Presidential Reflections

When the grainy, opening sequence of Bruce Conner’s Report rolls onto screen, the audience is already bracing for what it knows is about to happen. The footage preceding the assassination of president Kennedy is famous enough to set a dark tone even before anything has been said. The repetitive cuts settle the viewer deeper into their unease. Audio and image work hand in hand as the one provides a steady narration that regresses its audience back to that period in history and the other’s choppy surrealism sews sensations of horror. The first half of the film is homage and mourning; when the president’s wound is called out, and the visual turns a plain, strobing white, we are left to feel the moment’s dismay. While the announcer’s voice becomes shocked and breathless, the visuals match, throwing the audience into numb grief.

The fact that we, the viewers, cannot see the violence, cannot see if the president has survived – never mind that we know he has not – adds an almost Greek terror to the film; the panic that comes from things unseen. We are left in a state of agitated alarm, and when a countdown begins and time progresses back into random clips of separate violence, we are primed for it. Specifically, we are to lament Kennedy’s death, but later, the film presents us with the nature of death itself. Human works, such as silly commercials and bullfights, are shown as gratuitous and pointless. Clips of patriotic flags must contend with images of man’s subjugation of nature. Though the pall of the assassination is still upon us, Report presents death and pain as subjects of our own design. It seems to put the assassination's blame upon us as a species, forcing us to view the lesser parts of our nature. The frivolousness of the Kennedies seems to come through as the announcer talks of Jackie’s clothing choices and roses, as well as the size and grandeur of Airforce one and its crowds. In the middle of the film, it seems Report is not a piece of mourning at all, but a critique. A mad scientist raises Frankenstein, paralleling Kennedy’s coffin; it suggests our own inability to face death. Things change again, however, as the footage comes to a close. Tragedy takes center stage once more as the announcer foreshadows: “this is one of those impromptu moments for which President Kennedy is so well known. So many times you have heard that the secret service men find themselves without the president, that suddenly he has left them….” The visuals show various scenes in reverse, a sort of backward motion that offers forgiveness as the clips revert back to the positive.

Undoubtably, Report is meant to incite mourning; forcing its audience to live out the past, place it in context and compare it with both the present and our morals. It gives us the choppy, unmediated chaos of the living moment, and while our guard is down, asks us to question not just the “Report’s” instance, but those social factors which culminated in it happening.

Media and Content: Comparing Practices of Looking and Film Art

Looking at Robert Frank’s famous photo “Charleston”, the viewer is struck by several things simultaneously. First, most likely, is the visual; a striking black and white portrait of black and white people. From there, they might wonder contemplate the picture’s medium, or perhaps diverge, and focus instead on its subject. The two books Practices of Looking and Film Art share such a divergence.

The first seeks to pick apart the image as a piece of media. It would note that the photo is black and white, and that due to the style of dress, it was probably taken in the 1950’s, when color film was still hugely expensive. In its process, it would guess that the photographer stood beside the dark woman, on an open street during the day, and flush against a series of buildings. Phenomenologicaly, it would want to comment on the fact that the photo is a photo, not anything else, and as such can affect the viewer uniquely. It might argue that the piece is digital and seen on a screen, so onlookers can get a more intimate experience of it. It would want to note that since this piece can be reproduced with no loss in originality, it’s purpose can be skewed to fit political ends. Thus it can be said that Practices of Looking concerns itself with context, not content.

Film Art, on the other hand, would take the same picture and interpret in a new light; one of narrative. Like the media-centric Practices of Looking, Film Art would want to note that “Charleston” is from the 1950’s, but it would make this observation so that it might also draw a plot and story around that. Putting he photo in the 1950’s means that the Civil Rights movement is taking place, and the title indicates the setting is in the south. Ideas of racism and inequality spring to mind. The viewer looks at the juxtaposition of the white and black child and woman and can piece together a tale. Most likely the woman is a nanny for a rich white family. The child’s haughty expression and the woman’s long tried one become features to consider as plot. Film Art would have its readers question where this woman is going and what her situation is; it wants to know the tale behind the single, potent image.

Both books look to extract meaning from art, and the truths of both are valid. Practices of Looking would have us satiate our visual sensibilities. It would give meaning to the collection of granulated pixels without removing them from their form. Film Art however, calls upon that quote by Michael Shermer: that humans are “pattern seeking, story telling animals.” It seeks to vindicate our understanding of art through our own predilection for the narrative. By combining the wisdom of both, we can then grasp “Charleston” with a more critical understanding; that it is a picture about America, segregation, and inequality, in a medium meant for intimate exposure, in a format whose value comes from its reproducibility and ability to make a political statement.