Brassed Off

This piece is a slightly re-written version of a paper I gave on regional identity in Brassed Off in March 2007. I am including it here because I think that it is a good example of how the study of British cinema very quickly achieves a critical orthodoxy about some films, and the way in which several film scholars immediately lapsed into the stereotype of the North of England as the ‘land of the working class’ that has been with us since the nineteenth century (see the reference to Rob Shields) suggests a lack of critical imagination. I think that there is more to be said about the changing status of the community in Brassed Off, and that this film provides an excellent opportunity to explore the relationship between economy and culture, and class and region. The one dimensional critical approach of various scholars of British cinema have, I think, missed something interesting about how this film seeks to express identity. They are all to obsessed with class and gender to attend properly to the question of social space in the film, but it is the film itself that suggests we need to go beyond old conceptions of the North (based on economy and class) and to consider the new (based on culture and space).

 

In this paper I argue that in Brassed Off it is the cultural utopianism represented by the Grimley Colliery Brass Band that overcomes the alienation and economic decline of a Yorkshire mining community. The film is typically approached as a narrative about class and gender; albeit one that problematises those categories with the advent of post-industrial society in the United Kingdom. As such, the film is defined as a portrayal of ‘working class life’ (Hallam 2000: 261) and ‘Old Labour collectivism’ (Monk 2000: 277) that draws upon the ‘iconography of working-class realism’ (Leach 2004: 63-64) in presenting ‘a last throw of the dice for a powerful element in the construction of the identity of large parts of the industrial north of England’ (Blandford 2007: 28). This ‘crisis of post-industrialism’ is cast as ‘the crisis of masculinity’ in late twentieth century Britain (Marris 2001: 47), evident in ‘its treatment of the alternately dying, impoverished, and isolated male body’ (Luckett 2000: 95), and its ‘certain level of nostalgia for a fading masculinity’ (Blandford 2007: 29). Crisis is, however, overcome with ‘a certain utopianism about the possibility of collective action’ (Hill 2000: 183). Brassed Off, then, is seen to play out ‘a drama in which male social and emotional bonds once associated with the workplace and the working man’s club are threatened, mourned, struggled for, and finally restored’ (Monk 2000: 282).

The uniformity of critical opinion regarding Brassed Off reflects the north of England’s ‘intensified “sense of place,”’ which, as Rob Shields (1991: 208-230) had demonstarted, has adpoted a ‘consistent form since the nineteenth century in the popular imagination as the “land of the working class.”’ However, in the contemporary era this sense of place is challenged, as the north as ‘land of the working class’ is made problematic by the decline of industry and the transformation of labour. Consequently, the significance of a Yorkshire regional identity in the film has been overlooked, and here I argue that Brassed Off narrates a transformation in the basis for social identity in the town of Grimley from a solidarity based on social class to one based on identification with a regional identity. The ‘social and emotional bonds’ of working class, male culture are mourned, but are not, in the final scenes of the film, restored. As this regional identity is identified with a brass band, it is equally a shift from economy to culture. The identification with the region is located within the nation, and the film represents the affirmation of a British national identity through the expression of a regional, Yorkshire identity.

Brassed Off

The issue of regional identity emerged in a number of British films released between 1992 and 2002, including The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill but Came Down a Mountain (Christopher Monger, 1995), Blue Juice (Carl Prechezer, 1995), and 24 Hour Party People (Michael Winterbottom, 2002) (Redfern 2005a, 2005b, 2007), but no British film released during this period exemplifies the alienation of the regions from the centre, the transformation of work, and the demand to see regional cultures validated in the life of the nation better than Brassed Off.

Alienation most obviously features in the film in the decision to close the Grimley colliery. The report produced by Gloria that demonstrates the pit’s profitability goes unread by the management as it is revealed that the decision to close the pit was taken some two years before the miners voted for redundancy. Gloria’s belief that she could make a difference, that her work would enable both the management and the miners to make an informed decision is shown to be hopelessly naïve, suggesting that ‘down south’ they are unaware of the realities of life in the north. Though the miners vote for redundancy it is clear that it is merely a formality, a means for the management to retain control over the community’s future but to transfer responsibility on to the miners. The colliery manager, McKenzie, is shown to be different from the miners: he does not have a Yorkshire accent, he never shares the same space as the miners, does not try to cash in on the kudos the band brings to the colliery, and his office is spacious with wood panelled walls in contrast to the drab grey interiors of the spaces inhabited by the miners (e.g., the pub, Phil’s home). Andy, the youngest miner and band member, accurately predicts the outcome of the ballot will go four to one in favour of redundancy, because he is aware that although the miners want to keep the pit open they know that they have no real choice in the matter. Here the management are represented as gangsters: McKenzie’s seclusion in his office, his assistants hanging on his every word, and Gloria’s observation that he made the miners ‘an offer they couldn’t refuse’ link him generically to Don Corleone in The Godfather (Francis Ford Coppola, 1972). The alienation of the miners from this decision making process is evident in one sequence where the band’s performance of Rodrigo’s ‘Concierto de Aranjuez’ is heard over shots of a meeting between the management and the union leadership. The miners are excluded from this meeting but the use of music to obscure the negotiations makes the spectator aware of their absence and their lack of a voice in deciding their future. It is only through music that they are able to express themselves. The ease with which the miners are overlooked is revealed early in the film, as we see Ida and Vera, the wives of two of the band members, talking over the backwall of their terraced houses. The handling of space in a series of shot/reverse shot draws on the stereotypes of gossiping Northern women (e.g., from Coronation Street [Granada, 1961– ] and the paintings of Beryl Cook) and implies that they live in adjacent terrace houses. A wide shot then reveals to us that Ida and Vera do not live side by side but are divided by a backyard in which a former miner sits smoking and reading the paper.

As the narrative of Brassed Off centres on the closure of the colliery the economic aspect of the film is particularly strong. The loss of the pit simply means the absence of work and beyond coal mining there is no employment for the men of Grimley. For example, Simmo appears to have no job at all and appears to survive solely on what he can hustle playing pool, even referring to Andy as his ‘main source of income.’ The main focus of this part of the narrative is Phil and Sandra. Burdened by debt acquired during the 1984 miners’ strike, they are unable to keep the bailiffs from the door and eventually their possessions are seized. The bailiffs and the creditors they represent are symbolic of the Thatcher government, being insensitive and ignorant of the struggles of Grimley, and profit from their parasitic relationship to the miners. In order to raise extra money Phil is forced to perform as a clown, Mr. Chuckles. The birthday party at which he performs takes place in a middle class home, and the film contrasts this space (nicely decorated, carpeted, bright) with Phil’s house with its carpet and furniture stripped out. This house is also more modern than Phil’s 1930s dreary council housing and is unattainable to him, and this emphasises the relegation of heavy industry to the past. As McKenzie comments: ‘coal is history.’ On exiting, the mother is surprised to hear that he is a miner, to which he responds: ‘You remember ’em love. Dinosaurs, dodos, miners.’ This sequence is cross-cut with Sandra unable to pay for the family shopping, and relying on the charity of Vera, who, as the cashier, slips her a five pound note from the till. An exhibitionist shot of the table laid out with the birthday cake and other foods exposes a bounty that the miner’s lack. The one time we see one of the miners eat is when Andy takes Gloria to the fish and chip shop, which represents his idea of going ‘posh.’ (Other than this the men of Grimley appear to survive purely, and specifically, on bitter). Gloria comments sarcastically that if she knew they going to go this posh she would have got dressed up, and here the film notes the cultural and economic difference between the Grimley idea of ‘posh’ and that of someone who has just returned from the south of England. Phil’s other engagement as Mr. Chuckles takes place at a harvest festival, again contrasting the bounty of the middle class mothers and their children with the desperation of the miners.

The closure of Grimley colliery forces a shift in the conception of Yorkshire from one that is defined primarily in terms of economic activity to a definition that is culturally based. Moya Luckett argues that Brassed Off ‘ultimately exposes the Marxist truism that culture has no value without an economic infrastructure’ (Luckett, 2000: 96), but the film seeks to demonstrate that in the era of mass pit closures the colliery band is now more essential to the community of Grimley than ever before representing, pride, continuity, and unity. Originally founded in 1881, Danny states that through two world wars, three disasters, seven strikes, and one ‘bloody big depression’ the band ‘played on every flamin’ time.’ The continuity of the band is also evident in the continuity from one generation to the next: Danny’s son Phil is a trombone player, and Gloria turns out to be from Grimley and the granddaughter of the best bandsman and bravest miner Danny ever knew. She even has her grandfather’s flugel horn, and is accepted into the band by virtue of this historical and familial link. The final shot of the film focuses on Danny, who we know to be terminally ill, and a title tells us that, ‘Since 1984 there have been 140 pit closures in Great Britain at the cost of nearly a quarter of a million jobs.’ Brassed Off does not offer any solution to these problems and there are no miracle cures or last minute rescue packages, but the film is utopian in its representation of collective action through the band. Though Danny will die the memory of him will persist through the continuity of the band, and his picture will adorn the practise hall wall alongside Gloria’s grandfather.

Throughout the film there is a division of labour between the men and the women of Grimley, and this is reflected in the way in which social space is divided along gender lines. The men are associated with the pit, the pub, and the practise hall, while the women are shown in domestic situations (e.g., pegging out the washing, caring for children) or in service jobs (e.g., as a waitress, a pub landlady, a cashier, or nurses). Men and women are rarely shown together to occupy the same space: Harry and Rita pass one another outside their house, barely acknowledging each other’s existence; and, unable to cope, Sandra leaves Phil. The economic struggles of Grimley bring families to the point of collapse but through the band they are able to come together. At the Albert Hall the men and women of Grimley are reunited within a single space. Rita and Sandra are in the audience, where previously they have been scornful of their husbands’ interest in the band. With the men on stage and the women in the audience a division of labour remains in place at the end of the film. However, Gloria’s presence in the band suggests that it may be overcome. Gloria is the only female member of the band, and her arrival in Grimley prompts Vera and Ida to take an interest in their husbands’ activities. Gloria’s presence in the band also suggests that class differences may be overcome: it is Gloria who provides the money for the band to travel to London, thereby cleansing herself of the stain of being part of the management and readmitting her to the band. Hill argues that the film projects the image of a ‘populist alliance in which middle-class characters into the community represented by the working-class characters’ (2000: 184); but this alliance is not predicated on gender or class. With the colliery gone it is no longer a pre-requisite of band membership that the musicians be miners, and the grounds for membership is shifted to being from Grimley and this opens the way for a middle-class woman to become a member of the band. In his defiant speech at the Albert Hall, Danny reminds us that it is not music that matters but people. However, in stressing the pride, continuity, and unity the band has to offer Grimley following its economic decline, Brassed Off makes the case that music does matter because it represents the community.

Mike Wayne places Brassed Off into a category he describes as ‘anti-national national films.’

The films in this category are defined by their critique of the myth of community which underpins national identity; the myth that is of the deep horizontal comradeship which overlays the actual relations of a divided and fractured society. The myth of unity and shared interests is a powerful means of legitimising the social order. These films are national insofar as they display an acute attunement to the specific social, political, and cultural dynamics within the defined territory of the nation, but they are anti-national insofar as the that territory is seen as a conflicted zone of unequal relations of power (2002: 25).

It is certainly the case that in representing a mining community in Yorkshire, Brassed Off articulates the social, economic, and cultural dynamics of the UK as a ‘conflicted zone of unequal relations of power.’ The alienation and economic decline of the residents of Grimley is derived from these inequalities. However, the closing scene of the film does not critique the myth of a ‘deep horizontal comradeship’ but appeals to precisely that myth. On leaving the Albert Hall the band is seen riding on an open-top bus past the Houses of Parliament, and, like many films, the red London bus and Big Ben are used in Brassed Off to represent Britishness. By placing the band aboard the bus, the film symbolically places Yorkshire within the nation. It is in this sequence that the band plays Sir Edward Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance No. 1, or as Danny refers to it (with grudging respect): ‘Land of Hope and Bloody Glory.’ The film thus appeals to the ‘deep horizontal comradeship’ of a British national identity whilst at the same time asserting the regional identity of Yorkshire, and the importance of that regional identity in the nation. Brassed Off may be read as an appeal to the nation not to forget that communities such as Grimley are a part of the nation, and though the traditional image of the North as an industrial heartland may no longer be applicable the intensity of identification with the North has not diminished.

Conclusion

Brassed Off is a British film – but its nationality is articulated through the representation of the regional in a harmonious relationship with the national. The alienation of a regional community can be overcome through the unification of the regional and the national, and in representing the Yorkshire region the films make the case for importance of the regional in the UK. Brassed Off dramatises the shift from traditional heavy industries to cultural industries and make the case that the rest of the UK needs to recognise this shift and reorient their ‘mental maps’ of the region. It also emphasises the vitality of a regional subculture; and that the nation should respect the uniqueness of Yorkshire, and recognise its contribution to the cultural life of the nation. In contrast to the anti-Thatcherite state of the nation films of the 1980s that questioned the validity of a national identity (e.g., The Ploughman’s Lunch [Richard Eyre, 1983]), Brassed Off has a positive outlook on the value of regional cultures, a British national identity, and the possibility of negotiating a more sympathetic relationship between the regional and the national.

Works Cited

Blandford, S. (2007) Film, Drama, and the Break-up of Britain. Bristol: Intellect.

Hallam, J. (2000) Film, class, and national identity: reimagining communities in the age of devolution, in J. Ashby and A. Higson (eds.) British Cinema, Past and Present. London and New York: Routledge: 261-273.

Hill, J. (2000) Failure and utopianism: representations of the working class in British cinema of the 1990s, in R. Murphy (ed.) British Cinema of the 90s. London: BFI: 178-187.

Leach, J. (2004) British Cinema. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Luckett, M. (2000) Image and nation in the 1990s, in R. Murphy (ed.) British Cinema in the 90s. London: BFI: 88-99.

Marris, P. (2001) Northern realism: an exhausted tradition?, Cineaste 26 (4): 47-50.

Monk, C. (2000) Underbelly UK: The 1990s underclass film, masculinity, and the ideologies of “New Britain,” in J. Ashby and A. Higson (eds.) British Cinema, Past and Present. London and New York: Routledge: 274-287.

Shields, R. (1991) Places on the Margin: Alternative Geographies of Modernity. London: Routledge.

Redfern, N. (2005a) Regionalism and the Cinema in the United Kingdom, 1992 to 2002. Unpublished Ph.D. Thesis, Manchester Metropolitan University.

Redfern, N. (2005b) ‘We do things differently here:’ Manchester as a cultural region in 24 Hour Party People, EnterText 5 (2): 286-306.

Redfern, N. (2007) Making Wales possible: regional identity and the geographical imagination in The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill but Came Down a Mountain, Cyfrwmg: Media Wales Journal 4: 57-70.

Wayne, M. (2002) The Politics of Contemporary European Cinema: Histories, Borders, Diasporas. Bristol: Intellect Books.

3-D week on Channel 4

In September I wrote a piece on why I did not think that the future of home entertainment lay in 3-D television. This week, Channel 4 have been showing various programmes in 3-D, and so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to test the potential of the technology.

The results were more underwhelming than I had anticipated. No, really – I didn’t think it would be this bad.

The first programme of the week was ‘The Queen in 3-D,’ shown in two parts on Monday and Tuesday.It featured too affable gentlemen, Bob Angell and Arthur Wooster, who shot colour 3-D footage of the coronation in 1953. The programme was made of non-3-D sections where we got the history of the coronation, some talking-head segments, which were in 3-D, and the 3-D footage of the coronation. The pair of filmmakers appeared from time to time to ask us to put on or take-off our 3-D viewing spectacles. This take-them-off and put-them-back-on-again soon became irritating.

The stongest 3-D effect was in the talking-head segments, but it did not add anything to the social history of the coronation and the effect itself was disappointing. Things do not look any more real – if anything the 3-D effect was quite surreal as the image looked like a series of very flat layers stacked up one on top of the other. It did not have any depth or shape to it. The effect of spatial separation between these flat layers was evident (although, as I have said, not consistently), but it made me think of Ivor the Engine more than anything else. (For my non-UK readers under the age of 25, Ivor the Engine was an animated series created by Oliver Postgate in the 1950s and used stop-motion animation of cardboard cut-outs).

This image of Ivor the Engine was taken from the Walesonline page, where you can find an obituary of Oliver Postgate, who died in December 2008. Imagine this in 3-D, and you sort of get the idea.

The flatness of the image was all the more disappointing, as I have recently been re-watching the 3.5 hour long documentary on the making of Blade Runner (Ridley Scott, 1982) that is part of the Ultimate Collector’s Edition Blade Runner box set. This excellent documenatry has a great section with Douglas Trumbull and his fellow model makers, designers, matte painters, special effects cameraman, supervisors, etc. There is a great bit where they explain how they created the image of Los Angeles disappearing into the distance by using flat pieces of brass, so that the city is built up of layer upon layer of this model pieces to create a convincing experience of the immensity of the city. This old fashioned method creating in camera effects through multiple passes over a model landscape, gives a much better effect than 3-D. Obviously it is unfair to compare Channel 4 to the production of Blade Runner, but if we are going to hail 3-D as the future, then it should at least be an improvement on the technology of the past. When I get to see a 3-D landscape as good as that made in 1981, then we can talk about being impressed. Maybe James Cameron’s Avatar will be the film to take us there. But if the ‘last analogue film,’ as Blade Runner was referred to, can achieve such wonderful effects of depth and shape by using flat pieces of brass, 3-D faces a stiff challenge.

Matthew Yuricich’s matte paintings for Blade Runner are amazing, and better than 3-D. This image is taken from an interview with Douglas Trumbull over at Kipplezone, which is definitely worth checking out.

The 3-D effect in ‘The Queen in 3-D’ and the magic programme presented by Derren Brown that followed it was evident in some shots more than others, and this has been a problem through out the week – the inconsistency of the 3-D effect just doesn’t make it seem worth the while.Just as 3-D adds nothing to social history, I found that the magic tricks were harder to follow wearing the 3-D glasses. Also because 3-D television is so rare, I kept looking out for the 3-D effect and missed what was going on with the tricks themselves. I can see the appeal for magic shows to use 3-D – the lack of reality that was alienating in the documentary footage is ideal for illusions. It may that the future of 3-D in the home is limited to some genres of programming – but if this is the case, then selling the audience a new 3-D television is going to be that much harder.

I watched the first part of Flesh for Frankenstein (Paul Morrissey, 1973), which is every bit as bad as I remember, and found that even wearing the glasses I could see the amber and blue shapes on the image instead of the 3-D effect. The 3-D effect itself was very intermittent in this film, being quite strong in some shots but barely noticeable in others.

As my eyesight is pretty much perfect I don’t wear glasses or contact lenses, and I did not like the fact that I have to wear the 3-D spectacles. They very quickly became uncomfortable, and after a while I started to get a headache.

I also burnt my toast. The problem with 3-D in the home is that you do not just watch TV and do nothing else. Rather, the TV is on and has your attention some of the time, while various other things make competing demands on your attention. 3-D seems to depend on the viewer attending to the television screen and nothing else – which is fine in a cinema, where I have made the effort to go out and paid my money with the specific intention of watching the film. But at home I may be talking to another person who is either with me or on the phone, I may be attempting a crossword. My toast was burnt because my attention could not be divided so easily between the screen and the toast, and because I was wearing the 3-D glasses and couldn’t see what was happening. 3-D is all very well as a novelty for films, but once you actually try living a life it falls apart almost instantly.

In order to get the best effect, Channel 4 advised you to dim the lights. Well, I don’t have a light-dimmer switch – I have a light on-and-off switch. So now I am sitting the dark, on my own, watching a programme of which only a small part is actually 3-D (and even then the effect is inconsistent), wearing uncomfortable glasses that are giving me a headache, unable to see anything properly, and eating burnt toast.

Do you want to come from work and sit in the dark wearing 3-D glasses, ignoring your nearest and dearest while watching underwhelming television programmes? Of course not.

The future of home entertainment?

No.

Location and spread in shot length distributions

The typical characteristics of the distribution of shot lengths in a motion picture are:

• The distribution is decidedly non-normal – it is positive skewed. Although it is possible to conceive of a film that would have a normal or even a negative distribution of shot lengths this does not occur in fact, and I have never come across any film in which the shot lengths were not positively skewed.
• The distribution will include some outlying data points that are far from the average value (the mean or the median shot length).

An additional characteristic worth exploring is the linear relationship between the average value of a shot length distribution and the spread of the data around that value. Figures 1 to 6 plot the average value (the mean and the median shot lengths) of the 50 Hollywood films I used in my analysis of the impact of sound technology on film style (20 silent and 30 sound) against three measures of absolute dispersion – the standard deviation, the interquartile range, and the median absolute deviation. The coefficient of determination is given as a measure of the linear relationship between location and spread. The correlation coefficients for all the comparisons are significant at the 95% level.

Figure 1 Mean shot length v. standard deviation for silent Hollywood films produced from 1920 to 1928 inclusively (n = 20).

Figure 2 Median shot length v. interquartile range for silent Hollywood films produced from 1920 to 1928 inclusively (n = 20).

Figure 3 Median shot length v. median absolute deviation for silent Hollywood films produced from 1920 to 1928 inclusively (n = 20).

Figure 4 Mean shot length v. standard deviation for sound Hollywood films produced from 1929 to 1931 inclusively (n = 30).

Figure 5 Median shot length v. interquartile range for sound Hollywood films produced from 1929 to 1931 inclusively (n = 30).

Figure 6 Median shot length v. median absolute deviation for sound Hollywood films produced from 1929 to 1931 inclusively (n = 30).

In general the linear relationship between location and spread for these films is evident, but may be quite weak. The strongest linear relationship occurs between the median shot length and the median absolute deviation, and the strength of these relationship increases from the silent to the sound era. In both cases there is a substantial proportion of the variance that is unexplained, but overall films with greater median shot lengths exhibit greater variation in their shot lengths.

The relationship between the mean shot length and the standard deviation shows weaker linearity, with approximately one-third of the variance unexplained for both groups of films although there is a small increase in the strength of the relationship from the silent to the sound eras.

The relationship between the median and the interquartile range (IQR) for the sound films shows a weak linear relationship for the sound films, but only a very weak relationship for the silent films – although the r is significant (t [18] = 4.1090, p = 0.0007), over half the variance in the IQR is unexplained. R² for the silent films is 0.4840 and for the sound films is 0.7490, though why such a difference should occur for this relationship and not for the others is a mystery. There is clearly something about the relationship between the median shot length and the interquartile range in the sample of silent films that requires further exploration.

We can say that for Hollywood films of the 1920s and early silent period the average shot length of a motion picture increases so does the variability of shot lengths. As expected, for skewed data sets the linear relationship between measures that do not rely on a mathematical relationship to the mean are the strongest. It seems likely that other groups of films will exhibit similar relationships between measures of location and spread (although perhaps not for the median and the IQR), but it will take further studies to test this hypothesis.

From science to chaos with David Cronenberg

The cinema typically places women on the side of a chaotic and capricious nature in opposition to the male dominated social hierarchy that is enforced through military power and what Carol Clover terms ‘white science:’ ‘Its representatives are nearly always males, typically doctors, and its tools are surgery, drugs, psychotherapy, and other forms of hegemonic science’ (1992: 66). In the science fiction films of David Cronenberg science and technology represent attempts to resist the tendency towards ever-increasing chaos. Medicine, surgery and psychotherapy are the tools that are used to preserve the integrity of the human mind and body, and are exclusively employed by men and (typically) directed towards women. However, these attempts are futile as the American chemist G.N. Lewis stated in his interpretation of the second law of thermodynamics: ‘when any actual process occurs it is impossible to invent a means of restoring every system concerned to its original condition.’ The products of science become something new that breaks free of their scientifically generated order. As Linda Nochlin states, ‘The most potent natural signifier possible for folly and chaos [is] woman unleashed’ (1991: 35). What is interesting about Cronenberg’s films is that he views the failure of science and the unleashing of chaos as creative acts.

Science and technology

As an example of this moment of failure/creation of science we might look at Rabid. The film begins with a motorcycle accident in which Hart and Rose are severely injured. In order to save Rose’s life Dr. Dan Keloid performs emergency plastic surgery. The aim here is clearly the preservation of life but as a result of the operation Rose becomes a new biological creature. Rose wakes to find that she can only digest blood, which she extracts from her victims through a penile barb that has developed in her armpit. Rose, as a product of the surgical process, breaks free of the realm of science as she can no longer be classified or controlled within a laboratory environment. In fact Rose quite literally escapes the world of science as she goes on the run spreading a form of rabies throughout Montreal. Science has, by accident, created the carrier of the disease.

Such emergent evolution is not restricted to the human form as it can also be seen to transform technology. The telepods in The Fly are intended, like H.G. Wells’ time machine, to ‘end all concepts of transport, of borders and frontiers, of time and space.’ The result is not that intended by the scientist, but, as Scott Bukatman points out, Brundle is successful: ‘the dissolution of geographic boundaries yields before the breakdown of genetic and bodily hegemony … telepathy and physical projection break down the dichotomy between public and private; subjectivity and temporality collapse; man merges with machine: we have arrived in a zone without borders’ (1993: 268). Technology is as unpredictable as nature despite our efforts to control it. A device designed for tele-transportation becomes a gene-splicer, its womb-like mechanical beehives fusing the scientist and fly to create something new. As Cronenberg describes it, ‘instead of having a defective machine, we have a nicely functioning machine that just has a different purpose’ (Newman 1989: 116). This is echoed by Brundle when he says, “I seem to be stricken by a disease with a purpose.”

Alternatively scientists such Professor Brian O’Blivion and Dr. Paul Ruth become involved in the efforts of the military-industrial complex to control North America and to dictate the social order. Ruth administers the drug ephemerol to individuals who subsequently develop telepathic powers. As an employee of Consec Ruth is also recruiting these ‘scanners’ for intelligence work. The theme here is one of control through science linked to the military. Ephemerol gives relief to the voices in the heads of the scanners but in order to ensure a supply they must give themselves over to the Consec plan. However, in Darryl Revok we find a rogue with his own plan, one who cannot be manipulated by Consec. The ability of the military-industrial complex to control society is far from complete, especially where the physical nature of the human mind is concerned. Order is continually breaking down as the scanners turn on their masters inciting a revolt that is as physical as it is political.

The scientist dominates Cronenberg’s films and can be seen to be, in general, a reformulation of Wells’ Dr. Moreau. Dr. Hal Raglan, in The Brood, demonstrates many of the qualities of Moreau in particular. Prendick’s description of Moreau’s physical appearance – ‘his serenity, the touch almost of beauty from his set tranquillity, and from his magnificent build’ (Wells [1896] 1946: 87) – might as easily apply to Oliver Reed as Raglan, and both doctors are dangerously charismatic. Each of the doctors works in isolation fearing society’s response to their controversial methods. Each has a project to encourage the evolution of man by removing the obstacles of emotion and sensation from our development. Through the therapy of ‘psychoplasmics’ Raglan seeks to reintegrate individuals like Nola Carveth into society. In order to do this he has his subjects physically manifest their mental disorders. Moreau works towards his goal through surgery to remove the physical sensations of pleasure and pain. In each case the result is the same. Through the intervention of the scientist nature is populated by monstrosities that break free of the scientific and social order imposed upon them to devour man, and in particular the scientist. As Moreau is killed by his ‘manufactured monsters,’ the identical children of Nola’s brood destroy Raglan. As with Ballard’s scientists, Cronenberg’s figures carry the signature of universal destruction within their own bodies. A disease will carry the name of the scientist, such as Rouge’s Malady, or the scientist will carry the name of a disease, such as Brian O’Blivion, whose name recalls the nova of W.S Burroughs’ fiction [1].

The chaotic woman

The women in Cronenberg’s films typically act as ‘patient zeros,’ with the first manifestations of the disease to be found on the female body or in the female environment. There are two groups of women who fulfil this function. The first contains those women whom we see contract the disease directly as a result of their interaction with science and technology. This infection is not restricted to the female population but within the cinema of entropy is almost always the woman who becomes the carrier of the virus. Notable exceptions are to be found in Stereo where both sexes become transformed by the theories of Dr. Luther Stringfellow and in Scanners where both sexes are again transformed by the drug ephemerol. Those who fit into the first group are to be found in Cronenberg’s films between 1970 and 1980 and those of the second group from Videodrome to the present. In Crimes of the Future the female population of the world is infected with Rouge’s Malady, transmitted through the Doctor’s cosmetic products. Annabelle, the mistress of Dr. Emil Hobbes in Shivers, is infected in a similar manner by the Doctor’s parasites. In Rabid, Rose is contaminated by the emergency plastic surgery she undergoes following a motorcycle accident. It is through the science of ‘psychoplasmics’ that Nola Carveth in The Brood can become the chaotic mother of her bizarre ‘children.’ The Brood is, in many ways, a retelling of Mary Shelley’s play Prosperine (1820), which turns the analogy of female fruitfulness as equal to natural plenitude on its head to draw the accompanying conclusion that female rage leads to universal destruction. As Meena Alexander describes it,

If nature, as the common figure is held female, and if woman’s procreative powers are intimately involved and analogous to the cycles of birth, death and renewal visible in the landscape, then maternal loss must equal natural devastation, and a mother’s rage at the loss of her child can tighten and twist into a vision of universal destruction: ‘Ceres for ever weeps, seeking her child And in her rage has struck the land with blight’ (1989: 12).

The devastated landscape of Cronenberg’s films is conditioned by the role of the woman and comes to reflect the ‘shape of rage’ felt by Nola at the loss of her daughter to her husband in the same manner as Ceres ‘threatens to cast the whole of created nature back to chaos’, having lost her daughter to the ‘King of Hell’ (Alexander 1989: 13).

The second group consists of those women who have already been infected prior to the beginning of the narrative but who demonstrate the symptoms of entropy. Nicki Brand shows through her decadence that she has been infected and this is seen in the masochistic mutilation of her body. In Dead Ringers, Claire Niveau is biologically mutated with her trifurcate uterus, and in Naked Lunch (1991) Joan Lee is addicted to bug powder. Once infected the process of transmission is the same for both these groups. The virus is communicated by the interaction of male and female. Entropy is a sexually transmitted disease. In those instances where the technology is the dominant method of communicating the virus it is specifically associated to sex. The videodrome is a pornographic arena and the cars of Crash become the focus of sexuality with their metallic forms joining with and amputating human sexual functions.

In Veronica Quaife, in The Fly, we find the embodiment of the woman as an agent of entropy that is specifically related to technology. How she became infected is not explained to us but it is through her interaction with Seth Brundle that the scientist becomes diseased. Veronica’s contagious state is revealed to us early on in the film when she gives Brundle a ride in her car back to his apartment/laboratory. Her driving, the union of woman and heat engine, makes Brundle feel a motion sickness similar to that of Well’s time traveller. Her disruption of his life is total. Through sex she infects the scientist who then transmits the disease to his technology. She awakens Brundle to the flesh and this inspires him to pass on the information to the computer that controls the telepods. She tells Brundle, “I want to eat you up. That’s why old ladies pinch babies’ cheeks. It’s the flesh. It makes you crazy.” Veronica then goes out to buy new clothes for her new boyfriend, who has to this point been the very definition of fashionable order. He is always to be found immaculately and identically dressed from day to day. Veronica, in purchasing a red T-shirt and a leather jacket, disrupts this order and it is noticeable that once infected Brundle wears only those clothes bought for him by Veronica. He sheds the symbols of his order once infected. Veronica is an example of Robert Graves’ white goddess, ‘her word communicates indeterminacy through the poetic idiom’ (Chambers 1992: 106). In the department store scene her editor, Stathis Borans, describes her as a “goddess.” Veronica is able to communicate indeterminacy through her word as a journalist. As in Videodrome the power to control information makes the media a transmitter of the disease. Veronica’s apartment is a testament to her chaotic state, as it lies strewn with debris. Her attitude towards this mess only reinforces this view. She tells Stathis that she is, “very consciously lazy and disorganised.” In this statement it is Veronica herself who states that she is apathetic and suffers from a decay of energy, and that her natural state is one of disorder.

Devolution

We see throughout the Cronenberg’s films a transformation of the human body under the influence of technology and the female. The most startling image of decay occurs in Videodrome with the rapid decomposition of the body of Barry Convex, which goes the way of the second law with his highly ordered biological constitution becoming a disordered mess.

The most recurrent theme of devolution is cannibalism and Cronenberg uses the consumption if the human flesh as a clear indicator that man has degenerated to a state of being ‘less human’ than our ‘ancestors of three or four thousand years ago.’ We see this in Shivers where a woman grabs a passing waiter shrieking “Hungry for love! Hungry for love!” As in Burroughs’ fiction cannibalism is repeatedly linked to sexuality. In Rabid it is the penile barb that Rose uses to drink the blood of her victims. Her physical need is reminiscent of Prendick’s revival after taking a substance that ‘tasted like blood.’ Compare Veronica’s description of the flesh with Burroughs’ sexual cannibals, where the “flesh drives you crazy” and she fantasises about eating Brundle. It is noticeable that these cannibals are all females feasting themselves on male flesh. Here we see Burroughs’ description of woman as a virus given physical form as they consume the male body. The major exception to this comes in The Fly where it is Brundle who turns on Stathis Borans, digesting his foot and arm with corrosive enzymes, but this only occurs after he has been introduced to the flesh by Veronica.

A further manifestation of the devolution of man is the homogenisation of appearance and sexuality. The most obvious example of this transformation in Cronenberg’s films occurs in The Brood. Nola’s “children” are identical in appearance with each possessing the same crude mockery of Candice’s face and dressed in identical clothes. Significantly they posses no sexual organs at all and it is this kind of omni-sexuality that dominates Cronenberg’s conception of the homogenisation of man. As he states, ‘Human beings could swap sexual organs, or do without sexual organs as organs per se, for procreation … The distinction between male and female would diminish, and perhaps we could become less polarised and more integrated creatures’ (quoted in Rodley : 82). We see a change in the bodies of Max Renn and Seth Brundle towards a more feminine state. Max develops an enormous slit in his belly, vaginal in its construction, and Brundle, resistant to an alcohol rub from Tawny, is described as having the “skin of a princess.” This idea of homogenisation also features in Dead Ringers. The Mantle twins are a natural mutation that has produced its own “manufactured monsters.” As gynaecologists they continue this manufacturing process, as Beverly puts it: “we make women fertile.” Beverly, although physically a male, is seen to have many female qualities, least of all his name. The Mantle twins ultimately lose the power to differentiate between each other.

In Crash man is already a technological animal. In a scene reminiscent of O’Blivion’s prophecies we see a cameraman wearing a Steadicam frame. Whereas in Videodrome the television set was to become the retina of the mind’s eye, in Crash the whole body is given over to the function of technology. The Steadicam operator shows us that technology of every kind is transforming our bodies and our functions in subtle ways that we do not even notice. The car crash is one of the most extreme forms of this modification but one that occurs repeatedly and relentlessly. This union of body and technology has given rise to a new species of human as we see in their titles. For example, ‘cameraman,’ or as Catherine refers to one of James’ sexual partners, ‘cameragirl.’ These bio-technological entities represent, like Max Renn and Seth Brundle in their final phases, an updating of Moreau’s ape-man. Cronenberg constantly associates man to the machines that dominate his world. As Leslie Dick has noted the satin bras that appear frequently mirror the shine and the curvature of the bodywork of the cars, in particular the 1955 Porsche 550 Sypder used in the recreation of James Dean’s fatal crash [2]. The stockings and suspenders of Catherine and Helen Rimmington are taken to their technological conclusion in Gabrielle’s callipers. Helen’s leather gloves and James’ jacket gleam like the cars but also recall the all-leather interiors, of Vaughan’s 1963 Lincoln in particular.

Decadence

To the late Victorians decadence was a sure sign of a society in decay. This is also true of Cronenberg’s films, where decadence is most commonly portrayed as sexual excess. In Shivers the revealed aim of Dr. Emil Hobbes is to turn the world into a “beautiful orgy.” As each individual is infected they are transformed into pleasure-driven zombies. Cronenberg throughout the film transgresses the moral codes governing sexuality and violence as the most basic instincts of our bestial ancestors are represented to us. In Videodrome decadence is associated with the ever present pornography and is openly referred to in Masha’s “Apollo and Dionysus” with its bacchanalian excesses. Nicki Brand speaks of living in “over-stimulated times” where stimulation is sought for its own sake. She describes herself as living in a state of heightened stimulation and is regularly dressed in a bright red dress that recalls the videodrome arena.

Cronenberg has been criticised, in particular by Robin Wood (1983: 115-116), for his supposedly anti-liberal representation of sexuality. For Wood, films such as Shivers and Rabid attack the sexual liberation of the 1960s and assume a more conservative position with the horror inflicted upon the participants in Starliner Towers, for example, as punishment for their decadence. However, it must be acknowledged that Cronenberg’s films are, like Ballard’s fiction, descriptive and not prescriptive. Shivers takes the breakdown of social and moral order to its logical extreme and allied with Cronenberg’s views on omnisexuality we approach Sade’s longing for a combination of species where the boundaries of gender no longer have meaning. This crossing of boundaries is not confined to human social/sexual relations, as Sade urges ‘a transgression of the limits separating self from other, man from woman, human from animal, organic from inorganic objects’ (Jackson 1981: 73). Ballard and Cronenberg both take up this theme with the fetishisation of the car in Crash, the television in Videodrome, and the fly and the telepods in The Fly. Shivers should not be regarded as reactionary as it exhibits the falsity of order as a restriction of human sexual impulses. As Rosemary Jackson points out, for Sade, ‘social order, ethics, morality, institutionalised activity, are all revealed as ‘un-natural’ conditions imposed on a natural disorder’ (1981: 74). Dr. Emil Hobbes is Sade’s agent in bringing about the return to disorder, and Cronenberg plays out the decadence of Starliner Towers as the logical conclusion to these principles. Similarly Iain Sinclair has described Crash as a ‘Sadean dance,’ and Ballard has remarked that “Crash is a movie De Sade would have adored” (Sinclair 1999: 62, 69).

Notes

1. On the relationship between horror and evolution in The Island of Dr. Moreau see Redfern (2004a). On the relationship between Burroughs and Cronenberg see my essay on the narrative of Videodrome (Redfern 2004b).
2. In a scene cut from the finished film and taken directly from Ballard’s Crash, Cronenberg specifically made this link between sexuality and the machine. In the screenplay we find the following action: ‘Karen, Catherine’s secretary, a moody, unsmiling girl, is methodically involved in the soft technology of Catherine’s breasts and the brassieres designed to show them off’. See Cronenberg (1996: 6).

References

Alexander, M. (1989) Women in Romanticism London: MacMillan.

Bukatman, S. (1993) Terminal Identity: The Virtual Subject in Post-modern Science Fiction. Durham: Duke University Press.

Chambers, J. (1992) Thomas Pynchon. New York: Twayne.

Clover, C. (1992) Men, Women and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film. London: BFI.

Cronenberg, D. (1996) Crash. London: Faber & Faber.

Jackson, R. (1981) Fantasy, the Literature of Subversion. London: Methuen.

Newman, K. (1989) Nightmare Movies. New York: Harmony Books.

Nochlin, L. (1991) Women, art, and power, in N. Bryson, M. Ann Holly and K. Moxey (ed.), Visual Theory: Painting and Interpretation. Oxford: Polity Press: 13-47.

Redfern, N. (2004a) Abjection and evolution in The Island of Dr. Moreau, The Wellsian: The Journal of the H.G. Wells Society 27 2004: 37-47.

Redfern, N. (2004b) Information and entropy: the disorganisation of narrative in Cronenberg’s Videodrome, Entertext 4 (3) 2004: 6-24.

Rodley, C. (1992) Cronenberg on Cronenberg London: Faber & Faber.

Sinclair, I. (1999) Crash. London: BFI.

Wells, H.G. ([1896] 1946) The Island of Dr. Moreau. Harmondsworth: Penguin.

Wood, R. (1983) A dissenting view, in P. Handling (ed.) The Shape of Rage: The Films of David Cronenberg. Toronto: General Publishing: 115-135.

The relative dispersion of shot lengths

Studies comparing the change in shot length distributions in Hollywood films with the coming of synchronous sound have focused on measures of central location – the mean or median shot length of a film. The change in the mean shot length from the silent to sound era has been put at approximately six seconds, although this figure is suspect due to the asymmetrical nature of shot length distributions; while the change in the median shot length has been estimated at 2.9 seconds. Similar attention has not been paid to the change in the dispersion of shot lengths that also occurred in the shift from silent to sound cinema. In fact, it is common for mean shot lengths to be presented with no measures of dispersion at all and this severely hampers any useful interpretation of the results.

In my study of the impact of sound on shot length distributions I noted that the interquartile range of sound films was greater than those of silent films, indicating that there is greater variation in the shot length distributions of the sound films. While this method of comparing the variation of shot length distributions is perfectly fine, it is not perhaps the simplest method and using measures of relative dispersion may prove easier to interpret.

Measures of Relative Dispersion

In order to compare the relative dispersion of shot length distributions, three measures of relative dispersion were calculated for each film from a sample of Hollywood silent films produced from 1920 to 1928 inclusive (n = 20) and from a sample of sound films produced in Hollywood from 1929 to 1931 inclusive (n = 30) (see my earlier study for the descriptive statistics of these films). The mean values of each coefficient for the two samples were compared using a t-test assuming unequal variances. Calculations were conducted using Microsoft Excel 2007 and GraphPad Instat v3.10 (2009).

The three measures of dispersion considered are the coefficient of variation (CV), the quartile coefficient of dispersion (QCD), and the coefficient of median deviation (MD). The relative measures of dispersion for the silent films are presented in Table 1 and for the sound films in Table 2.

TABLE 1 Relative measures of dispersion for Hollywood silent films, 1920 to 1928

TABLE 2 Relative measures of dispersion for Hollywood sound films, 1929 to 1931

Coefficient of variation

The coefficient of variation is the ratio of the standard deviation to the mean:

CV = SD/M

The coefficient of variation for the sound films (M = 1.1912, SD = 0.2319) is greater than those silent films (M = 0.9015, SD = 0.1393), t (47) = 5.5217, p = <0.0001. On this measure of dispersion, the shot lengths of a Hollywood sound film are more dispersed by almost a third (32.14%) than the silent films.

Quartile coefficient of dispersion

The quartile coefficient of dispersion is calculated using the lower (Q₁) and upper (Q₃) quartiles of the shot length distribution:

QCD = Q3-Q1/Q3+Q1

The quartile coefficient of dispersion for the sound films (M = 0.5748, SD = 0.0617) is greater than those silent films (M = 0.4833, SD = 0.0522), t (45) = 5.6409, p = <0.0001. On this measure of dispersion, the shot lengths of a Hollywood sound film are more dispersed by almost a fifth (18.83%) than the silent films.

Coefficient of median deviation

The coefficient of median deviation is the ratio of the median absolute deviation from the median shot length (MAD) to the median shot length [1]:

MD = MAD/Median

The coefficient of median deviation for the sound films (M = 0.5825, SD = 0.0680) is greater than those silent films (M = 0.4735, SD = 0.0473), t (47) = 6.6813, p = <0.0001. On this measure of dispersion, the shot lengths of a Hollywood sound film are more dispersed by almost a quarter (23.01%) than the silent films.

Discussion

All three measures of relative dispersion provide similar results, but the coefficient of median deviation is the most reliable.

While the coefficient of variation makes complete use of the data and is the best understood of measures of relative dispersion, it relies on the mean shot length. As the distribution of shot lengths in a motion picture is typically positively-skewed with a number of outlying data points, the mean shot length is an unreliable statistic of film style. Consequently, the coefficient of variation can be expected to overestimate the dispersion of shot lengths in a film as the mean value is pulled towards the higher end of the distribution.

The quartile coefficient of dispersion is not dependent upon the mean shot length and so provides a more robust estimation of relative dispersion than the coefficient of variation. A drawback is that it uses only a limited amount of information in calculating the coefficient, and as a film may feature shot lengths that are much greater than the upper quartile it may underestimate the actual dispersion of shot lengths.

Like the quartile coefficient of dispersion, the median deviation does not use the mean shot length and can be relied upon as a more robust measure of relative dispersion. The median deviation has an advantage over the quartile coefficient of dispersion in that it uses more of the data by calculating the absolute deviation of each shot length from the median rather than relying on just two positional values. The quartile coefficient of dispersion can be regarded as an estimator of the coefficient of median deviation for the films looked at here.

In conclusion, we can say that with the introduction of synchronous sound to Hollywood in the late-1920s we not only see an increase in the median of the shot lengths of a motion picture, but also an increase in the variation shot lengths of sound films relative to silent films. Using the coefficient of median deviation we can estimate that increase to be of the order of 23%.

Notes

1. The coefficient of median deviation is based on the coefficient of mean deviation, but replaces the average absolute deviation with the median absolute deviation in order to prevent extra weight being given to shots of duration that are unusually long.

Conspiracy and Disaster in Hollywood

Two genres that have been significant in post-war Hollywood cinema are the conspiracy movie and the disaster film. With the end of World War II in the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the nuclear arms race that followed, and the paranoia of the Cold War, it is conspiracy and disaster movies that have voiced America’s deepest fears about its relationship to the rest of the world on the one hand, and the struggle to define what is American and what is un-American at home.

From the point of view of someone interested in how cinema deals with these types of questions these genres are interesting because of the way they occur together and interact. Both genres deal with fundamentally the same problem: that our deepest fears may be realised – that the world is coming to an end and that the person we share our life is not who we think they are. Both these genres deal with anxiety, the prolonged, persistent, irrational belief that something (although we may not know what) is going to happen.

By conspiracy movie I mean a film in which there is some paranoid element that leads us to conclude that the world as we experience it is not the world as it is – films such as Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1954), Seven Days in May (1964), The Parallax View (1974), or Shadow Conspiracy (1997) are good examples of how people are not what they seem, that the US government is ruled by the military, or that through mind control can be used to turn individuals into assassins. Timothy Melley refers to this pervasive strain in American popular culture ‘agency panic:’

An intense anxiety about an apparent loss of autonomy or self-control – the conviction that one’s actions are being controlled by someone else, that one has been ‘constructed’ by powerful agents (2001: 62).

Agency panic provides a model of conspiracy in American culture based around a notion of diminished human agency in which the individual is subject to a broad array of social controls (the conspiracy). Conspiracy theory, in Melley’s view is a defence of the integrity of the self in the face of anxiety about the nature of individual action. As I have discussed elsewhere, the conspiracy movie is characterised by the emotional response of anxiety. Agency panic from The Hidden Persuaders, to the Unabomber’s manifesto, and to Invasion of the Body Snatchers is such an emotional response.

Disaster movies are harder to define as the cause of the disaster may vary considerably, but are characteristic by a certain scale of their events – disasters should be big, especially in Hollywood – or by their magnified impact on a small but largely self-contained social group (i.e. Jurassic Park (1993), Airport ‘77 (1977)). Global Pandemics (Panic in the Streets (1950), Outbreak (1997)), geological disaster (Earthquake (1974), Volcano (1997)), or the complete and utter destruction of the Earth (Armageddon (1997)) are all recurrent topics. There is also a sub-genre of films in which mass transit systems are out to get Americans – having watched films such as Airport (1970), Speed (1994), or even Titanic (1997) is it any wonder that investment in US public transport is lacking and that that car is supreme?

Like conspiracy films, disaster movies put the viewer in the position of being unable to control a situation: earthquakes, swarms of killer bees, meteors cannot be reasoned with. Something terrible will happen and we will not be able to control it. The potentiality of the disaster is the terrible thing – it is this that produces in the viewer a sense of anxiety.

Disaster movies are an essentially earthbound form: they operate, almost by definition, within the realm of the possible. People must believe ‘it’ could – indeed, very well might – happen to them (Roddick 1980: 246).

There is an initial loss of agency in the disaster movie leading to panic – but, and this is where the genre diverges from the conspiracy film, that loss of agency can ultimately be recovered. The world may never be the same again but human beings survive. We will be able to land the plane safely, the meteor will be destroyed (at the cost of Bruce Willis), the aliens will be defeated by a computer virus (which in no way plagiarises The War of the Worlds)  – there will be a plan and that plan will lead to the continuation of the human race.

There are also some films that involve both conspiracies and disasters: Deep Impact (1997), for example, starts off with a journalist trying to uncover what she thinks is a conspiracy but in fact uncovers a disaster (a meteor heading for earth); while in The China Syndrome (1979) California is a risk because of cover-up at a nuclear power plant.

To chart the changing impact of the conspiracy film and the disaster movie I have searched books, databases and the internet to find Hollywood’s output since the end of World War II and have come up with two samples on which I am going to base my analysis of anxiety in Hollywood cinema. I have identified some 93 conspiracy films and 102 disaster movies produced in Hollywood from 1947 to 2006 inclusive (not including TV movies, straight-to-video), and plotting the number of these types of films released by 5 year periods we can see some clear trends (Figure 1). Obviously, cycles of films do not fit neatly into five year periods, and this data set will continue to grow as I carry on the research but it is a useful guide.

FIGURE 1 Hollywood conspiracy and disaster films released from 1947 to 2006

Figure 1 shows that:

• There have been three major cycles of conspiracy movies: the ‘red scare movies’ of the early Cold War (1947-1959, 30 films); the New Hollywood films, in which the individual is threatened by state institutions (1965-1979, 25 films); and from 1990 to 2006, which includes the nostalgia/history films of the 1990s (e.g. JFK (1991)), bog-standard conspiracy genre-fare (e.g. Shadow Conspiracy), and new millennium films that deal primarily with the problematic nature of memory (Paycheck (2003)), identity and agency (The Bourne Identity (2002)), and reality (The Matrix trilogy (1999-2003).
• Although the conspiracy film never disappears, it does drop off markedly in the early 1960s (8 films) and the 1980s (7 films).
• The disaster movie is more of a constant feature of post-war Hollywood cinema, and does not have such large swings in popularity as the conspiracy film. Nonetheless, there are clusters of disaster movies – in the 1950s and 1960s there are 15 and 14 films, respectively; in the 1970s this increases to 28 films; there are 13 films in the 1980s (almost all of which are released in the first half of the decade); before another increase in the 1990s to 24 films (of which 18 come in the second half of the decade); and 8 in the 2000s, with 7 released from 2000-2004.
• The peak years for disaster movies are 1979 (7 films) and 1997 (8 films).
• Of 102 disaster movies, the disasters are: alien invasion (5 films), disease (10 films), man-made disasters (i.e. fire) (5 films), natural disasters (35 films), nuclear disasters (11 films), and disasters involving some form of transport (36 films).
• Of the 35 natural disaster films 3 involve avalanches, 9 involve some type of fauna (including bees (The Swarm (1978) and dinosaurs (Jurassic Park (1993))), 13 are geological (i.e. volcanoes, earthquakes), 5 involve meteors, and 5 involve some form of extreme weather event from tornadoes to hurricanes to global warming.
• Of the 36 transport disaster films 2 involve buses, 10 involve boats, and 24 feature aircraft disasters.

In summary, the genres of the conspiracy film and the disaster movie a born in the early years of the Cold War and their fortunes broadly coincide as their popularity waxes and wanes – particularly in the 1970s and 1990s. That they should occur together is, I think, due to the shared basis in exploring the our anxiety about the nature of the world and the potential for action in the face of events that exceed our control.

References

Timothy Melley, ‘Agency Panic and the Culture of Conspiracy,’ in Peter Knight (ed.) Conspiracy Nation: The Politics of Paranoia in Post-war America. New York and London: New York University Press, 2001: 57-81.

Nick Roddick, ‘Only the Stars Survive: Disaster Movies in the Seventies,’ in D. Brady (ed.) Performance and Politics in Popular Drama: Aspects of Popular Entertainment in Theatre, Film, and television 1800-1976. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980: 243-269.

Establishing shots

The establishing shot is unique in the cinema in that it is distinguished not by its scale (e.g., medium long shot, close up) but by its function. Typically, this function is understood to involve the definition of on-screen space and on-screen spatial relationships. For example Karel Reisz and Gavin Millar describe an establishing shot in these terms:

Shot (usually long shot) used near the beginning of a scene to establish the inter-relationship of details to be shown subsequently in nearer shots (Reisz and Millar 1968: 399);

Equally we have the following definition:

A shot, usually at the beginning of a scene, that situates where and sometimes when the action that is to follow takes place before it is broken up through editing. Establishing shots also make clear the spatial relations among characters and the space they inhabit. … Establishing shots are usually long shots or extreme long shots, although not necessarily so (Blandford et al 2001: 86).

These definitions are fine as they go, but they do not capture something important about the role of establishing shots – they emphasise spatial qualities only whilst ignoring the role of establishing shots in organising the viewer’s comprehension of the narrative chain.

Two sequences

Two films provide examples with how sequences begin with a series of shots that do not define the space of the narrative, but nonetheless play an important role in preparing the viewer to receive narrative information.

Little Caesar (1931)

The action at “Little Arnie Gorch’s Casino” is comprised of thirty one shots, and plays an important role in setting up character relations in Little Caesar. The dramatic purpose of this scene is to define the relationship between a number of characters: to identify Rico, who desires the power and wealth of “Diamond” Pete Montana, as a violent liability at a time when the gangsters have been ordered to lie low by “Big Boy.” Rico’s designs on wealth and power are conveyed visually through a close-up shot from Rico’s point-of-view of “Diamond” Pete’s jewels and clothes. Dialogue is used to mark Rico out as a liability, as “Diamond” Pete says of him to Salvatore: ‘It’s guys like this torpedo of yours that cause all the trouble.’

The action of this sequence takes place in three spaces. Firstly, we are in the casino with the gamblers and the owner Little Arnie Gorch, who is informed that “Diamond” Pete is coming to see him (Figures 1-5). Then we move to the office of Little Arnie is the space where “Diamond” Pete first comes across Rico, and he explains that the crime commissioner McClure can’t be bargained with and therefore “Big Boy” has given the order to lie low (Figures 6-9 and 11-22). Finally, it is in the corridor outside the office where “Diamond” Pete and Rico come face to face, setting up the power struggle that will come later in the film (Figures 10 and 23-31).

The relevant narrative information in this scene is presented in the office and the corridor, but neither of these spaces is defined by the use of an establishing shot. The office is revealed to us as Little Arnie Gorch enters to see Salvatore and Rico waiting for him, but at no time during this sequence is there a shot long enough or wide enough to give the spectator an overall sense of the spatial extent of the room or the relationships between characters. At no point in the scene is ‘the inter-relationship of details to be shown subsequently in nearer shots’ established.

However, the scene does begin with two shots that show us we are in a casino and three shots of Little Arnie being informed that a meeting is taking place in his office. Why does the film begin the scene with in a space in which no narrative action will take place before moving to two other spaces, neither of which are established?

Figures 1-5 The opening shots of this sequence from Little Caesar let the audience know where we are and what is happening, but the action will not take place in the spaces we have so far been shown.

Figures 6-22 The scene then goes on to establish that Rico is a loose cannon who could make trouble for the “Diamond” Pete, who has come to tell the gangsters to lie low.

Figures 23-31 In the corridor Rico admires “Diamond” Pete’s finery and images himself taking over Pete’s role.

Pleasantville (1998)

An early sequence in Pleasantville comprises 14 shots (though I have only used 12 here – shots H and I are repeated), and sets up Tobey Maguire’s character as your typical shy high school student. The narrative of the film follows his character’s transformation into a more confident person having been sucked into a 1950s television show. The first seven shots (A-G) are of student’s arriving at school, but do not feature any characters who we will follow through the narrative. In fact, these seven shots reveal no narrative information whatsoever, and there is no dialogue until we see David in shot H. He appears to be asking the girl in shot I out on a date who would seem to be listening intently, but in shot J the distance between these two characters is revealed: David is in fact talking to no-one, and in shot K we see the girl is actually talking to some one else. The final shot of the sequence (L) is a very long shot of the school yard, and perhaps comes closest to the two definitions of the establishing shot given above except that it marks the end of this sequence rather than its beginning.

There is no shot in this sequence that establishes the spatial relationships of the narrative action that is to follow. There is no spatial continuity between shots A through G, and while H through L are spatially related we do not know how they are related to the earlier shots of this sequence.

The dramatic impact of this scene clearly depends on delaying the viewer’s awareness of the spatial distance between David and the object of his affections, but why then does it take so long to set up the sequence with seven shots that tell us nothing in particular about the narrative?

Figures A-H The opening seven shots carry no narrative information, while the remaining shots set up David’s character for the film

The role of the establishing shot

What is going on in these two films? Only shot L in Pleasantville comes close to the definition of an establishing shot, and yet in both sequences we have a series of shots that let the viewer know where we are. While it is certainly a part of the function of these shots (1-5 in Little Caesar, A-G in Pleasantville) to tell the viewer we are here, I think there is also an additional function of orientating the viewer in the narrative chain. These shots carry no narrative information, but they perform an important role in preparing the viewer to expect narrative information. The role these shots play is to alert and orientate the viewer – they say “here is a new sequence, pay attention.” In Little Caesar we also have dialogue to tell us what is going to happen in the rest of the sequence.

These types of preparatory gambits occur in language, and are called prefacing devices. Prefaces comprise a varied class of phenomena in the context of human interaction (gestures, micro-moments of silence, fully formed statements) that occur as prefatory components to bigger things to come (Streeck 1995). The function of a preface is to ‘foreshadow’ or ‘project’ something that comes after them, to bring into play and ‘prepare the scene’ (Sacks, Schegloff, & Jefferson 1974; Schegloff 1984). Prefaces enable others to anticipate intended actions and to respond accordingly, thus synchronizing the understanding of the participants (Goody 1995).

This is, I argue, what is happening in the opening five shots of Little Caesar: we are being prepared to receive narrative information through a combination of shots, titles, and dialogue. In Pleasantville, the opening of the sequence is unnecessarily long: the same effect could have been achieved with fewer shots but the delay of the reveal is also important here. The establishing portion of this sequence not only makes the viewer aware that something is going to happen but also contributes to the narrative effect by heightening the viewer’s expectation of events to come.

Shots such as those in Little Caesar and Pleasantville have a role to play in establishing a sequence but they do not meet the definitions of establishing shots given above. An alternative definition of an establishing shot should include the following components:

• The establishing shot occurs at the beginning of a sequence.
• The establishing shot does not necessarily occur in isolation, and we may find that we are dealing with establishing shots in any particular sequence.
• The establishing shot is non-scalar: it is not limited to long or very long shots, and can be of any focal depth and field of view.
• The establishing shot may set up the overall space of a scene that will subsequently be broken down through analytical editing, but this is neither a necessary not a sufficient requirement to define its role in establishing a sequence.
• The establishing shot serves to orientate the viewer to the flow of the narrative by alerting her to the beginning of a new sequence, but does not itself carry narrative information.

Persson (1998: 24) writes that ‘some cinematic conventions … are not totally arbitrary. They are designed with careful consideration to the socio-psychological makeup of the spectator in order to produce specific effects.’ Establishing shots are not arbitrary and have an important role to play in organising the viewer’s attention so that these specific effects may be achieved in the viewer by the film.

References

Blandford, S., B.K. Grant, and J. Hillier (2001) The Film Studies Dictionary. London: Arnold.

Goody, E.N. (1995) Introduction: some implications of a social origin of intelligence in E.N. Goody (ed.) Social Intelligence and Interaction: Expressions and Implications of the Social Bias in Human Intelligence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Persson, P. (1998) Towards a psychological theory of close-ups: experiencing intimacy and threat, Kinema: A Journal for Film and Audiovisual Media 9: 24-42.

Reisz, K., and G. Millar (1968) The Technique of Film Editing. London: Focal Press.

Sacks, H., E.A. Schegloff, & G. Jefferson (1974) A simplest systematics for the organization of turn-taking for conversation, Language 50 (4): 696-735.

Schegloff, E.A. (1984) On some gestures’ relation to talk, in J.M Atkinson and J. Heritage (eds.) Structures of Social Action. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 266-298.

Streeck, J. (1995) On projection, in E.N. Goody (ed.) Social Intelligence and Interaction: Expressions and Implications of the Social Bias in Human Intelligence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Prefaces comprise a varied class of phenomena in the context of human interaction (gestures, micro-moments of silence, fully formed statements) that occur as prefatory components to bigger things to come (Streeck 1995). The function of a preface is to ‘foreshadow’ or ‘project’ something that comes after them, to bring into play and ‘prepare the scene’ (Sacks, Schegloff, & Jefferson 1974; Schegloff 1984). Prefaces enable others to anticipate intended actions and to respond accordingly, thus synchronizing the understanding of the participants (Goody 1995).

The global film industry in Poland, 2002 to 2007

The cinemas of the former Eastern bloc countries emerged from behind the iron curtain into a globalising film industry. This post looks at the example of feature film production in Poland that originates outside the country, and explores the range of global connections through incoming autonomous films and co-productions. The results show that while a significant number of these films have been produced in Poland, the range of the countries involved in these productions is limited and reflects the traditional dominance of the global film industry by Hollywood and the major European film industries.

The globalisation of the film industry

While the film industry has always been international, Lorenzen (2007, 2008) identifies the shift to a global film industry as the increasing interconnectedness among firms and the places in which they operate leading to greater integration in four areas: (1) filmmaking has moved beyond its traditional European/North American base to become a globally ubiquitous activity; (2) global consumption is replacing more localised forms of film experience for audiences; (3) production has become globalised as producers look for new creative partnerships and as Hollywood productions have been ‘offshored’ and ‘outsourced’ (Vang and Chaminade 2007) to production centres that offer competitive advantages in the form of reduced costs and/or tax incentives; and, (4) the global forms of organisation have emerged with in the shape of ‘media empires’ that are globally owned and globally active (e.g. Sony, Viacom, News Corporation).

One of the main arguments put forward for the globalisation of the film industry is the increase in co-productions, in which the development of a motion picture is funded by companies based in more than one nation, and where production may take place in more than one nation bring together a multinational cast and crew. Such production arrangements mean that no national identity can be assigned to a film as a cultural product, and, that as a consequence of this, film is a global medium in which limiting notions of nationhood are no longer relevant. The mobility of films which cross international borders (see Higson 2000)

One of the problems with discussing globalisation and the cinema is that analysts tend to focus primarily (if not exclusively) on questions of production. Viewed in the simple terms described above, the globalisation of the film industry is a relatively straightforward process that has seen the spread of film production around the world. However, since the 1940s the film industry has been distribution led, and it is distributors who act as the gatekeepers to film markets. Balio (1996: 27) quotes Harold L. Vogel:

Ownership of entertainment distribution capability is like ownership if a toll road or bridge. No matter how good or bad the software product (i.e., movie, record, book, magazine, TV show, or whatever) is, it must pass over or cross through a distribution pipeline in order to reach the consumer. And like any toll or road bridge that cannot be circumvented, the distributor is a local monopolist who can extract a relatively high fee for use of his facility.

This analogy can be extended from the local to the global, and following the merger of media companies to form vertically and horizontally integrated media empires that operate in markets across the world has led to the emergence of global monopolists who cannot be circumvented. The processes of globalisation that have emerged in the film industry have not fundamentally altered the governance of the film industry, which, Coe and Johns (2004) point out, remains concentrated in a limited number of global media empires that are based in a small, select group of cities comprising Los Angeles, New York, London, Paris, and Tokyo. Even among this select group we can identify an imbalance between the dominance of the American cities and the second tier status of the others in the global film industry.

Poland and the global film industry

As a film industry that has had to develop in the context of globalisation following the demise of the centralised Soviet model, Poland is an instructive example of how the film industry has become globalised without fundamentally changing the nature of the film industry.

Polish film policy since 2005

Film policy in Poland was Cinematography Act of 2005, which created the Polish Film Institute and regulated the funding of film production. A principal objective of this act was to enable Poland to be more successful in attracting films to Poland as well as boosting domestic production, which had been slowly declining to 2004. Two key definitions were introduced: autonomous production – in which a production comes into Poland from outside and does not have a Polish counterpart; and, co-productions with a Polish partner. In both cases, producers are required to register as companies in Poland, and all production activity within Poland is subject to Polish law. While co-productions are typically viewed as undermining the national in a global film industry, it is also important to remember that they are promoted as part of national film policy by creating connections in order to bring investment into a country. Since 2007, Poland has also introduced regional production funds to develop production facilities at a more local level. Additionally, Poland is a member of the pan-European production schemes Eurimages and Media 2007, which also promote cross-border co-productions in the European Union. Like many countries, Poland has sought to place itself within the global film industry as a destination for productions. The schemes directed by the Polish Film Institute are intended to increase the level of production in the country by making funding available either through direct subsidies or indirect tax breaks. Although it is a requirement of a co-production agreement that the non-Polish partner cannot claim exclusive distribution rights, there has not been any attempt to address the nature of motion picture distribution. The Polish Film Institute reports an increase in production from 2006 and a part of this has been an increase in the number of co-productions, but this may be seen as largely a process of modernisation whereby policies that have been successful elsewhere have been adopted (Poland’s film policy is now very similar to that of the UK and many other European countries) and have had the impact of raising production levels relative to the recent past without fundamentally transforming Poland’s position in the global film industry.

Connecting Poland to the global film industry

Data was collected from the Internet Movie Database (www.imdb.com) by searching for productions shot in Poland and that were either incoming productions with no local production partner (autonomous productions) or productions which did have such a partner (co-productions). Only feature-length fiction films are included in the sample. Where a film has connections to more than one country (e.g. there is more than one co-producing partner), then it counts once for each country, and so the total number of connections exceeds to total number of productions. A limitation of this data is that it is only able numerate the number of connections between industries, and is not able to give an estimate of the value of these connections by looking at the amount of production spend in Poland of each film.

Data was collected for a total of 52 films produced in Poland from 2002 to 2007 inclusive, of which 30 are co-productions or and 22 are autonomous films. The results are presented in Table 1 and Figure 1.

TABLE 1 Co-productions and autonomous productions to shoot in Poland, 2002-2007

FIGURE 1 Poland in the global film industry, 2002-2007

KEY: AT – Austria; AU – Australia; CA – Canada; CH – Switzerland; CZ – Czech Republic; DE – Germany; ES – Spain; FR – France; IL – Israel; IN – India; IT – Italy; LU – Luxembourg; NL – Netherlands; PL – Poland; RU – Russia; SK – Slovakia; SW – Sweden; UK – United Kingdom; US – United States

The films in the sample have between them a total 72 connections, with co-productions accounting for approximately 60% of these. Although these films connect the Polish film industry to those of nineteen other countries, the range of countries is limited. Fourteen are European countries, and only and Russia and Switzerland are not members of the European Union. These fourteen countries account for 52 connections in total, and of these 34 are from just three countries: France, the United Kingdom, and – most importantly – Germany. Beyond Europe three countries have only a single connection to Poland, while Canada has four and the United States has thirteen of the twenty non-European connections. Only the US and Germany have connections that reach into double figures, and only France and the UK have connections that also number more than five. With more than a quarter of the total, it is clear that Germany is Poland’s most significant co-producing partner and is also an important source of incoming productions. The global reach of film production is, then, somewhat limited to Poland’s immediate neighbours and North America. Although the Polish Film Institute has reported an upsurge in feature film production since 2005, Poland has not become a production hub in the global film industry. It has been a source of locations for films and for co-productions in the immediate area. Beyond the major film producing countries with which it is connected (Germany, the US, France, the UK), the connections tend to one-off events with no sustained relationship.

The results of this brief survey are nothing surprising. Poland finds itself like many countries competing to attract mobile productions in a global film industry and has adopted measures similar to those elsewhere (subsidies, tax breaks, regional production funds). Its relationship to other film industries is determined primarily by the continued domination of the US and (albeit on a smaller scale) if Western Europe. As production costs rise in Poland, or as new territories that are able to offer even cheaper production facilities whilst maintaining production standards, Poland’s number of connections will decrease as productions move elsewhere.

Overall, the global film industry is a lot less globalised than we are led to believe, and while filmmaking may now be a ‘globally ubiquitous activity’ the connections between productions in different parts of the world are essentially limited.

References

Balio, T. (1996) Adjusting to the new global economy: Hollywood in the 1990s, in A. Moran (ed.) Film Policy: International, National, and Regional Perspectives. London: Routledge: 23-38.

Coe, N.M., and Johns, J. (2004) Beyond production clusters: towards a critical political economy of networks in the film and television industries, in D. Power and A.J. Scott (eds) The Cultural Industries and the Production of Culture. London: Routledge: 188-204.

Higson, A. (2000) The limiting imagination of national cinema, in M. Hjort and S. MacKenzie (eds.) Cinema and Nation. London: Routledge: 63-74.

Lorenzen, M. (2007) Internationalization vs. globalisation of the film industry, Industry and Innovation 14 (4): 349-357.

Lorenzen, M. (2008) Creativity at Work: On the Globalisation of the Film Industry, Creative Encounters Working Papers 8.

Vang, J., and Chaminade, C. (2007) Global-local linkages, spillovers, and cultural clusters: theoretical and empirical insights from an exploratory study of Toronto’s film cluster, Industry and Innovation 14 (4): 401-420.

The empirical analysis of film style

The analysis of film style by empirical means – i.e. the use of statistics – is an important part of film studies. It is also an important part of other disciplines – information management, research on emotion, advertising, computational media aesthetics – and this tends to be overlooked by film scholars. This week’s post includes a range of references to the analysis of film style – and most of these can be accessed for free on the internet.

References to books may only be available through Google Books, in which case the previews available may be limited. As a general rule, I have not included film studies texts that refer to statistics of film style unless they deal in some way with methods of analysis. If a piece is available online but only through a subscription service I have not included a link. The links were correct as of the date of posting, but if anyone finds a broken link let me know.

This list is by no means exhaustive, but it does give a range of papers that bring new approaches to film studies in areas that have not really been explored and which can enable film scholars to link together different fields: just how does the fast cutting of adverts have an emotional impact on consumers? How do we define genres in terms of their quantitative features rather than the qualitative?

Adams B 2003 Where does computational media aesthetics fit? IEEE Multmiedia 10 (3): 18-27.

Adams B, Dorai C, and Venkatesh S 2002 Formulating film tempo: the computational media aesthetics methodology in practice, in C Dorai and S Venkatesh (eds) Media Computing: Computational Media Aesthetics. Norwell, MA: Kluwer Academic Publishers: 57-79.

Adams B, Dorai C, and Venkatesh S 2000 Role of shot length in characterizing tempo and dramatic story sections in motion pictures, IEEE Pacific Rim Conference on Multimedia, 13-15 December 2000, Sydney, Australia: 54–57.

Adams B, Dorai C, and Venkatesh S 2000 Study of shot length and motion as contributing factors to movie tempo, 8^th ACM International Conference on Multimedia, 30 October – 3 November 2000, Los Angeles, CA: 353–355.

Adams B, Dorai C, and Venkatesh S 2002 Finding the beat: an analysis of the rhythmic elements of motion pictures, The 5th Asian Conference on Computer Vision, 23-25 January 2002, Melbourne, Australia.

Bordwell D and Thompson K 1985 Toward a scientific film history? Quarterly Review of Film Studies 10 (3): 224–237.

Brandt M 1994 Traditional film editing vs. electronic nonlinear film editing: a comparison of feature films, Nonlinear. NB: There’s no description of the statistical tests used in this study even though it states that the results are statistically significant. As no value for α is given, it is hard to judge what ’statistically significant’ means in this context.

Buckland W 2008 What does the statistical style analysis of film involve? Literary and Linguistic Computing 23 (2): 219-230. NB: This is a review of Barry Salt’s Moving into Pictures (see below), and contains an error (confusing the correlation coefficient for the coefficient of determination) that is not in Salt’s book.

Dorai C and Venkatesh S 2001 Computational media aesthetics: finding meaning beautiful, IEEE Multimedia 8 (4): 10-12.

Dorai C and Venkatesh S 2002 Bridging the semantic gap in content management systems – computational media aesthetics, in C Dorai and S Venkatesh (eds) Media Computing: Computational Media Aesthetics. Norwell, MA: Kluwer Academic Publishers: 1-9.

Elsaesser T and Buckland W 2002 Studying Contemporary American Film: A Guide to Movie Analysis. London: Arnold. NB: The chapter on the statistical analysis of film style is available at the cinemetrics website here.

Fishcer S, Leinhart R, and Effelsberg W 1995 Automatic recognition of film genres, Proceedings of the 3^rd ACM Multimedia Conference, 9-5 November 1995, San Francisco, CA: 295-304.

Fujita K 1989 Shot length distrbutions in educational TV programmes, Bulletin of the National Institute of Multimedia Education 2: 107-116. This paper can be accessed here by clicking on ‘CiNii Fulltext PDF.’

Fujita K 1992 Shot length distrbutions in educational TV programmes and their characteristics, in H Motoaki, J Misumi, and B Wilpert (eds) Social, Educational, and Clinical Psychology. Proceedings of the 22^nd International Congress of Applied Psychology, 22-27 July 1990, Kyoto, Japan: 192. NB: This appears to be a summary of the above paper.

Hanjalic A 2004 Content-based Analysis of Digital Video. Norweel, MA: Kluwer Academic Publishers.

Huang H-Y, Shih W-S, and Hsu W-H 2007 A movie classifier based on visual features, in WG Kropatsch, M Kampel, and A Hanbury (eds) Computer Analysis of Images and Patterns. Proceedings of the 12th International Conference on Computer Analysis of Images and Patterns, 27-29 August 2007, Vienna, Austria: 937-944.

Huang H-Y, Shih W-S, and Hsu W-H 2008 A film classifier based on low-level visual features, Journal of Multimedia 3 (3): 26-33.

Kang H-B 2003 Affective content detection using HMMs, Proceedings of the eleventh ACM International Conference on Multimedia 2-8 November 2003, Berkeley, CA: 259-262.

Kang H-B 2003 Emotional event detection using relevance feedback, Proceedings of the International Conference on Image Processing,  14-18 September 2003, Barcelona, Spain: 721-724.

Kang H-B 2003 Affective contents retrieval from video with relevance feedback, in TMT Sembok, HB Zaman, H Chen, S Urs, and SH Myaeng (eds) Digital Libraries: Technology and Management of Indigenous Knowledge for Global Access. Proceedings of the 6th International Conference on Asian Digital Libraries, 8-12 December 2003, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia: 243-252.

Maclachlan J and Logan M 1993 Camera shot length in commercials and their memorability and presuasiveness, Journal of Advertising Research 33 (2): 57-61.

Mittal A, Fah CL, Kassim A, and Pagalthivarthi KV Context-based interpretation and indexing of video data, in U Srinivasan and S Nepal (eds) Managing Multimedia Semantics. Hershey, PA: IRM Press: 77-98.

Nack F 2002 The future of media computing, in C Dorai and S Venkatesh (eds) Media Computing: Computational Media Aesthetics. Norwell, MA: Kluwer Academic Publishers: 159-186.

Nothelfer CE, DeLong JE, and Cutting, JE 2009 Shot structure in Hollywood film, Indiana Undergraduate Journal of Cognitive Science 4: 103-113.

Romatowska A 2004 Pickpocket: A statistical analysis, Offscreen 8 (4).

Rosenbaum J 2000 Is Ozu slow? Senses of Cinema 4.

Salt B 1974 Statistical style analysis of motion pictures, Film Quarterly 28 (1): 13-22.

Salt B 1992 Film Style and Technology: History and Analysis, second edition. London: Starwood.

Salt B 2001 Practical film theory and its application to TV series dramas, Journal of Media Practice 2 (2): 98-113.

Salt B 2006 Moving into Pictures: More on Film History, Style, and Analysis. Starwood, London.

Schaefer R 1997 Editing strategies in television news documentaries, Journal of Communication 47(4): 69-88.

Taskiran CM and Delp EJ 2002 A study on the distribution of shot lengths for video analysis, SPIE Conference on Storage and Retrieval for Media Databases, 20-25 January 2002, San Jose, CA.

Tian Q and Zhang H-J 1999 Video shot detection and analysis: content-based approaches, in CW Chen, Y-Q Zhang (eds) Visual Information Representation, Communication, and Image Processing. New York: Marcel Dekker, Inc: 227-254.

Tiemans R 2004 A content analysis of political speeches on television, in KI Smith, K Kenny, S Moriarty,  and G Barbatsis (eds) Handbook of Visual Communication: Theory, Methods, and Media. New York: Routledge: 385-404.

Totaro D 2004 Reflections on the Pickpocket statistical analysis, Offscreen 8 (4).

Truong BT and Venkatesh S 2005 Finding the optimal temporal partitioning of video sequences, Proceedings of IEEE International Conference on Multimedia and Expo, 6-9 July 2005, Amsterdam, Netherlands: 1182-1185.

Tsivian Y 2008 What is cinema? An agnostic answer, Critical Inquiry 34 (4): 754-776.

Vasconcelos N and Lippman A 2000 Statistical models of video structure for content analysis and characterization, IEEE Transactions on Image Processing 9 (1): 3–19.

Young C 2007 Fast editing speed and commercial performance, Admap 483: 30-33.

Young C 2007 Fast-working advertising, Admap 484: 32-34.

The impact of sound on film style

This post is the last of three draft papers that apply statistical analysis to questions of film style. This I focus on the impact of sound technology on shot length distributions by examining the change in the median shot length and the interquartile range. You can access the pdf here: Nick Redfern – The impact of sound technology on Hollywood film style, and the abstract is presented below.

Quantitative analyses of the impact of sound technology on shot lengths in Hollywood cinema have claimed that, with the coming of sound, the mean shot length increased from ~5s to ~11s, and that this indicates a major change in film style as cutting rates slowed. However, the mean shot length is not a robust statistic of film style due to the positive skew of the data and the presence of outlying data points in shot length distributions. The median shot length is shown to be a more robust statistic unaffected by shape of shot length distributions, and the impact of sound technology on Hollywood is analysed through looking at the median shot lengths of silent films produced between 1920 and 1928 (n = 20, median = 4.4s [95.86% CI: 3.7, 5.1]) and sound films produced from 1929 to 1931 (n = 30, median = 6.9s [95.72% CI: 5.9, 8.7]). The results show that there is an increase in shot lengths in the early sound era (Mann-Whitney U = 32.5, P = <0.0001, PS = 0.0542), but that this change is much less than that described by studies using the mean shot length (HLΔ = 2.9s [95% CI: 1.8, 4.1]). Looking at the interquartile ranges of the silent films (median = 4.8s [95.86% CI: 4.3, 5.7]) and the sound films (median = 10.7s [95.72% CI: 8.8, 12.1]), we see that there is an increase by HLΔ = 5.6 seconds (95% CI: 4.1, 7.1), indicating that shot lengths in sound films show greater variation than those of the silent era (Mann-Whitney U = 4, P = <0.0001, PS = 0.0067).

As before, I’ll leave this up for a while before submitting it to a journal (if I can find one), so feel free to comment.