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Chapter 5
Characterization in Style
The Challenge of Style
Of all of the means of characterization, style may be at once the easiest and hardest to
make sense of.1 Easiest because when you are looking for it, it is pervasively noticeable
and most often utterly unremarkable. When the camera pushes in on a character’s face,
there is no question but that the director intends a stylistic device, a tracking shot, to
function as characterizing, to emphasize a character’s action or reaction. What more is
there to say about it? Yet it is also hard to make sense of a film’s style, because it is a
richly informative field of data, omnipresent and constantly changing as we watch it.
Cinephiles love films for many reasons, but one of the greatest is the appeal of a style that
is original and beautiful, and in the films we love we may find endless fascination in
dissecting their finest intricacies. The analysis of any given film’s style is, like
psychoanalysis, potentially interminable and overwhelming. We are caught then between
two positions on style: it is at once too obvious and too dense.
The way out is by recognizing that, obvious or not, the characterizing function of
film style is significant enough to warrant film theory’s attention; that by applying
principles of salience and relevance, the film analyst can pluck out stylistic details that
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demand attention; and that by placing style in the context of this larger discourse on film,
narrative, and character, we can locate some important points. In independent cinema,
with character as a signal interest, style is especially significant as a means of creating
narratives marked by their complexity, sophistication, and aesthetic innovation especially
in the area of characterization. The task of this chapter is to explore the means by which
style functions to characterize and the relation of the dynamic of cinematic technique and
characterization to the larger one of style’s narrative function. This discussion is guided
by the larger assumptions of my project, especially the significance of narrative as a
determining context for all of the means and devices of characterization, and the desire
for narrative coherence that produces this effect.
Style and Character in History
The psychological shot, the large closeup as we call it, is the very thought of the
character projected onto the screen.
Germaine Dulac2
At least since the 1910s, film critics have understood the characterizing potential of
cinematic techniques. But the importance of editing, camerawork, and mise en scène to
character, rather than to narrative more generally, has not been given much serious
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theoretical attention since the silent era, when the idea of exploring cinematic techniques
of storytelling was still fairly novel.3 (The significance of sound, which came later, has
often been shunted aside to secondary status behind the significance of the image, though
music and the actor’s voice are obviously of great significance in storytelling.4) The
standard history of visual techniques as they affect characterization begins with the
transitional period of 19071913, when narrative filmmaking became the dominant mode
of film production and cinematic devices were now consistently employed in creating
more fully threedimensional characters.
In American films of this period, a host of techniques of visual style were
introduced to strengthen and deepen characterization. By moving the camera closer to
the actors and the actors closer to the camera, having the actors act with their faces and
hands rather than with conventional broad gestures and poses, and by innovating new
forms of editing keyed to facial expressions, filmmakers were able to put new techniques
to the task of suggesting characters’ thoughts and feelings for the spectator to infer.5 In
many films from around 1909 and on, the camera’s closer position allowed for greater
subtlety in establishing character psychology. The 1910 film The New Magdalen starring
Pearl White was praised thus in Moving Picture World: “Though she stands rigid and
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motionless, it is easy to read in the face of Mary Merrick that she is torn with internal
emotion,” a function of the film’s emphasis White’s facial expressions.6 In D.W.
Griffith’s The New York Hat (1912), Mary Pickford suggests a range of thoughts and
feelings about a fancy hat (given to her as a gift by a potential suitor) in waistup framings
using her eyes, mouth and hands. In a brief sequence of restrained facial expressions and
subtle gestures, Pickford conveys not only her desire for the hat, but also her misgivings
about the giver’s intentions and especially her fears of the reactions of the gossipy
townsfolk and her stern father. In terms of our understanding of character psychology,
what distinguishes this style of acting from the one it supplanted in American cinema,
which most historians identify with melodramatic 19th century stage performances, is
that it demands a different mode of viewing.7 Rather than using conventional means of
representation—such as the reading of an actress’ head tilted back and arms extended
upward as “Lord, help me!”—which would be understood as coded signs, the new style
demanded inferences based on supposedly more natural displays of expression which
would be understood by contextbound inferences. In The New York Hat, Mary is by
turns happy and afraid, but no gesture, pose, or attitude conveys this by any established
conventional means of performance. Similarly, in The New Magdalen, the reviewer notes
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that the acting is “rigid and motionless,” implying that a different kind of inferential
activity was demanded of a style based on the face rather than on the whole body.
Another stylistic innovation of the silent era lay in the realm of film editing and its
potential to get inside characters’ heads. In the 1907 Vitagraph film The Mill Girl, a
series of shots alternate between the hero inside his bedroom and his antagonists outside
his house. The villains have a ladder and are attempting to come after the hero to beat
him up, but the hero notices them and reacts accordingly. By cutting back and forth
between these two spaces, the film is able to suggest mental states underlying the
characters’ actions.8 In Griffith’s After Many Years, for example, cuts between two lovers
thinking of each other but separated by a great distance convey their mutual longing.9
Editing serves many functions, but the psychological potential of cutting, as Lev
Kuleshov demonstrated early in the 1920s, is one of the most powerful.10 This is seen not
only in eyeline matches and cuts to reactions, but also in straightforward cutins and
reverseshots. Editing is a powerful cinematic means of making clear relations and
directions of vision among characters and their surroundings.
As I have discussed in Chapter 3, tracking vision is a basic component of folk
psychology. And as I have discussed in Chapter 4, the recognition of emotion expressions
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in the face (as well as the voice and body) powerfully conveys character interiority. Both
of these functions of style are evidence of Dulac’s notion in the quotation that begins this
chapter that closeups are “psychological shots,” offering insight into character
experience in combination with other, contextual cues. This was a prevalent notion
among early film theorists; Béla Balázs, for example, wrote that “good closeups are
lyrical.”11 It is sometimes hard to know what filmmakers of the 1920s consider a close
up framing (i.e., how close the camera should be in a closeup and what differentiates a
closeup from a medium or wide shot), but the function of the technique is unambiguous
—the facial closeup in narrative cinema is a characterrevealing device, and it ordinarily
depends on editing for its full effect. Without reviving that hoary notion that Griffith
discovered film language circa 1909, we can still assert that in Griffith’s era, filmmakers
did realize that a particular combination of acting, framing, and cutting devices was a
boon to anyone interested in fleshing out character and making it a central appeal of
cinematic representation. Filmmakers ever since have been in their debt.
We might see these devices as basic to conventional audiovisual storytelling, as
an arsenal of techniques shared among filmmakers of widely divergent contexts. Later in
the silent period, however, stylistic innovation turned from functional devices to more
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highly expressive ones. In the 1920s especially, the innovations that bear on developing
character psychology focused on visual stylization, especially in mise en scène and
cinematography. This interest in stylization (and even, to an extent, abstraction) was seen
as a vanguard technique, an antirealist aesthetic in the tradition of modernist art from
postImpressionism through Fauvism, Cubism, Futurism, Expressionism, Constructivism,
and Dada and Surrealism. The locus classicus of this interest in narrative feature films
was German Expressionism, which borrowed from German traditions of visual and
dramatic art that emphasize distortion and abstraction in the image as an analogue to the
interior angst of both artist and subject. Most notoriously in Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet
of Dr. Caligari, the expressive dimensions of sets, costumes and makeup, and acting are
all exploited by exaggerating their design and heightening their artifice. The story is
narrated by a character, Francis, who is revealed in the end to be insane, and the
stylization of the mise en scène is motivated as the representation of Frances’ mad
interiority.
This approach to expressive functions of the cinematic image is realized in an
especially impressive fashion in films such as F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu that use
stylization not as a means of exploring character subjectively, as in The Cabinet of Dr.
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Caligari, but as a way of evoking affective character qualities in a more associative,
metonymic fashion. The linkage of character and expressive visual composition in
Nosferatu is established between the mysterious Count Orlock (Nosferatu the vampire),
his victim (ostensibly our heroprotagonist, Hutter), and the eerie and ominous
representations of landscape, architecture, and interior spaces in which together they are
enveloped. The compositional style, with its coffinlike arches framing the vampire, its
lowkey lighting casting parts of his face in shadow, its emphasis on disfiguring makeup
and prosthetics, and its low angles distorting and caricaturing his body, all work toward
the characterization of Nosferatu as a fearsome predator. In the climactic scene as the
vampire approaches his victim, Hutter’s wife Ellen, Nosferatu is seen as a bluish shadow
on the wall outside her room, with his clawlike fingers elongated by the shadow effect, a
grotesque exaggeration, creeping toward the doorway. In addition to characterizing the
vampire, these compositional details also suggest the fear and disgust that Hutter and
Ellen, his wife, share in response to him. The film uses what were then vanguard
techniques of camerawork and mise en scène to effect an atmosphere of creeping dread
that is implicitly transferred onto the victim characters. As critics have often noted of
Murnau, his greatest talent was in creating a lyrical pictorialism.12 It functions to make
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characters’ affective experiences a subsidiary effect of evocative, painterly compositions.
In many European avantgarde films of the midtolate 1920s as well as in
American prestige films influenced by them, many novel devices of cinematography, such
as extreme angles and framings (e.g., The Passion of Joan of Arc), superimpositions (e.g.,
La Glace a trois faces), lens distortions (e.g., Variety), fast and slow motion (e.g, La
Souriante Madame Beudet), and elaborate camera movements (e.g., The Last Laugh)
served similar characterizing functions in both subjective and objective ways, and made
their devices narrationally prominent by virtue of their novelty and flamboyance.
Whether subjective or objective, visual stylization in the 1920s tends to be character
centered, if only because motivating experimental style by referring to character
psychology is a convenient source of experimentation that seems widely applicable and
adaptable. The use of visual techniques to convey characters’ interiority was seen,
especially by French avantgarde filmmakers such as Dulac, as a prime instance of
cinematic specificity and uniqueness that would add credence to the position that cinema
was the equal of the more established arts. As Dulac writes, “The inner life made
perceptible by images is, with movement, the entire art of cinema.”13 As I shall argue,
spectators expect evocative stylization to have a connection to character and are generally
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primed to understand cinematic lyricism in the context of characters’ experiences.
Of course, the style alone does not establish the characters of either transitional or
early avantgarde cinema in such new and exciting ways. After Many Years is an
adaptation of a wellknown poem by Tennyson, and the audience understood the
characters’ mutual longing not only by applying folk psychology to the narrative scenario,
which is a process distinct from the innovative cutting, but also because of their prior
familiarity with the story. The same could be said of Nosferatu, whose basic narrative
was familiar from its source in Stoker’s Dracula. In cases in which the story was original
or the source was not well known, genre expectations would still play a big part in clear
and efficient characterization.
Moreover, The Mill Girl and other films of the transitional era had more
sophisticated characterization because of their narrative form. In contrast to the minimal
narratives of the Cinema of Attractions period, transitional films had welldeveloped
stories playing out over a longer sequence of events. The narratives were based on
interpersonal conflicts, had direct exposition in intertitles, and efficiently linked one
scene to the next. Most importantly, the basic dramatic material arose out of the
characters, whose well defined traits, and the goals associated with them, were the main
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causes of events.14 The same could be said of Caligari and the other avantgarde narrative
features: even in films in which supernatural forces are causes of events, such as some
German films of the 1920s, those forces function through characters with clear and
consistent traits. Stylistic devices need not characterize directly all by themselves,
because no character exists only in a given device.
Style is just one of several dimensions of characterization, and since character can
exist independent of visual representation (as in literature), cinematic style is to an extent
extraneous to cinematic characterization. But only to an extent, and really only in theory.
In practice, in most scenes and most films, style is essential to characterization because it
is the means of its creation. Cinematic characters are most typically represented by actors
—elements of the mise en scène—and recorded by a camera and microphone. But their
existence as characters is a mental construct, and the idea of a character can be a virtually
styleindependent phenomenon. The significance of the innovations in style to
characterization in the first several decades of cinema, from the transitional era to the late
1920s, is partly that new ways of creating a character became standard practice.15 It is
also that the extent and means by which cinematic technique could be used for expressive
purposes were expanded, not merely to represent characters and but to add greater nuance
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and subtlety to the representation, to enhance dramatic effects with feeling and emphasis,
and in general to invest characters’ experiences with complexities of meaning and
emotional overtones. So in considering the relation of style to character, we must be
aware of two dimensions of the stylecharacter nexus: a basic dimension of character
representation (or denotation), and a more sophisticated dimension of stylistic
expressivity.16
Characterizing in Style: Story and Self
I know of no systematic theory of how film style functions specifically as a
characterizing feature of movies, but theorists have been keenly interested in film style
and form as it relates to narrative and narration more generally since the days of classical
film theory. This includes writers as various as Sergei Eisenstein, who elevated formal
rhetoric above plot as the primary concern of the filmmaker,17 and André Bazin, who saw
in Renoir and in postwar Italian cinema an ideal harmonization of storytelling and
cinematic technique.18 Psychosemiotic film theory for its part is also clear enough in its
concern for establishing the relation between narrative and its means of representation,
especially in its more radical instances wherein narrative is condemned as an ideological
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constraint on the subversive potential of liberating form.19 None of these approaches,
however, is broadly explanatory in sketching a theory of how style normally functions in
relation to storytelling. They are generally products of critical imperatives to champion a
particular conception of cinematic form, not of a theoretical effort to understand
narrative, form, or style as such.
The cognitivist approach would seem to be an apt framework within which to
consider the relation of narrative to cinematic style and form, since it is both theoretically
receptionoriented and methodologically attentive to details of cinematic technique.
Moreover, cognitivism takes as one of its aims the description of how audiovisual media
such as cinema function in the ordinary case—cognitivism is capable of generating
general explanations about cinematic representation per se, not just about style in the
exceptional films championed by Eisenstein and Bazin.20 David Bordwell’s Narration in
the Fiction Film is a coherent, systematic theory of the relation of style and narrative;
while it is not a theory of characterization, it contains suggestions of how such a theory
would emerge.21 This is what I am tracing here; it is a combination of a cognitivist
position on style’s narrative functioning and the commonsense notion that films use style
to characterize as a matter of course.
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I believe that most casual conceptions of the interdependence of characterization
and style are basically correct and coherent, though not often explicitly formulated. It is
often casually assumed that in mainstream fiction feature films, formal and stylistic
devices generally serve narrative functions, and Bordwell’s position is more or less the
same: in classical cinema, style supports storytelling. In the implicit, pretheoretical
conception of film style, what we might call folk film theory, the primary activity of the
viewer in comprehending a narrative film is understood as the intake and uptake of
narrative. If you asked people what they were doing while watching a movie, they would
say they were following the story. What academic film theorists call style, to whatever
extent it is a subject of conscious reflection by the hypothetical ordinary spectator, is
figured as a vehicle of storytelling and part of a larger unity of the whole film experience.
The organization of the film’s images and sounds, according to this conception, is
systematic and functional. Everything in the film is first assumed to be there for some
reason (even if it cannot always be easily discerned), and the reasons motivating the
totality of the devices largely cohere in a patterned, orderly fashion, though some odd
devices may ultimately have no place in the system. Our desire for narrative coherence
makes it very unlikely that a given device could really evade our understanding, but I do
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think that folk film theorists like to save room for exceptions that they find impossible to
understand because it’s sometimes easier to say, “That part doesn’t make sense,” than it is
to struggle to make sense of a difficult or strange device. However, if too many parts
don’t make sense, this exception explanation doesn’t work because in such a case the
system fails to function and breaks down. In other words, incomprehension can only
“work” in an overwhelming context of comprehension. The way things usually work,
most things in the film make sense in the context of a system of storytelling functions.
For example, in The Blair Witch Project—an independent film in which form is
foregrounded not only in the narration but also in the promotional discourses surrounding
the film’s release—the effect of the studentfilm documentary style is to create effects of
realism, immediacy, and unease. Of course, these effects support the larger aim of the
film: to frighten and even sicken the audience. But this effect of being scared and more
generally made to feel uncomfortable is also a product of the narrative’s design, its
representations of characters and their experiences, and genrebound expectations that the
film solicits. The realism, immediacy, and unease engendered by the lowbudget visual
aesthetic is a means of creating narrative effects such as characterrelated emotional
responses. The film’s heightened realism functions, according to the commonsense
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notion of film and style, to add to the fear we feel with and for the characters. This
unspoken folk film theory of the relation of style and narrative does not forbid other
explanations of stylistic design and expression; I am arguing only that it has a builtin
narrative bias. At least in Western cultures of the present day, it is the expectation of
spectators that style’s primary function is ordinarily to help tell the story.
Bordwell’s theory of narrative comprehension in the fiction film describes a
similar relation of narrative and style, but in more formal terms and with a clearer notion
of what the viewer’s activity consists of. Drawing on the terminology of Russian
Formalism, Bordwell posits that narrative comprehension is a matter of constructing a
story (fabula) out of the plot (syuzhet). The story is the mental reconstruction of all of the
events in a narrative, ordered chronologically, with any contradictions or questions about
the events resolved or answered if possible. The plot is the series of events as they are
represented in the film: they may come out of chronological order, and they may raise
questions or pose contradictions. The plot is represented through the stylistic devices of
mise en scène, cinematography, editing, and sound. Thus the viewer’s encounter with the
film is not mediated by style, and style is not understood as essentially something added
or extra on top of the plot, the thing that distinguishes a particular film, director or
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movement, that makes it special, like a decorative touch or a signature technique. The
encounter with the film is an encounter with style; style is the sensory array that makes
up both the plot and the cinematic experience of it, the images and sounds projected and
amplified in the theater. Fabula construction is accomplished as the spectator constructs
a sequence of events out of the stylisticsensory experience before the screen. The
syuzhet and the style, although separate systems in Bordwell’s conception (one
“dramaturgical” and other “technical”), are cooccurent with each other. Neither
necessarily has a temporal or logical precedence over the other, though the syuzhet
ordinarily does control the stylistic system.
In some films, e.g., modernist or experimental narratives, style may be especially
prominent or obtrusive, and it may be seen to serve functions other than narration. For
example, style may have an abstract, artistic design that is parallel to, rather than in
service of, the narrative. Bordwell calls this parametric narration, and examples may be
found in films by Godard, Ozu, and Bresson.22 European art films of the 1960s often use
some elements of style to cue interpretive, thematic readings rather than narrative
comprehension. But it is the convention of mainstream narratives to make style a
storytelling system. In Bordwell’s conception of classical cinema (which includes studio
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era Hollywood films but also popular cinema more generally), narrative causality is
dominant: the function of style is to cue the spectator’s construction of a narrative.23 This
function can be seen on both micro and macro levels: it works on the level of the
motivation of specific devices such as cuts and pans, and on the level of largerscale
devices such as the use of voiceover narration, color or widescreen cinematography, and
the kind of music used in scoring. (The concept of the “dominant” comes from Russian
formalism; in applying it to film analysis, Kristin Thompson defines it as “a formal
principle that controls the work at every level, from the local to the global, foregrounding
some devices and subordinating others.”24) Simply put, classical cinema motivates
devices narratively. Independent cinema, as I have argued, shares some elements in
common with classical cinema and other elements with art cinema, but in its relation of
narrative and style, it is most typically modestly classical.25 This means that in classical
and independent cinema alike, spatial, temporal, graphic, and rhythmic aspects of shots
and of their interrelation are basically in the service of the representation of a narrative of
causallylinked events. Likewise, the motivation of sound, camera, and staging devices is
dominantly narrative: these function to represent the fictional world and to support
thematic meanings generated out of it.
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I will explain the centrality of character to style more fully in a moment, but first
must deal with a potential objection. Aren’t there other interests people take in classical
—even modestly classical—film style aside from narrative? Don’t devices serve other
functions, such as aesthetic appreciation, commercial appeal, and ideological suasion?
The identification of a narrative (or character) dominant isn’t intended to deny
that devices in narrative films serve other functions: the pop music on the soundtrack and
the brandname soda cans in the mise en scène serve a commercial function. Aspects of
style such as specialeffects and bodily display are believed to have a function as spectacle
in excess of their narrative function. These aspects are potentially formally destabilizing,
as when eyecatching flashes of visual effects seem like distractions from the focus of
attention on story, and they may be charged with ideological or moral rhetoric, as when
bodies are presented as sexual objects of the spectator’s desire.
But these alternate functions, these appeals to audiences to interact with the film
in other ways, typically coexist with the narrative function rather than canceling it out.26
It is not a case of either/or, but of balancing appeals to see if one outweighs the other. If
the face and body of the star are offered up as spectacle, this doesn’t automatically drain
away the audience’s attention to the star’s performance in his or her role as a character in
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the narrative. Indeed, these techniques need not necessarily mitigate narrative
dominance. Spectacle arguments offer no logical defense for the notion that one appeal
trumps another, that spectacle is inherently inimical to narrative or that one is always
gained at the expense of the other. The notion of stylistic excess presupposes a fixed sum
of style appropriate to telling any given story, and presupposes that exceeding it causes
the narrative motivation to be somehow vitiated by the competing motivation. As an
alternative to this questionable position, I propose that we see excess not as a challenge to
narrative motivation but more as a supplemental appeal, as another thing for the spectator
to appreciate. It is conceivable that spectacle, if it were sufficiently considerable in a
given film, could dominate narrative as the motivation of cinematic style, as in the
production numbers of Busby Berkeley musicals and the action sequences of some recent
Hollywood blockbusters; it is my sense, however, that empirically this is quite a rare
occurrence. In feature films, spectacle normally functions within narrative constraints—
that means that narrative constraint is the norm against which such excess is experienced.
Some might contend that in the case of independent cinema, narrative is typically
more dominant than in mainstream cinema, since spectacular specialeffects, bodily
display, and attentiongrabbing production values are closely identified with Hollywood
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cinema, which independent film takes to be its Other. Yet independent film is also seen
as formally challenging; in those films that solicit the “form as game” reading strategy,
cinematic technique is often given prominence as an aspect to attract notice in its own
right. Stylistic and formal experimentation à la Slacker and Waking Life is a strike
against narrative dominance, and even somewhat more conventional films like Traffic still
have unusually prominent style. So which is it: is independent cinema more or less
narrativedominant than Hollywood cinema? Or is it that classical cinema more generally
is not as narrativedominant as Bordwell et al. would have it? I submit for the purposes of
this discussion that what matters is not which one is the winner in these question of
balance, rather that we recognize that while both Hollywood and independent cinema
have their moments of excess and their limit cases, that the typical film of both categories
normally subordinates style to story. In doing so, they necessarily subordinate style to
characterization.
Narrative functions, I shall argue, are almost always characterizing functions,
since the most basic business of narrative is to represent characters and characterrelevant
information. As Henry James and many others have observed, the causallylinked events
represented in a narrative can only be fully understood in terms of characters’
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experiences; moreover, they usually are those experiences. If style functions in a
modestly classical mode of narrative filmmaking under a narrative dominant, it is not
going too far to say that this means that style tends to be motivated by characterization, in
addition to its other components. This does not mean that any given device must be part
of the representation of a character, i.e., of bodily and psychologically individuated
personlike agent in the space of the narrative world. It means, rather, that devices shape
our experience of the narrative world, which we are interested in insofar as it is part of the
characters’ experience.
Not all narratives make character as prominent as independent films generally do,
but all narratives have characters, are about characters. As we saw in Chapter 1, narrative
and self are intimately connected, and as Fludernik and Branigan have argued, experience
is essential to the functioning of narrative.27 I concede that in some films, narrative de
emphasizes character and makes other aspects more prominent. Michael Snow’s
Wavelength and Méliès’s A Trip to the Moon would seem to be good candidates for films
in which style dominates rather than characterization. But canonical stories, such as
those of classical Hollywood and independent cinema, tend to make character very
prominent both as the causal agent of narrative events and as filters through whom we
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experience narrative action. It is conventional to designate many genres of Hollywood
cinema as plotdriven, but even plotheavy Hollywood genre films tend to be driven by
the pursuit of character goals and tend to structure scenes around character actions and
reactions in relation to plot events. The most typical scene structure in Hollywood films,
even those that exploit the appeal of spectacle, emphasizes the actions and reactions of
human agents, bespeaking the significance of experience even to plotdriven cinema.
This assertion of the significance of character assumes that it is the main character
or characters whose experience appeals to spectators rather than the secondary ones.
Main characters are those with whom we are most spatiotemporally attached, to use
Murray Smith’s terminology.28 This effectively means that we have the most relevant
knowledge about them and it implies that we care more about them than any other
characters. (And most often, our concerns about the other characters are a function of our
concerns about the main ones.) Films may have one or several main characters, and some
of Robert Altman’s have a dozen or more. In Nashville, however, there are still main
secondary relations among various clusters of characters, so that we see Linnea Reese
(Lily Tomlin) as a main character and her son and husband in relation to her, and we see
Tom (Keith Carradine) as a main character and his two bandmates in relation to him.
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Several narrative theorists have distinguished between different functions of
character in relation to plot and to degrees of characterization. For example, Murray
Smith introduces the notions of bodily individuation, continuity, and reidentification
from scene to scene, which together may add up to the recognition of a character as
such.29 He discusses an effect in some films of the dispersion of narrative agency among
many characters (in Dovzhenko’s Arsenal and, Smith suggests, many other Soviet
Montage films) rather than a concentration in an individual (in classical cinema). Smith
thus denaturalizes the tendency of critics to think of individuated, embodied characters as
a given of narrative, and shows them rather to be an effect of specific processes of
narration. Thus it is not inevitable that cinematic style supports the representation of a
coherent self, and some films frustrate the spectator’s desire for coherence. In these
cases, characterization would certainly not be a prominent motivator of style. However,
this set of distinctions does not address the possible modes of interrelation of character
and plot in the ordinary, canonical narrative, in which unproblematically recognizable
characters are typically represented.
On a very basic level, narrative events have causes. As Tzvetan Todorov observes,
when a narrative insufficiently motivates an event, readers tend to supply the necessary
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causality.30 The most available explanation for narrative causes is typically characters,
and although larger forces than individuals can be causes of events, such as natural
disasters and largescale social and historical forces, human agency typically intervenes
on some level in the spectator’s mind if not in the narrative representation. Character
centered causality is one way that style functions to characterize, since the events
dramatized figure prominently in the characterization and vice versa. The events of His
Girl Friday that are caused by Walter Burns, such as his delay tactics to prevent Hildy
Johnson from leaving town, function to characterize him.
However, some events that are charactercaused may offer little insight into the
character. For instance, the United Nations murder carried out by Vandam’s henchman
and blamed on Roger Thornhill in North by Northwest is a charactercaused event, but the
character who causes it is of little significance, and we see him as a mere henchman
fulfilling his role. Roger Thornhill is the one we care about, and in this scene he is a
victim, with only a tenuous, indirect causal function in the plot event. In many cases the
main characters of a narrative are not the causes of narrative events, but this does not
compromise their prominence necessarily, as long as their experience of those events is
figured by the narrative or inferred by the spectator as significant. The prominence of
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character as a motivator of style is a function of the purpose of the narrative as conveying
the main character’s experience, whether he or she is the causal agent of narrative events
or not.
In some films with very basic characters who have few personality traits and little
significant psychological complexity, it may be that their experiences are simply not very
interesting. The existence of uninteresting characters is partly a matter of taste (you find
them interesting but I don’t), partly a matter of aesthetic success and failure (the
filmmakers intended for them to be interesting, but failed), and partly a matter of genre
norms and expectations (some genres, such as biopics and psychological thrillers,
demand at least modestly interesting characters, but others, such as musicals, do not).
Films with uninteresting characters are unlikely to motivate style to facilitate
characterization, since presumably they have other appeals that style may be better served
to emphasize.
Characterization is especially significant to the motivation of style in narratives in
which presenting interesting characters is paramount, but even in mainstream cinema the
significance of character is central. From the perspective of the spectator or reader of a
narrative, characters are the brightest focus of interest. The same people who said that
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watching a film means following a story would tell you that following a story means
following the characters. After all, they choose which films to see largely on the basis of
which actors appear in them, and these actors’ most salient function is to embody
characters. The primary salience of character in cinematic representation is a
commonsense notion prevalent in folk film theory, generally understood tacitly by film
viewers, reviewers, directors, producers, and even academics, but scarcely ever
formulated in academic film theory.
The centrality of character to the notion of narrative dominance over style is also
not a matter on which traditional narrative theory concurs. In traditional narrative theory,
storytelling functions break down roughly into plot and character/setting functions. For
Barthes in his structuralist period, these are “functions,” or plot developments, and
“indices,” or descriptions of the characters and settings. He refers as well, in his
linguistic analogy, to “syntagmatic”/“horizontal” and “paradigmatic”/ “vertical” axes of
meaning, which correspond to the functions and indices respectively. As Barthes
describes them, “the former correspond to a functionality of doing, the latter to a
functionality of being.”31 Seymour Chatman, in Story and Discourse, takes the same
concepts and renames them events (plot) and existents (settings, characters).32 However
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they are described, the functions are either temporal, in the sense of describing the linked
series of unfolding scenes that make up the narrative, or they are cumulative, in the sense
of building descriptive and explanatory sets of information about the narrative world.
The temporal dimension is the plot, the events, the functions, the causal chain or “chrono
logic,” as Chatman calls it, the connected represented moments that taken together make
a series of incidents into story. The cumulative dimension is the characters (and settings
and themes too). These are the details of the story that can be abstracted temporally, as in
a character sketch or a description of a place.
As a rough sketch, this breakdown appeals to a kind of narratological common
sense. Events unfold in time; characters are built up as a series of attributes that exist
apart from the temporal unfolding. Looking closer, however, it is clear that characters
and characterization unfold temporally no less than events and narration, and that the
events themselves are “existents” of the narrative world no less than the represented
people and places. In the next chapter I discuss in greater detail how the creation of
character is also a temporal unfolding, a development from the exposition through the
conclusion of a narrative. The textual phenomenon of character is temporal in nature
because real persons’ lives are temporal, and characters are modeled on real persons.
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Characterization, the representation of character, is also temporal, because it is a part of
narration and narration is a timebound process. Character and events, furthermore, are
not separable entities of a narrative. Indeed the characters are part of the events, and the
events are part of the characters. In The Limey, Wilson seeks revenge for his daughter’s
murder. This is a description of a temporal unfolding (first murder, then revengeseeking)
as well as a detail in a character sketch. In Safe, Carol appears to be sickened by her
environment. Again, this character profile refers to a temporal unfolding (first she was
well, then—as it appears—her environment caused her to be sick). Even qualities that
would seem to defy temporality, such as abstract personality traits, are typically
represented and reinforced by emblematic actions or events. The various character types
in Dazed and Confused are introduced in brief scenes which both set up the basic
situation (e.g., the older boys prey on the younger ones) and set up the characters’ basic
traits (e.g., violent bully, innocent victim). These two functions are practically
inseparable; it makes better theoretical sense to see them as fully interdependent and
interconnected than to see them as discreet entities. There are no narrative events from
which character is totally, meaningfully absent, and no character existing apart from the
temporal flow.
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Levels of Characterization in Style
If style normally functions under a narrative dominant, and narrative functions as a self
making art, it follows that in cinematic representation, style and self are necessarily,
intimately connected. In other words, film style functions among other things to
characterize, and there are three levels on which this occurs. On the most basic level, all
aspects of style potentially have a denotative, representational function, as when editing
represents spatial or temporal relations among objects in the narrative world, and when
mise en scène, sound, and cinematography establish the content of that world. A
character’s physical characteristics, attire, dwelling and workplace, means of
transportation, etc., all characterize directly. James Bond’s accent, car, house, suit, and
cocktail, for example, all establish external details about the character, namely that he is a
wealthy British spy with impeccable highclass taste. This is a basic referential level of
meaning wherein style functions to characterize by representing aspects of a character’s
physical domain. Most basically, a character wearing sunglasses is characterized by the
sunglasses as someone who wears and is wearing sunglasses, and this bit of denotation is
a product of style.
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The details of these mise en scène elements are informative beyond mere
referential meaning, however, to the extent that they suggest not only character in the
narratological sense, but also in the psychological sense. The mise en scène elements just
described suggest the hero’s virility, his confidence and ease, and his taste in design and
décor. They suggest a whole worldview, not all by themselves, but in the context of the
Bond films’ basic narrative and genre elements. On this second, middle level, style
functions to characterize in terms of the character’s personality, in terms of psychology.
Qualities not only of mise en scène but also of the other aspects of style can be quite
direct as substitutes for psychological description, as in Todd Haynes’ Safe, in which the
sterility of domestic interiors are metonyms for Carol’s feelings of emptiness, and in
which the noises and smells of the dirty urban exteriors likewise represent her inner
sickness. This is also the level of characterization at work in Nosferatu, as many aspects
of cinematography and mise en scène suggest the vampire’s rapacity and the hero’s fear.
This is the cinematic equivalent of T.S. Eliot’s “objective correlative,” the notion
that in poetic or dramatic literature, the author should describe an image as a correlate to
the character’s interior state:
The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an
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“objective correlative”; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain
of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that
when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are
given, the emotion is immediately evoked.33
Eliot is interested specifically in emotion, but we may extend the term to refer as well to
other aspects of character psychology. The most systematic articulation of how the
objective correlative functions in cinema is Seymour Chatman’s monograph on
Michelangelo Antonioni, in which he describes as one of the auteur’s signature devices
his “way of relating character to environment.”34 In Antonioni’s 1960s tetralogy of
L’Avventura, La Notte, L’Eclisse, and Red Desert, Chatman argues, the director employs
the device of “landscapeasstateofsoul,” wherein “objects serve as metonymic signs of
[a character’s] inner life.”35 This is to distinguish objects from metaphors or symbols,
which would have clear thematic meanings in relation to the character. For example, a
stockbroker is characterized by images of machinery such as an electric fan and a stock
exchange board, and a nymphomaniac is characterized by the dolls and stuffed animals in
her surroundings. What is significant is that these objects suggest something of the
characters’ psychic reality, not just their external circumstances. Antonioni’s
characterization is of a piece with the European art film’s preoccupation with subjective
realism,36 only unlike other directors of the era such as Resnais and Fellini, Antonioni’s
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approach was steadfastly exterior, paradoxically exploring the surface of his characters as
a means of conveying the depth of their alienation. The aesthetic effect of this is that the
audience is on its own in determining the basic meaning and significance of Antonioni’s
metonymies, as the director refuses to nail characters down by more conventional means
of characterization such as dialogue and facial expressions.
In literature, the objective correlative has been offered as one device used in
narration that “shows” rather than “tells.”37 Literature seems more naturally suited to the
latter, but visual media such as cinema have a builtin bias for the former, and it follows
that imagebased characterization is simply a baseline norm of visual narrative media.
All movies characterize by presenting images that correspond to some dimension of
character psychology. Chatman is careful to make clear that Antonioni’s stylistic
originality in this area is in forswearing other devices of characterization in favor of an
unusual exclusive reliance on imagemetonymy.
But Chatman may understate the extent to which this kind of characterization is
standard in feature filmmaking. The densely crowded office, shot from above in The
Apartment, puts C.C. Baxter in clear focus as one of a multitude of corporate drones, an
average guy trying to get ahead. The dustbowl setting of the opening of The Wizard of
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Oz suggests so much about Dorothy’s depressionera character that she doesn’t need to
sing “Over the Rainbow” for us to gather that she desires to escape dreary, gray Kansas.
But less imaginative films may be just as effective in creating these snapshots of
character: the stock genre sets in even cheap, bythebook westerns are scarcely less
evocative of a range of figures. Indeed, the cinematic objective correlative is typically
straightforward to the point of banality—movie settings cue inferences about characters’
interiority as a matter of course, as a function of folk psychology and genre schemas—
though many films use mise en scène in unusually expressive ways, which is what film
critics and historians ordinarily mean when they call films settings “expressionistic.” Yet
this typically means that the mise en scène is unusually stylized and sophisticated, not
necessarily that the characters are unusually well developed. The characters of Sunrise,
The Informer, and The Man Who Wasn’t There, films with stylized, expressionistic mise
en scène, are no better developed psychologically than those in masterpieces of Bazinian
realism such as Bicycle Thieves, Rules of the Game, and Best Years of Our Lives. (And
those instances of realism are no less characterizing in their use of the objective
correlative, as in the shots in Rules of the Game that frame the Marquis against his
mechanical toys and figurines.)
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While the objective correlative, or personalitycharacterizing, level is still
denotative, it shifts the reference point from objective to subjective character attributes.
But there is still a more sophisticated level on which style characterizes, which is also
more abstract. It is a casual, commonsense approach to designate many aspects of film
style such as rhythmic soundtrack music, lowkey lighting, handheld cinematography, and
rapid editing pace as contributors to the mood or feeling of a film.38 We don’t ordinarily
say that these moods or feelings are necessarily those of spectators or characters; it is
more common to attribute them to the text itself: the shadowy mise en scène, the deadpan
voiceover narration, and the flashback structure of Double Indemnity give it a quality of
fatalism. We don’t ordinarily say that the style gives us that quality. Nor do we say that
that it gives Walter and Phyllis, the main characters, that quality either. We attribute
knowledge, personality traits and emotions to the characters, but the fatalism that suffuses
the film is not a quality attributable to either one of them. So what might it mean to
attribute an affective quality to a film, or more specifically, to a particular device of style
in a particular narrative context, such as the staging and lighting in a film noir?
It is a standard trope of film criticism to attribute feelings to cinematic devices
and, by extension, films. But it is not as though any given technique has any automatic
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corresponding mood. To take the handheld camera as an example, we might say that in
Dancer in the Dark it contributes to a mood of anticipatory dread; in Traffic, it
contributes to a mood of investigative curiosity; in Natural Born Killers, it contributes to
a mood of exuberant violence. Each of these moods is a product of both the technique,
other stylistic parameters, and the narrative content and context; each is unique. The
jittery cinematography of these films has certain baseline effects that are products of
perpetual motion, changing perspectives, and the sense of disorientation the spectator gets
when jostled about as though riding in a turbulent airplane or in a Jeep across rough
terrain. Yet these effects are overlaid with narrative content that colors and shapes the
meaning of the device in context. While it is hard to imagine a handheld shot cueing a
mood of serenity or of contemplative languor, it is not hard to imagine a wide variety of
tones and connotations that the device is capable of conveying.
This makes certain visual techniques analogous in function to the emotional
expressiveness of movie music. Noël Carroll argues that the relation of movie music to
the rest of a movie, which includes the images and nonmusical sounds, is one of a
modifier to an indicator. The rest of the movie indicates the reference or content of a
scene, including some aspects of emotional content, and the music “characterizes what
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the scene is about in terms of some expressive quality.”39 Carroll writes of a battle scene
in Gunga Din: “the movie establishes the subject, the battle, and the music imbues it with
a feeling, that of jauntiness.”40 But the indicators, the content of the scene, also function
to influence our experience of the music’s expressive qualities by focusing on certain
aspects of the music’s emotional tenor. The music in the scene in question from Gunga
Din is “positive, lively, energetic,” but in combination with the film’s dramatic reference
these qualities are narrowed down to “manly, daredevil bravado.”41 The relation of the
handheld technique to the various scenes it may represent is similarly one of focusing and
amplifying, making some qualities of a scene more palpable or prominent, while the
qualities of the scene function to set a range of meanings that the visual style may bring to
the representation.
I contend that while these elements of style do not necessarily (or ordinarily)
describe or define the feelings, moods, or emotions of the characters, they do create
qualities that are indexed to the characters’ experiences. This is a more abstract level of
meaning than those described above, but it is no less characterizing in its functionality as
a narrative device. Indexing functions by making characters the reference point of
stylistic expressiveness, so that an affective effect, such as excitement or trepidation, is
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understood not as an abstract evocation but as an index for understanding and interpreting
the experience of a character.
The mood of fatalism in film noir, of anxious anticipation in melodramas,
thrillers, and romantic comedies, and of trepidation and dread in horror are all typically
creations of both narrative contexts and effects of lighting, music, editing, camera
movement, and other cinematic techniques. The idea of films cueing moods is Greg M.
Smith’s, and he describes two processes wherein affective responses are cued by film
narration: emotion markers, which are brief cues to a particular emotion (e.g., a musical
stinger, a closeup of a frightening image), and genre scripts, which cue intertextual
expectations based on preexisting knowledge (e.g., a horror film scenario of a girl being
stalked).42 Smith argues that many emotion markers in films function principally as cues
to the spectator, and that this function exceeds their narrative motivation: “The primary
purpose of an emotion marker is to generate a brief burst of emotion. Often such
moments could be excised from a film with little or no impact on the achievement of
narrative goals or the state of story information.”43 For example, a nondiegetic musical
cue that has a clear emotional rhetoric would seem to be there principally for the purpose
of eliciting a response in the spectator.
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Unlike Smith, however, who contends that emotion markers may often have no
narrative function outside of eliciting an affectresponse, I argue that these cues, as well
as genrescript cues, are strongly characterrelated. In a narrative film, feelings are
realized in relation to character experiences, and without character psychology they are
functionally meaningless. These qualities are products of our understanding of the
characters and their situations. As an example of a mood cue that has no narrative
function Smith gives a shot of a grotesque stone idol accompanied by screaming, bird
sounds, and a musical stinger in an early scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark. According to
Smith, “this emotion marker neither hinders nor helps the protagonist’s progress toward
his goal, nor does it provide new story information. What this moment does do is provide
a reliable burst of congruent emotion that helps maintain the sequence’s suspenseful
mood.” Smith adds that “the functionality of this narrative incident exceeds its narrative
informativeness.”44
First of all, this sounds like an “excess” argument. Smith endorses the notion that
impressive sequences that appeal strongly to the senses cannot be contained by narrative
functionality. I have discussed the flawed logic of this theoretical position above.
Second, the sequence Smith describes certainly does provide new story information: the
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idol and the reaction to it are part of the narrative world. If by “new story information”
Smith means something more specific, he has not clarified what that is. Third, Smith
errs when he collapses narrative functions into a plotadvancing function, ignoring other
functions of storytelling such as establishing and developing aspects of setting, theme,
and character. Even though it its not Indiana Jones who is startled by the stone idol, our
experience of the emotion marker occurs in the context of a narrative that has already
indexed the film’s mood to Indiana’s experience. Later in the opening sequence,
furthermore, Indiana passes by the stone idol, and seeing him framed against it reminds
us of the frightening features of the world he explores, further indexing the emotion effect
to Indiana’s character. The emotionmarker device and its later echo also have a thematic
narrative function that is related to its emotioncueing function, yet separate from it.
Thematically, like Saturdaymatinee adventure stories to which it pays homage, Raiders is
predicated on the explorerhero gaining mastery over various fearsome, wild and
unpredictable forces. The existence in the narrative world of objects to be feared is
thematically congruent with Indiana’s whole quest narrative; even if some of those
objects are not actually obstacles for him to overcome in his quest, they are still
thematically correspondent to some very salient elements of the narrative representation.
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It is significant, furthermore, that the emotioncue device is a stone idol rather than, say, a
slimy green monster, a demonically possessed child, or a homicidal teenager wielding a
big knife. Indiana is an archaeologist, and the object presented is a primitive religious
relic. Again, the significance is thematic and characterological, corresponding to the
most basic elements of the narrative design.
It is true, however, that visual and aural representations may convey affective
qualities absent narrative representation. Western “absolute” music and abstract painting
are but two examples. To many people, some of the most emotionally affecting artworks
are Romantic symphonies and abstract expressionist paintings which may be interpreted
in reference to the artist’s emotions, but not through any representational means in
reference to a character in a narrative (in the conventional sense of representations and
“representational” as the opposite of “abstract”). In cinema, mood is a product in part of
instrumental soundtrack music and visual compositional elements, which function as they
do in nonnarrative, abstract forms—to an extent. But like all aspects of narrative
representation, abstract affective components like music and color are anchored by the
meanings generated by the story.45 As Carroll argues, film music is not “pure” or
abstract; it has a dramatic function in relation to cinematic representation.46 The
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stereotypical scary music in a horror film may still sound scary absent any narrative
context, if you listen to a recording of it on the radio. But in a horror film, with its genre
script expectations and its specific narrative context, the affective qualities expressed and
conveyed by the score are anchored in a horrorfilm kind of feeling.47 The visual and
aural affective components cannot be so simply distilled out of a total audiovisual
narrative representation, and conventional narrative representation, as I have said, is
understood in terms of character. Hitchcock, of all the classic directors the one most
closely associated with psychological depth, relied on Bernard Herrmann’s emotionally
charged scores (e.g., in Vertigo, North by Northwest, and Psycho) not only to emphasize
dramatic developments in the plot, but to fill in the experience of the characters whose
drama is juxtaposed to the music. The lush orchestrations of the romantic theme for
Vertigo, the dancelike, uptempo horn section cues for North by Northwest, and the
screaming strings in Psycho are quite explicit in their relation to characterization,
underlining and amplifying Scottie Ferguson’s obsessive desire for Madeleine, Roger
Thornhill’s anxiety under pursuit by Vandam, and Marion Crane’s fear and horror of
being attacked by Mrs. Bates, respectively.
Thus the feelings generated by a film, which are partly products of stylistic effects
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(like frightening, grotesque images and abrupt sounds in Raiders), are often feelings
understood in relation to a character’s feelings or the spectator’s feelings in relation to the
character. In Raiders, the emotion marker Smith analyzes may be a cue to the spectator’s
affective experience, but it is also a datum about the narrative world which is relevant to
the film’s characterization: namely, that the world Indiana and the others inhabit is filled
with frightening things. Our sense of Indiana’s character is formed in relation to objects
such as the stone idol, and it follows that such objects have an admittedly abstract but
nonetheless significant characterizing function. So the third level of stylistic
characterization is richly associative and closely related to the emotional impact of a film,
but it is not an explicit or denotative means of representing details of character
psychology. It is a contextual process of indexing and anchoring expressive qualities of
style to characters.
To summarize (see the figure below, “Levels of Stylistic Characterization”), in
addition to two basiclevel functions, one objective and the other subjective, there are two
higherlevel processes by which narrative and style interact to create characterization.
Indexing is the process by which stylistic devices are interpreted as informative in relation
to the character’s experiences, so that a particular mood functions as characterizing rather
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than just as a freefloating affective experience for the spectator. And anchoring is the
process by which the narrative context shapes the meaning of an abstract affective quality,
such as scary music or sad imagery, so that the range of interpretations is constrained by a
preexisting predisposition to see things a certain way. The latter is especially significant
in cases of ambiguous or sparse cues, such as music that could as easily be hopeful or
hopeless (e.g, Philip Glass minimalism). In such cases, topdown processing is clearly
more significant than bottomup, with the spectator’s appraisal of the narrative context
dominating the stylebased mood cues.
Levels of Stylistic Characterization
Stylistic parameters Emotion cues?
1st level: Principally mise en scène and sound Indirect, requires participation of
Objective denotation —representing the character’s higher levels
external attributes
2nd level: All aspects but especially mise en Direct: cues to character emotion
Subjective scène—objective correlative, or
denotation “landscapeasstateofsoul”
3rd level: All aspects—affective quality of Direct: possible cues to spectator
Abstract affective style, e.g., camera style creates a emotion (as in Smith)
mood. Relation of mood to
character=indexing and anchoring
To illustrate how these levels function typically, let’s return to the supermarket
scene during the precredit sequence of The Big Lebowski described in Chapter 1. The
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camera is positioned alongside the refrigerated dairy display, and at first it frames The
Dude in a wide shot against the standard array of products. This is a realistic
representation of a supermarket late at night. It is empty and very brightly lit, with piped
in music. As the shot progresses, the camera tracks forward slowly and the figure
advances toward it to frame the character in medium shot, to give us a better look at his
features, his unkempt hair, mustache and goatee. The Dude is dressed in his bowling
outfit of tshirt, shorts and sandals, but he is also wearing a bathrobe. We type him as an
aging hippy and an oddball and assign associated traits relating to his likely demeanor
and interests. His behavior is that of shopping: he inspects the products, checks the
expiration date, then looks around and opens a carton of cream to smell its contents. We
infer beliefs, desires, and intentions. His facial expressions do not convey any clear basic
emotion, so we do not have this channel to add to the character’s profile, but he does seem
to be in a positive mood and to anticipate the pleasure of consuming his halfandhalf.
The Cowboy’s voiceover introduces the character with a folksy drawl, and as the film is a
comedy the incongruity between the spoken narration and the introduction of an aging
hippy is a source of amusement. The direct sound in this shot is the pipedin shopping
music of the supermarket.
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The 1st level of characterizing in style is principally made up of the mise en scène,
the character’s appearance and behavior. The setting, acting, props, and costume are all
indicative of aspects of The Dude, defining him by his appearance, behavior and
situation. Since this is the first time we see The Dude, it is significant that the camera
advances slowly toward him, approaching him as a scenographic figure just as the
spectator is approaching him as character. Props have long been considered essential
devices of characterization (they were especially significant for emphasizing character
psychology in the new acting style of the transitional period).48 The cream carton
functions both to establish an intentional state, a desire, and a disposition inference
connected the character’s pursuit of pleasure which is consistent with our judgment of his
type. The fact that he opens the carton and smells and then tastes the cream produces a
further set of inferences about his desire (rather strong) and dispositions (he doesn’t care
to follow social customs such as waiting until you are out of the store to open the carton).
We must also consider The Cowboy’s rambling voiceover narration, which
introduces The Dude not only as “probably the laziest man in Los Angeles County” but
also as “the man for his time and place.” To the extent that we consider The Cowboy to
be a credible source of information rather than a gimmick poking fun at the convention of
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voiceover introductions, we must allow that these descriptions of The Dude could be apt
if a bit hyperbolic. The voiceover does not seem to be unreliable in the same fashion as
Don Lockwood’s over the sequence dramatizing his rise to stardom in Singin’ in the Rain,
but neither does it seem particularly trustworthy and confiding as Alvy Singer’s narration
does in Annie Hall. In sum, it seems neither informative nor misinformative, but mildly
ironic. 49
The second level consists of the effect of style on character emotion and is more
subjective: we read an affective content into the supermarket setting and the camera
pushing forward while the character approaches it. My reading is that the supermarket
has contradictory affective qualities. On one hand, its décor is strictly functional and
sterile and its function is—literally—to promote consumption. This along with its
emptiness and the maddening corporate orderliness of the products on the shelves make it
oppressive. On the other hand, the supermarket is a source of food, of nourishment, and
it has the appeal of promising to satiate hunger and provide sensory pleasure. So I relate
the environment to the character in a suitably contradictory fashion by attributing to him
both pleasure and displeasure. It is not that the supermarket is supposed to cause him
pleasure and displeasure, but that his emotional experience corresponds to the emotions
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generated by the setting—the character’s emotions are established by a “correlative” in
the mise en scène.
Finally, the 3rd level is made up of aspects of style that have a more abstract
relation to the character, functioning as rangefinders for spectator emotions in relation to
the reference of the narrative context. In this scene, the overriding emotional quality for
the spectator is amusement: in combination with the rambling voiceover the scene is
itself comical, even goofy. But there is also the feeling of a slow pace to both The Dude’s
gait and the camera’s movement, which supports the Cowboy’s description of The Dude
as lazy. If we have any kind of mood cued by the scene, it is one of comfortable, laid
back amusement, and the active expectation of the beginning of the plot. This would also
be the mood established by the genrescript of comedy.50
The Big Lebowski is an independent film, but in this scene the effects of style on
characterization are quite standard, and we might find similar effects in films from widely
divergent contexts. The characterizing function of style in charactercentered films is
pervasive, but in highly stylized films such as Lebowski it may be amplified since, as I
have argued, stylization is often motivated as a characterization device. Indeed, this is the
case in the film’s two outlandish subjective sequences. In charactercentered films with a
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more restrained, lowkey style, however, characterization may be no less significant in the
stylistic system. Todd Haynes’s Safe is a film in which the style is quite austere, in which
the filmmaker avoids many of the dependable expressive means of stylization that work
so well for the Coen brothers in creating vivid characters. I shall argue, however, that
even in films with a highly restrained style such as Safe, the same functions apply.
Style and Character in Todd Haynes’ Safe51
The joke was, okay, let's move in for a close-up but we never got very close.
-Todd Haynes52
Todd Haynes is as good an example as one will find of the indie auteur: his films are
rigorously antiHollywood in both their thematic concerns and approach to storytelling;
not only are they distinct from the mainstream, but they are also critiques of its norms of
representation. Virtually every characteristic described in chapter 1 of the independent
cinema’s viewing strategies is evident in Safe, from play with genre and plot expectations
to emblematic characterization. Like Passion Fish, Safe turns genre expectations inside
out, taking a diseaseoftheweek melodrama scenario and frustrating the audience’s
expectations. Safe has an unusually complex approach to emblematizing identity. As the
filmmaker and others have asserted, the main character’s illness (ostensibly an immune
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system deficiency causing adverse reactions to chemicals, fumes, and other
environmental hazards of modern city life) can be construed as a loose metaphor for
AIDS.53 Thus a film with only one (unsympathetic) gay character is able to thematize
queer identity and the fear and confusion faced by victims of AIDS while also critiquing
the mainstream of straight, white suburbia, especially in its configuration of heterosexual
gender norms. So Safe engages in play even in its approach to thematizing identity, and
unlike some directors for whom form is a game, for Haynes play is a vehicle for critical
analysis of social and cultural institutions and ideologies. Haynes’ work is positioned at a
nexus of several intellectual projects, including investigations into constructions of
gender, sexuality and identity and critiques of contemporary mass media and society. His
aesthetic approach, including his use of cinematic technique, is as much a product of his
politics as are his thematic preoccupations. As Hayes himself has made clear, his
directorial ambition is to question mainstream modes of cinematic representation.54 The
aim of this section will be to relate Haynes’s greater aesthetic and intellectual goals to the
style of Safe, and in so doing to demonstrate the centrality of style’s dominance by
character in independent cinema to this larger dynamic of art’s social rhetoric.
Set in 1987, Safe is the story of Carol White (Julianne Moore), an affluent
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Southern California housewife whose life is average, dull, even empty. The first few
scenes introduce quotidian events, many of which cause her feelings of unpleasantness,
discomfort, or annoyance: she has sex with Greg, her husband, but experiences no
pleasure; she awaits the delivery of a new sofa only to find that it is the wrong color; she
feels ill in her kitchen one morning and is unable to stand. At the same time, she does
seem enthusiastic about some of her regular activities: she goes out to lunch with a friend,
she takes interest in her home redecoration, and she does aerobics at a health club. As the
film progresses, however, she is repeatedly sickened, as at first is suggested but not
explicitly represented, by things in her environment. The kitchen episode might be
connected to the work being done on her house; she is seized by fits of coughing and
wheezing while driving behind a noisy, exhaustspitting truck; Greg’s use of aerosol
deodorant causes a coughing fit, followed by vomiting; at the salon getting her hair
permed, she reacts in horror when her nose starts to bleed. There are other episodes
which are not as clearly connected to an environmental cause: out to dinner with Greg
and some friends, she is listless and disaffected, unable to follow their conversation and
clearly not well; at night a police officer finds her wandering outside in the garden; at
aerobics, she is too weak to work out; at a baby shower, Carol has an attack of her illness
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during which she is unable to breathe, arousing her friends’ concern; one night in her bed,
she seems to have disassociated from herself, asking Greg, “Where am I?” In a
culminating episode at the dry cleaners, where masked workers are spraying the store
with chemicals, she collapses and has to be taken away in an ambulance and hospitalized.
Over the course of this middle portion of the film, Carol goes to see various doctors
(including an allergist and a psychiatrist), none of whom is able to offer a solid diagnosis.
All the while, Haynes includes subtle, ironic details undercutting Carol and her
family and friends, especially their everyday behavior, social rituals, and suburban taste.
An early montage of house construction sites in the Whites’ neighborhood invites disdain
for the sprawling development of McMansions. Carol listens to liteFM radio, orders a
sickly teal fabric for her sofa but is dismayed when it arrives in black, and she bosses
around her Latina housekeeper in an infantilizing mix of English and broken Spanish.
The women’s hairstyles and clothes are dated to the point of cliché (while released in
1995, the film is set in 1987 and the 80s are treated as a “period”) , their conversations are
idiotic (for example, they compliment each other on the creativity with which they wrap
gifts), and when Carol and her friend decide to go on a fruit diet, which they cheerfully
say will be “fun,” the film seems to be inviting us to deride it. Carol’s stepson, an
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elementary school student, reads a comically violent and racist composition on the topic
of gangs at the dinner table, inspiring perfunctory compliments from his dad. For his
part, Greg seems caring but is easily exasperated, for example, losing his cool when Carol
refuses to have sex with him. At first, he is not nearly sensitive enough to her concerns;
he is portrayed as figure representing benign patriarchy, demanding Carol’s implicit
consent that she will fulfill his notion of her role as wife. (Later in the film, he becomes
more sympathetic.) In general, although the film’s rhetoric solicits allegiance to Carol, it
looks askance at most of the other characters, including the various doctors she sees, and
on the setting more generally, with its strip malls, cold interiors, maddening traffic, and
an omnipresent, banal mass media (fearmongering television, bland pop music). The
film treats these background details with sophisticated mockery without playing any of
them for laughs.
Encountering alternative medicine and the New Age wellness movement through
a flyer at her health club and in a television program she watches from a hospital bed,
Carol becomes convinced that she suffers from environmental illness, that she is “allergic
to the 20th century.” She goes to meetings where she meets fellow sufferers and
eventually moves to Wrenwood, a desert New Age recovery community, where she stays
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until the end of the film, separated from her family, her former life, and mainstream
society. She lives in a kind of bubble of sterile safety from the ostensible causes of her
illness, yet Carol’s condition never gets any better. The leaders of Wrenwood suggest that
her healing must also be a personal process, implying that she is to some degree the cause
of her own suffering. If only she could “give herself to love,” as the Wrenwood folksong
anthem urges, she might be able to overcome her sickness. Peter, the gay, AIDSafflicted
leader of the community, says that people get sick only if they let themselves. Yet even as
Carol becomes comfortable in the Wrenwood community and gains a more positive sense
of herself than she had had as a suburban housewife, it never seems that Wrenwood is
having any beneficial effect on Carol’s health. Indeed, her condition worsens to the point
that she moves from an openair cabin to an iglooshaped “safe house,” isolated from the
community.
In the end, as Carol stands in her little white room and announces to her own
mirror reflection, “I love you,” we are stuck between two contradictory conclusions: if she
really is allergic to the 20th century, then learning to love herself would hardly be the
most important step toward recovery; but if she is cured by learning to love herself, then
we are put in the position of doubting the legitimacy of her environmental illness and,
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indeed, of pitying rather than admiring her. This contradiction is abetted by the
representation of the New Agers’ rhetoric as selfrighteous blather. When Carol, having
had her consciousness raised, describes her beloved teal couch to her friend as “totally
toxic” we react skeptically, not only to the idea of a toxic couch, but also to the earnest
conviction with which Carol pronounces the words. The film solicits our skepticism
about the causes of Carol’s illness; then it solicits our skepticism about the possibility of
its cure. In the end, we don’t understand Carol’s illness any better, and we don’t know
how her health will improve. Like the first half of the film, set in the suburbs, the latter
portions at Wrenwood also subtly undercut the social customs of a milieu, and they
especially undercut Peter, who is a charismatic but dubious leader who abuses his
patients’ trust by insisting that ultimately they must heal themselves, whose speeches are
as much angry as they are inspirational, and who lives in a suspiciously opulent house on
a hill high above the others. The film’s clearest statement is about him: he exploits the
trust of the emotionally needy patients who turn to him for help when their society fails
them.
Overall, the tone of Safe is really only semiironic, satirizing some aspects of the
1980s Southern California culture and the New Age movement while sympathizing
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strongly with the suffering and confusion of the protagonist and playing her experience
pretty straight. A fully ironic treatment would be broader or archer in its approach to the
heroine—perhaps even comical—but Carol is hardly a caricature. She is represented with
compassion but with only the rarest traces of humor, let alone a patronizing or deflating
comic treatment. This kind of divided tone is a parallel to the divided interpretive stance
we take toward Carol, and a parallel to the film’s more general tension between two
competing views of environmental illness, ostensibly the central cause in the film’s
narrative progression. On one hand, its very existence is a challenge to socially dominant
institutions (medicine and science; energy providers, big corporations, and government);
on the other hand, the questionable status it gains by association with Wrenwood casts a
shadow of skepticism on the movements that themselves oppose these dominant
institutions. The tone of the film allows for the introduction of both of these positions.
We are invited to entertain both a critical stance on the environment and society, and a
skeptical stance toward oppositional or alternative formations. Both are represented from
the perspective of a potential victim of their excesses.
Morally the film is rather distant, refusing to pin down its judgment or to lay easy
blame as a Hollywood version of Carol’s story might, but to achieve this effect the
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narration has to be rigorously objective. The cumulative effect of the film’s narration is
that Carol is represented with complexity but with minimal psychological depth and
detail. We are scrupulously kept to her exterior, prevented from fully appreciating the
interior experience of her illness because for Haynes’s central tension to have its full
effect, we can never be given a pat explanation for Carol’s suffering. The film’s emphasis
on environmental causes countervails against our psychological preference to attribute
causality to Carol’s disposition, but Haynes’ distanced approach to characterizing her
always allows for the possibility that the environment is not the root cause of her
condition, that even if she does have a chemical sensitivity disorder, her personal recovery
is predicated on a process of selfexamination. Carol is the central enigma in the film,
and the interpretive work that Haynes demands of the spectator is a function of Carol’s
complex opacity. This refusal of certainty, closure, and determinate meaning is a self
consciously oppositional approach to characterization, preferring to characterize less than
Hollywood norms would demand, achieving an effect of interest in character by
cultivating a style of minimalist exteriority that only indirectly suggests character
psychology rather than by being richly informative and redundant.
As Haynes notes in interviews, one of his models in achieving this effect was
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Antonioni, particularly Red Desert.55 This highly external mode of characterization relies
on the interplay between surface and depth, figure and ground. Haynes tells Amy Taubin,
“I was trying to force architecture into every frame and always show Carol in relation to
her environment.”56 In the linear notes to the DVD release, he writes, “Carol White is
established as a character whose entire sense of self is provided by the external world…
She is, in effect, presupposed by her environment.”57 Here of course environment has a
double meaning. Haynes characterizes Carol by framing her against domestic interiors in
the film’s first half, much as Billy Wilder does with Norma Desmond in Sunset
Boulevard, by making a house both metonym and symbol for a character. But in the
narrative context, showing Carol in relation to her environment also refers to her
environmental illness. The furniture and yard landscaping are, along with the smog,
chemicals, and fumes, the sources of her problems—the mise en scène is making her sick.
The surfaces of her world suffuse her characterization on all levels, objective and
In concrete terms, the architectural style Hayes is referring to, which derives as
well from Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman and Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space
camera distance and framing, color and lighting, staging, settings, and sound. It is also
achieved partly through contrast between the style of the suburban beginning and that of
The first indication that something is wrong with Carol comes in the film’s first
scene after the credit sequence, a de-eroticized sex scene shot from above in which Greg
heaves and grunts while Carol lays beneath him, silent and passionless, caressing him but
without expressing pleasure, looking away as though distracted. The frame is dominated
by the man’s back, and the effect is that Carol seems to be smothered by her husband.
This scene serves several narrative functions: it introduces Carol and Greg as a couple
who might love one another but without the charge of real romance; it introduces the
film’s incisive, unconventional tone of serious social criticism by subverting the norm for
such scenes that they be passionate and sexy; and it establishes our most basic
expectations for Carol, her submission to more powerful others and her inability to
experience physical pleasure, indeed her inability to be the agent in her own life.
The first indication that Carol’s environment is her problem is the black couch
delivered by mistake; here all of the film’s dramatic energy is crystallized in one highly
charged moment, in one banal object. The filmmakers on the DVD commentary joke that
on some level the film is really all about the couch, implying that the presence of the
wrong kind of furniture can be seen as the true initiating event of Carol’s downward
spiral (and later it is suggested that the couch actually does bother her chemical
sensitivity). Yet this kind of problem really is metaphoric as well as metonymic, since
something as abstract as a color (black instead of teal) stands in not only for Carol’s
beliefs about how her environment should be designed, but also for her sense of herself:
she is horrified by the mistake. Also significant are the patterns of framing and staging in
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the scenes of the couch: like so many scenes in the first part of the film, the camera is
distant and static, the colors are clinical, cool whites (the walls and drapes) and pastels
(the furniture and furnishings, except for the offending black), and Carol is shot to seem
wherever possible, withholding cuts-in far more than is typical even of independent films.
The effect is that Carol is both product and cause of a sterile environment, that the
Other scenes in the early part of the film have related effects achieved through
similar means. Following the scene in which the boy reads his essay about gangs, Carol
goes into the kitchen to make coffee. In a long-take long shot from a static camera
position, we see Carol framed on the left and Greg and Rory on the right, out of each
other’s line of vision, a wall taking up most of the middle of the screen. They have a
conversation across this distance, the divide of the space of the frame, without any cuts in
to closer shots. Again, space dominates the human figure and the wall that takes up the
center of the shot separates Carol from her family, puts her in a box on the side of the
screen. This effect is understated compared with that of a scene between Carol and her
psychiatrist, in which each is framed facing the camera from—again—a distant, still
camera. Each is framed behind a broad, reflective black expanse of a desk, and Carol is
in the middle of a large black sofa. Each is seen against a large background that
dominates the shot: Carol is framed against a translucent white curtain behind which a
wooded garden is visible; the doctor is framed against a large, blond wood-panel artwork
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of a jungle scene, to associate Carol with nature and the doctor with culture, but each
inflected with the other (nature seen through a window; the artwork a representation of
nature). Again there are no cuts in for the close-up shots that would emphasize Carol’s
emotional reactions, though in this scene her vocal intonations, lilting up at the ends of
sentences, convey her anxiety and self-doubt. This scene, echoing an earlier one in the
house, culminates in a slow zoom in/track out movement on Carol that brings her into a
The sequence of Carol’s reaction to the trucks spewing exhaust is somewhat
different, but also relies on some similar principles of visual style. This sequence begins
on the road, with an alternation of pointofview shots of the trucks in front of Carol’s
car, and Carol’s coughing reaction. Since there are shots from a moving vehicle, in this
sequence the camera moves and is shooting Carol in tighter framings. But after she pulls
into an underground garage, Haynes restricts us to Carol’s point of view, disorienting us
with moving shots of the car snaking through the twisting maze of the underground
garage. This sequence is also accompanied by music, the droning synthesizer
arrangement with little rhythm that offers multiple connotations: horror genre dread, a la
Halloween; New Age spirituality (the same kind of music is heard in programs Carol
watches about chemical sensitivity and Wrenwood); and a bland background to parallel
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the mise en scène. When the car comes to a screeching stop, Haynes again reverts to the
static longtake long shot, even as the character is undergoing a heavy emotional and
painful physical experience. She opens her car door and doubles over, and the car is
framed right in the center of the screen and in the middle of a strongly receding vortex of
painted concrete made up of the pavement (bottom) and low ceiling and exposed pipes
(top), and a series of rectangular yellow posts along the right of the screen. The effect is
of the character slipping away from us into an abyss of suffering.
The shot with Carol in agony in the distant center of the frame is echoed much
later in the film, after her first night at Wrenwood. After walking back from the meeting,
Carol stands in the middle of her cabin, its walls open mesh screens, in another static,
longtake, distant framing. It is night and the scene is very dark, with Carol’s face only
barely visible, with an edge light bringing out her silhouette. The depths of her despair
and loneliness are captured vividly in the staging, lighting, and darkness. She weeps
loudly but the camera keeps its distance, separated from the character by several layers of
overlapping objects receding in depth: deck chairs, the deck railing, the walls of the
cabin, and behind it, the hills and trees. Even though she in a new environment, a happier
place that is open and surrounded by nature, Carol is lonely and alone, anguished by her
pain and unable to cope. The distant but centered framings in these scene underline the
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central tension and ambiguity between the character, her pain and its causes, and the
In the Wrenwood scenes, the sterility and pollution of the San Fernando Valley are
replaced by some green trees and grassy fields, and reddish brown desert hills, and yet
Carol is no better off physically. The colors are warmer, with brighter shades replacing
the whites, beiges, grays, and pale pastels of the suburban locations. The human figures
are also different at Wrenwood: they wear looser fitting clothing, they touch Carol and
each other, some sit on the floor, and in general they are much livelier than the
suburbanites, more casual, easy-going, and intimate. Carol herself trades in skirts and
dresses for pants and sweaters, putting comfort ahead of fashion. Just as the character
loosens up, so does the camera. It seems to have been unleashed as she arrives at the
retreat, tracking alongside her as she approaches the main building, and then at night as
she heads to her cabin. It signals her feelings of freedom, a sense of loosening up and
relaxation. But ironically, it is surrounded by all of this nature and amidst her emotional
awakening that Carol becomes progressively sicker, her face thinning and reddening, her
gait more deliberate, and a boil developing on her forehead. She is now constantly
wheeling an oxygen tank around and is becoming more, not less, sensitive to chemicals
and fumes. On several occasions, she suffers attacks when she cannot breathe, and she
seems to be bothered by more and more things. So the style of the Wrenwood scenes is
also indexed to her declining physical health. In addition to its basic denotative
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functions, the visual style both suggests how Carol feels, and suggests how we should
Throughout the film, Haynes uses music in several related ways to achieve effects
similar to those of his visual style. The arrangements are limited to synthesizer and other
electronic instruments. The tempo and dynamics are generally constant, and the rhythm
is rarely more than a simple repetitive pattern contrasted against a droning bass note. It is
an effect of sound as a background wash (like the bland white walls and curtains of the
Whites’s house), devoid of recognizable motifs or melodies, with little harmonic
complexity or progression. It makes little sense to discuss a musical progression or
pattern of themes in Safe, as there isn’t any of that kind of temporal unfolding of musical
meanings keyed to characters or to specific thematic material (like a love or action theme
in a John Williams score). But the music does carry connotative meanings associated
with the New Age ideas that permeate the film. It also amplifies the mystery of Carol’s
state without penetrating it, and it has a moodcueing effect encouraging feelings of
seriousness and severity in relation to Carol and her relationship to the world around her.
It also certainly expresses fear, distress, anxiety, and anger, depending on the narrative
context. Above all, the music’s heaviness signals that Carol’s physical situation is
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potentially dangerous and significantly lifealtering. The relation between music and
narrative in Safe is complementary. The fact that the music and the narrative share
affective qualities has an effect of heightening the emotional overtones of the film’s
scenes, a function known as affective congruence.59 In other words, by combination of
crossmodal emotion cues (visual, narrative, aural), the film creates an affective intensity
greater than the sum of the parts. By anchoring this intensity of feeling in Carol’s
experience, the film achieves its characterological effects without delving deeply into the
character’s psyche.
In a number of scenes, as I have mentioned, Haynes uses the visual effect of a
slow zooming and tracking in opposite directions. The effect of this device is parallel to
the droning, investigative soundtrack music, with which it shares a lugubrious tempo: it
addresses Carol’s psychological state without offering any concrete information about it.
One instance is the first scene of Carol feeling unwell, as she sits in her kitchen with a
glass of milk and stares into space. Another is the scene in the psychiatrist’s office, as
she describes her life in a quavering voice. Visually, the experience of watching this
device is akin to getting at once closer and farther away from the object of your interest,
which is also the effect of the film’s narration. Carol’s image expands in the frame, but at
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the same time the image’s depth cues become flattened and she becomes abstracted from
the environment that so significantly defines her. The more we see of her apart from the
world she inhabits, the more intensely interested we become in her psychological state;
but the more she becomes a focus of interest, we realize, the less we really know about
her, to the point that she seems to be a cipher, a vacuous emblem of suburban malaise. In
those rare moments in which her face is the center of visual interest, we understand the
least about her character. Like the use of camera movement, which Haynes saves for the
latter portions of the film, the use of the closer framing has an effect that is a product of
withholding, of contrast against the film’s baseline style. When Haynes offers these
savedup moving and closeup shots, he underscores the film’s most significant idea
about the main character: the moment of revelation that she and we have been waiting for
will never come. The film subverts our expectations not only of narrative structure and
development, but also of how cinematic techniques are deployed. Rather than penetrating
deeper into character, Safe pushes her away, makes her seem less knowable.
In the film’s final scene, Carol has gone to her safe house for the night and she
stands and looks in the mirror. This is the first glimpse we have been given inside the
domed structure, and it is devastatingly spare and empty, with only the most functional
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furniture and no furnishings beyond bare necessities. It is as different as one might
imagine from her and Greg’s house, which is quite large and filled with decorative
furnishings. The sound in this scene is a lowpitch, soft industrial hum and Carol’s
breathing is noticeably audible too. Haynes cuts to shot of her face from the perspective
of the mirror, so that she is staring at the lens of the camera, and he slowly zooms in on
her face, framed against the blank white background, with another edgelight rimming her
head. This is a very rare closeup, perhaps the shot he is referring to in the quotation at
the beginning of this section. They move in, but they don’t get very close to answering
the questions about Carol that the film has posed. Her face is splotchy and sicklooking,
with the boil on her forehead looking gruesome, and she looks weary and affectless as
she pronounces the words, “I love you.” She sounds like she is trying to convince herself,
and her blank, pathetic expression confirms the general feeling we have had of Carol
since the inception of her illness: she is lost, she has no idea who she is or what her life
should be about. Her illness has come to define her identity, filling the void.
devices, such as framing and camera movements, have strong emotional resonance, while
the cumulative effect of the style, in context, is to support the narrative progression and
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the character trajectory, both of which take an average, boring person and situation and
both the plot and the character, one set of problems (what is wrong with Carol?) is
replaced with another (how will Wrenwood help or not help her recover?). The style
changes in some respects, but is maintained in others, and this underlines the symmetries
and asymmetries in the narrative structure, as both environments wind up being toxic for
Carol, each in its own way. The design of the image conveys not only that averageness of
the character, but also the sense of emptiness and banality underlying it; it also conveys
the stress and anxiety that she and those around her experience when the complication is
introduced; and it also conveys the inappropriateness of the solutions she pursues.
This analysis of Safe demonstrates not only how an independent film’s style
functions under a character dominant, but also the kind of characterization that this
relation of style and story can engender. The critical commonplace holds that
independent films are more invested in character and less in plot, but this does not mean
that when we watch an independent film we are given more information about a
opaque, by building up a sense of the unknown in relation to the character, Haynes is able
to increase interest in her. So it is for character change, as well: while her external
surroundings change substantially, the film offers little evidence that Carol herself has
developed— certainly not in the sense of coming to terms with her situation, learning a
life lesson, or better recognizing her true self. The self-actualization program of
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Wrenwood is a sham, a false promise extended to its emotionally needy victims, and part
of the film’s moral point is that it could not offer Carol the kind of development that we
often expect of movie characters. This is part of Haynes’s critique of both Hollywood
and of the New Age ideology of empty self-love: both demand a kind of character arc that
he finds not only untenable dramatically, but also questionable ideologically.60 So the
effect of characterization in Safe is that the character is less developed and less defined
than would be conventional. And this is a function of the texture of the film’s images and
sounds.
Conclusion
This chapter has proposed a number of related arguments about characterization in style.
I argued that the creation of selves is a primary function of storytelling. With that as a
guiding assumption, I argued that cinematic style has a characterizing function which has
been recognized, whether formally or informally, since at least the 1910s. I argued that in
Finally, in analyzing one independent film, I argued that style’s characterizing function
the center of our interest. The basic materials of cinematic representation support its
status in many various ways, both ordinary and extraordinary, generating some simple
and some convoluted effects, some obvious meanings and some that are unclear or
puzzling. The richness and variety of characters in cinema are a product not only of the
imagination of filmmakers and spectators, but of the possibilities inherent in image and
Germaine Dulac, ““Expressive Techniques of the Cinema” in Richard Abel (Ed.), French Film
2
Criticism and Theory vol. 1 (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1988), 305314; 310.
3
Silentera classical film theory is often concerned with examining these techniques, for example, in
Rudolph Arnheim, Film as Art (Berekeley: U of California P, 1957); and in writings by the French
avantgarde, collected in Abel.
4
Noel Burch, Theory of Film Practice trans. Helen R. Lane (New York: Praeger, 1973); Rick Altman
(Ed.), Sound Theory/Sound Practice (New York: Routledge, 1992); Elizabeth Weis and John Belton
(Eds.), Film Sound: Theory and Practice (New York: Columbia UP, 1985); Sarah Kozloff, Invisible
Storytellers: Voiceover Narration in American Fiction Film (Berkeley: U of California P, 1988); Sarah
Kozloff, Overhearing Film Dialogue (Berkeley: U of California P, 2000); Roy M. Prendergast, Film
Music, a Neglected Art: A Critical Study of Music in Films (New York: Norton, 1992); Kathryn
Kalinak, Settling the Score: Music and the Classical Hollywood Film (Madison: U of Wisconsin P,
1992).
5
Charlie Keil, Early American Cinema in Transition: Story, Style, and Filmmaking, 19071913
(Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 2001); Bordwell, Staiger and Thompson,174193; Eileen Bowser, The
Transformation of Cinema, 19071915 (Berkeley: U of California P, 1990), 87102. While some of
these techniques are “cinematic” in the sense that they are specific to cinema but not to any other
contemporaneous form (editing, camera distance), the change in acting style around 1909 was
paralleled in naturalist drama. European cinema of the same period followed a different trajectory in
terms of staging and style, emphasizing wider compositions, depth staging, and acting based on
conventional posing, but was no less “cinematic” for doing so. Ben Brewster and Lea Jacobs, Theater
to Cinema: Stage Pictorialism and the Early Feature Film (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1997).
6
Quoted and described in Bowser, 88. Bowser cites Moving Picture World, 26 November 1910, 1239
1240.
7
Roberta Pearson’s influential formulation refers to these divergent styles as “histrionic” and
“verisimilar” codes of acting. I prefer more descriptive terminology that carries less theoretical
baggage, avoiding the question of which style of acting appeals more to a sense of realism and, more
significantly, the question of whether all acting conventions are “coded” in the Barthesian, semiotic
sense. Pearson, Eloquent Gestures: The Transformation of Performance Style in the Griffith Biograph
Films (Berkeley: U of California P, 1992). Brewster and Jacobs criticize Pearson’s emphasis on the
pose in defining the histrionic code, arguing forcefully that 19th Century conceptions of realism did not
consider posing to be unnatural, and that after 1910, when the verisimilar is supposed to have replaced
the histrionic, posing is still much in evidence even in Biograph films. Brewster and Jacobs, 101109.
Keil concurs on the latter point, describing how the films of the period 19091913 display a
heterogeneity of acting styles, and even in some instances a selfconsciousness about conventions of
performance. Keil, 141148.
8
This example is described in Bowser, 6061.
9
Tom Gunning, D.W. Griffith and the Origins of American Narrative Film (Urbana: U of Illinois P,
1994),107118.
10
Lev Kuleshov, Kuleshov on Film trans. Ronald Levaco (Berkeley: U of California P, 1974).
11
Béla Balázs, Theory of the Film: Character and Growth of a New Art trans. Edith Bone (New York:
Dover, 1970), 56.
12
Lotte H. Eisner, The Haunted Screen trans. Roger Greave (Berkeley: U of California P, 1973), 95113;
Thomas Elsaesser, Weimar Cinema and After: Germany’s Historical Imaginary (London: Routledge,
2000), 223258.
13
Dulac, 310.
14
Bordwell, Thompson and Staiger.
15
However, most of the basic stylistic devices of characterization are clearly adaptations, either of real
world facets of social cognition such as the recognition of emotion expressions, or of devices already
present in other media, such as acting and staging in theater, pictorial representation in visual arts,
temporal representation in drama and literature, and even the combination of images in sequence in
lantern slides, comic books, and the like.
16
Below I slice these functions into three rather than two levels. The higher two levels later on are two
aspects of the second, expressive level.
17
Sergei Eisenstein, Film Form trans. Jay Leyda (San Diego: Harcourt Brace, 1949).
18
André Bazin, Jean Renoir (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1973); André Bazin, What is Cinema? 2
vols. (Berkeley: U of California P, 1971).
19
The best example of this approach is Stephen Heath, “Narrative Space” Questions of Cinema
(Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1981), 1975.
20
The generalist theoretical thrust of cogitivism is pervasive, and although Noël Carroll has argued for
piecemeal or middlelevel rather than grand theories, many of the middlelevel theories that he and
other cognitivists have formulated are still general in the sense of applying to movies quite broadly. For
example, Carroll’s theory of suspense, in his book on horror, is applicable in any genre of narrative, i.e.,
it is not merely a theory of suspense in that one genre. Noël Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror. Murray
Smith’s theory of character engagement; Greg M. Smith’s, Ed S. Tan’s, and Torben Grodal’s respective
theories of emotion in film; and Edward Branigan’s, David Bordwell’s, and Per Persson’s respective
theories of narrative comprehension offer general explanations of how films function in the ordinary
case.
21
Bordwell, Narration in the Fiction Film.
22
Ibid, 274310.
23
Ibid and Bordwell, Staiger and Thompson. The “dominant” is the Russian Formalist concept that
captures the interrelation among the various parts that make up the whole of an artwork. The idea is
that one part tends to dominate the others, and that the other parts are subordinate, in the sense that they
support the dominant and are controlled by it. Logically, there is no reason to posit that the
interrelation of parts in an artwork is always one of domination and subordination, but in practice this is
often observed to be the case. Thus the use of the term “dominant” here is not meant to suggest that
dominance is a general feature of all artworks; rather, I use the term descriptively, positing only that
some artworks are usefully thought of in terms of the dominance and subordination of their component
parts. A related Formalist term is “motivation,” which I also intend here only as descriptive. I do not
posit that any given device must have one discreet motivation, only that we can usefully describe the
functioning of devices in terms of how we explain their purpose, i.e., in terms of what motivates them.
Motivation in film is a function of spectator psychology: you motivate a device as realistic, say, by
explaining to yourself that the device establishes a relation between the film and reality. See Lee T.
Lemon and Marion J. Reis (Trans. and Ed.), Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays (Lincoln: U of
Nebraska P, 1965); Ladislav Matejka and Krystyna Pomorska (Eds.), Readings in Russian Poetics
(Cambridge: MIT P, 1971).
24
Kristin Thompson, Breaking the Glass Armor, 89.
25
I take classicism to be a somewhat flexible concept, admitting of degrees. For example, some
characteristics of classical narration, such as unity, redundancy, tight causality, and narrative economy,
may be greater in some instances and lesser in others. Some characteristics, such as the doubleplot
structure in which two lines of action are intermeshed, may be absent in many classical films. Some
classical films flout certain aspects of classicism by having multiple protagonists or a rather episodic
structure of events, and some even resist the kind of strong closure we associate with genres such as the
detective story and romantic comedy (e.g., Sirk’s Universal women’s pictures, such as All That Heaven
Allows and Imitation of Life, have their sad happy endings). Independent cinema allows for open
endings, episodic structures, ambiguous characters, and many other deviations from orthodox
classicism associated with art cinema narration while still retaining certain basic features such as
character goalorientation, redundancy, and the narrative motivation of cinematic techniques such as
camera movements. Like art cinema, independent films often cue interpretive readings, though rarely
in the radical fashion of Persona, Last Year at Marienbad, or 8 1/2.
26
For a similar discussion, see Warren Buckland, “A Close Encounter with Raiders of the Lost Ark:
Notes on Narrative Aspects of the New Hollywood Blockbuster,” in Steve Neale and Murray Smith
(Eds.), Contemporary Hollywood Cinema (London: Routledge, 1998), 166177; and Geoff King, New
Hollywood Cinema: An Introduction (London: I.B. Taurusm 2002), especially Chapter 6, “Narrative vs.
Spectacle in the Contemporary Blockbuster,” 178223.
27
Fludernik, Branigan.
28
Smith, 146149.
29
Ibid, 110141. Cf. Stephen Heath, who distinguishes between five dimensions of character: agent
(cause of narrative action); character (an individuated agent); person (a character embodied by an
actor); image (the projection of the person on screen), and figure (some kind of interaction among the
preceding four, or as Heath puts it, “a shifting circulation between agent, character, person and image,
none of which terms is able to contain, to settle, that circulation”). Smith and Heath alike consider the
work of characterization to include both a transformation of images of persons into individuated
narrative agents, and the instantiation of individuated narrative agents in images of persons. Stephen
Heath, “Film and System: Terms of Analysis Part II” Screen 16.2 (Summer 1975), 91113.
30
Tzvetan Todorov, Introduction to Poetics trans. Richard Howard ( Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P,
1981), 44.
31
Roland Barthes, “Introduction to the Structural Analysis of Narrative,” Image/Music/Text Trans.
Stephen Heath (New York: Noonday P, 1977), 79124; 93.
32
Chatman.
33
T.S. Eliot, “Hamlet and His Problems” The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism (Methuen:
London, 1920), 95103, 100.
34
Seymour Chatman, Antonioni; or, The Surface of the World (Berkeley: U of California P, 1985), 90.
35
Ibid.
36
Bordwell, “The Art Cinema as a Mode of Film Practice” in Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen (eds.),
Film Theory and Criticism 6th ed. (New York: Oxford UP, 2004), 774782
37
Wayne C. Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1961).
38
Researchers in the field of the science of emotions are much clearer than I am here about what
constitutes a feeling, mood, or emotion and what distinguishes one from the others. But the casual
usage I am referring to here does not demand clear categories. It might be most accurate to use the
term “quality” as in “it gives the film a quality of x,” but this term can be even more vague and
ambiguous. Since people do anthropomorphize films, saying that they have moods or feelings, it makes
sense to preserve this metaphor despite its vagueness. When discussing characters’ or spectators’ affect
states, I will choose my words more carefully.
39
Noël Carroll, Mystifying Movies: Fads and Fallacies in Contemporary Film Theory (New York:
Columbia UP, 1988), 221.
40
Ibid.
41
Ibid.
42
Greg M. Smith, 4251.
43
Ibid, 45.
44
Ibid, 46.
45
Smith discusses the use of nondiegetic music as emotion marker in an analysis of King Vidor’s
Stella Dallas. In his analysis, Smith discusses the use of musical motifs not only to reference
characters, but also in interaction with other narrative cues relating to the regulation of story
information and patterns of sympathy for characters. This is clearly an instance in which emotion
markers, specifically musical ones, have a strong narrative function which is partly to establish and
underscore character psychology. Smith, 101107.
46
Carroll, Mystifying Movies.
47
On the emotion effects of the film soundtrack, see Jeff Smith, “Movie Music and Moving Music,” in
Carl Plantinga and Greg M. Smith (Eds.), Passionate Views: Film, Cognition, and Emotion (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins UP, 1999), 146167.
48
Keil, 141148.
49
Ironic and unreliable voiceover narration is discussed in Sarah Kozloff, Invisible Storytellers, 102
126.
50
The “genre script” for mood is a notion from Greg M. Smith, 4164.
51
Some critics insist that the film be referred to in writing as [Safe], which is how it appears in the
film’s opening credits. I find that this looks clumsy, and since many other critics have dropped the hard
brackets (whether on purpose or not), I follow their lead.
52
Larry Gross, “Antibodies: Larry Gross Talks to Safe’s Todd Haynes.” Filmmaker (Summer 1995) 3.4
http://www.filmmakermagazine.com/summer1995/antibodies.php.
53
Amy Taubin, “Nowhere to Hide,” in Hillier, 100107.
54
Hayes says: “In every movie we see, we identify this great big beautiful hero, who's always can speak
better than we can and act more valiantly than we can and do all these courageous things. And when
their conflicts get resolved at the end of the movie, we feel affirmed in the process. To me that's one of
the ways in which dominant or mainstream films function. So I'm trying to look at that structure from a
markedly different perspective.” Stephen Brophy, “Todd Haynes’s Safe”
http://home.comcast.net/~rogerdeforest/haynes/text/safeint01.htm.
55
Gross.
56
Taubin, 106.
57
Todd Haynes, linear notes to DVD release Safe, 1999.
58
Gross.
59
Jeff Smith, 160166.
60
Haynes tells Taubin: “Peter’s cure is to adhere completely to these very basic ideas about self that
affirm the society as it is. His kind of New Age philosophy comes out of a 1960s ideology, using
Eastern traditions to reexamine the West. It claims to change the world through selfesteem or a
softening of the basic structures of resistance, but I see it as a reiteration of basic conservative
arguments about the self, which are closely aligned with masculinity and patriarchy.” Taubin, 104.