Fourth Wall Writing

Pathe Freres’ 1901, two minute spectacle, Peeping Tom is an early work of cinema that situates itself perfectly, and overtly, within the Gunning realm of attraction. The film exudes in unflinching reflexivity from the very onset as the spectator is presented with the self-aware exhibitionist guiding us through the most intimate of spaces. Voyeurism is not only acknowledged, but also reveled in. Formal elements and filmic devices of the work (such as the mise-en-scene, editing, framing, and score) all serve to extrapolate the notion of voyeurism and the self reflexive exhibition – inherent characteristics representative of the “cinema of attraction.”

The Brechtian nature manifest in Peeping Tom is showcased immediately for the viewer with the protagonist’s breaking of the fourth wall and subsequent acknowledgement of the audience and camera alike. An affinity for the conscious viewer is established and maintained throughout. Tom Gunning solidifies the claim in his essay “An Aesthetic of Astonishment,” affirming that, “This cinema addresses and holds the spectator, emphasizing the act of display. In fulfilling this curiosity, it delivers a generally brief dose of scopic pleasure.” The first, third, and fifth edits are supposed POV shots that, when taken within context of the opening, blatantly instigate the perception of exhibition occurring onscreen. They also tend to subtly implicate, or indict the spectator with every moment of intrusive gazing that takes place in front of various keyholes. Juxtaposition of public and private space, compounded with the self-reflexive, slapstick disposition of the film, all substantiate Gunning’s claim that, “…the scenography of the cinema of attractions is an exhibitionist one, opposed to the cinema of the unacknowledged voyeur that later narrative cinema ushers in.”

The mise-en-scene of the normative public space becomes reminiscent of theatre performance. The recurring view is framed much like the view of a stage, and congruently the players become over dramatized. Confined space, identical doors as the backdrop, and a man suspiciously adorned with maid-like apparel, guides us openly into intimate space of others. It is a performance in three parts: the exhibitionist, the viewer, and those being surveyed. The viewer is justly included because, as is true with Brechtian style theatre, they are consciously involved in their act of looking; they are aware of their role in the context of cinema. As they chose not to remove their eyes from the screen as the POV shots occur, they become intrinsically linked to the “peeping Tom” and, as a result, are just accountable; it is this cognizance that reminds us the patrons of early cinema were not merely, “gullible country bumpkins, but sophisticated urban thrill seekers…” The conclusion of the piece is a surprise to the audience and a return to the light-hearted core of the film that is almost forgot about when peering through exaggerated keyholes. The wardrobe of our peeping tom is also a constant reminder of the vaudevillian performance we are witnessing; it places us in a suspiciously comedic role of witness, not quite able to discern the intention of the filmmaker until the end.

Peeping Tom not only typifies the “cinema of attractions,” it reflects upon the voyeuristic predilection of the industry and cements conventions that would later be elaborated on with the emergence of narrative cinema. The exhibitionist style of filmmaking acknowledges the viewer and invites them into a world of wondrous gazing, a private world of attraction.

Elmore Leonard’s 1992 crime-fiction novel, Rum Punch, is instituted as a masterful framework for Quentin Tarantino’s film adaptation, appropriately re-titled Jackie Brown.   However, an analytical view of the two works reveals many stark, contrasting elements that become analogous with and reveal the workings of a true film auteur. Though the screen version borrows heavily from Leonard’s work in terms of dialogue, characters, and plot, Tarantino’s narrative operates on a distinctly different level- transformed by the implementation of the director’s signature cinematic style. These characteristic elements are revealed through, as well with certain scenario omissions and filmic additions, three significant changes: in location, the shift of central focus/ the remaking of Jackie, and a distinguishing form of characterization, all of which are pieced together expectedly with a cinephilic incorporation of cinematic traditions and specific film genres.

The location shift from Miami to Los Angeles is an integral element cohesively linking all of Tarantino’s work up through the release of Jackie Brown. A setting teeming in Los Angeles subculture is arguably one of the most important aspects of the director’s work, affecting every aspect from dialogue and characterization to mise-en-scene and action. As the narrative shifts locales the characters are presented in a subtle yet completely differing light which is most noticeable through examining both Louis (Robert De Nero) and Melanie (Bridget Fonda). Leonard depicts Melanie as a woman with a “huge ass” and someone “who is thirty but looks much older.” Contrastingly, Fonda’s portrayal of the character is visually and dramatically indigenous to a beach of Southern California.

The image below, from a scene completely non-existent in Rum Punch, takes place as Melanie and Louis travel to “The world’s largest indoor shopping complex,” the Del Amo mall. Tarantino brings the viewer’s attention to the enormity and grandeur of the shopping complex and utilizes the events within and surrounding the complex to comment on the woes of the consumer culture of Los Angeles. His depiction is of a world ensnared in ignorant bliss and lost communication. Though Jackie (Pam Grier) is supposedly being watched at all times Nicolet (Michael Keaton) and the other officers fail to be present when it is most imperative and Louis gets lost trying to find his car. The shooting of Melanie is also an important observation in this same context as she is shot twice in the middle of an open parking lot during broad daylight but nobody manages to notice or seem to be capable of caring. In opposition Leonard’s novel specifically makes note of the security presence, stating, “One of those white Jimmy’s was coming up the next isle,” which implements a certain sense of urgency and consequence not apparent in Tarantino’s adaptation. Scenes in cars are rampant and distinctive throughout his films often revealing pertinent information in regards to characters (and their interactions), and time/ place. The choice to substitute Louis’ Toyota for a Volkswagen EuroVan works towards solidifying the film’s place in not only Los Angeles subculture but integrating characteristic elements of pop culture as well (with the choice of car and also his use of popular music in the scene- in this instance “Midnight Confessions” by The Grass Roots). This film is also littered with these characteristic car scene sequences which Edward Gallafent explains, “is a crucial mediation between interior and exterior in modern experience: the inside of a moving car, offering the chance to allow the outside world to pass at a distance, and sometimes to flee from the threat posed by it.” It is also worthwhile to think of theses two characters in the context of the whole film, which has them smoking an abundance of marijuana almost every time they appear together onscreen. This shift in location also proves to be useful in eliminating characters and unneeded plot extensions such as Renee and Da-veed as well as the encounter with the white supremacists.

The way Tarantino manages to reshape the players of the film elicits his cinematic style and distinctive authorship, which ultimately forms a clear divide between Jackie Brown and Rum Punch. An invaluable soundtrack lends itself to musical associations, which in turn adds depth to many of the characters and their relationships. The connection between Max and Jackie is altered drastically. Peter Travers expounds this notion stating, “The glory of the film resides in the unlikely romance between Jackie and Max. He hears music when he first sees her- it’s Seventies soul, of course. And she introduces him to the Delfonics (Woods p. 146).” Noticeably, the film is void of any extremely sexual interactions between the two. While they flirt back and forth, Tarantino manages to extract a much more personal and intricate examination of their attraction and intentions without any hint of a sexual encounter. The use and repetition of music, in particular The Delfonics, proves to be constitutive throughout the narrative and in character development. Max first hears the song “Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)” when Jackie plays it for him. From that point on the song becomes a metaphor for their relationship. The song presents allegorical lines like “Didn’t I blow your mind this time” and “Get this into your head, there’ll be no more” which is presented as a foreshadowing dialogue being given from Jackie to Max. This track in particular also provides an arena for Tarantino to parade his distinctive black comedic style that, along with his film “borrowing,” bends the genres of his films and allows for the crossing of spectator boundaries.

The image pictured above possesses many important elements that showcase a unique directorial style. The purchasing of the cassette tape works further in establishing Max’s character and developing his psyche, as well as the complex relationship formed between him and Grier’s character. His true feelings towards Jackie and his solemn, reserved love-struck demeanor is exposed to the spectator while providing the aforementioned comic relief. This also reoccurs on a more emphatic note towards the end of the film as Max and Ordell (Samuel L. Jackson) drive to the bail bond office Ordell pressing play and upon hearing the song, remarking, “I didn’t know you listened to The Delfonics,” with Max replying, “They’re pretty good.” Considering the context in which the comment is made, as well as the tension inherent in the climatic situation unraveling, it provides an extremely spontaneous and defining moment of comic relief.

The selection of cassette tapes is also one instance of many allusions and uses of black exploitation throughout the duration of the narrative. Tarantino remarks, “I brought a lot of the feeling of black exploitation films that I like to Jackie Brown. It’s like the debt Pulp Fiction owes to Spaghetti Westerns, Jackie Brown owes to black exploitation films. And the relationship that surf music had to Pulp Fiction, old school Seventies soul music has to Jackie Brown: that’s the rhythm and the pulse of the movie (Woods p.143).” Artists such as The Commodores, Delfonics, and “Funkadelic” compilations are an obvious reincarnation of the black exploitation films of the 70’s that Tarantino adores and remakes in a unique way with this film. Jackie Brown recycles music from Foxy Brown and Coffy, giving a more than obvious nod to Roy Ayers’ work on the soundtrack of the 1973 Jack Hill film Coffy and it is through the integration of these tracks and artists that the influence of black exploitation is most clearly defined and prevalent.

The most significant alteration in the film adaptation is its shift of focus and remaking of the main character Jackie Burke, a small white blonde, into Jackie Brown, a voluptuous African-American women. The most obvious example in this instance comes by way of the shift in title. Jackie Brown implores and forces the audience to shift their focus away from the other characters in the film and draw it to the actions and relations of Brown whereas the title Rum Punch refers to the codename given by Ordell to the money retrieval operation.

The third image, seen below, is a quintessential shot in dissecting issues of cinematic techniques, style, and nuances within the repetoire of the director. The shot propagates constant references, or infusion, to/ of film history and the “stealing,” which seemingly shadows all discussion of Tarantino as a filmmaker. He candidly remarks, “I steal from every single movie made, all right? I love it. If my work has anything it’s because I am taking this from this and that from that, piecing them together…great artists steal, they don’t do homages.” Some instances of this filmic “theft” are much more transparent than others and at times seem to go unnoticed, but the use of split-screen is one subtle element that should not be overlooked. As Jackie holds a gun to Ordell’s “bone” the elements of black exploitation are apparent but tethered together with a page out of Brian De Palma’s catalogue. In an overtly De Palma manner (whose reverting from constant cuts to the large scale use of split-screen in the 1976 film Carrie revolutionized the cinematic device and brought it to the forefront of the Hollywood film industry) the split screen use in Jackie Brown serves to intertwine elements of contrasting film genres to produce an entirely new experience. In a manner very characteristic of Sisters or Carrie, of which De Palma comments, “I felt the destruction had to be shown in split-screen, because how many times could you cut… You can overdo that. It’s a dead cinematic device (De Palma/ Knapp p. 42),” Tarantino employs the cinematic technique in a very reminiscent way that separates the world of film and literature with an exclusively cinematic element of storytelling, one quite impossible with the none visual nature of the novel. The two frames, it is worth to note, are also very characteristic of film noir with their use of dark shadows and dramatic subject matter- another genre which all of Tarantino’s work borrows from in one manner or another.

The pieces of story included in Rum Punch and omitted by Tarantino is another element of his extremely conscious directorial style that allows for his film adaptation to take on an entirely new context. In regards to his choices of inclusion he states, “I’m very much a believer that if you’re creating your own universe and your own mythology, you can have no question unanswered. But here’s the thing: I don’t have to answer the questions to you the audience. You just need to know I know the answer.”

In many ways the film adaptation of Leonard’s novel is strikingly similar but contextually they operate on completely different levels, only as a result of Tarantino’s characteristic and arguably unique cinematic style of filmmaking and story telling. Through his use of popular, or at the least, once popular music he is able to add a wealth of depth to his character, their on screen relationships, and the narrative in its entirety all while simultaneously infiltrating the cinema with a copious amount of pop culture and film history references. His “stealing” of genre and film traditions as well as his change in location to a much more personal space allows him to create a completely unique narrative from a very detailed adaptation. It becomes clear through the examination of these repetitive techniques and stylized choices that as an author and filmmaker Tarantino is nothing less than an extreme innovation and perhaps a revolutionary sort of post modernist art.

Works Cited

Leonard, Elmore. Rum Punch. New York: Dell, 1992

Woods, Paul A. Quentin Tarantino: The Film Geek Files. London: Plexus, 2005

Gallafent, Edward. Quentin Tarantino.

De Palma, Brian and Knapp, Laurence F. Brian De Palma: Interviews. University Press of Mississippi: 2003

http://books.google.com/books?id=nZpkTAxWu4EC&pg=PA42&lpg=PA42&dq=de+palma+split+screen&source=web&ots=B0Csbs1INy&sig=miImz5fzTwTjjgLbYFusqjNvhuc&hl=en&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=6&ct=result#PPA42,M1

It has been argued that Tsui Hark “epitomizes the lost promise of the New Wave,” as it relates to Hong Kong Cinema, but to imagine an Asian film market without his pragmatic and fervent compositions would leave an insatiable void. Brooding in excess, extremes, and Hollywood appropriations, Tsui almost single handedly transformed his nations New Wave cinema into a marketable product that would pave the way for westward expansion. His distinctive approach to the medium is manifest within continuing amalgamations of, not only cinematic conventions, but historical, cultural, and political representations as well. Peking Opera Blues (1986) typifies Tsui in its precise synthesis of genre, aesthetics, and thematic scopes that when melded together prove to be an eclectic piece of cinema. An auteurist approach coupled with pop sensibilities and aesthetics, results in a brand of curb appeal previously mastered by Hitchcock that segued to Tsui Hark and eventually wound up in the hands of Tarantino.

Stephen Teo reciprocates the idea of Tsui’s elemental synthesis stating that his body of work constitutes, “a cinema that integrates the aesthetics of avant-garde pop styles and the commercial instincts of genre cinema.” Though his claim should not be repudiated, it deserves to be expatiated. Integration of a Hark film does not end, nor begin, with simply combining abstract aesthetics with “instincts of genre.” Integration and amalgamated properties exist within each category themselves. From Drama, to musical, and comedy to action film, Peking Opera Blues spans over a minimum four genres, which not only works toward broadening the potential base of spectatorship, but when taken in consideration with the localization serves to extrapolate the irony inherent with Tsui’s expanding art. This style of quasi-sporadic genre weaving is a signifier of thematic juxtapositions and historical allegories waiting to be excavated from the films subtext.

Within the film’s narrative structure the opera theatre functions on many levels. Simply stated it is a relief, a place where identity can be hidden, and gender mistaken; inevitably it is a place for all worlds to collide. Bordwell remarks that, “Tsui treats the opera house as a crossroads of political and personal destinies,” which becomes more and more intertwined as the film progresses until finally it erupts in confrontation.   The theatre is an arena where all social and economic classes collide in filmic metaphor. General Tsao represents Chinese imposition, Brigitte Lin and Sally Yeh’s characters are not only female heroines in a time when woman were never equated with power but also they are symbolic of the newer generation and revolutionary thinkers. These two in opposition are surrounded by crooked ticketing officers and a mass of common people who take absolutely no part in resolving conflict within the theatre- instead they uniformly fall to the ground, afraid to stand up for either side. These are clear-cut allegorical devices implemented by Tsui to construct a commentary on national history that can still resonate pertinent with Hong Kong today, and when combined with intricate choreography, vivid chromatic palates, and gender bending instances the film becomes a meticulous work seamlessly combining sociopolitical contexts and engaging visuals that can appeal to a mass market audience. It must be noted that the reversal of gender roles in Peking Opera Blues is a device employed to entertain and masquerade; not of a sexual political agenda but as Teo notes, “a kind of wicked metaphor for universality.” He goes on to substantiate this notion stating that, “the transmutation of gender is part of (his) quest for identity and nation inherent in the query ‘what is jianghu?’”

The finale of the film harkens back to the opening sequence of costumed theatre and painted face as a way to bookend the narrative. In regards to the epilogue Bordwell claims that, “any prospects of forming romantic couples dissolve into political turmoil. The sword-and-steed woman, now literally on horseback, must go separate ways.” Bordwell, however, fails to mention the ambiguity prevalent within the films resolution and its direct correlation with Tsui’s style. Though the conclusion does evoke unrest and notions of political turmoil it is contradicted by contentment; it then becomes a pristine example of the filmmaker’s penchant for amalgamations and business savvy meditation on the necessity that cinema become universal in its content and consumerist appeal alike. This ability to appease the senseless spectator and critic alike is precisely what epitomizes the distinctive diegetic realm of his films.

The end of the Second World War brought about a conflicting cultural, social, and political renaissance to every civilized part of our planet. While the United States progressed towards a period of substantial economic boom other countries were left to pick up the pieces, trying to reconstruct disheveled economies and shattered spirits. Cinema, as we have come to understand it, has been and always will be an outlet for not only creative expression but progressive sociopolitical commentary as well. Italian cinema subsequent to the fall of Mussolini is no exception. Left with a “vacuum” in the industry and facing prodigious problems of reconstruction Italian filmmakers attempted to move away from every convention established by Hollywood and the “white telephone” films generated by the fascist regime. With Roberto Rosellini’s 1945 film Rome, Open City the neorealist movement began its upheaval of the purely spectacle, fantasized versions of reality that had been exhibited so prominently before, and continued until the 1952 release of Vittorio De Sica’s Umberto D (though it would be fair to argue that Fellini’s film La Strada, released two years later, is a more than sufficient example of neorealist filmmaking). However, the most abundantly pure and verifiable example of this movement, devoted obstinately to the power and effect of realism, comes to grand fruition in 1948 with De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves. While the film utilizes all conventions characteristic of the movement such as non-professional actors, location shooting, documentary style filming, everyday subject matter, and anti-fascist political ideals what sets it apart is its much deserved classification as the first example of pure cinema. Through many subtleties the narrative aesthetic becomes fixated within a realm of unsurpassed and uncompromised realism that seemingly delineates the woes of post-war Italy without any overt symbolism or grandiose filmic devices or coincidences. De Sica seamlessly constructs a world that while at its core is still spectacle, lets the viewer revel in a realm cinematic reality that becomes the closest embodiment of truth film has to offer.

Andre Bazin summarizes De Sica’s unrivaled feat in perfect words:

De Sica’s supreme achievement, which others have only approached with a carrying degree of success or failure, is to have succeeded in discovering the cinematographic dialectic capable of transcending the contradiction between the action of a “spectacle” and of an event. For this reason, Ladri di Biciclette is one of the first examples of pure cinema (1).

One thing that makes the film such a substantial benchmark in world cinema is its consistency, its perseverance to stay to true Bazin’s statement from beginning to end. Every scene throughout is meticulous in its representation of 1948 Italy and the ordinary life. Within simplicity and the mundane hibernates the beauty of what is being created. The scene in which Antonio is discussing his need for a bike with Maria is a perfect representation of neorealist filmmaking and the notion of a “pure cinema,” not only because of its void of the extraordinary but because of its consummate representation of space and time. One might argue that the cuts remove the spectator in drawing attention to the world of film, but to make any claim like that would presumably be under some sort of voyeuristic pretense. What those carefully placed edits ultimately provide to the viewer is a continuation of events rather than spectacle. They do not displace any time or space, as they are all congruent to the action that is taking place during what is a pretty substantial lull in conversation between husband and wife. As Antonio and Maria enter the door the shot cuts with perfect continuity and does not cut again until it is forced to continue the event as it progresses through the space of their apartment and into another room, never removing itself from one continuous time frame during the scene and consequently not allowing the viewer to question whether or not the events may be operating apart from one another. In discussing the importance of simplistic and “accidental” elements that cement the outright banality that is the foundation of this film it becomes imperative to examine the lack of what might be termed “sensational” shots. The lack of significance within the framing and camera movement is precisely what renders the film as pure cinema as it is taking no extra measures to step outside the realm of reality to convey a social or political meaning; it exists entirely on its own within De Sica and screenwriter Cesare Zavatinni’s carefully crafted, purposefully unremarkable cinematic territory. Bazin remarks:

If the event is sufficient unto itself without the direction having to shed any further light on it by means of camera angles, purposely chosen camera angels, it is because it has reached that stage of perfect luminosity which makes is possible for an art to unmask a nature which in the end resembles it. That is why the impression made on us by Ladri di Biciclette is unfailing that of the truth (2).

One of the most impressive qualities inherent within the film is its wry critique of post-war Italy. De Sica manages to convey a barrage of social and political messages without every really saying anything about them. Whether it be movement, mise-en-scene, action, or events every occurrence within the narrative may be attributed to mere happenstance.

Even when Italian neorealist films are not explicitly concerned with wartime and postwar issues, their male heroes demonstrate the kind of lack rampant during the occupation and post war period… the humiliation of the male protagonist rests in his precarious socioeconomic status, which invariably prevents him from fulfilling the role of economic provider and protector ascribed to men by the dominant fiction (3).

The “lack” Roberto and Wilson mention is intrinsically imbedded within every sequence of the film. In one instance of feigned hope Antonio appears to have found the man who he believes has stolen his bicycle. For a moment we are left to conjure a false hope as he pursues and eventually catches up with the supposed thief, which culminates, after a police search, with what seems to be the entire community pontificating the mans innocence. Antonio is left once again despondent in his efforts of futility. “Throughout the sequence, the film undercuts Antonio’s agency as male protagonist by subjecting him to the gaze of strangers, especially women and children (4).” The German cap worn by the accused should also be observed as a subtle aesthetic device employed to symbolize the “failed duel with German occupiers.” The army cap now becomes a pristine example of how Bicycle Thieves manages to capture the fundamental qualities of pure cinema as it can easily be attributed to coincidence; it has no overt political meaning, significance, or presence within the film and for that reason it is extremely effective within the realist milieu. Upon examination it is compulsory to observe that all of these incidents are not intertwined but rather occur independently of one another much in the way of a typical day in a person’s life. We are being omitted from obligatory propaganda and manifest symbolism as the filmic world operates on the basis of uncertainty, chance occurrence, and being set up in a narrative littered with ambivalence. Bazin remarks that, “the events are not necessarily signs of something, of a truth of which we are to be convinced, they all carry their own weight, their complete uniqueness, that ambiguity that characterizes any fact (5). “

Even when, for a brief moment, things start to look promising for Antonio and his family there is an omniscient sense within the spectator compounded with subtle detail that alludes to foreboding doom. Any chance that the Antonio and his family seem to have is visually stripped away early on as Maria goes to sell the linens in order to redeem a bike for her husband. Millicent Marcus solidifies this notion:

Any tendency to see the protagonists as exceptions to the impoverished masses is discouraged early in the film when Antonio and Maria pawn their wedding sheets in order to redeem their bicycle from hock. If we think that this difficult sacrifice will be enough to set them apart from the crowd and rescue them from destitution, we are wrong, as a dizzying tilt shot reveals when it follows the pawnshop attendant up to the top of a mountain of shelves filled with similarly pawned trousseau linens. In a later visual essay, Antonio’s story is universalized by the multitudes of used bicycles shown at the open markets on the day after the theft (6).

This constant sense of failure can be seen, and felt for that matter, in the moments leading up to the theft of the bicycle. As Antonio begins to post Rita Hayworth to the final wall there is anguish, a tension associated with his demeanor. He is much too happy and carefree in his work as he attempts to wrestle the creases out of the poster. The audience can see the bicycle situated an uneasy distance away from him as his attention is suspiciously drawn away from it for an extended period of time. Prior to this instance we also see him abandon his bicycle in the hands of young children while he follows his wife to the fortuneteller. It is a series of events escalating in such a fashion that viewer is left in perpetual suspense, resulting mostly as a result of the film’s title. This may very well be the singular flaw of the films cognitive basis pure cinema as it alerts one watching to be conscious of the fact a bike will be stolen, and though it may very well refer to Antonio’s actions during the summation of the film, any decently intelligent viewer would be able to deduce almost immediately that Antonio’s bike must be stolen at some point out of pure necessity for the events to unfold and for the film to even exist. As it stands the title is the one thing that subverts the uncanny realistic nature of the diagetic world.

The beauty of pure cinema inherent within the film is that it wholly trusts the spectator to make proper summations and ask questions with almost no information being spoon fed by the filmmaker; it makes certain to necessitate the sagacity of its viewer. Bazin remarks that, “it is our intelligence that discerns and shapes it (social thesis), not the film. De Sica wins every play on the board without ever having made a bet (7).” It is precisely this trust in the audience that lends itself to extreme realism. In pure cinema, as in real life, there are not extremely fantasized sets, wardrobes, or unbelievable events occurring all the time. Bazin reiterates commenting that, “the film shows no extraordinary events… There are no crimes of passion, none of those grandiose coincidences (8).” The simple fact that there are no professional actors (especially in a film made by such a prominent one) is a big part of why the social position established by De Sica and Zavatinni is able to envelop the spectator with utter believability. If Cary Grant had been cast in the role as had been suggested to De Sica the film would never have succeeded in originating a cinematic escape based so firmly and effectively in a believable world. This is not to undermine Cary Grant’s acting ability, but rather to state that the verisimilitude would have suffered greatly, or perhaps would not have existed at all, if it had not been for no-name, faceless actors. This device allows for the audience to have free association from the characters rather than thinking back on how good Antonio was as agent Devlin and how he looked so handsome kissing Ingrid Bergman. Instead there is the presentation of the ordinary, the everyday man that we might pass on the street and not think twice about.

It is said that, “It would be no exaggeration to say that Ladri di biciclette is the story of a walk through Rome by a father and his son (9).” Except for the exceptional plight bestowed upon Antonio a walk through Rome with Bruno is in fact all the film is but this dynamic father-son relationship stands out as a key element in the film. There have been many interpretations as to the nature and understanding of Bruno’s character. Bazin remarks, “it is the child who gives the workman’s adventure its ethical dimensions and fashions” “it is the admiration the child feels for his father and the father’s awareness of it which gives its tragic stature to the ending (10). ” This statement becomes absolutely indisputable when the film nears its conclusion and sees Bruno save what very little dignity his father is left with. Later Bazin says that Antonio has been like God to his son, and in way of contradiction, it seems like quite the opposite in many cases. The child represents the untainted pureness of the human race as a whole; he is capable of seeing the truth and acting appropriately in social situations, quite unlike his father. Bruno embodies a proper moral code that De Sica, through Bruno’s gaze, is asking us as the audience to procure ourselves. “The gaze of the child becomes a cipher for the social order to judge the actions of the male… the male is now the subject of the socially disciplining gaze (11).” As a filmmaker he is presenting us with a force not alienated nor stained by the woes of the adult society. Bruno is the one who fixes and polishes the bike, he takes on an equal role in the search (and a much more levelheaded one), he is the voice of reason when Antonio has none, and he is the one who has a job. Bruno is what Antonio might have been before being unwittingly conformed by his social confine. Marcus counteracts the argument when talking about the boy’s restoration of the bicycle calling it an “obvious projection of his desire to rehabilitate his fathers parental authority (12),” but it seems also fair to consider this a commentary about the purity of children and how, in many cases of crisis in modern society, they act much more appropriately and honestly to whatever situation they are confronted with. This scene implies that Bruno cares for the bike, his job, and the well being of his family members more than his father; it leads the spectator to believe that if it had been Bruno in charge of the bicycle nobody would ever have been able to steal it to begin with because of his watchful and attentive nature.

As we come to define the Italian neorealist movement so do we begin to completely develop Andre Bazin’s concept of “pure cinema.” Essentially what enshrines the Bicycle Thieves as the first proper example of pure cinema is that it was the undoubtedly the preeminent neorealist film. It has essentially been put to the neorealist test, and once it advanced with flying colors, was put through a cinematic purifier that washed it clean of any phantasmagorical spectacle leaving the “thesis of the film hidden behind social reality (13).” The work stands the test of time as it is magically bends and molds to different genres of narrative and documentary, creating a distinctly unique film that reinvents cinema into something that almost isn’t cinema in the least. He has managed to “escape from the impasse, to reaffirm anew the entire aesthetic of neorealism (14).”

Works Cited

• Bazin, What is Cinema? (University of California Press, 1971)
• Bazin, What is Cinema? (University of California Press, 1971)
• Ruberto & K. Wilson, Italian Neorealism and Global Cinema (Wayne State University Press, 2007), 29
• Ruberto & K. Wilson, Italian Neorealism and Global Cinema (Wayne State University Press, 2007), 37
• Bazin, What is Cinema? (University of California Press, 1971), 52
• Marcus, Italian Film in the Light of Neorealism (Princeton University Press, 1986), 66
• Bazin, What is Cinema? (University of California Press, 1971), 53
• Bazin, What is Cinema? (University of California Press, 1971), 49-50
• Marcus, Italian Film in the Light of Neorealism (Princeton University Press 1986), 62

(10) A. Bazin, What is Cinema? (University of California Press, 1971), 53

(11) L. Ruberto & K. Wilson, Italian Neorealism and Global Cinema (Wayne State University Press, 2007), 37

(12) M. Marcus, Italian Film in the Light of Neorealism (Princeton University Press 1986), 59

(13) A. Bazin, What is Cinema? (University of California Press, 1971)

(14) A. Bazin, What is Cinema? (University of California Press, 1971), 49

Ruben Fleischer’s Zombieland appears not coincidentally in a time when America is plagued by a recessive economy and battling a seemingly insurmountable debt. The film is littered with verifiable allegories of a crumbling capitalist, consumer culture that aim to satirically awaken the spectator to the decaying vacuous nature of modern society. It manages to present a clever extension and elaboration of the zombie genre with a horror-com twist. While some of the “rules” to survival are clearly a meditation on prior genre customs there are also new interpretations of the patriarchal figure and a rehashing of what constitutes a core family unit. Zombieland is a film that relentlessly tears apart the free market destruction of our society and its values, but like most works that operate with a strong socio-political commentary the message must come under guise; in this case comedy and gore serve to devalue Fleischer’s critique enough to make it widely accessible and for it to potentially go unacknowledged by the average cinemagoer.

From the onset of the film the audience is presented with the defining subtext. The opening frame, depicting an upside down view of the American flag as it waves proudly in front of the Washington D.C. capital building, causes a jarring rumination that is expatiated with Columbus’ opening voice over. He states, “Oh America, I wish I could tell you that this was still America but I’ve come to realize that you can’t have a country without people, and there are no people here.” The camera pulls back and turns upright to reveal heaps of devastation and a zombie adorned in a business suit as he continues, “No my friends, this is now the United States of Zombieland.” The description that follows, detailing how Columbus manages to stay human, is extremely pertinent in consideration with the metaphorical content. Excessive consumption is first marked by the overweight and out of shape, or the “fatties” who are the first to go, and its also worthwhile to note that the infectious zombifying disease started with the ingestion of a contaminated hamburger*.

The evil and depravity of our social institutions are scrutinized by the mere survival of Einsenberg’s character. Survival of the fittest takes on a larger meaning within the narrative, as Columbus is able to sustain himself only because he has had the “advantage” of not ever having any real friends or close family. He is unexposed and ergo uninfected by society and its deteriorating concept of the family unit.

Tallahassee is a man who thrives on useful vengeance. The unrequited love he sustains for his lost son is illustrative of an acceptable family nucleus and his devout pursuit of the Twinkie is yet another allegorical device harkening back to a much simpler time in American history. With the Twinkie employed as a clever McGuffin for the motivation of his character we are reminded time and time again (to), “enjoy the little things.” With the reiteration of this ideal Zombieland becomes not necessarily a plagued place but rather a world of appreciative realizations. Tallahassee’s narcissistic decision to reproduce in such a society however is a major contradiction when considered in conjunction with the rest of the films themes and motifs but can be overlooked by virtue of its genuine nature. As they come to meet Wichita and Little Rock who run a scam on them, quite appropriately in a supermarket, they build a foundation for what eventually becomes a trusting and caring family, not bound by blood or circumstance, but by their own free choice- a choice only obtained as a direct result of society’s disintegration.

Reverting to localization for character names rather than using their given names is another plot device that extrapolates the reoccurring theme of societal structures diverting from the simplicity that made them pure and sustainable. In a post-apocalyptic world the survivors adopt their birthplace as an identifying characteristic just as earlier and more primitive civilizations; without exorbitant overpopulation it becomes unnecessary for them to use multiple or “distinctive” names. Wichita and Little Rock are intrinsically linked to the gender defining conventions of the genre. Their delusionary tactics are forged and melded within stereotypical female genre conventions; wedding rings and misplaced affection are ways for them to manipulate the opposite sex for monetary gain. This is not only an implication of the female but moreover it is a symbolic critique relating to the institution of marriage and its lacking legitimacy. In considering the mistrust associated with them it is also necessary to contemplate the role, however minimal, of Columbus’ roommate 406. When the first intimate contact he has with a female leads to almost being eaten alive it becomes hard for the viewer to sustain oblivious gazing without realizing the implications.

Many other aspects of the film serve to divulge the underlying thematic concepts; infected rushing towards the bright light of a deserted amusement park, survivors completely demolishing a retail store, and even the title of the film all stand as allegorical inferences to be made by the viewer. As with Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968) Zombieland operates on a purely allegorical level. Steven Shaviro states in Contagious Allegories that, “The ‘living dead’ emerge out of the deathly distance of allegory; their fictive presence allows Romero to anatomize and criticize American society, not by portraying it naturalistically, but by evacuating and eviscerating it. Allegory is then not just a mode of depiction, but an active means of subversive transformation.” He goes on to state that, “They do not mirror or represent social forces; they are directly animated and possessed, even in their allegorical distance from beyond the grave, by such forces,” substantiating the claim that it is not the zombie or the infected terrorizing the innocent but the social spirit embedded within them.

Though greatly comedic, Zombieland has an undercurrent of terrifyingly real social commentary for the spectator to absorb and contemplate. While utilizing conventions established by past zombie films it also manages to breathe life into the genre with a self-reflexive re-envisioning; It is a foreboding cinematic work that manages to work quite well under a clever satirical veil.

* Note: the two main protagonists are vegetarian (Einsenberg) and vegan (Harrelson) in real life.