Relieved of the duty to follow plot and dialogue as I watched the first film of this course, my mind was left to wondering just what Joseph Cornell was trying to convey through a film like Rose Hobart. Initially, I decided that his disruption of the narrative order was supposed to undermine cinematic tradition by revealing the flimsiness and secret subjectivity of the narrative structure, but this seemed a pretty frivolous point. I mean, I could probably turn a romance novel into a spy-fi simply by rearranging the words, but demonstrating that a text is simply a sequence of signs doesn’t devalue the chosen sequence.
In spite of, or because of, my daydreaming as an avant-garde novelist, I secondly decided that Cornell was trying to uncritically reproduce the subconscious on screen, emulating our desultory, aphonic dreams and memories in hope of communicating with us on a purely subliminal level. Such escapism seems to be Cornell’s more likely intention – he’d have chosen a better-loved film than East of bloody Borneo if it was polemical subversion. At any rate, I proved immune to his method, my consciousness staying more or less on the forefront of my mind throughout.
I suggest a few reasons why I failed to fall into the intended trance. Firstly, there was the colour filter. Drenching the film in a purple hue no doubt creates a nocturnal effect that connotes dreaming, but this is only due to audiences recognising it as a cue they’ve learnt from more conventional films. In my case – which is relatively inexperienced with black and white movies – the result was starkly reminiscent of carbon copy paper. Either way, this reminder of the film’s artifice seems at odds with its oneiric intentions: I’m less inclined to slip into a dream when I’m constantly reminded that it isn’t real. The same goes for the slowed projector speed, which might evoke drowsiness if our critical impulses weren’t stimulated by its obvious reference to the silent era; and for the alert to our own spectatorship that introduces the film by deliberately trying to arouse self-consciousness.
In spite of, or because of, my daydreaming as an avant-garde novelist, I secondly decided that Cornell was trying to uncritically reproduce the subconscious on screen, emulating our desultory, aphonic dreams and memories in hope of communicating with us on a purely subliminal level. Such escapism seems to be Cornell’s more likely intention – he’d have chosen a better-loved film than East of bloody Borneo if it was polemical subversion. At any rate, I proved immune to his method, my consciousness staying more or less on the forefront of my mind throughout.
I suggest a few reasons why I failed to fall into the intended trance. Firstly, there was the colour filter. Drenching the film in a purple hue no doubt creates a nocturnal effect that connotes dreaming, but this is only due to audiences recognising it as a cue they’ve learnt from more conventional films. In my case – which is relatively inexperienced with black and white movies – the result was starkly reminiscent of carbon copy paper. Either way, this reminder of the film’s artifice seems at odds with its oneiric intentions: I’m less inclined to slip into a dream when I’m constantly reminded that it isn’t real. The same goes for the slowed projector speed, which might evoke drowsiness if our critical impulses weren’t stimulated by its obvious reference to the silent era; and for the alert to our own spectatorship that introduces the film by deliberately trying to arouse self-consciousness.
There’s something similar to be said about the kitschy music. It was clever of Cornell to play it across scene changes, smoothing out cuts and levelling the structure of the film; but the incongruity of the sunny sound and moony picture didn’t help lull me into relaxing my grip on convention or expectation of narrative (as discussed in class). Again, it had the opposite effect, this contrast startling me awake rather than immersing me. If Rose had been composed a few decades later some cool jazz might have been more in keeping with its bluesy aesthetic and given it a more seductive cohesion. In particular, some modal John Coltrane or the wacky time signature in Brubeck’s Take Five would do this while still eschewing convention (but my ultimately bad taste would probably choose Purple Haze just for its title’s articulation of the colour scheme and the fun that could be had in timing “scuse me while I kiss the sky” with that eclipse).
Having said all that, I truly enjoyed Rose Hobart for its devotion to a singular theme. It’s a moving portrait of an enigma, a Mona Lisa in motion. And although it failed to bridge the gap between its artefact and my subconscious, I accept that that could just be me (a stage hypnotist once returned me to my seat for not “surrendering” myself). Otherwise why would Dali have accused Cornell of stealing his dreams?
Having said all that, I truly enjoyed Rose Hobart for its devotion to a singular theme. It’s a moving portrait of an enigma, a Mona Lisa in motion. And although it failed to bridge the gap between its artefact and my subconscious, I accept that that could just be me (a stage hypnotist once returned me to my seat for not “surrendering” myself). Otherwise why would Dali have accused Cornell of stealing his dreams?
Hey Chris,
Great post, loved your pithy little lines like "a moving portrait of an enigma, a Mona Lisa in motion". Very elegant writing. I also didn't find myself lulled into a dream-like state, but I interpreted that to be Cornell's point. It seemed to me that he wanted his viewers to be hyper-sensitive to their spectatorship, unhinged as we are from narrative contours and flows. So for me the music, for instance, was intended not to smooth out scene changes but to refuse the viewer any trance-like respite. I perceived a deliberate and meaningful incongruence in the music. I guess I thought the point of RH was exactly that my "consciousness" would stay "more or less on the forefront of my mind throughout" as you put it.
Alix
alix
May 6, 2009 at 7:32 PM