork in exchange for espousing the
narrowest conception of gender and renouncing all of its subversive disciplinary
ambitions.
The other side of this failure has been the development of film studies. While it
is easy to reconstruct the local situations which led to the setting up of separate
departments of film, this impulse led exactly away from the reality of cultural
mixture and towards a fundamentally misleading construction of film as
autonomous. It is true that much valuable work has been done on the history of
film but the most valuable of this work, of which Tom Gunning's is primus inter
pares, has been on the very early history of film where this autonomy reflects a
genuine cultural reality.17
It is all too easy to criticize the false paths taken within higher education but
they find their deepest explanation in the rigorous divorce between university and
school which unites the various Western educational systems. If one were
genuinely to consider how best to reconfigure the study of text and image it would
have to imagine a reconfiguration of film and literary studies which would involve
an engagement with education departments which remain the most important
political and ideological forces within the humanities and social sciences while
receiving scant intellectual or academic valuation from those very humanities and
social sciences.
Back to Bazin
Bazin's importance, as Richards before him, lies in the commitment to education;

a commitment which in both cases comes out of an experience of war and its clear
demonstration of the failures of existing educational systems. It is that
commitment which lends such force to the concept of a 'mixed' or 'impure'
cinema, valorising cinema not as a purely 'new' form but one which reconfigured
the traditional arts of literature, theatre, painting, and any of the other arts by
which he insisted cinema had been enriched. Too often, Bazin is reduced in the
On Impurity 25
critical literature to a campaigner against montage, a naive realist who would

claim for the 'purity' of the cinematic image in a temporalised depth of field
something like an ontological affinity with Being itself, an approximation of God
in a godless age. Yet this easy caricature surely overlooks the very complicated
history of formal development which Bazin charts for cinema through its
incorporation and negotiation of the other media; a development striving towards
the 'realism' he so venerated, to be sure, but a dynamic, contested and agonised
development which questions ultimately the very notions of realism drawn from
literature.
It needs to be said again that this ecological argument for cinema's impurity
was made on behalf of, and because of, sound cinema's eventual transformation
into a properly modernist medium. The moment of realization that film is an
inherently 'mixed' medium, not a pure one, is also the moment of Welles and
Rossellini. It is to these two cherished, emblematic figures that Bazin repeatedly
turns both to celebrate the achievement of cinema's profoundest artistic resonance
in the mise en seine of their best work, and to insist on the ultimately
transformative power of modernist literature within the moving image - which
has, we shall see, become nothing short of writing itself.
Prior to this moment of modernism, sound cinema, for all its apparent
'modernity' of technique and relatedness to everyday urban life, was in fact
lagging well behind literature in the representation of what Bazin called 'the
dialectic of appearances and the psychology of behaviour', the true subjects of
modernism.18 'While it is true' he went on, 'that it relies entirely on the outside
world for its objects it has a thousand ways of acting on the appearance of an
object so as to eliminate any equivocation and to make of this outward sign one
and only one inner reality. The truth is that the vast majority of images on the
screen conform to the psychology of the theatre or to the novel of classical
analysis.' Classic Hollywood and European sound cinema reverted to that
simplistic representational universe of actions and reactions, milieux and modes of
behaviour, objects and forces, which is the moral geography of realism.
Meanwhile the novel, adapting its form to some of the capacities that critical
reflection had exposed in the film, was 'fifty years' ahead of the film in its ability
to register complex and ambiguous states of affairs, submerged psychological
processes, and the real dynamics of the modern world of mass production.
The gap did not close until the 1940s. Citizen Kane, about which Bazin spilled
more ink than any other film, occupies the place that it does in his value system
because of its transcendence of the 'classical analysis' of standardized studio
cinema. The great deep shot of Susan Alexander's attempted suicide, with its
multilayering of visual and sonorous elements, achieves for Bazin exactly the
same breakthrough in the language of the cinema as Ulysses did in the language of
the novel. Bazin's conception of 'realism' is thus the reverse of what we might
expect it to be. The shot in depth, unfragmented by the interventions of montage,

does not increase the real's legibility; rather, it lays bare its opacity, its paradoxes,
its immanent dialectics. He says,
depth of focus reintroduced ambiguity into the structure of the image if not of
necessity at least as a possibility. Hence it is no exaggeration to say that Citizen
Kane is unthinkable in any other way but in depth. The uncertainty in which
we find ourselves as to the spiritual key or the interpretation we should put on
the film is built into the very design of the image."
So it is that the modernist fetish of 'ambiguity' discovers its proper cinematic

realization not in the synthetic conjunctions of dialectical montage, but in the film
composed of deep sequence shots which yield, as it were, too much information
for the short-cuts of classical realist analysis; 'a film form that would permit
everything to be said without chopping the world up into little fragments, that
would reveal the hidden meanings in people and things without disturbing the
unity natural to them. >2° Is this not another way of stating the aesthetic of Ulysses,
that greatest of modernist novels which makes its artistic revolution by so
intensifying and multiplying the strategies of Naturalism that they implode on
themselves? In bom cases, the demotion of the conjunctive narrative short-cut, the
insistence on holding the frame open so that everything creeps in and becomes
exposed, is also what allows for the discovery of authorial style, a writerly
presence in the text or film that is the very grace note of modernism.
Welles (and Rossellini and Bresson) are thus figured as 'authors' in the strictest
sense. The dialectic between film and literature leaves its most elegant trace in the
modernism of a film form which has assimilated the lessons of a literary
movement that has in turn internalised the lessons of film. Welles's way 'of
"writing" a film is undeniably his own. ... the connection between Citizen Kane
and the novels of Dos Passos is obvious. ... It is fitting that, after having
decidedly or indirectly influenced the novel, the cinema should in turn be
influenced by it.'21 The point is that film had eventually earned the freedom to
embrace its own impurity, to use its own constitutive pollution by other media, as
the means of overcoming its pre-modernist conventions and becoming a generator
of styles, signatures, ambiguities, depths. If Welles, according to Bazin, 'doesn't
"reinvent filmmaking,"', at least he
reinvents his own cinema, just as Malraux, Hemingway and Dos Passos
reinvent language for their own purposes. Perhaps Welles's endeavor was fully
possible only beyond the standardized, transparent cinema of the studio
system, in an arena where no more resistance is offered to the artist's intention
than to the novelist's pen.22
On Impurity 27
Finally, I don't believe it is possible to overstate the significance of Bazin's

extraordinary statement:
Today we can say that at last the director writes in film. The image - its plastic
composition and the way it is set in time, because it is founded on a much
higher degree of realism - has at its disposal more means of manipulating
reality and of modifying it from within. The film-maker is no longer the
competitor of the painter and the playwright, he is, at last, the equal of the
novelist.23
It is not just that this formulation succinctly captures the very urge of
modernism, and exposes its foundation in impurity; but perhaps too it points a
way out of the sterile impasse of a postmodernism still trapped in disciplinary
straitjackets and formalism. The early 1950s opened a critical space that has, with
isolated examples such as Godard, since been summarily closed, a space more
conducive to the analysis and evaluation of the postmodern than any number of
asinine caricatures of Bazin could hope to deny. We live in impurity, up to our
eyes and ears; the question is how to think it. And that thinking will have to mix
its media, will have to be fundamentally educational, and will have at its centre
the possibilities of film as the democratic art allowing the most complicated mix
of a fundamental humanism and a no less fundamental modernism; a mix which
can provide the criteria and the concepts to move back in a re-evaluation of the
traditional arts.
Notes
1 For more on the Hollywood novel, see Nancy Brooker-Bowers, The Hollywood Novel
and Other Novels about Film, 1912-1982: an annotated bibliography (London:
Garland, 1985), and Anthony Slide, The Hollywood Novel: a critical guide (London:
McFarland & Co, 1995).
2 For excellent descriptions of this 'ecology', see Fredric Jameson, The Cultural Turn,
(London: Verso, 1998), pp. 109-113; The Geopolitical Aesthete (London: BFI, 1992),
pp. 138-143; and Postmodernism (London: Verso, 1991), pp. 67-69,275-77.
3 Ezra Pound's biographer, Noel Stock, makes the following remarks: 'In the process [of
reviewing Jean Cocteau's Poesies 1917-1920] he [Pound] claimed that Cocteau wrote a
poetry that belonged to the city intellect and he went on to air a view which may have
had some effect on Eliot when later that year he began to write his long poem The
Waste Land. "The life of a village is narrative," Pound wrote ... "In a city the visual
impressions succeed each other, overlap, overcross, they are cinematographic." One of
the distinguishing marks of The Waste Land is the succession of scenes and
impressions, crossing and overlapping.' Noel Stock, The Life of Ezra Pound
(Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1974), pp. 296-97.
4 This 'evening' was reprised for the 'Literature and Visual Technologies' conference,
and re-screened on the 19* September, 2000 at the Phoenix Cinema, Oxford.
5 Walter Benjamin, 'The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction', in
Illuminations, trans. Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken, 1968), pp. 236-37.
6 Andre Bazin, 'In Defence of Mixed Cinema', in What is Cinema?, Volume One, trans.
Hugh Gray (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), pp. 60-62.
7 See the chapter by Keith Williams, 'Vision Animated to Bursting Point', in this
volume.
8 See the chapter in this volume by Michael North, 'International Media, International
Modernism and the Struggle with Sound', as well as Part 2, 'From Silence to Sound' in
Close Up J927-1933: Cinema and Modernism, edited by James Donald, Anne
Friedberg and Laura Marcus (London: Cassell, 1998), pp. 79-95.
9 Bazin, op. cit., p. 63.
10 For full elaboration of this argument see 'Balzac and Barthes', in Colin MacCabe,
Theoretical Essays: Film Linguistics Literature (Manchester University Press, 1985).
11 Roland Barthes' work on Eisenstein notwithstanding, the signal exception to the
silence of the soixante-huitards towards cinema is of course the extraordinary work of
Chiles Deleuze, in Cinema 1 and 2 and other scattered reflections. The vital importance
of this work is in direct ratio to the absence of cinema as a category from most other
post-structuralist thought.
12 James Joyce, Ulysses (London: Penguin, 1992), p. 243.
13 Rilke, quoted in Salman Rushdie, The Ground Beneath Her Feet (London: Jonathan
Cape, 1999), p. v.
14 Salman Rushdie, The Ground Beneath Her Feet, p. 575.
15 James Learmont and Mollie Sayer, A Review of Good Practice in Media Education
(London: British Film Institute, 1996).
16 See David Parker, 'You've read the book, now make the film: moving image, print
literacy and narrative.' English in Education 33 (1): 24-35.
17 Tom Gunning, D. W. Griffith and the Origins of American Narrative Film: The Years
at Biograph (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1991).
18 Bazin, op. cit, p. 62.
19 Ibid,p. 36.
20 Ibid., p. 38.
21 Bazin at Work: major essays and reviews from the forties and fifties, trans. Alain Piette
and Bert Cardullo (London: Routledge, p. 233)
22 Ibid., p. 237.
23 What is Cinema?, pp, 39-40.
How Newness Enters the World: the
Birth of Cinema and the Origins of Man
Laura Marcus
Exploring the writings about film of the first decades of this century brings into
prominence the significance of film's newness for its early commentators. As the
film theorist and aesthetician Rudolf Arnheim wrote in 1931:
For the first time in history a new art form is developing and we can say that
we were there. All other arts are as old as humanity, and their origin is as dark
as ours. There is no basic difference between pyramids and skyscrapers,
between jungle drums and a modern orchestra. Film, however, is entirely new.'
In this essay I want to look at some of the ways in which, in the writings about
film of the first three or so decades of this century, 'cinema history' overlapped
with broader models of historical development and histories of consciousness.
That modernist and modernized consciousness is inflected by, and perhaps
inseparable from, cinematic consciousness is now a widely held view. I want to
flesh out at least one of its aspects by looking more closely at the ways in which
writers on the cinema negotiated questions of the 'emergence' of this new form of
representation and perception, and at some of the models and fantasies of time,
history and consciousness developed on the back of the very terms of 'newness',
'emergence', 'coming into being'. The following quotations from the director
Abel Gance, written in 1912, can stand here for many such imaginings. Cinema is
to be
A sixth art where we can evoke in minutes all the great disasters of history and
extract from them an immediate objective lesson [...] To plumb the depths of
each civilization and construct the glorious scenario that sums it up, embracing
all the cycles of all the epochs, finally to have [...] the cinematographic classic
that will guide us into a new era - that is one of my highest dreams.2
29
Here the emergence of and entry into the new is predicated on the gathering up of
all that has gone before.
In the next sections I look at some 'models' and 'moments' from early writings
about film. In the final part of the essay I turn to models of 'emergence' and to
history, memory and modernity in the film writings of Dorothy Richardson and to
a different fantasy of origin in the writing of the film critic Robert Herring who,
like Richardson, contributed to the film journal Close Up in the late 1920s and
early 1930s.
Time machines
I want to start with an episode which relates in important ways to issues of

cinema, time and history - and to film and literature. It can serve as something of
a founding moment, although, appropriately, it is a foundation that was not in fact
realized. In October 1895, the year of the Lumiere brothers' first films, the British
film pioneer Robert Paul initiated a patent application for a 'Time Machine' based
on H.G. Wells's novel of that name. The patent was for an arrangement of mobile
platforms on which the members of the audience would sit, and which would
'move toward and away from a screen onto which still and motion pictures were
to be projected'3: these would appear to carry the audience into the past and the
future. The venture was abandoned because of its cost, and writing over thirty
years later Wells states that, until reading Terry Ramsaye's film history, published
in 1926, he had forgotten his involvement with the design which, in his words,
'anticipated most of the stock methods and devices of the screen drama'.4
Paul clearly saw in Wells's novel The Time Machine powerful 'cinematic'
elements that could be translated onto screen and into spectacle. These elements
include both the fascination with the time-space continuum and with the 'fourth
dimension', expressed in the novel as philosophical/ scientific discussion, as well
as the Time-Traveller's journeys into the future. These journeys would have found
simulated expression in Paul's 'time machine'. The speculations on time, space
and motion form the broader cultural context in which not only film but the
technology, philosophy and ontology of cinema developed. The significance of
Wells's writings for film is contained in a complex nexus of philosophical
abstraction, scientific and technological experiment and design, magic and
illusionism, storytelling and narration, and futuristic fantasy. The cross-
disciplinary and generic nature of Wells's scientific romances (as of so much of
his work) has its corollary in the peculiar placing of film as a technology that
becomes an 'art'; one not divorced from machine culture but dependent upon it.
Wells has a particular place in film history because for several decades he was
seen as one of its most important prophets. In his Preface to L'Estrange Fawcett's
Films: Facts, and Forecasts (1927), Charlie Chaplin wrote:
How Newness Enters the World 31
it has been from the film itself, a device offering constant provocation to the
imagination and senses of rhythm and colour that the sheer strength and crude
grandeur of the motion picture industry have come. A giant of limitless powers
has been reared, so huge that no one quite knows what to do with it. I, for one,
am hopeful that Mr. Wells shall settle the question for us in his next novel.5
In 1930, the film theorist Paul Rotha commented:
Mr Wells has written that novel, but the question is no nearer being answered.
'The King Who Was a King' [a discursive film scenario, which was never
realized as a film] was full of a thousand ideas, gleaned from a scrutiny of the
output of Germany and America, but there was precious little in the book that
had direct bearing on the position of the film itself. I believe that Mr. Wells
saw and realised the greatness of the film, but did not know quite what to do
about it.6
Wells may thus have been something of a failed prophet of the cinema, but he
retained a significant status in relation to this new art and technology, a status
which was substantially based on the admixture in his work and thought of, firstly,
experiments with time and secondly, histories of mankind. I now want to turn to
such categories and histories, though in several rather different contexts. My first
examples are largely drawn from the writings of Jean Epstein, the Polish born,
naturalized French film director and theorist, one of a group of French avant-garde
film critics and film-makers writing in the late 1910s and 20s, and from the work
of the Hungarian Bela Balazs, writing in 1920s and 30s Austria and Germany.
One significant context for Jean Epstein's writing is the anti-narrative project of
much French avant-garde film criticism, which resonates in important ways with
the focus on cinematic temporalities. Another is Epstein's and his contemporaries'
concern with, in Richard Abel's phrase, 'the avant-garde of cinema's creation',
which inevitably entailed an occlusion of the histories of commercial cinema.7
In an influential article of 1924, 'On Certain Characteristics of Photog£nie\
Jean Epstein asked the following questions:
What aspects of the world are photogenic, then, these aspects to which the
cinema must limit itself? I fear the only response I have to offer to so important
a question is a premature one. We must not forget that where the theater trails
some tens of thousands of centuries of existence behind it, the cinema is a mere
twenty-five years old. It is a new enigma. Is it an art? Or less than that? A
pictorial language, like the hieroglyphs of ancient Egypt, whose secrets we
have scarcely penetrated yet, about which we do not know all that we do not
know? Or an unexpected extension to our sense of sight, a sort of telepathy of
the eye? Or a challenge to the logic of the universe, since the mechanism of
cinema constructs movement by multiplying successive stoppages of celluloid
exposed to a ray of light, thus creating mobility through immobility, decisively
demonstrating how right was the false reasoning of Zeno of Elea.8
I want to think about the implications of Epstein's questions, in the spirit of his
assertion that 'People are only barely beginning to realize that an unforeseen art
has come into being. One that is absolutely new. We must understand what this
represents' (Abel, p. 241).
Epstein's is, at least in part, an exploration of time in the cinema, taking up, as
in the previous quotation, the paradoxical relationship between the immobile
image and the mobility of the projected film in ways which strongly echo Henri
Bergson's early accounts of cinematographic time and movement as models of
consciousness, and of time-consciousness in particular. Photogenie (which,
Epstein writes, escapes definition, though other theorists variously defined it as a
form of defamilianzation, as a seeing of ordinary things as if for the first time, and
as the power of the camera to transform image-objects) is itself a temporal
category for Epstein, defined as 'a value on the order of the second') as a sublime
instant, though what it flashes up also exists in an impossible or illusory time, that
of the present. As Epstein writes:
There is no real present [...] today is a yesterday, perhaps old, that brings in the
back door a tomorrow, perhaps far-away. The present is an uneasy convention.
In the midst of time, it is an exception to time. It escapes the chronometer. You
look at your watch; the present strictly speaking is already no longer there, and
strictly speaking it is there again, it will always be there from one midnight to
the next I think therefore I was. The future I bursts into past I; the present is
only this instantaneous and incessant molt. The present is only a meeting.
Cinema is the only art that can represent the present as it is.9
In another article - 'Magnification' (1921) - Epstein asserts that 'the photogenic

is conjugated in the future and in the imperative. It does not allow for stasis'.10
The 'moment' (allied to the concept of photogenie) is both central to modernist
conceptions of time and value, while at the same time 'the moment' or 'the
present' is also that which escapes the experiencing self.
What of the other models or questions Epstein poses? The image of the cinema
as 'an unexpected extension to our sense of sight, a sort of telepathy of the eye?',
is closely paralleled in Freud's assertion in his 'A note upon the mystic writing-
pad', that 'all the forms of auxiliary apparatus which we have invented for the
improvement or intensification of our sensory functions are built on the same
model as the sense organs themselves or portions of them: for instance, spectacles,
photographic cameras, trumpets'.11 This claim provided the basis on which film
theorists such as Jean-Louis Baudry and Christian Mete built their theoretical
models of the machinery of the cinema, identifying the psychical apparatus with
that of the cinematic apparatus.
In asking if cinema is a 'pictorial language, like the hieroglyphs of ancient
Egypt, whose secrets we have scarcely penetrated yet, about which we do not
know all that we do not know?', Epstein invokes the concept and dream of a
'universal language' which began to flourish in the seventeenth century, was
revived in the latter part of the nineteenth century, fuelled by the discoveries and
translations of Egyptologists, and subsequently became closely linked with the
image of (silent) film as a form of hieroglyphics, a thinking in pictures rather than
words.
The dream of recapturing a prelapsarian, universal, pictographic language fed
directly into early film aesthetics. Its chief North American exponent was the poet
and critic Vachel Lindsay, author of the first book of film theory, The Art of the
Moving Picture, published in 1915. Here, as in his subsequent writings on cinema,
The Progress and Poetry of the Movies, and in his poetry, Lindsay spelled out his
vision of modern America (with its advertisements, bill-boards, newspaper
photographs, sign-writings) as 'a hieroglyphic civilization far nearer to Egypt than
to England'.12 In The Art of the Moving Picture, in which he painstakingly
analyses a set of Egyptian hieroglyphs, their Roman letter equivalents, and their
equivalents in 'the moving-picture alphabet', Lindsay writes that 'It is sometimes
out of the oldest dream that the youngest vision is bom'. 13
Epstein's concept of the 'unexpected extension of our sense of sight' suggests a
similar notion of an extended visual realm and capacity which is both new - even
futuristic - and archaic. For Epstein, 'the cinema creates a particular system of
consciousness limited to a single sense',1* a model of sensory particularity and
evolution perceived more negatively by Virginia Woolf, who dramatized the
increasingly troubled relationship between 'eye' and 'brain' in her essay "The
Cinema', and, in 'Walter Sickert: A Conversation', compared the viewers of
Sickert's paintings to 'those insects, still said to be found in the primeval forests of
South America, in whom the eye is so developed that they are all eye, the body a
tuft of feather, serving merely to connect the two great chambers of vision'.15 As
for Woolf and Freud, visual thinking is inextricably linked for early film theorists
with 'primitive' mentation.16 In this sense, and as in the discussion of cinema's
'hieroglyphics', the 'new' art of the film is held to represent both a modernized
and an archaic or primitive consciousness.17 To quote Epstein again:
... cinema is a language, and like all languages it is animistic; it attributes, in

other words, a semblance of life to the objects it defines. The more primitive a
language, the more marked this animistic tendency. There is no need to stress
the extent to which the language of cinema remains primitive in its terms and
ideas; so it is hardly surprising that it should endow the objects it is called upon
to depict with such intense life. The almost godlike importance assumed in
close-ups by parts of the human body, or by the most frigid elements in nature,
has often been noted. Through the cinema, a revolver in a drawer, a broken
bottle on the ground, an eye isolated by an iris, are elevated to the status of
characters in the drama. Being dramatic, they seem alive, as though involved in
the evolution of an emotion.
I would even go so far as to say that the cinema is polytheistic and
theogonic. Those lives it creates, by summoning objects out of the shadows of
indifference into the light of dramatic concern, have little in common with
human life. These lives are like the life in charms and amulets, the ominous,
tabooed objects of certain primitive religions. If we wish to understand how an
animal, a plant, or a stone can inspire respect, fear, or horror, those three most
sacred sentiments, I think we must watch them on the screen, living their
mysterious, silent lives, alien to the human sensibility.
To things and beings in their most frigid semblance, the cinema thus grants
the greatest gift unto death: life. And it confers this life in its highest guise:
personality.18
The passage opens up an aspect of cinema which was central to its very first
commentators. It is also one which is returning to dominate the current critical
field: the uncanniness of cinema, its seeming power of life over death, and its
abilities to create a total (virtual) world in which, as Woolf wrote in "The Cinema',
'we have no part'.19 The return to early film theory and the attempt to recapture its
conceptual 'newness' is also an attempt to defamiliarize and to recapture the
strangeness, the otherness, of cinema, in the spirit of Freud's model of the
unconscious as 'ein Anderer Schauplatz" - 'another scene'.
Faces and things
The Epstein passage also opens up one of the central paradoxes of early film
theory: its combination of humanism and anti-humanism. Cinema, it is claimed,
extends the realms of the human into the inanimate world. Yet it also effects a
reversal, by which, as many commentators note, the human becomes the
inanimate, the inanimate the human. For the psychologist Hugo Munsterberg,
whose study The Film was published in 1916, 'the central aim of the photoplay
[...] must be to picture emotions'.20 Exploring the representation of 'gestures,
actions and facial play', Munsterberg writes that "The enlargement by the close-up
on the screen brings this emotional action of the face to sharpest relief. Or', he
adds 'it may show us enlarged a play of the hands in which anger and rage or
tender love or jealousy speak in unmistakeable language'.21 There are clear echoes
here of Darwin's The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animab (the first
scientific work to rely on photography): more generally, early writing about film
contains marked anthropological and physiological dimensions.
The work of Bela Balazs provides the fullest account of the interrelationship
between 'the face of man' and 'the face of things', a model in which film gives
face to human and non-human entities alike. Balazs, a Hungarian writer and critic
who lived and worked in Vienna and Berlin in the 1920s before leaving for the
Soviet Union in the early 1930s, published what he called 'the first film
dramaturgy',22 Der sichtbare mensch [The Visible Man] in 1924, and Der Geist
des Films in 1930; his Theory of the Film, which includes sections from his earlier
texts, appeared some two decades later. The overarching thesis of Balazs' study is
that:
The evolution of the human capacity for understanding which was brought
about by the art of the film, opened a new chapter in the history of human
culture ... We were witnesses not only of the development of a new art but of
the development of a new sensibility, a new understanding, a new culture in its
public.23
Yet this 'new sensibility' is also a return, Balazs argued in Der sichtbare
mensch, to a time before the coming of print culture, and a consciousness and
expressiveness predicated on gesture, play of feature, and bodily movements
rather than words. 'The discovery of printing', he writes, 'gradually rendered
illegible the faces of men. So much could be read from paper that the method of
conveying meaning by facial expression fell into desuetude'. With the coming of
film, and, more specifically, the education in 'the rich and colourful language of
gesture, movement and facial expression', and in the art of reading faces, which
film provides, 'Man has again become visible'.24
For Balazs, the 'close-up' - rather than movement or montage - is the central
and most significant device of the cinema. For Balazs, whose apprehension of
cinematic modernity is often combined with an aesthetic anti-modernism, a
critique of avant-gardism and of theories of montage as collision rather than
continuity, the power of the close-up seems to lie in its anthropomorphism, its
democratizing of being. Whereas on the theatrical stage human beings are far
more significant than objects, in (silent) film, he argues, man and object become
homogeneous, equally pictures projected onto a screen. 'In significance, intensity
and value' he asserts, 'men and things were thus brought on to the same plane'.25
At other points, Balazs produces a strongly anthropocentric model of cinematic
representation, or at least an oscillation between anthropocentrism and
anthropomorphism. As he writes:
When the film close-up strips the veil of our imperceptiveness and insensitivity
from the hidden little things and shows us the face of objects, it still shows us
man, for what makes objects expressive are the human expressions projected
on to them. The objects only reflect our own selves ... When we see the face of
things, we do what the ancients did in creating gods in man's image and
breathing a human soul into them. The close-ups of the film are the creative
instruments of this mighty visual anthropomorphism.
What was more important, however, than the discovery of the physiognomy
of things, was the discovery of the human face.26
As in the work of a number of early film theorists - including Epstein - Balazs

makes a connection between 'face' and 'screen'. The face becomes the screen or
surface on which emotions are played out. It also becomes the means by which
distance, 'the permanent distance from the work of art' (which as, BalSzs notes,
was 'hitherto a part of the experience of art'), 'fades out of the consciousness of
the spectator', and is replaced by identification, i t is here', Balazs claims, 'that
the film manifests its absolute artistic novelty' (rather than, as for other early
commentators, its play with time and space).27
Jean Epstein's anthropomorphic model, by contrast with that of Balazs, at times
appears as an anti-humanism in its insistence on the otherness with which cinema
endows its objects. His account refers to a primitive animism, but it could also
lead to a way of thinking along the lines with which Michel Foucault ended The
Order of Things. The anthropocentrisms and anthropomorphisms of early film
writing both extend 'man' - draw his face everywhere - and disperse or displace
him by fragmenting 'face' in the close-up or by giving 'personality', in Epstein's
phrase, to those 'mysterious, silent lives, alien to the human sensibility'.28
Origins
I now want to turn to some models of cinematic origin and their imagined
relationship to the origins of humanity. Balazs writes that 'the new theme which
the new means of expression of film art revealed was not a hurricane at sea or the
eruption of a volcano: it was perhaps a solitary tear slowly welling up in the
corner of a human eye'. 29 If, for Balazs, the origin and essence of cinema are to be
found in the birth of a tear, echoing Jean Epstein's focus on 'the evolution of an
emotion', for the art historian and film theorist Elie Faure and for Virginia Woolf,
cinema's birth is imaged precisely by the 'eruption of a volcano'.
Faure's The Art of Cineplastics (1920/23) suggests a model of photoginie as
shock or 'commotion' and as recognition, 'in a flash', as he describes the moment
in which he saw through or beyond the plot and melodrama of the film he was
watching and achieved pure visual awareness: "The revelation of what the cinema
of the future can be came to me one day: I retain an exact memory of it, of the
commotion that I experience when I observed, in a flash, the magnificence there
was in the relationship of a piece of black clothing to the grey wall of an inn'. 30
Faure also defines film as a 'plastic' art in the terms of the Kantian sublime: film
sets the mind in motion through an alternation between construction and negation.
Referring to the 'new plastic impressions' that he received at the cinema, Faure
writes:
Their elements, their complexity which varies and winds in a continuous

movement, the constantly unexpected things imposed on the work by its
mobile composition, ceaselessly renewed, ceaselessly broken and remade,
fading away and reviving and breaking down, monumental for one flashing
instant, impressionistic the second following - all this constitutes a
phenomenon too radically new for us to even dream of classing it with
painting, or with sculpture, or with the dance, least of all with the modern
theatre. It is an unknown art that is beginning, one that to-day is as far perhaps
from what it will be a century hence, as the Negro orchestra, composed of a
tom-tom, a bugle, a string across a calabash, and a whistle, is from a symphony
composed and conducted by Beethoven.31
Faure's temporalities serve to equate and synchronize modernity and 'the

primitive', as the now and the new of cinema's beginnings are imagined, from the
vantage-point of a projected future, in the terms of 'the Negro orchestra',
represented as the 'savage' origin of musical creation. The ambivalences of
modernist primitivism are revealed, as Faure both seeks to put a distance
betweeen cinema's birth and its promise, and celebrates, as does Vachel Lindsay,
an image of America as both modern and primitive:
The American film is a new art, full of immense perspectives, full of the
promise of a great future.... For the Americans are primitive and at the same
time barbarous, which accounts for the strength and vitality which they infuse
into the cinema.32
Exploring the time-space dimensions of cinematic representation, and the

possibilities of a form of conceptual time-travel, Faure writes that 'we may easily
imagine an expanded cineplastic art which shall be no more than an architecture
of the idea'. Faure presents the analogy of 'the great eruption of Vesuvius' to
illustrate his notion of a 'symbolic form of that grandiose art of which in the
cinema we now perceive the germ ... namely: a great moving construction
ceaselessly reborn of itself under our eyes by virtue of its inner forces alone'. 33
Here he strikingly echoes Virginia Woolf s 'The Cinema', from her focus on new
relations of time and space, to the image of thoughts and emotions made visible
'as smoke can be seen pouring from Vesuvius'.34
Elsewhere in Faure's passage on cineplastics, cinema history (a history
beginning to unfold) is imagined as a progression from the writing on the
wall/screen as (thin) inscription, to the thickness of gesture ('a series of successive
movements'), and finally to the future creation of a visual symphony understood
as the projection - a throwing out or forth - of a whole being, a 'whole nature'.
This trajectory is intertwined with Faure's invocation of a shift from an
introspective, individualistic, and, perhaps, 'decadent' literary culture to the
'mass' and 'monumental' arts of sculpture, drama, architecture - and film.35
Those beings who will project themselves forth are, perhaps, to be understood as
the Ubermenschen of a future society.
Faure's aesthetics of synthesis, and his uses of the orchestral or symphonic
analogy, which he shares with a number of writers on film at this time, draw on
the Wagnerian concept of the Gesamtkunstwerk (total work of art). Faure's model
of 'cineplastics' (cinema as the representation of forms either in repose or in
movement), also marks the shift from a focus on photoginie in French film
criticism of the 1920s as, in Richard Abel's words, 'the singularly transformative
nature of the film image', to 'cinegraphie' as 'the rhythmic principles governing
the placement of film images', often analogized as orchestral accompaniment.36
The 'musical analogy' in avant-garde French film criticism, which seems to have
become particularly charged in the period immediately before the coming of
sound film, has been explored by David Bordwell: its importance lies in part for
him in its move towards semiotic and structural principles in film discourse.37 The
musical analogy is also clearly linked to modernist aesthetic principles, in which
all art is held to aspire to the condition of music.
I would like to suggest a further link and to think of the orchestral metaphor as
something of a founding image for cinema. It is there in one of the very first
discursive works on film by the 'founders' of cinema: W.K.L. and Antonia
Dickson's History of the Kinetograph, Kinetoscope and Kinetophonograph of
1895, with a preface by Thomas Edison. In his preface, Edison writes of his vision
of a future cinema in which 'grand opera can be given at the Metropolitan Opera
House at New York without any material change from the original, and with
artists and musicians long since dead'. The Dicksons' model of 'the shadowy
histrionics of the near future' culminates in a total symphony, all of whose effects
of sight and sound will be embraced in the kinetoscopic drama, and yet of that
living, breathing, moving throng, not one will be encased in a material frame. 'A
company of ghosts, playing to spectral music.' 38 For Edison and Dickson, the
plenitude of cinema - analogized or literalized as orchestral performance - co-
exists with its speciality, and its uncanny powers to bring the dead to life. The
motif, perhaps, continues to haunt the later model of 'cinegraphie' as an

orchestration of rhythmic components.
The novelist Dorothy Richardson's embedded history of cinematic emergence
begins, by contrast with that of Elie Faure, not with the volcanic eruption but with
the tide or wave. In her very first 'Continuous Performance' article for Close Up,
Richardson describes a visit to a North London picture palace:
It was a Monday and therefore a new picture. But it was also washday, and yet
the scattered audience was composed almost entirely of mothers [...] It was a
new audience, born within the last few months [...]. Watching these I took
comfort. At last the world of entertainment had provided for a few pence, tea
thrown in, a sanctuary for mothers, an escape from the everlasting qui vive into
eternity on a Monday afternoon.39
"The first scene', Richardson continues, 'was a tide, frothing in over the small
beach of a sandy cove, and for some time we were allowed to watch the coming
and going of those foamy waves, to the sound of a slow waltz, without the
disturbance of incident'.
The wave breaking on the shore was a highly significant image for early
cinema. We know from contemporary descriptions that it was the subject of early
Vitascope performances in the mid 1890s:
Next came a picture of a tumbling surf on the Jersey shore. The waves were
high and boisterous as they dashed one after the other in their rush for the
sandy beach over which they ebbed and flowed. The white crests of the waves
and the huge volume of water were true to life. Only the roar of the surf was
needed to make the illusion perfect.40
For the first film-makers, the wave breaking on the shore became a way, perhaps,
of figuring both the static or repetitive and the dynamic aspects of the cinematic
medium. Richardson deploys the image of the wave - a moving threshold, the
edge that never stops - primarily when she is figuring transitions in the filmic
medium: from spectacle to narrative film in the passage quoted above, and from
silent to sound film in a later article. Whereas the commentator on the Vitascope
film of waves breaking on the shore suggests that sound - 'the roar of the surf -
would make the illusion perfect, Richardson writes that:
Life's 'great moments' are silent Related to them, the soundful moments may
be compared to the falling of the crest of a wave that has stood poised in light,
translucent, for its great moment before the crash and dispersal. To this
peculiar intensity of being, to each man's individual intensity of being, the

silent film, with musical accompaniment, can translate him.41
Richardson's film writing thus deploys the film image to figure a kind of
cinema history: one particularly attentive to transitions, while also seeking to
complicate linear narrative, to break up sequence, and to make memory - in which
film now plays a crucial role - a central aspect of historicity. Adopting the
position of one both observing and participating in the emergence of a new form
of consciousness, she also produces a complex model of development in which
cognition is also recognition. In discussing, for example, the use of 'slow motion',
she writes that:
we may take courage to assume that from the first, behind the laughter,
recognition was there and has grown. If now it is present, it was there from the
first, for without its work there would be no second seeing. Each seeing would
have been a first and the laughter would have continued.42
This complication of the question of origins re-emerges in her discussions of the

question of the silent to sound 'transition', in which the silent film is presented as
the gift of the move to sound, brought into (new) being by what succeeds it.
One of the elements of Richardson's 'cinema theory' is an embedded,
continuously retranscribed model of film history which both produces and resists
accounts of the entry of newness into the world, and which seeks to construct a
history of consciousness neither wholly determined by nor distinct from a history
of technologies. If on the one hand, her film writings conjure up a community of
spectators, often female, becoming educated for modernity by 'the movies' - "The
only thing and everything. And here we all are, as never before. What will it do
with us?' 43 - on the other she resists evolutionary models of development and
'becoming'.
Writing after the coming of sound of the 'treasure laid up' of 'all the silent films
we had seen, massed together in the manner of a single experience', she defines
this strange 'memory' as 'at the least, past, present and future powerfully
combined'.44 Such a model of historical consciousness is redemptive, in that it
entails, in ways similiar to those in which Miriam Hansen has described Walter
Benjamin's temporalities, a Utopian sense of a restoration of past, present; and,
anachronistically, future.45
Epilogue
In 'A New Cinema, Magic and the Avant-Garde', Robert Herring - one of the
central contributors to the journal Close Up - explores the question of the 'magic'
of the cinema as a relation to 'reality' - in particular, the realities of light and

movement. He is critical of a self-proclaimed 'avant-garde' cinema whose
experiments in distortion and abstraction disregard the abstract nature of all
cinematic representations. The most conventional of narrative films is also,
Herring suggests, a patterning of light and shadow moving in time: 'and so there
is a little magic everywhere you see a cinema'.46
For Herring, cinematic 'magic' inheres primarily in projection:
There is the screen, and you know the projector is at the back of you. Overhead
is the beam of light which links the two. Look up. See it spread out. It is wider
and thinner. Its fingers twitch, they spread in blessing or they convulse in
terror. They tap you lightly or they drag you in. Magic fingers writing on the
wall, and able to become at will ... a sword or an acetylene drill, a plume or
waterfall. But most of all they are an Aaron's rod flowering on the wall
opposite, black glass and crystal flowers ... Only now and again the rod
becomes a snake, and whose films are those we know.
... You need not be a chamber to be haunted, nor need you own the Roxy to
let loose the spirit of cinema on yourself. You can hire or buy or get on the
easy system, a projector. You then have, on the occasions on which it works,
people walking on your own opposite wall. By moving your fingers before the
beam, you interrupt them; by walking before it, your body absorbs them. You
hold them, you can let them go.47
Herring's models of the destruction of the 'aura' (the distance between spectator
and spectacle) and of the blurring of a body/world division as the spectator inserts
him or herself into the spectacle are characteristic of modernized vision and its
altered perceptions of subject/object relationships.
In the article, Herring moves from the passages quoted above to imagining a
future for cinema, an 'avantgarde', in which images would be rendered visible
without the mediation of the screen, bodies and beings becoming solid projections
of themselves. There is 'no reason', Herring writes, 'why [man] should not create
himself in motion and speech, moving in the patterns of his creation'. He reaches
this by way of a discussion of recorded voice:
Now. We know sound waves can be caught on wax. The human voice
recorded. Up till now, it has only been possible to reproduce it. That is very
thrilling of course, that the noise made by a person some time ago can be let
out again later, it is doing things with time. But it remains reproduction. You
can't get voice pure, but reproduced voice. But suppose there is a machine
which really lets the living voice itself out into the room ... Could not the avant
people, the real ones, do the same with the visual image? Can we not see
people as we shall soon hear them? At present there is the screen and
gramophone. But the gramophone will soon cease to insist itself any more than
the person's presence detracts from the voice. If the voice can leave this
machine, as I know it can, and be itself, why should not the visual image leave
the screen, why should we not do without screens? They are giving
stereoscopy to the image, giving them depth and solidity. They will be able to
be brought into the room, as the voice is. It is after all, absurd to be tied down
to a screen.
First what [man] did can survive, now what he is. First the work of his
hands, work of brain, the effects of his hands and brain. But all still and mute.
Then his voice could be kept, and his image could be kept. Moving. Now they
will have to be detached, and instead of him contenting himself with making
dolls and statues and music he could only hear as it was being played, he will
have these images in which sound and sight meet, detached so to speak from
their owners. Man making man, of a kind. ... There is logically ... no reason
why he should not ultimately create himself in motion and speech, moving in
the patterns of his creation ...48
Herring's article thus moves from projection as the inscription of images, symbols
and hieroglyphics by 'magic fingers writing on the wall' to projection as the
patterning of light which creates cinematic reality, by means of a lamp allied to
that of Aladdin and, finally, to projection as a throwing-forth of the self firstly, by
way of the insertion of the spectator's body into the spectacle ('You hold them,
you can let them go') and, finally, by the construction of three-dimensional
moving-image-beings. I now want to situate these dimensions of Herring's article
in two contexts: firstly, as part of a history of early film criticism and secondly, as
the product of a distinct biographical and cultural moment.
One striking aspect of early film criticism and theory is the extent to which
paradigms of and fantasies about the new art of the cinema emerging from very
diverse contexts share very similar language and images. Herring's seemingly
idiosyncratic model in his 'Magic' article interestingly echoes, for example,
Faure's The Art of Cineplastics (discussed above), describing a similar conceptual
trajectory. In Faure's account, I argued, cinema history is imagined as a
progression from the writing on the wall/screen as (thin) inscription, to the
thickness of gesture and finally to the future creation of a visual symphony
understood as the projection - a throwing out or forth - of a whole being, a 'whole
nature'. I asked whether those beings who would project themselves forth were to
be understood as the Ubermenschen of a future society. In The Meaning of
Meaning C. K. Ogden (who is cited by Herring in an important letter to Bryher49)
and I. A. Richards took as one of their many philosophical targets what they
called Word-Magic: a 'primitive' 'instinctive attitude to words as natural
containers of power'.50 It is a nice irony that magic should return so vividly - at

least in Herring's account - in the realms of sound and the power of virtual
presence.
Herring's narrative (describing a visit to Ogden's house in the company of Paul
Robeson) contains this passage:
There were records and records and a cabinet of records ... Two odd square
machines in opposite corners. Robeson was in a black suit and a black hat and
a shirt of perfectly Spanish whiteness. He is 9 feet high: and the room was low
and white. There were stacks of gramophone records in albums and some in
envelopes. Ogden played a machine. It was the voice in the room. It was not a
reproduction, but a release. Robeson was in the room; Robeson's voice was in
the room. Robeson stood and listened.
This is an echo of an earlier technological fantasy: Villiers de L'Isle Adam's novel

L'Eve future (1880), in which a Lord Ewald meets the female automaton/Android
Hadaly, invented by a fictionalized Thomas Edison (the inventor of the
phonograph) in her subterranean chambers. The link is the way in which new
technologies bring forward Frankensteinian fantasies of origins and of newly
created, automatic or virtual beings; the difference lies in the fact that the New
Woman, and the representation of technology as an (artificial) female, has given
way to the New Man - 9 feet high in the low white room. Robeson, a study in
black and white, like a film, is doubly present, not least because his voice is his
presence, and thus Herring is able to imagine newly created visible beings added
to sonorous/aural presence. Here sight is added to sound, rather than sound to
sight. The inversion (which is also a 'true' history, in that the phonograph
precedes the kinetoscope and leads from thence to the cinema) reminds us that this
is a critical period in the transition from silent to sound cinema, taking place a
year before the Close Up group made its silent film Borderline - in which Herring
acted the part of a pianist and Robeson appeared as Pete (a Negro), shot as if he
were indeed nine feet high but, of course, voiceless. Representations of 'the
Negro' in Borderline as both the New Man of the cinema and the primitive Other
of modernism also reveal the profound imbrication of fantasies, and fears, of
origins and of the future with modernity's relationship to the technologies which
both shape and are shaped by it.
Notes
1 Rudolf Arnheim, Film Essays and Criticism, trans. Brenda Benthien (Madison:
University of Wisconsin Press, 1997), p. 13.
2 Abel Gance, 'A Sixth Art' (1912), in Richard Abel, French Film Theory and
Criticism, Volume 1: 1907-1929 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1988), p.
67.
3 Raymond Fielding,' Hale's Tours: Ultrarealism in the Pre-1910 Motion Picture', in
John L. Fell (ed.), Film Before Griffith (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of
California Press, 1983), pp. 116-7.
4 H.G.Weils, The King who was a King: the book of a film (London: Benn, 1929), p. 10.
5 Charlie Chaplin, 'Foreword', in L'Estrange Fawcett, Films: Facts and Forecasts
(London: Geoffrey Bles, 1927), pp. v-vi.
6 Paul Rotha, The Film Till Now (London: Cape, 1930), p. 57.
7 In Richard Abel, French Cinema: The First Wave, 1915-1929 (Princeton NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1984), p. 241.
8 In Abel, French Film Theory and Criticism, Vol. 1, p. 315.
9 Jean Epstein, Ecrits sur le cinema, 1921-1953 (Paris: Seghers, 1974), pp. 179-80.
Quoted by Leo Charney, in Empty Moments: Cinema, Modernity and Drift (Durham:
Duke University Press, 1998), p. 155.
10 In Abel, French Film Theory and Criticism, 1, p. 236.
11 Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. 19
(London: The Hogarth Press and the Institute of Psychoanalysis, 1958), p. 228.
12 Vachel Lindsay, The Art of the Moving Picture (New York: Livenght, 1970), p. 22.
13 Ibid, p. 288.
14 Epstein, 'Magnification', in Abel, French Film Theory and Criticism Vol. 1, p. 240.
15 Virginia Woolf, 'Walter Sickert', in The Captain's Death Bed and Other Essays
(London: The Hogarth Press, 1981), p. 173.
16 hi The Interpretation of Dreams, for example, Freud explores the 'regression' into
visuality effected by the dream-work. He also argues that language systems evolve
from 'primitive' concrete images to the words which replace them. See my discussion
of this aspect of Freudian theory, in Laura Marcus (ed), Sigmund Freud's The
Interpretation of Dreams: New Interdisciplinary Essays (Manchester: Manchester
17 See Rachel Moore's excellent discussion of the fascination with the magical and the
primitive in early film theory in Savage Theory: Cinema as Modern Magic (Durham:
Duke University Press, 2000). Although my discussion overlaps at points with
Moore's, her book was in fact published after this article was written.
18 Epstein, in Abel, French Film Theory and Criticism, 1, pp. 316-7.
19 Virginia Woolf, 'The Cinema' (1926), The Captain "s Death Bed, p. 167.
20 Hugo Munsterberg, The Film: A psychological study (New York: Dover, 1970), p. 48.
21 Ibid, p. 48.
22 Bela Balazs, quoted in Sabine Hake, The Cinema's Third Machine (Lincoln:
University of Nebraska Press, 1993), p. 222.
23 Bela Balazs, Theory of the Film, trans. Edith Bone (London: Dobson, 1952), p. 34.
24 Ibid, p. 41.
25 Ibid., p. 58.
26 Ibid., p. 60.
27 Ibid., p. 48.
28 There are clearly gendered questions here - Balazs plays out his concept of
'microphysiognotny' on the faces of Asta Nielson and Lilian Gish - but the
universalistic discourse also demands the generic 'man'.
29 Balazs, Theory of the Film, p. 31.
30 Elie Faure, The Art ofCineplastics, trans. Walter Pach (Boston: The Four Seas
Company, 1923), p. 25.
31 Ibid., p. 27.
32 Ibid., p. 32.
33 Ibid., pp. 39-41.
34 Woolf, The Captain i Death Bed, p. 171.
35 Faure, The Art ofCineplastics, pp. 40-42.
36 Abel, French Film Theory and Criticism, Vol. 1, p. 215.
37 David Bordwell, 'The Musical Analogy', Yale French Studies 60, 1980, pp. 141-56.
38 W.K..L, Dickson and Antonia Dickson, History of the Kinetograph, Kmetoscope and
Kinetophonograph (Twickenham, Middlesex, 1895), p. 50.
39 Dorothy Richardson, 'Continuous Performance', Close Up Vol. 1, no. 1, July 1927,
reprinted in Close Up 1927-33: Cinema and Modernism, eds. James Donald, Anne
Friedberg and Laura Marcus (London: Cassell, 1998), pp. 160-1.
40 New York Herald, April 24th, 1896, quoted in E.W and M. M Robson, The Film
Answers Back (London: Bodley Head, 1939), pp. 27-8.
41 Richardson, 'A Tear for Lycidas', Close Up 1927-33: Cinema and Modernism, p. 200.
42 Richardson, 'Slow Motion', Close Up 1927-33: Cinema and Modernism, p. 182.
43 Richardson, 'The Increasing Congregation', Close Up 1927-33: Cinema and
Modernism, p. 171.
44 Richardson, 'A Tear for Lycidas', Close Up 1927-33: Cinema andModernism, p. 196.
45 See Miriam Hansen, 'Kracauer's Early Writings on Film and Mass Culture', New
German Critique 54, Fall 1991, p. 53.
46 Robert Herring, 'A New Cinema, Magic and the Avant-Garde', Close Up 1927-33:
Cinema and Modernism, p. 51.
47 Ibid., p. 54.
48 Ibid., pp. 55-6.
49 Beinecke Library, Yale University, New Haven CT. Herring, Robert - Correspondence
with Bryher. Gen Mss 97, Box 18.
50 C.K.Ogden and I.A.Richards, The Meaning of Meaning (London: Regan Paul, 1930),
p. 225.
Modernisms
International Media, International
Modernism, and the Struggle with Sound
Michael North
An early episode in the history of globalization took place in the fall of 1927 with
the premiere of what was commonly referred to at the time as 'the most important
picture in the history of the movies.'1 The picture in question was F. W. Murnau's
Sunrise, and one source of its contemporary prestige was the fact that it could be
billed as the 'first international' film production.2 It's a little hard at this remove to
see what right Sunrise had to such a claim, for though it was Murnau's first
American film, other German directors had been working in Hollywood for some
time. But Murnau brought to Hollywood a film technique that was so
conspicuously different from that of most American studios that it was received as
if it were another language.3 Low-key lighting, 'free' camera movement, and a
complete avoidance of inter-titles had made Murnau's final German production,
Der letze Mann (1924), a sensation, not just in Hollywood but also among
amateur film makers and the aesthetic avant-garde.4 By bringing German
expressionism to Hollywood, therefore, Murnau was also bringing one of the most
conspicuous of avant-garde film techniques to a big-budget, mass market
production. One of the borders crossed by Sunrise on its way to becoming the
'first international' film was that between the avant-garde and modern mass
culture.'
Whatever claim Sunrise may have had as 'the most important picture in the
history of the movies' was probably based, however, on the crossing of a different
border, for it was the first original feature to appear with Fox's Movietone sound
system. At this point in the evolution of the Movietone system, Fox had not
incorporated speech into any of its films, but Sunrise was notable because it came
equipped with a recorded, synchronized, professionally arranged orchestral score
that was actually crafted at one or two key points to take the place of speech.6 To
49
show that the Movietone system was capable of rendering speech itself, Fox
added to the premiere of Sunrise a newsreel that featured Benito Mussolini
delivering a 'message of friendship' to the American film audience in both Italian
and English.7
The premiere of Sunrise thus seems a richly ambiguous episode in the history of
international modernism, in part because the internationalism it defines is of so
many different kinds. First is the American cultural hegemony exemplified by the
reach of Hollywood, which assumed even in 1927 that anyone of artistic
consequence would end up sooner or later in Los Angeles. If Murnau's removal to
Hollywood exemplifies the inevitability with which film came to serve the
cultural presumptions of the United States, however, the films he made at this
time also illustrate a very different kind of internationalism. The complete
removal of the inter-titles from Der letze Mann seemed to many a thrilling
fulfillment of film's promise as an international art language, 'the only universal,
common world language understood by all,' as Bela Balazs put it in 1923.8 In this
analysis, film took part in the search for a universal language of visual forms, a
search so much a part of international modernism that the paintings, designs, and
buildings inspired by it still seem the highest expressions of 'high modernism.'
These two very different international movements collide with a third in 1927
with the arrival of sound. An important part of the inevitable social progress
promised by science was the final annihilation of distance, as every corner of the
globe could be equipped to see and hear virtually anything happening in any other
corner. The final convergence of visual and aural technologies, heretofore
separated into the distinct realms of telephone, gramophone, and moving pictures,
also seemed inevitably to entail the collapse of time and space, which humankind
had finally made irrelevant.9 This internationalism, for all its Utopian promise,
begins to converge on the fourth in evidence at the premiere of Murnau's Sunrise,
the totalitarianism of Mussolini and his fascists. Mussolini was so entranced by
film that he started his own production company, which at least planned a feature
based on the Divine Comedy. For political addresses, he is said to have preferred
film to live appearance because it cut down on the risks of assassination, but just
in case he also taped a 900-foot Fox Movietone statement to be shown throughout
Italy in the event of his death.10 In this case, the annihilation of time and space
seems to coincide with the annihilation of human freedom, as film gives
Mussolini a kind of ubiquity only dreamed of by earlier tyrants.
The cultural imperialism of the American mass media, international modernism,
the scientific industrialization of the senses, and modern totalitarianism, all touch
and overlap at many other points than the premiere of one film in 1927, and yet
they are in conflict as well, particularly where sound is concerned. For sound was
not by any means an unambiguous addition to the technological sensorium. While
it seemed the last important step in constructing a fully represented, fully recorded
International Modernism and the Struggle with Sound 51
humanity, and thus was publicized as finally making ubiquitous communication

possible, it also brought cultural specificity, in the form of language, back into
film and thus into the visual art that meant so much to modernism. This is a
revealing, if heretofore obscure, moment in the history of aesthetic modernism,
for the arrival of sound illuminates the way in which modernism framed its own
internationalism in relation to that so recently announced by the new media.
n
The addition of sound to American film was not by any means the instantaneous
conversion experience that appears in Hollywood mythologies of the time. Sound
arrived slowly, gradually, and in a number of different forms, aesthetic and
technological, and for a number of years silent films continued to be made
alongside talkies. There was a good deal of opposition, even within the studios, to
what Stanley Cavell has called 'the loss of silence.'11 Directors such as Sam
Taylor, Herbert Brenon, and Fred Niblo, stars such as Lilian Gish, Lon Chaney,
and Charlie Chaplin, and even studio executives, including Joseph Schenck of
United Artists and Monta Bell of Paramount, expressed strong conservative
distrust of the film voice. n As late as the premiere of Chaplin's City Lights in
1931 there was some nostalgic hope in Hollywood that the silent film might be
revived.13
For such film industry die-hards, one of the strongest practical arguments
against sound was offered by what was commonly called the 'foreign problem,' a
whole set of difficulties brought about by the fact that language was now to be
integrated into a film in spoken form, not added on later in written form.14 The
'foreign problem' had at least two distinct aspects: with the integration of English
dialogue, American films were suddenly much more difficult to export, not just
because of audience incomprehension but also because of governmental
opposition in many countries to the invasion of English;15 and, on the other hand,
it was also more difficult to follow the time-honored Hollywood practice of
importing European film talent, which often spoke English, if at all, with accents
the American public found objectionable or comic.16 In the late 20s and early 30s
Hollywood experimented with a number of different solutions to these problems.
For a few years, most studios actually made, either here or in Europe, multiple
versions of most feature films, sometimes in as many as five different languages.
Props, costumes, and scenery would be reused, with translated dialogue delivered
by native-speaking actors, some of whom established brief careers standing in for
established Hollywood stars.17 Outside the industry other, more Utopian, solutions
were suggested, not the least impractical of which, by any means, was the
suggestion that Esperanto sub-titles might be added to all films, with short lessons
in Esperanto to be given after the newsreel.18 One enterprising aesthete suggested
that films might achieve international intelligibility by speaking in the Esperanto

currently being invented by James Joyce in his Work in Progress, which ultimately
became Finnegans Wake19 But the most Utopian of all solutions was suggested by
Rudolf Arnheim in 1930, when he predicted that movie-goers in all countries
would begin to learn other languages in order to understand the films they loved:
'To speak several languages will become just as usual as reading and writing; and
in consequence the various languages will soon grow to have a great deal in
common. An important advance will thereby have been made towards universal
peace.' 20
What actually happened, of course, was a good deal messier and less Utopian.
After a brief reverse, Hollywood ultimately reasserted its domination of the world
film market, partly by sub-titles, partly by dubbing, partly by using stars whose
voices attracted a world-wide audience whether they were intelligible or not, and
ultimately by helping to spread English as a second language. Film industries in
many other countries survived and became self-sufficient, though there were
complicated disputes about the rights to sound technology, which U.S. companies
tried to restrict. Most European film stars managed to make themselves heard in
English, but European films were more or less banished from general distribution
in the U.S.21 The same fate befell amateur film-makers in the United States and
Great Britain, few of whom had the money or the expertise to convert to sound.22
The result was a general stratification, at least of the U.S. film world, with the
foreign and the avant-garde banished together to the commercial periphery and
fewer opportunities for the general audience to see movies that did not conform to
the classical Hollywood model.23
For this reason, among others, sound was greeted with great disdain by those in
the literary world who followed film. As Donald Crafton puts it, 'sound came just
when critics were elevating the silent cinema to "art," and it was difficult for them
to conceive how talking was conducive to the kind of filmmaking they
revered... ?* The talkies, according to one such critic, Francis Ambriere, writing in
the little magazine Tambour in 1930, are 'the negation of cinematic art' and a
violation of 'the spirit of our times.'25 Of course, this put certain writers in the
paradoxical position of opposing the word, of objecting that the introduction of
language to film would rob it of all its intelligence and its wit. But this is just what
was asserted by John Gould Fletcher, charter member of the Imagist movement,
who ringingly insisted in 1929 that 'A complete boycott of "talking films" should
be the first duty of anyone who has ever achieved a moment's pleasure from the
contemplation of any film.'26 In 1930, James Sibley Watson, who was an aspiring
amateur film-maker as well as part owner of The Dial, denounced the new trend
by making a sound-film spoof that included all the idiocies that critics ascribed to
sound: poorly synchronized dialogue, egregious sound effects, stilted and poorly
delivered speeches.27 Watson's former managing editor at The Dial, Gilbert
Seldes, who probably wrote more thoughtful articles on the coming of sound than
anyone else at this time, took only very slight exception to the trend when he said,
of the silent film, 'the aesthetes are weeping over its demise as the populace turns
to the talking picture. '28
III
The most consistent and the most complex resistance to sound came from what
Seldes called 'the fascinating inter-national magazine of the cinema-aesthetes,'29 a
magazine published from 1927 to 1933 under the name of Close Up. Describing
itself as 'the first review to approach films from the angles of art, experiment and
possibility,'30 Close Up had at its core the editorial team of Kenneth Macpherson
and Bryher, who produced, with the more or less constant assistance of H.D., a
monthly from 1927 to 1930 and a quarterly from then to 1933. Any claim that
Close Up might have had to speak for the 'aesthetes' on the subject of film was
based primarily on the presence of H.D., but also on the very considerable
contributions of Dorothy Richardson, as well as occasional pieces by other writers
such as Gertrude Stein and Marianne Moore. Because the magazine was published
in Switzerland, it was well situated to report on European films, which it covered
almost to the exclusion of the commercial American product. The pronounced
internationalism of the magazine therefore sometimes took the form of a pan-
Europeanism designed to offset the gigantic influence of Hollywood.31 Mainly
because of this European orientation, Close Up looked at the developments
exemplified by Murnau's Sunrise, which premiered the year it began publication,
with a highly critical eye.
The general position of Close Up could probably be summarized by Bryher's
later reference to silent film as 'the art that died.' One contributor, Ernest Betts,
called the acceptance of sound 'the most spectacular act of self destruction that
has yet come out of Hollywood.'32 Macpherson in particular was bitterly hostile to
what he sarcastically called 'Noises with films,'33 at least in part because the
coming of sound made film-viewing in Switzerland far more difficult than it had
been when Close Up started. By 1930, films simply weren't being distributed as
freely across borders as they had been even a few years before, so that
Switzerland, which had once been 'an open market for the world,' was now
limited to French and German films, and even those were in the process of being
divided up between French and German-speaking areas.34 Close Up, in other
words, was suffering from its own version of the 'foreign problem,' and the
arguments it mounted as it struggled with the various aspects of the problem tell a
lot about the complicated relationship of international modernism to the other
internationalisms implicated with it at this time.
On the surface, at least, internationalism meant variety in the pages of Close

Up, and opposition to sound meant opposition to the industrial monolingualism
that sound was bringing to film. Sound was frequently criticized in these years as
'mechanical,' which meant in part that the reproduction quality was so low that
voices sounded unnatural, but the term also betrayed a marked resentment that
what many considered an art form should be subordinated to a mere invention.
Resentment of the 'mechanical apparatus' 35 also meant resentment of the
industrial system behind it and of the American companies that exemplified that
system. Thus Close Up followed like a watch dog Hollywood's attempts to solve
its 'foreign problem,' attempts that it interpreted as part of a concerted plan to
'dominate the entire foreign market in talking films.'36 At this level, opposition to
sound meant opposition to the further industrialization, centralization, and
standardization of film, to what Macpherson denounced as 'the militant
imperialism of the screen.'"
This opposition to American cultural imperialism did have a disconcerting
tendency to shift over into fear of the American public. Thus there is among the
Close Up principals a great deal of frankly elitist opposition to 'popular appeal,'
which is consistently opposed to intelligence or ideas.38 Bryher confidently
informs her readers in 1931 that even in America the 'middle classes' do not go to
the movies but leave them to 'children and the unskilled, whose parents probably
could not speak English.'39 Thus it is no surprise that sound films are puerile,
since they are, according to another contributor, 'made by half wits for half
wits.'40 All this despite the fact that the addition of sound was perceived in the
U.S. industry as calling for more intelligent performers, who could no longer
simply mug their way through a film but would actually have to enunciate whole
sentences, and for more attentive audiences, who often complained of the 'added
strain' of listening to spoken dialogue. Sound, it was commonly thought within
the industry, would force Hollywood to 'go in for brains.'41
Close Up also argued against sound for more purely aesthetic reasons, which
were related in complex and sometimes contradictory ways to the implicit politics
of the journal. Film theorists from the time of Hugo Munsterberg had argued for
the intrinsic visuality of film, for a 'visual purity' that could only be violated by
the spoken word.42 These arguments were dusted off by Hollywood conservatives
who opposed the introduction of sound, by European film-makers in France,
Germany, and Russia, and by public intellectuals like Seldes in the U.S.43 They
appear rather liberally in Close Up as well, voiced even by Dorothy Richardson,
who declared in one issue that 'cinematography is a visual art reaching the mind
through the eyes alone,' and warned that 'concentrated listening is fatal to
cinematography.'44 These arguments are partly psychological, for they depend on
the rather counter-intuitive notion that human beings cannot watch and listen at
the same time, partly aesthetic, based on distributions of artistic labour going back
to classical times, and partly semiotic, since they argue that visual images offer a
fully functional, wholly motivated sign system that can only be polluted by the
conventionality of spoken language. By this argument, every language is foreign
to film, which is already complete, intelligible, and without need of supplement.
The 'foreign problem' faced by Close Up was therefore much more complex
than that faced by Hollywood, for the writers at this magazine were arguing not
just that the addition of language to film made particular films unintelligible to
those who did not speak the particular languages in which they were recorded, but
also that any language tended to make any film less eloquent for all viewers. Film,
in this analysis, is already a universal language, the 'universal interpreter,' as
Ambriere put it, to which the addition of sound means incomprehension and
linguistic division.45 The editors of Close Up clearly had a vested interest in this
argument, since the very existence of their publication as an international film
magazine depended on access to examples from all over the world Thus in one of
Macpherson's first comments on sound, he maintains that 'it will impose the
restriction of language on films, whereas now their language is universal.'46 The
same argument is made in Close Up's first year of publication by Dorothy
Richardson, who also claimed a bit more intricately a year later that 'the film,
with its freedom from the restrictions of language, is more nearly universal than
the book and can incorporate . . . the originality of each race unhampered by the
veil of translation.'47 Exactly how film is able to preserve the 'originality of each
race' while remaining universal is a mystery, but other writers for Close Up rather
frequently asserted something like this, not just that film was a language but also
that it was all languages: 'for the film, being silent,' as Rudolf Schwartzkopf put
it, 'speaks all languages of the world. ' 48 Film, in this analysis, depends on a visual
alphabet, the characters of which are intelligible to all, from which particular film-
makers might choose in particular ways to express individual or national idioms.
The basic unit of this system cannot be anything so conventional as a letter, of
course, but is usually compared to, or even called, a hieroglyph or ideogram. This
analogy, as Laura Marcus so ably shows, was especially congenial to H.D., whose
writings on the hieroglyph, though brief, provide an intriguing link between the
dream interpretation of Freud and the film theory of Eisenstein.49
Behind this analogy, and behind the whole universal language argument that it
serves, is the ancient European dream of a universal script that Derrida has traced
in Of Grammatology50 The promise to fulfill this dream, to provide what was
often called a modern Rosetta Stone, plays a crucial role in establishing the
authority of the new media. Photography was promoted as a universal visual
language as early as 1841." Both Bell and Edison used the hieroglyph metaphor
in relation to phonography, despite the fact that the prestige of the hieroglyph was
directly related to its apparent difference from phonetic alphabets.52 In regard to
film, the metaphor was most widely popularized by Vachel Lindsay, who came
out against sound in 1915.53 Lindsay's chapter on 'Hieroglyphics' in The Art of

the Moving Picture seems to have had widespread influence among film-makers
and writers, and its traces can be found, as Marcus suggests, in the work of H.D.,
in Eisenstein, and, as Miriam Hansen has shown, in the films and writings of D.
W. Griffith.54 In fact, the notion that film depended on some sort of universal
script was so popular by the time it appeared in Close Up that it also featured
prominently in the publicity sheets of the lowliest studio hacks.
In Hollywood, the coming of sound had little impact on this line of reasoning,
so that the very argument Close Up was mounting against sound was frequently
used in studio propaganda for sound films. In a little book appropriately titled See
and Hear, published in 1929, Will Hays confidently proclaims that "The motion
picture knows no barriers of distance nor of speech. It is the one universal
language.'55 Though this may simply have been Hays's way of blustering his
industry past its 'foreign problem,' the universal language argument was used at
least a few times in relation to recorded or transmitted speech. The phonograph, of
course, was originally praised for registering speech and making it retrievable
without the aid of writing, or for writing sound directly as its name implies, and
this was often seen as a way to circumvent alphabets, if not language itself. But
even the radio, which did not itself inscribe or store, was sometimes spoken of as
if it could somehow universalize the language it transmitted. Thus Edward Van
Zile proclaims, along with movies and the Esperanto of the Eye, 'the coming of
the wireless and the Esperanto of the Tongue,' as if the mere act of distant
transmission could make a language universally intelligible.56
The very ease with which the universal language argument moves from
technology to technology helps to isolate the crucial element on which it depends.
What photography, phonography, the telephone, film, and radio all have in
common is the automatic and therefore ostensibly indiscriminate registering of
sense data possible only for machines. As Kenneth Macpherson puts it, speaking
of the movie camera in an early volume of Close Up, 'One turn of the handle and
a complete series of pictures is made, no matter who turns that handle.'57 This is
to repeat, in regard to film, the claim originally made for photography by Fox
Talbot at its very birth when he called these new works 'self representations.' The
same claim was made in the very name given in the 1850s to the precursor of all
aural recording devices, which was called the phonautographe ,58 The name
suggests what Talbot also asserts of the photograph, that these are media in which
phenomena inscribe themselves, without the messy intervention of human senses
or sign systems. Thus for Jean Epstein, writing in 1925, the camera 'is an eye
without prejudices, without morality, free of influences; and it sees in the face and
in human movement traits which we, weighted down by likings and dislikings, by
habits and considerations, can no longer perceive.'59
This is actually a rather curious notion, especially when it leads to the corollary
idea that only machine inscription can yield a natural language. As W. J. T.
Mitchell has suggested, it is somewhat incoherent to call natural only that which
can be produced by a machine.60 And it is hard to see how our machines can be
neutral and unprejudiced if we can't be. The appeal of mechanical inscription,
however, at least in this analysis, is not so much that it removes the prejudices of
any individual observer as that it avoids the prejudices and habits of thought
congealed within conventional languages. Recording devices seem to remove the
layer of mediation that inscription and preservation had heretofore required. Not
only might reality be perceived directly, and therefore uniformly, but it could also
be preserved in perfect memory without recourse to the selectivity and
condensation of conventional languages. The universality of recording
technologies begins with the fact that they sense and preserve universally; that is
to say, they take in everything.
Unfortunately, this is where the whole concept of a universal language breaks
down, in the oxymoronic relationship between the adjective and the noun. There
is an implicit conflict between universality and the linguistic, which appears
precisely in the notion that recording technologies can communicate universally
because they inscribe indiscriminately. The technologies themselves express this
contradiction as the competition between signal and noise. The more faithfully a
recording preserves every sense impression within its scope the less legible is the
result, information drowned out by insignificant noise. The more indiscriminate a
recording is, then, the less it can carry the burden of information, emotion, or
expression that would make it like a language. According to James Lastra's expert
discussion of this issue in regard to early sound technology, this is also what
acoustic engineers discovered as they tried to adapt sound recording to film:
fidelity, which tended to register every sound created during a take, favored noise
and reduced legibility, whereas to achieve legible sound, the fidelity of the
recording had to be limited in various ways, by damping, by particular
microphone placement, and finally by skillful editing.61 This is the truth behind
the curious argument that the addition of sound somehow made film less eloquent,
for in the early days film sound was, both literally and theoretically, mere noise,
and the addition of it to the developed language of silent film introduced an
incoherence that felt to many early audiences like gibberish and which many film
critics of the time treated with the sort of xenophobic prejudice usually reserved
for foreign languages.
Opposition to sound thus reveals within the internationalism of Close Up a
complex and conflicted resistance to the foreign. This contradiction appears most
neatly in the very term Close Up adopted to epitomize itself. In one sense, the
journal was appropriately named, for the close up was considered, in Jean
Epstein's words, 'the soul of the cinema. ' 62 Once disdained as distorting and
unnatural, the close up had come to be particularly associated with the

experimental European cinema of which Close Up was the chief English
exponent. It was also in the form of the close up that film most nearly approached
the hieroglyphic. As Bela Balazs puts it in a frequently cited discussion, the close
up 'reveals the most hidden parts in our polyphonous life, and teaches us to see
the intricate visual details of life as one reads an orchestral score.' 63 In this
analysis, film makes the visual world legible by directing attention to carefully
circumscribed parts of it: the close up, in Epstein's words 'limits and directs
attention.'64
The term taken for the title of this magazine was also meant, however, to
designate its international scope. As Marcus says, Close Up promised to bring its
readers news of farflung places, to make 'the distant proximate.'65 But this
impulse toward geographical extension and inclusion does conflict with the
technique of the close up, insofar as it works, as Epstein suggests, by limiting and
directing attention. In other words, there is a conflict in the very title of Close Up
between film language, the legibility of which is achieved by blocking out noise,
and the international scope the magazine hoped to achieve by extending its
attention to every part of Europe and beyond. Some of the conceptual strain
caused by this conflict is evident in a very strange column written by Macpherson
in 1929, ostensibly reporting on a stereoscopic demonstration given by R.C.A.
The new system, complete, of course, with sound, also seems to have allowed for
extended telescopic shots, which provoked Macpherson to worry that 'the close
up will vanish and the far-off will take its place.' As it turns out, the 'far-ofF is a
metonym for everything that Macpherson fears in the new technology, and the
column ends with what must be one of the first diatribes against TV: 'An
expedition through Nicaragua will necessitate no greater hazard than a ride round
the suburbs or a rostrum on the roof. We shall be able to sit at our desks and
photograph Titicaca and the fauna of Popocatepetl.'66 What precisely is wrong
with photographing Titicaca from afar is never made entirely clear, but the column
explains a lot nonetheless by pitting the close up, and perhaps therefore Close Up
itself, against the 'far off.' The indiscriminate way in which images from all over
the world could come together in a single space caused Macpherson the same sort
of cultural vertigo that it currently inspires in critics of TV. That aspect of the new
media, the international aspect, turned out to be not only subordinate to the
legibility offered by the close up but even inimical to it.
This conflict between the close up and the far off appears more frequently in the
magazine's illustrations, which were mostly stills from German or Russian films
unavailable to the English-speaking audience. From time to time, however, the
editors also published publicity stills for their own films. The very first issue, for
example, included two stills from Wing Beat, a short film starring Macpherson
and H.D., made in 1927. In one case, the caption asserts, "The feeling of
"something about to happen" pervades the whole, reaching a climax at the point
from which this "still" is taken.' The picture itself, of Macpherson staring rather
dyspeptically off into one corner, seems to portray ennui rather than climax, but
the pose does seem to match, in its tense inwardness, a conflict in the caption,
which is apparently trying to be both vague and revelatory at the same time. The
caption wants to celebrate the photograph, to demonstrate its eloquence, but it
remains tongue-tied by the guilty knowledge that the picture should be able to
speak for itself.
The situation is even more complex in the other still, which features H.D.
slightly raising her hands. The caption says nothing about the dramatic situation at
all, but it does insist of the actress that 'The same clear genius is in her acting that
sets her so high among contemporary poets and authors.' The picture is apparently
meant to portray this clarity, in and of itself, which is to be found in the rather
severe profile shot and the spare elegance of H.D.'s pose, clothing, and hair style.
The connection between this clarity and a certain kind of Imagist aesthetics hardly
needs to be made, though the caption insists on it. In her acting as in her poetry,
H.D. epitomizes an aesthetic of the close up, an image whose utter legibility
depends on a severe excision of extraneous detail. But the caption, in its eagerness
to praise, reveals how much this supposed clarity depends on a prior familiarity:
the appearance of H.D.'s 'clear genius' here in the film still depends on the 'same
clear genius' well-known from her writings. Without this push from the caption,
it's entirely possible that one might read the still as signifying confusion or
indecision. In fact, an anonymous reviewer for Hound and Horn found the picture
'quite . . . funny,' though it is just as hard at this remove to find the humor in it as
it is to sense the profundity announced in the caption.67 In the very gesture with
which it celebrates the sufficiency of the picture, the caption betrays how much
this visual legibility depends on written language outside the frame.
At the same time, these stills help excavate another layer in the culture of the
close up, which has such a contradictory relation to the far off. Immediately after
the photographs of Macpherson and H.D. are two stills from Marc Allegret's
documentary of Gide's Voyage to the Congo. Standard ethnographic photographs,
these full figure shots show two groups of naked Africans, identified only in
geographical terms. There is no celebration of clarity here, but rather a printed
directive, actually quite uncommon in the pages of Close Up, which did not tend
to use these stills as mere illustrations, to an accompanying article by Jean
Prevost. It is little wonder, though, that these film images require an entire
article's worth of explanation, for, as Prevost says in that article, the visual
language of Africa takes a European great labor to understand:
The everyday happenings so commonplace to those who do not understand

their significance are set here in their essential picturesqueness. The
disappointed fiance who rubs her belly to express and soothe her grief, the
caresses of her small sister, are here no mere native custom nor the language of
a savage; one had to know what they meant, and now for the first time an
exotic film explains this to us without being pedantic.68
Thus in the very first issue of Close Up, the universal language argument receives
its fullest disconfirmation, for if the language of gestures and images must be
learned then it is just as particular and as culturally specific as written language,
on which it turns out in any case to depend. What is most telling, however, is not
the disconfirmation itself, but rather the fact that it does not appear until the visual
attention of the close up passes from Europe to Africa.
What is revealed in these stills is not, therefore, just the familiar truism that
visual language is ultimately no less culturally specific than verbal, but that the
designation of the visual as a language at all depends on excluding from it the
extraneous, the irrelevant, the foreign, which in a European context ultimately
means the racial. As Miriam Hansen suggests, Griffith began to assert the
universality of the language of film after widespread criticism of the racism of
Birth of a Nation69 In fact, Birth of a Nation itself had seemed a perfect example
of the universal language of film to Thomas Dixon, author of The Clansman, on
which the film was based.70
This is not to say that Close Up can be charged with the frank racism of Griffith
and Dixon, though Macpherson did dislike sound enough to lose his balance at
least once. In one of his many public attempts to reconcile himself to the
inevitable arrival of the talkies, Macpherson finally blurts out, 'The one thing that
is awful is the thought that [sound] may become a vehicle for those polite, not
even dimly Creole "negro" rhythms of the East Side Jew composers for
impeccable though androgynic rendering by Argentines and Dagoes.'71 Within the
generally romantic approach to race visible in Macpherson's film Borderline,
there may lurk this sort of all-inclusive prejudice, brought out in this case by the
association of sound with everything Macpherson can think of as deviant. The
denunciation of sound as Jewish, homosexual, ethnically repellant and racially
suspect shows how much must be excluded to make film into a 'universal'
language and how much the close up has apparently to fear from the invasion of
the far off. In this sense, at least, the internationalism of modernism's universal
form languages seems in utter contradiction to the social and cultural
internationalism ostensibly promoted by Close Up.
TV
Of course, arguing that film is a universal language open to one and all was
always a fairly contradictory thing for a magazine to do. For most proponents,
particularly for Griffith, the argument was merely a kind of boosterism, designed
to cry off critics and frustrate potential censors, and this was also a considerable
part of the effort to which Close Up dedicated itself. But Close Up also intended
to explain film to its audience, even to educate an audience for audacious and
innovative films, and it is a little hard to see why this should have been necessary
if film was already, as H.D. once claimed, 'a universal art open alike to the pleb
and the initiate.'72 If it is part of film's universality that it does not require any
particular kind of literacy, then why did Close Up put so much effort into the
development of what James Donald calls 'skilled spectatorship'? There seems to
be a real conflict between two of the most cherished aims of this publication: to
defend the visual sufficiency of silent film and to develop a skilled audience
capable of receiving difficult and unfamiliar works.
Thus the writers at Close Up also promoted a very different argument against
sound, a variant quite at odds with the main line, to the effect that sound
threatened the 'picture sense' developed by the experience of attending silent
films.73 Film-goers would become lazy, in other words, and lose a visual acuity
built up when pictures carried almost the entire burden of the film. If sound is
inevitably to come, Macpherson suggests, at least we are fortunate 'to have had
the silent film first, for without it our eye would not have been trained to see.' 74
The idea that the eye needs to be 'trained to see' is actually rather a common
theme in Close Up. As Zygmunt Tonecky puts it in an article heavily indebted to
Balazs: 'The film has refined and trained our sight; we have learned to perceive
fugitive situations; we perceive at once the tiniest details and understand in a
moment the symbolic significance of the pictures; we know how to "think
optically," to create associations of ideas and optical metaphors.'75
The Close Up contributor who was the most attentive to the actual experience
of watching a film, Dorothy Richardson, was also the one most aware of the
dependence of 'picture sense' on 'ideas and optical metaphors.' Though she
follows the dogma that film is essentially visual and therefore should not be
sullied with sound, she also calls film images and their inter-titles 'Siamese twins
[mat] . . . have never yet been separated.'76 She is also aware that the implication
of language in the visual imagery of film means that film is never universal. This,
in fact, is one of its chief virtues for Richardson, for whom the development of a
skilled spectatorship is dependent on 'the insensibly learned awareness of alien
people and alien ways.'77 The film sense thus developed is not universal but rather
transnational, as Laura Marks maintains all film is, 'in that its audiences will not
be able to decode its images perfectly, insofar as they originate from other places
and times.'78 In quite a few of the essays she published in Close Up, Richardson
finds this transnational quality, which she calls 'the breath of otherness,' even in
domestic films, and her notion of skilled spectatorship is one in which film-goers
'become for a while citizens of a world whose every face is that of a stranger.'79 In
this analysis, film internationalizes even the familiar by translating it into an

unknown language, not by making visual experience transparent but rather by
requiring that even the apparently transparent be read.
Thus Close Up registers the crisis of sound in two diametrically different ways,
and the distance between these measures the space in which international
modernism comes to terms with the social and cultural implications of the new
media. The arrival of sound provoked such strong and varied responses because,
as Stanley Cavell says, it 'broke the spell of immediate intelligibility.'80
Anguished complaints about the violation of the universal language of film
suggest that this crisis is both accidental and unnecessary, but what they ignore is
that the legibility of film had to be achieved in the first place. At first, the purely
reproductive powers of any recording medium always turn out to be more or less
useless to human beings, whose perceptions are never quite as raw as those of a
machine, which ultimately have to be subjected to the same processes of selective
attention that make our own sense impressions useful to us. The new media don't
make the world somehow more artificial, more fraught with representation;
instead they force on us, through conflicts like the crisis over sound, an awareness
of the representational quality of ordinary perception, which is why they challenge
us much as a foreign language does.
There may be something appropriate, then, in the fact that the 'first
international film' was also one of the first to incorporate sound. The sort of
internationalism that brought Murnau to Hollywood, of course, is that provided by
American cultural imperialism, by the centralization, standardization, and
industrialization of global experience that American aesthetic might made such a
feature of the 20* century. The controversy over sound suggests, however, that
there is always something inherently transnational even within this sort of
internationalism, even perhaps that the transnational disturbance of experience
that Hollywood called its 'foreign problem' is a dialectical effect of that other
internationalism. The new media may promise to bring everything close up, but
the very means they use to do so have the distressing tendency to make it seem far
off again.
It was this kind of 'far off that Macpherson and his colleagues at Close Up
finally found the most difficult to accept. The internationalism of this magazine
often depended on a film aesthetic that denied the transnational by insisting on the
immediacy and transparency of the visual image. In this, they represent a very
general tendency in international modernism, where a universal form language,
with its promise of a universal Utopian future, somehow results in the sort of
totalitarian architecture that gave post-modernism its reason for being. At the
same time, however, even in its haughtier and more elitist moments, Close Up
registers an awareness in modernism of the strangeness opened up within ordinary
experience by the new media, which, instead of establishing a new universal

language, had exposed the inherent unfamiliarity of languages long in use.
Notes
1 Scott Eyman, The Speed of Sound: Hollywood and the Talkie Revolution 1926-1930
(New York: Simon & Schuster, 1997), p. 150.
2 James Morrison, Passport to Hollywood: Hollywood Films, European Directors
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998), p. 31.
3 For a definition and a discussion of the 'German influence' on Hollywood film
production, see David Bordwell, Janet Staiger, and Kristin Thompson, The Classical
Hollywood Cinema: Film Style and Mode of Production to I960 (New York: Columbia
4 The film without inter-titles was an important ideal for much of the European film
avant-garde. See P. Adams Sitney, Modernist Montage: The Obscurity of Vision in
Cinema and Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990), p. 21.
5 Morrison, p. 58.
6 Donald Crafton, The Talkies: American Cinema's Transition to Sound, 1926-1931
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), p. 94.
7 Crafton, p. 96.
8 Bela Balazs, Theory of the Film trans., Edith Bone (1952; New York: Arno Press,
1972), p. 45. Chapter 5 of this volume is a series of quotations from Balazs' Der
sichtbare Mensch, published in 1923.
9 Crafton, pp. 72-73. Even some relatively contemporary observers have been caught up
in the promise of this technology In his collection Sound and the Cinema: The Coming
of Sound to American Film (Pleasantville, NY: Redgrave Publishing, 1980), Evan
William Cameron declares the coming of sound 'the sole cataclysmic event in the
history of art,' after which 'created and natural events' are no longer 'perceptually
distinct.' See pp. xii and xiv.
10 Crafton, pp. 96, 567 n. 41.
11 Stanley Cavell, The World Viewed: Reflections on the Ontology of Film (New York:
Viking, 1971), p. 147. It has become something of a credo among scholars of early film
that 'the silents were not silent,' since there were so many different ways in which
audio accompaniment could be added during the showing of a film. For a number of
relevant discussions, see The Sounds of Early Cinema, ed. Richard Abel and Rick
Altaian (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001).
12 Crafton, pp. 166-67, 172. For Chaplin, see pp. 296, 348, and 374.
13 Crafton, p. 378.
14 For an unattributed use of the term, see Crafton, p. 151.
15 Crafton, p. 439.
16 Crafton, pp. 290, 461-63.
17 Crafton, pp. 424-30; Natasa Durovicova, 'Translating America: The Hollywood

Multilinguals 1929-1933,' in Sound Theory Sound Practice, ed. Rick Altaian (New
York: Routledge, 1992), pp. 138-53.
18 R. dE.B., 'AThought,' Close Up 3.5 (November 1928): 68.
19 O. B. [Oswell Blakeston], 'Anthology,' Close Up 7.1 (July 1930): 76.
20 Rudolf Amheim, Film trans., L. M. Sieveking and Ian F. D. Morrow (1930; London.
Faber & Faber, 1933), p. 280.
21 Crafton, p. 544.
22 Patricia R. Zimmennann,' Startling Angles: Amateur Film and the Early Avant-
Garde,' in Lovers of Cinema: The First American Film Avant-Garde 1919-1945, ed.
Jan-Christopher Horak (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995), p. 146.
23 Alan Williams, 'Historical and Theoretical Issues in the Coming of Recorded Sound to
the Cinema,' in Sound Theory Sound Practice, p. 136.
24 Crafton, p. 448.
25 Francis Ambriere, 'Variations sur le Cinema,' PMLA 115: 1024. See also Crafton, p.
448.
26 John Gould Fletcher, The Crisis of the Film (np: University of Washington, 1929), p.
28.
27 Lisa Cartwright, 'U.S. Modernism and the Emergence of 'The Right Wing of Film
Art': The Films of James Sibley Watson, Jr., and Melville Webber,' in Lovers of
Cinema, p. 168.
28 Gilbert Seldes, An Hour with the Movies and the Talkies (Philadelphia: J. P.
Lippincott, 1929), p. 124.
29 Seldes, p. 116.
30 Pool advertisement, Transition 6 (September 1927): front.
31 See, for example, Kenneth Macpherson, 'As Is,' Close Up 1.6 (December 1927): 14
and 'As Is,' Close Up 2.1 (January 1928): 11.
32 Ernest Berts, Heraclitus or The Future of the Films (London: Kegan Paul, Trench,
Trubner, 1928), erratum slip at p, 88. This slip was inserted to signify that Betts' hopes
during the composition of his book that sound could be stopped had been frustrated.
33 Kenneth Macpherson, 'As Is,' Close Up 1.5 (November 1927): 5.
34 Kenneth Macpherson, 'As Is,' Close Up 7.6: 367-68.
35 Wilbur Needham, "The Photography of Sound,' Close Up 3.2 (August 1928): 31.
36 C. H. [Clifford Howard], 'Hollywood Notes,' Close Up 6.6 (June 1930): 529.
37 Kenneth Macpherson, 'As Is,' Close Up 5.1 (July 1929): 6.
38 Kenneth Macpherson, 'As Is,' Close Up 7.6 (December 1930): 369.
39 Bryher, "The Hollywood Code,' Close Up 8.4 (December 1931): 281.
40 A.W., 'All Talkie!,' Close Up 5.1 (July 1929): 58.
41 Crafton, p. 450. See also pp. 449,485-88.
42 See the discussion in Friedrich A. Kittler, Gramophone, Film, Typewriter, tr. Geoffrey
Winthrop-Young and Michael Wutz (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), p.
172.
43 Crafton, pp. 167, 379. Seldes, pp. 145, 149.
44 Dorothy Richardson, 'Dialogue in Dixie,' Close Up 5.3 (September 1929): 215.
45 Ambriere, p. 1024.
46 Kenneth Macpherson, 'As Is,' Close Up 1.5 (November 1927): 8.
47 Dorothy Richardson, 'Films for Children,' Close Up 3.2 (August 1928): 24.
48 Rudolf Schwartzkopf, 'Volksverband fur Filmkunst,' Close Up 2.5 (May 1928): 28.
49 Laura Marcus, 'Introduction to Part 3,' in Close Up 1927-1933: Cinema and
Modernism ed., James Donald, Anne Friedberg, and Laura Marcus (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1998), p. 96-104.
50 Jacques Derrida, OfGrammatology trans.,Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (1967;
Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976), p. 76.
51 Allan Sekula, Photography Against the Grain: Essays and Photo Works 1973-1983
(Halifax: Press of the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design, 1984), p. 82.
52 James Lastra, Sound Technology and the American Cinema: Perception,
Representation, Modernity (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000), p. 28-31.
53 Vachel Lindsay, The Art of the Moving Picture (1915; New York: Modern Library,
2000), pp. 10, HO.
54 Miriam Hansen, Babel to Babylon: Spectatorship in American Silent Film (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1991), p. 184-85.
55 Hays, p. 36.
56 Edward S. Van Zile, That Marvel—The Movie: A Glance at its Reckless Past, Its
Promising Present, and Its Significant Future (New York: Putnam's, 1923), p. 198.
57 Kenneth Macpherson, 'As Is,' Close Up 2.2 (February 1928): 13.
58 Lastra, p. 47.
59 Quoted in Sitney, p. 35.
60 W. J. T. Mitchell, Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology (Chicago; University of Chicago
Press, 1986), p. 37.
61 Lastra, pp. 49-50.
62 Jean Epstein, 'Magnification,' in French Film theory and Criticism: A
History/Anthology 1907-1939, ed. Richard Abel (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1988), p. 235. Quoted in Close Up 1927-1933, p. 1.
63 Balazs, p. 55.
64 Epstein, p. 239. Quoted in Close Up 1927-1933, p. 1.
65 Close Up 1927-1933, p. 243.
66 Kenneth Macpherson, 'As Is,' Close Up 5.1 (July 1929): 10.
67 [Anonymous], 'Periodical Review,' Hound and Horn 1 (September 1927): 66.
68 Jean Prevost, 'Andre Gide and Marc Allegret's Voyage to the Congo,' Close Up 1.1
(July 1927): 40.
69 Hansen,pp. 164-165.
70 Lary May, Screening Out the Past: The Birth of Mass Culture and the Motion Picture
Industry (New York; Oxford University Press, 1980), p. 82.
71 Kenneth Macpherson, 'As Is,' Close Up 7.2 (August 1930): 89.
72 H.D., 'Conrad Veidt: The Student of Prague,' Close Up 1.3 (September 1927): 44.
73 'Robert Herring Gives Four Points about Hearts in Dixie,' Close Up 5.2 (August
1929): 162.
74 Kenneth Macpherson, 'As Is,' Close Up 5.6 (December 1929): 449.
75 Zygmunt Tonecky, 'The Preliminary of Film-Art,' Close Up 8.3 (September 1931):
193.
76 Dorothy Richardson, 'Continuous Performance: Captions,' Close Up 1.3 (September
1927): 55.
77 Dorothy Richardson, 'Continuous Performance: This Spoon-Fed Generation?,' Close
Up 8.4 (December 1931): 307.
78 Laura U. Marks, The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the
Senses (Durham: Duke University Press, 2000), p. 94.
79 Dorothy Richardson, 'Continuous Performance: The Cinema in Arcady,' Close Up 3.1
(July 1928): 55-56.
80 Cavell, p. 150.
Fig. 1. Kenneth MacPherson in a publicity still for Wing Beat, published in Close-Up 1.1
(July, 1927).
Fig. 2. H.D. inapublicity still for Wing Beat, published in Close-Up 1.1 (July, 1927).
F;g. 5. Koyoge to <Ae Congo, published in Close-Up 1,1 (July, 1927).
Gertrude Stein's Machinery of
Perception
Julian Murphet
The emergence of cinema can be shown to have been heralded - in France as

nowhere else - as the salvation of a literature which, according to Georg Lukacs,
was 'based on ad hoc observation' and 'must perforce be superficial'.1 If
Naturalism was the misguided attempt 'to make literature scientific, to transform
it into an applied natural science, into sociology' (p. 140), then cinema, belonging
technically to that 'scientific' paradigm, might relieve literature of its 'paltry and
schematic' descriptive vocation, and liberate its humanistic potentials once more.
Certainly for Andre' Gide, the newer recording media prompted a radical
reconsideration of the novel's properties:
Just as photography in the past freed painting from its concern for a certain sort
of accuracy, so the phonograph will eventually no doubt rid the novel of the
kind of dialogue which is drawn from the life and which realists take so much
pride in. Outward events, accidents, traumatisms, belong to the cinema. The
novel should leave them to it. Even the description of the characters does not
seem to me properly to belong to the genre. No; this does not seem to me the
business of the pure novel (and in art, as in everything else, purity is the only
thing I care about).2
On this account, which has since been rearticulated by many others (not least
Andre' Bazin and Jean-Francois Lyotard3), the superficial descriptivism of
Naturalism might simply be transferred to the media that 'described'
automatically, allowing the novel to purify itself of all those 'outward elements'
and contingencies of mere reality - luxuriating rather in the inward, abstract, and
formal properties of aestheticism and psychologism. Thus the new machines were
assumed to enjoy representational sway over the perceptual forms of the external
world, while literary art, promoted once more as a handicraft, dwelt in a more
relativistic and affective realm.
67
This critical commonplace, which I will call the hypothesis of technical

privation, runs throughout theorizations of modernism, and has a telling echo in
the vitalist philosophy of Henri Bergson. It is not so much that Bergson, like Gide,
recognises the aesthetic purification invited by the cinema, but that he seizes on
the cinema as an apt metaphor for attacking what the 'Naturalist', 'scientific',
materialist worldview has done to consciousness in the first place. That
worldview, he states, has inculcated a positive indifference to actual becoming:
'Instead of attaching ourselves to the inner becoming of things, we place ourselves
outside them in order to recompose their becoming artificially.'4 This is virtually a
paraphrase of Lukacs' critique of Naturalism, and it segues immediately into his
famous cinematographic metaphor:
We take snapshots, as it were, of the passing reality, and, as these are

characteristic of the reality, we have only to string them on a becoming,
abstract, uniform and invisible, situated at the back of the apparatus of
knowledge, in order to imitate what there is that is characteristic in this
becoming itself. Perception, intellection, language so proceed in general.
Whether we would think becoming, or express it, or even perceive it, we
hardly do anything else than set going a kind of cinematograph inside us. We
may therefore sum up what we have been saying in the conclusion that the
mechanism of our ordinary knowledge is of a cinematographical kind.
(Bergson, p. 306)
The vitalist dualism, which counterposes this artificial and cinematographical

'mechanism' of analytic rationality to consciousness or 'need of creation',5 rejects
the apparatus of cinema as just one more trick of the 'divisible and repetitive'
logic of intellection.
Lukacs, of course, developed a social and economic name for what Bergson
repudiates as a 'scientific' corruption of our vital intuitions. Lukacs's analysis of
Naturalism, and his disdain for the 'scientific' subsumption of art, derive from his
larger theory of reification, with which it would be advantageous to relate
Bergson's 'cinematographical' model of consciousness in a more extended
manner, if space permitted. Lukacs's fundamental point is that the reduction of
complex, organic unities of 'becoming' into static and reified 'snapshots' is
precisely the logic of consciousness under capitalism. 'Just as the capitalist system
continuously produces and reproduces itself economically on higher and higher
levels, the structure of reification progressively sinks more deeply, more fatefully
and more definitively into the consciousness of man' :6
[...] we can see a continuous trend towards greater rationalisation, the

progressive elimination of the qualitative, human and individual attributes of
Gertrude Stein's Machinery of Perception 69
the worker. On the one hand, the process of labour is progressively broken
down into abstract, rational, specialised operations so that the worker loses
contact with the finished product and his work is reduced to the mechanical
repetition of a specialised set of actions. On the other hand, the period of time
necessary for the work to be accomplished (which forms the basis of rational
calculation) is converted [...] to an objectively calculable work-stint that
confronts the worker as a fixed and established reality. With the modern
'psychological' analysis of the work-process (in Taylorism) the rational
mechanisation extends right into the worker's 'soul'....
(Lukacs, History, p. 88)
There can be no question that this analytic reification of a vital process (human
labour) has profound affinities with Bergson's account of a perception that
'manages to solidify into discontinuous images the fluid continuity of the real'. 7
What has yet to be properly formulated is the degree to which the cinema itself
intimately collaborated with this fateful process of spiritual 'restructuring'. If
Bergson is right, the cinematic apparatus is the ideal synecdoche of this process,
an invisible machine within us, 'situated at the back of the apparatus of
knowledge', reifying our worldly perceptions into frozen and inert fragments that
are only 'artificially' reanimated by the apparatus.
Fredric Jameson has commented further on the decisive role cinema played in
this regard, insisting that 'the human perceptual machine is constructed on the
basis of its own mechanical products at any given moment', and so demanding a
'genealogical perspective in which the medium ... is grasped less as a source of
innovation in its own right, than rather as the material reinforcement of an on-
going tendency in social life as a whole.'
This is Lukacs' concept of 'reification' in its broadest sense of a gradual

fragmentation and division of labour within the psyche, as the latter is retrained
and reprogrammed by the reorganization of the traditional labour processes and
human activities by [...] capital. The sharp structural differentiation of active
and passive within a single mental function - such as this 'new' one of filmic
perception - would then be seen as a historic intensification of the reification
process, and one which could then go a certain distance in accounting for the
privileged status of the new medium, for its gradual supersession of more
traditional aesthetic languages.8
We will note that Bergson's model makes this sharp distinction between
'passive' and 'active' moments in the mental functions of intellection and
perception, by distinguishing between a passive 'taking' of snapshots, and an
active 'setting go' of the mental cinematograph: singular evidence of precisely the
intensification of reification that Jameson is describing.
Bergson produced his remarkable thoughts on the cinema in Paris in 1907, a
year during which an American woman in the same city was mid-way through the
composition of a long novel written under the influence of a comparable
'cinematographical mechanism'; a mechanism that she had adopted at Harvard
some ten years previously. Reflecting in the 1930s on the method of her thousand-
page performance, Gertrude Stein unwittingly reverted to precisely the analogy
that Bergson had used to discredit the scientific anaylsis of the elan vital.
... in the Making of Americans, I was doing what the cinema was doing, I was
making a continuous succession of the statement of what that person was until
I had not many things but one thing. ...
I of course did not think of it in terms of the cinema, in fact I doubt whether
at that time I had ever seen a cinema but, and I cannot repeat this too often any
one is of one's period and this our period was undoubtedly the period of the
cinema and series production. And each of us in our own way are bound to
express what die world in which we are living is doing.
... In a cinema picture no two pictures are exactly alike each one is just that
much different than the one before, and so ... there was ... no repetition. Each
time that I said the somebody whose portrait I was writing was something that
something was just that much different from what I had just said that
somebody was and little by little in this way a whole portrait came into being,
a portrait that was not description and that was made by each time, and I did a
great many times, say it, that somebody was something, each time there was a
difference just a difference enough so that it could go on and be a present
something.9
From Harvard to Paris (via Detroit)
Stein entered the Harvard Annex (later, Radcliffe College) in 1893, and gravitated
swiftly to the psychology department under William James, who had recently
hired Hugo Munsterberg of Freiburg to run the psychology labs. Miinsterberg had
studied directly under Wilhelm Wundt, the founder of positivist experimental
psychology, and it was Munsterberg who directed and taught Stein in the labs,
where he famously called her his 'ideal student'. The acknowledgement of
Miinsterberg's influence on Stein, rather than James's, is critical.10 'Munsterberg
[unlike James, whose drift towards Bergsonism is declared in A Pluralistic
Universe] remained true to the consciousness as an entity in the tradition of Kant
and Wundt,'11 and Stein took away from Harvard his classical positivist
Gertrude Stein 's Machinery of Perception 71
intellectualism, more than she did the increasingly pragmatist and vitalist
preoccupations of James. Indeed, her period at Radcliffe coincided exactly with
James's great intellectual crisis, and there is little if any indication that this crisis
registered with her.
When the full history of social reification comes to be written, an honourable
place in the chapter on its intellectual development will be reserved for the
uniquely positivist atmosphere of Munsterberg's laboratory, the stated aim of
which was 'no longer to speculate about the soul, but to find the psychical
elements and the constant laws which control their connections'.12 Here Stein was
to produce her work on 'Motor Automatism', and from here she ultimately
derived the singular aesthetic of The Making of Americans. Miinsterberg himself
went on to become the high priest of the new science of 'psychotechnics', a
resolute effort to make the lessons of the laboratory available for social use, to
extend reification programmatically into the lifeworld. In 1912, he published
Psychology and Industrial Efficiency, the most substantial essay in
psychotechnics. The book argued consistently for a rationalization of labouring
subjects in 'the service of commerce and industry'. 'We ask [he wrote] how we
can find the men whose mental qualities make them best fitted for the work which
they have to do; secondly, under what psychological conditions we can secure the
greatest and most satisfactory output of work from every man; and finally, how
we can produce most completely the influence on human minds which are desired
in the interests of business.'13 Rationalization here amounts to the standardization
of the 'human mind' itself, reduced to the simplest functions and habits, just as
Georg Lukacs was to lament of the full psychological effects of Taylorism.
Munsterberg was the first significant psychologist to effect this 'extension' of
reification into the 'soul' of the modern worker, ramifying the lessons of Fordism
and Taylorism at the level of consciousness itself, conceived as a set of innate
predispositions and learned reflexes.
Meanwhile, F. W. Taylor, in The Principles of Scientific Management (1911, the
same year that Stein completed The Making of Americans), insisted that
management should control a monopoly of technical knowledge-power, while
workers were progressively reduced to the level of machines. Pioneering the use
of time-and-motion studies, and breaking down complex tasks by means of
chronophotography to the simplest gestures, Taylor believed he had
'scientifically' adapted the entire culture of work to the rigours of Fordism. And
Fordism was Americanism, admired the world over, by Right and Left (think only
of Lenin and Gramsci), for its accent on efficiency. 'In effect', writes Peter
Wollen, 'Fordism turned the factory into a kind of super-machine in its own right,
with both human and mechanical parts'. 14 And if the workers and machine tools
were functional and interchangeable, then so too were the cars themselves, the
Model Ts of which Ford famously said: 'Any customer can have a car painted any
color that he wants as long as it is black'. Stripped of decoration and ornament,

aggressively utilitarian, blandly generic, the Model T was the primordial modem
object. With it was born the acutely Steinian problematic of 'series production' -
objects and subjects haunted by their own infinite repetitions.
Stein's admiration for the tenacity and speed of the Ford automobile was
underscored by her awareness of its industrial origin in a mass-production,
assembly-line process. The realities of mass production, especially the
Munsterbergian reification of its psychological component, had only confirmed
Stein's positivist theory of the human personality as this had been formed in the
Harvard labs. Indeed, since her time under Munsterberg, his lessons and their
application had spread to cover the very industrial coordinates of the present.
When Stein wrote about the 'making of Americans', she was self-consciously
employing concepts and techniques learned from her mentor; the reification of
human psychology and movement was intellectual property that she had long
since assimilated. It was this theory that she gave such extensive treatment in The
Making of Americans. As Janet Hobhouse remarks, '77ie Making of Americans
was in Gertrude's mind to some extent a scientific work. It was to set forth a
theory of behaviour'.15 In The Making of Americans, Lisa Ruddick observes,
'Stein seems interested not so much in her characters' conscious interactions as in
their ways of impinging on one another, rather as physical objects impinge on one
another. People are not primarily centers of subjectivity but forces or motions,
encountering other person-motions, which they either repel, besiege, or submit
to'. 16 What is more, as we are about to see, the more significant subject-matter of
the narrator is not this relative eclipse of inferiority itself, but the specter of
repetition, both within subjects and between them - the series production of
humanity itself.
It is worth mentioning first, however, the importance of the Fordist axiomatic
for Stein in general, not just as a set of psychological and physiological laws for
economic, 'productive' behavior, but moreover as a model for conceiving of both
her nationality and the very art of the novel itself. Above all speed, the very basis
of the Taylorized approach to efficiency, serves as a dynamic idea fusing human
subjects with their mass-produced vehicles - and Stein's aesthetics. At the outset
of her lecture on 'Portraits and Repetition', Stein used the following analogy to
underscore her interest in a peculiarly American velocity, which she was
committed to capturing in her prose:
A motor goes inside of an automobile and the car goes. In short this generation
has conceived an intensity of movement so great that it has not to be seen
against something else to be known, and therefore, this generation does not
connect itself with anything, that is what makes this generation what it is and
that is why it is American.... n
Americanness is thus conceived, not unusually, as 'intensity of movement'. The

notion is mediated by a very industrial image: that of the combustion engine
which, when inserted into the body of the automobile, propels it beyond all known
organic speeds. According to Stein, this intensity of movement obliterates
background itself. We no longer require the leisurely scenery or genealogy of
Europe to measure such velocity. It is a value in itself which, like the generation it
consumes, 'does not connect itself with anything'. It is free, unbounded, abstract:
American.
Elsewhere the assembled automobile served her as an apt figure for
contemporary being. 'Stein suggested that what distinguished twentieth-century
experience as such might be summed up as the difference between "conceiving]
an automobile as a whole ... and then creating] it," much as the twentieth century
had, or first "see[ing] the parts" and only afterwards "work[ing] towards the
automobile through them," as the nineteenth century would have done'. 18 Modern
production techniques and sensibilities, and artistic labours, work from the model
to the parts, and not the other way. Furthermore, as she wrote of her own
technique: "The assembling of a thing to make a whole thing and each one of
these whole things is one of a series, but beside this there is the important thing
and the very American thing that everybody knows who is an American just how
many seconds minutes or hours it is going to take to do a whole thing'. 19 From
this it would appear that psychotechnics and the scientific efficiency of time-and-
motion studies undergird the productivity of every American, even the artist-
genius herself; and every product is but 'one of a series'. Stein thus arrived at a
virtual homology between being American and the Fordist assembly line. Hers
was, as she said, an age of series production; and her great novel, The Making of
Americans, was effectively being presented as the first significant artistic response
to Fordism.
It only remains to re-emphasise what role cinema itself was playing in this
general dissemination of a new practical theory of being, apart from the obvious
fact that industrial production techniques were increasingly applied to the new
medium. Once again, it is Miinsterberg who serves as the critical mediating link,
since his work, The Photoplay: a psychological study (1916) took up where his
work in psychotechnics left off, and celebrated the colonisation of middle-class
and working-class consciousness by a new machine-art that perfectly
complemented the reifications of workplace discipline. Realizing that the greatest
interest for the psychologist lay in cinema's inherent analysis of movement,
Miinsterberg notably surpassed Bergson in his description of a latent
psychological mechanism that transcended the synthetic illusion of frame-by-
frame projection: 'the perception of movement is an independent experience
which cannot be reduced to a simple seeing of a series of different positions. A
characteristic content of consciousness must be added to such a series of visual
impressions.'20 We will see the full relevance of this later, in Stein's insistence on
the new freedoms and speeds paradoxically brought about by reification; but it is
crucial to realise the importance of what Munsterberg was doing with the cinema
in terms of the extension of reification into the fibres and neurons of the brain
itself. He hailed the cinema as a social laboratory for psychotechnicians
everywhere: "The screen ought to offer a unique opportunity to interest wide
circles in psychological experiments and mental tests and in this way to spread the
knowledge of their importance for vocational guidance and the practical affairs of
life.'21 Munsterberg's enthusiasm for the new medium revolved around the fact
that it did our thinking and apperception for us: 'the photoplay tells us the human
story by overcoming the forms of the outer world, namely, space, time, and
causality, and by adjusting the events to the forms of the inner world, namely,
attention, memory, imagination, and emotions. ' n Cinema adapted reality to
consciousness, and consciousness to reality, programming both in the service of
commerce. Gertrude Stein's great novel attempted to patch these reifications of
the machinery of perception onto the high art of fictional narrative.
Making Americans
To begin with, Stein's narrator insists that one only gets to know others through
their manifestations, either gestural or verbal; and these are invariably repetitious:
The nature in every one is always coming out of them from their beginning to
their ending by the repeating always in them, by the repeating always coming
out from each one. Sometimes, often, one looking at someone forgets about
that one many things one knows in that one, always soon then such a one
brings it back to remember it about that one the things one is not then thinking
by the repeating that is always in each one. ...
'Each one' is, in this much repeated theory, nothing other than his or her ceaseless
repetition of a 'nature' that is 'in them'. To be is to repeat; or, 'I repeat therefore I
am'.
This deadening sense of internal repetition is next related to its extrinsic
counterpart: resemblance, which threatens to serialize character from without as
repetition had standardized it from within.
There are many ways of being a man, there are many millions of each kind of
them, more and more in ones living they are there repeating themselves around
one, every one of them in his own way being the kind of man he has in him,
and there are always many millions made just like each one of them.
(p. 115)
And just like the Model T, the vertiginous opening up of authorial discourse onto
the vast horizon of 'many millions' is characteristic of Stein's strategy of
destabilizing subjectivity from the point of view of seriality. Again:
Sometimes in living one sees so many repeating, so many who seem when one
knows them to be so individual there can never be any one anything like them,
a pair of them with so individual a relation made up of two who are so singular
in their being that it never seems that there can be others just like them.
Always then one sees another pair of them and sometimes it is almost
dizzying, it gives to each one of the pairs of them an unreal being, and then it
comes again that one understands then that repeating is the whole of living.
(p. 221)
What emerges from the 'repeating' of human types in this conception are two
intimately linked responses: first, the 'dizzying' and 'unreal being' articulated in
that last passage, an existential nausea; and second, an incipient excitement about
the possibility of a scientific treatise, a new knowledge a la Taylor and
Miinsterberg, about this new 'American' seriality of human being:
This is then a beginning of learning to make kinds of men and women. Slowly
then all the resemblances between one and all the others that have something,
different things in common with that one, all these fall into an ordered system
sometime then that one is a whole one, sometimes that one is very different to
what was in the beginning the important resemblance in that one but always
everything, all resemblances in that one must be counted in, nothing must ever
be thrown out, everything in each one must be included to know that one and
then sometime that one is to some one a whole on and that is then very
satisfying.
(p.340)
What begins by being baffling and dizzying, can ultimately yield the greatest
epistemological satisfactions, provided 'one' has amassed sufficient data to sort
and quantify all the various 'pieces' through which men and women resemble
each other into an 'ordered system'. What one must do, as Stein's narrator says, is
to make kinds of men and women, to construct models and typologies for everyone
- to make Americans. The 'making of Americans' of the book's title refers not to
any frontier narrative of hardy survival in the face of adversity, but to the lab-work
of the narrator herself who constructs Americans from models down to
interchangeable 'pieces', pieces which are objectively calculable and invariant:
snapshots, gestures, habits, 'bottom natures'. In the most profound radicalization
of the aesthetics of Naturalism in the history of the novel, the static reifications of
typology take the place of narrative variation and transition. The birth of
American modernism takes place in this sterilized experimental space.
Or, not quite. What we have to return to, of course, is the question of cinema
and how, in the 1930s, Stein saw that medium as the perfect analogy for her
modernism in The Making of Americans. The answer hinges on the nature of
movement and speed. Movement, as she would have studied it in her classes on
zoology at Harvard, was a subject of intensive speculation and increasingly
scientific quantification at the end of the nineteenth century. The work of
Bergson's colleague Etienne-Jules Marey on animal and human movement, which
by the 1890s was drawing technical inspiration from the great American-based
chronophotographer Eadweard Muybridge, meticulously analysed animal and
human movement down to its tiniest detail. It was this kind of work on movement
which Taylor was to apply directly to his time-and-motion studies.
The key was the standardization of the unit of time, expressed in the interval
between exposures on a plate through a rapidly rotating shutter. Whether the
interval between each image is 1/10 or 1/500 of a second, it no longer matters
where or when you begin in the analysis of movement, what matters is the
quantification of spatial change from instant to instant.24 By projecting this
rationalized conception of movement on to photographic plates, Marey installed a
logic of equidistant instants in place of the residual Aristotelian conception of
mutating substances.25 Gertrude Stein was fully aware of this breakthrough in the
understanding and representation of movement. Consider the following passage in
the novel which challenges the apparent repetition through an insistence on
minute variations:
Always, one having loving repeating to getting completed understanding must

have in them an open feeling, a sense for all the slightest variations in
repeating, must never lose themselves so in the solid steadiness of all repeating
that they do not hear the slightest variation. If they get deadened by the steady
pounding of repeating they will not learn from each one even though each one
always is repeating the whole of them they will not learn the completed history
of them, they will not know the being really in them.
(p. 294)
The ubiquity of repetitions in modernity forces upon the intellect a

compensatory sensitivity to difference that is always on the verge of being
extinguished by the 'steady pounding' of industrial production. Individuality is
now immanent in apparent seriality. "There is [Stein states] always then repeating
in all the millions of each kind of men and women, there is repeating then in all of
them of each kind of them but in every one of each kind of them the repeating is a
little changing. ... repeating with a little changing just enough to make of each
one an individual being, to make of each repeating an individual thing that gives
to such a one a feeling of themselves inside them', (p. 191)
The aesthetic capture of these minute variations required a revolution in
technique. Stein's sentences, according to the logic she embraced, begin again,
over and over again. They are committed to a logic of repetition with 'a little
changing', for only such an approach can capture the true nature of the space of
time she wants to map. Stein's art is thus a virtual chronophotography of the
human soul. Or, in her own later words, her prose has become a cinema of the
personality. Each sentence is an arbitrary point of entry into an ongoing
psychological process. The revolving shutter mechanism of Stein's sentence-form
exposes minute syntactical and phrasal variations. These delineate a movement.
On the final page of the work, we find the passage on 'family living':
Family living can be existing and every one can come to be a dead one and not
any one then is remembering any such thing. Family living can be existing and
every one can come to be a dead one and some are remembering some such
thing. Family living can be existing and every one can come to be a dead one
and every one is then a dead one and there are then not any more being living.
(p. 925)
As a major statement on the demise of the Victorian bourgeois family, the

passage only gains strength from the apparently mechanical repetition, which in
fact subtly varies the content in a devolutionary direction. As she argued later: 'It
is not repetition if it is that which you are actually doing because naturally each
time the emphasis is different just as the cinema has each time a slightly different
thing to make it all be moving. And each one of us has to do that, otherwise there
is no existing.'25
Toward the rhythm of the visible world
The obvious aesthetic question to ask is whether or not the 'intensity of

movement' she wanted to capture and reproduce in her syntactical 'cinema' is in
fact evident there at all. And the answer must surely be no, since no text in literary
history seems quite so bereft of momentum as this one, whose laborious rotation
of near-identical sentences congeals on the reading mind like a scab, rather than
conveys that effect of movement which it was the cinema's genius to have
perfected. Whatever her retrospective identification with motion pictures, the fact
that she 'never saw a cinema' is quite evident from this leaden rhythm. Gilles
Deleuze marks a decisive break between the chronophotography of Muybridge
and Marey and cinema proper, between : (i) instantaneous images, static sections
of movement; and (ii) movement-images, mobile sections of duration in the early
cinema. '[T]he essence of the cinematographic movement-image lies in extracting

from vehicles or moving bodies the movement which is their common substance,
or extracting from movements the mobility which is their essence.'27 Whereas the
essence of chronophotography is a spatial division of instantaneous, immobile
parts. It is just this crucial distinction that Bergson also failed to appreciate,
collapsing as he did the revolutionary impact of cinema back into the static
reifications of chronophotography. Stein, for all her technical audacity and evident
immersion in the logic of repetition and seriality, was not yet capable of making
the transition from static sections of movement to mobile ones: a leap she happily
made with her next, most important text, Tender Buttons (1914). Before that, in
her enormous novel, the sentences themselves look the way individual film frames
look on a flatbed in the editor's booth, prior to projection: each one almost
identical to the last, but containing sufficient variations to distinguish it from all
the others; and yet still denied the miracle of movement: the speed, the abstract
lines of flight of the cinema and the Model T, and of America itself.
In conclusion, then, I want to suggest that Tender Buttons and the portraits
which immediately predated it, make the aesthetic break into cinematic
'movement-images' for which the paragraphs of The Making of Americans served
as chronophotographic prototypes. Of course, such analogies must always beg
more questions than they answer; but it is at least clear from her own testimony
that, whether or not she 'knew' a cinema at the time, her preoccupation with
rendering American velocities and mobile images of 'personality' was profoundly
cinematic - that is to say, quasi-scientific, mechanistic, repetitious, and yet
striving from within this reified system towards art.
The transcendence of narrative form in The Making of Americans was
ultimately, in this sense, a greater breakthrough than its typologies and paragraph
formations. 'A thing you all know', Stein insisted in a lecture, 'is that in the three
things written in this generation, there is, in none of them a story. There is none in
Proust in The Making of Americans or in Ulysses. ... the important things written
in this generation do not tell a story. You can see that it is natural enough.'28
Making a bridge from this statement on high literary art to popular culture in
general, she went on to say, 'Instinctively as I say you all agree with me because
really in these days you all like crime stories or if you have not you should have
and at any rate you do like newspapers or radio or funny papers, and in all these it
is the moment to moment emphasis in what is happening that is interesting, the
succeeding and failing is really not the thing that is interesting.'29 This is the
critical point. The 'moment to moment emphasis' in the course of events and its
representation was what had eluded the sentences of The Making of Americans,
which tended to stretch events out over intolerable periods. In her task of
rendering the vitality of movement in America, Stein wanted to capture the kind
of decentering of attention that makes each instant irrevocable and alive with
Gertrude Stein 's Machinery of Perception 79
intensity. She failed through the detail and heaviness of her own psychotechnic
attention.
In Tender Buttons, Stein brought her crucial observation about narrative down
from the larger structural business of plot construction to the molecular level of
syntax itself. The uncanny and nonsensical style of this work is best explained as
an adamant refusal to allow the sentence-form to relax into any convenient or
familiar structure. Here at last are sentences which frustrate the memory's habitual
task of retrieving from each of them a single, coherent thought. If the book is in
some sense a series of descriptions of everyday articles and spaces, what animates
these descriptions is that the 'moment to moment emphasis' of attention shifts
radically within the frame of each sentence. 'A kind in glass and a cousin, a
spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system
to pointing.'30 Grammatically, the elements are held together in what appears to be
a regular sentence (although, note the absence of any verb); but syntactically, the
whirring spin of nouns and noun phrases around the repeated pivotal conjunction
radically dislocates our attention. We are caught within a linguistically realized
'space of time'. 31 Lyn Hejinian has written: 'Stein's analysis, in this sense, is
lateral; she does not trace things back to their origins, her investigation is not
etymological. That would reduce things to nouns, and Stein's concern was to get
away from the stasis ... of the name'. 32 The stasis that had fatally afflicted the
great experiment of The Making of Americans had been surmounted.
It was in the face of the system of mass production, where each species of item
consists of virtually identical series of products, that Gertrude Stein wanted to
mount the challenge of what she called 'the rhythm of the visible world'.33 Within
this world were untold speeds and rhythms which 'series production' had both
unleashed and then occluded through repetition. Accordingly, her syntax restores
the dissimilarity of things to their description. But what 'visible world' is this? It
is remarkable, of course, that the various objects and spaces she chooses to
express in her unique way in Tender Buttons are not those of industrial mass
production. Rather, we get carafes, handkerchiefs, roastbeef, cream and pastry - in
a word, the entire domestic object-world of Victorian fiction, preserved as if in
aspic from the serial repetitions of modern mass-manufacture. It is just that she
has abstracted a certain stylistic rhythm from the dynamism of the modern world
of speed and series production, and grafted it on to this older object-world of
nineteenth-century provincial French domesticity: the world of Flaubert's
Madame Bovary. Like us perhaps, Stein's Finnish servant found it 'difficult to
understand why we [Stein and Toklas] are not more modern. Gertrude Stein says
that if you are way ahead with your head you naturally are old fashioned and
regular in your daily life'.34 Stein's intellect grasped that the American intensity of
movement necessitated a new and radical approach to syntax and form; but this
quality is nevertheless appropriated from the newer commodities and used to
intensify and deepen the fading phenomenological qualities of the 'old fashioned
and regular' Flaubertian universe. Such is the amazingly unstable and
contradictory significance of the prose style in Tender Buttons. And we need only
conclude by remarking that such, also, was the paradoxical condition of the early
American cinema, caught up in a constitutive contradiction between its own
technical and formal novelty, and a thoroughly conventional and 'Victorian' set of
contents. The 'rhythm of the visible world' was, in that sense, always a split
rhythm, a waltz played as musique concrete.
Notes
1 Georg Lukacs, Writer and Critic, trans. Arthur Kahn (London: Merlin, 1978), p. 139.
2 Andre Gide, The Counterfeiters, trans. Dorothy Bussy (London: Penguin, 1990), pp.
70-71.
3 Andre Bazin, What is Cinema? Volume One, trans. Hugh Gray (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1967), p. 119; Jean-Francois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition:
A Report of Knowledge, trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesata Press, 1984), pp. 74-75
4 Henri Bergson, Creative Evolution, trans. Arthur Mitchell (New York: Dover, 1998),
p. 306.
5 Ibid., p. 251.
6 Lukacs, History and Class Consciousness, trans. Rodney Livingstone (London:
Merlin, 1971), p. 93.
7 Bergson, Creative Evolution, p. 302.
8 Fredric Jameson, 'Allegorizing Hitchcock', Signatures of the Visible (London.
Routledge, 1992), pp. 125-26.
9 Gertrude Stein, 'Portraits and Repetition', in Gertrude Stem: Writings 1934-1946,
(The Library of America: New York, 1998), pp. 294-295.
10 Tim Armstrong also makes this point, inModernism, Technology, and the Body
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 197.
11 Donald Sutherland, Gertrude Stein: A Biography of Her Work (New Haven: Yale UP,
1951), p. 5.
12 Hugo Munsterberg, Psychology and Industrial Efficiency (Boston & New York:
Houghton Mifflin, 1913), p. 5.
13 Ibid., pp. 23-24.
14 Peter Wollen, 'Modern Times', in Raiding the Icebox (London: Verso, 1993), p. 36.
15 Janet Hobhouse, Everybody Who Was Anybody: A Biography of Gertrude Stein
(London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 1975), pp. 70-1.
16 Lisa Ruddick, Reading Gertrude Stein: Body, Text, Gnosis (Ithaca & London: Cornell
17 'Portraits and Repetition', p. 287.
18 Steven Meyer, 'Introduction' to Gertrude Stein, The Making ofAmericans (Normal,

Illinois: Dalkey Archive Press, 1995), p. xxxii.
19 Gertrude Stein, 'The Gradual Making of The Making of Americans' in Gertrude Stein:
Writings 1934-1946, pp. 285-286.
20 Hugo Munsterberg, The Film: A Psychological Study (New York: Dover Publications,
1970 [c. 1916]), p. 26.
21 Ibid., p. 12.
22 Ibid, p. 74.
23 Stein, Making ofAmericans, p. 186. Further references in text.
24 See Mary Ann Doane, The Emergence of Cinematic Time (Cambridge MA: Harvard
University Press, 2002).
25 See Euenne-Jules Marey, Movement, trans. E. Pritchard (London: W. Heinemann,
1895).
26 Stein, 'Portraits and Repetition', p. 295.
27 Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 1: The Movement-Image, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara
Habberjam (London: Athlone, 1992), p. 23.
28 Stein, 'Portraits and Repetition', pp. 298-99.
29 Ibid., p. 306.
30 Stein, 'Tender Buttons', in Selected Writings of Gertrude Stein, ed. Carl Van Vechten
(New York: Vintage, 1990), p. 461.
31 'An American can fill up a space in having his movement of time by adding
unexpectedly anything and yet getting within the included space everything he had
intended getting'. Stein, 'Poetry and Grammar', Writings 1932-1946, p. 323.
32 Lyn Hejinian, The Language of Inquiry (Berkeley: University of California Press,
2000), p. 101.
33 '... it was there [in Granada] and at that time that Gertrude Stein's style gradually
changed. She says hitherto she had been interested only in the insides of people, their
character and what went on inside them, it was during that summer that she first felt a
desire to express the rhythm of the visible world'. Stein, The Autobiography of Alice B.
Toklas (London: Penguin, 1966), p. 130.
34 Stein, Autobiography, p. 266.
H.D.'s The Gift: an 'endless store room
of film'1
Rachel Connor
As a 'heterodoxical modernist', H.D.'s aesthetic vision extends beyond the

imagist poetry with which she first made her name.2 Yet, although there has been
sustained interest in her writing since the early 1980s, her involvement in avant-
garde film in the late 1920s and her contribution to the film journal Close Up
(1927-33) have only recently begun to attract critical attention.3 Cinema
precipitated a natural shift in H.D.'s conceptualisation of the image. Just as
imagist poetry responded to what were considered to be outmoded Victorian
poetic forms, cinema - with its new technology - came to be identified with 'the
modern'. 'We had to get away from the nineteenth century if we were to survive'
states Bryher in her memoir, The Heart To Artemis, and film was the medium
which seemed to best represent this escape.4 In what follows, I argue that H.D.'s
discursive construction of the visual is intimately bound up with the paradigmatic
cultural shift precipitated by early cinema. As such, her work is located at the very
intersection of literary and visual cultures and needs to be given primary attention
in discussions of modernity and visual technology. As we shall see, H.D.'s
engagement with the emergent discourse of film is twofold. It is evident, firstly, in
her formulation of what I term a 'narrative cinematics': the use of techniques such
as close-up, superimposition, flashback and 'voice over' that are also deployed in
film. Secondly, despite the fact that her involvement with film-making and film
criticism ceased with the demise of the silent film in the 1930s, her awareness of
the social implications of cinema extends well into the 1940s and beyond.
In order to comprehend fully H.D.'s conceptualisation of cinematic
spectatorship, we need to consider the development of her spiritual vision, a
vision formulated by the doctrine of the Christian Moravianism that shaped the
early years of her childhood. H.D. grew up in the Moravian community in
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania and her maternal family was directly descended from
the first settlers, known as the Unity of the Brethren, or Unitas Fratrum. Founded
on Christmas Eve 1741 by German migrants, Bethlehem had been one of the first
82
H.D.'s 'TheGift' 83
Moravian settlements in the United States.5 Developing a doctrine of purity and

grace, the early Moravians practised love and tolerance, amongst each other and
towards other religious sects. The emphasis on equality and community was
paramount: the congregation was arranged into communal living groups known as
'choirs', which placed together those of the same age, gender and marital status.
While the community was centred around the Gemeinhaus, which housed the
kitchens, dining room and chapel, each choir - widowers, widows, single men,
single women, older and younger boys and girls - had their own residence, where
members lived and worked together. To the original Moravian settlers, therefore,
the traditional concept of the family did not exist: the entire community was
considered one family and all Moravians worked for the community which, in
turn, housed, fed, clothed and supported them. By the time H.D. was born in 1886,
the community had evolved and undergone reorganization, but the communal
values and the importance of the extended family remained. Raised in a tightly-
knit community, in a house adjoining that of her grandparents, H.D. would have
grown up with a sense of alternative social organization from that of the
traditional patriarchal, nuclear family.6 It is perhaps this aspect of her early
spiritual life that allowed her to embrace the democratic values of Moravianism,
while at the same time remaining equivocal about the tenets of organized religion.
The observation of ritual was an important aspect of Moravian worship:
ceremonial practices like the 'kiss of peace' and the 'lovefeast' not only
acknowledged Moravian history, customs and tradition but celebrated the
connections that bound them together as a community. The love feast - the
sharing of unconsecrated food and drink, in a ritual based on the early Christian
gatherings occurring after the Pentecost - was an important symbol of union and
equality. As a central part of social and religious occasions, it was an inclusive
celebration of friendship and connection. And since the love feast could be shared
by all alike - including children and members of other denominations - it was an
outward sign of the Moravian doctrine of equality and religious tolerance. H.D.'s
understanding of vision and spectatorship is directly connected to this sense of
ritual and community: in Trilogy, for example, the central spiritual experience or
vision of the narrator is represented as collective:
The Presence was spectrum-blue,

ultimate blue ray,
rare as radium, healing;

my old self, wrapped round me,
was shroud (I speak of myself individually

but I was surrounded by companions
in this mystery).7
Significantly, this blue ray - the illumination that ensures the salvation of the
'seer' - has close parallels with the manifestation of faith in the Moravian
doctrine, which is experienced as 'a direct and supernatural illumination from
God'.8 As Barbara Guest points out, in the Moravian creed, 'there is no morality,
piety, or orthodoxy existent, unless it has been touched by this "sufficient,
sovereign, saving grace,'" passed on and witnessed by other members of the
community (Guest, p. 9).
Despite H.D.'s ambivalent relationship with orthodox religion, her notion of
visionary 'seeing' was shaped by the illuminations or spiritual manifestations she
experienced throughout her lifetime. On a visit to the Scilly Isles with Bryher in
1919, for instance, H.D. had a sensation - a spiritual vision manifesting itself
through the body - which she later called her 'jellyfish experience':
We were in the little room that Bryher had taken for our study when I felt this
impulse to "let go" into a sort of balloon, or diving-bell as I have explained it,
that seemed to hover over me [...] There was, I explained to Bryher, a second
globe or be 11-jar rising as if it were from my feet...I felt the double globe come
and go and I could have dismissed it at once and probably would have if I had
been alone...It was being with Bryher that projected the fantasy.9
Bryher's collaboration in H.D.'s 'projection' of the image, here, is significant:

for it recurs in her later 'writing-on-the-wall' episode, the revelatory vision
recorded in Tribute To Freud that she experienced in Corfu in 1920. Like the
projected moving images of the cinema, the 'writing-on-the-wall' vision is
represented as 'a series of shadows or of light pictures'.10 And, as in the 'jellyfish'
experience, Bryher's presence is crucial to H.D.'s projection of the vision: 'I can
turn now to [Bryher] though I do not budge an inch or break the sustained crystal-
gazing stare at the wall before me. I say to Bryher [...] "Shall I stop? Shall I go
on?" .Bryher says without hesitation, "Go on'" (H.D., Tribute, p. 70).
Acknowledging Bryher's emotional support in the act of 'seeing' the images,
H.D. states: 'I knew this experience, this writing-on-the-wall before me [... ] could
not be shared with anyone except the girl who stood so bravely there beside me'
(H.D., Tribute, p. 72). The image of the two women in a semi-darkened room,
looking together at the projected images on the wall or "screen" is crucial, for it
becomes a key trope in H.D.'s representations of her spiritual manifestations or
H.D.'s 'The Gift' 85
visions as cinematic. As in Trilogy, where H.D. defines herself as a member of an

audience that is collective, her role as "seer" depends on her inclusion within a
community of spectators who support and sustain her vision.11
In H.D.'s work, and especially in her film criticism, the visual is underpinned
by an acute awareness of the interconnections between the political and the
spiritual. In 'The Mask and the Movietone' (1927) she defines cinematic
spectatorship as a collective - and a religious - experience:
We sank into light, into darkness, the cinema palace [...] became a sort of
temple. We sank into this warmth and were recreated. The cinema has become
to us what the church was to our ancestors. We sang, so to speak, hymns, we
were redeemed by light literally.12
This notion of the film spectator being recreated through the viewing process has
resonances, of course, with the notion of the 'creating spectator' propounded by
the Soviet film director, Sergei Eisenstein. His theory of 'intellectual montage' -
brought to life in such classics as The Battleship Potemkin (1925) and October
(1927) - aimed to construct a national Soviet cinema that would rouse the
spectator to political action in the Russian socialist revolution. Like H.D.,
Eisenstein draws on the terminology of the Old and New Testaments, describing
the cinematic image as 'the flesh of the flesh of the spectator's risen image'. 13
Given the atheistic leaning of socialist and communist theory, the use of such
religious vocabulary might seem contradictory, evoking what - to a Marxist -
would be the repressive and totalising regime of Christianity. Yet, for the time in
which Eisenstein was writing, it is a vocabulary that is highly appropriate. To the
growing number of cinema-goers in the increasingly secular climate of early
twentieth-century Europe, the visit to the picture palace was fast replacing the
weekly ritual of church-going. Eisenstein's identification of the cinema with
religious worship shares similarities with that of H.D., as well as with Dorothy
Richardson who describes the cinema audience as a 'congregation' and film itself
as 'a eucharistic form of bread'.14 The suggestion of moral redemption through the
viewing of film in the writing of these modernists suggests a belief that the
cinema was a collective visual experience, in which it was possible for 'a
community of spectators' to become 'educated for modernity'.15
The Gift: 'stores in the darkroom of memory'
Written during the Second World War in London - between 1941 and 1944 - The
Gift is H.D. 's attempt to reconstruct her early years in Bethlehem.16 Indeed, critics
often read The Gift as H.D.'s attempt to recapture the maternal heritage of her
mother's Moravian faith and the ideals of community that are fundamental to its
organisation.17 This reconstruction of a spiritual ancestry in The Gift is often

regarded as a political strategy on the part of H.D., a means of asserting her
pacifist ideals. Thus, Susan Stanford Friedman argues, the text itself becomes
'[H.D.'s] gift to bring the message of peace to a world perpetually at war'.18
Expanding upon these critical readings, I want to explore how we might gain
further insights into The Gift's notion of 'community' by considering the
intersection of the literary and the visual in the text For H.D., as for Bryher and
the other Close Up contributors, silent film offered the possibility of 'a single
language across Europe', of moving beyond the demarcations of national identity
(Bryher, Artemis, p. 246). This desire for synthesis is also a fundamental aspect of
The Gift, in which, through the processes of memory, H.D. reconstructs the 'lost'
community of the Moravian Protestant church. But in order to understand fully the
complex and contradictory nature of H.D.'s representation of community, and its
connection to the visual, it is vital to take into account the context of the cinematic
culture of the 1940s.
The Second World War, as Sarah Street argues, had a huge impact on the birth
of a national British cinema. Film-makers set out to produce films which would
stress the need for unity so that film itself became a tool of propaganda.19 Thus, in
the British cinema of the mid-1940s, the war generated an impulse 'to produce
images which would create a sense of national collectivity' through the activity of
spectatorship itself as a public and collective experience (Street, p. 50). While
such 'collectivity' is directly translated to the literary construction of the visual in
The Gift, this political impulse towards social unity in H.D.'s work is neither
straightforward nor unproblematic, since there are inherent tensions in her notions
of spectatorship between the public and the private. As we shall see, the notion of
community in H.D.'s writing not only relates to collective social organisation, but
extends to incorporate the private 'community' of her partnership with Bryher and
with Kenneth Macpherson, who was both Bryher's husband and H.D.'s lover.20
Before moving on to examine the narrative strategies of The Gift, it may be
useful to outline the background and context of the memoir itself. In the dual time
scheme of The Gift, H.D. mediates between her childhood past in the Moravian
community - which is related through the voice of the young narrator, Hilda - and
the narrative present of wartime London. Crucial to the text are the reflections of
Mamalie, H.D.'s maternal grandmother, who, through the powers of 'psychic
recall' describes an encounter between the newly-arrived Moravian settlers and
the native Americans at 'Wunden Eiland' in 1741.21 This meeting is represented
as a defining moment in the text, since it marks the founding of 'a secret powerful
community that would bring the ancient secrets of Europe and the ancient secrets
of America into a single union of power and spirit, a united brotherhood, a Unitas
Fratrum of the whole world' (H.D., Gift, p. 214). Transcribed onto a 'scroll of
flexible deerskin', the account of the meeting at Wunden Eiland between the
Moravian settlers and the native Americans, is discovered almost a hundred years
later by Mamalie's first husband, Christian (H.D., Gift, p. 168). Christian achieves
his 'guided' reading of these unknown languages by piecing together fragments
from the deerskin scroll. This knowledge is manifested as spiritual vision, a 'gift'
which originated at Wunden Eiland and was passed down through ensuing
generations. Through Christian's spiritual and creative enlightenment, the legacy
of the gift is revived. Thus, the text itself becomes a journey towards the
realisation of a forgotten or buried inheritance and a spiritual power. This legacy
of the gift is crucial to The Gift's representation of community, as it was to the
early Moravians. Through H.D.'s reconstruction of the memories of the child
Hilda, this gift is passed on to the reader who collaborates in the creation of its
meaning, so that the gift operates both as Hilda's/H.D.'s realisation of her
maternal ancestry and as a passing on of knowledge to the reader.
The Gift's constant mediation between past and present is achieved, in part,
through the narrative device of analepsis. In filmic terms, analepsis - or flashback
- is a means of returning to an earlier, clearly marked 'subjective moment' in a
character's life.22 Susan Hayward points out that, as a 'representation of memory
and of history', cinematic flashback dates back to 'the beginnings of film history
[...] thus coinciding with the birth and burgeoning of psychoanalysis' (Hayward,
p. 122).23 It is the concept of cinematic flashback, therefore - rather than literary
analepsis - which informs my reading of The Gift, since there it enacts a similar
retrieval of personal history through a process of memory that is rooted in the
visual. The link between memory and the technical apparatus of film is apparent
in the description of the 'long strips of continuous photographs' which are 'stored
in the darkroom of memory' (H.D., Gift, p. 50). Such descriptions also extend to
the writing of Majic Ring, which was composed in parallel with The Gift between
1943 and 1944. For H.D. writes: 'these [memories] may have been random
projections from that great store-house where we are told all the past is rolled and
neatly filed and edited, like the endless store-room of film, waiting for the suitable
moment to be projected and re-projected' (H.D., Majic, p. 201).
Friedman interprets the direct association between film and memory in The Gift
in the light of H.D.'s engagement with psychoanalysis.24 In Friedman's analysis it
is H.D.'s own psyche - as the adult narrator in The Gift - which constructs
memories as visual images and then projects them as though running a film:
The mind - and the text as the representation of the mind - is a darkroom in
which memories are developed into photographic images that flow like film
into a projector. In this 'camera obscura' [...] 'these flashes of flash-backs' are
'film [that] unrolls in my head' [...] The montage of this 'film' parallels the
'dark room' of cinematic creation with the 'dark room' of Freudian analysis.
(Friedman, Penelope, p. 332-3)
While Friedman's reading of the deployment of cinematic devices in The Gift is a

valid one, it overlooks H.D.'s attempt to construct an audience for the fragments
or flashes of film which constitute the text The composition of The Gift is itself
equated with the process of watching a film. Thus, the act of reading H.D.'s
literary text is transformed into a process of viewing, an effect which is achieved,
as we shall see, through the use of visual close-up and the suggestion of 'voice-
over'. This technique again evokes comparisons with Eisenstein's notion of the
'creating spectator', an intrinsic part of his theory of intellectual montage. H.D.'s
memoir seeks, through its discursive construction of the visual, a way to bind the
audience together through the collaborative experience of spectatorship.
How, then, do the political implications of cinema illuminate the spiritual
notions of community underpinning H.D.'s The Gift! This question is answered
when examining the journal Close Up, produced in the late 1920s and early 1930s
amidst the increasing tension in Europe that culminated in the Second World War.
On the whole, as Jane Marek points out, the editors of Close Up took a critical
view of 'the problem of the mass coercion used to promote war'.25 Bryher's voice,
above all, is resoundingly pacifist, especially in the essay 'What Shall You Do In
the War?':
Let us decide what we will have. If peace, let us fight for it. And fight for it
especially with cinema. By refusing to see films that are merely propaganda for
any unjust system [...] above all, in the choice of films to see, remember the
many directors, actors and film architects who have been driven out of the
German studios and scattered across Europe because they believed in peace
and intellectual liberty.26
Two key issues emerge from this passage. Firstly, if we accept the view that
avant-garde culture is usually more preoccupied with form rather than content -
and with aesthetics, rather than politics - Bryher's piece demonstrates an
unusually close engagement with the current political climate. Secondly, her
reference to the artists who are 'driven out of Germany' and 'scattered across
Europe' anticipates the enforced exodus of the Holocaust. Implicitly, there is a
desire to include these expelled film artists in a community of intellectuals across
Europe who believe in 'peace and intellectual liberty'. 27 More significantly,
Bryher's words resonate with those of H.D. in The Gift when she speaks of her
gift of a 'vision of [...] peace' enabling her to see into the past as a means of
reconstructing the future (H.D., Gift, p. 214).
Street argues that despite the 'vanguard rhetoric' of Close Up, the journal was
'primarily interested in aesthetic rather than political aspects of film' (Street, p.
153). Yet, while Close Up is often seen as a mouthpiece for the liberal avant-
garde, the journal took seriously issues of national identity. It was founded on a
real urgency to construct itself as 'transnational' and to advocate 'a transnational

cinema'.28 Since Close Up had correspondents in Moscow, Berlin, Paris, Geneva,
London, New York and Los Angeles, it played a significant role, as Anne
Friedberg notes, 'in a growing community without borders' (Friedberg, 'Reading',
p. 10). In considering The Gift, it is vital to take into account H.D.'s stake in Close
Up and her understanding of the ideological implications of film: for the
internationalist ethos at the heart of the journal was inscribed directly into the
narrative of her memoir. This is borne out through The Gift's social and political
concerns, in the attempt to reconstruct a lost community and to create a sense of
cohesion in the midst of war. But it also emerges in H.D.'s textual practice,
through her use of analepsis, outlined above, and through her deployment of
voice.
The discursive style of many of H.D.'s film reviews suggests that her interest in
film lay not so much in the analysis of individual images but in the process of
spectatorship itself. In 'Conrad Veidt: The Student of Prague' (1927), for instance,
H.D. does not provide the reader with a retrospective analysis of the film but
conveys her immediate reactions to its narrative:
The music ought, it is evident, be making my heart spring but I don't like
student songs and these Heidelbergish melodies especially leave me frigid.
There's something wrong and I have seen those horses making that idiotic turn
on the short grass at least eight times. What is it? I won't stay any longer.29
As Laura Marcus argues, this 'performative running commentary on the processes

of spectating' is a common feature of H.D. 's film reviews.30 It assumes a form of
'"inner speech," acting as a screen onto which the film images can be projected'
(Marcus, p. 101). However, this 'commentary' is not limited to H.D.'s essays
alone: it is also employed in The Gift where narrative voice and visual image are
closely intertwined.31 In an early scene of the memoir, the image of Hilda and her
two brothers sitting on a sofa combines with a direct address from the narrator that
is intended to guide the reader's 'viewing':
You yourself may wonder at the mystery in this house, the hush in this room;
you may glance at the row of children on the horsehair sofa and at the plaque
of mounted butterflies [...] the children can not tell you for no one has been
able to answer that question for them. (H.D., Gift, p. 85)
Like H.D.'s autobiographical prose fiction, which utilises close-up as a means

of involving the reader in the active process of viewing, The Gift contains
moments of intense focus on the characters' surroundings. In one instance towards
the end of the text, where the adult narrator is recalling her conversation with
Mamalic, the actions and observations of childhood are remembered in vivid and
precise detail across the distance of time:
Now it seems, while I pour out water from the pitcher into the glass, that I am
Hilda pouring out water from a washstand jug that has roses and a band of dark
blue that looks like a painted ribbon round the top. The tooth-mug matches the
pitcher. There is a soap dish with a little china plate, with holes in it, that is
separate so that the water from the soap will drip through. The basin has the
same roses. (H.D., Gift, p. 174)
Here the narrator's senses are heightened by the solemnity of the occasion of
learning the forgotten 'secrets' of Moravian history from her grandmother.
Paradoxically, despite the clear visual detail through which H.D. invites the reader
to share the moment, the narrative evokes a sense of detachment. The 'adult'
narrative voice, relating the image of her childhood self, operates here almost like
a cinematic 'voice over', where the direct intervention of the narrator from a
distance across a period of time is signalled by the gap between the image on the
screen and the soundtrack.
Hay ward argues that the device of voice-over in film 'bridges the gap between
the past and the present [in which] the present is speaking about the past'
(Hayward, p. 127).32 As such 'the voice-over represents a subjectivity that is a
controlling of the past' (p. 127). While the first-person narrative voice in this
extract from The Gift relates to the narrative present, the image to which it
corresponds is rooted in the past. In addition to accentuating the temporal split in
the narrative, this technique simultaneously represents two distinct 'selves',
implying a split in the narrator's subjectivity. The text appears, on the one hand, as
H.D.'s invitation to share her visions, to 'connect us into her community' (Morris,
p. 66). On the other hand, the division between image and voice renders this
process more complex through the suggestion of a divided identity. This division
establishes a tension between the public and private aspects of spectatorship,
suggesting that, in the end, while H.D. embraces the ideal of a spiritual vision as a
way of reinforcing social connections, the political effectiveness of that ideal is
limited.
Film: 'a privatized form of reception'
The contradictions between 'public' and 'private' aspects of spectatorship are

underscored in the correspondence between H.D. and Bryher in the late 1920s.
Written in the code language the two women reserved for their letter-writing, H.D.
('Cat') conveys to Bryher ('Fido') her delight at the prospect of an evening alone
watching the magic lantern she purchased as a gift for her daughter, Perdita
('Pup'):
The magic lantern is that so tonight I can slip in little bits of film. I have
already peeled and prepared the films for the private show I give one CAT
tonight The lantern is pup's Christmas present [... ] so does a wise cat salve its
cat-conscience [...] The Cat believes with all its nine cat hearts and souls and
brains in the film, in we us as opposed to them there monkeys who say "our
big producers". Even if we are never shown anywhere, cat loves and believes
in us. (30 July 1928)
H.D.'s letter establishes an opposition between the more widely-shown

mainstream productions of the commercial film industry, run, she suggests by
'monkeys' and the private reels shot by 'we us' - herself, Bryher and
Macpherson. Despite H.D.'s fascination and pleasure with these home-made reels
of film, the implication is that they are too obscure or too experimental to be
shown in public, and that they are intended for private viewing. The fact that this
is conveyed in the coded language used exclusively within H.D.'s circle
intensifies the notion of a 'private' aesthetic still further.
Such contradictions reveal the inherent complexities in H.D.'s awareness of the
political implications of the cinema. Spectatorship is at once private and public for
H.D.: it mediates between the realm of the personal and that of the social or
collective, always carrying with it political implications. This dual perspective is
translated into the literary narrative of The Gift. For, like the poetry and prose
H.D. produced earlier in her career, the memoir reinforces her connection with the
reader through its invitation to collaborate in the text's construction. In this
respect, as a modernist narrative that troubles nineteenth-century realism and the
existence of an omniscient narrator, The Gift works, like film itself, to rouse what
Watt terms the spectator's 'collaborating creative consciousness' (p. 77). Like
film, which - for H.D. - had the potential to foster international relations, the text
reinforces social connections through its visual dynamic. Conversely, The Gift
also functions as H.D.'s personal journey through the labyrinths of her memory
and as a means of reinforcing a private community with Bryher. Thus, she is able
to explore a mode of spectatorship which is collective but which is also, as
Friedberg points out, 'aprivatized form of reception'.33
By valorising silent, European art film above more commercial, mainstream
productions, H.D. appears to uphold the privileging of aesthetic form that informs
canonical literary modernism. Indeed, in the criticism and reviews that she wrote
for Close Up, film is consistently figured as a work of art or as autonomous
'artefact'. Like the other contributors to the journal, H.D. professes an opposition
to mainsteam cinema, a position that appears to underscore a modernist avant
gardism.34 If, as Jill Forbes and Sarah Street suggest, the making of a modernist
film is 'more like writing a private diary than manufacturing a car', then the
experimental cinema produced by H.D. and her circle could be seen as a type of
aestheticised, highbrow 'home movie'. 35 At odds with this view - and what is
apparent from H.D.'s correspondence - is the notion that, for her, film also
functions as an object of exchange, a currency that reinforces her sexual and
emotional connection with Bryher and Macpherson. Paradoxically, in considering
the 'narrative cinematics' of The Gift - and by taking into account H.D.'s legacy
of visionary and spiritual experience - we see her literary-visual text operating
within a kind of 'gift economy' that exists in opposition to the norms of capital
exchange.36
The complex matrix of ideologies inscribed into The Gift - spiritual and
economic, aesthetic and political - illuminates the contradictions in H.D.'s
engagement with the visual and their representation in her texts. These
contradictions, I argue, can only be fully brought into view by reading the memoir
in the context of a 1940s national British cinema. On the one hand, H.D.'s
invitation to the reader of The Gift to share her private vision of the past is a
means of countering the destruction of war. On the other, the aims of British
cinema to boost the nation's flagging morale - and to foster patriotism in its
promotion of the war effort - operate in complete opposition to The Gift's,
expression of pacifism. As Donald, Friedberg and Marcus argue in their preface to
the Close Up anthology, considering the aesthetics of early cinema is essential to a
re-evaluation of literary history. Read in this context, H.D.'s involvement in film
production and the inscription of cinematic techniques into her textual practice
complicates the boundaries of literary modernism. But if The Gift challenges
literary historiography, then the representation of film in H.D.'s essays and letters
complicates the binary - between the aesthetic and the political - intrinsic to
cinematic modernism. A consideration of H.D.'s conceptualisation of cinematic
spectatorship, then, offers a fresh approach to the reading of her literary texts.
This is especially true in the case of The Gift, which, until now, has largely been
read in the light of H.D. 's Moravian heritage. For, ultimately, The Gift's central
premise of 'a single powerful community' (H.D., Gift, p. 214) was also shaped by
H.D.'s awareness of the emergent visual technology of the modern age.
Notes
1 The quotation in the title is taken from H.D.'s unpublished typescript oiMajic Ring,
composed between 1943 and 1944, at around the same time as she was writing The
Gift.
2 Dianne Chisholm, 'H.D.'s Autobiography', in Harriet Devine-Jump (ed.), Twentieth
Century Women Writers in English (London: Harvester, 1991), p. 62.
H.D.'s "The Gift' 93
3 Charlotte Mandel, Anne Friedberg and Susan Edmunds were the first to address the
relationship between H.D. 's work on film and her literary texts. For more recent
discussions of H.D.'s involvement in film and film-making, and particularly her
involvement in Close Up, see James Donald, Anne Friedberg and Laura Marcus (eds.),
Close Up 1927-1933: Cinema and Modernism, (London: Cassell, 1998).
4 Bryher, The Heart to Artemis: A Writer's Memoirs (New York: Harcourt and Brace,
1962), p. 246. Bryher (Winifred Ellerman) became H.D.'s lover and lifelong partner in
1918. However, H.D.' s relationship with her was part of a more complex series of
bisexual identifications, which included affairs with both Bryher's husbands, Robert
McAlmon and Kenneth Macpherson. Bryher herself is an important figure who has
been overlooked in discussions of early twentieth-century literary and visual culture.
She was the heiress to the Ellerman shipping fortune, a wealthy woman who was a
patron of the arts and who subsidised the work of several modernist writers, including
Dorothy Richardson.
5 Persecuted in their native Moravia by Catholics and Lutherans, the Moravians had
originally taken refuge in Saxony in the early eighteenth century, under the protection
of Count Nikolaus von Zinzendorf, on whose land they built a settlement called
'Herrnhut' ('watched over by the Lord'). In 1951 H.D. wrote 'The Mystery', a
detailed historical novel about Zinzendorf and her Moravian ancestors. While it
remains unpublished, it offers important insights into the connection H.D. makes
between her Moravian roots and what she regarded as her 'visionary' abilities.
6 Adalaide Morris, 'A Relay of Power and of Peace: H.D. and the Spirit of the Gift', in
Susan Stanford Friedman (ed.), Signets: Reading H.D. (Wisconsin: University of
Wisconsin Press, 1990), p. 61.
7 H.D., Trilogy, in Collected Poems 1912-1944, ed. Loius L. Martz (New York: New
Directions, 1986), p. 520.
8 Barbara Guest, Herself Defined: The Poet H.D. and her World (New York:
Doubleday, 1984), p. 9. Guest defines 'supernatural' in this context as 'above the
natural order of things' (p. 9).
9 H.D., 'Advent', cited in Kathleen Crown, 'H.D.'s Jellyfish Manifesto and the Visible
Body of Modernism', Sagetrieb 14. 1-2 (1995), p. 223.
10 H.D.,Tribute to Freud (New York: Pantheon, 1956),p.61.
11 Towards the end of 77>e G;^1, too, Bryher's presence is crucial to H.D.'s ability to
envisage past memories and the memories of her Moravian ancestors. It could be
argued that there is a lesbian erotic at work here: in the act of looking together, the
women share an identification which is based on proximity and therefore undercuts the
dominant, phallocentric power of the scopic economy.
12 H.D., 'The Cinema and the Classics III: The Mask and the Movietone', in Close Up 1.
5 (1927), p. 23.
13 Sergei Eisenstein, 'Montage I 1938'. Rpt. 'Word and Image', in Jay Leyda (ed. and
trans), The Film Sense (New York and London: Harcourt and Brace, 1975), p. 33.
14 Carol Watts, Dorothy Richardson (Plymouth: Northcote House, 1995), p. 78.

15 Laura Marcus, 'Continuous Performance: Dorothy Richardson', in Donald, Friedberg
and Marcus (eds.), Close Up, p. 152.
16 H.D., The Gift, ed. Jane Augustine (Florida: University Press of Florida, 1998). First
published in 1969, the New Directions version of the text was abridged and heavily
truncated. The recently-published version is edited by Jane Augustine and is complete
and unabridged. All references to The Gift in this essay are taken from Augustine's
version.
17 See, for instance, Morris and Friedman.
18 Susan Stanford Friedman, Penelope's Web: Gender, Modernity, H.D. 's Fiction,
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), p. 330.
19 Sarah Street, British National Cinema (London and New York: Routledge, 1997), p.
50.
20 Although Macpherson is solely credited with directing Borderline (1930) - which
featured Paul Robeson as well as H.D. herself- in reality the conception, direction and
editing of the film was a collaborative venture between Macpherson, Bryher and H.D.
21 Perdita Scharrher, 'Unless a Bomb Falls'. Introduction to H.D.'s The Gift (New York:
New Directions, 1982), p. xiii Since the text fails to acknowledge the colonising
project at the heart of this encounter, H.D.' s vision of the fusion of the two cultures
could, of course, be read as a romanticisation of native American spirituality. From
their arrival in north America, the first Moravian settlers were involved in a missionary
enterprise which sought to convert the 'Indians' in the area.
22 Susan Hayward, Key Concepts in Cinema Studies (London and New York: Routledge,
1996), p. 122.
23 Hayward locates the origins of the flashback technique to 'at least 1901' to Ferdinand
Zecca's Histoire d'un Crime.
24 Both H.D. and Bryher had a keen interest in psychoanalysis and Bryher paid for H.D.
to undergo a period of analysis with Freud in 1933.
25 Jane Marek, 'Bryher and Close Up, 1927-1933', H.D. Newsletter, 3.2 (1990), 30.
26 Bryher, 'What Shall You Do in the War?', Rpt. In Donald, Friedberg and Marcus
(eds.) Close Up, p. 309.
27 It should perhaps be pointed out that this 'community' constituted a privileged
minority of intellectuals, made up of an 'internationally disperse [sic] group of patriots
dedicated to developing the potential of the film as an art'; Anne Fnedberg, 'Reading
Close Up', in Donald, Friedberg and Marcus (eds.), Close Up, p. 10.
28 Anne Friedberg, 'Reading Close Up', in Donald, Friedberg and Marcus (eds.), Close
Up, p. 12.
29 H.D., 'Conrad Veidt: The Student of Prague'. Rpt. in Donald, Friedberg and Marcus
(eds.), Close Up, p. 120.
30 Laura Marcus, 'The Contribution of H.D.', in Donald, Friedberg and Marcus (eds),
Close Up, p. 101.
H.D.'s The Gift' 95
31 An instance of this 'performative running commentary' also occurs in Bid Me To Live

when the protagonist, Julia, is part of a cinema audience full of soldiers. As Trudi Tate
argues, 'the narrative interweaves images from the film with Julia's vision of the crowd
of doomed men' (Trudi Tate, 'H.D.'s War Neurotics', in Suzanne Raitt and Trudi Tate
[eis],Women's Fiction and the Great War [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997], p. 256)
and this operates as a series of questions and snippets from popular wartime songs.
Again, this suggests that H.D. 's vision of peace may well be informed by her
experience of visual culture, especially cinematic culture.
32 Hayward further points out how the techniques of flashback and voice-over in film
noir - in Billy Wilder's Double Indemnity (1944) and John Brahms' Mildred Pierce
(1946), for instance - serve to underscore the masculinity of the male protagonist. For
a discussion of how voice-over and synchronisation serve to reinscribe gender
representation, see Kaja Silverman, 'Dis-Embodying the Female Voice', in Patricia
Erens (ed), Issues in Feminist Film Criticism (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana
University Press, 1990), pp. 309-27.
33 Anne Fiedberg, 'On H.D., Woman, History, Recognition', Wide Angle: A Film
Quarterly of Theory, Criticism and Practice, 5 (1982), 29.
34 Paradoxically, although H.D. eschewed mainstream cinema, her private papers at Yale
contain numerous newspaper clippings, film reviews and photographs of contemporary
film stars such as Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich. This implies a further
contradiction between the realms of the public and private in H.D.'s attitude to film
spectatorship.
35 Jill Forbes and Sarah Street, European Cinema: An Introduction (London: Palgrave,
2000), p. 38.
36 There are close resonances between H.D. 's representation of the 'gift' in her memoir
and Marcel Mauss' anthropological notion of the 'gift economy'. Although there is no
specific evidence of H.D.'s familiarity with Mauss' work, her library contained 'tomes
on the history of religion and mythology, archaelogical investigations, and explorations
of archaic society', all of which suggests a similarity in their interests (Morris, p. 59).
Ulysses in Toontown: 'vision animated
to bursting point' in Joyce's 'Circe'
Keith Williams
Not only did James Joyce become professionally involved with early film in his
ill-starred venture to set up Ireland's first regular cinema in 1909-10, but his own
formative movie-going took place when the industry was still all but shunned as
vulgar catchpenny entertainment of scant aesthetic worth, by most 'serious'
writers and cultural pundits.1 In this sense, Joyce was prescient, as well as
democratic, in embracing this popular medium for the groundbreaking
possibilities it helped fertilise in his work. Indeed, what seems most remarkable
about the manifold parallels with early movies in Joyce's texts is the sheer
catholicity of his taste. The paradox is that Joyce was just as interested in the
medium, for its 'lowbrow' appeal, as for its avant-garde potentials, and his work
was all the more innovative, formally and philosophically, for that.
In its broadest sense, intertextuality with film is, arguably, one of the most
energising drives in his Modernist project. In effect, the influences and analogies
to be found in the 'polyvisual' content and style of his writing are as pluralistic
and unprejudging as the typically 'mixed programmes' he exhibited at the Volta in
Dublin. Such receptiveness is admirably implied in Pat Murphy's recent biopic
about Joyce's partner Nora (2000). The most self-reflexive and cinematically
insightful moments take place when Nora whiles away dull Triestine afternoons
by watching sentimental Italian melodramas, or when he is shown reacting to their
erotic correspondence in the Volta's projection room, against the background of a
comic 'trickfihn'. Such scenes suggest not just the intimate and historically-
situated nature of the Joyces' cinema-going, but also the deep creative ferment it
set off in his writing, in all the creative indirection of its workings.
The extent of the inadvertently modernist potentials Joyce might have seized on
in early film's primitive populism is illustrated by a selection of surviving one-
reelers shown by Joyce in Dublin (some of which Murphy excerpts). These were
exhibited by the British Film Institute from its National Film and Television
Archive, under the title of 'An Evening at the Volta', at the 'Literature and Visual
Ulysses in Toontown 97
Technologies Conference' (St John's College, Oxford 18-19 September 2000)).

This eminently 'mixed programme' testifies mutely but eloquently to the sheer
openness of Joyce's precocious 'film-mindedness'. This ranged through early
documentaries and travelogues, to Biblical spectaculars and from Film d'Arte
tragedies, to slapstick comedy and trickfilms. We can, of course, only speculate
about actual links between particular films and specifically Joycean themes and
techniques. However, the undeniably striking effect of watching them now is as a
tantalising cornucopia of possible thematic imprintings and formal cross-
fertilisations.
The comedies must have been particularly stimulating to Joyce's anarchic and
eminently trans-generic imagination. But perhaps most importantly two early
trickfilms indicate Joyce's awareness of the medium's ambiguous potential for
being what Joseph Conrad (underlining the equally cinematic tendency of H.G.
Wells's early writings) called the 'Realist of the Fantastic',2 for presenting the
actual and the impossible simultaneously and with apparently equal
verisimilitude. The first of these, Percy Stov/'s Beware of Goat's Milk (GB, 1909),
depicts a respectable gent's metamorphosis into demonic satyr. With wonderful,
vernacular proto-surrealism, he chases and butts over people, trees, buildings and
even, climactically, an omnibus. Leering facial close-ups suggest rampant
eroticism, as well as his glee at creating a miniature, one-man 'mockalypse', as it
were, anticipating Joyce's full-blown one in the 'Circe' chapter of Ulysses (1922).
Moreover, the transformation effect, in which horns magically grow out of his
head (by inflating 'prosthetics'), seems to anticipate not only Bloom's cuckolding
and metamorphoses in the same chapter, but Stephen's distinctly monochrome
nightmare in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1914-15). In the latter,
lustfully goatish creatures, 'faces grey as indiarubber', like the satyr's horns, close
in on him in a weed-choked field,3 the same location as much of Stow's film.
The second trickfilm, An Easy Way to Pay Bills (Italy, 1909), features serial
comic Andre Deed. Deed, who began work in the early French industry, made his
name in Italy from 1908 playing 'Cretinetti', known as 'Foolshead' in English. An
Easy Way's madcap vanishings and re-appearances, not only confirm Joyce
relished, and thought the Dublin public would too, the tradition of visual
conjuring initiated by George Melies and Alice Guy-Blache in France as early as
1896, but that he was also familiar with the use of 'object animation',4 essentially
achieved by the same 'stop motion' process. Double-exposure renders Foolshead
spookily transparent so he can walk through walls, etc., but he mostly evades his
massing creditors by leaping in and out of a magic carpetbag, which moves
around with a life of its own, quite literally a displacement of a human presence
into an object - a sort of 'living' metonymy. Animism - what Vachel Lindsay in
his The Art of the Moving Picture (1915 ) (perhaps the earliest 'serious' critical
study of film) called 'a yearning for personality in furniture' - was rife in early
cinema, most obviously in tnckfilms and cartoons.5 This helps to corroborate the
theory (advanced by Austin Briggs and Thomas L. Burkdall) that Joyce drew on
stop-motion in the fantastic drama of 'Circe', 6 though I intend to show that he
may also have been influenced by its logical extension, graphic, or 'cartoon',
animation. Indeed no early cinema-goer could fail to notice the medium's
childlike fascination with 'autokinesis', the basic principle of moving images,
whether of people, objects or drawings. As Alan Spiegel has argued, it is possible
to trace Joyce's innovative treatment of objects along a kind of spectrum, from the
subtly symbolic in his earlier writings to the fantastically literal in Ulysses1 In
Dubliners (1914) and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Joyce uses
metonymies to signify emotional states and situations. Well-known examples are
the 'close-up' of the limp boot in "The Dead' which figures Gabriel and Gretta's
sexual anti-climax, or the 'tracking shot' of the napkin ring rolling across the
floor, which prolongs the tension of the Christmas dinner row in the Dedalus
household after Dante storms from the table.8 But in Ulysses objects increasingly
have a life of their own, from the automatic printing press Bloom watches in
'Aeolus', 9 to fully 'animated' objects in 'Circe'. Lindsay also noted that the
complementary tendency of cinematic animism was objectification of people: in
'all photoplays ... human beings tend to become dolls and mechanisms, and dolls
and mechanisms tend to become human' (Art of the Moving Picture, p. 53).
However, the transformational devices of Ulysses' mockalyptic climax move
beyond me staginess of stop-motion trickery and into parallels with early graphic
animators. As Donald Crafton argues, Leo Bloom's contemporary, Felix the Cat,
displayed a 'polymorphous plasticisnr, through which his body or anything in his
environment could be instantly reshaped.10 Joyce's effects, especially in the case
of Bloom's corporeal deformations, even, arguably, anticipate today's computer
generated digital imaging, which can render actuality footage into virtual
'polymorphousness'.
In Homer's Odyssey, Chapter X, the witch, Circe, turns men into swine, i.e.
visible embodiments of their animal appetites. The Latin root gives us the familiar
word for living creatures (i.e. 'animals'), but also soul or life ('anima'). It is
arguable that relations between soul and body, subject and object are never under
greater strain in Ulysses than in Chapter XV. Significantly, the 'tecbnic'
designated for 'Circe' by Joyce in the Linati schema was 'Visione animata fino
allo scoppio\ which Ellmann translated as 'Vision animated to bursting point'.11
Moreover, 'Circe's' form - which switches into a kind of fantastic 'play' - is one
in which people, things, objects are constantly being transformed, transfigured and
interfused. Everything in effect becomes 'animated' or given grotesque and
phantasmagoric life, like tropes - metaphoric or metonymic - made visually
literal. For example, the lemon soap Bloom carries rises from his pocket into the
sky like a cartoon sun, singing, in a kind of prosopopoeia anticipating the

soundtrack:
THE SOAP
We're a capital couple are Bloom and I;
He brightens the earth, I polish the sky.
The shopkeeper Bloom bought it from then pops up as a visual 'insert': '{The
freckled face ofSweny, the druggist, appears in the disc of the soapsun.) {Ulysses,
p. 419) Similarly, a flock of come-hither kisses flutter around Bloom, murmuring
provocatively:
THE KISSES
{Warbling) Leo! {Twittering) Icky licky micky sticky for Leo! {Cooing) Coo
coocoo! Yummyumm Womwom! {Warbling) Big comebig! Pirouette!
Leopold! {Twittering) Leolee! {Warbling) O Leo!
(They rustle, flutter upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery
sequins.)
{Ulysses, p. 449)
Appropriate to his fetish for ladies' garments and accessories, when Bloom
encounters the dominatrix madame, her fan talks portentous arousal:
{Bella approaches, gently tapping with the fan)
BLOOM
{Wincing) Powerful being. In my eyes read that slumber that women love.
THE FAN
(Tapping) We have met You are mine. It is fate.
{Ulysses, p. 495)
Bloom kneels to unlace her boot, now metamorphosed into a hoof making erotic
threats to titillate his masochistic streak:
THE HOOF
Smell my hot goathide. Feel my royal weight.
BLOOM
{Crosslacing) Too tight?
THE HOOF
If you bungle, Handy Andy, I'll kick your football for you.
(Ulysses, p. 497)
It is such increasingly bizarre effects which make 'Circe' possibly Ulysses'

most experimental, even 'postmodern', chapter. The effect is the most extreme
version of the discontinuity in the novel between an apparently empirical world,
existing in real space and time (created by infmitesimally painstaking mimesis)
and a self-contained 'elsewhere' with its own physical rules, just like the screen.12
I suggest the inspiration for Joyce's technique is best understood in relation to
logically inter-connected developments in early film.13 Before the first
rudimentary cinemas, films, especially comedies, were often first shown as
elements in variety stage shows. It is arguable 'Circe' retraces this exhibition
history, by moving from vaudeville, to trickfilm to animation (also derived from
Latin animatus, 'filled with life, and anima, air, breath, soul, mind'.14 It has often
been noted that 'Circe' is literally unstageable (despite brave efforts such as Zero
Mostel's Ulysses in Nighttown (1973)), because of the 'special effects' its bizarre
stage-directions demand.15 Of course, as is nearly always the case in Joyce, there
are multiple influences behind the drama of 'Circe'. It is almost certainly a parody
of the Walpurgisnacht scene in Goethe's Faust, Part I (1808), as well as
developing the folktale style of Ibsen's Peer Gynt (1867). Significantly, Joyce's
more contemporary models, German Expressionist theatre and art, themselves
aspired towards a filmic dynamism in presentation of space, time and
subjectivity.16 Moreover, in the preface to YasA Dream Play (1901) (another well-
known influence), August Strindberg famously described his scenario in terms
which already strain against the limitations of the stage towards a kind of
cinematic visualisation of the unconscious.17
Filmic 'spacetime' was perhaps more able than any other narrative medium
hitherto to visualise magical and instantaneous shifts and metamorphoses. In
'Circe' dimensions of figures alternate between dramatic compression and
enlargement, as well as abrupt chronological cuts backwards and forwards, but
always with the paradoxically cinematic effect of 'one continuous present tense',
as Briggs notes ('Circe' and the Cinema, p. 153).18 This makes 'Circe' (pace
Eisenstein)19 perhaps most fundamentally like early film of all chapters in
Ulysses, because its naturalistic and phantasmagoric aspects are 'granted equal
authenticity' (Briggs, 'Circe' and the Cinema, pp. 48-49). These discursive
dimensions co-exist in Joyce's chapter, as in the dual Lumiere/Melies tradition, as
if there were no ontological contradiction between them. In what Lindsay dubbed
'the picture of Fairy Splendor', the camera wielded 'a kind of Hallowe'en witch
power' (Art of the Moving Picture, p. 59). Especially when we consider 'Circe's'
art (according to the Gilbert schema) was magic, the medium seems most closely
Ulysses in Toontawn 101
analogous to all its instantaneous costume changes, 'sound effects', rapidly

changing 'sets' and dis/appearing, metamorphosing cast As was recognised by
early commentators, such as Leo Tolstoy and Hugo Munsterberg, as well as
Lindsay, lumbering stage machinery could not begin to duplicate cinema's
capacity to conjure in ways which render its technological legerdemain invisible
in the trick itself.20 Consequently, 'Circe's' art 'jumps and jerks and flickers
through its astonishing transformations and wonders', as magically as film seemed
to its first audiences (Briggs, 'Circe' and the Cinema, pp. 150-52).
Joyce even seems to allude to the actual process of stop-motion trickery (by
which anything can be made to dis/appear or be substituted with something else).
Bloom ambiguously vanishes in a flash, only to re-materialise a split-second later:
'At Antonio Rabaiotti 's door Bloom halts, sweated under the bright arclamps. He
disappears. In a moment he reappears and hurries on.' (Ulysses, p. 413) As Ian
Christie notes, central to Melies' imaginary worlds 'was the idea of
transformation - something or someone turning magically into something else', 21
just as shape-shifting is central to 'Circe', where traditional plot (minimal in
Ulysses anyway) almost vanishes completely, replaced by protean metamorphosis
as the principle narrative motor. Indeed Melies' The Temptation ofSt Anthony
(1898) is one of the possible sources for its Walpurgisnacht style (M&ies also
filmed episodes from the Odyssey as L 'lie de Calypso: Ou, Ulysse et le G&ant
Polypheme (1905)). Melies' work often featured a sensational generic blend of
'sex, horror and sentimentality', as Briggs puts it ('Circe' and the Cinema, p.
150), all elements of popular culture also incorporated in Joyce's writing, as
typified by 'Circe'. This is particularly marked in the collapsing of moral and
sexual oppositions, when Melies' hallucinating hermit watches Jesus materialise
from a contemplated skull, only to metamorphose into a naked woman, then back
into a skeleton. Indeed, Virag's head-unscrewing 'finale' (Ulysses, p. 491) would
have been a 'commonplace miracle' (Briggs, 'Circe' and the Cinema, p. 151)22 in
Melies' movies (for example, in his The Man with the India-rubber Head (1902
and 1903) which swells up elastically until it bursts and/or grows back in six
different forms) and those of his French contemporaries.
However, 'stop-motion' dis/appearance and metamorphosis are not the only
cinematic techniques Joyce emulates. Another early moment, when Bloom
catches sight of himself in a shop window, heralds the extreme expressive
deformation to come. Joyce ingeniously suggests visual distortions with his own
phonetic deformations, expanding and contracting syllables duplicating their
shapes like miniature 'concrete poems':
On the farther side under the railway bridge Bloom appears flushed, panting,
cramming bread and chocolate into a side pocket. From Gillen's hairdresser's
window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image. A concave
mirror at the side presents to him lovelorn longlost lugubru Blooloohoom.

Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom. He passes, struck by the
stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the
bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy. (Ulysses,
pp. 412-13)
As Bloom sees three views of himself in the shop pane mirrors (amongst the
movers and shakers of Irish history), his human form, as Spiegel puts it, 'is treated
with the elasticity of a rubber band', 23 flexing between lugubrious elongation,
sober proportionality and corpulent compression. (It is also arguable Bloom
momentarily doubles into the classic Chaplin-Arbuckle, Laurel-and-Hardy,
pairing of comic opposites.) Comparable effects were achieved in the 1920s by
German expressionist film-makers using anamorphic lenses,24 but they also
parallel the stretching and compression of figures in early animated cartoons, such
as Winsor McCay's Little Nemo in Slumberlcmd (1911). The 'plausible
impossibilities' of graphic animation, in their turn, granted the polymorphous
words and images of Lewis Carroll and John Tenniel new, kinetic life.25 (Cartoons
were also perfect for their kind of visual punning: in Little Nemo, a dragon's jaws
open to become a coach, just as in 'Circe' Bloom sees a fogbound sandstrewer,
'its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the wire', as a saurian
monster (Ulysses, p. 414).)
Indeed much of 'Circe's' later expressive deformation finds its closest
contemporary counterpart in graphic animation. By the time of Ulysses'
publication, this had already reached a high degree of sophistication, thanks to
pioneers such as Anglo-American James Stuart Blackton and Frenchman Emile
Cohl (who became 'the Melies of the cartoon'),26 among others. Moreover, the
concept of animation - in the broadest sense of the principle of the moving image
itself, of endowing stills with appearance of life - was crucial to early film as a
whole.
The nineteenth century closed with a virtual 'explosion of graphic imagery'
(Christie, Last Machine, p. 83), made possible by the development of cheap new
printing technology and bringing illustrated publications to a mass market. It is
well-known Joyce reflected this in multiple public and privy moments in Ulysses,
not just in Bloom's job as advertising canvasser, but the popular papers,
magazines and handbills so many characters are seen reading, the numerous
posters and, especially, the nymph, cut out of Photo Bits, who witnesses the
secrets of the Blooms' marriage bed at 7 Eccles Street in 'Calypso'. Blackton was
a news illustrator by training, but film animation and the strip cartoon were
particularly closely interactive, as the migration between them by other artists
such as McCay shows. (Edwin S. Porter's Dream of a Rarebit Fiend trickfilm
(1906), was based on McCay's popular New York Telegram strip. MacCay's
animated cartoon Little Nemo (1911) was probably the first strip (this time from
the New York Herald) adapted more or less directly by its originator.)27 Indeed,
the strip cartoon 'created a purely visual form of narrative' which continues to
influence cinema (Christie, Last Machine, p. 83). Manually animated drawings
even arguably predate moving photographic ones, as at Emile Reynaud's Parisian
Optical Theatre, from 1892. The revolutionary 'eel' process (the basis of animated
drawings until computer graphics), allowing backgrounds to be drawn directly
onto celluloid so only figures needed retouching for each movement, was patented
by Earl Hurd as early as 1914, though pioneered by others well before mat (see
Crafton, Before Mickey, pp. 150-3). Moreover, originally little practical distinction
was made between animation and live action: film itself was simply known as
'animated pictures' (the first recorded use of 'animated cartoon' dating only from
1915).28 British pioneer R.W. Paul's version of the cinema-apparatus (developed
in 1896) was patented as the 'Animatographe' and his compatriot Cecil Hepworth,
who published the first manual on moving pictures, significantly titled it Animated
Photography (1897). It was inevitable that early filmmakers would quickly
discover the illusion of movement, produced by the 'persistence of vision' effect,
could be logically extended from people, to objects, to drawings.
Perhaps the first graphic animation proper consisted of Melies' 1896 footage of
a music-hall 'lightning sketch', using stop-motion for each sheet. Though Melies
did not follow this up, the same kind of act was filmed by Blackton at least as
early as 1898. His elaborated 1900 version, The Enchanted Drawing, features the
animator himself, manipulating his picture's facial expressions, thus
demonstrating the intermingling of live action and graphic 'magic' dates from the
very beginning of film cartooning. The Enchanted Drawing, also typically, draws
attention to the animation process itself. The cartoonist appears to take objects -
wine-bottle, glass, etc. - in and out of the picture, alternating between two- and
three-dimensional effects. Blackton's formula was quickly imitated (e.g. in Edwin
S. Porter's Animated Painting (1904)), although his own 1906 Humorous Phases
of Funny Faces, which appear to draw and metamorphose themselves, is usually
seen as marking the 'conjuring of a fictional world entirely by graphic means'
(Christie, Last Machine, p. 84).
Animation technique became common on both sides of the Atlantic in the early
twentieth century, allowing both graphic elements and objects to come to life,
with comic and/or supernatural effect. Blackton's internationally successful (and
again widely imitated) The Haunted Hotel (1907) used a single frame exposure
technique to move things around by 'unseen' agency, thus inspiring Cohl's object
animations. Cohl's The Tenants Next Door (1909) used magical transformations
equivocally, to both gratify and punish voyeurism, anticipating Circe's
metamorphoses and scenarios. Le Garde-Meuble automatique ('The Automatic
Moving Company') (Pathe-Comica 1912) was a 'Cohlesque' masterpiece of the
genre.29 The broom which sweeps up (accompanied by Dukas' Sorcerer's

Apprentice), after the furniture has decamped unaided, self-consciously alludes to
the film's own visual wizardry. Cohl quickly applied the same principle to
animating graphics. His Fcmtasmagoria featured magical metamorphoses of line-
drawn figures and objects as early as 1908. The Neo-Impressionist Painter (1910)
has a live action setting in an artist's studio, but the bizarre drawings shown to a
potential buyer become literally animated pictures: e.g. a devil playing billiards,
or a fish presenting a bouquet to a washerwoman.
Cohl eventually emigrated to train the first generation of American cartoonists
and start the earliest continuity character series, though retaining his uncanny
edge. In his first US work, Professor Boneheadls Shipwrecked (1912) (possibly a
comic take on Wells's evolutionary throwback story, 'Aepyornis Island' (1894)),
the professor hatches a giant avian Doppelgtinger which pursues him. Cohl's
explicit parodies of modern art could also have inspired Cubists and Futurists in
their 'playful reflexivity' and 'questioning of illusionism', exploiting the full
resources of contemporary picture-making (Christie, Last Machine, p. 85).
Animated cartoons developed with an inherent sense of the 'metafictional', of
breaking through the frame of one discourse into another in a kind of vernacular
anticipation of postmodernism.30 McCay's Little Nemo shows the process of
animating its 4,000 drawings against its live action. His Gertie the Dinosaur
(1914) went further. Betting he can restore a fossil to life, McCay orders the
resulting cartoon about, finally 'climbing' into the picture for a ride. The most
explicitly metafictional moment in Ulysses is Molly Bloom's appeal to her author
in 'Penelope' to rescue her from the midden of prurient detail in which she is
sinking: 'O Jamesy let me up out of this pooh' (Ulysses, p. 719). Molly's wish
might well have been granted, in a cartoon of the period, such as Earl Hurd's
Bobby Bumps Puts a Beanery on the Bum (1918), which climaxes with perhaps
the earliest use of the 'ladder' gag, where the animator's hand draws in the means
to escape a tight situation.
Certainly, early animation's fascination with 'autokinesis' and its own
processes often seems 'like a popular version of the same concerns that pushed
"serious" artists into Modernism.' (Christie, Last Machine, p. 85) Rene Clair, in
his Surrealist phase, was amongst 'the leading filmmakers excited about
animation' (Before Mickey, pp. 257-8). Clair incorporated a whimsical cartoon
sequence in his time-freezing Pahs qui dort (The Crazy Ray) (1923) and some
choreographed matches in Entr'acte (1924), inspired by Cohl's The Bewitched
Matches (1908) (so popular Cohl remade it at least twice). Entr'acte''s
accelerated-motion, driverless hearse chase might also have been inspired by
Cohl's bizarre, autokinetic comedies, such as The Pumpkin Race (1908), in which
Hallowe'en vegetables rampage over town, before 'reversing' back into their
cart.31 Another prominent example is Fernand Leger's 1924 Ballet Micanique.
This incorporated both object animation sequences and a dancing cutout of

Chaplin, recalling the 'Chariot' cartoons of wartime, which naturally extended
one comic mode into another, just as Joyce does in 'Circe'. 32 Even Jean Cocteau's
initial (1929) conception for his Le Sangd'un Poete was a feature-length cartoon.
Indeed, Crafton suggest multiple affinities between early animated films'
vernacular or proleptic surrealism and Surrealism proper:
Almost all... begin by establishing an 'alien universe' into which the spectator
may project himself. Although the creators of the first animated films were not
surrealists or even cognizant of that movement, they inadvertently made films
that demonstrated a disregard for everyday existence, normal logic, and
causality, and a propensity for dreamlike action which Andre Breton and his
followers admired. (Before Mickey, pp. 258 and 348-49)
Correspondences between cartoons and the emerging antirealist aesthetic were

voiced as early as 1925 by Gus Bofa, in an article called 'Du Dessin anime'.
Similarly, abstract art historian and Acadimie Frctncaise member, Marcel Brion,
in 'Felix le chat, ou la poesie creatrice' (1928), argued 'creative power of the
dream and this surrealist formation of the object give to these fantastic images the
means by which the mind enjoys free play.'33 Such developments measured how
serious criticism and the avant-garde were catching up with what had been
possible in animation from the beginning.
Iris Barry, a London Film Society founder and Daily Mail movie critic (1925-
30), praised Felix in Let's Go to the Pictures (1926), one of the first serious
British studies of film, by a writer closely associated with Modernists such as
Wyndham Lewis. Barry recognised the animated feline was a hybrid of the
fantastic acrobatic comedy of Chaplin and Keaton with the venerable tradition of
anthropomorphism handed down through j£sop, Swift and Carroll. However, she
did not want disclosure of technical processes to 'take the bloom off his furry
coat', because 'Felix must be respected: he is an institution, a totem.' Like
Lindsay, she argued cinema programmes possessed greater generic range and
dramatic fluidity than the stage, precisely because they encompassed 'Clyde Cook
comedy, a travel picture, Felix the Cat, Mr. Cecil B. de Mille, Mr. Lubitsch and
staggeringly serious pictures from Sweden or Germany or Russia.' Barry
acknowledged this variety, like 'Circe's', derived from a mix of popular traditions
and visual media: 'all the realm of the legitimate theatre, the music-hall, the
circus, the penny peep-show, the toy kaleidoscope and the rural pageant'.34 Her
compatriot, Virginia Woolf, (hardly renowned for receptiveness to 'mass' cultural
forms) in her 1926 essay "The Cinema' argued the mimetic glibness with which
film appeared to simply represent reality was a handicap to its aesthetic
development. Even the celebrated graphic expressionism of Caligari (1919) failed
to pinpoint the medium's inherent potentials for Modernist discourse. However,

an accidental shadow (probably caused by projector fault) during Woolf s viewing
made her feel 'thought could be conveyed by shape more effectively than by
words', because momentarily, 'The monstrous quivering tadpole seemed to be
fear itself. Consequently, Woolf groped speculatively towards what sounds like a
form of abstract animation, through which other emotions, such as anger, might
be figured by 'a black line wriggling upon a white sheet.' Thus, she wondered,
might some unconscious 'secret language which we feel and see, but never speak
... be made visible to the eye?' Cinema only needed to discover a new vocabulary
of non-naturalistic symbols to 'animate the perfect form with thought'. By mixing
its modes, a medium, squandered primitively on spectacle, could visualise its true
potentials: "Then as smoke pours from Vesuvius, we should be able to see thought
in its wildness, in its beauty, in its oddity, pouring from men with their elbows on
a table; from women with their little handbags slipping to thefloor.' 35
In Weimar Germany, the connection between experimental animation and
advertisement films was particularly strong: Walter Ruttmann, Lotte Reiniger and
Oscar Fischinger all cut their teeth in the industry. Ruttmann's commercials
subsidised his early career as a leading abstract filmmaker. His 1920 tyre
promotion, Der Sieger, already displays 'the fascination with wave forms and
moving geometric shapes' which mark his 'Opus' series (see Crafton Before
Mickey, pp. 231-2). There is a clear genealogical link with Ruttmann's later
career, through the famous 'Falcon's dream' cartoon insert he animated for Fritz
Lang's epic Die Nibelungen (1922-4) and also the undulant visual prologue of his
own Berlin: Sinfonie einer Grofistadt (1927) (often compared to Joyce's Ulysses,
as an avant-garde depiction of a day-in-the-life of a contemporary city), as well as
in the play between visually saturated realism and abstract, rhythmic patterning
throughout the documentary itself.3* Even the godfather of Soviet cinima verite,
Dziga Vertov, recognised animation's importance, by commissioning cartoon
sequences in Kino-Pravda newsreels from 1922 onwards. Vertov's own Debrie
camera was shown performing object-animation stunts on its stand in his meta-
cinematic masterpiece, The Man with a Movie Camera (1929). Indeed, Vertov
recognised animation as the fundamental cinematic principle, as well as linking it
with the Einsteinian spacetime paradigm, in the first manifesto of his kino-eye
group:
Cinema is...the art of inventing movements of things in space in response to the

demands of science; it embodies the inventor's dream - be he the scholar,
artist, engineer, or carpenter; it is the realization by Icinochestvo of that which
cannot be realized in life.
Drawings in motion. Blueprints in motion. Plans for the future. The theory
of relativity on the screen.37
In 1923, Einstein himself collaborated with Max and Dave Fleischer on a

cartoon account of his theory, as the natural popular medium for explaining
spacetime to the lay public. His approval of the results recognised the 'visual
relativity' of cartoons themselves, lending weight to animation's analogy with
and/or influence on 'Circe', Ulysses' most dimensionally flexile chapter.38
However, this didn't mean the current of influence between animation and modern
art and science flowed all one way. One probable reason why early serial
characters 'Mutt and Jeff (by Raoul Barre and Charles Bower) stuck in Joyce's
memory, to re-emerge in Finnegans Wake (1939)39 was because such cartoons
sometimes reproduced developments in painting and optics as sight gags. In Mutt
and Jeff in the Flood (c. 1918), for example, Mutt arcs across the water, creating a
bridge out of his multiplied image for Jeff to cross. The effect recalls the kinetic
'retinal afterimages' of numerous Futurist paintings, or Marcel Duchamp's Cubist
Nude Descending a Staircase, No.2 (1912); alternatively, the rhythmic curves into
which Charles Etienne Marey transformed the subjects of his Chronophotographic
studies of motion in the 1880s.40
Polymorphous distortions and mutations of the body in early animation were
indeed a vernacular surrealism. The humour of trickfilms often seems 'sardonic
and physically violent' (Christie, Last Machine, p. 86). Immediate conversion of
living animals into sausages in Mechanical Butchery (Lumiere 1895) provides a
good example of the closeness of realist and fantastic tendencies made possible by
stop-motion, but such macabre corporeality was also passed on into forms of
animation. The highly un-Disneyesque climax of Walt Disney's Alice's
Mysterious Mystery (1925), for example, features sausages, made from
dognappers' victims, revenging themselves. Though rooted in the robust routines
of music-hall and pantomime, such jokes played on atavistic fears of the body
under a kind of 'Circean' possession. Early films exhibited a positive delight in
amputation and dismemberment, often nonchalantly taking the body apart and
reassembling it (as when a caveman is chopped in half, runs around and is then
rejoined, in Willis O'Brien's 'Mannikin Comedy' 10,000 BC (1916)). Animated
cartoons could gratify this ever more inventively and with weaker undertow of
sensory and moral revulsion, because of their distance from mimesis. Christie
suggests this was both a modern form of perversely pleasureable objectification
and a kind of collective imagining of the carnage of the trenches, in which the
body would be literally deformed and dissected by technological means (Christie,
Last Machine, p. 86).41
Protean deformation of time, space, body and identity in both early graphic
animation and in 'Circe', is matched only by jointly conspicuous zoomorphism,
not just in the literal menagerie swarming through Joyce's text and its saturation
with animalistic metaphors for human traits and behaviour. Typically, Paddy
Dignam transforms from beagle hound, with 'grey scorbutic face', 'to human size
and shape' (he also manages an impression of the famous HMV dog trademark, in
the process (Ulysses, pp. 447-8)). Grandpapachi Virag, like Professor Bonehead's
Doppelgimger, acquires scraggy bird-features, with 'yellow parrotbeak\ talons,
storklike legs and moulting plumage, finally exiting with a 'Quack!' (Ulysses, pp.
484-91). 'Circe's' pantomime black mass climaxes in reversal of divine into
canine, of 'the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth' into 'Htengier Tnetopino Dog
Drol eth' (Ulysses, pp. 556-57). Similarly, Tony Sarg's shadow-puppetry in Adam
Raises Cain (1920) brought to life a whole bestiary of fantastic and extinct
species, but some of the bizarrest 'humanisations' took place in Russia in the
1910s. A vogue for micro-photographic documentaries led to the proto-surreal
'entomological animation' of Wladislaw Starewicz, in a logical extension of the
Victorian tradition of 'humorous taxidermy'. In his satirical masterpieces
reanimated insect specimens act out dramatic roles. Besides possibly influencing
Kafka's Metamorphosis (1915) and the Capeks' Insect Play (1921), Starewicz
even made a version of the £isop/Krylov fable, The Ant and the Grasshopper
(1911) (one of the first Russian films seen widely by foreign audiences), which
Joyce also rewrote as the 'Ondt and Gracehoper' in Finnegans Wake*2
Starewicz's The Cameraman's Revenge (1912) was a self-reflexively cinematic
tale of infidelity. In one of 'Circe's' fantasy sequences, Bloom masochistically
offers to snapshot Boylan's liaison with Molly through the keyhole as public
proof of his own cuckolding (Ulysses, p. 527). In Starewicz's animation, a
voyeuristic grasshopper similarly films adulterous Mr Beetle in flagrante, then
exposes him on the local screen. By the mid-Twenties, some of Hollywood's
biggest cartoon stars were animals with human traits, often spun off established
comic acts. Felix (conceived by Pat Sullivan and Otto Messmer in 1920) was
arguably the first animated character to have a distinctive, easily-identifiable
personality, like a live action star.43 (Significantly, in Felix in Hollywood (1925),
Chaplin accuses the cat of stealing his act, when he detaches his tail and twirls it
like Charlie's trademark walking stick). Though sometimes the mutation was the
other way: the Fleischers' 'Betty Boop' made her debut as a puppy with the same
gooey eyes.44 Disney's Puss in Boots, dating from the year of Ulysses'
publication, is a typically self-conscious extension of the anthropomorphic
tradition. This modernised fairytale (one of a series of six Laugh-O-Grams),
includes a sequence where puss inspires his master to romantic heroism by taking
him to a 'Rudolph Vaselino' movie. Similarly, in Felix in Fairyland (1925), the
cat enters a universe entirely populated from folklore and double entendre.
Alternatively, Victor Bergdahl's delirium tremens cartoon, Captain Grogg

Among Other Strange Creatures (Sweden 1920), fuses classical mythology with
the contemporary: a centaur beats his mate for flirting with the drunken skipper.
Thus animation turned out to be the natural home for a 'vernacularly postmodern'
anachronism which also seems to parallel Joyce's parodic revisitings of the past,
especially in sending up its primal machismo. O'Brien's 10,000 BC was stop-

motion model animation based on this principle: for example, the mailman
delivers by brontosaurus, well before the Flintstones. Similarly, in his The
Dinosaur and the Missing Link (1917) - not unlike the mischievous captions in
Joyce's 'Aeolus' or the clashing narrative registers in 'Cyclops' - intertitles point
up satirical parallels and disjunctions between 'civilised' present and cave-
dwelling prehistory: for example, 'Mr Rockface and his Daughter Araminta in the
drawing room of their country home.' In The Lost World (1925), O'Brien optically
inverted relative sizes of live actors and model dinosaurs to adapt Conan Doyle to
the screen. Is the dimensional switch of this pioto-King Kong altogether dissimilar
to the gargantuan perspectival changes achieved in 'Cyclops', Ulysses' most
technically and thematically 'monstrous' chapter?
Despite the ostensible frivolity of early animators' work, they also lined up on
either side of the most serious and controversial topics of the age, just as the
contemporary Boer War fuels the trivial confrontation between Stephen and the
English squaddies in 1904 Dublin. Early cartoons, like other film genres, were
rapidly mobilised for propaganda, especially in the debate over ending American
neutrality in the Great War. John Randolph Bray's Colonel Heeza Liar at Bat
(USA 1917) satirised hotheaded motives for intervention which might have
appealed to pacifist Joyce in Switzerland. The Munchausenish colonel rushes off
to the Western Front after reading inflammatory newspaper reports. He kicks
enormous shells as if they were footballs and bats away enemy fire, like a kind of
proto-Superman. However, the joke is that he gets so disorientated by shellshock
he ends up playing from the German trenches. On the other side, as the first real
animated feature, McCay's The Sinking of the Lusitania (1918) was an
apocalyptic early disaster movie. The Titanic of its day, it mixed live action and
animation sequences to fan anti-German sentiment. Crafton argues what is
surprising about the output of the early animated film industry is not its scarcity,
but sheer volume and diversity, even though much has probably been lost {Before
Mickey, p. xviii). The thousands of cartoons produced in different genres and
countries make it extremely unlikely a regular film-goer and poly visual writer like
Joyce would not have been familiar with their basic techniques and themes by the
time of writing Ulysses ('Circe' itself was completed only in 1920).4!
Another early investigation of cinema, Hugo Miinsterberg's The Photoplay: A
Psychological Study (1916), argued film's narrative discourse was closer to the
'language of the mind' than any previous cultural form. This was because cinema
had an unprecedented ability to rapidly rearrange appearance, dimension and
motion at will, to achieve simultaneity and to visualise the impossible as if actual:
'The photoplay tells us a human story by overcoming the forms of the outer
world, namely space, time, and causality, and by adjusting the events to the forms
of the inner world, namely attention, memory, imagination and emotion'. Cinema
images, albeit imprinted from objective realities, were recomposed to 'reach

complete isolation from the practical world'.4* Lindsay too believed special
effects could go beyond mere entertainment into psychology: 'the possible charm
in a so-called trick picture is in eliminating the tricks, giving them dignity till they
are no longer such, but thoughts in motion made visible' {Art of the Moving
Picture, p. 142). And if the unconscious play of the inner mind could be
approximated in actuality footage subjected to editorial sorcery, how much more
freely could it be achieved by animation?
Similarly, Joyce's technique strives to 'make visible' on the page the agitated,
teeming life of the unconscious with its repressions, complexes and wish-
fulfilments.47 As in 'Cyclops', there is an extreme split in 'Circe's' narrative
method. There remain intermittent sequences of naturalistic realism, like 'live
action' film, but their diegetic continuity and logic is interrupted by sudden
dilations into a fantastic parallel dimension (usually triggered by some kind of
symbolic link), which resembles various forms of animation effects. Here Joyce's
implicit third-person narrator (locatable now only in the 'stage directions')
becomes not just a film editor, but a kind of mock-psychoanalytic animator,
making his characters assume the secret identities of their phobias and lusts.
'Circe's' restless shape-shifting corresponds to the continuous displacement and
condensing of symbolic meanings by the unconscious, from one word or object on
to another. Cartoonlike 'polymorphous plasticism' in both its characters and
scenes mimics, as it were, desire's 'polymorphous perversity'. 'Circe's' sheer
anarchic animatedness, in that sense, matches Freud's description of the Id as 'a
cauldron of seething excitations', knowing neither time, nor space.48 Joyce learned
that humour could be used subversively against repression and censorship, to help
confront and purge anxieties and complexes. This intensified his interest in the
vernacular surrealism and therapeutic potentials of comic film and animation.
Indeed, the representation of dream, fantasy, wish-fulfilment and anxiety
achievable in trickfilms, became ever freer in cartoon animation, as in McCay's
highly influential Dream of a Rarebit Fiend series, which migrated between the
two forms. Porter's (1906) trickfihn version, opens with 'nighttown' live action
drunkenness and gluttony, not unlike Joyce's naturalistic setting, but, similarly,
rapidly gives way to hallucinatory superimpositions over a swaying lamppost.
Tiny female devils hack at the rarebit fiend's sleeping head, before his wildly
bucking bed flies out of the window, with the same ambivalent blend of Freudian
eroticism and nightmare punishment Joyce combined. The rarebit fiend ends up
hooked on a steeple weathercock by his nightshirt, before falling through the
ceiling and waking up. In a 1921 cartoon number from the series animated by
McCay himself, the fiend's wife dreams he converts their house into a flying-
machine to avoid ground-rent. This whisks them off on an interplanetary voyage,
reworking early trickfilms which move seamlessly between reality and dream as
in Melies' Journey Across the Impossible (1904), but with greater panache and
fluidity.
Another significant point that 'Circe' and early animation share is their mixing
of modes. In postmodern culture, beings/figures from different universes and/or
genres and modes interact intertextually and transgressively, as if no logical,
epistemological, or ontological boundaries were recognised or operative. This is
precisely what happens in Joyce's breakthrough experimentalism (which, of
course, set an important precedent for the metafictions of full-blown literary
Postmodernism)49 and, more vernacularly, in cartoons of the time. Besides their
own memories and ghosts, Bloom and Stephen encounter characters from all sorts
of discourses and contexts, and with varying existential bases - Joyce's actual
contemporaries, historical figures, characters from other fictions, from popular
culture, allegory, legend, myth, etc. Similarly, Felix in Hollywood runs through
every conceivable movie genre established by the mid-Twenties. Besides meeting
his counterpart comics, such as Chaplin and Ben Turpin (who confesses,
Bloomishly, to going cross-eyed peeping through dressing-room keyholes), the cat
impersonates stars of western, romance and adventure pictures during his
'screentest'. Similarly, early mixing of live action and cartoon animation (a
common practice, as we saw above) led to the development of distinctive styles
by the immediate post-Great War period. These were based on the reversible
principle of superimposing graphic characters against 'real' backgrounds, or vice
versa, again paralleling 'Circe', which either inserts 'unreal' figures into the
naturalistic setting, or transports Bloom into hallucinatory 'elsewheres' in past or
future. In the Fleischers' Out of the Inkwell: Perpetual Motion (1920), the
animator breathes on an ink blob to create Koko the Clown, who promptly
escapes from page into live action. After numerous pranks, he then dissolves
himself back into the word: 'Stung!' Another cartoon from the same series,
Modeling (1923), incorporates a 'claymation' bust. Koko ('AWOL' from his
graphic frame again) climbs inside it, causing its nose to elongate, wiggle, detach
and run all over the studio. Earlier, in Willie Hopkins's 'Animated Sculpture'
Swat the Fly (USA, 1916), a chameleon head changes faces, moves and reshapes
its ears, etc. Both films anticipate or parallel the expressive distortions of Bloom's
features in 'Circe' (see below), as well as recalling recent literary precedents for
such effects in H.G. Wells.50
Raoul Barre's The Hicks in Nightmareland (1915) similarly begins with live
action - people at the beach reading a handbill for the cartoon itself - but then
alternates modes, reflecting their flirtations and jealousies grotesquely in the
content and style of animated sequences. Conversely, in 1923, Disney and Ub
Iwerks created a 'Through the Looking Glass' world in which anything was
possible, in their 'Alice in Cartoonland' series, but by reversing the Fleischer
format, using a live girl (Margie Gay) against animated backgrounds instead.
When cartoons entered the talkie era (fully synchronised sound was first used
successfully in 1927, making Disney's Steamboat Willie, 'the Jazz Singer of
animation' (see Crafton Before Mickey, p. 5)), anything could suddenly speak, as
well as come to life. Although this post-dates the prosopopoeia of objects in
'Circe', Joyce was certainly aware of the possibilities of the soundtrack at least as
early as the 'opera films' he intended screening at the Volta, which maintained
crude synchronicity by accompanying phonograph.51 The mechanical 'voices' of
both gramophone and pianola feature prominently in 'Circe', especially in some
of its 'aural' distortions. As we saw in the examples discussed above, the most
insignificant object in 'Circe' is 'animated' and gets a speaking role. Bloom's
trouserbutton even assumes a crucial bit part. The strain of following the Photo
Bits nymph (now a literally moving and talking picture herself, decamped from
her frame),52 into the dimension of mystical purity in order to escape his sexual
problems, proves too much for Bloom's earthbound bodiliness. In effect he is
saved by a classic slapstick gag - his pants suddenly fall down:
(Bloom half rises. His back trousers' button snaps.)
THE BUTTON
Bip!
(Ulysses, p. 516)
Despite the ingenuity of trickfilm makers, it is arguable that until recent

developments in digital-manipulation and computer generated imagery (which
have made the 'morphing' of actors and objects commonplace in films since
Charles Russell's The Mask (1994)), some of the protean transformations and
'expressive distortions' in 'Circe' would only have been visualisable on screen in
1922 using the graphic devices of the animated cartoon to make figures and
dimensions infinitely malleable. For example, Bloom also undergoes a paranoid
martyrdom. Like other fantastic sequences, this is a dilation between two bits of
dialogue occurring in naturalistic space and time. Zoe's sarcastic rejoinder, 'Go
on. Make a stump speech of it.' cues Bloom's transformation into a soap-box
campaigner, who rises in a series of edited jumps to global eminence and seems
destined to lead humankind into the comic Utopia of the 'New Bloomusalem'
(projected in the shape of the pork kidney he burnt at breakfast), as King Leo or
the new Elijah. 'If I ruled the world' fantasies were common in early film, as were
ambivalent visions of the future. Paul PerofFs Willis Zukunfts-Traum (Germany
1920) was a cutout Wellsian Utopia, which turns into a Dystopian nightmare
about modernity. A naughty boy dreams up a futuristic consumer paradise,
complete with Metropolis-like cityscapes and aerial traffic. Bunking off school
(taught by tele-screen), the globe-trotting truant is apprehended and spanked by a
robot. Bloom's zany rise to power, results in a symmetrically improbable fall from
grace. From being saviour against all ills, Bloom becomes their scapegoat and is
finally burnt at the stake. However, though the sequence ends with Bloom's body
'mute, shrunken, carbonised', he then springs miraculously back to life, just like
an indestructible character in a cartoon, where, as Joseph C. Voelker puts it,
'violence is by convention inconsequential'.53
This political fantasy is one of the most successfully adapted sequences in
Joseph Strick's 1967 film. Indeed 'Circe' is one of the few chapters from which
some of the novel's cinematic potentials are effectively realised on screen,
precisely because Strick used the resources of 'stop-motion' and montage editing,
in a style which deliberately recalls the conjuring and exoticism of early
trickfilms. However, the segment leaves out other special effects which could still
arguably only have been replicated even in 1967 by mixing live action with
animation footage.54 In the course of the text, Bloom's actions and
metamorphoses increasingly resemble the wackiest kind of visual tropes and
bodily distortions comparable only to the plausible impossibilities and
polymorphous plasticism of contemporary cartoons. For example, after having
already changed sex and given birth to eight male heirs, Bloom is called upon to
prove he is Ireland's saviour:
A VOICE
Bloom, are you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David?
BLOOM
(Darkly) You have said it.
BROTHER BUZZ:
Then perform a miracle.
BANTAM LYONS
Prophesy who will win the Saint Leger.
(Bloom walks on a net, covers his left eye with his left ear, passes through
several walls, climbs Nelson 's Pillar, hangs from the top ledge by his eyelids,
eats twelve dozen oysters (shells included), heals several sufferers from king's
evil, contracts his face so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord
Beaconsfteld, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides,
Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques
Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes,
Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide
turn back, eclipses the sun by extending his little finger) (Ulysses, pp. 466-7.)
It is possible some of Bloom's shape-shiftings, for example impersonations of

famous people, could have been achieved by 'mixes' (as with the protean
disguises of the eponymous villain shown at the beginning of Fritz Lang's Dr
Mabuse, der Spieler, also released in 1922). But others, such as the physically
distortive ear and eyelid tricks manifestly couldn't, without resorting to animation.
It is very significant that in the 1967 film all that's left of Bloom's 'miracles' is
the racing tip.
And if more proof were needed that in 'Circe' Ulysses seems nowhere more at
home than in 'toontown',55 Stride's film omitted other highlights of Joyce's 'all-
singing, all-dancing' mockalypse. Consider, for example, how the vision of
Doomsday (literalising a snatch of mystical dialogue Bloom overhears in
'Lestrygonians' (see Ulysses, Ch.VIII, pp. 157-58.) could have been embodied in
any other way, either in 1922 or 1967?
(A rocket rushes up the sky and bursts. A white star falls from it proclaiming
the consummation of all things and second coming of Elijah. Along an infinite
invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End of the World, a twoheaded
octopus in gillie's kilts, busby and tartan filibegs whirls through the murk,
head over heels, in the form of the Three Legs of Man.)
THE END OF THE WORLD

(With a Scotch accent.) Wha'll dance the keel row, the keel row, the keel
row?
(Ulysses, p. 477)
Notes
1 For details and images of the Volta venture, see, among others: Richard Ellmann
James Joyce, New and Revised Edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982), pp.
300-04 and 310-12; Gosta Werner 'James Joyce, Manager of the First Cinema in
Ireland', in NordicRejoycings - 1982 (Norberg, Sweden: James Joyce Society of
Sweden and Finland, 1982), pp. 125-36, and Liam O'Leary Cinema Ireland 1896-
1950. (Dublin: National Library of Ireland, 1990).
2 (Letter of 4 December 1898, in Jean G. Aubry (ed.)Joseph Conrad: Life and Letters.
Vol.1. (London: Heinemann, 1927), pp. 259-60
3 James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. (1914-15; repr. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2000) Ch.III, p. 116.
4 Significantly, Deed had worked with Melies from roughly 1901 -6 (See the entry on
Deed (which also discusses An Easy Way) in Glenn Mitchell, A-2 of Silent Film
Comedy: An Illustrated Companion (London: Batsford, 1998), pp. 79-80). Melies
claimed that his training of Deed ensured the letter's future success in Mes Memoires
(1938) (repr. in Maurice Bessy and G.M. Lo Duca (eds), Georges Milies, Mage (Paris:
Editions Jean Jacques Pauvert, 1961), pp. 168-217, especially 194). The Volta showed
at least three Cretinetti reels, as well as other trickfilms and 'object animations', such
as Pathe's Le Chdteau hanti (1908), during its ' Joycean' period of less than four
months (I am indebted for that invaluable information to Luke McKeman's research
into the Volta's programmes for the BFI, from the Liam O'Leary archive). During his
1904 sojourn in Paris, Joyce may also have seen some of the trickfilms Melies was
showing near his hotel (See Robert Ry f, A New Approach to Joyce: A Portrait of the
Artist As a Guidebook (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1962), p. 174. A
professional magician, Melies is usually credited with discovering film's inherent
'narrative potential' (See David A. Cook, A History of Narrative Film (New York and
London: Norton, 1981), pp. 13-14). According to Melies, his screen conjuring with
space and time, principally by means of editing, emerged quite accidentally when
filming a Parisian street in the Autumn of 18%. His camera jammed just as an omnibus
exited a tunnel. The resulting interruption in the continuity of the footage seemed to
magically transform the bus into a hearse and men into women (Melies account is
translated in John Wakeman (ed), World Film Directors, Vol.1 (New York: H.W.
Wilson, 1987), p. 750). Apocryphal or not, this story encapsulates how Melies and
other pioneers such as Britons G.A. Smith and James Williamson discovered how film
could function as a kind of parallel reality yet with separate structural laws (see Paul
Hammond A/arve//o«.s Milies (London: Gordon Fraser, 1974), p. 34). Austin Briggs
points out this is exactly the kind of' Viconian transformation Joyce would have
relished.' (Austin Briggs, '"Roll Away the Reel World, the Reel World": "Circe" and
the Cinema', in Morris Beja and Shari Benstock (eds.), Coping With Joyce: Essays
From the Copenhagen Symposium (Columbus: Ohio State UP, 1989), pp. 145-56,
especially , 150.) Alice Guy Blache, the world's first female filmmaker, was also
directing trickfilms as early as 18% for Gaumont. For example, La Fie awe choux
(from the French fable about a fairy who makes children in a cabbage patch) was full
of magical effects, but also, arguably, a feminist satire of the mystification of sexuality
and childbirth (see Ally Acker, Reel Women: Pioneers of the Cinema 1896 to the
Present (London: Batsford, 1991), pp. xxiv and 3-12).
Vachel Lindsay, The Art of the Moving Picture (1915. Revised 1922; repr. New York:
Liveright, 1970), pp. 61-3. (Henceforth all page references to Art ofthe Moving Picture
will be given in brackets in the text.) Lindsay included a whole chapter on 'Furniture,
Trappings, and inventions in Motion', but his most detailed example was Pathe's
'Moving Day', i.e. very probably fimile Cohl's object animation,LeMobilierfidile,
discussed in note 28. Cf. also literary anticipations such as The Invisible Man, in which
'He's put the sperits into the furniture!' (See H.G. Wells, The Invisible Man (1897;
repr. London: Pan, 1987), p. 29.)
6 See Austin Bnggs. '"Circe" and the Cinema', in Beja and Benstock (eds.) Coping With
Joyce, pp. 145-56. (Henceforth, all page references to Briggs's essay will be given in
brackets in the text.) Also Thomas L. Burkdall, 'Cinema Fakes: Film and Joycean
Fantasy', in Morris Beja and David Norris (eds.), Joyce in the Hibernian Metropolis:
Essays. (Columbus: Ohio State UP, 1996), pp. 260-69. (This essay is revised as Ch.V
of his Joycean Frames: Film and the Fiction ofJames Joyce (New York and London:
Routledge, 2001), pp. 65-80.)
7 Alan Spiegel, Fiction and the Camera Eye. (Charlottesville: UP of Virginia, 1976), pp.
134-40.
8 See James Joyce Dubliners (1914; repr. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), pp.
175, and/4 Portrait, Ch.I pp. 32-33.
9 'Silt. The nethermost deck of the first machine jogged forward its flyboard with silt the
first batch of quirefolded papers. Silt. Almost human the way it silt to call attention.
Doing its level best to speak. That door too still creaking, asking to be shut. Everything
speaks in its own way. Silt.' (James Joyce, Ulysses (1922; repr. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1998), p. 117. (Henceforth, all page references to Ulysses will be
given in brackets in the text.) The famous final scene of Fritz Lang's film DrMabuse,
der Spieler, released the same year, features a literally animated printing press, with
monstrously anthropomorphic features hallucinated by the master criminal after his
breakdown.
10 Donald Crafton, Before Mickey: The Animated Film 1898-1928, Revised edition
(Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1993), p. 329. (Henceforth all page
references to Before Mickey will be given in brackets in the text.)
11 See Richard Ellmann Ulysses on the liffey (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1972), Appendix
pullout between pp. 188-89.
12 In his Finnegans Wake workbook entry for 'Circe', Joyce made the connection
between the chapter and cinematic trickery retrospectively explicit: 'cinema fakes,
drown, state of sea, tank: steeplejack, steeple on floor, camera above: jumps 10 feet, 1
foot camera 6 foot pit' (See James Joyce . Scribbledehobble: The Ur-Workbookfor
Finnegans Wake, ed. Thomas E. Connolly (Evanston, Illinois: Northwestern UP,
1961), p. 119.
13 Craig Wallace Barrow, reading the novel in terms of Eisenstein' s theories, comments
that in 'Circe', the simultaneous montage of the interior monologues, finally breaks out
into primary montage, which it has 'threatened to become throughout Ulysses', by
mixing fantasy and realism. However, Barrow's comparison with a Fellini scenario
seems rather after-the-event considering the wealth of filmic analogies contemporary to
Joyce's text (see his Montage in James Joyce 's Ulysses (Madrid: Studia Humanitatis,
1980), pp. 138 and 146.
14 Kevin Jackson, The Language of Cinema (Manchester: Carcanet, 1998), p. 14.
15 Cf. 'Circe's' influence on Dylan Thomas's own 'play for voices', Under Milk Wood
(1954), which also begins in a kind of 'Nighttown' scenario and dramatises the
unconscious, 'dream-lives' of its inhabitants in the alternative, 'blind' medium of

radio. An interesting sidelight is also cast on 'Circe' by cartoonist Winsor McCay's
first attempt to adapt his Little Nemo in Slumberland strip, as an three-act operetta in
1908 (see Charles Solomon, Enchanted Drawings: The History of Animation (New
York: Wing Books, 1994), p. 16).
16 Lotte H. Eisner established this in her classic study The Haunted Screen:
Expressionism in the German Cinema and the Influence of Max Reinhardt, trans.
Richard Greaves. (London: Thames and Hudson, 1969). For a recent discussion of
'Circe's' use of Expressionism, see Sherill Grace, 'Midsummer Madness and the Day
of the Dead: Joyce, Lowry and Expressionism', in Patrick A. McCarthy and Paul
Tiessen (eds), Joyce/Lowry: Critical Perspective (Lexington: University Press of
Kentucky, 1997, pp. 9-20.
17 .. .the author has attempted to imitate the disconnected but yet seemingly logical shape
of a dream. Anything can happen, everything is possible and probable. Time and space
do not exist. Upon an insignificant background of real life, the imagination spins and
weaves new patterns; a blend of memories, experiences, pure inventions, absurdities,
and improvisations.... The characters split, double, redouble, evaporate, condense,
fragment, cohere. But one consciousness is superior to them all: that of the dreamer.
For him there are no secrets, no inconsistencies, no scruples, no laws,. He neither
condemns not acquits, only relates. And since dreams are more often painful than
happy, a tone of melancholy and of compassion for all living things, runs through the
swaying narrative.' ('Author's Note' in August Strindberg Five Plays, trans. Harry G.
Carlson (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1983), pp .205-06.)
Alternatively, Michael Meyer translates 'swaying' as 'flickering', compounding the
play's cinematic aspirations (see August Strindberg Plays: Two, ed. and trans. Michael
Meyer (London: Methuen. 1982), p. 175).
18 Cf. the tense of Shem's writing as described inFinnegans Wake (1939; repr. London:
Faber, 1975), pp. 185.36-186.1.
19 In his detailed discussions of the filmic aspects of Ulysses, Sergei M. Eisenstein
concentrated on Bloom's interior monologues, largely ignoring other possibilities.
(See, for example, 'A Course In Treatment' (1932), in his Film Form: Essays in Film
Theory, ed. and trans. Jay Leyda (London: Dennis Dobson, 1963., pp. 84-107,
especially p. 104.) For the fullest account of the Eisenstein/Joyce encounter so far, see
Gosta Werner 'James Joyce and Sergej Eisenstein', trans, from Swedish by Erik
Gunnemark, in James Joyce QuartertyXXVU, No.3 (Spring 1990), pp. 491-507.
20 Like the transformation between naturalism and the 'sinful' fantasies of 'Circe', 'how
much more quickly than on the stage the borderline of All Saints' Day and Hallowe'en
can be crossed', argued Lindsay (see Art of the Moving Picture, pp. 65-66). In 1908
Leo Tolstoy predicted the revolutionary effect 'this little clicking contraption with the
revolving handle will make ... in the life of writers', instancing his own difficulties
with stage transitions: 'When I was writing 'The Living Corpse,' I tore my hair and
chewed my fingers because I could not give enough scenes, enough pictures, because I
could not pass rapidly enough from one event to another. The accursed stage was like a
halter choking the throat of the dramatist; and I had to cut the life and swing of the
work according to the dimensions and requirements of the stage... But the films! They
are wonderful! Drr! and a scene is ready! Drr! and we have another! We have the sea,
the coast, the city, the palace... ('A Conversation with Leo Tolstoy' in Jay LeydaKino:
A History of the Russian and Soviet Film (London: Allen and Unwin, 1960), pp. 410-
11) As Spiegel points out, Tolstoy was not simply describing motion in the
phenomenal world so much as narrative movement within the medium itself, between
one shot and another, i.e. montage, avant la lettre, which creates the unique rhythm of
film spacetime (see Spiegel, Fiction and the Camera Eye, p. 163). Munsterberg also
noted film's technical advantages over traditional drama: 'No theater could ever try to
match such wonders ... Rich artistic effects have been secured, and while on the stage
every fairy play is clumsy and hardly able to create an illusion, in the film we really see
the man transformed into a beast and the flowers into a girl. The divers jump, feet first,
out of the water to the springboard. It looks magical, and yet the camera man has
simply to reverse his film and to run it from the end to the beginning of the action.
Every dream becomes real, uncanny ghosts appear from nothing and disappear into
nothing, mermaids swim through the waves and little elves climb out of the Easter
lilies.' (Hugo Munsterberg,. The Photoplay: A Psychological Study (1916;repr. as The
Film: A Psychological Study (New York: Dover Publications, 1970), pp. 14-15)
21 Ian Christie The Last Machine: Early Cinema and the Birth of the Modern World
(London: BBC/BFI, 1994), pp. 118-19. (Henceforth, all page references to Last
Machine will be given in brackets in the text.)
22 Briggs' s examples are largely taken from John Frazer, Artificially Arranged Scenes:
The Films of George Me lies (Boston: G.K. Hall, 1979).
23 Spiegel, Fiction and the Camera Eye, pp. 148-49.
24 Anamorphic distortion of objects and people occurs most impressively in Karl Heinz
Martin's VonMorgen bisMitternacht (1920), F.W. Mumau's Der letzteMann (1924),
Erno Metzner's Uberfall (1928) and Alfred Abel's Narkose (1929).
25 The Plausible Impossible was the title of Walt Disney's TV broadcast (31 October,
1954). In this he explained how animation techniques often function on a logical basis,
albeit of a purely visual kind: e.g. when a character goes down or up in a lift gravity
seems to make it elongate, and vice versa. (For details of the programme, see, among
others, Dave Smith, Disney A-Z: The Official Encyclopaedia (New York: Hyperion,
1996), p. 390.) For McCay's precedents in Carroll and Tenniel, see Crafton Before
Mickey, especially pp. 124-26, and Solomon Enchanted Drawings, p. 14, which shows
the hand-tinted images.
26 See G.M Lo Duca Le Dessin animi: Histoire, Esthetique, Technique. (Pans: Prisma,
1948), p. 128.
27 So smooth and 'realistic' was the animation in McCay's cartoon (which was hand-
tinted to match the colours of the newspaper strip) to audiences hitherto only exposed
only to moving line-drawings, that they often assumed its artistry was achieved with
live actors and trick photography, much to McCay's chagrin (see Solomon Enchanted
Drawings,p. 16).
28 Jackson cites the OED record for Harper's Weekly (11 December, 1915): 'Even
cartoons began to come in - "animated" cartoons as they are called.' (See Jackson
Language of Cinema, p. 14)
29 According to Crafton, Le Garde-Meuble was by Cohl's disciple Romeo Bosetti,
although it is often confused with Cohl's own Le Mobilierfidele (1910), whose
scenario it reworks (see Donald Crafton, Entile Cohl, Caricature and Film. (Princeton:
Princeton UP, 1990), pp. 154-55, also note 5 on Lindsay above).
30 Even one of Walt Disney's early Laugh-O-Grams (1918) featured the animator
himself, 'caught redhanded' limning a burglar.
31 Again there is some dispute as to whether the 'Cohlesque' Pumpkin Race was actually
by the master or some of his juniors at Pathe (see Crafton, Entile Cohl, p. 116).
32 For example, Pat Sullivan contracted with Chaplin himself for a 1916 cartoon series
based on his screen character and working from films and photographs. Similarly,
Howard S. Moss's 1917 'Motoy Films' series, featured animated puppets which often
burlesqued film stars such as Chaplin, Mary Pickford and Ben Turpin. As Crafton
points out, the development of continuity series based around individual cartoon
characters was an inevitable corollary to Hollywood's emerging star system (see
Before Mickey, pp. 304, 265 and 271-2, respectively.)
33 These articles (quoted by Crafton (BeforeMickey, pp.348-49)) featured in 'serious'
journals, Les Cahiers du Mois 16-17 (1925), 53, and Le Rouge et le Noir (July 1928).
34 Iris Barry Let's Go to the Pictures (1926; repr. as Let's Go to the Movies (New York:
Payson and Clarke, 1972), pp. 11-12, 17-18 and 185.
35 Virginia Woolf, Collected Essays, ed. Leonard Woolf, vol. II. (London: Hogarth,
1964), pp .268-72, especially 270-72.
36 For Joyce and Ruttmann, see my forthcoming essay ' Symphonies of the Big City:
Modernism, Cinema and Urban Modernity', in Paul Edwards (ed), The Great Vortex:
Modernist London 1910-30 (Bath: Sulis Press, 2003).
37 Dziga Vertov, 'We' (1922), in Kino-Eye: The Writings ofDziga Vertov, ed. Annette
Michelson. (Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 1984), pp. 5-9,
especially 9. Vertov's neologism, kinochestvo, is translated by Michelson as the special
'quality' of the cinema-eye, its 'way of seeing', in effect (see her note on pp. 5-6).
38 The result was the hour-long 'mixed mode' animation The Einstein Theory of
Relativity (1923), presented by Edwin Miles Fadman. For details, see Leslie Cabanga
The Fleischer Story (revised edition) (New York: Da Capo, 1988), pp. 29-30. Also
Solomon Enchanted Drawings, p. 32, and Shamus Culhane Talking Animals and Other
People: the Autobiography of a Legendary Animator (New York: Da Capo, 1998), p.

56.
39 Mutt and Jeff feature in an early dialogue and later in all kinds of syllabically mutated
guises (see Joyce, Finnegans Wake, pp. 16-18, also (for example) 273).
40 For Joyce's precocious interest in series photography and interrelated attempts to
render motion in painting, see my 'Joyce and Early Cinema', in The James Joyce
Broadsheet (February, 2001), p. 1., and Archie K. Loss, Joyce's Visible Art: The Work
of Joyce and the Visual Arts, 1904-1922 (Ann Arbor, Michigan: UMI Research Press,
1984), especially pp. 62-64.
41 As confirmed in Sassoon's use of the screen flicker to represent the 'unreal' violence
of the first fully-mechanised modern war (see his poem 'Picture Show', in Philip
French and Ken Wlaschin (eds.) The Faber Book of Movie Verse (London: Faber,
1994), p. 38).
42 See Finnegans Wake, pp. 414-18.
43 For Felix's genesis, see Leslie Cabanga, Felix: the Twisted Tale of the World's Most
Famous Cat (New York: Da Capo, 1996). Crafton argues the continuity series
characters of the Twenties were based around particular stars, as in the case of both
Messmer and Disney: 'If Felix's balletic movements and victimization by his
environment are seen as derived from Chaplin's screen character, then Oswald may be
viewed as closer to Keaton and his ability to transform the absurd mechanical
environment of the modem world into something useful and humane.' (See Before
Mickey, pp. 295 and 308)
44 See Crafton, Before Mickey, pp. 292-97, and Culhane (who worked on the actual
transformation) Talking Animals, pp. 52 and illustration 55.
45 See Ellmann, James Joyce, pp. 486 and 490.
46 Munsterberg, Photoplay: a Psychological Study, pp. 72, 84 and 14-15, respectively.
47 For the evidence supporting 'Circe' as a comically sceptical rendering of Freud's
theories, see Ellmann, Ulysses on the Liffey, pp. 138-41, and The Consciousness of
Joyce (London: Faber, 1977), pp. 54-56 and James Joyce (1982), pp. 495 and 509. For
a round-up of more recent views on 'Circe', as a possible joint parody of
Expressionism and psychoanalysis, see Weldon Thornton, Voices and Values in
Joyce's Ulysses (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2000), pp. 154-70.
48 See 'Infantile Sexuality' (1905) and 'The Dissection of the Psychic Personality' (1933)
in Sigmund Freud, The Essentials of Psychoanalysis, ed. Anna Freud (Harmondsworth:
Penguin, 1986), pp. 330-31 and 498-99.
49 For example, in Flann O'Brien's 1939 At Swim Two Birds (a 'template' Postmodern
metafiction, which teems with figures from Irish literature and myth, and itself a
parody of Joyce's Portrait), a gang of cowboy desperadoes escape the 'frame' of the
pulp western to highjack a corporation tram in a shoot-out with the Dublin police (see
At Swim Two Birds (1939; repr. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1975), pp .55-59).
Similarly, in Patrick Hamilton's Impromptu in Moribundia (published the same year
and set on a planet in which media words and images reify and interfuse with organic
reality) commodities literally move and speak to consumers, as if in
anthropomorphising animated cartoons (see Impromptu in Moribundia (1939; repr.
Nottingham: Trent Editions, 1999), pp. 88-89).
50 See, for example, 'The Temptation of Haringay' (1895) and 'The Magic Shop' (1903)
in The Complete Short Stories ofH.G. Wells, ed. John Hammond (London: Dent,
1998), pp. 37-41 and 429-37.
51 See Werner 'James Joyce', in Nordic Rejoycings, p. 128.
52 hi an advertising film made by Melies for Dewar's, ancestral portraits are similarly
lured out of their frames by the whisky's irresistibility (see Erik Barnouw, The
Magician and the Cinema (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), p. 101. He also
brought photographs to life in The Spiritualistic Photographer (1903) (see Hammond
Marvellous Melies, p. 90).
53 Joseph C. Voelker 'Clown Meets Cops: Comedy and Paranoia in Under the Volcano
and Ulysses', in McCarthy and Tiessen (eds.) Joyce/Lowry, pp. 21-40, especially 39.
54 It will be interesting to see what techniques are employed to visualise 'Circe' in the
new film of Ulysses (directed and adapted by Sean Walsh and starring Stephen Rea as
Bloom), which commenced production on Bloomsday 2001.
55 The Hollywood suburb where animated characters reside in Robert Zemeckis' mixed
mode parody offilm noir, Who Framed Roger Rabbit? (1988).
Bridges
7
Len Lye and Laura Riding in the 1930s:
the Impossibility of Film and Literature
Tim Armstrong
This essay concerns itself with one episode in the intersection of film and writing
in modernism, the brief collaboration of the experimental film-maker Len Lye and
poet Laura Riding in the early 1930s. It was a collaboration which saw Riding and
Graves publish some of Lye's writings, use his illustrations for book covers for
their Seizen Press, and Riding and Lye produce a film script and a joint film
manifesto, as well as other related writings. In part I simply want restore Lye to
the picture, since his trajectory is a fascinating one, emblematic of a second-wave
British modernism characterised by its dialogue with Surrealism, its satirical
stance, its collaborative work, and by such fluid movements between genres and
media as we see in Lye (and in other figures such as his friend Oswell Blakeston,
film-maker, artist, novelist, poet, editor, travel-writer). In terms of the concerns of
this collection, I want to look at a form of cinema which sees itself as inscription,
and a form of writing which seems to partially conceive itself in terms of
cinematic technology. Ultimately, what will be described is, paradoxically, both
collaboration between poet and film-maker and a mutual rejection of the
intersection of literature and film.
Some biography is probably necessary for most readers.1 Born in Christchurch,

New Zealand in 1901, Lye was from a fairly poor family; for a while they lived in
a remote lighthouse. A rather isolated modernist in the antipodes - he later
described his excitement at finding Pound's Gaudier-Brzeska in Wellington
around 1920 - he worked in Australia and spent time in Samoa studying tribal art
before his arrival in London in 1926. He stayed almost two decades, painting as a
member of the 'Seven and Five Society,' the group around Ben Nicholson, writing
as a member of the Graves-Riding circle, and making some famous films for
Grierson's GPO film unit, before departing for the USA in 1944.2 There he acted
125
briefly as a political advocate for his own idiosyncratic theories of human

fulfilment, and made more fihns; but for much of his later career he worked as a
kinetic sculptor, a well-known figure in the New York avant-garde. His work
featured prominently in the 2001 Kinetic Art exhibition at the Hayward Gallery in
London. He died in New York in 1980, having - paradoxically, after decades of
exile - see some of his more technologically-demanding sculptural projects
realized by supporters in his homeland, New Zealand.
Like Riding in her 'Histories', Lye produced much of his work in the thirties in
dialogue with Surrealism - he admired Miro, and wrote prose pieces in an
'automatic' style indebted to Breton and Stein. A collection of these was
published by Graves and Riding as one of the first Seizen press books, No
Trouble, in 1930.3 He exhibited work at the London International Surrealist
Exhibition in 1936 and in later Surrealist shows, and practiced automatic
doodling, a technique, Wystan Curnow and Roger Horrocks report, which was
'increasingly important for him as a source of images and "energy signs", and as a
methods of transferring power from the "new" brain to the old' (FM, p. xiii). Lye
preferred the term 'old brain' to the 'unconscious', partly because of his interest in
'primitive' (Aboriginal, Samoan and Maori) art, and partly because his evolving
theories of motion - which after the war took on a more biological and
evolutionary slant - involved notions of empathetic registration in which the artist
takes the motion he or she sees in the world and translates it into a form dependant
on their individual body and its accidentals. He later commented that 'I got my
feeling for motion down to the most subtle of empathies, such as the way both
ends of a pen waggled in relation to one another as I write, or how my eyeballs
moved in their sockets as I scanned lines of print' (FM, p. 82). The art of
movement is, then, founded on vitalistic notions of encounter and translation,
rather than mechanical registration.
Lye had begun with scratching on film when he was working as a scenario
writer in Australia in the early 1920s, noticing the random scratches in film
leaders and making his own experiments. He revived the idea in London in 1934,
using film stock friends gave him, producing 'direct' films set to music: Colour
Box (1935), Kaleidoscope (1935); Rainbow Dance (1936) and others, films which
combine animation techniques and colour patterns - lines, grids, dancing blobs -
directly applied as a lacquer, sometimes to already used documentary footage,
with Post Office advertising slogans added at the end. The films were popular for
their startling colour; and for the playful yoking of rhythmic image and jazz music
achieved by the sound editing of Lye's Australian collaborator Jack Ellit. They
have inspired many later animators; even Disney purchased and studied them for
Fantasia* In his post-war films, without the funding he needed, Lye returned to
the solitary technique of scratching onto fihns, producing dancing, twisting lines
set to African drums. All Lye's 'direct' films have a remarkable vibration
The Impossibility of Film and Literature 127
intensity; the vibration produced by the fact that directly-painted lines and colours
can never achieve the precise registration of a photographed object or of cartoons
laid in a frame. For Lye, this jumpiness was a desirable effect; an intimation of
life. We might compare it to the 'jerkiness' and 'vibration' or 'syncopation' which
(as Michael North explains) Cocteau and others admired in Chaplin: a mechanical
rhythm which disrupts the surface of cinematic realism and foregrounds, rather
than effacing, the comic dissonance of the human body and the machine.5
What does it mean to scratch or paint directly onto film? For Lye the 'direct
film' means a return to the origins of film in the play of light of the magic lantern,
and to a version of the pre-Griffith 'cinema of attractions'; the cinema which
astounds technically. But direct film is more radical that Bypassing the origins of
film in photography and the observation of actual movement - in Marey and
Muybridge - direct film can to work without a camera, using the projector as its
medium, and producing an art of pure movement, abstract and animated. If one
were to succumb to a Foucaultian moment, it might be said that this marks a
radical epistemic shift: movement, perhaps for the first time in the history of
representation, free of the direct trace of the human hand at the level of
production (which remains present, of course, in abstract painting) or of realism at
the level of representation. To be sure, a few other artists also experimented with
'direct' film in this period; though surely Lye is the most accomplished. But Lye's
'direct film' is, to return to the point, often free from the figure moving in the
spectator's vision, as in the theatre or naturalistic film, or from what remains at
least a displaced representation of bodies in motion in most animated film - Lye
commented that Mickey Mouse was just the Griffith continuity rules applied to
animation. The individual frame may be produced by hand-painting, but what the
spectator sees is not; it is produced instead by of successive frames moving
through a projector's gate, that is a series of quanta integrated in the physiology of
perception. This foregrounds the technology of presentation rather than
registration, as Lye himself acknowledges when he stencils film-sprocket motifs
onto his film; or when he breaks down three-colour processes and applies its
components abstractly to a ground of black and white film. But Lye does more
than that: he uses the projector as a colour mixer, noting that 'a few frames of blue
followed by a few frames of yellow appears as a vivid green' (FM, p. 44). Indeed,
in its constant re-codification of colour values and its break between the
production of visual information and its reception Lye's work looks forward to
digitalisation, as at least one recent manifesto of digital film acknowledges; that is
partly why we look at it with such easy recognition.6
In a recent article on Lye, Paul Watson argues that Lye's work deconstructs the
distinction between so called 'live' film and animation, and in fact exposes the
way cinema constructs motion: 'it is only through the dual logic of animation - to
endow with life and impart motion to - that cinema can define itself as cinema.'
There is, he argues, 'nothing less live about animation than live action; both create
an illusion of life through what is first and foremost an animation apparatus'.7
This is undoubtedly true; but what if we take Watson's argument a stage fiuther,
and accept Lye's own claims that what his animation offers us is less an 'illusion'
than a form of life, mediated by the 'empathy' that allows the artist to translate
external motion or sub-cellular events into film. One might want to say that it is,
in some Deleuzian sense, a new mode of being - it isn't surprising that Lye later
described his early work Tusalava in terms of viral or mitochondrial (energy-
carrying) life. Compare Lewis Mumford, writing in the 1930s: 'Without any
conscious notion of its destination, the motion picture presents us with a world of
interpenetrating, counter-influencing organisms: and it enables us to think about
that world with a greater degree of concreteness.'8 Film as an organism, animated
and moving in time to music: for Lye, the beat of life is a techno beat.
Finally, 'Animation' in the abstract sense is an interesting subject in early
cinema, and is worth lingering over for a moment. Early film criticism repeatedly
describes film as revealing the 'life of things'"', that is as feu'shistically endowing
inanimate objects with life by isolating and enlarging their presence. Such terms
recall the nineteenth-century anthropological debates on two broadly opposed
ways of explaining similar phenomena in 'primitive' societies: animism and
fetishism.9 Broadly speaking, animism (associated with the British anthropologist
E. B. Tylor) represents the worship of totemic objects as an intimation of the soul,
the kernel of all later vitalisms and idealisms. For Augusts Comte and Karl Marx,
on the other hand, the fetish represents a way of thinking about materiality and its
relation to the human - for Marx commodity fetishism represents the alienation of
value from its sources, as well as the source of social desire itself; implicitly, the
troubling intersection of an idealist category (ideology) and the real. If Marx's
definition of fetishism as 'the religion of sensuous desire' seems to offer a general
reflection on Hollywood cinema as an institution - what does cinema do if not
present an abstract, alienated investment in the glittering world of the mise en
scene? - then Lye's animation refuses such pleasures as they might be invested in
the object, focusing on the process itself; the vibrating images of the hand-painted
film bypass the object in favour of that which animates. 'Animism' in Lye's filmic
anthropology might thus represent a vitalism conceived as intrinsic to the
medium, a kind of film which cannot be the vehicle of illusion, and so cannot be
demystified (in this he differs from the Surrealists, for whom filmic fetishism is,
broadly speaking, to be put to subversive uses in more direct opposition to
realism). Animism vs. fetishism, animation vs. representation; these are the
oppositions which define Lye's direct films, which demand the sensuousness of
the 'real', and ultimately life itself, at the level of presentation rather than
representation.
n
How does all this relate to Riding and her collaboration with Lye? First, a brief
sketch of that collaboration: Lye, singly and then with his first wife Jane, was one
of the inner members of the Riding-Graves circle in the 1930s. Lye produced book
jackets and designs for their Seizin Press, which in turn published his No Trouble.
His collaboration with Riding produced a film scenario, 'Description of Life',
related in turn to the John Aldridge-Riding collaboration The Life of the Dead; and
Riding suggested the project for Lye's 'Quicksilver', a fantastic musical comedy
based on space travel.10 The piece which Lye and Riding wrote together, the
manifesto (if we can call it that) 'Film-making', appeared in 1935 in the first
volume of Epilogue, the occasional journal which Riding and Graves published.
She then published a 46-page pamphlet Len Lye and the Problem of Popular
Films (1938) - a pamphlet now so rare that there are only a few locatable copies
in the world.11
One answer to the question above is that Lye's stress on directness of
communication matches Riding's. He was willing to apply his ideas to literature,
attempting to translate poetry into 'direct film' in a 7 minute film called Full
Fathom Five (1937), with Gielgud reading passages from Shakespeare. In a 1936
article he suggested voice-and-colour films or television, with 'colours rising up
off the pages of a book to fill the screen as a person reads from i t . . . This fresh
acceptance would isolate the words from their recording in abstract type and
present them as "immediate" mental stimuli' (FM, p. 44). This proposal seems to
find an echo in Riding's stress on the immediacy of poetry, and, in 'Come, Words,
Away', her desire to remove language from the accidentals of its presentation:
Come, words, away to where

The meaning is not thickened
With the voice's fretting substance,
Nor look of words is curious
As letters in books staring out [... ]
(P, p. 134)12
The 'Film-making' manifesto begins with an attack on all thinking which stresses
form as an achieved reality rather than the context-bound movement which creates
form. This error informs the tendency to read 'truth-signs where there are only
life-signs'; whereas movement is the 'language of life', and 'the earliest
language'. Movement is Being, 'physical things'; the world of the senses rather
than meaning. They continue:
But the arbitrary realities of life do not explain themselves. We cannot expect
them to tell what they are as against other things which are. We can only
expect a physical accuracy of them, physical explicitness - movement. And
this is why a strict historical analysis of life is necessarily cinematographic. It
is not what is called 'history': because it is the object of professional history to
find truth in life, and this is neither physically appropriate nor possible. History
imposes on life a kind of accuracy of which it is innocent, an accuracy of self-
explanation; whereas life has only physical accuracy. (FM, p. 39)
With their stress on the movement and origins of life as opposed to analytic
frameworks, these formulae recall Bergson; the difference, is of course, that for
Bergson the 'cinematographic' is the enemy, the analysis which cuts the flow of
being into segments - since Bergson thinks of film in terms of the work of his
famous colleague at the College de France, E. J. Marey.13 This alerts us to the
recuperative position of film here. Echoing the Surrealist stress on film as
defamiliansation, as a re-seeing of the world, the manifesto aims to return
movement to the eye, to prise it away from language: 'To extricate movement
from the static finalities or shapes which the mind imposes on living experience is
to translate the memory of time back into time again - to relive experience instead
of merely remembering it' (FM, p. 41, emphasis added). In some ways this is akin
to Riding's translation procedure in The Life of the Dead (1933), the poetic
sequence which she wrote first in French, she explained, because that language is
more literal and anti-poetic (P, p. 360).
That evocative formula, 'to translate the memory of time back into time again,'
touches on a debate which threads its way through turn of the century psychology,
psychophysics and philosophy - on the issue of the lost present; the moment
which for James and Bergson is spread across an echoing continuum; which for
Helmholtz is lost in reaction-time and processing; which for Husserl is a kind of
retrospective fiction. The present is ineffable; cannot be captured; but film offers
at least the possibility of re-presenting it.14 For the Surrealists, the recaptured
moment is most often a sublime flash or shock which ruptures the continuity of
habitual perception; for Lye, the moment is realised by its translation into what he
later called 'figures of motion' or 'Aesthetic Kinesthesia' (FM, p. 78-9), that is by
the empatheUc and non-mimetic reproduction of the energies of the world in the
art-work (and it is interesting in this respect that he was willing to re-edit actual
motion, like the man's swinging arm in Trade Tattoo, to fit the music). Lye
bypasses the problem of strict 'accuracy' (FM, p. 39): life cannot be relived as
representation, but it can be imitated.
Time, and the reclamation of time, is a preoccupation for the later Riding:
poetry, as her 1938 preface explained, arguing for a state in which 'we are so
continuously habituated that there is no temporal interruption between one poetic
incident (poem) and another' (P, p. 413). Time and history almost always linked to
'the curse of thought's construction'; it is the self-conscious 'historical effort' that
blights poetry." The former phrase is from her poem 'March, 1937', which
describes the way 'vision [is] now a thing of thinking', in a world of mediated or
fictionalised time. Riding's poem turns us away from this time of 'story',
contained within the 'envelopes' of years, months, days:
The poem takes the story away.

We have left nor a month nor its least cruel day.
Nor the envelope without the envelope
Without the envelope within.
This is the poem.
Are we so naked then of life,
Stripped to the death?
Is this the promised core of us?
Come closer, let us not shudder so, shiver,
We are not ill, nor dead - nor uncovered
In the lost shame of ordeal.
There is something so good in this
That, despite worry, hope, and no letter,
I scarcely dare let myself wish for better.
(P.p. 312)
What is arrived at is the moment - which in this formula is the moment of an

encounter; an empathetic moment, in Lye's terms - and of a new representation,
the poem. As she later wrote, 'I put religious trust in the predictiveness of poetry
as an immediacy, not a future in the making' (P, p. 3). For Riding, this moment is
typically that of love, containing a 'promise of the words all yearned to hear from
one another' (P, p. 3). In 'Friendship on Visit' she writes 'Yet must the picture be
a talk-lit darkness, / Of flickering instances, for so it was', evoking cinema's
flashing instances in the birth of passion.
We can also turn to Riding's 'Poet: A Lying Word', with its many resonances,
including A Midsummer Night's Dream and Plato's allegory of the cave. The
distinction here is between the false wall, the poet who is like a ladder or a
monument to be scaled, and the true wall which is the poet only visible as her
poem. Thus, 'And the tale is no more of the going: no more a poet's tale of a
going false-like to a seeing. The tale is of a seeing true-like to a knowing: there's
but to stare the wall through now, well through' (P, p. 216).
Can we think of this wall which we must stare through as akin to the film itself
for Lye? - the film which is not a going to a seeing (by the camera and director),
but rather something more unmediated, seeing and knowing in closer relation,
seeking nothing beyond the liveliness of the representation. What is produced is
something precisely located in time, 'a written edge of time' - the end-of-time
which Riding equates with the production of meaning; not the metaphorical
weather of the poetic career but the presence of the body as it moves through time:
It is not a wall, it is not a poet. It is not a lying wall, it is not a lying word. It is
a written edge of time. Step not across, for then into my mouth, my eyes, you
fall. Come close, stare me well through, speak as you see. But, oh, infatuated
drove of lives, step not across now. Into my mouth, my eyes, shall you thus
fall, and be yourselves no more.
Into my mouth, my eyes, I say, I say. I am no poet like transitory wall to lead
you into such slow terrain of time as measured out your single span of broken
turns of season once and one again. I lead you not. You have now come with
me, I have now come with you, to your last turn and season: thus could 1 come
with you, thus only.
[ ]
This body-self, this wall, this poet-like address, is that last barrier long
shied of in your elliptic changes: out of your leaping, shying, season-quibbling,
have I made it, is it made. And if now poet-like it rings with one-more-time as
if, this is the mounted stupor of your everlong outbiding worn prompt and
lyric, poet-like - the forbidden one-more-time worn time-like.
(P, p. 216-17)
The poem as a site of encounter with time worn time-like - recalling that earlier
phrase, 'to translate the memory of time back into time again'. Time worn time-
like is time returned to the poem itself, the time of 'have I made it, is it made'.
One further example might be adduced: Riding's 'How Now We Talk', with its
stress on directness and precision pointing towards her later position on language.
Here it is in the moment of encounter, a moment of 'physical accuracy' (as film is
described above), perhaps even a form of poetry written in what we could call the
cinematographic mode, where 'accuracy' must replace the uncertainties of past or
future:
For what we now talk of is all true

Or all false, since all is words, no doing to do
Or prospect to wage or more going to go
Or grief to be old or delight to be new.
We must keep faith with what we say
And every coxcomb ghost of fancy lay,
Forbearing from the tales which cloy

The ears of time and drive the future away.
(P, p. 283)
In this state 'only the present is left to promise / And for air the breath of our
words must suffice' - language taking on a physical immediacy, a naked presence.
A final question: what might all this have to do with Riding's famous
abandonment of poetry at the end of the 1930s? Film, or rather Lye's version of
film, may have supported her evolving suspicion that poetic language is
embodied, immanent; it may have helped her escape from what Jerome McGann
calls the 'Kantian ghetto' of poetry, into a poetry in which the presence of
language is attested.16 Riding's view of film can be allied to a poetry of being; a
poetry poised on the moment's edge represented by the encounter of self and
other. This is in rum related to her later belief that poetry is the product of an
instantaneous apperception, and the related belief that only the 'instant'
understanding of a poem is acceptable - that the poem must be released from
mere meaning into being.17
But film, for that reason, helps Riding to separate meaning from poetry, and to
see the potential redundancy of the poem. One corollary of the stance of'Film as
Motion' is that the cinema produces only a caricature of language if it tries to be
literary or historical in the discursive sense:
The language of cinema is movement. When it attempts to make of movement

a literary language the result is a physical-intellectual caricature-language
which furnishes stories of life as something half-true, half-ridiculous (the result
of such films as Henry VIII, Catherine the Great, Christina of Sweden). The
language of the film, that is, becomes the language of hysteria; people have
been trained to go to the cinema to enjoy respectable hysteria, not to know,
physically and soberly, 'life'. And so they enjoy films more than proper stage
drama because the excitement of feeling unreasonably and irresponsibly in
contact with 'meanings' is on a larger scale than with stage drama [...]
(FM, p. 40)
The 'language of hysteria' is the mixing of the somatic and linguistic:

'sentimentalities'. This shares its structure with Riding's post-war position on
poetry - seeing it as a hopelessly mixed discourse, confusing truth with the merely
pleasurable image, sound-effect or play of connotation - as, in effect, a product of
techne. If film is the language of being, and rational prose the language of truth or
meaning, then in so far as poetry mixes those elements it becomes 'hysterical'.
This has been, in part, a story of modernist refusal of what Andre Bazin called a
'mixed cinema', a cinema in which the values of literature and film mix
productively rather than becoming opposed.18 For Lye, the 'literary' in the sense
of discursive meaning and narration is not a part of his cinema, eschewed for a
technology of sensation and being. For Riding, poetry may aim to be part of being
and even, for a moment, find a kind of ally in film - an ally against the
abstractions of 'history'. But ultimately she comes to equate poetry with a
disabling mechanics of pleasure, with the fall into the body which she and Lye had
equated with the cinema of 'hysteria'.
As a coda, a final irony. Riding's career after her return to America and
marriage to Schuyler Jackson was dedicated in large part to a project for a
philosophy and dictionary of rationalised concepts - an idea still in process at her
death, and subsequently edited by William Harmon as Rational Meaning: A New
Foundation for the Definition of Words (1997).19 As if in parallel, when Lye
arrived in the USA in 1945 he came to make a series of six 10-minute black and
white films entitled Basic English, sponsored by "The March of Time' and
supervised, of course, by I. A. Richards.20 It seems that if the modernist dream of
unmediated communication of being or meaning, mind to mind, cannot be
achieved in poetry or film, one might settle for mere accuracy. And that, tragically
some would say, is what Riding spent so many decades doing in that lonely house
in Florida, up to her death in 1991. And one wonders if she ever went to the
movies.
Notes
1 Roger Horrocks's recent Len Lye: A Biography (Auckland: Auckland University Press,
2001) brings Lye's long career and many contexts for the first time into detailed focus.
See also the essays collected in Len Lye, ed. Jean-Michel Bouhours and Roger
Horrocks (Paris: Centre Pompidou, 2000). For Lye's own work, the best source is Len
Lye, Figures of Motion: Selected Writings, ed. and intro. Wystan Cumow and Roger
Horrocks (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1984), cited below as FM. This text
includes a comprehensive bibliography and filmography. Lye's films are currently
available in various collections, including animation videos in the GPO Classic
Collection (issued by the BFI) and Free Radicals, a compilation issued by the Len Lye
Foundation in New Zealand.
2 See Horrocks, Len Lye, chs. 12-31. Another recent text describing Lye's London
context is Michel Remy, Surrealism in Britain (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999). His films
are described briefly in the standard accounts of British film of the 1930s by Rachael
Low and others, and in most histories of film animation. The collaboration is, however,
barely mentioned in Deborah Baker's In Extremis: The Life of Laura Riding (London:
Hamish Hamilton, 1993) and in other accounts of Riding.
3 Len Lye, No Trouble (Deya: Seizin Press, 1930); reprinted in FM, pp. 99-113.
The Impossibility of Film and Literature 13 5
4 Horrocks, ten/,_)*, pp. 163-4.

5 See Michael North, Reading 1922: A Return to the Scene of the Modern (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1999), pp. 170-71.
6 See e.g. Lev Manovich, 'What is Digital Cinema?' (1995), Teleopolis Film archive,
http://www.heise.de/tp/english/special/film/6110/1 .html.
7 Paul Watson, 'True Lyes: (Re)Animating Film Studies', Art & Design 53 (1997), pp.
46-49.
8 Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization (London: Routledge, 1934), p. 343.
9 For historical and theoretical accounts of these ideas, see, respectively, George W.
Stocking, Victorian Anthropology (New York: Free Press, 1987), 192ff; William Pietz,
'Fetishism and Materialism: The Limits of Theory in Marx', in Fetishism as Cultural
Discourse, ed. Emily Apter and William Pietz (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993),
pp. 119-51.
10 See Horrocks, Len Lye, pp. 129-30. As well as the collaborative texts listed, a
statement by Lye on politics was included in Riding's compilation The World and
Ourselves [Epilogue 4] (London: Chatto & Windus, 1938).
11 Joyce Piell Wexler mentions the text under this title in Laura Riding: A Bibliography
(New York: Garland, 1981), p. xxi; her reference was based on a list of publications
drawn up by Riding in collaboration with Alan Clarke. Cumow and Horrocks list it
(incorrectly) as Len Lye and The Problem of Popular Film, FM, p. 148. Copies exist in
New York (MOMA) and Michigan; I have located no copy in UK libraries.
12 Laura (Riding) Jackson, The Poems of Laura Riding (1938, Manchester: Carcanet,
1980). Here and subsequently cited in text as P.
13 Riding, in fact, attacks Bergson (in her rather peculiar understanding of his work as
representing a philosophy of the 'Zeitgeist') in Contemporaries and Snobs (London:
Jonathan Cape, 1928), pp. 145, 184.
14 Recent discussions of this issue include Mary Anne Doane, 'Temporality, Storage,
Legibility: Freud, Marey and the Cinema', Critical Inquiry 22 (1996), pp. 313-43;
Leon Charney, Empty Moments: Cinema, Modernity and Drift (Durham, NC: Duke
University Press, 1998), pp. 15-25. Doane's position is ultimately more pessimistic
than Chaney's: cinema also operates under the sign of loss, since its intervals can never
recapture time's flow.
15 Laura Riding and Robert Graves, A Survey of Modernist Poetry (London: Heinemann,
1927), p. 259.
16 See Jerome McGann, 'Laura (Riding) Jackson and the Literal Truth', Critical Inquiry
18 (1992), pp. 454-73.
17 See Peter S. Termes, 'Codes of Silence: Laura (Riding) Jackson and the Refusal to
Speak', PMLA 109 (1994), pp. 87-99.
18 Andre Bazin, 'In Defense of Mixed Cinema', What is Cinema?, selected and edited by
H. Gray (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), pp. 53-75.
19 Laura (Riding) Jackson and Schuyler B. Jackson, Rational Meaning: A New

Foundation for the Definition of Words, ed. William Harmon, intro. Charles Bernstein
(Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1997).
20 The series is described (without any mention of Lye) in John Russo's /. A. Richards:
His Life and Work (London: Routledge, 1989), pp. 435-37; Russo also details
Richards's negative response to the Riding-Jackson linguistic project.
8
Writing the Alphabet of Cinema: Blaise
Cendrars
Eric Robertson
The biography of Blaise Cendrars is the stuff of legend: in the summer of 1912,
the twenty-five year old Swiss Freddie Sauser boarded a ship in New York bound
for Paris, with a new poem in his suitcase and a new identity. Blaise Cendrars the
poet was bom. It was not long before this name was associated throughout France
with one of the most distinctive poetic voices on an avant-garde scene fascinated
with fast travel, telegraphy and scientific progress. What makes Cendrars unusual,
though, is the extent to which his art is an extension of his life. His pre-First
World War poetry, like that of his friend and contemporary Guillaume Apollinaire,
expresses wonderment at the advent of the flying machine; unlike Apollinaire,
though, Cendrars actually worked with Bleriot on his first aeroplanes. His entry to
the film world was no less wholehearted. At the age of twenty-two, while staying
in London in 1909, he shared a miserable room with an aspiring entertainer by the
name of Charlie Chaplin. A decade later he collaborated with Abel Gance on
J"Accuse and La Roue, and wrote the screenplay of another project, Les Atlantes.
The early 1920s saw him making a film entitled Black Venus at the Rinascimiento
studios in Rome, and he refers in a number of quasi-autobiographical essays to
having made documentaries in the mid-1920s in Sudan and Brazil;1 none of these,
however, has survived, and it is tempting to speculate as to whether such accounts
as these owe more to Cendrars's self-mythologising than to fact.
What lies beyond doubt, on the other hand, is that his nine volumes of collected
works testify to a long-standing fascination with the creative possibilities opened
up by film.2 These fall into quite distinct generic categories: on the one hand there
are the critical essays, written chiefly in the inter-war period, which alternately
extol the virtues of Gance and Griffith, Survage and Leger, even Disney and
Chaplin, and decry the soulless factory productions of Hollywood3 And then we
find writings, dating from the years 1917-1924, which adopted the discourse,
technical detail and structure of screenplays in an effort to bring these to the
attention of a literary readership. As we shall argue, Cendrars's first forays into
137
the film world owed much to his experience of the First World War. Even in his
pre-war poetry, however, there is compelling evidence to suggest his keen
preoccupation with a peculiarly cinematic form of visuality and motion.
Pre-War Poems
In the period 1912-14, Cendrars was at pains to evolve a radically new poetic
idiom whose main characteristics were immediacy of notation, speed of discourse
and a violent dynamism. Just as ApoUinaire defined his Calligrams as a means of
renewing poetry at a time when its existence was threatened by the phonograph,
so can Cendrars's early poems be seen as an attempt to approximate the new
syntax of cinema and appropriate it within a poetic context. Two long poems
written before the First World War bear out Rene Clair's dictum that 'if there is an
aesthetics of cinema [...] it can be summarized in one word: "movement".'4 The
first of these is Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France,
published in 1913 and billed as 'the first simultaneous book' by virtue of the
largely abstract 'simultaneous colours' by Sonia Delaunay that accompany and
encroach on the text.5 Underpinning its experimental format, and its title, is a
radical challenge to traditional reading methods and the elitism all too often
associated with poetry. As Cendrars explained in 1913: 'Poem seemed too
pretentious to me, too closed. Prose is more open, popular.'6
This provocative and highly ambitious agenda is reflected in the physical
format of the work, which consciously eschews literary conventions. Gone is the
virginal vertical fold of the page so revered by Mallarme; in its place, a new
aesthetics of the broadsheet and the billboard. Like the papiers colles of Picasso
and Braque, whose appropriation of newspaper, wallpaper and the techniques of
painter-decorators had challenged the centuries-old assumptions of academy
painting, Cendrars and Delaunay sought to rejuvenate the very nature of the
reading process. In its original edition, the work consists of a single sheet, some
two metres in length, which could be folded and unfolded like a map; the text,
which descends the entire length of the sheet, occupies its right-hand side;
alongside it runs a largely abstract design by Delaunay. No mere background
illustration, this pictorial element occupies a very central role in the work, not
least in the use of bold, spectral colours that run to the very borders of the text and
occasionally spill over it. The colours, in fact, fill every gap surrounding the text,
which itself emphasises its pictorial character by incorporating left, right and
centre-justified margins, various letter sets and sizes, and several colours of print.
The sheer length of the work forces the reader to scroll down it, taking in the lines
of text and the areas of colour simultaneously. Reading and viewing thus combine
in one dynamic movement. Cendrars boasted that the one hundred and fifty copies
published would, if placed end to end, reach the height of the Eiffel Tower,
Writing the Alphabet of Cinema 139
anticipating by a decade Jean Epstein's prediction that filmmakers would make

cinematographic poems one hundred and fifty metres long.7
As if to assert the quasi-documentary authenticity of this hybrid artefact, the
map of the route of the Transsiberian express appears directly above the title. Far
from creating a harmonious whole, these various pictorial and verbal elements
were intended to generate a dynamic tension stemming from the fundamentally
different receiving activities they demand of the reader/ viewer. In the author's
words, "The simultaneous contrasts of the colours and the text create depths and
movements which are the new inspiration.'8 These terms are clearly indebted to
Bergson's theories on memory and duration; but Cendrars's efforts to overcome
the static nature of poetry do also owe much to the chronophotography of
Muybridge and Marey, and to other late-nineteenth century optical inventions
such as Wheatstone's stereo viewer of 1870, which called upon its user to view
simultaneously two parallel strips of images.9 Cendrars's text employs a montage
technique, cutting abruptly between its many different spatial and temporal levels.
While the conjunction of speed and violence suggests a strong parallel with the
Italian Futurists, the repeated allusions to the train's revolving wheels also prompt
structural analogies with early cinema (the verb 'tourner', which is especially
prominent in the text, can mean both to turn and to film). The vertiginous
movement of Cendrars's train could not fail to recall the many early films
featuring speeding trains, from Louis Lumiere's pioneering Arrival of a Train at
La Ciotat of 1895 to Hale's Tours, which became a popular success in the U.S.A.
after their introduction in 1904. To experience these, 'passengers' would pay to
enter a narrow viewing room shaped like a railway carriage for the projection of a
train journey.10 And of course, from the chronophotographic experiments of
Muybridge and Marey to the travelling shots of early films, cameras running on
rails had played a crucial functional role in creating the impression of movement.
In the Prose of the Transsiberian, the circular movement generated by the train's
wheels is associated with a particularly violent dynamism. The conflation of rapid
trains and violence, too, was a feature of early films, especially the western, which
became a staple of popular cinema after Edwin S. Porter's The Great Train
Robbery of 1903.
A second long pre-war poem, Panama or the adventures of my seven uncles,

has much in common with the Prose of the Transsiberian besides its epic length
and the theme of rail travel. Devoid of punctuation, conjunctions and all
expressions of causality, the poem calls upon the reader to negotiate its many
blank spaces, which frequently mark abrupt temporal and spatial shifts. A full
decade before Aragon used the technique in his Surrealist narrative Paris Peasant,
here we find Cendrars splicing an extraordinarily incongruous textual ready-made
into the body of the text. The insertion in question is a prospectus advertising
Denver. Curiously enough, this splicing occurs within a reference to another

cutting action, that of the guillotine:
The guillotine is the masterpiece of plastic art

Its click
Perpetual movement11
Both in the process of montage and in the image of the guillotine's blade, the
cutting room seems to be raising its shadow in this metonymy. The slicing motion
and clicking sound of the blade evokes the act of splicing and the cinematic cut
that generates movement As if to accentuate the loss of aura that Walter Benjamin
would famously associate with film, Cendrars re-used these lines in another poem
written the same year, 'La Tete' ('Head'), inspired by Archipenko's eponymous
sculpture.12 Once more, the cut is a catalyst for movement, but on this occasion,
the motion has a concentric circular direction:
The guillotine is the masterpiece of plastic art

Its click
Creates perpetual motion
Everyone knows about Christopher Columbus's egg
Which was a flat egg, a stationary egg, the egg of an inventor
Archipenko's sculpture is the first ovoidal egg
Held in intense equilibrium
Like an immobile top
On its animated point
Speed
It throws off
Multicoloured waves
Coloured zones
And turns in depth
Nude.
New.
Total.13
Some months after Cendrars's poem was published in De Stijl, the same journal
printed an essay by Theo Van Doesburg on the abstract films of Viking Eggeling
and Hans Richter. Van Doesburg cites exactly this combination of stasis and
mobility as the very basis of a new film aesthetic of mechanical objectivity.14 He
goes on to evoke a future abstract film art whereby movement would be produced,
not by human intervention, but by an electric current.15
In many respects, the poems cited above alternate between a highly subjective
first-person voice and an impersonal, one might say mechanical, narrating
presence. Cendrars's frequent use of monolexical lines and his elliptical syntax,
which jettisons verbs and any stable narrating identity, combine to create the
impression of autonomous, self-generating imagery whose subjectivity is not that
of the seeing eye, but rather that of Vertov's Kino-Eye, anticipating what Paul
Virilio terms the 'machine of vision':16 this can be seen in 'Contrasts', written in
1913 and published in Cendrars's collection of 19 Elastic poems:
It's raining light bulbs

Montrouge Gare de l'Est Metro Nord-Sud Seine omnibus world
One big halo
Depth17
This segment typifies the cosmic imagery, syntactic economy and concentric
circular patterning of many of the Elastic Poems. At around the time these poems
were written, Cendrars was on close terms with the artist Robert Delaunay,
husband of Sonia, and conveyed to him the colour theories of Goethe and
Schopenhauer, which fed into Delaunay's own reading of Chevreul's theories of
colour contrasts based on chromatic discs. And so the halos and concentric circles
to which Cendrars alludes became the basis of an entire series of quasi-abstract
circular paintings that Delaunay produced in 1913. Just as clearly as these hark
back to Newton's glass discs, they may be seen to point ahead both to Duchamp's
Rotoreliefs of the mid-1920s and to Oskar Fischinger's abstract films of the 1930s
such as Circles or Allegretto, which in their different ways explore the disruption
of naturalistic illusionism through the physical movement of geometric forms. In
this way, both Duchamp and Fischinger continue an aesthetics that Thierry de
Duve, referring to Delaunay, has defined in terms of 'the ideological constitution
of painting in language.'18
The cinema of war
Paul Virilio has argued suggestively that the birth of cinema is inextricably
connected to the birth of modern warfare.19 Indeed, as early as 1882, Marey had
produced 'a photographic gun', inspired by the Colt pistol, which, its inventor
boasted, 'kills nothing and which takes the picture of a flying bird or running
animal in less than 1/500 of a second.'20 Before his death in 1905, Marey's
expertise in chronophotography would be used for military research into
movement. And when war was declared in the summer of 1914, a year after the
Prose of the Transsiberian was published, less innocuous kinds of guns than the
photographic kind would begin to figure prominently in Cendrars's life. As a
142 Literature ami Visual Technologies
Swiss national, he had no obligation to fight in the Great War, but in August 1914,
the poet volunteered for what was to become the French Foreign Legion, and with
fellow poet Ricciotto Canudo published an 'Appel a tous les Strangers', an
emotive text calling upon their fellow foreigners in France to 'offrir lews bras'
('give up their arms') for the French nation.21 A year later, the wording of this text
would seem uncannily prescient: by a macabre stroke of fate, on 26 September
1915, Cendrars lost his right arm in an attack of machine-gun fire on the
battlefields of Champagne.
In his 'Small History of Photography', Walter Benjamin summed up the
appropriateness of the camera to the new age of modern warfare that took form
during the First World War. Unlike the artist, he argues, the cameraman has a
quasi-surgical power to 'operate' on the subject by penetrating more deeply into
the tissue of its reality (ins Gewebe der Gegebenheif)72 Besides this ability to
reveal the hidden recesses of the self, which he terms 'the optical unconscious',
the camera also has the power to extend beyond the body's normal field of
perception: quoting Benjamin again, 'mass movements, including war, constitute
a form of human behaviour which particularly favours mechanical equipment...
[for] mass movements are usually discerned more clearly by a camera than by the
naked eye.' 23 This function of the camera as a kind of prosthetic limb might help
to explain the appeal of film for Cendrars, a point to which we will return later.
Benjamin, as we have seen, considered the camera to be a highly apt medium in
the context of modern warfare, and indeed the Great War bore this out with
horrific clarity: the war of entrenchment which superseded the short-lived war of
movement brought about a new remoteness in which the machine gradually
supplanted human vision, and hand-to-hand combat gave way to more remote,
dehumanised forms of death. By the time he was wounded and discharged,
Cendrars had witnessed both phases of the war, and both forms of combat; but by
comparison with Apollinaire, or indeed with other writers involved in the
hostilities such as Barbusse and Duhamel, he is surprisingly reticent about his
experience of war, a fact which some critics have ascribed to the profound trauma
caused by the loss of his right (and writing) arm. This thesis is supported by the
fact that Cendrars's best known work on the subject, the autobiographical text La
Main coupie, was begun in draft form as early as 1918, but was only published in
reworked form nearly thirty years later, in 1946. Moreover, the narrative ends,
tantalisingly, before the events of September 1915 that would lead to his injury.
The absence of an explicit literary account of his wound has another possible
explanation: namely, that on his return to civilian life, Cendrars's focus was
increasingly shifting away from literature and towards cinema. Indeed, it was at
this time that he became closely acquainted with the filmmaker Abel Gance,
working as his assistant and general dogsbody during the filming of J 'Accuse,
which was completed in 1919. Fittingly enough, the plot of Gance's film has as its
central character a poet who is driven by personal tragedy to make the ultimate
sacrifice in the Great War. Gravely wounded in battle, he returns home to
admonish his fellow villagers for failing to appreciate fully the debt they owe to
the soldiers. His last words before dying in the arms of his beloved are a warning
that the war dead will return to haunt the people until their sacrifice is shown to
have been worthwhile. The ensuing scene, in which thousands of war dead rise up
on a huge plain, played a crucial part in earning Gance widespread critical acclaim
for the film.24 And clearly visible in this scene is one Blaise Cendrars, complete
with authentic war wound.
This haunting scene arguably exceeds the signifying power of any written text,
and might be seen as Cendrars's most telling gesture relating to the Great War. By
contrast with the ostentation of this performance, Cendrars's reluctance in his
writings to broach the subject of his wound is all the more surprising. But this
should not prevent us from examining his literary output from this period,
especially as his interactions with visual artists in the pre-war years had been
highly fruitful for his poetic activity. As Deleuze has asserted, Cendrars had a
marked influence on Gance's ideas, conveying to him the spiritual connotations of
circular movement that Cendrars had assimilated from the paintings of the
Delaunays.25 Equally clear is that the medium of film had a profound effect on
Cendrars's writing of this time. And this is perhaps most evident in J'ai tue, his
only text devoted to the war which was both written and published during the
hostilities. Dated Nice, 3rd February 1918, the essay was first published three
days before the Armistice, and reprinted the following year. Jean Mitry reports
that Cendrars was involved in the filming of J 'Accuse in early 1918, and so it
seems probable that the text was written concurrently with this.
Certainly, in terms of its style, J'ai tue has a distinctly cinematic quality.
Written exclusively in the present tense, using factual, prosaic vocabulary, it
employs predominantly short, abrupt sentences entirely devoid of conjunctions or
expressions of cause and consequence. The reader is carried along by its
breathless momentum, which leaves little time for overt explanation, reflection or
literary niceties. Claude Debon has commented on the fact that, rather than a
historically accurate and coherent depiction of a single episode of the war,
Cendrars has interwoven chronologically discrete episodes into a single narrative.
I would argue that the principle of montage most accurately describes the
structure of this text, as it is characterised less by narrative continuity than by its
succession of juxtaposing points of view. These contrasts offer the reader a series
of radically diverse perspectives on the action, rather like the mobile eye of the
camera. Richard Abel has noted the effective use Gance makes in J'Accuse of
just such a 'rhythmic montage' based on the constant interplay of similarities and
differences and on the film's extensive use of rhetorical images.26 Cendrars's text,
likewise, juxtaposes three principal perspectives:
(i) firstly, the huge-scale movement of troops, portrayed in terms that

evoke a textual equivalent of the wide, sweeping panoramic shot.
(Here, the predominance of the personal pronoun 'on' establishes
complicity with the reader, while retaining a degree of generality).
This perspective is momentarily interrupted, without warning, by a
second level of narration:
(ii) this takes the form of fragmentary, fleeting images of a more personal
kind, seen from the perspective of an individual ['je']. The shift from
the plural to the singular, from external observation to inner
reflection, might be compared to the superimposition or montage of
literal and figurative images in cinematic terms.
(iii) The text culminates by cutting with increasing frequency between the
two perspectives described above, the global (or long shot) and the
first person singular (or close-up), before closing in on the latter for a
dramatic conclusion.
The text is largely devoid of similes and metaphors, and of the few that do
appear, a high proportion allude to water imagery. As Deleuze has remarked, this
was a characteristic motif used by early filmmakers such as L'Herbier, Epstein,
Renoir, Vigo and Gremillon as a means of shifting from the literal to the abstract
plane while 'endow(ing) movements with an irreversible duration independently
of their figurative character'.27 Other metaphors in the text have a recurrent
circular pattern, reminding us of the Prose of the Transsiberian and its conflation
of dynamism, circular movement and violence: 'Straightaway the German
submachine guns ticktock. The coffee mills turn. The bullets crackle.' Both in its
imagery and in its telegrammatic syntax, this extract has a distinctly filmic
quality: conjunctions or expressions of cause and consequence are replaced here
by a kind of cinematographic, visual logic based on the association of images.
These sentences function like a montage sequence of film shots, employing
metonymy to suggest a connection between the rotating coffee mill and the
ammunition chamber of the submachine guns.
The cinematic structure of this text is most clearly apparent in its series of
fragmentary images that gather momentum towards the horrific, and highly
problematic, conclusion. This final sequence, with its juxtaposition of global and
individual perspectives, could be seen as a corollary to what Canudo, referring not
to this text but to Gance's J'Accuse, described as 'the collective body acting as a
single individual':28 in a breathless paragraph, delivered largely in the present
tense, Cendrars's first-person narrator reels off a long list of all the industry, all
the raw materials brought from every corner of the globe, that have gone into the
uniform he is wearing and the knife he is carrying - a huge wealth of human effort
of which he is the sum total.
A thousand million individuals have devoted their entire day's work to me, their
strength, their talent, their knowledge, their intelligence, their habits, their
feelings, their heart. So here am I today with the knife in my hand. [...] I have
braved the torpedo, the cannon, the mines, the gunfire, the gas, the submachine
guns, all the anonymous, demonic, systematic, blind machinery. Now I am going
to brave man. My fellow creature. An ape. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
It's just the two of us now. With fists and knives. Without mercy. 1 jump on my
opponent. I strike him hard. His head is nearly off. I've killed the Hun. I was
sharper and faster than he was. More direct. I hit first. I, the poet, have a sense of
reality. I've acted. I've killed. Like one who wants to live.29
How are we to respond to this apparent celebration of violence? Claude Debon
has pointed out that the manuscript draft of this text begins with some lines of
text, deleted from the final, published version, which, had they been retained,
would have cast a far more negative and ironic light on its political and ethical
implications.30 Admittedly, even without these lines, the text can be read in an
ironic light: the concluding passage seems to imply that this act of barbarism is
the sum of all the world's progress: technology has merely returned civilisation to
its origins; modern man has reverted to an ape. But the irony is, to say the least,
mitigated by the final lines, with their seeming affirmation of the act of killing as
a defining moment of reality.
I believe that Cendrars's decision not to include the opening lines in the
published version, nor to allude to the loss of his arm, may be attributed to his
appropriation of the cinematic paradigm. The tripartite structure of the action, its
pivotal conflict between the protagonist and his nemesis in which a life-or-death
decision leads to a resolution, and the overall emphasis on action rather than inner
motivation: all of these have become stock traits of classic Hollywood-style
films.31 In distilling his experience thus into a mini-scenario, and fictionalising it
in the process, Cendrars has, arguably, displaced its most painful associations. In
the concluding lines, the first-person narrative voice, which straddles the dividing
line between autobiography and fiction throughout Cendrars's entire ceuvre,
nudges the text towards the latter category, conferring on it the status of fictional
discourse mediated by a first-person narrator rather than the straightforward
narration of first-hand experience. Given Cendrars's proximity to the film
aesthetic and to filmmakers such as Gance at the time of writing J'ai tut, it seems
all the more compelling to situate the final scene in an indeterminate space
between autobiographical narrative and a more symbolic mode of narration. As
Deleuze asserts with reference to Gance's La Roue, one distinguishing feature of
the French school of cinema, especially perceptible in the relationship between the
individual and the machine, was its tendency to conceive cinematic unity in terms
of a shift from the individual to the global.32
Claude Leroy has recently proposed an alternative version of the circumstances

surrounding Cendrars's mutilation, a version corroborated by two of the poet's
close friends: they maintain that Cendrars himself used his knife to remove what
little remained of his right arm after the machine gun had done its work. If this
interpretation of events is accurate, then the cinematic analogy arguably gains
validity: the writer/ editor's cut would stand for another, unspeakable one.
Through the writer's metaphorical 'camera', mourning is deferred, and suffering
is sublimated, deferred, and projected from self onto other.33
In Praise of living dangerously
A decade after he sustained his wound, Cendrars published an essay entitled

'Eloge de la vie dangereuse'. Set, not on the battlefield, but in the rainforests of
Brazil, where Cendars was living at the time, this essay too suggests that violence
- here in the form of street fighting - can, by virtue of its sheer intensity, be a life-
affirming act. And, like J'ai tui, this essay unites the language of cinema and the
theme of killing around the idea of the cut As before, we are left with the a sense
that writing and viewing can help to sublimate violence:
Hey you all, city crowds who go to the cinema every evening, watch this, pay
attention. This tree that invades the screen is 75 metres high. Its crown blocks
out the sky and its branches are a mass of little monkeys and screaming
parakeets. [...] Look at the tiny white mark at the foot of the tree, on the right.
That's me, as fat as a flea dressed in white. By closing in, you will see me get
bigger before your eyes and fall on top of you. Hold. That's me in close-up.
Here is the assassin's knife. I rip open a box of crackers.34 I cut a slice of
venison. Ever since, I have cut my bread with it. I cut my books open. I cut my
book open. This book.35
The owner of the knife then offers it to the narrator as a memento, 'because I had
lost my arm in the war.' Once more, then, the act of violence is replaced with the
acts of filming and of writing. Here again, Cendrars raises the spectre of his war
wound, but once more stops short of confronting it directly in his writing. Instead,
the quasi-cinematic text, with its camera instructions and its present-tense
narration, becomes the site of displacement, of transfer, of projection. And all the
while one senses that the complementary acts of writing and filming are shown to
be therapeutic, necessary aids in exorcising the ghosts of memory.
Theorising film: the inter-war essays
In the years following the war, Cendrars devoted his creative energies to film. The
early 1920s saw him working as assistant director of Gance's next film, La Roue
(1921-22), writing a string of scenarios and even helping to develop a new literary
genre, the cine-roman, which allied a consciously flat language to the notational
system of de'coupage.36 Such was Cendrars's reputation as an advocate of cinema
that Fernand Leger, writing to Rene Clair in 1923, referred to him as a film-maker
rather than a writer. In this letter Leger anticipates the emergence of 'a
cinematographic concept that will find its own means... As long as film has
literary or theatrical origins, it will be as nothing... New men such as Messrs Abel
Gance, Blaise Cendrars, Jean Epstein will be, I hope, the new directors in this
domain mat I can only begin to anticipate.'37
In an essay of 1919 devoted to Coloured Rhythms, Leopold Survage's abstract
film experiments, Cendrars for his part explores what he calls 'photogenic'
writing, which amounts to a breathless, elliptical discourse peppered with
asyndeton and parataxis. 'I shall try to render, in words as photogenic as possible,
the bold manner in which Monsieur Leopold Survage manages to recreate and
decompose the circular movement of colour.'38 The 'photogenic' writing in
question shares the very same truncated, elliptical syntax and montage techniques
as we find in the 19 Elastic poems: 'Orange and violet devour each other, tear
each other [...]. Evanescence into white. The white steadies and hardens. It
freezes. And all around, the void hollows out. The disc, the black disc reappears
and obstructs the visual field.'39
'Profound today', written in 1917, shows this cinematic writing already in
action: although this essay is not explicitly about cinema, its flickering shadow
can be felt both in its paratactic structure and in its very thematics:
A blue eye opens. Red closes. Soon all is colour. Co-penetration. Disc.
Rhythm. Dance. Orange and purple consume one another.
[.]
Prodigious today. Wave. Antenna. Door-face-whirlwind. You live. Off-
centre. In complete isolation. In anonymous communion. *°
In the Paris-based Editions de la Sirene which he directed, Cendrars published

Jean Epstein's Bonjour cinema and an essay of his own, 'L'ABC du cinema'
("The ABC of cinema'), in which he hails Gance and Griffith as the inventors of a
new language, the only language equipped to reflect a world whose points of
reference had been upturned by scientific discoveries and new technologies. As
Cendrars states, both Griffith and Gance speak in terms of their having had to
learn a new, visual alphabet. Cendrars links this to the role of Cadmus in ancient
Greece who had revolutionised communication by replacing the then existing

pictograph with the Phoenician alphabet, thereby opening up a whole new range
of expressive possibilities. This he describes as the first world revolution. The
second, he argues, was the discovery of oil painting and Gutenberg's invention of
the printing press in the fifteenth century. The third revolution is the explosion of
communication in the early twentieth century: 'The entire world is caught in a
network of railways, cables, terrestrial, maritime, aerial lines. All peoples are in
contact. The telegraph sings.'41
Cendrars concludes by relating this profusion of new technologies to the
emergence of a new cinematic alphabet. Its first three letters relate to the different
scales on which the cinematic experience operates: the mobile camera, the moving
eye of the spectator, and the crowds of people across the globe simultaneously
flooding the streets as they emerge from cinema halls. The final letter of the new
alphabet, its point of arrival and its raison d'etre, is a revolution of the soul that
affects the individual 'au fond du cceur'. For Cendrars, this new medium has
fundamentally affected the spiritual make-up of modern society.
A hundred worlds, a thousand movements, a million dramas simultaneously

enter the visual field of this eye that the cinema has given mankind. [...] The
brain is overwhelmed. [...]
Reality no longer makes any sense. Has any meaning. All is rhythm, word,
life. There is no more demonstration. We commune. [...]42
Fifty years after Daguerre's invention of photography, the cinema emerges.

Cendrars sees this as nothing less than the manifestation of a new stage in the
evolution of mankind:
All indications suggest that we are heading towards a new synthesis of the
human mind, a new humanity, and that a breed of new men will appear. Their
language will be cinema.43
Cine-novels
Given such a sustained fascination with the cinema, it is not surprising that
Cendrars would explicitly appropriate the structural and discursive characteristics
of film scenarios as a new hybrid literary genre. The first of these dni-romans is
La Fin du monde fllmieparI'Ange Notre-Dame, published in 1919. Although this
text bears the generic subtitle 'fantasy novel', its very conception embraces the
structures and forms of film in a highly overt way. It is divided into fifty-one
numbered short scenes, written in a telegraphic style almost entirely in the present
tense. The text explores a number of cinematic effects such as different speeds and
a montage technique, and employs some proto-surreal mises en abyme to comic
effect: God is cast as a Hollywood-style director complete with fat cigar and green
sun shield; the Angel of Notre Dame is his cameraman. In the final sequence, the
projector catches fire, causing the entire film to rewind. In spite of these filmic
borrowings, however, this text remains rooted in a fundamentally literary
discourse: the short scenes are divided into seven chapters, and the narrative only
occasionally provides explicit technical details such as camera angles, or shifts in
distance. At times, the instructions provided are so vague as to be of questionable
use to a director, e.g. scene 41: 'A dark eye closes on all that has been.' 44
Moreover, the narrative frequently falls back on literary techniques such as
metaphor and simile to generate effects; added to this, the vast, cosmic scale of
the action depicted would doubtless have posed serious problems of cinematic
realisation to any prospective director, suggesting that Cendrars considered this
work above all as a text to be read, rather than as the basis of a film.
A far more wholehearted adoption of cinematic techniques is to be found in La
Perle fievreuse (The Feverish Pearl), published in serial form in 1921 and 1922.45
The title page describes the book rather misleadingly as a novel (roman
fantaisiste), whereas in fact it is a decoupage: the text is divided into some eight
hundred and fifty shots, with technical instructions as to the different sizes of lens
to be used, the various camera angles and effects (travelling shots, close-up,
plongie, contre-plongee, etc); moreover, it employs intertitles, flashbacks, fade
and superimposition. The plot is a satirical send-up of the crime serials which had
become popular at the time: the list of secondary characters includes fictional
heroes of serials including the Surrealists' favourite, Fantomas, alongside creators
of the genre such as Arthur Conan Doyle and Gustave le Rouge. But as much as
Cendrars's text is intended to mimic this popular literary form, it is also a mise en
abyme of cinematic production, written consciously for the benefit of a reading
public unfamiliar with the discourse of film, as is clear from the title of the first
section: 'That's cinema. How to produce a scenario decoupage'.46 In spite of this
confident assertion, this text too has its fair share of logistical complexities for a
prospective director: the list of extras alone includes two great danes and a small
bear.
Lack of commercial success and the onset of the talkie killed off Cendrars's
cinematic aspirations by the end of the 1920s. He did, however, come tantalisingly
close to a major breakthrough: a meeting with none other than Sergei Eisenstein in
Paris led to the latter pursuing the adaptation of his novel L 'Or. Such was
Eisenstein's enthusiasm for the project that he even wrote a scenario himself and
submitted it to Paramount, complete with a detailed production schedule.47 The
project was rejected on grounds of its excessive cost; an unauthorized adaptation,
meanwhile, was produced by Luis Trenker in Nazi Germany in 1936, under the
title The Emperor of California, and to add insult to injury, it won the Mussolini
Cup at Venice. The outbreak of war prevented the court case from reaching
completion.48
Ironically, the same year marks the date of Cendrars's visit to Hollywood, the
fruit of which was not a film but an essay, 'Hollywood, Mecca of Cinema'. It
expresses both fascination with its stars and leading lights such as Walt Disney,
and disgust with its blatantly commercial interests and factory-style production.
One huge sentence enumerates the panoply of technicians, engineers, assistants,
secretaries, costume and make-up artists, drivers and hangers-on who populate the
set for the painstaking and time-consuming takes and retakes of a simple close-up
shot of a screen kiss. All this happens under the critical eye of the cigar-puffing
producer, his wife and her friends. Cendrars observes drily:
So there are well over fifty people, and the whole lot are chatting, quibbling,
gossiping, comparing, giving their opinion, commenting, guffawing, laughing,
envying, censoring, applauding this kiss - this false kiss - and when it's over,
the entire beskirted and prattling bunch goes off into town to drink a cocktail, a
'kiss-me-quick' [...].49
For all his irritation with the paraphernalia of the industry, he recognises the
power that a single shot can wield, when viewed by millions across the globe. In a
semi-autobiographical short story entitled 'Pompon', written in 1925, Cendrars
expresses fascination with the quasi-surgical invasiveness of filming. The story
relates the tragedy of its eponymous heroine, a young French woman with whom
he became acquainted while he was filming in Rome, and who would ultimately
commit suicide. Cendrars's first-person narrative reflects on how an early
intervention with the camera could have saved her life. A long paragraph lists in
detail the types and sizes of cameras he would have used, describing their
respective properties. These, he claims, would have had the capacity to pin down
and bind the subject, dope her and put her to sleep like chloroform. The passage
culminates thus:
[...] intervening at top speed with my Akeley Camera, like a surgeon armed
with his scalpel or a Chinese executioner with his large sword [...], taking
wide, incisive panoramic swipes, I would have externalised and brought
Pompon's despair to light. It would have done her good, as if she had had a
cyst removed.50
Here, Cendrars anticipates by some years Walter Benjamin's discussion of the

camera's capacity to expand the sensory perception of the body. In his 'Small
History of Photography', Benjamin famously likens the incisive action of the
camera to that of the surgeon's scalpel, with its ability to penetrate deep under the
skin and reveal hitherto invisible layers. 'The nature that speaks to the camera is
different from the one that speaks to the eye; above all different in the sense that a
space interwoven with human consciousness gives way to one that is
unconsciously interwoven.'51
Cendrars went on to write a series of radio plays in the 1950s, and when they
were published in 1959 he gave them the collective title Films sans images (Films
without images), as if to assert his new affiliation with the auditory in place of the
visual. In the foreword to this volume, Cendrars underlines the populism inherent
in ail of his work:
[...] the poetry of our time (and others) feeds on legends and voices: you can
discover it by turning the button on a radio.
Let's just say it's all about popular poetry, and everyone will be happy,
including the authors.52
This remark brings us full circle, echoing as it does the intentions behind Prose
of the Transsiberian, and stressing the common ground underpinning Cendrars's
work at all stages of his career. It also reasserts his fascination with film and,
latterly, radio, as 'prosthetic' media with the power to extend the body's sensory
capacity. Cendrars's wonderment at the simplicity of the radio carries echoes of
early Kodak advertisements promising the would-be photographer, 'Hold it
steady. Pull a string. Press a button. This is all we ask of you, the rest we will
do'. 53 With this in mind, and in the light of Cendrars's uncharacteristic reluctance
to discuss the loss of his arm in his prose, I should like to return briefly to the still
photograph from J 'Accuse in which the character played by Cendrars leads the
march of the dead. Commenting on this film in his masterly study of early French
cinema, Richard Abel mistakenly states that it was Cendrars's left arm that was
lost in the war.54 It is tempting to speculate as to whether this uncharacteristic
error stems from a misreading of this still, in which the trick of perspective
appears to restore to Cendrars his right arm (what appears to be his raised right
arm in fact belongs to the figure standing behind him).
In a very literal, graphic way, this example could be seen to bear out Walter
Benjamin's definition of the camera lens as a prosthetic limb capable of covering
over the body's deficiencies and creating a semblance of totality. Of course, this is
an artificial device which is no more able to restore the mutilated body than the
cinema screen is able to turn its flickering shadows into flesh-and-blood human
beings. Limited though it may have been, the film medium in its various guises
nevertheless offered Cendrars the opportunity to project suffering from self onto
other, and to restore the appearance of normality, while allowing him time for the
real processes of healing and mourning to take place.
Notes
1 On the Brazilian film project, see 'Etc, Etc. (un film 100% bresilien)'. Cendrars
recounts the filming of La Virtus noire in the essays 'Un Homme heureux' and
'Pompon' His text 'Chasse a l'Elephant', closely based on poems from his 1924
collection Documentaires, makes reference to a film about the life of elephants made
in Egypt and the Upper Sudan. All four essays are reprinted in the collection Trop c 'est
trap (1957). Unless otherwise stated, reference to works by Cendrars are from Blaise
Cendrars, CEuvres Completes, Tomes I-VHI (Paris: Denoel, 1961—65), henceforth
O.C.. Here, O.C. IV, pp. 135-310. Unless otherwise indicated, translations of works by
Cendrars are my own.
2 See, e.g., Philippe Pilard, 'Cendrars: cinema de rfive, reve de cinema', in SUD: Blaise
Cendrars. Colloques poisie Cerisy 18e annie (1988), pp. 123-132.
3 See.e.g. 'Si j'etais...','Chariot', inO.C. VIII, pp. 275-289;'Hollywood, la Mecquedu
cinema', O.C. IV, pp. 385^67.
4 Cited in Siegfried Kracauer, Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality
(London and New York: Oxford University Press, I960; Princeton: Princeton
5 The text is reprinted, without the visual element, as 'Prose du TranssiWrien et de la
petite Jeanne de France', in Blaise Cendrars, Du Monde entier: Poisies completes
1912-1924 (Paris: Gallimard, 'Poesie', 1947, 1967), pp. 27-45 (28). The original
edition, with the slightly different title 'La Prose du Transsiberien et de la petite
Jehanne de France', is displayed in the opening pages of Miriam Cendrars's Blaise
Cendrars: I'ord'un poete (Paris: Gallimard, 'Decouvertes', 1996).
6 Letter in Der Sturm, vol. 184/5, November 1913, 127. Cited in Blaise Cendrars,
Aujourd'hui 1917-1929 suivi de Essais et reflexions 1910-1916 (Paris: Denoel, 1987),
pp. 193-4.
7 Jean Epstein, 'Le Cinema et les lettres modernes', in La Poisie d 'aujourd hui: un
nouvel itat d'intelligence (Paris: Editions de la Sirene, 1921), pp. 169-180. Cited in
Richard Abel, French Cinema: The First Wave, 1915-1929 (Princeton University
Press, 1984), p. 300.
8 'Le simultanisme de ce livre est dans sa presentation simultanee et non illustrative. Les
contrastes simultanes des couleurs et le texte forment des profondeurs et des
mouvements qui sont rinspiration nouvelle.' Blaise Cendrars et Sonia Delaunay, letter
to Andre Salmon, in Gil Bias, Paris, 12 October 1913.
9 See Brian Coe, Muybridge and the Chronophotographers (Exhibition catalogue,
London: British Film Institute / Museum of the Moving Image, 1992), pp. 10-11.
10 L 'Arrivee d 'un train a La dotat was famously screened to astonished audiences in
1895. Edwin S. Porter's The Great Train Robbery (1903), the first western film to be
made, was one of many early films to exploit the dramatic potential of a fast train. For
stills of both films, see Emmanuelle Toulet, Cmimatographe, invention du siecle

(Paris: Gallimard, 'Decouvertes', 1988).
11 In Blaise Cendrars, Complete Poems, translated by Ron Padgett, introduction by Jay
Bochner (Berkley and Oxford: University of California Press, 1992), p. 43.
12 This short poem was written in 1914, a month after completing he Panama, and was
published without his authorization in the review De Stijl in August 1918, a year
before Cendrars included it in 19 Elastic poems. O.C. I.
13 Cendrars, Complete Poems, trans. Ron Padgett, p. 79, slightly modified.
14 De Stijl, IV, 71. Cited in H.L.C. Jaffe, De Stijl 1917-1931: the Dutch Contribution to
Modem Art (Cambridge, Mass, and London: Harvard University Press, 1986), p. 189.
15 De Stijl, IV, 75. in Jaffa, Op. at, p. 189.
16 Paul Virilio, LaMachine de vision (Paris: Editions Galilee, 1998).
17 Cendrars, Complete Poems, p. 59, slightly modified.
18 Thierry de Duve, Nominalismepictural (Paris: Editions de Minuit, 1984), pp. 211-227.
19 Paul Virilio, War and Cinema: the Logistics of Perception (London: Verso, 1989).
20 Cited in Brian Coe, Muybridge and the Chronophotographers , p. 26.
21 Text cited by Jean-Jacques Becker, 'La Vision de la guerre chez Cendrars', in Claude
Leroy (ed.), Blaise Cendrars et la guerre (Paris, Armand Colin, 1995), p. 14.
22 Walter Benjamin, 'Kleine Geschichte der Photographie' (1931), in Walter Benjamin,
Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit: Drei Studien zur
Kunstsoziologie (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1963), p. 32.
23 Benjamin, 'Kleine Geschichte der Photographie', pp. 45-64.
24 Jean Mitry, who is otherwise highly critical of the film's 'debordements sentimentaux'
and 'symbolisme outrancier', praises the visionary power of this scene, which he finds
worthy of Victor Hugo. In Jean Mitry, Histoire du cine'ma, 2: Art et Industrie 1915-
1925 (Paris: Editions universitaires, 1969), p. 259.
25 Gilles Deleuze, Cine'ma 1: L 'Image-mouvement (Paris: Minuit, 1983, Collection
'Critique'), pp 65 and 72.
26 Richard Abel, French Cinema: The First Wave, 1915-1929, p. 300.
27 Deleuze, Cinima 1, p. 65.
28 Ricciotto Canudo, 'Preface: Paris, decembre 1922', in La Roue, apres lefibn d'Abel
Gance, 4. Cited in Richard Abel, French Cinema: The First Wave, 1915-1929, p. 300.
29 Cendrars, Aujourd'hui, p. 22.
30 See Claude Debon, 'La Litterature a l'eustache: J'ai tue"', in Claude Leroy (ed), Blaise
Cendrars et la guerre, pp. 64-70 (70).
31 See, e.g. Roy Armes, Action and Image: Dramatic Structure in Cinema (Manchester
and New York: Manchester University Press, 1994), especially Chapter 9, 'The
Individual as Protagonist: The Big Sleep', pp. 125-139.
32 Deleuze, Cine'ma 1, p. 64.
33 Musing on Cendrars's bilingual, bicultural Swiss origins, Leroy advances the theory
that the poet's automutilation symbolises a separation from his own Germanic roots.
See Claude Leroy, La Mam de Cendrars (Villeneuve d'Ascq: Septentrion, 1996), pp.
21-43.
34 The original French text uses the verb 'eventrer', meaning literally to disembowel
35 Cendrars, 'Eloge de la vie dangereuse', inAujourd'hui, pp. 25-31 (31).
36 Cendrars worked for the Rinascimento studios in Rome on the mise en scene of La
Venus noire/ La Venere Nera. In 1929 Eisenstein considered making a film based on
Cendrars's novel L 'Or. See Philippe Pilard, 'Cendrars: cinema de reve, rSve de
cinema', pp. 123-132 (125).
37 Fernand Leger, letter to Rene Clair, 1923, cited in Pilard, op. cit., p. 124. My
translation.
38 Cendrars, Aujourd'hui, p. 73.
39 Ibid., pp. 73-4.
40 Ibid., pp. 13-14.
41 Ibid, p. 38.
42 Ibid., pp. 36-38.
43 Ibid.
44 Cendrars, La Fin du monde, in O.C. II, p. 44.
45 The text appeared in four successive numbers of the journal Signawc de France et de
Belgique.
46 Cendrars, O.C. IV, p. 17.
47 An extract of the screenplay, entitled Sutler's Gold, is reproduced in Sergei Eisenstein,
The Film Sense (London and Boston: Faber and Faber, 1943, 1986), pp. 191-6.
48 The rights were eventually bought by Universal Pictures, allowing James Cruze to
make 'a mediocre film with huge resources.' Miriam Cendrars, Blaise Cendrars: L 'or
d'unpoete,p. 72.
49 Cendrars, O.C. IV, pp. 4 3 3 ^ .
50 Cendrars, O.C. VIII, p. 272.
51 Walter Benjamin, 'Kleine Geschichte derPhotographie', inDas Kunstwerkim
Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit: Drei Studien zur Kunstsoziologie
(Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1963), pp. 45-64 (50). My translation.
52 Cendrars, O.C. VIII, p. 312.
53 Advertisement for the Eastman Dry Plate and Film Co., cited in Clive Scott, Reading
the Rhythm: the Poetics of French Free Verse 1910-1930 (Oxford. Clarendon Press,
1999), p. 157.
54 Richard Abel, French Cinema: The First Wave, p. 302. Abel also mistakenly identifies
Cendrars in a still from the 'walking dead' scene of J'Accuse reprinted on p. 301 of his
book.
The Grammar of Time: Photography,
Modernism and History
Elena Gualtieri
To Siegfried Kracauer writing in 1927, photography appeared as 'the go-for-broke

game [Vabanque-Spiel] of history',1 the ultimate, desperate gamble of a historical
process faced with its own bankruptcy. Indissolubly linked through their origins in
the nineteenth century, photography and historiography stood for Kracauer in a
dialectical relation that turned photography both into the ultimate realisation of a
certain conception of history and into its downfall. Born from the process of
industrialisation and acting as a reflection of the alienation of nature brought
about by it, photography is joined to nineteenth-century histoncism by a certain
geometrical model that figures time and space as interchangeable dimensions.2
Just as historicism believes that it 'can grasp historical reality by reconstructing
the course of events in their temporal succession without any gaps', 3 so
photography constructs space as an uninterrupted surface where 'the spatial
appearance of an object is its meaning'.4 One figuring time as a linear vector, the
other assimilating space to the two-dimensional plane of the photographic print,
photography and historicism mark the reduction of what were previously
categories of experience to abstract dimensions. There is a deadly danger in this
reduction, as consciousness becomes further and further alienated from 'a mute
nature which has no meaning', but there is also a potential for liberation in it, as a
consciousness emancipated from 'natural bonds' 5 might prove to be equipped for
harnessing nature itself to its own development.
Like all other forms of technology, photography is Janus-faced, with the
potential both for destruction and for liberation. This is a well-known dialectical
view of the character of technological inventions and interventions,6 but what is
especially useful in Kracauer's argument is the identification of photography as
the technological realisation of a certain conception of history. This conception
rests on a linear model of temporality which marks the past off as a separate
dimension, as the object of historical knowledge rather than as an integrated part
of lived experience. It is this particular kind of past that becomes materialised
155
with the advent of photography and its tendency to abstract objects from their
contextual meaning. As Kracauer points out in the opening pages of his 1927
essay, the photograph of the diva which circulates in illustrated magazines
contributes to depleting the photograph of the grandmother of the personal and
familial meaning with which memory would have invested it. As we shall see, this
opposition between photography and memory runs through the modernist
reception of the medium and even extends well beyond it. In what follows I shall
be tracing a sort of archeology of the conditions from which this opposition
emerged through a comparative reading of Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time
and Robert Musil's The Mm Without Qualities1 Each of them central to the canon
of their respective linguistic communities, Proust's and Musil's texts take shape
through a sustained engagement with the cultural meaning of photography which
makes of photography one of the privileged locations for modernism's negotiation
with the historical process.
1. Photographic Essayism
While chronology would require that we discuss Proust first, it is in Musil's later
text that we find outlined the conception of photography on which Proust's work
builds its poetics of memory. This reversal of the chronological order reflects the
condition of belatedness or anachronism which is often ascribed to The Man
Without Qualities* Published in the 1930s but set in the year before the beginning
of the Great War, Musil's text hovers in between the two sets of dates, offering us
a glimpse of a society caught between the tantalising possibility of what could
have been and the ineluctable reality of what we know will happen. Just like the
state of Kakania in which the action is set, this text enacts the troubled relation to
temporality which for Musil defines the paradoxical experience of modernity. It is
both a product of its time and severely lagging behind it, a reluctant passenger on
'the train of time' who is driven forward by 'a longing to be stopped, to cease
evolving, to stay put, to return to the point before the thrown switch put us on the
wrong track' (MWQ, 8, p. 28).
This troubled relation to temporality is articulated in the text through a series of
encounters which see its protagonist, Ulrich, repeatedly confronted with
photographic images both of a familial, personal character and of a more
contemporary, public one. In one of these encounters, Ulrich finds himself tracing
back 'the disorder called modern times' to a crucial moment of transition in the
history of the European bourgeoisie. Leafing backwards through a family album,
he observes that,
the closer he came to the beginnings of that new art of picture-taking, the more
proudly, it seemed to him, the subjects faced the camera. There they were, with
The Grammar of Time 157
one foot placed on a pile of cardboard boulders wreathed in paper ivy . . . the
emancipated men stood their ground in creaseless trousers that rose up like
curling smoke, in coats with a bold romantic sweep to them, as though a gale
had blown away the dignified stiffness of the bourgeois frock coat. The time
must have been between 1860 and 1870, when photography had emerged from
its earliest stages, when the revolutionary forties were remembered as a wild,
chaotic time long gone and life had become subtly different, though no one
could say exactly what the new elements were; even the tears, embraces, and
confessions in which the new middle class had tried to find its soul in its early
days were no more, but as a wave runs out over the sands, this noble impulse
had now come to express itself in the way people dressed and in a certain
personal buoyancy [Schwunghaftigkeit] for which there may be a better word,
but for the moment all we have is the photographs.
(MWQ, 99, pp. 497-98)
Far from supporting the sense of historical destiny which the photographs'
subject display, Ulrich's family album in fact traces the movement of decline that
flattened the political and moral aspirations of the European bourgeoisie into the
two-dimensional space of the photographic portrait. As the 'new art' which
offered for the first time the opportunity for immortalisation to common citizens,
photography effectively arrests the movement of history into a series of frozen
moments that have lost the ability to transform themselves. The distance that
separates the revolutionary forties from the conservative sixties becomes
translated into a succession of poses where 'the dignified stiffness of the
bourgeois frock coat' gives way to 'trousers rising like curling smoke and coats
with a romantic sweep to them'. As history cedes its place to fashion, the new
becomes simply a different image to be added to the existing sequence in an
infinite extension of the same basic structure. This structure cannot itself be
adequately explained or articulated in language, which is forced into the awkward
formulation of the simile to convey the sense of resilience and yet also of
passivity that marks the post-revolutionary bourgeoisie. Etymologically related to
'swing', Schwunghaftigkeit suggests the continued momentum of a social and
intellectual class that has been swung like a buoy by changes in the political
currents of contemporary Europe. What remains of the grand aspirations of the
revolutionary bourgeoisie of the 1840s is only the technological invention of
photography, which finds itself recording the process of decline that it had
initiated.
Ulrich's trawl through his family album leads him to identify in photography a
technological process whose invention had changed the very conception of
history. The shift from a revolutionary class to a conservative one is presented
here not just as a shift in political allegiances and interests, but rather as a
fundamental epistemological change in the very substance of the historical

process and in the means of recording it. Just as the bourgeoisie becomes
politically more conservative, its appearance takes on that romantic flair which
was missing from the austerity of its earlier, revolutionary incarnation. This
signals a shift of meaning from substance to appearance for which photography is
explicitly held to be responsible. But this shift in meaning becomes also a change
in structure, as historical narrative detaches itself from the referential ground and
is turned into a sequence of images which are depleted of historical meaning and
reduced to the function of marking the passage of time.
Although it is in his family album that Ulrich identifies the origins of this
reduction of historical experience to a series of self-contained moments, its
consequences become visible for him in the public and contemporary photographs
reproduced in illustrated magazines.9 These photographs confront him with an
image of modernity which is assembled by jumbling together different temporal
planes. In this assemblage the absolute novelty of female sportswomen exposing
their bodies to the camera lens is also traversed by a series of more archaic
elements which introduce within these images of modernity the incongruous
traces of different contexts. The tennis player portrayed with 'one leg exposed
above the garter, the other flung up toward her head' also carries 'on her face the
expression of an English governess'. The swimmer who is shown 'being
massaged after a contest' presents herself clinically exposed to 'two women
dressed in street clothes', the male masseur and, of course, the public looking on
from the other side of the camera {MWQ, 16, p. 57). Yet the pose of her 'knee
drawn up in a posture of sexual abandon' {MWQ, 16, p. 58) belongs to an earlier
type of iconography, suggesting a more intimate kind of setting which is at odds
with the clinical atmosphere of the modern changing room. As images of
modernity these photographs show a series of ruptures in what was once the
complacent pose of the post-1848 bourgeois subject. This rupture is itself
produced by the incongruous juxtaposition of time frames and planes which turns
these modern images into the photographic equivalent of a cubist painting, where
temporal axis and semantic circles do not quite square up.
Within The Man Without Qualities, photography maps, then, a process of
transformation of the related categories of temporality and historical experience. It
participates in the reduction of the historical experience of the bourgeoisie to a
sequence of images which have gradually emancipated themselves from the
historical reality to which they initially referred. This emancipation of the image
from its referential ground in its turn produces modernity as the contiguous
coexistence of different temporal frames on the same spatial plane.10 As this
'infinitely interwoven surface' of disparate images, modernity is clearly identified
by Ulrich as marking the end of the 'elementary, narrative mode of thought'
which had provided a 'refuge from chaos' to the nineteenth-century bourgeois

subject (MWQ, 122, p. 709).
Ulrich's own experience of the death of narrative occurs during a nocturnal
stroll through the city. This brings back to him 'for no special reason' a recent
memory of what it felt like to be looking at his own childhood photographs:
from what a distance he had regarded the little boy, with the beautiful woman
[his mother] in an old-fashioned dress happily smiling at him. There was that
overpowering impression of the good, affectionate, bright little boy they all felt
him to be; there were hopes for him that were in no way his own; there were
the vague expectations of a distinguished, promising future, like the outspread
wings of a golden net opening to enfold him. And though all this had been
invisible at the time, there it was for all to see decades afterward in those old
photographs, and from the midst of this visible invisibility that could so easily
have become reality, there was his tender, blank baby face looking back at him
with the slightly forced expression of having to hold still. He had felt not a
trace of warmth for that little boy, and ... he had on the whole the impression
of having narrowly escaped a great horror.
(MWQ, 122, p. 707)
Photography works here as a trap that catches Ulrich as a boy in the meshes of a
story that is not his own. Its rigidity is that of 'a character, a profession, a fixed
mode of being' (MWQ, 62, p. 269) from which Ulrich, the man endowed with
qualities that refuse to stick to him, is determined to escape. The present Ulrich
inhabits is emphatically not the future that his childhood photographs projected in
front of him as if it were a reel of film. Although motionless and fixed to a very
distant point in his past, these photographs contain within themselves the seeds of
a story into which Ulrich refused to grow. This refusal did not simply erase the
other story that had been drawn around the child's face as if in invisible ink.
Rather it is precisely Ulrich's distance and detachment from that story which
makes it become visible. It is as if Ulrich were standing at a street corner watching
the man he could - and perhaps should - have become go by, existing in a parallel
universe of possibilities of which his childhood photographs are the only
remaining traces.
But the future which was in store for Ulrich and the present in which he finds
himself living are not simply equally valid alternatives, different versions of the
same basic narrative structure. In fact, the present from which Ulrich looks back at
his childhood self exists only as a defect in his ability to follow what he calls 'the
law of narrative order'. Ulrich's decision to hesitate before committing himself to
a definite future has halted the progress of his life-story in a way that cannot be
remedied by simply reinstating the chronological order of events, since his
hesitation has opened up gaps in that order which reveal its illusory character. If
narrative consists in the simple ability to say '"First this happened and then that
happened'" (MWQ, 122, p. 708), it is for Ulrich an illusory construct which does
not resolve incongruence or inconsistencies but 'makes them disappear, the way
the gaps between trees disappear when we look down a long avenue of them'.
Narrative order fulfils the same function as the law of perspective in the field of
vision, where 'the relationships of things always shift to make a coherent picture
for the eye, one in which the immediate and near at hand looks big, while even the
big things at a distance look small and the gaps close up and the scene as a whole
ends by rounding itself out' (MWQ, 122, p. 707). Just as space can be re-organised
to give the impression of depth, so time may be arranged on a continuum that
makes past, present and future appear as successive stops on the same line.
But if linear temporality emerges precisely from this coincidence of narrative
order and visual perspective, it is the dissolution of this coincidence that comes to
define the modern condition. Ulrich's inability to relate to the photographic image
of his own childhood self measures the distance that separates him from the order
that had given at least the appearance of coherence to the European bourgeoisie of
the nineteenth century. This order was predicated on the idea that temporality
could be mapped onto a spatial category such as perspective thus producing the
illusion that sequence, 'first this happened, then that happened', is sufficient to
generate meaning. Musil's text exposes this illusion by portraying his central
character as he takes 'a year's leave of absence from his life' (MWQ, 13, p. 44) so
that 'the given order of things' may be treated as 'a hypothesis that has not yet
been surmounted' (MWQ, 62, p. 269), just one possibility (Mdglichkeit) among
the many that could have been realised. As Ulrich chooses to model his life on the
form of the essay,11 his absence from the narrative that should have constituted his
life pries apart the apparent coincidence of sequence and consequence, chronology
and causality on which narrative rests. It is in the space opened up by the
dissolution of this coincidence that Musil inserts his essayistic prose to delay the
ineluctable historical fact of the First World War and the end of the Hapsburg
Empire and perform the endless amplification of the one-year interval that
separates 1913 from 1914.
While Musil's essayistic practice works to undo the narrative drive towards
closure, the fictional photographs that punctuate the movement of his prose
constantly reintroduce the model of temporality that the essay is trying to undo.12
Within The Man Without Qualities photography comes to stand in for the old
nineteenth-century order and for the convergence of narrative sequence, linear
temporality and Albertinian perspective which structured that order. It acts as a
temporal catalyst, hurrying time and ushering in modernity, but a modernity that is
also running out of steam and rushing head on towards its conflagration in World
War I. As we saw through Ulrich's reaction to the picture of himself as a child.
photography represents an intrusion within the text of the relentless historical

process from which Musil's protagonist is helplessly trying to untangle himself.
Musil's struggle to produce a convincing release for his hero (the text was left
unfinished at his death in 1942)13 demonstrates, though, how difficult it may be to
discard the historical order generated by photography.
2. From the Literary Preterite to the Photographic Aorist
Musil's analysis of the structural affinity that links photography, narrative order
and linear temporality invites us to reconsider some of the issues that have been
fundamental to the understanding of linguistic structures and modernist texts
elaborated in the last few decades. In this context the question posed by Barthes in
1966, 'Is there an atemporal logic lying behind the temporality of narrative?',14
becomes the product of a post-photographic situation where narrative time
appears to presuppose another, non-temporal structure or matrix that would
produce narrative temporality according to its own combinatory logic. From this
point of view, narrative has already lost that link to experience and shared
knowledge that characterised the ancient art of story-telling15 and is rather
conceived as a semiotic structure that produces meaning through the organisation
of events into a sequence. The question raised by Barthes is, then, whether
narrative temporality constitutes a by-product of this semiotic structure or whether
it is in fact the most fundamental part of the structure, the meaning which
narrative itself sets out to produce:
To put it another way, one could say that temporality is only a structural
category of narrative (of discourse), just as in language [langue] temporality
only exists in the form of a system; from the point of view of narrative, what
we call time does not exist, or at least only exists functionally, as an element of
a semiotic system. Time belongs not to discourse strictly speaking but to the
referent; both narrative and language know only a semiotic time, 'true' time
being a 'realist', referential illusion...16
The answer to Barthes's question about the existence of an 'atemporal logic' is

therefore a qualified 'yes'. It is a 'yes' because insofar as temporality is a product
of narrative, that product is the effect of an 'illusion', of a trick being played on us
by our willingness to believe in the referential power of language and by
narrative's constitutional propensity to reinforce that belief. But it is a qualified
'yes' because the question is itself not the 'right' question to ask. The issue at
stake here is not so much whether the temporality of narrative is produced by an
underlying, structural system that is itself not temporal. Rather, the two systems -
temporality per se, the 'atemporal' logic of narrative on the other hand - are for
Barthes incommensurable categories, the former belonging to the referent, the

latter to the realm of signification. The question that seemed to address itself to an
atemporal logic turns out to be an insidious question, postulating of necessity the
existence of a bond or relationship between the world of reference and the world
of semiosis. It is precisely this bond that Barthes's structuralist approach to
narrative aims to undo or expose as the product of a long-cherished 'illusion'.
While in Musil this 'illusion' had been produced by the convergence of space
and time marked by the invention of photography, for Barthes its origins are not
technological but linguistic. Writing Degree Zero (1953) explicitly traces back the
slippage between historical reality and semiosis that is characteristic of narrative
structure to the use of the preterite which in French is exclusive to historical and
fictional narratives.17 Obsolete in spoken language, the preterite no longer works
for Barthes as a grammatical category but rather as an ideological tool whose
function is 'to reduce reality to a point of time, and to abstract, from the depth of a
multiplicity of experiences, a pure verbal act, freed from the existential roots of
knowledge, and directed towards a logical link with other acts'. Abstract and
isolated from the other verb tenses, the preterite functions as the motor of
narrative itself, 'call[ing] for a sequence of events' that would place the actions
inscribed by it into some 'intelligible' context.18 In this sense, the preterite comes
very close to functioning as that atemporal structure or matrix from which the
'illusion of temporality' is itself produced. Through the preterite, the distinction
between abstract temporality, unhinged and separated from the experiential
ground, and atemporal structure, a linguistic model that only exists in the abstract,
is whittled down. If the preterite produces, as Barthes puts it in relation to Balzac,
'a view of History which is harsh, but coherent and certain of its principles',19 it
also fathers the structuralist conception of a langue [language] that can be
abstracted from the everyday, historical occurrence of parole [utterance].20
As this marker of abstract temporality, the preterite returns also in Barthes's
discussion of photography in Camera Lucida (1980). Taking up its Greek name of
'aorist', the un-defined, this verb tense that is restricted to historical and fictional
narratives becomes in Camera Lucida a sort of knot or juncture that mediates
photography's relation to historicity. From the beginning, Camera Lucida sets up
an equivalence between photography and verbal forms which appears to
contradict flatly Barthes's discussion of narrative temporality in the 'Introduction
to the Structural Analysis of Narratives' and Writing Degree Zero. Just as in The
Man Without Qualities Ulrich uncovered the emergence of the temporality of
modernity by moving backwards through the albums of family photographs, so
Camera Lucida sees Barthes identifying the true referent of photography at the
end of a trawl through time that leads him to the discovery of the Winter Garden
photograph in a family album. This movement back through time reveals that the
photograph's ultimate referent is in fact not the object depicted, but an irreducible
experience of temporality that is not susceptible to transformation or sublimation.

Since the referent of the photograph is 'not the optionally real thing to which an
image or sign refers, but the necessarily real thing which has been placed before
the lens',21 the photograph attests to the existence of that particular object at the
particular time it was taken. This 'certificate of presence' 22 produces 'a
superimposition . . . of reality and of the past' 23 which precisely mirrors the effect
of the preterite in the classical novel. But while Writing Degree Zero claimed that
this collapse of the real into the past was an ideological effect, a sort of linguistic
false consciousness produced by the preservation of an obsolete verbal form in
written French, Camera Lucida insists that this collapse is brought about by the
chemical reaction of photography. Rather than producing 'a "copy" of reality',
photography offers 'an emanation of past reality'2* whose 'testimony bears not on
the object but on time'.25
Photography as analysed in Camera Lucida therefore marks a convergence
between the temporality of narrative as inscribed by the French use of the preterite
and the temporality of the real which 'Structural Analysis' had dismissed as lying
outside the bounds of semiosis. This convergence places the past that is inscribed
by both narrative and photography beyond the grasp of human consciousness. The
astonishment to which Barthes confesses when faced with the existential vertigo
produced by historical photographs testifies to the essentially in-human character
of the past that is materialised in photography. As he warns, 'not only is the
Photograph never, in essence, a memory (whose grammatical expression would be
the perfect tense, whereas the tense of the Photograph is the aorist), but it actually
blocks memory, quickly becomes a counter-memory'.26 Rather than making that
past available to consciousness and recovery, the photograph marks it as a
dimension that exists independently of any human agency and indifferent to it.
The 'harsh view of History' that Writing Degree Zero had identified with Balzac's
novels turns out to be in fact the only real one, or rather, the real as captured in the
photograph is revealed to coincide with the fictional construction of an abstract,
mechanical temporality.
3. Photography and Writing: Technologies of Repetition
Barthes's sharp distinction between photography and memory as ways of

conceiving and relating to the past is very clearly indebted to Proust. His warning
that there is 'nothing Proustian in a photograph' 27 underscores the radical
opposition between the temporality of continuity and memory inscribed by the
perfect and that of discontinuity and history inscribed by the aorist. This
opposition clearly rewrites the Proustian differentiation of memory into voluntary
and involuntary forms. At a simple level, photography works within In Search of
Lost Time as the technological equivalent of memoire volontaire, a lifeless,
detached representation which does not engage the full sensory apparatus in the
way in which the madeleine, the uneven cobblestones, the crisp napkin do. Rather
than bringing back the past, the photographic snapshot or 'instantane' puts it
beyond the reach of the present, forever frozen into the abstract, detached
temporality of the preterite. Irreducible and not susceptible to transcendence,
photography stands in stark opposition to the work of revivification carried out by
(involuntary) memory - it is, as Barthes points out, a 'counter-memory'.
At this thematic level, the technological intervention of photography is
presented within Proust's text as marking a clear distinction between two different
conceptions of temporality. On the one hand there is the temporality of repetition,
recovery and return within which both past events and the subject who
experienced them continue to exist, in a realm that is both 'outside Time' and
always potentially capable of irrupting into the present. As the narrator reflects on
the 'happy impressions' brought to him by the madeleine and the napkin, 'they
had in them something that was common to a day long past and to the present,...
in some way they were extra-temporal' just as the subject who experienced them
'made its appearance only when, through one of these identifications of the
present with the past, it was likely to find itself in the one and only medium in
which it could exist and enjoy the essence of things, that is to say, outside time'
(S, 6, pp. 222-3).
But access to this kind of extra-temporal dimension is normally barred by the
everyday experience of time as an arrow relentlessly pointing towards the future,
whose inevitable end is death. This is the type of temporality that is summed up
by Proust's narrator in his last appearance at the Guermantes', where he observes
a spectacle of ageing that 'was something much more valuable than an image of
the past: it offered me as it were all the successive images - which I had never
seen - which separated the past from the present, better still it showed me the
relationship that existed between the present and the past; it was like an old-
fashioned peepshow, but a peepshow of the years, the vision not of a moment but
of a person situated in the distorting perspective of Time' (S, 6, p. 292).
The confrontation between these two models of time, one cyclical and eternal,
the other mechanical and linear,28 takes place in Proust through the well-known
episode of the photograph of the grandmother taken by Saint-Loup during the first
visit to Balbec. Following the logic of the Search, this episode is in fact modulated
into three movements that map successive stages in the protagonist's development
and understanding. In the first one, Marcel witnesses his grandmother's sudden
conversion to photography at Balbec, as she prepares to pose for Saint-Loup with
what he thinks is a childish concern for her own appearance (5, 2, pp. 423-4). In
the second episode, it is Marcel who finds himself transformed into the
mechanical, unfeeling objective of the photographic camera as he returns to Paris
from Doncieres unannounced. Unexpected and unseen, he is confronted by the
sight of his grandmother as an 'overburdened old woman', 'red-faced, heavy and

vulgar, sick and day-dreaming, letting her slightly crazed eyes wander over a
book' (S, 3, p. 157). In the third and final modulation of this episode, the hidden
meaning of the first photograph is revealed to Marcel by Francoise on their return
to Balbec after his grandmother's death and just as he finally experiences the full
extent of his loss (S, 4, pp. 180-207).
Through the repetition and revisiting of the motif of the grandmother's
photograph, we witness Marcel struggling to come to terms with the experience of
loss and mourning that is associated with linear temporality. In the first episode in
Balbec, Marcel fails to comprehend the significance of his grandmother's desire
to be photographed, mistaking it for the revelation of a form of vanity of which he
had never thought her capable. His failure to understand has, however, the
paradoxical effect of bringing to light the hidden text behind his grandmother's
desire to be photographed. With 'a few sarcastic and wounding words calculated
to neutralise the pleasure which she seemed to find in being photographed' Marcel
strips away the veil of her 'joyful expression' (5, 2, p. 424) to expose that
'sentence of death' (S, 4, p. 207) which he will only become capable of seeing on
his return to Balbec, in the third modulation of this theme.
This first instalment announces the motif of the camera as, in a sense, death-
giving, which the second episode develops by confronting Marcel himself with
the spectacle of his grandmother as she appears to 'the witness, the observer in
travelling coat and hat, the stranger who does not belong to the house, the
photographer who has called to take a photograph of places which one will never
see again' (S, 3, pp. 155-56). Transformed into the unfeeling, detached eye of the
camera, Marcel is faced with the picture of a woman whom he does not recognise
as the grandmother who existed for him 'always in the same place in the past,
through the transparency of contiguous and overlapping memories'. If that
grandmother was seen through the sight of 'my own soul' (S, 3, p. 157), the
picture taken by eyes 'work[ing] mechanically, like film' (S, 3, p. 156) suddenly
reveals 'for the first time and for a moment only' the existence 'of a new world,
that of Time, that which is inhabited by the strangers of whom we say "He's
begun to age a good deal'" (S, 3, p. 157).29
The mental picture of his grandmother which Marcel takes on his return from
Doncieres in fact already reveals to him the secret behind the first, actual picture
at Balbec - even though, and this is crucial, the two episodes will only become
connected for him in the third stage of his coming to terms with the significance
of this photograph. Returning to Balbec after his grandmother's death, Marcel is
struck for the first time by a real sense of loss as he bends down to unbutton his
boots and is suddenly confronted by a memory of 'the tender preoccupied,
disappointed face of my grandmother' that 'recaptured the living reality in a
complete and involuntary recollection' (S, 4, p. 180). But rather than having the
consoling effect which the experience of involuntary memories will bring about at
the close of the Search, this raising of the dead confronts Marcel with the
irrevocable meaning of the passage of time:
Lost for ever; I could not understand, and I struggled to endure the anguish of
this contradiction: on the one hand an existence, a tenderness, surviving in me
as I had known them, that is to say created for me, a love which found in me so
totally its complement, its goal, its constant lodestar, that the genius of great
men, all the genius that might have existed from the beginning of the world,
would have been less precious to my grandmother than a single one of my
defects; and on the other hand, as soon as I had relived that bliss, as though it
were present, feeling it shot through by the certainty, throbbing like a recurrent
pain, of an annihilation that had effaced my image of that tenderness, had
destroyed that existence, retrospectively abolished our mutual predestination,
made of my grandmother, at the moment when I had found her again as in a
mirror, a mere stranger whom chance had allowed to spend a few years with
me, as she might have done with anyone else, but to whom, before and after
those years, I was and would be nothing.
(S, 4, p. 182)
At this point of realisation, it is as if Marcel finds himself interposed between

the two sides of the photograph taken by Saint-Loup in Balbec. Rather than
presenting the photograph as one of those 'laminated objects whose two leaves
cannot be separated without destroying them both',30 Proust deploys the repetition
of this motif to expose the coexistence within that technology of two paradoxical
and contradictory tendencies. On the one hand, and in accordance with the wishes
of Marcel's grandmother, photography offers its subjects eternal life, or at least, a
memory that is not susceptible of oblivion or forgetfulness. As Francoise points
out to Marcel in the third episode, what prompted his grandmother to have her
photograph taken was the knowledge of being ill and the desire to leave for
Marcel an image of herself that would endure beyond death. Yet, as Marcel's
mother testifies, the photograph - with the aid of Marcel's wounding words -
eventually cannot help but reveal the ravages of time and illness that announced
her impending death and which she wished to keep hidden from her grandchild.
Through the repetition and revisiting of the motif of the grandmother's
photograph the three stages in the hero's development of an understanding of
linear time, of death and loss become clearly mapped onto a process of learning to
see photography and the irrevocable temporality it inscribes.
If photography works in the Search as a way of figuring the model of linear
time that the text sets out to undo, this process of undoing requires first a
familiarisation with the ways in which photography operates. This familiarisation
or process of education is effected not just through the vicissitudes of the

hero/protagonist's life, but also through writing itself, which in the Search
becomes a somewhat mechanical generator of more and more writing. As Mieke
Bal has argued in the most extensive study of the function played by photography
in Proust's text, the recovery of time lost that is the object of the Proustian search
requires an 'externalisation of sensation in space' that is achieved by arresting and
amplifying those fugitive moments that give access to lost memories.31 This
translation of what is essentially an experience of time into a spatial dimension
turns writing into an imitation of the photographic process and thus revolutionises
the narratological order. As we saw in the case of the grandmother's photograph,
the logic that animates the succession of episodes in the Search is not that of a
chain of events linked by a relation of causality, but rather that of the repetition of
scenes and motifs that are progressively brought into sharper and sharper focus.
As Bal points out, this logic of repetition is closer to the mechanical production of
the photographic '"contact sheet'"32 than to the organic return of a rhythm.33 Its
effect is in fact to produce what Bal identifies as a 'serialization'34 of episodes that
are just stopped short of producing their own movement, which is to say that they
are photographs caught at the moment before they become cinematic
photograms.35 The logic of this repetition that does not engender its own
movement does not represent an attempt at giving birth to an alternative
narratological order - that of film - but rather an appropriation of 'a breath-taking
seizure of power by the image'3* in an unprecedented assault on the relentless
linearity of 'the purely mathematical order of the years',37 as Barthes put it
Bal's invitation to read Proust visually alerts us to the ways in which the
response to photography marked by the Search differs from the one offered by
The Man Without Qualities. Where Musil's text goes in search of the historical
configuration that made temporality into a spatial category, Proust's takes this
form of abstracted temporality as its starting point, as a naturalised structure that
is identified with death and the irrecoverable experience of loss. For both texts,
the linear temporality of chronology represents the given order that needs to be
undone, but the means of this undoing are markedly different. As we saw, Musil
deploys the form of the essay to slow down the frenzied temporality of modernity
and indefinitely suspend the interval of time between 1913 and 1914. In Proust,
though, the chronological order is not so much suspended as radically unravelled
through the appropriation of photography's potential for arresting the flow of time
and freezing it into isolated scenes or motifs which then become infinitely
repeatable and susceptible to return. This is mechanical reproduction put at the
service of the work of art, but a mechanical reproduction that is performed by
what Bal calls 'effects of language' rather than by technology.38
The temporality inscribed by photography is subjected by Proust to a profound
transformation that cuts at the heart of the realist conception of the medium. On
the one hand, there is the association of photography with a kind of temporality
that is geometrical (or mathematical, in Barthes's terms), linear and leading
inescapably to death and oblivion. On the other, there is the potential of the
photographic process for infinite repetition of the same instant that transforms the
aorist of absolute, abstract time into a sort of timeless temporality that abolishes
the distinction between past and present. In this second, more innovative
conception, photography becomes a technology of repetition that shares with the
modernist writing of the Search a certain cavalier disregard for grammatical
propriety. As Genette points out in Narrative Discourse, the Search presents its
readers with an experience of linguistic disorientation that finds its most obvious
expression in Proust's manipulation of verb tenses. In the Search the aorist of
classical realist narrative is transformed into the imperfect of habitual, repetitive
actions, turning individual, 'singulative' scenes into exemplary, 'iterative' ones.39
This shift in verb tenses produces a paradoxical situation whereby scenes whose
'richness and precision of detail ensure that no reader can seriously believe they
occur and reoccur in that manner, several times, without any variations'40 are in
fact transformed into 'pseudo-iterative' scenes whose repetition is 'intended to be
taken in its impossible literalness'.41 This impossibility - of singular occurrence
and repetition in the same scene - is the same impossibility that characterises the
Proustian attempt to recover a temporal dimension that is lost and yet always
potentially present in a novel which 'is undoubtedly, as it proclaims, a novel of
Time lost and found again, but [. . .] also, more secretly perhaps, a novel of Time
ruled, captured, bewitched, surreptitiously subverted, or better: perverted*2
This transformation of the singulative, marked by the aorist, into the iterative,
marked by die imperfect, represents the grammatical scaffolding that supports the
serialisation of episodes modelled on the photographic contact sheet analysed by
Bal. To adapt Barthes's terms, the photographic in Proust transforms the absolute
aorist of historical or novelistic narrative into the imperfect of infinite repetition,
not unique, pricking and poignant but rather banal, 'flat' (in Bal's appropriation of
the term), an everyday occurrence.43 It is in this sense that Proust offers for Bal
the early emergence of a postmodern rather than modern sensibility for which
creativity is not expressed through the original, the unique, but rather through the
process of infinite reproducibility that invests both artefacts and experiences, both
objects and subjects. Within this new paradigm, the geometric, abstract character
of modern temporality is not the mark of a harsh, impersonal view of history (as
Barthes would have it in Balzac) but rather the sign of our liberation from history,
however conceived.
While this liberation from history can be - and has been - read as the kind of
irresponsible renunciation that makes of postmodernism 'the cultural logic of late
capitalism',44 it also shares with the Musilian idea of essayism the character of a
Utopia. Both the pseudo-iterative in the Search and the intrusion of essayistic
discourse in The Man Without Qualities produce an amplification of the interval

of time that has a certain delaying effect on the temporality of modernity. In
Proust, this delay gives access to an alternative dimension where time can be
recaptured and shaped into a circular movement a rebours that ties endings and
beginnings together. For Musil this resolution into circularity is barred, not least
because German, like English and unlike French, does not have separate verbal
forms for the preterite and the imperfect.45 The essay cannot construct an
alternative form of temporality to be compared to the Proustian use of the pseudo-
iterative, as it is itself part of the dialectic of timelessness and linear temporality
for which Proust's text offers the resolution of a 'third form'.46 There is no
liberation from history in The Man Without Qualities, but an eternal suspension of
history in the frozen frame of a photogram.
Despite these remarkable differences in Musil's and Proust's approach to the
problematics of historicity, it is clear that both their strategies represent
manipulations of the temporal order that would not have been possible before the
intervention of photography. Photography gives time a grammar, which opens up
time itself to the possibility of manipulation, be it that of the Proustian perversion
of French verb tenses or that of Musil's essayistic expansion. This reduction of
time to a grammatical category marks the moment of an unprecedented gamble
with the historical process, an all-or-nothing game which, as Kracauer pointed
out, may well end with an apocalyptic eradication of consciousness and thought.
We may shudder with Kracauer at the recklessness of this Vabanque-Spiel. Yet
without it modernism itself would have remained an unrealised possibility.
Notes
1 Siegfried Kracauer, 'Photography' in The Mass Ornament: Weimar Essays, trans, and
intro. Thomas Y. Levin (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1995), p. 61
2 This identification of photography with historicism is not exclusive to Kracauer's
writings but can also be found in Benjamin's work, especially in the 'Theses on the
Philosophy of History' [1940], sections V, VI and XV (in Illuminations, ed. and intro.
Hannah Arendt, trans. Harry Zohn (London: Fontana, 1973)). For a sustained study of
the relation between photography and historiography in Benjamin see Eduardo Cadava,
Words of Light: Theses on the Photography of History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1997).
3 Kracauer, 'Photography', p. 49.
4 Kracauer, 'Photography', p. 52.
5 Kracauer,'Photography', p. 61.
6 For the classical statement of this dialectic of technology, see Walter Benjamin, "The
Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction' [ 1936] in Illuminations, ed. and
intro. Hannah Arendt, trans. Harry Zohn (London: Fontana, 1973). A feminist
reworking of this position is offered by Donna Haraway's 'A Cyborg Manifesto:
Science, Technology and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century' in

Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature (London: Free Association,
1991), pp. 149-81.
7 The editions I shall be referring to are Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time, trans. C.
K. Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin, revised D. J. Enright, 6 vols. (London:
Chatto, 1992), Robert Musil, The Man Without Qualities, trans. Sophie Wilkins and
Burton Pike, 2 vols. (London: Picador, 1995). Subsequent references will be
incorporated into the main text as {S, vol., p.) and (MWQ, ch., p.).
8 See Peter Nicholls, Modernisms: A Literary Guide (London: Macmillan, 1995), pp.
273-5 and Franco Moretti, Opere Mondo: saggio sulla forma epica dal Faust a
Cent'anni di solitudine (Turin: Einaudi, 1994), pp. 194-99.
9 These photographs have been identified by Karl Corino as picturing the tennis player
Suzanne Lengien in Vienna in 1925 and an unknown swimmer whose disquieting
image was found by Musil in a magazine bought from Ullstein-Bilderdienst. They are
reproduced in Corino's Robert Musil: Leben und Werken in Bildem und Texten
(Reinbeck bei Hamburg: Rowholt, 1988) on p. 356 (fig. 1) and 357 (fig. 2)
respectively.
10 Corino has argued that the Vienna in which The Man Without Qualities is set
represents a composite amalgam of the city as it was in 1913 (the time of the action)
and in the 1920s (the time of writing). This is particularly clear in the opening
description of city traffic (MWQ, 1, p. 3), which Corino shows to be matching
photographs of 1920s Vienna. This superimposition of different historical times is
clearly articulated in the text by the oscillation that characterises the narrative voice, at
times (almost) identical to Ulrich's interior monologue, but very often (especially in
the essayistic chapters) separated from Ulrich's by the subtlest irony, which becomes a
marker of temporal distance (see, e.g., MWQ, 8, pp. 26-31).
11 Musil's essayistic practice matches fairly closely Adomo's description of the essay as
the formal equivalent of negative dialectics (in "The Essay as Form' [1958] in Notes to
Literature, trans. Shierry Weber Nicholsen, vol. 1 (New York: Columbia UP, 1991),
pp. 3-23). For a discussion of the essay as the dominant form of twentieth-century
literary practice and critical thinking see Claire de Obaldia, The Essayistic Spirit:
Literature, Modern Criticism and the Essay (Oxford: Clarendon, 1995). See also my
study of Virginia Woolfs essayistic practice in Virginia Woolfs Essays: Sketching the
Past (London: Macmillan, 2000).
12 Martina Wagner-Egelhaaf has argued that far from representing the dialectical twin of
essayism, photography functions within The Man Without Qualities as the privileged
site of reflection on the problem of representation with which Musil's text grapples. In
her reading, photography becomes the medium that embodies 'the condition of "being
without qualities", that conception which postulates a detachment from habitual
attitudes in favour of "another" experience of reality' ('"Wirklichkeitsennnerungen:
Photographie und Text bei Robert Musil', Poetica, 23:1-2 (1991), p. 218; my
translation). This alternative experience of reality, Musil's 'der andere ZustancT, could
indeed be identified with the mechanical, abstract dimension of temporality inscribed
by photography, but a further transformation is necessary for that dimension to become
the location of Musil's Utopia, hi 'Towards a New Aesthetics' (1925), Musil suggests
in fact that it is cinema rather than photography which approximates the 'other'
condition (in Precision and Soul: Essays and Addresses, ed. and trans. Burton Pike and
David S. Luft (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1990), pp. 193-208).
13 In spite of the concerted attempts at gathering from the Nachtqfi indications that would
lead to its resolution, The Man Without Qualities remains radically unfinished. For an
overview of the debates around the Nachlqf! in Musil studies see Christian Rogowski,
Distinguished Outsider: Robert Musil and His Critics (Columbia: Camden House,
1994), pp. 26-31.
14 Roland Barthes, 'Introduction to the Structural Analysis of Narrative', in Image-
Music-Text, trans. Stephen Heath (London: Fontana, 1977), p. 98.
15 See, for instance, Walter Benjamin, "The Storyteller' [1936] in Illuminations, ed. and
intro. Hannah Arendt, trans. Harry Zohn (London: Fontana, 1973), pp. 83-107.
16 Barthes, 'Structural Analysis', p. 99.
17 On the well-known distinction in French grammar between the system of the preterite
(for narrative) and that of the perfect (for discourse), see Emile Benveniste's article,
"The Correlations of Tense in the French Verb' in Problems in General Linguistics
[1966], trans. Mary Elizabeth Meek (Coral Gables: University of Miami Press, 1971),
pp. 205-15.
18 Roland Barthes, Writing Degree Zero [1953], trans. Annette Lavers (London: Cape,
1967), p. 27.
19 Barthes, Writing Degree Zero, p 33.
20 Ann Banfield's compelling analysis of the role played by the existence of the preterite
in the development of what we have come to identify as crucial tenets of
poststructuralist discourse similarly stresses the ways in which the notion of an
impersonal, subject-less icriture derives in large part from the French perception 'of
division within its own language' between the temporality of novelistic discourse (le
passe simple), and that of everyday communication, which as Benveniste points out, is
marked by the forms of the perfect. See her 'Ecriture, Narration and the Grammar of
French' in Narrative: from Malory to Motion Pictures, ed. Jeremy Hawthorn (London:
Arnold, 1985), p. 17.
21 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, trans. Richard Howard
(London: Cape, 1980), p. 76.
22 Barthes, Camera Lucida, p. 87.

28 The classical analysis of the dialectic between these two types of temporality in Proust
is that of J. P. Houston, 'Temporal Patterns in A la recherche du temps perdu', French
Studies, 16 (1962): 33-45.
29 For Beckett, this is one of the crucial episodes of the Search for its exploration of the
effects of habit on perception (see Proust[ 1965] (London: Calder, 1999), pp. 27-9).
Brassal also takes this episode as the centre of the Proustian engagement with
photography, in Marcel Proust sous I'emprise de la photographie (Paris: Gallimard,
1997), p. 92. Mary Price shares with Beckett the sense that this episode illustrates a
certain stripping off of the veil of memories which she compares to Benjamin's
argument on the loss of the aura through mechanical reproduction (The Photograph: a
Strange Confined Space (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994), pp. 150-56).
31 Mieke Bal, The Mottled Screen: Reading Proust Visually, trans. Anna-Louise Milne
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), pp. 183.
32 Bal, Mottled Screen, p. 201.
33 'Rhythm' is the term Barthes takes from Bachelard to designate the narratological
innovation performed by Proust's text where '"systems of moments" (Bachelard again)
succeed each other, but also correspond to each other' ('Longtemps je me suis couche
de bonne heure . . .' [ 1978] in The Rustle of Language, trans. Richard Howard
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), p. 282).
35 This reading of Proust's appropriation of the pre-cinematic photogram is supported
also by Garret Stewart's study of modernism as being placed 'between film and
screen', that is, between the material basis of the cinematic text and its realisation in
the projection on screen. For Stewart, the photogram works as the textual/material
residue of technology which disrupts narrative cinema and the illusion of realism just
as the phonogram in modernist texts undoes narrative sequence and referentiality. See
Between Film and Screen: Modernism's Photo Synthesis (Chicago: Chicago University
Press, 1999).
37 Barthes, 'Longtemps', p. 282.
38 Bal, Mottled Screen, p. 201. Compare Proust's transformation of writing into a
photography of time to the photographic practice of the surrealists who, as Rosalind
Krauss has argued, worked to turn photography into (modernist) writing. In surrealism,
'the photographic medium is exploited to produce a paradox: the paradox of reality
constituted as a sign - or presence transformed into absence, into representation, into
spacing, into writing' ('The Photographic Conditions of Surrealism' in The Originality
o/the Avant-Garde and Other Modernist Myths (Cambridge. MIT, 1985), p. 112).
39 Gerard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method [ 1972], trans. Jane E.
Lewin, foreword Jonathan Culler (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980), p. 116.
40 Genette, Narrative Discourse, p. 121

41 Genette, Narrative Discourse, p. 122.
42 Genette, Narrative Discourse, p. 160.
43 In 'L 'Imparfait de I 'Objectif. the Imperfect of the Object Glass' (Camera Obscura: A
Journal of Feminism and Film Theory 24 (1990) : 65-87), Ann Banfield has proposed
that the naming of the photograph as the 'this has been' proposed by Barthes in
Camera Lucida effectively hides its true verbal referent - the imperfect. Like Bal,
Banfield insists that Barthes's interpretation places photography on the same side as
Proust's involuntary memory rather than as the 'counter-memory' that Barthes
identifies with the aorist/preterite. But she also has to admit that the imperfect of the
photograph does not correspond to that of speech but to 'a use of the imparfait
restricted to written narrative and, specifically to the novel'. As such, this novelistic
imparfait corresponds to Proust's perverse use of the pseudo - iterative and marks 'a
perspective unoccupied by any subject, a kind of "camera consciousness'" (p. 76), that
is, the impersonal, in-human perspective also marked by the aorist.
44 See Fredric Jameson, Postmodernism or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism
(London: Verso, 1991), where Jameson in fact identifies the death of historical time
explicitly with the use of the aorist, even in languages such as English, where the tense
does not exist in isolation from the imperfect and as a separate verbal form.
Commenting on Doctorow's Ragtime, Jameson claims that it is 'as though Doctorow
had set out systematically to produce the effect or the equivalent, in his language, of a
verbal tense we do not possess in English, namely, the French preterite (or passd
simple), whose "perfective" movement, as Emile Benveniste taught us, serves to
separate events from the present of enunciation and to transform the stream of time and
action into so many finished, complete, and isolated punctual event objects which find
themselves sundered from any present situation (even that of the act of story telling or
enunciation)' (p. 24).
45 As Maurice Grevisse, Le bon usage: grammaire francaise (Paris: Duculot, 1980)
points out, the French distinction between passe simple and imparfait is not repeated in
the Germanic languages where one single form ('I took' in English, 'Ich nahm' in
German) translates both ' Je prenais' and 'Je pris'. Although Grevisse claims that the
name of preterite designates only the German and English forms and not the French
one of le passe simple, both Benveniste and Barthes use either the preterite or the aorist
as synonyms for the French form.
46 Once again, Barthes's term for the Search which, as he points out, emerged out of 'a
crucial period of hesitation' which saw Proust 'at the intersection of two paths, two
genres, torn between two "ways" he does not yet know could converge, any more than
the Narrator knows, for a very long time - until Gilberte's marriage to Saint-Loup -
that Swarm's Way meets the Guermantes' Way: the way of the Essay (of Criticism)
and the way of the Novel' ('Longtemps', p. 278). hi this dialectic, photography would
either occupy the side of the novel, of narrative and metonymy (as it does in Musil) or
that of an in-between that prevents the opposition of essay and novel from settling into
a rigid binary (Proust's solution).
After the Modern
10
How to Read the Image? Beckett's
Televisual Memory
Lydia Rainford
Samuel Beckett has long been figured as a ruthless interrogator of linguistic

failure. Whether this interrogation is perceived as a project of purposeful
reduction and negation, or as something more mired in repetition and
proliferation, Beckett's work is invariably read as an attempt to strip away what
he referred to as 'the word surface'.1 Given this critical preoccupation, it is
surprising that Beckett's work in the visual media, and in particular his plays for
television, has remained relatively unconsidered.
Studies of the late work have tended to assimilate the television plays into more
general analyses of Beckett's later, minimalist style.2 They are considered mainly
in spatial terms, as another manifestation of the writer's paring down of
characterisation and dialogue and his increasing reliance on gesture, rhythm and
movement. When the televisual medium is addressed more directly, it is
commonly, and predictably, in the context of asserting Beckett's final
abandonment of the communicative possibility of language. Jonathan Kalb argues
that the television plays reduce art to an abstract set of movements and images,
rather like dance or painting.3 Enoch Brater, while noting that words and pictures
are equally 'canned' in the television plays, nevertheless asserts that Beckett's use
of technology 'establishes a truly "concrete" poetry', a 'poetry of form and
structure which, in the process of eroding the obvious identity of his characters,
restores them, curiously enough, to life.'4 Martin Esslin describes the shift to
visual media as a form of aesthetic purification, writing that the television plays
reach the 'point zero of language' and attain,
the compression of the maximum of experience into the most telling and
graphic metaphor which could then be incarnated, made visible and audible, in
the most concise and concrete form of a living, moving image: a poem without
words.5
177
The emphasis here is on an immediacy and presence enabled by the visual image
enables, which verbal communication could never muster. 'Experience' is
incarnated and the wayward meanderings of language can be surpassed. Esslin's
is clearly a particularly idealised reading, but it gives a strong flavour of the
typical critical figuration of the image in Beckett's oeuvre as opponent of and
logical successor to the word. A hierarchy comes into play whereby language
fades out in the face of the imaginative plenitude of the visual picture.
This characterisation of the visual medium in Beckett's work is understandable
given Beckett's defence of film as a serious art form on the grounds of 'the word's
inadequacy'.6 However, it also seems a peculiarly essentialist gesture to attribute
such pure representational powers to the image, given that Beckett's
preoccupation with expressive failure extends across different literary forms and
technologies. Protagonists from Molloy, to Krapp, to the speakers of Texts for
Nothing battle with the unruly movements of their recorded and represented
'experience', which unpin and deform the integrity of their knowledge and
recollections. If attempts to inscribe the truth fail so repeatedly in these narratives
and plays, why should they suddenly succeed in the medium of television?
A marked exception to the critical readings of the media plays is provided by
the work of Gilles Deleuze. His essay 'L'Epuise' (in English translation 'The
Exhausted'), first published as a coda to the French translation of Quad, also
interprets the plays in terms of a negation of language, but here negation
represents something far more radical than a poised movement towards aesthetic
purity and expressive integrity.7 According to Deleuze, Beckett's work for
television functions as an 'exhaustion' of the 'possible', a state of persisting
beyond all combinations of goals, plans, preferences and significations. This total
exhaustion is the culmination of a gradual decline throughout Beckett's literary
oeuvre, which Deleuze divides into three different 'languages'. The first,
language 1, the 'language of names', exhausts what Deleuze calls subjective and
objective possibility by combining all the different variables of a particular
situation (E, p. 156). This language is exemplified by the eponymous hero's
rigorous ordering of his biscuits inMurphy, or, in the Trilogy, by Molloy's sucking
stones. Language II not only exhausts the possible with words, but exhausts the
words themselves. This is 'no longer a language of names but of voices', the
voices of characters like those in The Trilogy, who cannot cease to speak because
they can never fully possess or coincide with the words they use or the things they
speak about:
it is always an Other who speaks, since the words have not waited for me, and
there is no language other than the foreign. (E, p. 157).
How to Read the Image? 179
The third language, language 111, is the one Deleuze associates with Beckett's late
work. Although this language can co-exist with and be 'folded' in words (such as
it is in Imagination Dead Imagine, or Worstward Ho), it 'accomplishes its own
mission' in the televisual medium, because it aspires to what Deleuze terms
'Image'. This Image may be aural or visual, but its defining characteristic is that it
breaks from the 'calculations and significations, ... intentions and personal
memories' which weigh down words, and 'imprison' us (E, p. 173). Instead, the
Image creates a 'hiatus' or hole in the surface of language which allows for 'the
emergence of the void or the visible in itself, the silence or the audible in itself
(Ibid.). Thus Quad operates simply as Space and silence; Ghost Trio, as Space
with voice and music; ...but the clouds... as Image with voice and poetry; and
Nacht und Tratime as Image, silence, song and music (E, p. 162). Reduced to
these components the television plays function as an 'amnesiac witness' to the
obliteration of suffocating linguistic content (E, p. 170).
Deleuze's reading is an intriguing one, because it is proximate but contrary to
other interpretations. While the movement away from language and towards
'image' is clearly traced as a progression in Beckett's work, its final realisation is
not read as the breakthrough into concrete representation of experience so much
as a complete rupturing of identity and memory. 'Image' signifies exhaustion and
'void' rather than immediacy and presence. This means that the 'human' quality,
which according to most readings, resonates through the television plays, is
according to Deleuze, completely absent.8
So why should the media plays sustain such contrary readings, and how does
Deleuze's conception of the image claim to capture Beckett's specific
manipulation of the televisual medium? What, precisely, do Beckett's
manipulations of the medium suggest about his ideas of visual and verbal
mediation? In order to answer these questions, this chapter will seek to sketch the
conceptual implications of the different notions of the 'image', and the extent to
which they are echoed, or not, by Beckett. I will argue that the habitually
oppositional relation between 'word' and 'image' set up by critical interpretations
misrepresents the complex picture of mediation which is formed in Beckett's
media plays. I will also suggest an alternative idea of verbal and visual
technologies - one indebted to the work of Jacques Derrida - which I believe
speaks more clearly to the structure and resonance of the plays.
Deleuze, 'image' and exhaustion
Deleuze's concepts of 'exhaustion' and 'Image' are very specific, and stem from
his exposition of the 'movement-image' in his two-volume book Cinema9 Here
he defines a modern ontology based on a mechanical notion of movement, as
opposed to a Platonic one based on eternal Forms or Ideas (Cl, p. 7). In keeping
with this 'open system', Deleuze follows Bergson's notion of perception, which
rejects the philosophical tendency to consider it either as the mental representation
of objective matter (materialism) or as the creative consciousness that forms the
order of the universe (idealism).10 While both of these opposed choices construct
perception as a point of origin and as distinct from mediated matter, Bergson
figures it as part of the constant flux and movement of matter in the universe, and
the manifestation of this movement as images." According to Deleuze's
definition, movement-images exist on a 'plane of immanence' as part of a 'world
of universal variation, of universal undulation' (Cl, p. 58). Although this
undifferentiated universe settles and solidifies into systems which necessitate a
place or object to which the movement-image is directed, in their 'mother' state
the movement-images are matter which has not yet become, and as such they need
no source through which to appear, or thing to which to appear.12 Movement-
images contain their own luminosity, and perception per se is simply one point of
action and reaction in a long chain of acting and reacting matter. As Deleuze puts
it,
How could my brain contain images since it is one image among others?
External images act on me, transmit movement to me, and I return movement:
how could images be in my consciousness, since I am myself image, that is,
movement? And can I even, at this level, speak of 'ego', of eye, of brain and of
body? Only for simple convenience; for nothing can yet be identified in this
way. (Cl, p. 58)
It is this state of unidentified, undifferentiated movement that is most important to

Deleuze's assessment of the specificity of cinema, and of Beckett's film and
television work. For Deleuze, as for Bergson, subjective perception is 'subtracted'
and 'framed' from total, objective perception, and is part of the set of reactions to
and sensations of movement that gradually become engraved as a system of
habitual and regular responses: the voluntary memory.13 However, whereas
Bergson regards cinema as the corresponding 'snapshot' registration of reality by
these responses - and thus too ordered and constrained to reflect the universal
flow of movement - Deleuze regards the cinema as having no essential relation to
systematised perception (Cl, p. 57). Rather, it 'lacks a centre of anchorage and of
horizon', which may enable an unloosening of subjective responses, and all their
perceptions, and a return to 'the matrix or the movement-image as it is in itself, in
its acentred purity' (Cl, pp. 58 & 66).
Thus while Deleuze's analysis of cinema is concerned with the division of the
movement-image into three different 'varieties' - the action-image, the
perception-image, and the affection-image - his main preoccupation is with the
propensity of these living images to de-differentiate into the pure movement-
image. Significantly, Beckett's only work for cinema, Film, represents for
Deleuze the anticipation of one such moment. In Cinema I, Deleuze considers
Film as the 'exhaustion' of Bishop Berkeley's theory of being as extraneous
perception. The film's lone protagonist ('0') is resistant to being perceived by
anything. He is pursued, then confronted by the intent perception of the camera-
eye ('E'), which, when finally seen from 'O's' perspective, turns out to share his
face and black eye patch. In his fihn script, Beckett describes this action as the
'search of non-being in flight from extraneous perception breaking down in
inescapability of self-perception'.14 Deleuze describes it as the traversal of 'the
three great elementary images of the cinema', culminating in a still frame which
suggests the 'extinction' of the character's subjectivity and the 'exhaustion' of
perception.15 Yet as far as Deleuze is concerned, this is 'only a means in relation
to a more profound end':
It is a question of attaining once more the world before man, before our own
dawn, the position where movement was ... under the regime of universal
variation, and where light, always propagating itself, had no need to be
revealed. (Cl, p. 68)
In other words, although Beckett's film only portrays the systematic wearing out
of Berkleyan perception - images in a lived state - it does so as a means of
anticipating a form of cinema that would express the pure movement-image. In
'The Greatest Irish Film', Deleuze even echoes the language of Beckett's novel
Murphy, asserting that with the death of the film's perception, the character will
be returned to 'the luminous void' as 'an impersonal yet singular atom'.16
Deleuze's reading of Beckett's television plays in 'The Exhausted' develops
this analysis in line with his theorisation of the 'time-image' in his second volume
on cinema. Here he traces modern cinema's fulfilment of that which classical
cinema made possible: the direct, rather than indirect, exposure of 'intervalfs] of
movement' (C2, p. 41).17 The new time-image shatters the sensory-motor schema
'from the inside', and cinema now operates through non-localizable relations (C2,
p. 40). Actions and perceptions 'cease to be linked together' and the image is
constituted through 'purely optical and sound situations' (C2, p. 28). The terms
Deleuze uses to describe the effect of this cinema are similar to those of 'The
Exhausted' in their emphasis on a pure semiotics of the visual, and direct, degree
zero revelation. It 'brings[s] the emancipated senses into direct relation with time
and thought' (C2, p. 17). It 'makes us grasp, ... something intolerable and
unbearable', and thereby seeks to become 'visionary, to produce a means of
knowledge and action out of pure vision' (C2, p. 18). The 'gaps' and 'hiatuses' in
language and memory which Deleuze sees in Beckett's television plays are thus
the intervals which open the closed and localised world of 'subjective' perception
to the flux and dissonance of 'image' without temporal or spatial enclosure. The
persistence of 'possibility' is clearly allied to the persistence of sensory-motor
schema and indirect, linguistic semiotics:
Language 'does not say what is, it says what might be...' (E, p. 202)18
Language states the possible, but only by readying it for a realization. ... But
the realization of the possible always proceeds through exclusion, because it
presupposes preferences and goals that vary, always replacing the proceeding
ones. (£,pp. 152-3)
Thus where Film implied but stopped just short of the complete 'exhaustion of
the possible', the television plays inhabit it Subjective and linguistic perception
are methodically obliterated until all that is left are 'opsigns' and 'sonsigns',
constituting the 'transparent material' of the pure cinematic / televisual event (C2,
p. 34). Appropriately, when Deleuze writes about the 1976 play ...but the clouds...
the reference to Beckett's Murphy becomes more definite and actualised. Now the
image is at the threshold of its lived state, suspended in the very act of self-
dissipation, rushing towards '"the dark ... of... absolute freedom'" (£, p. 170).
Resonances and Problems
Deleuze's reading is persuasive in several ways. It chimes with the tone of

Beckett's early critical writing on language and memory. In his much-quoted
letters to Axel Kaun and in the Three Dialogues with Georges Duthuit, Beckett's
constant theme was his desire to express the 'nothingness' of expression, to
emulate the 'giddy heights' and 'unfathomable abysses' of Beethoven's music, to
tear aside the 'veil' of language and 'get at the things (or the Nothingness) behind
it.'19 Although Bergson's influence is indirect, Beckett employs a broadly
Bergsonian model of memory in Proust, equating the artistic process with
involuntary memory, which erupts into and disrupts Habit or voluntary memory.20
The 'exhaustion' described in Deleuze's theorisation of cinema can thus be
equated with Beckett's more unequivocal aesthetic writings. Deleuze's image-
ontology also corresponds with the distinctly anti-Platonic nature of Beckett's
conception of memory and knowledge. I will say more about this below.
However, Beckett's aesthetic theorising is not necessarily identical with
Beckett's artistic practice. For all of Beckett's critical declarations about the
inadequacy of language, and for all his characters' attempts to give up speaking
and remembering and lapse into the void, traces of language and memory - even
if they are only ruined traces - always seem to remain. Deleuze's emphasis on
forgetfulness and emptiness does not correlate with this. His references to
Murphy's 'absolute freedom' in connection to the cinematic image are a case in
point. In Beckett's novel this freedom is never achievable through a systematic

'ridding' of the self by the self, and the state Murphy reaches in dying accidentally
is not necessarily the same 'void' he has aspired to through his philosophical
techniques. And while Deleuze is careful to write of the void as being 'folded' in
language, and of language 'turning against itself, his mapping of the path to the
'void or the visible in itself seems dialectical in a way which is alien to the
movement of Beckett's work.21 In one particular rhetorical flourish 'The
Exhausted' declares "This is the final word, "nohow"', putting an absolutist twist
on the last words of Beckett's Worstward Ho, which are, in fact, "nohow on". This
curtails the ironic interrelation of Beckett's negated yet ever persistent phrases.22
The totalising thrust of Deleuze's reading is, of course, indicative of the scale of
his reinterpretation of prevailing visual and ontological categories. Nevertheless, I
would argue that the 'amnesiac' break from material language in this late work is
not as pure and definite as Deleuze implies, even if it does trouble classical
models of mediation. If we are concerned with the significance and specificity of
Beckett's use of visual technology, we should be careful not to override the
complexity of its relation to subjective memory and language in his television
plays.23 Indeed, a close reading of the very play Deleuze describes in such
forgetful terms will suggest this.
...but the clouds...
...but the clouds... was written in 1976 and first televised in 1977, in a programme
entitled Shades, alongside Ghost Trio and the television version of the stage play
Not I2* Like the later Nacht und Traiime, ...but the clouds... and Ghost Trio work
through a methodical layering of different camera shots in 'shades of grey', but
whereas Nacht und Traiime and Ghost Trio are haunted predominantly by
fragments of music (Schubert's Leid and the Largo of Beethoven's Fifth Piano
Trio), ...but the clouds... is haunted by a fragment of poetry.
The play's title is a line from W. B. Yeats' "The Tower' (1926), a poem which
attempts to find some form of reconciliation with decrepitude and death. In Yeats'
poem, the old poet sits in his lonely tower, thinking of his lost vigour and youth,
and the characters, real and imagined, who inspired his love and poetry. Weary
and embittered, he struggles to muster the courage to continue in his 'sedentary
trade'. In the last stanza he faces his fears and puts his faith in the transformatory
powers of the poetic imagination.
Now shall I make my soul,

Compelling it to study
In a learned school
Till the wreck of body,
Slow decay of blood,

Testy delirium
Or dull decrepitude,
Or what worse evil come —
The death of friends, or death
Of every brilliant eye
That made a catch in the breath —
Seem but the clouds of the sky
When the horizon fades;
Or a bird's sleepy cry
Among the deepening shades.25
The end of Yeats' poem is not without its ironies, for the vast effort of his soul's
study cannot fend off the 'slow decay' of his old age, or recapture the breathless
brilliance of past visions and events. Nevertheless, a faith persists in the possible
transmogrification of the mutable into a state of truth and permanence that
transcends loss. This faith pays homage to Blake's insistence on the immortality
of the imagination, and reflects Yeats' (Neo-)Platonic ideas of the soul as that
which stores and recollects ideal Forms from the eternal world of 'being'.26 Yeats'
modern version of the poetic sublime is evoked in the metaphorical transformation
of the final images of the poem. They echo and resolve the preceding stanzas'
comparison of the mother bird who builds her 'wild nest' to 'Man' who makes a
'superhuman / Mirror-resembling dream.'27 The process of anamnesis enacted by
the poem is trusted to turn painful introspection into something suggestive of
future regeneration.
...but the clouds... repeats the themes of Yeats' poem to different ends. Beckett
hijacks the last four lines of the poem and by setting them in his new, 'televisual'
context, interrogates their redemptive capacity. The play begins with a near shot
of a figure (called 'M') dressed in a long grey robe and slumped over an invisible
table, so that his face is not visible. This view returns throughout the play. In
between, M is repeatedly seen moving in and out of a lighted circle surrounded by
darkness, while his voice ('V') explains that these movements are his daily
routine: he makes his entrance from the 'west shadow' having 'walked the roads
since break of day', he goes to his closet to change into his robe and skull-cap, re-
enters, then turns and vanishes 'within' his 'little sanctum' where he crouches in
the dark and, as he says, 'begs of her to appear'. This 'her' is a woman ('W'),
presumably a lost loved one, whose face appears on the screen for a few seconds
whenever he speaks of summoning her.
The play shares the profound sense of mourning evoked in Yeats' poem, and is
even more obsessive in its tracing of remembered images. Indeed, there is a
duplication of the memorial process, for the man is not only remembering the
image of the woman, but is remembering how he remembered her.28 His voice
describes in meticulous, weary detail the four possible 'cases' of his encounter
with the ghostly face of the woman: her not appearing, her appearing, her
appearing and lingering, and her appearing and speaking. When she appears and
speaks, her lips mouth the last lines of the Yeats poem, but cannot be heard. The
camera images follow the man's narration and repeat the sequence in silence,
when he has finished speaking, until he interjects to begin his recollections again.
The structuration of ...but the clouds... around the appearing and disappearing
image of the woman suggests a further, non-verbal echo of Yeats' poem: the line
in 'The Tower' where he wonders 'Does the imagination dwell the most / Upon a
woman won or a woman lost.' However, Beckett's play seems to repeat and
replicate the won / lost dichotomy to the point where the distinction between the
two is confused. The image of the woman's face is what the man is desperate to
retrieve, and its presence seems to be as real to him as was the original woman.
He speaks of her 'unseeing eyes' which he 'so begged when alive to look at me':
the ambiguity of this line blurs the distinction between the live, present, 'won'
woman and the dead, absent, 'lost' one. Were her eyes ever seeing, was she ever
not 'lost' to him? Yet no matter how carefully visual and verbal remembrances are
layered, the two remain dissociated. The woman's appearance is arbitrary and
unpredictable: she does not come in response to his 'begging of the mind' and
when she appears, the luminous close-up image of her face, gazing to the left of
the camera-view, is antithetical to the shot of the anonymous crouched man,
slumped to the right. Attempts at verbal communication also fail, for while the
lines of the Yeats poem seem to be the connecting link between the man and
woman, she never mouths more than 'but...the...clouds', and he speaks the lines in
a mechanical, monotone way, as if their meaning is unrecognised. The act of
recalling and reordering the past so carefully brings no inspiration or
reconciliation and fails to promise a transformation of the 'lost' face into a less
painful image. We are left only with a continual haunting.
Whatever the final significance these of visual, verbal, cinematic and literary
associations, they do seem to undercut Yeats' faith in the process of anamnesis
and the retrieval of a 'superhuman' image. The deliberate, 'knowing' memory
persistently fails to recall what it seeks, and the image only comes as an
involuntary or spontaneous memory, full of affect but without comprehension or
true presence. 'M's' predicament is much like the one Beckett describes in Proust,
where 'Habit' destroys the 'miraculous relief and clarity' of spontaneously
remembered visions even as they are recalled, so that 'no effort of deliberate
rememoration can impart or restore' them.29 Past and present, voluntary and
involuntary memories are unable to coincide productively. This anti-Platonic
current in the play's action, and the disruption it brings to any notion of essential
'soul' or idealised memory, problemau'ses those readings that stress the 'concrete
poetry' of the media plays. It might, in turn, lead us to map ...but the clouds... onto
Deleuze's image-ontology, and regard Beckett's layering of images and poetry as
the means to make words 'loosen their grip' (E, p. 173) and open them up to the
'void' and 'silence', the pure, chaotic movement which lies behind. However, as
ever with Beckett, things are not so certain. For while the sequence of images
trouble Yeats' Platonism, and Yeats' enduring faith in poetic redemption, they do
not exhaust or forget them. Indeed, the verbal exceeds the visual as much as the
visual exceeds the verbal. By the end of the play, through their constant repetition,
the lines of Yeats' poem have gained a ghostly status equal to that of the image of
the woman. They are the last thing we witness as we watch the play, and they
seem to comment on the uncanny nature of the televisual image itself, as the play,
'fades out' like Yeats' 'horizon'.
53. Dissolve to S[long shot of set] empty. 2 seconds. Ml in robe and

skullcap emerges from north shadow, advances Jive steps and stands facing
camera. 2 seconds. He turns left and advances five steps to disappear in east
shadow. 2 seconds. He emerges in hat and greatcoat from east shadow,
advances five steps and stands facing west shadow. 2 seconds. He advances
five steps to disappear in west shadow. 2 seconds.
54. V: Right.
55. Dissolve to M. 5 seconds.
56. Dissolve to W. 5 seconds.
57. V: '...but the clouds of the sky ... when the horizon fades...or a bird's
sleepy cry ... among the deepening shades...' 5 seconds.
58. Dissolve to M. 5 seconds.
59. Fade out on M.
60. Dark. 5 seconds.
(CDW, p. 422)
The particular sense of 'fading out' here is important, because it differs both
from Yeats' definition and Deleuze's. Where Yeats' fading horizon implies the
resurrection of the natural cycle (day following night, singing following silence),
Beckett's implies no change of state. It simply marks another fading of language
and image in the sequence of disunited, unnatural fadings. Nevertheless, this does
not amount to an exhaustion, because the persistence of the Yeats reference, and
its seepage into the visual action, suggests reappearance. The final fade out simply
returns the play to its beginning: five seconds of darkness which fade up onto the
shot of 'M'. This means that, contrary to Deleuze's reading, the bird and cloud
imagery does not announce 'that the end of the possible is at hand for the
protagonist' (E, p. 170) and the figure 'M', sitting in his 'little sanctum' is not
reduced to being an 'amnesiac witness' (E, p. 155). Rather, the alteration of the
meaning of the 'fade out' achieved by the juxtaposition of literary and televisual
effects suggests an interminable memorial process; one which is other to Platonic
recollection, with its conscious conjuring of original presence, but which lacks the
movement towards the pure exhaustion and forgetting of Deleuze's cinematic
'assemblage'.
Far from escaping or extinguishing language in favour of the image, ...but the
clouds... creates an ironic and mutually contaminating balance between the two
media that is central to the play's interrogation of perception, memorial
inscription and recollection. The play does, indeed, disrupt the laborious 'habit' of
voluntary memory, and deform the process of anamnesis, but it achieves this by
troubling the apparent purity and immediacy of the image as much as by revealing
the inadequacy and imprecision of the word. Memory in ...but the clouds... is an
endless web of visual and aural impressions whose technical mechanisms
confound the sense of it taking place within, and being possessed by, the
subjective spirit or 'soul'. Neither, however, can its 'matter' be said to exist in a
wholly external, objective frame.30 The doubling of 'mnemotechnics', and the
complex interrelation of the specific forms of the two media, is precisely what
reinforces the sense of alterity haunting the play; of the remembered object being
not quite itself, happening elsewhere, in another time. To consider the visual and
verbal in an oppositional relation, and to privilege one over the other, is to destroy
the ghostliness of the play.
How, then, might the specificity of visual technology in Beckett's work for
television be theorised without swamping the delicate cross-currents of different
forms, texts and media within particular plays? I would like to answer this
question by turning to some of Jacques Derrida's comments on the specificity of
filmic and televisual technology. Derrida is broadly sympathetic to Deleuze's
critical and philosophical projects, but his deconstructive contamination of
ontological and epistemological boundaries seems to guard against the
teleological and oppositional slant of Deleuze's reading. And although his
comments do not address Beckett specifically, they resonate closely with the tone
of Beckett's late plays, and with what Beckett seems to be saying about image,
mediation and memorial inscription.
Derrida, speciality and the archive
While writing with a different agenda to Deleuze's, Derrida's work is also

embroiled in the technical specificity of philosophical models of perception and
memory. His enduring battle with what he calls the 'historical repression and
suppression of writing since Plato' challenges the constitution of 'the origin of
philosophy as episteme, and of truth as the unity of logos and phone',31 The
metaphysical tradition has privileged an idea of presence: an essential, revealed
truth, encountered by a being in the moment of its origin. The Platonic

philosopher relies on the act of anamnesis to recall pre-existing ideas and make
them 'present' again. This may be prompted by 'hypomnesic' tools, such as
writing, but the technical aspect of recollection always remains external to the
'present' event of the thing remembered: it is merely an aide-memoire. Derrida's
logic of differance deconstructs this notion. If, philosophically-speaking, we are
waiting for the return of the origin, the pure event, and this event is mediated
through a language that is not yet present - in the sense of being essentially true to
the thing it describes - to a subjective consciousness who is not (yet) wholly
identical to their pure state of being, then it was ever thus. As Derrida says,
'language has started without us, in us and before us' which means that the
moment in which we speak is 'always already past, hence without a past
present'.32 This also means that the written trace is not in fact exterior to the act of
retrieving knowledge, but is a constitutive part of the process. It is simply being
repressed by a philosophical structure frightened of 'that which threatens presence
and mastering of absence' (FS, p. 197).
Derrida's marking of the repressed techne has particular bearing on his analyses
of memorial and archival processes. In 'Freud and the Scene of Writing', and in
his more recent book, Archive Fever, Derrida explores the way in which 'the
metaphorics of the written trace' return to haunt Freud's descriptions of his
psychoanalytic model of memory, in spite of his attempts to conform to the
materialist register of the natural sciences.33 Freud described the workings of the
memory as a series of impressions made on the psychic apparatus. These 'memory
traces' differ in the conscious and unconscious realm (what is necessarily
forgotten by the conscious can leave an indelible mark on the unconscious) but at
the same time the two realms are in constant communication with each other.
Faced with the simultaneous 'breach' and connection between conscious and
unconscious, Freud attempted to make sense of this complex relation through his
analogy of 'the mystic writing pad': a wax slab covered with a transparent sheet
that would record an impression made on both surfaces, which could then be
made invisible by pulling the sheet away from the slab. For Derrida, this analogy
exposes rather than resolves the difficulty Freud has in modelling a fully
integrated psychic apparatus because it relies on 'a certain outside' (AF, p. 19), a
technical element which means that what is recorded
cannot be reduced to memory: neither to memory as conscious reserve, nor to

memory as rememoration, as act of recalling. The psychic archive comes
neither under mneme nor under anamnesis.
(AF, p. 92)
In other words, the written or technical trace of memory cannot be thought of as

an additional, purely external mechanism, and this inevitably alters the status of
the psychic material. It ceases to be the preserve of a discrete or 'private' space,
and because its 'presence' as a remembered event is open to the contingencies of
its technical transcription from its first moment, its recollection is a potentially
never-ending process of alterable, reiterable inscriptions and transcriptions.
Indeed, it leads Derrida to wonder in Archive Fever whether the constitution of the
psychic apparatus - the very content of its memorial archive - would be affected
by modern technological developments in recording, inscribing and reproducing
'so-called live memory' (AF, p. 15).
Derrida approaches this question in relation to visual technological
developments in a set of interviews on the subject of television, entitled
Echographies34 Here he speaks about the specificity of televisual technology in
double-edged terms. On the one hand, it is unique in its ability to record the
singularity and immediacy of the 'live moment' and reproduce it in another time
or context. Whereas a scribe in the nineteenth century would 'leave no living trace
of his voice, face, hand etc. in his text', now a moment is captured immediately,
which was live, which is live, which one thinks is simply live, but which will
be reproduced as if live, with reference to this present and this moment,
anywhere and anytime, weeks or years from now, reinscribed in other settings
or'contexts'.
(ET, p. 47)
On the other hand, this very capacity to reproduce the 'live moment' in other
times and contexts, to repeat a moment that has already been lost, interferes with
its temporal and phenomenal presence:
because this 'live' moment will be able to be, is already, captured by machines
which will transport or show them God knows when and God knows where,
we already know that death is here. (Ibid.)
Although televisual recording is apparently more immediate, and more

accurate, it is still susceptible to the play of differance that Derrida has already
associated with 'older' technologies, such as writing. Indeed, the differantial
effect seems even more exaggerated here, because of the exaggerated mobility and
reiterability of the recorded image.35 Derrida describes this more 'brilliant' but
already deathly quality of the image as the 'spectral', because
it is at once visible and invisible, at once phenomenal and non-phenomenal: a

trace which marks in advance the present of its absence. (ET, p. 131)
Thus the contingencies of the technical trace infect the moment-to-moment work
of composing and situating the present (and the past present) with an otherness
and an absence which is replicated rather than banished by this work. The 'live
image' of television is caught up in a spectral movement which cannot be
recuperated by the desire for immediacy and authenticity, no matter how well it
may fool us into thinking that it is 'the living image of the living' rather than 'the
simulacrum of life' (ET, p. 47). This speciality further alters our understanding of
memory, because it exposes and exaggerates the diremption between the
movements, times and contexts of recording and reproducing remembered
material. It conforms to neither the notion of memory 'as conscious reserve' nor
to the notion of memory 'as act of recalling', but implies a form of archive which
lies at the crossover of immediate and recollected events, spontaneous, internal
and repetitive, external experience.
Derrida's reading of television and cinema resembles Deleuze's insofar as it
breaks from the metaphysical distinction between 'matter' and 'mediation', and
emphasises the mobility of terms within the philosophical structure. Both readings
also disrupt the sense of film acting to preserve or recover 'presence'. However,
Derrida's delineation of the specificity of the 'new' technology does not amount
to a completely other ontology, unlike Deleuze's 'Chaos' of Being. The spectral is
not a thing 'in itself, but a haunting and contamination of existing boundaries. Its
experience is not of a pure otherness or a pure absence, and therefore it cannot be
thought of as that which heralds a pure 'void' or 'exhaustion'. Elsewhere, Derrida
describes the abyssal and undecidable element which haunts definitions and
decisions as 'the open mouth, that which speaks as well as that which signifies
hunger.'36 This also means that cinematic and televisual technologies do not
necessarily represent a complete rupture from 'words' and their 'associations',
even while the technology radically reconfigures the governance of their
destination and content. Throughout Echographies, Derrida resists the temptation
to think of the televisual image as being phenomenally and temporally purer, more
immediate, than other media. And while, in another interview about
deconstruction and the visual arts, he asserts that the 'specificity' of the cinematic
medium 'is foreign to the word', he also asserts that even silent works of art,
including films, 'are already talkative, full of virtual discourses'.37 According to
this definition, film is caught between the mute and the discursive, and its specific
relation to the word should be defined in very particular contexts. Different films
'play differently with the relations among discourse, discursivity, and
nondiscursivity' and 'a given cinematic method may be closer to a certain type of
literature than to another cinematic method'. 38 The echoes, remains and
reinscriptions of different technical traces, both written and visual, are precisely
what emerge through Derrida's readings of the recorded archive.
Deirida's mode of reading and writing necessarily resists totalising stances and
thus, in comparison to Deleuze, may seem to compromise the radical specificity
of the filmic medium. However, it is through this very resistance that I would
argue Derrida manages to maintain a vigilant regard not only towards the
specificity of film technology, but to other technologies in relation to it (in this
case, writing) and of particular manifestations of these technologies. While
Derrida is not writing directly about Beckett's work, his definition of the spectral,
disymmetrical, differential effects of 'teletechnology', seems to come far closer to
describing the specific effect of Beckett's ...but the clouds.... than Deleuze's direct
analysis of the play. The image of the woman's face, already 'dead', never
responding, and haunting the man with its irreducible otherness, epitomises what
Derrida calls the spectral. The havoc it plays with the boundaries of 'inner' and
'outer' consciousness and 'private' and 'public' manifestation (is she a voluntary
or involuntary memory; does she 'appear' within the 'inner sanctum' of his mind
or as some externally transcribed archive?) questions the source and possession of
the recorded image.39 And the simultaneous dislocation and confusion between
the different times in the play (the time when 'she' was alive; the time when he
used to remember her; and the reconstruction of that time in the present) which is
exaggerated through the layering of and fading between different shots, reveals
the uncanny, unreliable 'immediacy' of the image. These effects, in turn, work to
interrogate the Platonic model of memory maintained by Yeats, for the technical
trace, the hypomnesic 'tool' which is meant to awaken recollection, is revealed as
a constitutive rather than exterior part of the process of remembering and
retrieving past events; which means that the memorial image, far from restoring or
resurrecting lost presence, will always be caught in a pattern of anticipation and
delay. This applies as much to the verbally-conjured image as the visually-
conjured image, which suggests why the lines of poetry and the image of the
woman's face operate in perpetual, ironic juxtaposition, forever full of affect but
never coincident with settled significance.
In Beckett's other plays for television the relation between discursivity and non-
discursivity, visual and non-visual technologies is different again. Like ...but the
clouds..., Ghost Trio builds methodically towards a shot of a man waiting for 'her'
in a room. This time, however, the literary echoes are from Beckett's own work,
for just as in Waiting for Godot, a small boy arrives to inform the man (silently)
that the woman is not coming. Not even an imaginary image of the woman
arrives, and the visual ghost is supplanted by the recurrence of fragments of
Beethoven's Ghost Trio. The female voice which seems to direct the camera,
persistently tells us to 'look again' at the details of the familiar scene, preempting
the failure of the man to find revelation (CDW, pp. 408-9). In Nacht und Tr&ume
the only speech is in the brief burst of the Schubert Lied, 'Lovely dreams, oh
come again' (CDW, p. 465-66), but the action of the play echoes the fabular
unfolding enacted in several of Beckett's late prose texts, such as Company, where
a voice in the half-light gains consolation from an imagined figment of himself.40
Quad is the only play which functions completely without verbal language, but
the protagonists seem no nearer to reaching 'the void or the visible in itself: they
are caught in an interminable sequence of movements, colours and percussion
rhythms, and the weary monochrome version of the play, Quadrat II, reveals the
decay, but stops short of the obliteration of the four figures' individualised
signifiers.41 Each of these late plays is caught in an uncanny realm where images,
sounds and words resonate, but never gain full presence or reach the longed-for
state of annihilation.
Beckett's reiteration of textual, musical and choreographic memory in the
medium of television does violence to the 'veil' of both verbal and visual
language, and the revealed presence that they imply, but it exhausts neither.
Instead it performs an interminable interrogation of the specific aspirations and
betrayals of the different media, and of the misconceptions of prevailing aesthetic
and philosophical notions of 'mediation'. By drawing out the ghostly nature of the
televisual medium, Beckett troubles our faith in the direct transmission of 'lived'
experience, and reveals the impure and irresolvable relations of the technologies
of perception, inscription and recollection.
Notes
1 Samuel Beckett, Letter of 1937 to Axel Kaun, in Disjecta: Miscellaneous Writings and
A Dramatic Fragment, ed. Ruby Cohn (London: John Calder, 1983), p. 172.
2 Anna McMullan' s Theatre on Trial: Samuel Beckett's Later Drama (New York and
London: Routledge, 1993) and James Knowlson's and John Pilling's Frescoes of the
Skull: The Recent Prose and Drama of Samuel Beckett (London: John Calder, 1979),
would be examples of this tendency.
3 Jonathan Kalb, 'The Radio and Television Plays, and 'Film", in John Pilling (ed.), The
Cambridge Companion to Beckett (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,1994), pp.
124-144.
4 Enoch Brater, Beyond Minimalsim: Beckett's Late Style in the Theater (New York and
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 102, 74 and 87.
5 Martin Esslin, 'Towards the Zero of Language', in James Acheson and Kateryna
Arthur (eds), Beckett's Later Fiction and Drama (New York: St. Martins Press, 1987),
p. 46, and 'A poetry of moving images', in Beckett Translating / Translating Beckett,
ed. Alan Warren Friedman, Charles Rossman and Dina Sherzer (University Park:
Pennsylvania State University Press, 1987), p. 74.
6 Written in an unpublished notebook dated 26 March, 1937, quoted by James Knowlson
in Damned to Fame: The Life of Samuel Beckett (London: Bloomsbury, 1996), p. 258.
7 Gilles Deleuze, 'L'epuise', in Samuel Beckett, Quad et autres pieces pour la television
(Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, 1992), pp. 55-106; 'The Exhausted', in Essays Clinical
and Critical, trans. Daniel W. Smith and Michael A Greco (London and New York:
Verso, 1998), pp. 152-174. Subsequent references will be to the English translation,
incorporated into the main text as (E, p.)
8 Phyllis Carey, for example, asserts that the media plays explore 'the subtle
interrelationship between making meaning and human being, between design and
Dasein', and says that 'the wordless mime oiQuad leads us 'to a silent contemplation
of the enigma 'to be'; in 'The Quad Pieces: A Screen for the Unseeable', in Robin J.
Davis and Lance St. John Butler (ed.s) Make Sense Who May: Essays on Samuel
Beckett's Later Works (Gerrards Cross: Colin Smythe, 1988), pp. 145 & 148. Enoch
Brater argues that the media plays' 'concern with relief, tone, chiaroscuro, a sense of
composition, and placement on the television screen forces us, ironically, to overlook
the geometry which makes all of this possible and respond instead to the human quality
located in the images themselves', in Beyond Minimalism, p. 87.
9 Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 1: The Movement-Image, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara
Haberjam (London: The Athlone Press, 1986) and Cinema 2: The Time-Image, trans.
Hugh Tomlinson and Robert Galeta (London: The Athlone Press, 1989). Subsequent
references will be incorporated into the main text as (Cl, p.) and (C2, p.).
10 As Bergson puts it inMatter and Memory, 'Of these two opposite doctrines, the one
attributes to the body and the other to the intellect a true power of creation, the first
insisting that our brain begets representation and the second that our understanding
designs the plan of nature'; Matter and Memory, trans. N. M. Paul and W. S. Palmer
(New York, 1991), p. 181.
11 Bergson describes the world as an 'aggregate of images', where each image is 'merely
a road by which pass, in every direction, the modifications propagated throughout the
immensity of the universe'; in Matter and Memory, p. 121. Deleuze insists that the 'in-
ltself of the image is matter: not something hidden behind the image, but on the
contrary the absolute identity of the image and movement', in Cinema 1, p. 58 note 6.
In other words, 'the movement-image and flowing-matter are stnctry the same thing',
Ibid., p.59.
12 The images within this world of flux are determined insofar as they act on others and
react to others, but these actions and reactions are 'on all their facets at once' and 'by
all their elements', so that there are in effect no 'points of anchorage and center of
reference', Cinema 1, pp. 59-60. Interactivity and movement are thus the only
'essence' of Deleuze's cosmology.
13 Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory, p. 44-5. Anthony Uhlman provides an interesting
analysis on Bergsonian memory and Habit in Beckett's work in chapter 2 of his book
Beckett and Poststructuralism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 58-
90.
14 Samuel Beckett, Complete Dramatic Works (London and Boston: Faber and Faber,
1986), p. 323. Subsequent references to this volume will be included in the main text as
(CDW, p.). Berkeley's famous dictum, 'esse est percipi'— 'to be is to be perceived'
—is the epigraph to the script of Beckett's film, but the script also warns that 'no truth
value attaches to the above, regarded as of merely structural and dramatic
convenience.'
15 Gilles Deleuze,' The Greatest Irish Film' in Essays Critical and Clinical, p. 26. This
essay posits a condensed, and more rhetorically exuberant version of the argument put
forth in the section on the varieties of the movement-image, in Cinema 1, pp. 66-69.
16 Essays Critical and Clinical, p. 26. The prevailing desire of Murphy in Beckett's novel
is to escape the strictures of the actual world and 'float' like a 'mote' in a state of
'absolute freedom' in the zone of his mind which consists of 'a flux of forms, a
perpetual coming together and falling asunder of forms'; in Samuel Beckett,Murphy
(London: John Calder, 1963) p. 79. The action of the novel parodies Murphy's
attempts to reach this 'zone' through a Cartesian rational method.
17 Although Deleuze describes the time-image as representing a development or
evolution of the movement-image in cinematic terms, it is clear that both types of
image have the capacity to reveal the 'matrix of movement', and thus, in ontological
terms, relate to the pure movement-image described in volume one of Cinema. Deleuze
writes ot the relation of the two images as being both developmental and continuous:
the 'direct time-image is the phantom which has always haunted the cinema, but it took
modern cinema to give a body to this phantom'; Ibid., p. 41.
18 This is taken from footnote 6 of the text, where Deleuze quotes Brice Parain, Sur la
dialectique (Paris, Gallimard, 1953).
19 Samuel Beckett, Letter of 1937 to Axel Kaun, in Disjecta: Miscellaneous Writings and
a Dramatic Fragment, p. 171-2; 'Three Dialogues' in Proust and Three Dialogues with
Georges Duthuit (London: John Calder, 1999), p. 102.
20 As Proust is a piece of commentary, the model of memory described is obviously for
the most part a description of Proust's model of memory. However, Beckett's reading
of Proust lays greater stress on the constant return of Habit's 'evil and necessary
structure' than on the moments when involuntary memory allows for the perception of
objects as 'particular and unique'. See Samuel Beckett, Proust and Three Dialogues
with Georges Duthuit, pp. 43 & 22.
21 Simon Critchley makes a similar point about Deleuze, without my particular emphasis
on Beckett's use of visual media, in bis book VeryLittle ... Almost Nothing: Death,
Philosophy and Literature (London: Routledge, 1997).
22 Samuel Beckett,' Worstward Ho', in Nohow On: Company, III Seen III Said,
WorstwardHo, (London: John Calder, 1989), p. 128.
23 Martin Schwab points out that since Deleuze relates his readings of films only to the
general ontology of the movement-image, he never attends to the aesthetic specificity
of the films In the case of 'Film' this is the 'plurivalence of a "representation" that
seems to move in opposite and incompatible directions—differentiation and de-
differentiation—in one and the same movement'; Martin Schwab, 'Escape from the
Image', in Gregory Flaxman (ed), The Brain is the Screen: Deleuze and the
Philosophy of the Cinema (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press,

2000), p. 124.
24 The 1977 BBC production of ...but the clouds... was directed by Donald McWhinnie
and acted by Ronald Pickup and Billie Whitelaw.
25 W. B Yeats, The Collected Poems, ed. Richard J. Finneran (Basingstoke and London:
Macmillan Press, 1983), pp. 199-200.
26 The theme of 'The Tower' is reflected in a letter of Blake's, quoted by Yeats in Letters
to the New Island, which contrasts the poet's 'feeble and tottering' physical state in old
age with his 'imagination which liveth forever'; quoted in T. R. Henn, The Lonely
Tower: Studies in the Poetry of"W. B. Yeats (London: Methuen, 1950), p. 39. The third
part of 'The Tower' takes issue with Plato and Plotinus for what he sees as their partial
suspicion of the creative imagination (imagination must be modified with knowledge
according to their teaching), but the notion of recollection used in the poem is
nevertheless Platonic. In his note to the 1933 edition of Collected Poems, Yeats
corrects his criticism of Plato and Plotinus, quoting Plotinus' asssertion that 'every soul
[should] recall... at the outset the truth that soul is the author of all living things'; in
The Varorium Edition of Yeats' Poems, ed. Peter Allt and Russell K. Alspach (New
York: Macmillan Press, 1957), p. 825.
27 The Collected Poems, p. 199.
28 Daniel Katz comments on this 'double' remembrance in his article 'Mirror Resembling
Screens: Yeats, Beckett and ...but the clouds...', in Beckett Today/BeckettAujourd'hui,
vol. 4 (1994), 83-91. He draws attention to the implicit temporal distinction between
the two presented acts of memory, and the fact that this distinction is increasingly
blurred as the play progresses.
29 Beckett, Proust and Three Dialogues with Georges Duthoit, p. 43.
30 Deleuze's notion of the 'exhaustion of the possible' encompasses subjective and
objective possibility, thus signalling that he is thinking in terms of the universal; The
Exhausted, p. 152.
31 Jacques Derrida, 'Freud and the Scene of Writing', in Writing and Difference, trans.
Alan Bass (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978), p. 196. Subsequent references
will be included in the main text as (FS, p.).
32 Jacques Derrida, 'How to Avoid Speaking: Denials', in Sanford Budick and Wolfgang
Iser (ed.s), Languages of the Unsayable: The Play of Negativity in Literature and
Literary Theory (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989), p. 29.
33 Jacques Derrida, Mai d 'Archive: une impression freudienne (Paris: Editions Galilee,
1995), trans. Eric Prenowitz as Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression (Chicago and
London: University of Chicago Press, 1996). Subsequent references will be to the
English translation, included in the main text as {AF, p.).
34 Jacques Dernda & Bernard Stiegler, Echographies de la television; Entretiens filmis
(Paris: Editions Galilee / Institut national de l'audiovisuel, 1996). Subsequent
references will be included in the main text as (ET, p.). Translations into English are
mine.
35 Derrida says that if there is a specificity to television, it lies in 'the extent of [the]
distance' between the capturing and reproduction of the image. In addition to the other
times and contexts available to the televisual image, Derrida remarks on the increased
capacity for the manipulation of the image through 'teletechnology': cutting, editing,
recomposing, producing synthetic images etc; Echographies, pp. 48 & 110.
36 Jacques Derrida, The Gift of Death, trans. David Wills (Chicago and London: The
University of Chicago Press, 1995), p. 84.
37 Jacques Derrida, 'The Spatial Arts: An Interview with Jacques Derrida', in Peter
Brunette and David Wills (ed.s), Deconstruction and the Visual Arts: Art, Media,
Architecture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), p. 13.
38 Ibid., pp. 13-14.
39 This question in particular is tied to the televisual medium, rather than the cinematic
medium, as the undecidability of source and possession stems from the play being
broadcast on the small screen. This creates an intimacy and proximity which reinforce
the sense of the play enacting an interminable interrogation of the mind (the audience
sit in their own 'little sanctum' witnessing the 'begging of the mind'), but it also
troubles the intimacy and proximity it creates, because the image of the woman's face
is so clearly already mediated.
40 Andrew Renton makes similar comments in relation to Beckett's later prose piece,
Stirrings still, in his essay, 'Disabled figures: from the Residua to Stirrings stilt, in
John Pilling (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Beckett, p. 172.
41 When the text of Quad was produced as a television play by Sllddeutscher Rundfunk
in Stuttgart in 1981, it was transmitted in two versions, Quadrat 1 and Quadrat 2.
Quadrat 1 was shot in colour and Quadrat 2 in black and white, at a slower speed and
with the percussion beats removed. Beckett apparently commented that the second
version was the same play taking place 'a hundred thousand years later'; quoted by
Martin Esslin, 'Towards the Zero of Language', in James Acheson and Kateryna
Arthur, Beckett's Later Drama and Fiction, p. 44.
11
Writing Images, Images of Writing: Tom
Phillips's A Humument and Peter
Greenaway's Textual Cinema
Paula Geyh and Arkady Plotnitsky
... when you read text, you see image, when you view the image, you read
text. Would not this be an exciting module, a template, a basis on which to
reconsider some cinema practice?1
Peter Greenawav
Writing and Writing-Image: From Derrida to Phillips and

Greenaway, From Phillips and Greenaway to Derrida
In recent years, artists' books - texts that self-consciously investigate the

conceptual and material form of the book - have become a focus of study for the
insights they offer into the history and future of the book as a medium of
information transmission. Artists' books complement more conventional literary
practices by using visual and other 'non-literary' elements. By so doing, they
exemplify and illuminate the complex relationships between (print) literature and
other visual media, as we shall illustrate here by considering Tom Phillips's A
Humument2 Ultimately, however, and in order to pursue this task more
effectively, we would like in this essay to explore a richer and more complex case
of the interaction between literature and other media. In particular, we will discuss
the conjunction, defined by Jacques Derrida's concept of 'writing' and its
extensions, of the artists' book, as exemplified by A Humument, and postmodern
cinema, as exemplified by Peter Greenaway's films. Greenaway's cinema has
been intimately connected to literature and the idea of writing and related
concepts, such as the book, throughout his career. Phillips's and Greenaway's
works may be seen as reflecting and engaging with the process that Derrida
197
defined in 1967 in OfGrammatology as 'the end of the book and the beginning of
writing,' using the latter term in the extended and radical sense Derrida gave to it.3
So conceived, 'writing' can no longer be understood conventionally as a
representation of speech. The concept of speech itself is also reconfigured, along
with other classical concepts involved in our understanding of writing, beginning
with 'thought' (often seen as better represented by speech than writing) and
'language.' Ultimately, Derrida's 'writing' replaces language (as traditionally
understood from Plato to Saussure and beyond) with a more complex dynamics of
meaning production and communication. In 'Signature Event Context,' Derrida
specifies the 'nuclear traits of all writing' as follows:
(1) the break with the horizon of communication as the communication of

consciousnesses and presences, and as the linguistic or semantic transport of
meaning; (2) the subtraction of all writing from the semantic horizon or the
hermeneutic horizon which, at least as a horizon of meaning, lets itself be
punctured by writing [thus making writing irreducible, contrary to the claims
of the programs based on these conceptions]; (3) the necessity of, in a way,
separating the concept of polysemia [as a controlled plurality of meaning]
from the concept I have elsewhere named dissemination [the uncontrollable
plurality of meaning], which is also the concept of writing; (4) the
disqualification or the limit of the concept of the 'real' or 'linguistic' context,
whose theoretical determination or empirical saturation are, strictly speaking,
rendered impossible or insufficient by writing.4
Derrida's deconstructive matrix (which, in addition to writing itself, involves

other Derridean structures, such as dissemination, trace, diff&rance, and so forth)
has tremendous theoretical and practical potential. Specifically and most
significantly for our purposes here, it allows one to attach writing, as a
reconfigurative operator, to other (conventionally conceived) denominations,
writing itself included, and transform them. There may be HT/Tvng-thought,
writing-speech, wnttng-writing, writing-reading, writing-philosophy, writing-
literature, writing-painting, writing-cinema, and so forth.5
Both Phillips's and Greenaway's works enact this transition to writing in their
respective art forms, cross the boundaries between them, and link them as writing.
Thus, these works become the art of what may be called 'writing-image,' using
this latter term by analogy with (and extending) Gilles Deleuze's concepts of
'movement-image' and, especially, 'time-image,' through which he approaches
modern cinema. We will also suggest here that these cinematic practices are
supplanted by the 'writing-image' of Greenaway's cinema.6 According to
Deleuze, the history of modern cinema is defined not so much by its specifically
cinematographic (as opposed to, say, literary or photographic) portrayal of things,
Writing Images, Images of Writing 199
characters, events, and so forth. Instead it is defined, first (prior roughly to the
Second World War), by the image of movement itself (whatever is in motion),
movement occurring in time, and, then (after the Second World War), by the
image of time itself, rather than of anything, now including even movement, that
occurs in time. On the other hand, a crucial part of Derrida's deconstructive
project is his deconstruction of the concept(s) of time and the rethinking of these
concepts in terms of and specifically as the effects of writing in Derrida's sense,
which may, we would argue, also be applied to the time-image of modem cinema.
It is beyond the scope of this chapter to consider Derrida's analysis itself of time
and writing, and is not necessary for our purposes. Our argument is instead that
Greenaway's films enact the image of writing in Derrida's sense, the writing-
image, in part by way of a cinematic deconstruction in practice (where Phillips-
like techniques are often employed) of the time-image of modem cinema.
Accordingly Greenaway's work may be seen as postmodern at least in this sense
of being the art of writing-image rather than the time-image (or earlier movement-
image) of modem cinema. This view may be linked to Greenaway's remark, 'I've
made comments about cinema not reaching Cubism yet, but there hasn't even
been an awareness of Joyce. When these other art forms have taken great
imaginative leaps, cinema tragically has remained very conventional and
backward-looking.'7 A forward-looking cinema may require the writing-image.
(We will return to the significance of Cubism in Greenaway below.)
The relationships between Phillips's and Greenaway's art manifest themselves
most directly and most graphically in their collaborative project A TV Dante, a
1989 television version of Dante's Inferno, based on Phillips's annotations
(derived from A Humumeni) of his illustrated translation of Dante's Inferno* We
will argue that it has much greater significance both in the work of these two
artists and for understanding the evolving relationship between the newer visual
media, especially cinema, and older literary forms. This collaboration, we argue,
significantly affected Greenaway's subsequent work, such as Prospero's Books
and especially The Pillow Book, on which, in addition to the Inferno, we shall
primarily focus here. While all of Greenaway's work is a practice of writing-
image, the influence of Phillips's work led to the introduction of more radical
inscriptive elements into Greenaway's art and a more radical form of
transformation of the movement-image and time-image of modem cinema into the
writing-image of postmodern cinema.9
The art of 'writing-image' is both the art of writing images and the art of
images of writing, and of their fusion in, one might say, the writing of 'writing' in
Derrida's sense. At the same time, both a (new) art of the book and a (new) art of
cinema (re)emerge, rather than disappear. This type of reemergence, however,
may have been implied in Derrida's argument concerning 'the end of the book and
the beginning of writing' as well, given the way it is inscribed in the textual and
conceptual network of his works. Derrida's statement should not be read in the
ontological or historical sense, but in the sense that writing, as Derrida
understands it, is a condition or even the condition of the possibility of the book.
As he further explains in Positions (the point is more implicit elsewhere in earlier
works), human culture has been defined by 'the end of the book' and 'the
beginning of writing' throughout its history, even though the character of the
relationships between the book and writing has been different.10 Rigorously
considered, the specific character of these relationships is different each time, or
rather each time is defined by the irreducible interplay of more or less general and
more or less particular traits. In other words, Derrida's writing or the transitions
(in either direction) between the book and writing cannot be fully defined by a
general concept. At the same time, some measure of conceptual generality is
required as well, since the field of writing cannot be absolutely singular either,
even though each event of writing is singular, unique. Accordingly, a very
different relationship between the particular and the general emerges, both in this
particular case and in general.
In the present case, too, on the one hand, there is both a (more or less) general
determination of Phillips's and Greenaway's work as 'writing-image,' as
explained above, and, we will argue, as a particular formation of their 'writing-
images' through the conjunction of the city, the body, and the book in their
irreducible relation to writing. (We will be tracing this formation throughout this
essay.) On the other hand, these two determinations, general and particular, cannot
ultimately be dissociated, although they can, of course, and often must be
considered separately, for strategic or analytic purposes. The conjunction of the
city, the body, and the book appears to be not merely a particular case of writing,
but instead the primary, if not the only, way to enact writing in its post-Derridean
sense at this point of history. That is, there may be no other writing in our - let us
say, postmodern - world. The main reason for this is mat in the postmodern world
it no longer appears to be possible, virtually anywhere, to avoid the impact of the
materiality of the city, of the body, and of the book, especially insofar as we see
all three in relation to and as forms of writing (in Derrida's sense) and as
conjoined within writing. First of all, it is difficult, under 'the postmodern
condition,' to think, either in terms of theory or in terms of practice, of a
disembodied mind or subjectivity in general, free either from the materiality of the
body (extending even beyond the brain) or from the materiality of language and/as
writing, although both ideas or, one might say, ideologies persist along different
lines.11 Secondly, however, given the postmodern condition, the city (broadly
conceived) becomes an irreducible part of the materiality/ies in question,
Derrida's writing included. It goes without saying that this view does not abolish
mind or subjectivity, conscious or unconscious, but resituates them, along with
materiality itself. Materiality is now in turn reinscribed, also in the sense of being
irreducibly linked to writing, as Derrida makes clear in Positions.n The present

essay is an attempt to argue this case by using Phillips's and Greenaway's work,
in which this particular economy of writing and of writing-image appears as
defining our world (it would be difficult to speak of mimetic representation in this
case). Accordingly, we shall explain and justify the claims just made as we
proceed. It may be briefly noted here that the city and the book, especially as
writing in Derrida's sense, inhabit one's existence virtually everywhere. Or, more
accurately, the city and the book become the habitat of the world and the subject,
dislocating or deconstructing both the world and the subject. This happens in part
by virtue of the specifically postmodern dissemination of information, beginning
with the very means of information (cinema, television, computers and other
forms of digital technology, such as fax machines). As we will explain by using
Greenaway's works as allegories of this postmodern dynamics, the body
reciprocally participates in this process of interactively disseminating inscription.
The term 'dissemination' is used here in Derrida's sense, the sense correlatively
interactive with writing, as explained earlier. Even though defined by the
conjunction in question, this dynamics is itself multiple, in part because each of
the elements involved (the city, the body, and the book) of the interactions
between them may take a different and even singular, unique form at each point,
in each place, and so may such entities as 'points' or 'places.'
The Workings of Writing and Writing-Image: From Phillips to

Greenaway, from Greenway to Phillips
Tom Phillips's work probably needs some introduction, since it may be less
familiar than that of Greenaway. Tom Phillips is a British artist, writer, translator,
filmmaker, photographer and composer who studied Anglo-Saxon literature at
Oxford and art at the Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art. Inspired by
William S. Burroughs's use of the 'cut-up' technique as a way of critiquing
existing systems of thought, Phillips began work on the ongoing project that is A
Humument in the mid-1960s. He started by materially 'reworking' an obscure and
undistinguished Victorian novel, W. H. Mallock's A Human Document. Painting
and otherwise 'treating' the pages of the novel using acrylic gouache, pen and ink,
type, and collage, Phillips fashioned a text that drew its 'material' from the pages
of Mallock's original. By linking selected words on the existing pages to create
'rivers' of text that flow through fields of images, Phillips produced a new
narrative that was related to yet quite distinct from the original. This 'reworking'
of Mallock's novel formed the first edition of A Humument.
In the years since the publication of its first edition, A Humument has become
the center of a massive web of literary and multimedia intertextuality. The novel
itself currently exists in three editions - a fourth is underway - with each new
edition featuring from sixty to a hundred new pages replacing those in the first
edition. Its literary offspring include The Heart of A Humument, a tiny book
measuring 3' x 4' and created from the central core of the rectangles of A Human
Document's pages; a book called Trailer that was taken from 'the cutting room
floor' of A Humument; and DOC, yet another Humument-geneiated narrative in
the form of a series of affidavits and testimonies about a lecherous doctor. Phillips
has based multiple series of paintings, numbering over 300 individual works, on A
Humument. He has recast it into a ballet scenario, The Quest for Grenville, and
into the full-length opera IRMA, 'whose libretto, music, staging instructions and
costume designs all come from A Human Document.'13 (One of Greenaway's
most recent works is an opera-libretto as well, Writing to Vermeer.)1* Finally,
Phillips has generated a hundred 'parallel texts' from A Humument and used them
to annotate his own illustrated translation of Dante's Inferno, which he
subsequently made into A TV Dante with Greenaway.
A Humument is a dramatic bringing together of the genre of the artists' book
and the history of modernist and postmodernist art. Artists' books have come of
age in the 20th century. The genre, however, has not only coexisted with but has
also been part of virtually every major artistic movement of the past 100 years,
from Cubism to Futurism to the Russian Avant-Garde to Conceptual art. As we
explained from the outset, the artists' book complements conventional literary
genres by visual and other 'non-literary' elements and contributes to a deeper
understanding of the materiality of the book - those elements such as typeface,
paper, binding, and design that constitute the book as a physical, material object.
They often do so, moreover, by utilizing the resources supplied by modernist and
postmodernist art. Over the past few decades, this concept of the book as a
material object has helped to redefine the phenomenon of literature itself and the
nature of writing in general (including in Derrida's sense), and to illuminate the
complex relationships between literature and other media, especially in more
radically mixed works of recent decades. The conjunction of Phillips's work and
Greenaway's cinema of writing-image are a particularly dramatic example of
these interrelations, where, through the workings of writing, the key elements
defining the work of both artists effectively come together, and enrich and
redefine both works and both art forms.
For Phillips, his book or, as it has been called, this 'dynamic generator and
receiver of words, images, and ideas,' has become a machine to think with.15 It
'writes' in Derrida's sense, as thinking is itself superimposed upon and is an effect
of generalized textuality, a process itself allegorized by Phillips's book as a 'book
after writing.' Phillips himself speaks of A Humument in more traditional terms as
producing the 'structures, connections, correspondences, and systems that link the
sensual, visual and intellectual worlds.' 16 These systems have undeniable game-
like aspects to them ('is / book / game?' the unnamed narrator of A Humument
asks on page 257), from the rules Phillips has imposed upon himself (including
retaining the original page numbers and structure of the original book, and using
only material from the text itself rather than importing material from other
sources) to color codes that link pages thematically, various numerological
structures and symbols, and an assortment of visual references to chess, checkers,
jigsaw puzzles, and crossword puzzles in the text. n Similarly, as part of his effort
to create 'a cinema of ideas, not plots' (or, to put it another way, to move from the
cinema of the time-image into the cinema of the writing-image), Greenaway often
structures his films using systems of classification - numbers, alphabets, color-
codes, taxonomies, categories, catalogues, and games - that relate to his broad
artistic, musical, and literary interests, which he describes as being 'strong on
lists, classifying, encyclopedias, and the nouvelle roman' (qtd. in Woods, p. 18).
The oeuvres of both Phillips and Greenaway are distinguished by their immense,
ever-expanding networks of intertextuality - the massive interlinking of
characters, motifs, visual and literary references, themes, and concepts of different
works of their own and of others - which is one of the most pronounced and, in
recent years, well-examined effects of writing in Derrida's sense. In order to relate
these structures, connections, and correspondences within the books and films
discussed here to the ongoing, dynamic, and open-ended operation of writing in
Derrida's more radical sense, we shall briefly examine the mechanisms by which
they are created.
First, A Humument's text contains an extensive range of visual references - Van
Gogh, Seurat, the Dadaists, Klee, Jasper Johns, Roy Lichtenstein, Francis Bacon,
Julian Schnabel, A.J. Kitaj, and others. The Cubists are particularly significant,
among them Braque, Gris, Leger, and Picasso. Beyond visual references and
allusions, their works also serve as conceptual models for Phillips's, as, it can be
shown, they do for Greenaway and for Derrida. In particular, such models provide
certain disassembling and reassembling techniques of the kind we have become
familiar with in Derrida. These techniques may be used either directly or in
exposing previously hidden elements and relations, which one can then
reassemble into a new configuration. (It would be difficult to speak of the same
object after such a reassemblage.)18 A Humument also interlinks with literary
works such as the Aeneid, Hamlet, and Ulysses, all of which find their way into
Phillips and Greenaway's version of Dante's Inferno, for which the Aeneid and
the Odyssey are obviously crucial. We shall consider how these multiple links
function in the book presently. Before we do so, however, we want to briefly
examine the relationship between A Humument and Mallock's original, which
may, again, be seen as a parodic reenactment of the relationships between Dante's
Inferno and Virgil's Aeneid. In his notes to the text, Phillips observes that A
Humument seems a good title for 'a book exhumed from... another.'19 This idea of
bringing something to the surface, uncovering the hidden or buried, is reiterated
on the first page of the text: 'sing III a I book / a book of art / of / mind / art / and
/ that / which / he / hid / reveal I' (1987, 1997, p. 1). In this model, the text of A
Humument in effect lies beneath that of A Human Document. More immediately,
Phillips's superimposition of paint and other materials on the pages of Mallock's
text might easily suggest the opposite idea: that it is A Humument that lies atop A
Human Document. Neither, however, seems to adequately describe what is in fact
happening here. In part contrary to Phillips's own view, it appears that any vertical
or hierarchical model (whichever text governs the relationship) is inadequate.
Rather, one is inclined to think along the lines of, speaking in Deleuze and
Guattari's terms, a rhizomatic or horizontal model of interactive networks of
relationships ungoverned by any single hierarchy.20 From this perspective, in
particular, the model is not a palimpsest but a hypertext or, more generally and
more accurately, a parallel-interactive text, a text open to parallel-interactive
processing, which type of model hypertexts realize. As we will see shortly,
Phillips and Greenaway'sy4 TV Dante deploys a similar hypertextual model.
On a page interlaced with wandering networks of lines converging on and
diverging from nodes, Phillips's text offers its own rendition of this idea. '[A] /
door opened / on / a glitter of/ fanciful / passages, and / rooms,' one page begins,
'on / the / net; his mean / mosaic / and / suite of / night / routine' (1997, p. 97).
The 'night routine' obliquely refers to the book's many equations of the creative
process with dreaming. Very early in the text, Phillips glosses his own text as 'my
/ pillow / -book; the / puzzled / sheets' bringing together the page and his bed
linens (possibly 'written upon' by the movements of his body) in both images
(1987, 1997, p. 3). Later an unnamed 'I' observes: 'I dream with my pen balanced
in my hand, fragments of poetry / fragments' (1987, 1997, p. 159). Arguably, the
concept of 'the pillow book' of Greenaway's film is defined by analogous
economies of fragmentation and inscription, although it also has, as does
Phillips's book, other, much older, genealogies.
Phillips defines A Humument as a 'forgettive recycler,' a term that opens up the
question of the interactive roles of memory and forgetting in the workings of
literary and artistic imagination. To create the text of A Humument, Phillips had to
detach Mallock's words from their original context, to 'forget' the plot of the
original novel while remembering the words themselves. The original is
simultaneously forgotten (negated), remembered (conserved), and exceeded
(superceded) - many of the 'rivers' (both narrative and material) of Phillips's text
extend beyond the boundaries of the printed pages of A Human Document.
Depending upon one's reading, one can see this machinery either as that of the
Hegelian Aufhebung (defined by this triple action), or as a Nietzschean or
Derridean deconstruction of this Hegelian operation, as Nietzsche's 'active
forgetting' or Derrida's 'iterability,' another of the key aspects of writing in his
sense. This same mechanism of forgetting yet remembering is deployed in Phillips
and Greenaway's A TV Dante, where, for example, clips from nature

documentaries are iterated so as to act as commentary on the text.21 These clips
are frequently presented as 'windows' opening inside the visual field of the other
images, in effect creating a simultaneous, hypertextual-like link. In these aspects,
too, A TV Dante recapitulates the structure of Dante's Inferno. As Greenaway has
observed, 'There's a way in which Dante's Inferno is forever a chopped
narrative...always developing new leads, wandering off in different directions,
full of side-events, small stories in brackets' (qtd. in Woods, p. 227).
The ways in which all of these texts - Phillips's A Humument, Phillips and
Greenaway's A TV Dante, and Greenaway's Prospero's Books and The Pillow
Book, among others - overflow their own boundaries and stream into other texts
and contexts is signaled by the broken, shifting frames and borders of their
images. The borders of A TV Dante's images, like those of Prospero's Books and
The Pillow Book, are in perpetual flux. They disintegrate along their outer edges
and are interrupted by inserts, titles, and subtitles. Again and again, image is
superimposed upon image, frame opens into frame. The worlds of these films are
all much as Greenaway has described Prospero's island in Prospero's Books: a
film of Shakespeare's the Tempest.
[a] world [that] is appreciated and referenced with...architecture, paintings,

and classical literature.... With such a fabric, it will be no surprise that it is an
island full of superimposed images, of shifting mirrors and mirror-images -
true mirages - where pictures conjured by text can be as tantalisingly
substantial as objects and facts and events, constantly framed and re-framed.
This framing and refraining becomes like the text itself- a motif - reminding
the viewer that it is all an illusion constantly fitted into a rectangle...into a
picture frame, a film frame.22
Like Greenaway's films, Phillips's A Humument is a thoroughly self-conscious

text, and it is, therefore, not surprising that it contains numerous allusions to these
processes of forgetting, remembering, and exceeding (or superceding). 'Dogma /
the words of / some miraculous source?' one page asks, 'the truth of / infallible
traditions?' '[Bjetrayal I take a new turn,' the text urges, addressing, one
surmises, the agnostic author himself (1997, p. 243). Many of the literary
allusions in A Humument practice this betrayal, 'a new turn' or detournement of
the source text. Forster's 'only connect,' an injunction that captures Phillips's
creative spirit, is echoed and then transformed into the equally apt 'oddly connect'
(1987, 1997, p. 251). Stein's famous modernist dictum: 'A rose is a rose is a rose'
is rendered 'like / a rose / is / a / boast / is / a / boast' (1987, 1997, p. 159). 'Now /
the / arts / connect' another page observes, 'so the changes made / the / book /
continue' (1987, 1997, p. 7). 'The air seemed full / of dead generations,' another
page observes, 'I / ring / arms, and / the woman' - one of multiple references and
renditions of the opening lines of Virgil's Aeneid. 'Of arms and the man I sing'
(1987, 1997, p. 141). Even the first page of A Humument, which begins 'Sing I a
book / a book of art / of mind art,' might be read as a very askew rendition of
Virgil's invocation. Such references and renditions open up yet another series of
links - another river of remembering/forgetting in the text - to Dante's Inferno, to
which we will return presently.
Cultures of Writing and Writing-Image: The City, the Body, and the
Book From Phillips and Greenaway to Dante, from Dante to Phillips
and Greenaway
Whether the relationships to or dislocation of the classical tradition, or the radical

fragmenting of the work itself are at stake, both modernist and postmodernist
techniques are used by Phillips in making and/as Mn-making A Humument. The list
of precursors and influences upon the book here would extend from Cubism and
Surrealism to Rauschenberg in the visual arts, to T. S. Eliot's "The Waste Land'
and William S. Burroughs's 'cut-ups' in literature, to John Cage in music. It is
these modernist and postmodernist strategies of fragmentation, collage,
detournement and pastiche that enable Phillips to investigate the materiality and
the very concept of the book. On the other hand, his collaboration with
Greenaway on A TV Dante (which is a similar deployment of modernist and
postmodernist aesthetic or counter-aesthetic machinery) and other offspring of
Phillips's book or ««-book, establish, as we mentioned earlier, the way in which
the genre of the artists' book reciprocally shapes other forms of artistic endeavour.
It is not only or even primarily a matter of reference and allusion to A Humument
itself in the film, but rather a transfer of key structural or constructional elements
of Phillips's project. It is quite apparent that the very same elements affect
Greenaway's other works, in particular Prospero 's Books, The Pillow Book, and,
most recently, his libretto for the opera Writing to Vermeer. Like Phillips's A
Humument, Greenaway's films commonly spawn numerous offspring, and they,
too, are shaped by the same or related structural elements. The progeny of
Prospero's Books, for example, include the book Prospero's Books: a film of
Shakespeare's the Tempest; Ex Libris Prospero, a collection of images from the
film; Miranda, a play about The Tempest's characters' voyage back to Milan; and
a novel entitled Prospero's Creatures that takes up the 'allegorical creatures that
dart about in the penumbra areas of the film'.23 Such assemblages of
interconnected texts might be seen as postmodern transformations or translations
of Wagner's modernist ideal of the Gesamtkunstwerk.
Writing to Vermeer would require a separate analysis, but, as the title indicates,
it brings together writing and painting yet again, in ways analogous to the
Derridean and post-Derridean analysis and deconstruction of writing. (It would, of

course, be naive to read the title only in epistolary terms of a letter to Vermeer,
unless one in turn brings the whole thematic of writing into such a reading, which
one might ultimately need to do in any event.) Indeed, while these elements are
enhanced in Greenaway's work in the wake of his collaborations with Phillips,
they are found in all of his work, which, as these titles indicate, is fundamentally
concerned with the problematics of the book and/as writing. These relationships,
while in many ways unique, are also in many ways exemplary of the reciprocal
economy of the relationships between the artists' book and modernist or
postmodernist art. We may also see these relationships as beginning with Dante
and his relationships with medieval illuminated manuscripts, an important
reference and in turn a model for Phillips. It would difficult to say, however,
which one is written upon which.
We will now trace, within the limits a single essay permits, the relationships
between the general practice of writing in Derrida's sense and the conjunction of
the city, the body, and the book in Greenaway's work. A TV Dante offers a
paradigmatic case here, by the same token reflecting (on) and expanding the
celebrated encyclopedic or (this is less commented upon and less well understood)
wntfen-encyclopedic complexity of Dante's Comedia. According to Greenaway,
'...each canto lends itself to twelve-minute news summary timings, but it has vast
complexity. Some have seen it as a compendium of all known information of the
world, circa 1300. An encyclopaedic work - and we wanted to be lexicographers
in sympathy with it' (qtd. in Woods, p. 225). The city-body-book-writing
economy is manifest through the film, both thematically and, more significantly,
inscriptively - that is, insofar as the content, too, is defined by the form of this
conjunction. A TV Dante is replete with shots of conflagrations consuming cities,
of bodies descending the stairs of the various levels of hell, of vast libraries, of
major military and political conflicts that defined the very concept of the
European and, eventually, geo-political city from Ancient Rome, to Dante's
Florence, to Mussolini's Rome, to name some of them. This conjunction may be
traced as well throughout many of Greenaway's earlier and subsequent films,
including The Belly of an Architect (1987), in which the Roman cityscape is
punctuated by classical statues inscribed with graffiti, much as the architect
Kracklite scribbles on photocopies of the belly of a statue of the Emperor
Augustus - an action that prefigures the inscribed bodies in their conjunction with
the wrinwg-image of the city in A TV Dante (1989), Prospero 's Books (1991), and
The Pillow Book (1996).
The conjunction is even more important in Prospero's Books. When the pages
of The Book of Architecture and Other Music are opened, Greenaway writes,
'plans and diagrams spring up fully-formed. There are definitive models of
buildings constantly shaded by moving cloud-shadow. Noontime piazzas fill and
empty with noisy crowds, lights flicker in nocturnal urban landscapes and music is
played in the halls and towers. With this book, Prospero rebuilt the island into a
palace of libraries that recapitulate all the architectural ideas of the Renaissance'
(Prospero's Books, p. 21). When the pages of another of the books, The Vesalius
Anatomy of Birth, are opened, they move and throb and bleed. To generate the
books' images and effects, Greenaway makes extensive use of the digital,
electronic Graphic Paintbox, which he refers to as 'the newest Gutenberg
technology' (Prospero's Books, p. 28). 'This machine,' Greenaway observes, 'as
its name suggests, links the vocabulary of electronic picture-taking with the
traditions of the artist's pen, palette and brush, and like them permits a personal
signature,' (Prospero's Books, p. 28) thus bringing together the city, the cinematic
'book,' writing, and the body (the 'personal signature' and the pages that bleed).
Within A TV Dante, this conjunction of the city, the body, and the book is of
course also motivated, if not overdetermined, by the equally irreducible role of an
analogous conjunction in Dante's text.24 This is the case at the very least
thematically but, one might argue, inscriptively as well, even though the (more
conventionally literary) character of this inscription is different and is differently
historically determined. Dante's hell is a complex superposition of the city and the
body of Satan, through the inside of which Dante and Virgil travel on their way
out, to Purgatorio. It may also be seen as a kind of body without organs in Deleuze
and Guattari's sense.25
Upon this body without organs, the fragmented bodies of the sinners, the
sinners as forever unfulfilled and forever Oedipalized desiring machines, and the
fragmented books are inscribed and continuously superimposed, both thematically
and in the inscriptions of Dante's text itself. The Phillips and Greenaway's film
takes advantage of this economy by using the short format to convey and enhance
some of these elements visually rather than through a comprehensive reading of
Dante's text, of which, in fact, a very limited portion is presented (Cantos 1-8).
There is, however, yet another level of fusion, perhaps most crucial to Dante's
work and its long-term impact on modern and even postmodern culture: the fusion
of the city, the body, and the book is interfused with the processes and workings of
writing. It is not possible, within the confines of this chapter, to address the
question of the political in Dante and in the film (and specifically in relation to the
question of writing, which is always irreducibly political even though never quite
reducible to politics alone.) It is, however, clearly germane to the film, from the
visual depictions of and commentaries on the political struggles in Dante's
Florence to those of Mussolini and beyond to the contemporary references.
We also stress the fact that both movement-images and time-images in
Deleuze's sense in the film are consistently enacted as emerging from the textual
working of writing, rather than structuring the work in the way they do in most
modern cinema, as analyzed by Deleuze, or to some degree in Dante, whose
Comedia can be seen in terms of the time-images of Dante's journey - its many
interfused movements and temporalities. In the latter case, we encounter the time
of Dante's journey through Hell, and then Purgatory and Paradise, his historical
time, the overarching history of Europe from Virgil's Rome to Dante's Florence,
and ultimately cosmological history. Phillips and Greenaway sometimes take
advantage of Dante's own deployment of various textual elements and sometimes
add their own. This process is indicated as allegorized, for example, by the quasi-
digitalized and textualized image of the clock opening each segment.26 It inscribes
the time-points of Dante's journey, almost in the manner of (and perhaps alluding
to) Einstein's relativity theory, as derivatives, as the effects of the clock, rather
than as anything existing independently and self-sufficiently (in the manner of
Newtonian physics) and merely measured or shown by a clock. This clock also
symbolically measures, that is, generates the accelerated tempo of the film's own
inscription, even though it can of course also be read as measuring the beating of
Dante's heart, if one ignores the inscriptive elements just mentioned.
This also anticipates the more vastly techno-textual, and digitalized, elements of
Prospero 's Books. According to Peter S. Donaldson, 'Prospero 's Books is an
anticipatory or proleptic allegory of the digital future, figuring destruction of
libraries and their rebirth as 'magically' enhanced electronic books.' 27 It is
significant that John Gielgud is both Virgil in Dante's Inferno and Prospero.
Beyond the fact that Virgil's Aeneid was a written epic, a book, as opposed to
Homer's works, Gielgud's appearance in both roles may also be read as a
deliberate link between both works, similar to many such links in Greenaway's
other works, or those in Phillips's interconnected texts.
The Pillow Book is a text (in either sense) of inscribed bodies and body parts,
from the inscription of 'the book of silence' on the tongue of a messenger, to a
more radical bodily mutilation (which is also a form of textual synthesis) of the
inscribed skin of Jerome, the dead lover of both the female protagonist and the
male book publisher. Jerome (not unlike St. Jerome) is both a writer and a
translator, whose skin is now made into a book. All these events take place against
the background of, and are fused with, the city. This city is already inscribed or,
more accurately, it emerges as a city reciprocally with multiple fields of
inscription, and in the process forms the cityscape of writing in Derrida's sense.
This proliferation of city writing, shaping and defining the city and culture, is, it is
true, found elsewhere. English city inscription appears throughout The Pillow
Book as well, beginning with the very word 'books,' 'English books,' the name of
the bookstore owned by the publisher, who is also the lover of the protagonist's
father (also a writer). In Japanese cities, however, such as Kyoto (which is
fittingly the main Japanese site of the story, as the rest takes place in Hong Kong),
this inscription is especially pronounced as an irreducible, constitutive part of city
architecture and city life, rather than merely a supplement to it. Multiple
inscriptions are not merely added to the buildings, but actively shape and even
define the city as a space. Accordingly, one must here think in terms of Derrida's
supplementarity as the possibility that (through writing) produces, as an effect,
that to which it is supposed to be added on. In this case, it may appear that
inscriptions are merely added to the city, but in fact they also make the city the
city; they produce the city as much as they are produced by it.28 We also recall
that, in Derrida, supplementarity is also, and in turn irreducibly, linked to
sexuality, as both reciprocally define each other. The point is made especially
clear in his famous reading of Rousseau in Of Grammatology, but is implicit
throughout.29
The same situation is both thematized in and inscriptively enacted throughout
The Pillow Book. The protagonist's sexuality and her own body, to the degree we
can even distinguish them, are as indissociable from the inscribed city as they are
from the inscription on the body, or from the body as an inscription. One of
Greenaway's or Derrida's points is that we cannot dissociate an object or any
entity, such as the body, from inscription. That is, there is no uninscribed (or
unfragmented) body, city, book, or anything else. Or, more rigorously, the body,
the city, and the book, with which we are especially concerned here, or anything
else, are effects of inscription or/as fragmentation, just as time is the effect of the
inscribed clock, provided of course that we extend the concept of inscription to
Derrida's sense of writing. Here, of course, we argue that in The Pillow Book and
in the postmodern world it reflects, the actuality or materiality of the city/ies, the
body/ies, and the book/s, and, most especially, of their irreducible interactions is
the primary dynamics enabling the workings of writing.
The film opens with the ideographic painting upon the face and the body of the
protagonist, Nagiko, showing (in either sense) that the face and the body emerge
from inscription (the cosmology accompanying the event allegorizes this). The
sequence inescapably and probably deliberately (especially given other events of
the film) reminds one of Kafka's inscription on/as the body in 'In the Penal
Colony. ' 30 From here it moves - or, as it were, 'movies' - to a lavish fashion show
against the background of the cityscape, defined (along with the show itself) by
the irreducible and irreducibly counter-cultural translation. (A reference to the
Vatican fashion show in Fellini's Roma is equally inescapable.) This translation in
the sense of Derrida's writing precedes (again, logically rather than ontologically)
and gives rise to any possible original. Superimposed upon the images of the
fashion show is the ideographic text of Section 150 of The Pillow Book ofSei
Shonagon, and upon it, images of the Empress and her court and nearby (in a
temporal elision), Nagiko's aunt narrating Shonagon's detailed description of the
Empress's formal robes. What arises here is the sense that there may be no such
thing as an absolutely naked, undressed and un-cross-dressed, body, any more
than an uninscribed or unfragmented body, a body that would not be always
already a book, a writing-image, and a city. As we have indicated above, this

formulation is transposable to, say, the city that is always already an inscription, a
fragmented body, a fashion show of cross-dressing, and so forth.
The inscribed body, in the sense just outlined, becomes Nagiko's ultimate
project and art form. In addition to the inscriptive complexities just discussed, in
this art form we can no longer distinguish between the dead and the alive either.
We recall that, as Derrida's reading of Blanchot in 'Living on: Border Lines' and
related works shows, writing is always 'living on,' sur-vivre, and indeed life-
death, 7a vie la mort.'3i This gives a radically deconstructive or perhaps post-
deconstructive sense to the association of death and writing (or of both with
woman and sexuality), which has, in its classical (undeconstructed form) defined
the history of both. This transition is itself clearly allegorized by the film in
linking the original 999 Pillow Book by the lady-in-waiting Sei Shonagon and the
protagonist's (both of whom have the same name, Nagiko) pillow book, which is
allegorically converted into a writing-book as the city, the body, and book
aggregate in 1996. '9' is of course also the number assigned by Dante to Beatrice.
The concept of the artists' book is here engaged and redefined throughout, since
Nagiko's writing and (they are the same) her body, her clothes, her city - all of
her life practices - are that of the artists' book, as they continuously refine and
redefine the genre and make it a defining art form of our culture.32 In the process
the book is made into an effect of, interactively, both writing and of the interfusion
of the city, the body, and the book. It also follows that it also produces or
contributes to the production of the city and the body, and even to writing in
Derrida's sense.
There may ultimately be no way out of this double-bind entanglement, which
The Pillow Book multiply allegorizes. But then perhaps, while this entanglement
makes our life difficult and even intolerable, it also makes our life possible-at
least our intellectual and cultural life. One could, though, make a case for our
biological life as well, say, the life of the body, assuming that we can distinguish
between or at least disentangle them. Modern biology and genetics tell us that
life, too, is a form of inscription. In any event, it appears that these entanglements
and their many double-binds are inevitable at least in the case of the always
already inscribed body, city, and book, which are, at least for now, our inescapable
habitat - the book and the city of the body, the city of the body and the book, the
body of the city and the book.... All of these permutations and still others, for
example, those of literature and other media, appear to be unavoidable.
Notes
1 Paula Willoquet-Maricondi, 'Fleshing the Text: Greenaway' s Pillow Book and the
Erasure of the Body,' Postmodern Culture 9.2 (January 1999): 34.
2 Tom Phillips, A Humument, 2nd ed. (London: Thames and Hudson, 1987) and Tom
Phillips, A Humument, 3 rd ed. (London: Thames and Hudson, 1997). Subsequent
references will be made in brackets in the main text.
3 Jacques Derrida, OfGrammatology, trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974) pp. 6-26.
4 Jacques Derrida, Margins of Philosophy, trans. Alan Bass (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1982) p.316.
5 On this point, see especially Derrida's reading of Stephane MaUarme in 'The Double
Session,' Dissemination, trans. Barbara Johnson (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1981), pp. 173-285. The essay also shows or in turn inscribes Mallarme's text
as arguably the best example of an 'enactment' of writing in Derrida's sense by a
literary text found in Derrida's work. It may well also be the best example of Derrida's
usage of literature to build his philosophical conceptuality, including, in particular,
'dissemination,' as defined above. Both Phillips's and Greenaway's art work in this
way as well, specifically by coupling literature to visual media and technologies, which
are also found in Mallarme's writing (in either sense), cinematic technologies included.
6 See Gilles Deleuze, Cinema I: The Time-Image, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara
Habberjam (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986) and Cinema 2: The
Movement-Image, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Robert Galta (Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press, 1989).
7 Marlene Rodgers, 'Prospero's Books—Word and Spectacle: An Interview with Peter
Greenaway,' Film Quarterly 45:2 (Winter 1991-92) 13.
8 Tom Phillips and Peter Greenaway, dir, A TV Dante, Channel 4, 1989.
9 For a discussion of the commonalities between Phillips and Greenaway' s multimedia
artistic practices, see Alan Woods, Being Naked—Playing Dead: The Art of Peter
Greenaway (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 19%) pp. 128-29. Subsequent
references will be made in brackets in the main text.
10 Jacques Derrida, Positions, trans. Alan Bass (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1981) pp. 13-14. Subsequent references will be made in brackets in the main text.
11 We use the phrase 'the postmodern condition' (in singular) in the sense of the
condition defined by postmodemity itself, following Jean-Francois Lyotard's argument
in The Postmodern Condition: A Report of Knowledge, trans. Geoffrey Bennington and
Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984).
12 Derrida, Positions, p. 64.
13 Tom Phillips, A Humument, 1987, page three of unnumbered pages of 'Notes on A
Humument.' (Also on page four of unnumbered pages in 1997 edition.)
14 'Writing to Vermeer,' music by Louis Andriessen, libretto by Peter Greenaway,
directed by Saskia Boddeke and Peter Greenaway, Asko Ensemble and Schonberg
Ensemble, conducted by Reinbert de Leeuw. U.S. Premiere, Lincoln Center Festival,
July 2000.
15 Elizabeth Elsas, 'Treatment and Transformation: Tom Phillips's A Humument

(unpublished honors thesis, Harvard University), 3.
16 Tom Phillips, Works, Texts to 1974 (Stuttgart: Edition Hansjorg Mayer, 1983), p. 17.
17 See in particular the play with the number seven on page 199 of A Humument (1987,
1997).
18 The second version of the approach just described virtually defines deconstruction and
is found throughout Dernda. But one may also consider, for example, Derrida's
assemblage of diffirance, arguably his most famous neologism, out of the elements of
the discourses of, among others, Nietzsche, Saussure, Freud, Heidegger, Bataille,
Levinas, and Lacan, which does not involve deconstruction. See Jacques Derrida,
'Differance,' Margins of Philosophy, pp. 1-28. One finds the key elements of this
approach throughout Greenaway's work, and, as we have seen, Greenaway specifically
appeals to Cubism as something not yet reached by cinema. His reassembling of
Shakespeare in Prospero 's Books is especially illustrative here. As will be seen
presently, Phillips, too, deploys these reassembling strategies throughout, at every
textual or signifying level. Analogous and related paradigms, such as Dadaism or
certain versions of symbolist literature, such as Mallarme, are pertinent here (or in
Derrida) as well, as they exemplify and deploy the workings of writing in Derrida's
sense, which is our main point here. Alan Woods offers a nice example of a multiple
intertextual juncture, involving Cubism (here Marcel Duchamp's), in*4 TV Dante. 'In
A TV Dante, Greenaway and Tom Phillips also animated them [Muybridge's figures],
including his hound and his (male) nude descending a staircase. 'We regarded
Muybridge' s figures as the timeless abstracts of being and moving.' In using them
within what is a kind of video history painting, a contemporary addition to a tradition
of visualizing Dante that stretches back to the Renaissance, Greenaway and Phillips
were both using Muybridge in the way he would have envisaged, moving from his
supposedly neutral 'abstract' of motion to the work of art in which it was given a new
artistic meaning and context: so that the hound becomes Dante's world (and later in
the same canto, the Great Hound of Virgil's prophecy) and the nude an angel
descending, as Christ did, from heaven. They simultaneously acknowledged
Muybndge's own status as an image-maker, even if it is a status largely conferred
through just such appropriations' (p. 58).
19 Tom Phillips, A Humument, 1997, page three of unnumbered pages of 'Notes on_A
Humument.'
20 See Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattan, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and
Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minneapolis Press,
1987).
21 Quoted in Rodgers pp. 11-19, 14. Greenaway also used Attenborough's Life on Earth
in A Zed and Two Noughts.
22 Peter Greenaway, Prospero s Books: afilm of Shakespeare's the Tempest (New York:
Four Walls Eight Windows, 1991) p. 12.
23 Quoted in Rodgers, pp. 11-19, 14. Greenaway also observes in this interview that,
'Prospero has become an industry'; Ibid.
24 We keep in mind the transformation of each—the city, the body, and the book—and of
the interaction between them in our own world.
25 See Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia,
trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem, and Helen R. Lane (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 1983).
26 The text of A Humument similarly evidences an ongoing preoccupation with
instruments of time measurement (clocks and sundials) and with time itself—tune that
stops ('time I can plead for you, / you/ still/ thing' (p. 223)), and tune that circles back
upon itself ('this / hour / and these / followed by hours of / time / And yet—and yet— /
/ / repeating / time is / until / afterwards' (p. 233)). Quotations appear on the same
pages in both the 1987 and 1997 editions.
27 Peter S. Donaldson, 'Digital Archives,' Postmodern Culture 8:2 (May 1998), 2.
28 This analysis also extends and radicalizes Fredric Jameson's influential discussion of
postmodern architecture in 'Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism,'
Postmodernism, or the Cultural of Late Capitalism (Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 1991), pp. 1-84, which does not consider the irreducible textuality of
postmodern spaces.
29 See especially the chapter '... That Dangerous Supplement...,' Jacques Derrida, Of
Grammatology, pp. 141-64.
30 Franz Kafka,' In The Penal Colony,' Kafka: The Complete Stories, ed. Nahum N.
Glatzer (New York: Schocken Books, 1976) pp. 140-67.
31 Jacques Derrida, 'Living on: Border Lines,' Harold Bloom et al, Deconstruction and
Criticism (New York: Continuum, 1979) pp. 75-176.
32 It would, accordingly, be difficult to avoid the significance of Greenaway's earlier
collaboration with Phillips on Dante, even though and because one can trace other
genealogies of this throughout his work, at least from The Draughtsman's Contract on.
Index
Abel, Richard, 31, 38, 63, 143,151, Beckett, Samuel, 10, 20, 172, 177-
154 196
Adams, Villiers de L'Isle, 43 Beethoven, Ludvig van, 37, 182,
Adomo, Theodor, 5,170 183, 191
£sop, 105, 108 Bell, Alexander Graham, 55
Alberti, Leon Battista, 160 BelLMonta.51
Aldridge, John, 129 Benjamin, Walter, 17,40, 140, 142,
Allegret, Marc, 59 150-151,169, 171,172
Ambriere, Francis, 52,55 Benveniste, Emile, 171,173
Apollinaire, Guillaume, 137, 138, Bergdahl, Victor, 108
142 Bergman, Ingmar, 5
Arbuckle, Fatty, 102 Bergson, Henri, 8, 32, 68, 69, 70,
Archipenko, Alexander, 140 73, 76, 78,130, 135, 139,180,
Aristotle, 76 182, 193
Armstrong, Tim, 80 Berkley, Bishop George, 181,193
Amheim, Rudolf, 29, 52 Bernstein, Charles, 6
Aronowitz, Stanley, 11 Betts, Ernest, 53, 64
Artaud, Antonin, 20 Betty Boop, 108
Augustine, Jane, 94 Blackton, James Stuart, 102-103
Blake, William, 184
Bacon, Francis, 203 Blakeston, Oswald, 125
Bal,Mieke, 167,168, 173 Blanchot, Maurice, 211
Balazs, Bela, 8, 31, 35-36,45, 50, Bleriot, Louis, 137
58,61 Bofa, Gus, 105
Balzac, Honore de, 19,162, 163, Bordwell, David, 38, 63
168 Bower, Charles, 107
Banfield, Ann, 171,173 Braque, Georges, 138, 203
Barbusse, Henri, 142 Brassai, 172
Barre,Raoul, 107, 111 Brater, Enoch, 177, 193
Barrow, Craig Wallace, 116 Bray, John Randolph, 109
Barry, Iris, 105 Brecht, Berthold, 20
Barthes, Roland, 5,9,20, 28, 161- Brenon, Herbert, 51
164, 167, 168, 172, 173 Bresson, Robert, 26
Bataille, Georges, 20, 213 Breton, Andre, 105, 126
Baudry, Jean-Louis, 33 Briggs, Austin, 9, 98,100, 101,
Bazin, Andre, 5, 7,9,17, 18-19, 24- 115,116
27, 67, 134 Brion, Marcel, 105
215
216 Index
British Film Institute, 17, 23, 96, Darwin, Charles, 35

115, 134 Davies, Terence, 16
Biyher (Winifred Ellerman), 53, 54, de Duve, Thierry, 141
82, 84, 86, 88, 90-91, 92, 93, 94 de Mille, Cecil B., 105
Burkdall, Thomas L , 9,98, 116 de Saussure, Ferdinand , 198,213
Burroughs, William S., 201, 206 De Sica, Vittorio, 5
Debon, Claude, 143,145
Cage, John, 206 Deed, Andre, 97, 114, 115
Camus, Albert, 5 Delaunay, Robert, 141
Canudo, Ricciotto, 142, 144 Delaunay, Sonia, 138, 141, 143,
Capek, Josef and Carel, 108 152
Carey, Phyllis, 193 Deleuze, Gilles, 10, 28, 77, 128,
Carroll, Lewis, 102, 105 143, 144, 145, 178-183, 186-187,
Cavell, Stanley, 51, 62, 63 190-192,193,194,195,198-199,
Cendrars, Blaise, 9, 137-154 204,208,212,213,214
Chaney, Lon, 51 DeLillo, Don, 6
Chaplin, Charlie, 30, 51, 63, 102, Derrida, Jacques, 10, 20, 24, 55,
105, 108, 111, 119, 120, 127, 179, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191,
137 195, 196, 197-201,202,203-204,
Chevreul, Michel Eugene, 141 206-207,209-210,211,212,213
Christie, Ian, 101, 102, 103, 104, Dickson, W. K. L. and Antonia, 38
107 Disney, Walt, 107, 108, 111, 112,
Clair,Rene, 104, 138,147 118,119,120, 126, 137,149
Close Up (journal), 18, 30, 39, 40, Dixon, Thomas, 60
43,45,53,54,55,56,57,58,59, Donald, James, 61, 92,93
60,61,62,65,66,82,86,88-89, Donaldson, Peter S., 209
91-92,93,94 Dos Passos, John, 19,26
Cocteau, Jean, 27, 105, 127 Duchamp, Marcel, 107, 141, 213
Cohl,Emile, 102, 103, 104, 115, Duhamel, Marcel, 142
119 Dukas, Paul, 104
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 3 Duras, Marguerite, 5
Comte, Auguste, 128
Conan Doyle, Arthur, 109, 149 Edison, Thomas Alva, 15, 38,43,
Conrad, Joseph, 97,114 55
Cook, Clyde, 105 Eggeling, Viking, 140
Corino, Karl, 170 Einstein, Albert, 106, 107, 119, 209
Crafton, Donald, 52, 63, 98. 103, Eisenstein, Sergei, 28, 55, 56, 85,
105, 106, 109, 112, 119, 120 88,100,116,117,149,153
Critchley, Simon, 194 Eliot, George, 19
Crossley. Phil, 17 Eliot, T. S, 2, 16, 17, 18,20,24,
Curnow, Wystan, 126, 134, 135 27, 206
Ellit, Jack, 126
Daguerre, Louis Jacques Mande, Ellmann, Richard, 98, 114, 120
148 Elsas, Elizabeth, 213
Dante Alighieri, 50, 98, 199,202, Epstein, Jean, 8, 31-34, 36, 56, 57-
203, 204-206, 207, 208-209, 211, 58, 139, 144, 147
213,214 Esslin, Martin, 177, 178
Index 217
Fantomas, 149 Gutenberg, Johann, 23, 147, 208

Faulkner, William, 16 Guy-Blache, Alice, 97,115
Faure, Elie, 8, 36-38,39, 42
Fawcett, L'Estrange, 30 H.D. (Hilda Doolittle), 8, 53, 55,
FelixtheCat,98,105, 108, 111, 56, 58-59, 61, 82-95
120 Hamilton, Patrick, 120
Fellini, Federico, 116, 210 Hansen, Miriam, 40, 56, 60
Ferguson, Margaret, 24 Hardy, Oliver, 102
Fischinger, Oscar, 106, 141 Harmon, William, 134
Fitgerald, F. Scott, 4 Harrison, Tony, 7
Flaubert, Gustave, 79-80 Hays, Will, 56
Fleischer, Max and Dave, 107, 108, Hayward, Susan, 87, 95
111,119 Hegel, G. W. F., 204
Fletcher, John Gould, 52 Heidegger, Martin, 213
Forbes, Jill, 91 Hejinian, Lyn, 6, 79
Ford, Henry, 71-73 Helmholtz, Hermann von, 130
Forster, E. M., 205 Hemingway, Ernest, 3, 19,26
Foucault, Michel, 20, 24, 36,127 Hepworth, Cecil, 103
Freud, Sigmund, 32-33, 34,44, 55, Herring, Robert, 30, 40, 41, 42,43,
84,94,110,120, 188-189,213 66
Friedberg, Anne, 89, 91, 92, 93, 94 Hitchcock, Alfred, 5, 11, 80
Friedman, Susan Stanford, 86, 87- Hobhouse, Janet, 72
88 Hollywood, 4, 5, 15, 16, 25,27, 49-
50,51-53,54-56,62,64,108,
Gance, Abel, 29, 137, 142-144, 111,119,121,128,137,145,
145, 147 149-150
Gay, Margie, 111 Homer, 98, 203, 209
Genette, Gerard, 168, 172, 173 Hopkins, Willie, 111
Gide, Andre, 59, 67, 68 Horkheimer, Max, 5
Gielgud, Sir John, 129,209 Horrocks, Roger, 126,134,135
Gilbert, Stuart, 100 Houellebecq, Michel, 6
Gish, Lilian, 45, 51 Hurd, Earl, 103,104
Godard, Jean-Luc, 5, 16,27 Husserl, Edmund, 130
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 100,
141 Ibsen, Henrik, 100
Gramsci, Antonio, 71 Iwerks,Ub, 111
Graves, Robert, 125, 126, 129, 135
Greenaway, Peter, 10, 197-214 Jackson, Kevin, 116, 119
Gremillon, Jean, 144 Jackson, SchuylerB., 134
Grevisse, Maurice, 173 James, Henry, 2
Grierson, John, 125 James, William, 70, 71, 130
Griffith, D.W., 56,60-61, 127, Jameson, Fredric, 6, 11, 16, 27, 69-
137, 147 70,173,214
Gris, Juan, 203 Johns, Jasper, 203
Guattari, Felix, 204, 208 Joyce, James, 7,9,16, 17,18, 19,
Guest, Barbara, 84 20,21,22,25,26,52,78,96-
Gunning, Tom, 24 121, 199,203
218 Index
Joyce, Nora, 96 Marek, Jane, 88

Marey, Etienne-Jules, 76, 77, 107,
Kafka, Franz, 108,210 127, 130, 139, 141
Kalb, Jonathan, 177 Marks, Laura U., 61
Kant, Emmanuel, 37, 70, 133 Marquez, Gabriel Garcia, 20
Katz, Daniel, 195 Marx, Karl, 128
Kaun, Axel, 182 Mauss, Marcel, 95
Keaton, Buster, 105,120 McCay, Winsor, 102, 104, 109,
Kitaj, A. J., 203 110, 117, 118, 119
Klee, Paul, 203 McGann, Jerome, 133,135
Koko the Clown, 111 McKeman, Luke, 17, 115
Kracauer, Siegfried, 45,152,155- McLuhan, Marshall, 3
156, 169 Melies, Georges, 9, 97, 100, 101,
Krylov, Ivan Andreevich, 108 102,103, 111,114,115,118,
121
L'Herbier, Marcel, 144 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 5
Lacan. Jacques, 20, 213 Messmer, Otto, 108, 120
Lang,Fritz, 106, 114, 116 Metz, Christian, 33
Lastra, James, 57 Meyer, Steven, 81
Laurel, Stan, 102 Mickey Mouse, 127
le Rouge, Gustave, 149 Mir6, Joan, 126
Leavis, F. R., 24 Mitchell, W. J. T., 57
Leenhardt, Roger, 18 Mitry, Jean, 143, 153
Leger, Fernand, 104, 137, 147,203 Mizoguchi, Kenji, 5
Lenin, Vladimir Ilich, 71 Moore, Marianne, 53
Leroy, Claude, 145, 153 Moore, Rachel, 44
Levinas, Emmanuel, 213 Morris, Adalaide, 90
Lewis, Percy Wyndham, 105 Mostel, Zero, 100
Lichtenstein, Roy, 203 Mumford, Lewis, 128
Linati, Carlo, 98 Munsterberg, Hugo, 8, 34, 54, 70-
Lindsay, Vachel, 33, 37, 55-56, 97, 72,73-74,75,101,109,118
98,100, 101,105, 110, 115, 117, Murnau, F. W., 48, 50, 53, 62,118
119 Murphy, Pat, 96
Lukacs, Georg, 67-69, 71 Musil, Robert, 9,155-174
Lumiere, Louis and Auguste, 15, Mussolini, Benito, 50, 149, 207,
17, 30, 100, 107, 139 208
Lye, Len, 9,125-136 Mutt and Jeff, 107, 120
Lyotard, Jean-Francois, 67, 212 Muybridge, Eadweard, 76, 77, 127,
139,213
Macpherson, Kenneth, 53,54, 55,
56,58-60,61,62,86,91,92,93, Newton, Sir Isaac, 141, 209
94 Niblo, Fred, 51
Mallarme, Stephane, 138, 212, 213 Nicholson, Ben, 125
Mallock,W. H , 201, 203,204 Nielson, Asta, 45
Malraux, Andre, 26 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 204, 213
Marcus, Laura, 55, 56, 58, 89, 92, North, Michael, 127
93,94
Index 219
O'Brien, Flann, 120 Rushdie, Salman, 21-23

O'Brien, Willis, 107, 109 Russell, Charles, 112
O'Hara, Frank, 5, 6 Ruttmann, Walter, 106
Ogden, C. K, 42-43
Oshima, Nagisa, 16 Sarg, Tony, 108
Sartre, Jean-Paul, 5
Patten, John, 15 Schaffiier, Perdita, 91,94
Paul, Robert, 30, 103 Schenck, Joseph, 51
Perec, Georges, 6 Schnabel, Julian, 203
Peroff, Paul, 112 Schopenhauer, Arthur, 141
Phillips, Tom, 10, 197-214 Schubert, Franz, 183, 191
Picasso, Pablo, 138, 203 Schwab, Martin, 194
Pinter, Harold, 16 Schwartzkopf, Rudolf, 55
Plato, 131, 179, 182, 184, 185-187, Seldes, Gilbert, 52-53,54
188, 191,195, 198 Seurat, Georges, 203
Plotinus, 195 Shakespeare, 131
Porter, Edwin S., 102-103,110, Shakespeare, William, 5,15, 18,
139, 152 129, 203, 205, 206, 213
Pound, Ezra, 3,4,27, 125 Sickert, Walter, 33
Prevost, Jean, 59 Spiegel, Alan, 98, 102, 118
Price, Mary, 172 Starewicz, Wladislaw, 108
Proust, Marcel, 9, 16, 78, 155-174, Stein, Gertrude, 3,4, 8, 53, 67-81,
182, 185, 194, 195 126, 205
Pynchon, Thomas, 6 Stewart, Garret, 172
Stow, Percy, 97
Ramsaye, Terry, 30 Street, Sarah, 86, 91-92
Rauschenberg, Robert, 206 Stride, Joseph, 113
Reiniger, Lotte, 106 Strindberg, August, 100, 117
Renoir, Jean, 144 Sullivan, Pat, 108, 119
Renton, Andrew, 196 Survage, Leopold, 137,147
Resnais, Alain, 5 Sutherland, Donald, 80
Reynaud, Emile, 103 Swift, Jonathan, 105
Richards, I. A., 15, 23-4,42, 134,
136 Talbot, Fox, 56
Richardson, Dorothy, 8, 30, 39-40, Tate, Trudi, 95
53, 54, 55, 61, 66, 85 Taylor, F. W., 69, 71-72, 75, 76
Richter, Hans, 140 Taylor, Sam, 51
Riding, Laura, 9, 125-136 Tenniel, John, 102
Rilke, Rainer-Maria, 22, 23 Toklas, Alice B., 79, 81
Robbe-Grillet, Alain, 5, 20 Tolstoy, Leo, 1,2,4, 5, 6, 101, 117,
Robeson, Paul, 43, 94 118
Rossellini, Roberto, 5, 19,25, 26 Tonecky, Zygmunt, 61
Rotha,Paul, 31 Trenker, Luis, 149
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 210 Truffaut, Francois, 5
Roussel, Raymond, 20 Turpin, Ben, 111
Ruddick, Lisa, 72 Tylor, E. B., 128
Ruiz, Raoul, 16
220 Index
(72,22 Watts, Carol, 91,94

Waugh, Evelyn, 15
Van Doesburg, Theo, 140 Welles, Orson, 5,19,25-26
Van Gogh, Vincent, 203 Wells, H. G., 8, 30-31, 97, 104,
Van Zile, Edward, 56 111, 112,115,121
Vermeer, Johannes, 207 West, Nathanael, 5,15
Vertov, Dziga, 106,119,141 Wharton, Edith, 16
Vigo, Jean, 144 Wheatstone, Sir Charles, 139
Virgil, 203, 206, 208, 209, 213 Williams, Wilbam Carlos, 5
Virilio, Paul, 141 Wollen, Peter, 71
Voelker, Joseph C , 113 Woods, Alan, 205, 207, 212
Volta, the (cinema), 7,17, 18,20, Woolf, Virginia, 2-3,4,18, 33, 34,
96-7, 112, 114, 115 36, 37-38, 105-106,119, 170
Wordsworth, William, 3
Wagner, Richard, 22, 38, 206 Wundt, Wilhelm, 70
Wagner-Egelhaaf, Martina, 170
Walsh, Sean, 121 Yeats, W. B., 183-186, 191, 195
Watson, James Sibley, 52
Watson, Paul, 127-128 Zemeckis, Robert, 121

Julian Murphet, Lydia Rainford (Eds.) - Literature and Visual Technologies - Writing After Cinema-Palgrave Macmillan UK (2003)

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What is the book about based on the introduction and table of contents?

What is the book about based on the introduction and table of contents?

What literary techniques are discussed in chapter 1?

What literary techniques are discussed in chapter 1?

Literature and Visual Technologies

Literature and Visual

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this

1. Motion pictures and literature. 2. Television and literature.

After the Modern

1. Fig. 1. Kenneth MacPherson in a publicity still for Wing Beat, published in

3. Fig. 3. Voyage to the Congo, published in Close-Up, 1.1 (July, 1927).

Tim Armstrong is Reader in Modern English and American Literature at Royal

Rachel Connor is a lecturer in the Department of English Literature at the

Paula Geyh is an assistant professor of English at Yeshiva University, where she

Colin MacCabe is Distinguished Professor of English and Film at the University

Laura Marcus is Reader in English at the University of Sussex. She has

Julian Murphet is a lecturer at the Department of English, University of Sydney.

Michael North is Professor of English at the University of California, Los

Arkady Plotnitsky is a Professor of English and a University Faculty Scholar at

Eric Robertson is Senior Lecturer in French at Royal Holloway, University of

Keith Williams is Senior Lecturer in English at the University of Dundee. He has

By way of introduction to this volume, we give you a prophesy from 1908:

It is worth pondering the typical stylistic and architectural devices of

.. .how intolerant he is of the old usages and politenesses of society...! As I sun

The assimilation of cinematic transitionality - a trick which by now we have all

of the great technical possibilities of the cinematograph.'7 It was not an idea,

Not you, lean quarterlies and swarthy periodicals

have been calling 'postmodernism' ever since. O'Hara's declaration of love

The novel, overwhelmed by cinema's superficial visuality, apparently no longer

The truth is there is here no competition or substitution, rather the adding of a

Bazin and impurity

In asking ourselves about the relationship between literature and visual

Theory of the Parisian 1960s. Whether we look at Foucault in relation to Beckett

offered the insufferable condescensions of the English exemplified by the figure

Set up no stone to his memory.

about other names. Once and for all

The current situation

Bazin's importance, as Richards before him, lies in the commitment to education;

critical literature to a campaigner against montage, a naive realist who would

expect it to be. The shot in depth, unfragmented by the interventions of montage,

So it is that the modernist fetish of 'ambiguity' discovers its proper cinematic

Finally, I don't believe it is possible to overstate the significance of Bazin's

I want to start with an episode which relates in important ways to issues of

In 1930, the film theorist Paul Rotha commented:

In another article - 'Magnification' (1921) - Epstein asserts that 'the photogenic

... cinema is a language, and like all languages it is animistic; it attributes, in

Faces and things

As in the work of a number of early film theorists - including Epstein - Balazs

Their elements, their complexity which varies and winds in a continuous

Faure's temporalities serve to equate and synchronize modernity and 'the

Exploring the time-space dimensions of cinematic representation, and the

motif, perhaps, continues to haunt the later model of 'cinegraphie' as an

peculiar intensity of being, to each man's individual intensity of being, the

This complication of the question of origins re-emerges in her discussions of the

of the cinema as a relation to 'reality' - in particular, the realities of light and

containers of power'.50 It is a nice irony that magic should return so vividly - at

This is an echo of an earlier technological fantasy: Villiers de L'Isle Adam's novel

humanity, and thus was publicized as finally making ubiquitous communication

that films might achieve international intelligibility by speaking in the Esperanto