A park, an overpass, and a Pinteresque dialogue in a Melbourne suburb: a humorous failure of communication turns into a brief comedy of menace in this poetic short story by Dean Kyte.

—Look, you either have it or you don’t.  If you don’t have it, that’s O.K.  We can take it out in trade.

—In trade?  What trade?  I don’t have that either.

—You don’t have what?

—Anything to trade.  I told you; I haven’t got it.

—You haven’t got it.

—No, I haven’t got it.

—Well, it’s no big deal.  Spag is not unreasonable.  If you haven’t got it, you haven’t got it.  If it can’t be gotten one way, it can be gotten another.  We’ll take it out in trade.

—But I haven’t got a trade.

—Look, I think we’ve got a failure of communication here.  You say you haven’t got a trade.

—That’s right.  Can’t you give me more time?

—Look, we’ll come to that in a minute.  I just want to be sure we’ve got each other.  You say you haven’t got a trade.

—Yes, I haven’t got anything to trade.

—Right.  That’s where we’re not getting each other.  If you’ve got nothing to trade, we can’t get it from you.

—But if you give me more time; a week, say—

—Look, we’ll come to the time element in a minute.  Where we’re failing to get each other is on the trade issue.  Now look, Spag’s not an unreasonable fellow.  If you haven’t got it to give and we can’t get it from you, we can get it another way.  We’ll take it out in trade.

—But I don’t have a trade—

—You don’t have a trade, but I do.

He showed the other the pistol.

—You’re out of time.  Spag told me to get it from you.  You haven’t got it, so now I’m going to give it to you.

—Dean Kyte, “The Trade”

The Architecture of my secret planet

In The Life and Work of Harold Pinter (1996), theatre critic Michael Billington quotes G. K. Chesterton: ‘There is at the back of every artist’s mind, something like a pattern or type of architecture. It is a thing like the landscape of his dreams; the sort of world he would wish to make or in which he would wish to wander; the strange flora and fauna of his own secret planet.’

On The Melbourne Flâneur vlog, in the ‘flânography’ of my videos, films, and photographs, I have given you, chers lecteurs, more than intimate access to my ‘secret planet’. As a flâneurial writer and filmmaker, in my dreamy dérives around Melbourne, I’ve shown even those readers who know the city as well as I another side of it, hitherto unsuspected—a dark, bleak world of urban ruin.

It’s the sinister vision of ‘friendly menace’ featured in the “Melbournoir” spread of The Melbourne Flâneur zine; it’s equally the vision of absolute nihilism and despair which pervades the black-and-white photographs I’ve chosen to illustrate The Spleen of Melbourne CD.

You can get an intimate sense, therefore, of ‘the strange flora’ (for there is no fauna, nothing living in these post-diluvial liminal spaces) on my secret planet: as a flâneurial artist who finds his heaven in the hell of the city, I live in an arid, calciferous, petrified forest, a mental desert of shattered crystals, the standing stones of an urban wasteland.

Is the desert so very bad? It is no worse than our cultural deserts, which we call cities.

—C. G. Jung, Black Books, Vol. III, January 1914

The kind of world I would wish to make, or in which I would wish to flâneurially wander, is, as the dream-Melbourne of my videos, films and photographs gives ample evidence, an Eliotian Waste Land.

Like David Lynch, who claims to love factories and nude women about equally, as an artist working in words and images, two obsessions seem to cut across my writing and image-making in every medium: I love architecture, and I used to love, but now have a distinctly ambivalent relationship to women.

The flâneurial investigation of urban landscape as much as the interrogation of the shifting sands of women’s moods and appearances seem equally to have a hold on my psyche. In those mysteries, the calamity of our times appears most evident to me.

The video above is in the first category, and certainly “The Trade” will feature in the next iteration of The Spleen of Melbourne project, when it takes on its second incarnation as a collection of short videos and Super 8 films.

As my good friend—and a good friend of this vlog—Hermetrix once observed on our Bellingenian jaunt last year, architecture means a great deal to me. The subjects of my photographs, the ‘actors’ in my films and videos are buildings and bits of shabby urban architecture, like the florid pedestrian underpass in Watsonia North which provided me with a photogenic subject for what would become “The Trade”.

Tripping past this cavernous maw, with its three teeth and its concrete face totemically tattooed with graffiti, shortly after we were released from our epic second lockdown in 2020, the Aragonian frisson de photogénie was activated in me and I knew I had a videographic subject for a future entry in The Spleen of Melbourne project.

The affinity I have for architecture is obvious in my visual œuvre. What is less obvious is that ‘the first art-form’—(for the necessity to construct a formally functional shelter is even more fundamental to human beings than their ability to communicate with each other through language)—should be deeply linked to my writing.

The knot between them is Gordian and can’t be separated. You could cut out the obsession with women more easily from my literary œuvre than the love of architecture.

Track 11 of The Spleen of Melbourne CD, the ficción “Office at night”, which I discussed in my post on Edward Hopper’s flâneurial art, is entirely a ludic jeu de perspectives architecturales in which I play a game with the listener, setting them the puzzle, à la Robbe-Grillet, of determining where they are in space with respect to a ‘verbal blueprint’ of Block Court and its immediate environs.

In the material symbol of the concrete architectural form, therefore, I see the analogue in space for my own intellectual concetti.

In the grisly face of this unremarked coin of the Greensborough Bypass I perceived something which excited me, some symbolic structure of thought, some reef in my unconscious against which my intuition instinctively barked itself, recognizing another clue to the æsthetic mystery of life I am tracking and trailing through the streets of Melbourne, and which, some eighteen months later, would slowly resolve itself, as the waters gradually receded, into the ambiguous ‘image’ of the video and the dialogue of “The Trade”.

It follows “Office at night” as another development in the literary crime I am plotting. The Godot-like ‘Spag’ referred to in “The Trade” is actually a character in one of the ficciones on The Spleen of Melbourne CD, although I’ll leave it to you, chers lecteurs, to determine which one.

As a sub-project of The Spleen of Melbourne, while I delineate the lineaments of the literary mystery that is slowly being carved, as an architecture of thought, out of the fog of my unconscious, when I find myself in a vicolo cieco of that imaginary Melbourne which maps to the actual one of my flâneuristic experience, I find it a useful activity to occasionally write a ficción exploring some aspect of the labyrinthine intellectual architecture I am groping my way blindly through.

And in “The Trade”, I was interested in exploring the voices of two characters who have lately come to extrude themselves, buttress-like, from the stony mass of Melburnian mystery as salient excroissances in that abstract cathedral of my thought—and at least one of whom is speaking in the short story. I was interested in learning how these characters speak, and my intuition (which is my only guide in mapping out this postmodern mystery of contemporary Melbourne life I will set before your ears in due course) eventually told me that there was a ‘Pinteresque’ quality to their speech—one that was, ambiguously, both humorous and menacing at the same time.

Pinteresque, adj. (and n.): Of or relating to Harold Pinter; resembling or characteristic of his plays….

Pinter’s plays are typically characterized by implications of threat and strong feeling produced through colloquial language, apparent triviality, and long pauses.

—Oxford English Dictionary

And a shout-out to another good friend of The Melbourne Flâneur vlog, Mr. Glen Available of Scenic Writers Shack in Brisbane, who, upon listening to the soundtrack of the video on Bandcamp, was kind enough to drop me a line and say that it both intrigued him and gave him a few chuckles. This was unexpected feedback gratefully received;—for although I thought I had probably got the atmosphere of ambiguity and menace I saw in the image of the underpass right, I wasn’t so sure about the humour.

The fact is, although your Melbourne Flâneur has a sense of humour, chers lecteurs, I don’t think I’m a ‘funny person’. With my saturnine nature, I’m quite dour. I live on the dark side of life. I’m exceedingly comfortable with ambiguity, obscurity, veiled threat. In the puzzling dark, I see the rending horrors of our time vaguely sketched.

I’ve since read the dialogue of “The Trade” at the Alternatives Bookshop in Bellingen, with the public health warning attached that I’m not at all certain, despite Mr. Glen’s good will, that the piece is ‘funny’. It did, however, gouge ‘a few chuckles’ out of the audience, and if there’s any humour at all in the ficción, it’s a kind of ‘technical’, poetic humour that relies on the constant emphasis and rhythmic repetition of a few simple words—‘give’, ‘got’, and, of course, ‘trade’, the ambiguous double meaning of which, as both verb and noun, supplies whatever ‘punchline’ there is.

I think I was perhaps influenced by Mr. Pinter’s short revue sketches, written in 1959, when the exotic name of ‘Pinter’ was first sending a frisson of apprehension through the British theatrical establishment. This was the year before Messrs. Bennett, Cook, Miller and Moore revolutionized British comedy with Beyond the Fringe, and as Mr. Billington tells us in his biographical study of the Pinter vie et œuvre:

Revue, in those pre-Beyond the Fringe days, tended to come in two sorts: the glitzy kind, which invariably seemed to feature an Apache dance outside some ill-lit Parisian boîte, and the more intimate variety specialising in inbred, sophisticated camp. But the form was subtly changing under the influence of writers like Peter Cook … and was leaning towards cryptic studies of the irrationality and inconsequentiality of human behaviour. Indeed, Cook … and Pinter … have always struck me … as artistic blood brothers.

What is striking about Pinter’s revue-sketches is the way they examine the same kinds of themes as his plays: the strangeness and solitude of the human animal, the subjectivity of memory, the use of language as a weapon of domination or a means of maintaining contact…. As he himself told The Times in November 1959:

In both [revue-sketches and plays] I am primarily interested in people… In many British plays I find myself put off by the spectre of the author looming above his characters, telling them [the audience] at every stage just what they are to think about them. I want as far as possible to leave comment to the audience; let them decide whether the characters and situations are funny or sad.

—Michael Billington, The Life and Work of Harold Pinter, p. 107

I agree with this intention, for certainly with “The Trade”, I was not seeking to write anything that was either funny or threatening. I was just trying to get an amiable conversation down, the most banal and unenlightening conversation possible, the kind of unilluminating snippet of conversation you might catch a snatch of walking through a suburban underpass. It would be up to the viewers to decide what they made of it, since I had no more information about the characters than that both of them are well-acquainted with the mythical Spag.

In that technical focus on the ‘mechanics of language’, how the ‘machine’ of a dialogue moves, with the escalating, accented repetition of key words acting like cogs and gears to advance a very simple, vestigial plot, I might have been thinking of Mr. Pinter’s sketch “Trouble in the Works”. As a parody of technical language, with its highly suggestive names for obscure machine parts, it escalates to a pitch of hilarity ending in a single word with a punning double sense. And in its overtly comic intent, of all Mr. Pinter’s revue sketches, “Trouble in the Works” is probably the most in-line with traditional English music-hall comedy pre-Beyond the Fringe.

The music of language and silence

But more characteristic of his style (and more interesting to me as a writer who takes a rather grim view of life) are short duets like “The Black and White” and “Last to Go”, which are not really ‘funny’ as such, but rather ‘wry’, and even melancholy. We know from the report of Mr. Pinter’s friends and girlfriends that he was great flâneur of London in his youth, that he loved ‘the caffs’, like the Black and White Milk Bar in Fleet Street, that he felt a great affinity for tramps and other gentlemen of the street, and in a way that is sui generis to Mr. Pinter as one of the foremost comic playwrights in modern English, these short, poetic sketches of la vie londonienne scribbled in muted tones possess a kind of dry, wry humour which is derived from two characters sadly singing a duet in the music of language and silence.

Sir Jeremy Isaacs: There’s words and there’s silence between words.

[Pause]

Harold Pinter: Yes.

Mr. Isaacs: And is there silence within the words?

[Long pause]

Mr. Pinter: Oh yes, I think so; I think that… there’s a silence… beneath the words very, very often. In other words, our words—it seems to me—quite often… hide… are actually… performing a rôle, a function, which is to… hide or tarnish, or to tarnish upon the silence that exists. I mean this silence, I’d like to be more precise about what I mean by that word silence in this particular connection, which is … I understand, a silence of fear, a fear of being known, a fear of knowledge, really. Fear of not only being known, but of knowing other people; that fear of intimacy.

Mr. Isaacs: And we use words to protect ourselves from that—

Mr. Pinter: —To cover it—to protect ourselves; yes, that’s the word I was actually looking for. To protect ourselves, yes.

Face to Face: “Harold Pinter”, 21 January, 1997

And as you can see in this Pinterish transcription of the grilling he underwent on the BBC’s Face to Face program, that ‘music of language and silence’ I’m referring to was not a literary affectation on Mr. Pinter’s part designed to confound and infuriate critics, or to bore and bamboozle audiences, but an eminent characteristic of his own speech patterns, full of smug evasion, groping hesitation towards the truth, awkward constructions of sentences and clumsy, colloquial Anglicisms.

Unique among English writers, he had an ear, as has been tirelessly reiterated, for ‘the way people talk’—the way they really talk; which is to say, how they say nothing.

As Mr. Pinter said in “Writing for the Theatre”, his famous address to the National Student Drama Festival in Bristol in 1962, ‘It is in the silence—[the place where the characters are silent and in hiding]—that they are most evident to me,’ and he went to make the distinction between two kinds of silence:—‘[o]ne when no word is spoken’, and the other ‘when perhaps a torrent of language is being employed’ to tarnish upon this void.

It is the chief characteristic of Modernism to find the Void in all the art-forms—the blankness in painting, the silence in music, the emptiness in architecture, the invisibility in photography, the stillness in cinema. Where that Void is, God is absent, and the modern artist in the West seeks to raise the alarm to his fellows, to point, to gesture towards the God-shaped hole, to scream out in halting, garbled tongues and alert the masses that we have murdered our Highest Value—the Source of all our values—and are dancing, revelling in His blood.

In the theatre, Mr. Pinter found the silence between the words spoken by human beings confronted with this implacable and terrifying Void; the silence within the very words we speak to tarnish over the Abyss; the silence beneath that very sound and fury signifying Nothing.

The celebrated ‘Pinter pause’, that unnerving ventilation of his plays, that silence and stasis between the lines spoken the actors, is itself actually a crucial line of dialogue, the hiding place where, for Mr. Pinter, human beings are most evident, most naked in their fear.

It was for this reason that he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2005;—for his revolutionary apprehension that silence itself is a major term in the English language—as in all human language—that we, as writers, the scientists and explorers of human speech, are yet to come adequately to grips with and incorporate into our literary lexicon; for his experiments on the stage in ‘uncover[ing] the precipice under everyday prattle’, and his penetrating investigations, ‘forc[ing] entry into oppression’s closed rooms’.

Mr. Pinter’s utterly unique, therefore, among comic writers, whether for the theatre or more generally in English letters, in that there is nothing ‘comedic’ in his lines—nor, for that matter, is there anything ‘menacing’ in them, despite his early and lasting reputation as the writer of ‘comedies of menace’.

The Pinter line, broken, clichéd, grossly banal, both pregnant with meaning and utterly devoid of it, simply is as everyday English speech is. And into this void of ambiguity, in the face of this uncomfortable confrontation with the fractured poetry of our own tongue, we are forced to bark out a nervous laugh and let off a shiver simultaneously as we recognize our own tics and foibles and foolish verbal strategies in singing over this gulf of silence that separates us from the person in the next seat.

The desire for verification on the part of all of us, with regard to our own experience and the experience of others, is understandable but cannot always be satisfied. I suggest there can be no hard distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false. A thing is not necessarily true or false; it can be both true and false. A character on the stage who can present no convincing argument or information as to his past experience, his present behaviour or his aspirations, nor give a comprehensive analysis of his motives is as legitimate and as worthy of attention as one who, alarmingly, can do all these things. The more acute the experience the less articulate its expression.

—Harold Pinter, “Writing for the Theatre”, Plays One, p. 11

The literary architecture of Sleuth

The rôle of architecture, and its relevance to literature, is pertinent here. As a thoroughgoing homme du théâtre, the most influential actor-dramatist in English letters since William Shakespeare, architecture, both concrete and abstract, is as relevant, I will contend, to Mr. Pinter’s art as it is to mine.

The architecture of a stage as the setting for a drama; the architecture of a room, that battlefield of verbal violence, power and domination in his comedies of menace; and the asymmetric, pyramidal architecture of power itself as manifested in domestic space: this is, to revert to Mr. Chesterton, ‘the pattern or type of architecture’ on Mr. Pinter’s secret planet, ‘the landscape of his dreams; the sort of world he would wish to make or in which he would wish to wander….’ And as Mr. Billington goes on to say:

That makes it sound romantic-idealist, but Pinter’s own secret planet turned out to be a cratered paradise destroyed by the serpent of sexuality and the desire for domination.

—Billington (1996, p. 26)

He neatly summarizes for us the key motifs of the Pinter world we find time and again repeated in his plays and screenplays—‘a room, a space, a territorial battle, a triangular encounter between two men and a woman, a reversal of power.’

That summary not only sets the stage, but it tells us in one sentence the entire plot of almost every Pinter play and screenplay. And curiously, it’s the motif, startlingly present and clearly delineated, as Mr. Billington tells us, in Mr. Pinter’s first surviving piece, written in 1949, when he just nineteen, and his last script, for the film Sleuth (2007), nearly sixty years later. It shows how much his work was of a piece.

But despite the award of the Nobel Prize two years before the release of Sleuth, I suspect that by 2007 Mr. Pinter had become somewhat of a ‘fabled figure’, one of those writers of the 1960’s, like his contemporary M. Robbe-Grillet, whose truly revolutionary impact on literature and film had been so thoroughly absorbed and digested by the popular culture that subsequent generations, X-ers and Millennials, could no longer truly appreciate how unique and original literary stylist he was, and what a gift it was to have this final film, written virtually on his deathbed, from the hand of one of the great writers of the previous century in our own.

Given that it recapitulates in a postmodern form the lifelong themes, motifs, concerns and abstract architecture of one of the landmark dramatists of high, literary modernism, Sleuth seems to me an elegant demonstration as much as it is a culmination and a summation of Pinter, the man and his world.

Anthony Shaffer’s play Sleuth (1970) is, without putting it pejoratively, the absolute opposite of Mr. Pinter’s theatre. It’s theatre as spectacle, an absolutely first-rate entertainment, as is the 1972 film adaptation written by Mr. Shaffer himself and directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz.

And with respect to the two film versions of Sleuth, I don’t think the usual criticism about the original being better than the remake obtains in this instance: the original Sleuth is an absolutely first-rate entertainment, but the remake, directed by Sir Kenneth Branagh, transcends the original material and improves considerably upon it.

This is largely thanks to Mr. Pinter’s script, which shears away ‘the fat’ of theatrical spectacle, the convolutions of the plot which give Sleuth I its scopic pleasures as both play and movie. Sleuth II is slightly more half the length of the original, and at less than eighty minutes, is considerably shorter than most movies made even in 2007, when the taste for bloated two-and-a-half-hour spectacles had not yet quite taken hold of commercial cinema.

As we will see further on in this section, this ‘stripping away’ of the commercial ‘fat’ of theatrical spectacle to reveal the lean essence of human drama is eminently characteristic of Mr. Pinter’s approach to screen adaptation and central to his conception of the ‘architecture’ of a piece, both abstractly, as a written blueprint on a page, and concretely, as enacted theatre.

In spite of Mr. Branagh’s bristlingly cinematic treatment of the Pinter script, Sleuth II is even more of a ‘play’ than the original Shaffer script; which is to say that Sleuth I is a theatrical entertainment, while Sleuth II is theatre: it is Art.

As a point of comparison, note the architecture in Sleuth I. The baronial estate belonging to mystery writer Andrew Wyke (Sir Laurence Olivier) is a space of intrigue reflective of the man: we—and Sir Michael Caine’s Milo Tindle—discover Wyke dictating his latest locked-room mystery in the cosy midst of a labyrinth beside his mock-Gothic pile.

The space of his Wiltshire manor (designed by the great Ken Adam, so we know this ‘bad interior design’ is no mistake) is ‘busy’ with gewgaws, automata, and all manner of mechanical gadgets and games. This overwhelming and unsettling baroque encombrement of the frame is but itself a busy frame for the similarly baroque performance of Lord Olivier. As Mr. Caine said of his performance, Lord Olivier plays Wyke as a ‘dangerous English eccentric’: his mania for games and puzzles, theatre and play-acting sets us immediately at a remove. Consummate stage actor that he is, we ‘enjoy’ Lord Olivier’s performance, and thus the piece as theatrical spectacle.

Even the film’s title sequence, zooming in on a diorama, alludes to its origins on the stage as a ‘play’, a game of counterfeit appearances into which we, the audience, willingly enter, and self-consciously sets up a mise en abyme effect: house, hedge-maze, game, puzzle—all elaborate visual metaphors for a nested, ludic text, a casse-tête of multiple layers, like sliding panels, the pleasure of which, for the viewer, resides in rearranging the overlapping surfaces of recursive lies until they lock into place and this rebus forms ‘the picture’ of what is really going on—the ‘truth’, the ‘solution’ to Sleuth’s game of theatrical Cluedo.

This is why I say that Mr. Shaffer’s original conception of Sleuth is an absolutely first-rate ‘entertainment’. We are not plunged too deeply into the eccentric nightmare Milo finds himself in as he must navigate and extricate himself from the labyrinthine toils of Wyke’s dangerous game, but remain at a remove, entertained and not involved.

We know, since the detective story is a genre of fiction whose commercial value, as entertainment, is strictly linked to technocratic capitalism’s assumption of a rational symbolic order, that there must be a rational ‘solution’ to Wyke’s apparently irrational game, and only rationality can get Tindle out of his predicament.

These are the capitalistic assumptions of crime as a genre of commercial entertainment, and the concrete architecture of Sleuth I reflects a rational order beneath the surface disorder of apparent ‘busyness’, a belief that the foundations of reality are as firm as an English country house, the lineaments of which can be eventually divined beneath the ivy-covered walls.

Compare this architectural vision to Mr. Pinter’s in Sleuth II. I’ve already quoted Mr. Pinter’s famous credo given at Bristol, that he believes ‘there can be no hard distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false’, and that, moreover, a thing ‘can be both true and false.’

This radical scepticism about reality, apart from being another key feature of modernism in art, is incompatible with the capitalistic assumptions of the commercial crime genre. Mr. Pinter, in his early comedies of menace, as in his end-of-life adaptation of Sleuth, is writing what I call ‘literary crime’: As an artist, as a researcher who is earnestly investigating, through the medium of written words, our modern confrontation with an existential Void that lies beneath our language, Mr. Pinter is not possessed of any received assumptions, any commercial certainties about a ‘solution’ to our global problems, about what is real and what is unreal, about what is true or what is false.

In that world of ambiguity and radical scepticism which is Mr. Pinter’s secret planet, the concrete and the abstract architecture of his interpretation of the Sleuth plot strips away the baroque busyness of Mr. Shaffer’s play to its essence: ‘a game with a knife and a gun’, a contest, a competition between two men, a naked power play between Andrew Wyke (now played by Michael Caine, graduating to the Olivier rôle) and Milo Tindle (now played by Jude Law).

Michelangelo, great sculptor, but equally a great architect, said that sculpture (which I would contend is directly derivative of architecture) is unique among the art-forms in that is an art of subtraction rather than addition: the sculptor reveals the form within the stone by taking away.

Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto
c’un marmo solo in sé non circonscriva
col suo superchio, e solo a quello arriva
la man che ubbidisce all’intelletto.

The greatest artist hath not any idea
Which the rude block, circumscribed by its excess,
Does not first contain in itself; to free the captive
Is all the hand which obeys the intellect can do.

—Michelangelo Buonarroti, “Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto” (my translation)

Compare this to Pauline Kael’s remark that, in contradistinction to most screenwriters, who add (often infuriatingly) what is not there to the material they adapt, ‘Pinter’s art is the art of taking away.’ Dirk Bogarde, who had the benefit of interpreting two Pinter scripts for the screen, The Servant (1963) and Accident (1967), co-signs Ms. Kael’s statement, saying that ‘addition was a very rare event because you just don’t find writers of his calibre in cinema.’

There’s a reason why we call artists like Mr. Pinter ‘playwrights’ in English rather than ‘playwriters’: like a shipwright, or a naval architect, he maps and constructs a form—abstract in his case—that must, despite its great ventilation and airiness, nevertheless be solid and serviceable, that must ‘float’ when given to a crew of actors and their captain, the director.

With Mr. Pinter, the written form, the wrighted form, must be ‘right’.

Mr. Pinter finds the sculptural, the essential architectural form beneath and within Mr. Shaffer’s busy, baroque script, and the coincidence of it is that, when you strip out all the commercial set decoration, the wheezing, steam-driven mechanics of mystery and suspense, the hard, naked architectural ‘form’ of the Sleuth plot maps precisely to the one artistic apprehension Mr. Pinter has about life, the one thing in the whole calamitous mystery of the modern world he’s absolutely sure about and can write with authority on—the concrete architecture of dramatic space, and its relationship to the abstract architecture of power.

The Sleuth plot is, au fond, about two men standing before us, naked in their humanity, and locked in a gladiatorial duel to the death.

The minimalist approach to mise-en-scène in Sleuth II not only reflects the architecture of Mr. Pinter’s writing, his ‘ventilated style’, but a different conception of ‘the game’ and game-playing, which is also architecturally structured by ‘rules of combat’, as the central conceit of the plot. Whereas Mr. Shaffer favours a labyrinthine thriller, ‘full of twists and turns’, Mr. Pinter strips the game back to a primitive struggle for power, a hierarchical ‘game of positions’.

Games people play

Detective Inspector Black: So what did you two do when you got together?

[Pause]

Wyke: We played a game.

Black: A game…

Wyke: A game with a knife and a gun.

Black: A lethal game?

Wyke: No. Just a bit of fun, that’s all.

—Harold Pinter, Sleuth

Games, as rules-based architectures modelling social relations, figure very significantly in the Pinter œuvre, which is not surprising given that this poet and playwright was also a fanatical cricketer and, by all accounts, an extremely competitive sportsman. Mr. Billington detects a deep link between dangerous masculine competitions and the sacredness of male friendship chez Pinter.

The vector of connection, as Davood Gozli observes in his Transactional Analysis of Sleuth II, is obviously homoerotic, but we should be careful about stopping here. To say that Mr. Pinter, with his stripping away of architectural excess, raises to the surface a subterranean homosexuality which is implicit in the Wyke/Tindle rapport of Mr. Shaffer’s plot, that their relationship in Sleuth II is simply the adventitious manifestation of a latent sexual deviance the two men discover in each other is, as I will show further on, too superficial an analysis, and fails to adequately describe the truly depraved nature of the game that Wyke and Tindle are playing in its deepest, and final, iteration.

The potentially lethal ‘game of positions’ between two men who are simultaneously perverse friends and deadly rivals has its most archetypal and architectural expression as a dramatic and cinematic image in Mr. Pinter’s first film, The Servant. I’m talking about the famous scene on the staircase in the ‘chic’ but claustrophobic London flat belonging to Tony (James Fox), where he and his manservant Barrett (Dirk Bogarde) viciously peg a tennis ball up- and down-stairs at each other.

There are evidently rules to this obscure game and an object to it, though I cannot, for the life of me, work out what the object is. Are they trying to defend the two bibelots set in niches at either end of the staircase? Then too, there is clearly a ‘strategy’ to the game that reveals its atavistic nature as an archetypal (as well as architectonic) ‘game of positions’, as evidenced by the servant Barrett’s complaint that the advantage lies with the master, Tony, for he himself is ‘in the inferior position of playing uphill.’

This archetypal image from The Servant literalizes the hierarchical game of positioning for dominance that is the chief architectural pattern of social relations on Mr. Pinter’s secret planet. The ball, an inoffensive symbol of co-operative play, is literally weaponized as an injurious projectile. And where we have weapons, we have crime.

The situation of our time
Surrounds us like a baffling crime.

...

Yet our equipment all the time
Extends the area of the crime
Until the guilt is everywhere.


—W. H. Auden, “New Year’s Letter (January 1, 1940)”

On Mr. Pinter’s secret planet, there is no solution: only the crime remains.

This is the distinction between what I am calling ‘literary crime’ and crime fiction as a commercial genre of entertainment. For the serious artist who is necessarily a researcher into ‘the situation of our time’, as Mr. Pinter is, there can be no comforting, rational ‘solutions’ to the existential problems of modernity, as technocratic capitalism assumes, but merely the acknowledgment that ‘our equipment’—the technological equipment of modernity—is the very weaponry we have used to commit our ‘Original Sin’ as Faustian men:—the murder of our God with the golden calf of Science, the murder of our Highest Value, and the Source of all our values.

The modern equipment of technocratic capitalism, the exponentially smarter shovels we iteratively design to dig ourselves out of the mess we are in, spreading the crotte even further afield, is the Cluedo arsenal of ‘smartknives’ and ‘iGuns’ which implicates us all in a game of mutually assured destruction.

Banished from the architecture of Mr. Pinter’s Sleuth is the mechanical gadgetry whose complicated and occult workings are concrete metaphors for the meshes of Wyke’s intellectual game in Sleuth I. With a kind of ‘Lord of the Flies’-style atavism, Mr. Pinter strips out the machinery of the commercial crime entertainment to its most fundamental ‘equipment’—a simple knife and gun, the primitive fulcrums by which men leverage elemental power over each other.

Behind the façade of the eighteenth-century villa in which Mr. Caine’s Wyke resides, we—and Mr. Law’s Tindle—are confronted with an eminently gladiatorial space: an über-masculine, über-brutalist concrete cube that resembles an art gallery or a stage set, a place for ‘performance art’.

Both characters claim that the house has been designed by Wyke’s wife, Maggie, the ostensible object of their contest, but it hasn’t a feminine touch at all: even the absurd and uncomfortable chairs don’t match.

Wyke: Like the house?

Tindle: Extraordinary!

Wyke: You know who designed it, who the ‘interior decorator’ was?

Tindle: Yes; your wife.

Wyke: You knew?

Tindle: Yes, I knew.

—Harold Pinter, Sleuth

If, indeed, this arena has has been architecturally designed by a woman, it’s is a Spartan space designed for men: it’s a boxing ring, a field of battle in which Wyke and Tindle are going to verbally beat each other to a pulp for possession of Maggie, the third term in their triangular territorial contest, and who, despite never being seen, can still be regarded as an active competitor in this game of mutual attrition.

At a meta-level, the game between Wyke and Tindle is an example of what Eric Berne, in his famous bestseller Games People Play (1964), terms a ‘Sexual Game’. More specifically, it’s a game he calls “Let’s You and Him Fight”, in a which a feminine player engineers a duel between two masculine players for sexual possession of her.

As Rick Baer says in his video essay comparing the two Sleuths, the design of the house in Mr. Pinter’s ruggedly skeletal and architectonic version of the script is not merely ‘uncomfortable’, but ‘downright hostile’. It’s not a home at all, but a ludic space that has been deliberately designed to unsettle, to arouse and agitate two men to an outcome, rather than to relax and soothe them. Neither the audience nor Milo are ever at ease in the place, and Wyke’s uncanny ability to remain unflappably comfortable and in charge of his abode—which, as Mr. Baer says, ‘seems to telepathically understand Wyke and do his bidding’—suggests a spider in its web, capable of making its home in the most precarious places and circumstances.

Analysing Mr. Pinter’s take on the Sleuth plot through Dr. Berne’s lens of psychological games, I’ve detected at least seven distinct phases to the ‘meta-game’ played by Wyke and Tindle across the two acts of the film:

Act I
  1. English Gentleman: a game of verbal badminton
  2. Caper 1: Robbers
  3. The Real Game: humiliation (emasculation) through masculine force.
Act II
  1. Caper 2: Cops
  2. Caper 3: Robbers
  3. Reprise of English Gentleman
  4. The Real Game: humiliation (emasculation) through feminine seduction.

As you can see, I’ve identified at least three distinct psychological games in operation in Sleuth II, each of which is played at least twice. When all three games are cycled through so that both Wyke and Tindle have had an opportunity to assume the ‘superior position’ over each other, we have the ‘meta-game’ that is Sleuth II.

Playing at ‘being English Gentlemen’

The game I’m calling “English Gentleman” is the fundamental Pinter game, and one which we encounter at some point in almost every play and script. “English Gentleman” is not a ‘gendered’ game: it can be played by two men, or by a man and a woman. I don’t know of an instance in Mr. Pinter’s œuvre where it’s played by two women. Gender is not salient to the game; I merely use the word ‘gentleman’ to qualify the archetypal nature of ‘Englishness’ I’m perceiving in Wyke’s and Tindle’s initial interaction, the pattern of which, on reflection, I see repeated in the architecture of all Mr. Pinter’s plays and films.

In their first meeting on the steps of Wyke’s house, Andrew draws attention to the size of both his and Tindle’s cars. You might say that “English Gentleman” is a game of ‘Mine is Bigger Than Yours’, only in reverse:—the object of being a true ‘English Gentleman’ is to deprecate oneself, to minimize oneself, to make oneself appear more modest, more polite, more civil, more civilized than one’s opponent—to make him appear to be the ‘bigger’, more gauche, more vulgar man.

This is the nature of the game that Wyke and Tindle enter into for the first quarter of an hour, the first half of Act I. “English Gentleman” is a game of passive-aggressive politeness—a parody, in effect, of what it is to be both ‘English’ and a ‘gentleman’. And if there is any ‘comedy’ at all in Mr. Pinter’s comedies of menace, it lies precisely in these games of “English Gentleman”, where characters pass a veil of insincere colloquial Anglicism over a verbal badminton match where they are batting poisoned darts at each other.

It’s obviously a class-based game, but we have to remember where Mr. Pinter ‘comes from’—temporally speaking: He’s a playwright who emerges in the late 1950’s and comes to dominate the British theatre in the early 1960’s, a period when the structural integrity of the British class system was being deeply challenged—not least by the voice and ear of this Cockney son of a Jewish tailor.

There is, therefore, in the game of “English Gentleman” a pretence of equality, of egalitarianism, the nervous sense, post-Suez, that if the sun is setting on the Empire at a rapid clip, then at least ‘we are all English together’, all united by a culture and a language that, in its irregular verbiage and often perverse idiomatic expressions, can at least keep the foreigners ‘out’.

That is really what it means to play the game of “English Gentleman” chez Pinter: In a British society where aristocracy is suddenly devalued, to be ‘English’ is suddenly to be part of a ‘common aristocracy’—the common patrimony of culture and language. And the English language being notoriously difficult to master, we see how, for a singular playwright like Mr. Pinter, that ‘musician of language and silence’, the arcane formulæ of colloquial English, that glossary of clumsy Anglicisms which suddenly ring tinny to his extraordinary ear, becomes as hermetic and exclusionary as jargon or terms of art.

Are you in or are you out? Can you mouth the coded platitudes of an English gentleman? Which is to say, given the embarrassing situation in which Wyke and Tindle find themselves in at the beginning of the Sleuth plot, can both men pretend not to notice the awkwardness of sharing a woman and wear the mask of vacuous English civility with each other to the hilt—a mask that becomes eminently Pinterian when the torrential silence of English colloquialism is poured over the Void between them? And more to the point, in this verbal badminton match, can either Wyke or Tindle play the game of passive-aggressive politeness so well that is the other is rattled into an unforced error?

Wyke: I understand you’re fucking my wife.

Tindle: That’s right.

Wyke: Right. Yes, right. So we’ve cleared that up?

Tindle: We have.

Wyke: I thought you might have denied it.

Tindle: Why would I deny it?

Wyke: Well, she is my wife.

Tindle: Yes, but she’s fucking me—

Wyke: Oh, she’s fucking you too, huh? Well, I’ll be buggered! [Guffaws, coquettishly half-covers his mouth.] Sorry.

Tindle: Yes, it’s mutual.

Wyke: You take turns.

Tindle: We fuck each other, that’s what people do.

Wyke [shortly]: Yeh, yeh… I follow.

—Harold Pinter, Sleuth

One can say, not unfairly to Mr. Pinter, that the quintessentially ‘English’ dialogue of Sleuth II, this game of “English Gentleman” is a little dated. That’s not a criticism; it’s what gives the film its charm. For the last time, we’re hearing the brittle, brutal dialogue that made Mr. Pinter such a revolutionary force in the sixties.

The British class system having effectively collapsed, and incivility having taken over public discourse in our century, people ‘don’t talk like that any more’:—they haven’t the ‘class’ to wear a mask of civility over their emotions the way ‘English gentlemen’ of the old, Pinterian school, like Wyke and Tindle, do.

The object of the game is to get the other man’s mask of politeness to slip, to get him to acknowledge, through an unforced error, the outrageousness of the situation—sitting across the table from the man who is (as Inspector Black will later put it) giving your wife ‘a good going-over’ and making amiable, drawing-room chit-chat with him. And as the dialogue above shows, the advantage goes, initially, to Milo: as the present possessor of Maggie, he is playing ‘in the superior position’.

But I said above that “English Gentleman” is, chez Pinter, a necessarily exclusionary game, one designed to ‘keep out’ the foreigner, the one who is ‘passing’ for an English gentleman in this radically democratized society rendered ambiguous by a putative ‘equality’.

In Sleuth I, Mr. Shaffer makes much of class, and of Milo Tindle’s dubious background. In the original conception of the Sleuth plot, Milo is a hairdresser, the owner of two salons, and the son of a poor Italian watchmaker, a certain Tindolini. In Sleuth II, Mr. Pinter jettisons much of this obvious social commentary, but what he retains is telling about how he conceptualizes the game between the two men.

In Sleuth II, Mr. Law’s Tindle is now an actor, mostly out of work, a specialist in killers and sex maniacs. He’s still got the Italian papà sullo sfondo, though Wyke, in a typical Pinter manœuvre, ignores this information and high-handedly attempts to tell him that his father might actually be Hungarian.

More pointedly, in an even more aggressive version of this gambit of calculated rudeness, it is Wyke who brings up what vestigially remains of the ‘hairdresser’ backstory and tells Tindle that he ‘thought Maggie said that you were a hairdresser.’

It is a customary gambit in Mr. Pinter’s plays for a character to take some piece of information which is flatly denied or contradicted by another character into his head and never let it go, stubbornly insisting on this self-invented falsehood or deliberate misunderstanding as a point of fact.

This is the essence of the game of “English Gentleman” which Mick, for instance, insists on playing with Davies in Mr. Pinter’s most famous play, The Caretaker (1960), refusing to believe that this scurrilous tramp isn’t ‘an experienced first-class professional interior and exterior decorator’, despite having made this elaborate ruse up out of his own head in order to trap Davies and evict him from his house.

In Sleuth II, the factitious fact of Tindle being an ‘Italian hairdresser’ becomes a running gag throughout the piece. In attributing the misapprehension to Maggie, Wyke places a veneer of plausible deniability on what is frankly a ruse to embarrass Milo and put him at a positional disadvantage.

The point of the gambit is that if Wyke can get Tindle to inhabit his frame, getting him to admit the validity of Wyke’s invented falsehood that Milo’s father is actually Hungarian, that he’s not English at all but really Italian, or that he’s not an actor but in fact a hairdresser, then he gains the superior position over him by dictating to his opponent the identity he has invented for this (as Wyke sees it) pathetic interloper in his house and his marital bed, and thus disposing of Tindle as a challenge to his masculinity.

These latter two intersections of identity—nationality and occupation—become particularly weaponized as fulcrums of power: To be ‘Italian’ (a ‘funny lot’, according to Wyke, who don’t go in much for ‘culture’) is to be distinctly ‘un-English’, and to be (of all things) a ‘hairdresser’ is to be distinctly ‘not a gentleman’. Worst of all is to be both Italian and a hairdresser, for, in the mordantly dubious construction Wyke places on these two things together, is to be, in the game of coded language that is “English Gentleman”, una specie di culattone.

And the Cockney Caine/Wyke of Sleuth II is not, I think, sans raison in pressing with leaden-footed heaviness on the triggering peddle of Law/Tindle’s dubious ‘passing’ as an English gentleman. I said above that the kind sub-Coward subversion of drawing-room comedy dialogue with which Mr. Pinter first came to the stage is ‘just not done anymore, old boy’; that young Brits of today just don’t talk like that.

For all the heaviness of his Cockney accent, Mr. Caine is more convincing as an English gentleman of the old school than Mr. Law, but that disconcerting ‘falsity’ of Mr. Pinter’s version of Tindle as being a product of the public school system, and thus on terms of equality with Wyke in that ‘easy grace’, the affected sprezzatura with which both men approach an embarrassing personal matter, is rendered with a beautifully studied ‘foreignness’ in Mr. Law’s interpretation of the rôle.

As a Gen-X’er, Jude Law is really too young to be well-acquainted, as Mr. Caine is, with the ambiguous codes of English speech in the collapsing class system that Mr. Pinter made his special field of research during the 1950’s and ’60’s. When Mr. Law’s Tindle, therefore, attempts to speak like a creature of the drawing room, those clumsy Anglicisms, those elaborate colloquial forms for saying nothing at all which ring so tinny to the ear when rendered by Mr. Pinter, sound actually as though they are being spoken by a foreigner.

When Mr. Law’s Tindle suggests that he and Wyke ‘get down to “brass tacks”’; when he greets Wyke’s criminal proposition with the ultimate in English clichés, that he is ‘all ears’; or, most especially, when he calls the older man ‘old boy’, he speaks almost as I write, with such dripping sarcasm and such bitter satire that neither Jamesian quotation marks nor Flaubertian italicization are enough in themselves to frame and underscore the freezing irony with which he is employing these empty bourgeois terms of polite art.

He speaks the colloquial English of the game of “English Gentleman” like a foreigner, an outsider, uno straniero to the environment of the drawing room—like an Italian, in fine, aping English manners and mores.

Wyke: … I’ve never heard of an Italian called Tindle.

Tindle [sotto voce]: My father’s name is Tindolini.

Wyke [bitterly]: Now that’s lovely. That’s like a little bell. Why don’t you go back to Tindolini? It suits you.

Tindle: You think so?

Wyke: Yes. So if and when you marry Maggie, she’ll be ‘Maggie… Tindolini’. She’ll get a kick out of that.

[Pause]

Wyke: What name do you act under, Tindle or Tindolini?

Tindle: Tindle.

Wyke: Why have I never heard of you—?

Tindle [quietly]: You will, before long.

Wyke: Really?

Tindle [quietly]: In spades.

Wyke: That sounds threatening—

Tindle: Does it—?

Wyke: Doesn’t it?

—Harold Pinter, Sleuth

The big store

The game I am calling “Caper” is really the only game that Mr. Pinter retains from the original plot of Sleuth. “Caper” is that ‘movement’ in both acts of the drama where the commercial mechanics of the crime entertainment are thrown into some vestigial and perfunctory operation, a kind of dramatic bridging device designed to sweeten the transition between the two atavistic games that interest Mr. Pinter, “English Gentleman” and “The Real Game”, the former being a more civilized version of the latter.

Moreover, “Caper” is the only Pinter game in Sleuth II that maps more or less neatly onto the psychological games taxonomized by Dr. Berne. It’s in the genus of games he calls ‘Underworld Games’, and fractionates into two variants—“Robbers” and “Cops”.

“Robbers” maps to Dr. Berne’s “Cops and Robbers”, which, as he explains, is not like the children’s game of cops and robbers at all, but rather like hide-and-seek, ‘in which the essential element is the chagrin of being found.’ Wyke and Tindle’s hunt for the safe in which the jewels are hidden represents the sub-game of “Robbers”, and since Wyke, in the first iteration of the game, knows where the safe is, and both players know where it is in the second, the pleasure of the game, as Dr. Berne says, lies in Wyke’s feigned defence of the jewels (which are indeed well-hidden) while all the while betraying their location as he aids and abets Milo in finding the safe.

If father finds [the child] too easily, the chagrin is there without much fun. But father, if he is a good player, knows what to do: he holds off, whereupon the little boy gives him a clue by calling out, dropping something or banging. Thus, he forces father to find him, but still shows chagrin; this time he has had more fun because of the increased suspense. If father gives up, the boy usually feels disappointed rather than victorious. Since the fun of being hidden was there, evidently that is not where the trouble lies. What he is disappointed about is not being caught. When his turn comes to hide, father knows he is not supposed to outwit the child for very long, just long enough to make it fun; and he is wise enough to look chagrined when he is caught. It soon becomes clear that being found is the necessary payoff.

… At the social level [“Cops and Robbers”] is a battle of wits, and is most satisfying when the Adult of each player does his best…. Not being caught is actually the antithesis. Among older children, one who finds an insoluble hiding place is regarded as not being a good sport, since he has spoiled the game. He has eliminated the Child element and turned the whole thing into an Adult procedure. He is no longer playing for fun.

—Eric Berne, Games People Play, “Cops and Robbers”

In some sense, while Wyke is the nominal Parent in the first iteration of “Robbers”, helping Milo, in the Child position, to find the safe like the good father of Dr. Berne’s example, both men, I would contend, enter into the Child position to some extent. From Wyke’s perspective, knowing that the safe really is in an ‘insoluble hiding place’, he nobly declines to turn the sub-game of “Robbers” into ‘an Adult procedure’, a sporting contest of wits between equals, but enters with Tindle into ‘the Child element’ of the game, ransacking his bedroom in simulated search of the safe with even more gusto than Milo.

In the second iteration, the presence of the revolver as a salient element in the game-play puts Milo in the Parent position. But he reciprocates the ‘sporting chance’ that Wyke gave him in the first iteration of “Robbers” and insists (albeit with irony; that is to say, at gun-point) that Wyke—who is now very obviously in the Child position—help him to find the safe, the location of which he pretends to be in ignorance of.

Thus I would say that, in contradistinction to Dr. Berne’s contention that there must be a ‘complementarity’ in the ego-states of players of psychological games, in “Robbers”, both men adopt the Child position to some extent, insofar as they both enter with gusto into the darkest aspect of children’s play—its savagery, its malevolence, its destructiveness. They share this savagery, malevolence and destructiveness more or less equally, and the sub-game of “Robbers” is (in its first iteration at least) the only time in Sleuth II we really see Wyke and Tindle on something like a genuine footing of equality.

The sub-game of “Cops”, on the other hand, reflects the classic dynamic identified by Dr. Berne: one player must take the Parent position, the rôle of authority, and the other, the complementary Child position. “Cops” maps to Dr. Berne’s Underworld Game “Let’s Pull a Fast One on Joey”, which, as he says, is the prototypical psychological game that forms the basis for the ‘Big Store’—the multi-iteration caper of the long con game, the architectural mechanics of which are described by David W. Maurer in one of my favourite books, the classic treatise on the subject, The Big Con (1940).

The confidence game, the social game of verisimilar appearances and strategic dissimulation, is the ‘crime of our time’ identified by Mr. Auden as the salient feature of technological, capitalistic modernity. The confidence game as an architecture of ambiguous, plausible, but ultimately fake appearances—an utterly abstract architecture, totally platonic—is, to my mind, the chief poetic metaphor for the situation of our time—the ‘meta-crisis’ of the sensemaking crisis, the impossibility, despite our technological ‘equipment’, of discovering ‘Truth’ with it:—For the knife of Science with which we ‘cut through’ reality, with which we have algorithmically engineered the ‘world of fakeness’, the labyrinthine galerie des glaces narcissiques in which we now find ourselves trapped and lost, is the same knife we have plunged—and daily plunge in our mutually implicating games of (self)-deception—into the side of God, murdering our Highest Value, and the Source of all our meaning.

And knowing my fascination with con games and other Machiavellian social games of strategic deception, dear readers, you will perhaps begin to appreciate why I admire the abstract architecture of Mr. Pinter’s version of the Sleuth plot as a serious literary investigation of ‘the crime of our time’, for he abstracts the literalized labyrinth of Mr. Shaffer’s original conception and gives the metaphor a further twist: The concrete architecture of Wyke’s house, full of the airy blankness of the Void, becomes a Borgesian maze of the mind where the ‘twists and turns’ are the abrupt and jarring incongruencies of character as each man reveals a different ‘facet’ of himself to the other, and the reversals in social positioning between them.

Moreover, in its industrial brutalism, like those empty spaces con artists rent out and deck out in the décor of a stock exchange or a private gambling parlour, and in his wholesale transference of the concrete architecture of ‘the Game’ of Mr. Shaffer’s Sleuth into the abstract arena of the mind, Mr. Pinter makes of Chez Wyke a ‘Big Store’, a protean conceptual space, like the caja blanca of a gallery, for the bravura performance of ‘the Art of the Big Con’.

“Capers” 2 and 3, the con game engineered by Tindle, together comprise a ‘short con’ and is played as an end in itself: true to his Italian heritage, he merely wants to get revenge on Wyke by ‘pulling a fast one’ on him. Once he has both deceived and humiliated Wyke, the score is settled, and the meta-game, from his perspective, cycles back to the parodic civility of “English Gentleman”.

This is his strategic error in the meta-game, the error of an impatient youth when pitted against the cunning of old age; for as I said above, “English Gentleman” and “The Real Game” are, in fact, one and the same game, the only difference being that, in “The Real Game”, Mr. Pinter removes the mask, the veneer of civility and civilization altogether.

“The Real Game” is essentially ‘the real Pinter game’, the game of Silence and the Void that lies beneath the characteristic game of “English Gentleman” which is a feature of all his plays.

Hence, when I said that the “Caper” is a bridging device in the architecture of Sleuth II between “English Gentleman” and “The Real Game”, we can see how Wyke approaches the long con, how he architecturally ‘orchestrates’ the game-play of Act I, versus how Tindle orchestrates the short con in Act II, and consequently where Milo’s fatal error lies.

“English Gentleman” must end in “The Real Game”: “English Gentleman” is ‘the set-up’ of “The Real Game”—which is, in turn, ‘the pay-off’ to the meta-game that is Mr. Pinter’s Sleuth. You cannot play the “Caper”—even a fractionated version of it—as Tindle does merely as an end in itself and then go back to the civilized sniping of passive-aggressive politeness.

As Wyke tells Inspector Black, ‘it’s not worth playing a game unless you play it to the hilt.’ And where ‘the real game’, as he admits, is a game of humiliation between two men, you cannot merely reduce the other to ‘a shivering, frightened, fucking wreck in front you,’ and then give him ‘a drink and a pat on the bum’ and let it go at that, as Tindle does.

The “Caper” is, as Wyke very well understands, a form, a gambit, ‘the convincer’ that serves an essential function in the overall architecture of the con game. Only a child, like Milo, would think that the “Caper” is the con game itself.

The object of the “Caper” is not simply to deceive your opponent and humiliate him with your deception, to ‘take off’ the other player in a short, smash-and-grab con of one iteration. It is to ‘frame the gaff’, to ‘bill the mark in’ to the Big Store of the long con, iterated over several turns of play; it is to take him off repeatedly until the mark is completely played out.

Thus we come back to the architecture of the house as ‘Big Store’. If we are to believe the report of the two characters and accept that Maggie is responsible for the design of the house, she has ‘framed the gaff’ in which the long con of Wyke’s “Real Game” is set to take place. In this reading of the architecture of the Pinterian meta-game, she is the ‘roper’ who has ‘mitted in’ the mark, Milo, introducing him to the ‘inside man’—Wyke—who manages the Big Store she has designed as a game for Tindle.

In other words, Maggie and Wyke are in on the “Caper” together, which is why I say that, despite the fact that we never see Maggie in the film, we can consider her to be a competitor in the triangulated game of “Let’s You and Him Fight”. A careful viewing of Sleuth II yields several clues in support of this hypothesis. Though it’s assumed, in this version, that the game is a perverse sexual conspiracy between Maggie and Wyke to destroy Milo, a variation on the game Mr. Pinter plays in The Comfort of Strangers (1990), such a dangerous caper could easily go awry—in which case I see the femme fatale Maggie very readily giving herself to Tindle, having dispatched, through him, a husband who has nothing to recommend him but his money.

This interpretation of the meta-game sees Maggie as the final iteration of the enigmatic Pinter woman we encounter so many times, particularly in his string of plays in the early 1960’s which deal, as Mr. Billington says, with ‘sexual politics’—The Collection (1961), The Lover (1963), and, most particularly, his masterpiece, The Homecoming (1964)—all plays in which a woman, despite her passivity, emerges as the only victor in an attritional sexual contest between men, rising above their claims to possess her even as she submits to being ‘the spoils of war’.

But in another, more intellectually delicious conceptualization, I see Wyke as being the roper for himself. He is both roper and inside man, and in the recursive, nested game of Act I, in which “English Gentleman” frames the simulated “Caper” of stealing the jewels, and this farce in turn frames the gaff for “The Real Game” which is the pay-off of “English Gentleman”, he mitts Milo in by introducing him to successive versions of himself, facets which are distinct from each other and thus mark the iterations of the game-play.

The ‘roper’, as he says, is the ‘crooked exterior’ of the Big Store/house which extends its hand to Milo on the steps in the first scene and ‘mitts him in’ to the big con. Under this is the inside man, the ‘simple, honest man’ Wyke claims to be, and as every inside man knows, you can only convince a mark to play a con game by appealing to his ‘honesty’—the truly larcenous nature behind his front as an upstanding citizen—and by giving the appearance of respectable probity yourself.

In the long con, each time you play a mark, you must let him win ‘the convincer’, that turn in the game-play that gives him the confidence to go on and greedily redouble his stake. You must let him win a couple of substantial hands off you before you lower the gaff and play him for the big block—everything he’s brought to the table. And this is what Wyke, the master manipulator, does in the games of “English Gentleman” and “Caper” in Act I: he lets Milo best him in the first two games, lets him get the girl and the jewels off him.

And once Tindle is ‘all in’, once he has bought into the ruse of the “Caper”, Wyke lowers the gaff on Milo, revealing the ‘jewellery story’ to have been but a blind, a Big Store for “The Real Game”:

Tindle [laughing nervously]: Listen—will you put that gun down?

Wyke [quietly, curiously]: Why?

Tindle [still laughing]: It’s pointing directly at me; I’m not very happy about it.

Wyke [curiously]: Why not?

Tindle: Look, is this a game?

Wyke: This is a real game.

[Pause]

Wyke [grimly]: The real game has just begun.

Tindle [laughing, ironically]: What’s ‘the real game’?

Wyke: You and me.

—Harold Pinter, Sleuth

Men without women

When the mask of civility is lifted, when the veneer of civilization comes off, the game of “English Gentleman” reveals “The Real Game”, the game of Silence and the Void, that is beneath all of Mr. Pinter’s plays and films. “The Real Game” is ‘the weasel under the cocktail cabinet’, which he facetiously claimed was what his plays were, au fond, all about.

“The Real Game” is what is beneath the game of blind man’s bluff that Goldberg and McCann employ as a tactic to terrorize Stanley with in The Birthday Party (1958). It’s beneath the blague with the vacuum cleaner and the farcical rings about ‘interior decoration’ that Mick runs round the crafty but outclassed Davies in The Caretaker. It’s in back of the jockeying for position close to Hirst between Spooner and Foster and Briggs in No Man’s Land (1974).

In Sleuth II we see the final, brilliant iteration of ‘the real Pinter game’ when those two silences—a torrent of words and no words at all—are deployed as desperate, last-ditch, murderous measures between two men to tarnish over the existential Void between them.

In the long con game, a gun is a conspicuous prop in the play that is enacted for the benefit of the mark. A gun is also a form of convincer that is used to ‘cool out’ the mark once he has been ‘taken off’: the inside man, who has formed a conspiracy with the mark to keep an eye on the mark’s handler, the roper, typically ‘shoots’ the roper in outrage when the ‘sure thing’ he had with the mark goes awry. Being bound together as two ‘honest’ men, the mark is implicated as a witness to the inside man’s ‘crime’, and is convinced to take a run-out powder and cool off—sans all his cash.

In his version of “The Real Game”, Wyke uses the pistol he produces in the “Caper” to convince Tindle of his verisimilar intent to murder him. More specifically, he fires two live rounds—these are the convincers in the game-play—followed by a blank cartridge.

Wyke: I’ll tell you exactly what I did. I pretended to kill him. I shot him with a blank, I frightened the shit out of him. Your man was right, your spy, whoever he was. There were three shots: the first two were real, the third one was blank. He was terrified. When I shot him he fainted. When he came round, I gave a drink, pat on the bum, he left the house, his tail, if you want to call it that, between his legs – and I haven’t seen him since.

Black [incredulously]: You gave him ‘a pat on the bum’?

Wyke: Metaphorically.

Black [with growing outrage]: You gave him a metaphorical ‘pat on the bum’?

Wyke: Sure.

Black: How did he take it?

Wyke: What?

Black: The pat!

Wyke: He was fine, he told me that it was game, set, and match to me.

Black: So this guy had a sense of humour, is that what you’re saying?

Wyke: Oh yes, he left the house with a ‘twinkle in his eye’.

Black: So tell me, what was the point of all this—?

Wyke: Humiliation! It’s nice to see your wife’s lover a shivering, frightened, fucking wreck in front of you! As a matter of fact, I liked him; I thought he was attractive. I thought we could’ve become good friends. The shortest way to a man’s heart, as I’m sure you know, is humiliation. It binds you together.

—Harold Pinter, Sleuth

“The Real Game” at the heart of Sleuth II, therefore, is humiliation, but two distinct variations on the game are played in the two acts of the drama.

In Act I, Wyke avails himself, through the convincing prop of the pistol, of masculine force to humiliate Milo, and in embarrassing him, emasculating him. He reduces him to the condition of being a mere ‘Italian hairdresser’ of a man, placing him firmly in the ‘inferior position’, the identity he has constructed for him with that phrase, of being una specie di culattone.

But as Robert Greene tells us in the preface to his book The Art of Seduction (2001), there are two distinct strategies to obtaining power. One of them is through masculine force, and the other is through feminine seduction.

In “The Real Game” of Act II, both men engage in a game of mutual humiliation, mutual emasculation not through force, but via a strategy of feminine seduction.

Seduction requires the player to ‘adopt’ the inferior position as a ruse for eventual dominance through submission. One gives up a lot of the immediate, hard power one can exercise through force in order to gain a more subtle and enduring ‘soft power’, the power of persuasion, but also the power to withhold sexual rewards, and to blackmail or extort compliance in exchange for sexual rewards.

This is ultimately the power that Stella, in The Collection, exercises not only over her husband James, but also over the homosexual couple of Harry and Bill; that Sarah exercises over her husband Richard in The Lover, cuckolding him with himself; and that Ruth, in the most complex articulation of this essential architecture of power chez Pinter, exercises over her husband Teddy and all her male in-laws in The Homecoming.

I said above that there is an obvious homoerotic dimension to the Wyke/Tindle rapport in the Sleuth plot, one which is more or less latent in Mr. Shaffer’s original conception, but which it pleases Mr. Pinter, ‘the supposed trader in mystery and ambiguity’, as Mr. Billington calls him, to raise to salience through his excision of the commercial plot dynamics.

But I said also that we should be careful about falling too quickly on the facile conclusion that, au fond, the plot of Sleuth II is merely about ‘discovering’ this latent homoeroticism in the two characters, ‘outing them’, as it were.

That would be to do a fundamental disservice to Mr. Pinter as a dramatist for whom the Nobel Prize was an acknowledgment that he was a serious social scientist, a serious researcher into the physics and the chemistry of human relations, in the laboratory of the theatre.

The nature of “The Real Game” of modern human relations chez Pinter, of men stripped down to their primitive humanity and locked in these atavistic sexual contests for possession of a woman, a hierarchical ‘game of positions’ to determine who is ‘top’ and who is ‘bottom’, doesn’t reduce to an unambiguous homosexuality, but instead reduces to the ambiguity of the Void beneath our ‘social costumes’, the noisy game of “English Gentleman” we play with each other as a civilized version of this real, silent, gladiatorial contest to the death for personal power—the origins of political power in what Mr. Billington calls the ‘sexual fascism’ at the heart of Mr. Pinter’s plays.

But any intelligent men [sic] with a passionate commitment to male friendship, such as Pinter has, is bound to ask himself at some point whether male bonding carries with it implications of homosexuality. It is also intriguing how often Pinter returns to the subject of what René Girard calls ‘triangular desire’, in which two men are drawn together by their urge to possess the same woman.

—Billington (1996, p. 138)

There’s some confusion where “Caper” 3 ends and the reprise of “English Gentleman” begins in Act II. Having got the safe open and the jewels out of it, Milo oscillates between joking good-naturedly with Wyke and sadistically torturing him. This is because he is a younger man, impetuous, impatient, and inexperienced at this kind of calculated brinkmanship.

He plays the game with (as Dr. Berne says with respect to “Cops and Robbers”) the Child’s sense of fun. He doesn’t realize that Wyke is playing the meta-game from the Adult ego-state, that ‘[h]e is in the same class as the owner of a casino, or some professional criminals, who are really out for money rather than sport.’

Even when he’s caught off-balance by Tindle’s abrupt switches of mood, you can distinctly see in Wyke’s eyes that he is quickly clocking to where they are in the meta-game and pacing Milo. You can also see the point at which he perceives Tindle’s fundamental weakness as a callow, egotistical, impetuous youth, and resumes the lead by adopting ‘the inferior position’, the feminine position, with respect to him.

Wyke: You like games, don’t you?

Tindle: Some. Not all.

Wyke: But you like being in charge – of the game?

[Pause]

Tindle [somewhat uncertainly, as if sensing a trap]: Oh yes; sure.

[Slight pause]

Wyke: I like a man who wants to be in charge of things.

Tindle: Do you?

Wyke: Yes, I do.

[]

Wyke: You know something, I – I like your mind.

Tindle [rather luxuriantly, as if used to being complimented]: Do you really?

Wyke: It excites me. I like the way you go about things.

Tindle: You mean… you like my ‘style’.

Wyke [pensively]: Oh, I-I like your style. I like it very much.

—Harold Pinter, Sleuth

Tindle has the typical vanity—and the insecurity—of the actor, and Wyke seeks to place him permanently in the inferior, feminine position he has designated for him by the subtle ruse of first adopting the feminine position himself. He pretends to be dominated by Milo’s mind (which Tindle interprets, vaingloriously, as his ‘style’ at game-play), by a mind that is equal in its Machiavellian intricacy to Wyke’s own.

He also seeks to put this Italian hairdresser ‘in his place’—in the ‘little boy’s room’ of the guest suite.

In Mr. Pinter’s plays dating all the way back to his first, The Room (1957), the conquest of a room by an invader who dislocates and ejects the inhabitant from it is the central motif, the essential pattern of the architecture on his secret planet. Finally, in his last work, the game involves putting one’s opponent in a room, inviting the invader into one’s space, and containing him in a corner of one’s domain and empire.

In Sleuth II, introjecting the invader into oneself—like a woman—swallowing and suffocating him in the claustrophobic room of one’s choosing, becomes the winning move in “The Real Game”.

Wyke [quietly]: I’m a rich man. What do you want to do? I can subsidise anything you want. You want to open a bookshop in the village? An art gallery? Or, of course – a little theatre! You’re a wonderful actor, you could choose all the plays and play all the leading parts.

[Pause]

But — this would be your home.

[Long pause]

And this would be your bedroom.

—Harold Pinter, Sleuth

In a deliberately ambiguous Pinterism designed to raise, in the unsubtle, the suspicion that Wyke, beneath all the violence with which he has competed for Maggie, is merely an ‘old queen’, he tells Tindle that he is ‘my kind of person’, and Tindle, although taken aback, is clearly moved by this confidence.

Very few people have ever liked Milo ‘for his mind’;—plenty have admired him for his body, of course, but no one except Wyke has ever appreciated his lively wit and his child-like sprezzatura at play. And sensing an advantage over Wyke—that he has at last found his weakness—Tindle, the actor who can turn on a dime, begins to play up the ‘Italian hairdresser’ rôle for the old man—the occulted ‘queerness’ that Wyke has suspected in him from the start—as he entertains the idea of becoming the old man’s catamite.

Thus, you see, dear readers, there is not, as appears on first view, an uncomplicated sexual deviance adventitiously discovered at the heart of the Wyke/Tindle rapport in Sleuth II. Instead, having spent most of the film competing for the ‘superior position’ over each other, in the final iteration of the game-play, each man having truly met his match in the other, and having exhausted all the strategies of emasculation through force, both men now jockey to adopt and occupy the inferior, feminine position in the short-term as a strategy to ultimately dominate the other in the long-term.

“The Real Game”, in its ultimate iteration, is a game of mutual humiliation, mutual emasculation through the castrating tyranny of feminine seduction. The game, in its deepest iteration, is far more depraved than superficial sexual deviance: for, like scorpions crouching down so as to raise the stinging tail higher over the other, or crocodiles locked in a death roll, both men are going to debase themselves—cut off their own cojones, albeit momentarily—so as to seduce the other into an inferior position he can never escape from.

What gives feminine seduction its longer-lasting, though unstable, power when it is obviously the ‘weaker’ of the two strategies, lies in the ‘feminine prerogative’, that irrational inconstancy we men find so fatiguing and frustrating to deal with.

The superior, masculine position being the position of ‘conscious control’, it demands rational predictability. The inferior, feminine position, while complying submissively with the masculine, ceding willingly to its attractive display of force, reserves for itself the arm of irrationality, the right to perversely ‘change its mind’ on a dime, to be ‘owned’, ‘possessed’, but never ‘controlled’—for that would be to make itself ‘predictable’, and thus subject to masculine control.

Having been ‘boxed in’ to the guest suite, having been played into a corner by Wyke’s verisimilar pretence at being seduced, Tindle senses his predicament. The only strategy open to him from this square is to embrace submission to the hilt and to obtain a lasting dominance over Wyke through strategic deployment of irrational inconstancy—blackmailing and extorting submission to him by what he sees as Wyke’s secret sexual weakness.

Tindle: … [P]erhaps I am ‘your kind of person’, who knows?

[Slight pause]

Tindle: But you would have to be very – nice – to me; for instance, just at this moment, I need a drink.

[Silence]

Wyke [quietly]: You can get your own drink.

Tindle: No, you get it for me and I might be ‘nice’ to you.

Wyke: Nice to me?

Tindle: That’s what I said. [Snapping his fingers] Whisky, please!

[Long silence]

—Harold Pinter, Sleuth

The ‘feminine position’, as this dialogue demonstrates, is truly to be playing the game from Dr. Berne’s Child ego-state: the last weapon that is available to the feminine player is the impetuous tyranny of the ‘tantrum’, that nuclear option that women know they can threaten to deploy at any time, and the fear of which is usually sufficient to extort compliance from weak men, those, that is to say, who have insufficient will to access to their funds of force in a nuclear confrontation.

It’s a dangerous strategy, which is why I say that seduction is a longer lasting iterative strategy for obtaining and maintaining power than force, but an unstable one. While the feminine player can obtain and maintain an advantage over a weak masculine player almost indefinitely through the tyranny of seduction, it’s a calculated bet, and at some point, when the coercive nudging and tantrums finally becomes too fatiguing and frustrating, a weak man generally snaps, accessing all his supply of force, seeing and raising the nuclear option in a way the women can’t match, going ‘all in’.

This is the dangerous situation that Tindle is in. Like a needling woman, he doesn’t know how close he actually is to the button he is flirting with, cannot calculate or calibrate himself to the supply of force occulted by Wyke’s poker-faced silence. To paraphrase M. de Sade, in Wyke Milo ‘ne connait pas le monstre auquel il a à faire’: he does not perceive to what extent crime has been enthroned in the ‘dank and deep architecture’ of that perverse soul.

Tindle is playing from the Child’s position, but Wyke, a professional underworld gamesman as a crime writer and a past-master at these long strategies of slow strangulation, is playing from the Adult position: he is, as Dr. Berne says, ‘no longer playing for fun. He is in the same class as … some professional criminals, who are really out for money rather than sport.’

And as Mr. Caine revealed, while in Sleuth I Lord Olivier was constrained by the commercial architecture of Mr. Shaffer’s plot to play Wyke as a ‘dangerous English eccentric’, he and Mr. Branagh decided to base their interpretation of the Pinter Wyke on a psychological treatise they discovered on morbid jealousy—a condition which has often led to the murder of lovers by aggrieved spouses.

Thus, ‘the game’, “The Real Game”, from Wyke’s, the professional crime writer’s, perspective, is The Most Dangerous Game—the deliberate, calculated hunting of a human being as sport.

And yet it’s clear there is some genuine and mutual attraction between Wyke and Tindle that is more than merely platonic: the strategy of mutual emasculation through seduction couldn’t be effective if they weren’t actually seduced by something in the other. The woman is no longer salient: as a field of contest over which they have fought, as a token of palpable possession in the conceptual game-space, Maggie has been exhausted of her relevance and her value as the object of the game:—they have, as Wyke says, ‘cut her out’, ‘let her rot.’

She is ‘nowhere’, and as Milo admits, ultimately, ‘This is a game between us, “old boy”, between you and me.’

My kind of person

In Wyke and Tindle, these two figures of commercial ‘fun’ adopted and adapted from another playwright, we have the two sides of Harold Pinter himself, the writer and the actor, the master in charge of the game and the great counterfeiter. They come together in the deadly symbiosis of a final reconciliation, the final statement of a great artist on the concerns of his life—the concrete architecture of domestic space—of houses, of rooms—and how the private, personal sphere gives rise to the abstract architecture of political power.

Mr. Pinter is ‘my kind of person’. I like his mind; it excites me. I like the way he ‘goes about things’. I like his ‘style’ very much.

In the outback town where I grew up, I was a member of the local theatrical society as a teenager. In the first year of my membership, a season of four one-act plays was staged. Les gosses, the junior thespians, had their chance first up to ‘put on a show’, and then, after the dress rehearsals, and later, when the season was in full swing, I would slip around and sit front of house, anxious to watch the third play on the bill.

I had become fascinated by a play which featured two men in a room, one lying on a bed reading a newspaper, the other sitting on another bed, tying his shoe. It was Mr. Pinter’s The Dumb Waiter (1958). I had never heard such dialogue—unfunnily funny, banally menacing. And I had never heard such prolonged silence on a stage, like the continual, suspenseful build-up to a gag which never comes, or if it came, was not funny, was not a release in tension but a tightening of it.

Over about two months of watching the dress rehearsals, and then the play before an audience, it slowly dawned on my young brain who and what Ben and Gus, the two men in the room, were, and I became obsessed by the puzzle of trying to figure out how they move from their first positions through their weird iterated game-play, like a pair of music-hall comedians kibbitzing with increasing momentum through a routine where the laughter slowly dies, to the final tableau of the play, their final, silent confrontation with each other across the Void.

Having read the play many times, nearly thirty years later, I’m still not quite sure how he does it, how Mr. Pinter pulls off ‘the prestige’ of his magic trick, and yet the image of two men in a room at the end of that play has endured for me as one of the key æsthetic experiences of my life.

In the way the artistic soul inchoately senses, even in its youth, here was an image that had ‘high signal’ for me, that confirmed what I had already intuited about life—that the modern world is an absurd ‘black comedy’.

Then, when I was fifteen and sixteen, I had a go at our local eisteddfod and tried my hand at something I think was called a ‘Character Study’ or something like that—an ambitious competition, often the preserve of serious drama students, gosses who imagined they would go on to study drama at uni, and which involved performing a monologue of your choice, in costume, with appropriate props.

In the first year, I chose Pete’s revelation of his dream in Mr. Pinter’s The Dwarfs (1960):

Pete’s monologue from The Dwarfs by Harold Pinter, read by Dean Kyte

Pete: The apprehension of experience must obviously be dependent upon discrimination if it’s to be considered valuable. That’s what you lack. You’ve got no idea how to preserve a distance between what you smell and what you think about it. You haven’t got the faculty for making a simple distinction between one thing and another. Every time you walk out of this door you go straight over a cliff. What you’ve got to do is nourish the power of assessment. How can you hope to assess and verify anything if you walk about with your nose stuck between your feet all day long? You knock around with Mark too much. He can’t do you any good. I know how to handle him. But I don’t think he’s your sort. Between you and me, I sometimes think he’s a man of weeds. Sometimes I think he’s just playing a game. But what game? I like him all right when you come down to it. We’re old pals. But you look at him and what do you see? An attitude. Has it substance or is it barren? Sometimes I think it’s as barren as a bombed site. He’ll be a spent force in no time if he doesn’t watch his step. [Pause.] I’ll tell you a dream I had last night. I was with a girl in a tube station, on the platform. People were rushing about. There was some sort of panic. When I looked round I saw everyone’s faces were peeling, blotched, blistered. People were screaming, booming down the tunnels. There was a fire bell clanging. When I looked at the girl I saw that her face was coming off in slabs too, like plaster. Black scabs and stains. The skin was dropping off like lumps of cat’s meat. I could hear it sizzling on the electric rails. I pulled her by the arm to get her out of there. She wouldn’t budge. Stood there, with half a face, staring at me. I screamed at her to come away. Then I thought, Christ, what’s my face look like? Is that why she’s staring? Is that rotting too?

—Harold Pinter, The Dwarfs, Plays Two, pp. 89-90

An ambitious choice. I came runner-up. I just lost my claim to the medallion with on the narrowest margin of points through an unforced error: in rehearsals, I had decided to start off the monologue facing away from the audience, a calculated gamble on my part. It’s a difficult opening from a standing start, particularly when taken out of the context of the scene, and I knew I would have to really project to get the first sentence or two out to compensate for that risky choice. On the night, in the auditorium, I didn’t quite have the power in my lungs I needed.

Having learnt my lesson, I came back the following year, determined to claim the medallion. This time I interpreted Len’s closing monologue:

Len’s closing monologue from The Dwarfs by Harold Pinter, read by Dean Kyte

Len: They’ve stopped eating. It’ll be a quick get out when the whistle blows. All their belongings are stacked in piles. They’ve doused the fire. But I’ve heard nothing. What is the cause for alarm? Why is everything packed? Why are they ready for the off? But they say nothing. They’ve cut me off without a penny. And now they’ve settled down to a wide-eyed kip, crosslegged by the fire. It’s insupportable. I’m left in the lurch. Not even a stale frankfurter, a slice of bacon rind, a leaf of cabbage, not even a mouldy piece of salami, like they used to sling me in the days when we told old tales by suntime. They sit, chock-full. But I smell a rat. They seem to be anticipating a rarer dish, a choicer spread. And this change. All about me the change. The yard as I know it is littered with scraps of cat’s meat, pig bollocks, tin cans, bird brains, spare parts of all the little animals, a squelching, squealing carpet, all the dwarfs’ leavings spittled in the muck, worms stuck in the poisoned shit heaps, the alleys a whirlpool of piss, slime, blood, and fruit juice. Now all is bare. All is clean. All is scrubbed. There is a lawn. There is a shrub. There is a flower.

—Harold Pinter, The Dwarfs, Plays Two, pp. 104-5

I won the medallion.

I didn’t go on to study drama. Unlike Mr. Pinter, as a writer I’ve found my calling to be an actor on ‘the stage of the page’, one of those introverted souls who give their private performance in the rehearsal of deep ideation undertaken in the backstage of life.

But I admire Mr. Pinter’s style comme homme du théâtre. As a dour, splenetic soul not much given to mirth, but with a liver that is a veritable and prodigious factory producing the black bile of bleak satire, I like his ‘comedies of menace’ very much. I howl with laughter at Sleuth: I like a joke that feels like a knife against my throat. His comedies of menace—The Room, The Birthday Party, The Dumb Waiter, even, to some extent, The Caretaker—fall under that rubric I am calling ‘literary crime’.

In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, in the era, that is, of modernity, it somehow became the writer’s dubious rôle and still more dubious responsibility to be ‘the conscience of his society’.

It’s a rôle and responsibility I sneer at, which I think is a misapprehension, a conflation of logical premises, but which I recognize as an inevitable consequence, just the same, of the faulty, scientistic, capitalistic logic of modernity: Conscience and conscience—the French ‘consciousness’—being one, the writer, the literate artist who is the guardian and custodian of his society’s language (and thus its historian and its prophet) is charged with performing that ‘deep ideation’, working through the problems of his time with what I call ‘the algebra of human language’—words, that abstract symbology which is the conceptual architecture of human consciousness.

Mr. Pinter did just that. He perceived ‘the crime of our time’, the crisis in meaning that is the result of technocratic, capitalistic modernity, the way we have murdered all our values with the knife of Science, and how it has alienated us from the world and from ourselves.

He wasn’t an entertainer; he did not treat the serious subject of crime trivially, as commercial entertainment. He was a literary artist, and the ambiguity of his plays, their banality, their irresolution, are the bane of those who seek ‘entertainment’ in the theatre, comforting distraction from the networked problems which, in the course of the last 100 years, have mounted to such a point that we cannot, in our lifetimes, now see around them.

The baffling crime of our time is all around us, and we are all implicated in the game of our mutually assured destruction. We commit it every day, haul the Void closer to ourselves with the nihilistic criminality of our own ambiguous banality.

We’ve all got our hands on the roulette wheel, and everything we do is a ‘move’ that, in externalizing the costs of individual rent-seeking, our vain grasping for personal ‘influence’, to the collective, iterates us all towards a mutually assured, universal holocaust.

As an artist, Mr. Pinter was comfortable to remain in a state of ‘negative capability’, not drawing any conclusions, for the networked problem is so vast that its variety confounds the algebra of human language. We have not the abstract symbology to sculpt the conceptual architecture of the hell that is now all around us. A thorough model of the problem is yet to be articulated in writing, and without a model that compasses the scope of the variety, a networked solution cannot be ideated.

In fine, we have not the language—the words—to even know what the reality is that is around us.

We have not described it; we have not yet modelled it, and we cannot—yet—but we must try.

I tire of that species of writer who, as Mr. Pinter says in “Writing for the Theatre”, ‘clearly trusts words absolutely,’ those souls who still labour under the naïve commercial assumptions of entertainment, believing that there is a direct ratio between words and their referents, that they unproblematically compass the variety of reality, that the world is ‘known’ by the words we use, ‘conquered’ by human language, and ‘knowable’, ‘conquerable’ through them.

Le monde lui-même n’est plus cette propriété privée, héréditaire et monnayable, cette sorte de proie, qu’il s’agissait moins de connaître que de conquérir…

Notre monde, aujourd’hui, est moins sûr de lui-même, plus modest peut-être puisqu’il a renoncé à la toute-puissance de la personne, mais plus ambitieux aussi puisqu’il regarde au-delà.

The world itself is no longer a private property, inheritable and vendible, a species of prey, of which it is a less a matter of understanding it than of conquering it….

Today, our world is less sure of itself, possibly more modest, since it has renounced the all-powerfulness of the human being, but also more ambitious, since it looks beyond it.

—Alain Robbe-Grillet, “Sur quelques notions périmées”, Pour un nouveau roman (1961, p. 28, my translation)

The ‘radical scepticism’ about the world of verisimilar appearances evinced by Mr. Pinter should be a salutary example to us as writers.

It’s time to ‘buck your ideas up’, as he says in Sleuth. The time for entertainment is over. It’s time for us, as writers, to ‘get down to “brass tacks”’, to begin to map the dimensions of the meta-crisis, to articulate the architecture of the networked hell that is all around us, and we only do that through the earnest modelling of actuality that is serious Art.

The network of impressions and intuitions that come from serious artists like Mr. Pinter, writers who use the algebra of human language to scope what they see—to report ‘high signal’ to the collective—is, I think, the only, but probably insufficient, means we having of compassing the variety, the only way we can bring the human dimension accurately and faithfully to the equation unbalanced by Science.

The Spleen of Melbourne project is my attempt to do just that, to present impressions from the field of my flâneuristic researches, through my prose poetry and ficciones, such as “The Trade”.

So too is that ‘literary crime’ I’ve been plotting since lockdown, and of which “The Trade” is a further experiment, a further attempt to articulate what I think is really going on in the world, the great ‘crime of our time’, the global confidence game of ambiguous appearances, of fakeness and personal grasping for ‘influence’, we engage in daily, the problem to which there is not yet a solution, since our language, as Mr. Pinter showed, is yet too weak to map accurately the reality of it.

If you find value in my ideation and would like to support me in my research, consider purchasing the soundtrack to “The Trade” below for $A2.

A new Super 8 film from Dean Kyte, shot while on flânerie in Newcastle.

Quelle belle journée!  The hell of life is rendered almost tolerable by the cerulean ciel, and for the flâneur, all earth appears to be a church.

The drug of heaven rains its cobalt light on the squalor of our lives, and Nature buzzes with its mystic business, indifferent to the dernier cri of man’s madness, which is sufficient unto this day.

But then, through filmrheumed eyes, I see une image de bonheur égale à celle de Marker, and all the world swoons to silence.

The drug of sun and sky and cycling enfants on film briefly redeems my noirish novocastrian days sans soleil.

—Dean Kyte, “Quelle belle journée!

As promised, new Super 8 film content on The Melbourne Flâneur vlog!

I’ve got a year’s worth of film cooling in le frigo, and a number of Super 8-based videos either finished or in the works, with more to be shot throughout the year.

Today’s video comes from my rather abortive voyage to NSW last year. I brought one cartridge of Kodak Vision3 50D with me when I booked out of Melbourne last May, beginning what turned out to be a five-month dance of dodging and weaving the Coronavirus as it chased me from Wagga to Coffs, and finally ran me to ground, forcing me to take cover in Newcastle.

Thus began the uncanny experience of spending three-and-a-half months locked down in a place so distant in memory that, for all practical purposes, I had no experience of Newcastle to draw upon. The unfamiliar streets were like a hedge maze to me: the ten-kilometre rule came into effect two days after I arrived, almost instantly narrowed to five, which meant that half of Newcastle was soon outside my radius of legal flânerie.

Before the snap lockdown was announced, I had had one opportunity to get my bearings and see what the place looked like. To be in a city I didn’t know and couldn’t explore was disorienting. I got to know about a dozen streets in Shortland, Jesmond, Lambton, and New Lambton well. Those were the vectors of the hedge maze I had cause venture down with regularity as I hoofed it to the IGA, sometimes even to Officeworks.

Beyond that, I knew nothing of where I was for a good two-and-a-half months. I felt like I was in a prison of fog.

It was only towards the end of October that I had a chance to look around me and see what had been in darkness, but being excluded from most places I should have liked to enter, and fatigued by the distances between things in Newcastle (which is just barely ‘walkable’ and strained even my prodigious appetite for ambling), I hardly stirred myself to enjoy my freedom.

It was only on the Sunday before I was due to risk another cross-border dash, getting home to Melbourne while the getting was good, that I decided to try and fill in some of the map of downtown Newcastle, and to use up my cartridge of film on a venerable advertisement for ETA peanut butter I had espied on my very first day.

The film above is not that film, which is still in production. I managed to get material for three films off the reel of 50D, and the video above is the first one, taken as I was wandering randomly around Cooks Hill.

Drifting up Laman Street, I found myself confronted by the elegant pillared and pedimented façade of the Newcastle Baptist Tabernacle. I was taken by the photogenic contrast between the plastered façade in Laman Street and the red brickwork extending behind it on the Dawson Street side.

The sky was a brilliant blue that day—and the sun was brilliant also, a combination not only perfect for Super 8, but perfect for 50D, Kodak’s finest Super 8 stock, designed specifically for outdoor shooting in natural light. There was no traffic in the street—not even foot traffic, which was also perfect since, as you know by now, I love shots of empty places.

The brilliant blueness of the sky, the pitiless yellow of the sun, the fatigued feeling before the beauty of this neoclassical pile that a man might have felt in the jardin des Tuileries the day after the Terror had ended:—that’s what I felt before the Baptist Tabernacle as I crouched down and set up my camera.

I was exhausted with life, overcome with the beauty of architecture and of nature in this city I was only now able to see in my last hours there, and bitter at my fellow man for keeping me out of the ‘insides’ of this city I couldn’t properly explore;—for one half of flânerie is walking, and the better half is loitering, or loafing, on some café terrace.

That’s the sense of the prose poem accompanying the image of the Tabernacle: the bourgeois madness of the Coronavirus had died down temporarily, but still I felt as though I was in the eye of the storm, and outside that sanctuary of peace, beyond the ambit of Newcastle I was permitted to see, that area of blue sky and yellow sun, the dark clouds were already gathering for another round of insanity.

I set up the self-timer on the camera and took one shot. Two people walked past the church and a car came by, spoiling the shot. After taking a backup shot with my trusty Olympus Stylus, I decided to spend another ten seconds of precious film risking a second shot from the same set-up.

And then the miracle happened.

Three children cycled past the façade of the church, interrupting the perfect emptiness of my shot, but in a way I was grateful for. Did kids ride bikes—unaccompanied by an adult—these days?

It was completely unexpected, strangely uncanny, and, as you can see, on Super 8, there’s an innocence and a nostalgia to the kids’ cameo appearance as they cycle through my frame, as though they come from another time, before helicopter parents and too much ‘screen time’ had atrophied a generation’s legs and love of the outdoors.

My heart gasped when it saw them, and I knew the shot would be a good one, worth the interruption: they were the antidote, the soupçon of optimism to leaven my feeling of fragile exhaustion with life, my éblouissement at the dazzling beauty of nature and architecture, indifferent to the frenzy of madness which had emptied Newcastle’s streets for months, and the bourgeois cruelty of people keeping me out of galleries and cafés.

I had, in my fine, my ‘image of happiness’, that shot at the beginning of Chris Marker’s flâneuristic documentary Sans Soleil (1982) which cannot be paired with anything else, and is self-evidently an image of happiness for the creator but cryptic as a koan to the rest of us.

The film—the English version, at least—opens with a quotation from Eliot: ‘Because I know that time is always time / And place is always and only place’.  Then there is blackness—and a woman’s voice.  ‘The first image he told me about was of three children on a road in Iceland, in 1965,’ she says.  We see the children walking along a country lane, looking at the camera in a way we will see repeated many times throughout the movie: it is a gaze which is both timid and direct, one that reveals both flattery and annoyance at the attention directed toward it.  Then, once again, there is blackness.

‘He said that for him, it was the image of happiness, and also that he had tried several times to link it to other images, but it never worked,’ the woman continues.  As if to demonstrate the point, we see a brief fragment of film that is utterly incongruous with the preceding image: a fighter jet descending into the bowels of an aircraft carrier, just as we descend back into the same airless blackness when the shot ends.  The woman says: ‘He wrote me: “One day I’ll have to put it all alone at the beginning of a film with a long piece of black leader.  If they don’t see happiness in the picture, at least they’ll see the black.”’

Chris Marker’s Sans Soleil is a travelogue. But M. Marker, the consummate global flâneur, is a time traveller, and his dispatches come to us from that foreign country L. P. Hartley called ‘the past’. In some critical orthodoxy, the documentary film is supposed to ‘show us the world’, as if it were holding a mirror up to nature. Sans Soleil certainly does that, but it reflects back another continuum of thought and experience, as if M. Marker were a traveller into a parallel universe—the first filmmaker to take a camera through Alice’s looking glass.  ‘What we call the past is somehow similar to what we call abroad,’ M. Marker once remarked.  ‘It is not a matter of distance, it is the passing of a boundary.’

For anyone who has not seen a Marker film, their varied effects may be compared with that obtained in reading the journal of some eighteenth-century traveler: Johnson in the Hebrides, Rousseau’s promenade through his own sensibility, or Goethe’s visit to Rome. The work makes no attempt to be cinematic or literary; it is based, instead, on the assumption that a cultivated man should express himself in words or in film.

—David Thomson, The New Biographical Dictionary of Film

We never see Sandor Krasna, the globetrotting cameraman whose images enliven the screen, and whose letters are read and commented on by the anonymous woman who narrates the film (smoky-toned Alexandra Stewart in the English version).  An inveterate flâneur, Krasna travels the world seeking images, those souvenirs which are the tangible records of memory for a filmmaker, but he is drawn most often to Japan and Africa—‘the two extreme poles of survival’, as he calls them.

In Japan, he sees his own images of civil unrest transformed into the pixelated vortices of another reality by his friend Hayao Yamaneko, who creates digital graffiti with his image synthesizer, ‘The Zone’, named after that region in Tarkovsky’s Stalker (1979) in which a liminal boundary is passed.  And in the tiny West African nation of Guinea-Bissau, Krasna ruminates on the failure of revolutionary politics, which collapsed after the assassination of guerrilla leader Amílcar Cabral, who was murdered in 1973 during his crusade to liberate the peoples of Guinea and the Cape Verde Islands.

In San Francisco, he scouts the locations used by Alfred Hitchcock in Vertigo (1958), reworking the film’s story of obsessive love into a twisted spiral of time and memory.  The visit inspires Krasna to return to Iceland to scout out locations for his own movie, a Borgesian science fiction tale about a man with total recall who travels back in time from the distant future to learn what it was like for human beings to forget.  Krasna’s own journey ends back in Tokyo with the filmmaker watching his images filtered through Yamaneko’s Zone, the digital distortion of re-creative memory already altering the molecules of celluloid ‘truth’.

I first saw Sans Soleil nearly twenty years ago when it was screened by the State Library of Queensland as part of a program devoted to ‘films that change the meaning of documentary’. But I think that Sans Soleil is, rather, a documentary that changes the meaning of film. In the British Film Institute’s survey of the fifty greatest documentaries of all time back in 2014, Sans Soleil was voted No. 3—behind only Man with a Movie Camera (1929) and Shoah (1985), two documentaries which equally revolutionize (albeit in equally idiosyncratic ways) what it means to make a document of actuality, of ‘happening now’ or of ‘what has happened then’, on the medium of film.

‘In place of fiction’s access to “a world”,’ Bruce Hodsdon wrote in his notes accompanying the State Library series, ‘documentary claims to provide access to “the world”, a claim for special status, even moral superiority….’ Where Sans Soleil earns its special status is in its blurring of the distinction between the definite concepts we have about cinema’s ability to represent the world either as fact or as fiction. 

M. Marker shows us ‘the world’ in all its solidity and the immutability of objective fact, but he filters ‘the world-as-fact’ through the visceral, subjective prism of ‘a world’, the hero’s.  To use the word ‘hero’ to describe a personage in a documentary might seem a little problematic, since this is a term we usually reserve for fiction, but Sandor Krasna, it transpires, is a fictional construct, his letters and diaries (and even the anonymous woman’s commentary on them) literary inventions of the director himself. Like ego and anima, these two ‘characters’ are fictionalized aspects of the director himself, and carry on, at the level of fiction, a coded communication between themselves that comments upon the filmmaker’s actual experience.

I’ve had the good fortune to see Sans Soleil twice on a big screen, and watching the documentary, therefore, is rather like having an out-of-body experience: there is an ectoplasmic, ‘floating’ quality to the images and the logic of reverie to their unfoldment which is quite unique in cinema, but highly characteristic of Chris Marker’s flâneurial style of filmmaking.

Divested of our bodies and of our individual egos, parties to a conversation between M. Marker’s conscious and unconscious minds, we are at once of the world and in a world, citizens of a soul without borders.  The  English translation of the title, taken from a song cycle by Modest Mussorgsky, is Sunless, as if in the darkness of the cinema we become mole-like creatures, groping blindly toward some subterranean reality.  In truth, watching the film for the first time, I felt as if I were at last feeling the sun’s rays upon my face.

At its essence, Sans Soleil encapsulates its own purpose and meaning early on in a digression on Sei Shōnagon, the eleventh-century lady-in-waiting to the Japanese Empress Teishi who composed The Pillow Book, one of the pillars of Japanese literature.  ‘Shōnagon had a passion for lists,’ the narrator explains to us, almost certainly speaking on behalf of M. Marker himself, albeit through Krasna.  ‘The list of… elegant things; distressing things, or even of things not worth doing.  One day she got the idea of drawing up a list of things that quicken the heart.  Not a bad criterion, I realize when I’m filming.’

Shōnagon-sama’s criterion is the one constant in an endless, disparate catalogue of cats and owls, people and places, ideas and images, a flânerie through the exquisite sensibility of M. Marker, who was as sensitive and witty a soul as Shōnagon-sama herself.  Nothing so much as the foreignness of travel makes us aware of what we truly value at home.  Sans Soleil is itself a meditation on those things that quicken M. Marker’s heart, an hommage to them—like the people he films gathered to pray for the souls of broken dolls at the Temple of Kiyomitsu, or the distorted images so prized by Yamaneko (‘“Pictures that are less deceptive,” he says with the conviction of a fanatic, “than those you see on television”’).

Mr. Thomson’s remark that ‘a cultivated man should express himself in words or in film’, goes to the heart of this concept I call ‘flâneurial cinema’. M. Marker exemplified the ‘cultivation’ of the flâneurial filmmaker. In a previous post, I wrote that there is a certain dandysme in the nature of the flâneurial filmmaker, a kind of ‘ostentatious modesty’ to his idiosyncratic visual style. I don’t know that Chris Marker was ever a dandy in the proper sense of the term, being too undercover an assassin of images to ever affect a Bondian devotion to deportment, but the immense cultivation of the literary man, the dandistic finesse de l’esprit, the erudition and urbanity of his intellect, was certainly there—remarkable in a man who devoted himself to mechanically reproduced images.

In fine, if M. Marker had not the dandy’s passion for fashion, he had at least the flâneur’s breadth of spirit, a literariness borne of ‘literateness’—and the literacy de l’homme de lettres is none too common a quality among les hommes du cinéma, that rare breed of men—almost as rare as dandies themselves—who devote their lives à l’écritures des images.

Observateur, amateur: M. Marker was a collectionneur of the crowd, whom he gathered, in its multiplicity, through images. He wrote with the camera as few are capable of doing, having both the breadth of spirit and the force of a cultivated, literate vision to reach through the dead eye of the machine and impress himself, as a sovereign auteur, upon les images qu’il cueillait. He himself was the ‘kaléidoscope doué de conscience’, and consequently he made this ‘box for transporting images’, as John Berger calls the camera, a ‘kaleidoscope endowed with consciousness’ in its turn.

M. Marker once said, ‘I claim for the image the humility and powers of a madeleine,’ referring, of course, to the scallop-shaped cake from which the whole edifice of M. Proust’s cathedral of memory springs. But not only to that, for if M. Marker is literate enough to pass among the cognoscenti as a thoroughgoing Proustian, he is equally well-read in the literature of images, and as his CD-ROM Immemory (1998) showed, he had wit enough to perceive that the cake by which M. Proust found the possibility of regaining lost time was consubstantial with the woman through whose image Mr. Hitchcock lost his impossible dream of love in the spiral of time.

In the image is contained the atom of memory, and in memory the comprehension of time.  ‘I will have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting, but rather its lining,’ Krasna/Marker says in Sans Soleil

At one point he recounts a dream which becomes the dream of all of Tokyo, its mass transit system acting as the corridor along which image passes into memory.  ‘The train inhabited by sleeping people puts together all the fragments of dreams, makes a single film of themthe ultimate film,’ he rhapsodizes.  ‘The tickets from the automatic dispenser grant admission to the show.’  We watch as people rush by the ticket collector in a torrent, passing through the portal into dreaming: a train moving through the arteries of Tokyo like a thought along the neural pathways of the brain. 

There is a sombre grey light to the montage of closeups that follows, showing the passengers caught in various attitudes of rest and reflection.  This grey light gives their journey almost a Stygian quality, as if they were crossing a river whose two banks were life and death.  As they sleep, oneiric snatches of anime and Japanese horror movies insert themselves into the montage: one young man dreams he is the hero (or perhaps the heroine) of a samurai movie; a salaryman flashes on a private pornographic fantasy, while the mind of the woman beside him remains curiously blank.

In this way, M. Marker demonstrates how an image, like a crumb of petite madeleine, can become freighted with the personal significance of a souvenir.  The images are like windows in the walls of the train, but these windows don’t look out, they look inward at the passengers.  The boundary separating definite objectivity and indefinite subjectivity has been made so porous by the flux of images that all we accept as solid and immutable about the world has become an osmotic partition through which image takes on the appearance of memory, just as the sleepers on the train take on the appearance of the dead in repose.

During a ceremony for children held at the Ueno Zoo in memory of animals who have died during the past year, Krasna meditates on the way our perception of images informs our views of life and death.  ‘I’ve heard this sentence: “The partition that separates life from death does not appear so thick to us as it does to a westerner.”  What I’ve read most often in the eyes of people about to die is surprise.’  Marker inserts a brief piece of file footage into the sequence showing a giraffe gambolling across the African savannah.  ‘What I read right now in the eyes of Japanese children is curiosity, as if they were trying in order to understand the death of an animal to stare through the partition.’ 

We too stare through a partition, but our partition is the cinema screen, and it serves to insulate us from the death of the giraffe, which is shot and killed by a hunter, and then preyed on by vultures.  Not surprisingly, the first part of the dead animal they feast on is its eyes. 

These vultures are like entities from the other side of that partition which separates life from death and real from reel, communicating directly with us from beyond the screen, warning us against trusting too much to our eyes, which are deceived by images, just as Krasna’s friend Hayao has stated.  ‘I returned from a country where death is not a partition to cross through but a road to follow,’ Krasna concludes.

As virtual flânerie, Sans Soleil is such a restless, peripatetic film that I remember seeing it for the first time and not being sure where that road was going to take me. And yet, as if by some magical intuition embedded within its labyrinthine, spiral structure of random randonnée, I wound up at the very place I most wanted to be, the setting of one of my favourite film.

‘He wrote me that only one film had been capable of portraying impossible memory, insane memory: Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo,’ the woman tells us.  Few movies are so thoroughly immersed in their locales as Vertigo is immersed in the city of San Francisco, and few movies are so adept at triggering the things which quicken my own heart as Sans Soleil.

I remember that when I first saw the screen fill with the blood-red suffusion of Saul Bass’s famous title sequence, I felt that innate tranquillity of a traveller who has, at last, arrived at his destination—the San Francisco so scrupulously evoked in Mr. Hitchcock’s movie of course, but also in the private place it occupies in my heart.  It is the documentary’s most perfect sequence: a beautiful extended video essay avant la lettre in which Marker-as-Krasna tours the locations used by Mr. Hitchcock, re-imagining the movie’s themes of obsessive love and the resurrection of the dead as an ode to time and memory.

We see contemporary San Francisco juxtaposed with stills from Vertigo as Krasna drives the hilly streets of the Bay Area, just as James Stewart once tailed Kim Novak.  At the Palace of the Legion of Honor, he sees time trapped in the hair of the portrait of Carlotta, ‘… so carefully coded within the spiral that you could miss it, and not discover immediately that this vertigo of space in reality stands for the vertigo of time.’  And at San Juan Bautista, he runs beneath the arches of the plaza at the Mission, just as Madeleine does when she runs toward her death, and re-imagines Scottie as ‘time’s fool of love, finding it impossible to live with memory without falsifying it, inventing a double for Madeleine in another a dimension of time, a zone that would belong only to him….’ 

Christian François Bouche-Villeneuve (1921-2012) was the Ulysses of the twentieth century, carrying a camera on his shoulder just as the cunning voyager of antiquity once carried an oar, searching for a place to settle.  Like Ulysses himself, the flâneurial M. Marker was a part of all that he had met in his travels from Siberia, to Israel, to Cuba, and beyond.

Although his documentaries are justly famous among cinephiles, M. Marker’s best-known work is, paradoxically, his only foray into fiction, the short film La Jetée (1961). Referencing Vertigo both overtly and covertly, it is about a time traveller from post-apocalyptic Paris whose future depends upon him falling in love with an image from his past.  Composed almost entirely of haunting black and white stills, it encapsulates so much of Marker’s unique vision even as it diverges from it.

But Chris Marker is not just a promise of a world to come. Perhaps his physical existence in the era of Hitler, Hiroshima, Castro, and the new Israel is simply a nexus of ideas that reach back and forward in time. Marker is here, with us, but perhaps he is a man of the twenty-second and of the eighteenth centuries. Of course, it is easier to look for men who resemble Marker in our past than estimate where he stands in the future. It is quite possible that he is an ordinary enough fellow in the twenty-second century, for he does not carry himself with the self-importance expected of filmmakers in our present age. His films see nothing exceptional in an inquisitive traveler sending back films about the lands he has seen and the thoughts he has had while there.

—David Thomson, The New Biographical Dictionary of Film

They say that one should never meet the people one admires. That’s relatively easy for me: feeling, like M. Marker, a man adrift in his century, almost every artist I admire is dead; and like dead stars, their fading light calls me back to another century, another time when a man could be ‘cultivated’, and, in expressing himself with cultivation, would not go misunderstood by his contemporaries.

But if I could have met one of the few artists living in my own lifetime whom I admire, I should have liked to have met M. Marker one afternoon in Paris in 2009. His films—not least of all Sans Soleil—influenced me as a writer long before they ever exerted the influence of style upon me as a filmmaker.

Through M. Marker and Sans Soleil, I was introduced to Sei Shōnagon, and through her to Murasaki Shikabu, discovering the pleasures of ancient Japanese literature. Those two ladies, with their proto-flâneurial concern for the small thing, the overlooked incident, the decorous, poetic touch, have exercised as great an influence upon me as a writer as James Joyce and Marcel Proust, and I owe my acquaintance with those ladies entirely to M. Marker.

If I could have met him one afternoon in Paris on that odyssey in flânerie he had, in part, led me to as a film critic and could have thanked him for the introduction, that would have been honour enough.

But when I finally began to make my own videos and, later, films like the one above, when cinema became more than academic for me and I had passed, like MM. Truffaut et Godard, that reverse apprenticeship which only applies in film, from the theory of literary critique to the practice of discovering just how one produces cinematic effects on no budget at all, M. Marker was one of the half-dozen guiding lights for me in personal cinematic style.

L’avenir du cinématographe est à une race neuve de jeunes solitaires qui tourneront en y mettant leur dernier sou et sans se laisser avoir par les routines matérielles du métier.

The future of filmmaking belongs to a new race of young loners who will sink their last penny into shooting without letting themselves be tied down to the worldly routines of work.

—Robert Bresson, Notes sur la cinématographe (my translation)

M. Bresson might there have been describing M. Marker, who maintained a youthful curiosity about the means of multimedia production to the end of his days. Certainly, as I choose to translate it (and there are a couple of ways his typically cryptic koan can be read), M. Bresson is prophetically describing a ‘cinematic dandy’—a broke and quixotic idiosyncrat, rich only in style, who throws himself bodily into the lucre-devouring art-form, living only for it, for the expression of himself through it, willing to pawn the tailored shirt off his back for the expensive element.

If it isn’t clear by now, there’s a fundamental, an essential loneliness in flânerie, a solitude to the practice of the drifting hunt for beauty that cannot be shared, and which thus makes it cognate with the artistic practice of writing. And likewise, the solitude of flânerie makes it as antithetical to the collaborative, compromised and capital-intensive seventh art as literature is.

M. Marker is almost unique among filmmakers in that he took the lonely practice of writing and somehow transferred it to the practice of making a film: all those tedious little chores of detail, divvied up by department because of the sheer, encyclopædic mass of them, M. Marker took upon himself—the absolutely essential ones at least, getting rid of the rest. As Mr. Thomson said, he never allowed himself to become ‘rigidly professional’, and if there is a certain homely quality to his films—even Sans Soleil, an epic of production values by his one-man standards—it is because he took the amateur æsthetic of the home movie, the film-souvenir and made a virtue of the solo effort.

He was truly the auteur of his films, as no other director can quite claim to be. And as a writer, a filmmaker manqué endlessly seduced by images, I respond with fraternal sympathy to this photographer and filmmaker who seemed to be as much in love with words as a writer. Among his many adventures—wartime résistant, Marxist provocateur—M. Marker was briefly a writer after the war, a one-book novelist of no renown—un écrivain manqué, one might say, a poet who just missed his calling, as if he narrowly slipped into one of those Borgesian parallel times depicted in La Jetée.

In the alternate universe we exist in, someone put a camera in his hand instead of a pen, and away the legend of Chris Marker went, our man in Havana, our man in Peking, our man in Siberia and Israel—our man everywhere, a spy behind his Minox, leaving no trace behind him, like a grin without a cat.

The process of making films in communion with oneself, the way a painter works or a writer, need not now be solely experimental. Contrary to what people say, using the first-person in films tends to be a sign of humility: All I have to offer is myself.

—Chris Marker

He’s a constant inspiration to me as both a writer and a filmmaker. Flâneurial cinema is about this lonely, literary détournement du spectacle that is ‘cinema’, so uncultivated an art-form. There are no special effects, nothing but the magick of actuality, of real places undergoing the imperceptible metamorphosis of real time.

It’s about a singular, cultivated sensibility expressing itself in words, images, and sounds, writing with light and movement, but also with stillness, silence, and darkness. And it’s about trying to get cinema to do its opposite, to get that magick kinesis out of mu, out of the ‘nothingness’ of actuality, of unspectacular ‘isness’.

Flâneurial cinema is, therefore, a kind of ‘amateurish maîtrise’ of the elements of cinema—shooting, editing, recording and mounting sound—in such a way as to preserve the homely intimacy, the mono no aware, of memory, some of the ‘roughness’ of a sensation or experience re-membered in a film-souvenir.

For me, M. Marker exemplified, avant la lettre, this concept of flâneurial cinema I have coined, and which I am seeking every time I crouch down behind my camera. We are two artists whose violons d’Ingres are precisely the inverse of each other’s medium of expertise, and in some sense, I feel I am carrying the torch for M. Marker, continuing a project he began naïvely, without self-consciousness, in film, but which requires another, more sentimental soul, a more cerebral and literary mind, to codify as a definite æsthetic and a distinct branch of the art-form we both love.

If you would like to donate a few sous to the film fund and keep me in the expensive element, consider purchasing the soundtrack of “Quelle belle journée!” below.

When I fled Bellingen for Melbourne, making, in one day, the greatest southward bound in my soul’s expansion, crossing a border as yet unmet by my eyes in this lifetime, my heart leapt in intuitive recognition of a place where it thought it might find a new home:  When I first glimpsed Euroa flying by my window on the XPT, I had the brief intimation that here I might refind that paradise of bourgeois bohemia I had, only hours before, reluctantly renounced, fleeing the scene of my longestlasting happiness.

Many times since, shuttling in my aller et retour entre Sydney et Melbourne, I have, beyond Benalla in the one direction, and Seymour in the other, made a point to look out for it, that viaduct over a dusty stream, dapplegladed, which seemed to mark on a map in my mind, the afternoon after my départ de Bellingen, a past in un lieu perdu and a potential avenir, here, which recalled it.

When I had, for the first time, the opportunity to alight at this nom de pays which evoked nothing of Ned Kelly for me and everything of Bellingen, I knew—but not at once—my intuition’s error: this place is not that one.  In seeing, one afternoon, a fleeting image of a landscape which reminded me of the one I had left the day before, I was mourning a life I had lately fled, not imagining the future I was flying to.

—Dean Kyte, “On having left, but not yet having arrived”

In my last post on The Melbourne Flâneur, I alluded to my dream of a ‘flâneurial cinema’, a cinema that is, in effect, the poetry of cinema’s prosy vision of life. It’s a topic I’ve touched on in other posts on this vlog, but today I’m going to explain what I mean by ‘flâneurial cinema’ by examining my own practice.

In essence, my concept of flâneurial cinema has its foundations in the famous definition of the term ‘documentary’ as coined by John Grierson. According to Mr. Grierson, a documentary film is ‘the creative treatment of actuality.’

The actualité is, in fact, the primordial cinematic form. It’s the thing that Edison and the Lumière brothers made when they merely pointed their silent movie cameras at some corner of life and started to crank.

No pans, no booms, no dollies, no cuts, no sound. Just the shot. Unscripted, undirected, unacted.

Slavoj Žižek talks about the ‘autonomy’ of cinematic form—and the inescapability of film’s autonomous, plastic form as the unconscious driver of content.

For me, the actualité, the plain, unvarnished shot of life, the least inflected cinematic shot you can get—even down to the absence of sound—the equivalent of a ‘moving photograph’, is the primordial, autonomous form of cinema.

The shot of actuality is the acorn from which the vast tree of cinematic genres has spread its branches. The most absurd—(some crude souls in love with spectacle would say ‘the most sublime’)—shots of CGI kayfabery that Hollywood shovels out to us today as ‘cinema’ would be unimaginable without the primordial shot of actuality. It is the foundation-stone of cinematic language, the shot from which we build the edifice of a film.

And it’s that primordial primitivism, a return to the fertile root of cinema in the plain, unmoving, silent shot of life, that undergirds my style of flâneurial filmmaking. The video essay above—a ‘video essay’ half-shot on Super 8 film—attests to that æsthetic of elemental, poetic revelry in the prose of reality.

In a taped interview conducted by fellow filmmaker Willie Varela in 1980, Paul Sharits discusses his extensive use of Super 8 and … attempts to strike what he considers an optimistic note by raising the topic of the imminent death of not only film but also video. He informs Varela that, within three years, computer-based systems will allow users to ‘image anything,’ with ‘no discs, no nothing. Digital, just a program … High resolution, total control.’ This is a sea change Sharits claims to be ‘waiting for,’ and he declares with confidence, ‘Some day, film and video will be passé, man. But not imaging systems.’ Since Varela still regards Super 8 as his format of choice and video as an inferior alternative, he replies that Sharits’ prognostication ‘sounds terrible,’ because digital imaging is ‘not the same as going out in the world and shooting something.’

—Federico Windhausen, “Assimilating video”, October, Summer 2011, pp. 76-7

The essence of flâneurial cinema is ‘going out in the world and shooting something’—something actual. Going out into the world is going deeper into oneself. The world without is the world within, and the flâneur penetrates the inward labyrinth of his sensibility and maps it by walking the variegated ways of the world with his Ariadne’s thread of film, charting the landmarks of his voyage en retour à soi-même.

In my films and videos, I generally focus on empty space, art and architecture because in these motionless places and landmarks, I continually see the inward image of myself reflected in these externalized symbols of emptiness, stillness, silence and darkness—the self-哀れness of .

In the absence of the human presence, in the absence of movement, in the absence of sound, and even in the absence of light, the things of actuality, these 物の哀れ, have a vivid ‘livingness’ for me, particularly in their contingent interactions with le temps—time, but equally, the weather which does the corrosive work of time.

Flâneurial cinema, in its focus on actuality, is exclusively un cinéma desimages-temps’—of Gilles Deleuze’s time-images: In my films and videos, I’m capturing images of time, not movement, the slow—indeed, almost invisible— movement through time of unmoving things which have a soul and transcendent beauty for me. And, trammelled through the cinematic apparatus of filming and editing, I hope that I bring the transcendent, eternal aspect of the ephemeral things of this world to life once again in my films and videos.

Almost every day for three weeks last April and May, I passed the former Court House in Euroa in my flâneries up and down Binney street. Euroa, as I say in the video essay, had long been a nom de pays with as much significant potential for me as the names of Balbec or Venice had for M. Proust. A fleeting image of it from the train when I had first fled Bellingen for Melbourne fooled my intuition into believing that there I might find another Bellingen, redux.

When finally I had an opportunity to investigate the town, I realized, with some disappointment, that I had been mistaken in that tantalizing whiff of vibe I had got from it en passant. Although it’s a very nice town, with many beautiful buildings of provocative weirdness well-preserved, it hasn’t the bourgeois-bohemian atmosphere of Bello.

One of the more provocatively weird is the Court House, built in 1892, ‘a rare example of a courthouse designed in American Romanesque style,’ as the legend alongside it advises. ‘It is noted for its picturesque massing, the heavy portico with its arched entry and the large bulls-eye vent over the portico.’

Euroa Court House, Binney street, morning.  Photographed by Dean Kyte.  Shot on Kodak Ektar 100. Shutter speed: 1,000. Aperture: f.6.8. Focal range: 15m.
Euroa Court House, Binney street, morning.
Shot on Kodak Ektar 100. Shutter speed: 1,000. Aperture: f.6.8. Focal range: 15m.

I recognized it as a landmark in my consciousness, though of what I could not say. But the image of it—that mass of red bricks, the yellow leaves of the linden weeping in dishabille before it, the green bench fencing off the linden on three sides, the red-and-white poteaux marking the school crossing and rhyming vividly with the red bricks and white trim of the Court House behind them—somehow this sunny image of stillness, silence, and emptiness, this sanctuary of restful attente before the halls of the law, with its unblinking bull’s eye, kept calling out to me as the complex of some thought, or dream, or memory as I passed it.

Perhaps, in retrospect, as I suggest in the Super 8 images of the aspects of the Court House façade, and its spatial relations with tree, benches, poteaux—images which came to me, pre-cut, in my mind, in the order you see them monté in the essay—it is the image of the sanctuary I sought—le nouveau Bello—but didn’t ultimately find in Euroa.

Even now I can’t be certain what relation the images I shot of the Court House that morning and the words I felt compelled to write immediately afterwards—the first draft of the short essay I narrate over those images in the film—had for me, unless I was unconsciously channelling some complex of thought, dream, or memory which the image of the Court House evoked and educed from me.

The smaller filmstrips of Super 8 were more difficult to edit than 16mm … but many reconfigured this supposed limitation as an opportunity to edit in camera and subsequently compared this aspect of 8mm production to ‘a kind of writing with the camera’ or ‘sketchbook cinema’.

—Windhausen (2011, p. 74)

This, too, is a crucial aspect of flâneurial cinema: in its focus on images of time rather than images of movement, it is, perforce, un cinéma littéraire.

Many have been the occasion on this vlog where I have hammered the point (as I do with my clients) that writing is the algebra of thought. M. Truffaut spoke of ‘le caméra-stylo’, the camera as a pen, and the director as the ‘auteur’ of his film. We speak of ‘cinematography’ as ‘writing with movement’, just as we speak of ‘photography’ as ‘writing with light’, the implication being that certain ‘graphic’ manifestations of cognition are better transcribed and translated with the visual lexicography of images than the hieroglyphs of words.

The embodied act of flânerie is of a consciousness moving through a spatio-temporal environment, the external world of Nature, observing the refracted ephemera of time and space, as M. Baudelaire said, like ‘un kaléidoscope doué de conscience’ (a kaleidoscope endowed with consciousness).

In Super 8, we have a viewing medium capable of kaleidoscopic colour and abstraction—just compare the backup shots I took with my trusty Olympus Stylus, flat, digital, prosy, to the poetic, psychedelic world of impressionistic blues, reds, whites, yellows, and greens in the Vision3 footage. It’s the same place viewed from the same setups, but the actuality of the world is gloriously transformed.

Digital is prose. Writing with Super 8 is poetry.

As it turned out, when I got the developed and digitized Vision3 footage back from nano lab in Daylesford and fed those shots into the mock-up edit I had made with the digital footage, just to see how that Super 8 montage I had seen in my mind might play, the contrast in textures between two modes of seeing—the prose of digital versus the poetry of film—made both sets of actualités worth preserving in the same piece.

The result is a ‘fildeo’, a ‘vilm’, some film/video hybrid for which there is no name other than the one I have given it:—‘flâneurial cinema’, a type of filmmaking, a type of videography couched in that primordial root of mechanical vision, the greatest special effect I know of, the quotidian miracle of the actualité.

There was a time, right at the dawn of cinema, when the poetry of the prosy actualité was enough to inspire wonder and awe. Maxim Gorky wrote a memorable essay—itself a poem in prose—on his first encounter with the Lumières’ cinématographe in 1896, “Last night I was in the kingdom of shadows”. It must surely rank with De Quincey’s and Huxley’s reports of psychedelic experience as one of literature’s great dispatches from an altered state.

Admittedly, the great man’s reaction to his flâneuristic ‘trip’ was one of mingled fascination and horror at this ‘grey world’ where the boulevards of Paris teemed with ghosts in a silent frenzy, but still, fascination and horror count as wonder and awe.

Seventy years after Gorky’s surreal dérive grâce aux frères Lumière, Jean-Paul Sartre called the spectacle of cinema ‘les délires d’une muraille’—the frenzy on the wall. By then, the actualité had been subsumed and assimilated as backdrop and pick-up shot into the manifold ramifications of generic cinematic fictions.

But the phrase, as a summation of what le septième art is, au fond, is a telling one: The frenetic delirium of actuality and the wall upon which it madly batters itself in simulation, trying to break out of the screen and into our actuality, are both key to defining what cinema ‘is’.

In our ‘post-cinematic’ era—cinema strictly defined as a palpable artefact shot on film—the tendency among moving image-makers is to use the term ‘filmmaker’ rather too loosely to describe their visual productions.

Certainly, I was guilty of that sin for many years. But, when I first got into Super 8, I became deeply conscious of the difference between videography, between shooting and editing a moving image artefact in the low-risk, low-cost, completely abstractive environment of digital screens, one which has no life as an artefact but on digital screens, and filmmaking pur-sang.

The discipline is altogether different, more rigorous, and once you’ve gotten into film, it brings a whole other sensibility of rigour and care even to your videographic productions.

In his essay “The Concept of the Mental Screen: The Internalized Screen, the Dream Screen, and the Constructed Screen” (2016), Roger Odin of the Université Paris III suggests that in this era of ‘post-cinema’, we carry the construct of cinema within us: whatever ‘ceremony’ is associated with the theatrical experience of ‘going to the movies’ and confronting that frenzy on the wall is now purely internalized.

Even if a film is shot on film, the strip of celluloid itself is almost useless. It’s what M. Odin calls an ‘operator’, an object that requires a device, a ‘modem’ in fact, to modulate and demodulate the signal written on the celluloid in a way that is legible by our eyes and brain.

We’re now surrounded by a plethora of such devices. We don’t need, as Maxim Gorky did in 1896, to be in a specific space for the modulation encoded by the cinématographe to be decoded by it onto a wall. That experience—the most purely cinematic of all possible cinematic experiences—is what M. Odin defines as an ‘exclusive rigid connector’—a ‘connector’ being, in his parlance, the device-mediated relationship we, as viewers, have with the multitude of spaces in which cinema occurs.

The projection of a movie in a dark room, the time prescribed of a more or less collective screening, became and remains the unique experience of perception and memory defining the spectator and that any other situation more or less alters. That alone can be called ‘cinema.’

—Raymond Bellour, as cited in Odin (2016, p. 178)

We now carry in our pockets devices analogous to the same elegant design of the Lumières’ cinématographe, capable of both shooting a moving image in one environment and projecting it on a screen in another—or even in the same environment a moment later. Contrary to M. Bellour’s contention, whatever is artistically unique about the experience of cinema is now a kind of ‘portable caliphate’ we evoke and enact within ourselves.

This is the condition of the ‘inclusive rigid connector’, which does not exclude all possible environmental permutations of viewing other than a darkened, chair-filled box ergonomically designed for the optimal accomplishment of a collective screening. The nature of inclusion, M. Odin says, is that a ‘mental cinema screen encompasses and erases the physical space’ surrounding the spectator.

The relationship of connection to this imagined cinema space still remains rigid, as in the traditional, exclusive relationship, because in this internalization of the monolithic cinema screen ‘the spectator makes the effort to mentally force the physical communication space to mimic the cinema space, even in conditions that might first seem incompatible with the cinema experience’.

As a writer, I like precise definitions of words. Along with M. Bellour, I would be quite willing to dismiss the hand-wavy notion that anything other than cinema pur-sang could possibly be ‘cinema’ if it weren’t for the fact that I am neither a digital native nor someone who did all their growing-up before the choking empire of digital screens overran our environment.

But if I am not a ‘digital native’ pur-sang but, rather, one of the first colonists to establish a beachhead in the realm of the digital environment, I am, like all my readers, a native of the world of screens, of which the monolithic cinema screen is the first invader, the conqueror of our impressionable sensibilities, and still the Emperor.

As someone who actually has memories of growing up mostly in an analogue world, and for whom the exclusive rigid connective experience of cinema pur-sang is not a curious anachronism on the bill of fare of media consumption but the Emperor of all moving visual media, I can attest that there are certainly generational differences between screen natives.

The most ‘native’ of these generations born in an era of translucent boxes which surround them, and which are projected, mentally, from the tiny screens in their hands as they walk, are those for whom the computer and the mobile phone were not late-coming novelties when they were already on the threshold of adulthood, but an abstractive environment which was already the environment in which their childhood development took place.

Their lack of a sense of ‘privacy’—indeed, their rejection of the entire notion of privacy—stems from an ontological sense that a screen is not something to shield someone from the gaze of the world but something upon which you actively project the persona of your ego.

We children of the Cold War, like our most purely filmic, pre-televisual ancestors, went to the cinema as to a confessional, to indulge our dreams and phantasies in the privacy of darkness. The great god ‘Screen’ equally boxed us up in our private booths as much as brought us together in communion.

But the post-Millennial generations live in such a mediated relationship to Nature that media is their environmental medium:—they live in their screens. They are naked in their tents, and their tents are made of glass.

Super 8, as a medium of cinema, while it is clearly filmic, with all the æsthetic autonomy that comes along with the plastic film form, thus satisfying my criterion of what is cinematic, clearly does not fit with M. Bellour’s. Indeed, it falls awkwardly among M. Odin’s needlessly nice taxonomy of mental cinemas.

As Super 8 is not generally intended for theatrical exhibition, it is not an exclusive rigid connector, and by M. Bellour’s definition, would not even be classed as ‘cinema’, despite being an artefact of film.

Yet, by M. Odin’s definition of the inclusive rigid connector, Super 8 still ‘aims at preserving the specificity of the “cinema” experience, [although] here the spectator makes the effort to mentally force the communication space to mimic the cinema space’.

This was certainly the case for Super 8 in its classic usage as a convenient small-gauge format for home movies. The object operator (the fifty-foot reel of celluloid itself) was fed into a projecting device in domestic circumstances, a darkened living room with loosely arranged chairs that imperfectly mimicked M. Bellour’s pure cinema experience.

In Les Structures de l’expérience filmique (1969), published at the height of Super 8’s popularity, Belgian psychologist Jean-Pierre Meunier used the term ‘film-souvenir’ to describe the type of domestic cinema we, in English, call ‘home movies’. But the translation is deceptive. As Marie-Aude Baronian puts it in her essay “Remembering Cinema: On the film-souvenir (2019), the term would more accurately describe ‘a film that addresses an object that is existent and known; in other words, the opposite of a fiction film’.

To put it in still other words, the film-souvenir is a kind of actualité, but one that ‘looks beyond the image, to the person-in-general that it depicts, in order to produce and maintain his existence even during the screening’.

… Meunier’s term ‘refers to films made for private purposes, with the goal of acting as a keepsake or record of an event in the individual’s life, such as weddings, vacations, family gatherings, etc.’ …

The hyphen indicates the closeness and dynamic relationship between souvenir and film and, in so doing, accentuates the value and motif of film as a mnemonic device.

—Baronian (2019, p. 224)

This is certainly far from M. Bellour’s narrow conception of cinema. M. Meunier, en revanche, sees the kind of domestic filmic productions for which Kodak designed Super 8 as ‘mnemonic tools’ or ‘remembering machines’.

The notion of film-souvenir also surpasses its formal and cultural dimensions to become, as it were, the consciousness of cinema itself [my emphasis].

I wonder if the film-souvenir is not solely in the attitude of the spectator, but, as it were, in the attitude of cinema tout court. It is as though the film-souvenir epitomizes, in a sort of media-archeological fashion, the emergence of filmic practices (including proto-cinematic ones) and the numerous practices that pervade the digital age. In that case, could the film-souvenir not be the zero degree of cinematic practice; one that reminds us that, beyond the desire to comprehend (documentary) and to participate (fiction), film is an ongoing search for something or someone that is no more or, at the very least, ‘out of focus’?

—Baronian (2019, pp. 224, 225)

Super 8, therefore, is ‘a medium of memory’, a type of cinema that isn’t capital-C ‘Cinema’, in M. Bellour’s sense, but goes far beyond the traditional cinematic experience to evoke, as in a séance, the living spirit of people who might even be in the same room with us as we watch the film, to re-member them, to reconstitute their living presence in time, just as our memory does.

As Meunier writes: ‘We “play” at believing in this presence, but we never get there since we are always aware of the absence of the other’ (p. 122). And he adds: ‘In the home-movie attitude, our behavior consists of a vain effort to “presentify” the object, an attempt to enter into the intersubjective relations with other people, which necessarily leads to disappointment’ (p.123). This type of identification entails a vain effort to induce a presence that ‘remains irremediably out of our grasp’ (p. 124).

—Baronian (2019, p. 221)

In some sense, my narration in the video essay above serves this purpose: I evoke an invisible place (Bellingen) through a visible one (Euroa). The photo-poetic suggestion is of similarity, analogy; and yet both image and, ultimately, words conclude, with some disappointment, that one is not the other, that the images on the screen are not even similar to the place of memory. The triumph of finally seeing and shooting a place I have long desired to visit ends in Mme. Baronian’s ‘sense of failure’ as I recognize that I do not see in Euroa what I had thought that I might see there.

The film-souvenir, the memory written in moving images, on celluloid, across time, is an interstitial, hybrid space in M. Odin’s taxonomy of mental screen worlds where Super 8, as the pre-eminent medium of memory, would appear to neatly fit, as in its natural niche.

Even if Super 8 exemplifies the cinematic attitude ‘tout court’, as theatrical products, Super 8 films have the ‘para-cinematic’ existence of inclusive rigid connectors, and an apparatus of what M. Odin calls ‘pragmatic introducers’, deliberate interventions designed to replicate the theatrical experience as much as possible in the conceptual screen space, are required to give them even the similitude of being capital-C ‘Cinema’, or ‘cinematic’.

Mme. Baronian’s apprehension of this ‘cinematic attitude tout court’ makes it clear that the caliphate of cinema extended far beyond the experience of sitting in a purpose-built viewing box long before the digital revolution diffused the cinematic experience across multiple platforms, formats, and media. It’s clear, also, that if what Mr. Windhausen terms an ‘anti-artisanal’ small-gauge film format designed for informal home exhibition carries within its tiny celluloid windows ‘the consciousness of cinema itself’—all the higher cognitive capacities of thought and ideation, of dream and memory, in visual form—then the locus of ‘Cinema’—its Mecca—does not really reside in the Kaaba of the purpose-built viewing box.

As a form of actualité, the film-souvenir of Super 8 is the acorn from which cinema, as a means of poetic visual cognition, spreads its branches. And its take-up by artists and experimental filmmakers from Derek Jarman to Guy Maddin indicates that this ‘intimate’, ‘domestic’ form of moviemaking, which has, at best, a tangential relationship with ‘Cinema’, possesses an intrinsic æsthetic of its own that, paradoxically, goes right to the very heart of ‘what cinema is’ as a device for remembering actuality.

… [T]he compact cameras of … Super 8 …, machines small enough to be used often in everyday life, are seen as altering the look of the pro-filmic world in a manner analogous to distillations and distortions of memory.

—Windhausen (2011, p. 76)

It isn’t ‘Cinema’, and yet Super 8 is the essence of cinema: it is the mental screen made actual. This humble medium of memory is the Caliph of the conceptual caliphate of cinema. It’s the stone that the DeMillian builders of ‘Cinema’ refused, but which has subsequently become the cornerstone of the edifice of cinema in its true, poetic function as a ‘remembering machine’, just as, for M. Proust, Swann, the dubious Jew, forms the cornerstone of his own monumental machine of memory.

In its original filmic function, under home-theatrical conditions, Super 8 might be considered an inclusive rigid connector, but it might equally be what M. Odin terms an inclusive flexible connector, in that the mediation of the space around the mental screen in the living room ‘aims at doing everything to preserve our cinema enjoyment, including intervening into the physical viewing space and the cinema space itself.’

But we’re no longer watching Super 8 film in conditions which seek to evoke, even in an ersatz manner, the theatrical conditions of a cinema for which it was never commercially intended: the medium itself, these days, prohibits this. I shot the video essay above on Vision3, a film-stock that has been expressly designed by Kodak as a colour negative film, with the intention that it will not be projected but instead transferred straight to a digital format.

Thus, with my own ‘films’—films on the digital video formats of WMV, or MP4, or MOV—a potential flexible connector is introduced into the experiential mix, one at the discretion of the individual viewer. And I know from my stats on Vimeo that most people who watch my ‘films’ view them on computer screens, mobile phones, and tablets.

These viewers have it within their own power to make the inclusive connector of their experiential relationships with my films as rigid or as flexible as they want or their technology of the moment permits.

M. Odin defines the open connector as one where ‘viewers enjoy, without asking themselves too many questions, the different ways of watching a movie on the various screens available to them’. And, indeed, one could say that the digital video after-life of films like mine, which are shot on Super 8 but can never be screened as a film in a pseudo-theatrical setting, now enables us to have an ‘open connector’ experience with the object operator of the film, one where the multiplicity of potential viewing formats is accepted by spectators as a natural assumption of the environment of screens.

Super 8, it seems to me, as a filmic medium of cinema, an object operator which demands multiple mediations and interventions to view it—and even invites them—is the ultimate mental screen space.

It’s film that was never intended to be ‘cinema’ in M. Bellour’s purist definition of the word, and yet, whether projected in the domestic, communal setting of the home theatre or given a digital after-life on a palm-sized screen, the object operator of Super 8 still retain film’s plastic, æsthetic autonomy of form.

As such, it’s a type of cinema that exists purely in the mind, in conceptual space, in the imaginary cinema of living room or digital screen, and it’s perfectly adapted to its interstitial, liminal condition of film as both physical artefact and digital artefact.

Although Super 8 is technically a device operator, an operator which requires a projecting device to demodulate the signal registered on those tiny 8mm squares, the mere object operator of the film, its status as a physical artefact, is now so uncommon in our abstracted, digital media environment as to make it a fetishistic ‘device’.

To preserve its heritage, the ‘family’ institution has used, throughout history, various operators: graves, chapels, sculptures, painted portraits, medallions, fetish objects (hair strands, menus, candied almonds) that are displayed under a glass dome in the living room or bedroom, or captured on sound recording, photography, film (16mm, 9.5, 8, super 8), analog then digital video. These operators can be classified into two categories: operators with the status of objects (they are there, present, visible to everyone) and operators whose function requires the use of a device that allows them to produce meaning and affects (without this device they communicate nothing). This distinction seems essential to me in order to understand what happened to home movies.

In the early years of cinema, people kept emphasising the benefits of this technology compared to photography. In its issue dated December 30th 1885, the newspaper La Poste wrote: ‘When these devices [film cameras] will be available to the public, when everyone will be able to photograph their loved ones, not in their immobile form, but in their movements, in their actions, in their familiar gestures, with words on their lips, death will cease to be absolute.’

—Odin (2019, p. 180)

As that quotation from La Poste makes evident, the collective consciousness of the cinematic time-image, the significance of cinema as a device for remembering the dead moment, the actuality that can no longer be seen in actuality, was present fully ten years—almost to the very day—before the Lumière brothers inaugurated the first cinematic experience, the first cinematic ‘happening’ of actualités, at the Grand Café in Paris.

To a far greater extent than the photo, the home movie, by means of the life that movement confers on it, is conducive to inducing a high degree of nostalgia, regret, or other sentiments in us.

—Meunier, as cited in Baronian (2019, p. 226)

The simulacrum of life in cinema is really dead, a memento mori, a reminder of death, and thus movement, in this view, makes every image a time-image.

For me, part of the appeal of getting back to cinema’s roots, even in a deeply modified, hybrid fashion, is that, despite the uselessness of the Super 8 film itself for projecting through a device, there is some physical artefact of the art should the digital artefact succumb to death by decommission, by format change, and not survive.

Moreover, as I was getting to the end of my fifty-foot cartridge of Vision3, having got all the shots of the Court House, the tree and the bench which I had envisioned as a preassembled montage in my mind, I saw that there were still maybe ten or twenty seconds left on the reel, a few feet and frames with which I could grab a quick shot of myself sitting on the bench I had filmed, empty, in front of the Euroa Court House—which image you can see in the thumbnail of the video above.

In quite a miraculous shot I didn’t plan and couldn’t predict, bathed in the beautiful shadows of Super 8, hovering between colourful sunlight and deep shade, ‘a bright blot / Upon this gloomy scene’, there is my silhouette, recognizable yet rendered almost invisible by the shadows, as vague and yet as human as a figure on a cave wall at Lascaux.

In other words, on the fetish object of the film itself, there are a few feet in which I exist in longevity, if not perpetuity; for film, despite its fragility, is still a more robust and enduring medium than digital. And again, M. Odin’s classifications break down when it comes to Super 8, for the operator, in this instance, is both object and device: without the enlarging, projecting device, that little sign of me severally repeated at the end of the fifty-foot reel, like a signature on the artwork, will be difficult to see with the naked eye. But even if the last Super 8 projector in the world perishes before that reel of film does, I will still be barely visible on the object of the film itself.

M. Odin is conscious of this problem, the fallacy inherent in the statement made by La Poste, for while a separate projecting device is required to optimally view the object operator, the figure of a loved one inscribed on a sliver of film does not bring him or her back to life. Death continues to be absolute, and the image of the loved one’s movements a time-image.

The solution to this, he proposes, is the ‘dream screen’, a device operator ‘that one can hold in one’s hand, watch as long as one likes, as many times as one likes, alone or with others, a screen that one can carry around, that one can keep with oneself at all times’.

In essence, the dream screen collapses, as the early cinématographe did, image-capture and image-projection into one device, and in the digital after-life of Super 8, where images shot on film can only be screened as ‘videos’, the fetishistic dream screens we port on our persons would appear to square the circle of the object/device problem.

My films and videos are made for this ‘dream screen’: in the last financial year, 39% of all the views of my videos on Vimeo came from either mobile or tablet devices, and the curious thing I’ve observed in the last year and a half is that mobile and tablet viewers tend to be more engaged when viewing my works on these smaller dream screens than desktop or television application viewers.

But beyond the quantifiable stats, the flâneurial cinema of my films and videos are adapted to this diffuse, miniature medium, this conceptual cinema one ports with oneself and imaginatively imposes, by an act of will, upon the environment, because the æsthetic of dreams, of memories, of ideas, of altered states, of abstract, conceptual space informs all my art as a writer and as a filmmaker.

My œuvre is itself native to this conceptual caliphate of a purely ‘mental cinema’, for, in some sense, the mental cinema is a literary space. And similarly, the writing of Alain Robbe-Grillet, the only novelist to successfully establish a second career for himself as a filmmaker, imitates the imagistic and the cinematic, the sense of framing, tracking, panning and cutting, of the contiguity of literary ideas-as-images, and their Eisensteinian disjunction in dialectic with each other.

One might say, with respect to M. Odin’s argument, that the conceptual cinema of the mental screen is, to use André Gide’s term, a ‘mise-en-abyme’, a set of nested frames, and that the variety of introducers and connectors—the media and devices and ‘frames’ by which we screen films—also places them in this reduplicated, recursive dimension of the dream, the memory, the idea, the altered state, which is the abstract, conceptual, eminently literary space.

Carrying our cinema(s) about with ourselves in our va et vient as portable dream screens, we lead ‘framed’ lives, and M. Odin calls this the ‘constructed screen’, whereby the in-built cinematic apparatus of framing, zooming and panning which are features and affordances of our tablets and mobile phones constructs a kind of ‘cubist’ relationship with the external world of Nature.

We frame it by cutting it up into little squares; we frame others, and we frame ourselves in selfies.

… [T]he mobile phone works both as an optical filter (with the zoom it becomes a sort of ‘cultural series’ of prisms, lenses, distorting mirrors, etc.) and as a frame that, as emphasized by Laurent Jenny, violates reality by coercing it. The physical screen is the place of a construction that transforms its into a mental screen leading the viewer to see the world through the pictorial space.

—Odin (2019, p. 182)

Similarly, in experimenting with a dual analogue/digital shooting strategy, as I did in the video essay above, using the latter as ‘backup’ and seeking to emulate in digital the setup of the Super 8 camera as closely as possible, the 4:3 aspect ratio of Super 8 ‘coerces’ actuality to conform to a tighter frame of vision and, consequently, a narrower frame of memory, which, as you can see in the digital sections of the video, the wider aspect ratio of digital more ‘objectively’ expands.

This is to say that the autonomous plastic form of Super 8, the narrowness and constriction of the gauge, acts as much as the impressionistic artifacting of the photo-chemical medium to induce these ‘distillations and distortions’ of vision that are analogous to memory. The narrower aspect ratio is like the constricted diaphragm of our concentrated, microscopic vision on some small corner of actuality we wish to preserve to memory, and which, whenever we seek to re-evoke it, to re-member it, running it through the projector in our mind, we distort and make less clear, gathering more dust and scratches on the positive which obscure the belovèd image.

M. Odin cites my belovèd maître, M. Proust, who made the field of memory his literary empire, and who, in several passages of À la recherche du temps perdu, presents a proto-cinematic, cubistic vision of the external world of Nature, such as the famous approach to Martinville, with its church spires which seem to move across the landscape, or, as in M. Odin’s example, the vision of Balbec severally framed, as on a strip of film, through the dawn-flooded windows of a train carriage.

As M. Proust’s always à propos impressions of the external world make clear, the act of sensitive observation is itself a framing device. Having read one of his memorable analogies, one never sees a thing in the external world of Nature quite the same way again. The moon will always be an actress before her entrance, a box at the theatre an aquarium, a long-distance phone call a propitiation of the Danaids. In making the field of memory his sovereign literary empire, he too induces the altered state. He too creates an abstract, conceptual space in which, as in a dream, things with no obvious relation metaphorically ‘rhyme’ with one another in a way we instantly recognize as a ‘true’ perception of the latent nature of reality, however extravagant M. Proust’s juxtapositions may seem.

Framing is not just simple observation: the screen is a mental operator, a filter that produces distance and changes the perception of reality as it introduces points of reference (the edges of the frame) that lead us to build relationships that do not exist in reality.

Very often, this process is coupled with a will to communicate. … All photographers and filmmakers know this: framing means choosing a ‘view’ on the world and transmitting it to the viewer.

—Odin (2016, p. 183)

And moreover, the self-conscious act of photographic or cinematic ‘framing’ which attends this diffuse, democratic, conceptual cinema reflects, as M. Odin states, ‘a will to transform the world into an aesthetic space’.

This is precisely the dearest existential desire of the dandy-flâneur, that quixotic résistant to the anti-human horror of decadent, late-capitalistic modernity. And failing—as we must do—in our vision to reform the world except through the personal vision of Art, we pedestrian men of fashion turn our pathological desire for ‘a world of Truth and Beauty’ upon the only thing in this landscape of wreckage, ruination and horror we can reform and make an æsthetic object—the object operator of ourselves, a screen upon which we project our civilized ideal of the world.

I have not quite made up my mind whether M. Proust, famously elegant as he was, could be legitimately considered either a dandy or a flâneur, let alone the two combined. Phillip Mann, in his book The Dandy at Dusk: Taste and Melancholy in the Twentieth Century (2018), is also undecided on this score, although he suggests that the Proustian Recherche, while not being a dandy novel in the manner of Disraeli, Bulwer-Lytton, or Huysmans, takes full account of the panoply of techniques the dandy employs to æstheticize his life.

M. Proust, in other words, constructs a conceptual persona, ‘Marcel’, le Narrateur, as carefully as the dandy constructs his image. The Narrateur is the dream screen—or the magic lantern, in M. Proust’s case—upon which he projects the image of his own life, rarefied through memory—which is to say, through the creative treatment of actuality.

And if I grant that the technique of æsthetic reconstitution in the Recherche is dandistic, I would add that M. Proust’s ambulatory technique, full of asides off the Guermantes way or the way by Swann’s, the two paths of social progress which direct his neophyte’s journey to the heights of Parisian fashion, is eminently flâneuristic in both design and execution.

The dandy, as Hr. Mann tells us, is a modern Narcissus, and in a world of screens where these operator objects/devices are now used to project rather than to shield the ego, to project a vision of the persona, often unreflecting, often un-self-aware, which we more and more often call ‘narcissistic’, into conceptual space, wherein lies the difference between Narcissus, the dandy in love with his own unattainable Ideal of Personality, which he nevertheless strives to gather into himself in the transcendent image of Art, and narcissist, the bourgeois consumer of images who is in thrall to his or her own selfie?

The matter is a delicate one, but the distinction, I think, lies in this: As I said at the beginning when I spoke of flâneurial cinema as ‘going out into the world and shooting something’, the dandistic gaze, paradoxically, is turned outward on the world, as I think M. Proust gives monumental and consistent proof of doing across 3,000 pages in his Recherche for himself.

Narcissus finds his image mirrored back to him in the Truth and Beauty of the external world of Nature—evanescent, barely (or rarely) graspable, but out there, somewhere, in some transcendent platonic image of what the world—and life—can be like on the best days of flâneuristic æsthetic investigation.

The narcissist, on the other hand, is completely self-regarding and incurious about the external world of Nature, which is merely a backdrop that ‘frames’ his or her selfie. Existing in a totally artificial, conceptual environment of screens, the narcissist is trapped in a self-referential mise-en-abyme of psychosis.

It is only by a creative treatment of actuality, by getting out of oneself and going out into the world and shooting something—some external object in Nature that is real, and tangible, and actual, one that stands as a landmark and a symbol in the inner landscape of the filmmaker—that we escape the abysmal, recursive psychosis which the artificial environment of screens has induced in us.

… Narcissus is not completely without object. The object of Narcissus is psychic space; it is representation itself, fantasy. … If he knew it he would be an intellectual, a creator of speculative fiction, an artist, a writer, psychologist, psychoanalyst.

—Judith Butler (as cited in Mann, 2018, pp. 255-7)

Or a filmmaker.

Going out into the world and shooting something is going deeper into oneself. The world without is the conceptual space of the mental screen, as M. Odin has shown us. The images we choose to crop and frame and subject to the process of ‘cinema’ are very much self-portraits of our own vision and sensibility.

And in the hybrid way in which I manipulate film form, through the abstractive tools of digital media, I am very much seeking a rapprochement with cinematic ‘content’.

Any personal vision in contemporary moviemaking must now come solely from its content, not its form.

—Scott Stark, as cited in Windhausen (2011, p. 72)

But if, as Mr. Windhausen says, ‘for film, the experiment is over’, and the personal vision now lies in the content of a film, not its form, I would argue, as Slavoj Žižek does, that the autonomous, plastic form of film itself, in this conceptually exhausted space, is cinematic ‘content’, an assimilated trope or device of the medium in the conceptual caliphate of cinema(s).

I’m very much of the view that digital media exert such preponderant countervailing resistance to artistic manipulation that the enormous breadth of affordances in digital media negates personal vision.

But I’m a writer, an artist raised in an analogue era and educated in the most analogue and conceptual art forms. I think, by contrast to many artists embracing the digital far less cautiously than I, that my personal æsthetic, what I call the ‘Ideal of Personality’ which manifests itself, for an artist, as his intrinsic sensibility and style, has been sufficiently cultivated by the rugged self-reliance that analogue media, such as the humble pen and typewriter, engendered, the ability and the necessity to cognitively conceptualize and execute the literary work of art for oneself, that I bring a countervailing resistance to digital media’s resistance to manipulation, and that my manipulations of cinematic form ultimately produce ‘content’.

If, as I said at the beginning, flâneurial cinema is a ‘literary’ cinema, then by my definition of writing as the algebra of human thought, flâneurial cinema is a continuation of that cognitive activity, a writing of thoughts, ideas, dreams and memories, inward, altered states in a conceptual space of images composed of the external world of Nature.

There is, therefore, an external object which the dandy-flâneur seeks to represent in the conceptual space, the dream screen upon which he represents himself. We call this external object ‘style’, or ‘artistic vision’: we recognize the independently verifiable world of the senses refracted through the peculiar lens of some subjective mode of seeing, the writer’s unique manner of laying words on the page in such a way as to build up the densest representation of the external world as inward conceptual space.

It is the world, but not as we have seen it before, a world of rare Truth and Beauty, and we see it mirrored, reflected in the elegant sensibility of the artistic dandy, who shows us, as much in his own person as in his artistic productions, his ideal what the world could be.

I’ve found my style as a filmmaker, and it lies in the same dandistic, flâneurial style that undergirds my writing. In the void of emptiness, stillness, silence, and darkness, in images of the external world that reflect the self-哀れness of 無, I continually see the Narcissus-portrait of myself, my inner world, writ large.

Thus, as a screen native at the cusp of the analogue/digital divide, if there is a ‘projection of the self’ in my flâneurial films and videos, it is one where the image of the external world is turned inside out and made into a mental landscape.

Every film and video I shoot is a selfie of some kind, even if the human form—(least of all my own)—never appears in it. In my flâneurial cinema of actualités taken of empty spaces, from which I rip the recorded location sound and substitute for it my own cobbled-together soundscapes, I forge a psychic space which reflects my inward vision of outward things in a creative treatment of actuality.

I create cloistered worlds, artificial paradises of dream, memory, idea, altered state and conceptual space which give an outward representation in images and sounds of the perfect world, the Ideal Image of a World of Truth and Beauty within myself, which I hope I reflect in myself, in my person, and in all my artistic productions.

The dandy invents nothing. It is reality that is rendered artificial. Abstract dreams inspired by memory unfold from a position that seems already to be impervious to time. The dandy has a past but no future. …. While the dandy per se confines himself within the tragic world of Narcissus when he employs his æsthetic memory in the cultivation of his own person, the writer-dandy and by extension the director-dandy are arguably in a privileged position as they can apply their ideals to the limitless realm of fiction. The latter even has the potential to fulfil the depressive’s ultimate dream, the creation of a hermetic, artificial and complete world in accordance with his own highly individual ideal of beauty, his specific tastes….

—Mann (2018, pp. 257-8)

If you’d like to keep me in Super 8 film, you can purchase the soundtrack to the video essay below for $A2.00 via Bandcamp. It’s an expensive hobby, and I’m planning to put out more Super 8-based content this year on The Melbourne Flâneur vlog, so all your support will be greatly appreciated.

In this poetic video essay, Dean Kyte explores film scholar Vivian Sobchack’s concept of ‘lounge time’.

‘[Vivian] Sobchack builds on Bakhtin’s salon chronotope to identify the cocktail lounge and/or nightclub as a key film noir setting. What emerges in Sobchack’s analysis is the “lounge time” chronotope, which incorporates such public but anonymous sites as the cocktail lounge, the nightclub, the hotel room, the diner, the roadside café, and the motel. In contrast to the respectable domestic spaces of the home, these sites of aimless time and transient space give rise to louche characters and particular sets of, often criminal, activities.’

—Douglas McNaughton, “‘The Great Game’: Grids and Boxes in Cold War Screen Spaces” (2019)

Double Indemnity dramatizes this distancing from and yet reflection upon the nature of ordinary experience…. For anthropologists like [Victor] Turner, the characteristic cultural performance is ritual, in which participants find themselves on the border between “secular living and sacred living,” in a “limbo that was not any place they were before and not any place they would be in”…. Double Indemnity evokes a secular limbo. Walter and Phyllis, to use the term popularized by Turner, find themselves in a liminal social space, defined by its bordering engagement with contradictory social spaces…. Within this paradoxical space, the ordinary forms of everyday living are shown by Walter and Phyllis as what they always already are, that is, performances whose authenticity is by definition in question.’

—R. Barton Palmer, “The Divided Self and the Dark City: Film Noir and Liminality” (2007)

‘You have just met a woman, you are inches away from the greatest sex of your life, but within six weeks of meeting the woman, you will be framed for a crime you did not commit and you will end up in the gas chamber, and as they strap you in and you’re about to breathe the cyanide fumes, you’ll be grateful for the few weeks you had with her and grateful for your own death.’

—James Ellroy, Film Noir: Bringing Darkness to Light (2006)

Lounge time is this ‘liminal social space’, a limbo where the secular acquires, via the gloss of the sexual, a patina of the sacred.  In the chapel of the cocktail lounge, with its soft lighting (softened further still by the fog of cigarette smoke and dulled edges of drink), the social rituals of pickup transform an ordinary bar of chromium, zinc and glass (materials which, in the kaleidoscopic contrivance of their multiple reflectivities, dramatize ‘this distancing from and yet reflection upon the nature of ordinary experience’) into a site like Walker Percy’s ‘wonder’, an oasis outside of space and time, a place the noir man and woman were not in before they met, nor any place they will be in après cette rencontre—c’est-à-dire, la scène du crime.

I’ve felt it myself more than once, this quality of lounge time, at bars and pubs in Bellingen and Melbourne when sex seems imminent (and immanent) enough to touch.  It’s an eerie ambiance where the extension of space becomes borgesianly consubstantial with the temporal dimension, and ordinary, slightly tawdry surroundings are transformed, made exotic by the rare encounter with the erotic—which is necessarily dangerous.  Ennui, secular prisonworld apparently without end, makes the noir man a ripe rube for this brief encounter with the exotic erotic, and the familiar tools at the ritual of chasing away ennui, the chalice of glass and the censer of cigarette, are eager assistants at the epiphany of transsubstantiation, casting an aureole of precoital mystery around the noir woman, who condescends, in her own ennui, to allow herself to be seduced.  L’homme fatal equally presents to her a firedoor through which she may flee l’enfer of her embêtements ennuyeux et fâcheux—which are usually consubstantial with some other man she’s bored with or being bothered by.  Thus, this courtly Emil Jannings type presents a distinguished head upon which the maidenly mantis can prey, dispatching one man by chivalrous aid of another who has conveniently chanced across her path.

It is the chance aspect of both Daygame (when played by night in the setting of the bar) and noir, with its character of unremitting, dreary ennui in the unendurable monotonie of ordinary places and days (for the spaces of noir are temporally consubstantial with the experience of time as a jail) that appear eternal and impermeable to chance, which makes the secular transcendence of imminent sex implicit in the experience of lounge time apparently miraculous, ‘merveilleux’, plein with Percy’s wonder.  Luck seems so foreign, alien, foregone, impossible to the characters of noir, and yet the whole néant of the noirniverse is predicated on la malchance et le guignon.  Indeed, the irrationality of luck, its omnipresence even in its absence, is the one newtonian, urizenian law, firm as iron, in l’univers du noir:  ‘Yes, Fate, or some mysterious force, can put the finger on you, or me, for no good reason at all…’

In Maslow’s terms, lounge time is such a ‘peak experience’ for the men and women of noir, the place, the privileged moment they recur so often to in their flashbacks and confessions, because it was the one moment where they felt as if all their esperances were actualized, when it seemed as if the endless desert of their luck had broken its drought and they had found—miracle of miracles—in this place—le bar—which had delivered them no good luck before, the gushing rock, the shining penny, the sure thing, in the prospect of this étranger et étrangère they had not yet slept with.

—Dean Kyte,
“Invitation to a murder”

I’m grateful to Pamela Hutchinson of Silent London for bringing film scholar Vivian Sobchack’s concept of ‘lounge time’ to my attention a couple of years ago. You can read Pamela’s fascinating article about lounge time in the silent films of G.W. Pabst (and my response to her article) here.

In brief, as the first quotation, by Douglas McNaughton, at the head of my essay above explains, Ms. Sobchack’s concept of lounge time is an extension of Mikhail Bakhtin’s concept of the ‘salon chronotope’. Well, this takes a little unpacking too before we get down to brass tacks.

Bakhtin was a Russian philosopher and literary critic. As Mr. McNaughton elegantly summarizes it in his journal article (thus saving me a bit of trouble), Bakhtin came up with the concept of the ‘chronotope’ (the ‘time/space’), which he defined as ‘the intrinsic interconnectedness of temporal and spatial’ elements in a novel. The chronotope, in other words, is the warp and weft of space and time which forms the background tapestry of a fictional narrative. They need to be verisimilar with one another, and together they provide a sense of verisimilitude to the foreground actions of a fictional narrative.

But ‘chronotope’ is not simply a fancy narratological word for the ‘background’ of your novel. As Mr. McNaughton (citing Bakhtin) states in his article: ‘Chronotopes are “the organizing centers for the fundamental narrative events of the novel. The chronotope is the place where the knots of narrative are tied and untied.”’

In other words, the chronotope, as the complex nexus of realistic space and time, reaches directly into the narrative: locations and actions in time directly influence the foreground drama and the dynamics of character which take place against the backdrop of realistic space and time. It’s sort of like a spatiotemporal ‘archetype’ of setting that determines the kind of archetypal characters, situations, and stories that can realistically emerge from the matrix formed by the intersection of particular geographies and particular periods of time.

Bakhtin, as a pioneering narratologist, identified a number of ‘master chronotopes’, ur-spatiotemporal configurations, in novels, including the ‘salon chronotope’, which is a conspicuous setting in French nineteenth-century literature from Balzac to Proust.

But, as the notion of the salon implies, the salon chronotope is no more a ‘setting’ than it is a ‘background’; it’s more mystical than that. As space and time metaphysically meet in this physical room of a grande dame’s house, the chronotope of the salon is a kind of ‘cultural phenomenon’ that informs the total world of the narrative beyond the drawing-room. Tout Paris, c’est le salon (the whole social world of Paris is the drawing-room), if you’ll pardon the pun, and the intersection of physical spaces in time and culturally specific phenomena within them produces a set of determinable characters, situations, and plotlines which can occur within these physical/metaphysical, cultural time-spaces.

That’s the chronotope.

And as regards the salon chronotope, for example, we might say that the typically French, typically nineteenth-century story of the social ascension of Rastignac, charted by Balzac from Le Père Goriot (1835) to Les Comédiens sans le Savoir (1845), is morphologically the same chronotopic story as Georges Duroy’s social ascension in Maupassant’s Bel-Ami (1885), as is the passage of Proust’s narrateur from petit-bourgeois petit bonhomme in Du côté de chez Swann (1913) to elbow-rubbing equal of the Prince and Princesse de Guermantes by the end of Le Temps retrouvé (1927).

At a morphological level of recursion, they are all the same story, for the cultural phenomenon of the nineteenth-century Parisian salon determines the kinds of characters that can exist in nineteenth-century Paris, and the kinds of story that can be told in the space-time of nineteenth-century Paris, the democratic ascension of a clever young bourgeois man to the fashionable heights of quasi-nobility being one of them.

Ms. Sobchack built upon Bakhtin’s concept of the salon as a particularly potent spatiotemporal site of drama, and in an influential essay, “Lounge Time: Postwar Crises and the Chronotope of Film Noir” (1998), identified the transient settings of bars, nightclubs, cafés, cocktail lounges, hotels, motels and roadhouses as the key chronotope of film noir.

And again, it’s not that films noirs are set exclusively in cocktail lounges, it is that the spatiotemporal ‘atmosphere’ of the lounge as a transient, temporary space of flâneurial ease punctuating longer passages of anxious wandering through the urban night informs the Gestalt, the total world of film noir. As Ms. Sobchack explains in her essay, the of phenomenon of transient, shared public spaces where one momentarily rests from a condition of anxious displacement (such as the lounge) in post-war America determines, as the salon does for nineteenth-century Paris, the kind of characters that can exist in an American movie in the 1940’s or 1950’s, and the kind of story that can be told in America in the 1940’s and ’50’s.

It turns out that a film noir, an existential story of nihilistic crime resulting from a man’s succumbing to the temptation of a woman’s seduction, is one of those archetypal stories.

Why should this interest me and why should I have been so activated by Pamela’s post when she alerted me to the concept? Because it was one of those rare instances in intellectual life when someone else throws an astonishing sidelight on a problem so knotty (and so deeply, obsessively personal, it seems) that you can barely articulate the dimensions of it to yourself, such that there is a poverty of coverage about it in the literature, and thus, when you do come across a thesis closely linked to it, you are surprised that anyone else has even thought about the problem.

The recherché intellectual question of ‘the mood’ of places (which I seem to conceptualize to myself as an intersection of particular space and particular time), and how to represent the ‘character’ of places, independent of transient human occupancy, has become an increasingly salient æsthetic preoccupation in my writing and filmmaking over the last four years.

As I think my essay above makes clear, the first really important element that Ms. Sobchack’s concept illuminated for me is that, in almost a synæsthetic sense, in the film noir, space is time, and vice versa. The clue is in the name she gives to her concept—‘lounge time’, which connotes not merely a transient place where the characters of noir pass their time, but also the character of time’s passing in such places. There is a certain idleness, a certain flâneurial oisiveté implicit in the notion: time, in the space of the bar or cocktail lounge, does not pass quickly, ‘like sands through the hourglass’, but slowly, spasmodically, like the dripping from a leaky faucet.

There is, in other words, a Bergsonian (and even Borgesian) quality to how the characters of film noir experience time in the cocktail lounge. They experience temporal duration as spatial extension, and I give the image of the labyrinthine prison, the sæcula sæculorum of Catholicism, ‘from everlasting to everlasting’, ‘world without end’, as the metaphor for this Borgesian, Bergsonian space-time.

And Bergson leads us back to M. Proust, my cher maître, for, like the dear, divine Marcel, anyone who has read my flâneurial writing knows that I’m obsessed with spatial specificity and geographic particularity, and the temporal experience of walking through a precisely described physical landscape is likely to take much longer subjectively than objectively, the time between each footfall being measured by the tumult of thoughts that the landscape inspires in me at each step.

In Orpheid: L’Arrivée (2012), for instance, it takes me about a hundred pages to walk about a hundred metres, from the edge of the square Caulaincourt to my bed. In Things we do for Love (2015), I more modestly manage to take two train rides and a walk from Indooroopilly Station to Indooroopilly Shopping Centre in only a thousand words, but in Follow Me, My Lovely… (2016), I again haul you on a nine-hour, 20,000-word tour of Bellingen by night and by day as I bounce the most beautiful girl I’ve ever gotten into my bed all over town.

And in the forthcoming Sentimental Journey, expect to walk your eyes off, dear readers, as I march you (at bayonet-point, it might seem at times) through various Gold-Coastian, Brisbanian and Bellingenian locales.

The chronotopic relation between space and time;—the experience of space as time (and vice versa);—is, you might say, rather an entrenched and synæsthetic habit of thought in my writing.

Certainly, I see this apperception of time as spatial extension and space as temporal duration rarely represented in art, and little of the curious obsession I have for it represented in the academic literature, which made the encounter with Ms. Sobchack’s concept refreshing.

For perhaps even more than in my writing (or perhaps just more clearly, more appropriately to the medium), it is the organizing æsthetic principle which informs my filmmaking and videography—the films and videos you watch on this vlog. The confused perception of time as space and space as time is not merely the most conspicuous feature of my flâneurial writing, but it is, I contend, the most conspicuous quality of flâneurial filmmaking.

Elsewhere on The Melbourne Flâneur vlog, I’ve answered the question ‘Are there flâneur films?’. In that post, I stated categorically that there are flâneur films, but that it’s usually more a character of the films themselves—that is to say, a matter of style or cinematic technique—than the characters a film possesses that makes it ‘flâneurial’.

More precisely, it’s how a film deals technically, stylistically with space and time that tends to give it a flâneurial character. And as I said in the post “What is a flâneur?”, it’s an absolutely non-negotiable part of being flâneur, core to the definition, that one is a pedestrian by nature.

The word ‘pedestrian’ itself combines connotations of spatial extension and temporal duration, the time it takes to move through a landscape being directly linked to the mode of travel. There must be in the flâneurial film, therefore, a sense (so uncommon—even alien—to the apparatus of cinema) of being tied to a singular perspective, and a singular mode of movement through the world, one that is distinctly human and limited by the human viewpoint and human movement.

As Alan Saunders and Robert Sinnerbrink of Macquarie University discuss in this episode of ABC Radio National’s The Philosopher’s Zone, French philosopher Gilles Deleuze set the foundation for a flâneurial mode of cinema when he proposed that there was a ‘sensory motor-action scheme’ at work in filmmaking at least up to the outbreak of the Second World War, and one which is most perfectly realized in classical Hollywood cinema up to the ‘outbreak’ (I think we can call it that!) of Citizen Kane (1941).

In the first volume of his Cinéma (1983), M. Deleuze deals with this type of filmmaking, what he calls ‘l’image-mouvement’ (the ‘movement-image’), and he identifies three types of image which combine to form this sensory motor-action scheme: ‘l’image perception’ (the ‘perception image’), ‘l’image affection’ (the ‘affective image’), and ‘l’image action’ (the ‘action image’).

In fine, in M. Deleuze’s theory, we see; we feel something about what we see; and then we act in reaction to what we see. Perception leads to affect leads to action. Montage, the great discovery of the Soviet silent cinema, with its juxtaposition of images of perception, images of emotion, and images of action in a dynamic, plastic composition which is unique to the art-form of the cinema itself, is really the innovation that crystallizes the movement-image as a the central organizing principle of classical narrative filmmaking.

And as Messrs. Saunders and Sinnerbrink discuss, the cinema of Alfred Hitchcock is really the æsthetic high-water mark of classical Hollywood filmmaking in the movement-image style. Rear Window (1954), for instance, is entirely predicated upon the cumulative effect produced by montage as proposed by Soviet theorist Lev Kuleshov, and the tripartite formula of perception, affective, and action images are the technical basis by which Mr. Hitchcock, as a consummate ‘engineer of fright’, cumulatively produces the mechanics of suspense in that picture.

In fine, as Rear Window so peerlessly, rigorously, and consistently demonstrates, the palpable effect of that picture (as of all Mr. Hitchcock’s best work) produces a visceral somatic experience of suspense and fright in us precisely because the total assemblage of the film is rigorously anchored at every moment to this sensory motor-action scheme. Along with James Stewart, we look at something; we are emotionally affected by what we see; and the affect produces a bodily reaction in us. Donald Spoto, in his essay on Rear Window in The Art of Alfred Hitchcock (1976), notes that the moment when Raymond Burr looks directly at the camera still manages to produce the reactive action of an apprehensive murmur in the audience, despite familiarity with the film.

Indeed, it is this ‘mechanical’ schema about how we perceive spatial relations which gives classical cinema its engaging, involving quality, and it seems to explain (albeit in too neat and over-simplified a fashion) our experience of the world as bodies in space. The miracle is that a mechanical object with no consciousness of its own can (with the aid of judicious editing in post-production) ‘mimic’ how we perceive, react and act in relation to other spatial objects—including people—with some chronotopic verisimilitude.

In this conversation with Violet Lucca and Imogen Sara Smith, one of the most pragmatic and rigorous film scholars of our time, David Bordwell of the University of Wisconsin—Madison, explains why this should be so by comparing 1930’s cinema with 1940’s cinema.

As Mr. Bordwell and Ms. Smith discuss circa minute 16, thirties cinema is ‘behavioural’, ‘externalized’; it’s about putting on a show that the audience can easily read off through the spectacle of action. And as Mr. Bordwell explains, this æsthetic Gestalt is perfectly consonant with the implicit assumption of thirties cinema, which is that there is a kind of externalized ‘causal social mechanics’ at play which chronotopically produces, for instance, the thirties archetype of the gangster. As Ms. Smith points out, the characters of thirties cinema, whether they are gangsters, chorines, or screwball couples, seem to have ‘no interior life’: they are pure movement and externalized behaviour, bodies in kinetic (which is to say, photographable) spatial relation to one another.

Certainly, as Walker Percy observes in a memorable passage in The Moviegoer (1961), it is the spectacle of the movement of John Wayne ‘kill[ing] three men with a carbine as he was falling to the dusty street in Stagecoach (1939) that is palpably affecting for the spectator.

The difference between thirties cinema and forties cinema is something like the difference, I would contend, between commedia dell’arte and Shakespeare’s comedies. Though roughly coexistent, one derives its comedic force from visible actions in space, while the other derives its comedic force from the dynamic collision of antagonistic personalities over time. And ultimately, we find the verbal whaling of Benedick and Beatrice upon one another more comedically satisfying than the mutual physical attrition of Punch and Judy.

Moreover, I would contend that thirties cinema, whether it takes the particular form of the gangster movie, the Busby Berkeley musical, the Fordian western, or the screwball comedy, is the last frenetic spasm of pleasure produced by the movement-image as the defining æsthetic criterion of the cinema as a distinct art-form up to 1940. If Mr. Bordwell’s and Ms. Smith’s intuitions about thirties cinema have confirmable validity, I would say that a general morphological sense of people, objects, and society as being ‘mechanical’ and ‘mechanically determinable’, as a set of discreet bodies in a kinetic spatial relationship to one another that can be photographed in action, is what defines cinema from the Lumière brothers and Méliès up to 1940.

In fine, I am arguing that the conditions of a mechanised modernity chronotopically produced the matrix for cinematic stories which favoured the movement-image between 1895 and 1940. The assumption that the ‘source code of reality’ is fundamentally mechanical, and that even social relations are dictated by a Newtonian physics of bodies in spatial relation to one another, underlies stories in all media, but most particularly, and most perfectly, in the cinema.

M. Sartre’s definition of cinema as ‘le délire d’une muraille’ (the frenzy on the wall) could apply to any film from the actualités of the Lumières, to The Great Train Robbery, to Griffith, to Vertov’s delirious celebration of the worker’s paradise, to surrealist cinema’s fascination with the speedy repetitions and revolutions of machinery, to screwball comedy’s Punch and Judy show. The intoxicating spectacle of early cinema as pure, joyous movement photographed was somatically pleasing to audiences up to 1940. Nothing more was needed to make movies pleasurable than that photographed images of real objects in the world should move, and the miraculous correspondence between the mechanics of cinema and our own sensory motor-action schema produced this satisfying affect.

But in his second volume of Cinéma (1985), M. Deleuze identifies a rupture in the schema, so that it becomes difficult, dopoguerra, to know how to act in relation to what is being perceived. At about the time of the Second World War (a period of psychological schism which coincides with the ludic iconoclasm that Orson Welles, enfant terrible, will wreak upon the art-form in Citizen Kane), the cinematic image starts to become more temporally salient than spatially.

M. Deleuze identifies what he calls the gradual emergence of ‘l’image-temps’ (the ‘time-image’) during the war years, until it becomes an entrenched trend in cinema post-1945.

Now, it’s not an æsthetic coincidence that the phenomenon of film noir should emerge, as Citizen Kane does, at the commencement of American involvement in the war, nor that the trend toward darker and darker crime pictures should increase with American participation in it, and become an entrenched æsthetic movement after the war ends. The close relation of Citizen Kane to The Maltese Falcon and its successors has been remarked by many film scholars, but certainly, from a technical standpoint, the chief innovations of Kanechiaroscuro lighting and deep focus photography—are not merely techniques it bequeathed to film noir, but techniques which create the conditions for M. Deleuze’s time-image.

In fine, the technique, in Citizen Kane, of flooding a soundstage with so much sculpted light that one creates an image that is crisp and sharp to the furthest recession of the picture plain, one in which the ‘white space’ of perfect darkness is as photogenic and afforded as much visual weight as well-lit areas of action, now places the onus of ‘what to look at’ squarely upon the individual spectator. This was certainly not the way of 1930’s Hollywood films, where shots were lit in a façon laiteux and creamily focused so as to direct the audience’s gaze to the salient object of the shot.

With this new flâneurial liberty of the eye to roam about the image, time becomes a factor of salience in perception and action. You could say that the ambiguity between perception and action in films from 1941 onwards creates a delay, an interval in which one must process the affect created by a visual space in which everything is now equally salient for oneself.

Certainly the film noir, where the hyper-vigilant clarity of deep focus photography combines with large areas of screen real estate in ominous shadow, creates spaces in which everything is a potential threat—or where a threat could come from any sector of the screen.

No character can speak authoritatively from a space which is being continually cut into ribbons of light.

… [I]n film noir, the central character is likely to be standing in the shadow. When the environment is given an equal or greater weight than the actor, it, of course, creates a fatalistic, hopeless mood. There is nothing the protagonist can do, the city will outlast and negate even his best efforts.

—Paul Schrader, “Notes on Film Noir (1972)

The delay between perception and action as one cognitively processes the affect created by the ambiguous noir image of unfathomable depth and unfathomable darkness is a temporal equivalent, I submit, to that visual metaphor which T. S. Eliot, in “The Hollow Men” (1925), calls ‘the Shadow’:

Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

...

Between the desire
And the spasm
...
Falls the Shadow

The delay between perceiving and acting is, for post-war man, ‘the Shadow’: what is perceived in movies from Citizen Kane and film noir onwards is no longer clear, and thus there can be no pure, innocent jouissance obtained from the spectacle of action. Nothing that one does, now, ‘after Auschwitz’, is innocent and without consequence, and, as W. H. Auden presciently observed in his “New Year Letter” of 1941:

The situation of our time
Surrounds us like a baffling crime.

I suspect that the reason M. Deleuze’s time-image all but takes over the cinematic discourse by war’s end is that we are now confronted with images in which masses and masses of bodies lie motionless. The cameras linger in avid horror on the spectacle of sites where atrocious action occurred with fulgurant mechanical speed.

In an image where there is no movement, time, as I said, becomes the salient factor.

And as Ms. Smith observes at 33:45, time now becomes the subject of forties cinema in the same way that space held salience in the cinema of the thirties. More specifically, the extra-temporal narratival structures that come into vogue in the forties, and which are used with such brio in the film noir (the flashback, the voice-over, the superimposition, the dream sequence, etc.), are obsessed with the subject of the past. It is perhaps no coincidence that the greatest film noir references this obsession directly in its title:—Out of the Past (1947).

There is a definite sense of loss, of rift, of irrecoverable rupture in the films of the forties, and I would suggest that when you are confronted with moving images in which there is no movement, in which you are forced to perceive the consequence of human actions on motionless human bodies, these extra-temporal narrative devices which suggest memory and dream serve to supply the missing action, the joyous movement of living bodies that has been cruelly and irrecoverably lost.

But this sense that additional time is now required to parse and process the affect between perception and action is equally present in Italian Neorealism, in the cinema of Ozu, and that of Tarkovsky, who was wise enough to apprehend that the material he was sculpting his films in was not light, but time. As Mr. Sinnerbrink observes, these filmmakers (along with Welles and Renoir, as for instance) are actively seeking to ‘block’ the circuit of the sensory motor-action schema, and a handbrake is applied to narrative momentum through the cinematic strategies they devise to enhance the ambiguous affect of images.

Italian Neorealism, as a European cousin to film noir, employing many of the same cinematic techniques that Hollywood directors would apply to generic thriller material after the war, such as filming on location and employing non-professional ‘actors’ in the commission of their jobs, serves to effectively illuminate this point.

As Mr. Sinnerbrink says, in Italian Neorealism ‘you’ve got characters in an environment they no longer understand. … The faith or belief in how the world should be … has been severely shattered.’

Indeed, as far as action and movement goes, there is an ‘impotence’, oftentimes, displayed by the characters of Neorealism, best exemplified, I think, by De Sica’s Ladri di biciclette (1948). In that film, the ostensible action which drives the entire narrative (and which is so slender a premise that there is really only enough ‘story’ in it to sustain a one-reel silent comedy), the recovery of the stolen bicycle, is abortive, frustratingly unresolved.

Antonio’s ricerca through Rome (we can’t call it a flânerie, nor even the Italian equivalent, a passeggiata, for it’s too existential a trudge to be undertaken for idle pleasure) as he seeks to find his stolen bicycle is essentially a chase through dreams—or a nightmare. It’s as hopeless a quest as waiting for Godot, and that Sig. De Sica should extend so slight an idea for a film into a drama as endless and desolate as Beckett’s gives you a sense of the emotional ‘freight’ that the affective image must now bear, after the war, as it crowds out the perception-image and the action-image, problematizing the one and infinitely delaying the other.

The time-image of post-war cinema is all affect. The delay that is created by problematizing perception and deferring a decisive action in response to it means that more time is required by the spectator to scrutinize the ambiguous image and decide how he feels about what he is seeing. Paul Schrader says this about the famous shot in De Sica’s Umberto D. (1952), in which the camera holds for nearly thirty seconds upon a simple action—the striking of a match:

It was no longer about the activity of striking a match, it was about how long are you going to sit to watch? The filmmaker is using the power of cinema itself against itself to get you into a sense that you have to participate.

—Paul Schrader, “Transcendental Style in Film | Paul Schrader | TIFF 2017”

Moreover, as Kogonada observes in his video essay “What is Neorealism?”, in comparing David O. Selznick’s cut of Indiscretion of an American Wife (1953) side-by-side with De Sica’s own cut of the same film, Terminal Station (1953), we can easily see that Sig. De Sica consistently employs a narrative/editorial strategy of holding longer on shots, withholding the cut, allowing the camera to linger on extras whose stories we never get to explore, after the main characters have left the frame.

In other words, in Sig. De Sica’s version, the chronotopic setting for the foreground drama, the warp and weft of life that surrounds and enfolds the fiction, is allowed, in Neorealism, to ‘billow in’, like a curtain breathed upon by a gentle breeze, and fill the vacuum temporarily left by the absence of the characters after they have left the frame.

The action of striking the match is perhaps more neatly illustrative of my point, but both techniques partake of a general variety of narrative strategies in cinematic storytelling that privileges the time-image over the movement-image after World War II. That is, as an action that can be photographed, the striking of the match is no longer miraculous as a movement. The match fails to light. It requires a repetition—two repetitions, and they both fail. It requires even a second match and a fourth attempt before the maid in Umberto D. can light the stove.

The time it takes to perform an action is now the spectacle. It’s no longer the movement as an act in space, but the duration of the movement, as an act across time, that becomes visually salient and significant.

And perhaps we can even say that the difficulty of performing an action successfully becomes significant, since there seems to be a misalignment in the maid’s sensory motor-action schema, a momentary misalignment between perception and action before the final, successful striking of the match. In the fraught post-war world, not even the most simple actions (which the cinema of the thirties would have taken for granted) are as obviously simple as they appear.

And applied more broadly to the world beyond the narrative, longer shots which invite a chronotopic reality, redundant to the narrative, to enter and take up compositional space in time as the ‘white space’ of shadow does visually, means that the duration of a film becomes, in the forties, co-extensive with space: As a physical object, the film becomes longer, just as it becomes temporally longer.

Mr. Bordwell notes that forties films, with their obsessive preoccupations with time, now start to aim for a ‘novelistic density’, but he doesn’t notice this point, viz.—that if we accept the premise that thirties movement cinema is a cinema of spectacular theatrical display, the spatial extension of the image is one of length and width, like a framed painting, or like a play framed by the proscenium. But in the forties, cinema becomes, like the novel, a truly temporal art-form where the extension is into the experience of time—the time it requires to apprehend and appreciate the artwork.

The ‘thickness’ of a novel is an index for its temporal, experiential dimension. Likewise, the physical ‘length’ of a piece of film becomes indexical for its time relation. When directors like De Sica, Ozu, Tarkovsky, Renoir and Welles slow down their shots, add frames which freight the film with additional ambiguous affect, problematizing perception and delaying action, what can be potentially discovered in the frame by a self-directed spectator thrown back on his own resources of deciding ‘what to look at’ becomes, potentially, experientially infinite. Like a novel one periodically rereads, discovering something new each time, returning to a film whose spatial extension of length and width is predicated on the time-image now becomes a flânerie through un jardín de los senderos que se birfurcan.

What Mr. Sinnerbrink calls ‘a loss of faith in the world’ which the characters of Neorealism (and film noir) feel is really a loss of faith in the visible appearances of the world. The time-image is deeply sceptical of indexical appearances; hence its ambiguity. A direct line can be traced from the disappeared bike in Ladri di biciclette to the disappearing body in Antonioni’s Blowup (1966), and from Antonio’s impotent quest to recover his bike to utterly abortive quests for meaning, like Jack Nicholson’s odyssey in Antonioni’s The Passenger (1975).

The disappearing body of Blowup completely defies a semiotic, indexical interpretation of reality, a 1:1 relationship between image and world—which is a relationship the movement-image confidently assumes.

The pre-war confidence of the movement-image is permanently displaced by the post-war uncertainty that things are what they appear, and that we may act confidently on the report of our senses, a sensibility which is implicit in the time-image.

That seems to be the lesson of World War II: the apparently innocent joy of modern, mechanized movement done at dizzying speed ultimately produces piles of lifeless bodies.

M. Deleuze argues that we can ‘think’ through cinema, that cinema itself is a ‘medium of thought’. If we take the cinematic image of Fernand Léger’s gaily pumping pistons as a logical premise, it is hard to predict from that image of exhilarating force and speed the mechanics of the Final Solution, which is the inevitable conclusion of the unconscious logic of modernity—man as an interchangeable, eminently dispensable, disposable part in his own machine, to be thrown on the scrapheap, or fed through it like fodder, only to come out the other side as offal and carrion.

Between the idea
And the reality
...
Between the conception
And the creation
...
Falls the Shadow

To return more fully to film noir, which, in exercising a particularly nihilistic brush over generic mystery and thriller material, deals by metaphorical displacement with ‘the baffling crime’ of the Second World War, which surrounds everyone and implicates everyone in the forties, we begin to understand the chronotope of lounge time, the necessity for the compromised respite which transient, shared public spaces provide a traumatized and displaced American population.

In the lounge, we drown ourselves in drink and try to fumigate our brains with cigarettes, exorcising them temporarily of the devils we have seen and been. The lounge itself is a site and a period of delay: it too is a Shadow—but a welcome one. The shadows outside the bar, ‘the situation of our time’ which is the circumambient night and the threatening city of film noir, are a purgatorial holocaust we must trudge through when we have used up our ‘money time’, this moment of flâneurial ease between chapters of anxious hustling out there.

Film noir is not a genre in this understanding; it is an allegory. Film noir is a set of stylistic, æsthetic cinematic strategies and conventions which are visually applied to generic mystery and thriller material in such a way as to displace and disguise crime movies as cathartic allegories for the all-enveloping ‘Big Crime’ of modernity, the master chronotope that is the Second World War.

We think—wrongly, at this historical pass, because the conventions of noir have been so disgustingly abused by subsequent generations of filmmakers with no generational experience of all-encompassing crime and trauma and guilt—that film noir was a much more codified æsthetic movement than it was. Even if the term ‘film noir’ was unheard of in America until just before the end of the classic cycle, surely the filmmakers who created this very visually and narratively distinctive body of films were more conscious of what they were doing than they were.

But why should they be if, as I am arguing here, film noir is kind of cathartic allegory, an æsthetic penance by which one exorcises the unforgotten but deeply repressed memory of all those lifeless bodies whose joyous movement one has curtailed in wartime?

In his conversation with Ms. Lucca and Ms. Smith, Mr. Bordwell states that his research has positively shown that in the forties ‘mystery’, as a generic category, became a kind of ‘meta-genre’, that there was a craze in 1940’s Hollywood cinema to inject an element of mystery into almost every other kind of generic story. Although he doesn’t reference Citizen Kane directly, this is the best possible example of the prototypical film noir that isn’t a film noir, a mystery story where the mystery isn’t ‘Whodunnit?’ but, ‘What is the meaning of “Rosebud”?’

In fine, ‘mystery’ becomes a ludic device that structures narrative in forties films. In other words, an impression of ambiguity which disrupts straightforward narrative perception and action—and the affect of anxiety that this delayed resolution produces in the audience—comes to the foreground in how audiences of the forties experience narrative (which is to say, as a subjective interpretation of reality).

This makes sense. If the world around you is in epic upheaval, epic disruption due to war, making sense of what you see around you and knowing how to act appropriately becomes a business of plumbing mystery. As I said with respect to Antonioni, a semiotic sensemaking strategy, assuming that things are actually consubstantial with how they appear, is not necessarily a successful means of navigating a salience landscape of totalizing, existential disruption.

I would argue that people in the forties are essentially so traumatized by the split between appearances and actions that they are primed to accept mystery as an affective temporal dimension to cinematic images. If the perception-image is point A and the action-image is point B, audiences after 1940 become progressively primed to accept that there is a third point between appearances and actions which the films of the thirties elide, and this third, temporal point is the realm of ‘mystery’.

In some sense, the ‘lining’ of a mystery story, the true, unperceived actions which animate it, occur in another, interstitial dimension of the cinematic narrative between the perceptions and actions the narrative consciously notices as images and scenes registered on film. Which is to say that there is ‘lost’ or ‘missing time’ which makes the narrative-as-film necessarily ambiguous, and hence ‘mysterious’.

And this interstitial dimension often coincides with those ‘extra-temporal’ narrative devices which are such a salient structuring feature of film noir: the flashback, the voice-over, the superimposition, and the dream sequence.

Moreover, it is precisely these innovative cinematic techniques which the film noir avails itself of and uses more adroitly than any other type of film in the 1940’s which makes it a kind of ‘avant-garde cinema’ during the cycle of the classic period. As Mr. Bordwell points out, the widespread adoption of mystery as a meta-generic narrative style in the forties means that generic thriller material now becomes consequentially respectable as something to exercise your cinematic chops on, and (as film noir’s symbiotic association with the B-picture demonstrates), the making of thrillers becomes a cheap, effective way for filmmakers (especially young filmmakers) to demonstrate the scope of what they can creatively do with film form.

In fine, as I argued above, rather than being a genre in itself, film noir applies a set of æsthetic visual strategies, cinematic techniques and conventions which have their own chronotopic freight to generic narrative material. A generic crime story, a mystery or a thriller becomesnoir’ when a certain visual æsthetic is applied to it: unique to this visual æsthetic as to no other that I know of is a certain chronotopic weight which determines, as I said in my response to Pamela’s post, the nature and the kinds of stories that can be told in settings which are painted with the brush of noir.

In other words, this set of æsthetic visual strategies, cinematic techniques and conventions as a chronotopic meta-setting directly affects the foreground narrative. The types of photogenic and cinematic techniques that filmmakers apply to photograph the places, whether they be settings on a soundstage or actual locations, that constitute the typical locales of film noir in the 1940’s directly impacts the nature of the generic crime story that can be told against such spatiotemporal backgrounds.

In a sense, the visual choices foreclose other narrative choices, dictating the kinds of postmodern narrative devices that can satisfactorily accompany such an avant-garde visual style, narrative devices which are verisimilar to the avant-garde æsthetic. A film consequently becomesnoir’ because the dark visual treatment forecloses other narrative options and dictates the kinds of characters who can emerge in a locale painted with the brush of noir, the kinds of situations that can develop in such a place and time, and ultimately the kinds of stories that can be told by the dynamic interrelation of characters with each other, and with the setting.

Moreover, this totalizing visual æsthetic, with its potent photogenic affect, creates the fundamental conditions for the ambiguous time-image, which is so essential to film noir.

Finally, to return to my original premise, how does lounge time, as the organizing chronotopic principle of film noir, the visual æsthetic which carries the seed of the time-image implicit within it, relate to flâneurial cinema?

Well, as I said at the beginning, the clue is in the name that Ms. Sobchack gives to her concept: lounge time suggests a space that is simultaneously temporal, and a period of easeful respite from anxious wandering that is simultaneously a physical site of rest. It suggests an extra-temporal, interstitial realm or dimension, a place and an hour of luxe, calme et volupté.’

The oisiveté of M. Baudelaire’s credo of ‘luxe, calme et volupté’ is the beatific condition to which the flâneur aspires. And yet, like the harried, displaced protagonists of film noir, his condition of dandiacal poverty, the existential stress of being a ‘man of leisure’ on no private income, means that he must trudge on ‘à travers le grand désert des hommes’ just as the hopeless losers of film noir must trudge on through the asphalt jungle.

An intoxication comes over the man who walks long and aimlessly through the streets. With each step, the walk takes on greater momentum; ever weaker grow the temptations of shops, of bistros, of smiling women, ever more irresistible the magnetism of the next streetcorner, of a distant mass of foliage, of a street name. Then comes hunger. Our man wants nothing to do with the myriad possibilities offered to sate his appetite. Like an ascetic animal, he flits through unknown districts—until, utterly exhausted, he stumbles into his room, which receives him coldly and wears a strange air.

—Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project, Convolute M: “The Flâneur

We crave the lounge, the place and time of leisure and pleasure, that womb-like matrix where the two intersect. And, as for M. Baudelaire, that terrestrial heaven is not only the place and time we would invite our daughter, our sister, the Elected One of our soul to join us in, but it is a place and time that is eminently feminine and consubstantial with her. That place of timeless ease is the eternal Her.

In lieu of an eternal milieu where we can stop walking, we plunge on, into the barren ocean of time, au fond de l’Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau!

I said at the start that flâneurial cinema, in contradistinction to the implicit æsthetic of cinema itself as a modern art-form predicated on mechanical speed, is pedestrian and tied to the slow rhythm of the foot. As such, flâneurial cinema is entirely predicated on the time-image: the movement of walking itself, while being an extension into space, is far less salient than the qualitative experience of walking, which is an extension of movement into duration.

Mr. Sinnerbrink has a couple of interesting tournures which are instructive on this point. At 14:11 of his conversation with Mr. Saunders he says: ‘With Ozu and with Orson Welles (others as well, like Jean Renoir), what you get are images that no longer are strictly driven by the narrative purpose, but start to take on a kind of descriptive function’ [my emphasis]. And again, at 22:28, he refers to ‘pure optical and sound descriptions’ [my emphasis].

We’re told, in classical screenwriting theory (as in writing more generally), that one should ‘show not tell’. The movement-image is all show. But the time-image, I submit, is the visual equivalent of a passage of description in literature: it doesn’t necessarily advance the well-oiled machine of the plot as the movement-image does, but, as Kogonada effectively demonstrates in his video essay on De Sica, describes something of the chronotopic reality which enfolds the drama.

The time-image, in fine, ‘tells us’ something about the nature of the world which is auxiliary to the drama, ‘redundant’, even, by the standards of a classical, mechanical cinema predicated on the movement-image.

And thus, if flâneurial cinema is entirely predicated on the time-image, it is entirely predicated on what Mr. Sinnerbrink calls these ‘pure optical and sound descriptions’ which are not ‘strictly driven by the narrative purpose’. Like the lounge, these extended moments which ‘describe’ the chronotopic actuality of the world are moments of rest, of pause, images which allow the eye to flâneurially explore the frame at ease.

Mr. Schrader calls it ‘leveraging boredom’, and certainly I know from personal experience that my films and videos, with their static setups and long takes looking at nothing, the void of empty spaces at dead hours of dawn or dusk, late afternoon and late night, the times of day (as in film noir) when the conditions of light impose their own æsthetic mood on places, are an ‘acquired taste’.

Some people don’t get these paradises of rest and are deeply bored by them. But I know, from having screened some of these films and videos in Melbourne and elsewhere, that for most people the rigorous simplicity of my technique, my foregrounding of the time-image and eschewal of the movement-image, produces a ‘restful’ effect of respite that contrasts pleasantly with the work of other filmmakers who are more focused on people, and the human dramas which take place against these chronotopic backgrounds.

I rarely move the camera, and thus spatial extension of the world (that is, what is visible within the frame) becomes temporal extension: a corner of the world regarded fixedly over time. Moreover, as the soundscapes of my films and videos are wholly invented, like these extra-temporal narrative devices in film noir which evoke the dimensions of time and memory and dream, the imagined aural landscape in and beyond the world delimited by the frame makes the image extend both in space and in time—into the imagination of the audience.

Ultimately, perhaps, it is the extra-temporal dimension of the imagination which the flâneur seeks, a place outside of space and time where he can quit his walk and permanently rest, content that le nouveau will infinitely find and refresh him there.

And having taken you, dear, indulgent readers, at bayonet-point on an epic flânerie through several disparate quartiers of my mental geography, let us turn in at this place and rest our dogs.

If you found my wild intellectual promenade invigorating, dear readers, you can support me via Bandcamp.

Some recent visitors to this vlog have decried the lack of a “Donate” button at the bottom of my posts. I prefer to give value for value, so if you’d like to signal your appreciation for what I write, I’d like to give you something of lasting value in exchange for your support. I’ve made the soundtrack of the abridged version of “Invitation to a murder” featured in my video essay available for purchase, streaming and download via my artist profile on Bandcamp, so for $A2.00 (make it more, if you like) you can have permanent access to the track.

Put me on your pod or phone, and then, when you need a moment of respite from the hurly-burly of the world, check in to my imaginary lounge and let my words lull you into a momentary place of restful ease. Just click the “Buy” link below, or feel free to “Share” the track with a friend.

One man band: Your Melbourne Flâneur on location at the Treasury Gardens, Super 8 camera in hand. The dandy director, Dean Kyte argues, is as ruggedly individualistic as the writer and can barely tolerate a crew.

I’ve observed elsewhere on The Melbourne Flâneur the intimate (though not obvious) relation between the writer and the dandy, between the man of letters who precisely crafts his persona through the stylish arrangement of words and the man of fashion who precisely crafts his image through the stylish arrangement of clothes.

While intimate, I say the relationship between these two artists is not obvious because, on the one hand, words and images are diametrically opposed, with a genius in the literary field rarely transferring to the visual (and vice versa), and because, on the other hand, there is simply nothing obvious about the dandy.

More amorphous, more contradictory, more paradoxical even than the woman, the dandy is a circle impossible to square, and no writer on the philosophy of fashion has yet or ever will define the full economy of his androgynous yet über-masculine soul.

The abiding difficulty in defining the dandy is that these men who so scrupulously define the rules of fashion for other men are always the exception to the rule. That is perhaps the only definite thing we can say about them.

And one of their chief paradoxes is that they strive with a supermanly effort to appear absolutely effortless. This is like the writer whose finished work does not reveal the sweat of labour, the enormous volume of words written and culled behind the final, perfect selection and arrangement.

Laziness (or at least its scrupulously maintained appearance) is both a charge leveled at the dandy and the ultimate æsthetic end that he aspires to. The same charge is often leveled at writers: our labour, despite being a manual handicraft, is almost purely mental, and we are often accused (not unfairly) of paresse by the brawny menials who do not imagine that a man can sweat in his study from the labour of lifting and laying the bricks of words, arranging them in vast cathedrals of thought.

‘L’arte che nasconde l’arte’—‘the art that conceals art’: this was the pre-eminent virtue of sprezzatura that il Signor Castiglione ascribed to his ideal courtier, and the dandy, as the democratic gentleman descended from the Renaissance nobleman of Castiglione’s time, shares with the writer both the desire and the necessity to hide his pains of effort off-stage. His performance is entirely a rehearsal. Only the finished capolavoro goes before him, trundling onto stage like the Trojan Horse, dead and done, but not empty of the animating spirit which will take the agape spectators by storm.

Thus, as diametrically as these two arts are opposed to one another, it is no surprise that the one labour (other than the narcissistic cultivation of himself) that is fit to cause the dandy to turn up his French cuffs and get down to it is the work of writing. As Richard Martin and Harold Koda write in Jocks and Nerds: Men’s Style in the Twentieth Century (1989): ‘… [I]f the dandy is æsthetic and self-concerned, his natural affiliation with professions is only with the poet, the artist, or the writer.’

It’s a perfect profession for a man whose ultimate badge of virtue is to be accused of the social vice of dilettantisme: let’s face it, most jokers who call themselves writers are lazy dilettantes who never publish a word. The boulot takes place so deeply undercover that one may safely maintain one’s front before society as an unredeemable wastrel indefinitely.

M. Proust, a spy in the houses of the Faubourg Saint-Germain and, by his own unstinting self-recriminations, the laziest man to ever write a novel, got away with this deception for years before his cover as a social butterfly was blown.

So you see, dear readers, abstruse as my connection between the man of words and the man of (self-)images is, it is not sans raison. The abstruseness owes to the indefinable paradoxicality of the dandy who, despite being as defined and definite in his image as the greatest writers are in the words they ultimately choose to represent them, is haloed in an aura which takes nothing away from the high—the highest possible—resolution of his image.

Which leads me to the speculation as to whether there are dandies among film directors. If the dandy is so deeply allied with an artist who is his opposite number in discipline, wouldn’t it stand to better reason to seek him among other men of images?

The contemporary portmanteau of the ‘writer-director’ would lead us to suppose that a reconciliation between les hommes de lettres and les hommes du cinéma exists, but although it is fashionable to speak of the writer-director as the ‘auteur’ of his film, one who wields the ‘caméra-stylo’, we are not comparing apples to apples when we compare these two types of authorial control.

In my last post, I talked about Alain Robbe-Grillet, almost the only novelist to enjoy a second career as a film director. M. Robbe-Grillet expresses the basic temperamental distinction between a writer and a director, for although writers can be extroverted and directors introverted, I would argue (and I think M. Robbe-Grillet tacitly agrees) that the nature of writing is basically introverted, and the nature of film directing is basically extroverted.

This is because one is a solitudinous occupation where authorial control is exercised directly over material and form, and the other is inescapably a social occupation where control is exercised indirectly over people and objects, to whom the various aspects of material and form are delegated.

As M. Robbe-Grillet expresses it: ‘… If I have problems [as a novelist], I have them with myself. Shooting a film is a communal labour, and if I have any problems, I have them not only with myself, but with the actors, with the crew, with the sun, with… the real world.

‘So, in my first film, L’Immortelle [1963], for example, I attempted to constrain all this in order to regain some of the solitude of the writer. I realized very quickly that this was absurd, and in the film I eventually made, I welcomed all these elements: whatever the actors wanted to do, whatever the crew wanted to do, whatever the sun wanted to do, I accepted it.’

This is perhaps the chief reason why the dandy, the man of (self-)images, is deeply allied to the writer but, to my mind at least, almost impossible to find among the ranks of other men of images whose work is pseudo-literary. A director, even if he writes his own film, is less a writer by constitution than a conductor: his art is co-ordinating others in the achievement of a coherent vision.

The dandy is the absolute outlier among men. No type of man is more extreme. Co-operation, co-ordination, collaboration are not among his skills or his interests. A small clique of men inevitably gather around the dandy as around the director, but he publicly tolerates them and privately despises them, for the dandy transcends the primitive hierarchies into which men, both alpha and beta, ridiculously organize themselves. He is not interested in setting trends as a leader of fashion, but fashion inevitably follows him because it—and people—are craven.

Even alpha males.

To wit, see George IV, first among followers of Mr. Brummell.

Like the writer who exercises direct control upon material and form, the dandy exerts direct and imperious control upon the form of himself and the materials he accoutres himself in. It would be as ridiculous for a writer to shape his vision by a committee of lesser peers as a dandy to shape his vision of himself. Both are rugged individualists.

The temperamental predisposition towards introversion, towards narcissistic self-regard and an art that one can directly control, rather than extroversion and an art that one ‘manages’ by social interaction, would explain why one finds dandies among writers but not, it seems, among directors. As interior designer Nicky Haslam puts it: ‘It seems clear that the dyed-in-the-wool dandy—as opposed to the merely dandified, the “nattily dressed”—is, au fond, an introvert.’

Three things would seem, to my mind, to define the dandy-as-director, and I can’t find an exemplar who satisfies my three criteria conclusively. A predisposition to introversion is the first. An iron will to total æsthetic control similar to that displayed by the most ruthless writer is the second. And third is what we know the dandy by: an obsessive love of men’s clothes.

Let’s take the last first, for it is the most difficult criterion to satisfy, and the one, I think, where all the possible contenders I will name appear to fall down.

Our authority on this rare man’s pathological love of fashion is Thomas Carlyle, who, in Sartor Resartus (1833-4), provides the best working definition of the dandy at the birth of the movement. The dandy, according to Mr. Carlyle, is ‘a man whose trade, office and existence consists in the wearing of Clothes. Every faculty of his soul, spirit, purse, and person is heroically consecrated to the wearing of Clothes wisely and well: so that as others dress to live, he lives to dress.’

We see at once that this primary occupation does not interfere substantially with the less taxing pursuits of the leisured intellectual gent, such as penning the odd verse in idle minutes between social engagements which put this heroic peacock on the stage of life. Indeed, quite the contrary: for as every tradesman must have his uniform, the ensemble of jacket, trousers and waistcoat is as much the uniform of the man who manipulates his pen in elegant endeavours as the businessman who operates it in pragmatic and profitable ones.

Wearing the suit, the uniform of the dandy, therefore, does not interfere, as a primary vocation, with the avocation of the writer. It need not necessarily interfere with that of the film director, either, but I cannot find a man among men of film who consecrates his life above all to being elegant in every breath of his life, whether on location in the dark heart of Africa or on a Hollywood soundstage.

The uniform of the film director, stereotypically, is the one given us by Cecil B. DeMille in his conquering youth. It is the flat cap (perhaps worn backwards at times in a democratic gesture towards one’s cameraman, who has his eye forever pressed to the viewfinder on our behalf), tweeds, jodhpurs and riding boots—maybe even the extravagant detail of a riding crop.

The ridiculous anachronism of attempting to look like an English country gentleman on a blazing Hollywood backlot is eminently dandistic, but it falls more in Mr. Haslam’s category of being ‘dandified’ and ‘nattily dressed’ than looking good at every instant for some slavish, private religious purpose.

But I don’t use the words ‘extravagant detail’ lightly in reference to the riding crop. Extravagant details whose practical purpose are obscure define the whole uniform outlined above. One no more knows who or what the director plans to whip with the anachronistic crop than what he plans to ride with his anachronistic jodhpurs and boots.

Extravagant details whose practical function as working uniform are novel, innovative, and even obscure define the dandy, and we see examples of these extravagant details in the working uniforms of directors who are certainly dandified if not actual dandies.

For example, the most dandified director in the world today has to be David Lynch. He has such a recognizable personal style that it appears even in his films—in the proxies who stand in for him, like Jeffrey Beaumont in Blue Velvet (1986). The eccentric detail of the collar button done up sans cravate which Mr. Lynch affects at times transcends the nerdish faux pas of fashion it would be for most other men because the eccentricity belies a practical purpose which is obscure to the rest of us.

According to Mr. Lynch, he hates the feel of wind on his collar bone, and hence he buttons his shirts up to choking point—a personal eccentricity he bequeaths to any character in his films who stands in for him.

But the mania for a warm chest goes even further than that. So high-strung is Mr. Lynch that in his youth he affected the doubly eccentric and dandyish detail of wearing not one but three neckties as a foulard to keep his sensitive collar bone warm.

The image of a man wearing triple neckties may be absurd so that we wonder if he is the victim or the bold setter of some obscure fashion which has bypassed us, but key to understanding the dandy’s sway over other men is the knowledge that all his novel and innovative sartorial choices stem from some practical consideration of comfort which is personal to him.

Just as Gianni Agnelli—a genuine dandy—affected the eccentric habitude of wearing his wristwatch over his sleeve—(a fashion faux pas so thunderingly obtuse that it boldly doubled as a brilliant time and motion innovation for the busy head of Fiat to affect)—the uniquely personal considerations of comfort that dandies make only become stale form when they are cravenly imitated by men, clueless about fashion, who take their personal eccentricities as general edicts.

As far as I know, the triple necktie as foulard has not caught on. That unique eccentricity in personal style as well as Mr. Lynch’s high-strung nature might qualify him as the closest contender for a dandy among living directors that I know of—for one cannot be a dandy without being as high-strung and neurotic as a thoroughbred.

But even though nowadays he affects the black suit, white shirt and black tie of Alfred Hitchcock as his unvarying uniform, I do not know that Mr. Lynch anymore than Mr. Hitchcock is slavishly devoted to the suit as high art.

In my post “A writer’s style”, I quoted approvingly the opinion of Messrs. Martin and Koda that a man’s dress signifies his ‘operational identity’: as men, we are our professional rôles, and one of our highest masculine virtues is to make who we are indistinguishable from what we do. A man is the uniform he wears in life.

Of all directors, Mr. Hitchcock is the one who best worked out an operational identity for himself early on, one which involved the democratic uniform of the professional man, the suit. The funereal combination of black suit, white shirt and black tie which Mr. Hitchcock typically affected not merely consolidated his operational identity as head man on-set, but the operational identity of his lugubrious public persona—which was as much a put-on as his suit.

This was an operational necessity for as neurotic an introvert as Mr. Hitchcock. For as much as he was a commanding Leo, one of that extravagant, limelight-loving breed fit to dominate a film set, one derives two abiding impressions from reading the early pages of John Russell Taylor’s Hitch (1978) and Patrick MacGilligan’s A Life in Darkness and Light (2004).

The first is that the shy, lonely young Hitchcock might not have gotten his chance to direct had he not put on the extroverted front of continually putting himself forward with feigned confidence for jobs he had no prior experience at. The second is that, in the early days of his English career, his association with a certain type of film we now associate with his name and image was more a product of chance than inward inclination towards darkness.

There’s almost nothing in Mr. Hitchcock’s background to suggest that he would become, as Jean-Luc Godard called him, the only poète maudit to achieve commercial success in his own lifetime. The early output of the future Master of Suspense is more varied than that princely title allows, and his career could have gone in any number of directions if he had not hit on a repeatably bankable formula early on.

And the formula, the poetry of bizarre, nail-biting images in fulgurant succession, is of course a rhyme for that distinctive silhouette which appears as a signature in the corner of each of his films, the portly, soberly-suited trickster. Mr. Hitchcock in his very appearance was the type of film he made. Life, he once complained, typecasts us: according to him, his inward suavity of spirit would have been better suited to the outward shell of Cary Grant.

He had the introverted dandy’s necessity of an extroverted operational identity, a uniform which was distinctive and inimitable, but one which equally commanded respect on the set. The funereal suit and tie ensemble gave Mr. Hitchcock an appearance somewhere between a bank manager and an undertaker, and the implications of sobriety and discretion in that uniform, of honest, well-balanced books, of loved ones precisely and delicately attended to, indicates my second criterion: almost no director exerts as ruthless and singular a control over every detail of his image—at least, as the images of his films are his image in the popular imaginary—than Alfred Hitchcock.

The suit suits him. This symbol of masculine rectitude and rationality, clothes precisely designed by rule and compass, is eminently suitable for a director who emerged from the ranks of production designers, and whose training and only job outside films was in engineering.

As British fashion critic Colin McDowell says in his book The Anatomy of Fashion (2013), ‘The true dandy … sees dress as an expression of highly masculine qualities, such as precision, consideration and respect. … Dandies depend on a rational approach to clothing, relegating all other considerations to making a powerful statement without falling prey to the cardinal sin of ostentation.’

Powerful visual statements, not ostentatious but certainly striking, emerge from the fabric of Mr. Hitchcock’s films, which were always made out of respect and consideration for his audiences. The precision of rational design in the well-cut suit might be seen as an analogy for the way Mr. Hitchcock designed and made his films for people ‘out of whole cloth’, controlling every element with absolute precision, measuring every detail, stitching every shot together to form an ensemble far greater in effect than the sum of its exquisite parts.

David Fincher has described this ruthless authorial control as ‘the iron umbrella’ of Mr. Hitchcock’s style, a sort of overarching échafaudage which protects what’s under it, as a good English suit, for instance, is a kind of armature for the body, repulsing the intemperate English elements. But the iron umbrella of Mr. Hitchcock’s style not only repulses what is external to his creative vision, it also suffocates any spontaneous input from others who are under it.

Even as late as his last film, Family Plot (1976), when he was working with the long-haired, bearded contemporaries of Spielberg and Lucas, young technicians going to work on Mr. Hitchcock’s set were discreetly advised at the commencement that a suit and tie, rather than T-shirt and jeans, would be the de rigueur uniform at all times.

The genteel uniform of the professional man was eminently suitable for Mr. Hitchcock’s ruthlessly regulated, standardized style of filmmaking, which some actors and technicians described as like ‘working in a bank’: Mr. Hitchcock’s phobia for the impromptu had caused him to prepare so well in advance that one could safely start at nine and leave the set each day at six.

But if he had the dandy’s introversion and iron-clad control of details, what lets Mr. Hitchcock out as a dandy, in my view, is that his passion appears to have been for women’s wardrobe rather than for men’s.

Legion are the examples of the exacting requirements he had for his leading ladies’ couture. As resoundingly silent is the record on what he specified for his men. To his eternal credit, Mr. Hitchcock does have what has been justly called ‘the greatest suit of all time’ in one of his films, the famous—and much-abused—grey Kilgour sported by Cary Grant in North by Northwest (1959). About eleven copies of this suit were required to film the cropduster sequence alone. But it is believed that Mr. Hitchcock, who regarded Mr. Grant as a cut above the usual cattle he had to wrangle on-set and trusted his judgment in most matters implicitly, allowed him a free hand in commissioning the suit from his tailor, Kilgour French and Stanbury of Savile Row.

This is in contrast with the control he exerted over his leading ladies’ deportment. No expense was spared to repeatedly secure the services of Edith Head as ladies’ costume designer on his films. Miss Head reported that, like James Stewart in Vertigo (1958), the gentleman knew what he wanted: perhaps owing to his background in design, Mr. Hitchcock was uncommonly well-informed in matters of women’s fashion and demanded the famous grey suit for Kim Novak despite Miss Head’s protests that grey was not a blonde’s colour and would make her look washed out.

That was precisely the ghostly effect he wanted.

He personally escorted Eva Marie Saint to Bergdorf Goodman in New York and selected her wardrobe for North by Northwest. He also had Christian Dior design Marlene Dietrich’s costumes for Stage Fright (1950). Mr. Hitchcock was fond of quoting the playwright Sardou’s maxim that in drama one should always ‘torture the women’. M. Dior, who was as fastidious about details as Mr. Hitchcock and tended to erect an iron umbrella of his own about the feminine silhouette, would doubtless have concurred with this eternally sage advice.

But while I think there are dandistic elements to Mr. Hitchcock personally, and while his films comport themselves with an idiosyncratic visual style which is dandistic, such that he is often imitated by other directors but never equalled, his predilection for female fashion, which is at irreconcilable odds with masculine style, seems ultimately to disqualify him as a dandy.

His great equal as a visual storyteller, Orson Welles, is even further from the mark than Mr. Hitchcock, though Mr. Welles too has elements of the dandy about him. His affectation of exuberantly-brimmed sombreros and capes—(capes are eminently dandistic)—ought to qualify him on prima facie inspection, but on deeper consideration these are the very things which let him out.

Mr. Welles always reminds me of Oscar Wilde, who is often mistaken for a dandy—and who mistook himself for one. Both are hommes du théâtre, and I think the native extravagance and peacockery of theatre people always counts against them. They evince the kind of ostentation that the true dandy abhors.

There are few cases in cinema of men so pathologically addicted to an art-form that Mr. Welles called ‘the biggest electric train set a boy ever had’ than Orson Welles himself. But despite his addiction, despite the fact that he had cinema in the blood, Mr. Welles was always, first and foremost, a man of the theatre, like Mr. Wilde, with all the vulgar flamboyance, the extroverted ‘larger-than-life-ness’ that no man of the theatre can ever quite get rid of.

It’s always in a stage man’s manner, and you won’t find a single interview with Orson Welles where he is not entertaining, performing for a public audience. It’s charming, but it’s also a straight-up disqualification, for despite his extraordinary vividness, there is no peacockery at all in the genuine dandy: the common mistake that people uninformed on this subject make is to think that because he publicly shines with a special lustre, the dandy, like the man of the stage, is somehow a whore for the spotlight.

Pas du tout.

The dandy’s seductive éclat comes entirely from within. As Philip Mann writes in The Dandy at Dusk: Taste and Melancholy in the Twentieth Century (2017), ‘… [J]ust as the dandy’s suit is glamorous and his melancholy sombre, so his suit is sombre and his melancholy glamorous.’ The dandy thus burns with a dark, self-consuming light, like a white dwarf.

Mr. Welles’ egotistical extroversion under a veneer of false modesty lets him out. For the same reason, Charles Chaplin is not really a dandy—although his childhood in Dickensian poverty is a crucial psychological plank in the nascent pathology of dandyism. Chaplin, in his later life, is said to have developed a mania for shoes—an obsession which all true dandies will recognize as central to the complex, but which is perhaps more acute in someone who went barefoot through the freezing streets of London in childhood.

The Little Tramp is perhaps what we might call an ‘inverted dandy’—particularly the wing-collar specimen of the genus that Mr. Chaplin portrays in City Lights (1931). While the Little Tramp as archetype is always waging a dandistic war of specious respectability against the grinding reality of his poverty, the Tramp of City Lights goes through the most horrendous crucible of attrition in all of Mr. Chaplin’s œuvre, starting off with wing-collar, boutonnière and a rather snappy bow-tie, and ending up collarless, his bowler mortally wounded, his trousers out-at-arse, and altogether looking the most tragic we will ever see him.

But it’s really the post-Tramp Charlot of Monsieur Verdoux (1947), Limelight (1952), and A King in New York (1957) who reveals Charlie’s soul-deep pretensions towards aristocracy, not merely as a man of the theatre, but as a waif of the working-class. Dandies always emanate from the lower orders, but rarely from as low as the future Sir Charles did.

This is tacit in the example set by the bourgeois social mountaineer Mr. Brummell, who, as Titan of the Regency, could not have shaken the fashionable firmament of his betters if the English class system was not showing, to his canny eye, the first hairline fissures of encroaching democracy. As M. Baudelaire sagely observed, the phenomenon of dandyism is most pronounced in those transitional periods ‘when democracy is not yet all-powerful and aristocracy is tottering and only partially debased.’

Hence, not so many years after Mr. Brummell died in English disgrace and French exile, a nineteenth-century slum-child and music hall entertainer could become one of our monarch’s knights in the twentieth century. And when I look at the foreign royalty which Mr. Chaplin, with his gorgeous snowy hair and dulcet voice, makes himself over as in A King in New York, I am struck by how much he resembles our present monarch’s despised uncle in old age, the pre-eminent dandy of the twentieth century, the erstwhile Prince of Wales, the erstwhile King Edward VIII, the man who ended his career as the husband of Mrs. Simpson, the Duke of Windsor.

Of all the immortal Charlot’s creations, Henri Verdoux, the æsthete serial killer who makes a genteel art of dispatching wives and defrauding them of their cash, is the most dandistic. If the Little Tramp was a romanticized version of how Mr. Chaplin perceived himself and the grindingly modest Londonian origins from which he sprang, I think that M. Verdoux represents the romanticized version of Mr. Chaplin’s aspirations for himself as a democratic American gentleman with European pretensions.

He’s the creation, I sense, for whom Mr. Chaplin had the most affection, for M. Verdoux is, as the final shot attests, the Little Tramp’s satanic side. As a man whose dark side also encompasses Machiavellian aspirations towards cash, artistic crimes, and the conquest of women—(all in great quantities, for ‘numbers sanctify’)—I also love M. Verdoux for his consummate dandyism, and I must confess an obsession with Charlie’s outfit in that film. The grey chalk-stripe suit, double-breasted waistcoat with shawl lapel, fulsome, billowing cravat, divine pearl Homburg, gloves and walking stick which Charlot affects in his flâneries comprises the perfect uniform for picking up game grisettes as one treads the streets of Paris.

I intimated above that it’s the striking detail, the incongruous element in the otherwise correct wardrobe, a gesture towards personal comfort, that marks out the dandy. We’d be hard-pressed to award Federico Fellini the dandy laurel, for although often suited on-set, the bullish-looking Maestro never quite wore his suits with sprezzatura—certainly not the sprezzatura that Guido, his perennially harassed and hen-pecked film director proxy, played by the gorgeous and elegant Marcello Mastroianni, wears them with in (1963).

To the peerless Italian tailoring of tight black suit, white shirt and black tie are bequeathed two characteristically Felliniesque touches—the omnipresent scarf and the cowboy hat. Whether on il Signor Fellini himself or on Guido, that cowboy hat is the crowning touch of oddness that breaks the strict correctness of the classic Italian suit.

Il Fellini’s black cowboy hat was particularly odd, with a low crown and a short, though acutely shaped, brim. One might, at a pinch, have expected his compatriot, Sergio Leone, the gran regista of spaghetti westerns, to sport such a hat, though that gent often went around bareheaded, or with a tweed newsboy’s cap at best. But il Signor Fellini was not a maker of westerns—not even of westerns as far-removed in style from those classic models bearing the Ford insignia as Cinecittà is from Monument Valley—and his cowboy hat, which is almost a more savagely stylized and deformed Fedora, reflects his weird visions of the ordinary.

Indeed, with its connotations of the Rio Grande displaced, as in a dream, to the banks of the Tiber, il Signor Fellini’s incongruous cowboy hat lent that beautiful dreamer the appropriately quixotic touch, on-set, of a high plains drifter tilting, as Guido tilts, at the windmills of his mind.

In The Dandy at Dusk, Philip Mann makes a case for Jean-Pierre Melville, another Euro-fan of the cowboy hat combined with the suit, as a dandy, and though I’m not entirely convinced of the argument, I am prepared to assert that of all the filmmakers I can think of, M. Melville comes probably the closest to my criteria of a dandy director.

He was an écrivain manqué, I think, a writer who, by an immense détournement, found his native literary instinct luckily diverted into the visual. When M. Melville says that editing a film is equal in his passions to writing one, but that he absolutely hates shooting films, you get an intimation of that ruggedly individualistic, utterly ruthless attitude of the writer who loves total control and hates the ‘communal labour’ of filmmaking.

M. Melville is perhaps unique among all directors in that he seemed to realize the dream of solitary, literary filmmaking enunciated by M. Robbe-Grillet: as an independent producer/director, he built his own studio as an adjunct to his home and could work alone in the midnight hours, setting up lights and arranging the set before the arrival of his actors and crew.

He was an introvert, and the Melvillian man of his melancholy, violent dreams is introverted to an hermetic extent—like ‘un tigre dans la jungle… peut-être,’ as M. Melville himself writes at the beginning of Le Samouraï (1967). And being as much a ‘men’s director’ as filmmakers like Mizoguchi, Ophuls, Woody Allen—or even the woman-torturing Alfred Hitchcock—are ‘women’s directors’, filmmakers whose first sympathies lie with their suffering heroines, M. Melville, in his deep love and sympathy for the condition of men in all our melancholy and violence, seems equally to have loved the savagely restricted uniform of the suit with which we elegantly repress and civilize ourselves.

He is perhaps the only director, if Herr Mann’s argument is to be credited, who had the superordinate passion for menswear which is my third condition of dandyism in directors: days after seeing Gone with the Wind in London in 1940, he met Clark Gable at a shirtmaker’s shop in Jermyn street—which star-crossed encounter M. Melville took to be prophetic of his destiny in film. Herr Mann also alleges he once abandoned a film mid-tournage after getting into an argument with an actor about how wide his hat-brim should be.

Given the dandy’s mania for the details of correct masculine deportment, that sounds about the appropriate level of obsession—and expensive, individualistic recklessness—to qualify M. Melville, prima facie, as a dandy director.

Watch any interview with him and you will be struck by a man who is ruthlessly correct in his courtly deportment and demeanour: M. Melville conducts himself en parfait gentleman. The only extravagant touches added to the dark, sober suit which reflects his saturnine nature are the exuberant cream Stetson and the mirrored aviator sunglasses—fetishistic touches of the Americana which decorated M. Melville’s films as much as his person.

There’s a photo in Herr Mann’s book of M. Melville, circa 1960, in a boxy dark grey suit and tie, his ensemble topped with shining Stetson and les trous noirs of his aviator sunglasses, and carrying an elegantly thin briefcase—but no raincoat—through the rainy streets of Paris. Even more than a gangster on his way to a rendez-vous (an eminently appropriate look for an independent producer/director with shady contacts), this incongruous figure briskly whipping along looks like a Texas oilman—a premonition of J. R. Ewing, no less—plopped down in the rue de la Paix.

This américainophilie is de rigueur for a man who, in a supremely dandistic gesture, adopted the surname of the author of Moby Dick as his codename in the French Resistance and never renounced it upon the laying down of arms. As a man who constructs an operative identity which he is ruthlessly prepared to both live and die by, the only profession other than literature for which the dandy is eminently suited is espionage, and M. Melville, the chronicler of gangsters, corrupt cops, con artists and members of the Armée des Ombres, comported himself as an undercover résistant all his life—résistant à tout.

As an operative identity, the codename ‘Melville’ is as much a charmed imperméable in the grey ville de merveilles of Paris as the raincoat he accoutres Alain Delon with in Le Samouraï. It’s perhaps an ironic coincidence that the French Mafia is colloquially known as ‘le Milieu’—literally, ‘the Place’, ‘the Scene’, for M. Melville, like his idealized assassin, seemed to strive to live up to Mr. Brummell’s dictum that the perfect dandy is a man who is never out of place, but blends into his environment, never drawing attention to himself with a mistake of deportment or comportment.

He is so correct as to be invisible.

As Mr. Hitchcock took the dressing of his leading ladies to be a personal duty not to be delegated, M. Melville similarly undertook to be valet to his leading men. ‘I’m very prone to clothes fetishism,’ he once said—surely an understatement for a director who named one of his films—Le Doulos (1962)—after the gangster argot-word for ‘hat-wearer’. ‘[T]he clothing of men plays a decisive rôle in my films, while women’s clothing alas concerns me less. When an actress has to be dressed, an assistant usually takes care of it.’

This candid admission seems to clinch it, but I take Philip Mann’s offering of Jean-Pierre Melville as a dandy director under advisement. It’s a matter I will have to think about more before I offer M. Melville a membership in the club. Doubtless, like Groucho Marx, he wouldn’t take it anyway if it was offered—and if so, that would be the concluding proof of M. Melville’s dandysme;—for we dandies are such rugged individualists that (like the only Marx whose dicta are worth repeating) we would refuse to belong to any club that would have us as a member.

If you can think of any other hommes du cinéma you think might live up to the high bar of being a dandy, dear readers, I would be interested to hear the names of other contenders bandied in the comments below.

It’s a bit cheeky, but in today’s post, I’m sharing with you the same video I posted on The Melbourne Flâneur vlog last week.  The same, that is, but different.

I just got back some Super 8 footage I shot in Bendigo from the folks at nano lab, Australia’s small gauge film specialists.  At the time I wanted to get the video above online, the reel of Kodak Tri-X was at their lab in Daylesford undergoing ‘magic’.

So I sneakily put some ‘placeholder’ shots into the intro and outro which I hoped I would be able to later replace with some Super 8 footage—if it was any good.

Tri-X, as Kodak’s signature black-and-white film stock, is very difficult to wrangle.  You can get some absolutely magical shots with Tri-X, but it doesn’t peer into the shadows very well, so you have to be either very good or very lucky—or both—to get consistently good results from it.

I’m not that good.  In Bendigo, I was experimenting with the manual exposure settings on my trusty Minolta XL 401 Super 8 movie camera, so much of what was on the reel came back overexposed.

But when I dragged the gamma way down on the footage, I got some lovely shots of the Venus Pudica in Rosalind Park and the Alexandra Fountain—the more so, I think, for their being so grainy.  Brief as they are, I think they add a nice bit of contrast to the digital footage in the video, and I’d love to hear your reactions.

People are always a bit nonplussed when they discover I’m so hipped on Super 8.  As I was finishing up the shot of the Talking Tram trundling into Pall mall, a guy came up to me and asked me why I was shooting on film—as if I was breaking some bourgeois law of conformity.

‘Most people are using digital,’ Constable Plod of the Conformity Police complained as he signed my citation.

Shooting on Super 8 is indeed an expensive hobby, but there’s a qualitative æsthetic difference to Super 8 which sends me.

In my previous post, I stated that flânerie is an ‘altered state’: the invisible poetry which hovers behind objects in the urban environment is made visible through the flâneur’s ‘long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens,’ as M. Rimbaud puts it.

And in my recent post on flânography, I argued that this artform I had coined was the ‘poetry of photography’.  I declined in that post to set forth my thoughts on the relative merits of analogue and digital photography vis-à-vis flânography, but a discussion of Super 8 seems like a good place to examine that distinction.

For me, the medium of film—and particularly Super 8—goes much further than digital photography and videography can in manifesting that ‘invisible poetry of the visible’ I talked about in the earlier posts.  The chemistry of film grain does something magical that pixels cannot do in making that elemental molecular and atomic substrate vibratingly visible.

You can see that most pointedly in the overexposed shots I inserted into the video, where raking down the gamma reveals the Venus Pudica and the statues of the Alexandra Fountain as hardly anything more than dense constellations of buzzing black and grey atoms on a white field.

For me at least, the ‘murkiness’ of film is more like how I actually see and experience the world—a kind of ‘darkness at noon’.

Don’t get me wrong: I’ve got 20/20 vision the same as you.  But those of you who have read Dean Kyte’s books will know that they’re a bit of a ‘trip’: even the most banal and quotidian experience erupts for yours truly (c’est moi in the snappy chapeau) in recursive dimensions of abstract meaning, and much more than digital videography, Super 8 has the ‘look’ of my life—the flâneurial experience of groping mole-like through the dazzling, sun-bright darkness of the blindingly obvious.

There’s a high-resolution quality to the experience of flânerie which the low-resolution quality of Super 8 paradoxically matches in a Baudelairean correspondance.

If you compare the video footage to the Super 8, I don’t think we will be in too much disagreement when I say that the digital footage looks more ‘like’ the things depicted in Bendigo than the film footage, the same way a realist painting of a person, tree or building looks more ‘like’ the subject than an impressionist version of same.

But when I got my Super 8 footage back from nano lab, the black-and-white flâneurial footage looked more like how I remembered Bendigo to look from the distance of a week and a few hundred kilometres.  There is not that dead, flat ‘factuality’ which raw digital footage has, but a reconstitutivebeing’ in film footage—as though it’s happening all over again, but for the first time.

As a medium, Super 8 has a look more like our memories—fuzzy, fragile, juddery and inexpertly framed.  And shot on Tri-X, even cars and people look different when rendered through the rheumy eyes of Super 8: a scene as modern for me as two weeks ago now looks like it took place in a distant past.

In the altered state of flânerie, you are aware of the density of things, but also of their porous transience, and somehow the fragility of Super 8 captures the ‘eternality of the ephemeral’.  You can see the grand buildings of Bendigo’s Charing Cross passing behind the Talking Tram in the footage: these magnificent buildings have lasted for over a century, but they too will eventually fall into dust.

As Céline (Julie Delpy) says to Jesse (Ethan Hawke) in Before Sunrise (1995) as they regard a poster for a Seurat exhibition: ‘I love the way the people seem to be dissolving into the background. … It’s like the environments, you know, are stronger than the people.  His human figures are always so – transitory.’

I feel the same way when I look at the shots I took of the Venus Pudica: the tenacious endurance of inertia in marble sculpture—and also its fragility—are equally manifest when you see the outlines of this goddess fading in and out with the buzzing, porous granularity of changing sunlight registered so subtly and yet so roughly and approximately on Super 8 film.

Last year I asked and answered the question, ‘Are there flâneur films?’, and my conclusion was that the flâneur in film is more a quality of certain films themselves—something in the way they are shot and edited—than a human character or presence within them—prototypical flâneur movies like Before Sunrise to the contrary.

Despite the expense of shooting on film, Super 8 seems to me to be the perfect medium to produce such a ‘flâneur cinema’ or ‘cinema of flânerie’ precisely because the medium itself is attuned to this more impressionistic way of seeing the world, and because the camera itself is lightweight, discreet and versatile—ideal for a dandy engaged in curious æsthetic espionage.

As Jeff Clarke, the CEO of Kodak, has rightly observed, we—human beings—are analogue too; we’re not digital.

Our bodies and the world we live in are not made up of pixels.  We’re not reducible to passels of ‘data’.  It’s meet that we should see the world with the same messy, organic frame as Super 8.

And it’s the handcrafted, artisanal experience of working with film, working with something as real and tangible and fragile as myself, that really sends me when it comes to shooting on Super 8.

I feel a sense of vital involvement, my total being is engaged when I work with film.  It’s the rapport of one physical, analogue being working with another.  And this vital engagement of energies between real, living things is one of the qualitative æsthetic differences of working with film.

If I could have said one thing to Constable Plod which explained why I was using film instead of digital to capture the shot of the Talking Tram, it would have been that.  As a ‘film maker’, I felt like I was actually ‘making’ something which required art, craft and skill to accomplish.

There’s no particular ‘skill’ required in digital photography or videography, but using film demands the development of skill—particularly the skill of patience, which is hardly required in our HD, ADD world where you can carelessly click a pic with your phone.

I had to wait twenty minutes at the corner of Pall mall and Mitchell street to ultimately get the shot of the Talking Tram passing through Charing Cross.  I had my camera set up on my dinky tripod, my settings checked, double-checked, and triple-checked.  I had tested the tension of the pan lever several times and the position of the spirit level.  I had all my senses on high-alert for the least spectre of a tram shimmering in the furthest distance of that broilingly hot day—all so I would have enough time to get set for it when it passed into frame.

And one of the upsides of working with film is that I think my videography has benefited enormously from the development of the skills demanded by film.  I’m much more deliberative in my framing and composition when I set up digital camera, and much more attentive to the qualities of light.

It’s over to you, chers lecteurs.  What do you think?

Do you agree with ‘us analogue purists’ that film is far superior to digital in every æsthetic respect, or would you rush to the fray to defend ‘the way of the future’ against the infidel Luddites?

Are you interested in getting into film?  Were you once into film and ‘went digital’—and would you like to go back?

I look forward to having a lively discussion with you in the comments below.

And if you would like to look at all the raw footage I shot on Super 8 in Bendigo (including some alternate takes which didn’t make the cut in the video above), I’ve posted that below.  Nothing fancy, no music or sound effects, just the facts, ma’am.

Vitus Bacchausen wishes that somebody would make a movie about the flâneur, but admits, for prescient reasons, that such a film would be impossible to make within the constraints of commercial cinema.

Why, Bacchausen wonders, have there been no ‘flâneur movies’?

There are two answers to this question.  Firstly, one may adduce a not insubstantial list of characters in film who might be described as flâneurs.

The first, and most obvious, candidate is Scottie Ferguson in Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958), who, when quizzed, gives his profession as ‘wandering’.  But you can also reel off putative examples like the wandering protagonists of Antonioni’s films, such as Lidia in La Notte (1961), Vittoria in L’Eclisse (1962), and the photographer of Blowup (1966).

You could point to Jesse and Céline in Before Sunrise (1995), or the eponymous heroine of Amélie (2001).  Petra Nolan of the University of Melbourne even makes a plausible case, in her PhD thesis, for Walter Neff, the vagabond insurance salesman of Double Indemnity (1944), as ‘the cinematic flâneur par excellence.

The key word is ‘plausible’.

All the examples adduced above are plausible, and a convincing prima facie case could be made for any of them as cinematic flâneurs, one which would appear to refute Bacchausen’s contention that the figure of the flâneur has not really found his place in cinema.

But my second answer to Bacchausen’s question refutes the one I’ve just given.

I would say that if you look more carefully at any of the films cited above, you must come to the conclusion that they feature characters who partake in flânerie, but that these characters are not themselves flâneurs pur-sang.

In an earlier post, I gave a fairly strict definition of what is a flâneur.  I offered three traits which I regard as non-negotiable characteristics in any definition.

Firstly, the flâneur is a pedestrian.  He walks, not occasionally, but as his primary and preferred mode of transport.

Secondly, he is an acute observer of the world that files past him as he walks, and as Bacchausen notices, there is, in the sport of observation, a distinctly æsthetic end to the chase.  The flâneur is a hunter who chases after beauty.

Thirdly, there is a pronounced element of the dandy in the character of the flâneur.  Charity begins at home: unless he firstly recognizes himself to be a worthy æsthetic object of attention, it is highly unlikely that a man who is not assiduously attentive to the details of his own deportment is going to exhibit the level of unusual acuity of attention toward the æsthetic details of the external world which I ascribe to the flâneur.

A man may walk shabbily abroad looking longingly after beauty, but that man is not a flâneur.  He is the Average Frustrated Chump you see shambling down Swanston street.

Given the definition above, it’s hard to see how the characters adduced in the first answer are flâneurs, though it can certainly be conceded that they partake in the activity of flânerie in a more or less dilettantish way.

Jep Gambardella, the Roman giornalista of La grande bellezza (2013), is the only character in film I can think of who satisfies my three-point definition as a ‘cinematic flâneur pur-sang’.

So the question remains:  Are there flâneur films?

The answer is yes, but it is the character of the films themselves, rather than any characters they contain, which may be regarded as ‘flâneuristic’.

At the Toronto International Film Festival in 2016, Slavoj Žižek made some intriguing remarks vis-à-vis. Hitchcock; to wit—how Hitchcock’s films have an uncanny quality, at certain moments, of appearing to ‘think for themselves’.

In Psycho (1960), for instance, there are two extraordinary moments, one immediately after the shower scene and the other immediately before the second murder.  In both cases, the camera detaches itself from the point of view of the character it has locked onto and acts ‘queerly’, as though it had an intelligence and agency of its own, moving through space and looking at things quite pointedly, as though it were mutely trying to tell us something, the way our unconscious appeals to us through images.

Žižek calls this ‘thinking through film’, and it’s a highly rarefied cognitive process which seems to emerge from the apparatus of cinema itself—something like Baudelaire’s sensation that the image of sky and sea, and a little yacht trembling on the horizon, seemed to be thinking through him—‘musicalement et pittoresquement, sans arguties, sans syllogismes, sans déductions’ (‘musically and pictorially, without quibbles, without syllogisms, without deductions’).

Meditating on Žižek’s remarks, I began to ask myself what a cinema of flânerie might look like.

In fact, flâneur films are the oldest kind.  They have their roots in the actualité, the single, locked-off shot, without pan or cut, of the miracle which a moment of everyday life becomes when you train a camera at it for so long that it transcends its boring banality—like the shot of a sunset unfolding behind the Melbourne CBD which I’ve included at the head of today’s post.

The camera’s ability to gaze fixedly at a detached detail is like, and yet unlike, the flâneur’s acuity of observation, for our eyes do not ‘frame’ things.  When a shot is composed and unblinkingly held for minutes on end, and when, as in the video above, it is implied that this perspective is closely aligned but not identical with the point of view of an observer we cannot see, there is the uncanny sense that the camera itself has ‘intelligence’.

A film becomes ‘flâneurial’ when a moment of documentary actuality enters into it and is sustained well beyond what the average viewer would regard as a reasonable length of time.

To my mind, Ozu is the master of this kind of flâneurial cinema.  His ‘pillow shots’ are moments of ventilation in a film where architectural features and irrelevant details are held for longer than they would ordinarily be.  Ozu’s stubborn refusal to pan or dolly, to allow his camera to ‘look away’, imbues it with a sense of wilful, alien intelligence.

The other attribute of flâneurial cinema is the offshoot of the actualité, the ‘phantom ride’.  This is when the camera is placed on a train, tram or car, and, without moving itself, appears to float or glide like a ghost, registering the succession of actual events which pass it by.

The classic phantom ride, the masterpiece of the form, is the famous “A Trip Down Market Street” (1906).  Strapped to the front of a cable car, the camera floats towards the Ferry Building for 13 minutes, registering the life of the street with that alien fixity of attention we see in Ozu, never turning its ‘head’ to gaze about itself as a real flâneur would.

The capacity of the camera to move in this gliding, floating fashion, simulating human ambulation but very different from it, is a quality that Antonioni makes good use of in his passeggiate.

In La Notte, the camera, raised at some elevation behind Lidia, appears almost to stalk her as it stealthily tracks her tacking between bollards.  In Blowup, in the key scenes set in Maryon Park, the camera is subtly detached from the point of view of the photographer.  It pans to sweep the scene in a movement more eerie than a human head-turn because of its mechanical smoothness.  Or, in a moment of startling volition, it gazes up at the branches of a tree in what we realize only afterwards was its own ‘point of view shot’.

This uncanny sense of the film possessing its own intelligence and agency, principally through the camera, but also through cutting and the rest of the constitutive apparatus which compose a film, is, I think, what Žižek means when he talks about ‘thinking through film’.

‘To understand the film,’ he says, ‘you should include into its content the message delivered by the autonomy of form.  It’s at that level that true thinking in cinema happens.’

When a film has the volition to move—or not move—through the world as it wishes, and to study with its own fixity of attention those details of actuality which arrest it in its passage, the character of the film itself becomes ‘flâneurial’.

What do you think?

Are there characters in movies you would actually define as flâneurs, or, like Bachhausen and myself, are you at a loss to think of any who really meet the measure?

Is it possible for films to ‘think for themselves’, as I’m suggesting?

I’m interested to hear your comments below.