Panorama:
Four Films by Barbara Sternberg by Rae Davis
Recently
I spent time re-viewing films by Barbara Sternberg, films that I had seen over
a period of years. I wanted to refresh my memory because we are working
together on a collaborative project and because she's asked me to be part of a
show of hers where she'll show her films and I work of mine that relates to
them. We recognize in each other affinities of interest. I looked at A Trilogy (1985), Tending Towards the Horizontal (1988), Through and Through (1991) and Beating (1994).
A bird's eye view
The
maker of these films is tormented by questions about identity, time, justice,
victimization, violence, love. When I say 'tormented,' I mean to suggest the
emotional depth and psychological cost of the probing, the need to embody ideas
in a context made vivid by feeling, the anxious urge toward resolution, the frustration of coming up short. Sternberg's films are
films of passion, hope, love and despair.
Words
that describe the films: dense, full, seething, explosive, pushing the edges of
the frame. In a way, it often seems that images are not selected, but caught,
implying a world much bigger and infinitely more complex than what the eye of
the camera can see. There is the knowable (or seeable, touchable) — specific,
fleeting, electric with moving light and shadow — and the unknowable, all that
lies beyond, around and under what is seen momentarily.
When
I suggest that what is outside the film is palpable in a way that affects your
experience of it, I don't mean to say that the films are haphazard and
anarchic. Not at all. But Sternberg constructs her
films in a deeply intuitive way, and the viewer is left to roam around in them
until areas of interest and overlapping themes emerge. Like all works of art of
enduring interest, a Sternberg film presents fields of force and energy, of
multiple possibilities. It's a question of sinking into it, absorbing it
viscerally, soaking it up intellectually and emotionally. A
whole body/brain response. Nothing less.
The
embattled intellectual and emotional ground of the films and their often hectic imagery is informed by two important facts:
Sternberg is a feminist and Jewish. Both states of being pose intractable
problems in specific ways related to personal experience. But what is important
is that the paradoxical nature of these problems is intrinsic to all human
experience. Sternberg is driven to confront the world from an informed place,
her own, but that place contains us all. Her films go searchingly beyond a narrow
focus.
Prominent
in Sternberg's films is a formal presentation of language, sentences printed on
the screen, as opposed to language as dialogue, description, personal letters,
etc. (also present in equal measure and readily accepted by the viewer). The
former is noticeable by its difference; it gains weight, as if, through
metaphor or some kind of synthesizing statement, light will be shed, a
definitive word will be given. But even though these statements, quotations
from artists or thinkers (often on feminist issues), seem to function as
intellectual context or ballast, I tend to see them as part of the conflicted
energy so prevalent in Sternberg's films. As much emotional
as intellectual elements. Often the viewer has time only to scan
the quotation, picking up fragments.
The
quotations and statements promote the overt recognition that language is power.
It will persuade, it will convince; certain statements seems to be, and are,
points of illumination. There is a wish to trust language, even when (or
especially when) poetic, as a rational way to communicate. But what the film do
is different: present a world so slippery, so filled with gaps, so basically
resistant to measured phrases, that language is subsumed in the restless
imagery and rhythms of the on-going time and space of the film. It becomes part
of the general sense of yearning, of longing to show and to know that is
palpable in the films.
Sternberg's
rhythms, important to the experience of each films,
are what I would call questing. Their pulse, change, and thrust reach for the
viscera. Stillness and rest occur, particularly to frame a speaker (Through and Through) or a situation (the
kitchen scenes in A Trilogy), often
as a recognition ('this is it') or a conclusion (final image of house framed by
tree branch in Tending Towards
the Horizontal), but these restful moments are transitory. The camera is
always on the move. It functions as searcher (what's here? have I see it all?
e.g.. image of viewers with binoculars in Through and Through, doorways and roofs
of Tending Towards the Horizontal),
coming back to the beginning and starting again, re-traveling the same path but
with a change in scale, direction, colour. Your body
goes with it. You, too, wish for binoculars.
Our
eyes shift, veer, and select from their environment, always failing to see it
in its entirety. We experience these often violent shifts unconsciously as
flowing and seamless, creating our ordinary view of the world. In the time span
of Sternberg's films, the shifts and leaps are made conscious and palpable. We
are made aware of the search and selection involved in seeing, and of its
incompleteness. This phenomenon is important to the vital thrust of the films
and lends poignancy to the effort: the need to know. The camera also functions
as architect or builder: a pile-up of images (the houses, trees in Tending Towards the Horizontal), all
different, all the same, until the accumulation suggests something beyond the
material presence of the images (in Tending
a merging of the natural and built worlds, the amber glow of houses lit in the
dark suggesting a primal hearth in a black forest, a retrieval of our lost
intimate spaces, an emotional return to the origins of shelter, comforted by
the warmth of the home hearth, but also exposing our vulnerability. What first
appeared as stone fortresses, substantial houses, safe homes, melts into the
edgeless dark where only the hearth fire burns).
Spatially,
the overwhelming impact of the films is one which opposes far and near, veering
from one to the other, with much less interest in the middle distance. The
close-up, near, often highly activated surfaces invite examination and
questions. They demand attention in the present moment. Time is collapsed.
Views in the distance are more relaxed; 'far' somehow allows more time for
reflection. But these more ample spaces can also be agitated (in Beating, the
turning bar over the landscape and setting (or rising) sun.
I
think of 'breathing' spaces. The close, unroomy space
is like the indrawn breath, which can even be a gasp or constriction; it has
tension. The far, open space (the view at the other end of the binoculars),
like the exhaled breath, releases tension, creates time. The spatial 'feel' of
the films (always tied to movement and rhythm), as I see it, fits exactly the
larger architecture which sets out opposing forces which, in turn, are
indelibly intertwined, parts of the same organism.
In
fact, to move to a smaller scale and a different analogy, Sternberg's films
constantly remind me of the human body where all the parts can move in
different ways and at different speeds, where the mind questions, seeks
direction and yearns for: what? Resolution, insight, justice, love - all as
transitory, changeable and flickering as the film's frames moving through
projected light or the dancer moving through space with the goal of moving
through space.
Close-ups
First
a swimmer ready to dive, then a runner on a country road begins and (almost)
ends A Trilogy. The camera follows
him, varying the angle of viewing; we understand him as goal-oriented, pursuing
a horizontal path in a defined direction. You wonder if this is a life path; if
so, it is anxious and difficult. You realize that the film medium can keep him
running forever. The rhythm is regular, though coloured
by the strain of the run, heavy breathing and footfalls. Time is present tense.
Then
there are kitchen scenes where two people, the wife pregnant, are observed in
their morning rituals over a period of time, until at last the baby appears in
a highchair. Architecture here is more complicated than in the long opening
scene of the runner. The place doesn't change, but movement within it, though
predictable, is more varied. The mix is more complex. there
is dialogue, clothes change, objects in the environment change place, appear
and disappear. The radio news relate details of the
ongoing Air
The
third set of scenes involves a young boy, about twelve, investigating ancient
English burial mounds, rolling down a hill and climbing up. Separated form his
mother at boarding school, he writes to her and she responds, missing him. But
now the mix has become much more volatile and potent, driven by a fierce energy.
Images of birth, water, blood, of the ancient mounds, of the boy reduced to a
silhouette on top (echoed in the last phase of the runner as he becomes a blur
at the top of a hill), all of these and more are layered and folded into one
another. The mound, a death monument, looks like a breast or pregnant belly.
The boy repeatedly rolls and rolls, his spiraling motion conjuring up the image
of a life force that is almost uncontainable. A coiled
spring. A whirlpool. A
vortex. The history of human kind is before our eyes in the primal
rituals of birth and death, made to exist with and inside each
other.
Experiencing
this film is much richer and more mysterious than any description can suggest.
It shifts from line to fold and twist and back again. It carries all with it,
almost breathlessly, increasing in complexity on all levels — rhythm, images,
sound/language, themes — and then exhales in the steady pace of the runner who
disappears in a blur. And then: a long series of questions rolls up, black
words on white ground. The austere format — a surprise — demands mental effort.
The questions, formally arranged and presented in
list-like formation, strike out in all directions. So many
concerns, so much to solve, so much to learn.
Is
this list another model of complexity, layered like the imagery of the body of
the film? Is it a statement about the familiar sanity of language, even in the
interrogatory mode? Is it there to encourage an intellectual interpretation of
the film we've just seen? Is it some kind of coda which give a final twist
to the whole emotional experience, as if it had a flip side composed of
articulate questions without answers? Is it there, so close to the very fast
cutting and framing of the earlier parts of the film, in the hope that the questions
get coloured by the visceral drive of what we've
seen, thereby going beyond the confine of language? In other words, does the
list imply that consideration of these questions deserves the same kind of
energy and passion, a whole body energy, not just
intellectual investment? Or is the list a combination of these? Or something else altogether? The overwhelmed viewer is left
with a potent puzzle, direct and indirect at the same time.
Through and Through seems to me to be about
wounds, pain, and guilt. As if the body were pierced
through by an outside force or attacked form within by exploding killer cells.
Woven through and around this painful core, but never quite containing it, are
scenes of exploration, people at the ship's rail scanning the barren Arctic
landscape with binoculars. The camera's choreography
again brings emotional force to these themes. All through (except for some
staged scenes) it moves this way and that way and the other way - up, down, and
sideways. Space expands (out to water and land) and contracts (in tight focus,
a pair of red stiletto heels turning on a small square) and we see, as if
through the changing focus of the binoculars, far out and close in. In one
sequence, we are hearing about breast cancer; we are seeing skiers in a snowy
landscape moving in opposite directions. Jump-cutting emphasizes the pulling
away from each other. The surface scene is colourful,
attractive, but the movement, combined with the text, has the emotional feel of
tearing or rending. There is a lightness about it —
the sunny day, the snow, the graceful slides of the skiers in their brightly coloured gear. But darkness is there, too, under the
surface, folded into the scene, expressed through movement and rhythm, as well
as text.
The
struggle embodied in the skier scene is confirmed with another of a tug of war
where young men strive mightily against each other with no resolution in sight.
All the energy and struggle brings only an impasse. And in one of Through and Through's most prominent scenes, characterized
by violent camera movement, two young people, male and female, disagree and
fight angrily. It's night-time; the Jewish star is seem
(a reminder of the earlier holocaust scenes where guilt, denial, and pain are
expressed by two present generation young people), the light suggests fire and
burning. Faces, arms, bodies flash before our eyes in a whirl. Conflict and
pain are highly visible. Not only that. New wounds are being inflicted.
Compared
to the earlier films, Beating
turns up the heat in every way. It's as if the third part of A Trilogy, with its volatile mix of
images, rhythms, and thematic concerns, had been subjected to much more
pressure and emerged as a higher density film altogether. Beating begins with
thunderclaps. War, competitiveness, grief, self-questioning are introduced
immediately. Silent statues, representations of conflict and conquest, and an
opposing set depicting the female body, are animated by screams, drums, cheers
and shots on the soundtrack. A particularly resonant sequence involves the
stone monument of a stag (a sculptor's symbolic vision of male beauty and
power) attacked by the camera — rising, falling, lurching, veering - as if the
stag were trampling someone or something to death. OR, as if
the stag itself were being hunted and killed, writhing in turbulent death
throes, backed by the loud, victorious drum beats of the conquerors.
Shortly
after these passages of orgasmic fury are brief passages of release - a
sunflower, a colour sequence of flowers, light, a bee.
Then renewed passages of tension and rage. Cunt, bitch,
bastard. The surface of the film is scratched. We hear a violent
exhalation, the heavy breathing of orgasm, and yells of fear and anger. And following that, a calm passage (with dark undertones) of an
eclipse before other angry passages about the oppression of women and
patriarchal tyranny.
Beating exists as a fluctuation of
layers moving in, out and around each other in a loose and unpredictable
pattern of tension and release. The metaphor is one of mounting sexual
excitement, orgasm, and release. 'Beating' suggests not only the gestures of
sexual stimulation/masturbation and the themes of torture or conquest, but also
the vital energy of the life force, blood coursing through the body pumped by the
beating heart.
Beating attempts to represent the
enigma of the life force in all its intensity and mystery. A particularly
poignant and powerful image occurs near the end of the film. Water courses to
the right and through the middle another finger of water penetrates it,
coursing to the left. Positive and negative exposures are involved - a note of
melancholy. Here the opposing forces are part of each other; at the same time
they are separate. The penis penetrates the vagina in an act of union, the vagina
enfolds the penis. But each is, always, a separate physical entity. In many
ways, the image of the forward/backward aggressively flowing water embodies
Sternberg's vision of the world, a vision represented in all her work.
Through the binoculars
In
constantly presenting the struggle of opposing forces, Sternberg treats them
not so much as polarizations, but as inextricably mixed,
parts of the same continuum. This becomes truer with each succeeding film. Clash and closeness. Sternberg's complex investigation of
this mystery, its endless repercussions and variations, is challenging and
revelatory. The films are coreless. You don't go to the heart of the film. You
swim in it.
Sternberg's
films convey urgency. It's as if we lived in a world we haven't even looked at
- as if, in an important way, we haven't even experienced its beauty and pain.
I like to think of the films as dances, potently gestural
- muscular - the body moving, totally engaged with its own effort, creating
areas in space that are filled with human energy - changeable - pierced by
light and colour, clothed in darkness and shadow,
questioning sequences already created, re-working, informed always by a depth
of curiosity and commitment that is somehow graspable in the ephemeral moment
of its passing.
April
8, 1996