Notebook (tears in rain)
September 3, 2012 § Leave a comment
As Catherine Lupton notes, Sans Soleil is replete with instances of the last moments of things. The one which the film begins with, and returns to at the very end, is that of a shrine “dedicated to cats” in the suburbs of Tokyo: a couple, who have lost their cat, Tora, kneel and light incense before an altar covered in identical maneki neko statues, to “repair the web of time where it had been broken”. When Tora dies, we are told, it is vital that “death will call her by her right name”: Tora’s being will disappear, will be forgotten, in the proper manner, and thereby her former being, her memory, will take its proper place and substance within the “web of time”. This almost archetypal structure is itself repeated throughout the film: in the people attending with flowers after the death of a panda in Tokyo Zoo; the incineration of dolls in a pit; the Dondo-Yaki ritual of burning the debris that accrues during the Japanese New Year celebrations; the purification ceremony performed by a Noro priestess on Hokkaido, of which there will be no more, following the devastation of the indigenous culture by the American occupation in World War II. We find here articulated a dialectical structure encapsulated in Krasna’s aphorism that “Forgetting is not the opposite of remembering, but its lining.” This corresponds, interestingly, with Benjamin’s remarks on the question of happiness and the mémoire involontaire in Proust: “Is not the involuntary recollection […] much closer to what is called forgetting than what is usually called memory?” The substance of involuntary memory is lost in the unconscious until the moment of recollection, the central event of Proust’s conception of happiness; things must disappear in order to assume their place in the scheme of time. Benjamin explicitly connects this with the structure of awakening, and “the Copernican […] turn in remembrance” outlined in The Arcades Project. Proust’s work seeks to catch at the “few fringes of the carpet of lived existence, as woven into us by forgetting”. His paralysis, his entrapment in this vast labour, proves the difficulty, at that juncture, of the task formulated thus by Benjamin: “To pass through and carry out what has been in remembering the dream!” Marker’s playing with stillness reminds us that forgetting is a part of the memory of the cinematic image: the individual film-frame, the material substrate of the image, is blocked in projection as many times as it is exposed, and half of the time in which the image appears on the screen is composed of darkness (persistence of vision permits us not to notice). When Krasna catches the gaze of a Cape Verde woman “for the 24th of a second, the length of a film-frame”, the reminder of the disappearance that awaits either side of this moment of connection (a version, perhaps, of the classic Hollywood star close-up) is palpable; it must be reduced to a still, an image in the Zone, its immanent amnesia erased, in order to be preserved. The theme is recapitulated in the imagined traveller from the future who forms the protagonist of Krasna’s posited Sunless: in his time, we are told, nothing is forgotten; for this very reason, it is difficult for him to experience the reality of the past (our present) – “memory without forgetting would be memory anaesthetised”. It is through his understanding of forgetting that he comes to begin to remember the “long and painful pre-history” embodied in Mussorgsky’s song-cycle, “towards which, slowly and heavily, he begins to walk”. The utopia of the unwounded image, visible to a vantage-point “outside of time”, is necessary but insufficient; only in its glimpses of “the poignancy of things” as they depart can memory move beyond itself, decentering from individual memory into the collective daylight of historical action.
Another image does something of this work. In Blade Runner – released the same year as Sans Soleil, 1982, it shares a slot with it on the Sight & Sound top 100 poll – Rachael (Sean Young) sits at Deckard’s (Harrison Ford) piano. The score on the piano’s music stand is almost entirely obscured by photographs, which proliferate on top of the piano body too. She scrutinises one – an ovoid sepia picture of a woman’s face that bears a certain distant resemblance to hers. Scott here cuts to Rachael’s face, as if in a reverse-angle reaction shot, urging us to compare these two faces. Earlier, Rachael presents Deckard with a photograph as proof of the authenticity of her memories. He responds scornfully by describing a number of her most private memories, showing that they do not belong to her. (The notion of a connection between the two films is supported by the fact that this scene is echoed, down to the smallest detail, in Marker’s short film Cat Listening to Music, later included as an interlude in The Last Bolshevik.) Her experience has all the reality of images inscribed in media. These are, notably, analogue media, representing a previous stage of technology purportedly closer to authenticity than the high deception of replicant production, or the vast array of screen images that flash up in the urban environment. The normal epistemological operation here is reversed: the photograph does not derive its reality from indexical reference to the diegetic ‘reality’ of the film’s world; the filmic image can appeal to no ‘deeper’ reality, no noumena, beyond its own intensely mediated phenomenonal being, and the seductions of the densely layered appearances of Scott’s shots. The very presence of these photographs suggests that this is the case, too, for Deckard. Certainly Ford’s withdrawn performance, in contrast to the then-still-fashionable Method style, suggests there is little to him except for the surface borrowed from media – the look, movement and voice of the film noir protagonist. He, like the replicants, is an image in a reality objectively composed of images, of mediations without origin. Like cinematic images, they pass through time – too quickly for the liking of Roy (Rutger Hauer), who seeks to extend their lifespan – into the darkness of amnesia, destined to become the waste of industry. Their momentary appearance, and hence their disappearance, is their reality. Thus the desperation with which Deckard pins Rachael against the wall, with which he tries to know her reality: “Put your hands on me.”
The image of Blade Runner, in the terms we have been using to discuss Sans Soleil,is that of a world sunk in dream, in which the cinematic image enacts at once intense, sensual desire and the impossibility of the making-real of that desire’s object-cause. It is worth noting that the visual effects of Sans Soleil – primarily the VCS3 synthesizer – belong to the same sort of interstitial technologies that Scott used in the visual composition of Blade Runner, technologies presaging the universe of digital filmmaking. Hayao Yamaneko’s Zone eerily anticipates the world of Youtube and streaming film and television, in which every action and image in the hegemonic field of mediation is preserved, rendered timeless and unchanging. For this very reason, the image’s historicity – its connection to a material history in which the image’s dream may be recollected and enacted – is erased: when Roy, in his final speech, laments “all those memories, gone, like tears in rain”, it is exactly this extinction to which the technologised memory-image is subjected. The reality or unreality of the Zone’s synthesized images is related to the question of the cinematic image in general: the Zone’s images, Krasna says, are at least honest in the sense that “they declare themselves to be exactly that, images, not the portable and compact form an already inaccessible reality”. Thus the image is objectively determined by the social: society’s opacity to the penetrative gaze of cinema reduces the image to one more appearance to be circulated, or, at best, removed from time. Blade Runner, of course, crystallised, too, debates around the condition known as postmodernity (and did so quite precisely through the treatment of the image that we have been discussing).Sans Soleil explicitly relates these questions to the failure of the international revolutionary project of the 60s, the historical damage that infects the image. We will return in the next chapter, in our discussion of A Grin Without A Cat, to the question of the political determination of the image qua film. For the moment though, we should look at the question of the filmic image slightly more closely under these conditions. After all, this account of the image summed-up in the concept of the Zone is not the conclusion of Sans Soleil: there are, as we have seen, other ways of treating the image in the film; we should treat it, as a proposition, as part of a dialectic, even if one that moves in the direction of despair. As Laura Mulvey suggests in Death 24x a Second (2004), the cinema’s movement from analogue to digital (as the medium of both production and preservation), the threatened “extinction” of film as a medium, “draws new attention to the index”, to the historical-epistemological questions inscribed in the origins of cinema. The memory of cinema comes into dreamy focus in the moment it is threatened with liquidation. Some film theory has responded to the shift to digital by abandoning the index, and as part of a theory of the image, while others have reinterpreted earlier work to suggest it is still relevant to the present situation. Miriam Hansen, for example, argues in Cinema and Experience (2011) that Benjamin’s treatment of cinema’s auratic possibilities should not necessarily “be limited to cinema based on celluloid film”.
Our approach, as we have shown so far, is different. As film’s material reality becomes a historical relic, the image is historicised; cinema’s historical actuality – and its betrayal – becomes ever more visible and important. Cinema is not deleted, liquified, but turned into a ruin. Damage, darkness, seep into the image. An analogy can be drawn with the process described by Benjamin in The Origin of German Tragic Drama: as with the turn to allegory, the dissolution of analogue film is the eruption of history into the indexical image. This goes some way to explaining what Edward Branigan calls Sans Soleil‘s air of “premature nostalgia”. This is not quite to say that the film mourns cinema and its attendant historical potentialities – the air of tragedy comes five years earlier, in the grief-numbed close of A Grin Without A Cat. This situation, Laura Mulvey writes, “has rendered the presence of the index anachronistic”; passing into memory (which is to say: into material history) “[t]he mechanical, even banal presence of the photographic image as index takes on a new kind of resonance […] The index can now be valued in its relation to time and as a record of a fragment of inscribed reality that may be meaningless or indecipherable”. The disruption of the index’s evidential function noted by Mulvey opens up possibilities for its participation in other forms of historical knowledge, not positivist and passive but a critical recollection cutting against the grain of the now. The militant possibility of cinema itself is part of the archive of moments to be lived through again, in their fullness.