#gis4680

[robertsongis4680]

Men and Maggots in Battleship Potemkin

Word Count: 818

In his essays in film theory, Eisenstein notes that “to regard the frame as a particular, as it were, molecular case of montage makes possible the direct application of montage practice to the theory of the shot” (Eisenstein 40). By cutting shots and placing them in a specific order, the viewer is able to get a sense of what to feel or what is going to happen next once they see quick, repeating shots that subconsciously become familiar to them. One of the most prominent instances of this happens relatively early on in the film--and the Film Education study guide notes this as the first part of Eisenstein’s dialectic structure--when the camera directly focuses on the maggots inside the rotting meat. This is introduced by a closeup shot of the doctor’s circular spectacles, and is done so intentionally that it is hard to miss. The soldiers have grown tired of being treated disrespectfully and become adamant in wanting change. When their higher ups tell them to eat it anyway and have the chefs prepare the soup, the camera once again zooms closely in on the soup boiling in a pot. The treatment of the meat is supposed to signify the treatment of the soldiers themselves: ignored by their commanding officers and left in poor conditions, the soldiers soon become unrestful and bitter, and this spreads like a disease among them. Eisenstein even goes out of his way to point out on screen how the men “seethed with rage,” and this begins to set the stage for a climactic change. With the tension building, the camera then changes to the hanging tables swinging side to side in an almost eerily quiet way, holding bowls of the untouched soup.

As the film transitions to “Drama in the Harbor,” there is a sequence of scenes much like the sequence that Roger Carman describes when examining the “Odessa Steps” scene. There is a long shot of the ship, followed by the soldiers flooding onto the deck, creating a sense of movement similar to that of the soldiers walking down the steps. He then interjects with a medium shot of the soldiers getting in line, before going back to the long shot and then moving on to a close up of a soldier blowing a trumpet. Unlike the “Odessa Steps,” Eisenstein stops the movement of the crowd on the ship, providing the captain coming up onto the deck as the only sense of movement. This layering of scenes is, of course, completely intentional: “each sequential element is perceived not next to the other, but on top of the other” (Eisenstein 49). Eisenstein creates the focal point around the captain, for his reaction to the soldier’s actions will play a pivotal part in the film. The soldiers, much like any oppressed class, want the sources of their oppression to be recognized by those in power in order to begin the process of changing it. But of course, with all of the tension-filled scenes that appeared before this, the viewer knows the captain will not admit the misdeeds that have been done to the soldiers, and instead will punish them.

When the captain orders for the petty officers to shoot the guilty soldiers as they are covered in a tarp, it is only when a soldier reminds them of their brotherhood that they refuse to do so. The scene of the rifles wavering--albeit somewhat short--mimics the swing tables holding pots, and then cuts to the zoomed-in (and demonized) face of the captain as he calls them swine. The constant movement of the soldiers in white hats running around the ship brings to mind a similar image, and the same goes for the guns being passed through the circular window (which was earlier shown as the ship store). And when the men are thrown overboard into the sea below, the camera zooms in on the water moving, a close up that is quite reminiscent to that of the boiling soup. Much like the rotted meat being cooked into the stew, the rotted men are being discarded to the sea, a comparison made clear by Eisenstein specifically through scene cuts. As Corman states in his analysis, “[Eisenstein] was also making a statement, which was that the mutiny for the moment was put down because of a superior power--but there was potential strength in opposition to let you know...that the people would rise and....the soldiers would eventually be defeated.” The chaos is interjected with closeups of a circular life preserver, giving an out-of-place feel that is similar to the closeup of the doctor’s spectacles. Shots of the canon (which were also shown as closeups earlier on) also reappear as the music grows more intense. And then, as though to put the final nail in the coffin, Eisenstein interjects the final scenes of soldiers running around the ship deck to a repeated closeup of the maggot-infested meat.

[robertsongis4680]

Jean-Paul Marat & Charlotte Corday

Word Count: 779 

Additional References 

Out of everything that has been discussed and read in these past two class periods, nothing has struck my interest more than Jean-Paul Marat. A man of radical values and well ahead of his time, Marat had preceded Karl Marx by almost a century (though I find myself wondering just how to two would have interacted had they been born in the same lifetime) and many people found his ideas to be quite extreme. One of my favorite examples of this is when the Jacobins were debating on what should be included in the new French constitution, Marat argued that the “right of man ‘to deal with their oppressors by devouring their palpitating hearts’ be asserted in it” (Hampton Institute). Of course, this in turn brings up a question of morality: is it okay to harm or kill one’s own oppressor? The Declaration of the Rights of Man promises the rights of liberty, property, security, and resistance to oppression, but how far does resistance go? They would have agreed with Marat to a point, but questions of morality seldom ever have a unified answer--even today, we’re still asking ourselves if it’s okay to punch a Nazi. But Marat was known as the People’s Friend and the epitome of liberty, and the people of France were in the middle of a multi-sided revolution. It is no wonder then, that, when Marat’s assassination was followed by the execution of Jacques Hebert, Georges Danton and Camille Desmoulin, Robespierre lost control and the Thermidorian Reaction took place.

The fact that there was little solidarity only lead to further bloodshed and death as extremists on every side had the “kill all who are not on your side” mindset. When Marat was first assassinated, he was seen as a Martyr for the people, which in turn set the revolution even further into motion. Looking back on events like this, it’s easy to see how much one person can affect history--though, in this case, that one person could be considered Charlotte Corday. Marie-Anne Charlotte de Corday d'Armont, perhaps much like many other Girondins, saw Marat as the biggest threat in Paris, as he was “the very embodiment of French radicalism.” After witnessing first-hand the exiled Girondins, and perhaps even before that, her intense hatred for Marat had lead her to leave Normandy and seek after him. She was not unknown to the consequences of her actions, and one source even goes as far as to state that she wrote farewell letters to loved ones and paid off all her debts before leaving for Paris. After the murder, many people had (unsurprisingly) judged her specifically on her sex. Just as T.J. Clark quotes Citizen Shade in saying that Corday was “vomited from the jaws of hell to despair both sexes,” and therefore “belong[ed] directly to neither.” It was a time where women were still seen as timid and nurturing, unable to commit such dastardly acts--a gendered stereotype that would affect the revolution as time went on. According to the UCL Art Museum’s website, pictures of Corday spread throughout Paris:

“In the months following Charlotte Corday’s execution for the murder of Marat, images of her that stressed her beauty, virtue and stoicism began to appear in the moderate press. These constructed her as a saviour who had rid the nation of a terrible monster. Such images were unequivocally denounced by followers of Marat who, fearful of a cult forming around Corday, wanted the memory of her consigned to oblivion.”

This would be an instance where art itself was impacted by politics. Corday’s portrait became popular, specifically made to point out her soft face with rosy cheeks, her young and nurturing body, as well as the curls of her hair and the warmth in her eyes. As Marat was became a monster months after his death, so Corday became the beautiful, young hero of France, both used as nothing more than pawns in French politics to sway the public one way or another. Of course, though they are dead and long gone of this world, they were remembered by the people they inspired, the ones they were hated by, and the politicians that used their deaths for their own gain. We learn of Jacques-Louis David’s painting Death of Marat, and how he portrayed Marat a Jesus in attempt to make the people of his time see Marat as a savior himself. But I believe it should also be noted that, many years later, Paul-Jacques-Aime Baudry creates his only known historical piece. It is called Charlotte Corday after the murder of Marat in 1860--and, much like the portraits after her execution, she portrayed as young, beautiful, and innocent.