mylatrobecinemacriticism: The transitioning Psycho (Hitchcock, 1960)

Tags

Alfred Hitchcock, Bernard Herrmann, Psycho, transition

The word ‘transition’ tends to spur the thought of that which was and that which will be––becoming a matter of discarding the former for the latter. In Psycho,¹ however, it’s a matter of both aspects being simultaneously present while the transition is from something hidden to the appearance or front that conceals it, or vice versa. To those acquainted with the film, such remarks may easily evoke Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins). Yet, the theme of transition and its implicit duality is much more pervasive than a sole manifestation. And curiously, we may grasp some of this pervasiveness in a short scene: having just overheard an argument between Norman and the ostensible ‘mother’, Marion (Janet Leigh) heads concernedly outside to the motel porch where Norman soon appears bearing a dinner tray. Within these parameters it is possible to tease out various instances of the theme.

A ‘way in’ to the text:

As with any text, a ‘way in’ is critical for understanding to be grasped, and this needn’t be through the text’s beginning. Here, our ‘way in’ is through a particular piece of Bernard Herrmann’s score, which presents a moment away from its signatures of high anxiety and stabbing shrieks. It has a subtle sense of evoking curiosity, and is commonly used in moments of transition.² The easiest point of reference is to say it is the piece that immediately follows the title sequence, which I will refer to as the ‘opening transition’. Here, the piece is heard as we are taken from the public setting of Phoenix Arizona to the private setting of Sam and Marion’s hotel suite. If we recall how I claim ‘transition’ works in Psycho, we can see it is at work in this opening transition: the public/private settings are respectively the appearance and the hidden, both existing simultaneously. What’s crucial here is the transition’s direction––from public to private. In this essay’s scene, however, we are taken from the Norman/‘mother’ argument to the porch exterior when Norman has approached Marion and we are viewing them in profile – the music here setting this parameter. It is crucial to acknowledge that this music is only similar to that of the opening transition.³ For instance, both utilise a slower, more drawn-out, and calmly engrossing timbre. Yet, the point of distinction is where the opening piece ebbs after such timbre, the music in our scene slightly intensifies up the register. Indeed it is subtle, but what we have here is, firstly, two similar pieces of music that suggest moments of transition, thus carrying this similarity of meaning from instance to instance; but secondly, both offer comparative auditory oppositions – where one falls down the register, the other moves up. This difference in our scene is strange; that is, we’ve heard the similar piece twice already⁴ and its differences here make the piece sound unusual to us.

The strange transition:

That our scene marks the film becoming something strange may suggest that in this ‘becoming’ the film offers a second beginning. Not only is this evident in the strange musical difference that suggests a negation of the opening transition and its privileged position as the film’s most initial moment, but it is also evident in Norman’s ‘reverse’; that is, his action of transitioning from a private place (his house) to a public one⁵ (the motel), thus reversing the transition direction that opened the film. This signals a second beginning since it is the moment when Norman has just become interesting to us: the argument with ‘mother’ puts his previously slight idiosyncrasies⁶ above those of prior male characters in the film, thus elevating him to territory where he begins to subtly rival our interest in Marion. This transition, then, is also strange because it is the beginning of a gradual transition into, as we soon see, a much stranger narrative subject––from its theft/Marion story to its psychopath/Norman story. Given that Psycho moves in this direction, we may also consider a further implication: that Marion’s story functioned as an appearance⁷ that veiled the film’s true subject––the Norman story, which is hidden for the first 30 minutes. From musical difference to the Marion story façade, these elements combine to form a second beginning and are the meaning of the ‘strange transition’.

We may think that Psycho is a complete embodiment of our meaning of ‘transition’, which, as a whole film, simultaneously contains the hidden and that which acts to conceal it. Beyond this, however, it is possible to locate the film’s further transitions and their possible implications if we think that this essay has provided a further ‘way in’ to do so.

 

Notes:

1. Alfred Hitchcock (dir.), Psycho (Universal Studios, 1960).

2. In claiming that the particular pieces of Herrmann’s score gesture towards a narrative function, I aim not to exclude other possible purposes such as its mood-setting quality.

3. Musical differences are also manifest in the film’s original soundtrack titles. For instance, the piece from the ‘opening transition’ is officially titled The City, whereas the piece from this essay’s scene is The Window.

4. The second instance of the transition music is when Marion is at the car yard. In walking between her car and those for sale, Hitchcock cuts respectively between an Arizona license plate and California license plates, which may suggest Marion transitioning between a place of appearances in the former and a place that represents hidden and true desire in the latter––Sam.

5. Norman’s house is private since it is a space of something hidden. The motel is public insofar as it being open to anyone, and it as a space of appearances; for instance, the motel is mostly where Norman’s façade of formalities, normality, and niceties exists, and Marion checks in under an alias.

6. Norman’s slight idiosyncrasies hitherto include the distinct line “12 rooms, 12 vacancies”, his curious reach for room 1’s key, and light humour about Bates Motel stationary.

7. It’s also possible to read Marion’s story as containing other appearances that, once Psycho engages its Norman story, become matters of lesser significance insofar as Norman’s motive, for instance. The stolen money is a prime example. After Marion wraps the money in a newspaper, it is discarded as if the item were irrelevant to Norman’s story. This may be reinforced by the psychiatrist’s distinction at the end of the film: “these were crimes of passion, not profit”; Marion’s story relating to the latter, while Norman’s relates to the former. Yet, despite this discarding, the transition concept this holds: the money still remains as a driving force for Arbogast. Thus, maintaining simultaneous existence as per the meaning of ‘transition’ in this essay.

 

Bibliography:

Hitchcock, Alfred, (dir.), Psycho (Universal Studios, 1960).

mylatrobephilosophicalstudies: interpreting radical difference in Plato’s story of the cave.

Tags

difference, ignorance, Martin Heidegger, Plato, truth

Tasked with outlining the stages of Plato’s famous cave story, arguing for their certain significance, and then giving consideration to my argument’s strengths and weaknesses in acquiring philosophical knowledge, the end result is the following essay. It forms part of the course work for the 2nd/3rd year philosophy subject Plato, Nietzsche, and the Meaning of Being at La Trobe University.

In Plato’s story of the cave we may understand the released prisoner’s/philosopher’s journey as a process of liberation whereby knowledge of the truth is attained. More specifically, and keeping in mind knowledge of the truth as a mindset to which the released prisoner aspires, we may understand the cave story by utilising, and then unpacking the meanings of, two particular Greek words – lēthē and aletheia. Lēthē may be translated as ‘forgetfulness’, while aletheia, containing the negation prefix of ‘a–’, can be understood as the converse – ‘not forgetting’. Here, the opposing matters of ‘forgetfulness’ and ‘not forgetting’ can also be considered as opposing matters of ignorance and recognition coupled with acceptance insofar as what the cave story represents: two different mindsets and parts of the world – one outside the cave, where an immense diversity of life forms and ways of being are manifest; and the cave itself, where an ignorant and indoctrinated mindset reigns, denying recognition and acceptance of the world beyond. It is then the contention of this essay that Plato’s cave story can be interpreted as one about the truth of difference and that it is possible to know or realise its acceptance. I must make explicit here that my intention in emphasising openness to and embracing of difference is a gesture towards equality; that is, the difference found outside the cave may be considered as a symbol of that which we hope would be accepted in aspiring to reach political, social or, where it is apt, economic equality, whether it is between ethnicities, genders, sexualities, or the human and animal or environmental, and so forth. In offering this interpretation I will begin by outlining the stages of the cave story, and then graduate to unpacking the significance of each stage. Further, I will consider the strengths and weaknesses of the interpretation insofar as acquiring philosophical knowledge as they arise within the discussion.

Like Heidegger (1998), I propose a four-stage outline of the process. However, where Heidegger emphasises stages of truth only, I would like to emphasise stages of truth and knowledge of difference, presenting them as follows: 1) indoctrination; 2) transition; 3) acceptance; 4) return. Stage one positions us purely inside the cave: its structure contains the prisoners, who are shrouded mostly in darkness, held in chains, and forced to see only what is immediate – shadows. These are cast by a fire burning behind the prisoners and by puppeteers holding objects in-between. Yet, the cave has an opening/exit, albeit one that is further behind the prisoners. Stage two straddles both the inside and outside of the cave: one prisoner is released from their chains, and he/she then turns around, notices the objects themselves and the fire, and starts on the painful passage towards the cave’s opening/exit and towards the light. Now outside the cave and under the light of the sun, the released prisoner experiences immense variety in not only the shadows of different things but in new differences also: reflections, things themselves in nature, stars, the moon, the heavens, the sun, and infinite horizons. In stage three the released prisoner, now fully immersed in the differences outside the cave, realises all that he/she has experienced, and then opens his/herself up to embrace it. Following this, the released prisoner sets upon stage four: choosing to return to the cave where he/she risks intense ridicule or death. Yet, the cave, at its exit, remains open.

Turning towards each stage’s significance now, we firstly examine stage one: indoctrination. Considering this initial stage in terms of indoctrination – that is, the cave as a collective of mindsets coerced into subscribing to one doctrine, and as such are ignorant – its details provide us with a number of symbols suggesting such indoctrination. For instance, the cave’s environment can be read as being incredibly oppressive: its structure – the solid subterranean earth – encloses those inside in a space of near-darkness (the fire providing only a certain amount of light). Not only would such a structure seem impenetrable to the flesh, but, coupled with the darkness, it also has those it contains closed off or hidden, rather, from what is beyond the cave. Next, there are those being held – the prisoners, who are the subjects of ignorance and indoctrination, a fact magnified by them being restrained by chains, further solidifying the theme of coercion. Further is the significance of sight and sound: Plato never mentions the prisoners’ other faculties such as smell, taste, or touch. Here, the prisoners are in a state of diminished faculties, so not only is their environment oppressing them but also their capacities to sense and perceive are greatly reduced. Then there is what the prisoners can only see – shadows, whose darkness, recalling the environmental darkness above, acts as a further symbol of oppression. The last point of significance here is the cave’s opening/exit, whose importance lies in there being no mention of a door that may seal it off. This suggests that without such an obstruction, the cave is endowed with the quality of being eternally open to the world beyond itself. (The fullest significance of this eternal opening/exit will become apparent at the end of the stage four). This initial stage contains the prisoners in such a way that is almost impossible for them to experience any kind of difference. As such, it is the essence of lēthē.

We can now consider stage two: transition. Confronted with release, the prisoner’s first move of turning around is critical insofar as it signalling a symbolic reverse: now facing the opposite direction, the prisoner has turned away from what must be reversed for recognising and accepting difference to occur – that is, chains and shadows of oppression. In noticing the objects and fire that caused the shadows, and having not perceived them before, the prisoner witnesses here a sense of difference for the first time. We may take from this occurrence that a degree of difference, albeit one unrecognised hitherto, does exist within the cave. Next comes the pain of moving beyond the fire and towards the cave’s opening/exit. This may be read as the prisoner approaching what Heidegger (1998, p. 168) referred to as “unhidding”. This being a symbolic action of the wresting away of a veil – that is, one of ignorance and indoctrination ­– which, in itself, implies a sense of violence and subsequent pain. Additionally, as the prisoner gets closer to the opening/exit, the light would grow larger in his/her eyes, suggesting the gradual nearing of the opposite of oppressive darkness. Once leaving the cave, the prisoner’s experience of immense variety is one of radical difference; that is, an almost unimaginable difference completely opposed to the cave. Not only is there light and openness where there was darkness and confinement, but also there are colours, scents, tastes, textures, and life forces that one would have previously thought inconceivable.

Before moving to stage three, I must acknowledge what I consider a strength of this interpretation’s approach insofar as acquiring philosophical knowledge. This involves the prisoner only being able to recognise with certainty the radical difference before him/her rather than a higher form of knowledge.  To arrive here, we must consider the world outside the cave in terms of external world skepticism, particularly the brain-in-a-vat scenario (BIV).  This being that any knowledge claims about the external world may be undermined by the hypothesis that we really exist as BIVs, programmed to believe we are living in a world that is actually a grand illusion (The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy 2008). Here, we are presented with a knowledge problem: either the external world is A) an illusion, or B) it actually exists. Yet, if we cannot know A, since our sense perception suggests existence, it follows that we cannot know B, since we cannot seem to prove that the external world is not an illusion. Given this uncertainty, the released prisoner could not truly make the ascent to enlightenment as Socrates claims (Republic 517b). What remains, however, is the palpably radical difference of the world outside the cave, and whether its appearance is illusory or not – insofar as the BIV is concerned – we may reason that its difference from the cave still remains, and that its difference is certain.

Coupled with this certainty of difference and its immensity that fills the prisoner, he/she is taken beyond and into stage three: acceptance. Plato (Republic 516c) posits that the prisoner’s experience places him/her in a state of happiness. We may take from this that instead of the radically different experience destroying him/her, the prisoner sustains – going beyond mere tolerance of difference and to a state of contentedness. The prisoner, in other words, has accepted radical difference. Furthermore, this is the point where the prisoner completely ceases to be a prisoner; that is, having been filled with the immensity of radical difference, and having adjusted to what one has experienced outside the cave, the prisoner has now completely transcended ignorance and indoctrination, becoming the essence of its converse – aletheia.

What remains is the significance of stage four: return. Here, Plato makes no reference to the return being motivated. Yet, it is possible that the philosopher, having encountered difference that is the opposite of the cave, has a moment of being impelled to reflect upon it and to challenge the cave’s mindset by offering difference, thus returning. However, the philosopher returning as an embodiment of difference is unsuccessful. From this, we may be tempted to consider it a weakness that the philosopher failed in challenging the cave mindset, signalling a failure to impart the knowledge of difference. Yet, we need not view it this way, for the cave itself contains aspects that could make transformation for other prisoners a reality.

There are three possible aspects to consider here: firstly, and initially, the released prisoner may be regarded as lacking a distinct identity, making him/her relatively anonymous among the other prisoners. We may draw from this that such anonymity affords the prisoner a kind of ‘anyone’ status and, further, that the subsequent journey towards accepting difference may be a possibility for any of the prisoners. Secondly, and partnering with prisoner anonymity, is the seemingly spontaneous and indiscriminate occurrence of the prisoner’s release. As it lacks any explicit hint towards supernatural or human intervention, we are only left with the event’s indiscriminate nature, thus providing us with a further relation to anonymity. Lastly, there is the cave’s opening/exit that remains eternally open. What we have here is not just an eternal gateway towards a world beyond the cave but a symbolic suggestion that such a passage is eternally on offer to the prisoners. This opening/exit being part of the very makeup of the cave structure – one that is, in itself, highly oppressive – suggests that, if the cave is to be understood as the essence of lēthē, an everlasting sense of liberation is part of the cave’s inherent character. From this standpoint, we may now consider some of cave’s conditions as a strength of approach since there are catalysts beyond the philosopher’s attempt that could make imparting knowledge of difference possible.

However, this raises two counterpoints that take us back towards implications of weakness: Firstly, if other prisoners were to be released, it seems uncertain as to whether they would have the capacity to sustain radical difference, thus raising the possibility of a retreat to ignorance. Anonymity here may work against us, for it is ambiguous, insofar as Plato’s presentation of the story, as to whether the released prisoner was exceptional – being more able to accept difference – or not before release.  Secondly, it also seems uncertain as to whether other prisoners would actually find release despite the fact that its catalysts are available – perhaps the prisoner’s release was a ‘one off’. By these accounts, attaining knowledge of difference would be difficult to achieve.

As I have argued, Plato’s cave story can be read as one about the truth of difference existing and that it is possible for such difference to not only be tolerated but to be embraced by one – who then becomes the essence of aletheia – who once found him/herself in a state of complete ignorance and indoctrination, or lēthē. Yet, some of the conditions by which the prisoner attains knowledge of the truth – ambiguities which can work both for and against this essay’s aim – may not necessarily translate to imparting the knowledge of difference to others who are ignorant and indoctrinated. From here, we can ultimately draw from the story of the cave a true sense of the state of affairs regarding political, social, and economic equalities and inequalities in the world; that is, there are some who actively aspire towards the realm(s) of equality, some who are close to such aspirations, and some who are more difficult to reach, and so on. Yet, if the inherent opening/exit from ignorance to acceptance exists within us all, then at the very least we can remain hopeful that those who are more difficult to reach can someday aspire.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Heidegger, M. 1998, “Plato’s doctrine of truth”, trans. T. Sheehan, in W. McNeill (ed.), Pathmarks, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 155-182.

Plato 2012, Republic, trans. C. Rowe, Penguin Publishing, London.

mylatrobecinemacriticism: Room 237 (Rodney Ascher, 2012)

Tags

Geoffrey Cocks, Room 237, Stanley Kubrick, The Shining

The prospect of a film presenting a select few of the many interpretations of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980) sounds like a great one to me. Being a colossal fan of the late director’s work, and of the “masterpiece of modern horror”² in particular, I approached the film thinking, “Oh bliss… bliss and heaven. Oh, it (will be) gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh”.³ Surprisingly, at no other time in recent memory had I wanted more for a film to be over with––something I didn’t think I’d be saying, especially after a similarly recent viewing of Baz Luhrmann’s The Great Gatsby (2013). These instances are purely matters of taste, though. And what now differentiates the two films in my mind is that I’ve suspended judgment of Gatsby, since I haven’t committed myself to being critical about it––where the reasons and arguments come about “real horrorshow”⁴ and the like. But in the case of Room 237, I’ve attempted to turn a matter of taste into a matter of criticism. So here we go…

Hieroglyphics:

My first negative criticism lies in the absence of us being shown who the people are that are offering their interpretations. I wondered why we were given only the name of each speaker and their audio. Well, a name would seem to be the bare minimum in terms of us being given something to identify the speaker by, and this approach isn’t initially problematic, but it becomes so throughout the body of the film. In breaking up most of the interpretations into little chunks so we are fed different bits of different readings in succession––rather than designating a set time to each individual speaker––director, Rodney Ascher, makes little effort to reintroduce each speaker. The result is a shemozzle of almost indistinguishable voiceovers (gender being the only explicit change) and ideas. As some of the film’s promotional material suggested, Room 237 was to be a complete immersion into a figurative labyrinth of readings and concepts. Yet, it seems that the true labyrinth, at times, is the film’s structure, and the person in the maze is me trying to figure out just who the hell is saying what about which idea. Further to the point, the promo also suggested deep immersion into Kubrick’s picture. But breaking up the interpretations also breaks up their flow in a way that has the readings almost resisting a sense of depth, a tendency compounded by voice-over ambiguity. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t say that the non-diegetic music choices throughout the documentary were similarly problematic. They have distracting and meandering qualities, whose continuity over successions of different interpretations largely contributed to a sense of melding the readings into the confusion described above. I must note here that before seeing the film I was already familiar with the Holocaust thesis of Geoffrey Cocks⁵ and the Native American genocide reading⁶, both being thorough works. Seeing how each of these ideas were presented – in disjointed and incomplete forms or those which were not at least well-rounded – made me wonder about a common concern in writing: that is, we may find ourselves reading about a familiar topic only to discover that the writer has, for instance, fudged a conceptual detail. We may then find ourselves becoming suspicious of the text, wondering that if one mistake has been made, how many more might there be?

Misrepresentation:

It was with the same suspicion that I began to think about Room 237, which leads me to my second negative criticism; that is, if I was able to recognise where the ideas I was familiar with were incomplete, then isn’t it now possible that some of the other ideas might have been similarly misrepresented, thus leading to a lack of conviction? Well, okay, the answer here isn’t necessarily ‘yes’, but rather it is ‘maybe’, for it’s worth keeping in mind that it is also possible that a recognised mistake in a work is the only mistake. Some of the ideas may only be conjecture (for instance, the faked moon landing scenario) or mere observations with no deeper significance, and as such may have been chosen to give us a different way of thinking about small aspects of Kubrick’s film. However, the fact remains that perhaps in omitting solid consistency of the ideas being presented––as with the Holocaust and Native American genocide readings––the film gives the ideas, at times, only a diminished chance of being taken seriously. If people watch and think about the arguments, some of which seem to be incomplete, they might conclude that they don’t have enough information to judge the ideas, so they may then decide to suspend judgment. Yet, I think the real danger here is that people might not be prompted to think about the arguments, instead taking them at face value and, due to their incompleteness in presentation, they may feel impelled to disregard the ideas as silly or tedious.

From here, I’m led to wonder who this film is for – maybe not for people who are already familiar with some of The Shining’s interpretations. I’m also led to wonder about Ascher’s intention with Room 237. A common tagline for Room 237 was “some movies that stay with you forever… and ever… and ever”.⁷ What’s suggested here is a kind of language double-duty: sure, the tagline echoes the utterance of The Shining’s two dead girls, but it also suggests Kubrick’s film being a kind of phenomenal obsession, which has hooked those offering their interpretations. So maybe Ascher’s aim was to convey a strong sense of obsession, or bite-sized tastes of obsession, rather than full-blown close reading or dissertation. As for me, well, I can’t exactly say that I would suggest avoiding Room 237, only that elsewhere there remain clearer and deeper immersions into the phenomenon.

 

Notes:

1. Rodney Ascher (dir.), Room 237 (Metrodome Group, 2012).  

2. Saul Bass, The Shining poster art [image], (1980) <http://www.impawards.com/1980/shining_ver1.html>, accessed Aug. 2013.

3. Stanley Kubrick (dir.), A Clockwork Orange [2008] (Warner Home Entertainment, 1971).

4. Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange (London: Penguin Publishing, 2008), 9.

5. Geoffrey Cocks, The Wolf at the Door: Stanley Kubrick, History, and the Holocaust, (New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2004). This text is where Cocks’ ideas find there fullest expression, but a succinct yet detailed version can be found in Geoffrey Cocks, James Diedrick, and Glenn Perusek (eds.), Depth of Field: Stanley Kubrick, Film, and the Uses of History, (Madison: University of       Wisconsin Press, 2006).

6. Rob Ager, ‘Chapter 12: slavery, cannibalism and genocide’, Collative Learning [webpage], (2008) <http://www.collativelearning.com/the%20shining%20-%20chap%2012.html>, accessed 2011.

7. Aled Lewis, Room 237 poster art [image], (2012) http://au.ign.com/articles/2012/09/19/mondo-poster-debut-for-room-237>, accessed Aug. 2013.

 

Bibliography:

Ager, Rob, ‘Chapter 12: slavery, cannibalism and genocide’, CollativeLearning [webpage], (2008)                                                                <http://www.collativelearning.com/the%20shining%20-%20chap%2012.html>, accessed 2011.

Ascher, Rodney (dir.), Room 237 (Metrodome Group, 2012).

Bass, Saul, The Shining poster art [image], (1980)       <http://www.impawards.com/1980/shining_ver1.html>, accessed Aug. 2013.

Burgess, Anthony, A Clockwork Orange (London: Penguin Publishing, 2008).

Cocks, Geoffrey, The Wolf at the Door: Stanley Kubrick, History, and the Holocaust, (New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2004).

Cocks, Geoffrey, Diedrick, James and Perusek, Glenn (eds.), Depth of Field: Stanley Kubrick, Film, and the Uses of History, (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2006).

Kubrick, Stanley (dir.), A Clockwork Orange [2008] (Warner Home Entertainment, 1971).

Lewis, Aled, Room 237 poster art [image], (2012)                <http://au.ign.com/articles/2012/09/19/mondo-poster-debut-for-room-237>,         accessed Aug. 2013.

Sound and mise-en-scène: The Shining (Kubrick, 1980).

Tags

Bela Bartók, film style, Geoffrey Cocks, Jack Nicholson, Stanley Kubrick, The Shining

The following essay is a reworked version of an assessment I completed as part of La Trobe University’s first year Cinema Studies subject, Introduction to Film Analysis. For comparison, the original version can be found below this piece.

This critical analysis will focus on the use of sound and mise-en-scène within the ‘MONDAY’ scene from Stanley Kubrick’s 115-minute version of The Shining (1980). In the conversation between Jack (Jack Nicholson) and Danny (Danny Lloyd), Kubrick’s style offers a chilling impression. This offering is firmly made through his choice of sourced orchestral score. However, its impression from particular use is not conveyed without the assistance of other style aspects, namely performance in mise-en-scène, of which voice forms an important part. Originally I had written that within Nicholson and Lloyd’s performances, movement (along with the other aspects of mise-en-scène) contributed to a strong sense of ‘normalcy’. This sense is given that one was purely watching the scene; that is, without sound. By doing this, my thought was that movement and sound could be separated, and considering the scene with sound is when its chilling essence would be revealed. This also meant that movement gave us one side of the coin while sound gave us the other. Yet, I have found the scene is more complex than the notion of mise-en-scène conveying one impression while sound conveys another. Further, I referred to normalcy as nothing outside of general expectations was occurring in regards to Jack and Danny’s bond. Yet, I cannot judge what is normal without analyzing their bond specifically, which is what I failed to do in the original analysis. So, by investing myself in the scene once again, and after a tweaked action description in an attempt to make it tighter, my main aim is to establish how movement – in mise-en-scène – and sound work together, and to uncover how both aspects of style offer and contribute to a specific sense of normalcy between Jack and Danny.

Describing the action

The scene’s trajectory can be traced by changes in music – Béla Bartók’s transfixing Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta III – Adagio – spoken language, and movement, as all three serve to punctuate the scene, albeit quite smoothly. Taking us from initial suspense on which the scene begins, they then delve us right into the heart of that suspense.

The word ‘MONDAY’ appears onscreen and then we see Danny carefully creeping into the living quarters as he pays careful attention to keeping his eyes on the entrance of Jack and Wendy’s room. Bartók’s piece complements this careful creeping with a quick yet gradual fast-to-slow tempo of high-register piano, arousing our initial interest. The score then graduates to a taut use of strings, heightening our curiosity of Danny’s movements as his gaze off screen peaks. A dramatised yet subtle advance of strings brings us to Jack sitting on the bed. The transition from creeping piano to pronounced strings cues us for, or rather pulls us into, the aforementioned suspenseful heart.

Jack tiredly calls Danny over to him. This instance is when we hear the scene’s first piece of dialogue. Considered alone, the words are quite plain – “Can I go to my room and get my fire engine?” “Are you having a good time?” etc. Underlying such plain dialogue is the score that does nothing less than steep us in suspense. Kubrick has us on what seems like the subtlest of roller coasters, as a rich juxtaposition between the ordinary dialogue and the somber orchestration puts us at an odd point of weighty anxiety of what to expect. The tautness of strings move higher and higher up the register, and we may find ourselves breathing in more and more shallower breaths until the peak subsides, giving us only a moment to breathe. The strings are allowed to advance dramatically and wildly again, but shortly as they are brought down to a low rumble underlying the words and accompanying tympani.

Bartók continues driving the suspense through taut use of violin, shortly partnered by toll tiptoeing piano. It is as if our feelings of suspense manifest through this creeping throughout that misses the odd key out of caution or fear of whether to continue or not down the uneasy path, not knowing what might be waiting ahead in the dark.

Now it is Jack’s tone that begins to indicate his darker character traits. He has spoken with a weary, trance-like voice, and here the glimmer of his unhinged character begins to be heard in his mildly crazed remark, “I wish we could stay here forever, and ever, and ever”.

Danny’s line to Jack, “You would never hurt mum and me, would ya?” is a cue that the dialogue has come up to speed with the atmosphere provided by the variations in vocal tone from Nicholson and the orchestral curiosities of Bartók. At this point, the piano tolls, marking a brief and slower passage containing longer pauses between notes. This has a drawn-out, sweeping effect, as to indicate that once Danny has posed that question we are left momentarily hanging in suspense of what Jack’s answer will be.

He starts with, “I love ya, Danny. I love you more than anything else in the whole world”. This, too, is delivered in a menacing tone from Nicholson, and it features the most menacing instrument of this scene’s score, the celeste. Its sound forcefully continues the roller coaster-like sensation, and it quickly progresses to a sprawling, exponential anxiety, bringing us to the chilling chord, and edit, that cuts off the scene – WEDNESDAY.

Sound and mise-en-scène working together

In concluding my first version of this analysis I wrote, “… considering the action with sound adds crucial depth to Jack’s previously considered normalcy towards Danny. And the presence of sound actually inverts the meaning of Nicholson and Lloyd’s performances. Jack’s smiles are now sinister; his hands around Danny become threatening; and Danny’s close position on his father’s knee gives him no way out. Likewise, Danny’s deadpan expression and lack of movement may now be interpreted as him being frozen with fear.”

While I maintain that sound is offering a sinister perspective, treating movement as sound’s opposition is to overlook certain performance aspects, namely those of Lloyd. Firstly, the scene begins with Danny creeping into the room. He then approaches his father slowly, and does little more after being placed on Jack’s lap. We never even see Danny smile. All of these aspects complement my perspective on sound.

Moreover, considering the nuances in Kubrick’s style, he brings the orchestrations of Bartók firmly to the forefront. Rather than score and voice sharing equal presence, the former is robust in comparison to the subtlety of vocal performance. Yet, score and performance complement each other quite well, particularly regarding how Bartók’s flourishes of suspense and anxiety work nicely with Nicholson; his facial expressions and partnered tonality move Jack from genuine to mildly-crazed, and finally to duplicitous, or rather they move him from mildly to somewhat overtly sinister.

From further perceiving Kubrick’s variations of stylistic presence it is now clear both aspects are working together. Moving forward, I will explore what both have to offer regarding the context of Jack and Danny’s bond.

A sense of ‘normalcy’

Score, speech, and movement offer us the essence of Jack and Danny’s bond, and it is a one that is deeply fractured. The style that indicates this suggests that we are witnessing their relationship as it is normally.

Jack’s first encounter with Lloyd in The Gold Room lays bare his previous abuse towards Danny and his current disdain for him. While we are not aware of previous abuse in the ‘MONDAY’ scene, Danny undoubtedly would be. As Nicholson, at times, creates a seemingly affectionate impression, Lloyd creates the cold counterpoint. Jack never seems surprised by this lack of warmth towards him; neither does Danny’s fairly detached manner ever offer warmth. Performance-wise, these are the most telling indications that their bond is fractured.

While we can perceive from the meaning of performance alone that there is something amiss between Jack and Danny, there remains what Kubrick’s strength of score presence adds the sense of normalcy. My view here is that Kubrick is using score as a commentary. As Geoffrey Cocks (2004) has argued, Kubrick’s choice of Bartók, among other composers, was artistically loaded. Cocks (p. 248) states that Bartók left “imprints… in the music to affect and inform the listener about the world in which the music was written”. Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta – Adagio was composed in 1936, and it “marked an attempt to confront and musically overcome the massing darkness of fascism in the 1930s” (p. 248).

While my argument is not drawing parallels with such global horrors, it is drawing them with horrors that are domestic. Given the film’s harrowing domesticity and the mood created by Bartók’s ‘imprints’, Kubrick’s choice of score is functioning as much as a comment on this point in the narrative as it is regarding Cock’s suggestions on fascism. Kubrick’s choice of Bartók is then contextually apt as musical emphasis suggests Jack and Danny’s harrowing past. Music for String’s mood is the strongest auditory indicator of such drama and tension between them in general, and of anxious awareness on Danny’s part in particular.

Moreover, by aligning with Nicholson, as aforementioned, score-as-commentary additionally moves beyond the suggestion of history, and towards a chilling presage that brings the scene to a close: as Jack deceptively utters, “I love ya, Danny. I love ya more than anything else in the whole world, and I’d never do anything to hurt ya. Never…” Bartók’s piece sprawls towards an intensely anxious cutoff point, but not only to this. Sound and performance ultimately press us towards the horrors between Jack and Danny that are soon to come.

As I have argued, Kubrick has created a stylistically nuanced and complex scene where partnered sound and mise-en-scène are most telling of the troubled relationship between Jack and Danny. Establishing a specific sense of normalcy between them makes for a more accurate reading of the scene, serving to strengthen The Shining’s theme of domestic horror overall. In rewriting and extending this piece my hope is that I have improved upon my original version and that I have also provided a good starting point for further explorations into Kubrick’s film as a whole. Those being analytical possibilities that not only relate to the indications of mise-en-scène, but particularly to how the film’s human drama is so precisely expressed through Kubrick’s choice of sourced orchestral score.

References:

• The Shining 1980, DVD, Warner Home Video, Neutral Bay NSW, directed by Stanley Kubrick, 115 min. feature length.
• Cocks, G 2004, The wolf at the door: Stanley Kubrick, history, & the Holocaust, Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York.

A special thanks goes to Anna and my gorgeous partner Anastasia for assisting me with making this entry what it has finally become, and also to Craig for encouraging me to begin this blog in the first place.

 

The original analysis

This critical diary entry focuses on the use of sound within one particular scene from Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980).

The action consists of a rather uneasy and chilling conversation between Jack (Jack Nicholson) and Danny (Danny Lloyd), which generates such feelings for the viewer most predominantly through sound. An important distinction for the scene is that watching it without sound conveys a strong sense of normalcy; Jack lifts Danny onto his lap, he cuddles Danny, he smiles at him, and so on. Character movements, props, lighting, and the various other aspects of mise-en-scène largely tend to support this. The essence of this scene is in its sound.

The scene can be divided into five parts that are distinguished by changes in music (Béla Bartók’s transfixing Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celesta III – Adagio) and spoken language. Both serve to punctuate the scene by upping the level of suspense as the transitions are made, or rather, felt. This gradually brings the scene to a peak in suspense.

In the scene’s first part, Danny carefully creeps into the room, and we hear the “non-synchronous”, “off-screen sound” of cold, howling winds outside (Giannetti 2002, p. 210, 215). Bartók’s piece complements Danny’s careful creeping with a quick, yet gradual, fast to slow tempo of high-register piano, arousing our initial interest.  The tense and cautious feel of the piano almost gives Danny’s movements a sense of synchronous “mickeymousing” (funnily enough, as a side note, Danny wears a knitted Mickey Mouse jumper) (Giannetti, p. 220). The score then graduates to a taut use of strings, heightening our curiosity of Danny’s movements as he fixes his gaze off-screen. A dramatised yet subtle advance of strings brings us to Jack sitting on the bed. The transition from creeping piano to pronounced strings pulls us into the beginning of the next part.

Jack tiredly calls Danny over to sit on his lap. This instance is when we hear the scene’s first passage of dialogue. As with the relative normalcy of character mise-en-scène mentioned above, the words in this section of dialogue give us nothing out of the ordinary until we consider their spoken tone. Alone they are quite plain – “Can I go to my room to get my fire engine?” “Are you having a good time?” “Do you like this hotel?” “Yeah, I do. I love it.” etc. Yet here, Jack’s tone begins to indicate grave and darker character traits. He starts with a subdued, deadpan voice. Yet, as this part progresses, the glimmer of his unhinged character begins to be heard in Jack’s trancelike remark, “I wish we could stay here forever, and ever, and ever”.

The score of this second part does nothing less than steep us in suspense. Kubrick has us on what seems like the subtlest of roller coasters, as a rich juxtaposition between the dialogue’s normalcy and the somber orchestration puts us at an odd point of weighty anxiety of what to expect. The tautness of strings move higher and higher up the register, and we find ourselves breathing in more and more shallower breaths until the peak subsides, and gives us a moment to breathe, steadily… yet it is only a moment. The strings are allowed to advance dramatically and wildly again, but shortly, as they are brought down to a low rumbling (accompanying a tympani) underlying the dialogue.

Bringing us to the third part of this scene is, again, an almost mickeymousing effect from strings and percussion led by a higher register of piano. It is as if, as viewers, our feelings of suspense manifest as a creeping tiptoeing throughout that misses the odd key out of caution or fear whether as to continue or not down the uneasy path, not knowing what might be waiting ahead of us in the darkness. Tone and score uncovered bring us to the scene’s fourth part.

Danny’s line to Jack, “You would never hurt ma and me, would ya?” is where the dialogue finally comes up to speed with the atmosphere already provided by tone of voice and the curiosities from Bartók. At this point, the leading piano strikes a gentle yet tolling key, marking a brief and slower passage that contains longer pauses between notes. This has a kind of drawn-out, sweeping effect, as to indicate that once Danny has posed that question to Jack, we are, more or less, left momentarily hanging in suspense of what Jack’s answer will be.

The final part provides this answer. Jack starts with, “I love ya, Danny. I love you more than anything in the whole world”. This, too, is delivered in a menacing tone from Nicholson. Yet, it also features perhaps the most menacing instrument of this scene’s score, the celeste. The sound conveys a forceful sense of continuing the roller coaster-like sensation mentioned earlier, and it quickly progresses to a kind of sprawling, exponential anxiety, bringing us to the chilling harpsichord that strikes, cutting off the scene – WEDNESDAY.

As we have seen, considering the action with sound adds crucial depth to Jack’s previously considered normalcy towards Danny. And the presence of sound actually inverts the meaning of Nicholson and Lloyd’s performances. Jack’s smiles are now sinister; his hands around Danny become threatening; and Danny’s close position on his father’s knee gives him no way out. Likewise, Danny’s deadpan expression and lack of movement may now be interpreted as him being frozen with fear.

References:

• The Shining 1980, DVD, Warner Home Video, Neutral Bay NSW, directed by Stanley Kubrick, 115 min. feature-length.

• Giannetti, L 2002, “Sound”, Understanding movies, Prentice Hall, New 
Jersey, pp. 207-244.