Vernon, Florida may have been the most intriguing film we have watched up to this point in the semester. In many ways, it is also my favorite of the films we have seen. Not long, but just long enough to keep my interest while at times stretching my patience, I found the film particularly enjoyable. Morris has a way of finding characters that are simply good on film. Whether it is their strange way of thinking, habits, or philosophy, when he puts someone in front of the camera interesting things seem to emerge.
The sequences featuring the old man with the a metal box full of various live animals (well a tortoise and a possum to be sure anyway) to me may have been the most interesting moments of cinema verite that I have ever witnessed. Whether the shots were set up (particularly the second with the possum) is impossible to know, but one simply sits amazed at what they are seeing taking place onscreen. Tears rolled down my cheeks in laughter during the in-class screening. Yes, it was funny - but it was so incredibly odd that I simply didn’t know how to react and exploded into fits of laughter.
That Morris captures these things says something about his knack for finding stories where others may simply drive on through. Anyone can take a camera to a small town and start interviewing people. In most cases I’d even venture to guess that people would have some strange and intriguing stories. But a jar full of sand that grows?? A man who lives in a pink trailer and is so obsessed with turkey hunting that he seems in need of some sort of professional rehabilitation? There is something special about who Morris finds and what he chooses to feature in his films.
The lack of narration, and an overall feeling of disjointedness seems to only add to the film as a whole. Vernon, itself seems to be represented in the way way in which Morris captures his subject. Shots are long, things seem lonely and quiet. Strange choices in editing and shot length (i.e. the extremely long opening short of a truck driving down the road) allude to the strangeness Morris seems to identify in the town’s more interesting characters. Some subjects are featured at great length (the turkey hunter), while others are given minimal amounts of screen time (the growing sand lady).
In thinking back on the film I wonder why Morris chooses to feature the turkey hunter so prominently. Is he trying to convey a message about obsession? About hunting? Or simply about the strangeness of individual personalities? Perhaps Morris chooses his characters and situations knowing that multiple themes will emerge in his audiences’ minds. Rather than define what we are supposed to think about these strange characters, Morris lets us decide by simply observing. It’s something we do every day, observe and judge people. Yet by placing it in the context of a documentary film, Morris forces the audience to think about why they are thinking what they are thinking without quickly moving on. We are presented with a turkey hunter simply walking along clucking for large periods of time. Perhaps that is the time the filmmaker is affording us to figure out what we make of all this. What does it mean? Ultimately, some audience members will surely get bored and start thinking about things that are more pressing personally. But there may be those who do start to take a deeper look. Those who want to learn more about humanity and how people work. I think it’s these folks attention that Morris is truly after in making a film like Vernon, Florida.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Knee Deep
I recently saw the last 2/3rds of this film (check out the website here) as I was flipping through the channels and it came up on Independent Lens on PBS. I decided to give it a minute or two before flipping back to NHL Network and I was drawn in pretty quickly - largely due to the interesting look at life on a dairy farm. I started watching during a sequence in which a young boy was followed as he did his chores on the farm, and was amazed at how much he had to do and how seriously he took his job.
The film centers around the story of a dispute over a family dairy farm in Maine, culminating with a son who felt betrayed (or his girlfriend.. there is some question as to who the real culprit is) who ultimately shoots, yet doesn't kill, his mother.
I really liked the way this film was shot, and I particularly like how it was constructed. While it deals with a serious subject matter, the story takes so many twists and turns that the directors ultimately decide to give what might be described as an overall air of whimsy to the final piece, largely through the music used.
I'd definitely recommend Knee Deep - it was a fun watch.
Monday, October 26, 2009
The Thin Blue Line
Errol Morris demands patience in his audience. There is, however, clearly much more to The Thin Blue Line than the idea that “good things come to those who wait.” I had started watching or seen parts of the film probably five or six times before actually sitting down to watch the entire piece. Once I fell asleep, once something else came up, once I think I just was not in the mood and got bored. Yet I kept coming back to the film for some reason (I already knew the story of what happens), feeling compelled to watch the documentary from start to finish. I was glad to have it screened in class.
What seems to work so well, and what also seems to require the most patience from the audience, is the way in which Morris interviews his subjects. They are allowed to slowly ramble towards a statement that might provide the most interest or insight. Neither Randall Adams or David Harris starts out with much interesting to say. They do provide exposition for the story in that they explain their version of the facts of what happened leading up to the shooting of a Dallas Police officer. Yet as the story progresses their statements seem to become more vague, leaving the audience to wonder where the story will go.
To provide some direction and answers Morris introduces a host of experts on the case. Investigating officers, detectives, attorneys, and the judge in the case are all interviewed, and provide fairly straightforward accounts of what they believe happened. Initially, all of these sources seem credible, and while their on screen testimony may not match with that of Adams or Harris, they are positioned in the outset of the film as authority figures. Neither Adams nor Harris appear to be particularly trustworthy or believable compared to many of the other people involved in the case. They are both seen in prison garb, Adams clearly being held in a penitentiary or jail, Harris in front of a strange, colorful background that fails to hide the fact he is wearing bright orange.
Morris seems to know exactly when the audience is at the point of simply saying “OK, I get it.” These points occur several times throughout the film, and are immediately followed by an interview, piece of evidence, or testimony that completely turns things upside down for the viewer. To construct the narrative of the film in such a way that resonates so strongly with so many people is certainly not easy. It doesn’t feel like the classic double or triple-cross used in thrillers and mysteries, however (although the reenactments, music, and tone displayed in the film often allude to these genres). Morris manages to create a sense of doubt throughout the piece that never really goes away for the viewer. Even when all of the facts seem to point to only one answer, there is a lingering doubt in the viewers mind as to what they can truly believe.
As many effective documentaries do, The Thin Blue Line keeps you thinking throughout the entire film. There is no time to relax, no time to escape, no time to turn off the brain and be entertained or simply led through a narrative. Morris imparts so much meaning in every scene of the film that nothing less then full intellectual involvement from viewers will result in a worthwhile cinema experience. Perhaps this is why I had such trouble completing the film before seeing it from start to finish in class last week; there was always something else on my mind, and I could never give my full attention to what I was watching and listening to.
I found The Thin Blue Line to be particularly difficult to write about and respond to without simply outlining the plot structure. I am not quite sure why this is. I do not know if the film is so perfect that I have nothing to say about it, or if it is so demanding of the viewer that whatever I say will not live up to the ideas about the U.S. judicial system and the ultimate power of documentary that it displays.
What seems to work so well, and what also seems to require the most patience from the audience, is the way in which Morris interviews his subjects. They are allowed to slowly ramble towards a statement that might provide the most interest or insight. Neither Randall Adams or David Harris starts out with much interesting to say. They do provide exposition for the story in that they explain their version of the facts of what happened leading up to the shooting of a Dallas Police officer. Yet as the story progresses their statements seem to become more vague, leaving the audience to wonder where the story will go.
To provide some direction and answers Morris introduces a host of experts on the case. Investigating officers, detectives, attorneys, and the judge in the case are all interviewed, and provide fairly straightforward accounts of what they believe happened. Initially, all of these sources seem credible, and while their on screen testimony may not match with that of Adams or Harris, they are positioned in the outset of the film as authority figures. Neither Adams nor Harris appear to be particularly trustworthy or believable compared to many of the other people involved in the case. They are both seen in prison garb, Adams clearly being held in a penitentiary or jail, Harris in front of a strange, colorful background that fails to hide the fact he is wearing bright orange.
Morris seems to know exactly when the audience is at the point of simply saying “OK, I get it.” These points occur several times throughout the film, and are immediately followed by an interview, piece of evidence, or testimony that completely turns things upside down for the viewer. To construct the narrative of the film in such a way that resonates so strongly with so many people is certainly not easy. It doesn’t feel like the classic double or triple-cross used in thrillers and mysteries, however (although the reenactments, music, and tone displayed in the film often allude to these genres). Morris manages to create a sense of doubt throughout the piece that never really goes away for the viewer. Even when all of the facts seem to point to only one answer, there is a lingering doubt in the viewers mind as to what they can truly believe.
As many effective documentaries do, The Thin Blue Line keeps you thinking throughout the entire film. There is no time to relax, no time to escape, no time to turn off the brain and be entertained or simply led through a narrative. Morris imparts so much meaning in every scene of the film that nothing less then full intellectual involvement from viewers will result in a worthwhile cinema experience. Perhaps this is why I had such trouble completing the film before seeing it from start to finish in class last week; there was always something else on my mind, and I could never give my full attention to what I was watching and listening to.
I found The Thin Blue Line to be particularly difficult to write about and respond to without simply outlining the plot structure. I am not quite sure why this is. I do not know if the film is so perfect that I have nothing to say about it, or if it is so demanding of the viewer that whatever I say will not live up to the ideas about the U.S. judicial system and the ultimate power of documentary that it displays.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Murderball
I really liked Murderball. I also enjoyed watching Dogtown and Z-Boys and Touching the Void. So when I read Ian McDonald’s article (Available here: files.me.com/tylerjhicks/ldqasx), Situating the Sport Documentary, for the first time, I had a hard time understanding his argument. Intriguing stories, interesting characters, and narrative-style construction are watchable and entertaining, as the growing audiences for documentaries in the post “Michael Moore moment” have shown. More people are experiencing a type of film they may not have had as much exposure to, something I view as a generally “good” thing. It was not until I read through McDonald’s piece carefully for a second time that I realized what he was actually getting at in the third section of his article.
McDonald argues that documentary (specifically sport documentary) has moved into a phase in which narrative, fiction-style storytelling is often lauded over films that are more careful to focus on the context in which their subject is taking place, both politically and societally. It is not so much that one style is “better” than another as it is that the pre-Moore era films McDonald addresses focus on larger issues of concern than do the micro-focused human interest stories often told in post-Moore era sport documentary.
These concepts and McDonald’s argument definitely informed my viewing and reaction to Murderball as I continued to think about the film well after having seen it. McDonald classifies the film as a participatory documentary, and this is certainly evident throughout. From the “line up” shots of each different country’s team near the beginning of the film to the presence of the camera in the school and at the performance of Joe Soares’ son, it is clear the director of the film is carefully composing shots and controlling the environment in many parts of the film.
Murderball has an overwhelmingly strong narrative pattern, similar to those often seen in fiction films. The audience meets the characters, we meet the protagonist/s (largely seen here as Zupan and his teammates), the antagonist (Soares, although it could be argued that these roles are reversible depending on how you view the film), and are set up with a clear problem which eventually results in a climax (the Athens Paralympic Games) and resolution (a star is made of Zupan, Soares begins to learn what is truly important in his life). It’s a tremendous story; one that grabs the audience from the first shots of crashing wheelchairs, keeps them hooked with revelations about quadriplegic sex, and finishes strongly with a conclusion that is emotional and riveting on many levels.
What Murderball doesn’t do is say a whole lot about any bigger, more serious issues of politics, world, or national affairs. This is not to say that the film is only about quad rugby and not about issues of disability, masculinity and the concerns that go along with them - it certainly is. Rather, McDonald would argue that it lacks a current social context or larger discussion to relate to, one that would magnify the events we see on screen to an even greater level of importance. Murderball may capture the real, but it does so in a constructed, story-driven manner that may ultimately say more about what the director is trying to say with the film (which to me seems to be an appropriate use of the documentary medium) than about what it means to play wheelchair rugby as a disabled athlete.
McDonald argues that documentary (specifically sport documentary) has moved into a phase in which narrative, fiction-style storytelling is often lauded over films that are more careful to focus on the context in which their subject is taking place, both politically and societally. It is not so much that one style is “better” than another as it is that the pre-Moore era films McDonald addresses focus on larger issues of concern than do the micro-focused human interest stories often told in post-Moore era sport documentary.
These concepts and McDonald’s argument definitely informed my viewing and reaction to Murderball as I continued to think about the film well after having seen it. McDonald classifies the film as a participatory documentary, and this is certainly evident throughout. From the “line up” shots of each different country’s team near the beginning of the film to the presence of the camera in the school and at the performance of Joe Soares’ son, it is clear the director of the film is carefully composing shots and controlling the environment in many parts of the film.
Murderball has an overwhelmingly strong narrative pattern, similar to those often seen in fiction films. The audience meets the characters, we meet the protagonist/s (largely seen here as Zupan and his teammates), the antagonist (Soares, although it could be argued that these roles are reversible depending on how you view the film), and are set up with a clear problem which eventually results in a climax (the Athens Paralympic Games) and resolution (a star is made of Zupan, Soares begins to learn what is truly important in his life). It’s a tremendous story; one that grabs the audience from the first shots of crashing wheelchairs, keeps them hooked with revelations about quadriplegic sex, and finishes strongly with a conclusion that is emotional and riveting on many levels.
What Murderball doesn’t do is say a whole lot about any bigger, more serious issues of politics, world, or national affairs. This is not to say that the film is only about quad rugby and not about issues of disability, masculinity and the concerns that go along with them - it certainly is. Rather, McDonald would argue that it lacks a current social context or larger discussion to relate to, one that would magnify the events we see on screen to an even greater level of importance. Murderball may capture the real, but it does so in a constructed, story-driven manner that may ultimately say more about what the director is trying to say with the film (which to me seems to be an appropriate use of the documentary medium) than about what it means to play wheelchair rugby as a disabled athlete.
Who Killed the Electric Car?
Who Killed the Electric Car is a film that brings up many questions about how documentaries are made, and about how documentary filmmakers use their medium to espouse certain viewpoints and opinions. I first viewed the film about a year ago. I enjoyed it, learned about something I had no real knowledge on, and moved on without giving it much thought. I accepted what the film had to tell me as fact, and looked at it as more of an interesting story than as a piece of propaganda. Watching the film again in class with a more critical mindset, and taking part in class discussions on the film has helped me to realize that as with many documentaries, there are certain propagandist aspects to the film, and the director’s point of view seems to be very clearly on one side of this multi-faceted argument involving the future of transportation.
Many of the scenes in the film would not have been possible without collaboration and cooperation between the filmmakers and the electric car activists featured. From the funeral scene that introduces us to the plight of the electric car to the footage of the last Saturn EV-1’s being shipped off to the crusher, the camera seems to be ever-present during the most important and dramatic events that are used to drive the film’s storyline.
Not only is a pro-EV (Electric Vehicle) agenda identifiable in some of the films major verite-style scenes, it is also clearly seen in interview sequences. To represent the importance and need for the EV, the filmmakers choose interview subjects who are attractive, like-able, and recognizable. Featured heavily is the camera-friendly Chelsea Sexton, a young mother who worked for GM in the company’s Saturn division marketing and leasing EV-1’s. She serves as a strong voice for the movement away from gas-powered vehicles in the film. Pictures of Sexton working hard and having fun as a young sales-person who truly believes in her product, along with her passionate commentary, serve to create a persona an audience can bond with and root for. A large number of celebrities and movie stars are also featured in interviews. Mel Gibson, Alexandra Paul, Phyllis Diller, and others are shown exuding admiration for the qualities of electric vehicles. At no point, however, do the filmmakers give us reason to believe theses celebrities are experts or have some sort of in-depth knowledge into the debate (with the exception of Paul, perhaps); they simply like electric cars.
While celebrities may have been used to draw an audience, experts are featured prominently in the film. The time allotted to those on each “side” of the debate is nowhere close to even, however. Extremely reputable interviewees in the pro-EV camp are featured again and again explaining and documenting the merits of the electric car. An elderly couple who works together on super-charged batteries is inserted into the film in what seems to be an attempt to add some emotion and sentimentality to the pro-EV side of the debate (i.e. no one wants to see the brilliant old man’s ingenious inventions go to waste!). Former employees of GM talk about how the company may have manipulated the marketing and downplayed the importance of the EV-1.
Those who stand up to defend the mainstream removal of the electric car from the roadways or who believe in other forms of clean technology such as hydrogen fuel cell vehicles are afforded much less screen time and are even mocked in at least one instance. Leading up to an interview with an official GM spokesman, the filmmakers choose to include a very short shot of the man looking confused and unprepared (in what appears to be footage taken either before or after the “official” interview) before launching into the extended scene. The tactic works in that the man loses some visual credibility the very first time we see him onscreen. I did not notice a similar technique used anywhere else in the film, and it was certainly never employed to paint a negative picture of a pro-EV interviewee.
Environmental and political points of view are alluded to in the construction of the film as well. The contrasting policies of former Presidents Carter and Reagan, along with a similar look at the differences in the Clinton and Bush administration begin to paint Democrats as environmentalists and therefore supporters of the EV, and Republicans as being more interested in promoting big business and looking toward other opportunities such as the hydrogen-powered car (footage of both George W. Bush and Arnold Schwarzenager speaks to this). Sound bytes of Bush talking about the need to drill for oil in the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge are heard over images of beautiful mountains and a herd of majestic caribou.
I like Who Killed the Electric Car? I like it not only because I tend to agree with most of the policies the film is advocating, but because the filmmakers construct an argument that, while not foolproof, is compelling and interesting to listen to. Rather than chastise filmmakers for producing films that strongly advocate a certain position on an issue, and that may use propaganda as a means to further their case, perhaps we should continue to focus on media literacy and critical thinking in our nation’s schools and universities. I know that my own viewing experience has been greatly altered due to new perspective gained through a more careful observation of the film.
The Man with a Movie Camera
Vertov's The Man with a Movie Camera marked a huge change in the way cinema was constructed. Many of the traditional elements of early film and documentary, such as a clear narrative story, are not seen in Vertov's film. What the viewer does experience is a tremendous amount of visual information arranged and composed in new and often very interesting ways. Two aspects of The Man with a Movie Camera that stood out to me are the self-reflexivity seen in the film, and the use of montage to compare and contrast ideas through film imagery.
Vertov is clearly attempting to communicate to anyone who watches the film that he thinks about and plans out each of his shots and their composition. By showing the "man with the movie camera" throughout the film, the audience begins to think about how a film is conceived of and shot, and what goes into the process. The cameraman is seen clearly deciding upon how he wants to shoot his subjects, often running or carefully adjusting his camera to get into good position. In watching the film, I noticed that it actually took me awhile to start thinking about what the shots of the cameraman mean, and even longer to think about the fact that there is actually another camera man shooting and composing what I saw on screen. Vertov seems to be playing with the audiences perception of filmmaking in a way, commenting on the fact that their is indeed a cameraman and editor making decisions about what is to be seen and experienced by the viewer.
Several scenes contain material that seems to advance this idea of the director commenting on himself, his work, and the process of filmmaking in general. Both the beginning and ending of the film feature a theater where a movie is to be viewed. Eventually, the viewer enters that onscreen world along with the audience in the theater. One must consider that they have already entered Vertov's cinematic world by simply watching the film, and that he is adding additional layers of "reality." Also, the idea of documentary as associated with capturing some degree of reality or truth needs to be carefully considered when looking at the film. Many of the shots do seem to be capturing moments, both personal and public, that are largely unaffected by the camera's presence. Every shot that the “cameraman” is in, however, had to be clearly thought out ahead of time and composed by the the cinematographer (likely Vertov). In attempting to capture the “reality” of a man shooting movies with a camera, the film actually takes a step back in terms of portraying actuality on film. This technique truly seems to define the “the creative presentation of actuality.”
In The Man with a Movie Camera, Vertov uses montage during virtually the entire film. Throughout the film he brings together multiple images and film clips, creating meaning through their relationships. The segments of the film that stand out clearly often juxtapose two very different, yet related, ideas. It seems that this is a running theme throughout the film. Vertov explores transportation, contrasting modern avenues such as buses, planes, and cable cars, directly with older types such as steam trains and horse-drawn carriages. Wedding and divorce are explored through both the visuals and the music. Vertov returns to the cable cars to impart even more meaning into this comparison. Themes of life and death are interspersed through the use of footage documenting a funeral procession along with that of a mother going through labor and delivering a baby. Hard work and a variety of occupations are explored before Vertov looks into vacation and a variety of relaxation techniques.
At first, things seemed random and scattered. It was as I began to really concentrate on the images that I was seeing that I started to make some of the connections outlined above. Certainly, Vertov had more goals in mind with the film than simply comparing and contrasting images and ideas, but it seems to me to be the dominate theme behind the film. The director seems to be exploring how film can be used to do many things, but most important how meaning can be formed.
In looking at the notes I took during the film, I focused a lot on the self-reflexivity evident as well as how the montage seems to operate to convey meaning in the piece. I also noticed how Vertov seemed to be continually experimenting, as if this film was his own personal sandbox or toy bin that he was given for the first time and had complete control over. I noted a lot of the techniques that are commonly used in film, video, and television today. We see experiments with camera speed, repetition, extremely fast cutting, slow motion (track and field athletes), eye-line matching (magic show), cutting to action (soccer game), playing film in reverse, dissolves and overlays (cable cars), and many, many more. The Man with a Movie Camera is certainly an “experimental” film that uses montage to address ideas and themes and whose director wishes to communicate his thoughts on filmmaking to an audience, yet it is clearly more than that as well. It seems to be an incredibly important foundational work for not only documentarians, but all future filmmakers.
Vertov is clearly attempting to communicate to anyone who watches the film that he thinks about and plans out each of his shots and their composition. By showing the "man with the movie camera" throughout the film, the audience begins to think about how a film is conceived of and shot, and what goes into the process. The cameraman is seen clearly deciding upon how he wants to shoot his subjects, often running or carefully adjusting his camera to get into good position. In watching the film, I noticed that it actually took me awhile to start thinking about what the shots of the cameraman mean, and even longer to think about the fact that there is actually another camera man shooting and composing what I saw on screen. Vertov seems to be playing with the audiences perception of filmmaking in a way, commenting on the fact that their is indeed a cameraman and editor making decisions about what is to be seen and experienced by the viewer.
Several scenes contain material that seems to advance this idea of the director commenting on himself, his work, and the process of filmmaking in general. Both the beginning and ending of the film feature a theater where a movie is to be viewed. Eventually, the viewer enters that onscreen world along with the audience in the theater. One must consider that they have already entered Vertov's cinematic world by simply watching the film, and that he is adding additional layers of "reality." Also, the idea of documentary as associated with capturing some degree of reality or truth needs to be carefully considered when looking at the film. Many of the shots do seem to be capturing moments, both personal and public, that are largely unaffected by the camera's presence. Every shot that the “cameraman” is in, however, had to be clearly thought out ahead of time and composed by the the cinematographer (likely Vertov). In attempting to capture the “reality” of a man shooting movies with a camera, the film actually takes a step back in terms of portraying actuality on film. This technique truly seems to define the “the creative presentation of actuality.”
In The Man with a Movie Camera, Vertov uses montage during virtually the entire film. Throughout the film he brings together multiple images and film clips, creating meaning through their relationships. The segments of the film that stand out clearly often juxtapose two very different, yet related, ideas. It seems that this is a running theme throughout the film. Vertov explores transportation, contrasting modern avenues such as buses, planes, and cable cars, directly with older types such as steam trains and horse-drawn carriages. Wedding and divorce are explored through both the visuals and the music. Vertov returns to the cable cars to impart even more meaning into this comparison. Themes of life and death are interspersed through the use of footage documenting a funeral procession along with that of a mother going through labor and delivering a baby. Hard work and a variety of occupations are explored before Vertov looks into vacation and a variety of relaxation techniques.
At first, things seemed random and scattered. It was as I began to really concentrate on the images that I was seeing that I started to make some of the connections outlined above. Certainly, Vertov had more goals in mind with the film than simply comparing and contrasting images and ideas, but it seems to me to be the dominate theme behind the film. The director seems to be exploring how film can be used to do many things, but most important how meaning can be formed.
In looking at the notes I took during the film, I focused a lot on the self-reflexivity evident as well as how the montage seems to operate to convey meaning in the piece. I also noticed how Vertov seemed to be continually experimenting, as if this film was his own personal sandbox or toy bin that he was given for the first time and had complete control over. I noted a lot of the techniques that are commonly used in film, video, and television today. We see experiments with camera speed, repetition, extremely fast cutting, slow motion (track and field athletes), eye-line matching (magic show), cutting to action (soccer game), playing film in reverse, dissolves and overlays (cable cars), and many, many more. The Man with a Movie Camera is certainly an “experimental” film that uses montage to address ideas and themes and whose director wishes to communicate his thoughts on filmmaking to an audience, yet it is clearly more than that as well. It seems to be an incredibly important foundational work for not only documentarians, but all future filmmakers.
Hearts and Minds
Peter Davis’ Hearts and Minds provides the viewer with a strong, emotionally-charged view of U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War. Having never seen the film, I was struck by many aspects of the documentary’s style and technique, and found myself comparing the way the film was constructed and presented to recent documentaries I am more familiar with, in particular Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 911.
Watching Hearts and Minds was in many ways an education for me, albeit coming from a very specific, opinionated, and constructed point of view. With the exception of several U.S. History courses in which the Vietnam War was usually covered quite sparingly, my only experience with the war has come from popular Hollywood movies, Broadway plays, and television shows. My father did not serve as he was a full-time student during the time period, and I have not talked with any other veterans of the war at length before.
While it is clear that watching a film gives me just one way of looking at the situation, I certainly was affected quite strongly by much of what I saw and heard onscreen. I found several of the conventions used by Davis to be very effective in creating an intensely personal and emotional way of viewing the events in Vietnam. Throughout the film, I was struck by the creative and often unexpected use of unique cinematography. The lectures and appearances by returning POW George Coker provided several examples of what I saw as well thought out visual framing that helped the viewing audience to connect emotionally to what was going on. Rather than focus directly on Coker as he spoke, the camera often drifts and zooms, capturing the faces of those listening to what he has to say. As Coker addresses a group of school-children, we get an extremely intimate look into their wide-eyed gaze and undivided attention towards him.
Several other scenes in the film struck me as extremely compelling visually in that they “said” more than what was actually seen onscreen. Just as the camera left Coker as he spoke to focus on audience reaction, the camera at times leaves the faces of animated veterans as they speak, zooming or moving down to reveal and focus on lost limbs and catastrophic injuries. The sheer number of intimate places and situations that were revealed and explored so clearly and closely onscreen also struck me and added hugely to Davis’ representation of events. Whether relying most heavily on news footage, or his own crew, I was extremely impressed with what seemed to be an amazing amount of access the filmmakers had into a variety of situations (from U.S. soldiers relaxing with Vietnamese prostitutes to images of troops burning down small village).
Other conventions used in the film help to create a strong connection with the audience while aiding in furthering the arguments presented. The lack of narration in Hearts and Minds was an important decision. By simply watching events unfold, and listening to experts, politicians, veterans, American protestors, affected Vietnamese, and many others throughout the documentary, the viewer is provided with several viewpoints on the war. While it is important to keep in mind that Davis and the films cinematographers and editors have control over how things are ordered, presented, shot, and portrayed, a strong argument can still be made that one is not forced to “choose” to agree with a single narrator’s argument (upon writing this I realize this is a dicey statement in that the “narrator” can really be seen as Davis in the form of the film’s auteur, yet in comparison to other films the spoken argument is much less direct).
In addition to the lack of narration, the film wisely uses strong, emotionally-charged statements from its subjects as well as the juxtaposition of highly contrasting quotations and video throughout to create its arguments. I was particularly struck by the statement, “We weren’t on the wrong side. We are the wrong side.” Two other examples from the film struck me as particularly moving and thought-provoking. In the first, we see a high school football coach preparing his team for “battle,” before the film returns to scenes of war. In the second, and what was to me the most powerful sequence in the film, the viewer is presented with a long, drawn out scene of a very young boy mourning the death of his father as he is laid to rest in a huge cemetery. The cries and wailing of the boy became nearly unbearable for me. Just when I thought I would literally have to turn away, the film cuts to Commander William Westmoreland who simply states that the “Oriental does not put a high price on human life.” *The clip can be seen below
Many of the conventions used in Davis’ 1974 film are used today by filmmakers who also wish to provide an argument against U.S. policy towards war. As mentioned earlier, I thought of Fahrenheit 911 while I watched Hearts and Minds. Michael Moore uses many of the same conventions: startling statements, the juxtaposition of highly contrasting video, creative cinematography (to a lesser extent), and what seems to be very personal access to many situations. It is where Moore deviates from Davis that we see where documentary seems to have taken a new turn; a turn towards entertainment or what might be called “edu- or infotainment.” Moore narrates the entire film himself, giving the audience someone to absolutely love or hate, and his film is full of pop music hits and quick cuts which may serve today’s audiences short attention spans more than the argument he is making. Interestingly, however, Moore returns to conventions used by Davis during the most important and often most heart-wrenching parts of his film. We are left with no narration and simply horrifying images and sound onscreen; something Hearts and Minds uses very successfully to impact the audience.
Watching Hearts and Minds was in many ways an education for me, albeit coming from a very specific, opinionated, and constructed point of view. With the exception of several U.S. History courses in which the Vietnam War was usually covered quite sparingly, my only experience with the war has come from popular Hollywood movies, Broadway plays, and television shows. My father did not serve as he was a full-time student during the time period, and I have not talked with any other veterans of the war at length before.
While it is clear that watching a film gives me just one way of looking at the situation, I certainly was affected quite strongly by much of what I saw and heard onscreen. I found several of the conventions used by Davis to be very effective in creating an intensely personal and emotional way of viewing the events in Vietnam. Throughout the film, I was struck by the creative and often unexpected use of unique cinematography. The lectures and appearances by returning POW George Coker provided several examples of what I saw as well thought out visual framing that helped the viewing audience to connect emotionally to what was going on. Rather than focus directly on Coker as he spoke, the camera often drifts and zooms, capturing the faces of those listening to what he has to say. As Coker addresses a group of school-children, we get an extremely intimate look into their wide-eyed gaze and undivided attention towards him.
Several other scenes in the film struck me as extremely compelling visually in that they “said” more than what was actually seen onscreen. Just as the camera left Coker as he spoke to focus on audience reaction, the camera at times leaves the faces of animated veterans as they speak, zooming or moving down to reveal and focus on lost limbs and catastrophic injuries. The sheer number of intimate places and situations that were revealed and explored so clearly and closely onscreen also struck me and added hugely to Davis’ representation of events. Whether relying most heavily on news footage, or his own crew, I was extremely impressed with what seemed to be an amazing amount of access the filmmakers had into a variety of situations (from U.S. soldiers relaxing with Vietnamese prostitutes to images of troops burning down small village).
Other conventions used in the film help to create a strong connection with the audience while aiding in furthering the arguments presented. The lack of narration in Hearts and Minds was an important decision. By simply watching events unfold, and listening to experts, politicians, veterans, American protestors, affected Vietnamese, and many others throughout the documentary, the viewer is provided with several viewpoints on the war. While it is important to keep in mind that Davis and the films cinematographers and editors have control over how things are ordered, presented, shot, and portrayed, a strong argument can still be made that one is not forced to “choose” to agree with a single narrator’s argument (upon writing this I realize this is a dicey statement in that the “narrator” can really be seen as Davis in the form of the film’s auteur, yet in comparison to other films the spoken argument is much less direct).
In addition to the lack of narration, the film wisely uses strong, emotionally-charged statements from its subjects as well as the juxtaposition of highly contrasting quotations and video throughout to create its arguments. I was particularly struck by the statement, “We weren’t on the wrong side. We are the wrong side.” Two other examples from the film struck me as particularly moving and thought-provoking. In the first, we see a high school football coach preparing his team for “battle,” before the film returns to scenes of war. In the second, and what was to me the most powerful sequence in the film, the viewer is presented with a long, drawn out scene of a very young boy mourning the death of his father as he is laid to rest in a huge cemetery. The cries and wailing of the boy became nearly unbearable for me. Just when I thought I would literally have to turn away, the film cuts to Commander William Westmoreland who simply states that the “Oriental does not put a high price on human life.” *The clip can be seen below
Many of the conventions used in Davis’ 1974 film are used today by filmmakers who also wish to provide an argument against U.S. policy towards war. As mentioned earlier, I thought of Fahrenheit 911 while I watched Hearts and Minds. Michael Moore uses many of the same conventions: startling statements, the juxtaposition of highly contrasting video, creative cinematography (to a lesser extent), and what seems to be very personal access to many situations. It is where Moore deviates from Davis that we see where documentary seems to have taken a new turn; a turn towards entertainment or what might be called “edu- or infotainment.” Moore narrates the entire film himself, giving the audience someone to absolutely love or hate, and his film is full of pop music hits and quick cuts which may serve today’s audiences short attention spans more than the argument he is making. Interestingly, however, Moore returns to conventions used by Davis during the most important and often most heart-wrenching parts of his film. We are left with no narration and simply horrifying images and sound onscreen; something Hearts and Minds uses very successfully to impact the audience.
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