Ecstasy and Art

What, exactly, could possess someone to start a blog like this? What compels me to share my thoughts about film and art in this small corner of the massive cyberspace universe? Well, I suppose the best and simplest answer (perhaps, too, the expected answer) is "passion." These writings are the product of genuine passion and admiration for what so many great artists have accomplished (What was it Susan Sontag said in "Against Interpretation?" "But it should be noted that interpretation is not simply the compliment that mediocrity pays to genius. It is, indeed, the modern way of understanding." Let us hope my own interpretations aren’t those of the formulaic nature Ms. Sontag disliked, but do, indeed, consider these posts the compliment mediocrity pays to genius). So, I figured it would be a nice introduction to share with you two of those moments in cinema that have truly left a mark on me, those moments that have ingrained themselves into my very being. These types of moments have been the subject of discussion on various other blogs worth reading. Some time ago over at scanners (http://blogs.suntimes.com/scanners/) Jim Emerson expressed his admiration for several accounts of cinephilia by David Bordwell and Roger Ebert and discussed these accounts in relation to Werner Herzog’s concept of "ecstatic truth." But I think in my case it would be more accurate to classify these moments simply as moments of "cinematic ecstasy." So, what films—more precisely, what moments—are responsible for demonstrating the power of this medium to me? The final shots of Fellini’s Amarcord certainly constitute a scene of cinematic ecstasy. Amarcord, as seems to be the case with all the films I hold in the highest regard, is really a memory. It is Fellini’s memory of his hometown, Rimini, and thus, there is no single protagonist, but rather, a collective protagonist: all of the individuals of the town. We come to know many of them through the film’s running time; we live one whole year with them. The film ends with the wedding of Gradisca, who, at the movie’s start, is Rimini’s most eligible and desirable bachelorette. Thus, the wedding makes real the fact that she is not attainable, something the youth of the film had disregarded in their fantasies about her. She will no longer be the subject of their lust and desire. There is a loss of innocence and youth in her marriage (this reversal, lust as a form of innocence, is not uncommon in Fellini's world). The ending is particularly memorable because of the way Fellini chooses to capture it. He shoots the wedding as it dies down and the crowd dissipates using extreme long shots. These long shots reinforce the "communal" aspect of the film; no one individual is made the subject of the shot. Instead, we are asked to focus on the group, and the specific changes this group undergoes. In this case, that "change" is the shrinking of the group. As Fellini’s camera lingers at a distance, different characters drift off the frame, lost to time and memory. Slowly, the movie is drained of the life and lives that have filled it, and they become ghosts in our mind. And it’s clear, at the time he made Amarcord, Fellini was haunted by Rimini. Another scene of cinematic ecstasy occurs in Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love. Really, any moment of this film produces an ecstatic feeling from me. This is a movie that emanates passion and melancholy, and these feelings seep into you as you watch it. The most striking scene, though, is when our protagonists (who are neighbors, each married) meet at a restaurant. The opening shot of the scene is actually of the empty space between them, just above the table. The only perceptible movement in the shot is the slight twirl of a fragile puff of cigarette smoke. Everything in Wong’s universe is this delicate. Throughout the course of the protagonists’ conversation, they reveal that they know their respective spouses are having an affair with one another. It is a crushing blow. At one point, instead of cutting back and forth between the pair (played by the incomparable Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung), Wong chooses to quickly shift the camera’s view back and forth as they speak. This reveals a genuine connection between the two, albeit an incredibly anxious, nervous, and desperate connection. Finally, when the truth is spoken and no longer exists as only a thought, Wong uses a shot that actually starts behind Tony Leung’s head and quickly and violently pans to bring him into frame. It’s as though speaking the truth has crushed him from behind. Never has a camera movement felt more right to me. The sequence ends with a shot of the two walking down an empty alleyway in Wong’s ubiquitous slow-motion. They are together, side by side, but not touching. It’s also worth noting that this entire sequence is set to Nat King Cole’s voice, crooning in Spanish. A more perfect soundtrack has never been conceived or implemented. This scene in In the Mood for Love represents a pure, formal triumph in my eyes. Filmmaking has never felt so assured and intuitive to me. There are many more that I could list. And I’m discovering them everyday. To me, these moments are what "art" is about, because these moments are really what "life" is about.