A long time ago, I set out to put down on paper a long discourse on what, to me, defined reproducible, mass-consumed art (i.e. print, film, and music). I called it “published art,” and when I sat down to write, I had determined that the essential attraction between man and art is based in the struggle out of which this art is borne. While I never finished this treatise, here’s something I wrote in the introductory paragraphs:
"The point that I hope to approach, ultimately, is that published art connects strongly with people for one particular reason: because the personal genesis of this type of art, and the struggle of its creator to find its place in the canon of work that already exists, is the same as our struggle, as individuals, to find a personal definition as a person, and to retain our individuality while at the same time trying to be socially accepted into the larger societal framework."
I can’t help but cringe at the phrase “personal definition as a person,” so let’s just pretend I swapped “unique” for “personal.” Let’s also cut the word “socially.” Those things aside, I still think it’s a pretty valid statement – though I think if I sat down right now to work on the same kind of essay, I’d focus on a different sort of struggle. I’m really fascinated by the tension between composing a work for oneself, and composing a work that will be experienced by uncountable strangers. The reason I’ve included the quote above is that I’m not entirely sure that the two ideas are really very different. Nevertheless, at the moment, I’m more engaged with the latter idea. It’s an old platitude that “what we write for ourselves is always more satisfying than what we write for others.” But I also find myself wondering, for example, how musical artists with intensely personal lyrics can possibly convey those lyrics to their band mates for the sake of performance, let alone to individuals in their audience. Similarly, I’ve heard of auteur film classes that pose the question, “what was the film that Director X spent his career trying to make?” and found myself asking, “if his career was about making one particular film, are we – the audience – even relevant?”
What I think I’m trying to say is that it seems like either we – the audience – must cheapen the art, or vice-versa. If the creation of art is a personal process, than our own unique interpretations seem far removed from whatever end result is created – maybe even implying that our interpretation of a piece of art is itself an act of artistic creation, but certainly of something completely different. It still leaves us de-valued in some way. On the other hand, giving up, say, a song about a cherished memory to be consumed by strangers seems to sell the song short as well, no matter how loved. So where does the truth lie? I’m not sure. I called it a tension, that’s all. But it seems like maybe that tension is the struggle that really gives “published art” a lot of its value.
Anyways, a lot of these questions were raised for me recently after I watched Gus Van Sant’s film “Paranoid Park.” I thoroughly enjoyed the film – the sentiments it expressed were pure and unadulterated by commercialism or even professionalism. Nevertheless, the movie immediately associated itself in my mind with two other films – Tarsem’s “The Fall” and Charlie Kaufman’s “Synecdoche, New York” – that I enjoyed considerably less. The association comes from the fact that all three seem to be inescapably the work of their particular directors.
I think a brief summary of each is in order:
“The Fall” is about a movie stuntman who, while in the hospital after a stunt gone awry, befriends a young girl who is also a resident of the hospital. Despondent due to the circumstances of a failing romantic relationship, the stuntman tells the girl a fantastical story to gain her trust, and manipulate her into helping him commit suicide.
“Synecdoche, New York” is about a playwright who wins a MacArthur Genius Grant and, in the wake of a rift with his wife and failing health, uses it to create a play that mimics life within a giant miniature of the city of New York. There would be more to say in summary if this wasn’t a Charlie Kaufman film.
“Paranoid Park” follows a high school skateboarder who accidentally commits a serious crime while out with an older friend. The film follows the psychological consequences of his secret, primarily by studying his relationships with his family, best friend, and girlfriend.
Probably more important to me than the plot summaries, however, are “directorial summaries” addressing the sensibilities that mark each director’s work. I’ve decided to give brief plot summaries because I think it’s important to note that each film has a premise with room for satisfying plot and character development. It is each director’s particular aesthetic style (as well as co-writing credits) that makes the biggest difference to me.
Tarsem is known for his unique visual flair, and “The Fall” is a beautiful film to watch. There are numerous shots that create an incredible sense of composition, color, and movement… but I never managed to find the soul underneath the beauty. As the stuntman’s story becomes wilder and wilder, each new twist seems designed only to set up a new shot – connecting the audience with the stuntman’s emotional state is, at best, an afterthought.
Similarly, “Synecdoche, New York” is another Charlie Kaufman mind-bender (we’ll go with the family friendly term here, though it’s a little less accurate), though it is his first directorial effort. The acting is solid, the film itself is very imaginatively constructed… but when the credits roll, the first words running through my mind were “self-indulgent.” I knew there was a point lurking underneath everything that happened, and I even felt like I glimpsed it from time to time – but I never felt like Kaufman was particularly interested in letting us in on it. I didn’t feel like it went over my head; I felt like Charlie Kaufman didn’t make a film where communicating to the audience was a very high priority. It’s one thing to sacrifice artistic intent at the alter of being “crowd-pleasing” but it’s another thing entirely to forsake the crowd. Kaufman’s films are never easy on the audience but they usually contain truths that make them worth the effort.
Finally, Van Sant’s film continues to ply themes that he’s worked with for some time: young men, father-figures, secret uniqueness, etc. The method with which these themes are explored, however, is notable. For one, the visual style of “Paranoid Park” is remarkably “lazy,” for lack of a better word. The quality and type of film used varies throughout, but perhaps more interesting is the fact that the point of focus for shots is often not the point where the action lies. The development of the plot is similarly unconventional, as it unfolds in a non-linear, almost circular fashion; various scenes are replayed and extended or truncated to reveal more of what the protagonist is dealing with. Van Sant is conducting an experiment with his own well-known interests.
The point I’m trying to convey is that in watching each film, it feels as if we are dealing with the director himself in a way that is more transparent than is typical. And this fact, if we accept it, raises a lot of interesting questions about the value of each film. I left “The Fall” feeling as if Tarsem made beautiful images but forgot to make a beautiful film; I left “Synecdoche, New York” feeling like there were some very noble ideas lurking under the surface, but I never got let in on the joke; I left “Paranoid Park” feeling as if Gus Van Sant had married his developing aesthetic and thematic interests with an interesting plot in such a way as to help me really understand what the main character of the film was feeling.
Then I really started thinking.
What I came to realize was that I felt that each film stumbled and/or succeeded for the exact same reason: all the directors chose to let a lot of themselves into their work. Too much, even. And then I started to wonder how that could even be a criticism – not because it seemed unfair (I tend to think that if a film is unsatisfying, its unsatisfying, and that’s a valid criticism regardless of the reason… at least on a personal level), but rather because of the implications of what it meant to be a director, what it means about creating films. How could I, in good conscience, ask any artist to distance himself from his creation?
Then again, if said artist is going to commoditize his work, how could I not ask him to make it accessible?
So if the struggle of the artist is to step back from his work enough to allow it to speak to others, and the struggle of the audience is to live on faith enough to allow to artist to give himself to his work, maybe the idea of struggle I first raised really is the primary component of art’s appeal. Maybe we can come full circle. Maybe we can say that the beauty of art comes from the personal worth it engenders through its experience, as well as from the difficulty in fitting it into that place where it can be a medium for shared experience of the artist and the audience.
In relation to the three films I’ve discussed, then, I suppose that the implication is that Tarsem played things a bit too close to the vest, by making his pretty pictures and a story that mattered to him, but neglecting to determine if this story was sufficiently significant for the audience; Kaufman threw himself into directing his first film but got too caught up in his own labyrinthine persona to leave enough space for audience interpretation; and Van Sant managed, via a simple story and straightforward dialogue, to allow his experimental storytelling techniques to enhance, rather than blur, the clarity of his ideas.
I can go with that, albeit with the major caveat that it’s one hell of a subjective explanation.
Actually, it’s a subjective example. I really do feel ok about it. Because I think the fact is, after our subjective interpretations take hold, we either sympathize, or do not sympathize with the director and his ideas. Apparently, I just don’t do odes to stuntmen very well.
Teenage homicide I can do.
In other news, I saw “The Reader” recently, with a good friend, with whom I had been making a joint venture to see the Best Picture nominees. I came out of the film feeling that it was well acted and directed, but without much of a point. I didn’t connect emotionally to the core of the film. My friend thought it was very good. This is what I said to him:
“I understand the technical value of the film. I admire the acting, direction, etc. But I don’t feel changed by it at all. It was painful to watch the characters go through what they went through, but it didn’t do anything beyond that. And that means that it was just emotional masochism.”
My friend said “Is that bad?”
I said “yes.”
I’ll stand by that statement as non-subjective. The value in art comes from its transforming power. And I can’t think of a transformation that occurs without struggle or pain – but the transformation makes it all worthwhile. Without the change, though, it’s just more pain. Perhaps the pain of sitting through a movie with no soul, or the pain of not being privy to the joke… but pain nonetheless. One-sided pain. The kind that lacks tension.
And that’s when art is useless - because without tension, or struggle, it is unrelatable.
