The Lumière Galaxy: Seven Key Words for the Cinema to Come

The Lumière Galaxy

FILM AND CULTURE

John Belton, Editor

Film and Culture

A series of Columbia University Press

Edited by John Belton

For the list of titles in this series, see Series List.

The Lumière Galaxy

SEVEN KEY WORDS FOR THE CINEMA TO COME

Francesco Casetti

Columbia University Press

New York

Columbia University Press

Publishers Since 1893

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Copyright © 2015 Columbia University Press

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E-ISBN 978-0-231-53887-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Casetti, Francesco.

The Lumière galaxy : seven key words for the cinema to come / Francesco Casetti.

pages cm. — (Film and culture)

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-231-17242-4 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-231-17243-1 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-231-53887-9 (ebook)

1. Motion pictures. 2. Digital media–Influence. I. Title.

PN1994.C34223 2015

384'.8–dc23

2014030122

A Columbia University Press E-book.

CUP would be pleased to hear about your reading experience with this e-book at cup-ebook@columbia.edu.

COVER DESIGN: Martin N. Hinze

COVER PHOTOS: (left) Portrait d’Auguste Lumière, ca. 1890 (Collection Institut Lumière, Lyon); (right) portrait de Louis Lumière, ca. 1890 (Collection Institut Lumière, Lyon)

References to websites (URLs) were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Columbia University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Introduction

1. Relocation

2. Relics/Icons

3. Assemblage

4. Expansion

5. Hypertopia

6. Display

7. Performance

8. The Persistence of Cinema in a Post-Cinematic Age

NOTES

BIBLIOGRAPHY

INDEX

Acknowledgments

During the many years I have been working on this book, my intellectual debts have increased. I am particularly grateful to Vinzenz Hediger, who wanted me to appear as the keynote speaker at the Vienna Conference of the NECS (European Network for Cinema and Media Studies) in 2007, where I discussed some of the ideas developed in this book; to Annette Kuhn, who invited me to the Screen Conference in Glasgow in 2009, where I presented the first draft of chapter 7; to Catherine Fowler and Paola Voci, who supported my Evans Fellowship at Otago University in 2011, during which I worked on chapters 1 and 2, being rewarded also by their extraordinary sense of friendship; to Bernhard Siegert and Lorenz Engell, to whom I owe one of the most productive periods in my recent life, my fellowship at IKKM-Weimar in summer 2012 (and to the other fellows of the year: among them Volker Pantemburg, John Caldwell, Weilhong Bao, Thomas Elsaesser, Thomas Levin, and Sigrid Weigel); to Meta Mazaj, who asked me to deliver the keynote address for the conference The End of the Cinema and the Future of Cinema Studies, held at the University of Pennsylvania in April 2012, where I presented chapter 4; to Laura Mulvey and Mark Lewis, who invited me to open the series The City and Its Moving Images, where I lectured on hypertopia. Thanks also to Phil Rosen, Michele Cometa, Pina De Luca, Ioanna Angelidou, Winfried Pauleit, Margrit Tröhler, Laurent Creton, Roger Odin, Roberto De Gaetano, and Guglielmo Pescatore, who gave me the opportunity to speak in front of an audience about my work in progress.

Antonio Somaini and Peppino Ortoleva are accomplices, and their support and advice have been priceless. Sara Sampietro helped me between 2006 and 2009 to do some field work on the new forms of spectatorship that turned out to be very instructive. For years, I have always discussed my research with my colleague Maria Grazia Fanchi; many pages of this book resonate our conversations. As usual, my thanks to Silvio Alovisio and Luca Mazzei for helping me in my archival research on Italian early film theory. My gratitude also to Raymond Bellour and Pietro Montani for useful conversations at different stages of the work. The manuscript or parts of it have been read by Malte Hagener, Paul North, Giacomo Manzoli, Franco Marineo, Ruggero Eugeni, Federica Villa, Francesco Pitassio, Mauro Carbone, Ji-hoo Kim, and Andrea Pinotti—my gratitude for their generosity and insight. Special thanks to Jimena Canales: The book found its final structure after a long discussion with her.

My colleagues at Yale deserve special thanks: I have learned a lot from passionate discussions with Carol Jacobs, Charles Musser, Brigitte Peucker, Katie Trumpener, Katie Clark, J. D. Connor, Aaron Gerow, Ron Gregg, Laura Wexler, and John Mackay. Part of the book was discussed at the Humanities Intramural Seminar, organized by Martin Hägglund: my thanks go to him and to Howard Bloch, Gary Tomlinson, Rudiger Campe, Ruth Yeazael, Tony Kronman, Bryan Garsten, Steven Smith, Tina Liu, and Josh Billing. David Joselit, with whom I have co-taught two courses, gave me the precious opportunity to share many ideas. Thanks to Emily Greenwood and Tamar Gendler for a fruitful intellectual engagement in the Mellon Initiative. Many of the ideas developed in this book have been debated in my seminars: a special recognition to my graduate students—particularly to Mal Ahern, Luca Peretti, and Andrej Tolstoy, who asked me to address the closing remarks at the Graduate Conference Expanding Cinema. Dudley Andrew is my American brother more than my American friend: all my gratitude for his closeness, his generosity, and the extraordinary gift of dedicating to me his What Cinema Is! His suspicious attitude toward so-called post-cinema has been a constant caveat in the face of my excess of enthusiasm; I have been impelled to dive deeper into my topic. This book is in dialogue with his.

Preparatory papers have been published in the journals Screen, Fata Morgana, Screening the Past, Necsus, and Link: even when the same title, they have been deeply rewritten for the book. Chapter 6 has been published with another title and in a different form as the opening text in Public Spaces, Media Screens, edited by Chris Berry, Janet Harbord, and Rachel Moore. I want to thank the editors and publishers for letting me use this previously published material. Daniel Leisawitz has provided the translation of the pages previously written in Italian, and he also helped me to improve the parts directly written in English. I am greatly indebted to his efforts and his patience: The book owes much to him. For the final revision of the manuscript, I worked side by side with Michael Cramer: He helped me to find the best way of expressing my ideas, displaying extraordinary competence, great insight into my work, and a marvellous sense of elegance—something needed for a book that is not written in my mother tongue.

Special thanks to Jennifer Crewe, director at Columbia: this is the second book that I have had the pleasure to publish with her. I would also like to acknowledge the hard work put in by the production team: Roy Thomas, production editor, Chris Curioli, copyeditor, and Ben Kolstad, who coordinated the production of this book.

The impulse to write this book arose from different episodes. When my previous book, Eye of the Century, was published, many friends and some of my reviewers asked me to write something on what at the time I called cinema 2.0. The Lumière Galaxy is an answer to their request. During my first steps in this project, another suggestion came from an anonymous bus driver: I was refusing to get out from the shuttle to Newark Airport, claiming that the film that was screened onboard had not yet run to its end—and the driver answered that, being complimentary, due to a traffic jam, the movie was not properly a movie. I found it an interesting riddle. But what really moved me onward was a discussion with my wife, Ornella, with whom I watch movies in film theaters and on the large television screen in our living room. During screenings at home, she wants me to stay silent; once I reacted claiming that we were at home, where conversations are usual, and she replied that as a matter of fact we were watching a movie. This book is an attempt to understand why we were watching a movie and why we had to behave consequently, even if at home. The book, of course, is dedicated to Ornella.

Introduction

CINEMA’S DEATH, SURVIVAL, AND (MAYBE) REINCARNATION

During the 1982 Cannes Film Festival, Wim Wenders asked several directors to enter the Hotel Martinez’s room 666, sit in front of a movie camera, beside a television monitor, and respond to a series of written questions placed on a table. The questions revolved around one central problem: In the face of the growing weight of other media such as television and confronted with the transformations related to the progressive introduction of electronic technologies, is cinema a language about to get lost, an art about to die? The responses varied in tone: Jean-Luc Godard, while casting continual glances toward the tennis match unfolding on the small screen next to him, declared We must leave, I am going to die. Monte Hellman, after explaining that he records films to watch at home—but never does so—simply thought there are good times and bad times for cinema, as for other things. Noel Simsolo replied that It is not cinema that is dying, but rather the people who make it. Werner Herzog, after observing that to respond to such a demanding question, one needs to at least take off one’s shoes, declared barefoot that the cinema would survive because where life touches us most directly that’s where you will find cinema. Steven Spielberg predicted that in the coming years, cinema would expand its boundaries, and Michelangelo Antonioni declared it will not be difficult to transform ourselves into new men, adapted to new technologies.

Watching Chambre 666, the film that collects all of these responses, more than thirty years later produces an odd effect¹: The transformation that cinema has undergone since 1982 has been much more radical than could have ever been imagined. The advent of digital technologies, which transformed the character of image and sound, and the processes of convergence, which led different media to integrate, have resulted in entirely unforeseen scenarios. The cinema is no longer only a strip of film to be passed through a projector aimed at a screen inside a public space; it is also a DVD that I play at home to relax, or a video I follow in a museum or in a gallery, or content that I download from the Internet onto my computer or my tablet. Similarly, the newspaper is no longer only a sheaf of printed paper pages; it is also a series of windows I open on my tablet. And the radio is no longer an apparatus for tuning in to various broadcast stations; it is also an aural flow that I can access on my telephone. Media have ceased to be identified with a particular device or with a single support and now utilize new technologies, change their size, and redefine their functions. Products and services have been interchanged, and they now overlap within digital platforms, which allow us to read, write, listen, see, receive, archive, and send.

This loss of traditional characteristics has led many scholars to speak of the end of individual media, and this is true above all for cinema, as the progressive abandonment of photographic film and the darkened theater has given rise to discussions of its death. Chambre 666 is one of the first sources in which we see this preoccupation appear. In the mid-1990s, Susan Sontag sounded the alarm once again, arguing that the proliferation of screen condemns cinema to an inevitable and progressive decline.² In the following decade, this notion became a veritable leitmotif. The conviction arose that the digital image lacked that direct contact with reality that represented one of the constitutive elements of the cinema.³ It was observed that the new ways of watching film on television or in one’s DVD player overturned the traditional parameters of film consumption.⁴ Finally, the suspicion grew that the multiplication of images would bring about their loss, both because the new supports that held them were impermanent and, even more importantly, because their abundance brought with it a sense of indifference.⁵ The death of cinema seems to be a given fact. Peter Greenaway, with his usual eccentricity, even assigns a date to its death: September 31, 1983, the day on which the remote control made its debut in our homes and obliged us to transform spectatorship into an interactive relationship.⁶

Yet the cinema has certainly not died. Movie theaters, for example, not only continue to exist, but also are increasing in number. In 2012, theater screens multiplied by 5 percent worldwide, due to the double-digit growth in the Asia Pacific market, raising the total number to just under 130,000. In the same year, box office grosses rose by 6 percent, reaching $34.7 billion with the help of increasing attendance in countries such as China, Brazil, and Russia.⁷ Going to the cinema seems to be a firmly entrenched habit.

Furthermore, we continue to call cinema what we watch at home, in our home theater, or while traveling, on our tablet, thanks to our ability to rent DVDs or download films online.⁸ The equipment and the support change, as does the viewing environment, but habit seems to persist even in these new situations.

Finally, we consider many of the images that surround us to be cinematic, even if they are not films in the traditional sense of the term. I am thinking of the so-called cinéma d’exposition, widespread in contemporary art and intended for projection in galleries and museums.⁹ I am also thinking of the many other formats that we encounter online but also screened in public spaces such as in squares and malls, and that have been, hardly by chance, placed within the category of an extended cinema.¹⁰ There also exist the kinds of installations, videos, Web projections, video games, and laboratory experiments that Jeffrey Shaw and Peter Weibel hosted in 2003 in a great exhibition in Karlsruhe with the title Future Cinema (and with an even more suggestive subtitle: The Cinematic Imaginary After Film).¹¹ And lastly I am thinking of the works based on a re-materialization or a re-instantiation of the cinematic apparatus—something already familiar in the avant-garde, which Pavle Levi names cinema by other means.¹² Luc Vancheri has proposed that this complex of noncanonical productions simply be called contemporary cinemas (plural).¹³ Cinema is a brand that is also applied to new products.

Cinema thus survives and in many senses is expanding. This survival, of course, is intertwined with a series of major changes. For example, most theaters are now digital, meaning that they no longer project film, and many of these are equipped for 3-D, which means that they promote a different (although not truly new) mode of viewing.¹⁴ Furthermore, many projection sites are adopting facilities that make them rather similar to theme parks¹⁵ or to domestic environments.¹⁶ Television sets, computers, and tablets mark the abandonment of reflective screens: The projector is no longer an essential component of the cinematic complex. Spectators not only watch movies on different devices, but often also watch a film moving from one device to another, for example from their television set to their smartphone, using a multiplicity of screens. Finally, many new products, although inspired by cinema, take on forms that shift our traditional notions about film: think for example of the short clips on YouTube or Vimeo (fictional vignettes, travel diaries, or short improvised sketches) or on the contrary of the large images of IMAX—modern versions of the panorama and diorama.¹⁷ There is a persistence of cinema, but it faces deep transformations at every step of the way.

This is not, however, an unprecedented dialectic: Throughout its history, cinema has often met with changes that seemed to push it beyond its technological, linguistic, and institutional boundaries, and at the same time it has always sought to remain itself, also negotiating or appropriating novelties. Today, the tension between persistence and transformation seems to be reaching its high point and thus takes on a particularly meaningful—and even dramatic—character.

THE CINEMATIC EXPERIENCE

In this book, I aim to analyze this tension by placing the spectator’s experience at its center. Experience is a complex term: It refers at once to a subject’s direct confrontation with the world (experience as immediate sentient observation: we speak of experiencing something), to the capacity to rethink and make sense of what we encounter (experience as acquisition of an insight or a wisdom: we speak of gaining experience), and finally to the ability to manage a situation on the basis of the knowledge acquired in previous cases (experience as mediating between abstract concepts and concrete particulars: we say to have experience).¹⁸ Experience is thus not only a matter of perception but also implies a reflexivity and a number of individual or social practices. It is a perceiving, a consideration of what is perceived and of ourselves, and a way of dealing with the context—all three of these levels, without any possibility to reduce one to another. In this sense, it is a cognitive act, but one that is always rooted in, and affects, a body (it is embodied), a culture (it is embedded), and a situation (it is grounded).

Using the idea of experience will allow me to distance myself from an approach that places the technology of cinema at its center. There is an academic tradition, of which authors such as Marshall McLuhan and Friedrich Kittler are often considered major exponents, holding that the material base of the medium not only determines the way we perceive what it shows to us—and the world for which it acts as mediator—but also directly defines the nature of the medium itself. Following this line of thought, cinema would be reduced to a support and a device. If this were the case, every change in the technological complex would result in a change in the medium’s nature, and those who preach the death of cinema would be correct, against all evidence to the contrary. Granting a central position to experience, meanwhile, means overturning this perspective: What constitutes the defining core of a medium is the way that it activates our senses, our reflexivity, and our practices. The way it does so is undoubtedly influenced by the technical complex, but it has also crystallized over time into a cultural form that is recognizable as such and which can also find different instantiations. Such an orientation does not imply a return to the philistine’s concept of ‘art’ … stranger to all technical considerations—to use Benjamin’s words.¹⁹ It simply suggests that we deal with a more complex framework, in which technology does not play a causal role, especially in an epoch like ours, in which it is increasingly light and available for different purposes. In this context, what identifies a medium is first and foremost a mode of seeing, feeling, reflecting, and reacting, no longer necessarily tied to a single machine, not even to the one with which it has been traditionally associated. It is the case of cinema: born as a technical invention, it soon came to be identified as a particular way of relating with the world through moving images, as well as of relating with these images. As a consequence, cinema will live on for as long as its way of engaging us does, whatever the device that it takes as its support might be.

There is, however, another reason that the concept of experience will be particularly useful here. Many scholars have noted how the advent of the digital functions less as a point of rupture than as an element of potential continuity; John Belton, for example, has spoken of a false revolution.²⁰ In particular, Stephen Prince has noted how the digital image allows for a perceptual realism strongly analogous to what characterized the photographic image. While it is true that the digital image no longer functions as a direct trace of the real, the process through which we understand what it shows us as real is the same as the one set into motion by the photographic image.²¹ Berys Gault has developed a parallel argument: The difference between a digital camera and a film camera is the support on which information is registered, not the way in which reality is captured. Therefore, even a digital image can be considered a photographic one; it is not by chance that we react to it in the same way that we react to traditional photographic images.²² David Bordwell has retraced the transition to the digital in an e-book. There is no doubt that films have become files.²³ Nevertheless, the enduring presence of the film industry provides a sense of continuity: We look at the digital movies as if they were film movies. In a text dedicated to cinema’s specificity, Noël Carrol had earlier dismantled the idea that cinema possesses physical elements or constituents capable of defining its intrinsic nature, showing instead its wide variety of uses and styles; we can thus add that cinema may have many faces, some of which may emerge in another medium.²⁴

I am sympathetic to these anti-essentialist approaches, and here I will seek to enrich this line of thought. If we assume that the continuity of a medium is determined by its endurance, or at least the endurance of a certain type of experience, and if we take the term experience broadly, as outlined earlier, we can delineate other elements that function as bridges, providing continuity: In addition to the particular way of seeing images offered by cinema, and certain recurring subjects, an important role is played by environmental factors (the fact of being in front of a screen), cultural factors (the memory of what cinema was), linguistic factors (the presence of a cinematic language, whatever that term is taken to mean), and broadly psychological ones (the need for cinema, to use an old term coined by Edgar Morin).²⁵ It is on the basis of a multiplicity of elements that we recognize our experiences as cinematic and thereby give cinema another chance to live.²⁶

This does not mean, however, that the cinematic experience is not often contested. At a remove from the projector-film-theater complex, what we experience and the ways we experience it tend to change. Small screens instead of large, fluorescent instead of reflective, in open spaces instead of closed spaces, accompanied by imperfect sound, are regarded as a threat to the pleasure of viewing. Many of the new devices and new environments imply forms of attention that are no more solely centered on a screen. The availability of a movie everywhere and at any time diminishes the sense of an event traditionally tied with film-going. More radically, on my DVD player, film may become a text, the chapters of which I can read individually, as if it were a book; projected in a museum or art gallery, it may become an exhibited object, as if it were a painting or a sculpture; on my tablet, it may become a private diversion, as if it were a video game; on a media façade, it may increase its value as spectacle, to the point that it becomes an environmental decoration, and so on. Placed in new devices and new contexts, cinema risks losing itself. It is this sentiment that leads David Lynch, in a parody commercial for the iPhone, to declare, Now, if you are playing the movie on a telephone, you will never in a trillion years experience the film.²⁷

Even so, it is also the case that many of these transformations, more than creating a rupture with the past, seem to bring with them an expansion of cinema’s horizons. They allow it to conserve some of its fundamental characteristics, albeit in a compromised manner, as in the case of the home theater, which responds to a desire to re-create the movie theater in my living room. They also open up new, unprecedented opportunities, like that of reaching a mobile spectator who can nonetheless isolate himself from his context and concentrate on what he is seeing. They let cinema test and adjust itself while exploring new territories. Last, but not least, they allow for the recuperation of certain characteristics that cinema once had, earlier on in its history, but has now partially lost, like the ability to invade nonspecialized public spaces, work with multiple different types of screens, and mix together with other forms of spectacle.²⁸ What results from these changes is not so much an abandonment of the experience of cinema as its rearticulation: It takes on new forms that paint a more complex and varied picture of the whole.²⁹

Cinema is thus confronted with changes to itself. Sometimes it risks giving in to these and transforms its own nature; in other instances it attempts to resist, in order to remain itself. Most often, however, it weaves together these changes with a tradition, memory, and set of habits, and incorporates them. As a consequence, it unfolds an identity based not on the simple repetition of the same but on the acceptance of variations and differences—an ipse-identity, instead of an idem-identity, as Paul Ricoeur would say.³⁰ More than reaffirming the usual features, what is highlighted is the presence of a field of possibilities, even apparently discordant ones, that give us back a reality in its multiple aspects and moreover in its becoming. A self is an opening to the other. It is such an identity that in the past allowed cinema to remain itself even when it adopted new guises. It is such an identity that today allows cinema, threatened by more radical modifications, to continue on its path.

SEVEN KEY WORDS

I will consider this interweaving of persistence, change, and rearticulation by following seven major processes that are taking place, attending not so much to their concrete details as to their theoretical implications. Each one of these processes will be dealt with in a single chapter of the book and will be organized around a key word that gives each chapter its title.

The first chapter of the book engages with cinema’s relocation to other devices and to other contexts. As I have suggested, what migrates is not a technical complex but rather a form of experience, which reestablishes itself in a new context. If cinema can now be transferred into my living room, as well as into city squares, public transportation, the Internet, my television, and my smartphone, while remaining itself in some sense, this is due to two reasons that bring us back to the film theories of the first decades of the twentieth century. On the one hand, cinema has been a medium expansively characterized by the type of experience it created: From its inception, it was presented not simply as a specific kind of machine, but as a particular way of seeing the world and making the world visible through images in movement. On the other hand, its gaze has often seemed to emerge in other situations as well: As many commentators have emphasized from its beginnings, we sometimes feel as if we are at the cinema even when far from the darkened theater. These two aspects have made cinema both well defined and capable of going beyond its borders: If today it relocates itself on a massive scale, this is due to these long-established tendencies. For cinema to remain itself, however, is not a simple enterprise. In relocating, cinema continually risks losing itself. It remains for us to recognize its presence in situations that are in many cases ambiguous and which can be understood in different ways. For the most part, we end up identifying our experience as cinematic because, due to habit or the strength of memory, we find in it the reemergence of several typical and already well-established elements. But oftentimes we identify our experience as such also because we imagine, wager, or decide that it is. In this case, we cause an identity to spring forth not on the basis of the repetition of the same, but rather from cinema’s capacity for taking on different guises—not as sameness, but as selfhood. Cinema then unfolds itself, regardless of the mask it wears.

The second chapter revolves around two words: relic and icon. With respect to the darkened movie theater, new situations reduce the original experience by half. In some cases—for instance, when I watch a film while traveling, likely on my tablet, which is intended to deliver content in any possible situation—I recover the object of the cinematic experience, but not its environment. In other cases—as when I watch a television series on my home theater, which is designed to provide high-quality vision and sound—I retrieve the modalities of the cinematic experience, but I recover its object only indirectly. The situation that follows is in some ways curious: We can watch films in an un-cinematographic manner (a DVD while traveling, for example), and cinematic vision can also apply to other products (a television program on a home theater, for instance). For more than a century, cinema has denoted both a particular product and a particular form of use; these two aspects now risk being split apart. However, even when separated, these two situations remain authentic in their own way. A film on DVD is nonetheless a fragment of the whole of cinematic production, even when broken away from it and placed elsewhere. In this sense, it is as if it were a relic. It is precisely because of the fact that this fragment was a part of (or could have been a part of) the holy body of cinema that it puts me in contact with the latter. My home theater, meanwhile, attempts to reincarnate the darkened movie theater, even while it is a copy of it. In this sense, it constitutes an icon, which is to say, a substitute that reactivates the presence of the model, even as it simultaneously draws attention to the model’s absence. Here, it is the similarity it shares with the original—more than contact at a distance—that allows cinema to live again. Relocated cinema is precisely a relic or an icon, and it is because it takes on these identities (I repeat: on the one hand the fragment and contact, on the other hand similarity and reincarnation) that cinema conserves its authenticity, as it were.

The third chapter discusses the new forms taken on by the technological complex and foregrounds the notion of assemblage. The point of departure here is the observation that in situations that might be called imperfect in contrast with the viewing of a film in a theater, the spectator often responds by repairing whatever falls short. For example, in cases in which one is exposed to an external environment—as often happens when using portable devices—spectators construct an existential bubble in which to seek refuge, and in doing so they recapture a sense of intimacy in regard what they are watching. In the same way, in many instances of individual viewing, spectators construct for themselves an imagined audience as, for example, when chatting online after watching a film—or even during a film—with other spectators who have been having the same experience. Such behaviors inevitably lead us to reconsider the role of the cinematic machine. Do the conditions in which we find ourselves, or, more specifically, the devices that we use, determine the modality of our viewing and our status as spectators, or are they modifiable factors? In the 1970s and 1980s, much of film theory considered the dispositive in terms of an apparatus, that is to say as a closed and binding structure; the spectator was what the machine wanted him to be. There is, however, another line of thought (for example, in the work of Gilles Deleuze)³¹ that considers the dispositive in terms of an assemblage, in other words as an alterable complex of components that includes the spectator. The concept of assemblage is useful insofar as it allows us to see how the cinematic machine is made up of multiple elements that recompose themselves in response to the circumstances, and thus how its usage has variable and adjustable aspects. This does not mean, however, that the spectator can do whatever he wants: He continues to respond to the dispositive but can in turn intervene in it. This dialectic, which is particularly visible today, does not represent an entirely new element of cinema. If we look back on cinema’s history, we see that it has always been a much more adaptable machine than we have often been led to believe. The cinema has always been prepared to change its own structures and to exceed its own boundaries; at the same time, it has always sought to remain faithful to itself. It continues to do so today, but by way of a global transformation.

The fourth chapter examines the ongoing expansion of cinema. The idea of expanded cinema enjoyed a certain success in the 1960s and 1970s; it may be useful to revisit it today to uncover a tendency that has been incubating for a long time. Today, cinema’s expansion is developing in several precise directions. First, there is the imposition of a transmedial logic, which requires that content be conceived of for multiple media—beyond cinema, to television, theme parks, video games, and so forth. Then, there is an expansion of modes of production and reception, with an always-greater space for so-called grassroots practices. There is also a growing tendency to include within the boundaries of the film what were once accompanying texts, such as the trailer, working journal, or critical comments, which can now be found on a film’s DVD or Web site. Finally, there is an opening to new types of images, no longer linked to the analogical reproduction of reality. Of course, the risk of expansion is that cinema will end up being reabsorbed into a larger category—that of screened images—to the point that it loses its own identity. However, cinema in expansion seems to retain its own terrain of choice. It reaches this goal through two paths. On one hand, cinema continues and intensifies its traditional vocation of offering images in high definition: The recent success of 3-D signals its desire to immerse the spectator even deeper into the represented world. On the other hand, cinema increasingly recuperates poor images, such as those produced by webcams, smartphones, or on the Web, in order to constitute a kind of critique of the way in which other media present a world often transformed into pure simulacra. In this case, the high definition pertains less to the perceptual level than to the level of our consciousness. We thus have three cinemas: first, one that while expanding risks its dispersion, then one that enhances its appeal to the senses to include the spectator in the depicted world better, and finally one that lowers its level of sensory appeal as a critical stance. These three cinemas—cinemas of dispersion, of adhesion, and of awareness—are not always at ease in establishing mutual connections. Nevertheless, they shape a common ground that defines what remains specific to cinema in an era of media convergence.

The fifth chapter analyzes the space that is created both in front of and around a screen and introduces the notion of hypertopia. Cinema’s migration toward new environments implies many new elements. While the darkened theater appeared to be a space mainly oriented to the film viewing, and was recognizable as such,³² today sites of viewing—domestic spaces like my living room, or urban spaces like public squares of the hall of a train station, or exposition spaces like galleries and museums—take on a more complex status. In