Robison’s work in ‘Warning Shadows’ (1923) stimulated the idea of using colour gels in our film. By wrapping cellophane around a simple wooden frame and fixing it in front of a light source, Robison’s coloured filters can be reproduced efficiently and at no cost. This would add to certain atmospheres in our film by differentiating between the world as the girls know it (ie, in the ‘white room’) and simulations (ie, scenarios that the scientists implement.)

I experimented with my homemade pink and blue colour gels by positioning them in a way to illuminate my statue of the Virgin Mary. I especially liked the way that the colour wash gave new meaning to the figure, transforming what would have been an otherwise dull or perhaps insignificant statue into something ethereal. The use of colour blended with shadows and a harsh light at various angles also accentuates certain features of the face, which Schatten was very interested in – this may be something that we wish to look further into, depending on the direction that our film takes.  

Group members: Olivia Staffieri and Brendan Jones 

Liv unfolded the piece of butcher’s paper and there it was in blue ink, ‘Two lovers. Violence. A Better Life.’ 

Just like that, a story was born… sort of. 

Unlike the creator of our studio’s namesake, generating a film concept did not come as easy as it did  for David Lynch with Blue Velvet (1986.) I justify this by using one word – ‘Collaboration.’ Collaborating with other individuals sees its own set of obstacles, one of which that is most prevalent in creative industries being a clashing of styles. I definitely know what I like and how I want to express myself through art, which is why it was particularly difficult for me to take a step back, submit, and follow Brendan’s plan. Relinquishing my totalitarian ways, our group forged a basic premise that is as follows – a short film that exposes the way that children view the world, especially in regards to how they interpret violent affairs. Bang. Done. Where to from here?

Prior to reaching this point, I had been brainstorming film concepts that were based upon Gaspar Noé’s Love (2015), a provocative film that I had watched three times in the cinema because I wanted every inch of it’s masterpiece to rub off on me. Although our group had transformed the role of ‘The Lovers’ into two children, stripping away that layer of romance, Noé’s leading male, an aspiring filmmaker named Murphy, makes a statement that can move across to our project regardless: “My dream is to make a movie that truly depicts sentimentality.” I raise this point because Murphy has a vision and he goes with it wholeheartedly, allowing it to guide him in all pursuits. As discussed in my previous blog posts, short films should be an extension of the filmmaker’s attitude and perhaps viewed as an episode that exposes emotion. The concept for our film may not be what I wanted, but it will nevertheless be a product of the way that Olivia, Brendan and I view and react to the world.

(I literally cannot boast enough about Noé. Whatever it is that I choose to make – he will always be in my mind, body and spirit)

• The use of colour in Love is stellar. As the film progresses, the prominent colours featured on the screen change, which could be something that my group explores – as The Children witness more and more violence, the projections featured on the screen behind them could grow more sinister? Think Jackson Pollock.
• Washing the entire screen in a coloured filter could also be an interesting method to utilise.
• The theme song in Love (‘Le Temps Détruit Tout) is this hauntingly beautiful track – featured in the trailer below – that repeats itself at integral points within the character’s lives. Although I’m not shooting a 3-hour film like Noé, the use of instrumental music needs to be utilised effectively in my piece. Do we layer screams, children singing?

Gaspar Noé – “The best filmmaker you’ve never heard of.”

Now that our group had a central premise to work off, we decided to dissect certain aesthetics and moods that we wished for our film to exhibit. Having an immense love for theatre reminded me of the convention of German Expressionism; a style of art that stemmed from the 1920’s desire to embrace change. Often abstract, expressionist drama aimed to embody “the universal essence of humanity, rather than its particular manifestations,” (Kuhns, Pg. 81) in turn transcending realism. Original cinema of this genre revolved around topics of war, industrialism and dreams, as the filmmaker tried to search for the truth in bleak and grimy surroundings – a product of the aftereffects of World War One. Characters were regularly depicted as grotesque and lacked any individuality by way of being named, but perhaps most significantly, German Expressionist cinema dissected subject’s inner psychological workings in an unnatural way. Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) and Robert Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1930) became the focal points of inspiration for our piece, admiring the use of stylistic line work and dark shadow that the director’s employed to convey an off-putting sense of grim concerns.

Sharon Packer’s Cinema’s Sinister Psychiatrists: From Caligari to Hannibal details further that there “seems to be something Darwinian about the survival of sinister celluloid psychiatrists. They must serve a greater purpose than is apparent on the surface.” This is true in the fact that the implementation of psychiatrists in film have still managed to thrive in cinema over time, despite the majority of the population being open to some form of psychotherapy. Why is this? I assume it’s because as an audience, we relish in seeing the filthy facade of authoritative/medical figures. Most likely, these mean-minded doctors exploit innate fears about mind control that continue to constantly plague the public, despite laws being put in place to prevent the use of unsafe medical prescriptions. Indeed, this could be linked with The Psychiatrists in our piece, who oversee the treatment of The Children.

Whilst not fitting into the expressionist genre, Ana Lily Amirpour’s A Girl Who Walks Home Alone at Night (2015) has a variety of bleak elements that silent films utilise to exhibit their stories. The scene that specifically comes to mind is the one in which ‘Girl’ dances in her basement. An atmosphere of youthful energy permeates the screen as she moves stylistically to a Persian pop song, heavy with 80s synth. Despite this, her intense gaze, which is directed to no one in particular, summons a deep sadness or sense of loneliness in response to a world that keeps her on the fringes, never accepting her. It is these types of characters that I love the most – the ones that for whatever reasons, are hopelessly drifting through their meagre routines.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L29cUnjnGtE

Speaking of the mundane, David Lynch’s Rabbits (2002) is an interesting series to derive inspiration from, especially with regards to our piece. Set in one single furnished room, presumably a garage, human figures in rabbit masks go about their mundane lives – ironing, reading, watching television… What makes this so special however is the sound design that Lynch has employed, transforming these simplistic scenes into thought-provoking pieces. Example: A Rabbit opens the door and enters the scene, an audience claps and cheers yet the other two figures do not ackowledge his existence. This Lynchian disregard for any clarity of meaning is something that I wish to emulate with Enfants Curieux (a title which I selected because everything sounds cooler in French, non?)

To continue on with sound designs, I decided to do some research on language and children’s books. This lead me to the work of philosopher Donald Davidson who determined that “There is no such thing as a language.” (Irwin and Davis, Pg. 132) This caught me a little off-guard because isn’t Davidson using language to deny its existence? Surely, after some more skimming of his work he completed the sentence with, “…Not if a language is anything like what many philosopher’s and linguists have supposed.” Most of this writing was academic spew, but Irwin and Davis made a link to Lewis Caroll’s Alice in Wonderland, which relates back to the children’s stories that we researched for dialogue ideas. Alice famously states, “What’s the use of a book without pictures or conversation?”, which I agree with to some extent. Success in communicating is what we need to understand before we ask about the nature of meaning or of language. How is my group going to successfully communicate our themes and have them come across as sincere? As truthful?

In addition, Karen Lury’s work in The Child in Film (2010) analyses the way that children are portrayed through out various genres. Whether it be in mystical lands, Horror or War-time films, Lury explains how the presence of youth enables Directors to explore the world through the minds of the innocent – a notion that is reminiscent of Tim Burton’s methods. I suppose this would be appealing since children can more often than not unveil ugly truths about our society, forming a juxtaposition between “the good and the bad.”

To conclude, I realise that there are still a few gaps missing in Enfants Curieux – it is easy enough to say that we aim to create an impression of something, but I feel that our group still needs to explore what that ‘something’ may be. The only way I can describe this ominous ‘something’  would be if I could grab Noé’s Love in my fist and squeeze it until all the raw emotion poured out into our project.

References –

1. Packer, Sharon. Cinema’s Sinister Psychiatrists. Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2012. Print.
2. Love. France: Gaspar Noé, 2015. Film.
3. Onderdelinden, Sjaak. “David F. Kuhns, German Expressionist Theatre. The Actor And The Stage.”. Arbitrium 18.1 (2000): n. pag. Web.
4. Davis, Richard Brian. Alice In Wonderland And Philosophy. Hoboken, N.J.: John Wiley & Sons, 2010. Print.
5. Lury, Karen. The Child In Film. London: Taurus & Co Ltd, 2010. Print.
6. A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night. United States: Ana Lily Amirpour, 2015. Film.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E514EA_l-Do

 

Post 1: ‘Structure and Meaning’ – McKee 

Staring at the class before him, James Thompson shunned ‘narrative.’  “Forget it,” he exclaimed, “A short film should be a progression or a mood board of the filmmaker.” 

The above statement (respectively made in week one’s second class) raised a thought provoking point that I had not yet considered – instead of compiling the events of a feature film into the five or so minutes of a short film, why not approach the task differently, say, as a small episode that exposes something?

This concept is complimented with McKee’s writing in ‘Structure and Meaning,’ where he touches upon Controlling Ideas or more clearly, the use of Theme. He reiterates that a story’s ultimate meaning is expressed through Aesthetic Emotion – the encounters of thought and feeling that harmonise what we know with what we feel. With this idea in mind, a short film need only illustrate a central premise that allows the audience to go on a journey of self-discovery for meaning.

I suppose from here, I aim to explore my initial stimulus of “Two Lovers. Violence. A Better Life,” by using Stanislavsky’s “Magic if…” According to McKee, asking myself hypothetical questions will contribute to the growth of the story that me, alongside my group members, are trying to create.

From this, I take that master storyteller’s never justify their work since films are not meant to be read as concrete reality – they are dramatisations of the world we live in.

It is what it is.

When in the process of creating my final short film, I personally need to remember that my work needs to be an extension of my attitude, which is quite reminiscent of Sofia Coppola’s filmography, since she relishes in tapping into the certain moods of youth.

General questions/topics/ideas for the future –

• What is the filmmaker’s encompassing purpose?
• Is it (my final work) ‘complete?’
• What does my ‘mood board’ say about the way that I see the world?

Post 2: ‘The Alphabet,’ David Lynch (1968) 

In ‘The Journey of the Self,’ Rabiger introduces his piece by discussing that the source of stories should arise from the causes and effects in our own lives – a notion which is particularly true for David Lynch’s ‘The Alphabet’ (1968.) This partially animated experimental film was sparked by the niece of Lynch’s wife, who would regularly recite the alphabet in her sleep during nightmares. In a series of erratic and often disturbing quick shots, Lynch evokes a hellish mood, which, as stated in the above post, is precisely what a short film should be – an extension of the filmmaker’s emotions/experiences.

What I admire about Lynch is that he has a certain disregard for any clarity of meaning, rather, he takes the viewer on an investigative journey of their own perceptions, emotions and intuitions. Whilst watching ‘The Alphabet,’ it was difficult for me to not think of ‘Mulholland Drive’ (2001) and in turn, compare the progression of the two works. I remember watching Mulholland for the first time, turning my attention away from the film for five minutes then gazing back only to see that Naomi Watts had suddenly transformed from a wholesome country girl into a lesbian junkie.

I raise this point because that is the general feel that I received from ‘The Alphabet’ – one can not lose focus from Lynch’s pieces for even a moment without getting lost… not that employing your full attention will help you anyway.

This general sense of confusion that filmmakers imbed in their audiences is touched upon by Robert Drew in his article ‘Narration Can be a Killer.’ Drew determines that rationalising all film is in fact “anti-filmic and reductionist,” implying that a certain level of mystique is essential in the support of dramatic development.

A problem that I have regularly encountered in my pursuits of filmmaking have a lot to do with trying to explain too much, which follows a certain formulaic approach that I know I need to dismantle.

Post 3: ‘Small Deaths,’ Lynne Ramsay (1996) 

Coming from a background in theatre, I often find pleasure in writing wordy and rhythmic screenplays that are much like Patrick Marber’s script for ‘Closer,’ (2004.) Having however watched Ramsay’s ‘Small Deaths,’ I pledge to make a conscious effort to experiment with dialogue usage.

What made her piece so special was indeed the fact that her sound design was largely experimental, employing non-diegetic sound to add depth to moments of stillness. The sounds of laughter and joyous screams emanating from children innocently playing contrasted to the ugly realities of the protagonist’s low socio-economic surroundings, creating a general mood of nostalgia for a time that is long gone. Alternative to having ‘normal’ dialogue, Ramsay chose to play specific disjointed voiceovers at various volumes whilst montages played on screen in an attempt to evoke a sense of memory – we don’t remember things exactly as they happened but in pieces that we glue together in order to make sense. She manifests a time and space that is not a logical moment but nonetheless helps the audience to gather what they know about the world.

Moreover, Ramsay’s work can relate to the term Louis Delluc coined “Photogenie,” which describes any aspect of things, beings or souls whose moral character is enhanced by film production. As discussed in class, shots from ‘Small Deaths’ can often be reminiscent of paintings, proving that a single frame can expose fragments of the story that dialogue cannot or perhaps should not.

Post 4: ‘Two Cars, One Night,’ Taika Waititi (2005) 

Many of my favourite films take place over one evening, which is why I thoroughly enjoyed Waititi’s ‘Two Cars, One Night.’ I feel that especially with regards to the craft of short filmmaking, condensed narratives supply a sense of realness, allowing the film to read like an interesting episode in one’s life.

Waititi achieved what most filmmakers set out to do – turning an otherwise mundane moment in an individual’s life (e.g. waiting in a car) into something extraordinary and thought-provoking. For me personally, this was firstly so by way of the shots he employed. The montage of cuts pieced together of The Girl’s reflection in the rearview mirror painted a portrait of childish innocence meeting with the adult world. The somewhat seductive way her pillowy lips were framed, as well as her eyes, contrasted with the shots of her full face to represent the decent into ‘womanhood,’ which would have been occurring at her dear age of twelve. This was all the more highlighted with The Boy’s cheeky and quite humorous dialogue, proving a gap in age.

We have spoken a lot in class about short films being ‘complete,’ meaning that once the credits roll, one does not feel the need to see more or have the picture turned into a motion film. To reiterate again, it should be what it is. Waititi did not attempt to force miraculous coming of age moments into an eleven minute work, rather, he selected a single moment in time and dissected it, allowing us to draw upon our own meanings.

General ideas for the future –

• Make my final short film a one night occurence?
• Select a single event and dramatise it?