a critical analysis of tom ryall's 'course construction: the conceptual field'

Discussions about genre theory have been prevalent since the work of the auteur theorists of Cahiers du Cinema in the 1950s. At the forefront of the debate in this field have been a number of critics, each presenting their own views on the subjects of the notion of genre as a whole, the genre film and the difficulties that present themselves in studying genre.

The work of Tom Ryall is seen by many as presenting some of the most significant developments in genre theory and specifically the study of genre itself. His articles The Notion of Genre (Screen, Vol. 11, no. 2), Teaching Through Genre (Screen Education, no. 17) and Course Construction: the Conceptual Field (The Gangster Guide, BFI, 1978) have provided the framework for much critical discussion and counter-argument, most notably so by Steve Neale. Using Ryall’s article Course Construction: the Conceptual Field, I will attempt to analyse what place it has in the ongoing debate of genre theory and assess its strengths and weaknesses in terms of its effectiveness as a teaching guide. Furthermore, I will identify the crux of Ryall’s argument and consider this in relation to other work of genre from such critics as Edward Buscombe, Colin McArthur, Judith Hess and Steve Neale.

Edward Buscombe, in his article The Idea of Genre in the American Cinema (Screen, Vol. 11, no. 2) begins with a set of questions aimed at reflecting on the ways in which genre can be actively studied. He states:

“There appear to be three sorts of questions one could profitably ask: first, do genres in cinema really exist, and if so can they be defined; secondly, what are the functions they fulfil; and thirdly, how do specific genres originate, or what causes them?”

It is these questions that, by large, critics have attempted to answer in their work on genre, and although Ryall does not endeavour to answer all of these questions in The Conceptual Field, he does attempt to rethink the way in which genre should be addressed by both teachers and students alike. Ryall’s earlier work on the subject was concerned with the process of defining the term ‘genre’, concluding, “the notion of a network or complex of films is essential, if the word ‘genre’ is to be used successfully.” However, Ryall moves away from a general consideration of the term ‘genre’ and the idea of categorisation in The Conceptual Field, favouring a new approach, which brings the role of the film to the forefront. This new approach can in some way be summed up by the title of the article itself, the emphasis being on conceptualising the notion of genre rather than the notion of genre itself, which places emphasis on the process of definition as aforementioned.

Ryall identifies early on in the article the ‘traditional’ view of genre as being divisionary in terms of categorisation of films into ‘commonsense’ groups (the western, the musical, the gangster film etc.) and that the boundaries of these groups are governed by two things; the first being subject matter and the second being what he calls ‘content embracing historical material’ Based on this idea, Ryall suggests that a study of genre would be relatively simple, calling on students to only take into account a) the historical context in which the classic gangster film takes place, and b) the iconographical and thematic consistencies that present themselves in the films that make up the genre.

However, recognising that this alone would not be an adequate enough base on which to study genre, Ryall proposes a new direction that can be best summed up in the following quotation from The Conceptual Field:

“There is, however, a third area of study and that is the critical analysis of individual films, a study of their particularity… when we look at the most influential genre texts (Kitses, McArthur) we find that the theoretical chapters dealing with the notion of genre are not related in a precise way to the discussion of individual films.”

Ryall goes on to stress the importance of concentrating on the idea of studying a film using genre notions rather than using genre as a tool by which to allocate a place for a film within the restrictions of that genre.

In a very general sense, the problem that presents itself when studying genre as a whole is that it is a massively complex and interrelated system, encompassing ideas of iconography, thematic similarity, visual and narrative style as well as social, cultural and historical contexts. As Ryall states, these issues become topics of discussion in their own right, thus drawing attention away from the films that are supposedly the very basis of genre. Essentially what Ryall is arguing is that within the context of genre, an individual film should act as the basis for study as it will undoubtedly call upon different areas of genre theory. Using the idea of iconography as ‘patterns of visual imagery’ consider the example of two gangster films that follow a different narrative structure, one conforming to the more classical model of the ‘rise and fall’ narrative trend and the other utilising the concept of a retired gangster, drawn back into a life of crime unwillingly. Iconographically, a gun is often portrayed as a symbol of power or status in the former, whereas it is more likely to symbolise the reality of being drawn into the criminal underworld in the latter. Such examples of iconographical disparity can be commonly found in the gangster film – the idea of milieux being another. The classical Hollywood gangster film is set most commonly in Chicago where gangsters populate the streets and speak easys in the dead of night, so what of Scorsese’s Casino set in Las Vegas or de Palma’s Scarface set in Miami often in the light of day. McArthur’s idea of iconography seems to leave no room for adaptation or development, a process that is inevitable and surely welcome given the confinements of genre. As Steve Neale writes in his book titled Genre, with regard to the concept of iconography,

“It is worth asking to what degree these categories [McArthur’s] can be used in the analysis of genres other than the gangster film / thriller… how would the third category [technology], for instance, apply to the musical or the melodrama – what is the force of the term technology within this category?”

This is yet another example on the limitations that can be imposed on the study of a genre film when it is approached from the angle of ‘traditionally’ accepted genre criticism. If the notion of iconography is to be considered a useful tool in the criticism of film then surely it must apply to all kinds of film, not just a handful. It is the reading of the film that will lead to the areas of genre theory that need to be looked at, and thus, it is the reading of the film that takes priority over these areas of genre theory.

Having established the need for the redirection of the study of genre, Ryall moves on to look at the relationship between the film itself and the audience who are watching it, bringing in the idea of audience expectation. At the beginning of the article Ryall presents his triangular theory in the form of a diagram; this theory sees the film, the audience and the artist as part of one interrelated system. Ryall incorporates this strand of argument into his article by looking at the gangster film in terms of how it is read by the viewer, who base their reading of the film on a set of conventions that have already been established between the filmmaker and audience. In the case of the gangster film, Ryall argues that the merit of looking at a gangster film in the context of genre is not to prove that it is, in fact, part of the gangster genre. Using the example of The Roaring Twenties (dir. Raoul Walsh), Ryall suggests that there are very few people who would not recognise the film as part of the gangster genre because of the pattern of conventions that is apparent in the film and the codes that they have acquired to be able to read those conventions. Ryall proposes that a more useful means of looking at the gangster film is to “examine how the film depends upon genre knowledge in order to be understood or read." Again, this emphasis on the importance of the reading of the film is apparent and Ryall asserts that it is the ‘operations of reading’ that will enable the teaching of genre to bridge the gap between the genres themselves and the films which make up the genre. It is this, Ryall says, that is most commonly missing from the study of genre.

Elaborating on the notion of reading, the central theme to the article, Ryall brings forward the idea of realism in films as inseparable from the study of genre. Ryall puts forward the idea that to dismiss a film for being historically inaccurate would be to read the film incorrectly. To do this would be to confuse fiction with history and to judge the fictional for containing too little of the historical when essentially they are two separate things. To return to Ryall’s argument that the understanding of a film is governed by the audience having acquired codes from viewing similar films previously, the problem of what is ‘real’ arises. For many, what is known about how the West was won will have been attained directly from films that they will have seen about the subject. Similarly an audience might only understand the period of American history known as the prohibition era due to watching films such as The Roaring Twenties or Scarface (dir. Howard Hawks, 1932). This kind of realism however is problematic in that only two genres, the western and the gangster film rely on, or heavily draw upon, a historical knowledge of the period in which they are set. It is this problem that leads Ryall to the acknowledgement of a second sense of the word which stems from the way in which genre films have been produced. The implication of the ‘real’ in the second sense is, rather than historical actuality, a reality that is born from the resemblance of a film to previous films of its type. Studios have for some time relied upon previous successful films as models on which to create new films in the hope of repeating that success. Ryall, therefore comes to the conclusion that:

“The concepts of realism and convention are aligned in the sense that films are seen to be realistic insofar as they adhere to the conventions of their genre, i.e. to the conventions established by previous films.”

Considering this line of argument, I believe there is a contradiction, on some level, in Ryall’s dismissal of categorisation. This position is perhaps best summed up by Ryall himself earlier in the article;

“Indeed, the key to understanding the theoretical foundations of the concept of genre, of understanding its use value in terms of film criticism, lie in pushing beyond such classificatory exercises”

Although Ryall successfully argues that there is no critical merit in simply observing that one film is like another, the idea of using the ‘cross-generic’ sense of the word realism seems to rely upon the notion of categorisation to some extent. That is to say if the audience is to take a sense of realism from a film, it will more often than not come from the viewing of similar films in the same category. Of course, if the historical context of a film is crucial to the understanding of the film, this can be provided within the text of the film itself, albeit a scaled down account of what information is needed. Therefore, though the uses of categorisation are greatly played down by Ryall, they surely remain the most prominent tool used by what Ryall calls the ‘competent film reader’. The codes that are acquired by the audience are based upon the notion of categorisation itself – the recognition that one film is like another. Ryall himself states that an audience is much more likely to recognise White Heat as a gangster film than a Walsh film. However, despite the apparent contradiction between notions of categorisation and realism, there does appear to be an argument to support the need for Ryall’s second sense of realism. In order to fully articulate this, it is worth quoting Judith Hess at length:

“All of these genre films, science fiction included, present a greatly simplified social structure. However frequently this kind of very limited social structure may have existed in the past, it no longer exists in the present. Thus, genre films are nostalgic, their social structure posits some sort of movement backward to a simpler world. And in this simple structure problems which haunt us because of out inability to resolve them are solved in ways which are not possible today. Genre films reject the present and ignore any likely future.”

So essentially what Hess is arguing is that because the majority of genre films are so far removed from the idea of the ‘real’ or that of realistic depiction of every day life, it becomes necessary to think of realism in the secondary sense that Ryall presents. Since the audience will not be able to see the realism in the historical actuality of the film, they will take from it what they can, the similarities between the film and others of its type.

Although the crux of Ryall’s argument, that of the redirection of genre study and the placing of emphasis on the reading of the film, is presented in study area one, Ryall does move on to identify areas that can be useful when studying genre. Ryall explains in this section the importance of the Hollywood production base in its role of establishing the genre film within the industry as a whole. Ryall makes two main points in this section, the first being that despite the close association between certain studios and certain genres (Ryall uses Warner Bros. as a short case study, showing the reasons why this particular studio were linked with the gangster genre and thus, why other studios were linked with other genres) the studio still had to maintain ‘a balance between formula and variation’. The second point that Ryall makes is that any consideration of a big-budget Hollywood picture must take into account the differing perspectives of those involved in making the picture. Ryall describes two opposing groups of people; ‘the creative personnel’ (directors, writers, actors and designers etc.) and those on the financial side of the production. Given the differing roles of the two groups of people, their concerns are likely to be markedly different. Ryall sums up this section briefly by stating that the aim of studying the production base is to make students aware of the various limitations and obstacles, provided by the conditions of production that the filmmaker has to rise above.

Ryall, finally, considers the role of the social base in relation to genre, outlining the many problems that can be encountered when trying to apply the notion of social, cultural and historical aspects to the subject of genre. Ryall argues that just as the production base imposes constrictions upon the filmmaker (and by way of this the film) so too does the social base. As a footnote in the introduction to the article, Ryall explains his use of the phrase ‘social formation’ as opposed to the more commonly used term, society;

“the term ‘social formation’ is used in preference to the more usual word ‘society’ in order to stress that what is being referred to is an entity composed of a variety of practices (including the artistic) which may be in conflict at any given point in time. The term ‘society’ suggests a rather more harmonious, organic entity.”

This explanation itself offers a good insight into the reason why the social base may provide a problematic layer to the study of genre. Furthermore, the idea of cultural specificity, stemming from a difference in class, gender or race, is raised. There is no way that a film can be viewed in the same way by every person who sees it, mainly due to the aforementioned differences inherent in the viewer. Ryall concludes that the only way to ensure that a film is read correctly is for it to be studied in the context of the social, cultural and historical actualities of which it was produced. This argument, in a sense ties together the article as a whole. As I have already shown, Ryall places a great deal of emphasis on the correct reading of a film, but in order to do so a student must first be aware of the production base of which it is part of. As a result of this knowledge, the social base, and ideas of cultural specificity, will then come into play.

Edward Buscombe writes, “Since we are dealing with a visual medium we ought surely to look for our defining criteria at what we actually see on the screen” and, although this statement is lambasted by Neale in Genre, it does seem to be in keeping at least on some level with the idea presented by Ryall. Ryall is principally concerned with the redirection of genre criticism and I believe that in The Conceptual Field he presents a valid and well informed argument for the focus of genre criticism to be shifted. Furthermore, Ryall identifies areas of study that are problematic and presents a way around these problems, leading the reader to a series of solutions that all stem from Ryall’s main argument.

Problems of the classical Hollywood narrative / art cinema dichotomy

“The classical narrative cinema – paradigmatically, studio feature filmmaking in Hollywood since 1920 – rests upon particular assumptions about narrative structure, cinematic style and spectatorial activity… the art cinema defines itself explicitly against the classical narrative mode.”

- David Bordwell

The mainstream Hollywood feature film and the art cinema are commonly presented as polar opposites. David Bordwell’s ‘The Art Cinema as a Mode of Film Practice,’ one of the most influential pieces of writing on the art cinema, seeks to emphasise just this. In it linear, cause and effect narratives populated by goal-orientated characters are pitched against episodic and accidental sequences of events revolving around psychologically complex characters. Clarity, consequence and internal logic are pitched against ambiguity, the loosening of causal relations. In one style is unobtrusive, the other seeks to foreground it, the aesthetic becoming as central to meaning as narrative cohesion. They are the antithesis of one another, inhabiting completely different worlds.

What is troubling about this premise is the undeniable relationship between the two supposedly separate modes. Following the court rulings which made illegal the practice of vertical integration, effectively ending the reign of the major Hollywood studios in 1948, the American film industry, for at least a period of time, relied heavily on an influx of European ‘art’ films in order to fulfil quotas. Far from being a passing trend, audiences began to warm to these films and soon enough ‘art house’ cinemas were specialising in exhibition of films by the likes of Federico Fellini, Ingmar Bergman, François Truffaut and Akira Kurosawa. Art cinema was slowly working its way into the consciousness of the American public, offering an alternative to the generic gangster films and westerns that had for so long dominated the American film industry.

This depiction of art cinema, as a cinema that is entirely at odds with the Hollywood narrative film, is to some extent accurate when considering the time period in which art films were first introduced to the American film industry. Art cinema does utilise its own set of conventions that often place it firmly at odds with the Hollywood narrative film, and this is certainly true of the art films of the 1950s, including, for example, Fellini’s La Strada (1954, Italy), Bergman’s Wild Strawberries (1957, Sweden), Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (1959, France) and later in the 60s, Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’avventura (1960, Italy). Most of these films, however, are products of cinematic movements such as the French New Wave and Italian neo-realism which were born out of political and cultural events and situations that are specific to their countries of origin. The introduction of these films into the American industry at any point would have inevitably sparked debate as to their difference with the Hollywood narrative film. They are different for many reasons, as Bordwell comprehensively discusses, and are as different to each other as they are to the American cinema.

The art film and the Hollywood narrative film share further links. The highly regarded film noirs of the 1940s – 50s are commonly cited as taking inspiration from the visual style of German expressionism, as pointed out by Michael Walker in ‘The Movie Book of Film Noir;’ “In particular, critics have sought to relate the noir visual style to the imagery of the German Expressionist movement of the ‘twenties.” This influence is usually characterised by the use of expressionistic lighting techniques and a distinctive use of shadow, a perfect example of this being the sequence in Stranger on the Third Floor (dir. Boris Ingster, 1940) in which the film’s protagonist Mike Ward catches a glimpse of the ‘stranger’ (played by Peter Lorre) on the stairway of his apartment as their shadows stretch jarringly across the walls behind them.

The movement of German expressionism itself is credited by some as giving rise to the art cinema, and evidence of expressionistic influences on the film noir cycle can also be attributed to the emigration of popular German filmmakers and actors to America during the 1930s. Peter Lorre had his first starring role in Fritz Lang’s M (1931, Germany) and went on to act in several successful German features until the rise of the Nazi party led him to flee the country in 1933. Lorre came to prominence in Hollywood by embracing his reputation for playing foreign villains and went on to star in a number of films that are seen as being instrumental in the film noir cycle including The Maltese Falcon (dir. John Huston, 1941) and Casablanca (1942) which was directed by Michael Curtiz, another emigrant director who travelled to America during the height of the expressionist movement.

Fritz Lang’s emigration to America in 1934 is also significant to the rise of film noir. Lang is a perfect example of Walker’s accomplished émigré directors “who contributed most impressively to film noir… [and] had a direct or indirect association with the expressionist movement,” citing also Otto Preminger, Billy Wilder and Michael Curtiz. Lang’s appeal when making films for UFA in Germany centred on his ability to mix popular narrative trends with expressionist techniques as cited by Michel Mourlet, “[in the films of Lang] an aesthetic is outlined which naturally took its basic elements from the state of the contemporary cinema [and this is] compensated for by distorting appearances into visual metaphors.” In this sense, Lang’s films can be viewed as a perfect example of a Hollywood narrative film / art film hybrid, securing for him a reputation as a filmmaker capable of courting mass appeal and yet critical acceptance as a figure of the art cinema. This premise is furthered by the film noir cycle, in which Lang was a prominent figure. Film noirs often utilised existing generic narrative templates such as the gangster film and the police procedural while incorporating the aesthetics of expressionism, particularly the aforementioned low key lighting and resulting use of shadow.

Occupying, as it does, a place in the history of the American cinema, film noir’s expressionist influences are well documented and widely accepted. With expressionism giving rise to the art film and film noir representing a cycle of films that owe as much to art cinema in aesthetics as they do to the classical Hollywood film in narrative, the impression that art cinema has made, through various means, on the Hollywood narrative film seems not only obvious, but undeniable. Therefore, the classical Hollywood / art cinema dichotomy proposed by David Bordwell, although useful in determining the formal differences between the two modes, cannot be accepted as an blanket truth. Far from being the polar opposites that they are commonly thought of being, art cinema influences Hollywood just as Hollywood influences art cinema. When treating the two modes as intrinsically linked, it is possible to assume that the ‘seed’ of art cinema was in a sense already planted within the consciousness of the American public as far back as the 1940s. The noir cycle essentially primed the American audience for the introduction of the European art film into the American industry in the 1950s and 60s.

The increase in critical debate over this introduction should be viewed as nothing more than a reaction to the assimilation of a foreign product into the American industry, which had been self reliant for as long as it had existed.

Art cinema in the context of American independent cinema

“Exactly how ‘independence’ is defined can vary in both form and degree… [there are] three main points of orientation: the position of individual films, or filmmakers, in terms of (1) their industrial location, (2) the kinds of formal / aesthetic strategies they adopt and (3) their relationship to the broader social, cultural, political or ideological landscape.”

- Geoff King

Aside from the specific origins of art cinema and its assimilation into the American film industry, one thing can be considered a truth: its impact created a demand which was to be met by both the major studios and independent filmmakers in the Hollywood era post 1950. American independent cinema, more so than the cinema of the Hollywood majors, has been seen to embrace the notion of art cinema, and therefore has become a breeding ground for the more diverse cinematic conventions and traits that are inherently linked with the art film. King goes on to establish the numerous ways in which the American independent film distances itself from the mainstream Hollywood product; “they are produced in an ultra-low budget world a million miles from that of the Hollywood blockbuster; they adopt formal strategies that disrupt or abandon the smoothly flowing conventions associated with the mainstream Hollywood style; and they offer challenging perspectives on social issues, a rarity in Hollywood.” As with Bordwell’s criticism of the art cinema, the underlying premise of King’s discussion of independent cinema is its polarisation with that of the mainstream Hollywood dominant mode, and essentially for the same reasons. Chuck Kleinhans in his article ‘Independent Features: Hopes and Dreams’ encourages an understanding of the term ‘independent’ “as a relational term – independent in relation to the dominant system – rather than taken as a practice that is totally free-standing and autonomous.” This serves to strengthen the line of criticism that translates to little more than a comparison of the two modes and furthers the view that they are opposites, linked only by their disparity.

This, just as is the case with the classical Hollywood narrative / art cinema dichotomy, is problematic, if only because of the extent to which major studios take interest in the independent sector. Based on the huge success, in terms of critical reception and box office return, generated by a number of independent features in the mid 80s and early 90s (a period in which Steven Soderbergh’s sex, lies and videotape (1989) won major awards at both Cannes and the Sundance film festival and talents such as Quentin Tarantino and the Coen brothers began to emerge) Hollywood studios began to sense that money could be made. Major studios began bidding for independent features and before long every major studio had a production arm specialising in the development of independent film; Sony Pictures created Sony Pictures Classics, Twentieth Century Fox created Fox Searchlight and Paramount established Paramount Classics. Miramax and New Line Cinema, two of the names at the forefront of distribution in independent films are now owned by major studios, Disney and Time-Warner. Lionsgate Entertainment and Artisan Entertainment, the two largest non-studio owned production and distribution companies merged in 2003, creating a so-called ‘mini-major’ studio, but despite owning a back catalogue of films more than capable of providing financial stability, Lionsgate still frequently acts as a co-financier and silent partner in the co-production of major studio Hollywood films. In addition to this, the company often takes on the distribution of films that are deemed too risky or controversial to be handled by the distribution arms of Hollywood majors. Dogma (dir. Kevin Smith, 1999), a film that provoked moral outrage at the hands of the Catholic Church, was one such case. The relationship between the major studios and the independent sector can be seen as an exploitative one, with the majors only stepping in when they see an opportunity to make money or are unable to handle a film, but the independent sector undoubtedly benefits from major studio involvement in terms of potential for profit and attractive marketing opportunities.

One of the general conceptions based around the differences between the major studios and the independent sector is that the former is profit orientated at the expense of artistic merit and the latter seeks artistic acceptance at the expense of profit. Although this is to an extent true (an extent which will be decided by the preferences and interests of the individual), the interrelationship between the two makes this more complicated. What is certain is that independent filmmaking, in the sense of film production that is completely separate from major studio interference, attributes a level of freedom to the filmmaker unprecedented in the major studio climate. This freedom is of paramount importance when making a film that is ‘meant’ to oppose the stylistic and narrative conventions of the Hollywood narrative film.

In short, independent filmmakers have the freedom to adhere to principals of art cinema, but also the freedom to emulate the classical narrative film if they wish. In this sense, the American independent sector has the necessary autonomy to act as a link between mainstream Hollywood productions and art cinema making a strict dichotomy between the two even harder to define or defend.

Darren Aronofsky: part mainstream, part art house, part independent

What I hope to have shown so far is that while the relationship between Hollywood, art cinema and the independent sector is often presented as a series of dichotomies (Hollywood vs. art cinema, independent cinema vs. Hollywood) they are all actually part of a complicated relationship that draws on all aspects of their economical and artistic positions. It is possible for a film or a filmmaker to draw on the narrative and stylistic qualities of all three modes in order to create a product that exists as both part of the independent sector and the wider art film movement whilst adhering to the more conventional aspects of the classical Hollywood narrative film.

This will be the focus of my discussion from now on. I have chosen the films of American writer / director Darren Aronofsky to demonstrate this possibility, and will do so through a formal analysis of his three films to date; Pi (1998), Requiem for a Dream (2000) and The Fountain (2006). I believe that Aronofsky’s films represent the link that I have established between the classical Hollywood narrative film and art cinema. As a writer / director he is located firmly within the independent sector having had no involvement with the major studios during the production of his first two films. His third marked a move into the major studio production climate, and I will evaluate the implications this had on his filmmaking in my chapter on The Fountain. Bearing Aronofsky’s location in the independent sector in mind, and the importance of this in terms of the freedom it creates, I will include a summary of each film’s production in order to give an account of the hardships of independent filmmaking.

My main analysis will centre on the functions of narrative, theme and visual style in each of Aronofsky’s films, all of which utilise conventions that are apparent in both mainstream Hollywood cinema and art cinema. Aronofsky’s narratives are based on cause and effect logic, yet lack the closure demanded by Hollywood blockbusters. A great deal of emphasis is placed on hallucinatory sequences and flashbacks which blur the line between reality and fantasy (what Bordwell calls “the familiar ‘illusion / reality’ dichotomy” ) yet the films retain a level of cohesion that is indicative of their Hollywood influence. Thematically his films deal with internal psychological issues and in the case of Requiem for a Dream these issues are linked with specific social problems. On an aesthetic level Aronofsky often seeks to foreground visual style, but never does he let this overpower the narrative of his films, believing that to do so is to undermine the message of the film and create a culture of ‘MTV films’ which ultimately place style over substance.

Central to the films of Aronofsky is a constant return to the theme of obsession and addiction. Pi’s protagonist Max Cohen is obsessed with the possible use of mathematics to unlock hidden patterns in the stock market; Requiem for a Dream’s characters are all victims of drug addiction, desperate to escape their realities and in The Fountain, the protagonist Tommy obsessively searches for a medical cure in the hope of saving his wife from her inevitable death. This obsession is not only portrayed explicitly through narrative means; visual motifs and narrative structuring exposes and enhances the dilemma of the characters, foregrounding their struggle. Editing is used to great effect, and the aforementioned hallucinatory sequences serve to portray the extent of each character’s descent into the depths of fixation. Bordwell suggests that in the art film “the protagonist’s itinerary is not completely random; it has a rough shape: a trip, an idyll, a search…” and this is certainly true of Aronofsky’s films. The character’s obsessions lead them on journeys, both literally and metaphorically, and they are constantly searching, frantic in the hope of accomplishment or just a longing for peace.

This focus on addiction and obsession perhaps best typifies the influence of the art cinema in Aronofsky’s films. His characters are psychologically complex; their obsessions block the path to their goals and forbid them the luxury of performing as classical Hollywood protagonists. For this reason, the underlying theme of addiction and obsession will feature prominently in my analysis of Aronofsky’s work. Further consistency in thematic representation through visual style and narrative function gives rise to the premise of a cinematic vision permeating Aronofsky’s films. Through an analysis of the areas that I have proposed I will uncover a unified strand of filmmaking that stretches through Aronofsky’s three films despite their radical shift in subject matter and initial aesthetic qualities.