This is only the "To Print" page. To go to the regular page of Ray Carney's www.Cassavetes.com on which this text appears, click here, or close this window if you accessed the "To Print" page from the regular page. Once you have brought up the regular page, you may use the menus to reach all of the other pages on the site.

Excerpts from a discussion of
LOVE STREAMS

I've never seen an exploding helicopter. I've never seen anybody go and blow somebody's head off. So why should I make films about them? But I have seen people destroy themselves in the smallest way, I've seen people withdraw, I've seen people hide behind political ideas, behind dope, behind the sexual revolution, behind fascism, behind hypocrisy, and I've myself done all these things. So I can understand them. What we are saying is so gentle. It's gentleness. We have problems, terrible problems, but our problems are human problems.

—John Cassavetes

....Written immediately after he finished playing the starring role in Paul Mazursky's Tempest and filmed after he had already begun to be ill, Love Streams is Cassavetes' Prospero-like farewell to his art. He weaves dozens of references to his previous work into the movie and waves good-bye to his audience in the final shot.

Love Streams asks the question of how can we keep the possibilities of love alive in a world in which love is never less than difficult at best. The film follows the destiny of a couple at the end of everything – Robert, a Hollywood hilltop recluse who has decided that "love is a fantasy for little girls" and that sex is all that is real; and Sarah who refuses to abandon her romantic dreams even when her love life comes crashing down around her.

Cassavetes told me that the sequence in which Robert and Sarah sit in the kitchen late one night and talk about whether "love is an art" was his favorite scene. Its beauty is that, like everything else in the film, it takes its time. The viewer participates in a slow, delicate unfolding in which a man and a woman briefly come together and then draw apart. Cassavetes' vision is profoundly temporal in nature. All of life is flowing, streaming, in motion. Everything is surging, opening, and closing. Nothing stands still. Not even truth or love. Life takes time to live. Intimacy takes time to develop. Love takes time to grow. Relationships take time to mature.

Of course, what is made in time is always in danger of coming apart in time. That is why nothing is ever final or ultimate or permanent in Cassavetes' work. Everything is forever in transit, in process, unendingly being born and dying. Even in this film about endings, Cassavetes shows us that life and love are always beginning anew....

* * *

Critics sometimes talk as if great art gives us new thoughts, when it would be more accurate to say it gives us new powers. If Cassavetes' work is about transforming his characters, it is even more about transforming his viewers. To watch Faces, A Woman Under the Influence, or Love Streams is to be given new capacities of sensitivity and awareness – something much greater and more revolutionary than new ideas. Cassavetes gives us new forms of perception, not just new meanings.

Specifically, he trains us to watch the faces, bodies, and voices of his characters with unusual acuity. No filmmaker has done more to make the subtlest nuances of body language the fundamental building blocks of meaning. Every film might be said to be acted, but virtually no film is acted to the extent Cassavetes' are – none relies more heavily on the viewer's ability to read the tiniest facial flickers of emotion or listen to tonal demisemiquavers with greater sensitivity. It is as if the very atoms of the soul were put under a microscope and made visible as they vibrated in place or darted back and forth between characters.

Although Cassavetes' work is dramatically structured in quite elaborate ways (Faces, for example, consisting of an intricate network of sexual comparisons and contrasts, A Woman Under the Influence employing allusions to Rebel Without a Cause and a series of operatic and balletic visual and acoustic stylizations, The Killing of a Chinese Bookie drawing on Sternbergian and Wellesian notions of art, Minnie and Moskowitz tweaking and teasing Hollywood forms of expression), to a remarkable degree, Cassavetes' meanings are not created with general stylistic effects or narrative forms of organization (the way meanings in most other American films are), but emanate from the faces, bodies, and voices of specific performers. While, in the other sort of film, we watch how the frame is composed, how a character is lighted, how the camera moves or doesn't move, etc., Cassavetes' work cultivates different ways of seeing and hearing. We are not looking at the lighting or framing, but attending to butterfly flutters of feeling in a character's face; we are not listening to the sound design, but vibrating to birdsong vocal tremulations in a character's voice.

That is, in fact, why most serious American film scholars have ignored Cassavetes' work. The films are treated as if they were merely the record of dramatic performances imagined somehow to be independent of them as films. The thinking goes that when we watch a movie like Citizen Kane, 2001, or Apocalypse Now, we feel the director's presence and choices in more or less every shot, since we are awash in generalized stylistic effects of lighting, framing, and sound. When we watch Cassavetes, the argument runs, we are not exposed to the choices of the director but those of the performers. Ergo, his work is an "actor's cinema" – in other words, a form of filmmaking not truly "cinematic."

The way out of the definitional trap is to realize that the decision to make faces, bodies, and voices the sources of meaning is as much an expression of the director's values and vision as the decision to downplay the expressiveness of such things in the other sort of film. The values are just different. That is to say, Cassavetes' style is as cinematic as Hitchcock's. It just figures an entirely different understanding of life and expression.

While the stylistic practices of conventional cinematic expression (the use of light, sound, camerawork, framing, and various symbolic and metaphoric forms of presentation) generalize, abstract, and allegorize experience, the expressive embodiments of Cassavetes' style physicalize, individualize, and particularize it. Hitchcock's characters and situations are generic, representative, dreamlike; Cassavetes' are unique, specific, localized. Hitchcock gives us Everyman doing anything; Cassavetes gives us someone doing something.

Even more importantly, in the stylistically inflected film, meaning is tipped toward the visionary. It expresses more or less disembodied, imaginative states (and is apprehended by the viewer's identification with and participation in such states of abstraction and disengagement). Experience is turned into a mental event. In Cassavetes' work, meaning and experience are practical, engaged, worldly. Insofar as meaning inheres in the body and is expressed through practical social interactions (and through the viewer's intricate perceptual negotiation of those interactions as he or she watches the film), meaning is not in the mind, but in the world. Cassavetes lowers his figures' centers of gravity and moves his characters and viewers away from states of unworldly vision and into practical acts of social negotiation. (Cosmo shows us Cassavetes' feelings about visionary stances and relations.) Characters are not their thoughts, feelings, and intentions, but their gestures, tones of voice, and bodily expressions.

Finally, stylistic effects, as they occur in the mainstream film, to a large extent, stand still. If an interaction is kick-lighted one moment it will tend to be kick-lighted the next; if the music is suspenseful at the start of a scene it will generally still be suspenseful a minute later. In Cassavetes' work, because the meanings are a matter of particulars of timing, pacing, body language, facial expression, and vocal tone, nothing will stop moving or summarize itself in this way. Meaning is as labile as voice tones and facial expressions. To watch these films is to inhabit a world of exhilaratingly, scarily, shifting meanings. There is no predicting the next beat.

Not only can Richard and McCarthy or Nick and Mabel tonally be at knife point one moment and cozy buddies the next, but even in getting from one point to the other, they can go through dozens upon dozens of incremental, zig-zagging swerves of expression. In Love Streams Sarah and Jack cycle through twenty or more tones and relations to each other, Judge Dunbar, and Debbie in the hearing room in three or four minutes. To watch Robert interact with Albie at the bar or with the transvestites in the nightclub is to watch meanings that shift from second to second. It's an extraordinary place to get a work of art to – where streams of microscopic energy are flowing, coruscating, flickering more rapidly than we can keep up with them. There is no Archimedian stylistic point outside of the flow by which we can get theoretical leverage on it.

That's what makes Cassavetes' films so different from their summaries or the memory of them. In summary, A Woman Under the Influence might seem like a fairly clichéd depiction of "a misunderstood, neurotic housewife" (as one early reviewer put it). In actual experience, it is entirely different. The summary doesn't even come close to touching the actual experience of what we see and hear. It is not a film of generalizations, but of startling, unclassifiable, individualized, unpredictable, astonishing details. Consider just the first two or three minutes in which we see Mabel: the way she is dressed, her hopping around on one foot, the way she rides the bike to the car, the way it won't fit into the trunk, the way the trunk won't close, the way the car stalls (a detail added in post-production), her shimmering tones. Nothing is generic, representative, or indicated. Every instant is new. Every local detail stunningly realized.

To cycle back to my beginning, that is ultimately what it means to say that Cassavetes' works are perceptual more than intellectual events. To put it more precisely, one might say that they redefine intellect as perception. Sarah and Mabel aren't a set of ideas about women (the way Thelma and Louise are); they are a set of specific events. Cassavetes' films are all details – all the way down to the ground. They tell us that specifics are, in fact, all there are.

The de-ideologization of Cassavetes' depictions, the semantic embodiment of his expressions, the emphasis on perceptual events figures a comprehensive vision of all of experience. T.S. Eliot said of Henry James that he had a mind too fine for an idea to violate it, and of Cassavetes it might be put more strongly: In his work ideas are opposed to understanding. Like William James, Cassavetes saw conceptual relations to experience (including the ones that generalized stylistic effects create and the ones critics that explicate such films habitually indulge in) as betraying it, because they abstract us from and stop the motion of life. While sensory experiences never pause, ideas stand still. All of Cassavetes' work is an effort to capture the feeling of unconceptualized experience, to replace conceptions with perceptions. He tells us we must learn to think without ideas.

One might say that the reason Cassavetes' films feel so different from mainstream works is that he is doing nothing less than swimming against the entire Western intellectual tradition as it was inflected by Plato – contravening two millennia of post-Platonic contemplativeness, dephysicalization, disembodiment, and spiritualization.

The attack on abstractions is not only enacted in the viewing experience of the films but dramatized by the situations of the characters. Figures like Shadows' Lelia, Faces' Maria, Minnie and Moskowitz's Minnie, and Love Streams' Sarah are asked to put aside the intellectual burden of their memories, learn to live in the present, and enter into fresh, nonconceptualized relations to their own experiences. (Some rise to the challenge, and some don't in the course of their narratives.) Like the viewers of these films, the characters in them are asked to learn to flow with the perceptual flow of life.

Figures like Robert in Love Streams (or Richard, Zelmo, and Cosmo in earlier works) are judged negatively precisely because of their inability to open themselves to the flux of experience in this way. Robert is a Beverly Hills Thoreauvian. Like a big budget re-incarnation of Cosmo Vitelli, he has built himself an imaginative tree-house and pulled up the ladder. He lives the Coleridgean dream of creating a Xanadu within which the self can imaginatively wall out disturbance. (I was told, not by Cassavetes, that Robert's character may have been loosely based on the life of Leonard Bernstein or someone else the filmmaker knew.)

Robert's goal is to play all of the parts in a one-man show of his own scripting, directing, and producing. As exemplified by the scene in which he "interviews" Joannie or makes a "research trip" to a gay bar, Robert declines to participate in any relationship which he can't stage-manage – which is why he dates girls decades younger than himself, sleeps with more than one at a time, and flees from the dangers of real openness or intimacy with anyone. His unflappable aplomb ("Can I have your card?") is his ultimate buffer from reality. It utterly walls out human contact. If we know how to read them, the gestures, tones, and body language in the scene between him and Susan on his front steps speaks volumes. (Cassavetes asked Peter Bogdanovich to photograph this particular scene.)

As much as Shakespeare, Cassavetes was nothing if not the poet of saving disruptions and disturbances. His films are dynamite sticks designed to blast through the walls of complacency and comfort his characters (and viewers) erect around themselves. In The Killing of a Chinese Bookie Cassavetes brings the Mob into Cosmo's life; in Gloria he brings Phil into Gloria's; and here he brings three intruders into Robert's island kingdom: a new girlfriend, a child from a previous marriage, and Sarah. If the first two fail to get to him, to scratch his Teflon veneer, Sarah succeeds in reaching him emotionally at a depth no one apparently ever has before. She is Cassavetes' response to Robert's dreams of closure and completeness. She is a principle of imbalance. She tells us that nothing is secure, that everything is always open to redefinition.

Cassavetes refused to meet the viewer more than half-way. He would not cut his sense of truth to fit the prefabricated emotional and intellectual patterns even the best-intentioned members of his audience brought with them into the movie theater. At the end of the film, when ninety-nine viewers out of a hundred crave a little simple emotion to carry away with them, Cassavetes stands by scenes, characters, and relationships that won't provide condensed meanings. In a culture addicted to easy listening and "lite" viewing, he deliberately made it more than a little hard to read his scenes and characters. Cassavetes refused to tame the uncertainties of life. He leaves us wonderfully uncertain and suspended. He returns us to the ambiguities and confusions of lived experience. We can't ultimately "figure out" Robert and Sarah or their film.

No more than any of the previous works, does Love Streams pose easy questions and provide comfortable answers. It leaves us with perplexities, contradictory feelings, and doubts. Cassavetes gives us a form of art that does not attempt to offer clarities and resolutions, but rather tensions and unresolved mysteries. Most films offer clarifications of life. They hand out little fictions to live by, or at least momentarily displace the confusions associated with the experiences we have outside of the movie theater. Cassavetes goes in the opposite direction. He strips away fictions. He denies us intellectual distance on experience. He forces us into our places of discomfort. He offers a difficult form of art (though it might also be called an invigorating one). As everything I have been arguing should suggest, the emotional irresolution of these scenes is not something to be gotten beyond, but to be lived into. Cassavetes knows not only that growth is painful, but also that growth comes only from pain. Rather than trying to allay our fears and doubts, he forces us into them. In having our easy solutions frustrated, we may arrive at hard truths....

To read more about the limitations of contemporary criticism, see "Sargent and Criticism" in the Paintings section, "Capra and Criticism" in the Frank Capra section, and "Skepticism and Faith," "Irony and Truth," "Looking without Seeing," and other pieces in the Academic Animadversions section.

Text Copyright 1999-2000 by Ray Carney. All rights reserved. May not be reprinted without written permission of the author.

This is only the "To Print" page. To go to the regular page of Ray Carney's www.Cassavetes.com on which this text appears, click here, or close this window if you accessed the "To Print" page from the regular page. Once you have brought up the regular page, you may use the menus to reach all of the other pages on the site.