Angel (Joseph Cornell, 1957, USA)

Joseph Cornell’s 1957 film Angel, can at first glance, be a deceptively simplistic experience. At approximately 3 minutes running time, the film appears to be little more than the modest record of a few small sections of a graveyard in Flushing, Queens, New York City[1]. Throughout, there are only two central images that recur: a large funerary statue of an angel and a reflecting pool surrounded by flowers that are filmed at various angles and distances. No graves are shown and no people appear in the film. There is no attempt at a narrative of any kind and no credits, merely the succession of 17 shots with no soundtrack. In fact, one could almost mistake the film as something of a camera test that just happened to take place in a graveyard were it not for several notable elements. Firstly, the film bears the distinct marks of a clear method, both in its compositional and in its structural approach and secondly, the sum total of the imagery establishes an evident preoccupation with time, beauty and, through their connection in this setting: mortality. The viewer, if nothing else, will surely recognize that the film is beautiful in many ways, but a closer examination of exactly what constitutes this reaction reveals many of the true depths that Angel has to offer.

The most immediate fact that becomes apparent when viewing Angel is its complete reliance on the photographic image for all of its effects. Like most of the films of Stan Brakhage (who Cornell knew and worked with on the film Centuries of June) the film does not utilize a soundtrack of any kind. The viewer must thus analyze the emotional/intellectual responses the film elicits completely in terms of its imagery. This examination of images is where a connection between Cornell and Brakhage’s methodology might seem to diverge, for while the latter’s imagery is often dense, frenetic and multi-layered, Cornell’s shots are simple, easy to comprehend, and presented with elongated duration. (The average shot length of the film is 11 seconds.) Where much of Brakhage’s imagery blurs by, disorienting and challenging the eye’s usual methods of seeing, the extended duration of Cornell’s shots allows for and seems to invite additional reflection from the audience. Indeed, the word reflection could be used to define what much of the film’s purpose is: the film is about reflections of the mind as well as the physical reflections presented to us in reality. The idea of physical reflection, its manifestation due to natural light and its alteration of physical surfaces is primary to our understanding of the beauty and meaning of the film. Despite the more straight-forward representation of images in Angel, Cornell is as much concerned with surfaces and the play of light on and through them as Brakhage was in his own work.

What may at first seem to be ordinary shots of flowers, water and leaves, pretty yet unremarkable, upon closer inspection, yield a wealth of visual information. Cornell meticulously arranges multiple levels of depth and planes of view within the frame simultaneously: there is a constant interplay between flatness and depth, dark and light and movement and stillness in almost every shot. The way the individual shots are sequenced especially draws attention to this: first we are presented with the “real” trees as they are in physical reality (shot 1-2, behind the angel) and then the reflection of them (shots 3-5) in the fountain's pool. Afterward, a combination of real (flowers) and reflection (pool) are shown existing in the same space (shot 7). This logical progression of imagery emphasizes the relation of the true, physical objects with their artificial representations and the disparity between them.

In some images, as in shot 3, where the reflection at first appears to be the only “reality” shown us, in the following shot its artificiality is revealed by falling drops of rain, which, through their distortion, alert us to the imitative quality of the water. Other methods are also employed to create this impression of artificial representation but unlike the work of men such as Brakhage, Connor and Solomon who physically deconstructed/manipulated the actual strips of celluloid, Cornell makes use of objects within the photographed environment for his effects. There is a temperament of naturalism present in Cornell’s work that seems to shun the sort of corporeal interference preferred by other traditional avant-garde artists. Where scratched emulsions and disruption of the frame-line are brandished by them for anti-illusionist concepts, Cornell applies the natural tools at his disposal for similar ideas. In Angel the floating leaves of the fountain (notably below and above the surface) successfully limit the depth of the image as much as any synthetic methods that could have been exercised. This flatness of the reflected image in the pool reveals its limitations and illusion as a “real” image: exactly as the physical manipulation of photography reveals to us the artificiality of a filmic image (Brian L Frye’s Oona’s Veil would be one such example).

Rather than distorting the images to illustrate their illusory qualities, Cornell emphasizes these qualities through the objects themselves that are photographed. He makes the clear assessment that the transitory nature of reality and time can be witnessed by simply viewing the world around us. The spiritual quality of the film has specific symbolic reference: the significance of the objects shot deal directly with the impermanence of time in relation to immovable foundational forces. The one object that remains static throughout the film is the angelic statue. To further cement this idea, the statue is continuously juxtaposed against or with imagery that is moving, mutable or changing: trees, wind, clouds, flowers and light, all in continual flux. Where these objects are transient, the angel remains unmoved and is given structural prominence through its position in the series of shots. The film opens and closes with two consecutive shots of the angel and two other shots of it recur at intervals of roughly every four shots within the film. Therefore, the angel is always present, always firm, where the realities of everyday life constantly pass, subordinate through time. That these profound observations on life and our human perception of it can be experienced in a film lasting little over three minutes is a wonderful testament to the personal opportunities afforded by the film medium and to Joseph Cornell’s unique appropriation and recognition of this fact.

A brief summary of the film’s shots with approx duration:

Shot 1 – ANGEL, from front angle. Trees in back. (15 sec)

Shot 2 – ANGEL, seen from left. (12 sec)

Shot 3 – Fountain’s pool, reflection of trees. Water is still. (11)

Shot 4 – CU pool, with ripples. (11)

Shot 5 – 2^nd CU ripples continue. (13)

Shot 6 – ANGEL medium. Trees blow behind (7)

Shot 7 – Only Panning shot: flowers by pool. Light at end. Longest shot of film. (18)

Shot 8 – Rain drops fall in pool. Wind visible. (12)

Shot 9 – CU of Pool: leaves float, still. (10)

Shot 10 – CU, closer in pool: leaves move. Slight ripple. (11)

Shot 11 – ANGEL in background. Foreground: leaf blowing. Dusk, light lower. (13)

Shot 12 – Fountain reflected in itself. Leaves still (10)

Shot 13 – 2^nd shot of above. Light’s reflection noticeable. (9)

Shot 14 - 3^rd shot above, closer. (10)

Shot 15 – Fountain’s pool: leaf moving (on surface and below) (12)

Shot 16 – ANGEL: backlit, silhouette. Clouds moving (6)

Shot 17 – ANGEL from behind, wings. Clouds moving (16)

approx 196 seconds

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[1] This basic information and the viewing of the film are derived from the Magical Worlds of Joseph Cornell DVD accompanying the Shadowplay Eterniday” book by Voyager press, 2003.

The full film has since been posted on the internet and can seen at either youtube.com or vodpod.com

Nashville (1975) Robert Altman

"...For he that is least among you all, the same shall be great."

-- Luke 9:48 (KJV)

Ordet (1955) Carl Th. Dreyer

"So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. O Death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"

-- 1 Corinthians 15:54-55 (KJV)

The World's Greatest Sinner

"Jesus said unto him, It is written again, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God."

-- Matthew 4:7 (KJV)

Lawrence of Arabia Pt. I, or the Glory of Camels

   When I first saw Lawrence of Arabia, it was after many years of subconsciously knowing of its greatness, its grandeur, its beauty, its sand. It is true, that one can know about all these things well enough by cultural osmosis, but actually seeing the thing is something darn well else. Lawrence of Arabia is perhaps the prime popular example: a film to be experienced with all of the senses, made for all of the senses, by a master director. I think David Lean was so great that his greatness ultimately became the only criticism that could be leveled at him (more to come on this later). Watching something on the scale of Lawrence is to witness size as beauty; freedom from filmic restrictions of space. And of course, the glory of camels. Yes, the camels. When I first saw Lawrence, more than the awe of the infinite desert, the awe of the endless expanses of sky, I was struck by the awe of the camel. The scenes of merely watching men riding, talking, clearly perched atop bouncing camels filled me with such delight and moreover, affection for the whole project that they became emblematic of the entire film. For, beyond the desert, to see a camel's lip flap as he trots is to witness eternity as well.

   The presence of the camels in the film is so unique and wonderful that it stands for a few things immediately: One, the first perhaps unconscious revelation is, I think as one sees the camels amidst the huge sweeping valleys of sand, that 'Hey, this is all real!' The camels represent the film’s dedication to reality and on a deeper level, the extraordinary precision and grace of David Lean as a director. Part of the excitement of Lean's (epic) pictures is precisely this "Hey, he really did it!" quality. The established trust of his style is that on the one hand his subjects (at least in the later years) were unquestionably huge, yet also unquestionably real. There aren't any process shots in Lawrence (the beach at Aqaba looks like one, but that's only because the sunset photography is so good it looks unreal), Damascus and the other cities were really built and this is one of the first elemental, (sometimes subconscious) frameworks of a Lean movie. Golly, that bridge really did blow up in Bridge on the River Kwai, and it wasn't a miniature either! Not that reality per se means anything, but within the other glories of Lean, it is fundamental and one of his trademarks; I'll call it the Reality of Scale. The scale of the Babylon set in Intolerance is impressive, so are the sets in The Ten Commandments and Ben-Hur, but Lawrence of Arabia's grandness knows no artificiality (as theirs sometimes do). The camels are frequently taken for granted, but a moment of objective thought confirms their specialness. To call Lean’s film gleeful might seem a paradox, considering the often overbearing control of his cinematic style, but on second look it’s only the frame that is noticeably rigid, the contents are full of vibrating wonder. Most of Lawrence is consistent visually: Rigorously-framed groups of men against a split vista of pale blue and brown on real camels (made more apparent by their frequent grunts), but the sense of discovery within the frames enlivens them. There is a constant marriage of firm, obstinate cinematography with vibrant liberating imagery. The opening motorcycle ride is a key example. Often the rigidity of the cinematography works as a spring board for surprisingly kinetic motions, as in the early shooting at the well. These images conjure the unique mixture of feelings Lawrence evokes: breadth, dignity, wonder, adventure, folly and affection.

   But to get back to the camels; the realness of animals onscreen makes for a particularly unique emotional reaction between screen and viewer. Many have appropriated this for various effects, but the subtle use of David Lean's affects me most, I think. The direct emotional value of animals on film can be used irresponsibly, emotionally and morally. The powerful emotional effect that the abuse of animals, for instance, has when portrayed, is frequently felt as discomfiting exploitation, irresponsible manipulation. When Godard had the pig in Weekend (actually) killed it gave the film an even more overtly sinister feeling, a slaughterhouse horror show. And one of the most lauded films of Bresson, Au Hazard Balthazar, stars a donkey who undergoes various torments and slights until his death in a pasture among sheep. This is another example of a film that makes me morally uncomfortable due to a morbidity in tone that upsets the feeling of purity and beauty sought. One can easily feel emotionally set-up in a film of this kind and it works against a pure reaction. I much prefer the ubiquitous camels of Lawrence of Arabia. They are just there, they just exist, humorously, absurdly, magnificently. They're part of the story like the horses of cowboy movies, and as we watch them trek through the sand, and kneel grudgingly to let Omar Sharif on and off, they provoke reverence and mirth by the lack of emphasis. There are few humorous camel hijinks to warm us up to the strange other-wordly creatures, they simply appear in the desert with Lawrence from the outset and we are left at our leisure to appreciate them and stare.

Nashville, a Preface

   Let there be light indeed. Let there be light in and upon all of us.

   Ordet and Nashville are my two favorite films. Why? Well I’ve thought a lot about it, and the reason is that they are both incredibly kind films. The scene where Peter the Tailor realizes he must ask for forgiveness from Morten Borgen at the end of Ordet is the only film sequence that has ever almost made me cry just thinking about it. The beauty of the sequence and the beauty of Dreyer in general (God Bless his soul, in heaven now, playing chess with Chesterton) is in the understanding of what the action means for the person performing it. The fullness of the idea of Christian charity, of love, forgiveness and peace (as well as human weakness) is at the heart of the sequence and the film. Dreyer knows how profound this is for the Christian who truly means it, who truly feels it, and Ordet is an evocation of the people who believe in the Love of God sincerely and attempt to emulate it.
    Nashville is the opposite in style from Ordet, but equally Christian in its view of life. Fundamentally, the film is the celebration of its characters and by extension, of people in general. Nashville is one of the most joyous films ever made, a constant exultation of the wonderful variety and interest that human beings provide. It captures the feeling of loving people, of loving your friends, of the excitement that meeting people brings more than any other film I’ve seen. Maybe the best film review I’ve ever read, as far as understanding what a movie means, is Pauline Kael’s review of Nashville. While so many others viewed it as a work of cynicism, disparaging in its view of life and of the flaws of its characters, she understood that it was ultimately uplifting. The sin of the characters is the sin of all human beings, and Altman’s approach is to capture the dignity that we all possess, despite these waves of confusion. In her amazingly perceptive analogy to Joyce’s Ulysses, Kael states that in the way the film is constructed, we don’t shy away from the sadness we are shown, it’s not repugnant as it often is in other movies, we accept it as a piece of the day. This view of the world, with an awareness of the sadness inherent in all life, but with an understanding and dedication to the deeper delight that informs all creation is what Nashville is about.

   …Have another look at the church sequence from the film if you get a chance.