Movies and Assumptions

I am currently taking a film class at Scripps, which focuses on a few classic directors from the fourties and fifties, among them Orson Welles. I went into the showing of his first movie, Citizen Kane, fully expecting it to bore me, so I was pleasantly surprised to find the film quite engaging and enjoyable. I went into the next film, The Lady from Shanghai, expecting to enjoy at just as much—and I absolutely hated the film.

Judging by the general fidgeting, confused looks, and whispered sarcasm of my fellow movie-watchers, I was not alone in my opinion, though I am sure the film has its champions. Nevertheless, it got me started thinking about the linguistics of film.

Granted, I may not be the best qualified person to discuss movies, as I watch so few of them. For those of you who have not noticed, I am a rather fidgety person. I find sitting still for two hours rather difficult, especially in theaters, which tend to be dark for knitting or similar occupations. A film has to really capture my attention, or I tend to wander off—sometimes literally.

For those who have not seen The Lady from Shanghai, the best adjective I can think of to describe it is “confusing.” A great deal of very strange things happen, with seemingly no rhyme or reason. I kept expecting for someone to explain, or for there to be clues to help me put it all together, and there never were.

If I invest the time and effort required to actually sit down and follow a movie, I expect to get something back. I, perhaps foolishly, expect the filmmaker to abide by what Jonathan Culler called “the cooperative principal*” and actively attempt to communicate with me. I do understand that a movie is not a true dialogue; I cannot talk back, so I am willing to give the filmmaker (or in the case of a book an author) a great deal of latitude.

While no sane human being world tolerate a conversation with Faulkner (or at least someone who spoke like Faulkner writes) for any length of time, many, myself included, will read his books. I am willing to assume that all of the nonsense, vagaries, weirdness, and digressions that seem to flout normal rules of communication are not there solely to infuriate me, but have some larger communicative purpose. The author is trying to tell me something. I am willing to work at it—so long as I believe it is there.

I do not mean that every movie needs to have some sort of Disneyesque “message” complete with a neat little moral at the end that can be summarized in a couplet, nor do they have to be particularly plot driven. Consider, for example, Blade Runner. I love the film, and I have seen it at least three times, but I still couldn’t tell you exactly what happened, except that Harrison Ford is hunting down some cyborgs. I can’t even give you name the name of a main character—because that is not really what the film is about. The attempt at plot and characterization seem like trappings. The film is about the darkly beautiful cyberpunk cityscape, one of the most breathtaking settings movie magic has ever created.

One could argue that The Lady from Shanghai had a similar purpose. It also has a lot of visually striking scenes, including a famous sequence in a mirror house that is quite long and involved, and admittedly quite impressive. I still hated it.

I have been wondering ever since I made the connection to Blade Runner why I responded to two similar films so differently. I can not quite put my finger on it, but I think it helps to interpret my response in the context of a few of our readings.

The first is Stanley Fish’s remarks about interpretive communities. I certainly believe Fish when he claims that we cannot approach any text as a blank slate; we come at it with certain assumptions pre-made. Maybe part of my problem is that I watched Blade Runner expecting a science fiction film, and that is exactly what I got. I am predisposed to value interesting settings or costuming or props in that sort of movie, because I understand that it is part of the purpose of the film—to dazzle me with movie magic. Blade Runner certainly succeeds on that front.

On the other hand, I went into The Lady from Shanghai fully expecting to interpret it in the same way as Citizen Kane, which was not helpful. They are extremely different films, and they demand a different viewpoint. Trying to read Shanghai like Kane, i.e. expecting it to be tightly plotted, probably only caused me more confusion.

Maybe the larger issue, though, is that I am a structuralist at heart. Like Vladimir Propp with his elaborate dissections of folk-tales, I have a certain map in my head as to how a murder mystery should go—and if The Lady from Shanghai is not a murder mystery, it does an awfully good job of pretending that it is. It has all of the signifiers of a murder mystery—a pretty woman, a dastardly plot, romance, a web of intense motivations, a murder, and even a trial, complete with a clever defense lawyer. I cannot help but think that the signified is a film noir mystery, and that as a consequence at the end someone will explain everything. They never do. It is absolutely infuriating! Darn those arbitrary signifiers that can mean different things!

Blade Runner, on the other hand, opens up with some Star Wars-esque scrolling text about evil robots, there is a long and lovely shot of the future LA, complete with flying cars, and then we see Harrison Ford being told he needs to hunt down some evil robots. In the first few minutes, then, I learn that the movie is about awesome shots of Harrison Ford chasing evil robots through a very interesting set. The plot from there is convoluted, difficult to follow, and full of unnecessary snakes, but in the end, I get to see Harrison Ford confront the evil robot leader, exactly what I expected. (They turn out not to be so evil after all, but I was expecting that too).

There is something inherently satisfying about seeing something conform to the structure that I have come to expect, and I enjoy it. Perhaps that makes me a terrible academic, but I am not ashamed.