Académique Documents
Professionnel Documents
Culture Documents
Gustavo Procopio Furtado
G.P. Furtado (
)
Department of Romance Studies,
Duke University, Durham, NC, USA
PARALLEL LIVES
Sérgio Borges’s O céu sobre os ombros (2011) follows three unlikely char-
acters: the first is a Hare Krishna devotee, telemarketer, restaurant cook,
and member of an organized fan club for one of Belo Horizonte’s top
soccer teams; the second is a black writer with an African name who is
simultaneously working on nine novels but has never published a single
piece; and the third is a male-to-female transgendered subject who is a
street prostitute as well as a student and teacher at the Federal University,
WHERE ARE THE “PEOPLE”?: THE POLITICS OF THE VIRTUAL … 119
(as I will discuss in more detail below). The idea of transit is later devel-
oped further through the characters’ performances of social roles and in
the synergies between their real and fictional personas; consequently, we
reach a point of indiscernibility and contamination that puts on display,
precisely, the “powers” of the false.
This productive confusion between the virtual and the actual—which
remits in part to the unstable temporalities of the “no longer” and the
“not yet”—also plays out in the relationship the film establishes among
the three characters who, taken together, constitute, somewhat paradoxi-
cally, a virtual community of strangers. This aspect comes to the fore in the
film’s opening shots, in which the characters are seen traveling in a moving
bus. This five-shot sequence begins with one character, the writer, seen in
medium close-up, looking downward. Sitting next to him, a woman looks
distractedly out the window. The next shot shows his hands handling a
book, and farther back, her hands clasped together. We cut to another
character, the Hare Krishna devotee, but this time, we start with a view of
his hands, which appear to be handling prayer beads in a cloth bag. Then
a medium shot shows his absent-minded expression, daydreaming as the
outside cityscape drifts by. Lastly, we see Everlyn, her profile juxtaposed
against the passing city. She is also holding an object, a flower that comes
into view when she raises it to her nose.
These initial five shots, which precede the appearance of the film’s title,
foreshadow relationships that lie at the core of Borges’s film. Here every
suggestion of spatio-temporal togetherness is accompanied by a simulta-
neous suggestion of distancing, spacing, and, ultimately, the solitude of
each individual. The introduction of these three characters in parallel situ-
ations suggests that they share something, that they constitute a group:
they are in buses, and their bodies are similarly oriented in vehicles moving
from left to right. Moreover, in conjunction with the continuity that their
shared physical orientation establishes, the brief sequence carefully dove-
tails the images of each: face (cut) hands, hands (cut) face, and then face
and hands in a single shot. There is an intercalating symmetry here, a pat-
tern that nestles the images of each character within those of the others. At
first, the viewer might even suppose that the three are traveling together in
the same bus—at least until it becomes clear that the third character travels
by night, temporally separated from the other two. The night shot intro-
duces a disjunction in what might have seemed a contiguous, shared pres-
ent. Other disjunctions, too, are inscribed in each shot. We hear the noise
of other passengers in the bus and thus sense their physical proximity in
WHERE ARE THE “PEOPLE”?: THE POLITICS OF THE VIRTUAL … 121
a shared space. Yet, these others are off-screen; their presence is only felt,
but always kept out of view, such that they are at once present and absent.
The parallel structure of the introductory shots may raise expectations
that these characters share a story, cohabit a single narrative. Yet this par-
allel structure really remits to parallelism in a more fundamental sense:
their stories, which are sparse and only minimally narrative, never cross.
Like passengers in a bus, they are strangers cohabiting the ordinary space
of a city. Similarly, their images are intercut so that they share separately
the space-time of the film. Not only are the characters strangers to each
other, but they also appear to live lives characterized by sparse interper-
sonal exchange. Even when in the company of others, they almost always
seem to be alone (as in the bus in the opening shots, or when Everlyn
shares a table with strangers lunching quietly in a restaurant, or when
the writer is talking to a woman in his apartment who is kept off-screen,
obstructed from view by a wall so that he is visually alone). A memorable
sequence capturing Murari Krishna’s telemarketing job also encodes forms
of collective solitude; in a long shot of the office space, we see him as one
among countless workers laboring in adjacent stations, at once grouped
and separated in the workplace, talking incessantly on the telephone in
conversations that forestall meaningful communication.
The characters’ shared aloneness finds resonance in the film’s occasional
panning shots of the city. These shots are taken from such a distance that
the city appears to be uninhabited, or inhabited by buildings rather than
humans. The second of these panning shots happens at night; here the city
is rendered as an agglomeration of buildings and flickering lights, as if the
people had gone missing.20 The feeling of urban solitude that these shots
suggest intensifies in scenes in which the characters appear alone in the
city—as when Everlyn walks deserted streets, or in a long lyrical sequence
in which Murari is seen skateboarding and doing graffiti, his body the only
discernible human figure moving among urban structures, passing cars,
and city lights. By interspersing solitary images of each of these characters,
the film creates a feeling of collective solitude, of closely knit relationships
among parallel lives that converge only in an imaginary vanishing point
that the film never reaches. The film’s three characters form “a people”
whose time is “not yet”; their togetherness is suggested but deferred.
Unstable and perennially transitioning, alone as foreigners in a strange
world, the characters’ experience borders on the exilic. Exile is to some
extent implied by the writer’s African, non-Brazilian name, Edjucu Moio,
which remits to a migratory past. The little we learn about Everlyn’s tra-
122 G.P. FURTADO
jectory from a small town to the city, a break with provincial origins that
enables her urban self-renewal, also suggests a kind of exile. As Laura
Marks observes, Deleuze’s notion of political cinema speaks acutely to
postcolonial spaces where different languages, histories, and regimes of
knowledge tensely meet and contend. At these borders, many postcolonial
subjects inhabit the “no longer” and the “not yet” of different peoples.21
These exilic subjects, then, need to construct meaning in “the move-
ment between two or more cultures,” on the borders between a collective
past that is no longer and a present to which they do not fully belong.22
Borges’s film suggests that this exilic experience is not restricted to the
context of transnational and postcolonial citizenship but is lived out, to
some degree, within national and metropolitan borders, especially by sub-
jects who do not belong to fully configured and sanctioned forms of social
identity but instead move in between them.
Having said all of this, before drawing any conclusions based on Céu’s
multilayered evocations of the virtual and its oscillations between the “no
longer” and the “not yet,” I would like to turn to the other two films and
to the notion of the ordinary, which, along with the virtual, is central to
contemporary documentaries.
EXCAVATING THE ORDINARY
Although the characters in Céu are unique, and in a sense extraordinary,
we can also think of Sérgio Borges’s film as an immersion into the ordinary
world of everyday life, a world in which the flow of time barely has any nar-
rative momentum. The film adjusts its rhythm to the rhythms of ordinary
time. This illustrates what Ivone Margulies once called the “hyperrealism
of the everyday,” which, in counterpoint to the realism of classical narra-
tive cinema, is characterized by minimalism of content and keen attention
to seemingly uneventful time, such that it appears that in this hyperrealism
“nothing happens.”23 Riding in a bus, bathing, eating, watching TV, and
lying in bed: these are the types of nonevents that occupy most of Borges’s
film. Moreover, the spaces in which these nonevents unfold are quintes-
sentially ordinary, such as the shared spaces of the city, or the familiar,
“private” landscape of urban apartments. In this regard, Céu exemplifies
a trend in recent Brazilian audiovisual production that film critic César
Guimarães calls the “return of the ordinary,” a return that makes of cin-
ema a compendium of everyday “figures, gestures, voices, styles, and ways
of speaking.”24
WHERE ARE THE “PEOPLE”?: THE POLITICS OF THE VIRTUAL … 123
But how does this cinema understand the “ordinary” and what poten-
tial does the ordinary harbor? Evocative of what is “common,” “average,”
or “normal,” the ordinary is not as simple a concept as it first appears. Its
ample meaning refers to both the familiar and the habitual as well as to
whatever is deemed unworthy of attention or without value. Paradoxically,
the word names that which demands no particular name. Seen in this light,
the ordinary does not point to specific people and phenomena, but rather
to a field of contradictions, an accommodating space wherein things can
be at once ubiquitous and invisible, present and absent. These contradic-
tory pairs of adjectives aptly describe the anonymity of strangers that we
see in Borges’s film as well as the absent-presence of the ever-multiplying
ordinary things that furnish the spaces of our distraction. As a shared mise
en scène of everyday life, some have imagined the ordinary to be the com-
mon ground of the present, a repository for an unfulfilled solidarity that
is the substrate of our otherwise divided, solitary experience of the every-
day.25 In this vein, the ordinary designates a commonality without fixed
contours, a relatedness that weights on the present but is only vaguely felt.
KFZ-1348 (2008), the first feature film by Marcelo Pedroso and Gabriel
Mascaro, and Rua de mão dupla (2004), by Cao Guimarães, explore ordi-
nary time and space in a manner similar to Borges’s film. However, they
are also intensely invested in the material stuff that fills the everyday. In
these films, the objects of ordinary life take on meaning as repositories
of personal and social histories; they become the meeting ground of the
private and the collective that the films attempt to unearth. KFZ and Rua
therefore excavate the materiality of the everyday to show not what exists
in a consolidated form, but the lingering of what has passed and the inti-
mations of what might be yet to come.
Pedroso and Mascaro’s film takes its title from the license plate of a
1965 Volkswagen Beetle that the directors find in the junkyard of an
unidentified Brazilian city. The lack of a specified location as well as the
choice of a car that was for decades one of the most common vehicles in
Brazil situate the film squarely within the confines of the ordinary. It is
worth noting that the junkyard is a peculiar place, a “heterotopia,” which,
as Foucault suggests, is a place “outside of all places,” a sort of counter-
place that, like the cemetery, constitutes a space apart for things that no
longer belong in the “normal” world.26 Despite the extraordinary nature
of this “other space” (heterotopia), in the junkyard, some of the charac-
teristics of the ordinary are not just present but are also intensified. If the
ordinary implies depreciation and invisibility, here depreciation takes the
124 G.P. FURTADO
the object with affective meaning. KFZ restages Proust’s idea of “invol-
untary memory,” the car playing the role of a collective madeleine from
which memories re-emerge. Despite having been the object of prized,
private ownership, the disowned car is approached here as the ruin of a
virtual community, a link among complete strangers who are otherwise
separated by time, space, and social class. Although KFZ at first seems
drastically distinct from Céu, the films are related in how they explore the
temporalities of the “no longer” and the “not yet” of the community.
Together, they suggest a sense of the collective that is paradoxically both
present and absent.
Cao Guimarães’s Rua de mão dupla (2004) relates to and radicalizes
key elements of Céu and KFZ. In this film, which mixes documentary
filmmaking with art installation and social experimentation, six complete
strangers in possession of camcorders exchange apartments for twenty-four
hours and are invited to film whatever they wish in the stranger’s home. At
the end of the twenty-four hours, each participant sits in front of the cam-
corder and attempts to describe the apartments’ permanent inhabitants,
reconstructing them only from the traces they have left behind. The film
presents the images in split-screen format so that we simultaneously see
the footage of each pair of participants occupying the space of the absent
other. Through this original combination of social experimentation, par-
ticipatory video installation, and documentary cinema, Guimarães’s film
effectively inverts typical discursive patterns of documentary filmmaking.
While the documentary camera often turns its lens toward ordinary people
and asks them to speak about themselves, here ordinary people are them-
selves behind the camera and explore the absence rather than the presence
of human subjects.29
In Guimarães’s film, the ordinary also emerges with force in all of its
ambiguity. The assertiveness of the ordinary here is partly due to the choice
of participants: average Belo Horizontinos whom one might encounter in
the street or in a bus without as much as a glance. The footage, shot with
affordable cameras and with no aesthetic intervention by the filmmaker,
is also staunchly ordinary. While in Céu and KFZ ordinary worlds are
treated with carefully, even tenderly composed shots, here the approach
is unpolished; it produces decidedly ordinary images of ordinary things.
In its unabashed ordinariness, even ugliness, the footage is akin to a ruin-
ous thing, debris, the by-product of a social experiment. The choice of
middle-class apartments as the film’s location is also significant: the apart-
ment building, with its homogenous, compact, often barely separated
WHERE ARE THE “PEOPLE”?: THE POLITICS OF THE VIRTUAL … 127
subjects who habitually imbue them with meaning, they become ruinous
things, traces of an absent-presence that the visitors attempt to conjure
and recover.
These films give the impression that “the people” are “no longer,” or
that they are “not yet.” Their exploration of the ruinous and the emer-
gent—evocative of Deleuze’s definition of political cinema—are no guar-
antee of political edge, nor should these elements necessarily be taken as a
positive sign. To some extent, the films can all be understood as symptom-
atic of contemporary sociohistorical conditions—conditions that had not
been fully revealed at the time of Deleuze’s writing.
Do these explorations of virtual communities, then, reflect our con-
temporaneity—a contemporaneity marked by the paradoxical simultane-
ity of hyperconnectivity and individualism, such that we are increasingly
“alone together”? Are their evocations of incompletion and displacement
symptomatic of the neoliberal present’s structural instability as well as of
the difficulties we face, from the field of culture, in envisioning convinc-
ing collective projects and horizons?33 While there is some truth to these
notions, I would argue that the films are not just passive reflections of
the conundrums of contemporaneity. Exploratory in nature, they quarry
ordinary worlds as if to reveal anew and affect, if ever so slightly, the way
we perceive our shared present. Delving into what I earlier called affective
textures, these recent films operate on ambiguous, tentative terrain. Their
potential is yet to be seen.
NOTES
1. Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 2: The Time-Image, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and
Robert Galeta (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989), 216.
2. David William Foster, Latin American Documentary Filmmaking: Major
Works (Phoenix: University of Arizona Press, 2013), x.
3. Antonio Traverso and Kristi Wilson, “Political Documentary Cinema in
Latin America,” Social Identities 19, no. 3–4 (2013): 276.
4. Mike Wayne, Political Film: The Dialectics of Third Cinema (London:
Pluto Press, 2001), 60.
5. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Richard Philcox (New
York: Grove Press, 2004).
6. For the continental articulation, see Michael T. Martin’s excellent two-
volume anthology New Latin American Cinema (Detroit: Wayne State
University Press, 1997), as well as Zuzana M. Pick’s New Latin American
Cinema: A Continental Project (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1993).
130 G.P. FURTADO
For the global perspective, framed through Solanas and Getino’s concept
of “Third Cinema,” see Mike Wayne’s lucidly argued Political Film.
7. Ismail Xavier, “Cinema nacional: táticas para um tempo sem estratégias,”
Comunicação & educação 6, no. 18 (2008): 81.
8. Karla Holanda, “Documentário brasileiro contemporâneo e micro-
história,” Revista de história e estudos culturais 3 (2004): 2.
9. Cláudia Mesquita, “Retratos em diálogo: notas sobre o documentário
brasileiro recente,” Novos estudos-CEBRAP 86 (2010): 105.
10. For example, Eduardo Coutinho’s Peões (2004) is constructed against the
backdrop of three earlier documentaries: João Batista de Andrade’s Greve
(1979), Renato Tapajós’s Linha de montage (1982), and Leon Hirszman’s
ABC da greve (1979), about the auto-worker strikes of 1979 and 1980.
Coutinho’s film takes place in the private homes of these same workers.
Collective mobilization becomes the detonator for personal memory and is
revisited through footage played on their television sets.
11. Catherine Russell, Experimental Ethnography: The Work of Film in the Age
of Video (Durham: Duke University Press, 1999), 16.
12. Patricia Aufderheide, “Public Intimacy: The Development of First-person
Documentary,” Afterimage: The Journal of Media Arts and Cultural
Criticism 25, no. 1 (1997): 16–18.
13. Raymond Williams, Marxism and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1977), 133–34.
14. Kathleen Stewart, Ordinary Affects (Durham: Duke University Press,
2007), 2.
15. Gilles Deleuze, “The Actual and the Virtual,” in Dialogues II, trans. Elliot
Ross Albert (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 148.
16. Although I cannot provide an in-depth analysis of what Deleuze means by
the virtual, it is worth noting that his concept is largely derived from Henri
Bergson’s work (1896) Matter and Memory (New York: Zone Books,
1990). As David Rodowick notes, the actual is the dimension of space,
perception, and the present, while the virtual is the dimension of time,
memory, and the past. The “no longer” and the “not yet” are temporal
figures that refer to the virtual. For Rodowick’s take on this, see his Gilles
Deleuze’s Time Machine (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003).
17. For the director’s take on the centrality of performance for the film, see his
comments on the film’s website: http://www.teia.art.br/br/obras/
o-ceu-sobre-os-ombros.
18. Deleuze, Cinema 2, 127.
19. Ibid.
20. For another exploration of this visual theme, see Clarissa Campolina’s
stunning short film Adormecidos (2011). Campolina is Borges’s collabora-
tor in the Teia production company.
WHERE ARE THE “PEOPLE”?: THE POLITICS OF THE VIRTUAL … 131
21. Laura U. Marks, “A Deleuzian Politics of Hybrid Cinema,” Screen 35, no.
3 (1994): 245.
22. Laura U. Marks, The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment,
and the Senses (Durham: Duke University Press, 2000), 65.
23. Ivone Margulies, Nothing Happens: Chantal Akerman’s Hyperrealist
Everyday (Durham: Duke University Press, 1996).
24. César Guimarães, “O retorno do homem ordinário do cinema,”
Contemporanea: revista de comunicação e cultura 3, no. 2 (2009): 78.
25. See, for example, Michael Taussig, “Tactility and Distraction,” Cultural
Anthropology 6, no. 2 (1991): 147–53.
26. Michel Foucault, “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias,” trans. Jay
Miskowiec, Diacritics 16, no. 1 (1986): 22–27.
27. For an interesting discussion of the difference between things and objects,
see Bill Brown, “Thing theory,” Critical Inquiry 28, no. 1 (2001): 1–22.
28. Laura U. Marks, “A Deleuzian Politics,” 257.
29. Consuelo Lins, “Rua de Mão Dupla: documentário e arte contemporânea,”
in Transcinemas, ed. Kátia Maciel (Rio de Janeiro: Contracapa, 2009),
327–40.
30. See Georg Simmel’s seminal essay “The Metropolis and Mental Life,” in
The Sociology of Georg Simmel, ed. Kurt Wolff (New York: Free Press,
1950), 409–24.
31. Nicolas Bourriaud, Relational Aesthetics (Paris: Les Presses du Reel, 2002).
32. Note that the project was initially presented as a video installation.
33. Sherry Turkle, Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and
Less from Each Other (Philadelphia: Basic Books, 2012). On this paradox,
see also Martín Hopenhayn, “Vida insular en la aldea global: paradojas en
curso,” Polis 2 (2002), http://polis.revues.org/7857.