Saturday, December 18, 2004

Introduction to The Piano



An Essay by Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat

The Piano
Directed by Jane Campion
Artisan Entertainment 11/93
R - moments of extremely graphic sexuality
Running Time: Approx 121 minutes

In the middle of the 19th century, Ada (Holly Hunter) is a Scottish widow who has not talked since she was six years old. Her silence veils a deeply passionate and willful nature. She speaks in sign language with her nine-year-old daughter Flora (Anna Paquin) and writes messages on a tablet hanging from her neck. To give Ada a new lease on life, her father arranges a marriage for her with Stewart, a landowner in New Zealand.

When mother and daughter land in this wild and primitive place, the new husband is not there to greet them. Ada resourcefully builds a makeshift tent on the beach out of a hoop skirt. When he finally arrives, Stewart (Sam Neill) gets himself into even deeper trouble with Ada by refusing to transport her beloved piano to their home in the bush.

This Victorian landowner believes that since God loves dumb creatures, he must do so as well. Stewart is quite mystified by Ada's anger and put off by her symbiotic relationship with Flora. But what hurts him most is her refusal to consummate their marriage.

Meanwhile, Baines (Harvey Keitel), Stewart's illiterate estate manager who has Maori tattoos on his face, offers to trade some of his land to his boss for the piano, which he retrieves from the beach. He then asks Ada to give him lessons. She learns that he will sell the piano back to her in exchange for amorous favors. A glimpse of her shoulder, a caress of her leg are turned into a slow erotic courtship. At first, Ada is repulsed by this crude man's advances. Then her desire is aroused and finally her passion.

The Piano is a continuation of Australian director Jane Campion's exploration of the unique ways women express soul. In Sweetie (1989) she examined the edgy relationship between two sisters, and in An Angel at My Table (1990) she probed the struggle of New Zealand writer Janet Frame to assert her creativity.

In the best performance of her career, Holly Hunter conveys Ada's multidimensional journey into passion. She speaks her mind through the music she plays, which one character describes as "a mood that passes through you...a sound that creeps into you." Gaines is the first to recognize her passion. Together, they make music of another kind. Stewart, on the other hand, is frightened of his new wife's intensity and put off by her efforts to have her own way.

The Piano is the most sense-luscious film to reach the screen in years. It shows how soul is revealed through the fusion of body, desire, and feeling. In a poem titled "Life By Drowning," Jeni Couzyn has written:

The way toward each other is

through our bodies

Words are the longest distance

you can travel

So complex and hazardous you

Lose your direction.

Ada, like Helen Keller, becomes a voluptuary of her senses. Through touch, sight, sound, and smell, she finds her direction and opens the door to a new way of being.

In an interview, writer and director Jane Campion has noted: "I have enjoyed writing characters who don't have a 20th century sensibility about sex. We've grown up with so many expectations that the erotic impulse is almost lost to us but these characters have nothing to prepare them for its strength and power. I think the romantic impulse is in all of us and sometimes we live it for a short time, but it's not part of a sensible way of living. It's a heroic path and generally ends dangerously. I treasure it and believe it's a path of great courage. It can also be a path of the foolhardy and the compulsive."

The path of passion in The Piano has its consequences. Young Flora is the first to realize that something is going on between her mother and Baines. She lets her stepfather know that there are no sounds of the piano during Ada's lessons. Stewart goes to Baines's cabin and witnesses their lovemaking. In a fit of rage, he locks his wife up. His sexual jealously gets the better of him when Ada escapes and tries to reach Baines. He metes out an especially cruel punishment to Ada.

Eventually, she, Baines, and Flora leave for a life elsewhere. During a dramatic incident at sea, Ada chooses life over her attachment to her piano. In the final scene, she has begun to talk. "I am quite the town freak, which satisfies," Ada says. Her idiosyncratic and passionate soul has, at last, found its natural and perfect expression.

Friday, December 10, 2004

Cagayan de Oro

I will be in Cagayan de Oro from Dec 11-13, 2004 to visit the University President. While I am away, you will be viewing the uncut version of Cinema Paradiso, a film directed by Giuseppe Tornatore. Duration of the uncut version is almost 174 minutes, so that's almost three hours! I have made instructions that the movie starts at exactly 1:05 PM this Saturday after our beadle (Ms. Dimples Gentiles) has checked the attendance.

I would like you to read the Introduction to Cinema Paradiso and an essay by Barbara Poyner as posted here in the blog .

We will have the last movie for the first grading on December 18, 2004. After the movie, there will be a major written examination. Please bring with you three (3) sheets of yellow paper, a pen and your examination permit for the Prelim exam.

Make sure you watch the films these two Saturdays (Dec 11 and 18). Most of the items in the examination will be based on the two recent films. So I enjoin you to make necessary notes while viewing the film, focus on the elements of film. Also review all the articles and readings I have assigned in class.

You can consult me through email or through the phone (82) 221.2411 local 8303. Or you can visit the Admissions Office anytime as long as I do not have other appointments. If you want to have an appointed time to consult me, please email me ahead of time so I can put you on my appointment calendar.

Advance happy holidays!

Cinema Paradiso: An Essay

CINEMA PARADISO
An Essay by Barbara Poyner


Media Matters

Cinema Paradiso directed and written by Giuseppe Tornatore (Italy 1988), Cristaldi Film (Rome) and Films Ariane (Paris), distributed in Britain by Palace.

This Franco-Italian co-production made in association with RAI, TRE and TFI Film Production and in collaboration with Forum Pictures reflects the economic realities of the contemporary Italian cinema. Since the decline of cinema audiences in the 1970s film makers have been obliged to co-produce with foreign companies (usually French) thus raising capital and ensuring a wider distribution and also to cooperate with the old enemy, television.

Giuseppe Tornatore had worked for RAI TV from 1979, making films for the GLCT co-operative. Cinema Paradiso is Tornatore's second film as director. (He has subsequently directed a third.) He would, therefore, be seen as a reasonable risk by potential backers.

The score by Enrico Morricone, who wrote music for spaghetti westerns including the haunting score for The Good, the Bad and the Ugly , would seem to be an ingredient for success.

The choice of Philippe Noiret and Jacques Perrin to play Alfredo and the mature Salvatore would have been part of the deal with the French co-producers; Noiret, in particular, could be expected to draw French audiences. The French actress, Brigitte Fossey, who appeared in the original version of the film was cut out completely in the final version, however.

The film, originally two hours forty minutes, was cut to two hours by the time it was shown at the 1989 Cannes Film Festival, on the insistence of the producer, Franco Cristald. Apparently Tornatore regretted the decision but accepted it because of his respect for Cristaldi and his recognition of the latter's courage in backing him. This reminds us that art is subservient to commercial considerations even in the European Film Industry.

The subject matter and themes of Cinema Paradiso , particularly growing up and loss of innocence, would not be contentious. The exploration of the relationship between life and the movies is an attractive theme for film makers and has been tackled successfully by a number of directors. Though set in Sicily, the film is sufficiently universal in its appeal to attract not only Italian audiences but art house audiences elsewhere. Whilst Tornatore's film has much in common with other European art house films, it is not at all obscure; furthermore the plot is fairly simple and aimed primarily at the emotions rather than the intellect. The inclusion of the child actor Salvatore Cascio as the young Salvatore would also contribute to the film's attraction. Its popular success - at least in art house terms - might have been foreseen.

The relatively spare dialogue coupled with the lush music manipulating the audience's response to the images would make the film accessible to foreign audiences.

Having won awards at Cannes in 1989 Cinema Paradiso won the Oscar for the Best Foreign Film in the same year. (How could Hollywood resist so flattering a tribute?) This, of course, guaranteed its continuing success in the cinema at home and abroad (though not perhaps in the purely commercial cinema) and additional income was derived from the sale of videos, records and cassettes. Despite the film's critical acclaim, I do not know whether it enjoyed success with ordinary audiences and I doubt if it reversed the trend to close cinemas. Tornatore related the following anecdote to John Francis Lane, Screen International , in May 1989:

"(Salvatore Cascio, the young Salvatore) had never been to see a movie in the cinema so one Sunday arranged for a screening of E.T . in our Paradiso for him and other kids working on the film. None of them showed up. They'd all seen E.T. on pirated cassettes. That's the cinema today."

Film Narrative
Cinema Paradiso deals with the relationship between Toto (Salvatore di Vita) and Alfredo, the projectionist, at the cinema of a small Sicilian town in the post-war years. Alfredo, who assumes the role of the young Salvatore's father who was killed in Russia, not only teaches the boy how to project movies but becomes his mentor, offering advice and support and finally encouraging the young man to leave home in order to develop his talents in the wider world. Salvatore becomes a famous film director, and is living in Rome in some style at the beginning of the film when he receives the news of Alfredo's death. At the end he returns to Sicily, his first visit for thirty years.

In contrast to Hollywood but in common with many French and Italian films there is little conventional action; the film explores relationships. Furthermore, the central relationship between Alfredo and the young Salvatore is a non-sexual one between two males; a quasi father-son relationship. The film's love interest, though a deeply felt and formative experience, is subsidiary.

As the title suggests Cinema Paradiso is a film about the movies (though about much else as well) and a lot of its appeal derives from the pleasure of enjoying post-war films along with the Sicilian audience of the 1940 and 1950 (though their activities are often more interesting than the action on the Paradiso screen). Like A Bout de Souffle (Jean-Luc Godard, 1959) where Paul Belmondo as Michael Poiccara mimics Bogart, and a number of later films, Tornatore's film explores the theme of the relationship between films and life. One of the subsidiary themes is the tremendous social and economic changes in post-war Sicily, a topic of interest over and above the film's purely cinematic qualities.

The film's impact derives from a good script, fine acting (Salvatore Cascio as the child is hard to resist), superb camera work, editing and design and the haunting score that manipulates our emotions. On close study we note the effective use of imagery - particularly the frame and the storm - the ability to make correspondences and allusions and the elegance of the structure. There is scope too for the viewer to engage actively with the narrative.

The narrative is built up by the posing of questions, most of which are answered sooner or later, and the setting up of oppositions. The film (basically simple in structure: childhood, youth, maturity) uses two time scales - about 36 hours on one level and over 40 years on another - working through the device of flashback. Though we may admire the manipulation of time we are never puzzled by it. Cinema Paradiso does not fall neatly into the classic Hollywood narration pattern of normality - crisis - normality; in this respect we are reminded that it is a product of European tradition.

I propose to discuss the film's narrative structure, concentrating primarily on the opening and closing sequences.

Opening Sequences
Cinema Paradiso begins with an austerity typical of the film as a whole. Our attention is focussed on a single bulb growing in a bowl centred on a table on a balcony with a calm sea beyond. A net curtain flutters in the breeze. Not surprisingly perhaps, given the centrality of the movies in the central image. Haunting music which we soon recognise as one of the many versions of the film's theme tune, hints that our emotions will be engaged in the film. The camera gradually pulls back to reframe the tableau with french windows, a table with a bowl of lemons (another of the film's recurring motifs which seems to be associated with Sicily) and a shadowy interior. We realise that we are in a Mediterranean country and that the house is prosperous. 'Cinema Paradiso' in neon lights is superimposed on the shot of the interior as are the opening credits. We are promised paradise and for the post-war Sicilian audience the cinema does provide a temporary paradise. The camera pans through the shadowy interior to an elderly woman in black, suggesting a black and white film. The woman is trying unsuccessfully to contact someone by phone, punctuating her attempts with comments to a younger woman, also in black and dimly lit, whom we identify as her daughter. The black clothes suggest both a traditional society and mourning.

The opening dialogue gives us quite a lot of information: the elderly woman is trying to contact her son, Salvatore di Vita, who has not been home for 30 years. In the course of the sequence the light increases (as we are enlightened) and colour becomes more evident. There is a close-up of the mother (inviting us to identify with her) as she tells her daughter "He'll remember"; memory is one of the film's themes and we cut to the film. We cut to lemons again as she tries Rome once more.

The film cuts to a night scene in a city, gradually revealed as Rome, accompanied by the theme music which serves as a linking device. There is a high tracking shot, the camera tilts down to focus on a Mercedes, viewed from the front, which almost fills the screen. We glimpse a shadowy driver, obviously a man of substance, whom we soon realise is the elusive Salvatore di Vita. We cut to a dimly lit luxurious flat. The similarity of light levels suggests links between the Rome and Sicily scenes as well as suggesting night-time. The only sounds are those of a man of about fifty moving about the flat, taking off some of his clothes. We are waiting to know more about him. An oriental bell tinkles in the draught. The man turns off the light and goes into the bedroom. Shots of french windows recall the windows in Sicily and reintroduce the frame image. There is a cut to the bed. The light is switched on revealing an attractive woman in the large double bed - we are some distance from conservative Sicilian society. She tells him of his mother's phone call. As the camera moves in to a medium close-up of Salvatore lying in bed, hands behind his head, we focus our attention on him, identifying with him. The light level decreases and the girl informs him, "She said someone called Alfredo is dead. The funeral is tomorrow." She articulates our questions, "Who is he? A relative?" These questions - more pressing because of the slowness of the preceding sequence - are the mainspring of the narrative.
"No...." The unsatisfactory answer makes us keener to know.

There is the sound of a storm as Salvatore turns on his side. The camera zooms in to a close up, further focussing our attention on, and allowing us an intimacy with him, since it is his past we are about to share. The storm increases, heightening the drama and engaging our emotions; the figure is alternately lit up and in darkness. Tornatore - like many of his precursors including the director of Ulysse from which we see a snippet later - uses the storm to suggest turbulent emotions. The bell tinkles again.

The questions we have been asking:- Who is Alfredo? What is his relationship with Salvatore? Why has Salvatore cut himself off from his family? Why is he so prosperous? Will he return to Sicily for the funeral? - will be answered in the film, the first two questions in the next sequence.

The theme music - slower - is heard as we cut to another dark scene. The camera pans and zooms in allowing us to identify a church. The camera zooms in further focussing on a small altar boy (we presume this is a flashback with the young Salvatore). We cut to a shot - taken as if from behind the altar - of a priest consecrating the wine during mass with the boy kneeling in the background. It is as if we are observing the scene from the perspective of the adult looking back on childhood. We realise the child is asleep. We have a close up of the child accompanied by the theme music, lighter in texture (which we will come to associate with the childhood scenes). The child wakes - too late - and rings the bell. The priest grimaces. The gentle humour of this moment introduces a mood which will characterise this section of the film.

The match cut, suggesting the mature Salvatore's association of ideas, is a device used to move from past to present and vice versa.

We cut to the priest, apparently in the vestry, berating the child for falling asleep, followed by a physical struggle: physical punishment, we soon learn, is part of Salvatore's childhood, its almost comic treatment reminding us of the Commedia dell'Arte tradition. The child excuses himself on the grounds that they don't have lunch at his house. His poor background is suggested and an aspect of his character established: this child is good at wriggling out of trouble. If the priest represents the church we are not being invited to show respect.

We cut from a shot of a statue in the vestry to another religious statue. There is a high shot (as if from the projection room?) of the priest entering a room which we assume at first to be a church, but which is gradually revealed to be a cinema. This, however, is a cinema where the church has control. We cut to the projection window, proudly surrounded by a lion's head - a recurring image - then finally to the projection room and the projectionist, soon identified as Alfredo.

An over-the-shoulder shot of the sitting priest allows us to share his activity - previewing the week's movies for censorship purposes. Many cinemas, as in Tornatore's home village, were owned by the church.

We see the opening sequence of Jean Renoir's The Lower Depths , a title that neatly summarises the church's view of many of the films. Films, integral to this film's subject matter, are a means of dating events; identifying them provides a pleasant game for the viewer. We cut from the projectionist, framed in the projection window, to the young Salvatore known, we soon learn, as Toto - having an illicit look through the curtains. Now we know why the child falls asleep! We cut to the priest. We see in turn the enjoyment of each character. A close up of the priest's hands fingering a bell reminds us of the other bells; it is also the subject of comedy since this sound of the bell ringing tells Alfredo when to excise the kisses. The treatment may be comic but the church really did control the viewing of small communities. In the darkened cinema the camera moves in to a detail shot of the small bell. We then cut to a lighter scene with a large bell ringing (for school?).

There is a high angle shot of an enormous square, devoid of traffic. People - small therefore depersonalised - are running. It is windy; thus we are linked with the opening sequences and the Rome sequences. The setting of Salvatore's youth is further established as we see people going about their business. The lighting gives a bleached effect: perhaps it was colourless or merely not very significant. There is a cut to the cinema building, the first exterior shot of the (original) Paradiso. We cut to the projectionist, now named as Alfredo, with his projector. He is accompanied by the child, Toto, whom he is lecturing about the danger of the flammable nitrate film; this point is important for the plot. Bogart and Ingrid Bergman look down from a poster. The movie stars, we soon discover, provide most of Alfredo's wise words. The central relationship and theme have been established in situ; man and boy bound together by their love of the cinema.

The opening sequences have raised questions and answered some of these. They have also introduced some of the oppositions central to the narrative: the child and his adult self, youth and maturity, Salvatore and his mother, Salvatore and Alfredo, Salvatore and Sicily, Sicily and Rome, film and life. Here we have the dynamic for the rest of the film.

The Central Body of the Film

The central part of the film can be divided into seven development sequences which answer questions and develop themes raised in the opening sequences. We briefly cut back to the mature Salvatore in Rome on three occasions of emotional intensity, reminding us that it is his memories we are sharing.

1. Toto's obsession with the movies and struggle to get to the projection room.
School, seen as a brutal yet comic affair, has little importance for the child. At home he provides his own dialogue for the scraps of film cut for censorship purposes but never respliced, which he has taken from the projection room. He even spends money given to him by his mother to buy milk on a cinema ticket. Fortunately, thanks to the intervention of Alfredo who pretends the child got in free and dropped the money, his mother spares her blows. After Toto's illicit film stock catches fire, Alfredo promises the child's mother not to lead him astray. However, Alfredo tries in vain to dampen the child's enthusiasm for the movies and finally agrees to let him into the projection room and teach him his trade in exchange for answers in an elementary school certificate which Alfredo is trying to pass.


In these sequences we see the beginnings of the relationship between Alfredo and Salvatore. The relationship is summed up by the use of the medium shot with the man, boy and the projector, the latter almost a character. The use of shot-reverse-shot suggests the intensity of the relationship. Cutting between the projection room and the cinema auditorium where the goings on of the actively participating audience are at least as interesting as the kiss-less films, the director suggests period, indicates the passage of time and provides a humorous microcosm of society. The ironic juxtaposition of images is often a source of quiet humour. The choice of films screened at the Paradiso is not always significant but the extract from Visconti's La Terra Terma is since it is a serious film about poverty in Sicily; poverty in Tornatore's film is less realistically portrayed. In contrast to the devotion of the adult Salvatore's elderly mother, the young mother of the child seems lacking in affection for her son; she seems to favour her daughter and frequently beats Toto. Although the child's father has not yet been reported dead, the childless Alfredo assumes the role of surrogate father and mentor, offering the wisdom of the movie stars.

The square, like the cinema, is a microcosm of life but since we frequently view goings on from the projection room, that is from above, we remain detached from the vignettes of real life, the shepherd with his sheep or the old lady spinning. The movies seem more real. In fact, 'real-life' sometimes copies the movies as when a man posting a cinema poster falls from his ladder after his laces have been tied together by mischievous boys, or when the Neapolitan faints on hearing the news of his win in the lottery, like a character in a Rene Clair film.

The basic theme has been established. We see the development of the relationship between Salvatore and Alfredo. Minor characters are sketched in, like the supercilious character who spits from the balcony on the people in the cheaper seats below; in fact many characters remain two-dimensional or caricatures. As in the opening sequence the music manipulates our emotions, guaranteeing the appropriate response. The conflict between Salvatore and Alfredo is resolved; the conflict between mother and son remains.

2. Growing up - Disaster
The cinema has become the centre of Toto's life. He is now Alfredo's unofficial assistant. It is from a news-reel that we have confirmation of the death of the child's father. His grief-stricken mother passes a bombed building as she returns home, having signed for her widow's pension: the building, one of the few signs of the recent war in the film, is a metaphor for her shattered life. In contrast to the visual message the accompanying music, an upbeat version of the theme tune, suggests that the child is unmoved by the loss; this impression is further reinforced as the child gazes fascinated at a poster advertising Gone With the Wind . For Toto the real tragedy is yet to come.

Cinema audiences continue to experience life vicariously and at first hand - we even see a couple having sex. One night Alfredo, who is compared with a magician, shows he can indeed do anything; feeling sorry for people who have been unable to get in to a popular film, he projects the film onto the wall of a house in the square. In an amusing reminder of the blurred line between life and film real people stepping out onto the balcony invade the projected image. Alfredo, looking indulgently down on the crowd outside, forgets his warning about the danger of fire. In the manner of the movies flames leap into the air, accompanied by dramatic music. The cinema burns down but the severely-burned Alfredo is rescued by Toto. This sequence shows the depth of the relationship between them. It also marks a turning point; Salvatore is no longer the weaker partner. Things are also about to change in the town.

As the flames roar we briefly cut back to Salvatore in Rome.

3. A New Beginning - Salvatore's Career takes off
The priest articulates the community's sense of loss to the tolling of a bell. In fairy tale style the Neapolitan decides to invest his lottery winnings in a new Paradiso and Toto, though under age, is to be the projectionist under Alfredo's guidance. Although the new cinema is consecrated by the priest in a scene typifying Tornatore's quietly ironic style, things are never the same again: films are more daring and kisses no longer cut; although the relationship between Alfredo and Salvatore is still central, it is now the man who visits the boy at work; the boy's relationship with his mother has changed now he is the breadwinner and she even goes to the cinema herself.

In a brilliantly daring sequence Tornatore has the almost blind Alfredo touch the boy's face whilst he offers advice about the future; when he takes his hands away the child has become a young man. The passage of time is also indicated by the advent of colour and nudity on the screen (whilst both the usher and young patrons masturbate vigorously). The range of audience activity has also moved on, we realise, when we see a small time prostitute plying her trade.

4. Salvatore - film maker and lover
Salvatore, later to become a successful director at Cinecitta, starts shooting a documentary but is sidetracked when he sees a beautiful newcomer to the town. Consistent with the film's theme she is first seen through the camera lens and the young man can re-run her in the projection room. Elena, like 50. Hollywood actresses, has little life of her own; she is there to be looked at. Unlike the film as a whole, this section conforms to the pattern of classical narrative. Will he or will he not get the girl,? we ask. Because Elena is well dressed and middle class we suspect that class will complicate the issue. Alfredo is content to take on a secondary role as confidant and mentor, offering wisdom from John Wayne and others. An ironic scene in which the audience weep at a sentimental film and a member of the audience pre-empts the dialogue, followed by a comic cycle ride to collect the first reel (they have, we realise, seen the second first) provides a nice counter-balance to the - albeit self-conscious - sentimentality of this section of the film.

Alfredo helps Salvatore in his pursuit of Elena and connives with the young man in an amusing scene in the church. The older man monopolises the priest's attention with feigned doubts whilst his young friend slips into the priest's place in the confessional, thus gaining intimate access to the girl. We see each character in close up, framed and through a grille; despite their temporary intimacy a barrier remains between them. It is not a scene which encourages respect for the church.

In a melodramatic sequence the young man waits outside the girl's flat. The image of dates being crossed off on a calendar jokily reinforces the parallel with old movies as well as dating events - the close of 1954. Storms predictably reflect emotions. The hero seems to have been rejected and walks despondently away as celebrations are heard inside the flat and fireworks rise into the sky. In Hollywood style he tears up his letters, then returns to the projector. However, we see - before he does - the girl's arrival. Their first cinematographic kisses take place in the projection room, the finished reel unheeded in the heat of the moment.

An idyllic courtship is economically suggested, for example, by lovers hand in hand in a cornfield beneath a blue sky accompanied by up-beat music. The idyll ceases abruptly; the girl's father intervenes and takes her away. Salvatore sweats out the summer, showing movies outside beside the port. His drawn-out torment is suggested by the voice-over of him reading Elena's letters as we see him in a variety of lonely situations. A shot of anchors on the beach reminds us that Sicily is an island and Salvatore is inevitably attached to it. As the epic Ulysse runs on the screen, our hero, apparently experiencing passions as violent as those of the mythical hero, muses 'in a film it would be over.' On cue the storm breaks, the girl returns. In a movie cliche they kiss passionately in the rain.
He seems to have got his girl.

There is a second cut to Rome, linked by the sound of the storm before

5. Military Service
The departing Salvatore's isolation is emphasised in a high shot of the square, empty except for his bus. In the following brilliantly economical sequence where military type music accompanies rapidly cut shots of marching boots, moments of lassitude and returned letters the period of military service is evoked. The question posed in the previous section is answered; he did not get his girl.

6. Return to Sicily and the decision to go to Rome to work in the movies
A companion shot of the bus in the square marks Salvatore's return. Close-ups of a more mature looking youth invite us lo identify with him as he looks at his home-town through new eyes. Alfredo's decline, suggested when we see him in bed, is temporarily reversed by the young man's return. On the beach beside redundant anchors, suggesting ties and wider horizons, the friends talk. The pattern of close-ups and shot reverse shot tell us there has been no loss of intimacy; this is the central relationship in Salvatore's life. Alfredo, no longer borrowing his wisdom from the stars urges, 'Life isn't like the movies ... it's much harder ... go back to Rome...' Salvatore is about to embark on the next stage of his journey through life.

We now know why Salvatore di Vita has been away so long, why he became a film director, why - even after thirty years - he is so preoccupied by the news of Alfredo's death.

We cut back to Rome where in a dramatic silence, the adult Salvatore sits up in bed.

7. Departure
We see Salvatore embracing his mother before a longer and more poignant farewell to Alfredo who forbids his return. This sequence exemplifies the importance of the relationship with Alfredo, more important than his family. It also explains why di Vita has not returned home. As the train draws out and the young man looks back at his past watched by a mother only now showing the affection we are to see in her older self, the priest arrives, too late to say good-bye. This perhaps shows us just how irrelevant the church was to the young man.

The Ending
In a sequence typifying the film's elegant structure we cut from the train leaving the station in Giancarlo, taking Salvatore to begin his career in Rome, to an in-coming plane; the mature elegant di Vita, reflected in the window, then in a taxi window, looks out at the new motorways symbolising the profound changes that have occurred in Sicily during his absence.

Thirty years have elapsed since the previous scene, several hours since the scene at the beginning of the film.

We cut to Salvatore's mother knitting as she waits (a reference to Penelope?) When she gets up to welcome him the knitting unravels (as the years of waiting slip away). A long shot of mother and son in the hall emphasises the spacious proportions of the new house, contrasting implicitly with the one-roomed childhood home. The elderly lady's shyness and deferential solicitude for her son contrast with her tempestuous relationship with the child. The daughter, apparently the favourite of childhood, is absent. The mother shows Salvatore 'his' room (where, of course, he's never been before), now a sort of shrine with bike, projector, film, the photographs he left behind. We are somewhat surprised, given her initial hostility to the cinema. The accompanying music manipulates our emotions, investing the scene with resonances from the past. We cut from picture to picture and back to a surprised Salvatore. Finally we cut to a photograph of Toto and Alfredo, thence to a close up of Alfredo alone reminding us why Salvatore is there.


There is a neat cut to the coffin, linking with the funeral procession, shot from behind to allow us to join the procession. We cut alternately to the widow and Salvatore, so we identify with the chief mourners. The widow speaks of Alfredo's love for Salvatore. As the procession moves through the town's narrow streets (very different from Rome) our attention is drawn to the cars and the adverts which typify the changes to the town left thirty years previously. The film cuts to the derelict Cinema Paradiso, thence to Salvatore looking at it, thence to the procession looking at him. The look is fully exploited in this sequence; we share his and their emotions as they remember Salvatore's and Alfredo's relationship with it. We cut to the cinema owner, who deferentially explains to his former employee, now Mr. Di Vita, that the building, empty for six years since audiences failed to come any more, is to be demolished and replaced by a car park. We remember the packed houses and crowds fighting to get in. Tornatore is making a point about the contemporary Italian cinema.

We see the coffin lifted from the hearse and carried into the church by Salvatore and others. In the background we hear a bell tolling triggering associations with bells earlier in the film. The economy with which the funeral is treated contrasts with the lengthy funeral cortege scene preceding it.

Immediately we cut to a close up of a can of film, Alfredo's legacy to Salvatore. The widow tells him that Alfredo never asked to see him, insisted that he must never return here. We remember their last meeting. Past and present, image and reality are joined together.

In the next shot Salvatore is seated at a table looking towards the curtained window seen in the film's opening shot; his mother stands attentively at the other side of the table. Furniture and table cloth reflect the family's new prosperity and we remember the young widow at the table in Toto's childhood home. Whilst the elderly woman's stance reflects a new solicitude for her son, the table between them suggests their lack of closeness. A long silence increases the tension. It is finally broken by Salvatore. "Now after all these years I thought ... that I'd forgotten a lot of things. I find I'm back where I was as if I'd never been away." We recall Alfredo's advice to the young man on his return from military service, urging him to leave Sicily for good, only then would he be able to appreciate his own people. The camera moves in for a more intimate scene. The director uses two shots and shot reverse shot, allowing us to identify with them both as Salvatore admits that he hated his mother and she replies that she never expected anything else, assuring him that he was 'right to leave'. We remember that in the very early scenes Toto was generally being beaten by his mother whilst Alfredo had become a substitute parent. A final moment of intimacy is suggested when the mother regrets that her son's phone is always answered by a different woman, none of whom have love in their voice. We see close-ups of the mother and extreme closeups of the son as they reflect on this. In this scene the mother seems to fit the stereotype of the self-sacrificing Latin mother.

We cut to a shot of the square and the cinema with a blue sky above (the weather was surprisingly often inclement for the Mediterranean in the earlier part of the film) . The camera moves back to show the crowd assembled for the Paradiso's demolition. As the building crumbles and the Paradiso's sign falls to the ground we cut to capture the reactions of the spectators, Salvatore and the cinema owner included. Not surprisingly the latter has tears in his eyes. During this sequence the theme tune both manipulates our emotions and evokes memories of the cinema's heyday. As the dust clears, as though through the mists of time, the madman seen earlier in the film proclaiming his ownership of the square, reappears still making the same claims. As he weaves his way through closely parked cars we realise some things have changed and others haven't.

We hear a plane taking off before the film cuts to the accompanying image, economically suggesting Salvatore di Vita's return to Rome. We cut to a closeup of a can of film which, because of the similarity of an earlier shot, we recognise as Alfredo's posthumous gift, thence to a plush viewing room. A shot of the projectionist reminds us that this time Alfredo is not running the film. The audience, consists of Salvatore alone, implicitly recalling the Paradiso's motley clientele. The camera zooms in on him in shadow, watching the screen. We cut from Salvatore to the screen and back again as he views, with increasing pleasure and amusement, the censored kisses and embraces from the 1940's which Alfredo had failed to splice back into the film. This is the film promised to a puzzled Toto who failed to see how something could belong to him if he could not take it away. Alfredo had kept his promise and another question has been answered.

The theme music, at its most lush and triumphant, accompanies this final sequence which draws to a close in a note of triumph and good humour, bringing past and present, the adult Salvatore and Alfredo together. We are reminded of their joyous relationship and the elder's influence on the younger. How else could a film about the movies finish but with a film? Neatly both Alfredo's and Tornatore's films draw to a close with the old fashioned black and white FINE.

For those who can not tear themselves away, the concluding credits are superimposed on snippets from the film accompanied by the still-triumphant theme tune.

All the strands have been drawn together and the questions raised in the opening part of the film answered. Whilst not conforming to the standard classical narrative pattern its elegantly circular structure and tidy ending is competely satisfying to the audience. This is a film which rewards viewers for engaging actively with it but because it is ultimately comfortable rather than challenging, it is a film of 'pleasure' not a film of 'bliss'.

Representation
In an interview with John Frances Lane of Screen International at Cannes in 1989 Tornatore said, "With Cinema Paradiso I wanted to make a fantasy about the times when movie making was an excitement... I had to create everything as a period film. I didn't want to be realistic. Realistic or not the film represents people, places and in situations in a certain way.

Sicily
- and, by extension Southern Italy.
One of the films screened at the Paradiso was Visconti's La Terra Terma (1948), a film partly funded by the Communist party which used non-professional actors speaking dialect. It is about poverty and exploitation. In contrast Tornatore, himself a Sicilian, glosses over the poverty of post-war Sicily (maybe because he was not born until 1956). The child tells the priest they don't eat lunch, children are de-loused, we see bombed buildings, but we don't feel the poverty. There is no reference to the Mafia, politics is barely touched on: Fascism is alluded to indirectly in the newsreels about the Partisans; there is a token Communist who leaves for Germany watched by a supercilious character in front of the Cerclo dei Noboli. The black-clad widows suggest conservatism. The scarcity of motor vehicles, and characters like the spinner suggest a traditional and underdeveloped country. References to the classical hero, Ulysses, suggest a society with its roots in prehistory.

Modern Sicily with its elegant motorway bridges seems part of modern Italy, a country envied by other Europeans for its design. Consumerism has arrived: advertisements look down on a traffic congested square. However, widows wear black, even after forty years mothers defer to their adult sons, the independent minded Alfredo has a church funeral preceded by a substantial funeral cortege. It seems to be a closed society: we don't see any newcomers, after thirty years' absence. The demolition of the New Paradiso tells us that cinema audiences are declining in Italy as elsewhere because of competition from television and video.

The brief view of Rome suggests a metropolitan sophistication, elegance and prosperity contrasting with the provincial nature of small town Sicily. Rome is also shown as the centre of the cinema industry - which, of course, it is.

The Church
As the church building dominates the square, so the church has a stranglehold on society. Its presence in the cinema is hinted by the holy statue, and the priest has the power to censor films before they are viewed by his flock. This was not a complete exaggeration, the Cento Cattolico Cinematografo established in 1936 to censor films continued to classify films, according to the church's lights. The representation of the priest as a gullible fool reminds us of the long tradition of anti-clericism in Italy. On the other hand, people in the South seem to elect for a Catholic burial, however independently minded they seem in life!

Women
Female characters are not fully developed and they play subordinate roles, usually defined by a relationship with a man; they are mothers, wives, widows. The young wife remains devoted to her absent husband. She betrays little affection for the young Toto whom she regularly beats; however, once Salvatore becomes the breadwinner, he displaces his sister in their mother's affections and she assumes the role of caring, subservient mother. Her devotion is such that she keeps Salvatore's bedroom as a sort of shrine and she waits like Penelope. There are no recriminations when Salvatore returns after thirty years, only gentle understanding and a desire for her son's happiness. The sister becomes increasingly shadowy and is absent when her brother finally returns home. Alfredo's wife is another devoted woman, only appearing in the film to serve her husband, for example, she brings his lunch to the cinema. The girl in bed in Rome may be modern and glamorous but she too is there merely to serve Salvatore. Beautiful, well-dressed Elena, the object of the young Salvatore's love, has no independent life. She is there to be loved and looked at- and looked at again on film! Although she is from a professional background, daughter of a bank manager, she is completely subservient to her father's will as we see when she leaves the island for ever. The female teacher, who reinforces instruction with blows, is a caricature. Italian women, even from Sicily, reinforce our prejudices by being elegantly dressed.

Men
This is a society dominated by men. Salvatore and Alfredo are the main characters. Both are shown flatteringly; Salvatore good-looking, intelligent and creative becomes a successful film maker. Alfredo, the surrogate father, is friend and mentor to the young man. Neither have any unpleasant characteristics. Men have power; the priest, despite his ironic portrayal, wields spiritual power, the cinema owner has economic power. The 'characters' in the film, the madman who believes he owns the square, the man who spits on the people sitting in the balcony, are men. Men dominate by sheer numbers; we see a class of boys at school, most of the cinema audience are men and boys - perhaps girls had other duties. It is, not surprisingly the men who get excited about the absence, and later the inclusion of, sex in the films.

As far as Northern Italians and other Europeans are concerned, the film probably represents Sicilian society in a manner consistent with their prejudices!

Introduction to Cinema Paradiso

Humanities 3: Film Principles
Ateneo de Davao University
Mass Communication Department
Bong S. Eliab




CINEMA PARADISO

The New Version with all-new-never-before-seen footage


The story of a lifelong affair with the movies, Cinema Paradiso tells of a young boy in a small Italian village, where the only pastime is a visit to the movies at the Cinema Paradiso. Enchanted by the flickering images, Salvatore yearns for the secret of the cinema's magic and is overjoyed when Alfredo, the projectionist, agrees to reveal the mysteries of moviemaking to him. As their friendship grows, so does Salvatore, growing older with his good friend and the movies he adores, learning from both of them how to court his first love, and dreaming of one day making movies of his own. When the day comes for Salvatore to leave the village and pursue his dream, Alfredo makes the man promise to never look back, to keep moving forward. And so he does, for thirty years, until the day a message arrives that beckons him back home to a secret, beautiful discovery that awaits him there.

If you love movies, it's impossible not to appreciate Cinema Paradiso, Giuseppe Tornatore's heartwarming, nostalgic look at one man's love affair with film, and the story of a very special friendship. Affecting (but not cloying) and sentimental (but not sappy), Cinema Paradiso is the kind of motion picture that can brighten up a gloomy day and bring a smile to the lips of the most taciturn individual. Light and romantic, this fantasy is tinged with just enough realism to make us believe in its magic, even as we are enraptured by its spell.


Giuseppe Tornatore: Director

Most of Cinema Paradiso is told through flashbacks. As the film opens, we meet Salvatore (Jacques Perrin), a famous director, who has just received the news that an old friend has died. Before departing for his home village of Giancaldo the next morning to attend the funeral, he reminisces about his childhood and adolescence, thinking back to places and people he hasn't seen for decades.

As a fatherless child, Salvatore (Salvatore Cascio) loved the movies. He would abscond with the milk money to buy admission to a matinee showing at the local theater, a small place called the Cinema Paradiso. Raised on an eclectic fare that included offerings from such diverse sources as Akira Kurosawa, Jean Renoir, John Wayne, and Charlie Chaplin, Salvatore grew to appreciate all kinds of film. The Paradiso became his home, and the movies, his parents. Eventually, he developed a friendship with the projectionist, Alfredo (Philippe Noiret), a lively middle-aged man who offered advice on life, romance, and how to run a movie theater. Salvatore worked as Alfredo's unpaid apprentice until the day the Paradiso burned down. When a new cinema was erected on the same site, an adolescent Salvatore (Marco Leonardi) became the projectionist. But Alfredo, now blind because of injuries sustained in the fire, remained in the background, filling the role of confidante and mentor to the boy he loved like a son.

Cinema Paradiso's first half, with Salvatore Cascio playing the young protagonist, is the superior portion. The boy's experiences in the theater, watching movies and listening to Alfredo's stories, form a kind of journey of discovery. As Salvatore cultivates his love of movies, those in the audience are prodded to recall the personal meaning of film. It's an evocative and powerful experience that will touch lovers of motion pictures more deeply than it will casual movie-goers.

Once Salvatore has grown into his teens, Cinema Paradiso shifts from being a nostalgic celebration of movies to a traditional coming-of-age drama, complete with romantic disappointment and elation. Salvatore falls for a girl named Elena (Agnese Nano), but his deeply- felt passion isn't reciprocated. So he agonizes over the situation, seeks out Alfredo's advice, then makes a bold decision: he will stand outside of Elena's window every night until she relents. In the end, love wins out, but Salvatore's joy is eventually replaced by sadness as Elena vanishes forever from his life.

The Screen Kiss is important to Cinema Paradiso. Early in the film, the local priest previews each movie before it is available for public consumption, using the power of his office to demand that all scenes of kissing be edited out. By the time the new Paradiso opens, however, things have changed. The priest no longer goes to the movies and kisses aren't censored. Much later, following the funeral near the end of Cinema Paradiso, Salvatore receives his bequest from Alfredo: a film reel containing all of the kisses removed from the movies shown at the Paradiso over the years. It's perhaps the greatest montage of motion picture kisses ever assembled, and, as Salvatore watches it, tears come to his eyes. The deluge of concentrated ardor acts as a forceful reminder of the simple-yet-profound passion that has been absent from his life since he lost touch with his one true love, Elena. It's a profoundly moving moment -- one of many that Cinema Paradiso offers.

Is Cinema Paradiso manipulative? Manifestly so, but Tornatore displays such skill in the way he excites our emotions that we don't care. This film is sometimes funny, sometimes joyful, and sometimes poignant, but it's always warm, wonderful, and satisfying. Cinema Paradiso affects us on many levels, but its strongest connection is with our memories. We relate to Salvatore's story not just because he's a likable character, but because we relive our own childhood movie experiences through him. Who doesn't remember the first time they sat in a theater, eagerly awaiting the lights to dim? There has always been a certain magic associated with the simple act of projecting a movie on a screen. Tornatore taps into this mystique, and that, more than anything else, is why Cinema Paradiso is a great motion picture.

© 1996 James Berardinelli
Cast: Philippe Noiret, Salvatore Cascio, Marco Leonardi, Jacques Perrin, Antonella Attili, Pupella Maggio, Agnese Nano, Leopoldo Trieste Director: Giuseppe Tornatore Producers: Franco Cristaldi, Giovanna Romagnoli Screenplay: Giuseppe Tornatore Cinematography: Blasco Giurato Music: Ennio Morricone
Duration: Approx 174 mins

The Gaze

Film Principles (Hum 3)
Mass Communication Department
Humanities Division
Ateneo de Davao University



Notes on ‘The Gaze’
Daniel Chandler

Looking is not indifferent.
There can never be any question of 'just looking'.
Victor Burgin (1982c, 188)


Forms of gaze

In the case of recorded texts such as photographs and films (as opposed to those involving interpersonal communication such as video-conferences), a key feature of the gaze is that the object of the gaze is not aware of the current viewer (though they may originally have been aware of being filmed, photographed, painted etc. and may sometimes have been aware that strangers could subsequently gaze at their image). Viewing such recorded images gives the viewer's gaze a voyeuristic dimension. As Jonathan Schroeder notes, 'to gaze implies more than to look at - it signifies a psychological relationship of power, in which the gazer is superior to the object of the gaze' (Schroeder 1998, 208).

Several key forms of gaze can be identified in photographic, filmic or televisual texts, or in figurative graphic art. The most obvious typology is based on who is doing the looking, of which the following are the most commonly cited:

- the spectator’s gaze: the gaze of the viewer at an image of a person (or animal, or object) in the text;
- the intra-diegetic gaze: a gaze of one depicted person at another (or at an animal or an object) within the world of the text (typically depicted in filmic and televisual media by a subjective ‘point-of-view shot’);
- the direct [or extra-diegetic] address to the viewer: the gaze of a person (or quasi-human being) depicted in the text looking ‘out of the frame’ as if at the viewer, with associated gestures and postures (in some genres, direct address is studiously avoided);
- the look of the camera - the way that the camera itself appears to look at the people (or animals or objects) depicted; less metaphorically, the gaze of the film-maker or photographer.

In addition to the major forms of gaze listed above, we should also note several other types of gaze which are less often mentioned:

- the gaze of a bystander - outside the world of the text, the gaze of another individual in the viewer’s social world catching the latter in the act of viewing - this can be highly charged, e.g. where the text is erotic (Willemen 1992);
- the averted gaze - a depicted person’s noticeable avoidance of the gaze of another, or of the camera lens or artist (and thus of the viewer) - this may involve looking up, looking down or looking away (Dyer 1982);
- the gaze of an audience within the text - certain kinds of popular televisual texts (such as game shows) often include shots of an audience watching those performing in the 'text within a text';
- the editorial gaze - 'the whole institutional process by which some portion of the photographer's gaze is chosen for use and emphasis' (Lutz & Collins 1994, 368).

James Elkins offers ten different ways of looking at a figurative painting in a gallery (Elkins 1996, 38-9):
1. You, looking at the painting,
2. figures in the painting who look out at you,
3. figures in the painting who look at one another, and
4. figures in the painting who look at objects or stare off into space or have their eyes closed. In addition there is often
5. the museum guard, who may be looking at the back of your head, and
6. the other people in the gallery, who may be looking at you or at the painting. There are imaginary observers, too:
7. the artist, who was once looking at this painting,
8. the models for the figures in the painting, who may once have seen themselves there, and
9. all the other people who have seen the painting - the buyers, the museum officials, and so forth. And finally, there are also
10. people who have never seen the painting: they may know it only from reproductions... or from descriptions.

In relation to viewer-text relations of looking, Gunther Kress and Theo van Leeuwen make a basic distinction between an ‘offer’ and a ‘demand’:

- an indirect address which represents an offer in which the viewer is an invisible onlooker and the depicted person is the object of the look - here those depicted either do not know that they are being looked at (as in surveillance video), or act as if they do not know (as in feature films, television drama and television interviews); and
- a gaze of direct address which represents a demand for the viewer (as the object of the look) to enter into a para-social relationship with the depicted person - with the type of relationship indicated by a facial expression or some other means (this form of address is the norm for television newsreaders and portraits and is common in advertisements and posed magazine photographs). (Kress & van Leeuwen 1996, 122ff)

Some theorists make a distinction between the gaze and the look: suggesting that the look is a perceptual mode open to all whilst the gaze is a mode of viewing reflecting a gendered code of desire (Evans & Gamman 1995, 16). John Ellis and others relate the 'gaze' to cinema and the 'glance' to television - associations which then seem to lead to these media being linked with stereotypical connotations of 'active' (and 'male') for film and 'passive' (and 'female') for television (Ellis 1982, 50; Jenks 1995, 22).

Here perhaps it should be noted that even if one's primary interest is in media texts, to confine oneself to the gaze only in relation 'textual practices' is to ignore the importance of the reciprocal gaze in the social context of cultural practices in general (rather than simply a textual/representational context, where a reciprocal gaze is, of course, technically impossible).


Direction of gaze

It is useful to note how directly a depicted person gazes out of the frame. A number of authors have explored this issue in relation to advertisements in particular.
In his study of women’s magazine advertisements, Trevor Millum distinguished between these forms of attention:
- attention directed towards other people;
- attention directed to an object;
- attention directed to oneself;
- attention directed to the reader/camera;
- attention directed into middle distance, as in a state of reverie;
- direction or object of attention not discernible.
(Millum 1975, 96, 115, 139)

He also categorized relationships between those depicted thus:
- reciprocal attention: the attention of those depicted is directed at each other;
- divergent attention: the attention of those is directed towards different things;
- object-oriented attention: those depicted are looking at the same object;
- semi-reciprocal attention: the attention of one person is on the other, whose attention is elsewhere.
(ibid.)

Catherine Lutz and Jane Collins note that 'the mutuality or non-mutuality of the gaze of the two parties can... tell us who has the right and/or need to look at whom' (Lutz & Collins 1994, 373).

In his study, Millum found that:

Actors by themselves are likely to look at the reader. Women accompanied by women tend to look into middle distance, while women in mixed groups are more likely to look at people (though less so than men are). Women alone tend to regard themselves or to look into middle-distance. (Millum 1975, 138)

In a study of photographs accompanying articles in the magazine National Geographic, Catherine Lutz and Jane Collins found that:

To a statistically significant degree, women look into the camera more than men, children and older people look into the camera more often than other adults, those who appear poor more than those who appear wealthy, those whose skin is very dark more than those who are bronze, those who are bronze more than those who are white, those in native dress more than those in Western garb, those without any tools more than those using machinery. Those who are culturally defined by the West as weak - women, children, people of colour, the poor, the tribal rather than the modern, those without technology - are more likely to face the camera, the more powerful to be represented looking elsewhere. (Lutz & Collins 1994, 370)

They add that 'if the gaze toward the camera reflected only a lack of familiarity with it, then one would expect rural people to look at the camera more than urban people. This is not the case. One might also expect some change over time, as cameras became more common everywhere, but there is no difference in rate of gaze when the period from 1950 to 1970 is compared with the later period' (ibid., 371-2).

In everyday interaction, a high level of gaze is widely interpreted as reflecting liking (Argyle 1975, 162). In some well-known studies Hess found that pupil dilation can also be a reflection of sexual attraction, and that photographs of female models in which the pupils had been artificially enlarged elicited unconscious pupil enlargement from male viewers (Hess & Polt 1960, Hess 1972, cited in Argyle 1975, 163). Knowledge of this has led some 'glamour' photographers to enhance their photographs in the same way and thus to increase the attractiveness of the model.
Richard Dyer (1982) describes the gaze of males in images aimed at women (pin-ups, star-portraits, drawings and paintings):

Where the female model typically averts her eyes, expressing modesty, patience and a lack of interest in anything else, the male model looks either off or up. In the case of the former, his look suggests an interest in something else that the viewer cannot see - it certainly doesn’t suggest any interest in the viewer. Indeed, it barely acknowledges the viewer, whereas the woman’s averted eyes do just that - they are averted from the viewer. In the cases where the model is looking up, this always suggests a spirituality...: he might be there for his face and body to be gazed at, but his mind is on higher things, and it is this upward striving that is most supposed to please... It may be, as is often said, that male pin-ups more often than not do not look at the viewer, but it is by no means the case that they never do. When they do, what is crucial is the kind of look that it is, something very often determined by the set of the mouth that accompanies it. When the female pin-up returns the viewer’s gaze, it is usually some kind of smile, inviting. The male pin-up, even at his most benign, still stares at the viewer... Since Freud, it is common to describe such a look as ‘castrating’ or ‘penetrating’... (Dyer 1992a, 104-9)

Stereotypical notions of masculinity are strongly oriented towards the active. Dyer argues that the male model feels bound to avoid the ‘femininity’ of being posed as the passive object of an active gaze.

Paul Messaris notes that historically, ‘direct views into the camera have tended to be the exception rather than the rule in some ads aimed at men’ (Messaris 1997, 45). However, ‘during the past two decades or so, there has been a notable countertrend in male-oriented advertising, featuring men whose poses contain some of the same elements - including the direct view - traditionally associated with women’ (ibid.). This seems likely to indicate both ‘a more explicit concern about how men look in the eyes of women’ and an acknowledgement of the existence, interests and spending power of gay consumers (ibid. 46). It may also reflect the rise of 'homosociality' - with 'straight' men becoming more accustomed to looking at images of other men (Mort 1996, Edwards 1997).

Charles Lewis reports that from the mids-1980s onwards American teenagers have chosen to be portrayed differently in their high-school yearbooks - the focus of their eyes has shifted from a straightforward, open look to a sideways glance resembling glamour poses in fashion magazines (cited in Barry 1997, 268).

The amount of gaze can also be related to status or dominance: higher status people tend to look more whilst they are talking but less when they are listening (Argyle 1975, 162). Joshua Meyrowitz notes that 'a person of high status often has the right to look at a lower status person for a long time, even stare him or her up and down, while the lower status person is expected to avert his or her eyes' (Meyrowitz 1985, 67).

In conventional narrative films, actors only very rarely gaze directly at the camera lens (though in comedies this 'rule' is sometimes broken). Paul Messaris notes a common assumption that a direct gaze at the camera lens by a depicted person may remind viewers of their position as spectators, but that where such shots are subjective point-of-view shots within a narrative this effect is negated (Messaris 1994, 151). Direct addresses to camera are much more common in the world of television than in the world of film. However, in television only certain people are conventionally allowed to address the camera directly, such as newsreaders, programme presenters and those making party political broadcasts or charitable appeals.

In studying social interaction, Michael Watson (1970) found cultural variability in the intensity of gaze. He distinguished between three forms of gaze:

1. sharp: focusing on the other person's eyes;
2. clear: focusing about the other person's head and face;
3. peripheral: having the other person within the field of vision, but not focusing on his head or face. (cited in Argyle 1988, 59)

Of the groups studied, Watson showed that the sharpest gaze was found amongst Arabs, followed by Latin Americans and southern Europeans; the most peripheral gaze was that of the northern Europeans, followed by Indians and Pakistanis and then Asians.

Angle of view

Directness of gaze is closely related to the issue of the camera's angle of view. In an experiment reported in The Psychology of the TV Image, Jon Baggaley found that a person talking for one minute on law and order was considered 'less reliable and expert' when addressing the camera directly than when seen in profile. He comments:

Intuition may suggest that the direct to camera shot should connote directness of approach and its attendant qualities of authority and reliability; the present data, however, suggest otherwise. If a general rule for such effects is to be argued from this evidence it should perhaps be as follows: that a full face shot suggests less expertise than a profile shot since in popular broadcasting those who address the camera directly are typically the reporters and link men, who transmit the news rather than initiate it. The expert on the other hand is more often seen either in interview or in discussion, and thus in profile. Unless the speaker may be assumed an expert on some other basis - which... the conventional TV reporter is not - the probability is that he is expert and reliable in what he says will therefore be weighed as greater if he is seen in profile than if he addresses the camera directly. (Baggaley 1980, 28-30)

Baggaley added that another reason why profile views on television led to speakers being rated as more expert might be that where an autocue is being used, the full-face angle might make this more obvious, whereas 'in the profile condition signs of autocue usage conveyed by a performer's eyes are less apparent' (ibid., 67). Even if an autocue is not being used, the 'unusual intensity' of the speaker's eye-contact with the viewer may tend to diminish the speaker's credibility (ibid., 30). One experiment suggested that 'the greater visibility of a performer's eyes may increase his perceived tension' (ibid., 68). This might not apply, however, in the case of a skilled actor who could treat the camera to 'the repertoire of temporary looks and glances that he would use in normal "unscripted" social interaction', varying eye-contact discreetly even when reading from an autocue (ibid.). Gaze can signify persuasive intent (Argyle 1975, 161). Perhaps it is relevant here that another televisual context in which direct address is often used is in advertisements, the persuasive purposes of which typically lead adult viewers to be cautious and sceptical, although in face-to-face interaction 'those with higher levels of gaze are seen as credible and trustworthy, and are indeed more persuasive' (ibid.).

Peter Warr and Christopher Knapper found that significant differences in viewers' perceptions were generated by front-view photographs compared to side-view photographs, although neither view generated more favourable or more extreme impressions (Warr & Knapper 1968, 307).

An empirical study of a commercial suggested that direct views were more conducive to identification than side views (Galan 1986, cited in Messaris 1997, 47). Following a major research review, Cappella argues that human beings probably have an inherent disposition to empathise in reaction to the facial expression of emotion by others (Capella 1993, cited in Messaris, 47), and Messaris suggests that a direct gaze is likely to enhance the likelihood of both empathy and identification.
Gunther Kress and Theo van Leeuwen have also discussed the issue of the adoption of either a frontal angle or an oblique angle in scenes which already have a linear orientation. Where there are straight lines in a scene (such as in the outside or inside edges of a building or people standing in a line) the image-producer has the option of choosing a frontal angle in which such lines are parallel to the picture plane or of shifting the horizontal angle of the depiction to a more oblique point of view. Kress and van Leeuwen argue that the horizontal angle adopted represents ‘whether or not the image-producer (and hence, willy-nilly, the viewer) is "involved" with the represented participants or not’ (Kress & van Leeuwen 1996, 143), with the frontal angle representing involvement and an oblique angle representing detachment. They do not, however, cite empirical studies in support of this argument. John Tagg argues that frontality is a key technique of 'documentary rhetoric' in photography, offering up what it depicts for evaluation (Tagg 1988, 189). He shows that historically the frontal portrait has been associated with the working class, and that frontality is a 'code of social inferiority' (Tagg 1988, 37).

The function of vertical angles is widely noted: high angles (looking down on a depicted person from above) are interpreted as making that person look small and insignificant, and low angles (looking up at them from below) are said to make them look powerful and superior. Kress and van Leeuwen modify this standpoint slightly, arguing that a high angle depicts a relationship in which the producer of the image and the viewer have symbolic power over the person or thing represented, whilst a low angle depicts a relationship in which the depicted person has power over the image-producer and the viewer (ibid., 146). Empirical studies have supported the idea that low angles can make those who are depicted in this way appear more powerful, provided that they are already recognised as having some authority rather than as having equal status with the viewer (Mandell & Shaw 1973; Kraft 1987; McCain, Chilberg & Wakshlag 1977; Tiemens 1970; all cited in Messaris 1997, 34-5; Messaris 1994, 158). Messaris notes that a low angle combined with a frontal view and a direct gaze at the viewer may be interpreted as overbearing, intimidating or menacing, and that when the intention is to use low angles to suggest noble or heroic qualities, side views are more common (Messaris 1997, 38).

In rear views we see the back of a depicted person. As Paul Messaris comments, ‘in our real-world interactions with others, this view from the back can imply turning away or exclusion’ (Messaris 1997, 24). In travel advertisements where there are rear views of people this tends to be either in longshots of landscapes or in midshots or close-ups of semi-naked bodies in seascapes (Messaris 1997, 24-7). In the landscapes, Messaris suggests that there may be echoes of a painterly tradition in which this signifies turning away from the everyday world in order to marvel at the spectacle of nature. In the seascapes, exposed flesh clearly invites sexual curiosity. However, in both, there is an implicit invitation to ‘wish you were here’.

Regarding viewpoint, Kress and and van Leeuwen suggest that we should ask ourselves, ‘"Who could see this scene in this way?" "Where would one have to be to see this scene this way, and what sort of person would one have to be to occupy that space?"’ (ibid., 149).

Michael Watson (1970) found cultural variability in how directly people face each other in social interaction. Of the groups he studied, he showed that those adopting the nearest to a frontal axis of orientation were southern Europeans, followed by Latin Americans and then Arabs; those who adopted the most oblique stance were Indians and Pakistanis, followed by northern Europeans and Asians (cited in Argyle 1988, 59).

Apparent proximity



Apparent physical distance also suggests certain relationships between a person depicted in a text and the viewer. In relation to camerawork, there are three main kinds of shot-size: long-shots, medium shots and close-ups.
1. Long shot (LS): showing all or most of a fairly large subject (for example, a person) and usually much of the surroundings:
2. Extreme Long Shot (ELS): the camera is at its furthest distance from the subject, emphasizing the background;
3. Medium Long Shot (MLS): in the case of a standing actor, the lower frame line cuts off feet and ankles.
4. Medium shots or Mid-Shots (MS): the subject or actor and the setting occupy roughly equal areas in the frame. In the case of the standing actor, the lower frame passes through the waist; there is space for hand gestures to be seen.
5. Medium Close Shot (MCS): The setting can still be seen; the lower frame line passes through the chest of the actor.
6. Close-up (CU) shots show a character's face in great detail so that it fills the screen:
7. Medium Close-Up (MCU): head and shoulders;
8. Big Close-Up (BCU): forehead to chin.

In an influential book, The Hidden Dimension (1966), Edward T Hall illustrated how physical distances between people in face-to-face interaction reflected degrees of formality. He referred to four specific ranges:

1. Intimate: up to 18 inches;
2. Personal: 18 inches to 4 feet;
3. Social: 4 to 12 feet;
4. Public: 12 to 25 feet.

In an earlier book, The Silent Language (1959), Hall had drawn attention to a marked degree of cultural variability in the formality of such modes of face-to-face interaction and to the way in which differences in cultural norms of appropriate distances could lead to misunderstandings in cross-cultural communication. His observation that Arabs stand closer together than Americans was confirmed by Michael Watson (1970), who found that amongst the groups studied, those who chose to stand closest together were Arabs, followed by Indians and Pakistanis, and then southern Europeans, whilst those who stood furthest apart were northern Europeans, followed by Asians and then Latin Americans (cited in Argyle 1988, 59).

In camerawork these 'modes of address' are reflected in shot sizes - close-ups signifying intimate or personal modes, medium shots a social mode and long shots an impersonal mode (Kress & van Leeuwen 1996, 130-35; see also Tuchman 1978, 116-20). Close-ups focus attention on a person's feelings or reactions. In interviews, the use of BCUs may emphasise the interviewee's tension and suggest lying or guilt. BCUs are rarely used for important public figures; MCUs are preferred, the camera providing a sense of distance. In western cultures the space within about 24 inches (60 cm) is generally felt to be private space, and BCUs may be felt to be invasive.
Charles Lewis reports that there has been a shift from the mids-1980s onwards in the way in which American teenagers have chosen to be portrayed in their high-school yearbooks - from a traditional full-face close-up to a three-quarter or full-body pose (cited in Barry 1997, 268).

Empirical studies have shown that tighter close-ups lead to increases in both attention and involvement (Lombard 1995; Reeves, Lombard & Melwani 1992; both cited in Messaris 1997, 29). Zooming in to a tight close-up can also enhance the perceived importance of a person on television (Donsbach, Brosius & Mettenklott 1993, cited in Messaris 1997, 29).

The eye of the camera

Looking at someone using a camera (or looking at images thus produced) is clearly different from looking at the same person directly. Indeed, the camera frequently enables us to look at people whom we would never otherwise see at all. In a very literal sense, the camera turns the depicted person into an object, distancing viewer and viewed.

We are all familiar with anecdotes about the fears of primal tribes that 'taking' a photograph of them may also take away their souls, but most of us have probably felt on some occasions that we don't want 'our picture' taken. In controlling the image, the photographer (albeit temporarily) has power over those in front of the lens, a power which may also be lent to viewers of the image. In this sense, the camera can represent a 'controlling gaze'.

In her classic book, On Photography Susan Sontag referred to several aspects of 'photographic seeing' which are relevant in the current context (Sontag 1979, 89):

- 'To photograph is to appropriate the thing photographed' (ibid., 4);
- 'Photographing is essentially an act of non-intervention... The act of photographing is more than passive observing. Like sexual voyeurism, it is a way of at least tacitly, often explicitly, encouraging what is going on to keep on happening' (ibid., 11-12);
- 'The camera doesn't rape, or even possess, though it may presume, intrude, trespass, distort, exploit, and, at the farthest reach of metaphor, assassinate - all activities that, unlike the sexual push and shove, can be conducted from a distance, and with some detachment' (ibid., 13).
- The functions of photography can be seen in the context of Michel Foucault's analysis of the rise of surveillance in modern society. Photography promotes 'the normalizing gaze, a surveillance that makes it possible to qualify, to classify and to punish. It establishes over individuals a visibility through which one differentiates and judges them' (Foucault 1977, 25). Photography was used in the second half of the nineteenth century to identify prisoners, mental patients and racial types (Tagg 1988). However, looking need not necessarily be equated with controlling (Lutz & Collins 1994, 365).

Both film and television, of course, involve audio-visual 'motion pictures' - which sets them apart from still photography - but it is important to bear in mind key differences between these two media. John Ellis argues that 'gazing is the constitutive activity of cinema. Broadcast TV demands a rather different kind of looking: that of the glance' (Ellis 1982, 50). Whilst there is a danger of such viewpoints reflecting a certain élitism about 'art film' versus 'popular television' it is clear that the conditions of viewing in the cinema are significantly different from the conditions of viewing in the home. For instance, in the cinema one watches a narrative which is beyond one's own control, in dreamlike darkness, in the company of strangers and typically also with a close friend or two, having paid for the privilege; it is hardly surprising that in the context of the nuclear family, with companions one might not necessarily always choose as co-viewers and with channels which can easily be changed, viewing is often more casual - indeed, many televisual genres are designed for such casual viewing. Ellis argues that the conditions are such that 'the voyeuristic mode' cannot be as intense for the television viewer as for the cinema spectator (ibid., 138).

Film theorists argue that in order to 'suspend one's disbelief' and to become drawn into a conventional narrative when watching a film one must first 'identify with' the camera itself as if it were one's own eyes and thus accept the viewpoint offered (this is, for instance, an assumption made by Mulvey 1975). Whilst one has little option but to accept the locational viewpoint of the film-maker, to suggest that one is obliged to accept the preferred reading involves treating viewers as uniformly passive, making no allowance for 'negotiation' on their part. There are many modes of engagement with film, as with other media.

The film theorist Christian Metz made an analogy between the cinema screen and a mirror (Metz 1975), arguing that through identifying with the gaze of the camera, the cinema spectator re-enacts what the psychoanalytic theorist Jacques Lacan called 'the mirror stage', a stage at which looking into the mirror allows the infant to see itself for the first time as other - a significant step in ego formation. Extending this observation to still photography, Catherine Lutz and Jane Collins observe that 'mirror and camera are tools of self-reflection and surveillance. Each creates a double of the self, a second figure who can be examined more closely than the original - a double that can also be alienated from the self - taken away, as a photograph can be, to another place' (Lutz & Collins 1994, 376).

In relation to film and television narrative, camera treatment is called ‘subjective’ when the viewer is treated as a participant, as when:

1. the camera is addressed directly; or
2. when the camera imitates the viewpoint or movement of a character (a ‘point-of-view’ shot); here we are shown not only what a character sees, but how he or she sees it.; or
3. the arms or legs of an off-frame participant are shown in the lower part of the frame as if they were those of the viewer (one parody of this technique involved putting spectacles in front of the lens!).

An empirical study has shown that a subjective version of a television commercial received higher scores and better evaluations on measures of viewers’ involvement (Galan 1986, cited in Messaris 1997, 32), supporting the notion that subjective camera treatment can help to make the viewer feel more involved in the situation depicted.

The social codes of looking


Looking is socially regulated: there are social codes of looking (including taboos on certain kinds of looking). It can be instructive to reflect on what these codes are in particular cultural contexts (they tend to retreat to transparency when the cultural context is one's own). 'Children are instructed to "look at me", not to stare at strangers, and not to look at certain parts of the body... People have to look in order to be polite, but not to look at the wrong people or in the wrong place, e.g. at deformed people' (Argyle 1975, 158). In Luo in Kenya one should not look at one's mother-in-law; in Nigeria one should not look at a high-status person; amongst some South American Indians during conversation one should not look at the other person; in Japan one should look at the neck, not the face; and so on (Argyle 1983, 95).

The duration of the gaze is also culturally variable: in 'contact cultures' such as those of the Arabs, Latin Americans and southern Europeans, people look more than the British or white Americans, while black Americans look less (ibid., 158). In contact cultures too little gaze is seen as insincere, dishonest or impolite whilst in non-contact cultures too much gaze ('staring') is seen as threatening, disrespectful and insulting (Argyle 1983, 95; Argyle 1975, 165). Within the bounds of the cultural conventions, people who avoid one's gaze may be seen as nervous, tense, evasive and lacking in confidence whilst people who look a lot may tend to be seen as friendly and self-confident (Argyle 1983, 93).

Goffman (1969)... describes the sustained 'hate stare' as exhibited by bigoted white Americans to blacks. The directed eye contact violates a code of looking, where eye contact is frequently broken but returned to, and leads to depersonalization of the victim because an aggressor deliberately breaks the rules which the victim adheres to. (Danny Saunders in O'Sullivan et al. 1994, 205)

Noting Pratt's (1992) exploration of 'the colonial gaze', Schroeder comments that 'explorers gaze upon newly discovered land as colonial resources', and adds that John Urry (1990) refers to 'the tourist gaze', which reflects status differences, emphasizing that it is historically variable (Schroeder 1998, 208).

Codes of looking are particularly important in relation to gender. One woman reported to a male friend: ‘One of the things I really envy about men is the right to look’. She pointed out that in public places, ‘men could look freely at women, but women could only glance back surreptitiously’ (Dyer 1992a, 265). Brain Pranger (1990) reports on his investigation of 'the gay gaze':

Gay men are able to subtly communicate their shared worldview by a special gaze that seems to be unique to them... Most gay men develop a canny ability to instantly discern from the returned look of another man whether or not he is gay. The gay gaze is not only lingering, but also a visual probing... Almost everyone I interviewed said that they could tell who was gay by the presence or absence of this look. (in Higgins 1993, 235-6)

In Ways of Seeing, a highly influential book based on a BBC television series, John Berger observed that ‘according to usage and conventions which are at last being questioned but have by no means been overcome - men act and women appear. Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at’ (Berger 1972, 45, 47). Berger argues that in European art from the Renaissance onwards women were depicted as being ‘aware of being seen by a [male] spectator’ (ibid., 49),

Berger adds that at least from the seventeenth century, paintings of female nudes reflected the woman’s submission to ‘the owner of both woman and painting’ (ibid., 52). He noted that ‘almost all post-Renaissance European sexual imagery is frontal - either literally or metaphorically - because the sexual protagonist is the spectator-owner looking at it’ (ibid., 56). He advanced the idea that the realistic, ‘highly tactile’ depiction of things in oil paintings and later in colour photography (in particular where they were portrayed as ‘within touching distance’), represented a desire to possess the things (or the lifestyle) depicted (ibid., 83ff). This also applied to women depicted in this way (ibid., 92).

Writing in 1972, Berger insisted that women were still ‘depicted in a different way to men - because the "ideal" spectator is always assumed to be male and the image of the woman is designed to flatter him’ (ibid., 64). In 1996 Jib Fowles still felt able to insist that ‘in advertising males gaze, and females are gazed at’ (Fowles 1996, 204). And Paul Messaris notes that female models in ads addressed to women ‘treat the lens as a substitute for the eye of an imaginary male onlooker,’ adding that ‘it could be argued that when women look at these ads, they are actually seeing themselves as a man might see them’ (Messaris 1997, 41). Such ads ‘appear to imply a male point of view, even though the intended viewer is often a woman. So the women who look at these ads are being invited to identify both with the person being viewed and with an implicit, opposite-sex viewer’ (ibid., 44).

We may note that within this dominant representational tradition the spectator is typically assumed not simply to be male but also to be heterosexual, over the age of puberty and often also white.

Laura Mulvey on film spectatorship

Whilst these notes are concerned more generally with ‘the gaze’ in the mass media, the term originates in film theory and a brief discussion of its use in film theory is appropriate here.
As Jonathan Schroeder notes, 'Film has been called an instrument of the male gaze, producing representations of women, the good life, and sexual fantasy from a male point of view' (Schroeder 1998, 208). The concept derives from a seminal article called ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’ by Laura Mulvey, a feminist film theorist. It was published in 1975 and is one of the most widely cited and anthologized (though certainly not one of the most accessible) articles in the whole of contemporary film theory.

Laura Mulvey did not undertake empirical studies of actual filmgoers, but declared her intention to make ‘political use’ of Freudian psychoanalytic theory (in a version influenced by Jacques Lacan) in a study of cinematic spectatorship. Such psychoanalytically-inspired studies of 'spectatorship' focus on how 'subject positions' are constructed by media texts rather than investigating the viewing practices of individuals in specific social contexts. Mulvey notes that Freud had referred to (infantile) scopophilia - the pleasure involved in looking at other people’s bodies as (particularly, erotic) objects. In the darkness of the cinema auditorium it is notable that one may look without being seen either by those on screen by other members of the audience. Mulvey argues that various features of cinema viewing conditions facilitate for the viewer both the voyeuristic process of objectification of female characters and also the narcissistic process of identification with an ‘ideal ego’ seen on the screen. She declares that in patriarchal society ‘pleasure in looking has been split between active/male and passive/female’ (Mulvey 1992, 27). This is reflected in the dominant forms of cinema. Conventional narrative films in the ‘classical’ Hollywood tradition not only typically focus on a male protagonist in the narrative but also assume a male spectator. ‘As the spectator identifies with the main male protagonist, he projects his look onto that of his like, his screen surrogate, so that the power of the male protagonist as he controls events coincides with the active power of the erotic look, both giving a satisfying sense of omnipotence’ (ibid., 28). Traditional films present men as active, controlling subjects and treat women as passive objects of desire for men in both the story and in the audience, and do not allow women to be desiring sexual subjects in their own right. Such films objectify women in relation to ‘the controlling male gaze’ (ibid., 33), presenting ‘woman as image’ (or ‘spectacle’) and man as ‘bearer of the look’ (ibid., 27). Men do the looking; women are there to be looked at. The cinematic codes of popular films ‘are obsessively subordinated to the neurotic needs of the male ego’ (ibid., 33). It was Mulvey who coined the term 'the male gaze'.

Mulvey distinguishes between two modes of looking for the film spectator: voyeuristic and fetishistic, which she presents in Freudian terms as responses to male ‘castration anxiety’. Voyeuristic looking involves a controlling gaze and Mulvey argues that this has has associations with sadism: ‘pleasure lies in ascertaining guilt - asserting control and subjecting the guilty person through punishment or forgiveness’ (Mulvey 1992, 29). Fetishistic looking, in contrast, involves ‘the substitution of a fetish object or turning the represented figure itself into a fetish so that it becomes reassuring rather than dangerous. This builds up the physical beauty of the object, transforming it into something satisfying in itself. The erotic instinct is focused on the look alone’. Fetishistic looking, she suggests, leads to overvaluation of the female image and to the cult of the female movie star. Mulvey argues that the film spectator oscillates between these two forms of looking (ibid.; see also Neale 1992, 283ff; Ellis 1982, 45ff; Macdonald 1995, 26ff; Lapsley & Westlake 1988, 77-9).

This article generated considerable controversy amongst film theorists. Many objected to the fixity of the alignment of passivity with femininity and activity with masculinity and to a failure to account for the female spectator. A key objection underlying many critical responses has been that Mulvey's argument in this paper was (or seemed to be) essentialist: that is, it tended to treat both spectatorship and maleness as homogeneous essences - as if there were only one kind of spectator (male) and one kind of masculinity (heterosexual). E Ann Kaplan (1983) asked ‘Is the gaze male?’. Both Kaplan and Kaja Silverman (1980) argued that the gaze could be adopted by both male and female subjects: the male is not always the controlling subject nor is the female always the passive object. We can ‘read against the grain’. Teresa de Lauretis (1984) argued that the female spectator does not simply adopt a masculine reading position but is always involved in a ‘double-identification’ with both the passive and active subject positions. Jackie Stacey asks: ‘Do women necessarily take up a feminine and men a masculine spectator position?’ (Stacey 1992, 245). Indeed, are there only unitary ‘masculine’ or ‘feminine’ reading positions? What of gay spectators? Steve Neale (1983) identifies the gaze of mainstream cinema in the Hollywood tradition as not only male but also heterosexual. He observes a voyeuristic and fetishistic gaze directed by some male characters at other male characters within the text (Stacey notes the erotic exchange of looks between women within certain texts). A useful account of 'queer viewing' is given by Caroline Evans and Lorraine Gamman (1995). Neale argues that ‘in a heterosexual and patriarchal society the male body cannot be marked explictly as the erotic object of another male look: that look must be motivated, its erotic component repressed’ (Neale 1992, 281). Both Neale and Richard Dyer (1982) also challenged the idea that the male is never sexually objectified in mainstream cinema and argued that the male is not always the looker in control of the gaze. It is widely noted that since the 1980s there has been an increasing display and sexualisation of the male body in mainstream cinema and television and in advertising (Moore 1987, Evans & Gamman 1995, Mort 1996, Edwards 1997).

Gender is not the only important factor in determining what Jane Gaines calls 'looking relations' - race and class are also key factors (Lutz & Collins 1994, 365; Gaines 1988; de Lauretis 1987; Tagg 1988; Traube 1992). Ethnicity was found to be a key factor in differentiating amongst different groups of women viewers in a study of Women Viewing Violence (Schlesinger et al. 1992). Michel Foucault, who linked knowledge with power, related the 'inspecting gaze' to power rather than to gender in his discussion of surveillance (Foucault 1977).

Related issues

As already noted in relation to Laura Mulvey’s theories, the issue of the gaze is closely related to that of identification. The viewer may subjectively identify with the camera’s point of view, with that of a person which it depicts or with both (Burgin 1982c, 189). Whilst it is often observed that men tend to identify with men and women with women in film and television narratives, John Ellis (1982) argues that this is a gross oversimplification. We may, for instance, experience shifting 'identifications' with different characters, and these may not necessarily be characters of the same sex (or sexual orientation) as ourselves. Indeed, we may 'identify' with feelings or experiences rather than characters as such. And such identifications may sometimes even be contradictory.

Erving Goffman’s slim volume Gender Advertisements (1979) concerned the depictions of male and female figures in magazine advertisements. Although it was unsystematic and only some of of his observations have been supported in subsequent empirical studies, it is widely celebrated as a classic of visual sociology and deserves at least a brief mention in the current context. Probably the most relevant of his observations in the context of these notes was that ‘men tend to be located higher than women’ in these ads, symbolically reflecting the routine subordination of women to men in society (Goffman 1979, 43). The extensive selection from advertisements of the period also makes the book a useful resource for those interested in the phenomenon of the gaze, as also in the case of Judith Williamson’s equally celebrated work, Decoding Advertisements (Williamson 1978).

Another concept which may be useful in investigating 'the gaze' is 'face-ism'. The term ‘face-ism’ was coined to describe a tendency for photographs and drawings to emphasize the faces of men and the bodies of women. An analysis of magazine and newspaper photos found that 65% of a man's picture was devoted to his face, compared to 45% of a woman's (Archer, Iritani, Kimes & Barrios 1983).

Categorizing facial expressions

Rather than ‘reinventing the wheel’ it is useful for those undertaking their own research to refer to existing categories where appropriate, although clearly the system adopted needs to relate to the specific purposes of the study, and the lists offered here are of course time-bound and domain-specific. Indeed, the dates and genres of these studies make their frameworks and their findings potentially fruitful for comparisons with current material in the same genre or in other genres.

Marjorie Ferguson (1980) identified four types of facial expression in the cover photos of British women’s magazines:

> Chocolate Box: half or full-smile, lips together or slightly parted, teeth barely visible, full or three-quarter face to camera. Projected mood: blandly pleasing, warm bath warmth, where uniformity of features in their smooth perfection is devoid of uniqueness or of individuality.
> Invitational: emphasis on the eyes, mouth shut or with only a hint of a smile, head to one side or looking back to camera. Projected mood: suggestive of mischief or mystery, the hint of contact potential rather than sexual promise, the cover equivalent of advertising’s soft sell.
> Super-smiler: full face, wide open toothy smile, head thrust forward or chin thrown back, hair often wind-blown. Projected mood: aggressive, ‘look-at-me’ demanding, the hard sell, ‘big come-on’ approach.
> Romantic or Sexual: a fourth and more general classification devised to include male and female ‘two-somes’; or the dreamy, heavy-lidded, unsmiling big-heads, or the overtly sensual or sexual. Projected moods: possible ‘available’ and definitely ‘available’.
> In a study of advertisements in women’s magazines, Trevor Millum offers these categories of female expressions:
> Soft/introverted: eyes often shut or half-closed, the mouth slightly open/pouting, rarely smiling; an inward-looking trance-like reverie, removed from earthly things.
> Cool/level: indifferent, self-sufficient, arrogant, slightly insolent, haughty, aloof, confident, reserved; wide eyes, full lips straight or slightly parted, and obtrusive hair, often blonde. The eyes usually look the reader in the eye, as perhaps the woman regards herself in the mirror.
> Seductive: similar to the cool/level look in many respects - the eyes are less wide, perhaps shaded, the expression is less reserved but still self-sufficient and confident; milder versions may include a slight smile.
> Narcissistic: similarities to the cool/level and soft/introverted looks, rather closer to the latter: a satisfied smile, closed or half-closed eyes, self-enclosed, oblivious, content - ‘activity directed inward’.
> Carefree: nymphlike, active, healthy, gay, vibrant, outdoor girl; long unrestrained outward-flowing hair, more outward-going than the above, often smiling or grinning.
> Kittenlike: coy, naïve (perhaps in a deliberate, studied way), a friendlier and more girlish version of the cool/level look, sometimes almost twee.
> Maternal: motherly, matronly, mature, wise, experienced and kind, carrying a sort of authority; shorter hair, slight smile and gentle eyes - mouth may sometimes be stern, but eyes twinkle.
> Practical: concentrating, engaged on the business in hand, mouth closed, eyes object-directed, sometimes a slight frown; hair often short or tied back.
> Comic: deliberately ridiculous, exaggerated, acting the fool, pulling faces for the benefit of a real or imaginary audience, sometimes close to a sort of archness.
> Catalogue: a neutral look as of a dummy, artificial, waxlike; features may be in any position, but most likely to be with eyes open wide and a smile, but the look remains vacant and empty; personality has been removed. (Millum 1975, 97-8)

Millum comments on how the male facial expressions depicted in the women’s ads he studied related to his typification of female expressions:

There are fairly direct parallels with the above - the carefree, practical, seductive, comic and catalogue. The other two male expressions selected as types - the thoughtful and the self-reliant - have similarities to the female introverted and cool, though the thoughtful is far less introverted and the self-reliant more smug than aloof or reserved, but there are no counterparts to the narcissistic or kittenlike. (For the latter a type boyish might be postulated, but it remains potential). (ibid., 98)

Paul Messaris notes differences in facial expression between models in high-fashion magazines and those in ads for less expensive products:

Models who display moderately priced clothing usually smile and strike ingratiating poses. But high-fashion models are generally unsmiling and sometimes openly contemptuous. So pronounced is this contrast that it is tempting to formulate it in a simple rule: the higher the fashion, the more sullen the expression. The supercilious expressions on the models’ faces serve to increase the desirability of what they’re selling by evoking status anxiety in the viewer. (Messaris 1997, 38-40)

References and supplementary reading

Archer, D, B Iritani, D Kimes & M Barrios (1983): ‘Face-Ism - 5 Studies of Sex-Differences in Facial Prominence’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 45(4): 725-735
Argyle, Michael (1969): Social Interaction. London: Methuen
Argyle, Michael (Ed.) (1973): Social Encounters: Readings in Social Interaction. Harmondsworth: Penguin
Argyle, Michael (1975): Bodily Communication (2nd edn.). London: Methuen
Argyle, Michael (1983): The Psychology of Interpersonal Behaviour (4th edn.). Harmondsworth: Penguin
Argyle, Michael & Janet Dean ([1965] 1973): ‘Eye Contact, Distance and Affiliation’. In Argyle (Ed.), op. cit., pp. 173-87
Baggaley, Jon with Margaret Ferguson & Philip Brooks (1980): Psychology of the TV Image. Farnborough: Gower
Barry, Ann Marie Seward (1997): Visual Intelligence: Perception, Image and Manipulation in Visual Communication. New York: State University of New York Press
Barthes, Roland (1982): Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. London: Cape
Bennett, Tony, Susan Boyd-Bowman, Colin Mercer & Janet Woollacott (Eds.) (1981): Popular Television and Film; A Reader. London: BFI
Berger, John (1972): Ways of Seeing. London: BBC/Harmondsworth: Penguin
Burgin, Victor (Ed.) (1982a): Thinking Photography. London: Methuen
Burgin, Victor (1982b): ‘Looking at Photographs’. In Burgin op. cit., pp. 142-153
Burgin, Victor (1982c): ‘Photography, Phantasy, Function’. In Burgin op. cit., pp. 177-216
Burston, Paul & Colin Richardson (Eds.) (1995): A Queer Romance: Lesbhians, Gay Men and Popular Culture. London: Routledge
Cappella, J N (1993): ‘The Facial Feedback Hypothesis in Human Interaction. Review and Speculation’, Journal of Language and Social Psychology 12: 13-29
Caughie, John, Annette Kuhn & Mandy Merck (Eds.) (1992): The Sexual Subject: A Screen Reader in Sexuality. London: Routledge
Cohan, Steven & Ina Rae Hark (Eds.) (1993): Screening the Male: Exploring Masculinities in Hollywood Cinema. London: Routledge
Cook, Pam (Ed.) (1985): The Cinema Book. London: BFI
Craig, Steve (Ed.) (1992): Men, Masculinity and the Media. Newbury Park, CA: Sage
De Lauretis, Teresa (1984): Alice Doesn’t. Bloomington: Indiana University Press
De Lauretis, Teresa (1987): Technologies of Gender. Bloomington: Indiana University Press
Denzin, Norman K (1995): The Cinematic Society: The Voyeur’s Gaze. London: Sage
Dodd, K (1989): ‘Face-ism and Facial Expressions of Women in Magazine Photos’, Psychological Record 39:
Donsbach, W, H-B Brosius & A Mattenklott (1993): The Guided Eye: Channel and Presentation Effects in Personal and Televised Perceptions of an Event. Paper presented to the International Communication Association, Washington, DC (May)
Dyer, Richard ([1982] 1992a): ‘Don’t Look Now: The Male Pin-Up’. In Caughie et al. (Eds.) op. cit., pp. 265-76; also in Dyer (1992b), op. cit., pp. 103-119
Dyer, Richard (1992b): Only Entertainment. London: Routledge
Edwards, Tim (1997): Men in the Mirror: Men’s Fashion, Masculinity and Consumer Society. London: Cassell
Elkins, James (1996): The Object Stares Back: On the Nature of Seeing. New York: Simon & Schuster
Ellis, John (1982): Visible Fictions: Cinema, Television, Video. London: Routledge
Evans, Caroline & Lorraine Gamman (1995): 'The Gaze Revisited, Or Reviewing Queer Viewing'. In Burston & Richardson (Eds.), op. cit., pp. 13-56
Ferguson, Marjorie (1980): ‘The Woman’s Magazine Cover Photograph’. In Harry Christian (Ed.): The Sociology of Journalism and the Press (Sociological Review Monograph 29). Keele: University of Keele, pp. 219-38
Foucault, Michel (1977): Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York: Pantheon
Fowles, Jib (1996): Advertising and Popular Culture. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage
Gaines, Jane (1988): 'White Privilege and Looking Relations: Race and Gender in Feminist Film Theory', Screen 29(4): 12-27
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June 1998
The preferred form of citation for the online version of this paper is as follows:
Chandler, Daniel (1998): 'Notes on "The Gaze"' [WWW document] URL http://www.aber.ac.uk/media/Documents/gaze/gaze.html [Date of Visit]