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.

The Wrestler

Mickey Rourke plays Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, a former all-American wrestling icon. With his 80’s heyday far behind him, Randy continues to wrestle, swapping the bright lights of Madison Square Garden for the gym halls and civic centres of New Jersey. Not quite down and out, but certainly down, Randy struggles to get by even when combining his cut of the gate at his weekend wrestling shows and the salary from his part time job in a local grocery store. His spare time sees him frequent a local strip club, Cheeks, where he enjoys the company of stripper Cassidy (played by Marisa Tomei) with whom he hopes for more than a stripper / customer relationship. Ill health convinces Randy to try and reconcile with his estranged daughter Stephanie (played with conviction by Evan Rachel Wood) and eventually sees him give up the sport. Will a new life away from wrestling see Randy forge the relationships that he longs for or will the lure of the ring prove too strong?

Darren Aronofsky’s progression as a director has been a logical one. His first feature, Pi, made on a shoestring budget of $68,000, grabbed the attention of the indie scene, winning him the director’s prize at the 1998 Sundance film festival. Commercially too the film was a huge success taking upwards of 3,200,000 dollars domestically and 4,600,000 dollars worldwide at the box office. The film is in fact ranked 20th in the list of the most profitable movies (based on return in investment) of all time. His sophmore effort, Requiem for a Dream, produced on an estimated budget of $4,500,000 is now recognised as a cult classic; one of those films that if you’re serious about american independent cinema, you have to see. Accompanied by an Oscar nomination for Ellen Burstyn, the film announced Aronofsky to the mainstream audience as a true talent. His next outing, The Fountain, was to be his first ‘mainstream’ film, despite essentially being an art film with the star pull of Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett. Having endured a tumultuous production period which saw him lose both of his high profile actors, Aronofsky eventually saw the release of his film in 2006 with Hugh Jackman and his partner Rachel Wiesz in the leading roles. The film bombed commercially, failing to recoup it’s budget of $35,000,000 during it’s theatrical run. Critically the film proved to be extraordinarily divisive; some hailing it as a masterpiece, others far from moved by it’s percieved pretentions.

Despite The Fountain’s failings, a clear progression exists in Aronofsky’s work nonetheless. From so-called ‘guerilla filmmaking’ on the most modest of budgets to major studio funding, Aronofsky has delivered extremely personal films, always finding an audience. Critically too, from Sundance to the Oscars, the still young director has made his mark for better or for worse. No one will be more aware of this progression than Aronofsky himself, who, despite having the drive and ability to churn out more that 3 films in his 11 years as a professional filmmaker, has always been sure to choose his projects carefully and involve himself in all aspects of production from scripting through to direction and beyond. Speculation about the director’s future in the industry was rife when reports of The Fountain’s troubled production began to circulate; is Darren Aronofsky mainstream material? was the question on everyone’s lips. 2009 sees Aronofsky’s resoundingly confident answer to this question in the shape of his fourth, and quite possibly best, feature film The Wrestler.

As different as Aronofsky’s first 3 features are from each other, The Wrestler is a breed apart from the director’s previous work. After the myriad complexity of The Fountain, even the most versed of cineastes would have had a hard time predicting Aronofsky’s next step; onwards and upwards as the director’s modus operandi seems to be. How does it get ‘bigger’ than an existential love story told through the technique of mirroring 3 separate storylines, each 500 years apart? Indeed, a prominent feature of Pi, Requiem and The Fountain was the director’s interest in combining multiple strands of narrative so as to tell more than one story at the same time. The Wrestler sees Aronofsky moving away from this trend alltogether, instead adopting a reductive approach to narrative that starkly isolates the film from it’s predecessors. The film is about one man, and perhaps a man who is incapable of leading the kind of life that would see him inspire three separate storylines. Some might argue that he isn’t even worthy of one and there is certainly nothing at all spectacular about Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson. Knowing this better than anyone, Aronofsky crafts a visual style that perfectly emulates the character.

It is fair to say that we essentially follow Randy around for the duration of the film, both figuratively and literally. Our introduction to him is understated; a long handheld tracking shot as he leaves a gym hall after a wrestling match. It is perhaps 5 minutes before his face is fully revealed and in this time we see him signing autographs for loyal fans and returning to his trailer park home to find himself locked out. He sleeps in his van and in this moment his face is revealed, stricken with the pain of nostalgia as he stares at old newspaper clippings of his heyday as a professional wrestler. Aronofsky is clever to resist burdening his protagonist with any unecessary extravagance, the kind that may have resulted from opening his film with a wrestling match itself. Instead we get a collage of colourful media, the same kind that Randy collects and pins to the wall of his van. The juxtaposition between our introduction to The Wrestler and our introduction to the man himself is stark and it needs to be to establish the film’s key theme; the dichotomy between life inside and outside the ring for Randy.

It is this dichotomy that fuels the film and results in both the internal conflict for Randy and the external conflict between him, his love interest Cassidy and his estranged daughter Stephanie. With great affection for the entertainment form, Aronofsky presents the wrestling world, even in it’s delapidated form as depicted here, as a context rich in camerardarie and mutual respect. It is easy to see, nostalgia aside, why Randy is keen to recognise wrestling as his true calling and the ring as his true home. When he wrestles he is a somebody, if only to the 100 strong crowd and those who wrestle with him. Backstage scenes, including one that cuts between the action in the ring 15 minutes prior and the subsequent medical attention that Randy recieves (perhaps the film’s only really moment of directorial flare), are handled with genuine intent to show the entertainment form in its true nature. Jeers of ‘fake!’ should rightly be dispelled after just one viewing and whilst the film will hardly convert it’s viewers to professional wrestling fans, it does serve to craft an emotional and at times visceral tale out of a subject that many, or most, would think incapable of doing so.

The film sees Aronofsky not only adopting a new visual style, but also tackling what can be considered ‘action’ scenes for the first time in the shape of the wrestling matches themselves. Directing for the first time without cinematographer Matthew Libatique (who, having lensed last year’s Iron Man seems to have moved on to bigger and better things), Aronofsky puts Maryse Alberti through his paces in a number of up-close-and-personal match scenes that borrow from Scorsese’s now lauded ‘inside the ring’ shooting style. Like in Raging Bull, the result is an intimacy that places the viewer in the thick of the action. The Wrestler uses professional wrestling much in the same way that Raging Bull uses boxing; as a context rather than a subject. Both are films about individuals that happen to wrestle or box, and whereas Randy is defined first and foremost by his time in the ring, he still very much exists out of it. Nevertheless, without any ring-set scenes the film would fall flat – it is necessary for us to see Randy doing what he loves for us to understand him and if we fail to understand him he becomes nothing more than a ridiculous spandex clad wrestler to us.

Although the tone of The Wrestler is undoubtedly sombre, there exists in the film some moments of humour that serve to momentarily alleviate the gloom. Given the sincerity of the script these moments are priceless in their inclusion; none fall flat. A scene in which Randy attempts to coax a few extra hours out of his boss at the local grocery store in which he works sees him walk in on the short, balding man watching porn in his office. The resulting awkwardness is hilarious, as is the man’s retort to Randy’s availability to work at the weekend; “Isn’t that when you sit on other guy’s faces?’ Of course, these moments are fleeting, with Randy’s fumbling attempts to restore some harmony to his private life taking prominance. These attempts introduce to the audience Marisa Tomei as stripper Cassidy and Evan Rachel Wood as Randy’s daughter Stephanie, neither of whom wish to have the kind of relationship with him that he would ultimately like. While he gets much further with the gorgeous but, shall we say experienced, Cassidy than most other washed-up professional wrestlers would, it is the breakdown in his relationship with his daughter that proves to be the film’s most crushing blow. This subplot is genuinely affecting without ever toppling into sensationalism due to it’s bittersweet indictment of Randy’s character. Rourke offers such a powerfully honest portrait of Randy that we learn to love and sympathise with him, but even so we cannot ignore his flaws. We know that Randy cannot be a father to Stephanie, but it is testament to the film’s rock solid script and Rourke’s performance that many will shed a tear when he ultimately fails.

Ultimately the most pleasing aspect of The Wrestler is its art house influence, which allows Aronofsky to explore the many curiosities of Americana without forcing him into an overtly Hollywood style of filmmaking. Examples of this art cinema influence can be found throughout the film; from the documentary realism that results from the handheld camerawork to the film’s climax which forgoes the resolution of the standard Hollywood product. Aronofsky has stated that even before the script for the film was written he knew exactly how it would end and that getting to that point was the real challenge. The film displays an emotional resolution if nothing more – Randy ends up where he wants to be – but very little is resolved in the traditional narrative sense. Some will be put off, especially those who, weathered by years of watching nothing but Hollywood blockbusters, demand that every strand of plot is tied up in nothing but iron clad closure. But the final shot, striking as it is, tells us everything we need to know about Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson – it is nothing but definitive and it has the potential to stick in the mind long after the film has finished, as does Bruce Springsteen’s heart-warming exit music, the lyrics of which echo the film’s themes flawlessly.

There is precious little wrong with The Wrestler. It is a film so simple in its construction and so forthright in its message that very little criticism can successfully be levelled against it. Aronofsky’s direction is more assured and less flashy than ever before despite the undoubted quality of his earlier work and in Rourke the still young director finds an actor who does for his film what no other actor could. An Oscar nomination for Rourke really is par for the course; a win would be nothing but deserved. The Wrestler is a great American film, one that will in time be cited as a classic and one that will stay in the memory of its viewers for longer than most others.


Watch a trailer for the film here.