Posts Tagged experimental

Borderline (MacPherson, 1930)

“If I had my way, not one negro would be allowed in the country!”

– “The Old Lady”, Borderline

“She worked hard and did well, paid off her mortgage and began to put something by for her old age. Then the immigrants moved in.”

Enoch Powell

“…we affirm that non-Whites have no place here at all and will not rest until every last one has left our land.”

Nick Griffin

“2 fkin rite the fkin immigrant bastards go fuk off bak n giv us our country bak n our money ya fuuuuuuuuukers!!!!!”

– “I Was Born in the Uk. So Why Do I Have Less Rights Then Immigrants

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If France was once infected by the cinéma du papa, then the UK continues to be plagued by the cinéma du mama: a cinema whose commercial success and everlasting appeal resides predominantly in the purses of middle-aged, middle-class housewives beguiled by the gratification and security that its features can promise. This is a disease that manifests itself in two definitive strains. First, there is the ever archaic “heritage film” – a nostalgic fashion trend that beautifies the inevitably right-wing national past with its lavish veneration of mise-en-scène, whilst immobilising the viewer’s intellect with a recycled brand of doomed romanticism. Then, perhaps even more disturbingly, there are the attempts to create a stock of British “social realism” – championed by privileged white males who understand nothing of the “gritty” milieu which they sporadically inhabit, and defined by its timid aversion to any meaningful engagement with the problems confronting the disenfranchised groups whom it seeks to represent.

Together, these dominant bloodlines tighten the garrotte around the slender neck of the British film industry. And by their lack of ambition, they compel the admiration of the foreign press, defending the national colours on an awards circuit where they regularly corral nominations and prizes. What use is a picture that panders so desperately to such a vainglorious, rabidly innocuous market? The answer is none. Such inanities do not personify the vestiges of imagination and ingenuity that lurk within the forgotten corridors of our cinema – and yet they dementedly persist in stifling the enfeebled arthouses of the nation with their ill-gotten prestige. Imitators aspire to replicate their success, thereby upholding the un-impeachable tradition of audience nullification whilst maintaining the vicious cycle of vacuity that saturates our passive minds. And thus, the culture of filmic disengagement is perpetuated; reprocessed and diluted until the British “cinema” is rendered nothing more than a British vacuum, vainly masquerading as a purveyor of artistic integrity. Where then, in so mephitic an environment, do the filmmakers of tomorrow (integral to any potential revolt) find the inspiration necessary to emancipate our country from this contemptible beast that refuses to surrender?

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Enter Borderline. Had Kenneth MacPherson’s 1930 feature not itself been strangulated by the consumerism of yesteryear (its theatrical release was never becoming), then perhaps the pestiferous vermin of the mama would be nothing but a creative abortion; a minor blip in the character of a thriving and pioneering national cinema. Instead, it occupies a peculiar hideaway in the annals of film history. An exemplar, and possibly the sole exemplar, of the avant-gardist tendencies that once existed here (and can yet be unearthed), Borderline is relentless in its formalism and shameless in its virtuosity. Taking heed from the Soviet montage school of thought, MacPherson incites action and reaction through a bravura demonstration of editing that wilfully distorts the viewer’s grasp of his visual rhetoric. The film bemuses with its expeditious cutting rates and its excisional framing – the latter’s reduction of human figures to dissected body parts powerfully accentuating the characters’ physical detachment from their internal desires. Together, these core tenets invoke an overwhelming tsunami of kineticism that obliterates the audience’s understanding of the film’s spacial and temporal dimensions until all that’s left for us to cling to is an immediate, raw visceralism; the ultimate purification of the cinematic experience.

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Lest it give the impression of nothing more than a conceited experiment, it should be stated that Borderline is as grippingly radical in content as it is in style. Though it spitefully rejects the post-Griffith developments in narrative exposition, it cogently deploys associative montages to convey the psychological undercurrents of its disturbed characters. Torrents of passion and malice thus satiate the film, exacerbated and inflamed by the presence of that most toxic of evils: blacks. Yes, Borderline‘s real intransigence is a socio-political one – an earnest affront to Western xenophobia, and a valiant dismissal of the tendency to scapegoat minorities in times of turmoil. MacPherson contrasts the decadence of his white characters with the relative dignity of his so-called “negroes” (consider also how carefully he frames them against natural idylls), and emphasises the grotesqueries of racial hatred by recording those that uphold and enforce the status quo at their most repugnant. With this approach, the director audaciously upends the comfort and satisfaction that we seek from our modern, advanced society; his subversive portrait of an Occidental utopia revealing itself as a cutthroat mundania where all those that challenge the norm (the film’s few sympathetic whites are implied to be homosexual) are compelled into a precarious existence, forced to renounce their sense of justice in the name of the majority’s self-preservation.

MacPherson is perhaps too oblique in his approach and too callow in his sentiments to offer a parable of assiduous complexity for the 21st-century viewer. Yet the basic impetus of his tale is one that continues to transcend time (however unfortunately). Eight decades may have passed, but Borderline remains as recalcitrant now as it almost certainly did then: its fundamental concerns with the issues of immigration and integration still unnervingly prescient, and its refusal to pander to the prevailing prejudices of its era eliciting only admiration. Indeed, the film goes so far as to celebrate the very notion of dissimilitude by incorporating our fear of the subject into the form – playing out like the cinematic equivalent of an improvisational jazz piece, infectious in its exaltation of the medium’s possibilities. In the context of our national film culture, it stands alone in its compassion, its foresight and its innovation. A sign of what was to come it definitely was not, but one prays for the day when it can be commended first and foremost as a historical artefact rather than a sui generis of contemporary relevance. In the interim though, the burden lies solely with the present generation of cinephiles – it is we who must embrace progression (however paradoxically ancient) in the same manner in which our superficially-inclined brethren lust after regression. From MacPherson’s example we must draw only hope, for it is now evident that there once was a way forward for the British cinema – and, for as long as Borderline exists, there always will be.

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India Song (Duras, 1975)

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The spectral malevolence cast by a subdued sunset. The palpable effluvium of an abandoned tennis court. The glacial imperviousness of a vacant château. Marguerite Duras’s preternatural India Song immerses itself in these sensations and lingers inquisitively upon their parent images, all the while scribing a deceptively piercing critique of the colonialist impulse that once consumed Europe in the face of (technological) modernity. Though well concealed by her radical formalism, the author’s vitriol is nevertheless self-evident in each of the elegant tableaux vivants that entrancingly comprise the film – littered as they are with the trivial bric-a-brac of an expatriated haut monde, not to mention the soulless human constituents of the ever-redundant class itself. Duras’s visual syntax thus finds itself dominated by an irrevocable stasis, her camera tenaciously refusing to yield to the cinematic laws of motion; a scathing mimicry of the derelict imperialism whose purpose has long since ceased. On those few instances when the director does offer up a glimmer of filmic dynamism, one finds that she merely teases: her camera panning languidly from left to right, helplessly rooted to its spot by the pathological paralysis that consumes her characters (this, a historiographically-imposed affliction, conceived to make amends for their motherland’s misdeeds and to curb their potential to oppress). Duras’s portrait of a declining French Empire unearths a stifling, crumbling colossus, painfully being brought to its knees by the outdated modes and rituals of the white entitlement which birthed its existence in the first place. Whilst the glamour might not yet have receded in its entirety – sleekly-coutured lovers engage in quasi-Ophulsian waltzes around a ballroom, albeit nonchalantly, lackadaisically – the resonant image that emerges from the director’s study is nonetheless one of inexorable decay.

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If structural, surface senescence points towards the doomed trappings of the colonialist endeavour, then further interrogation reveals another, more intimate malaise: the emptiness of the soul. Rare close-ups of Anne-Marie Stretter – promiscuous wife of the French ambassador in 1930s Calcutta, and the film’s default heroine around whom all its other (male) characters orbit – scrutinise her tousled hair, her tangled jewellery, her dishevelled gown, thereby implanting individual disarray within the institutional decay of her surroundings. In articulating this privileged ennui, Duras actuates an inspired manoeuvre: the separation of image from sound; and therefore, the separation of character from voice. India Song consequently unfolds as a silent tapestry, its compositions underscored by a chorus of disembodied vocals ruminating upon action and inaction from the supernal nether-regions of its non-diegetic space. A virulent condemnation of traditional representations and realisations of femininity is perceptible amidst the discomfiture of the director’s stratagem: the objectification and subjugation historically accorded to the female role now extending out towards the men – here reduced to lethargic fashion models, and denied their natural means of expression. Meanwhile, Duras’s bifurcated inversion of the accepted cinematic relationship between visual and aural produces a compelling chasm into which she pours the repressed emotions of her disenchanted bourgeoisie: love; longing; loss. But what we hear rarely corresponds with what we see, and the voices on the soundtrack are not necessarily extracted from the actors before our eyes – indeed, the sonic foreground finds itself saturated by the exchanges of unidentified observers who, ergo, dictate the visual background. It is these detached, invisible participants who perform the exposition of the author’s anomalous narrative; divulging the fates of its enervated characters (the walking dead) and transfiguring an otherwise cerebral j’accuse into a meditative ghost story.

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Central to the director’s tableaux is a floor-to-ceiling mirror whose eerie cleanliness evanesces into the rest of her mise-en-scène, allowing it to masquerade as a mammoth archway; a portal into an alternate dreamscape. Alas, the illusion is but a cruel one – the mirror’s apparent functions thus: to contract and expand cinematic space at will, and to remind the physical apparitions on-screen of their own post-mortal unreality. Nevertheless, the stylisation is bewildering enough to suitably denote India Song‘s ascent into the meta-, for Duras’s multifaceted reconception of the filmic narrative compels us to query our own modes of perception and thereby initiates a veritable cornucopia of formal discussion points. The refusal to synchronise the two components of the contemporary cinematic experience lies at the core of film’s foundation; our innate curiosity licensing the director to inveigle us into the unknown, where no longer is it possible to conciliate the audiovisual alliance. From here, she forges an innovatory vantage point: so extreme is her departure from established storytelling norms that one cannot help but approach the piece from an intellectual, deconstructionist perspective in an attempt to gain comprehension and elicit textual meaning. Duras remains typically defiant, with her aurally recursive, temporally elliptical abstractions continually frustrating our desires, challenging our needs. Is this the anti-cinema? The film’s speculative voiceovers – enacting a conflicting and contrasting discourse where past, present and future collide in streaming tête-à-têtes of dialogue – threaten to become little more than a showcase for the author’s linguistic prowess: her magisterial command of language beguiling in its evocation of the sights, sounds and smells between Lahore and Laos; elevating the work into a near-transcendental sensory experience, the absolute pinnacle in artistic synesthesia. Duras however, is too astute a filmmaker  to let mere words do the talking for her. Literary and theatrical it may occasionally seem, but India Song reconciles its director’s alternate impulses to a synthetic master-narrative that shrewdly comments upon its own affectations. The film doesn’t refuse synchronisation so much as it remoulds it, plunging into the discords that it generates (narration flippantly discusses disease and poverty, whilst a corresponding frame captures the indifferent decadence of champagne in crystal goblets). Duras ekes out the dichotomy not just between sight and sound, but between body and soul and, most compellingly, Europe and her conquered dominions (how telling it is that a film with such a moniker should obfuscate its only Indian character within the murkiest corners of the frame). Armed with these isolations, the director descends deep into the crepuscular recesses of the imperialist fantasy and posits her singular text as a cinematic ‘other’ to emulate the Occidental impression of the absent natives. And at last, the intent behind that gargantuan mirror arises to the fore as it metamorphoses into a reflection of us: when all is said and done, our responses to India Song‘s resolute ‘otherness’ might well reveal more about today’s mindsets – and the extent of our post-colonial progression – than it does about those of yesteryear.

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