Tactile Tactics: Yarn Installations in Public Urban Spaces Or/ Ariadne’s Employment

This piece is from a presentation given in 2013, and part of a series of writings about tactical practices using urban public spaces.


Cracks in the city street

Tactile Tactics: Yarn Installations in Public Urban Spaces Or/ Ariadne’s Employment

What I would like to present today is some strands of the research I have been exploring with regards to the practices of using thread and yarn materials in urban public spaces.

Over the past ten years these yarn practices have become a popular cultural phenomenon in cities across the world, known through various terms such as yarnbombing, yarnstorming, guerrilla knitting, graffiti knitting; and under wider umbrella terms such as craftivism and street art.

To start off I want to give a brief tour of some of the examples of these contemporary practices to give some context to the aesthetic diversity and geographic diversity by which these installations are practiced.These installations can be found on public structures such as trees and statues, bikes and buses, fences railings, telephone boxes and build facades.Indeed, any forms which are encountered in the urban environment. These practices can be found ranging from naïve wrappings to sophisticated architectural forms.

While I believe they represent a very recent phenomena in terms of popularity, public knitting installations should not be viewed as new practices, but can be seen within a historical perspective of appropriating textiles and materials in the public sphere. A history which connects with folk crafts but more particularly with a history of women and textiles explored by theorists like Roszika Parker in her pivotal work ‘The Subversive Stitch’.

Greenham Common 'Embrace the Base' Protest, December 1980
Greenham Common ‘Embrace the Base’ Protest, December 1980

Many visual tropes can be drawn between these contemporary practices and political feminist movements from the Suffragettes, to the Fiber Art movements in the 1960s, and the occupation of Greenham Common in the 1980s. Although these practices have a long history, it is only with recent cultures of photography and documentation, that have visually archived  these activities, that they have been brought together and in which can one can frame them as something cultural cohesive.

Throughout this talk I will refer to these installations as ‘yarn practices’, not only to prevent a narrowed and periodised view on these actions; but also in order to explore them, not as defined mere artefacts, but as relational praxes. They reveal an engagement not only between the practitioner and the city space, but also between the installation itself and the viewer encountering them.

As I’ve suggested in the title of this talk; I would like to define this practices by what I’ve termed ‘Tactile Tactics’; taking Michel De Certeau’s definition of tactics as the re-appropriation of strategies which command the environments of the everyday.

In this presentation I wish to deal with these two terms ‘Tactics’ and ‘Tactility’; in the first half exploring the way in which we can examine these installations as Spatial Practices; and then to consider the way in which the materiality of these forms are implicit in the way in which they disrupt the boundaries of the public and the private.

1.      Tactics:

First, I wish to return to De Certeau’s definition of the term Tactics, and the way in which he draws on the act of walking as a specific and political tactic of reclaiming the street. While his dialectical terms ‘Tactics’ and ‘Strategies’ can be seen as a reaction to Foucault’s ‘Discipline and Power’; Tactics in particular, is responding to a theoretical heritage from Henri Lefebvre and the Situationists in the 1960s and early 70s, who were examining the city as a unfixed and practiced space.

What I would like to suggest is that these yarn practices are fundamentally connected to the act of moving through the city, both for the practitioner and the observer who encounters it. But further than this, they are a tactical response to the urban environment and an expression of the experience of being within it.

Indeed, I would like to suggest that they are part of the practice of psychogeography, which has been broadly defined as ‘playful strategies for exploring cities […] that take pedestrians off their predictable paths and jolt them into a new awareness of the urban landscape’. A practice inherently related to the act of walking, to derive and the historic character of the male flâneur.

But while the Debordian Situationists saw derive, and the act of getting lost in the city, as a political gesture; these yarn installations reveal a very different form of derive which is worth considering.

If we look back to the Unitary Urbanist movement which pre-figured the Situationists in the 1950s; and in particular to its founding manifesto, ‘Form of a New Urbanism’ written by Ivan Chtcheglov in 1953, a narrative of derive emerges which has perhaps been neglected.

In this essay Chtcheglov brings attention to the labyrinth in the Jardin de Plantes in Paris, on which a sign reads ‘Games Are Forbidden in the Labyrinth’, and in doing so he presents the figure of Ariadne as the playful heroine of subversion. In Greek Mythology it was Ariadne, the daughter of the Cretan King, who directed Theseus through the seemingly impossibly labyrinth of the Minotaur using a ball of yarn. The tactile tactics of Ariadne’s yarn, subverting the masculine strategies of the labyrinth. Indeed it is Ariadne with her yarn who becomes a symbol of location within the urban landscape; using her yarn as a mapping tool which, if we extent the metaphor, becomes emblematic of the geographer’s string.

The figure of Ariadne is an interesting symbol when considering a contemporary form of derive, particularly as it relates to the recent history of psychogeography in London. In the last couple of decades writers like Iain Sinclair and Peter Ackroyd have reframed psychogeography as a practice of reclaiming forgotten narratives of urban space. Moving away from the Situationists, their practice is based not with the production of a new space, but with experience and recording of their environment. As Will Self puts it, as ‘a means of dissolving the mechanised matrix’.

However, in examining the history of psychogeography, what becomes clear that even in recent years it has been primarily dominated by men and male narratives of the city. In his recent book on Psychogeography, Will Self has referred to this lack of women, suggesting in a tongue-in-cheek way, that this is because women are less interested in ‘orientation’. Of course I strongly disagree with this, but more fundamentally I think this is a problem of definition rather than interest.

To consider an example: the central publication of the London Psychogeography in the 1990s; ‘Transgression: A Journal of Urban Exploration’, includes only one woman published over all four issues, the Canadian artist Jean Macrae. But what is interesting is not her gender, but the very different way in which she suggests exploring and interacting with the urban space which is tactile rather than merely textual.

In her article, a piece of site-writing, Macrae describes her practice of derive around her home city of Vancouver, and her knitted responses to the urban environment as she walks. As she says;

“I am in the process of fabricating a map; selective and authored, a gendered and specific occupation. [..] (I) pull out my needles and cotton, my mapping instruments.”

As Macrae suggests in a later interview, her act of derive is not the ‘male’ derive of the situationists; a means of getting lost; but a ‘coping strategy’ a way of navigating what she calls ‘geographies of fear’. Her work can be seen more closely as a tactic of being found; of having presence in the face of absence or familiarity; a reaction I would suggest against the post-modern city.

Macrae’s work is both personal and political, not only a playful interaction with the city space but a disruption of the narratives which dominate ways of exploring and encountering the urban terrain. I am not suggesting that all practitioners of these yarn installations are working with actively feminist intentions, or indeed that they are always women, but as tactics; they have often been employed to engage with feminist dialogues and radical political agendas. Indeed, from my research I know that a number of women involved in these enacting yarn installations are also active participants in other contemporary movements such as ‘Reclaim the Night’ and the recent ‘Slut Marches’, both of which sought to provide a women’s voice and to subvert the dominant narratives imposed on women in public.

‘OLEK’ knitted figures in New York City

With reference to this, I would like to draw particular attention to the artist OLEK, whose use of knitted fabrics makes potent references to patriarchy, to women’s sexuality and radical expression. Her works have become renowned for her particular use of pink and purple camouflage, subverting the masculine associations normally made with these patterns, and literally taking over symbolic objects in the street, recasting them with a new meaning. Shown all over the world, in public spaces and private galleries, OLEK’s work stems from a very radical side of these knitted practices which is strongly connected with queer and gender politics; and which sees the aesthetics of craft as itself a site of reclamation, and assertion of a radical female identity in the public space.

As I have sought to argue, these yarn practices are inherently spatial practices. While traditional considerations of spatial theory have often neglected textiles and material modes of practice; there is significant history of employing metaphors of textiles within conceptualisations of space. Indeed, the early 1960s, Asger Jorn, a prominent figure in the experimental COBRA movement and a founding member of the Situationist Internationale; presented his vision of situology, not simply on political grounds but also geometrical ones. In his essay ‘Open Creation and Its Enemies’ he presents the symbol of the Knot as spatial representation of the situation and indeed the experience of the labyrinth itself. As Jorn puts it, the knot becomes the space of interaction and intrinsic experience, one which requires you to be present within it to understand it. Indeed, as the contemporary critic Mackenzie Wark has suggested, ‘learning to tie a knot is like the art of derive’. And really, what is the craft of knitting or crochet, but a rhythmic spatial practice of skilful knot making. A repetitive act of encounter; based on interaction and presence.

2. Tactility

To turn now to the materiality of these yarn practices; I would like to argue that is the very tactility of these installations which is fundamental to the way in which they engage with the urban environment.

One of the questions I have been examining is the way in which these installations subvert the traditional boundaries between the private and domestic spheres, most associated with knitting and textile crafts; and the public space. As the domestic space has been fundamentally associated as the place of women, this is an inherently political dialectic, providing a tactile montage which Walter Benjamin has suggested would ‘jolt the collective into a political awakening’.

The symbolic ‘homeliness’ is a central aesthetic facet of these installations; and a reason why I believe these practices have been generally ignored by cultural critics and academic in comparison to other forms of street art. As these yarn practices wrap themselves around public forms and monuments, I would argue they provide a symbolic softening of the public space. Indeed, many of the words used by the media and in publications on these activities have described them with words like ‘comforting’ and ‘nurturing’; which suggest to extent an association with the maternal body.

To consider Freud’s notion of the uncanny, and more recently theorists like Antony Vidler who have examined the uncanny in relation to architecture; this blurring of the boundaries of public and private suggests a desire to fill a void, an absence within the public, which these yarn installations are reacting to. Holes which these practices are attempting to knit together.

This idea of absence is one which has been considered by the contemporary film maker, Patrick Keiller, who is a key figure in contemporary psychogeography. In his series of films on London in the early 1990s, he used the figure of Robinson Crusoe to suggest London as ‘a place of shipwreck and the vision of Protestant isolation’. Indeed, it is Robinson, the neurotic contemporary Flaneur, who falls victim to depression and paranoia as he becomes increasingly obsessed by the enforced secrecy which separates him from his urban environment.

Returning to Jean Macrae, and her term ‘geographies of fear’, it is this anxiety and alienation of the urban environment which this term would suggest her practice, and these wider yarn practices, are responding to.

To highlight a recent example of how this has been cultural manifested; earlier this year a police force in Leicestershire employed artists to make knitted characters to install in parks and public areas in the city, as an attempt to reduce crime. In statements they suggest that the these pieces would psychologically make these public spaces appear more friendly, and by extension make them more populated and reduce the chance of criminal activity.  Though they received a backlash against this apparent wasting of public money, this suggests the way in which these ideas are not only acted on, but culturally accepted.

It is interesting here to draw a comparison to traditional graffiti and street art, which often has an antagonistic relationship to the authorities. In contrast these yarn practices are commonly accepted by the police, and in this case actively encouraged. Part of this non-antagonistic relationship must be that these installations are only temporary, and leave very little or no lasting damage to the structures they encompass. But it could also be because of the feminine association inherent their material craft, which are seen as playful rather than destructive, existing in a different ethical framework to tagging which seeks to leave a more permanent mark on a territory.

This presents an interesting paradox because, because while practitioners like OLEK do not intend to be polite of mollifying in their installations, questions should be asked about how much these installations actually have an impact on the social fabric? To what extent they can be considered more ‘comforting’ than ‘transformative’.

Indeed, it could be argued that the impact of these practices is not the installations themselves, which are quickly dismantled; but through technologies of recording these activities, particularly in the growing cultures of street photography, by which these works are archived and disseminated through online communities and blogs. Though their inherent tactility is an integral to their reception and affect on the site, their cultural importance has been defined by these two dimensional records of the pieces as historic objects.

A recent collective, who I will discuss quickly, is ‘Knit the City’ based in London; who make considerable use of virtual social networks to create and publicise their activities. In 2009 their installation ‘Oranges and Lemons’, which created a knitted tour of the city of London, installing yarnstorms referring to different verses of the medieval children’s nursery rhyme on the city churches; which went hand-in-hand with coverage of the tour on social media. As the central figure of the group, Lauren O’Farrell, known by the pseudonym ‘WhoDunKnit’ suggests, the re-narration of the space which their knitted tour created, was given an extended virtual life and meaning through these online interactions.

In his discussions of craft Walter Benjamin draws a natural connection between crafts and oral traditions; suggesting the craftsman as storyteller, and drawing a comparison to the figure of the journeyman. In many cultures the weaver or spinner has been the symbol of the narrator; both spinning the yarn, and recording them as historical narratives; but also unpicking them along the way. In a continual process of mending, and re-crafting the narrative.

For Benjamin, the practice of craft is comparable to the allegorical or epic literary forms; existing in a different temporal framework to the modern novel or short story. Indeed, it is a point worth drawing attention to that the inherent slowness and effort required to make these installations is what makes them so dialectically opposed to the functional aesthetic of the public space.

As Benjamin argues, while technological advances have made hand craft essentially redundant as a practical necessity; crafts as hobbies remain a popular part of contemporary culture, especially recently with the revival of knitting and wider trends of DIY. While the critic Lucy Lippard suggests a nostalgic facet to the popularity of craft, one connected to a utopian idealisation of past community; I would argue that these forms of craft have continued and thrived through the accessibility of these materials and more fundamentally because of a desire to make connections; between the threads themselves, and with the process of making; with the everyday spaces of encounter in the urban environment, and with other craft practitioners as an inherently social activity.

So, before I tie myself in knots, I want to draw together some of the threads which I have been arguing.

The first is my placing of these installations as relational spatial practices, and from an anthropological perspective, as material dialogues which reveal a lot about the way in which people engage and re-craft the contemporary city space.

From the term ‘tactile tactics’ I suggest these installations can be seen tactics of subversion by which the hegemonic narratives of the street are being played out, and re-narrated. Indeed, to be political, they can be associated with a particularly feminine reading of space, which counters the flâneur’s desire to be lost in the crowd. To fill the void presented by the absence of a coherent or active public space. In reaction to this, yarn practitioners represent the counter figure of Ariadne with her yarn, playfully interacting with in the city space and inviting the observer to a new awareness of the urban space and their own place within it.


The Place of Theatre in the Films of Max Ophuls

Still from ‘Madame De..’ (1953), Staring Vittorio De Sica. Directed by Max Ophuls.

The films of Max Ophuls are testaments to a period of intense turmoil which transformed Europe between the early 1930s and the mid-1950. As films they are sources to the aesthetic and political tensions of the age, but also a profound reflection on the rise of cinema, particularly sound cinema, as the dominant form of popular entertainment at this time. In his essay Style and Medium in Motion Pictures, written in 1937, Erwin Panofsky has argued that the formal progress of cinema ‘offers the fascinating spectacle of an artistic medium gradually becoming conscious of its legitimate, that is, exclusive possibilities and limitations’, as it moved away from imitating older art forms such as theatre.[1] But while Panofsky was right in emphasising the importance of cinema, an examination of Max Ophuls’ films suggests a much more complex interplay between theatre and the development of cinema in this period. One in which the techniques and visual tropes of theatre still played a significant role.

During the last year of his life, in an interview with the Cahier critics Jacques Rivette and Francois Truffaut, Ophuls repeatedly emphasised the influence which theatre had on his film career, claiming he came to his work in cinema as ‘a man of the theatre’.[2] Starting out as an actor in the years following the end of the First World War, Ophuls was first given an opportunity to direct in 1923, going on to produce nearly two hundred plays and operettas, and working across German regional theatres including Frankfurt, Cologne, and Stuttgart, before moving briefly to Vienna in 1926 and Berlin in 1928. His theatre career was one of intense variety, working in with musical theatre, comedy and also more serious political material while he was in Berlin. His adaptation literary material to film can be seen to have its roots in this intense period in regional theatre. As he said in a later interview “I come from the theatre, from the German provincial theatre, and awe and devotion to literature lie deep in my bones.”[3] Though only a brief period, Ophuls’ time working at the prestigious Burgtheatre in Vienna was to be particularly important as it was here he was likely introduced to the works of playwrights Stefan Zweig and Arthur Schnitzler, whom he later adapted to film in his ‘Viennese trilogy’; Liebelei (1932), Letter From An Unknown Woman (1948) and Le Ronde (1950).[4] Though his later direction of Zweig’s novel Letter can be put down to the producer William Dozier’s interest in the novel rather than his own, in the context of his staging of the film and his background in theatre, it is important that Ophuls had a long running association with Zweig’s theatre material, directing his adaptation of Ben Johnson’ play Volpane at the Burgtheatre in November 1926, and also Zweig’s own plays at the New Theatre in Frankfurt in 1927.[5]

Ophuls also had a particular interest in Arthur Schnitzler’s work, which he frequently returned to throughout his career. A Viennese playwright, Schnitzler had a strong association with the Burgtheatre, with his play Liebelei first staged there in 1895 and many of his productions put on at the theatre throughout the 1920s (pp. 257-283). Schnitzler himself had been surrounded in controversy as a Jewish playwright throughout the 1920s and 30s, and was explicitly branded as ‘Jewish filth’ by Hitler during the years of the Third Reich.[6] Ophuls would have known that in January 1921 the Burgtheatre had taken on a production of Schnitzler’s play Reigen, after it had been banned in Berlin at the end of the previous year for its controversial material.[7] And yet, on his return from exile in America, Ophuls explicitly chose to adapt this particular play in his film La Ronde. His value for Schnitzler was apparent early on when he adapted Leibelei, less than a year after Schnitzler’s death and months before his own exile from Germany, despite both their names being removed from the titles at its opening in Berlin.[8] Though Ophuls was obviously drawn to Schnitzler’s work and the way in which he could stage them, his film adaptations reveal something much more personal and political in these screen adaptations which had been informed by Ophuls career in theatre.

In this trilogy of Liebelei, Letter and La Ronde, Ophuls continuously returned to the setting of Vienna, particularly Vienna of the fin-de-siecle, as the perfect backdrop to convey his nostalgic visions of melodrama. The city itself iconographically exemplified a crystallised charm in its imperial past and as a theatrical reflection of a pre-modern society which had long since disappeared. In the opening sequence of La Ronde, Ophuls goes as far as to physically represent Vienna as a theatrical backdrop, the baroque buildings reduced to a static theatre set. His recurring use of Vienna, and indeed this period of the fin-de-siecle, reflected a tension and nostalgia for a fantastical vision of glamorous society on the cusp of modernity, especially in light of the humiliation and economic degradation which was being faced in the present. Yet in an interesting comment on his time in Vienna Ophuls stated, “I never really felt at home in Vienna. Fate had put me in a wonderfully golden rococo carriage, but I much rather wanted to ride a motorcycle’.[9] This quotation is intensely revealing, not only of Ophuls underlying intentions in staging so many of his films in Vienna during this period, but also an impression of the tension between the static theatricality of the old imperial world, and movement of modernity which, it could be said, is exemplified by the film camera. His films return to Vienna particularly because, as a visual topography, it enabled Ophuls to not only depict this tension between past and present, but to use this theatrical setting to convey a contrast to the mechanisms and movements associated with modernity, and with the cinema itself.

From the mid-1920s Ophuls had also been forging a side-career in radio, adapting plays, short stories and comedy in which he called his ‘literary shows’.[10] For him, the technologies which enabled sound recording were at the heart of his intention to show the ‘very age and body of the time his form and pressure’, an intention which involved all theatre, as well as radio and film as a means to adapt and convey literary material as an ‘international service for poets and literature’ (p. 183). Helmut Asper has suggested that Ophuls’ interest in the medium of cinema was only apparent after the development of ‘talkies’ which he saw as the ‘continuation of theatre.’[11] Far from causing a distinct divide between film and theatre the development of sound, in Panofsky’s words, he abolished the difference between screen acting and stage acting, enabling the two to coexist. As his early films show, music was an important aspect which this technology enabled, allowing him to explore the classical form of melodrama (melos as music), but also, as he would have known from his background in radio, to express his ideas while escaping censorship.

Both Ophuls’ earliest feature length films, The Bartered Bride (1932) and Liebelei (1933) explicitly revolve around theatrical music and portray principal characters as musicians and performers. The Bartered Bride is itself presented as a short operetta.[12] As a theatrical form of light-entertainment, this light opera form had become increasingly popular among the burgeoning German and Austrian middle-classes from the 1860s onwards, especially in Vienna and Berlin.[13] Famed for frivolity, the operetta gradually changed in the early decades of the twentieth century to become increasingly nostalgic and satirical, drawing on its historical associations with folk theatre as playwrights like Bertolt Brecht inverted its light-entertainment form to reflect more political and social struggles at the heart of Weimar society (pp.7-11). Brecht wrote many operettas and music plays for the stage during the 1920s and early 1930s. His Threepenny Opera (adapted from John Gay’s Beggar’s Opera), was made into a film in 1931, following its success on the stage, only a year before Ophuls’ directed The Bartered Bride.[14]

Valentin in 'The Bartered Bride' (

Ophuls himself would have been very familiar with operettas, working on operetta productions in Elberfeld-Bartmen between 1923-5, but also by writing his own such as Saisonausverkauf, which he first staged at the Breslau Thalia/Lobe-Theatre in 1928/9.[15] He often made explicit reference to the operetta within the dialogue of his films, including a moment in Madame de.. when André suggests they go to see Sarah Bernhardt, a famous musical theatre actress of the period, who would have been known to contemporary European audiences. Like Brecht, Ophuls saw the operetta, as a perfect form to reflect both the tastes of his bourgeois audience, but also to internally subvert their passive consumption of light-entertainment. It is interesting that in The Bartered Bride Ophuls choose to cast Karl Valentin as the circus director; a famed cabaret and circus performer who was himself a considerable influence on Brecht and acted in one of his early silent films, Mysterien Eines Friseursalons (1923).[16] Within the context of the circus performance in The Bartered Bride, Ophuls allowed comedy and music as light-entertainment while, in scenes like the political anti-government speech which Valentin makes, he presenting a much deeper political message. This dualism of entertainment and deeper political intent had its roots firmly in the culture of Weimar theatre as film makers like Ophuls chose to expand the range and audience with which they could stage these ideas.

As a film director Ophuls often chose to work with theatre actors, casting many of his early films with actors he had worked or associated with in his theatre career. Although, it could be said, the majority of actors of this period in European cinema would have had experience on the stage, due to the relative infancy of the cinematic medium, talented theatre actors were an obvious benefit when it came to Ophuls’ long tracking shots and his complicated use of choreography within staged sets. Asper has highlighted the strong parallels between Ophuls’ directorial practice with actors on set, and that of Max Reinhardt, especially on the set of his only Hollywood film Midsummers Night Dream (1935).[17] Indeed, Reinhardt’s film has been widely criticised for its theatrical, static staging. Both directors rehearsed with the actors on set before filming began, and both treated their film sets as they would have done in the theatre, showing a consistent preference for staged studio sets which allowed control of all aspects of the staging, lighting and camera movement.[18]

Staircase 1Staircase 2

Ophuls’ orchestration of the cinematic scene is greatly indebted to Reinhardt’s theatrical innovations, particularly his extensive use of staircases and shadows, which had been a prominent part of Weimar theatre and early expressionist film.[19] In one of many sequences, this can be clearly seen in Letter From An Unknown Woman in a reoccurring scene with Lisa on the stairs to Stefan’s apartment. As was common with Reinhardt’s theatre sets, Ophuls’ use of the spiral staircase and dramatic contrasts in lighting here enabled Ophuls to divide the cinematic frame, heightening the dramatic tension in these moments of emotional transition for Ophuls central female protagonist (p. 51).  In his interview with the Cahier critics, Ophuls describes himself as an avid fan of F. W. Murnau, relishing an essentially non-naturalist aesthetic in his films. As theatre director before his move to film, Murnau was famed for his early masterpiece Nosferatu (1922) and was himself heavily influenced by Reinhardt.[20] Both Murnau and Reinhardt’s influence can clearly be seen in Ophuls dramatic staging of the mise-en-scene which, in many of his films, uses dramatic lighting and multi-level sets to create drama, rather than relying on camera close-ups and post-production editing.


The expressionist influence of Reinhardt in many of Ophuls’ films exemplifies what Panofsky called the ‘dynamization of space’ and the ‘spatialization of time’; born from the innovations of stage design which had been a prominent part of the German stage in Reinhardt’s productions, but also in the work of his processor, Adolphe Appia.[21] Appia’s emphasis on what he would call the ‘living art of theatre’ had a profound impact on theatrical staging in the early Twentieth Century, especially the move from customary flat backdrops to more dynamic sets which afforded variation in height and depth of the stage, and the importance which he placed on music to create and craft space.[22] As Helmut Asper has suggested, Ophuls was himself exploring new multi-story stages during his theatre career, and furthermore these innovations in dividing the screen can be seen in his films like Lola Montes, in scenes such as Lola’s attempted escape from her mother’s match to an older man.[23] In Ophuls’ films we see a natural progression of Appia’s ideas about the theatrical space, allowing the development of camera movement to extend this dynamic initiated in the staging and bringing its relationship to the static spectator into question.

Reinhardt’s influence can also be seen in a much more literal way, in Ophuls approach to the pressures between the artistic integrity and commercial success which he encountered in the production of his films. Ophuls had worked many times in theatres with which Reinhardt had been associated, especially when in 1928 he worked at the Theatre in der Koninggratzerstrasse and the Komodienhaus in Berlin.[24]  Many commentators on Reinhardt have remarked that, unlike much of the politically radical theatre of the 1920s, he managed to be not only stylistically inventive but also commercially successful, moving between the two dominant theatrical modes at his time, expressionism and romanticism.[25] While all of Ophuls’ films have a strong modernist style, which led to intense difficulties for him in Hollywood during the 1940s; his films also display a pragmatic commercial viability which exploited the demand for sweeping romantic narratives at this time. The interesting tension between Ophuls’ style and these simple melodramatic plots can be seen as a result of expediency, especially during Ophuls’ time in Hollywood when he was forced to adapt to the commercial Hollywood system. But it could also be seen as a result of his background in regional theatre in which there would have been enormous pressure to be commercially profitable. As shown by Reinhardt’s commercial success in theatre, narratives forms such as melodrama had the ability to attract wide audiences. However, in their adaptation, and the style of their staging, a far more complex and satirical tone could be elicited which entertained and questioned the audience.

La Signora 1 La Signora 2

It was not only Ophuls’ staging which had strong associations to the Weimar theatre culture, but his very attitude to the performance of spectacle which had its roots in the Epic theatre of contemporaries like Bertolt Brecht. In what Mary Ann Doane has referred to as his ‘hyperbolic strategies’, Ophuls’ films often enacted a self-conscious reflexivity which both revelled in the excessive staging of the narrative, whilst also providing a simultaneous critique of the artifice of this spectacle and the glamour of the artificial star.[26] This hyperbolic Olphusian style can be compared to the Verfremdungseffekt (alienating effect), developed by Brecht and others within Weimar Theatre.[27] In many of his films Ophuls’ uses this alientating effect by drawing the audience’s attention to the mechanics of the cinema itself, a dislocation particularly apparent in the film La Signora de Tutti, when Gaby’s manager goes searching for her before discovering her attempted suicide. Ophuls presents this scene as one long tracking shot as the manager moves between the rooms, building dramatic tension to the point where Gaby’s body is discovered, but also distancing the spectator from the dramatic action by moving the camera between the walls, drawing attention to the construction of the set and the camera itself. Ophuls was working here with conventions of modern theatre, but it is through film and the movement of the camera that Ophuls could heighten these theatrical effects and further distort the relationship between the spectator and the object of the gaze. In the film Gaby Doriot becomes virtual, the starlet removed from reality. Her suicide, like the action of the camera in this sequence, is an escape from the confines of performance and artifice.

Ophuls’ films also often play with the neat closure of dramatic narrative which has been associated with Brecht’s Epic theatre.[28] In many of his films he seeks to undo, or at least weaken, the cathartic closure of the narrative. Though his films often end in a death or deaths of the leading romantic character, which ought to lead to a cathartic closure of the narrative, Ophuls often leaves an uneasy feeling that the problems of the narrative have not been completely resolved. This lack of an ending became more pertinent in the films towards the end of his career as he increasingly sought to subvert the expectations of closure in order to fulfill a much more disjointed, circular and self-reflexive style. This lack of a catharsis is especially visible in Ophuls’ last film Lola Montes in which Lola not only fails to die, but which ends with the camera tracking back from Lola in an animal cage as men pay to touch her hands. In an almost purgatorial sense of unending Lola is reduced to a semi-religious icon of commercial fetishism, her touch providing and ironic ‘cure’ to the audience’s desire for her death. With a sense of almost hyper self-reference Ophuls suggests, in this un-resolved ending, an innate connection between the repetitious function of theatrical performance, and the fixed, timeless role of cinema in which the film can be replayed again and again.

Liebelei (1932) The Director behind the curtain looking out at the audience in the auditorium before the opera begins.

It is not only a textual reading of Ophuls cinematic narratives which reveal his hyperbolic strategy, but also Ophuls’ use and staging of the theatre space which is intensely self-reflexive. Ophuls uses the setting of theatre, opera and the circus arena to shine a light, not on the theatrical performance, but the social performance of the theatre audience, and by association to draw the film audience’s attention to their own act of observing the drama. In Liebelei this is apparent in an interesting moment when the director behind the stage looks through the curtain, as if through a mask, at the audience as they wait for the play to start (figure 4). While only a brief glance this gesture suggests that it is the audience which is itself the subject of the gaze rather than the play itself which is never seen. Indeed, as the actor waits behind the scenes he is himself not only waiting for the play to begin, but for the narrative of the film to set itself in motion. In his analysis of the theatre in Berlin between the two wars, Brecht remarked explicitly on the use of masks in order to alienate characters, and as a barrier to empathy, which was employed throughout classical and medieval theatre (p. 192). Ophuls make explicit use of masks many times in his films as symbolic of disjuncture between reality and artifice, particularly in Le Plaisir (‘The Mask’) in which the old womaniser tries to defy his age, and remain at the centre of the social milieu by wearing a mask. In his presentation of the theatrical space, Ophuls urges the viewer to be aware of the social masks and conventions which are on display, distancing us from them, particularly in his depiction of the military in films like Liebelei and Madame de...

The theatre setting comes to represent and visualise the distinctions between class and the static hierarchies of fin-de-siècle society. In Liebelei Ophuls stages this in the difference between Christine and Mitzi’s crowded gallery and the officer’s in the stalls, and further by Christine’s transgression of these social boundaries by dropping her opera glasses. Yet while the baroque glamour of the auditorium comes to mirror the social structures of the old world, Ophuls exaggerates the iconographic contrast with his portrayal of the backstage, which comes to represent a more modern, mobile society. Behind the stage becomes the place in which this performative stasis is transfigured, and in where social hierarchies are transgressed. It is recurring setting for lovers of different social classes to meet; for example Mitzi and Theo in Liebelei, and the King of Bavaria seeing Lola behind the stage in Lola Montes. Ophuls continually connects the backstage scenes with technology and mechanical iconography, reminding the viewer of the construction of the theatrical spectacle, and as a metaphor for cinema.  Ophuls explicitly suggests this in the scene from Letter From An Unknown Woman, where Stefan and Lisa are in an artificial train carriage as a theatrical painted backdrop is mechanically turned to give the illusion of movement (figure 6). This scene was not intrinsic to the narrative, but instead illustrates this hyperbolic modernist style in which Ophuls could draw on theatrical sets to express, in a very Brechtian way, the mechanics of the screen and of the camera.

Ophuls’ last film, Lola Montes (1955), is particularly important to understanding how the theatre space is used. While this essay has predominantly focused the influence of German and Austrian theatre and film, the film also expresses a deep connection with French films like Les Enfants Du Paradis (1945), which also fed into a tradition of staging mime actors and the association between circus in romantic melodrama. In this film, Ophuls once again returned to the circus setting which he had used in The Bartered Bride. Despite being his last film, Lola was one of Ophuls’ most complex and experimental films, not only because of its move to cinemascope and colour film, but for its complex interweaving of multiple narratives and time periods as it tells the story of Lola’s life not only as a flashback within a circus performance, but as a circus performance within a film.[29] Throughout the film Ophuls plays with the audiences’ expectation by continually distorts the linear narrative allowing him to make the performance of the story almost grotesque and hollow in its repetition and self-referential slapstick performance in the circus space. In an interesting innovation with the framing, Ophuls chose to mount curtains around the camera itself which partially open and close creating a blurred framing to the action. In a direct reference to curtains at the theatre, Ophuls often used velvet curtains within his sets, in scenes such as the Lisa and Stefan’s lobster dinner in Letter; and in the ironic stage set in the opening scene of La Ronde. However, in Lola Montes he almost takes this feature out of the interior cinematic set, and makes it part of the mechanical construction of the moving image, distancing the viewer from the spectacle. In this still image, he not only suggests the ‘opening’ of the screen by this cinematic curtain, but also creates a montage, distorting present and past.

Lola Montes cage
Lola Montes (1955) Lola in the closing shot as the camera tracks backwards on her in an animal cage.

Throughout his film career Ophuls’ films play with the conventions of the cinema screen itself, enacting cinematic screens within theatrical space. This is particularly true in Lola Montes when two wrestlers’ mock fight behind the screen at the circus, before one breaks through the screen into the arena itself and becoming essentially ‘real’. While Panofsky’s argues that cinema was from the 1930s was becoming aware of itself as a distinct art, it is also clear from the role of theatre in Ophuls’ films that the limitations of the cinematic screen are also in question. Not only does the theatre or circus become a setting in which Ophuls can reflect society, but is also used by Ophuls as a metaphor for film. While Ophuls’ style and use of the cinematic medium necessarily evolved throughout his career, showing a greater sense of style afforded by the movement of the camera and the circular narratives which he could explore in film, it is clear that Ophuls saw theatre and cinema as inherently interrelated. In the very last months of his life Ophuls had returned to working in theatre and was trying to get his production of Der Tolle Tag made for German television.[30] Essentially, he saw the great technological developments of film, radio and later television all as platforms on which he could portray the ‘age and body of his time’; a way of staging great literary material to the widest audience, as ‘a kind of international service for poets and literature’ (p. 183).

[1] Erwin Panofsky, ‘Style and Medium in the Motion Pictures’ in Three Essays on Style edited by Irving Lavin (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1995), p. 108.

[2] Jacques Rivette and Francois Truffaut, ‘Interview with Max Ophuls’ in Ophuls edited by Paul Willemen (London: British Film Institute, 1978 ), p. 15.

[3] Helmut G. Asper, ‘From Stage to Screen: The Impact of the German Theater on Max Ophüls’ in The Arizona Quarterly, Vol. 60, No. 5 (2005), p. 185.

[4] Alexandrea Seibel, Vienna, Girls and Jewish Authorship: Topographies Of A Cinematic City, 1920-1940 (New York: New York University, 2009),p. 121.

[5] John Willett, The Theatre of the Weimar Republic (London: Holmes & Meier, 1988), p. 271.

[6] Seibel, p. 122.

[7] Willett, The Theatre of the Weimar Republic, p. 261.

[8] Willemen, pp. 4-5.

[9] Seibel, p. 122.

[10] Willemen, p. 3.

[11] Ophuls quoted from his autobiography Spiel im Dasein in Asper, p. 183.

[12] Willemen, p. 4.

[13] Camille Crittenden, Johann Strauss and Vienna: Operetta and the Politics of Popular Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), p. 7-11 and p.261.

[14] Bertolt Brecht, ‘The Literalization of Theatre (Notes on the Threepenny Opera)’ in Brecht on Theatre: The Development Of An Aesthetic, edited and translated by John Willett (London: Metheun, 1964), pp. 43-46.

[15] Asper, p. 190.

[16] W. Stuart McDowell, ‘A Brecht-Valentin Production: Mysteries of a Barbershop’, Performing Arts Journal, Vol. 1, No. 3 (Winter, 1977), p. 5.

[17] Panofsky describes Reinhardt’s Midsummers Night Dream as ‘the most unfortunate major film ever produced’ for its use of theatrical gesture rather than, in his opinion, the more superior close-up, p. 102; and Asper, p. 192.

[18] Asper, p. 192.

[19] Lotte H.Eisner, The Haunted Screen: Expressionism in the German Cinema and the Influences of Max Reinhardt (London: Secker & Warburg, 1973), p. 119.

[20] Willemen, p. 15.

[21] Panofsky, p. 96.

[22] Appia, Adolphe, Adoplphe Appia: Texts on Theatre, edited by Richard Beacham (London: Routledge, 1998), pp. 9-12.

[23] Asper, p. 192.

[24] Willett, The Theatre of the Weimar Republic, p. 220.

[25] Michael Patterson, The Revolution in German Theatre 1900-1933 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981), p. 32.

[26] Mary Ann Doane, Femme Fatales: Feminism, Film Theory and Psychoanalysis (London: Routledge, 1991), p. 128.

[27] Willett, Brecht on Theatre, p. 192.

[28] Willett, Brecht on Theatre, pp. 22-3.

[29] Masao Yamagucchi, ‘For an Archaeology of Lola Montes’ in Willemen , p. 61.

[30] Asper, p. 197.

This piece was written in 2013 by Bea Moyes as part of a Masters course led by Professor Laura Mulvey and Dr Lee Grieveson on the films of Max Ophuls. All rights belong to Bea Moyes.

Walking in the footsteps of W.G.Sebald [Part 1]

This piece is an extract from a longer piece about my walk up the Suffolk coastline, following the footsteps of W.G.Sebald’s work The Rings of Saturn. By walking this landscape, which I had mentally drawing and redrawn in my head many times whilst reading the book, I endeavored to explore the inner recesses of Sebalds motivations and methodology in writing this book. Using walking as a critical practice, and as an archaeological tool which would alter both my experience of the landscape I encountered, and of the book itself. In some ways this was a successful endeavour, and certainly an interesting one. But, I also found it sycophantic and ultimately concluded that Sebald himself would have been strongly against people following him like tourists, or lemmings. While he became the shepherd, crook in hand, which led the way; this became about my own experience and memories. My own observations and imaginations.


And so I find myself, one foot in front of the other, toes pressing into my insoles, into the tarmac and the earth below holding me up as I march towards the sea. The salt drifting in the air in front of me..

On a sunny summer day, nearly twenty years ago, the writer W.G. Sebald stood in almost this exact spot. As he put it, at the start of his book, The Rings of Saturn:

 “In August 1992, when the dog days were drawing to an end, I set off to walk the county of Suffolk, in the hope of dispelling the emptiness that takes hold of me whenever I have completed a long stint of work”

It’s a modest start, but the work which it opens into is a piece which completely altered my core. A body of writing which cannot be rounded down to the simple perambulations of travel writing, nor the excavating regurgitations of history. In that ambling prose for which Sebald was so renowned, The Rings of Saturn is the epitome of that oft evoked portmanteau, psychogeography. A melancholy wander across the coast of East Anglia, which re-sees, recalibrates the landscape drawing us into Sebald’s thoughts and the intractable webs of his memories. Travelling from Norwich down to Orford, through Southwold, Dunwich and Sizewell, Sebald explores these places sitting on the soft membrance between the past and the present. Drawing on the anatomical history of Sir Thomas Browne, to the Dowager Empress Tz’u-hsi with her silkworms and the overwrought Victorian poet Algernon Swinburne; he draws together these threads with a seamless fluidity, showing the past as continuously present, and the act of walking as a part of what Eric Hobsbawn called a ‘protest against forgetting’.

I have loved this book since the moment I smoothed its cover back and laid my eyes on these opening words. So, it seemed natural that in the summer of 2013, I would take Sebald’s words and trace them with my feet. On my own ‘English Pilgrimage’, as the original German title of the book most evocatively suggests. Almost incongruous to the book itself, with its melancholic and often morbid tone, my partner Tim and I set out on a day of violent sunshine. Starting from Ipswich, walking in the opposite direction to Sebald, we marched on the road to Orford, following the curls of the tarmac and learning to ignore road signs which seemed to double back on themselves in some unique dimensional configuration. Endless and timeless in their unfixed wander. Along the coast these roads melts into the lagoon of waters which is the River Ore. A river of black gold, which runs parallel to the North Sea; the two bodies rippling southwards in undulating corrugation. Long marshlands sink into gentle shores, and little islands rise up across the tributaries with stately houses nestled in well placed fir trees soaking-up the rising tides. As the sun began to set on that first day, we spied the stout battlements of Orford’s castle as it mounts the town’s small hillock, and made my way down to the wetland meadows behind the town’s famed pub to set up camp. We had intended to stay at the back of the pub in the listed ‘campsite’, but soon found that local opinion had since driven casual campers to less idyllic spots out of the town. The wetland meadows therefore became our illegal occupation, nestling our little black tent behind the lip of the bank and beyond the bend of the wetland path. In a medieval configuration, these fields still sweep up to the very lip of the habitations, affording a panorama of the town with its little marina on the river. In the morning, the sunshine pierced through the gaps in the zip, waking us early as it climbed over the horizon and flooded the fields with gliding gold light. Peering beyond the rays I looked out across the river. Past the mud flats and the little boats bobbing, to the spit of Orfordness in the distance.

This is where I had been longing to go. Orfordness. This sandy peninsula of shale beyond the mainland, sounding more like ‘awfulness’ than anything else. A spit which the locals, in that very familiar shorthand, called simply ‘the island’. To get there, the National Trust run a small boat which takes you across the small width of the Ore, with a short portly man volunteering his own boat for the purpose. After hours of waiting for this small vessel to cross the 20 metres of water, we boarded the boat and I felt not only of crossing the Styx but of transcending into some Elysium, into another world. Sebald describes this landscape desolately. He recalls the emptiness of this desolate landscape, the legends of seamen eager to avoid its lonely shores for fear of madness. Walking across the dry flatness you could feel the land pulsating under the sun. The small sand pebbles rustling beneath foot, the nesting wild birds squawking from the rushes and reeds. But, despite this, there is a strange silence which echoes across the spit. As if time has rolled to a gentle stop.

Up until the 1980s, Orfordness had been a secret military testing site, the home of hundreds of military engineers and inventors during the Second World War when a large scale radar had been developed in the middle of the little island, leaving today the imprint of its ribbed crater at its heart. Outhouses, now worn down and moss clothed, punctuate the level land; and strange concrete pagodas sit in the distance, still cut off in the ‘forbidden-zone’ of the island. Along the shingle, rusted iron structures, wires, coils and bolts litter the ground. Mechanical ruins sitting orange against the warm white stones. It is a place, which like many other military spaces has not been dismantled, but abandoned to time. That very passive action which seeks both to placate history and slowly erase it. Like the Nuremberg stadium in Germany, for which destruction would be too pointed a statement. The ruins of post-industrial Europe and North-America, laid waste by change. And, of course, the Auschwitz internment camp which still stands in its own putrid history. Ruined monuments for which decay is the emblem of the undigested past; a sign of disillusionment, difficulty and the desire to forget.

In one of the little outhouses, drawings and photographs have been blu-tac’d in an ad-hoc display, showing the vestiges of the great inventions and military projects run at Orfordness. The towers, guns and, most impressive of all, a huge transmitter photographed in black and white made from a long pine trunk, on which wire had been coiled in screw-like concentric swirls, held down by yachting rope. Here, the apex of Suffolk’s engineering talents, shows the self-made beacon, beautiful in its simplicity. The product of military minds brought up by the sea, looking out onto the horizon at what could be beyond. These homemade devices were followed by more destructive weaponry of war.  Earthquake bombs, aerodynamic machines, gas turbine engines, and, in the 1960s, post-Manhattan project ballistics tests on early nuclear weapons. Many of these projects seem an anathema to the benign landscape as it now sits. And yet, that whiff of anticipation, of secrecy and military efficiency still lingers. When Sebald visited Orfordness, soon after the National Trust had opened it up to visitors for the first time, many of the projects which had been carried out here would have still be secret. And yet, while concentrating on his own psychological reaction, we see how ruins of a place so geographically separate, so intentionally isolate, brought with it the decaying isotopes of this history. The dynamics of military power, of warfare and mechanical invention; reduced to rusting rubble scattered on a lonely spit.

It is here on our walk that the limits of literature became clear to us. While Sebald discusses many parts of his walk, and the physical exertions of the act of walking, he discusses little which is geographically useful to the traveller. His own attempt to shadow the walk in its own veil of mystery no-doubt. From the hand-drawn maps, bought along with our bread from the gentrified village shop in Orford, we had assumed the right to walk across the spit of Orfordness and up to Aldeborough. And yet, reality is never the same to the maps simple cartographic lines, and so we found ourselves almost stranded back in Orford, and without a little hitching around the Snape of the river, would have been forced to another night on the marshes. At Aldeborough, the rural idyll suddenly becomes a burgeoning seaside town with long boulevards, painted railings, beach huts and white gabled housing. It is the place of 99p flakes, scampi, chips, malt vinegar and deck chairs. Elderly ladies gingerly dipping their toes into the sea up to their swollen ankles while older men flop their canvas hats over their eyes and slumber. As a determined wild-swimmer, Tim dived in, creating much entertainment to the locals on the beach. Pounding up and down, his arms appearing out of the water as little blobs on the distant waves. The sea twinkled, and the town behind it stood cheery in its decaying whitewash.

It is incredible how quickly a new landscape can change you. The melancholy musing of Orfordness was replaced here by a playfulness, a sense of abandon on the beach. Later that day, we marched up the sandy shores, reaching another town, Thorpeness, up the coast. We were now rapidly diverging from Sebald’s original path, but the warm sands glowed ahead, guiding us up them like a yellow-brick road, and we soon forgot the origins of the journey and let the landscape guide us. Unlike Orford, with its sense of authenticity in the age of its rambling medieval roots, Thorpeness is a strange parody of a medieval town. Built almost entirely in the nineteenth century by the Ogilvy Family, the town is contrived with mock-tudor fronts, with a large watertower elaborately decorated as a wooden clapboard house. Like a house which has suddenly, like Alice in Wonderland, eaten a mushroom and grown upwards into the sky, the watertower sticks up from behind the pine trees that line the coast, punctuating line of the soft dunes and leading you into a completely different landscape. In the middle of the town, we passed the central lake, entirely man-made and edged by perfectly maintained chain-fences and just the right amount of reed and water planting. It is the lake which apparently inspired J.M.Barrie’s Peter Pan. Barrie, who was a friend and sometime guest of the Ogilvy’s in Thorpeness, was apparently inspired to write the section where Peter almost drowns with Wendy, allowing her to escape on a ballon while he waits for death uttering that unforgettable line, ‘to die would be an awfully big adventure’. But looking out on the lake I can’t see it and I am disappointed.Though Barrie certainly did stay here while he was writing Peter Pan, I can’t imagine how this lake, with its contained and measured expanse, could inspire such a dark and potent image. One which struck me as a child and has stayed with me since. How could one of the great moments of literature, have been inspired by the most benign and controlled replications of nature. This Victorian vision of a wild medieval past, made palatable and suburban. Seemingly miles away from the wild edges of the coast, being ravaged and endlessly corroded by the sea only minutes away.

[END OF PART 1. Part 2 will continue with the journey through Sizewell, Dunwich and Southwold]


The banks of Orford, on the suffolk coast.
The banks of Orford, on the suffolk coast.
The derelict remains of the military base on Orfordness.
The derelict remains of the military base on Orfordness.
The spit of Orfordness
The spit of Orfordness
The remains of Orfordness
Resting in Orfordness


The Vulvan Arms at Sizewell.
The Vulvan Arms at Sizewell.
Sizewell Nuclear Power Station.
Sizewell Nuclear Power Station.

“The contours of the Sizewell power plant, its Magnox block a glowering mausoleum, begin to loom upon an island far out in the pallid waters where one believes the Dogger Bank to be, where once the shoals of herring spawned and earlier still, a long, long time ago, the delta of the Rhine flowed out into the sea and where green forests grew from silting sands” [Sebald]

The coast at Sizewell.
The coast at Sizewell.


The Nature Reserve around Dunwich.
The Nature Reserve around Dunwich.
The remains of the original church at Dunwich, preserved in the church yard of another church.
The remains of the original church at Dunwich, preserved in the church yard of another church.
The ruins of the old Monastry at Dunwich.
The ruins of the old Monastery at Dunwich.

Thread Radio Projects

Work by STIK at the Dalston Eastern Curve Garden

In June 2013, I was involved in the Thread Radio project as part of a series on the theme of ‘Sin’.

The Thread is a free conversational space that goes beyond the university, a place where complex ideas can flourish in public dialogue. Created and produced by PhD students from the London Consortium, it brings artists, academics, amateurs and professionals together in wild and wide-ranging discussion. The Thread uses speech as a tool for research to open up new and unexpected angles. This is live radio thinking.

Tacita Vero and I co-produced a show around the notion of ‘pride’, discussing the relative changes in the morality of pride as a sin and its current usage in relation to particularly urban cultures suggested community projects and projections of pride in minority groups such as racial pride, pride in sexual orientation or in gender.

In part one I interviewed Marie Murray from the Dalston Easter Curve Garden to discuss the pride of these remarkable community project in the East End, which is now under thread from redevelopment.

In the second part Tacita discussed the notion of pride in one’s work with three well known graffiti artists and commentators, STIK, RYCA and Richard from Scrawl Collective.

To round off we played the national Anthem of Sealand, a disputed micro-territory off the coast of Suffolk which Tacita has been involved in researching in relation to concepts of nationhood and piracy.

Listen to the programme here or by going to the Thread Radio website or the Resonance FM website (104.4fm).

Tacita and I will be working on a Thread Radio Project for Summer 2014 so listen out!

Four Seasons in Quincy Film Project

images (1)

Over the past year I’ve had the great opportunity of working with the Derek Jarman Film Lab on a number of projects and filming opportunities at the ICA and with Birkbeck College. I have also been involved in the filming of a series of films entitled ‘Four Seasons in Quincy’ about the British writer and thinker, John Berger. The films have been made in collaboration with Tilda Swinton, Christopher Roth and Colin MacCabe. The series is due for release in February 2015.

See more details on the Derek Jarman Lab website: http://www.jarmanlab.org/four-seasons-in-quincy.html

‘In 1973 Berger abandoned the metropolis to live in the tiny Alpine village of Quincy. He realized that subsistence peasant farming, which had sustained humanity for millennia, was drawing to an historical close. He determined to spend the rest of his life bearing witness to this vanishing existence, not least by participating in it. Berger’s trilogy Into their Labours chronicles the peasant life of this Alpine village and  its surrounding countryside. Our portrait places Berger in the rhythm of the seasons of Quincy.

The project consists of four short films (between 15 and 40 minutes in duration), one for each season. Each addresses different strands of Berger’s life and work. The winter film, Ways of Listening (directed by Colin MacCabe) deals with fathers and friendship. Animals (directed by Christopher Roth), is shot in spring and considers Berger’s writing on our relationship with animals in juxtaposition with the animals that surround him in the Haute Savoie. In July 2014 Tilda Swinton will direct the summer film, as Berger and his son Yves participate in the village harvest. The autumn film, directed by Colin MacCabe and Bartek Dziadosz, will reflect on politics through a conversation between Berger, Colin MacCabe and the novelist and poet Ben Lerner.’

London Through The Lens: The Small World of Sammy Lee (1963)

sammy lee

When describing his influences for the film Get Carter (1971), the acclaimed director Mike Hodges cited two films which had supremely fueled his gritty portrayal of cockney criminality. The first being Brighton Rock (1947) the film derived from Graham Greene’s book of criminality centering on the young psychopathic ‘Pinkie’. And the second, much less well known,was The Small World of Sammy Lee, directed by Ken Hughes (1963). These three films sit in a perfect triad, oozing the ambiguous romanticism of the London gangster at this time. Each focuses on its central male protagonist, both carried along and carrying this criminal world, complexly woven as both hero and villain. While Get Carter and Brighton Rock have easily passed into the pantheon of British film classics, The Small World of Sammy Lee has passed into relative obscurity. The film recently came to my attention with a series of screenings about East London being shown at the St Johns Church on Cambridge Heath Road, this particular film screened in all its glory above the alter with a short introduction by that prophet of East London, Iain Sinclair.

Hodges was so impressed by Hughes film that he employed the cameraman, Wolfgang Suschitsky, a figure previously associated with documentary film in the late 1950s and whose long tracking shots for the streets of London are the bedrock of the visual transience the film projects. The film follows Sammy Lee (played by Anthony Newley), a Jewish compare of a Soho strip club, as he dashes about the city attempting to collect enough money to pay the East End gang lord he owes following a bad night’s poker. One can see why Suschitsky was such a key figure in this film, as he came to be in Get Carter. The cinematography expresses this intense frenetic energy of Newley as he chases they money around London. His hunched pacing cunning ingenuity takes him across the East End, to his brother’s small Jewish corner shop, to the range of wheelers and dealers he can shaft or out-talk in a bid to escape his imminent predicament. It is a frantic, anxious movement which brings with it a sense of pathos for this shady character, and a melancholy at his ultimate doom. It is a frenzy also apparent in Get Carter, which famously also uses music to build suspense on long travelling shots. Suschitsky captures this all, expressing this tension not only with the character of Sammy, but as a characteristic of London itself. Really, while the story forms the structure of his journey, this is a film about London. As a friend who lived in London at that time said to me afterward the screening – I know you’re looking at this as a piece of visual history, but for me this takes me back to London as it was for me in the 60s. The shops, the clubs, the smoke filled cellars and derelict ruins, used to great effect in the final scene which is filmed in true film noir blackness. London is on view in all its multiplicity and visual vitality.

At the centre of it is Newley, well known for his early role as the Artful Dodger in David Lean’s Oliver Twist (1948), but also known to me as the strange ‘Irish’ fellow in Rex Harrison’s Doctor Dolittle (1967), and also from a successful songwriting career. Newley plays Lee with such a mix of comedy and anxiety that the film has this peculiar humour and melancholy which pervades Sammy Lee’s attempts to escape the inevitable. Alongside him, Julia Foster – bizarrely, the mother of the ever-present TV figure Ben Fogle – plays the guileless Patsy, Lee’s young love who has escaped her parents in Bradford with the hopes of a future with Sammy, only herself being drawn into his seedy world and eventually reduced to stripping for his clients. Foster plays the role as a perfect counter to the rough and wiley Newley, bringing a sense of pathos to his situation and motivation for his hopeful relief. As she says, he’s only really a boy, a young man in the city trying to make his way. Their relationship almost mirrors the relationship between ‘Pinkie’ and Rose in Brighton Rock, though in a slightly less monstrous guise, where Patsy’s innocence neutralizes the hard-dealing, undercutting desperation of Sammy as he resorts to anything to scramble out of his fix. Their parting has echoes of another film of the same year, Billy Liar(1963), directed by John Schlesinger, but performed as a play in the West End as early as 1960; in which the female character (played by Julie Christie) travels from Bradford to London in search of fame and fortune. Except in this case the scene is reversed as Patsy is shipped back to her parents in Bradford leaving Sammy to face his loan sharks head on.

While reduced to relative obscurity now, The Small World of Sammy Lee deserves a revival. It’s portrayal of London and London life brings with it an incredible view of the ins-and-outs of the city. Too often this period is dealt with only as the city of glitz and glamour, or as romanticized criminal underworld. Here is a more grey vision of the swinging 60s, which like Sammy Lee is tinted with a superficial charm but driven by murky underbelly. The two worlds revolving around each other. The film has a humour and warmth to it, but as Sammy’s final comic compare introduction to the slimy clients of his club shows, there is a hollowness and hardness behind this veneer of comedy which displays a stark reality. As he says, behind their smiles and guiles these women hate their customers. The act is all a façade. At the end of the film, in a dark quarry of rubble at the edge of the city, the façade is stripped and this film reveals itself in all its darkness and gritty realism.

This review was written in 2013 by Bea Moyes and originally published by Litro. 

Review: Madame De (1953)

A much-underrated director and supreme stylist, Max Ophuls is having a renaissance with a series at the British Film Institute this February that should not be missed. His films, spanning the 1930s to the mid-50s, are beautiful models of melodrama, with femme fatales, longing lovers and doomed romances. Ophuls began his career in German theatre and radio, later making films across Europe before emigrating to America during the war. As a Jewish exile in Hollywood, he carved out a name for himself with films like Letter from and Unknown Woman(starring Joan Fontaine) and The Reckless Moment (with James Mason). But the films that he made in France following the end of the Second World War are what best represent his remarkable talent: the tragic Lola MontesLe Plaisir, La Rondeand, the jewel in his crown, Madame de… (1953).

Featuring the beautiful actress, Danielle Darrieux, Madame de… is the story of a passionate romance in belle époque Paris between the married Louise (the eponymous Madame De) and an Italian diplomat, Donati (played by the famous director of Italian neo-realism, Vittorio de Sica). This is a tale of tragic melodrama, adapted from a novel by the infamous Louise Lévêque de Vilmorin, and is a highly autobiographical reflection of her illustrious life. The married woman who falls for the dashing womaniser may be a common conceit, but the magic of Ophuls’ storytelling transports an otherwise familiar narrative into new territory. Visually sumptuous, the filmmaker’s notoriously long tracking shots draw you into the story, playing visual tricks with mirrors and swirling montages. The luscious sets, twinkling lights and glamorous costumes provide a perfect piece of escapism, as they would have done for audiences of post-war Europe.

Danielle Darrieux as Louise, “adept at making you die of hope”. Image: British Film Institute

The central motif of the film is a pair of diamond earrings that Louise sells to pay off her gambling debts in the opening sequence. Initially given to her by her husband when they first married, they are repeatedly bought and sold, and eventually given to Louise again, in a moment of intense irony, by her lover Donati. The earrings come to represent love as a process of exchange; they are both love and affection, but also symbolic of the inevitable downfall of desire. InMadame de…, Ophuls plays with the classic figure of the femme fatale — the seductress whose charms ensnare her lovers in the bonds of irresistible desire. She is described by her husband as a “flirt” and “adept at making you die of hope”. The tragic irony in this scene becomes apparent later in the film when Donati mirrors the husband’s words, telling Louise how he has learned to hope. And yet, while his leading women often ensnare men with their charms, Ophuls presents them as victims of love as much as men, rather than perpetrators of destruction. In many of his films the female protagonists struggle against their desire and seek to escape it. Indeed, in Madame de... Louise departs after realising her love for Donati, allowing a beautiful sequence of Danielle Darrieux on the beach looking out at the sea, later tearing up her unsent letters and sending them out in the wind where they transform into snow. In Madame de…, it could be said, the femme fatale is not Louise but the diamond earrings; they are the central objects of desire, fatalistic in their superficial charm, and which are at the end crystallised as relics to lost romance.

There is something eternal about the romantic images conjured by Ophuls. The soft-focus close-ups and lingering looks behind doors are characteristic of this early 1950s period of cinema. Having worked as a director in Hollywood for a number of years, Ophuls knew how to make a beautiful and glamorous film. Yet, from his background in the German theatre of the 1920s, Ophuls is at heart a modernist. There is far more substance to his films than the commercial melodramas that were pouring out of America at this time. As Virginia Woolf famously wrote in To the Lighthouse:

Beautiful and bright it should be on the surface, feathery and evanescent, one colour melting into another like the colours on a butterfly’s wing; but beneath the fabric must be clamped together with bolts of iron.

While we may revel in their evanescent visions of decadence, underneath the bright lights Ophuls’ films are far more complex and intriguing. As the husband André describes his relationship to Louise in Madame de…: “We are only superficially superficial.” Beneath the veneer of the frivolous fin-de-siecle world, some more pressing social critique is bubbling. In its visual complexity and ironic humour, this is a film that invites you to enjoy a piece of commercial escapism, while simultaneously prompting you, with its artful gaze, to question your passive consumption of twinkling spectacle.

In the current climate, when the doom and gloom of recession and the depths of wet and windy weather are hitting us from all angles, Max Ophuls’ films inhabit a particularly precious place. As romantic escapism, they beguile us with their cathartic tragedy — their style and social context revealing hidden depths that linger on you like a musky perfume. Films like Madame de.. are perhaps as important today as they were in post-war Europe. This is a superb film by a supreme auteur; it should be watched and cherished.


This review was written in 2013 by Bea Moyes.