Vec dugo si mislim otvoriti ovu temu jer me zanimaju filmske teorije, analize, filozofija i slicno, pa ako neko ima zanimljivih materijala, izvora ili preporuka vrlo bih zahvalna bila ako bi to podijelio/la s nama.
Ponukana razgovorom sa jednim forumskim kolegom
sjetih se ovog nedavno procitanog materijala.
Direct Address, Ethical Imagination, and Errol Morris’s Interrotron
Alex Gerbaz
Curtin University of TechnologyMost of us have grown up with faces on television that look back at us, talk to us, even when
we ignore them. They smile at us, and seem to address us personally. But they cannot see
or hear us, and we may or may not know who they are. Increasingly, in societies where
screens are prevalent (e.g. TV, cinema, computers), our encounters with fellow human
beings are mediated in ways such as this. Has the ubiquitous intervention of screens in our
lives thus made it harder to understand and communicate directly with one another? Or,
have screens extended our capacity to empathise and ‘socialise’, bringing us face-to-face
with people and points of view that we otherwise would never have encountered? In this
essay, I examine the idea that cinematic perception enables us to see the social world from
a radically different perspective, and that an experience of this perspective may in itself be
ethical. I focus on the use of ‘direct address’, and discuss two documentaries by Errol Morris
where the technique of direct address is used in ways that complicate ideas of mediation
and empathy: Mr. Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr. (1999) and The Fog of War:
Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara (2003). I also draw on the philosophy
of Emmanuel Levinas, particularly his work on ethics and the face, to analyse the effects of
Morris’s techniques. The essay highlights the importance of responsibility in human
communication, and maintains that by reflecting on the viewing situation we are better
positioned to empathise with Morris’s controversial subjects.
The technique of direct address—when a character looks in the direction of the
audience—is an example of how the film camera brings a social dimension into its
perception, so that it not only faces a social world but is also literally faced by it. Society is
reflected and implicated in its perceptions rather than simply displayed objectively before
them. Later in this essay, I examine two films by Errol Morris that illustrate this relation
between direct address and socialised cinematic perception. Morris’s documentaries
sometimes employ an interview technique that allows the speaker to face the camera, the
viewer, and the interviewer at the same time. The Interrotron, an apparatus designed
especially for this purpose, is ‘essentially a series of modified teleprompters…[which]
bounces a live image of Morris onto a glass plate in front of the interviewee; the
interviewee ‘respond(s) to an image of Morris that floats directly in line with the camera’
(Rosenheim 1996, 221). Among the technique’s effects are an increased sense of intimacy
and confrontation—the topics discussed in the interviews are at times quite
confrontational—but also a feeling of ambiguous address or misrecognition. The
Interrotron ‘intensifies each interview: larger-than-life...faces stare from the [screen] with
an unnerving intimacy, warily focused on the roving camera’s lens’ (221). The device
complicates the face-to-face relation, providing an opportunity to interrogate the place of
ethics in cinematic images from a Levinasian perspective.
Direct address, which characterises Morris’s interview technique, is a facing position
not used frequently in films. Michael Renov notes that ‘in fictional cinematic discourse [it]
is rare indeed, except in instances of comedy’ (2004, 30). Frontal orientation, or frontality,
produces a face-to-face encounter between character and screen (and viewer); it not only
denotes the character’s position but is also part of the film’s perception, the way in which
the film positions itself. According to Paul Schrader, the technique of frontality may be
considered ‘an aspect of transcendental style’, and he cites as examples its prominence in
the films of Yasujiro Ozu, as well as its broader use in religious painting and sculpture
(1972, 53). The frontal facing position, he suggests, is often used to ‘inspire an I-Thou
devotional attitude between the viewer and the work of art’ (53). It has the potential, in
other words, to facilitate a relation with transcendence or infinity as expressed by—or
alluded to in—the work itself, which can be understood as an ethical relation. Morris’s
application of frontality may not have any obviously religious intentions or connotations,
nor do his films meet Schrader’s criteria for transcendental style.1 However, in
constructing a face-to-face encounter between interview subject and viewer, Morris
establishes the potential for an ethical relation.
The question arises: how does the screen change our response to faces, and our
sense of responsibility towards people? Jill Robbins writes that according to Levinas:
to have an image of the face, to image a face, is to turn it into a caricature, frozen,
petrified, a mask. The whole possibility, indeed, the very temptation, of violence is
inscribed in the face’s presentation as form or image….There is no ethical image of
the face; there is no ethical image. (1999, 84)This suggests that the realm of images in no way gives us access to ethical experience.2 I
would argue, on the contrary, that cinematic images can and do carry an ethical dimension.
I agree, for example, with Jane Stadler who claims that films offer spectators ‘the practical
experience of perceiving from different perspectives and subject positions, and temporary
immersion or participation in someone else’s value system or ethical orientation’ (2000,
51). In other words, seeing the world from a different social perspective can itself be an
ethical experience. Stadler goes on to say that a phenomenological approach to film
analysis ‘involves thinking of acts of perception as evaluative acts, and thinking of the film
as articulating its own ethical consciousness as it expresses perception’ (78). Thus, in
addition to spectators being able to experience cinematic images in an ethical way, we
can also consider the manner in which films articulate perception as ethical and
socialised.3
Levinas’s philosophy, in particular his work on the face, allows us to examine
questions of ethics in relation to cinema, where faces are among the most widely seen
images. For Levinas, ethical experience occurs when we encounter a being or
phenomenon which cannot be reduced to presence (immediacy) or contained within a
field of pure knowledge. Levinas calls this phenomenon the ‘face’, referring to the human
visage, being that object in the world which expresses the existence of another
consciousness. The face is an ambiguous site of presence, calling upon us to be responsible
for and to an intentional life other than our own. For Levinas, the face-to-face encounter is
a potentially ethical meeting between human subjects. When we face another subject, we
are faced with the expression of an intentional life that is not ours. This is the essence of
the social relation, of human society, which differs from relations between intentional
subjects and objects. Society, according to Levinas, puts us in the ‘proximity of the
unknown’ (2002a, 535). The face expresses something that cannot be known in ways that
other objects can. That is, it is not present in the same way; the presence of the face is
‘incomprehensible’, ‘infinite’, ‘overflowing’ (Levinas 1991, 195). In this sense, the face does
not actually give us the being of the other subject in an intention or a perception (202).
Rather, it can only express his or her otherness, alterity, and ungraspable subjectivity.
At once based in phenomenology and an attempt to move beyond its structures,
Levinas’s philosophy centres on the meaning of the human face and how it establishes
social and ethical relations between people.4 The face is understood to express an
irreducible quality that alerts us to the other person’s inner life without actually giving or
presenting it to us fully. As such, the face issues a silent command: to respect the Other,
the subject who partakes of and enjoys the same world as we do but whose inner life is not
a mere object for our use, which does not fall within our capacity for experience via
intentional consciousness or ordinary phenomenological description. The face is the
inauguration of society and the commandment against murder, yet it also carries the
temptation to kill and the threat of death.5
Levinas describes the face as being ‘present in its refusal to be contained’ (2002b,
515). This indicates that it resists being viewed purely as an object or essence. But in
cinema (and other media), the human face is highly visible, frequently caught and framed
by the screen in ways that can seem objectifying or fetishistic. We can think here, for
example, of Roland Barthes’s comment on the face of Greta Garbo in Queen Christina
(Mamoulian, 1933): ‘It is indeed an admirable face-object’ (1999, 253). Arguably, the
importance of the face in Levinas’s thought, as an expression of the (unrepresentable)
subjectivity of the other person, is matched by its prominence and ‘appeal’ on the cinema
screen. The close-up of the face has long been one of the commonest and most
recognisable images in cinema. ‘Film theory,’ according to Bernadette Wegenstein, ‘takes
the instance of the facial close-up as the moment of utmost identification for the viewer—
that is, the moment when the film protagonist ‘convinces’ the viewer of his or her
presence within the medium’ (2002, 231). In other words, the close-up of the face in
cinema is sometimes understood to draw viewers into a film by appealing to our need to
recognise aspects of ourselves on screen. This supposedly allows us to enter more easily
into the film’s narrative, into the social world it depicts, and become caught up in the
action ourselves.
In Levinas’s view, images of the face are not ethical because they make the face into
an object: ‘a statue, an immobile instant, an idol’ (Robbins 1999, 132). But surely the
moving images of cinema constitute an exception? Images, for Levinas, are the
impoverished copies of reality—caricatures of the ‘face’ of the real (1989, 136-137).
Reality has an ethical dimension because it has a face, but images do not. Yet, what if,
instead of merely being the ‘shadow’ of reality, the images of art constitute a reverse side
of the face of the real? And what if the cinema screen—its ‘face’— leads us potentially to
ethical experience by way of having two sides, facing the social world from opposite
directions? Films, moreover, generally do not freeze or petrify the human faces they
depict; rather they preserve their animation and changing expressions.6 No doubt they
transform the face in certain ways (e.g. by flattening its dimensions); yet it is not the form
taken by the face that is most important in the ethical relation. What is most important is
to be able to orient oneself before the face in such a way as to ‘see’ or think beyond its
form.
Film perception, and indeed the viewer’s own perception, plays a significant part in
this orientation before the face. Frontality is a strategy or technique of cinematic
perception, and one of its effects can be to create multiple subjects of address. Medium
Cool (Wexler, 1969), for example, which Renov describes in The Subject of Documentary as
‘a collision of history with fiction’ (2004, 23), uses the technique to create a ‘sudden
confluence of…three registers of spectatorship’, namely a fictional interviewer, the
filmmaker, and the audience (30). The face-to-face here includes fictional characters, a
‘real’ director/cameraman, viewers, and the screen. It is as if the subject of perception is
split amongst us all and therefore its identity put into doubt.7 This can be understood in
Levinas’s terms as ‘the Other [facing] me and [putting] me in question’ (1991b, 207)—who
actually is being addressed? The face, claims Levinas, ‘tears consciousness up from its
center, submitting it to the Other’ (207). For Robbins, Levinas’s ethics is characterised by ‘a
radical putting into question of the self in the presence of the face of the other’ (1999, 75).
Consciousness—in other words, intentionality—becomes decentralised because of
obligation or ethical thinking.
Put differently, this means a decentralisation of the ego or a diffusion of the
transcendental (Husserlian) subject. Responsibility for the Other and alterity take over
from accountability for the self and presence. The face on screen, positioned frontally,
invites our response—our responsiveness. By reaching out from the diegesis of the film, it
implores us to listen and look beyond the narrative.8 Describing the direct address given
by a black militant in Medium Cool , Renov writes that ‘the thrusting forefinger of the
militant forces a recognition upon all who share privilege, in life as in fiction; those who
tolerate suppression and disenfranchisement (in representation as in commerce or law)
are destined to suffer its deadly backlash’ (2004, 30). Here is an invitation to think ethically,
and a ‘direct’ questioning of the subject of perception. Similarly, in Funny Games (Haneke,
1997), when one of a pair of sociopathic torturers pauses to wink and grin directly at the
camera, he steps out of the diegesis momentarily (‘stopping’ the action, or suspending the
narrative), faces the audience, and puts the question wordlessly to viewers that they might
be taking some kind of perverse pleasure in his unethical behaviour.
The direct address or frontal facing position can be seen, Renov notes, as a threat to
the ‘imaginary plenitude’ of cinematic vision (2004, 30).9 We can say also that it disrupts
the ‘totality’ of film’s intentionality, in the sense that a totality for Levinas encompasses
everything that can be taken up by consciousness as an object. The face that looks back at
the screen, and back at the viewer, may cause a rupture to occur in the classical form of film
perception: that of the transcendental subject. In other words, it expresses something
that cannot be accounted for within the totality of the transcendental subject’s intentions.
Why does such a rupture occur? In transcendental perception, the subject is always
intentional, and present in each act. But when a face stares back at it, the subject of
perception is asked a question: who is being faced or addressed? In the example from
Medium Cool , there appear to be multiple addressees, or ‘registers of spectatorship’, as
Renov calls them (2004, 30). The sense of plenitude in the transcendental subject is
therefore lost as it splits off into a diversity of positions.10 Another way of saying this is that
the questioning, frontally orientated face on screen disrupts any belief or tacit awareness
on the part of the viewer that there exists only a single subject of perception in the film
experience. The viewer is not only confronted with the fact of his or her own perception
(intentionality, consciousness, etc.), which is distinct from the film’s, but must also face the
possibility of a third or even fourth subject of perception—in Medium Cool , the filmmaker
and the interviewer (not to mention the rest of the audience).
Likewise, in Morris’s work—particularly Mr. Death and The Fog of War—the
Interrotron enables interviewees to face more than one subject front-on.11 In each case,
the audience is brought within the same visual field of spectatorial address as the
filmmaker-interviewer. These facing positions implicate multiple subjects of perception,
rather than a single, transcendental subject capable of synthesising and accounting for
everything that comes before it. The effect of the Interrotron technique can be unnerving:
with Fred Leuchter or Robert McNamara facing the camera directly, implicating us as well
as Morris in the interview space, it feels as though we are being recognised and
misrecognised—incorrectly addressed or identified—at the same time. They seem to be
responding to questions that we, not Morris, have asked, although we know this to be
untrue. We are aware not only of Morris’s ‘visual’ presence, but also that the face on screen
is addressing that presence, that consciousness, rather than ours. Surely the ‘direct
addressee’ is not us but Morris himself? Then again, for the interviewees, Morris is only an
image hovering before the camera lens. Thus, the Interrotron appears to eliminate
directness from the face-to-face interview, even though it yields especially intimate
results where the viewer is concerned. Further, it highlights what may be an essential
aspect of all face-to-face encounters and all social relations, namely that the other person
is never ‘given’ or available to us directly—whether in consciousness or
phenomenological description. Instead, recognising another person always contains an
element of misrecognition, or something irreducible that escapes identification. For
example, Robbins explains, following Levinas and Maurice Blanchot, that ‘the face-to-face
encounter has nothing symmetrical about it. Blanchot comments: ‘I never face the one
who faces me. My manner of facing the one who faces me is not an equal confrontation of
presences. The inequality is irreducible’’ (Robbins 1991, 140-141). Yet acknowledgment
of this failure to reach complete identification, to reduce to presence, is also fundamental
to an ethics of alterity.
The central themes in Mr. Death and The Fog of War are also ethical ones, focusing
on capital punishment, the Holocaust, and United States policy in Vietnam. Fred Leuchter,
the protagonist of Mr. Death, is a designer of state execution machines, and his expertise in
this field leads to his being called upon legally to inspect remnants of the gas chambers at
Auschwitz. He concludes controversially that they could not have been gas chambers at
all, and later becomes a revisionist spokesperson. Robert McNamara was U.S. Secretary of
Defense during the Vietnam War, and he speaks candidly about the fatal consequences of
his actions and decisions, conceding that some of them might be seen as war crimes. And
yet the first of his eleven ‘lessons’ outlined in The Fog of War is to empathise with your
enemy: ‘we must try’, McNamara explains, ‘to put ourselves inside their skin and look at us
through their eyes’. The Interrotron technique seems particularly appropriate here,
inviting the audience to divide its empathy between interviewer and interviewee: we are
‘inside the skin’ of Morris watching McNamara’s face, which appears to stare back at us.12
Arguably, the ethical dimension of Morris’s films derives not simply from the fact
that they deal with ethical problems, but it is complemented and enhanced by the direct
address. The moral ambiguity of the interviewees relates to concerns that they are overly
removed from the people whose deaths they have been responsible for, and this is
reflected in the ambiguity of their address. The front-on facing position hides an
indirectness and mediation that are illustrative of the reasons why such deaths may have
been facilitated and carried out. In Mr. Death, for example, Leuchter describes proudly
how he has designed a lethal injection machine that removes the human factor from
executions, thus maximising the level of mediation involved in killing another person.
Responsibility shifts from Leuchter to the execution machine—or, in McNamara’s case, to
the war machine. For instance, McNamara tells how, one night in 1945, the Americans
burned to death 100,000 Japanese civilians. ‘Were you aware that this was going to
happen?’ asks Morris. ‘Well,’ McNamara replies sheepishly, ‘I was part of a mechanism that
in a sense recommended it’. Such mechanisms remove the need for a face-to-face
encounter with another person—here, the ‘enemy’. They mediate violence, making it
seem less direct and less brutal. Ironically, Morris also mediates his interviews using a
machine, the Interrotron. This makes our face-to-face contact with Leuchter and
McNamara seem both direct and indirect, suggesting its immediacy while being
inescapably mediated. This ambiguity encourages us to think of the ways in which we ‘face
up’ to people in general (i.e. perhaps not always as directly as we think), and to what extent
we take responsibility for our behaviour towards others.
How, then, are we to respond to faces on screen like those in Morris’s films? Should
we sympathise with Leuchter, or at least try to understand his point of view, however
perverse? It may sound absurd to suggest we should feel responsibility towards this man,
given that he has absolved the Nazis so massively of blame for the deaths of the Jews in
World War II. Leuchter designs machines that kill people, machines that remove the need
to face up to the victims directly. He is comfortable making claims that deny the Holocaust
because he does not have to confront the victims or their families. We can see how this is
possible for Leuchter. We can also understand how McNamara could get caught up in a
‘mechanism’ that recommended the burning of Tokyo. The mediation of face-to-face
encounters can restrict our ethical imagination—which becomes apparent when we are
aware of the mediating work of the Interrotron. How does the Interrotron affect our
ability to empathise? In one sense, it enhances the effect of viewing the world through
the mechanical ‘eye’ of a camera. If our empathy shifts according to this new perspective,
the Interrotron enables us to empathise with Morris, who shares the camera’s line of sight.
We therefore come close to experiencing the face-to-face encounters between Morris
and Leuchter (or McNamara), even though the use of the Interrotron means those
encounters were never ‘direct’. But by viewing these films, we also experience a
mediation process that allows us to grasp intellectually the fact that both Leuchter and
McNamara have been involved in mediated encounters which had morally questionable,
even repugnant, consequences.
The Interrotron adds to the mediating effects of the screen while simultaneously
creating the illusion that mediation between character and viewer is minimised. The way
in which we respond to Leuchter’s or McNamara’s face, and whether or not, in Levinas’s
terms, we submit our consciousness to the Other—in other words, respond ethically—
depends on how we understand mediation. If responsibility begins with the face-to-face
encounter, perhaps in the age of the screen and mediated social encounters our sense of
responsibility is changing. The ubiquity of screens does not mean the end of responsibility
or empathy; rather, it makes the viewer responsible for reaching beyond the presence of
images in order to ‘see’ and respect the conscious life of others.
1 For Schrader (1972), transcendental style in cinema is exemplified by Ozu, Robert Bresson, and to a
lesser extent Carl Dreyer. He defines it with regard to three main elements or steps: representation of
the banality of everyday life (39); a disparity or crack appearing on the surface of the everyday,
causing intense emotions (42); and stasis, a confrontation with ‘the ineffable’ leading to an
‘expression of the Transcendent’ (49).
2 Compare this with Susan Sontag’s view on the moral significance of photographic images: ‘The limit
of photographic knowledge of the world is that, while it can goad conscience, it can, finally, never be
ethical or political knowledge….The omnipresence of photographs has an incalculable effect on our
ethical sensibility. By furnishing this already crowded world with a duplicate one of images,
photography makes us feel that the world is more available than it really is’ (1977, 23-24).
3 Although Stadler does not use Levinas in her analysis of cinematic narrative and ethics, she does
draw on the philosophy of Merleau-Ponty, among others. ‘Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenological point
that perception is embodied’, she argues, ‘is also of ethical significance because it suggests that
“ethical insight” is a felt experience, rather than something that can be grasped on a purely
conceptual level’ (2000, 78).
4 Levinas maintains that his work on the face is not traditional phenomenology, ‘since
phenomenology describes what appears’ (1985, 85). Although the face certainly does appear in his
analysis, and in human experience, he does not describe its surface or features in any real detail. Of
greater importance for Levinas is that which cannot appear, because this non-appearing is the basis
of ethics.
5 It is perhaps not surprising that an image of the face in close-up is so often used in films just
before—or while—a murder is committed.
6 In “Reality and its Shadow”, however, Levinas writes of the ‘quasi-eternal duration’ of art, which
locks beings into their fate and commits them to ‘the infinite repetition of the same acts’. Even the
temporality of non-plastic arts such as cinema, he suggests, ‘does not shatter the fixity of images’
(1989, 138-139).
7 Sarah Ruth Kozloff makes a similar point regarding frontality or direct address in television, although
not in terms of the viewer’s responsibility. ‘Direct address’, she writes, ‘refers to the situation when
someone on TV—a news anchor, a talk show host, a master of ceremonies, a reporter—faces the
camera lens and appears to speak directly to the audience at home. In this situation what we seem
to have is a precipitous collapse of the six narrative participants [i.e. real author, implied author,
narrator, narratee, implied reader, real reader] into merely two—the speaker and the viewer. When
Dan Rather (who functions both as supervising editor and anchor of the CBS Evening News) faces
the camera and relates the evening news, he simultaneously figures as real author, implied author,
and on-screen narrator, while I, sitting at home, am simultaneously narrate, implied viewer, and real
viewer’ (1987, 59).
8 The convention of direct address, and the idea that it can break out of the diegesis or narrative
world, has been parodied in episodes of the animated TV series The Simpsons. For example, a
character will suddenly look towards the camera and apparently address ‘you’, the viewer, but the
subsequent shot (or a reframing movement) reveals that the addressee is another character in the
diegesis.
9 This is a reference to Christian Metz and psychoanalytic film theory. For Metz, the spectator is ‘allperceiving’,
‘a kind of transcendental subject, which comes before every there is’; the spectator’s
sense of plentitude comes from identifying ‘with himself as a pure act of perception’ (1997, 173-174).
10 This splitting is different from when, for example, editing is used to give us multiple perspectives of
an event or scene. In such cases, the integrity of the transcendental subject position can still be
maintained.
11 Morris uses the same technique in Fast, Cheap and Out of Control (1997). See also Rosenheim’s
(1996) discussion of the Errol Morris TV series Interrotron Stories.
12 The idea of being inside the skin of a character is suggested by films such as Dark Passage (Daves,
1947) and Lady in the Lake (Montgomery, 1947), wherein we see things from the protagonist’s point
of view for long segments (or in the latter’s case, the entire film). Other characters therefore directly
address the protagonist, the camera, and the spectator at once. Vivian Sobchack discusses Lady in
the Lake at length, claiming however that ‘the kind of identification that [it] attempts to achieve
between spectator and character fails’ (1992, 235).
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