Nonprofessional Film Performance 3031323815, 9783031323812

Table of contents :
Preface
Acknowledgements
Contents
List of Figures
Chapter 1: Introduction
Bodies Caught In Between
Between Acting and Non-acting
Contextualising Nonprofessional Performance
Conventions and Comparisons
Close Analysis and Nonprofessional Performance
The Limits and Possibilities of Performance
A Word on Focus
References
Part I: Historical Perspectives
Chapter 2: Naturshchiki, Types and Non-actors: Nonprofessional Performance in Early Soviet Cinema
The Naturshchik According to Kuleshov
The Worker and the Naturshchik
Typage According to Eisenstein
Marfa Lapkina in Old and New
The Non-actor According to Pudovkin
Pudovkin’s Methods Working With Non-actors: The Case of the Young Communist
Conclusion
References
Chapter 3: Italian Neorealism and the Nonprofessional Protagonist
Nonprofessional Performance in Italian Neorealism: A Theoretical Overview
An Amalgam of Workers: La Terra Trema
Rossellini’s Disruptive Amalgams
Edmund Moeschke in Germany Year Zero
De Sica and His Methods Working With “Actors From the Streets”
Bicycle Thieves’ Nonprofessional Characters
Conclusion
References
Chapter 4: The Corruption of Nonprofessional Performance in Pasolini’s Cinema
Nonprofessional Performance in Pasolini’s Cinema: An Overview
Nonprofessional Performance in Salò
Conclusion
References
Part II: Contemporary Approaches
Chapter 5: Misael Saavedra in La libertad: The Work of Gestures
A Meeting by the Bonfire: The Collaboration Between Filmmaker and Nonprofessional Actor
The Economy of Gesture
The Return of the Naturshchik and the Imminence of a Revelation
The Mysteries of Saavedra’s Performance
The Journey of the Character-Object
The Return of the Character-Object
References
Chapter 6: Lluis Serrat and Lluis Carbó in Honor de Cavalleria: Nonprofessional Performance and the Quixotic
Bodily Disproportions: Playing Iconic Characters on Screen
Nonprofessional Actors and Iconic Characters
Quixotic Bodies and Their Disruptions
The Challenges Performing the Quixotic
Honor de Cavalleria: Achieving the Quixotic Through Nonprofessional Performance
Disrupting Don Quixote Through Nonprofessional Filmmaking
Unfaithfully Quixotic Performances
Quixote’s Madness and Carbó’s Nonprofessional Gestures
Panza’s Tiredness and Serrat’s Waiting
Quixote and Panza’s Bodily Exchanges
Conclusion
References
Chapter 7: Honor Swinton Byrne in The Souvenir: Self-Consciousness and Privilege
Julie: The Self-Consciousness of Privilege
Filmmaking and Escaping Privilege
Nonprofessional Performance and Privilege
Anthony: The Privilege of Self-Consciousness
The Possibilities of Perspective
Escape Through Self-Consciousness
Conclusion
References
Chapter 8: Conclusion
Nonprofessional Performances and Their Contributions
Nonprofessional Characters and Beyond
The Question of Realism
Nonprofessional Actors Outside the Screen
Professional and Nonprofessional Screen Performance
The End of the Nonprofessional Actor?
References
Index

Citation preview

PALGRAVE CLOSE READINGS IN FILM AND TELEVISION

Nonprofessional Film Performance Miguel Gaggiotti

Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television Series Editors

John Gibbs Department of Film, Theatre & Television University of Reading Reading, UK Doug Pye Department of Film, Theatre & Television University of Reading Reading, UK

Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television is an innovative series of research monographs and collections of essays dedicated to extending the methods and subjects of detailed criticism. Volumes in the series – written from a variety of standpoints and dealing with diverse topics – are unified by attentiveness to the material decisions made by filmmakers and a commitment to develop analysis and reflection from this foundation. Each volume will be committed to the appreciation of new areas and topics in the field, but also to strengthening and developing the conceptual basis and the methodologies of critical analysis itself. The series is based in the belief that, while a scrupulous attention to the texture of film and television programmes requires the focus of concept and theory, the discoveries that such attention produces become vital in questioning and re-­ formulating theory and concept.

Miguel Gaggiotti

Nonprofessional Film Performance

Miguel Gaggiotti Department of Film and Television University of Bristol Bristol, UK

ISSN 2634-6133     ISSN 2634-6141 (electronic) Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television ISBN 978-3-031-32381-2    ISBN 978-3-031-32382-9 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32382-9 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: Glasshouse Images / Alamy Stock Photo This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Preface

This book offers a critical study of screen performances by first-time untrained actors, generally referred to in the contexts of film studies and filmmaking as nonprofessional actors. The book is aimed at scholars and students interested in film performance, non-academic enthusiasts and filmmakers seeking to learn more about the process of working with (nonprofessional) actors. I have tried to avoid obscure language and discuss the films and performances in ways that render them vividly though also as clearly as possible. Although nonprofessional actors and their performances have been part of cinema since the very beginning, are at the core of iconic film currents such as Italian neorealism, and feature prominently in the cinemas of celebrated auteurs like Pier Paolo Pasolini and Robert Bresson, they have not received sustained critical attention. In fact, as far as I am aware, this monograph constitutes the first book-length study on the subject in English. While this points to a significant gap in scholarship, the timing of this book’s publication also tells us something about the perduring relevance of this figure. Not only have nonprofessional actors been a staple of art cinemas since (at least) the 1940s, but the rise of digital filmmaking in the first two decades of the twenty-first century has been accompanied by a very strong presence of nonprofessional actors in independent films, including some produced in Hollywood or along its margins. This book seeks to explore the rich history and contemporary relevance of nonprofessional actors and their performances. For this reason, it is structured into two parts. Part I concerns historical cases and examines nonprofessional performances in: (1) two film currents strongly associated v

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with nonprofessional actors (early Soviet cinema and Italian neorealism); and (2) the cinema of an iconic European auteur (Pier Paolo Pasolini) who worked with nonprofessional actors throughout his entire career. Part II of this book offers sustained analysis of nonprofessional performances in three films made in the twenty-first century: La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001), Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006) and The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019). These films, I argue, incorporate nonprofessional performances in distinctive and significant ways and, therefore, benefit substantially from an analysis concentrating on the performances themselves. My choice of films inevitably responds to my personal taste and interests. I have also focused on performances in languages I am fluent in as this allows me to discuss details related to vocal inflection and intonation which might not be noticed by viewers who do not have fluency in these languages. My study also concentrates on a select number of films and does not consider a wide range of outstanding performances which undoubtedly also warrant attention. Given the extensive history of nonprofessional film performances, it would be impossible to cover them all. More importantly, however, I have focused on a narrow range of performances in order to examine them with the level of analytical concentration I think they deserve and is needed to account for their merits. The performances’ capacity to sustain and reward thorough analysis constitutes, in my eyes, the strongest evidence of their relevance. With regard to this study’s focus on performance, I will say that I don’t regard such focus as the only way to study the figure of the nonprofessional actor in cinema. In fact, I would go as far as to say that the disproportion between the importance of this figure and the lack of studies on the topic ensures that this book will not be conclusive but, rather, will hopefully contribute towards developing the critical discussion the nonprofessional actor needs and deserves. If I have chosen to focus on the performances, however, it is because I believe that such analysis is a crucial first step towards identifying and recognising, precisely, the nonprofessional actors’ artistic contributions to their films. In this regard, I will only add that I consider all the performances examined in this book exemplary (in the double sense of them being representative of nonprofessional performance and extraordinary examples of it). It is up to the reader to decide whether my analysis does them justice. Bristol, UK

Miguel Gaggiotti

Acknowledgements

Many people have contributed to this book in different ways. I would like to thank in particular: the James Blue Archive at University of Oregon, John Gibbs, Douglas Pye, Lina Aboujieb, Md Saif, Mattias Frey, Carlos Sorin, Marcos Barboza, Javier Farina, Albert Serra, Montse Triola, Jimmy Gimferrer, Xavier Pérez, Joaquim Sapinho, Lluis Serrat and Joe Taylor. I am especially grateful to my friends and colleagues at the Department of Film and Television at the University of Bristol: Dominic Lash, Hoi Lun Law, Steven Roberts, Eve Benhamou, Jae Maingard, Naz Massoumi, Helen Piper, Kristian Moen, Sarah Street, Jimmy Hay, Rayna Denison, Caitlin Shaw, Katie Mack, Connor Ryan, Valentina Ippolito, Chris Barnett, Peter Milner, Kate Withers, Deborah Gibbs, Luciano Piazza, Mike Samuel, Lisa Murphy, Theresa Trimmel, Dan Brookes and Pete Falconer. I would also like to thank my students for their engagement, support and inspiration. Special thanks are extended to Alex Clayton for supervising the PhD dissertation that served as the basis for this book and for his generous feedback and advice throughout all stages of the project. This book would not be what it is—perhaps it wouldn’t be at all—if it wasn’t for Alex. Alastair Phillips and Catherine O’Rawe read earlier drafts of this book in its entirety and kindly offered their comments. Moreover, they have generously accepted my invitation to discuss specific chapters on multiple occasions, which has been incredibly useful. I have also had the pleasure and privilege of sharing with Catherine several conference panels and sessions on the nonprofessional actor as well as innumerable conversations on vii

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the subject. I have no doubt they have influenced this book in more ways than I can tell. Sections of Chap. 3 were presented at the 2018 symposium Stardom and Performance in Post-war Italian Cinema 1945–54 in Torino. A version of Chap. 2 was presented at the 2019 Screen conference in Glasgow. A version of Chap. 4 was first published as ‘The corruption of non-­ professional performance: Pasolini and Salò’ in Screen, Volume 63, Issue 2 (Summer 2022) and benefitted substantially from the comments and feedback offered by the journal’s editors and anonymous reviewers. Some of the definitions offered in Chap. 1 are updated versions of those first introduced in the essay ‘The non-professional actor in European Cinema’ published in The Routledge Companion to European Cinema (2021). Some of the observations in the second section of Chap. 7 first appeared, albeit with significant differences, in the article ‘Nonprofessional Acting in El Perro’ in Movie: A Journal of Film Criticism, Volume 9 (2021). I have cited widely available English translations whenever possible; when I have cited original publications in Spanish, Catalan, French, Italian or Portuguese, translations are my own. My greatest gratitude goes to my parents Hugo Gaggiotti and Diana Marre and to my sister Sofia Gaggiotti for their unwavering support.

Contents

1 Introduction  1 Part I Historical Perspectives  31 2 Naturshchiki, Types and Non-actors: Nonprofessional Performance in Early Soviet Cinema 33 3 Italian Neorealism and the Nonprofessional Protagonist 73 4 The  Corruption of Nonprofessional Performance in Pasolini’s Cinema123 Part II Contemporary Approaches 155 5 Misael Saavedra in La libertad: The Work of Gestures157 6 Lluis  Serrat and Lluis Carbó in Honor de Cavalleria: Nonprofessional Performance and the Quixotic185

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7 Honor  Swinton Byrne in The Souvenir: Self-­Consciousness and Privilege217 8 Conclusion251 Index267

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. 1.2 Fig. 1.3 Fig. 1.4 Fig. 2.1 Fig. 2.2 Fig. 2.3 Fig. 2.4 Fig. 2.5 Fig. 2.6 Fig. 2.7 Fig. 2.8 Fig. 3.1 Fig. 3.2 Fig. 3.3 Fig. 3.4 Fig. 3.5 Fig. 3.6 Fig. 3.7 Fig. 4.1

Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895) 6 Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895) 7 Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895) 8 Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895) 9 The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks (Lev Kuleshov, 1924) 41 The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks (Lev Kuleshov, 1924) 42 Old and New (Grigori Aleksandrov and Sergei Eisenstein, 1929) 51 Old and New (Grigori Aleksandrov and Sergei Eisenstein, 1929) 52 The Deserter (Vsevolod Pudovkin, 1933) 61 The Deserter (Vsevolod Pudovkin, 1933) 62 The Deserter (Vsevolod Pudovkin, 1933) 64 The Deserter (Vsevolod Pudovkin, 1933) 65 La Terra Trema (Luchino Visconti, 1948) 86 La Terra Trema (Luchino Visconti, 1948) 87 Paisà (Roberto Rossellini, 1946) 92 Germany Year Zero (Roberto Rossellini, 1948) 96 Germany Year Zero (Roberto Rossellini, 1948) 97 Bicycle Thieves (Vittorio De Sica, 1948) 110 Bicycle Thieves (Vittorio De Sica, 1948) 111 Il Decameron (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1971) 134

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Fig. 4.2 Fig. 4.3 Fig. 4.4 Fig. 4.5 Fig. 4.6 Fig. 4.7 Fig. 4.8 Fig. 5.1 Fig. 5.2 Fig. 5.3 Fig. 5.4 Fig. 5.5 Fig. 5.6 Fig. 6.1 Fig. 6.2 Fig. 6.3 Fig. 6.4 Fig. 6.5 Fig. 6.6 Fig. 6.7 Fig. 7.1 Fig. 7.2 Fig. 7.3 Fig. 7.4 Fig. 7.5

Il Decameron (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1971) Salò (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975) Salò (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975) Salò (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975) Salò (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975) Porcile (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1969) Salò (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975) La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001) La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001) La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001) La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001) La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001) La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001) Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006) Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006) Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006) Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006) Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006) Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006) Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006) The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019) The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019) The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019) The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019) The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019)

135 135 137 138 138 146 149 159 164 164 165 173 180 198 198 201 205 208 210 211 220 221 235 240 241

CHAPTER 1

Introduction

In filmmaking and film criticism, the terms “non-actor” and “nonprofessional actor” are often used to describe individuals who perform in films despite having no previous acting training or experience. Other terms such as “amateur actor”, “actor from the streets”, “natural actor”, “type”, “naturshchik” and “model” have also been used throughout history to describe untrained, first-time film performers. The fact that these terms are often used interchangeably suggests that their differences are fuzzy. However, our insistence on preserving many of these concepts rather than settling on one indicates that multiple terms are useful, if not necessary, to capture the heterogeneity of nonprofessional film actorship. Throughout this book, I explore some of these concepts in further detail in order to draw distinctions between different types of nonprofessional performers and their performances. Exploring how different nonprofessional performances contribute to the significance and achievement of specific films is the primary aim of this book. However, at this point, I want to offer a preliminary discussion on why I have favoured the terms “nonprofessional actor”, and “performance” over other alternatives such as “amateur actor”. This discussion will also clarify why, at some points throughout the book, I use other concepts such as “non-actor” and “acting”. The term “amateur actor” is frequently used in both theatre and film. It is generally used to describe an actor for whom acting is not their main source of income. An amateur is, thus, distinguished from a professional, © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Gaggiotti, Nonprofessional Film Performance, Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32382-9_1

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who, as we frequently say, makes a living through their craft. The term “amateur” derives from the Latin root amare, which means “to love”, an origin that highlights the amateur’s passion for their discipline or, as Adrian Kear melancholily puts it, their ‘non-reciprocal love’ (2005, p. 36). The amateur’s sincere passion for their craft has led authors to define this figure in positive terms against their professional counterparts, who work to obtain a material gain (Merrifield, 2017). Generally speaking, though, “amateurism” is a concept that often carries negative connotations, such as lack of finess or polish, unpredictability, or inconsistency, while we rely on professionals for their consistent and predictable results. However, although lack of quality or polish are features often associated with amateurism, the amateur does not necessarily lack training or experience. An amateur actor may have acted in several films or plays and have received extensive training and remain an amateur. Therefore, the term does not convey the same qualities as “non-actor” or “nonprofessional actor” and is not used in this book. The term “non-actor” is also used frequently in cinema and the theatre and describes a performer who is not an actor and, in many cases, a performer who is not acting. In his book Games for Actors and Non-Actors, for example, Augusto Boal describes exercises that can be performed by ‘actors (those who make acting their profession or craft) and non-actors (that is, everybody). Everybody acts. Everyone is an actor’ ([1980, 1989] 2002, p.  15). By “correcting” himself, Boal reminds us that, as Phillip Zarrilli (2013) explains, acting in its broadest sense means “doing” and, therefore, anyone might be regarded as an actor. For instance, the term “social actor” is used in certain social sciences to describe individuals engaging in social interaction. However, the term “non-actor”, as used initially by Boal, proposes a distinction from a more specific kind of actor: a dramatic actor. There are many definitions of dramatic acting, some of which will be discussed throughout the book. However, a useful starting one is proposed by Paul McDonald, who defines (dramatic) acting in the context of film as ‘the representation of dramatic character through the medium of the performer’s voice and body’ (2012, p. 61). A non-actor might therefore be described as a performer who does not represent a dramatic character (through voice and body). This is the definition of the term used throughout this book.1  An exception is made when discussing Vsevolod Pudovkin’s work with nonprofessional actors in Chap. 2. Here I use the term “non-actor” because it is the term generally used in translations of Pudovkin’s writings. 1

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The term “nonprofessional actor” is more frequently used in the context of cinema than in theatre. In film, a nonprofessional actor does not describe someone who does not receive payment for their performance. In fact, most nonprofessional actors discussed in this book were paid. A second difference between the nonprofessional actor and the amateur actor is that the nonprofessional actor does not necessarily have a passion for acting. Many nonprofessional actors did not seek acting careers nor had an interest in acting when they worked in their first films. They were often cast in the streets or outside of conventional casting processes and invited to perform in a film. The difference between a non-actor and a nonprofessional actor is not always clear. The two terms are very often used interchangeably, which suggests that they have many aspects in common. However, one key difference is that the term nonprofessional actor is almost exclusively used to refer to performers who play characters in fiction films and, therefore, performers who are acting. To say that most documentaries feature non-­ actors sounds logical. However, to say that a documentary was made with nonprofessional actors seems to imply that, in said documentary, these performers are acting. One example of this could be a documentary with enactments performed by first-time untrained actors.2 We might, therefore, define nonprofessional actors as first-time, untrained performers who act in—that is to say, act out—fictional or dramatic scenarios. This is the definition ascribed to the term throughout this book. At this point, it is also worth clarifying the way the terms “acting” and “performance” are used in this book and why I favour the latter. I have already provided an initial definition of acting and noted that I will discuss other definitions throughout the book. Similarly, I will also refer to alternative definitions of the term “performance” later. However, I find it useful to cite Richard Dyer’s definition of performance as a starting point: Performance is what the performer does in addition to the actions/functions s/he performs in the plot and the lines s/he is given to say. Performance is how the action/function is done, how the lines are said. The signs of performance are: facial expression; voice; gestures (principally of hands and arms, but also of any limb, e.g. neck, leg); body posture (how someone is standing or sitting); body movement (movement of the whole body, 2  The Act of Killing (Joshua Oppenheimer, 2012) is an example of a documentary intensely concerned with the performances of nonprofessional actors.

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i­ncluding how someone stands up or sits down, how they walk, run, etc.). ([1979] 1998, p. 134)

Dyer’s definition is particularly helpful when analysing screen performance because it orients our attention towards how the on-screen body performs and, therefore, towards the performance’s contribution. This contribution, according to Dyer, involves details that may not necessarily be considered acting. That is, Dyer’s definition might be used to describe and analyse the performances of non-actors, for example. We might say that, according to Dyer, performance is broader than acting, at least if using McDonald’s definition of acting suggested above. This book is concerned primarily with the performances of nonprofessional actors in fiction films and, therefore, many of the gestures and performance details I discuss are acting. However, several of the films I analyse test and challenge the boundaries between fiction and documentary and, more importantly, they do so through the performances. Therefore, the term “performance” allows me to analyse details such as gestures and vocal inflections that might or might not be (regarded as) acting yet are, in my view, significant. I will discuss other possibilities and limitations of performance analysis later in this chapter. At this point, however, I would like to build on the definitions offered above to introduce the concept of “nonprofessional performance” at the heart of this book. I propose to define nonprofessional performances as: performances that suggest or reveal that the performer is not a professional actor. The objective of this book is, therefore, twofold. Firstly, it seeks to explore how certain performances suggest or reveal that the performer is not a professional actor. That is, what makes specific performances (appear)  nonprofessional? Secondly, this book investigates why certain films feature nonprofessional performances. That is, how do nonprofessional performances contribute to their films? As the following paragraphs attempt to show, we must examine specific films and the (nonprofessional) performances in them to answer these questions.

Bodies Caught In Between Individuals without acting training or experience have performed in films since the birth of cinema. We might say that the performers in the films by the Lumière brothers were non-actors (or nonprofessional actors). While

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scholars have noted that not all performers in the films of the Lumière brothers perform the same way,3 I want to argue in the following paragraphs that certain performances in La Sortie de l’Usine Lumière à Lyon/ Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895) achieve an exceptional level of significance by mobilising details that reveal the performers’ status as nonprofessional actors. This analysis will allow me to introduce the notion of nonprofessional performance explored throughout this book. In order to locate the performances I am referring to, we must recall that the Lumière brothers made three versions of their first film Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory. These three versions, recorded at different times of the year, are similarly framed and show the same action: a large group of men and women steadily walk through the factory gates and towards us before scattering across the street, leaving the frame left and right. The first version of the film the Lumières made, referred to as the one-­ horse version, feels the most unprepared. The workers walk out of the factory casually, joining the passers-by strolling down the street. Some take their time with their exit and exchange farewells before departing. Our eyes are drawn to the figures that stand out the most from the crowd: the horse pulling the cart through the gates and the dog and little girl that hover around the scene, randomly leaving and re-entering the frame. The film ends abruptly, with the image of workers still passing through the gate. Although the workers were probably asked to exit the factory specifically for the film, their behaviour does not clearly indicate the film’s staging. This is the version of the film that best conveys the impression that the Lumières simply recorded reality as it unfolded. The other two versions of the film feel contrived in comparison. The version often referred to as the no-horse version, possibly the third one the Lumière brothers made, begins and ends with the opening and closing of the gates: the duration of the action has been adjusted to match the film’s running time. The workers leave quickly, almost rushing, and swiftly commit to either left or right to ensure a steady flow. In this version in particular, the workers appear, as Harun Farocki notes, to ‘put their feet down so clearly, as though the aim were to make walking appear vivid’ (2002). The workers do not just exit the factory but seem to publicise their walk with a certain ostentatious naturalism. The horse is nowhere to be found; it 3

 See Baron and Carnicke (2008), discussed later in this chapter.

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probably proved too big an obstacle for getting all the workers out in the short amount of time. The third version of the film (two-horses version) shares features with each of the other two. Like the first version, it begins and ends suddenly, with the gates open and the workers pouring out. However, in the two-­ horses version, some of the workers behave awkwardly, as if they had been given unclear instructions. Two women in particular appear to struggle. Mixed with the crowd, they walk out of the factory one after the other. The woman in front, who wears a patterned dress, anxiously turns her head back to look for her friend (Fig. 1.1). Once past the gates, the woman in front timidly steps leftwards while her companion goes right, causing the first woman to stop abruptly. They quickly reset, now standing next to each other (Fig. 1.2). They begin to move again, but they seem to pull each other in opposite directions (Fig. 1.3). Their bodies wobble tentatively and self-consciously. Unsure of where to go, they lack the

Fig. 1.1  Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895)

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Fig. 1.2  Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895)

determination and naturalness of the other workers. After what must have felt like an eternity, one of the women tugs her friend by the dress and hurriedly pulls her towards the right and out of frame (Fig. 1.4). It is hard to tell what exactly might have caused the women to hesitate on what direction to take. As is often the case with self-conscious performances in early films, ‘motivation is at issue, up for grabs, defamiliarized’ (Auerbach, 2007, p. 11). Unlike the rest of the workers, the two women appear troubled and their lapsus invites speculation on the source of their hesitance. Tangled in a knot, they seem to have merged into a single body shared by two entities pulling against each other. [“We should go left!” “We were told to go right” “But my house is to the left!” “But we haven’t finished our conversation!”]. Although we can’t clearly tell why they act the way they do, their bodies seem to project confused and contradicting thoughts.

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Fig. 1.3  Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895)

Almost certainly unplanned, the two ladies’ gestures offer an early example of the nervous behaviour often associated with nonprofessional film performance.4 Vivian Sobchack describes this kind of behaviour as an ‘awkward […] reaction to situations in which […] the Personal body does not know how to “act”’ (2012, p. 434). Sobchack adds that ‘This is what usually gets nonprofessional actors in trouble in front of the camera. Under the intentional “direction” and “self-possession” by an “other”, the nonprofessional actor becomes suddenly and reflectively aware of a Personal body that has been going about behaving or “having being” transparently’ (p.  434). For Sobchack, in such instances the 4  The two women’s performances also display many of the qualities that would come to be associated with a style of performance characteristic of home movies and amateur films, which Liz Czach describes as ‘a combination of shyness and awkwardness mixed with an awareness of being filmed and a display of uncertainty about what is expected from one’s performance’ (2012, p. 152).

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Fig. 1.4  Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895)

nonprofessional actor finds herself ‘caught “between”’ (p. 435) her personal body and the body she is in the act of impersonating, and that, new to being on screen, she is not yet familiar with or in possession of. This kind of nonprofessional performance is often deemed poor for jeopardising what scholars refer to as a film’s concealment of artifice. While the steady march of the other workers paints the action as unplanned and discreetly registered, the women’s lapsus involuntarily suggests the presence of a device conditioning their behaviour. Self-conscious nonprofessional gestures harbour the potential for alienating effects; interrupting the homogenous flow of the action, they expose the forces shaping it as representation. In the case of Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory, if it were not for gestures such as the two women’s, we would have little reason to imagine the scene was planned and performed for the camera rather than recorded as the workers left the factory after a day’s work. Once our attention is drawn to the contrivance of the scene though, this aspect of the film is opened to our analysis and speculation.

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In the film compilation The Lumière Brothers’ First Films (1996), Bertrand Tavernier notes the ambiguous and uncertain status of the directing methods used in the scene by suggesting the Lumières might have “asked, ordered, begged” their workers to perform. Given the swiftness with which the two women leave the frame after their lapsus, it is possible that the filmmakers shouted at them to get them moving. The complex relationship between actor and director inaugurated by this initial and, as Pedro Costa puts it, ‘very powerful’ (2007) act of interpellation— the filmmakers, who are also the employers, telling the performers/workers how to be(have)—is further complicated by the fact that the camera was located across the street from the factory’s gate, effectively claiming control over a public or semi-public space. The women’s lapsus suggests their inexperience performing for the camera. However, their indecision may also be their response to being asked to alter their behaviour when in a space in which, under normal circumstances, their actions would not be conditioned by the organisational rules of the factory and, therefore, the Lumière’s authority as employers. The women’s bodies convey their puzzlement when finding themselves in this situation. But they could also be regarded as performing an (involuntary) act of protest against the camera’s (and the director’s) control of a public or semi-public space: [“Should we do what they say or what we would normally do?”]. By showing their doubt, the women’s nervous bodies question who has the legitimacy to determine how the worker’s act of exiting the factory should be performed and (re)presented. Although the two women’s hesitant performances open the film’s creative process to our speculation and interpretation, the power and significance of their actions are not limited to this aspect alone. A young Jean Epstein marvelled at the affective power of nervous gestures: ‘I love […] the gesture which hesitates between right and left, the recoil before the leap, and the moment before landing, the becoming, the hesitation’ ([1921] 1988, p. 236) which led him to proclaim that ‘film is nothing but a relay between the source of nervous energy and the auditorium which breathes its radiance. That is why the gestures which work best on screen are nervous gestures’ (p. 238). Epstein appears to value nervous gestures for their in-betweenness that, by briefly suspending the movement of the action and delaying its outcome, generates a sense of tension. Nervous gestures allow us to feel the excitement of trying to anticipate their resolution and, therefore, the consequences of the action.

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Epstein’s fascination with nervous gestures anticipates Stanley Cavell’s similar admiration towards instances of recorded bodily fidgeting, which he proposes to term ‘somatograms’ ([1985] 2017, p.  67). For Cavell, somatograms are meaningful insofar as they ‘return the mind to the living body’ (p. 67) and betray the self-aware vigilance of the cogito by showing the body literally caught in the act of thinking. In the case of the two women’s nervous performances, the sense of hesitation Epstein describes, or Cavell’s quality of bodily thinking, extend beyond the context of the making of the film (the film’s indexical quality as a record of the workers performing for the camera) into the representation of an event (the iconic portrayal of how a group of workers [would] exit the factory after a day’s work). Torn between the two possible exit routes (left and right), the women’s bodies are also caught between the horizontal path (the street) and the perpendicular one (from inside the factory outwards). Their pause, right after crossing the gates, and their ensuing vacillation convey a quality of bodily change—a switch from automatic to manual mode—that is absent in the other workers’ monotonous walk. It is as though, stirring awake from the slumbering automatism imposed by the factory, the women’s bodies struggle momentarily as they adjust to an environment offering possibilities and choices unavailable behind the gates. One of the two ladies might have just remembered a common engagement and may be actively (and physically) persuading the other to go somewhere together. While their nervous gestures may be a consequence of the conditions imposed by the camera, they vividly convey the way our bodies adapt themselves when transiting between different spaces, offering a non-­ naturalistic yet powerful representation of what one’s body might look like when caught thinking what to do after leaving the workplace. Between Acting and Non-acting Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory can be regarded as a film concerned with the crossing of physical and symbolic gates (the factory’s, the camera’s, photography’s) in new directions and possibilities. The women’s performances are particularly attuned to this theme as they expose these possibilities as internalised by the performing (and thinking) body that finds itself, both physically and symbolically, caught between these directions and possibilities. We might say that following the direction prescribed by the Lumières (right, for example) would steer their performance

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closer to acting and the film towards a more fictional representation of the action. Walking in the direction the women would themselves choose (left, for example), would, conversely, draw the film closer to a documentary register of the situation. The intensity of the women’s performances derives from their capacity to stay suspended at the juncture, rather than on making a choice, channelling the resulting tension towards keeping both directions alive as possibilities. Their performances convey, at the same time, both the nervous excitement of choosing what to do after leaving the factory and of performing in one of the first films ever made. One might argue that these two aspects are available in all film performances. As the sayings go, “all films are fiction films” and “all films are documentaries of their actors”. However, while most films might be regarded as both fiction films and documentaries of their actors, not all performances actively draw our attention to the two aspects simultaneously. In most fiction films, the representational aspect of the performance (its fiction) is given priority while the indexical (documentary) aspect is concealed or de-emphasised. In most documentaries, on the other hand, we are concerned with the indexical aspect of the performer’s behaviour: what “that” person is saying or “doing” as they are being recorded. This is not to say that performers in documentary films are not performing or altering their behaviour. As scholars such as Elizabeth Marquis (2013) and Stella Bruzzi ([2000] 2006) have noted, performances in documentaries involve self-presentation mediated by the camera and offered in non-­ fiction structures. That is, though said performances might be contrived by both subject and camera, they are (generally speaking) not offered as a representation of the comportment of a dramatic character in a fictional situation. Scholars have considered whether the performances in the Lumières’ films can be regarded as acting in a dramatic sense of the term. Cynthia Baron and Sharon Marie Carnicke (2008) analyse the performances in Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory through Michael Kirby’s not-acting/ acting continuum which proposes to regard acting in increments based on its complexity. For Kirby, acting ‘means to feign, to simulate, to represent, to impersonate’ ([1972] 1995, p. 43) and the more a performer actively and intentionally does these, the closer the performance is to what Kirby calls ‘complex acting’ (p.  49). Baron and Carnicke (2008), following Kirby, argue that, while the workers are not actively and intentionally impersonating fictional characters, the differences in their performances indicate different degrees of acting. They explain that the majority of the

1 INTRODUCTION 

13

workers ‘exit the factory gate and proceed on their way without disturbing “the picture” and without breaking from their stage business of being engaged in quotidian behaviour’ (Baron cited in Baron & Carnicke, 2008, p. 81). For Baron and Carnicke, these workers could be said to be engaging in what Kirby calls ‘received acting’ ([1972] 1995, p. 45), in which the meanings we attribute to a performance depend upon its context rather than the performer’s actions. However, Baron and Carnicke argue that ‘there are also a few individuals who engage in “simple acting” or a more intentional form of “received acting”’ (2008, p. 81). They draw attention to those workers who stand out from the crowd such as a man who chases a dog towards the camera or a worker who pushes a child on a bicycle. While these performances may not qualify as complex acting in Kirby’s continuum, they are different from those of the crowd in that they convey something about the performers (or their characters) such as that they ‘are pranksters aiming to provoke a good laugh’ (Baron & Carnicke, 2008, p. 81). Unfortunately, Baron and Carnicke don’t discuss the performances of the two women, which seem to stand awkwardly within Kirby’s not-acting/acting continuum. The representational meanings we can draw from them depend on received acting, that is, their gestures appear meaningful because they take place in a particular context (right after crossing the gates). However, their gestures, while likely unintentional, set them apart from the rest of the workers and offer additional meanings the other workers’ performances don’t. That is, the gestures themselves (the pauses and resetting, the missteps, the hesitation) are necessary to unlock the presentational and representational meanings we might attribute to the performances. Interpreting the two women as doubting regarding what to do after leaving the factory relies on the fact that their bodies convey indecision right after they cross the factory’s gate. The two women’s indecision can hardly be considered complex acting in Kirby’s sense of the term. While the gestures might reveal information about the women or their characters, they do not constitute an (intentional) effort at portraying a dramatic character through voice and body. However, as I have tried to demonstrate, the significance of the two women’s performances relies precisely on the way they occupy and mobilise a nonprofessional in-betweenness that prompts speculation and interpretation. Whether the two women might be said to be acting or not is an intriguing question. Yet the power of their performance depends on its capacity to prompt and meaningfully mobilise the question and its

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implications rather than on helping us arrive at a right or wrong answer. The fact that significance is achieved by means of gestures that suggest the performers’ status as untrained and inexperienced actors makes the two women’s performances remarkable examples of what I propose to discuss as nonprofessional film performance.

Contextualising Nonprofessional Performance While cinema may not have a need for actors, it demonstrates from the very beginning a fascination towards human bodies and their actions, poses, gestures and movements; it also quickly gravitates towards fiction and narrative, finding in theatre actors performers well equipped to portray dramatic characters. It is unclear when exactly filmmakers and audiences began considering film performers primarily as (professional) actors. Paul McDonald notes that, during cinema’s first decade, documentaries were the predominant kind of films and that the performers in early narrative fiction films ‘were either non-professionals or actors who worked in the theatre but took occasional employment in the films’ (2000, p. 24). Similarly, Tom Gunning ([1986] 2006) points out that actualities surpassed fiction films in number until around 1906. At this point, it is useful to remember that nonprofessional performance constitutes one of the primary attractions of early film actualities. Many early films are concerned with how non-actors perform and modify their behaviour when in front of the camera. This is a recurrent theme in several films by the Lumière brothers including Le Répas/Feeding the Baby (1895) and Neuville-sur-Saône: Débarquement du congrès des photographie à Lyon/ The Photographical Congress Arrives in Lyon (1895) where performers frequently look towards the camera with uncertainty. Other early films deal primarily and explicitly with the experience of being photographed. Films such as Photographe/The Photograph (Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895), Chez le photographe/At the photographer’s (Alice Guy, 1900) and Photographing a Female Crook (Wallace McCutcheon, 1904) show performers who struggle getting their picture taken and behave unprofessionally when the camera is about to snap. In doing so, these films explore the possibilities of a medium that, for the first time, not only can show what the world looks like when photographed (or filmed) but also how such world behaves during the process of being photographed.5 5

 For an excellent study on this aspect of early cinema see McMahan (2006).

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15

While trained theatre actors appeared in films from very early on, film historians have noted that it was only in the early 1910s, when filmmaking in general, and Hollywood’s in particular, was organised into an industry making primarily narrative fiction films, that professional theatre actors began to be employed regularly to act in films (Baron & Carnicke, 2008; McDonald, 2000). It is also in the early 1910s that studios began using the identity of film actors as a form of publicity, a choice that was crucial in the emergence of film stardom (deCordova, [1990] 2001; Shail, 2019). These transformations were accompanied by important changes to the ways in which individuals performed in cinema. Jonathan Auerbach (2007) notes that key conventions of professional film acting such as not looking at the camera were first prescribed in the late 1900s. Similarly, Tom Gunning ([1986] 2006) identifies direct address as a trademark of early cinema and notices that this feature became much less common in screen performance of the late 1900s and early 1910s. In his book Acting in the Cinema (1988) James Naremore examines a film made in the 1910s, Kid Auto Races at Venice (Henry Lehrman, 1914), to explain what he understands as (professional) film acting. The film, the first in which Chaplin appears as the Tramp, could be described as an overt mockumentary or fake newsreel in which several cameras try to capture a car race while an egocentric spectator (the Tramp) repeatedly insists on placing himself at the centre of the frame. Naremore points out that, in the film: The difference between Chaplin’s performance and that of the others is that his is a clever professional mimesis, staged for the camera, whereas theirs is an everyday response, provoked by the camera or caught unawares. Chaplin’s performance is theatrical, and theirs is aleatory. (1988, p. 14 my emphasis)

Naremore reads Kid Auto Races as an allegory of narrative cinema’s progressive centring on professional actors and their performances. While narrative cinema has since generally favoured professional actors (and professional acting) to play leading roles, it is crucial to bear in mind that, to this day, most films rely on non-actors and nonprofessional actors to embody the extras and passers-by from which the protagonists stand out. More importantly perhaps, the grammar of film performance is built upon the presentation of recognisably different modes of professional and nonprofessional performance. Not only is the distinction between “fiction” and “documentary” often partially described through differences in

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performance (Nichols, [2001] 2010). Even in most fiction films, both professional and nonprofessional modes of performance are contrasted to, for example, establish distinctions between protagonists, secondary characters, and extras. The centring process Naremore identifies is therefore not only a matter of who or what the camera focuses on but also of how film performers use their bodies to marshal (or not) our attention. For this reason, Naremore suggests, (film) acting involves ‘a degree of ostensiveness that marks it off from quotidian behaviour’ (1988, p. 17). Kid Auto Races, as Naremore explains, relies on audiences distinguishing (professional) acting from (nonprofessional) screen performances to achieve its comedic results. That is, the film expects its audience to be familiar with different conventions of screen performance and associate specific gestures and performance details with different kinds of performers. Conventions of screen performance change throughout history. As scholars have noted, dominant and marginal modes of film acting mutate, shifting often (but not always) towards more naturalistic styles of performance (Pearson, 1992). Conventions are grounded in repetition and although they often feel natural or logical, they can also embody arbitrariness. Naremore’s description illuminates some of the qualities we might associate with established screen performance conventions. On the one hand, professional acting appears “clever”, “theatrical”, and non-aleatory. On the other hand, both the casual behaviour of “caught unawares” and the reactions “provoked by the camera” are considered unexceptional, everyday (common) and unprofessional even if in the 1910s (like today) it would be relatively uncommon to find oneself being filmed by a (professional) film crew in an exterior location. If Kid Auto Races shows that by 1914 fiction films could expect audiences to follow complex parodies and distinguish between different modes of professional and nonprofessional film performance, Mikhail Yampolsky ([1991] 2005) observes that as early as 1913, Russian filmmakers were searching for alternative styles of film acting by casting nonprofessional actors in leading roles. Dziga Vertov, a foundational figure in non-fiction filmmaking, firmly advocated for a cinema that stood radically away from the theatre and the narrative arts. For Vertov, this new cinema should, instead, concern itself with the truth he saw in newsreels. Vertov defined the kind of events he was attracted to with the expression “zhizn’ vrasplokh” and to this day authors debate over whether it should be translated as “life caught unaware” or “life caught off-guard” (Hicks, 2007). What makes choosing either translation difficult is that both modes of performance are

1 INTRODUCTION 

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available in Vertov’s films. However, what seems clear is that, for Vertov, both unaware and off-guard were acceptable forms of performance when it came to making what he regarded as ‘nonacted cinema’ (Vertov, [1960] 1984, p.  35). That is, for him, as for Naremore, these types of performance are markedly different from those generally regarded as professional film acting. Conventions and Comparisons My analysis of Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory showed that, even in a film that predates screen performance conventions, we can compare performances available within the film itself and consider how gestures might embody a quality of nonprofessionalism. That is, some films propose and break their own internal conventions. Nonetheless, terms such as non-­ actor and nonprofessional actor began to be used in the context of fiction cinema in the late 1910s and 1920s to differentiate untrained actors from professional ones. However, the difference was not a simple one between non-actors (and nonprofessional actors) and professional actors. Rather, different terms were coined to describe different kinds of nonprofessional actors such as: “type”, “model”, “naturshchik” or “actor from the streets”. Expressions such as “real people” are also recurrently use to describe non-­ actors or nonprofessional actors. While many of these terms are often used interchangeably, they imply certain differences as Gilberto Perez explains: There is the “typage” method practiced by Eisenstein, the striking face, seen maybe for a moment but in arresting close-up, that succinctly personifies a social type. There is the neorealist nonprofessional, the real person picked off the streets of Rome or the villages of Sicily for the part of a Roman worker or a Sicilian fisherman, an icon of authenticity that, supposedly the opposite of a movie star, more thoroughly gives the impression of someone playing himself, being himself on screen. There is the nonactor in Bresson’s films, the severe and subdued performer who, allowed very little emotive externalization, acts by sheer presence, by a certain unyielding look, a way of being on the screen that intimates the interior. (1998, p. 342)

Perez’ descriptions link some of these concepts to different styles of nonprofessional performance and the qualities they mobilise to convey meaning on screen. In Chaps. 2 and 3, I examine some of the concepts Perez describes in detail. For now, I simply want to observe that the notion of

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the nonprofessional actor develops heterogeneously from the very beginning and that the different terms used are associated with differences at the level of performance. Filmmaker and theorist Vsevolod Pudovkin was among the first to devote many pages towards explaining different techniques filmmakers could use to direct nonprofessional actors in fiction films. Pudovkin liked nonprofessionals because he perceived their performances as less ‘stagey’ ([1929, 1933] 1960, p. 169) than those of theatre actors—an impression filmmakers such as Robert Bresson and Vittorio De Sica have shared since—and regarded cinema as a medium that ought to strive to be truthful to reality. But Pudovkin also worked with nonprofessional actors because, he explains, Soviet filmmaking was less industrialised, organised and concentrated than Hollywood’s. Lacking the necessary industrial resources, many Soviet filmmakers of the late 1910s and 1920s could not afford to pay professional actors to play supporting or minor roles and there wasn’t an organised system in place that could guarantee a reliable supply of extras or bit players (Pudovkin, [1929, 1933] 1960). Because of this, Pudovkin notes, Soviet filmmakers had to either tailor the number of characters in their films to the troupe of actors they had access to, or work with the nonprofessional actors available on location to play these smaller roles. Since then, nonprofessional actors have frequently performed in fiction films made outside dominant industrial systems of production and been associated with traditions such as naturalism and realism. This association was consolidated in the 1940s and 1950s with the worldwide popularity of Italian neorealism, which authors such as Gilles Deleuze ([1985] 2014) and Dudley Andrew (2010) identify as initiating a new tradition of modernist cinema. Film critic André Bazin wrote extensively on Italian neorealism and, amongst its qualities, he drew attention to the performances of nonprofessional actors: Although this type of casting is unusual in films, it is not new. On the contrary, its continual use, by various realistic schools ever since the days of Lumière, shows it to be a true law of the cinema […] No major cinematographic school between 1925 and the present Italian cinema can boast the absence of actors, but from time to time a film outside the ordinary run will remind us of the advantage of not using them. ([1946–1957] 2005, pp. 22–23)

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19

By the time of Bazin’s writings, the figure of the nonprofessional actor had acquired a variety of connotations responding to the way cinema had developed. Firstly, for Bazin, the nonprofessional actor is a film performer with no acting background who acts in (realist) fiction films. Secondly, Bazin sees nonprofessional actors as a natural possibility (or true law) of cinema that, after falling out of fashion with the emergence of acted fiction films, became a recurrent way of breaking established cinematic conventions. For Bazin, films ‘outside the ordinary’ feature nonprofessional actors. One could take this to refer to films made outside the Hollywood system, which was very strong at the time of Bazin’s writings. Yet, I am more inclined to read this as a general remark alluding to films made outside established production systems regardless of their country of origin. One of the ways in which Bazin discusses nonprofessional actors in Italian neorealism is through the notion of what he calls the ‘amalgam of players’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p.  22), which places the emphasis on the contrast and interaction between nonprofessional and professional performances. Building on Bazin’s approach, Karl Schoonover argues that: Neorealism asks us to recognize certain bodies as evidence of the performer’s status as an amateur. De Sica, Zavattini, and Bazin assume that this distinction registers on the viewer. The nonprofessionalism of certain performances must be detectable, visibly obvious to the spectator through a comparison to other types of acting—often within the same film. (2012, p. 70)

Schoonover’s reading of performance in Italian neorealism greatly informs my analysis and understanding of nonprofessional performance. Firstly, Schoonover suggests that, when it comes to Italian neorealism, the nonprofessional actor’s status is not only a matter that concerns filmmakers during the film’s production process. Rather, it is a quality that can (and ought to) be perceived in the performances. This observation is important because: (1) it recognises an aesthetic motivation behind the casting of nonprofessional actors (rather than, for example, an economic one), and (2) it identifies an artistic contribution that the performance (and therefore the performer) makes to the film. Secondly, Schoonover highlights comparison as a means to distinguish nonprofessional performances from their professional counterparts. We might say that all performance (or analysis of performances) is a matter of comparisons, conventions, repetitions and differences. However, what

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Schoonover seems to be calling attention to is the fact that apprehending a performance or a performer as nonprofessional demands an explicit comparison because the notion requires a stable impression of a professional (performance) to operate. In other words, we need to recognise something as professional, whatever this might mean, to be able to describe something else as nonprofessional. For this reason, as Schoonover notes, cinemas that meaningfully mobilise nonprofessional performance do so through comparisons within the films themselves (as in the case of Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory or Kid Auto Races at Venice) or across different films. We might, therefore, describe nonprofessional performance as a matter of (intra)textual and intertextual gesticulation.

Close Analysis and Nonprofessional Performance Since neorealism, nonprofessional actors have been at the core of cinemas coming from all corners of the world. Celebrated European auteurs such as Robert Bresson, Pier Paolo Pasolini and Danièle Huillet and Jean-Marie Straub among others, made different styles of nonprofessional performance a trademark of their filmmaking style. British social realist films, such as those made by Ken Loach, Andrea Arnold and Lynne Ramsay also share with Italian neorealism a penchant for nonprofessional actors and nonprofessional performances. Beyond Europe, the nonprofessional actor has served as a cornerstone of different new waves emerging in the second half of the twentieth century, including New British Cinema, the Second Wave of Iranian Cinema and New Argentine Cinema. With the turn of the century and the rise of digital filmmaking, nonprofessional actors have been an integral component of global cinematographic tendencies such as the one loosely defined as Slow Cinema and often associated with the works of filmmakers such as Pedro Costa, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Tsai Ming-liang, Albert Serra, Lisandro Alonso and Carlos Reygadas among others. Most recently, and perhaps for the first time in film history, nonprofessional actors have recurrently appeared in critically successful films made in Hollywood (or along its margins) such as The Florida Project (Sean Baker, 2017), The 15:17 to Paris (Clint Eastwood, 2018), Roma (Alfonso Cuarón, 2018) or Nomadland (Chloé Zhao, 2020). Despite their continuous presence in global cinemas throughout the past 120 years, nonprofessional actors have received very little scholarly attention. They were discussed, often briefly, in the writings of foundational figures such as Jean Epstein ([1928] 1988), Vsevolod Pudovkin

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([1929, 1933] 1960), Sergei Eisenstein ([1934–1947] 2010), André Bazin ([1946–1957] 2005) and Siegfried Kracauer (1960) among others. Since then, nonprofessional actors are either mentioned as a feature of specific filmmaking currents or discussed in relation to the work of individual filmmakers. For the most part, their performances in both historical and contemporary cinemas remain largely ignored. One of the reasons for this might be the fact that, as several authors have argued, screen performance in general has had a fitful journey to become accepted as a legitimate field of enquiry.6 Despite screen actors being at the core of the filmmaking and film watching experiences, they have often been omitted from film studies textbooks that have, instead, focused on other aspects of film style including cinematography, editing or mise-en-scène. Furthermore, as McDonald (2004) insightfully notes, important foundational texts on film acting have tended to focus on how film actorship and stardom are constructed and circulate outside the films, paying little attention to gestures, vocal inflections and other performance details in the films themselves. Indeed, as debates on screen performance shifted powerfully towards the body on screen in the 1990s and 2000s, the work of nonprofessional actors has progressively gained visibility and attention, however intermittently.7 This book is aligned with such analytical turn as it proposes to shift the attention away from the figure of the non-actor or nonprofessional actor and focus, instead, on their performances. An important reason for this is that, as other authors and myself have argued, attending to the merits of concrete performances is a crucial first step towards recognising the work of (nonprofessional) screen performers and the significance of their participation (Gaggiotti, 2022; King, 1985; McDonald, 2004). Focusing elsewhere, on the other hand, risks neglecting the performers’ labour and artistic contribution, reinforcing long-held perspectives that consider the (nonprofessional) performances as mere recorded behaviour or performances shaped exclusively by the filmmakers. Although, as Baron and Carnicke (2008) note, such short-sightedness haunts all forms of screen performance, it is particularly acute when it comes to nonprofessional  See Lovell and Krämer (1999); McDonald (2004); Wojcik (2004); Taylor (2012).  Two recent studies that discuss nonprofessional performance in ways that resonate with my approach are de Luca (2014) and Rubin (2016). Other important recent studies focusing on the figure of the nonprofessional actor include Gleghorn (2016), Kennedy (2005), Kiss (2015), Lawrence (2010) and O’Rawe (2020). 6 7

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actors, whose performances are rarely analysed or considered in detail despite being at the core of cinemas celebrated for their humanism or realism. There is, in this regard, a great disproportion between the importance attributed to the human characters in these films and the scant attention paid to the ways in which such characters are embodied. More broadly, as several authors have demonstrated, close analysis of screen performances can offer the means to account for the performing body as a critical locus of meaning and affect in film.8 By offering sustained analysis of individual performances and performance details, these screen performance analysts, as well as others such as V. F. Perkins (1990, 2013) and Richard Dyer ([1979] 1998; [1982] 1991) have successfully rendered in words something of what Charles Affron (1977) describes as the generosity of screen performance, in which the repetition (Schechner, [2002] 2013) and iterability (Derrida, [1972, 1977] 1988) at the heart of the performative act conspire with the rewatchability of the moving image to present a constellation of meanings and affects ready to be discovered in a single glance or a stare, a pose or a handshake, a hug or a scoff: the ‘ambiguity of gesture itself’ (Perkins, [1981] 2006) perpetually suspended. The Limits and Possibilities of Performance Although the broadness and generosity of (the concept of) performance presents great analytical possibilities, they also bring important challenges worth keeping in mind. Firstly, as I explored in relation to Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory, the boundaries between “acting” and “performance” (or at least the boundaries between the concepts as I have defined them) are necessarily blurry, especially in the context of fiction cinema. It is hard (if not impossible) to determine exactly what gestures and vocal inflections contribute towards characterisation and which ones do not. Every element in a performance shapes (or can shape) our understanding of the subjects or characters, whether the filmmakers and performers intend so or not.9 This is important to bear in mind if we want to be sensitive to the complex

8  Important screen performance studies in this regard include: Affron (1977, 1980), Naremore (1988), Shaviro ([1993] 2006), Stern ([2002] 2014), McDonald (2004, 2012), Klevan (2005, 2012), Clayton (2007), Baron & Carnicke (2008) and del Río (2008). 9  For further discussion of this aspect of performance see Naremore (1988) and Baron and Carnicke (2008).

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though often inconspicuous ways in which performance informs our understanding of characters and the worlds they inhabit. Nonetheless, the fact that in a fiction film all performance might be acting does not mean that it can only be analysed as acting. On the contrary, performance details also shape a film’s overall style and meaning and, as different authors have shown, illuminating such contributions often requires thinking about performance not just as the representation of dramatic character.10 In the case of Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory, for example, we considered how performances such as the two women’s can disrupt, and therefore alter, a film’s rhythm (or the rhythm of movements within the film), creating a sense of tension and expectation. As I tried to demonstrate, though such sensations might inform our understanding of the two women as characters, their affective power is not limited to this context or function alone. Focusing our analysis of performance on questions of acting and characterisation can help illuminate the work of the actor. However, it can also narrow our appreciation of a performance’s broader contribution. A second factor worth keeping in mind when analysing performance is the mutually informing interaction between the performer’s body and the viewer’s perspective. Such interaction inevitably conditions the key distinction between an action and how it is performed. As we saw earlier in this chapter, this distinction lies at the heart of Dyer’s definition of performance as ‘how the action/function is done’ ([1979] 1998, p. 134). Every action can be seen as performed in a certain way; most ways might be perceived as actions in themselves. In other words, where exactly lies the difference between speaking quietly and whispering, or between looking intensely and staring, or between running fast and sprinting? The fact that we use different terms suggests there are significant differences we can identify and share. However, where exactly do these differences lie? Who determines them? Where or when does a “how” become a “what”? These are important questions because, as scholars such as Perkins ([1972] 1993), Wilson (1986) and Sobchack (1992) among many others have shown, cinema is as an artform intensely concerned with issues of perspective and perception. That is, with how actions are perceived or, better put, with how perception alters or conditions performance. For this reason, many performance scholars have suggested, in different ways, that: 10  Studies particularly concerned with exploring screen performance beyond characterisation include Stern and Kouvaros (1999), Klevan (2005) and del Río (2008).

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‘framing and performance are, at the very least, overlapping, if not coterminous principles’ (States cited in del Río, 2008, p. 108).11 How the gestures of nonprofessional actors are framed and presented in the films themselves is a concern of this book for two key reasons. Firstly, because, as my analysis of Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory showed, the meaning and affect conveyed by performance details (such as gestures) always depend upon their integration with other performance and non-performance elements. Secondly, because, as we saw in relation to film performance conventions, apprehending a performance as nonprofessional requires comparisons with other performances within a specific film and/or across them. Consequently, this book proposes to explore nonprofessional performance as co-authored by performers and filmmakers or, as I prefer to put it, as the interaction between two kinds of gestures: those performed by nonprofessional actors in the films and those performed by the filmmakers.12 Examining a range of elements need not result in drawing the focus away from performance. As Lesley Stern lucidly notes: If performance is not limited to the actor’s performance but must encompass a larger frame that attends to the interaction of various cinematic codes and processes (an imbrication of acting techniques and cinematic technologies), nevertheless the body of the actor—its disposition, movement, timing—is pivotal, and the gestural is always important in ‘fleshing out’ the diegetic world. ([2002] 2014)

Stern’s understanding of film performance proposes a mode of analysis that, rather than divorcing performance and non-performance elements, considers all formal elements as conditioning and conditioned by the performing body. In other words, following Stern we might suggest that analysing performance does not involve focusing only on what the performer does (or how they do it) but, rather, thinking about a range of elements in relation to the performing body. That is, the difference between analysing 11  There cannot be a performance without framing, not least because, as Erving Goffman (1956) famously explained, performance always involves a body presenting (or framing) itself. However, this does not mean that the performing body is the sole element conditioning its framing. On the contrary, other elements necessarily condition it and, therefore the performance. 12  This second aspect of (nonprofessional) performance is what’s captured in the problematic though very common expression “the use of (nonprofessional) actors”.

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performance and analysing another aspect of film style such as mise-en-­ scène, is not necessarily a question of examining entirely different elements but, rather, a matter of how the same elements are examined, how the analysis is performed. In the case of mise-en-scène our focus is generally on the arrangement and organisation of elements; in the case of performance, we will generally regard all elements as mediating and mediated by the performing body.

A Word on Focus Another important reason behind the lack of attention on nonprofessional performance could be the vast, and continuously expanding, number of films featuring nonprofessional actors. A 2017 exhibition at the Lincoln Center titled “The Non-Actor” featured over forty films, ranging from works made in the early Soviet period by the likes of Pudovkin and Eisenstein to contemporary films. As Tony Pipolo, reviewing the exhibition, notes ‘It’s hard to imagine a more eclectic group of films’ (2017), to the point that drawing general conclusions applicable to what non-actors, or nonprofessional actors, might mean or do in such a wide range of films is particularly challenging (if not impossible). Furthermore, rather than waning, the number of films with nonprofessional actors has escalated in recent decades to the point that, I would argue, it would not be inappropriate to speak of contemporary cinema as a (new) golden age of nonprofessional actors. This book does not claim to offer a comprehensive historical survey of the figure of the nonprofessional actor, though I do use history to contextualise specific significant turns in the way nonprofessional performance has been understood and deployed. Nor does this book promise to reach general conclusions regarding the nonprofessional actor applicable to all cases. Rather, I am primarily interested in thinking through and about exemplary details that, I argue, meaningfully mobilise the performer’s status as a nonprofessional actor in significant ways. In this regard, I find it important to clarify four points from the outset. Firstly, not all nonprofessional actors engage in what I propose to define and study as nonprofessional performance—that is, performances that reveal or suggest that the performer is not a professional actor. Many performances by nonprofessional actors do not suggest that the performer lacks acting training or experience. Secondly, I am not proposing that only the performances that fit my definition of nonprofessional performance

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might be remarkable. Other types of analysis could be used to explain the merits of performances that do not fit my definition. Thirdly, I am not claiming that all nonprofessional performances are equally remarkable. In the case of the performances discussed in this book, my analysis is intended to justify the grounds for judgment and inclusion. Fourthly, I am not arguing that only those nonprofessional performances discussed in this book are remarkable. I would regard this book a successful endeavour if the reader feels stimulated to think about details that might make other performances by nonprofessional actors remarkable. Nonetheless, I would argue that if there is something nonprofessional actors, as screen performers, are suited to do particularly well it is precisely showing—or suggesting—through their voices and bodies that  they are not trained or experienced actors. As was the case with the performances of the two women in Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory, the power and significance this disclosure might hold in specific films will depend not only on the performances but also on the way these are integrated and presented in the films. Exploring why it matters for the films that we, as viewers, register the performances as nonprofessional is the primary concern of this book.

References Affron, C. (1977). Star Acting: Gish, Garbo, Davis. Dutton. Affron, C. (1980). Performing Performing: Irony and Affect. Cinema Journal, 20(1), 42–52. Andrew, D. (2010). Time Zones and Jetlag: The Flows and Phases of World Cinema. In N.  Durovicová & K.  E. Newman (Eds.), World Cinemas, Transnational Perspectives (pp. 59–89). Routledge. Auerbach, J. (2007). Body Shots: Early Cinema’s Incarnations. University of California Press. Baron, C., & Carnicke, S. M. (2008). Reframing Screen Performance. University of Michigan Press. Bazin, A. ([1946–1957] 2005). What Is Cinema? Vol. 2 (H.  Gray, Trans.). University of California Press. Boal, A. ([1980, 1989] 2002). Games for Actors and Non-Actors (A.  Jackson, Trans.). Routledge. Bruzzi, S. ([2000] 2006). New Documentary (2nd ed.). Routledge. Cavell, S. ([1985] 2017). What Photography Calls Thinking: Theoretical Considerations on the Power of the Photographic Basis of Cinema. In

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D. LaRocca (Ed.), The Philosophy of Documentary Film: Image, Sound, Fiction, Truth. Lexington Books, pp. 57–74. Clayton, A. (2007). The Body in Hollywood Slapstick. McFarland & Company. Costa, P. (2007). A Closed Door That Leaves Us Guessing. Rouge, 10. Czach, L. (2012). Acting and Performance in Home Movies and Amateur Films. In A. Taylor (Ed.), Theorizing Film Acting (pp. 152–166). Routledge. deCordova, R. ([1990] 2001). Picture Personalities: The Emergence of the Star System in America. University of Illinois Press. de Luca, T. (2014). Realism of the Senses in World Cinema: The Experience of Physical Reality. I. B. Tauris. del Río, E. (2008). Deleuze and the Cinemas of Performance: Powers of Affection. Edinburgh University Press. Deleuze, G. ([1985] 2014). Cinema 2: The Time-Image (H.  Tomlinson & R. Galeta, Trans.). Bloomsbury. Derrida, J. ([1972, 1977] 1988). Limited Inc. Northwestern University Press. Dyer, R. ([1982] 1991). A Star is Born and the Construction of Authenticity. In C. Gledhill (Ed.), Stardom: Industry of Desire. Routledge, pp. 136–144. Dyer, R. ([1979] 1998). Stars. British Film Institute. Eisenstein, S.  M. ([1934–1947] 2010). Selected Works. Volume III.  Writings, 1934–1947 (W. Powell, Trans.; R. Taylor, Ed.). I.B.Tauris. Epstein, J. ([1921] 1988). Magnification (S. Liebman, Trans.). In R. Abel (Ed.), French Film Theory and Criticism. 1907–1939. Volume I (pp.  235–241). Princeton University Press. Epstein, J. ([1928] 1988). Approaches to Truth (T.  Milne, Trans.). In R.  Abel (Ed.), French Film Theory and Criticism. 1907–1939. Volume I (pp. 422–424), Princeton University Press. Farocki, H. (2002). Workers Leaving the Factory. Senses of Cinema, 21(July). Gaggiotti, M. (2022). The Non-professional Actor in European Cinema. In G.  Gergely & S.  Hayward (Eds.), The Routledge Companion to European Cinema (pp. 243–251). Routledge. Gleghorn, C. (2016). A Star Is Born: The Rising Profile of the Non-professional Actor in Recent Brazilian Cinema. In T.  Bergfelder, L.  Shaw, & J.  L. Vieira (Eds.), Stars and Stardom in Brazilian Cinema (pp. 210–226). Berghahn Books. Goffman, E. (1956). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. University of Edinburgh Social Sciences Research Centre. Gunning, T. ([1986] 2006). The Cinema of Attraction[s]: Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-Garde. In W. Strauven (Ed.), The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded (pp. 381–388). Amsterdam University Press. Hicks, J. (2007). Dziga Vertov: Defining Documentary Film. I.B. Tauris. Kear, A. (2005). Troublesome Amateurs: Theatre, Ethics and the Labour of Mimesis. Performance Research, 10(1), 26–46.

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Kennedy, M. (2005). SOUL SLAVES—The Politics and Ethics of the Use of Non-actors in the Films of Francesco Rosi and Pier Paolo Pasolini. Body, Space & Technology, 5(1). King, B. (1985). Articulating Stardom. Screen, 26(5), 27–51. Kirby, M. ([1972] 1995). On Acting and Not-Acting. In P.  B. Zarrilli (Ed.), Acting (Re)Considered: Theories and Practices. Routledge, pp. 43–58. Kiss, A. L. (2015). Reflections on the Creativity of Non-Actors Under Restrictive Direction. Spectator, 35(2), 27–35. Klevan, A. (2005). Film Performance: From Achievement to Appreciation. Wallflower Press. Klevan, A. (2012). Living Meaning: The Fluency of Film Performance. In A. Taylor (Ed.), Theorizing Film Acting (pp. 33–46). Routledge. Kracauer, S. (1960). Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality. Oxford University Press. Lawrence, M. (2010). Lee Kang-sheng: Non-professional Star. In M. Farquhar & Y. Zhang (Eds.), Chinese Film Stars (pp. 151–162). Routledge. Lovell, A., & Krämer, P. (1999). Screen Acting. Routledge. Marquis, E. (2013). Conceptualizing Documentary Performance. Studies in Documentary Film, 7(1), 45–60. McDonald, P. (2000). The Star System: Hollywood’s Production of Popular Identities. Wallflower Press. McDonald, P. (2004). Why Study Film Acting? Some Opening Reflections. In C. Baron, D. Carson, & F. P. Tomasulo (Eds.), More Than a Method: Trends and Traditions in Contemporary Film Performance (pp. 23–41). Wayne State University Press. McDonald, P. (2012). Spectacular Acting: On the Exhibitionist Dynamics of Film Star Performance. In J. Sternagel, D. Levitt, & D. Mersch (Eds.), Acting and Performance in Moving Image Culture: Bodies, Screens, Renderings (pp. 61–70). Transcript Verlag. McMahan, A. (2006). Chez le Photographe c’est chez moi: Relationship of Actor and Filmed Subject to Camera in Early Film and Virtual Reality Spaces. In W.  Strauven (Ed.), The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded (pp.  291–308). Amsterdam University Press. Merrifield, A. (2017). The Amateur: The Pleasures of Doing What You Love. Verso. Naremore, J. (1988). Acting in the Cinema. University of California Press. Nichols, B. ([2001] 2010). Introduction to Documentary. Indiana University Press. O’Rawe, C. (2020). The Non-Professional Actor in the Reception of Italian Cinema Abroad. Cinergie, 18. Pearson, R. E. (1992). Eloquent Gestures: The Transformation of Performance Style in the Griffith Biograph Films. University of California Press. Perez, G. (1998). The Material Ghost: Films and Their Medium. The John Hopkins University Press.

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Perkins, V.  F. (1990). Must We Say What They Mean? Film Criticism and Interpretation. MOVIE, 34(35), 1–6. Perkins, V. F. ([1972] 1993). Film as Film: Understanding and Judging Movies. Da Capo Press. Perkins, V. F. ([1981] 2006). Moments of Choice. Rouge, 9. Perkins, V. F. (2013). Acting on Objects. The Cine-Files, 4. Pipolo, T. (2017). Unprofessional Pride: Tony Pipolo on “The Non-Actor” at Film Society of Lincoln Center. Artforum. Retrieved January 2019, from https://www.artforum.com/film/tony-­p ipolo-­o n-­t he-­n on-­a ctor-­a t-­f ilm-­ society-­of-­lincoln-­center-­72479 Pudovkin, V. I. ([1929, 1933] 1960). Film Technique and Film Acting (I. Montagu, Trans.; I. Montagu, Ed.). Grove Press, Inc. Rubin, M. (2016). Corporeal Affects and Fleshy Vulnerability: Nonprofessional Performance in L’humanité and Battle in Heaven. Senses of Cinema, 80 (September). Schechner, R. ([2002] 2013). Performance Studies: An Introduction (3rd ed.). Routledge. Schoonover, K. (2012). Wastrels of Time: Slow Cinema’s Laboring Body, the Political Spectator, and the Queer. Framework: The Journal of Cinema and Media, 53(1), 65–78. Shail, A. (2019). The Origins of the Film Star System: Persona, Publicity and Economics in Early Cinema. Bloomsbury Academic. Shaviro, S. ([1993] 2006). The Cinematic Nody. University of Minnesota Press. Sobchack, V. C. (1992). The Address of the Eye: A Phenomenology of Film Experience. Princeton University Press. Sobchack, V.  C. (2012). Being on the Screen: A Phenomenology of Cinematic Flesh, or the Actor’s Four Bodies. In J.  Sternagel, D.  Levitt, & D.  Mersch (Eds.), Acting and Performance in Moving Image Culture: Bodies, Screens, Renderings (pp. 429–445). Transcript Verlag. Stern, L. ([2002] 2014). Putting on a Show, or The Ghostliness of Gesture. Lola, 5. Stern, L., & Kouvaros, G. (Eds.). (1999). Falling for You: Essays on Cinema and Performance. Power Publications. Taylor, A. (2012). Introduction: Acting, Casually and Theoretically Speaking. In A. Taylor (Ed.), Theorizing Film Acting (pp. 1–16). Routledge. Vertov, D. ([1960] 1984). Kino-Eye: The Writings of Dziga Vertov (K. O’Brien, Trans.; A. Michelson, Ed.). University of California Press. Wilson, G. M. (1986). Narration in Light: Studies in Cinematic Point of View. The John Hopkins University Press. Wojcik, P. R. (2004). General Introduction. In P. R. Wojcik (Ed.), Movie Acting: The Film Reader (pp. 1–13). Routledge.

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Yampolsky, M. ([1991] 2005). Kuleshov’s Experiments and the New Anthropology of the Actor. In R. Taylor & I. Christie (Eds.), Inside the Film Factory: New Approaches to Russian and Soviet Cinema. Routledge, pp. 31–50. Zarrilli, P.  B. (2013). Introduction: Acting as Psychophysical Phenomenon and Process. In P. B. Zarrilli, J. Daboo, & R. Loukes (Eds.), Acting: Psychophysical Phenomenon and Process: Intercultural and Interdisciplinary Perspectives (pp. 1–50). Palgrave Macmillan.

PART I

Historical Perspectives

CHAPTER 2

Naturshchiki, Types and Non-actors: Nonprofessional Performance in Early Soviet Cinema

Several factors make Soviet cinema of the 1920s and early 1930s a crucial period in terms of nonprofessional film performance. Firstly, although Soviet filmmakers such as Lev Kuleshov, Sergei Eisenstein and Vsevolod Pudovkin were not the first to cast nonprofessional actors, they were among the first to become known worldwide for working with them recurrently in fiction films. However, not all the Soviet films of the 1920s and early 1930s were made with nonprofessional actors and neither Kuleshov nor Eisenstein nor Pudovkin worked with these performers exclusively. According to Denise Youngblood, it was partly due to the international success of films such as Bronenosets Potyomkin/Battleship Potemkin (Sergei Eisenstein, 1925), made primarily though not exclusively with nonprofessionals, that ‘it was erroneously believed abroad that Soviet directors never used professional actors’ ([1980] 1985, p.  76 emphasis in original). Secondly, although the presence of nonprofessional actors in early Soviet cinema might be less pronounced than originally reported, Soviet filmmakers also developed a particularly rich debate regarding film acting in which, as Richard Taylor notes, a crucial question was ‘whether the actor should be someone trained as such, someone untrained […] or someone trained to appear as if they had no training’ ([1979] 2008, p. 155). A determinant factor contributing to this debate is that, as Amy Sargeant explains, in the context of early Soviet cinema ‘theorizing about © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Gaggiotti, Nonprofessional Film Performance, Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32382-9_2

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cinema […] was considered as important politically and artistically as its practice’ (2007, p.  4). Therefore, filmmakers expressed their views not only in their films but also in writings and lectures, producing a complex body of theory on the practice of working with nonprofessional actors. Paraphrasing the popular expression, we might say that the question of the nonprofessional actor in early Soviet cinema is a matter of words as much as (if not more than) of deeds. There are several reasons why nonprofessional actors were important to Soviet filmmakers of the 1920s. Firstly, economic factors made these performers appealing. Soviet filmmakers often had limited access to resources and also had to work within significant financial constraints. As mentioned in Chap. 1, nonprofessional actors offered cheap (and often free) labour, which allowed filmmakers to expand the number of players and, therefore, the scope of the film, and remain within their limited budgets.1 Moreover, nonprofessional actors cast on location reduced costs (travelling expenses and accommodations for actors) and provided a practical solution for filmmakers shooting on location rather than in studios. Secondly, Denise Youngblood ([1980] 1985) notes, young Soviet filmmakers were particularly interested in differentiating their films from other artforms in general and theatre in particular; from pre-Revolution cinema; from foreign films in general and Hollywood films in particular; and from the films of other young Soviet filmmakers. Despite their differences, these filmmakers agreed that editing was an important aspect that distinguished cinema from other arts. However, there was still the issue of cinema’s strong link to theatre given the presence of actors in both. Furthermore, Hollywood and pre-Revolution films were associated with trained actors and consequently, according to Youngblood, ‘theatrical acting and the cult of actors were [perceived as] bourgeois and decadent’ ([1980] 1985, p.  73) by filmmakers on the left avant-garde. Kuleshov, Eisenstein and Pudovkin, among others, began discussing the ideal qualities the Soviet film performer should have and saw people without acting training or experience as either potential film performers or examples trained film actors should strive to imitate.

1  Ivor Montagu notes that ‘In the Soviet Union the general shortage of labour precludes film-extra-ing as a profession. Film crowds are called, in the main, from a roster of persons whose occupation is of such a nature as to enable them to snatch a few hours from their jobs at odd intervals’ (Montagu in Pudovkin, [1929, 1933] 1960, p. 343).

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This chapter has a twofold aim. On the one hand, it examines how nonprofessional actors are discussed in the theories of Kuleshov, Eisenstein and Pudovkin. While their approaches have aspects in common, these filmmakers not only understand the nonprofessional actor differently but also disagree regarding the role nonprofessional actors should play in their films. Their differences are partly reflected in the way the three filmmakers use different terms to refer to nonprofessional actors: “naturshchiki”, “types” and “non-actors”. Rather than offering an exhaustive analysis of these different approaches, I seek to distil from them the specific qualities these filmmakers admire nonprofessional actors for. Secondly, this chapter analyses nonprofessional performances in three films by Kuleshov, Eisenstein and Pudovkin in order to explore how the different nonprofessional qualities manifest in, and contribute to, the films themselves. Though discussions of early Soviet cinema often foreground questions of editing (montage), authors such as Denise Youngblood ([1980] 1985), Richard Taylor ([1979] 2008) and others, have offered insight regarding different theoretical approaches to acting in Soviet cinema of the 1920s and early 1930s. However, as Richard Taylor (in Pudovkin, [1924–1934] 2006) notes, the original English translations of the writings of some of the Soviet filmmakers/theorists have not aged well. This has, I argue, specifically hindered clear access to their acting theories. In Ivor Montagu’s seminal translation of Pudovkin’s texts as well as in popular translations of Kuleshov’s writings, such as Ron Levaco’s, the word “type” was chosen as the English equivalent of various concepts such as “naturshchik”. This conflation in translation makes it almost impossible to tell apart the already shady nuances each of the original concepts proposes. My study, thus, is greatly indebted to recent translations and revisions of these texts that have made a major effort to recover such differences by preserving the original terminology used by the authors.

The Naturshchik According to Kuleshov Filmmaker and theorist Lev Kuleshov is best known for his experiment on the effects montage can have on how an audience perceives an actor’s emotional range—the Kuleshov effect/experiment. Yet he is also responsible for promoting the idea of the actor as model (naturshchik) and championing the training of actors specifically for work in film. Kuleshov became a teacher at the State Film School in 1920 and soon after began conducting classes in the Kuleshov Workshop, attended by Vsevolod

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Pudovkin amongst others. The Kuleshov Workshop began as part of the school but its physical location changed often during the early 1920s, which allowed Kuleshov and his pupils the opportunity to work alongside important theatre actors and directors such as Boris Ferdinandov and Vsevolod Meyerhold.2 Kuleshov spent some of his formative years working as a set designer. He also produced and edited newsreels after the October Revolution.3 Later, struck by the creative possibilities of montage, he developed an acting theory specific for film that combined the precision of quotidian behaviour with the functionality of acting designed with editing in mind. Kuleshov trained individuals as naturshchiki, actors instructed specifically to perform for the screen. He also taught filmmakers how to act according to his method and how to organise and direct the naturshchiki around framing and the organising principle of montage. He demanded precision and attention to detail from his naturshchiki, explaining that ‘Everything they do, all their working process, must be precise, clear, and plain, convincing and optimally organized, because otherwise they cannot be well apprehended on the screen’ ([1922–1968] 1974, p. 65). Kuleshov and other Soviet filmmakers of the 1920s agree that meaning and affect can be conveyed through montage at least as much as through acting. Nonetheless, for Kuleshov, montage operates in close relationship with the actor’s movements. As Mikhail Yampolsky explains, Kuleshov regards the different parts of the human body ‘like signs opposed to one another and they make sense in precisely that opposition’ ([1991] 2005, p. 44). Kuleshov understands montage as the means to organise a film’s smallest units (shots). But the possible meanings resulting from this organisation is contingent on the possibilities the shots themselves offer. This is why scholars such as Perkins ([1972] 1993), Deleuze ([1983] 2015) and Baron and Carnicke (2008) have noted that the famous Kuleshov effect relies on the (alleged) ambiguity displayed by the actor’s neutral facial expression which, when paired with a range of different shots, can convey different emotions. 2  Yampolsky ([1991] 2005) explains that, during a period, Kuleshov’s collective shared a building with Ferdinandov’s Experimental Heroic Theatre group. Similarly, Sargeant (2000) notes that Kuleshov’s collective and Meyerhold’s group at one point worked in adjacent facilities. 3  For a discussion of Kuleshov’s life in the 1920s see Kuleshov ([1922–1968] 1974) and Yampolsky ([1991] 2005).

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For Kuleshov, the style of gestures the naturshchik ought to replicate was that of manual labourers. To the gestures of manual labourers such as stevedores and fishermen, Kuleshov explains, ‘Only the filming of children and animal movement can compare […] by virtue of its profound innocence, naturalness, and simplicity’ ([1922–1968] 1974, p. 99). Kuleshov describes professional manual labourers not necessarily as suitable film performers but as an ideal to aim at when developing screen performances. He perceives the efficiency and precision of labourers’ gestures as suggesting a strong lack of pretence as well as displaying outstanding expressive clarity. Expertly performed physical work, for Kuleshov, is expressive because its movements and rhythms are channelled towards achieving a practical purpose as efficiently as possible. Workers concentrating on their task do not project characters or try to convince an observer through their gestures. Rather, they reveal their profession through the high dexterity of their actions. While Kuleshov was interested in the clarity and efficiency of manual labour, he may also have been attracted to its rhythm. For Kuleshov, who often used a metronome to set the tempo of the actors’ performances, the idea of “metro-rhythm” as developed by Boris Ferdinandov was of vital importance. Kuleshov writes: ‘When the elementary precision of the actor is achieved, it is best to go on to the time element in his work, to metrics and rhythm. It is insufficient to perform precise and measured movements; it is necessary to be able to do them in time’ ([1922–1968] 1974, p. 104). Kuleshov is thinking of the actor’s performance in musical and rhythmic terms, and figures such as the stevedore not only perform their tasks efficiently but do so with a particular constancy.4 Although Kuleshov’s naturshchiki are trained actors, he wants them to be able to replicate the mechanical quality of quotidian behaviour and, in a sense, act like non-actors. This connection is synthesised in Richard Taylor’s definition of the naturshchik as ‘someone trained to appear as if 4  For Kuleshov, the merit of the naturshchiki’s performance depended on the tempo and timing of the actions and gestures, which was common to both acting and dancing. According to Yampolsky ([1991] 2005), for Kuleshov, the origins of montage as the source of rhythm for cinema, and therefore its status as cinema’s primordial artistic quality, derived from the rhythmic possibilities of the actor’s performance. Kuleshov placed such heavy importance on the rhythm of the performing body that, when conducting his famous experiments, he devoted most of his film stock to testing the filming of dancing movements (Yampolsky, [1991] 2005).

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they had no training’ ([1979] 2008, p. 155). Furthermore, for Kuleshov, the naturshchik emerges from the idea that ‘real material must be operative in cinematography. Imitating, pretending, playing are unprofitable, since this comes out very poorly on the screen’ ([1922–1968] 1974, p. 63). Because of this, Kuleshov argues, ideal naturshchiki are people who ‘in themselves, as they were born, present some kind of interest for cinematic treatment’ (pp. 63–64).5 Although Kuleshov places great importance on the training of both actors and directors working with actors, his naturshchiki are also defined by their physiognomies and quotidian gestures and, therefore, any individual regardless of their previous acting training could potentially be a naturshchik. It is not a coincidence that while the naturshchik is a figure defined by specific training and preparation, in its inception lies a nonprofessional actor. Yampolsky explains that Vladimir Gardin, a filmmaker and founding director of the State Film School: had come to the notion of the need to create a new type of actor for cinema as early as 1913 while working on the film The Keys to Happiness. He invited the nonprofessional Alexander Volkov to play one of the leading roles and Volkov astonished him with the veracity of his acting. Gardin was later to call Volkov ‘the first model actor [naturshchik] in cinema. ([1991] 2005, p. 37)

In the broadest sense of the term, the naturshchik proposes a “democratization” of the film actor’s role. The members of Kuleshov’s workshop alternated acting and filmmaking tasks. Also, this democratisation manifests in the way Kuleshov attributes specific cinematographic interest to manual labourers, children and animals and their ability to circumvent acting training altogether. Acting naivety, for Kuleshov, does not necessarily imply acting ineptitude or, at least, it does not limit one’s possibility to be, after thorough training, able to act in films. Any individual, under the right circumstances, could be a naturshchik, as rather than his training, 5  This quotation is an example of the issues regarding translations. In Levaco’s original translation of Kuleshov’s writings, the sentence reads ‘it is not theatre actors but types who should act in film—that is, people who in themselves, as they were born, present some kind of interest for cinematic treatment’ (Kuleshov, [1922–1968] 1974, pp. 63–64 my emphasis) while Taylor, quoting Kuleshov, writes: ‘The term naturshchik was applied to ‘people who in themselves present some interest for cinema treatment’ (Taylor, [1979] 2008, p. 137 emphasis in original).

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Taylor notes that ‘It was the character and individuality of the naturshchik that gave him his distinctive identity’ ([1979] 2008, p. 137). It is worth noting that Kuleshov’s concept of the naturshchik appears partly motivated by the technical limitations of special effects, trickery and makeup, which, according to Kuleshov, Eisenstein and Pudovkin, appear fake on the screen. Thus, when these filmmakers reject theatricality, they are not reacting against the work of actors alone. Kuleshov’s insistence on developing a style of acting around the specificity of film practice may have also been shaped by his role as pedagogue in the State Film School, the first cinema school. While his new mode of acting was open to everyone, regardless of their (lack of) previous acting training—it places heavy value on the person’s character and individuality—it required a unique and meticulous training that Kuleshov and his colleagues could exclusively offer in his workshop. The Worker and the Naturshchik While Kuleshov’s emphasis on the mechanical training of the naturshchiki has often been regarded as opposing Konstantin Stanislavski’s training system, Jeremy Butler notes that the desired results are not that different altogether: Kuleshov attacks the prevailing naturalist perspective of acting pedagogy, but he is still tied to the naturalist aesthetic to the extent that he wants spectators to suspend disbelief, to accept the actor as a specific character. His system may appear artificial or mechanical and complicated, but he continues to advocate “reality and simplicity” of performance. Hence, his anti-­ naturalist approach generates naturalist results. (1991, p. 52)

Butler is on point regarding Kuleshov’s theory, but his observation does not necessarily apply to Kuleshov’s films. The performances in his landmark film Neobychainye priklyucheniya mistera Vesta v strane bolshevikov/ The Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks (1924) are far from naturalistic and closer to the highly physical performances of Hollywood’s silent comic masters such as Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd. In the film, Kuleshov’s naturshchiki deploy exaggerated and strident expressions to generate comic effects rather than a naturalistic portrayal of quotidian behaviour. Moreover, many of the characters in the film are also playing characters in the fiction. That is, we are expected to recognise the fact that

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these characters are intentionally pretending in several sections of the film, which further complicates Butler’s observation that Kuleshov seeks the audience’s suspension of disbelief. Mr. West concerns the rich and naive president of the YMCA Mr. West (Porfiri Podobed), who travels to the Soviet Union with a bagful of stereotypes and misconceptions regarding Bolsheviks. His concerned wife asks Mr. West to take Jeddy (Boris Barnet), a cowboy, with him for protection. Once in the land of Bolsheviks, Jeddy is arrested for going on a shooting spree in the middle of the street. Unprotected, Mr. West falls in the company of a band of thieves that devise a plan to trick Mr. West and rob him. The scheme consists of having some of the crooks impersonate Bolsheviks according to Mr. West’s stereotypes (brutes, dishonest, criminals). These are to kidnap Mr West. Then the other crooks will rescue Mr. West and ask for large sums of money in return. In the end, it is the police that rescue Mr. West and arrest the thieves. Mr. West is then taken on a tour around the city and shown real Bolsheviks in a military parade. He is impressed and sends a telegram to his wife asking her to hang a picture of Lenin in his office. Authors such as Tony Williams (2017) and Nancy Yanoshak (2008), among others, have rightly noted that Mr. West adapts acting techniques and iconography from American silent comedy cinema to represent and satirise both Bolshevik and American stereotypes. The (intentionally) exaggerated performances by the naturshchiki in the film contradict many of Kuleshov’s theoretical precepts with regard to the necessity of authentic gesture and behaviour in film performance. Furthermore, costumes and makeup are used (in the film and in the diegesis) to create and accentuate stereotypes so one could even question the degree to which it might be said that Kuleshov was casting his naturshchiki based on their physical qualities. However, towards the end of the film, Kuleshov inserts brief shots of a factory where manual labourers expertly feed coal into a furnace (Fig. 2.1). These images contrast sharply with the performances of the naturshchiki in the film (Fig. 2.2). The intrusion of the factory workers establishes a striking distinction between actors and non-actors that recalls Kid Auto Races at Venice, discussed in Chap. 1. Like in Chaplin’s film, in Kuleshov’s Mr. West the distinction is achieved through a comparison between gestures and actions, but this time the effect is partly reversed. In Kid Auto Races, Chaplin’s professional acting frames the Tramp as an extraordinary figure among a crowd of mundane non-actors and nonprofessional actors.

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Fig. 2.1  The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks (Lev Kuleshov, 1924)

In Kuleshov’s film, it is the workers’ non-acting that stands out as exceptional, singling them out as the only honest figures in a world full of acting and pretence. The shots of the workers also introduce a sharp variation in the tempo of the film. Critics have noted that the film loses its exciting pace towards the end (Youngblood, ([1980] 1985). A reason for this may be the fact that the repetitive gestures of the workers, while briefly shown, decelerate the film’s rhythm, plunging it into predictable monotony. However, the sensation that the film’s pace wanes may also result from the fact that the shots of the workers are disjointed from the film’s narrative. They are introduced after Mr. West has watched the military parade and written the letter to his wife. The film could have ended there. Instead, we see an intertitle that reads “On the way to the radio station” followed by the images of the factory and the workers. However, the film never shows Mr.

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Fig. 2.2  The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks (Lev Kuleshov, 1924)

West in the factory. Rather, the images of the workers are presented as taking place while Mr. West is travelling to the radio station. Youngblood finds the images of the factory odd and suggests that Kuleshov might have been forced to include them in the film ([1980] 1985). Vlada Petrić adds insight on the matter and explains that the shots were ‘the director’s concession to political censorship’ (1993, p. 72). As was the case with the two women’s performances in Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory, the style of the workers’ actions in Kuleshov’s film stands out when compared with other performances within the film, opening its production process to our speculation. As Petrić (1993) notes, this brief sequence feels like newsreel material and resembles the works of Dziga Vertov rather than Kuleshov’s. It is as though a chunk of non-fiction had been jammed into a tightly structured comedy. However, the specific placement of these images adds a new layer to the film’s satire by revealing an important part of Soviet society—the workers

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no less—that Mr. West has not been shown. Kuleshov could have easily shown Mr. West at the factory by, for example, using his famous effect to combine a shot of Mr. West with the footage of the factory.6 Instead, the precise, though disrupting, insertion of the workers ironically insinuates that Mr. West was convinced by a state-regulated performance (the parade) rather than by seeing authentic Bolsheviks working. With this juxtaposition, the film draws attention to the deceit of non-dramatic performances (such as the parade) that mobilise acceptable though contrived (and not necessarily authentic) stereotypes. The film thus mocks the flawed logic of political censorship, which insists on films including images of workers but, at the same time, omits such images (or manipulates them) when orchestrating official performances. Furthermore, by showing the workers’ labour as a counterpoint to the parade, Mr. West could be seen as proposing that true exemplary Bolshevik behaviour, though perhaps not as exciting to watch as the contrived parade, involves modesty and lack of preoccupation with showing-off in the eyes of others. The symbolic charge of the images depends on the use of montage and intertitles to suggest the workers’ labour is taking place simultaneously and independently of Mr. West’s adventures. However, the satire also relies on the fact that the workers in these images give no impression of being acting or pretending. They are not playing fictional or dramatic characters. Even the term “performance” could be deemed inappropriate to describe their actions as the workers are not engaging in social interaction and also appear unaware of the presence of an observer.7 With their backs partly turned towards the camera, the workers appear solely concentrated on effectively executing the task at hand, rather than on presenting it to the viewers. Furthermore, the actions are shown briefly. The lack of sustained exposure also reduces the possibility of reading the gestures as part of a sustained performance.

6  As Vlada Petrić (1993) notes, Kuleshov uses this technique to create the impression that Mr. West is watching the military parade. 7  Definitions of the term “performance” are undoubtedly varied. Erving Goffman proposes to define it as ‘all the activity of an individual which occurs during a period marked by his continuous presence before a particular set of observers and which has some influence on the observers’ (1956, p. 13). Alex Clayton also suggests the importance of observation when he proposes to define performance as ‘the deployment of a body that is mindful of an audience. This would include the passerby who waves at the documentary camera and exclude the passerby who is lost in her own world’ (2010, p. 129 emphasis in original).

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Though the specific actions the workers are performing might not be relevant to the narrative, it is worth noting their possible symbolism. Among all possible workers Kuleshov chose those whose job is to feed a furnace and, in a sense, provide the energy necessary for the machinery and society to function. The actual gesture the workers perform consists of shovelling coal while quickly shielding their eyes from the flames they stoke. The gesture involves a separation of action and observation that synergises with Kuleshov’s placement of the workers outside of the Bolshevik sights shown to Mr. West. The workers’ labour is kept in the shadows, but also the results of their work are not available for them to witness. Furthermore, the action might be regarded as paralleling Kuleshov’s own gesture of, in a sense, shovelling the image of the workers into the film. Like the worker’s action, the success of Kuleshov’s satire relies on it remaining unseen (by some). In his theory, Kuleshov praises manual labourers for being capable of producing simple and efficient actions that impress through their apparent lack of pretence. Kuleshov perceives these gestures as the strongest expression of what we might call performance sincerity. Not only do these actions, when recorded and screened, appear less mannered than other acting styles, they also suggest a higher degree of sincerity than other kinds of human behaviour and interaction. In his theory, Kuleshov considers the texture and cadence of manual labour as qualities to which naturalistic film acting should look for inspiration. However, The Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks shows no desire to blur the distinction between the performances of actors and non-actors, as Kuleshov advocates in his theory. Instead, the film invites comparisons between performance styles and stresses the differences between professional acting and nonprofessional performance. Kuleshov’s film relies on our capacity to notice the workers’ status as non-actors to ironically criticise the deceit of the characters played by his naturshchiki and the parading Bolsheviks alike. Though brief, the nonprofessional performances of the workers cast a light on the other performance styles available in the film, inviting us to see them, precisely, as performances, as behaviour intentionally deployed to impress and convince observers. We might say that the workers’ actions are particularly representative of Kirby’s notion of not-acting ([1972] 1995), discussed in Chap. 1. This impression allows Kuleshov the possibility of creating a satire that functions like an onion being peeled or a Matryoshka doll progressively taken apart. The police unmask the deceit of the thieves and show Mr. West the

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“true” Bolsheviks. The workers’ non-acting, in turn, exposes the pretence of the state-regulated parade, a type of performance crafted and executed with an observer in mind. In Kuleshov’s film, the worker functions as the last bastion of reality, as a figure that might be inserted in the drama (and therefore manipulated) but who, nonetheless, remains “outside” of it as an incontestable sign of honesty. Central to Kuleshov’s success is his use of editing to, rather than seamlessly integrate these newsreel-like images in the narrative, create a sense of spatial distance and temporal simultaneity. However, the monotonous gestures of the workers are equally crucial in order to stress their condition as non-actors (or non-performers) and establish a contrast between different kind of performances, turning the censor’s imposition into an effective detail enriching the film’s satire.

Typage According to Eisenstein Eisenstein and Kuleshov agree that cinema requires authentic physiognomies, as the proximity of the camera will make evident any aspect of externally produced characterisation. Kuleshov summarises this view through a simple example: ‘if one films an actor with a fake beard, it will appear much worse than a real beard’ ([1922–1968] 1974, p. 64). The drive towards authentic physiognomies is often regarded as one of the primary reasons behind the casting of nonprofessional actors (Wojcik, 2003). This impression is the legacy of the theory of typage which, although popular amongst different filmmakers during the Soviet period, is most associated with the films and theory of Sergei Eisenstein. Eisenstein’s typage is a complex notion that operates at different levels. The simplest definition of the term is offered by Jay Leyda for whom typage is ‘”typecasting” of non-actors’ (Leyda in Eisenstein, [1942] 1957, p.  172). The origins of typage are often linked to the mask theatre of Commedia dell’arte, where actors wore specific masks and costumes the audience recognised and associated with well-known dramatic archetypes such as the doctor and pantaloon. For Eisenstein, typage in cinema is different from masked theatre because it is not restricted to the stock characters of Commedia dell’arte (nine); rather, the number of typical characters can be expanded ad infinitum (Eisenstein, [1949] 1977). As typage builds on the assumptions a particular audience can make based on a performer’s physical appearance, these assumptions are not limited to dramatic archetypes such as the fool or the hero but also include particular social classes

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(the bourgeois, the peasant…) and roles (the machine operator, the party leader…). David Bordwell explains typage as ‘the representation of character through external traits of class and role […] a resolutely nonpsychological means of characterization’ (1993, p. 11). Bordwell’s definition is helpful in that it identifies the non-psychological emphasis of typage. That is, typage is not geared towards representing the emotions or thoughts of characters; it seeks to convey their role or social background succinctly and vividly. However, Bordwell’s idea of ‘external traits of class and role’ can be misleading as typage is not necessarily built on the belief that class and role manifest externally. That is, typage does not seek true parity between performer and character. It is not a matter of casting a fisherman to play a fisherman or an aristocrat to play an aristocrat. Rather, distinctive physiognomies are mobilised as symbols (to represent specific roles) with the expectation that the audience will apprehend said physiognomies as indexes. In typage, what’s important is that physical qualities are interpreted as evidence of the character’s background or role, regardless of whether or not those interpretations are true with regard to the performer. Eisenstein is very clear on the matter: ‘We do not attribute to physiognomy any objective scientific value whatsoever […] [We seek] to create first and foremost an impression, the subjective impression of an observer, not the objective co-ordination of sign and essence’ ([1949] 1977, p. 127).8 As James Goodwin explains: ‘the purpose of typage is to present a perspective on character’ (1993, p. 71). However, Eisenstein notes that ‘the artist’s idea itself is in no way spontaneous or self-engendered, but is a socially reflected mirror-image, a reflection of social reality’ ([1949] 1977, p. 127). As such, the artist’s idea or perspective, although subjective, is shaped from their perception of social reality. This is important when it comes to typage, as the film, which reflects the artist’s perspective, must also reflect the viewers’ so that they can easily recognise the represented characters. Hence, typage requires a particularly acute awareness of the audiences’ possible interpretations of physiognomies. Amy Sargeant notes that, in the Soviet context, the classification of individuals as types is based on specific, dominant cultural perspectives and 8  Eisenstein’s notion of typage has many aspects in common with G. K. Chesterton’s idea that, in literature, writers should introduce characters by describing those physical qualities that suggest most vividly the character’s background and personality ([1933] 1953).

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responds to ‘An impetus towards the subdivision of the entire spread of society into discretely differentiated groupings’ (2000, p.  111). Ivor Montagu offers more insight on the specifics of said dominant cultural perspective: ‘To a Russian an anarchist is a definite type—shock-headed, piercing eyes, spouting, impractical—in vivid contrast to the communist ideal of an athletic, disciplined, handy-man’ (Montagu in Pudovkin, [1929, 1933] 1960, p. 209). Sargeant adds that: In Soviet film, the impetus is systematically doubled and bi-focal in orientation: firstly, it concentrates essential traits and attributes which tend to distinguish individual characters one from another; secondly, in the identification of particular interest groups in the audience such that characters can be constructed to agitational and didactic (and entertaining) effect. (2000, p. 112)

Hence, while typage relies on the audience’s socio-cultural perception, it is used by filmmakers not only to represent different social groups or classes but also to integrate them within dramatic and narrative structures intended to move and mobilise the audience. For Eisenstein, types need not be trained to act. One could even question to what extent Eisenstein’s types are acting in a dramatic sense, as typage relies primarily on the impressions conveyed through the performer’s physiognomic traits. Eisenstein sees types as non-acted roles and his films often features types in almost static shots with little or no action. In theory, what the type does matters less than their capacity to succinctly evoke a distinct impression through their physiognomy and therefore, the question of acting training or experience is irrelevant to typage. However, typage does not just represent an individual but works as a synecdoche.9 As Pamela Robertson Wojcik explains ‘In typage, the non-actor represents a social type, characterized by social class and social role—a Bolshevik, a sailor, a member of the aristocracy, etc. The individual serves as a stand-in for a class or caste and is meaningless in himself’ (2003, p. 232). The first-time performer brings a high degree of anonymity that synergises with the polysemy of typage. Unlike the star, who the audience associates with a specific individual, the unknown nonprofessional is a vague performer: they could be anyone. The type’s distinctive yet non-­ individuated appearance—we can identify their class or role but not 9

 For a discussion of this aspect of typage see Geil (2016).

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themself as an individual—lends their image a rich evocative power. For Eisenstein, the multiplicity of associations evoked by a type’s physiognomy must be preserved. In his view, filmmakers should not interfere with the type; they should capture the type’s image briefly, without having the type enact concrete actions.10 In doing so, the film will present a recognisable concrete image (a humble Soviet peasant) but also one that remains ambiguous enough to represent a wide range of possibilities (all the humble Soviet peasants) that necessarily escapes our understanding. When observing a type, we should identify their background or role quickly but also be confronted with a sense of opacity: a wide range of possible personalities and, therefore, characters coalesce in the type’s appearance. At a broader theoretical and political level, according to Eisenstein, typage emerged in the Soviet cinema of the 1920s as a consequence of the ambivalent position filmmakers such as himself, Kuleshov and Pudovkin occupied with regard to the Soviet Revolution. Eisenstein recalls that he and his fellow filmmakers were admirers of the party’s ideals and sympathised with the Revolution. However, despite partaking of it in different ways, they looked at the Revolution from a distance, partly detached from it. Typage is the filmmakers’ means of (or attempt at) negotiating their ambiguous position of wanting ‘to be more closely associated with it [the Revolution] while at the same time not having ‘entered’ it’ (Eisenstein, [1934–1947] 2010, p.  13). Hence, for Eisenstein, at its broadest level, typage is not only a matter of casting non-actors with evocative faces or bodies. It is also a specific way of making films in collaboration with social groups the filmmakers admire yet do not belong to. For Eisenstein, as for other filmmakers who broadly share this perspective, working with nonprofessional actors necessarily involves a tension between preserving the polysemy and mystery of the types and what they embody, and fitting these physiognomies within a meaningful structure. Eisenstein embraces the power of such tension and criticises cases in which typage falls to either extreme. He explains that when the physiognomies of types are not evocative enough, the images will result in what he calls ‘Naturalism’ ([1934–1947] 2010, p. 12). That is, random faces (or events), vague fragments of reality. He also gives examples of instances in which the filmmaker (in this case Pudovkin) encourages his types to act in ways that reinforce the impressions their physiognomies already convey. In this case, a problem arises because the rich impressions of faces and bodies  See Eisenstein ([1934–1947] 2010).

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that ‘are enough to say everything’ ([1934–1947] 2010, p. 11 my emphasis) are obnoxiously exaggerated and therefore simplified by the type’s acting, leading to what Eisenstein calls ‘over-egging the pudding’ ([1934–1947] 2010, p. 11).11 The ideal use of typage Eisenstein describes is, arguably, an ideal. Like the masks of Commedia dell’Arte, the type’s physiognomy must be recognisable but also mysterious; it should convey a clear impression of the character’s role and class and remain ambiguous enough to embody a broad spectrum of society and, therefore, infinite possibilities. The doctor must be a doctor but also embody ‘The experience of all the academics of Bologna and the other university cities in Italy’ ([1934–1947] 2010, p. 9). When applied to the event something similar occurs. The October Revolution must be represented in its all-encompassing and irreducible significance. Yet the event must also be reduced and adjusted to integrate a meaningful structure. Typage therefore stands in a precarious balance that will unavoidably tip either towards meaningless broadness or grotesque simplification. Eisenstein himself is aware of this and sees his film Oktyabr/October (1928) as falling into naturalism while he explains that Staroye I novoye/Old and New (1929) causes a fracture because ‘the role of Marfa Lapkina is essentially an acting role but one that is performed in typage terms’ ([1934–1947] 2010, p. 11). Old and New is an important work for this book because it features a nonprofessional actor (Marfa Lapkina) cast as a type, who also plays an individual protagonist. In the following section, I discuss details from Lapkina’s performance to explore how her gestures and expressions meaningfully dramatise the defining qualities of typage. Marfa Lapkina in Old and New Old and New concerns Marfa Lapkina (Marfa Lapkina), a peasant who, frustrated by the precarious material conditions of her community, convinces her fellow farmers to organise as a cooperative. Throughout the film, we follow Marfa as she overcomes different hurdles to progressively acquire tools to enhance her village’s working and living conditions. Jay Leyda ([1960] 1983) explains that the casting of Lapkina was very 11  Curiously, Pudovkin criticised the acting in Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin for similar reasons. He explains that ‘As for those who perform the individual roles, they are all bad, except for the almost static moments involving non-actors’ ([1924–1934] 2006, p. 22).

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difficult, to the point that Eisenstein began shooting the film without the leading actor. The director even considered trained actors to play the role but, according to Leyda, these turned down the part when they heard it involved milking cows or performing manual labour. Leyda’s account suggests that, at least when it comes to this film, a benefit of casting nonprofessional actors over professionals was that the earlier were not reluctant to perform  actions with working-class connotations. Eventually Eisenstein found Lapkina, a farmer from a neighbouring village, and enlisted her to act in the film.12 Authors such as David Bordwell (1993) have noted that Old and New departs significantly from Eisenstein’s previous works in its use of an individual rather than a collective protagonist. As the film’s central character, Lapkina is required to act. That is, she has to use her face and body to create a dramatic character. Béla Balázs praises Lapkina’s acting and writes that she ‘is a genuine peasant woman who puts on a real performance for us’ ([1948, 1949] 2011, p.  107). For Balázs, Lapkina’s performance reveals both her background as a peasant and the fact that she is acting. However, Balázs explains that the film uses the performers’ expressions in the service of a plot ‘of which the film’s actors cannot possibly have been conscious. They may have been asked to do something or other in front of the camera. But it must have been something of immediate concern to them, something quite unconnected with the intentions of the film’ (p. 107). Here Balázs makes an interesting observation regarding intentionality. For him, the nonprofessional actors act—that is, they play characters—but also lend the impression that they are unaware of the film’s narrative and plot. In the following paragraphs I discuss Balázs’ impression in relationship to Lapkina’s nonprofessional performance. Besides identifying particular details that might suggest the impression Balázs describes, I will argue that the tension Balázs identifies is central to the film’s project of problematising the values we attribute to particularly evocative physiognomies. Consider the shot on Lapkina that closes the first act of the film. In a close-up, we see her staring towards the camera. Initially she is serious (Fig. 2.3). Then, her lips arch and her eyes narrow, slowly drawing a jubilant smile that shows her satisfaction after the milk cooperative has been established. The shot is particularly long to allow for the iris to close down

 For a historical discussion of the film’s production, see Kepley (1974).

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Fig. 2.3  Old and New (Grigori Aleksandrov and Sergei Eisenstein, 1929)

on her face and signal the end of the sequence.13 The shot’s length makes it hard for Lapkina to keep her final expression locked, as Eisenstein’s types often do. As the iris closes on her, her smile intensifies ever so slightly, almost turning into a grin. Her broad smile and piercing eyes, now almost reduced to tiny sparkles, still convey happiness yet her expression also courts the shadows of a certain wickedness (Fig. 2.4). Lapkina’s expression, directly aimed at us and isolated by the iris, appears to be making us privy to a potential shady and corrupt agenda. This possibility, barely hinted at by Lapkina’s performance, never crystallises in the film. She remains a sympathetic and exemplary character throughout. However, Anne Nesbet notes that Davydov’s 1926 book Maklochane, which served as inspiration for Eisenstein’s film, is ‘overwhelmed with an obsession with profit’ (2003, p. 102) and celebrates the 13  The shot runs for exactly ten seconds. Other close-ups in the sequence are seldom longer than five seconds.

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Fig. 2.4  Old and New (Grigori Aleksandrov and Sergei Eisenstein, 1929)

inventiveness of a farmer who successfully manages to produce wealth. However, a later chapter reveals ‘that the narrator has been being ironic all along’ (p.  104) and that the farmer is indeed an abusive kulak. Nesbet adds that in the book ‘the sins of the kulak are […] indistinguishable from the virtues of the hardworking, profit-seeking peasants’ (p. 104). Lapkina’s ambiguous expression partly conveys this aspect of the book by insinuating the character’s possible corruption. In doing so, Lapkina’s performance preserves the broadness of typage—she could be an honest or a corrupt peasant—while remaining unclear as to whether or not she is aware of her potential corruption. Nesbet (2003) notes that Eisenstein removed the term “profit” from the final screenplay. However, the corrupting powers of profit remain central to the film in general and Lapkina’s disagreements with the other farmers in particular. After the newly acquired milk condenser has brought the first returns, Lapkina’s expressions of concern and delight are inverted. A close-up shows her smiling face morphing into seriousness when she

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sees her fellow farmers taking the money for themselves and failing to recognise the necessity of reinvesting it to continue growing. This close­up on Lapkina is particularly strange. Again, she is looking towards the camera but this time she is already smiling wide when the shot begins. Her expression turns sombre slowly and awkwardly. It feels as though she has been asked to smile emphatically and now struggles adopting a concerned demeanour. As her lips compress, they still arch upwards capriciously. She tries to focus and control herself, concentrating to secure and sustain a severe countenance that feels unnatural. Eisenstein could have easily reduced the awkwardness of Lapkina’s performance by cutting the shot into two. Between Lapkina’s initial smile and her final serious expression, he could have inserted the close-up of the farmers’ hands taking the money from the common pot. In the film as it is, we only see this shot after Lapkina’s close-up. The alternative I propose would work; it is a conventional editing pattern: expression-action-­ expression. Instead, Eisenstein lets Lapkina’s close-up play, exposing her difficulties transitioning between the two extreme emotions. Lapkina’s struggle conveying the two extreme facial expressions make her performance unconvincing yet in a way that can be taken as expressive. Her character seems unsure about the gravity of the situation and Lapkina has a hard time adjusting to her new role as leader of the collective. These are the troubles Lapkina faces as she has to abandon her celebration and adopt a vigilant attitude to guarantee the success of the cooperative. As performed, her final countenance seems not the honest expression of her feelings but a compromise, an attitude she insecurely and unconvincingly puts on for the good of the collective. Lapkina’s lack of expressive accuracy emphasises her character’s inadequacy. Her performance sends confused and confusing signals, as though she were unequipped to properly embody the attitude and expressions expected of her. These difficulties, though, are partly absorbed and thematised in the film, which shows Lapkina’s dilemma as resulting from her need to be both a representative of the collective (a common peasant) but also one that stands above the collective (a leader). Here, her greatest obstacle appears to be her typical physiognomy. Farmers and bureaucrats alike don’t take her seriously and bully her because she is not only a peasant but also a woman. The characters in the film read her as a type and fail to see beyond the typicality of her physiognomy: she looks like a normal peasant woman and that makes her not look like an ideal leader. Lapkina is both an actor and a character caught in the drama of typage—a person

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struggling to use her performance to convey impressions that contradict those evoked by her physiognomy. Old and New is often regarded as one of Eisenstein’s weakest films and was not successful when released. However, although Eisenstein was frequently criticised for his formalism and complicated editing patterns, many critics saw Lapkina’s performance as the film’s greatest flaw. Denise Youngblood notes that a critic at the time found Lapkina ‘physically repugnant, and [her] “acting” unconvincing’ ([1980] 1985, p.  206). Youngblood adds her own appraisal of Lapkina and describes her as ‘a real peasant woman with a stupid and rather unpleasant-looking face’ (p. 206). The violence of the remarks is striking and shows that these critics fail to see the irony in the fact that they punish Lapkina for the very reasons the peasants and bureaucrats do in the film. Her peasant-looking face is just too much to bear, too different from the ideal good-looking figures that we have no trouble accepting as leaders to be followed. The hostile reactions to Lapkina from critics and characters alike reveal Eisenstein’s success in articulating one of the film’s most confrontational propositions: that Soviet society had not reached the point in which anyone, regardless of their appearance, could become an exemplary communist. This utopia emerges in the film’s second part, which depicts Lapkina’s dream but, as Nesbet (2003) notes, the film never exits her dream or, at least, the end of the dream is never clarified. In the final scene in the film (and the dream), a farmer sees a woman wearing goggles and a leather jacket riding a tractor. It takes him a while to recognise that the woman is Marfa Lapkina. The film then juxtaposes close-ups of her from across the film with this new image of Marfa. This use of montage serves to illustrate Marfa’s transformation. However, rather than a natural character journey achieved through actions and performance, the connection between the different Marfas is articulated through editing, forced upon us and upon her not unlike the stone lions made to awaken after the massacre in Battleship Potemkin. Marfa’s transformation feels artificial and, in a sense, fantastical. The film’s final shot accentuates this sense of imposition (and imposture). Although Marfa’s hair is now combed back, and she seems to be wearing rouge, she still looks downwards shyly, not entirely at ease in her new role as the ideal hero. In his discussion of typage, Eisenstein explains, in an outlandish way, that ‘If an actor looks better than he should for the part he is playing, then his acting should be made weaker’ ([1934–1947] 2010, p. 11). Eisenstein is, as I mentioned earlier, preoccupied with conserving the polysemy of

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the type’s physiognomy, the way well-chosen types have faces that are enough to say everything. When these types act, the risk is that their actions erode this polysemy and reduce the types to recognisable clichés. One solution is to show the types briefly, but this option won’t work when the type has to play a protagonist. For Eisenstein, the solution then is to allow the type’s acting to be ‘weaker’, less convincing (more nonprofessional). In other words, to have them act against type or, to be more precise, against the particular impression the type’s physiognomy most emphatically conveys. Lapkina might have been chosen because her physiognomy vividly suggests that of a good-hearted peasant living in precarious conditions. However, the role requires her to also convey the character’s transition as she becomes a leader, an example to be followed. The polysemy of typage must inevitably be reduced as the vague type becomes an individuated protagonist. However, through the contradicting expressions in Lapkina’s nonprofessional performance, the interference between the type’s appearance and the character’s role becomes a source of conflict and pathos in the film.

The Non-actor According to Pudovkin Vsevolod Pudovkin studied at Kuleshov’s workshop and acted in his mentor’s film The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks. Pudovkin began working with naturshchiki like Kuleshov but after casting actors trained in the Moscow Art Theatre in his film Mat/ Mother (1926) he distanced himself from Kuleshov’s approach in favour of a style more attuned by Stanislavski’s system. Pudovkin would eventually criticise Kuleshov’s approach to film acting and suggest that ‘The notion of the actor as naturshchik is based on the absurd idea that acting is a kind of mechanical process that can be broken down into separate and quite unconnected fragments’ ([1924–1934] 2006, p. 224). Instead Pudovkin, following Stanislavski, begins considering ‘the organic link between the actor’s personality and each moment in the life of the character […] indispensable’ (p. 227). For Pudovkin, an actor, even if he lacks acting training, must, in a sense, live the part. For this reason, Pudovkin also attempts, albeit with limited success, to differentiate his work with non-actors from typage. For Pudovkin, the non-actor, though cast because of his evocative physiognomy, must also perform in accordance with the dramatic requirements of the script. That is, the non-actor must play a role.

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Pudovkin’s book Film Acting, described by Butler (1991) as the first theoretical book devoted to acting specifically for film, contains one the earliest definitions of the nonprofessional actor, who Pudovkin refers to as “non-actor”. In Pudovkin’s words, non-actors are: actors who act their own selves […] cases of supporting or minor roles played by persons who have never studied acting in any conceivable way, yet who not only create strong and impressive images, but also fall in perfectly with the general style of the film. ([1929, 1933] 1960, p. 326)

Pudovkin’s definition, while simple, warrants unpacking. Firstly, like Kuleshov’s notion of the naturshchik and Eisenstein’s idea of the type, Pudovkin believes non-actors can contribute to the film despite not being trained actors. However, a clear difference is that Pudovkin shifts the focus from physiognomies (Eisenstein) and mechanical gestures (Kuleshov) to acting. Nonetheless, what Pudovkin means by acting is ambiguous. Elsewhere, he writes that ‘we were not looking for a resemblance between [the non-actor] and the hero we wanted, but for an obvious basic acting detail that was characteristic for the part. So, for instance, we looked for a particular head shape, a particular smile, a dull glance or a frown’ ([1924–1934] 2006, p. 29). For Pudovkin, what makes a particular head shape or a frown an acting detail is the way these will be incorporated in the film’s dramatic structure and, thus, contribute towards displaying not just the character’s social background or status but also their psychological and emotional involvement in the narrative. Another difference with Kuleshov’s naturshchiki is that Pudovkin does not require his non-actors to receive training, yet he still regards them as actors. Pudovkin is interested in the capacity of non-actors to act according to the dramatic requirements of the film and create ‘strong and impressive images’ through their performances. Hence, he acknowledges that the non-actor makes a valuable contribution to the film. However, Pudovkin’s idea that the non-actor ‘falls in perfectly’ implies the hand of the director, who Pudovkin saw as also responsible for the film’s editing, as controlling the non-actor’s fall. We might regard Pudovkin’s definition as suggesting a shared authorship over the non-actor’s acting where the non-actor offers valuable performance details that the filmmaker manipulates through editing to integrate them in a meaningful narrative and dramatic structure.

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Kuleshov would criticise his pupil’s new methods of working with non-­ actors, arguing that Pudovkin had partially neglected acting training and relied too heavily on montage to create impressions of characters.14 Kuleshov’s is an interesting reproach as the popular assumption is that the mechanical naturshchiki were actors trained with montage in mind while Pudovkin’s non-actors worked with the organic emotions they experienced during the filming. However, Kuleshov’s criticism suggests that he considered the naturshchik’s acting and the film’s editing on more equal footing while Pudovkin was happy relying on montage to control the meaning of his non-actors’ performances.15 Nonetheless, unlike Eisenstein and Kuleshov, Pudovkin clearly attributes creative and artistic value to the lack of training the non-actor brings. He not only believes that non-actors are capable of offering realistic expressions if directed in specific ways that take into account the editing process, but also deems non-actors capable of enhancing the performances of trained actors: ‘Often the entire expression and value of an incident, though it may centre round the hero, depends from these characters of second rank who surround him’ ([1929, 1933] 1960, p. 141). Pudovkin is here prefiguring André Bazin’s notion of the “amalgam of players” ([1946–1957] 2005) which proposes that, when working together, professional actors benefit from the natural performances of non-actors, while the latter’s acting improves when in contact with the professionals’. Pudovkin also writes that ‘Work with casual persons, of course, requires especial fertility of invention on the part of the director’ ([1929, 1933] 1960, p. 341). Hence, Pudovkin implicitly recognises that the non-actor’s lack of acting technique might spark the director’s creativity and result in the creation of new directing methods. This kind of rhetoric in which nonprofessionalism is described as a source of creativity during the filmmaking process is particularly common among filmmakers working with

14  As early as 1935, Kuleshov notes that ‘when the director does not know his work with actors well enough […] he tries to rectify all his errors […] with montage’ and adds that ‘Pudovkin, working in his films principally on montage construction—loses his previous ability to work with actors more and more with each film’ ([1922–1968] 1974, p. 194). 15  It is worth remembering that it was Pudovkin who discussed, in his writings, the Kuleshov experiment and made it popular across the world, which suggests that the effects of Kuleshov’s experiment could have been more important for Pudovkin’s cinema than for Kuleshov’s.

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nonprofessional actors.16 In the following section I discuss Pudovkin’s accounts of his methods directing non-actors to explore how the non-­ actors’ nonprofessional performances are incorporated in the films as acting. That is, as details that contribute towards the representation of dramatic characters. Pudovkin’s Methods Working With Non-actors: The Case of the Young Communist While Pudovkin’s methods for directing non-actors would become highly influential, Pudovkin cast non-actors exclusively in secondary roles. We might say that the possibilities outlined in his writings would be truly put into practice by other filmmakers using non-actors as protagonists. Pudovkin’s techniques are generally concerned with the non-actors’ self-­ consciousness in front of the camera. For instance, the following passage explains how Pudovkin worked with a non-actor to reduce his self-­ consciousness when making the film Mother. as soon as I began to work with non-actors I immediately discovered that they are faced with a number of difficulties which threaten to destroy the precious truth of their behaviour. The unusual surroundings, the conventional demands made by the producer, the presence of the camera—all this puts off and creates a stiffness which they have to be helped to overcome. Here, I discovered the decisive importance, in getting a man to behave unselfconsciously, of a simple physical task, which completely absorbs his attention and thus frees him from stiffness […] I was taking a ‘type’ in the part of a soldier on guard at the cell where the meeting of mother and son takes place. Beside the soldier I set a plate with remains of food in which a black beetle was stuck. I had thought at first that the juxtaposition of the vacant face of the soldier, of Batalov behind the bars, and of the unfortunate black beetle hopelessly caught in the mess of porridge would give a certain symbolic emphasis to the general atmosphere of the scene. But the figure of the soldier taken simply as a symbol would not merge with the truth of the scene. In order to enliven the static figure of the sentry I suggested to the non-actor chosen for the part that he should push the black beetle into the porridge. He became extremely interested in this task and performed it very naturally. The result was most successful. Not only did the soldier come

 See Blue (1965).

16

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alive, but the very stupidity written on his face was transformed into action. (Pudovkin cited in Sargeant, 2000, pp. 127–128)

This case could be defined as the passage from type to non-actor according to Pudovkin’s definition of the term. A type is cast because he has a suitable physiognomy. However, when working on the scene, Pudovkin realises that the type’s physical appearance, even when juxtaposed with other images through montage, is not enough to convey the character’s cruel and sadistic attitude. Pudovkin requires the type to express these qualities, yet the non-actor is likely to freeze and become self-conscious as a consequence of the filmmaking environment. Pudovkin then decides to have the type perform a simple action—pushing a beetle into a bowl of porridge—an image Pudovkin had planned on using as a metaphor for the protagonist’s imprisonment. By having the type perform the action he becomes a non-actor (in Pudovkin’s sense of the term) who conveys character not just through his physiognomy but also through his acting. Engaging in a physical action also frees the non-actor from his self-­ consciousness and makes him articulate a malicious grin that, when paired with the image of the beetle being pushed in the bowl of soup, presents the character as a perturbed and cruel individual.17 The following example also deals with a non-actor’s self-consciousness which, in this case, is handled differently by Pudovkin: Let us take the example of the Young Communist and his piece of acting at the meeting in the last reel of Deserter. The boy photographed in this role was a naturally self-conscious subject, and, of course, the atmosphere of shooting and his anticipation of the requirements the director was about to make from him combined to render him excited, self-conscious, and tie him generally into knots. I purposely strengthened and increased the atmosphere that was making him self-conscious because it gave me the necessary colouring. When I made him stand up in response to applause, and then began to praise his acting unstintedly and flatteringly, the youngster, much as he tried, was unable to hold back a tremendous smile of complete satisfaction, which gave me as result a gorgeous piece. I regard this piece as one of the most successful in the whole scheme, if such a term is legitimate in this case, of the film’s acting. ([1929, 1933] 1960, pp. 337–338)

17  This example is the kind of performances Eisenstein criticises in Pudovkin’s work with non-actors.

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While in the first case, the aim was to free the non-actor from his self-­ consciousness and, in a sense, prevent him from acting nonprofessionally, in the second instance, a similar self-consciousness serves to enhance the scene. Rather than finding a task for the non-actor to concentrate on and reduce his self-consciousness, Pudovkin makes use of the non-actor’s reactions to being filmed to create a character that reacts self-consciously to events in the narrative. The non-actor’s reaction to being at the centre of the filmmaking event, appears, in the diegetic world, as the character’s logical response to being singled out by the leaders of the assembly. This second example specifically stands out for the centrality Pudovkin affords the non-actor in the scene. The scene begins by showing the young communist through a medium shot like any other attendant at the meeting. However, as the scene progresses, he begins to draw the camera’s attention. We see the young communist ten times throughout the scene. As the speaker makes her announcement, we find him sitting at the table, raised above the crowd and with the foot of Lenin’s looming statue behind him. His eyes focus off screen, with a stern expression as he combs his hair with his right hand (Fig. 2.5). As the speaker continues, Pudovkin cuts to the boy a second time. He is visibly nervous, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward, as if he did not know how to behave in the situation. The third time we see him, his nervousness has increased even further. He brings his arms down to, seconds later, rearrange his jacket, visibly concerned with his appearance. In his next shot, wider than the previous ones, he attempts to use his arm as a headrest but quickly abandons the idea altogether to settle with his previous pose, arms folded on the table. Pudovkin uses not only the performer’s final smile (Fig. 2.6) but also his wide range of preceding self-conscious gestures. These actions convey an increasing nervousness, as if the character were expecting an event that we are unaware of. His final laugh, which he is unable to contain, culminates as well as explains, in diegetic terms, the preceding sequence of nervous gestures. This bit of acting is particularly captivating because it conveys the character’s genuine incapacity to contain his satisfaction. The vividness of his performance comes from the non-actor’s sincere difficulty repressing emotions that are perfectly attuned to the character’s situation in the world of the film. Pamela Robertson Wojcik, following Siegfried Kracauer, writes that ‘For Kuleshov and his followers, including Eisenstein, and, later, Italian neorealists like De Sica, the use of non-actors lends the films a documentary touch’ (2003, p. 230). Kracauer (1960) sees this documentary touch

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Fig. 2.5  The Deserter (Vsevolod Pudovkin, 1933)

as the film’s linkage to a particular social reality represented in the film. However, nonprofessional actors such as the young communist, or the two ladies in Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (discussed in Chap. 1), lend the films a different kind of documentary touch, one that exposes what Stella Bruzzi calls ‘the important truth any documentary captures […] the performance in front of the camera’ ([2000] 2006, p. 80). In the case of the young communist, his strong awareness of the camera allows him to produce his nervous gestures. William Rothman has explored the relationship between the actor and the camera in his effort to investigate the question “what becomes of the camera in the world on film?”. Rothman pays specific attention to instances in which the player’s gestures suggest the presence of the camera (while being captured by it). Starting from the paradoxical fact that ‘a defining feature of the medium of film [is] that the reality of the camera’s presence is also the reality of its absence, the absence of its reality’ (2012, p. 236), Rothman explores how certain

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Fig. 2.6  The Deserter (Vsevolod Pudovkin, 1933)

performances break the acknowledging denial of the camera and, in doing so, reconfigure the split between the actor and the character. Pudovkin’s narrative of the young communist’s performance seems to touch on the reconfiguration of this split. Pudovkin ends his account by questioning whether the non-actor’s final smile can be considered acting. Later, he explains that what makes him ask this question is the fact that the young actor’s final, uncontrolled, smile is not his conscious creation. While acting theorists have, since Pudovkin, agreed that actors often produce performance details unconsciously without it undermining their creativity or agency, Pudovkin does raise a valid concern. Yet this case is particularly tricky because the performer’s smile was achieved precisely by praising the non-actor’s acting, in other words, by drawing his attention towards his own performance. According to Pudovkin, it is the performer’s extreme self-consciousness that leads to the actor’s final smile, a moment in which the character’s (and the actor’s) spontaneity is made visible by the fact that he cannot

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control his performance. This change of register, if it may be called so, of the young communist’s acting chimes with Rothman’s idea that, in some examples of acting, ‘the split between actor and character provoked by the camera’s presence—a presence that is also an absence—is overcome or transcended’ (2012, p. 236). In the case of the young communist, receiving a verbal, explicit acknowledgement of his acting allows the gap between him and the character, evidenced by the fact that he was (self-)consciously playing himself, to be transcended. The moment when the filmmaking apparatus is most explicitly conditioning the actor’s awareness of his own actions is the moment when his performance appears most sincere. From his most self-conscious behaviour comes his most honest expression. Pudovkin’s work with the young communist reflects the filmmaker’s desire to have the non-actor’s performance ‘fall in perfectly with the general style of the film’ ([1929, 1933] 1960, p. 326). Rather than creating a sense of disruption, like Kuleshov does in Mr. West or Eisenstein in Old and New, Pudovkin utilises editing and mise-en-scène, including the performances of other actors, to seamlessly incorporate the nonprofessional details into the diegesis. This creates an interesting effect as, while initially the young communist’s nervous gestures draw him closer to the extras in the scene and suggest his lack of acting training or experience, the “explanation” the film proposes for his actions reconfigures his self-­consciousness into characterisation and lends his performance the feeling of successful and convincing acting. Arguably, Pudovkin’s methods working with non-actors are more manipulative than those used by Kuleshov or Eisenstein, who celebrate nonprofessionals for their capacity to offer performances not tainted by pretence (Kuleshov) or gestures that seem to run against the character’s involvement in the circumstances of the narrative and therefore, sustain their ambiguity (Eisenstein). Contrarily, with his examples, Pudovkin appears to be suggesting that the non-actors’ lack of experience and naivety make them easy targets for manipulation. However, Pudovkin’s methods working with non-actors need not be considered exclusively in relationship to the filmmaking process. Rather, the sense of manipulation present in Pudovkin’s accounts appears analogous to the way in which the young communist is treated in the scene itself. In this regard, it is useful to consider how the scene relates to the broader context of the film, Dezertir/The Deserter (Vsevolod Pudovkin, 1933). The film was made in the early 1930s and under strict State regulations. It follows Karl Renn (Boris Livanov), a German worker and member of

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the Communist Party who deserts the strike he and his fellow workers had organised and elopes to the USSR. There, he regains political consciousness and repents for his desertion. The young communist’s gestures take place right before Karl confesses in front of the large audience and could be read as the display of honesty and commitment inspiring Karl’s confession. However, the looks Karl (Fig. 2.7) and the leader of the assembly (Fig. 2.8) give the young communist as he stands to receive the ovation complicate the scene’s apparent sense of enthusiasm. The leader’s maternalistic smile suggests delight but also arrogance and condescension. It is as though she were happy for the boy but also pitied his excitement. It is not a look celebrating equality but, rather, one that suggests and reinforces a sense of unchallenged authority. Similarly, Karl’s tenuous smile conveys pride and admiration but also a mixture of jealousy and disenchantment. Karl seems to regard the young communist’s naive excitement as, precisely, what facilitates his manipulation.

Fig. 2.7  The Deserter (Vsevolod Pudovkin, 1933)

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Fig. 2.8  The Deserter (Vsevolod Pudovkin, 1933)

It is unclear whether this interpretative ambivalence was intended by Pudovkin. Karl eventually repents and receives an absolving ovation from the crowd. Inspired, he then returns to Germany to lead the class struggle. We last see him partaking in a demonstration and proudly carrying the red flag. The police violently disrupt the demonstration and beat Karl’s comrades to the ground. Karl, though, stands proudly and carries the red flag towards the horizon and away from the police. Tadas Bugnevicius (2017) astutely points out the irony of the film’s ending. The image of the red flag retreating away from the fight suggests the possibility that Karl might be deserting once again. Perhaps he is not as committed to the cause and as easily manipulated as the young communist. Through the juxtaposition between both characters, Pudovkin appears to be suggesting that, in the unstable context the film depicts, deserting might be more sensible than allowing oneself to be manipulated by those in power and ending up falling perfectly.

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Despite their differences, the two accounts discussed in this section share a particularly strong concern with the non-actors’ self-­consciousness. Gilberto Perez asserts that Pudovkin’s films gravitate around ‘a representative protagonist with whom we […] identify ourselves as he or she comes to revolutionary consciousness’ (1998, p. 160). Similarly, Gilles Deleuze notes that ‘Pudovkin’s most profound art lies in disclosing the set of a situation through the consciousness which a character gains of it’ ([1983] 2015, p.  43). One of the reasons Pudovkin might have been drawn to non-actors is because he understood the importance of self-conscious performances as a means to represent characters with different levels of awareness and understanding of their role in relation to society. By dramatising self-consciousness, Pudovkin represents the necessary difficult passage from ideals to actions as embodied by the conflicted bodies of characters who must, themselves, come to terms with the power and significance of their actions.

Conclusion The theories and films of Kuleshov, Eisenstein and Pudovkin highlight different qualities these filmmakers valued nonprofessional actors for. Kuleshov’s writings draw attention to the actions of manual labourers as conveying sincerity and lack of pretence. For Kuleshov, these actions, performed as the most efficient way of resolving a particular physical task, reveal information about the figure’s profession without it being offered as characterisation. Eisenstein places the emphasis on the type’s physical appearance and its capacity to suggest a concrete background or role but also remain mysterious and provocative enough to represent the complexity of a collective or event. Pudovkin values non-actors for the “truth in their behaviour”, that is, for their capacity to convincingly perform as individual characters. For Pudovkin, the non-actors’ naivety is an important factor that enables them to convey seemingly sincere expressions the director can then incorporate into the structure of the film. Kuleshov, Pudovkin and Eisenstein’s different approaches to working with nonprofessional actors can be tracked to the discourses and films of a

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wide range of filmmakers. Since Kuleshov, many filmmakers have turned to nonprofessionals who, because of their everyday jobs, are capable of expertly performing specific actions, such as those of manual labour. In terms that resonate with those of Kuleshov, French director Laurent Cantet, speaks of his attraction towards manual labour when discussing performance in his film Ressources humaines/Human Resources (1999): My grandfather was a baker who worked with his hands, and had a reverence for work […] I love the way nonprofessional actors perform. Maybe it’s not as smooth as the professionals, but I feel it’s more authentic. And with an actor like [Jean-Claude] Vallod, his body is speaking as much as what I wrote for him. It’s in the way he stands in front of his machine, that’s something that nobody could actually simulate, I think. (Cantet in Miller, 2000)

Human Resources is a particularly interesting case. The film follows Franck (Jalil Lespert), who conducts university practices at the factory where his father (Jean-Claude Vallod), a machine operator, works. After submitting a questionnaire to the employees and presenting the results to his bosses, they decide to make several employees redundant, including Franck’s father. Franck then encourages his father and the rest of the workers to go on strike, yet has difficulties convincing his father to stop working despite the fact that he knows he is about to be made redundant. Human Resources thus proposes a critique towards the ‘reverence for work’ the director speaks of and that Jean-Claude Vallod expertly conveys through his taciturn performance. Interestingly, though both Cantet and Kuleshov choose nonprofessional actors for their expert manual labour, Cantet’s film condemns, rather than celebrating, the ‘reverence for work’ expertly performed physical work conveys. Kuleshov’s ‘strict exercises in which the most seemingly basic and “natural” movements were systematically broken down to their most minute, irreducible components’ (Levaco in Kuleshov, [1922–1968] 1974, p. 11) bear strong similarities with the working method of French director Robert Bresson. Bresson not only worked with nonprofessional actors in most of his films, but also referred to them as models and directed them through a strict method of extraneous repetition that aimed to cleanse their performance of any degree of theatricality. If Bresson was aware that

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he and Kuleshov used the same term to describe their performers, he never acknowledged it publicly.18 Like Kuleshov’s choice of manual labourers as actors, the Soviet use of typage popularised by Eisenstein has aspects in common with the tendency for directors making what are often described as social realist films to choose nonprofessional actors for their evocative physiognomies, which they perceive as representative of a particular social sphere and geographical context. Similarly, since the advent of synchronised sound, nonprofessional actors have been sought after for their accents and pronunciation. British filmmaker Ken Loach explains that accents are an important reason for his choice of performers as they reveal ‘two things you couldn’t really hide: you couldn’t hide your social class and you couldn’t hide the place you are from’ (2015). Loach’s comment appears to be suggesting that accent and pronunciation can be even more suggestive than physiognomies at least when it comes to social class and place of origin. Similarly, Pudovkin’s methods for directing non-actors also reverberate in the works of filmmakers seeking authentic-looking reactions from their performers. Italian filmmaker Vittorio De Sica explains having used techniques similar to those discussed by Pudovkin when directing nonprofessional actors in his neorealist films (I will return to this in Chap. 3). De Sica was also particularly concerned with dramatising self-consciousness, which might be another reason why De Sica cites Pudovkin’s films as among his favourites.19 Similarly, Pudovkin’s manipulative techniques vaguely echo in myriad accounts of directors contriving situations on set to “surprise the truth” out of their actors. These cases open the important ethical question of what filmmaking methods might be accepted for the purposes of filmic representation. Somewhat paradoxically, in the case of Pudovkin, Kuleshov and Eisenstein, the filmmakers’ means of escaping or 18  In an interview, Georges Sadoul asked the French director regarding this connection: ‘Sadoul: Models? Did you know that you’ve just used the same word my friend Kuleshov, the great master who taught Pudovkin and Barnett, also used in 1922? […] Bresson: Cinematography is its own language. Both sound and image must be positioned in the editing with a precision measured by the millimetre’ (Bresson interviewed by Sadoul, [1967] 2016, p. 193). Though Bresson does not mention Kuleshov, his answer, which stresses the importance of both editing and precision, sounds particularly attuned to Kuleshov’s methodology. 19  See De Sica’s entry to Sight and Sound’s 1951 best films poll (Lambert, 1952). Cesare Zavattini, De Sica’s frequent collaborator, also cites Pudovkin as a key influence (Sargeant, 2000).

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resisting artistic censorship and manipulation often involve particularly manipulative filmmaking methods. Despite their differences, the theories and performances discussed in this chapter have some aspects in common. Firstly, all three filmmakers seem to be particularly concerned with achieving impressions of authenticity through the nonprofessional actors’ performances and their deployment. Richard Dyer has explored how authenticity is constructed in relation to screen performance and identifies three performance qualities frequently deployed to achieve this result: ‘lack of control, lack of premeditation and privacy’ ([1982] 1991, p. 141). Notably, each of the three approaches discussed in this chapter seems to concentrate on one of the qualities highlighted by Dyer. Kuleshov’s workers strongly convey a sense of privacy, the impression of individuals unaware of or unconcerned with external observers, focusing on their task at hand and minding their own business. Eisenstein’s types project lack of control. Their faces and physiognomies convey impressions their gestures complicate, creating rich and ambiguous archetypes that escape the performers’ and our understanding. Pudovkin’s techniques when directing non-actors seem geared towards achieving spontaneous and unpremeditated gestures and performance details that, though born out of the interactions during the filmmaking event, are then incorporated in the drama. Secondly, the instances of nonprofessional performance discussed in this chapter appear to be offering the filmmakers the possibility of articulating more ambivalent positions vis-à-vis the state than they were able to express in their writings or speeches. Kuleshov’s workers are introduced as the working force of the Soviet society, yet they are also neglected and kept behind the scenes, not integrated in official demonstrations. The young communist, on the other hand, might be seen as representing a naive and enthusiastic figure indoctrinated and manipulated through official public ceremonies and speeches. Marfa is caught between her commitment to communist ideals and the reality of a society incapable of accepting her as an embodiment of said ideals. Finally, it is important to bear in mind two important factors when it comes to nonprofessional actors in early Soviet cinema. First, in most cases (including all films by Pudovkin), the nonprofessionals, even when acting, play secondary roles while professional actors play individual protagonists. Second, in cases where nonprofessionals play protagonists, they generally do so as part of a mass rather than as individuals. This is significant because an essential aesthetic and political gesture early Soviet cinema recurrently

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achieves through its use of nonprofessional actors is, precisely, that of focusing on—and celebrating—the collective, generally marginalised in narrative fiction in favour of the individual. As we will see in Chap. 3, this constitutes a significant difference between nonprofessional performance in Soviet cinema and Italian neorealism, where nonprofessional actors are recurrently cast to play the protagonists of the films.

References Balázs, B. ([1948, 1949] 2011). Béla Balázs: Early Film Theory. Visible Man and The Spirit of Film (R. Livingstone, Trans.; E. Carter, Ed.). Berghahn. Baron, C., & Carnicke, S. M. (2008). Reframing Screen Performance. University of Michigan Press. Bazin, A. ([1946–1957] 2005). What Is Cinema? Vol. 2 (H.  Gray, Trans.). University of California Press. Blue, J. (1965). 1965 Pier Paolo Pasolini Interview. Film Comment, 3(4 (Fall)). Retrieved July 2022, from http://www.filmcomment.com/article/pier-­paolo-­ pasolini-­interview/ Bordwell, D. (1993). The Cinema of Eisenstein. Harvard University Press. Bruzzi, S. ([2000] 2006). New Documentary (2nd. ed.). Routledge. Bugnevicius, T. (2017). 1933: The Deserter (Vsevolod Pudovkin). Senses of Cinema, 85(December). Butler, J. (1991). The Training of the Actor. Lev Kuleshov. In J. Butler (Ed.), Star Texts: Image and Performance in Film and Television (pp. 51–64). Wayne State University Press. Chesterton, G.  K. ([1933] 1953). On Fictional Conventions. In Selected Essays (pp. 261–264). Collins. Clayton, A. (2010). Performance, with Strings Attached: Team America’s (2004) Snub to the Actor. In T. Brown & J. Walters (Eds.), Film Moments: Criticism, History, Theory (pp. 127–129). Palgrave Macmillan. Deleuze, G. ([1983] 2015). Cinema 1: The Movement-Image (H. Tomlinson & B. Habberjam, Trans.). Bloomsbury. Dyer, R. ([1982] 1991). A Star is Born and the Construction of Authenticity. In C. Gledhill (Ed.), Stardom: Industry of Desire (pp. 136–144). Routledge. Eisenstein, S.  M. ([1934–1947] 2010). Selected Works. Volume III.  Writings, 1934–1947 (W. Powell, Trans.; R. Taylor, Ed.). I. B.Tauris. Eisenstein, S.  M. ([1949] 1977). Film Form: Essays in Film Theory (J.  Leyda, Trans.; J. Leyda, Ed.). Harcourt Brace. Eisenstein, S. M. ([1942] 1957). The Film Sense (J. Leyda, Trans.; J. Leyda, Ed.). Meridian Books.

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Geil, A. (2016). Dynamic Typicality. In N. Kleiman & A. Somaini (Eds.), Sergei M. Eisenstein: Notes for a General History of Cinema (pp. 333–345). Amsterdam University Press. Goffman, E. (1956). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. University of Edinburgh Social Sciences Research Centre. Goodwin, J. (1993). Eisenstein, Cinema, and History. University of Illinois Press. Kepley, V., Jr. (1974). The Evolution of Eisenstein’s Old and New. Cinema Journal, 14(1), 34–50. Kirby, M. ([1972] 1995). On Acting and Not-Acting. In P.  B. Zarrilli (Ed.), Acting (Re)Considered: Theories and Practices (pp. 43–58). Routledge. Kracauer, S. (1960). Theory of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality. Oxford University Press. Kuleshov, L. ([1922–1968] 1974). Kuleshov on Film: Writings by Lev Kuleshov (R. Levaco, Trans.; R. Levaco, Ed.). University of California Press. Lambert, G. (1952). As You Like It. Sight & Sound, 22(1), 18–19. Leyda, J. ([1960] 1983). Kino: A History of the Russian and Soviet Film. Princeton University Press. Loach, K. (2015). Ken Loach in Conversation with Cillian Murphy/Interviewer: C. Murphy. In Conversation (Vol 2), BFI and BBC, London. Retrieved June 2015, from https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b05z5frg Miller, P. (2000). Virtual Militancy: A Conversation with Human Resources Filmmaker Laurent Cantet. World Socialist Web Site. Retrieved July 2022, from https://www.wsws.org/en/articles/2000/05/laur-­m05.html Nesbet, A. (2003). Savage Junctures: Sergei Eisenstein and the Shape of Thinking. I.B. Tauris. Perez, G. (1998). The Material Ghost: Films and Their Medium. The John Hopkins University Press. Perkins, V. F. ([1972] 1993). Film as Film: Understanding and Judging Movies. Da Capo Press. Petrić, V. (1993). A Subtextual Reading of Kuleshov’s Satire The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks (1924). In A. Horton (Ed.), Inside Soviet Film Satire (pp. 65–74). Cambridge University Press. Pudovkin, V. I. ([1924–1934] 2006). Vsevolod Pudovkin: Selected Essays (R. Taylor & E. Filippov, Trans.; R. Taylor, Ed.). Seagull Books. Pudovkin, V. I. ([1929, 1933] 1960). Film Technique and Film Acting (I. Montagu, Trans.; I. Montagu, Ed.). Grove Press, Inc. Rothman, W. (2012). What Becomes of the Camera in the World on Film? In A. Taylor (Ed.), Theorizing Film Acting (pp. 229–242). Routledge. Sadoul, G. ([1967] 2016). Looks that Kill (A. Moschovakis, Trans.). In M. Bresson (Ed.), Bresson on Bresson, Interviews 1943–1983. New York Review of Books, pp. 193–196.

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Sargeant, A. (2000). Vsevolod Pudovkin: Classic Films of the Soviet Avant-Garde. I.B.Tauris. Sargeant, A. (2007). Storm Over Asia. I.B.Tauris. Taylor, R. ([1979] 2008). The Politics of the Soviet Cinema, 1917–1929. Cambridge University Press. Williams, T. (2017). 1924: The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks (Lev Kuleshov). Senses of Cinema, 85(December). Wojcik, P. R. (2003). Typecasting. Criticism, 45(2), 223–249. Yampolsky, M. ([1991] 2005). Kuleshov’s Experiments and the New Anthropology of the Actor. In R. Taylor & I. Christie (Eds.), Inside the Film Factory: New Approaches to Russian and Soviet Cinema (pp. 31–50). Routledge. Yanoshak, N. (2008). Mr. West Mimicking “Mr. West”: America in the Mirror of the Other. The Journal of Popular Culture, 41(6), 1051–1068. Youngblood, D. J. ([1980] 1985). Soviet Cinema in the Silent Era, 1918–1935. UMI Research Press.

CHAPTER 3

Italian Neorealism and the Nonprofessional Protagonist

Italian neorealism1 constitutes a landmark in the history of nonprofessional performance. It is difficult to find accounts of the current that do not mention the presence of nonprofessional actors. Similarly, discussions of films featuring nonprofessional actors made after Italian neorealism often explain this feature through references to the Italian current. However, little scholarly attention has been paid to the figure of the nonprofessional actor in Italian neorealism or the performances in the films themselves. Surprisingly, as Francesco Pitassio notes, ‘the “actor taken from the streets” constituted at the time, and constitutes today, one of the most visible and least discussed emblems of the cinema from the neorealist period’ (2008, p. 147). Several reasons might explain this lack of focused discussion. Firstly, as authors such as Peter Bondanella (1993) and Pitassio (2008), among others, have pointed out: (1) nonprofessional actors performed in both Italian and foreign films before Italian neorealism, and (2) not all neorealist films featured nonprofessional actors. In fact, out of the most iconic neorealist films only La Terra Trema/The Earth Trembles (Luchino Visconti, 1948) 1  Throughout the book, the term “neorealism” is sometimes used as replacement for “Italian neorealism” rather than to refer to what we might call “global neorealism”: films made outside the Italian post-war context that, however, feature qualities associated with Italian neorealism.

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was made exclusively with nonprofessionals. All the neorealist films directed by Vittorio De Sica feature professionals in minor roles and Roberto Rossellini mixed professionals and nonprofessionals in all his films from the period. As was the case with early Soviet cinema, the international success of specific films should be partly held responsible for the long-lasting association between Italian neorealism and nonprofessional actors. Films such as La Terra Trema and Roma città aperta/Rome, Open City (Roberto Rossellini, 1945) attained recognition at important European festivals while Sciuscià/Shoeshine (Vittorio De Sica, 1946) received an honorary Academy award in 1947 prior to the creation of a distinct category for foreign-language films in 1956.2 De Sica received a second honorary Oscar only three years later, in 1949, for his highly influential film Ladri di biciclette/Bicycle Thieves (1948). The protagonists of both films are played by nonprofessional actors. Such accolades helped consolidate the nonprofessional actor as a tenet of Italian neorealism and associate this figure with notions such as “art cinema” and “foreign films”, which gained considerable currency in the USA in the decades following World War II.3 Because most neorealist films feature professional actors Christopher Wagstaff insists on regarding nonprofessionals as ‘unintended superficial characteristics’ (2000, p. 37) of Italian neorealism. Wagstaff warns that ‘it is easy to be misled […] into thinking that the contingent material characteristics of their films are what define their essence’ (2000, p.  37). Wagstaff’s observation is supported by the comments of filmmakers such as De Sica who observed that had Marcello Mastroianni been older at the time, he would have considered casting him for the role of Antonio Ricci in Bicycle Thieves (Samuels, [1972] 1987). Similarly, as Wagstaff (2000) and Gallagher (1998) note, Rossellini requested that professional actors be auditioned for roles in the film Paisà/Paisan (Roberto Rossellini, 1946) that would end up going to nonprofessionals. However, defining the “essence” of neorealism is a very tricky matter and after decades of discussion it appears as though no consensus has been reached. For many critics and filmmakers, it is precisely the lack of a pre-­ determined approach (or essence) that defines the current. Geoffrey  See Levy (2003).  For an excellent discussion of the reception of Italian neorealism in the USA see Schoonover (2012a). 2 3

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Nowell-Smith, for example, explains neorealism as ‘an aesthetic of the contingent, the accidental, the reality that is not foreseen by the artist before the work of art comes into being’ (2012, p. 151). Wagstaff (2000) also sees neorealism as permeated by an aesthetic openness. Wagstaff and Nowell-Smith’s definitions are indebted to descriptions proposed by neorealist filmmakers themselves. Federico Fellini, for instance, described the current as a question of ‘looking around, without convention or prejudice’ (Fellini in Bachmann, [1959] 2006, p.  12) and Cesare Zavattini noted that, in neorealist films, ‘contents […] engender their own expression, their own technique’ ([1952–1953–1954] 1978, p. 70). Although Wagstaff (2000) is right in that nonprofessional actors (like shooting on location) might not be an essential aspect of neorealism—evident in the fact that these features are absent in the definitions offered above—this does not mean that the nonprofessional performances in the films themselves are not worthy of attention. One could argue that an important feature of neorealism is that it does not reject or discard nonprofessional actors for lacking acting training or experience. Instead, these qualities become part of the films’ means of expression. Moreover, while neorealist filmmakers worked with both professional and nonprofessional actors, they did not require the same style of performances from them. Filmmakers such as Visconti, Rossellini and De Sica may not have required all their actors to be first-time nonprofessionals, yet they were mindful of the various qualities nonprofessional actors could bring and consciously incorporated them into films. A second reason that might have prevented detailed attention on the subject is the fact that nonprofessional performance in Italian neorealist cinema is not programmatic or homogenous. Like the Soviet filmmakers discussed in Chap. 2, each neorealist filmmaker had different techniques for working with nonprofessional actors, cast them for different reasons and sought different styles of nonprofessional performance. Moreover, the style and qualities of the performances not only change across filmmakers but also across films by the same filmmaker. As we shall see in Chap. 4, an important concern for filmmakers associated with neorealism was to preserve the current’s originality, its neo-ness, which required continuous innovation to the point of going against—or deviating significant from— the very stylistic qualities that originally defined neorealism. Such recurrent innovation, I will argue, was achieved frequently by means of variations at the level of (nonprofessional) performance. The shifts and transformations in nonprofessional performances from film to film pose significant

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challenges when it comes to drawing general conclusions regarding nonprofessional actors in neorealist cinema. For this reason, this chapter examines the figure of the nonprofessional actor in specific neorealist films. I am interested in exploring how certain qualities brought by the performances contribute to specific projects within the wider neorealist project (if it can be so-called). While I will pay specific attention to the nonprofessional performances, I will also suggest that different facets of nonprofessionalism emerge as significant with regard to characters in the period. Several neorealist films, as well as art films made after neorealism, feature characters that are unemployed (lacking a profession) or, more broadly, out of their depth, at the mercy of oppressing forces. Like the filmmakers, these characters often lack preconceptions and certainties. They navigate adverse milieus trying to find their means of expression. Dispossessed, they struggle accomplishing their goals and are unable to act effectively. I will argue that nonprofessional actors bring to these films a range of qualities that synergise with the uncertainty their nonprofessional characters face when in diegetic situations they cannot control.

Nonprofessional Performance in Italian Neorealism: A Theoretical Overview As discussed in Chap. 2, Soviet filmmakers had already turned towards nonprofessional actors to develop alternative acting styles. André Bazin notes this legacy by explaining that ‘In the old days of the Russian cinema too, we admired its preference for nonprofessional actors’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p.  23). Like Bazin, Angela Dalle Vacche (1992) and Pamela Robertson Wojcik (2003) among others, have linked the neorealist nonprofessional actors to the Soviet’s non-actors and types.4 Yet a significant difference between the two currents is that, in Italian cinema of the 1940s, the nonprofessional actor is no longer restricted to playing secondary or complementary roles (Pudovkin) or forming part of a mass protagonist (Eisenstein). Although in Chap. 2 I discussed how Eisenstein experimented with casting a nonprofessional actor as an individual protagonist in Old and New, Italian neorealism popularised this possibility by 4  Wagstaff also notes that ‘At the Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia (the state film school) Umberto Bavaro drilled his students in analysis of Soviet films […] as well as translating Pudovkin’s writings into Italian’ (2007, p. 23).

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recurrently choosing nonprofessional actors to play characters that occupy the narrative centre. David Bordwell, who links Italian neorealism with art cinema as an institution, writes that ‘whereas the characters of the classical narrative have clear-cut traits and objectives, the characters of the art cinema lack defined desires and goals […] The Hollywood protagonist speeds directly towards the target; lacking a goal, the art-film character slides passively from one situation to another’ ([1979] 2002, p.  96). Bordwell’s argument does not apply to all characters in neorealist films. Neorealist protagonists often have (relatively) clear goals in sight (Bicycle Thieves, Rome, Open City) or, at least, their actions reveal a purpose even if they fail in accomplishing it. Rather than being passive, many of these characters appear to lack the resources or means to successfully accomplish their goals. They are out of their depth. The characters’ lack of agency and their incapacity to produce change through action, are thematic constants that Gilles Deleuze ([1985] 2014) and others have perceived as originating, or at least featuring prominently, in post-war Italian cinema. Deleuze describes neorealism as ‘a cinema of the seer and no longer of the agent [de voyant, non plus d’actant]’ ([1985] 2014, p. 3), in which: the character has become a kind of viewer. He shifts, runs and becomes animated in vain, the situation he is in outstrips his motor capacities on all sides and makes him see and hear what is no longer subject to the rules of a response or an action. He records rather than reacts. He is prey to a vision, pursued by it or pursuing it, rather than engaged in an action. (p. 3)

Although authors such as Pasquale Iannone (2009) and Jaimey Fisher (2007) have persuasively complicated Deleuze’s somewhat reductive idea of the neorealist protagonist as a passive seer, what I am interested in pointing out here is that Deleuze, through his use of language, places acting as: (1) a central thematic concern of Italian neorealism, (2) one that is explored primarily through the performances of on-screen bodies and (3) one that (partially) collapses the distinction between performer and character, both tied together through their shared lack of acting/agency. Following Deleuze, we might say that questions regarding acting and performance—whether someone is acting or not or how is someone acting?— are important questions for many neorealist films as well as questions

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viewers are encouraged to ask with regard to the characters in the films, rather than or as well as, the performers playing them. Deleuze’s perspective is indebted to the writings of André Bazin, for whom the style of acting in the neorealist films was one of their most distinctive features. Bazin writes that: In the realm of means of expression, neorealism runs counter to the traditional categories of spectacle—above all, as regards acting. According to the classic understanding of this function, inherited from the theatre, the actor expresses something: a feeling, a passion, a desire, an idea. From his attitude and his miming the spectator can read his face like an open book. In this perspective, it is agreed implicitly between spectator and actor that the same psychological causes produce the same physical effect and that one can without any ambiguity pass backwards and forwards from one to the other. This is, strictly speaking, what is called acting. ([1946–1957] 2005, p. 65)

Bazin’s definition of (traditional) acting is undoubtedly narrow when compared to some of the definitions proposed earlier in this book. The idea that we can read the actor’s face ‘like an open book’ is too categorical and undermines the ambiguity any gesture or facial expression inevitably evokes, as well as the crucial role context and non-performance details play in how we apprehend performance. Not only that but, as scholars and critics have demonstrated, performance in what’s often described as classical cinema is particularly fluid, complex, and self-referential.5 One might even argue that, precisely, part of the power and allure of some of classic Hollywood’s greatest performances resides in the way in which the ambiguity and suppleness of body and voice integrate but also resist more rigid structures found elsewhere within the films. In spite of its narrowness, Bazin’s passage clarifies the kind of acting he perceives as different from (nonprofessional) performances in Italian neorealism. In contrast with what he terms traditional acting, neorealism, according to Bazin, ‘calls upon the actor to be before expressing himself’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p. 65, emphasis in original). More than the casting of nonprofessional actors or shooting on locations, Bazin celebrates these qualities as part of neorealism’s rejection of expressionism, particularly 5   For compelling discussions focusing on the complexity of screen performance in Hollywood cinema, see Affron (1977), Klevan (2005) and Clayton (2007). For discussions that consider ambiguity in relation to screen performance through analysis of what’s often referred to as classical films see Perkins (1990) and Law (2021).

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when it comes to acting. Bazin is drawn to those performances that seem to collapse player and character into ‘a cinema without acting […] a cinema of which we no longer ask whether the character gives a good performance or not, since here man and the character he portrays are so completely one’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p.  56). Notably, although Bazin celebrates neorealism for a certain acting inconspicuousness, this does not prevent him from noticing the performances. On the contrary, somewhat paradoxically, the impression that the performers are not acting seems to be precisely what draws Bazin’s attention to the performances themselves. A key question that emerges at this point is: how exactly are these performances achieved? Bazin is careful not to offer clear answers. Instead, his writings on nonprofessional performance in neorealist cinema are often rich in ambivalences and can feel impressionistic or naïve. Bazin’s impressionism was, nonetheless, clearly intentional. As a critic, and like the neorealist filmmakers themselves, he understood that dissecting and unpacking the performances would involve going against, precisely, the mysteries he found so captivating in the first place. Nevertheless, Bazin is very clear in that, for him, ‘realism in art can only be achieved in one way—through artifice’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p. 26), and that, when it comes to nonprofessional actors, ‘This concept of the actor is no less “artistic” than the other. The performance […] implies as many gifts of body and of mind and as much capacity to take direction as any established actor has at his command’ (p. 56). As we can see, Bazin is not only sceptical of the performances’ authenticity—he sees them as both artistic and involving labour— he also recurrently returns to comparisons with other kinds of acting as a means of both identifying and discussing the originality of nonprofessional performances. A key, though very short text in this regard is An Amalgam of Players ([1946–1957] 2005), where Bazin identifies comparisons as a tool for analysing performance in neorealism. More importantly, however, he points out that such comparisons are offered in the films themselves. For Bazin, neorealism’s originality when it comes to performance is a result of the ways in which the films themselves creatively and meaningfully juxtapose different kinds of (professional and nonprofessional) performances. It is hard to overstate the usefulness of Bazin’s notion of the amalgam when it comes to analysing Italian neorealism and nonprofessional performance.6 Furthermore, 6  Bazin’s notion of the amalgam has been utilized by a range of authors when discussing the aesthetics of neorealism at a broad level. See, for example Pasolini (1981), Dalle Vacche (1992), Rohdie (2008).

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as I showed in Chaps. 1 and 2, the notion of the amalgam can also help us examine performance in films outside of neorealism. Not only that but, at the broadest level, the amalgam can contribute towards our understanding of how juxtapositions at the level of performance shape the complex correlation between protagonists (often played by professional actors) and secondary characters and extras (often played by nonprofessionals and non-actors) in most narrative fiction cinema. As we saw in Chap. 1, such correlation is essential to the ways in which narrative fiction cinema articulates meaning. If in fiction film dramas we get the impression that the protagonists are similar to but also different from the rest of the human beings they share the screen with, it is predominantly because, although they are all human, they perform differently and utilise different performance registers. Bazin’s own discussion of the amalgam, however, is limited. We might say that, although he provided an excellent analytical tool or framework, Bazin himself barely explored its possibilities or potential applications. For instance, although Bazin’s discussions of performances often suggest the differences are ‘visibly obvious’ (Schoonover, 2012b, p. 70) he rarely analysed or described the performances in detail. Furthermore, when it comes to the results of the amalgam, Bazin mainly noticed that ‘The technical inexperience of the amateur is helped out by the experience of the professionals while the professionals themselves benefit from the general atmosphere of authenticity’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p. 24). Such observation is important because it suggests that the juxtaposition of performances within a specific film can simultaneously highlight and confuse their differences. That is, watching different performances side by side can help us notice their differences but also make their boundaries blurry. Nonetheless, Bazin’s account not only leaves other permutations of the amalgam unexplored but also gives us little in terms of analysis of the amalgam in the films themselves. In the remainder of this chapter, I will utilise the notion of the amalgam to consider performance in neorealist films where, as we shall see, combinations and contrasts are drawn not only between professional and nonprofessional performances but also between different nonprofessional performances available in the films themselves.

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An Amalgam of Workers: La Terra Trema La Terra Trema is the only finished episode of a planned trilogy of films. Loosely adapted from Giovanni Verga’s I Malavoglia/The House by the Medlar Tree (1881), the film follows a family of fishermen, the Valastros, who live and work in the Sicilian town of Aci Trezza. The eldest son ’Ntoni (Antonio Arcidiacono) grows disenchanted with the fact that his family’s hard and dangerous work at sea fills the pockets of merchants and resellers rather than theirs. ’Ntoni convinces his family to mortgage their house and use the money to secure the means to process and sell their catch themselves. Initially, the Valastros are successful thanks to a bountiful fishing trip. However, the treacherous sea takes their fortunes away, wrecking their fishing boat. Unable to find work—the other fishermen have grown envious of ’Ntoni and his family and now refuse to employ them—the Valastro family disintegrates as members either die, are dishonoured or leave Aci Trezza. In his essay on Visconti’s film, Sam Rohdie observes that: One of the crucial elements in Italian films of the period was their juxtaposition of professional and non-professional actors that contributed, along with the reality/artifice amalgam, to create a situation in the films of closeness (reality, the details of quotidian, the ordinary and the familiar, real streets, real locations, real countryside) and of distance (form, structure, aesthetic considerations, interpretation, the presence of the author), aspects strikingly evident in Visconti’s films from his first to his last. (2008, p. 522)

Rohdie’s observation, clearly indebted to the writings of André Bazin, proposes to read Italian neorealist films in general and Visconti’s in particular as negotiating a juxtaposition between the reality of the setting and the contrivance of the filmmakers’ intervention. For Rohdie, this variation of the amalgam manifests in films from the period through the admixture of professional and nonprofessional actors. Though Rohdie’s remarks are appropriate when considering Italian neorealist cinema in general, it is interesting to find this passage in an essay on La Terra Trema, a film made exclusively with nonprofessional actors. In the following paragraphs, I argue that the

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amalgam suggested by Rohdie emerges in La Terra Trema not through the juxtaposition of professional and nonprofessional actors but, rather, through the combination of different nonprofessional performances. Visconti’s casting choices in La Terra Trema appear motivated by a desire to achieve a high level of authenticity. Visconti cast nonprofessional actors (fishermen, workers) from Aci Trezza to play all the main roles in the film and asked them to adapt the lines of the script into their dialect. Visconti also recorded direct sound, rather than dubbing the film, in order to preserve the authenticity of the nonprofessional’s intonation. Anna Luise Kiss notes that ‘By allowing the non-actors to transpose his Italian dialogue into their language, [Visconti] provided an opportunity for them to express themselves in a personal and imaginative way’ (2015, p. 31). Though one might question the extent to which Visconti’s choice enabled the inhabitants of Aci Trezza to express themselves—even if he allowed them to adapt the lines, Visconti still insisted on the nonprofessionals sticking tightly to the content of his script—Visconti appears to have been particularly interested in adopting contributions offered by the nonprofessionals. However, La Terra Trema is not a documentary. Although the performers were nonprofessionals, Visconti had them play fictional characters and engage in dramatised situations that did not necessarily correspond to their everyday life. The quality of the nonprofessionals’ acting is such that Bazin commented that ‘If festival juries were not what they are, the Venice festival prize for best acting should have gone to the fishermen of La Terra Trema’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p. 44). For Bazin, part of the merit of the performances lies in their naturalness. He argues that the fishermen lack the embarrassment in front of the camera we often associate with nonprofessional performances. However, Bazin also celebrates the stylised gestures the fishermen display and, therefore, regards their performances as poised between a naturalism that suggests lack of pretence and a stylised and contrived style of acting. I will return to the fishermen’s acting later. For now, I want to concentrate on their manual labour, which constitutes a key aspect of their performances. The aesthetic celebration of manual labour gestures in cinema extended beyond the boundaries of the Soviet Union (discussed in Chap. 2) and was also embraced in France by filmmaker/theorist Jean Epstein who, in terms that evoke those of Kuleshov, writes that ‘No decor and no costume will have the look, the hang of the real thing. No pseudoprofessional will have the marvellously technical gestures of the seaman or

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fisherman. A tender smile, an angry cry are as difficult to imitate as a sky at dawn or a stormy sea’ ([1928] 1988, p. 424). Both Kuleshov and Epstein admire the gestures of manual labourers for their authentic qualities. For these filmmakers, the precision and finesse of body techniques acquired and perfected across time are apprehended by the camera and cannot be convincingly enacted or replicated. However, while their admiration is linked to the verisimilitude of the labourers’ actions—who better than a fisherman to play a fisherman—the way these filmmakers turn to natural imagery (Epstein) or expressions such as ‘as they were born’ (Kuleshov, [1922–1968] 1974, p. 63) seems to miss the fact that the behaviour they admire is that of socially inscribed bodies. A fisherman’s gestures, while admirable, are conditioned by a certain job he has performed within a specific social context—which the camera may be able to render inferable from his performing body. Epstein and Kuleshov don’t draw attention to the social dimension of the gestures they are struck by. Rather, their views suggest that, when screened, these elegantly and disinterestedly performed actions seem to innately belong to the body and, to an extent, in nature. For Epstein and Kuleshov the camera not only captures qualities about the socialised body but also naturalises expertly performed gestures. The technical gesture, caught by the camera, appears both inimitable and unaltered. The precision and ease with which it is performed suggest a sense of natural perfection—it could or should not be done in any other way. Visconti’s film is saturated with images of manual labour, and one of the virtues of G. R. Aldo’s use of deep-focus cinematography is that it allows for several actions to be visible in the frame at the same time. In La Terra Trema, the backgrounds are often occupied by women cleaning clothes, fishermen mending nets or builders laying bricks. There is a sense of constant, immutable, work taking place behind and alongside the dramatic action. Some of the most arresting images in Visconti’s film are precisely those of young children mending nets and helping with the processing and sorting of the catch. The dexterity and precision of the children’s work contrasts with the small size of their bodies, briefly suspending the idea that a long time is needed to acquire and perfect the body techniques. These images go a long way in establishing visually the film’s central motif of endemic class inequality repeating throughout history. Fishermen, for Visconti, are born rather than made as the voice-over narration in the film suggests through lines such as “fish have always meant life in Aci Trezza. For grandfathers, fathers and sons it has always been this way”.

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The fishermen’s work in the film not only conveys information about the characters’ backgrounds. It also lends the film a particular rhythm. Visconti’s choice of synchronised sound allows the film to capture the harmony between the sounds of the performers’ voices and their actions. There are several moments in the film where we can see and hear the fishermen rowing, the sounds of their oars drumming against the water with a patterned monotony. Similarly, one of the film’s most brilliant secondary characters is a young bricklayer who is building a house near the Valastros’. The young worker is prone to singing while working and adds percussion to his tune through the constant grating and scratching of his shovel against the moist cement. Bazin famously noted that La Terra Trema bores the public because of Visconti’s reluctance to ‘sacrifice anything to drama’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p.  45). The film is slow paced, yet it is also highly dramatic at times. I would disagree with Bazin here and suggest that what lends the film its “boring” quality is the rhythm of the nonprofessionals’ manual labour which impresses itself on the film and seems to inspire, precisely, the long takes and slow camera movements Bazin praised the film for. Although Kuleshov celebrated manual labour for its efficiency and Epstein for its authenticity, the pervasive rhythm of manual labour has a pessimistic tone in La Terra Trema for it serves as a constant reminder of the monotony of everyday life in Aci Trezza. We see and hear the cyclical and unescapable repetition woven into the fishermen’s bodies and routine. The worker’s capacity to draw music from his tedious labour also lends the images a gloomy dimension, suggesting the workers’ job and the only means to find solace from its repetitiveness need to be performed simultaneously. The gestures of manual labour, always present in the background, convey the persistence of an inescapable, traditional and deeply ingrained social reality that like the sea, is too powerful and treacherous to contend with. And it is this naturalised unjust social structure that the Valastros take upon themselves to revert. Unlike the labourers in the background, the Valastros act in an emphatic sense of the term. By this I mean that not only the nonprofessional actors playing the Valastros engage in dramatic acting, but also that the characters in the film attempt to change their situation through political action. For the most part, the nonprofessionals are convincing as their characters. They express a range of emotions in different acting styles. Nella and Agnese Giammona, who play the Valastro sisters, form a striking duet of contrasting registers. One is poised, at times

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Bressonian in her subtle movements and contained facial expressions. The other, livelier and more passionate, courts histrionic registers, vividly capturing the recklessness and optimism of youth not yet tamed by a life of repetition and disappointment. However, I would like to draw attention to two concrete moments where nonprofessional details emerge from the juxtaposition between the deeply ingrained sense of work and the nonprofessional’s dramatic acting. These details contribute to the portrayal of the characters’ incapacity to control their fates through action. The first one is performed by ’Ntoni’s grandfather, the head of the family, who advocates embracing tradition and is unconvinced by his grandson’s enthusiasm towards change. The moment occurs early in the film, when ’Ntoni discusses his frustration with the rest of the family. After listening, the grandfather tells ’Ntoni his view: “I am seventy years old” he begins. “I’ve never had any problems” he adds after blinking. He then blinks again and opens his mouth as if he is about to continue. Instead, he stops and looks at the pieces of paper he holds in his hands for a moment (Fig. 3.1). Then, the grandfather looks up and concludes: “’Ntoni must listen to his elders. As the old proverb says: “Strength of youth, wisdom of age””.7 Although we cannot be certain that the performer is reading his lines from the piece of paper, his look down feels particularly long. Furthermore, he delivers the first two lines as though he knew them in advance which makes us question why he needs to stop before uttering the final sentences. Such mistakes are not common in La Terra Trema where, for the most part, the nonprofessionals deliver naturalistic and convincing performances. Nonetheless, the performer’s pause and look down synergises with his character’s speech where he defends the need not to alter tradition. It is as though the grandfather, rather than making up his mind about the situation as he speaks, was repeating an opinion written in advance. His pause and look at the piece of paper acquire a Brechtian tinge by which the grandfather appears incapable of original thought. If the bodies of the workers throughout the film suggest the inescapable persistence of labour, the grandfather’s delivery reveals the impossibility of escaping deeply engrained pre-determined worldviews. Unlike his grandfather, ’Ntoni challenges the status quo through his actions. Antonio Arcidiacono’s performance displays a quality of 7

 The line is a variation of the proverb 20:29 from The Bible.

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Fig. 3.1  La Terra Trema (Luchino Visconti, 1948)

effusiveness that crystallises the character’s effort rowing against the tide. However, at times, his performance is too mannered and clashes with the naturalism Visconti has taken such great pains to achieve. One such moment is the scene where ’Ntoni returns to Aci Trezza atop his now wrecked boat. Once on firm ground, ’Ntoni walks around the boat under the condescending look of the other fishermen who witness the protagonist’s fortune wither. ’Ntoni expresses his frustration with the dramatic turn of events by taking his flat cap and slamming it against the ground (Fig. 3.2). The gesture is pathetic—too much of a cliché—and it appears premeditated. Arcidiacono’s hand reaches the cap slowly, already suggesting the action. He then removes the cap and only then throws it. Visconti might be responsible for asking the nonprofessional to perform this particular action. It is difficult to believe that it would be one of the actions proposed by the local fishermen. Again, it is as though the nonprofessional was quoting, this time, a Hollywood film perhaps or a scene from the theatre. Yet once again, the sense of predestination, the

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Fig. 3.2  La Terra Trema (Luchino Visconti, 1948)

feeling that ’Ntoni’s reaction is planned in advance, suggests the systemic absorption of ineffective, unproductive reactions against the status quo. It is as though the action ’Ntoni performs to vent after failing to challenge the old system was already expected and anticipated by the system itself, allowed to emerge but not to result in meaningful change. ’Ntoni’s action does not inspire the uprising Visconti had originally planned for the film. We are not offered any unexpected way of challenging the system, just the same old useless demonstrative gestures that, like the singing that accompanies the bricklayer’s work, emerges as an expression permitted only because of its ineffectiveness. Visconti’s film, like Kuleshov’s Mr. West, mobilises a contrast between different kinds of screen performance. However, while Kuleshov juxtaposes acting and non-acting through a side-by-side comparison, Visconti explores the tension resulting from their admixture. Regarding the production of La Terra Trema, Nowell-Smith notes that:

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The problem resolves itself as one of control. Visconti’s method of presentation […] requires either an interaction between the actor creating the role and the director, or total control by the director of his material, including the actors […] In La Terra Trema this was impossible […] The material was given, inflexible, and could therefore not be moulded into new expressive forms. ([1967] 2003, p. 44)

Nowell-Smith’s appreciation parallels Sam Rhodie’s earlier observation (2008). Both authors consider the film through a juxtaposition or tension between the filmmaker’s control and style on the one hand, and the nonprofessional performers on the other. In the case of Nowell-Smith, he sees this clash as unresolvable in La Terra Trema because of the nonprofessional actors’ lack of flexibility. Nowell-Smith’s observation is attuned to accounts of the filmmaking process, which often draw attention to Visconti’s insistence on extended rehearsals and control over the performances, as well as the nonprofessionals’ difficulties adapting to the filmmaker’s methods.8 Through my discussion of performance in La Terra Trema, though, I have sought to demonstrate that such tension not only manifests powerfully and meaningfully at the level of performance but also constitutes the film’s primary thematic concern. La Terra Trema is a film about revolutionary workers that attempt, and fail, to act in ways they are not used to. The film’s emphasis on acting is even clarified from the very beginning by means of a title card that reads “Interpretato da pescatori siciliani”. Such peritext encourages alertness towards the (nonprofessional) acting or rather, the film’s status as an enactment. Rather than helping us forget we are watching (nonprofessional) actors play, we are encouraged to pay attention to the ways in which they play their characters and to reflect on what’s at stake in the filmmaker’s gesture of marshalling a community of fishermen to enact a fictional though unsuccessful revolution. The nonprofessionals’ efforts and challenges playing their characters synergise with the characters’ own difficulties embodying revolutionary roles their social structures deem unacceptable. The performing bodies we see on-screen appear caught between the inflexibility of deeply engrained social structures on the one hand, and their compelling need for revolutionary action (and acting) on the other.

8

 See Kiss (2015).

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The impossibility of reconciling or negotiating such pulls emerges in the film’s ending. ’Ntoni gives up on his resistance and signs up to work for the company he had sworn never to work for again. But after the drama of the action, after ’Ntoni has received his mother’s blessing, we see him atop the boat, rowing with a sense of uncertainty written on his face. Once the image fades to black we still hear the ubiquitous sound of the fishermen’s oars splashing against the water. If in Kuleshov’s Mr. West the lack of pretence conveyed through the workers’ gestures exposes the dishonesty of other performances, in La Terra Trema work renders the protagonist’s acting into futile actions and turns the (nonprofessional) actors back into non-actors.

Rossellini’s Disruptive Amalgams Having cast real soldiers to play characters in his first feature-length drama, La nave bianca/The White Ship (1941), Rossellini had ample experience working with nonprofessional actors before the liberation of Italy. In Rome, Open City, Rossellini worked mainly with professional actors yet also cast nonprofessionals such as Vito Annichiarico (Marcello) in key roles. Unlike most of the characters played by professional actors, who die in the process of securing the city’s liberation, Marcello lives on, embodying the hopes of a surviving generation. Paisà, Rossellini’s next neorealist film, has a more pronounced presence of nonprofessional actors and some of the film’s most memorable moments involve interactions between professionals and nonprofessionals. In the second episode, for example, Rossellini paired a child nonprofessional actor, Alfonsino Bovino, cast on location during the filming of the fifth episode, with an American actor, Dotts Johnson, who plays an MP.  According to accounts of the film’s production, the episode was conceived on location after Rossellini saw the friendship that emerged between the child and the American actor.9 Alfonsino would steal the show if it weren’t for Carmela Sazio, the young nonprofessional who plays Sicilian villager Carmela in the first episode. As Catherine O’Rawe (2018) notes, a variety of anecdotes circulate regarding Rossellini’s casting of Carmela. Tag Gallagher mentions she ‘was fifteen and, more than just her first film, this was her first experience of civilization’ (1998, p. 188). Massimo Mida, recounts that once Carmela had been “civilized” by the filmmaking crew, she resented having to return 9

 See Gallagher (1998) and Bondanella (1993).

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to her home which he describes as ‘a real, actual stone-age village’ (Mida cited in Gallagher, 1998, p. 188). Similarly, Rossellini describes Carmela, the actor, as a ‘little animal […] not understanding anything, moving only by impulsions’ (Rossellini cited in Gallagher, 1998, p. 188). His observation feeds the narrative of the nonprofessional actor as a bon sauvage, a friendly yet primitive being plucked from its natural habitat and exhibited on the screen for the very first time. Rossellini famously commented that ‘Things are there. Why manipulate them?’ (cited in Brunette, 1985, p. 35) and the idea of the nonprofessional actor as a fragment of untamed reality is also present in accounts of his casting processes. For Paisà, for example, Rossellini explains he would bring his camera to the location and choose the performers from the curious crowds that gathered around (Sadoul, [1965] 1972). He also describes his approach to casting in terms reminiscent of Eisenstein’s typage. Rossellini explains ‘I choose my actors exclusively for their physique’ ([1984] 2000, p. 43) and adds that his filmmaking process often revolved around letting his actors ‘dictate the course you have to follow [and] give you the characters themselves’ (Rossellini in Aprà & Ponzi, [1965] 1973, pp. 116–117). As authors such as Peter Brunette (1985) and Wagstaff (2007) have pointed out, though, Rossellini’s rejection of manipulation is ambiguous. In Paisà, Rossellini and his crew were impressed by Carmela to the point of making significant alterations to the screenplay to match her qualities. Wagstaff (2007) explains that the original treatment for the story revolved around the affair between a bright and outspoken Sicilian girl and a rather shy American soldier. However, given Sazio’s qualities, the filmmakers adapted the scenario and partly switched the roles. In the film as it is, Joe (Robert Van Loon) is the more outspoken and confident figure while Carmela is shy, defensive and insecure. When casting Joe, the filmmakers sought to reinforce the visual contrast between players and their physiognomies by choosing ‘the tallest and most blonde of them all, Robert Van Loon, who came from New Jersey’ (Farassino cited in Gundle, 2020, pp.  307–308). Rossellini was also happy hiring another actor to dub Sazio’s lines as Sazio was Neapolitan and not Sicilian like the character. Though Sazio’s appearance and performance project defensiveness and apprehension, the character’s primitivism is primarily a consequence of how Carmela’s performance is presented in the film. For instance, Joe often treats Carmela roughly. He slaps her shoulder (Rossellini saw it fit to add a sound effect here to intensify the gesture) and clasps her like an

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untamed feral creature that needs to be controlled. Early in the film, Joe asks Carmela to smile and teases her by snarling like a pig. In fact, while Joe’s acting and delivery often feels stiff and unnatural, the use of dubbing gives Carmela a strong degree of articulacy (her delivery is clear, she doesn’t hesitate or struggle finding concepts to express herself). The contrast between the two performances exposes even further the heavy-­ handedness with which other characters treat Carmela. She never seems stupid or impulsive and her actions and motivations are clearly explained to us even if they frequently appear arbitrary to the soldiers. Even if Sazio behaved primitively according to Rossellini and his crew, Carmela isn’t introduced as a primitive character in the film but, rather, as a character regarded (and treated) as primitive by other characters. Like Eisenstein, Rossellini is interested in the potential of physiognomies to present subjective impressions rather than accurate renditions of reality. Furthermore, performance and non-performance details are frequently deployed to both draw attention to the subjectivity of the perspectives articulated in the film as well as to disrupt such perspectives. Like Eisenstein’s types, many of Rossellini’s nonprofessionals embody recognisable figures—the friendly though apprehensive savage in the case of Carmela—but these impressions are also complicated by details that exceed or contradict the characters’ typicality. For instance, although the interaction between Carmela and Joe shows no clear signs of courtship or flirtation, critics have described Sazio’s appearance as erotic. Peter Brunette defines her as ‘a real woman on the screen, an unglamorous nonprofessional […] slovenly and directly sensual in a way no real actress would ever chance’ ([1987] 1996, p. 72). For Brunette, Carmela’s sensualism seems to emerge naturally and unintentionally rather than being projected deliberately. It is as though her unruly appearance emanates a sense of feral, animalistic sexuality. However, Rossellini’s camera and mise-en-scène play a significant role in conveying this aspect of Carmela’s character. Though Rossellini often favoured rough visuals and bumpy camerawork (which lend sections in his films a newsreel aesthetic), when it comes to more intimate shots of the nonprofessional actors, conventional studio-like visuals are often deployed to create a sense of disruption between the film’s perspective and the performances. Carmela’s costume, a tight dress she wears without shoes, contributes to framing the character as uncivilised yet erotic. She is also often shot and lit in ways that accentuate her figure and sexualise her body. For instance,

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Fig. 3.3  Paisà (Roberto Rossellini, 1946)

Rossellini’s camera insists on looking up her skirt as Carmela climbs a ladder in an attempt to hide from a group of Nazi soldiers (Fig. 3.3). In this shot, her hips and legs are silhouetted by a kicker off-screen, and the filmmakers even went through the trouble of using low-key lighting on the background to integrate Carmela’s figure at a visual level. In this case, lighting and framing naturalise an expressionistic aesthetic that, besides creating suspense, sexualises the performer’s body in spite of her gestures. At times, Rossellini’s contrasts are pushed to the point of becoming grotesque and clichéd. ‘I detested Rossellini’s Open City’ writes Luis Buñuel in his autobiography, ‘the scene with the tortured priest in one room and the German officer drinking champagne with a woman in his lap in the other seemed both facile and tactless’ ([1982] 1987, p. 225). However, Rossellini’s amalgams sometimes create a seemingly uncontrolled and provoking sense of disruption. The sexualised shot of Carmela going up the ladder, for example, is preceded by a shot of Nazi soldiers walking through the ruins where Carmela is hiding. The cut initially

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creates the impression that Carmela’s shot corresponds to the Nazi soldiers’ point-of-view. However, this is not the case as the soldiers won’t discover Carmela until later in the film. The sleazy tone of the shot is also coterminous with the rude treatment American soldiers in general, and Joe in particular, dispense Carmela earlier in the film. However, Carmela’s shot does not constitute their point-of-view either. In this case, Carmela’s image subtly (though provocatively) embodies (and collapses together) the attitudes of both American and Nazi soldiers who, despite their ideological differences, treat locals such as Carmela with a similar sense of arrogance and superiority. The film does not just introduce this authoritarian and abusive perspective but provocatively brings us, the viewers, to confront and grapple with it. In Paisà, Rossellini cast a mixture of professionals and nonprofessionals and enhanced the amalgam through performance and non-performance details, creating a contrast or juxtaposition between characters who, ultimately, often manage to resolve or put aside their differences and establish bonds of solidarity and camaraderie. In this regard, Paisà, not unlike La Terra Trema and Rome, Open City, is a coral film centred around a range of different characters that either share similar conditions or convive (in either friendly or deadly terms) within their milieus. Rossellini’s Germania anno zero/Germany Year Zero (1948) constitutes a significant break with earlier neorealist films as although the film has multiple characters, it centres decidedly on a single protagonist, Edmund (Edmund Moeschke), a young boy who tries to help his family survive in war-torn Berlin and ends up committing suicide after murdering his father. Edmund Moeschke in Germany Year Zero Though Lauro Venturi (1949) suggests that Rossellini found Edmund Moeschke at a playground, the more circulated account involves Rossellini spotting Moeschke performing in the circus.10 Initially, Rossellini seems to have been interested in having Moeschke’s personality inform the character. Venturi (1949) and Gallagher (1998) describe an anecdote where, when the young performer met the filmmaker, he mentioned “You must be very rich—only very rich people can have a tablecloth in Germany” Rossellini supposedly replied, “You’ll say that in my film”. In the film as it is, Edmund never says the words that so impressed Rossellini. Moeschke  See Gallagher (1998).

10

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then asked, “What is the name of the film?” “Berlin, Year Zero” answered Rossellini. “What does it mean?” Moeschke asked. “You’ll understand when you see it” Rossellini answered. “Not before then?” Moeschke inquired. “No. Before then it will be enough that I know what it means” Rossellini concluded. Rossellini appears to have been interested not only in leaving his performer in the dark, in exploiting as much as possible Moeschke’s lack of pre-conceptions, but also in disrupting his initial intentions as a filmmaker. This ambivalence and internal contradiction are central to Germany Year Zero, a film that, Benedict Morrison insightfully points out, embodies a state of inarticulacy, an ‘inconceivable in-betweenness’ (2021, p. 32), in which both Berlin and Edmund find themselves as they struggle transitioning from the ruins and broken ideologies of Nazi Germany towards new, though uncertain futures. Such in-betweenness is noticeable in the film’s juxtaposition of artificiality and naturalism, which Brunette ([1987] 1996) associates with the film’s combination of natural exterior locations and studio interiors. However, it is also noticeable in Moeschke’s performance. A vivid example can be found early in the film, when we see Edmund working as a grave digger. Iannone mentions that in the sequence the child ‘is not physically digging but ‘playing’ at digging’ (2011, p. 61). It is a good observation, yet it may be pushing things too far. Edmund does not seem to be exactly pretending to work nor does he appear to be enjoying it or having fun. Rather he is in a certain in-between, not entirely committed but not idle either. Initially, he seems to be properly digging—burying the spade in the ground and piling the dirt next to it. However, he then pats the dirt with the shovel as though trying to make it nice and compact, which suggests Edmund is not necessarily concerned with doing the job efficiently but, rather, with ensuring the results look good. Edmund’s unconvicting manual labour highlights the lurid contrast between the child and his job as a grave digger, foreshadowing the scene’s resolution, which sees Edmund being kicked out of the site without receiving payment for being too young to work. However, by performing the actions without much commitment, Moeschke lends Edmund’s digging a sense of wariness. The character appears not (just) like a child doing a job he is not fit for but, rather, like a seasoned (child) labourer used to being exploited without receiving suitable payment. Moeschke’s nonprofessional performance conveys Edmund’s tacit awareness of the corrupt and hypocritical ways other characters regard and treat him: he is old enough

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to work but not to receive payment. With his ambivalent digging, though, Edmund cleverly (though unsuccessfully) attempts to both counter and take advantage of his ambivalent status. He works hard enough to claim payment but also minimises his effort, wasting as little energy as possible in case his labour goes unrewarded. Germany Year Zero features several scenes where Edmund is initially treated like an adult only to then be tricked. Characters take advantage not of his innocence or naivety but, precisely, of his wish to engage in this adult world as a means to contribute to his family’s economy. Edmund’s body and gestures, however, seem to partly anticipate his manipulation. He often delivers lines with a sense of scepticism. Moeschke also frequently frowns when looking at other characters, which suggests Edmund’s suspiciousness. Nonetheless, Edmund does not have the privilege of avoiding his potential manipulation. His situation is so precarious and his family so demanding that being tricked or manipulated are risks worth taking in exchange for a chance at getting some resources. In this regard, Edmund appears like a seasoned nonprofessional, someone who intentionally and recurrently puts himself in positions of vulnerability and has developed the necessary tools and responses to navigate such situations. We can see an example of this in the scene when Edmund is told by his neighbour Herr Rademaker (Hans Sangen) that it would be best for everyone if Edmund’s ailing father just died. The film has been building tension towards this moment. We have seen Edmund’s father in bed on several occasions, disappointed for not being able to help his family. Similarly, we have followed Edmund in his efforts to contribute to the family’s economy. Grabbing some coal here, a handful of potatoes there, and taking a scale from Rademaker to sell in the street but returning with tinned meat instead of money. It is at this point that Rademaker, disappointed by Edmund’s failure, lets out his grieving outburst. Other filmmakers would have rubbed their hands at the prospect of directing a scene so ripe for drama and tragedy. It would have been easy to simply show the child in a close-up, eyes wide open, slightly gaping mouth, staring baffled after receiving such an intense verbal slap. Or simply to show the child crying, running away offended. The line is so powerful, so obnoxiously abusive that almost any reaction from the child would be enough to cash in on the empathy so efficiently secured. Instead, Rossellini keeps Edmund static in a medium shot (Fig. 3.4). For a second, we can see his expression twisting. His eyes narrow and his mouth opens as though about to cry; his small body pulsates with tension as the shot lingers on

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Fig. 3.4  Germany Year Zero (Roberto Rossellini, 1948)

him, assisting Moeschke’s performance in building anticipation. The rundown background, saturated with edged-out shadows, also helps project a nightmarish space around the character, drawing out his conflicted and damaged feelings. However, against all expectations, the film then awkwardly cuts to a close-up of Edmund who, after staring frontwards with a blank and neutral expression for a second, looks down somewhat disappointed and proceeds to turn around and walk disinterestedly away from the scene (Fig. 3.5). The striking shadows have been replaced by a blurred and less intimidating background, which is complemented once again by Moeschke’s performance. Like a jar of cold water, mise-en-scène and Edmund’s deadpan expression dissolve the anxious disarray of the previous shot, preserving the ambiguity of his character and repudiating our sense of pity towards Edmund’s victimhood. The cut is jarring and feels as though a shot from a film by Bresson had been clumsily jammed in a melodrama. The cut not only breaks the scene’s sense of causality and the

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Fig. 3.5  Germany Year Zero (Roberto Rossellini, 1948)

expressive progression we expect at the level of performance. It replaces this flow with another twisted logic where actions charged with affect and aimed primarily towards generating emotional responses—Rademaker’s lines are an insult seeking to hurt Edmund—are followed by mechanical movements and blank expressions that disarm or disarticulate the insult’s offensive force, redirecting its emotional power towards concrete physical movements. Elena del Río (2008) has explored this potential of performance in the context of film through a Deleuzian perspective focused on affect. In a passage that seems particularly attuned to my analysis of Edmund’s gestures, del Río writes: Rather than thinking of performance as either the active expression of authentic interiority or the passive inscription of external oppression, I would like to consider performance as an ever-changing material event that registers the impact of social and cultural pressures on the body in an active and creative

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way. The idea that, as expressive event, performance does something with those social pressures and conditions, as opposed to simply suffering them passively or reactively, is key here. (2008, pp. 35–36, emphasis in original)

Del Río  understands such performances as particularly fluid, concerned specifically with embodying an in-betweenness that results in forms of affective and ethical experimentation (del Río, 2016) that test the limits of the sensible, suggesting alternatives to rotten and stagnated social practices. Rather than simply pointing towards problems through, for example, alienating effects affording critical or analytical distance, these performances stay within the sensuous and affective exchanges of the event and through the ‘juxtaposition of incongruent affections’ (del Río, 2008, p. 47), the Spinozean body’s potential projects itself towards the daunting but also optimistic indeterminacy of the “not yet”. Benedict Morrison identifies a sense of stagnation in Germany Year Zero, which he describes as ‘inexhaustibly circular’ (2021, p.  33). The film’s atmosphere of unending stagnation, where gestures and moves seem to lead towards unavoidable regression is conjured partly through the pervasive imagery of ruins and decay that dominates exterior shots. Unlike in Paisà, where each episode constitutes a step in a progressive journey through Italy, in Germany Year Zero there’s no escape from the city’s ruined monotony despite the long, and frequently discussed, tracking shots of Edmund strolling through the city, which always unavoidably return him to well-known and familiar settings. While the film’s exteriors appear like an unescapable labyrinth of ruins, its interiors confine Edmund, and ourselves, within a different though equally oppressive atmosphere of cyclicality. Edmund’s home offers no comfort or haven where to rest and recover. On the contrary, it is inhabited by figures who, trapped either physically or symbolically, pass time grieving and offending one another, continuously engaging in cycles of reproaches and accusations fuelled by frustration and regret. Edmund’s brother, Karl-Heinz (Franz-Otto Krüger) is confined to the house for fear of being sentenced because of his Nazi past. Edmund’s father (Ernst Pittschau) never manages to leave his bed (except for his short visit to a hospital bed), from where, afflicted by an enduring cough, he helplessly tries to educate his children into following (what he deems as) the right course of action. As Morrison points out, these characters’ ‘unfocused outburst and their parroting of now-outmoded statements […] become a cacophony of slogans […] delivered with automatic weariness’ (2021, p. 34). Edmund’s

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father often utters lines such as “I’m tired of lying around of no use to anyone” with a degree of calculated intensity that renders them dishonest, a quality further accentuated by his weak and pathetic coughing, which he inserts with precision in the silences throughout his speech. Ernst Pittschau, an experienced actor, could have easily delivered a more convincing performance by, for instance, using facial expressions to show the character’s feelings of guilt and remorse. More emphatic and seemingly uncontrolled coughing might have also helped project the impression of a struggling old man overwhelmed by afflictions beyond his control. In the film as it is, the father seems to have defaulted into performing the signs and lines associated with his illness not in any attempt to communicate or express himself but, rather, as a way to drive other characters into feeling both pity towards him and shame at their own incapacity to make the most out of their healthy conditions. Like the father, other characters such as Karl-Heinz, Herr Redemaker and Edmund’s former teacher (Erich Gühne) perform from similar corrupt and privileged positions. They enable Edmund and his sister Eva (Ingetraud Hinze) by giving them reasons and resources to venture out into the city yet repeatedly punish and admonish them when they return, either by shaming them for failing to bring back what’s expected or by accusing them (without evidence) of engaging in morally reproachable behaviour. Within Edmund’s household, conversations are delivered quickly and efficiently, without pauses or hesitations. Rather than organic exchanges, they often feel like intercut monologues, each character seemingly more interested in articulating their position than listening and responding to the other character’s interventions. Such mode of delivery is vividly present in Karl-Heinz and Eva’s secret conversation in the bathroom, where, paradoxically, each character blames the other for, precisely, their passive and selfish behaviour. Karl-Heinz and Eva identify the problems afflicting their condition though, at the same time, they are unable to find any adequate solution partly because their exchange does not seem geared towards enabling collaboration or offering comfort. On the contrary, their conversation, instigated by Eva’s line “we need to talk”, fulfils the characters’ selfish need to both vent off and, in the process, re-stabilise their positions by providing justifications (mainly to themselves) for their actions. What initially seems like an attempt at resolving their tensions turns out to be an excuse for the characters to fuel such tension further. This vicious and perverse circle of repetition is captured by the dialogue, which consists primarily of

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reproaches and excuses. However, it is also visibly presented through KarlHeinz and Eva’s bodies which, as the characters speak their lines, swap positions within the frame or pace up and down anxiously, engaging in cyclical patterns that pulsate with energy that, nonetheless, is contained within (or expelled into) the bathroom. The automatism and mindless speed with which the lines are delivered further contributes to the scene’s atmosphere of entrapment and repetition. We get the feeling the exchange (or variations of it) has taken place before, rehearsed and recycled to the point of it becoming a histrionic and melodramatic though monotonous routine. Edmund’s behaviour contrast significantly with those of the adult characters he engages with. In comparison, the film’s protagonist appears more measured when it comes to verbal expression, less prone to emotional expressivity, but also more dextrous at a physical level. Rather than being an opposite to his adult counterparts, however, or using radically alien gestures or performance details, the brilliance of Moeschke’s performance lies in his capacity to alternate between performance modes or registers and appear lucid and articulate at times and lost and resourceless at others. Or, rather, Edmund sometimes parrots like his family, himself caught in this vicious circle of reproach and repetition. At the same time, he never loses a sense of agency in the drama as well as a performance capacity to propose new modes of behaviour that, though never quite successful, appear strongly inventive when compared to the performances of other characters. In this regard, one of Edmund’s most recurring gestures is, precisely, to go out, to venture into the city’s ruined exteriors in search of opportunities or resources but also in an attempt to escape the confines of interior spaces and release the stagnated emotional pressures condensed within the entrapping domestic space. Karen Lury notes that, when spectating the screen performances of children, we often find ourselves in a double bind where: first, if we are watching a film in which the child is simply ‘being’ (not acting) then we read a performance onto something that is not a ‘performance’ at all. Second, if the child is acting (seeming) then we may be confronted with an individual that might be regarded as a ‘freak’, a child who must possess adult-like qualities which allows it to act in a child-like rather than child-­ ish manner. (2010, p. 10, emphasis in original)

Notably, both responses are present in discussions of Edmund in Germany Year Zero. Amédée Ayfre suggests that, in the film, ‘the child simply lives

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and exists there before us, captured in his ‘existence’ by the camera […] What is at stake is the child’s being as an entity; hence the child is not ‘acting” ([1952] 1985, p.  184). Gallagher, on the other hand, describes Edmund as ‘an absolute insane character, whose eyes, like the baby’s in 2001: A Space Odyssey, are already open in his mother’s womb; he has understood everything; he’s 2,001 years old.’ (1998, p. 248). If the gestures of Marfa Lapkina in Eisenstein’s Old and New (discussed in Chap. 2) often run counter to our expectations of how her type of character ought to behave, Edmund’s contrasting attitudes and recurrent transitions between performance registers disrupt both the sense of naive vulnerability we often associate with the figure of the child as well as the freakish qualities we ascribe to children we regard as intentionally projecting their childishness. Edmund’s nonprofessionalism emerges not from his body techniques or his idiosyncratic gestures. He does not even seem to produce self-­ conscious gestures or non-actorly “mistakes” that are absorbed by the drama either. Rather, it is more a question of attitude, a particular way of both projecting a recognisable impression and disrupting it at the same time. He does not feel like a fully fledged character. Like Eisenstein’s types, he emerges as a recognisable figure (a German boy) but also one that feels too broad to classify, almost a sketch of a character, whose polysemy is intentionally reinforced through mise-en-scène and editing. At the level of physiognomy, though it has been pointed out that Rossellini cast Moeschke because he reminded the director of his deceased son Romano (Gallagher, 1998), Edmund also embodies the paradigmatic Nazi aesthetics. His blonde hair is always neatly combed sideways. Skinny, he walks with his back straight and his chest slightly puffed up, as though making a constant effort to stand tall. His tidy costume also conveys the impression of a model young boy—the school precept or boy scout type often associated with Hitler’s youths. Though Edmund’s appearance and some of his actions in the film might be what led Gallagher to describe him as the ‘Third Reich’s last soldier’ (1998, p.  248), this impression is also recurrently complicated throughout the film. For instance, Moeschke has a tendency to flick his hair to the side, as though a part of his being were constantly nagging him. Notably, his hairstyle was chosen by Rossellini, imposed upon the performer as a foreign bodily marker for him to deal with (Gallagher, 1998). We can also see Edmund chewing his lips throughout the film, seemingly mulling his actions—less thinking them through than waiting for the right

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moment to move. Edmund appears like someone who needs time to process what he is going through yet at the same time is forced to act and move forwards—his drive negates the possibility of resolving and articulating his interior unrest. The diegesis, like the ruined landscape, offers an environment in which he does not seem to want to take part yet one he navigates briskly but also without stability. For as Rancière points out, there is a certain ‘unbearable lightness’ ([2001] 2006, p. 132) to Edmund’s body. His bony legs, like solid yet flimsy twigs, rush towards a mortal free-­ fall away from the drama of his situation but also from the narrative itself. Germany Year Zero, more than Rome, Open City or Paisà, crystallises Rossellini’s idea that: Neorealism is about following a being, with love, in all their discoveries, all their impressions. It is a very small being under something that dominates him and that, all of a sudden, hits him horribly in the precise moment he finds himself freely in the world, without expecting anything. ([1984] 2000, p. 42)

Edmund appears as a precursor to the type of characters Ingrid Bergman would embody in Rossellini’s later work and Robert Bresson would create in his films by using nonprofessionals as models. Susan Sontag calls the figures in Bresson’s films ‘presences’ ([1961] 2009, p. 185), the very same term that Amélie Rorty proposes in her taxonomy of characters to refer to a kind of character she finds representative of the nineteenth-century Russian novel. Rorty’s description of these presences, however, perfectly captures the figure of Edmund in Rossellini’s film: They are a mode of attending, being present to their experiences without dominating or controlling them […] We can try to give character sketches of them, but we must fail; we can try to project their lives into the future, but they are presences to whom anything can happen […] Their psychological and physical characteristics are incidental to them. Though generally tortured, they are innocent and invulnerable though they may commit crimes of unspeakable horror. The figure of such presences is the Christian, the holy innocent. (1976, pp. 318–319)

Many of the qualities Rorty highlights resonate with my discussion of Edmund, who is also defined by seemingly contrasting atributes. Rorty’s terms are also suitable to describe the figure of Mouchette (Nadine Nortier) in Bresson’s Mouchette (1967), for example, also played by a

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nonprofessional actor. In fact, there are striking similarities between both films, most notably their endings, which show the child protagonists playing alone and then committing suicide. Bazin notes that, in Rossellini’s film ‘The fact is, simply, that the signs of play and the signs of death may be the same on a child’s face, at least for those of us who cannot penetrate its mystery’ ([1949] 1997, p. 124). Similarly, Laura McMahon suggests that, in Mouchette, ‘What appears at first a playful game is suddenly revealed as (possibly) an act of suicide’ (2012, p. 67). However, McMahon adds, in the film ‘it remains unclear whether suicide is Mouchette’s (considered) intention or not’ (p. 67). I think Bazin and McMahon are right. However, a crucial aspect is that not only the characters’ behaviour is mysterious but also the performances give no clear indication of whether the performers knew their characters were killing themselves. Both films are edited in such a way that they could have been filmed without letting the performers know the fate of their characters. The impression that the actors are not aware of their characters’ actions feels crucial in order to convey the lack of control and sense of disruption that defines both characters. Though these attributes might have been characteristic of certain characters in novels, nonprofessional actors such as Edmund Moeschke, Nadine Nortier and Marfa Lapkina, vividly bring them to life on the screen. In the case of Edmund’s suicide, what seems particularly important is that, rather than suicide being carried out as a consequence of specific causes, it is executed as a fatal and tragic exploration of available possibilities. In other words, Edmund’s final act is consistent with his behaviour throughout the film, where affects and resources are combined, exchanged and reconfigured with the aim of seeking original solutions. Notably, the film’s ending brings together many of the film’s recurrent elements in an unexpected though, to a certain extent, coherent amalgam. The ruins of the city, Edmund’s disenchanted playing, his family—which he gazes at from atop the building before jumping down—even death is present in the final sequence through the image of Edmund’s father’s coffin being carried into a truck stacked with other coffins. Logically, Edmund’s jump, a movement from inside outwards, is also coterminous with his excursions throughout the film. Paradoxically, however, Edmund’s fatal jump brings him, once again, to the familiar settings (his street, his family) he—to a certain extent— seeks escape from. The pessimistic tone of the film’s ending emerges not only from the dramatic impact of Edmund’s suicide but also from the

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symbolic sense of frustration present in the final shots with regard to (nonprofessional) performance. As soon as it hits the ground, Edmund’s body is embraced by a passer-by and arranged into a recognisable variation of Michelangelo’s Pietà. It a gesture that imposes upon the figure of Edmund the kind of symbolism that, throughout the film, the protagonist seemed concerned with disrupting. Whether a consequence of his remorse after killing his father or a twisted act of generosity aimed at relieving his ailing family from the burden of caring for him, Edmund’s suicide constitutes an ultimate gesture seeking to put an end to, precisely, further gesticulation. If, as Morrison points out, ‘Edmund is, himself, an inarticulate hollow, unable to give meaning to the film’s structure or mise en scène’ (2021, p. 35), by ending on a shot of Edmund’s body arranged into a recognisable mise-en-scène, Germany Year Zero disrupts Edmund’s own disruptive inarticulacy, highlighting with pessimism our insistence on imposing meaning even upon gestures we cannot understand.

De Sica and His Methods Working With “Actors From the Streets” Although Rossellini’s and Visconti’s work with nonprofessional actors reached the press and public, De Sica’s generated unparalleled attention. It is almost impossible to find an interview with the filmmaker that does not mention the subject. Even Vogue magazine published, in its February 1st 1950 issue, an extensive interview with De Sica where the filmmaker was asked primarily about his methods choosing and directing nonprofessionals.11 When De Sica passed away, Michael Kaufman (1974) wrote the obituary for The New York Times where he recalled a variety of anecdotes regarding De Sica’s directing of nonprofessionals. Similarly, when Shoeshine and Bicycle Thieves were released, the press drew attention to the nonprofessionals’ performances. Critics such as Bosley Crowther (1949), reviewing Bicycle Thieves for The New York Times, celebrated the acting while also pointing out that the cast was largely nonprofessional. Similarly, filmmaker Satyajit Ray, who often described the film as a key influence, noted that Bicycle Thieves ‘had only one professional in it, the actress who played the soothsayer’ (1994, p. 35). Since the film’s release, the untrained status of its cast has been progressively clarified by authors such as Wagstaff, who points out that, ‘When the  A Walk With De Sica (Bernier, 1950).

11

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filmmakers and subsequent commentators say that Ladri di biciclette was shot with actors ‘taken from the streets’, they are referring only to the three protagonists […] As far as I can tell, the other characters are played by professional actors, with one or two possible exceptions’ (2007, p. 316). The film’s combination of professional and nonprofessional performers extends to the voices in the films. As Wagstaff (2007) explains, De Sica used professional actors to dub the nonprofessionals in Bicycle Thieves. However, De Sica himself was hesitant to admit so and was still claiming otherwise in interviews as late as 1965.12 The press and De Sica’s insistence on the cast’s nonprofessional status suggests a desire to keep alive an exciting though not necessarily accurate mythology. This was particularly useful for a director like De Sica, who carried a reputation as a matinee idol and whose status as author of the films he directed was under constant threat by the looming presence of his charismatic and outspoken collaborator Cesare Zavattini.13 Attention to the nonprofessionals’ backgrounds carried over even after the films were released. Life magazine, for example, published a several-page article on Maggiorani’s struggle finding work after making Bicycle Thieves and “returning to reality”.14 When it comes to the casting of nonprofessional actors, De Sica’s narratives often involve excruciating selection processes looking for the one and only nonprofessional that would work for the film. De Sica (1968, p. 7) explains that: The faces and the general physical appearance of my dramatis personae take shape for me while I am going over the scenario […] Until I can find the man, woman, or child who fits the figure I see in my mind’s eye, I do not begin, I cannot begin to make the film.

12  The following is an extract from an unpublished interview with De Sica conducted by James Blue: ‘Blue: Did you use actors to dub your non-professionals? De Sica: No, they did it themselves. The first two days were difficult but after, they work with great ability. I speak to them in the same way as for the shooting—in a sweet, firm, quiet voice. In the dubbing, it is difficult to obtain the same sincerity and the same truth’ (De Sica in Blue, 1965). 13  Views such as Truman Capote’s, who saw De Sica as ‘mostly a megaphone for Zavattini’ (Capote in Hill, [1957] 1987, p. 28) are not uncommon and many to this day see Zavattini as the true author of the films. 14  See Rowan (1950).

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Rather than letting the nonprofessional’s gestures or bodies inform the screenplay or alter the film, De Sica (like Pudovkin) appears to be searching for specific individuals whose appearances match the characters in the screenplay. The casting of Shoeshine sheds some light on the issue. De Sica and Zavattini shaped the script after following two real shoeshine boys for a journalistic reportage. Yet when it came to making the film, De Sica dismissed casting the children the film was based on because they were ‘too ugly, almost deformed’ ([1955] 2000, p. 24). Nonetheless, in the same account, he explains that ‘There are some characters which demand professional actors, while there are others which can come to life only through a certain face’ ([1955] 2000, p. 24). These two points suggest a contradiction by which the face of the person on whom the character is based will not do yet the character still requires being played by a nonprofessional actor. De Sica’s remarks suggest that, when it came to his films, neither authentic physiognomies nor a true-to-life correspondence between performer and role were critical factors informing his casting of nonprofessionals. Nonetheless for De Sica, a nonprofessional quality in the performances was desired even if the performers’ physiques did not match the individuals who served as inspiration for the characters. The parallel between the player and the character’s life was virtually non-existent in the case of Franco Interlenghi, who plays Pasquale in Shoeshine. Not only was he not a shoeshine boy but he lived in Via Palestro, an affluent street that, he recalls, ‘was one of the only streets in Rome that was tarmacked’ (Toccafondi & Santi, 2006b). He also remembers that he was finishing secondary school and achieving high grades when, playing football with his friends in the street, they were prompted by a passer-by to audition for the new film by De Sica (Toccafondi & Santi, 2006b). In the case of Shoeshine, when De Sica explains that ‘the boys were from the street’ (De Sica in Blue 1965), he is speaking literally rather than poetically. The performers were found in the streets even if they did not live and work there.15 15  When it comes to the protagonists of his other films, Carlo Battisti, chosen for the role of Umberto in Umberto D., was a renowned university professor and therefore had a loose connection with struggling retired pensioner Umberto. Lianella Carell who plays Maria, Antonio’s wife, in Bicycle Thieves, was a journalist and while De Sica explains that Maria Pia Casilio, who plays Maria, the young maid in Umberto D. was a real maid (De Sica in Blue, 1965), Casilio never defines herself so but, rather, remembers that she was on holiday in Rome with her aunt when De Sica approached her (Casilio, 2003).

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When it comes to directing his films, De Sica was famous for doing a first reading of the script in front of the actors in which he played each character himself.16 The director himself argued that he did not always direct his actors through mimicry. On several occasions, he explains that, when it came to nonprofessionals, he was interested in letting them perform the actions their own way.17 However, as far as I can tell, only De Sica suggests he used this style of directing. Besides these two forms of directing, a third technique was supposedly used by De Sica when working with nonprofessionals. This method, strikingly similar to the techniques suggested by Pudovkin (discussed in Chap. 2), consisted in treating the nonprofessionals in such ways as to elicit sincere emotional reactions from them. Dalle Vacche explains that, when making Shoeshine with Interlenghi and Smordoni, De Sica ‘encouraged them to play together in whatever free time they had’ (2013, p. 408) and adds that ‘This carefree approach made them bond even more’ (p.  408). These anecdotes should also be considered with reservations as, for example, there are several contradicting accounts of how De Sica worked with Enzo Staiola to achieve his heart-breaking crying at the end of Bicycle Thieves.18 Although the most circulated versions of the story involve De Sica humiliating Staiola and then asking the cameras to roll, Staiola has  denied this, explaining that glycerine was used to provoke the tears and the scene was shot in a conventional and professional manner (Schiller, 2007). At this point we reach a juncture when it comes to De Sica’s preference for nonprofessional actors. De Sica did not cast them for their authentic physiognomies, social backgrounds or body techniques. He also had professional actors dub the nonprofessionals, so accent and pronunciation were not deciding factors. When it comes to directing them, he seems to have worked mostly through restrictive methods that, rather letting the nonprofessionals’ attitude or gestures tinge their performances, seem

16  De Sica’s son recalls De Sica lying in bed, passionately kissing Marcello Mastroianni to show Sophia Loren exactly what he wanted her to do (Toccafondi & Santi, 2006a), which explains that De Sica’s method of mimetic directing was not reserved exclusively for nonprofessionals. 17  See, for example, Wagstaff (2007) and De Sica (1968). 18  The story that De Sica hid cigarette butts in Staiola’s pockets is mentioned in Ettore Scola’s C’eravamo tanto amati/We All Loved Each Other So Much (1974) while in his interview with Blue (1965), De Sica explains that he made fun of Staiola in front of the crew for sleeping in a bedroom with six other brothers and sisters.

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geared towards “professionalizing” the acting as much as possible.19 So the question remains. Why did De Sica insist on working with nonprofessionals? De Sica seems to locate the difference between professionals and nonprofessionals beyond the plane of acting itself. He describes it as an abstract quality or aura professionals cannot leave behind, a baggage they carry despite their gestures or performance. In a rather eccentric remark, De Sica explains: I have a little theory of my own […] Let’s give the image on the screen the value of 100 per cent. The man appearing in it by his mere presence as a living being covers 50 per cent of that value, his non-professional acting is worth a further 30 per cent, and the remaining 20 per cent are contributed by the spectator’s own imagination. This balance is immediately disturbed if and when the professional actor—this admirable monster—contributes not 30 but 50 per cent. The two other factors remaining unchanged, the image value mounts to 120 per cent. And that is what makes the screen-image often appear ‘bigger than life’, quite beyond the frame of reality. (De Sica in Koval, 1950, pp. 62–63)

For De Sica, the difference between professionals and nonprofessionals amounts to a performance surplus, a value that exceeds the performances themselves and is brought by the professional almost in spite of themself. Jacqueline Nacache has proposed to define this quality as ‘the actor-effect’ ([2003] 2006, p. 158). In this regard, nonprofessionals bring a level of anonymity that invites speculation regarding the (alleged)  proximity between the performer and character.20 Bazin already noted this aspect when he writes that when a nonprofessional actor acts in a second film ‘his face and some recurrent mannerisms in his acting having become familiar will prevent the amalgam with nonprofessionals from taking place.’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p.  25). Instead, when encountering a nonprofessional for the first time, the public ‘is apt to identify the ordinary actor with the role he plays’ (pp. 24–25). For De Sica, the nonprofessional actor 19  De Sica suggests that, in this regard, ‘[The nonprofessional’s] ignorance is an advantage, not a handicap. The man in the street, particularly if he is directed by someone who is himself an actor, is raw material that can be moulded at will’ (1968, p. 5). 20  Regarding the actor-effect, as Pitassio (2008) notes, it is not so much the question of acting training or experience that is important but simply the fact that, once the nonprofessional has acted in several films, it becomes more and more possible to recognize the performances as part of a body of work.

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is not so much a guarantee against theatrical mannerisms but, rather, a reassurance that the resultant performances won’t be compared against other performances by the same actor. What remains to be explored is why exactly this aspect of the nonprofessional actor was so crucial for De Sica. Bicycle Thieves’ Nonprofessional Characters In Bicycle Thieves, De Sica chose nonprofessional actors to play the protagonists while most secondary characters were played by professional actors. This suggests a particular version of Bazin’s amalgam in which two nonprofessionals explore a world inhabited mostly by professionals. In this regard, one remarkable aspect about Bicycle Thieves is how nonprofessional Antonio Ricci (Lamberto Maggiorani), the film’s protagonist, appears. He not only lacks a job but is also, as Robert S. C. Gordon puts it, ‘mildly inept’ (2008, p. 37). The film is saturated with instances where Ricci demonstrates he lacks the physical expertise his tasks require. An early example is the iconic sequence in which, having just acquired his job as a bill-­ poster, Antonio adds wrinkles to Rita Hayworth’s face as he unsuccessfully tries to straighten the poster (Fig. 3.6). However, the more he touches the worse it gets. His hands perform the action with too much delicacy and not enough determination. His excessive concern with getting it right and the amount of time he spends at it seem disproportionate with the poster, which he treats almost like artwork belonging in a museum. His hands betray not only his inexperience at the job but also how out of place he is in such an exceptional situation: starting a brand-new job after months of unemployment and acting for the first time in a film directed by one of Italy’s greatest celebrities. Our sense of pity towards the character comes from the pathetic mismatch between the sheer excitement of Maggiorani’s fingers and the cheap newspaper texture of the poster. Maggiorani’s hands, as well as his nervousness, emerge as important reasons behind his casting. De Sica explains: Suddenly in the queue of parents I saw a workman who was holding his little son by the hand. I beckoned him to come forward, and he approached hesitatingly, pushing the boy in front of him as if on a plate, and smiling wistfully. ‘No,’ I told him, ‘you are the one I am interested in, not the child.’ It was Lamberto Maggiorani. I gave him a screen test straightaway; and his way of moving, how he sat down, how he moved his hands covered in cal-

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Fig. 3.6  Bicycle Thieves (Vittorio De Sica, 1948) louses, a workman’s hands, not an actor’s, everything about him was perfect. (De Sica cited in Wagstaff, 2007, p. 316)

Consistent with my discussion of Maggiorani’s performance in the poster sequence, what seems to have attracted De Sica’s attention about Maggiorani’s hands was not only that they were a workman’s hand but that they were not an actor’s hands. That is, for De Sica, the workman qualities noticeable in the performer’s hands are important not as evidence of the performer’s condition as a worker but, rather, as proof that the performer isn’t a professional (actor). Similarly, Antonio/Maggiorani’s hesitation or, rather, his nervousness, comes across frequently in his on-­ screen performance. This quality, which might or might not have been among Maggiorani’s personality traits, is nonetheless, among the key features defining Antonio. It is crucial for the film at both narrative and dramatic levels, that Antonio appears insecure and self-conscious, that he doubts himself and acts without certainty or conviction. These qualities

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not only explain the character’s missteps and mistakes, which, in turn, trigger further key plot events, they also justify Antonio’s responses to the events. His hopeless despair when he is offered the job but needs a bicycle or, later, when his bike is stolen; his remorse after slapping his son or, in the end, after he has stolen the bicycle. These are moments that depend heavily on nervousness and self-doubt to achieve their dramatic impact. Antonio’s drama is the drama of a self-conscious nonprofessional whose sense of worth is tied to a job he is not very good at and, more importantly, who lacks the confidence and resourcefulness to make it work. Though Maggiorani might have brought physical traits that synergise with the needs of the role, the construction of Antonio as a nonprofessional character also relies on the way his performance is framed and contextualised. When it comes to the poster sequence, for example,  the nervous, imperfect and three-dimensional nonprofessional is juxtaposed with the flat, perfect and commodified star, who can strike impressive poses but, more object than person, lacks the nervousness and self-­ consciousness presented in the film as evidence of Antonio’s humanity.

Fig. 3.7  Bicycle Thieves (Vittorio De Sica, 1948)

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More importantly, though, if we realise that Antonio has the wrong hands for the job it is because, in the previous scene, we have patiently watched an expert bill-poster demonstrating how to correctly hang the poster (Fig. 3.7). The firmness and determination with which Antonio’s trainer slaps the poster in place is also present in the kick he throws at the young accordion player that is casually getting too close to the bill-poster’s ladder. This uncompromising, no non-sense attitude, which implies that the job must always come first, offers yet another difference between the professional bill-poster and Antonio, who has already been presented as the caring father of a child similar in age and size to the accordion player. The professional bill-poster is, therefore, not entirely unlike Sartre’s waiter, who acts in bad faith because their gestures are too waiter-like, ‘a little too precise, a little too rapid’ (Sartre, [1943] 2003, p.  82) and, therefore, realises his raison d’être in his performance of his job. De Sica’s mise-en-scène, described by Bazin as ‘transparent’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p. 68), is in this case encouraging a visual contrast between the performances. Though both actions are similarly framed, Antonio’s mentor works from the floor while the protagonist stands atop the ladder, which makes the task much harder (for both character and player). Careful observation of the film’s mise-en-scène reveals actions are frequently blocked not necessarily to make the décor expressive but to foreground nonprofessional performance details by means of comparisons. Undoubtedly, one of the most important is the film’s ending, when Antonio, frustrated by his lack of success finding his stolen bicycle, succumbs to the temptation to steal one himself. In a wide shot, Antonio’s lanky figure strolls around the targeted, unattended bicycle as he surveys his surroundings while he makes up his mind. Antonio then decidedly advances towards the bicycle. He quickly grabs the handle and pushes the bicycle forward, trying set off whilst turning as he hops on. The manoeuvre, surely aimed at ensuring a quick release, ends up having near catastrophic results. Antonio’s foot misses the pedal and the bicycle’s front wheel wobbles precariously. Not without effort, he manages to regain control of the stolen bicycle having lost precious seconds that his pursuers use to block his preferred escape route. Antonio is forced to exit the square through an alternative street, one that will make him pass in front of his unattended son who, mortified, sees his father commit the same crime that has caused them so much grief. Antonio ultimately gets caught. Once again, if we perceive the accidental way in which Antonio performs his theft as symptomatic of his lack of expertise, it is also partly because, earlier in the film, we have been shown what a professional thief

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looks like when stealing a bicycle. In that case, Alfredo, played by professional actor Vittorio Antonucci, approaches the scene by casually slipping between two cars, using the windowpanes as covers to survey the surroundings while his two accomplices carefully step in their marks—one next to Antonio to block his chase, the other further down the road to provide a second obstacle. Alfredo waits for the ideal moment with a stern expression that denotes concentration. Every detail has been duly considered by the perpetrators (and by De Sica). The escape route clears when the thief rides by, the traffic lights change colour at the right time. Alfredo even takes the precaution of orienting the bicycle towards the escape route before jumping on. Once atop his movement is swift. He ducks behind the handle to increase his speed and aims for the darkness of a crowded tunnel, where cars will serve as obstacles for his pursuers. The two thefts differ greatly in the way they are framed and edited but also in the way they are performed. Not only does Alfredo execute the theft with calculated precision but he also shows no sense of regret or pity towards his victim. The professionalism with which the theft is carried out suggests premeditation, practice and repetition, which shape Alfredo as an unscrupulous character hardened by an illegal metier he has become accustomed to performing as routine. Antonio’s nonprofessionalism, on the other hand, reflects his doubts as his body seems to betray his intention. Authenticity is projected here through the sincerity of a body that cannot govern itself, or rather a mind that cannot fully control a body that tries to resist performing an action it deems unacceptable. In other words, self-consciousness itself is dramatised as the performer’s actions do not convince the performer himself as embodied spectator of his own performance. Like the performance of the young Communist in Pudovkin’s The Deserter (discussed in Chap. 2) Maggiorani’s action conveys, paradoxically, an instance of dishonesty that, because it is unconvincing, emerges as uncontrolled sincerity. The body that, despite all its efforts cannot control itself, is a body that acts unconvincingly but performs sincerely. The performances of nonprofessional actors in Bicycle Thieves may have been as calculated as those by professional actors. However, the fact that we don’t associate the nonprofessionals with previous roles invites us to speculate about the possibility that they might not be pretending. This is particularly important in De Sica’s neorealist films because, as we have seen, they concern nonprofessional characters who are driven to perform in ways or contexts they are not used to. The films’ dramatism increases the more aware the characters become of how wrong they or their actions are. In other words, De Sica’s films are dramas of self-consciousness where, although the initial conflict or dissonance might be between the

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protagonists and their environments, the catharsis occurs as the protagonists become ashamed of actions they themselves have performed. That is, though circumstances might lead them (inevitably) to said actions, in their eyes the responsibility falls entirely upon them. What ultimately redeems the characters is not their perfect behaviour but, precisely, their sense of dignity. Their difficulty forgiving themselves and their awareness of their own wrongdoings as wrongdoings emerge as evidence of their “value” as human beings. Professional characters (like the thief or the bill-poster) on the other hand, are not troubled by their insincerity or ashamed by their actions. Millicent Marcus is right in that ‘our awareness that the thief has himself been long unemployed and is responsible for supporting a destitute family further diminishes the distance between Alfredo and Antonio, between criminal and victim’ (1986, p. 69). However, a key difference between the characters is that, unlike Alfredo, Antonio has not made peace with being a thief. In other words, what the film seems to insist on is that there is meaning—a world of meaning indeed—in the difference between the ways the same action is performed. Though both are thieves and might have been set on this path for similar reasons, Alfredo’s professional coldness, his immutability when stealing or lying, condemns him. Antonio’s honest mistakes and his self-conscious sense of shame encourage us to forgive him. De Sica understood that regardless of whether the nonprofessional actors are acting or not, their lack of previous work lent the characters’ distress a sense of vividness that allowed audiences to imagine that their suffering was not enacted. In this regard, what is important is not how the scene was actually shot but, rather, to produce a nonprofessional-­effect, to leave open and alive the possibility of it having been achieved without pretence. Unlike the manipulative precision of the professional criminal, the plight of the poor should appear genuine. The film’s cathartic power rests on the protagonists looking conflicted. That is, they must appear as though they are trying not to act the way they are acting.

Conclusion Building on the distinctions established in Chap. 2, this chapter explored how neorealist films by Visconti, Rossellini and De Sica incorporate different kinds of nonprofessional performances to create nonprofessional protagonists. Not unlike Kuleshov’s Mr West, La Terra Trema introduces an

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amalgam of gestures, where manual labour and dramatic acting coalesce within the same performing bodies. For La Terra Trema, what is important is not that the film happens to be made with real manual labourers, but that the film itself is about workers who engage in (dramatic and political) action. In this regard, La Terra Trema could be considered an important precursor to films such as Trás-os-montes (Margarida Cordeiro and Antonio Reis, 1976), L’Albero degli zoccoli/The Tree of Wooden Clogs (Ermanno Olmi, 1978), Cesare deve morire/Caesar Must Die (Paolo and Vittorio Taviani, 2012) and Antigone (Danièle Huillet and Jean Marie-­ Straub, 1992) among others. These films rely on our awareness of the fact that we are watching (nonprofessional) actors performing dramatic roles to draw parallels between the actors’ (presumed) reality and the dramatic circumstances of their characters. Paisà and Germany Year Zero offer a different approach that, I have argued, focuses more decidedly on creating a sense of embodied disruption. Like Eisenstein, Rossellini cast nonprofessional actors based on the ways their physiognomies evoke recognisable types. However, through performance and non-performance details, Paisà and Germany Year Zero complicate the typical impressions the types convey, forcing us to confront the ways in which we insist on imposing meaning upon bodies and gestures. As discussed earlier in the chapter, Rossellini’s approach resonates with the cinema of Robert Bresson as well as other modernist filmmakers such as Michelangelo Antonioni, whose films often create a strong feeling of indeterminacy. Contemporary filmmakers such as Tsai Ming-liang, Pedro Costa, Apichatpong Weerasethakul and Albert Serra also strike me as often seeking disruptive nonprofessional performances that, though undoubtedly different, are reminiscent of Edmund Moeschke’s in Germany Year Zero, Carmela Sazio’s in Paisà or Nadine Nortier’s in Mouchette. The screenplays penned by Zavattini and De Sica, which the films follow rigorously, might have been based on situations and events the filmmakers witnessed. However, the nonprofessional actors chosen to play the roles were cast for their physiques and gestures, which the filmmakers saw as suitable to embody the dramatic characters in the screenplays (rather than the actual people the screenplays might have been based on). Though De Sica and Zavattini could have cast professional actors, first-time performers bring a range of qualities that synergise with the requirements of their scripts. Firstly, the nonprofessionals’ anonymity helps create the impression their dramatic gestures might be sincere rather than enacted.

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Secondly, and most importantly, nonprofessional actors bring performance expectations that are strongly attuned to the characters’ hesitant and self-conscious behaviour in the films themselves. What seems important to De Sica is not that nonprofessional actors can act self-consciously but, rather, that the characters in the film must act this way and that, regardless of how the actors’ performances are crafted, nonprofessional actors are the kind of performers who have historically been associated with the self-conscious and hesitant performances the script demands. The influence of De Sica’s approach cannot be understated and is noticeable in social realist films made with nonprofessional actors across the globe. Two directors whose work feels particularly attuned to De Sica’s are Ken Loach and Carlos Sorin. Not only they generally work with carefully developed screenplays but many of their films are eminently concerned with questions of self-consciousness. Although all the films discussed in this chapter are frequently regarded as iconic examples of Italian neorealist cinema, their differences at the level of (nonprofessional) performance might be seen to demonstrate alternative approaches to the achievement of film realism. The gestures of manual labour in La Terra Trema emerge as indexical signs of a physical reality incorporated in the film. That is, the expertise and proficiency with which manual labour is performed serves as evidence of the performers’ status as real fishermen or workers. In Sciuscià and Bicycle Thieves, conversely, nonprofessional performances help achieve a mode of realism that is primarily iconic. That is, the nonprofessional actors do not import into the film specific body techniques from their everyday jobs [“this is a fisherman working”]. Rather, their performances offer a naturalistic rendition of a dramatic character’s behaviour [“this is how this character would respond in such situation”]. Finally, in the case of Paisà and Germany Year Zero, nonprofessional performances appear realistic particularly at a symbolic level. Rossellini was happy dubbing nonprofessionals such as Carmela Sazio so incorporating body and voice accurately in the film were not deciding factors. He also worked without a traditional screenplay and was happy deviating from his initial plans and incorporating performance details not decided in advance. It is the capacity of nonprofessional performance to offer disruptive gestures that do not fit tightly within the narrative or what’s expected from the characters that seems most important in these films. As authors have frequently pointed out, realism in Rossellini’s films is strongly linked with

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(the impression of) contingency and relies on details that exceed more predicable or conventional structures also found in the films. The legacy of the performances discussed in this chapter can also be noticed in other films where nonprofessional actors play characters that conform to what we might describe as neorealist nonprofessional archetypes. The resilient young woman embodied by Carmela Sazio, for instance, seems an early prototype for characters such as Mia (Katie Jarvis) in Fish Tank (Andrea Arnold, 2009), Halley (Bria Vinaite) in The Florida Project (Sean Baker, 2017) and Vitalina (Vitalina Varela) in Vitalina Varela (Pedro Costa, 2019) among others. Similarly, it is hard not to think of the vulnerable though somehow adult neorealist child when watching films such as Los Olvidados (Luis Buñuel, 1950), Les Quatre Cent Coups/The 400 Blows (François Truffaut, 1959) or Khane-ye dust kojast/Where is the Friend’s House (Abbas Kiarostami, 1987) to name a few. However, it is perhaps the figure of the dispossessed worker as seen in films like La Terra Trema or Bicycle Thieves, which constitutes neorealism’s most distinctive hero and can be found in myriad films including The Tree of Wooden Clogs and Alcarràs (Carla Simón, 2022). Despite the usefulness of identifying such trends and conventions, by discussing neorealist nonprofessional performances in relation to their early Soviet counterparts I have tried to show that, although performances and characters might have aspects in common, we must examine them in the context of specific films to come to terms with their significance. This is important when examining any performance, but it is particularly relevant when it comes to currents such as Italian neorealism in which, as I mentioned earlier in this chapter (and will discuss in Chap. 4), films speak with or gesticulate to one another in (what feels like) a constant effort towards innovation. That is, many neorealist films are subtly though eminently reflexive; they adopt and adapt elements and features from other (neorealist) films as a means of both encouraging comparisons between them and stressing their differences. In the case of neorealism, such intertextual gesticulation is often (though not exclusively) executed through the (nonprofessional) performances. In Stromboli (1950), for example, Rossellini cast fishermen whose body techniques recall those in La Terra Trema alongside (or against) Ingrid Bergman, creating an alternative (or opposite) variation of the amalgam where, this time, a (professional) star finds herself lost in a world inhabited by nonprofessionals. Similarly, Umberto D. (De Sica, 1952), while featuring self-conscious gestures of shame and guilt that recall those in Bicycle

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Thieves—such as the sequence in which Umberto (Carlo Battisti) tries to beg while also feels ashamed of his action—is often celebrated for the sequence where the maid (Maria Pia Casilio) goes through her morning routine in the kitchen. Maria’s expressive sparseness and undramatic focus on mundane actions—such as cleaning the kitchen or grinding coffee— recall not so much the desperate nonprofessional performances in Bicycle Thieves but, rather, Edmund’s detached gestures in Germany Year Zero. Perhaps the most obvious example of neorealism’s self-awareness at the level of nonprofessional performance, however, is Bellissima (1951), a film penned by Zavattini, directed by Visconti and featuring Anna Magnani— Rossellini’s partner and collaborator in Rome, Open City—in the lead role. Bellissima is a reflexive film that explores, precisely, the perverse and manipulative ways in which neorealist filmmakers directed nonprofessional actors to create the vulnerable, arresting and often disrupting performances their films are frequently remembered for.

References Affron, C. (1977). Star Acting: Gish, Garbo, Davis. Dutton. Aprà, A., & Ponzi, M. ([1965] 1973). An Interview with Roberto Rossellini. Screen, 14(4), 112–126. Ayfre, A. ([1952] 1985). Neo-Realism and Phenomenology (D. Matias, Trans.). In J.  Hillier (Ed.), Cahiers du Cinéma: The 1950s: Neo-Realism, Hollywood, New Wave (pp. 182–191). Harvard University Press. Bachmann, G. ([1959] 2006). The Road Beyond Neorealism: An Interview with Federico Fellini. In B. Cardullo (Ed.), Federico Fellini: Interviews (pp. 10–16). University Press of Mississippi. Bazin, A. ([1946–1957] 2005). What Is Cinema? Vol. 2 (H.  Gray, Trans.). University of California Press. Bazin, A. ([1949] 1997). Germany, Year Zero (A. Piette & B. Cardullo, Trans.). In B. Cardullo (Ed.), Bazin at Work: Major Essays & Reviews from The Forties & Fifties (pp. 121–124). Routledge. Bernier, R. (1950). A Walk with De Sica. Vogue Incorporating Vanity Fair, February 1, pp. 221–224. Blue, J. (1965). Vittorio De Sica: Interview/Interviewer: J. Blue. In James Blue Papers, 1905–2014: Subseries I: Presentations and Interviews (Box 60, Folder 38). University of Oregon Libraries, Special Collections and University Archives, The James Blue Archive, The James Blue Project, Unpublished. Bondanella, P. (1993). The Films of Roberto Rossellini. Cambridge University Press. Bordwell, D. ([1979] 2002). The Art Cinema as a Mode of Film Practice. In C. Fowler (Ed.), The European Cinema Reader (pp. 94–102). Routledge.

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Brunette, P. (1985). Rossellini and Cinematic Realism. Cinema Journal, 25(1), 34–49. Brunette, P. ([1987] 1996). Roberto Rossellini. University of California Press. Buñuel, L. ([1982] 1987). My Last Breath. Flamingo. Casilio, M.  P. (2003). Interview with Actress Maria Pia Casilio from 2003. Umberto D. DVD Special Features, The Criterion Collection. Clayton, A. (2007). The Body in Hollywood Slapstick. McFarland & Company. Crowther, B. (1949, December 13). THE SCREEN; Vittorio De Sica’s ‘The Bicycle Thief,’ a Drama of Post-War Rome, Arrives at World. The New  York Times, New  York. Retrieved January 2019, from https://www.nytimes. com/1949/12/13/archives/the-­screen-­vittorio-­de-­sicas-­the-­bicycle-­thief-­a-­ drama-­of-­postwar.html Dalle Vacche, A. (1992). The Body in the Mirror: Shapes of History in Italian Cinema. Princeton University Press. Dalle Vacche, A. (2013). Directing Children: The Double Meaning of Self-­ Consciousness. In D. Andrew & A. Gillain (Eds.), A Companion to François Truffaut (pp. 403–419). Wiley-Blackwell. De Sica, V. ([1955] 2000). On Sciuscià/Shoeshine (1946). In H.  Curle & S. Snyder (Eds.), Vittorio De Sica: Contemporary Perspectives (p. 24). University of Toronto Press. De Sica, V. (1968). How I Direct my Films. In Miracle in Milan (pp. 1–9). The Orion Press. del Río, E. (2008). Deleuze and the Cinemas of Performance: Powers of Affection. Edinburgh University Press. del Río, E. (2016). The Grace of Destruction: A Vital Ethology of Extreme Cinemas. Bloomsbury. Deleuze, G. ([1985] 2014). Cinema 2: The Time-Image (H.  Tomlinson & R. Galeta, Trans.). Bloomsbury. Epstein, J. ([1928] 1988). Approaches to Truth (T.  Milne, Trans.). In R.  Abel (Ed.), French Film Theory and Criticism. 1907–1939. Volume I (pp. 422–424). Princeton University Press. Fisher, J. (2007). On the Ruins of Masculinity: The Figure of the Child in Italian Neorealism and the German Rubble-Film. In L. E. Ruberto & K. M. Wilson (Eds.), Italian Neorealism and Global Cinema (pp.  25–53). Wayne State University Press. Gallagher, T. (1998). The Adventures of Roberto Rossellini: His Life and Films. Da Capo Press. Gordon, R.  S. C. (2008). Bicycle Thieves [Ladri di biciclette]. Palgrave on behalf of BFI. Gundle, S. (2020). Fame Amid the Ruins: Italian Film Stardom in the Age of Neorealism. Berghahn.

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Hill, P. ([1957] 1987). The Art of Fiction XVII: Truman Capote. In T.  Inge (Ed.), Truman Capote: Conversations (pp.  23–32). University Press of Mississippi. Iannone, P. (2009). Germany, Year Zero. Senses of Cinema, 51(July). Retrieved August 2019, from http://sensesofcinema.com/2009/cteq/germany-­year-­zero/ Iannone, P. (2011). Children and the Second World War in the European Fiction Film. PhD Thesis, The University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh Research Archive, Edinburgh. Retrieved January 2018, from https://www.era.lib.ed.ac.uk/ handle/1842/5654 Kaufman, M.  T. (1974, November 14). Vittorio De Sica, 73, Dies; Neorealist Movie Director. The New York Times, New York. Retrieved January 2019, from https://www.nytimes.com/1974/11/14/archives/vittorio-­de-­sica-­73-­dies-­ neorealist-­movie-­director-­leader-­of-­new.html Kiss, A. L. (2015). Reflections on the Creativity of Non-Actors Under Restrictive Direction. Spectator, 35(2), 27–35. Klevan, A. (2005). Film Performance: From Achievement to Appreciation. Wallflower Press. Koval, F. (1950). Interview with De Sica. Sight and Sound, 19(2), 61–63. Kuleshov, L. ([1922–1968] 1974). Kuleshov on Film: Writings by Lev Kuleshov (R. Levaco, Trans. & R. Levaco, Ed.). University of California Press. Law, H.  L. (2021). Ambiguity and Film Criticism: Reasonable Doubt. Palgrave Macmillan. Levy, E. (2003). All about Oscar: The History and Politics of the Academy Awards. Continuum. Lury, K. (2010). The Child in Film: Tears, Fears and Fairytales. I.B. Tauris. Marcus, M. (1986). Italian Film in the Light of Neorealism. Princeton University Press. McMahon, L. (2012). Cinema and Contact: The Withdrawal of Touch in Nancy, Bresson, Duras and Denis. Legenda. Morrison, B. (2021). Complicating Articulation in Art Cinema. Oxford University Press. Nacache, J. ([2003] 2006). El actor de cine (M. Martí i Viudes, Trans.). Paidós. Nowell-Smith, G. ([1967] 2003). Luchino Visconti. BFI Publishing. Nowell-Smith, G. (2012). From Realism to Neo-Realism. In L. Nagib, C. Perriam, & R. Dudrah (Eds.), Theorizing World Cinema (pp. 147–159). London and New York, NY. O’Rawe, C. (2018). Carmela Sazio e il ‘pericolo’ del corpo femminile nel cinema del dopoguerra. Arabeschi. Retrieved October 2018, from http://www. arabeschi.it/91-­carmela-­sazio-­e-­il-­pericolo-­del-­corpo-­femminile-­nel-­cinema-­ dopoguerra/ Pasolini, P.  P. (1981). Nota su “Le Notti”. In La notti di Cabiria (pp. 147–153). Garzanti.

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Perkins, V.  F. (1990). Must We Say What They Mean? Film Criticism and Interpretation. MOVIE, 34(35), 1–6. Pitassio, F. (2008). Due soldi di speranza. Considerazioni intorno al dibattito sull’attore non professionista nel Neorealismo. L’asino di B., XI(12), 147–163. Rancière, J. ([2001] 2006). Film Fables (E. Battista, Trans.). Berg. Ray, S. (1994). My Years With Apu: A Memoir. Penguin India. Rohdie, S. (2008). Luchino Visconti’s La Terra Trema. Journal of Modern Italian Studies, 13(4), 520–531. Rorty, A. O. (1976). A Literary Postscript: Characters, Persons, Selves, Individuals. In A.  O. Rorty (Ed.), The Identities of Persons (pp. XX–XX). University of California Press. Rossellini, R. ([1984] 2000). El cine revelado. Paidós. Rowan, R. (1950). Fame Mocks a Movie Star. Life, 28(4), 56–60. Sadoul, G. ([1965] 1972). Dictionary of Films (P. Morris, Trans.; P. Morris, Ed.). University of California Press. Samuels, C. T. ([1972] 1987). Encountering Directors. Da Capo Press. Sartre, J.-P. ([1943] 2003). Being and Nothingness (H.  E. Barnes, Trans.). Routledge. Schiller, J. (2007). Working with De Sica. Bicycle Thieves. DVD Special Features, The Criterion Collection. Schoonover, K. (2012a). Brutal Vision: The Neorealist Body in Postwar Italian Cinema. University of Minnesota Press. Schoonover, K. (2012b). Wastrels of Time: Slow Cinema’s Laboring Body, the Political Spectator, and the Queer. Framework: The Journal of Cinema and Media, 53(1), 65–78. Sontag, S. ([1961] 2009). Against Interpretation and Other Essays. Penguin. Toccafondi, P., & Santi, T. (2006a). Con gli occhi dei bambini: Vittorio De Sica e Sciuscià. Shoeshine. DVD Special Features, Masters of Cinema. Toccafondi, P., & Santi, T. (2006b). Ragazzi: intervista a Franco Interlenghi e Rinaldo Smordoni. Shoeshine. DVD Special Features, Masters of Cinema. Venturi, L. (1949). Roberto Rossellini. Hollywood Quarterly, 4(1), 1–13. Wagstaff, C. (2000). Rossellini and Neo-realism. In D.  Forgacs, S.  Lutton, & G. Nowell-Smith (Eds.), Roberto Rossellini: Magician of the Real (pp. 36–49). BFI Publishing. Wagstaff, C. (2007). Italian Neorealist Cinema: An Aesthetic Approach. University of Toronto Press. Wojcik, P. R. (2003). Typecasting. Criticism, 45(2), 223–249. Zavattini, C. ([1952–1953–1954] 1978). A Thesis on Neo-Realism. In D. Overbey (Ed.), Springtime in Italy: A Reader on Neo-Realism (pp.  67–78). London: Talisman.

CHAPTER 4

The Corruption of Nonprofessional Performance in Pasolini’s Cinema

Chapters 2 and 3 examined nonprofessional performance in two film movements frequently associated with the figure of the nonprofessional actor. Although I suggested parallels and connections between performances in films from the two periods, I concentrated on analysing how different nonprofessional performances meaningfully mobilise specific nonprofessional qualities and details. In doing so, I sought to demonstrate that an analytical approach to nonprofessional performances needs to acknowledge their diversity and reflect on their specificity in order to illuminate how individual performances contribute to specific films. Chapter 3 offers a different approach as it concentrates primarily on the work of a single filmmaker. Rather than calling attention to how the diversity of nonprofessional performance can help shape heterogeneous though consistent film movements, my aim in this chapter is to consider how nonprofessional performance can mutate and develop progressively across a single filmmaker’s body of work. Pier Paolo Pasolini, like Federico Fellini, Gillo Pontecorvo, Ermanno Olmi and many other post-war filmmakers associated with art cinema, largely inherited the tradition of working with nonprofessional actors from Italian neorealism. However, while most of the iconic post-war directors who worked with nonprofessional actors eventually abandoned or greatly reduced this practice, Pasolini continued to follow this model throughout his career. His commitment to working with nonprofessional actors was © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Gaggiotti, Nonprofessional Film Performance, Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32382-9_4

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such that he even described himself as a ‘nonprofessional’ director who organised his filmmaking methodology on the basis of facilitating the work of the nonprofessional actors who appeared in his films (Blue, 1965). As critics such as Naomi Greene (1990), Maurizio Viano (1993) and Sam Rohdie (1999) have noted, Pasolini developed his own transgressive style of nonprofessional performance. His approach contrasts significantly with the ways in which nonprofessionals had previously been deployed in Italian neorealism and early Soviet cinema. For example, Pasolini worked with the same nonprofessionals across multiple films, thereby contravening the popular practice of casting these performers just once in order to preserve their anonymity and, therefore, the illusion they might not be acting. Pasolini not only recast the nonprofessionals he discovered himself. He gave Lamberto Maggiorani, the nonprofessional who plays Antonio, the desperate father in Bicycle Thieves, a small role in his film Mamma Roma (1962), for instance. Barely a cameo, Maggiorani’s main contribution to Pasolini’s film consists in shouting “Al ladro, al ladro!”, probably his most iconic line in De Sica’s film. Through this performative gesture stressing repetition and quotation, Pasolini retrospectively questioned (and mocked) the alleged sincerity and victimisation of nonprofessional actors in Italian neorealism. John David Rhodes points out that ‘This obvious allusion—part homage, part parody—is yet another move in Pasolini’s withering take on neorealism’ (2007, p. 124). Notably, the ambivalent quality of this move is not only linked with its status as a citation. Rather, by having Maggiorani speak lines that in Bicycle Thieves were dubbed by a professional actor, Pasolini creates an impression that, somewhat paradoxically, strikes us as false (because we perceive it as a copy) yet is, at the same time, (presumably) more authentic than the original. In doing so, Pasolini exposes (what he perceived as) the insincere manipulation of nonprofessional performance in neorealism while also reflecting on the inescapable power of such manipulation. This is the fact that, despite the original version being more artificial, it appears more authentic than the less contrived copy. Maggiorani’s brief cameo in Mamma Roma offers a vivid example of Pasolini’s ‘corrosive’ (Rhodes, 2007, p. 131) relationship with neorealism. At the same time, Pasolini’s gesture might be seen as involving forms of self-repudiation (or self-corrosion) that, as we shall see later in this chapter, are characteristic of Pasolini’s deployment of nonprofessional performance across his cinema. If Maggiorani’s performance in Mamma Roma calls attention to forms of manipulation resulting from the dubbing of

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nonprofessional actors, these are forms of manipulation that, albeit present in neorealist cinema, are also characteristic of Pasolini’s films.1 Such complex relationship with Italian neorealism was a constant of Pasolini’s cinema in which nonprofessional actors generally deliver markedly non-­ naturalistic performances, in films such as Uccellacci e uccellini/The Hawks and the Sparrows (1966), Edipo re/Oedipus Rex (1967) and the Trilogia della vita/Trilogy of Life (1971, 1972, 1974). Although Pasolini made use of his unconventional and provocative style of nonprofessional performance throughout most of his career, he changed his approach in his final film, Salò o le 120 giornate di Sodoma/ Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975), still casting nonprofessional actors but requesting naturalistic performances from them. It might be said, in this sense, that Pasolini corrupted his own transgressive use of nonprofessional actors. This chapter analyses nonprofessional performance in Pasolini’s cinema by identifying what specifically was at stake in this decision. In order to do so, I will be paying specific attention to the ways in which nonprofessional performance involves the admixture of, and tension between, two intrinsically connected kinds of gestures: those performed in the films by the nonprofessional actors, and the “use” of nonprofessional actors as an artistic gesture performed by the filmmaker.

Nonprofessional Performance in Pasolini’s Cinema: An Overview Like Roberto Rossellini, Pasolini celebrated the evocative power of nonprofessional actors’ physiognomies. As we saw in Chap. 2, this approach to casting nonprofessionals constitutes the essence of typage popularised by Soviet filmmakers such as Sergei Eisenstein. One of the aims of typage is to find physiognomic details that the viewer will associate with particular 1  Later in his career, Pasolini would end up regretting some of his choices when it comes to dubbing. In a 1965 interview he notes that while he had nonprofessional actors do their own dubbing in some instances, in Accattone ‘Franco Citti could not do his own, for even though he was bravissimo his voice was rather unpleasant’ (in Blue, 1965 emphasis in original). In 1968, however, Pasolini expands on this issue: ‘Yes, I had him [Franco Citti] dubbed, but it was a mistake. At the time I was a bit unsure of myself. Later I had him dub himself and he was excellent—and I even got him to dub other Roman characters. Anyway it was, let’s say, a theoretical error. Paolo Ferraro, who dubbed him in Accattone, was extremely good and I think he added something to the character because dubbing, while altering a character, also makes him more mysterious; it enlarges him’ (in Stack, [1969] 2018).

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social classes, roles, personalities and/or dramatic archetypes, independently of who the nonprofessionals were or what they did in their everyday life. Soviet filmmakers often chose bloated faces to represent greedy aristocrats and strong bodies for their communist heroes. Similarly for Pasolini, a balding man with a smile missing several teeth was considered fit to embody a naive, perhaps mischievous, peasant, while a young blond man with braces was suitable as a spoiled bourgeois or aristocratic lad (even a fourteenth-century one). The evocative potential of physiognomy was central to Pasolini’s conception of cinema. His films, like those of Eisenstein, Pudovkin and Fellini, are veritable catalogues of faces and bodies that, despite often being displayed for just a few seconds, create the vivid impression of a rich (though not necessarily verisimilar) world.2 Furthermore, like De Sica and Rossellini before him, Pasolini found in nonprofessional actors an extraordinary variety of evocative faces and bodies that were new to cinema. Although he used these to embody different types (aristocrat, peasant, bourgeois, fascist, victim) he was particularly attracted to those physiognomies suggesting individuals not yet tarnished by bourgeois homogenisation. Certain faces, hairstyles, postures and habitus spoke to Pasolini of a rural, pre-­ industrial and innocent reality outside the commodified capitalist system he saw Italy (and the world) adopting in the decades following World War II. Pasolini was particularly preoccupied with the loss of this primitive and pre-historic innocence.3 This is arguably the central theme in (most of) his films. Pasolini not only mourned the loss of old values and lifestyles, he also condemned the aesthetic damage hedonistic consumerism (fascism, as he called it) caused to (young) people’s bodies and gestures. Many of his Corsair Writings explore the idea that ‘Nowadays, in Italy, there isn’t a noticeable difference […] between a fascist citizen and an antifascist one. Both are culturally, psychologically and, what’s more surprising, physically interchangeable’ (Pasolini, [1975] 2009, p. 53). For Pasolini, bourgeois consumerism, nationalism and linguistic assimilation were eroding (or had already eroded) the fundamental distinctions between social classes that typage had easily and vividly articulated on a visual level. The expression of this (lost) innocent reality through physique (rather than words) was important for Pasolini, as it meant using a non-verbal 2  For a comprehensive visual study of this aspect of Pasolini’s work, see Mancini et  al. ([1981] 2017). 3  For a discussion of this theme in Pasolini’s cinema, see Rohdie (1995).

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(and pre-verbal) form of communication belonging to this pre-history. As he explains in “The written language of reality”, his most famous essay on film: ‘I obtain my first information concerning a man from the language of his physiognomy, of his behaviour, of his apparel, of his rituals, of his body language, of his actions, and also, finally, from his written-spoken language’. ([1972] 2005, p. 199). For Pasolini, physiognomy constitutes the prime form of communication; reality is already and always expressing itself before language; in his words, things are signs of themselves ([1972] 2005). Yet Pasolini also found reality’s given physical expressivity to be highly polysemic, mysterious and enigmatic. When the filmmaker or the artist culls these signs of themselves from reality and inserts them into an artwork, their polysemy is reconfigured and recontextualised. In Pasolini’s case specifically, it is precisely this polysemy, brought into play through the nonprofessional actor’s physique and gesture, that offers a means of contesting and challenging the flow of linguistic rationalisation and commodification. By virtue of being mysterious, the nonprofessional actors who were taken from reality and quoted in the film remained hard to interpret and digest, and thus resisted assimilation. The theme of the loss of innocence, embodied through Pasolini’s use of nonprofessional actors, was both symbolic and paradoxical. Pasolini saw the bodies of young farmers, workers and Africans as signs of innocence, but rather than providing a detached and clinical analysis of Africa or Naples, he used their images and bodies to evoke an innocence that was archaic, sacred and mythical, something he observed in the work of Aeschylus, Boccaccio or Chaucer. The African or Neapolitan nonprofessionals were caught between being ‘signs of themselves’ and being used to represent archaic plays or poems. No matter how allegorical the representation of the loss of innocence, Pasolini effectively contributed to this very loss by means of its representation through the physical body. If he mourned the commodification of bodies and their exposure, relocation and transformation, he did so by using precisely those same operations in his own films. Pasolini exposed nonprofessional actors (and their physiognomies) to both their own gaze and the gaze of bourgeois audiences; in so doing he relocated the nonprofessional actors on a physical level for the purpose of filming, and on a symbolic level by deploying them in the films to represent characters and texts. He necessarily altered the polysemy of his performers’ physiognomies by attaching to them specific meanings and functions. As Sam Rohdie (1995) explains, innocence is inherently paradoxical for it involves (and

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requires) unawareness of one’s innocence. One cannot become aware of one’s innocence without also losing it. Similarly, Pasolini was unable to represent the loss of innocence without symbolically or physically producing this result. Pasolini also liked nonprofessional actors for their very capacity to act nonprofessionally—that is, to perform in a style outside established naturalistic acting conventions. It is with regard to this aspect that some authors have identified a significant shift away from the performances of nonprofessionals in Italian neorealism. Maurizio Viano, for example, explains that ‘Although they often chose nonprofessionals, neorealists expected good performances from them […] In Pasolini’s films things were quite different, for he did not demand professional acting from anybody’ (1993, p. 89). Viano then argues that ‘As a result, the viewers of Pasolini’s films are often aware of some actors’ inability to act, a fact that […] threatens narrative flow and emphasizes textuality’ (pp.  89–90). Naomi Greene arrives at a similar conclusion: Although, at least at the beginning, Pasolini worked with nonprofessionals, as did the neorealists, it was for totally different reasons: while they believed this would add to the realism of their films, Pasolini turned to nonprofessionals because their acting did not seem ‘real’. (1990, pp. 41–42, emphasis in original)

Extras in Pasolini’s films frequently look at the camera, as if seeking direction. Nonprofessionals often laugh ostentatiously, gesticulate emphatically and, ironically, perform histrionically. From a conventional standpoint, it might be said that they tend to overact. These nonprofessional performances generate a range of results, including an emphasis on the films’ textuality and performativity. As in the case of the films of Danièle Huillet and Jean-Marie Straub, for example, the nonprofessional performances in Pasolini’s films often remind us that we are watching nonprofessional actors playing characters and, therefore, that we are watching a representation, an allegory written with, or performed by, nonprofessional actors. These nonprofessional performance details in Pasolini’s films also contribute towards embodying the theme of innocence and its loss. Gestures and expressions that exceed or contravene the codes of naturalistic representation suggest a body vernacular not yet absorbed into the system of language. As Rohdie explains:

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A character grimaces, but to no one, to nowhere, without motive. A character moves out of character towards the reality of the actual actor and person […] This disarticulation and disconnection of sign and object were preconditions of being real for Pasolini. If gesture had no symbolic weight or narrative connection, it was by that token irrational; it was also pure undiluted reality by being non-functional to discourse. (1999, p. 176)

Nonprofessional gestures, seemingly disjointed from the narrative and the diegetic event, thus refer to an archaic bodily language of reality not yet absorbed into bourgeois rationalism. These gestures constitute a dialect of the body that may be exciting to watch but is not easy to understand. Rohdie’s notion of disarticulation resonates with the definition of gesture put forth by Giorgio Agamben, who also played a minor role in Pasolini’s Il vangelo secondo Matteo/The Gospel According to St. Matthew (1964): ‘the gesture is essentially always a gesture of not being able to figure something out in language’ ([1996] 2000, p.  58). Rather than replacing spoken utterances, gesture for Agamben relays that for which we cannot find words or, put more simply, the very act of being in the midst of language. Gesture represents unchained expressivity or the potential for (non-verbal) expression, rather than the expression of something in particular. In Agamben’s terms, gestures are means without ends ([1996] 2000). The primordial gesture for Pasolini was similarly pure expressivity. It was a prelinguistic scream or articulation of the body that strikes us through its sheer physicality. Pasolini’s views on gesture undoubtedly have marked Brechtian influences, and Brecht is mentioned in several of his films. The idea of gesture as fissure is something Walter Benjamin admired about Brecht’s epic theatre, in which, according to Benjamin, gesture appears as a pause in the acting/dramatic continuum: ‘the more frequently we interrupt someone in the act of acting, the more gestures result’ ([1923–1950] 2007, p. 151). If I refer to this style of performance as nonprofessional it is not because it is available only to nonprofessional actors. Having said this, most fiction narrative film has, from quite early on, been concerned precisely with the flow of a dramatic or narrative continuum. The earliest convention of professional film acting, that of not looking at the camera, serves this purpose. Similarly, as we saw in Chaps. 1 and 2, the performances of nonprofessional actors have often been associated with unpolished, incoherent and unconvincing gesticulation. The body that for no discernible narrative or dramatic reason does not quite know how to act points to the reality of the

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pro-filmic, while also threatening, if not altogether breaking, the concealment of artifice. Although nonprofessional performances, like Brechtian acting techniques, can lead to alienating effects that challenge the conventions of naturalistic acting, there is an important difference between the two that is crucial to Pasolini’s fascination with nonprofessional actors. The alienating gestures of Pasolini’s nonprofessionals are not the product of alternative acting techniques deliberately deployed by informed actors. Rather they are often the relatively honest and involuntary “mistakes” of untutored first-timers with no acting training. The nonprofessionals’ naivety is significant, as the resulting performances, which appear sincerely false, interrupt the narrative flow while also representing an innocent pre-­history not fully absorbed by the dominant cinematographic systems of expression. Nonprofessional performance is, for Pasolini, thus a paradoxical way of both having his cake and eating it. It offers a means of reacting against established structures and conventions while simultaneously remaining innocent and, in a sense, anterior to them. The extent to which this kind of nonprofessional performance constitutes a complete break with Italian neorealism, however, is unclear. To say that it does implies the narrowing down of a current defined, at least partially, by its contrasts with, and opposition to, pre-established rules and conventions. As we saw in Chap. 3, in some Italian neorealist films such as Germany Year Zero we encounter nonprofessional performances that, although different in tone, still share a disruptive effect similar to that found in Pasolini’s films. The notion of inarticulacy, proposed by Benedict Morrison (2021) to refer to the character of Edmund in Rossellini’s film also seems fitting to consider the disruptive effect Pasolini often sought from nonprofessional performances in his own cinema. Furthermore, as discussed in Chap. 3, not only do Germany Year Zero and La Terra Trema feature alienating modes of performance that feel particularly Brechtian. These films also juxtapose such modes of performance against seemingly less intentional and uncontrolled nonprofessional gestures and details. Pasolini certainly does not align himself with the social realist aspect of Italian neorealism, with the film seen in terms of a naturalistic representation of reality. This is evident in Pasolini’s recurrent use of pre-existing texts as the basis for many of his films. Nevertheless, the idea that

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nonprofessional actors are perfect for embodying innocent figures outside of the system, precisely because they can perform differently than (bourgeois) professionals, is very present in neorealism and its reception. As we saw in Chap. 3, Bazin ([1946–1957] 2005) and Ayfre ([1952] 1985), among others, were quick to point out that the nonprofessional performances in neorealism did not feel like conventional acting. Perhaps more importantly, though, Bazin’s writings on the subject perform a gesture similar to the one we find in Pasolini’s cinema. In different ways, both authors associate nonprofessional actors with cinema’s pre-history—Bazin traces their origins to the films of the Lumière brothers—while also reading their performances as a reaction to the conventions of naturalistic dramatic acting. The idea of contrast was also central to Bazin’s understanding of neorealism, which he saw as upsetting popular conventions of professional film acting. These conventions, as discussed in Chap. 1, often establish how actors (and protagonists) should perform by distinguishing themselves from the extras and passers-by generally embodied by nonprofessionals. Neorealism, and early Soviet cinema before it, partly challenged such distinctions by centring on the nonprofessionals hitherto relegated to the margins of the frame. The problem is, as Jean Renoir ([1954–1967] 2010) also observed, that the performances appearing initially to be so fresh and different soon formed their own rigid and stale conventions. Or as Bazin put it, the amalgam ‘contains within itself the seeds of its own destruction’ as it ‘cannot survive repetition’ ([1946–1957] 2005, p. 24). What Pasolini and other neorealist filmmakers did realise, however, was that nonprofessional performance offered a virtually endless source of reaction against acting conventions—perhaps because of its direct link to the mysterious pre-history of cinema, where performances had yet to solidify into acting conventions, or perhaps because nonprofessional performance involves not only the gestures of the nonprofessional actors but also their deployment by the filmmakers. While sheer repetition destroyed the originality of the performances, other forms of repetition such as quotation could restore their provocative function. That is, by reconfiguring the relationship between the parts in the amalgam, nonprofessional performance could even be turned against conventions established by other forms of nonprofessional performance that had already become predictable. It could be turned against itself.

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For this reason, Pasolini not only juxtaposed the innocent nonprofessional against the corrupt bourgeois,4 he also juxtaposed his nonprofessionals against their neorealist counterparts, whom he saw as grotesquely romanticised and depicted from a paternalistic perspective that rendered them naive, simple, and somewhat dull.5 That is, for Pasolini, neorealism ended up ironing out the power of nonprofessionals, narrowing their provocative polysemy, and turning them into powerless victims. His project, starting with Accattone (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1961), in which a nonprofessional plays a violent, ruthless, though somehow still innocent pimp, was partly to restore the nonprofessional’s primitive and provocative innocence and, consequently, their capacity to challenge bourgeois assimilation. Paradoxically, however, to prevent the nonprofessional from being turned into a commodity and a predictable sign, the nonprofessional also needed to lose their innocence. To remain innocent, the nonprofessional needed to resist being turned into a victim. In his monograph Stupendous, Miserable City: Pasolini’s Rome, Rhodes discusses how Pasolini performed a similar ‘Oedipal transgression—or desecration’ (2007, p. 65) of other neorealist traditions including the use of Rome as location. As Rhodes (2007) notes, Pasolini’s transgression of neorealism may be linked especially with the cinema of De Sica. Although Pasolini generally admired Rossellini and antagonised De Sica, it is in Bicycle Thieves, for example, that we find the representations of the Roman periphery that most clearly precede Pasolini’s, and that serve in part as the target for his subsequent transgression. Similarly, Alfredo (Vittorio Antonucci), the thief who steals the protagonist’s bicycle in De Sica’s film, might be seen as the neorealist precursor of Accattone (Franco Citti). Both characters are of a similar age, are thieves, have connections with prostitutes and are depicted with ambiguity. Alfredo is, in fact, one of the few lower-class characters whose innocence Bicycle Thieves calls into question, a gesture De Sica stressed by casting a professional actor to play this role. Although Pasolini challenged and transgressed these forms of representation, it is important to reiterate that, as Rhodes (2007) explains, 4  Pasolini explains this juxtaposition: ‘If my film is set in a working-class environment, I choose ordinary working men and women, nonprofessional actors, since I believe it’s impossible for a middle-class actor to pretend to be a peasant or factory worker. It would sound false in an intolerable way.’ (Pasolini, 2012). 5  See Pasolini (1981).

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neorealism also performed its own transgression of existing cinema tropes. Or, as Rossellini noted, neorealism emerged as a form of ‘dialectical filmmaking’ (in Verdone, [1952] 1973, p. 70) in conversation with the cinemas of Alessandro Blasetti and Mario Camerini, among others. Moreover, as I mentioned in Chap. 3, neorealist cinema also transgressed its own forms of representation from the very beginning and at the level of performance, neorealist films feature ambiguous gestures that go against neorealism’s own conventions of nonprofessional performance. Alfredo’s innocence in Bicycle Thieves, for example, is simultaneously suggested and questioned by the epileptic seizure he conveniently has when about to be apprehended by the police. Although the incident’s timing suggests deceit and artificiality, the intensity of his performance makes it difficult to rule out the character’s sincerity and, therefore, his innocence.

Nonprofessional Performance in Salò If the performances of nonprofessional actors in Pasolini’s films manage to continue as well as transgress their Italian neorealist roots, nonprofessional performances in Salò stand in an equally ambivalent relationship to those found in his earlier works. Salò concerns four fascist libertines who, in the days before the liberation of Italy, kidnap 18 adolescents, lock them in an isolated villa, and sodomise them to death. Though the film is set in a historical past, it was intended partly as an allegory thematising Pasolini’s concern with the way that capitalist consumerism (fascism, as he called it) rendered young bodies into merchandise. In this regard, an important aspect about the victims’ bodies is that, as Rhodes (2012) notes, they belong mostly to first-time nonprofessional actors who we have never before seen on screen. The anonymity of Salò’s nonprofessionals contrasts with Pasolini’s tendency to recast nonprofessionals such as Ninetto Davoli and Franco Citti, and to develop personal relationships with them outside the film. In Salò the nonprofessionals are, in a sense, of one-time use. Their existence and purpose ends as soon as their bodies are exhibited on screen and consumed in the film. Equally important, however, is the fact that in Salò, unlike in other Pasolini films, nonprofessional actors deliver performances that are highly convincing from a conventional standpoint. While in earlier works, such as Accattone, The Hawks and the Sparrows and the Trilogy of Life, nonprofessional performances appear exaggerated, untutored and disjointed from the fiction, the victims’ performances in Salò cohere for the most part with

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the dramatic action. In fact, the shocking force of Salò’s most perverse scenes depends greatly on the persuasive actions and reactions delivered by the nonprofessionals. In comparing, for example, the performance in the scene from Il Decameron/The Decameron (1971) where Andreuccio (Davoli) falls into a pit full of excrement, with the performances in Salò’s coprophagy scene, it can be seen that Davoli’s reaction, while emphatic, is also partly out of touch with the repulsiveness of the situation (Fig. 4.1). He appears more bothered by the ridicule, or by simply getting dirty, than physically sickened by finding himself in a pool of actual excrement. His facial expression would be just the same if his character had, for example, found himself caught in a torrential downpour or locked in a room and unable to get out. In fact, his facial gestures are not too dissimilar from, and in a way less dramatic than, his reaction to getting locked inside a tomb later in the film (Fig.  4.2). Davoli’s inappropriate expressions in the pool of excrement draw attention to the contrivance of the sequence and, therefore, to its textual and performative dimensions. What seems most important here is that his character finds himself, all of a sudden, in the shit. Coherent with this emphasis on the symbolic, for Andreuccio—and probably for Pasolini—falling into a pit of ordure is far less terrible than getting locked in a coffin with a dead cardinal draped in riches.

Fig. 4.1  Il Decameron (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1971)

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Fig. 4.2  Il Decameron (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1971)

Fig. 4.3  Salò (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975)

The performances in the coprophagy scene in Salò, on the other hand, convey the physical distress of eating excrement (Fig. 4.3). The performers appear repulsed by the action and their characters struggle not to gag or be sick. The fake excrement used in both sequences looks equally

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convincing; in Salò, however, it is not treated as symbolic by the characters. It is represented as material, and the act of eating it is performed naturalistically and convincingly. We can accept the victims’ gestures as the logical and natural response to the action. A cynic could object that eating excrement might be more distressing than falling into a pit full of it, yet one can also imagine it would prove harder to respond with Davoli’s detachment than with the Salò victims’ disgust were one to find oneself in either situation. The change in performance style between Pasolini’s earlier works and Salò has been noted by critics and by Pasolini himself, who, in an interview with Gideon Bachmann on the making of Salò, explains: This time I want to make a different kind of film, more professional in a way. For example, in other works I used to instruct the actors in a visual way, abandoning them to themselves as far as lines are concerned, and I didn’t mind if they didn’t deliver them perfectly or if they changed them slightly. This time I want even the nonprofessional actors to act like professionals […] I now insist on exact delivery of lines so as to create a streamlined, dramatic structure. Formally I want this film to be like a crystal, and not magmatic, chaotic, inventive and out-of-proportion like my previous ones. It is all perfectly calculated, and for the first time I am having problems with the nonprofessionals. I cannot allow them as much liberty and inventiveness as before. It all has to fit together (Bachmann, 1975–1976, p. 42)

For the most part, nonprofessional actors in Salò act professionally and, in this respect, their performances execute the stylistic fracture with Pasolini’s earlier works that the director mentions. On some occasions, however, Salò’s nonprofessionals perform ambivalent gestures that do not seem to fit neatly within the film. In what follows, I concentrate on one of these ambivalent gestures, arguing that it heralds the wider corruption of nonprofessional performance carried out in the film. Although the gesture is akin to the non-naturalistic nonprofessional performances in Pasolini’s previous works, I hope to demonstrate that the gesture’s ambivalence, rather than disrupting the narrative/dramatic continuum, here plays an important narrative function, framing the character who performs it as an important edge of the film’s crystalline structure. The gesture I am referring to occurs in Salò’s second scene, which shows a group of soldiers arresting a country boy. We are first introduced

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to an indeterminate and conventional rural setting: a village with its bell tower flanked by a tranquil river, next to which sits a ploughed field framed by a road that lazily meanders towards the village. On the road, three young boys cycle home. We accompany them until they suddenly stop; a few yards in front, a military convoy bars their path. The cyclists turn around and attempt to escape as the officers chase them, accompanied by sounds of gunfire. The car skids to a halt in front of the young cyclists and a group of soldiers quickly steps out. The first close-up of the scene shows one of the cyclists. He breathes somewhat heavily, his mouth hangs slightly open, revealing his stupor and uncertainty (Fig. 4.4). An officer in a beige overcoat points a pistol at the cyclist and, with a sly smile, asks ‘Where are you going?’ (Fig.  4.5). The question is answered not with words but a reverse-shot identical to the cyclist’s initial close-up. His previous expression—an unblinking, expectant stare and wordless, gaping mouth—relaxes into a faint, seemingly ingenuous smile that he accompanies with a gentle scratch of the back of his head (Fig. 4.6). The gesture is held for a second, marking the end of the scene. This scene has been read as a disruption of the kind of rural setting more broadly representative of Italian neorealism (Greene, 1990). The bicycles ridden by the young men might also be considered an allusion to post-war Italian cinema. Furthermore, not only does the village stand as a

Fig. 4.4  Salò (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975)

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Fig. 4.5  Salò (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975)

Fig. 4.6  Salò (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975)

symbol of rurality, the church at its centre serves as a visual reference to the kind of traditional and mystical lifestyle Pasolini associated with workers and farmers, also represented by the ploughed field. The soldier’s actions—barring, chasing and arresting the young residents—supply the

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central disruptive force in the scene. Yet the jagged camera movements in the early shots of the sequence already spoil the landscape’s repose, as does the noise of the screeching car and machine-gun fire that accompanies the soldiers’ chase. The camera seems to be among the industrial-fascist agents interfering with the natural order of rural life. Cinemagoers would most likely recognise this interplay of figures from other films, where similar scenes show laymen being unjustly arrested. The officer’s sleazy smile and demeanour are also recognisable trademarks of a cruel and vicious character who takes pleasure in abusing power. The cyclist’s initial reaction—fixed, unblinking and unsettled stare, mouth slightly open in bafflement—is the quintessential face of the subaltern, speechless and dispossessed victim. It is also a common first reaction to the camera, which partly explains its recurrent presence in photo reportage and journalistic documentary. Diegetically and pro-filmically, the cyclist’s expression encapsulates the qualities Pasolini saw as characteristic of the neorealist nonprofessional protagonist: ‘humble, humdrum, and unaware’ (Pasolini in Stack, [1969] 2018). The familiar elements and tone of the scene are, however, sharply offset by the young cyclist’s inappropriate final gesture. Rather than acknowledging the gravity of the situation, his reaction appears unassuming, and suggests a sense of relief that contrasts with his earlier attempt to flee and his willingness to expose himself to the soldiers’ bullets. As Gary Indiana puts it, ‘The boy’s docile shrug isn’t quite what the scene calls for’ (2000, p. 40). In his final gesture, the cyclist looks neither terrified nor stunned— qualities his previous expression successfully conveys—instead his gesture is reminiscent of a child who, caught doing something naughty, pleads playfully for his innocence by pointing to his ignorance, while also trying to convince the person in charge to shrug the matter off. Embarrassment and naivety are offered as consciously performed, suggesting a character who, rather than simply being a victim, appears to be acting like one. The disarticulation caused by the cyclist’s final gesture is consistent with the disruptive gestures characteristic of nonprofessional performance in Pasolini’s earlier work. Such an effect is also consistent with the fact that the scene takes place in a section of the film titled Antinferno. This section shows the preparation of the four signori’s diabolical plan—the ante-­ inferno, or what comes before hell—while also offering a visual contrast or reverse to the perversities depicted in the film’s later scenes. The placement of the scene alludes to a not yet spoilt reality both in terms of the

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diegesis and of Pasolini’s filmmaking style. In this context, it makes sense that the Antinferno features the kind of exaggerated and unconvincing behaviour that Pasolini associated with a mythical pre-industrial reality. The cyclist’s naive-looking shrug could be read as his uncertain reaction to this initial contact with fascism and with language—the lines uttered by the officer are the first the cyclist hears in the sequence. The cyclist also does not speak, which metaphorically indicates a pre-linguistic existence. Instead the young boy responds to the industrial and linguistic violence with a gesture that is part of his body dialect, resembling what Agamben calls ‘a gag’ ([1996] 2000, p. 59, emphasis in original) in language; the reaction of someone caught in the middle of language with their mouth metaphorically blocked, not knowing what to say. The cyclist’s final gesture, however, appears specifically requested and deliberate. Lacking the spontaneity and rough edges of natural behaviour, the shrug is, instead, contrived, self-conscious and insisted upon. The performer could have been helped out of his awkwardness through more forgiving framing or quicker cutting, for example. The actor’s previous expression would have also served as a fine reaction to the officer’s rhetorical question. Instead, the strained shrug is not only accentuated by its privileged position as the final shot of the scene, but its deficiencies are unkindly exaggerated by the tight framing and the lingering duration of the shot. The insistence on this seemingly artificial gesture could be explained through Pasolini’s aforementioned animosity towards naturalism. However, I think the framing and the editing of the gesture also imply something about the way that cinema, in its arresting of reality, turns any-face-whatsoever into an expressive sign. If the cyclist’s first close­up shows his initial reaction to fascism and also cinema (the camera), his shrug—a response to the officer’s rhetorical question—shows the way that fascism (and cinema) transform a vague reaction into an expression of naivety and embarrassment. In other words, the cyclist’s shrug is his baffled initial expression after being captured and processed by both fascism and cinema.6 In this regard the halting of the cyclist and the authoritative linguistic command that prompts him to identify, and therefore constitute, himself as a (naive) subject might be read as a visual and vivid representation of Louis Althusser’s notion of interpellation ([1971] 2014). In this case, not 6  For a discussion on shot/reverse-shots in Pasolini’s Porcile as representing a cinematic gaze that devours and digests images, see Elduque (2017).

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only the character is interpellated in the fiction but the nonprofessional actor is similarly constituted as an embodiment of naivety, passivity and victimhood. The fact that the officer’s question is rhetorical further frames it as an act of interpellation that also establishes a distinction between those who wield the power of language and those who do not. This initial exchange, in which the camera mediates between authority and the subject-­victim, recalls my discussion of the Lumières’ first film, Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory in Chap. 1. In the Lumière’s film, nonprofessional actors (the workers) perform versions of themselves for their employers. To this day it remains difficult to come to terms with nonprofessional performance in the Lumières’ film, partly because of the ambiguity of both the workers’ gestures (Are they pretending or not? Are they doing so voluntarily? Are they working?) and that of the Lumières (How are they treating the workers? Did they invite them to perform or are they shouting at them from behind the camera?). In the scene in Salò, Pasolini situates cinema at the core of a similarly ambiguous exchange, where authority is used to force the victim to display and, therefore, admit his vulnerability, thereby establishing a sharp power imbalance between the figures. The victim becomes the perfect accessory for the person in charge, as he is someone who agrees to comply despite being unaware of the implications of his compliance. The young cyclist condenses, with his gesture, the vulnerability of the young adolescent (and nonprofessional actor) whose desire for on and off-screen recognition and attention makes him an easy target for manipulation. This brief exchange thus represents the signing of the always unclear and questionable contract between filmmaker and nonprofessional actor, calling attention to the different, though equally ambiguous, gestures performed by the two parts. We might recall Rohdie’s earlier observations (1995) and consider the cyclist’s gesture as being caught in the passage from innocence to non-­ innocence precisely because the impression of innocence conveyed by the gesture is tainted by the fact that the gesture involves self-address. If one loses one’s innocence as soon as one becomes aware of it, the gesture’s ambivalence emerges precisely from the difficulty in asserting whether or not the character (and the performer) are simply projecting innocence or intentionally performing it. We might try to answer this question by considering the figure of the cyclist in relation to the rest of the film. Salò’s opening titles neatly establish the film’s renowned juxtaposition between fascist masters and their victims or slaves by grouping the actors according to the roles taken by

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their characters in the film. The first title reads signori (masters), the second one narratrici (storytellers), the third vittime (maschi) ([male] victims), and so on. The first scene of the film, which precedes the arrest of the cyclist, shows the four signori sitting at a table, agreeing on the rules they will apply to perform their atrocities. It feels logical that subsequent scenes depict the arrest of the victims.7 It is possible that an inattentive viewer might fail to recognise the role played by the cyclist in the following scenes. We never see another close­up of this character, and from this point on he inhabits the margins of the frame, with little attention paid to his gestures and actions. While we may struggle to identify the young cyclist for the remainder of the film, he is, in fact, not straightforwardly a victim but one of the four victim–accomplices who help the libertines execute their plans. Unlike the victims, the cyclist is not physically sodomised, but by donning a uniform and a rifle his mere presence ensures that the libertines’ order is upheld. His position as an accomplice in the film’s later scenes retroactively unlocks an alternative explanation for his head-scratching gesture during his arrest. Seen in this light, the sense of relief conveyed by the gesture might imply a pre-­existing connection between the cyclist and the fascist soldiers, whom the cyclist might not have initially recognised. Although this reading of the sequence is as acceptable as the previous one, my argument here is that the gesture, though seemingly disruptive at first, is actually consistent with the cyclist’s role as an accomplice to the fascists in the remainder of the film. The richness of the gesture stems from its ambivalence. That is, from the fact that it equally explains the behaviour of a victim and that of an accomplice; or, rather, it seems caught between the two. The cyclist’s in-­ betweenness, a quality stressed visually in the opening scene, where the character occupies the centre of the frame and is flanked by two other boys, is maintained throughout the film. Not only is the cyclist never quite defined as a victim or a fascist, but even within the diffuse space of the victims–accomplices he occupies a perfect central position. The cyclist lacks the sadism of Claudio (Claudio Troccoli), a second accomplice whom we see being recruited in the scene that follows the former’s arrest. Although Claudio is more violent than the cyclist throughout the film and is frequently seen tormenting the victims, his recruitment also poses significant interpretative challenges. In a wide shot we see him being escorted 7  Naomi Greene, for example, explains that ‘the first scenes in the film […] depict the victims being rounded up by armed soldiers’ (1994, p. 235).

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by two soldiers under the eyes of the townsfolk. A crying woman, presumably Claudio’s mother, runs towards him and tries to put a scarf around his neck. Claudio sharply turns around in a seemingly violent gesture accompanied by a strong sound effect. It is hard to determine if Claudio rejects his mother’s embrace out of hatred towards her or in order to save her (and maybe himself) the pain of a more emotional departure. The cyclist also lacks the confrontational spirit that characterises Ezio (Ezio Manni), another accomplice enlisted early on and later caught having forbidden sexual encounters with a (black) maid, resulting in him being shot by the fascists while holding up his left fist. Ezio is older than the other boys and he speaks more than them. His use of language might represent his lost innocence, which in turn might explain his useless, though symbolically charged, death. Yet Ezio’s recruitment also remains ambiguous. As he is escorted outside of the village by two soldiers, he turns around and softly and sentimentally says goodbye to a small boy watching his departure. The child returns the farewell, but the film never clarifies the exact nature of their affectionate rapport. If Claudio, whose physiognomy is paradigmatic of the Pasolinian boy-­ hero, with his curly dark hair and slightly broad facial features, progressively stirs towards the fascist libertines, the blond and athletic Ezio, who most vividly embodies the fascist aesthetic, rebels against them and becomes a martyr.8 Even in his use of types, Pasolini thus thwarts our expectations. In this regard the cyclist also conveys an ambivalent impression. He has some of the features that Pasolini sought in many of his nonprofessional actors; the unkempt brow, which playfully suggests a non-hedonistic and therefore modest background, is perhaps the most recognisable of these. The neat donning of his flat cap and the cleanliness of his jacket and turtleneck jumper, however, contrast with the rugged and worn clothes of most of the other male victims, putting his background into question. Modish compared to the other victims, the young cyclist looks like someone passing for a country boy. In short, he seems a fake Pasolinian boy. It has been suggested that Davoli was originally supposed to star as one of the accomplices (possibly Claudio) but was ultimately dropped due to legal contractual issues (Wikipedia, n.d.). I have been unable to 8  The extent to which Ezio’s sacrifice could be seen as driving him towards the position of a victim is nevertheless problematic, as he is punished not for trying to help the victims but for disobeying the libertines’ rules in his own personal interest.

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corroborate this information, and Davoli himself has clarified that his exclusion from the film was for aesthetic reasons, explaining that ‘Paolo saw Ninetto as different from the characters that inhabit the film: he didn’t see in me the racist, the nazi or the ingenue’ (in Repiso, 2005). Although Davoli suggests he was never considered for any role in Salò, it makes sense, given his explanation, that if he was ever considered for a role it would be that of a victim–accomplice like the young cyclist. One reason Pasolini might have chosen not to cast Davoli, even if he saw him as suitable to embody someone who was neither an ingenue nor a nazi, is that Davoli was already known to audiences from his performances in Pasolini’s earlier work. Even in a hypothetical cameo, Davoli’s presence would have been recognisable as a recurrent element of Pasolini’s style. In this regard Davoli might be considered in relation to the notion of cult stardom, which Kate Egan and Sarah Thomas describe as blending the market appeal and commodification of the star with ‘the abnormal, the transgressive, the excessive and the extreme’ (2012, p. 2), frequently associated with the cult. Davoli embodied this tension throughout Pasolini’s cinema as he remained a recognisable figure, though one always representing the marginal, the transgressive and subcultural. Davoli never became as famous as other modern cinema stars like Anna Karina, Jean-Paul Belmondo or Marcello Mastroianni; as an actor he remained marginal, outside the market, almost a perpetual nonprofessional. Davoli’s ambiguous persona conditioned his hypothetical performance in Salò. Placing him as an accomplice to the fascists would have implied the corruption of the carefree innocence that Pasolini cherished in him. Similarly, it might have been hard for Davoli to play a victim, precisely because his performance style in Pasolini’s earlier films was often exaggerated and histrionic. Even if he had acted naturalistically, his previous performances would have exposed his pretence and gone against the style Pasolini sought in Salò. Finally, although Davoli was excellent at producing nonprofessional gestures such as the cyclist’s shrug, his reputation would have made it hard for these to remain ambivalent, as they would have drawn a clear connection with Pasolini’s other films. Such a connection might have jeopardised the very stylistic fracture Pasolini sought in Salò, a fracture that relied on having nonprofessionals acting professionally and keeping their awkward gestures marginal, ambivalent and hard to recognise. To achieve this, Pasolini not only had to request different performances from the nonprofessionals, he was also forced to change the

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gestures that had come to define his idiosyncratic way of using this type of performer. Despite all this, the cyclist’s shrug feels like a gesture Davoli might have performed in one of the many Pasolini films where he plays a naive and innocent character with all his recognisable stridency and vitality. Yet in fact Davoli does not perform this gesture frequently. One reason for this might be the way that this gesture emphatically conveys a degree of ingenuity when performed, and with this a corrupt and deceitful sense of innocence. One other character in Pasolini’s films who performs the gesture emphatically is Julian (Jean-Pierre Léaud) in Porcile/Pigsty (1969). Deleuze called Léaud a ‘professional non-actor […] capable of seeing and showing rather than acting, and either remaining dumb or undertaking some never-ending conversation, rather than of replying or following a dialogue’ ([1985] 2014, p. 20). Certainly, in incorporating aspects associated with nonprofessional performance into his repertoire, Léaud problematised the tidy binary between nonprofessional and professional. Pasolini may have had this in mind when casting him as Julian, a character defined precisely by his ambivalence. Julian is neither a helpless victim nor a hopeless bourgeois.9 He is at odds with his father’s indulgent life, yet he does not challenge it. He does not actively follow in his father footsteps, yet he offers little in the way of resistance, and ends up being devoured by the pigs he seems so inexplicably attracted to. Unlike Maracchione (the naive peasant played by Davoli) or the transgressive cannibal (played by Pierre Clémenti), Julian embodies the ambivalent and inactive form of youth that Pasolini considered to be a consequence of consumerism. His head-scratching gesture, which he makes even more self-conscious by always accompanying it with the line ‘I’m scratching my head’ (Fig. 4.7), is offered not as a symptom of Julian’s provocative innocence but as an expression of his disinterested passivity. It points to his position in an ambivalent in-betweenness, suggesting that although different options are available, he prefers not to commit to any of them. I mentioned earlier that the head-scratching gesture suggests the corruption of nonprofessional performance; this is because, in the case of 9  It is worth noting, however, that Julian’s family is eminently bourgeois. In this regard Pasolini’s choice of Léaud for the role of Julian, and Davoli to play a farmer employed by Julian’s family, suggests that Pasolini saw the two actors very differently. Despite his multiple performances, Davoli remained innocent (enough) in Pasolini’s eyes, while the director seems to have regarded Léaud as a (somewhat) corrupt nonprofessional-turned-star.

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Fig. 4.7  Porcile (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1969)

both the cyclist and Julian, it is rendered meaningful in the context of the film. I would differentiate here between inactive and useless in the sense that, in Pasolini’s earlier films, nonprofessional performance, precisely by virtue of appearing at odds with the narrative (thereby useless), challenges the easy consumption of the image. The histrionic gestures of Davoli and other nonprofessionals resist interpretation and are set decidedly against capitalist consumption and linguistic explanation. With the cyclist and Julian, on the other hand, the gesture is absorbed by the system and its ambivalence explained by the characters’ situation in the film. Rather than their initial lack of sense being a challenge to us, this is retroactively made sense of by the film’s narrative. The characters are thereby rendered inactive and non-resistant, presented as passive consumers and thus accomplices to fascism. In Porcile Julian becomes catatonic, much like Anne Wiazemsky’s character (Odetta) in Teorema/Theorem (1968). Wiazemsky too was a ‘professional nonprofessional’ who, after starring in Robert Bresson’s Au Hasard Balthazar (1966) with no previous acting experience, became both Jean-­ Luc Godard’s partner and a recurrent face of the French New Wave. The cyclist in Salò becomes a spectator of the libertines’ perversions. He never partakes in them; the most he does is fetch a doll that the libertines use to sodomise the victims. Besides facilitating this perversion, his action is

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reduced to spectating from the edges of the frame. As such, the act of spectating and validating the perversions of fascism places the cyclist/ accomplice in a similar position to the one that we occupy in relation to the film. This is the very same position that the libertines occupy at the film’s end, when they take turns to watch their colleagues’ final acts of perversion. We last see the cyclist in these final sequences, sitting behind one of the libertines and passively observing the powerful finale.

Conclusion Salò is a film about the abuse of power and the transformation of bodies into commodities by fascism, industrialisation and cinema. These bodies belong to young boys and girls torn from their habitat and forced to endure the passage through hell before their deaths. Pasolini returned in Salò to the theme of the loss of innocence, though with a seemingly more pessimistic approach than before. More than lost, the victims’ innocence is violently taken away from them—if they were ever actually innocent at all. Critics have pointed out that Salò’s victims lack the vitality that characterises the innocents in Pasolini’s earlier films. They also lack the idiosyncratic physiognomies and gestures of figures such as Davoli and Citti. With the exception of Ezio, Claudio and perhaps the victim played by Franco Merli, the young boys in the film are hard to recognise and are treated by the libertines and the film as empty, fleshy vessels rather than characters with distinct personalities. Pasolini explained this choice as one made with the audience in mind: ‘If […] I had nice victims that wept and tore at your heart, after five minutes you would leave the movie house’ (cited in Greene, 1990, p. 215). As Greene notes, by making the victims less likeable and humanised, the film makes the perversities easier to digest and, in doing so, forces us to reflect on the complicity and indecency of our spectatorship: ‘If the victims become “perfect executioners”, then we are turned into “perfect spectators”—viewers repelled yet fascinated by the spectacle of aestheticized violence’ (1990, p. 215). I think Greene is right. Yet I also feel that the words ‘become’ and ‘are turned’ suggest a steady and tidy consecutive transformation that is complicated by the figure of the cyclist and his position as an accomplice. Rather than being a victim turned executioner or accomplice, his ambivalent appearance, the self-conscious ingenuity conveyed by his head-scratching gesture, and the role he plays in the remainder of the

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film, all leave room for the possibility that the character was never actually innocent in the first place. By providing a diegetic explanation to the cyclist’s gesture and his appearance, the film retroactively tampers with the possibility of the cyclist being just a vulnerable inhabitant of a pre-industrial idyllic past. Rather than innocence being lost, the film suggests a much more perverse possibility: that the innocence was false, and therefore corrupt. Although, as I have demonstrated, this is not the only way to read the figure of the cyclist, it is the one that resonates the most with the thoughts expressed by Pasolini in his Repudiation of The Trilogy of Life. In this particularly pessimistic text he heralds a significant change in his filmmaking, predominantly through a discussion of the role played by the innocent body in his films. Pasolini notes that in The Trilogy ‘the “innocent” bodies, with the archaic, dark, vital violence of their sexual organs, seemed to be the last bulwark of reality’, adding that ‘the “reality” of the innocent bodies has been violated, manipulated, tampered with by the consumerist establishment’ ([1972] 2005, pp. xvii–xviii). In doing so, he summarises the loss of innocence that preoccupied him throughout most of his career. Pasolini then explains, after noting that he is ‘terrified of saying it’ ([1972] 2005, p. xviii), that even if he wanted to continue making films like The Trilogy, he could not because he had come to hate bodies and their sexual organs. He continues: The degenerating present was compensated both by the objective survival of the past and, therefore, by the possibility of evoking it. But today the degeneration of the bodies and of the sexual organs has assumed a retroactive value […] The youths and boys of the Roman subproletariat—the ones I have projected in the old and resistant Naples, and later in the poor countries of the Third World—if now they are human garbage it means that potentially they were such also then; they were, therefore, imbeciles compelled to be adorable, squalid criminals compelled to be likeable rascals, vile good-for-nothings compelled to be saintly innocents, etc. The collapse of the present implies the collapse of the past. Life is a pile of insignificant and ironic ruins. ([1972] 2005, pp. xviii–xix, emphasis in original)

This pessimistic attack appears not aimed, as it was often, exclusively at consumerism. Rather he seems to be referring to the way in which cinema mobilises and corrupts nonprofessional actors, projecting meanings upon their ambiguous bodies and gestures to the point of erasing their original

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capacity to provoke. This operation, for which Pasolini frequently criticised neorealism, was something he came to identify and criticise in his own cinema. The Trilogy was particularly problematic in this regard as it constituted a set of stylistically consistent films that consolidated Pasolini’s style, rendering it recognisable and distinct but also predictable. In his recurrent and insistent opposition to neorealism, Pasolini ended up committing the very sins of which he accused neorealism. I have tried in this chapter to demonstrate that nonprofessional performance in Salò can be read in term of both representing and regretting this corruption. As the cyclist’s arrest shows, the initially ambiguous gestures and bodies of nonprofessionals are all claimed and explained by the fascists, thus turning them into accessories. These nonprofessional gestures never quite take over the film, as happens in many of Pasolini’s earlier works. Yet neither do they ever quite disappear, and in their sustained presence we might distinguish a significant attempt to keep them alive and capable of provocation. I have already suggested that Ezio’s death has a sense of uselessness. For a more marginal and, perhaps for this reason, more provocative example, we may consider the daring but also slightly perverse smile shown by one of the victims as she is sentenced to death (Fig. 4.8).

Fig. 4.8  Salò (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975)

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While Pasolini repudiated youth and its stagnation, the marginality of such ambivalent nonprofessional gestures might suggest that the distinction between fascists and victims remains clearly recognisable. That is, Pasolini’s nightmare of a world in which all differences between fascists and victims have disappeared is not the world represented directly in Salò, but might be the world alluded to by the ambiguity of such gestures. My analysis has, however, considered nonprofessional performance in the film as quoting and (re)enacting a history of the corruption of nonprofessional performance. For this reason, I have considered nonprofessional gesture during the film’s opening scenes, before the victims are taken to the mansion and before the circles of destruction truly begin. In doing so I have linked the gestures, no matter how corrupt, with the innocent (pre)history of cinema and nonprofessional performance. It also feels pertinent to consider nonprofessional gestures in the film’s ending. The film ends with the fascists’ final and most terrible act of abuse. Victims are tortured to death by the libertines, who take turns to watch their colleagues’ perversions. The film does not make it clear whether through this act the libertines also kill themselves, thereby reaching their ultimate form of pleasure. What we do witness after the film’s final torture scenes, however, is a rather calm shot of one of the rooms inside the villa. Claudio, a victim–accomplice like the cyclist, changes the music playing on the radio and, with a seemingly perverse smile, asks another victim–accomplice if he wants to dance. “I don’t know how to”, the boy answers. “Me neither”, responds Claudio, before the two begin to dance. Whether a distasteful gesture insensitive to (and complicit with) the debauchery of the final acts of abuse, or the first innocent gesture of a new reality finally free from fascism and its victims, the dance continues as the film ends, perpetually suspending its mystery. It seems fitting that Pasolini, who was so committed to nonprofessional gestures, closed his final film with a sequence featuring this mode of performance. For a start, dancing constitutes a particularly self-sufficient type of performance that, as Agamben ([1996] 2000) notes, finds its motivation and expression in its own gestures and movements; it is the paradigmatic means without end. As such, the sequence might be read as celebrating and representing how, through the interactions between nonprofessional actors within and across films, nonprofessional performance is able to consolidate gestures into conventions but also retains the naivety to challenge and update them. Within the context of Salò, the final dance also resonates with earlier dances that, as Ramsey McGlazer (2016) notes,

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challenge the authoritarian rigidity imposed by the fascist libertines through sensuous movement. Finally, the last dance in Salò explicitly foregrounds a quality of nonprofessionalism through its dialogue, in which the two characters acknowledge that they do not know how to dance. This realisation does not prevent them from dancing, and dancing well—an outcome that also seems like a validation and celebration of nonprofessional performance. Once again, though, the dialogue’s self-address presents naivety or innocence as self-conscious, which leaves open the possibility of its dishonesty and thus its corruption. The possibility of corruption, however, is what keeps nonprofessional performance alive and capable of challenging the structures and modes of representation established by the film or the filmmaker. For this reason, I have called attention to the methodological importance of examining nonprofessional performance in terms of the interactions between gestures performed by nonprofessional actors and the gestures performed by filmmakers. The rapport between these gestures was not only an important preoccupation for Pasolini but also for his neorealist peers and antecedents. In his essay on Fellini’s La notti di Cabiria/Nights of Cabiria (1957), Pasolini suggests that Fellini occasionally failed to achieve the right amalgam because his ‘love for reality’ was ‘stronger than reality itself’ (Pasolini, 1981, p. 149). After countless hours spectating and consuming the world through the camera and its viewfinder, a provocative, polysemic and challenging reality had virtually disappeared in favour of the director’s tainted vision of it. Pasolini came to recognise a similar issue in his own cinema, something he sought to address directly in Salò. To restore the amalgam, Pasolini used nonprofessional actors to establish a clear distinction between oppressive fascists and naive victims. Blending with, but also challenging, such a rigid form of representation, a small sample of ambivalent nonprofessional gestures are also intermittently performed throughout the film. Our difficulty in assessing whether these gestures draw the characters closer to the victims or the fascists demonstrates the corruption of these gestures, yet this very corruption also sustains their provocative aliveness. Through its unsettling and unsettled ambivalence, nonprofessional performance in the film is thus able to challenge both the oppressive fascist reality that Pasolini hated, and the naive and innocent one that he loved.

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References Agamben, G. ([1996] 2000). Means without End: Notes on Politics (V. Binetti & C. Casarino, Trans.). University of Minnesota Press. Althusser, L. ([1971] 2014). On the Reproduction of Capitalism: Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses (G. M. Goshgarian, Trans.). Verso. Ayfre, A. ([1952] 1985). Neo-Realism and Phenomenology (D. Matias, Trans.). In J.  Hillier (Ed.), Cahiers du Cinéma: The 1950s: Neo-Realism, Hollywood, New Wave (pp. 182–191). Harvard University Press. Bachmann, G. (1975–1976). Pasolini on de Sade: An Interview During the Filming of “The 120 Days of Sodom”. Film Quarterly, 29(2), 39–45. Bazin, A. ([1946–1957] 2005). What Is Cinema? Vol. 2 (H.  Gray, Trans.). University of California Press. Benjamin, W. ([1923–1950] 2007). Illuminations (H. Zohn, Trans. H. Arendt Ed.). Schocken Books. Blue, J. (1965). 1965 Pier Paolo Pasolini Interview. Film Comment, 3(4). Retrieved July 2022, from http://www.filmcomment.com/article/pier-­paolo-­pasolini-­ interview/ Deleuze, G. ([1985] 2014). Cinema 2: The Time-Image (H.  Tomlinson & R. Galeta, Trans.). Bloomsbury. Egan, L., & Thomas, S. (2012). Introduction: Star-Making, Cult-Making and Forms of Authenticity. In L. Egan & S. Thomas (Eds.), Cult Film Stardom: Offbeat Attractions and Processes of Cultification (pp.  1–17). Palgrave Macmillan. Elduque, A. (2017). Hungry Gazes, Digesting Closeups: Pasolini, Porcile and the Politics of Consumption. Screen, 58(2), 119–140. Greene, N. (1990). Pier Paolo Pasolini: Cinema as Heresy. Princeton University Press. Greene, N. (1994). Salò: The Refusal to Consume. In P.  Rumble & B.  Testa (Eds.), Pier Paolo Pasolini: Contemporary Perspectives (pp. 232–242). University of Toronto Press. Indiana, G. (2000). Salò or The 120 Days of Sodom. Bfi Publishing. Mancini, M., Perrella, G., & Reichenbach, B. (Eds.). ([1981] 2017). Pasolini’s Bodies and Places. Edition Patrick Frey. McGlazer, R. (2016). Salò and the School of Abuse. Postmodern Culture, 26(3). Morrison, B. (2021). Complicating Articulation in Art Cinema. Oxford University Press. Pasolini, P. P. ([1972] 2005). Heretical Empiricism (B. Lawton & L. K. Barnett, Trans.; L. K. Barnett, Ed.). New Academia Publishing. Pasolini, P. P. ([1975] 2009). Escritos Corsarios (J. Vivanco, Trans.). Ediciones del Oriente y del Mediterráneo. Pasolini, P.  P. (1981). Nota su “Le Notti”. In La notti di Cabiria (pp. 147–153). Garzanti.

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Pasolini, P.  P. (2012). The Lost Pasolini Interview. Mubi, Notebook. Retrieved March 2019, from https://mubi.com/notebook/posts/the-­lost-­pasolini-­ interview Renoir, J. ([1954–1967] 2010). Renoir on Renoir; Interviews, Essays, and Remarks (C. Volk, Trans.). Cambridge University Press. Repiso, I. (2005). Ninetto Davoli: ‘A Pier Paolo le gustaba la gente que, como máximo, tenía la EGB’. ABC.es. Retrieved July 2022, from https://www.abc. es/hemeroteca/historico-­30-­09-­2005/abc/Espectaculos/ninetto-­davolia-­ pier-­p aolo-­l e-­g ustaba-­l a-­g ente-­q ue-­c omo-­m aximo-­t enia-­l a-­e gb-­_ 611211197878.html Rhodes, J. D. (2007). Stupendous, Miserable City: Pasolini’s Rome. University of Minnesota Press. Rhodes, J.  D. (2012). Watchable Bodies: Salò’s Young Non-actors. Screen, 53(4), 453–458. Rohdie, S. (1995). The Passion of Pier Paolo Pasolini. Indiana University Press. Rohdie, S. (1999). Neo-realism and Pasolini. In Z. G. Baranski (Ed.), Pasolini Old and New. Surveys and Studies (pp. 163–183). Four Courts Press. Stack, O. ([1969] 2018). The Cinema as Heresy, or the Passion of Pasolini: An Interview with Pier Paolo Pasolini—By Oswald Stack. Retrieved July 2022, from https://scrapsfromtheloft.com/2018/02/07/interview-­pier-­paolo-­ pasolini-­oswald-­stack/ Verdone, M. ([1952] 1973). A Discussion of Neo-realism: Rossellini Interviewed by Mario Verdone. Screen, 14(4), 69–78. Viano, M. (1993). A Certain Realism: Making Use of Pasolini’s Film Theory and Practice. University of California Press. Wikipedia. (n.d.). Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom. Retrieved July 2022, from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salò,_or_the_120_Days_of_Sodom

PART II

Contemporary Approaches

CHAPTER 5

Misael Saavedra in La libertad: The Work of Gestures

Part 2 of this book offers sustained close analysis of three contemporary films made with nonprofessional actors. My aim in Part 2 is twofold. Firstly, I seek to demonstrate that the modes of analysis developed in Part 1 can be used to identify, analyse and celebrate nonprofessional performances in contemporary films. The three films I examine in Part 2, while featuring very different performances, all rely heavily on the performances’ nonprofessional qualities to articulate their particular aesthetics. That is, these are three films whose merits and achievements depend significantly on the nonprofessionals’ contributions and, therefore, benefit substantially from analytical concentration on the performances. Secondly, Part 2 offers sustained close analysis of individual performances across entire films. Rather than comparing performances across currents (Chaps. 2 and 3) or across a filmmaker’s body of work (Chap. 4), my aim is to explore the variations each individual performance offers. That is, I am interested in analysing how gestures and other performance details change across the films and the possible significance these changes might hold. I will argue that, while different, the three films I examine in Part 2 use changes in the performances to test and reconfigure the status of the character/performer throughout the film. My analysis hopes to demonstrate why and how it matters for the films that we, as viewers, register these changes. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Gaggiotti, Nonprofessional Film Performance, Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32382-9_5

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The film I will be discussing in this chapter is Lisandro Alonso’s La libertad (2001), a particularly observational and minimalist piece, the plot of which can be summarised as a day in the life of Misael (Misael Saavedra), an axeman who lives and works in isolation in the woodlands of la Pampa, Argentina. The chapter is divided into two sections. In the first one, I examine the collaboration between filmmaker and nonprofessional actor in the first part of the film. Through analysis of performance details in relation to other formal qualities such as the film’s cinematography and editing, I will argue that, in this portion of the film, the nonprofessional actor’s gestures and actions inform the filmmaking style and, in doing so, they guide the film as it progressively discovers its aesthetic programme. The second section of this chapter focuses on the second part of the film, which shows Misael leaving the forest and venturing into town to sell the logs he has produced. I will argue that, in the second part of the film, the relationship between the filmmaker and performer changes and it is now the nonprofessional actor who adapts his performance to a structure dictated by the filmmaker. In doing so, Saavedra begins to play a fictional version of himself. The chapter’s conclusion suggests that, through the changes in Saavedra’s nonprofessional performance, the film brings us to reflect on our assumptions regarding the character/performer and invites us to question the stereotypes informing our perception of him. Analysing the film in sequential order serves the purpose of illuminating how the role of the performer and his relationship with the filmmaker changes as the film progresses, a change encouraged by Alonso, who chose to shoot the film in chronological order (Bernini et al., 2001). This chapter is indebted and responds to the readings authors such as Gonzalo  Aguilar ([2006] 2011), Jens  Andermann (2012), Christian Gundermann (2005), Joanna Page (2009) and Quintín ([2001] 2012), among others, have offered on La libertad. I seek to contribute to this rich discussion on the film by attending to an element that has remained largely unexamined: the nonprofessional actor’s contribution. As was the case with nonprofessional performances in neorealist cinema (discussed in Chap. 3), the performances of nonprofessional actors in contemporary realist films such as La libertad are particularly difficult to come to terms with because they are purposely presented as to challenge our preconceptions of what film acting or film performance is. While I have chosen to focus on a specific case with the objective of producing a comprehensive analysis of an exemplary nonprofessional performance, my belief is that

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the approach here proposed can be of help in the analysis of other minimalist contemporary realist films made with nonprofessional actors.

A Meeting by the Bonfire: The Collaboration Between Filmmaker and Nonprofessional Actor La libertad opens in media res with a medium shot of Misael, topless, eating a piece of meat by a crackling fire (Fig. 5.1). It is a bare image formed by elements so universally known—nature, human being, fire, meat—that it could be described as a cliché frequently used to evoke a primitive stage of humanity. Indicators of a specific temporal or spatial frame are virtually non-existent, just a barely distinguishable forest shrouded in darkness. Even the fire itself is absent from the shot proper: we infer it from its sound and the ochre, pulsating glimmer it casts on Misael, singling him out from the pitch-black surroundings. Saavedra’s performance befits the sparseness of the image. His only piece of cutlery is a long, sharp knife he uses to make incisions on the lump of charred meat he holds in his left hand. He does not cut the meat in slices or smaller pieces. Rather, he leaves the cuts still attached to the lump and finishes biting them off. His body technique challenges the idea of primitivism by revealing a practical purpose: not handling the meat more

Fig. 5.1  La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001)

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than is necessary, a compromise between processing the food enough so the eating is facilitated yet not so much as to turn it into an elaborate plate requiring further instruments and, therefore, heavier maintenance. Misael’s style, like Alonso’s, suggests an economy of resources (gestures amongst them) where the essential elements (knife, fire) are preserved and unnecessary ones are conveniently excluded. While he eats with his hands Misael has not relinquished a sense of manners. His casual handling of the meat evidences grace, or rather, style. The long knife appears at home in his hands; his movements are precise and quick. His dexterity with the blade as well as his mild interest in the process—he does not draw or pay much attention to it—reveals an embodied familiarity with the eating technique: he takes it for granted. His posture, while seemingly at ease, lacks the leisurely passivity of the indulgent commensal. After he takes the first bite, he examines the blade, checking its sharpness. Once he has taken the second, he glances left and right, surveying his surroundings. All throughout his dinner, he scratches his left arm again and again somewhat obsessively. If something (insects, the presence of the camera…) is bothering him we don’t see it and can only speculate about it, an invisible annoyance he can mitigate but not fully get rid of. This opening shot summarises the film’s premise: a handful of elements are deployed to present a rather austere set-up in which the performer’s gestures are the centre of attention. The title of the film, “la libertad” [freedom], appears after this opening shot, inviting us to pair our idea of freedom with the image of Misael eating. Another version of this opening shot—or another section of it—will serve as the film’s closing shot, suggesting a circular pattern of repetition in Misael’s routine. The remainder of the film, sandwiched between the two almost identical shots, can be seen as an exploration of the lifestyle this type of freedom entails. Singling out a specific image, and taking time to chew and savour it, is analogous to Misael’s eating in the first shot. In fact, as we see throughout the film, an important aspect of Misael’s work consists of selecting the specific trees he will cut and process into logs. This method of hand-­ picking a simple situation and exploring it at length evokes neorealist screenwriter Cesare Zavattini’s method of ‘getting to the bottom of things, of showing the relationships between the situations and the ­process through which the situations come into being’ ([1952–1953–1954] 1978, p. 75). In the case of La libertad, however, this exploration will clear up only some of the many questions the initial image proposes. When we reach the same shot, again, at the end of the film, we know what Misael is

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eating, that he has prepared the fire himself, that he lives on his own in the forest…. However, many uncertainties remain unresolved: What is he thinking? Is he happy? Does he see his own life as free? The opening shot of La libertad proposes an encounter with an unknown other we observe through a frontal, even confrontational, framing. Yet the shot is also an invitation to discover someone we don’t know, who lives (and eats) in a way that might be different from ours, and to share the light of a bonfire with him. The figure of the bonfire evokes a sense of communion, a space where food, stories, customs and points of view are exchanged. The actual fire, which appears to lie out of frame between the camera and Misael, is replaced by the projector that casts the light illuminating Misael and, therefore, enabling the encounter. While this allegorical reading could be stretching things too far, the notion of cinema as an exchange of experiences appears frequently in Alonso’s discourse. He explains that ‘merging both experiences [mine and Saavedra’s] was important for both of us; it wasn’t just a whim of mine, for him it is also important because it is a film about his life’ (in Bernini et al., 2001, pp. 134–135). Elsewhere, Alonso refers to filmmaking as an ‘excuse’ (in Koza & López Seco, 2014 my emphasis) to ‘go outside oneself […] outside the places where cameras and microphones are found’ (in Fontana, 2009) and ‘spend a few weeks [with these people] sharing the way they live’ (Alonso, 2009). The discovery of another, Alonso adds, becomes his main motivation when choosing the subjects for his films, going as far as to argue that sharing a collaborative creative experience with these men justifies the endeavour: ‘if the film is any good, then all the better, but that is not the main point’ (Alonso cited in Koza & López Seco, 2014). While Alonso may be slightly overemphasising his point, he is not the only contemporary filmmaker (consider Pedro Costa, Albert Serra or Apichatpong Weerasethakul, to name a few) to celebrate film’s capacity to enable otherwise unlikely encounters with other individuals. With this nuanced understanding of film’s inherent ethnographic capabilities, which values not only the medium’s usefulness for recording and showing the other but also the opportunity it provides to spend time with them, these filmmakers also problematise the performer’s role in the filmmaking process. Performers like Saavedra have no professional acting training and they may share the name, profession and habitat with the characters we see on the screen. Moreover, some of these filmmakers (Alonso included) are particularly prone to working without a traditional screenplay, which results in a significant level of openness to the performers’ suggestions. In

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this regard Alonso is closer to Rossellini and Visconti than to De Sica. Alonso explains his working process in such way: I could give Misael almost no indication because he knew how to handle the axe perfectly. So, I would ask him what he was about to do and learnt from his craft. The same happened with Argentino [in Los Muertos/The Dead (2004)], because when I am on a boat I am like dancing, and he would basically tell me how some moments of the scene would play out, which way he was going to turn, the direction of the tide or what type of light we were going to have. (in Ranzani, 2008)

Alonso’s filmmaking involves a collaboration in which the filmmaker does not try to capture the actions of unaware subjects, but rather works with them as co-creators who contribute to aspects of the filmmaking process beyond their performance. The multifaceted role the performer plays (onand off-screen) creates a sense of ambiguity regarding what the film is offered as. It is partly a document, a contemplative study of Saavedra/ Misael’s lifestyle. It also has an exposed sense of prefabrication that enables it to be read as a fiction. It is also a reconstruction as, while Saavedra performs actions he is familiar with, these are enacted for the camera. Finally, it is a testimony (or a testament) of the encounter between individuals. The Economy of Gesture The way Alonso attributes several roles to Saavedra (he is partly an actor, partly a subject and partly a fellow filmmaker using his knowledge to inform the filmmaking process) finds a parallel—or its inspiration—in the way Misael interacts with the material environment in the film itself. Saavedra’s performance in the first part of the film consists primarily of body techniques, which sociologist Marcel Mauss ([1935] 2007) defines as rooted in tradition and efficiency. In other words, body techniques are ways of performing actions traditionally prescribed as efficient. The notion of efficiency is worth highlighting as it can be found in most of the actions Misael performs. One of such type of actions is what we may refer to as recycling-gestures, gestures that either reuse a tool or object in a different way or bodily actions that fulfil more than one purpose, preserving energy and time. Recycling-gestures reveal Misael’s familiarity with his surroundings as well as his reliance on a handful of resources (axe, spade, table, bucket). These

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gestures, which evoke how Alonso’s filmmaking also depends heavily on Misael, show the protagonist’s skill extracting as much use as possible out of the tools at his disposal. The functionality of these gestures, as Gonzalo Aguilar ([2006] 2011) explains, extends beyond Misael’s purely work-­ related actions. An example of such gestures can be found when Misael pauses to refresh himself after spending a few minutes cutting a tree. He picks up a bottle of water modified with a strap and matte wrapping to keep the liquid fresh. He then removes the lid and takes a sip. Before putting the lid back on, he squirts a few splashes in his cap, enough to fill it with a substantial layer of water yet without drenching it nor spilling any liquid. The action shows Misael’s embodied habituation to finding a balance between consuming resources and not wasting them. Actions such as this one or Misael emptying the leftovers of his lunch back into the pan (of previously saved leftovers?) reveal the axeman’s asceticism: basic products such as food or water acquire a higher value when one lives in isolation. Yet the economic aspect extends beyond the preservation of materials into a preservation of time and energy, an economy of gestures, as Misael recycles the very action of drinking to also wet his cap, combining the two gestures into one. Misael reuses his small table throughout the film. First, he eats on it, then he uses it to gut the armadillo he will have for dinner. A plastic bucket also serves different purposes depending on Misael’s needs. When not holding any content, it becomes a stand that raises the plastic basin Misael uses to wash himself. Later, the bucket turns into a cage for the armadillo and the plastic basin now acts as its lid. Misael’s actions are mesmerising to watch because they show that he has absolute control over his space. What initially looks like a precarious camp turns out to be a carefully designed multifunctional space where even the most seemingly mundane objects serve a variety of functions. As Misael exploit the items’ various characteristics, we feel as though we discover new uses for these mundane objects. A later shot in the film shows Misael getting ready to leave his tent. The camera accompanies him while he tidies up; a trunk stands in the way between us and Misael, who bends down to arrange the space at the bottom of the frame (Fig. 5.2). He then stands up holding a mug he hangs on a conveniently trimmed branch which, despite being in front of us, we had probably not noticed (Figs. 5.3 and 5.4). Similarly, a stake supporting the fence that limits his camp will turn into a hanger for a bag of goods. With this type of extremely simple actions, Misael turns inert,

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Fig. 5.2  La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001)

Fig. 5.3  La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001)

inconspicuous visual details into functional tools by taking advantage of their original shapes and textures. However, although the objects acquire new functions, they are not dramatised, nor do they reveal new meanings or symbolic value—they remain integrated in what Andrew Klevan refers to as ‘The Undramatic Everyday’ (2000, p. 28).

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Fig. 5.4  La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001)

Alonso himself applies similar processes to shots in the film. He recycles the set-up of the opening shot as the ending of the film like Misael does with his table. Both the shot and the tool will serve different functions depending on how Alonso and Misael use them. The process of presenting a shot which does not seem to add substantial information and then revealing its function later, through another shot that refers to the first one, is also common in Alonso’s editing style. The fifth and sixth shots in the film show Misael walking across an arid strip of land as he examines the cracked ground at his feet. He seems to be searching for something he won’t find. A possible clue as to what he might have been looking for will be offered later in the film when Misael captures the wild armadillo. Alonso’s choice of long takes also serves a practical function as it allows for several actions to be performed in a single shot, minimising the set-ups required to capture the fluency of Misael’s restless and highly efficient routine. The notions of anticipation and preparation are also guiding principles of Misael and Alonso’s approach to their respective materials. After tidying up his place, Misael gets ready to venture out of the camp. He emerges from his tent with a plastic bag he folds and puts in the back pocket of his trousers. A few scenes later, he recovers the bag from his pocket to carry goods he purchases in a service station. Earlier in the film, we watch Misael dropping a log onto a stack of similar logs. Later, we revisit the place with him and watch as he loads the logs onto the back of a truck.

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This quality of anticipation is also visible in Alonso’s camera which frames empty spaces Misael will occupy moments later or objects such as the chainsaw, idly perched on a tree branch, which Misael’s hands then grab and activate. The same way Misael reconfigures objects and space by handling them in particular ways, Alonso’s anticipatory aesthetics turn Misael’s quotidian actions into demonstrations and lessons that propel the film forward by building expectation. Through these operations, Alonso’s camera refigures the seemingly precarious environment into a scenario where Saavedra/Misael’s actions become performance. Rather than feeling like a subject’s behaviour has been casually recorded, the coordination between observation and performance, and their preparedness, call our attention as any detail, however inconspicuous, potentially hides a function or purpose Misael may unlock when he steps into frame. The synergy between the camera and Saavedra/Misael, though, is gradually achieved rather than given. The second shot of the film shows Misael walking in from the right side of the frame with determined pace. As he reaches the centre of frame, he turns on himself and looks at a tree behind him which he then walks towards. The camera, rather than following Misael, continues panning towards the left, leaving Misael out of frame. A moment later he re-emerges, having reconsidered his path and re-joins the camera’s horizontal movement which leads him towards a tree with a log resting on it. A few shots later, the camera finds itself gazing upwards at the branches of a tree. By the time it finishes tilting down, Misael is already walking through the shot; the camera only catches his hips as he exists the frame. These early shots suggest an autonomy of the gaze, not yet attuned to Misael’s movements. It is as if the camera were in an uncharted territory and its attention were caught by elements of the environment, distracting it from the subject. A few minutes into the film, though, the camera seems to have achieved a symbiosis with the performer, letting his actions dictate the movements and pace of the film. The Return of the Naturshchik and the Imminence of a Revelation The first part of La libertad appears to be proposing a return to a cinema of attractions or, in Alonso’s words, a return to ‘the cinema of the Lumière brothers’ (2008). Pre-sound cinema naturally emphasised the physical dimension of performance as well as, in many cases, the superlative dexterity of the performer. The way in which Alonso’s camera attunes to

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Saavedra’s body techniques evokes Kuleshov’s idea of the actor as naturshchik (discussed in Chap. 2), whose performance was conceived in close relationship to technical aspects of the filmmaking process such as camerawork and editing. Kuleshov’s notion may be helpful to define Saavedra’s performance, which, as I suggested earlier in this chapter, seems to elude classification. As discussed in Chap. 2, Kuleshov was among the first to reflect on the way manual labour appeared on film. Kuleshov explains that: If you film a real stevedore, who is loading a bale, you will see that he strives to work in a way most advantageous to him, in order that in the shortest time with minimum effort he will complete his task. In the course of long years of work, he has developed certain habits of standardised, working gestures: he lifts the sacks deftly, drops them onto his shoulders, carries them well, simply and economically […] This sort of work produces the clearest, most expressive, most efficient results on the screen. ([1922–1968] 1974, p. 53)

For Kuleshov, part of the appeal of filming real workers resides in the ease with which the worker’s actions convey a high quantity of information in a short amount of time. The person’s profession is disclosed clearly and efficiently, minimising the time required for the viewer to get a sense of what the character does for a living. Efficiency appears here as the central factor by doubling up. These actions are efficient at conveying efficiency. They indicate the body technique’s progressive refinement across time— the trials and errors gradually overcome, and the constancy required to polish an action to the point of making its enormous immediate results appear disproportionate with the ease with which the action is performed. In the case of Misael, his body techniques leave little doubt regarding the fact that he is a real axeman. His upper body moves elastically with the swings of the axe. His shoulders contort gracefully to channel the direction of the movement. His hands glide across the handle, going from body to throat. He effortlessly shifts from a precision-oriented grip to one that strengthens the impact of the cut, which always lands on the mark set by the previous strike. Misael’s torso and arms pivot over legs slightly spread to provide a wider base and firmer grounding. Unlike his arms, these remain locked in place, flexing by the knees ever so slightly on each hit to provide extra control. While Misael’s techniques are admirable, they are also performed with the sense of humility and discipline we expect from, and associate with, expert manual labourers. Misael demonstrates his

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techniques rather than using these to exhibit his agility or strength, qualities he seems to take for granted. This contrasts with the way actions such as chopping wood are often portrayed in fiction films. Generally, chopping wood has a recognisable clichéd look in cinema (the axe falling down and neatly splicing the log in two) that is radically different from the way in which the action is shown in La libertad. Also, chopping wood is somewhat of a trope in certain film genres—particularly superhero films such as The Wolverine (James Mangold, 2013)—because it helps depict the hyper masculinity of the protagonists. In these films, functionality and body technique are unimportant. We are not shown the results of the action, its practical dimension. Also, the actions are not offered as representative of the character’s profession. Rather, they become a means to suggest the character’s strength and exhibit the performer’s physique. Conversely, the nonchalant way in which Misael cuts wood in La libertad might be explained through Giorgio Agamben’s understanding of gesture as cinema’s chief concern ([1996] 2000). As discussed in Chap. 4, for Agamben, cinema is the art form best suited to preserve gestures as it allows them to run in time. Agamben, though, does not regard gestures as communicative signs but, rather, as means without ends: actions concerned solely with showing the way they are performed. Agamben uses dancing as an example. He argues that the dancers’ movements have no goal or purpose besides being shown as movements across space and time. Similarly, while for Misael the action serves a purpose, cutting a tree for example, Alonso’s filming and presentation of the action calls attention to the form and style of Misael’s gestures rather than their goals or ends. Firstly, Alonso does not omit parts of Misael’s activity through editing. Secondly, Alonso’s camera keeps a respectful distance from Misael, who is always observed through either medium or long shots. The framing suggests a will not to burden the performer with the presence of the camera. This form of address aligns with Ken Loach’s method of distancing the camera from the nonprofessional actors to help them act unselfconsciously (Leigh, 2002). In this regard, Alonso’s address appears to value and celebrate the sheer style of Misael’s gestures, trying to disrupt them as little as possible. However, Alonso’s address is relentless in the duration of its observation which creates a disproportion between looking from afar and looking for as long as possible. Alonso’s camera may be respectful in its distance, but it is also impertinent in the duration of its attention. The resulting

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impression is that of a camera that challenges the performer and observes for as long as possible, as though hoping for a spectacular detail or meaningful revelation to emerge. Gonzalo Aguilar sees Misael as someone who ‘appears to be guided by a secret or a plan that will never be revealed to us’ ([2006] 2011, p. 62). Edgardo Dieleke agrees and also mentions the mystery of Alonso’s subjects while adding that ‘If they have knowledge, or a truth that exceeds their actions, Alonso is not interested in discovering it’ (2013, p. 64). I do not entirely agree with Dieleke’s observation as, while Misael’s actions may not reveal an ulterior secret, the brilliance of Alonso’s approach lies precisely in suggesting, while also thwarting, the idea that prolonged observation can provide a way of discovering these truths. The time Alonso spends observing Misael by means of long, often immobile, takes suggests a kind of faith in the epistemological possibilities of observation. Alonso’s address is a sort of sustained, unblinking stare that seems to want to exhaust the subject, to gain as much information as possible from him. It is as if Alonso firmly believed that by looking for as long as possible it would become possible to peel away Misael’s unmoved exterior, the same way Misael peels the bark of the trees, and reveal his core, the underlying principle or idea that guides or defines him. The Mysteries of Saavedra’s Performance Authors such as Martins (2011) and Page (2009) have described Saavedra’s performance as laconic or taciturn and, indeed, his performance is austere when it comes to speech and expression. While taciturn and laconic are fitting adjectives, one can also describe Saavedra’s performance as modest or disciplined, a way of performing without seeking attention, comfortable remaining outside of the spotlight. His performance not only lacks the ostensiveness Naremore (1988) associates with film acting but also the more inconspicuous ostension that Engelland (2014) sees as an essential aspect of quotidian behaviour seems largely subdued. Misael’s reserved comportment, like Edmund’s in Germany Year Zero, appears geared towards publicising the performer/character’s intentions as little as possible, making it particularly hard to determine what he is thinking or feeling and, significantly, the extent to which he may be acting. Like Edmund, Misael seems to be guarding his opinions and thoughts by focusing with insistence on the practicalities of the tasks at hand. Saavedra does not address the camera directly like many documentary subjects do,

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nor does he appear interested in communicating his emotions or state of mind. He is comfortable in his silence and, as Alonso puts it, he ‘do[es] not fear the camera’ (in Fontana, 2009). Alonso describes Misael as ‘an impenetrable character’ (Alonso cited in Quintín, [2001] 2012) with whom the spectator clashes. By showing the character in isolation and providing as little information as possible, the film leaves the viewer with no alternative but to confront the limits of their own understanding, as the character, the vehicle leading the gaze, not only appears indifferent to it but also unwilling to yield to its scrutiny. Discussing his method for achieving this effect, Alonso explains that ‘I only asked of Misael […] two things: don’t look at the camera and don’t express anything. Let the viewers put in their head whatever they want’ (in Gorodischer, 2006). Alonso, thus reduces his directing method to a sort of acting dispositif1 in which to cinema’s oldest rule of concealment, not looking at the camera, Alonso adds a second, don’t express anything, a rule decidedly against what Bazin ([1946–1957] 2005) referred to as traditional acting (see Chap. 3). Alonso explains that the purpose of this mode of directing is to turn Misael into a character-object: I think that the film lays in the spectator more than in the image itself […] If I don’t think the film in terms of the person who is going to see it, it would not work; in fact, you see him [Misael] all the time, yet, you don’t know what he is thinking, what is his emotional state… He is a sort of character-object. (Alonso cited in Bernini et al., 2001, p. 132)

In Alonso’ view, the singled-out character-object offers a counterpoint to the homogeny of the type of spectator he anticipates as watching the film. Alonso’s ‘poetics of indeterminacy’ (Aguilar, [2006] 2011, p.  61), thus depends not only on the length of the shots but also on Saavedra’s detached form of nonprofessional performance which does not provide solid clues as to how to understand the character’s emotions and/or feelings. This process of disrobing the actions of their affective properties resonates with Edmund Moeschke’s performance in Germany Year Zero and Robert Bresson’s method of working with nonprofessional actors, whom he, like Kuleshov, referred to as models. Doug Tomlison describes 1  In the context of cinema, Adrian Martin defines a dispositif as a set of rules that serve as ‘the structures or parameters of a film’ (2014, p. 179).

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Bresson’s style as an ‘aesthetics of denial’ (1990, p. 365) and while denial is a different concept from indeterminacy, both ideas are defined by the way they fend off advances, that is, by the resistance they offer. Regarding the performances of his models, Bresson notes ‘The thing that matters is not what they show me but what they hide from me’ ([1975] 2016, p. 6). Bresson’s philosophy of film performance appears particularly close to Alonso’s directing method. Both filmmakers strive towards emphasising the functionality of quotidian actions under which an opaque interiority is suggested through the absence of expressivity. What the performers do not show and seem to be hiding are the ostensive and, therefore, explanatory details that tinge our everyday comportment: a deeper exhalation after hacking at a tree for hours, the revelatory stretching of one’s back after bending down for a prolonged period of time. These are the details we rely on to make sense of the other’s disposition towards himself and the world, and these are also the details absent from Saavedra’s performance. Unlike Bresson, however, Alonso does not chain close-ups to shape the narrative. He observes from afar for as long as possible. The admixture of sustained observation and the performer’s taciturn demeanour produce a sense of estrangement. Alonso explains that ‘It is not the same to shoot a cup of coffee for 20 seconds or a minute and a half. When one sees it for twenty seconds one says ‘it is a hot cup of coffee sitting on a table’, if it is a minute and a half one asks ‘¿why is he showing it?, ¿what is he trying to say?, ¿what is going on and I’m not seeing it?” (2001). Here, Alonso is evoking Gustave Flaubert’s idea that “everything becomes interesting if you look at it long enough”. The anticipation generated by sustained attention is reinforced by an abstinent style of nonprofessional performance. As our attention is gradually drawn to what is missing in the performance, we become aware of the narrow limits of our own understanding. Joanna Page has examined this issue and described La libertad as a type of film having ‘not society so much as the gaze itself’ (2009, p. 36) as its subject, a remark that resonates with Alonso’s Sartrean reading of La libertad as a film ‘about the spectator clashing with something that is different, facing nothingness through an impenetrable character’ (Alonso cited in Quintín, [2001] 2012). Page also insightfully notes that films like La libertad leave us with a feeling of frustration as they ‘deconstruct the relationship between visibility and knowledge’ (2009, p.  36). Put in other

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words, the more we watch Misael, the less we know about him; though I would add: the more we want to watch him. While Page’s claims go some way to illuminate the merits of Alonso’s cinema, I am wary of the premature end they may put on the analysis of Saavedra’s contribution. If Saavedra/Misael is there just to be observed for some introspective goal, the details of what he is doing as a performer are liable to be considered secondary at best or irrelevant at worst. La libertad, on the other hand, is rather intensely interested in what Misael is doing and, perhaps more importantly, how he is doing it. Rather than opposing a reflexive reading, a productive and reconciliatory question to ask would be: how does Saavedra, through his gestures and actions, invite us to question our observation?

The Journey of the Character-Object Having discussed Saavedra’s performance in the first part of the film, I will now explore how his gestures and actions change in the second, and through these changes, our understanding of his role in the film shifts considerably. Discussing the etymology of the term object, philosopher Byung-Chul Han points out that: The word “object” comes from the Latin verb obicere, which means “throw at”, “put towards” or “reproach”. Hence the object is primarily an Against, something that turns against me, throws itself at me, opposes me, contradicts me, goes against me and offers resistance. Therein lies its negativity. This level of meaning is still present in the French and English word “objection”, which also denotes disagreement or contradiction. ([2016] 2018, p. 40, emphasis in original)

For Han, the contemporary notion and use of the word “object” (unlike its root obicere) implies the subject’s possession of the object. With this change, the object loses the opposing negativity that defines the obicere. In the first half of La libertad, Misael’s lack of speech and functional, expressionless attitude constitutes a strong form of resistance against our observation. The opposition Misael offers presents him as a character-obicere, a figure thrown against us, one that we cannot possess and against which we clash. In the following paragraphs, I argue that the second part of the film changes the relationship between the act of observation and Misael,

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turning him into a character-object, in Han’s sense of the word. Misael partly loses his resistance and, in doing so, he becomes more legible. After having lunch and smoking a cigarette, Misael enters his tent. We then see him lying down with a harsh shadow over his mouth (Fig. 5.5).2 Reclined in his bed, Misael’s muted visage gazes at the camera and he becomes, momentarily, a spectator of his own film. The camera responds to Misael’s direct address by turning around and venturing outside of Misael’s camp, into the surrounding forest, advancing past the swaying trees until it reaches a fence blocking its way. This gliding camera movement, achieved by using a steadicam, suggests an embodied, independent gaze that detaches itself from that which, until now, has been its subject of attention. Alonso is unclear as to what drove him to shoot this sequence. He explains that it was a way of moving away from Misael’s point of view (Bernini et al., 2001). Whether the shot has a clear allegorical meaning or not, it heralds a significant change in the film. Misael’s control over the environment and the film is suppressed, perhaps symbolised by the closeup which, by using manipulated artificial lighting, shows his mouth ­

Fig. 5.5  La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001) 2  This is, according to Laura Martins (2011), the only instance where artificial light was used in the film.

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covered, muted. In the scene that follows, Misael comes out of his tent to change his t-shirt (his costume) and gets ready to head out into town to sell his wood, not before hiding his tools (axe and spade) in his tent. We won’t see them again. The second part of the film offers many striking differences with the first one. Firstly, the idea of a daily routine is put into question as Misael is shown in situations that despite being undramatic also appear outside of his everyday routine. After leaving his camp, we find Misael sitting by the pile of logs we saw earlier, smoking a cigarette while waiting. Misael’s body is shown inert, not engaging in action and, for the first time, he is also conditioned by the movements of other bodies. After a considerable wait—40 seconds—Misael walks to the middle of the dusty road to stand as a signpost for a pick-up truck heading in his direction. As the truck gets closer, Misael moves aside and lets the vehicle go past him for a few meters and then stop. Misael then follows the truck only to find himself walking back as the truck reverses, pushing Misael out of frame. The camera, too, cuts with the passing of the car rather than on Misael’s movement, suggesting that the vehicle now takes precedence over the protagonist. A man gets out of the car and greets Misael. It is a simple and undramatic moment, yet one that radically transforms the film, which, up until now, has been dialogue-free. This brief exchange between the characters has a slight fake ring to it. The man’s words “Good afternoon Misael” are emphatically delivered rather than spoken naturally. Misael answers with a “How are things? How are you doing?” questions generally used rhetorically, without expecting an answer or with the purpose of starting a conversation. The man replies with a succinct “Good”, taking Misael’s questions literally yet without elaborating further, which draws attention to the representational aspect of the dialogue. It is as if the exchange had been expected by the actors rather than emerging naturally between the characters. Gundermann, citing Rival and Choi, suggests that this conversation ‘makes the artificiality of the mise-en-scène felt […] highlighting the presence of the camera which makes [Misael] feel uncomfortable’ (2005). While I share the view that this dialogue feels contrived and artificial, I think the term uncomfortable may not be entirely correct, as neither of the two men appears particularly threatened by the situation. Rather than uncomfortable, the two performers sound as though their encounter was an obligation rather than a casual meeting. The stiffness in the delivery lends the conversation a sense of forced cordiality. The characters appear

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overly polite with each other despite having met for a specific purpose they want to get on with. If the first part of the film centres around Misael’s freedom and indeterminacy, the second introduces a sense of contrivance as it explains the social structures that condition Misael’s lifestyle. After being driven to his acquaintance’s home, Misael jumps in the passenger seat and his friend patiently shows him how to change the car’s gears and the directions he must follow. This conversation also introduces a sense of unfamiliarity, as it presents Misael in a situation outside of his daily routine. The non-­ quotidian quality of the event, paired with the performers’ nonprofessional delivery, insinuates that Misael might be new to the place or, at the very least, that he is not transporting the logs through his usual means. The exact nature of the relationship between Misael and this man is never disclosed. It is likely that this person oversees the land where Misael (now) works and lives. This hypothesis is supported by the fact that, when Misael returns from the sawmill, he leaves the borrowed truck at what we assume is the other man’s house, which he finds empty. Misael then goes to the back of the property and washes his face in the house’s water tank, which suggests that Misael knows the man well and is allowed to use this resource. Misael then returns to his camp on foot, a further indication that his acquaintance’s house is relatively close to Misael’s camp. Would it be too far-fetched to read the interaction between Misael and this man as analogous of the relationship between filmmaker and actor in the second part of the film? This figure literally gives Misael directions, he tells him where he must go and how he should act in the scenes to follow. The introduction of an external agent that conditions Misael’s actions upsets the formula of the first part of the film, in which Misael dictated the order and tempo of the events.3 Misael’s venture into town is, according to Alonso, entirely made up (Bernini et al., 2001). He explains that Saavedra never visits the town and that he does not sell his wood himself but, rather, works for a salary. Alonso adds that Saavedra earned around a thousand pesos a month when the film was shot, which is more than what a taxi driver or a school teacher

3  A further analogy is that Alonso’s father owned the forest where Saavedra lived when Alonso met him.

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generally made at the time.4 In the film as it is, Misael only receives around 27 pesos for his logs. Alonso is unclear as to why he chose to introduce these significant changes yet, with these alterations, Alonso is directing Saavedra to play a version of himself not based on his real-life experience but, rather, conceived by Alonso. If the first part of the film observed Misael’s routine, the second one (foreshadowed by the shot of the fleeting camera) shows a flight of the imagination, the way an observer might speculate on the conditions of Misael’s lifestyle after watching his solitary routine. In fact, Saavedra’s real situation, earning a high salary for his work as an axeman, contrasts with the stereotypical image of the penniless labourer, an impression closer to that shown in the second part of the film. The second part of the film explains the economic and social structures that condition Misael’s lifestyle by showing how the axeman sells his logs and what he spends his money on. Consequently, Misael’s venture into the social space has been read as showing the commodified world that threatens Misael’s voluntary retreat (Aguilar, [2006] 2011) and as a critique of how globalisation affects Misael’s life (Gundermann, 2005). Both readings can be coterminous and synergise with the suggested parallel between Misael’s actions and Alonso’s directing. As Misael shapes the trees into logs that enter the commercial chain, Alonso transforms Misael into a character-object that is removed from his habitat and placed in a social space governed by economic exchanges. The second part of the film is also, as Gundermann (2005) and Andermann (2012) have pointed out, structured around causality: Misael sells his wood, gets money in return, uses the money to buy supplies. Both Andermann and Gundermann read this change of style as drawing a parallel between narrative fiction cinema and the exchange of commodities and money: as Misael enters the market, the film turns into a fictional narrative piece that contrasts with the silent and virtually non-narrative first part of the film. I don’t see this reading as wrong per se but Andermann makes a mistake when he describes the second part of the film as ‘a more classical action-cinema, complete with shot-reverse-shot sequences showing bodies in dialogue and conflict’ (2012, p. 87). It is true that, in the second part of the film, Misael engages in dialogues with other individuals and 4  The years the film was shot (2000) and released (2001) an Argentine peso was worth $0.9987 and $0.9992 respectively. The minimum salary in Argentina in the years 1993–2008 was 200 pesos ($200). These figures illustrate the relatively competitive salary Saavedra was earning for his work.

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that this can be regarded as a conflict of bodies. Yet none of these dialogues are shown in shot/reverse-shot sequences as Andermann suggests. In fact, most of the framing in the second part of the film, like in the first one, consists of medium shots. One exception is the shot of Misael speaking in the phone booth. Here, while Misael is more tightly framed, almost in a close-up, there isn’t a reverse to this shot. The other instance of a tighter framing is the scene in which Misael is taught how to drive. Here the shot looks closer to the type of dirty framing common in narrative cinema: the profile/back of the head of a character occupies one half of the frame and the face of the other character fills the other half. Nonetheless, the entire conversation is captured from one angle. Andermann’s description is interesting because it suggests that, while the author notices a change in the film’s style in the second part of the film, this change is not necessarily the result of different framing or editing.5 On the contrary, what changes significantly is Saavedra’s performance, as he now engages in conversations and social interaction, and he does so rather awkwardly. We could read the change of style as a passage from (semi-)documentary to fiction. This would imply reading it as a passage from Misael as the subject of the film to the gaze as the subject if we follow Jean-Luc Godard’s view that: ‘If fiction = what happens to me, then documentary = what happens to the other’ (Godard cited in Aumont, [2014] 2016, p.  52). Saavedra, though, plays an instrumental role in altering the film’s style by going from a subdued and ascetic style of quasi-non-acting into a more conventional, awkward and self-conscious style of nonprofessional acting. The very act of haggling between Misael and the owner of the sawmill is an acting competition of sorts in which whoever can convince the other side to give in wins. Here, Misael appears uncomfortable. His wimpy intonation when he objects to the buyer’s offer “no, that’s too little”, slightly prolonging the “no”, contrasts heavily with the decisiveness with which the owner makes offer after offer. Misael’s scant words during the exchange also suggest he is unaccustomed to the situation. He is simply not quick enough finding the right reply to counter the buyer’s verbosity. In the case of the buyer, his quick tongue demonstrates his aptitude haggling in a similar way Misael’s actions, in the first part of the film, showcased his skill as an axeman. “Hey boy, this is not the wood you told me you were going 5  Average shot length in the second part of the film is very close to that in the first. The second part is also made of sequence-shots rather than edited through continuity editing.

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to bring” the buyer begins after quickly glancing at the wood, scoring himself an early point that enables him to make a lower offer than what both men had presumably agreed. “How much do you ask for this wood?” the buyer asks, quickly adding, “I won’t pay you two pesos”. Through these situations, the second part of the film adds density to Misael’s character. Rather than a free agent living in the wilderness, he is portrayed partly as a victim of the system, a person who does not receive as much money as he (thinks he) should for his work. At the same time, through his performance, Saavedra could be described as transitioning from non-actor or (non-character), singled out for his exceptional body techniques, to nonprofessional actor and nonprofessional character. Like neorealist protagonists such as ’Ntoni in La Terra Trema and Antonio in Bicycle Thieves, Misael appears ill-equipped to navigate a perverse system that allows him to survive but also takes advantage of him. Finally, following the parallel between Misael’s labour and Alonso’s filmmaking, we could read the sawmill owner’s treatment of Misael’s logs as analogous of Alonso’s treatment of Misael in the second section of the film. While Misael tells the man “I brought you the sticks” the buyer corrects “posts” and, as Gonzalo Aguilar ([2006] 2011) insightfully observes, he stresses the utilitarian value of Misael’s artisanal work. Like the sticks that become posts when considered from a different perspective, Misael goes from being an ambiguous and seemingly inexpressive figure that the camera observes, to becoming a character-object contextualised and defined by his position in a particular social environment, and used by the filmmaker to articulate a critique of capitalist structures.

The Return of the Character-Object I have shown that, in the first part of the film, Saavedra’s performance evokes the non-acting of manual workers. He also performs his efficient gestures in a subdued and non-expressive style that recalls the mysterious presences in Rossellini and Bresson’s films. We might describe Saavedra’s performance in the first part of the film as combining these two styles of nonprofessional performance. In the second part, however, Saavedra gravitates towards a style of nonprofessional acting characterised by the performer’s self-consciousness and awkwardness in social interaction, which feels closer to the young communist’s performance in Pudovkin’s The Deserter, or the characters in De Sica’s neorealist work. Through this

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change of performance, the character’s behaviour and lifestyle are explained and contexualised. The transition between nonprofessional performance styles, though, is subtle. We might register it, but it is not violent enough to clearly reveal the fictional construction of the second part of the film. Though awkward and self-conscious, Saavedra’s nonprofessional performance in the second part of the film is convincing enough. Misael’s uncomfortable gestures when engaging in social interaction might find a logical explanation in his solitary lifestyle. Similarly, the situations he appears in, while seemingly outside his routine, remain feasible and coherent with the first part of the film. Though it is likely we notice the change of performance styles between the two parts, we could read the film as offering a true-to-life portrayal of Misael’s work and life as an axeman. This is until we reach the third and final part of the film which, I argue, invites us to question the authenticity of what we have seen in the first two parts and, therefore, the limits of our observation. In the paragraphs closing this chapter, I want to reflect on how it is, once again, a change in Saavedra’s performance that prompts us to reconsider the film and his role in it. On his way back from town, Misael sings while walking through a field in what can be read as one of the very few clear externalisations of his feelings. The very verse he sings “They call me payer at night and worker by day. In the end, I only take what my money allows for and so, that’s my worth”6 appears to sum up the two sides of Misael’s lifestyle as portrayed in the first and second part of the film. However, with the words “they call me” Misael’s song suggests that this impression of him (payer at night, worker during the day) is a construct of the other’s perception (ours, the filmmaker’s, the people he meets in the town). Moreover, the song also reveals that Misael is aware of this construct and its artificiality, which he does not fight emphatically yet resists by expressing his awareness of it. Misael’s awareness of the other’s gaze is stressed again in the final part of the film, which shows Misael returning to the solitude of his camp and, therefore, the space he knows and controls. After killing and cooking an armadillo he finds on his way home, Misael prepares a bonfire with the branches left over from the trees he has cut. He then sits by the bonfire and eats the armadillo. The shot of Misael eating the armadillo offers a return to the image that opens the film. This version of the shot, though, 6  [Me dicen el paguandero de noche y de día trabajador, yo tomo por mi dinero, en fin, así valgo yo].

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lasts for longer and shows important differences especially when it comes to Saavedra’s performance. The most notable one is that he now looks at the camera on several occasions. In one of them, he even draws a faint smile (Fig. 5.6). It is hard to determine, given the brevity of the gesture and the lack of dialogue, what this smile may imply or mean. Some viewers have read it as a ‘provoking glance’ (Bernini et al., 2001, p. 133), suggesting that Misael is ironically responding to whatever our opinion of him may be. Alonso himself explains that he told Saavedra ‘to look at the camera as if it were a friend who was eating with him’ (Alonso in Bernini et al., 2001, p. 133). Whatever Misael is thinking, or feeling, is not clearly revealed. However, perhaps the noteworthy aspects of this gesture are that it shows that Misael is thinking or feeling something—unlike most of his performance in the previous parts of the film—and that he is aware of the camera and, therefore, the other’s observation. Misael’s final stare towards us appears as a final act of resistance, a return of the character-object of the first part of the film who confronts us by remaining silent and indeterminate while also suggesting, through his actions, the existence of a secret or truth that remains concealed. In his book-length study on direct address, Tom Brown suggests that instances where characters look at the camera can suggest the character’s

Fig. 5.6  La libertad (Lisandro Alonso, 2001)

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‘superior epistemic position within the fictional world’ (2012, p.  14). Direct address, often considered an acting mistake in narrative fiction cinema, also draws attention to the presence of the camera and, therefore, invites speculation on the contrivance of the film. These two possibilities need not be mutually exclusive. That is, Saavedra’s glance might be read as drawing attention to his superior epistemic position regarding the contrivance of the film. By revealing his conscious involvement in the filmmaking process, Saavedra’s glance invites us to reassess the credibility of what we have seen and question its apparent authenticity. Saavedra seems to be letting us know that he was pretending throughout and playfully challenging us to figure out what was true and what wasn’t. In doing so, the question of whether Saavedra is acting or not or, better put, how much pretence is involved in his performance, is actively mobilised in the film and, one might even argue, revealed, through Saavedra’s direct address, as the film’s hidden central concern. With his final provocative glance, Misael seems to recover the confrontational though also alluring sense of mystery he originally embodied. However, by addressing us directly, Misael brings us to question the very source of this mystery, which his smile proposes to shift away from himself as an inaccessible character-object, and towards our impression—our perception and interpretation—of him as a character-actor. That is, by proficiently transitioning between different modes of nonprofessional performance and inviting us to reflect on this shift and its potential implications, the nonprofessional actor acknowledges, challenges and ultimately takes control of the impression he conveys, presenting himself as neither a free spirit of the forest nor a vulnerable victim of the system, but as the conscious manipulator of the mystery we cannot but see in him.

References Agamben, G. ([1996] 2000). Means without End: Notes on Politics (V. Binetti & C. Casarino, Trans.). University of Minnesota Press. Aguilar, G.  M. ([2006] 2011). New Argentine Film: Other Worlds (S.  A. Wells, Trans.). Palgrave Macmillan. Alonso, L. (2001, June 27). [L.  Alonso] “Mi película es radical y extremista”. Diario Los Andes, Mendoza. Retrieved August 2017, from http://www.losandes.com.ar/noticia/estilo-­15794 Alonso, L. (2008). Où va le cinéma? Rencontres, projections, débats. Du 3 au 7 décembre 2008. Centre Pompidou and Les Inrockuptibles. Retrieved July 2022, from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2ulC4ck6HI

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Alonso, L. (2009). Nota del Director. In 19 Semana de Cine Experimental de Madrid: Lisandro Alonso en Experimenta América Latina. Madrid: Casa de América. Retrieved January 2019, from http://www.semanacineexperimentalmadrid.com/09/retrospectivas/alonso.php Andermann, J. (2012). New Argentine Cinema. I.B. Tauris. Aumont, J. ([2014] 2016). Límites de la ficción (M. Manrique & H. Marturet, Trans.). Shangrila. Bazin, A. ([1946–1957] 2005). What Is Cinema? Vol. 2 (H.  Gray, Trans.). University of California Press. Bernini, E., Choi, D., Dupont, M., & Goggi, D. (2001). Tres cineastas argentinos. Conversación con Lucrecia Martel, Lisandro Alonso y Ariel Rotter. Kilometro 111. Ensayos sobre cine, La vía política, 2, 125–150. Bresson, R. ([1975] 2016). Notes on the Cinematograph (J.  Griffin, Trans.). New York Review of Books. Brown, T. (2012). Breaking the Fourth Wall: Direct Address in the Cinema. Edinburgh University Press. Dieleke, E. (2013). The Return of the Natural: Landscape, Nature and the Place of Fiction (M.  McDowell, Trans.). In J.  Andermann & Á. Fernández-Bravo (Eds.), New Argentine and Brazilian Cinema: Reality Effects (pp.  59–71). Palgrave Macmillan. Engelland, C. (2014). Ostension: Word Learning and the Embodied Mind. The MIT Press. Fontana, P. (2009). Entrevista. Lisandro Alonso. La aventura de salir de uno mismo. Otra Parte. Revista de letras y artes (Vol. 19 Verano 2009–2010), Buenos Aires. Retrieved June 2017, from http://revistaotraparte.com/ n%C2%BA-­1 9-­v erano-­2 009-­2 010/lisandro-­a lonso-­l a-­a ventura-­d e-­ salir-­de-­uno-­mismo Gorodischer, J. (2006, May 23). Lisandro Alonso y las claves detrás de “Fantasma”, su nueva película. Página 12. Buenos Aires. Retrieved January 2019, from https://www.pagina12.com.ar/diario/suplementos/espectaculos/5-­2620-­ 2006-­05-­23.html Gundermann, C. (2005). La libertad, entre los escombros de la globalización. Ciberletras: Revista de Crítica Literaria y de Cultura, 13 July. Retrieved January 2019, from http://www.lehman.edu/faculty/guinazu/ciberletras/v13/ gunderman.htm Han, B.-C. ([2016] 2018). The Expulsion of the Other (W. Hoban, Trans.). Polity. Klevan, A. (2000). Disclosure of the Everyday: Undramatic Achievement in Narrative Film. Flick Books. Koza, R. A., & López Seco, C. (2014). Un encuentro con Lisandro Alonso desde la sala de postproducción. Quinta Temporada—Bloque 2. El Cinematógrafo. Córdoba, Argentina: Canal 10. Retrieved January 2019, from https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=KhuitM1y7Qc&t=275s

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Kuleshov, L. ([1922–1968] 1974). Kuleshov on Film: Writings by Lev Kuleshov (R. Levaco, Trans.; R. Levaco, Ed.). University of California Press. Leigh, J. (2002). The Cinema of Ken Loach: Art in the Service of the People. Wallflower Press. Martin, A. (2014). Mise en Scène and Film Style. From Classical Hollywood to New Media Art. Palgrave Macmillan. Martins, L. (2011). En contra de contar historias. Cuerpos e imágenes hápticas en el cine argentino (Lisandro Alonso y Lucrecia Martel). Revista de Crítica Literaria Latinoamericana, 37(73), 401–420. Mauss, M. ([1935] 2007). Techniques of the Body (B.  Brewster, Trans.). In M. Lock & J. Farquhar (Eds.), Beyond the Body Proper. Reading the Anthropology of Material Life (pp. 50–68). Duke University Press. Naremore, J. (1988). Acting in the Cinema. University of California Press. Page, J. (2009). Crisis and Capitalism in Contemporary Argentine Cinema. Duke University Press. Quintín. ([2001] 2012). Lisandro Alonso y La libertad. El misterio del leñador solitario. No Reconciliados. Un Blog de Cine…. Retrieved January 2019, from http://no-­r econciliados.blogspot.com/2012/08/el-­misterio-­del-­lenador-­ solitario.html Ranzani, O. (2008, October 31). Lisandro Alonso ante el estreno de Liverpool, su nueva película “Ni el cine ni el espectador deberían perder la diversidad”. Página 12, Buenos Aires. Retrieved January 2019, from https://www. pagina12.com.ar/diario/suplementos/espectaculos/5-­1 1815-­2 008-­ 10-­31.html Tomlison, D. (1990). Performance in the Films of Robert Bresson: The Aesthetics of Denial. In C.  Zucker (Ed.), Making Visible the Invisible. An Anthology of Original Essays on Film Acting (pp. 365–390). The Scarecrow Press. Zavattini, C. ([1952–1953–1954] 1978). A Thesis on Neo-Realism. In D. Overbey (Ed.), Springtime in Italy: A Reader on Neo-Realism (pp. 67–78). Talisman.

CHAPTER 6

Lluis Serrat and Lluis Carbó in Honor de Cavalleria: Nonprofessional Performance and the Quixotic

In this chapter I examine Honor de Cavalleria/Honor of the Knights (Albert Serra, 2006), a film where two nonprofessional actors—Lluis Carbó and Lluis Serrat—play Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, the iconic protagonists of Miguel de Cervantes’ seminal novel Don Quixote de la Mancha. The reputation of well-known characters such as Quixote and Panza complicates their embodiment in films. As we watch actors playing characters we are familiar with, we cannot but notice the interference between the characters’ and the actors’ bodies. This interference though, is accentuated even further in the specific cases of Quixote and Panza because these characters are themselves defined by a disproportion or disruption between their mundane bodies and the ideal figures they take themselves to be. This bodily disproportion constitutes a central component of the style referred to as quixotic. This chapter explores how Carbó and Serrat utilise a range of nonprofessional details to meaningfully articulate the disruption between performers and their well-known characters,  resulting in inaccurate or unorthodox portrayals of Quixote and Panza. However, I argue that, through their inaccuracies, the performances achieve a quixotic style that is attuned to, and consistent with, the novel’s. Analysing the performances of nonprofessional actors playing well-known characters is important because these performances do not—cannot—contribute towards confusing performer and character. That is, the merits of these performances © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Gaggiotti, Nonprofessional Film Performance, Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32382-9_6

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cannot lie in their capacity to suggest that we are watching the everyday lives of real people, as the status of the characters makes such endeavour impossible. Hence, studying such performances can reveal possible merits beyond their verisimilitude and, therefore, broaden our appreciation of nonprofessional performance in fiction cinema. The chapter is divided into four sections. In the first section, I discuss the particularities of encountering well-known characters such as Don Quixote and Sancho Panza on the screen. Engaging in a discussion initiated by Jean-Louis Comolli ([1977] 1978), I explore the disruption that emerges when actors play well-known characters and how this disruption can be meaningfully incorporated in the films. I then examine concrete cases to consider how nonprofessional performances (can) complicate such disruption. The second section discusses the characters of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the novel as defined, precisely, by a similar disruption between their mundane bodies and their iconic figures. This discussion helps me clarify the challenges actors face when playing Quixote and Panza in films. The third and fourth sections examine how Carbó and Serrat’s performances in Honor de Cavalleria negotiate these challenges to offer unfaithful yet suitably quixotic representations of the characters.

Bodily Disproportions: Playing Iconic Characters on Screen A particularity of cinema is that, as Andrew Klevan points out, ‘characters have no existence apart from the particular human somethings on the screen, and no life apart from the particular stars who incarnate them (Scottie is James Stewart, James Stewart is Scottie)’ (2000, p. 20 parenthesis and emphasis in original). This is, to a certain extent, true of all films, but not all film characters exist in the same way. Surely, to say that in The Passion of the Christ (Mel Gibson, 2004), Jim Caviezel is Jesus Christ and Jesus Christ is Caviezel would necessarily require further clarification. Caviezel plays Jesus Christ. He impersonates Jesus Christ and creates an impression that is likely going to be more limited and incomplete than what we understand Jesus Christ, either as a man or as an idea, to be. One could argue that, while it is true that we have an understanding of Jesus Christ that goes beyond the film, while watching the film we accept the ontological equivalence between Caviezel and Christ. But this would also

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be speaking in metaphorical terms for, are we not, while watching the film, judging Caviezel’s performance based on our pre-existing knowledge of Jesus Christ? This is, to a greater or lesser extent, true of all film adaptations but it is only noticeable when we encounter actors playing well-known characters we imagine as possessing distinct bodies. We don’t run into these issues when we watch films adapted from books or plays without knowing that we are watching adaptations. For instance, in Hamlet (Kenneth Branagh, 1996), Kenneth Branagh is and is not Hamlet—like Caviezel is and is not Jesus Christ—but we are happy indulging in the possibility of him being Hamlet for the duration of the film. This is because Hamlet, unlike Christ, is a fictional character and one partly created to be represented (on stage). However, I would argue that we also have an easier time accepting Branagh as Hamlet because Hamlet does not possess a particularly iconic body. That is, the character does not immediately conjure up a particular type. Though Hamlet may be said to have certain characteristics, inclinations and personality traits, what can we say in terms of his appearance? Relatively young, maybe, and blond perhaps, but that is about it. Conversely, figures such as Jesus Christ or Don Quixote and Sancho Panza are more immediately evocable because a representational consistency has been maintained in their portrayals in pictorial artworks. As is often argued, the physiognomy generally attributed to Christ—light brown hair, pale skin—is probably an inaccurate depiction of the historical human being. Similarly, as Francisco Rico points out, in Cervantes’ Don Quixote ‘Sancho is never described as being short-legged, though he is always depicted so’ (in Cervantes, [1605] 2004, p. 87).1 The iconic image we associate with certain well-known figures (whether historical or fictional) often depends on the consistency of their representation rather than on its fidelity to an original. The fact that certain well-known characters are widely associated with particular bodies introduces a series of challenges for filmmakers and actors wishing to represent these figures on screen. Jean-Louis Comolli 1  This is complicated even further in the case of Don Quixote because the novel is offered as a translation from an apocryphal text (supposedly) written by another author in Arabic. In fact, the only description of Sancho in the novel is not a direct description of the character but, rather, a description of a ‘a very bad painting’ (Cervantes, [1605] 2004: p. 87) the narrator (allegedly) found in a folder (he says) he bought in Toledo. As this painting and its description might themselves be inaccurate, it might be argued that we still don’t, and won’t ever know what Sancho Panza actually looked like.

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discusses these challenges in his essay “Historical Fiction: A Body Too Much” ([1977] 1978), which examines the way historical fiction must contend with an inevitable interference between the (historical) character’s body and the actor’s body. Comolli writes that ‘If the mise-en-scène of a fiction is […] the attribution to real bodies of imaginary characters, things are slightly more complicated with historical fictions: all the characters in them are not fantastic; often they presuppose a referential model’ ([1977] 1978, p.  43). The case of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza is, evidently, slightly different as they are indeed fantasy characters. We are well aware these characters never existed except in the pages penned by Cervantes and myriad subsequent literary, pictorial, theatrical and filmic representations. Unlike Louis XVI in La Marseillaise (Jean Renoir, 1938)—the case discussed by Comolli—Quixote and Sancho do not presuppose models originally belonging to real human beings. Nontheless, Quixote and Panza are so popular that they have come to be associated with particular physiognomies, arguably even more so than certain historical figures, including Louis XVI.2 We expect Quixote and Panza to look a certain way—to possess certain bodies. Historical figures present an irrevocable impossibility when portrayed by actors on the screen. The actor simply cannot be Louis XVI.  Yet, Comolli ([1977] 1978) suggests that the interference he describes is not only a consequence of an actor playing a historical figure, but also results from the fact that the actor is playing a character viewers know well. The disruption is less problematic, Comolli suggests, when an actor plays a minor historical character that existed, yet viewers hold no concrete image of. These are the sort of inconsistencies only historians or viewers particularly familiar with the source materials notice. To the difference between known and unknown characters, one has to add the difference between known and unknown actors, which Comolli does not dwell upon but hints at by suggesting that the bodily interference is also a consequence of the fact that the viewer not only knows the actor is (obviously) not Louis XVI but that he is Pierre Renoir. Viewers are familiar with the actor’s body and this familiarity carries a range of expectations built from the actor’s previous performances and his star image. 2  Nowadays, certain fictional characters carry a more defined referential model than many historical figures. As frivolous as it may sound, many viewers might have a stronger set of expectations regarding how fictional characters such as Mickey Mouse or Luke Skywalker ought to look and behave than historical figures such as Louis XVI.

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Comolli argues that, in the best historical fictions, such as Renoir’s La Marseillaise, the disruption between the actor and character’s bodies is ‘fictionalized’ ([1977] 1978, p. 51). That is, it is mobilised in the films to explore an inconsistency (or disruption) in the historical character’s body. In the case of Renoir’s La Marseillaise, Comolli explains, Pierre Renoir exhibits and mobilises his bodily unease, resulting from the impossibility of actually embodying a historical figure, to portray the degradation of Louis XVI’s royal body. Following Bazin, Comolli picks up on details such as the king’s wig being askew, an image holding powerful symbolism, as it exposes the king’s difficulty controlling his bodily surplus (his symbolic royal body—his body as head of the state). The mismatch between the actor’s and the character’s bodies becomes an important element in the film’s representation of the character’s own difficulties maintaining his symbolic royal body intact and keeping up with the performance expected of him by the spectators within the film. Nonprofessional Actors and Iconic Characters The disruption between the actor’s and character’s bodies is complicated when a nonprofessional actor plays a character presupposing an iconic model. In these cases, the interference is further clouded by the extreme disproportion between the well-known character and the completely unknown actor. Rather than feeling like we progressively discern the features of a character in and through the on-screen body—through the actor’s gestures, actions and performance—we feel like we already possess substantial knowledge of the character (or their iconic image), even if we have not seen the actor for very long. The process of recognition is, in a way, reversed. Presented with a character we know very well embodied by a human figure we have not seen before, we might feel that, as we watch the film, we progressively discover an unknown and mundane human body struggling to assimilate the density of a well-known iconic figure. The symbolically charged, ideal image of the iconic character is attributed a concrete and unknown human body. Several filmmakers have explored the possibilities of casting nonprofessional actors to play well-known characters. The most successful cases are attuned to Comolli’s appreciations and mobilise the disproportion between the performer and character’s bodies to explore the human, mortal dimension of these symbolically charged iconic figures. In Robert Bresson’s Procès de Jeanne d’Arc/The Trial of Joan of Arc (1962) the

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filmmaker was interested in creating a version of Joan of Arc’s trial that was radically different from Carl Theodor Dreyer’s La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc/The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928), in which Maria Falconetti offers a highly affective and emotional performance as the French saint. Bresson developed the script from the minutes transcribed from Joan of Arc’s trial and directed Florence Delay to play Joan with restraint and withheld emotions. Delay’s subdued performance, paired with her quasi-emotionless delivery of the words transcribed from the trial, presents the character’s body as an opaque and hermetic vessel that seemingly delivers rather than speaks words that are, supposedly, God’s as much as (if not more than) hers. Susan Sontag described Florence Delay as ‘the least luminous of all the presences Bresson has “used” in his later films’ ([1961] 2009, p. 185) and saw her lack of intensity as an important flaw of the film. I would agree with her with regard to Delay’s lack of luminosity or aura, yet I do not necessarily see this as damaging the film. On the contrary, Delay’s subdued and restrained rendition of the saint, unlike Falconetti’s seemingly possessed Joan, invites us to confront the challenges recognising her blessings and, therefore, understanding God’s work, a central concern of Bresson’s cinema. Seeing Joan in Delay—like seeing God in Joan— requires an act of (blind) faith rather than the type of analysis of evidence a trial involves. Dreyer’s film concerns Joan’s intensity or her passion (as the film’s title indicates). That is, the film explores her suffering as she tries to convince the judges in the trial of her divine contact, which we can clearly deduce from her expressions. Bresson’s, on the other hand, concerns the trial itself and its unsuitability as the means to judge the saint’s holiness. The fact that Delay struggles to provide signs of Joan’s exceptionality puts the legitimacy of the trial and not just the verdict into question. Similarly, in Pasolini’s The Gospel According to Matthew (1964) the filmmaker cast Enrique Irazoqui, an unknown nonprofessional actor to play Christ. Irazoqui recites Christ’s teachings adapted word for word from St. Matthew’s text in a rather disaffected tone, which imbues his portrayal of Jesus Christ with a quality of predestination. As with Delay, the seemingly inhuman lack of hesitance or pauses in Irazoqui’s intonation, as if complex parables simply rolled off his lips, allows the film to represent the figure of Christ as delivering rather than expressing God’s word. In the case of Pasolini’s film, an important benefit of casting a nonprofessional is his humble and unknown physical appearance. That is, the nonprofessional actor, unlike the star, brings a body not imbued with an extraordinary aura

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that would necessarily compete with, and run the risk of overshadowing, the aura of Christ himself. We might say that each kind of performer (star and nonprofessional) naturally embodies an aspect of Christ or Joan’s duality and, therefore, is better suited to explore, through their performance, the mysteries of the other. As is the case with Dreyer’s film, stars tend to work best in films that focus on the suffering of Christ—his passion. In other words, films that show how, despite his aura, Christ was also human and, therefore, mortal. Conversely, the nonprofessional actor brings the ideal conditions to explore the reverse of this duality. That is, how even what looks like an unexceptional human being might be holy and exceptional. For the star, the challenge is conveying Christ’s humility and vulnerability; for the nonprofessional actor it is hinting at the presence of Christ’s holiness. A third historical case where the mixture of nonprofessional actors and well-known characters is meaningfully deployed is Roberto Rossellini’s Francesco, giullare di Dio/The Flowers of St. Francis (1950). Once again, nonprofessional actors—actual priests—were chosen to play St. Francis of Assisi and his congregation of blessed Franciscans. In Rossellini’s film, the monks’ jovial and positive attitude contrasts with their naked feet walking on gravel, stones and riverbeds. The monks appear untroubled by their human bodies, as if these were precarious and unimportant. Lacking a hedonistic relationship with their bodies, the monks are portrayed as free of unnecessary burdens, particularly the burden of performing according to external expectations. One monk always arrives naked because he cannot stop himself from giving his gown to the beggars even when Francis forbids it. Isolated from society and living among nature, the monks’ freedom contrasts with the figure of the tyrant Nicolaio, played by the well-­ known professional actor Aldo Fabrizi, who is shown corseted within an impractical, cumbersome and heavy armour he needs help getting into and out of. Unlike the monks, the tyrant leader is inescapably constricted by the burden of a vain self-image grander than himself. While different, these three films are concerned with exploring the juxtaposition of the mundane and the divine bodies of the characters. The protagonists in these films are blessed figures, that is, human bodies infused with a purpose, quest or status by powers beyond them. The nonprofessional actors’ performances invite us to regard these historical and, to a certain extent mythical, figures as concrete human bodies. Several nonprofessional qualities help achieve this effect. Besides bearing unknown physiognomies, nonprofessional actors are not accustomed to reviewing

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and judging their own image in movement, lack a certain pride and vanity and appear unsuspecting of the symbolic weight their idealised figures conjure. Their bodies seem manipulated by invisible powers as though the characters themselves were not aware of, or preoccupied with, their holy bodily surplus. If, in the case of Pierre Renoir, the actor’s discomfiture articulates the king’s difficulty dealing with his royal body, in the films of Bresson, Pasolini and Rossellini, the nonprofessional actors’ (seeming) lack of intensity, star aura and vanity create figures that appear neither aware nor in control of the exceptional qualities attributed to their characters. They are the human bodies of saints and prophets before being, posthumously, canonised.

Quixotic Bodies and Their Disruptions Drawing on the work by Comolli and exploring bodily relationships between actors and characters beyond historical fiction, Vivian Sobchack (2012) proposes that any film performer has not two bodies—the performer’s and the character’s—but at least three and sometimes even four. The first one is the “pre-personal body”, genetically conditioned and culturally and socially habituated; it is the prerequisite for all bodily interaction with the world. It is a body that performs without performing, and to a certain extent is independent of us. The “personal body” possesses a higher degree of reflective self-awareness; it is a body intentionally driven and directed—a consciously accessed and acting body. The “impersonated body” is the body of a fictitious entity, the character’s body as performed by the actor—and a body closer to an idea or concept than to a physical being. Rather than ontologically different, these bodies, Sobchack argues, are nested, each occupying a smaller space or dimension within the previous one’s circumscription. A “personal body” (an actor or agent) requires a “pre-personal body” (a human body) and, in most live-action cinema, there cannot be an “impersonated body” (or a character) without a “pre-­ personal” and a “personal body” (a being and an actor). In the case of stars, Sobchack suggests there is a fourth body, the “personified body” which Sobchack defines as ‘a reified amalgam of screen images’ (2012, p. 438). Sobchack’s taxonomy of the film actor’s bodies offers a useful starting point to consider the complexity of the performing body, or bodies, in fiction film. However, Sobchack leaves unexamined a key concern of this chapter. Namely, that not all fictional characters possess just one body.

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This is important when considering the character of Don Quixote, who would be difficult to describe without mentioning the disruption between his material and vulgar body (Alonso Quijano) and the ideal knight he is impersonating (Don Quixote de la Mancha). As authors such as Francisco Rico (in Cervantes, [1605] 2004) and José Ortega y Gasset, ([1914] 2014) have noted, the contrast between the character’s two bodies is a crucial component of Cervantes’ parody of chivalric literature as, rather than extraordinary individuals or exceptional beings, Quixote and Sancho must be recognisably common and vulgar bodies embarking on adventures befitting extraordinary heroes. In Cervantes’ novel, the connotations and expectations linked with Don Quixote and Sancho Panza’s typical physiques or, with their pre-­ personal bodies, following Sobchack, are ironically exploited to establish gaps between the characters’ fictional bodies. Don Quixote, an old senile man who fancies himself an honourable knight, is a figure eminently defined through this gap, or disruption, between his mundane and ideal bodies. Robert Stam (2005, [1985] 1992) has noted how Cervantes’ use of reflexive techniques such as the fiction within the fiction leads to results that appear particularly cinematic. Similarly, in the novel, Don Quixote is not entirely unlike a nonprofessional actor playing a character against his type, or a character his pre-personal body is not ideal for playing. Like Marfa Lapkina in Old and New (Chap. 2) or Edmund in Germany Year Zero (Chap. 3), who could be described as quixotic figures, Don Quixote insists on playing a role his body seems unfit for.3 The quality often described as quixotic refers partly to the disproportion or interference between an individual’s capabilities (or appearances) and their quest (or ideals). For Ortega y Gasset ([1914] 2014), such interference is not only embodied by the character; it is also the essence of Cervantes’ style and a central aspect of the novel as literary genre. Ortega y Gasset proposes that what Cervantes introduces with the novel is not the disappearance of the epic or the fantastic but rather the way these aspects 3  The disruption between appearances (or physiques) and their ideas (or ideals) is a theme Cervantes’ novel explores throughout and not exclusively in relation to its protagonists. The episode of shepherd Marcela (Part I, Chapter XIV), for example, deals with the ideal of beauty associated with certain (women’s) physiques. Marcela, a shepherd regarded by everyone in her community as extraordinarily beautiful, is loved by men despite not seeking their attention. Instead, she just wants to have a solitary life tending to her sheep. Marcela asks: ‘had the heavens made me ugly instead of beautiful, could I justly complain if you did not love me?’ (Cervantes, [1905] 2004, p. 126).

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(already available in literature since Homer) are treated as epic and fantastic, that is, as illusions grounded in a mundane and typical material reality. For this reason, Ortega y Gasset draws attention towards Quixote’s ‘absurd physiognomy [fisonomía disparatada]’ ([1914] 2014, p.  40) where the typicality of his vulgar body coalesces with the fantasies drawn by his gestures and actions.4 However, a second aspect crucial to the quixotic relates to the ironic distance vis-à-vis the characters that Ortega y Gasset ([1914] 2014) associates with the novel’s privileging of description over narration. Description enables commentary and, therefore, the possibility to judge and evaluate from a distanced point of view. The success of the quixotic parody partly depends on our knowledge that Don Quixote is not aware of the fact that he is senile—that he is playing a character. Or, in other words, Quixote is not aware that he is quixotic. This is partly because he has forgotten about the material dimension of his body. Early in the story, Sancho begins calling Quixote “the Knight with the Sad Figure”. Sancho explains that, missing many teeth after battles and his body being visibly injured, Quixote looks noticeably sad (Cervantes, [1605] 2004). This comes as a surprise to Quixote, who had forgotten about the image his pre-personal body projects. Similarly, caught in Quixote’s fantasies, we had also forgotten to take notice of what his human body may look like after so many injuries. The quixotic proposes a parodic dissonance between two aspects and, in the case of the hero, his pre-personal and impersonated bodies. Quixote’s personal body, his acting body, is left caught between these two aspects: his mundane, rudimentary and frail pre-personal body, and the idealised self-image he is trying to project, or his impersonated body. We could even suggest that the figure of Quixote possesses, like a movie star, a personified body. That is, a reified image that stands as an amalgam of his numerous depictions and appearances over the past five centuries. This personified body though, was already introduced by Cervantes, as, in the second part of the novel, published several years after the first one, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza encounter characters who know of them after reading the first part of the novel.

4  In her excellent study Cuerpo y gesto en el Quijote de Cervantes (2002) Bénédicte Torres also proposes the term ‘inadaptive [inadaptado]’ (p. 58) to describe Don Quixote’s absurd gestures in the novel.

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The Challenges Performing the Quixotic Given the way in which the quixotic style guides our attention to gaps between the characters’ different bodies unaccounted for by the characters themselves, it poses a series of challenges for actors willing to portray the characters. Don Quixote has been somewhat of a cursed film project. Several attempts have been made, yet none has achieved substantial critical success. One reason for this might be the length and complexity of the novel, which make it a difficult text to adapt for the screen. However, a second complication might arise from the very parody of bodies the quixotic text demands. The quixotic, like Comolli’s historical fiction, compels us to notice the interferences between bodies which, in turn, undermines the possibility of a stable and convincing representation. Any actor playing Don Quixote will necessarily be seen as an actor playing Don Quixote. The parodic disproportion between the character’s typical and vulgar body and his iconic figure will emphasise the disproportion between any actor’s body and that of the character. Filmed versions of Don Quixote tend to factor this aspect into account. Consider, for example Man of La Mancha (Arthur Hiller, 1972), which stars Peter O’Toole as Don Quixote. O’Toole appears aware of the necessity of conveying the characters’ vulnerability and deploys a range of performance details and mannerisms to project such quality. His hands and body constantly tremble; his eyes arch in a sustained expression of exhaustion. As O’Toole performs the disproportion between Quixote’s frail body and his delusion—that is, he enacts both aspects of Quixote’s dualism— the quixotic draws our attention to the disproportion between O’Toole’s body and the character’s. There is, as Comolli ([1977] 1978) would put it, one body too much. This is O’Toole’s pre-personal body—his English accent, his distinctive look imbued by his aura as a good-looking blond star (his personified body)—which, although partly hidden behind costume and make-up, becomes the target of the quixotic parody. The film is, however, very aware of this issue and introduces not O’Toole as Quixote but O’Toole as Cervantes, who puts up a performance as Don Quixote. O’Toole’s embodiment of Don Quixote is presented as an enactment or a performance within the fiction itself. Similarly, in G. W. Pabst’s Don Quixote (1933), Feodor Chaliapin, the Russian opera singer, plays Don Quixote effusively and with intensity. Pabst’s version is particularly interesting because Chaliapin does not immediately conjure Quixote’s type. Unlike O’Toole, who shares with

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Cervantes’ hero a lanky physiognomy, Chaliapin is rather stocky and younger than Don Quixote as he tends to be represented. Like in Man of La Mancha, in Pabst’s film, the challenge is to transform the actor’s body into the character’s, which Chaliapin does partly through his operatic singing and exaggerated gestures. Pabst’s film also incorporates Chaliapin’s performance reflexively by having Quixote knighted not by an innkeeper like in the novel but by an actor playing a king in a street performance. Through this device, the film frames the character of Don Quixote as a representation. Like Man of La Mancha, Pabst’s film uses narrative devices to partly justify the disruption between the actor and the character’s bodies and (attempt to) lessen its impact.

Honor de Cavalleria: Achieving the Quixotic Through Nonprofessional Performance Albert Serra gives the quixotic a central place in his film Honor de Cavalleria, a decision evidenced in the fact that “Quixotic” was the title used in the film’s early screenings. Serra ([2009] 2010) explains that, while he did not work with a script, he had two important points of reference for his film: Tim Burton’s Ed Wood (1994) and Terry Gilliam’s failed Don Quixote  project, the catastrophic making of which is shown in the documentary Lost in la Mancha (Keith Fulton and Louis Pepe, 2002). For Serra, ‘Burton makes an expensive film about the filmmaker who made the cheapest films and Gilliam is happy with the failure of his super-production about Don Quixote. In both cases, the production [of the films] is completely incoherent with regard to their content’ ([2009] 2010, p.  11). Serra continues by drawing attention to the cheap, improvisational and, in a sense nonprofessional way Don Quixote ‘makes his armour with left-­ overs, with the small things he finds in his house’ ([2009] 2010, p. 11), an attitude Serra sought to incorporate in the making of his film by working with a low budget and a small crew. For the roles of Quixote and Sancho, Serra cast friends and acquaintances from his hometown of Banyoles. Yet rather than adapting with precision the source materials, Serra used a highly improvisational methodology that promotes the emergence of contingent situations during the filmmaking process. When it comes to his filmmaking methods, Serra explains that his aim is not having actors replicate his vision but, rather, prompting their inspiration and making sure the cameras and

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technical equipment are ready to register the resulting performances (Bassas, 2016). To maintain a sense of cohesion in the actors’ performances, Serra gives them three simple rules that, he adds, they must always adhere to: ‘not looking at the director, not answering him back and never to stop acting’ (Serra in Agustí, 2009). With these simple rules, Serra explains his cinema as geared towards capturing unrepeatable performance details emerging unexpectedly and without rehearsals (Č eněk, 2014). Serra’s method is already noticeable in the film’s opening scene, which approaches the admixture of the characters’ bodies and the actors’ differently than Hiller and Pabst’s adaptations. Rather than fictionalising the actor’s transformation into Don Quixote, Honor de Cavalleria opens on Quixote (Lluis Carbó) with his back turned towards the camera, reaching below frame to pick up his scabbard, sword and several pieces of his armour. The camera then follows him as he walks towards Sancho (Lluis Serrat), who is idly sitting next to a tree. The fact that the scene begins in media res, with the image of Quixote picking up his tools, introduces the scene, and the film, as a continuation—or the aftermath—of an action, perhaps a battle in which Quixote’s armour was broken. Like the character, who collects his items from out of frame, the film begins by picking up the figure of Don Quixote, as if left behind (and broken) by more eventful narratives (and representations). Carbó struggles ever so slightly as he bends down to pick up the armour. His white hair and lanky body conjure the image of a vague, generic but also very persuasive Quixote. Unlike O’Toole and Chaliapin, Carbó has the age, physiognomy and appearance of the character. He perfectly fits the type. The film reinforces this impression by not fully showing Carbó’s face in these opening shots. Rather, his profile is partially obscured, sketched in shadows amidst the clean white of his shirt and hair (Fig. 6.1). The image, evocative of the engravings by Gustav Doré, proposes to share the intimacy of one of the character’s mundane and low moments. Although we recognise Quixote’s physiognomy, he does not wear his signature basin hat and absurd amour. Rather, he appears as a somewhat broken and dispossessed old man devoid of his caricature image. Sancho is also introduced in a painterly manner foregrounding stillness rather than action (Fig.  6.2). We find him resting against a tree first and then in a seeming state of absorption when mending the armour. The lack of overtly expressive gestures in these early shots sets up the film’s meditative and uneventful tone. Furthermore, a range of stylistic choices is used to take advantage of the nonprofessional actors’ anonymity

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Fig. 6.1  Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006)

Fig. 6.2  Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006)

and foreground the generic iconography of the characters. Quixote is always framed from the back or sideways in this opening sequence. We will not get a frontal close-up of him until thirteen minutes into the film.

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Sancho, on the other hand, is shown in long shots that, paired with the downcast lighting, keep part of his face in shadows and emphasise the large size of his body wrapped in the white shirt. These early shots achieve a reversal of the quixotic transformation. Rather than encountering (well-­ known) actors who transform into Quixote and Sancho, Serra’s film utilises the nonprofessional actors’ unknown yet accurate physiognomies to introduce the figures of Quixote and Sancho as already embodied by the performers. The character’s iconic traits are worn like fleshy costumes rather than enacted through concrete and recognisable gestures. However, while the film begins with familiar impressions of a melancholy Don Quixote and a passive Sancho, these are quickly upset when Quixote speaks to his companion. “Is it fixed?” Quixote asks in Catalan rather than Spanish. “It is” Sancho replies. “Are you sure? I didn’t see you doing anything” Quixote asks back. This time Sancho does not answer. Again, Quixote asks “Will it stop hurting me now?”. “Now it will” Sancho answers. The conversational tone of the dialogue, made out of short sentences, lends the scene an anachronistic quality. This is neither the language, the phrasing nor the intonation Quixote and Sancho generally use in the novel. Quixote then asks Sancho to fetch him a crown made of laurel.5 Sancho looks at Quixote, frowning slightly with scepticism. “Can you do it?” Quixote asks. Sancho now looks down, avoiding direct eye contact as though hoping that, by doing so, Quixote will either forget about his request or simply let him be. “Go look for it, Sancho” Quixote insists. Sancho answers by fixing his eyes away from Quixote, showing even more clearly his discomfort with the request. As Quixote insists again, Sancho gives up and, struggling, he stands and slowly walks out of frame while giving Quixote a passing disdainful look. Quixote then picks up the armour Sancho was mending to find a shoulder plate unattached to the cuirass, like an important piece of a puzzle left out. Under the characters’ recognisable appearances, we now encounter two men slightly nagging each other. Quixote addresses Sancho with the casual tone a father uses with his slightly rebellious child while Sancho does not use the formal and respectful (though often ironic) tone he uses in the novel when answering back. Rather, he appears bothered by Quixote’s request, as though he would rather just sit quietly and do nothing. Serrat’s sceptical looks suggest disbelief and reluctance, making his Sancho appear 5  Quixote never makes this request in the novel. However, the laurel crown is mentioned in different chapters, including Part II, Chapter XVI and Part II, Chapter LV.

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fed up with Quixote’s absurdities and partially regretting joining the adventure. Carbó, on the other hand, rather than displaying the blind excitement Quixote often shows in the novel and other film adaptations, appears here as a figure making an effort to comply with the absurd image expected of him. The tiredness in his movements and his quiet and disenchanted intonation create the impression of a rather sober Quixote who, despite keeping his fantasies and ideals partly intact, appears lacking the strength to pursue them. Quixote appears to have fallen prey to the frail and concrete reality of his mundane body. The nonprofessionals’ performances partly disrupt the recognisable yet vague impressions their bodies conjure. It is as though Quixote and Sancho were two tired and somewhat passive men who struggle to regain the intensity their absurd quest requires. Quixote seems to have lost his madness. While we are suddenly aware that these figures are radically different from the characters we remember and are familiar with, there is a strong quixotic sense of disruption between the performers and their iconic characters. Serrat’s passivity and disdainful looks vividly capture Sancho’s wary knowledge of Quixote’s absurdity while Carbó’s combination of physical tiredness and verbal insistence creates a Quixote who seems to be drifting between the mundane reality of his frail body and an ideal image of himself conjured by his imagination. Disrupting Don Quixote Through Nonprofessional Filmmaking Ferran Herranz (2016) points out that Honor de Cavalleria is not an adaptation of Carvantes’ novel. Marked by a sense of simplicity and uneventfulness, Serra’s film could be described as concerned with the dead moments left out of Cervantes’ novel or the gaps between its chapters.6 The focus on the banal moments of the characters’ journey, showing the two characters sleeping, eating, washing, walking and resting, is a move away from the iconic ridiculous events the novel is most famous for. However, it is also an approach that, to a certain extent, keeps faith with Cervantes’ satire of knight’s tales. In the novel, attention is often drawn to how, in stories about knights, one never reads about the moments when they are eating, sleeping or healing after battles. Furthermore, Cervantes’ 6  Eloi Grasset proposes the film might also be interpreted as ‘depicting the real historical characters and territories that, had they existed, would have served as Cervantes’s inspiration to create his novel’ (2017, p. 113 emphasis in original).

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Fig. 6.3  Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006)

novel, although full of comical extraordinary events, is also saturated with inconsequential conversations and seemingly uneventful situations that contribute towards grounding the story in a recognisably mundane reality and, therefore, are crucial in the articulation of the quixotic parody. In this regard, Serra’s film shares the novel’s attitude by concentrating on the mundane aspects of the characters’ journey (and bodies) that tend to be excluded in more conventional adaptations. In Serra’s film, however, quixotic comedic aspects are not generally articulated through speech or dialogue but are, rather, a matter of the way the characters react, with their bodies, to the impracticality of the adventure. An early scene shows Quixote and Sancho resting. Flies hover around their faces, capriciously teasing funny gestures and expressions from the performers/characters (Fig. 6.3). Although these images are grounded in mundane events, the quixotic parody, rather than enacted, emerges from the performers’ seemingly unrehearsed gestures of discomfort. These details draw attention to their nonprofessional lack of control and unpreparedness, exposing the absurd mismatch between the bodies and the situations both actors and characters find themselves in. In order to capture these unrehearsed moments, Serra works exclusively with digital formats. He mentions that he was drawn to digital cameras because he felt they offered the possibility of expanding the field of

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vision available for recording, affording greater freedom when it comes to changing framing due to the digital camera’s ease of use and deep-focus (Caméra-stylo, 2016). The economy of shooting digital as opposed to film also permits filmmakers working with modest budgets, such as Serra, the possibility of deploying multiple cameras.7 For Serra, not having to worry about the costs of acquiring and processing film stock allows for a more spontaneous filmmaking process in which the film needs not be carefully planned around a series of pre-established shots. Using multiple cameras operated by different people also allows for multiple points of view and guarantees that nobody has absolute control over the final image. Serra explains that he tries to watch the performances as little as possible for fear of being tempted to correct them or, simply, corrupt them through his attention (2014). Serra’s methodology, which involves working with no scripts—or not adhering to a planned structure—as well as improvising and recording the actors even when they are not acting for the camera, recalls Roberto Rossellini’s filmmaking, rather than Vittorio De Sica’s or Luchino Visconti’s more controlled methods. Serra understands the development of digital technologies as facilitating the (nonprofessional) actor’s spontaneity and inventiveness (Č eněk, 2014). He explains that, with digital cameras, for the first time, equipment, technique and crew can be put in the service of the actors and not vice-versa: I have shot in digital, because it was more simple to serve the actor, and all my method comes down to the principle that the technique should always be prepared to capture the actor’s inspiration, and that this can arise in the most unforeseen moment or circumstance. (2014, p. 92 emphasis in original)

If Alonso’s approach was partly akin to observing documentary subjects through a non-documentary gaze, Serra’s could be described as taking a documentary approach to nonprofessional actors playing fictional characters. Serra works with three cameras (Ballesteros, 2016) that are kept rolling for long periods of time, recording the actors’ performances and their comportment during the filmmaking process. With this approach, Serra explains that he seeks to reduce his presence during the filmmaking 7  Pons Alorda, who kept a diary during the shooting of Serra’s Història de la meva mort/Story of My Death (2013) describes the shoot as an unrehearsed ‘performance’ (2015, p.  84) in which everybody—crew and cast—partakes, and that is always being recorded. Montse Triola, Serra’s producer, adds that they always hire someone to shoot making-of material but end up using the footage in the films themselves (Triola, 2017).

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process and, instead, enable a microcosm where the actors interact among themselves and with the members of the crew, producing unique moments (Bassas, 2016). The actors’ inspiration, rather than resulting from their technique or as a consequence of specific directions, emerges from the seemingly contingent and unplanned communal approach to filmmaking. As Serra explains in his preliminary notes for the making of Honor de Cavalleria ‘everything—film, shooting, actors—must be a quixotic adventure’ ([2009] 2010, p. 130).

Unfaithfully Quixotic Performances At times, in Honor de Cavalleria, the casual tone of the performances and conversations mixes with the themes of the novel, creating a sense of estrangement. After they have taken a break, Quixote tells Sancho to ask God for strength. “Say: God, you are the best!” Quixote asks his companion. While the figure of God features prominently in Quixote’s speeches throughout the novel, Carbó uses phrasings that sound closer to the words of admiration a fan would profess to a football player than a knight would towards God. Similarly, Carbó’s Quixote refers to himself in the third person as “el Quixot”, the form usually used to refer to Cervantes’ novel rather than to the character. His phrasing and intonation are also significantly modern as are his poses and stances, which emphasise the distance between performer and character. Rather than faithfully adapting Cervantes’ text, the nonprofessionals seem to be tentatively improvising small talk around the themes of the novel without clear direction. We feel like we are watching two men attempting to play these figures based on a modern and limited idea of the two characters. However, the intense disruption between the characters as found in the popular imagination and the characters as played by the nonprofessional actors in Serra’s film lends the on-screen figures a strong quixotic quality. Carbó’s attempt to embody Quixote parallels Quixote’s own attempt to embody the ideal knight he fancies himself to be. The success of Serra’s movie lies partially in the fact that the disruption between the actors’ performances and the characters is never fully disclosed and offered as an artifice. The film never presents itself as a reflexive exercise by, for example, exposing the filmmaking devices. The performances challenge significantly yet never fully break the illusion of the film. Rather, the figures always

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remain trapped in their typecast bodies, which frame any gesture or detail as a performance element. Rather than hiding the inconsistencies between the performers and the literary characters, these are absorbed as the distance between the characters’ mundane bodies and their ideal images. Unable to escape their representative bodies and made to perform even when they are seemingly not performing—as when they are resting or sitting—the nonprofessional actors appear to not be able to escape their quixotic (re)presentation. The performers’ lack of control, their incapacity to dictate when the performance ends, allows for the successful emergence of the quixotic disruption which, as mentioned earlier in the chapter, always targets an aspect of the figure’s body not accounted for by the figure itself. Quixote must not be aware of his quixotism. Quixote’s Madness and Carbó’s Nonprofessional Gestures An early scene in the film brings this effect to the fore. We find Sancho resting against a tree with his forehead leaning on his bent arm. Don Quixote observes him with curiosity, trying to understand why his steward finds himself, suddenly, so out of strength. Quixote pats Sancho on his shoulder, in an attempt to give him some encouragement while also looking at the surrounding nature, seemingly seeking inspiration and the right words to invigorate his companion. After patting Sancho a second time, Quixote glances briefly yet directly to his right—out of frame (Fig. 6.4). His eyes quickly return to the scene’s immediate surroundings as he delivers two lines “I see Sancho looking very tired”, “He looks very tired to me”.8 Quixote then looks directly at Sancho and encourages him “Don’t worry, you’ll see how you’ll be fine in a moment”. This brief yet sudden change in Carbó’s performance—his glance off-­ screen followed by his description of Sancho’s tiredness—adds a new layer to his rendition of Quixote in the scene. Carbó’s quick and directed glance out of frame contrasts with his slightly unfocused attention throughout the scene, at times peeking curiously at the branches of the trees, other 8  The lines in Catalan are “El veig molt cansat a en Sancho”, “Molt cansat el veig”. The English subtitles miss Carbó’s use of the first person and translate the lines as “Sancho, you look very tired”, “You look really tired”. The mistranslation of Carbó’s words heavily diminish the particular effect I describe in the following paragraphs by “correcting” Carbó’s delivery.

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Fig. 6.4  Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006)

times ducking slightly to examine Sancho’s eyes. Similarly, while the two characters are alone, Quixote’s report on Sancho’s tiredness is not addressed at his companion. Although his lines could be read as a reflexive musing —Quixote talking to himself—the explanatory manner in which Carbó utters his words frames his statements as answers, suggesting a response to a question which invites speculation on whom Quixote is actually talking to. The preceding furtive glance out of frame draws attention towards an unknown space outside the field of vision, hinting at the presence of an unsuspected stimulant eliciting Carbó’s response. Given the fact that there are no other characters in the scene, Carbó’s glance and intonation introduce the possibility that he is responding to a member of the crew, or the director. Serra ([2009] 2010) clarifies how this particular moment was achieved. He explains that Lluis Serrat was very tired throughout the shoot and Serra sought to incorporate his tiredness into the film. He asked the nonprofessional actors to improvise a scene while Sancho rested and, as the actors performed, he gave them indications. When Serra asked Carbó to talk about Sancho’s tiredness, the nonprofessional actor briefly looked at Serra and answered back while also speaking about Sancho without directly addressing his fellow actor. Carbó, for a moment, disregarded the separation between the fictional space and the filmmaking space, naturally

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producing a series of gestures that partially disrupt, in a Brechtian manner, the fictional limits of the scene. However, Carbó’s capacity to incorporate this brief change of register into his performance by following his two lines with words of encouragement directly aimed at Sancho, allow this detail to appear as a brief lapse rather than as a lasting change of registers. By reporting, as an observer, on Sancho’s tiredness, Carbó momentarily distances himself from the scene, stretching the separation between actor and character before quickly snapping them back together. It is as if Quixote had, for a second, forgotten he was playing Quixote. Carbó’s return to the intimacy of the scene, addressing Sancho directly and, moments later, encouraging him to ask God for strength, severely limits the time we have to reflect on his slip while also offering plausible diegetic explanations for it. Quixote could have been speaking to himself or addressing God and/or nature as he often does throughout the film. While brief, this disruption in Carbó’s performance is particularly illuminating of Don Quixote’s senile condition. By briefly stepping out of character, Carbó renders Quixote’s delusion visible, embodying a character who struggles to remain grounded and, literally, sees and speaks to entities not visible to others. Carbó’s mistake is coherent with the character’s uncertain perception of reality and the imaginary and his tendency to mistake the two. Carbó uses his presence in the frame and his awareness of the reality which lies beyond it to visually establish Quixote’s liminal state, caught between concrete physical reality and oneiric fantasy. The space outside of the frame—brought to our attention by Carbó’s gesture—is introduced as an abstract and inaccessible area of Quixote’s inner world, a dimension of his character real enough for him to respond to but not given a concrete meaning for us to identify. The actor’s untutored response to a specific non-diegetic stimulus is reconfigured as the character’s seemingly delusional interaction with immaterial beings or thoughts. Although Carbó’s nonprofessional gesture is particularly suggestive of Quixote’s dementia, part of the power of the detail lays in its brevity and ambiguity, which make it easily missed. Rather than a blatant sign of Quixote’s madness, the detail could still be regarded as the character’s slip. This is important for the film because Carbó’s rendition of Quixote never clearly shows his character making up things or entities the way he does in the novel. Rather, Carbó’s Quixote inherits the character’s idealism, his allegiance to knight errantry and his drive to persevere in the adventure. This idealism emerges in Carbó’s speeches that, for example, highlight

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nature as God’s blessing or insist on the virtues of the Golden Age of Chivalry with fervour. However, this idealism never quite takes off to fully transform the film’s mundane and uneventful situations into fantasies. Though at times ingenious and always insistent, Carbó’s Quixote remains grounded in the concreteness of his mundane body. Panza’s Tiredness and Serrat’s Waiting In Serra’s film, Quixote and Sancho appear tired, as if slightly aware of the ineffectiveness of their adventure. Quixote speaks in a mellow voice while Sancho often looks mildly uncomfortable, as if he would rather just sit down and wait. This propensity towards inaction becomes a particularly rich quality of Serrat’s performance and one that vividly renders Panza’s scepticism towards the adventure, which the character expresses in the novel through speeches. Serrat has a particularly comfortable way of waiting. He is, quite literally, a professional “rester”, someone who seems cosy in stillness, unthreatened by the pressure of passing time. He often takes a few seconds before performing an action, as if gathering strength while also savouring his last few moments of inactivity. Similarly, he does not rush things, prolonging the length of time spent performing his actions. It is as if he were aware of the absurdity of Quixote’s (or Serra’s) commands and the waste of time and effort they mean for him. Sancho embodies not exclusively Cervantes’ Sancho Panza but, rather, the type of servant that, like Sancho in Cervantes’ novel or Selifan in Gogol’s Dead Souls, accompanies a character of higher status involved in absurd undertakings. With his aversion towards activity and tendency to delay actions, Serrat captures the way these companions try to deflect attention, aware that being addressed will always involve a request demanding their effort. As such, Serrat seems to try, for as long as possible, to stay under the radar, to not remind Quixote of his availability. In Honor de Cavalleria, Sancho’s scepticism towards Quixote’s actions is conveyed through physical actions rather than spoken words, like in the novel. Serrat’s large body, moving slowly through the scenery, appears to have passively incorporated rather than actively enacting the interference between the character’s pre-personal body and his impersonated body. In the film, Sancho carries a spear, a weapon Quixote uses in the novel, for example, when he charges at the windmills he mistakes for giants. The spear is never used as a weapon in Serra’s film, though. Rather, Sancho uses it as a cane to help him walk through the fields or to rest on when

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waiting (Fig.  6.5). Serrat, the nonprofessional actor, renders a fictional prop into a practical tool he uses to overcome the difficulties his large body finds enduring the long walks and standing periods during the filmmaking process. Using the spear as a cane, Serrat draws our attention to his pre-personal body in its particular shape, size and form, a body not specifically performing but simply adapting to the concrete material circumstances in which it finds itself. In Honor de Cavalleria, shooting on location, a feature common in films made with nonprofessional actors, facilitates the emergence of contingent interactions between the performers’ bodies and the environment. These interactions play an important role in conveying the impression that Quixote and Panza are lost in an adventure they are not physically prepared for. Quixote’s idealism and his insistence on moving forward contrasts with Sancho’s physical passivity, which captures the character’s disbelief. Similarly, Sancho often leaves his actions unfinished, as though he were aware of their ineffectiveness. When Quixote asks Sancho to help him put his sword on, Serrat clumsily hangs the belt of the sword’s scabbard around Quixote’s neck and steps out of frame, as though considering the results good enough. Quixote then points out that it is not the correct position and asks Sancho to fix it. As Sancho slowly takes the sword off Quixote, his master teases him by asking whether he is still asleep. Serrat

Fig. 6.5  Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006)

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then hangs the sword’s belt around Quixote’s neck in the same position he had done before, as though trying to fool Quixote by repeating rather than changing his actions. Sancho seems to be successful as Quixote does not complain a second time and, instead, asks “How do I look?”. When Quixote asks about his appearance, genuinely interested in looking as knightly as possible, Sancho rearranges the sword one last time as though partly regretting his previous deceitful actions. There is an altruistic element in Sancho’s last gesture which suggests that rather than believing in Quixote’s absurd demands and reproaches, he complies with them to help Quixote sustain his illusion—to help his friend enact the fantasy he so helplessly (though unconvincingly) insists on performing. Quixote’s madness is represented through Carbó’s particular kind of nonprofessional performance where the actor insists on attempting to play the character despite his limitations and the film’s emphasis on mundane and inconsequential events. It is in the moments where the performer seems to step out of character that, paradoxically, the character’s delusion appears most vivid. Panza’s scepticism, on the other hand, emerges through Serrat’s propensity towards inaction. This manifests most clearly in the fact that never in the film does Serrat speak without being asked something first. Every line is an answer, most actions are reactions. It is as though the performer were not fully invested in playing his role and tried, instead, to participate as little as possible. However, he always ends up giving in and partaking, moved by a sense of solidarity and camaraderie rather than a sincere belief in Quixote’s or Serra’s quest. Quixote and Panza’s Bodily Exchanges Serra’s film is fascinated by the way Serrat and Carbó handle their bodies. In a later scene, Quixote and Sancho take their clothes off and refresh themselves in a small lake. Quixote is quick to undress, excited about going in the water, while Sancho is happy just splashing some water on the nape of his neck. Sancho’s body, so stable on firm grounds, struggles maintaining a precarious balance when standing inside the pond. Each small step shakes his large figure and soon he finds himself returning to the shore and quickly reaching for his spear to get further stability. “Do you not want to swim a little bit?” Quixote asks. He walks into the water. “Be careful, I don’t know how to swim” he says before he quickly dives and performs a graceful crawl stroke across the pond (Fig. 6.6). Once in the water, Quixote looks particularly comfortable, as if his age and pains had

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Fig. 6.6  Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006)

disappeared. “I feel much better now” he says and encourages Sancho to join him inside the pond. Sancho takes his shirt off and, as he splashes the back of his now bare torso, his body shivers intensely, causing him to almost fall over (Fig. 6.7). The moment is particularly rich in establishing the exchange of qualities between Quixote and Sancho central to the novel’s second part specifically. In the text, as their adventure progresses, Quixote’s speech and behaviour sometimes adopts Sancho’s mannerisms while Sancho adopts Quixote’s. In Serra’s film, much sparser in dialogue, a similar exchange happens between the bodies of the two characters/nonprofessional actors. In the water, Quixote’s fragility seems to disappear, and he dives in the pond with voracity, head first, in what feels like an attempt to fill his body with the freshness of the water. Sancho, on the other hand, whose round belly and heavy size stand as visual symbols of his voracity, appears particularly sensitive in contact with the water in the pond. His large body, rather than an uncontrollable appetite, conveys a particularly delicate physicality, almost like an infant’s body that needs to be reassured and carefully escorted into the water, looked after by Quixote the same way Sancho looks after Quixote when they are on land. Similarly, later in the film, Quixote is kidnapped, and Sancho is left companion-less. We then see Sancho using Quixote’s sword to hack at

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Fig. 6.7  Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006)

some bushes around him as though trying to embody Quixote’s role. However, Sancho is unsuccessful, partly because he fails to project Quixote’s intensity. Though taking his master’s sword and hacking at nothing, actions Quixote has performed earlier in the film, Sancho’s actions don’t suggest that he is drifting between reality and fantasy or perhaps seeing invisible figures. He just hacks at bushes, in full knowledge of the absurdity of his actions. However, a nameless character (possibly another knight) walks into frame and asks Sancho: “What are you doing?”. “We’ve been in a lot of adventures, Quixote and I,” Sancho replies. Sancho goes on to explain how many people Quixote has killed. When the knight asks Sancho what he does when he is not on adventures, he answers, “I work in construction”. “That’s nice” the knight answers and asks Sancho whether he has a wife, to which Sancho answers that he does not. “Wouldn’t you like to marry, have children and build a house to live with them?” the knight asks. “It would be really nice,” Sancho answers. Of course, Cervantes’ Sancho does not work in construction and does have a wife and children so, in this scene, the conversation seems to begin as a fictional dialogue between two characters and end as a casual talk between two people. However, as Serrat strays out of the fiction, the details about his real-life background are articulated as his character’s fantasies. Carbó’s quixotism, which emerges when the performer forgets

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about the distance between diegetic and non-diegetic spaces and stimuli, is here embodied by Serrat, who, through his lines, gives his Sancho an unconventional set of dreams or fantasies. Perhaps Sancho has been involved in Quixote’s adventures for so long that he has forgotten about his wife and imagined himself as a construction worker. Panza’s dreams are anachronistic and unfaithful to the novel, yet these qualities and the sense of sincerity and conviction with which Serrat delivers his lines make the absurd distance between nonprofessional performer and character in this scene appear particularly quixotic.

Conclusion This chapter has explored nonprofessional performance in the context of adaptation by considering films where professional and nonprofessional actors play well-known characters. Though I have referred to historical cases, my analysis has concentrated on Albert Serra’s Honor de Cavalleria, a film where two nonprofessional actors play, albeit in an improvisational and free manner, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Through the analysis of concrete moments in the film, this chapter has sought to demonstrate that nonprofessional performance details such as acting “mistakes”, seemingly unrehearsed bodily discomfort, unconvincing gestures and passive, non-narrative behaviour play an important role in articulating a quixotic style akin to the one the novel and its characters are famous for. At the same time, through my analysis linking nonprofessional details with the quixotic, I have tried to suggest something about the way in which characters such as Don Quixote and Sancho Panza are defined by modes of performance we might describe as nonprofessional. In this regard, my analysis complements the theories of authors such as Robert Stam ([1985] 1992), Jacques Rancière ([2001] 2006) and Pere Gimferrer ([1985] 2016) who have suggested that, in different ways, cinema as a modern invention partly continues forms of representation initiated (or developed substantially) by the novel. Though these authors have focused their analysis on thematic correspondences between novels and films or the way certain novels (including Don Quixote) describe events in ways that resemble continuity editing, my analysis has attended to another point in common between novels such as Don Quixote and certain styles of modern cinema, namely their concern with situating the ideal as part of the worldly and more specifically, the way such representational operation can be achieved through certain modes of nonprofessional performance.

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In her monograph Novel Characters, Maria DiBattista explains that, while the notion of character often suggests an individual’s habitual expression, this definition ‘presupposes the idea of breaking or eluding habit, a possibility conveyed when we say someone is acting out of character’ (2010, p. 4). DiBattista sees this gesture as representative of characters often referred to as “round”, who she describes as capable of surprising. That is, round characters are characters capable of acting out of character. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza are round characters but, more importantly, they are not aware that they are playing characters. That is, they might be more or less conscious of the roles they attempt to play but they are unaware of the impressions they convey in the process of embodying their roles. Quixote and Panza are, in a sense, prisoners of the characters they embody, a condition Panza (inadvertently) highlights in Part II (Chapter III) when he refers to himself and Don Quixote as ‘prisonages’ (Cervantes, [1605] 2004, p.  570). Sansón Carrasco, Quixote’s antagonist, corrects Sancho: ‘Personages, not prisonages’ (p.  570 emphasis in original) and, thus, he prevents Sancho from potentially developing greater awareness of his status through his “mistake”. In this regard, expanding the notion of nonprofessional performance beyond film can help us illuminate and come to terms with the ways in which different characters (might be said to) perform in other narrative artforms. Before closing this chapter, I would like to reflect briefly on an aspect that has not been covered in my analysis regarding the relationship between nonprofessional actor and iconic character. If the nonprofessional actor gives the iconic character an unknown and mundane human body, what does the iconic character give the nonprofessional actor? As mentioned earlier in the chapter, as we watch Serra’s film, we seem to progressively learn a few details about Serrat’s life, rather than Sancho’s. Similarly, in his final speech, Quixote tells Sancho that he feels very tired and knows he will die soon. He then asks Sancho to continue with the adventures they have started together. Carbó passed away in 2017 and the film was screened in an act attended by his family and friends. This scene was particularly emotional for members of the audience. During the event, I had the opportunity to speak with Serrat and asked him whether or not he enjoyed acting. He said that he loved it because it allowed him to travel the world and visit places and meet people he otherwise would not have been able to meet or visit. In a sense, in exchange for their human bodies, the nonprofessional actors were given quixotic adventures and iconic images that survived their contingent bodies.

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References Agustí, À. (2009). Albert Serra (i els actors), Butxaca: L’agenda cultural de Barcelona. Rumiworks Tv. Retrieved February 2018, from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJMIT5_OvYw&t=17s Ballesteros, G. (2016). Albert Serra: “Hai algo, non direi subversivo, pero si inédito ao ver a Louis XIV morrer con esta banalidade”. eldiario.com. praza.gal. Diario de Prensa Digital S.L., A Coruña. Retrieved January 2018, from http:// praza.gal/cultura/13090/albert-­serra-­lhai-­algo-­non-­direi-­subversivo-­pero-­si-­ inedito-­ao-­ver-­a-­louis-­xiv-­morrer-­con-­esta-­banalidader/ Bassas, A. (2016). Entrevista d’Antoni Bassas a Albert Serra. Ara.cat, Diari Ara, Barcelona. Retrieved February 2018, from https://www.ara.cat/videos/entrevistes/Entrevista-­dAntoni-­Bassas-­Albert-­Serra_3_1611468842.html Caméra-stylo. (2016). Entrevista a Albert Serra. Caméra-stylo, Revista ECIB, Barcelona. Retrieved January 2019, from https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=SGePzGDPmnE&t=3s Č eněk, D. (2014). Master Class: Albert Serra. Ji.hlava International Documentary Film Festival 2014. Retrieved January 2019, from https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=2Ty7BgezZ6I&t=5505s Cervantes, M. D. ([1605] 2004). Don Quijote de la Mancha (F. Rico, Ed.). Real Academia Española, Asociación de Academias de la Lengua Española. Comolli, J.-L. ([1977] 1978). Historical Fiction: A Body Too Much. Screen, 19(2), 41–54. DiBattista, M. (2010). Novel Characters: A Genealogy. Wiley-Blackwell. Gimferrer, P. ([1985] 2016). Cine y Literatura. Austral. Grasset, E. (2017). The Truth about Don Quixote in Honor de Cavalleria (Albert Serra, 2006). In A.  Cortijo Ocaña & E.  Grasset (Eds.), Re-Imagining Don Quixote (Film, Image and Mind) (pp. 107–122). Juan de la Cuesta. Herranz, F. (2016). El Quijote y el cine. Cátedra. Klevan, A. (2000). Disclosure of the Everyday: Undramatic Achievement in Narrative Film. Flick Books. Ortega y Gasset, J. ([1914] 2014). Meditaciones del Quijote y Otros Ensayos. Alianza Editorial. Pons Alorda, J. C. (2015). Apocalipsi Uuuuuuuaaaaaaa. Comanegra. Rancière, J. ([2001] 2006). Film Fables (E. Battista, Trans.). Berg. Serra, A. ([2009] 2010). Honor de cavalleria: Plano a Plano (J.  Bassas Vila, Trans.). Intermedio. Serra, A. (2014). The Dramaturgy of Presence. Cinema Comparat/ive Cinema, II(4), 91–94. Sobchack, V.  C. (2012). Being on the Screen: A Phenomenology of Cinematic Flesh, or the Actor’s Four Bodies. In J.  Sternagel, D.  Levitt, & D.  Mersch (Eds.), Acting and Performance in Moving Image Culture: Bodies, Screens, Renderings (pp. 429–445). Transcript Verlag.

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Sontag, S. ([1961] 2009). Against Interpretation and Other Essays. Penguin. Stam, R. ([1985] 1992). Reflexivity in Film and Literature: From Don Quixote to Jean-Luc Godard. Columbia University Press. Stam, R. (2005). Literature Through Film: Realism, Magic, and the Art of Adaptation. Wiley-Blackwell. Torres, B. (2002). Cuerpo y gesto en el Quijote de Cervantes. Centro de Estudios Cervantinos. Triola, M. (2017). Entrevista amb Montse Triola/Interviewer: M.  Gaggiotti. Barcelona: Unpublished.

CHAPTER 7

Honor Swinton Byrne in The Souvenir: Self-­Consciousness and Privilege

This chapter explores Honor Swinton Byrne’s performance as Julie in The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019). The Souvenir is an important and unique case study when it comes to nonprofessional performance for three key reasons. Firstly, unlike other films examined in this book, such as Honor de Cavalleria and La libertad, which focus on characters who are isolated or detached from a social world, The Souvenir is particularly concerned with everyday social interaction, its codes and manners. Therefore, the film offers a good opportunity to examine how nonprofessional performance details contribute towards the dramatisation of the characters’ interaction in such contexts. In order to examine this aspect of the film I will be analysing Swinton Byrne/Julie’s performance but will also pay particular attention to the different ways her performance is contextualised and conditioned by expectations and assumptions set by other characters and Julie herself within the film. Secondly, The Souvenir is explicitly a reflexive film that depicts a young filmmaker’s creative process and journey as she discovers her artistic voice. If, as I have proposed in this book, we define nonprofessional performances as those featuring details that reveal or suggest that the performer is not a professional actor, then most films featuring such performances are likely to involve forms of reflexivity. By inviting us to speculate about the performer’s status and the film’s creative process, many of the films discussed in previous chapters activate their documentary dimension, their © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Gaggiotti, Nonprofessional Film Performance, Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32382-9_7

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status as (presumed) testimonies of the filmmaking event. Nonetheless, the films discussed so far involve modes of reflexivity akin to what David MacDougall terms ‘“deep” reflexivity’ (1998, p. 89), where the rapport between the camera’s perspective and the performer’s gestures and actions reveals or suggests something about the relationship between the filmmaker and the subject. The Souvenir mobilises such form of deep reflexivity, but also explicitly follows a character who is a filmmaker—Julie is partly based on Joanna Hogg’s youth—and is played by a nonprofessional actor (Swinton Byrne). In this regard, The Souvenir differs from other reflexive films such as Bellissima and También la lluvia/Even the Rain (Icíar Bollaín, 2010), which depict fictional filmmaking processes and feature nonprofessional actors playing fictional nonprofessional actors within the film. The Souvenir is also very different from films such as Fantasma (Lisandro Alonso, 2006) or El Senyor ha fet en mi meravelles/The Lord Worked Wonders in Me (Albert Serra, 2011), two docu-fictions that, in different ways, explore the nonprofessional actors’ experiences after making their first films. In The Souvenir, on the other hand, nonprofessional actor and filmmaker are collapsed together, embodied by a single figure. An important question that arises in relation to this aspect is: how does nonprofessional performance contribute towards dramatising the filmmaker’s creative journey? The third remarkable quality of Hogg’s film is crucial in this regard as it concerns Swinton Byrne’s ambiguous status as a nonprofessional actor. Swinton Byrne is the daughter of Tilda Swinton, an internationally renowned star and a seasoned actor. Swinton and Hogg hold a dear friendship that goes back to their student years. Swinton was cast early by Hogg to play the protagonist’s mother in The Souvenir so she and Swinton Byrne play mother and daughter in the film itself. Swinton Byrne’s background conditions her nonprofessional status, at least if we compare her to other cases surveyed in this book (which I deem representative of popular nonprofessional casting practices). In most of these cases, nonprofessionals were “discovered” in the streets, come from modest backgrounds, and had no significant connection with screen acting. Swinton Byrne, on the other hand, landed her role thanks to family connections, comes from a wealthy family, and is related to one of Britain’s most successful thespians. These particularities complicate seeing Swinton Byrne’s as a nonprofessional actor. However, it is important to point out at this stage that both Swinton Byrne and Hogg frequently remark in interviews that the former

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had no acting experience or interest in an acting career.1 Though such claims should be treated with caution, the fact that both filmmaker and performer point to Swinton Byrne’s (alleged) lack of screen acting experience as a quality informing her casting suggests it was an important and deciding factor for Hogg and one likely to be meaningfully incorporated in the film. I will argue that Swinton Byrne’s uncommon status as nonprofessional actor from a privileged background informs Julie’s performance, enabling the film to explore, precisely, the possibilities such an ambiguous position might afford.

Julie: The Self-Consciousness of Privilege The first time we see Julie, the protagonist of The Souvenir, she is hosting a party in her flat in Knightsbridge, London. The sequence does not open with her but, instead, shows one of Julie’s guests—Phil (Tosin Cole)— improvising a mocking song about Julie’s lavish apartment.2 Phil’s posture and demeanour complement the song’s sardonic lyrics. His reclined lounging in Julie’s sofa and spread arms offer a parody of lazy indulgence, a caricature enhanced by the mismatch between the brandy glass Phil holds in one hand and the joint he casually waves with the other. As Phil sings, he supports his performance with exaggerated arm movements, which carelessly cause a red-hot sparkle of ash to flutter lazily towards the sofa. Neither Phil nor the other guests, who laugh as he finishes his song, pay any attention to it. This opening shot frames the party as involving an awkward relationship between Julie and her guests, who satirise their host’s privilege playfully (though bitingly) and, in the process, qualify Julie’s performance before she even makes her appearance. The uncomfortable combination of jesting and carelessness registers on Julie’s demeanour and body language as she walks in. With downcast eyes, she discreetly makes her way through the narrow gap between two guests engaged in conversation, as though hoping to avoid eye contact (and a potentially awkward exchange inevitably conditioned by Phil’s parody). At the same time, Julie’s insistence on walking towards camera and into the centre of the action signals an active attempt at making her presence felt among her guests. Julie’s  See Concannon (2019), Erbland (2019), Armistead (2022).  The lines of the song are: “Right now I’m in Knightsbridge, in a really nice flat. I’m gonna get me one of these places, with five of my wives”. 1 2

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desire for acknowledgement is also noticeable in the quick side glance she throws at one of the guests as she walks by, which briefly morphs her sweet and courteous smile into a slightly condescending smirk (Fig. 7.1). Julie’s smirk, in turn, tinges her polite though brief “I’m sorry”, a line that, as delivered, feels part apology part reprimand. Julie’s politeness is complicated by her self-conscious awkwardness. It is not just that Julie’s apology is unfelt, but that her lack of sincerity is clumsily projected in a subtle attempt to expose others to the carelessness of their behaviour without risking Julie’s own exposure. That is, rather than honestly explaining or articulating her discomfort, Julie’s gesture is an ambiguous though clear [“I don’t mind, but I do”] or [“I say I don’t mind, but I do”]. Julie seems to be trying to get the guests to acknowledge her and offer her the consideration (she thinks) she deserves and needs to feel comfortable in her own house. Yet her way of doing so is to call attention politely though self-consciously to the fact that she is having to apologise to navigate her own space. Julie’s smile dissipates into a passing and private sigh of irritation as soon as she is clear, though (Fig.  7.2). Her disapproving gesture seems partly a response to the party’s tone and atmosphere, which Julie is clearly uncomfortable with. The sigh might also be an acknowledgement of her

Fig. 7.1  The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019)

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Fig. 7.2  The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019)

earlier smile and apology, Julie’s way of expressing (however privately) her disgust at having to perform unfelt courtesy and candour towards guests who show her little respect or consideration. However, Julie’s sigh also comes right after Phil announces her arrival with a casual though satirical “There she is!”. The sarcastic tone Phil’s off-screen remark shares with his earlier singing sabotages Julie’s entrance, upsetting her discretion and politeness by drawing attention to their contrived deployment as part of Julie’s first appearance. Julie’s sigh, in this context, conveys her annoyance towards Phil’s comment and the party’s tone, but also her frustration with her own difficulties navigating a social arrangement that contextualises and frames her performance against her wishes, preventing her from presenting herself comfortably and successfully in her own terms. Though very different in style and tone, Julie’s performance in this scene has aspects in common with the early scene in Salò (Chap. 4), where the cyclist’s self-conscious shrug and head-scratching gesture call attention to the artificiality of his performance, conveying a self-directed, and therefore corrupt, impression of innocence. Similarly, Julie’s transition from slightly courteous though ironic smile to irritated sigh is not unlike the young communist’s performance in The Deserter (Chap. 2), where the performer’s self-preoccupied front crumbles to reveal more uncontrolled,

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and therefore honest gestures. As was the case with the young communist, by staying on Swinton Byrne, the camera captures the moment-by-­ moment fluidity of her performance, the way her expressions transition sharply though fluently from one gesture and emotion to another.3 More importantly perhaps, the camera’s sustained attention also captures the artificiality of Julie’s front, which Julie reveals through the transition between her public smile and apology—evidently performed for her guests to register—and her private sigh, which she lets out while looking downwards and using her posture and back to shield herself from the gaze of her guests. One important difference between the scene in The Souvenir and those in Salò and The Deserter is the function the camera and the filmmaking apparatus play in terms of both triggering and recording the performances. In Salò and The Deserter, the frontal (and confrontational) framing stresses the camera’s presence as the source of the nonprofessional actors’ self-­conscious gestures. In doing so, these films—as well as others such as Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Chap. 1) or Bicycle Thieves (Chap. 3)—call attention (however subtly or unintentionally) to the power imbalance between cinema, the filmmaker, and the viewer on one side, and the (nonprofessional) performer on the other. These films embrace, while also condemning, the way cinema exploits eager though naive nonprofessional actors by forcing them to expose themselves in front of the camera to fulfil our cruel fascination with seeing others in moments of discomfort and vulnerability.4 In The Souvenir, things are quite different as Julie is already—from the very beginning—a character performing awkwardly and self-consciously. The filmmaking event might have been as imposing for Swinton Byrne as for the young communist or the cyclist.5 However, the camera’s low angle and bumpy hand-held movement as it tries to keep up with Julie, minimise our awareness of the apparatus’ agency as a source of the performer’s self-­consciousness. If Julie’s concern over her behaviour is a result of Swinton Byrne feeling intimidated by the camera’s attention, this is not a possibility suggested or foregrounded through framing and  For an analysis of fluency in relation to screen performance, see Klevan (2012).  For a discussion of how this aspect of nonprofessional performance is dramatised in El Perro/Bombon: El Perro (Carlos Sorin, 2004) see Gaggiotti (2021). 5  Swinton Byrne explains she was particularly nervous performing in this scene because it was the first scene shot for the film and, therefore, her first time acting. See Swinton Byrne (2020). 3 4

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mise-en-scène. On the contrary, rather than confronting the performer, the camera seems concerned with accompanying her as she navigates the scene. Though still a relentless observer exposing the performer’s awkwardness with merciless precision, the camera in The Souvenir also feels like a confidant that offers Julie company and attention when nothing (or nobody) else does. This early moment in The Souvenir introduces a complex case of social performance mediated by the camera and cinema. Although Swinton Byrne’s gestures are attuned to other instances of nonprofessional performance discussed in the book, her self-consciousness, rather than triggered by the camera or the filmmaking event, is disclosed by its recording. By introducing Julie’s performance as diegetically contextualised and conditioned, the film decouples the camera’s double role as agent and observer, minimising the earlier and foregrounding the latter. At the same time, by patiently attending to and observing the fluidity of Julie’s performance and its transition from public to private expressions, the film presents Julie as a nonprofessional social performer who is sensitive to, but also frustrated by, the way her performance is contextualised. Julie’s gestures, poised between politeness and irritation, reveal her precarious in-­ betweenness as she brings herself to perform according to external expectations but also visibly disapproves of her resulting gestures.6 Filmmaking and Escaping Privilege The clash between Julie and her guests is accentuated and qualified by the characters’ voices and speech, which draw attention to significant class differences. Authors have pointed out the importance of speech in revealing social class, particularly within a  British context. For instance, Kate Fox observes that ‘One cannot talk about English conversation codes without talking about class. And one cannot talk at all without immediately revealing one’s own social class’ (2004, p. 73). Though Julie sounds posh, her guests speak with working-class intonations. Furthermore, unlike her guests, Julie neither drinks nor smokes (or at least we don’t see her doing so during the opening sequence) and the messy state of the party contrasts 6  Later moments in the party share a similar pattern where, by staying with Julie after she has performed socially, the camera captures her private expressions and, in doing so, suggests the deceit and effort of her public front as well as Julie’s discomfort performing politely for her guests.

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against the sense of care with which she navigates the space. The characters’ gestures and behaviour also partly conform to conventional class stereotypes. Phil—who is black, smokes marihuana and speaks with a south London accent—performs with lively though cheeky confidence as he makes remarks about Julie’s apartment and satirises her entrance. Julie’s awkward self-consciousness, on the other hand, projects the quirky blend of politeness and disingenuousness often associated with upper-class behaviour. The film also seems poised between two kinds of cinema. Though a period drama set in the 1980s, it lacks the nostalgic grandeur generally associated with heritage films. At the same time, as David Forrest (2014) explains, the film’s focus on the personal challenges of upper-class characters complicates its association with paradigmatic social realist cinemas. These film traditions, however, are referenced in The Souvenir. Later in the film, for example, we see grand interiors that evoke the luxurious settings of heritage films. Similarly, Julie often discusses her plans to make a social realist film set in Sunderland about a working-class boy whose life crumbles as his mother dies. We can imagine such film as similar to Kes (Ken Loach, 1969), Ratcatcher (Lynne Ramsay, 1999) or This is England (Shane Meadows, 2006). Julie’s working-class child protagonist—who would likely have been played by a nonprofessional actor—might have reminded us of Edmund in Germany Year Zero or Mouchette in Mouchette, whose nonprofessional helplessness foregrounds their vulnerability as they deal with terrible traumas partly resulting from losing their parents. The intentions behind Julie’s Sunderland project, however, are ambiguous. Later in the film, when she discusses her project with Anthony, Julie insistently points out that she is not interested in making a documentary while at the same time arguing that the Sunderland boy and his trauma are real and based on real people. Julie never quite manages to clarify what precisely makes them real—a point Anthony draws attention to by asking if they are more real than him. Through this conversation The Souvenir questions the parameters we use to gauge notions such as film realism and the ways such notions are linked to conventions filmmakers often adhere to without necessarily questioning. The Sunderland project similarly reveals Julie’s desire to realise herself as an independent art cinema filmmaker, who works in the tradition of iconic auteurs associated with social realism and a politically conscious cinema. In fact, Julie later describes her Sunderland project as means of escaping the “bubble” of privilege she sees her life as. This confession suggests the project is as much (or perhaps

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more) an exercise of self-presentation or self-validation than an attempt at rendering the struggles of others. Julie’s party in the opening scene has aspects in common with her Sunderland project or, rather, mirrors it. Rather than an effort to escape her bubble of privilege, the party seems an attempt to invite others inside her bubble, to allow for her private and intimate space to become occupied by individuals and signs not originally belonging in it. In this regard, although Julie’s irritated behaviour and her detachment from the party reveal her discomfort, her attentive and observing attitude similarly suggest a desire to establish a bond and communion—or at least to share an experience—with her guests. Indeed, part of Julie’s frustration seems to relate to the fact that her guests don’t show much appreciation or care towards what for Julie is clearly a significant effort and a display of generosity. However, the presence of filmmaking in later parts of the sequence further complicates Julie’s relationship with her guests. As the party develops, Julie begins taking photographs of and filming her guests and, although the scene does not quite clarify whether Julie does so as a means of overcoming her alienation or engaging those outside her bubble, her cunning and slightly mischievous smile and lit eyes right before she takes her first snap open the possibility that Julie might have planned the party as an event to film or photograph or as an opportunity to present herself as a an artist and a filmmaker. Or perhaps her filming is a form of personal revenge, a way for Julie to reclaim her space. As Julie lifts her film camera and looks through the viewfinder, she seems to know what she is doing and appears confident holding the device—her hands are in the right parts of the machine and she knows how to operate it. However, the camera also looks somewhat heavy and cumbersome, and her arms shake slightly as she pulls it towards her eyes. As Julie prepares, we overhear her guest’s conversation. They are, once again, discussing Julie’s “position of privilege” being able to own such a camera. Julie starts rolling and the film pans from her to reveal she is filming her guests’ conversation. “If you were successful and you had your kids, you’d want them to make the most of it, right?” one of the guests asks. “Exactly, but I’d want them to be aware of it” another answers. There’s a hint of irony in the final lines uttered by the guests, whose verbal condemnation of their host’s privilege does not prevent them from also indulging in it. Julie’s act of filming supports while also countering her guest’s brazen attitude by showing Julie’s own sense of entitlement as she

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photographs and films her guests without asking permission or bothering to talk much to them. Swinton Byrne’s handling of the photographic and film equipment brings out a range of qualities related to the materiality of these objects. Davina Quinlivan (2020) has insightfully examined the ways in which The Souvenir incorporates different kinds of film stock and formats (analogue and digital) to let the texture of celluloid function as visual fragmented memories within the film. Here, I am interested however in the actual equipment Julie utilises and the way in which she operates it. As I mentioned, Julie/Swinton Byrne is confident with these tools. However, she also uses them with particular care, as though making sure they don’t get damaged. She lacks the casual though precise dexterity of the professional—Misael in La libertad, for instance—who takes the tools for granted and uses them as means to get a job done. Julie, on the other hand, is mindful of these objects and operates them with a ritualistic, almost liturgic sense of eventfulness. Julie’s handling of these analogue objects brings out their historicity, presenting them subtly though powerfully as relics or treasures. Though the items are attuned to the historical setting of the film, by treating them with care and concern, Julie turns them into signs of prestige, activating the sense distinction often currently associated with analogue photography or vinyl music. Such gesture is important as it achieves several effects relevant to the film. Firstly, it connects both time frames—the historical period portrayed in the film and ours—further accentuating the film’s status as a memory without damaging the credibility of the period.7 Secondly, the gesture contributes towards conveying Julie’s status and privilege by framing her as a 1980s film student wealthy enough to own such equipment then but also as a contemporary enthusiast who owns and operates vintage items as a form of distinction. Finally, by making an event out of the filmmaking activity, such gestures contribute towards framing Julie’s filmmaking as performative, as behaviour presented for others to see, register and interpret. Vafa Motamedi (2020) proposes to read Julie’s handling of her filmmaking equipment in the light of Jean Baudrillard’s notion of system of objects ([1968] 2005). Motamedi argues that, on the one hand, Julie’s 7  In a making-off featurette about The Souvenir: Part II (Joanna Hogg, 2021), crew members point out that despite the film being set in a historical past, Joanna Hogg insisted on it feeling and looking like a modern film.

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camera is part of an ‘ecosystem of filmmaking objects which all serve to codify a particular identity. Julie owns and possesses filmmaking equipment and therefore is a filmmaker’ (2020). At the same time, Motamedi insightfully points out that we never see the negatives from the party developed. Rather than as functional tools, the camera and other filmmaking equipment are used by Julie as signs of prestige, items to display and construct an identity with. Motamedi’s reading is accurate. However, one might argue that, by focusing on Julie’s amateurish use of her filmmaking equipment (rather than on the resulting films), The Souvenir partly celebrates the value of such (per)formative moments, framing Julie’s awkward interactions in the party as well as her filmmaking as clumsy though important (mis)steps she must make in order to come to terms with both her own identity as a filmmaker as well as the ways she embodies her privilege. In this regard, The Souvenir has aspects in common with other reflexive films that seek ‘a privileged level of discourse outside the work’ (MacDougall, 1998, p. 88) to examine the power relationships and privilege involved in the act of filmmaking itself. An example of such cinema might be 81/2 (Federico Fellini, 1963), another reflexive film which, as Adrian Martin notes, ‘probed and satirised the tortured mindset of a male alter ego (played by Marcello Mastroianni) swimming in his entitlement and decadent privilege’ (2022). As Martin points out, although The Souvenir shares a similar project of using the privileged position granted by (reflexive) cinema to reflect on the filmmaker’s own privileged position, The Souvenir concerns a more modest and nonprofessional filmmaker and, therefore, feels substantially less self-assured in its approach. An important detail in this regard is that Julie films her guests as they make remarks about her privilege, which suggests that by filming them, Julie progressively gains an awareness of how her self-presentation reads in the eyes of others. The fact that we don’t see the footage Julie films partly frustrates the privileged position reflexive cinema often pursues as, although The Souvenir films, presents and comments on Julie’s filmmaking, it does not offer an account or evaluation of the films she makes. Such particular approach, John David Rhodes notes, ‘does not solicit the “aha!” of metareflection’ (2020, p. 19). Rather, by focusing on Julie’s filmmaking (and not on the finished film) the sequence draws attention to filmmaking as a complex form of social interaction enabling Julie to see, learn from, and comfortably interact with her guests, while also placing her in a position of power vis-à-vis the people she is filming. In this case, Julie’s direct and confrontational filming of her guests is akin to the way filmmakers

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often treat nonprofessional actors. Like in cases discussed throughout the book, Julie seems interested not necessarily in discreetly recording the behaviour of those caught unaware but, rather, in catching the reactions of subjects (uncomfortably) aware of the camera’s attention. By not focusing on the material results of the filmmaking process, The Souvenir foregrounds the value and purpose of (nonprofessional) filmmaking as an end in itself—as a way to engage with others and to explore relational structures forged during the filmmaking process regardless of the finished film. For Julie (and for Hogg) filmmaking is a social act that facilitates engagement, awareness and introspection, an opportunity not just to ‘show someone else how I see him’ (Rouch, [1973] 2003, p. 43) but to reflect on how someone else sees me. However, and somewhat paradoxically, the very act of filmmaking also consolidates uneven positions of power and privilege by creating a divide between those who film and might benefit from the epistemic potential of filmmaking, and those who do not and are somewhat relegated to serving as living tools or objects facilitating the filmmaker’s gestures of artistic introspection. Nonprofessional Performance and Privilege So far, my analysis of the opening sequence has called attention to the significance of nonprofessional gestures and details performed in the context of social interaction. By focusing on specific gestures and discussing them in relation to other performance and non-performance elements, I have tried to describe Julie’s complex introduction as both a self-conscious subject conditioned by her privilege and her guests’ observations, and as a privileged filmmaker similarly conditioned by her  naivety  and lack of expertise. However, a problem of my analysis so far is that by focusing on such details as a means of stressing their significance, I may have also misrepresented their fleetingness and casualness. By this I don’t mean I have over-stressed their importance or over-interpreted the details themselves— at least I don’t think I have. Rather, my close analysis is partly out of touch with the pace and tone of the film, which presents such details vividly but does not linger on them for long. The scene’s quick cutting, the party’s awkward though friendly atmosphere, and Swinton Byrne’s nonprofessional performance present the complex tensions between the characters as vividly felt though not necessarily damaging. Instead, Julie’s filming or her guest’s obnoxious remarks feel somewhat naïve and carefree, the consequence of young people being a bit clumsy

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and direct with each other rather than actively seeking offence. Swinton Byrne’s nonprofessional performance is crucial in this regard as although there is a sense of entitlement in Julie’s detached though interested position vis-à-vis her party, her awkwardness as she moves through spaces, discusses her Sunderland project, or films her guests suggest a tentative and experimental attitude. “She is having a go” remarks one of her guests as Julie begins operating her camera, a comment that suitably frames Julie’s actions as improvisational attempts rather than the outcome of clearly devised plans. Paradoxically—but clearly suggested in the film— though Julie might be acting naively and without clear direction, she seems more comfortable or confident working in this mode of filmmaking than planning and discussing her film project set in Sunderland. Casting the character of Julie was particularly challenging for Joanna Hogg, who didn’t set on Swinton Byrne until principal photography was about to start. A major difficulty, Hogg suggests, related to Julie’s particular position as a filmmaker in front of the camera. Hogg explains: I didn’t even see her as part of the landscape of actors, or even nonprofessional actors, I was considering. It was due to a conversation with Tilda [Swinton] when I asked her if she had any thoughts about who could play a filmmaker. That’s how that came about. I did meet quite a few interesting actresses, and nonprofessional actors, but didn’t quite find the quality I was looking for. I needed to see something of myself in them. That didn’t happen. I wanted someone who might have been writing, taking photographs, or making films—someone who could believably portray this young woman who is very much not wanting to be behind the camera, and is even quite self-conscious about being in front of the camera, to play the protagonist in front of the camera. These were, in a way, contradictions. I wanted someone who could play a character behind the camera. (in Porton, 2019, pp. 6–7)

Perhaps Hogg feared that professional actors or experienced performers might have projected a degree of confidence and control not suitable to capture Julie’s awkwardness and timidity in front of the camera (or as the focus of attention). As we see in the opening sequence and throughout the film, Julie struggles performing in public or under the spotlight. Though friendly and enthusiastic, she lacks the composure of someone like Anthony (Tom Burke), who seems much more mindful of the impression he conveys and skilled at performing it. Though a nonprofessional actor is ideal in this regard—and as I pointed out earlier, Hogg and Swinton Byrne often discuss Swinton Byrne’s lack of acting experience in

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interviews—Julie is a character who feels at ease behind the camera and, though often unsure about her filmmaking choices, she is never really threatened by her mistakes. Such contradiction is introduced in the party sequence, where Julie’s uncertainty regarding her project in Sunderland or her amateurish camerawork are evident though they do not inhibit the protagonist. Similarly, when Julie’s guests criticise her, the film suggests she is aware of their remarks but not immobilised by them. She lets them in without opposing them verbally and her reaction, rather than actively revolting against them, is to absorb them through filming. Several scenes throughout the film share a similar pattern with the party sequence where Julie is exposed to powerful, even aggressive criticism of her work or her background. Her film  school teachers challenge her suitability to make a film about Sunderland. Anthony is more enthusiastic about her project though also shows scepticism towards it. In both cases Julie has a hard time pitching her ideas convincingly and confidently. It just doesn’t feel quite right. Nonetheless, she always responds to criticism with an observant passivity that will enable her to adopt the advice in her own terms (she will abandon the Sunderland project) without letting it deter her from her filmmaking endeavours altogether. Swinton Byrne’s ambiguous status as a nonprofessional actor helps present Julie’s admixture of naivety and self-consciousness on the one hand, and confidence and security on the other. While her gestures and utterances frequently strike us as awkward or clumsy—Julie is a character who often makes (what feel like) mistakes—her demeanour carries a level of self-assurance that prevents her self-consciousness from translating directly into vulnerability or victimhood. Unlike the neorealist nonprofessional characters, for example, who are threatened by their ignorance, inoperability or their mistakes, Julie embodies a particularly privileged position where she can “have a go” and fail without losing her life (Germany Year Zero) or dignity (Bicycle Thieves). Though Julie often finds herself in uncomfortable or unpleasant situations, her privilege protects her like an invisible mantle, making sure she inevitably comes out safe, however scathed. This amalgam of qualities results in an ambivalent and frustrating impression. As Julie tests the boundaries of her “bubble”, her nonprofessional naivety makes her appear partly oblivious to the protection her privilege guarantees. Rather than fully committing to abandoning her position or channelling it altruistically towards helping another—a mission partly though ambiguously embodied by her Sunderland

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project—Julie always returns to her bubble, either to her flat in Knightsbridge or the protection of her parents. At the same time, Julie never quite assumes her privilege and commits to a life of comfort and indulgence. If Swinton Byrne/Julie’s privilege rescues the formative possibilities of self-conscious nonprofessional performance and experimentation by granting her a safety net of confidence and protection, Swinton Byrne/ Julie’s awkward and tentative performance prevents Julie’s privileged position from becoming too clever and manipulative, tainting her gestures (however dishonest or heavy-handed) with the naivety of the nonprofessional who is not quite in control of the ways in which her behaviour is registered by others. Julie is undoubtedly aware of her privilege. However, she is not necessarily aware of how she embodies and performs it. She sees it as something external—perhaps material—which she seeks to escape, rather than as something embodied, as a particular way of carrying and presenting oneself. Though Julie’s naivety makes her position somewhat frustrating (we might have the feeling we are watching someone who has resources and comfort yet does not quite make the most out of them), her naivety also encourages sympathy, inviting us to see her as someone not consciously and interestedly taking advantage of her privilege. Julie’s frustrating in-betweenness is coterminous with Swinton Byrne’s ambiguous status as a privileged nonprofessional actor as well as her casting in The Souvenir. Although she is associated with a wealthy and prosperous family, such privileges are not really attributed to her. On the contrary, she appears to have been born into them, graced by advantages and possibilities she seems to have played no role in securing. Her casting in the film seems similarly disjointed from any evident quality. She is not a seasoned actor and, although she has a memorable face, her physique does not convey the impression of superlative beauty often attributed to stars or certain nonprofessional actors such as those playing leading roles in films such as Bicycle Thieves or Shoeshine. She also lacks the sex-appeal authors such as Peter Brunette ([1987] 1996) associate with performers such as Carmela Sazio in Paisà. We don’t see her performing impressive physical feats, like Misael does in La libertad. Her body and face also don’t conjure particularly iconic types or characters, as do Serrat and Carbó in Honor de Cavalleria. Though sensitive, all in all, Julie seems somewhat average—an impression she not only projects but expresses herself in the film. Her journey of self-discovery in the opening sequence as well as throughout

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the rest of the movie is partly a quest towards realising her potential and learning to make the most out of her possibilities.

Anthony: The Privilege of Self-Consciousness The question of when a non-actor becomes an actor has concerned filmmakers and theorists, who have—throughout history—offered a wide range of answers. As I have argued elsewhere, these generally concern issues of exposure and repetition (Gaggiotti, 2021). As we saw in Chap. 3, for filmmakers such as De Sica and critics like Bazin, the nonprofessionals’ anonymity was a deciding factor informing their casting and a quality that conditions the way we apprehend the nonprofessionals’ on-screen performances. As soon as the nonprofessional loses their anonymity by performing in a second film, it becomes possible to compare their performances and see them as part of a body of work, resulting in what Jacqueline Nacache terms the ‘actor-effect’ ([2003] 2006, p. 158). As I discussed in Chap. 4, filmmakers like Pasolini recast nonprofessional actors and used repetition as a way of complicating the alleged sincerity associated with the nonprofessional actors’ anonymity. Other filmmakers have foregrounded exposure when discussing the transition from non-actor to actor. Jean-Luc Godard, Renato Castellani and Adrián Caetano, for example, agree that as soon as someone is performing in front of the camera, they should already be considered actors.8 This might be because, as soon as they are filmed, their behaviour and appearance are framed, contextualised and exhibited, and thus, offered as interpretable. Another reason could be that from their initial contact with the filmmaking devices, performers are modifying their behaviour and incorporating gestures and mannerisms. For these filmmakers it is the contact with the camera (the recording device) that inevitably changes the person’s behaviour and their status as film performers. Robert Bresson, on the other hand, saw the nonprofessional’s self-­ exposure as the deciding factor conditioning their performances. For Bresson what radically altered the non-actor’s behaviour and their status was not performing for the camera but watching their own performance on screen. For Bresson, as soon as the nonprofessionals observe their own performances, they inevitably become preoccupied with their gestures and 8  See Godard and Delahaye ([1966] 1967); Castellani cited in Pitassio (2008) and Caetano in Estrellas/Stars (Federico León & Marcos Martínez, 2007).

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behaviour, imposing upon subsequent performances a level of self-control and vigilance that corrupts their hitherto naïve and unsuspecting behaviour. Bresson explains: Do not use the same models in two films. (1) One would not believe them. (2) They would look at themselves in the first film as one looks at oneself in the mirror, would want people to see them as they wish to be seen, would impose a discipline on themselves, would grow disenchanted as they correct themselves. ([1975] 2016, p. 55)

In the essay ‘Nonprofessional Acting in El Perro’  (Gaggiotti, 2021) I examine Juan Villegas’ performance in the Argentine film El Perro/ Bombón: El Perro (Carlos Sorin, 2004) to argue that, throughout the film, Villegas progressively gains a level of self-awareness that is partly aligned with the transformation described by Bresson. El Perro was not only shot in chronological order—therefore facilitating the performer’s progressive acquisition of acting training and self-awareness—but the director, Carlos Sorin, watched the rushes with the nonprofessional actor throughout the filmmaking process, thereby encouraging the nonprofessional actor to become aware of his on-screen performance. In the essay, I argued that such progressive self-awareness is dramatised in the film as the character, who is himself a public performer, progressively comes to terms with how his gestures are apprehended by others and gains confidence and control when presenting himself in public. Swinton Byrne/Julie’s performance The Souvenir has aspects in common with Villegas’ in El Perro. However, it also presents significant differences. Though the film was shot in chronological order—thereby encouraging Swinton Byrne’s progressive acquisition of acting practice and experience to parallel Julie’s own self-discovery as a social performer and filmmaker in the diegesis—Hogg explains she did not watch any rushes nor shared them with Swinton Byrne as Hogg was preoccupied with preserving Swinton Byrne’s uncertainty regarding how her performance would render on screen (Gant, 2021). These choices present an interesting combination by which the nonprofessional performer and character undergo a journey of self-discovery while at the same time neither is offered the possibility of reviewing their performance, resulting in a progressive acquisition of embodied acting experience that, nonetheless, lacks the critical reassurance resulting from observing one’s performance on screen. Such lack of reassurance is crucial to Swinton Byrne’s

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performance in The Souvenir, where though Julie progressively becomes more confident both as a performer and a filmmaker, she remains a tentative character who experiments without ever quite losing a sense of nervousness and insecurity. While Julie does not get a chance to review her own performance on screen, she gains recurrent feedback on it from characters within the diegesis and Anthony in particular. Mysteriously seductive, Anthony erupts into Julie’s life by virtually inviting himself to move in with her soon after they first meet. The two then develop a tumultuous relationship that ends with Anthony’s death due to a drug overdose. While Julie proved challenging for Hogg to cast, the director appears to have settled on Tom Burke for the role of Anthony early in the pre-production process. When it comes to Anthony, Hogg explains ‘Because Anthony is an actor, I very consciously cast an actor. He’s performing all the time. It’s appropriate to have an actor play that role and I cast Tom quite early’ (in Porton, 2019, p.  7). In terms of the filmmaking process, Hogg kept details about the plot away from Swinton Byrne and, instead, encouraged her to discover characters and situations as they shot them. Contrarily, Hogg held preparatory conversations with Burke and helped him develop his character by sharing substantial information and advice.9 The contrast between the performers’ training and preparation is noticeable in the film and absorbed by the drama. Unlike Julie, who struggles to negotiate her privileged position and her desire to step out of her comfort zone, Anthony confidently and emphatically presents himself as an upper-class young man. He frequently chooses opulent restaurants for the couple to dine on; we rarely see him under-dressed, and his choice of wardrobe consists primarily of smart though somewhat flamboyant suits he complements with gold-filter cigarettes he keeps in an elegant case. His assured posture and demeanour also contrast against Julie’s self-conscious and awkward body language. We get hints of such contrast in the party sequence, where Anthony, sitting on a sofa’s arm looks down towards Julie as she attempts to explain her Sunderland project. A similar arrangement is offered as they share a bottle during their first date (Fig. 7.3). Here, we see Burke perched on a chair. Though his posture is strained and lacks relaxation, he appears comfortable. His back rests on the chair, and we later see him propping his arm on the cushioned armrest as he smokes. The table they share also seems conveniently 9

 See Monks Kaufman (2019).

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Fig. 7.3  The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019)

arranged for him (and perhaps by him). His drink is within his reach, as is his ashtray. Julie, on the other hand, progressively sits on the edge of her sofa, strenuously leaning forward to get closer to the table and Anthony as she tries to, once again, explain her filmmaking project set in Sunderland. If she has a drink of her own, it is hidden behind the bottle on her side of the table. The unevenness of the arrangement not only conveys a contrast between characters but also highlights the complex amalgam of gestures and attitudes each of their self-presentation involves. Their behaviour mirrors each other’s, suggesting similar through opposite movements. Anthony’s body finds comfort and stillness within a strained, ostentatious, and artificial position while Julie’s rejects the cosiness of her casual clothing and spacious sitting. In both cases, performance is presented not as fixed and unmoving, but rather as ongoing and directed, a gesturing or reaching towards. The Possibilities of Perspective Throughout The Souvenir, Anthony and Julie are often framed in two-­ shots, which allows us to observe their performances simultaneously and draw comparisons between them. Such presentation stresses the

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characters’ similarities—for instance, their upper-class vocal intonation and mannered self-presentation—but also their differences. Though Julie frequently acts nervously and timidly, she is also active and eager—willing to expose herself and her work. Her indecision and self-doubt, though present in many of her scenes, never prevent her from engaging. Anthony, on the other hand, performs with greater confidence and self-assurance but also with a stronger sense of detachment. His bodily actions and gestures are measured and rare. He lacks the twitching vibrancy of Julie’s engagement with the world and her surroundings. Instead, Anthony often appears like a spectator within the film, or better put—a critic or a director. Anthony’s skills as a performer not only emerge through his confidence and control over his own performance but also in his capacity to direct and critically examine the performances of others around him and Julie’s in particular. Burke regularly finds perched and detached positions from where Anthony can observe and pass judgement, embodying what Erving Goffman calls a ‘training specialist’ (1956, p. 100), a figure who helps a performer develop their front by providing feedback from a privileged position akin to that occupied by members of the audience. Many of the couple’s scenes together are marked by such trainer/trainee arrangement. Anthony probes Julie, puts her on the spot and brings her to confront her own performance. He does so critically and sometimes maliciously, but also with a sense of generosity in what often feel like attempts at helping Julie. Authors have noted Anthony’s role as a mentor for Julie and, specifically, the positive effect he has when it comes to her filmmaking endeavours. Alex Heeney points out that Julie ‘relies on the criticism of her lover, Anthony (Tom Burke). His is the only constructive criticism […] she receives in the film—although she becomes more independent-minded about her work in the film’s final act’ (2019, p.  16). The observation neatly synthesises the important role Anthony’s criticism or feedback plays in the couple’s relationship and Julie’s progressive self-discovery. However, Heeney’s remark partly overlooks nuances that are crucial to Julie’s complex transformation and the way it is rendered in the film. Anthony offers valuable criticism, though he is by no means the only character to do so. On the contrary, ‘constructive criticism’ is offered throughout the film. Anthony’s father, for example, offers Julie advice on her Sunderland project. Patrick (Richard Ayoade), an arrogant though perceptive film school graduate, also points out the importance of treating filmmaking like breathing, a remark Hogg describes as attuned to her own filmmaking

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(Goi, 2020). Julie’s teachers at film school encourage her to ground her filmmaking on her own circumstances and perspective and after her break­up with Anthony, advise her on the value of channelling this experience into her work. Such forms of advice are adopted by Hogg—The Souvenir vividly embodies these approaches—as well as by Julie within the film. Both seem to share a strategy which consists in rescuing value from insight voiced by immoral or unlikeable characters. In fact, Anthony’s advice and criticism, though helpful at times, often runs counter to Julie’s own approach to filmmaking and, more broadly, to experience. For instance, when Julie reads Anthony her personal statement for film school, he takes issue with her description of filmmaking as a form of therapy and self-expression. “It reads like you’ve been sort of backed into a corner by life and it’s like “Oh, I better be a film director”” Anthony remarks perceptively though mockingly. Instead, he encourages her to be more confident and state more categorically that “I want to be a film director”. Here Anthony’s suggestion does not necessarily offer a better alternative. We never find out whether Julie changes her text and incorporates Anthony’s wording. However, the film makes it clear that, though Julie gains more confidence in her own filmmaking as the film develops, she also grows even more committed to using her art as a form of therapy, self-introspection and reflection. The value of Anthony’s advice resides not necessarily in the suggestions he makes but, rather, in their capacity to expose the performative dimension of Julie’s self-presentation, encouraging her to become aware of how her gestures read in the eyes of others as well as her capacity to meaningfully affect them. In the sequence where Anthony gives Julie feedback on her application letter, a sense of detached perspective is achieved through Anthony’s use of quotation, which highlights for Julie what her text “reads like”. “You don’t think I should be this honest?” Julie asks. “Well, no, I just think people use that word as if it’s an end in itself and we can all be sincere, we can all be authentic, but what’s it all for?” Anthony replies. Anthony’s answer reflects significant differences between them. Though Julie sees sincerity or honesty—opening up, exposing herself—as an end, or something to strive towards, Anthony sees it as a means—something that might be intentionally deployed in order to achieve a specific goal. Rather than being introduced to modes of behaviour she can adopt, however, Julie appears to be coming to terms with her own behaviour as performance—that is, as gestures and expressions that “read like” something

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and that constitute a particular way of presenting oneself, even is she isn’t in control of such self-presentation. As the film develops, Anthony offers Julie the possibility to comfortably expose herself and her work but also opportunities to experience difficult, even traumatic life experiences. Though he is helpful and considerate at times, Anthony also takes advantage of Julie’s naivety and her resources. Parasitic, not only does Anthony use Julie but also belittles her and treats her with contempt. Goffman points out the complex ethics specialists must negotiate as, granted privileged access to the performer’s backstage and intimacy, they also acquire ‘entrusted secrets [and] are in a position to exploit their knowledge in order to gain concessions from the performer whose secrets they possess’ (1956, p. 100). Anthony takes advantage of Julie throughout the film and perhaps the most obvious gesture in this regard is the disinterested way he regularly asks her for money or lets her pay all the bills. At a personal level, if their early encounters in bed suggest experimentation and mutual flirtation, subsequent encounters evidence a more uneven power relationship. For instance, the first time we see them having sex is preceded by Anthony gifting Julie a set of lingerie he asks her to put on as he waits inside her bed. As Julie walks into the bedroom, the film cuts to a shot of her that, though not quite embodying his point-of-view, is aligned with Anthony’s perspective. Initially Julie smiles as she shows Anthony and us what the new underwear looks like on her. However, the shot and Anthony’s still gaze linger on uncomfortably, which is registered by Swinton Byrne/Julie. She now looks down awkwardly, before looking up again and drawing a faint smile she accompanies with hopeful, pleading eyes. It is only then that she moves towards the bed and Anthony opens the cover for her. She rushes in, with her hands behind her back and hurriedly covers herself with the blankets. All throughout the scene, we hear Anthony’s ominous opera music playing in the background. Such moments are ambiguous as, on the one hand, they offer Julie attention and the opportunity to play different roles. With Anthony, she becomes more used to embodying her upper-class privileges as well as her role as the object of his desire. At the same time, such occasions allow Anthony to consistently reassert the grounds for their relationship, locking Julie in a position of exposed passivity and himself in the role of critic/ director. By continuously finding new opportunities that replicate such arrangement, Anthony interpellates Julie into performing and, therefore, accepting her position as naïve victim and his role as mentor. In this regard,

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Anthony is not unlike a director who keeps the nonprofessional actor in a state of suspended uncertainty, recurrently crafting scenes that catch the performer off-guard and consolidate the couple’s uneven power relationship. Although Anthony’s feedback plays a role in helping Julie develop as a social performer and a filmmaker, her most creative and confident moments generally occur when he is not around. Goffman notes that ‘Trainers tend to evoke for the performer a vivid image of himself that he had repressed, a self-image of someone engaged in the clumsy and embarrassing process of becoming’ (1956, p. 101). In Julie’s case, Anthony’s absence allows her the freedom to put into practice gestures and modes of self-presentation she has either learnt or absorbed from Anthony. Not only do we see Julie going through strong creative bursts after the couple’s break up (she stays late at night writing soon after Anthony leaves) but she also enters into new intimate relationships where she adopts new roles herself. For instance, we see her having sex with a new partner. This time, however, it is Julie who comfortably lies in her bed (which now has a golden headrest reminiscent of Anthony’s baroque taste) while her partner disrobes himself under her attentive gaze. Escape Through Self-Consciousness Julie’s relationship with Anthony is often presented through scenes where Swinton Byrne/Julie performs with the awkwardness and self-doubt of the nonprofessional caught off-guard, compelled to improvise and act from an uncomfortable position of uncertainty. Hogg’s filmmaking approach, where details and information were kept away from Swinton Byrne but disclosed to Burke, likely played a significant role in helping Swinton Byrne achieve this aspect of Julie’s nonprofessional performance. In the following paragraphs, however, I want to consider other gestures and details Swinton Byrne/Julie performs in key moments throughout the film. These share a quality of nonprofessionalism and are consistent with Julie’s naivety throughout the film. However, they also involve more careful and seemingly planned delivery, which complicates their status as honest and uncontrolled expressions of vulnerability. In order to understand the relevance of such details, it is important to consider the scene in which Anthony asks Julie if he can move in with her (just for a few days). The sequence takes place late in the evening at Anthony’s parents’ house—Anthony has invited Julie to accompany him

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on his visit. The scene is shot in singles and Julie’s is framed wide and with ample head-space, which highlights her isolation and exposure while also negating the cosy intimacy tighter framing would afford. Swinton Byrne’s self-conscious body language—she initially fidgets with her fingers in her lips as though about to bite her nails, before she stops and settles for an awkward position hugging herself—similarly reveals Julie’s difficulties relaxing in a house that isn’t hers (Fig. 7.4). Anthony’s shot, on the other hand, is more tightly framed around his relaxed body cosily nested by his armchair (Fig. 7.5). When Anthony asks if he can stay at Julie’s place, she initially answers with a surprised and mistrustful “Why?”. Anthony then explains that it has to do with his work and that he can find somewhere else if it isn’t possible. Burke shakes his head slightly while delivering these lines and stutters timidly, projecting the impression Anthony is uncomfortable making a request he is forced to make and would prefer not to. Julie accepts, to which Anthony responds “You are very kind”. Swinton Byrne’s smile and raised chin as she replies “That’s alright” reveals Julie’s sense of pride and satisfaction in being able to offer something valuable to Anthony. He doesn’t leave it at that but compliments Julie in exchange for her favour. “You are very special, Julie” Anthony adds as he exhales and looks away from her in

Fig. 7.4  The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019)

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Fig. 7.5  The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019)

a gesture projecting sincerity. Flattered, Julie looks downwards and smiles timidly as she replies “I don’t think I am”. Anthony then copies Julie’s reply mockingly, while closing his eyes, conveying Anthony’s sense of frustration with someone who insists on dismissing and not recognising her uniqueness. Julie tilts her chin up again as Anthony parodies Julie’s replies, a gesture that blends her own frustration at being mocked with the pride of receiving complements. “You are not normal at all, you are a freak” Anthony offers. “Thank you” Julie answers as she smiles while shaking her head, unsure of how exactly to take Anthony’s words. “How am I a freak?” she asks, to which Anthony quickly and sharply replies “Your fragility”. “Is that a good thing?” we hear Julie ask, “I think you know” Anthony responds. The last two lines of the scene—Julie insists once again “I think I am quite average” and Anthony responds “You are not average. You are lost and will always be lost”—further accentuate the complexity of their rapport. Julie’s fishing for compliments reveals the sense of pleasure and validation she derives from Anthony’s observations. Anthony’s replies, on the other hand, are ambiguous compliments that highlight the value of qualities Julie sees as flaws.

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Cinematography and mise-en-scène contribute towards establishing the characters’ trainer/trainee relationship by framing Julie and Anthony in an arrangement reminiscent of a therapy session. Anthony’s observations in the latter part of the sequence similarly convey an attempt at exposing Julie to his reading of her and, in the process, enabling her to identify the qualities that make her unique and special, even if such qualities are not clearly merits. The ambivalence of Anthony’s compliments makes them more attractive for Julie as, rather than obvious or generic praises, they are (presented as) unique and insightful observations celebrating qualities otherwise unnoticed or neglected. However, there’s an element of perversity in Anthony’s final lines, which insist on framing Julie’s fragility as inescapable, as something she must embody and realise but cannot relinquish or avoid. Anthony’s insistence plays a double function as, on the one hand, it encourages Julie to embody a quality he is aware of and, therefore, can take advantage of, and, on the other, presents himself as the guide or mentor who holds the knowledge and awareness Julie needs to come to terms with herself. At the same time, Anthony’s description of Julie’s fragility as a quality that makes her “a freak” leaves an opening of sorts as it suggests that, though Anthony is aware of Julie’s fragility (the quality that makes her special), this is also a quality that partly lies beyond his control and understanding. As the film progresses, Anthony recurrently contrives situations that place Julie in a position of fragility and vulnerability. Julie begins playing a version of herself for Anthony, a version that is naïve, fragile, self-­ conscious, but also eager, enthused and slightly more arrogant. As Julie gains performance expertise and self-awareness, a process in which Anthony plays a critical mentoring role, she also becomes more confident as a performer and, paradoxically but logically, she appears to be acting less or, better put, it becomes harder to tell whether her naivety and fragility are part of a front she is putting on or an honest display (or perhaps a mixture of both). This eventually becomes a problem for Anthony. Julie has learnt to manage her fragility and absorbed aspects of Anthony’s own arrogant and confident presentation in ways that, though motivated by her interactions with him, are not exactly according to his wishes. We can see an example of this in a later sequence where the characters are having a drink together at an opulent restaurant. Julie asks Anthony if he has ever been to Venice. Anthony answers that he has been three times and proceeds to deliver a contrived account of his trips and Desirée, the girlfriend who accompanied

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him and “went mad with jealousy and jumped into a canal”. Julie keeps asking questions, seemingly jealous herself. However, it is unclear whether her naivety is sincere—whether Julie actually believes Anthony’s evident fantasy—or whether she is feeding him an exaggerated version of her naivety as a means of teasing him into exposing further his ridiculous idealisations. Anthony does not like this. He tells Julie that he is just playing and to “stop torturing yourself” or “stop inviting me to torture you”. Julie at this point reacts with bafflement and an exaggerated gesture of disgust. Anthony copies Julie’s gesture and snaps “that’s exactly how you make me feel when you are being like this”. Anthony’s strong reaction seems partly out of touch with the situation as he describes it. That is, it seems strange that he would get so upset simply because Julie is torturing herself or inviting him to torture her. His reaction is too aggressive, too personal to constitute just an altruistic gesture of sympathy towards Julie. On the contrary, Anthony appears threatened by his own game, which Julie has taken too far, pushing the Casanova/jealous damsel set-up to a point where Anthony himself becomes uncomfortable. By projecting her own naivety in ambiguous ways—that is, in ways that are impossible to describe as either sincere or fabricated—Julie brings Anthony to confront (and reveal) his own artificial front. Notably, it is after this sequence that Anthony burglarises Julie’s flat and steals her possessions. We never find out what he does with the money he gets from selling them. Maybe they serve to fuel his drug habit or perhaps he uses it to finance (his part of) the couple’s trip to Venice. His burglary might also be a form of revenge, his way of setting Julie straight by forcing her to confront an intense moment of vulnerability. If his intentions were so, then he is successful as Julie gets visibly saddened by the theft, which also sours her trip to Venice. Surprisingly, however, after the couple returns, Anthony confesses his crime to Julie. Initially she is baffled and confronts Anthony’s evident lies. “I do what I do so that you can have the life you are having” Anthony explains unconvincingly. However, and against all odds, Julie then proceeds to apologise. Her initial “I am sorry” (though consistent with Julie’s apologetic behaviour throughout the film) feels contrived. Swinton Byrne delivers the line while partly shaking her head, with a stern expression that suggests Julie is forcing herself to put on a front she does not fully believe in. She does not leave it at that but escalates her apology, which becomes histrionic and exaggerated, entirely out of touch with the situation.

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It might be tempting to say that Julie is simply incredibly gullible, or that she has become the victim of Anthony’s gaslighting to the point that she cannot recognise his manipulation. However, questioned about why Julie responds in such a way and does not simply leave Anthony, Swinton Byrne answers: I can’t explain it, I wish I could. I’ve been in that position, not quite the same, but I really do look back and think, what was I thinking at the time? There is no explanation, I’m afraid. I think Julie wants to make the best of the situation, has some pride, doesn’t want to admit this man isn’t right for her, what her friends are saying, what her parents believe, she wants to see it through, she wants to help him, I think. But we’ll never know. (Swinton Byrne in George, 2021)

I would agree with Swinton Byrne that Julie’s reasons are unclear. In this regard, Julie’s actions are not unlike those of characters in Bresson’s films, who act with a level of mystery that frustrates psychological readings. Interestingly, however, the hypothesis Swinton Byrne offers calls attention away from Julie’s victimhood and towards Julie’s sense of pride and desire to claim agency from her position of vulnerability. I would like to follow Swinton Byrne’s lead and entertain another possible reason behind Julie’s actions not to present it as necessarily right but to account for a plausibility enabled by Swinton Byrne/Julie’s performance and contrived insistence on leaning into her vulnerability. Julie’s apology and tolerance towards Anthony might be partly explained by her desire to escape her privileged comfort and nurture her creative and life experiences. In this regard, money and possessions have a relatively low importance for Julie (when she discovers the theft, what seems to upset her most is having lost pieces of jewellery she had a personal attachment to). On the other hand, intense life experiences offer her the kind of material she can render into her art. Discussing the works of Rainer Maria Rilke, Byung-chul Han draws a connection between the act of disrobing oneself—of exposing oneself to wounds and vulnerability— and the notion of experience itself. Han notes that ‘The negativity of being shocked and moved—that is, the negativity of injury—is a necessary part of experience […] Without injury, neither poetry nor art is possible’ ([2015] 2018, pp. 34–35 emphasis in original). I do not necessarily agree with Han’s sine-qua-non connection between art and injury partly because it seems to reduce art to something predictable, even if such predictability

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is marked by an exposure to something new. A less categorical approach is offered by Theodor Adorno with his notion of dissonance, which brings together ‘an expression of negativity, of this suffering’ with ‘the happiness of giving nature its voice, finding something not yet taken, […] which thus reminds us of something other than the ever-same machinery of bourgeois society in which we are all trapped’ ([2009] 2018, p. 40). Regardless of what we might make out of these perspectives, they strike me as close to Julie’s (and Hogg’s) own view. Not only does the theft appear like a trade between bourgeois indulgences and new experiences, but the more Julie exposes herself and the more traumatic her relationship gets, the more she commits to using her own experience as her artistic subject. Furthermore, by apologising to Anthony after his theft, Julie rescues a relationship that, on all accounts, seemed irreparably lost. In fact, Anthony’s confession itself seems like a manipulative attempt at putting an end to the relationship. By prolonging the relationship despite her awareness of Anthony’s wrongdoings, Julie leans into her suffering and discomfort. Julie’s unpredictable gesture, in turn, constitutes the key narrative turning point leading to the couple’s most damaging and traumatic moments together, but also to Julie’s strongest moments of vulnerability and creativity. Could it be that Julie intuitively knows she can (or wants to) absorb more or that she feels having her possessions stolen or finding out her boyfriend is a heroin user are not strong enough experiences? After the apology, the couple’s relationship spirals towards its lowest point. Anthony becomes less concerned with hiding his drug habit and Julie herself starts investigating her boyfriend’s addiction. She attends an NA meeting and chauffeurs Anthony outside the city to pick up his drugs (he says he is going there for work, though Julie seems not to believe it). At film school, Julie directs a short film, The Film Dress, which features a character draped in a dress made from celluloid. The project, which feels more Anthony’s than Julie’s (we see him supervising her storyboards), seems particularly reflective of their trip to Venice and reminiscent of the dress Julie gets made for the occasion (under Anthony’s strict supervision). Julie has a hard time directing the film. She clumsily kicks a light while on set and struggles to give her actor instructions. Julie also falls ill, possibly having contracted an STD from Anthony (though her condition never seems worrying). Julie’s energy is drained by the demands of her domestic life, as well as Anthony’s own struggles with addiction, which have seemingly overtaken Julie’s attention completely.

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It is at this point, however, that we first see one of Julie’s classmates— Marland (Jaygann Ayeh)—show concern towards Julie and offer her sincere attention and comfort. Julie’s difficulties, which now bear on her countenance and body language, are finally registered by others, allowing Julie the possibility to—for the first time in the film—develop strong personal and creative collaborations with her classmates. Her suffering and trauma validate her as a sensitive artist in her own eyes and those of others around her. We later see Julie working on a new film, The Rehearsal, where an actor reads the poem When I am dead, my dearest by Christina Rossetti.10 When Julie directs the film, her movements across set are lighter, not restrained or calculated but calmer and more self-assured. She is neither the impertinent voyeur who awkwardly gazes at her friends from behind the camera nor the clumsy director stumbling over filmmaking equipment and alienated from her work. Though partly more distant and detached, Julie is also more present and attuned to the rhythms of her filmmaking process and methodology. Julie observes the scene calmly before decidedly walking in front of the camera to give directions to her actor. She kneels down next to her and speaks softly and confidently. The actor welcomes Julie’s contact and both engage in conversation as the rest of the filmmaking crew patiently wait. Rather than worrying, Julie takes her time. We then see her talking over the telephone and, as she leaves the phone booth, Marland rushes in to close the door she’s left open. As the two cross paths, they clap hands with camaraderie. The Rehearsal is Julie’s most personal film and seems particularly influenced by her relationship with Anthony. In fact, although we see Julie still working on the film after Anthony’s death, she begins preparing it during the couple’s short reunion after their breakup. The Rehearsal appears partly motivated by Julie’s traumatic experiences with Anthony after their trip to Venice, but it also anticipates Anthony’s eventual death. The final scene in The Souvenir shows Julie as she watches her actor recite the poem’s lines. Julie then looks towards camera, her expression is vacant and empty. Her lips twitch ever so slightly, and she seems about to cry. However, she never breaks into tears and, instead, maintains her serious expression, projecting Julie’s trauma with a sense of confidence and authority. Julie has recently learnt about her lover’s passing. Her

10  The poem was written in 1948 and first published in 1962 as part of Rossetti’s first volume of poetry Goblin Market and Other Poems.

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vulnerability and suffering bear as heavily on her expression as the confidence of finally having gone through an experience worthy of her art.

Conclusion In his book Filmed Thought: Cinema as a Reflective Form, Robert Pippin explains that: Hegel noted that human beings […] are always struggling to realize or actualize (verwirklichen) some normative conception of themselves, and in having attempted such an actualization, having “externalized” such a self-­ conception […], they are then, and only then, able to understand much more fully and concretely what they took themselves to be committed to in such a merely provisional and tentative self-conception, and thereby what it was they actually did. (2020, p. 10)

Throughout this chapter I have sought to demonstrate how such a process of ‘doubl[ing] themselves (sich verdoppeln)’ (Pippin, 2020, p. 10) is dramatised in The Souvenir. In order to do so, I have discussed Swinton Byrne/Julie’s performance but also (some of) the different normative conceptions she struggles to realise, such as the privileged host her guests see her as (or imagine her as) in the opening party, the social realist filmmaker as well as the reflexive artist Julie (says she) wants to embody at different times throughout the film, or the role of a naïve and fragile lover Anthony encourages her to play. By discussing Swinton Byrne/Julie’s performance in relation to such conceptions, I have attempted to illuminate how her nonprofessional gestures and expressions (whether those seemingly resulting from her uncertainty or vacillation or those that appear more intentional and contrived) actualise Julie’s different self-conceptions while, in the process, also complicate or partially negate them.11 Such deviations or digressions are akin to other dissonant or disruptive nonprofessional performances discussed throughout the book. A notable difference, however, is that partly because of Julie’s privileged “bubble” of 11  The Souvenir: Part II (Joanna Hogg, 2021) explores Julie’s journey as she actualises her new self-conception. Though she remains a somewhat vulnerable character, she does not struggle actualising expectations set upon her by others (as she does in The Souvenir) but, rather, articulating her vision. In the second film, Julie has come to terms with the kind of artist she wants to be and commits to such self-conception even if others aren’t quite able to follow her.

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protection, Swinton Byrne’s connection to acting and progressive acquisition of performance experience throughout the film, and Julie’s opportunities for creative self-expression through filmmaking, Julie is able to reconvene her process of becoming and reconfigure her self-conception into a new role where she finds confidence and authority despite (or because of) her vulnerability. Unlike Mouchette (Mouchette), Edmund (Germany Year Zero) or Misael (La libertad), whose disruptive nonprofessional performances resist normative conceptions without ultimately escaping them, Julie absorbs such conceptions and utilises her privilege and resources to become (a version of) the sensitive but confident artist Joanna Hogg is. At the same time, Julie is also (a version) of Joanna Hogg, a mature artist who looks back upon her youth (or a version of it) to tap onto the nonprofessional openness and vividness she might once have embodied, before art and life became professional and predictable, before her sense of self had settled.

References Adorno, T. W. ([2009] 2018). Aesthetics: 1958/59 (W. Hoban, Trans.; E. Ortland, Ed.). Polity Press. Armistead, C. (2022). Honor Swinton Byrne: ‘My Family Could Not Be More Different to the One in The Souvenir’. The Guardian. Film. Retrieved May 2022, from https://www.theguardian.com/film/2022/jan/23/honor-swintonbyrne-interview-souvenir-tilda-joanna-hogg Baudrillard, J. ([1968] 2005). The System of Objects (J. Benedict, Trans.). Verso. Bresson, R. ([1975] 2016). Notes on the Cinematograph (J.  Griffin, Trans.). New York Review of Books. Brunette, P. ([1987] 1996). Roberto Rossellini. University of California Press. Concannon, P. (2019). Joanna Hogg on The Souvenir. The Skinny. Arts & Entertainment. Retrieved May 2022, from https://www.theskinny.co.uk/ film/interviews/joanna-­hogg-­on-­the-­souvenir Erbland, K. (2019). ‘The Souvenir’: Joanna Hogg Reunites With Tilda Swinton After 33 Years and Makes Her Daughter a Star. IndieWire. Film. Retrieved May 2022, from https://www.indiewire.com/2019/05/the-­souvenir-­joanna-­hogg-­ tilda-­swinton-­honor-­swinton-­byrne-­1202141173/ Forrest, D. (2014). The Films of Joanna Hogg: New British Realism and Class. Studies in European Cinema, 11(1), 64–75. Fox, K. (2004). Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour. Hodder.

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Gaggiotti, M. (2021). Nonprofessional Acting in El Perro. Movie: A Journal of Film Criticism, 9, 56–64. Gant, C. (2021). How Joanna Hogg Started Anew with ‘The Souvenir: Part II’. ScreenDaily. Features. Retrieved May 2022, from https://www.screendaily.com/features/how-­j oanna-­h ogg-­s tarted-­a new-­w ith-­t he-­s ouvenir-­ part-­ii/5166267.article George, P. K. (2021). Portrait of an Artist: Honor Swinton Byrne Discusses “The Souvenir Part II”. Mubi. Notebook Interview. Retrieved May 2022, from https://mubi.com/notebook/posts/portrait-­of-­an-­artist-­honor-­swinton-­ byrne-­discusses-­the-­souvenir-­part-­ii Godard, J.-L., & Delahaye, M. ([1966] 1967). The Question: Interview with Robert Bresson. Cahiers du Cinéma in English, 8(February), pp. 5–27. Goffman, E. (1956). The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. University of Edinburgh Social Sciences Research Centre. Goi, L. (2020). Learning to Breathe: A Conversation with Joanna Hogg. Senses of Cinema, 94(April). Retrieved June 2022, from https://www.sensesofcinema. com/2020/conversations-­with-­filmmakers-­across-­the-­globe/joanna-­hogg/ Han, B.-C. ([2015] 2018). Saving Beauty. Polity Press. Heeney, A. (2019). Joanna Hogg’s Oueuvre in Context. In A. Heeney & O. Smith (Eds.), Tour of Memories: The Creative Process Behind Joanna Hogg’s The Souvenir (pp. 9–22). Seventh Row. Klevan, A. (2012). Living Meaning: The Fluency of Film Performance. In A. Taylor (Ed.), Theorizing Film Acting (pp. 33–46). Routledge. MacDougall, D. (1998). Transcultural Cinema (L.  Taylor, Ed.). Princeton University Press. Martin, A. (2022). Film Review: The Souvenir Part II. Screenhub. Retrieved May 2022, from https://www.screenhub.com.au/news/reviews/film-­review-­the-­ souvenir-­part-­ii-­the-­floating-­world-­1484565/ Monks Kaufman, S. (2019). Joanna Hogg and Honor Swinton Byrne on the Art of Vulnerability. Little White Lies. Interviews/In Conversation. Retrieved May 2022, from https://lwlies.com/interviews/joanna-hogg-honor-swinton-byrnethe-souvenir/ Motamedi, V. (2020). Anxious Objects: The Expression of Privilege through Production Design in The Souvenir. Unpublished. Nacache, J. ([2003] 2006). El actor de cine (M. Martí i Viudes, Trans.). Paidós. Pippin, R. B. (2020). Filmed Thought: Cinema as Reflective Form. The University of Chicago Press. Pitassio, F. (2008). Due soldi di speranza. Considerazioni intorno al dibattito sull’attore non professionista nel Neorealismo. L’asino di B., anno XI, numero 12(gennaio 2007), 147–163. Porton, R. (2019). Coming of Age in Knightsbridge: An Interview with Joanna Hogg. Cinéaste, 44(4), 4–7.

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Quinlivan, D. (2020). Composite Memory, Reparative Pleasure and the Shedding of a Filmic Skin: Joanna Hogg’s The Souvenir. Free Associations: Psychoanalysis and Culture, Media, Groups, Politics, 79(September), 142–153. Rhodes, J.  D. (2020). Temporary Accommodation: Joanna Hogg’s Cinema of Dispossession. Film Quarterly, 73(3), 12–20. Rouch, J. ([1973] 2003). The Camera and Man (S. Feld, Trans.). In S. Feld (Ed.), Ciné-Ethnography (pp. 29–46). University of Minnesota Press. Swinton Byrne, H. (2020). The Souvenir with Joanna Hogg, Honor Swinton Byrne and Tom Burke/Interviewer: H. Smith. LIVING ROOM Q&As, Curzon. Retrieved May 2022, from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3UoyPjKmMc

CHAPTER 8

Conclusion

This book proposed to explore how nonprofessional performances—performances that reveal or suggest that the performer is not a professional actor—contribute to the significance and achievement of films. The aim of this book has been, therefore, twofold. Firstly, it has identified performance details (gestures, facial expressions, vocal inflections) frequently associated with nonprofessional performances. To this end, Chap. 2 examined how three filmmakers of the early Soviet period (Kuleshov, Eisenstein and Pudovkin) theorised on and worked with nonprofessional performance. Through this comparative analysis, I argued that nonprofessional performances in Soviet cinema of the 1920s and early 1930s are heterogeneous. That is, the performers’ status as nonprofessional actors is revealed or suggested through different elements including expertly performed manual labour (The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks), details that disrupt the impressions characters initially convey (Old and New), and gestures revealing the performer’s self-­ consciousness (The Deserter). These three aspects of nonprofessional performance might be associated with three nonprofessional archetypes: “the worker”, “the disruptive type” and “the self-conscious” which re-­ emerge frequently, albeit with significant variations, throughout the history of cinema. Besides identifying paradigmatic and recurrent nonprofessional performance details, this book has argued that non-performance elements such © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Gaggiotti, Nonprofessional Film Performance, Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32382-9_8

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as framing and editing also play a critical role in the presentation of specific performances (and performance details) as nonprofessional. This is primarily because, as discussed in Part I of this book, identifying or qualifying a performance as nonprofessional relies on comparisons with other performances (either across films or within films themselves). Although both performance and non-performance elements might facilitate and encourage such comparisons, films that meaningfully incorporate nonprofessional performances generally do so through the combination of these elements. For this reason, I have proposed to explore (nonprofessional) performance as the combination of gestures performed by the screen performers and gestures performed by the filmmakers.

Nonprofessional Performances and Their Contributions The second aim of this book has been to examine how nonprofessional performances contribute to their films’ style and meaning. In this regard, I have pointed out that, though different nonprofessional performances might reveal or suggest the performer’s nonprofessional status through similar (performance) details, we must consider these details in the context of concrete films to take stock of the performances’ contributions. Expertly performed manual labour, for example, is a common feature of different nonprofessional performances discussed in this book. In all of them, the performers execute their actions with superlative proficiency, modesty and impassiveness, vividly suggesting a lack of pretence. We recognise that we are watching authentic professionals working as they might do in their everyday life. However, in La Terra Trema (Chap. 3), for instance, the pervasive texture and repetitive cadence of the fishermen’s work is starkly juxtaposed against the dramatic yet futile actions of the protagonists. Through this contrast of performances, the nonprofessionals’ dextrous though seemingly natural manual labour exposes a deeply embodied, and therefore inescapable, social armature that opposes, represses and ultimately suffocates any action that might result in significant change. The style of the fishermen’s gestures in La Terra Trema is similar to that of the factory workers in Mr. West (Chap. 2). However, in Kuleshov’s film the workers’ technical gestures are disjointed from the narrative and dramatic action; they appear to be taking place on a parallel though simultaneous plane. Both films equate expert manual labour with non-acting and

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juxtapose this style of performance with more dramatic registers. However, differences at the level of performance and their presentation in the films suggest alternative and, in a sense, opposite perspectives on manual labour. In Mr. West, the workers’ expertise and impassiveness reveal a sense of exemplary honesty that is not always duly recognised. Conversely, in La Terra Trema, these aspects of the workers’ performances expose the perversity of class inequality, which is inscribed on the bodies of the workers. We might say that Mr. West shows the workers as capable of not acting; La Terra Trema shows them as incapable of achieving change through their actions. La libertad (Chap. 5) also combines the nonprofessional actor’s manual labour with other performance styles. In this case, Misael’s expertise and self-sufficiency living and working in isolation is subtly disrupted by the challenges and limitations he faces when, in order to sell the products of his labour, he must engage in social interaction and, therefore, perform differently. In La libertad, the contrast in performance styles, more understated and discreet than in La Terra Trema or Mr. West, brings us to question the diffuse boundary between different modes of playing oneself in film and, simultaneously, the ways in which observing (and filming) someone involves projecting and imposing upon them a range of qualities and attributes. Rather than attributing a meaning or function to the nonprofessional’s manual labour, La libertad provocatively explores, precisely, our compulsion to attach meaning and connotations to (the worker’s) gestures. Chapter 5 argued that the film’s emphasis on the epistemology of observation depends not exclusively on questions of framing and editing but also on Misael  Saavedra’s subtle though meaningful transitions between different styles of nonprofessional performance. In this regard, an important benefit of examining (nonprofessional) performance in relation to film style is the possibility of exploring how performance contributes to films beyond characterisation. In Chap. 5, for instance, I suggested that framing and editing choices are informed by and attuned to the rhythm and pace of Misael’s performing body. Similarly, in Chap. 4, I examined how particular choices at the level of performance and its presentation enable Pasolini and his collaborators to develop a distinctive, though fluid, authorial style. As Paul McDonald insightfully explains, auteur approaches to film analysis have tended to submerge ‘the signification of the actor under the authority of the director’ (2004, p. 24). This is particularly acute in the case of nonprofessional performances, which have been employed by filmmakers such as Pasolini and Bresson,

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among others, to develop consistent and idiosyncratic authorial styles. As discussed in Chap. 3, nonprofessional actors lack acting training and, in many cases, preconceptions and expectations, which grants filmmakers great freedoms in terms of working with unconventional acting registers. Similarly, nonprofessional actors also frequently lack exposure or a voice in extra-filmic channels. This allows filmmakers greater control over the film’s production mythology. Through my discussion of concrete (nonprofessional) performances across Pasolini’s cinema (Chap. 4), however, I have tried to demonstrate how subtle though significant changes at the level of gesture, vocal inflection and their presentation often play a crucial role in both consolidating a filmmaker’s style and keeping such style fluid, heterogeneous and rich enough to mutate from film to film. Discussing the works of von Stroheim and Chaplin, André Bazin noted the ‘critical paradox’ ([1949] 2013, p. 5) by which ‘an aesthetic revolution involving radical renovation in the formal design of the direction is often only the direct result of an actor’s performance’ (p. 5). I would argue that Bazin’s observation also applies to directors such as Rossellini and Pasolini, whose innovations (or renovations) at the level of style often result from, and are most vividly noticeable in, differences in performance from film to film. Examining how each performance contributes to stylistic changes within a filmmaker’s corpus can expand our understanding of film authorship and encourage us to reflect on the fact that, the same way a screen performance is—in many respects—the result of the collaboration between performers and filmmakers, so is a film’s style the outcome of a similar amalgamation of creative and artistic gestures.

Nonprofessional Characters and Beyond Besides discussing nonprofessional performance as the work of performers and filmmakers, this book has examined different ways in which fictional characters might be said to perform nonprofessionally. In Chap. 3, for instance, I considered the fact that Antonio (Lamberto Maggiorani), the protagonist in Bicycle Thieves, is a character defined by his lack of employment and his insecurities performing in a social and dramatic context he seems unequipped to navigate. Similarly, in Chap. 7, I concentrated on discussing not just Honor Swinton Byrne’s gestures but also Julie’s nonprofessional performance in The Souvenir. A fledgling student filmmaker, Julie inhabits a certain in-betweenness marked by a tentative and

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experimental interaction with her surroundings. Her nonprofessional behaviour often leads her to thorny and difficult experiences but also offers her the means to experiment with and constantly reshape her art. Film scholars have insisted on the need to remain aware of the distinction between the actor (who has an existence outside the film) and the fictional character (Baron & Carnicke, 2008). Overlooking such distinction can lead to issues regarding attribution and to the frequent mistake of discussing a character’s gestures as the actor’s or vice-versa. More problematically, disregarding the separation between player and character can make us overlook the actor’s work and regard the resulting performance as merely recorded behaviour. Such issue is particularly common in discussions of nonprofessional actors, who are often seen as simply being or playing themselves on screen. Though I agree with the need to remain aware of such pitfalls, I think it is crucial to also bear in mind that, when watching a film, roles/functions such as “the actor” and “the character” coalesce within a single body. Indeed, it is an obvious, though neglected, fact about fiction film that the characters we see on screen are also performing within the diegesis. That is, they carry out their actions with greater or lesser degrees of effectiveness, behave more or less according to what is expected of them, and interact with their surroundings with confidence or nervousness, nonchalance or self-consciousness. Analysing this aspect of screen performance can help us understand how performers and filmmakers utilise resources and techniques to achieve different presentations of embodied (non)professionalism and the significance such presentations might hold. Moreover, as discussed in relation to Honor de Cavalleria (Chap. 6), fictional characters perform nonprofessionally not only in films but also in other narrative forms, including literature. The concentration on the performing body stimulated by the medium of film—that is, the way in which cinema insistently draws our attention to gestures and how they are performed—can support and enrich our analysis of performance and behaviour outside the screen. In this book, I have considered examples of literary characters such as Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, who might be seen as performing in styles reminiscent of nonprofessional film actors. However, an interesting question for future studies to consider is “How do our experiences watching and analysing screen performances inform our apprehension of everyday performance?”. For instance, Jean Paul Sartre’s discussion of the waiter who acts in bad faith because their gestures are too precise, too waiter-like, too professional ([1943] 2003), appears partly

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grounded on a mode performance analysis reminiscent of aesthetic evaluation of screen acting. In fact, years before Sartre published Being and Nothingness ([1943] 2003), Vsevolod Pudovkin experienced a similar realisation when observing the behaviour of a hotel clerk. Ivor Montagu recalls the anecdote: Calling at a hotel to find a friend, we were guided along the corridor by an English boots; as our guide knocked on the door and bent to listen, Pudovkin gripped my shoulder with iron fingers to point out the man’s bent posture, hand cupped to ear, assumed unaffectedly in nature, and yet so seeming-exaggerated beyond convention that any audience would have called it a caricature in film. (in Pudovkin, [1929, 1933] 1960, p. 15)

A similar gesture, where everyday performances are compared to, and/or (partly) analysed as, screen performances is also present in Marcel Mauss’ iconic essay “Techniques of the Body” ([1935] 2007) where, if Mauss realises that ‘Every technique properly so-called has its own form […] Each society has its own special habits’ ([1935] 2007, pp. 71–72), it is partly because of a ‘revelation’ (p.  72) he had while in hospital. Mauss explains: I was ill in New York. I wondered where previously I had seen girls walking as my nurses walked. I had the time to think about it. At last I realised that it was at the cinema. Returning to France, I noticed how common this gait was, especially in Paris; the girls were French and they too were walking in this way. In fact, American walking fashions had begun to arrive over here, thanks to cinema. (p. 72)

In Chap. 1, I reflected on the ways in which screen performance conventions develop and mutate, leading to the association of concrete details and gestures with either professional or nonprofessional (screen) performances. Having identified some of these details, it would be interesting to consider how our apprehension of everyday performances as either professional or nonprofessional might (also) be informed by widespread conventions of screen performance. Do we regard confidence as a marker of professionalism (at least partly) because such association is particularly prominent in screen performance? To what extent are the connotations we attribute to self-conscious behaviour conditioned by the way self-­conscious actors/characters perform in the movies? These are some of the questions

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that could be explored by taking the notion of nonprofessional performance beyond the frame of the screen.

The Question of Realism At this juncture I would like to offer a few words on the relationship between nonprofessional performance and film realism. Film realism has historically been associated with nonprofessional actors, but I have evoked this term sparingly in this book for two reasons. Firstly, I believe that the pervasiveness of the association between film realism and nonprofessional actors is one reason why nonprofessional performances have not received more attention. In filmmaking, as well as in film scholarship and criticism, we often find sentences such as “nonprofessional actors enhance the realism of the film”. This kind of observation—though perhaps correct—does little to illuminate what exactly the performer or the performance does to enhance a film’s realism. Furthermore, this equation presumes the function of the nonprofessional actor (and therefore the analysis of their performance) is exhausted when it contributes towards a singular goal of realism. Lúcia Nagib has also encouraged caution when it comes to linking nonprofessional actors and film realism. Discussing Cidade de Deus/City of God (Kátia Lund and Fernando Meirelles, 2002), a film with a large cast of nonprofessional actors, Nagib explains that filmmakers and actors trained and rehearsed extensively with the aim of achieving a naturalistic mode of performance and delivery. Nagib concludes that ‘it is clearly inadequate to attribute the film’s realist aspect simply to the physical appearance and origins of the cast. The film’s realism must, therefore, stem from its form’ (2007, p. 108). Nagib’s observation resonates with my study for two key reasons. Firstly, it considers realism as an aesthetic quality that results not from the presence of specific features (such as nonprofessional actors) but from the ways in which such features work within specific films. Secondly, if the presence of specific features is insufficient to explain a film’s realism, it follows that such features might contribute to a film’s qualities beyond realism. For this reason, I have proposed to follow the (performance) details themselves, rather than taking their realism for granted. Nevertheless, the association between nonprofessional actors and film realism emerges so frequently throughout the history of cinema that it is sensible to assume there’s a strong connection between the two, which

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deserves to be explored in further detail. Questions such as “How do nonprofessional performances contribute to the realism of concrete films?” could help situate (or keep) the focus on the relationship between nonprofessional actors and film realism while also preventing the association between the two from shutting down the analysis prematurely. Furthermore, when exploring this connection, it is important to keep in mind that film realism is a contested and polysemic notion, to the point that, Tiago de Luca (2014) points out, it might be more useful or sensible to think of realisms rather than realism. As Bazin famously noted, ‘There is not one realism, but several realisms. Each period looks for its own, the technique and the aesthetics that will capture, retain, and render best what one wants from reality’ ([1948] 1997, p. 6). As discussed in Chap. 3, even within a period eminently associated with film realism such as Italian neorealism, different films use different styles of nonprofessional performance to achieve their realist projects. Such variety is arguably what gives neorealism its elusive form and enduring appeal. Similarly, other (nonprofessional) performances discussed in this book might be seen as engaging different kinds of realism. In some cases, such as the manual labourers, the gestures are attuned to the realism Ortega y Gasset ([1914] 2014) associates with a recognisable and vivid sense of typicality: this is what an authentic fisherman or an axeman looks like when working. In the case of Germany Year Zero (Chap. 3) or Honor of the Knights (Chap. 6), on the other hand, the performances’ realism seems to emerge primarily from a quality of bodily contingency, which creates the impression of (nonprofessional) actors not in control of their characters. Other cases, such as the self-conscious performances of the two women in Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (Chap. 1), resonate with Nagib’s notion of ‘phenomenological realism’ (2011, p. 26). That is, a film’s commitment to the accurate rendering of the profilmic event as physical reality experienced by cast (and crew). However, as my discussion of this film attempted to show, a remarkable aspect of the gestures of the two women is that, while potentially unrehearsed and, therefore, (seemingly) authentic, they result in a non-naturalistic representation of the workers’ indecision after leaving the factory. We might say that non-simulated gestures lead to contrived and non-naturalistic representations. Though brief, the two women’s performances vividly demonstrate the richness of filmed gestures, the way they often elude classification by suggesting concrete meanings while also thwarting them. As analysts and writers, it might be impossible (and perhaps unproductive) to stay

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suspended in ‘the ambiguity of gesture itself’ (Perkins, [1981] 2006). Writing on (and observing) gestures inevitably involves drawing concrete meanings from them or, rather, focusing on some of the gestures’ meanings (at the expense of others). In such cases, we are not unlike the anxious passer-by (and Rossellini) who cannot but rush to arrange Edmund’s dead body into a sign of pity at the end of Germany Year Zero (Chap. 3). Perhaps the challenge of analysing (nonprofessional) screen performance is not to avoid terms such as realism, authenticity, or ambiguity but to stay with the gestures long enough to have the opportunity to capture in words, precisely, something about their realism, authenticity, or ambiguity.

Nonprofessional Actors Outside the Screen Before closing this book, I would like to consider some important areas open for further research and offer some recommendations that might be useful in their pursuit. One such area concerns the role extra-filmic discourses play in conditioning our appreciation of performers and performances as nonprofessional. As mentioned in Chaps. 2 and 3, the narratives of filmmakers and critics are often crucial for making audiences aware of the nonprofessional actors’ status. Some critics have pointed out that they would not be able to tell that Maggiorani and Staiola, the performers playing the protagonists in Bicycle Thieves, were nonprofessionals had they not been told through extra-filmic channels. Such observations rightly caution scepticism regarding the amount of emphasis we place on the performers’ status when considering their performances in the films. However, this aspect remains contested, as other critics, such as Schoonover (2012), propose that (for Bazin and others) the performers’ nonprofessional status in films such as Bicycle Thieves is detectable in the performances. How to account for the information delivered through extra-filmic channels poses an important challenge for critics wishing to study nonprofessional performances. Some scholars have suggested that such information should not be considered, that our analysis should focus only on what’s on the screen (McDonald, 2004). Such advice is sound. However, one could question the degree to which it is possible to “forget” information accessed through extra-filmic channels. Furthermore, it is difficult to tell whether or not certain details might have been recognised had the critic not had access to information regarding the production of the film. As authors such as V. F. Perkins ([1981] 2006) and John Gibbs ([2006] 2015) have explored, knowledge of the filmmaking

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process can guide the critic’s attention towards inconspicuous though important details as ‘the more comprehensive our awareness of the process of filmmaking, the better we can become at recognizing where choices have been made and what the potential dimensions of choices might be’ (Gibbs, 2011, p. 92). The instances of close analysis offered in this book have sought to productively negotiate this challenge in a number of ways. Firstly, by concentrating on individual performances, I have called attention to the importance of accounting for their uniqueness. This is the fact that, as Richard Schechner reminds us, ‘every performance is different from every other’ ([2002] 2013, p. 30). This is important when it comes to the performances’ nonprofessionalism as this quality might manifest through a range of different details and with varied degrees of intensity. That is, some performances are clearer than others when it comes to suggesting the actor’s nonprofessional status. Therefore, both the answers to and the relevance of the question “What is nonprofessional about the performances of nonprofessional actors?” needs to be asserted on a case-by-­ case basis. Secondly, my analysis has suggested that identifying a performance as nonprofessional is insufficient to account for its merits. That is, recognising details as suggestive of the performer’s lack of acting training or experience might be an important first step when investigating why the nonprofessional actor might have been cast. However, the details need to be analysed in relationship to other elements in a particular shot, sequence and film to illuminate, among other things, what they reveal about specific characters or how they contribute to the film’s style and meaning. In this regard, I would argue that the question “Can we recognise that the performer is not a professional just by paying attention to the performance on-screen?” can also only be answered through the analysis of specific performances. Even in cases where we cannot, the question “How does our suspicion (or knowledge) that the performer might be a nonprofessional affect our appreciation of the performance and the film?” remains productive in assessing the performance’s potential contributions. Having said this, the study of nonprofessional actors in cinema would benefit from further attention to extra-filmic discourses. Seminal star studies texts such as Richard Dyer’s Stars ([1979] 1998) might offer a useful template from which to develop scholarship that expands our understanding of the nonprofessional actor as a phenomenon, as well as the material and social conditions necessary for the phenomenon to emerge and

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develop. Attention to the rise of popularity of nonprofessional actors in particular periods, for example, might produce knowledge regarding their importance in the establishment of institutions such as art cinema. For instance, the fact that the first films to receive Academy awards in the category of foreign films were Italian neorealist films made with nonprofessional actors may partly explain the fact that nonprofessional actors have been regarded as a staple of art cinema (and film realism) since Italian neorealism. However, though such studies are undoubtedly necessary, scholars such as McDonald (2004) and Wojcik (2004) have warned about their propensity to leave the actual performances unexamined. This book has proposed to concentrate on analysing individual nonprofessional performances which, I believe, is an important and necessary first step towards critically recognising and celebrating the performers’ contribution to the films.

Professional and Nonprofessional Screen Performance Another question deserving more attention is “Can professional actors produce nonprofessional performances?”. In this regard, scholars such as Deleuze ([1985] 2014) and Perez (1998) have recognised aspects in common between the performances of nonprofessional actors in neorealist films and the performances of professionals in modernist cinemas such as the French New Wave. Similarly, filmmaker James Blue, who interviewed celebrated filmmakers on their work with nonprofessional actors for a book he unfortunately did not manage to complete, saw it fit to interview Jean-Luc Godard. In the interview, unpublished and undated, Blue explains that ‘although my project is on the directing of non-actors and you work almost exclusively with actors, I wanted to see you because I feel that the results you obtain from them is something different than acting’. (Blue, n.d.). Along similar lines, film critic Richard Brody suggests that ‘the reason there wasn’t even more American neorealism in Hollywood is that another form of realism—method acting—was coming to the studios’ (2009). Brody’s passage might be read as proposing that method actors often achieve performances that resemble those of nonprofessionals in Italian neorealism. Certainly, professional actors often include (what feel like) “mistakes” in their performances and make use of their experience during

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and beyond the making of the film to create impressive characters. Furthermore, Godard notes that he chose actors for the same reason Bresson and others chose nonprofessionals—that is, for behavioural and physiognomic details that make them interesting as human beings (in Blue, n.d.). The details I have called nonprofessional are indeed aspects of human behaviour and performance and, therefore, available to all human beings. In this regard, many aspects of nonprofessional performance are conventions that can and have been adopted by professional actors. However, certain considerations can be made. Firstly, in cases when professional actors produce “mistakes”, such details do not generally suggest that the performer is not a professional actor but, rather, that the professional actor might be improvising. Though the gestures and details might be similar, the nonprofessional’s anonymity and their lack of previous work prevent the ‘the actor-effect’ (Nacache, [2003] 2006, p. 158) from emerging and conditioning our response to their performances. Similarly, professional actors often perform manual labour convincingly. However, these details, paired with the fact that we might recognise the performer as an actor, often become markers of the actor’s virtuosic commitment to the role rather than details revealing they are manual labourers outside the film. Hence, though performance details generally associated with nonprofessional performances might be available to professional actors, their meaning can change depending on what type of actor performs them. Nonetheless, an important question worth examining further is “How do the performances of nonprofessional actors contribute to (re) shaping conventions of film acting and film performance?”. As discussed in Chap. 1, films rely on our capacity to distinguish between (conventions of) professional and nonprofessional performance to articulate meaning. However, such differences and conventions change throughout history. In Chap. 3, for instance, I suggested that certain nonprofessional performances in neorealist films have aspects in common with the performances of professional actors in subsequent cinemas. Similarly, Eisenstein explains that, in Pudovkin’s Potomok Chingiskhana/Storm over Asia (1928), ‘[Pudovkin] takes an actor like (Valéry) Inkizhinov and uses him once as if he were not an actor. He lets him play a role that corresponds to his temperament and his natural calling. He is thus at the same time an actor and a real person’ ([1922–1934] 1988, p. 200). Eisenstein seems to be suggesting that, during the early Soviet period, filmmakers like Pudovkin were already consciously experimenting with

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having trained professional actors perform in styles and roles generally associated with nonprofessionals. At the same time, the reverse of this question is also worth considering and, in this regard, some of the approaches to (nonprofessional) film performance discussed in this book, such as exploiting the gap between nonprofessional actor and character and using acting mistakes for characterisation, are techniques filmmakers such as Jean Renoir were already using with professional actors before Italian neorealism. Renoir explains that ‘Certain people are born actors […] It’s up to the director to take these people and, in rehearsal, put them in a particular frame of mind which enables them to come alive as their character and only that character’ ([1933] 1988, p. 126). He then adds ‘this documentary way of working seems fascinating to me. It allows one, given the chance, to capture that spark of life which emanates from people when they are uncontrolled’ (126). This philosophy of film performance may be what led Renoir to work with nonprofessional actors in Toni (1935), a film often regarded as a precursor of Italian neorealism. Furthermore, Renoir’s methods, which he used when directing both professionals and nonprofessionals, seem to involve a de-professionalisation of the performances that resonates with the emphasis on (lack of) control I discussed with regard to performances in some neorealist films (Chap. 3).

The End of the Nonprofessional Actor? Finally, there are undoubtedly many performances by nonprofessional actors warranting analysis. I have chosen not to cover more performances for two reasons. Firstly, because I felt that they deserve more attention than I could afford them without overlooking the performances I have discussed. Secondly, I considered that it was important to establish a balance between analysing performances in films a potential reader might be familiar with, and analysing important recent works that, though less discussed, benefit particularly from sustained concentration on the performances. This approach is attuned to the subject matter of this book, as part of the allure of watching the performances of nonprofessional actors is, undoubtedly, discovering faces, gestures and details we have not seen before. Given the fact that studies on nonprofessional actors and/or their performances are virtually non-existent, I believe that the approach proposed in this book can offer a helpful stepping stone from which to develop further research on the topic.

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Such research would be important in terms of expanding our understanding of the crucial role performance has played (and continues to play) for cinema as a medium. However, further research on nonprofessional performance can also develop our awareness of the role screen performance plays in contemporary modes of entertainment and communication. Historically, for many of the filmmakers discussed in this book, working with nonprofessional actors involved not only collaborating with people who had not acted before but also incorporating in the films gestures and performance details that had not been shown before on screen. These filmmakers and performers were, consciously or unconsciously, contributing towards Mauss’ project of using the medium to record all human beings and cultures, to ‘film all [body] techniques’ (in Rouch, [1973] 2003, p.  34). As our societies becomes more and more accustomed to seeing themselves on screen, as social media platforms such as Facebook, Instagram, TikTok or Twitter slowly but decidedly shift their focus towards the production and circulation of screen performances, one cannot but question the extent to which the concept of the “nonprofessional actor” continues to evoke the associations it once did. Walter Benjamin’s famous observation that ‘the newsreel offers everyone the opportunity to rise from passer-by to movie extra. In this way any man might even find himself part of a work of art […] Any man today can lay claim to being filmed’ ([1935] 2008, p. 231) might have been accurate in 1935. However, it rings particularly true today as it becomes harder and harder to find individuals whose gestures and expressions have never been recorded or who have never seen themselves on screen. Daniel Frampton’s observation that ‘nowadays it is hard to find a film that does not include some images of places or people that were never in front of the camera (digital stand-ins, imaginary backdrops, computer-designed buildings)’ (2006, p. 4 emphasis and parenthesis in original) seems to me less important (and accurate) than the fact that nowadays, it is hard to find a film that does include some images of places or people that were never before in front of a camera. At the same time, despite digital cinema’s frequent association with artificiality and manipulation, cinema over the past 20 years has also focused rather intensely on the performances of nonprofessional actors (if they might still be called so). Some of these films, like La libertad, still seem to pursue (albeit with a sense of disenchantment and scepticism) the aim of recording and showing bodies and gestures never seen on screen before. At the same time, in these films (and others such as Honor de

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Cavalleria and The Souvenir) nonprofessional gestures (however unoriginal or predictable) also adopt, and find new uses for, the creative and powerful sense of disruption that characterised performance in films such as Old and New, Germany Year Zero and Salò, among others. As this book tried to demonstrate, comparing (nonprofessional) performances might help us identify approaches, concerns, and themes shared by different films. However, close analysis remains the key means to come to terms with the fact that ‘On the screen, the essential quality of a gesture is that it does not come to an end’ (Epstein, [1921] 2021, p. 273). A reason for this is that, in film, gestures (and their meanings) are kept alive by the possibility of revision afforded by the medium. However, another reason is that each film gesture, though new and unique, inevitably evokes past performances and foreshadows others yet to come.

References Baron, C., & Carnicke, S. M. (2008). Reframing Screen Performance. University of Michigan Press. Bazin, A. ([1948] 1997). William Wyler, or the Jansenist of Directing (A. Piette & B.  Cardullo, Trans.). In B.  Cardullo (Ed.), Bazin at Work: Major Essays & Reviews from The Forties & Fifties (pp. 1–19). Routledge. Bazin, A. ([1949] 2013). Erich von Stroheim: Form, Uniform, and Cruelty. In The Cinema of Cruelty: from Buñuel to Hitchcock (pp. 3–12). Arcade Publishing. Benjamin, W. ([1935] 2008). The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction (H.  Zohn, Trans.). In H.  Arendt (Ed.), Illuminations (pp. 217–251). Schocken Books. Blue, J. (n.d.). J.L. Godard Interview: Excerpt on the Directing of Non-­ professionals in Film/Interviewer: J.  Blue. James Blue Papers, 1905–2014: Subseries I: Presentations and Interviews (Box 60, Folder 39). University of Oregon Libraries, Special Collections and University Archives, The James Blue Project, The James Blue Archive, Unpublished. Brody, R. (2009). About “Neo-neo Realism”. The New Yorker. Retrieved January 2019, from https://www.newyorker.com/culture/richard-­brody/about-­neo-­ neo-­realism de Luca, T. (2014). Realism of the Senses in World Cinema: The Experience of Physical Reality. I. B. Tauris. Deleuze, G. ([1985] 2014). Cinema 2: The Time-Image (H.  Tomlinson & R. Galeta, Trans.). Bloomsbury. Dyer, R. ([1979] 1998). Stars. British Film Institute. Eisenstein, S.  M. ([1922–1934] 1988). Selected Works. Volume I.  Writings, 1922–34 (R.  Taylor, Trans.; R.  Taylor, Ed.). BFI Publishing and Indiana University Press.

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Epstein, J. ([1921] 2021). Cinema and Modern Literature. In S.  Keller & J.  N. Paul (Eds.), Jean Epstein: Critical Essays and New Translations (pp. 271–275). Amsterdam University Press. Frampton, D. (2006). Filmosophy. Wallflower Press. Gibbs, J. ([2006] 2015). Filmmaker’s Choices. Movie: A Journal of Film Criticism. Gibbs, J. (2011). The Cry of the Owl: Investigating decision-making in a contemporary feature film. Movie: A Journal of Film Criticism, 3, 80–93. Mauss, M. ([1935] 2007). Techniques of the Body (B.  Brewster, Trans.). In M. Lock & J. Farquhar (Eds.), Beyond the Body Proper. Reading the Anthropology of Material Life (pp. 50–68). Duke University Press. McDonald, P. (2004). Why Study Film Acting? Some Opening Reflections. In C. Baron, D. Carson, & F. P. Tomasulo (Eds.), More Than a Method: Trends and Traditions in Contemporary Film Performance (pp. 23–41). Wayne State University Press. Nacache, J. ([2003] 2006). El actor de cine (M. Martí i Viudes, Trans.). Paidós. Nagib, L. (2007). Brazil on Screen: Cinema Novo, New Cinema, Utopia. I.B. Tauris. Nagib, L. (2011). World Cinema and the Ethics of Realism. Continuum. Ortega y Gasset, J. ([1914] 2014). Meditaciones del Quijote y Otros Ensayos. Alianza Editorial. Perez, G. (1998). The Material Ghost: Films and Their Medium. The John Hopkins University Press. Perkins, V.  F. ([1981] 2006). Moments of Choice. Rouge, 9. Retrieved August 2019, from http://www.rouge.com.au/9/moments_choice.html Pudovkin, V. I. ([1929, 1933] 1960). Film Technique and Film Acting (I. Montagu, Trans. & Ed.). Grove Press, Inc. Renoir, J. ([1933] 1988). How I Give Life to My Characters. In R. Abel (Ed.), French Film Theory and Criticism. 1929–1939. Volume II (pp.  125–127). Princeton University Press. Rouch, J. ([1973] 2003). The Camera and Man (S. Feld, Trans.). In S. Feld (Ed.), Ciné-Ethnography (pp. 29–46). University of Minnesota Press. Sartre, J.-P. ([1943] 2003). Being and Nothingness (H.  E. Barnes, Trans.). Routledge. Schechner, R. ([2002] 2013). Performance Studies: An Introduction (3rd ed.). Routledge. Schoonover, K. (2012). Wastrels of Time: Slow Cinema’s Laboring Body, the Political Spectator, and the Queer. Framework: The Journal of Cinema and Media, 53(1), 65–78. Wojcik, P. R. (2004). General Introduction. In P. R. Wojcik (Ed.), Movie Acting: The Film Reader (pp. 1–13). Routledge.

Index1

A Accattone, 125n1, 132, 133 Actor-effect, 108, 108n20, 232, 262 Adaptation, 187, 197, 200, 201, 212 Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks, The, 39, 41, 42, 44, 55, 251 Affron, Charles, 22, 22n8, 78n5 Agamben, Giorgio, 129, 140, 150, 168 Alonso, Lisandro, vi, 20, 158–166, 168–173, 175, 175n3, 176, 178, 180, 202, 218 Althusser, Louis, 140 Andermann, Jens, 158, 176, 177 Auerbach, Jonathan, 7, 15 Aura, 108, 190–192, 195 Authenticity, 17, 69, 79, 80, 82, 84, 113, 179, 181, 259 Ayfre, Amédée, 100, 131

B Bachmann, Gideon, 75, 136 Balázs, Béla, 50 Baron, Cynthia, 12, 13, 15, 21, 36, 255 Battleship Potemkin, 33, 49n11, 54 Bazin, André, 18, 19, 21, 57, 76, 78–82, 79n6, 84, 103, 108, 109, 112, 131, 170, 189, 232, 254, 258, 259 Bellissima, 118, 218 Benjamin, Walter, 129, 264 Bicycle Thieves, 74, 77, 104, 105, 106n15, 107, 109–114, 116–118, 124, 132, 133, 178, 222, 230, 231, 254, 259 Blue, James, 105n12, 106, 106n15, 107n18, 124, 125n1, 261, 262 Boal, Augusto, 2

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 M. Gaggiotti, Nonprofessional Film Performance, Palgrave Close Readings in Film and Television, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32382-9

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268 

INDEX

Body techniques, 83, 101, 107, 116, 159, 162, 167, 168, 178, 264 See also Mauss, Marcel Bondanella, Peter, 73 Bordwell, David, 46, 50, 77 Bovino, Alfonsino, 89 Bresson, Robert, v, 17, 18, 20, 67, 68n18, 96, 102, 115, 146, 170, 171, 178, 189, 190, 192, 232, 233, 244, 253, 262 Brunette, Peter, 90, 91, 94, 231 Bruzzi, Stella, 12, 61 Buñuel, Luis, 92, 117 Burke, Tom, 229, 234, 236, 239 Butler, Jeremy, 39, 40, 56 C Carbó, Lluis, 185–213, 231 Carnicke, Sharon Marie, 12, 13, 15, 21, 36, 255 Cavell, Stanley, 11 Cervantes, Miguel de, 185, 187, 187n1, 188, 193–196, 200, 200n6, 203, 207, 211, 213 See also Don Quixote Chaplin, Charlie, 15, 39, 40, 254 Character-object, 170, 172–181 Class upper-, 224, 234, 236, 238 working-, 50, 132, 132n4, 223, 224 Clayton, Alex, 43n7, 78n5 Close-up, 17, 50, 51n13, 52–54, 95, 96, 137, 140, 142, 171, 173, 177, 198 Commedia dell’Arte, 45, 49 Comolli, Jean-Louis, 186–189, 192, 195 Confidence, 111, 224, 229–231, 233, 236, 237, 246–248, 255, 256

Convention, 15–20, 24, 75, 117, 128–131, 133, 150, 224, 256, 262 Costa, Pedro, 10, 20, 115, 117, 161 Crying, 95, 107, 143, 246 Czach, Liz, 8n4 D Dalle Vacche, Angela, 76, 107 Dancing, 37n4, 150, 151, 162, 168 Davoli, Ninetto, 133, 134, 136, 143–147, 145n9 De Luca, Tiago, 21n7, 258 De Sica, Vittorio, 18, 19, 60, 68, 74, 75, 104–117, 124, 126, 132, 162, 178, 202, 232 Decameron, Il, 134, 135 DeCordova, Richard, 15 Delay, Florence, 190 Deleuze, Gilles, 18, 36, 66, 77, 78, 145, 261 Del Río, Elena, 22n8, 23n10, 24, 97, 98 Derrida, Jacques, 22 Deserter, The, 59, 61–65, 113, 178, 221, 222, 251 Dieleke, Edgardo, 169 Dignity, 114, 230 Discomfort, 199, 201, 212, 220, 222, 223n6, 225, 245 Documentary, 3, 3n2, 12, 14, 15, 43n7, 60, 61, 82, 139, 169, 177, 196, 202, 217, 224, 263 Don Quixote, 185–188, 187n1, 193–213 Don Quixote (G. W. Pabst’s film), 195 Dyer, Richard, 3, 4, 22, 23, 69, 260

 INDEX 

E Eisenstein, Sergei Mikhailovich, 17, 21, 25, 33–35, 39, 45–57, 49n11, 59n17, 60, 63, 66, 68, 69, 76, 90, 91, 101, 115, 125, 126, 251, 262 Epstein, Jean, 10, 11, 20, 82–84, 265 Excitement, 10, 12, 64, 109, 200 F Farocki, Harun, 5 Fellini, Federico, 75, 123, 126, 151, 227 Flowers of St. Francis, The, 191 G Gaggiotti, Miguel, 21, 232 Gallagher, Tag, 74, 89, 90, 93, 101 Germany Year Zero, 93–104, 115, 116, 118, 130, 169, 170, 193, 224, 230, 248, 258, 259, 265 Gesture of chopping wood, 168 of crying (see Crying) of dancing (see Dancing) of eating, 136 economy of, 162–166 recycling, 162 Gibbs, John, 259, 260 Godard, Jean-Luc, 146, 177, 232, 261, 262 Goffman, Erving, 24n11, 43n7, 236, 238, 239 Goodwin, James, 46 Gospel According to Matthew, The, 190 Greene, Naomi, 124, 128, 137, 142n7, 147 Gunning, Tom, 14, 15

269

H Hamlet, 187 Han, Byung-Chul, 172, 173, 244 Hogg, Joanna, vi, 217–221, 226n7, 228, 229, 233–237, 239–241, 245, 247n11, 248 Honor de Cavalleria, vi, 185–213, 217, 231, 255, 264 Huillet, Danièle, 20, 115, 128 I Iannone, Pasquale, 77, 94 Improvisation, 202, 203, 262 Index, 11, 12, 46, 116 Indiana, Gary, 139 Innocence, 37, 95, 126–128, 132, 133, 139, 141, 143–145, 147, 148, 151, 221 Interlenghi, Franco, 106, 107 Interpellation, 10, 140, 141 Intonation, 82, 174, 177, 190, 199, 200, 203, 205, 223, 236 Irazoqui, Enrique, 190 Italian neorealism, v, vi, 18–20, 70, 73–118, 73n1, 79n6, 123, 124, 128, 130–133, 137, 149, 258, 261, 263 K Kid Auto Races at Venice, 15, 20, 40 Kirby, Michael, 12, 13, 44 Kiss, Anna Louise, 21n7, 82 Klevan, Andrew, 22n8, 23n10, 164, 186 Kuleshov, Lev, 33–45, 43n6, 48, 55–57, 57n14, 57n15, 60, 63, 66–69, 68n18, 82–84, 87, 89, 114, 167, 170, 251, 252

270 

INDEX

L Lapkina, Marfa, 49–55, 101, 103, 193 Law, Hoi Lun, 78n5 Leyda, Jay, 45, 49, 50 Libertad, la, vi, 157–180, 217, 226, 231, 248, 253, 264 Loach, Ken, 20, 68, 116, 168, 224 Lumière, Auguste, 4–12, 14, 131, 141, 166 Lumière, Louis, 4–12, 14, 131, 141, 166 Lury, Karen, 100 M MacDougall, David, 218, 227 Maggiorani, Lamberto, 105, 109–111, 113, 124, 254, 259 Mamma Roma, 124 Mannerism, 108, 195, 210, 232 Manners, 160, 217 Manual labour, 37, 42, 44, 50, 55, 67, 81–85, 87, 89, 94, 95, 115, 116, 126n2, 133, 136, 139, 157–180, 201, 211, 245, 251–253, 262, 263 Marcus, Millicent, 114 Marseillaise, La, 188, 189 Martin, Adrian, 170n1, 227 Mauss, Marcel, 162, 256, 264 McDonald, Paul, 2, 4, 14, 15, 21, 22n8, 253, 259, 261 McMahon, Laura, 103 Model, 1, 17, 35, 38, 67, 170, 171, 188, 188n2, 189, 233 Moeschke, Edmund, 93–104, 115, 170 Montagu, Ivor, 34n1, 35, 47, 256 Morrison, Benedict, 94, 98, 104, 130 Mouchette, 102, 103, 115, 224, 248

N Nacache, Jacqueline, 108, 232, 262 Nagib, Lúcia, 257, 258 Naivety (naive), 38, 40, 63, 64, 66, 69, 79, 95, 101, 126, 130, 132, 139–141, 145, 150, 151, 222, 230, 231, 233, 238, 239, 242, 243, 247 Naremore, James, 15–17, 22n8, 169 Naturalism, 5, 18, 48, 49, 82, 86, 94, 140 Naturshchik, 1, 17, 33–65, 166–169 Neorealism, see Italian neorealism Nervous, 8, 10–12, 60, 61, 63, 109–111, 222n5, 234, 255 Nesbet, Anne, 51, 52, 54 Nichols, Bill, 16 Non-actor, 1–4, 2n1, 14, 15, 17, 33–65, 76, 80, 82, 89, 145, 178, 232, 261 Nortier, Nadine, 102, 103, 115 Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey, 74–75, 87, 88 O October, 49 Old and New, 49–55, 63, 76, 101, 193, 251, 265 O’Rawe, Catherine, 21n7, 89 Ortega y Gasset, José, 193, 194, 258 P Page, Joanna, 158, 169, 171, 172 Paisà, 74, 89, 90, 93, 98, 102, 115, 116, 231 Panza, Sancho, 185–188, 187n1, 193, 194, 207–213, 255 Pasolini, Pier Paolo, v, vi, 20, 79n6, 123–149, 190, 192, 232, 253, 254 Passion of Joan of Arc, The, 190 Perez, Gilberto, 17, 66, 261

 INDEX 

Perkins, V. F., 22, 23, 36, 78n5, 259 Perro, El, 222n4, 233 Petrić, Vlada, 42, 43n6 Physiognomy, 38, 45–50, 53–56, 59, 68, 69, 90, 91, 101, 106, 107, 115, 125–127, 143, 147, 187, 188, 191, 194, 196, 197, 199 Pippin, Robert, 247 Pitassio, Francesco, 73, 232n8 Porcile, 140n6, 145, 146 Primitivism, 90, 159 Privilege, 95, 217–248 Pudovkin, Vsevolod, 2n1, 18, 20, 25, 33–36, 34n1, 39, 48, 49n11, 55–66, 68, 68n18, 68n19, 69, 76, 76n4, 106, 107, 113, 126, 178, 251, 256, 262 Q Quintín, 158, 170, 171 Quixote, see Don Quixote Quixotic, 185–213 R Rancière, Jacques, 102, 212 Ray, Satyajit, 104 Realism, 18, 22, 79, 116, 128, 224, 257–259, 261 Reflexivity, 217, 218 Renoir, Jean, 131, 188, 263 Rhodes, John David, 124, 132, 133, 227 Rohdie, Sam, 79n6, 81, 82, 124, 127–129, 141 Rorty, Amélie, 102 Rossellini, Roberto, 74, 75, 89–104, 115–118, 125, 126, 130, 132, 133, 162, 178, 191, 192, 202, 254, 259 Rothman, William, 61, 63 Rouch, Jean, 228, 264

271

S Saavedra, Misael, 157–180 Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom, 125 Sargeant, Amy, 33, 36n2, 46, 47, 59, 68n19 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 112, 255, 256 Sazio, Carmela, 89–91, 115–117, 231 Schechner, Richard, 22, 260 Schoonover, Karl, 19, 20, 80, 259 Self-consciousness, 68 Serra, Albert, vi, 20, 115, 161, 185, 196, 197, 199–203, 202n7, 205, 207, 209, 210, 212, 213, 218 Serrat, Lluis, 185–213, 231 Shail, Andrew, 15 Shaviro, Steven, 22n8 Shoeshine, 74, 104, 106, 107, 231 Smile, 50–53, 56, 59, 60, 62, 64, 83, 91, 109, 126, 137, 139, 149, 150, 180, 181, 220–222, 225, 238, 240, 241 Sobchack, Vivian, 8, 23, 192, 193 Sontag, Susan, 102, 190 Sorin, Carlos, 116, 222n4, 233 Souvenir, The, vi, 217–248, 254, 265 Staiola, Enzo, 107, 107n18, 259 Stam, Robert, 193, 212 Stanislavski, Konstantin, 39, 55 Star, 17, 47, 117, 144, 186, 188, 190–192, 194, 195, 218, 231, 260 Stern, Lesley, 22n8, 23n10, 24 Straub, Jean-Marie, 20, 115, 128 Swinton Byrne, Honor, 217–248, 254 T Taylor, Richard, 33, 35, 37, 38n5, 39 Tears, see Crying Terra Trema, La, 73, 74, 81–89, 93, 114–117, 130, 252, 253 Tomlison, Doug, 170

272 

INDEX

Trial of Joan of Arc, The, 189 Trilogy of Life, 125, 133, 148 Triola, Montse, 202n7 Typage, 17, 45–55, 68, 90, 125, 126 Type, 1, 17, 33–66, 69, 76, 91, 101, 115, 126, 143, 187, 193, 195, 197, 207, 231, 262 U Umberto D., 106n15, 117 V Vertov, Dziga, 16, 17, 42 Viano, Maurizio, 124, 128 Victim, 113, 114, 126, 132, 133, 136, 139, 141–147, 142n7, 143n8, 149–151, 178, 181, 238, 244 Visconti, Luchino, 73, 75, 81–84, 86–88, 104, 118, 162, 202 Voice, 2, 84, 105, 116, 125n1, 207, 223

Vulnerability, 95, 101, 141, 191, 195, 222, 224, 230, 239, 242–245, 247, 248 W Wagstaff, Christopher, 74, 75, 76n4, 90, 104, 105, 110 Wojcik, Pamela Robertson, 45, 47, 60, 76, 261 Work, see Manual labour Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory, 5, 9, 11, 12, 17, 20, 22–24, 26, 42, 61, 141, 222, 258 Y Yampolsky, Mikhail, 16, 36, 36n2, 36n3, 37n4, 38 Youngblood, Denise, 33–35, 41, 42, 54 Z Zavattini, Cesare, 68n19, 75, 105, 105n13, 106, 115, 118, 160