We walk together. Sleep,

so sweetly, licks our feet;

and everything shifts about in pallid

unsugared renunciations.

We walk together. Dead

souls, the ones that, like us,

passed through love,

with sick, opal steps

come out in their severe mourning

and undulate in us.

Beloved, let us go to the fragile

brink of a large mound of earth.

The wing goes in anointed oil,

and in purity. But a blow,

as it falls I don’t know where,

hones from each tear

a hostile tooth.

And a soldier, a great soldier,

wounds as epaulets,

takes heart in the heroic afternoon,

and at his feet displays amid laughter,

like a loathsome rag,

the cerebrum of Life.

We walk together, very close together,

Light victorious, faltering footstep;

we walk together through the lilac

mustards of a cemetery.

was sitting on my balcony ledge smoking a cig, and felt almost so slightly the vibrations on the ground set off by a motorcycle driving by down the street below… almost forgetting how nice it is to be in the present… and in the present i am sitting on a tarmac

On August 2008, a gallery in Melbourne showcased a series of erotic film promotional posters from Japan spanning from the 60s to 80s. These colourful and intricately designed posters gave Melbournians a glance at the pinku eiga (pink film), a genre of feature film in Japan whose main draw is its softcore pornographic content.  Fast forward to 2009: for the first time, the Melbourne International Film Festival showcased a series of Japanese film under the title ‘Eros + Massacre’, of which many were produced by pink film studios in the 60s and 70s. The exhibition of these posters and films brings forth an alternate history of Japanese cinema, one populated with flirtations with pornography, misogyny and violence. This is deeply contrasting to the dominant articulated moods of Japan national cinema as represented by auteurs such as Ozu and Kurosawa. However, in Japan’s domestic context, the pink film industry is an extensive and common phenomenon that functions as a cog within the wider film industry.

Sharp defines the pink film as “an independently-produced movie, shot on 35mm film by professional or semi-professional casts and crews, whose main lure is its sexual content” (2008, p. 9). While many pink films, especially in its earlier developmental stage, are produced by independent studios, the term independent should be used carefully as the industry itself rose from the dynamics of the major studios, which also appropriated this genre into mainstream production. In this essay, I shall explore the pink film industry to discuss the industrial and cultural dynamics that resulted in its existence, spurred its development, hindered its growth, and the manoeuvres initiated to ensure its sustainability. I shall not simply fixate my discussion on the sustainability of the pink film industry, but illustrate how its functions sustain the wider film industry. This historical analysis will lead to a summary of the current pink film industry in Japan and its entrance into the global arena. To end off, I shall discuss if it is worth sustaining this industry within its current dynamics.

The industrial circumstances that resulted in the formation of the pink film industry are commonly attributed to the crisis in the film industry as a result of the rise in television technology and viewership in the 60s. As Sharp states, “By 1965, the new technology had infiltrated 60% of the nation’s homes, a figure that would rise to 95% by 1970” (2008, p. 45). This in turn was met with a decline in cinema attendance, in which 1,014 million in 1960 plunged to 373 million in 1965 and 174 million in 1975 (ibid). This is in high contrast to the 1950s, commonly termed as the golden age of Japanese cinema, in which “1.13 billion people went to the movies” (Domenig, 2004, par. 11).

In terms of the quality of image and experience, it could be said that cinematic technology has an advantage, as large screens and sound systems enable more engaging viewership. However, a difference between television and cinema is that the latter is a more social experience. Following this statement, it becomes contingent to position the impact of television within the cultural development in Japan that gradually integrates itself within capitalistic flows. As the Japanese become more infused into capitalistic logic, the collective consciousness demands a higher degree of privatisation, of which television steps in. Williams positions television as an “inferior kind of cinema,” but also acknowledges that “most people have adapted to this inferior visual medium, in an unusual kind of preference for an inferior immediate technology, because of the social complex—and especially that of the privatised home—within which broadcasting, as a system, is operative” (1990, p. 22).

Within this climate, major studios went into crisis while many independent studios sprung out to capitalise on the business environment. Thus, it could be said that a crisis in sustainability in the major film studios resulted in a deterritorialisation that enables smaller companies to sustain itself. The first documented pink film, Flesh Market (Kobayashi, 1962), was released by Okura Eiga, which was formed by Shintoho’s former president after the major company’s collapse in 1961. This film was profitable due to its no-frills budget and its transgressive appeal, in which much publicity was generated when its screening was interrupted by the Metropolitan Police, resulting in the circulation new less offensive print. Its success spurred the emergence of an array of independent studios that dedicated their output into a similar format.

Soon after, the output of pink film increased: “Twenty four such films were produced in 1963; sixty five in 1964; and two hundred and thirteen in its peak year of 1965, after which the figure dropped off slightly” (Sharp, 2008, p. 47). Prominent pink film production companies within this decade were Aoi Eiga, Roppo Eiga, World Eiga, KPC, Hoei etc. There were also many unregistered production companies that directors set up “because pink film distributors will not sign contracts with individuals, and in fact are financed by the distributors, not by the company itself” (ibid, p. 53).

In its earlier stages, pink films were “released to standard cinemas to fill up shortfalls in theatre schedules due to the waning output of the majors” (Sharp, 2008, p. 53). This is a rupture in the vertical integration of the studio system, in which the waning output from the major production companies enabled independent productions to seep into the distribution and exhibition circuit. Soon, these independent companies begun to develop their own system of distribution and exhibition. While these systems were developed in response to the dominance of the majors’ vertical intergration, they were nevertheless informed by its approaches, with the difference being that a larger number of companies were consolidated for its efforts. For example Okura brought together a network of contractor cinemas to form the OP chain, which distributed the film of Aoi Eiga, Roppo Eiga, World Eiga etc. As the OP chain became more centralised, another independent production company, Kokuei, formed the dokuritsu chen, or ‘independent chain’, “which distributed its own films along with those of Nichiei and the new Shintoho” (ibid, p. 53). Soon, the solidification of the pink film circuit resulted in the establishment of specialised adult film theatres, in which hour long pink films are shown in triple bills.

Film censorship in Japan is also a major factor in the emergence and conventions of the pink film industry. It is useful to compare the industry with other exploitation film markets overseas. Katz defines exploitation films as “Films made with little or no attention to quality or artistic merit but with an eye to a quick profit, usually via high-pressure sales and promotion techniques emphasizing some sensational aspect of the product” (1979, p. 396). In particular, the sensational aspects of these film products are often that of violence and sex. It pushes the boundaries, much in an outlandish manner, that guide the current standards of decency. The emergence of such genres were often a result of relaxed censorship laws. For example, the establishment of a film ratings system in Hong Kong in 1988, which included a ‘Category III’ rating for adult films, resulted in a rapid proliferation of softcore pornographic exploitation films such as the Sex and Zen cycle. Similarly in Australia, the introduction of the R rating in 1971 resulted in a wave of exploitation cinema that is commonly known as Ozploitation. In Japan, pink films fall under the R-18 category which restricted viewing to adults over 18 years of age. Thus, this is a cultural deterritorialisation, in which the western liberalisation of sexuality seeped into Japan’s collective consciousness, resulting in the proliferation of libidinal sexual representations in the media.

It is a common statement that independent studios, being less tied to the general market, are at the forefronts of innovation that is indeed necessary for sustaining the film industry. This is the case for the pink film phenomenon, in which the innovation of the participating studios involves receptivity towards the liberalisation of sexuality within the occident. As Anderson and Ritchie state, “coupled with the drop in movie attendance,” the sexual freedom witnessed via “international trends in the 1960” which spurred these directors to treat “sexual themes and scenes with increasing directness,” resulted and “encouraged the development of another new genre, the pink film” (1982, p. 454). Thus, in fully exploiting the R-18 category, the pioneers of pink film could be considered entrepeneurs in its most basely transgressive connotations.

Nevertheless, Erin, the committee that oversees the mostly self-censorship regulatory aspects of the Japan film industry, maintains a strict censorship code that guides even the R-18 category. There are explicit rules such as the zero-tolerance for any displays of pubic hair and genitals. In a way, together with the generic production requirements, censorship requirements worked to create a distinct signature to the pink film. As Macias notes, “The possibility of arrests and lawsuits led to the mastering of techniques that would come to define Japanese adult films: careful camera placement and elaborate shot composition in order to cover up the naughty bits, or optically ‘fogging’ selected portions of the screen (2001, p. 174-175). Furthermore, despite censorship requirements, pink films directors were still able to construct transgressive sexual thematics within its narratives. As Tuck states, “It was under these hybrid conditions that Japanese filmmakers found themselves, encouraged to explore sexual themes while remaining severely restricted in what they could show” (Winter 2007, p. 49). This is indeed one of the qualities of pink films that gives it its distinct appeal.

While television was a cause for the rise of the pink film industry, many pink film directors, nonetheless, begun their careers within the more commercially viable television industry. Television “provided a stable income for fledging filmmakers, but it was an anonymous form of filmmaking and was viewed as a poor second-best to earning a living making ‘real’ movies” (Sharp, 2008, p. 51). Thus, the pink film format functioned as a platform in which aspiring directors were able to make films that are exhibited theatrically, a mark of maturity in their filmmaking careers. Within this trajectory, it is noted that cinema is taken as a more serious and definite art form within the film production industry. Both industries are heavily informed by an economic rationale, but within the pink film format, directors have a greater capacity to fulfil their personal visions even though they were being constrained by certain formulaic content, budget and productivity guidelines that ensure profitability. Harritz states:

The director had full control over the movie, as long as he maintained the following requirements; that the movie 1) had to feature an abundance of sex scenes, 2) had to have an average length of about 60 minutes, 3) had to be shot in 4-6 days on 16 mm or 35 mm and, most importantly, had to be made on a budget of approximately 35.000 $. (2006, par. 16)

In regards to the first point, it could be said that sex as innovation gives way to sex as industrial constraint. Nevertheless, the gaps within these sexual sequences, and indeed, the sexual sequences themselves, considering the creative potentialities in depicting sexuality, becomes an empty canvas for auteuristic input. Thus, the pink film format becomes a means for directors to sustain their creative practice. For directors such as Koji Wakamatsu, who runs Wakamatsu Pro, the pink film format was a means to sustain the possibilities of political critique, to ignite a subversive revolutionary machine. While this is evident in explicit ways within the non-sexual parts of his films, sexuality itself is also invested with revolution through a double sided articulation: on one part it is meant to titillate, while on the other side, its liberalisation becomes synonymous with the political becoming of the subject. In Wakamatsu’s own words: “All in all you can say that our films were underground films with a sexy touch” (cited in Sharp, 2008, p. 79).

Within the late 60s and through the 70s, the major studios acknowledged the commercial viability of the pink film format, and begun appropriating its conventions into their production practices. On 1971, the major studio, Nikkatsu, begun its prolific production of pink films that have been coined as Roman Porno. This term is “derive[d] from the French term roman pornographique (erotic novels),” a strategic representation that “give[s] it a more highbrow cachet against its cheap-jack independent rivals” (Sharp, Dec 4, 2008, par. 6). Within its 17 years of output from 1971 to 1988, 850 titles were released, in which 710 were made directly under Nikkatsu while the others were sub-contract productions by independent studios such as Shishi Pro and ENK (Sharp, 2008, p. 123). Toei, another major studio, also followed this trend by releasing its series of Pinky Violence films in 1971. Even Shochiku who had until then carved an image of wholesomeness in the industry, set up a subsidiary called Tokatsu for the production of pink films. Thus, the pink film format became a means for the sustainability of the Japan Film Industry that was still recuperating from the drop in attendance numbers as a result of the rise in televisual technologies. However, in sustaining themselves, the major studios reterritorialised on the independent pink film studios and their distribution circuits that were booming in the 60s.

Nevertheless, it is the efforts of the majors that enabled a greater legitimacy to the pink film and enabled this format to resonate with the public. Its prominance in the Japan film industry led to various developments that parallels that of the general film market. Sharp states that within the early 70s, on top of a “self-contained distribution network,” there were many “fan publications such as the magazine Seijin Eiga,” as well as “its own star system of pinup girls such as Kazuko Shirakawa, Naomi Tani and Miki Hayashi” (Dec 4, 2008, par. 5). It could be said that at this point, the pink film industry, which has its roots as an economically motivated turn to sexploitation, a sexualised monstrous development that is inherently linked to the sustainability of the wider film industry, emerged into full view and legitamacy, much like the audiences’ delight in witnessing godzilla’s rampage in the city. This is a period in which pink films amounted to the bulk of film output produced within the Japanese film industry with an average of 70% share of the domestic film market (2002, par. 19).

However, it must also be noted that its prominance enabled it to be interwined with the mainstream cannon of cinematic developments and appraisal, much as a result of the quality of many of these productions. Pink films and their directors, scriptwriters and cast members have won awards within the mainstream community. For example, Tatsumi Kumashiro Ichijo’s Wet Lust (1972) won the best director and scripwriter award at the 1972 Kinema Junpo Awards, and Junko Miyashita won the Best Actresss category at the 1979 Hochi Film Award.

Audiences became more stratified and targeted as the general audience of the golden age of Japanese Cinema dispersed. Pink film became recognised as a format that could guarantee a particular audience base. Kitagawa noted that in the 70s, university students who “were drifting into stagnation after the failure of their social movement” were attracted to pink films as it enabled them to sublimate their desires for freedom of expression (Cited in Kyodo, April 26, 2006, par. 9). The fact that the bulk of pink film audiences were male brings us to another point, that its thematic formulas are based on a psychologically predetermined male fantasy of men inflicting violent acts on unchastised women. Richie emphasises that the pink film taps into a primitive and odepidal fantasy:

Naturally, the eroduction is, like all pornographic productions, masturbatory cinema. The audience is not thinking about women, it is thinking about itself. Watching the most elemental of fantasies being acted out, it is caught, trapped in its own elemental and hence infantile nature (1992, p. 169)

In Richie’s trajectory, the sustainability of the pink film is not based on its aesthetic and cinematic value, but capitalises on a misogynistic male fantasy, hence ensuring a continuous male patronage. It is not certain if this is a delebirate applied stragegy to sustain a male audience or if it simply corresponds to the directors’ implicit unconcious desires, considering that all the known pink film directors are male. There are many appraisals of pink films that reverse Richie’s analysis in almost direct dialectical fashion. For example, Brierly insists that in Roman Porn “films are invariably more sympathetic and sensitive to the female characters, portraying the males in distinctly unflattering terms” (Dec 2, 2007, par. 4). But one can’t begin to imagine how a female audience base might build up, considering the dire and sleazy conditions of the specialized pink film theatres in Japan. It is only more recently, with more respectable exhibitions outside such theatres, and the video/DVD market, in which a female audience base begun to develop. Curiously, in 2008, a women only pink film festival that toured around Korea reversed the male dominated exhibition environment of pink film theatres.

In the 70s and early 80s, economic competition was harnessed as the major studios’ strove to tap into the pink film audience base. In recognising that sexuality is the main draw to the pink film, these studios stuck to the same formula, but begun to diversify the thematics of sexuality. In other words, they continued to transgress cultural boundaries with sexuality as their line of flight. Sado-masochism and many countless depictions and simulations of sexuality begun to appear in pink films. For example, what is termed as Toei’s pinky violence series actually included sub-genres such as ‘Girl Boss’ films,  ‘Women in Prison’ films etc. It must also be noted that with Nakamura’s Beautiful Mystery (1983), a sub-genre of pink films that explored homosexuality came into prominence to target gay consumers. Therefore, within this period, in order to sustain their individual market shares, the major studios begin to diversify the pink film genre and stratify their audience base even further.

In the 80s, the entrance of video cassette recorder technology resulted in the development of the Adult Video (AV) industry, which greatly threatened the sustainability of the pink film industry. In its earlier stages, pink film studios such as Toei and Shin Toho tapped into this new market by simply transferring pink films into shortened versions. Thus, in the beginning, it was not so much a threat as both fields were intermingled as a response to VCR technology.

However, Tadashi Yoyogi, a pink film director, soon recognised the differentiated potential AV had in comparison with pink films, and took advantage of the new mobile and low cost video equipment to spearhead what became to define AV: “the documentary-style exploration of the hidden sex life of Japan by employing real sex and non-professional performers” (Schonherr, 2006, par. 7).  By 1982, the AV industry had on average a equal share of the market with the pink film industry, and would continue to grow over the years to become the dominant form of adult entertainment in Japan (Weisser and Weisser, 1988, p. 29). Nikkatsu attempted to sustain their production of Roman Porno in various ways. It tried to enter the AV market with a ‘Harder than Pink” series,  utilised prominent AV actresses in their productions and focused on more transgressive subgenres such as their S&M series that proved successful in the past. However, they were not able to retain a profitable market share, and with the government introducing stricter censorship laws for theatrical films, they decided to close their Roman Porno line in 1988 (ibid).

In the present, there are only 5 pink film production companies “remaining (Kokuei, Shintoho, Xces, OP and ENK) and the number of venues around 10% of its heyday in the early 70s” (Sharp, n.d., par. 9).While the pink film industry never returned to the production levels of its heydays of the 60s and 70s, it still managed to sustain itself despite the growing competition of the AV market. In terms of product differenciation, it could be said that pink films’ narrative driven eroticism sets it apart from the more ‘in-your-face’ sexual displays of AV. The screenings of the uncensored version of Oshima’s The Realm of the Senses, after the ban was lifted when he won the court case, did not achieve the wide response that was witnessed in the earlier release of the censored version. Cazdyn explains that “the censored and uncensored versions are really two different films, and the uncensored version can never fulfil the expectations that the censored version produced” (2002, p. 194). Similiarly, in comparison to AV, pink films have the extra potential to engage the audience with narrative driven expectations because it does not bare all its fantasies towards an absolute visibility.

Another reason for its sustainability is the entrance of prominent pink film auteurs in the 90s. Kokuei, an active pink film production studio, segregated the works of Kazuhiro Sano, Hisayasu Sato, Toshiki Sato and Takahisa Zeze, under the label of Shitenno (Four Devils), from more generalised pink film fare. What these directors share in common is their focus on better technical production, avant-garde sensibilities, a reintroduction of socio-political thematics and their personal creative visions. In the 21^st century, another cluster of pink film directors are promoted as the Shichifukujin (Seven Lucky Gods).

The films of these auteurs were exhibited, on top of the specialised pink film theatres, in more respectable arthouse venues and environments such as the prestegious Athenee Francais Cultural Centre in Tokyo, and also through the muliplicity of media channels such as satellite and cable TV. The industry also begun to tap into the global field through screenings at international film festivals, a move that also rejuvinated earlier titles of the pink film industry through the curation of pink film retrospectives and historical snapshots of the industry. Internet technology also resulted in a growing international fanbase of websites and forums that elevated the pink film into cult status. Pink films are also disseminated on dvd through an array of companies such as Pink Eiga that releases pink films in the United States.

A more current pink film that was sucessful in the international circuit is Meike’s The Glamorous Life of Sachiko Hanai (2003). It was exhibited in film festivals such as The Singapore Film Festival and San Francisco International Film Festival, and was subsequently released on DVD through Palm Pictures, the company who bought the American distribution rights for the film. However, it must be noted that this film is made specifically with the international arthouse market in mind. It is a remake of an earlier film, by the same director, titled Horny Home Tutor: Teacher’s Love Juice which was released in the domestic market. Thus, tapping into the global market involves a certain recontextualisation of the pink film format.

The present pink film industry functions through a double-sided operation. Efforts in sustainability are located within its penetration of the arthouse and international markets. On the other hand, the domestic environment of specialised pink film theatres is stagnant. Sharp questions the livelihood of the aging proprietors of specialised pink film theatres:

“Once this generation steps aside, it is going to be incredibly difficult to hand over the white elephant that the local seijin eiga theatre has become to any potential entrepreneurs believing there might still be profits in the theatrical sex film” (2008, p. 338)

If the number of theatrical venues decreases, so will the production companies. While the pink film solidified into a genre due to its specific production requirements in response to the fluctuations of the Japan film industry, it is also gradually becoming a genre that is uprooted from its industrial circumstances. As such, it becomes problematic to talk about the sustainability of the pink film industry, much like it seems absurd to talk about sustaining Westerns and Film Noir in an industrial sense. The pink film format gave us many cinematic jems in its historical course. But many of these films are critically recieved because the creativity inherent in these productions sets them apart from general pink film conventions. It is more useful to treat the pink film format as a platform towards greater cinematic achievements. For example, Yojiro Takita, the director responsible for the Molester Train cycle of pink films, went on to make Departures (2008), which received Best Foreign Film of the Year at the 2009 Academy Awards. What is fascinating about the pink film industry, is that it is in itself a sustainability effort on the part of the Japan film industry. While serving its purpose, it also deconstructed and expanded itself to bring forth potentialities in the cinematic arts.

References

Anderson, J. L. & Richie, Donald. (1982). The Japanese Film: Art and Industry. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Brierly, Dean. (Dec 2, 2007). Odd Obsessions: The Bizarre World of Japanese. Cinema Retro. Retrieved 20 Oct, 2009, from http://www.cinemaretro.com/index.php?/archives/1181-ODD-OBSESSIONS-THE-BIZARRE-WORLD-OF-JAPANESE-EROTICA.html

Cazdyn, Eric. (2004). The Flash of Capital: Film and Geopolitics in Japan. Durham & London: Duke University Press.

Domenig, Roland. (2002). Vital Flesh: The Mysterious World of Pink Eiga. Retrieved 20 Oct, 2009, from http://web.archive.org/web/20041118094603/http://194.21.179.166/cecudine/fe_2002/eng/PinkEiga2002.htm

Domenig, Roland. (2004). The Anticipation of Freedom: Art Theatre Guild and Japanese Independent Cinema. Retrieved 10 Sep, 2009, from http://www.midnighteye.com/features/underground_atg.shtml

Harritz, P. D. (2006). Consuming the Female Body: Pinku Eiga and the Case of Sagawa Issei. In Medias Res, 2(5). Retrieved 20 Oct, 2009, from http://www.medievidenskab-odense.dk/index.php?id=57

Katz, Ephraim. (1979). The International Film Encyclopedia. London: Macmillan.

Kyodo. (April 26, 2006). Porn Closer to Mainstream. The Age. Retrieved 20 October, 2009, from http://www.theage.com.au/news/film/porn-closer-to-mainstream/2006/04/25/1145861341073.html

Macias, P. (2001). Tokyoscope: The Japanese Cult Film Companion. San Francisco: Cadence Books.

Richie, Donald. (1992). A Lateral View: Essays on Culture and Style in Contemporary Japan. Berkeley: Stone Bridge Press.

Schonherr, Johannes. (2006). Company Matsuo and the World of Japanese Adult Video. Retrieved 20 October, 2009, from http://www.midnighteye.com/features/company-matsuo-and-the-world-of-japanese-adult-video.shtml

Sharp, Jasper. (2008). Behind the Pink Curtain. England: FAB Press.

Sharp, Jasper. (Dec 4, 2008). Pink Thrills: Japanese Sex Movies go Global. The Japan Times. Retrieved 20 October, 2009, from http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/ff20081204r1.html

Sharp, Jasper. (n.d.). Erotic Film (Japanese). Retrieved 20 Oct, 2009, from http://www.hkflix.com/xq/asp/infoID.48/qx/info.htm

Tuck, Greg. (Winter, 2007). Sex with the City: Urban Spaces, Sexual Encounters and Erotic Spectacle in Tsukamoto Shinya’s Rokugatsu no Hebi—A Snake of June (2003). Film Studies, 11, 49-60.

Weisser, T. & Weisser, Y. K. (1998). Japanese Cinema Encyclopedia: The Sex Films. Miami: Vital Books.

Williams, Raymond. Television. New York: Routledge.

In labelling Singapore as a ‘cultural desert’ and ‘nanny state’, the government is articulated as an authoritative state that utilises an explicit regime of control, the grooming of subjects through strategic ideological nationalistic rhetoric, in its efforts to strengthen Singapore’s economic and social stability. Perhaps, such charges are valid for the immediate post-industrial years of Singapore’s development, which Kong refers to as a pragmatic developmental state that prioritises economic development above other matters” (2000, p. 6). This is most clear when Dhanabalan, the Minister of Culture in 1983, emphasised that the state has concentrated “on improving the standard of living of Singaporeans,” while “the quality of life in Singapore,” which includes artistic endeavours,” are taken as a secondary and distinct issue (1983, p. 16).

However, the negative labels mentioned above are less reactionary in the present, ever since the cultural or artistic sphere has been targeted as a developmental block within government policy. Within the span of the past few years, the government have pumped in substantial capital towards the development of arts education, infrastructure and assistance schemes. In this essay, firstly, I will analyse the economic-rationale that influences Singapore arts policy under the current rubric of the Creative Industries. Secondly, I will trace the origins of Singapore’s cultural policy and its aims in nationalism, and determine the place of national identity within current policy arrangements. It is my aim to demonstrate that, while Singapore is far from being a cultural desert and that arts policy have indeed increased arts activity, it is still crucial to examine how its developmental trajectories resemble an artificial network build on a desert.

In light of globalised informational flows, technological advancement, and economical competition, the Ministry of Information, Communications and the Arts (MICA) initiated the Creative Industries Development Strategy (CIDS). This is an effort to tap into the opportunities associated with the rapid growth of the Singapore’s creative sector that contributes to an estimate of “between 2.8% to 3.2%” of Gross Domestic Product” in 2002 (ERC, Sep 2002, p. 1). The growth of this cluster from 1986 to 2000 “grew by an average of 17.2 per cent per annum, as compared to average annual GDP growth of 10.5 per cent” (MICA, 2003, p. 54). Thus, the creative sector is singled out as a contingent area of development due to its increasing economic viability.

The definition of the creative sector in CIDS is based on Florida’s definition of the creative class that “includes people in design, education, arts, music and entertainment, whose economic function is to create new ideas, new technology and/or creative content” (Florida, 2006, p. 8). A more systematic rendering initiated in the CIDS renders it into three broad clusters: Arts and Culture, which consists of performing arts, visual arts etc; Design, which consists of advertising, architecture etc; and Media, which consists of broadcast, film and media etc. This is supported by three corresponding initiatives: Renaissance City 2.0 that aims “to develop Singapore into a highly innovative and multi-talented global city for the arts”; Design Singapore that aims to “establish Singapore as Asia’s leading hub for design excellence”; and Media 21 that aims to “develop a thriving media ecosystem” (MICA, n.d., par. 7). The convergence of these three clusters through “convergence, customization, collaboration and networks”, and its directed contribution to the economy forms an ecology of Singapore’s creative industries (Cunningham, 2002, p. 59).

In citing examples of successful artistic milieus such as the rise of Renaissance Art in Florence under the patronage of the Medici family, Sanyal argues, “Art is not the result of unregulated bohemianism but the result of patronage” (2006, p. 8). A contingent issue that arises with the increased governmental patronage, the structuring of the creative industries, is concerned with the use-value and practicality of a top-down approach. There is a split between an understanding of artistic production as organic process and it being a result of governmental intervention.

One initiative sparked off by the Renaissance City scheme is the emergence of an arts hub/district within the central business district. In an interview in the Straits Times, William Lim, a prolific architect and urban theorist states, “I’m not sure you can do an arts hub deliberately. These things have to grow on their own energy.” (Cited in Tan, 4 Feb 2009, par. 20) Furthermore, the high rentals within the arts district facilitate the growth, other than national museums, of art entities with sufficient capital within the capitalistic economy. This disadvantages minor arts organisations and communities. He elaborates further that for creativity to thrive, the government should draw inspiration from the “chaotic order” of notorious districts such as Geylang, the bustling and hectic red-light district, to create “spaces of indeterminacy” for artistic production (ibid, par. 10-11). Thus, Lim transverse the dichotomy of control and spontaneity by not simply rejecting the use-value of governmental intervention, but gesturing that arts and cultural policies should be sensitive towards the experimental and radical nature of creativity, which thrives on the authenticity associated spontaneous communitarian organisation that might not fit into the government’s obsession with ‘cleanliness’.

The rationale behind the creative industries is not limited within its designated clusters as it is understood that it “not only contribute towards the economy directly, they also have a powerful, indirect impact on the rest of the economy – by adding style, aesthetics and freshness to differentiate our products and services” (MICA, n.d., par. 3). It is envisioned that the propagation of creativity will engender a healthy transformation and rejuvenation of Singapore’s capitalistic economy, a switch from one-dimensionality to multi-dimensionality that is essential for continuous growth. Thus, the creative industries function as a source and indicator of entrepreneurship within the wider economy, bringing to mind Schumpeter’s theory of Creative Destruction which he describes as an industrial mutation “that incessantly revolutionizes the economic structure from within, incessantly destroying the old one, incessantly creating the new one” (1994, p. 83).

Thus, the CIDS is explicitly utilising the idea of creativity, which was once considered lacking in the nation-state, to engineer success within the late capitalistic economy that departs from traditional modes of production. The integration of artistic endeavours into the economy and governmental patronage of the arts enables greater legitimisation, representation, and output. However, one major concern is the commoditisation of art in which creative diversity becomes reterritorialised into capitalistic logic. The Esplanade, which is considered as Singapore’s art infrastructure par excellence, is a compound that combines a large concert hall, a 2000 seat theatre and smaller venues with a shopping complex. Passion 99.5FM, an arts radio station that was spearheaded in conjunction with the Renaissance City scheme, was shutdown because it was deemed unprofitable in the light of an economic downturn in 2003. As Caust states, “Equating the making of the art with the selling of art undermines the process of the doing” (2003, p. 61).

In order for local artistic productions to tap into the global market, it must, to a certain degree, subscribe to the modes of consumption in the global economy. The hegemonic assertion of English as the de facto language within Singapore’s management of language, much in line with its education policies, influences its management of the creative industries. In a National Day Rally in 1999, then prime minister, Goh Chok Tong, asserted that “since English was the language of technology and international commerce, it was essential that standards should be raised, if Singapore was to attain first-world economic levels” (Cited in Shepherd, 2005, p. 91).

Singapore is a hybrid multi-cultural state that consists of Chinese, Malays, Indians and many other minoritarian races. Similarly, there is a diversity of languages utilised in the creative sector. However, there is a stronger legitimisation of English-based production. In a study of local theatre companies, Chong asserts that the National Arts Council demonstrates that English language companies are given more importance in the arts sector in relation to its funding practices (Chong, 2005, p. 563). Thus, non-English language companies are disadvantaged by a form of traditionalism and oriental outlook asserted on them by the ideology of the creative industries. In this sense, the CIDS’ commoditisation of artistic products results in the hierarchal stratification of difference.

Prior to the 1970s, there were hardly any substantial mentions of culture and the arts by the government. Perhaps, the illuminating potentials of an ideological appropriation of the cultural field towards the purpose nationalistic cohesion resulted in the birth of cultural policy in Singapore. In a 1973 press release, Inche Sha’ari Tadin, then Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister of Culture, stated:

Already many young people are mindlessly aping foreign mannerism. They think that the process of modernisation simply means drug-taking, a-go-go dancing and pornography. Once our youths have adequate cultural anchorage, they will be less prone to these modern excesses (cited in Kong, 2000, p. 9)

 Another significant utterance was made in 1978 by Ong Teng Cheong, then Acting Minister of Culture, who said that cultural policy “allow[s] Singapore’s rich cultural heritage [to] gradually interact and blend into a distinctive Singaporean culture;” to construct “the necessary cultural ballast and to guard against the erosion of traditional norms and values (1978, p. 1). Thus, it is clear that a particular nationalistic identity is being constructed as a means to soothe the transition into Modernity, in which Western cultural lifestyles are taken as a form of decadence, a bad influence on Singaporean citizens. For this purpose, Confucianism is utilised to construct a Singaporean brand of Asian identity. This is drilled in via the local culture/media industry. One simply has to look at Mediacorp’s vast array of local television series during this period to locate strong elements of patriarchal and Confucian familial patterns.

A disparity arises when one compares this trajectory with the current creative industries rhetoric. There is the concern of whether the brand of Singaporean nationalistic identity constructed through the government’s paternalistic approach can coexist with the propagation of creativity within the CIDS model (Leo & Lee, 2004, p. 52). Cohen states that globalisation “hegemoniz[es] nation-states” towards the creation of ‘an exclusive citizenship a defining focus of allegiance and fidelity in favor of overlapping, permeable and multiple forms of identification” (1997, p. 157). In this climate that relates to the free-flowing, paradigm shifting capitalistic creativity propagated by CIDS, the deterritorialisation of nationalism, which contributes to a citizen’s understanding of his/her sense of self, might be reterritorialised through the reinvention and reassertion of nationalism because of the need to articulate identity.

Thus, the nationalism advocated by the government in early cultural policies are updated and reasserted within the framework of the creative industries. The hard-headed paternal and Confucian elements still exist, but are played down within the articulation of a nationalistic Singaporean product. As part of the Media 21 scheme, local content is encouraged within the creative industries through the emphasis of “Singapore Content and Brand” (Media Development Authority, 2002, p. 13). This is asserted as a form of nationalistic dissemination of a distinct Singaporean product towards the global economy that “establishes a reputation for Singapore as a New Asia Creative Hub” (ERC, Sep 2002, p. 2). Through the products of Singapore’s creative clusters, Singapore “mobilize[s] New Asia as a strategy of branding and a form of cultural capital” that is significant from other creative industries “because it incorporates the ideology of Asian values” and positions accumulated cultural capital “as an economic strategy of regional dominance” (Yue, 2006, p. 21).  Difference is contained and absorbed within the New Asian creative economy through “the active citizenship of communitarianism” and “through communitarianism embodied as New Asian capitalist materialism” (ibid, p. 24).

Creative workers of different ideologies and lifestyles are allowed and even encourage in participating in the creative economy. But they are prevented from acquiring power and representation for their belief systems. Creative workers of diverse backgrounds must all express the state ideology of the economically driven projection of the New Asian brand of nationality. This is evident in the government’s administration of the homosexual community in Singapore. In taking about the Renaissance City, former Prime Minster Lee Kuan Yew said:

…they tell me, and anyway it is probably half-true, that homosexuals are creative writers, dancers, et cetera. If we want creative people, then we’ve got to put up with their idiosyncrasies as long as they don’t infect the heartland (Cited in Lim, n. d., p. 9)

An attempt to repeal the anti-gay law in 1997 was rejected despite the government’s ‘acceptance’ of homosexual creative workers and their contribution to the creative industries. Representations of their belief systems in the public sphere are silenced through the homogenising effect of the New Asia rhetoric.

Lee’s statement also reflects the use of the heartlanders category, in contrast to the cosmopolitans that are situated within the creative economy, as a way to combat the transgressive elements that might arise from Singapore’s opening up to the global economy. Webb sums up this ideological strategy in saying, “While the authorities realise that plenty of Singaporeans, dubbed ‘cosmopolitans’, are well travelled, well-educated and open-minded when it comes to new experiences, a large portion of the population- the ‘heartlanders’- remain conservative and resistant to avant-garde art house films or sensational art” (Webb, 2002, p. 59). 

The social field inhabited by the heartlanders is marked with a traditionalism evoked from early cultural policy. The infrastructure and products of the creative economy are catered to the cosmopolitans, to accumulate cultural capital in a bid to position Singapore as a city of global cultural standards and to attract foreign talent who are seen as an asset to the creative industries. Lim observes that the first Singapore Biennale was catered to foreigners and the cosmopolitans, as it was funded under “an umbrella event known as Singapore 2006, which included the International Monetary Fund-World Bank Meetings and related conferences” that were held during the same period (nd., p. 8). The segregated heartlanders reap the benefits of the cosmopolitan’s connectivity with the global market. But they are mostly alienated from the products and cultural implications of the creative industries. As Tan states, “The more privileged in society are equipped with cultural capital to decode, for instance, more challenging art work that is often impenetrable for the less privileged working class” (2008, p. 64)

 It is healthy and authentic when local art forms and communities attempt to express a personal sense of national identity through direct experience. However, such expression might be at odds with the communitarianism advocated within the New Asia regime. For example, Royston Tan’s 15 (2003), a film that portrays ethnic youth gangs residing on the fringes of mainstream society, was met with excessive censorship. The silencing of art forms that challenge the dominant paradigm of a clean and orderly New Asian Singapore is often justified by a consideration for the heartland. Bin Sa’at states that “on issues such as censorship, the idea of the heartlander, this silent majority of conservatives, is summoned, and their reservations will be appropriated to extinguish any tentative sparks towards liberalization” (2002, p. 259). Thus, the government utilises the cosmopolitan/heartlander dichotomy, which is unstable in reality, as a basis of control, as and when the creative economy’s trajectory transgresses its set boundaries.

Lee states, “Boundary markers in politics, mass media and censorship laws have remained” despite the government’s push for greater creativity (June 2004, p. 18). This is particularly true for art forms that deal with political issues that are contradictory to the ruling elite’s ideology. Martin See’s Singapore Rebel (2005), a documentary of Chee Soon Juan, leader of the Singapore Democratic Party and propagator of free speech, was banned and pulled out of the International Film Festival. Furthermore, See was subjected to police investigation and his film equipment was confiscated. Creativity, as articulated under the Creative Industries rubric, is limited by capitalistic and paternal logic. Art forms that explicitly enable audiences to think critically about the dominant order in Singapore are discriminated upon if it contradicts the ruling party. There is hardly any explicit anti-governmental thematics in Singapore Rebel. Rather, it simple portrays a side of Chee that contradicts the government-controlled media’s portrayal of Chee as a fanatic, a trouble-maker.

In this essay, I have analysed Singapore’s implementation of the creative industries model and its management of nationalism within this neo-liberal climate. Firstly, I discussed the homogenising trajectories of the creative industries through the concern of the government’s top-down approach versus spontaneous growth; the use of creativity to rejuvenate the economy; the reterritorialisation of the creative arts into an economic paradigm; and the turn to global modes of consumption that disadvantages minoritarian forms of expression. Secondly, I discussed how the nationalism constructed by early cultural policy translates into the creative industries through the articulation of the New Asia Creative Hub; the absorption of difference through the rhetoric of communitarianism; the strategic assertion of a split between cosmopolitans and heartlanders; and the use of censorship on art forms that are contradictory to governmental ideology.

The creative industries model has definitely increased the legitimacy and output of local art forms. However, it is delimiting that the majority of these art forms are overly commercial. There are examples of progressive art that utilises creativity in a transformative manner to challenge dominant modes of governmental rhetoric. But in order for local art to be critical within the creative industries, it has to be discreet, indirect, albeit like a simulation of political agency. The government’s top-down approach appropriates all forms of creativity into a neo-liberalist economic paradigm in its attempt to shed Singapore’s status as a cultural desert and nanny state. Its micro-management of this transition proves to be a strategically thought-over plan than retains the cohesion of a state-sanctioned brand of nationalism while integrating into the global economic and cultural field. For an authentic local art to flourish within a progressive trajectory, it should exploit the government’s propagation of the creative industries, but do so in a way that exposes and resists the homogenising elements of this seemingly agreeable policy.

 To end off, lets compare the MDA rap with Ah Beng rap (appropriation of techno into localised territoriality? Is this more authentic as an art form?)

References

Caust, Jo. (2003). Putting the “Art” Back into Arts Policy Making: How Arts Policy has been “Captured” by the Economists and the Marketers. The International Journal of Cultural Policy, 9(1), 51-63.

Chong, Terence. (2005). From Global to Local: Singapore’s Cultural Policy and its Consequences. Critical Asian Studies, 37(5), 553-568.

Cohen, R. (1997). Global Diasporas: An Introduction. London: UCL Press.

Cunningham, S. (2002). From Cultural to Creative Industries: Theory, Industry and Policy Implications. Media International Australia. 102, 54-65.

Dhanabalan. (1983). Widening the Cultural Horizons of Singaporeans.  Speeches: A Bi-monthly Selection of Ministerial Speeches, 6(7), 15-17.

ERC Service Industries Subcommittee Workgroup. (Sep, 2002). Creative Industries Development Strategy. Retrieved 1 June, 2009, from http://app.mica.gov.sg/Portals/0/UNPAN011548.pdf

Florida, Richard. (2002). The Rise of the Creative Class: And How it is Transforming Work, Leisure, Community and Everyday Life. New York: Perseus Book Group.

Kong, Lily. (2000). Negotiating Economic and Socio-Cultural Agendas. Retrieved 1 June, 2009, from http://profile.nus.edu.sg/fass/geokongl/geoforpaper.pdf

Kwok, K. W. & Low, K. H. (2001). ‘Cultural Policy and the City-State: Singapore and the “New Asian Renaissance”. In Crane, D., Kawashima, N. & Kawasaki, K. (eds.). Global Culture: media, Arts, Policy and Globalization. New York: Routledge. 149-168.

Lim, Lorraine. (n.d.). Creating a Field of Global Production: Bourdieu and Singapore as Global City of the Arts. Retrieved 1 June, 2009, from http://iccpr2008.yeditepe.edu.tr/papers/Lim_Lorraine.doc

Lim, William. (June 2004). Architecture, Art, Identity in Singapore: Is there Life after Tabula Rasa?. Retrieved 1 June, 2009, from http://www2.tu-berlin.de/fak6/urban-management/arch-id/downloads/ResearchPaperSingapore.pdf

Leo, P. & Lee, T. (2004). Creative Shifts and Directions: Cultural Policy in Singapore. International Journal of Cultural Policy, 10(3), 281-299.

Media Development Authority. (2002). Creative Indiestries Development Strategy: Propelling Singapore’s Creative Economy. Singapore: MITA.

MICA. (2003). Economic Contributions of Singapore’s Creative Industries. Retrieved 1 June, 2009, from http://app.mica.gov.sg/Data/0/PDF/6_MTI%20Creative%20Industries.pdf

MICA. (n.d.). Creative Industries. Retrieved 1 June, 2009, from http://app.mica.gov.sg/Default.aspx?tabid=66

Sa’at, A. B. (2002). Will the Real Minah Jambu Please Stand Up for Singapore?. Forum on Contemporary Art and Society, 1, 256-272.

Sanyal, Sanjeev. (2006). Singapore: The Art of Building a Global City. Retrieved, 1 June, 2009, from http://spp.nus.edu.sg/ips/docs/enewsletter/jan2007/Sanjeev_newsletter_012007.pdf

Shepherd, Janet. (2005). Striking a Balance: The Management of Language in Singapore. Frankfurt: Peter Lang.

Schumpeter, J. A. (1994). Capitalism, Socialism, and Democracy. (5^th Ed.). London and New York: Routledge.

Tan, H. Y. (Feb 4, 2009). Loosen Up and, Let the Energy In. The Straits Times.

Tan, K. P. (2008). Cinema and Television in Singapore: Resistance in One Dimension. Leiden & Boston: Brill.

Yue, Audrey. (2006). The Regional Culture of New Asia: Cultural Governance and Creative Industries in Singapore. International Journal of Cultural Policy, 12(1), 17-33.

Webb. S. (10 Oct, 2002). The Renaissance Starts Here?. The Far Eastern Economic Review, p. 59.

The purpose of copyright law, can be envisioned as a structured framework of guidelines that is established towards maintaining the concepts of authorship, originality and of course, financial return.  It primarily “rests on a principle of ‘natural right’ or ‘natural justice’, namely, that labour provides a principled foundation for property right and that this property right is a natural right” (Loughlan, 1998, p. 12). A second principle that “emphasises the public interest over author’s private interest” is the idea that copyright exists to “contribute to the nation’s economy by reason of its incentive-creating function” (ibid, p. 14). Putting the Capitalistic mechanics aside, the issue of public interest must also be concerned whether copyright law stifles the act of creativity that can function as integrated within the economy in a stronger or lesser degree, as well as outside the field of monetary logic. In order for copyright law to remain positive and useful for the propagation of artistic creativity, it has to be evaluated and reconfigured within the specificity of our present culture: a semiotically saturated, hyper-commoditised global network environment in which consumers and artists alike are bombarded by a kaleidoscopic array of media images, and have greater access to the means of production. What does it mean to be creative, and how productive is it to hold on to classical notions of authorship and originality entrenched in copyright law within such a cultural network?

I will attempt to answer these questions by analysing the contradiction between appropriation in contemporary art forms and copyright law. It is my aim to demonstrate that the lack of consideration for such creative endeavours in copyright law must be addressed in order to account for our present cultural climate and to create avenues that will enable artists to exercise this strategic and timely form of creativity that is crucial for a healthy and evolving arts sector. I will also consider the limitations of a strategy of appropriation, arguing that an acknowledgement of appropriation within fair dealing must be implemented critically to avoid the depthlessness and indifference much associated with postmodernity.

The Consumer as Remix Artist

Firstly, I would like to turn to the general consumer who appropriates copyrighted commodities available in the mass market in a creative way, though not always consciously so, that transforms the context of the appropriated works to communicate personal and newly constructed forms of subjectivity. While such works do not constitute a legitimate artform within the academic and even popular conceptions of art, I still feel the need to account for such practices as in most cases, there is a degree of productive creativity and it is in synch with the idea of a Remix culture that harnesses the creative potentialities of appropriation.

Youtube is a rich source of such material, in which anyone can take many diverse forms of screen footage, sound recordings, and splice them together with easily and cheaply available software, to create their own videos that are not financially motivated. Lessig states that in contrast to RO culture (Read/Only) that consists of the consumption of commodities, are these practices of RW (Read/Write) culture that are beneficial to community and education in the way it encourages solidarity in production and interested-based learning and creation (2008, p. 76-77). However, the copyright owners are often quick in claiming their rights to the appropriated media works, stifling this creative process that has been brought about by the community-based web technology. This process clearly highlights the power relations between the corporate entity and the creative consumer. The capital held by the corporate copyright owner enables them to overpower, through their authority and ‘legitimacy’ in the economy, to bring forth lawsuits or warnings against the often-powerless consumer who engages in RW culture.

While RW culture will exist despite the territorialisations imposed by copyright law, it being a fundamental aspect of spontaneous creativity, Lessig argues that copyright law will stifle RW culture as a form of literacy, making its practitioners criminals and prevent institutions from harnessing the potential of these forms of expressions (ibid, p. 108). The loss of individuality and creativity within the standardisation of a media saturated industry has been an ongoing theoretical concern. Adorno and Horkheimer argue that the oppressive nature of consumption induced by the standardisation of cultural products stuns “the mass-media consumer’s powers of imagination and spontaneity” (2005, p. 35). However, a consumer that participates in RW culture to transform such products refutes this hypothesis and reaffirms an act of creative production that is lost in the act of consumption.

Appropriation in the Arts Sector and the Utilisation Fair Dealing

In the arts industry, artist such as Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, Jeff Koons and Glen Brown, have expressively utilised appropriation as a strategy in conceiving their works of art, resulting in numerous legal complaints, of which, most are settled out of court. While the doctrine of fair dealing allows, to a certain extent, a defence in relation to appropriation, court settlements are often avoided due to the undetermined nature of this defence. For example, a fair dealing can be based on an artist’s intention of parody and satire. However, there are no definite guideline to what constitutes parody and satire. Furthermore, it is also a matter of avoiding the associated legal costs and time that a settlement in court entails.

There are some exceptions such as Rogers vs Koons (1992), in which Jeff Koons appropriated a photograph a black and white photograph of a man and woman holding a line of puppies taken by Art Rogers, and gave it to his assistants to construct a sculpture of similar detail, but with the exception that the puppies are in blue with exaggerated noses and the addition of flowers attached to the man and woman’s hair. Koons’ defense in utilising parody and satire under fair dealing failed at the court found substantial similarity and that he was not commenting on Roger’s work specifically.

In a later case, Blanch vs Koons (1996), Koons appropriated a photograph by Blanch that was featured in Allure magazine, titled Silk Sandals by Gucci, which shows a woman’s bare legs with a dangling Gucci shoe on one foot. In this landmark case, Koons’ lawyer, John Koegal described the artwork as a celebration of “society’s appetites and indulgences, as reflected in and encouraged by a ubiquitous barrage of advertising and promotional images of food, entertainment, fashion and beauty.” (cited in Artnet News, Jan 19 2006, par. 2). Judge Louis L. Stanton accepted the fair dealing defence brought forth by Koons, asserting that the work is transformative and that the appropriated cutup was “”not sufficiently original to deserve much copyright protection.” (ibid, par. 5). However, it is still possible for Allure or Gucci to bring forth a case of copyright violation if it is in their interest. Nevertheless, the outcome of this case reaffirms the legitimacy of appropriation art. But it must be noted that this event occurred only because Koons has substantial capital through his success to engage in legal dealings. This is an affirmative act in the sense that Koons position enables him to challenge copyright law on behalf of the multitude of appropriation artists. However, one successful outcome does little to change the current legality of appropriation, and other artist might still turn to out of court settlements.

Postmodernism and Appropriation

Postmodernism is a buzz word in describing the contemporary cultural climate that one cannot avoid within a discourse on the legitimacy of appropriation art. Within this climate, conceptions of high and popular art collapse into a mishmash of cultural indeterminacy and style.  Lyotard describes situates this climate within post-industrial society, in which “the grand narrative has lost its credibility, regardless of what mode of unification it uses, regardless of whether it is a speculative narrative or a narrative of emancipation” (2004, p. 211). Thus, works of art and the hyper-saturated bombardment of media output that one is exposed to within postmodernity are approached, not within the individualistic conceptions of authorship and originality, but as a regime of signs.

Copyright law is structured to protect material forms of expression. However, within postmodernism appropriation is the paradoxical movement in which the artist attempts to express the currency of postmodernity by perceiving and utilising other material expressions simply as a sign, or rather, in a Baudrillardian sense, a simulation that expresses its lack of expression. Hutcheon propagates the parodic and ironic value of postmodern artf orms, asserting that it is a matter of forming “self-conscious, self-contradictory, self-undermining statement[s]” (1989, p. 1).  This is given representation in the fair use doctrine via parody and pastiche. However, there is also the danger that postmodernist art forms might lapse into a form of depthlessness and indifference. As Jameson states, within postmodernism, “parody finds itself without a vocation; and that strange new thing pastiche slowly comes to take its place” (p. 73). This deptlessness is further heightened through mechanical production within the post-industralisation of late capitalism. For example, in Koons’ appropriation of Roger’s photograph, he contracted a studio to produce four similar copies. Thus, he had no material input other than the idea for the appropriation. While it can be argued that Koons is engaging with mass culture in an attempt to collapse the definition of high art, such practice, nevertheless, represents a form of indifference and arrogance that positions postmodernity as a plateau of affect, a stifling of new forms of expression, of which, the regime of copyright law seems to guard against.

A fair degree of authorship and originality is needed, even within an art of appropriation, for a healthy and evolving culture. However, within copyright law, these two concepts function within the hegemony of a classical Eurocentric articulation. Middleton argues that musicology terminology, as based on an enlightenment tradition, emphasises musical elements such as melody, harmony, tonality which are associated with classical music; while other musical qualities much associated with popular music that are outside this framework, such as rhythm, pitch nuance and gradation suffer from a lack of representation (1990, p. 104). The second set of musical qualities, in with uses of appropriation are common, are often associated with African-American genres such as dub, rap and hip hop. In these traditions, the act of appropriation is taken as a native practice of community based articulation on heritage or its traditional roots through the double act of reference and recontextualisation. The sample is one aspect of these music genres that is brought about by the proliferation of recording technology. For example, rap “has been linked with the prevalence of ‘sampling’: the re-use in new recordings of parts taken, by digital reproductive means, from pre-existing sound recordings and thus also from any music embedded in these recordings” (Barron, 2006, p. 33). The creative product that results from such appropriations are still considered original articulations of the artist concerned, but not in the sense that it becomes a deadlock of property. Rather, it is a form of originality that is open to further recontextualisation, much like a territory with an open door that leads out to creative possibilities in the future.

The entrance and currency of such genres within popular music is primarily an act of appropriation by western culture that functions via a “commodification of difference” that “promoted paradigms of consumption wherein whatever difference the Other inhabits is eradicated, via exchange, by a consumer cannibalism that not only displaces the Other but denies the significance of that Other’s history through a process of decontextualization” (Hooks, 2001, p. 431). Racial politics is another matter that throws back the accusation of appropriation to Western Capitalistic manoeuvres. However, the contingent issue here is that, since these genres have gained a currency within popular music, it becomes crucial to reevaluate copyright’s Eurocentrism to accommodate and give ample representation to such art forms.

Conclusion: Reforming Copyright Law

Lessig sketches out two possible shifts in copyright law in relation to the economy that will enable a healthy RW culture. Firstly, amateur creativity must be free from copyright regulation in the sense that it becomes a matter of free use rather than fair use (2008, p. 254-255). As I have mentioned, such instances are not profit-oriented and are important as a means for the consumer to transcend the passivity of consumption towards healthy and simple artistic expressions. Secondly, Lessig proposes that since “the main function of copyright law is to protect the commercial life of creativity,” and that in most cases “commercial life is over after a very short time,” it then becomes plausible to abolish the automatic extension of copyright and re-establish “an opt-in system of regulation” that “narrowed its protection to works that—from the author’s perspective—needed it” (2008, p. 262-263). This will enable more material expressions to accumulate within the public domain. However, in this paradigm, corporate entities that are insistent on the protection of intellectual property are still able, despite the devaluation of the economic shelf life over time, to extend their copyright plainly as a form of territorial motivation.

The flexibility of the fair use doctrine enables avenues towards new perspectives in its implementation if more appropriation cases are brought forth to challenge the current mindset. However, as I have mentioned, many artist will simply avoid legal proceedings due to its costly and time-consuming nature. As such, appropriation artists who have substantial capital should take the initiative in pushing the current boundaries of the fair use doctrine. Thus, Koons’ insistent disputes over infringement charges are affirmative acts that pave the way for the artistic community’s agency despite charges of depthlessness and commercialism associated with his work. However, I am sceptical of a total acceptance of postmodern appropriation methods within the fair-use doctrine. The concepts of originality and authorship should still be utilised, but not in a Eurocentric sense that completely territorialises futures uses of original works, to resist the form of depthlessness and indifference that is symptomatic in postmodernity. The law should acknowledge and utilise in their case-to-case determinations, how the current cultural climate, the informational superhighway, gives rise to appropriation in artistic production. But this should not become criteria for exemption. As Miller states, “The danger within writing, of taking sampling too far—too much citation, not enough synthesis—leads to the break with the old form. Who speaks through you?” (2004, p. 113). This is a matter of substantial transformation, of projecting new ideas and subjectivities towards future possibilities.

Perhaps, resistance towards the rigidity of copyright law should, firstly, work towards educating and changing people’s mindsets about the usefulness of copyright law. An ongoing discourse on the ineffectiveness of copyright law, its stifling of creativity, should be implemented extensively; it must be understood and propagated by the general public; it must gain a larger field of representation. The creativity involved in appropriation should be demonstrated and reaffirmed in arenas that are safe from the crutches of copyright law in order for its practicality to emerge more widely. An example of such a milieu is the Creative Commons project that “provide free licenses and other legal tools to mark creative work with the freedom the creator wants it to carry, so others can share, remix, use commercially, or any combination thereof” (Creative Commons, n.d., par. 2). It is without doubt, that such resistance, together with the increasing level of digitalization of network society, will result in significant changes in copyrights law’s approach to appropriation in the future.

References

Adorno, T. & Horkheimer, M. (2005). ‘The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception’. in During, Simon. (ed.). The Cultural Studies Reader. (2^nd ed). New York: Routledge. 31-41.

Artnet. (Jan 19, 2006). Koons Wins Copyright Lawsuit. Retrieved,  20 May, 2009, from http://www.artnet.com/magazineus/news/artnetnews/artnetnews1-19-06.asp

Barron, Anne. (2006). Introduction: Harmony or Dissonance? Copyright Concepts and Musical Practice. Social Legal Studies, 15(25), 25-51.

Creative Commons. (n.d.). About. Retrieved, 25 May, 2009, from http://creativecommons.org/about/

Hooks, Bell. (2000). “Eating the Other: Desire and Resistance”. in Durham, M. D. & Kellner, D. M. (eds.). Media and Cultural Studies: Keyworks. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. 424-438.

Hutcheon, Linda. (1989). The Politics of Postmodernism. London & New York: Routledge.

Jameson, Fedric. (1993). ‘Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism’. In Docherty, Thomas. (Ed.). Postmodernism: A Reader. Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf. 62-92.

Lessig, Lawrence. (2008). Remix: Making Art and Commerce Thrive in the Hybrid Economy. London: Bloomsbury Academic.

Loughlan, P. (1998). Intellectual Property: Creative and Marketing Rights. Sydney: LBC Information Services.

Lyotard, Jean-Francois. (2004). ‘The Postmodern Condition’. in Easthope, A. & McGowan, K. (Eds.). A Critical and Cultural Theory Reader. Toronto & Buffalo: University of Toronto Press. 206-217.

Middleton, Richard. (1990). Studying Popular Music. Milton Keynes: Open University Press.

Miller, P. D. aka DJ Spooky. (2004). Rhythm Science. Cambridge: MIT Press.

The history of Italian national cinemas is highly informed by the conceptualisation of Italian Neo-realism as a post-war movement. It attempted to envision a coherent image of Italy that is grounded by the specificity of its ideological message as well as its particular modes of representation. However, shifts in the post-war climate with events such as the onset of the economic miracle in the 1960s threatened to disrupt the homogeneity of a certain national cinematic movement. This is the period in which Federico Fellini rose out of the ashes of Neo-realism to construct a brand of cinema that is informed by the specificity of individualism rather than a shared national consciousness. Fellini became a director that is championed globally as an auteur. Thus, the national identity of Italy is restructured from a national cinematic movement into the currency of the individual artist that is much in line with America’s liberal economy. In this essay, I shall conduct an auteurist study of Fellini and determine its applicability in the articulation of Italian national cinema. Firstly, I shall outline the various thematic concerns and stylistic strategies utilised by Fellini in relation to La Dolce Vita (1960) and 8 ½ (1963). Secondly, I shall explain how aspects of these themes reflect upon the economical and cultural climate it is situated within. It is my aim to demonstrate that formal and structured modes of articulating Italian cinema are necessary in the process of national building. But the homogeneity of such representations is not in line with the ever-shifting cultural landscape. As neorealism failed to attain hegemony as a mode of discourse, so will auteurism lose its currency in the study of Italian national cinemas. To conclude I shall assert that Fellini’s thematic concerns are to be conceptualised as a juncture of dissonance, a destruction of the persistence of the past towards the creative reshaping of the Italian cinema industry.

What is most apparent, upon viewing of a Fellini film, is a brazen spectacular display that bursts out of the colossal scope of its filmic settings. This visual style that is commonly associated with baroque, or what Stubbs refers to as “the style of excess,” assaults the spectator with “images of life that are highly charged with movements, contrasts, textures, colors, and, above all, surprises” (2006, p. 20). A compelling example in La Dolca Vita is the party sequence, a heavily utilised setting in Fellini’s films, that takes place in the roman dome as part of Sylvia’s promotional visit to Rome. The wideness of this semi-indoor space is emphasised through the composition of many layers of characters and objects within a vast depth of field. Once this is established, the camera zooms into Marcello’s narrative in his pursuit of Sylvia on the dancefloor. He showers her with flattering pickup lines, exalting her as a symbol that encompasses every aspect of humanity. With Sylvia being exactly that, Marcello is unable to catch her attention as her focus is on the sensational openness of the setting as signified through her absorption in the music. The surprise entrance of Frankie Stout, an actor with the likeness of a satyr, serves as a catalyst that further fragments Marcello’s narrative in favour of an excursion in Fellini’s spectacular style. As Hatab states, “The ‘negative’ posture, burlesque, and fringe realm of the satytrs can be said to have functioned as an inversion/deforming of human norms that brought both a comic and an exploratory effect” (2004, p. 214). Thus, the civilised slow-dance between Marcello and Sylvia breaks up and moves into a free-form dance that explores the space of the setting to the frantic beat of rock n’ roll.  In the process, many characters that were prior in the background join in the dance and receive attention from the camera. The sequence explodes into a kaleidoscope of individualistic human caricatures that beams with celebratory and comic energy. Stubbs likens this style to “the comic grotesque tradition” in which irregularity and contrast are the strategies utilised to draw attention to a vast array of characters (2006, p. 25-27). For example, in the scene above, there is Sylvia the blond bombshell, Stout the satyr, negros in the jazz band, rock n’ rollers, women in aristocratic attire, waiters in roman costumes, a chinese woman on the dancefloor. Even the drunk and immobile Robin is drawing a caricature of Sylvia’s manager, adding a mostauche as the finishing touch.

In contrast to the Roman dome, a signifier of Rome’s historical past that is stagnant and eroding in its fixity, is the spectacular and energetic representation of a global clutter of characters that are constantly in movement. As Degli-Esposti states, Fellini’s “distortions, alterations of forms, and lack of symmetry” are characteristics that opposes “the utopic perfection of Renaissance aesthetic production” in favour of “a sense of nonfixity and state of becoming” (p. 158). It also constructs a nihilistic portrait of Rome in which the older order of fixity such as Catholicism and Nationalism give way to a hedonistic pursuit of pleasure and a merging of cultures within a globalised Italy. La Dolce Vita opens with a statue of Christ literally uprooted by a helicopter that represents the transnational machinics of the industrial revolution. The sacred aura of Catholicism is demystified even further during the sequence in which two children simulate the sighting of Mother Mary in an overblown media spectacle.  Marcello’s narrative that revolves around the superficial and sensational tabloid culture set off during Italy’s economic miracle sees him moving from party after party in increasing hedonistic abandon. Bondanella states that Fellini emphasises on “a kind of animalistic and vital energy” that overrides the “corruption and decadence” in his representations of the changing cultural landscape of Italy (2002, p. 83). This goes in line with Rosenthal’s assertion that Fellini’s spectacle that consists of “the most peripheral bit player to the central character” communicates Fellini’s belief that “preserves the integrity of the individual and reasserts his own wonder at the diversity of human form and temperament” (1976, p. 67-68). Thus, with the death of God and the cultural confusion of Italy comes a humanistic spectacle of individuals that are, in Pasolini’s words, “so full of the joy of being” that it paradoxically represents the “most absolute product of Catholicism” (1993, p. 106-107).

A contemplative moment of disillusionment often follows from an immersion in spectacle in Fellini’s films. Stubbs notes that party sequences that “builds up to a frantic pitch” eventually “winds down to the separateness and loneliness of the participants” (1975, p. 99). The slowed down pace of such sequences sees the entrance of symbols that seem to provide some metaphorical rational to his films. Many critics approach such symbols with the binary of purity and decadence. For example, Burke sees Paola’s presence at the end of La Dolce Vita as a symbol of purity that “emphasize[s] the need for transformation from physical existence to spiritual life” (1966, p. 106). Marcello’s inability to hear her voice signifies that he has sunken so deep into hedonism that he is unable to transcend from the sweet life to the good life. However such readings are reductive because in practice, Fellini’s utilises symbols in a playful manner to create a mood of ambiguity, or as Bennett put it, as a “deliberate Fellini joke, designed to bait the humorless, jargon-chewing, symbol-seeking critics” (1964, p. 738). Paola can easily be seen as a devil in disguise, much like the angel that tempts Jesus away from the cross in Scorcesse’s Last Temptation of the Christ (1988). In this circumstance, Paola symbolises the false hope of transcendence that is ephemeral and death-like in contrast to an ever-shifting reality. Therefore, Fellini’s utilises symbols, not as a disillusionment of moral failings, but as a disillusionment of fixed signification, which is as dead as the monstrous fish lying on the beach. Fellini’s symbols point towards a dynamic “signifying process” in which “signs take on or change their significations” and “breaks the inertia of language-habits and offers the linguist a unique opportunity to study the becoming of the signification of signs” (Kristeva, 1988, p. 28). In Fellini’s own words, “Neo-realism does not express itself in what we show but in how we show it”  (cited in Pecori, 1978, p.5). Thus, an honest and truthful cinematic representation that draws from neo-realism points towards the process of signification of symbols that enables subjective significations to resonate in relation to the specificity of the individual.

Fellini’s films are often loosely constructed in relation to autobiographical anecdotes that are revisited in the present through excursions into his memories and dreams. This is explicitly and self-reflexively portrayed in 8 ½, as Guido, the director modelled after Fellini himself, revisits his memories in an attempt at gaining certainty of his life to be able to finish up his film in a truthful way. An apparent theme is the sense of childlike wonder in experiencing magical and sexual situations. Maurice, a Jungian archetype of the mage that “holds the keys to the initiatory gates at the thresholds of sacred space and time,” serves as a catalyst towards the recollection of a particular block in Guido’s memory (Moore & Gillette, 1993, p. 133). In revealing the words ‘Asa Nisi Masa’ as Guido’s unspoken thought, Guido moves into the memory of himself as a child under the care of his grandmother. This takes place in a dreamy interior with many white cloths and contrasting shadows. As the lights go out, a girl frantically tells an amused Guido about the enchanted painting on the bedroom wall and recites the spell ‘Asa Nisi Masa’. This evokes a sense of mystery and nostalgia. In another sequence, the movement and physique of a woman walking down a hill acts as a catalyst towards Guido’s remembrance of his first sexual encounter. In this memory, he visits the prostitute Saraghina. Her grotesque yet graceful features and her huge figure in contrast to a small Guido positions her as a potent figure of sexual excess that exposes Guido to the unknown territory of adult sexuality. This sense of childhood wonder is offset by memories of authoritative structures and figures. Following the Saraghina episode comes a recollection of his catholic institution in which he experiences a series of punishments and humiliations for his sinful excursion with a prostitute. Thus, part of Fellini’s memory is concerned with the moralistic order in a reflection of Italy’s Catholic origins. To a certain extent, it serves to preserve the spectacular aura of ‘sinful’ indulgence, as indicated by Guido’s return visit to Saraghina. In the filmic present, which takes place in the Economic Miracle, ‘sinful’ indulgence becomes second nature as Catholicism loses its hegemony. Though Marcello and Guido exists in such a hedonistic and energetic cultural landscape, the spectacular aura of childhood memories are rendered into indifference through adulthood and jadedness. However, access to child-like lenses is granted through the defamiliarising and dynamic energy of “the director’s camera, as Fellini transforms this fresco of decadence into a vibrant portrait that intrigues the spectator without necessarily drawing him or her into that evanescent world” (Bondnella, 2002, p. 90).

Another reoccurring autobiographical theme concerns Fellini’s estranged relationship with his father. In La Dolce Vita, Marcello approaches his father’s surprise visit with much enthusiasm. But it is not without certain awkwardness in their communication. Marcello’s intention in reuniting with his father is cut short as his father suffers a mild heart attack and insists on taking the last train home. In 8 ½. Guido meets his deceased father in a dream that takes place at his father’s burial site. Guido is unable to strike conversation as his father talks coldly about the condition of his grave and expressing some disappointment at his son’s lack of productivity. Thus, the father-son enigma in Fellini’s films comes in the form of “repeated presentations of derailed closure, of an attempt at reconciliation that always ends in a riddle of impossibility” (Papio, 1997, p. 404). The lack of communication, understanding and the inability to live up to the father’s expectations is, in a Freudian sense, a failed Oedipal order that is represented as a site of despair and contestation in Fellini’s films. However, in denying reconciliation, Fellini rejects the fantasy or totalising view of a phallic order under psychoanalysis that “subjects the unconscious to arborescent structures, hierarchical graphs, recapitulatory memories” and the image of the father (Deleuze & Guattari, 2008, p. 19). This explains his fascination with Jungian psychology in contrast to Freudian doctrine as he explains, “Freud wants to explain to us what we are; Jung accompanies us to the door of the unknowable and lets us see and understand by ourselves” (Fellini, 1988, p. 165). Thus, Fellini’s utilisation of memories and dreams are not exploited for utopian fantasies in certainty of structure. Rather, such sequences conjure at times, mystery and magic that brings back the wonderful and creative aura of a child’s sensibility, and at others, a sense of disorder and lack of fixity.

The decentred subject is a major theme in Fellini’s films. Fellini states that his motive in making 8 ½ is to create a portrait of a man “in which all the possibilities of his being happened—their levels, story after story, like in a building whose façade is crumbling” (cited in Burke, 1966, p. 156). Richardson draws a reference to TS Elliot in relation to this thematic, emphasising that both artists utilise an “aesthetic of disparity” that “does not emphasize narrative smoothness or continuity” (1978, p. 111). In 8 ½, narrative and subject, which comment on Italy’s national identity in the past, are decentred as memories and dreams intertwine with reality. Drawing from Deluze’s conception of the time-image, Martin-Jones asserts that Guido’s excursions into the many layers of his memory does not serve to inform the present, but “provides a number of not necessarily true pasts that enter into virtual circuits with the present, to create a memory of the future” (2006, p. 63). In contrast to the movement-image that recollects the past in order to inform the subject’s action in the present, is the time-image that opens up “the labyrinthine whole of time that is created when” the linearity of memory is ungrounded, “and the subject’s sensory-motor continuum suspended” (ibid, p. 62). It his hard to tell what is reality and what is memory in 8 ½ as Guido moves through the many layers of his memory. There is not a single recollection sequence in which he returns back to the apparent present as it always cuts straight to another episode.  Furthermore, there is a collapse between the distinction between actual and virtual memory. For example, the cardinal sequence that takes place in the steam bath is an assemblage of characters from his ‘present’, a doubling of the confession sequence that Guido experiences as a young boy and the other meeting with the Cardinal earlier in the narrative. In the concluding carousel sequence, characters from the many layers of his memory, including young Guido, appear within the same space with the adult Guido who directs them to move around a circle endlessly. This corresponds to Deleuze’s utilisation of Nietzsche’s eternal occurrence to illustrate the pureness of time in which “the straight line of time, as though drawn by its own length, re-forms a strange loop” that “leads into the formless” (1997, p. 91). Thus, the decentreing of subject and narrative in Fellini’s film is also the decentreing of the actuality of the past and present that points towards the openness of the future.

So far, in discussing Fellini’s spectacular display, playful symbolism and the decentreing of narrative and subject through excursions in dreams and memories, I have positioned his key and formal concerns within an auteurist perspective. Neo-realism is concerned with articulating the negative effects of war rooted in Fascist history and critiquing bourgeois ideology towards an enlightenment of class-consciousness. Fellini’s cinema marks a departure from the unity and hegemony of neo-realism as a purist form of cinematic discourse in Italy through a personalised vision that stresses the complexity of the human condition. However, it is more conducive to position’s Fellini’s thematic differences as a creative rearticulation of neo-realism rather than as an opposition. As Burke states, the older generation of neo-realists and Fellini share a passionate and humanistic dedication to human solidarity (1966, p. 4). Rosenthal also links Fellini to neo-realism through his “direct style of observation” (1976, p. 12). Thus, Fellini’s greatest contribution to this trajectory of Italian national cinemas is his honest intentions in expanding the boundaries of reality into the psychological and spiritual depths of the human condition that “redeem[s] the world of appearances through a poetic or oneiric rendering of that world” (Restivo, 2002, p. 37). This brings to mind Badiou’s ethical framework:

Every absolutization of the power of a truth organizes an Evil. The Good is Good only to the extent that it does not aspire to render the world good. Its sole being lies in the situated advent of a singular truth (2002, p. 85).

It is farfetched to claim that the hegemonic currency of neo-realism is evil in its intentions as it primarily has its aims in political emancipation. However, its instrumental nature bears its head with the critical insistence of its values as the dominant mode of cinematic discourse in Italy. Fellini playfully acknowledges this in La Dolce Vita when a journalist asks Sylvia the audacious question of whether she thinks neo-realism is dead, in which an assistant automatically signals her to say no. Similarly, the numbing and overly rational criticisms by the cinematic ‘intellectual’ in 8 ½ delimit Guido’s creative potential. As the currency of neo-realism solidifies into stagnancy within a changing cultural climate, Fellini ethically moves into the complex channels of the individual’s psyche to communicate a subjective but truer reality. His motive in portraying a truthful subjective reality also enables him to achieve a strong sense of historical specificity. La Dolce Vita and 8 ½ reflect on the cultural and moral confusion of Italy within the economic miracle. He does this “without rigorous moralistic judgments,” enabling the spectator to experience the vibrancy of life in the absence of any absolute ideologies (Bondanella, 2002, p. 70).

Auteurism is a means of articulating national identity within the international art-film circuit. As Martin-Jones states, despite the deliberate destabalision of national identity through the utilisation of the time-image in 8 ½’s narrative, “the film is ultimately reterritorialised through the agency that it provide Fellini the auteur” (2006, p. 76). Fellini’s auteurist status corresponds to the influx of the American brand of individualism within the economic miracle that is also referred to as ‘Hollywood on the Tiber”. Within this climate is Italy’s alliance with the global phenomenon of American ideology that “enlisted high art and, equally important, the cult of the artist, as symbols of American individualism” (Burke, 1966, p. 8). Fellini is propagated as a modernist artist that communicates a rich and visual appealing paradigm of the complexity of the human condition. This complexity is explicit in its deterritorialision of the Italian national narrative within the specific trajectory of Italian cinema. However, within a global level, it becomes a means of transcending cultural specificity towards a universal product that is marketable to the global market as a marker of enlightened individualism. Thus, in the championing of Fellini as auteur, the articulation of Italian national identity moves away from an emphasis on cultural specificity to the global sentiments of the enlightened artist that paradoxically becomes an icon of Italian nationality.

Auteurism is a useful framework in understanding the articulation of Italian national cinemas within the specificity of the economic miracle. However, it is more productive to view Fellini’s thematic in relation to its destabalisation of national narratives, its destructive but creative potential in signalling towards the possibility of an open field of constructions in the future. Within a postmodern cultural climate, the currency of the auteur is destabalised by post-auteurism, in which “the auteur was killed off as creative artist and resurrected as merely one system of codes among many or as the radically dispersed effect of ideological gaps and contradictions” (Burke, 1989, p. 37). This movement serves to deterritorialise the reterritorialisations of auterism in the study of Italian national cinemas, bringing back Fellini’s thematic of dislocation back into the foreground. As such, Auteurism suffers a similar fate as neo-realism. All frameworks that conceptualises Italian national cinemas within the rigidity of a structure will eventually lose its currency due to the ever-shifting cultural field. Fellini is important in the sense that he self-reflexively highlights this inherent dissonance in the construction of national identity. However, as Brunetta says, “the progressive loss of that projectuality and tension” of national identity is “a common denominator that had accompanied for a long time the Italian authors of the postwar years” (cited in Gieri, 1995, p. 199). The need of articulating national identity is inherent to the construction of a nation. Fellini’s films are no exception. But he differs in the sense that his spectacular and celebratory display of cultural confusion points towards an active and affirmative articulation that meanders in multiple directions within the process.

References

Badiou, A. (2002). Ethics. An Essay on the Understanding of Evil. London: Verso.

Bennett, Joseph. (Autumn, 1964). Italian Film: Failure and Emergence. The Kenyon Review, 26(4), 738-747.

Bondanella, P. (2002). “La Dolce Vita: The Art Film Spectacular”. in The Films of Federico Fellini. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 65-92.

Burke, Frank. (1966). Fellini’s Films: From Postwar to Postmodern. New York: Twayne Publishers.

Burke, Frank. (Autumn, 1989). Fellini: Changing the Subject. Film Quarterly, 43(1), 36-48.

Degli-Esposti, C. (Summer, 1996). Federico Fellini’s Intervista or the Neo-Baroque Creativity of the Analysand. Italica, 73(2), 157-172.

Deleuze, G. (1997). Difference and Repetition. London: The Athlone Press.

Deleuze, G. & Guattari, F. (2008). A Thousand Plateaus. London: Continuum.

Fellini, F. (1988). Federico Fellini: Comments on Film. Grazzini, G. (ed.). Fresno: California University Press.

Gieri, M. (1995). Contemporary Italian Filmmaking: Strategies of Subversion. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

Hatab, L. J. (2004). Satyr: Human-Animality in Nietzsche. in Acampora, C. D. & Acampora, R. R. (eds.). A Nietzschean Bestiary: Becoming Animal Beyond Docile and Brutal. Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. 211-219.

Kristeva, J. (1988). “Towards a Semiology of Paradigms”. in Ffrench & Lack. (eds.). The Tel Quel Reader. New York: Routledge. 25-49.

Martin-Jones, David. (2006). Deleuze, Cinema and National Identity. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

Moore, R. & Gillette, D. (1993). The Magician Within. New York: William Morrow.

Papio, Michael. (Autumn, 1997). Derailment of Closure: The Father-Son Enigma in Fellini. Italica, 74(3), 392-402.

Pasolini, P. P. (1993). “The Catholic Irrationalism of Fellini”. in Bondanella, P. & Degli-Esposti, C. (eds.). Perspectives on Federico Fellini. New York: G. K. Hall. 101-109.

Pecori, Franci. (1978). Federico Fellini. Florence: La Nuova Italia Editrice.

Restivo, Angelo. (2002). The Cinema of Economic Miracles. Durham: Duke University Press.

Richardson, R. (1978). “La Dolce Vita: Fellini and T.S. Eliot”. in Bondanella, P. (ed.). Federico Fellini: Essays in Criticism. New York: Oxford University Press.

Rosenthal, Stuart. (1976). The Cinema of Federico Fellini. London: The Tantivy Press.

Stubbs, J. C. (April, 1975). 8 ½. Journal of Aesthetic Education, 9(2), 96-108.

Stubbs, J. C. (2006). Federico Fellini as Auteur: Seven Aspects of His Films. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press.

Filmography

8 ½, Federico Fellini, 1963

La Dolce Vita, Federico Fellini, 1960

Last Temptation of the Christ, The, Martin Scorsese, 1988

“Her muscled back splays her spine- a zen archer’s bow, shooting off arrows of power into the springtime hills. Her thighs and calves launch her up cliffs over oceans, into herds of impalas in African deserts, or into outer space among rockets and comets. .. her heart is no longer cowering behind rib walls, and her pectoral muscles, not simply holding firm her breast, reach out to embrace and hold children, lovers, small animals, and savage beasts against the warmth of her heart. She no longer folds her hands protectively about the cave of her abdomen and womb. Her fingers are no longer antennae of insects and tendrils of vines; they close in fists that open breaches in the walls of the gym, the house, and the city, and extend talons to carry off us with her” – Alphonso Lingis

 Situating Yellow Earth within Chinese National Cinema

Prior to the emergence of the 5^th generation of Chinese cinema in the 1980s, the movement that Yellow Earth (Chen Kaige, 1984) is positioned in, Chinese national cinema was heavily influenced by state ideology. Various film styles and aesthetics, such as melodrama, realism and Chinese opera were incorporated in its history, resulting in a hybrid and intertextual film culture. The 1980s saw a diffusion of Communist ideology and political restructuring. This marks the emergence of the 5^th generation who “depart[ed] from films in the melodramatic tradition” and “the revolutionary models of socialist production” to experiment with visual and narrative delivery as a form of cultural reassessment and ideological critique (Cui, 2003, p. 101). Through an analysis of Yellow Earth, I will be supporting the claim that an indigenous aesthetic developed within the movement. Rather than preferring a reading that sees its aesthetics as entirely original, I will situate the film within its rearticulation of the various Western aesthetics as adopted by China’s film heritage. Firstly, I shall discuss Yellow Earth’s departure from realism through its obscure articulation of history. Secondly, I will explain how the film dismantles melodramatic constructions with its engagement with a primitive form of landscape painting that conjures up the Taoist/Buddhist ontology of being as vast emptiness. Thirdly, I shall explore its intersection with transcendental film style. To conclude, I will map out Yellow Earth’s unique fusion and rearticulation of various film aesthetics explored in the essay.

Historical Void:  Yellow Earth’s Departure from Realism

            Realism, a signifier of modernism that moves along the progressive trajectory of Chinese cultural history, is considered the dominant aesthetic mood for Chinese national cinema. Being critical towards the ideological implications of realism, Chen Kaige self-consciously engages with its deployment, restructuring its aesthetical signification in the process. It is undeniable that on the surface, the film utilises a realist representation through its departure from expressionism, enabling a stark and anti-spectacular acting style. Landscapes are also shot in extremely naturalistic settings with little mediation. However, I believe that Yellow Earth departs from realism through its unspecific representation of history. Berry and Farquhar argue that the film’s only departure from realism is through its disengagement from national ideology (2006, p. 107).  For them, the film is still inherently realist because its “narrative is anchored in real historical events” (ibid, p. 103). I shall discuss how this statement is problematic.

Chinese film prior to the 5^th generation fixated its narrative on the present, a realist visuality that explores notions of modernity and articulates the possibilities of change. For example, the social-realist model adopted during the Maoist regime depicted the current conditions of the proletariat, interpellating its spectators to identify with the utopian project of the Communist party that moves towards the future. However, Yellow Earth engages with a great disparity between the present and past. It conjures up primitive landscapes and rituals, filmic representations that are uncanny to spectators accustomed to realist depictions of modernity. The scene in which Gu Qing returns to the Communist camp in Yan’an could be constructed to represent a stable and real point in history. However, Gu Qing is bombarded with a ritualistic drumming procession. He watches on without any expression, signifying an unstable access to the historical signifiers of the Communist era. The scene also utilises hyperkinetic movements that meander within the procession, a displacement from the still and naturalistic digesis, disabling the spectator’s contemplation of history in that particular moment. Furthermore, the last scene, in which the villagers attempt to conjure up the metaphysical presence of the rain god, works as a parallel to the Communist drum ritual, reworking any possible historical signification of the first scene into a form of primitivism. Far from depicting a particular event in history, it engages in ethnographical “dream time, of the time of renewed myths,” displacing historical accuracy and specificity into contemplative timelessness (Chow, 1995, p. 42).

Yellow Earth’s historical ambiguity is further enforced through the framing of landscapes that utilises deep focus. Within the vast naturalistic stillness of the landscape, dwarfed characters move directly along the depth of field, enabling a vastness that extends within the film image. Deleuze states, “depth of field creates a certain type of direct time-image that can be defined by memory, virtual regions of past,” being “less a function of reality than a function of remembering, of temporalization: not exactly a recollection but an invitation to recollect” (1989, p. 105). Thus, historical narrative in Yellow Earth is based on subjective memory that is not linear and anchored in real moments. Rather, it is perceived through the spectator’s own engagement, making it dreamy, unspecific and multiple.

Despite this, it does not abandon history with what Jameson refers to as the “nostalgia mood,” in which the past is articulated “through stylistic connotation,” serving as “a symptom of the waning of our historicity” (1984, p. 66-68). I argue that despite its ahistorical constructions, Yellow Earth is still engaged in a discourse of history. It rejects nostalgic and surface representations of history, displacing the specificity of history into a vast depth of field that functions as a contemplative framework. This rearticulates history, separates it from ideological implantations and self-referentially engages with its spectators’ intuition through a recollection of subjective perceptions of history. Thus, history is absent in the foreground, but is accessible critical rearticulation by the spectators via depth cues.

Taoist Primitivism: Emptying out Melodramatic Formulations

            The naturalism and depth described above can be attributed to how Yellow Earth’s rejects “the aesthetics of socialist realism by critiquing them through traditional aesthetic codes” (Berry & Farquhar, 1994, p. 95). Its cinematography that “works with a limited range of colours, natural lighting, and non-perspectival use of filmic space” resembles ancient “Chinese scroll-painting,” in which “centrifugal spatial configurations open up to a consciousness that is not moved by desire but rather by the lack of it” (Yau, 1991, p. 64-65). This corresponds to a primitive mode of address in film, the Taoist philosophy of vast emptiness. The Tao Te Ching states, “there was something formless yet complete, that existed before heaven and earth” (cited in Waley, 1934, p. 174). The first few scenes of Yellow Earth are exemplary of its primitive aesthetic. The film opens with a stark shot of barren earth. Gu Qing, who signifies the desire and movement of Communist ideology, emerges at the top of the frame, dwarfed by the vast landscape but slowly emerging towards clearer view. Before his figure is significantly constructed in view, the film crosscuts into another still image of barren earth. Then the camera pans up to the sky, engulfing the screen with an empty bluish tint. Thus, from the start, the spectator is bombarded by a strange decentralising effect that is uncommon to both Chinese cinema and Hollywood narrative. Rather than serving as establishing shots, the naturalistic setting is constructed in the forefront and appears as the essence of the film. This “signifies a deliberate emptying” that when viewed in relation to the ideology of Maoism, “wrests apparatuses of representation from the kind of rhetorical coercion that typifies communist state discourse” (Chow, 1995, p. 40).

            Pickowicz states, “the melodramatic imagination is deeply rooted in Chinese life” (1993, p. 325). The figuration of the family (Jia), a signifier to modernity and a micro parallel to the nation state (Guo Jia) is the archetype of China’s melodramatic tradition. Yellow Earth is conscious about the signifying implications of the family, bringing in the emptying effect of its aesthetic into the structure of the family. While the outdoor shots of stark naturalism are strong indicators to such an aesthetic, the mood it evokes also pervades into the material stronghold of familial relations, the home. Firstly, the home in Yellow Earth is situated within the naturalistic setting of a cave. This emphasises the intrusiveness of the home towards an empty and original state. Yellow earth is constructed into a dwelling. Secondly, the primitive family is not stable and complete with the absence of a motherly figure. Thirdly, in the scene when Gu Qing first enters the cave, the absence of a strong melodramatic narrative and is apparent within the communication dynamics of the family. Besides the inhibited movements of Cui Jiao, the family members are all statically positioned at specific points. The father sits in a meditative and unresponsive state. As soon as Hanhan enters the narrative space, he stops all movement and stands emotionlessly by the door. The only dynamic that fuels any narrative development is Gu Qing’s enquiries about folk songs that he is attempting to document and restructure for ideological purposes.  The editing achieves a repetitive pace in relation to the desire for response from the three family members. The same shots that are marked with silence move in a cycle, highlighting the lack of communication and expanding symbolic space between the characters. Thus, the family and melodramatic dynamics are emptied out. Gu Qing’s one-sided dialogue, as a catalyst to the reaffirmation of the family through the parallel with the interests of the nation as a macro-family, is met with silence, echoing the blank deepness of the exterior landscape.

Transcendental Style

            Berry and Farquhar draws a parallel between Yellow Earth’s aesthetic and French poetic realism, highlighting “political ambivalence, personal disappointment, melodious sadness, and a sense of degeneration and death” (2006, p. 103). This situates Yellow Earth within a more symbolic deployment of realism in which the subjectivities of its protagonists result in the anxieties explored in the narrative. However, with its primitivism, emptying out of filmic perspectives, irrationalism and heavy symbolism, I believe that Yellow Earth has more similarities with the uncommon, yet trans-national aesthetic of cinematic transcendentalism. Schrader formulates two aspects of transcendental style as, “an actual or potential disunity between man and his environment which culminates in a decisive action” and “a frozen view of life which does not resolve the disparity but transcends it” (1972, p. 42, 49). In Yellow Earth, Cui Qiao, as the signifier of modernity, senses disunity between the primitive customs that entrap her and the utopian promise of liberation implanted on her by Gu Qing. She makes the decisive action of crossing the turbulent river. The disparity is not resolved as she drowns in the river. However, at that moment, the river, as a naturalistic element, becomes a vehicle of transcendence. The river that nourished her, symbolised through the drawing of water, ends up consuming her motivation and action. Disparity is absorbed into the river, emptying out ideological formations and its decisive actions in favour of a pure form. Thus, the film offers a glimpse and feeling of a meta-view that transcends a fixation of particular moments in history and their ideological effects. It strives towards transcendence through the primitivism of its traditional aesthetics.

In this paper, I argued that Chen Kaige deconstructs realist representations of history through his use of  cinematic depth to offer a self-reflexive address based on subjective recollection of history. Secondly, I discussed how the film conjures a mood that resembles the Taoist notion of emptiness by drawing the style of its cinematography from the primitive and culturally specific art form of landscape painting. This aesthetic that is used to destabilise history it its exterior shots also permeates into the home, in which it empties out melodramatic notions of the family. Lastly, I explored the film’s similarities to Schrader’s conceptualisation of transcendental style. With all these factors, it become necessary to view Yellow Earth as a critical fusion of various film aesthetics. It is a ‘becoming’ that draws and rearticulates multiple reference points to the effect of generating a unique localised style. As a turning point, it opened up the possibilities for a revolutionary exploration of film style within the field of Chinese film.

References

Berry, C. & Farquhar, M. (1994). “Post-Socialist Strategies: An Analysis of Yellow Earth and Black Cannon Incident”. in Ehrlich, L. C. & Desser, D. (ed.). Cinematic Landscapes. Austin: University of Texas Press. 81-116

Berry, C. & Farquhar, M. (2006). “Realist Modes: Melodrama, Modernity, and Home”. in Berry, C. & Farquhar, M. (eds.). China on Screen: Cinema and Nation. New York: Columbia University Press. 75-107.

Chow, Rey. (1995). Primitive Passions: Visuality, Sexuality, Ethnography, and Contemporary Chinese Cinema. New York: Columbia University Press.

Cui, Shuqin. (2003). Women Through the Lens: Gender and Nation in a Century of Chinese Cinema. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

Deleuze, Gilles. (1989). Cinema 2: The Time Image. London: Continuum Press.

Jameson, Fredric. (1984). Postmodernism, Or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. New Left Review, 146, July-August, 53-92.

Hansen, M. B. (2000). Fallen Women, Rising Stars, New Horizons: Shanghai Silent Cinema as Vernacular Modernism. Film Quarterly, 54(1), 10-22.

Pickowicz, P. G. (1993). “Melodramatic Representation and the May Fourth Tradition of Chinese Cinema”. in Widmer, E. & Wang, D. (eds.). From May Fourth to June Fourth: Fiction and Film in the Twentieth Century. Harvard: Harvard University Press. 295-326.

Schrader, Paul. (1972). Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Waley, Arthur. (1934). The Way and its Power: A Study of the Tao Te Ching and Its Place in Chinese Thought. London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd.

Yau, Esther, C. M. (1991). “Yellow Earth: Western Analysis and a Non-Western Text”. in Berry, Chris (ed.). Perspectives on Chinese Cinema. London: BFI Publishing. 62-79.