Blue is the Warmest Color, some notes

Fatigue prohibits a structured and coherent piece. This goes nowhere and says nothing.

• Over the course of its three languid hours, Blue is the Warmest Color traces its main personage from emotional isolation to the comfort of carnality, and then back to emotional isolation. At first, Adèle finds comfort in the company of Emma, and as a result, the colour blue is associated with happiness and love – warmth, if you will. By the end, and as in most modern romances of Blue’s variety (Take This Waltz, Blue Valentine), the relationship quickly dematerializes and suddenly, blue takes on a completely different meaning; it normalizes and returns back to its usual – if arbitrary – melancholic signification. As Adèle’s materially appropriates this colour (clothes, surroundings, etc.), she becomes entrenched in this watery shade of sadness and self-pity.
• It is curious to me that Blue is the Warmest Color, in a welcomed paradigm shift from the salient politics of queer cinema, attempts – and succeeds – to interrogate the anxieties facing the homosexual on a individual level rather than attempting to politicize them. Films such asWeekend (Andrew Haigh, 2011) exist as a form of the manifesto. Forwarding the politics of homosexuality through verbal arguments is, for me, extrinsic to what should be the inherent nature of the queer cinema – to evince and naturalize homosexuality. Blue is the Warmest Color, with a few minor exceptions, avoids politics. Carnality is central to the film, and queer sex is formalized with a desirous aggression that elicits an animalistic performance that naturalizes homosexuality through this primitive act.. 
• These sexual acts of aggression seem to be cathartic for the homosexual in cinema. In other words, loneliness is the impetus for sexual aggression. The queer film invariably opens with a character that is lonely, distraught, closeted, and occasionally asocial. They seek an end to sexual repression. In this sense, Russell from Weekend and Adèle only differ ideologically; Russell’s inertia requires privacy, while Adèle necessitates emotional dependency. 
• These feelings of isolation are perhaps the greatest visual tool at queer cinema’s disposal. Blue’s evocative sense of isolation underscores the character’s subjectivity. In fairness, we have all been in a situation where romance contours us, only for it to reaffirm its absence from our own lives. I sympathize with Adèle, but she is hardly alone in her struggle. Loneliness is ubiquitous. 

E. Elias Merhige’s Begotten (1990) opens with a preface that evokes the absence of meaning of past discourse in the immediacy of the present.[1] These words, however esoteric, express the aesthetical theme of reincarnation. Primarily, this theme is evinced through the decayed and ambiguous ontological status of the image. Indeed, Merhige’s Begotten is notable for its challenging cinematography that obscures the events on-screen. Through this ambiguous ontology, and in conjunction with its own implicit theme of reincarnation, Begotten formally reproduces the physical and cultural effects of time on discourse. Furthermore, due to the ambiguous nature of the text, phenomenological responses to the film are conducive towards understanding the effects of its ontology on spectators.

Aesthetically, Merhige has described Begotten as a “Rorschach test for the eyes.”[2] Such a statement elicits a preference for subjective responses over a single meaning. As such, a recurring attribute in the film is ambiguity, a tendency that permeates the cinematic avant-garde. David Bordwell, in particular, argues that ambiguity is one of the principle elements that differentiate the art film from other types of cinema.[3] He argues that ambiguity in the art film typically involves a lack of character or narrative motivation, which can be read as either an appeal to realism (in Bordwell’s terms, “things happen that way in real life”) or as symbolism.[4] Problematically, Bordwell’s argument involves purely structural and narrative ambiguity.[5] While the ambiguity present in Begotten can be interpreted from a structural and/or narrative viewpoint, it is important to consider the ambiguous implications of its aesthetic.

In particular, the diluted black and white cinematography is inimical to the spectator. Rather than developing a clear and indiscreet image, the look of the film obfuscates the gory details of the mise-en-scene. For instance, Julie Hindman writes:

“The stark black and white forms that are often unclear give the film an abstract quality. … [T]he viewer can’t clearly make out what is going on visually but can still get a basic sense of what is happening. Many of the images that flash before your eyes are depictions of torture and suffering with periods of rest and peace that create a heightened sense of contrast.”[6]

Therefore, because the film exists at the generic and stylistic intersection of experimental and horror, it presumably intends to provoke and engender fear and confusion amongst spectators. In the first sequence, an unnamed deity[7] commits suicide in a disturbingly violent manner. The viewer is aware that violence is occurring and disturbing imagery is present on-screen.[8] However, the decayed appearance of the image obfuscates, to a degree, the event evinced on-screen. Overall, Merhige’s description of the film as a “Rorschach test for the eyes” elicits the subjective construction and comprehension of the film text. In other words, the exact symbolic meaning ofBegotten is not homogeneous, but is rather the product of various subjective responses constructed by individual psychological parameters.

Concomitant with this phenomenology is the use of obfuscated image quality to visualize the disintegration of meaning over time. As suggested by the preface, the original purpose of an image or text or photograph is ephemeral: its original meaning is lost in the present. Decayed by time and trivialized by the context of the present, these records are no longer mere visualizations or personal memories; they are now archival in nature. Inasmuch as they serve new purposes, their original function is no longer immediately apparent. Subsequently, they are given new purpose and meaning in the present. Such is the case in Begotten, where the death of Gods generates new life in several acts of reincarnation.

In the film, the interrelation of temporality and image is discursive. Particularly, the internal theme of reincarnation and the external quality of the image have filmic functions that are related to the effect of time on discourse. This presence of the theme is two-fold: firstly, it is present in the cyclical narrative structure. Each successive act follows a pattern that is similar to the one inaugurated by the “God Killing Himself.” That is, each act uses the death of deities as the impetus for the creation of new life. In the first act, the “God Killing Himself” gives birth to Mother Earth, who then uses the dead God’s semen to impregnate herself. In the second act, following his death at the hands of the nomads, the Son of Earth is reincarnated as “Flesh on Bone.” In the third act, the dying bodies of Mother Earth and Flesh on Bone produce new life in the form of flowers. Therefore, each act transfigures an instance (or instances) of death into an instance of new life.

Secondly, the image quality formally reproduces the effects of time on past discourse. In particular, Merhige achieved the distinct appearance of Begotten through a process of re-photographing the film numerous times. In correspondence with the theme of reincarnation, this process suggests a filmic reincarnation. Alternatively, to appropriate Merhige’s own terms, albeit in a different context, “the film is giving birth to itself, constantly metamorphosing.”[9] [10] The experimental process of re-photographing the image is, then, a direct formalistic reproduction of the film’s implicit themes.

However, this aesthetic also has important cultural and phenomenological implications. Importantly, Merhige has also discussed the temporal implications of the film’s processing, suggesting that:

“I wanted Begotten to look, not as if it were from the twenties, not even as if it were from the nineteenth century, but as if it were from the time of Christ, as if it were a cinematic Dead Sea Scroll that had been buried in the sands, a remnant of a culture with customs and rites that no longer apply to this culture, yet are somewhere underneath it, under the surface of what we call ‘reality’.”[11]

The appearance of the image as a cinematic artifact resonates with the culture and the audience, in ambiguous terms. Evidently, Begotten is a text from its present (1990) intending to appear as a text from the distant past. Thus, the film is not only a “Rorschach test for the eyes,” but is also a Rorschach test for present culture. For instance, the diversity of spectatorial reactions reflects the cultural inability to understand the original meaning of images. The cultural inability to decipher its codes, meaning, and context suggest the film’s experimental tendency reaches further than that of a mere text. It expands beyond the text, commenting on the absence of our ability to access its original meaning in the present culture.

Therefore, the film is a textual emulation of the ravages of time. Subsequently, it also demonstrates the effects of time on archaic discourse. As an experimental film, Begotten transcends the usual properties of cinematic codes and narratives. The nebulous quality of the film’s ontological status is a result of the ambiguous proclivities in art cinema and the avant-garde. As such, the film engenders a variety of different subjective responses that are determined by personal psychological parameters and cultural norms. In conjunction with its aesthetic, Begottenpresumably seeks to reproduce how the present reacts to the past. The ambiguity present in the austere appearance of the image in Begotten is, then, a deliberate reflection on the temporal mitigation of meaning on past discourse.

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[1] “Language bearers. Photographers. Diary makers. You with your memory are dead, frozen. Lost in a present that never stops passing. Here lives the incantation of matter. A language forever. Like a flame burning away the darkness. Life is flesh and bone convulsing above the ground.”

[2] Julie Lynn Hindman, “Shadows of a Memory” (Master’s Thesis, Louisiana State University, 2007).

[3] David Bordwell, “The Art Cinema as a Mode of Practice,” in Film Theory & Criticism, eds. Leo Braudy & Marshall Cohen (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009): 654-655

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid.

[7] The character is listed in the end credits as “God Killing Himself.”

[8] Ibid.

[9] Scott MacDonald, “Elias Merhige,” in A Critical Cinema 3: Interviews with Independent Filmmakers (California: University of California Press, 1998), 291

[10] “I’ve always felt very strongly that the film is alive, organic. I’ve seen it over and over again, and discover different things all the time. It’s as if the film is constantly giving birth to itself, constantly metamorphosing.”

[11] MacDonald, A Critical Cinema 3: Interviews with Independent Filmmakers, 288.