The Medium is the what?
In Marshall McLuhan’s Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, we are presented with the idea that the “medium is the message.” (McLuhan pg. 7) We live in a society that is changing rapidly through media; information can reach our households nearly instantaneously, where big news could have taken days or even weeks to reach across the country just a hundred years ago. McLuhan was writing on the way in which media will change our lives even before the advent of the internet; some would say is writings were near prophetic. For me, “the medium is the message” is a hard phrase to understand. It was not until seeing a video of an interview with McLuhan that (I think) I finally got it. He posed the idea this way: It is not what is said that is important; it is the medium in which it is presented that is important. The writings of Emily Dickinson pale in comparison to the written word, the news reporting of Walter Cronkite pales in comparison to the fact that he was giving the news to millions of people at once via television, and the humble blog of an architecture student at MSU pales in comparison to the idea that he can share his uncensored ideas with the world.
M. McLuhan Interview Skip to 2:15
His futuristic ideas remind me of the predictions of Ray Kurzweil, whose foresight into technological development seems startling.
However, Ray’s predictions seems less focused on the social impacts of the future, and more so on the actual technology itself. Either way, the way in which some people can have such a deep understanding of the way in which our world works and changes, and then take that understanding to predict the future is quite impressive.
The City in Film
Director T. Anderson’ s L.A. Plays Itself discusses the role of Los Angeles in the movies over the last 80 years or so. Anderson talks about L.A.’s character in film, that it is hard to ‘nail down’ in the same way that New York City is. In fact, the identity of L.A. seems to be defined by the movies; the character of the city is malleable and unidentifiable, much like a back-lot movie set. Anderson talks about this: the entire city is geared around movie-making, despite the fact that only one in twenty work in the business. Signs leading to production sets adorn many of the light poles around the city, and many of the buildings around town are more known for their role in films than for their actual role in the city. Two particular examples that Anderson brings up are the Bradbury building, by George Wyman and the Ennis House, by Frank Lloyd Wright. The Bradbury Building has been featured in numerous films; each time the building takes on a different character.
The Architecture of The International
In reviewing The International with my cohort Alesha, we were impressed with the way in which architecture helped tell the story and reinforce the characters throughout the film. By surrounding the plot with specific architecture, the architecture can “become a character in the film,” according to director Tom Tykwer. In a way, the film acts as a ‘grand tour’ of European and American architecture in general, although not as the way in which we might understand each city if we visited them personally. In fact, the filmmakers chose to represent each city in a ‘themed’ manner; Berlin in a sleek, modern and transparent way, New York City in a thick, cluttered manner, and Milan as a combination of the two.
Berlin
NYC
Milan
We find that these moves across architectural themes concur with the characters in the film. The antagonists in the film are the members of of the IBBC, who are involved in funding international conflicts and weapons deals in order to secure a hold in the resulting debt. Each time we see these characters in their home element, they are surrounded by sleek, contemporary architecture, typically accompanied with a lot of glass and modern furniture from architects such as Mies and Corbusier. The architecture serves to reinforce the IBBC’s power and influence in the world: each time we see the antagonists in power, they are surrounded by ‘their’ architecture. There is a scene in which the main protagonist, Louis Salinger, enters the IBBC headquarters in his hunt for evidence to bring the mega-corporation down, and as if to establish just how little power he has over the situation, he is shown as a small lone figure walking up the steps into the enormous headquarters building. It comes as little surprise that his efforts there are soon thwarted by the company. Here the filmmakers also mention an ‘irony of transparency,’ in which the IBBC is shown behind transparent glass, yet their inner workings are done in complete secrecy.
As the plot begins to shift, we enter Milan, where the characters in the film stand on more equal ground, the architecture there reflect that. Most of the action takes place in a square surrounded on one side by the headquarters of the Calvini corporation (one of the major players in the IBBC weapons deal), and on the other by a 70’s-era coffee shop and the Centrale station built during Mussolini’s regime (representing the older, heavy and ‘having character’ themes of the protagonists). As the plot begins to shift away from the power of the IBBC (it is here that the company makes one of its major mistakes), the modern architecture begins to slip away.
As we finally move into the world of Salinger and his partner Elenore Whitman in NYC, the IBBC finally begins to lose control. In fact, the scene in which we see the assassin for the IBBC is in the Guggenheim museum by Frank Lloyd Wright (a clean, modern ‘island’ in the sea of NYC, and a fitting place for the IBBC), yet by the end of the scene the interior of the building has been reduced to shambles. One interesting note is that the filmmakers chose to rebuild the interior of the museum on a set in Berlin, rather than deal with the destruction on the real location.
The last scenes of the movie take place in Istanbul, and finally the place in which the IBBC and its president, Jonas Skaarson are brought to their knees. As we witness the scenes leading up to the death of Skaarson, long-gone are the sleek, contemporary buildings so synonymous with the company, which have been replaced by the chaos and confusion of the Grand Bazaar. Skaarson’s face reflects his the loss of control that he and his company are experiencing.
Overall, I enjoyed the way in which architecture can help reinforce the plot of a film, without outright saying so (doom and gloom = evil, bright and glorious = good, for example). The effect can be subtle if you’re not looking for it, but it opens up whole new ways of looking at film if you give it a chance.
On Architects: the varied depictions and perceptions of everyone’s favorite designers
Architects often suffer from a case misrepresentation in the movies; although often not through malicious efforts of filmmakers. Rather, it is just that the typical in-and-outs of daily life for an architect really do not make for a captivating movie. Instead, as Nancy Levinson puts it in Tall Buildings, Tall Tales: on Architects in the Movies, architects are often used to backup the larger plots in the film; they are there to represent the stoic professional and earner of a posh lifestyle. Even when architects take center-stage, in films such as Fountainhead or Strangers When We Meet, they are shown in an idealized fashion (by the filmmakers, if not students and architects themselves). They often take on the role of the ‘army-man’ of the professional world: They are firm in their beliefs, captivating in their looks, inspiring in their intellectual prowess and are no less adept in the bedroom. Levinson makes little distinction between creative energy and sexual tenacity: “Great lovers make great buildings.”
“Hey baby, just wait ’till you see the detail I did for my building’s vapor barrier.”
Levinson contrasts this correlation with the opposite notion as well. In The Belly of an Architect, the leading designer is plagued by un-supportive colleagues and a wife who constantly belittles his design abilities. This lack of design prowess is matched by an affair on the part of his wife and betrayal by his colleagues. Thus, it seems (at least in the movies), that the surplus or lacking of creative talents equals corresponding successes in life. It seems that the movies only got it partially right: in My Architect, Louis Kahn’s son goes searching for clues about the history of his father. Kahn’s designs are some of the unsurpassed wonders of the 20th century, and his creative talent was matched with a wife and child (as well as 2 following affairs and 2 more children). It would appear the Kahn had the creativity and the virility to match. Yet at the same time he was beleaguered by debt and a general lack of success in the business sense. He died broke and alone in a train station bathroom. In Citizen Architect, Samuel “Sambo” Mockbee was a man of great creative talent, and was blessed with a wife and children, yet his architectural firm was more or less financially unsuccessful. Yet at the same time Mockbee was able turn his talents to the educational system, where his ‘Rural Studio’ has spawned an international movement of architectural humanitarianism.
Yet filmic representations of architects do not solely rely on the creativity-virility model. Levenson describes the eventual shift from a stoic professional – shrouded in mystery and heroism – to a superficial benefactor for a posh lifestyle, and even to the misunderstood artist whose visions were simply too complex and extraordinary for humanity to understand. In more recent films, films portray architects in a way that could be construed as outright criticism of their (our) lifestyle and ensuing designs. Yet on the whole, we are left with what Levinson describes as “the dream life or architects” in although what are mostly shallow representations of such a life, eerily mimic many of the feelings that we identify with today.
Blade Runner + Thoughts
Contrary to much of popular science fiction, Blade Runner established a future for humanity where the future is not quite as bright as we would envision. In Blade Runner, there is not a future of sleek, comfortable interiors and stylish skyscrapers. Rather, the movie shows a future of decay that exists as a natural evolution of capitalism in post-industrial world. In Giuliana Bruno’s Ramble City, she says the movie takes on a post-modern aesthetic; one full of trash, recycling and erosion. This is contrary to the slick modern future that is often seen in movies such as Star Wars.
The post-modern aesthetic of Blade Runner is not only limited to its set design. Bruno points out the ‘scenographic’ nature of the deaths in the film as well: Zhora’s extravagant and bloody shooting while crashing through a store window is a good example. Bruno brings to light the ‘schizophrenic’ nature of the film and its post-modernist structure. With the schizophrenic, symbolic assimilation fails and results in a direct replication. This is similar to post-modern architecture, much of which reverts to a ‘pastiche’ replication of the past rather than establishing an identity of its own. Blade Runner contains similar themes throughout; the ‘Replicants’ lack an identity of their own and instead are so much like humans that are nearly indistinguishable. In fact, the Replicants’ search for their own history and origin is something that David Fortin touches on in his Architecture and Science-Fiction Film. Throughout the film, the notion of ‘home’ is notably absent. This applies to the Replicants’ search, but also to the more traditional ‘home’ as well, as Fortin points out. This lack of ‘home’ alienates the audience from the film; creating distinction between the existence of their future and the existence of our presence. Even the homes that exist in the film are defiled in their lack of privacy. The barriers of ‘home’ are easily breached by the various characters in the film: Tyrell’s ‘fortified’ home is easily breached by Replicants, and J.F. Sebastian’s home is easily accessed by Deckard. In fact, Fortin says that the movie “is obsessed with boundaries.” The film breaks the boundary of what we imagined our future to be like, and the boundaries of who is human and who is not is a central theme.
The dystopian future presented in Blade Runner certainly gives one a chance to ponder. Will humanity rise above our social issues and technological boundaries towards a bright gleaming future in the sky? Or will we enter a state of slow decay, where corporate interests push us into the ground and turn the sky black? Perhaps we can head somewhere in the middle? Only time will tell…
Benjamin, Andrew. At Home with Replicants: The Architecture of Blade Runner.
Bruno, Giuliana. Ramble City: Postmodernism and “Blade Runner.” MIT Press 1987.
Fortin, David. Architecture and Science-Fiction Film: Phillip K. Dick and the Spectacle of Home. Ashgate Publishing Company 2011.
Moon + Review [spoiler alert]
Alesha and I reviewed Moon, a sci-fi movie by Duncan Jones. The movie centers around Sam, a Lunar Industries employee on a 3-year contract to operate a Helium-3 harvesting moon-base. Sam is alone on the base, with the sole exception (or so he thinks) of a robot named Gertie. Initially, I was expecting Gertie to be a malevolent robot in much the same manner as HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey.
(Start at 0:45)
It turns out, however, that while Gertie is charged with keeping Lunar Industries’ big secret, he is also interested in Sam’s welfare. Throughout the movie, Gertie proves to be real (no pun intended) friend to Sam.
As time goes on, we eventually find out that Sam is not alone on the base after all. He is greeted by no less than the ‘spitting image’ of himself. They share the same memories, are on the same ‘mission’ and even think they are married to the same woman. However much they are alike, however, they are also different. The first Sam (technically Sam 5) is mostly interested in things regarding Earth. He cares for plants, works on a small-scale model of his home city and loves to relax in comfortable clothes and in his leather chair. Second Sam (Sam 6), however, lives in the present; he wears athletic gear, jumps rope, boxes, and takes table tennis very seriously. Not only are the two Sams represented differently by their actions, but also by the lighting and scenes in which they are shown. This leads me into another thought about the movie. It is set on a solitary moon-base, so there is not a wide variety of architecture that may be present in other films. Besides having the Moon as a setting, there is only the base, in which ~90% of the movie was shot. For this, the filmmakers built the base in its entirety in the studio. This meant that the filmmakers had to create distinction and moods by relying on angles, lighting and music more heavily than a wide variety of locales and architecture. More specifically, the filmmakers used soft lighting and ‘Earthy’ materials in the scene when the mood is relaxed and everything seems normal. But as the story takes strange turns, the lighting switches into harsh bright lights and the camera focuses more directly on the architecture of the moon-base.
The filmmakers also relied on varied camera angles to hide or emphasize the isolation of the base. There are numerous shots where we see activity on the moon, as shot from a ‘standing position’ on the surface. This is usually accompanied by an uplifting score and corresponding part of the story. Contrast this with shots ‘from orbit’ that look down at the Moon that serve to emphasize the characters’ isolation from the rest of civilization. The moon-base is used in a similar fashion. The base is shown as sterile and lifeless when the story calls for it, yet we are allowed glimpses outside and skyward when we need a glimpse of hope.
While the entire moon-base was a constructed set, there are a few moments of forced perspective in the movie where we are allowed to believe that there is more to the scene than actually exists. One example is the harvester machines: they are actually small-scale models towed along by strings and digitally brought into a larger set. The way that the filmmakers rely heavily on traditional movie-making techniques actually serves to create a more ‘real’ feeling movie. Often purely-digital effects lack a certain realism that can be discerned by the audience. The second example of forced perspective is when Sam 5 and Sam 6 find the tunnel housing all of the remaining Sam clones. In perspective, we are led to believe that this tunnel is hundreds or even thousands of feet long. In reality, the built set is only 18 feet or so long, and painted to look much longer. This is similar to the way in which early Hollywood filmmakers ‘faked’ set pieces to make the audience perceive a space that in reality does not exist.
I really appreciate Duncan Jones’ ‘old-school’ techniques in his approach to filmmaking. He has crafted a film that is subtle, emotional, believable and technically resourceful. I look forward to seeing more from this director.
An Interview with Norman Garwood [by Lobrutto] + Science Fiction and the City [from BLDGBLOG, March ’07]
As a production designer, Norman Garwood is in charge of creating the worlds that we see in movies. He has worked on numerous films, from the imaginative works of Brazil and Hook to the historical recreation of the Civil War in Glory. And while each movie varies in terms of its context and story, Garwood’s job in each is to make us, the audience, believe what we see on the screen. We often take the on-screen sets for granted (and I imagine that this is more or less the point), yet there is a tremendous amount of work that goes into each scene and making it feel real (or not). In his interview, Garwood said “People would actually come down on the beach and think, “God aren’t they lucky; they found that fort just where it was.” They didn’t realize what went into creating it.” The fact is that Garwood and his team had built the entire fort themselves. So whether we realize it or not, everything in the scene of a film has been created (or at least purposefully allowed to remain in-scene), in order to physically render the vision for the film.
On BLDGBLOG, Geoff Manaugh refers to Piranesi’s etchings through the writings of Sergei Eisenstein. He says that Piranesi depicted prison-scapes of the imagination, and that while each etching is independent, through montage they are understood as a whole; they are ‘cinematic’. Eisenstein calls them “architectural frenzies.” Piranesi’s etchings work in much the same way that filmmakers bring their worlds to life: not by showing the audience each incremental step along the way, but by making leaps that are linked conceptually and allow the audience to fill in the gaps. As architects, can we create buildings that behave in a similar fashion? Should every part of the design be laid out so we clearly understand each part, or should there be links and jumps and changing transparencies? Garwood says that production designers are ‘illusionists’ whose job is to turn an unreal world into a believable one. How should architects behave in response? The difference being that architects are creating ‘real’ spaces (hopefully), while filmmakers want their spaces to seem ‘real’. Will architects of the future be attempting to create spaces that appear different than their reality? Is ‘dishonest’ architecture acceptable in our profession? This idea could apply on many levels. Even today, many architects create buildings that should seemingly fall over or appear impossible to build, yet beneath the cladding hides a rigorous structure that could make nearly anything remain standing. And there are other architects whose works are clearly understood, especially through structure, that appear more ‘honest’ in the way that they are built. Is one way right or wrong? Should spatial experiences come has a higher priority than design ‘integrity’? Can or should these concepts be mutually exclusive? Perhaps that is a debate for another day…
Montage + Architecture & The Geography of the Moving Image
In Sergei Eisenstein’s Montage and Architecture, we are introduced to the links between film and architecture, as linked by their motion through, and framing of space. In the forward, Yve-Alain Bois gives us the concept of parallax: as movement is relative; movement on the part of the observer in space actually serves to create motion of the observed, in this case architecture. Thus, despite its static nature, architecture is able to become dynamic.
Eisenstein talks about the idea of ‘path’ in the way that we interpret our spatial experiences in a sequential manner. He relates this to a child’s drawing, where objects are not depicted from a single viewpoint, but rather as a series of sequential experiences where each object is depicted as you would see it from each point along the path. And while a child’s drawing may hint at the three-dimensional aspects of space, as well as painting, Eisenstein says it has been unable to fully do so. On the other hand, he says, film has been able to do so where painting have lacked. However, he says film has a predecessor: architecture. “The Acropolis of Athens has an equal right to be called the perfect example of one of the most ancient films.” (Montage, Pg. 117) Eisenstein then goes on to give us a ‘virtual’ tour of the Acropolis, explaining how each ‘scene’ is captured and framed through the architecture. However, he says that this filmic experience of architecture would be impossible without the movement of the observer. In Geography of the Moving Image, Giuliano Bruno says that filmic architecture is understood through peripatetics; that the path of the observer is what develops the architectural montage.
Eisenstein goes on to describe the ‘twelve stations’ in (and outside of) many Catholic cathedrals. He focuses specifically on the Amecameca pyramidal hill, where pilgrims pass by each station on their way to the top. This path is the basis for montage; each station on its own lacks grand significance, yet experienced in specific sequence, their meaning becomes a powerful whole. This is a compelling idea; that architects can craft meaning and narrative through the way in which they arrange spatial experiences. Of course this would be pointless without the movement of the observer through space. In his article, Bruno quotes Le Corbusier, who states that architecture “is appreciated while on the move, with one’s feet…” (Geography, Pg. 58) Bruno goes on to to explain that film and architecture are linked through corporeal experience. It is the body, he says, that becomes the baseline by which space is felt and understood. Thus, both film and architecture use the movement of the body in space to define places that are inhabitable spaces.
The ‘filmic architecture’ experience did not die in Athens or Mexico, either. Bruno talks especially about Bernard Tschumi, who has often referenced Eisenstein and the concept of montage in his work. It turns out that Tschumi’s firm designed the Acropolis Museum a [figural] stone’s throw from Eisenstein’s site of critical analysis. Coincidence?
Thinking about montage, in both film and architecture, has opened my eyes to new ways of designing and crafting film. Indeed, it turns out that both mediums are not all that far apart…
(Montage and Architecture, Sergei M.Eisenstein, Yve-Alain Bois, MIT Press – 1989)
(The Geography of the Moving Image, from Atlas of Emotion, Giuliano Bruno, Verso – 2002)
Short Film + Inspiration
I was looking for some inspiration for my film project…I accidentally watched it the first time with the sound off and was surprised at how effectively the themes came across without the monologue or music.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=17IyGPJuH0g&list=FL2MRPF5QAtew68aQ5SNbTpQ&index=10
The Architecture of Image + Nostalghia
In his book, The Architecture of Image, Juhani Pallasmaa writes on Andrei Tarkovsky’s film Nostalghia. Having watched the film before reading Pallasmaa’s take on it, I have to admit that while I found the film powerful in many of its scenes, I did not appreciate the depth, subtlety and care that Tarkovsky puts into every scene in the film. Pallasmaa is able to understand Nostalghia on a whole new plane; admiring Tarkovsky’s attention to the feelings of homesickness and displacement, the painterly quality of his scenes and the visual poetry that he conveys through the film. In turn, I have been able to appreciate these things in Tarkovsky’s work.
I found it amusing that Tarkovsky makes a point that he does not introduce metaphors into his films, yet Pallasmaa spends almost the entirety of his writing pointing out near-obvious references in so many scenes in the film. I do not feel that Pallasmaa does this as a means of being contradictory, but to see these references and not write about them would be a disservice to his readers. For example, Tarkovsky denies the implied meaning behind water in Nostalghia, saying that water is simply water and that “rain is intended to convey the experience of rain.” On the other hand, the pervasiveness of water in this film (and in others) is so powerful that one cannot help to apply connotations to it. Yet at the same time one has to question whether this was Tarkovsky’s intention, or are we as humans driven to draw relationships and symbology in even the most abstract experiences?
Tarkovsky’s treatment of film as its own branch of the arts lends Nostalghia to being assessed in a different manner than many films that I’ve watched. Despite the fact that completely isolating ‘film’ into its own branch is an exercise in futility, the film still comes across as a work that could as easily be displayed in a museum as watched in the living room. I think the main distinction between this film and the usual drivel that spawns from Hollywood is the cohesion that is evident across the film. Rather than segmenting it into plot, or cinematography, or sound direction, Nostalghia is best taken as a complete work, contrary to a typical drama or action movie. Sayings such as “I liked the characters, but not the plot” or “the cinematography was poor, but I enjoyed the drama” have little use here. One would be better served looking at Nostalghia in a manner more akin to the way that one would look at a painting or photograph; not in pieces but as a whole composition. I this way, one starts to notice how much care Tarkovsky puts into crafting this movie; the interaction of the characters with the mies en seine coupled with the specific sound design and interweaving themes all working together to form one cohesive piece of art.
I enjoyed Notsalghia and have a new appreciation for filmmakers like Tarkovsky and the way in which they craft films. I definitely will be giving more attention to the films that I watch in the future; I fear the days of mindless movie-watching have drawn to a close…
Of Architectural Representations & Cinema
In his article Cinema and Architecture, Francois Penz establishes that film set designers and architects share many similarities, and indeed many set designers come from an architectural education. We only need to look so far as our own Bill Rea here at MSU to see that the two disciplines have a lot of overlap.
Penz also notices a shift in the 1950’s where the importance of the set designer (with some notable exceptions, including Jaques Tati’s Playtime.), diminished, due in large part to the film industry’s move away from traditional Hollywood studios. At the time, filmmakers were looking to film more realistically on site, and on a rapid schedule. However, closer to the 21st century, and with the advent of computer aided representations (both in film and in architecture), Penz again sees the opportunity for the film and architecture professions to work hand in hand. As Penz puts it, both set designers and architectural students are experts at deception; creating artificial yet believable representations of what they want to portray to their audience.
In addition to reading Penz’s article, we also viewed several videos of what was essentially architectural representation in a number of different forms. Several of them were student works, and were quite inspiring in the way that they represented their architectural subjects. Yet they all possessed unique styles; BIG’s combination of film and computer animation brings a sense of reality to the unreal, and is also a great tool for ‘building sets’ without actually ‘building’ anything. The Berlin Infection on the other hand, is able to give a sense of believability to the film, yet at the same time is intentionally surreal.
I think it could be interesting to apply some computer animations to my film or to help represent a studio project, but I’m unsure of the learning curve involved in such a process…
Film Thesis
I want to explore the notion of “memorial” and how they relate to our past. Why are some moments in history (and their relics) celebrated while others are forgotten? What makes relics of the past actively speak to their history, and how can they speak more powerfully? Do relics specifically created for a memorial speak more powerfully than a preexisting one? My thesis, in a few words:
“The film looks to explore how relics, both celebrated and forgotten, speak to our past. The film looks to establish that forgotten relics can be just as powerful as celebrated ones, and that the notion of ‘memorial’ can exist on many levels.”
Some ideas that I have for film locations include: The Veterans’ Memorial in Great Falls, The Little Bighorn Battlefield, agricultural buildings around the Gallatin Valley as well as including footage I have of the 9/11 Memorial and Irish Hunger Memorial in NYC.
Filmmaking + Workshop
Karl Swingle came by our class to give out some tips and guidelines for us amateur filmmakers. I was especially interested in his point that we, as an audience, should forget that there is a camera involved in capturing the scene. Jarring jump cuts, optical zooms and fancy transitions all make the audience aware of the camera and the cameraman. Karl said that everything should be as seamless as possible to really get the audience into the scene. He also introduced the 180 degree rule, which helps to keep the audience oriented in the scene; if the audience becomes confused, they can be distracted and lose focus on the subject that the filmmaker intends to capture.
In addition to keeping things seamless, Karl told us about the 4 elements of framing, which include distance, height, level and angle. For me, it can be easy to forget about some of these elements; usually when watching a film I tend to take these things for granted. I have to give a lot of credit to filmmakers and editors, who create films that are not only seamless, but can evoke emotion and add tension to the scene simply (but not so simply) by the way that the scene is filmed.
I was also interested in the rapid pace with which editors and directors change camera angles to capture the same scene. Rather than simply filming a scene in one take, there are numerous cuts back and forth between characters and the rest of the scene. There can be clips as short as one second (shorter?), yet the action in the scene is seamless. I will try to be aware of this as I move into my own film project.
I hope that Karl can join us again as we get further into our own film projects.
The emotion that architecture adds to film
Judging by the title of the class, I had assumed that we would be discussing various films and the architecture in them. After the first week of readings and discussions however, my perspectives have changed a bit. I see now that there are many links between architecture and film (only some of which I am barely beginning to grasp), much of which must be studied beyond face value.
When watching films, I am the first to admit that the architecture in them tends to take a backseat to the rest of the movie; the plot, the characters and the music are much more dramatic and demand more of my attention. After reading Anthony Vidler’s article on the Explosion of Space, it seems that many times this is the point for filmmakers. Instead of drawing direct attention to the ‘architecture’ in the film, the architecture is used as a means to create a certain feeling within the film. Mr. Vidler says that many films of the early 20th century used set designs to add to the scary or bizarre attitude of the film, often to dramatic effect. Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari is a particular example that Mr. Vidler expounds on in the article. The filmmakers in this movie were able to use our inherent understanding of perspective to manipulate our understanding of the spaces within the film. They were able to create spaces that closed in around the viewer (spatially), or added a sense of uneasiness and strangeness to the already strange actions of the actors. Vidler expresses it nicely:
“…the attempt to construct these imaginary new worlds was, as Panofsky noted, not simply formalistic and decorative; its premise was from the outset psychological, based on what Rudolf Kurtz defined as the “simple law of psychological aesthetics that when we feel our way into certain forms exact psychic correspondences are set up.”” Vidler – Pg. 6
I found it interesting that filmmakers can use architecture to emphasize certain feelings and moods in their films. I feel that this can have specific effects when these techniques are used with existing architecture. What happens when the feelings and emotions portrayed in the film are different from those intended by the architect? What happens when they align? I am headed to New york this week, and am interested in seeing how I portray the city through photography and film can affect our perception of it.
Welcome to my new blog!
My name is Cameron, and this is my new blog where I will be discussing links between architecture and film for my graduate seminar that I am taking at MSU. I am looking forward to a great semester!
Architecture + Film 