The Bridge is a devastating study on the suicidal allure of San Francisco’s renowned Golden Gate Bridge. Using candid footage that captures the experiences of both tourists and victims, the film juxtaposes the bridge’s legendary status with its lesser -known, infamous function as a vehicle for self-prescribed death. In the wake of the suicides, Eric Steel interviews the victims’ friends and families in an attempt to capture the people that his viewers, otherwise, can never know. Throughout the film, Steel’s own participation as an observer of his subjects’ deaths illuminates the complex relationship that persists between those with a camera, and those behind its lens. The sequence with photographer Richard Waters, in particular, illustrates this complicated relationship.
The theme of “intervention” pervades the film through interviews with the victims’ friends and families, as well as with the witnesses involved. Each individual responds differently to the suicides; some appear to feel guilt, while others seem relieved that the victims are now free from their misery. In addition to recording this broad scale of emotions, the film uses the interviews as a means to explore the limits of an individual’s subjective sense of duty. The interview with Waters, for example, traces the transition from inactive observer to interfering rescuer. In the sequence, Waters retells his own experience with a bridge jumper, and reflects back on the moment where he decided to abandon his camera and step in to help his subject. His statements capture the camera lens’ tendency to detach the photographer from his subject, indicating that it is ultimately up to the person behind the lens to break its gaze.
The interview with Waters illustrates the dangerous barrier that can occur between the camera lens and reality if a photographer does not occasionally remove his gaze from the viewfinder. Had Waters not chosen to drop his camera and rescue the girl, she would have successfully jumped off of the bridge. The fixation of the photographer with capturing his image is an addiction that can be dangerous to both the survival of the subject (in the case of The Bridge), as well as to the post-traumatic survival of the photographer for having done nothing to change the documented event’s outcome.
The sequence opens with a long shot of Waters standing on the bridge taking photographs. The resulting photos are intercut with the video footage, emphasizing Waters role as a photographer and illustrating how he sees the bridge through his camera lens. Steel’s “looking in” at Waters’ own “looking in” of the bridge creates a multi-dimensional effect that calls attention to both men’s roles as observers of tragedy with the potential to change what their footage will record. The first still of Waters’ photographs is a classic landscape shot, capturing the scenic view of the bridge from its steep railings and asserting the bridge’s primary role as a legendary construction. However, this conventional image will be sharply contrasted in Waters’ other photos, showing a girl’s apparent attempt to jump.
As Waters walks away after snapping his photograph of the landscape, the camera turns to a petite, hooded figure walking ominously toward Waters’ abandoned position. At another spot on the bridge, he continues to take photographs from the railing. His multiple stills of the bridge’s shadowy reflection on the water below interrupt the camera’s tracking shots of the hooded figure walking along the bridge railing. Soon, she reaches her destination, and both Waters and the anonymous girl now appear in the same frame. They are no longer separated from one another, the presence of both of them in the same space represents each one’s ability to both interact with and affect the other’s mode of action. As Waters momentarily walks out of the frame, another still photograph presents itself while he begins a voiceover narration of that day’s events. As Waters begins to describe how he watched the girl climb effortlessly over the bridge rail, Steel presents his accompanying candid footage of the event. Waters’ narrative voiceover complements the visual storytelling performed by Steel’s footage, again emphasizing both men’s roles as observers. However, as Waters’ role as a photographer is challenged by his presence as a spectator, Steel briefly abandons his post as recorder, allowing some of Waters’ still shots to tell the story for him. The arrangement of the still photographs acts as a visual, chronological timeline, and each photograph is a node that captures a moment’s exact event. As each still shot moves to the next, the narrative story of Waters’ is complemented with his photographic documentation of it. It is not until Waters removes himself from behind his camera lens that Steel regains his post as recorder. While Waters makes the conscious decision to step in, Steel chooses to record, preserving the continuous loyalty to the camera lens that he demonstrates throughout the film.
Waters describes his initial reaction to the girl climbing over the bridge rail as one of disbelief. His photographs of her climbing over the rail and then standing on the ledge illustrate his momentary detachment from the reality of the situation. The still images exhibit his removal from his subject, at this point he has chosen to stand aside in order to photograph what we see displayed on the screen. From behind the camera lens, the event appears to be an interesting opportunity for a photo. However, as the girl begins to stand closer to the edge, Waters removes himself from the obstructive gaze of the lens and inserts himself in the “picture” to change its course of action. In regards to his delayed intervention, Waters says, "When I was behind the camera, it was almost like it wasn't real because I was looking through the lens.” This barrier created by the lens, between those who document and the subjects they document, is not necessarily present in all documentaries. However, both the photographic products of Waters and Steel bring this controversy of the photographer’s power to either record or intervene in his subjects’ lives into focus.
Following Waters’ narration of his rescue of the girl, more of his stills depict the girl’s arrest and detainment by bridge officials. After photographing the girl being taken away by bridge officials, Waters states that the girl turned back to look at him. Whether her glance was done in gratitude or in anger, Waters is still unsure. Either way, the brief eye contact between the two left a haunting impression on him. This emotional vestige is representative of Waters’ decision to take action, stressing the cause and effect relationship that would have been vastly altered had Waters not intervened. Had he stood by while the girl jumped, that intimate connection to her (established through eye contact) would have never occurred.
In his interview, he continues to discuss the ethical dilemma of photographers who undertake the task of documenting tragedy or social injustice. As he states, “As crazy as it sounds, I think of myself like a National Geographic photographer must feel. When he’s behind the camera filming, and there’s a big tiger running at him, and his footage is so great he forgets that in a couple of seconds that tiger’s going to be on top of him. But it’s like you’re behind that camera and you don’t really think about what’s going on and that’s where I had to separate [that mode of thinking as a photographer] and actually act to do something to help her.” Unlike Waters, who decides to stop the girl, Steel makes no onscreen effort to step out of his role as filmmaker or even position himself on the bridge with his subjects. He remains behind the lens at a substantial physical distance from the bridge. It is only when his camera enters the homes of the victims’ families and friends that the film makes a posthumous effort to emotionally approach the victims.
Much like the bridge that holds an allure for jumpers, the camera lens, too, offers a captivating prospect for photographers and filmmakers alike to release themselves from reality. In their decision to document truth, they can often be removed from it. Their roles as documenters challenges their ethics, one can either remain behind the lens in the event of tragedy to capture the despair that unfolds before them, or they can forsake the lens and try to change that event’s outcome. It is only when photographers and filmmakers step out from behind the viewfinder and position themselves in front of the camera, with their subjects, that those who document tragedy can attempt to prevent it. The Bridge demonstrates this capability, and in effect, illustrates the complex relationship that persists between a photographer and the perception of his subject, as seen from behind the camera lens.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
"A Thin Blue Lie" : An Analytical Paper on Errol Morris' Documentary, "The Thin Blue Line"
The Thin Blue Line is a devastating investigation of the senseless conviction of an innocent man. Using narrative fragments and dramatic reenactments, the film gradually recreates the trial and conviction of Randall Adams for the murder of Officer Robert Woods. Ultimately, the film narrows its focus on the investigation, eventually exposing David Harris as its true subject.
Harris, the only true eyewitness of the case, provides the initial testimony that inspires the other eyewitnesses’ accusations. His denial is responsible for the Dallas police department’s quest to convict Adams. To law officials and interrogators, he subtly orchestrates the recreation of a crime to which he claims no involvement. In addition to Harris, Morris interviews the key participants. Building off of Harris’ allegations, the other’s testimonies create a tangled web of evidence that snares Randall Adams in the crime. Each interviewee’s perception of the tragic murder questions the authority of another person’s testimony. This excess of uncertainty emphasizes the film’s focus on truth and its ability to elude those who search for it.
The range of interviews in The Thin Blue Line gives each member’s testimony a certain level of authority in the story of Officer Wood’s murder. The term story here has a crucial significance because it implies that each testimony is a subjective, imaginative reconstruction of the murder. No one remembers an objective truth of what happened on the night of the shooting; rather, the involved parties speculate, offering narratives based on what little evidence was found and logged. The film suggests that in their remembering, and subsequent self-protecting, lies become truths and guesswork is transformed into a recollection of the night’s events. As one lie builds upon another, the case against Adams becomes more tangled. The series of untruths responsible for Adams’ conviction are nodes that sprout from one man’s deposition. A deceptive sociopath, David Harris uses the lack of evidence to create an opportunity for himself. The young and charismatic Harris accuses Adams, helping investigators and prosecutors to indict Adams. The film focuses on this process, as the “thin blue line” becomes a “thin blue lie”.
In one sequence, Morris spotlights Harris’ lies and status as a stereotypical “troubled youth.” This exploration into Harris’ behavior highlights the police officers’ senseless compliance with the lie Harris initially constructs. The sequence begins with a close-up of a map of Texas. A large dot marked “Vidor” sits at the center of the frame, indicating a transition in location. This move from Dallas to Vidor also emphasizes a change in jurisdiction. All the facts that spark the intense investigation of the case are discovered in Vidor-- the stolen car, the stolen gun, and the boy who stole them. Yet Dallas police still choose to believe in Harris’ testimony that Adams is guilty. It seems the crucial evidence discovered by Vidor police officer Sam Kittrell goes unnoticed by the Dallas police department.
The camera’s commute across the map into different jurisdictions reveals where the truths and lies of the case originate. All of the appropriate clues to convict Harris are in Vidor. Yet Dallas officers, who have nothing but theories, still choose to build a case against Adams.
The next shot begins Officer Kittrell’s interview. Seated in the center of the frame, Kittrell is surrounded by his office clutter, paperwork on shelves and desks, implying that he is in an office at a local precinct. There is an honest authority in his presence that contrasts with the theatrical clout of the preceding Dallas investigators. His voice is casual and distinct and, unlike the other interviewees, Kittrell avoids any unnecessary elaboration on the truth.
As Kittrell states that the connection between Harris and Dallas began with the report of a local neighbor’s stolen car, a photograph of the vehicle reveals its true make, model, color, and license plate number: a Mercury Comet, not a Chevrolet Vega, as the Dallas police believed. At this point in the film, the authority of the police investigators in Dallas is challenged, as Kittrell becomes the authority in the case.
Officer Kittrell recalls that Harris was found with the car and pursued on-foot after abandoning the vehicle. The description of the chase is accompanied by a close-up of the corresponding incident report. The words “reported runaway” appear in black lettering at the center of the frame, accentuating Harris’ role as a fugitive on the run. Morris then cuts back to the interview with Kittrell, who explains the department started getting “little bits of information that David had been involved in a shooting in Dallas of a police officer.” The camera presents another close-up of the incident report. The form reads, “Name and address of suspect”. Beneath it, “David Harris W/M 16 yrs.” is ominously typed in large black letters. These close-ups of Harris’ incident reports portray him as a criminal who is under age. The use of this police document accentuates that Harris is not an adolescent who should be “given [yet] another chance”.
A brief series of interviews with three of Harris’ friends reveal that when Harris had returned to Vidor he began bragging about how he shot a Dallas cop. Their testimonies capture Harris as a sociopath, providing more behavioral evidence against him. The sequence then returns to the interview with Officer Kittrell. His intimate knowledge of Harris’ background leads the viewers to invest in his testimony. When asked if he had been in Dallas or been involved in any sort of shooting, Harris denied both. But as Kittrell illuminates, “He denied everything to the end, which was fairly consistent with David. Even if he had some involvement, his first way that he always treats you is to deny. Then, if he felt as though you really knew he did it, then he would be truthful with you.” This priceless insight into Harris’ behavior during interrogations is still an afterthought for the Dallas police department. Despite this knowledge, Harris’ denial of the murder of Officer Woods is still received by the Dallas police department without further question.
The illusion of Adams’ guilt is based in Harris’ denial. When Morris interviews the officers involved in the initial investigation, one of them states, “When we started putting facts together on how much information we actually had…we found out we didn’t have anything.” Adamant about his lack of involvement in the crime, Harris easily convinced local law enforcement that Adams was the perpetrator. Having no other evidence, the department blindly invested in this information, ironically relinquishing their authority in the case to Harris, the true culprit.
Harris, the only true eyewitness of the case, provides the initial testimony that inspires the other eyewitnesses’ accusations. His denial is responsible for the Dallas police department’s quest to convict Adams. To law officials and interrogators, he subtly orchestrates the recreation of a crime to which he claims no involvement. In addition to Harris, Morris interviews the key participants. Building off of Harris’ allegations, the other’s testimonies create a tangled web of evidence that snares Randall Adams in the crime. Each interviewee’s perception of the tragic murder questions the authority of another person’s testimony. This excess of uncertainty emphasizes the film’s focus on truth and its ability to elude those who search for it.
The range of interviews in The Thin Blue Line gives each member’s testimony a certain level of authority in the story of Officer Wood’s murder. The term story here has a crucial significance because it implies that each testimony is a subjective, imaginative reconstruction of the murder. No one remembers an objective truth of what happened on the night of the shooting; rather, the involved parties speculate, offering narratives based on what little evidence was found and logged. The film suggests that in their remembering, and subsequent self-protecting, lies become truths and guesswork is transformed into a recollection of the night’s events. As one lie builds upon another, the case against Adams becomes more tangled. The series of untruths responsible for Adams’ conviction are nodes that sprout from one man’s deposition. A deceptive sociopath, David Harris uses the lack of evidence to create an opportunity for himself. The young and charismatic Harris accuses Adams, helping investigators and prosecutors to indict Adams. The film focuses on this process, as the “thin blue line” becomes a “thin blue lie”.
In one sequence, Morris spotlights Harris’ lies and status as a stereotypical “troubled youth.” This exploration into Harris’ behavior highlights the police officers’ senseless compliance with the lie Harris initially constructs. The sequence begins with a close-up of a map of Texas. A large dot marked “Vidor” sits at the center of the frame, indicating a transition in location. This move from Dallas to Vidor also emphasizes a change in jurisdiction. All the facts that spark the intense investigation of the case are discovered in Vidor-- the stolen car, the stolen gun, and the boy who stole them. Yet Dallas police still choose to believe in Harris’ testimony that Adams is guilty. It seems the crucial evidence discovered by Vidor police officer Sam Kittrell goes unnoticed by the Dallas police department.
The camera’s commute across the map into different jurisdictions reveals where the truths and lies of the case originate. All of the appropriate clues to convict Harris are in Vidor. Yet Dallas officers, who have nothing but theories, still choose to build a case against Adams.
The next shot begins Officer Kittrell’s interview. Seated in the center of the frame, Kittrell is surrounded by his office clutter, paperwork on shelves and desks, implying that he is in an office at a local precinct. There is an honest authority in his presence that contrasts with the theatrical clout of the preceding Dallas investigators. His voice is casual and distinct and, unlike the other interviewees, Kittrell avoids any unnecessary elaboration on the truth.
As Kittrell states that the connection between Harris and Dallas began with the report of a local neighbor’s stolen car, a photograph of the vehicle reveals its true make, model, color, and license plate number: a Mercury Comet, not a Chevrolet Vega, as the Dallas police believed. At this point in the film, the authority of the police investigators in Dallas is challenged, as Kittrell becomes the authority in the case.
Officer Kittrell recalls that Harris was found with the car and pursued on-foot after abandoning the vehicle. The description of the chase is accompanied by a close-up of the corresponding incident report. The words “reported runaway” appear in black lettering at the center of the frame, accentuating Harris’ role as a fugitive on the run. Morris then cuts back to the interview with Kittrell, who explains the department started getting “little bits of information that David had been involved in a shooting in Dallas of a police officer.” The camera presents another close-up of the incident report. The form reads, “Name and address of suspect”. Beneath it, “David Harris W/M 16 yrs.” is ominously typed in large black letters. These close-ups of Harris’ incident reports portray him as a criminal who is under age. The use of this police document accentuates that Harris is not an adolescent who should be “given [yet] another chance”.
A brief series of interviews with three of Harris’ friends reveal that when Harris had returned to Vidor he began bragging about how he shot a Dallas cop. Their testimonies capture Harris as a sociopath, providing more behavioral evidence against him. The sequence then returns to the interview with Officer Kittrell. His intimate knowledge of Harris’ background leads the viewers to invest in his testimony. When asked if he had been in Dallas or been involved in any sort of shooting, Harris denied both. But as Kittrell illuminates, “He denied everything to the end, which was fairly consistent with David. Even if he had some involvement, his first way that he always treats you is to deny. Then, if he felt as though you really knew he did it, then he would be truthful with you.” This priceless insight into Harris’ behavior during interrogations is still an afterthought for the Dallas police department. Despite this knowledge, Harris’ denial of the murder of Officer Woods is still received by the Dallas police department without further question.
The illusion of Adams’ guilt is based in Harris’ denial. When Morris interviews the officers involved in the initial investigation, one of them states, “When we started putting facts together on how much information we actually had…we found out we didn’t have anything.” Adamant about his lack of involvement in the crime, Harris easily convinced local law enforcement that Adams was the perpetrator. Having no other evidence, the department blindly invested in this information, ironically relinquishing their authority in the case to Harris, the true culprit.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The Costume of Convention: An Analytical Essay on Jennie Livingston's Documentary, "Paris is Burning"
Paris is Burning is an intense study of the duality taken on by the transgendered community. Each man in the film struggles with defining his identity, raising a crucial argument in the film: that identity can be “artificially” constructed, both in terms of personality and gender. One of the sequences addresses this convoluted construction of self in its exploration of “realness”, the ability to perform convincingly as one’s heterosexual counterpart. The “realness” categories give the men of Paris is Burning the opportunity to fulfill their occupational fantasies. However, within this realm of make-believe, performance easily becomes muddled with a desperate form of self -expression.
The film’s presentation of this blurred line reveals that the men of Paris is Burning are the most “real”, and the most “themselves”, when they are participating in the fantastical ball performances. During their performances the men can be the women they dream of being. It is on the streets, in the “real” world, that they must suppress their deepest desires and adopt a costume of convention in order to survive the brutality of intolerance. Whenever the men are interviewed on the city streets during the day, they are dressed in typical male attire. When interviewed at night or within the safety of the ballroom, the men emerge from their heterosexual costumes and adopt either feminine or androgynous appearances. Livingston exposes both identities to her viewers, demonstrating how these men must construct identities according to their environments.
The sequence begins with a gay man’s voiceover stating, “When you’re gay, you monitor everything you do.” His words are followed by images of middle to upper class white people walking about the streets of New York City. Livingston simultaneously imposes a song, “To Be Real”, over the footage. The upper white class figures on the sidewalk give way to a panel of black transsexuals dressed as demure upper class females. This brief montage closes with a black title screen that reads “REALNESS” in large, blocked font. Livingston’s juxtaposition of “real, well-to-do” females with “imitation, underprivileged” females emphasizes the subjectivity of the perception of “realness”. According to the men of Paris is Burning, “realness” is perceived as a convincing imitation of one’s heterosexual counterpart. To the heterosexual community, though, gender realism is perceived in terms of biological sex. No matter how convincing these men are as women or other members of social classes, their imposed sex and class status can never be completely concealed. No matter how convincing these men appear in their performance attire, society will still perceive them (according to their own subjective perception of “realness”) as pretenders.
The next shot shows seasoned expert Dorian Corey dressing up in her drag costume. As she begins to speak on the nature of “realness”, Livingston provides the viewer with a series of shots that portray ball-goers dressed up in occupational costumes. Corey tells the camera that “realness” is the ability “to blend”. (Later, another ball participant explains, “It’s really a case of going back into the closet” and that “when [one can be] undetectable, those are the femme realist queens”.)
To portray this imperceptible merge into the social sphere, Livingston links four shots of “realness categories” together. The first shows a man dressed up as a college student while behind him an audience applauds as if he has just given a successful speech to his colleagues. Livingston then cuts to a close-up of a man dressed in a military uniform. As he salutes, his face takes on a solemn expression that reads of dedication and patriotism. In this close-up, no audience members or decorations of the ballroom are visible. The third shot captures a man dressed as an upper-class woman. She stands as if she has just made her entrance into the country club, with all eyes on her pristine and opulent attire. To the left of the frame, a small table of audience members watches her pose; however, there is no visible evidence within the frame to suggest the scene takes place within a gaudy ballroom. The final shot in the sequence shows a male executive, waist-up, removing paperwork from his briefcase. His image floods the frame, and (once again) Livingston removes all indications of location from the screen. Livingston’s careful cropping and framing techniques remove the flamboyancy and extravagance of the ball from the background of the subjects, emphasizing that if this person moved into the space of the city streets, he would blend in with other members of society and be convincingly “real”.
This particular sequence makes a strong argument for the relationship between space and identity – that “realness” is defined by one’s environment. Each subject’s attempt to dress up in these costumes of convention makes a statement about the gay community’s longing to fit into traditional society. In the safe environment of the ballroom, these individuals can transform into anyone they want to be, and for one night they can behave as a sort of anti-Cinderella figure (dressing as their truest self in a fantastical environment). However, once the sun rises and the day begins, they revert back to their concealed identities – behaving as a true Cinderella figure each day to blend into the conventions of society and surviving the cruel streets of a predominantly intolerant world.
The film’s presentation of this blurred line reveals that the men of Paris is Burning are the most “real”, and the most “themselves”, when they are participating in the fantastical ball performances. During their performances the men can be the women they dream of being. It is on the streets, in the “real” world, that they must suppress their deepest desires and adopt a costume of convention in order to survive the brutality of intolerance. Whenever the men are interviewed on the city streets during the day, they are dressed in typical male attire. When interviewed at night or within the safety of the ballroom, the men emerge from their heterosexual costumes and adopt either feminine or androgynous appearances. Livingston exposes both identities to her viewers, demonstrating how these men must construct identities according to their environments.
The sequence begins with a gay man’s voiceover stating, “When you’re gay, you monitor everything you do.” His words are followed by images of middle to upper class white people walking about the streets of New York City. Livingston simultaneously imposes a song, “To Be Real”, over the footage. The upper white class figures on the sidewalk give way to a panel of black transsexuals dressed as demure upper class females. This brief montage closes with a black title screen that reads “REALNESS” in large, blocked font. Livingston’s juxtaposition of “real, well-to-do” females with “imitation, underprivileged” females emphasizes the subjectivity of the perception of “realness”. According to the men of Paris is Burning, “realness” is perceived as a convincing imitation of one’s heterosexual counterpart. To the heterosexual community, though, gender realism is perceived in terms of biological sex. No matter how convincing these men are as women or other members of social classes, their imposed sex and class status can never be completely concealed. No matter how convincing these men appear in their performance attire, society will still perceive them (according to their own subjective perception of “realness”) as pretenders.
The next shot shows seasoned expert Dorian Corey dressing up in her drag costume. As she begins to speak on the nature of “realness”, Livingston provides the viewer with a series of shots that portray ball-goers dressed up in occupational costumes. Corey tells the camera that “realness” is the ability “to blend”. (Later, another ball participant explains, “It’s really a case of going back into the closet” and that “when [one can be] undetectable, those are the femme realist queens”.)
To portray this imperceptible merge into the social sphere, Livingston links four shots of “realness categories” together. The first shows a man dressed up as a college student while behind him an audience applauds as if he has just given a successful speech to his colleagues. Livingston then cuts to a close-up of a man dressed in a military uniform. As he salutes, his face takes on a solemn expression that reads of dedication and patriotism. In this close-up, no audience members or decorations of the ballroom are visible. The third shot captures a man dressed as an upper-class woman. She stands as if she has just made her entrance into the country club, with all eyes on her pristine and opulent attire. To the left of the frame, a small table of audience members watches her pose; however, there is no visible evidence within the frame to suggest the scene takes place within a gaudy ballroom. The final shot in the sequence shows a male executive, waist-up, removing paperwork from his briefcase. His image floods the frame, and (once again) Livingston removes all indications of location from the screen. Livingston’s careful cropping and framing techniques remove the flamboyancy and extravagance of the ball from the background of the subjects, emphasizing that if this person moved into the space of the city streets, he would blend in with other members of society and be convincingly “real”.
This particular sequence makes a strong argument for the relationship between space and identity – that “realness” is defined by one’s environment. Each subject’s attempt to dress up in these costumes of convention makes a statement about the gay community’s longing to fit into traditional society. In the safe environment of the ballroom, these individuals can transform into anyone they want to be, and for one night they can behave as a sort of anti-Cinderella figure (dressing as their truest self in a fantastical environment). However, once the sun rises and the day begins, they revert back to their concealed identities – behaving as a true Cinderella figure each day to blend into the conventions of society and surviving the cruel streets of a predominantly intolerant world.
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