Depiction And Fiction: Toys & Cars

I have previously written about the difference between created imagery (animation and paintings) and recorded imagery (live-action film and photography), claiming that the former is far more complex than the latter on an aesthetic level and yet far simpler on a fictional level. That is, in animation a character will always have a dual status as an image; they will always be both the character and a depiction of the character. Yet at the same time, as a fictional being, the animated character is more ‘true’ than the live-action character – Michael Corleone from The Godfather is the character and Al Pacino purporting to be the character, while Mickey Mouse is always ‘really’ Mickey Mouse. When we apply these ideas to the Pixar films, we can see that there are a multitude of levels of understanding at work in even the most straightforward of moments.

The early Pixar films in particular – both shorts and features – can be seen to form something akin to a ‘meta-franchise’ in that they are linked in a variety of extra-textual ways. While some argue that all of the Pixar films take place in one consistent universe, attempting to cohere everything into a single text (http://jonnegroni.com/2013/07/11/the-pixar-theory/), I would argue that this is a) stretching it a bit, and b) far less interesting than viewing the films as distinct texts that have a range of interpretative relationships to one another. Put another way, the references, cameos and in-jokes in the Pixar films do not unify them but create highly complicated interactions between them, turning some works into fictions within other works of fiction. The first character animation by the Pixar team (though not under that name) was the short The Adventures Of Andre & Wally-B, a fleeting chase cartoon between the vaguely human Andre and the antagonistic bee Wally-B. In itself, the film is a straightforward narrative taking place within its own diegetic reality. As an animated character, Andre is both the diegetic figure and a depiction of the figure. But in their third short film, Red’s Dream, the first in-joke reference adds even more layers to the depiction and fiction of Andre.

On the wall of the Bicycle shop where Red the unicycle lives a clock can be made out as portraying the character of Andre, his arms indicating the hour and minute. As an inside joke, we can take it on the same level that we take the floor pattern within Red’s fantasy (emulating the ball in Luxo Jr.) – a reference to entertain the animators and anyone else eagle-eyed enough to notice. But the nature of the reference is more complicated. The fact that the clock is a clear reference to the famous Mickey Mouse watch of yesteryear, means that we can interpret the clock as a piece of Andre & Wally-B merchandise, casting those characters as fictional characters within the diegesis of Red’s Dream. We could take the appearance of the clock as evidence that the unseen Bicycle shop owner is a fan of Andre & Wally-B and has bought this piece of memorabilia; making the clock a depiction (within the cartoon) of a depiction (on the face of the clock) of a depiction (of the original character). Andre & Wally B therefore is both a film in its own right and a story-within-a-story as part of Red’s Dream.

This approach is continued in the first computer-animated feature film, Toy Story. When Woody gathers everyone around to discuss the impending influx of new toys on Andy’s birthday, we can make out behind him the spines of several books – including Andre & Wally-B, Red’s Dream, Tin Toy and Knick-Knack. Once again, this is an inside joke that renders all of these earlier works as fiction within the world of Toy Story. Red the unicycle is not a diegetic character, but rather a doubly-fictional character akin to Buzz Lightyear.

When I say Buzz Lightyear, of course, I am not referring to the character of Buzz who we follow through the film, but the concept of Buzz Lightyear, the character that Buzz thinks he is, the – as Woody puts it at one point – ‘Real Buzz Lightyear’. Initially, much of the comedy in Toy Story stems from this confusion in terms of depiction and fiction. Buzz thinks that he is the real thing, not a depiction of the real thing. The ‘real’ Buzz Lightyear is a doubly-fictional character within the world of Toy Story, the main character of the Buzz Lightyear Of Star Command franchise (which begins life as a fictional franchise, but then became an actual franchise when Disney produced an animated series by that name). This is true of most of the toy characters appearing within the films.

Woody differs from Buzz because he knows full well that he is a toy, a depiction of a generic Old West Sheriff. But this in itself becomes a complicated point in relation to how we understand the diegesis of the franchise. In the sequel, Toy Story 2, we learn that Woody is actually a depiction of a specific character from an old puppet TV serial Woody’s Round-Up. Woody therefore becomes a depiction of a toy, which itself is a depiction of a TV puppet, that is a depiction of the fictional Woody. But, unlike Buzz, Woody is initially ignorant of the fiction that he depicts; he only knows that he is a depiction. How is it possible for Buzz to know his fictional back-story so well that he actually believes it to be true, while Woody is oblivious to the fact that he is merchandise from a TV show? Why does Woody define himself so overtly through his relationship to Andy when, as a toy from the 1950s, he must surely have had owners decades before Andy was ever born? These texts-within-texts complicate how much sense the story makes.

In a later Toy Story short Small Fry we are treated to a slew of new characters that exist, seemingly, to indulge the filmmakers’ love of ridiculous puns. Sidestepping the glorious silliness of Tai-Kwon-Doe or Beef Stewardess for now (though I’m sure I’ll return to them in a future post), let us focus on the fact that each of these characters have been given the same kind of doubly-fictional contexts. In the audio commentary, director Angus MacLane states that every toy appearing in the ‘happy-meal’ toy support group belongs to a franchise that, like Woody’s Round-Up, only exists within the world of Toy Story. For instance, Franklin is a depiction of a character from an animated film that tells the history of America using anthropomorphic birds. On the level of fiction, Franklin is simply an abandoned toy that can’t understand why he doesn’t appeal to kids. But on the level of depiction, the character is infinitely more complex because of this context. Franklin is a depiction of the Pixar character, who is a toy depiction of a non-existent animated character, who is a depiction of the fictional character of Franklin who – we might surmise – is supposed to be Franklin D. Roosevelt (or maybe even Franklin Pierce), the real historical figure depicted as a bird.

This idea of depicting characters as something introduces yet another layer to our understanding of depiction and fiction. The world of the Cars franchise is more complicated than that of Toy Story; the toys exist within a human populated world, they are created objects that lead a secret life of their own. But the cars and other vehicles exist in their own world that functions on its own laws, it is much like the real world but seen through a kind of ‘car-o-vision’ (in the same way that Franklin is Roosevelt seen through ‘bird-o-vision’). This makes Lightning McQueen and Tow Mater double-depictions, but in a different way to Woody or Buzz. We understand the characters as people, but we see them as cars. In Cars 2 we glimpse John Lassetire, the ‘car-ified’ version of Pixar founder John Lasseter, a perfect example of a ‘real’ person that we see depicted as a vehicle.

The first Cars provides us with clips from A Bugs Life, Monsters Inc. and Toy Story, but with the characters all reimagined as cars. Unfortunately, Lassetire is not introduced as a maker of animated films within Cars 2, so we can’t attribute these movie clips to him, as productions of PixCar studios.

But nevertheless the appearance of Woody and Buzz as toy cars is particularly interesting, when we consider the fact that these characters were released as toys in the real world.

So: The character of Woody is a human sheriff living in the Old West, thwarting villains that poison the waterhole and so on, but he is depicted by a puppet in the show Woody’s Round-Up. This puppet is then depicted by the toy of Woody that we meet in Toy Story; and because this toy is also a character with its own distinct personality he is both a depiction and a character. But because he is an animated character he is still yet another depiction (a depiction of the Pixar character). In the Cars clips, the characters are seen through the ‘car-o-vision’, making them depictions of the depictions of the Pixar characters. And in the real world, therefore, the Woody Wagon and Buzzmobile toys are toy depictions of animated depictions of car depictions of animated depictions of toy depictions of puppet/animated depictions of fictional characters…

Phew!

                                                                                                                        - P. S.

Archives & Animators; Technology & Totem Poles

I recently attended ‘The Animator’, a conference held this June in Toronto at Corus Entertainment and Sheridan College, which threw up some interesting recurring themes and motifs across the various keynotes, panel presentations and screenings (as will be the case in any good conference) and I thought I'd take the opportunity of this post to reflect on some of these ideas. Don't expect anything tremendously conclusive, however. The event was a convergence point between several institutions and events at once; the aforementioned Sheridan College and Corus Entertainment, TAAFI (the Toronto Animation Arts Festival International), the centenary of Norman McLaren (the National Film Board of Canada’s most important animation figure) and the Society for Animation Studies’ annual conference.

As a child of the VHS generation I have no problem admitting to a collector mentality. Although many of the students I teach (and one or two people my own age) experience film and animation almost exclusively through streaming or downloading, I just can't help feeling a desperate desire to own something if I really like it or find it interesting. Just having access to it through the internet isn't enough – I can even be struck by a kind of OCD ‘collector anxiety’ if I find something that, for one reason or other, I just can’t own in some way. I actually avoid watching some online material through fear that I’ll like it, but be unable to buy it. And so one of the themes that ran through the conference, the loss and/or preservation of material, struck a definite chord for me. The inimitable Paul Wells discussed the sheer amount of production material that animation studios/companies simply throw out or destroy as a result of space limitations. This includes preproduction sketches, character concept art, storyboards and even maquettes and sets in stop-motion productions. Wells and his colleagues have taken it upon themselves – within the UK at least – to gather up and preserve as much of this material as possible.

The theme of preservation continued through to the end of the conference, where we were lucky enough to be shown the ‘pre-world premier’ screening of Norman McLaren's stereoscopic films. The films were highly impressive works of early 3D animation but, amazingly, the images were hand drawn and, as with many McLaren works, actually drawn directly on to the celluloid. How one sits down in 1951 and works out how to draw lines on a tiny cel the size of a postage stamp and make them three-dimensional in projection is beyond me. These short animations had long since slipped into obscurity and were even feared lost altogether, but thanks to the wonders of digital media, the restoration and preservation of this incredible material was possible.

Despite the ability of digital technology to rescue these films, another tendency that ran through the conference was a trepidation about just what gets lost in the new digital world. Vera Brosgol, a very lovely storyboard artist for Laika, stores her material (sketches and complete storyboards) digitally but admitted that much of the work that she produced for Coraline had drifted into obscurity, because she needed the room on her hard drive. While on the one hand, this seems exactly the same situation as with the physical materials that companies feel they must throw out for the sake of space, the difference is that there is no digital equivalent of Paul Wells to turn up and take it away to a safe haven. Digital material, once deleted, stays deleted.

Another, slightly more aggressive, attitude towards digital – and the changes it brings – also became apparent through the conference. Although there were several borderline vitriolic opinions expressed, most relevant for this discussion were the thoughts on how digital impacts upon storyboards and another similar art-form, the comic. David Sweeney argued that the problem with a digital comic is that the defining quality of sequential art (the fact that the images co-exist on the page and don't simply replace one another in a continuous stream), is lost in the process of adapting them into the partially-animated Motion Comic format. Chris Pallant mentioned a similar development in the way in which storyboards are used within the production process. While in the days of paper storyboards, the images were posted up on the wall and could be rearranged as story meeting progressed and, most importantly, seen at the same time, allowing for a better understanding of story flow. But now, at some studios at least, the storyboard has become an entirely digital process. Images are drawn directly into the computer by hand and then discussed one at a time, eliminating the dynamic flow between the images that the analogue process allows.

Thus, on one hand the risk of material taking up too much room and being destroyed or discarded is greatly reduced through the digital production process, yet at the same time, the way in which this material is used in production becomes altered and the risk of art being deleted forever is increased.

Listening to Vera Brosgol and speak and show us some of her artwork also heightened my collector anxiety. The material that we were shown (both her own and that of others) was fascinating but, even in the era of DVD and Blu-Ray extras, would mostly sit in obscurity seen only by a very tiny minority. One of my (many) fascinations with animation as a medium is the fact that – moreso than live-action film – every piece of work produced during the production process can be seen as a work of art in its own right. Every character concept, used and unused, each storyboard page, each colour chart, every piece of background art, not to mention the huge amount of hand-drawings, maquettes, real and virtual models and armatures, etc., that actually produce the moving character on screen can all be regarded as works with their own artistic merit (as far as I'm concerned). And for me, the tragedy is that you can't own this stuff! Even when 'Making of' featurettes on DVDs or 'Art of' books can give you a lot of material, it is impossible to get it all.

Of course, arguably, you could have access to it all, if a digital archive of it all were to be made. I was happy to find (albeit in low-quality) Vera Brosgol's graduation short Snow-bo on youtube, as well as many other graduate films from Toronto's Sheridan College and the world-famous Disney-founded CalArts. The earliest work of people like Tim Burton or Chris Sanders is available to see online even if it is nearly impossible to find a physical copy. This is the benefit of digital media like the internet, and I have to grudgingly admit the superiority of the internet to physical artefacts like discs and books; the sheer amount of material that one can find – if one knows where to look.

Most academic work focuses its energy on analysing and unpacking 'professional' work. Film and Animation Studies are concerned with texts that are available to most people, not least of all because your brilliant insights into a particular film will be lost on everyone if you're the only person who has seen the film in question. But does this mean that the vast mountain of work produced by amateurs and students – a lot of which is accessible to all – shouldn't be studied? If I want to tell my students about the importance of metamorphosis to animation, do I have to limit my examples to the Fleischer Brothers' masterpieces, or can I demonstrate the exact same principles by showing some of the brilliant student work that was screened for us at Sheridan College? On one level, the answer to the question is: stick with the Fleischers. Partly, this is because it is very easy for me to find many articles on the Fleischer cartoons that I can support my claims with.

Academia is, of course, a reliant activity – doubly so for Film and Animation Studies. We have to draw upon the insights of other academics in order to ground our own thoughts, but we also require artists to produce work in order for us to have anything to talk about. Paul Wells (who gets in everywhere) also suggested that the relationship between theory and practice in animation studies was one of dismissiveness and superiority. While theory regards itself as an intellectual pursuit, it also regards the actual practice of animation making as somehow a lesser activity, something that doesn't require the same kind of critical thinking or evaluative understanding. This, Wells says, is nonsense. The act of creativity is by its very nature one of self-reflexive consideration, of critical evaluation of its own processes. Theory needs to better understand its relationship to, and evaluation of, the practical processes of animation. Another reason my hands are tied in showing the Sheridan students' work is because, unless the student has uploaded their work online and (even more importantly) I can remember the student's name, how will I access the material to show my own students?

'Professionalism' functions a little like a gatekeeper – if a work has been produced by a studio, we can at least assume confidently that the work will possess certain levels of competence and artistic merit (when looking at the craft of animation, I mean – the finished film might be pretty bad). And work produced professionally is more likely to exist as a ‘product’ that can be owned. Work produced by an individual in their bedroom or as part of an educational institution does not come with the same kind of guarantees. How do we as consumers (not just academics but anyone interested in animation) trawl through the average and forgettable in order to reach the gold that some artists are able to produce? At the moment, there is no particularly workable answer. There is no online system that allows for the hierarchical arrangement of students' work. You cannot type 'best cartoons to come out of Sheridan' into youtube and hope for a legitimate result. And so it seems unlikely that any animation scholar will write a piece analysing any of the great pieces of animation that I saw while in Toronto.

On the final day of the conference I had the good fortune to begin talking with a group of the conference volunteers, who were all animation students at Sheridan. Although there were several more panels during the course of the day, I ended up missing them in favour of spending time with these Animators of Tomorrow. I was struck even more so than before at the sheer amount of creativity and material that these animators produced all of the time, from sketches, to paintings, from character design to full animation. My collector anxiety went into meltdown as we toured the College and saw all of the material produced by students of all ages and stages of development. Though I did take a couple of (poor quality) photos, the fact is that I saw many, many images that were beautiful and I'm absolutely certain I will never see again. Not just because I can't own them, but because I also have no method of accessing it online even if it is up on deviantart or youtube. The tragic ephemeral nature of animation is that 95% of the art that goes into it disappears, if not deleted forever, and then gets lost in the vast ocean of amateur material on the internet.

Probably the most memorable of these Sheridan students was Coco Cheung, not least of all because she spent the final day, for no discernible reason, dressed as a totem pole. I spent much of my time with her, discussing her desire to make character maquettes for stop-motion animation (and being told, in no uncertain terms, that having a PhD does not make me a “real” doctor), and it is from her I will take the totem pole analogy that will form my conclusion. Or, more accurately, my “conclusion”.

Coco Cheung (by Coco Cheung) flying through the internet on her totem pole trainers

Academia functions as the top figure on a totem pole; not only does this nicely reflect the ‘ivory tower’ mentality that we all slip into at some time or another, but it also demonstrates the reliance that we have on the work of others. Below academia sits the professional finished products – shorts and feature films by Dreamworks, Laika, Disney and so on – that are our bread and butter, without which we would just fall down to the ground. Below this is the development and production materials; the concept art, storyboards, maquettes and cels, which exist as distinct artworks from the films that they ultimately produce. Below this is the personal or amateur work of individuals within the animation institution (both the business and education sectors) – here we find Brosgol’s Snow-bo, the caricatures produced by Disney animators during slow days, the maquettes and sketches that we glimpsed while touring Sheridan. While in a perfect world we would be able to see all of this totem pole and appreciate each of its figures on their own merits and in relation to one another, at this exact moment in time it has sunk down into the mud, almost to the halfway point. Academia and professionally produced animation are still sitting pretty without much problem, but the production materials are slowly sinking out of sight, only glimpsed in DVD extras, and the personal material has completely vanished below. The internet has led to the creation of small tunnels, allowing access to tiny portions of this bottom figure, but the mud keeps obscuring our view (yes, the mud is an analogy for all of the mediocre amateur animation on the web – sorry). What we need is a serious excavation project – something akin to Wells’ efforts on a global scale – that can reveal the entirety of the totem pole for all to see. If the majority of audiences are only interested in the second figure down, so be it, but we should have the option to explore the bottom figures and – maybe one day – create a link between the top and foundational figures, between academia and the personal material produced by highly talented individuals.

For the interested, here are some links to the work of the students that I met:

Coco 'the Human Totem Pole' Cheung: http://cy1115.blogspot.co.uk/ 

Her sister Crystal Cheung: http://liyuconberma.deviantart.com/ 

Arthur Lim Banes: http://arthurbanes.tumblr.com/ 

Anna Starkova: http://annathegallant.blogspot.ca/ 

And to cover all of those whom I met but didn't retain their names, here's the general link to Sheridan College's students: http://sheridananimation.blogspot.co.uk/2007/09/links-to-student-work.html 

                                                                                                          - P.S.

Luis Bunuel: Playing God

This is the third and final part of my old undergraduate essay on the subject of Luis Bunuel’s auteurism. I should take this opportunity to highlight that I am well aware that Bunuel’s name has been incorrectly spelled throughout – I blame my computer, which does not want to let me access the appropriate accents.

III. ACTS

While the previous post focused predominantly on Bunuel’s control over filmic reality (either by taking on the role of God within the fiction, or shamelessly placing characters in ‘unnatural’ situations), the films discussed in this post demonstrate a central component of this control – one which harkens back to the films discussed in the first post – that is, the notion of time and space and their somewhat mercurial nature in cinema.

Both of the themes that were central to Nazarin and The Exterminating Angel, namely outright manipulation by Bunuel-the-God and the concerns with faith and religion, are found succinctly demonstrated and explored in Simon Of The Desert, Bunuel’s last Mexican film. With a runtime of less than 50 minutes, the film’s brevity and wit often undermine it multifaceted themes and fascinating ideas.

The film’s premise is almost like a sequence from Monty Python’s Life Of Brian; Simon (Claudio Brook) is a saintly hermit in what appears to be the earliest days of the Christian faith, revered by the locals as a miracle-worker and pious Holy Man, he spends his time standing atop a huge pillar, praying up to the heavens for the sake of the sinful mankind. At the film’s opening, the priests show their appreciation of Simon by presenting him with an even taller pillar to stand on. But this is the beginning of a sequence of events where Simon finds himself confronted with the temptations and abuses of a distinctly Bunuellian Father of Lies.

The film does not simply present a narrative of religion and faith, as Nazarin does, but rather presents an entire cosmology, complete with Devil and God. While in the other film, we must argue for the existence of God within the otherwise realist story, in Simon Of The Desert the existence of God is clear; miracles occur with sledgehammer subtlety – hands grow back from stumps in front of a crowd of hundreds. However, with these miracles comes a level of acceptance not found in the previous post’s films. The return of the man’s hands is met with the same enthusiasm as a magician’s trick, and both participant and onlookers are quick to carry on with their lives as if nothing unbelievable has happened. Within the diegesis, God’s existence is so certain it is taken completely for granted.

The film’s most interesting character is clearly the Devil. Played by Silvia Pinal, the lord of Hell here is earthy rather than evil, espouses views synonymous with Bunuel on religion as a cause of repression and, as an extension, destructive perversion. He/She is a shapeshifter, appearing in a variety of guises, from Edwardian schoolgirls, naked crones and even a highly unconvincing Jesus Christ. The Devil takes full advantage of the tricks of editing and framing – appearing behind Simon while he looks at her elsewhere off-screen.

 

 

Indeed, Pinal’s character can be seen as the embodiment of Bunuel’s personality incarnated within the diegesis. Equipped, it seems, with her knowledge that everything around her is taking place within a film, the character is a direct link between Bunuel-the-God and the characters of Bunuel’s fiction.

Simon himself, too, is a fascinating character. Much like Nazario, he is a man whose faith is pure but, in actuality, also quite useless. He stands atop his pillar, praying for the world and waiting for God to finally receive him; a vivid visual representation of the faithful’s alienation from the real world. Unlike Nazario, for whom this uselessness becomes a revelation, Simon remains oblivious to simple human nature. His inability to understand the concept of ownership, seems to be presented as ridiculous but also, perhaps, somewhat charming. Bunuel’s ultimate treatment of Simon is in many ways better than his treatment of the Mexican priest; he is allowed to remain in ignorant bliss, his faith never particularly wavering, even in the face of modernity.

The film’s finale sees Simon whisked away by the Devil to a 1960s nightclub. Simon is now dressed in modern garb, complete with beatnik-like haircut, while the Devil sits next to him, moving her body to the music. The brief moment with the two at the table drinking is perhaps the most complex in the film. Simon appears more bored than anything by his surroundings and – through the simple gesture of lighting the Devil’s cigarette – has clearly developed a certain tolerance for his companion. Though there is no clear indication that the Devil has ‘won’; Simon has not been sucked into some lifestyle of debauchery nor is he horrified by his predicament. Despite a mild interest in the name of the dance (‘Radioactive Flesh’) he is perfectly happy to return to his pillar unchanged by the experience. Here – as with Exterminating Angel – we have an example of the characters being allowed to remain ‘pure’, Nazario, the dinner guests, and Simon are not changed directly by Bunuel, only by the circumstances that he has concocted or, in the case of Simon, are not changed at all. Simon’s choice to retain his faith despite all he as been through is in sharp contrast to Nazarin, where faith in humanity is presented as a far greater force.

The common, and most obvious, interpretation of the ending is that the Devil has brought Simon forward in time in order that he might see out the last days. However, given the apparent significance of the Devil’s relationship to Bunuel and the ease with which Simon believes he can return home (as if it is another space rather than time), it might be reasonable to surmise that in fact the Devil has pulled out of the diegesis and into the real world, the world of Bunuel. Thus the diegesis can be succinctly viewed as a construct, a created reality within the world which we inhabit and therefore subject to the rules fashioned by its creator. Space and time, then, are only as consistent as deemed necessary for the telling of the story.

But Bunuel’s greatest juggling act of space and time can be found in his theological epic The Milky Way; though only 90 minutes, the average length of his films, it seems considerably longer, its absence of cause-and-effect logic destroys any frame of reference that an audience might have for gauging the length of the ‘story’ (such as it is).

Like a series of sketches, or more accurately parables, the film unfolds at its own pace, following the incidents that occur to two tramps on their way to Santiago, on a pilgrimage of sorts. These incidents demonstrate a multitude of theological views and counter-views, highlighting above all the contrast between genuine faith (which the director has lightly mocked in other films but never outright condemned) and the crimes against humanity for which orthodox religion can be responsible. Much like an extension of Simon Of The Desert, the film plays with diegetic reality as much as with time and space – there are no clear-cut definitions between fantasy, reality, past, present, future, fiction or flashback.

Within the first few minutes of the film we are presented with this scene (and I'm not entirely confident about this video working here... if not, I'll just have to post it separately later):

This sequence, barely a few minutes long, is packed with so much ambiguity and controversy that it could constitute an essay in itself. Structured in the form of a traditional flashback; the cut to the female figure that bears a resemblance to the Virgin Mary and a young man we therefore take to be Jesus followed by a return to the two tramps would imply that the Jesus-figure is Pierre, the older tramp, in his younger years. The dialogue in the two scenes reinforces this interpretation.

In itself, this creates a complex relationship – Pierre is presented as Jesus, just as Jesus is presented (via the act of sharpening a razorblade) as Bunuel; a holy trinity of character, director and God is created. But the complexity continues beyond this. As the film progresses, we learn that the figures that we have seen are in fact Jesus and Mary. A conversation between staff members at a restaurant is punctuated with examples; one waiter suggests that Jesus must have run and laughed like anyone, and the film cuts to Jesus running to meet his disciples. Subsequent appearances by both Jesus and Mary also firmly place them within the same cinematic time and space as the other characters, thereby forcing us to reappraise the moment above not as a flashback but as a cross-cut, a juxtaposition of two separate actions occurring within the same cinematic timeframe.

But this interpretation also fails as, after uttering the words “Wise woman, your mother”, the two tramps come across a boy sat at the side of the road. He is dressed in a blue shirt and shorts and has drops of blood on his palm, chest and across his forehead. These stigmatic wounds clearly relate this child to Christ and we might interpret that the film is going to be full of different figures who represent different aspects of Jesus (later in the film the two come across a ‘shepherd who talks like a priest’). But even this fails to hold up, as the child is the same boy whose face had been washed by Mary moments before – simultaneously undermining the possibility that he is the Jesus figure or that the previous scene had been occurring ‘at the same time’ as the tramps’ conversation.

The simple cut has rendered any hope of narrative space/time causality utterly null and void. This will continue throughout the rest of the film. Historical eras blend into each other without characters batting an eyelid; the two tramps settle down for the night but can here the noises of a ceremonial orgy taking place a few metres away in broad daylight; a priest advises a young couple about celibacy from both outside and inside their bedroom; characters appear and disappear without notice.

We have returned to the realms of Un Chien Andalou and L’Age d’Or. Indeed, the opening of L’Age d’Or where Imperial Rome is founded upon the final resting place of a group of Roman Catholic Bishops would fit perfectly into the logic-defying world of The Milky Way. The presence of Mary and Jesus within the diegesis makes it clear that in this world God too must be viewed as real. However, in a more extreme fashion than either Nazarin or Simon Of The Desert the reality of God is explicitly negative, presented as the cause of much discontent. Though Bunuel presents himself as God, this is less a self-aggrandisement project than it is a case of casting himself in the role of the villain.

IV. REVELATION

Bunuel’s control over his films’ realities was not only an example of highly individualistic direction but also a totally distinctive way of creating cinema. He did not just play God in his films as a response to his own Catholic upbringing – another way of mocking the establishment – he created a cinema that was so different to the tradition of narrative-driven films of the time that playing God was the only way to direct them.

These intricate diegesis’ were entire universes unto themselves, working by their own inscrutable laws of logic. No-one other than their creator could possibly have guided these tiny existences to their necessary conclusions; Hitchcock could never have coped with the timeless spaces (or, perhaps, spaceless times) of The Milky Way. This film was part of the final phase in the director’s career, one that increasingly looked to the past. In Belle De Jour, we find in the final sequence a conceptual remake of the beautiful ‘magic mirror’ sequence from L’Age d’Or; complete with an inexplicable view to the outside world, and a characters’ descent into fantasy that appears to almost be a Pavlovian response to the ringing of Bunuel’s extra-diegetic bells).

Bunuel’s very last film, That Obscure Object Of Desire, is clearly a cinematic apocalypse, it’s final on-screen explosion is both justified within the film’s plot and functions as a decisive indicator from the director-God that his cinematic kingdom has run its course. Shortly afterwards, Bunuel shuffled off this mortal coil and no doubt ascended to meet his maker – razorblade in hand.

                                                                                                                    - P.S.