Homeland – Title sequence

Paratexts … mediate between the actual text and what lies outside it (its audience , its other texts, institutions); they also mark the threshold – i.e. the point of entrance and exit – and forge a ‘communicative contract’ between spectator and text as described by semio-pragmatics. T. Elsaesser and M. Hagener, Film Theory: An Introduction Through the Senses, 42.

When I began watching Homeland, I had heard about it on the Net. Living in Italy, where new TV shows find their way on the tube only after winning large acclaim (meaning actual awards) elsewhere, I had only online reviews, forums and blogs to wet my appetite for it. Being also a very demanding kind of spectator, I looked for the opinion of “experts” and fellow “fans” to make sure that at least Homeland was worth the effort of actually, you know, getting hold of it. I turned, for example, to Metacritic and there I convinced myself that I had to watch it.

The show was in its second or third instalment and already I knew a lot about it – the ambiguity, the deceiving, the suspecting, the double playing, the espionage and erotic/sentimental subplots. I also knew of the excellence of its cast, of Damian Lewis’ incredibly restrained-yet-powerful acting and of Claire Danes’ bodily expressivity. And then of course I knew, and was pre-emptively hooked, by its treatment of post-9/11 concerns – the obsession with surveillance, the mediation and mediatisation of control, the underlying distrust, anxiety and paranoia of what was once called “culture of fear” seeping well past George W. Bush’s years to contaminate Barak Obama’s new beginnings of “hope” and optimism.

Homeland-prima-stagione-ok

All this I gathered, like I said, from reviews, fan forums and blogs of TV experts and aficionados. Like the paratextual platforms they are, these texts helped me to access and master a densely-packed storyworld, collecting numerous resources, mostly in the form of personal opinions, that enhanced my expectations of what would soon become one of my favourite shows *ever.* Jonathan Gray, Jason Jacobs, Max Dawson and Lisa Kernan have published many influential studies on this subject, turning to aesthetic and historical approaches to argue for an expanded notion of the televisual and cinematic text. Insisting on the motif of the boundary, that is, on the idea that the entertainment industry produces movies and TV shows as discrete entities, enjoyable precisely because of the unique (even when it is serialised) way they mix genre, cast and plot, the authors contend that paratexts police the thresholds of interpretation and cultural appropriation of said works. In this respect, they contribute to isolate and alienate movies and shows from critiques of standardization, banality, and cultural impoverishment. Paratexts institute and sustain industrial strategies of accumulation by indexing a preferred set of meanings and standards of value relating to the productions. The “communicative contract” that Thomas Elsaesser and Malte Hagener mention in the opening quote is established through a semio-pragmatics of guided interpretation, preemptive codification, thematic inspection and focused reasoning that associates the pleasures of watching to a cognitive appropriation of the contents of entertainment. This is true, of course, also for the movies and shows proper, as an innumerable numbers of publications on “complex” storytelling attest.

This is to say that when I finally watched Homeland’s pilot I was already familiar with it. I had been educated. What I was not prepared for, however, was its opening credits’ sequence, that you can watch here: vimeo.com/37322770 [Wordpress refuses to embed it, apologies!].

Is there a way to describe it? In preparation of this post I took careful note of what goes on in its 88 seconds. I listed its high number of shots (some of them recurring in theme, look and style), editing, postproduction intervention on colour and texture, diegetic sound and accompanying soundtrack. Had I had more time, I would have put up a diagram of all the layers that make it up. Yes, because what make the sequence noteworthy are its density and the nearly-claustrophobic, certainly displacing/disturbing atmosphere that it engineers by jamming together heterogeneous elements. I counted about 70 shots. 80% of them focus on the characters of Carrie Mathison (Claire Danes) and Nicholas Brody (Damien Lewis), the remaining reproduce actual footage of a performance by Louis Armstrong; a newscast in Arabic; a scene of Muslim women wearing burqas, Presidents Ronald Regan, George Bush, Bill Clinton and Barak Obama, as well as Colin Powell, delivering televised speeches (that we hear only in ephemeral/decontextualized fragments) about acts of terror (Lockerbie, the first attacks to the World Trade Center, the second war in Iraq); and two scenes shot from inside a flying helicopter and from ground level.

The shots follow one another by way of cuts and fades. Sometimes, in the interval of fading, a third image is interspersed and overimposed that, before dissolving, produces an almost holographic effect. On these occasions, not only do the subjects of the shots lose their prominence by being displaced by something ‘other,’ the spectatorial mastery of the object of vision is bracketed by an overabundance of sensorial stimulation (something that is also obtained acoustically with the insistent superimposition of diegetic sound on a piercing jazz soundtrack). This affective intrusion also materialises as hypersaturation and chromatic aberration. Although the shots are in black and white, the use of colour in some of them, as well as in a few dissolves, is heavy. This effect is seemingly obtained by increasing the amount of cyan and/or magenta used in the black and white conversion of the images, or by overlaying a chromatic texture on them. Occasionally, a grain effect is added, as in some close-ups of Carrie’s face (in one case seen wearing headphones) and eyelid. Furthermore, and on the editing again, the sequence is realized, overall, to provoke an on-going impression of discontinuity. Not only is it almost impossible to assign consistency and coherence to the sequence of images, within those which appear as narrative fragments (because of the internal recurrence of subject and motif), some shots literally jump/shake before our eyes, drawing attention to their precarious status as objects of knowledge. This is, however, not the result of shooting with a hand-held device, although that too happens in the scene inside the helicopter. It is, rather, a performative gesture aimed at maximizing the effects of an openly cryptic spectacle. There is no consistent narrative here. Temporal and spatial coordinates evolve anarchically, going back and forth among locales and epochs (though the Presidents’ speeches are ordered diachronically) to consciously prevent audiences from analysing what they are watching.

The few comments I have encountered on the web about Homeland’s title sequence, which I have only just begun to sketch (though I’m hoping to further examine in a future essay), mostly refer to it as unnerving, the few positive ones admitting that it is “moving.” I am fascinated by these responses. The sequence does, indeed, escape definite judgement. It seems to me that it was not made to be hacked, decoded and decrypted, so much as to be absorbed, talked-back, visited again and again. As a paratext, this is a very peculiar one. How does it police the boundaries of interpretation, and how does it contribute to the accumulation of spectatorial knowledge that Matt Hills attributes to paratextual framing? I do not want to crack the code of the spectacle, so much as to enjoy it, repeatedly, on a weekly basis, for 12 weeks at least. But as a way to end this post, I would suggest that perhaps the performative force of this sequence is in the openness with which it acknowledges its own ambiguity, where sensorial stimulation and the short-circuiting of interpretive work feed the extratextual dynamics of cognitive appropriation and focused reasoning that has secured the farming of avid audiences for the past hundred of years.

Notes on affective memory

Today I had the pleasure to attend Elizabeth Bronfen’s lecture “Hollywood Wars: Historical Knowledge of a Different Kind,” held at L’Orientale University of Naples. It was an enlightening talk based on Bronfen’s recently published book Specters of War Hollywood’s Engagement with Military Conflict in which she argues that mainstream movies are filters that re-imagine war for different audiences at different times in history. 

As a media scholar who has written on the affective aesthetics of the ‘war on terror’ in contemporary television series, I was enthralled by Bronfen’s investigation of what she called the “effects” of war movies. Showing a selection of scenes from Saving Private Ryan (Spielberg, 1998) All Quiet on the Western Front (Milestone, 1930) and Sands of Iwo Jima (Dwan, 1949) she examined their formal properties, especially the use of the shot-reversed shot, eye-level shooting, the recycling of actual footage from the warfront and the insertion of an elegiac soundtrack. Through this formalist approach Bronfen articulated a reading of audiovisual montage as a tool of affective mobilisation, something that, in her words, “resuscitates intensity on screen.” 

The intensity she referred to was that of the past, something that, as in the case of All Quiet‘s World War I scenario, the contemporary audience has no means to have experienced in the first person. The war movies that Hollywood has been producing for over a century are indeed time machines that help history to come back and beckon us. Only, the historical archive that these films make up does not convey the actual knowledge of what happened on those battlelines, or on the homefront where wives were waiting for their husbands’ return. Bronfen argued that the “authenticity effect” of such narratives is inscribed in the cinematic representation itself. Through formal means, the images re-imagine and re-conceptualise past experiences that we will never fully grasp, if not in their “energetic” power of affection. 

I was fascinated. The notion of “second-hand memories” or reel memories, and of Hollywood’s remediation of past events intrigues me. Behind it lays the question of what is being remediated and through what means. Clearly, entertainment formats like the ones Brofen analyses do more than provide documentaristic accounts of actual events. Discussing a scene in Saving Private Ryan where Tom Hanks uses a pocket mirror to spy his enemies hiding on top of a boulder, Bronfen rightly noted that there was nothing remotely realistic about it. Not only wasn’t that an actual mirror, but a periscope, but the whole idea behind the ordeal was absurd. It is the spectacularity and the theatricality of cinema that Spielberg is foregrounding here — the medium’s ability to zoom in on inconsequential details and maximise their emotive effects. 

When mimetic representation is not the aim, then, how do historical movies address the past? And what do they make of this refiguration? According to Bronfen, these narratives provide a “conceptual space where phantoms return to us and affect us.” These revenant presences (the dying and dead soldiers impersonated by John Wayne, Tom Hanks etc.) restore collective energies and give birth to a form of affective commemoration where knowledge is not elaborated, so much as “resuscitated” from what, quoting F. Jameson, she calls the “political unconscious.”

The seminar gave mea lot to chew on, especially since in the past few days I’ve been thinking about affective memory a lot for an abstract submission that I am *still* elaborating. Just yesterday it dawned on me that Brian Massumi too writes about “memory without content” in relation to affective transmission. Memory without content pertains to proprioception, a mechanism of visceral reactivity that the Science Dictionary describes as “the unconscious perception of movement and spatial orientation arising from stimuli within the body itself. In humans, these stimuli are detected by nerves within the body itself, as well as by the semicircular canals of the inner ear.” Massumi, which refers to this also as a “perspective of the flesh,” is here elaborating on the gap between conscious perception and what Patricia Clough calls “the non-intentionality of emotion.”

If, as the latter scholar writes, media technologies are “making it possible to grasp … the imperceptible dynamism of affect,” how do we make sense of this manipulation of the micro-fiber/micro-texture of memory? I believe Bronfen’s focus on “aesthetic refiguration” would be a good starting point to articulate the concept of affective remembrance as something that operates on impressions, more than on expression, on activation, more than reproduction. 

New article out! On Boardwalk Empire, color enhancement and hyperaesthetics.

The 22nd issue of Transformations: Journal of Media & Culture on Hyperaesthetics is finally out. It just happens that it features my essay “Sensory Regimes in TV Marketing: Boardwalk Empire’s Chromatic Enhancement and Digital Aesthetics” where I discuss how color creates a cohesive identity for Martin Scorsese’s show, while also being employed as a means to pre-emptively encourage affective bonds between the audience and the series in advance of broadcasting.

This is the first essay out of my new research project, am quite proud of it.

Of nostalgia and sexism in Aaron Sorkin’s The Newsroom

After taking a long pause from compulsive watching to focus on publishing (and vacationing), today I treated myself to the first two episodes of Aaron Sorkin’s The Newsroom.  I had read mixed reactions to it and was a little dubious to follow what I thought would be a self-congratulatory show overburdened by Sorkin’s trademark windiness, but my friends assured that it was good TV and it was too hot to do anything else, so I gave it a try. And it was good, indeed.

I had fun watching The Newsroom because it is well-acted, well-cast and has a pretty decent photography. Jeff Daniels’ acting the manic, self-centred Will McAvoy convincingly monopolised my attention, demanding the same amount of intimidated consideration from me that he seemingly imposes on his subjects at Atlantis Cable News. Sam Waterson, as Charlie Skinner, ACN’s division president, also won my favour by being very good at playing a closet-patronizing wacko, while Dev Patel (as Neal Sampat) was just too cute a geek not to love him as he did his best to respect everybody’s privacy by shrinking in his family-guy cardigans, or tip-toeing around the office always a minute too late not to overhear some gossip. Yes, those characters seemed to work and have potential for further development. McAvoy is evidently as bad a pain in the neck as he is because of some unknown event that has befell him in the past; with Skinner we might have less to investigate, but he needs to be there to take Sam by the hand and box his ears from time to time; and Neal, we all know that his stereotypical, subcontinental intelligence and technical knowledge will become invaluable at ACN.

So The Newsroom was good, as I said. I watched the pilot and then I felt like watching a second episode because it seemed to me that it got action. The built-up to the first airing of the new newsshow planted seeds in terms of characters’ background, and it also involved a little scheming that suited my summer needs. Yet, something else did not do it for me, and I am not referring to McAvoy’s grand lament about how America used to be the greatest country in the world, because that was just too sappy and biased and I am sure a lot of people have already rubbed that in Sorkin’s face. But yes, in part I am also referring to that because one of the things that made me want to write this post in the first place is how nostalgic the show is.

I don’t need to go over the plot of episodes 1 and 2 since the opening sequence self-evidently encapsulates my argument, broaching also on the asphyxiating sexism of Sorkin’s writing.

The intro is a 1:30 minute long tribute to the ideal of journalistic integrity, uncompromised by ratings and political partisanship, as it was embodied by anchors the likes of Edward Murrow and Walter Cronkite (the latter being mentioned by Charlie Skinner as responsible for ending the Vietnam war [or something along those melodramatic lines]). After an establishing shot of a satellite hovering over the Earth, the first half of the intro mainly shows black&white archived footage of old newsrooms in slow motion, enhancing the ‘vintage’ look of the shots by carefully foregrounding the customary horizontal bars that appeared on old television sets. Accompanying an extended pan over individual figures caught as they greet the audience, rehearse or prepare to go on air, a somber string/orchestral theme elevates them to the iconic status of emblems of a long-gone world and long-lost ‘morality’ (the episodes often referring in a derogatory tone to the turn news have taken towards ‘gossip’ and ratings-driven content). Furthermore, the slow motion and some other trick that I can’t name allow these figures to emerge from the background looking like papercut pictures, the better to aid a nostalgic approach to what they did and stood for. To contrast the unhurried quality of these first moments, the second half of the sequence cuts to more rapid shots from the actual show, resuming its colour and digital quality by allowing multiple images and typecast to overlap and dissolve, as to emphasize the hypertextual and multi-media context in which the characters move. Unsurprisingly, the second episode is entitled “The Newsroom 2.0” and revolves around an accident involving McKenzie McHale’s apparent ineptitude at managing her email account.

Which brings me to my second point: what’s with the women of The Newsroom? And more importantly, what’s with Sorkin’s sexism?! Again, look at the credits: not only is the time reserved to women on screen much shorter than that given to men, but 90% of the times the women we get to see are either flushed, distressed or competing for a man’s attention. The names of Alison Pill and Olivia Munn, acting respectively as Meggie Jordan and Sloan Sabbith, are both superimposed on scenes that represent them in moments of implied difficulty; Munn strutting out of an office frowning with a nervous look on her face and Pill acting the stereotype of the goofy college girl who wants to do good at all costs in spite of being unschooled, as her male supervisors/crushes apparently never cease to remind her. Then, a few seconds later, there’s Emily Mortimer (McKenzie McHale) talking over the phone with her head in her hand, and then more males: men’s hands and silhouettes and bodies just monopolising the screen. For the sake of fairness I should add that we get to see women three more times, in passing, once there’s a blond one doing the countdown and after that a few more  more Mortimer moments.

You really don’t need to be a feminist to question Sorkin’s views on gender equality.  A superficial comparison of shots with women and shots with men would demonstrate that the guys most of the times are either smiling or being satisfied with their work, as when Patel is shown looking at something on his computer with a look of pure awe on his face that reminds me of Bastian Bux of The Neverending Story.

Thus, if we want to stick to the opening sequence and treat it as a piece  of cinematography that establishes the salient features of the show while “wetting the appetite” of viewers for more, then what we learn from The Newsroom’s intro is that journalism and integrity are not the province of women. They suggest that not only is this a drama series about how cable television and newscast should learn from the past, but that it is run by men who, although subject to incredible loads of work, manage to stay focused while women stray the office looking something between self-indulgent, frenzied and distracted. The fact that the credits intersperse typecasts among the shots, blaring “news alert,” “special bulletin,” and “breaking news” in bright yellows, red and blues, links Sorkin’s gender politics to emotive issues of emergency and critical management where men seem to fare much better than women. After all, we do get to see McAvoy in distress, banging papers on his desk, but we are reassured that he knows how to cope with his anger when the next best shot is of him greeting his audience with composure from behind the same desk.

I can only hope that, in spite of Sorkin’s effort at passing male’s disembodied rationalism as a cure of idle gossiping in journalism and other fields, I will get to keep some of my unhealthy and unmediated passion for watching sexist TV in the next few days. August is going to be long, lonely and hot, better make do with what FATHER seems to know best for me.

Iconicity and “screen attachment” in title design

Why should those who watch a film be interested in contract negotiations between actors, agents, and production companies as well as the union agreements on which these negotiations are based? But it is exactly this, dealing with this tension, responding to it, that is the task of the title sequence.

A few days ago, I stumbled into a minidoc entitled “The Art of Film & TV Title Design” which I have watched twice and plan on watching more. Not only is the documentary fun to watch, it is also instructive to learn about how credits are made and what kind of logic inspires them.

The video lets the creators of some great title sequences of American movies and TV shows speak of their work. These are Peter Frankfurt and Karin Fong from Imaginary Forces; Ben Conrad from Logan and Jim Helton, film editor of Blue Valentine (2010 dir. Derek Cianfrance). All of them are behind some very artsy productions. Imaginary Forces is responsible for the credits of hits such as Transformers (2007 dir. Michael Bay), The Pink Panther 2 (2009 dir. Harald Zwart), Boardwalk Empire (HBO 2009-), Mad Men (AMC 2007-), Hell on Wheels (AMC 2011-), The Pacific (HBO 2010), and more. Logan created the opening sequence of Zombieland (2009 dir. Ruben Fleischer) and a variety of commercial ads, and Jim Helton’s work on Blue Valentine is certainly a proof of his ability to create stirring audiovisuals compositions.

Watching the documentary, with its selection of moments from various title sequences, one is impressed by the degree of aesthetic refinement, inventiveness and heterogeneity in terms of montage, rhythm, photography, that they radiate. This is certainly nothing new. Entertainment media have long been an experimental ground to test innovations in audiovisual techniques, becoming, in the last decade, the platform of election of the digital/design revolution that Anne Balsamo discusses in her new book Designing Culture: The Technological Imagination at Work. My last post was about Saul Bass, the undisputed forefather of contemporary title design, who, starting in the 1940s, elevated a cinematic form, whose existence is tied to legal and economic exigencies, to new artistic heights.

So it is not like we didn’t already know that title sequences can be fun and beautiful to watch. What the academic in me brought home from watching the documentary is that not enough is being said about them. Although its short-form and short-time span qualify the title sequence as an “ephemeral medium,” the publications dealing with this topic, most notably Paul Grainge’s edited anthology Ephemeral Media, make no reference to them. You get scholars discuss different incarnation of media “paratexts,” meaning, in Jonathan Gray’s definition, the extras like posters, press reviews, making-ofs, DVDs etc. that provide the “early frames through which we will examine, react to, and evaluate textual consumption” (26),” but almost no literature in English has been published on title sequences proper.

It seems that the difficulty in exploring title sequences lays in their ambiguous position that makes them more than advertising, yet less than stand-alone productions. Whereas trailers, for example, are easily categorised as promotional material that must raise awareness and draw people to the theatre (or TV set, or video store or online aggregator), title sequences are unburdened with this task in that their function is to ease your dive into a world of fiction (at the same time as they straighten some legal matters concerning property rights). They are supplements, not advertisements. I know that a lot has been written about this and other related issues in German, so I’m hoping that one day I’ll master the language enough to read it, but for now I am left with very little knowledge on credits besides what I gathered from the documentary.

I learned that marketers and producers regard the title sequence as a “movie inside a movie,” as Jim Helton maintains. This means that it is approached as a self-conclusive work made of different acts that embed title cards, photography, typography and music into an edited progression that is, ultimately, a form of storytelling. Analysed in this way, the title sequence emerges in all its artistic integrity which is, not by chance, the work of specialists who are often not part of the crew assigned to producing the movie or the show. This might lead one to argue for some sort of autonomy of the credits, as if they accounted for an alternative medium. Rather, Peter Frankfurt and Karin Fong remind us that title sequences exist to reference them to the point that, ideally, one can’t exist without the other. The same idea of credits as a movie’s double is expressed by Georg Stanitzek who, in “Reading the Title Sequence,” refers to them as paradigmatic texts offering a “preferred arrangement of reading and commentary.” [Something Fred Greene also discusses in his blog post of 5 April]

Yet, this is not a mirror relationship, where the credits are compelled to faithfully reproduce what the movie will be about. On the contrary, their paradigmatic status requires  a level of abstraction able to “encompass” and “reinforce” the spirit of the production, as Frankfurt and Fong say about their work for Se7en (1995 dir. David Fincher). This is especially true of the credits for TV shows, whose life is genetically programmed to last longer than any movie’s. In this case, titles must be generic enough to give life to a universe that exists just in blueprint form. Since the decision to keep a show on the air or renew it is taken several weeks (if not months) into the broadcasting of its premiere season, its potential narrative development is, for the most part, either non-existent or underdeveloped. In this respect, the title sequence cannot be based on plot elements, not even on star performance. The “intermediary zone” (Stanitzek) between announcement and beginning that it presides over becomes one where copy and design, the substance and form of a production, blend into each other. Here, the credits become prospective, staying on the surface while creating an illusion of narrative depth. They entice viewers and set a mood, becoming not descriptive but iconic. Stanitzek: “The tile sequence does not compel you to pay attention. However, it focuses on the situation of distractedness and diverging expectations, namely, providing a focus that allows for a transition into the movie.” In this instance, design becomes storytelling and climax turns into “splurge” (Montagu 1964): “an exuberant cinematic celebration” (Stanitzek).

What is then that this specific take on the expressivity of form accomplishes? According to Ben Conrad and Jim Helton is an affective connection with the audience. Either by referring to the use of design tricks that instigate a feeling of “anticipation” in the opening of Zombieland, or to the “rhythmic editing” of Blue Valentine’s credits, both directors imply that title design creates a special form of screen attachment emerging from the creation of “special little moments” that resonate with “you.” Read in light of Stanitzek’s reference to the state of distraction that credits presuppose, Conrad and Helton’s observations recall those advanced in Catherine Fowler and Paola Voci’s study of the “ambiverted” nature of viewing. In an essay published online, they maintain that the “temporal formation of the viewing experience” in contemporary times is characterised by the consumption of video fragments performed while on the move (in the metro, on the bus, while working). Marked by “interruptions and interferences,” this experience is necessarily one of “dis-order” that challenges entrenched ideas that watching a film (by which they mean any kind of video production, for example gallery films and portable movies) entails watching at “length and in isolation.” On the contrary, productions now account for viewing experiences characterized by phases of fleeting rapture and “momentary attachment” that, far from weakening, strengthen “the attachment between viewer and images.”

References

Balsamo, Anne (2011). Designing Culture: The Technological Imagination at Work. Duke, Duke University Press.
Fowler, Catherine & Paola Voci (2011). “Brief Encounters: Theorizing Screen Attachments Outside the Movie Theatre.” Screening the Past, 33. <http://www.screeningthepast.com/2011/11/brief-encounters-theorizing-screen-attachments-outside-the-movie-theatre/&gt;
Grainge, P. (ed.) (2010). Ephemeral Media: Transitory Screen Culture from Television to YouTube. Basingstoke, Palgrave McMillan.
Gray, Jonathan (2010). Show Sold Separately: Promos, Spoilers and Other Media Paratexts. New York and London, New York University Press.
Montagu, Ivor (1964). Film World: A Guide to Cinema. Harmondsworth, Penguin.
Stanitzek, Georg (2009). “Reading the Title Sequence (Vorspann, Génèrique).” Cinema Journal, 4 48: 44-58.

A nice little video on Saul Bass’ style of title design

The guys at Art of the Title have put together a short video about Saul Bass and his unique style of title design. The video is a summary of Bass’ most famous title sequences, such as those of North by Northwest, Cape Fear (both the original and the remake), Casino and The War of the Roses.

Not only is the video instructive of Bass’ signature style, it is also very interesting to watch in light of the recent resurgence in modernist style in design, cinema and television, of which you can read more in this article by Vanessa Quirk.

Of course, as a TV scholar, I can only point to AMC’s Mad Men’s acclaimed credits, whish owe a great debt to Bass, and they’re recent promotional posters that advertise the debut of its fifth season.

Image

 

Recent publication on Battlestar Galactica, 9/11 and the aesthetics of terror

So, finally, I feel like writing my PhD thesis was not a complete waste of energy and time. An essay based on the research I conducted at “L’Orientale” University of Naples has seen the light on Scope, under the title “Between Allegory and Seduction: Perceptual Modulation in Battlestar Galactica.”

Following is the abstract

“This paper investigates the relationship between BSG and the post-9/11 ecology of agitation in light of George Bush’s strategy of collective perceptual management. While most readings focus on its allegory of the war on terror, I address the audiovisual strategies by which BSG appeals to the viewer’s senses, mapping the emergence of a post-9/11 sensibility. My suggestion is that the show’s relationship with the post-9/11 reality rests in the power to address the audience’s feelings. To this end, I look at BSG’s aesthetics of crisis as operating as an affective vector, playing out in an informational system that invests in affective solicitation to provoke a bodily response in the audience. Given the status of television as the principal medium of post-9/11 governmental perceptual modulation, I argue that BSG’s relationship with the war on terror is rooted in an ability to express meaning and feeling, keeping a sensation of agitation alive throughout a four-season run. To expose the political value of the show’s aesthetics, I look not at the codes, as at the expressions and style that make up a scenario of sensorial stimulation where feeling becomes a biopolitical operator. Indeed, BSG’s cinematographic techniques and haptic visuals, chromatic shifts and aural evocations effectively manufacture agitation, exposing a tension between the show’s status as an allegory of the contemporary world and its complicity with practices of televised affective engineering”.

and a link to Scope’s table of contents where you can download the essay.

Academic synergies, or how the internet helps you spread the word

Lately, I have been engaging in a very fruitful email exchange with prof. Fred Greene from UCLA, author of the blog Reviews of Previews and expert of trailer production. When he asked my feedback on his post on discontinuous editing, I replied with a long email, not knowing that my opinion was being considered for publication. I basically argued that trailers are productive both in industrial and social terms, since they are designed to foster interaction, audience appropriation and viral circulation. I was honored to find out that Fred thought it was interesting enough to repost it as a guest post on his blog. If you care for the extended version of the argument you can read it here.

Project outline part 1. On trailers, television and seriality **att: long post**

As part of my activities at Leuphana University of Luneburg I have been asked to give a 50 minutes presentation of my research project next Tuesday. I have everything ready, I think, so here is it, in bits and pieces. I’ll post the first part today and the second one tomorrow but the two are strictly related, so in case you’re interested, I advise you come back from the next post.

 

Introduction
In the vast and dispersive environment of digital media, television continues to occupy a special position. In the last decades, epochal changes have reconfigured the identity of the medium as it existed until the 1970s. A large number of publications address the pressing question of what television is today and often the answer is to declare the end of television as we knew it. This nebulous expression evidently applies only to a certain “we,” a readership old enough to have had the time to digest the transformations that the medium has endured in the last thirty years. As of today, most of the revolutionary changes Amanda Lotz described in her 2007 book The Television Will Be Revolutionized are not so revolutionary anymore so that, for all its internal differences, the era of “matrix media” seems to have finally settled in. This expression is coined by Michael Curtin (2009) to address the flexible and dynamic configuration of contemporary television. No longer a broadcast or network medium, television’s mode of communication is today characterized by “interactive exchanges, multiple sites of productivity and diverse modes of interpretation and use” (13) of contents. Certainly, the level of participatory practices that media users engage in with their favorite media productions has expanded to become part and parcel of a proactive televisual experience. Furthermore, in the matrix era the medium experiments with marketing strategies aimed at profiting from multi-platform operativity, multi-format content delivery and 360-degree programmings.
My research locates itself within the boundaries of this ebullient horizon, to focus on a microcosm relating mostly to the American and British phenomenon of “quality television” shows. Within this context, I explore the functioning of trailers: how they contribute to express and consolidate specific discourses of distinctiveness by means of aesthetic choices that supposedly perform the sophisticated identity of the shows they advertise. Beyond contributing to brand specific channels, I ask whether it could be advanced that trailers also brand a culture of production and consumption based on the exchange of cultural and affective capital. To do so, in my research I will use textual analysis of selected trailer campaigns, availing myself, when possible, of interviews with trailer designers, as well as of scholarly and journalistic literature on this topic. Trailers are easily available in a number of formats. I will stick to analyse only official trailer campaigns, retrieving my samples on the official web pages of the promoted shows, on YouTube and on DVD.
This presentation deals predominantly with the theoretical issues I’m encountering in the first phase of my research. I will be discussing what trailers are, how they operate and how my interest in them relates to the study of sophisticated television programming which I take from my PhD studies. Since I am also working on a case study for an upcoming publication,  I will also briefly present its preliminary findings.

The trailer

Trailers are a neglected object of analysis. As commercial clips designed to promote cinema and television programs (and more recently a larger array of productions, including video games and books), they routinely figure in industrial papers and magazine articles, but rarely and only recently, in academic work. In the scant publications on the topic, scholars correct the imbalance that usually foregrounds the trailer’s commercial operativity by making their formal and discursive functions the object of in-depth investigations. Although through trailers “the use value of narrative [...] is subsumed to its exchange value” (Kernan 2004: 10), their aesthetics and modality of expression account for a distinct class of media texts. Keith Johnston’s research trailers are regarded as “unique short films in their own right” (2008:152) modeled to sustain multiple viewing and favor immersion, whereas Lisa Kernan maintains that trailers are “a unique sort of cinematic gyroscope in which a host of contradictions are briefly [...] sustained in balance” (8).
My study of the trailer engages with this uniqueness, focusing, for the most part, on formal issues. Participating in the very recent surge of interest in the topic, testified by the multiplication of web pages where trailers are collected and, occasionally, discussed, I explore its ephemeral aesthetics where an informative imperative and impressionistic display of technical prowess create a special form of advertisement. Like I anticipated, I analyze television trailers, whereas basically all the academic, journalistic and grassroot sources I consult focus on their cinematographic, predominantly mainstream and American, homologues. Certainly, Hollywood has a consolidated tradition of trailer production and looking at this genealogy helps determining how some of the core features of these texts have proved resilient to the upheavals wrought by the matrix turn. Among these are the norm dictating the interaction of narrative and spectacle, as well as the diegetic appeal of genre, story and stars which trailers always foreground to incite awareness and expectation.
So what exactly are trailers? A trailer is a very short clip that is circulated before the launch of new productions along with other promotional materials such as posters, interviews, magazine features and behind-the-scenes documentaries. More than its marketing associates, the trailer is evocative and sensational: its narrative space filled with “ellipsis and enigmas,” (Kernan 2004: 8) its rhetoric rich in hyperboles and associations, its structure juggling sameness and newness. Typical of the trailer is its compressed format of an average of 150 seconds, expressionistic editing and, more recently, transmediatic circulation. If trailers have for long been broadcast primarily in theaters and for the benefit of the cinematographic audience, they are now produced to go viral and be consumed through different media. The growing trend of watching trailers on iPods and mobile phones aids in the process of self-differentiation that media enact by way of industrial synergies and technological accretions. Focusing on “the new mobility of trailers” Keith Johnston observes that “modern distribution techniques have created a shifting and interactive relationship between film studio and audience” based on portability and a new intimacy with media texts (2008). These texts circulate within an “interactive, asynchronous intermedia milieu” (Curtin 2009: 19), augmenting the processes of “overflow” that Will Brooker (2001) detects in the patterns of interactivity in which media contents are embedded today.
Indeed, an investigation of the trailer’s operativity must necessarily take into account the technological aspects of its production and distribution and their effects on consumption practices. Already in the pionieristic studies of André Bazin and Charles Barr (from 1950s and 1960s), the compositional elements, optical work and editing techniques found in postwar trailers are related to Hollywood’s experiments with widescreen technology. These trailers (mostly for 3-D movies) were devised to “come out of the screen” and “touch” the audience (id: 38), providing an over-the-top experience that the competitive medium of television could not emulate. Today the opposite happens: audiences are invited to step up to touch and contaminate the trailers, engaging in prosuming activities that alter the original text, only to, most of the times, be appropriated by the industry and turned into an additional source of accumulation for big corporations.1 Either way, these examples show that watching trailers has for long been conceived as an immersive experience where the distance between the images and the audience morphs turns into a membrane that allows for contact, interaction and exchange. I aim to return to this issue at some point in my research as the operativity of television trailers, especially in terms of their viral potential, is often enhanced by their small format, with advertising companies creating bespoke versions for portable screens and original versions devised already for remediation (Grusin and Bolter 1999).
The adaptable nature of the trailer’s design also returns us to the connections between its commercial and narrative identities: the uniqueness of the mobile trailer being both a means to embed it in our daily routine and a work of art in its own right. In this sense, the trailer embodies a double articulation between narration and promotion. Trailers are both sample texts and agents of upcoming textualization, providing a privileged venue for interested audiences to access the imaginary worlds of audiovisual productions. They preside over the thresholds which consumers of media cross to become viewers and sometimes fans, engaging with programs on a more or less intense participative level. As Kernan poignantly observes, “Trailers’ unique status as cinematic promotions of narrative – and narrativizations of promotion – enables a treatment that transcends a mere marketing critique and has the potential to contribute to a social history of desire” (Kernan 2004: 2). I take up this issue of desire when I analyse Boardwalk Empire’s trailer as a means to refresh HBO’s past fortunes as a platform of quality programming. Right now I would like to say a few more words on the trailer’s textual nature as a means of affective engagement.

The extent of the implications relating to industrial interventions in the fashioning and exploitation of collective desires is that promotional ubiquity redefines the experience of spectatorship, hybridizing it with that of a persuasion to consume. In Jonathan Gray’s “Television Previews and the Meaning of Hype,” (2009) promotional videos figure prominently as a class of marketing tools that operate by converting the interpretive processes prompted by trailers into economic indexes. Gray incorporates some of Kernan’s considerations on the emphasis that trailers put on the appeals of genre, story and star, suggesting that hype is itself an agent of textualization which provides productions with an added emotive value (36). By focusing on interpretation in the cycle of media distribution/consumption, Gray and Kernan’s text-based studies investigate how trailers prompt recognition and identification in the prospective viewer. The trailer’s semiotic chain produces meanings that resonate in positive or negative ways with the viewer’s cultural background, whereas its marketing creates hype. Studies of these two aspects of media production underline the ability of marketing to activate a feedback loop based on interpretive attitudes that would determine a product’s success in terms of the number of viewers it preemptively draws to it. Emphasis is laid on the teleological foundations of promotion, that is on how viewers’ reactions determine recognition and revenue return.
Another structural issue of trailer research therefore relates to expectation. Trailers work within the anticipated temporality of immaterial capitalism by mobilizing a spatio-temporal dynamics that converts the spectacular and narrative features of the clips into an exchange value in themselves. Not only editing, postproduction and the rhetoric of stardom accentuate the trailer’s appeal, the very mechanism of attraction they activate automatically positions the text as “a commodity for sale” (Kernan 2004: 10). This move, in turn, is rich in implications about what the industry expects its consumers/viewers to want. According to Kernan, “The restriction of trailers to a few minutes of carefully selected and edited shots and scenes endows what we do see [...] with a kind of pregnancy or indeterminacy that allows audiences to create an imaginary (as-yet-unseen) film out of these fragments — we desire not the real film but the film we want to see. This filling-in of trailer enigmas with an idealized film thus heightens trailers’ promotional value, as well as the visibility of the production industry’s assumptions about what its hypothetical audience desires” (13). Here Kernan focuses on the trailer’s address and its power to turn the audience into a distinct category of consumers stirred by desire. Indeed, spectatorship must be engaged as part of the cinematographic text: a component that is mobilized and needed for the trailer’s performance to actually take place (2004: 5, 6).
The anticipative gesture of the trailer is to condense in a few minutes the hopes and expectations of a body of potential viewers, making sure not to alienate any, yet providing a strong ideological address that allows only certain sets of interpretations to form. A fundamental aspect to keep in mind in analyzing a trailer is represented by its ‘loose’ relationship to the actual film it is promoting. Trailers use falsification in the interest of promotion, providing elements that are not necessarily present in the marketed product, or that are abstracted and related to meanings that do not appear in the film.3 The liberties that the trailer takes undermine its supposed mimetic relationship with the marketed show, making it an incredibly dense and multifaceted object of research.
Of course three decades of audience studies have made us aware of the infinite signifying potential of the text and of the pull that desire pulls on decodification. My interest, however, rests not in exploring the way audiences respond to the ideological pressures of trailers, as in the fact that they operate as much to create movie goers and television spectators as to turn these into consumers of other media. Today, the allure of trailers radiates beyond the boundaries of the television and cinematographic text, to attach to a range of other materials. Trailers figure prominently among the bonus features of DVDs, for example, as well as commodities on sale on iTunes and Apple online stores. Beyond being essential to the replication of the media event, they also call attention to themselves as microproductions whose power of attraction exceeds promotion. Again, Kernan writes that “Trailers are a specific, persuasive kind of attraction [where] essentially the announcement (of a not-yet-seen film) is the event.” (2004: 17)
The trailer’s attraction of something to come accounts for the exceptional temporality of anticipation which takes place at the intersection of present as well as deferred future pleasures. We can envision this experience as an ephemeral encounter that trails at the edge of narrative sense (see Kernan 2004: 8-9). To focus on this liminal quality is to disjoin the trailer, for a moment, from its commercial function and foreground its expressive modality of presentation which plays on intensity and spectacularization. Indeed, a special place is reserved to montage and expressivity in trailer research. Gary Wythoff (2007) uses the concept of the “ludic grid” to describe a presentational mode that acts in a performative fashion to entice the audience viscerally. In the ludic grid causality or continuity are eschewed in favor of “impressionistic displays of force [...] [that] have no reference to the parts around them [...] remain[ing] atomized and isolated” (21). These moments of spectacle create what Wythoff envisions as an “alchemical theatre” (id.) that aims at stupefying the viewer, asserting a desire to establish a deep, sensory connection. On the same note, Kernan observes that the compressed nature of trailers imposes that each shot be saturated with “excess signification” (10).
This play between code and desire, signification and affect is, I believe, the most salient feature of trailers whose impact rests on the ability to retain attention, trailing on the ineffable appeal of efficient microexpressivity. Intimately bound to this aspect, is the interweaving of sameness and repetition that is at work in every trailer. As I have shown, whereas rhetorical appeals structure the trailer, the excess of signification set in place by the ludic grid guarantees that each work be different from the next.

The TV trailer
There exist a number of important differences between how movie and television trailers function. Concerning the movie trailer, Wythoff observes that “The catalyst for the inner workings of the trailer itself is in [an] implicit privileging of the film as a whole that promises fulfillment” (2007: 6, my italics). While the pull of the absent whole represented by the promoted movie is at work also in the case of television, the very nature of the latter medium, at least in my case, is to provide a serialized body of media artifacts. Yet, it is interesting to note, at least in passing, that the invention of the trailer in the early 1900s was prompted by the need to promote series and serials, a typology of feature films which aired in separate installments in the course of different weeks. Like the contemporary shows I analyze, these features made ample use of suspenseful plots to elicit curiosity. Indeed, the term trailer refers to the final part of the celluloid reel that was initially employed to protect the film and on whose surface words and texts began to appear that invited the audience to come back for more adventures of a same narrative.
Seriality works so that pleasure is given and retained, with the productions’ ability to administer and defer it influencing the audience’s bonding (or lack thereof) with a program. The logic governing this narrative genre is that content is the lure for more content and that story is intrinsically and in itself a promotional tool. As marketing forms of appointment viewing, television trailers are themselves serialized, appearing not only in the days and months preceding the premiere of a show, but also in the time lapses that separate one episode from the next and in between seasons, sometimes filling in gaps of years. Trailers for television shows thus contribute to preserve the practices of routine viewing that structure the medium, absolving a function that is different from the sort of event viewing that the cinema calls for. Part of the identity of television is actually it’s ability to maintain difference in repetition, incessantly providing modified versions of familiar narrative formats. Indeed, as a domestic medium, television was, from its inception, conceived to endorse a sense of security and familiarity which serialized narratives worked to enforce.
Given the serialized nature of television shows, the amount of trailers that circulate is very high, including multiple texts that vary in terms of production values, narrative disclosure, aesthetic presentation, cast appearance, etc. Furthermore, the category of trailers also includes featurettes, spots, previews etc.5 We can speculate that these videos are very different among themselves, with the ones produced to introduce shows or each season’s pilot and closing episodes probably being the most spectacular and engaging ones. To address these differences I employ Gray’s definition of “entryway” and “in medias res” paratexts (2010: 18). The former are “those we encounter before watching a film or a television program,” the latter “those that come to us in the process of watching or at least interpreting the film or program” (id. my italics). The implications I draw from this analysis are that entryway paratexts are more elaborate, as they are endowed with the task to set up horizons of anticipation for as-yet unknown works. For my case study of Boardwalk Empire’s trailer, I focus on an entryway text whose rhetorical and spectacular features best exemplify the discourse of uniqueness and repetition associated to the serialized nature both of television trailers and, as I am about to demonstrate, of quality programs more generally.
In a study of television trailers, however, the norm would be to pay as much attention to in media res texts, not least because they make up a majority in numbers. What I would like to do is investigate the play between the two categories of promotional objects and what they disclose about the challenge that certain productions encounter in competing among themselves and how this competition plays out in the trailers‘ aesthetics.

 

Bibliography

Brooker, Will (2001). “Living on Dawson’s Creek. Teen Viewers, cultural convergence and television overflow”. International Journal of Cultural Studies, 4(4): 456-72.

Curtin, Michael (2009). “Media Matrix” in eds. Graeme Turner and Jinna Tay. Television after TV. Understanding Television in the Post-Broadcast Era. Oxon and New York, Routledge, pp. 9-19.

Gray, Jonathan (2008). “Television pre-views and the meaning of hype.” International Journal of Cultural Studies, 11(1): 33-49.

__ (2010). Show Sold Separately: Promos, Spoilers, and Other Media Paratexts. New York and London, New York University Press.

Grusin, Richard and Jay David Bolter (1999). Remediation: Understanding New Media. London and Cambridge, The MIT Press.

Johnston, Keith (2008). “‘The coolest way to watch movie trailers in the world’: Trailers in the Digital Age.” Convergence: The International Journal of Research into Media Technologies, 14(2): 145-160.

__ (2009). Coming Soon: Film Trailers and the Selling of Hollywood Technology. Jefferson NC, McFarland & Company.

Kernan, Lisa (2004). Coming Attractions: Reading American Movie Trailers. Austin TX, University of Texas Press.

Lotz, Amanda D. (2007). The Television Will Be Revolutionized. New York and London, New York University Press.

Wythoff, Gary (2007). Becoming-Film: A Brief Poetics of Trailers. Honors thesis. Unpublished.