the ramble dump
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Rabbit-Hole Theory (Part 1)
[Revised 30.06.09.]
When we watch a good film, or read a good book, we are engaged so that we are drawn into the world in which the story is set and remain engrossed right up until the end. The best ones can even have a lingering effect, keeping our minds floating in the memory of its mood, aesthetic or atmosphere even after the experience has finished. Our minds never accept these as actual reality, or as the world we are conscious of during most of our waking hours--not usually, anyway--but as a reality, one that is possible according to the rules defined by the author. It becomes one with which the audience are willing to engage even if they know that it is ultimately just a work of fiction--probably because they know that it's fiction, allowing the suspension of disbelief to play a more conscious role.
Unfortunately for the authors and filmmakers, it's not always an easy thing to get your reader or audience to accept the reality you give them. You have to create a consistent world, in which everything makes sense by its logic and characters don't contradict themselves as characters, and the narrative has to follow through in a logical sort of way. If it doesn't, it can throw off the reader or audience and bring attention to itself in all the wrong ways, and thus the author fails to tell a successful story or to achieve any deeper resonance beyond that, all because they have not been able to establish believability. There are certain things that will trigger this unwanted kind of awareness--something will jar, seem inconsistent, seem fake, and will cause the audience to prematurely 'wake up'.
'Rabbit-hole theory' is the term I'm going to use, taking the analogy from the above quotation, which is from the film The Matrix, to describe the rules that govern the process of immersing the reader or spectator in a believable fiction--making them feel as if they are tumbling down a rabbit hole and into another world, metaphorically speaking--in order to fully engage them with that fictional 'world' as the chosen plane of expression. Like Neo, we will often only accept a fictional world on the basis that it is fiction, knowing that it is a kind of manufactured dream. And yet there are some things that we will simply not accept, that our lucid minds will reject, when such a world is being established. Rabbit-hole theory is about exploring how this works, under the view that there are the smallest of things that can damage a story because they go against certain implicit rules. The more I think about it, the more I've been realising that these rabbit holes can establish themselves, and fail, in an incredible number of different ways.
(Note: this applies to fiction and not meta-fiction, because in meta-fiction the plane of expression lies beyond that 'world', instead requiring that attention is brought to the fact of the fiction itself (the fact that something is fiction) rather than depending on immersion in the world. And indeed, meta-fiction therefore often functions precisely to ruin the rabbit-hole effect.)
Incidentally, I think the Matrix trilogy illustrates rabbit-hole theory perfectly. In my view, the first film works very successfully in drawing in the audience and taking them into a world that is a little topsy-turvy but, for all intents and purposes, utterly engrossing. The sequels, Reloaded and Revolutions, are more complex on just about every level and, in many ways, more interesting than the original, but they are also, I'd argue, not nearly as successful in terms of immersion. I still find much to appreciate about the films because I find a lot to like about what they offer of the Matrix mythos, despite their flaws--but I've been debating with myself over and over again about whether these flaws might prevent the sequels in particular from being good films. I've decided that the sequels are definitely difficult, but I've realised that a lot of these difficulties, and many of my own gripes with the sequels, come just as much from simple rabbit-hole reasons as they do from any other reasons that might be given--including those by fans who attempt to explain away negative reaction with the idea that an intellectual effort is required to understand them (though I'll wager there were a hell of a lot of viewers who just weren't willing to make a necessary effort).
Herein follow some suggestions for what exactly these reasons are.
* * *
Firstly, for all I might talk about creating a believable reality, exhaustive realism is rarely very useful, though a certain level is always required. That level, and the specific aspect of the story to which it must apply, will depend very much on context and genre. The Matrix films are a case in point: in true cyberpunk fashion, many things seem to be the way they are for stylistic reasons. The first film has a distinctly neo-noir feel, with grim, decaying urban locales and a rabbit-hole like closeness to many of the scenes. The redpills all dress in leather and shades and speak with a certain fondness for earthy, four-letter words, and lightning always strikes at very specific moments in the dialogue. All of these stylistic touches may have underlying reasons, ones that might even amount to more than the simple need to conform to genre conventions, look cool or add a bit of drama. The timed lightning, for example, might additionally be a nod to the fact that they're not in the real world (though when it happens, or when characters come out with lines like 'our way or the highway', or when Neo and Agent Smith partake in some Old Western finger-twitching during the subway climax, it's difficult not to suspect that what is being referred to in these tongue-in-cheek homages is simply the Wachowskis' own sense of humour). Whatever these reasons are, however, the Wachowskis have managed to create a satisfying, believable world without requiring it to be completely realistic.
In fact, though the trilogy could be approached on a number of different levels--aesthetically, cinematically, technically, philosophically, allegorically, scientifically, and so on--I would argue that the nature of their world means that there are limits to certain approaches, and approaching it in terms of realism--attempting to go into too much scientific detail, for example--is likely to be a futile endeavour. This is not to say that the science isn't interesting, but complete scientific integrity is not necessary. I once read a comment in which someone said that they never thought much of The Matrix because they couldn't get past the humans-as-batteries idea, having done some mental calculations and concluded that, mathematically, it just couldn't work. But considering this is a film in which the antagonists, the Agents, all dress like conspiracy stereotypes and wear shades even in the dark, I'd be tempted to say that this person may have missed the point--that they didn't 'get it'. It is, of course, their prerogative to have their own criteria for what a decent story requires--but I would argue that it makes no sense to judge a fictional world by such terms of realism alone, especially as this may not have been what the creator set out to achieve in the first place. A film can engage me without causing me to worry over extreme details, because the thing that is engaging me is the specific way that something is being expressed, and this expression does not require complete realism. In fact, too great a degree of realism may even undermine that expression: without the cold uniformity of their outward appearance, the Agents would not present themselves as quite the same recognisably menacing threat.
Consistency is important, however. If the directors have established some level of science, however loosely, they have to stick to it. The audience might allow themselves to accept the rules of a fictional world, but if the creators then stretch, break or abuse these rules, the audience will feel cheated and most likely reject it. The creators can't expect people to accept a world that exists by certain conditions and then keep on expecting them to believe in it after these conditions have been abandoned by the creators themselves. That is why, for example, any purely religious or allegorical explanation for Neo's abilities, such as his transcendence of the rules of the Matrix or, later, his connection to the Source, will be unsatisfying. Some loosely scientific, non-spiritual, non-allegorical explanation has to be provided as well. If a fictional world has already been established based on certain rules, refusal to stick to these rules will cause the whole thing to lose coherence and the world to fall apart.
Even if half the rules of the Matrix world only exist to set the stage for those impressive, insane displays of kung fu, through myriad different methods, and sometimes in spite of realism, the Wachowskis are able to set up for themselves a consistent and incredibly immersive cinematic playground. The Matrix, I think, is a shining example of a story that works brilliantly in this way, existing by its own quirky logic in a manner that is believable enough to be engaging in all the ways that it intends.
Part of it, it has to be said, is the feel of being in a Wonderland. There are a lot of ideas in The Matrix that are, more than anything else, novel, and remain neat ideas even after repeated viewings--for example, walking on walls, having Agents take over bodies in the way that they do, and perceiving the world in bullet time. They're appealing because, aside from their dramatic functions or cinematic qualities, they display imaginative extensions of the concept of a virtual world. It's the small things, too, like Neo literally being 'bugged', or glitches manifesting themselves as déja vu--little riffs on a theme that help to reinforce the nature of the Wonderland.
And it all works because the first film manages to integrate it all; however much philosophy, action, suspense or cyberpunk convention it packs in, it all works in a way that is complementary, with no single aspect wrestling for attention. Each stage of the story slides in seamlessly after the last, building from that initial mystery and suspense and layering on the elements--each scene giving us that little bit more of the Matrix world. It culminates in an extensive, arguably self-indulgent action sequence, but it's a welcome, thrilling climax, bringing with it a resolution to the film's story that is satisfying on many levels.
* * *
Rabbit holes, though, are very intimate things. When they work, the impression that they leave behind is very distinct and specific. The first film gave us a very particular Matrix-feeling, garnered from the very specific way that we related to and engaged with it--so when the Wachowskis came to make the sequels, they were faced with the problem inherent to all sequels: that it wouldn't be the same film again.
For some, then, the Wachowskis may have been damned however they chose to go about the sequels, as even a minor shift in any single aspect that made the first film what it was could prompt disappointment and rejection from many fans. But for others, what may at first feel a little different to the audience is something they can get used to, especially after repeated viewings, if the world is expanded in such a way that any additions, changes in focus or perspective, or even mindbending twists make sense according to the inherent logic of the world as it has been presented so far. The problem with the Matrix sequels was that they proved problematic in this respect in a large number of different ways, and many aspects of their execution served only to bring attention to themselves such that they interfered with this process of engagement.
[Part 2.]
MORPHEUS
I imagine, right now, you must be feeling a bit like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole?
NEO
You could say that.
MORPHEUS
I can see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he is expecting to wake up.
When we watch a good film, or read a good book, we are engaged so that we are drawn into the world in which the story is set and remain engrossed right up until the end. The best ones can even have a lingering effect, keeping our minds floating in the memory of its mood, aesthetic or atmosphere even after the experience has finished. Our minds never accept these as actual reality, or as the world we are conscious of during most of our waking hours--not usually, anyway--but as a reality, one that is possible according to the rules defined by the author. It becomes one with which the audience are willing to engage even if they know that it is ultimately just a work of fiction--probably because they know that it's fiction, allowing the suspension of disbelief to play a more conscious role.
Unfortunately for the authors and filmmakers, it's not always an easy thing to get your reader or audience to accept the reality you give them. You have to create a consistent world, in which everything makes sense by its logic and characters don't contradict themselves as characters, and the narrative has to follow through in a logical sort of way. If it doesn't, it can throw off the reader or audience and bring attention to itself in all the wrong ways, and thus the author fails to tell a successful story or to achieve any deeper resonance beyond that, all because they have not been able to establish believability. There are certain things that will trigger this unwanted kind of awareness--something will jar, seem inconsistent, seem fake, and will cause the audience to prematurely 'wake up'.
'Rabbit-hole theory' is the term I'm going to use, taking the analogy from the above quotation, which is from the film The Matrix, to describe the rules that govern the process of immersing the reader or spectator in a believable fiction--making them feel as if they are tumbling down a rabbit hole and into another world, metaphorically speaking--in order to fully engage them with that fictional 'world' as the chosen plane of expression. Like Neo, we will often only accept a fictional world on the basis that it is fiction, knowing that it is a kind of manufactured dream. And yet there are some things that we will simply not accept, that our lucid minds will reject, when such a world is being established. Rabbit-hole theory is about exploring how this works, under the view that there are the smallest of things that can damage a story because they go against certain implicit rules. The more I think about it, the more I've been realising that these rabbit holes can establish themselves, and fail, in an incredible number of different ways.
(Note: this applies to fiction and not meta-fiction, because in meta-fiction the plane of expression lies beyond that 'world', instead requiring that attention is brought to the fact of the fiction itself (the fact that something is fiction) rather than depending on immersion in the world. And indeed, meta-fiction therefore often functions precisely to ruin the rabbit-hole effect.)
Incidentally, I think the Matrix trilogy illustrates rabbit-hole theory perfectly. In my view, the first film works very successfully in drawing in the audience and taking them into a world that is a little topsy-turvy but, for all intents and purposes, utterly engrossing. The sequels, Reloaded and Revolutions, are more complex on just about every level and, in many ways, more interesting than the original, but they are also, I'd argue, not nearly as successful in terms of immersion. I still find much to appreciate about the films because I find a lot to like about what they offer of the Matrix mythos, despite their flaws--but I've been debating with myself over and over again about whether these flaws might prevent the sequels in particular from being good films. I've decided that the sequels are definitely difficult, but I've realised that a lot of these difficulties, and many of my own gripes with the sequels, come just as much from simple rabbit-hole reasons as they do from any other reasons that might be given--including those by fans who attempt to explain away negative reaction with the idea that an intellectual effort is required to understand them (though I'll wager there were a hell of a lot of viewers who just weren't willing to make a necessary effort).
Herein follow some suggestions for what exactly these reasons are.
Firstly, for all I might talk about creating a believable reality, exhaustive realism is rarely very useful, though a certain level is always required. That level, and the specific aspect of the story to which it must apply, will depend very much on context and genre. The Matrix films are a case in point: in true cyberpunk fashion, many things seem to be the way they are for stylistic reasons. The first film has a distinctly neo-noir feel, with grim, decaying urban locales and a rabbit-hole like closeness to many of the scenes. The redpills all dress in leather and shades and speak with a certain fondness for earthy, four-letter words, and lightning always strikes at very specific moments in the dialogue. All of these stylistic touches may have underlying reasons, ones that might even amount to more than the simple need to conform to genre conventions, look cool or add a bit of drama. The timed lightning, for example, might additionally be a nod to the fact that they're not in the real world (though when it happens, or when characters come out with lines like 'our way or the highway', or when Neo and Agent Smith partake in some Old Western finger-twitching during the subway climax, it's difficult not to suspect that what is being referred to in these tongue-in-cheek homages is simply the Wachowskis' own sense of humour). Whatever these reasons are, however, the Wachowskis have managed to create a satisfying, believable world without requiring it to be completely realistic.
In fact, though the trilogy could be approached on a number of different levels--aesthetically, cinematically, technically, philosophically, allegorically, scientifically, and so on--I would argue that the nature of their world means that there are limits to certain approaches, and approaching it in terms of realism--attempting to go into too much scientific detail, for example--is likely to be a futile endeavour. This is not to say that the science isn't interesting, but complete scientific integrity is not necessary. I once read a comment in which someone said that they never thought much of The Matrix because they couldn't get past the humans-as-batteries idea, having done some mental calculations and concluded that, mathematically, it just couldn't work. But considering this is a film in which the antagonists, the Agents, all dress like conspiracy stereotypes and wear shades even in the dark, I'd be tempted to say that this person may have missed the point--that they didn't 'get it'. It is, of course, their prerogative to have their own criteria for what a decent story requires--but I would argue that it makes no sense to judge a fictional world by such terms of realism alone, especially as this may not have been what the creator set out to achieve in the first place. A film can engage me without causing me to worry over extreme details, because the thing that is engaging me is the specific way that something is being expressed, and this expression does not require complete realism. In fact, too great a degree of realism may even undermine that expression: without the cold uniformity of their outward appearance, the Agents would not present themselves as quite the same recognisably menacing threat.
Consistency is important, however. If the directors have established some level of science, however loosely, they have to stick to it. The audience might allow themselves to accept the rules of a fictional world, but if the creators then stretch, break or abuse these rules, the audience will feel cheated and most likely reject it. The creators can't expect people to accept a world that exists by certain conditions and then keep on expecting them to believe in it after these conditions have been abandoned by the creators themselves. That is why, for example, any purely religious or allegorical explanation for Neo's abilities, such as his transcendence of the rules of the Matrix or, later, his connection to the Source, will be unsatisfying. Some loosely scientific, non-spiritual, non-allegorical explanation has to be provided as well. If a fictional world has already been established based on certain rules, refusal to stick to these rules will cause the whole thing to lose coherence and the world to fall apart.
Even if half the rules of the Matrix world only exist to set the stage for those impressive, insane displays of kung fu, through myriad different methods, and sometimes in spite of realism, the Wachowskis are able to set up for themselves a consistent and incredibly immersive cinematic playground. The Matrix, I think, is a shining example of a story that works brilliantly in this way, existing by its own quirky logic in a manner that is believable enough to be engaging in all the ways that it intends.
Part of it, it has to be said, is the feel of being in a Wonderland. There are a lot of ideas in The Matrix that are, more than anything else, novel, and remain neat ideas even after repeated viewings--for example, walking on walls, having Agents take over bodies in the way that they do, and perceiving the world in bullet time. They're appealing because, aside from their dramatic functions or cinematic qualities, they display imaginative extensions of the concept of a virtual world. It's the small things, too, like Neo literally being 'bugged', or glitches manifesting themselves as déja vu--little riffs on a theme that help to reinforce the nature of the Wonderland.
And it all works because the first film manages to integrate it all; however much philosophy, action, suspense or cyberpunk convention it packs in, it all works in a way that is complementary, with no single aspect wrestling for attention. Each stage of the story slides in seamlessly after the last, building from that initial mystery and suspense and layering on the elements--each scene giving us that little bit more of the Matrix world. It culminates in an extensive, arguably self-indulgent action sequence, but it's a welcome, thrilling climax, bringing with it a resolution to the film's story that is satisfying on many levels.
Rabbit holes, though, are very intimate things. When they work, the impression that they leave behind is very distinct and specific. The first film gave us a very particular Matrix-feeling, garnered from the very specific way that we related to and engaged with it--so when the Wachowskis came to make the sequels, they were faced with the problem inherent to all sequels: that it wouldn't be the same film again.
For some, then, the Wachowskis may have been damned however they chose to go about the sequels, as even a minor shift in any single aspect that made the first film what it was could prompt disappointment and rejection from many fans. But for others, what may at first feel a little different to the audience is something they can get used to, especially after repeated viewings, if the world is expanded in such a way that any additions, changes in focus or perspective, or even mindbending twists make sense according to the inherent logic of the world as it has been presented so far. The problem with the Matrix sequels was that they proved problematic in this respect in a large number of different ways, and many aspects of their execution served only to bring attention to themselves such that they interfered with this process of engagement.
[Part 2.]
Labels: cyberpunk, dreams, i am the ramblemaster, rabbit-hole theory, science, the matrix
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Bacon
We're approaching the carpark, walking back towards the big, blocky building that is our halls of residence. There are a few of us, and we begin to weave through the cars. The carpark is only sparsely populated. It is mostly dark.
One girl, who I recognise from my English course and who I've only ever spoken to once, clutches the books and paper she's carrying against her chest, a bag over her shoulder. She has black-framed glasses and Scandinavian-blond hair. Her quick strides bring her to my side. 'Do you like Bacon?' she asks.
'Yes,' I reply, turning to her. 'Yeah, I love bacon.' I already know, and do as soon as she has said it, that this is not what she means. Maybe I am being funny. 'Wait,' I say, allowing my mouth to catch up to my brain, 'do you mean bacon as in food, or Bacon as in the writer? He was a writer, wasn't he?'
She rolls her eyes, makes an odd little noise to the same effect, and crouches down by a red car. It's a low, aged thing with a wide, flat bonnet rising in a curve over the front headlights. I can't remember if she's still holding her books. She taps her forehead lightly against the bonnet in an act of mock despair.
I laugh. 'What, you don't like bacon the food? How can you not like bacon?' I lean forward and repeat her act on the other side of the bonnet. Again, I know this is not what she is trying to say. I am being funny.
When I stand up again, I realise that the bonnet has opened. I try to push it back in place, but it won't click shut. I walk away and pretend I have nothing to do with it. The girl has already gone.
I continue making my way to the building, but stop with a few others at the entrance and turn back. Everyone is looking at the car. Now it looks as if it has nearly been flipped over. It looks as if some hidden lever is holding it in place on the other side. But there is no lever. It is moving by itself. The boot has opened.
I still pretend I have nothing to do with it.
The car has now tilted forward so that I can see through its sunroof. The seats inside are rearranging themselves, almost mercurially. I know what is going to happen next and I turn to enter the building. I glance back as something massive, black and blocky has appeared, Transformer-like. Large blocks of the same black, Lego-like plastic move about around it, glowing from cracks with a pale, ghostly green. They send a chill down my spine because of a review of a film I'd read, which mentioned small deadly creatures falling from a bigger monster.
Inside the building is a rectangular stairwell that is not actually part of my halls of residence but of my old school, in bigger, distorted proportions. I run up each flight of steps as the thing outside rises monstrously, shaking and rumbling, like something out of a videogame. It is right up against the wall and I can see it through the glass of the large windows. It is gazing in, though not at me. It is gazing straight ahead with angular, glowing yellow eyes as it gets taller and taller. No matter how many flights I go up, it is always there, its big square chest obstructing my view. I see it lift its arm, a sort of cone-shaped thing with a glowing snout. It is a gun.
At the stairhead of every flight, there is a clump of scaffolding covered in blue plastic sheet. Somehow this tells me that it might all be staged.
I wake up.
I go to a very boring lecture.
One girl, who I recognise from my English course and who I've only ever spoken to once, clutches the books and paper she's carrying against her chest, a bag over her shoulder. She has black-framed glasses and Scandinavian-blond hair. Her quick strides bring her to my side. 'Do you like Bacon?' she asks.
'Yes,' I reply, turning to her. 'Yeah, I love bacon.' I already know, and do as soon as she has said it, that this is not what she means. Maybe I am being funny. 'Wait,' I say, allowing my mouth to catch up to my brain, 'do you mean bacon as in food, or Bacon as in the writer? He was a writer, wasn't he?'
She rolls her eyes, makes an odd little noise to the same effect, and crouches down by a red car. It's a low, aged thing with a wide, flat bonnet rising in a curve over the front headlights. I can't remember if she's still holding her books. She taps her forehead lightly against the bonnet in an act of mock despair.
I laugh. 'What, you don't like bacon the food? How can you not like bacon?' I lean forward and repeat her act on the other side of the bonnet. Again, I know this is not what she is trying to say. I am being funny.
When I stand up again, I realise that the bonnet has opened. I try to push it back in place, but it won't click shut. I walk away and pretend I have nothing to do with it. The girl has already gone.
I continue making my way to the building, but stop with a few others at the entrance and turn back. Everyone is looking at the car. Now it looks as if it has nearly been flipped over. It looks as if some hidden lever is holding it in place on the other side. But there is no lever. It is moving by itself. The boot has opened.
I still pretend I have nothing to do with it.
The car has now tilted forward so that I can see through its sunroof. The seats inside are rearranging themselves, almost mercurially. I know what is going to happen next and I turn to enter the building. I glance back as something massive, black and blocky has appeared, Transformer-like. Large blocks of the same black, Lego-like plastic move about around it, glowing from cracks with a pale, ghostly green. They send a chill down my spine because of a review of a film I'd read, which mentioned small deadly creatures falling from a bigger monster.
Inside the building is a rectangular stairwell that is not actually part of my halls of residence but of my old school, in bigger, distorted proportions. I run up each flight of steps as the thing outside rises monstrously, shaking and rumbling, like something out of a videogame. It is right up against the wall and I can see it through the glass of the large windows. It is gazing in, though not at me. It is gazing straight ahead with angular, glowing yellow eyes as it gets taller and taller. No matter how many flights I go up, it is always there, its big square chest obstructing my view. I see it lift its arm, a sort of cone-shaped thing with a glowing snout. It is a gun.
At the stairhead of every flight, there is a clump of scaffolding covered in blue plastic sheet. Somehow this tells me that it might all be staged.
I wake up.
I go to a very boring lecture.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Battle for Literature, Continued (Part 2)
In fending off the accusations of uselessness, in talking about how literature can make you think and make important suggestions, I haven't really said much about the other side of it: the side that is where literature holds most of its power. That is the aspect of literature, and all art, which has that emotional connection. 'What it means to us' doesn't just involve what it means to us in a general, philosophical sense, but what it means to us individually and subjectively.
The art that has left the biggest impression on me has this connection. Titus Groan and Gormenghast, for example, are my favourite novels not just because of what they have to say or suggest about the world, but because, for whatever reason, I find that they resonate within this thing called my brain more than any other books. They are personally significant enough to have made their way into my dreams on several occasions, in the obscure way of many other personally significant things. It is likely that not everyone will experience the same connection as I did because they are different people with different lives. Literature can provide something useful in a general, academic way as I already argued, but so what if it doesn't? It can still be meaningful on a very personal level.
One of my physicist friends is still declaring literature useless, despite anything I say. His latest comment was specifically that poetry was pointless; after all, why not just say it instead of wrapping it up in poetic form?
This person, like most people, is very into his music. He likes heavy metal. Ironically, given the position he puts me in during these arguments, he gets very frustrated when people accuse heavy metal of being a load of rubbish. Firstly, they accuse the lyrics of being silly, to which he fiercely objects. Secondly, he claims something that I actually agree with, which is that heavy metal is more about feeling the music, feeling the drive and the energy of it.
To start with, lyrics are a form of poetry anyway, and by defending them as a good quality of the music, he is therefore (hypocritically) defending it as an expressive medium and as something meaningful about the music. How can he claim that poetry or literature is useless or pointless and then defend it as a good quality of something else?
But even if he was to admit that heavy metal lyrics are nothing more than another layer of sound, let's consider music itself. Music is a form of expression. Even if you're just creating music that drives, it's driving at something -- it's driving at a certain feeling. And when you listen to it, you're acknowledging that feeling; it somehow resonates with you. Why bother putting this expression in music form? Why not just say it? The answer to that seems obvious: if someone came up to you and tonelessly said, 'Feel my anger', not only would you suspect that he was not in fact feeling any such anger, but as the recipient of his expression, you would not be able to identify with it. It's much more effective if he starts characterising it through specific intonation and screams, 'FEEL MY ANGER!!'. It's then not hard to imagine how you could progress to music. Music, as a form of expression, is a vehicle for it.
Poetry, as a different form, is just a different vehicle, with different features that affect the recipient in different ways. It might be more effective as an expression of something if it's structured so that it sounds or reads in a certain way. Certain words are used for their phonetic properties, but also for their very specific meanings, which can then allow the poem to develop from a purely emotional expression to something more intellectual. Lyrics can add a self-reflective dimension to music.
Many of the specifically linguistic aspects of literature also involve the employment of these poetic techniques. A novel could be seen as an even more complex form of expression because it has so many layers to it, at the deepest level providing something that could be interpreted as music, while at the top level the author is dealing with various themes or ideas which can be expressed all the more effectively because delivered with all the elaborate techniques in which the prose consists. No matter how complex it might get, it's still fundamentally a form of expression. Everything 'artistic' about it is simply a method or a vehicle for this expression.
Music is an artform. Literature is, above all, an artform -- or even many artforms. Art is expression. Art is an attempt at communication, with yourself as much as with anybody else. And art resonates. I'm not going to be so misty-eyed as to claim that art is the salvation of humanity or anything like that; neither do I claim that it's anything divine or inherently special. But it's a part of us, and if you insist on viewing everything in the world through a 'scientific' lens, you're failing to acknowledge that, for whatever reasons, divine or evolutionary, this need of expression is a part of the mind behind the viewing eye. This expression, this attempt to communicate, is a way for us to try and make sense of the world on a personal level. And if the form aids the function, so much the better.
Edit 22/01/08: Coincidentally, when this ramble ventured into the idea of form, I hadn't looked at the lecture timetable which told me that our 'review' lecture today would be exploring just that. We were given a few quotes, but here's the most relevant:
The art that has left the biggest impression on me has this connection. Titus Groan and Gormenghast, for example, are my favourite novels not just because of what they have to say or suggest about the world, but because, for whatever reason, I find that they resonate within this thing called my brain more than any other books. They are personally significant enough to have made their way into my dreams on several occasions, in the obscure way of many other personally significant things. It is likely that not everyone will experience the same connection as I did because they are different people with different lives. Literature can provide something useful in a general, academic way as I already argued, but so what if it doesn't? It can still be meaningful on a very personal level.
One of my physicist friends is still declaring literature useless, despite anything I say. His latest comment was specifically that poetry was pointless; after all, why not just say it instead of wrapping it up in poetic form?
This person, like most people, is very into his music. He likes heavy metal. Ironically, given the position he puts me in during these arguments, he gets very frustrated when people accuse heavy metal of being a load of rubbish. Firstly, they accuse the lyrics of being silly, to which he fiercely objects. Secondly, he claims something that I actually agree with, which is that heavy metal is more about feeling the music, feeling the drive and the energy of it.
To start with, lyrics are a form of poetry anyway, and by defending them as a good quality of the music, he is therefore (hypocritically) defending it as an expressive medium and as something meaningful about the music. How can he claim that poetry or literature is useless or pointless and then defend it as a good quality of something else?
But even if he was to admit that heavy metal lyrics are nothing more than another layer of sound, let's consider music itself. Music is a form of expression. Even if you're just creating music that drives, it's driving at something -- it's driving at a certain feeling. And when you listen to it, you're acknowledging that feeling; it somehow resonates with you. Why bother putting this expression in music form? Why not just say it? The answer to that seems obvious: if someone came up to you and tonelessly said, 'Feel my anger', not only would you suspect that he was not in fact feeling any such anger, but as the recipient of his expression, you would not be able to identify with it. It's much more effective if he starts characterising it through specific intonation and screams, 'FEEL MY ANGER!!'. It's then not hard to imagine how you could progress to music. Music, as a form of expression, is a vehicle for it.
Poetry, as a different form, is just a different vehicle, with different features that affect the recipient in different ways. It might be more effective as an expression of something if it's structured so that it sounds or reads in a certain way. Certain words are used for their phonetic properties, but also for their very specific meanings, which can then allow the poem to develop from a purely emotional expression to something more intellectual. Lyrics can add a self-reflective dimension to music.
Many of the specifically linguistic aspects of literature also involve the employment of these poetic techniques. A novel could be seen as an even more complex form of expression because it has so many layers to it, at the deepest level providing something that could be interpreted as music, while at the top level the author is dealing with various themes or ideas which can be expressed all the more effectively because delivered with all the elaborate techniques in which the prose consists. No matter how complex it might get, it's still fundamentally a form of expression. Everything 'artistic' about it is simply a method or a vehicle for this expression.
Music is an artform. Literature is, above all, an artform -- or even many artforms. Art is expression. Art is an attempt at communication, with yourself as much as with anybody else. And art resonates. I'm not going to be so misty-eyed as to claim that art is the salvation of humanity or anything like that; neither do I claim that it's anything divine or inherently special. But it's a part of us, and if you insist on viewing everything in the world through a 'scientific' lens, you're failing to acknowledge that, for whatever reasons, divine or evolutionary, this need of expression is a part of the mind behind the viewing eye. This expression, this attempt to communicate, is a way for us to try and make sense of the world on a personal level. And if the form aids the function, so much the better.
Edit 22/01/08: Coincidentally, when this ramble ventured into the idea of form, I hadn't looked at the lecture timetable which told me that our 'review' lecture today would be exploring just that. We were given a few quotes, but here's the most relevant:
Had there been a clear understanding of Style as the living body of thought, and not its 'dress', which might be more or less ornamental, the error I am noticing would not have spread so widely. But, naturally, when regarded the grace of style as mere grace of manner, and not as the delicate precision giving form and relief to matter--as mere ornament, stuck on to arrest incurious eyes, and not as effective expression--their sense of the deeper value of matter made them despise such aid. A clearer conception would have rectified this error. The matter is confluent with the manner; and only through the style can thought reach the reader's mind.--George Henry Lewes, Principles of Success in Literature (1865)
Labels: dreams, gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, language, literature, rabbit-hole theory
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Dreams, Films and Stirred Emotions
I've been reading The Power of Movies: How Screen and Mind Interact, by philosopher Colin McGinn. I discovered the book after reading one of his essays on the Matrix films, in which he mentioned he was working on something like it. In the book, McGinn discusses the reasons behind the immense appeal of films, first establishing their physical and metaphysical properties in relation (and as opposed) to different media such as novels, theatrical plays and small-screen TV, and discussing exactly what it is we are looking at, how we interpret it, how we are engaged by it and how this affects us. He goes into detail about the structure of the image presented: the psychological effects of close-ups of the face, of black-and-white, of dancing and movement and so on. It's all very interesting.
A significant portion of the book is based around the 'dream theory'. His main argument seems to be that our fascination with films is derived (at least partly) from our experiences of dreaming (he is not just merely suggesting that the appeal of films and the experience of dreams have the same psychological roots: he seems to be saying that the appeal of films is to a certain extent dependent on our dreaming experience). There is a lot of speculation and conjecture in McGinn's examination of the dream theory, but he acknowledges that this is so and attempts to ground it in analogy between dreams and films in a way that seems mostly successful.
McGinn's analogy draws on things like their audio-visual nature and how we interpret it; the role of movement; how we place personality and meaning in objects; the fact that both dreams and films have fragmented sequences or 'spatio-temporal discontinuity', meaning that we can suddenly jump from one time and place to the next without questioning it (usually led by a narrative drive in films, as opposed to a psychological drive in dreams); how both might be considered 'dreamlike' from an external point of view, but not while they are being experienced; the appeal to the 'base self', etc. Obviously all these things need elaboration, but for that you'll just have to buy the book.
Most of it proves to be enlightening, and for the most part I could at least see the reasoning behind his suggestions even if some of the more specific assertions felt like a bit more of a stretch than others (such as his reasons for dreaming of movie stars). There was only one statement I didn't really agree with, and that was one regarding films 'transcending their roots' that I may have misinterpreted. After half a dozen wistful (albeit probably tongue-in-cheek) exclamations about how he wishes films could be inserted into our brains to replace the 'usual crappy dreams we have', he comes to the conclusion that 'a film is really a dream as it aspires to be', which is a pretty big assertion. While it makes sense to acknowledge areas where films can exceed our regular dreams - for example, in story and spectacle - McGinn seems to be forgetting that dreams need neither story nor spectacle to be affecting because they are, as he had already said himself, by nature charged with emotion, irrespective of these things. I would argue that our own dreams can affect us more personally and emotionally than a film ever could, even if that film was inserted directly into our brain; and that it might be fair to say that a film aspires to excel in some areas where a dream cannot, but to claim that a film is essentially superior to the dream (which is what his statement seems to imply) is dubious. To be fair, he does arrive at this assertion in a section on films being art and dreams not being art, and I would agree that films do surpass dreams in that sense, but he does also seem to be speaking more generally. In the book's final section, looking to the future, he says of direct-to-brain films that they would 'precisely resemble the dream.' Technically, yes. But that's still neglecting the very personal nature and effects of the dreams our own brains make for us.
One of the most interesting points McGinn touches on is the shared ability of the dream and the film to absorb our minds and cause us to be completely caught up in the moment. This is less the case with films than with dreams because for their duration dreams erase everything else from our minds (otherwise they can't exist), and as McGinn points out, you can see a film and still let your mind wander. But what this leads on to is how this absorption can open you up to 'suggestibility'.
Even before McGinn begins his discussion of the dream theory, he suggests something not entirely unrelated in his earlier talk of roused emotions during the film-watching experience. McGinn (quoting film theorist Dudley Andrew) draws an analogy between the experience of sitting in a movie theatre and watching the screen while music and sound blasts through the speakers, and sitting in a church or a cathedral with large, stained glass windows and organ music:
I'm not sure how effective that is as a direct analogy to film - I haven't personally ever been so affected by stained glass windows. But it's still a good point, and touches upon something I think about a lot. When the deep blare of the organ is shaking the ground beneath your feet, sometimes you can't help but feel some kind of awe of the at the power or majesty of it. And what about those congregations that get so caught up in that collective chanting, clapping and swaying, all the while praising God? Another example McGinn offers is of a polytheistic or paganistic tribe beating drums and dancing violently around a fire. In each of these cases, and when watching films, emotions are being stirred by a sensorial experience which the people experiencing it are getting caught up in. McGinn also makes some interesting points about the concept of transformation in both religion and cinema, but I won't go into that here - the main point of interest for me was how we can be susceptible to this kind of manipulation. It's something that might be useful, as a kind of emotional purging or catharsis or feel-good thing; but at the same time, it's something to be wary of too. To put it simply, as McGinn does of the film-viewing experience, it is 'a type of mind fucking.'
Anyway, before I go off on too much of a tangent, I'll end this post by telling you to go and read McGinn's book. It's a good, thorough and concise take on the subject of cinema. Lots of speculating, but it's all interesting.
A significant portion of the book is based around the 'dream theory'. His main argument seems to be that our fascination with films is derived (at least partly) from our experiences of dreaming (he is not just merely suggesting that the appeal of films and the experience of dreams have the same psychological roots: he seems to be saying that the appeal of films is to a certain extent dependent on our dreaming experience). There is a lot of speculation and conjecture in McGinn's examination of the dream theory, but he acknowledges that this is so and attempts to ground it in analogy between dreams and films in a way that seems mostly successful.
McGinn's analogy draws on things like their audio-visual nature and how we interpret it; the role of movement; how we place personality and meaning in objects; the fact that both dreams and films have fragmented sequences or 'spatio-temporal discontinuity', meaning that we can suddenly jump from one time and place to the next without questioning it (usually led by a narrative drive in films, as opposed to a psychological drive in dreams); how both might be considered 'dreamlike' from an external point of view, but not while they are being experienced; the appeal to the 'base self', etc. Obviously all these things need elaboration, but for that you'll just have to buy the book.
Most of it proves to be enlightening, and for the most part I could at least see the reasoning behind his suggestions even if some of the more specific assertions felt like a bit more of a stretch than others (such as his reasons for dreaming of movie stars). There was only one statement I didn't really agree with, and that was one regarding films 'transcending their roots' that I may have misinterpreted. After half a dozen wistful (albeit probably tongue-in-cheek) exclamations about how he wishes films could be inserted into our brains to replace the 'usual crappy dreams we have', he comes to the conclusion that 'a film is really a dream as it aspires to be', which is a pretty big assertion. While it makes sense to acknowledge areas where films can exceed our regular dreams - for example, in story and spectacle - McGinn seems to be forgetting that dreams need neither story nor spectacle to be affecting because they are, as he had already said himself, by nature charged with emotion, irrespective of these things. I would argue that our own dreams can affect us more personally and emotionally than a film ever could, even if that film was inserted directly into our brain; and that it might be fair to say that a film aspires to excel in some areas where a dream cannot, but to claim that a film is essentially superior to the dream (which is what his statement seems to imply) is dubious. To be fair, he does arrive at this assertion in a section on films being art and dreams not being art, and I would agree that films do surpass dreams in that sense, but he does also seem to be speaking more generally. In the book's final section, looking to the future, he says of direct-to-brain films that they would 'precisely resemble the dream.' Technically, yes. But that's still neglecting the very personal nature and effects of the dreams our own brains make for us.
One of the most interesting points McGinn touches on is the shared ability of the dream and the film to absorb our minds and cause us to be completely caught up in the moment. This is less the case with films than with dreams because for their duration dreams erase everything else from our minds (otherwise they can't exist), and as McGinn points out, you can see a film and still let your mind wander. But what this leads on to is how this absorption can open you up to 'suggestibility'.
The movie watcher seems abnormally suggestible, open to persuasion and propaganda--which is why movies have often been used to this end. It is comparatively easy to arouse the viewer's emotions and convinctions. Again, if we ask why this is so, the dream theory has an answer: in simulating the dream state, the movie watcher enters a kind of heightened suggestibility. This state is not as extreme as the dream state, but it approximates that state; thus beliefs are easily encouraged, opinions shaped. [...] Perhaps there should be a new category added to the ratings system: B, for "liable to lead to beliefs in unsuspecting viewers." Once you have someone in a dream state, just as a hypnotic state, you have him where you want him, belief-wise.
Even before McGinn begins his discussion of the dream theory, he suggests something not entirely unrelated in his earlier talk of roused emotions during the film-watching experience. McGinn (quoting film theorist Dudley Andrew) draws an analogy between the experience of sitting in a movie theatre and watching the screen while music and sound blasts through the speakers, and sitting in a church or a cathedral with large, stained glass windows and organ music:
Those windows are super-bright patterns of light, typically telling stories of some sort, and receiving the upturned gaze of the devotee. They tell of a world beyond and give off an aura of the supernatural. They afford visual pleasure, treats for the eye. They transform the human body into a creature of light and radiance [...] You gaze enchanted at the glorious mosaic of the glass as the plangent organ music accompanies your vision [...] Psychologically, there is an emotional stirring, a sense of great themes, a moral focusing, and sometimes a state bordering on trance.
I'm not sure how effective that is as a direct analogy to film - I haven't personally ever been so affected by stained glass windows. But it's still a good point, and touches upon something I think about a lot. When the deep blare of the organ is shaking the ground beneath your feet, sometimes you can't help but feel some kind of awe of the at the power or majesty of it. And what about those congregations that get so caught up in that collective chanting, clapping and swaying, all the while praising God? Another example McGinn offers is of a polytheistic or paganistic tribe beating drums and dancing violently around a fire. In each of these cases, and when watching films, emotions are being stirred by a sensorial experience which the people experiencing it are getting caught up in. McGinn also makes some interesting points about the concept of transformation in both religion and cinema, but I won't go into that here - the main point of interest for me was how we can be susceptible to this kind of manipulation. It's something that might be useful, as a kind of emotional purging or catharsis or feel-good thing; but at the same time, it's something to be wary of too. To put it simply, as McGinn does of the film-viewing experience, it is 'a type of mind fucking.'
Anyway, before I go off on too much of a tangent, I'll end this post by telling you to go and read McGinn's book. It's a good, thorough and concise take on the subject of cinema. Lots of speculating, but it's all interesting.
Labels: dreams, films, i am the ramblemaster, philosophy, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix
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