Excerpts
from Ray Carney’s award–winning 1990 Kenyon Review John
Cassavetes memorial
essay. This piece was co–winner of the “Best Essay of the Year by
an Younger Author Award.” Only the beginning and the conclusion of the
essay are printed here. To obtain the complete essay, purchase Ray
Carney’s John Cassavetes: Collected
Essays packet.
Click
here for best printing of text
AMERICAN
HEROISM
Life
is a series of surprises and would not be worth the taking or keeping if it were
not. . . . Onward and ever onward. . . . the coming only is sacred. . . . Nothing
is secure but life, transition, the energizing spirit. — Ralph
Waldo Emerson
We
realize this life as something always off its balance, something in
transition, something that shoots out of a darkness through a dawn into a
brightness that we feel to be the dawn fulfilled. — William
James
John Cassavetes completed eleven
films prior to his death last year in 1989. While three (Too Late Blues, A Child Is Waiting,
and Gloria)
were studio co-productions which are not really representative because of compromises
were required during their
production, the other eight (Shadows, Faces, Husbands, Minnie and
Moskowitz, A Woman Under the
Influence, The Killing of a Chinese
Bookie, Opening Night, and Love Streams), which were conceived,
written, directed, photographed, and edited by the filmmaker fully expressed
his vision to an extent that is unprecedented in American feature film. As
one critic has characterized them, they represent "one of the greatest
sustained individual achievements in the history of American cinema." Yet
the sad fact is that one year after Cassavetes’ death, those eight films
are still almost completely unknown to the average (or even the considerably
above-average) American filmgoer. Ironically enough, if Cassavetes' name is recognized
at all, it is as an actor in other people's movies, rather than as a maker of
his own.*
It is only natural to wonder how
such an extraordinary body of work could have fallen into the cracks so
completely, both commercially and critically. Part of the explanation is simply
the terrifying economics of film distribution and publicity. Lacking the
backing and the budgetary resources of major studio sponsorship, Cassavetes
self-promoted and self-distributed his own work, which means that he actually carried
the film cans from city to city trying to convince a distributor to book his
movie, organizing small-scale screenings at local theaters and giving
interviews to journalists to drum up free publicity. When all was said and
done, the movie might play in ten or twelve cities for a few weeks (if he was
lucky). All things considered, it's probably not that surprising that so few
people saw the films during their extremely limited and brief releases.1
I
would also note in passing that Cassavetes was almost completely ignored by
academic American film criticism
as well. There were virtually no serious essays written on the filmmaker
during
his lifetime. (I don't count the brief and superficial journalistic reviews
the individual movies received during their releases.) That situation began
to
change a little after Cassavetes' death, with a popular American film magazine,
Film Comment, dedicating a special section of one issue to him, and an American
scholarly journal, Post/Script, recently devoting an entire number to a survey
of his life and work. But beyond those two instances, even as I write this,
Cassavetes' films remain a terra incognita for the vast majority of American
film critics. The unavailability of Cassavetes' films on video in America is
traceable to their not being plugged into studio distribution package-deals
(where "ancillary rights" are sold before filming has even begun).
Even at this late date in the video revolution, not one of Cassavetes' eight
fully independent productions is available in the United States on either tape
or disc. (Love Streams was briefly
available on tape several years ago from MGM/UA; it was, however, dropped from
circulation after the most limited of releases.) Gloria, the only Cassavetes
title that is currently available on tape, was one of the three studio productions,
and Big Trouble, which
is generally available on video and is misattributed to Cassavetes, is actually
not his work.
To make a difficult situation
worse, Cassavetes' work fell squarely between the two stools of American film
criticism and viewership – the journalistic and the academic. Consequently,
even when his movies got screened, they often didn't get reviewed (at least
not
sympathetically) or couldn't find an audience. They were entirely too sophisticated
and demanding for the Sneak Previews-type reviewer and audience: the coke and
popcorn crowd, the pop-culture trash collectors, the genre-film slummers. At
the same time, they were entirely too shaggy and baggy to interest the
high-culture devotees who write and read the toniest academic criticism.
Cineastes who look to Europe for Art (or who confuse art with gorgeous
photography and literate dialogue) were the wrong ones to understand
Cassavetes' barbaric yawp.
The commercial coup de grace in
America was probably Cassavetes' refusal to become trendy. There are no fashionable
themes or
movie-of-the-week issues in his entire oeuvre.
His films never punched any of the topical hot buttons within contemporary
film commentary that would have guaranteed them at least a modicum of general
attention.2 Although there are plenty of strong and interesting
women and lots of men who fight for their lives and honor, there is not a single
feminist or
Vietnam vet in all of Cassavetes' work, no more than there are any of the other
staples of "relevant" filmmaking: terrorists, drug deals, venal
policemen, greedy capitalists, or corrupt public officials. Unlike the work
of Spike Lee, David Putnam, or Stanley Kubrick, Cassavetes' films do not lend
themselves to public statements or political stances because the drama is
generated more from contradictions and confusions within a character, than
from
conflicts between characters. This sets his work apart from ninety-nine percent
of other American films. With only the fewest exceptions, American movies
imagine life in terms of a myth with three components to it: 1. Individualism:
The plot revolves around a personal quest led by one main character. He or
she acts largely alone, or with the assistance of a few allies (most commonly,
a
single romantic partner). 2. Competition: The narrative is organized around
conflicts and confrontations between individuals or between an individual and
an institution. 3. Materialism: Practical rewards or penalties are the outcome
of the competition between the opposed characters: fame, money, power, or sex
are the payoffs for the individual's risk-taking behavior.
In short, it is the ideology of
entrepreneurial capitalism, a set of assumptions which virtually every American
feature film internalizes (even those that intend to critique capitalism).
Ostensibly counter-capitalistic films like Silkwood,
Taxi Driver, Wall Street, Working Girl,
and The Godfather are as much in its
thrall as pop culture schlock like Pretty
Woman, Raiders of the Lost Arc, Rocky, and Star Wars. A lone individual fights and triumphs over (or, on rare
occasions, fails to triumph over) personal opponents and worldly obstacles,
with the payoff in the form of tangible rewards–ranging from increased wealth
or social status to winning the girl or getting the job done. It's remarkable
how rarely American films deviate from the formula, and how satisfied viewers
obviously are with it. As anyone who has ever sat through Rambo or Rocky with a
large audience can attest, American filmgoers relish imagining their experience
in terms of personal conflicts and confrontations with practical rewards. The
nature of American society apparently predisposes most viewers to imagine their
lives in these terms–no matter how emotionally and spiritually impoverished
such understandings may be.
Cassavetes' narratives violate
all three tenets of this entrepreneurial ideology. In the first place, his
family-centered films define characters not as loners, but as members of
groups. Not rugged individualism and capitalistic competition, but social
interaction and interpersonal cooperation are the keys to their success. The
qualities most in demand are not Yankee ingenuity, resourcefulness, and
ruthlessness, but sensitiveness, responsiveness, and emotional openness. In the
second place, Cassavetes' narratives are not organized around personal
conflicts between figures. Characters are not pitted against each other in
tests of strength and intelligence. For Cassavetes, our private battles with
ourselves are always more interesting than our public fights with others. The
wars his characters fight are inward. The important struggles in which they are
engaged are attempts to understand themselves and their emotional needs.
Finally, characters' successes or failures are not marked in terms of
capitalistic rewards. What is at issue is not worldly or failure, but emotional
exploration and growth. When the quest of a figure is for self-knowledge and
self-expression, the only gain or loss that ultimately matters is spiritual.
Accordingly, one can actually
reverse the charge that Cassavetes’ work is socially
"disengaged" and politically "irrelevant" or
"naive." While the other sort of film, in effect, buys into
capitalistic understandings of experience in the very organization of its
narrative (even when it may think it is criticizing it), it is
Cassavetes’ work almost alone that offers a profound critique of the
assumptions of entrepreneurial capitalism. The very structures of
Cassavetes’ narratives implicitly criticize the premise the other sort
of
film accepts: the belief that we can be saved and our lives healed by competing
with one another and struggling for worldly success. By these standards,
Silkwood is a far more conservative film than Faces.
The reason Cassavetes’ films
don't appear to engage themselves with public issues is that rather than
focusing on the externals of characters' lives, Cassavetes focuses on how
social ideologies affect their hearts and minds. His films depict the internal,
psychological disruptions of capitalism as being potentially even more
disturbing than its external, economic consequences. Rather than dealing with
the economic or social predations of capitalism, Cassavetes depicts its
emotional consequences: the pernicious effects of bureaucratic organizations
of human relationships, the soul-killing qualities of competitiveness,
the way
business values distort his characters' understandings of the meaning of their
lives. His movies are peopled with small-time entrepreneurs (from Shadows' Ackerman and Too Late Blues’ Frielobe
to Faces' Richard Forst, The Killing of a Chinese Bookie's Cosmo
Vitelli, and Opening Night's Manny
Victor) who get into trouble by trying to organize their emotions and personal
relationships the way they run their businesses.
Asked why he didn't address
public themes the way Oliver Stone or Mike Nichols does, the filmmaker
characteristically replied: "Why should I make movies about things I
already know? I want to make movies about things I don't understand. And anyway
I want to ask people questions about themselves, not about someone else." That
suggests a further explanation for why Cassavetes' films met with incomprehension
during his lifetime. His movies ask questions whose answers are
not nearly as obvious or clear as those in the other sort of film. Furthermore,
they force viewers to question their own everyday lives and actions.
Cassavetes' cinematic agenda is a
deliberately challenging one. While films like the ones I have named are
content to recycle certain basic fictional formulas, Cassavetes attempts to
teach his viewers radically new ways of knowing–new ways of understanding
themselves and others. Cassavetes' films are lessons in new forms of thinking
and feeling–though what it might mean for a film to be a form of thought may
take some explaining. Suffice it to say that the filmmaker fully understood
that confronting the ingrained viewing habits of his viewers might be the
necessary first step in the process of redefining the nature of life and experience
for them.
Cassavetes frequently said that
he was not in the least surprised that most audiences resisted his work. He
knew that reaching viewers in a deeper place might require making them
uncomfortable: “I'm interested in shaking people up, not making them
happy by soothing them. . . . It's never easy. I think that it's only in
'the movies' that it's easy. . . . I don't think people really want
their lives to be easy. It's a United States sickness. In the end it becomes
more difficult. I like things to be difficult so that my life will be
easier.”
Faces illustrates that deliberate
difficulty. Compared with most other films, the behavior of its characters
seems inconsistent and unpredictable. A character who seems witty and sensitive
one moment is boorish and immature the next. A figure who seems aware of his
faults and foibles in one scene is headstrong and self-centered in another.
I remember the first time I saw the film, and how this aspect of it confused
me,
and made me extremely uncomfortable. I was denied the sort of intellectual
and emotional comfort that settling back with one feeling about a character
allowed. I liked them, then I despised them. In one scene I admired their
intelligence or sympathized with their predicament, even as I felt on the basis
of a previous scene that I ought to have contempt for them.
Cassavetes springs his characters
free from the sorts of intentionality that most other films, especially
mainstream American works, accustom us to. The chief way we are able to get a
handle on characters in most other films is by ferreting out a figure's "true intentions." But
in Cassavetes' work, intentions count for almost nothing. They certainly don't
allow us to sort out the good from the
bad, the nice from the nasty.
Virtually all of Cassavetes'
characters (even the most despicable) have good intentions. With only the
fewest exceptions, all of them are sincere. They mean well. Like Mama Longhetti
(who terrorizes her daughter-in-law Mabel in A Woman Under the Influence) or Mister Jensen (the neighbor who
precipitates a family crisis in the same movie), they are trying to do their
best for themselves and their loved ones (even as they may wreck havoc on
everyone around them). Everyone has his reasons (to borrow a phrase from Jean Renoir,
whose characters are similar in this respect)–which is to say that behavior is
generated out of sources far deeper than reasons can describe or motives can
plumb.
However, even to say that
characters have good intentions is not to do justice to their true complexity.
In the majority of scenes and encounters, Cassavetes' characters are liberated
from having any definable intentions at all. Cassavetes' most interesting
characters don't have any fixed, predictable, or static center of being. The films
present behavior and expression that stays psychologically multivalent and
irreducible to motives or goals. The first long scene in Faces can stand
as an illustration. Richard and Freddy are in Jeannie Rapp's home, making an
obvious sexual play for her. But what makes the
moment so strange and gripping is that, in the first place, Cassavetes
suppresses the details of how the three characters came together and who
exactly they are. (Is Jeannie a call girl, an easy pick-up, or a "nice" girl? Are Richard and Freddy married or single, good guys or
con men?) In the second place, and even more importantly, Cassavetes leaves
entirely up in the air why they are where they are, what they want out of the
moment. (Are they looking for a one-night stand, a "meaningful
relationship," just passing time, or what?)
It is impossible to say. We
just
don't know. But the crucial point is that Cassavetes isn't Hitchcock:
clarifying information is not withheld in order to tease the viewer or stoke
up dramatic interest. It is withheld because it doesn't exist, because,
given
Cassavetes' view of life, it can't exist. It is impossible to know what any of
the characters expect from the moment or why they are together, because they
themselves don't know. Richard and Freddy don't know what they "really" want from Jeannie, any more than she knows what she
"really" wants from them. In fact, if they could say, they wouldn't
be nearly as interesting and the scene wouldn't be so fascinating.3 As
Cassavetes once put it: “It's never as clear as it is in movies. People
don't know what they are
doing most of the time. They don't know what they want. It's only in "the
movies" that they know what their problems are and have game plans to deal
with them.
Cassavetes is interested in bringing
forward the vague and the inarticulate in
human awareness. He focuses less on the problems his characters know and
understand than on the hidden confusions in their consciousnesses–confusions
that are hidden even from themselves, since if they knew they were confused,
they wouldn't be as confused as they are. (To the extent that intentions may
be said to exist at all, multiple and contradictory intentions can co-exist
in one
figure, and more than that, the intentions of which a figure is aware may be
opposed to intentions of which he is unaware.) 4
If the effect of this is not
clear, consider Love Streams' Robert
Harmon. He sincerely believes that he opens himself to the women he surrounds
himself with and earnestly tries to understand their deepest feelings (which
he
calls their "secrets"), even as the film itself shows us how he
manipulates them, holds them off at arm's length emotionally, and refuses to
let them into his life.5 But
it would be wrong to call him a hypocrite, since after all, he is not even
aware of his deception. The important lies in his
life are the ones he tells himself. As the filmmaker once said to me:
"Nobody's a phony, the way they are in the movies. People believe in what
they are doing, even when it hurts them and [hurts] others." Robert's
romantic efforts are in earnest; even as, in another sense, they are not in
earnest.
Cassavetes was always more
interested in the ways we fool ourselves than in the ways we fool others. The Killing of a Chinese Bookie presents
confusions of feeling so deep that the individual who is ultimately undone by
them is not even aware of them. Cosmo Vitelli gradually allows the Mob to take
over his life (and his nightclub), but the subtle thing is how imperceptible
the gangsters' triumph over his soul is. As Cosmo struts toward his doom, he
keeps telling himself that he, and not the Mob, is in control. Even as he lets
them take over his life bit by bit, he doesn't realize that he is signing over
to them what even they couldn't have touched without his cooperation: his
definition of himself.
When the film was first released,
a number of reviewers objected to the shagginess of the presentation, the way
it becomes impossible to tell whether or where the precise boundary is crossed
at which Cosmo has lost the emotional battle with the Mob and given himself
away. But that is to miss the point of the film. The blurriness of the line is
its essence. Cassavetes explores the shadow line where the deepest emotional
sell-outs take place–the line where the person selling-out isn't even aware of
it. The film is a study of the lies we tell ourselves about ourselves in order
to hold onto our pride and keep going in life. If the slippery path to hell
were more clearly marked, Cassavetes suggests, we wouldn't have such difficulty
avoiding it. If Cosmo were aware of his emotional weaknesses and moral
emasculation (his need to avoid arguments or confrontations, his boyish desire
to please people and keep everyone around him happy, his escapist impulses as
an artist), he wouldn't be in the trouble he is.
In
comparison with other films' schematic crises and externalized struggles (where
characters face clear-cut problems with well-defined solutions), Cassavetes'
work explores twilight areas in our lives: subtle self-betrayals, secret
bewilderments, and failures of self-awareness. That is, I believe, what he was
getting at when he once said that contemporary filmmakers must move "beyond the artificial conflicts of melodrama," in order to define
"new kinds of problems"–problems more subtle than those generated by
external conflicts. As he said on another occasion, his films attempt to deal
with "characters who have everything they want, but [who] still can't
sleep at night," characters for whom "the problem has become what's
the problem."
In
the service of doing that, it was necessary for him to free his scenes from the
sorts of simplifying dramatic "point" one encounters in conventional
films. When the problem is "what's the problem," the point of a scene
or an encounter between two characters may be its absence of point. When the
real events are not external conflicts, but interior muddlements of feeling,
scenes and characters reveal truths between the actions or the lines of
dialogue, in the beats, the pauses, the hesitations, the moments of
uncertainty.
Husbands was
criticized for the rambling quality of some of its scenes. But Cassavetes
argued that the absence of point in many of the scenes was the point: "The
lack of action was what the picture was about. . . . Sometimes the guys would
just sit there. I mean, [when] somebody dies and it affects you deeply, I don't
know anybody who knows what to do."
To
keep a viewer in the fuzzy places, and to keep the fuzzy places fuzzy and not
falsely to clarify them, it is additionally important for Cassavetes to deny
viewers a privileged point of view on his characters that would simplify or
resolve our understanding of a scene or interaction (just as he denies his
characters privileged insights into themselves or their own motives). There can
be no liberated self-expressions on the part of a character, or absolute
knowledge about a character's intentions on the part of a viewer. Viewers have
no source of knowledge about characters above or beyond the figures' own vexed
self-representations, which never provide direct or easy access to "true" meanings or feelings. There is neither visual nor verbal
presentation of unmediated feeling. Nobody can simply "be"
themselves, or unproblematically "express" something. Every
self-expression is socially mediated, emotionally compromised, inflected by
ulteriority. Arguments, brags, jokes, compliments, criticisms, even expressions
of love all need to be interpreted.
This
is one of the most challenging aspects of Cassavetes' work for a viewer trained
by Hollywood films, which invariably provide fairly direct access to a
character's "true" feelings and beliefs–either by simply having a
character say what he or she means, or by presenting the characters' feelings
in visual terms: through a point-of-view shot, a mood shot, an expressive
lighting effect, an exchange of glances between characters. In Cassavetes'
work, no expression is transparent in the way such stylistic devices presume
(neither to the characters in the film, nor to the audience watching it).
Subjectivity is rejected as the basis for experience. There can be no direct
revelations of consciousness. 6 In a world in which characters can't say what
they are doing, because even they don't know, all the film can depict is raw
behavior.
The
irony was that Cassavetes succeeded so brilliantly at presenting the convoluted
complexities of his characters' performative disarray that most critics wrote
off his work as a mess. He was so successful at freeing his scenes and his
characters' interactions from conventional forms of dramatic shapeliness (which
he called "getting the literary quality out" of the detailed scripts
he wrote as the basis for all of his important work and which survive in
multiple drafts) that critics concluded that his actors were simply making up
their lines and actions in front of the camera as they went along.
While
most Hollywood scripts are written to generate well-turned phrases and cute
repartee as ends in themselves, an examination of Cassavetes' successive drafts
of his scripts demonstrates that his goal was to mess-up overly tidy
expressions, to take scenes and interactions that went too smoothly and rough
them up. The expressive clumsiness in a Cassavetes film is a depiction of
shambling purposes and mixed-up goals. His characters' expressions are confused
because they are confused. (Though, needless to say, that is an entirely
different thing from their creator being confused.) Their lines sound
improvised because their lives are improvised. Cassavetes' characters don't know
what they are doing until they have done it–and even then they frequently
don't know. Gena Rowlands once said that the difference between her husband's
and others' films was that in other movies, characters always look like they
are following some sort of master plan, while in his films they make up their
plans and keep changing their minds about them as they go along.
That
should suggest why there is no greater sign of a character's confusion in these
films than for him to pretend he is not confused, and no greater mess he can
make of things than to attempt to plan out his life. No performers get into
greater trouble than the ones who think they are in control. Our fantasies of
being in control and of knowing what we are doing are the supreme lies we tell
ourselves about ourselves: In Husbands,
Gus's verbal panache–his promiscuous charm–is an attempt to avoid emotional
involvement with the girlfriend he performatively dazzles, even as he
romantically gets in over his head with her anyway. In Shadows, Lelia uses her dazzling powers of self-dramatization to
hold her various boyfriends at a protective distance so that she can't be hurt,
even as she then suffers from the emotional distance she has created. In The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, Cosmo's
pretensions to being calm, cool, and poised in front of the various audiences
he performs for are an attempt to deny, even to himself, the troubles that
beset him and ultimately do him in.
[The
conclusion of the essay:]
The alternative to "shorthand" filmmaking is a longhand scrawl that
is essentially temporal in its effects. To adapt William James' terminology
from Some Problems of Philosophy, Cassavetes offers "concatenated
knowing" in place of "consolidated knowing." Rather than rushing
to a portable meaning (to what Cassavetes dismissively calls "quick,
manufactured truths"), the viewer is forced to live through a changing
course of events. In this view of it, meaning is always in transition: it lives
in endless, energetic substitutions of one interest and focus for another, in
continuous shifts of tone, in fluxional slides of relationship. For Cassavetes,
life is motion, and experience is essentially leaky and slippery. It won't be
pinned down. "Life is in the transitions," in William James' phrase.
Neither life's nor art's meanings can be "caught on to,"
"grabbed," "held," or "kept ahead of."*
Cassavetes'
art is essentially and crucially temporal in the way a piece of music is, not
spatial the way painting, architecture, or sculpture are. As the title of Love Streams suggests,
his work
comprehends the "streaming" of love–the endless movements,
adjustments, swerves of life as it is actually lived. He forces both his
viewers and his characters to throw away their static concepts, to abandon all
fixed positions, in order to plunge into the flow of events.7
To
a viewer accustomed to the other sort of filmmaking, even the most important
scenes and relationships in Cassavetes' work may seem to "get
nowhere," because in Cassavetes' imaginative universe there is really
nowhere to get. There is only a series of shifting positions to be cycled
through. In Emerson's words, "health of body consists in
circulation." 8
Now
though it might be thought that if characters and scenes never get anywhere,
the films must be tedious or boring, the opposite is true. Since a scene or
a relationship doesn't exist to lead to something else, a viewer is never
released from his activity of attention. We can't push the pause button on
our
VCRs (or our minds) anywhere. Go out to get a Coke and come back for the next
scene, and you've missed everything. It's pointless for the person sitting
next to you to fill you in on "how it ended," since the scene doesn't
exist to generate an end-point.9 That
makes Cassavetes' scenes as continuously exciting as listening to a good jazz
performance (even the second or the tenth
time through). In contrast, ordinary films, with their fixed trajectories of
build-up, confrontation, climax, and resolution–more like Burt Bachrach than
Charlie Parker–let us coast most of the time, while we wait for the next
crisis or climax to kick in. The evenhandedness, the refusal to subordinate
the individual impulse to the atemporal architecture, makes these films the
Jackson
Pollocks of cinema.10
Another
way of explaining the process-aspect of Cassavetes' work is to say that
significances are not merely asserted visionarily, abstractly, or impersonally,
but are socially negotiated between individuals in particular acts of practical
performance. If the force of this is not obvious, I would point out that
another reason Cassavetes' work has experienced so much critical
misunderstanding is that most other American film is predicated upon an
entirely different set of expressive premises. The principal meanings in
Hitchcock and Welles, for example, are not generated out of the practical
interactions of characters. They are brought into existence chiefly through
visionary events (in two senses: imaginative visions experienced by the
characters in the film; and visions created by the director for the viewers of
the film).
Pure,
socially unmediated subjectivity (rather than impure, compromised behavior) is
the basis for expression. The eyeline match and the shot/reverse shot define
the relationship of characters as virtually telepathic. The expressive close-up
registers states of personal emotion liberated from the mediated messiness of
speech or action. The point-of-view shot figures the directly available
contents of an individual’s consciousness. Other meanings are generated
by lighting effects, camera movements and framings, editing effects, musical
orchestrations, and the metaphoric inflection of objects in the setting. This
is the form of cinema that American audiences have become adept at
understanding and American critics extremely comfortable at explicating. It is
the dominant line in American film–carried on today by the vast majority of
mainstream filmmakers (by figures as different from one another as Kubrick, De
Palma, Spielberg, Coppola, and Lynch). In this expressive tradition, meanings
are created relatively independent of the particular space and time and
resistance of the actual personal expressions of the individual characters in
a
scene. That is why, in Hitchcock's infamous phrase, actors truly may be treated
as "cattle" in his form of filmmaking. They are the more or less
passive recipients of significances imposed upon them and generated by the
cameraman, the lighting supervisor, the editor, or the director, rather than
being the independent originators of their own personal meanings. In Hitchcock,
a specific camera angle or movement or lighting effect tells us how to feel
about a character or how the character understands his own experience; in
Welles, a tendentious blocking or framing of characters in certain spatial
relationships with each other metaphorically communicates their true
relationship or feelings about each other. Meanings are cut relatively free
from the ebb and flow of social expression and practical personal
performance.11
Such
stylistic occurrences presume that states of knowledge or feeling can be made
directly available to viewers (and that they can, in effect, be weightlessly,
painlessly communicated between characters). In Hitchcock, in particular, to "see" something is to "know" it, and to "know" is
to "be." Nothing could be less like the fragile, vulnerable social
negotiations of meaning and relationship that take place in Cassavetes' scenes,
where expression is never unmediated or unproblematic. The prickly practicalities
of specific times and places and personalities can't be transcended or left
behind. States of personal subjectivity are not liberated from the intricacies
and obliquities of bodily and social expression. Meanings have none of the
expansiveness, impersonality, or metaphoric generality of a visionary
experience. (That is why, to an eye accustomed to visionary stylistics,
Cassavetes' films look confused and disorganized. But it is not the mess of
unplanned, sloppy work that a viewer is witnessing, but the mess of life lived
without visionary releases and metaphoric clarifications.)
There
are no lyrical interludes, visionary stylistics, or point of view shots in
Cassavetes' work. Characters don't "look" meanings (or relationships)
into existence. They don't communicate in shot/reverse "glances."
They don't open their consciousnesses to our view (or to each other). Such
techniques allow the "eye" to separate itself from the "I." They
privilege our visionary capacities over our social expressions of ourselves.
Much of Hitchcock's legacy to film (and to filmmakers like Lynch and
DePalma in particular) is the separation of our socially expressive and our
private visionary impulses, a separation Cassavetes completely refuses to
entertain. For him, imagination must express itself in and through social
interaction–never as an alternative to it.
While
the other kind of film offers us meanings which are pure, static, abstract, and
atemporal, those in Cassavetes' work are continuously subject to loss or decay
in a way that visions, imaginations, or dreams are not. What is brought into
existence in space and time and with the cooperation of other people is always
in imminent danger of being lost in space, time, and social interaction.*
In
Cassavetes' work, not only does the essence of a character not precede his or
her existence, but there might be said to be no essences at all. One's personal
identity is created and maintained in the process of social negotiation with
others. There is no "essential" self apart from its "accidental"
expressions of itself. We make ourselves up as we go along. As something that
must be worked into existence, the self is always in danger of lapsing out of
existence. In William James' phrase, one is "continuously breasting
non-entity," and therefore continuously risking slipping back into
non-entity. Ontological slippage threatens many of Cassavetes' most important
characters: In Minnie and Moskowitz,
when various figures start echoing each others' lines and actions, Cassavetes
is showing us how easy it is to lapse back into being a semiotic function of
one's environment (or one's film). In A
Woman Under the Influence, Opening
Night, and Love Streams, Mabel
Longhetti, Myrtle Gordon, and Sarah Lawson each make themselves so available to
other people's definitions of them that they run the risk of giving themselves
away–losing control of any independent sense of themselves. In The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, Cosmo
Vitelli, in his need to please and entertain the various audiences in front of
which he performs, loses his grip on a self separate from the various costumes
and masks he wears. In the end, he becomes the master of ceremonies as
invisible man: stunningly unable to distinguish his own needs from the needs of
his audience.
It is
precisely because identities and meanings are so fragile and temporally
fugitive in his work that Cassavetes' viewer is compelled to become so active
in his process of keeping up with the shifting figures and significances on the
screen. Cassavetes asks that the viewer work almost as hard as the characters
within the films in order to make and remake meanings that are always in the
process of decay. Cassavetes asks both his viewers and his characters to
embrace a life of present-tense experience. We must stay on the qui vive. Like
the improvisers who function at the center of each of the films, the viewer
must
learn to thrive in a state of perpetual activity, openness, vulnerability, and
exposure–energetically engaged in making something out of each moment without
being able to predict or to predetermine the outcome. The challenges and
dangers of this situation–for both viewers and characters–are obvious. The
reward is a state of empowerment in which meanings are not imposed or received
from outside experience, but are actually made in the course of an active,
passionate relationship with it. We become powerful, temporally engaged,
meaning-makers in a sense very close to the one William James described in “Pragmatism and Humanism”: “In
our cognitive as well as in our
active life we are creative. We add,
both to the subject and to the predicate part of reality. The world stands
readily malleable, waiting to receive its final touches at our hands. Like the
kingdom of heaven, it suffers human violence willingly. Man engenders truths
upon it … For pluralistic pragmatism, truth grows up inside of all the
finite experiences. They lean on each other, but the whole of them, if such a
whole there be, leans on nothing. All ‘homes’ are in finite
experience; finite experience as such is homeless. Nothing outside of the flux
secures the issue of it.”
The process
of breaking free from limiting formulas of response in order to learn how
to make
meanings in a moment by moment activity of improvisation might be said to be
the masterplot of all of Cassavetes’ films. They tell his viewers and his
characters alike that only by plunging unconditionally into the present, to
make something of it here and now, may the possibility of possibility be
brought into existence. This capacity to hold ourselves open and responsive to
the individuals around us, irrespective of our experiences, might in fact be
said to be Cassavetes’ definition of love. In this entirely practical
sense, all of his films are about finding possibilities of emotional
spontaneity and susceptibility in a world which relentlessly mechanizes
behavior and punishes vulnerability. This is the lesson that Minnie must learn
in the course of Minnie and Moskowitz.
As someone who has gone through disastrous relationships with men, she has to
find the courage to open herself to a new relationship in a world without
guarantees. The doom of characters like Zelmo and Morgan is that they
can’t break their patterns. They can’t leave their pasts, their
fears, and memories behind long enough to make a future possible.
In
the dramatic metaphor that informs all of his work, Cassavetes asks his
characters to throw away all of the preformulated scripts of life and become
improvisers of their own identities and relationships. The supreme challenge
with which his work confronts both characters and viewers is whether they and
we are brave enough to throw ourselves headfirst into experiences whose course
we can't ever entirely understand and whose conclusion we can't control. 12
The
result is an extremely challenging state of affairs, and far from an easy one.
It is much easier to abide by the scripts of life, and to stay on the beaten
path. The society of Cassavetes' films is a fiercely predatory and
power-saturated one. It is a world extremely hazardous to the individual's
health, threatening characters with erasure or extinction at every moment.
Cassavetes imagines the most arduous possible universe for his characters to
function within, one that exacts Herculean labors of effort from each
individual, each of whom is continuously tested to the limit of his or her
ability. There is no possibility of poise or relaxation, only a state of
endless struggle and combat.
This
is undoubtedly the source of the common misperception of Cassavetes as a bleak,
pessimistic, or cynical artist. For a certain sort of viewer, his world is
obviously a horrifying, even a nightmarish one. But, as he once put it to me,
Cassavetes "relished the fights." He viewed struggle as the source
of creativity. The challenges are stimulating and invigorating. The difficulty
is
what makes the glory of the performance. It is only in the face of nearly
infinite resistance that we can be heroic. In fighting for our lives we bring
ourselves into the fullest and most exciting states of being. Only in negotiating
danger is virtue born. His characters inhabit the world of the American dream
(in both the positive and the negative senses of the concept)–a realm of both
opportunities and dangers.
Faced
with the inescapability of complication, Cassavetes' glorious improvisers show
us, as Emerson argued in The Conduct of Life, that: "The only path of
escape known in all the worlds of God is performance." (Or as Robert Frost
more wittily put it: "The best way out is always through.") The
improvisational imperative is the only satisfactory response. Emerson, James,
and Cassavetes all agree that mastering the influences–not avoiding them–is
the only adequate course available to us, no matter what.
This
process of plunging into complications, rather than side-stepping them, was
integral to James' definition of American heroism, as he writes near the end
of
his Psychology concerning what he calls the "ethical importance of the
phenomenon of effort." As the final sentence indicates, James was fully
aware that his advice was only for those who were willing to live a
"risky" life "on the perilous edge"–precisely the life
Cassavetes urges on us:
"If
the searching of our hearts and reins be the purpose of this human drama, then
what is sought seems to be what effort we can make. He who can make none is but
a shadow; he who can make much is a hero. The huge world that girdles us about
puts all sorts of questions to us, and tests us in all sorts of ways. . . .
When a dreadful object is presented, or life as a whole turns up its dark
abysses to our view, then the worthless ones among
us lose their hold on the situation altogether, and either escape from its
difficulties by averting their attention, or if they cannot do that,
collapse into yielding masses of plaintiveness and fear. The effort
required for facing and consenting to such objects is beyond their power
to make. But the heroic mind does differently. To it, too, the objects are
sinister and dreadful, unwelcome, incompatible with wished-for things. But
it can face them if necessary, without for that losing its hold on the
rest of life. The world thus finds in the heroic man its worthy match and
mate; and the effort which he is able to put forth to hold himself erect
and keep his heart unshaken is the direct measure of his worth and
function in the game of human life. He can stand this Universe. He can
meet it and keep up his faith in it in the presence of those same features
that lay his weaker brethren low. He can still find a zest in it, not by "ostrich-like
forgetfulness," but
my pure inward willingness to face it with those deterrent objects there. And
hereby he makes himself one of the masters and the lords of life. He must be
counted with henceforth; he
forms a part of human destiny. Neither in the theoretic nor the
practical sphere do we care for, or go for help to, those who have no head
for risks, or sense of living on the perilous edge."
Cassavetes'
three most moving demonstrations of this Jamesian relish of embracing
complications are A Woman Under the
Influence, The Killing of a Chinese
Bookie, and Love Streams–the
first a positive example of the creative stimulations of "braving alien
entanglements" (to quote Robert Frost again), the second a cautionary tale
about the hazards of what James calls "ostrich-like forgetfulness," and
the third a depiction of both possibilities in the contrasted characters of Sarah
Lawson and Robert Harmon. In A
Woman Under the Influence, Mabel Longhetti (who is closely related to Sarah
Lawson) balletically dances her way through circle after circle of familial
entanglements and personal complications. In The Killing of a Chinese Bookie,
Cosmo Vitelli (who resembles Robert Harmon in this respect) demonstrates the
dangers of attempting to avoid
life's complexities. Cosmo is a Sternbergian artist who aspires to use his art
(i.e. his nightclub and the stage shows he writes and choreographs there) as
a
means of escape from the pains and confusions of the world. He fantasizes that
he can run away from worldly problems and take refuge in the beauty and order
of his imaginative creations. 13
Cassavetes'
own career was clearly founded on the opposite of Cosmo's and Robert's belief.
He understood that great art is not an escape from life's messes and
complexities, but a finer embodiment of them, sponsoring a deeper involvement
with them. Our supreme works of art are not hospitals where the wounds incurred
in life's struggles may be nursed and healed, but are the dangerous
battlegrounds themselves, the places where the fiercest wars are fought.
Cassavetes' entire career was devoted to the principle that a film is not an
island of safety and refuge, a Pateresque "world elsewhere," but an
opportunity for emotional exposure, a site of supreme engagement with the
disturbances of experience outside of the movies. (Unfortunately, in the realm
of film criticism, neither the genre-film escapists nor the formalists have yet
assimilated this lesson.)
Cassavetes'
work deserves a place alongside the writing of Emerson and James as a seminal
presentation of a distinctively American imaginative predicament. Cassavetes
transports us to the true America of the imagination: a world in which
relationships and identities are up for redefinition; a world of social,
psychological, and emotional instability; a world of frightening openness and
dangerous vulnerability; a world without rest, relaxation, or pause for the
performer who would meet and master the opportunities it offers.
To
adapt James’s remarks from “The Absolute and the Strenuous
Life,” the world Cassavetes imagines is “always vulnerable, for
some part of it may go astray; and having no eternal edition of it to draw
comfort from, its partisans must always feel to some degree insecure.” In
pushing the envelope of our experience into new places, we are destined always
to be a little off-balance—with the edgy anxiety Cassavetes’
improvisers display. As James argues, in this situation it is necessary for the
individual to have “a certain ultimate hardihood, a certain willingness
to live without assurances or guarantees.” It would be difficult to find
a better description of the strenuous courage of Cassavetes’ greatest and
most inspiring improvisers—Leila, Chet, and Jeannie (in the films of the
fifties and sixties), Moskowitz, Mabel, Gloria, and Sarah (in the films of the
seventies and eighties). Living on “the perilous edge,” they risk
everything—but they also put themselves in a position to discover
something. In James’s words (from “Pragmatism and Religion”),
the result is “a real adventure, with real dangers … [and] with a
social scheme of co-operative work genuinely to be done.”
In
this view of it, our play is serious, but our work can become play. But life is
certainly not a post-modernist romp though a stylistic supermarket. We are far
from the campy parody, the aesthetics of kitsch and deconstructive goofiness,
of David Lynch, John Waters, Robert Townsend, and the Coen and Kuchar brothers.
And we are equally far from the charm, sweetness, politeness, humanism, and
visionary quietism of Woody Allen, Barry Levinson, James Ivory, and John
Sayles. Cassavetes and James imagine life as being harder, more frightening,
more dangerous, and more serious than these filmmakers do.
But,
by the same virtue, Cassavetes and James imagine life's rewards as being keener
as well: they imagine a world in which what James in Some Problems of Philosophy calls "real growth and real
novelty" accrue to those courageous enough not to duck the complexities
and challenges of living, breathing experience–to those who decline to
withdraw from the messes of life as it is actually lived by escaping into
jokes, visions, or dreamy states of good feeling.
It
should be obvious that there is a parable about being an independent filmmaker
implicit in all of this. Cassavetes' life and work demonstrate what Sarah does
in Love Streams: the joys, the
challenges, the hazards, the fun of living on the uncertain, moving edge of
uncontrolled experience. She and her creator show us the consequences of
improvising a trajectory of discovery outside of prefabricated systems of
understanding. They illustrate the excruciating, enlivening results of being
brave enough to plunge into life's expressive complexities, functioning without
guarantees, taking real chances and braving real dangers.
The
critical abuse and commercial neglect of Cassavetes' work during his lifetime
illustrate the lesson Sarah teaches us in Love
Streams: that to live with this abandon is to risk incomprehension and
failure at every turn. To operate at this pitch of intensity, extremity, and
exposure is inevitably to make a fool of oneself in the eyes of the world and
to court dismissal of one's actions as being half-crazy and more than half out
of control. But Cassavetes' inspiring career and the careers of his improvisers
also teach us something else. They teach us the meaning of authentic American
heroism in the brave new world in which we must all learn to live.
______
NOTES:
1Having
taken the eleven films (along with Elaine May's Mikey and Nicky, Cassavetes'
greatest acting performance in a work other than his own) on a national tour
to fifteen cities and a number of
American universities during the year following his death, I can testify that
the ignorance of Cassavetes' work is just as pervasive inside the film studies
programs of our major universities as it is outside of them. (It's an
unfortunate reality that American film students and film professors have almost
as little knowledge of American independent feature filmmaking in general as
does the average man on the street. See my essay "Looking Without
Seeing," in the Winter 1991 issue of Partisan
Review for an extended discussion of this lamentable situation.) back
2 The
coincidence between 1975's A Woman Under
the Influence and the mid-seventies women's movement–which briefly
embraced the film and helped to make it one of Cassavetes' best-known
works–was entirely accidental, as the filmmaker insisted after the movie's
release. He pointed out not only that he had written the script and made the
movie in 1971 and 1972, before feminism had attained a place of prominence
on the national agenda (though it took him until 1975 to get it released),
but
that in any event he completely rejected feminist interpretations of his
central character, making the feminist reading a case of mistaken
identification as far as he was concerned. work does not offer the sort of
obvious cultural generalizations which elicit knee-jerk journalistic discussion
and debate (and which most journalists and journalistic film reviewers naively
equate with "artistic importance"). back
3
Even in Cassavetes' "entertainment" comedy, Minnie and Moskowitz,
the filmmaker's denial of certain kinds of
information about characters' "true" feelings and relationships is
not merely a game of cinematic hide-and-seek. A viewer can't make up his mind
about characters' "real" feelings, because they themselves can't.
If it were otherwise, if the "truth" were simply being concealed
from the viewer, Cassavetes would be merely playing with expectations. We would
be
in the world of David Lynch or the Coen brothers. (I will have more to say
about Minnie and Moskowitz below.)
The process would be fundamentally frivolous and irresponsible. back
4
Though it might seem paradoxical to talk of "intentions" of which a
character is "unaware," it is one of the achievements of Cassavetes'
work to make the meaning of such a concept perfectly clear. Intention is less
a conscious, verbalizable explanation of behavior, than a habitual pattern of
response. back
5
In the scene that takes place between Robert and Susan in front of his house
when she comes to visit him, notice how the kiss he gives her is two opposite
kisses at one and the same time: a warm romantic invitation and a frigid sexual
kiss-off. His interviewing of Joannie in another scene has the same doubleness:
even as his sincerely expressed desire is to try to enter imaginatively into
her wishes, dreams, and fantasy life, his simultaneous intention is to hold
himself aloof and unsympathetic. back
6
In my discussion of Hitchcock and Welles below, I go into a little more deeply
into the ramifications of Cassavetes' avoidance of visionary stylistics. back
7
In the second divorce scene, the judge, the lawyers, Jack, Sarah, and daughter
Debbie jockey for place and position in a quick, glancing emotional dance with
each other as they decide whether Debbie should wait inside the hearing room,
outside in the lobby, on the father's side of the table, or the mother's. In
the Las Vegas scene with the hookers, there are more "shifts" and
"slides" of position (both literally and imaginatively), in one
location (the front seat of a car) and two minutes of screen time than there
are in other entire films. back
8
What would a film criticism look like that understood this sense of meaning in
motion? One can only surmise that it would look quite different from what is
now practiced in so-called "advanced" circles of film commentary
(particularly as conducted by David Bordwell and other formalist critics).
Rather than translating a work into a series of static structures–semiotic
conventions, image patterns, and mythopoetic references–criticism needs to
find a way to talk about the ways meaning boils over any attempt to contain it
within such abstractions, the ways it slips out from under our efforts to fix
it. back
9A
Woman Under the Influence provides
a vivid illustration of the process-quality of Cassavetes’ work. Nick and
Mabel Longhetti merely run a course of events in the time of the narrative. Or
consider the way scenes and interactions are structured in Faces deliberately
to avoid clarifying (that is to say, simplifying) resolutions. Cassavetes' goal
is to prevent characters'
relationships from congealing into abstract positions. The scene between
Richard and Freddy and Jeannie that I already mentioned at the beginning of Faces goes
nowhere in the course of its fifteen minutes of screen time, just at they go
nowhere with each other. In The
Killing of a Chinese Bookie, Cosmo's relationship with his girlfriend Rachel
and her mother Betty stays stimulatingly unresolved throughout the movie. back
10
Another aspect of Cassavetes' narrative "over-all" handling is his
democratic equality of treatment of the various characters–his abandonment of
star-system photographic and narrative hierarchies in his scenes. back
11
It is not too much to argue that Hollywood filmmaking (including the work of
Welles and Hitchcock) is essentially "Romantic" in ways that
Cassavetes declines to be. Rejecting one of the premises of most post-Romantic
art, to return to what might almost be called an Elizabethan (or in cinematic
terms: a Renoirian) aesthetic, Cassavetes tells us that states of consciousness
matter only insofar as they are translatable into forms of practical
interaction. (Hitchcock and Welles tell us the opposite: that the truest part
of us can never be spoken in society, and that our visions and imaginations are
the most important part of us.) Apart from the group, the individual has no
existence. States of subjectivity are of no more expressive importance in life
than dreams are. Not only must the imagination be expressed socially, but that
expressive struggle is the greatest joy and challenge of life. (A Woman Under
the Influence and Love Streams are Cassavetes' clearest
statements of this credo.) back
My Speaking the Language of Desire
(New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 81-86, 156-157 and 234-235
goes into much more detail on the difference between a cinema based on the
cultivation of subjectivity and metaphoric transformations of experience and
one devoted to practical, social, temporal expression.
12
For slightly fuller discussions of what I would call "the improvisory
imperative" in Cassavetes' work, see my "Waking up in the Dark,"
The Alaska Quarterly Review, Volume
8, Numbers 3 and 4 (Spring 1990) and "Complex Characters," Film
Comment, May-June, 1989. back
13
This is the lesson that Minnie must learn in the course of Minnie and Moskowitz.
As someone who has gone through a series of disastrous relationships with men,
she has to find the courage to open herself
to a new relationship in a world without guarantees. The doom of characters
like Zelmo and Morgan in the film is that they can't break their patterns. They
can't leave their pasts, their prefabricated routines, their fears and memories
behind long enough to make a future possible. back
Excerpts from
Ray Carney’s award–winning 1990 Kenyon Review John Cassavetes
memorial
essay appear above. This piece was co–winner of the “Best Essay of
the Year by an Younger Author Award.” Only the beginning and the
conclusion of the essay are printed here. To obtain the complete essay,
purchase Ray Carney’s Collected Essays on the Life and Work of John
Cassavetes
Collected Essays on the Life
and Work of John Cassavetes (a packet of essays by Ray Carney previously
published in magazines, newspapers, and periodicals and now unavailable).
Approximately 130 pages. $15.00
A
loose-leaf bound packet of Ray Carney's writings on John Cassavetes is specially
available only through this web site. The packet has
the complete texts of program notes and essays about Cassavetes that were
published by Ray Carney in a variety of film journals and general interest
periodicals between 1989 and the present. It contains more than fifteen
separate pieces—including the keynote essay commissioned by the Sundance
Film Festival for their retrospective of Cassavetes' work at the time of his
death as well as the memorial piece on Cassavetes awarded a prize by The Kenyon Review as "one
of the
best essays of the year by a younger author."
Not
for sale in any store. Available exclusively on this web site for $15.00 under
the same credit payment terms or at the same mailing address as the other
offers.
Other Cassavetes material available directly from Ray Carney:
Ray Carney, Cassavetes on
Cassavetes (Faber and Faber in London, and Farrar, Straus and Giroux
in New York), copiously illustrated, paperback, approximately 550 pages.
Available directly from the author for $25.
Cassavetes
on Cassavetes is the autobiography John Cassavetes never lived to
write. It tells an extraordinary saga – thirty years of film history, chronicling
the rise of the American independent movement – as it was lived by
one of its pioneers and one of the most important artists in
the history of the medium. The struggles, the triumphs, the crazy dreams
and frustrations are all here, told in Cassavetes' own words. Cassavetes
on Cassavetes tells the day-by-day story of the making of some of
the greatest and most original works of American film. —from the "Introduction:
John Cassavetes in His Own Words"
Click
here to access a detailed description of the book and a summary of
the topics covered in it.
* * *
Cassavetes on Cassavetes is
available in the United States through Amazon and Barnes
and Noble, and in England through Amazon (UK), Faber
and Faber (UK). It is also available at your local bookseller, or, for
a limited time, directly from the author (in discounted, specially autographed
editions) for $25 via this web site. See
below for information how to order this book directly from this web site
by money order, check, or credit card (using PayPal).
* * *
Ray Carney, The Films of John
Cassavetes: Pragmatism, Modernism, and the Movies
(New York and Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 48 illustrations,
paperback, 322 pages. This book is available directly from the author for $20.
The Films of John Cassavetes tells the inside story of the making
of six of Cassavetes' most important works: Shadows, Faces, Minnie
and Moskowitz, A Woman under the Influence, The Killing
of a Chinese Bookie, and Love Streams.
With the help of almost fifty previously
unpublished photographs from the private collections of Sam Shaw and Larry
Shaw, and excerpts from interviews with the filmmaker and many of his closest
friends, the reader is taken behind the scenes to watch the maverick independent
at work: writing his scripts, rehearsing his actors, blocking their movements,
shooting his scenes, and editing them. Through words and pictures, Cassavetes
is shown to have been a deeply thoughtful and self-aware artist and a profound
commentator.
This iconoclastic, interdisciplinary
study challenges many accepted notions in film history and aesthetics. Ray
Carney argues that Cassavetes' films participate in a previously unrecognized
form of pragmatic American modernism that, in its ebullient affirmation of
life, not only goes against the world-weariness and despair of many twentieth-century
works of art, but also places his works at odds with the assumptions and
methods of most contemporary film criticism.
Cassavetes' films are provocatively
linked to the philosophical writing of Ralph Waldo Emerson, William James,
and John Dewy, both as an illustration of the artistic consequences of a
pragmatic aesthetic and as an example of the challenges and rewards of a
life lived pragmatically. Cassavetes' work is shown to reveal stimulating
new ways of knowing, feeling, and being in the world.
This book is available through Amazon, Barnes
and Noble, your local bookseller, or, for a limited time, directly from
the author (in discounted, specially autographed editions). See
below for information how to order this book directly from the author by money
order, check, or credit card.
Clicking on the above links will
open a new window in your browser. You may return to this page by closing
that window or by clicking on the window for this page again.
* * *
For reviews and critical responses
to The Films of John Cassavetes, please click
here. (Use your back button to return.)
* * *
Ray Carney, John Cassavetes:
The Adventure of Insecurity
(Boston: Company C Publishing, 1999), 25 illustrations, paperback, 68 pages.
This book is available directly from the author for $15.
|
-
New essays
on all of the major films, including Shadows, Faces, Husbands, Minnie
and Moskowitz, A Woman Under the Influence, The Killing
of a Chinese Bookie, Opening Night, and Love Streams
-
New, previously
unknown information about Cassavetes' life and working methods
-
A new,
previously unpublished interview with Ray Carney about Cassavetes
the person
-
Statements
about life and art by Cassavetes
-
Handsomely
illustrated with more than two dozen behind-the-scenes photographs
Click
here to access a detailed description of the book.
|
This
book is available through Amazon, Barnes
and Noble, your local bookseller, or, for a limited time, directly from
the author (in discounted, specially autographed editions). See
below for information how to order this book directly from the author by
money order, check, or credit card.
Clicking on the above links will
open a new window in your browser. You may return to this page by closing
that window or by clicking on the window for this page again.
* * *
Ray Carney, Shadows (BFI
Film Classics, ISBN: 0-85170-835-8), 88
pages. This book is available directly from the author via this
web site for $20.
"Ray Carney is a tireless
researcher who probably knows more about the shooting of Shadows than
any other living being, including Cassavetes when he was alive, since Carney,
after all, has the added input of ten or more of the films participants
who remember their own unique versions of the reality we all shared."Maurice
McEndree, producer and editor of Shadows
"Bravo! Cassavetes is fortunate to have such a diligent champion. I am absolutely dumbfounded by the depth of your research into this film.... Your appendix...is a definitive piece of scholarly detective work.... The Robert Aurthur revelation is another bombshell and only leaves me wanting to know more.... The book movingly captures the excitement and dynamic Cassavetes discovered in filmmaking; and the perseverance and struggle of getting it up there on the screen."Tom Charity, Film Editor, Time Out magazine
John Cassavetes Shadows is
generally regarded as the start of the independent feature movement in America.
Made for $40,000 with a nonprofessional cast and crew and borrowed equipment,
the film caused a sensation on its London release in 1960.
The film traces the lives of three
siblings in an African-American family: Hugh, a struggling jazz singer, attempting
to obtain a job and hold onto his dignity; Ben, a Beat drifter who goes from
one fight and girlfriend to another; and Lelia, who has a brief love affair
with a white boy who turns on her when he discovers her race. In a delicate,
semi-comic drama of self-discovery, the main characters are forced to explore
who they are and what really matters in their lives.
Shadows ends with the
title card "The film you have just seen was an improvisation," and
for
decades was hailed as a masterpiece of spontaneity, but shortly before Cassavetes death,
he confessed to Ray Carney something
he had never before revealed – that much of the film was scripted. He told him that it was shot twice and that
the scenes in the second version were written by him and Robert Alan Aurthur,
a professional Hollywood screenwriter. For Carney, it was Cassavetes Rosebud.
He spent ten years tracking down the surviving members of the cast and crew,
and piecing together the true story of the making of the film.
Carney takes the reader behind
the scenes to follow every step in the making of the movie – chronicling
the hopes and dreams, the struggles and frustrations, and the ultimate triumph
of the collaboration that resulted in one of the seminal masterworks of American
independent filmmaking.
Highlights of the presentation are
more than 30 illustrations (including the only existing photographs of the
dramatic workshop Cassavetes ran in the late fifties and of the stage on
which much of Shadows was shot, and a still showing a scene from the "lost" first version of the film); and statements by many of the film's actors
and crew members detailing previously unknown events during its creation.
One of the most interesting and original aspects of the book is a nine-page Appendix that "reconstructs" much of the lost first version of the film for the first time. The Appendix
points out more than 100 previously unrecognized differences between the
1957 and 1959 shoots, all of which are identified in detail both by the scene
and the time at which they occur in the current print of the movie (so that
they may be easily located on videotape or DVD by anyone viewing the film).
By comparing the two versions, the
Appendix allows the reader to eavesdrop on Cassavetes' process of revision
and watch his mind at work as he re-thought, re-shot, re-edited his movie.
None of this information, which Carney spent more than five years compiling,
has ever appeared in print before (and, as the presentation reveals, the
few studies that have attempted to deal with this issue prior to this are
proved to have been completely mistaken in their assumptions). The comparison
of the versions and the treatment of Cassavetes' revisionary process is definitive
and final, for all time.
This book is available
through University
of California Press at Berkeley, Amazon, Barnes
and Noble, and in England through Amazon (UK)
and The
British Film Institute. For a limited time, the Shadows book is
also available directly from the author (in discounted, specially autographed
editions) via this web site. See
information below on how to order this book directly from the author by money
order, check, or credit card (PayPal).
Clicking on the above
links will open a new window in your browser. You may return to this page
by closing that window or by clicking on the window for this page again.
For reviews and critical
responses to Ray Carney's book on the making of Shadows, please click
here.
Ray Carney, American
Dreaming: The Films of John Cassavetes and the American Experience (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985). $20.
[From the original
dust jacket description:] John Cassavetes is known to millions of filmgoers
as an actor who has appeared in Rosemary’s Baby, The Dirty
Dozen, Whose Life Is It, Anyway?, Tempest, and many
other Hollywood movies. But what is less known is that Cassavetes acts in
these films chiefly in order to finance his own unique independent productions.
Over the past 25 years, working almost entirely outside the Hollywood establishment,
Cassavetes has written, directed, and produced ten extraordinary films. They
range from romantic comedies like Shadows and Minnie and Moskowitz to
powerful, poignant domestic dramas like Faces and A Woman Under
the Influence to unclassifiable emotional extravaganzas like Husbands, The Killing
of a Chinese Bookie, and Gloria.
This is the first book-length
study ever devoted to this controversial and iconoclastic filmmaker. It is
the argument of American Dreaming that Cassavetes has single-handedly
produced the most stunningly original and important body of work in contemporary
film. Raymond Carney examines Cassavetes’ life and work in detail,
traces his break with Hollywood, and analyzes the cultural and bureaucratic
forces that drove him to embark on his maverick career. Cassavetes work is
considered in the context of other twentieth-century forms of traditional
and avant-garde expression and is provocatively contrasted with the
better-known work of other American and European filmmakers.
The portrait of John
Cassavetes that emerges in these pages is of an inspiringly idealistic American
dreamer attempting to beat the system and keep alive his dream of personal
freedom and individual expression – just as the characters in the films
excitingly try to keep alive their middle-class dreams of love, freedom,
and self-expression in the hostile emotional and familial environments
in which they function. His films are chronicles of the yearnings, desires,
and frustrations of the American dream. He is America’s truest historian of the inevitable conflict between the ideals and the realities of the American experience.
"By
far the most thorough, ambitious, and far-reaching criticism of Cassavetes'
work has been accomplished by Raymond Carney, currently Professor of
Film and American Studies at Boston University. Carney wrote the first
book-length study of Cassavetes, who languished in critical obscurity
until the publication of Carney's American Dreaming in 1985....
In Carney's view, to settle the accounts of our lives, to decide once
and for all, is, for Cassavetes, to tumble headlong into the abyss
of nonentity upon which we incessantly verge. Carney argues that Cassavetes
has re-invented the craft of filmmaking in ways that drastically alter
our casual habits of film viewing. To adapt William James' terminology
(which Carney is indebted to) Cassavetes' works are concerned less
with the events and finished episodes that make up the 'substantive' parts
of our experience and more with the moments of insecurity, the 'transitive' slippages
during which our habitual strategies for understanding and stabilizing
our relationships with ourselves and others cease to function in any
useful way.... Carney's work with Cassavetes, placed within the context
of his later book, American Vision, on Frank Capra, can be viewed as
an attempt not only to further the understanding of American film,
but to forge a new synthesis of understanding in American Studies,
making his critical works valuable not only to film scholars, but to
students of American culture generally." — Lucio
Benedetto, PostScript Magazine
American
Dreaming: The Films of John Cassavetes and the American Experience (Berkeley,
California: University of California Press, 1985), the first book ever
written about Cassavetes' life and work, in any language. It has long
been out of print but is now newly available through this web site for
$20 in a Xerox of the original edition. You may order with a credit
card through PayPal or through the mail with a money order. See below.
* * *
In addition, two
packets of Ray Carney's writings on John Cassavetes (material not included
in any of the above books) are also specially available through this web
site. These packets contain the texts of many of his notes and essays about
the filmmaker. Each packet is available for $15.00.
Collected
Essays on the Life and Work of John Cassavetes (a packet of
essays by Ray Carney previously published in magazines, newspapers,
and periodicals and now unavailable). Approximately 130 pages. A loose-leaf
bound packet of Ray Carney's writings on John Cassavetes is specially
available only through this web site. The packet has the complete texts
of program notes and essays about Cassavetes that were published by
Ray Carney in a variety of film journals and general interest periodicals
between 1989 and the present. It contains more than fifteen separate
pieces – including the keynote essay commissioned by the Sundance
Film Festival for their retrospective of Cassavetes' work at the time
of his death as well as the memorial piece on Cassavetes awarded a
prize by The Kenyon Review as "one of the best essays of the
year by a younger author."
This packet also
contains the text Ray Carney contributed to the "Special John
Cassavetes Issue" of PostScript edited
by Ray Carney, including "A Polemical Introduction: The Road Not
Taken," "Seven Program Notes from the American Tour of the
Complete Films: Faces, Minnie and Moskowitz, Woman
Under the Influence,
The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, and Love Streams." The Collected
Essays on the Life and Work of John Cassavetes is not for
sale in any store, and available exclusively on this web site for $15.00
under the same credit payment terms or at the same mailing address
as the other offers.
***
"Special
Issue: John Cassavetes." PostScript: Essays in Film and
the Humanities Vol. 11 Number 2 (Winter 1992). Guest editor:
Ray Carney $10.
Handsomely illustrated.
113 double-column pages (50,000 words).
A memorial tribute
to the life and work of John Cassavetes. Essays by Ray Carney, George
Kouvaros, Janice Zwierzynski, and Carole Zucker. Interviews with Al
Ruban and Seymour Cassel by Maria Viera. A history of the critical
appreciation of Cassavetes' work and a bibliography of writing in English
by Lucio Benedetto. The issue is illustrated with more than 40 behind-the-scenes
photos of Cassavetes and his actors and contains many personal statements
by him about his life and work.
This issue includes
eight essays by Ray Carney about Cassavetes' life and work: "A
Polemical Introduction: The Road Not Taken," and "Seven Program
Notes from the American Tour of the Complete Films, about Faces, Minnie
and Moskowitz, Woman Under the Influence, The Killing
of a Chinese Bookie, and Love Streams." But note
that Ray Carney's contributions to the special Cassavetes issue of PostScript magazine
are also available as part of the packet, The Collected Essays
on the Life and Work of John Cassavetes, which contains many other
pieces by Prof. Carney as well. The Collected Essays packet is listed separately above at a price of $15. But if you would like a Xerox copy
of the entire PostScript magazine issue (which includes the
other additional material by the other authors listed above), the PostScript issue
is available separately for $10. You may order it with a credit card
through PayPal or through the mail with a money order. See the instructions
below.
***
In addition, a packet
comparing the two versions of Shadows is available: A
Detective Story – Going Inside the Heart and Mind of the Artist: A Study of Cassavetes' Revisionary
Process in the Two Versions of Shadows. Available direct from the author
through this site for $15.
This packet contains the following
material (most of which was not included in the BFI Shadows book):
- An introductory essay about the
two versions of the film
- A table noting the minute-by-minute,
shot-by-shot differences in the two prints. (In the British Film Institute
book on Shadows, this table appears in a highly abridged, edited
version, at less than half the length and detail presented here.)
- A conjectural reconstruction
of the shot sequence in the 1957 print
- A shot list for the 1959 re-shoot
of the film
- The credits exactly as presented
in the film (including typographical and orthographical vagaries indicating
Cassavetes' view of the importance of various contributors)
- An expanded and corrected credit listing that includes previous uncredited actors and appearances (e.g. Cassavetes in a dancing sequence; Gena Rowlands in a chorus girl sequence; and Danny Simon and Gene Shepherd in the nightclub sequence)
- Notes about the running times
of both versions and information about dates and places of early screenings
- A bibliography of suggested additional
reading (including a note about serious mistakes in previous treatments
of the film by other authors)
Very little of this
material was included in the BFI book on Shadows due to limitations
on space. This 85-page (25,000 word) packet is not for sale in any store
and is available exclusively through this site for $15.
***
The five books, two packets,
and issue of PostScript magazine may be obtained directly from the author, by using the Pay Pal Credit
Card button below, or by sending a check or money order to the address below.
However you order the book or books, please provide the following information:
- Your name and address
- The title of the book you are
ordering
- Whether you would like an inscription
or autograph on the inside front cover
Checks or money orders may be mailed
to:
Ray Carney
Special Book Offer
College of Communication
640 Commonwealth Avenue
Boston University
Boston, MA 02215
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