In remarkably literal ways, Her engages the questions this dissertation will ponder about the body, form, sound, and affect. But I’ve turned to this film not simply as a vivid illustration of the interplay between the molar and the molecular, the incarnate and the disembodied, though it is most certainly that. I find that cinema in general is uniquely suited to explore these problems. If as I remarked above vision is most often associated with fixity, simultaneity, and mastery; and hearing with flux, indeterminacy, and uncertainty, then perhaps the philosophical import of cinema lies precisely in the way it brings these two logics, these two epistemologies together.
epistemological clash emerged almost as soon as sound was synchronized with picture. Cinema, of course, was never actually silent; in fact, it was quite noisy, as Rick Altman, Donald Crafton, and others have shown.48 Live music often accompanied the film being projected, sound effects were produced in- house, and actors performed the speaking parts while standing beside the screen. The novelty of sync- sound, therefore, was tied to the tethering of voice and body, and as Spadoni so successfully
demonstrates, that initial linkage was an uncanny one. Perhaps this has to do with the voice’s strong association with the linguistic subject as well as the “excess” of corporeality it supposedly bears. Barthes, as we saw, posited that the sound of one’s voice carries with it a quality he called “grain,” something uniquely individualistic, a residue of the singular body from which it originates.49 And though less attuned to sonic properties, we can detect a similar alignment of voice with individuality or agency when writers speak of one’s need to “find” one’s voice or when marginalized groups seek to raise their
collective voices so as to be “heard,” i.e., recognized. Of course, Derrida critiqued the frequent recourse to the metaphor of speech as being “phonocentric,” of falling prey to what he decried as a false
“metaphysics of presence.”50 Nevertheless, the voice might indeed be one of the most notable cases in western thought where the aural is privileged over and above the visual in what amounts to a metaphor of surface and depth, respectively: what one sees of another is merely the visible, touchable surface, but hidden away within the recesses of the gut and the lungs lies the voice, that invisible production of the body that is imbued with interiority. Doane puts it this way: “the voice, far from being an extension of [the] body, manifests its inner lining. The voice displays what is inaccessible to the image, what exceeds the visible. … The voice … turn[s] the body ‘inside-out.’”51
But if the voice is the province of the body, then the sound of a voice without the accompanying
48 Altman, Silent Film Sound; Donald Crafton, The Talkies: American Cinema’s Transition to Sound, 1926–1931 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1997).
49 Barthes, “The Grain of the Voice” 50 Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, 13. 51 Doane, “The Voice in the Cinema,” 38.
image of the body from whence it originates proves especially troublesome for both the filmgoer and for film theory. Doane echoes the slightly earlier theorization by Pascal Bonitzer52 in her description of unsourced (i.e., not visualized onscreen) voices as “disembodied,”53 an idea that perhaps found its most
famous articulation in Michel Chion’s notion of the “acousmêtre” several years later.54
Framing sounds in terms of (dis)embodiment is significant for three reasons. First, uncertain sounds are often said to possess an air of spectrality, of a realm beyond that of the human. Chion, for example, claims on behalf of the acousmêtre a number of “powers”: ubiquity, panopticism, omniscience, and omnipotence, and notably, these powers are among the same ascribed to the Judeo-Christian deity.55
Second, the characterization of a voice as disembodied highlights a paradox that pertains to all voices, namely, their “in-betweeness.” The voice is a production of the body—specifically the belly, the lungs, the teeth, the tongue, the epiglottis—that exits it at the very moment the utterance comes into being. This is why Lacan lists the voice alongside the mother’s breast, the gaze, and feces as “partial objects,” a “common characteristic” of which “is that they have no specular image.”56 If we pay no mind to the question of the visibility of the utterer, we come to realize that all voices are disembodied: they do not cling to the speaking subject (but they do return to him in the form of sound, a point I take up at greater
52 Pascal Bonitzer, “The Silences of the Voice,” in Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology, ed. Philip Rosen (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986): 319–334.
53 Marie-Claire Ropars-Wuilleumier, “The Disembodied Voice: India Song,” Yale French Studies 60 (1980): 241– 268.
54 Michel Chion, The Voice in Cinema, trans. by Claudia Gorbman (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999); Michel Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, trans. by Claudia Gorbman (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994). Chion’s term derives from the work of musique concrète artists and theorist Pierre Schaeffer. See Pierre Schaeffer, Traité des objets musicaux (Paris: Seuill, 2000).
55 Chion, Voice in Cinema, 24. For other accounts of the spectral unseen voice in contexts other than film, see Steven Connor, Dumbstruck: A Cultural History of Ventriloquism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001); and Brian Kane, Sound Unseen: Acousmatic Sound in Theory and Practice (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014). 56 Jacques Lacan, Écrits: The First Complete Edition in English, trans. by Bruce Fink (New York: W. W. Norton, 2007): 693. For further elaboration on this concept, see also Mladen Dolar, “The Object Voice,” in Gaze and Voice as Love Objects, eds. Renata Salecl and Slavoj Žižek (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1996): 7–31; and Slavoj
Žižek, “’I Hear You with My Eyes’; or, The Invisible Master,” in Gaze and Voice as Love Objects, eds. Renata Salecl and Slavoj Žižek (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1996): 90–128.
length in Chapter 3 in my discussion of Jean-Luc Nancy). Relatedly, and third, the very term
“disembodied voice” itself bears the ocularcentric bias even as its attention to the aural might suggest otherwise, for the anxiety the unseen voice engenders stems not necessarily from the sound of the voice but from its utterer’s invisibility. As Christian Metz claims, “the recognition of a sound leads directly to the question: A sound of what?”57 Metz explains that, more often that not, we seek to identify the source of the sound rather than the aural properties of it. The “disembodied” voice, therefore, poses an
epistemological problem insofar as the source remains cloaked. But as Chion said of the acousmêtre, once the body from whence the voice came is revealed, all its attendant powers instantly dissipate.
As the preceding pages have suggested, however, I am interested in sound’s relationship to disembodiment in far more literal sense. Take Deleuze’s focus on the reception of sounds rather than the sources of them. For him, sensation is fundamentally sonorous in nature. It is rhythmic, vibratory, resonant. In certain instances of intense bodily arousal, of extreme affection, these sonorous sensations carry the power to disintegrate the physical body, to scatter it out in all directions. For this reason, Deleuze champions Bacon, whose paintings, he says, “make visible” not only the invisible, vibratory forces as they set to work upon the body but also the physical deformations they bring about. In this same book, Deleuze contrasts the visual art of painting with the aural art of music. Music, he claims, “strips bodies of the materiality of their presence: it disembodies bodies.” It also, he goes on to say, follows a line of flight that disassembles the body whereas painting remains fixed at the point “where the body escapes from itself.” And this is indeed painting’s great merit. In that moment of escape upon which Bacon’s paintings so insistently seek to capture, “the body discovers the materiality of which it is composed, the pure presence of which it is made, and which it would not discover otherwise.”58
I find something similar at work in the films I take up in this study. However, unlike the frozen moments of figures in the midst of their disintegration we see in Bacon, these cinematic examples render
57 Christian Metz, “Aural Objects,” Yale French Studies 60 (1980): 25. 58 Deleuze, Francis Bacon, 38–39.
the affective passage from solid to molecular (or the inverse) in their full duration. It should by now be clear that my approach to cinematic affect is significantly different from, but not at all unrelated to, studies of embodied spectatorship. While I am entirely sympathetic to such work, in this study, affect is to be found on the screen. I am less interested in the film viewer’s affective changes of state than I am with those of the characters onscreen—hence my insistence on a dual understanding of “form” in the bodily and cinematic senses of the word. By locating affect within the films themselves, my approach resonates in some ways with the “radical formalism” advocated by Eugenie Brinkema in her recent polemic The Forms of the Affects. There, Brinkema lays out the case that scholars of cinematic affect have foregone close textual analysis in favor of an overly general and vague notion of spectator arousal. Such
approaches, Brinkema claims, are “fundamentally incapable of dealing with textual particularities and formal matters,” and she calls for a return to the text itself so that we might “read affects as having form.” As with Brinkema’s, the present study insists on “the formal dimension of affect” and wades through “all the dense details” of particular films so as to find that which is “not apprehendable except through the thicket of formal analysis.”59 That said, I part ways with her overarching claim that affects, in her plural usage, somehow “possess” form and that they “inhere” in form. For me, affect is, following Deleuze and Guattari, that which de-forms and re-forms, that which un-makes and re-makes form. Furthermore, I contend that closely attending to the formal properties of the films considered herein and the de- and re- formations of the human body they present reveal, to paraphrase Deleuze’s claims about Bacon,
something about our own materiality that we might otherwise fail to grasp. As I practice it, close analysis emphasizes films but is ultimately in service of the spectator, for it draws out a lesson about the affective capacities of her or his own body. In this regard, my approach is less akin to Brinkema than to that of Elena del Río, who in a recent book pinpoints affect as it unfolds within bodies on screen. As she writes, “In the gestures and movements of the performing body, incorporeal forces become concrete expression-
59 Eugenie Brinkema, The Forms of the Affects (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014): xiv, 37, Brinkema’s italics.
events that attest to the body’s powers of action and transformation.”60 The value of bodily transformations in cinema, therefore, is that they reveal something of our capacities for the same.
Mixed Bodies
In addition to Her, this study will explore a set of films vastly different from one another that nevertheless exhibit similarities with regard to, first, how they imagine bodies not as concrete and fixed but as malleable and protean, and second, how they tend to use soundful moments to herald or usher in these bodily transformations. As argues Steven Connor, “[s]ound is the realm of metamorphosis,” and it therefore forms the basis of what he calls “a philosophy of mixed bodies.”61 I modify his sentiment
slightly in saying that the films I take up in this dissertation might best be understood as constituting a cinema of mixed bodies. At first blush, my selections would appear to have little in common beyond their contemporaneity. Chapter 2 examines the three features to date by Scottish filmmaker Lynne Ramsay (Ratcatcher [1999], Morvern Callar [2002], and We Need to Talk About Kevin [2011]). In Chapter 3, I turn to Terrence Malick’s lyrical (and divisive) The Tree of Life (2011). Finally, in Chapter 4, I bring scrutiny to Shane Carruth’s mind-bending, sci-fi/love story hybrid Upstream Color (2013). In quite different ways, these films present us, implicitly and explicitly, with alterations of form, be it in the bodily or cinematic sense of the word. Moreover, many of them, most especially The Tree of Life, We Need to Talk About Kevin, and Upstream Color, feature highly “complex” narratives and temporal structures.
Despite their formal ambitions—or, if one likes, their pretensions—, when taken as a whole, these films depart in significant ways from the recent cycle of movies scholars have variously labeled “puzzle films,” “mind-game films,” “delirium cinema,” or “altered states film,”62 all of which tend to focus to a
60 Elena del Río, Deleuze and the Cinemas of Performance: Powers of Affection (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008): 3–4.
61 Connor, “Sounding Out Film”
62 Warren Buckland, “Introduction: Puzzle Plots,” in Puzzle Films: Complex Storytelling in Contemporary Cinema (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2008), 1; Thomas Elsaesser, “The Mind-Game Film,” in Puzzle Films, 13; Patricia Pisters, The Neuro-Image: A Deleuzian Film-Philosophy of Digital Screen Culture (Stanford, CA: Stanford
greater or lesser extent on protagonists whose fractured psyches or “productive pathologies”63 motivate
the films’ deviations from narrative conventions and serve as emblems of a particularly postmodern subjectivity.64 With the cinema of mixed bodies, however, the complex reorganizations of the body and of
the self are not tied to some psychic fugue or pathological condition; rather, in each case, the atomization or splintering of the body is the result of the characters situating themselves within new affective
configurations that trouble the notion of the discrete, self-contained subject. Even though these characters find themselves in highly anomalous situations, they never doubt their own sanity, nor do the films lead the viewer to question the validity of their perceptions or the forthrightness of the filmic discourse as is most often the case in puzzle cinema. Instead, viewers, much like these protagonists, are asked to accept these metamorphoses at face value: explanation and causality are less important than the sensual, affective experience they—and we—endure.
In the films of Lynne Ramsay, The Tree of Life, Upstream Color, and Her, the characters’ bodily reception of external forces enacts a series of corporeal and subjective dissolutions that subsequently calcify into new formations, identities, or selves. In depicting bodies in the midst of scattering and deforming, these movies undermine the presumption of fixity and discreteness we have about our own bodies and those of others that we encounter. In the conceptual language of Deleuze and Guattari, whose ideas run throughout this study, these films help us to see ourselves in less “molar,” “territorialized, or “striated” ways. Cinematic form is plastic, but so too are we. By this I mean, even the most seemingly solid matter is in fact underdoing constant yet humanly imperceptible changes. Indeed, Deleuze and Guattari cite metal as an example of this. “Matter and form have never seemed more rigid than in metallurgy” even though they are in a state of “continuous variation.” Metallurgy thus “bring[s] to light
University Press, 2012), 40; Anna Powell, Deleuze, Altered States, and Film (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007), 57.
63 Thomas Elsaesser, “The Mind-Game Film,” in Puzzle Films: Complex Storytelling in Contemporary Cinema, ed. Warren Buckland (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009): 19–20.
64 Hunter Vaughan, Where Philosophy Meets Film: Godard, Resnais, and Experiments in Modern Thinking (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 202.
… a material vitalism … that is ordinarily hidden or covered, rendered unrecognizable.”65
But if these films reflect similar understandings of the body as fluid or mixed, then what are we to make of their sudden emergence? What is it about the current cultural milieu and historical moment, the past decade especially, that correlates to the manifestations of the self that I identify in this group of films? Examining his own idiosyncratic array of audiovisual texts that span from 2007–2009, Steven Shaviro suggests that there exists “a kind of ambient, free-floating sensibility that permeates society” that has come to characterize “what it feels like to live in the early twenty-first century.”66 Taking a longer historical view, Thomas Elsaesser identifies something similar in contemporary world cinema generally that suggests what he calls a “post-epistemological ontology” that “breaks with the Cartesian subject- object split” and that “abandon[s] or redefine[es] notions of subjectivity, consciousness, identity in the way they have hitherto been understood.”67 This new filmic ontology, Elsaesser says, is the product of
two factors: first, the crisis of photographic indexicality ushered in by the digital and the concomitant loss of faith in the evidentiary realism of the cinematic image; and second, a distrust of cultural studies’ and cognitive film theory’s claims to empirical certainty. Hence, in movies that evince this new ontology, filmmakers move away from an emphasis on visual modes of knowledge and exhibit instead a renewed interest in the rest of the body, as characters possess “extrasensory faculties” in modalities other than sight (e.g., the heightened sense of smell in Perfume [Tom Twyker, 2006]). Moreover, these “powers” border on the supernatural, placing the spectator—and often the character—in a position of doubt by demanding something of an “ontological switch” or leap of faith—in other words, a belief beyond rational explanation, indeed beyond skepticism itself.68 Elsaesser places “mind-game films” (his term)
65 Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, 411. For more on this concept, see Patricia Pisters, “Deleuze’s Metallurgic Machines,” Los Angeles Review of Books, November 8, 2015,
https://lareviewofbooks.org/essay/deleuzes-metallurgic-machines.
66 Steven Shaviro, Post-cinematic Affect (Hampshire, UK: Zero Books, 2010): 2.
67 Elsaesser, “World Cinema: Realism, Evidence, Presence,” in Realism and the Audiovisual Media, eds. Lúcia Nagib and Cecelia Mello (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 7–8.
68 This of course recalls in some respects Stanley Cavell’s argument in The World Viewed that the chief
such as Donnie Darko (Richard Kelly, 2001), Memento (Christopher Noland, 2000) and Mulholland Drive (David Lynch, 2001) within this turn, but crucially, these are not the only exemplars of it, for the post-epistemological comes to be for Elsaesser representative of the current state of world cinema generally, appearing in any number of guises, from art house realism to summer popcorn fare. In this project, I seek to unite the “structure of feeling” (Shaviro, invoking Raymond Williams) that typifies the current moment with a filmic ontology built upon belief rather than evidence (Elsaesser).
With these two frameworks in mind, we may start to identify threads that run throughout Her, the work of Lynne Ramsay, The Tree of Life, and Upstream Color aside from a general tendency toward the