Online Response #7 – The autobiographical mode

Oftentimes things don’t turn out the way we originally expect them to.  What might be a simple recording for posterity becomes a lifeline to a mother who has passed away.  What might have been a forgotten photograph turns into a clue into the past and a question as to the security of home life.  And a journal entry from decades before emerges as a proverbial can of worms when trying to discover the truth.  This inscription of self, found in autobiographical documentaries like 51 Birch Street, open the door for communication between the filmmaker and his prey, and their association with the audience, playing an intricate and intimate role in the search for the truth.  As a mother tried to find herself so many years before, the son now begins his quest. 

                              

Fox notes that “baring oneself to a public is at the heart of autobiographical mode.  The emotional and personal life experiences of the producer become the documented reality.”  (pg. 41)  Block’s introspection into his parent’s lives and consequently into his own feelings on his view of and relationship with his parents is at the heart of the piece.  His voice over narration not only invites us into the piece, but the presence of the camera almost becomes a Pandora’s box of sorts, opening up a long suppressed world of disillusionment, infidelity, and struggle.  Through his use of interview, pictures, and media from his family history, the camera becomes for the son what boxes of notebooks and typed journal entries were for the mother, an attempt to find self and security. 

It is in this journey, that the line between filmmaker and audience is blurred.  Fox states that in the autobiographical mode, documentary filmmaking “not only closes the gap between the photographer and the subject but also the space between the filmmaker and the audience.” (pg. 41)  As an audience, we witness the most seemingly intimate moments – talking to a therapist or a rabbi, even to a spouse, as more than just a fly on the wall.  With the camera’s point of view, we assume the physical position of Block himself.  The rabbi questions us directly, the therapist listens to our explanations as we try to summarize our complicated relationship with our father and “our wife” averts her eyes from ours when we are discussing hard and intimate subject matter.  

Even the final conversation with his father follows true to this course.  As we assume the physical space of Block, do we hold his father’s hand?  Do our eyes take the place of his father’s as the camera is turned on the filmmaker and we ask him the most important question: “Are you happy?”  

There is more than a mere familiarity at this point between Block and ourselves, there is an intimacy that can never be forgotten.  After all, we are now a part of the family, and as the mother’s best friend so sagely asserted, relief can be found when someone truly knows us.

Doc Mode Activity 2 - Participatory; Documentarian Statement

Film can be found at: http://youtu.be/yKQx_frTZaI

  

I have loved and been involved with theatre all my life.  I find something powerful in its very existence; in its ability to move and persuade, to generate thought and discussion.  But so often, we are concentrated solely on the performance aspect of the theatre.  While as a theatre teacher, I try to focus both on process and product, I find that I spend the least time on the audition itself, anticipating when I might be done with casting and free to move on to what I deem the meat of the process; the rehearsal.

For the past three years, I have put on an alumni show during the summer as a fundraiser for my program.  This year, I wasn’t going to be able to do it because of grad school and other obligations.  However, I decided to have some former students come back and direct a production for me this summer, working with their peers and some newly graduated students.  Being removed from the audition and casting process this time – I felt it would be advantageous for them to do this on their own – I thought it would be interesting to interview the individuals involved and get their insight into the audition process. 

Nichols suggests that in the participatory mode, “documentary filmmakers live among others and speak about or represent what they experience.” (Nichols, 181)  These are all people with whom I am very close.  My presence there, as primarily an interviewer, gave me new insight from both an outsider and insider perspective.   I found that this was an interesting position for me to be in.  I have been the director for all of these social actors in numerous theatrical settings, but this time, the decision wasn’t in my hands, and they could open up and really talk to me, because nothing that they said to me would affect the outcome of their casting.

From a filmmaker standpoint, I realize there is quite a bit upon which I need to improve.  While I attempted to get the light in their eyes and the rule of thirds, I neglected to displace focus in the background and often had my subjects too close to walls and other distracting objects.  Also, I found it difficult to limit the amount of footage I included, as I tended to ask questions that required long answers.  I found I didn’t need to include my asking the questions, for the most part, because the subjects reflexively included them in their answers. 

I think that what Nichols notes rings true in my editing: “The filmmakers voice emerges as it weaves together in a distinctive way, contributing voices and the material brought in to support what they say.” (Nichols, 190)  I have lots of footage from the auditions and interviews, but chose to only use what I thought supported my overall cursory examination of the audition process and the comments with which I agree.  I chose to include some footage from their past performances, to further highlight what they were saying and how they put their ideas into action.  Overall, this short film attempts to highlight what it is to be on both sides of the table in trying to create a theatrical production.

Online Response #6

Authenticity is something for which we, as human beings always search.  When it is reached, (if that even is possible with a camera or an audience) it is something to remember.  And that very act of remembering and experiencing hits on the encounter of the three players involved.  Nichols suggests that “there are at least three stories that intertwine: the filmmaker’s, the film’s, and the audience’s.” (pg. 94)  Obviously, Chronicle of a Summer came from somewhere and someone.  The filmmakers set out to ask people about their happiness level and experience with French society, and chose to center their study in on a few of the social actors who seemed to have the most compelling stories. 

In the beginning of the film, the filmmakers themselves question whether or not it is possible to be natural and sincere in front of a camera.  And while there are clearly staged meetings and directed flow of conversation, it seemed the moments that were the most honest and most raw were also those where the camera was kept at a physical (with Marceline as she walked down the street recounting a moment in the concentration camp with her father and speaking to him as the camera distances itself from her.  Here, we are left with the image of a solitary woman, trying to be brave amidst all of the horrific experiences that have brought her to this specific place and time.)

Or emotional distance (as is the case with Marilu, who must be drunk and coaxed to let her real fears and feelings show through).  It is in these moments, that the camera seems to fall from the concern of the social actors and what is left is an honest encounter. 

That said, the question still remains: Could such moments have occurred without the presence of a camera and aid of the filmmakers in creating the circumstances that led to such a display?  Would Marceline ever have had the opportunity to share her story and connect with the African immigrants and fellow Frenchmen who led very different lives without the presence of Rouch and his company?  Would Marilu have had the moments of introspection and discovery without someone there to patiently listen and question her situation? 

Nichols further suggests that we need to look at “what the film revels about the relation between the filmmaker and the subject and what, for documentary, the film reveals about the world we occupy.” (pg. 96)  Chronicle of a Summer affected me deeply, much more so that (I think) my classmates.  I clearly have my own predispositions and experiences that cannot be screened out entirely.  After serving a mission in Italy and interacting with Italians who were struggling to understand their predicament and living with a French roommate, I have my own encounter with this film that really did “activate my social consciousness.” (pg. 104)  It worries me about the world in which we live and how we respond to that world.  And perhaps, that was the point.

Online Response #5 – The Participatory Mode

There is an interesting conundrum in the generational gap.  The desire for stories to be told from what many have deemed as “the greatest generation,” meets up with the resistance to sharing those stories; coupled with those to whom the stories belong passing away.  In Nobody’s Business, Alan Berliner faces an uphill battle in getting his father to share his past and his commitment to discovering his family.  

The interplay of dialogue between father and son was paramount in the piece, and one of the main justifications that this piece worked so well in the participatory mode.  His father vehemently explains: “There is nothing special about me. You are wasting your time.”  The collaboration and confrontation that Nichols describes in his book is imperative in a participatory piece such as this.  The filmmaker and the social actor’s interchange create an emotional roller coaster for the participants and the audience alike.  What his father deems as “terribly unimportant” (the making of this film) becomes a crucial matter for Allan; someone still struggling to make sense of his parent’s divorce and his crumbling relationships with them. 

Further, the questions upon which Nichols expounds on page 182, highlight the ethics of this line of questioning.  While it appears that the filmmaker is badgering his aged father, he feels a distinct obligation to use whatever methods necessary to get the story out of him.  Intermixing archival footage and interviews, Allan won't give up on his questioning.  He even finds clever metaphors to weave throughout the piece – like

the boxing footage or the house falling into the river to add both humor and imagery to the film; at the same time using those metaphors to give us direct insight into how he, as a filmmaker and a son, feels about this entire process.  By making his emotions accessible to us, he forms an empathetic partnership from which we can view the piece.  The negotiated relationship is created simply because there is a camera present.  Who knows if this could have even happened without the formal presence of the camera?

 

A few years ago, I started writing a play about my grandfather’s World War Two experiences.  He has an incredible story, but he felt like it wasn’t important enough to make a big deal out of it; that he wasn’t important enough.  It was like pulling teeth to get him to talk sometimes, and in the presence of a tape recorder, it proved almost impossible.  He passed away last October.  Reflecting on the interview experience which happened over many months, I doubt he would have dedicated the time necessary to the piece had I not been taking notes and recording the responses, genuinely interested in what he had to say.  While I still have the audio tapes, I really wish I had it on film.  Just as my voice emerged as I wove his story together in a cohesive piece, so did Allan Berliner’s in his exploratory journey of finding his roots and connecting with his father.

Documentary Mode Activity #1 – Observational, An Observation in a Late Night Meal, Documentarian’s Statement

Observation in a Late Night Meal.  Video can be found at: http://youtu.be/r2nWXREU9b8

I tried not to appear too obtrusive in the restaurant.  Perhaps it was because I felt a bit strange, filming in a public place, or perhaps I was afraid of how those people working at Café Rio would perceive my actions, but this inhibition prevented me from getting the shots I needed to get to create a cohesive story.  Granted, my piece is most certainly unpolished and presents its subject as equally unpolished – honestly, who can pull off polished while eating a sweet pork burrito, smothered?  But it is an honest observation of my friend on a typical night when he gets off from work. 

If the goal of the observational mode of documentary filmmaking is to draw attention to what everyday life would be like, even if the camera wasn’t there, then it might be best to start with the everyday.  This piece is how I observe life and how I observe my friend Mason.  A clear departure from an actuality, I did ask him to wait until I had the camera ready before exiting the car, a few of the moments needed the subject’s cooperation to be adequately captured.  Though he most certainly was aware of the camera in his face while perusing the menu and taking each bite, he still was able to behave naturally.  As a subject of observation, Mason is very kinesthetically and aurally aware.  His head sways to the music of the restaurant or the rhythm of the conversation.  He eats without reserve and carries on a conversation as he would normally.

But even with the smallness of the technology in use when capturing this moment, my red incased iPad is relatively easy to maneuver and capture images, I still had issues because I felt intrusive on the lives of the other people I caught on film.  Playing some of the actual experience safe, I realized that I had failed as a filmmaker in capturing the entire story.  I thought, because I had more footage than the required 5 minutes, I would be fine.  But, in editing the piece, I found that I was missing key information, like the actual ordering of the meal.  I attempted to get that action in a really wide shot, so I could see him move down the line.  But, unfortunately, the angle and the lighting was poor.  In my wide shot, the subject was often obscured behind large wooden posts.  I soon realized that the shot was unusable and would have to be discarded.  Perhaps I would have been better to get permission to film, like the filmmakers of The Salesman, a “human interest piece.”  But I was worried that the authenticity of the piece would be compromised.  I found, in doing this exercise, that much more training, better lighting, more actual footage and a fearless approach will help better my work in upcoming projects.

Observation Exercise

This was an image that I saw as I came home last night.  Yes, the sky is really pretty here, but what really struck me was was the tiny plane, just off of the center of the picture, crossing fast across the evening sky.  I love to fly, but I rarely think of the miracle of flight.  That a giant steel contraption can cut across clouds, dart between mountains and still communicate with the ground.

This is a tree that I walk by every day on my way into work.  I notice it from a distance, but rarely take the time to look up, which I did just then and was struck with it's color contrast with the sky.

This is a flower that I got for Mother's Day from my Primary kids.  These children

This happened yesterday.  My students were sharing their soundtracks.  I wish the picture did the moment justice.  But they were intently listening t the girl presenting and having a communal reaction.  I was struck with the beauty of a kid allowing themselves to share something poignant and important and trusting other people with a piece of themselves.

This is the view I see every morning as I get out of my car and walk into work.  I often curse the sun for being in my eyes as I try to drive into the parking lot, due east.  But it really is a an amazing thing, the way that film can capture the brilliance of the sun that our eyes can't see.

I am fascinated with wood.  I love it's intricacy and I wish all wood was natural wood and not painted.  This is a table I came across in a pizzeria last night and I thought the detail on it was stunning.  My camera doesn't do the shading and lines justice.

And this is the pizza I had at the restaurant.  I have no time anymore and scarf down everything.  But when I allow myself to enjoy the food, and notice all the elements on it, it's kind of astonishing how each component makes a cohesive flavor and texture.

I think relationships of any sort can be beautiful.  This is a former student who graduated several years ago and has gone on to have much success in college and beyond.  I haven't seen her in quite a while and she stopped by to visit me.  I love this girl!  She has this smile that brightens a room and an ability to make everyone happy and feel important.  The beauty of this picture for me is the fact that, years later, we are still important in each other's lives.

This is the view outside of my living room window.  But my shades are usually closed and I usually get home late at night and leave early, so I don't often allow myself time to appreciate their beauty.  I took the time to study them last night.  It was lovely.

This is my tortoise, Giuseppe.  I think he is beautiful.  He is so gentle and likes to be held.  He is a red footed tortoise, which, according to many websites is the most attractive of the tortoise species.  I was never an animal person, and certainly never a reptile person until about a year and a half ago.  But I needed something constant in my life.  He is that constant.  And I think he is beautiful in an unexpected way.  Everyone who touches him can't help but love him.

Online Response #4 – The Observational Mode

The term voyeurism is a perplexing one.  It generates feeling of conflict.   But that is so much of our entertainment programming today; both in fiction and documentary productions: a pleasure in looking at the most intimate moments of a person’s life.  Though consent might be obtained, in documentary form, the feeling of looking in on someone’s private life – their own behind the scenes in the cinema of attractions – is difficult to compartmentalize.  While we are used to observing movie and music stars, and their lack of privacy due to tabloids and news programs, do we still have any right to see one in his underwear as he hurries to change for a concert, trying to ignore the camera that it interfering his space?  This candid look generates a version of the star that he might normally try to keep private. 

 

But isn’t that what the filmmakers of Lonely Boy were trying to do?  They revealed what life is like for Paul when the camera is there and when it isn’t.  Though there were moments where they tipped their hands and let us see the behind the scenes of their filmmaking process as well.  This “fascination of lived experience” keeps the film and television industries (even YouTube) alive.  We desire to look and are drawn to the opportunities to do so.

Recently, the television program, What Would You Do? filmed a segment in my home town.  My father is the head of the Police Department there, so they had to go through him to get both security and permits to film their hidden camera program.  He was on site during the filming, but not in the actual space where the encounter was being filmed.  In this particular case, they chose a small town café in a predominately Mormon community, and staged (with professional actors) a teenage boy coming out to his parents.  The parents rejected the boy and caused quite the scene in the restaurant.  The goal was to observe the reactions of the other patrons of the restaurant and see if they would get involved with the boy’s predicament.  The “pleasure of looking” took on an entirely new meaning for my father.  The patrons in the café tried to look away, but couldn’t.  In the control room, the filmmakers, eagerly looked at the reactions of the social actors involved, deciding on what footage would be best to show the audience who would then also have pleasure in looking.  The unsuspecting participants, many of whom were people my family knows, felt duped.  Though those that chose to get involved were actually content with their performance (for lack of a better term), those who watched and hid their faces were none too thrilled about being involved with this production. 

Though a hidden camera project like this might not be explicitly an observational mode, it carries the same feel of the every-day real.  These people were not puppets, directed by the filmmakers.  Their involvement was, however, carefully constructed by the filmmakers.  Nichols talks about the move wherein filmmakers choose to observe spontaneously and not add voice over commentary, calling this a “look in on life as it is lived.”  When this is done in the observational mode, the viewer must take “a more active role in determining the significance of what is said and done.” (Nichols, 174)  My neighbor’s lives were, in many ways, constructed by the filmmakers.

Online Response #3 – The Expository Mode and Narrative Structure

In its very nature, cinema has the uncanny ability to capture life as it is.  Though the picture it leaves us with might be disturbing, cinema, and most especially documentary, has the capacity to help the audience see things anew throughout the eyes of an artist or activist.  

In a narrative documentary like Born into Brothels, the audience/spectator is taken into the belly of the beast of the issue; because honestly, you can’t look away from children who are suffering or in danger.  The moving and stationary pictures, captured in the film by both the filmmaker and the children ,highlight their plight, while the voice over brings meaning to the messages. 

 A documentary like Born Into Brothels functions within the realm of narrative storytelling. It first proposes a problem and then works to resolve the problem.  Nichols discusses this problem/solution structure in his writing on pages 85-86.  He elaborates on narrative storytelling, stating that: "narrative welcomes suspense or delay where complications can mount and anticipation grow.”  (132)  The opening sequence of Born into Brothels certainly caches the audience attention.  Almost

exposé-like, the audience feels as though they are being led into forbidden territory, where the camera and the audience alike are not allowed.  Further, the film personifies the elements of argument and refutation in the characters (or social actors) of the photographer/filmmaker, the unyielding family members of some of the children, and the government constraints respectively.  While she presents that the only way to free the children from a repetitive life of sex and crime is an education at the boarding school, it seems there are a mountain of obstacles stuck in the way, preventing her from resolving the issue.

Nichols notes that the expository mode “addresses the viewer directly, with titles or voices that propose a perspective or advance an argument.” (pg. 167)   The voice over commentary gives an “informing logic” accompanied by demonstrative visual images.  Amid the myriad of visual images repeated in Born into Brothels, it is interesting and perplexing to me that I continue to go back to the little girl, scrubbing out a pot on the floor with what looks like a newspaper.  While these images are powerful in themselves, peppered throughout the film are clarification of facts, a human and intimate look at each child (effectively “adding flesh to fact”), personalizing their individual narrative, and a clear summation of each of their stories up to this point. 

Even now, nearly a week later, this film has caused a successful emotional response in me as a viewer. I’m still angry about the aunt who wouldn’t let her niece go to school.  I have told my students, my roommates, even my parents about the film. Perhaps it is that we were so effectively persuaded to side with the most dominate voice we heard, that of Zana Briski, that her voice established (more so than in a fiction film) an air of authenticity; a truth, that couldn’t be ignored.  

Online Response #2 – “Doc Beginnings”

Oh, how little I knew about the coal mining industry in Britain, the daily lives of herring fishermen, or the miserable existence and intense poverty of the inhabitants of a mountainous region of Spain before this class!

Although those things had never had consequence to spark my interest, after watching the documentaries, I had the desire to learn more.  This very practice is at the heart of documentary filmmaking: the creation of an alternate way of looking at the world and a desire for the viewer to know something more.  Nichols elaborates that: “In viewing documentary films we expect to learn or to be moved, to discover or be persuaded of possibilities that pertain to the historical world.” (p. 38) 

Each film we viewed had their own stock elements belonging to the genre of documentaries: reliance on social actors, verifiable information (both in title cards and in visual evidence), an air of authenticity, etc.  But it is in the contemporary viewing of these pieces where a new historical reality (or at least a perception of that reality) is created.  It didn’t really matter that The Drifters seemed to recycle footage repeatedly throughout the piece (note for instance how the fish are always in the same formation and direction each time their mass in water is shown, or the rope around the post, constantly winding, but never changing shape or size, to cite a few examples.)  In fact, the process is still used today, where television news stations have stock footage to pull and over which to add voice-of-authority or voice-of-God commentary. 

Just this week, KSL did a special on the story of the school bus that hit and killed a little girl exiting from another school bus in the Jordan District.  While later in the day, the footage was of the two actual buses, 

the initial story that I caught featured an image of a bus that I recognized from a different story a few weeks ago.  

Though they chose to use evidence that was not directly associated with the event, it was historical archive footage that served their purpose.  Nichols highlights this practice by stating that: “We tend to assess the organization of a documentary in terms of the persuasiveness or convincingness of its representations rather than the plausibility or fascination of its fabrications.”  (p. 26)

As an audience in a documentary, we agree to suspend our disbelief; making the perception fed to us by the filmmaker, the reality.  Clearly the shots of the men sleeping or waking up in The Drifters are staged, and the men eating in Coal Face were positioned and lit for filmatic purposes; but these practices serve a purpose to tell the narrative in a way that appears real.  The films take the shaping of reality even further by overlaying images and imposing mood music onto the piece, so the evidentiary footage goes beyond mere newsreel into the realm of constructed emotional manipulation.  But it’s manipulation that the audience accepts, and with which it chooses to engage, because we do, in fact, desire to know more.