Eames, Innovation, and Advertising:

When watching the various selected films of Charles and Ray Eames, the thing that struck me most was their impeccable ability to present items that are potentially mundane as nothing short of thrilling and exciting. Whether it be a trickle of soapy water on asphalt, the various bric-a-brac in their infamous home, toy trains, or desk chairs, school chairs, lounge chairs, arm chairs (… they made a lot of chairs). The point I am getting at though, is that Charles and Ray Eames had the capacity to draw all of your attention in to the ‘wonder’ that is the assembly of a lounge chair and ottoman. How? Through their almost majestic control of camerawork, sound, light, and space. What a modern day advertiser wouldn’t do for this kind of power!

Take for instance their short film Kaleidoscope Jazz Chair. Whilst I truthfully found their manipulations and contortions of Kaleidoscopic images enthralling, as the film moved to the scene with the chairs I will concede that I almost scoffed. However, I was far too quick to do so, because as I continued to watch on, I soon found myself mesmerised. Truth be told, they are only chairs, but as they began to move and change colour, multiply and diminish, all the while in perfect timing to the catchy Jazz accompaniment, these simple chairs became so much more.

 

As a result of this phenomenon, I instantly found myself pining for an Eames chair of my very own, and this is what drew my attention to advertising. Given that in today’s society we are inundated with so many products, differentiating between them has become an almost impossible task. Hence, products must present themselves in such a way that appeases all of our senses, something that Charles and Ray Eames did so very effectively. It then occurred to me that one need not look very far to see the Eames’ influence on one of the world’s most recognisable products, Apple:

 

 

The white background, the portrayal of the product’s versatility, the rapid shot changes, the catchy melody all smacks of Charles and Ray Eames. In the 50’s and 60’s everybody wanted an Eames chair, today everybody wants an iPad, it appears as though the formula works to a tee. To borrow a phrase then: Eames is creating, Eames is vital, Eames is ideas, and Eames is amazing, even by today’s standards.

King Kong vs The World: Ready, Set, Fight!

In being one of these rare, cave-dwelling people who have managed to go about their lives without having seen the original King Kong or any of the remakes, when choosing courses for this semester, I found myself instantly attracted to this course after reading those two simple, yet legendary words; King Kong. But why? There are undoubtedly millions of films deemed to be ‘classic’ that I am yet to see, but for some reason the words King Kong truly excited me. Then it struck me. Although having never seen the film, much of my childhood was spent either playing video games or watching T.V. shows that incorporated references to, or reappropriations of, this iconic character, such as this one:

My young mind and fingers would work in tandem to ensure that Kong would triumph over the civilisation that looked to defeat him, never really appreciating the gravity of such a battle until now, having seen Cooper and Schoedsack’s original classic. Although my infant mind could never grasp such a concept, this image of giant gorilla versus big city that is now entrenched in the minds of so many people embodies so many different meanings. It is these thoughts that consumed my mind both when watching the film, and in my various ruminations post screening.

My initial thoughts circulated around all the things that Kong could possibly represent; a triumphant crusader or a racialised intruder, a hero or a foe, a regression to the primordial or a way of escaping modernity. However much I considered this, my results were never conclusive, until I came to the realisation that perhaps he could represent all of these things to many different people. In many ways, Kong conforms to the mould of the reluctant hero type we see so often in modernist Hollywood cinema. He is that individual, set apart from the rest who looks to conquer any adversities that may come his way, all the while striving to rescue the damsel in distress. Yet concurrently, he is that racialised intruder who sets about destroying those things treasured by modern society. Likewise, his very image is indicative of his status as a primordial being, emanating from an uncivilised world, not being able to emotionally or intellectually connect with those around him. Yet his actions, such as literally breaking free from the shackles of the modern world that contained him depict him as some kind of transcendent figure seeking to escape the bounds of modernity.

For my mind, this is why King Kong is today, and will be for sometime, one of those truly remembered films. Unequivocally, he is that isolated character who stands up against the world, but whether one sees this as an act of courage, or an act of insolence is a matter of interpretation, meaning that everyone who watches this film is given a voice with which their opinion can be heard.

 

Joseph Cornell: The Puppet Master

Surrealist artist turned film experimentalist, Joseph Cornell is perhaps most recognised for his assemblage art pieces, or simply, boxes. Cornell was widely celebrated for his innate ability to transform the ordinary and mundane in to something fantastical. Like a skilled puppeteer who can transform lifeless pieces of wood and cloth in to a young boy that can sing and dance, Cornell could transform plastic ice cubes in to rare jewells, balls in to planets, and small wooden boxes in to exubriant microcosms. It is from this platform that I began to speculate, and attempt to decipher, Cornell's first effort at translating his art form to the silver screen in Rose Hobart.

Given that Cornell's artworks required him to have a particular penchant for recycling discarded objects, it comes as no surprise that his efforts at film-making see him use a similar technique. The footage used in Rose Hobart is taken almost entirely from the 1931 B-grade jungle flick East of Borneo. Jeremy Heilman notes that Cornell's radical reappropriation of this film requires its viewers to "reassess the complexity of the images they see when they watch even the simplest of mainstream films." Indeed, this is exactly what Rose Hobart achieves, as it transfigures an easily digestible piece of cinematic pulp in to something far more existential and intellectually stimulating.

Through the process of removing all dialogue from the film, cutting virtually every scene that does not feature the all-but-faded Hollywood starlet, and coating the entire film in a dream-like blue wash; Rose Hobart becomes almost entirely seperate from East of Borneo, and thus completely submits itself to Cornell's control. In Cornell's manifestation of the film, Hobart's every movement, every glance, every breath seems to be subject to the puppet master's desire, and the result is highly rewarding. As one watches on, they are stripped of the choice to transfix their attention on anything else but Ms. Hobart, with the occassional exception of an errupting volcano, a slowly expanding ripple in the water, or a mesmerising solar eclipse. However, the wonder of Cornell's work is that these fleeting images do not divert any attention away from Rose Hobart, but rather, they intensify it, as she seems to be connected to, or even responsible for each of these natural wonders.

Such is the effect of Cornell's film that we the audience, like him, become utterly obsessed with this woman, as she is made to move, to smile, and even to breathe in a way that excites and entices us in our induced dream-like state. Hence, Cornell becomes the ultimate puppet master as he not only controls the movements, the reactions, and the emotions of his title subject, but by doing so, he manages to control the audience as well.

The Symbiosis of Man and Machine in Vertov's "Man With a Movie Camera"

"We call ourselves kinoks -- as opposed to "cinematographers," a herd of junkmen doing rather well peddling their rags."


This opening statement of Dziga Vertov's Kino-eye Manifesto makes no reservations in drawing a clearcut distinction between the 'commercially driven' directors of Hollywood, and Vertov's own 'truth seeking' group of cinema-eye men. Whilst denouncing the many misgivings of American cinema; the sweet embraces of the romance, the poison of the psychological novel, the clutches of the theatre of adultery; Vertov attests that the only way to preserve the pure art form of filmmaking is to purvey a truth that can only be achieved through the synergy of man and and machine, a filmmaker and his camera:

"I am kino-eye, I am a mechanical eye. I, a machine, show you the world as only I can see it."

It is this concept of a fused life form between man and camera that consumed the majority of my attention when viewing "Man With a Movie Camera". From the opening scene in which a little man creeps out of a movie camera and begins to set up a second movie camera on top of it, we the audience are instantly transported to a surreal world in which man and machine share an intrinsic connection. Indeed, this somewhat kindred relationship continues to plague the entire film. From wide-panning long shots of industrial factories that suddenly transpire into images of new born babies, and then to mannequins (a by-product of man and machine); to the harmonious streams of trains and pedestrians that harmlessly dissect one another's paths; to the rapid cutscenes between a human eye and the industrial world it observes; to the rhythmic and all but autonomous movement of the mechanisms involved with mass production... the entire landscape of "Man With a Movie Camera" appears to be one giant testament to what can be achieved through the coalition of man and machine.

Whilst I am sure there is so much more to be taken from a film that many consider to be Vertov's magnum opus, I reluctantly admit that it was this relationship, and this relationship alone, that absorbed my conscious thought as I watched this film. As such, when I started to reflect on what I had seen, I began to speculate as to whether this film was so polarised from the American archetype of filmmaking that Vertov and his kinok colleagues so readily denounce, or whether it was in fact quite similar albeit for one predominant twist. The elaborate movement and tempo of the machines at work projected all kinds of theatrics, the gallant crusader that was the man with the movie camera provided, at least partially, some sense of narrative structure as he navigated and captured each part of his world from dawn till dusk, and, what I found to be most striking of all, the admiration and adoration of the mechanical world, and the subsequent union of man and machine certainly suggested to me some kind of perverted romance.