Ben begins:
I was completely blind-sided by Hunger. I didn't even remember what the film was about when Jacob (my son) and I popped it in the machine. Honestly, it just slipped my mind, even though I recall now that you had mentioned the film's subject matter when you handed the disc to me. And I remember also saying to you in return, something to the effect of: "Well it always helps to have something real to say, a true story that speaks for itself." All that had left my mind five minutes after it happened. So I was blind-sided by Hunger. Blind-sided and bowled over from the first frame to the last. And having seen the film now, it is not the empirical testimony of it that so staggers me. It's the poetry of the thing.
Hunger shows the fact of the matter—the truth—with the utmost emotive economy. There's something pure about the brutal beauty expressed in it. Not its ideological sympathies, but the way history is allowed to speak through the abstractions of art. Jacob said that the film is somehow "mystical," and while I find this word misleading for a work so starkly fixed on the actual ground, I appreciate what he is trying to convey.
Of course, those of us without religion are just as easy to impress as those with religion when it comes to the symbolic power of an individual sacrificing himself for a Cause with a capital C. That the individual in this case explicitly and rationally explains how his action is not that of a messianic martyr but rather a practical political leader, only adds to the—and you know this is usually a pejorative term for me—heroism. The film utterly inhabits the grim reality within the altruistic mission and in so doing takes on the transcendent quality of which Jacob speaks.
And Dan:
As I told you when I urged you to see this film, I think Hunger is serious business. Art with a capital A which does justice to that Cause with a capital C of which you spoke. And you weren't wrong that the true story speaks for itself. I hear you. But Hunger doesn't speak so much as it shows. Damn near a silent film! And that is what I remain most impressed with in Hunger. There's only one scene of real dialogue in the whole film—and what a scene that one is!—yet the lyricism and potency of the imagery is so vivid, the movie touches something deeply-held in all of us. Commitment. Love (at least in the abstract sense of the word). Truth.
Structurally, stylistically, thematically, this is beyond impressive. It is astonishing. Director Steve McQueen earns comparison to Dryer; and like its antecedent, Hunger, aka The Passion of Bobby Sands, damn near transcends the bounds of the artistic medium. Images from the film continue to haunt me every single day, so I suspect you'll continue to see them yourself for a long time to come.
Then Ben:
You are so right. The scene of the guy smoking a cigarette against the wall as the snow starts to fall, it's like Ozu or something. We don't even know yet who he is, why we should pay attention to him, never mind care about him. Yet the image commands us to do so. Alluring and forbidding at the same time.
Or the scene of the naked prisoners being pushed through the gauntlet of club-wielding cops in riot gear, and the complete explosion and subsequent implosion of one of these cops. I can count on one hand the times I have seen such truthful violence in film. Absolutely concrete and explicable, in no way causally ambiguous and therefore open to interpretation; just plain and inescapably factual. How is it then that this ostensibly prosaic communication is so poetic? Another word Jacob found is "aura." This film has it.
And you are just as correct that this time out a picture is worth a thousand words because silence is golden. So often more is said by words unspoken. (Personally, I only know this in theory, but that's my fault). So much meaning comes from silence, especially in art. But who has the power to silence whom goes straight to the guts of the politics portrayed. And the same thing from the opposite direction: authority can extract language from a voice struggling to resist in silence. This is not always immediately obvious when power is applied indirectly through social compulsion, but it's plain as day when the methods involve physical force as they do in Hunger.
In her book, The Body in Pain (1985)—a remarkably unique avenue into some fundamental issues in phenomenological philosophy and political theory—Elaine Scarry examines (among other things) the impossibility of language for the sentient body subjected to torture. This rendering of a human to a non-linguistic state is for the person upon whom the violence is inflicted what Scarry terms "the unmaking of the world." The lack of dialogue in Hunger profoundly enters into a violent struggle that has literally reached the point of being past words. The unmaking of the world resulting from the war going on even turns back on itself in the self-inflicted torture and death of the hunger strike.
In this circumstance of bare-knuckle brutality and monkish communicative abstinence, when the time finally comes for language in the film, it's as if that occasion is the only possible opportunity to talk; as it would have been, in fact. I have in mind—of course—the long dialogue scene between Sands and the preacher who is trying to talk him out of his fast. Everything counts, even the so-called small talk. Clausewitz said war is a mere continuation of politics by other means. Here we have the continuation of war by other means. The semantic substance of it—Jesus!—it's literally a life and death conversation.
Taken out of context as a scene in its own right, that dialogue is the kind that is never supposed to be in cinema. It belongs on the stage. The director knows this full well and shoots it accordingly. He almost entirely dismantles the three-dimensionality of the space by way of silhouette and bodily stasis in order to make the opposing profiles confront each other to speak in no uncertain terms. When he finally cuts in to close-up, the intimacy is almost unbearably intense. The tension and pacing of it is approaching the aesthetic status of music.
And Dan:
You mention Ozu when describing the scene of the guard smoking outside in the snow. The lyricism of the moment had me thinking haiku. Something like this:
Bitterness and fear
Melting together slowly
Snowflake on knuckle
Interesting commentary about the power of silence in a power relationship, particularly in the face of torture, as well as the power of silence in art. I am eager to learn more about this. I've heard musicians like Eric Clapton discuss the notion that it is not the proficiency with which you can play 16th or 32nd notes (yeah, I think he was looking at you Eddie Van Halen) that makes one a great guitar player, but rather the rests between the notes one plays that gives one's playing its power and poignancy.
In light of this, I can certainly see how the silence in Hunger can be seen as heightening the significance of the words that characters eventually do speak. As you say, the exchange between Sands and the preacher is very theatrical, but it is absolutely essential to the cinematic experience as well, largely because so much has gone unspoken. In fact, siding with Clapton, I'll contend that the long stretches of silence prepare us for the big verbal blow-out by making us hunger for the spoken word. We are so starved for some sort of linguistic engagement, we can't wait to hear these two sit down to hash things out.
Still, what most impressed me about the film—beyond its formal majesty, above its assured command of the grammar of cinema, on top of its soaring lyricism—was its determination to show (not tell) the effects of this sort of situation on both the oppressor and the oppressed. The images of the prisoners struggling to maintain their humanity in the most degrading circumstances dominate the film. They dare us to look away and demand that we take their side. And yet, McQueen also takes us into the world of the oppressor to show the corrosive effects on those cast in the role of torturers. The guard, worn down and disheartened as he prepares for another day in hell, soaking his hands in the sink. His wife watching him leave, waiting to see if the car will explode, the mournful cigarette in the snow. The other prison guard, whom you alluded to, full of dread as he prepares for the onslaught of violence, snapping and beating one of the prisoners (I assume to death), then breaking down in what can only be described as complete ontological despair. It isn't as if the film doesn't take sides—it bloody well does. But this does not preclude the film from having a heart large enough to extend to all who suffer in this situation.
Then Ben:
I am not familiar with Eric Clapton's pronouncements on less-is-more, but I do know that before the Birth of the Cool sessions, Miles Davis told the tenor saxophonist Gerry Mulligan that they would be playing to create space rather than fill it. Told him: "Bring your eraser to the gig."
I continue to agree with you. The absence of dialogue in Hunger makes us almost desperate for some; so when it finally comes in such a massive dose, we are willing and able to take it all in. I should highlight how well written and performed is this scene between Sands and the preacher. It's a stunning piece of theater in its own right. The famous Irish gift of the gab is set loose and contra Scandinavian muteness, they play chess with death in accordance with their outspoken culture.
Related to all of this silence is your insight that the film is determined to show, not tell. Of course, this goes to the heart of cinematic theory about silent era pictures that must prioritize the image out of necessity versus talking movies that are not so compelled. So directors who have still been able to prioritize the image in talking movies are especially respected. I already mentioned Ozu and now I want to mention Tarkovsky, for there are shots in Hunger that do more than just linger, they hang on so long you start triple-guessing the meaning of life. Meanwhile, this whole "spiritual" or "aura" feeling Jacob spoke of has you referencing to Dryer's Joan and me thinking about Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev. There is something religious about Hunger that I cannot fathom.
What is fathomable for me is your observation that the film manages simultaneously to give a balanced presentation of the IRA prisoners and the guards, some of whom are UDA. While plainly adopting the point of view of the former party, the humanist consideration it gives to the latter is what elevates Hunger beyond a doctrinaire tract. There is a neutrality to the film at a higher level of abstraction, philosophic if you will, whereas the bias is politically concrete. In my estimation, the reverberation of Hunger within this contradiction is achieved on the aesthetic terms which we are attempting to elucidate here.
And Dan:
I hadn't quite made the leap to Tarkovsky, but I can explain why Dreyer is the easiest comp for me, particularly the intensity of The Passion of Joan of Arc. The religious fervor of the film's central character is matched by the emotional devastation of the audience. Both Hunger and TPOJOA really hit me hard at that level, and much credit must be given to the ability of McQueen, like Dreyer, to hold onto moments, long after our comfort level has been sated. I'm thinking here not of the dialogue scene, which is riveting for all sorts of reasons, not just for the length that he holds that shot, but rather other scenes.
Consider the one where the prison guard is swabbing away all the urine from the hallways between the cells. In a typical movie that scene might last six to ten seconds, just long enough to establish what was going on. But McQueen makes us watch the activity from the beginning right to the end. I was waiting for the standard edit at the beginning of the scene. By the time we got about 30 seconds into it, I was captivated, and I would have been pretty damned disappointed if McQueen had cut away before the job was done. There was a truth in that moment that couldn't have been conveyed any other way than by witnessing it in its entirety.
And that's pretty much how I feel about the whole film. There were times when I wanted to turn away, when I wanted the camera to look away, but thankfully McQueen never wavered. And somehow, neither did I. Herzog talks of holding onto shots because in those moments beauty and truth can sometimes emerge. We have acknowledged the truthfulness of Hunger. And the reality ain't pretty. But the film is also beautiful. Blood-stained hands and shit smeared on walls and piss running down the hall—beautiful…somehow. Really, just so much cinematic greatness here.
Then Ben:
The guy sweeping up the pee from the corridor is definitely one of the main silent statements in the film. If I remember correctly, it comes immediately after the big conversation. It borders on the agonizingly long silent takes in Bela Tarr's Sátántangó, except the movement is towards the audience so we are not caught in Tarr's infinite futility. Rather, we know for certain when the scene will terminate because we know where it must—upon us. It's a real time insertion, the effect of which is to trap us in the path of piss, inescapably. You've no doubt heard of (and probably heard) theater audio technology that is surround-sound; well, this is the surround-image. So experiencing the duration becomes a responsibility on our part. You speak to this indirectly when you say how sometimes in the film you wanted to look away but the director didn't, so you couldn't. We are not allowed. We must bear witness, as you did say directly.
How about the execution of the cop while he is visiting his senile mother at the old age home? So much for the aristocratic duel!
Dan Again:
No kidding. Sorta puts Grand Illusion in its place, doesn't it?
Then Ben:
Ozu. Dryer. Tarkovsky. (Eric Clapton and Miles Davis as well). Herzog. (Bela Tarr too?) Now Rousseau, albeit disrespectfully. Who is this Steve McQueen guy anyway? I thought he was really cool in The Great Escape, but who knew he could direct? Seriously though, look at the company we believe he is keeping. Since we are falling all over ourselves to this extent, I reckon it would be irresponsible of me to neglect the one criticism I have of Hunger.
I feel the arc of the narrative requires a post-script that is missing. I recall you informing me in advance that the main character does not appear until at least a third of the way into the film. This is certainly unconventional and the novelty of it is striking. I doubt that it is unprecedented though. I also reckon it's the flip-side of the Tarantino/Coen Bros move of killing off what was hitherto a central character after the audience has become attached to her. Nothing of this postmodern Hollywood sensibility is operative in Hunger. Far from formal fun for the ironic sake of it, the introduction of the protagonist late in the proceedings is indicative of a devotion to the dictates of content. The whole point is that Sands is a member of an organization, part of a social movement, one among a united plurality engaged in struggle. The leadership he takes upon himself is undeniable and the film celebrates him for it. But the film is ultimately about more than that individual and the focus resolves the way it does because of the big picture it means to show. So the introduction of Sands so late in the story is conceptually appropriate, in my view; but in keeping with precisely this concept, the film should have included a final scene of the next "generation" of prisoners taking up the hunger strike after Sands' death.
This registered, Hunger is as good as any film I've ever seen. I mean, there is so much great art from the past that we were told in advance is great art and so we expect it to be and mostly it proves to be so. This is perhaps the deepest well from which we can drink. But to be bowled over by something contemporary, hit by the full force of a thing from now, well, it demands a different kind of attention and admiration. And we need to make ourselves available for feeling this way. We need to go in blind so we can be blind-sided. Advance reviews are to be avoided in general. They tend to be spoilers of one sort or another on behalf of the advertising mill. How can a work of art make an impression on us if we are not first impressionable, in the best sense of the word?
And Dan:
If we are going to touch on the film's flaws, it becomes necessary to point out that McQueen does occasionally slip into cliché in the film's final reel. In particular, he has a bit too much affection for familiar and morbid imagery that portends Sands' imminent death; e.g., multiple shots of birds taking flight. That said, I must emphasize that this is a very minor complaint given the cinematic monument that the film as a whole represents.
(As for knocking off the erstwhile protagonist early in the film, this is not only a Tarantino/Coen Brothers move, but also a Hitchcockian one, made famous by Janet Leigh's showery exit from Psycho. Transferring audience affections from Leigh to the twitchy Anthony Perkins was one of the boldest moves in Hitch's career. )
But I digress. Who is this man McQueen you ask? Excellent question. Given that Hunger is his directorial debut—and one for the ages at that—we are compelled to learn more about the man. Where does he come from? Where is he going? I don't necessarily mean this biographically, but artistically. I know from a little Internet research that he is a Brit, born in the 1970s who studied fine arts at Goldsmiths College. He is also an award-winning visual artist (Turner Prize in 1999) who was Britain's official war artist in Iraq for all of six days in 2003. He produced a set of stamps to commemorate all the men (whether they died in action or by friendly fire, accident or suicide) who were killed in the initial wave of the invasion. The Ministry of Defense has persistently refused to allow them to be made available to the public. Wonder why.
McQueen was making (usually silent) art films, inspired by directors as disparate as Andy Warhol and Buster Keaton (!) as far back as 1993. Critics point out that most of McQueen's work is provocative, but not heavy-handed, allowing audiences to determine for themselves where they stand. Hunger, which clearly shows McQueen's continued fascination with silent film, is his first feature film (winner of the Camera D'Or for best feature film debut at Cannes), and provokes the obvious question: Has there been a more impressive debut?
In interviews McQueen seems both forthcoming and candid about his interests in the art of film. He is less interested in narrative film-making, and more interested in taking the audience into the physical and emotional world of his characters. As he notes about Hunger, "I want people to feel the weight and responsibility for an hour-and-a-half of that time in history." Shit, he got former IRA prisoners from The Maze to make the feces covered walls of the prison cells. He wanted to get that right, so we would have a clearer idea of what their experiences were. McQueen develops audience empathy through this degree of attention to detail and concern for verisimilitude.
Next, McQueen is slated to direct a biographical film on Fela Kuti, the Nigerian composer and human rights activist. Given Kuti's renown as a pioneer of Afro-Beat music, it appears that McQueen is not simply going to settle back into his fascination with the use of silence in film. (Though as this review wisely points out, Hunger, despite its long stretches without dialogue, is anything but a silent film.) In 2007, before he began to make Hunger, McQueen noted that "[i]f people anticipate my next move, thinking I'll turn right, I'll go left. I have never been interested in an easy narrative. I don't want to make things easy, either for the audience, or for myself."
Whether McQueen turns left or right, all I know is that I am really looking forward to the ride.
Dan Jardine is the publisher of Cinemania.
There's an assaultive quality to Hunger–most notably the hallway scene you both praise, where the audience is kept waiting to have piss swept into our laps–that prevents me from hailing it as one of the greatest films I've ever seen, regardless of the undeniable skill with which its composed. There is tenderness present here too, though its telling that whenever it stirs is also when McQueen is most likely to tip over into cliche (I'd certainly agree with Dan those moments are relatively unimportant compared to the achievement). I won't deny the problem is more my temperament than McQueen's–I've always been resistant as well to Dreyer's insistent martyrs in Joan and Ordet, however much I love his other films. Still, far from being "haunted" by the imagery since watching the film, I've only thought of one scene.
I confess Ozu never crossed my mind watching the guard smoking. There's a hallucinatory quality to the image, the way his black pants highlight the snow invisible against his pale shirt and the white wall, as if his legs were some cut-out or portal atop which his torso has been placed, that seems self-conscious and painterly than Ozu would attempt. It's a remarkable moment in its own right. I also can't agree with Ben's comment that "[w]e don't even know yet who he is, why we should pay attention to him, never mind care about him" since we've been following him to work since the film started, and it doesn't take a historian of the Troubles to suss out why a prison guard should have bruised knuckles, or feel conflicted about them.
Still, food for thought for whenever I revisit the movie. Thanks.
My problem with the film is the way it ogles Fassbender's emaciated frame. And I do mean Fassbender's. How can I think of Bobby Sands when the actor in front of me is clearly abusing himself? That's not CGI trickery, alas. It's an unfortunate conclusion to a film that otherwise holds me rapt.
My other complaints would be quibbles. I love the piss-sweeping scene, strange as it sounds to say that. It's about not only what it's about (the ugly routine of that prison life), but on top of that it's a meditative moment for the audience, a chance to think not only about what we're watching but about what else we've seen. It's ugly but effective. On the other hand, the shot of the prisoner reaching out to the snow or playing with the fly strike me as images that McQueen felt had to be in the film because they're just such stunning images. And yet to me they stand out as a little too, well, artsy, I guess. (I'm not against artsy shots. Just artsy shots that don't seem to fit.)
When I saw the film upon the release I thought it was powerful in stretches but forgettable. I was dead fucking wrong. By the end of the movie season it was easily among my top 10 and probably on the bubble of my top 5. It was the movie I couldn't forget. I watched it for the second time a few weeks ago and I didn't find the starvation scenes quite so offensive since I was prepared for them. It's a great film. I enjoyed reading the discussion.
Hello Bruce and Jason. I thank you both for responding. With respect to the piss-sweeping scene in particular, I reckon I fall in between the two of you; "assaultive" and "meditative" respectively. Rather than feeling under attack or allowed to contemplate, I felt called upon to observe. Bruce: There was for me a strong stylistic barrier against identification with anyone in the film, so none of the violence and degradation felt pointed at me directly. Jason: I did not feel so distant from the violence and degradation that I could reflect on it, there was for me a more immediate sense of involvement. Conscientious observation, bearing witness, this is the responsibility the scene – indeed the whole film – put on me.
Bruce, I get your point concerning our foreknowledge about the prison guard with respect to anyone up to speed on the historical setting. But my point about this character was with respect to his specific role in the dramatic narrative. At that early stage in the story, given his screen time so far, we would not have been mistaken for thinking that he is our protagonist, yet we have not been given a clue as to why he should be. Of course, he turns out not to be. My narrative naivety ultimately rested on my having gone "blind" into the viewing of the film; i.e., being ignorant of the subject matter as it centers on Sands.
No Ozu for you this time out. No worries.
Jason, your critique of certain images in the film as artsy shots for the sake of artsy shots does not work for me. I do not find it conceptually superfluous that a prisoner would reach out to snow or play with a fly. I find it germane and convincing that a prisoner would "reach out" to most anything and "play" with just about anything too, both literally and metaphorically. Especially prisoners reduced to smearing their own shit on the wall in murals of protest.
As for your objection to the actor "clearly abusing himself," did you feel the same way when Robert De Niro gained however much weight he did to play middle-aged Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull? Never mind method techniques for psychologically inhabiting a role (roll in De Niro's case). Certain parts call for certain physical types – notice that McQueen did not cast John Goodman as Sands – and this part called for the character to loose weight right before our eyes, to understate it. During the filming of Apocalypse Now, Sheen had a heart attack under Coppola's direction. Now THAT's a clear instance of abuse.
Then – Ben
Ben: On the artsy shots, I don't disagree with your interpretation. In this case I'm griping about scenes that, for me, don't pass the sniff test. They're justifiable, sure. In your case they worked. For me they stood out, for whatever reason, as something less genuine than the rest. Just a gut feeling.
As for the starvation scenes …
I think Sheen in Apcalypse Now is a poor example, unless you really believe that Coppola (a) drove Sheen to a heart attack (me thinks there were other factors involed) and (b) Coppola intended for Sheen to have a heart attack.
In Hunger Fassbender starves himself, with McQueen's direction or at least blessing. (McQueen was quoted as saying something to the effect of, "That's the job.") The difference between De Niro's weight gain in Raging Bull and Fassbender's weight loss in Hunger is that in Bull it's a decoration and in Hunger it's the entire point. Would any of us look at De Niro's performance in Bull and say that he needed to gain all that weight to convey how LaMotta deteriorated over time? Is that all those latter scenes are, observations of weight gain? Hardly. And yet while it's easier for me to look past De Niro's weight gain, I do think it's proven ultimately distracting because it's almost all people ever talk about anymore, which is a shame, as if that's the reason the performance is so incredible.
In Hunger the latter act is entirely about the gruesomeness of starvation and self mutilation. Fassbender's emaciated frame is more than just an accessory. We're supposed to watch Sands and question his tactics and perhaps admire his bravery, but just as much we're supposed to wonder how anyone could have watched a man do this to himself and allowed it to happen. Well, an actor allowed himself to get to that point and everyone watched. Fassbender did it not as a political statement but as a theatric. So I struggle to see past Fassbender to Sands. I presume McQueen didn't actually beat his actors in the other abusive scenes; that would be too cruel. But he allowed an actor to take unnecessary risks with his life/health because it made great art. There were other options. Of course John Goodman couldn't have played a starving man. But just to grab a movie, watch Papillon in which through makeup and baggy costumes it is effectively suggested that Steve McQueen's character is frail from weight loss. If filmmakers need to reproduce reality to get their point across, what's the point of art?
Fassbender's emaciation is not so much different from those actors who choose to do their own stunts, a la Jackie Chan. They risk pain in order to help guarantee the verisimilitude of the moment. When stuntmen are used, we are taken out of the film as we are on the lookout for editing or camera tricks, or we try to spot the moments where expensive post-production CGI was employed.
I don't see this choice of Fassbender's as anything but a difference in degree.
It seems to me that McQueen is damned (by some like yourself) if he does starve Fassbender, and damned if he doesn't (by others who would complain that Fassbender didn't look like he was starving.)
As for the pee douching scene, it is absolutely essential to the film. If McQueen had cut away after a few seconds, having made his point tastefully, there would be little to say about the scene. By holding it to the bitter end, he encourages us to consider everything that this moment means. We must, as Ben notes, observe. We must bear witness to what The Troubles have done to both the oppressed (reduced to smearing shit and ponding urine into the hallways) and the oppressor (reduced to mopping up a river of piss). And that piss is going to land in our laps again if we don't figure out a different way of doing this sort of business.
Given the film's release nearly coincided with the 'troubles' at Abu Ghraid, I'd say McQueen is onto something here.
Jason, you would have us debate at least two very large topics. One, the ethics of any art form involving performance, and not just in terms of the social relations between the artistic collaborators, also between the artists and the audience. Two, the difference between theatrical staging and actual documentation in the context of performative artistic representation. I'm not proposing that we pound at these topics explicitly with big theoretical hammers. I just think we should be aware of the general, heavy rock underneath the lighter stone of the particular cases we are presently tapping.
I hear what you are saying about Apocalypse Now. I gave that example simply to indicate that no actor suffered a heart attack during the making of Hunger; you know, as evidence that Fassbender's health was ultimately not compromised. By the way, though, the documentary about the making of Apocalypse Now, Hearts of Darkness, does give the impression that Coppola may have driven Sheen to have a heart attack. Shucks, it gives the impression that it's fortunate for all involved that only one person had a heart attack. But of course, I am entertaining myself with hyperbole by way of counter-factual speculation. So again to acknowledge, I get your point about Apocalypse Now.
Returning to De Niro's performance in Raging Bull, I agree with you that the reputation of the performance after the fact rests on a sensationalistic criterion for thespian achievement; i.e., weight-gaining = oscar-winning. But I disagree with you that the weight-gain is just a "decoration" that was not needed to convey the character's deterioration over time. Now I might play the it's-a-true-story card, but I honestly don't know if LaMotta got so fat later on, so I won't. My artistic assertion instead is that the character is a boxer in tip-top physical shape, not just an average guy going to seed, a professional athlete. This makes the weight-gain intrinsic to the characterization. Does this therefore necessitate that the actor must actually get fat? Why not just let the costume department work it's magic?
This is precisely what you ask of Hunger. And you offer Papillon as the better way to go. But as you correctly point out, the gruesomeness of starvation is not just an accessory to the story in Hunger, it's absolutely integral to what the film is about. In Papillon, on the contrary, the gruesomeness of starvation is just an accessory to the tale. You also correctly refer to the character's self mutilation in Hunger as the key issue. This does not come into play at all in Papillon. So, the latter can get away with makeup and baggy clothes whereas the former cannot.
About Hunger you say "we're supposed to wonder how anyone could have watched a man do this to himself." I follow the moral thrust of your comment and concur with you. But at the same time, I feel that before we can reflect on how others witnessed this act of self-destruction, we must witness it ourselves. Hence, we have arrived at the matter of verisimilitude in performative art… and those two big topics I identified at the outset.
Then – Ben
Jason, Hunger was directed by Steve McQueen and Papillon starred Steve McQueen. Go figure.
Then – Ben
Ben: You've figured me out. My complaints are all tied to identity theft.
But, seriously. Dan makes a good point about stuntmen (or actors who do their own stunts), and indeed Fassbender's starvation is stunt acting, in my opinion. However, this good point also proves the point: When you watch a Jackie Chan movie you go to see Jackie Chan perform stunts. No one remembers a character he plays. The characters are irrelevant. It's all about the stunt and the appreciation of the performer.
As to the charge that McQueen would have been damned by people who complaining that Fassbender didn't actually starve himself, well, someone would have to be pretty fucking sick to say that. Again, to cite my previous example, what's next: should they have actually performed anal cavity searches? Or wouldn't you agree with me that it's possible to suggest something without actually doing it? If people really expected that Fassbender was required to starve himself for the role, no one would have been shocked by his decision to do so. And that brings me to Ben …
On De Niro in Raging Bull you ask: "Why not just let the costume department work its magic?" Indeed. Why not? Worked for Orson Welles. When I say that his weight gain is just decoration I mean that if you took the fatness away entirely, De Niro's performance as the latter day LaMotta would still lead you to the same place — a man who is a shadow of himself, lost, pathetic. I would never disagree that the weight gain accentuates this. Of course it does. It's a powerful visual cue. But the scene is not actually about his weight gain specifically. Even if he'd kept his chiseled frame you'd still have the same general feelings about the character at the end that you do when you watch the film as-is.
On Hunger you offer: "I feel that before we can reflect on how others witnessed this act of self-destruction, we must witness it ourselves." This is true, to a point. But let's remember exactly what acting is: the suggested representation of something that is not; an illusion. As I've suggested already, Hunger is filled with scenes that look like what they're supposed to look like but actually aren't what they appear (the beatings, etc). At the end, however, starvation is resembled by actual starvation. And maybe this doesn't alarm you, but it alarms me just as much as if McQueen actually had his actors beaten in order to get the point across. If you learned that all the other violence in the film was real, wouldn't that disturb you in a way that might distract from the film? And yet McQueen could argue that we need to witness it ourselves. I disagree with that approach.
You know, back in Apocalypse Now, they actually slaughtered the ox (or water buffalo, or whatever that is at the end; can't remember). In this day and age, we shouldn't need to go to such extremes, we shouldn't need to treat actors like cattle. Fassbender's decision to starve himself I'm sure won him a lot of Method street cred, and that's about right, because that's what I remember from the end of the film: his starvation. Not Sands'. In any other situation, when we see the actor instead of the character, we call it "bad acting." I'm not sure why this case should be any different.
Thanks for the discussion.
Jason, until now I believe that I wasn't viewing your forest for your trees. You have said more than once and in more than one phrase that you did not see Sands, you saw the actor playing him. Please let me share with you that this was not my experience at all. Perhaps you had seen Fassbender prior to watching him in Hunger, were already familiar with him. I knew nothing about him in advance of seeing him in Hunger, only Googled him after the fact. But this hardly matters either way for either of us.
In order for you to finally make me get your point of view, you have gone so far as to suggest that Fassbender's performance in Hunger is "bad acting." I give you the benefit of the doubt that you do not mean this absolutely or even generally; after all, he does a lot more than starve in the film. Yet, the starving specifically you regard as a failure of theatrical illusion, an unacceptable abuse of the performer and – by association, it seems – the audience too. Of course, I can only respect your right to inform me of how you experienced the film. But I hope you will allow me to repeat that I saw Sands and not the actor playing him.
And no doubt related to our opposite perspectives on this, I was not as disturbed by the emaciation of the protagonist at the end as I was by a number of other incidents and images the happened beforehand. You appear to be so shocked by the figure of the protagonist at the end, the dramatic legitimacy and artistic worth of the film as a whole is – if not plainly compromised – in serious doubt; your various appreciative statements about it notwithstanding. Call me callous, but I just didn't notice the alarming fact of Fassbender's physique as an object in itself. I was too busy observing the devastating form of Sand's historical act as presented to me in a work of art.
As for Raging Bull, we're just going to have to agree to disagree. You are treating the character's body as something external to that character, as literally immaterial to his personality. I am regarding his physical being as essential to his being as a whole; not just a superficial signifier of his condition but rather the concrete indicator of the self he has become.
And yes, "they" actually slaughtered the animal in Apocalypse Now. But they were the locals who were picking up some work on the movie set as extras. Coppola didn't have a clue how to end the film. His wife learned that the locals were going to conduct an (annual?) ritual of sacrifice and told her husband. He ended up filming it and inserted the – no doubt somewhat staged, but nevertheless authentic – documentary footage into his fiction. How this might qualify your assessment of this business is not for me to say.
Then – Ben
Ben, yes, we have to agree to disagree on a lot of things. I was never trying to suggest that your experience with the film didn't happen. I was simply trying to illustrate why the film affected me the way that it did while citing examples that I hoped would get you to understand my point of view, fully realizing that you saw the movie the way you saw it, and thus my description wouldn't change that experience.
To be clear if it wasn't before, yes, my "bad acting" line is specific to that argument. It's a general question: 'If one sees the actor instead of the person he is playing, doesn't that call into question his approach?' I mention this because there's a long history of praising actors who go to extremes to "become" their characters. For you, the extremes of Fassbender, and in turn McQueen, didn't distract from the narrative. For you, it worked. For me, Fassbender's starvation didn't help him "become" Sands at all. It distracted from Sands. So I call into question whether Fassbender achieved what he attempted to achieve. (Yes, you disagree, fairly. But this is how I see the film.)
I think my first comment makes it perfectly clear that I admire the film tremendously. We've talked in detail about the part of the film that I don't like because that's the point we've been debating. Let's please not suggest that a very specific debate here must apply to the rest of the film or the rest of Fassbender's performance. I hope I needn't list all the things I admire about the film in order to have an argument about the thing that disturbs me about it.
As for the sacrifice in Apocalypse Now, the hows and whys of its creation are irrelevant, aren't they? That scene has, as you point out, documentary realism. But the cost of that realism is the slaughtering of an animal. Don't worry, I'm not getting all PETA here. I'm responding to the general notion implied earlier that we must witness actual gruesomeness to feel it. If films follow this design — the design of that scene in Apocalypse Now or the starvation scenes in Hunger, we head in a dangerous direction (dangerous for actors, and, I think, dangerous for our ability to appreciate the stories being told).
Let me close with this: Near the end of Hunger there are a few close-ups of Bobby Sands' grotesque bed sores. I think we can presume those were achieved by the makeup department. Are they any less effective? I don't think so. In addition to the way it distracts me from Sands, what gets under my skin about Fassbender's starvation is that McQueen/Fassbender make me an endorser of his mutilation by watching the film. If somehow I had been on the set and seen Fassbender in that physical state, I would have been disgusted. I would have thought that it was going too far. I wouldn't have wanted to witness it. I certainly wouldn't have wanted to endorse it. But if I purchase the film, or even watch it, I'm doing that.
In a sense, the unfortunate thing here is that great art has been made by these means, thus suggesting that Fassbender's actual starvation was integral to that art, even though the film is otherwise filled with merely convincing illusions of brutality. As an appreciator of art and just as a human being, I'm disturbed by Fassbender's unnecessary (in my mind) self-mutilation. It's worth wondering: What if the film sucked? What might people have said then about these relative unknowns — McQueen and Fassbender — and the extremes of that final act? I'm uncomfortable with the feeling that these methods might be considered unjustifiable or exploitive in a lesser film but acceptable when packaged within great art. But this is another discussion others will have to run with.
Jason, you might not want to speak of bed sores and use the phrase "gets under my skin" at the same time as they stay on top of the skin. (Sorry, I have a problem with puns.[But mostly by joking I wish to demonstrate that I am enjoying our conversation and I mean no offense to you with anything I say. These internet chats can get touchy.])
I am glad you have come to find it necessary to employ the terms "cost of that realism" and "these methods might be considered unjustifiable or exploitive," because such language confirms my earlier contention that we are at bedrock pursuing a problem in ethics, indeed, with political ramifications as well. But if we are going to go at this directly, we must impose analytical precision on our conversation.
If I am hearing you correctly, your ethical concern is not with the product but rather with the production of it. I realize that this theoretical split I am exacting can only be sustained temporarily and ultimately it will be required to reunite means and ends in any evaluation of them. But right now for the case at hand, your problem with Hunger is not with the film itself but rather with how it was MADE. If in the credits it had been declared that 'no animals were hurt in the making of this film, and also rest assured folks, the lead actor was never in any physical danger, we had doctors on the set 24/7 to ensure that he was safe and healthy' – I reckon you and I would not be having this discussion. In other words, if rules were spelled out and the film-maker followed the letter of the law…
… but of course, who makes the rules? Please do not hear me accusing you of wanting to be a Commissar of Culture when I tell you that you are wanting to have legislation enacted that clearly delineates for the making of performative realism how much of the actual may be integrated with the virtual, how much immediate factual 'stuff' is allowed into what is otherwise made up of 'stuff' that is mediated artifice. Now, I am not so amoral as to oppose you on this in principle. I would only caution that no attempt to establish such standards be pursued after a production is done, by reading off a finished product the crimes that have been committed. Because there is only the lowest of probability that a consensus will be achieved that these crimes even took place.
In this instance, for instance. I must repeat yet again that I simply did not notice any abuse of the actor. Not THE abuse of the actor – ANY abuse of the actor. You, on the other hand, found this blatant. So much so, you are confident that you know how the film was made and you are prepared to condemn how it was made; whereas I have no idea how the film was made and therefore refrain from passing judgment on the matter. Honestly man, I'm not in the media loop. Was it a big deal in the press about Fassbender doing a De Niro? But nevermind. Because such external information is hardly at the heart of your position.
Let me expose the heart of your position by making it even bigger than it is; i.e., let me exaggerate my point in order to make it. You are coming pretty close to saying that Hunger comes pretty close to being a real snuff movie. According to my moral compass, a snuff movie made entirely with CGI would still be entirely unjustifiable and exploitative. The product itself is wrong. Taking the logic of your production process critique of Hunger to it's extreme, however, this particular snuff movie would have been cool if only the snuff part had been achieved with smoke and mirrors.
I do apologize for exaggerating my point in order to make it. And I certainly did hear you say that Hunger is great art. Yet, in taking your argument seriously on its own premise, I also hear you saying that it is great art done wrong and the wrong-doing of it profoundly interferes with your recognition of is as, well, great art. Hence, you saw the actor, not the character he is portraying, and this you properly define as "bad acting". Well, bad acting is not great art. You are eloquent about isolating the starvation issue in order to precisely delimit the bad acting in the film. But with all due respect, the starvation issue is too much at the center of the story for you to eat your great art cake and bad acting icing too. The film lives and dies on the realism of the character committing slow suicide. Insofar as you saw instead the actor self-mutilating, Hunger died.
Let's see now… Raging Bull done… oh yes, Apocalypse Now (Redux is more like it here). I was sincere before when I implied that I do not hold a position on how to tease apart the documentary and the fiction for the scene under discussion. The most I can do is draw to your attention your inconsistency. When it comes to Hunger, you take issue with its methods of production but when it comes to Apocalypse Now, you propose (by way of a rhetorical question) that "the hows and whys of its creation are irrelevant." Dude, don't be so quick NOT to go all PETA. And not just for the scene under discussion. And not just limited to PETA sensibility. Apocalypse Now is a notorious piece of Method-directing, for lack of a better label; involving all sorts of natural habitat degradation and social carnage, perhaps matched only by Herzog's Fitzcarraldo. Hey, in my opinion the pyramids today are not worth the slave labour that built them yesterday. Wonder why I'm not so fast to say the same thing about a couple of pieces of great art on celluloid. I offer up my own inconsistency to substantiate my insistence that we are truly grappling with the thorny and twisted branches of ethics and politics here. Hence, the ultimate requirement to reunite means and ends in any evaluation of them; in art like any other human endeavor, Apocalypse Now included.
Then – Ben