Catherine
Lupton notes, in her monograph on Chris Marker, that Sans
Soleil (1982)
is replete with instances of the last moments of things. The one the
film opens with, and returns to at the very end, is that of a shrine
“dedicated to cats” in the suburbs of Tokyo: a couple, who have
lost their cat, Tora, kneel and light incense before an altar covered
in identical maneki
neko statues,
to “repair the web of time where it had been broken”. When Tora
dies, we are told, it is vital that “death will call her by her
right name”: Tora's being will disappear, will be forgotten, in the
proper manner, and thereby her former being, her memory, will take
its proper place and substance within the “web of time”. This
almost archetypal structure is itself repeated throughout the film:
in the people attending with flowers after the death of a panda in
Tokyo Zoo; the incineration of dolls in a pit; the Dondo-Yaki ritual
of burning the debris that accrues during the Japanese New Year
celebrations; the purification ceremony performed by a Noro priestess
on Hokkaido, of which there will be no more, following the
devastation of the indigenous culture by the American occupation in
World War II. We find here articulated a dialectical structure
encapsulated in Krasna's aphorism that “Forgetting is not the
opposite of remembering, but its lining."
This
corresponds, interestingly, with Walter Benjamin's remarks on the
question of happiness and the mémoire
involontaire in
Proust:
“Is not the involuntary recollection […] much closer to what is
called forgetting than what is usually called memory?” The
substance of involuntary memory is lost in the unconscious until the
moment of recollection; things must disappear in order to assume
their place in the scheme of time. Benjamin explicitly connects this
with the structure of awakening, and “the Copernican [...] turn in
remembrance” outlined in The
Arcades Project. Proust's
work seeks to catch at the “few fringes of the carpet of lived
existence, as woven into us by forgetting”. His paralysis, his
entrapment in the vast labour of Á
la recherche du temps perdu,
stems from the difficulty, at that juncture, of the task described by
Benjamin in 'On Some Motifs in Baudelaire', the production of
“experience, as Bergson imagines it, in a synthetic way under
today's social conditions”. The reclamation of “genuine
historical experience [erfahrung]”
in the context of “the alienating, blinding experience of
large-scale industrialism” would be the recollection of modernity's
dream-image, the utopian glimpses buried at the very beginning of
that experience. The
image stands on the threshold between “the world distorted in a
state of similarity” – the memory-saturated world, that is, in
which temporal correspondances
reign,
the intentionless, auratic world of dream – and the world of
purposive action.
Stoppages
punctuate Sans
Soleil.
In the Cape Verdean and Tokyo sequences images freeze for a handful
of seconds: ; In the film's second half a number of sequences are
composed of stills – the digression on a Japanese museum of erotic
artefacts, the film's meander through Vertigo,
that
extracts images from the film whose
Technicolor is rendered almost hallucinatory, as if lit from within.
Marker's
playing with stillness reminds us that forgetting is a part of the
memory of the cinematic image: the individual film-frame, the
material substrate of the image, is blocked in projection as many
times as it is exposed, and half of the time in which the image
appears on the screen is composed of darkness (persistence of vision
permits us not to notice). When Krasna catches the gaze of a Cape
Verde woman “for the 24th
of a second, the length of a film-frame”, the reminder of the
disappearance that awaits either side of this moment of connection (a
version, perhaps, of the classic Hollywood star close-up) is
palpable; it must be reduced to a still, an image in Hayao Yamoneko's
Zone, its immanent amnesia erased, in order to be preserved. The
theme is recapitulated in the traveller from the future who forms the
protagonist of Krasna's imagined film Sunless:
in his time, we are told, nothing is forgotten; for this very reason,
it is difficult for him to experience the reality of the past (our
present) – “memory without forgetting would be memory
anaesthetised”. It is through his understanding of forgetting that
he comes to begin to remember the “long and painful pre-history”
embodied in Mussorgsky's song-cycle, “towards which, slowly and
heavily, he begins to walk”. The utopia of the unwounded image,
visible to a vantage-point “outside of time”, is necessary but
insufficient; only in its glimpses of “the poignancy of things”
as they depart can memory move beyond itself, decentering from
individual memory into the collective daylight of historical action.
Another image does something of this work. In Blade Runner – again, 1982 – Rachael (Sean Young) sits at Deckard's (Harrison Ford) piano. The score on the piano's music stand is almost entirely obscured by photographs, which proliferate on top of the piano body too. (The notion of a connection between the two films is reinforced by the fact that this scene is quoted in Marker's short film Cat Listening to Music, later included as an interlude in The Last Bolshevik (1993)). She scrutinises one – an ovoid sepia picture of a woman's face that bears a certain distant resemblance to hers. Scott here cuts to Rachael's face, as if in a reverse-angle reaction shot, urging us to compare the two. Earlier, Rachael presents Deckard with a photograph as proof of the authenticity of her memories. He responds scornfully by describing a number of her most private memories, showing that they do not belong to her. (Leon, too, collects photographs.) Rachael's experience has the reality of images inscribed in media. These are, notably, analogue media, representing a previous stage of technology purportedly closer to authenticity than the high deception of replicant production, or the vast array of screen images that flash up in the urban environment. The normal epistemological operation here is reversed: the photograph does not derive its reality from indexical reference to the diegetic 'reality' of the film's world; the filmic image can appeal to no 'deeper' reality, no noumena, beyond its own intensely mediated phenomenal being and the seductions of the densely layered appearances of Scott's shots. The very presence of these photographs in his apartment suggests that this is the case, too, for Deckard. Certainly Ford's withdrawn performance, in contrast to the then-still-fashionable Method style, suggests there is little to him except for the surface borrowed from media – the look, movement and voice of the film noir protagonist. He, like the replicants, is an image in a reality objectively composed of images, of mediations without origin. Like cinematic images, they pass through time – too quickly for the liking of Roy (Rutger Hauer), who seeks to extend their lifespan – into the darkness of amnesia, destined to become the waste of industry. Their momentary appearance, and hence their disappearance, is their reality. Thus the desperation with which Deckard pins Rachael against the wall, with which he tries to know her reality: “Put your hands on me.”
None
of this is new, at least as points to be noted of that moment. By the
early 1980s Baudrillard had already theorised the detachment of the
symbolic economy from production, the image communing with itself in
the elaborate exchange-rituals of “seduction”. The image-economy
of early neoliberalism, of MTV and Keith Haring, Wild
Style
and Heaven 17, 'Borderline' and 'Club Tropicana', Dynasty
and
'Ashes to Ashes', 'The Look of Love' and Denis Piel, in parallel and
at times intertwined with the vast project of the restitution of
class power carried out on either side of the Atlantic, is one of
permanent dream. But as a reconceptualisation of the problem of
postmodernity, in which mass leftist institutions and their double in
the cinema begin to dissolve, this is at least possibly productive.
The cinematic image enacts at once intense, sensual desire and the
impossibility of the making-real of that desire's object-cause. The
visual effects of Sans
Soleil
– primarily the VCS3 synthesizer – belong to the same sort of
interstitial technologies that Scott used in the visual composition
of Blade
Runner,
technologies presaging the universe of digital filmmaking and
connecting it to early videogames. Yamaneko's Zone eerily
anticipates not only the cloud-archives of web 2.0, of Youtube and
streaming film and television, in which every action and image in the
hegemonic field of mediation is preserved, rendered timeless and
unchanging, but the digital-surrealist reworkings of 1980s
image-technology of Cory Arcangel's Mario videos. The image's
historicity – its connection to a material history in which the
image's dream can be recollected and enacted – is erased: when Roy,
in his final speech, laments “all those memories, gone, like tears
in rain”, it is exactly this extinction to which the memory-image, technologised since the late 19th century, is now subjected.
The
reality or unreality of the Zone's synthesized images is related to
the question of the cinematic image in general. The Zone's images,
Krasna says, are at least honest in the sense that “they declare
themselves to be exactly that, images,
not the portable and compact form an already inaccessible reality”.
Thus the image is objectively determined by the social: society's
opacity to the penetrative gaze of cinema reduces the image to one
more appearance to be circulated, or, at best, removed from time.
Sans
Soleil explicitly
relates these questions to the failure of the international
revolutionary project of the 60s, the historical damage that infects
the image. Sans
Soleil preserves
the moment of ambivalence, before the movement to digital, before the
assertion of a new order in Geldof's Wembley and Nicaragua, in the
south Atlantic and south Yorkshire. The account of the image summed
up in the concept of the Zone is not the film's conclusion: there
are, as we have seen, other ways of treating the image in the film;
we should treat it, as a proposition, as a moment in the dialectic,
even if one that moves in the direction of despair. As
Laura Mulvey suggests in Death
24x a Second (2004),
the cinema's movement from analogue to digital (as the medium of both
production and preservation), the threatened “extinction” of film
as a medium, “draws new attention to the index”, to the
historical-epistemological questions inscribed in the origins of
cinema. The memory of cinema comes into dreamy focus in the moment it
is threatened with liquidation. Film theory in its postmodern phase
Some film theory has sometimes responded by abandoning the index as
part of a theory of the image, sometimes reinterpreting earlier work
to suggest it is still relevant to the present situation. Miriam
Hansen for example, in Cinema
and Experience,
argues that Benjamin's treatment of cinema's auratic possibilities
should not necessarily “be limited to cinema based on celluloid
film”.
As
film's material reality becomes a historical relic, the image is
historicised; cinema's historical actuality – and its betrayal –
becomes ever more visible and important. Cinema is not deleted,
liquified, but turned into a ruin. Damage, darkness, seep into the
image. An analogy can be drawn with the process described by Benjamin
in The
Origin of German Tragic Drama:
as with the turn to allegory, the dissolution of analogue film is the
eruption of history into the indexical image. This goes some way to
explaining what Edward Branigan calls Sans
Soleil's
air of “premature nostalgia”This is not quite to say that the
film mourns cinema and its attendant historical potentialities –
the air of tragedy comes five years earlier, in the grief-numbed
close of A
Grin Without A Cat,
ending on the brink of the neoliberal experiment in Chile. This
situation, Laura Mulvey writes, “has rendered the presence of the
index anachronistic”; passing into memory, “[t]he mechanical,
even banal presence of the photographic image as index takes on a new
kind of resonance […] The index can now be valued in its relation
to time and as a record of a fragment of inscribed reality that may
be meaningless or indecipherable”. The critics who've queued up since his death last July to describe Marker as the cinematic laureate of network society, as the filmmaker as multimedia entrepreneur (in other words,as not-film-maker), as metaphysicist of failure, memory and nostalgia, refuse or fail to reckon with the material desires, the promise of undeadened time bound up in the archive, accumulating with panic since the 1980s, as a correlate of "the only post-religious ‘infinite’ permitted to matter".
An earlier version of this post appeared at A Scarlet Tracery
