4

The World Viewed

Stanley Cavell

What is film?

Sights and Sounds

The beginning of an answ er is given b) the two .· ' . . ,,. . . . . · ' . conunuous1y mrc111gem, mreresnng, ana ro me

useful theorists l have read on the subject. Erwin Panof�ky puts it this ll"ay: "The medium of the

movies is physical reality as such."1 Andre 13azin

emphasizes essentiall) this idea many times and

many 1\a)S: at one point he says, "Cinema is committed to communicate only by 11ay of 11 hat

is real"; ami then, "The cinema [is] of its essence a

clramarurg) of l\arure."1 "Ph)sical realit) as such," taken literally, is not correct: that phrase better fits the specialized pleasures of tableaux

vivants, or fom1al gardens, or .\linimal Art. \\'hat

Panofsk) and Bazin ha1e in mind is that the basis

of the medium of mo' ies is photographic, and that

a photograph is of reality or nature. If to this 11 e

add that the medium is one in 11hich the photo­graphic image is projected and gathered on a screen, our question becomes: \\hat happens to real it) 11 hen it is projected and screened?

That it is reality that 11 e ha1 e to deal "ith, or some mode of depicting it, fmds surprising con­

firmation in the way mo1•ies are remembered, and

misrcmembered. It is tempting to suppose that movies are hard to remember the wa) dreams arc, and that is not a bad analogy. As with dreams,

you do sometimes jiud yourself remembering mo­

ment� in a film, and a procedure in tryiug to

remember is to find ) our way back to a character­iMic mood the thing has left you with. But, unlike dreams, other people can help you remember,

indeed arc often indispensable to the enterprise r I • � A! • I 1 . 1

01 rcmemocnng. JVtov•es arc naro ro rememocr, the way the actual events of yesterday are. And yet, again liJ..e dreams, certain moments from films

1 icwcd dec •• dcs ago will nag as vividly as moments

of �.:hildhood. It is as if you had to remember what

happened before you slept. Which suggests that

film a 11aJ..ens as much as it enfolds you.

It ma) seem that this starting point - the pro­jection of reality begs the question of the med­ium of film, because mo,ies, and writing about

mo\ies, ha'e from their beginnings also recog­ni7.cd that film can depict the fantastic as readily as the natural. 1 What is true about that idea is not denied in speaking of mo1ies as "communicating

b) 11 a} of \\hat is real": the displacement of ob­jc�.:ts and persons from their natural sequences and

locales is itself an acknowledgment of the ph) sic­alit) of their existence. It is as if, for all their insistence on the newness of the medium, the antirealist theorists could not shake the idea that

it was essentiall) a form of painting, for it was

painting 11 hich had \ isually repudiated- anyway, forgone the representation of reality. This would

have helped them neglect rhe differences between represcmation and projection. But an immediate

Stanley Cavell, excerpts from The World Viewed: Reflections on the Ontology of Film (New York: Viking Press,

1971): 16-41. Reprinted by permission of Stanley Cavell.

Stanley Cavell

fact about the medium of the photograph (still or in motion) is that it is not painting. (An immediate

facr about the history of photograph) is that this

11 as not at first obvious.) Whar docs this mean - not painting? A photo­

graph does not present us with "likenesses" of things; it presents us, we 11 ant to say, with the

things themselves. But wanting to Sa} that may well make us ontologically restless. "Photographs

present us with things themsehcs" sounds, and

ought to sound, false or parado\ical. Ob' iousl) a

photograph of an earthquake, or of Garbo, is not an earthquake happening (fortunate!)), or Garbo in the nesh (unfortunately). But this is not \ el1 infomurive. And, morco,er, it is no less paradox­

ical or false to bold up a photograph of Garbo and

say, "That is not Garbo," if all )Ou mean is that the

object you are holding up is not a human creature. Such troubles in notating so obvious a E1ct suggest that we do not know what a photograph is; we do

not �no" how to place it ontologicall). We might

sa) that we don't know how to thin� of the ronnu­tion between a photograph and 11 har it is a photo­

graph of. The image is not a likeness; it is not

c.xactl) a replica, or a relic, or a shado11, or an apparition either, though all of these natural candi­dates share a striking feature" ith phowgraphs- an

aura or history of magic surrounding them.

One might wonder that similar questions do not arise :1bout recordings of sound. I mean, on the

whole we would be hard pur to lind it false or paradoxical to say, listening to a record, "That's

an English horn"; there is no trace of temptation to add (as it were, to oneself), "But I know it's reaU)

only :1 recording." Why? A child might be \Cry

pualcd by the remark, said in the presence of a

phonograph, "That's an English horn," if some­thing else had already been pointed out to him as an English horn. Similarly, he might be \Cry puzzled by the remark, said of a photograph, "That's ) our grandmother." Very early, children are 110 !tmger

puzzled by such remarks, luckily. 13ut that doesn't mean we know why they were puzzled, or" hy they

no longer are. And I am suggesting that \\C don't �nO\\ either of these things about oursch es.

Is the difference between auditor) and ,·isual

transcription a function of the fact that we arc

fully accustomed ro hearing things that are im is­iblc, not present to us, not present "ith us? We

would be in trouble if we "ercn 't �o accustomed,

because it is the nature of hearing that what is heard comes from someplace, whereas what you can see you can look at. It is 11 h) �mmds arc

warnings, or calls; it is why our access to another world is norma II) through ,·oiccs from it; and "h) a man can be spoken ro by God and sun i' e, but

not if he sees God, in "hich case he is no longer in this "orld. \Vhcrea� "e are not accustomed to seeing things that arc im isible, or not present ro us, not present with us; or '' e arc not accustomed to acknowledging that we do (except for dreams).

Yet this seems, ontologically, to be what is hap­

pening when \\C look at a photograph: "e sec things that arc not present.

Someone ''ill object: "That is playing "ith "ords. \\ c 're not seeing something not present; \\C arc loo�ing at something perfectly present, namel), a plwwgmph." Bur that is affirming �orne­

thing 1 h:n e not denied. On the contrar), I am precise!) des�.:ribing, or wishing to describe, what

it means to say that there is th.is photograph here. lt rna} be felt that I make too great a mystcr) of

these objects. t'vl) feeling is rather that we have forgotten ho11 JTI) sterious these things are, and in general ho\\ diffirrnt different things arc from one another, as though we had forgotten ho" to 'aluc them. Thi� i� in fact something mo,ies teach U\.

Suppo.e one tried accounting for the familiarit)

of rccordin�P> h) Sa) ing, "When I S3), listening to a record, 'That's an English horn,'" hat I really mean

is, 'That's the s!mnd of an English horn'; moreo\ cr, when I am in the presence of an English horn pia) ing, I still don't literal!) hear the horn, I hem·

the sound of the horn. So I don't worry about

hearing a horn "hen the horn is not present, be­cause 11>/wt I hc;tr is c"�:actl) the same (onrolo�:,ricaU)

the same, and if m) equipment is good enough,

empiJic-JU) the s.1mc) whether the thint! is present

or not." \\'hat this rigmarole calls attention to is

that sounds can be perfectly copied, and that "e ha,·c various interests in copying them. (For ex­ample, if the) couldn't be copied, people \\ ould

never learn to talk.) It is interesting that there is

no comparable rigmarole about visual transcrip­

tions. The problem is nor that photographs arc not 'isual copies of objects, or that objects can't

be ,·isuall) copied. The problem is rh<�t e'en if a photograph were a cop) of an object, so to speak, it would not bear the relation to its object that a

recording bears to the sound it copies. \\ c said that the record reproduces its sound, but 11e cannot

S3) that a photograph reproduces a sight (or a look,

or an appear;lncc). It can seem that language is missing a 110rd at this place. Well, you can alwa)S invent a word. But one doesn't know what to pin

the word tJ/1 here. It isn't that there aren't sights to

sec, nor e1en that a sight h

especiall) worth seeing (henc

of thing "e arc a/mays seein1

being thought of here, not u

always hear. A sight is an objt object, like the Grand Can though small southern ch held, by the person in charge or an extraordinary happenir

ealis; and "hat ) ou sec, whe1

is an object any\\ a), not the

"ill the epistemologist's " faces" pro' ide correct dcsc arc not going to �ay that pt with the sense-data of the because if the sense-data of

same as the sense-data of tho

11e couldn't tell a photogra

the object itself. To say that surfaces of objects suggests t rurc. What is missing is not <1 something in nature - the I make sights, or lluvt sights.

jeers arc too dost to their sigt reproducing; in order to rep· (as it were) make, ) ou ha' c

make a mold, or ra�c an imp photograph docs? We might

casion, try thinking of a photc or a visual impression. My di

idea is, 1 think, that physical r and imp rims have clear proee

their originals, "hcrcas in

original is still ;\S present as it

as it once 11as to the camera;�

machine, not the mold itself.

Photograph are not hand­

factured. And "hat is manuf the world. The inescapable

automatism in the making c feature Bazin points to as "

for all and in its very csscnc realism.··�

It is essential to get to the t of automatism. Jr is, for ex say, as Bazin does, that "phot

plastic arts from their obs� for this males it seem (and it

photograph) and painting'''

that painting had ''anted so1 raphy broke in and satisfied. :

satisfied a wish, it satisfied a painters, but the human wis

it is why our access to another through voices from it; and wh�

len ro by God and suni,e, but . in which case he is no longer in eas we are not accustomed to

are im·isible, or not present to th us; or we arc not accustomed

wr we do (except for dreams). 'ltologicaUy, to be what is hap­hok at a photograph: '�e �ee present.

Gbiect: "That is playing "ith seeing something not present;

: :>amething perfectly present, ·· But that is affirming somc­

&nied. On the contrar), I .am :· or wishing to describe, "h:u

l< there is this photograph here. • I male too great a m� stcr� of

ieding is rather that "c ha' c -urious these things ;ue, and in 7:1 different thin!,'S are from one

� e had forgotten how to ,aJue t something movies teach us.

!\J accouming for the famjJiarity

�·ing ... \\'hen i say, iistening to a �nglish ho rn,' what 1 rca II) mean /of an English horn'; moreo,er, � presence of an English horn "r literally hear the horn, 1 hc;ar

hom. So l don't wotT) about m the hom is not present, be­• n;actl� the same (ontologi<.�all� n. equipment is good enough, x whether the thing is present • rigmarole calb attention ro i' � perfect!) copied, and that "e sts in copying them. (For e\­!Jn't be copied, people \\OUid .) h is interesting that there is m2role about visual transcrip­TI is not that photographs are ,f objects, or that objects can't

The problem is that e'en if a

cop� of an object, so to spe:tk, it e relation to its object that a

the sound it copies. We said «<uccs its sound, but we cannot ::>h reproduces a sight (or a look,

It can seem that language is his place. Well, you can ah,ays

one doesn't know what to pin

t isn't that tl1ere aren't sights to

sec, nor e' en that a sight has b� definition to be

cspcciall� morlh seeing (hence could not be the sort of thing we are ah»ays seeing), "hereas sound� arc being thought of here. not unplausibl). as \\hat 11 c al\\ ay s hear. A sight is an object (usually a I'Cr� large object, like the Grand Can) on or \'ersailles, al­though small southern children a1·e frequent!�

held. by the person in charge of them, to be sights) or an e-:traordinary happerung. like the aurora bor­

ealis; and what � ou see, when you sight something, is an object -anyway, norrhe sight of an object. '\or ''ill the epistemologist's "sense-data" or "�ur­

faces" pro,ide correct descriptions here. for \\C are nor going w say that photographs prO\ ide u�

"ith the sense-data of the objects the� contain, because if the sense-data of photographs "ere the same as the sense-data of the objects the� conuin,

"c couldn't tell a photograph of an object from the object itself. To sa� that a photograph is of the �urfaccs of objects suggests that it unphasitl"> te\­ture. \\ har is mjssing is not a word, but, so to �peaL, something in nature - the fact that objects don't make sights, or lun:r sights. I feel like sa� ing: Ob­

jects are too close to their sights to gi"e them up for reproducing; in order to reproduce the sights the�

(as it \\Cre) make, you have to reproduce !hem­make a mold, or take an impression. Is that \1 hat a photograph does? We might, as Bazin docs on oc­c:lsion, tl') thinking of a photograph as a ' isual mold

or :1 'isual impression. :\ly dissatisfaction "ith that idea is. I think, that physical molds and impressions and imprincs ha\·e dear procedures for getting rid of their originals, whereas in a photograph, the original is still as present :IS it e1·er \\as. ot present as it once was to the camera; but that is onl� a mold­machine, not the mold itself.

Photographs are not hand-made; the) arc manu­f.1ctured. And what is manufactured is an image of the 11orld. The inescapable fact of mechanism or automatism in the makjng of these images i� the feature Bazin points to as "[satisf) ing], once and for all and in its \·ery essence. our obscs:.ion \\ ith realism.""

h is essential to get ro the right depth of this fact of :tutomarism. It is, for c\ample, misleading to Sa), :IS Bazin docs, that "photography has freed the plastic arts from their obsession \I itl1 likcness,"5

for this makes it seem (and it docs often look) as if phorography and painting were in competition, or that painting had wanted something that photog­raph) broke in and satisfied. So far as photograph) satisfied a wish, it satisfied a wish not confined to painters, but the human wish, intensifying in the

The World Viewed

\\est since the Reformation, to escape subjectivity and metaph�sical isolation- a wish for the power

to reach this "orld, ha,�ng for so long tried, at last hopeless I�, to manifest fidelity to another. And pninting was not ''freed" - and not by photog­raph) from its obsession with likeness. Painting, in J'vlanct, "as jiJrced to forgo likeness exactly be­

cause of its own obsession with reality, because the illusions it had learned to create did not provide the con' iction in reali�, the connection with real­

it). that it cr:wed.6 One might even say tl1at in \\ ithdra11ing from likeness, painting freed photog­raph� ro be im en ted.

•\nd if" hat is meant is that photograph) freed

P•linting from the idea that a painting had to be a picture (that is, of or about something else), that is also not true. Painting did not free itself, did not

force itself to maintain itself apart, from all object­he reference until long after the establishment of photography; and then not because it finally da\\ ned on painters that paintings were not pic­tures, bur because that was the way to maintain connection 11·ith (the history of) the art of painting, to maintain conviction in its powers to create paintings, meaningful objects in paint.

i\ncl arc we sure th;1t the final denial of object­ive reference amounts to a complete yielding of connection with reality - once, tl1at is, we have gi\en up the ide:t that "connection with reality"

i� to be understood as "provision of likeness"?

\V e can be sure that the view of painting as dead without real it) , and the ,-ie\\ of painting as dead '' ith it, are both in need of development in the 1 ie\\ s each takes of realiry and of painting. We can s:1�, painting and reality no longer assurr one another.

It could be said further that what painting \\ anted, in \\:tnting connection \\ ith re:tlit}, "as a sense of prescll/nes/ - not exactly a conviction of the "orld's presence ro us, but of our presence to i1. At some point the unhinging of our conscious­ness from the "orld interposed our subjecti1·ity bet\\ ccn us and our presentness to the world. Then our subjecril·it)· became what is present to us, indi' idualit) became isolation. The route to con' iction in reality was through the acknow­ledgmem of that endless presence of self. What is called expressionism is one possibility of repre­senting this acknowledgment. But it would, 1 think, be truer to think of expressionism as a representa­tion of our respousr ro this new fact of our condi­tion our terror of ourselves in isolation - rather

than as a representation of the world from within

Stanley Cavell

the condition of isolation itself. It would, to that extent, not be a ne1� master) of fate by creating selfhood against no matter 11 hat odds; it would be the sealing of the selrs fate by theatricalizing i1. Apart from the 11 ish for selfl1ood (hence the ah�ays simultaneous granting of otherness as well), I do not understand the 1 alue of art. Apan from this 11 ish and its achiel'ement, art is exhibition.

To speak of our subjecti1 it} as the route back to our com·iction in realit} is to speak of romanti­cism. Perhaps romanticism can be understood as the natural struggle between the represenrarion and the acknowledgment of our suhjectil'ity (be­tween the acting out and the facing off of our­selves, as psychoanalysts '' ould more or less say). Hence Kant, and l legcl; hence Blake secreting the world he believes in; hence Wordsworth compet­ing with the history of poetry by writing out himself, writing himself back into the world. A century Inter l leidegger is investigating Being by investigating Dasein (because it is in Dasei11 that Being shows up best, namely as questionable), and Wittgenstein investib-ates the 1 1 orld ("the possibil­ities of phenomena") b) investigating 11 hat we sa), what we arc inclined to sa), what our pictures of phenomena arc, in order to 1 1 rest the world from our possessions so that 11 e ma) possess it again. Then the recent major painting 11 hich Fried de­scribes as objects of presm111es.< 110uld be painting's latest effort to maintain its con1 iction in its own po11 er to establish connection 11 ith rcalit} - b) permitting us presentness to oursehes, apart from which there is no hope for a 110rld.

Photograph)' 01 erc:amc subjcctivit) in a wa) undreamed of b) painting, a way that could nor sarisf) painting, one which does not so much de­feat the act of painting as escape it altogether: by aulornalism, by removing the human agent from the task of reproduction.

One could accordingly say that photography was never in competition with painting. What happened was that at some point the quest for visual reality, or the "memory of 1 he prc�ent" (as Baudelaire put it), split apart. To maimain conviction in our connection with reality, to maintain our presentness, painting accepts the recession of the world. Photography maintains the presentness of the world by accepting our absence from it. The reality in a photograph is present to me 11hilc I am not present to it; and a world I know, and sec, but to 11hich 1 am nel'erthe­less nor present (through no fault of m) subjectivit}•), is a 11orld past.

Photograph and Screen

Let us notice the specific sense in 11 hich photo­�phs are of tl1e 110rld, of real it) as a 11 hole. You can alwa) s ask, pointing to an object in a photo­graph- a building, sa) 11 hat lies behind it, totaU) obscured by it. This only accidcnrJII) makes sense when asked of an object in a painting. You c:tn always ask, of an area photogrnphed, 11 hat lies adjacent to that area, be) ond the frame. This gen­erally males no sense asked of J painting. \ ou can ask these questions of objects in photographs be­cause they ha1·e answers in reality. The 110rld of a painting is not continuous 11 ith the 110rld of its frame; at its frame, a 11orld finds its limits. We might say: A pain ring is a world; a photograph is 11[ the 11 0rld. What happens in a photograph is that il comes to an end. A photograph is crCippcd, not necessarily by a paper cutter or by masking but by the camera itself. The camera crops it b) prede­termining the amount or 1 ic11 it ''ill accept; cut­ting, masking, enlarging, predetermine the amount after the fact. (Something like this phenomenon shows up in recent painting. In this respect, these paintings have found, at the C'\trcmest negation of the photographic, media that achic\e the condition of photographs.) The <:am era, being finite, crops a portion from an indefinite!) larger field; conrinu­ous portions of that field could be included in the photograph in fact taken; in principle, it could all be taken. Hence objects in photograph!> that run past the edge do not feel cut; the) arc aimed at, shor:, stopped lil·e. When a photograph is cropped, the rest of the 11orld is cut oul. The implied presence of the rest of the world, and its explicit rejection, are as essential in the e\perience of a photograph as what it explicitly presents. A cam­era is an opening in a box: that is the best emblem of the fact that a camera holding on an object is holding rhc rest of the world ;nvay. The camera has been praised for extending the senses; it may, as the world goes, deserve more praise for confining them, leaving room for thought.

The world of a moving picture is screened. The screen is not a support, not like a can1as; there is nothing to support, that way. It holds a projection, as light as light. A screen is a barrier. \\'hat docs the silver screen screen? It �creens me from the world it holds that is, makes me i01 isiblc. And it screens that world from me - that is, screens its existence from me. That the projected world does not exist (no\\) is irs on I) difference from reali�.

(There is no feature, or set of differs. Existence is not a pre• the field of a photograph, the that is to Sa). no border. Its li1 the edges of a gil en shape as tions, or capacit), of a contai frame; the frame is the 11 hole as a frame of film is the whc graph, like the frame of a loor sense, the screen-frame is a rr

The fact that in a mo1 inJ film frames arc fit flu�h in frame results in a phenomcnc indefmitely extendible and co the smallness of the object it c state of its technology, and i the span of the world. Drawi and panning it, arc two wa: frame; a close-up is of a par one object or small set of objcc reverberating the whole fra1 altering frame is the image • Early in its history the cin possibility of calling attcnti· parts of persons and objects: possibilit} of the medium no them but, rather, to let the \\ o parts dra11 attention to then their natural ''eight. This p­plored than its opposite. Dre Renoir, and Antonioni arc rna

Audience, Actor, and St:

The depth of the automatism be read not alone in it� mcch an image of real it), but in its our presence to that reality. theater can be defined as those are present while they arc no ors.9 But movies allow the :ll anically absent. The f.1ct t.ha1 inaudible to the actors, and I

longer needs accounting for; convention I have to comply ,. do not have ro make good rhc I in the face of tragedy, or that of others. In vie1\ing a mo1 i• mechanicall) assured: I am r thing happening, 11hich I m something that has happen< (like a memory). In this, mo1

Screen

11«1fic sense in which photo­PIJ. of reality as a whole. You tiug to an object in a photo­

•. -''hat lies behind it, roraJl) (;:!}� accidentally makes sense o:«1 in a painting. You can era photographed, what lies

:>e"yond the frame. This gcn­c�ed of a painting. You t:an oi .1bjccts in phomgraphs be­

es in realit). The world of a :Wuous with the world of it)

a \\Orld ftnds its limits. We � n a \\Orld; a photograph is of pens in a photograph is that 11 , photograph is cropped, not :r cutter or b) masking but b)

M camera crops it b) prcd<.:­o; f ,-ie\\ it will accept; cut­:m;. predetermine the amount cUing Like this phenomenon

mating:. In this respect, these L :it the exn·emest negation of !'di3 that achieve the condition e =era, being finite, crops a C'linitely larger field; cuntinu­�1dd could be included in the aa.en; in principle, it could all iects in photographs that run • feel cut; they are aimed at,

iben a photograph is cropped, rld IS cut 0111. The implied oi the world, and its explicit

�ntial in the experience of a it nplicitl) presents. A cam­

a bm .. : that is the best emblem

.men holding on an object i) 1e \\Orld a\\ay. The camera has ending: the senses; it ma), a� roe more praise for confining tt"or thought. :J\ing picture is screened. The orr. not like a canvas; there is :hat" a). It holds a projection, creen is a barrier. What docs ·een? It screens me from the

is, makes me invisible. And it -rom me - that is, screens its rhat the projected world does ; only difference from real it).

(There is no feature, or set of fean.res, in '' hich i1 differs. Existence is not a predicate.) Because it is the field of a photograph, the screen has no frame; that is ro say, no border. Irs limits are not so much the edges of a gi,·en shape as they are the limita-1 ions, or capacit), of a container. The screen L( a frame; the frame is the "hole field of the screen -as a fi·ame of film is the whole field of a photo­graph, like the frame of a loom or a house. In this sense, rhe screen-frame is a mold, or form.�

The fact that in a mo,·ing picture successi>e film frames are fit flush into the fL\ed screen frame results in a phenomenological frame that i\ indefinite!� e"Xtendible and contractible, limited in the smallness of the object it can grasp on!) b) the state of irs technology, and in largeness onl) b) the span of the world. Drawing the camera back,

and panning it, arc rwo ways of e'\tcnding the frame; a close-up is of a part of the bod), or of one object or small set of objccrs, supported b) and rc\·erbcrating the "hole frame of nature. The altering frame is the linage of perfect anention. Earl) in its history the cinema disco' crcd the possibilit) of calling attention to persons and parts of persons and objects; bur it is cquall) a

possibility of rhe medium not ro cali aiiemion to them but, rather, to let the world happen, to let its parts dra\1 attention ro themseh es according 10 their natural \\eight. This possibilit) is less e\­plorcd than its opposite. Dre) cr, rlahCrt). \ igo, Renoir, and Antonioni are masters of it.

Audience, Actor, and Star

The depth of the autOmatism of photograph) is to be read not alone in irs mechanical production of an image of reali�, but in its mechanical defeat of our presence to that realit�. The audience in a theater can be defined as those to u hom the actor<> are presenr while they are not present to the act­

ors.q But mo,ics allo" the audience to be mcch­anicall) absent. The fact that l am im isible and

inaudible to the actors, and fixed in position, no

longer needs accounting for; it is not part of a con,ention 1 have to comply with; the proceedings do not ha,·e to make good the fact that I do nothing in rhc face of tragedy, or that I laugh at the follies of others. In ,·iewing a movie m) helplessness i� mechanically assured: I am present nol at some­thing happening, "hich l must confirm, but at something that has happened, \1 hich 1 absorb (like a memory). In this, movies resemble no\els,

The World Viewed

a fact mirrored in the sound of narration itself, whose tense is the past.

It might be said: ''But sw·ely there is the obvi­ous difTcrcncc between a movie house and a the­;Her that is not recorded by what has so far been said and that ourwcighs all this fiddle of differ­ences. The obvious difference is that in a tl1eater

"c are in the presence of an actor, in a movie house "c arc not. You have said that in both places the actor is in our presence and in neither are we in his, the difference I) ing in the mode of our ab­sence. But there is also the plain fact that in a theater a rc:tl man is /fieri', and in a movie no real man is there. That is obviously essential to the differences ben,cen our responses to a play and to a film." \\1lat that means must not be denied; but the f:tct remains to be understood. Bazin meets

it head on b� simply den) ing that "the screen is incapable of putting us 'in the presence or the actor"; it, so to speak, relays his presence to us, as b) mirror:.. 10 Bazin 's idea here really firs the facts of Ji,e tcle,ision, in which the thing we are presented "ith is happening simultaneously with its presenr:trion. But in live television, what is present to us while it is happening is not the world, but an event standing out from the world. Irs point is not to reveal, but to cover (as with a gun), to keep something on view.

It is an incontestable fact that in a motion pic­ture no live human being is up there. But a human somelhiug is, and something wliikc anything else we know. We can stick to our plain description of that human something as "in our presence while \\Care not in his" (present a/ him, because looking at him, but not present to him) and still account for the difference benveen his live presence and his photographed presence to us. We need to consider

"har i� present or, rather, since the topic is the human being, who is present .

One\ first impulse may be to say that in a pia) the character is present, whereas in a film the actor is. That sounds phony or false: one wantS to say that both arc present in both. But there is more to it, onrologicall) more. Here I think of a fine pas­sage of Panofsky's:

Othello or ora are definite, substantial figures created b) the playwright. They can be played \1 ell or badly, and they can be "interpreted" in one way or another; but they most definitely

e:-.is1, no matter who plays them or even whether they arc played at aLL The character in a fum, howc,er, lives and dies with the actOr. It is not

Stanley Cavell

the entity "Othello" interpreted by Robeson or the entity " ora" interpreted b) Duse, it is the entity "Greta Garbo" inc;1rnate in a

figure c;1llcd Anna Christie or tht: entity "Rob­crt Montgomery" incarnate in a murderer who, for all we know or care w kilO\\ , may forever

remain anonymous but will never cease to haunt our memories. 1 1

If the chamcter li\·es and dies with the actor, that

ought to mean that the actor lives and dies with the chamctcr. I think that is correct, but it needs clarification. Let us de\·elop it slight!�.

For the s tage, an actor works himself into a role; for the screen, a performer takes the role onto himself. The stage actor explores his potenrialities and the possibilities of his role simultaneously; in performance these meet at a point in spirin1al space - the better tl1e performance, the deeper

the point. In this respect, a role in a pl:t) is like a position in a game, say, third base: various people can pia) it, but the great third baseman is a man who has accepted and trained his skills and in­

stincts most perfectl) and matches them most intimately \\ ith his discO\ erit:s of the pos�ibilities and necessities of third base. The screen performer c>.plores his role like an artie and takes stock of his physical and temperamental endowment; he lends his being to the role and accepts only " hat fits; the rest is nonexistent. On the stage there arc two

beings, and the being of the character assaults the being of the actor; the actor survives onl) by yielding. A screen performance requires not so

much training as planning. Of course, both the

actor and rhe performer require, or c;1n make use of, experience. The actor's role is his subject for

stud), and there is no end to it. But the screen performer is essentially not an actor at all: he i.f rhc subject of study, and a study not his own. (That is what the content of a photograph is - its subject.)

On a screen the study is projected; on a stage the actor is the projector. An exemplury stage per­formance is one which, for a time, most fully creates a character. After Paul Scofield's perform­ance in Ki11g Lear, \\C know \\ho King Lear is, we ha\e seen him in the Ocsh. An exemplar) screen performance is one in which, at a rime, a �tar is born. After The .11a/Ust' Fulco11 \\e knOI\ a nC\\ star, only distantly a person. "Bo!,rart" mea11s "the figure created in a given set of films." His presence

in those films is who he is, not mere!) in the sense in which a photograph of an event is that event;

but in the sense that if those films did not e>.ist,

Bogart would not C\ist, the name "Bogart" \IOllld not mean what it docs. The figure it names is not only in our pr <.-scncc, \\ e are in his, in the on I� ;ense \\e could C\er be. That is all the "presence" he has.

But it is complicated. A full de,·elopment of all this would require us to place such facts as these: Humpluey Bogart I\ aS a man, and he appeared in movies both before and after the ones that created ''Bogan." Some of them did not create a nc\\ st:1r

(sa), the stable groom in Dark J'ictory), some of :.hem defined stars - an�\\ a� meteors- that rna� be :ncompatible \1 ith Bogart (e.g., Duke Mantee and Fred C. Dobbs) but that arc related to that figure and rna) enter into our htter experience of it. And Humphre� Bo{..rart I\ aS both an accomplished actor and a \1\ id subject for a c;1mera. Some people arc, just as some people arc both good pitchers and good hitters; but 1 here are so few that it is surpris­

ing that the \\Ortl "actor" keeps on being used in place of the more beautiful and more accurate word ''star"; the stars are only to gaze at, after the fact, and their actions di\-ine our projects. Finall), \I e must note rhe sense in which the creation of a (!>crecn) performer is also the cn:ation of a char:1c1er not the kind of character an author creates, but the l..ind that cerrain real people arc: a

type.

Types; Cycles as Genres

Around this point our auention turns from the

physical medium of cinema in general to the spe­

cific forms or genres the medium has rakcn in the course of it!> histor).

Both Panofsl..) and Bazin begin at the begin­ning, noting and approving that early mo\ ies adapt popular or folk arts and themes and performers and characters: farce, melodrama, circus, music hall, romance, etc. And borh are gratifyingly con­temptuous of intellectuals who could not come to

terms with those fi1cts of life. (Such intellectuals are the alter egos of the film promoters the) so heartily despise. Roxy once ad\·errised a mo\·ie as "Art, in e\ cr) sense of the \\Ord"; his better half

ceclaims, "This is not art, in any sense of the word.") Our question is, why did such forms and

themes and characters lend themseh·es to film? Bazin, in \\hat I ha\ c read of him, is silent on the subject, except to express gratirude to film for revivifying these ancient forms, and to justify in general the legitimacy of adaptation from one art

to another. Arnold llauser, it

suggests \HOng anS\\ ers, in a r the remark "0nl) a )OUng art remark that not onl) is in itscl

' and Dickens and Chaplin and in young arts?) but suggests t ural for the movies to pick up It was natural - anyway it hap but not because movies were c ity (they ''ere at first no more forms of entertainment). In ar are likel) to pic!. up the forms art for their m:ucrial popuJ burlesques. And it means next t• movies are )Oung, bec;1usc \H the normal life span of an art is what would count as a unit of raises the question of the appr original forms, but his answer

The legitimate paths of eve were opened, not by runr folk art character of the p• de\ eloping it \\ ithin the lir sibilities. Those primordia productions on the folk ar retribution, sentiment, scns and crude humor could genuine histor), tn1gcdy a and adventure, and comed realized that the) could be by an artificial injection ol by the exploitation of the possibiliti� of the ne\\ me•

The instinct here is sound, b• of traps. What arc "the unique bilirics of the nc\� medium'' them as dynami:t.ation of spac of time - tlmt is, in a movie th can be moved insmntaneousl) anywhere, and you can wirness happening at the same time. properties as "self-c\ idcnt to it)" and, bec;1uSe of that, " neglected." One hard I) dispu portance. But \\C still do no makes these properties "the medium." 1 am not nO\\ aski know that these arc the unique biliries (though 1 will soon

I am asking what it means to c� at all.

:xisr, the name "Bogart" would -OCS. The figure ir names is nor tee, we arc in his, in the onl) r be. That is :111 the "presence"

:arcd. A full development of all us tO place such facts as these: was a man, and he appeared in and after the ones that created

·them did not create a new star )Om in Dad• Vici0/:)1), some of -an) way meteors- that ma) be 13ogarr (e.g., Duke i\llantee and u that arc related to that figure

our later experience of it. And ''as both an accomplished actor tor a camera. Some people arc,

le arc both good pitchers and .e�e arc so few that it is surpris­·actor" keeps on being used in

• beautiful and more accunnc .:.us arc onl) to gaze at, after • actions di\inc our project!>. note the sense in "hich the

a) performer is also the creation

:ite kind of character an author I'll that certain real people arc: a

ts Genres

oor lrtcnrion turns from the cmema m general to the spc­

� the medium has taken in the

r rxl Bum begin at the begin­

lit,. that carl) movies adapt E � thcmes and performers � celodrama, circus. music

roth arc gratifyingly con­lcal:a!i ,, ho could not come to

life (Such intellectuals rilm promoters they so

ad,crtised a movie as ord"; his bener half

:a.n. in an) sense of the • 'h) did such forms anc.l

::as lend themselves to film? re-2d of him, is silent on the

Of.""t'• gratitude to film for , t wrms, and to justify in . of acbptation from one arr

to another. Arnold Hauser, if l understand him, suggeM� '' rong answer�, in a pa�age that includes the remar� "Only a young art can be popular,"tl a remark that not only is in itself batning (did \"erdi and Diekcns and Chaplin and Prank Loesser work in � oung arts?) but suggest> that it was only nat­ural for the mo,·ies to pic� up the forms they did. It was natural - anyway it happened fast enough but not because mO\ics \\ere destined to popular­it) (the) "ere at first no more popular than other forms of entertainment). In any case, popular arts arc like!) to pick up the forms and themes of high art for their material - popular theater natural!) burlesques. And it means ne\t to nothing to say that mo' ies arc young. because "e do not kno\\ "hat the normal life span of an art is �upposcd to be, nor "hat "ould count as a unit of me1sure. Panofst..y raises the question of the appropriateness of these original forms, bur his ans\\er i� misleading.

The legitimate paths of e\ olution [for the film] "ere opened, nor by running away from the fol� art character of the primiti\e film but by

de,eloping ir within the limits of its O\\ n pos­sibilities. Those primordi,tl archet)pcs of film

productions on the foik art ie,ei - success or retribution, sentiment, sensation, pornography, and crude humor - could blossom forth into genuine history·, tragcd) and romance, crime and ad,cnturc. and corned), as soon as it "as realized that the) could be transfigured - not b) an artificial injection of literary ,-alues but b) the e:-ploitation of the unique and specific possibilities of the nc\\ mcdium.u

The instinct here is sound, but the region is full of traps. \\ hat are "the unique and specific possi­bilities of the new medium"? Panofsky defines them as d)namization of �pace and spatialization of time - that is, in a mo,ie thin� mo,e, and you can be moved instantaneous)) from anywhere ro anywhere, and you can witness successively events happening at the same time. lie speaks of these properties as "self-e, idem to the point of trh ial­ity" and, because of that, "easil) forgotten or neglected.'' One hard!) dispute!. this, or its im­portance. But we still do not understand "hat makes these properties "the po5�ibilities of the medium." J am not now asJ..ing how one would know that these arc the unique and specific possi­bilities (d10ugh I "ill soon get back to that); I am as�ing "hat it means to call them possibilities at all.

The World Viewed

\\'hy, for example, didn't the medium begin and remain in the condition of home movies, one shot just physicall) tac�cd on to another, cut and edited simp!) according to subject? ( e" sreels essentially did, and they arc nevertheless valuable, enough so to ha,·c justified the invention of moving pic­tures.) The ans,�cr seems obvious: narrative mo,·ies emerged because someone "saw the possi­bilities'' of the medium cutting and editing and ta�ing shots at different distances from the subject. But again, these are mere actualities of film mech­anics: every home movie and newsreel contains them. We could say: To make them "possibilities of the medium" is to realize what will give them ngnijirnnce - for e\amplc, the narrative and phys­ical rhythms of melodrama, farce, Amerit'lln com­edy of the 1930s. It is not as if film-ma�ers saw these possibilities and then looked for something to appl) them to. It is truer to say that someone with the wish to ma�e a movie saw that certain established forms \\Ould give point to certain properties of film.

This perhaps sounds like quibbling, bur "hat it means is that the aesthetic possibilities of a med­ium are not gi,·ens. You can no more teiJ "hat "ill

gi' c significance to the unique anci specific aes­thetic possibilities of projecting photographic im­ages b) thinking about them or seeing some, than ) ou can tell \\hat will gi' e significance to the possibilities of paint b) thinking about paint or b) looking some o'er. You have to think about painting, and paintings; you have to think about motion pictures. What does this "thinking about them" consist in? Whatever rhe useful criti­cism of an art consists in. (Painters before Jackson Pollock had dripped paint, even deliberately. Pol­lock made dripping into a medium of painting.) I feel like saying: The first successful movies - i.e., the first mo' ing pictures accepted as motion pic­tures -were not applications of a medium that "as defined by gi,-cn possibilities, but the creatiou of tl medium by their giving significance to specific possibilities. Only the art itself can discover its possibilities, and the discovery of a new possibility is the disco,·ery of a new medium. A medium is something through "hich or by means of "hich something specific gets done or said in particular Wil) s. It provides, one mjght sa), particular ways to get through to someone, to make sense; in art, they are forms, like forms of speech. To discover wa)S of making sense is always a maner of Lhe relation of an artist to his art, each discovering the orher.

Stanley Cavell

Panofsky uncha racteristicaUy skips a step when he describes the early silent films as an "unknown language . . . forced upon a public not yet capable of reading ir."14 His notion is (with good reason, writing when he did) of a few indusn·ialists forcing their productions upon an addicted multitude. But from the beginning the language was not "un­known"; it was known to its cre.1tors, those who found themselves speaking it; and in the beginning there was no "public" in question; there were just some curious people. There soon was a public, but that just proves how easy the thing was to know. If we are to say that there was an "unknown" some­thing, it was less like a language than like a fact - in particular, the fact that something is intelligible. So while it may be true, as Panofsky says, that "for a Saxon peasant of around 800 it was not easy to understand the meaning of a picn.re showing a man as he pours water over the head of another man," this has notuing special to do with the prob­lems of a moviegoer. The meaning of that act of

pouring in certain communities is still not easy to understand; it was and is impossible to under­stand for anyone to whom the practice of baptism is unknown. Why did Panofsky suppose that com­parable understanding is essential, or uniquely im­portant, to the reading of movies? Apparently he needed an explanation for the persistence in movies of"fixed iconography" - "the well-remem­bered types of the Vamp and the Straight Girl . . . the Family Man, and the Villain," charac­ters whose conduct was "predetermined accord­ingly" - an explanation for the persistence of an obviously primitive or folkloristic elemenr in a rap­idly developing medium. For he goes on, otherwise inexplicably. to say that "devices like these became gradually less necessary as the public grew accus­tomed to interpret the action by itself and were virtually abolished by the invention of the talking film." In fact such devices persist <1S long as there are still Westerns and gangster films and comedies and musicals and romances. Which specific iconog­raphy the Villain is given will alter with rhe times, but that his iconography remains specific (i.e., op­erates according to a "fixed attin.de and attribute" principle15) seems undeniable: if Jack Palance iJl Shane is not a ViUain, no honest home was ever in danger. Films have changed, but that is not because we don't need such explanations any longer; it is because we can't accept them.

These facts are accounted for by d1e actualities of the film medium itself: types are exactly what carry the forms movies have relied upon. These

media created ne\1' types, or combinations and ironic reversals of r� pes; but there they were, and stayed. Does tl1is mean that movies can ne1·er create individuals, onll' types? What ir means is that this is the movies' way of creating indi1'iduals: they create indh:idualities. For what makes some­one a type is not his similariry with other members of that type but his srriking separateness from other people.

Until recently, types of black human beings were not created in film: black people were stereo­types- mammies, shiftless servants, loyal retainers, enter tainers. We were not given, and were not in a position to be gi' en, individualities that projected particular ways of inhabiting a social role; we rec­ognized only the role. Occasionally the humanity behind the role would manifest itself; and the result was a rel'elation not of a human indil'idual­ity, but of an entire realm of humanity becoming visible. When in Gone With the Wind Vi1 ien Leigh, having counred on Butterfly McQueen's professed knowledge of midwifery, and finding her as ignorant as herself: slaps her in rage and terror, the moment can stun us with a question: ·what was the white girl assuming about blackness when she believed the casual clain1 of a black girl, younger and duller and more ignorant than her­self, tO know all about the mysteries of childbirth? The assumption, .though apparently complimen­tary, is dehumanizing- with such cream res know­ledge of the body comes from nowhere, and in general they are to be trusted absolutely or not at all, like lions in a cage, with whom you either do or do not know how to deal. After the slap, we are left with two young girls equally frightened in a hu­manly desperate situation, one limited by a dis­traction which expects and forgets what it is to be bullied, the other by an energetic resourcefulness which knows only how to bully. At the end of Michael Curtiz' Breaking Poi11t, as the wounded John Garfield is carried from his boat to the dock, awaited by his wife and children and, just outside the circle, by the other woman in his life (Patricia

1eal), rhe camera pulls away, holding on the still waiting child of his black partner, who only the unconscious Garfield knows has been killed. The poignance of the silent and unnoticed black child overwhelms tl1e yarn we had been shown. Is he supposed to symbolize the fact of general human isolation and abandonment? Or the fact that every action has consequences for innocent bystanders? Or that children are the real sufferers from the entangled efforts of adults to straighten out their

lives? The effect here is to attaching so much importaLl< arm, and generally to blot out ual suffering by invoking a about which this film has not

The general difference bet­a stage type is that tl1e indi1r film naturally takes precedenc in which that individuality gel on film social role appears ar·

movies have an inherent te democratic, or anyway the ide (But because of film's equally crowds, it has opposite tende: cistic or populistic.) This dep ing film types as inhabited by or may well meet in other recognized recurrence of film come a central idea as we pro• I am emphasizing only d1at

performers there was until re• for them to recur in, except which we have already met tl1 would not have expected to sc siblings. I cannot at the mOm(

person in a film making an ore of a newspaper, or a ticket to� let alone writing a check. (Pin• Su11 prove the rule: in the for purchase is a climactic seen< latter, it provides tl1e whole SL

One recalls the lists of stars who have provided the movie subjects - indi,riduals capabl for individualities, whose inc whose inflections of demea were given full play in its r• vided, and still provide, stapl• one gesture or syllable of mo passing mannerism was enou� ti·om all other creatures. The of singularity - d1at we can s our disguises of bravado and one, perhaps a god, capable c defeats. This was always 1r

their distinction by beauty made them more like us -difference from us less a m;;

to which we must accede, tha: sibility, to which we must I made them even more gla should be able to stand upor

>eS, or combinations and : but there they were, and n that movies can never

rypes? What it means is .ay of creating individuals:

·s. For what makes some­ilarity with other members rriking separateness from

• of black human beings blacl people were sterco­

ss servants, loyal retajner�. :n given, and were not in a lh idualities that projected iring a social role; \\ e rec­kcasionally the humanit)

manifest itself; and the ot of a human indi\ idual­un of humanity becoming · II itlr flit' Wind Vi\ icn on Butterfly McQueen's

- mid\\ ifer) , and finding �If. slaps her in rage and

stun us with a question: assuming about blackness

:�Sual claim of a black git'l, more ignorant than her­

te mysteries of childbirth? h apparently complimen­a ith such creatures know­

!S from nowhere, and in usted absolutely or not at ith whom you either do or . . liter the slap, we are left uall� frightened in a hu­

m. one limited b) a di�­nd forgers what it is to be energetic resourcefulness to bully. At the end of

-r: Poiul, as the wounded from his boar to the dock, children and, just outside oman in his life (Patricia .:1\\ a�, holding on the still :1.. parmer, who only the <l\\S has been killed. The nd unnoticed black child :! had been shown. Is he he fact of general human nr? Or the fact that every

for innocent byst<mders?

! real sufferers from the .ts to straighten out their

lives? The effect here is to rebuke Garfield for attaching so much importance to the loss of his arm, and generally to blot our attention to individ­ual suffering by invoking a massive social c�il about which this film has nothing to say.

The general diffen:nce between a film type and :1 swge type is that the individuality captured on film naturally takes precedence over the social role in which that indi\·idualiry gets expressed. Because on film social role appears arbitrary or :ncidental, mO\ ies h:l\'e an inherent tendenC) toward the democratic, or anyway the idea of human equal it). (Bur because of film's equal!� natural attraction to cro\1 d�, it has opposite tendencies toward the fas­cistic or popuJisric.) This depends upon recogni�:­ing film t) pes as inhabited by figures \\C ha\e met or may well meet in other circumstances. The recognized recurrence of film performers \\ill be­come a ccnrral idea as \\e proceed. At the moment I am emphasizing only that in the case of black performers there was until recently no other place for them to recur in, except just the role \\ ithin

which we ha\'C already met them. For C\ample, we would not have expected to see them as parents or siblings. I cannot at the moment remember a black

person in a film making an ordinary purchase say of a newspaper, or a ticket to a movie or for a train, let alone writing a check. (Pink)' and A Raisin in 1he Srm pro\·c the rule: in the former, the making of a purchase is a climactic scene in the film; in the latter, it provides the whole subject and structure.)

One recalls the lists of stars of e\·el) magnitude who ha\e provided the movie camera \\ith human subjects - indi\·iduals capable of filling its need for indiYidualities, \\hose indi\;dualit:ies in turn,

\\hose inflections of demeanor and disposition \\ere gh en full pia� in its projection. The) pro­'ided, and still prO\ ide, staples for impersonators: one gesture or S) liable of mood, two strides, or a passing mannerism was enough tO single them out from all other creatures. The) realized the m)th of singularit) - that we can still be found, behind our disguises of bravado and cowardice, h) some­one, perhaps a god, capable of defeating our self­defeats. This was always more important than their distinction by beauty. Their singularity made them more like us - an) way, made their difference from us less a matter of metaphysics, to which we must accede, than a matter of respon­sibilit) , to which we must bend. But then that made them even more glamorous. That the) should be able to stand upon their singularit)! lf

The World Viewed

one did that, one might be found, and called out, too soon, or at an inconvenient moment.

What was wrong with type-casting in films was not that it displaced some other, better principle of casting, but that factors irrelevant to fum-making often inlluenced the particular figw·es chosen. Similarly, the f.1miliar historical fact that there arc movie cycles, taken by certain movie theorists as in itself a mark of unscrupulous commcrcialjsm, is a possibilit) internal to the medium; one could e\en say, it is the best emblem of the fact that a medium had been created. For a cycle is a genre (prison mo\ ies, Ci\·il War mo\ ies, horror movies, etc.); and a genre is a medium.

\s Ilollywood de\·eloped, the original rypes ramified into individualities as various and subtle, as far-reaching in their C'Jpacities to inflect mood and release fantasy, as any set of characters who inhabited the great theaters of our world. We do not know them by such names as Pulcinella, Cris­pin, Harlequin, Pantaloon, the Doctor, the Cap­tain, Columbine; \\e call them the Public Enemy, the Priest, James Cagney, Pat O'Brien, the Con­federate Spy, the Army Scout, Randolph Scott, G;lr) Cooper, Gable, Paul Muni, the Reporter,

the Sergeant, the Sheriff, the Deputy, the D.A., the Q!mck, the Shyster, the Other Woman, the fallen Woman, the Moll, tl1e Dance Hall I lostess. I lollywood was the theater in which they appeared, because the films of Hollywood constituted a world, with recurrent faces more familiar to me than the faces of the neighbors of all the places I h:n e lived.

The great mO\ ie comedians - Chaplin, Keaton, \\. C. Fields - form a set of types that could not ha\e been adapted from an� other medium. Its creation depended upon two conditions of the film medium mentioned earlier. These conditions seem to be necessities, not merely possibilities, so I \\ill sa) that t\\0 necessities of the medium were disco\ered or C'\p:mded in the creation of these types. First, mo\ ic performers cannot project, but are projected. Second, photographs are of the world, in ''hich human beings are not ontologie­all) fa\ ored O\ er the rest of nature, in which objects are nor props bur natural allies (or enemies) of the human character. The first necessity- pro­

jected visibility - permits the sublime comprehen­sibility of Chaplin's natural choreography; the second - ontological equality - permits hjs Pruus­tian or Jamesian relationships with Murphy beds and llights of stairs and with vases on runners on tables on rollers: the heroism of momentary

Stanley Cavell

survival, , ietzsche's man as a tightrope across an

abyss. These necessities permit not merely the locales of Keaton's extricarions, but rhe philosoph­ical mood of his countenance and the Olympic

resourcefulness of his body; permit him to be perhaps the only constantly beautiful and continu­ously hilarious man c1 cr seen, as though the ugli­ness in laughter should be redeemed. The) permit Fields to mutter and sutTer and curse obsessi1el),

but heard and seen only by us; because his attri­butes are those of the gentleman (confident swag­ger and elegant manners, gloves, cane, outer heartiness), he can manifest cominuously, '' ith the remorselessness of nature, the pl.) chic brural­iries of bourgeois ci1 ilization.

Ideas of Origin

It is inevitable that in theorizing about film one at some point speculate about irs origins, because despite its rccenmess, its origin remains obscure. The facts arc well enough kno11 n about the im en­tion and the im enrors of the camera, and about improvements in fixing and then moving the image it captures. The problem is that the inven­tion of the photographic picture is not the same

thing as the creation of photography as a medium for making sense. The historical problem is like any other; a chronicle of the facts preceding the appearance of this technology does nor explain why it happened when and as it did. Panof.�ky opens his study of film by remarking, "It was nor

an artistic urge that gave rise to the discovery and

gradual perfection of a new technique; it \\as a

teehni<.<JJ invention that g-.n e rise to the discO\ er)

and gradual perfection of a new art." \\'e seem to understand this, but do we understand it? Panofsk) assumes we kno1\ what it is that at an) time has "given rise" to a "ne1\ art." lie mentions an "artistic urge," bur that is hardly a candidate to serve as an explanation; it would be about :1s useful as explaining the rise of modern science by appeal­ing to "a scientific urge." There ma) be such urges, but they are themseh·es rather badly in

need of explanation. Panofsky cites an arrisric urge explicitly as the occasion for a ne11 "tech­nique." But the motion picture is not a nell tuh­uique, any more than the airplane is. (What did we

usc to do that such a thing enables us ro do better?) Yet some idea of flying, and an urge to do it, preceded the mechanical im·enrion of the airplane. \\'hat is "gi1 en rise to" b� such im enrions as

mo1 able ry pe or the microscope or the steam en­gine or the pianoforte:

It 11 ould be surprising if rhe history of the estab­lishment of an artistic medium 11 ere less complex a problem for the historical understanding than (Sa)) the rise of modern science. I rake Bazin to be sug­gesting this 11 hen he re1·crses the apparent relation bct\\ecn the relevant rechnolog) and the idea of cinema, emphasizing that the idea preceded the technology, parts of it b) centuries, and that parts of the technolog) preceded the invention ofmo1·ies, some of it b) centuries. So what has to be explained

is not merely how the le;tt I\ :IS technically accom­plished but, for example, 11 hat stood in the \H) of

its happening earlier. Surprisingly , Bazin, in the selection of essays I ha1 e read, does not include the contemporary condition of the related arts as a pan of the ideological super�tructure that elicited

the new material basis of film. Bur it is certainly rele1 :1nt th:lt the burning issue during the latter half of the nineteenth ccnrur� , in painting and in the no1cl and in the theater, wa� realism. And unless film captured possibilities opened up by the arts themsehes, ir is hard to imagine th:n its possibilities as an arti�ric medium 110uld ha1 e !>hOI\ n up as, and as sudden!) as, they did.

The idc;l of and wish for the 110rld re-created in its 011 n image 11 as sarisfied til last by cinema. Balin calls this the m) th of total cinema. But it had ah1a)S been one of the m}ths of art; each of the arrs had satisfied it in irs 011 n 11 a�. The mirror 11 as in 'arious hands held up ro nature. In some 11 a� sit

was more full) satisfied in theater. (Since theater is on the whole not now a major art for us, it on the

whole no longer makes contact 11 ith its historical

and ps) chological sources; so 11 e arc rarel) gripped b) the trauma we must once ha1 e suffered 11 hen

the leader of the chorus stopped contributing to a narrati1 e or song and turned 10 face the others, suffering incarnation.)

What is cinema's wa) of satisfying the myth? Automari�.:ally, we said. But 11 hat docs that mean -mean mythically, as it 11cre? It means satisfying it without my ha1 ing to do an� thing, satisfying it by ''ishing. In a 110rd, magica/6•. I ha1e found myself asling: l lo11 could film be art, since all the major arts arise in some way our of religion: :-\ow I can answer; Bcc.1use mo\'ics arise out of magic; from belum the world.

The better a film, the more ir makes contact with thi!> source of its inspiration; it ne1·er wholl) lose� touch 11 ith the magic lantern behind it. This suggest 11 hy mo' ies of the !a mastic ( Tlu: Cabinet

'Dr Ct�llgan. Blood of a Port) r

magic (say, materialization and

"'lhile they ha1c provided mooc

ne1 er established themselves a

�..,wever strong!) this "possibil the physical medium of filin; 1 mel psychologically tri1ial C•

;nedium of magic itself. It is o :>ented magic is it'ielf made te<

.1.lly interesting (The Invisible '

\Ir Hyde, Frar1kenstein, 2001:

'hut then that becomes another

dle physicality of our world. � self, in m01 ics, as magic, whi ,ource of science. In parricula·

retains magic's m)stery and I

ence-ficrion film<; exploit not r

-.us asp�;:cts of adventure, and '

special effects specialize in, b

mumbo-jumbo of hearsay scie· thing is impervious to the ne� must re1er�c the atom recalcitr:

n's roo late!" The dialogue has

tinbox-and-levcr contraptions

ciently convincing in prime F

iilms arc carried by the immc•

that motivates them (say, dcst higher forms of life, as though of human life is due to its

:-\orcs

Erwin Panof.�k), "Style and M

Pictures," in D<micl Talbot, c Simon and Schuster, 1959), p.

2 .\ndrc Buin, II !tat is Cium1• (BerLclc): Unil crsiry of Cal

p. 110.

3 Certain!) I am not conccmc• ma) be, through film, what J> Film Till Nom (first publish< as "pos:.ibilitics . . . open for th• ual [i.e., nun-dialogue sounc photogr:�phicall) \ isual] cincrr in the me-Jnlimc the mo\'ics ha'

been. -! Bazin, II lull is Cit� mill?, p. 12.

ibid. 6 Sec Mi�had Fried, T/Jru Am

bridge, Mass.: Fogg Arr Muse sit), 1965), n. 3; and "i\ Janet' .\larch 1969, pp. 28-79.

; S�'e 1\lichacl Fried, ''Art and C June 1967; reprinted in G1

1e microscope or the steam en­ne? rising if the history of the cstab­ric medium were less complex a rorical underswnding than (say) science. I take Bazin to be sug­e re1·erses the apparent relation nr technology and the idea of 'lg that the idea preceded the :·it b� centuries, and that parts -eceded the invention of mo1 ie , ies. So what has to be c\plained :he feat 11as technical!� accom­mple, what stood in the \\:1) of :r. Surprisingly, Bazin, in the I haYe read, docs not include

ondition of the related arts as a cal superstructure that elicited �IS of ftlm. But it is certain!) 'lling issue during the latter half enrur� , in painting and in the eater, was realism. And unless bilities opened up by the arts 3 to imagine that its possibilities n would have shown up as, and

..J ! .J wu . • ish for the world re-creat�:d in msfied at las/ by cinema. 13azin

of total cinema. But it had the myths of art; e;1eh of the

n its 011 n way. The mirror 11as j up to nature. In some 11a�� it ied in theater. (Since theater is " a major an for us, it on the les contact "ith its historical urces; so we are rarely gripped lust once have suffered "hen >rus stopped contributing to a 'ld turned to face the other�.

l.) \\a) of satisfying the m) th?

jd, But "hat docs that mean it "ere? It means satisf) ing it

o do anything, satisfying it by

:nagiwi(J•. I have found myself ilm be art, since all the major 1y out of religion? 011 l can "lies arise out of magic; from

, the more it makes contact :s inspiration; it never wholl) magic lantern behind it. This

of the fantastic (Thl' Cabinl'/

oj'Dr Caligari, Blood of a Poe!) and filmed scenes of magic (sa), materialization and dematerialuation), "hile they ha1·e pro1·idcd moods and de1 ices, ha1 c ne1er established themsehes as cinrmatic media, ho11e1·er strong!) this "possibilit)" is suggested b) the physical medium of film: they are technicall) and psychologically tri1·ial compared "ith the medium of magic itself. It is otherwise if the pre­sented magic is itself made technicaU) or physic­all) interesting (Tiu Int'isiblr .Han. Dr ]l'ky/1 ami

Mr Hytfl'. Frrmkensuin, 2001: A Spau Odyssey), but then that becomes another wa� of confirming the ph) sicalit) of our "orld. Science present!> it­self, in mo1 ies. as magic, \1 hich "as indeed one source of science. Ln particular, projected science retains magic's mystery and forbiddennc:ss. Sci­ence-fiction films exploit not mere I) certain ob1 i­o� aspecrs of ad1·enrure, and of a ph� �icalit) that special effects specialize in, but alw the terrific mumbo-jumbo of hearsa) science: ".\I) God, the thing is impervious to the negati1e beta ra)! \\ e must rel'erse the atom recalcirration spaner, before it's too late!" The dialogue has the surface of those tinbox-and-le1 er contraptions that 11ere suffi­cient!) com incing in prime Flash Gordon. These

films are carried by the immediacy oi the iantas) that moti\·atcs them (say, destruction b) lower or higher forms of life, as though tl1e prccariousnes• of human life is due to its biological stage of

Notes

En,;n Panofsl.� , "St) le and :\ ledium in the .\ l01 ing Picture;,." in Danjel Talbot, ed., Frlm (:--.c\1 \ orL.: Simon and Schuster. 1959). p. 31.

2 Andre Bum, IIlla/ 1s Cinmw!. tran,, Hugh Gr�) (Berl.ele): l ni,·ersi� of California Prtl>s. 196i), p. I IO.

3 Certain!� I am nor concerned 10 den� th�r there rna� be, through film. "hat Paul Rotha in thi� Tlrt Film T1ll \orr (ftr>l publi;,hcd in \930) refer.. to as "po.sibilirie:. . . . open for the great ;ound and 1 i�­ual [i.e., non-dialogue sound. and pcrhap; non­phowgraphicall) 'isual] cinema of lhe future.·· But in the meantime the mo1ies ha1e been "hat thC) ha1c been.

4 Bazin, If 7wt rs Cmema?, p. 12. Ibid.

6 Sec :\lichacl Fried, Tlrree lmmw11 Pamlt'r.( (Cam­bridge. :\lass.: Fogg .\rt :\luseum. Hanard lni,er­siry, 1965), n. 3; and ":\laner\ Source;,," lrtfmrm, March 1969, pp. 28-/9.

7 Sec :\lichael Fried, "Art and Objecthoou," lr(/immr,

june \967; reprinted in GregOr) Bam·od, ed ..

The World Viewed

dc1 elopmcnt); together with the myth of the one ll:t) and last chance in which the (external) danger can be al erted. And certainly the beauty of forms and motions in Frankenstein's laboratory is essen­

tial to rhc success of Fmnkenslein; computers seem primiti1e in comparison. Jt always made more sense to steal from God than to try to outwit him.

llo11 du mo1 ies reproduce the world magically? Not b) literall) presenting us with the world, but by pcrmiuing us to 1iew it unseen. This is not a "ish for power o1·er creation (as Pygmalion's was), but a "ish nor to need power, not to have to bear its burdens. It is, in this sense, the re\·erse of the m) th of Faust. And the "ish for im·isibility is old enough. Gods ha1·e profited from it, and Plato tells it at the end of the Republir as the Myth of the Ring of G) ges. In 1 iewing ftlms, the sense of im isibilit) is an e'l:pression of modern privaq or anOn) mit�. 1r is as though the 11orld's projection e:-.plains our forms of unkno11nness and of our inabilit) ro know. The explanation is not so much that rhc "orld is passing us by, as that 11 e are di5.placcd from our natural habitation within it, placed at a di�tance from it. The screen overcomes our fi'l:ed distance; it makes displacement appear as

• • • . llo our natural cundtnon . ...

\Vh;H do we wish to view in this way? What specific forms di�cover this fundamental condition of the medium of film?

ll1111111al lr1 (:'\e\\ Yorl.: E. P. Dutton, 1968), pp. 11(>-47.

8 \\hen painrin!l found out ho11 10 acknowledge the

(Jet that paintings had shapes, shapes became forms, not in the seru.e of patterns, but in the sense of l'Ontainen.. \ form then could Kit:� jrs sbape to what it contaaned. \nd content could transfer its signifi­ance a� painting ro "hat contains it. The shape p�n·odts, lil.c gr:11 it) , or energy or air. (See Michael Fried, •'Shape as Form." ".Jrtfimrm, J':o,·embcr 1966; repnntcd in Henr) Geldzahcr's catalogue, ,Vew York Pamlm,t, am/ Srulp111re: /9-10-1970 [1\'e" York: E.J>. Ounon, 1969].)

This i� not, as far as we yer kno\\, a possibilit) of the film or screen frame - "hich only repeats the fact that a film is nor a painting. The most imporram feature oft he screen form;ll remains 11hat it was from rhc beginning of mo' ies- its scale, irs absolute largc­nc''· \ a1·iarion of fom1at- e.g., CinemaScope - is a matter determined, so far as l can tell, by questions of conlcnicncc and incon•enience, and b} fashion. Though perhaps, as in painting, the declaration of

S:a-ey Ca\ell

color .IS such required or benefited from the e'en greater expanses of wider screens.

The idea may seem obviously false or foolish that

the essential ontological difference between the world as it is and as it is screened is that the screened \\Orld does not exist; because this O\"erlooks - or perhaps obscurcl) states -a fuUy ob,ious difference between them, viz., that the screened world is t\1 o-dimcn­sional. I do not deny the obscurity, but better a real obscurity than a false clarity. For /1Jhat is two dimen­sional? The world whjch is screened is nor; its objects and motions are as three-dimensional as ours. The screen itself, then' Or the images on it? We seem ro understand what it means to say that a painting is two-dimensional . But that depends on our under­standing that the support on which paint is laid is a three-dimensional object, and that the description of that object will not (except in an e�ccptional or 'acu­ous sense) be the description of a paillting. )\lore significantly, it depends on our understanding of the support as limiting the extent of the painting. in two dimensions. This is not the relation between the screen and the images projected across it. It seems all right to S3) that the screen is two-dimensional, but it \\Ould not follow that " har ) ou see there has the san1e dimensionality -any more than in the case of paint, its suppon, and the painting. Shadows are t\\ o-di­mcnsional, bur they arc made by three-dimensional

objects - tracings of opacit). not gradations of it. This suggests that phenomenologically the idea of rwo-dimensionalj�r is an idea of either transparency or outline. Projected images are nor shadows: rather, one migl11 way, they are shades.

9 This idea is de' eloped to some extent in my essay5 on Endgflmt and KinK L�flr in Must We 11'/raJJ What

lYe Sfly? ( 1ew York: Scribener's, 1969). 1 0 Ba7in, What is Cintuw?, p. 97. I I Panofsk), "Style and \ ledjurn in the �10\ ing

Pictures," p. 28. 1 2 "The Film Age." in Talbot, Film, p. i4. 13 Panofsky, "Srylc and Medium in rhe Moving

Pictures," p. 18. 14 !bid., p. 24. 15 Ibid., p. 25. 16 Withm that condition, objects as such ma) seem

displaced; and close-up of an object ma) render it trout·i. Dadajst:. and surrealists found in film a

direct confirmation of their ideologies or sensibil­ities, particularly in film's massi,·e capacities for nostalgia and free ju,taposition. This confirmation is, I gather, sometimes taken to mean that Dadajgr and surrealist films constitute the at"t/111-gordt of film-making. It might equally be taken to show why film made these movements obsolcrc, as the world has. One might say: othing is more surreal� ist than the ordinar) e\enrs of the modern world: and nothing less re,eals that fact than a surrealist attitude. This sa�s nothing about the 'alue of par­ticular surrealist films, which must succeed or fail on the same terms as any orhers.

Ideas of displacement (or comrasted position). of prhacy, and of the inabili�· to kno\1 are linked

in my stud� of the problem of other minds, "Kno"­ing and Acknowledging," in Must IJ't llra11 /Vhot ll'e S11y?

A Note on t�

..1sanne K. Lang•

• IS a new art. For a few decade! � more than a new technica

of drama, a new way of 1 ; dramatic performances. Bt

-::�em has already belied this as - is not a stage, and what is -:-rion and realization of a film

-r e\ en in its present pristine � ·e be�ond any doubt, I think ­

-:j_Ue, bur a new poetic mode.

�cll of the material for the fo s collected by four of my f

-�.1 at Columbia Teachers undly permitted me to use .il:ewise indebted to Mr Rob1

of photography that provide �1e idea, namely that photogrn -sed, cut, or touched up, mu x called it, ''authentic.'' I sh

that suggestion. The signilic:mt points, for tn)

a-e demonstrated by the four col: � were (I) that the structure of:

010t that of drama. and indce • -rative than to drama; and (2)

tentialitics became evident only -: camera was introduced.

-The moving camern divorced th• m;e. The straightforward photog

S_sanne K. Langer, "A Note on th•

-e.v Key (New York: Charles Seribr